jareaufiles

[jareaufiles]

Hey babe, guess what?

I love youuuu more than anythingg

Lovesplosion!

Also you’re so super gorgeous and all around amazing, like wowwwww, you’re all mine?? I’m still in awe of that. And I’m so so SO lucky that I have youuu.

LOVE EXPLOSIONNN i'll always be yours <3333

[jareaufiles]

REASONABLE DOUBT - casey novak x chaotic!fem!reader

⋆｡𖦹°‧★ chapter one ; with due process [4.6k]

ִֶָ 𓂃⊹ ִֶָ in the midst of a high-profile trial, your chaotic tendencies accidentally expose a defense witness’s lie, throwing the courtroom into confusion and catching assistant district attorney casey novak’s attention. after court adjourns, a series of bumbling mishaps on your way out ends with casey offering you a position as a civilian consultant.

୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ public legal setting with descriptions of courtroom proceedings, tense exchanges between legal professionals, depiction of a civilian interrupting official testimony, implications of perjury and dishonesty from a witness, mild verbal reprimand from a judge, mild language, public embarrassment, awkward social interactions, chaotic behaviour leading to disruption of order, brief depictions of authority figures expressing frustration, subtle professional tension between characters, mention of high-stakes legal consequences, moments of humour amidst tension.

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scene one ; the illusion of self-control

you wake up already regretting the outfit you have not even put on yet. the air in your bedroom feels heavy and warm, the kind of summer heat that sticks to your skin before you even throw back the covers. sunlight spills through the half-open blinds in narrow golden stripes, catching the dust motes that drift lazily in the air. outside, the city is already awake. you hear the soft drone of early traffic, the clatter of a garbage truck somewhere down the street, a neighbour’s radio playing a tinny pop song that you cannot quite place. somewhere closer, a door slams, followed by the muffled bark of a dog.

your bed looks like it has been through a war. the sheets are tangled, the pillow half on the floor, and the blanket is twisted in a way that suggests you might have wrestled with it in your sleep. you consider making it for all of three seconds before deciding it is not worth the effort. there is a coffee cup on your nightstand from yesterday that you never rinsed out, and the stale smell of old caffeine lingers faintly in the warm air.

you shuffle toward your closet, stepping over a pair of shoes that have not been together in weeks and nearly tripping on a laundry pile you swore you would fold last night. the fan on your dresser clicks with every slow rotation, the uneven rhythm oddly hypnotic. you tug open the closet door and stare into the dim space like you are expecting inspiration to strike. your usual uniform of chaos waits for you: jeans, sneakers, and a shirt with something mildly inappropriate printed across the front. it is tempting, but you remember the last time you saw casey novak on the evening news. her suit had been so crisp it could have cut glass, her hair pulled back so perfectly it looked like she had personally declared war on stray strands. she had moved through the courtroom like the space belonged to her, her voice even and deliberate, each word sharp enough to land exactly where she wanted it. you feel your own posture straighten just thinking about it.

you start pulling clothes from hangers, tossing them on the bed until there is a growing pile of options that range from “not bad” to “funeral chic.” you hold up a dress, frown, toss it aside. a blouse you once spilled wine on almost makes the cut until you spot the faint stain near the hem. you keep going until you find something that feels like a compromise between respectability and comfort.

in the mirror, your hair is a mess, flattened on one side and sticking out at odd angles on the other. you try to fix it into something intentional, but a stubborn curl refuses to behave. the more you fuss, the more you start thinking about what today might actually bring. you picture yourself sitting quietly in the gallery, maybe even slipping out unnoticed when it is over. then you picture a less likely but more honest version where you open your mouth at the wrong time and end up regretting it. you promise yourself you will not say anything. you know you are lying.

half-dressed, you wander into the kitchen to start coffee, then promptly forget about it when you cannot find your phone. after five minutes of searching, you discover it still plugged in by the bed. your keys are missing until you realise they are in yesterday’s bag. by the time you make it back to the kitchen, the coffee has gone lukewarm. you drink it anyway.

when you finally leave the apartment, the bed is still unmade, the rejected clothes are still scattered across it, and the stale coffee cup is still on the nightstand. the air outside feels just as heavy as it did inside, but now your stomach is knotted, tight enough that you cannot blame it entirely on caffeine. you tell yourself you are only going to watch. deep down, you know that is not true.

── .✦

you step outside and the heat hits you like a wall. the air smells faintly of car exhaust and the faintly metallic tang that always seems to cling to the city in summer. the pavement radiates warmth under your shoes, and there is a stickiness to the air that makes your clothes cling in places you wish they would not. you unlock your car, which has been baking in the sun, and the blast of hot air that greets you feels like opening an oven. the steering wheel is warm against your palms as you slide in, adjusting the seatbelt with a little hiss at the way it sticks to your skin.

the drive is a slow crawl at first, caught behind a garbage truck that seems in no rush to go anywhere. the city moves around you in layers of sound. a bus brakes with a long, screeching sigh. a street vendor’s cart rattles over the uneven sidewalk. somewhere, a car stereo blasts a bass-heavy track that rattles the windows of the sedan next to you. the air through the open window carries the scent of roasting nuts from a vendor on the corner, mixed with the sharper smell of hot asphalt and the faint sourness of spilled beer from last night.

you find parking farther from the courthouse than you would like, which means a short walk through the thick morning heat. the courthouse looms ahead, all sharp edges and pale stone, the kind of building that seems to look down on you no matter how far away you are. as you approach, you catch snatches of conversation from people around you. a man in a suit muttering into his phone. a pair of women in pencil skirts walking briskly, one of them clutching a folder like it is her lifeline. a cluster of people smoking near the entrance, the tang of cigarette smoke drifting toward you.

inside, the air is cooler but carries the faint smell of old paper, floor polish, and something institutional that you cannot quite place. the marble floors echo every footstep, and the high ceilings make voices bounce in strange ways so you can hear conversations you cannot quite see. you pass through the security checkpoint, dropping your keys and phone into a plastic tray and trying not to look like you are smuggling something illegal, even though you are not.

the courtroom itself feels smaller than you imagined from television. the air is close, heavy with the weight of attention. the gallery is already filling up, the low hum of whispered conversations weaving together into a soft, restless noise. you scan the rows, looking for the right spot. you want to be close enough to see casey clearly, but not so close that she will definitely notice you the second she glances at the gallery. you settle into a seat near the front, close enough to catch the small details but just far enough to pretend you are invisible.

the bench is hard under you, polished smooth from years of use. the faint smell of wood varnish lingers in the air. a man a few seats away is flipping through a folded newspaper, the pages crackling softly. the person behind you clears their throat in that pointed, attention-seeking way that makes you want to turn around, but you resist. you fold your hands in your lap, trying to look like someone who belongs here.

the judge has not entered yet, but there is a rhythm to the room. lawyers murmuring at their tables, papers being shuffled, pens tapping. your eyes are drawn to the prosecution’s table. there is an empty chair there, a folder waiting neatly in its place, and you know exactly who will be sitting there soon. you tell yourself again that you are only here to watch. you feel the knot in your stomach tighten, and this time you stop pretending you believe yourself.

scene two ; precision

casey novak’s office is quiet in a way that feels deliberate. the blinds are drawn halfway, letting in narrow slices of late-morning light that stripe the desk in pale gold. the air smells faintly of paper and ink, softened by the sharper edge of fresh coffee cooling in a porcelain mug. somewhere down the hall, the copier hums and clicks, the faint scent of warm toner drifting in and out like a ghost. the steady whir of the air vent keeps the room just cool enough to make her forget the heat outside.

her desk is an exact map of her priorities. case files are stacked in two perfect columns, each aligned to the edge. legal pads are set at precise angles. pens are arranged in a straight line according to size, the caps facing the same way. a single binder clip rests beside her right hand, waiting for the pages she will assemble once she is satisfied with the order. every surface is free of dust, every corner of the room intentional.

she flips through the witness list again, her eyes narrowing slightly as she marks points in pencil. in her head, the questioning is already underway. she rehearses each line the way someone else might practice scales on a piano — a rhythm drilled until her mouth could form the words without conscious thought. there is no wasted motion. her fingertips smooth the page edges before she turns them, her pen taps once against the margin before she writes.

her suit jacket hangs over the back of her chair, the navy fabric so crisp it catches the light when she moves. the cream blouse beneath is soft in colour but sharp in line, an intentional balance between approachability and authority. when she slips on the jacket, she does it in a single motion, smoothing it down without looking, already reaching for the lapel to straighten it. she glances in the mirror, adjusts the angle of her collar by a fraction, and steps back without breaking posture. not a single hair has shifted out of place.

her phone vibrates once. a text from her second chair confirms the witness is early and already in the building. good. punctuality is the first signal of reliability, and she values reliability above almost everything. she takes a sip of her coffee, the bitterness grounding her, and sets the mug down on a coaster without leaving a single ring on the wood.

she gathers her files in one arm, her bag in the other, each movement clean and measured. when she walks into the hallway, her heels click against the polished floor in a rhythm that carries without needing volume. people step aside instinctively, some greeting her by name, others simply nodding. she returns each with a polite acknowledgment but never breaks pace.

the courthouse is already buzzing. voices overlap in the corridor, a blend of lawyers in hushed strategy, jurors speaking in low tones, and the sharp orders of a bailiff directing traffic. casey moves through it like a current through still water, steady and self-contained.

and somewhere, probably in this same building, you are not steady or self-contained. your shoes are likely scuffing instead of clicking. your bag is a jumble of mismatched items you may or may not need. you are taking in the building as a series of random impressions instead of a mapped terrain. she carries only what she needs, and nothing more. you carry whatever happened to be near the door when you left. she keeps her focus narrowed and precise. you let your gaze wander, picking up the small, distracting details.

when she reaches the courtroom, she pauses just inside the door. the bailiff greets her by name, and she returns it with the faintest smile. her eyes sweep the jury box, the judge’s bench, the witness stand. she notes who is already seated, who is speaking, who is avoiding eye contact. and then her gaze drifts to the gallery.

rows of strangers blur together, but her eyes pause—only for a fraction of a second when they reach you. you are seated near the front, posture attempting casualness but betraying a knot of restless energy. she does not linger, at least not long enough for anyone else to notice, but the pause is there. her attention sharpens for that heartbeat before she moves on.

she sets her files down on the prosecution table in the exact arrangement she envisioned in her office. folders in sequence, pens ready, notes angled toward her. to anyone else, the room is still a place of mild disorder, voices and movements scattered in no particular pattern. to her, it has already been arranged. the order is hers now, at least until the first words are spoken.

and somewhere behind that quiet order, she feels a faint, indefinable tug in the direction of the gallery. it is not enough to distract her, not yet, but it is there, the awareness that something, or someone, might shift the shape of her day.

scene three ; the theatre of order

the courtroom feels heavier once the trial actually starts, like someone has slipped an invisible weight onto your shoulders without warning. the air is cooler than it was in the hallway, touched by the faint hum of the overhead vents. it smells faintly of old wood polished with lemon oil, the kind that’s been part of this building for decades, mixed with something sharper from the freshly printed exhibits spread across the lawyers’ tables. there’s also the faintest trace of coffee from a half-empty styrofoam cup abandoned on the clerk’s desk. every sound seems to echo — the soft squeak of a shoe on the floor, the muted rustle of paper, the occasional cough muffled into a sleeve. the judge’s bench looms above the rest of the room, carved with intricate designs you imagine most people don’t even notice because they’re too busy being intimidated by the height of it. the american flag and the state flag stand to the side like silent, perfectly pressed sentinels. you take in every detail because sitting still has never been your strong suit, and if you don’t keep your mind occupied you’ll fidget yourself straight out of the front row.

the jurors file in one by one, their footsteps measured, almost in sync. the shuffle of their shoes is followed by the creak of the jury box benches as they sit. you study them shamelessly, cataloguing faces, posture, clothing choices. juror number four’s tie is crooked and it’s bothering you more than you’d like to admit. juror number seven keeps smoothing down her skirt like she’s trying to iron it with her palms, the repetitive movement drawing your eyes over and over. juror number eleven hasn’t looked up from the floor once, and you wonder if they’re shy or already plotting their grocery list. every face is a story you want to know, and your mind jumps between them like a radio scanning through static.

casey sits at the prosecution table like it’s a throne she has claimed by right, her presence commanding without being loud. everything about her is sharp and contained, from the way her suit jacket sits perfectly over her shoulders to the deliberate, steady way she turns the pages of her notes. even the way she holds her pen between her fingers is precise, her knuckles relaxed, her wrist perfectly still. she glances at the jury, then the defense, then the judge, her eyes moving like she’s mapping the room. you try to follow her gaze, wondering if it will reveal her strategy, but all it reveals is how different the two of you are — her calm, measured, razor-sharp; you restless, impatient, and buzzing with too many thoughts at once.

the first witness is called. the bailiff swears him in, the practiced cadence of the oath cutting clearly through the quiet. the microphone gives a faint crackle before settling. casey questions him first, her voice steady but with an edge that demands precision. “please state your name for the record.” “daniel harper.” “mr. harper, can you tell the court where you were on the evening of the twenty-third?” “yes. i was at the corner store on fifth avenue, around eight o’clock.”

she leads him through his account like she’s walking down a hallway she knows by heart, never missing a step. the defense lawyer takes over, shifting to a lighter tone, leaning casually on the podium as if friendliness might loosen the story. you lean forward, elbows brushing the wooden barrier in front of your seat, soaking in every question, fascinated by the way each word feels deliberate, like pieces on a chessboard.

the second witness changes everything. he’s for the defense, and you can tell from the moment he sits down that something is off. the chair seems too small for him, or maybe he just doesn’t want to be in it. his eyes flick to the jury too often, his fingers tapping against the edge of the witness stand before gripping it tightly like he’s steadying himself. there’s a thin sheen of sweat across his temple that he doesn’t bother to wipe away.

the defense starts softly. “could you tell us where you were on the night in question?” “i was at home. alone.” “did you see the defendant at any point that evening?” “yes. around ten. he was with me at my apartment.”

your eyebrows knit together before you even realize it. the way he answers is too neat, too practiced. and then it happens — the slip. “we watched the game together. it started at nine.”

that’s wrong. you know it’s wrong. you know because you had been at the bar that night with the game on every screen, and it had started at seven sharp. the knowledge comes at you fast and hot, and your brain barely has time to process before your mouth betrays you. “that’s not true. the game started at seven.”

your voice cuts through the courtroom like someone slammed a door. every head turns toward you at once, the silence folding in around your words. juror number four’s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing beneath his hairline. juror number seven freezes mid-skirt smoothing, hands pressed flat against her lap. juror number eleven finally looks up, wide-eyed. someone near the back mutters something you can’t catch, the sound quickly shushed. a chair leg scrapes against the floor somewhere to your right.

the defense lawyer’s jaw tightens, lips pressing into a line sharp enough to cut glass. the witness looks like someone yanked the ground out from under him, his hands sliding off the stand. the defense table rustles with sudden movement — papers shuffled too quickly, a pen clattering against the wood.

casey turns in her seat. the movement is slow, deliberate. her eyes find yours with pinpoint accuracy, sharp enough to make you feel pinned in place. there’s no shock in her expression, no outward frustration, just calculation — weighing what you’ve done, what it will cost her, and whether she can turn it to her advantage. her gaze flicks briefly to the judge before returning to you, and it’s like she’s silently telling you this isn’t over.

the judge clears their throat, the sound loud and abrupt in the silence. “we will recess for the day. court is adjourned until nine a.m. tomorrow morning.”

the gavel comes down once, the crack ricocheting off the walls. the spell breaks. chairs scrape against the floor, voices rise in hurried whispers, people stand and gather their coats. the jurors file out without looking at you, their shoes clicking against the tile. the witness steps down quickly, eyes fixed on the floor. the defense packs their files with unnecessary force, paper edges bending under their hands.

then the judge looks directly at you. their tone is firm, clipped, carrying the authority of someone who has said these exact words more times than they can count. “ma’am, you are not to interrupt proceedings again. if you have information relevant to the case, it must be brought to the attention of counsel outside of testimony. any further outbursts will result in removal from the courtroom. is that understood?”

the room feels smaller with every word, but you nod anyway, the weight of every set of eyes still lingering on you even as people file toward the doors.

casey doesn’t move. she’s still watching you as the room empties, her face unreadable but her attention unwavering, like she’s already rewriting the entire course of this trial in her head and making sure you’re part of it, whether you like it or not.

scene four ; the offer you did not see coming

you leave the courtroom in a daze, the sound of the judge’s gavel and the lingering burn of a hundred stares still clinging to you like static. the gallery erupts into scattered chatter as people file out in slow, shuffling lines. you try to blend in but it is impossible after what you just did. you can feel the glances, the pointed whispers, the way people lean toward each other like you are a headline in the making. the defense table is still occupied, their team gathering papers with a stiff, tight-lipped irritation. the defense attorney shoots you one last look that could curdle milk.

the hallway is worse. too many people, too much movement, everyone talking at once. the air is thick with perfume, coffee breath, and the faint tang of old paper from the court records office nearby. you try to remember which direction the exit is, but the corridor forks in two and you take the wrong turn almost immediately. halfway down the hall, you realise you have absolutely no idea where you are and that you are somehow heading toward the vending machines instead of the street. you backtrack, muttering under your breath about labyrinthine government buildings, until you finally spot the exit sign.

you are halfway to freedom when your hand automatically pats your pocket and your stomach drops. your phone. you left it sitting on the bench inside the courtroom. you turn on your heel, nearly colliding with a man balancing a stack of legal pads, and dart back the way you came. by the time you retrieve your phone from the clerk, you have tripped over the corner of the defense’s evidence cart, apologised to someone who might have been a juror, and definitely stepped on the hem of your own pants.

finally, the sunlight hits your face as you push through the courthouse doors. it is warm, sharp with the smell of hot pavement and car exhaust. you barely have time to breathe before a voice, cool and unmistakable, cuts through the ambient noise of the city.

“you have a talent for disruption.”

you turn and there she is. casey novak, in all her immaculate, courtroom-dominating glory, standing with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. up close, her hair catches the light in a way that makes you momentarily forget how to function.

you laugh, the sound a little too high, a little too quick. “sorry about that. i usually wait until at least the second week of knowing someone before i ruin their career.”

her mouth twitches like she is fighting the urge to smile, but her eyes stay sharp. “you noticed something no one else did. most people would not have spoken up, but you did. i could use someone like that.”

you blink at her, certain you have misheard. “someone like… what, a random person who crashes court proceedings?”

“a civilian consultant,” she says evenly, like the words taste unfamiliar in her mouth. “someone with a fresh perspective who is not bound by the usual constraints.”

you stare at her for a moment, aware that you are holding your phone in one hand and your bag in the other and still somehow managing to look like you are about to drop both. “me? you want… me? i don’t even know how to file my taxes without crying.”

“that is not a requirement,” she replies, her voice edged with dry amusement. “think about it. i will be in touch.”

you do not think about it. you blurt out, “okay, sure, i’m in,” then immediately regret sounding like you just agreed to join a pyramid scheme.

casey gives you one last long look, then nods. “good. try not to get thrown out of any more courtrooms before we start.”

you watch her walk away, realising that you have no idea what you have just signed yourself up for, but also that you are already looking forward to it.

── .✦

casey pushed the courthouse door open, the heavy brass handle cool against her palm, a faint smudge of someone else’s fingerprints catching the light. the muffled rumble of traffic and the faint wail of a distant siren outside dissolved the moment she stepped through, replaced by the low hum of the building’s aging fluorescent lights. the air smelled faintly of floor polish and stale paper, tinged with the faintly bitter aroma of burnt coffee drifting from a vending machine tucked near the security desk. the marble beneath her heels was chilled, and each sharp click of her steps echoed just enough to remind her of the vastness of the lobby.

clusters of people lingered in pockets around the space, speaking in hushed voices that occasionally broke into a burst of laughter before dropping back to a murmur. a bailiff passed her with a curt nod, the metallic jingle of his keys punctuating the steady drone of legal clerks debating over a stack of filings. casey’s gaze flicked over the room once, instinctively scanning for familiar faces, though her mind was still playing the scene from moments ago in crystal clarity—your sudden, uninvited commentary slicing through the courtroom air like glass hitting tile. the way every head had turned, the subtle shift of jurors in their seats, the tiniest twitch of the defense attorney’s jaw.

it had been reckless. inappropriate. wildly disruptive. and yet, you had been right. you’d caught the defense witness in a lie that seasoned attorneys and trained investigators had all sailed right past. the thought hooked itself into her mind and refused to let go. casey had built her reputation on structure, on control, on making sure the unpredictable had no foothold in her cases. and yet there you were—an unpredictable variable she had just invited into her carefully ordered world.

offering you the role had been a decision she could almost call impulsive, though she rarely allowed herself to be impulsive. outside, you had blinked at her like she’d offered you classified intelligence, stumbling over your words, dropping half a sentence, and somehow managing to nearly walk into a trash can mid-response. she had fought the twitch of a smile then, though it had been quickly replaced with a prickle of unease. she could already imagine her office transformed into a battlefield of your chaos—legal pads stacked haphazardly, exhibits misplaced under coffee-stained folders, your handwriting sprawling over case notes like a foreign language.

and still… she could also see you in the courtroom again, head tilted in quiet suspicion, eyes sharp and unblinking as you read someone’s body language in ways her law degree never trained her for. there was a certain danger in someone like you—someone who could disrupt the flow, yet sharpen the blade of her case in the same breath.

by the time she reached the corridor leading back to her office, the sounds of the lobby had faded into the quiet buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. casey exhaled slowly, adjusting the folder in her arms, her heels clicking against the waxed floor in precise, deliberate rhythm. her world had always been built on rules, structure, and clean lines. you were none of those things.

and that, she thought, was exactly the problem.

tags!! @ffionhxw, @hellenheaven

[jareaufiles]

CONFIDENTIAL PERSONNEL FILE – CIVILIAN CONSULTANT PROFILE district attorney’s office – special cases division

𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘥𝘶𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨…

NAME: [REDACTED for Privacy – “You”] DESIGNATION: “civilian consultant” (informal: chaos specialist) ASSIGNED TO: assistant district attorney casey novak

for my REASONABLE DOUBT fic.

join my taglist.

ROLE SUMMARY: brought on as an “unofficial” asset following courtroom incident 4b-22, during which subject disrupted active proceedings and inadvertently assisted the prosecution by exposing a witness’s perjury. retained despite initial objections from ada novak due to demonstrated skills in unconventional evidence gathering, rapid situational assessment, and witness rapport building. methods frequently deviate from accepted protocol, resulting in equal parts breakthrough success and administrative headaches.

KEY ATTRIBUTES:

exceptional lie detection skills (unverified how)

high interpersonal adaptability; capable of gaining cooperation from reluctant or hostile parties

improvisational problem solving under pressure

complete disregard for procedural limitations (see incident log)

KNOWN LIABILITIES:

impulse-driven decision making

tendency to “go off script” during official operations

disruptive presence in court settings (verbal interjections, nonverbal commentary, visible amusement)

coffee consumption exceeding recommended medical limits

RELEVANT INCIDENTS:

unauthorized entry into secured evidence storage (claimed it was “an accident”)

de-escalation of witness hostility through informal conversation and unsolicited baked goods

unrecorded interaction with defense counsel resulting in leaked case strategy (unintentional)

persistent teasing of ada novak during trial prep sessions (“she likes it, she just won’t admit it”)

RISK ASSESSMENT:

operational risk: moderate to high

reputational risk: high

potential asset value: undeniable

personal impact on ada novak: classified

RECOMMENDATION: maintain active assignment under close monitoring. do not — under any circumstances — leave her unsupervised in a live trial setting.

disclaimer: svu and its characters, including casey novak, are the intellectual property of their rightful creators and owners. no copyright infringement is intended. this work is a transformative, non-commercial piece of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only.

©https-garcia: all original characters, plotlines, settings, and story elements unique to Reasonable Doubt are my own. do not copy, repost, or translate without explicit permission.

[jareaufiles]

COMING SOON : REASONABLE DOUBT : 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘸

"she’s the prosecution, you’re the chaos, and somehow you’re both guilty."

pairing: casey novak x chaotic!fem!reader

series summary: you never meant to ruin her trial but one impulsive comment in a packed courtroom turns ada casey novak’s day (and yours) into a headline. suddenly, you’re not just a witness, you’re part of her case, drafted as a “civilian consultant” under her watch. she’s all pressed suits, sharp questions, and perfect control. you’re impulse, laughter in the wrong places, and an uncanny ability to break rules and get results.

what starts as mutual irritation shifts with every late-night strategy session, every accidental touch, every argument that ends too close, breathing the same air. the cases get harder, the risks sharper, and somewhere between cross-examinations and whispered confessions, you realise the real verdict you’re waiting on is hers.

because in her courtroom, chaos is inadmissible but when it’s you, she can’t seem to throw it out.

trigger warnings: will be writing in lowercase, sorrry!!, legal drama, mentions of criminal activity (assault, theft, fraud), cross-examinations and courtroom tension, verbal arguments, raised voices, morally grey behaviour, reckless decision-making, alcohol use, suggestive dialogue, slow-burn enemies-to-lovers dynamic, physical altercations (brief, non-graphic), minor injury descriptions (cuts, bruises), threats from antagonists, power imbalance (professional), emotional manipulation (minor), danger/implied threats, consensual sexual content (later chapters), detailed kissing scenes, clothing removal, light power play dynamics, mild dominance/submission themes, mentions of past relationships, jealousy, protective behaviour, occasional strong language, discussions of ethics and morality in law, emotional vulnerability, trust issues, mutual pining, tension-filled proximity scenes, humour in inappropriate situations, *means smut

author's note: okay so… this fic started because i thought “what if ada casey novak had to deal with a complete menace of a civilian consultant who also happened to be hot??” and then it got wildly out of hand. expect chaos, banter, slow-burn tension that will make you want to shake them both, and eventually… yeah.

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ACT I - Sparks in the Courtroom - Chapters 1 through 5 theme: first impressions, clashing personalities, the slow pull of reluctant curiosity.

➺ chapter one: the very bad idea ➺ summary: you don’t set out to destroy casey novak’s trial, but that’s exactly what you do. In the middle of her questioning, you notice a glaring lie in a witness’s testimony and, against all common sense, you call it out in front of the entire courtroom. the gallery gasps. the judge bangs the gavel. casey’s eyes cut to you like a scalpel, sharp and assessing. by the time the trial recesses, you’ve gone from “civilian observer” to “public nuisance.”

➺ chapter two: ➺ chapter three: ➺ chapter four: ➺ chapter five:

ACT II – to be titled - Chapters 6 through 10 theme: ???

ACT III - to be titled - Chapters 11 through ??? theme: ???

disclaimer: svu and its characters, including casey novak, are the intellectual property of their rightful creators and owners. no copyright infringement is intended. this work is a transformative, non-commercial piece of fanfiction created for entertainment purposes only.

©https-garcia: all original characters, plotlines, settings, and story elements unique to Reasonable Doubt are my own. do not copy, repost, or translate without explicit permission.

[jareaufiles]

˚⋆ 𝒄𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒗𝒂𝒌 ⋆˚

𝑨𝒍𝒎𝒐𝒔𝒕, 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚s

chapter 1 - almost friends

chapter 2 - almost something

chapter 3 - almost touched *

chapter 4 - almost normal

chapter 5 - almost honest

chapter 6 - almost enough *

chapter 7 - almost certain

chapter 8 - almost safe *

chapter 9 - almost professional

chapter 10 - almost always

[jareaufiles]

can i just say that emily prentiss and alex cabot would 100% kiss if given the chance

[jareaufiles]

we make a good team!

Slick On The Barrel

pairing: abigail borin x female!reader

warnings: dark themes, power dynamics, rough sex, oral, fingering, gun play, smut

summary: after a brutal case, abigail borin takes control. she teaches you the hard lessons of trust, fear, and command. cold steel and heated skin blur as control turns into craving, and hesitation becomes submission.

You were still shaking when the elevator doors slid shut behind you. The case had ended badly — suspects dead, gunfire too close to your head, your own hands trembling as you replayed every flash of the night. You barely remembered holsteing your weapon, let alone what you said to the rest of the team when it was over. Abby had taken one look at you, ghost-pale and silent, and told the others she’d drive you home.

Only she didn’t take you to your place.

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really. The ride to her apartment was almost silent. City lights flickered past the windshield while your heart struggled to slow, each blink of the passing world dragging you further from the crime scene and no closer to calm. Abby’s hand stayed steady on the wheel. Her jaw was set. And the only time she touched you was to rest her palm on the small of your back as she guided you inside. Gentle, grounding, but not too soft. Never soft.

You thought she’d offer you a drink, maybe a cigarette. A quiet seat on the couch while she debriefed you in that low, even voice she used when things went sideways in the field.

Instead, she set her sidearm on the coffee table in full view, eyes raking over you in a slow, deliberate scan.

“You freeze like that again and you’re dead,” she said, voice low but edged.

Your mouth opened, then closed again. You knew she wasn’t wrong. That moment, split-second hesitation, breath caught in your throat, had nearly gotten someone killed. Could’ve been her.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“I don’t care what you meant,” she cut in. “You had a clear shot. You didn’t take it.”

You flinched. Her voice wasn’t raised, but it didn’t need to be. That razor-sharp tone had cut deeper than any yell could.

“You don’t get to be scared when it counts,” she added, stepping toward you. “Not in the field. Not when I’m out there trusting you to have my back.”

“I wasn’t scared,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “I just–I hesitated.”

Abby didn’t speak right away. She studied you, head tilted slightly like she was reading something more in your posture than in your words. Then, her voice dropped. Quiet, but impossibly firm.

“And you need to learn what that costs.”

You swallowed hard, throat dry. You weren’t sure what lesson you expected. A cold lecture. A forced night on her couch. Anything but this.

But the air had shifted.

You weren’t just her teammate right now. You were something else. Something she had taken responsibility for. Something she was about to make understand.

Before you could answer, she stepped into your space, fingers curling into your collar to pull you close. The glint of steel caught the lamplight as she lifted her gun again — not to put it away, but to tilt your chin up with the muzzle.

Your pulse thundered in your ears. The cool press of steel under your chin was nothing compared to the heat in her gaze. She didn’t blink.

“Look at me,” she said, and the words were more command than request.

You did — because you couldn’t not.

The weight of her presence crowded every inch of you, pinning you more effectively than any weapon could. Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, the kind you lean toward even when you should lean away.

“You don’t move until I say.”

The barrel shifted just enough to force your head back a fraction further, and you realized — this wasn’t just about control. She was teaching you something. Testing how far you’d follow.

Somewhere deep down, you knew the lesson wouldn’t end with words.

Ḥer breath was steady. Yours wasn’t.

The muzzle slid slowly down from your chin, grazing along your throat. The threat, the promise, the deliberate act of control. You could feel the weight of her eyes tracking every reaction. The goosebumps rising along your skin, the way your lips parted like you were about to beg without knowing for what.

"You don’t get to hesitate out there,” she said, the steel tracing your collarbone now. “So you’re going to learn what it feels like to give up that choice. In here.”

The words sank in deep. You weren’t sure if you nodded, or just surrendered something silently. But Abby saw it. She always did.

"Take off your dress," she said.

You moved on instinct. Hands fumbling a little at first, but her look–firm, unwavering–steadied you more effectively than any kind touch could. Your breath catching as the muzzle followed your exposed skin.

"Slow for me," she murmured.

You froze mid-motion. Then obeyed. Slower. She was watching the fabric slowly fall to the floor, not just for pleasure, but for precision.

“That’s it baby,” Abby said quietly.

Her words rooted you in place, forcing you to meet her gaze while you obeyed. Every movement felt exposed under that scrutiny, your own awareness of each motion sharpened to a knife’s edge.

“You’re learning,” she said. “But you’re not done until I say you’re done.”

You did not expect the night to end here. Not pressed between Abigail Borin’s living room wall and the hard line of her body, her perfume in your lungs and the faint clink of metal as she let her sidearm shift in her grip. The low gold light from the lamp caught the shimmer of her dress, every curve of her body drawn sharp against you. Your pulse was in your ears, heavy and insistent, your thighs already pressed tight together in a useless attempt to calm the ache that had been building since she first leaned in close hours ago.

She smiled like she knew every thought running through your head. “You ever been this close to a loaded weapon before” Her voice was quiet but it had weight. You shook your head without even thinking, your eyes already locked on hers. That was all the answer she needed.

The muzzle of her gun touched under your chin, tilting your face up. The metal was cool and startling, sending a shiver right down your spine. You could smell the faint oil on it, taste the adrenaline pooling at the back of your throat. She watched you, eyes dark, her body perfectly still except for the slow movement of her thumb over the grip. The air between you was thick and electric.

She drew the gun downward, dragging the cold steel over the center of your throat, then lower, sliding over the swell of your breasts. Your nipples tightened instantly under your dress, straining against the thin material, and her mouth twitched into a small smirk. She circled one breast with the barrel before pressing it in, the firmness of the gun flattening the soft flesh and making your breath hitch.

You could see her reaction in the small changes of her body. The way her pupils widened. The way she shifted her stance, thighs pressing together for just a second like she was grounding herself. Her breathing was a touch faster, almost imperceptible if you were not looking for it.

The gun kept moving, deliberate and slow, until the cold weight was against your stomach. You could feel your pussy pulse in anticipation, your panties already wet enough to cling to you. When she finally pressed the muzzle between your thighs, the shock of the chill made your hips jerk against it. The hard shape parted your folds through the lace, the slick heat of you meeting the unyielding steel. Your lips felt swollen and sensitive, every nerve tuned to that single point of contact.

eyes dropped to watch and her voice came lower, rougher. “You’re soaking already.” She pressed harder, the muzzle grinding against your clit through the damp fabric, and you felt your slick spread, making the pressure more intense. The danger in it only made you wetter, your breath coming out in small gasps.

She pulled the gun away only to slip her free hand down, pushing under your panties. Her fingers slid into your folds easily, the heat of her skin a stark contrast to the cold steel seconds before. She dragged the pads of her fingers over your clit, slow circles that had your knees threatening to give out. The gun moved back up to your chest, the barrel tracing the curve of your breast before she pinched your nipple between the steel and her thumb.

You moaned without meaning to and she leaned in close to your ear. “First time and you’re dripping on my floor.” Her fingers dipped lower, pressing at your entrance until the tips slid in. She curled them, dragging along the front wall of your pussy, each stroke pulling more slick from you until it coated her knuckles. The sound was obscene in the quiet room, wet and raw.

Her other hand never stopped with the gun, keeping it against you like a reminder of who was in control. She worked her fingers faster, her palm pressing up against your clit, her own breath now catching. You could see her jaw tighten, her tongue wet her lips, and the subtle shift of her hips like she was holding herself back from grinding into you.

“Beg for it” she said softly, her tone all command. You were already trembling, your chest heaving against the gold of her dress, the muscles in your legs tightening with each deep curl of her fingers. You barely managed to get the words out, voice breaking around them.

“Please Abby… please make me cum.”

Her mouth curved into a sharp grin and she gave you exactly what you wanted, driving her fingers harder and faster, the heel of her palm crushing against your clit until your whole body seized with the rush of release. You came hot and fast around her, slick coating her hand, your cry muffled against her shoulder as the aftershocks rolled through you.

She did not stop right away. She kept her fingers moving slow, easing you down from the edge, the gun still resting against your breast. Only when your breathing began to steady did she step back, her eyes dragging over you like she was memorising the wreck she had made of you. She brought her fingers to her mouth, licking them clean in one long, slow pull before tucking the weapon back into its holster.

“You’ll get used to it” she murmured. “And next time… you won’t be standing.”

You were still catching your breath when Abby’s hand came back between your thighs. Your muscles twitched, still sensitive, but she didn’t care. Her fingers slid through your folds again, gathering more of the slick dripping from you. You could hear it now, wet and filthy, the sound making your stomach knot in heat all over again.

“You came on my gun” she said flatly, almost like she was disappointed in you for not holding back. “And you think we’re finished” She stepped in close, pressing her chest to yours so the rough glitter of her dress scratched your nipples through the damp fabric.

The muzzle was back, this time pushing under your dress without hesitation. The cold steel pressed right to your bare cunt when she shoved your panties aside, and the sharp contrast of temperature made your knees buckle. Your lips parted around a moan you couldn’t bite back. She moved the gun head against you, parting your folds with it, dragging it through the slick mess she’d already pulled out of you. The tip tapped against your clit once, twice, each time making your hips jerk.

“Look at you. Open like this for me. Dripping. All over my weapon.” Her voice had dropped lower, rougher, with a thread of disbelief that only made it filthier. She pressed it in just far enough that you felt the unyielding shape threaten your entrance. Your body clenched around nothing, begging without words for her to push it further.

She didn’t. Instead, she pulled it back and lifted it between you, holding it up so you could see your wetness coating the metal. “You’re fucking soaked. Taste yourself.” The command was sharp. She brought the slick muzzle to your lips and waited. Your mouth opened, tongue darting out, the taste of yourself mixed with the faint tang of gun oil hitting your tongue in one hot rush of humiliation and arousal.

Abby’s eyes were locked on you as you licked the steel clean, her breathing heavier now, the rise and fall of her chest pressing her tits harder against you. “Good girl” she murmured, and you felt your pussy clench just from the praise.

The gun went back into her hand as she knelt suddenly, dragging your dress up around your waist. She didn’t bother to take your panties all the way off, just shoved them to the side and pressed her mouth to you. Her tongue was hot and soft where the gun had been cold and hard, and the contrast made you cry out. She licked through your folds slow at first, tasting the mess she’d made of you, before flattening her tongue against your clit and sucking hard.

You could see her eyes flick up from between your thighs, sharp and hungry, her hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. She slid two fingers into you again, curling them with a practiced snap of her wrist while she kept sucking your clit like she wanted you to scream.

And you did. Loud, raw, your fingers buried in her hair as your second orgasm hit harder than the first, coating her chin in slick. She didn’t pull back. She kept licking you through it, the overstimulation making your thighs shake against her shoulders until you were almost trying to push her away.

Abby pulled back just enough to speak, her lips glistening. “I’m not done with you. You’re going to cum again, sweetheart, and you’re going to do it with my gun inside you.”

Abby didn’t give you time to come down. Your lungs were still dragging in short, uneven breaths, your thighs twitching with every tiny aftershock from her mouth, when she stood up and reached for her gun again. The shift in her energy was immediate — the lazy drag of her tongue gone, replaced by that razor-sharp focus you’d seen earlier when she had you pinned to the wall.

You thought she might holster it. Instead, she stepped in so close you could smell the faint tang of gun oil and your own slick on the steel. Her hand slid between your thighs, fingers dipping briefly into your mess before pulling back, her eyes following the string of slick that stretched between you and her knuckles. Her smirk deepened.

She bent just enough to press the cold muzzle to your entrance. Even after everything she’d done to you, the shock of the temperature made your hips jolt back against the couch cushions. She didn’t let you retreat. A firm grip on your hip kept you pinned, the heel of her hand digging in.

The first push was slow, deliberate, the steel sliding past your swollen folds and easing inside inch by inch. The weight of it filled you differently than her fingers had — it was unyielding, cold at first, then quickly taking on your heat as she fed you more. The stretch was blunt and merciless, forcing your body to take it without any give. Your walls clenched automatically around it, slick from your earlier orgasms making the glide almost too easy.

Her voice was low, but you felt it everywhere. “That’s it. Take it. Every inch. Feel that, sweetheart? That’s your cum already coating my weapon.” The words alone had your pussy tightening around the steel, the base of it pressing against your clit when she bottomed out.

She started to move it in short, controlled thrusts. Each slow withdrawal had you clenching to keep it, each deep push making the wet, obscene sound of your release being shoved back inside you. She angled it slightly, dragging the rigid length against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten and your breath catch.

Her eyes never left your face. She wanted to see every twitch, every shiver, every moment you tried and failed to keep quiet. “You like it. You’re dripping all over my gun and you’re still hungry for more.” She pushed harder, the thrusts picking up speed until you could feel the deep, rhythmic pressure building again. The sheer wrongness of it — the danger, the way you could still smell the faint metal under your own slick — had your head tipping back against the cushions.

“Look at me” she ordered, her free hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip until you opened for her. You could barely focus, but the command pulled your gaze back to hers. Her pupils were blown wide, her own breathing ragged now, her thighs shifting like she was aching for friction. “That’s it. Keep those pretty eyes on me while I fuck every drop back into you.”

Your body answered before your mind did, your hips rolling to meet each thrust, your clit catching on the base of the barrel every time. You were leaking around it now, the wet spreading down your ass, your inner thighs shining under the lamplight.

When she finally slowed, it was only to draw the gun out slowly. The empty ache was immediate and almost unbearable. She looked down between you, watching the cum and slick drip from your stretched hole. Her smirk returned, sharper than before. “Messy girl.”

She dropped to her knees without warning. Her hands hooked hard behind your thighs and lifted, folding you nearly in half as she pulled your legs up over her shoulders. The angle had you spread wide open for her, every inch of you exposed, the mess she’d made glistening between your folds.

And then her mouth was on you again. No teasing, no gentle licks — she went straight in, her tongue plunging deep to scoop the warm slick she’d just fucked back inside you. The heat of her mouth after the steel was devastating, her groan vibrating against your cunt as she swallowed you down.

She was ruthless. Her tongue curled deep before dragging up to your clit, lips closing around it in a hard, hungry suck. The pressure had you gasping, the sharp pleasure almost painful after everything she’d already done. She held you in place, your thighs locked over her shoulders, her fingers digging into the backs of your knees so you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to.

Every slurp, every wet sound, was filthy. She licked like she wanted every drop, chasing the taste of you until her chin was soaked. You could barely think, your vision blurring as she built you up fast, relentless in the way her mouth worked you. Your clit throbbed against her tongue, your pussy fluttering around nothing as the orgasm hit you like a wave, sharp and deep, pulling a cry from you that echoed in the quiet room.

She didn’t stop. She worked you through every twitch, every aftershock, until you were shaking, your voice gone from begging and moaning. Only then did she pull back, her lips wet, her eyes blazing as she looked up at you.

Abby eased back, finally letting the weight of the night settle. She brushed a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead, her fingers firm but gentle. Deliberate, not tentative.

“Look at me,” she said, voice low and steady.

You met her dark eyes, still flushed and breathless.

“You handled that better than I expected,” she said, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Most wouldn’t have lasted this long.”

She pulled you into a rough, one-armed hug—steady and grounding, but not suffocating. Her hand pressed firmly against your hip, anchoring you. The heat of her body was a solid weight against your own unsteady pulse.

After a moment, she eased you back onto the couch. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water.”

Her hands were sure as she helped you settle, brushing the hair from your neck and shoulders with a rough kind of gentleness. When she returned with the glass, she crouched beside you, her hand resting heavy on your thigh.

“You did good. Hell, you did more than good.”

Her thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin, a quiet rhythm that grounded you better than words. “Next time, you won’t hesitate. You’ve got this.”

She leaned closer, voice low enough that it was almost a growl. “You’re stronger than you think, and I’m not about to let you forget it.”

No coddling. No sugarcoating. Just honest praise and the quiet promise that she was right there, steady and unyielding.

And somehow, that was exactly what you needed.

—————————————————————

(my loves @littlemonstrosityy & @jareaufiles helping me write again :)))

[jareaufiles]

SVU 2x10

[jareaufiles]

season 2 emily prentiss x season 17 jennifer jeareau . . .

⋆ emily, feeling misplaced yet optimistic, new to a team who already has so much history between them but wanting to make her mark amongst them.

⋆ jennifer, stuck in a near loveless marriage and burdened by the incessant presence of a serial killer who has done the unimaginable, with her own face in the center of his target.

⋆ prentiss is eager to please, more so to prove her worth. jennifer, at first wary of the energy which, with the rest of her seemingly rapidly aging counterparts (self included), came few and far between.

⋆ jj would have found herself detesting everything about emily's overeager attitude and the way she flaunted her grand vocabulary, if it weren't for that big, toothy smile that had even the gaunt features of one miss jennifer jareau blushing.

⋆ she hadn't blushed in at least a decade.

⋆ jennifer could act avoidant. she could fortify her stoicism, could keep her lips in a tight line, could furrow the brows. she could let the younger woman follow her around with an arm full of files like a little lost puppy desperately seeking the affection of anyone. she could pretend to be nonchalant in her acceptance of cups of coffee, could still herself whenever the head leaned against her shoulder on the jet, could control herself when the elegant form brushed past and left a cloud of jasmine in its wake.

⋆ what she could not do, however, was keep her eyes from wandering.

⋆ she was dubious, at first. the jet black hair, the low-cut tops. jj's initial assessment of the vampiric aesthetic had her wondering about the morality of this woman's clothing choices. a small voice far back in the depths of jj's mind had her wondering if the cleavage was for male attention-- but the bau had little of that worthy of seeking these days.

⋆ as their days spent together progressed, as did the profile that jennifer built. low-cut shirts, yes. then, in summer, tank-tops. black, mainly. sometimes pink, and, if she were lucky, prentiss in red, the one that stood out so brightly against pale skin. pants far more professional, be they pinstriped or khaki, but always tactical, ready to launch a kick if need be.

⋆ jennifer's eyes did not obey her brain on these days when the neckline swooped so low that the smallest sliver of lace would peek out. they should not have found the small freckle on the swell of emily's right breast, should not have spent so much time focused on the dainty necklace which glimmered each time the profile swayed in her seat. they were meant to gaze upon crumpled papers or the blue light of a computer's screen, but they found themselves far more enticed by raven hair and painted fingernails, so that is where they stayed.

⋆ these stolen glances did not go unnoticed.

⋆ each time the heavy, cerulean gaze was pointed in her direction, emily felt it. it was exhilarating, to have someone fall into her trap so easily. the corner of her lip would pull up, the eyebrow with it, but her own eyes would stay stuck to her own work, the sweet new hire so focused on her work that she didn't notice her surroundings.

⋆ it was within her first week at the bau that had the thought popping into her mind. jennifer was so kind, yet made emily's mouth water, those strong arms hidden beneath long sleeved shirts, practically bulging each time she crossed them over her chest. emily would make it her goal to see the bare skin that the ribbed sleeves hid.

⋆ the provocative manor in which she dressed was simple. emily was new, she'd blame it on not having much time to go shopping for business wear amidst the unpacking of a new apartment. it was the tease that would take more effort. jennifer was reserved; it was nearly impossible to tell if any of emily's actions had any resonance on the blonde.

⋆ it was their first joint interrogation that had done it.

⋆ somewhere in louisiana. jennifer was, of course, reminded of her husband in being in his home state, but they were far enough away from new orleans that the pressure of visiting family wasn't so impressed on jj's mind. a suspect, stubborn and in refusal to speak to either of them, until emily spoke up.

⋆ jennifer didn't know what was said, only that it was french, and downright gorgeous. unlike anything jj had ever heard, had her swooning. emily noticed right away, the way the blonde hair was swept back into a ponytail, the way the arms crossed at the same time as the legs, concealing emotion. there was nothing concealing about the short clearing of throat, however. emily hadn't even intended to be at all attractive in this demonstration of the romantic language, yet the effects were clear as day.

⋆ jennifer remained fairly unconscious to the fact that she was but a mouse in a trap, and that her affection was reciprocated, until a case in maine.

⋆ the local p.d., in their generosity, had put the team up at a small cabin near the water. a lovely gesture, an even lovelier house. log walls, low lights, and a fireplace which had been lit immediately upon arrival. the issue? three rooms, five agents. alvez had claimed the couch before jennifer even knew of the predicament, leaving her the floor, or to share with rossi. here, the floor won.

⋆ that was, until a sweatshirt-clad emily prentiss gently tapped her on the shoulder, offered her room, that the bed was big and she didn't mind sharing.

⋆ "i can keep my hands to myself," she had said. and then again, that decades-forgotten blush returned.

⋆ jj only had enough time to drop her duffel and splash some water on her face before they were into the field, busied with paperwork and hunting fugitives and pouring caffeine into small paper cups.

⋆ when the day ended, she'd nearly forgotten about her sleeping arrangements. until, of course, she tiredly followed the stairs to the bedroom, found emily there already preparing for bed.

⋆ "oh, thank god," the ravenette had said when jj opened the door, voice muffled, as her elbows stuck out from around her head in awkward fashion, tan turtleneck caught somewhere in her earrings. "i think i'm stuck."

⋆ jj couldn't even laugh at the absurdity of the moment, was too overcome by the black lace spanning across porcelain skin, the small waist hugged by a thick belt. she knew right away it would be unwise to allow her hands to go anywhere near the skin, knew they would develop minds of their own, would want to trace the curves until they were memorized.

⋆ she shook the thought away, came to emily's side, found where the thread was hooked into silver and gently maneuvered it away.

⋆ "gee, you're like my knight in shining armor." emily had smiled, that big dumb smile that was oftentimes reserved for perps she was trying to con, but this time it was genuine. she stood in little more than a lace undershirt now, staring up at jj with those giant dark eyes and the lines of white which made them ever bigger, a hand lifting to jab a finger into jj's chest to accentuate her point.

⋆ jennifer must have been high with her own adrenaline, for her next action was not one that came with any thought.

⋆ "that make you my princess?" she asked, voice gravel and eyes narrow, her own hands finding the leather belt around the thin waist, tugging ever so softly, pulling a startled mewl from emily's red lips.

⋆ emily could only blink up at her, was not expecting the forwardness. jj certainly wasn't expecting it out of herself, but wouldn't let emily in on that. she simply pulled the woman in tighter until the thin fabric of her camisole rubbed against the knit of jj's sweater, until emily's palm flattened against her chest.

⋆ it was jj who initiated the kiss. small, seeking at first but emily leaving little to be explored. emily cradled the sharp jaw, smiled when she felt it tense beneath her touch.

⋆ neither had wanted to pull away, but emily did, all while her fingers lightly pet the soft skin of jj's cheek.

⋆ "I need to take a shower." she all but purred into jennifer's ear, pressing a kiss to her jaw before pulling away, finding jj's hand instead. "c'mon."

⋆ jj had never kicked her boots off faster, and for once did not mind the scent of patchouli shampoo.

[jareaufiles]

sobbing omg

Northern Attitude

Pairing: Emily Preniss x reader

Warnings: angst, emily is really sad and self hating, she desperately needs therapy, break up, not a lot of dialogue

Summary: The relationship between you and Emily was never meant to last in her eyes. She finally takes matters into her own hands and pushes you to make the “right” decision.

Word count: 678

The moment everything shatters, the only thing Emily can think is “I knew it”. She isn’t even surprised. Isn’t even upset at first. Just resigned. She knew that you were always too good for her. That everything good that happened to her would eventually leave. That she wanted it to leave.

When you said those words, her knees didn’t buckle, the earth didn’t shake. Everything just--froze. 

“I'm ending this.”

She had goaded you, really. Pushed you until you had no choice but to say the words. Until she was satisfied with the hurt in her chest, the way that she didn’t have the responsibility of something alive and warm and beautiful in her cold, cold hands anymore.

“Tell me what you want,” she had said, practically begging you to say it. Say what would take the weight of you off her shoulders. The weight of love and how she didn’t know what to do with it. Emily’s heart was a thing of myths, now hardened and shriveled down to the size of something near nonexistent. Just how she wanted it. How she forced it until she was finally content.

You had been too good, too beautiful for someone like her. She knew this. Knew it the moment you asked her to go to dinner, when you kissed her, held her hand and her shivering body on those rare, vulnerable nights. No one that pure belonged with her blood-stained hands. Surely you were only going to get stained from her.

Her brain catches up to the conversation, noting the way your eyes begin to water. Something in her stirs at the sight of a drop running down your cheek, something that pleads with her to do something to make it stop for you. To protect you from the hurt and horror that is her.

“You’re crying,” she mutters stupidly. You sniffle and it sounds like a short humorless laugh. The sound hurts her more than she thought it would.

“Yeah, Emily, it’s something humans do when they’re upset.” Your voice is flat, despite the tears on your cheeks. “Did your manufacturer's settings not come with that option?”

The blow is precise, designed to wound. Your words slice through her so cleanly she briefly considers you actually stabbed her.

“That’s not--” she pauses, clearing her throat around the lump that has suddenly formed. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Your fingers clutch at her counter, as if you need something to anchor yourself in this. Emily's fingers have found each other, the sting of freshly peeled skin keeping her sane.

“What's not fair is that this--” you gesture at the three-foot chasm between you. “Was never anything to you. Nothing but something to pass the time, right? Isn’t that what I heard you say to JJ?”

God. She had said that on the phone not too long ago, saying anything to distance herself from you. Anything from keeping her from getting too attached. 

Emily says nothing. Because she has nothing to say. Nothing to help the situation. Her eyes flicker down, unable to look at you any longer.

“Emily.” She watches your feet move closer, your hands loosen from the counter and reach towards her. She doesn’t move. Can’t move.

Your hands tentatively reach for her own, separating them gently. Her gaze involuntarily rises to meet yours, the feel of your skin on hers sparking warmth under her skin. Like she's actively leeching the life from you with just her touch. The thought makes her flinch, her fingers tightening around yours.

“Was any of it real to you?” your voice holds no fight. No accusations, no anything. Just tiredness. The raw exhaustion that Emily can see in your eyes. That she knows was caused by her. 

It’s for that reason that she savors the last bit of warmth from your touch, the last bit of light she’d get to see in your eyes when they're directed at her. Then she withdraws. Her hands, her emotions, everything.

She knows her face is painfully blank, voice devoid of any life when she answers you.

“No.”

[jareaufiles]

So glad that you’re mine. And I get your love and your attention and everything else. And I’m so so so lucky that I’m the one who gets to love you and that you chose me. Must really suck for those bitches that don’t.

i'll always choose you my girl <3 i love you!

[jareaufiles]

the sweet surrender fic you’ve written made me so emotional tbh, it was so beautiful and soft and sweet, and so well written, i absolutely loved it

thank you so much!!

[jareaufiles]

i'd let u fuck me with ur strap

💀💀

[jareaufiles]

so my darlings, i will be posting headcanons while i catch up on my writing requests. please feel free to send in some ideas as i don't have to use so much brain-power lmaooo.

[jareaufiles]

hiya ... can I request some alex cabot x reader headcanons? i don't think she'd be very vocal- what else would she do?

ALEX CABOT – NSFW HEADCANONS

MASTERLIST

Alex doesn’t need to speak to dominate. She’s silent, deliberate, and intensely focused—watching you fall apart with cool control and near-clinical precision. Eye contact replaces praise. Restraint replaces noise. She fucks you slowly, methodically, using your reactions as her guide, whispering only when absolutely necessary. Every breath, every movement is calculated—and it makes you desperate to please her. Quiet, powerful, and utterly consuming.

Alex doesn’t speak much—but she commands everything.

She doesn't need to raise her voice or moan your name to make you feel wanted. Her silence intensifies everything. You feel every breath she exhales near your neck, every slight twitch of her fingers as she presses them deeper inside you. Her restraint is part of her power. She owns the room without saying a word.

Her eyes do all the talking.

When she fucks you, she holds eye contact for long stretches. Cold, assessing at first—but the moment you whimper or gasp beneath her touch, they darken with heat. Her pupils dilate, lashes heavy, and when she watches you cum, her lips part just slightly. She doesn’t need to tell you how beautiful you look when you fall apart—she shows it in how long she keeps watching.

She’s clinical, methodical—until you break. Then she unravels just a bit.

At first, her touch is almost surgical. Every movement of her fingers, her strap, her mouth—measured. Like she’s studying you. But once she hears the desperation in your voice—when you beg, or grab her wrist, or whisper “please”—she loses precision and starts fucking you harder, deeper, her breathing ragged, biting down on her own sounds just to stay in control.

She likes to overwhelm you quietly.

Her goal isn’t to show off. It’s to make you come so hard you forget your own name—all while she stays almost eerily calm. She fingers you slowly while holding your thigh still. She uses a toy while keeping one hand pressed over your mouth, her own breathing steady and low as she watches you squirm.

She whispers—low, close to your ear—but it’s not constant.

You’ll get a soft “Good girl” or “Just like that” with the faintest curl of her lip, breath ghosting over your skin, but it’s never constant dirty talk. It’s precise, used sparingly, which makes every whispered word feel like gold.

She holds you down gently, but with absolute authority.

You never question who’s in charge when she fucks you. One hand on your hip, one on your throat, her knee between your thighs. She keeps you right where she wants you—not with brute force, but positional control. She doesn’t move much—you move for her. Her stillness dominates you.

She doesn’t moan—she exhales, clenches her jaw, hisses through her teeth.

When she cums, it’s subtle but devastating. She buries her face against your shoulder, bites down gently, lets out this deep, strained breath through her nose like she’s been holding it for ages. Her body tenses hard, and you can feel her losing control just by the way her hips buck once, twice—then still.

Afterwards, she’s warm and composed again, brushing your hair back like you’re fragile.

She doesn’t gush—but she kisses your shoulder, lays beside you without speaking, and strokes your thigh for minutes on end. If you ask, “Was that okay?” she’ll glance over, smile faintly, and say, “You did beautifully.” And it’ll wreck you.

+

BONUS BLURB

It starts in the kitchen. You're still barefoot, hair damp from the shower, wearing one of her button-down shirts. You’ve been walking around in it all morning, sleeves too long, hem brushing the tops of your thighs, completely bare underneath. You’re not trying to tease her—but you know how observant Alex is. How her eyes catch everything. She stands there sipping coffee, quiet in her black silk robe, hair pinned back in loose waves, glasses perched on her nose. She hasn’t said much today. Just watched you.

She doesn’t speak when you walk past her. Doesn’t speak when her hand catches your wrist. Her touch is light, but unshakable, fingers cold from the coffee mug. She tugs you toward her with effortless ease. You end up against the counter, pinned gently between the granite and her hips. She sets her mug down without looking, and it clinks softly against the marble. Then her hand is sliding up your thigh, slow and possessive, eyes raking over your body like a verdict being written.

Still, no words.

Just the deliberate way she drags her palm between your legs, finding you soaked and warm. She presses two fingers against your cunt without warning, spreading you open, her thumb brushing slowly over your clit. The way her mouth tightens when she feels how wet you are—it’s not surprise. It’s confirmation. She knew. Of course she did. She always knows.

“You’ve been like this all morning,” she murmurs finally, voice low, soft, a whisper more than a statement. Her lips barely move, but her breath brushes the shell of your ear. “Dripping for me. Making a mess of my shirt.”

You whimper when her fingers slide in—slow, but firm. She watches you as she works them deeper, curling just enough to find that spot that makes your thighs shake. She doesn’t kiss you. She doesn’t blink. Just stares, blue eyes sharp behind her glasses as your mouth drops open and your hips rock against her hand. Her thumb presses down just slightly harder, grinding in circles now, and you can’t help the way your breath hitches.

“Keep quiet,” she says softly. No malice. No heat. Just instruction. Command dressed as calm suggestion.

So you do. You keep your moans locked behind your teeth while her fingers fuck you slowly in the kitchen. The shirt sticks to your back. Your legs tremble. And all the while, Alex never raises her voice. Never even shifts her stance. She takes her pleasure from watching you come undone with as little effort as possible. Her breathing stays even. Her mouth is still. But when you cum around her fingers, pulsing and tight, she finally lets out this low, barely audible hum. Like approval. Like satisfaction.

She doesn’t stop. She keeps her fingers buried inside you as she walks you backward into the bedroom. Her robe falls open as she moves. You see the strap beneath, black leather snug around her hips, already hard against her stomach. She presses you to the edge of the bed, leans down to kiss your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “On your knees.”

You obey instantly, slipping to the floor with the practiced ease of someone who’s done this before, but never enough. She guides you to suck her strap slowly, her hand resting at the back of your head, not pushing. Just holding you there. Watching you. Her breathing gets heavier, but her voice stays calm. Measured. She doesn’t moan. She doesn’t beg. She lets your worship speak for her. And when she finally pulls you up, bends you over the bed, and sinks her cock into you from behind with one smooth thrust, she exhales a sharp breath through her nose.

Still silent.

But her hand grabs your waist with force now. Her pace is slow but punishing, dragging that thick strap in and out of you, fucking you with perfect rhythm. You can hear the wet sounds of your cunt each time she drives back in. Feel her body still dressed in silk, cock sliding deep, her thighs pressed to yours. The bed shifts, your moans fill the room, but Alex only watches. Bites her lip once. Hisses softly when you start to cum again, clenching around the silicone, gasping into the sheets.

And only then—only as your voice breaks and your body shakes—does she lean over you, lips brushing your shoulder, and whisper, so quiet you almost miss it:

“You’re mine.”

dividers by @cafekitsune

[jareaufiles]

could u make some hcs about really vocal/loud g!p emily prentiss??

EMILY PRENTISS – NSFW HEADCANONS

MASTERLIST

Emily tries to stay in control—but once she’s buried inside you, all bets are off. She’s loud, breathless, and filthy. Groaning in your ear, panting through gritted teeth, praising and degrading you with every thrust. She moans your name like a prayer, growls when you cum, and completely falls apart when she finishes—shouting, gasping, utterly wrecked. She loves how needy she sounds for you—and makes sure you never forget how hard you make her lose control.

Emily tries to be quiet—really tries—but once she’s inside you? It’s over.

The second your pussy clenches around her? A deep, involuntary groan punches out of her chest. She throws her head back, jaw slack, moaning as she fills you up. “Ffffuck—Jesus, baby—so fucking tight…”

Her voice drops. It’s raspy, desperate, full of need.

She sounds wrecked. Breathy gasps between her words. Swears whispered through clenched teeth as she slams into you, completely feral. “You feel that? That’s me, baby. My cock. Fucking you so deep—so fucking deep—shit, you were made for this.”

Emily praises and degrades you all in the same breath.

“Look at you. Taking it like a good girl.” “Can’t stop clenching around me, can you? You needy little thing.” “You like hearing me lose it, huh? Getting off on how loud I am? Fuck, you’re such a slut for this cock.”

She growls when you cum. Like, full-on growls in your ear.

The way your pussy tightens around her makes her feral. Her grip on your hips bruises, and her voice drops to a low, guttural sound as she slams into you harder. “Cum for me—fuck, just like that. Good girl. God, you feel so fucking good…”

She moans your name like she’s possessed.

Sometimes it’s desperate—“Oh my god, baby—baby—fuck—” Sometimes it’s low and dark—“Say my name. Louder. Let them all hear who’s fucking you this good.” And when you say her name back, all breathy and ruined? She groans like she’s about to cum right then and there.

When she’s about to cum? She loses all composure.

The thrusts get sloppy. Her moans turn into whimpers—actual choked gasps as her cock twitches inside you. “Gonna fucking cum—fuck, baby, I can’t—shit, don’t stop squeezing me—oh my god, yesyesyes—” and she shouts through it. Loud. Messy. Not caring who hears.

She loves how ruined she sounds when she’s buried deep in you.

Sometimes, after, she’ll tease you about it. “God, I was loud, wasn’t I?” But secretly? She lives for it. Loves the way your eyes go wide when she groans into your neck, loves the way her voice makes your pussy throb. She knows she sounds wrecked—and she wants you to hear everything.

Public sex? She tries to stay quiet—but you always break her.

You grinding on her cock in a locked office? She’s biting her hand, muffling every needy sound—but the second she cums? She grunts through it, whole body shaking, whispering, “Shit—fuck—fuck—god, you’re gonna get us caught.”

She cums loudest when she’s balls deep, watching your face twist in pleasure.

The view of you? Eyes rolled back, tits bouncing, drool slipping from your lips? It wrecks her. She groans like an animal, cumming so hard her legs nearly give out. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t take it, baby, you’re too perfect. I’m gonna cum—I’m fucking cumming—”

+

BONUS BLURB

The head of Emily’s cock drags deep against your walls, the thickness of it stretching you open again and again as you sink down onto her. She’s spread beneath you, broad shoulders flexed against the pillows, hands gripping your thighs so hard they tremble under her hold. Her strap, or maybe it’s real tonight, you don’t even know anymore, is long, thick, slick with your arousal and buried so deep inside you that your clit rubs against the base every time you grind your hips. You’re soaked, ruined, and it’s all over her, slick making it easier to take her over and over, the mess squelching between your thighs as you bounce.

"F-fuck, fuck, baby, just like that," Emily’s voice cracks mid-word, loud and raw, her head thrown back against the sheets as you ride her like you own her. Her cock twitches inside you when you squeeze down, clenching hard on purpose, and her hips buck up against your rhythm, desperate, greedy for more. Her voice is everywhere, groaning and swearing, moaning your name like it’s the only thing she remembers how to say. “Oh my god, look at you, riding my cock, so fucking wet, you're dripping all over me, shit.”

Your pussy pulses around her, swallowing her whole every time you drop down, walls fluttering from the constant stimulation. You rock your hips in hard, grinding circles against the base of her cock, and the friction on your clit makes your thighs shake. “You feel so fucking good inside me,” you gasp, dragging your nails down her stomach, “I’m not stopping until you cum.”

And that’s when she loses it.

Emily’s loud, so loud. Her voice pitches up into a sharp, broken groan that borders on a cry, her body jerking upward, cock swelling inside you as her orgasm overtakes her. “Fuckfuckfuck, I’m cumming, I’m, Jesus, baby, I’m,” Her hands dig into your hips, dragging you down, slamming you against her one last time as she cums with her mouth open, gasping your name, thighs trembling violently beneath you. Her cock throbs as she fills you, imaginary or not, the sensation is overwhelming and the warmth of her groans in your ear makes your pussy clench around her so hard it knocks another wave of slick from between your legs.

You keep riding her through it, don’t stop, not even when she begs, not even when her voice cracks again and she gasps, “I can’t, I can’t take it, baby, fuck, you’re gonna make me cum again.”

You will. She knows it. She’s already loud enough that the neighbours have probably heard. And you’re not stopping until she’s hoarse and soaked and begging for mercy.

dividers by @cafekitsune