20, I'm very socially awkward, but I'm working on it. I promise I don't bite, so come say hi 🤭. I write what's on my mind sometimes I post it sometimes I don't 🙃 I'm a lesbian and I use she/her pronouns
Casey never meant to make her bike a personality trait.
It just… kind of evolved that way. At first, it was necessity. One failed driver’s test became two. Two became four. By the time she finally passed on her sixth try, the enthusiasm she'd once had for getting behind the wheel had long since evaporated. Her frustration with parallel parking had turned into a full-body twitch, and she could no longer hear the phrase “three-point turn” without experiencing a mild headache.
Somewhere around the third failed test, she'd started referring to herself, half-jokingly, as a victim of the DMV industrial complex.She tossed out a comment about carbon emissions once in the squad room and got mercilessly teased, so now she leaned into it out of spite.
It wasn’t that she loved biking. Not in a spiritual, wind-in-her-hair, crunchy granola kind of way. She just couldn’t stomach the idea of being that close to surrendering to the system.
And okay—fine—maybe she had developed a bit of a superiority complex about it.
“I’m helping the environment,” she’d said once, voice dry, after Alex offhandedly asked why she didn’t just drive like a normal adult.
“You’re a public servant, not Captain Planet,” Alex had replied, sipping her coffee and raising one perfectly sculpted brow.
Which was rich, coming from someone who paid for a town car subscription.
Still, Casey had held her ground. Driving was overrated. Biking was efficient, good for the planet, and—most importantly—free.
Which is why it kills her that today, of all days, is the one where she eats it in the middle of First Avenue like some kind of cartoon klutz with a vendetta against dignity.
It’s not even raining. The weather’s actually nice, for once: sunny, dry, a little breeze that flutters the hem of her blazer just enough to feel cinematic. Her bag was balanced just right, her route was smooth, and for once, she wasn’t sweating through her shirt.
Then her tire catches on something invisible—maybe a groove in the pavement, maybe a rogue pebble with delusions of grandeur—and her handlebars jerk violently to the left. She doesn’t even have time to process it. One second she’s upright, the next she’s airborne, and then she’s on the ground. Hard.
The impact knocks the wind out of her. Her body scrapes against the sidewalk with a series of undignified thuds, her pants tear open at both knees, her elbow barks against concrete, and her palms—exposed from yanking off her gloves earlier—grind against the grit.
For a second she’s not even sure where she is. There’s just metal and pain and the shrill ringing of her own adrenaline in her ears.
She blinks up at the sky, chest heaving, trying to figure out whether she’s still alive or just humiliated beyond repair.
She didn’t cry. But she came close.
Her bike has keeled over next to her like it’s fainted in solidarity. Her bag's contents are scattered—a file folder burst open, papers fluttering like panicked birds into the street.
She lies there on the sidewalk, sprawled like a crime scene chalk outline, the heat of embarrassment crawling up her face before the pain even settles in.
Somewhere behind her, a car honks.
Only then does she let out a sound—a long, low, guttural groan that carries every ounce of her regret, frustration, and bone-deep resentment toward automobiles.
She could’ve gone home. Or to urgent care. Or, if she’d completely lost her mind, called Olivia—though that would’ve come with a half-day of teasing and the looming threat of a sympathy sandwich from Fin.
But Alex’s apartment is closer.
And Casey is bleeding. Her palms sting every time she shifts her grip on the handlebars. Her knee is starting to throb in that dull, hot way that promises a spectacular bruise. She doesn’t want a waiting room or fluorescent lights or paperwork. She wants peace.
And maybe a clean sink and a bottle of peroxide.
Also, Alex has that absurdly well-stocked med kit. The one she claims is “left over from law school,” as if most law students hoard surgical-grade gauze and butterfly closures like they’re prepping for triage in a war zone. Casey’s never seen her use it on herself. But she’s patched Casey up more than once—paper cuts, busted knuckles, that one time Casey tripped over a box of sealed indictments and sprained her pride.
It’s stupid, really. How well Alex knows her skin.
But right now, Casey’s not looking to be logical. She’s scraped and sore and filled with the specific kind of rage that only comes from being humbled by a rogue bicycle and the unforgiving New York pavement.
She just wants to sulk somewhere quiet. Somewhere with clean towels and expensive soap and an overachieving first-aid drawer. Alex Cabot’s version of care is clinical, bossy, infuriating, and weirdly comforting.
So Casey turns left instead of right, pushes past the dull ache blooming in her knee, and starts pedaling toward Midtown. Slowly. Each rotation of the pedals sends a fresh ripple of soreness up her leg. But she grits her teeth and keeps going.
Because she wants Alex.
Not in the stupid way, not the one she shoves down and refuses to name.
Just... in the she-knows-how-to-deal-with-my-bloody-palms-and-won’t-make-a-big-deal-out-of-it kind of way.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Maybe.
Casey sulks on the front steps of Alex’s apartment like a wounded animal.
She’s not exactly bleeding out, but the sight is still a little tragic: one sock stained red around the ankle, blazer balled up behind her like a makeshift cushion, chin propped in her hand as if she’s been waiting there for years, rather than the twenty minutes it’s been since she limped up the stoop and rang Alex’s bell like a kid who forgot their keys.
By the time Alex rounds the corner, heels clicking crisply against the pavement, half-melted iced coffee in hand, every inch of her sharp and composed in her navy blazer, Casey has settled into the pose of someone determined not to acknowledge how pathetic she probably looks.
Alex spots her and stops short.
“…Casey?”
Casey lifts her head slowly, the movement deliberate, regal in the way only a scraped-up person trying to maintain dignity can be. “Alex.”
Alex’s gaze flicks down, cataloguing the mess—ripped jeans, raw knees, a bloodied sock, and what’s probably a small bruise forming on Casey’s cheekbone. Her eyes widen, just slightly.
“Did you lose a fight with a fruit cart?”
Casey’s glare could peel paint. “The ground, actually.”
Alex’s mouth twitches at the corners. “Tragic.” She takes a long, unhurried sip of her coffee.
“Please don’t say this is why people drive,” Casey mutters. “I’m begging you not to.”
“I would never,” Alex says, perfectly sincere. Then, sweet as sin: “But it is why people pass their road tests before twenty-five.”
“Low blow.”
Alex crouches in front of her, the shift from lawyer to triage nurse almost seamless, and gently lifts the edge of Casey’s pant leg with two fingers. Her movements are clinical, but careful—too careful, really, for someone pretending not to be worried. Her brow furrows at the blood streaked across Casey’s shin.
“Why didn’t you call?”
Casey shrugs, sullen. “You’re closer.”
There’s a beat. Alex looks up at her, sharpness gone, something softer rising behind her eyes. Understanding. Annoyance. Concern. All braided together into something Casey doesn’t quite want to name.
“You’re such a menace,” Alex sighs, and stands, brushing her skirt back into place. “Come inside. You’re bleeding on my stairs.”
She reaches down and helps Casey to her feet with a practiced, unceremonious tug—gentle, but firm, like she’s manhandling a very stubborn cat. Casey hisses through her teeth as she stands, her knee catching weirdly under her weight. She tries not to limp. Fails.
Inside, the apartment is crisp and air-conditioned, smelling faintly of lavender and old books. Casey immediately feels grubby, too loud for the space. Alex doesn’t comment. She sets her coffee down on the counter, rolls up the sleeves of her blouse like she’s about to perform minor surgery, and gestures toward the bathroom.
Casey doesn’t fight her. Not really. She glares and limps and mutters under her breath, but she lets herself be steered down the hallway like a grumpy toddler.
“Up,” Alex says, patting the counter.
Casey makes a face but hauls herself up with minimal groaning, palms smarting against the cold stone. Her knee throbs as she lifts it, and the fabric of her ruined pants pulls painfully against the torn skin. She bites her lip and says nothing.
Alex’s eyes narrow. She crouches slightly, peering at the mess of blood and cloth. “I can’t see anything through this,” she says, already rising again. “Hold on.”
Before Casey can ask what that means, Alex is helping her back down and tugging gently at the waistband of Casey’s trousers.
“Wait—seriously?”
“You want peroxide in your pants?” Alex asks, calm as ever.
Casey grits her teeth, cheeks flushing. “They’re my favorite—”
“They’re shredded.”
“They’re wounded,” Casey mutters, but she lets Alex peel them down anyway, one careful inch at a time. It’s awkward and slow, with Casey balancing on one leg like a flamingo while trying not to wince too obviously.
The fabric peels away from the blood at her knee with a tacky sound that makes her stomach lurch.
Alex stands back up. Blinks once.
Her eyes flick down—just for a second—but long enough to register the evidence.
Casey’s underwear is pink. Decorated with glittery stars. The word Tuesday stretches across the waistband in cheerful, sparkly letters.
It’s Thursday.
“Really, Novak—”
“I was out of laundry,” Casey deadpans, crossing her arms.
Alex doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. Just gives a curt little nod, as if Casey’s excuse has passed legal muster.
Then, with the same cool professionalism she might use to cite appellate case law, she offers her hand and helps Casey back onto the counter—utterly unfazed by the presence of cosmic, off-brand weekday panties in her jurisdiction.
But the cold hits Casey the moment she sits again—air brushing over her scraped skin, the bruises blooming behind her knee, the raw spots on her shin—and her whole body tenses. She hates this. Hates how small she feels. How exposed. She crosses her arms tight over her chest and stares resolutely at the faucet.
Alex doesn’t say anything. She just opens the med kit and kneels again, silent as she tears open antiseptic wipes and gauze pads. She doesn’t tease or comment. Her hands are gentle—absurdly so—as she dabs at the blood on Casey’s leg, careful not to press too hard.
Casey winces at the sting and her whole body jerks in response. Without thinking, she tries to pull away, knees squeezing up reflexively toward her chest like a shield.
But Alex just tuts softly.
“No,” she says, voice low and matter-of-fact. She places a firm hand on each of Casey’s knees and gently coaxes them back down. “None of that.”
Casey doesn’t look at her. Her jaw is tight, eyes trained on the far corner of the bathroom like maybe, if she stares hard enough, she’ll phase through the tile and disappear. Her hands are clenched into the edge of the counter. Her whole body is stiff—rigid with restraint, with embarrassment, with the sheer effort of not feeling everything.
Alex watches her for a second, quiet. Then she softens her touch, fingers brushing lightly over Casey’s shin before she resumes cleaning the scrapes with slow, careful strokes.
“Casey,” she says, more gently now.
She doesn’t respond. Her throat works like she’s swallowing something down.
“This isn’t stupid,” Alex says, quieter still. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m fine,” Casey says, too fast, too sharp. It comes out clipped and brittle and entirely unconvincing.
Alex doesn’t argue. She just keeps cleaning, slow and steady.
“It’s okay to be a little dramatic,” she murmurs after a beat. “You fell off a bike and tried to walk it off with half your knee missing.”
Casey huffs something halfway between a laugh and a sniff. “I didn’t want to make a big deal.”
“It’s not a big deal,” Alex says. “It just… doesn’t have to be nothing either.”
There’s a pause. Casey’s lip wobbles, just barely. Alex glances up at her, at the red-rimmed eyes, the stiff posture, the quiet unraveling behind it all. And then her hand stills on Casey’s leg.
“Hey.” Her voice softens. “You’re okay.”
Casey bites down hard on the inside of her cheek. Her throat’s tight. She nods once, barely, and stares straight ahead like if she makes eye contact, she’ll shatter.
Alex doesn't comment. She just picks up the gauze again and starts wrapping, gentle and sure, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Once the last bandage is in place, Alex straightens, peels off her gloves, and tosses them neatly in the trash. She turns on the faucet, wets a fresh cloth, and kneels again. Nothing special. Just quiet focus.
She takes Casey’s hands next, palms up, trembling faintly, and begins to clean them. The raw skin there stings more than the knees had, and Casey hisses through her teeth, trying not to flinch. Alex doesn’t pause. She just holds each hand steady, thumb brushing faint circles into her wrist, like she’s not just cleaning wounds but coaxing Casey out of the tension wound tight in her bones.
Then, finally, Alex moves upward, reaching toward Casey’s face.
Casey stiffens, just slightly.
But Alex only brushes her cheek with the cloth, gentle and cool. The scrape there isn’t bad, more like a scuff, but she wipes it clean anyway, slow and careful. Her fingertips linger, brushing lightly over the bone.
She leans down and presses a kiss to the bandaged skin of Casey’s shin.
Casey blinks.
Another kiss. This one to the edge of her knee, just beside the gauze.
Then her other knee. Then both palms, cradled in Alex’s hands like they’re something precious.
Casey’s breath hitches. She doesn’t dare to move.
And then Alex rises, her eyes dark and unreadable, and gently brushes Casey’s hair back from her face. Her fingers trail down to Casey’s jaw.. She leans in once more and kisses the faint scrape on her cheekbone—tender and unhurried, like a promise.
It’s too much. Casey lets out a laugh and her eyes brim over before she can stop them. She laughs again, half-choked, and wipes at her face with the back of her wrist.
“Why are you treating me like a baby?” she whispers, voice shaking, cheeks hot. “I fell off a bike, not out of a goddamn treehouse.”
Alex’s thumb brushes beneath her eye, catching a tear before it falls.
“Because you’re hurt,” she says simply. “And you let me take care of you.”
Casey doesn’t reply immediately. She just sits there on the bathroom counter, legs dangling, the ache in her body dulling under the warmth blooming in her chest. Her eyes are still wet, her cheek still tingles where Alex kissed her, and her heart feels… unsteady. Like it doesn’t quite know what to do with all this care.
She looks at Alex—at the patience in her face, the quiet steadiness in her hands, the way she’s still standing there like she’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.
And then she moves. She leans forward suddenly—arms looping around Alex’s waist, pulling her in close, pressing her face to the front of Alex’s blouse like she’s trying to disappear there. Her cheek, scraped and all, rests just over Alex’s sternum. She can feel the steady thump of her heartbeat through the fabric.
It’s not graceful. Not suave or flirty or anything she’d ever let someone tease her for. It’s just real. Her body sinks into Alex’s like she’s been holding herself upright for too long, and now that she doesn’t have to anymore, all the weight melts out of her.
It takes Alex half a second to react. But then she exhales slowly and wraps her arms around Casey’s shoulders, drawing her in tighter. One hand slides up to cradle the back of Casey’s head, her fingers threading gently into her hair.
Casey’s voice is muffled. Fragile. “Thank you.” Her eyes sting again, but she doesn’t pull back or crack a joke or shrug it off. She just lets herself lean into it.
“I didn’t mean to come here,” she mumbles, voice rough. “I just—I didn’t know where else to go.”
Alex’s hand moves gently over her hair. “You came to me.”
Casey nods against her chest, and holds her tighter.
Eventually, Alex shifts, just enough to press her lips to the top of Casey’s head.
Doomed by the narrative to want to be needed.
Like yes, cling to me.
Yes, curl up in my arms and let out your worries.
Yes, take my hand when we’re out and you’re overwhelmed.
Yes, let me be the one to take control when you're too tired.
Let me be the one who knows how you like your tea, how long to steep, how much sugar, the mug you secretly love.
Let me button your shirt, tie your laces, and trace the lines of your face like I’m learning them all over again.
Let me be the voice that tells you it’s okay when your own can’t.
Let me kiss your temple while you cry, and whisper that I’m still here, always here.
Let me run your bath, kneel beside the tub, and wash the day from your skin.
Let me remind you to eat, to drink, to breathe and rest.
Let me hum for you when you can’t sleep. Let me read to you in the quiet hours.
Let me listen when you ramble about the things you love.
Let me praise you until you squirm, and then praise you more.
Let me pull your chin up when you’re upset and kiss the corners of your frown until it melts.
Let me pin you to the bed, not just to take, but to give so much pleasure it makes your breath catch.
Let me hold you after, soft and proud and so in love.
Let me see all of you, even the parts you hide.
Yes - need me.
Need me today, need me tomorrow, need me every single day.
I want an older woman to take complete control of me, someone calm, confident, and cruel in the gentlest way. The kind of woman who cups my face in her hands, calls me her good girl in that low, velvety tone that makes my whole body ache.
She’d sit me in her lap just because she can, because she likes the weight of me there, soft and needy, pressed against her. Her fingers would wander lazily, touching wherever she pleased, like I’m hers to explore. And I am.
She’d tilt my chin up and smile like she knows every dirty thought in my head, because she put them there. Her hand would slide around my throat, light but firm, grounding me in her control as I melt into her touch.
"You’re such a sweet little thing," she’d whisper. "So easy to handle. So desperate to behave for me."
And I would be. I'd sit there and take whatever she gives me – her hands, her words, her attention – completely pliant in her arms, soaking in every bit of affection and control like it's the only thing that matters.
I just want to be hers. Soft, obedient, aching, and kept.
Please, universe. Send me a woman who wants to hold me down and make me feel like I was made to belong to her.
She Doesn't Get Out Much | Casey Novak x Alex Cabot | Part 2
To read the summary and the previous works, check this post here.
This chapter summary: Casey gets the support she needs- it's tough to accept help, though. Mild warning for discussions of substance abuse disorders/exercise dependency issues, but it's all in the context of healing from them.
[2]
“If you don't start eating,” the notorious, cutthroat judge said, “I’m going to start spoon-feeding you as if you're one of my kids.”
Casey Novak pressed her lips into a thin line and gave her mentor turned friend a pointed stare, which Mary Clark didn't even flinch under- rather, she flexed her eyebrows and provided her with a patronizing smile.
The redhead sighed, raising the soup to her mouth and blowing on it briefly before slipping the spoon into her mouth, tilting it back, and swallowing.
It was a dense mixture of broth, vegetables and chicken, well seasoned and proportioned but the flavor of it still weighed heavy on her tongue. She supposed it had been a while since she had eaten something indulgent like this was. It felt uncomfortable, but Mary had directed her to do so, and Casey wasn't in the habit of disobeying the elder woman.
“Good,” Mary commented, “Now, tell me how the job has been. I haven't seen you in a couple weeks, and in white collar you used to ask me to dinner at least twice a month- what's been going on?”
“You’re very direct,” Casey muttered under her breath, emerald eyes flickering to the side, “Most people would have the decency to wait until the person they invited out begins that type of conversation.”
“You don't become a judge and then half-way decent defense attorney by dancing around the point, dear,” came the easy reply, and Casey shot her another look that very clearly rejected the notion the other woman was only a ‘half-way decent’ attorney. Casey thought Mary Clark might be the most admirable person she knew.
They were both sitting comfortably in a small up-scale restaurant, a staple of Mary’s collection of small esteemed yet hideaway locations for when she wanted to drag her protege out for a meal. It used to happen very frequently, called on by either one- Mary would send Casey an invitation if she decided too much time had passed since she’d seen her, and Casey would call on her when she needed advice or otherwise some form of solace.
With her parents in a different state, it felt odd to admit, but Clark had filed seamlessly into her life as her emergency contact. It felt natural, having Mary tuck her under her wing, offering the wise experience decades of being at the forefront of law had provided her, and the emotional support she had needed. Even now, when Casey had gone to the prosecution and Mary parted to the defense, she felt more comfortable sharing her mind with her than perhaps anyone else. She wasn't entirely sure why she had so stubbornly been avoiding her.
“It’s been a bad couple months,” Casey replied vaguely, stirring her spoon idly and watching the liquid ripple under the ministration, “I haven't … had time for leisure.”
“You’ve been working yourself to the bone,” Mary commented wryly. “What is it, Casey? You’ve picked some kind of poison. You can tell me. Drinking? Drugs? Sex?”
“No-!” Casey snapped in an astonished and indignant huff, taken aback by Mary’s forwardness, although part of her wasn't particularly surprised by it. Mary did not make it a habit to beat around the bush, and it was obvious Casey wasn't doing as well as she could be, so of course Clark would be aggressive in her attempt to help her. It was familiar, though, the way Mary engaged with her, even if it still did make her a bit flustered to hear possible abuses said so brazenly. It took a lot to fluster someone as forward as Novak, so that was certainly saying something.
“I’m not addicted to anything,” Casey denied fervently, and honestly, because she wasn't. “I haven't taken anything I’m not supposed to, and I haven't been sleeping around, if that was the implication.”
“Sex addiction doesn't necessarily imply sleeping around, you can be addicted to sex with only one partner-” Mary half-shrugged and raised her teacup daintily, her pinkie finger extended automatically which made Casey snort internally at the juxtaposition between her professionalism and the vulgarity of her words.
“-but, I digress. Okay. So, what's wrong with you, then? I’ve reared four children and one manchild husband. I've heard and seen far more than I need to in order to know I can handle what you're going to tell me.”
Casey stayed stubbornly quiet.
She knew, internally, that she was inevitably going to tell her, because of course she would. She knew Mary was aware of that too. There was no version of this conversation in which she’d successfully be able to keep her struggle a secret, and she didn't want there to be one either, she did want to tell her.
It was a way to reassure herself, though, that her vulnerability was accepted- if she made Mary work her for it, then there was no way Mary could ever blame her for opening up, not that she … that was a bad thing to think, wasn't it?
“Don't disappear into that thick head of yours, Casey.” The sound of an impatiently tapping finger against the white tablecloth snapped Casey out of her internal dialogue and she swallowed, blinking back into present focus. Mary was looking at her expectantly.
“I started working at SVU,” Casey said, then, in an uncharacteristically small voice, a note of defeat in her tone.
Mary rewarded her for the slight lower of her guard by immediately ceasing the motion of her finger, and her eyes shifted from stern and expectant to almost maternal-like in care. This was the dynamic between the two- so long as Casey displayed the level of trust, respect and expectation the elder obliged her too, Mary would be her place of attention and support.
“Well, that much I’m aware of. You’ve asked me for help on some of your cases,” Mary nodded, tilting her head to the side. “Has something happened?”
Casey felt nauseous immediately, the line of questioning making her stomach flip uncomfortably. She could feel her shoulders urging her to let them hunch inward, so she forced herself to do the exact opposite, pushing her shoulders down and backwards while straightening her spine. Mary watched her do so with a disguised sense of interest, and although Casey knew she was watching, it didn't add or lessen the discomfort she felt.
She felt childlike under Mary’s intent gaze, but then again, she was the same age as Mary’s own children, so she supposed it wasn't that ridiculous of a thought. Casey felt small and somehow even weaker, more tired. She didn't want to admit that. She had worked exceptionally hard so that no one could ever identify she was struggling, and despite knowing she had to admit it if she wanted to improve the situation at all, it was a difficult thing to do.
A swell of anxiety rose in her middle, blocking her throat, and she coughed awkwardly. This wasn't like the defiant silence she had provided Alex with, where both didn't quite know what to say or if they were even ready to converse at all, she simultaneously wanted to pour it all out and run for the hills. It reminded her oddly of telling her father she had received a misconduct for fighting in the school courtyard, steeling herself desperately and yet hopelessly against his fiercely stoic gaze. She needed to say it, and she knew she wasn't going to be punished for it, but she just couldn't bring herself to do so.
“Casey,” the elder woman’s voice was far gentler now, “You know there's nothing you could tell me that could sway my opinion of you, yes?”
“I know,” Casey muttered hoarsely around the frog lodged firmly in her throat, “I don't know why this is so hard for me. It shouldn't be.”
“Nonsense,” Mary insisted, “Come now, dear. You take as much time as you need to find the words, but please do share them with me.”
The redhead nodded slowly, trying to ease tension from her stuff muscles by letting out a shaky exhale. The stress wasn't subsiding the way she had hoped it would.
Ironically, and in a way Casey thought to herself was wildly naive, she almost wished it was Alex across from her- Alex who had already seen, who she didn't need to explain it all too, Alex who was trying to win her favor back and therefore couldn't make any real demand of her, while Mary- albeit gently- was currently asking for quite a lot.
Leverage and position, just like when drafting a plea deal.
She decided to try to frame it this way to herself. She had committed the crime of recklessly manhandling her latest court cases by showing up exhausted and experiencing physical afflictions, and she could forgive herself for her stupidity if she plead her way out by taking responsibility. The only way she could do that is if she admitted to the judge- a position Mary had formerly held, so it wasn't even that far off- her misconduct, and hope the court accepted her attempt at reconciliation.
Casey thought about how she’d want a defendant to apologize when admitting guilt to the court, and decided to follow the structure that type of address would entail.
“I’ve been reckless,” Casey said slowly, “I’ve endangered my cases and therefore the reputation of myself and the DA by appearing in court while in a state in which I shouldn't have.”
Mary nodded, although a small twinge of confusion was evident in the way one of her eyebrows twitched almost imperceptibly- Casey had previously denied any sort of substance abuse, and she couldn't assume any other sort of state she could’ve appeared in.
“It isn't an excuse for my actions, but I’d like to offer an explanation,” Casey breathed, letting her green eyes flicker warily up to Mary's warm brown ones, and letting herself relax slightly when she was met only with sympathy and apparently growing concern, “I … I haven't been sleeping. I’ve intentionally neglected sleeping because I … I keep …”
She was growing frustrated with her inability to just spit the godforsaken words out, and she could see Mary’s eyes flicker down as Casey’s fingers clenched in on themselves from where she had laid them on the table.
“It's stupid,” Casey gasped, tears pricking at her eyes, defeat tasting as bitter in her mouth as the feeling of her voice cracking with emotion did.
Mary’s hand extended over the length of the table to nestle comfortably over her’s, squeezing in a successful attempt to be reassuring. Casey felt herself breathe a bit easier with the physical affection, and she let her eyes drift to fixate on the gleam of Mary's golden rings as the elder woman ran her thumb soothingly over Casey’s hand.
“You’re working a really stressful job, Casey.” Mary coaxed, “I won't blame you for anything you’ve done, not when you've clearly already been beating yourself up for it.”
“I haven't been eating,” Casey spit out the words as if they were burning her, because they felt like they were, “I haven't been- been sleeping, because all I do when I’m not working is- is exercise.”
Mary looked bewildered, but now that Casey had gotten over that particular hurdle, it was like a dam had split wide open. Words lapped eagerly through the floodgates, tumbling from her tongue before she had a chance to agonize over each syllable.
“It's- it's gotten bad. I don't function, anymore, I can't stand to be in my own head if I’m not- from the second I get off of work, I’m at the batting cages until I physically can't be, and I have all these bruises and I know people are worried about me but I just can't- I can't handle it, everything feels to impossible, and when I’m moving I can't think about all that, but I’ve been stuck in perpetual movement for- for weeks, and I can't do this anymore.”
The hand that encased her’s squeezed again, warm and soft, unflinching and firm. Casey’s mind flickered back to watching Alex’s hand quiver every couple seconds, an action Alex herself hadn't even seemed aware of. The parallel was very obvious to her, but she wasn't sure what it meant.
She felt her eyes prick with tears, and despite not wanting to shake Mary’s hand off she needed to as she reached to press the edges of her palms against her eyes to contain the miserable liquid before it ruined her makeup and composure entirely. Mary had seen a lot from her, but sobbing wasn't one of them- Casey certainly did not make it a habit to cry in front of others, and this was no exception. She gritted her teeth and tried to curse internally. She tried to transfer her exhaustion and her anxiety into fury at the universe, but when she did that only caused an inadvertent flex in her bicep, and she realized that was exactly how she had gotten this bad. She had been channeling her grief into rage she could unleash via swings of a softball bat, and now she was stuck with no other way to bring herself back down.
“Can I tell you a story?”
This was exactly why Casey confided in Mary- the elder woman always managed to catch her off guard in the best way possible.
Mary never made her feel bitter with empty platitudes and pleasantries and faux comforts. She always had something unexpected and exactly right to calm the bubbling swirl of overwhelm in Casey’s heart. With a small hint of relief, a whispered thank-you to God for sending her a mentor like Mary Clark, Casey nodded and resigned herself to listen.
Casey studied the face of the older woman, chocolate brown irises with wisdom and smile wrinkles near her eyes and cheeks as her expression smoothed over thoughtfully. The elder woman broke eye contact to drop her gaze to the tablecloth, and Casey realized she was slightly uncomfortable.
“You don't know this about me,” Mary started, “because I don't quite make it a habit to tell, but it seems like a fitting time for me to tell you about something that happened … probably right around the time you started preschool. I do have a few years on you, after all.”
Even though through her scrutiny Casey was finding more slight indicators what Mary was about to confide was not an easy subject for her, she was making an obvious attempt to keep it lighthearted for Casey’s benefit. Casey offered her a weak smile at that small bit of humor.
“I had just had my third,” Mary murmured, referring to her children, “and the delivery had complications. To spare you the awkward details, it wasn't anything pretty. I had to stay in the hospital for a week or so, and it was much harder than I ever expected it could be, especially since my first two were reasonably easy.”
She took a deep breath, opened her mouth, and then closed it again, her short brown hair swaying slightly as she shook her head. Mary attempted to gather the words, and Casey tried not to feel exceptionally guilty for asking this of her, but unlike with Alex- who was scrambling to find purchase, would offer information she’d later regret if it helped her regain standing next to Casey- Casey could trust that whatever Mary had to say was something she meant too. She didn't need to reassure Clark that she didn't need to say anything she was uncomfortable with.
“People always talk about postpartum depression,” Mary said after a few seconds, “Well, they do now- maybe not as much when I was going through it- but you never really understand until you're exhausted and can't muster up the willpower to want to care for yourself, or the kid you're going with it through, let alone the other two and a good-for-nothing husband- it was hard, Casey.”
“I can only imagine,” Casey heard herself say, as if through water. Something about the way Mary spoke soothed her frayed nerves in a way she hadn't felt in months. It was a weird experience, to finally be out and vulnerable, to not hold a facade. To not be the one scrutinized, rather the one observing.
“But obviously, just because you want to give up and sleep for weeks, you can't. World keeps spinning. Kids need to be cared for. So I picked up a habit that helped me keep me upright- I started smoking.”
Casey didn't know how to respond to that, so she just lowered her gaze submissively and shook her head slowly, hoping that conveyed some sort of empathy, not that she felt like Mary expected any from her.
“It was a cigarette a day, and then one every couple hours, and then before you knew it I was calling recess in court just so I could go out myself and chain-smoke. I was going through a pack in less than three days, and bottles of whatever kind of perfume I could use to try to hide the stench of it even faster.”
Mary waved her hand as though attempting to make a dismissive motion, but the weight of her words was far from anything Casey could ignore.
“I knew it had to stop when I had to ask a defense counselor to justify an objection, only because I had been mentally wondering when the next time I could hold a recess was, and not because I needed the elaboration. I don't think I’ve ever admitted that to anyone before.”
Brown eyes met green, and Mary’s gaze bore a comfortable space into Casey’s soul, chipping through the layers of crumbling cement to fill the hollow space with comfort instead of numb exhaustion.
“It hurts, Casey. I know it does. And almost every person you’ll find in a courthouse has some kind of story where the stress just got too much and they lost it. Some drink, some sleep with people they shouldn't, some take it out on other people. Some never recover, but I did, and I know you will, too.”
“I don't know how,” Casey’s voice cracked, but she didn't clamp her mouth shut or try to stiffen, she forced herself to relax into the vulnerability of the moment.
“You don't have too.”
Casey blinked at her and Mary’s hand found her’s once again.
“It starts with eating better,” Mary soothed, “it starts with listening to your basic needs. Eat when you're hungry, drink when you're thirsty, sleep when you're tired and you can. Rest in the arms of people who love you.”
“I can't,” the redhead choked, pushing her head into her hands desperately, hiding her face and seeking support from her arms hopelessly.
“Mary, for years- for years, I’ve been- I’ve been telling myself that all I had to do was make it ‘till high school graduation, make it through law school, make it until I get married, but there's no goals anymore, and everything’s falling apart.”
Mary’s gaze sharpened quickly and Casey realized she had slipped up, revealed something she hadn't meant too. Mary had known she was engaged, and as Casey watched while internally cursing herself for the impulsive statement, her gaze flickered down to Casey’s hand. Casey had been engaged, and if marriage wasn't a goalpost anymore, that left only two options- either she had a husband, or she no longer had the immediate potential of one. No band adored Casey’s ring finger, and she could see that recognition click in Mary's eyes.
Defense attorneys had a habit of declaring their thoughts out loud, even if the implication of the situation was obvious enough. Clark was no different. It made Casey wince inwardly.
“You're not engaged to Mr. Morrison anymore?”
It had been a little over a year, fourteen long months since Casey had thrown Charlie out of her house, and the majority of people who had known about the engagement through idle understanding still didn't know it was over. Though, to be fair, she hadn't ever had that broad of a social circle to begin with- her parents had been informed when Casey kicked him out, his parents minutes after, and the few drifting college friends over the following weeks, and mostly only after they had asked first. Mary was one of the few exceptions who had been aware through random small talk, and Casey had never gone out of her immediate way to declare her potential marriage had crashed into a burning heap.
“No,” Casey muttered. She glanced up through her eyelashes, deciding if Mary would run with this topic, she’d continue it. Old women were always suckers to discuss romance in younger people, weren't they? “I’m not. And the person I saw after that didn't quite work out either, I- … I think.”
She hadn't lost Alex entirely. They would be speaking in two week’s time. But she had spent the past months struggling with the assumption she’d never enjoy the company of the blonde ever again, and despite it now being corrected, the shape their relationship had previously been did not fit the way Casey’s character had morphed under the stress of the previous months.
It was like a house one had moved out of and then revisited- bittersweet and hollowed, nostalgic in a heart wrenching way. The adornments that had lined the hallways, the understanding and familiarity ripped out and the walls entirely repainted. Perhaps the potential to repossess the property would occur, but there was no guarantee it would work, or that it would be at all comfortable like it had been before.
It might not work. She would not base her fragile state of the foundation that she had no way of ensuring would not crack under her. If she were to be better, she’d do it without her, and if she wanted to share a second chance with Alex, she’d need to be healthy for that.
“You think?” Mary tilted her head, but then blinked and shook her head quickly. “For another time, Casey. Clever, though, trying to redirect me like that.”
“Lawyer for a reason,” Casey said quietly, taking a spoonful of now-cold soup into her mouth so she’d have something other than speaking to do with her tongue. She averted her gaze. Her mental energy to have an emotionally taxing conversation like this was plummeting by the second, even with someone she trusted as much as Mary Clark.
“So if you don't have that type of consolation, Casey, what support are you getting?”
That was the question probing the area Casey did not want to delve into. She sighed and closed her eyes, hoping Mary would get the message, which of course she did- but even a defense attorney as formidable as her wasn't quite sure how to breach such a sensitive topic.
“... You're working with the Special Victims Unit, so you have a set rotation of detectives now- are any of them trustworthy enough?”
“I don't know how to answer that without sounding like a rejected schoolchild,” Casey muttered before she could stop herself. Pathetic, she groaned internally, why would she say something so pitiful? She was a prosecutor for God's sake, she should be stoic and cold and statuesque, but instead she had her elbows on her table with her head in her hands spilling her soul to the judge she did her clerkship under because a couple coworkers didn't appreciate that her face didn't look like Alex’s stupidly pretty one.
The image of Alex’s smiling face, with her smooth porcelain skin and golden hair, the perfect image of everything that was wrong with Casey and the symbol she had used to punish and oppress herself, made adrenaline bolt into her veins. She wanted to run away, now. Hit something. Even with the norepinephrine she didn't have enough energy to do so.
It's unfair, something inside her said, to hold Alex’s image in such a negative regard. Alex had been struggling too. Alex was trying to be nice to her, despite the venom Casey had spat. Alex wanted to keep trying. Alex was good. If Alex was good, then Casey must be bad, because Casey was not what Alex was- but Casey was not a bad person. This, despite her insecurities, she knew.
“I’m tired of mental gymnastics,” Casey groaned out loud, because what kind of internal dialogue was that supposed to be, “Fuck this.”
“Then we proceed through this in steps,” Mary affirmed, “And if you're a rejected school kid, I’ll be the teacher whose classroom you eat lunch in until you manage to make your own friends. This won't last forever, Casey, but until it's over I’ll hold your hand, so to speak.”
Casey decided to ignore the comparison of herself to some little high schooler with her cafeteria tray in her English teacher’s classroom and focus on the proposal.
Proceeding step by step. Court proceedings were something Casey was good at following. She could do steps. She had a feeling Mary knew that was the equivalency she would immediately draw and had intrinsically framed it as such for her benefit.
“Okay,” Casey took a deep breath and nodded, straightening up and smoothing out the tablecloth and the skirt over her lap out of habit, “Okay.”
“The first step,” Mary’s eyebrows flexed as though warning Casey not to be dejected, because she already knew she would be, “Is to let yourself accept you’re struggling. You've got thick skin, dear, I know you hate to admit it, but you have a problem right now, and you can't fix it if you keep agonizing over how much you hate that you have one.”
“I’m here, aren't I? I’m having this conversation,” Casey responded, slightly indignant.
Mary was quick to offer a quick “Yes, of course,” as a consolation. “I meant, though,” she was quick to continue, “That you need to come to terms with it. Counseling, I’d suggest, but you're stubborn and hate opening up to people, so perhaps journalling. Just get everything in your head out somewhere, and I guarantee you it’ll clear some space in that brain of yours.”
“Journaling,” Casey echoed distantly.
She wanted to cry, all of a sudden. She didn't want to be here anymore. She was exhausted and even though the way she had been going felt horrible at least, in a twisted way, it was familiar- but this? It felt easier to just lapse back into erecting brick walls.
I don't want to do this, something inside her thoughts despairingly, I just want to crawl into a hole and hide. I’m not like Mary. I don't have children to take care of. There's nothing keeping me going the way a mother is driven to persevere.
“Okay,” she said, despite the voice in her head and the overwhelming sensation of internal organs churning in the cavity of her chest, “I can do that. What would come next?”
The look Mary gave her made it obvious the older woman saw right through her facade, but she did not choose to comment on it.
“Better habit forming.” Mary said flatly, and Casey shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. That much was obvious. Eating better, drinking enough, sleeping more. She already knew she had to do that, but perhaps after getting her head a bit clearer through Mary’s suggestion of journaling it would be easier than where she currently found herself.
“The step after that would be getting yourself out there again,” and here too Mary had to shoot her a stern look, because Casey snorted at the notion, “You need friends, Casey. You need to find people you're comfortable sharing things with.”
Casey was silent.
“And after?” She asked, finally, because she didn't like sitting in silence with Mary Clark.
“Foresight and planning are essential to a lawyer,” Mary agreed, taking another slow sip of tea that had long since cooled off, “but you know better than anyone that you can't plan too far in advance, or it’ll become impossible to deal adequately with unforeseen challenges. Focus on what I told you, dear, and let the rest come naturally.”
I don't want to be here anymore, Casey's voice told herself. I don't want to do this. This seems so hard. I look pathetic and weak in front of my mentor, and it's not like anything will change. I don't want to be here. I want to go home.
She was going to cry if she stayed here for any longer, she realized. She needed to go home.
Before she could formulate some sort of excuse to tuck tail and duck off, Mary’s lips curved into a sympathetic smile, and she looked at her with an air a bit too motherly, a bit too familiar for Casey to be entirely comfortable with.
“You’re done talking for today, Casey, aren't you?”
“Yes,” Casey’s voice came out in a small rasp, “This is harder than I expected it to be. I can't… I don't…”
Mary shushed her, a soothing, hummed coax to Casey’s fragile psyche. Casey didn't need to talk, it seemed. Only listen. Casey could do that. Casey could force herself to do that.
“I don't want to keep you any longer than you’re comfortable with,” the elder woman said in a quiet voice, quiet enough that Casey felt comfortable leaning forward slightly, “so I will provide you now with my closing statement, which begins by affirming I don't expect a return statement, so feel free to leave when I’m done talking.”
Casey’s eyebrows simultaneously raised and tilted, a look of be-deadass crossing her face. It was generous for Mary to offer an exit without requiring her to say something to part, but she’d never leave without acknowledging the effort Mary was putting into this conversation. Mary smiled in response.
“I’d like to say how proud I am for agreeing to meet with me, and acknowledge how exhausting this must be for you right now,” at this Casey averted her gaze, her heart jolting in her chest, but she tried to settle into the uncomfortable warmth. It caught her off guard, but not in a bad way. She had heard people be sympathetic, offer comfort that simultaneously wasn't genuine but also not a lie- words they thought would bring something, but offered more out of a sense that that was what they were supposed to say, supposed to do. Tense, Awkward. Forced. But Mary spoke so easily that even Casey’s naturally oversuspicious mind was lulled, at least to some degree.
“And furthermore, I urge you to remember how good of a lawyer you are. How many people you’ve helped, be it financial ruin from your time in white collar or the gift of a fighting chance to special victims in your new work. You may feel powerless, but you’ve been making a real difference, Casey. You’ve been doing well. You’re good, and not only at what you do, but in general- you’re a good person, Casey, no matter what kind of affliction provokes you.”
A small shudder ran down Casey’s spine. It hurt to hear that, somehow, perhaps it hurt because her first instinct was to argue.
“You’ve got me to call if you ever need advice, or a shoulder, or a helping hand,” Mary continued, “Or a shoe. And I know, you’ll argue with me about this, but I know with absolute certainty I’m not the only one who cares about you. Find the people who do and stay with them. You’ll be okay, Casey. Everything will be okay.”
With that, she promptly nodded, the same way she had in court after finishing her closing statement, or giving the floor back to the prosecution. She had said her piece.
“Thank you,” Casey started, before opening and then closing her mouth blankly. How was one supposed to respond to that- how did she want to respond to that?
Being comforted by anyone- being offered consolation or support hadn't been an experience she had the privilege of receiving in months, perhaps years. Mary gave it to her as though it was water. Casey may as well have been terminally dehydrated. Her throat was choking trying to swallow something she wasn't at all used too- but she needed it, fuck, she had needed it.
So she simply repeated a “thank you”, reaching over the table to squeeze Mary’s hand softly, mirroring the elder attorney’s earlier action. Casey took a deep breath, letting her eyes flutter shut.
“I am very grateful,” she said slowly, “to have a mentor like you, Mary. Thank you for deciding to check on me, and thank you for listening to everything. Thank you for being so kind. When I’m back to normal, though,” her eyes flickered up, hoping to inject a small veil of playfulness, “I hope we go straight back to your ruthless teasing over my mishaps.”
“Oh, dear,” Mary chuckled, but her voice was still tinted with sympathy, “I’d never dream of anything otherwise.”
“Good, then.” Casey said quietly.
She was done now. She had heard Mary out and responded in some way she decidedly thought was adequate. It felt awkward leaving but her heart couldn't take much more of the way she had forced it open for this meeting.
“I’ll see you soon, yes?” Mary asked, and Casey nodded easily. It wasn't like with Alex where the next meeting was loaded and something to obsess or agonize over. Another meal with Mary was as inevitable as rain falling- Mary needed the excitement of insights into the life of an up-and-coming ambitious young attorney, and more than that Casey needed her trusted mentor’s advice.
“I’ve got this check,” Mary murmured, picking up her teacup, “So go on home, now. And Casey- take care of yourself.”
“Yes ma’am,” Casey said softly, before standing up and slinging her coat over her shoulders. She turned back for a small second, her eyebrows furrowing. Casey swallowed once as a nervous tick, letting her bottom lip part open for a small second. It felt awkward leaving. It felt impossible to stay here.
“Thank you,” she said one last time, sheepishly, quietly.
Mary didn't look up, but she smiled widely over the rim of her teacup.
This is literally the cutest Calex doodle I've ever laid eyes upon 😊. Also, can somebody make this into a fan fiction l, it would be really cool to read. (I can't get Dianne's comment about casey being a virgin until she was 25 out of my head.)
Casey was stretched out on your couch, her arms resting above her head. Her shirt had risen, showing a strip of pale skin above the waist of her shorts. You kept glancing at it, not able to stop yourself, imagining running your fingers over it, how soft her skin might be, the feeling of muscles flexing beneath your touch.
“I really needed this,” she sighed, eyes slow to blink open.
You turned your attention back to the slice of pizza in your hand, doing your best not to be caught. She shifted, reaching for the beer she’d left by the pizza box. You did your best not to watch as her lips pressed to the rim, head tipping back, throat on display as she drank.
“That’s what I’m here for. Relaxation 101,” you replied.
Her pretty pink lips pulled up into a smile, the way they always did around you. It had been a chance encounter, a mix up of your order at a coffee shop for hers. It had been easy enough to laugh it off the first time. The second you joked that you had to stop meeting like that. The third you’d told her that you thought it was the universe telling you something and she said the message was you had to find a better coffee shop.
It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
“You know you wouldn’t need this if you didn’t have such a high pressure job,” you said, reaching forward for your own beer.
She rolled her eyes, slumping back on the couch again. From your position on the floor, across the coffee table from her, you had to look up to meet her gaze.
“I’m not having this argument with you again,” she said, laughter in her voice.
“Look, I get it. You’re jealous that I have such a cushy job. Not everyone can be so lucky,” you said, grinning at her.
She balled up one of the napkins, throwing at you. You laughed as you batted it away, letting it roll away from you. She fell back against the arm of your couch, long legs stretching out, bare skin glowing in the soft light of your lamps. You clenched your fingers around the cool bottle in your hand to stop yourself from reaching out and touching her.
“Seriously Case,” you said, shaking off the thought, “I worry about you.”
“Don’t,” she said.
“It can’t be good for you to be so stressed all the time,” you said.
“I’m thriving,” she replied, shooting you one of those cocky grins that made your heart skip a beat.
“Except for this week where you practically begged to come over for cheap beer and cheaper pizza,” you said.
“Pretty sure the only one begging was you,” she shot back.
Casey was going to be the death of you with her twinkling eyes and her smirking lips and her relentless flirting. You wouldn’t give it up for anything.
“You can leave any time you want,” you said, gesturing to the door, knowing she wouldn’t.
“And leave you bereft of my company? I’m not that cruel,” she replied.
Reaching for another slice of pizza, she shot you a wink, making your heart stumble in your chest. You rolled your eyes, trying not to let her see exactly what she did to you. She might flirt with you like a professional, but you knew there was nothing behind it. No serious intent. After so long as friends you knew she definitely didn’t see you in that light.
“So are you going to actually tell me why your week was so bad?” you asked.
“I was off my game. I fumbled what should have been an easy case and the low life walked,” she groaned, but you could hear the anger in her voice. Anger at the loss, anger at the guy who walked, anger at herself for letting it happen.
“Hey, we all have bad weeks,” you said.
“Not me,” she said, shaking her head.
She flung one of her arms over her face. You sighed, edging around the coffee table to reach her. Resting a hand on her shin, you pushed up onto you knees to be closer to eye level with her. If she ever looked at you. Ignoring how warm her skin was beneath your palm, how soft and sweet, you lent closer.
“You’re allowed to be human, Casey. You can’t be perfect all the time,” you said, softening your voice.
“I need to be,” she said, arm dropping from her face.
Her eyes swam with something you couldn’t name but that made your heart clench. Your hand tightened on her leg as you shifted closer. She shook her head again, looking away from you, jaw clenching.
“You’re the best prosecutor I know,” you said, “aren’t you always bragging about your conviction rate? You can’t win them all.”
“Maybe but you didn’t see this guy. He was…” She shook her head again as if she didn’t have the words to explain it, “just having him look at me made me want to bathe in bleach.”
Your fingers clenched on her leg before you consciously relaxed them. You let your hand slide off her leg, knowing if you didn’t you might never stop touching her and you weren’t going to be like the creeps she helped lock away. Crossing your legs in front of you, you settled by her head.
“So he’ll probably do it again and then you’ll get him,” you said.
“And in the meantime some other woman gets attacked,” she muttered.
“Case, it’s not your fault,” you said, hardening your voice to stop her from arguing with you anymore. This wasn’t a pity party, “you did the best you could in that moment. I know you. You’re brilliant so if you were having an off week, you were still doing better than most people could.”
“I was distracted. I let myself focus on the wrong things. I should have done better,” she said.
“Okay, we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, pushing yourself to your feet.
You wandered back to the fridge, snatching up two more beers. You passed one to Casey, watching as she got more comfortable on your couch, hips raising before falling back on the couch cushions. You took a long drag from your own bottle, mouth suddenly dry.
“What’s done is done and now we’re going to have a nice Saturday night ignoring work and all the bullshit that comes along with it,” you said, taking your place across the table from her again.
“Easy for you to say. The worst you deal with is a missing book,” she said.
“Hey, don’t knock that. People can get very upset over missing manuscripts,” you replied.
Her lips pulled up into a half smile before she drank from the condensed slicked bottle you’d handed her. You looked away, picking up the half finished slice you’d left in your failed attempt at comforting her.
“Oh I’m sure. Without the latest James Patterson the public’s life is ruined,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every word.
“Careful or I’ll stop sneaking them to you before they’re on the floor,” you replied.
“Bringing out the big guns,” she laughed, head tipping back.
“Don’t test me, Novak. You might be a hot shot in the court room but I’ll school your ass any day of the week,” you said.
“Anything else you’ll be doing to my ass?” she asked.
Her tongue dragged along her lower lip, catching a drop of beer before it could roll down to her chin. You shook your head, scoffing, not letting her see you sweat. Not that the thought of her ass wasn’t a pleasant one.
“Just book based crimes it is,” she replied with a throaty chuckle.
“Laugh it up, Novak, but the sexy librarian is a staple of porn for a reason,” you told her, “you’d be surprised how many women like someone who’s well read.”
“You’re finding your hook ups at work?” She raised an eyebrow at you.
“People can be very grateful when you find the exact book they need,” you said with a shrug.
Those damning green eyes swept over you, assessing you with an intensity that made you want to shiver. Something was there, simmering beneath the surface, something that made you feel something spark in your veins. She was going to ruin you without even trying.
“So what? You check out their stack of books and then they offer you sex?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” you replied, “is that really so hard to believe?”
She sat up, planing both feet on the floor. With forearms resting on her thighs, she was bent towards you. If this was the woman perps faced in the court room under questioning, you were surprised more didn’t spill all their dirty little secrets. You were on the brink of doing something you shouldn’t.
“And do you just drag them into one of the isolated stacks and let them show you how grateful they are?” she asked, voice dangerously low.
“You gonna have me arrested for public indecency if I say yes?” you shot back.
“Don’t tempt me,” she replied.
“I thought tempting people was exactly what we were talking about,” you said.
Something flicked over her face before she washed it away. Snatching up her bottle of beer, she took a long drink from it, letting your eyes trace down the column of her neck. You thought it would look so pretty with your marks on it or your fingers wrapped around it. You turned your attention back to the half drunk bottle in your hand.
“You done with the pizza? I got ice cream,” you said.
“Sure,” she said, leaning back again, the intensity gone.
You climbed to your feet again, picking up the mostly empty pizza box. Throwing it onto the counter, you went digging through your freezer. The carton from last time should still be there, uneaten when Casey had taken a call from work that required her hasty retreat from your apartment.
“It’s your fault, you know.”
You startled, so lost in thought you hadn’t heard her get up and follow you. Turning, you found her leaning back against the counter, staring at you.
“What is?” you asked.
“Me being off my game,” she said.
“That’s a bit unfair, isn’t it? I haven’t even seen you all week,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest.
“But you did last Saturday,” she said.
“Yes? We didn’t do anything out of the ordinary, did we?” you asked.
“No, but you wore that tiny little sun dress and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since,” she replied.
You blinked, then blinked again. Her words made sense on their own individually, but in that order you couldn’t comprehend her meaning. Your mouth opened and then shut.
“What?” was all you managed.
“You’re were nothing but a tease all day. All flashes of skin and flirty comments. You wouldn’t keep your hands to yourself. Don’t tell me it wasn’t on purpose,” she said.
You remembered it. You’d gone out for lunch with her before going for a stroll in Central Park. It had been sweltering, your skin sweat slicked after only moments outside. You hadn’t thought you’d been particularly different, only she’d been in a tank top and her hair had been tied up and you hadn’t wanted to look away from her. When the heat had grown too much, you’d brought her back to your place on the promise of ice cream. Then she’d gotten that damn call to go into work.
“You think I was trying to tease you?” you asked.
“There was no trying about it. If I hadn’t gotten that call…” she trailed off, letting your imagination spiral out of control.
“Casey, we’re friends,” you told her, “you don’t think about me that way.”
“Don’t I?”
Her eyes dragged over your body, lingering on the curves you had on display. Heat sparked in your veins and it was all you could do not to beg her for something she didn’t want to give. Your mouth grew dry.
“Do you?” you asked.
“Do you?” she shot back at you.
The way she was looking at you was like she wanted to consume you. But she was also hesitant, like she was worried she’d read you wrong. Your gaze slid over her again, lingering on all the bare skin she had on display. There was no point lying.
The single stride across the kitchen was all you needed to reach her. Your hands were cupping her cheeks and you were pulling her down, kissing her with a desperation you hadn’t known you had in you. She didn’t hesitate as her hands landed on your hips, dragging you closer, tongue sweeping into your mouth. You moaned, the heat between you burning through your inhibitions.
Your fingers slid into her hair, holding her in place as you pressed her against the counter. Kissing along her jaw, you tugged on her hair until her head tipped back, giving you more access. Dragging your tongue over her skin, you felt the way she shuddered against your body.
“Baby,” she groaned, fingers digging into your hips until you thought she might leave bruises.
You felt her pulse thundering under your tongue. Your teeth scraped over her skin, the moan going through her gratifying. Perfect Casey Novak, usually so in control, was being taken apart by you, and all you could think of was how much of a privilege it was to touch her like that. You sucked on her pulse point, wanting to see her pretty skin marked up from your kisses. You’d been imaging it almost since the moment you’d met her.
Her hands slid down, cupping your ass through your sweatpants, pushing you against her. You kissed along her collarbones before making a mirror image on the other side of her neck. She tasted sweet beneath her tongue. Her moans were delicious, a soft noise in the back of her throat making your heart flutter. All you could do was nip at her skin and leave another bruise in your wake.
“I guess you do,” she hummed.
“Casey, I’d be shocked if anyone looks at you and doesn’t,” you groaned into the space where her shoulder met her neck, “you’re gorgeous.”
Her chuckle vibrated through her chest, a rumble against where you were pressed against her. Leaning down again, she captured your lips in a kiss that stole your breath. With the hands grasping your ass, she spun you, crowding you against the counter, humming into the kiss. You whimpered, muffled against her lips, letting her kiss you exactly the way she wanted.
“Just admit you were teasing me last weekend,” she murmured against your lips.
“I wasn’t,” you replied, a strangled moan coming from you as her hips pressed yours back against the counter.
“Then who were you wearing that little number for?” she asked, drawing back far enough to look at you properly. Her eyes were dark, lips kiss stung, a flush high on her cheekbones. She’d never looked more devastating.
“No one,” you replied.
“Were you hoping to run into one of your admirers from the library?” she asked.
“No,” you whined.
Her strong hands lifted you, sitting you on top of your counter. Stepping between your thighs, she tilted her head to the side and you wondered if this was what it was like to be on the stand as she questioned you. The thought made a throb of pleasure go through you.
“You weren’t hoping one of them would notice you and come visit Monday morning to tell you exactly how pretty you looked?” she asked.
“You thought I looked pretty?” It shouldn’t have made butterflies erupt in your stomach given you’d had her tongue in your mouth only moments ago, but it did.
“You already knew that,” she said, “it’s why you wore it, wasn’t it? You wanted people to notice how pretty you are.”
“Am I on trial here, Counsellor?” you asked, leaning towards her.
“I’m just asking some questions,” she replied.
“Then let me ask one of my own,” you said the fingers you still had tangled in her hair pulling until her head was tipped up towards you, “does the thought of me trying to entice someone else bother you?”
“No,” she replied but you saw the way her nostrils flared.
“What about the appreciation some of the people at the library show me?” you asked, “that doesn’t bother you?”
“No,” she said again.
“So that image of me taking one to an isolated stack and having them on their knees for me, it does nothing to you?” You lent close enough for your lips to brush hers.
Her chest was heaving. Your lips pulled up into a smirk as you lent back. Her hands on your thighs were gripping tight enough to hurt but you liked it, the way her touch would linger after she was gone.
“Well, Counsellor?” you prompted when her silence stretched.
“You know damn well it doesn’t,” she growled.
“No further questions,” you whispered.
Her lips crashed back into yours, almost savage. Her teeth sunk into your lower lip, deep enough for you to taste coppery blood bloom over your tongue. You moaned, shocked by how much you liked her being rough with you. Hands pushed up your tank top, dragging over your bare skin until you were whimpering again.
She drew back, ignoring the way you clutched at her. Her thumb pressed to your lower lip, smearing the blood away. Your tongue flicked over the tip, watching her gaze darken impossibly.
“This smart mouth is what kept me so distracted all week,” she muttered, “making me think about all the better uses I could put it to.”
“You can’t blame me for your dirty thoughts,” you mumbled against her thumb.
“I can and I do,” she replied.
“That’s not fair,” you all but whined.
“No, I’ll tell you what’s not fair. I’ve been off my game all week because you’ve been nothing but a fucking tease and so a criminal walked. I can’t be distracted this week. So you better do something about it,” she said.
“What do you want me to do?” you asked, breathless.
Her hand pulled yours from where it was still wound in your hair. Your breath caught as she pressed it to her breast. Your hand curled around it, holding to the shape, feeling the curve in the palm of your hand. When her hand dropped back to your thigh, yours stayed.
“I want you to make me come so hard I see stars,” she said.
“Might take a few tries, but I’m sure if I apply myself…”
She kissed you again as your thumb swiped over the hardening nipple beneath your hand. She arched into your touch, offering herself to you. It didn’t take much to drag her shirt over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up. Your tongue dragged along your lower lip as you stared at her.
“You sure?” you asked, breathless and desperate with want, but refusing to do more if this was all some kind of attempt to make you happy.
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she replied.
That was all the permission you needed. With a hand splayed between her shoulder blades, you brought her closer. She sighed as your lips made contact with her skin, kisses pressed down her sternum. Skimming over the curve of one breast, your lips curled into a smile at her breathy grumbling about being a tease again.
Your tongue flicked over one nipple before your lips closed around it. Your hand was cupping the other, finger pinching at the other nipple. Her back was arching and the low groan was enough to make you shift, wanting to press your legs together, attempting to find some friction. Her hips, caught between your legs, kept you pressed open, not letting you get any kind of satisfaction for yourself.
The way her head tipped back as she moaned was satisfaction enough.
“You’re so good at that, baby,” she praised you, hands slipping into your hair.
You sucked harder, wanting more praise from her. She was keeping you against her, fingers tugging on your hair, making you shiver. Maybe you were a tease because you could spend hours doing this to her, watching her come apart and beg for more.
You dragged your nails down her spine. You wanted to litter her body with your marks, all kinds of things she would see in the mirror come morning. You wanted her to remember this moment, to remember how you made her feel, to remember how good you were at this.
You wanted her to remember she was yours.
Only then she was dropping down to her knees, hands curling around your ankles. Tugging, you slid down until you were standing, leaning back against the counter, watching her with interest. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of your sweats, dragging them down your leg. Her lips pressed to the skin of your inner thigh the moment it was exposed causing your breath to hitch.
“Case, what are you doing?” you asked, “I thought you wanted…”
Your words cut off as her mouth ghosted over your panty covered core, lingering on the wet patch you couldn’t be embarrassed about. Green eyes stared up at you, smouldering with a want you weren’t used to seeing. You’d do anything to give her what she was seeking.
“I want to taste you,” she said, “the only person getting on their knees for you is me, you hear me?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Say it,” she commanded.
“You’re the only one. I’m yours,” you said.
“That’s my girl.”
She dragged your panties down your legs, helping you step out of them, flinging them aside with your sweats. Strong hands grasped your legs, shifting one to rest over her shoulder. Hips pressed back against the counter, her mouth descended. You cursed, fingers winding in her hair again, holding on as she feasted on you.
No one had ever touched you like this. It was as if she was possessed, determined to draw feelings from you that you’d never experienced before. Her tongue and her lips were making your head hazy, pleasure rushing through your veins. She pressed closer, her fingers digging into your thighs, holding you in place. You weren’t complaining, allowing her do something she seemed to be so skilled at.
You were willing to thank whoever had taught her this with an edible arrangement. You were certainly reaping the benefits of it.
You moaned her name, hips rolling towards her, asking for more. She was keeping you right on edge. You groaned, fingers tightening in her hair, trying to press her closer. She chuckled, muffled against your pussy.
“Case, please,” you begged.
She hummed, the vibrations against your clit only making you whimper. Your hips kept rolling against her face, seeking out more from her. She kept you there, right on the edge, desperate for more, for what you knew was right there. Your stream of conscious begging was ignored. Caught in the gravity of her gaze, you couldn’t look away. She was watching you like you were her favourite thing, like there was nothing more fascinating to her, like you were all she could see. It was addictive.
“Please.” You were breathless, “Casey.”
She dragged her mouth away from you and you cried out, stomach lurching, doing your best to keep from pressing her back to you with the fingers still in her hair. Grinning up at you, all you could do was groan at the sight of her with your arousal coating her chin. The throbbing between your legs was unbearable and she was doing nothing to help. This was her fault, and she was doing nothing to make it better.
“What are you doing?” you demanded.
“It sucks, doesn’t it? I spent all week feeling like this. On edge, desperate, wanting something I couldn’t have. I’d work all day and go home and I couldn’t even give myself an orgasm to make it better because it wasn’t you doing it,” she said, “so I think you can wait a bit longer.”
The thought of her touching herself to the thought of you might be the hottest thing you’d ever heard. With the fingers wound in her hair, you dragged her back to her feet, kissing her like she was the air you breathed. The taste of yourself on her tongue had you groaning. You dragged your hands down the soft skin of her chest, feeling her warmth beneath your palms, the way she breathed and the twitch of muscles.
Your fingers were deft as they unbuttoned her shorts. You felt her breath stutter as you sought out the wet heat between her thighs, willing to make good on your promises. She made such a pretty noise as your fingers ran through her folds, feeling exactly how worked up you’d gotten her. You drew back, far enough to see her face as you ghosted your fingertip over her clit.
“You’re being a tease again,” she huffed.
“This time on purpose,” you murmured, lips finding their home on her neck again.
“That wasn’t our deal,” she said, but there was no heat behind the words.
“The only deal we made was that I’d make you come so hard you’d see stars,” you said, slowly circling her clit, “we never agreed on the details of how I’d do that.”
She opened her mouth to argue again but you pressed your finger to her entrance, lingering there until she went quiet.
“Good girl,” you whispered into her skin.
You spun her, pressing her front against your counter, her hands splaying over the top. Crowding her against it, you placed your lips back on her neck. The hand in her panties gently dipped into her entrance, just enough for her to press back against you, a small whine coming from pretty lips. You chuckled, your other hand curling around her body to find one of those beautiful tits to play with. The way she offered herself to you was enough to make you feel weak.
“You know, I’ve heard all about how I’ve been torturing you this last week,” you said, lips brushing over her skin, “but you haven’t heard about all the times you’ve tortured me.”
You sunk your finger into her, so easy from how wet she was. Her head fell forward with a small sound. You pinched at her nipple, enjoying the way she shuddered in your arms.
“See, I don’t know how long you’ve wanted to do this, but I’ve been thinking about it since the first time I saw you,” you continued, “you in that pencil skirt and those heels that made your legs look about a mile long. I kept thinking about bending this beautiful stranger over the closest table and seeing if her voice was as beautiful moaning as it was talking.”
She let out a breathy moan as your thumb found her clit.
“And then imagine my luck when the week after she was there again and I had another inbuilt reason to approach her. So I flirted a bit, testing the waters to see if she’d be interested but I couldn’t get a read. Only this week she had one more button undone, giving quite a nice view of such beautiful tits.” You pinched her nippled again, “and so I went home that night and pictured her pretty face as I fucked myself.”
You sunk another finger into her, feeling her rock against your hand. She was so hot, so wet, almost obscene with the noises she was making. Your lips kissed over the skin of her shoulders, not able to stop yourself from tasting her. Your fingers were slow as they pumped in and out of her, drawing it out, wanting her to feel every inch of you.
“I’ve never come so hard before,” you told her.
She growled, fingers clenching on the countertop. You curled your own fingers, feeling her internal walls begin to flutter. You slowed your thrusts, ignoring how she pressed more insistently against you. Thumb grinding down on her clit, you teeth sunk into her shoulder, muffling your chuckle at her needy little whine. You could listen to that sound forever.
“Every time I saw you, afterwards I’d go home and touch myself. I’d come back here and lie down and give myself orgasm after orgasm picturing your pretty face,” you said, knowing you were pushing it, but you wanted to see her come undone. You wanted to see her lose control. You wanted to see her fall apart.
“Can you imagine? Months and months of getting off to the thought of you. All right here, in this tiny little apartment. I bet my neighbours know your name better than mine by now,” you whispered, making sure your lips brushed the shell of her ear, breath ghosting over her skin.
“At least one of us could get off,” she growled.
“Lucky for you, I’m here to make sure you do,” you said.
She cried out your name as your fingers twisted, curling within her, seeking out the spot that would make her see stars. Just like you promised. You returned your lips to her neck, not able to stop yourself. She just looked so good with your hickeys on her skin.
Her muscles clamped down on your fingers and your name was the most beautiful sound you’d ever heard as she moaned it. You eased her through it, the arm that you’d left around her holding her up, your front pressed to her back. Trailing soft kisses along her skin, you murmured how wonderful she was, how sexy, how beautiful.
Her muscles relaxed, breathing slow to even out. You were equally slow to remove your fingers from her panties. As she turned towards you, a loose smile on her face, you ran your tongues up your fingers, tasting her. Your cheeks hollowed as you sucked on them, cleaning yourself up. That satisfied look on her face deepened, eyes darkening as she watched you.
“Well?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as she continued to watch you.
“I’m not sure I saw stars,” she said.
“Lucky we have all night so I can keep trying then, isn’t it?” you said replied, hands sliding over her hips.
She kissed you, deeply enough for you to melt against her. And then you got on with making good on your promise.
What I love about Natasha Romanoff is that she could probably kill you with her pinkie finger and some silly string but she also probably would own a pen of goats in Wakanda and name them each after the avengers based on their personalities
Yennefer: How ya doin' short stack?
Tissaia:
Tissaia: As you have continued to observe, you are taller. Since we have established this, I am now going to hit you with a chair. Because I am not the bigger person.
Yennefer:
Yennefer: What?
Yennefer: oW
Triss: I think Tissaia is a little upset with you.
Yennefer: Why do you say that?
Triss: She told me to give you this note.
Yennefer, reading aloud: "Dear Yennefer, I hope this message finds you before I do."
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
blakekathryn
