Law and Order Special Victims Unit.
Title: I warned you what would happen. This is your fault.
POV: Casey Novak
A/N: Trigger warning for description of rape and mentions of sexual assault. Please use caution when reading.
This collection is a work of Calex/and Rolivia pairings. If you have a request for a topic you'd like to see written, PM me about the idea and which pairing you would like. I could also do Cabot/Benson or Casey/Benson. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read/review.
Location
Somewhere in New York City, June 2022, seven pm.
"I warned you what would happen. This is your fault."
Erin Reagan's voice rings inside my head on repeat. Her words had little effect on me six hours ago when she called me into her office.
Now they're grenades continuously blasting inside my head. Throbbing pain pulsating throughout every vein, turning my stomach into an acid pit of lava ready to explode.
Groaning, I hold my head between my legs; a flush has crept over my face. I can feel the heat rapidly invading my cheeks, crossing over the bridge of my nose, snaking its way into the creases of my forehead.
Father Andrews's voice blooms out inside the warehouse, echoing off walls. I can't move. Intense pain is stabbing me from every angle. What was I thinking chasing a suspect on my own?
How dumb can one person be?
"When you insisted I was guilty, I tried to warn you. I warned you what would happen. This is your fault. I wasn't guilty. I am innocent of all charges. But you couldn't stop yourself, could you, bitch?"
Lying flat on my back, choking on my blood, I am helpless to stop the blows from coming. He keeps delivering them, smirking as his feet kick me, connecting to my stomach. Then the pain hits me hard. I can't stop myself from screaming.
He stood above me, panting, glaring at me with such vengeance that his eyes sent chills running up and down my spine. His hand is still curled in a fist and bloodied from all the blows he's directed at my face.
As soon as I scream, I can feel the blood rolling down my throat. Choking me, making me cough, but I can't sit up. Fear creeps into my veins. Any blow could be the fatal one.
There's no one coming to save me because I told no one I was coming after Father Andrews.
"How does it feel, bitch?"
"To be beaten every time you try to get up? To have someone tell you are worthless make you feel powerless."
The blows overpower my body, which trembles in massive shock. I've been an athlete my entire life, baseball, basketball, soccer, karate, track, and field. I have a very high tolerance for pain and being knocked down. This is different.
Every cell is burning; every vein is bleeding. Constant pain is draining. It demoralizes a person's soul. Every blow is another knock on my self-confidence. It rips the hope and belief in people's goodness from my fingertips.
I can't speak; the effort would cost me too much. The very best I can do is whimper or let out a strangled cry. Except I won't, because it's what this maniac wants. I have minimal dignity left. My pride will not be ripped away from me.
"If you had listened to me, if you had taken the time to hear me. You would know I am innocent. The church made me who I am. I am not responsible for my actions. Jesus has sent me to be the messenger, his messiah!"
Coughing, I grip the dirty concrete floor. Trying to push myself up, my arms shake. A powerful thrust of his foot into my back sends me spiraling to my stomach. His hands grip me hard, pulling me up. A scream rips from my throat as he laughs, pulling my limp body up and slamming my back violently into the wall.
Pain radiates, dancing across every fiber and cell inside my body. "You just had to interrupt my life, you little busy body whore. Didn't you?"
I am spitting out blood with every syllable I attempt to say in-between coughing and spasm fits. "I wouldn't let you victimize another young boy. You are not a victim, Peter; you could have left the church. Instead, you took your rage and confusion out on innocent little boys."
"They're not innocent. Why won't you get it, bitch! God sent me to punish them. Homosexuals deserve to die! I'm doing the work of our Lord. He told me to save them. They confessed to me and came to me for help. I was only doing what the Bible said to do!"
"So you admit it, Peter. The boys you chose were based on their sexuality. You stalked them on their way home. You pulled them into your van and raped them because you disapproved of their sexuality."
"God told me to. He told me I had to save them, or their souls would be dammed to hell for eternity."
"God didn't tell you to do anything, Peter. You did it because you are so damn weak you can't face your sexuality. You're a coward, Peter. A coward and a rapist. I've been out and proud since I was sixteen years old. I've seen plenty of men go down the same pathetic road you are on now. They are ashamed of their feelings and desires. They lose themselves in debt, gambling, drinking, or pushing dope into their veins."
"Building themselves up to be macho and living an exuberant masculine lifestyle, anything to prove they aren't the definition of what society had labeled fags to be, except what no one ever tells them is this by running away from their truth, they aren't helping themselves. They're hurting themselves. Denying who you are only killing your self-confidence and drains your soul. No one in society can label you anything unless you allow them to. I don't even let words like dyke, lesbo, homo, or fag have any place in my heart. I'm damn proud to be a lesbian. No one can take that away from me. Not even you, coward."
"You're one of them?" I brace myself for the next blow. My body tense and my heart scurries up my throat, clogging me.
Enraged, he swipes at my chest, fingers gripping my blouse, which he rips at, tearing my cotton shirt. "You disgusting piece of shit. No wonder you couldn't see my point of view. You're one of them."
The pain explodes in my abdominal area, forcing my legs to buckle. Looking down, I feel the shock set in as I see the knife pulled out of my stomach. A knife I never knew he possessed.
This pain is a fire burning through my stomach. I winced. It blew up my stomach, spreading across my chest, leaving me gasping all my reserve to hold on to my pride, slipping away with my draining blood and shooting up my chest; the pain ricochets across my head with a terrifying blankness. It was nauseating; my body quivered. The pain felt like a sharp knife, covered in salt, slicing through my skin and into the muscles and bones, as though my body had been frozen and a bolt of lightning had struck me from head to toe.
His hands grab me and throw me back onto the cold, hard, nasty ground, but I am beyond the point of caring or feeling what happens to me.
We tell victims it gets better in time. For this to happen, though, they need to survive. I know any hope of me walking away from this mistake is vanishing.
Snickering, Father Andrews unzipped. Stepping out of his pants, he takes off his shirt, hovering over me with the bloody knife in his, and the drops of my blood drip down one by one, trickling onto the floor.
He's going to rape me.
He's going to rape me.
There's nothing I can do to stop it. My body is too weak to fight. My mind is numb. I know the statistics by heart. Out of the 97,000 rapes in the United States annually, less than 6% will end in a conviction. One hundred seventy-four rapes in Manhattan this year alone. I have the highest conviction rate in all of Manhattan, and even I could only get less than a hundred convicted.
Not for lack of trying. So many factors go into a rape case, but the main one is live victims. They make the most complex and unreliable witnesses, because getting through the trauma often takes all they can do to stay alive. Facing their accuser in open court and reliving every sick and twisted thing which happened to them is pouring a bucket of salt on a wound never given a chance to heal.
No one understands how damaging to the soul rape is. It's degrading. Draining. I've worked in SVU for twenty-something years now. I never truly understood.
The shame is a massive weight that crushes you and stops you from speaking out.
He ripped my skirt. I lay there completely exhausted and humiliated. I had no one else to blame for being where I was except myself. Erin, my boss, warned me to let it go. The catholic church couldn't be touched. He was a predator in priest's clothing.
He warned me in court. I would be sorry if I didn't stop. I didn't listen to either of them. If I could go back in time, I might be a little brighter. At least tell someone my plan.
Now it's too late.
I knew it was happening, but I could not move. I thought I was saying 'no,' but I could not hear any sound coming out of my mouth. His weight is on top of me. His smell makes me gag roughly inside my mouth, coughing my body twitches. I barely turn my head in time to vomit.
When was the last time he bathed?
His hand roughly grabs my neck and slams my head against the concrete floor. Thankfully, there's nothing left for me to choke on.
Or maybe I would have been luckier if I could pass out.
Alexandra Cabot's voice echoes inside my head. "Hold your head up, Casey, today was a disaster, yes, but tomorrow will be better. We're not here to make ourselves feel better. If you are hon, you're in the wrong profession. We take on the demons and endure the sleepless nights so others don't have to. We may never understand what a victim goes through when violated, but we carry the same scars after doing this job for as long as we have. There's no way for any of us to be unscarred. If you are, you need mental health. Because no one can walk away from this job without enough baggage to want to eat their gun."
"So, how do you stay sane, Alex?"
"You hold your head up, smile, and tell yourself it's okay not to be okay. Find a friend, and you ask for help. You don't let the shame or pride swallow you whole."
"Remember, Casey, and you are never alone because you have an entire team who loves you dearly."
"What happens when love isn't enough?"
"Then Casey, it's time to fight! FIGHT with everything you have inside of you. Fight to swim to the surface, fight to see the light, fight to pull yourself together. To fight off the demons trying to bring you down. It's time to kick, scream, and get loud and dirty. It's time to fucking survive so you can see the hope."
"No!" I kick hard, landing my patent leather heal right in his groin. His howl gives me motivation. I claw my nails into the ground, push my beaten, sore, bloody body up, and run. It's not as easy as they make it look in the movies or on TV. Adrenaline can only take me so far. I've lost a lot of blood and taken too many blows. My vision is disoriented and blurry. My strength weakened.
He catches up to me, his nails digging into my back, tearing my skin. Yanking my hair, I feel strands rip out. I don't hold back; I scream and kick. "Shut-up bitch!" he hits me across the face hard, climbing onto me. His right-hand squeezes across my throat.
I feel him shove a knee between my legs, and he enters me so damn hard I can feel my tender skin tearing.
My body ached. There are bruises on my knees, and I am bleeding from my vagina as he rapes me. I feel the thick, sticky, warm blood running down my legs. It enraged me, so I did precisely what Alex told me to do.
I fight to survive. I am biting, scratching, kicking, screaming, and swinging. Unfiltered and loud. Amid this traumatic experience, I feel disconnected from my body. Almost as if I am floating above myself, telling myself what to do, watching my body do it, but not truly being aware that this is me, that I am a victim. My mind is in a fog like when I run in the early mornings, and the air is thick with the morning after rain; dew clings to the skin and makes for a hazy route. Yet my feet keep pounding the pavement because it's familiar.
The audacity of his words strikes me. He is a man of God. I notice he is wearing a gold medal with St. Christopher in the middle. The Saint of protected travelers.
I can't decide if he is a hypocrite or seriously deranged.
"Get off me! I don't want you inside of me! I said stop!" I sink my teeth into his neck as he thrusts deep inside me again. He howls, jumping back, shocked. Raising my left leg, I bring my heel up and shove it deep into his femoral artery. He falls back, grabbing his leg, screaming.
"Fight like hell, Casey. It's time to fight! FIGHT with everything you have inside of you. Fight to swim to the surface, fight to see the light, fight to pull yourself together. To fight off the demons trying to bring you down. It's time to kick, scream, and get loud and dirty. It's time to fucking survive so you can see the hope."
Alex's voice keeps me going. I stumble, fall, and pick myself up, praying to the God I know. To be by my side. Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark. I have been raised Catholic all my life. I took my studies seriously to understand that receiving the three sacraments of Christian initiation, Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist was a severe lifetime commitment to accept Christ into my heart, body, and mind to understand he died for our sins. So I needed to live a wonderful pure life clean of sins.
I struggled with my sexuality and religious path in my teen years. I kept my sexuality a secret for many years, living intensely in shame because I couldn't refine from sin. We all sin in life. None of us get through it unscratched.
It caused so many years of anguish and fear. I prayed for a cure to be normal until one day, Alex took my hands and recited a verse to me.
"Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart, and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light."
"Jesus made us as we are, Casey; he created us not to fit some stereotypical mode but to set the world on fire with our sparkle, truth, and light. If he didn't want us to be gay, he would have made it so, but he didn't, so who is anyone to make us feel shame or guilt us into believing we are bad Catholics?"
Alex had always had faith, even when we were kids. She would hold me to remind me when I was spiraling, fighting to keep it together when I felt weak or scared. Hope is never lost as long as we draw breath.
I keep screaming, running, and pumping my legs. When I stumble, I don't quit. I get back up and run to the door, yanking it open. The moonlight shines brightly across the road.
For a moment, I am dazed, unable to place where I am, but I can't stop. I know he could still get up and chase me. "Please, Jesus, help me now. I need you."
I pray, muttering as I choose to run west. It's too dark to see any street signs. The absence of fear doesn't define courage. Real courage is being deathly afraid and still keeping going.
Running in heels isn't easy on any day; running in them when you are bleeding, in agony, and have torn clothing. It's an exceptional talent.
Trying to take deep breaths is getting harder the more I run. Buildings, signs, fences, and graffiti all blur as I pump my legs, flying around corners.
I don't recognize the area. I can't place it if it is Manhattan, Bronx, The Queens, or even in NYC. Thinking he could have dragged me out of the city I call home when he knocked me unconscious is inconceivable, but I know it's a real possibility.
Finally, I see the blue and white neon sign spelling out NYPD. I don't stop until I burst through the station doors. Still not understanding what district I am in, I drag myself to the desk.
Shocked faces pool around me as my heart squeezes and pain vibrates throughout my body. "ADA Novak, I was beaten, raped. The suspect is down. I stabbed him in his femoral artery. I... don't know where he had me. I…
My legs give out as my vision blurs again, my head spinning. "10-13 call a bus. We have an officer down."
New Amsterdam Hospital
The Next Day
"Casey, sweetie." I awake too soon, flailing and crying. Hot, pure white terror rips through my mind. He's here. He found me wherever here is. I'm dead for trying to escape.
Instantly, Alex was there by my side. Her hands are covering mine. "Shh, it's okay; you're safe, baby. I'm right here; you're in the hospital. He can't hurt you anymore. He's dead; you did it, baby girl. You fought; to stay alive. You survived."
"Casey, I need you to relax, as scary as I know it is. You have serious injuries and can't afford the risk of reopening your stitches or risk infection."
"Hospital?" I repeat, confused, staring at her, unable to take my eyes off her. "yes, sweetheart. You're in New Amsterdam hospital. We're all worried sick; we've been up for twenty-four hours between trying to find you and worrying about your condition. Everyone is so thankful you got away."
I lay back, exhausted, my chest swelling with so many emotions. Alex gently caressed my face, kissing my forehead. "You need rest, honey. Close your eyes. I'm not leaving. I'll be by your side every step of the way.' Alex takes both my hands, holding them. It's only because I can feel the softness of her hands and see the crystal ocean pools of love and gratitude shining inside her eyes that I can close my eyes without fear.
Days pass by in a blur of pain, medication, and visits from well-meaning friends. Alex told me twenty-something times what my injuries are, but I can't for the life of me keep them straight.
My disclosure is taken, but I barely remember who took it. The days turn into weeks of being stuck in the hospital fevers and infections keep me bedridden for weeks.
When I can finally go home with Alex, it feels surreal. "Casey, please don't be mad at me, but I took the initial step for us to get help to get through this; maybe I should have asked before, but I know how proud you are and how ashamed you feel. None of this is your fault. We need to deal with this together. The emotional pain of fear, anxiety, panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares, and lack of trust can last for years — sometimes a lifetime. You don't deserve to suffer this way the sooner you get therapy and talk to someone. The better your chances of healing."
"I'm not mad, Alex. Thank You for loving me enough to stand by me and knowing what I need when I need it when I am too damn stubborn to reach out first."
Settling on the couch, Alex makes us tea. "Is it okay if I put my arm over your shoulders?" "Yes, of course, baby."
I was nestling against her shoulder. I close my eyes, shivering under her warmth, feeling an overwhelming sense of reality hit me; how I almost lost all of this cuddling with my wife on our couch, breathing in her beautiful warm scent and feeling her skin so soft against me.
The tears cascade down slowly. "I'm here for whatever you need, Casey, to talk, hold you, listen." I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her stomach. Alex rubs my back. Her palms circled the sacrum softly. "May I kiss your shoulders?" "Yes." I get the one word out in between choked sobs.
"Casey, you've had an experience where your boundaries were violated. I need to emphasize that I will respect and honor whatever boundaries you need, so please trust me to honor your trust. No one understands how rape affects a woman better than me."
"How? Alex, you were never raped."
"How can you possibly understand?"
"Because I was raped."
"When? How did I not know who raped you?" Pushing myself up, I grimace; the pain is duller thanks to the meds but still ever-present.
Placing my palm against her cheek, I see the shame sparkling in waves dancing across her eyes, which she tries to keep down, but I catch.
"Casey, I'm not ready to share the details with you. All I can say is it happened when I was in WITSEC. I couldn't report it because it would have been a false report. I wasn't the person I was claiming to be, and if the police investigated, my cover could be blown."
"Oh, god, Alex. Baby, you've suffered all this time since coming back telling no one?"
"I didn't want to burden anyone. I've been seeing a therapist for years. She's amazing. Dr. Hanover helped me recover my confidence, security, identity, and power; she saved me from killing myself so many times. It's why I recommend you go, baby. These feelings may not come right away or at all. But if they do, I don't want you to be unprepared like I was; I thought I was prepared to work with victims again; I did it for years before going to WITSEC, but I was wrong."
"Hearing so many women and even men recant their experiences with me. Not being able to tell them I understand because to do so would mean talking about my experience. I've pushed it so deep down inside of me. Sometimes I think it was a nightmare, not my reality."
"You can never know until you've walked in the shoes of someone who has violated their rights. Til your world crashes, your hope burns, your soul suffocated. I've been there, and I won't say our experiences are the same. They aren't, and each person will experience their own symptoms and need their own time for recovery."
"I want you to know, Casey, this isn't your fault. You weren't asking for it, and you didn't deserve it. I don't care if you stalked outside his house, threatening to cut his balls off. No one deserves to have their body taken, used, abused, or disregarded for their consent."
"It can be complicated to admit that you were raped or sexually assaulted. There's a stigma attached. Society has trained us to feel dirty and weak and that we should be afraid of how others will react.
"You will ask yourself questions like, will they judge me? Look at me differently? It may sometimes seem more accessible to downplay what happened or keep it a secret. But when we stay silent, we deny ourselves help and reinforce our victimhood. We are victims, Casey, but we are also survivors."
"Erin has already ordered you to take a month off, go to therapy, rest, and don't think about work. She wants you to focus on recovering physically and mentally. She's coming by tomorrow to talk to you, but I didn't want you blindsided."
"I don't need a month, Alex. I can do my job."
"No, honey, you can't, not right now. Please, listen to me. I know you're strong and stubborn to a damn fault. I understand we all process differently, and work often helps you. This is different, Casey, baby. You need time to heal. I thought I was fine when I came back to New York, and I ended up getting drunk every damn night, and one night I ended up on the Brooklyn Bridge, ready to jump. I would have too if Olivia hadn't found me and forced me to get help."
"Does she know why?"
"No, I never told her; course, she's smart, and she's been a detective for a long ass time so that she may suspect. I don't know; I never asked. Liv never volunteered her suspicions. She checks on me often. She only ensured I got professional help. Liv's been a fantastic friend, but I still couldn't admit what happened to her."
Alex has one hand on my stomach and one on my back, soothingly rubbing circles over both. "May I kiss your head?" "Yes, babe. You may." I feel my body relax as she kisses the top of my head. "Take a slow breath through your nose, counting to four."
I don't know what she's looking for, but she holds me close, counting with me, smiling, and laying kisses across the tip of my head.
"Hold your breath for a count of seven. Exhale through your mouth to a count of eight, pushing out as much air as possible while contracting your abdominal muscles."
Gently, she talks me through the latest panic attack. "When it gets bad, Casey. I feel panicked, frightened, and overwhelmed because I remember the rape, but as I look around, I can see that the assault isn't happening right now, and I'm not actually in danger." Try repeating this to yourself.
"Has it helped you?"
"Yeah. Every time. As recently as last week, I was in court. The suspect attacked me from the stand, put his hand on my throat, and screamed in my face as he tried to choke me. It brought me back to the rape when Josh held me down, put his hand on my trachea, and wanted to strangle me. In the courtroom, I fell near hysteria."
"Course, under the circumstances, no one questioned it. Except for me, I called myself weak and hid in the bathroom, ashamed because I let these men make me feel powerless. The flashbacks were so powerful. When I got to the bathroom, I forgot where I was and thought I was back at my house in Wisconsin, being held down by that asshole. I couldn't stop vomiting and choking; honestly, at one point, I passed out. When I finally got control of myself, I had to keep repeating this phrase to myself.
"I am feeling panicked, frightened, overwhelmed because I remember the rape, but as I look around, I can see that the assault isn't happening right now, and I'm not actually in danger."
"It took time and patience, but it helped me. I called Dr. Hanover immediately, set up an appointment, and ensured I kept it. Casey always takes time for self-care no matter how many arrangements, trials, or cases you have. None of them will matter if you aren't okay. Shutting down won't help either."
"Thanks, Alex. I wish you could have trusted me to talk to me. Since we've been married, I don't enjoy knowing you've suffered all these years. I get why you didn't talk about it, and I'm glad you found Dr. Hanover; Amanda has raved about her, so I will follow your advice and get the help. But Alex, you aren't alone anymore either."
"There's no reason you need to feel shame. What happened to you wasn't your fault; you didn't deserve it any more than I did. Please consider opening up to me. I won't ask you to share details. It's personal. I understand, but I am your wife. I love you with all my heart; thinking of you hurting alone is worse than reliving my experience."
"I know, Casey, it's how I feel watching you struggling. It's why I told you now, as hard as it is still all these years later. I know you could never feel safe enough to open up to me if I'm holding back; if you don't understand, I've been there too. Anytime someone tried to tell me they know how a victim feels, all I could think about was, what the hell do you know about having your dignity ripped away, your consent laughed at, and your tears mocked? How could you know until it happens to you? You don't know. How it feels to have your entire foundation blown up."
"Can we go to bed, Alex? Maybe cuddle. I'm exhausted in every way possible. These antiviral medications are messing up my stomach."
"Yeah, of course, babe. After my attack, I never got them. I couldn't risk going to the doctor. I've been afraid for so many years that he would give me something. Even now, after having my doctors here test me. I wake up sometimes sweating and nauseated. Praying he didn't give me anything which will come out in the coming years."
"Take one day at a time, Alex. We'll get through it together. You're healthy now. It's all you can focus on; Know I will be by your side no matter what happens. I love you, Alex."
We enter our bedroom, closing the door behind us. "Do you want privacy to change, Case?" I shake my head. "My stomach is killing me; I'll probably need help."
"I'm here, babe. Tell me what you need." "Can you get my night shorts from the drawer? I can't reach up yet. Ugh, the pain is brutal right now."
Alex silently moves around the room, getting items as I request them. Slowly, I pull my pants down and step out. "can you slide them up? Bending down seems like a huge mistake unless I want to vomit."
"Whatever you need, babe." With graceful hands, Alex slides the shorts on each leg. She was shimmering the pair until she got to the bed's edge. Painfully, I lift my butt, groaning as she slides them past and pulls them to my waist. "Take a minute, breathe, honey." She hands me a bottle of water, which I take slowly, sipping. "Shirt next, the real fun part." I lift my arms she pulls the shirt off quickly. I watch her eyes avoid looking at the deep bruises lining my torso, stomach, and chest. It hurts her to see me in pain. Gently, I trace my nails over her jawline, solid and resilient. "Alex. Can you kiss me, please?"
"Are you sure, Case?" "Yes, but softly." I met Alex's gaze. Her eyes read their hesitancy, but she tosses my shirt aside and sits beside me, taking my hands into hers and rubbing them. "I don't want to hurt you or make you feel pressure, Casey."
"I appreciate that, Alex. I'm not ready for anything heavy, but I want to feel my wife's lips. You're the reason I made it out of there. You kept me going. I didn't make it out to never feel your lips upon mine. So please kiss me? I will let you know if I need to stop."
Alex's eyes flicker down past my eyes to my upturned lips. Watching her smile and how much she loves me written across her face makes me feel warm. She loves me without makeup, bruised and battered as profoundly as she loves me when I am fully glamoured. It's an incredible feeling.
I lean closer, squeezing her hands; when I am inches away from her face, I feel her lashes brush against my cheeks and smell the bourbon on her breath, mixed with the leather of her jacket. Our noses bump, and we laugh. I wince from the slight sting, but when she squeezes my hand, I feel better. Her skin is soft, thanks to the lotion she uses. She loves her damn leather, but I never complain because damn, my baby smells and looks fine in leather.
As her lips graze mine soft like satin pillows in the dead heat of summer, they suck tenderly on my lower lip, moving with intensity as I open my mouth wider, capturing her lips fully in my embrace. My heart races; I feel my cheeks flush as she moves closer, leaning over my body. Her hands gently help me lie down on our lips, never breaking contact.
Nervously, I take one hand out of her embrace and place it on her back, feeling electrified shivers run the length of her thin spine. It makes me feel good to know I can please my wife and make her feel comfortable. Alex looks to me for confirmation before laying on top of me.
Her weight is light compared to that monster, and I don't feel a rising panic.
When we part, she lies side by side with me, her hands caressing my hair. I lay one hand on the side of her face, the other over her heart.
"Thank you, Alex. I love you more than words could ever convey. Thank you for always believing in me and helping me believe in myself."
"Thank You, Casey, for trusting me and helping me pull myself out of the darkness even when you didn't know you were doing it."
"You're welcome." We laugh, holding each other tight, laying on our bed, staring at each other lovingly.
He was wrong. It isn't my fault. I never asked to be raped. He took my consent away.
Now I'm taking my life back piece by piece. Erin was wrong, too. Maybe I took things too far in my crusade for justice. Again. But I couldn't have known how it would end, and neither could she, but I know she wouldn't hurt me. She was only worried about my safety and was right to be concerned.
Now she is right again. It's time to heal.
Damn, how much will she being right to cost me? She isn't a woman who lets anyone forget when she's correct. I groan softly, thinking about it.
"Dinner at Mastro's Steakhouse, if you're wondering Erin's deal for being right.""How did you know?"
"You're my wife, baby. I know what each groan means. Oh, and Erin's been muttering about all the people who have lost bets to her this week alone and where she wants them to take her. I'm sure you're on the list, considering she was ranting about you not listening last week. And telling me, I have to pay your debt because we're married, so it's equal opportunity spousal inheritance tax."
"God, we'll have to work 80 hours of overtime each to afford that dinner!"
"Being wrong costs ya' remember next time, to not piss off your boss. Cause when she's pissed at you, she's pissed at me."
"I'm sorry, Alex."
"In the grand scheme of things, Casey. Erin is just an itch. I can scratch. Losing you would be the final blow. I'm glad you're safe, and I love you more than my own breath. So kiss me, please."
Her teeth tugged at my lower lip, her tongue sweeping into my mouth. I didn't have to tease Alex or coax her. That hunger is there already, waiting to devour both of us, leaving me breathless, squirming, and moaning, which is impressive considering I'm breathless. Alex pushes off me, rolling onto her back so I can crawl on top of her. Seeing her laid out underweight me brings back a sense of satisfaction I honestly worried would be gone. I am still sexy, and she still gets turned on by me. I can see it in her roses checks, feel it in every rise of her chest as her hardened nipples brush my chest or hands. Fuck, she is exotic. And she's all mine.
I allow her a few gasps before slating my mouth over hers again. I can feel the sway and the swell of our bodies pressing together. Her hands searched my body, making each part shiver in anticipation and tingling pleasure. She wanted more; I wanted desperately not to have these clothes keeping her from feeling the warmth of us against each other. But she shakes her head.
"Too soon, Casey; give yourself time. Tonight, let's just cuddle and kiss. It's enough for me. Let it be enough for you until you've healed physically and done the work to heal mentally. I'm not going anywhere. Sex isn't what makes a marriage. Love is, and we have enough of that to last until and if you are ever ready to make love to me again. So there is no rush."
Alex's arms are soon around me, gliding down my back, all hesitation fading from her touch. Her lips pressed firmly against mine, guiding my mouth open; the warmth of her mouth, the silliness of her lips, and the feel of her body against mine curve to curve, flesh to heated flesh is enough to send me into heaven. I close my eyes, grind against her, and savor every precious second.
Grateful for the voice inside my head, which made me fight.
It was Alex's, but I wonder if Jesus was guiding her to me.
A/N: Every 68 seconds, an American is sexually assaulted. And every 9 minutes, that victim is a child. Meanwhile, only 25 out of every 1,000 perpetrators will end up in prison. Unless it's happened to you or someone you know, you will probably never understand the impact sexual assault has on a person. A victim is defined by the harm that has come to them; a survivor is determined by their life afterward. While a victim has been destroyed and mistreated, a survivor has continued to live and prosper despite being victimized. A victim is powerless, at the mercy of others; a survivor has reclaimed their power. Everyone's path to healing is different. Since it was a one-shot, I didn't go into many details about recovery. Still, I wanted to show the difference between Alex, who never sought treatment until years later, and Casey, who entered treatment immediately with Alex's help.