Haru’s Bonbons

Summary: Jealous Adam Dalgliesh tries very hard to call it immaturity, but somehow still ends up watching you a little too closely and deciding Collins is suddenly “transfer material.”

The relationship had existed for eight months and six days. Not that Adam was counting. The fact that he knew the exact number would remain between himself and God.

No one at the Yard knew. No one in the squad suspected. The arrangement had begun with caution and continued with even greater caution, both of you understanding exactly how quickly gossip could spread through police stations. There were no stolen kisses in hallways, no lingering touches in public, no visible signs that the Commander and one of his detectives belonged to one another.

At work, you were simply colleagues. After work, you became everything else. Adam had thought the separation manageable.

Until recently.

Adam noticed it long before anyone else did.

The young detective had a habit of hovering near your desk. Not enough to attract comment, but enough that Adam's eyes found the interaction every time.

Adam had been watching it unfold long before he ever admitted it to himself, the easy way you spoke with the younger detective, the way laughter came more readily when you weren’t aware he was looking, the way Collins lingered near your desk under the harmless guise of work while Adam stood at a distance pretending it did not matter. Normal things, nothing was inappropriate. Nothing he could object to. Which made it worse.

He was standing by the office window when he heard your laugh float across the room.The kind you rarely gave, expect with him. When he turned, he found the detective leaning against your desk, speaking animatedly while you smiled up at him.

Something sharp settled beneath Adam's ribs. Possessiveness. An emotion he despised. He looked away immediately.

By lunch he had convinced himself it was nothing. By evening he had memorized every occasion the detective had touched your arm.

He stood beside the incident board while discussing witness timelines with the team. Around him, officers moved between desks carrying statements and photographs. The usual noise of a major investigation filled the room.

You were across the office, laughing. God you were laughing. Not at him. At Collins.

Adam continued speaking without interruption. "The victim was last seen leaving the restaurant at approximately twenty-two hundred—" Collins said something.

You laughed again. A proper laugh this time, the one that made your shoulders shake and your nose crinkle. Adam lost his place in the timeline. Though it was only for a second, none could have noticed it. Well, except him of course.

His gaze shifted briefly across the room.

Collins was leaning against your desk, grinning like an idiot. You were smiling up at him, you weren’t leaning towards Collins, but Collins was. The sensation that settled in Adam's chest was deeply unpleasant.

He ignored it, at least attempted to without his nerves brining him down.

"Sir?" Adam looked back at the detective waiting for an answer. "Sorry?" "The CCTV footage." He shook his head back in remembrance, "Yes." The briefing continued.

The briefing moved simply, each point was discussed throughly, with a precise direction and smooth flow that would have Adam’s attention fully. Yet every few moments his attention betrayed him.There you were, dressed in your button up suit, wearing those heels he loved. Talking to bloody Collins. He wanted to physically gag but his age reminded him of his need for maturity, in truth it was just to keep up appearances.

He averted his gaze, looking back at the witness statements.

Then five minutes later, he looked back. You were still talking to Collins. Ten minutes after that, Collins returned with two coffees. One for himself. One for you.

Adam found himself wondering whether you even liked the blend Collins usually bought. You preferred darker roasts. You always complained lighter coffees tasted watered down. The thought appeared so naturally that Adam nearly swore aloud. Because that wasn't the point.

The point was that he shouldn't care.

The point was that you were free to speak to whoever you pleased.

The point was that Collins had done absolutely nothing wrong.

The point was—"Commander?" Adam blinked. The room had gone quiet. Every detective was looking at him. Apparently he had stopped speaking mid-sentence.” Continue with the canvass," he said curtly.

The briefing ended moments later.

Everyone dispersed, shuffling into their steps. Everyone except you. You approached his desk carrying a folder. He looked up as he did, resisting the urge to pull you closer to him as you stood.

"Hi. Thought you'd want the updated witness statements." You smiled at him.

"Thank you."

You placed the folder down, n either of you moved. Months of practice, careful planning had made these moments easy to disguise. To everyone else it looked like an ordinary work exchange.

To Adam it felt unbearable. Because you were standing less than three feet away and he couldn't touch you. Couldn't kiss your forehead. Couldn't ask about your day. Couldn't tell you that he'd slept badly because you'd worked a double shift and hadn't come home until after midnight. Instead he simply opened the folder.

"You've missed three signatures."

Your eyebrow rose. "Have I?"

"Page seven." You leaned over the desk. Close enough for him to catch the familiar scent of your shampoo, close enough to recognize the sent of your favorite perfume, close enough to remind him exactly why this arrangement was becoming increasingly difficult.

Your shoulder brushed his, purely accidental yet Adam's pulse jumped. His ears began to redden and his jaw clenched. You noticed immediately.

Of course you did. A tiny smile threatened the corner of your mouth, then your eyes flicked briefly across the room.

Towards him.

Towards Collins.

And understanding dawned on you, the smile disappeared. Not because you were amused. Because you finally understood why Adam had spent the entire morning behaving like a man being slowly poisoned.

"Oh." The word escaped before you could stop it.

Adam's expression became dangerously neutral. A sure sign he was internally suffering.

You looked at Collins.

Then back at Adam.

Then at Collins again.

The pieces slid together with embarrassing ease, the interrupted briefing the short curt answers. The unusually cold demeanor. The fact that Adam had been staring holes through an innocent detective for the better part of four hours. Your lips twitched. "Don't." His voice was low. You bit the inside of your cheek.

"Adam—" "Not here." Which confirmed everything.

A laugh nearly escaped, you managed to suppress it, trying to protect his dignity. Adam closed the folder with precision. The movement alone told you exactly how agitated he was."Go finish your statements."

"Yes, Commander." The title was deliberate. His eyes narrowed.

You turned before your composure failed entirely. As you walked away, Collins waved from across the room. You waved back automatically.

The sound of a pen snapping echoed from Adam's desk.

The office had thinned and the work had stretched into the kind of late hour where fatigue softened everything except awareness, and Adam eventually stepped out of his office intending to close the day only to find you asleep on the sofa, not carefully or deliberately, but completely, as though exhaustion had simply taken what it needed without negotiation, your arm tucked beneath your head and a case file resting half-forgotten against your fingers.

Collins’s jacket lay over you.

Adam stopped.

There was no immediate reaction on his face, nothing that would have betrayed thought to anyone watching, but something in his chest tightened in a way that had very little patience for logic, because Collins had done nothing wrong, had simply noticed what anyone might have noticed and acted on it without hesitation, and that, more than anything, was what made the feeling so difficult to name without irritation.

Collins sat a few desks away, surrounded by witness statements and empty coffee cups. Every so often his attention drifted from the paperwork toward the sofa, checking on you before returning to whatever report he was working through.

When he noticed Adam, he straightened slightly.

"Sir."

"Still here, Collins?”

"Just finishing the Southwark summaries."

Adam glanced at the stack of papers beside him and gave a brief nod. It was a reasonable enough explanation. "Didn't want to wake them," Collins added, his gaze flicking toward the sofa.

A perfectly ordinary comment. Adam looked down at the file in his hands, though he couldn't have said what was written on the page. "You're off duty."

Collins hesitated. "Nearly done."

"Nevertheless."

The younger detective blinked, clearly weighing whether that was a suggestion or an order. Judging by the expression that followed, he wisely decided it was the latter. "Right." He began collecting his things. Files disappeared into a satchel. Pens followed. Adam remained where he was, watching the office through the calm detachment that years of command had made second nature. Eventually Collins slung the bag over one shoulder and reached for his coat.

Then stopped.

"Oh."His attention landed on the jacket draped over you. For some reason, that single syllable irritated Adam more than it had any right to.

"I should probably—"

"Leave it." The words came out before he could reconsider them. Collins looked surprised. Adam was not entirely pleased with himself either.

A brief silence stretched between them.

"The jacket," Adam clarified. "Right. Of course."

Another pause. "Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight."

The detective left, the office door clicking shut behind him. The silence that followed seemed deeper than before. Adam remained standing for a moment, listening to the rain against the windows. His eyes drifted to the jacket abandoned over the back of the sofa. There was nothing remarkable about it.

Just a coat

Dark wool.

Sensible.

It had served its purpose. Still, his gaze lingered there longer than necessary before moving back to you. The thought that crossed his mind was not one he felt particularly proud of. He dismissed it.

He dismissed it. Unfortunately, dismissing a thought was not quite the same thing as getting rid of it. With a quiet sigh, he crossed the room. The file balanced on your lap looked moments away from sliding to the floor. He lifted it away first and placed it on a nearby table before looking down at you properly.

Even asleep, you looked tired. The strain he'd been seeing all week had finally eased from your face. A loose strand of hair had fallen across your forehead. Without thinking, he brushed it aside. You stirred slightly but didn't wake.

His attention drifted back to the jacket.

A practical gesture. Nothing more than that.

After a moment, he bent down and lifted it away, folding it neatly before placing it on the back of a nearby chair. Then he slipped off his own coat and draped it over you instead. The heavier fabric settled around your shoulders.

Almost immediately you shifted closer into the warmth. Adam looked away. "Hopeless," he muttered. The criticism lacked conviction. You made a faint noise in your sleep and settled further into the coat, apparently satisfied with the exchange.

Adam stood there a moment longer than necessary. Long enough to confirm you were comfortable. Long enough to realise he wasn't in any hurry to return to his office. In the end, he dragged a chair closer to the sofa and sat down beside you, telling himself it was to finish reviewing reports.

The fact that he didn't open a single one for the next ten minutes was a matter he chose not to examine too closely.

You surfaced from sleep slowly, awareness returning in fragments rather than all at once, the kind of gradual return that left you unsure where the dream ended and the office began until the rain against the windows, the faint ticking of a clock, and the weight of exhaustion finally anchored you back into reality.

And then you felt it. A hand on your shoulder.

“Come on,” Adam said quietly, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the silence, and when you opened your eyes he was leaning over you, one hand still resting against your shoulder while the other held his glasses loosely, as though he had taken them off only moments ago to give himself a break he clearly wasn’t taking.

For a moment neither of you moved, and then his expression softened slightly when he realized you were awake.

“There you are.” You blinked up at him, still half caught in sleep. “What time is it?”

“Half three,” he replied. The answer made you groan immediately.

Adam’s mouth twitched. “An eloquent response.”

“I’m sleeping here,” you muttered, shifting slightly like that might somehow reinforce your argument.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

You closed your eyes again in stubborn protest, which turned out to be a mistake, because the sofa dipped immediately and your eyes snapped open again just in time to feel his arm slide behind your back and the other beneath your knees.

“Adam,” you warned weakly, though your voice lacked any real strength. His gaze met yours, calm in the way that usually meant he had already decided everything.

“You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I can walk.”

“You fell asleep reading witness statements.”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“It is not.”

And before you could argue further, he lifted you fully into his arms. Effortlessly. Which, unfortunately, only confirmed what you already suspected about him. The fact that he had clearly made a decision about this several seconds before you woke up.

“You’re enjoying this,” you accused immediately, narrowing your eyes.

“I am carrying you,” he replied evenly as he adjusted his grip, “because you are exhausted and would otherwise attempt to walk into a wall.”

“That is a dramatic assumption.”

“It is an accurate one.” You huffed, but the sound dissolved into a small laugh as he turned toward the corridor, and his arm tightened slightly around you in response, not enough to feel restrictive, just enough that you noticed, which somehow made it worse.

The building was quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that only came when even the most dedicated officers had finally surrendered to fatigue, so there was no urgency in his steps, no need for distance or restraint, and for once that fact seemed to sit comfortably between you rather than complicate it.

“You know,” you murmured after a moment, head resting against his shoulder, “I can actually walk.”

“So you’ve said,” he replied.

“You aren’t listening.”

“I am listening.”

“You just disagree.”

“Yes.”

That earned a faint, tired laugh from you, and you felt rather than saw the way his expression shifted slightly at the sound, the smallest softening around his eyes that never appeared in the presence of anyone else. After a moment, his thumb brushed lightly against your sleeve, almost absent-minded, like he hadn’t realized he’d done it until it was already over.

“I’ve hardly seen you this week,” he said quietly, and the admission sat between you both in a way that was unexpectedly honest. You looked up at him properly then, studying his face. “You could have said something.”

A faint, reluctant curve touched his mouth, something close to resignation and affection all at once. “I suspect that would not have changed the workload.”

“Probably not,” you admitted. He adjusted you slightly as he reached the lift, still not putting you down, still not even pretending he was considering it.

“And yet,” you added, watching him, “you’re carrying me anyway.”

His eyes met yours briefly as the doors opened. “I am correcting a situation,” he said simply, stepping inside, “that should have been corrected earlier.”

You smiled into his shoulder. “That sounds suspiciously like an excuse.”

“It is not.”

“It absolutely is.”

And for once, he didn’t argue further, which in itself felt like an answer, especially when his arm stayed firmly around you as the lift doors closed and the world outside narrowed to just the two of you, suspended somewhere between exhaustion and something neither of you needed to name out loud to understand.

The lift had barely begun its descent when you shifted in his arms, no longer asleep but still comfortably tucked against him in a way that suggested you had no intention of making his life easier, and Adam, for his part, seemed to have settled far too easily into the role of carrying you, as though the transition from urgent practicality to quiet inevitability had happened without his permission, especially now that his attention was fixed a little too carefully on the lift indicator above the doors rather than on you.

“Adam,” you said, tilting your head against his shoulder.

“Hm?” he answered, still not looking down.

“Why were you glaring at Collins all week?”

“I wasn’t,” he replied immediately, too immediately, adjusting his grip slightly as the lift slowed.

“You were.”

“I wasn’t.”

The doors opened, and he stepped out into the corridor with you still in his arms as though it were the most unremarkable thing in the world, while you let the silence sit between you for a moment, listening to his steady footsteps before adding, “Remember my cousin from Southwark?”

The question landed lightly enough, but his pace changed anyway, just enough for you to notice as his gaze finally dropped to you with faint suspicion.

“Your cousin,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you confirmed, far too casually.

A pause followed, one that visibly deepened as something in his expression shifted.

“Collins?” he asked. You nodded.

And for a moment he simply stopped walking altogether, standing there in the middle of the corridor while the realization took shape in stages, his mind clearly retracing every interaction, every glance, every carefully observed moment that had apparently meant something entirely different in hindsight, until finally—“Oh.”

It was quiet. But it carried a level of internal collapse that made you bite back a laugh immediately. “Adam,” you began, already failing to sound serious.

He closed his eyes briefly as if that might undo the last two weeks of assumptions.

“You could have mentioned that,” he said at last, still holding you as though his body had not yet decided what to do with this new information.

“I thought you remembered.”

“You never said Collins.”

“I’m fairly sure I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

The certainty in his tone only made it worse, and you lost the battle entirely, laughing as he resumed walking again, though now with a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “You thought I was flirting with my cousin,” you managed between laughs, watching him carefully.

“He was always near your desk,” he replied, voice carefully neutral. “Because he’s my cousin.”

“He kept bringing you coffee.”

“He brings coffee to half the building.”

“You laughed at everything he said.”

“Adam,” you said, still smiling, “he’s my cousin.” That seemed to land harder than anything else, and for a brief moment he said nothing at all, just continued walking with the faintest tightening around his jaw before lifting a hand briefly to his forehead as though trying to physically reorganize the last fortnight of his life.

By the time you reached the car you were still laughing, and Adam looked like a man actively reconsidering several major life decisions, including some that clearly involved professional ethics and others that involved you, and when he finally set you down, you stepped forward immediately and wrapped your arms around him without hesitation, still grinning into his shoulder.

To your surprise, he didn’t pull away, only paused for a moment before his arms settled around you properly, steady and familiar, and when his forehead finally rested lightly against yours his voice came quieter than before, almost resigned. “You’re never going to let this go.”

“Not a chance,” you said, still smiling.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if accepting a verdict he had no right to appeal. “That,” he murmured, “is exactly what I was afraid of.”

You know," you murmured against his shoulder, "the fact that you were jealous is actually quite sweet."

"It wasn't jealousy." The denial came automatically. You smiled, snorting into his shoulder. Adam sighed, resting his forehead lightly against yours.

"It was concern."

"Mm."

"For your judgment."

"Mm."

His eyes narrowed slightly. You laughed again. And when his expression finally softened into reluctant amusement, you reached up and brushed a hand through his hair.

"I love you too, Commander."

The look he gave you suggested he knew exactly what you'd done. Unfortunately for him, the corner of his mouth twitched anyway. And that was all the confirmation you needed.

— Another treat! I was fairly busy this week but now I’ve managed to clear up my schedule and finish one of my drafts. I hope you enjoyed this!

Summary: You keep staring at Adam Dalgliesh’s hands. Unfortunately for you, he notices every single time.

The first time, you didn’t realize you were staring until he stopped turning the page.

Silence settled over the sitting room of the vicarage, warm from the low fire and the rain tapping softly against the windows. Adam Dalgliesh sat opposite you with a book balanced in one hand, glasses low on his nose, thumb brushing absently along the edge of the paper.

His hands were unfair, frustratingly unfair.

Long fingers. Clean nails. Veins shifting beneath pale skin every time he turned a page. Strong enough to look dangerous, careful enough to hold old books like relics.

You looked too long.

Without lifting his eyes from the page, he said mildly, “If there’s something you’d like to say, you may say it.”

Heat climbed straight into your face. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.”

“I was thinking.”

“Mm.” Another page turned. “About my hands.”

Your mouth fell open.

That finally made him glance up. Calm. Dry. Amused in the faintest possible way.

“You looked at them,” he said, “like they’d personally offended you.”

The second time happened in the car.

One hand rested loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped once against the gear shift at a red light. You caught yourself watching the movement again, the flex of tendons beneath rolled sleeves, the silver glint of his watch, the way his fingers curled with effortless control.

“You’re doing it again,” he said. You snapped your gaze toward the window immediately. “Doing what?” “Looking at me.”

“I literally am not.”

“Mm.” That soft, knowing hum made your stomach flip in annoyance.

Adam stopped at a red light and finally looked over.“You like my hands,” he said simply.

You stared at him in horror.

He looked devastatingly composed about it.

“You cannot just say things like that.” “And yet,” he murmured, eyes flicking back to the road as the light turned green, “I did.”

You crossed your arms stubbornly and looked out the window toward the passing London traffic.

“You’re very smug for a detective.”

“I’m observant for a detective.”

When you gave no response, he triumphed in silent victory. Adam didn’t look away from the road, but satisfaction ghosted briefly across his mouth.

“I hate when you do that,” you muttered.

“No, you don’t.”

Worse part was, he was right.

The third time was worse because other people were there.

The team had gathered in the conference room, papers scattered across the table, tension running taut after twelve straight hours on the case. Adam stood beside the board, sleeves rolled past his forearms while he pinned photographs into place.

You should have been listening.

Instead, your eyes tracked the precise movement of his fingers smoothing paper flat against the corkboard.

Strong hands. Steady hands.

Hands that had carried coffins. Written poetry. Held murder evidence. Held you.

God help you.

“You’ve gone quiet,” one of the detectives remarked. You straightened instantly. “I’m listening.”

Adam turned at the sound of your voice, and immediately caught you looking. One slow glance downward toward his hands before his eyes lifted back to yours.

A tiny lift of one eyebrow.

That was all.

The corner of his mouth twitched just enough to tell you he knew exactly what he was doing when he deliberately rolled his sleeves higher.

You wanted to die.

The fourth time, he did something about it.

You were sitting beside him on the sofa after midnight, exhaustion heavy in your bones while rain murmured outside. Adam was reading through case notes, glasses perched low again, one hand supporting his chin.

And you stared.

Again.

This time, you didn’t even try to hide it.

His fingers tapped once against the file before he closed it entirely.

“Come here.”

Your breath caught slightly. “I am here.”

“You know what I mean.”

Slowly, suspiciously, you shifted closer.

Adam reached for your hand first—warm, broad palm folding around yours effortlessly. He turned your hand over carefully, studying your fingers with the same attention you’d spent weeks giving him.

“You look at my hands,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly across your wrist, “as though you’re trying to solve something.”

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.” You swallowed. “I just like them.”

Then he lifted your hand and pressed a kiss against your knuckles, slow enough to make your heart ache.

For a moment he said nothing. Afterward, he threaded his fingers through yours deliberately.

“There,” he said softly, returning to his papers without letting go. “Now you can stare properly.”

— photos from https://x.com/madinthemoon?s=21

Summary: Pent up feelings lead to dirty confessions. Involves sp!nking, f!ngering, p in v. Enjoy :))

“How about a game?” he asked.

The words were even, but there was something cautious beneath them, “One where,” he continued, letting the silence stretch just enough to make you stay with him, “there’s a charge to it, if you step out of line.” The kind that suggested you were already mapping the shape of what he meant. His gaze did not leave yours. If anything, his stare lingered more.

The question wasn’t indulgent. It was a probe, a finger pressed to a pulse point, testing for a reaction. His jaw flexed, just once, before he answered. “A correction.”

She waited.

“Remove any article of clothing,” he said. “Any of your choosing.”

The words hung between them, heavy and deliberate. She could feel the weight of them settling over her skin, warm and electric, like a hand hovering just above her collarbone.

“So, kind of like dirty poker?” You teased. He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours for a second. He didn’t smile straight away, but something in his expression shifted.

“Not quite,” he said at last. His voice was even, but lower than before. “Poker suggests chance. This is observation.”

“Observation,” you repeated, as if testing the word. “And patience.” That did something inconvenient to the air between you. You leaned back slightly, as though you could create distance by will alone. “So you’re saying you’d win.” “I’m saying,” he corrected gently, “that most people reveal more than they intend to.”

A pause. “And me?” you asked, softer now. For the first time, his eyes flickered away, just briefly, like that question landed somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. Then back again. “You’re not difficult to read,” he said. That should have been simple. Harmless. But the way he said it made it feel like something else entirely.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

“Oh?”

A faint shift in his posture, controlled, still composed, but no longer entirely distant. “You think you are,” he added. “But you react. You hesitate. You test boundaries.” Your voice turned lighter on instinct, a defense. “And what does that make me, Inspector?” That title seemed to tighten something in him rather than loosen it.

“Honest,” he said finally. “Whether you mean to be or not.” The space between you didn’t close, but it changed, like a door left ajar instead of shut. And for a moment, neither of you moved, as if any further observation might become something neither of you could easily explain away afterward.

"Just how much trouble do you think I am, exactly?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, laced with a laugh that didn't quite land. Your fingers drummed against your thigh, once, twice, before you forced them still. The inspector didn’t answer right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead, where the streetlights cast uneven pools of yellow on the wet asphalt.

Rain had started an hour ago, the kind that came down steady and unremarkable, the kind you barely noticed until your socks were soaked. Then, Adam leaned forward slightly, his elbow resting on the console between us. His fingers tapped once against the dashboard, thoughtful. “You left home younger than you usually admit,” he said suddenly.

You looked up sharply. “What?”

“The habit of apologizing before asking questions. The overpacked bag. “ His gaze flicked briefly toward your hands, “you keep your belongings arranged as though you expect to leave quickly.”

You stared at him. “That is an insane conclusion.”

“Not at all. Merely cumulative.” His tone remained infuriatingly calm.

“People raised securely tend to occupy space without thinking about it. You do not. Even now, you sit as though prepared to make yourself smaller if necessary.” The car fell quiet.

"You've got one right," you said, then bent down. The confined space of the car made everything awkward, but you managed, your skirt riding up your thighs as you reached for the waistband of your pantyhose. Adam's breath hitched. You heard it, the sharp intake. But when you glanced up through your lashes, his face was a mask of professional detachment. His gaze lingered on your eyes deliberately, refusing to drop lower even as you peeled the sheer fabric down your legs.

Kicking off your heels, you worked the pantyhose over your ankles and tossed them onto the dashboard. The movement was clumsy, ungraceful, nothing like the seductive scenes in films but his jaw tightened anyway. A small tell. A crack in the inspector's armor.

"My turn, Inspector," you cooed, settling back against the passenger seat. You let your knees fall apart slightly, just enough to give him a glimpse of what waited beneath your bunched skirt. "You grew up religious. Father a vicar, mother a Catholic. But you don't believe anymore, do you?"

His eyes finally dropped. Traced the line of your exposed thigh. The soft skin above your stocking line. You watched his throat work as he swallowed. "That's not relevant to this conversation." His voice came out rougher than he intended.

"Isn't it?" You tilted your head, studying him. "All those years of guilt. All those lessons about sin and temptation. About what happens to wicked women who tease good men."

You trailed a finger along your inner thigh, just barely. "Does it still haunt you, Inspector? The voice in your head telling you this is wrong?"

The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. His hands remained frozen on the steering wheel, knuckles white. Outside, a breeze whispered across the street, carrying a whispered sound through the trees.

"Tell me something," you continued, your voice dropping to something softer, intimate. "When you touch yourself at night, do you ask forgiveness afterward? Do you still hear your father's voice condemning you?"

"Stop." The word came out strangled.

"Make me."

His eyes snapped to yours. A challenge. A dare. The air in the car seemed to shrink, pressing you both together in the darkness. You held his gaze, refusing to blink, refusing to yield. You'd seen this look before, the one that said he wanted to put you in your place, wanted to make you pay for every insolent word that left your mouth. Slowly, deliberately, you reached for the top button of your blouse. His eyes tracked the movement. One button. Two. The fabric fell open, revealing the lace underneath.

"Should I confess, Inspector?" You whispered the words like a secret. "Should I tell you all the wicked thoughts I've had about you? About what I want you to do to me?"

"DI Constable—" His voice cracked.

"I’m not just that to you anymore ." Another button. "You know that."

Her reassignment had been final for nine months. Official. Signed. Filed. He had been there when it happened, standing at the edge of the office like he had no right to be closer to it than that. And yet he had still looked. He always looked.

He told himself it was professionalism.

Awareness. Duty. The kind of attentiveness expected of a man in his position, especially one who had once trained himself to see people clearly, without indulgence. But that wasn’t the truth he was wrestling with now.

She stood too close. Not by accident. Not anymore. And every inch of distance he should have enforced properly nine months ago now felt like something he had already failed to maintain.

"I shouldn't—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "This is highly inappropriate."

"So was bringing me here." You smiled, slow and knowing. "So was watching me through your office for the past months. Did you think I didn't notice? Did you think I didn't know what you were doing in your car after I went inside?"

His face darkened with shame and something darker. Something raw.

"I was ensuring your safety."

"Is that what you call it?" You let your hand drift higher, pushing your skirt up another inch. "Because it looked a lot like longing to me. A lot like a man who can't stop thinking about something he knows he shouldn't want.”

"Enough." The word was sharp, authoritative, the voice of a man used to being obeyed. "You're playing a dangerous game."

"I'm counting on it."

You reached across the center console, your fingers finding the knot of his tie. He stiffened but didn't pull away. Slowly, you loosened the fabric, tugging it free from his collar. Your knuckles brushed against his throat, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin.

"Here's how this is going to work, Inspector." You kept your voice low, controlled. "You've been watching me. Following me. Wanting me. Now you're going to do something about it."

"Or what?"

"Or you go home tonight. Alone. To your empty flat and your cold sheets. And tomorrow, you'll follow me again. And the day after that. And every day until you finally work up the courage to take what you want." You leaned closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. "Unless you'd rather live with the regret. The sin of omission. All those Sundays in church, and you never learned that wanting without acting is its own kind of hell."

His hand shot out, gripping your wrist hard enough to make you gasp. For a moment, you thought he'd push you away. End this before it could truly begin. Instead, his thumb traced a circle against your pulse point. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes bored into yours, searching for something, permission, perhaps. Or maybe absolution he knew he'd never find.

"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured.

"But what a way to go."

He pulled you toward him suddenly, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. All teeth and desperation and years of restraint finally snapping. You melted into it, into him, your fingers finding purchase on his broad shoulders as his free hand fisted in your hair. When he finally pulled back, you were both breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, any pretense of professionalism gone.

"Get in the back," he ordered.

The leather seats creaked as you climbed into the back of the town car, the scent of polished wood and whiskey thick in the air. His cufflinks clicked against the divider glass as he locked it, sealing you both in that velvet-lined confessional on wheels.

"Count." The first strike came before you could inhale, sharp enough to make your thighs jerk against the seat. "Forgive me, Inspector," you gasped, though his tailored slacks and the way he gripped your neck made it clear he was no clergyman.

"Louder." His palm came down again, punctuating each syllable of your stuttered prayer. The rhythm built like a hymn, your choked apologies, the wet slap of skin, his low murmur of "good, so good" against your ear as the city lights streaked past the tinted windows. When your knees finally slid from the seat, he caught you by the hair, breath hot with sacramental cruelty: "Did you think absolution came easy?"

You tried to answer but another loud slap came down before you could answer. You buckled your hips in surprise, holding onto the car seat as you did. “Think again. Count.”

“Two.” You whimpered, all obedient and steady.

"You counted the rosary beads on my desk last Tuesday," he growled, fingers tightening in your hair as the car idled outside the precinct. His badge glinted dully in the streetlight, right beside the faint outline of a cross tucked under his shirt. "And you smiled when you noticed the tremor in my hands during confession." The next spank landed with the precision of a man who'd spent years meting out justice, sharp enough to make your thighs twitch, calculated enough to leave you squirming against his lap. The leather seat groaned beneath you, the sound almost obscene next to the wet gasp you couldn't swallow back.

"Three," you choked out, fingers scrambling for purchase on his slacks. The wool was impeccably pressed, but you could feel the tension coiled beneath, the way his muscles tightened when you'd whispered “I know what you did in the office“

His chuckle was dark,. "Good girl." The praise dripped like candle wax down your spine. "Now tell me why you went with me.” Outside, a siren wailed. Somewhere, a sinner was being handcuffed. But here, in the backseat of his unmarked car, the only cuffs were the ones he'd forgotten to take off his belt.

“I knew you’d be too afraid to try,” you spat, “So I took matters into my own hands.” Another loud slap came down, snapping your head to the side. Pain bloomed across your ass, hot and immediate, but you refused to yield.

“And you decided you weren’t going to give me the chance to do it myself?”

The slap cracked before the last word had fully left his mouth. You staggered half a step, breath hitching, fingers curling at your side. Another slap landed fast enough to steal your breath.

“You don’t get to make my choices for me,” he hissed afterward, chest heaving. His voice sounded strained, like he was trying to keep control of something already slipping through his fingers. “You don’t decide what I can handle. You don’t decide for me.”

“Six.” You breathed out.

The cool air kissing your heated skin where your skirt had ridden up, exposing more of you with each shallow breath you took. You could feel the dampness there, the evidence of your arousal coating your thighs, a secret only you and the night knew. The air was cool against your wet core, a stark contrast to the warmth radiating from within, a reminder of the game you were playing, the dance you had started.

“Six?” Adam asked teasingly. “Is that enough to disclipine a brat like you?”

Adam's fingers, calloused from years of work, traced the curve of your ass, sending shivers down your spine. The rough touch, a stark contrast to the smooth, sensitive skin, made you gasp. His teasing words hung in the air, a playful challenge that made your heart race. "Six?" you echoed, a smirk playing on your lips despite the anticipation coiling in your belly. "I think you underestimate me, Adam." Your voice was steady, a bold facade that belied the nervous excitement coursing through your veins.

His fingers dipped lower, finding the wet heat between your thighs. You whimpered as he stroked your core, your body arching into his touch. His chuckle was low, a rumble that vibrated through you, making your toes curl. "Is that so?" he murmured, his breath hot on your ear. His fingers continued their maddening dance, pushing you towards the edge but never quite tipping you over.

“We’ll see about that.”

Adam's fingers, slick with your arousal, pushed aside your panties, the fabric bunching against your hip. You gasped, your breath hitching as his fingers, thick and sure, slid into your pussy. Your body welcomed him, your walls clenching around him, trying to pull him deeper. You could feel every ridge, every line of his fingers as they moved inside you. He started slow, a steady rhythm that made you moan. His thumb brushed against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through you. You gripped his arm, your nails digging into his skin as he filled you, stretched you.

"You're so tight," he growled, his voice laced with desire. His fingers curled, finding that spot deep inside you that made your eyes roll back. "And so wet. Is this all for me?"

You could only nod, words failing you as he continued his relentless pace. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your body winding tighter and tighter. You could feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling in your core.

"Yes," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible. "All for you, Adam." Your body moved with his, your hips grinding against his hand, chasing the release that was just out of reach.

Adam's fingers slid out of you, leaving you feeling empty and desperate. Before you could protest, his hand landed hard on your ass, the sound of the slap echoing in the car. You yelped, the sharp sting making your eyes water. "Speak up," he commanded, his voice firm. His hand rested on your stinging cheek, his fingers flexing, threatening another blow.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. "Yes," you said, louder this time, your voice steady despite the fire in your ass. "All for you, Adam."

His hand moved from your ass, trailing down your thigh, then back up, his fingers finding your wet heat again. You moaned as he filled you, your body welcoming him back. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice approving. His pace quickened, his fingers moving in and out of you with a renewed fervor.

"Louder," he demanded, his voice barely above a growl.

You gasped, your body arching into his touch. "Yes," you cried out, your voice echoing in the room. "All for you, Adam. Only for you."

The words tumbled out, your body responding to his commands, your pleasure building with each thrust of his fingers. Adam's fingers moved in and out of you, his grip on your hip tightening as he held you in place. His voice was low, a dark rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Is this what you were imagining, hmm? My fingers deep inside you, filling you up?"

You could only nod, your breath coming in short gasps. Your body moved with his, your hips grinding against his hand, chasing the pleasure that was building inside you. "Say it," he demanded, his voice firm. His thumb brushed against your clit, making you moan. "Tell me this is what you wanted."

"Yes," you gasped, your voice ragged. "This is what I wanted. Your fingers inside me, Adam. Fucking me. Making me yours."

He groaned, his fingers moving faster, harder. "That's right," he said, his voice laced with desire. "All for me. Look at you go, taking my fingers like a good girl. You're so perfect." You could feel the pressure building, the pleasure coiling in your core. You were close, so close. You gripped his arm, your body tensing as you teetered on the edge. "Adam," you moaned, his name a plea on your lips. "I'm going to come."

“Come for me.”

Your body arched, your back bowing as the waves of pleasure crashed over you. Adam's fingers curved inside you, hitting that spot that sent you spiraling, your orgasm ripping through you with an intensity that left you breathless. You cried out, your voice echoing in the room, his name on your lips. Adam's grip on your hip tightened, holding you in place as you rode out your orgasm, his fingers slowing their pace but not stopping, drawing out your pleasure until you were a boneless, panting mess in his arms.

As you came down from your high, Adam slowly withdrew his fingers, a satisfied smirk on his face. He brought them to his lips, tasting you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Delicious," he murmured. "You're fucking delicious."

You blushed at the sight, your body still humming with pleasure. Adam chuckled, leaning in to kiss you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, letting you taste yourself on him. You moaned, your hands reaching up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping, your body already yearning for more. Adam grinned, a wicked glint in his eye. "You're insatiable," he said, his voice a low growl. "I like it."

He leaned closer up, lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His body pressed against yours, his hard length evident through his pants. You could feel the heat of him, the promise of what was to come.

"Now," he said, his voice low, his eyes locked with yours. "Let's see what else you've been imagining."

Adam reached down, his fingers making quick work of the button and zipper on his pants. He pushed them down, along with his boxers, his hard length springing free. You bit your lip, your eyes widening at the sight of him. He was large, thick and ready, a bead of precome already forming at the tip. He saw your gaze and smirked, wrapping his hand around himself, giving himself a slow stroke. "Like what you see?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

You nodded, your body already aching for him. "Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“You’re…big.”

He chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. "And you're going to take every inch of me," he said, his voice firm. "Aren't you?"

You nodded again, your body already responding to his words, his confidence. He positioned himself at your entrance, his tip pressing against you, making you gasp. He was hot, so hot, and you could feel the promise of pleasure in that single touch. "Tell me you want me," he said, his voice a low command. "Tell me you want my cock inside you."

"I want you," you said, your voice breathless. "I want your cock inside me, Adam. Please."

He groaned at your words, his hips moving, his tip sliding into you. You moaned, your body stretching to accommodate him. He was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, but you were wet, so wet, and your body welcomed him eagerly. He started to move, his hips thrusting slowly, giving you time to adjust to his size. You could feel every inch of him, filling you completely, hitting spots that made you gasp and moan. Your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he moved inside you.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned, his voice strained. "So tight, so fucking perfect."

You could only moan in response, your body moving with his, meeting each thrust. You could feel the pleasure building again, your body tensing as he hit that spot inside you, over and over again.

"Come for me," he said, his voice firm. "Come on my cock, baby."

His words sent you over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you, your body convulsing as you came. Adam groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge, filling you with his release.

Adam pulled out, his cock glistening with both of your releases. He looked down at you, his eyes dark with desire and possession. "Look at you," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Look at my cum dripping out of your pussy. You're never looked more beautiful."

He reached down, running his fingers through the mess, collecting some of it before bringing it to your lips. "Taste us," he commanded. "Taste what we've made together."

Adam made you lick his fingers clean, a satisfied groan leaving his lips as you did so. Then he pulled you against him, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. When he pulled away, he looked into your eyes, his expression firm. "You're not leaving here tonight," he said, his voice a low command.

“I'm not done with you yet."

Summary: slightly pervy and flirty Adam :))

Pervy Adam who has a weakness for seeing you wear his clothes. Especially when you aren’t trying to be attractive about it. One of his shirts slipping off your shoulder while you make tea at midnight nearly destroys the man psychologically.

Pervy Adam who murmurs things directly into your ear in public knowing full well you have to maintain eye contact with another person while recovering mentally.

Pervy Adam who acts scandalously unaffected after saying something obscene under his breath while you are left staring at him in betrayal.

“You cannot just say things like that.”

“And yet,” he replies, turning the page of his book.

“I did.”

Pervy Adam who loves seeing your lipstick marks on his skin and pretends not to notice them for hours simply because he knows it drives you insane.

Pervy Adam who enjoys standing just close enough to make you nervous. His hand brushing your waist as he passes. Leaning down to speak near your ear instead of simply talking normally.

“You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“That.”

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Terribly sorry.”

He is not sorry.

Pervy Adam who keeps his composure right until you touch him first. Then suddenly there’s this sharp inhale, this flicker in his eyes like his self-control just took physical damage.

Pervy Adam Dalgliesh who flexes his hand on purpose the second he notices you staring at it. Long fingers curled around a whiskey glass, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his forearms, and suddenly his grip tightens ever so slightly because he caught that look in your eyes.

Pervy Adam who watches you with that unbearably intense eye contact that makes you feel like you’re being slowly undressed emotionally before physically. When in reality, it’s the other way around.

Pervy Adam who becomes possessive when jealous, hand low on your waist, gaze fixed on the person flirting with you like he’s already writing psychological notes as admission to a mental ward about them.

“There’s a man staring at you.”

“And?”

“And I’m attempting maturity before violence.”

Pervy Adam who tilts his head slightly when you react strongly to him, like he’s quietly pleased but would never admit it.

Pervy Adam who notices when you get flustered and… doesn’t stop. Not cruelly. Just curiously, like he’s testing a theory.

Pervy Adam who has the most unfairly calm voice when he says things that make you lose your composure.

Pervy Adam who lets you think you have the upper hand, right up until he chooses to shift the dynamic again with a single sentence. Smiling faintly, not fully soft, enough to suggest he’s been two steps ahead the entire time.

Pervy Adam who, when you’re finally overwhelmed and looking at him like he’s unfair, just says:

“I would never mislead you.”

And somehow, that’s the least believable thing he’s ever said.

— Just a shorter mild version for now guys, reading and researching things that Adam might be into…if you know, you know. ;)))

Writing for Adam was keeping my sleep deprived ass sane

summary: pure domestic fluff with Adam.

Husband Adam who wakes before you just to make tea in absolute silence, moving through the kitchen like a ghost so you can sleep a little longer.

Husband Adam who reads beside you in bed, glasses low on his nose, one hand absently resting on your ankle just to feel you there.

Husband Adam who never says “I love you” excessively, but remembers every little thing: how you take your tea, which side of the bed you prefer, the exact look on your face before you become overwhelmed.

Husband Adam who quietly straightens your coat collar before you leave the house.

Husband Adam who says “come back to me safely” before every goodbye, voice low and sincere, as though it is both a request and a prayer.

Husband Adam who listens more than he speaks, but when you ramble after a difficult day, he gives you his full attention like your words are the only thing in the world worth hearing.

Husband Adam who buys books with little notes tucked inside:

“Thought of you.”

“This reminded me of your laugh.”

“You’d disagree with the ending.”

Husband Adam who pretends to be stern when you steal bites from his plate, yet immediately slides the rest closer to you anyway.

Husband Adam who is a chronic sweet tooth with a particular weakness for cheesecake, no matter how composed and dignified he tries to appear. Claiming he’ll “only have one slice,” then quietly returns to the kitchen later for another.

Husband Adam who becomes impossibly soft when you’re ill, cool hands against your forehead, blankets tucked carefully around you, murmured sweet words.

“You’ve should have told me sooner, Darling.”

Husband Adam who writes poetry about you but denies it’s about you with the faintest smile. He has a whole book of poetry dedicated and inspired by you. You haven’t found out yet.

Husband Adam who cannot work properly when you fall asleep against him because he refuses to move and wake you.

Husband Adam who stands slightly behind you at crowded events, one hand at your back, grounding and protective without ever making it possessive. He fears losing you through the crowd, therefore has his hands on you all the time.

Husband Adam who kisses your knuckles absentmindedly while reading case files.

Husband Adam who looks exhausted after long cases, yet visibly relaxes the second he walks through the door and sees you waiting for him. Most especially when you’ve been cooking for him.

Husband Adam who says your name like a prayer and a secret all at once.

Husband Adam who, after an argument, appears at your side hours later with tea and a quiet:

“We shouldn’t go to bed angry with one another.”

Husband Adam who struggles with vulnerability sometimes, but loves with terrifying depth once he lets someone fully into his life. He has known warmth before , fleeting affection, but never the full, blinding extent of the sun blazing directly at him. Your love unsettles him at first, not because he fears love itself, but because he suddenly has something to lose.

Husband Adam who would rather endure anything himself than allow harm to touch you, even if it means carrying the weight alone until it crushes him.

Husband Adam who instinctively steps between you and danger without thinking twice.

Husband Adam who checks that the doors are locked every night, not out of paranoia, but because loving you has made him painfully aware of how fragile happiness can be.

Husband Adam who hides his exhaustion until you gently cup his face and tell him he does not always have to be strong.

Husband Adam who grows softer with age: slower smiles, longer embraces, lingering kisses before work because he’s learned love is fragile and precious.

Husband Adam who still looks at you years later like he cannot quite believe you chose him.

— Domestic fluff for a change hihi. I was inspired to write Adam having a sweet tooth due to Mycroft Holmes’ fierce love for cake. Hope it you enjoyed it!!!

“I would like to experience an ego death.”

Adam Dalgliesh looked up slowly from his book. “No, darling.”

You frowned. “You didn’t even ask what I meant.”

“I know precisely what you meant, which is why the answer remains no.”

“What if it’s spiritually enriching?”

“What if it kills you?” He retorted.

“It probably won’t.”

“That is not reassuring.” You sprawled further across his sofa dramatically. “You’re suppressing my personal growth.”

“I am preserving your frontal lobe.”

“You’re so controlling.”

“And yet,” Adam said calmly, turning a page, “you continue attempting to dissolve your consciousness recreationally.”

You pointed accusingly at him. “See? That sentence alone proves you’d survive anything. Victorian illnesses. Wars. Exorcisms.”

“I would not survive you attempting hallucinogens in my flat.”

“It could be romantic.”

“There is nothing romantic about you staring at the wallpaper for six hours convinced you’ve discovered time.” You gasped. “What if I do discover time?”

“Then kindly do it after I retire.”

You slid off the sofa and onto the carpet beside his chair, resting your chin against his knee. “You’re no fun.” Adam finally lowered the book enough to look at you properly.

“You once tried to make coffee using an electric kettle and optimism,” he said. “I’m not allowing you near substances capable of altering reality.”

“That was one time.”

“You also cried because a pigeon looked at you ‘with intent.’”

“It was a sinister pigeon.”

A sigh escaped him, the deep, exhausted sigh of a man perpetually one conversation away from a migraine. Then you smiled sweetly.

“What if we experienced ego death together?”

Adam closed his eyes briefly.

When he spoke again, his voice had the quiet gravity of a detective announcing a body identification.

“No, darling.”

CASES & CONFESSIONS

ADAM DALGLIESH

NIGHTLY READINGS - Bl!wing Adam! (18+)

RIDING THE CHIEF - R!ding Adam (18+)

NEEDY ADAM PT1 - E!ting, C!ck W!rming (18+)

MORNING AFTER PT2 - S!mnophilia (18+)

HEADCANONS

ANGRY ADAM - D!ominace (18+)

GENERAL ROMANCE

BLACK OUT - Cozy Night

OF COURSE, ADAM - Midnight Auction

I’m not inclined to write for Kate x Adam because I’ve always seen their relationship as mentor and apprentice. Adam met Kate at a stage in where he was slowly becoming frustrated with the lack of support, incompetence, and actual intellect in the police force. You could see the difference in the progress of the cases when Kate appeared.

“S-She pressed her mouth to his and he—’” Adam stopped so abruptly the words nearly snapped in half. He shut his eyes for a brief second before muttering, “Fuck,” under his breath, he leaned back into the chair, his heart racing as you licked the underside of his shaft.

“Keep reading, Adam.” You muttered, on your knees with Adam’s cock resting against your mouth.

“Darling—” he started, and immediately cut himself off with a sharp inhale, fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. He was beginning to take deeper breaths. The book lay forgotten in his hand now, resting loosely against his thigh.

His hand found its way to your hair, caressing your head as your lips locked onto his tip, saliva was beginning to pool around the edges of your lips, yet that didn’t seem to stop you as you blew a raspberry against his dick.

You sat up, and as you did a moan almost left his lips. “Rules are rules,” you said, folding your arms, though your voice wavered with a grin. “You’re cheating.”

Adam looked at you slowly, one brow lifting as he looked back at you and his unbuttoned pants.

A faint exhale left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “How do you expect me,” he began, then stopped, eyes narrowing slightly as if the sentence itself had become an enemy. Your hand began moving up and down his length, tightening your grip each time as you did. A curse left his lips, low and clipped, like it slipped out before he could properly catch it.

“You’re—y-you’re making this very difficult for me.”

The stutter was brief, almost swallowed immediately, but it was there, enough to crack his composure in a way that made the air in the room shift. A smirk found its way to your lips.

“Do I hear the inspector surrendering?” You teased, rounding your lips against his tip, sucking on the length slowly. A strained laugh escaped him, rough around the edges as his fingers curled tighter in your hair. His forehead nearly dropped against yours, breath uneven now, the composure he wore so carefully beginning to splinter beneath your teasing, your relentless teasing.

“Careful,” Adam murmured, though there was no warning left in it anymore. Only surrender wrapped in a tired excuse of restraint. “You sound far too pleased with yourself.”

You only smiled wider at that, and he exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes closing for the briefest moment. You sucked deeper, bopping your head up and down his length till you could feel the tip right against your throat. His hand slid from your hair to the curve of your jaw, thumb brushing there slowly. “Right there, such a good girl for me.” He praised, closing his eyes, relishing in the feeling of your warm lips around his cock.

You continued to bob your head, taking him in inch by inch, humming around the shaft as you went, repeating your movements again and again. You felt the pressure build up, the way the veins on his cock started pulsating, "Oh, God.." You pulled away momentarily, a grin on your face.

“Do you hear it?” you whispered again. “The great inspector finally giving in?” Adam looked at you and whatever sharp retort had been waiting on his tongue seemed to disappear entirely.

There was something vulnerable in his expression now. A plea hidden beneath all that strict, and well put composure he carried so well. His lips parted slightly as he drew another breath, fingers still tangled loosely in your hair like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured, though your teasing. Adam’s breath caught at the sight of you, the words leaving him slower this time, softened by affection. His hand slid gently beneath your chin, tilting your face upward until your eyes met his.

“My darling,” he mumbled, thumb brushing across your cheek, “I can’t help myself when you’re looking at me like that.”

“And on your knees?” he added quietly, voice dipping lower. “You’ve no idea what that does to me.”

You smiled at his praise, “still such a flirt.” You muttered, rising to your knees to give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Only for you.” He added, his tone soft and warm.

“Hold my hair, please?” you muttered softly, gathering it into a loose ponytail with one hand.

Adam blinked once at the request, caught off guard by how casually you’d said it. Then something softer settled over his features.

“Come here,” he murmured.

He leaned closer, gently gathering your hair from your hands with care. His fingers brushed the back of your neck as he held it up neatly for you, slow and deliberate, like even this small act deserved his full attention.

“There,” he said quietly, his voice lower now from the closeness. “Better?”

“Much better.” You smiled, but a devilish gleam was in your eye. Adam could see it, he could notice everything about you. You pushed him gently, beckoning him to lean back as you bent down, looking up at him once more before taking his cock in your mouth with ease.

Adam sucked in a breath, now he could understand.

With you there, Adam finally understood how lesser men lost themselves to temptation, not meant as weakness, but as devotion pushed past reason, to the point of no return. His hand tightened briefly at his side, as though grounding himself in something physical could quiet the chaos in his thoughts.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he muttered under his breath.

Then, “God—” His voice broke there, the rest swallowed before it could become something he couldn’t take back.

His hands, which had been tangled in your hair, tightened, pulling your head closer, urging your deeper. His body was a roadmap of pleasure, the flex of his thighs, the tautness of his stomach, the rapid pulse thrumming beneath your fingertips.

You continued the advances, the warm weight of him pressing against your cheek, rolling your tongue against his cock, tracing the sensitive ridge with a deliberate, maddening slowness. He let out a low sound. His hips began to move, an involuntary twitch at first, then a more insistent press. He met your throat with each thrust, the rhythm picking up.

Your jaw ached, the back of your throat raw and burning, but you gave it no mind. Every inch of his cock sliding past your lips, hitting that spot that made your eyes water, your tongue working the underside of his shaft, you took it all. You moaned around him when he bottomed out, his pubic bone pressed flat against your face, his balls resting on your chin.

Tears spilled over, hot, sliding down your face. You couldn't help it. Your throat convulsed around him, trying to swallow, to breathe, to take more.

He pulled back slowly, just enough to see your face. His eyes locked onto the tears streaking your cheeks, and something dark flickered in his gaze. He reached down, his fingers brushing the wet trail, collecting the salt on his fingertips.

Then he brought them to his lips.

He sucked them clean, tasting your tears, his eyes never leaving yours.

"Sweet," he murmured, his voice rough. "Cry for me again."

He shoved his cock back down your throat, and you gagged, fresh tears streaming. He held there, watching you struggle, watching your throat bulge around him, until your lungs burned and your vision blurred at the edges.

You felt it coming, the way his hips stuttered, the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened in your hair. He was close, so close, and you doubled your efforts, hollowing your cheeks, taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around the head of his cock with every thrust. Adam groaned above you, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through his whole body. His thighs tensed against your cheeks, his balls drawing up tight against your chin.

"Fuck—" he gasped, his voice breaking. “Baby-“

He shoved deep, holding you there, his cock pulsing against your tongue. The first hot burst hit the back of your throat, salty and thick, and you swallowed, desperate to take it all. More followed, jet after jet, flooding your mouth, filling it until it overflowed. You kept swallowing, your throat working around him, your eyes watering from the stretch and the intensity.

He stayed buried, grinding against your face, riding out the orgasm. Each spasm sent another wave down your throat, and you took it, every drop, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself.

When he finally pulled back, his cock slipped from your lips with a wet pop. Cum still coated your tongue, a lingering warmth, and you kept your mouth open, showing him.

His eyes met yours, and he reached down, cupping your jaw, tilting your face up to him. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away a stray bead of white.

"My girl," he breathed, his voice hushed, reverent. "So obedient. So perfect, my darling."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath warm and uneven. His thumb traced your lower lip, pushing gently inside, and you sucked it clean, tasting yourself, tasting him.

"Swallow," he whispered.

You obeyed, feeling the cum slide down your throat.

He smiled, a soft curve of his lips, and kissed you. His tongue teased yours, tasting the aftermath, and you melted into him, your body trembling with exhaustion and arousal. He pulled back, stroking your hair, his eyes soft now.

"You did so well," he said, his voice still rough. "You always do."

“Anything for you, Adam.”