This is entirely the fault of Castle_in_CA and ACertainZest. The author accepts no responsibility whatsoever.

Chapter 1

"What the actual fuck?!" Beckett howled from her bedroom, much to Castle's amazement.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing."

"It's nothing. It's fine."

"I'll come help you," Castle oozed happily.

"You stay out of my bedroom or I'll shoot you and then break both your legs."

There was the sound of black muttering, scowls and growls. Castle was already totally intrigued. On the other hand, Beckett had only started being nice to him again (for a given value of nice that was limited to his ears and nose remaining unmauled and intact) around about a week ago... after he'd complimented her cherry scented shampoo... and he didn't want to spoil their...um...date.

Beckett had, in fact, agreed to go to Remy's with Castle for a quick meal after work, which was absolutely definitely certainly not a date. She wasn't going on dates with Castle. However, she did need to shower and change, courtesy of a disgustingly filthy crawl space she'd had to investigate. She thought she might have had spider webs in her hair. Ugghhhhhh.

Castle, naturally, had been totally and deliberately oblivious to all hints that he should meet her at Remy's, and had lolloped after her all the way to her nice, neat and, crucially, Castle-free apartment. Now he was undoubtedly poking into her bookshelf (and she was not at all embarrassed that all the Storm books were there, no, not at all), messing with her coffee machine, and picking up the little stone polar bear which she'd bought in Russia.

Unfortunately, short of letting him into her bedroom, which was a very bad idea indeed (only because he wouldn't be in your shower with you, said an evil little brainworm. She stomped on it. It wriggled happily. Apparently it loved being stomped on with stilettos), she couldn't stop him. She could, however, be quick. She stripped in short order and flung her dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and whisked through a shower and a very thorough hair-washing, conscious every second of Castle's large, male, and sexy – no!, invasive – cologne permeating – no, polluting – her apartment. It was, of course, far too cold to open a window. She'd simply have to suffer the scent – smell.

She took stock whilst drying herself, and absolutely wasn't thinking that Castle could help her with that.

Shower achieved: tick.

Hair free of potential spiders and webs: tick.

Teeth brushed and mouthwash: tick. (Bet you won't have onions, smirked the brainworm. She pickled it. It sucked up the vinegar and belched rudely.)

Make up redone: tick. Extra eyeliner and mascara: tick tick. (Oooohhhh, inviting!)

Getting dressed. Now there was her current problem.

Panties, which were definitely not extra sexy because why on earth would she bother with that for Remy's? (They'll be on fire if you carry on like that, smirked the brainworm. Don't tell me you aren't hoping.) Tick, anyway.

Bra. Not tick. Definitely cross. She was surely cross. Really, really cross. What the actual fuck was this? "What the actual fuck," she howled.

And of course Castle heard. She was surprised he didn't come bouncing in, all perked up and ready to play. If she threw a ball, he would probably chase it. She would start with one of his if he entered her bedroom.

Her bloodthirsty thoughts refocused themselves on the dumbass jackass freaking idiot manufacturer of her very expensive, classy and sexy newest bra, which matched the panties she had just put on. More pertinently, since she had put off doing her laundry, it was her only bra till she had hand-washed the others. Silk was gorgeous, and she loved the feel of the fabric on her skin, but it did need hand-washed to stay classy, sexy and stunning.

Why hadn't she looked more closely? Why? And when she got her hands on the manufacturer they would be telling her why they had been so outright freaking stupid! It must have been a man. No woman would ever be so freaking dumb.

The bra didn't open. It was a perfect circle. Therefore, it needed to arrive around the Beckett rib cage by way of fitting over the Beckett head. Without getting the Beckett make up smeared on its very delicate silk and lace. Thankfully her deodorant was quick-dry. She wriggled, at severe risk of dislocating both shoulders and possibly an elbow, and achieved bra-round-ribs without injury to anything except her pride, which was substantial enough to deal with a small dent.

Wriggles over, she admired the bra-thing in her mirror. Very pretty. If only it had catches, or hooks, or even a teasing little zipper or lacing. It didn't. Nor did it acquire one in consequence of her glare at it, which was most unfair.

She finished dressing, and emerged to find Castle looking more than usually curious and not a little smug.

"You've got all my books."

"And if you'd looked at the next shelf you'd see all Paterson's, then all Connelly's, then the great Queens of Crime. I'm a fan of the genre." She let that sink in. He pouted. "Now, Remy's?"

"Yep. Time for our first date, Beckett."

"This is not a date."

"Sure it is. I'm taking you for dinner. You've changed from your work attire, and redone your make up – and may I say that your eyes look extra gorgeous with the extra liner. Very feline."

"That's just creepy that you thought that. But you're wrong." (No he's not. Shut up, she thought. He isn't, the worm said.)

"Anyway, you've changed and redone your make up and you're coming out for dinner with me. Date."

"Not a date."

(It's a date, the brainworm squeaked happily. She shot it. It waggled the bullet at her, and put it on a shelf with half a further magazine.)

"Let's go."

Remy's was, as ever, loud, busy, and casual. Which meant that it certainly couldn't be described as a date. Dates took place in quiet, romantic restaurants with mood lighting, candles and flowers. (Awww, said the brainworm. You're a secret romantic. Just as well you keep those books in your bedroom. This time Beckett tried ignoring it. It squiggled round her mind and got comfortable, humming love songs.)

Mysteriously, neither order included garlic, onions or strong mustard. (Thought you liked onions. And garlic. Only sometimes. Every time. She sauted the dreadful worm in garlic. With onions. It ate the sauté mixture, and breathed fire.) It did involve excellent burgers, in delicious buns (and those aren't the only delicious buns you'd like to bite, it oozed. Oooh, you're blushing. She was not.), with smooth, creamy milkshakes, drunk through a straw. To avoid a milkshake moustache, naturally. That would not be appropriate for a mature woman. (What you're doing with that straw is inappropriate even for a supposedly mature woman, the brainworm sniped. It's embarrassingly overt. It wasn't. The brainworm had an unwarrantedly dirty mind, and Castle's blown pupils were quite ridiculous.)

Of course there had to be dessert – gooey chocolate brownie with ice cream. Beckett invariably – and very childishly – smudged up the final traces of chocolate goo with her finger and sucked them off, and just because she was here with Castle she wasn't going to deprive herself of every last molecule of chocolate. His strangled squeak was merely annoying. It certainly wasn't satisfactory. (Satisfactory will come later. Like you. She buried it under setting chocolate. The brainworm ate it, and grew in both girth – like he will – and smugness.)

Coffee occurred, and was consumed. Throughout the evening, conversation had been restricted to shop talk. After all, it wasn't a date, when one might have discussed movies, music, or indeed merengue dancing – not murders.

Castle paid. Beckett objected.

"I pay my share," she grumped.

"Nope. It's our first date" –

"It is not a date."

Castle magnificently ignored this self-evident truth, " – and I'm paying. I invited you."

Since the server had already taken the money, and Beckett had no way of forcing Castle to accept a fistful of dollars, she was stymied. It wasn't fair.

It was even less fair when they left and Castle inserted a hand on to her back. She could walk very adequately by herself, not being a toddler. She said so.

"But Beckett, you never know what might happen. A sinkhole might open in front of you which might swallow you up, and I wouldn't be able to save you."

"That wouldn't happen. But if it did, you wouldn't be able to save me because I'd have pushed you in to it to get rid of you."

"Mean." He smiled rakishly. "You're only snarking because you enjoyed our date."

"It was not a date."

He merely grinned annoyingly. The words Sure it was, whatever you say were astonishingly audible, for unvocalised speech. His hand left her back, which was good, and arrived around her waist, which was very, very bad. (Bad for your self control. Look at you wriggling to get comfortable and not pulling away. She only wasn't pulling away because there was no room on the sidewalk. )

There continued to be no room on the sidewalk until they reached Beckett's apartment. Castle politely – and quite unnecessarily – walked her to her door.

"Wasn't that a lovely evening?" he said suavely. Beckett managed an indeterminate grunt, and opened the door. "How kind of you to invite me in for coffee." She hadn't. (But you would have if you'd thought of it. No, she wouldn't have. Liar.) He bounced in without a care or apology. Beckett shut the door in a very put-upon fashion, and glared at his back, which remained happily impervious and boinged itself over to the kettle. He must have had springs in his shoes. Or he was Tigger, in disguise.

"Isn't this nice, Beckett? Sharing coffee, late at night. So much friendlier than the precinct."

"I like the precinct."

"I know. You spend all your time there."

"You what now? Was that a criticism?"

"Dedication is a virtue."

"When did you start understanding dedication? Or virtue?"

"I'm very dedicated to certain matters. Including your virtue. Though you could use a little less virtue at times."

"What?"

"Like now," Castle said, took one step, pulled her in, and kissed her. Her protest (what protest? You aren't protesting in the slightest!) was completely overwhelmed by his action. It was very difficult to make any coherent noise while being very expertly, thoroughly, and hotly kissed. (Yeah, right. You're kissing him back just as hard. And what are your hands doing, huh? They aren't exactly pushing him away, are they? Couldn't undo them from his neck with a pry bar.)

Beckett ignored the infuriating commentary and tried to gather up some brain cells, currently dissolving in a hot puddle of lust somewhere below her waist. She failed. Castle's kisses were not conducive to thinking. Castle's hands were absolutely not conducive to anything except enjoying it. Him. It. Something, anyway. Who cared? Just – oh, God, do that again.

He did. The man surely knew how to kiss. His soft, mobile lips were nevertheless sure on hers;, his explorations found areas of her mouth she hadn't known existed, still less could feel like that; he nipped gently on her lower lip just exactly where she would but oh, her own nibble never flared through her nerves like his just had.

His hands hadn't even gone anywhere sensitive. One was spread across her back, one had wriggled its way into the hair at her nape. He wasn't forcing her head to an angle: but she was very conscious that he was holding back a lot more strength than she'd anticipated. (You like that. You're a closet romantic. You want swept off your feet. She firmly instructed the brainworm to shut up. It firmly ignored her.) The hands were moving. Normally, she'd have muttered darkly about fidgeting like a four-year old, but it felt pretty damn good when the movement was stroking her.

She made a soft, happy little noise, and pressed closer. She was sure it was a very nice shirt, and no doubt very expensive too, but it was in the way. A hand departed the skin of his neck, slipped down and round, and tugged at the cotton until the shirt untucked. It then landed on the bare skin.

She might as well have electro-shocked him – and herself. The kiss exploded: a war for each other's mouth that neither could win but both were certainly enjoying fighting; a small gap between them sufficient to rip his shirt open and unzip her pants, both of which were then discarded to enjoy each other's company upon the floor and form a threesome with her shoes; enough time to shove his pants away; heat scorching between them and absolutely no chance of anyone having second thoughts.

She stepped back, which was entirely unpopular, and openly admired him. Castle, not a modest man with, it appeared, a great deal not to be modest about, smirked, and admired right back.

"You've still got a shirt on," he pouted. "That's not fair."

Beckett didn't dignify such childishness with an answer. Not a verbal answer, anyway. She slinked back to him, hauled his head down to hers, and took his mouth and sense with complete assurance.

And then she pinched his ass, just to be naughty. That had an amazing effect, too. He squeaked indignantly, and then (you planned that! squawked the dim-witted brainworm: of course she had!) scooped her up, kissed her hard, and whisked her into her bedroom to drop her flat on her back on her bed.

One large, firm hand arrived neatly on her sternum. "I said," he purred dangerously, "it's not fair that you've still got a shirt on. Even worse, it's only giving me hints of what's underneath. I think you're wearing something pretty."

"You are," Beckett snickered. "Though they seem to be a little small. Maybe you should have skipped dessert?"

Castle simultaneously preened and scowled, which was quite amusing. "I told you my claims are large. These aren't pretty, though. They're appropriate to my ruggedly handsome masculinity."

"I have navy silk underwear, too," she said innocently. "I think it's pretty."

Castle growled at her, and flicked open every button on her shirt without a pause. It fell open, aided by a well-judged wiggle of Beckett's torso. Apparently Castle's brain had also fallen open, along with his mouth.

"P...p...p...pretty," he stuttered.

"Told you so," she smirked smartly. Castle recovered brain function, depressingly. He didn't need brain function. He just needed instinct. Brain might get in the way. She shimmied. Brain surrendered, undoubtedly because there was no blood left above Castle's waist to run it.

His hand dropped from her midsection, so Beckett sat up, wriggled her shoulders, and let her shirt fall off instead of simply open, watched by Castle's bugging eyes, and then the shirt was cleared away by Castle's smooth action.

"Very pretty," he said suavely.

"Guess that makes two of us."

"We match. It's a sign from the universe."

She rolled her eyes. Castle took advantage of the moment, most unfairly, and kissed her, leaning up over her and stroking down over the pretty, navy-blue silk and lace bra. His mouth followed his fingers, as silky on her skin as the fabric, leaving tiny trails of sparks behind it. She murmured wordlessly and arched up to him, demanding more. More arrived: his mouth was clearly as good at breast-attending as at kissing.

Castle slipped a hand beneath Beckett's beautiful body to find the catch of her bra to release it. Despite considerable experience of bras (if not of Becketts – yet) he seemed to have mislaid it. His fingers wandered. There was no catch where there was usually a catch. Hmm. Maybe, he thought happily, Beckett did front fastening bras. He liked those. Something about the way they could be made to fall open at the same time as a button-down – that dishevelled look always did it for him and it would be perfect on Beckett: mussed hair and mussed clothes...

Oh. There was no front fastening either. A swift, erotic trace of fingers proved that there was no fastening on either side. That was decidedly not erotic. He stopped ministering to the Beckett breasts and was immediately assaulted by the Beckett berating.

"Why've you stopped?"

"I was going to undo your bra" – he leered lasciviously – "but" – it changed to a worried look – "I can't find the hooks."

"I thought you were experienced? Is all that reputation exaggerated?"

"No! I'm an excellent lover."

"But you can't find the catch to undo it," she smirked.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Short, fluffy, M-rated and absolutely no angst. Three chapters. Today, Thursday, Sunday.