Author's Note: Written for comment_fic on LiveJournal, prompt: Castle, Castle/Beckett, every time she kiss him, his heart skips a beat. First time writing Castle fic. Vague, vague allusions to the season 4 finale, but nothing more than that as far as spoilers go, I think. Enjoy!
It's such a cliche, Castle thought, that my heart skips a beat whenever Kate kisses me.
He hated himself for spinning cliches through his mind instead of coming up with something new and original, something vivid and stark in contrast to more succinctly describe the feelings he held for her. He hated it so much. If there was one thing that he should be able to do in his life, it was to be able to use words as his most potent weapon. His ability to spin words into threads and cloth was his livelihood, the reason why he was able to wake up every morning with the life he was able to lead.
And yet, the statement held true for him: things become cliches for a reason, after all.
Every time. Without fail. Ever since the first time they kissed. He'd suspected this would be the case even before their first kiss, but it had been proof positive ever since.
It usually followed the same rough pattern every time, with enough of an unpredictability that he was never bored. Not that he could be. Kissing her could never be classified as anything remotely close to boring or banal.
She would tilt her head ever just so slightly, so that the curtain of her hair would cascade over her face, or her shoulder, and her lips would curve upward into the faintest wisp of a smile. Didn't matter when, or where they were - whether it was out in public, on a case, or in private, just the two of them enjoying a rare, treasured moment of peace and solitude. His heart rate would accelerate - the difference between a heart beating and a heart racing - and she would lean into his personal space, brushing the tips of their noses together as she linked their hands together and looped her other arm around the back of his neck. The wisp of a smile would become realized fully, gaining form and definition where none existed before except in memory.
And then she'd look at him for countless tantalizing seconds, with something akin to desire, love, lust - devotion - sparkling in her eyes, and she wouldn't have to say anything at all. If she said anything, in that breathless, husky whisper that seemed to be reserved for him and him alone, it wouldn't matter in those moments. These seconds were like fragile moments in a glass mobile, suspended in time forever.
She was always stunningly beautiful; that was never, ever in question - and if anyone ever found any reason to doubt him on that, he would have to find ways to rectify the situation posthaste. But somehow she always became even more beautiful in close-up, when her face was so close to his that if he would just propel forward a fraction of an inch, they would be kissing. It made him want to be an artist instead of a writer, for him to be able to have the skill with a brush and paints or a sculptor's chisel to accurately depict what he saw.
And then she would lean in, not him. She would take the lead, and he would follow; after all, he had always been the one to follow his heart instead of his head. Her lips would descend onto his. They would form a small oval shape, and she would allow her tongue to dart out and skim his lower lip. That. That would be the moment when he felt as though his heart had decided to act like they were living out a series of cliches.
Beat. Beat. Skip. Beat.
He would lean into her to catch his balance; his action would have the side effect of bringing them all that much closer together. He would be able to hear her breath catch in her throat; every action has an equal and opposite reaction. He seemed to remember Alexis mentioning something like that when working on her homework - why Alexis was even a thought in the back recesses of his mind right now, though, was something he could never figure out, when all of his other thoughts were variations on a constant theme: oh God, this feels so good - why didn't we do this sooner - why don't we do this more often - Beckett, Beckett, Kate - never, ever stop - love you.
It would go on like this for some time, with their contented sighs and moans serving as the vocalized exclamation points to their muted dialogue of nips and sucks. If she had recently consumed something, like coffee, he could taste the lingering aftertaste and gain a vicarious thrill from it; if not, then he got to relish in her natural taste for that much longer. Yet, before either of them would realize it, they would part, only for her smile to reform at that moment. And he would find that her smiles were contagious in the best way; he would grin, and she would grin, and they would laugh, and he would take the back of his palm and brush her hair off from her face.
He could go on like this forever with her, the two of them. Only her. Always only her.
If his heart could take it.