a/n: this is a terrible, crazy, extremely thinly-veiled excuse to get beckett in a naughty schoolteacher outfit. based on some post-knockdown discussion and a drunk club sex fic that may or may not have mentioned a fantasy of castle's involving the aforementioned outfit. said drunk sex club fic is poorly-titled my heart stops when you look at me, and can be found at my fic journal/comm crookedhalt-at-lj if you want to read it because there is some reference to the events within it, obviously.

the whole fic is, for all intents and purposes, crack. crack that is hopefully somewhere within the vicinity of in-character, maybe. that would be nice.

It all started with a book.

In retrospect he thinks that possibly, things would have been easier if he'd never decided to write it.

When he tells Alexis this she just snorts and says there's no way you really believe that, Dad, because she's clever and insightful and knows him too well, knows the only reason he's bringing it up is because he doesn't want to admit that he's questioning some things that he'd rather not.


The marker on his empty Word document blinks perpetually. He hasn't written a word since the night he ended up punching out a guy who was aiming his gun straight at Beckett, and he doesn't entirely know why this particular moment from that night has given him incurable writer's block; he's sure that experiences like that are supposed to fuel a writer's fire, not choke it out (and no doubt Nikki Heat would laugh in the face of a little thing like a fistfight). Beckett told him that shock affects everyone in different ways, and that maybe he shouldn't try to force anything for a while.

Still, he can't shake his thoughts, and his thumb hovers over the call button next to her name, but he decides against it at the last minute, setting his phone back down on his desk.

Things with Beckett are... complicated. (Because you see, she's making him question things.)

There's the fact that their undercover operation went mildly awry, mostly because he hadn't really counted on her tongue in his mouth when it was supposed to just be pretend, but more importantly than that there's what he refers to as The Crazy Beckett Incident because there's really no other way to describe it. In the weeks since they got drunk in a dirty club and he ended up taking her home to let her screw his brains out (no, seriously, he was actually concerned they might have been dislodged and ended up on the floor with the mess of mostly irreparable clothing she'd left on their way to his bed) all night, she's converted back to her regular grumpy-but-secretly-amused self, without any trace of recognition towards what she did to him. All night. And he knows she wasn't drunk, because she told him she wasn't drunk and then reiterated it when he asked again while trying to undo the clasp of her bra. The only explanation he's come up with is that an alien possessed her for one night but then her superhero powers managed to exorcise it in the hour or so of sleep they got before she woke up and walk-of-shame'd out of his apartment at five am (though she did leave him a cup of coffee and a note that said see you Monday – KB). He'd be convinced he dreamed it, only there's a couple of scratches she left on him that haven't faded yet. That, and the image of her naked is permanently burned into his retinas in the best possible way.

He rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes and gets up, deciding that tomorrow seems like as good a time as any to further explore what happened to the Beckett who left him sore for a week because she's secretly some kind of contortionist acrobat circus freak or something. The wild, throwback-to-her-apparent-feral-phase Beckett who he'd sincerely like to experience again.


She murmurs a thank you when he sets the takeaway coffee cup down in front of her the next morning, then looks up at him with that eyebrow of hers like she knows exactly how long he's been staring at her and would really like him to stop.

"Can I help you with something?"

He gives her a devious grin. "Actually, now that you mention it, there is something on my mind," he says brightly, and pauses, waiting for her acknowledgement in order to continue.

She narrows her eyes. "And?"

"It's this image of you writhing around on my bed while I—"

She cuts him off lightning fast with a relentless twist on his ear and his gasp of surprise immediately turns to a garbled applesapplesapplesapples before she finally lets him go, probably noticing the stares from the rest of the bullpen (and in Ryan and Esposito's cases, amused smirks).

"If you mention that again I am going to make you bleed, do you hear me?"

With a wince, he nods.


For someone who makes his living in the macabre, Richard Castle is not what he would call a morbid or gloomy person. He's not prone to sinister brooding in a dimly-light study when things don't go his way; he likes to think he takes the optimistic approach rather than the wallowing one.

So when he finds himself coming home and taking a bottle of vodka out of the freezer (his mother's, naturally), and pouring himself a glass before going to sit on the couch with it in total silence he notes that he's feeling a bit out of sorts.

After his botched attempt at talking to her, Beckett tactfully avoided any alone time with him for the rest of the day, saying a clipped goodbye to him as he knocked off early to go home and contemplate the glass of clear liquid now in front of him.

"You okay there, kiddo?" Martha approaches him carefully, frowning. "Did you get in trouble with Beckett again? You're home earlier than usual."

"Yeah, in a way. I guess."

"You wanna elaborate on that one?"

"Nope." He swirls the liquid in his glass.

"Is that my vodka?"

Freezing, he looks at the inquiring expression his mother is staring at him with.

"...Nope again. Just water," and taking a deep breath, he swigs heavily from what is decidedly not water.

And promptly chokes on it. What is wrong with him today? Martha just rolls her eyes and wanders to the kitchen island while he gags and splutters. "Nice try, Richard, but I saw the bottle on the counter when I came in."


Later, after switching to wine because he was worried his mother might start putting marks on the vodka bottle to keep an eye on how much got drunk, his finger hovers over the call button next to Beckett's name for the second time in twenty-four hours.

He sends her a text instead. I'm sorry about this morning.

He doesn't really expect a reply, when Beckett's in a mood he never does, so he's surprised when his phone buzzes a few minutes later.

Apology accepted. Something tells me that's not all you wanted to say, though.

Damn her and her ability to read him even through a message on a cellphone. Want to come over? I have merlot and mother made take-out for dinner.

He has to bite back a smile when she texts back again.

Don't be expecting a repeat performance of last month. See you in 20.


He tries not to let it be awkward when he opens the door to her – the first time she's been here since The Crazy Beckett Incident and he has to stop himself from thinking that where she's standing is about the same place she started literally climbing onto him with her tongue shoved halfway down his throat a few weeks ago. He clenches his teeth, and plays the gracious host.

"Come sit down, I'll get the wine."

She smiles wryly, like she thinks he's up to something, but follows him in and sits on the couch anyway. When he hands her a glass, she tracks him as he sets the bottle down on the coffee table, lets him small-talk her for a while, then as it falls silent, she turns toward him, her knee bumping his.

"You maybe want to get to the part where you tell me why you called me over here, Castle?"

"Before I start, can I ask that you don't injure or wound or in any way... maim me when you hear what it's about?" he pleads, and notices that she immediately tenses up, her fingers tightening against her wine glass.

"I'm not making any promises."

He hopes that her desire to keep his carpet free of wine spills will outweigh her need to throttle him, then he delves in. "I've been thinking a lot in the last couple of days about... what happened that night a few weeks ago and it's been bugging me because I feel like we need to maybe talk about it or something because there's just this problem I have where I think you regret it or you're wishing it hadn't happened and I wanted you to know that—"


"—I don't... what?"

"If I were going to regret anything it wouldn't be sleeping with you." She looks at him intently, and he thinks (hopes, prays, wishes) that she might lean forward and kiss him. But instead her lips tilt into a tiny smile, and she looks down at their knees then at her glass, sets it down, stands up. "I'm gonna go. I'll see you tomorrow?"

He nods, and lets her out. He's not sure why he's disappointed. What did he expect, a sorry for seducing you, or, as she astutely mentioned earlier, an encore performance? This is Beckett, who has built walls for her walls and then a fortress to contain them in.


He doesn't mention anything about it again, but she softens toward him half a fraction, maybe, he thinks, over the next couple of weeks. There's even a moment in the break room where she brushes past him as he's having trouble with the coffee machine and asks "Need a little help frothing, there, Castle?"

The cup clatters against the metal grate, and for the rest of the day the musical lilt of her laugh is stuck in his head.


He forgets the strange ways of Kate Beckett when the week of his birthday arrives, but then he forgets about most things around that date because he's always considered his birthday to be on par with events like Christmas or the Moon landing ("Sometimes I really do wonder if your brain matured properly past the age of five, Richard," his mother breezes on her way out the door).

However, he remembers when she sends him a text while Alexis makes him birthday pancakes, and he's paying so much attention to what it says that he accidentally covers the one she slaps down on his plate with half a bottle of maple syrup.

Happy birthday Mr Castle, are you busy tonight?

Frowning briefly at the mess he's made, he puts down the syrup jug and replies to her message.

Much appreciated, detective. Just dinner with mother and Alexis, nothing scandalous.

Come to my place after? I have your present.

For the first time since he can remember, he has a terrible time trying to focus on his birthday celebrations.


It's nearly ten when he raps on the door to her apartment, but he hears the click of heels across her floor so apparently she's still up.

When the door opens, anything he might have been planning on saying is completely lost because Beckett looks like something straight out of an extremely dirty daydream. Then he flashes back to her pressed against him in the club – not a daydream, a fantasy.

He's been operating under the illusion that she's purposely blocked out or forgotten everything about that night so this current image of her in front of him is kind of... shocking. In a really scary, sexy way.

All he can do is stare. At the black-rimmed glasses on her face, at her bra clearly visible through her only-half-buttoned button-down, at her pencil skirt with a split that goes way, way up; at her long, long legs that end in one of her pairs of work heels. At Beckett dressed like a naughty teacher. He's dimly aware his mouth his open.

A blush is creeping over her cheeks but her voice is as sardonic as it usually is when she addresses him. "It is your birthday, right? Because if it's not I'm shutting this door and I swear on your waivered life that I will shoot you dead and make sure no one ever discovers your body if you ever mention this to anyone." She contemplates for a moment. "Come to think of it the second part of that threat applies even if it is your birthday."

He gapes for a moment, a dying fish, "You don't need to shut anything," he manages, hoarse and still not comprehending.

"Except maybe your mouth," she replies, smirking and – goddamn her – knowing she has him completely under her thumb. "Can you hurry up and get inside already?"

He finds himself walking past her into her apartment, and hears a lock click into place. He wills his mouth to stay shut when he sees Beckett's desk has been completely cleared off (except for—is that a ruler?) and there's a fairly conspicuous chalkboard set up behind it. "How are you... planning on explaining that to any future gentleman callers?" His voice still isn't working properly, and he tries clearing his throat only to succeed in choking.

"I'm not going to have to explain it, you're taking it with you when you leave."

He gapes again. "How am I going to explain it?"

"I'm sure your gentleman callers aren't going to be that worried, Castle."

His jaw is going to unhinge in a minute.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Beckett, can I ask what—"

"I swear to god if you say 'what all this is about' I am going to—"

"Okay! Okay!" he holds his hands up in surrender, and takes a few tentative steps toward her at the counter, his eyes roving while she pours two glasses of wine. Even if he's not allowed to ask, it doesn't stop him wondering. He wonders if she's done this before, if dressing up as some kind of insanely gorgeous fantasy character is a regular birthday gift she bestows on men. Beckett sips her wine and starts wandering towards her desk. He wonders if she knows how affecting she is, the riddle she makes in her vacillation between personalities is so confounding and enthralling to his literary mindset that he could fill ten books with it, no plot present. Just the seamless transformations back and forth. He has never met a person with as many complexities as her, and he wonders, after this, if he ever will.

(And secretly, as a slightly sidetracking thought, he wonders if she realises that he is never ever going to be able to look at a chalkboard without getting hard again.)

Taking his wine glass by the stem he tips it to his mouth and takes way too much, barely managing to swallow it silently (and before today he was fairly sure he always did a good job at being smooth in these sorts of situations – when did he suddenly start acting like a virginal sixteen-year-old?), then, leaving it on the counter, he starts moving his jelly-legs over to where Beckett has taken up residence on her desk. His breath hitches when she crosses her legs, the slit in her skirt exposing the smooth length of her thigh.

He's vaguely aware his hands are shaking as he approaches her, eyes almost daring him to come closer. Standing in front of her, the tip of her shoe poking into his shin, he sucks in a breath. "You know, now more than ever I'm really proud of my word choice for that Heat Wave dedication, Detective Beckett."

She grins without teeth, leans up into his face, momentarily drops her gaze to his mouth, "Miss Beckett, to you, Mister Castle."

Oh fuck.

He shifts ever so slightly closer, his hands hovering (shaking) near her thighs, and his words come out in a whispering breath. "Can I touch you?"

"To be honest I'm surprised you haven't already." Her eyebrow quirks.

He runs his hands up the length of her skirt, then one of his fingers tilts her chin and he pulls a brief kiss from her mouth, almost stolen, before pulling back to look at her again. He pulls the glasses off her face, and sets them down next to her wine glass. Rolling her eyes as though she's assuming he's getting sentimental, Beckett grabs the front of his shirt in a fist and drags him back to her, her legs uncrossing so she can hook one around the back of his knee. Her tongues strokes the inside of his mouth, and as he pulls her closer, bending to shove up her skirt and hoist her legs around his hips, he's fairly sure he'll never tire of just kissing her. When he starts to walk her feels her thigh muscles tighten, her fingers threading into his hair. He stops right before the chalkboard, but she smiles against his mouth and murmurs took the wheels off so without further hesitation he shoves her up against it and delights in her sharp exhale, the invitation she takes to grind into him.

When he tries to remember this later he finds everything starting to blur into everything else after that moment, his mind too overcome by lust and its many synonyms.

There's the quick rock of her hips against his and her fingers fumbling against his belt.

The ridiculous lace of her underwear roughing against his fingers and her stammered-out "Desk. Now."

The slam of her hand against the wood and her bite of her lips and pulling him over her.

Barely being able to trail his mouth wetly down her chest before she's pushing his head down further—

"If I'd been informed of this little stunt of yours, Miss, I would have been more prepared for this earlier. Kneepads, maybe," he says while he spreads her knees.

"Did I say you could talk in my Chemistry class, Ricky?" she retorts, her thighs shivering against his fingers. He grins.

"Oh, that's good. But considering my current position, wouldn't it be more like talking in sex ed?"

She laughs, long and melodic and breathy, quaking beneath him.

(This part he'll remember).

—The oh god finally of sinking into her, trembling and gasping and moaning into the side of his throat, the drive of her hips into his.

The wine glass toppling and smashing when her fingers entwine with his and stretch out across the desk.

Her ankles locked over his spine, and the sharp dig in when she comes.

When all he can do is lie limply on top of her and hope she can breathe all right, one of her arms loose around his neck, her other hand stroking along his ribs, she turns her head to look at something he can't see.

"Castle, you're lucky I have hardwood floors." She looks back at him. "But you do owe me a new wine glass."

He shifts, feels the fabric of her bra on his chest (he didn't even get to taking it off?), and presses a kiss to her sweaty shoulder. "I'll buy you a hundred."


He doesn't treat it as an admission of affection. He gets dressed while she takes a shower, cleans up the broken glass, then presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth when she comes back out in a robe. He doesn't expect her to ask him to stay and live happily ever after. He doesn't even expect her to say let's do this again.

So he just says, "Don't tell Alexis this, but I think you gave me the best birthday present I've ever gotten."

She smiles at him, and he tries to force down the welling need to tell her how incredibly wonderful and magnificent she is and that he's maybe thinking about falling in love with her, just a bit.

Then he leaves.


The next morning he organises for someone to get the chalkboard from her apartment, and a few hours later he hears his phone buzz.

Castle, what the hell am I going to do with this many wine glasses?

I don't know, what do you expect me to do with the chalkboard that's now sitting in my study?

I'm not doing anything tonight.

He's pretty sure that in the last twenty-four hours have made him get jaw-dropping down to a fine art. Before he can reply, though, another text comes through.

If any of this turns up in your next book, consider your life forfeit.

Wondering on her penchant for death threats and how scary-arousing they are, he sends back a message of his own.

Bring that skirt.


(A week later when he inexplicably finds a stick of chalk in his pants pocket and tries to field the questions of two intrigued homicide detectives, Beckett just grins into a cup of coffee.)