a/n bamaslamma29 told me to- "Write an M-rated fic, woman"

DISCLAIMER: Yep mine. Mike and Ash promised to act this out.

Close your eyes
For your eyes will only tell the truth
And the truth isn't what you want to see
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be.

Phantom of The Opera

(He's waiting for the universe to revert back.)

Of all the implausible scenarios in the world, this would be the one entering Guinness Book of World Records for 'Wasn't Never Gonna Happen.'

Because Casey? Drunk. Groping everything in sight (in a very politically correct move refusing to differentiate people on basis of minor differences. Like gender.)

He drives her home, while she's still singing 'Aqua' songs off-key. (He's stone-cold sober. And the universe really needs to get its act right.)

(And the fucking irony is, this is all for Truman. His crazy, neurotic step-sister is giving up her principles for a guy who's probably, even now, in a double-bed with her cousin. He hates Truman.)

He never over-analyses why (or analyses at all actually, that's her job) but for some reason he knows; nobody should treat Casey that way.

She goes up to his room instead of her own, and he glares at her as she sits on his bed.

"What the hell were you doing."

She pouts up at him, and if she was sober this would've never happened (because there are these freaking boundaries, which nobody talks about, but they're still there.) "What's your problem, Derek? I thought you wanted me to loosen up."

"Not by telling my date that she's hot, and you'd be up for a ménage a trios, with us. (He doesn't remember one bit how he'd spit out his drink. On his dates' dress. Not at all.)

"She was hot." Casey slurs.

"So you'd have been ready to sleep with me."

He regrets it as soon as it's out, (you literally just crossed the line) his stomach so tied-up in knots, he can barely breathe.

She glances up, "I'm in your room. Duh."

(This isn't following any script he's ever written, and he doesn't know his lines, it's driving him insane.)

"You don't know what you're saying. You're drunk. Go to sleep."

She's looking at him with a half-smile on her face, looking like a mischevious kid, and god this needs to end now. "Make love to me."

He's stopped breathing.

There's no mirror in front of him, but whatever his face looks like makes her sigh in frustration, "De-rek. I'm on the rebound. You've to make love to me. That is the only way I'll get over Truman."

"Casey," and he's never sounded like that before, "Casey, please don't." (stopohgodpleasestop)

She's still wearing her secret (insanelyhot) smile. "You want me to beg, don't you? You love it when I do. You make me beg for everything." She's suddenly down on her knees in front of him, and then she looks at him (withthoseeyes. ohgodthosefuckingeyes.) "Please, Derek. Please. I want you"

She's broken him without even touching him once. (Congrat-fuck-ulations Case)

(He's thought about it.

What kind of a guy would he be if he hadn't? She used to come out of the shower in just a towel, and he was glad he was taking the shower after her, because by that time he actually needed it.

But this…this was something else.)

She's on his bed and he's so incredibly turned on. Her hair is splayed over his pillow, her eyes half shut and she makes him want to fall to his knees and give her all the pleasure that she deserves. He's drunk with just the thought, the possibility. She doesn't want him. He's just the re-bound guy, the means to an end. (And it's so fucked-up, he can't even bring himself to care.)

Her hands reach out for his buttons, and it's sin on his skin, and it's never...never felt like this before. She runs her hand slowly over his bare skin, and he's twelve again, secretly watching those goddesses on-screen. And he never realized it, but they never compared, because she's fucking gorgeous.

He wants to touch her so badly, he's half-crazed with longing.

He slips his hand under her dress, and runs them lightly down her side. She arches a little and his breath gets caught in his throat, choking him. Her skin is so smooth, he can feel the sin, like it's tangible, and fuck, dreams will never satisfy him again. Ever.

His lips are on hers, and they're still fighting, neither of them willing to relinquish the control. He's determined to make her want him just as much as he wants her. Scream for me, Case.

And when she does, he almost comes undone.

He kisses her bare shoulder, and trails his still-damp hair across the skin on her neck, as he bites her lightly (and he wants to bite hard, leave a mark, tell everyone she belongs to him.) and as she shivers with the contact, his hearts thuds at a crazy pace. She's just a shadow in the dark room, but her touch is heart-stoppingly real.

(And it hurts so badly every time she looks over at him with the trusting look, and he can't tell her to staythefuckaway.)

He slides her dress off with practiced ease, and he can feel her body heat up even from the distance, searing through him, till he can't think, and all his though reduces to CaseCaseCase. She tries to cover herself up in instinctive embarrassment, but he stops her. (She'sfuckinggorgeous) He can't get enough of looking at her, and the slightest distance cuts through him sharply.

"Derek," she whispers softly into the darkness, her voice still laced with alcohol, sounding small, "Do we have to take all our clothes off?"

(And he's never been punched harder.)

Because it hits him like a physical blow; he doesn't deserve this.

He realizes he's said it out loud, only when she replies with, "Don't deserve what?" And her voice, sounding like a polite child's, tightens the knot in his stomach.

This innocence.

He can't do this.

He moves away (and he's not shaking, fuck you, he's not.) and she protests a little at the lack of warmth.

"Casey," he manages to say her name without breaking (where's the fucking medal) "Have you ever done this before?"

She looks down, not meeting his steady gaze, "I've...read about it."

He's suffocating with the need, desire and the wrongness of it all. "Please go."

She seems to realize what he means, her eyes widen (ohgodmakeherstop) "You're leaving me? Just like Truman."

He doesn't say anything because for the first time in his life, it's not about him.

She doesn't look up again, and he feels the ice running through his veins. "Casey, look at me." She refuses, picking up her dress with trembling fingers (and how much did she drink, anyway?) A sudden wetness on his hands makes him pause and fuck, she's crying.

She attempts to get up, but he stops her with his body, and yes, it's a bad idea (Because she...she calls it 'making love.') "Why are you crying?"

"You don't want me, do you." Her voice sounds like a petulant two-year olds', and she's still slurring. "Nobody wants me. Truman didn't, and now you don't.

(Is she fucking serious?)

"I just want to know what it feels like. Once."

He can't do this to her. He can't.

His hands reach out of their own violition. He touches her, and does this tell you about want? She moans when his hands caress her beneath her bra, and all he wants is to hear it again and again, till he's sick with the longing. His cool breath make her nipples harden, and it's his hottest experience till date. His hand slips below, lower. He touches her through the barrier of silk. rubbing his thumb slowly, pulling it lightly over her sensitized skin, and oh fuck, she's so wet, for him. His lips silence hers as he continues to touch. His deliberate hands slowly, painstakingly building a fire within her, till she's moving beneath him, and the sensations are so strong, so real she has to (can't) turn away.

You're beautiful, most beautiful when you come. And she moans at the thought, his words on her skin, his hands and mouth driving her, till she can't think or see, only feel.

She tries to pull him down instinctively, but he stays away. "Tonight, it's about you." He whispers. And he watches her, drinking her in, her hair tangled on his hand, her chapped lips forming words he can't catch, he stores the memory (because this is all he'll ever have.)

As she comes underneath him, a low moan escaping her, he almost loses his last shred of control, almost bends down to get his fulfillment. Almost. And it would just take that centimetre to touch her fully, to feel her smooth skin on his, to never have to wonder again.

But he doesn't.

Because this time...in some strange, twisted, fucked-up way...

He cares.

It's only when she's left his room, still stumbling, and he's lying awake, aching for something he can't explain, that it occurs to him.

She hadn't said his name.