I have contracted The Perfidious Porn Affliction. We were all exposed to it in the Sound Of Silence; we've probably all got it now. It's a Smut Revolution, people. To ARMS.

Dedicated to WLS, for whom I foster a disturbing affinity. (Actually, I wrote this story immediately after the third chapter of SOS. Didn't have a choice.)

Also, in case any of you entertained thinking otherwise: I know nothing about the Canadian Justice System. (Admittedly, that may all change soon enough, when I finally enact my Nefarious Plan to Steal Michael Seater from them and donate him to the United States. Except by 'the United States,' I mean 'me.')

(Fair warning, kidlets. It's Sex from here-on-in. If it ain't yer thing then...well. That's unfortunate.)

[clearly, if I owned it, the show would not be able to air on Family Networks.]

::in which there is a goodly amount of shagging::

He knows she knows what he wants, and because she does, she's declining to give it to him (and she probably thinks she's going to get away with it, too. his wonderfully retarded, hysterically naive Casey. delusions are for amateurs), and her stubbornness is beginning to be annoying.

He decides to pull out the big guns, switching from the more benign rude-nothings to his better, more purely malicious material.

"I've been thinking of taping us, for –godCase—posterity's sake, you know." His teeth are at her hip, not-quite breaking skin. (But damn nearly. If she would just--) "And maybe I'll make a copy and postmark one to the fam," his tongue slips past her navel, her fingers find purchase in his hair, "one or two more to close friends," his fingers spool inward even as he drifts up her body, so he can watch, "maybe Sam and Max and Truman, David, James, and Eric," (he has all Their names in his head; it's the only list he's ever made, and one day when he rules the world he's going to use his Six-Assassinations-For-The-Price-of-One Coupon and have them all brutally murdered) "and the Department of Canadian Justice, naturally. They'll want to know the shameful," he kisses her while, with his fingers, he exercises his stunning knowledge of basic arithmetic: one…two… "immoral," …three, before the well-manicured tips of her nails are sinking into the sensitized flesh of his lower back and she makes a sort of shuddering sound against him (a noise that will haunt him for the rest of his life), but her teeth have locked around her lower lip in a blatant refusal of his wishes, "disgusting things happening under our parents' roof." He withdraws and she makes a disappointed noise, seeking out his gaze in the dark. He bends to breathe softly against her neck and drags moist fingers languidly over the shapely contour of her hip and up, across the smooth valley of her stomach, and those eyes are sliding closed again while she trembles under his touch. "Between me and my sister." He hisses against her ear, hoping that the power combo (the poor grammar and the Casey-dubbed 'Forbidden Moniker') will be enough to pull it out of her—

And then he realizes she's smirking at him.

Casey.

Casey is smirking at him.

(Uh-oh.)

She pulls him down jarringly, unexpectedly, and he discovers himself suddenly desperate, as there's no way he'll be able to hold out long now. (Because she's warm and she's soft and damn it, she's Casey.)

"Oh…god," She whispers, arching sharply against him (and he forgets his name), and then his hands are at her hips, trying to steady her (with about the same success he'd have subduing a storm), because he's going to have his way whether she likes it or NOT.

"No, Case," his mouth is at her jaw, "Just you and me here." He groans as her (longlongverylong) legs wind around him. "Your big brother, Derek." He's barely treading water (her thighs are firm and slick at his sides and he thanks whoever's listening for dancers).

Damnitdamnitdamnit.

"Gonna have to try a little harder than that, big brother." Right in his ear, straight into his brain, and fuck if it isn't the sexiest goddamn thing he's ever heard. (He's sick, really.)

(And.) The woman is clearly made of ice. (Metaphorically, of course; in actuality she may, in fact, be burning him alive.)

"Casey," he gasps, helplessly. (He's not sure he's ever seen that color before. Huh.) And it's the home stretch, clearly, because he's reached that curious point where pleasure has exploded into (the most wonderfully visceral) pain, so he employs a desperation tactic (because he can always deny it later, but, more importantly, because it always works),

"-please…" His voice is the rustling of sheets, the slide of her skin against his, and of course it's that simple,

"De-rek—"

(--and compromise feels so good.)

Later, Casey rolls and slings an arm across his bare chest, smiling lazily (and behold, A Man Unmoved).

He pretends to ignore her existence because this seems to annoy her more than most other things he does. (Which is saying something, since he can't think of anything he does that doesn't annoy her.)

And really, he lives to irritate her.

"You know, in the future, if you want something…" Her breath shivers against his neck (and that's all it takes, apparently, for him to be wide, wide awake, and damn it, woman, he's too tired for this), "all you have to do is ask, Der-bear." She says sweetly. (He closes his eyes, because he knows if he opens them he's going to see her unspeakably blue eyes, Things Will Inevitably Transpire, and then she's not going to be able to walk for a week, and he'll be the one to suffer for it.) "And then, your wish?" Her hair is a curtain between them (he feels it falling against his shoulder). "Is my generous guarantee to take it under advisement."

(She's the devil.)

Goddamn crack-cocaine.

(Don't do drugs.)

(Except caffeine.

All hail the Benevolent Coffee God,

for Wise ith He,

the Java Bean,

Amen.)