Oh, Derek. Oh, Casey.

You had me at Taboo.

(First attempt at Dasey, kidlets. Be merciless. Derek would be.)

I'm going to avoid the beaten path and use Interpretive Dance to make my Disclaimer. You can't see it, of course, but you know the gist, anyway, and hopefully won't sue me for the (potentially) Illegal Things I'm going to make Derek and Casey do.

...oh, my.

(AN: Also! Be forewarned. I made liberal use of Italics. And if you're one of those narrow-minded people who discriminate against parentheses, you should probably get yer head outta yer ass. I mean, leave.)

::in which Derek wins (again) and perhaps Casey does, too::

"What're…why're—I mean. What are you—my jersey!" He's spluttering and nonsensical and he can't figure out why and it's infuriating. Not as infuriating –or annoying, or shameless, or downright wrong—as Casey wearing his hockey jersey (could the woman not READ? How could she not mind that she had his last name in huge block letters stenciled across her back?), and apparently only his hockey jersey (his eyes are burning at the sight, and not in the good sort of way), mind you, but almost.

Casey graces him with a humorless smile and turns back to the washing machine to tinker with the settings, ignoring him and this situation, which should be vexing and horrifying to more than just him. She bends slightly to peer in at something in the washer, and he swallows thickly and is truly disturbed when he tastes bile at the sight of her thighs as they disappear under the hem of his jersey. Which Casey is still wearing.

"Why are you wearing my JERSEY?" He (almost) squeaks, and he catches her rolling her eyes as she closes the machine on their clothing and starts the cycle, flouncing past him with a flippant, dismissive flick of dark hair in his general direction. Had the woman no SHAME?!

"Calm down, Derek. I needed something to wear while my stuff was in the wash. In case you were unaware, I woke up this morning to find that all of my clothes had been mysteriously vandalized. With Hershey's Chocolate Syrup." She pauses, twirling abruptly (he almost smacks into her and decides that that would have been a most unfortunate turn of events, for reasons he does not care to explore). "And ants." She starts in the other direction again, vaulting over the back of the couch (a feat he watches with uncomfortably intense interest, and if he catches a flash of pink and a smattering of tiny butterflies, it's only because she isn't wearing anything but his hockey jersey) to flop onto the cushions, and he watches her stretch the length of the sofa to reach for the remote, and he's not sure why he even cares anymore that she's wearing his jersey—

"I can't be held responsible for errant chocolate, Case." She spares him a lifted brow at his word choice, and he smirks his way past the implied insult. "I also probably shouldn't be held responsible for having to kill you for home invasion, lack of respect for privacy, theft of sacred objects…you can't wear that, Casey."

"And yet, I am." She smiles tauntingly and flips on the television and he sees red. Not just the red of the jersey, which is falling most unflatteringly against the curve of her hip, but blood red with imminent violence.

"Casey, Casey, Casey." He drawls, because that's just The Way he says her name. His hands appear on the back of the sofa as he looms over her, his eyes Not on her exposed thighs, scandalously peeking at him. "Take it off." He isn't sure why he says it quite like that, in quite that tone of voice, but when she ignores him and starts channel surfing, he's sickeningly certain why he's furious with her, and perturbed that it has only fleeting relation to the jersey.

His hand snaps out to retrieve the remote more quickly than he has time to make the conscious decision to steal it away from her, and he's impressed that despite the suddenness of it all Casey jumps instinctively to try and prevent it from happening (he has trained her well), which exposes him to the butterflies again, and for the life of him he doesn't want to look away. He does, of course he does, but it's no less terrifying that he doesn't want to.

"DE-REK!" She yells, because that's just The Way she says his name. "Give it back!" She grabs for it, he takes a quick step back, dangling the controller just out of her reach.

"'Fraid I can't do that, Case. The law being what it is, and possession being nine-tenths of it…well, you know where I'm going with this. 'Course, I could probably be persuaded to make an exchange…" She's wearing That Glare, and he knows it means she's about to tackle him, and he wonders if there's a chance he might be able to escape for a moment to go vomit up everything he's ever eaten before they continue this confrontation. "You just…take off the jersey," he is definitely going to need to throw up soon, "and toss it to me, you get the remote back –and the tv, and I won't tell any of your future boyfriends that you're covered in scales and hairy warts." He smiles angelically, and she launches herself at him.

Panic feels strangely like anticipation, and horror apparently now comes spiked with the pleasant-sort of adrenaline that usually only precedes such activities as making out, sex, hockey, and dinner. Derek has no time to appreciate either of these for much longer than an instant (which he uses to shove the clicker into his back pocket, forethought which he will later both be impressed with himself at having at all and furious with for not having him deposit the clicker into his front pocket--), because he's suddenly wearing a seething stepsister (emphasis on 'step,' his mind unhelpfully insists) and tumbling painfully onto his ass.

Standard Operating Procedure dictates letting any girl wanting to tussle with him (especially any not-entirely-unfortunate-looking girl wearing only his hockey jersey—and glittery underwear) win, but Casey is not just 'any girl' (she's hardly a girl at all, he thinks, mantra-style, no matter what his body might possibly be suggesting otherwise), and not only do the standard rules not apply to her, but he has this Very Strict Policy involving never letting Casey win. Anything. Ever. This is his (airtight) rationale when he grips the underside of her thighs (hard), completely unmindful of the malfunctioning of several important areas of his brain (like the ones in charge of thinking, seeing, and briefly, breathing) as his fingers encounter really just ridiculously soft, smooth skin, and he flips her.

She squeals and holds tight to his shoulders as she goes over, but as soon as she lands she's clawing at him again, fighting him (with legs and hips) for leverage, breathlessly, heatedly ripping his name in half The Way only she ever does, and there is no possible way for this to be misconstrued as anything other than what it is.

He can't say, exactly, what 'it' is, but he's working on it in between trying not to be distracted by the way her Casey parts are all smashed up against his Derek bits, and also attempting to remember that they're supposed to be siblings (step-siblings, by marriage, no blood, no blood, there is no blood –between them or left in his head). He's earnestly grappling with her, though, and he's not surprised (because this is by no means their first altercation, and certainly not their first wrestling match) that 120 pounds worth of Casey is more difficult to subdue than she seems, because nothing with Casey is ever easy. He still usually wins, of course, but it's still frustrating how hard (oh, dear) he has to work to beat her.

Things are looking to be in his favor at the moment, he reflects, and wonders if he'd be totally out of line if he tried to take his jersey back himself. It is, after all, his, and she has no right to be wearing it, and he's seriously considering just pulling the old rag over her head when her hands find his ass, and he stops thinking altogether.

In this lapse, several things happen that he did not sign off for: first, his hand had somehow managed to hook under one of her knees and pull it forward far past the point of propriety, and there was also the matter of his hips, which were no longer obeying his orders to be still, and which were rather happily acquainting themselves with hers. Also, peculiarly, he was kissing Casey.

If he were capable of thinking past the glorious blunder he was currently sponsoring, he might have taken the time to realize that Casey had won back the remote (and dropped it), but as it is he's currently occupied waging war with Casey's tongue, which had, at some point, attacked without warning.


The important thing in all of this was really that, in the end, Casey forfeited the jersey.

Derek thought he could wait –just this once—to rub his victory in her face.

I had initially intended someone (or everyone) in the Venturi-McDonald household to walk in before the sexitiemz could happen, but I really wanted Derek to get his jersey back.

What can I say?

Derek paid me off to let him win.

It's not like I'm entirely heartless, though. I was assured that Casey wouldn't complain.

This time.

For a while, at least.