novaksdaughter

hii!

[ncvqk]

THEY TREATED CASEY SO BAD MY BABY MY POOR BABY CAESY IM SO SORRH IM O SOERY THEY WEEE SO WRONG NO ONE TALK TOMEM

[novaksdaughter]

um hi gang

apologies for being inactive I had exams and some medical stuff going on plus I switched time zones again 😭

now I’ll have a bit of free time before holiday so I’ll try to be more active! also scheduling stuff for my fic to be posted while I’m away.

cheers!

[novaksdaughter]

what if Casey and alex met in law school (alex was a guest lecturer when Casey was a student and found Casey in the library and gave her a pep talk) I mean they didn’t introduce themselves to each other but Casey brought alex in the precinct?

[novaksdaughter]

In my head Casey has her own spinoff show and I’m playing her daughter

Goodnight

[novaksdaughter]

i wrote this for the school paper last year.

i don't think it ever got published so

A little girl with a smile so bright,

Met me one day in soft morning light.

She looked at me, her smile soft and wide,

And I asked, “What part of you makes you feel alive?”

Without hesitation, she held out her hands,

“It’s these,” she said, “they make my life grand.”

“I can do cartwheels, spin, flip, and fly,

I write down my thoughts, let my dreams touch the sky.

I play with my dolls, lost in my world,

And wipe away tears when my heart’s been hurled.”

“They hug my mom, my friends, and me,

They give comfort, they set my soul free.

When things get tough, they’re always there,

To remind me I’m loved, beyond all despair.”

My hands weren’t just hands- they were strength and grace,

They held my laughter, they wiped my face.

They were more than skin and bone, they were everything,

A connection to the world, to every song I sing.

Now I know the power they hold,

To create, to comfort, to break, to be bold.

I saw then that it’s not just about what we see,

But how we use what we have, to be truly free..

[novakskid]

hiii @novaksdaughter here!!

this is my second account where i’ll post my fic 🫶🏻❤️

[novaksdaughter]

(i’ll remove my fic posts from here and put them on that account !! )

follow if you’d like :D

[novaksdaughter]

spot the difference

[bleubulb]

shes so smol she fits inside your pocket

[novaksdaughter]

bawling my eyes out. tom you’re paying for my damn therapy.

[novaksdaughter]

if they existed in the same universe they would comfort each other 100%

[novaksdaughter]

Chapter 5- August 2026

{Novak's Daughter}

Olivia stood just outside the interview room, arms crossed loosely, a file in her hands she hadn't read a single word of. Through the glass, she could see Amanda sitting with the girl—the same girl who had recoiled from her only hours before, who had refused to even meet her eyes when she asked for DNA.

Now?

Now the girl was curled against Amanda's side, her head resting lightly on Amanda's shoulder. Amanda's arm draped around her, protective but careful, never trapping, always leaving space if the girl needed to slip away. Olivia could see Amanda's lips moving, gentle murmurs only meant for the girl's ears. Every so often, Amanda's hand would thread through the girl's hair, slow and soothing.

And Olivia saw the impossible: the girl leaning into it.

The girl who hadn't spoken more than a handful of words all day, who guarded her name like a secret, was sitting there drinking water Amanda had given her. She even looked smaller somehow, folded into Amanda's embrace, like her body finally allowed itself to rest for a moment.

Olivia's stomach twisted. She knew Amanda Rollins—fierce, messy, loyal to a fault. She knew she had a gift with kids, sometimes even more than Olivia herself, though Amanda never saw it. And here it was, undeniable.

Inside, Amanda pressed a kiss to the girl's hair and whispered, "You're okay, angel. I've got you. Nothing bad's gonna happen to you while I'm here, I promise."

The girl didn't answer with words. She just let out a shaky breath, one that sounded too much like a sob swallowed down. Amanda felt it against her shoulder and tightened her hold the slightest bit.

"Baby," Amanda whispered next, her voice thick with emotion. "You don't have to talk. You don't have to tell me who you are. Just let me hold you, angel. Just for a little while."

From where she stood, Olivia caught the smallest flicker of movement—the girl's fingers curling into Amanda's sleeve, gripping tight like it was the only tether she trusted.

"I like it when you call me angel."

And it hit Olivia like a blow.

When she'd tried, the girl had flinched away. When she had spoken softly, trying to reassure her, the girl hadn't believed her. But Amanda? Amanda had cracked through the wall in hours, doing nothing but offering warmth, patience, arms that didn't demand but simply waited.

Olivia pressed a hand against the doorframe, steadying herself as her heart ached. She wanted to be the one to reach that girl, to show her she was safe, to be the anchor. But she wasn't.

It was Amanda.

And as Olivia watched Amanda kiss the top of the girl's head again, whispering words Olivia couldn't hear but could imagine, she knew this wasn't about her ego or her skill as a cop. This was about a child who clearly hadn't been held in a long, long time. A child who had found, even briefly, the courage to lean into someone's arms again.

Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat. It shook her to realize that sometimes safety wasn't about shields or promises or authority—it was about warmth, about being called angel and baby when you'd forgotten what it felt like to belong to someone's tenderness.

And as she turned away from the glass, Olivia thought with a heaviness she couldn't shake: God, this kid must have been so alone for so long. 

Then, after CSU took the sample from the water bottle the girl used, no matches were found. This girl was a ghost.

"Who are you?" Olivia whispered to the empty room.

[novaksdaughter]

I started posting my fic on AO3 too as requested !

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[novaksdaughter]

Chapter 4- March 2012

Novak's daughter

Marina was about fifteen months old when Casey stood in front of the bathroom mirror, scissors in hand, and cut her hair.

It wasn't planned. Nothing was planned anymore.

She'd gotten home late — again. The lights in the hallway were dim, the dishes still in the sink, the baby monitor humming like background noise. Marina had been asleep for a while. It was quiet, too quiet, and Casey stood there in the mirror, brushing through her hair, trying to remember the last time she'd felt like herself.

This hair. It had grown long again, almost to the middle of her back — the way she used to wear it before. Before law school. Before the firm. Before Marina. Before the trial. Before everything.

It felt heavy. Suffocating. It wasn't her anymore.

She picked up the scissors. And with the first snip — jagged, uneven, ungraceful — something inside her cracked.

Strand after strand fell to the floor.

It wasn't a transformation. It was grief.

When she was finished, she looked at her reflection, breathing hard. Her face looked smaller somehow. Older. Tired in places that went deeper than sleep could touch.

She didn't cry then.

Not until later.

Not until bedtime, when she lifted Marina from her crib to hold her the way she always did, and those tiny hands — always so gentle, so deliberate — reached up, searching for her usual comfort.

But it wasn't there.

Marina's fingers flitted through the air, unsure. Her forehead furrowed, lips pursed in that sweet little pout that only came when she was confused. Not scared. Not upset. Just... lost.

Casey held her tighter. "It's okay, baby," she whispered. "Mama just... cut it. It's still me. I'm still here."

Marina blinked, wide and serious. Then she let out the softest sound — not quite a cry, not quite a whimper — just a note of heartbreak too pure for someone so small.

She'd always soothed herself with Casey's hair. Tugging it gently. Twirling it between her fingers while she nursed or drifted off to sleep. It wasn't just texture or habit. It was comfort. Safety. Home.

Now it was gone.

Casey's throat clenched. "Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, brushing a kiss against her temple. "I didn't know—I didn't think it'd matter this much to you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

She lowered herself into the rocking chair, trying to cradle Marina closer. The baby was still, but not settled. Her little fingers kept fluttering against Casey's neck, as if searching for something familiar — some anchor — and not finding it.

Then, slowly, Marina shifted.

With careful instinct, she pressed her cheek to her mother's chest. Just over her heart.

And stopped moving.

Casey froze, arms tightening around her.

The weight of Marina's tiny body melted into hers. The little girl sighed — soft and deep — and settled against the steady thump of her mother's heartbeat. As if saying: This will do.

Not what she wanted. But what she needed.

Tears finally spilled down Casey's cheeks.

Not just for the haircut.

Not just for the long days and longer nights.

But for the simple, impossible grace of her daughter — the way she adapted, the way she accepted, the way she forgave without ever having to be asked.

"You're too good," Casey whispered, voice breaking. "You're too good for me. I don't deserve you."

She pressed a trembling kiss to Marina's crown, breathing in the baby shampoo and faint scent of milk. "You're everything I ever did right. You know that?"

Marina didn't answer. But her hand curled softly in the fabric of Casey's shirt. Her tiny fingers rested right above her mother's heart — and stayed there.

Casey rocked her gently, back and forth, until her breathing evened out and her body relaxed into sleep. And still, she didn't move.

Later that night, she stood by the crib with her arms folded tightly around herself, watching her daughter sleep. One fist was still curled, even in dreams, against her chest — as if the memory of her mother's heartbeat had followed her into the dark.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you," Casey whispered, voice hoarse, "but I promise I'm going to try to be better."

She kissed her fingertips — then, quietly, laid them against Marina's cheek.

The same way she'd done that first sleepless night in the hospital.

The same way she always did when words failed her.

Her girl. Her anchor.

The sound of her own heartbeat — still and steady — was the lullaby Marina chose.

And for tonight, that was enough.

[novaksdaughter]

can we just appreciate this woman’s facial expressions. she’s literally me.

literally “the face i stayed silent with”

[novaksdaughter]

why did we only get ONE half up half down hairstyle from casey?!

like she looks so good in that hairstyle

[novaksdaughter]

can we just comment on the fact we never saw her actually cry (not shedding more than a tear or two) because possibly in the past she taught herself that crying is helpless and just made her weak ? so she just didn’t allowed herself to cry although she had every right to?

so every time she even shed a tear it was everything building up and she couldn’t handle it anymore

okay bye gonna go give her a hug now.

[novaksdaughter]

Chapter 3- August 2026

Olivia had a gut feeling that the girl sitting beside her was not a stranger. 

She hadn't seen her before. But she seemed oddly familiar. The sharp jawline, the other soft facial features reminded of something familiar.

Someone familiar.

She sat at the table like it wasn't a table but a battlefield, her shoulders squared, spine rigid, hands folded so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every line of her body screamed ready. Ready to argue, to run, to fight. Her face gave nothing away, though her eyes—dark, watchful—never left the two women in the room.

Olivia tried to soften her stance. She kept her voice even, measured. "This will just take a second. A cheek swab, that's it." She held the Q-tip-like swab lightly between her fingers, trying to make it look harmless. "No needles, no pain."

The girl's jaw clenched, a flicker of something—panic, anger, both—crossing her face before she buried it. Her voice came out low, controlled, far steadier than anyone would expect from a fifteen-year-old. "You're not touching me with that."

Olivia blinked. "It's nothing invasive—"

"I said no." The girl's tone cracked like glass, firm enough that it cut the air. Her eyes were locked on Olivia's gloved hands, calculating, assessing. "You think I don't know what happens after that? You take my DNA, you log it, and then I belong to you. No." She shook her head once, sharp. "I'm not giving you anything."

Amanda shifted behind Olivia, watching closely. She had seen kids flare up before, but this wasn't a flare. This was armor. This was a girl who had learned to speak with the weight of an adult, who had rehearsed her refusals in her head a hundred times before stepping into any room like this.

Olivia tried again, lowering her voice another notch. "It's just procedure. We're only trying to—"

"You don't get it, do you?" The girl's voice rose suddenly, though it wasn't hysterical—it was precise, deliberate. Her breath hitched, but she forced it steady again, clamping down hard on the tremor. "Procedure is what people hide behind when they want to control you. When they want to get their claws in and tell you it's for your own good." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes burning into Olivia's. "You can't own me. Not with paper. Not with a swab. Not with anything."

For a moment, the room was silent.

Olivia straightened, lips pressed into a thin line, but Amanda's hand lifted subtly—let me.

Amanda turned her body slightly so she wasn't facing the girl head-on. Her voice was careful, lighter. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

The girl's gaze flicked to her, suspicious. "That's what they all say," she muttered, her fists tightening against the table. "Right before they take what they came for."

Amanda didn't argue. She didn't even move closer. She just nodded slowly, like she understood. "You've had people hurt you before when you said no."

The girl's eyes narrowed, her whole body twitching tight, ready to spring. For a second, it looked like she'd bolt. But instead, she sat there, coiled energy contained, jaw trembling from the force of keeping herself together. "They always hurt you when you say no," she whispered finally, her voice stripped of the sharpness but not the steel.

Olivia opened her mouth, then shut it again. This wasn't a girl—they could see it now. This was someone who had been forced to grow old too fast, her defenses too honed, her mistrust etched into her like stone.

And when Amanda leaned back in her chair, deliberately making space, not pushing, the girl noticed. She didn't relax—not fully—but she saw. Her gaze lingered, just for a second, before flicking back to Olivia.

"Nobody will put their hands on me or my mouth or anything. You don't get to. It's none of your damn buisness. You-"

Again that gut feeling. That girl reminded her so much of someone. But she couldn't realise who. Who was that girl?

"Okay, okay. I'll bring you a bottle of water, alright?"

The girl nodded, she didn't trust herself to speak. 

Olivia exhaled, setting the swab back into its sterile sleeve with a snap that was too loud in the silence. She peeled the gloves from her hands, tossing them in the trash, but her jaw stayed tight.

Amanda caught the look—frustration, impatience, but underneath it, worry. She moved toward the doorway and gave Olivia the smallest nod, a silent step outside with me.

Olivia hesitated, glancing back at the girl, who sat motionless in the chair, hands still clenched in her lap. Her eyes tracked them both, sharp as glass, making it clear she wasn't missing a thing.

Finally, Olivia followed Amanda into the hall.

"Liv—" Amanda started, her voice low.

But Olivia cut her off, whispering fiercely. "We need that DNA. You know what's at stake here."

Amanda shook her head. "Not like this. Did you see her? She's not just scared—she's ready to fight. Push harder, and she's gone."

"She's a kid," Olivia countered, running a hand through her hair. "She doesn't get to decide the investigation. We need proof, Amanda. We can't—"

"You think she doesn't know that?" Amanda's voice rose before she caught herself, glancing back toward the interview room. "She's not just some kid, Liv. She's fifteen going on forty. Every word out of her mouth—she's been trained by life to expect betrayal. You come at her with gloves and 'procedure,' she's already back in whatever hell she came from."

Inside the room, the girl hadn't moved. She sat so still it was eerie, but her eyes—those eyes—were fixed on the sliver of hallway visible through the cracked door. Every word landed. Every word mattered.

Fifteen going on forty.

Her jaw tightened, throat burning. That wasn't a compliment. That was survival laid bare.

Olivia rubbed at her temples, exasperated. "So what? We just let her call the shots? She doesn't trust anyone. She won't let anyone near her. That's not going to change by waiting around."

Amanda leaned in, her voice low but fierce. "It changes by showing her she's not trapped here. That for once, someone actually means it when they say you have a choice. You keep pressing, and all she'll ever see is another cop trying to use her. Let me help her."

The silence stretched.

And in the room, the girl's nails dug into her palms until it hurt. Because Amanda was right—she had heard that promise before. Too many times. And it had always been a lie.

Amanda came in, her gaze soft and soothing. 

"Hey, sweetheart."

The girl's head shot up. Her defence slipped immediately, even she didn't know why. 

"You did good, holding your ground," Amanda said softly. "No one's going to make you do anything you don't want to. Not while I'm here."

The girl's eyes narrowed, like she was trying to measure the truth of that. Silence stretched, taut and thin.

Amanda hesitated, then slowly opened her arms—not lunging forward, not closing the distance. Just an offering. "I know you don't owe me anything. But if you want..." Her throat tightened. "You can let someone hold you for a minute."

The girl went still. Completely still. For a moment, Amanda thought she'd ruined everything, pushed too far. Then the girl flinched, a tiny recoil, her body instinctively rejecting the idea of contact. She shook her head, muttering under her breath, "I don't need that. I don't—"

But her voice cracked on the words. And her hands, still in fists, trembled.

Amanda didn't move closer. She just stayed there, arms open, eyes steady. "I won't touch you unless you come to me," she whispered. "It's your choice."

It was a long, aching pause. The kind of silence that seemed to scrape against the walls. Then, suddenly, the girl shifted. Her fists loosened, just barely, and she leaned forward. Tentative, jerky, like she was fighting herself. She pressed her forehead against Amanda's shoulder, not quite a hug, more a test.

Amanda exhaled slowly, her heart splintering.

The girl stayed there for three seconds. Then five. Then longer. And before Amanda could fully process it, the girl's thin arms slid around her neck, clinging. It wasn't neat, wasn't graceful—her grip was desperate, her breathing uneven, her whole body trembling.

Amanda wrapped her arms around her carefully, protectively, pulling her close without squeezing too hard. And when she felt just how light she was, how rigid, how long it must have been since anyone had given her this kind of safety, Amanda's chest ached so badly she thought she might cry.

The girl buried her face deeper into Amanda's shoulder, holding on like she was terrified someone might pry her away.

"Oh, angel..." Amanda whispered, instinct taking over. Her arms came around the girl instantly, strong and steady, her hand cradling the back of her head. She rocked her gently, murmuring soothing nonsense, the kind you say when words can't fix anything. "I've got you, baby. You're safe. You're safe now."

But as Amanda held her, she felt it — the stiffness, the unfamiliarity, the way the girl clung like she didn't know how long this moment would last. She wasn't melting into the hug; she was gripping it, like a starving child clutching a piece of bread.

It hit Amanda so hard it nearly broke her own composure. This girl hadn't been held. Not really. Not the way a child should be held — with love, with comfort, with safety.

Amanda's eyes burned. She tightened her hold, pressing a kiss into the girl's hair without thinking. "You don't gotta be strong right now," she murmured. "Not here. Not with me. You don't have to act tough, angel. You're just fifteen. You're allowed to fall apart."

The girl  shook her head against her shoulder, her words stumbling out. "I—I'm sorry—I'm sorry, I'm so sorry—"

"No," Amanda cut in softly but firmly, tipping her head so her cheek rested against the girl's temple. "Don't you apologise. You hear me? You don't need to be sorry for needing somebody. Not ever."

But she kept crying the words over and over, as though every tear carried another apology she couldn't stop from spilling.

Amanda rocked her, whispering, "You didn't do anything wrong. Not one damn thing. You're just a kid who's been through hell. You deserve to be held, angel."

Her fingers twisted tighter into her jacket, knuckles white. Her whole body trembled. She pressed herself deeper into Amanda's arms, as though she was afraid if she loosened her grip, Amanda would vanish like everyone else had.

And that was what undid Amanda — not the sobbing, not the apologies, but that desperate, clawing grip. As if being held was something rare, fleeting, something she didn't believe she was allowed to keep.

Amanda closed her eyes, her own tears slipping free, and held her tighter. "I'm not letting go, baby girl," she whispered fiercely. "Not until you want me to. Not until you say so."

And still the girl cried, clinging harder, like she didn't even know what it felt like to want someone to stay.

For the rest of the precinct, life went on — cases, phones, paperwork, the endless churn of the job. But in that corner, it was different.

It was a girl who hadn't been held in too long finally breaking down.

And a woman who swore to herself, in that moment, that she would never let her feel that kind of loneliness again. Each shudder against Amanda's chest told her more than words ever could.

She didn't try to force anything out of her. No questions, no gentle prodding for answers. Just arms, strong and steady, holding the girl the way Amanda knew she hadn't been held in far, far too long.

The girl's breathing was ragged, uneven, and Amanda adjusted slightly so she could tuck her tighter under her chin. That was when Amanda noticed—noticed how the girl's ear pressed almost deliberately against her chest. Listening. Searching. Syncing her shallow breaths to the rhythm of Amanda's heartbeat.

Amanda's throat closed. She couldn't imagine what kind of life this child had lived that she had to find safety not in a place, not in a person's words, but in the sound of a heartbeat—something steady, undeniable, alive.

Her hands rubbed slow circles across the girl's back. "That's it, angel," Amanda whispered, voice breaking in spite of herself. "Just breathe with me. Nice and slow, in and out. You're not alone, sweetheart. I've got you."

For a long while, the girl stayed silent. Her grip on Amanda's shirt had gone from tentative to desperate, little fists balled like she was afraid Amanda might disappear if she let go. Amanda held her tighter, rocking her gently, letting her tears spill into the girl's hair because she couldn't stop them anymore.

And then—hoarse, broken, almost inaudible—the girl spoke.

"Your arms..."

Amanda stilled, holding her breath. The words sounded like they hurt to be spoken, scraped raw from a throat not used to talking.

"...remind me of my mum."

Amanda's heart shattered clean in two.

The girl's body jerked with another sob, as if saying it out loud was too much, like it split her open in a way she couldn't control. Amanda clutched her tighter, kissing the top of her head, whispering into her hair. "Oh, baby. Oh, sweetheart."

She wanted to ask where's your mom? She wanted to demand who took her from you? But she didn't. Because the girl wasn't ready, and Amanda knew that pressing would only drive her further into the silence.

So instead, Amanda just rocked her, her own tears dripping freely now. "I'm so sorry, angel. I'm so, so sorry you've had to miss that." Her voice cracked as she pressed her cheek against the girl's temple. "But right now, I'll be your arms. I'll be your safe place. "

The girl didn't answer. She didn't need to. The way she clung tighter, burrowing into Amanda's chest like she was starving for the warmth, told Amanda everything.

Amanda stayed like that, whispering steady words into the air. "You're safe. You're safe. Nobody's gonna hurt you now. Not while I've got you."

But inside, her own heart screamed. Because she knew—she knew—that no teenager should ever be so desperate for something as simple, as human, as arms to hold them.

Amanda tightened her embrace once more, silently swearing that whoever this girl was, whatever she'd been through, she wasn't going to face it alone anymore.