The Good Wife - A Woman of Many Qualities (Minus One Scratch on a Self-Imposed Contract)
Title: A Woman of Many Qualities (Minus One Scratch on a Self-Imposed Contract)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Alicia/Cary
Category: Het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1530
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Everything degenerates.
Author’s Note: A lil’ fic for domfangirl’s birthday *hugs*
Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta.
domfangirl once mentioned wanting Alicia/Cary hot hate sex... I don’t know if this is hot, I’m not sure there really is hate and it’s probably more about Alicia than about Alicia and Cary. But there is sex and a smidge of angst ;-)
Everything degenerates.
She’s a handsome woman. She has a few lines around her eyes and mouth, her breasts and thighs are not as firm as they used to be, and she found a few grey threads in her hair recently, but she’s still a handsome woman. Everything is in the ‘still’. Maybe her body and looks, as so many other things, will degenerate in an undignified way. Or maybe she will age gracefully and still be a handsome woman thirty years on from now.
For now - and she’s aware how corny this sounds - her whole body vibrates under Cary’s hands and mouth. There is perspiration and saliva and other sticky fluids that decency forbids she names; her neck flushes, her stomach clenches, her hips roll. She feels her blood pulsing under her skin and something throb deep inside of her. It’s the furthest feeling from degeneration of the body.
She’s a poised woman. She has her moments of anger, rage even, dejection, or exhilaration, but their display remains confined within the limits of good taste and having a good education. She confines them because one just doesn’t lay outbursts of that kind on innocent bystanders; she only lets go every now and again in the circle of a few intimate people. Maybe one day she will blow a gasket publicly, and it will be epic, but up until now, she’s managed to keep it private.
She collapses in her armchair and slides forward until only the top of her buttocks rests on the seat, until she can open and spread legs wide. She draws Carry’s head between her thighs, presses her fingers on the nape of his neck and pants her directives. She’s pretty sure her vocabulary does not pertain to the limits of her good education, but if the way Carry’s tongue is working her - hot, greedy, dirty - is any indication, he doesn’t mind.
She’s a reasonable woman. She may snap in certain circumstances, but she’s a reasonable woman, educated and trained to make her point and win her arguments by using intelligence and polished sentences. Maybe she resorted to physical violence on a couple of occasions - as Peter could testify - but it’s always remained the exception to the rule. She’s not the kind of person who acts without thinking or considering the outcomes. She’s not.
She’s not sure what had made her tick and crack. Frustration about the Downey case they’re working on. Humiliation of yet another breaking news about Peter’s misconduct. Cary’s smartass, for-once-doesn’t-know-when-he-goes-too-far remarks. Tension had built up all day between Cary and her; not a first, but maybe it had never reached such a peak, or maybe she wasn’t collected enough to derail it as she did before. Tonight, instead of keeping the not-so-nice banter on, Cary bent forwards, his hands on the arm of her chair, trapping her. Instead of politely and firmly telling him to get out of her personal space, she drew him to her. She couldn’t help saying that this was going to be nasty; it made him smirk.
Everything can degenerate. Even arguments. Especially arguments.
* *
When he’s satisfied with the intensity of her moans and shivers, when he’s swirled and pushed his tongue so relentlessly into her that she’s gripped and held to his hair, he pulls her to her feet and against him. His gestures are brisk, his hands, rough - as rough as they can be for a good boy like him, anyway. She revels in his attitude; she basks in his desire for the handsome woman she is; she wonders if he enjoys messing with her reasonable and poised self, or on the contrary, if he’s angry with himself and with her for letting him do this to her.
They rub and press against one another, clutch and grope. Her hands go to her own shirt, his to his belt. There is no time - nor will, really - for finesse and niceties. She shoves him against her desk and bends down, just enough to take him in her mouth for just a few seconds, just a drag of lips and tongue; nuzzling him, she savors the salty taste and silky hardness. It makes him growl, makes his hands grip the edge of the table.
He says, “You’re blowing the wrong guy. Do this to Will and you have the job we’re competing for in the hour,” taunting her. In retaliation, her teeth scrape his flesh. He howls and laughs at the same time, then points out how counterproductive this could be in their current situation.
She takes a step back and licks her lips. On the other side of the glass wall, everything is dark and quiet, and she hopes it stays like that. No way will they be able to straighten up fast enough if someone comes in; no way will she not scream in frustration if they have to stop.
With a leer, he turns her around and pushes her down: her chest on the desk, her butt up in the air. Her face is resting on the black folder of the Downey case; she feels the sheets of paper sticking to her cheek, wrinkling beneath it, stained with the sweat on her skin. She rolls her spine, and Cary hisses his appreciation. His fingers trail from the back of her thighs to her hips and waist, lazily, his nails raking her oversensitive skin. One of his hands lands between her shoulder blades. Holding her down, he leans in and queries, asking for permission, “Alicia?” His breath is hot on her neck; it makes her shiver once again.
She nods. Her nod is answered with a turned-on intake of air; then her skirt is around her waist, his pants are down around his thighs, and he’s sliding into her. Not really brutal, but not gentle either. His first back and forth movements make her dizzy and take her breath away. It’s been too long, and the pleasure she gave herself a few times for mental health, almost hygienic, reasons can’t compare to - or have kept her fit for - the way he thrusts in her.
She loves it. She loves that he doesn’t care - or pretends he doesn’t - and that the reasonable and poised woman in her has been told, quite literally, to go fuck herself. She’s sinking, and it’s oddly liberating. He’s snappish, as snappish when he fucks as he is when he talks and argues, alternating short and shallow shoves with deeper jabs. Good. Neither of them is here for soft and tender petting; both want to get off and get this out of their system. At least, they will have agreed on something today.
The room is filled with the musky scent rising from their bodies and the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. It’s weird and pleasant how taut, firm and smooth his muscles and skin feel against her. It’s something else she’s not quite used to anymore. She arches the small of her back, rocks back against him and doesn’t wait for him. She comes with her butt pressing against his stomach and her teeth digging in her own wrist to muffle her moans.
* *
He always has this ‘good boy’ attitude - notwithstanding the fact that he’s a lovely little shark who would try to rip her apart for this job if he had to, of course. So, after he’s finished, after he came and took a minute to gather his mind, he helps her back to her feet; to be fair, he almost picks her from the table. When he tugs her skirt down and starts fumbling with the tiny buttons of her shirt, she grasps his wrists and pulls his hands away.
“I...” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“Don’t.” She rearranges her blouse. She spots her panties, discarded between the wheeled feet of her armchair. She will have to remember later that they're here because, right now, she doesn’t have the nerves to retrieve and put them back on. “Whatever you were going to say, don’t.”
His hair and clothes are a mess, and he blinks at her with those huge confused eyes. No more little shark. She suddenly feels as if she just kicked a puppy, and she has to refrain from helping him to button his shirt straight. That would be a bit too motherly.
“You were right,” he says hastily, grinning and catching her off guard. “Nasty as nasty gets.”
She shows him out.
* *
She’s a woman with a firm ethic. She’s been known to make small arrangements with it on a few rare occasions, but she’s never ignored it altogether. Being unfaithful to Peter, no matter how much he may deserve it, is not good; being unfaithful to herself, though, is the worst.
She visits her husband, talks to her mother-in-law, smiles to her kids. She doesn’t look out for excuses or seek absolution. She makes up for her slip by not laying the burden of it on anyone.
She’s a strong woman. And if the events of the last few months taught her anything... She can’t always keep things from degenerating, but she can always face them with gusto and backbone.
-End-
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters: Alicia/Cary
Category: Het
Rating: R
Word Count: ~ 1530
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Everything degenerates.
Author’s Note: A lil’ fic for domfangirl’s birthday *hugs*
Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta.
domfangirl once mentioned wanting Alicia/Cary hot hate sex... I don’t know if this is hot, I’m not sure there really is hate and it’s probably more about Alicia than about Alicia and Cary. But there is sex and a smidge of angst ;-)
Everything degenerates.
She’s a handsome woman. She has a few lines around her eyes and mouth, her breasts and thighs are not as firm as they used to be, and she found a few grey threads in her hair recently, but she’s still a handsome woman. Everything is in the ‘still’. Maybe her body and looks, as so many other things, will degenerate in an undignified way. Or maybe she will age gracefully and still be a handsome woman thirty years on from now.
For now - and she’s aware how corny this sounds - her whole body vibrates under Cary’s hands and mouth. There is perspiration and saliva and other sticky fluids that decency forbids she names; her neck flushes, her stomach clenches, her hips roll. She feels her blood pulsing under her skin and something throb deep inside of her. It’s the furthest feeling from degeneration of the body.
She’s a poised woman. She has her moments of anger, rage even, dejection, or exhilaration, but their display remains confined within the limits of good taste and having a good education. She confines them because one just doesn’t lay outbursts of that kind on innocent bystanders; she only lets go every now and again in the circle of a few intimate people. Maybe one day she will blow a gasket publicly, and it will be epic, but up until now, she’s managed to keep it private.
She collapses in her armchair and slides forward until only the top of her buttocks rests on the seat, until she can open and spread legs wide. She draws Carry’s head between her thighs, presses her fingers on the nape of his neck and pants her directives. She’s pretty sure her vocabulary does not pertain to the limits of her good education, but if the way Carry’s tongue is working her - hot, greedy, dirty - is any indication, he doesn’t mind.
She’s a reasonable woman. She may snap in certain circumstances, but she’s a reasonable woman, educated and trained to make her point and win her arguments by using intelligence and polished sentences. Maybe she resorted to physical violence on a couple of occasions - as Peter could testify - but it’s always remained the exception to the rule. She’s not the kind of person who acts without thinking or considering the outcomes. She’s not.
She’s not sure what had made her tick and crack. Frustration about the Downey case they’re working on. Humiliation of yet another breaking news about Peter’s misconduct. Cary’s smartass, for-once-doesn’t-know-when-he-goes-too-far remarks. Tension had built up all day between Cary and her; not a first, but maybe it had never reached such a peak, or maybe she wasn’t collected enough to derail it as she did before. Tonight, instead of keeping the not-so-nice banter on, Cary bent forwards, his hands on the arm of her chair, trapping her. Instead of politely and firmly telling him to get out of her personal space, she drew him to her. She couldn’t help saying that this was going to be nasty; it made him smirk.
Everything can degenerate. Even arguments. Especially arguments.
* *
When he’s satisfied with the intensity of her moans and shivers, when he’s swirled and pushed his tongue so relentlessly into her that she’s gripped and held to his hair, he pulls her to her feet and against him. His gestures are brisk, his hands, rough - as rough as they can be for a good boy like him, anyway. She revels in his attitude; she basks in his desire for the handsome woman she is; she wonders if he enjoys messing with her reasonable and poised self, or on the contrary, if he’s angry with himself and with her for letting him do this to her.
They rub and press against one another, clutch and grope. Her hands go to her own shirt, his to his belt. There is no time - nor will, really - for finesse and niceties. She shoves him against her desk and bends down, just enough to take him in her mouth for just a few seconds, just a drag of lips and tongue; nuzzling him, she savors the salty taste and silky hardness. It makes him growl, makes his hands grip the edge of the table.
He says, “You’re blowing the wrong guy. Do this to Will and you have the job we’re competing for in the hour,” taunting her. In retaliation, her teeth scrape his flesh. He howls and laughs at the same time, then points out how counterproductive this could be in their current situation.
She takes a step back and licks her lips. On the other side of the glass wall, everything is dark and quiet, and she hopes it stays like that. No way will they be able to straighten up fast enough if someone comes in; no way will she not scream in frustration if they have to stop.
With a leer, he turns her around and pushes her down: her chest on the desk, her butt up in the air. Her face is resting on the black folder of the Downey case; she feels the sheets of paper sticking to her cheek, wrinkling beneath it, stained with the sweat on her skin. She rolls her spine, and Cary hisses his appreciation. His fingers trail from the back of her thighs to her hips and waist, lazily, his nails raking her oversensitive skin. One of his hands lands between her shoulder blades. Holding her down, he leans in and queries, asking for permission, “Alicia?” His breath is hot on her neck; it makes her shiver once again.
She nods. Her nod is answered with a turned-on intake of air; then her skirt is around her waist, his pants are down around his thighs, and he’s sliding into her. Not really brutal, but not gentle either. His first back and forth movements make her dizzy and take her breath away. It’s been too long, and the pleasure she gave herself a few times for mental health, almost hygienic, reasons can’t compare to - or have kept her fit for - the way he thrusts in her.
She loves it. She loves that he doesn’t care - or pretends he doesn’t - and that the reasonable and poised woman in her has been told, quite literally, to go fuck herself. She’s sinking, and it’s oddly liberating. He’s snappish, as snappish when he fucks as he is when he talks and argues, alternating short and shallow shoves with deeper jabs. Good. Neither of them is here for soft and tender petting; both want to get off and get this out of their system. At least, they will have agreed on something today.
The room is filled with the musky scent rising from their bodies and the wet sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. It’s weird and pleasant how taut, firm and smooth his muscles and skin feel against her. It’s something else she’s not quite used to anymore. She arches the small of her back, rocks back against him and doesn’t wait for him. She comes with her butt pressing against his stomach and her teeth digging in her own wrist to muffle her moans.
* *
He always has this ‘good boy’ attitude - notwithstanding the fact that he’s a lovely little shark who would try to rip her apart for this job if he had to, of course. So, after he’s finished, after he came and took a minute to gather his mind, he helps her back to her feet; to be fair, he almost picks her from the table. When he tugs her skirt down and starts fumbling with the tiny buttons of her shirt, she grasps his wrists and pulls his hands away.
“I...” he begins, but she cuts him off.
“Don’t.” She rearranges her blouse. She spots her panties, discarded between the wheeled feet of her armchair. She will have to remember later that they're here because, right now, she doesn’t have the nerves to retrieve and put them back on. “Whatever you were going to say, don’t.”
His hair and clothes are a mess, and he blinks at her with those huge confused eyes. No more little shark. She suddenly feels as if she just kicked a puppy, and she has to refrain from helping him to button his shirt straight. That would be a bit too motherly.
“You were right,” he says hastily, grinning and catching her off guard. “Nasty as nasty gets.”
She shows him out.
* *
She’s a woman with a firm ethic. She’s been known to make small arrangements with it on a few rare occasions, but she’s never ignored it altogether. Being unfaithful to Peter, no matter how much he may deserve it, is not good; being unfaithful to herself, though, is the worst.
She visits her husband, talks to her mother-in-law, smiles to her kids. She doesn’t look out for excuses or seek absolution. She makes up for her slip by not laying the burden of it on anyone.
She’s a strong woman. And if the events of the last few months taught her anything... She can’t always keep things from degenerating, but she can always face them with gusto and backbone.
-End-