Would you be willing to give us a bit of Derek's POV for their first kiss in the kick in the darkness series? I'm doing my annual reread of my comfort fics and the part right before they kiss, when Casey says they don't have proof they'd be compatible, just for Derek to lay one on her- I'd love to know what was going through his head or if it even occurred to him in the midst of him trying to prove a point, that he's kissing CASEY.
She's having another panic attack; Jesus Christ, she's having another one. How many is that today? It's the second one he's seen, but how many did she have before he picked her up at practice? Did she panic when he changed their plans? Did she panic while she was waiting for him; did she panic the moment she woke up this morning and realized what they were gonna do today?
He's tired. He's just... He's so tired. "They're not gonna hate us." This is ridiculous. She's being ri-dic-u-lous. It's George and Nora; they couldn't hate them if they tried; and he's sure his dad has tried to hate him at least a couple of times.
(That's a joke; he's joking. That's what Venturis do: they joke.)
Aw, jeeze, she's off again: “You don’t know that! You don’t, and I don’t, and, and, what are we doing, talking about risking our family and everything for… for… what? A crush? Infatuation?"
Okay, one: ow. And two: how fucking dare she? She knows this is more than just some stupid-ass crush; it isn't possible for them to have something as dumb as a crush when they know each other as well as they do. If it was a crush, he'd have gotten over it already; fuck, he wishes it was nothing more than a crush.
Wait, she's still talking: "I mean, for God’s sake, we don’t even know if we’re compatible or if we’d even last longer than a week—”
Oh hold up there—“Hold up; what do you mean compatible?” He shoves a hand, palm facing her, between them, because for all she's sooooo smart, Casey's really pretty dumb unless you make things obvious; and sometimes the only way to get her to stop talking is to literally force her to stop.
She huffs and rolls her eyes. “It means—”
Oooooh, that's her prissy voice. God, he hates that voice; like she's so superior to him. He wonders sometimes what she'd ever do if he kissed her when she was in one of those moods or even, damn, smacked that ass of hers. She's just—she's such a brat sometimes.
“I know what it means." Because it's so like her to insult his intelligence during a fight; guess what, princess? That's not an original strategy. It doesn't even sting anymore. “You don’t think we’re compatible?"
What an absolute goose. Can't she feel it right now, right in this moment? The fire, the chemistry, the insane need to grab, to pull, to dig your fingers in and prove that you made a mark on them. Can't she feel it; it can't just be him. There's no way it's not the same for her as it is for him, not with the way she screams and shouts and hits and demands for him to pay attention to her all the time; the way she practically pulses with the need for him to watch her.
“How should I know?!” she cries, throwing her arms out. “It’s not like we have any evidence—”
Oh fuck that. She wants evidence? Oh, he'll give her some physical goddamn evidence.
He sees the moment she registers her own words, sees the Klutzilla's eyes go wide with realization, but he's too pissed to have pity on her. After all the work he's put in, the talking, the waiting, the friendship, the trying over and over and over again — to be this close to the finishing line and have her try to change the rules that she made in the first place? Nuh uh. Not happening. He's done playing by her rules; he's playing by his now.
She wants evidence? She wants to know that this, that they are worth the risk? Well: let's give the lady what she wants.
And before she can say anything, before the shock of her own words wears off, his hands are reaching for her: cupping her jaw, fingers curling around her neck and thumbs on her chin, and he’s pulling her towards him just as he pushes forward, and then their mouths are meeting.
He knows almost immediately he's fucked it: her mouth is still slightly open from yelling at him, and his jaw is clenched from frustration, and she’s not exactly yielding, (because it wouldn't be Casey if she was easy; and he knew that) so their lips are hard and their noses bump against each other, and his hands are tight on her neck — he can feel her pulse against his fingers, racing and erratic (and see, Casey, here's your compatibility) — and then her hands are on his chest, and he knows that means she's used up her patience.
Okay, Venturi, get it together. This is Casey. This is Casey. You know her. You've seen her with her boyfriends, you've heard her talking with Emily and Lizzie; and, more importantly, you've read her smutty romance books. You know her. Try again.
So he pulls away very briefly (he's gotta get this right), angles his head a little, tilts her head with his grip on her, and then goes in for a second try. This time their noses simply slide against each other like they’ve done this a dozen times before, and he can smell her shampoo and body wash, and it's something he's been smelling for years, and when he meets her mouth with his, he thinks about how blue her eyes are, how warm her skin is, the way she looks at him when she's listening to everything he's saying, the wrinkle between her eyebrows when she's worried...
He kisses her, and thinks about her laughter and the way she hums when she's happy, the way she shimmies her shoulders when she wins something and her face lights up with triumph; he catches her bottom lip between his and thinks about her stumbling because she was focused on something besides her stupid feet, thinks about the way her hand slides through Simon's hair, thinks about how she would braid Marti's hair or fix Edwin's collar or help Lizzie choose an outfit...
And he feels the moment she surrenders, feels the moment she gets it, because her hands grip his shirt and she sinks into him, practically falling into his arms. Her body is so warm and solid, all curves and hidden muscles, and when she sighs a little (he doesn't know if it's a happy sound or a sexy sound, but he'll learn. He can't wait to learn; he's gonna learn everything he can about making her happy), he slides his tongue into the small space she’s created, and she opens for him, letting him in. God, her fucking mouth; he can taste her stupid salad dressing and it's as fruity as her shampoo and body wash; so fucking sue him when he groans right into her mouth. God, she's so absolutely perfect: he feels her body shudder in his arms, and she groans right back; and the sound of it fills up all the hollow parts of him.
Compatibility, he thinks as he runs his hands over her body, as he practically pulls her into his lap, as she sinks a hand into his hair. Compatibility, infinity... Same difference, right, sweetheart?
