It's dark when you see him. And empty.

But his eyes glitter in the darkness remember? They bore into you with surprising intensity because night time has always been Derek time; has always been where he shines (parties and booze and girls but that doesn't count)

You lost track of when your eyes started that slow descent that began with his face and ended with his legs long ago.

So yeah, his eyes follow the path your eyes trail and god help you but somehow that incites that flutter of excitement in your stomach.

Your legs take one step back, two, then three and that's when Derek is there, hovering over you, pinning you against the wall of the kitchen where you dumped a bowl full of cereal on his head hours ago and is it wrong that you're enjoying it so much?

You think of mom, of George, gone on their weekend vacations, (and you don't want to think about what they do there) of Lizzie and Edwin over some friend's house, snug in those blankets that don't belong to them and of the face your sister would pull if you ever told her you wanted to kiss Derek and lastly of Marti who has always been Derek's favorite and who's currently asleep next door, probably curled up at the foot of Emily's bed because Dimmy's just a bit too much for her but she promised Nora and George she'd stay overnight this time.

You think of, god, Emily, who though she loves Sheldon, (god Sheldon who proposed) still sort of holds a torch for Derek.

And then you don't think at all because Derek fills your vision, dark eyes glittering and his lips are---god, yes---right there where you've always wanted them to be, at the pulse point at your neck and he's sucking and licking and biting and god help you, your hands slip under the soft fabric of his shirt to trail cool fingers along his spine and you're inordinately pleased with the way his muscles twitch and bunch underneath your fingers.

Derek pauses against your neck and you feel him smirk and your heart sinks a bit 'cause you weren't supposed to want him this much, you were supposed to fight, but Derek has always been the one thing you couldn't deny yourself so when his hands tug at the ends of you shirt, you arms slip from under his shirt and move up to let him slip off the pale almost see through fabric of your too expensive shirt you can't believe you let Truman talk you into buying but that's not something to be thinking about remember?

So yeah, there, against the cool walls of your house and your fingers clench in Derek's shirt; he's wearing too many clothes and he's deftly unhooking your bra and your hands trail down again to bunch up his shirt and pull it up, over his head and on the floor next to your discarded shirt and bra and then your arms hook behind his head and his lips are around your nipples and---

---and what?

Is it wrong that you're enjoying it? Is it wrong that your hands scramble to grip his belt, to unhook it, to unzip his pants to--- to---?

Is it wrong that there's this ache between your legs that makes your hips press against him and god help you but that almost makes it feel worse and really you don't know what's worse; that you're against the wall being fucked your step-brother or the fact that you're so blatantly enjoying it?

(The empty house is filled with a cacophony of half-sighs and throaty moans and really, you can't ever look at the kitchen the same way again)