Can I ask, just for kicks and giggles, what might have happened if Derek and Casey DID kiss at that hockey party? I'm assuming they would still get pulled apart too quickly with the hustle and bustle of the party but... then what? I have a HC that Casey might run away if they were to do something physical before they talked about their feelings first but then again, I feel like your version of Dasey are very mature so maybe not? Would Derek have grabbed her hand and pulled her somewhere quiet they could talk? Would Casey instantly panic? I have so many possibilities dancing around in my head and I would love to hear what you think might have happened :)
(This took me a few days to answer, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive me. This may be the angsty thing I’ve ever written. <3)
It's 11:47pm and the party is still going strong. Casey knows from experience that students might linger until 3am; it's not something she's done herself, but she's heard stories, she's heard Whitney come home at 3:20 giggling away. Even so, Casey personally has a self-imposed curfew of midnight; anything much later than that is dangerous. She has a sleep schedule for a reason; she doesn’t want her grades to be affected.
However, tonight's party is for Derek, and she can't leave without saying goodbye to him. There's a chance he’ll want to walk her back to her residence (he can be surprisingly protective, especially after she’s been drinking), and she doesn't want to take him away from his party, but she also doesn't want to stay much longer. She's tired, and she needs to spend the weekend studying for next week's exams.
"Ain't it close to your curfew, Cinderella?"
Speak of the devil: she raises her head and looks down at the base of the stairs where Derek stands, grinning up at her. She knows that expression: he's fairly intoxicated, but he's still standing steady and strong, and the drink in his hand doesn't look in danger of spilling.
She quirks a smile at him. "I was actually thinking the same thing. Hopefully Whitney hasn't sexiled me from the room again."
"She'd text if she did," he says with a shrug. Then he starts climbing the stairs and plops down very firmly on the same step she's curled up on. He drops his head back and groans at the ceiling. "Fuuuuck, what a day."
"I heard rumours that they were planning another party for you tomorrow."
He rolls his neck to shoot her a lazy look. "Jeeze, seriously?" When she nods, he closes his eyes and groans again. "Shit, I don't remember them being this excited about Riegel last year."
"Awww, they just wuv you so much," she teases, leaning forward to poke his cheek. "Their little Venti turning into a big, bad captain."
The side-eye he shoots her is very dry and unimpressed. “Half of them hate my guts,” he corrects.
She holds up a finger. “Ah ah! Not true. At least 51% of them like you enough to vote for you.”
He rolls his eyes. “Jeeze. Whatever.” He bops her knee with his elbow, harder than he should but not as hard as he could. “Do you need a last drink?”
Casey grins. “Actually...” And she grabs her glass that’s sitting on the step beneath them, the one tucked against the wall to protect it. She holds it up and says, “I’m good, thanks.”
He raises his eyebrows, staring at the green liquid in her glass. “Shit. Mona passed on the torch, huh?”
Casey smiles at the glass for a couple of seconds before she pulls it towards herself and takes a long sip. Mona had indeed taught her the recipe for the Kingston’s Queen’s, as she called it, just a couple of hours earlier. It’s honestly one of the tastiest drinks Casey’s ever had, but goodness is it strong. It has three different alcohols in it and a lot of sugar, and she definitely shouldn’t have a third one. “She passed on the torch.”
“Huh.” He does that thing where he moves his tongue into his cheek, like he’s biting down on words, or trying to force your eyes to his mouth. She hates it when he does that because it makes her entire body spike with curiosity.
“What?” she demands, narrowing her eyes at him.
He makes an exaggerated frown and shakes his head a little. “Nothing.” He holds out his own glass, plastic and red. “To you, Little Miss Bartender.”
She taps her glass, plastic and clear, against his. “To you, Mr. Captain.”
He grins, that boyish, ridiculously happy smile that makes her stomach clench. “That’s Mr. Captain Venturi to you.” And then he drains his cup, head back and throat bobbing.
She takes a sip of hers; she’s trying to nurse it because the world is already on the edge of being fuzzy. “Nah, you’re just Derek.”
“There is nothing just about being Derek Venturi,” he counters, wiping at his mouth with the base of his hand. She needs to stop staring at his mouth. “I mean, I’m practically a god.”
She scoffs. “Oh please.”
He spreads his hands out in front of him. “Venturi: god of hockey, pranks, and overall awesomeness.”
“That’s quite the domain,” she muses. “A wide range... Kind of like Apollo.”
“Hm?”
She straightens up, sitting a little taller. “Apollo basically became the god of so many things, like poetry, art, archery, the sun, disease, healing, music, and prophesy... Almost like the catch-all.”
“So... I’m the Canadian version of Apollo, is what I’m hearing.”
“That is not what I said.”
“So I am a god,” he announces triumphantly.
She can’t help it — his face is so pleased, his eyes so bright, his smile so blinding, and he is so obviously being ridiculous just to get a reaction (boy are so silly sometimes) — she actually snorts out a laugh, dropping her head forward. “No,” she disagrees, but it lacks weight when she’s giggling as she says it.
“Mmmm, sounds like something a non-believer would say.” He shakes his head at her, his frown barely hanging on. “What’s the appropriate punishment for such blasphemy?”
“Stoning maybe?” she suggests, smiling at him. She shouldn’t be encouraging him, but God, he’s so cute.
He blinks, his face going totally slack with surprise. “Wait, you wanna get stoned?”
And she laughs: half at his face and half at his tone. “Oh God, no. No, stoning is—”
And that’s when someone stumbles down the stairs (and it’s their own fault for sitting on the stairs, now isn’t it?) and knocks into Derek, who, already twisted on the step and facing Casey, falls forward towards her. His arm shoots out and he braces himself on the wall just next to her head, but suddenly his face is right there.
He lifts his face, and they’re barely inches apart, and his mouth falls open a little, and she’s aware that she’s just staring at him with her own mouth agape. His eyes, dark and glistening and blown-wide, dart down to her mouth; and she can’t help it, she can’t help touching her lip with her tongue. He makes this sound deep in his throat that makes her chest ache with wanting all of a sudden, and then he’s pushing forward and pressing his mouth against hers.
It’s... It’s... Oh God, it’s good. She closes her eyes and gives into it, gives into him, the insistent, hot way he’s moving his mouth against hers, the way his nose brushes hers, the heat that’s suddenly boiling over, no longer simmering. She whines — she shouldn’t, it’s just a kiss — and pushes forward, curling a hand around his neck to press their upper bodies together, and he’s strong and firm and warm, and he makes this movement with his lips that tells her he wants in, and she opens up—
“—tur-i! Ven-tur-i! Ven-tur-i!”
Derek yanks himself away from her, and she pants, gaping at him with big eyes and wet mouth. He looks just like she feels: like someone’s hit them over the head with a two-by-four, or even something grander, like a marble pillar, but also like someone has grabbed them and just started to ruin them.
“Der,” she breathes, not sure what she’s going to say, but needing to say something.
“SPEECH!” is hollered out from somewhere beyond them. “CAP’S GONNA GIVE A SPEECH.”
She watches as Derek registers the words, watches his body adapt, sees the scowl that spreads across his face as he twists around and shouts down the stairs, “Like hell! I’m busy here!”
She flinches back against the wall, where his hand is still planted right by her head, and it’s such a violent motion that her drink actually spills over her hand. She makes a sound — ugh, now her hand’s going to be sticky — and his head snaps back around to face her. She doesn’t know how he heard it, but he must’ve, because his expression immediately falls, eyes going big.
“No, wait, Case, that’s not what I—”
She licks at her lips; she thinks she can taste a hint of nachos, and that hits like a punch in the gut: she hasn’t eaten any nachos tonight. “Your worshippers are calling, Captain.”
He shifts, like he’s going to move towards her: “Wait, Case—”
“Can’t keep them waiting,” she whispers. Her heart is hammering in her chest as she’s realized what they’ve just done, and the entire world is pulsing with the chanting of his name and his title: Cap-tain-Ven-ti; Cap-tain-Ven-ti.
“STOP STARING AT YOUR GIRLFRIEND, VENTI,” someone shouts. Casey is pretty sure it’s Harry Foss. “WE WANT A FUCKING SPEECH.”
Derek grits his teeth and turns his head. “Fine!” he shouts back. “Just—!” And he turns back to her and says, “Don’t move.”
And then, damn him, he pushes himself up to his feet, but inserts his foot between hers, almost twisting his leg around hers so she can’t escape. Damn him!
He gestures, and the music dies down and the chanting quiets, and he starts talking. And she should listen, she’s certainly hearing him, but none of his words register because, oh God, they’ve just kissed. She just kissed her stepbrother. Oh God. Oh God, what has she done? She’s fucked up; she’s fucked up so badly she can’t think of another word for it.
The world gets foggier and foggier, and closer and closer, like the air suddenly gets so heavy it’s impossible to breathe through it, like there’s been a terrible woolen blanket dropped on her head. She can’t think of anything except how she’s ruined everything, how she’s done the unthinkable, how she’s going to destroy their family, and the pressure of his leg against hers; dammit! She can’t escape, but it’s also grounding her; and how dare he be the only reason she can breathe, it’s not fucking fair that he’s the poison and the antidote.
And then that leg, that anchor moves away, but almost immediately after there’s hands on her upper arms, forcing her to focus on his stupid face. His eyes are focused and dark, and he looks suddenly, ridiculously sober. “C’mon,” he says; and the music turns back on, and the world swoops back at her, like a bird going in to catch the mouse sitting, shaking on the stairwell of a student apartment building, unable to move. “C’mon, Case,” he says again, a little louder. He pulls at her arms, and...
And she shakes her head, presses further against the wall, and blurts out, “My drink!”
He glances down at the cup she’s still holding (how is she holding it?), and carefully lets go of one of her arms to reach out and take the glass out of her fingers. He sets it down on the step beneath them, tucked into the corner again, and then curls his hand back around her upper arm. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll get you another after if you want.”
“After what?” she croaks, feeling him pull her up onto her feet.
“Just... c’mon,” he says, maneuvering her in front of him. He pushes her up the stairs, step after sturdy step, and she’s shaking, she’s gasping, she can’t get enough air into her lungs, and her eyes are burning, and she needs to go, she needs to leave.
They get to the top of the stairs and he pushes her off to the side several steps away, almost across the hall from a closed bedroom door. He presses her against the wall firmly but gently; he’s not hurting her, but he’s very serious. And then he stands in front of her, hands still curled around her biceps, and eyes locked on her face.
“Casey?” he says. The music is quieter up here, but still pulsing, still thrumming; and the people beneath them laugh and shout and live. “Hey, you okay?”
She shakes her head. “No. No, I’m— oh my God, Der. Oh my God—”
“Hey, no,” he says, shaking his head and stepping closer. He is so close she can almost feel the warmth of his body. “Case, baby, it’s okay. It’s okay—”
“We’ve fucked up,” she breathes. “We shouldn’t, we can’t—”
“No, hey;” and now he’s stroking her arms in smooth, steady motions. She can’t help it, she sinks into the wall a little, soothed despite her tight chest and aching head. “We’re fine. We didn’t do anything wrong.”
That makes her head shoot up and she gapes at him, still panting. “Nothing wrong— Der-ek! Are you insane?!”
He shrugs, wide and a little manic, his own breathing starting to match hers. “Maybe! But, Case, c’mon, we both knew this was coming—”
“Coming?!” she repeats, and her voice climbs higher and higher and thinner and thinner, like she’s going up a mountain and maybe if she’s lucky she can cause an avalanche and bury herself in rocks and ice. “It wasn’t— it can’t, we can’t, oh my God, they’re going to kill us, we can’t, it never happened, it just never—”
And he shakes her, one quick, strong shake that actually interrupts her. “No;” and she doesn’t know if she’s ever heard his voice so firm. “We are not going to pretend it never happened.”
“We have to!” she yelps. “Because there’s no way we can do this and it can never happen again—”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, and then he’s pushing forward; and he’s kissing her again, but’s it’s rough and hard and desperate, and she feels the same terror and panic in his actions that she feels in her chest.
She reaches out, grabs his shirt and pulls him closer, sobs into his mouth, because oh God, she’s going to have to give this up, and then his tongue is in her mouth and he’s so close and so good, and she sags against the wall and whines. She whines because she’s so tired and he’s so good, and she wants so badly, and she can’t, she never could.
He strokes her arms again, and then one actually drops to wrap around her waist, and he’s pulling her towards him all the while he’s exploring her mouth and begging, this kiss is the worst kind of plea she’s ever heard, and he’s so warm, and she has to follow him, how can she refuse—?
“Fucking seriously?” she hears Flinnigan spit, making her eyes spring open. “Venti, get the fuck away from my door!”
And, again, Derek pulls back, and for a brief couple of seconds, he closes his eyes and she stares at his face: he looks so frustrated, almost defeated, like he cannot believe what’s happening. He raises his head, opens his eyes, and stares at her face. “Flinnigan, go the fuck away.” His voice is so tired, like he’s ready to give up.
“Like fuck I will,” the almost-senior right-wing snaps. “I live here. You’re the one who needs to get lost.”
“Flinn, I’m busy,” Derek stresses, still looking right at Casey. She honestly has no idea what her face is doing, but it can’t be anything good, because Derek looks... She doesn’t have the words, but it’s not good.
“Look, you wanna fuck the Ice Queen, that’s your business,” Flinnigan says; and Derek’s entire body goes taut and still, and Casey thinks, oh no. “But you’re not doing it in my house.”
Slowly, so slowly, Derek turns his face away from Casey’s and he says, in this terrible, dark voice, “What the fuck did you just call her?”
Flinnigan rolls his eyes. “Please, Venti. Everyone knows she’s a frigid ice bitch; and just because she’s got you by the balls—”
Casey tightens her grip on Derek’s shirt just in time for him to push himself off the wall — the fabric stretches as she holds him in place, almost swaying with halted momentum. “Don’t. Derek, don’t.”
He glares so fiercely at Flinnigan that Casey is actually a little afraid of him. “Flinnigan, I swear to fuck, you’d better take that back—”
“Or what?” And Flinnigan must have thirty, forty pounds on Derek (Derek’s never really bulked up, not like some of the guys, even though he’s much stronger than he used to be, but he’ll always be slender and lean), and Flinnigan is angry because Derek just got voted captain over him, even though Flinnigan’s stats are just as good as Derek’s, and he’s a year older. “What the fuck are you gonna do to me, Cap?” And it’s a sneer, it’s a taunt.
Derek almost lunges for him, and Casey holds fast. “Don’t! Der, please.”
“Better listen to your girl,” Flinnigan scoffs. It’s another insult, a toxic masculinity of, ‘who wears the pants in this relationship, anyways?’ “Wouldn’t want to start something you couldn’t finish.”
“You’d better get this out of your system now,” Derek says in that same terrible voice. “Because if you talk like this come September, I’ll have you benched so fast your skates’ll never touch the ice.”
Flinnigan inhales this sharp breath, takes a step forward; and Casey pushes herself forward, inserts herself between them.
“Flinn,” she says, quiet but firm. “Enough. We’ll go and you can have your hall. Okay?”
He glares down at her, then up at Derek, who stands right at her back, so close she can feel his warmth. “Two minutes,” he snaps. “Then I throw him out.”
“Then you can fucking try—!” Derek barks, lunging forward.
“Two minutes,” Casey agrees, holding a hand up to stop Derek.
Flinnigan stands there for another couple of seconds, then turns on his heel and storms down the hallway, towards the stairs. She waits until he stomps down them, listening to his footfalls, and then she says, “I’m going to go.”
“No!” Derek blurts; and it’s almost panicked. He grabs her hand, and holds it almost too tightly. “Case, you can’t walk away—”
She turns to face him — and the problem with a panic attack is the exhaustion that comes afterwards: her entire body aches with weariness. She looks into his face and sees that same expression as before, but she thinks she can read it now: it’s a mix of fear and resignation. “Please don’t tell me what to do,” she says quietly, softly. “I want to go.”
“Look, wait;” and he’s reaching for her other hand. She lets him take it, because she doesn’t know how to refuse him, doesn’t have the energy for it, and then he’s squeezing both of her hands in his. “Let’s talk about this, okay?”
She shakes her head. “There’s nothing to talk about, Der. We... we can’t do this.”
“We can,” he stresses, squeezing her hands. “It’s not illegal, it’s not wrong; Case, c’mon, baby—”
She takes a step backwards, shaking her head. “I’m not, this isn’t—” and suddenly her head is throbbing again and her chest hurts, and oh God, she doesn’t have the strength for another panic attack. She closes her eyes and shakes her head again. “We can’t.”
“We can,” he says again. “C’mon, Casey, there’s nothing wrong with being happy.”
“There is when you’re family, when your parents are married,” she gasps, pulling away.
He doesn’t let go. “Stop!” he snaps, tugging her back towards him. “Why do they get to be happy and we don’t?”
“Because they met first!” she shouts, raising her head to glare at him. And, his face, oh his beautiful, tormented face. Her eyes are burning, and her chest is so tight, and oh, she’s going to cry. “They met first,” she repeats, softer now. “So they get to choose first.”
“That’s bullshit,” he grits out, taking another step towards her as he pulls her closer. She stumbles forward a step, but then digs her heels in. “That’s such bullshit!”
And she laughs, a wet, weak sound that is wrenched out of her chest. “That’s life,” she gasps. “It sucks.” She feels wetness on her cheeks, and now she’s crying. Dammit, she didn’t want to cry.
“Hey;” and his voice is soft again. “Hey, Case, don’t cry...” And he reaches out a hand, and his thumb is stroking her cheek, and she wants to surrender, all she’s wanted for weeks to just let him hold her. She’s almost positive he’d keep her safe... She just can’t be sure he can save her from the world and the step-issue.
“Thirty seconds!” Flinnigan shouts from somewhere behind them.
Derek goes so still and so wired, but somehow his grip on her hands loosen as he shouts past her shoulder. “Grow the fuck up!”
And Casey takes the opportunity: she slips her hands free, takes a hurried step backwards, and then another, and then turns and starts running.
“Case! Fucking— Casey!” Derek shouts behind her; and she hears his feet slam the floor even harder than hers are.
And she turns sharply for the stairs, and Flinnigan is on the second from the top step, and he says, “Fucking fi—” and she pushes past him and bolts down the stairs.
“Wait, Casey!” Derek is shouting behind her; and then there’s the music of the party filling her ears, like someone has flicked on the soundtrack again, and people are everywhere like flies in the summer. She slips and steps around them, imagining she’s dancing, she’s never Klutzilla when she’s dancing. Don’t trip now, don’t fall, just waltz right out—
And there’s the front door, and here are the three steps to the walkway, and here’s the driveway, and there’s the street, and three blocks from here is campus, and seven minutes deep into campus is Harkness Hall and her room, and she’ll be safe because the doors will be locked and Derek doesn’t have a key, so run, so go, so fly.
And she runs, she runs as fast as she can; and her footfalls against the pavement sound like I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—
so i was rewatching the ‘i am moana’ sequence for some research and something that’s struck me with that scene is that moana’s grandma apologizes to her. that moana shouldn’t have had to bear that responsibility, especially not charged after death. that it was okay if moana wanted to go home. grandma tala doesn’t tell moana that she has to continue on her journey, and doesn’t blame her for not completing it. as moana hesitates, conflicted, grandma tala doesn’t force her to make a choice - just asks her why she’s hesitating, and lets moana find her own courage and her own decision, and supports that.
Ok hear me out, Peter thinks he’s ignoring Y/N b/c she’s acting needy, but he’s not. Deep down he knows he never really loved Y/N in a romantic kind of way. When he sees those texts he gets mad not b/c he told the reader to break up with him but b/c he’s jealous that he doesn’t have Brad’s number because he’s secretly gay. He comes out, and thus becomes less of a jerk b/c he’s more happy and then him and Brad end up together cause brad is bi or gay or something and they all live happily ever after. So like. I guess I’m #Team Brad and #team Peter?
Good thing I didn’t just chuck a back cinch on the saddle! For a chubby girl, she’s got some athleticism. This is the least-enthusiastic of her bucking by the way; we decided to film after she pointed her heels at the ceiling repeatedly.
