hey guys, hope you’re doing well.
i hate to advertise but i just want to let you all know that the big secret is over, and i’m excited to present you with my burn notice pins!
i will be selling them starting nov 1st alongside some castle pins of the same caliber!
i am going to be running an event from nov 1st to december 31st regarding these two pinsets, so please stay tuned!
im also releasing lots of other fun stuff tomorrow too, so keep a look out!
please use code spiesvscops for 20% ANYTHING in my store! i really hope to bring more stuff like this around in the future so your support (financial or otherwise!) is so helpful! thank you all for putting up with me.
i look forward to your feedback. <3
shop link:
https://www.etsy.com/shop/ChaosCultureUS?ref=seller-platform-mcnav
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Title: Bound and Determined
WC: 900
"There’s nothing going on between Beckett and me.”
— Richard Castle, Tick, Tick, Tick . . . (2 x 17)
She is wide awake with a gun under her pillow. Metaphorically under her pillow. A gun literally under her pillow would be unsafe. She flops from her back to her stomach, punching said pillow as she lands, silently cursing his name. It’s his fault she’s wide awake, policing her own internal thoughts for literary correctness.
It’s his fault that she is not, in fact, too tired to argue. She has, in fact, been having a deeply satisfying, one-sided argument this whole time since she stalked off, wine-less and all too aware of the smug smile he was, no doubt, leveling at her back. Or she had been having it right up until the literary policing started. She has been lying here, staring up at the ceiling, at one wall, then the other, at the door with its stubbornly non-moving knob, her mind whirring its way through every jab and cut and devastating blow she could have, should have, would have landed if only she’d taken him up on that glass of wine. Maybe she should have taken him up on that glass of wine. Maybe she should have taken the whole damned bottle to bed with her.
“Not really,” she tells the ceiling as she groans and flops on to her back again. Her history—her dad’s history—will not really allow her to be a going-to-bed-with-a-bottle-of-wine kind of person. “Which you should know.” She sticks her tongue out at the door and adds another unforgivable sin to his already substantial total. She scowls hard at the painted white brick the bedroom shares with the living room. She grips the blankets tight in her fists and wills herself not to throw them back, not to tear open the door and stomp back down the hall for the sheer pleasure of sharing with him the highlight reel of insults her brain has spent the last few hours coming up with.
She grips the blankets tight in her fists and wills herself not to throw them back, not to slip soundlessly from the bed, not to slink back down the hall to pour herself a soundless, clandestine glass of wine. It’s a dual, white-knuckle truth. She forces her fingers to loosen their hold just a little, but the blankets make their cautious way to her chin. Her shoulders hunch. She’s burrowing deeper into the pillows. She’s making herself small, and what’s that about? What is any of this about?
She is wide a wake, despite the fact that she is exhausted in every possible way. That is his fault. She tries to right herself by returning to this central fact, but the secret hour has struck in which exhaustion wakes up the whole damned internal house and insists on some middle-of-the-night introspection.
Why is it his fault that she is wide awake? There’s the obvious. She really does want a chance to deliver some hindsight-curated shots about his schoolboy crush on Jordan Shaw. She wants go gloriously off script and rip him a new one for his crack about the sexlessness of their relationship, although now that she thinks about it, that particular theme could use some curation, because what exactly is the problem with him, for once, confirming the sexlessness of their relationship, rather than responding to Jordan Shaw’s shockingly unprofessional commentary with his usual—a sly, maddeningly confident, Not yet?
Relationship.
That’s the crux of it. She wants, childishly, to rush out there, startle him badly enough that he rolls off the couch, waking at the exact moment that his head connects with the hardwood floor. She wants to shout at the top of her lungs that—oh, by the way—they do not have a relationship, they just have . . . sexlessness.
That’s what she wants to do, and yeah, it’s a line of argument that definitely needs some work. But more important, even in her current state of exhaustion, her mind won’t allow it, any more than it will allow her to abuse the word literally.
He is on her couch, and she suspects that if she were to rush or stomp or creep or slink down the hallway and out into the living room, she’d find he’s wide awake, too. He’s probably polishing his own comebacks and stockpiling riffs about her “ridiculous” jealousy, because he is ever himself, just as she is ever herself.
He is on her couch, because he is not leaving her alone. Because he feels responsible, and even if he has nothing to offer in the way of protection against a crazed wanna-be serial killer, save his rapier wit and a heart-stoppingly expensive bottle of wine, he is still there when it would have been easier for him to not still be there. It would have been easier for him never to have come at all—to have stayed home making sure his Agent Jordan Shaw in The Recapitator poster is hanging level on the wall of his bedroom. It would have been easier for him to have gone when she started scolding him for his breaches of imaginary protocol.
There are so many things in the world that would have been easier than him lying on her couch, almost certainly awake—than her lying here with the covers up to her chin, very definitely awake.
There are so many things in the world that must be easier than this thing—this relationship—they’re in.
A/N: I am ashamed to admit that I have cracked myself up with the image of Castle's bedroom papered with Jordan Shaw posters. J/K. I clearly have no shame.
images via homeofthenutty
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