-1Author's Note: This is dark. Not happy. Fucked up really. I've always wanted to write a dark Dasey because I love them, and because I'm a cynic I thought Valentine's day was a good day for it. It killed me to write this, I wanted to redeem Derek, to save him and make this end with fluff, but I didn't. There is no happy ending for this dark little one shot. There is however sex-implied sex, but still. So if you are offended by such things, don't read it.
My thanks go to the amazing Mal(soulmatesdc) for encouraging me to post this. hugs
Disclaimer: Do I even need to say it? Life with Derek is not mine.
When Derek Venturi was a little boy he loved cars. He had a whole collection, big ones and small ones. Cars in all colors and models. They were his favorite thing, until one day when he was in his Dad's study. A glass case on a high shelf caught his eye. The case contained a car, unlike the ones in Derek's collection. It was medium sized, a sports car, but that wasn't what made it special. It seemed to shine. It had tinted windows and the wheels gleamed in the sun. His dad wouldn't let him touch it. It was a collectable, a replica of a car from a James Bond movie. Once Derek saw it, it was all he could think about. He wanted it. He wanted to take it out of its case and run it across his bedroom floor. He wanted to spin the wheels in his hand. He wanted to open and shut the doors and hear the sounds it made. He was bored with his other cars, so he started crashing them in to walls and dropping them off tables. Sometimes that would amuse him for a second or two, but his thoughts always went back to that car he couldn't have.
He stated sneaking into his Dad's study and staring at it. He threw things at it, never quite reaching it. He shook the shelf-unit, but it never fell. He drove his other cars into the shelves, but still nothing happened. Then one day his frustration overwhelmed him and he threw his whole body at the shelves, hard. They rocked back and forth violently, and the case holding the car fell. It hit the ground and smashed, sending the car flying. The car smacked off a wall, and its wheels fell off. Its windshield broke and the front bent. It was broken, and Derek was punished severely. He didn't care though. He was happy. He felt he had won. He played with his other cars peacefully again. He may not have ever gotten to play with that car, but now it was smashed, and it couldn't taunt him anymore.
Casey was like that now. If girls were cars, and he did love girls, he had them in all shapes and sizes and types, then Casey was that James Bond car. Instead of high shelves, there was the fact that she hated him. Instead of a glass case, there was the fact that she was his step sister. She didn't have shiny wheels or a tinted window, but she had that feisty attitude that drove him crazy, and that way of saying his name that made his whole body react. He wanted to touch her, he wanted to hold her and make her scream his name. He wanted her to be his, but he couldn't get what he wanted, she couldn't be his. It made him restless and angry. Other girls began to bore him. He'd use them for a day or two, and then move on still feeling restless and edgy.
So, much like when he was little, he shook her and he shoved her. He taunted her and paraded his girls in front of her pretty face. Casey shook, but she didn't fall. He was enraged by this, so one day he threw his whole body at her. Literally. He crushed her against a wall, kissing her, claiming her and she let him. She responded to his kisses, and that was all he needed. He picked her up and carried her to his room, planting rough kisses down her neck, tearing at her clothes and running his hands down her body. She didn't stop him. She whimpered and writhed and moaned and ran her pretty hands up and down his body. So he made her his, he entered her and smiled. She was broken now. He had won.
When it was over, though it would be the first of many, many times to come, he was thrilled to find he could treat her like she was any other girl. Then, he could take joy in other girls too and he wasn't bored or angry anymore. At night, any night, whenever he chose, he could have her. Every time it happened, every time she moaned his name, he could feel her break a little more, and that made him happy. He was always fierce, biting, shoving, rough, leaving marks, because she was his now. He still didn't have her during the day of course, but he didn't care, because no one else had her either. If anyone looked too close they'd see it. They'd see her swollen eyes, rimmed with dark circles from long nights of being with him or wishing she was and crying while he was out with some other girl. They'd see the marks on her neck she tried to hide with high collars, the marks he always made to further claim her. They'd see the way her gaze always followed him, and the sad way her whole face fell when he walked right past her in the halls. Yes, she was broken, she was his, and he was proud.