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Seven Minutes in Heaven

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“I blame you for this,” Derek hisses, as the door closes and the closet goes dim, and she hears somebody lock the door behind them. “I completely blame you, Casey.”

They’re shoved together in a ridiculously small closet, as a group of freshmen that Casey barely knows are shrieking at each other in drunken, excited voices in the room outside. About half of them are Derek’s hockey teammates and the other half are a random assortment of people from her and Derek’s dorms, and there are two key facts that are important here: 1) Nobody here seems to know that she and Derek are related (or related-in-law, or step-related, or whatever it is they are to each other), and 2) apparently half of Queen’s University think that her and Derek need to make out in a closet in order to “get it out of their system,” as her roommate Jessica had said, right as she’d laughingly shoved Casey into the tiny room with Derek.

“It’s not my fault that your dumb hockey team did this to us!” Casey whisper-yells back. “I came to college to get away from you, not… not… for whatever this is! I want to kiss cute guys that I’m not related to! That’s what college is for!”

“You’re preaching to the choir, Case.” There’s a shifting of movement in the darkness, and something brushes up against Casey’s side in the darkness, and then what she can only assume is Derek’s hand sort of… gropes her, in the darkness.

“Hey!” She slaps outward, and her hand connects against something hard and flat - probably his chest. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

“I was looking for a light switch!”

“Well you found my breast instead, so well done,” she says, sharply. Her voice is acid, but there’s a sudden, weird silence, and she hears his soft intake of breath, instead of the retort she had been expecting.

Well. That doesn’t make it any less awkward at all.

“KISS!” somebody screams, right outside the door, and nope, nope, Casey was wrong, this whole situation can be more more awkward. “STICK YOUR TONGUE DOWN HER THROAT!”

“Oh, god,” Derek mutters.

“WE’LL KNOW IF YOU DON’T!”

“Crap!” Casey’s hands fly blindly to her face, her hair. “How do we look like we’ve been making out for seven minutes if we haven’t actually been?”

“Mess up your hair.”

“Mess up my - “

“I’ll do it,” he says, impatiently. Hands find her shoulders, and follow the line of her neck upward. Her hair is up in two low pigtails; he pulls both of the rubber bands out, and scratches his nails along her scalp where the hair is bunched up. It feels weirdly good. “Seriously, haven’t you ever done this before?”

Casey stomps her foot. “Excuse me for not being a seven minutes in heaven expert.” She reaches up her own hands, and manages, via careful prodding, to locate Derek’s ears. “I’ll mess up your hair too, okay?”

She sinks her fingers into Derek’s shaggy hair, fluffing it up, but Derek’s taller than her, and she realizes, with a funny, surreal feeling, that Derek still has his hands looped around her neck, and they must be facing each other now, hands on each other shoulders, and this is how people stand when they’re about to kiss.

In front of her, she can tell that Derek is breathing faster now. She can feel his breath on her face.

“I don’t -“ she starts to say.

“We should kiss,” Derek blurts out. “You know - ha ha, that would really show them. If we kissed for real.”

Her heart skips a beat before starting up again in triplicate and attempting to samba its way out of her chest.

“What?”

“It would really stick it to the man,” Derek says, sort of weakly. “If we kissed.”

“If we… kissed.”

“…Yes?”

“Who are you?”

“Shut up, Casey.”

“I mean, stick it to the man? Stick it to the man if we kissed? That’s the best you can come up with?”

And the next thing Casey knows, she’s being kissed, awkwardly and hard, in the darkness.

Casey is surprised enough that she doesn’t push him off immediately, a warm mouth closing in on top of her own. Derek’s breath is sweet and tastes faintly like cranberry vodkas.

Derek, she thinks. Derek. Fuck!

But the thought is quickly chased away: it’s dark and she can’t really tell it’s her annoying stepbrother’s face, or actually see his annoying smug expression. If she doesn’t think about it, she’s simply kissing some tall, lanky anonymous guy in a pitch-black closet, and it is good, it’s intensely hot. She skims her tongue along his bottom lip; he tilts his head against hers and opens his mouth. His tongue touching hers feels obscene, like a prelude to sex and things that probably happen in pornos and the way everything seems more adult in college.

Derek, she remembers wildly.

(She pushes the thought aside.)

Derek leans forward the last few inches that separate them, bringing their bodies together, and his belt buckle pinches her stomach. She pulls back from kissing him, panting, and her hands fall to his hips, working at the catch of the belt. His hands follow her fingers. He breathes in, sharply.

She realizes suddenly what this must seem like.

“It’s not that, you pervert! I’m just - your belt buckle is digging into me, okay?”

She gets the buckle undone with his help, and yanks at the belt impatiently, trying to slip it out from his hips. She throws it blindly somewhere on the floor behind her, and then Derek is on her again, pushing her backwards frantically, kissing her harder now. Her back hits a couple of winter coats and what feels like the wall of the closet.

“You’re so hot,” he gasps after a couple of minutes. “I hate it, it’s so annoying.”

You’re annoying,” she manages to say back finally.

“Your sister isn’t supposed to be hot.” He’s mumbling the words against the skin of her neck, breathing hotly on it. He’s basically, like, making out with her jaw. “It’s just not right.”

She pushes him off her and glares into the darkness. “I’m not your sister!”

“I know you’re not my sister!” he snaps back.

They kiss some more, and it’s sloppy and frantic, and Derek’s hands are everywhere, all at once. Casey gets her hands up under Derek’s t-shirt, where his skin is hot and feverish. His fingers flex against the naked gap at the small of her back, where her own shirt is rucked up, and she arches, instinctively, up into Derek’s body, molding herself against him.

“Jesus, Case,” he mutters.

She can feel the heavy, hard angle of what has to be his dick against her leg, and her head is spinning, this is like nothing she’s ever -

“TIME’S UP!” somebody yells.

There’s a rattling noise at the lock, and Derek jumps back away from her just as the door swings open and light floods their small, sad closet. Casey squints into the brightness. Derek’s face is shocked, his face pale and his lips very red, as he stares at her.

Oh god. Oh god. What have they done?

Derek’s expression goes blank when the crowd of people at the closet door start to laugh and cheer. Jessica wolf-whistles, and the entire hockey team fist-bumps each other, and Casey starts to feel faintly, definitely sick.

Derek gives her one last look she doesn’t understand, his expression unreadable, and pushes through the crowd of people.

She touches her bottom lip with her fingers, numbly, and wonders what the hell just happened.