fic: [chuck] you make me lose my buttons {casey/sarah}
Title: You Make Me Lose My Buttons
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Casey/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,460
Author's Note: For gigglemonster who made the wonderful GIF, which inspired this fic.
Summary: She knows he’s looking. This is a very well fitting dress and he can play the all-business spoilsport who craves nothing more than a gun in his hand but it's a front that she can see right through.
It’s the dress.
Gunmetal gray and just short enough to tease, hitting mid-thigh while still remaining decent for cocktail hour. It’s a one shoulder design and all that bare skin means she’s been on the chilly side since she left their hotel room.
The party is being held at some venue that last saw a wedding, judging by the white and silver tulle she saw looped around the banisters when she came in. It clashes with the deep reds and browns that decorate the place now, crimson tablecloths and roses, and everything wooden and solid rather than delicate and airy. It’s a fundraiser that’s covering for an arms deal, only the dealer hasn’t shown up and has, in fact, missed fashionably late by about forty-five minutes. The Austrian buyer is getting testy and he won’t stop tapping his feet near the hors d’oeuvres as he consults with his two very large, very imposing bodyguards.
And by very large and very imposing she means her and Casey could probably dispatch them in a minute easy.
Large and imposing to someone else, maybe.
All this means she’s stopped trying to keep an eye on the main entryway. There’s bound to be a backdoor somewhere, a blind spot, and the Austrian’s facial expressions are taking all of the guesswork out of the equation. She’s been up by the bar twice now, ordering drinks that Casey fills with club soda behind the counter, and the rest of the time has been spent sitting at her table contending with the small, overly drunk man who keeps trying to tell her about his yacht and his property in the Cayman Islands like that should be enough to make her swoon.
Without a challenge, Sarah’s bored. She’s bored and annoyed and every time she catches Casey’s eye from across the room her skin feels a little warmer.
She knows he’s looking. This is a very well fitting dress and he can play the all-business spoilsport who craves nothing more than a gun in his hand but that’s a carefully constructed front and she learned how to see past that long before she ever got his clothes off. He’s just like every other red blooded man, watching the way the hem of her dress slips upwards as she crosses her legs and flicking his eyes to the dark space between them when she doesn’t, when she angles just right.
They lock eyes long enough for her to convey that that little show was intentional. He swallows hard, and pours the man in front of him a scotch with steady hands.
She likes that about him. Large, steady hands that span her body easily, that same attention to detail he tends to reserve solely for his weapons. Same passion. He craves danger and the adrenaline high that comes after it, and she’s a means to continue that, or at least she thinks that’s how it started off.
There’s a hundred different ways they could screw each other over and still another hundred that this could come back to bite them in the ass, and therein lies the danger and with that the temptation.
Sarah’s always favored playing with fire.
“Meet me in the elevator in five minutes,” she says into her watch. His face remains expressionless as he hands the man his drink and nods at him as he walks off, in lieu of the small, polite smile he usually musters on the nights he plays bartender.
“We’ve got a mission to take care of, Walker,” he reminds her but he’s staring again, her wrist bent near her mouth, so the microphone can catch the impatient sigh she gives, her fingers playing at the dip of her collarbone absentmindedly. It draws his attention nonetheless. He’s fighting a battle he’s entirely prepared to lose.
“Screw the mission.”
-
She rides the elevator up to the twelfth floor and back down again by the time he shows up.
There’s a straight laced man in a suit standing between them and quick and dirty release and of course he presses the button for the tenth floor and she punches in the one for the eleventh and leaves it at that. The man doesn’t turn around to look at them once, just faces the doors and waits as the elevator ascends towards its destination.
It’s because of this that she reaches behind her body and starts to work his fly down. Presses back against him after she does and finds him hard against her, his fingers encircling her small wrist and pulling her hand away, bending her arm at the elbow so that it rests against the small of her back.
His mouth dips over her neck and she bites down hard on her bottom lip, fingers curling and nails digging into his forearm behind her, just to keep from moaning, from breathing too hard and alerting the guy up front that they’re about to go at it like horny teenagers the moment he steps off the elevator.
Casey gets a hold of her other hand, draws that one behind her back as well, and this is where it occurs to her that he has handcuffs somewhere on him.
So maybe not so much like horny teenagers.
She clenches wet between her legs and tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief when the elevator dings on floor ten and the man departs without so much as a glance in their direction.
The doors close and he pulls the emergency stop button before they even start moving again. Lets go of her hands and crowds her back against the elevator wall in one smooth motion, the force of it disrupting her balance in those four and a half inch heels she’s been managing all night. She makes grabbing onto him look purposeful as her hands slip from his arms to down between their bodies, undoing his belt and opening her mouth to his as he licks into her.
She gets his belt free, throws it to the floor, but he knocks her hand away again just before it can reach beneath the waistband of his boxers. She makes a little frustrated noise in the back of her throat and arches her hips off of the wall and into his own in retaliation.
He breaks the kiss with a “not so fast” before he slams her hips back against the wall with his hands, pushing her dress up as he does. Her lace underwear is just about soaked through, something he figures out in short order when he presses three fingers up between her legs. She presses down against his hand but it’s a bad angle for friction and he’s not letting her move the way she wants to. He’s not pulling her underwear down her thighs like she wants him to.
“Casey,” he trails his fingers along the front of her underwear as she says it, and so it comes out like a gasp, far less authoritative than she’d prefer, but she thinks that’s the point. She rakes her nails across his back this time, careful not to tear his shirt to shreds while she’s at it, and he doesn’t do that again. “This isn’t exactly a take your time kind of deal.”
“You said yourself you don’t think he’s going to show.”
“Yeah, but,” and this is where he slips her underwear aside, slips his fingers inside of her, and her train of thought gets shot straight to hell. She breathes fuck it and he takes that as his cue to continue.
As if he needed one.
He moves like that, fingers inside of her and the heel of his hand against her clit until it’s a rhythm that he’s perfected and her heart rate is jacked, her body vibrating and her legs aching from trying to balance and ride his hand at the same time. It’s not enough contact and at the same time too much, and she feels raw and frustrated, her hand coming to curl around his wrist, feeling the muscles and the tendons there move as he moves his fingers.
She prods him, a come on hissed through her teeth as her head lolls back against the wall, and he lets her arch against him again, lets her go just long enough that she gets to the brink, and then he pulls out.
Sarah nearly screams. Definitely almost yells but the words catch in her throat, confused and dumbfounded while he bends to pick his belt off of the floor.
And then she gets why a second later when he’s turning her around to face the wall, back to him, and pulling her hands behind her back once more, tying them together with that thin strip of leather. “You’re really getting off on the whole control thing tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m always the one tied up,” he says, breath hot and damp against her ear, and, well, she can’t call him a liar on that one. So this is her turn. He pulls the belt tight but not tight enough to hurt and it provides her some wiggle room so that her wrists won’t be chaffed and bruised in the morning if she doesn’t struggle too much.
But she will struggle. Sarah has never been known to take anything lying down. He expects that; it’s the whole reason she’s got any give at all.
She hears his pants hit the floor and then his arm snakes around her waist, his other hand braced against the wall for leverage. She’s still in that dress, though the hem of it is now pushed up near her belly button, and she’s glad for the lack of sequins scratching against her skin.
He groans when he pushes into her and her eyes slam shut with the force of it. There’s a second where she forgets to breathe and then he’s moving and their back on track. Her hands stretch against her bindings, wrists aching, and he must feel her do it, feel her trying to get free, because his hand slips down to where their connected and his thumb presses against her clit once more, hitting her right where she needs it.
The string of curse words she lets out then is anything but ladylike and he laughs against her throat, low and thick as she bucks against him. Without her hands, she can’t brace herself against the wall, can’t do anything but prop herself up with one bent knee that only adds to their height difference. It puts her at a significant disadvantage.
And he’s doing it just to mess with her.
It’s the same thing she’s done to him all night, swaying her hips on the way back to her table from the bar, spreading her legs just enough so that he’d notice, picking that dress. Half the fun has always been trying to one-up the other and now, with sex on the table, it’s a whole new ballgame.
“Are you having fun?”
He responds by moving the hand teasing her clit higher, too high, and she bites back the frustrated whine that the break in contact draws.
“You’re so paying for this in the morning.”
“We’ll see,” he says but his voice is tight and his fingers press into her hipbone with some degree of urgency, so it’s not exactly a surprise when he makes quick work of freeing her hands. The belt hits the floor and no sooner are her palms flat on the wall then he drives into her again, his arm back around her waist now that his hands are free to roam, now that he doesn’t have to hold them up.
She shifts, realigns their bodies, and it’s perfect.
“See how much easier this is when you let me play?”
“You want to chat now?”
“Not particularly.”
He scrapes his teeth down her neck, fingers teasing up underneath her dress, scrubbing over her bra and the hard peaks of her nipples, and she shivers.
When she comes, her legs shake, a distinctive ache running from her thighs all the way down to her calves, but that’s what happens when you fuck against a wall in heels and spend half of the time trying to maintain your balance. The better plan would’ve been to kick them off, to face him and wrap her legs around his waist, not that she had much say in the matter, but, as his thrusts stutter and the hands palming her body, her breasts, become more insistent, she adds it to the list of things to do next time.
And there will be a next time.
-
The elevator comes to a stop on the first floor, just as she’s pulled her hair back into the neat and tidy bun it’s fallen out of, and the first thing they see is a man in a vibrant lime green suit strutting his way towards one steaming Austrian.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I always did have good timing,” he says, immensely proud of himself what with that smirk on his face and the relaxed way he holds himself now. The afterglow would look good on him if it didn’t tend to make him cocky.
Sarah gives him a sideways glance. “I think you’ve got the wrong pronoun there, partner.”
-
She gets to bash someone in the head with a frying pan - and really, when fleeing, who thinks it’s a good idea to run through the kitchen, where there’s all manner of weapons from steak knives to large metal objects with which to hit people with, not to mention a lack of space that it makes it really easy to end up trapped - and one of the Austrian’s bodyguards ends up with what are probably second degree burns on his face when Casey holds his face very, very close to a lit stovetop, so all in all it’s a productive mission.
A couple of uniforms show up to throw the four of them into two different vans, so they can’t talk amongst themselves, and so the buyer doesn’t try to kill the dealer, and that’s it for their night. They get left standing in the crisp, early January air, and the heat that manifested itself as a flush along her chest and warmth between her legs has left her entirely.
She shivers for entirely different reasons than before and he drops his jacket over her shoulders.
“Don’t look at me like that, Walker.”
They’re two streets over before she can no longer bite back the smile. “I’m just saying, someone’s going soft.”
He intentionally stays ten steps ahead of her for the rest of the walk back to the hotel.
Never quite manages to leave her behind entirely.
-
fin.
Fandom: Chuck
Characters/Pairings: Casey/Sarah
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,460
Author's Note: For gigglemonster who made the wonderful GIF, which inspired this fic.
Summary: She knows he’s looking. This is a very well fitting dress and he can play the all-business spoilsport who craves nothing more than a gun in his hand but it's a front that she can see right through.
It’s the dress.
Gunmetal gray and just short enough to tease, hitting mid-thigh while still remaining decent for cocktail hour. It’s a one shoulder design and all that bare skin means she’s been on the chilly side since she left their hotel room.
The party is being held at some venue that last saw a wedding, judging by the white and silver tulle she saw looped around the banisters when she came in. It clashes with the deep reds and browns that decorate the place now, crimson tablecloths and roses, and everything wooden and solid rather than delicate and airy. It’s a fundraiser that’s covering for an arms deal, only the dealer hasn’t shown up and has, in fact, missed fashionably late by about forty-five minutes. The Austrian buyer is getting testy and he won’t stop tapping his feet near the hors d’oeuvres as he consults with his two very large, very imposing bodyguards.
And by very large and very imposing she means her and Casey could probably dispatch them in a minute easy.
Large and imposing to someone else, maybe.
All this means she’s stopped trying to keep an eye on the main entryway. There’s bound to be a backdoor somewhere, a blind spot, and the Austrian’s facial expressions are taking all of the guesswork out of the equation. She’s been up by the bar twice now, ordering drinks that Casey fills with club soda behind the counter, and the rest of the time has been spent sitting at her table contending with the small, overly drunk man who keeps trying to tell her about his yacht and his property in the Cayman Islands like that should be enough to make her swoon.
Without a challenge, Sarah’s bored. She’s bored and annoyed and every time she catches Casey’s eye from across the room her skin feels a little warmer.
She knows he’s looking. This is a very well fitting dress and he can play the all-business spoilsport who craves nothing more than a gun in his hand but that’s a carefully constructed front and she learned how to see past that long before she ever got his clothes off. He’s just like every other red blooded man, watching the way the hem of her dress slips upwards as she crosses her legs and flicking his eyes to the dark space between them when she doesn’t, when she angles just right.
They lock eyes long enough for her to convey that that little show was intentional. He swallows hard, and pours the man in front of him a scotch with steady hands.
She likes that about him. Large, steady hands that span her body easily, that same attention to detail he tends to reserve solely for his weapons. Same passion. He craves danger and the adrenaline high that comes after it, and she’s a means to continue that, or at least she thinks that’s how it started off.
There’s a hundred different ways they could screw each other over and still another hundred that this could come back to bite them in the ass, and therein lies the danger and with that the temptation.
Sarah’s always favored playing with fire.
“Meet me in the elevator in five minutes,” she says into her watch. His face remains expressionless as he hands the man his drink and nods at him as he walks off, in lieu of the small, polite smile he usually musters on the nights he plays bartender.
“We’ve got a mission to take care of, Walker,” he reminds her but he’s staring again, her wrist bent near her mouth, so the microphone can catch the impatient sigh she gives, her fingers playing at the dip of her collarbone absentmindedly. It draws his attention nonetheless. He’s fighting a battle he’s entirely prepared to lose.
“Screw the mission.”
-
She rides the elevator up to the twelfth floor and back down again by the time he shows up.
There’s a straight laced man in a suit standing between them and quick and dirty release and of course he presses the button for the tenth floor and she punches in the one for the eleventh and leaves it at that. The man doesn’t turn around to look at them once, just faces the doors and waits as the elevator ascends towards its destination.
It’s because of this that she reaches behind her body and starts to work his fly down. Presses back against him after she does and finds him hard against her, his fingers encircling her small wrist and pulling her hand away, bending her arm at the elbow so that it rests against the small of her back.
His mouth dips over her neck and she bites down hard on her bottom lip, fingers curling and nails digging into his forearm behind her, just to keep from moaning, from breathing too hard and alerting the guy up front that they’re about to go at it like horny teenagers the moment he steps off the elevator.
Casey gets a hold of her other hand, draws that one behind her back as well, and this is where it occurs to her that he has handcuffs somewhere on him.
So maybe not so much like horny teenagers.
She clenches wet between her legs and tries not to breathe an audible sigh of relief when the elevator dings on floor ten and the man departs without so much as a glance in their direction.
The doors close and he pulls the emergency stop button before they even start moving again. Lets go of her hands and crowds her back against the elevator wall in one smooth motion, the force of it disrupting her balance in those four and a half inch heels she’s been managing all night. She makes grabbing onto him look purposeful as her hands slip from his arms to down between their bodies, undoing his belt and opening her mouth to his as he licks into her.
She gets his belt free, throws it to the floor, but he knocks her hand away again just before it can reach beneath the waistband of his boxers. She makes a little frustrated noise in the back of her throat and arches her hips off of the wall and into his own in retaliation.
He breaks the kiss with a “not so fast” before he slams her hips back against the wall with his hands, pushing her dress up as he does. Her lace underwear is just about soaked through, something he figures out in short order when he presses three fingers up between her legs. She presses down against his hand but it’s a bad angle for friction and he’s not letting her move the way she wants to. He’s not pulling her underwear down her thighs like she wants him to.
“Casey,” he trails his fingers along the front of her underwear as she says it, and so it comes out like a gasp, far less authoritative than she’d prefer, but she thinks that’s the point. She rakes her nails across his back this time, careful not to tear his shirt to shreds while she’s at it, and he doesn’t do that again. “This isn’t exactly a take your time kind of deal.”
“You said yourself you don’t think he’s going to show.”
“Yeah, but,” and this is where he slips her underwear aside, slips his fingers inside of her, and her train of thought gets shot straight to hell. She breathes fuck it and he takes that as his cue to continue.
As if he needed one.
He moves like that, fingers inside of her and the heel of his hand against her clit until it’s a rhythm that he’s perfected and her heart rate is jacked, her body vibrating and her legs aching from trying to balance and ride his hand at the same time. It’s not enough contact and at the same time too much, and she feels raw and frustrated, her hand coming to curl around his wrist, feeling the muscles and the tendons there move as he moves his fingers.
She prods him, a come on hissed through her teeth as her head lolls back against the wall, and he lets her arch against him again, lets her go just long enough that she gets to the brink, and then he pulls out.
Sarah nearly screams. Definitely almost yells but the words catch in her throat, confused and dumbfounded while he bends to pick his belt off of the floor.
And then she gets why a second later when he’s turning her around to face the wall, back to him, and pulling her hands behind her back once more, tying them together with that thin strip of leather. “You’re really getting off on the whole control thing tonight, aren’t you?”
“I’m always the one tied up,” he says, breath hot and damp against her ear, and, well, she can’t call him a liar on that one. So this is her turn. He pulls the belt tight but not tight enough to hurt and it provides her some wiggle room so that her wrists won’t be chaffed and bruised in the morning if she doesn’t struggle too much.
But she will struggle. Sarah has never been known to take anything lying down. He expects that; it’s the whole reason she’s got any give at all.
She hears his pants hit the floor and then his arm snakes around her waist, his other hand braced against the wall for leverage. She’s still in that dress, though the hem of it is now pushed up near her belly button, and she’s glad for the lack of sequins scratching against her skin.
He groans when he pushes into her and her eyes slam shut with the force of it. There’s a second where she forgets to breathe and then he’s moving and their back on track. Her hands stretch against her bindings, wrists aching, and he must feel her do it, feel her trying to get free, because his hand slips down to where their connected and his thumb presses against her clit once more, hitting her right where she needs it.
The string of curse words she lets out then is anything but ladylike and he laughs against her throat, low and thick as she bucks against him. Without her hands, she can’t brace herself against the wall, can’t do anything but prop herself up with one bent knee that only adds to their height difference. It puts her at a significant disadvantage.
And he’s doing it just to mess with her.
It’s the same thing she’s done to him all night, swaying her hips on the way back to her table from the bar, spreading her legs just enough so that he’d notice, picking that dress. Half the fun has always been trying to one-up the other and now, with sex on the table, it’s a whole new ballgame.
“Are you having fun?”
He responds by moving the hand teasing her clit higher, too high, and she bites back the frustrated whine that the break in contact draws.
“You’re so paying for this in the morning.”
“We’ll see,” he says but his voice is tight and his fingers press into her hipbone with some degree of urgency, so it’s not exactly a surprise when he makes quick work of freeing her hands. The belt hits the floor and no sooner are her palms flat on the wall then he drives into her again, his arm back around her waist now that his hands are free to roam, now that he doesn’t have to hold them up.
She shifts, realigns their bodies, and it’s perfect.
“See how much easier this is when you let me play?”
“You want to chat now?”
“Not particularly.”
He scrapes his teeth down her neck, fingers teasing up underneath her dress, scrubbing over her bra and the hard peaks of her nipples, and she shivers.
When she comes, her legs shake, a distinctive ache running from her thighs all the way down to her calves, but that’s what happens when you fuck against a wall in heels and spend half of the time trying to maintain your balance. The better plan would’ve been to kick them off, to face him and wrap her legs around his waist, not that she had much say in the matter, but, as his thrusts stutter and the hands palming her body, her breasts, become more insistent, she adds it to the list of things to do next time.
And there will be a next time.
-
The elevator comes to a stop on the first floor, just as she’s pulled her hair back into the neat and tidy bun it’s fallen out of, and the first thing they see is a man in a vibrant lime green suit strutting his way towards one steaming Austrian.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I always did have good timing,” he says, immensely proud of himself what with that smirk on his face and the relaxed way he holds himself now. The afterglow would look good on him if it didn’t tend to make him cocky.
Sarah gives him a sideways glance. “I think you’ve got the wrong pronoun there, partner.”
-
She gets to bash someone in the head with a frying pan - and really, when fleeing, who thinks it’s a good idea to run through the kitchen, where there’s all manner of weapons from steak knives to large metal objects with which to hit people with, not to mention a lack of space that it makes it really easy to end up trapped - and one of the Austrian’s bodyguards ends up with what are probably second degree burns on his face when Casey holds his face very, very close to a lit stovetop, so all in all it’s a productive mission.
A couple of uniforms show up to throw the four of them into two different vans, so they can’t talk amongst themselves, and so the buyer doesn’t try to kill the dealer, and that’s it for their night. They get left standing in the crisp, early January air, and the heat that manifested itself as a flush along her chest and warmth between her legs has left her entirely.
She shivers for entirely different reasons than before and he drops his jacket over her shoulders.
“Don’t look at me like that, Walker.”
They’re two streets over before she can no longer bite back the smile. “I’m just saying, someone’s going soft.”
He intentionally stays ten steps ahead of her for the rest of the walk back to the hotel.
Never quite manages to leave her behind entirely.
-
fin.