✨T R A S H✨

Set After:

Autopsy - Adam's bad reaction in the morgue is the start of something beautiful.

Prequel to:

Kandy with a K - Those handcuffs... they're not the ones Adam's used to seeing you in.

Sunshine On A Cloudy Day - Adam struggles to get a grip on his OCD after a horrible case.

Solid - Adam's wife, she's always been solid... until she's not.

Adam doesn’t know there’s a pocketknife stuck down the back of the passenger seat, not until Morgan pulls it out, holding it up between two fingers. It’s a custom-made piece of equipment, a solid marbled handle with a grip made for smaller hands, her fingers slide perfectly into the grooves as she grasps it.

“This…” She begins, studying it with an intensity that makes Adam’s brow crinkle in the middle. “This is a little expensive for a run of the mill pocketknife.” She flicks open the blade and it glints wickedly in the sun filtering in through the open window. One edge is sleek, dangerous. The other is serrated, designed to do the maximum damage on the withdrawal. “I thought it was just decorative but seeing this thing in action, it would certainly ruin a person’s day.”

“Hm.” Adam makes an exasperated noise because it’s presence here in this car, it’s certainly ruining HIS day. He takes advantage of the pause in traffic to reach across her, opening up the glove compartment. “Put it in there please.”

“I will…” She says, using her palm to close over the knife, rendering it safe again. “As soon as you tell me why it was tucked away in your passenger seat.”

His grasp on the steering wheel tightens, the skin stretching over his knuckles as he clears his throat. “It belongs to my wife… it must have slipped out her purse this morning when we were saying goodbye.”

He hopes Morgan doesn’t catch the rasp in his voice, the deviation of timbre due to the wad of emotion in his chest but Morgan, she picks up on everything, he can practically see the cogs turning in her mind as she starts to put the piece together.

“I thought your wife was a cop.” She says, closing the glove box instead of putting the weapon into it as requested. “What does she need a knife like this for?”

Adam says nothing, his elbow coming to rest on the interior side panel, his hand lingering alongside his mouth as he stares at the line of traffic in front of them.

“Oh!” She erupts and he knows that she’s just hit jackpot. “She’s one of those ones that goes undercover, so you like to make sure…” She stares down at the knife in her hands, her voice softening. She doesn’t mention the fact she’s worked out there was an incident a few years back. That the only reason Adam would be able to swallow such a breach of protocol is because your personal safety trumps his staunch rigidness when it comes to following the rules. “Well, this certainly explains why you’re so grumpy today. I’m assuming she’s on assignment and now you’ve just realised...”

“Yeah.” He says quietly, his gaze fixed straight ahead. “I’ve just realised she doesn’t have her safety net.”

“I mean if you know where she is, we could just drive by, drop it off.” Morgan attempts but Adam shakes his head.

“I don’t-”

“I bet I could figure out.” Morgan supplies, closing her eyes for a moment as her head tilts back into the headrest. “She’s in Vice, right?”

“Morgan, I can’t just-”

“But I can.” She responds, reaching into the footwell and picking up her purse. She drops the knife into it, before replacing the purse back alongside her turquoise, knee high crocodile boots. “You reek of cop but me… it’ll just be one hot girl talking to another.”

“You already know where she is?” Adam questions, the tension already starting to ebb out of his body.

“There was a dispatch this morning…” She pauses before clamping her lips together. “You know what, it’s best you don’t know for plausible deniability.”

“Morgan, I can’t ask you to-”

“You’re not.” She reassures him, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m doing this because I don’t want to spend the rest of the day trapped in a car with you in one of your moods. Besides I kinda wanna meet the woman that can put up with all of this.” He doesn’t need to turn his head to know she’s waving her hand in his general direction. “She must be quite the woman.”

“She is.” He agrees, thinking back to the day he married you. “She really is.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

You notice it; the way Simon’s drinking is a little heavier than usual. He’s quite pliant tonight, even willingly taking a sip of your drink—something he doesn’t like and is non-alcoholic, but you offer it up anyway. He has a look in his eye, something only you can clock. You adore Simon’s eyes; a pretty dark shade of brown, alluring and accompanied by blonde lashes. He’s lucky he’s so gorgeous—gets him out of so much trouble with you—the stuff that’s worse, anyway. Not the spankings, however. You like it when those lashes get wet with his tears.

You can already tell Simon’s in a mood due to how he’s willingly answering questions for once. It shocks you, honestly; you don’t think you’ve seen him this receptive to anybody in a while. It amuses you, almost. It would be humorous if this didn’t mean he was going to act up tonight. You note the way his shoulders aren’t drawn in like usual, the way he’s letting himself relax and hunch over a little. Simon’s gruff and sharp like usual, but more… open.

You’re not sure how the conversation landed on the topic; it doesn’t matter in the end, not when you hear some snarky remark from Simon—you barely hear his exact words, some lie about how he’s dominant in the bedroom. Something said in his drunken stupor.

You slowly sip your drink; you don’t bother to retaliate as you know you’ll win in the end; he broke a rule you two established, anyway. Simon just lied, misrepresented you. Hm. You aren’t just his wife, you’re his domme. Someone who can put him in his place, someone who will take care of Simon and guide him. It’s taken a lot of trust and a large amount of trial and error to get to this point; for him to hand over control, the metaphorical (and sometimes physical) leash. 

If only they knew how pretty you willingly sit for him. How Simon gladly bends over for you, getting teary eyed if you tease him for too long. How would they react if they knew what Simon needs from you? You let him have his fun for the night, all the while knowing he’s actively digging himself a bigger hole with every sentence. Simon’s a fucking dog for you, and they have nooo idea about what he’s willing to do to even just get you to run your fingers against his scalp. How Simon craves your dominance—how he needs it. 

A couple days later, you decide it’s time. You gave him space to recognize what he did; maybe apologize, lessen the punishment. Simon doesn’t say anything.

As soon as Simon comes home, he knows he’s in for it—the reason unknown. The TV is off, the kitchen light is on, as well as your shared bedroom down the hall. No music, no talking, no greeting. “Fuck.” Simon mutters, swallowing hard. He’s in trouble for something; his brain begins to work, trying to remember anything that he did to piss you off, if he managed to break the rules. His heart dropped to his stomach the second he walked through that door, his metaphorical tail wagging nervously. Simon quickly removes his boots and leaves them by the door.

Simon can feel the tension in the air; thick and heavy. Anticipation makes his heart skip a beat as he steps forward, slowly heading down the hall, dropping his bag by the front of the hallway. His feet gently thump against the hardwood floor with every step as he approaches the bedroom door, which is half-way cracked, the light shining through. 

Simon pauses with realization—Oh shit. He lied, he lied to everybody. You are not the one who takes it—he is. Simon lied, breaking one of your biggest rules.

You love to break him down, hold his soul in your hands. It’s exhilarating to get such a big, stoic man to burst into tears under you. The cycle is breaking him down, and putting him back together piece by piece in the way that you want. Simon can come back to you in whatever state, but he knows that you’ll set him right. 

He didn’t realize for a long time he could ever be submissive, let alone bottom. In his past relationships and hookups, Simon has always been the stereotypical macho man, topping and dominating. It’s a societal expectation, especially of a man of his stature and profession. 

Simon toyed with the idea of being a submissive top by himself; random scenarios his horny rotted brain could conjure. A lot of masturbation on deployments. It never.. hit in the way that he was expecting. He figured it wasn’t for him. 

Then Simon met you. You were dominating in conversation the second he engaged with you; your eyes were almost piercing, like you knew something he didn’t. Maybe you did. You met in a pub; you spotted him, found his deliberate choice of wearing a balaclava indoors, in public intriguing. It made you want to dissect his brain.

A few messy make out sessions later, Simon learned very quickly that you didn’t sub—you could bottom, but you preferred to.. how did you put it.. “put pretty boys in their place” and “help big guys like you realize where they belong”.

Simon got dizzyingly hard from it. He remembers how you laughed at him for it; not with judgment, but laughing at him for being so confused on why that got him so worked up. You thought it was cute; this big guy, staring at you almost doe-eyed like with his balaclava pushed over the bridge of his nose, lips swollen from bites and kisses.

You showed Simon an entirely new world of pleasure, one that he didn’t consider, not before he met you. It was a slow learning process; starting out with more vanilla kinks, testing out what he liked and what he didn’t. Simon quickly learned as well that if he was going to fall, you would be there to catch him. If you two tried something and it wasn’t for him, you stopped. If Simon felt overwhelmed and couldn’t handle anything below the belt, you never forced it. If Simon had a sub drop—considering he just started all of this—you were right there, with kisses, back rub, water, and snacks. Everything to get him to calm down.

You went out of your way to notice his tells; for a man who hides behind a mask, you took the time to read him like a book, front to back. You know when he’s irritated, needing a harsher hand to get back in line. You know when Simon needs softer words, some sort of direction that only you can give him. This quickly began to extend outside of sex, you two naturally falling into a 24/7 dom and sub dynamic. Simon didn’t realize how much he needed it until you two had an official talk about it. 

Simon can feel his heartbeat in his temples as he’s paused in front of the door. He swallows hard and raises his hand, knocking on the frame instead of the door itself so he wouldn’t accidentally push it open. A few seconds pass, and he nearly knocks again until he hears you call him in. He lets out a breath before pushing open the door. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, facing the door with a red locked box next to you. 

Simon swears internally—that’s the box that holds a lot of different things, specifically restraints and tools for punishment. Lightning zips to his belly in excitement before he looks down at the ground instead of you—you haven’t given him permission to look, and it’s clear that Simon understands that he fucked up. The corner of your mouth quirks upwards for a moment before relaxing back into a neutral expression. 

Simon hears you shuffling around before he plops a familiar, dark red pillow onto the ground. He swallows; it’s the pillow you two use for him to kneel. It makes his cock ache for a moment, before you cut through his thoughts. “Kneel.” You utter firmly, straightening the pillow out with your foot before pulling your leg back next to your other one. Simon steps closer to the pillow and kneels down onto it, instincts making him sit up straight for you. He keeps his eyes downcast as he rolls his shoulders back. 

“Look at me.”

Simon immediately picks his head up, his eyebrows furrowing a little, making eye contact with you. He can’t tell what you’re thinking and it’s killing him. He knows you’re mad, but he hates it when you’re mad. God, you make him feel so out of himself. You rewired his brain and he still doesn’t know how to handle it. You could look at him a certain way and he can feel his brain leaking out of his ears. “Do you know what you did?”

Simon swallows; he is quiet for a moment—you never push him to answer under a specific amount of time, even when he’s in trouble and he appreciates it. He thinks about what happened over the past two weeks before it hits him. His fingers twitch—when did his hands end up on thighs?---”I lied.” Simon murmurs quietly, his voice low and rumbly, almost out of place. You stare at him, which prompts him to twitch again and continue. “I told my mates that, I.. I’m the one who’s in control.”

You hum in response, barely blinking, barely moving. It makes his heart skip a beat again. “So what’s the truth, hm? Who’s in control?”

“You are, Mommy.” Simon breathes out without hesitation, feeling the familiar need to please you and be good creeping up on him. You tilt your head from his response. “Is that so?” You utter, causing his shoulders to square out and his head to shake back and forth. “No, no, I’m not, you are, you always have been.” Simon grunts out. He can feel the flush creeping down his neck to his chest, stemming from his cheeks. His face is obscured by the balaclava and Simon knows that you like to be able to see his face; it’s a vulnerability thing. He’s extremely aware that you love to look at his face. You always make a remark of how he looks like a rugged pup.

Very fitting. But, despite the fact that there’s the twitching urge in his fingertips to slide off the balaclava in order to appease you, you haven’t said he could move, nor take it off. Simon’s mind buzzes a little; he wants to be a good boy. You’re still looking at him, eyes piercing deep underneath his skin, his bones, right to his soul. “You lied, Simon,” You start, your voice remaining low and firm. “And you have been getting on my nerves for a few weeks now. That all builds up, does it not?”

Simon doesn’t physically respond, but he can feel his blood run a little cold. Your voice has such a specific tone that easily sends him to that fuzzy place in his brain where it’s all goop and slop, and you practically saying that you’re disappointed in him is fucking with him. Simon swallows, shifting just a tad on his knees. He just wants to be good for you, nothing else. He wants to press his face into your hip and beg for forgiveness. “It does, Mommy.” Simon replies quietly, his eyes scanning yours. 

“Stand and strip, pup. Leave the balaclava.”

Simon immediately rises to his feet, his hands grasping the hem of his hoodie and tossing it aside, doing the same with his t-shirt that he’s wearing underneath. His fingers shake as he grabs his belt buckle, struggling to undo it. He glances at you then back to his belt. It’s a bit funny—a sniper’s hand trembling not from taking a life, but from the adrenaline rush of disappointing its owner. Simon’s about to just say fuck it and tug his pants down without undoing his belt, but your hand snaps a couple of times in order to catch his attention. His head flicks up to look at you, eye contact—you give him a look. “..I need help, Mommy.” Simon murmurs, relenting under your gaze. You give him a slight nod as you beckon him closer. Simon steps over the red pillow on the floor. 

You reach forward and you easily undo his belt for him, pulling it out of the loops. “Thank you, Mommy.” Simon responds once you give his hip a reassuring squeeze; a silent check in. He nods before stepping back, unbuttoning his pants and sliding them off, then peeling off his boxers. After he takes off his socks and tosses everything aside, he’s naked aside from the balaclava that’s on his face. He watches the way your eyes rake over him, causing him to stand up straight.

“Because you lied to me, pup, that means I have to punish you. Do you want me to tell you what I have planned, or would you rather me just go ahead?” You murmur, one of your hands reaching for the locked box. Simon blinks a little; you take all control and only give him a little, just to keep his head afloat enough from the noise. Does he want to know? 

Simon’s hands naturally slide behind his back, one hand clasping his wrist, his feet standing shoulder length apart. He wants to be good. He’s trying to read you; what do you want him to answer with, or more so are you looking for a specific answer from him? Simon debates for a second, eyelashes fluttering. “Whatever you’d like, Mommy.” He breathed out instead; quiet and low. You give nothing away with your expression as you tug the box onto your lap, using a key to open it.

Simon lets out a shaky breath, trying to calm his nerves. He’s.. excited, nervous. Scared and desperate. You make him feel so much by doing so little and that also scares him—how much control you have over him. 

You take out a few things; bondage safe rope, a dildo gag, a second dildo with a harness, lube, and a vibrator. His heart starts thumping again at the sight of the toys—fuuuuuck, he’s in for a night. Simon fucked up badly.

His brain is pure mush; Simon’s arms ache, his hips do—he feels too full, drool smeared down his chin, his balaclava balled up and stuffed in his mouth. He hasn’t earned the dildo gag yet. Simon’s sprawled out on the bed on his stomach, arms tied together behind his back. The ropes are firm, unmoving—grounding for him. His ass and the back of his thighs hurt. You’ve spanked him to tears already, counting them and begging for forgiveness. 

Simon can’t see, but he knows his ass and thighs are a “pretty shade of pink”, as you’ve described it. They feel like they’re on fire, but it melts with the pleasure in such an addicting way that Simon would probably let you hit him some more. Your fingers are buried in his hole—two fingers, to be exact. They’re nice and deep, curling and slowly pulling back before pushing back inside. Every press of your fingers has Simon’s legs twitching, his hole clenching. God, you’ve already edged him twice and you weren’t even inside of him at that point.

Simon shivers as your free hand is suddenly on the nape of his neck, your palm firmly pressing against his skin and smoothing down his shoulders and back, ending at the dips in his lower back. Your palm moves and pauses at his hip, squeezing before smoothing up to his waist, then moving back to his lower back. Simon moans, his eyelids fluttering as your fingers press deep again, digging his knees against the mattress so he can press his hips back up, dragging his neglected cock against the sheets. 

You gently press down on his lower back, guiding him back down which Simon easily obeys. He shakily inhales, the side of his face pressed into the bed, eyes closing tightly as he feels so wound up and tense. His hands are in fists behind his back, clenching and relaxing over and over as he tries to get himself to relax. Simon knows he’s clenching up around your fingers, the muscles in his shoulders are hard. His skin feels too tight, too hot.

“Simon.”

Your voice cuts through the haze, digging deep into his brain. Simon makes a noise in response, a poor attempt in being coherent around the balaclava. You pull it from his mouth, letting him pant out openly. Simon then notices your fingers inside of his hole have paused and the hand on his lower back has raised to his tied arms, gently gripping the ropes—probably ready to pull the small part poking out as you tied them in a way that you can easily get him out of them if needed. Simon has a lot of trauma, so it isn’t unheard of him suddenly needing to get out of the ropes. 

“I need a color, pup.” You murmur, closer—the bed dips. You must be leaning over him to reach his head. Simon’s lips are wet, they smack together in an attempt to gather some sort of response in his brain. A color—a simple check in, one of many systems set up to make sure both parties are okay to keep going. You haven’t been that harsh, honestly; you’ve been harder on Simon in the past but everyone has different limits each day. 

Color, color… Simon takes a moment to calm his racing heart, to process what he’s feeling. Simon is sticky and wet from sweat, drool and precum—It hurts, he’s aching and it burns—but he also feels good. He feels so fucking good. There’s an addicting pleasure that runs just as deep as the ache from being spanked and manhandled. Simon loves this; he loves you and how you make him feel, however terrifying it is for his brain. It’s almost like a way of healing for Simon. Allowing someone power over him, the idea had utterly terrified him for years—still does, if he was honest with himself.

But you take care of him every time. You take Simon apart, make him feel so intensely and then gently put him back together. In a way, he’s also completely in control the entire time. Simon knows if he says so at this moment, if he utters the word red, everything will stop. You’ll untie him, you’ll pull your fingers from being inside of him, and you’ll wipe him down. You won't let Simon slip.

“Green, Mommy.” Simon breathes out, his voice unrecognizable to himself. It’s breathy, low and a little weak. His lips are dry, throat aching a little from the nonstop noises. You hum, brushing up his back with your palm. “Good boy.” You praise him softly, before leaning away. Simon’s eyes are closed as your fingers slip from his hole—emptyemptyempty—and you’re guiding him to sit up. Simon makes a confused noise as something is pressed to his lips, his eyes opening. It’s a bottle of water. 

“Sips, baby. Your throat is dry.” You whisper in his ear. Simon eagerly takes some sips of the water, slow and steady, feeling the liquid cool his throat. After Simon turns his head a bit, you put the water bottle back on the side table. “Thank you for the water, Mommy.” Simon whispers back to you, afraid of breaking the comfortable intimate setting. You lean up and grab a pillow, helping Simon turn around and lay down, head on the pillow. Simon makes a face as the tender skin of his ass and thighs touches the sheets below, his eyes looking up at you.

Simon swears just looking at you takes his breath away. The overhead light in the room is off, the brightness too harsh for this setting, but a lamp behind you is turned on to illuminate the room. It’s almost framing you with a glowing halo behind you, like you’re an angel of some sort. Simon surely thinks that you are one. Between everything, you managed to already put on the strap on, the harness tight against your hips, the dildo heavy between your legs. Simon licks his lips at the sight—God, he wants you. He always does, especially when you’re looking at him the way you are right now. 

Your eyes narrow playfully, catching the swipe of his tongue. “You want a taste?” 

Simon shudders hard—his cock twitches between his legs. You treat the toy as an extension of yourself and he loves it. Yeah, maybe you don’t necessarily get any pleasure from him lapping at your dildo, but the sight makes you so fucking horny. You watch Simon’s eyebrows twitch together and furrow, his head nodding as you reach upwards and brush your fingers over his nipples. He shudders for a moment, lips parting as you gently pinch at them, humming as you tease them into hardness. Simon’s nipples aren’t terribly sensitive, but you like to watch him squirm anyway. 

You eye his body for a moment before glancing up at his face. “Your arms are okay behind your back like this, pup?” You ask, brushing your thumbs over his hard nipples, watching his back arch into the touch. Simon nods; his weight is against his arms like this, but it’s evenly distributed, so his circulation isn’t being cut off. “I’m okay, Mommy.” Simon confirms quietly, his voice rough and low. A sentence that surely does not match his voice, nor a man of his character. 

You nod and your hand drifts up to his neck, rubbing your thumb against his protruding Adam's apple. You try to hold back your pleased expression from how Simon bears his neck without hesitation. “You’re still in trouble, and we aren’t done. But..” You murmur, trailing off as your thumb brushes down to the notch between his collarbones. “If you’re good, you can have the gag.”

The gag being the dildo gag you grabbed earlier—Simon’s a bit embarrassed about it, but the dildo gag properly turns off his brain, just like how servicing your strap or your pussy does. It’s not the sexual act itself that helps quiet everything up in his head, it’s being given a simple task, and doing said task that you can’t really fuck up. It’s being given something to do that doesn’t warrant much mental effort, not like how his job does.

He nods in response, swallowing hard as your fingers smooth down his sternum. “I’ll be good.” Simon murmurs in response, nodding. 

You climb up his body and you straddle his shoulders, knees on the side of his head. You lean back, sitting a bit on his chest. You reach down and run your fingers through his hair. Simon’s eyes flutter at the sensation, a quiet hum coming from him. His skin prickles a little from the gentleness from you and your hands; a difference from earlier when you spanked him to tears. “Your arms are tied, pup. What will you do if you need a break or if it’s too much?” You ask, gently scratching his scalp to ground him.

Simon leans into your hands on his scalp, eyes fluttering as your thumbs brush down against his cheekbones and then against his jawbones. “I’ll buck and turn my head, Mommy.”

As a reward for the correct answer, you reach between your legs and rest the length against his face, making him flush. Simon looks up at you through his pretty blonde eyelashes, lips parting. “Go on.” You encourage him—watching him. It makes Simon’s stomach a little tight, because that’s something he says. Using his phrases during a time like this.. God.

Simon’s jaw opens and his tongue comes out, pressing against the silicone base and tilting his head back to drag it upwards towards the tip. It tastes pretty much like nothing, but he doesn’t really care. Simon breathes out through his mouth as he repeats the motion on the other side, tilting his head to reach it. He feels the fake ridges and veins underneath his tongue. He can smell you from under here. Simon can smell how wet you are and it’s making his mouth water. Simon knows he fucked up too badly tonight to get a taste, so he’ll settle with the musk.

The visual of Simon licking at your dildo is extremely arousing; the reverent look in his brown eyes, the shaky breathing and the way he strains his neck from effort to lick every inch—Mm.

“I don’t know how you thought you could get away with what you said, especially because you’re so relaxed like this.” You taunt gently, rubbing the toy against his cheek, knocking against the crooked bridge of his nose. Simon flushes from your words, his pale cheeks tinting a light pink as he presses his tongue to the base of your dildo. “This is where you belong in bed and you know it, pup. Playing pretend.. So silly.”

Simon inhales shakily before his lips part. “Please, Mommy.” You hum and lean back a little, feeding the tip between his lips. “Good dog.”

You’re talking as Simon bobs his head a little, using his spit to wet the toy. He’s not hearing you much, focusing on the task at hand. You reach down and pet his hair. “There you go, you know what to do. Act like it’s real, baby.” You grunt, smiling as Simon is slowly sucking it down. Again, the toy is tasteless—but the weight and the girth is good. Real good. The fact that it’s attached to you is so fucking good.

Slowly but surely, inch by inch rubs down the length of his tongue and into his mouth. Simon’s eyes flutter a little as his head relaxes back against the plush pillow, your hand on his head to keep him still as you sink the toy into his throat. “There you go, Si. Relax your throat, swallow and breathe.” You utter assuringly, hearing him struggle to take the toy a little. He does his best to follow what you tell him to do; swallow and breathe, relax. 

He looks so pretty like this. So vulnerable and soft—you love it. You love him. You love the trust he hands over to you. You don’t take the responsibility that Simon has given you lightly; the privilege of holding his trust and his mind so delicately in your hands, something you never want to take for granted. You always end up feeling so soft about it during sex because it’s the biggest reminder of said trust. Simon isn’t just trusting you with his body, he’s trusting you with the control over him in almost every aspect.

You love how easily he flushes from your words or a soft touch against him. In a way, you’re happy that Simon wears a face covering pretty much 24/7 because that means Simon isn’t used to holding back his expressions as well. Which means.. When you push his buttons the right way, he makes the most gorgeous faces. Simon is big and strong, a wall of iron—a protector. You’re glad you can be the welder, to patch him up and keep him going. Simon has admitted to you before he isn’t sure how he kept going without someone like you; “spite” is what he guessed.

“Breathe.” You utter, watching his eyes water and you sink deeper into his throat. You tilt your hips to give him some room to breathe, but not enough to let him move about. Simon’s chest stutters before he inhales and exhales through his nose. He’s nearly to the base, where he has the most trouble at first. “There you go, baby. Just think of it as a warm up, hm? For your gag.”

You take the pleasure in watching Simon’s eyebrows twitch desperately as his eyes close, tears falling down his cheeks. You bite your inner cheek at the sight because he’s such a pretty crier. You push your hips forward, slowly sliding home–until his nose brushes against your skin. You groan softly at the sight, hearing him greedily swallow and inhale. You stay like that for a moment, smiling down at him, watching Simon’s eyebrows gently relax a little. “Won’t you look at that,” You whisper, running your fingers through his hair. “Pup gets his treat and calms down, hm?”

You grab a handful of Simon’s hair to keep his head against the pillow and you pull the dildo out of his throat slowly, hips moving away. His eyes open as you do, thick strings of saliva connecting him to you. The tip pops out from his lips and Simon coughs a bit, looking at the dildo then back at you, waiting for your instruction. “You had a taste, yeah?” You utter as you move off of him. Simon nods, inhaling deeply and slowly exhaling as he watches you move near his legs. Your hands reach and knead his large thighs, thumbs pressing against the inner skin of them to part them. 

Simon complies, giving you access to him once more. “You had fun, I’m gonna have more of mine.”

What— Oh.

You grabbed the vibrator, the one that’s vaguely shaped like an egg with a band. Oh no.

Simon’s breath hitches as you grab the base of his heavy cock, giving him a spine tingling stroke before you fit the vibrator right on the underside of his tip, the most sensitive part. Simon opens his mouth to say something, but you decide it’s the perfect time to turn it on with a little remote. Simon groans loudly as the device buzzes, sending delicious light pleasure up his spine, traveling to his toes. 

“Fuck.” Simon spits quietly, his back arching a little. Your hand smooths over his thigh, to his hip to keep him steady. Pleasure washes over him in gentle waves as his head knocks to the side. You reach up to pinch and brush against his nipples again, making him twitch. God, you love how responsive he is. One of your hands tap his knee. “Spread them wider, pup. There ya go.”

You settle between his legs with the bottle of lube you used earlier to finger him open. The sight of the lube has his heart skipping a beat or two—the little horny voice in the back of his head gets waaaay too excited for his liking. You grab the underside of one of his thighs, pressing it closer to his chest to give yourself access to his puffy hole. Due to the thickness of Simon’s thigh, it springs up a bit but it just rests against part of your chest. 

He can’t really see what you’re doing, but Simon licks his lips in preparation. He tells himself to relax, especially as he feels lubed fingers easily press back home into his hole, causing him to sigh. The gentle pleasure from the vibrator combined with your fingers makes everything tingle. Simon knows you’re gonna turn up the heat soon, but he chooses to bask in the gentle pleasure right now instead of focusing on what’s in store for him. The pleasure mixes nicely with the deep ache on his backside.

Once you slip your fingers back out of him, he relaxes his pelvis, eyes fluttering—and then you’re pushing in. Simon gasps quietly, a sensation he will never get used to. The tip splits him open, sliding in with a lewd squelch due to the amount of lube you have been using. “Oh fuck.” Simon grunts out intelligently, feeling every ridge and vein against his insides. He can’t help himself as he clenches around the dildo, his back slowly arching into the pressure inside of him. “Oh fUck!” He repeats as you turn up the vibrator that’s strapped to his fat dick. 

“Oh, Mommy—” Simon calls out, his voice rough as you press all the way in. You let out a soft laugh, rubbing his lower belly. “You’re clenching so hard, pup. Can feel you gripping the harness.” You murmur, gently scratching the sensitive skin which earns you pearly droplets of precum from his tip. You know Simon likes to feel full from you. “Mh, take a breath, baby. Relax, hm?”

Simon tries; he does. He inhales, turning his head to the side with a shaky exhale. You being so deep doesn’t help him relax. It’s so so so fucking good, but God, it’s just a little too deep. Just how Simon likes it. It’s nearing the edges of “it’s too much” and “not enough”. When it comes to you specifically, Simon can never get enough. He’s fucking greedy and he’s not shy about it. He feels his dick throb, and Simon makes more of an effort to relax. Deep breaths, in and out. Slow and steady. 

“Good dog.”

Simon groans, his eyes floating over to look at you–and fucking hell, look at you. You look like a fucking goddess in his fuck-drunk brain. Simon wishes he could burn this beautiful image of you into the inside of his eyelids so whenever he closed them, all he saw was you.

You move and he gasps; you’re pulling your hips back oh so slowly, his hole gripping your toy so tightly–greedily, hungrily. Simon’s head turns to the side again as if it’ll help him from the overwhelming sensations. You turn up the vibrations by one setting as you slowly sink back into him, your eyes glued to his face. “God, you’re so fucking sexy, Simon.” You breathe out, smile obvious in your tone. You can’t help it, the smile—nor your words. “Your body tells me things you won't tell me yourself. Y’know that, right?”

Simon does know. He knows how responsive he is to your words, your touch, your fuck. 

“You’re so fucking pretty yet you’re such a brat, baby.” You hum, pulling your hips back just to watch Simon’s back arch. “You’re not out of the woods at all.”

Oh—right. Simon almost forgot this is meant to be a punishment. You’ll supply addictive pleasure, then deny him heaven. A low whine leaves him as you push back in just as slowly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry..” Simon breathes out, his wrists flexing underneath his back. He can feel the warm sweat forming on his back against his arms. 

You keep a hand on the midst of his torso to keep him in place—in, out, in, out. Slow and steady, deep and so fucking good. Simon’s mumbling something that you don’t really catch, and you don’t really care to try to as you fuck him nice and deep. He always blabbers when he feels good. You can tell the tip and rubbing against his prostate with the way Simon just can’t stay still. You flash him a sweet smile and turn up the vibrations.

Your hips begin to plap against his ass with every thrust, making him get louder. Simon knows he sounds so lewd, he must look it, too—his eyes flutter as you fuck him just right, inhaling sharply as his cock leaks all over his belly, precum a milky white against his pale skin. His eyes shut as you focus on fucking him nice and deep, your dildo reaching places your fingers cant. 

Simon licks his lips before they part; his moan is interrupted by you leaning over him, pressing way too deep. He gasps and his eyes fly open as the tip of the dildo gag presses against his bottom teeth. “Open up, pup.” You murmur, your tone sensual as you beckon his jaw to open back up. 

Simon shudders hard, his eyes fall half lidded as he keeps eye contact as you slide the tip against his tongue. You tease him a little, sliding the tip back and forth against the curve of his tongue before whispering for him to relax his throat. Simon relaxes his throat, clenching around the base of your strap as you guide the dildo gag down his throat. You watch as his eyes grow hazy, filling his throat. His lips brush against the base of the toy. Simon exhales shakily through his nose as you feed the ending part through the buckle on the back of his head. You let Simon rest his head back down on the pillow, wiping your hand through his drool to his throat, smearing it.

You gently feel the column of his neck, gently squeezing. “Good?” You check in, scanning Simon’s face for any discomfort. He lazily nods, leaning into your palm where you ended up cupping his cheek. His stubble scratches your skin gently. You note to yourself that you should check in again soon. “You still remember that you can’t cum without my permission, pup?” You remind him as your palm rubs down his sternum, your fingers smearing his mess on his belly. His abdomen tightens under your fingertips as a desperate noise leaves him with a quick nod.

You lean back and properly grab the underside of his other leg, pressing it towards his chest. Simon’s eyes widen a bit as your fingers bite into the fat of his thighs, the muscles tensing a little under your grip. This position lets you go a little deeper and gives you more control overall—you watch as the pieces fall into place in Simon’s mind, a needy hum leaving him before he noisily swallows around the gag.

Okay, time for you to truly have your fun.

You pull your hips back and begin to fuck into him like you hate the man. It causes him to gasp and sputter around the gag, his hole clenching around your toy so hungrily as Simon’s head rolls back. It’s a symphony of plaps and muffled noises of pleasure. He can’t help but try to squirm away—your hips hitting the sore and sensitive skin of his ass from the spanking, his thighs sore underneath your harsh grip. Your tip is rubbing against his sweet spot so good, it makes Simon’s toes fucking curl.

He feels like a goddamn puddle. There’s this building pressure in his stomach, hooked deep into his hips and it alights on fire with every thrust of your hips. The vibrator isn’t doing Simon any favors; his cock hurts. He’s so fucking sensitive and his balls ache. He feels tears brim in his waterline as he opens his eyes to look at you again, messily swallowing around the gag. His belly is warm and tight, and fuck, oh no—

Simon thrashes a little, panicking as his dick twitches a little too hard. He can feel himself getting close, his eyes rolling a little as his cock continues to leak and twitch. The vibrator continues to fuck Simon over, driving him closer to that edge. Simon’s legs tremble in your hold, just a little more—

—You pause your hips, halfway inside of him, turning down the vibrations. Simon moans around the dildo, eyes fluttering as he tries his best to relax, the warmth in his belly slowly dissipating. He swallows around the toy, huffing through his nose in order to relax his hips. “Were you close, pup?” You ask, gently squeezing the backside of his raw thighs. Simon grunts and nods a little, getting ahold of himself from the edge. He tries to blink away the tears collecting in his lash line. The sight makes you want to open Simon’s ribs up and eat him from the inside out. 

Simon swallows around the toy, struggling a little to stay in the present moment. He can’t help it, not when his mind unravels like the curling in his lower belly does when you edge him. He shakily exhales through his nose as he closes his eyes for a moment, feeling his cock bob and twitch as the feeling completely fades. It leaves Simon so fucking sensitive and needy. God, he needs it. 

His eyes flutter back open as you pat his cheek, his gaze focusing on your face. You’re flushed, a little sweaty from exertion. Simon absentmindedly thinks about how good you look like this as you tap the end of the dildo gag, making him swallow around it again. Your hands rub his thighs, fingertips running over the raw skin, tracing the erythema.  “Good dog, letting me know.” You murmur, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. The praise washes over him, settling nicely in his stomach like always. Yes, I’m a good dog, a good boy, a good toy—

Simon groans as you pinch and tug on his nipples a little with one hand, watching his eyebrows furrow. You can’t help yourself and pinch harder, making Simon jolt. You laugh, apologizing by kneading his pecs, the skin getting all rosy pink and sensitive. Cute. 

He garbles around the dildo as you tug your hips back before sinking back in. You keep one leg up against his chest, your other hand teasing his chest. You just can’t help yourself—he does it to himself, really. In and out, in and out—you keep a good, deep rhythm. Every so often, you make sure to nudge a bit deeper, watching his eyes roll a little. You hum, panting a little. The strain in your hamstrings nudge you to be nice, maybe end this soon. Using one hand, you rearrange the egg vibrator, turning it around so it’s snug underneath his heavy balls. Simon moans, as his body is jostled, your hips slapping against his. The best pain in life, in his honest opinion.

Simon nearly chokes as you turn up the vibrations to a setting he can’t ignore and can feel through the plap of your hips. You smile as you reach down, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock. His hole clenches so tight around your strap, making you chuckle. “Loosen up, pup. Can’t fuck you the way that I want if you keep that up.” You tease, making Simon tear up a little. His chest convulses, the skin blooming a beautiful deep rouge—a little too purple for your liking. Concerns with him choking on his spit, you unclasp the dildo gag and slowly remove it from between his lips.

Simon inhales and coughs wetly, moans pouring out between whimpers and wheezes. You toss it aside and rub his chest a little. “Breathe, Simon.” You encourage, watching the color melt back into a much more desirable red. The blush on his chest is connected to his neck and face, his ears especially looking warm. It’s such a nice contrast against his facial scars and his blonde hair. You love the blonde eyelashes, tears and red face combo from him. When his eyebrows draw up together? God, you could fucking eat him for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“There you go. So fuckin’ pretty.” You coo, grabbing his cock again. You’re fucking into his pliant hole, keeping his leg folded up as you stroke Simon’s dick, your thumb swiping around the sensitive tip, pressing right underneath. Simon is losing his mind under you, panting as his hands flex where they’re behind his back, against the mattress. His head is so full yet so empty at the same time. His brain has melted into mush, malleable just your hands only. Shape his brain into what you want—he could never deny you.

Simon doesn’t really register the next few minutes—he knows he’s crying and pleading, babbling about you. Thanking you and asking to cum, that it hurts. You’re assuring him, and then he’s slammed with the hardest orgasm of his life. Simon swears he leaves the planet for however long it takes for it to be over. Once his vision comes back, he’s sobbing and shuddering, hearing muffled as you’re tugging the rope off of his wrists.

You’re guiding his arms from out behind his back, fingers massaging his meaty arms, working to get some good blood flow back into his veins, to ground him. Simon shudders and gasps, blinking languidly as you lean down and kiss his scalp, tugging him close. 

Simon vaguely feels that he’s still full—he likes that. He likes it when you stay inside of him, it helps.

You allow him to put his leg down, the ache settling into the muscle as your hands rub up his pecs to cup his cheeks. He hears you showering him in praises; calling him pretty, that he took it so well. Every word washes over his mushy brain, relaxing him into the blankets. “Mommy.” He garbles out, his voice rough and low—breathy and vulnerable. It squeezes your heart in your chest, especially with the way his eyebrows are furrowed in such a worried way. 

Your voice finally cuts through the post-orgasm haze. “I’m here, pup. You did so fucking good, baby.” You whisper, kissing over his face. “Take a deep breath, hm? You with me?” It takes him a moment, his arms lifting to feel your sides. Simon’s arms feel like there’s sandbags tied to them, but he needs to touch you. He needs to feel your skin, your sweat against his fingertips. Simon nods in response, his head lifting for a moment, vision coming into focus. There’s thick ropes of his creamy cum on his stomach. Simon winces once he realizes it actually reached his collarbone and chin, feeling it smear. It’s hot for a moment before he feels gross.

You focus on wiping him down, making sure he gets some water—some fruit snacks for some very needed sugar. You feed him piece by piece, showering him with love. It makes him feel so good—so fucking sleepy. God, he’s exhausted. You kiss his temple, tugging him closer as you massage his back. At one point, you had moved yourself and Simon on your sides, him facing you. Your fingertips dig into the solid tense muscle of his back.

And because Simon is greedy, his leg is hitched over your hip, your fat strap buried deep in his hole. Where it belongs, he thinks to himself.  

🏷️; @identity2212 @clancycatears @dumb-fawkin-bitch @ghestielong @Missborntodiex @indefenseofkara @snoowply @thisuserloveshalloween @spacelia @Ghostindeath @kivino @nyushkawritesstuff @bi-witch-bxtch @babyqueen17

The kitchen was bathed in early morning light as the scent of freshly brewed coffee enveloped the downstairs area of your house. It was around five in the morning and you were restless, so instead of tossing and turning all night and risk waking your husband, you decided to take out your frustrations on the ball of dough you let rest and rise overnight. It just so happened that your little baking escapade escalated rather quickly and instead of a tiny little loaf of bread, you ended up with two, one sourdough, two dozen muffins and a chocolate cake currently in the oven for which you were mixing up the chocolate frosting. And still, you remained restless. And now, on top of that, your cravings kicked in, but God only knows why, none matched with the pastries you already had cooling on the rack. The universe really had a twisted sense of humour.

Placing a hand on your seven month baby bump, you took a deep breath before moving to grab the apple basket on the counter. If your baby wanted apple fritters, then apple fritters she shall get.

You shook your head with a smile. She really is her father’s daughter.

Halfway through slicing the fruit, the timer went off, signaling that the cake was ready, at last. You checked the clock once more. A quarter to six. Hopefully, there will be enough time for it to cool and for you to decorate it before Adam would inevitably be drawn into the kitchen by the irresistible aroma. He had a sixth sense when it came to chocolate, you were certain of it.

Finishing up the apple slices, you grabbed the thick oven mitts you kept nearby and set the cake on a different rack to cool, slipping the hot pan into the soapy water filling up the sink. Batter is not that hard to clean up, but with the constantly growing mountain of dirty dishes, you were not about to take any chances and risk having to double or triple scrub the sugary bits later.

Letting out a soft sigh, you placed your hands on your lower back, applying just enough pressure to momentarily get rid of the uncomfortable knot interrupting your morning activities. There will be enough time to take care of it properly later and who knows, maybe you can rope your amazingly talented husband into lending a hand or two. Ever since the bump made its debut, Adam always found himself touching it, or you, in some capacity and in the last couple of weeks, massages had become a staple in your relationship.

Your thoughts were interrupted when two strong hands settled on your hips, pulling you in gently until your back made contact with a warm chest. His arms circled your midsection protectively and you felt his lips press a gentle kiss on your temple, before they moved lower, tickling your ear when the raspy ‘good morning’ made its way past them and you smiled, closing your eyes and relaxing into him, allowing yourself a moment to simply bask in the beautiful love you two shared and enjoy the peaceful scene.

Or you would have, if your husband wouldn’t have picked that moment to let detective Karadec out of the box.

“How long have you been up? And why does it look like a bakery exploded in our kitchen?”

You sighed and turned around in his arms, looking up at him with what you knew was a mix of amusement and exasperation while your hands moved slowly up and down his forearms. You knew this was coming. Adam’s been more than a bit too overprotective since you had shared the news all those months back and as your due date neared, the threat to cover you in bubble wrap and assign you a protection detail seemed to pop up more and more. You couldn’t really blame him, though. He worked a dangerous job and as much as he tried to keep his work life and private life separate, he still worried.

You weren’t helpless, of course. Your husband insisted on teaching you how to effectively defend yourself in case you ever needed – although he really hoped you wouldn’t need it – and you had him and his whole team on speed dial. All of the bases were covered. And yet, you suspected the worries would never really dissipate.

You wouldn’t have it any other way, though.

“Our little bundle of joy has been kicking me non-stop for hours. I didn’t want to wake you since you have to be at work in a couple of hours, so I found a way to keep busy. That, and the baby got hungry in the meantime.”    

“Which is usually code for you were craving something sweet.”

You tilted your head to the side and pursed your lips. He knew you well. Too well. Lifting on to the tips of your toes, you caught Adam’s lips in a sweet kiss while his hands roamed freely over your back, lower, and lower…

“Adam!” you chided playfully, catching one of his wrists and gliding your fingers to intertwine with his. The cold metal of his wedding band connected with your skin and sent a delicious shiver up your spine, a beautiful reminder that this strong, loving man was all yours.

His smile was innocent, but his eyes betrayed him. He regarded you with an intense gaze he only reserved for you and truthfully, you couldn’t get enough. Adam lifted your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before his attention is caught by the various ingredients spread on the counter. One ingredient, specifically, lifts the corners of his mouth in a knowing smile and the adoration you can see so clearly reflected on his face nearly brings you to tears.

Damned hormones.

“You’re making my favourite desert.”

Not a question. An observation.

You sigh, but the smile tugging at your lips betrays you.

“Your daughter is craving apple fritters.”

Adam raises a brow, trying to keep a serious face, but fails miserably when the hand he’d kept on your waist migrates to your belly and he feels a strong kick. The grin that takes over his face can only be described as incandescent.

“Well, good morning to you too, babygirl.”

Feeling your baby kick for the first time remains one of your most cherished memories of your pregnancy so far, particularly because you both got to experience it at the same time. Granted, you’ve been feeling the tiny, almost imperceptible movements long before, but the first real kick happened one evening at home. Adam had just wrapped up a really hard case and all he wanted to do was cuddle you and bask in the fact that you were there, in his arms and alive, at least until reality came knocking back and Lieutenant Soto called with another case. It was peaceful for a few minutes, his hand resting over your bump, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, when you both felt it. A small jab on his palm, but that second of motion was enough to bring your husband to his knees. The kicks have become a normal part of your daily routine over the past couple of months, but they never fail to brighten your and Adam’s day.

You are sadly brought back from the trip down memory lane when his next words register in your mind.

“Why is she always my daughter when you’re craving sugary treats?”

And…well…you did not have a good answer for that. But your baby seemed to want to join in on the discussion, because you felt two more kicks, one after the other.

Yes, mom, why is that?

You couldn’t hold back the laughter.

“Alright, point taken.”

Biting your lip, you stole a glance at Adam’s handsome face, the stubble he has yet to trim for the day making him look rougher, but all the more breathtaking. You’d always loved feeling it on your skin whenever his kisses wandered down your neck and shoulders, not to mention between your thighs…  

Your husband doesn’t miss the newfound heat in your gaze and has half a mind to drag you back to the bedroom for a proper good morning, but he knows that if he does, he might not make it into work on time, if at all, and he will never hear the end of it, especially from Morgan. So he steers the conversation towards a different topic, one you’ve both been dancing around for weeks, and it’s like someone threw a bucket of cold water over you, making you groan and hang your head in resignation, resting your forehead on Adam’s chest.

“She still needs a name.”

“I know.”

“We’ve exhausted three baby name books.”

“I know!”

“So what are we going to do?”

“Why can’t we just wait?”

The bemused smile he’s sporting as he gives you a once-over only serves to annoy you further. You already know what he’s going to say before he gets the chance to open his mouth.

“Don’t!”

And that does it. Adam has to take a couple of steps back as he nearly doubles over laughing. He can’t help it, really, you are always adorable to him, but your not-really-upset-but-trying scowl, arms crossed over your chest and resting on your bump and your foot tapping on the floor has to be his favourite image of you.

“I’m sorry to have to point it out, sweetheart, but we are rapidly running out of time.”

“Then we wait until she’s born. And when we see her for the first time, we’ll know.”

You’d been wanting to suggest that for quite some time, but were not sure if your husband would be on board. You were perfectly happy to keep browsing for names with him, you loved the quality time spent together and teasing each other regarding your preferences – you leaned towards more unique names, whereas Adam preferred the old-fashioned ones. But after two weeks and no decision, you were ready to leave it all to fate, certain that you’d see her and just know.

Adam seems to consider your words for a few seconds before he nods. You close the distance between you two once more, wrapping one arm around his waist and placing your free hand over his heart. His arms loop around you, keeping you close as he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead.

“I think that’s a great idea.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smile and let out a relieved sigh. Now that the name issue is out of the way…

“Would you like to help me finish up my little baking escapade?”

Adam raises a brow.

“Little?”

You roll your eyes, waving a hand dismissively.

“You make it sound worse than it is.”

“Honey, I could feed the entire precinct with the muffins alone.”

Your eyes sparkle with an idea and you rush to the cupboard where you store boxes, foils and food containers, fishing out the biggest box you could find.

“That’s actually a brilliant idea! If you take the muffins to work, then that leaves me more room to bake…”

you sigh, grabbing the keycard. “we’ll survive you meaning we’ll survive me not murdering you before morning.”

he smiles, that quiet, knowing kind of smile that doesn’t reach his mouth but does reach his eyes.

the room’s bigger than expected. neat, impersonal, soft light over pale walls. you toss your bag on one bed; he sets his near the door, already pulling his laptop out.

“don’t you dare start working,” you warn.

“i just need to check something.”

you roll your eyes, kick off your shoes, stretch out on your bed. “you’re constitutionally incapable of relaxing.”

“i relax.”

“define relax.”

he glances over, deadpan. “this.”

“mmhmm,” you hum. “because nothing says calm like cross-referencing suspect statements.”

he chuckles under his breath, finishes typing, closes the laptop, and sits on the edge of your bed. his fingers find your ankle without even thinking, tracing slow circles there. “better?”

“depends,” you say. “you planning to stay over here or go pretend you don’t want to?”

he tilts his head. “you always talk this much when we’re alone?”

“only when i’m right.”

he squeezes your ankle once before standing. “both beds, remember. appearances.”

“oh please. if oz sees us walk in together tomorrow, he’ll assume we eloped.”

“then we’ll tell him he’s wrong.”

“you’re terrible at lying,” you say, smiling.

“not to you.”

later, you’re both in pajamas, half watching some crime show that gets every detail wrong. the lamp throws warm light over the room; your hair’s still damp from your shower.

“they didn’t even clear the perimeter,” you mutter.

“fiction,” he says.

“it’s insulting.”

he grins, reaching over to steal a handful of your chips. “you’re cute when you get territorial.”

“you’re impossible when you steal snacks.”

he leans back, amused. “i could get room service dessert.”

you narrow your eyes. “bribery.”

“strategy.”

you toss a pillow at him; he catches it easily, tosses it back, softer.

you laugh, quiet and warm. “stop. the neighbors will call security.”

“they’ll just assume it’s foreplay.”

you go still for half a second before you can help it, then shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “you’re lucky i love you.”

he looks over then, grin fading into something gentler. “yeah,” he says softly. “i am.”

the next morning, you walk into briefing together—professional, like nothing happened. adam’s hotel key hangs from his badge clip; yours is buried in your pocket.

oz looks up instantly. “morning, lovebirds.”

“morning,” you both say in perfect unison, not missing a beat.

morgan glances between you two, eyes narrowing. “one room or two?”

“one,” oz answers before you can, “but i bet they’ll both deny it.”

you sit down, perfectly composed. “deny what?”

“exactly,” adam says, pulling out his notes.

oz leans toward morgan, whispering, “that’s a yes.”

you hear it. adam hears it. neither of you correct him.

you just nudge adam’s knee under the table, and he hides a smile behind his file.

two. the undercover wedding

you’re posing as a couple at a luxury reception to nab a suspect who only mingles with married guests. it’s not your first undercover assignment together, but it’s the first one where the disguise feels a little too close to the truth.

the ballroom smells like champagne and lilies, gold light spilling over polished marble. adam’s wearing a tux that fits too well for someone who claims to hate formal events. his tie is straight, expression sharper than the crystal glasses clinking around you. you’re in a pale silk dress that moves like water, the color catching every bit of light in the room.

he takes your hand as soon as you step inside. part of the cover, sure. but he doesn’t let go, even when no one’s watching.

you lean into him, because that’s what you’re supposed to do—blend, act natural, look like two people with shared years and a shared mortgage. but it doesn’t feel like pretending. not with the way his thumb traces absent patterns against your skin, not with the way his shoulders relax when you laugh.

“you’re supposed to be scanning the crowd,” you murmur, still smiling for anyone who might be looking.

“i am,” he says quietly. “you just happen to be standing in it.”

you give him a look that’s meant to be warning but ends up softer than you intend. “focus, detective.”

he leans down just enough that his breath brushes your ear. “always.”

the suspect appears twenty minutes later, predictable as ever, surrounded by money and fake smiles. you and adam fall into step, the perfect couple—his hand at your back, your voice light, his posture protective but casual. it’s seamless, the way you move together, like choreography you never had to rehearse.

the plan works. the target talks too much, drinks too fast, and by the end of the night, the intel’s secured and the arrest is in motion. you and adam slip away before anyone notices, stepping out into the cool night air behind the hotel.

you exhale, finally letting go of the act. “we make a disturbingly good married couple.”

“disturbing?” he asks.

“realistic,” you correct, looking up at him. “that’s the word i meant.”

he smiles, the real kind—the one that’s a little uneven, the one that belongs only to you. “realistic works.”

“morgan’s going to have a field day when she sees the photos,” you say.

“there were photos?”

“oz was wearing a lapel cam. selena wanted everything documented.”

he groans softly, tipping his head back. “perfect.”

the next day, you walk into the bullpen. morgan’s at her desk, typing, suspiciously cheerful.

you notice it instantly: a glossy printed photo taped above her monitor. you and adam on the ballroom floor. his hand at your waist, your head tilted back in laughter, both of you looking like something out of a wedding magazine.

across the top, in thick black marker: “most convincing fake marriage ever.”

you stop. blink once. “take that down.”

“no,” morgan says, not even looking up.

“morgan.”

she finally glances at you, grin wide and unbothered. “it’s evidence.”

you don’t ask of what.

adam walks in halfway through this, jacket slung over his arm, expression perfectly neutral—except for the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth when he sees the picture.

“oh good,” he says dryly. “it’s framed now.”

morgan beams. “i laminated it.”

you cross your arms, unimpressed. “this is workplace harassment.”

“this,” she says, pointing to the photo, “is art.”

oz looks up from across the room. “whoa, did you two renew vows or something?”

“undercover,” adam says automatically.

oz grins. “uh-huh. and you just happened to look that in love?”

you give him a flat stare. “it’s called acting.”

oz shrugs. “sure. oscar-worthy.”

morgan hums in agreement, clicking away at her computer. “i’m just saying, if you ever need a wedding photographer, i already have samples.”

you sigh, grabbing a case file and muttering under your breath, “i’m deleting that photo from evidence storage.”

adam follows you toward your desk, voice low. “don’t bother. selena probably has it bookmarked.”

you glance at him. “you’re taking this way too well.”

he shrugs, tone easy. “it’s a good picture.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“and yet,” he says, leaning just close enough that only you can hear, “you’re smiling.”

you are. you hate that you are.

you look down at the file, hiding it behind a sigh. “next time, we’re posing as coworkers.”

he laughs quietly. “sure. that’ll fool everyone.”

three. the precinct bet

oz starts it, obviously.

it’s a slow monday morning, paperwork stacked high, coffee stale, everyone restless. he leans back in his chair, watching you and adam bicker quietly over a report, your tone sharp but fond, his expression patient in that way only people deeply in love—or deeply doomed—can manage.

oz grins. “fifty bucks says they’re dating.”

daphne doesn’t even look up from her computer. “hundred says they’re not, but they want to be.”

“you’re on.”

that’s all it takes. within an hour, morgan’s involved, selena’s pretending not to listen from her office, and a whiteboard has somehow appeared by the copier. at the top, written in oz’s messy handwriting:

‘together or denial?’

underneath are two columns — one labeled together, the other denial. initials start appearing fast: daphne under denial, oz, morgan, and two uniforms under together, one intern adding a tiny heart next to your names because subtlety has left the building.

by midweek, it’s completely out of hand.

daphne’s compiling evidence—times you and adam show up together, coffee orders that match, the fact that you once took your lunch breaks at the same time three days in a row. oz’s tracking “physical proximity” like it’s a science project. morgan’s running commentary keeps morale suspiciously high.

selena walks by on wednesday, sees the whiteboard, and stops. “what’s this?”

oz sits up straighter. “ongoing investigation.”

selena raises one eyebrow. “internal affairs?”

“no, better. romance.”

she stares for a beat, then sighs and keeps walking. but when she passes by later, you catch it — the faintest, smallest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

by thursday, adam finds out.

you hear it before you see it: the long, slow exhale of a man discovering new depths of irritation. you round the corner just in time to see him standing in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, expression unreadable.

oz freezes mid-sentence, daphne’s halfway through jotting another note. morgan mutters a quiet, “oh, this is going to be good.”

adam doesn’t say a word. he just caps the marker, draws one thick, clean black line through both columns—together and denial—like he’s closing a case.

then, underneath, in perfectly neat handwriting, he writes:

“focus on work.”

the room goes dead silent.

oz tilts his head. “so… no comment?”

adam looks up. “that was my comment.”

and then he’s gone. back to his desk. calm as ever.

the second he’s out of sight, everyone exhales at once.

“well,” morgan says, grinning, “that’s definitely confirmation.”

daphne nods. “deflection equals confession.”

oz grabs the marker, adds to the bottom of the board in small letters:

‘deflection = confirmation.’

the next morning, you arrive early. adam’s already at his desk, reading through a file, pretending not to notice the quiet laughter from across the bullpen.

you glance at the board—his black line still cutting through the middle, but the new words standing proud underneath.

you take the marker, cross out confirmation, and write in tidy letters beneath it:

‘in your dreams.’

when you sit down, adam doesn’t look up, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch.

oz spots it first. “oh my god, they’re flirting through office supplies.”

you glance up, deadpan. “fifty bucks says you shut up.”

“sold,” adam murmurs without looking up.

four. the safehouse argument

it’s 11.08 p.m., storm outside, thunder rolling close enough to make the windows tremble. the precinct’s almost empty—most of the lights off except the one over your desk. it hums faintly, pale and steady, casting long shadows over the paperwork you’ve both been staring at for hours.

you’re exhausted, frustrated, and dangerously close to proving a point that adam refuses to admit might actually be right.

“the suspect’s timeline doesn’t fit,” you say, circling something on the report for the tenth time. “he couldn’t have gotten across town that fast unless someone helped him.”

adam doesn’t even look up. “or he lied about where he was before the call came in.”

“you’re missing the connection, adam—”

“and you’re overcomplicating it.”

you drop the pen, exhale sharply. “god, you are impossible.”

“that’s mutual,” he says, voice calm in that infuriating way that makes you want to throw something.

so you do.

you grab the pen again and toss it at him, aiming for his chest—not hard, just enough to make a point.

he catches it without even looking up.

the sound of the storm fills the silence that follows. the air between you hums, heavy and restless.

you cross your arms. “show-off.”

he finally looks at you, one eyebrow raised, eyes dark and tired but still sharp. “you done?”

“not even close.”

he sets the pen down on your desk, slow, deliberate. “we’ve been at this for hours.”

“because you’re wrong,” you snap.

“because you’re stubborn,” he counters, quiet but certain.

you take a step closer, the space between you shrinking until you can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “you love that about me.”

“sometimes,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

lightning flashes outside, the brief white glare cutting between you, and in that moment it’s hard to tell if you’re arguing or flirting. probably both. it usually is.

the door creaks open behind you.

oz stumbles in, wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, hair sticking up in six directions. he blinks once, sees you both standing there, inches apart, energy thick enough to spark.

“oh good,” he mutters. “domestic homicide in progress.”

you and adam turn at the same time, identical glares.

oz freezes mid-step, eyes widening. “right. just… getting water.”

he backs out slowly, hands raised in surrender, muttering something that sounds like, “they’re gonna murder each other and then make out over the crime scene.”

the door clicks shut.

thunder rolls again, low and long. you can feel your pulse in your throat. neither of you moves.

then adam’s voice breaks the silence—soft, low, a little amused. “you missed.”

you tilt your head. “next time i won’t.”

his lips twitch, the faintest trace of a smile. “sure you won’t.”

you lean forward, just enough for your shoulder to brush his as you reach for the case file again. “admit it. you love me like this.”

he hums, noncommittal, but his hand brushes yours when he takes the folder from you.

and that’s all the answer you need.

five. the suspect’s taunt

the suspect leans back in his chair, cuffs clinking against the table. his smile is lazy, confident — the kind that makes you want to wipe it off his face with a file folder.

“you’re good,” he says, eyes sliding over you in a way that makes your skin crawl. “sharp. not like the other detectives who came through here.”

you don’t react. you never do. “flattery won’t save you.”

he grins wider. “it’s not flattery if it’s true.”

adam’s standing beside you, arms crossed, quiet — but you can feel it, the shift in him. the stillness.

the suspect leans forward a little, voice dropping lower. “how long have you two been working together?”

“long enough,” you answer.

“yeah, i can tell,” he says. “you move like a team. must be tight. bet you’re tight off-duty too.”

the words hang there, heavy, foul.

before you can even inhale, adam steps forward — slow, deliberate, but the room feels smaller because of it.

his tone turns cold, knife-sharp. “watch your mouth.”

the suspect laughs, trying to cover the flicker of unease. “oh, come on, don’t get jealous, detective. i’m just making conversation.”

“you’re talking to the wrong audience,” you say evenly, flipping a page in your notes, not giving him the satisfaction of eye contact.

but he isn’t looking at you anymore — he’s watching adam, reading the warning in his eyes and pushing anyway.

he smiles again, teeth flashing. “you’re feisty,” he says to you, tone oily. “bet he likes that.”

adam leans in, both hands on the table, voice low and steady enough to make the air feel heavier. “one more word and i’ll show you exactly what i like.”

the suspect blinks, his smile finally cracking.

you reach out under the table, brush your knee against adam’s — not much, just enough to pull him back, to remind him that the cameras are still rolling, that oz and daphne are behind the glass watching every second.

adam exhales slowly, straightens. “we’re done here,” he says.

you close the file, calm, precise. “we’ll send someone in to collect your statement. try not to say anything else stupid.”

you’re halfway out the door when the man mutters, “touchy.”

adam doesn’t even turn around. “lucky for you.”

outside the room, daphne’s the first to speak. she’s got her arms crossed, trying to look unimpressed but failing. “that was… intense.”

oz is staring at the monitor, wide-eyed. “soooo, i’m just gonna say it—if i ever get arrested, i’m not letting you two interrogate me.”

“smart,” you say, brushing past him.

daphne glances between you and adam, eyes narrowing slightly. “he really got under your skin, huh?”

adam’s expression doesn’t change. “i don’t like disrespect.”

oz grins, leaning against the wall. “sure, sure. disrespect. nothing else at all.”

you shoot him a look. “oz.”

“what? i’m just saying,” he says, hands raised, “the chemistry in there could power the whole precinct.”

adam’s jaw flexes once. “focus on work, oz.”

oz snorts quietly. “that’s what the whiteboard’s for.”

you start walking before he can elaborate, ignoring the grin on daphne’s face.

“ignore him,” you murmur to adam once you’re out of earshot.

“i always do,” he says, voice softer now.

“really?” you glance at him.

he looks down at you, that quiet, controlled calm settling back in. “almost always.”

and that’s enough to make you smile — just barely.

and the one time they get an answer

the next morning, you and adam walk into the bullpen together, side by side, like always. same calm stride, same quiet conversation under your breath.

nothing looks different—until the light from the window hits your hand.

oz notices first, of course. he freezes mid-sip of his coffee. “uh. hold on.”

daphne glances up. “what now?”

oz points, eyes wide. “her hand.”

you blink. “my hand?”

“that’s not your usual ring,” he says slowly. “that’s… a diamond.”

morgan swivels in her chair. “oh my god, it is. that’s a serious diamond.”

you glance down. the ring catches the light—round cut, clear, set in gold so it matches the thin band beside it. adam’s wearing the same band, gleaming on his left hand, no attempt to hide it.

oz looks between the two of you, expression turning from suspicion to full-on disbelief. “no. way.”

daphne’s eyebrows lift. “please tell me you didn’t.”

adam sets a file on your desk, voice even. “we did.”

“did what?” oz demands, already knowing.

you shrug lightly, slipping out of your coat. “got married.”

the room explodes.

morgan half-laughs, half-shouts. “you eloped? when?”

“last month,” you say, like it’s nothing special.

“last month?” daphne repeats. “you worked three back-to-back cases last month!”

“we had a weekend off,” adam says simply.

oz looks personally betrayed. “you got married on a weekend off and didn’t tell anyone?”

“it was quiet,” you say. “no press, no drama, no oz.”

“hey—”

“we’re planning something small later,” you add. “family, a few friends, you guys.”

morgan grins. “so i am getting an invite.”

“if you promise not to make a speech,” adam says.

“too late,” she replies immediately.

daphne leans forward, eyes on the rings. “okay but the bands—matching gold? that’s… actually really sweet.”

you smile at that. “he picked them.”

oz stares at adam like he’s never seen him before. “you? gold? mr. minimalist?”

adam’s mouth twitches. “it felt right.”

morgan fans herself with a folder. “someone’s turning into a romantic.”

“don’t start,” he warns, but his hand finds yours anyway—just a small movement, his thumb brushing the edge of your ring.

oz groans. “great. now they’re doing the hand thing.”

“the married hand thing,” daphne corrects, grinning.

you glance at adam, trying—and failing—not to smile. “we should’ve known they’d take this well.”

“they’re taking it too well,” he murmurs back.

oz crosses his arms, mock-serious. “i just can’t believe you didn’t tell us. months of speculation, a literal whiteboard, and you were already married.”

you tilt your head. “you could’ve asked.”

“we did,” daphne says. “repeatedly.”

adam nods toward the board still hanging by the copier, half-erased but readable. “looks like you were half right.”

morgan laughs. “yeah, ‘together’ won by a landslide.”

“congratulations,” daphne says finally, genuine beneath the teasing.

oz sighs, grabbing a marker and walking to the board. under together he scrawls a single word in bold: confirmed.

you shake your head, laughing quietly.