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MISMATCHED SOCKS - a.cabot x female reader

PREMISE: A quiet evening takes a chaotic turn when dinner doesn't go as planned, but love, laughter, and a little improvisation turn it into something far better than perfect.

WARNINGS: domestic fluff, established romantic relationship, cozy domestic setting, mild kitchen disaster. features affectionate teasing, tender physical intimacy (cuddling, kissing, forehead kisses), playful language (“sweetheart,” “beautiful”), and romantic emotional vulnerability. sensory descriptions of shared space, physical touch, and comfort through soft, everyday gestures. no explicit sexual content.

WORD COUNT: 1.3K

NAVIGATION

The courthouse steps echoed with the sharp rhythm of Alex Cabot’s heels as she descended them, the weight of the day slowly lifting from her shoulders. The last of the light was fading, casting a golden hue over the glass buildings around her.

It was later than she’d hoped—past six—but still early enough to feel like she was escaping. For once, the office wasn’t holding her hostage. No urgent motions on her desk, no witness calls to prep, and Branch hadn’t followed her out with another list of “quick things” that were never actually quick.

She allowed herself a quiet exhale as she slid into the backseat of a cab and tucked a few loose strands of blonde hair behind her ear. Her phone buzzed in her purse; your name lighting up the screen in a way that always pulled a smile from her, even after the longest days.

“Socks mismatched. Mood romantic. Dinner incoming. Hurry home.”

Attached was a picture of your feet: one sock bright yellow with tiny lemons, the other navy with uneven pink stripes. It was ridiculous. Adorable. So completely you. She remembered when those socks first got mixed in the wash at her place.

Yours with hers.

And how you’d insisted they were soulmates now, just like the two of you. She’d teased you mercilessly, called you a walking misdemeanor. You’d called her a snob with excellent taste. She still had the messages saved.

As the cab weaved through traffic, Alex leaned her head against the cool window and allowed herself—for once—to let go of everything else. Tonight wasn’t for the DA’s office. Tonight was for you.

You, meanwhile, were elbow-deep in kitchen disaster.

It had started well enough. The candles were lit on the table, tall and slightly uneven because you hadn’t trimmed the wicks, and your soft jazz playlist was filling the apartment in a dreamy hum.

You were barefoot except for the mismatched socks, dancing in your favorite oversized hoodie, a glass of wine untouched on the counter. You’d poured it for confidence, not sipping, just to feel a little fancy while you cooked. Tonight mattered.

You wanted everything to be perfect. You’d been looking forward to this for days. Alex coming home before it got dark, her heels off, her hair down, her guard dropped. Just the two of you, no suits, no phone calls, no headlines.

The only thing you hadn’t properly considered was your cooking skills.

You’d lost track of time while FaceTiming a friend to show off your romantic setup, and the garlic bread had been forgotten in the oven. When you finally opened the door, smoke billowed out like a horror movie fog, thick and acrid.

The sauce on the stove had over-reduced into something bitter and blackened, clinging stubbornly to the bottom of the pan, and you—panicked and wide-eyed—grabbed a tea towel and started flapping it at the smoke detector like it was a dragon you could scare away.

The high-pitched wail of the alarm screamed over your jazz, your curses, and the quiet sinking feeling that the night was unraveling faster than you could save it. The windows were flung open. The pasta was ruined. The garlic bread looked like it had been cursed by a witch. And then of course, your front door opened.

“Sweetheart?”

Alex’s voice was unmistakable. Smooth, even, a touch amused even before she saw anything. You froze, mid-flap, turning with the towel still in your hand. Her heels clicked softly across the hardwood as she stepped inside, closing the door behind her, and for a second she just stood there—coat still buttoned, briefcase slung over one shoulder, a single brow arched like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Is something on fire,” she asked dryly, “or is this your new signature scent?”

You looked at her helplessly. Hair frizzed from heat and stress, sleeves rolled up, cheeks pink from both panic and embarrassment. “Okay,” you said, trying to summon dignity. “In my defense...”

Her eyes moved slowly from the smoke still drifting from the oven, to the charred remains of the garlic bread, then finally landed on your feet. Her lips twitched. “Lemons and stripes,” she noted, voice warm. “You really were trying.”

You dropped the towel and exhaled like you’d just survived a war. “Dinner’s dead. I tried, I really did. But I killed it. I murdered our meal.”

Alex stepped forward, setting her bag on the table and slipping out of her coat, her eyes never leaving you. She didn’t scold or sigh. She didn’t tease ... too much.

Instead, she walked over and slid her arms around your waist, gently pulling you into her. The kitchen still smelled like burnt garlic, but she didn’t even wrinkle her nose. She just kissed your forehead and rested her chin on top of your head.

“Dinner is replaceable,” she murmured. “You, however, are not.”

You slumped into her, letting the warmth of her presence start to melt the shame clinging to your shoulders. Her perfume was familiar—clean, expensive, subtle, but grounding. You breathed her in. “I smell like incinerated bread and despair.”

She smiled against your hair. “And you’re still beautiful.”

When she finally pulled back, it was with a kiss to your cheek and a practiced, focused look as she reached for her phone. “Alright. Tell me what the original plan was, and I’ll summon a pizza that comes close enough to fool us both.”

You sighed, still a little mortified. “Garlic bread. Roasted tomato sauce. Pasta. Wine.”

“Perfect,” she said, already tapping into an app. “Garlic, tomatoes, carbs. All the food groups. I’ll even let you keep the jazz.”

Twenty minutes later, the apartment had cleared of smoke, but the candles remained. You’d changed into pajamas, just cotton shorts and the same hoodie while Alex had swapped her suit for her silk set, the navy button-down top barely tucked in, sleeves rolled up.

You brought the pizza to the couch, and she brought the wine. It wasn’t what you’d planned, but the moment her bare feet, still cold from the walk home, found yours under the throw blanket, it didn’t matter.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, legs touching, the pizza box warm between you. You both reached for slices like you’d done it a thousand times before. The mood had softened. The laughter was easy. She curled into your side, and you leaned your head on hers, letting the music hum around you like the room itself was exhaling.

Alex took a bite and made a pleased sound, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ll give it an eight.”

“Out of ten?” you asked.

“Out of ‘date nights rescued from the jaws of domestic chaos’? Solid eight. Maybe a nine for presentation.” She nudged your sock-covered foot. “Lemons are classy.”

You smiled and set your slice down, turning a little so you could press a kiss to her temple. “You know… I really wanted tonight to be perfect.”

Alex turned to face you fully, brushing her fingers along your cheekbone. “It is perfect. You tried. You cared. You wore mismatched socks and set off a smoke alarm because you wanted to make me dinner. You think I’d trade that for some overpriced tasting menu uptown?”

You blinked at her, heart twisting in that soft, overwhelming way that always came when she let her walls down. When the prosecutor fell away and you were just hers.

“You’re sappy,” you murmured.

“I’m in love,” she replied simply. “It happens.”

You nestled into her again, tangled under the blanket, the sounds of the city muffled by the soft hush of your apartment. There was sauce on your fingers. Wine on your lips. Her hand on your thigh, warm and steady. And her heartbeat, just under your ear, reminding you that everything you needed was here.

Maybe next time you’d get the garlic bread right. But for tonight, burnt dinner had never felt more worth it.

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UNDER THE SURFACE.

✷ a. cabot x fem!ada!reader

The invitation arrived by email. Objective. Formal.

“Panel on Justice and Structural Reforms. NYU. Panel 2: Law & Memory. RSVP by 03/12.”

Signed: Alexandra Cabot.

You read it twice. Then you closed your laptop. You waited five days to respond. On the sixth, you said “yes.” Short. Without emotion. As if Alex were just another former colleague.

But she wasn't.

And no part of you really believed that this meeting would be neutral.

——

The room was cold, white, academic. Typical NYU. Too many people dressed in black, with attentive gazes and open notebooks. You walked in just as the panel was starting. She was there, sitting at the table, in a dark blue suit and with an upright posture, as if each word that came out of her mouth still carried the weight of a verdict.

The theme was “institutional memory,” but there was another memory present there. Yours. Invisible, but dense. Almost tactile.

You sat in the back. Silent.

She talked about laws, reforms, the trauma of the system. Cold. Clear. Brilliant. No one else saw her, but you recognized the small gestures — the way she twisted the ring around her finger, the slight tension in her jaw as she controlled herself from saying too much.

She knew you were there. She didn't look. But she knew.

Later, at the cocktail party, she approached. A glass of wine in her hand. The same short nails, the same practiced coldness on her face.

“It’s good to see you still involved in this.” she said, as if she were talking to anyone else. As if she didn't know your sleepy breath against her chest at 3 in the morning.

“Someone has to keep going.” you replied. And smiled. Not out of politeness. Out of defense.

“You have a different look in your eyes.” she commented, as if observing an old painting that has been retouched.

“Everyone changes.” you replied. “Or you intend well enough.”

She nodded. She looked away. A silence settled between you. And it was more honest than any words.

“Are you... okay?” she asked, without looking you in the eye.

"I'm functional. And you?"

“Same.”

There was no irony. Don't try to move. Just a direct, practical exchange between two people who had learned to wear the armor perfectly.

“You didn’t answer my last email, months ago.” She said it casually, but there was something in her voice that betrayed the weight of the sentence.

“I thought you didn’t need an answer.”

“Maybe you didn’t.” She said, and took another sip.

Silence again.

You could talk about anything. Politics, justice, literature. Except about you.

Because talking about the subject of “us” would require naming what still existed. And naming would be reviving. And reliving it… was dangerous.

“Are you back here for good?” you risked asking.

Alex shook her head. "I don't know what 'for good' means anymore. I'm here for now."

“‘For now’ is almost always enough to mess everything up again.”

She let out a low laugh. It wasn't humorous. It was the laugh of someone who understood perfectly.

"Don't worry. I didn't come to mess anything up."

“I’m not worried.”

“Of course not.”

Another pause.

Outside, the rain was starting to patter softly against the windows of the lobby. She looked at the door.

"I have to go. I still have an early flight tomorrow."

“Sure.”

She held out her hand. That formal gesture. Distant.

You touched her hand for two seconds longer than you should have. She didn't flinch. But she didn't react either.

“It was good to see you,” she said.

“You too.” You lied. Or not.

She turned and walked away.

She didn't look back.

But she didn't need to.

Some stories end without screams, without tears, without dramatic final scenes. Some stories just remain there — beneath the surface — like a crack in the glass: discreet, almost invisible, but impossible to ignore.

And maybe yours is one of those.

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my dream squad

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in another life emily prentiss & olivia benson are life long best friends who go on weekly brunches with their hot blonde wives (alex & jj)

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missing alex cabot hours :((

i miss my wife every day

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can we talk about this

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CASEY NOVAK! ⚖︎

✷ c. novak x fem!ada!reader

JUSTICE AND DESIRE GO HAND IN HAND.

𓂃✍︎

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JUSTICE AND DESIRE GO HAND IN HAND.

✷ a. cabot x c. novak x fem!reader

Warnings: threesome, facesitting, fingering (a and r receiving), dirty talk, oral (c receiving), swearing, cum swallowing, thumb sucking, use of "good girl" (once).

You never imagined that your transfer to the Manhattan District Attorney's Office would change your life so much. It was just another step in your legal career — new challenges, new colleagues. But right away, two names caught your attention: Alex Cabot and Casey Novak. Two legendary prosecutors, known not only for their sharp intelligence, but also for the intensity with which they defend victims.

From the very first day, you feel the atmosphere. Alex, with his cool elegance and analytical gaze, greets you with a slight nod. Casey, on the other hand, is warmer — she greets you with a smile and a witty comment that makes you laugh, even when you’re nervous. The tension between them is subtle but undeniable.

In the weeks that follow, working alongside them becomes a carefully orchestrated dance. There are long nights of case review, hastily shared coffees and heated debates about legal strategy. But what was purely professional begins to slip away.

One night, the three of you are alone in the office. The city outside is silent, and the only light comes from the computer screens and Alex’s desk lamp.

“I think we deserve a break,” Casey says, stretching. “The wine I brought is still in my drawer…”

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting we drink in the office? How bold.”

“Like you’ve never broken a rule.” you reply, laughing, and Alex smiles with a rare sparkle in her eyes.

You end up on the couch in Alex’s office, laughing, drinking, telling stories. The tension changes. The air feels thicker. Casey is sitting next to you, her knee lightly brushing against yours. Alex watches the two of you with a burning gaze.

“Can I ask you an indiscreet question?” you venture.

“Only if the answer can be too.” Casey answers, with a smirk.

“Has anything ever happened between you two?”

The two look at each other, and Alex is the one who answers first:

“There was a time… but it wasn’t the right time.”

“And now?” you ask, feeling your heart race.

“Now we have you.” Casey says, and touches your thigh gently.

Alex moves closer. You feel her breath close to your skin.

“The question is… are you ready for this?”

You don’t answer with words. You kiss Alex first, the taste of wine on her lips. Then you turn to Casey, and the softness of her mouth contrasts with the intensity you see in her eyes.

Casey gently pushed you onto the couch, her mouth moving away from yours and moving to your chin, then to your neck until she reached the expanse of skin that your shirt with the first few buttons unbuttoned showed. Alex came from the other side, her well-manicured hands running over your belly and down to your thighs over your skirt.

“Take off your shirt for us, honey,” the blonde whispered in your ear when Casey stepped back, giving you space to take off the piece.

Your hands went to the buttons of your blouse, and you unbuttoned the piece with a speed that surprised you. Seeing you free of the piece, Casey’s hands went to your back, undoing the clasp of your bra and helping you remove the lace. Her hands grabbed her now free breasts, squeezing and running her thumbs over her nipples, smiling as she heard her little moan.

You felt Alex pat your hip, a clear signal for you to lift him up, and you did. The blonde easily unzipped your skirt, letting it slide down your legs, leaving you in just your panties, the sight of the wet spot made the corners of Alex's mouth curl up.

"Look, Casey, she's already soaked." she said, running her hand over your still-clothed pussy, the sight made Casey pinch your nipples harder, making you moan louder.

Alex pushed your panties aside, revealing your soaked pussy, dragging her thumb over your clit and sticking a finger inside you, that's when Casey let go of your breasts and stood up. You watched her unbuckle her belt and take off her pants along with her panties, walking back to the couch where you were sprawled with Alex between your legs with one finger stuck in you and the other on your clit, moving in and out of you in a gentle rhythm.

Casey smiled as she heard your moans and that was when you saw that the redhead had her thighs on either side of your head, her face facing her pussy. Your hands went to Casey's thighs, holding them as you ran your tongue over her pussy, eliciting a loud moan from the woman.

The moan seemed to trigger something in Alex, who put another finger inside you and sped up her movements. A moan left your lips and your head went back at the sudden change, but not for long as Casey grabbed your hair and returned your mouth to her pussy.

“Concentrate.” the redhead growled.

Alex set a brutal pace, her long fingers going in and out of your pussy while her thumb circled your clit, and you tried not to get lost in her movements and the taste of Casey on your tongue.

You came first, dripping down Alex’s fingers, you didn’t see it but when the blonde took her fingers out of you she put them in your mouth as if it were the most delicious dessert. Casey came right after, cursing as she rubbed herself on your tongue saying something to you not to waste a single drop, of course you didn’t.

Casey stroked your scalp, sore from her tugging as she got off your face. You sat up, your chest still rising and falling with panting, your eyes met Casey's, you looked at each other and then looked at Alex who was looking at you with a sparkle in her blue irises.

Suddenly you and Casey were practically on top of Alex, kissing and taking off her clothes, it was a mess, a hot mess. Casey had her fingers buried in the blonde while you had one of her breasts in your mouth, your hand playing with the other free breast.

"Fuck, I'm going to cum," Alex muttered followed by a moan.

“Come, love.” Casey said with a command, and Alex came undone on her fingers with a scream.

You let go of Alex’s breasts, leaving a kiss between them before pulling away and watching Casey carefully remove her fingers from inside Alex. “Open up,” the redhead ordered and you obeyed, opening your mouth and sucking on her fingers, moaning at the taste of Alex.

“Good girl.” Casey smiled as she removed her fingers from your mouth, leaving a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth. Alex, who was watching, still a little breathless, was surprised by your mouth colliding with hers, feeling her own taste in her mouth.

The three of you surrendered yourselves there, between confidential files and the complicit silence of the early morning.

The next morning, everything was different. And, at the same time, the same. You are still prosecutors. You are still fighting for justice. But now, there’s something more—a secret, fiery connection between three women who have never followed rules, not in court, not in love.

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LAST BREATHS OF A FORBIDDEN LOVE.

✷ a. cabot x fem!reader

Alex Cabot was the kind of woman who, at first glance, seemed to have her life sorted out. A renowned prosecutor, engaged to Robert, with a carefully planned future—everything anyone could wish for. But inside her, there was a conflict that no one, not even those closest to her, could see.

You, a dedicated detective, entered her life unexpectedly. What began as a simple professional partnership became a deep connection, a secret kept under lock and key between furtive glances and hidden encounters.

At first, every moment you spent together was a relief, an escape from the weight of routine and expectations. You met in empty rooms at the police station, in cafes far from the city, even in quiet parks, where you could, even if only for a short time, simply be yourselves—without masks, without judgment.

But the secret became heavier with each day. Alex was caught between her commitment to Robert and her intense love for you. This duality was slowly eating away at her spirit.

One night, when you met Alex at her apartment, you noticed something different: her eyes were red, her shoulders slumped, and there was a deep sadness she couldn’t hide.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s like I’m living two lives, and neither of them really belongs to me.”

You tried to find the right words, but you knew that, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t ease the weight she was carrying.

“Alex, we can try to find a way,” you said, trying to hold back your growing anxiety. “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

She looked away, her nervous fingers fiddling with the ring on her finger.

“I wanted to believe that. I really did. But everything is so complicated... It’s not just the engagement, or just the career. It’s everything that comes with them—the expectations, the judgments, the whole life that watches me and expects me to be perfect.”

She stood up and started pacing around the room, unable to stay still. You watched, feeling the distance growing.

“And us?” you asked finally. “What are we, Alex?”

She stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, and answered in a low voice:

“We are a secret that is slowly killing me.”

The following days were a succession of meetings filled with tension and silence. You knew it couldn’t go on, but your hearts resisted reason.

Finally, Alex asked to speak to you alone, in a discreet café. There, between sips of coffee and evasive glances, she confided:

“I’ve thought a lot about what we have, about what I want and what I can have.”

You listened, each word weighing like a sentence.

“I... I don’t know if I can do it anymore,” she continued. “I need to be honest with myself and with the people around me.”

Silence filled the table.

“So what does this mean?” you asked, trying not to let your voice betray your fear.

“It means I need to end this,” Alex said, the firmness of her decision now evident in her gaze.

You felt a huge emptiness grow in your chest.

“Even knowing what we feel?” your voice broke.

“Sometimes love isn’t enough,” she replied. “Not when everything around us conspires against it. I don’t want to lie anymore, or deceive those who are by my side. Not you, not Robert. Not myself.”

You looked at her, trying to understand that painful choice.

“I don’t know how to go on without you,” you said softly.

“Me neither,” Alex admitted, “but I know this is the only way.”

You remained seated there, in silence, knowing that this conversation was the end of a story that was never allowed to truly begin. That night, you said goodbye with a heavy look, without promises, without hope. Only the certainty that love, no matter how intense it may be, sometimes needs to be sacrificed.

Alex continued with her engagement, marrying Robert months later, fulfilling the role that the world expected of her. Her career continued to be brilliant, but true joy—the one she felt by your side—was a chapter kept in the past.

You, in turn, continued your path at the police station, carrying a secret love and a silent longing, learning that some stories are made to be remembered, even if they end in farewell.

The pain of goodbye was deep and silent—an echo that never completely disappeared, reminding you that not all love finds its happy ending.

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ALEXANDRA CABOT! ⚖︎

✷ a. cabot x fem!detective!reader

LAST BREATHS OF A FORBIDDEN LOVE.

✷a. cabot x fem!ada!reader

JUSTICE AND DESIRE GO HAND IN HAND.

UNDER THE SURFACE.

𓂃✍︎

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જ⁀➴ 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐑𝐀, 9teen. English is not my first language.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖masterlist.

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⌗ masterlist!

┆Alex Cabot.

┆Casey Novak.