Brooklyn 99: Fully Exposed

In a much hornier version of the Nine-Nine, inhibitions disappear with a few drinks and high stakes.
A filthy, chaotic, and occasionally dark alternate universe where the squad still solves crimes — they just solve them *very* messily.

The bullpen hummed with its usual morning energy, the clatter of keyboards punctuated by the occasional groan from Scully's chair. Amy Santiago's desk was a fortress of pristine organization, each file in its color-coded folder, each pen perfectly aligned.

"I'm just saying," Jake was saying, leaning back in his chair with a grin, "if a perp breaks in tonight, they're not going to be impressed that your cold case files are arranged by the Pantone color chart. They're going to be more impressed by, you know, handcuffs."

"It's not a Pantone chart, it's a chromatic relevance system," Amy shot back, her voice a little too high. She shifted in her chair, the smooth fabric of her blouse sliding against her skin. "And it increases case retrieval efficiency by twelve percent. I ran the numbers." Her thighs pressed together, a subtle, unconscious gesture as Jake's teasing landed.

"Twelve percent! Wow, Ames. At that rate, we'll have this whole crime thing solved by... Tuesday." He waggled his eyebrows. "Did you stay late again? You have that look this morning. The 'I've been staring at spreadsheets until my eyes bled' look."

Across the room, Rosa leaned against the filing cabinets, arms crossed over her chest, her eyes tracking the back-and-forth. A faint smirk played on Gina's lips as she filed her nails, completely tuned in to the drama.

"I did not stay late," Amy lied, her cheeks flushing. "I just... had some things to organize. Things that needed organizing." She fiddled with a pen, clicking it twice. "It's called being prepared, Jake. Something you might try sometime."

"Hey, I'm prepared! I'm prepared for you to admit you're a little robot who runs on coffee and binder clips." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Admit it. You have a spreadsheet for how many times you blink per hour."

Just then, the Captain's office door opened. Captain Holt stood ramrod straight, his face an impassive mask of authority. "If I could have your attention for a moment," he began, his voice cutting through the bullpen.

Amy's spine straightened instantly, her posture snapping to attention. A heat bloomed low in her belly. Her nipples, already sensitive from the light friction of her blouse, pebbled into hard, aching points. She cursed internally. Of all the days to skip the bra. It had been a calculated risk; the silk blouse was new, expensive, and the lines of a bra would have ruined its sleek drape. She'd reasoned she'd be at her desk all day, her blazer providing enough coverage. She hadn't counted on scully spilling coffee on it.

"Compliance rates for our new precinct-wide initiative are lagging," Holt continued, his gaze sweeping over the room. "I expect each of you to review the memo I sent last night and ensure you are adhering to the new protocols. Dismissed."

As he turned back to his office, Jake's eyes flicked from Amy's suddenly rigid posture down to her chest. He didn't say a word, but a slow, knowing grin spread across his face. He raised an eyebrow, a silent question that was louder than any shout.

Amy's blush deepened to a mortified crimson. She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, the fabric doing little to hide the evidence of her body's betrayal. "Shut up," she hissed, her voice a strained whisper.

Jake just winked, turning back to his computer screen, but the damage was done. From across the room, Rosa's gaze had lingered a moment too long, her expression unreadable but intense. Gina, however, made no attempt to hide her amusement, letting out a loud, dramatic sigh.

"Oh, Santiago," Gina called out, not even looking up from her nails. "It's a little chilly in here for silk, don't you think?"

Gina Linetti’s smirk was a work of art, a masterpiece of smug satisfaction as she watched Amy Santiago practically fold in on herself. She sashayed away from her desk, hips swaying with a rhythm that was pure, unadulterated chaos, heading straight for the coffee machine where Terry was meticulously measuring out his Greek yogurt.

"Terry, my beautiful, boulder-shouldered monument of a man," Gina purred, her voice a low, melodic hum that cut through the bullpen's ambient noise. She leaned in close, her hand "accidentally" brushing against his thick bicep as she reached for a stirrer. "Did you see Santiago? I think she's trying to send a morse code message to the ISS with her nipples. It's bold. I respect it."

Terry flinched, his spoon clattering against his ceramic mug. "Gina, that's not appropriate workplace commentary," he rumbled. He kept his eyes fixed on his yogurt, as if the chia seeds held the secrets to escaping this conversation.

"Appropriate is for people who wear beige, Terry," she countered, sidling closer. She pretended to look at the nutritional information on his yogurt carton, her body pressing flush against his side. The soft curve of her breasts molded against the hard plane of his pectoral muscle. "Ooh, is this the full-fat kind? You're living on the edge. I like a man who isn't afraid of a little cream."

He swallowed hard, his throat working overtime. "It's protein. For muscle maintenance." He could feel the heat from her body seeping through his thin shirt, and a familiar, unwelcome pressure began to build in his groin. He tried to shift away, but the coffee machine was at his back. He was trapped.

Gina's eyes flicked down for a fraction of a second, then back up to meet his. A slow, wicked smile spread across her lips. She didn't move back. Instead, she leaned in a little more, her hand coming to rest on his lower back, her fingers splaying wide, possessive. "You know, Terry," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was for him alone, "all that yogurt... it must do wonders for your stamina."

Her gaze was locked on his, unblinking. He felt his cock twitch, then begin to thicken, a traitorous response to her blatant provocation. The fabric of his trousers suddenly felt suffocatingly tight. He knew she could feel it, the solid length of him pressing against her hip through their clothes.

"Gina," he said, his voice strained, thick with a mixture of panic and arousal. "Please. I'm... I'm trying to have a healthy breakfast."

"Oh, I know you are," she breathed, her eyes darkening with lust and amusement. She didn't break eye contact as she slowly rolled her hips against him. It was a tiny movement, but it was enough to send a jolt straight through him. His breath hitched. He was fully hard now, a thick, rigid ridge straining against his zipper, and there was absolutely no hiding it from her.

She looked him dead in the eye, a triumphant, almost feral gleam in them. "And it looks like you're getting a very healthy start to your morning, Sergeant."

Terry's face was a mask of mortification. He put his hands on her shoulders, not roughly, but with the desperate need to create space. "Gina. Stop."

She finally relented, taking a small step back but not breaking her gaze. Her hand trailed down his chest as she moved, her fingers lingering for a moment right over his pounding heart. "Alright, alright," she said, her voice returning to its normal, playful register. "But you know where to find me if you want to... discuss your dietary options in more detail."

She grabbed her coffee and walked away, leaving Terry leaning against the counter, breathing heavily, his body humming with a frustrated, unwanted energy. He adjusted himself awkwardly, glancing around the bullpen to see if anyone had noticed. Jake was still teasing Amy, oblivious. Rosa was watching him, a look of dark, knowing amusement on her face. Terry groaned softly, grabbing his yogurt and retreating to the safety of his desk, the ghost of Gina's touch still burning on his skin.

"Detectives," Captain Holt's voice crackled over the intercom, devoid of any inflection but carrying the weight of a command. "My office. Immediately."

Jake sighed dramatically, pushing himself away from his desk. "Ooh, an office summons. The big one. Ames, you might wanna grab a fresh binder. This could get complicated."

Amy was already on her feet, grabbing a specific notebook—a slim, leather-bound one with "Case Briefing - High Priority" embossed on the front—and a pen. "Don't be ridiculous, Jake. This is standard procedure for a Level 2 directive." She strode toward the office, her back ramrod straight, a woman on a mission.

Boyle scurried after them, already looking anxious. "Level 2? Do you think it's the Vulture? I hate the Vulture. He always looks at me like I'm a side dish."

Rosa fell into step behind them, silent and observant.

Captain Holt stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, a picture of imposing authority. He gestured for them to stand before him.

"We have a situation," he began, his voice cutting through the room. "The 'Silhouette Burglar.' Three high-end apartments hit in the last week. The perp cuts the power, disables security systems, and takes only specific items of high sentimental value, leaving cash and electronics untouched. The FBI is calling it sophisticated. I am calling it an embarrassment to this precinct."

Amy's hand shot up. "Captain, I've already done a preliminary analysis based on the initial reports. The MO suggests a former security systems specialist, likely with military training. The targeting of sentimental items indicates a personal grudge rather than financial motivation. I've cross-referenced the victim lists and found a potential connection to—"

Holt held up a single hand, and Amy's voice cut off mid-sentence. "Thank you, Detective Santiago. Your enthusiasm is... noted." He picked up a thin file from his desk. "While your analysis is impressively thorough for someone working with publicly available data, it is also incorrect. The perp is not a specialist. They are using a commercially available signal jammer and a simple lock-picking kit available on any dark web marketplace. The 'sentimental' items are a red herring. They are merely the lightest things to carry."

Amy's face fell, the confident smile evaporating. Her cheeks bloomed with a hot, prickling flush. "Oh. I... see."

Holt continued, his gaze sweeping over them all. "What is truly embarrassing is the lack of forensic evidence. The perp is a ghost. Which is why we will be changing our approach." He stepped out from behind his desk and walked directly toward Amy.

She stiffened, her notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. "Captain?"

"You, of all people, should understand the importance of observation, Detective," Holt said, his voice dropping slightly. He stopped directly in front of her, so close she could smell the faint, clean scent of his laundry detergent. "Your posture is all wrong."

"My posture?" Amy squeaked, her voice cracking.

"Yes. You're hunched. Defensive. It projects weakness. A detective must project confidence and authority, even when standing still." He reached out, his hand moving with surgical precision. His fingers, cool and firm, settled on her upper back, right between her shoulder blades.

A jolt shot through Amy's body. It wasn't just the unexpected touch; it was the sheer, unyielding authority in it. Holt's hand pressed firmly, straightening her spine with an dominance that made her breath catch in her throat.

"Shoulders back," he commanded, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her entire body. "Chin up. You are a representative of this precinct. Act like it."

He adjusted her shoulders, his thumbs pressing into her tense muscles. Amy felt a shiver start deep within her, a tremor of pure arousal that she couldn't control. Her nipples, still sensitive from earlier, hardened into tight, almost painful points against the thin silk of her blouse. She was suddenly, acutely aware of every inch of her body—the way the fabric clung to her dampening skin, the heat pooling low in her belly, the slick moisture gathering between her thighs.

Jake let out a choked snort of laughter, quickly turning it into a cough. "Sorry. Something in my throat." Boyle was staring at the ceiling, his face beet red, trying desperately to look anywhere else.

But Rosa. Rosa was watching everything. Her eyes were fixed on Amy's face, on the dazed, lust-glazed expression she couldn't hide. Rosa saw it all: the way Amy's pupils dilated, the slight tremor in her lower lip, the almost imperceptible way she pressed her thighs together. She clocked the exact moment the humiliation and the authority fused into a potent, intoxicating cocktail that Santiago was clearly getting drunk on.

"There," Holt said, stepping back, his expression as placid as if he'd just adjusted a crooked picture frame. "That is the posture of a detective who commands respect. Are we clear on the objectives?"

Amy could only manage a weak, breathless nod. Her mind was a fog of shame and desire. The public humiliation of being so thoroughly corrected, combined with the physical dominance of his touch, had short-circuited her brain. She could feel the slick wetness soaking through her panties, a damning physical response to her mortification. Her clit throbbed, a insistent, needy pulse that made her want to squirm.

Jake was openly grinning now. "Crystal, Captain. Amy's looking real... adjusted."

Holt ignored him. "We will canvas the last crime scene. Boyle, I want you to interview the building staff. Diaz, you're with me. Come to my office in thirty minutes. We'll review the security footage. Peralta, Santiago, you will re-examine the victim profiles, but this time, without the benefit of your... colorful imagination."

He dismissed them with a nod. Amy practically fled the office, her face burning, her body a live wire of conflicting sensations. She could feel Jake's eyes on her back. Every step was a reminder of her body's betrayal, of the slick, shameful evidence of her arousal that was now making her walk slightly awkwardly. The mix of Holt's cold shutdown and the public laughter had hit her like a physical blow, and her body had responded with an enthusiasm that was both mortifying and undeniable.

The door to Holt's office had barely clicked shut before a hand shot out, tangling viciously in Amy's ponytail. She didn't even have time to yelp before she was being yanked sideways, stumbling off-balance as Rosa Diaz dragged her behind her.

"Rosa! What the hell?" Amy gasped, her scalp stinging as she was pulled through the hallway, straight into the evidence room. The heavy door swung shut behind them with a definitive thud, plunging the narrow, sterile room into a tense, fluorescent-lit silence. Shelves of tagged evidence boxes loomed around them, silent witnesses to the assault.

Rosa spun her around and slammed her back against the cold metal shelving. The impact knocked the air from Amy's lungs. Rosa's face was inches from hers, her dark eyes burning with a furious, predatory fire.

"You need to calm the fuck down," Rosa snarled, her voice a low, dangerous growl that vibrated through Amy's bones. "In front of Holt? In front of everyone? You were practically cumming."

"I wasn't— I was just—" Amy stammered, her heart hammering against her ribs. The adrenaline from the humiliation was still coursing through her, mixing with the sharp fear of Rosa's sudden aggression.

Rosa didn't let her finish. With a rough, impatient tug, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of Amy's slacks and yanked them down to her knees. The cool air hit Amy's overheated skin, and she froze, mortified.

"Then why are you dripping wet, Santiago?" Rosa's voice was pure, unadulterated condescension. She looked down, her gaze landing on the dark, damp patch on Amy's simple cotton panties. "Hmm? You got a good answer for that one? Or are you just gonna stand there and drip all over the evidence locker?"

Amy's face burned with shame. She couldn't speak. There was no excuse, no lie that would explain away the slick, undeniable proof of her arousal.

Without another word, Rosa dropped to her knees. She hooked her fingers into the sides of Amy's panties and pulled them aside, baring her to the cold air and her own merciless gaze. "So fucking wet," Rosa muttered, more to herself than to Amy. Then she leaned in and dragged the flat of her tongue over Amy's slick, swollen folds.

A choked moan escaped Amy's lips, her hands flying out to grip the shelves behind her. The sensation was overwhelming—the rough texture of Rosa's tongue, the contrast between her hot mouth and the cold air, the sheer, depraved reality of what was happening. Rosa wasn't gentle. She was ravenous, her mouth sucking and licking with a brutal, possessive hunger. She found Amy's clit and sealed her lips around it, sucking hard, sending a bolt of pleasure straight up Amy's spine.

Rosa slid two fingers inside her, curving them instantly to find that sensitive spot that made Amy's knees buckle. She pumped them hard and fast, a relentless rhythm that matched the demanding pull of her mouth. She grabbed Amy's ponytail again, using it like a leash, pulling her head back and forcing her to arch her hips forward.

"You love this, don't you? Love being put in your place. Love being a little mess for me."

The words, the humiliation, the brutal pleasure—it was all too much. The coil in Amy's belly tightened to an impossible degree, and then snapped. Her orgasm tore through her, a violent, shuddering wave that left her gasping and clinging to the shelves for support. Her vision went white, and for a moment, all she could feel was the overwhelming, all-consuming release.

Rosa pulled back as suddenly as she'd started, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood up, leaving Amy slumped against the shelves, pants around her knees, body still trembling in the aftermath. Rosa looked down at her.

"Clean yourself up," she ordered, her voice cold and hard again. She grabbed a handful of evidence labels from a nearby box and shoved them into Amy's hands. "And don't you dare embarrass yourself in front of the captain again. Next time, I won't be so nice."

Amy fumbled with the labels, her hands shaking as she tried to wipe away the mess between her legs. The paper was rough against her sensitive skin. When she finally pulled her pants up, the fabric was damp and uncomfortable. She couldn't meet Rosa's eyes.

They stood in silence for a long, awkward moment, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights and Amy's ragged breathing. Then, Rosa turned and unlocked the door, holding it open without looking back.

Amy straightened her clothes, her face still burning with shame and the lingering echoes of pleasure. She walked out of the evidence room, her legs feeling unsteady, refusing to look at anyone as she made her way back to her desk.

Rosa walked back into the bullpen first, her face a carefully constructed mask of indifference, but the corner of her mouth twitched with the ghost of a smile. Jake and Boyle were already hunched over a case board at Jake's desk, a chaotic mess of photos and red string.

"Okay, so the timeline is all wrong," Jake was saying, jabbing a finger at a photo of a penthouse window. "The building log says the super was doing rounds at 10:15 PM, but the victim said she heard the window break at 10:05. That means our guy has a keycard or he's a goddamn ghost."

"Or the super is lying," Boyle offered, holding up a half-eaten cannoli. "He could be in on it! People do desperate things for money, Jake. Or for cannoli. I would do a lot for a good cannoli."

"Nobody's getting in on it for cannoli, Boyle. Focus," Rosa grumbled, snatching the cannoli from his hand and taking a bite. "We're checking the security footage. You two find the super."

Jake's eyes widened slightly as he watched her, a flicker of understanding and amusement in his gaze. "Right. The super. On it." He grabbed his jacket, pulling Boyle away from the desk. "Come on, buddy. Let's go interrogate a man who definitely doesn't have a delicious Italian pastry-based alibi."

A few moments later, Amy emerged from the direction of the bathrooms. She walked with a stiff, deliberate gait, her eyes fixed firmly on her desk. She sat down, her movements jerky and unnatural as she pulled her keyboard closer. She was trying so hard to project normalcy that it was painful to watch.

Gina, however, was not one to let a performance go unappreciated. She sauntered over, leaning against Amy's desk divider. "Well, well. Look who's back from her... 'evidence review.' You look refreshed, Santiago. Did you find what you were looking for in there?

Amy's head snapped up, her face a mask of panic. "I was— I had to— I was just organizing some files!" she blurted out, her voice an octave too high.

Before Gina could press her advantage, Holt's office door opened again. He stepped out, holding a single, perfectly sharpened pencil. "Santiago," he said, his voice cutting through the tension. "The preliminary budget report for the third quarter is due on my desk by noon. I expect it to be flawless. Do not disappoint me."

The simple command, delivered with that same unshakeable authority, hit Amy like a physical blow. She felt a fresh wave of heat wash over her, her body betraying her all over again. "Yes, Captain," she managed, her voice tight. "Flawless. Noon."

As Holt retreated into his office, Hitchcock ambled past Amy's desk on his way to the vending machine. He stopped, sniffed the air once, then twice, his brow furrowed in deep, idiotic concentration. He leaned closer to Amy, his nose twitching like a bloodhound. "Huh," he grunted. "Smells like... rain. And a penny. A wet penny."

He shrugged and continued on his quest for stale chips, but the damage was done. Amy froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins. He smelled it. The thought was so mortifying, so humiliating, that a fresh, unmistakable pulse of arousal throbbed between her legs. She squeezed her thighs together, her face burning with a shame so profound it felt like a physical weight. She dropped her head into her hands, unable to bear the sight of anyone looking at her.

From across the room, Rosa watched the entire exchange. She saw Hitchcock's sniffing, saw Amy's cringe of absolute mortification, and she saw the tell-tale shift of her thighs. Rosa rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck in the back of her head. She caught Amy's gaze as she looked up, her expression a look that said, We are not done. Not even close.