Background Six-Nine in Brooklyn Nine-Nine Ch.2 [B99] (Patreon)

Background Six-Nine in Brooklyn Nine-Nine

Chapter 2 - Season 1, Episode 2: The Tagger

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The bullpen of the 99th Precinct was already alive with Monday morning chaos when Jake Peralta pushed through the double doors, a big, satisfied grin plastered across his face and an extra bounce in his step. He had closed that major case the day before—the one that had dragged everyone through long nights and dead ends—and it felt damn good. The kind of win that made you walk a little taller, shoulders back, like the whole city owed you one. He spotted Amy Santiago already at her perfectly organized desk, files stacked with military precision, and made a beeline straight toward her, dodging a couple of uniforms carrying coffee.

“Morning, Santiago!” Jake announced loud enough for half the room to hear. He dropped his jacket over the back of his own cluttered chair with a flourish, nearly knocking over a stack of papers. “Guess who just wrapped up another monster case? This guy right here. I mean, I basically cracked it wide open after everyone else was spinning their wheels for days. Holt’s gotta be impressed this time. I can already picture the ‘well done, Peralta’ speech. Maybe even a pat on the back if I’m lucky. Or at least a nod. I’ll take a nod. Hell, I’ll take a grunt if that’s all I get today.”

Amy glanced up from her report, pen still moving across the page in her neat, controlled handwriting. She adjusted her glasses and gave him that familiar look—half exasperation, half amusement she tried (and failed) to hide. “Congratulations, Peralta. Really. But maybe keep the victory lap to a reasonable volume. Not everyone needs the full play-by-play before they’ve even had their first cup of coffee. Some of us are still catching up on yesterday’s paperwork while you’re out here celebrating like you single-handedly saved the city from certain doom. The rest of us were here doing the boring follow-up work you hate.”

Jake laughed, leaning against the edge of her desk and spinning a stray pen between his fingers like it was a baton. “Lighten up, Santiago. This one was big. You were there for parts of it—you know how tricky it got with those conflicting statements and the weird timeline. The captain’s gonna have to say something this time. I stayed late, followed every weird lead, talked to that one witness who didn’t want to talk, and boom—case closed. Feels good, right? Admit it, you’re a little proud of your chaotic partner. Deep down. Under all the color-coding and perfect penmanship. Come on, just one small ‘nice job, Jake.’ I won’t tell anyone.”

Amy leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms but letting a small smile slip through despite herself. “Proud? Maybe. A tiny bit. You did good on the witness part. But don’t let it go to your head too fast. Holt’s not exactly the ‘throw a party and hand out medals’ type. Just do the work and let the results speak for themselves. Some of us have actual career goals that involve more than just looking cool while solving cases and hoping the captain gives you a gold star. Structure matters, Peralta. One day you’ll see that. You can’t charm your way through everything.”

Jake waved her off with a grin, already turning toward Holt’s office with that same confident energy. “Yeah, yeah. Watch and learn, Santiago. Today’s the day I finally get that acknowledgment. You’ll see. I’m telling you, this is the one. I can feel it in my bones.”

He knocked once on the captain’s door and stepped inside without waiting too long. Holt sat behind his desk with perfect posture, flipping through a file. The office was as neat as always—everything in its place, no clutter, just quiet efficiency that somehow made Jake feel slightly out of place.

“Detective Peralta,” Holt said, closing the file and looking up with that calm, steady gaze. “I assume you’re here about the case you closed yesterday.”

Jake stayed standing, still riding the high, hands in his pockets as he rocked back on his heels. “Yes, sir. It was a tough one—lots of dead ends, weird timing on the alibis, the works. But I stayed on it, followed every lead, talked to the right people, and got the confession. Thought you might want the full rundown or… you know, just a quick ‘good job.’ Something like that. I mean, it was a solid win for the precinct. We got the bad guy off the streets, and it wasn’t easy.”

Holt leaned back slightly, folding his hands on the desk. His expression didn’t change much, but his voice was even and firm, carrying the weight of someone who had already decided how this conversation was going to go. “You performed the duties required of your position. That is what is expected of every detective in this precinct. There is nothing extraordinary about meeting the standard you are paid to meet. Good work is the baseline, Detective. Not something that requires special recognition every time it happens. We do not hand out praise for simply doing the job.”

Jake’s grin faltered for a moment, the excitement dimming just a little as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Right, but this one was different. It wasn’t some simple domestic or street thing that solves itself. I had to get creative, stay late, talk to people who didn’t want to talk at all. I figured that might count for something. Show that I’m more than just another badge punching the clock. I mean, the confession came because I pushed the right buttons. That’s gotta be worth something, right?”

“Detective,” Holt replied, meeting his eyes directly without blinking, “consistent professionalism is the baseline here. If you want more than that—recognition, advancement, respect—you earn it through steady performance day after day, not by seeking praise after every solved case. Focus on the work itself. The rest follows naturally when the standards are met consistently. Chasing compliments distracts from the job.”

Jake nodded, jaw a little tighter now, but the determination settled in deeper, burning hotter. “Understood, Captain. I’ll keep that in mind. Guess I’ll just have to keep closing them until it’s impossible to ignore.”

He stepped out of the office feeling a little stung but more fired up than disappointed. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’ll keep proving it. One case at a time until he has no choice but to say it out loud.

Back in the bullpen he was still replaying the conversation when the new call came through. A report of vandalism on the Deputy Commissioner’s personal vehicle—spray paint all over it in the secure lot overnight. Big, ugly tags that made the whole department look bad. Holt wanted it handled fast and quietly.

Holt stepped out of his office a minute later and motioned Jake over. “Detective Peralta, this one is yours. The commissioner’s car was vandalized. Spray paint, visible from the street. The department is embarrassed, so I want a quick, thorough investigation. No loose ends.”

Jake nodded eagerly, already grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair. “No problem, Captain. Sounds like some bored kid with a can of paint who picked the wrong target. Amateur stuff. I’ll have a suspect by lunch, easy. Probably one of those taggers from the park files last month. I can feel it.”

Holt held up a hand, his expression steady but serious, the kind of look that made it clear this wasn’t up for debate. “Do not assume anything, Detective. Do not decide who the culprit is before you have evidence. Interview every witness, examine every detail, and let the facts lead you. Every person you speak to deserves a fair look, not your personal theory about who ‘seems guilty.’ Jumping to conclusions risks missing the truth. Do it properly. I expect better than shortcuts on this one.”

Jake shrugged, still riding his confidence from the last case, though a small voice in the back of his head noted the warning. “Got it. But this one feels obvious—sloppy lines, drips everywhere. I’ll check it out and keep an open mind. Promise.”

He grabbed a uniform officer and headed to the lot, the drive filled with him muttering to himself about how straightforward this was going to be. The commissioner’s car sat under the lights when they arrived, bright red and black paint streaked across the doors and hood in big, messy letters. The smell of fresh spray paint still hung in the cool air, sharp and chemical, mixing with the faint exhaust from the nearby street. Jake walked around it slowly, snapping pictures on his phone and crouching down to look at the drips running down the side panel.

“Yeah,” he muttered, half to himself and half to the uniform standing nearby. “Kid didn’t even know how to shake the can right. Classic amateur move. Look at these runs—definitely not a pro tagger. This should be quick. We’ll have the guy before the shift change.”

A security guard who had been on duty walked over, rubbing his hands together against the morning chill. The man looked tired, eyes squinting against the lights. “I saw a guy in a dark hoodie running toward the fence around midnight. Tall, skinny build. Hood up, couldn’t see the face. Moved fast, like he knew he was doing something wrong. Jumped the fence pretty clean too.”

Jake nodded, pulling out his notebook and scribbling quickly. “Hoodie, running away—classic tagger move. Matches that kid from the files, the one who hit the park benches last month. Same build, same sloppy style. You see anything else? Bag? Spray cans? Did he say anything or was it just the running?”

The guard shrugged, shifting his weight. “Too dark to see much else. Just the running. No bag that I noticed. He was gone pretty fast after the paint stopped.”

Jake turned to a nearby resident who had come out after hearing noise. The older woman stood with her arms crossed, still in her robe and slippers, looking annoyed at being pulled into this. “You catch anything last night? Voices? A car idling? Anything that might help narrow it down? Even a small detail could make the difference.”

The woman shook her head, pulling her robe tighter. “Just the hissing sound of the paint for a couple minutes, then footsteps running off fast. It woke me up, but by the time I looked out the window, whoever it was was already gone. Sounded like sneakers on pavement, nothing special. Sorry I can’t be more help. I wish I could tell you more, but it was dark and I was half asleep.”

Jake closed his notebook with a satisfied snap, tapping it against his palm. “Thanks. That’s enough for me to start pulling the right name. Tall, skinny, hoodie—fits the profile perfectly. I’ll have this wrapped up soon. Easy one for the books.”

He headed back to the precinct with the witness statements and a clear theory forming in his head. In the bullpen he started pulling old files on known local taggers, cross-referencing the description and style, already picturing how he’d bring the kid in and prove Holt wrong in the process. He spread the files across his desk, flipping through mug shots and prior arrest reports with quick, confident movements. “Yeah, this guy right here,” Jake muttered under his breath, tapping a photo of a skinny teenager with a record of minor graffiti tags. “Matches the build. Same sloppy tags in the park last month. Holt’s gonna see I was right all along. No need for all the extra steps when the obvious answer is staring you in the face. I can already see the look on his face when I bring this in clean.”

Charles Boyle was lingering near Rosa’s desk again, shifting from foot to foot like he wasn’t sure where to put his hands. He cleared his throat twice before speaking, his voice a little too loud for the quiet corner. “Rosa, hey. So I was thinking about that last bust we worked together. You were really… efficient with the cuffs. The way you had that guy pinned down—textbook. I brought some of that aged cheddar from the place I mentioned before. Thought maybe we could talk about it over lunch? The sandwiches there are incredible—the bread is fresh every day, and the fillings are all local. No pressure or anything. Just food and conversation if you want. Or we could just grab something quick if you’re busy.”

Rosa didn’t look up from the report she was reading, her pen moving steadily across the page in her usual controlled way. “I’m good.”

Boyle tried again, voice a little higher and more nervous as he shifted his weight. “Okay, coffee then? Or just… standing here talking? No pressure. I can be quiet too if that’s better. I know you like the quiet during stakeouts. We could just sit and eat. Or not eat. Whatever works for you. I don’t want to push. I just thought it might be nice to chat about something besides work for once.”

Rosa finally turned her head, expression completely flat, the kind of look that could stop a suspect mid-sentence. “Boyle. Busy.”

He took a step back, hands up in surrender. “Right. Yeah. Later then. Or whenever. No rush. I’ll just… be over there if you change your mind. Or not. Totally fine either way. I get it, you’re focused. That’s what makes you good at this.”

From her desk Gina didn’t even glance over, but her voice carried across the bullpen with perfect timing and dry sarcasm. “Real smooth, Boyle. She’s definitely not filing a restraining order in her head right now. Keep it up and you’ll be legendary around here. The guy who made Rosa Diaz consider early retirement from dealing with awkward conversations. I can already see the precinct pool forming on how long until she threatens you with her knife skills.”

Boyle sighed and wandered off toward the break room, muttering to himself about “taking it slow” and “building rapport one sandwich at a time. She’ll come around. I know it.”

Sergeant Terry Jeffords moved through the bullpen with a clipboard, voice steady and carrying over the general noise. “Stay on your cases, people. We’ve got the usual load plus this vandalism thing on the commissioner’s car. No one drops the ball because they’re distracted or chasing personal projects. Let’s keep it professional today. I don’t want any surprises when Holt asks for updates later. Focus, stay sharp, and get it done right. We’re all under the microscope now with the new captain watching everything.”

Gina smirked without looking up from her phone, typing with one hand. “Yes, Sergeant. We’ll all be perfect little soldiers under the new regime. No pressure at all. Just the usual life-or-death stakes of a spray-paint job on a fancy car. I’m sure the commissioner is losing sleep over it while the rest of us deal with actual crime. But sure, let’s all act like this is the most important thing happening today.”

Jake was still at his desk pulling files when Holt stepped out again and motioned him over to the side of the bullpen, away from the main noise. The captain’s posture was as straight as ever, clipboard in hand.

“Detective,” Holt said quietly but firmly. “I looked at what you brought back from the scene. You’ve already decided it’s the kid from the park tags. Have you checked alibis for the time of the vandalism? Looked at security footage from the buildings around the lot? Talked to anyone else who might have seen something at a different angle? Or are you letting your personal theory drive this?”

Jake shifted his weight, jaw tightening a bit as he met Holt’s eyes. “The description matches. The style matches. My gut says it’s him. It all lines up perfectly. Tall, skinny, hoodie—classic tagger profile. Why waste time on extra steps when the evidence is right there? I talked to the main witnesses. It fits.”

Holt’s expression didn’t change, but his tone sharpened just slightly, the kind of calm authority that made the words land heavier. “Your gut is not evidence, Detective Peralta. You are letting your personal opinion about who ‘looks guilty’ influence how you look at the facts. Slow down. Go back to the scene. Talk to more people. Gather what is actually there instead of what you want to see. Do it properly. This is exactly what I meant about structure and patience. Assumptions get good detectives in trouble. I expect better from you.”

Jake nodded, exhaling slowly as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Understood, Captain. I’ll check everything twice. No shortcuts. I’ll go back and dig deeper.”

He grabbed his jacket again, already replaying the witness statements in his head and feeling the first small crack in his confidence. Fine. I’ll do it your way. But it’s still him. Has to be.

Jake left Holt’s office with the captain’s words still echoing. He grabbed his jacket again and headed back out to the scene, forcing himself to slow down this time. The lot was quieter now in the late morning light, but the tagged car still sat there like a bright red embarrassment under the security lights. He talked to two more security guards who had been on overlapping shifts, asking the same questions but listening closer, taking actual notes instead of rushing through.

One guard, an older guy with a thick mustache, leaned against the wall, sipping from a thermos. “I saw a white van idling nearby earlier than the hoodie guy you mentioned. Driver looked legit—clipboard, uniform, the works. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but now that you ask, it was parked in a weird spot for a delivery. Stayed longer than usual too. Maybe twenty minutes or so. I figured it was just a late drop-off, but the timing lines up with when I heard the spray hissing start. The driver got out for a minute, walked around the car like he was checking something, then got back in. Nothing that screamed ‘vandal’ at the time, but now… who knows.”

Jake jotted it down carefully, frowning as the pieces started shifting in his head. His first theory about the skinny kid from the park files was starting to feel shaky. He checked the footage from a nearby building camera himself instead of just skimming the report the uniform had pulled. The angle was bad, grainy and partially blocked by a pole, but the hoodie guy’s shoes didn’t match the prints near the car. Small details he’d rushed past before suddenly stood out—the tread pattern was different, the size looked off. He rewound the footage twice, zooming in as much as the low-quality video allowed, muttering to himself the whole time.

“Damn,” Jake said, rubbing his chin. “The shoes are wrong. And that van… I need to check delivery logs. This isn’t as simple as I thought. Maybe the hoodie guy was a distraction or something. Or maybe I got too locked in on the easy answer.”

Back at the precinct he pulled more files, cross-referenced delivery companies that had been in the area that night, and re-interviewed the resident who had heard the spray. This time he asked about the van specifically, leaning in with his notebook ready and his tone more patient. “You mentioned the hissing sound. Did you see or hear anything else around that time? A van, maybe? White, with some kind of logo? Anything that stood out, even if it seemed normal at the time.”

The woman remembered it now that he prompted her, nodding slowly as she thought back. “Yeah, it was white, some logo on the side. Parked for a bit before the hissing started. I thought it was just a late delivery. The driver got out for a minute, walked around, then got back in. Nothing suspicious at the time, but now that you mention it, it was odd. The van left right after the running footsteps. Maybe connected?”

Jake sat at his desk, rubbing his temples as the new information sank in. “Damn it. The kid didn’t have access to a van like that. No delivery connection. I jumped too fast on the hoodie description. Rookie mistake. Holt was right—I was letting my gut run the show instead of the facts.”

He kept digging, swallowing the pride that wanted to double down on his first instinct. New evidence—a partial print on a discarded spray can found two blocks away in a trash bin—led him to a different name entirely. An older guy with a known grudge against the commissioner from a past citation dispute. No flashy hoodie, no obvious amateur drips once you looked closer at the paint layers. The style was deliberate, meant to look sloppy to throw off investigators.

Jake brought the updated file to Holt later that afternoon, standing straighter this time. “You were right, Captain. I was rushing. The kid didn’t do it. New evidence pointed somewhere else. I followed it this time instead of forcing the first theory. Took a bit longer, but it checks out. Alibis, prints, the van connection—everything lines up now.”

Holt nodded once, expression still measured but with a hint of approval in his eyes. “Good. That’s the kind of adjustment I want to see. Evidence over ego. Keep building on that. You’re learning.”

Jake felt the small win settle in, even if no big praise came. It stung less than he expected. He left the office with a clearer head, already thinking about how he’d handle the next case differently—slower, more thorough, less about the quick win.

Meanwhile, Amy Santiago had been called into Holt’s office earlier that morning. She stood at attention, notebook ready, practically vibrating with eagerness for whatever responsibility would help her stand out under the new captain.

“Detective Santiago,” Holt said, folding his hands on the desk. “I’m assigning you to oversee the precinct’s junior officers and help train them on procedure, standards, and best practices. Create a structured program. They need guidance, and you have the organizational skills for it. Show me what you can do with leadership responsibility.”

Amy’s eyes lit up immediately. “Yes, Captain. I’ll have a detailed plan by end of day—schedules, checklists, progress tracking sheets, everything. They’ll be up to standard quickly. I won’t let you down. I’ve already got some ideas for how to structure the sessions so nothing falls through the cracks. I can have the first training module ready this afternoon if you want to review it.”

She dove into it right away. In the training room she laid out binders for each junior officer, whiteboards covered with timelines and flowcharts, and clear expectations written in her neat handwriting. “Listen up,” she told the group of five junior officers sitting in front of her. “We’re doing this right from the start. Every report formatted exactly as shown in the example on page one. No shortcuts on chain of custody. Follow the checklist on page three for every single interaction with the public. Questions? I want to make sure everyone is on the same page before we move on to the next section.”

The officers nodded along, but as the session went on, their responses were sluggish. One kept checking his phone under the table when he thought she wasn’t looking. Another asked the same basic question twice about report formatting. A third yawned openly, trying to hide it behind his hand. Amy’s frustration built with every minute. “This is basic stuff, people. Why are we repeating it? Pay attention the first time so we don’t waste everyone’s time. I put a lot of work into these materials. If you have questions, ask them properly instead of zoning out or checking your phones.”

By the end of the first session she was tense, shoulders tight, pacing the front of the room. They’re not responding the way they should. Maybe I’m not explaining it clearly enough. Or maybe I’m just not the right person for leadership. Holt trusted me with this, and it’s already falling apart. What if I’m pushing too hard? What if they’re just not ready for the standards?

Holt noticed her in the bullpen later, shoulders still rigid, and pulled her aside briefly near the water cooler. “Detective, leadership isn’t about everyone working exactly like you do. Understand their different personalities and adjust the approach without lowering standards. You have the tools. Use them. Give it time—they’ll respond better when they feel seen, not just instructed. You’re doing good work. Keep refining it.”

Amy nodded, still processing the advice. “Understood, Captain. I’ll adapt. Thank you. I appreciate the guidance. I know I can be a bit… intense with the structure. I’ll find a better balance.”

She was standing near the training area a short while later, rubbing the back of her neck from the built-up stress, her shoulders still tight from the morning’s session. The weight of trying to prove herself to Holt, combined with the junior officers’ sluggish responses, had left her muscles knotted and her mind racing. She rolled her shoulders once, trying to ease the tension, when Junior Officer Angelo Ovidio approached from behind. His hands settled gently but firmly on her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight knots with perfect, confident pressure. The massage was heavenly—warm, steady circles that immediately started melting the tension she’d been carrying all day.

Amy leaned into the touch almost involuntarily, a small, relieved sigh escaping her lips as her eyes fluttered half-closed. “That… feels really good, Angelo. I didn’t realize how tight I was. You have no idea how much I needed this right now.”

Angelo’s voice was low and calm near her ear, his hands never stopping their work, thumbs digging in deeper to work out the knots. “I didn’t just come over to give you a shoulder massage, Detective. You need to relax your approach with the juniors. You’re wound so tight they can feel it from across the room. It’s making them shut down instead of learning. You’re pushing hard, and they’re pushing back by tuning out.”

Amy kept her eyes half-closed, still feeling the firm, soothing circles of his thumbs working deeper into the muscle. “That’s… pretty much what Captain Holt said too. Relax the approach. I thought being thorough and organized was the way to go. I put so much work into those binders and checklists. I just want them to get it right the first time.”

Angelo grinned behind her, his hands sliding a little lower on her shoulders, still professional but with clear intent in the way his fingers pressed. “We have a good captain for that advice. But I’ve got a method to get you more relaxed. Something that works every time if you let it. No binders, no checklists—just a way to let all that tension out so you can come back clearer.”

Amy felt dazed, the stress melting under his hands and his calm voice. Her mind went fuzzy on autopilot as she followed him without much thought down the hall to a random empty room—one of the old storage spaces that barely got used anymore. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting off the bullpen noise completely. The small room was quiet, the air a little stale, with a clear desk in the corner and shelves along one wall.

Angelo turned her gently to face him, hands sliding from her shoulders down her arms. “Just breathe, Amy. Let me take care of this tension for a bit. You’ve been carrying it all morning.”

He pulled her close, lips brushing her neck as his hands moved to her waist, then lower, cupping her ass through her pants with a firm squeeze. Amy’s breath hitched, body responding before her mind fully caught up. She pressed into him, feeling the hard line of his body against hers, her hands tugging at his shirt. “Angelo… what are we doing?”

He kissed her jaw, voice low. “Helping you relax. You need it. Let me show you.”

Their mouths met in a heated kiss, tongues sliding together as hands roamed freely. Angelo’s fingers worked her belt open, sliding her pants and underwear down her hips in one smooth motion. Amy’s hands tugged his shirt free, palms running over his chest as she pulled him closer. He lifted her onto a clear desk in the corner of the room, spreading her legs and stepping between them.

He pushed inside her in one smooth, deep thrust, groaning at how wet and ready she already was. “Fuck, Amy… you feel incredible. So tight around me.”

Amy moaned, legs wrapping around his waist, her face showing pure relief mixed with building pleasure—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, cheeks flushing. “Don’t stop… just like that. Harder.”

He thrust steadily, hands cupping and mauling her tits through her shirt before yanking it open. Her breasts spilled free, swaying with each powerful thrust as he pinched her nipples. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting filled the small room, her moans growing louder.

Angelo’s hands stayed firm on Amy’s hips as he thrust deep, the desk creaking under them with every powerful snap of his body. Amy’s legs stayed wrapped tight around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back as she pulled him closer, desperate for more. Her head tipped back against the wall, mouth open in a shaky, needy moan while her full tits bounced freely with every hard thrust. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin filled the small empty room, mixed with the slick, obscene squelching sounds of her soaked pussy taking every thick inch of him. The smell of sex was already thick in the air—her sweet arousal mixing with his sweat and the raw musk of their bodies moving together.

“Fuck, Amy,” Angelo groaned, voice rough and low as one hand slid up to cup and maul one of her heavy tits. His fingers sank deep into the soft, warm flesh, squeezing hard while he pinched and rolled her stiff nipple between his thumb and finger. “You’re so fucking wet. This pussy’s gripping me like it doesn’t want to let go. You needed this bad, didn’t you? Needed someone to bend you over and fuck all that stress and control out of you. Look at how your tits are moving for me already—fuck, they feel so good in my hands. I could play with these all day while I pound this tight pussy.”

Amy’s face was flushed deep red, eyes half-lidded and glassy with overwhelming pleasure, lips parted wide as she gasped and moaned with every deep thrust. “Yes… don’t stop. Harder. I need it so bad.” Her body rocked back against him, her ass cheeks rippling visibly each time his hips slapped into her. She reached down between them, nails digging into his sides as another wave built fast and intense inside her. The wet plap plap plap of his cock driving into her echoed in the small room, her juices already coating his shaft and dripping down her thighs.

He pulled out suddenly, spinning her around and bending her over the desk. Amy braced her hands on the surface, ass presented high as he slammed back into her from behind in one smooth, deep thrust. The new angle hit even deeper, making her moan louder, her voice breaking. Angelo grabbed a handful of her hair, tugging her head back just enough to arch her spine while his other hand reached around to rub her swollen clit in fast, tight circles.

“Take it just like this,” he growled, pounding into her with long, powerful strokes. “Your ass looks so good rippling every time I fuck you deep. You’re gonna cum again soon, I can feel it squeezing me. Let go, Amy. Cum hard on my cock like the good girl you are right now. This pussy was made for taking cock like this—tight and wet and perfect for me. Feel how your ass shakes every time I slam into you? Fuck, it’s bouncing so nice for me.”

Amy’s thighs trembled hard, her face contorted in pure ecstasy—brows furrowed tight, mouth open wide in a silent cry before it turned into a loud, broken moan. “I’m cumming… fuck, I’m cumming again!” Her pussy clamped down like a vice around him, gushing wetly as the orgasm ripped through her body. Fresh juices ran down her thighs, soaking them both and making the sounds even filthier. The desk creaked loudly with every thrust, the wet plap-plap-plap of his hips meeting her ass echoing in the small room. Her ass rippled and jiggled with each powerful impact, the flesh meeting his body in loud, rhythmic slaps.

Angelo kept thrusting straight through it, not slowing for a second. He pulled out and sat on the edge of the desk, pulling her onto his lap facing him. Amy sank down onto his cock with a gasp, legs straddling him wide as she started riding him hard. Her tits bounced heavily right in front of his face. He buried his mouth between them, sucking hard on one nipple then the other, biting just enough to make her moan louder while his hands gripped her ass, guiding her up and down.

“Ride it,” he muttered against her soft, swaying tits. “Use my cock to get yourself off. You feel so fucking good squeezing me like that, Amy. Your pussy’s still dripping from the last one. Look at how your tits are moving for me—fuck, they’re perfect when they bounce like that. Keep riding me just like that. I want to feel you cum on my cock again while I watch these tits move. Bounce on it, baby. Let me feel that pussy milking me.”

Amy’s head fell forward, hair messy and sticking to her flushed face as she ground down harder, chasing another release. Her expression was lost in pleasure—eyes squeezed shut, lips trembling, cheeks burning. “It’s so deep… I’m gonna cum again. Don’t stop touching me. Please. Your cock feels so good inside me—don’t stop, I need it.” Her thick thighs flexed as she rode him, her ass cheeks spreading slightly with every downward motion, the wet squelching sounds growing louder as more of his cum from earlier mixed with her juices.

She came a third time, moaning into his shoulder as her pussy fluttered and milked him desperately. Angelo groaned, gripping her hips tighter as he started thrusting up to meet her movements. “Good girl. Take another load.” He buried himself deep and pumped thick ropes of hot cum into her, filling her even more as she shuddered through the aftershocks. The room was filled with the wet sounds of their bodies and their heavy breathing, the smell of sex growing stronger with every thrust.

They didn’t stop. Angelo stood, lifting her with him and pressing her back against the wall. Amy’s legs wrapped around his waist again as he drove up into her, the position letting him hit even deeper with every upward thrust. Her tits pressed against his chest, swaying and rubbing with the motion as he fucked her hard against the wall. The wet plap plap plap of his cock driving into her filled the room, mixed with her breathless moans.

“Feel that?” he panted, one hand sliding down to grip her ass cheek, spreading her as he pounded. “Your pussy’s still so greedy for me. You’re gonna cum one more time before I fill you again. Tell me how bad you need it. I want to hear you say it while I fuck you like this—tell me you need my cock.”

Amy’s face was a complete mess of pleasure—mouth open wide, eyes rolling back slightly as she nodded frantically, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes… keep going. I need it so much. Fuck me harder. I need you to cum inside me again. Your cock feels so fucking good—don’t stop, please.” Her thighs quivered around his waist, her ass rippling slightly with every deep thrust against the wall.

The fourth orgasm hit her hard, her whole body shuddering against the wall as she cried out, pussy clenching around him. Angelo followed right after, groaning as he pumped another thick load deep inside her, the excess leaking out around his cock and dripping down her thighs. The room was filled with the wet sounds of their bodies and their heavy breathing.

Finally he carried her back to the desk, laying her on her back. He spread her legs wide and thrust back into her soaked, cum-filled pussy. The previous loads made everything sloppy and loud, the wet squelching sounds filling the room as he drove deep. Amy’s tits swayed heavily with every powerful stroke, her hands gripping the edge of the desk above her head as she took him. The desk creaked with every thrust, the plap plap plap of his hips meeting her body echoing loudly.

“Last one,” he growled, rubbing her clit fast while pounding into her. “Cum for me one more time, Amy. Let me feel you lose it completely. Your pussy feels so good full of my cum—take it all. I’m gonna fill you up again.”

Amy’s final orgasm ripped through her, her face contorted in overwhelming pleasure—eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a long, throaty moan as her body arched off the desk. Angelo buried himself to the hilt and unloaded a final heavy load, thick ropes pumping deep into her already overflowing pussy.

They stayed locked together for a long moment, grinding slow through the aftershocks, breathing hard and ragged. The small room absolutely reeked of sex—thick sweat, fresh and old cum, her arousal hanging heavy in the confined space. Amy felt completely relaxed for the first time in days, every muscle loose and the constant tension gone from her body and mind. Her thighs still trembled slightly from the intensity, and a warm, satisfied flush lingered on her cheeks.

Angelo kissed her softly, still buried inside her. “Feel better now?”

Amy nodded, a small, satisfied, almost dazed smile on her face. “Much better. I… really needed that. I didn’t even realize how wound up I was until just now. Everything feels lighter.”

They cleaned up just enough, wiping down what they could with whatever was nearby and straightening their clothes with shaky hands. Angelo helped tug her shirt back into place while she adjusted her pants, both of them moving with a quiet, shared understanding. They shared one last quick, filthy kiss, tongues tangling messily before slipping back out separately.

Amy returned to the bullpen with a noticeably looser posture, the stressed daze replaced by calm confidence. She walked with her shoulders relaxed, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips instead of the tight, focused line she usually wore. The weight she had been carrying all morning seemed to have lifted, and she moved through the room with an easy grace that hadn’t been there before.

She gathered the junior officers again a short while later in the training room. The group looked up as she entered, some still a bit guarded from the earlier session. Amy took a breath and leaned against the front table instead of standing rigidly at the whiteboard like before.

“Let’s try this differently,” she said, her voice steady but warmer than it had been earlier. “Tell me what’s confusing you instead of me assuming everything. We’ll adjust the plan together but keep the standards high. No one gets left behind. If something in the checklist doesn’t make sense or feels off, say it. I want to hear it.”

One of the junior officers, a younger guy who had been quiet earlier, raised his hand tentatively. “The chain of custody part on page three… I get why we need it, but the way it’s written, it feels like it slows everything down when we’re in the field. Is there a way to streamline it without skipping steps?”

Amy nodded thoughtfully, walking over to glance at his binder. “That’s a fair point. Let’s walk through it together. Show me where it feels slow, and we’ll see if we can tweak the wording or the order without losing anything important.”

Another officer spoke up, more openly this time. “The report formatting example… I keep messing up the timestamp section. It feels picky, but I want to get it right.”

Amy smiled and pulled up a chair instead of staying at the front. “Okay, let’s do it step by step right now. No pressure. Walk me through what you’re writing, and I’ll show you the part that’s tripping you up. We can practice one together.”

The session went much smoother. The officers opened up more, asking questions freely and even joking lightly when someone made a small mistake. Amy still pushed them on the important things—accuracy, professionalism, attention to detail—but with more understanding and patience. She listened when they explained their confusion instead of immediately correcting them, and she adjusted her explanations on the spot when something wasn’t landing. The room felt more collaborative, and by the end, several of them were nodding along with real understanding instead of blank stares.

Holt noticed from across the room while walking through the bullpen. He paused for a moment, watching the group through the open training room door, and gave a small, approving nod before continuing on his way.

Jake, meanwhile, had wrapped up the vandalism case properly after following the new leads. The real culprit was the older guy with the grudge. Jake brought him in cleanly, no assumptions this time—just solid evidence and a calm interview that led to a full confession.

Holt reviewed the updated file in his office later that afternoon. Jake stood across from the desk, hands in his pockets but posture relaxed.

“Solid work, Peralta,” Holt said, flipping through the pages. “You adjusted course when the evidence demanded it. That’s what matters. You didn’t force the first theory. You followed where it actually led.”

Jake shrugged with a small, genuine smile. “Learned from the best, Captain. Thanks for pushing me on it earlier. I was ready to run with the easy answer, but you were right—it wasn’t the right one. It feels better closing it this way.”

Holt nodded once. “Good. Keep that approach. It suits you better than chasing quick wins.”

The precinct settled into the new rhythm as the day wound down. Boyle tried one more awkward line with Rosa near the end of shift, lingering by her desk with a hopeful expression.

“Rosa, uh… good work today. If you ever want to grab that coffee or just talk about the case… no pressure. I can bring snacks or something. Or not. Whatever’s good for you.”

Rosa looked up from her paperwork, her expression flat but not completely dismissive. “Maybe. Not today.”

Boyle nodded quickly, trying not to look too excited. “Yeah, cool. Maybe tomorrow. Or whenever. No rush.”

Terry kept everything running smoothly, checking in with everyone as the shift wound down. “Good work today, everyone. Stay sharp tomorrow. We’re building something here.”

Gina made her usual sarcastic observations from the sidelines, watching the chaos with amusement as she typed on her phone. “Look at this place turning into a functional precinct. It’s almost scary. Almost.”

The day ended with the foundation of respect between Jake and Holt growing a little stronger. The 99th was changing, and for the first time it felt like a change they could all get behind—slower, steadier, and built on something real.