I think Dasey has ruined me for writing any other type of fanfiction. It has successfully kidnapped and hogtied my muse and I had to write more.

I do not own LWD

She has a head full of memories that don't belong to her.

That can be the only explanation for the images behind her eyelids, for the traces of heat on her limbs.

These can not be her memories.

It can not be her who had done that.

Her back slammed into the wall and she hissed out one breath between her teeth before he was pressing his mouth to hers again, devouring her. She was shaking, shuddering under his fingers, and all semblance of coordination had left her. Somehow he seemed to know what she was trying to do when she slid her leg higher over his own and his hands curved under her thighs, lifting her up so she could wrap her legs around him. She felt him then, hard and insistent against her and she rocked her pelvis into his. He groaned into her mouth and she swallowed the sound, a strange feeling kicking through her veins—something that felt sweeter than satisfaction, something gritty and real.

Because that girl? That girl is NOT her.

She would never—could never—be so spontaneous, so swept away by sensation. No, she is not a girl who would have let herself be like that, not ever.

She keeps her eyes closed. Because if she doesn't open them, then this could be her bed that she is lying on. Even if the sheets feel different and she can hear someone breathing next to her ear, this could still be her own bed. Because why would she be in someone else's bed?

The touch of his skin on hers was a sharp, almost tangible brand of pleasure. They never stopped moving, not even pausing as they toppled down onto his bed, her teeth knocking painfully against his for a second before he pulled back and simultaneously pressed his lips to her jawline and his hand to the damp spot on her panties. Her body had taken over and she ground mindlessly against his hand, an odd little hiccuping gasp leaving her throat when he tugged her underwear down to her knees and pushed a finger up into her slick channel.

No words were exchanged, no explanations or second thoughts. They didn't have time for that. Because they only had one day before their parents would be bac—no, right now, the idea of parents didn't exist. Especially not in the context of "their".

She is not going to panic.

She, of course, does not need to. Because she is not the girl in the memories in her head. That idea is laughable. Utterly laughable. Because Casey Mcdonald does not do things like that.

Her palms slid up the arch of his naked back, curving around his ribcage to feel the contours of lean muscle. He was more skinny then anything, but his heart hammered underneath her touch, his breath rasping out loudly into the air. The urge to touch every part of him was overwhelming what little thought process she had left. She couldn't even bring herself to protest when he pulled his fingers out of her and sat back slightly, his fumbling hands struggling with his belt buckle. Her new goal in life seemed to be to get rid of those pants, for she pushed aside his tremulous hands to get at the problem herself. The jeans were yanked down and kicked away, followed by a pair of green boxers and somehow he was suddenly completely and utterly naked above her.

She didn't allow her brain to realize what this was meaning, where this was heading. She sucked his tongue into her mouth and felt his hands wind into her hair and she flattened her palm against his stomach, sliding it down until she could curl her fingers around him. He jerked, breath splaying hot over her face, and he spoke then, an involuntary growl against her cheek:

"Fuck, Casey..."

There are other people with the same name as her. She knows it's not her, because even if one day she were to do something like that, it would never, NEVER,

be with—

be with—

His messy red-brown hair trailed over her forehead as he hovered over her, so close that their lips brushed ever so slightly, his shadowed brown eyes flicking back and forth between her blue ones. His hands stroked down her sides, and she could feel the tentative press of him at her entrance. He had rolled on a condom faster than she had thought possible, but he was hesitating, waiting. For maybe the first time in his life, he was asking for permission for something, instead of just going and doing it.

"Can..." he whispered, his eyes squeezing shut. "Can I?"

She looked up at his face, at the taut lines of his body, held on the knife edge, so tense. He was expecting her to stop him, she realized. And even if she didn't know quite how this had all started, she knew that he was—as usual—wrong.

"Yes."

Derek.

"Sorry...you alright?"

"I'm okay...it doesn't hurt as much as I thought it would. You...you can move now—"

And it burned. It was like he was tearing her apart, but at the same time he was holding her together, whispering words in her ear, apologies and endearments, telling her over and over how amazing she felt. And maybe it was his voice, or maybe it was because she had just gotten used to it, but somehow his thrusts started to bring a strange sort of pleasure with them. The push and pull of his body, the scorching stretch of hers as he filled her, started to awaken something she'd never felt. He kissed her urgently, his hands clutching at her hips, and when he surged up into her again and the new feeling streaked through her limbs, she thought she could maybe, maybe classify this emotion.

And then she was gasping for air, gouging her name into his back with her nails, her heart slamming against her ribs in tandem with his. Their breath mingled, and she could feel his eyelashes brushing against her cheek and she was moving with him, his name a prayer on her lips.

She had never known that it could feel like this.

She hears a rustling of someone moving around, but she keeps her eyes squeezed shut. The urge to open them is almost choking her, but she holds on tight. Because if she opens her eyes, she has a feeling that she will have crossed the point of no return and there will be no going back.

The bed dips as someone gets off of it and she hears more rustling and then footsteps moving to the door. They stop there, and silence falls, a tense, strained silence. Her eyelids flicker, and she can't help it anymore.

She opens her eyes.

Afterwards, when they collapsed next to each other, he gathered her in his arms and pressed his lips to her ear.

And even though her head was buzzing and a delicious drowsiness was pulling her into sleep, she might or might not have heard him whisper something.

Three words...

Derek is leaning against the doorframe, watching her. His hair is unkempt and he is wearing nothing except for an unzipped pair of jeans that he obviously just pulled on. His eyes are on hers and they appear almost black instead of brown.

He speaks softly.

"It's your call."

Do we forget this ever happened, or not?

That's the decision he's throwing her way.

She doesn't want to look at him, not at his face or his arms or his bare chest, places that she had touched and kissed and learned last night. His eyes on her make her sick, make her ache.

He is an idiot to tell her to choose. Because her decision has been made a long time ago, without her even knowing.

She opens her mouth to answer.

It's your choice, your interpretation on what her answer was. I will not reveal that information.