Hi! Just wanted to tell you that I love your writing! The way you write your descriptions, so incredibly rich and vivid.....*chef's kiss*. It's beautiful.
If your requests are open, would you consider writing smut w/ possessive Catherine (or Morticia, whichever you'd like)? Thank you so much for sharing your talent with the world!
𝑨𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (Morticia x Fem Reader)
for anon :) requested a while ago, but i hope you're here to read it <3
word count: 5k
You knew Morticia was possessive, you just didn’t expect how intoxicating it would feel when someone else looked at you too long.
Read on AO3
𝑨𝒅𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑰𝒏𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏
The house feels different on evenings like this, as though it is holding its breath along with you.
Candlelight pools along the corridor walls, soft and deliberate, bending around dark wood and antique frames without ever daring to be harsh. The scent of roses lingers from the stems she trimmed earlier, green and faintly sweet, layered over something cooler beneath it. Stone. Shadow. Her.
You stand before the mirror fastening your necklace. The clasp resists for a moment before finally giving in with a small click that sounds far too loud in the quiet room.
You look up.
She’s watching you through the reflection.
Morticia is already dressed, already complete, as though the night arranged itself around her instead of the other way around. Her gown falls in a seamless line of black that looks less like fabric and more like darkness persuaded into elegance. Her posture is effortless, hands resting lightly against the vanity, gaze steady and patient.
There is something in her expression that makes your pulse shift. Not faster exactly. Just deeper.
“You are quiet,” she says, her voice low and smooth, sliding through the air with careful precision.
You smile faintly. “Just thinking.”
She turns then, unhurried, the movement measured enough that you feel it before you fully register it. The hem of her dress whispers against the floor as she crosses the room.
You become acutely aware of your own breathing.
She stops behind you.
Her fingers find the small of your back, smoothing the fabric there though it doesn’t need smoothing at all. The touch lingers, warm and deliberate, not possessive but undeniably present.
“You will be admired tonight,” she says softly.
Her hand travels upward, adjusting the line of your collar with elegant precision. Her knuckles brush your skin in the process, and the contact sends a subtle heat along your spine.
“You always are.”
It doesn’t feel like flattery. It feels like an observation she has already accounted for.
Your throat tightens slightly as her thumb traces the faintest line along the curve of it. Not pressing. Just mapping. Your pulse flutters beneath her skin.
“Gatherings invite attention,” she continues, her gaze meeting yours in the mirror. Dark. Steady. “Attention can be charming.”
A faint pause.
“It can also become… presumptuous.”
The word rests between you, soft but edged.
She steps back just enough to take you in fully, her eyes travelling slowly, thoughtfully, as though committing every detail to memory before the world has the chance to witness it.
There is devotion there.
And something quieter beneath it. Watchful. Calculating.
“You may let them admire you,” she says, the slightest curve touching her lips. “It makes the evening lively.”
Your breath feels heavier now.
“But you will return to me.”
Not a demand.
A certainty.
She offers her arm. You take it.
Her hand settles at your waist as you move toward the door, fingers spreading slightly, anchoring you with a pressure that is gentle but unmistakable.
Outside, the night air greets you cool and waiting. Distant lights flicker in the dark, conversations already humming somewhere ahead.
And as you step forward at her side, you cannot shake the quiet awareness settling in your chest.
If anyone dares to look at you too long, Morticia will notice.
She always does.
You step through the doorway, and the night beyond the house feels suddenly sharper. The air is alive with music and laughter, soft lights flickering over faces like careful spotlights.
Conversations thread through the room, polite and perfumed, overlapping in a gentle hum. For a moment, you pause, letting it all wash over you. Every smile aimed in your direction, every glance that lingers just a little too long, sends a small shiver along your spine.
Morticia’s hand at your waist is steady, grounding. She guides you through the crowd with a quiet, gliding authority, her eyes sweeping over every guest, cataloguing every lingering look and subtle tilt of admiration. You feel it in her touch, there's a subtle insistence that you remain hers even while the world reaches for a moment with you.
“Good evening, Lady Harrington,” she murmurs, nodding to a stately woman in a crimson gown. Her words are smooth, assured, delivered with the precision of someone used to commanding attention. “And you as well, Mr Calvert.”
You follow her lead, offering polite smiles, careful nods, a subtle laugh at the well-placed joke. Each interaction is measured, light, but you can feel Morticia’s presence like a shadow tethered to your side, a reminder that every eye on you is noted, catalogued, observed. Every lingering look, every trace of admiration. She notices.
Finally, she steers you toward the far side of the room, where the bar gleams beneath a low chandelier, crystal catching the warm light. “Shall we get something to drink?” she asks softly, her voice a quiet melody. Her fingers brush yours as she gestures toward the crystal glasses. “Something that suits the evening… something that suits you.”
You nod, feeling the pulse of the crowd around you, the faint thrill of attention brushing past, and yet all of it seems distant when she guides you closer to the bar. Her hand grazes your wrist briefly as she positions herself beside you, scanning the selection of drinks with calm deliberation.
“I think something dark,” she murmurs, almost to herself, “to match the night, to match us.”
She glances at you then, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips. “And perhaps a little intoxicating.”
Even here, in the midst of polite laughter and sparkling light, you feel it. Morticia’s quiet possessiveness settles around you like a cloak. She has claimed this moment as much as she has claimed you.
And in the corner of her eyes, you sense the faintest flicker toward someone whose admiration has lingered just a fraction too long.
You notice it first in the tilt of her head, the almost imperceptible narrowing of her eyes as they sweep the room.
Someone stands across the lounge, a tall man with a polished smile, lingering just a little too long in your direction. You feel the faint warmth of his gaze, polite but insistent, brushing past you like a teasing wind.
Morticia senses it before you even register it fully. Her hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist. Not enough to be obvious, but enough to anchor you, a quiet claim. Her lips curve faintly, almost like a warning, and the subtle shadow behind her eyes sharpens, darkening with that rare, deliberate intensity she reserves only for moments when something crosses the line.
“Do you see him?” she murmurs, barely audible, close enough that only you can hear. Her voice is smooth, calm, but carries an edge that makes your stomach flutter. “Do not speak. Simply… return your attention to me.”
You do as she asks, following her gaze briefly, then letting it drop back to her. Her fingers press lightly against your hip, subtly guiding you closer, drawing you into her orbit. She does not need to announce her claim. The way she moves around you, the careful orchestration of your proximity to her, makes it clear.
The man glances again, and this time, Morticia’s presence shifts imperceptibly. Her body tilts slightly toward you, shadowing you, her hand brushing along the curve of your lower back with measured precision. Her touch is soft, almost tender, yet it hums with possessiveness, a silent but unmistakable message. You are hers, entirely, and any lingering attention from anyone else is noted and… unnecessary.
She leans just close enough that the scent of her wraps around you. Something dark, floral, and entirely her own.
“It is fascinating,” she murmurs in that low, velvety tone, “how some people do not understand boundaries. How easily they mistake proximity for permission.”
Her thumb traces a light path along your hip, her eyes locking onto yours with that steady, unwavering intensity. You feel the weight of her attention, full and consuming, like a tide pulling you toward her.
“Do you understand?” she asks softly, almost teasingly, though there is no question of doubt in her gaze.
You nod, the tiniest shiver running through you. “Yes.”
“Good,” she whispers. “Because you belong here… with me.”
And just like that, the world around you fades, leaving only her possessive, watchful, and the unspoken promise that anyone who dares linger too long will have to reckon with her quiet, deliberate control.
The shift happens gradually.
You feel it before you see it, the subtle rearranging of the crowd as a small group begins drifting in your direction. Laughter approaches first, light and social, followed by the man you noticed earlier. He does not come alone. Clever. Casual. Shielded by conversation and champagne glasses.
Morticia’s hand remains at your waist.
Unmoved. Unbothered.
Watching.
“Good evening,” one of the women in the group says brightly, offering greetings that dissolve into polite introductions. Names pass back and forth like cards in a practised game.
And then he speaks.
“It would have been criminal not to come say hello,” he says, directing the words toward both of you, though his eyes settle on you just a fraction longer than necessary.
There it is again.
That lingering.
You smile politely, because that is what one does. You keep your tone warm but measured, responding to his comment with an easy laugh. Morticia’s arm shifts slightly around your waist, her fingers spreading just enough to feel deliberate. Not tight. Not aggressive.
Present.
You lean subtly into her without thinking, your hand resting lightly against her forearm as you continue the conversation. It feels instinctive. Anchoring yourself.
He asks you a question about the event, about how you know the host, about whether you’re enjoying the evening. Harmless questions. Harmless smile.
His gaze does not wander from your face.
You answer with careful grace, aware of the way Morticia’s thumb begins a slow, absentminded stroke along the curve of your hip. To anyone watching, it looks affectionate. It looks natural.
But you know her.
The touch is measured. Controlled.
Claiming.
“And you?” he asks, directing his attention finally toward Morticia, though it is clear where his interest lies. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
Morticia’s smile blooms slowly, like something unfolding in the dark.
“Immensely,” she replies, her voice smooth as poured velvet.
Her hand glides from your waist to rest at the small of your back, drawing you a half inch closer to her side. The movement is fluid, elegant, impossible to object to.
She tilts her head slightly.
“My partner does make every room brighter.”
The word lands with quiet precision.
Partner.
Not ambiguous. Not casual.
The group chuckles lightly at something someone says, but he is still looking at you. Not rudely. Just persistently.
You continue speaking, maintaining the polite rhythm of conversation, asking him about his work, nodding at the appropriate moments. You are warm. Engaging. Perfectly courteous.
All the while, your fingers remain curled gently into Morticia’s sleeve.
Her touch changes again, subtle but unmistakable. Her fingertips trace the line of your spine through the fabric of your clothes, slow and thoughtful. A reminder. A pulse.
Her eyes never leave his face now.
She is calm.
Too calm.
“It is refreshing,” she says softly, cutting into the conversation with exquisite timing, “to meet someone so… attentive.”
There is no accusation in her tone.
Only observation.
Her nails press lightly into your back, just enough for you to feel it. Just enough to make your breath shift.
“And yet,” she continues, her gaze steady and dark, “one must be careful not to confuse admiration with invitation.”
The words are delivered like silk laid over steel.
The group goes quiet for half a second too long.
You feel the heat rise in your chest, not from embarrassment, but from the intensity humming beside you. Morticia’s hand remains firm at your back, her body angled ever so slightly in front of yours now, a graceful barrier disguised as intimacy.
The man laughs, brushing it off with easy charm.
“Of course,” he says. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
But his eyes flick to you one more time.
Morticia sees.
She always sees.
Her thumb resumes its slow stroke at the base of your spine, and when she leans closer, her lips nearly brushing your ear, her voice is soft enough that only you can hear it.
“You are being very polite.”
Not praise, not yet.
Time slips forward in fragments of laughter and clinking glass.
Eventually, you guide her away.
It is subtle, the extraction. A hand at her waist. A soft suggestion about fresh air. A glance toward the quieter edge of the room where velvet curtains pool in the corner and conversation fades into a distant hum.
She allows herself to be led, though you know better than to mistake allowance for surrender.
The moment you are alone, the performance drops.
Not dramatically, but enough.
Morticia stands with her back near the wall, posture still immaculate, chin slightly lifted, eyes dark and distant. Her composure is intact, yet you can feel the current beneath it. Not explosive anger. Something quieter. A slow burn.
You step closer.
Her gaze shifts to you immediately.
“You are troubled,” you murmur gently.
“I am observant,” she corrects, voice cool and smooth.
You fight a smile.
Carefully, you lift your hand to the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair with tender familiarity. The strands are cool and silky against your skin. You stroke slowly, deliberately, letting your touch soften the sharp line of her focus.
Her eyes flutter, just slightly.
“You know how you get,” you say softly, your thumb tracing a soothing path at the base of her skull.
“I do not ‘get’ any particular way,” she replies.
You hum, unconvinced.
Your hands drift lower, smoothing over her shoulders, kneading gently through the tension you can feel coiled there. Beneath the elegance, beneath the stillness, her muscles are tight.
“He was only talking,” you murmur, leaning in closer.
Her jaw tightens faintly.
“He was assessing,” she says quietly. “There is a difference.”
You step fully into her space now, pressing a slow kiss to her knuckles where her hands rest at her sides. Another kiss follows, softer, lingering. You let your lips brush over her fingers with deliberate affection.
Her breath changes.
“You know I’m yours,” you whisper against her skin, your voice warm and coaxing. “I stayed beside you. I held you. I didn’t drift.”
Your hands slide back up her arms, smoothing over the sleek fabric, tracing the lines of her body with quiet reassurance.
“I like when you get protective,” you admit softly, your lips brushing over her knuckles again. “It makes me feel… wanted.”
Her eyes darken at that.
The anger shifts.
Her hand moves suddenly, not rough but decisive, cupping your jaw and tilting your face up toward hers. Her composure remains intact, but something heated glows beneath it now.
“You are wanted,” she says, her voice lower than before, edged with something deeper than irritation. “You are not a spectacle for idle men to appraise.”
You smile gently, stroking your fingers through her hair again, massaging the tension at her scalp.
“And yet,” you murmur, leaning close enough that your breath mingles with hers, “you didn’t drag me out of the room.”
Her thumb presses slightly into your jaw.
“I considered it.”
That makes you laugh softly.
You press a slow kiss to her palm this time, turning your face just enough to brush your lips along the inside of her wrist.
Her breath hitches.
The jealousy that had simmered now coils into something hotter, heavier. Her other hand slides to your waist, gripping more firmly than before, pulling you flush against her.
“You take a dangerous pleasure in this,” she murmurs.
“In what?”
“In soothing me.”
You trace your fingers down the line of her neck, over her collarbone, smoothing along her shoulders again in slow, indulgent strokes.
“I like taking care of you,” you say sweetly. “Especially when you’re pretending not to need it.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“I do not pretend.”
You lean in, brushing your lips just beside hers, not quite kissing her.
“You were jealous,” you whisper.
The word lands between you like a spark in dry air.
Her hand tightens at your waist.
“I was attentive.”
You smile against her skin.
“And now?”
Her gaze drops to your mouth.
Her voice lowers further.
“Now,” she says slowly, “you are testing me.”
Your fingers curl slightly into the fabric at her shoulders, your tone soft and coaxing.
“Am I?”
Her hand slides from your jaw down to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, warm and possessive. Her thumb traces the line of your pulse the way it had earlier at home.
The jealousy has melted into heat now.
“You enjoy when I claim you,” she says quietly.
You swallow.
“Yes.”
Her lips finally brush yours, not gentle this time, but deliberate. Measured. A kiss that feels like punctuation.
“And you encourage it,” she murmurs against your mouth.
Your hands glide down her back, slow and reverent.
“Only because I know you won’t let anyone else have me.”
The corner of her mouth curves.
“You are correct.”
Her grip tightens just slightly.
And in the dim corner of the gathering, far from wandering eyes, her jealousy settles into something far more dangerous than anger.
It becomes intention.
Morticia does not say another word, she simply takes your hand.
Her grip is firm, elegant, unquestionable, and you feel the shift immediately. The air around her has changed. The jealousy that once simmered quietly now hums beneath her skin like restrained thunder.
She guides you through the corridor just beyond the main hall, past gilded mirrors and velvet settees, toward a row of private doors set discreetly away from the noise. The music fades with every step. The laughter dulls.
When she opens one of the doors, the room beyond is indulgent in its privacy. Marble counters. Low golden lighting. A mirror that stretches almost floor to ceiling.
She steps inside.
You follow.
The door clicks shut behind you.
And then the lock turns.
You barely have a second to inhale before she turns and presses you back against the cool wall, her body close, her presence overwhelming in the small, gilded space.
Her hand slides up your chest, her fingers settle at your throat.
Not squeezing, not harsh, but unmistakably there.
Her eyes are darker now, no longer politely composed, no longer watchful from afar. This is closer. Hotter. Focused entirely on you.
“You are very aware of what you do to me,” she says quietly.
Her thumb drags slowly along the side of your neck, feeling the flutter of your pulse beneath her touch. The marble behind you is cold. Her body is not.
You swallow carefully.
“What do I do?” you ask, voice soft but edged with a hint of provocation.
Her lips curve, but there is no amusement in it now. Only intent.
“You soothe me,” she murmurs. “You stroke my hair. You kiss my hands. You whisper assurances.”
Her fingers flex slightly at your throat.
“And then you accuse me.”
You tilt your chin up just a fraction, the movement pressing more fully into her hand.
“You were jealous.”
The word hangs between you.
Her jaw tightens.
“I was protective.”
You smile faintly, unable to help yourself.
“You didn’t like the way he looked at me.”
Her thumb presses just a little firmer against your pulse. Enough to make your breath shift.
“I did not like the way he presumed,” she says.
Your hands slide slowly up her arms, fingers tracing the sleek line of her sleeves until they settle at her shoulders. You lean in, your lips brushing just beneath her jaw.
“You know I was only being polite.”
Her breathing deepens.
“I know,” she replies.
You press a slow kiss to the corner of her mouth.
“And you know I enjoyed how possessive you were.”
Her hand tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to make your body react, your pulse jumping beneath her fingers.
“You encourage me,” she says, voice lower now, almost velvet-dark.
“Maybe,” you whisper, your fingers sliding into her hair, gently stroking at the base of her skull the way you had before. “I like when you get jealous.”
Her eyes flash.
“You should be careful what you claim to enjoy.”
Your lips brush hers again, soft, lingering.
“It turns you on.”
The words are barely audible.
Her other hand moves to your waist, gripping firmly, pressing you fully against the wall. Her mouth captures yours this time without hesitation, the kiss deeper, deliberate, claiming.
When she pulls back, her fingers are still resting at your throat, her thumb tracing the rhythm there.
“You belong to me,” she says quietly.
Your breath is uneven now, your hands still tangled in her hair.
“Yes,” you answer.
Her gaze drops to your mouth again, and the jealousy that once simmered in the corner of a crowded room has transformed entirely.
It is no longer about him, it’s about you. About the way you provoke her, about the way you like being claimed.
Her lips hover just above yours.
“And you enjoy reminding me,” she murmurs, “that I am capable of wanting you very, very badly.”
Outside the door, the party continues.
Inside, the air feels charged enough to spark.
Her mouth claims yours again before you can steady your breathing.
This kiss is nothing like the ones exchanged beneath chandeliers and polite smiles. It is deeper. Hungrier. Her lips move with deliberate possession, and the hand at your throat slides upward just enough to tilt your head back against the marble.
The wall is cool through your clothes.
She is not.
Your fingers tighten in her hair, and she makes a low sound against your mouth, something restrained but dangerously close to unravelling. Her grip at your waist sharpens, pulling you flush against her so there is no space left to misunderstand intent.
“You provoke me,” she murmurs against your lips, her voice thickened now, less composed, more felt.
You barely manage a breath. “You like it.”
Her answer is another kiss, slower but firmer, her teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your pulse jump. Her hand at your throat slides down to your collarbone, then lower, tracing the line of you with a possessive certainty that makes your knees weaken.
One of her legs shifts between yours, anchoring you in place.
“You enjoy being watched,” she says quietly, her mouth moving along your jaw now, down to the sensitive space beneath your ear. “You enjoy knowing it unsettles me.”
Her lips press there, slower this time, lingering.
Your hands slide down her back, pulling her closer. “I enjoy knowing you’ll never let anyone have me.”
Her response is immediate.
Her hand returns to your throat, firmer now, not hurting but unmistakably controlling the angle of your head as she kisses you again, deeper than before. The restraint she carries in public unravels here in private, replaced by something darker and more urgent.
“You are mine,” she says against your mouth, each word deliberate.
Her hips press forward, not subtle, not polite.
You gasp softly into her kiss, and that sound seems to undo something in her. Her movements grow less measured, more consuming. Her hand slides from your throat down your body, mapping you with increasing certainty, fingers tightening at your hip as though marking territory.
Outside the door, laughter swells and fades.
Inside, the air is thick, charged, intimate.
You tilt your head, kissing her back with equal heat now, and whisper against her lips, “Still jealous?”
Her eyes lift to yours, dark and blazing.
“Yes.”
The honesty in it sends a thrill through you.
She kisses you again, slower this time but no less intense, her grip possessive, her body pressing you firmly into the wall as though she intends to leave no doubt, no question, no space for anyone else.
Her mouth moves over yours with a hunger that makes a soft, surprised gasp escape your throat, swallowed by her. Her hand, which had been possessively on your hip, slides lower, curving around your thigh. She lifts, letting her knee press firmly against you.
The sudden, intimate pressure sends a jolt through your body, a hot current that makes your hips instinctively shift. You press back, a low hum rumbling from your chest as you grind against the firm warmth of her knee.
“You are mine,” she breathes against your mouth, her eyes are obsidian pools, reflecting the low golden light. You see a fierce, undeniable claim in her eyes. “Every curve, every breath, every thought.”
You can only manage a soft "Morticia," a plea, a surrender, as you continue to move against her, the friction building between your legs. Her knee is unyielding, a perfect, exquisite pressure. You lean into it, a soft moan catching in your throat, your fingers tangling deeper into her hair, pulling her closer still.
“Yes,” she whispers, her voice a rough caress. “All of you. And you delight in it, don’t you?”
You nod, unable to speak, your hips grinding against her, a silent answer that seems to please her immensely. Her lips curve into a slow, dark smile, and a low, guttural hum vibrates in her chest.
“I know what you crave,” she murmurs, her hand sliding from your thigh, up your side, to cup the back of your head. “To be claimed. To be taken.”
Before you can even process the words, a firm grip on your shoulder twists you around. A surprised gasp hitches in your throat as your face meets the cool, unyielding plaster of the wall. The suddenness of it steals your breath, but the shock quickly gives way to a deeper, more thrilling sensation.
Her body presses against yours from behind, a perfect fit. The subtle scent of nightshade and expensive perfume fills your nostrils, intoxicating and disorienting.
“Mmm, yes,” she hums, her voice a low vibration against your ear. Her hips grind into your ass, a deliberate rhythm that makes your knees weak. “That’s it. Right where you belong.”
You can’t see her, but you can feel her pressing against you. You reach one of your hands behind yourself, reaching the back of Morticia’s head. Your fingers tangle in her hair, now pulling at the strands almost desperately as you lean into the wall.
“Oh, darling,” she purrs, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through your very bones. “You are truly insatiable, aren’t you? Just a little taste, and you’re begging for me.”
Her hands are on your waist now, firm and possessive, tilting your hips just so, increasing the exquisite friction. You can hear her breathing, deep and even, a stark contrast to your own ragged gasps. The wall feels cold against your cheek, a counterpoint to the searing heat building between your bodies.
“Morticia…” you whimper, a desperate, broken sound.
“Shhh,” she whispers, her lips brushing your earlobe, sending a jolt through your entire system. “No words. Just feel.”
Her hands on your waist shifted. One slid lower, finding the hem of your dress. With an almost predatory grace, her fingers swept the fabric upwards, revealing the bare skin of your thighs to the cool air. A shiver traced its way down your spine, not from cold, but from the sudden exposure.
You felt her breath ghost against your neck, warm and heavy, as her other hand moved, a quick, rough tug. A faint snap of elastic, and your underwear was no longer on you. Down by your ankles, you stepped out of them, seeing them be kicked away by Morticia, a soft rustle against the floor.
“Ah, there we are,” she purrs, her voice a low thrum against your ear. Her knee, still wedged between your thighs, nudged wider, demanding space. Your legs parted, leaving you utterly exposed. “Arch for me, darling,” she commanded.
Your spine bowed, pressing your hips further back against her. A gasp tore from your throat as her fingers, long and elegant, brushed against your slick heat. Not entering, just teasing, tracing your swollen lips, finding the very core of your desire, a feather-light touch that promised so much more. You whimpered, a desperate, broken sound, your fingers pressed against the wall.
A sharp sting suddenly hits your ass cheek, followed by two more. The suddenness made you jump, a small yelp escaping your lips, quickly muffled by the wall. The sting was immediate, exhilarating, a jolt of pure sensation that sent a fresh wave of heat pooling between your legs.
“Good girl,” she hums, a dark, satisfied sound. “So responsive.”
Just as the sting began to subside, a single finger, then two, slid inside you, slow and deliberate. The pressure was exquisite, filling, stretching. At the same moment, her other hand pressed firmly against the back of your head, pushing your face harder into the wall.
The world narrowed to the sensations. The cool wall, the burning friction of her fingers, the pressure on your head. Your body convulsed, a moan ripping from your throat, muffled and desperate. Her fingers moved, a slow, deliberate rhythm, pushing deeper, twisting, exploring every inch of your inner warmth. Each thrust was met with a desperate, guttural sound from you, a plea, a surrender.
Her fingers, which had been a slow, sensual exploration, now picked up a relentless pace. They plunged deeper, then withdrew, only to push in again with an urgent, demanding rhythm that stole any remaining breath from your lungs.
Your hips bucked instinctively against her, a frantic, desperate dance, seeking to meet her every movement. A choked whimper tore from your throat, muffled against the wall as the pressure inside you became almost unbearable.
Morticia’s hand, which had been pushing your head against the wall, now tangled roughly in your hair. With a sharp tug, she pulled your head back, pulling it away from the wall. Your scalp protested, a delicious agony, as she pulled you closer until your temple pressed against her cheek, your earlobe brushing her lips.
“Mmm, that’s it, darling,” she purred, her voice a low rumble that vibrated through your skull. Her lips, warm and wet, trailed along your jawline, sending shivers down your spine. A soft nip, then a slow, deliberate lick, made you arch your back even further, a guttural sound escaping your lips.
“You’re so hot,” she whispered, her lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear, sending another jolt through your system. Her tongue flicked out, tracing the curve of your ear, then descended to your neck, tasting, teasing. You could feel the slight dampness of her breath, the soft brush of her teeth as she nipped gently at the pulsing vein in your throat.
Your hand reached behind you, finding Morticia’s dress. Gripping tightly, pulling, desperate, for something to hold onto as the world began to spin. Her fingers inside you sped up, a frantic, almost violent tempo, pushing you right to the precipice.
Your hips bucked, a desperate, uncontrolled rhythm against her, as your head was pulled back by the roots of your hair, Morticia’s lips hot against your ear.
“No one else,” she whispered, her voice a low growl that vibrated through your bones. “Not a single soul is permitted to gaze upon this exquisite body, this perfect surrender.
A raw, guttural moan tore from your throat, instantly swallowed by the torrent of sensation. Your knees buckled, your body convulsing, muscles clenching around her fingers in a desperate, shattering release.
“That’s it, mi amor,” she murmured, her voice a deep, satisfied hum against your ear, her fingers continuing their work for a few more excruciating, glorious beats. “Let it consume you. Let go. Mine. All mine.”
You clung to her, trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps, as the aftershocks rippled through you. Slowly, exquisitely, she withdrew her fingers, slick with your essence.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. Her hand began slowly guiding them to her lips. Your eyes, still hazy with pleasure, met hers over your shoulder as she licked them clean, a slow, deliberate movement that was both vulgar and utterly mesmerising. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she released your hair, her hands moving to your shoulders.
Gently, she turned you, pulling your trembling body flush against hers. Your face buried in the soft velvet of her dress, your arms instinctively wrapping around her waist, clutching her as if she were the only thing holding you upright. Her lips brushed your cheek, a soft, reassuring pressure.
“There, there, my obedient one,” she whispered, her arms tightening around you, cradling you against her. “You were magnificent. So perfect in your surrender. You are truly mine, aren’t you? Always.”
heyyy baby :)) it’s rach pls write more for czj, i don’t care what about it could be like a fall / halloween kinda smut whatever you want. i miss you fics so bad <3
𝑯𝒂𝒍𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒔 (Catherine Zeta-Jones x Fem Reader)
At a Halloween party shimmering with gold and red, an angel meets her devil. Masks, music, and temptation blur into something hotter than either of them expected. What starts as a dance becomes a challenge, ending in surrender.
Read on AO3
𝑯𝒂𝒍𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑯𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒔
The mirror reflected a vision of gold and white. Soft, shimmering fabric hugging your curves, a delicate halo perched perfectly atop your hair, and a mask that accentuated your eyes without giving away too much. You twirled once, feeling the sweep of the costume, and smiled. Tonight, you were an angel.
By the time you stepped into the apartment, the music thumped through the air, thick with the scent of spiced drinks and candles. Guests milled about, some in elaborate costumes, others in simpler masks, laughter echoing off the walls. You clutched your drink, scanning the room with a mix of curiosity and mild apprehension.
And then you saw her.
A gorgeous woman. Draped in deep red and black, her costume hugged her in all the right places, a small mask covering the top half of her face and leaving her mouth tantalisingly visible. She moved with an effortless grace, a subtle sway that drew your gaze instantly. Even through the crowd, her eyes were bright and mischievous, almost dangerous. They locked with yours for a heartbeat too long.
It wasn’t just that her costume was stunning. It was that she was the devil to your angel, a perfect counterpart, a temptation you didn’t know you wanted until that exact moment. Your lips curled into a smile behind your mask, and you could immediately feel that tonight wasn’t going to be ordinary.
You took another sip of your drink, letting the music and chatter swirl around you, but your eyes kept drifting back to her. There was something magnetic about the way she moved. Fluid, confident, a slow sway that seemed to pull the room toward her. You didn’t know her name. You didn’t know anything about her. And yet, your chest tightened every time she appeared in your line of sight.
You leaned against the table for a moment, and a group of guests brushed past you in a burst of laughter, bumping you slightly. You blinked, scanning the crowd when you realised she was gone. Just like that, vanished into the multi-coloured lights, leaving only a lingering heat in your chest.
With a shake of your shoulders, you forced yourself to mingle. You laughed with friends, clinked glasses, nodded along to conversations, trying not to let your thoughts drift back to the masked devil across the room. But the memory of her eyes, sharp and teasing, stayed with you like a quiet hum beneath the party’s noise.
Eventually, the pull became too strong. You slipped away from the conversation, weaving through the crowd toward the dance floor. The music swelled, slower now, intimate, inviting. You moved to the rhythm, letting the melody guide you, spinning once, then twice, until your attention was fully on the motion of your own body.
And then, you felt it. A presence just behind you. A heat, a closeness, a shadow that pressed near enough to make your pulse quicken. You froze for a heartbeat, heart hammering, before slowly turning around.
Her.
The devil in red, her mask perfectly in place, lips curved in that infuriatingly flirtatious smile. She was so close now that you could feel her warmth, the subtle scent of her that had haunted your senses since you first saw her. And somehow, despite the crowd around you, it felt as if the rest of the party had fallen away.
She leaned in, just enough that you caught the warmth of her breath, her voice low and teasing over the music. “Well, isn’t this ironic?” she murmured, tilting her head so her mask caught the light. “Angel and devil… perfectly matched. I’m Catherine, by the way.”
You felt a shiver run down your spine at the way she said your costume brought her attention, at the way her eyes glittered behind that mask. You almost forgot your name, your voice a little breathless in response. The room around you seemed to fade, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of electric tension.
Her lips curved into a smile that was all mischief, and she slid an arm around your waist, pulling you slightly closer. The song shifted, slow and sultry, the bass vibrating through the floorboards and straight into your chest. The music seemed to demand closeness, and you felt her body align with yours as you began to move together.
At first, the dance was tentative, a teasing sway of bodies pressed near but not fully touching. Then her hands brushed over your hips, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary, and your pulse spiked. You moved a little closer in response, your fingers grazing the small of her back, feeling the warmth and softness beneath her costume.
She leaned in again, just above your ear, whispering something that made you flush, her words drowned out by the music, but her intent crystal clear. Every brush of her fingers, every tilt of her head, every slow shift of her body against yours was a deliberate, intoxicating tease.
And suddenly, the mask didn’t feel like a barrier anymore. It was a challenge.
The song slowed even further, the sultry rhythm wrapping around you like a velvet ribbon. Catherine’s hands traced lightly over your sides, sending sparks up your spine, and you pressed just a little closer, feeling the heat radiating between you.
Then, without warning, she tilted her head and leaned in. Your breath hitched as your lips brushed. Softly, hesitantly at first. The masks pressed together, creating a slight barrier, but the friction only made it more thrilling. You felt the edge of hers against yours, the contours of her lips just barely hidden, teasing and maddening.
Her hands slid from your waist to your back, fingers splaying, pulling you tighter. You responded immediately, hands tracing her shoulders, feeling the smooth fabric of her costume and the subtle warmth of her skin beneath. Every movement was amplified. The brush of her hair against your cheek, the scent of her perfume mingling with the pulse of music, the beat of her heart matching yours.
She pulled back just slightly, enough to let out a soft, teasing laugh. “These masks,” she murmured, voice low and rough with amusement, “make it almost impossible to do this right.”
You tilted your head, brushing your forehead against hers, feeling the teasing friction of leather and fabric. “Almost,” you whispered, letting your fingers trail along the edge of her mask. The barrier only made the kiss hungrier, more urgent, each attempt to deepen it sending shivers through your body.
When you finally pressed together again, lips moving with tentative urgency despite the masks, the rest of the party melted away. Music, laughter, and the crowd blurred into nothing, leaving just you and her. Pressed close, warm, alive, and tasting each other through the thin veil of your masks.
The kiss broke with a soft sound, both of you breathing hard against the other’s mask. Catherine’s thumb traced lightly over your lower lip, and she smiled. That slow, dangerous smile that made your knees feel weak.
“Maybe,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the music, “we should find somewhere a little quieter.”
Her words sank into you like warmth spreading from your chest outward. You could only nod. She laughed softly, brushing her hand against your cheek before threading her fingers through yours. The connection was easy, electric, as if you’d both been waiting for the other to make that move.
She guided you off the dance floor, still holding your hand, weaving through the crowd. The light blurred into streaks of gold and red, laughter fading as you moved down a narrow hallway. The air was cooler there; the pulse of the party replaced by the distant hum of bass through the walls.
When she finally stopped, it was in the doorway of a quiet, dim room. Soft lamplight spilt across rumpled sheets and scattered costumes. She turned to face you, her hand still in yours.
“You’re even prettier up close,” she said, voice lower now, her mask glinting as she tilted her head. “Can I?”
Her fingers brushed the edge of your mask, waiting. You nodded, pulse thrumming. She slipped it off gently, the fabric catching in your hair before falling away. The cool air kissed your skin, but her gaze was hotter than anything you’d felt all night.
Then she reached for her own mask, unhooking it and letting it drop to the floor. For the first time, you saw her fully. The light caught her just right, dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, the faintest sheen of sweat along her collarbone, lips flushed and parted from dancing. Up close, she was almost too much to take in. Beautiful in a way that wasn’t delicate. Sharp and deliberate, like she knew exactly the effect she had on you.
For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you seemed to buzz, filled with the remnants of laughter from the party down the hall and the quiet pulse of your own heartbeat in your ears.
Catherine’s hand was still holding yours, her thumb drawing lazy circles over your skin. She smiled, slow and knowing, before taking a half step closer.
“You really do make a convincing angel,” she said softly. “But I have a feeling there’s a little more fire hiding under all that white.”
Her words landed somewhere low in your stomach. You felt your breath hitch, caught between a laugh and something else entirely. She reached up, tracing a stray stand of hair back behind your ear. The simple touch sent a shiver down your spine. When her fingers trailed lower, along the line of your jaw and down to your neck, you forgot how to breathe for a moment.
It would have been easy to speak, to break the tension with a joke or a question, but it felt wrong to disturb the quiet gravity of the moment. So you just looked at her. Really looked, before closing the space between you.
The next kiss came without hesitation. No masks now, nothing in the way. Her mouth was warm and certain against yours, tasting faintly of wine and something sweet. The rest of the world slipped away; there was only her hand in your hair, the soft press of her body, and the sound of your own pulse pounding in your ears.
You could feel her smile against your lips before she broke away, resting her forehead against yours.
“Much better,” she whispered.
You laughed quietly, the sound muffled between you. Your hands found her waist, holding her there, and for a long moment, you simply breathed together. No hurry, no noise, just the slow realisation that something had shifted.
Outside, the party carried on: the faint echo of music, the occasional burst of laughter. Inside the dimly lit room, it felt like time had stilled; the only thing that mattered was the steady rhythm of her breath matching yours.
Catherine’s fingers slid down the curve of your arm until they found your hand again, guiding it to the small of her back. The movement was slow, deliberate, her eyes fixed on yours as though she was testing every heartbeat of space that remained between you.
You didn’t resist. The two of you swayed a little, still faintly in time with the distant music, the motion a remnant of the dance floor. Her thumb traced the edge of your lower lip before she kissed you again. It was longer this time, unhurried, the kind of kiss that left you weightless.
The room seemed to tilt around you, shadows stretching with the rhythm of your breathing. Catherine’s hand framed your face, then drifted lower, tracing the line of your neck until they rested just above your heartbeat. The touch wasn’t demanding, only certain. It was enough to make every inch of your skin feel newly awake.
Catherine’s eyes deepened, a spark of pure mischief lighting her eyes as she lifted her hands to the delicate gold halo perched on your head. “Let’s take away the divine,” she suggested, her voice dropping to a seductive hum that vibrated deep in your chest.
You tilted your head back slightly, submitting to her touch. Her fingers were warm and careful, unhooking the subtle clasp that held the accessory in place. The light fixture above caught the gold wire for a brief, blinding flash before the halo lifted away. With a soft, barely audible clink, it was tossed onto the rumpled bedsheets.
“Better,” she breathed, her gaze raking over your exposed hair and the flushed skin of your face.
She moved lower, her touch trailing down the smooth, shimmering white satin of your angel costume. The fabric, which had felt so ethereal and concealing moments ago, now felt like an irritating barrier. Catherine’s fingers found the nearly invisible zipper running down your spine.
“May I?” she whispered, leaning in to brush her lips against your ear.
You shivered, a sharp, involuntary hiss escaping your throat. You didn’t need words. You lifted your arms slightly, giving her access.
The zipper, a low, smooth sound against the quiet of the room, felt deafeningly intimate. As the fastener descended, Catherine followed its path, pressing light kisses to your newly exposed skin. The nape of your neck, the curve of your shoulder blade, the small of your back.
The dress pooled quickly at your feet, a soft, silent kiss of fabric, leaving you in nothing but delicate lace and gold. The air felt suddenly much cooler, but Catherine’s gaze was hotter than ever.
“See?” she murmured, her eyes dark with anticipation. “Definitely some fire under the fluff.”
You reached for her then, your fingers seeking the tight, rich fabric of her devil costume. It was heavier than yours, a mix of smooth satin and structured leather that felt powerful beneath your touch. You found the small hook at her shoulder and pulled, the metallic fastening giving way.
“Your turn, devil,” you challenged, your voice laced with newfound confidence.
Catherine laughed, a low, throaty sound that made your pulse jump. She lifted her arms, allowing you to work the fastenings. The red satin slid easily, but the black leather corset beneath took more effort. You had to lean in, your body pressing against hers, to unlace the tight cords. Every tug, every brush of your fingers against her skin beneath the leather, felt like an electric charge.
“Impatient, angel?” she teased, her breath warm against your ear.
“Only a little,” you admitted, finally loosening the last loop.
The corset fell away, followed by the rest of the dark costume. When she stood before you, she was all sharp lines and soft curves, a vision of red and black lace that perfectly contrasted your white and gold.
The contrast was intoxicating.
Catherine stepped forward, closing the final inch of space between you. Her hands cupped your hips, pulling you flush against her. The difference in texture—her smooth, warm skin against your lace, the cool metal of your bra clasp against her chest—was overwhelming.
She didn’t kiss you immediately. Instead, she leaned down, her lips tracing a path along your collarbone, the delicate skin there instantly prickling.
“You taste like champagne and anticipation,” she whispered, before finding the sensitive hollow beneath your ear.
A soft, breathy and prolonged moan escaped you, a sound you hadn’t realised you were holding back. Your fingers tangled in her dark hair, pulling her closer, demanding more.
She took the invitation, pressing her mouth to yours with a sudden, fierce intensity that stole your breath. The kiss was deep and hungry, a direct answer to the build-up of the entire night. Her tongue swept against yours, a claiming gesture that made your knees weaken entirely.
She broke the kiss only to murmur, “Hold on,” before swiftly backing you toward the bed.
She didn’t wait for you to answer, simply pushing you back gently until the backs of your knees met the edge of the mattress. You fell onto the rumpled sheets, the white satin pooling around your hips, a stark contrast to the dark sheets beneath. Catherine followed immediately, leaning over you, her weight supported by her hands on either side of your head.
“This is where the fun starts, Angel,” she purred, her voice a low, gravelly sound that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. “No more masks, no more pretending we’re dancing.”
You reached up, pulling her face down toward yours, demanding a kiss that was deeper, more consuming than the last. She answered the pressure instantly, her mouth opening over yours, a low, satisfied hum vibrating in her throat. Her hands slipped from the bed and traced the line of your lace bra, following the delicate gold threads woven into the fabric.
“This lace,” she murmured against your mouth, her tongue tracing the curve of your lower lip, “is beautiful. Delicate. Very angelic. But I want to see what that white thread is hiding.”
She didn't rush the removal. Her fingers traced the edge of the cup, brushing the sensitive underside of your breast before she finally found the clasp at your back. The lace fell away, and you let out a sharp, involuntary gasp as the cool air hit your suddenly exposed skin.
Catherine’s eyes, dark and heavy-lidded with desire, locked onto yours. Her gaze was a tangible weight as she lowered her head, taking her time tracing the curve of your breast with her tongue, a slow, deliberate circling tease. When she finally took your nipple into her mouth fully, a sharp gasp tore from your lungs, loud enough to be lost only by the faint thrum of the bass from the party outside.
“Oh, god,” you breathed, your fingers finding the tight, dark curls at the base of her neck, pulling her closer, pressing her down.
She pulled back, her lips wet and glistening, a wicked, triumphant look in her eyes. “I want you to beg for me.”
Her hand slid down your body, finding the smooth, taut skin of your inner thigh, tracing the lace of your panties before slipping beneath the fabric. The sudden, intimate pressure was overwhelming, and you arched your back, a small, choked moan escaping before you could muffle it.
“So warm,” she whispered, her fingers finding the already slick heat hidden beneath the white lace. She pressed a finger firmly against your clit, a slow, grinding pressure that stole your breath. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you, little angel? Already dripping.”
You were shaking, your breath coming in ragged bursts, the pleasure building with an impossible, dizzying speed.
“Yes,” you managed, the word a desperate plea. “More, Catherine.”
“Say my name again,” she commanded, the pressure intensifying. “Tell me what you want, right now.”
“Catherine, please. Fuck me,” you begged, your hips bucking instinctively against her hand.
She didn't stop the friction as she lowered her head, her tongue tracing the wet lace of your panties before slipping them off and putting her mouth to use. The shock of her hot mouth against your most sensitive flesh was immediate and explosive. You cried out, a loud, sustained sound of pure release as she dedicated herself to your pleasure, sucking and teasing with ruthless efficiency.
Your climax hit you like a wave, shaking your whole body. You felt yourself come apart, your fingers digging into the sheets as you rode her tongue, the world narrowing down to the hot, wet pressure of her mouth.
When the tremors finally subsided, she lifted her head, her eyes burning with satisfaction.
“Your turn,” you demanded, your voice raw, reaching down to grab the edge of her dark lace thong. You rolled, pushing her onto her back with a surprising burst of strength, trapping her beneath you.
Catherine laughed, a clear, throaty sound of pure delight. “Someone’s feeling confident.”
You ripped the remaining scrap of fabric away, tossing it across the room, and leaned down, mirroring her earlier exploration. You kissed a line down her stomach, the warmth of her skin a sudden, intoxicating invitation, inhaling the scent of her arousal. Musky, warm, and distinctly hers.
As your mouth found her, Catherine’s breath hitched, and a deep, guttural groan escaped her. Her hands shot up, gripping the sheets tightly, her hips arching up to meet your tongue. The taste of her was electric, rich and salty, and you explored her with a desperate intensity, driven by the need to hear her sounds, to feel her body beneath yours.
You focused on the hard, sensitive core of her desire, using slow, deep sweeps of your tongue, alternating with sharp, focused flicks. Catherine’s initial moans quickly escalated, becoming sharp, breathless cries that were barely distinguishable from a scream.
“Fuck,” she choked out, her voice tight with pleasure. “Don’t stop, Angel. Please, don’t stop–”
You intensified the rhythm, the air in the small room growing thick and heavy. Catherine’s body went taut beneath you, her fingers digging into the sheets, and then, with a final, desperate gasp, she shattered. A flood of pure pleasure washes over your mouth.
You lifted your head, your lips glistening, and pinned her with a triumphant look. “Ruined, huh?”
Catherine laughed, a slow, husky sound that vibrated deep in her chest. Her eyes, still heavy with the remnants of her climax, darkened with a fresh wave of intent. “Absolutely.. But I’d like to hear how you beg for me again.”
She didn’t let you move on your own. Her hands clamped down on your arms as she pulled you up until you were kneeling between her legs, facing her. The movement brought your bodies into full, hot contact. Your wet heat to hers, a sudden and overwhelming pressure that made you gasp.
“Look at you,” she whispered, reaching up to trace the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing the faint gold paint remaining from your mask. “So open, so wet, and all mine.”
She guided your hips forward, pressing your cunt firmly against hers. The friction was instant and intense, a deep grinding heat that made your muscles clench. You tried to find a rhythm, a way to move that intensified the sensation, but she held you still.
“Ah-ah. Not yet,” she murmured, her voice a low, commanding rasp. “I set the pace here. You just focus on how good this feels.”
She began to move first, shifting her hips in a slow, deliberate circle. The motion ground your clit against hers, a heavy, dragging pressure that was almost unbearable in its slowness. Thick, wet, obscene sounds filled the small room, deafening in the silence that followed the party music.
You let out a low, shaky moan, your head falling back as you tried to ride the agonisingly slow rhythm. Your hands braced on her shoulders, feeling her muscles beneath your palms.
“Desperate, hm?” she teased, her eyes fixed on the flush spreading across your chest. “Every little movement, you feel it deep. I love that. I love knowing that I can bring you to the edge with just this.”
She changed the direction of her hips, moving in short, shallow thrusts, pushing up against you. You felt the ridges of her wetness pressing precisely against your sensitive clit.
“Catherine,” you gasped, the word ripped from your throat. You tried to increase the speed, but she was stronger, her hands holding your hips steady, locking you into her slow, deliberate rhythm.
“Say it louder, Angel. Tell me what my pussy is doing to you,” she demanded, her voice thick with dominance.
“It’s too much,” you choked out, your vision blurring with the building pressure. “It’s so good, please–”
“Too much is just enough,” she countered, a wicked grin flashing across her face.
She maintained the maddeningly slow pace for what felt like an eternity, forcing you to endure the exquisite, drawn-out build-up. Every inch of contact was amplified by the slick heat between you. Your core was screaming for release, your body shaking violently with restrained pleasure.
Finally, just as you felt you might shatter from the tension, she released your hips.
“Now,” she commanded, her voice suddenly fierce. “Go.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. You threw yourself into the movement, thrusting down and grinding against her with desperate, frantic speed. The sounds of wet friction intensified, a chorus of sex that drove you to thrust faster.
Catherine matched your intensity with a series of sharp, rhythmic pushes of her own. Her hands flew up to cup your jaw, pulling your mouth down to hers, silencing your moans with a deep, consuming kiss.
But the pleasure was too immense to be contained. You broke the kiss, throwing your head back as a moan of pure, raw ecstasy tore from your lungs. You felt your whole body contract around her, the release violent and overwhelming as you collapsed into her.
Catherine held you tight, her own breath ragged, as the tremors subsided. She waited until your breathing smoothed out before she pulled back, her eyes shining in the dim light.
“There,” she murmured, kissing the sweat from your temple. “Now you’re ruined.”
hey, i was the one who sent the ask about morticia, and i'll just claim this emoji 🐈⬛, so you know who it is. :)
i really don't have anything specific in mind. i'm usually a bitch for some hurt/no comfort, but i would absolutely fuck with just plain smut. maybe morticia being eaten out on the kitchen island, or perhaps even the graveyard? do whatever you wish. if you need a scenario, i can think about it and come back to you!
any by the way, "need you now" had me screaming and crying. god, your writing is so good, it has me in a chokehold. keep on slaying on!
🐈⬛
𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒅 - (Morticia Addams x Fem Reader)
morticia addams x fem reader | oneshot
smut warnings: oral, grinding, fingering, praise, degradation, worship, power dynamics, dirty talk, public sex, graveyard sex
for 🐈⬛, hope this is along the lines of what you were thinking! <3
smut, porn without plot, oneshot
word count: 2k
A moonlit stroll among the graves becomes something far more decadent when Morticia decides she craves devotion. You kneel, you serve, and soon you’re worshipping her in every way she demands.
Read on AO3
i've been gone for a hot minute! i'm getting back into things ;)
𝑨𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒅
The cemetery was slivered in moonlight, mist curling low over the stones. Morticia walked with her usual unhurried grace, the hem of her gown whispering over the damp grass, her fingers trailing the tops of headstones as though greeting old friends. You trailed beside her, beneath puffing pale in the chill, every sense sharpened by the nearness of her. The air was heavy with damp earth and roses left to rot, but all you could smell was her perfume. Dark, intoxicating, faintly poisonous.
When she stopped, you nearly stumbled to keep from passing her. She had chosen a tomb, smooth marble glistening faintly with dew, and turned her head toward you with a smile that was anything but sweet.
“My dear,” she murmured, voice low and velvet, “do you know what I crave most among the dead?”
Your tongue fumbled for an answer, but her hand cupped your chin, nails grazing lightly along your jaw. Her smile deepened, cutting through you like silk drawn over a blade.
“Devotion,” she purred. “On your knees.”
The command rooted you where you stood, a shiver rolling through you at the weight of her gaze. Still, you obeyed, kneeling before her as she leaned back against the tomb like it was a throne built for her alone.
Morticia gathered the folds of her gown, parting them slowly, deliberately, until you could see the pale lines of her thighs. She tilted her head, black hair spilling over one shoulder, and an arched brow.
“Don’t be shy, mi gatita. The dead are excellent voyeurs.”
Your lips pressed against the inside of her thigh, reverent, trembling. Morticia’s fingers curled in your hair, guiding, not gentle but never harsh, tugging you closer until you could taste her. Her sigh slipped into the night air, dark and unhurried.
“Such a good mouth,” she whispered, eyes closing as her hips shifted ever so slightly. “Eager. Desperate. You’ve thought of this, haven’t you? How I’d taste, how I’d sound when you pleased me?”
Your tongue dragged along her folds, tentative at first, then bolder when her nails tightened in encouragement. She rolled her hips against your mouth, patient, decadent, drawing out her own pleasure while you shook with need. Every moan she gave was measured, every sigh designed to make you ache harder.
“Slower,” she coaxed when you grew frantic. “Take your time. I want every drop of my pleasure savoured.”
Her nails scraped lightly across your scalp, her voice falling into a murmur like a hymn.
“You exist to worship, don’t you? To kneel, to serve, to be useful beneath me.” Her laugh was low, rich, devastating. “And I–oh, yes–shall let you.”
She pulled your head back just enough to look down at you, moonlight making her face a pale, exquisite mask. Her thumb stroked your swollen lower lip, smearing her slick across it.
“You exist to worship,” she repeated, slow and deliberate, her thumb stroking along your damp lower lip. “To be on your knees, to open your mouth for me, to taste what only I choose to give you.”
Then she pressed you firmly back against her, grinding her folds across your lips until you parted for her. The taste of her spilt onto your tongue, slick and heady, and her sigh bled into a quiet, sinful laugh.
“Mm… yes. Lick me. Slower–mm, yes, just like that. Flatten your tongue. Every stroke…. Oh, darling, you’re learning.”
Her thighs framed your head, velvet skin tightening as you traced the line of her slit with your tongue, teasing her clit before circling it, flicking lightly until her hips twitched. Morticia rewarded you with a long, low moan, her hand pushing you harder against her.
“Good girl. Such a good, hungry little mouth. Do you know how obscene you sound, sucking me like that? The dead are listening, and you don’t even care, do you?”
Her words made your core throb, heat pooling in your underwear as you dragged your tongue from her entrance up to her swollen clit, sealing your lips around it and sucking. She gasped, sharp and sudden, her body arching ever so slightly against the marble slab behind her.
“Yesssss–there. Don’t you dare stop. Keep licking until your jaw aches.”
You obeyed, your tongue circling, pressing, flicking, desperate to please her. Her cunt grew wetter with every movement, her slick coating your chin as you lapped greedily, messy and eager.
“You’d let me ride your face until you suffocated, wouldn’t you?” she whispered, voice trembling with pleasure. “Drown in me. Be buried here in the dirt with your mouth full of my cunt.”
Her hips continued to roll against you, deliberate, unhurried, but merciless in their rhythm. She used your mouth like it was hers by right, her thighs clamping around your head when you whimpered.
“Deeper,” she hissed. “Push that tongue inside me. Yes–fuck me with it. Fill me. Stretch me open.”
You did, plunging your tongue into her, fucking her with frantic strokes while your nose pressed against her clit, rubbing, grinding until she was shuddering above you. Morticia’s sigh broke into a ragged moan, her composure fracturing as she rocked down against your face.
“Ahh–fuck, yes… just like that–don’t stop, don’t stop–”
Her orgasm tore through her, hips jerking, slick gushing over your tongue. You swallowed, drinking her down, face soaked as she rode out every last shudder on your mouth. Her moans were low and devastating, echoing off the stones until she finally eased back, gown falling to cover her again.
She looked down at you, your face wet, lips swollen, chest heaving. Her smile curved sharp and indulgent, admiring her work.
“Look at you,” she purred, running her damp fingers across your cheek before pushing them between your lips. “Marked. Used. My perfect little altar.”
She withdrew, licking her own fingers clean with slow precision. Her eyes gleamed with wicked satisfaction.
“Come,” she said softly, already gliding back into the shadows of the graveyard. “The night isn’t finished with us yet.”
But she paused when she saw you still kneeling, thighs pressed together, trembling with need. Her smile widened, cruel and decadent.
“Pathetic little thing,” she murmured. “Dripping for me while you served. You’ve earned something for your devotion… and I do enjoy watching you fall apart.”
Her hand extended, and when you took it, she drew you up with effortless grace. She pressed you back against the smooth tomb, pinning you there with the weight of her presence, her perfume wrapping around you like smoke. With a tilt of her head, her lips hovered just shy of your ear.
“Spread your legs for me.”
You obeyed instantly, heat rushing through you as her long fingers gathered your skirt, slipping beneath to find your soaked panties. Her nails scratched lightly over the thin fabric, and her hum of amusement made your knees weaken.
“So wet,” she crooned. “All this from pleasuring me? You are utterly sinful.”
Her hand pushed the fabric aside, and she slid two fingers through your slick folds, parting you with deliberate slowness. When she circled your clit, your hips jerked helplessly, and she laughed low in her throat.
“Hungry little cunt,” she whispered. “Do you ache to be filled, mi vida? To be stretched wide for me?”
When she pressed a finger inside, the stretch made you cry out, and she drank the sound like she was sipping wine. Another finger followed, curling deep, her thumb pressing firmly against your clit until your thighs shook.
“Look at you,” she said, voice silken. “So open. So desperate. Ride my hand, darling. Show me how badly you need it.”
You did, rocking your hips down, fucking yourself on her fingers as she watched with unblinking fascination. Her thumb was relentless, circling, pressing, drawing you closer with every second.
“That’s it. Take what I give you. All of it. Every last thrust until you’re spilling down my wrist.”
Your release built fast, your body clenching tight around her fingers as the graveyard spun around you. She leaned in, her lips grazing your temple, her whisper velvet and commanding.
“Come for me, my sweet. Let them all hear you.”
You shattered, climax crashing over you in violent waves. Your body jerked helplessly as she kept her fingers moving, milking every spasm, every gush of slick until your thighs trembled and your voice was hoarse from crying out.
Only then did she withdraw, bringing her soaked fingers to her lips. She licked them clean with exquisite slowness, eyes never leaving yours.
“Delectable,” she said, her tone identical to how she’d praised her own orgasm earlier. “You’re every bit as delicious as I imagined.”
She smoothed your skirt back into place, composed as ever, and trailed her nails lightly along your jaw.
“Now,” she said, stepping back into the fog, “walk with me, mi amor. The dead are satisfied… but I am not finished with you yet.”
Morticia didn’t let you go far. Her hand lingered at your waist, cool and unyielding, drawing you back against her. She sat upon another marble tomb as though it were a throne built only for her, smoothing her gown aside in a cascade of black silk. With a sharp tug, she pulled you forward until you were straddling her lap.
“Mm,” she purred, her nails trailing down your spine, “that’s better. Look at you, trembling thing. Perched atop me like an offering.”
Her thigh pressed upward against your soaked core, forcing a gasp from your throat. She relished it, her smile sharp and slow, her lips ghosting along your cheek.
“Ride me,” she whispered. “Grind that needy little cunt against me until you’re ruined.”
You obeyed, rocking forward on her thigh, the fabric of her gown dampening under your slick heat. The pressure made you whimper, clutching at her shoulders as you found your rhythm. Morticia’s hands were everywhere. One tangled in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat, the other palming your ass, dragging you harder against her.
“That’s it, tesoro mio,” she crooned, voice like silk-wrapped steel. “So desperate. So wet. Do you feel how easily you soak through me? How much your little body begs?”
Your moans spilt freely now, echoing faintly across the headstones. Morticia’s lips traced your throat, biting just enough to make you shudder. She rolled her thigh beneath you deliberately, grinding up into your cunt, controlling every ounce of your pleasure.
“Filthy,” she murmured against your ear. “You rut against me like an animal, and still you want more. Pathetic little slut.”
Her words only made you move faster, hips bucking down in messy rhythm, your clit throbbing against the silk. Morticia laughed low, cruel and indulgent, her nails raking down your back.
And then her own need surfaced. With one deft tug, she drew your skirts higher, leaning back slightly, and parting herself beneath her gown until your slick folds brushed hers. The contact was devastating. Wet heat against wet heat, clit against clit.
“Ahh…” she sighed, head tipped back, lashes lowering. “Now this is divine.”
You both moved, grinding together, your cunts sliding, slipping, wetness mixing in desperate friction. Morticia held you there, pressed flush against her, forcing you to ride the sharp line of her pleasure as much as your own.
“Look at me,” she demanded, catching your chin between her fingers. You obeyed, eyes locking with hers as your hips rolled against her. “Yes. Watch me. Watch me fall apart on you.”
Her moans grew ragged, still melodic but cracked with hunger. She rocked her hips up into you, meeting your rhythm, stroke for stroke, her body trembling with contained power.
“Mi pecado…. Keep going…” she gasped, voice breaking into laughter and moans all at once. “So messy. So wet. Just like that.”
The friction grew unbearable, your clits swollen and throbbing, your slick smearing across each other until every stroke sent lightning through your core. You were crying out now, shameless, clinging to her shoulders as your orgasm built again.
“Yes,” Morticia hissed, nails sinking into your hips, dragging you harder against her. “Come with me. Come undone with me, here, where even the dead must envy.”
Her body tensed beneath you, thighs clenching, her breath breaking into sharp, desperate cries. You shattered with her, pleasure tearing through you both as your cunts rubbed together in frantic, soaking strokes.
The orgasm ripped you apart. Heat flooding, muscles spasming, voice raw in the night. Morticia arched against you, mouth falling open in a silent cry before a low, guttural moan poured out of her throat.
You clung together through it, grinding even as your bodies quaked, milking every wave until you were both trembling, slick, dripping down your thighs and staining the marble beneath you.
At last, she slowed, her breathing ragged, her smile wicked and satisfied. She pressed her forehead to yours, lips brushing yours without kissing, her eyes gleaming dark and indulgent.
“Ruined,” she whispered, a cruel caress in her voice. “Marked. Mine.”
Her hand cupped your cheek, thumb smearing your spit-slick lips. She licked her own fingers lazily, savouring the taste of your mingled desire.
“Come, my dear,” she murmured, voice still trembling with pleasure. “Walk with me. The night will not tire of us yet.”
When you’re left alone with Dr. Victoria Siebert, the poised, commanding psychiatrist whose presence makes your heart race, restraint is impossible. What starts as teasing glances and subtle touches quickly escalates into something far more intense.
Read on AO3
can be read as catherine or victoria :)
𝑼𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒍
The office was unnervingly quiet at this hour. The kind of silence that made the hum of the fluorescent lights sound almost oppressive, buzzing in your skull, refusing to be ignored. You tapped aimlessly at your keyboard, half-finished sentences littering the screen, but nothing was sinking in. Every few seconds, your gaze slid to the clock, or the door, or anywhere that wasn’t the blank report in front of you.
You weren’t restless because of the work. You were restless because of her.
Victoria Siebert.
Even when she wasn’t physically there, she lingered like smoke after a fire. The ghost of her perfume clung to your skin from earlier in the day, heady spice and something darker, more intoxicating, like the kind of scent designed to drag you under. The memory of her voice was smooth and deliberate, every word an incision that cut through you like a live current.
So when the sharp echo of heels clicked down the hall, your pulse instantly betrayed you. Fast, shallow, impossible to ignore.
She appeared in the doorway, framed by the harsh office lighting. Her arms were folded across her chest, her head tilted just enough to signal amusement, and her mouth curved into a smile that wasn’t soft at all. It was the kind of smile that stripped you bare before she’d even spoken.
“You’re still here,” she drawled, her voice a velvet blade. “Tell me—are you actually working, or just hiding from me?”
Heat spread up your throat. You stared at the glowing screen, pretending to type, fingers twitching against the keys. The movement gave you away, of course. She noticed everything.
Her laugh was soft, low, mocking. She pushed off the doorway and crossed the room, each step slow and deliberate, the sound of her heels filling the silence until it seemed like the whole office was echoing with her. By the time she reached you, her perfume was inescapable, wrapping around you until every breath was hers.
Her hand grazed your shoulder as she passed, just a brush of her fingers, but your entire body jerked at the touch.
“You’ve been at this desk all day,” she murmured, her voice sliding over your skin like silk and steel at once. She circled behind you, the sound of her heels punctuating the silence. “And yet…” She trailed off, her tone amused, as if she’d already read every thought in your head. “You’re squirming.”
When she returned to your side, she didn’t stand. She perched on the edge of your desk, as though it belonged to her, as though you belonged to her. Her thigh brushed your arm lightly, the friction of fabric sparking heat along your skin. Slowly, deliberately, she crossed her legs, her gaze never leaving yours.
“Relax.” Her voice was quiet but sharp, more command than suggestion.
Your muscles betrayed you, stiffening instead of obeying. Her eyes glittered at the reaction. She reached down, her nails grazing lightly along your forearm before sliding down to your hand. The scrape was delicate, almost teasing, but it was enough to make your breath hitch.
“Tense little thing,” she murmured, her words brushing your ear as she leaned closer. “I think I know exactly what you need.”
Her lips grazed your temple, not even planting a kiss, more the ghost of one, before she pulled back. Her fingers curled over the back of your chair and tipped it slowly, guiding you to lean into it, her control subtle but undeniable.
“You’re wound so tight,” she said, nails dragging lightly up your thigh, higher and higher, stopping just shy of where you ached for her. “I can feel it humming in you. All this nervous energy, bottled up. It’s not work that has you restless, is it?”
Your chest rose sharply. You couldn’t answer, not properly, not with her hand so close.
“Pathetic,” she whispered, her smirk slicing through you as her hand withdrew, only to press firmly against your jaw, forcing you to look at her. Her nails bit lightly into your cheek, anchoring you in place. “You can’t even sit in a chair next to me without dripping. Can you?”
Your throat bobbed. “I—”
“No excuses.” The command was sharp, final. “Answer me. Do you like me touching you?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
“Good girl.”
Her hand slid from your jaw to your hip, firm and unrelenting, dragging you forward until your knees parted slightly. Then she shifted, positioning herself closer, pressing the length of her thigh between yours. The fabric of her trousers was smooth but unyielding, firm against your heat.
The first press of contact made you gasp, your hips jerking forward instinctively.
She laughed softly, cruelly. “Already? God, you’re desperate. I’ve barely touched you, and you’re soaking through your panties.”
Her hand gripped your jaw again, forcing your gaze to hers. “Don’t look away from me,” she warned, her tone sharp enough to cut. “I want to see the exact moment you break.”
Her other hand pressed hard into your hip, dragging you down against her thigh, guiding the angle. The pressure was immediate, unbearable, exactly where you needed it most.
“Move.”
The single word detonated in you. Your body obeyed before your mind caught up, hips rolling against her thigh. The friction was devastating. The rough drag of her trousers against your clit through your panties, the steady grip of her hand forcing your pace. You whimpered, clutching at the desk for balance.
“That’s it,” she purred, the mocking lilt still there. “Rub that needy little clit on me. Show me how badly you want it.”
Her grip tightened, slowing your rhythm to a deliberate grind. Each roll of your hips was deeper, slower, maddening. Every dragged-out second pushed you further toward the edge without letting you tumble over.
“Look at you,” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear. “Grinding like a needy slut, soaking me. Do you even hear yourself? All those pathetic little noises. That’s the sound of my control.”
A broken moan slipped from your throat. She smirked.
“Say it,” she demanded. “Say you belong to me.”
“I—I belong to you,” you gasped, your body quivering under her hold.
“Louder.” Her nails bit into your hip.
“I belong to you!”
Her eyes darkened with satisfaction. “Good girl. Keep going. Don’t you dare stop until you’ve made a mess of my clothes.”
Your movements grew frantic, desperate, the rough drag of her thigh sending shockwaves through you. Every second tightened the coil in your stomach until it was unbearable.
“Already shaking?” she taunted. “You’re really going to finish for me just from this? From my thigh?” She chuckled darkly. “Pathetic. You’ll take whatever I give you and beg for more, won’t you?”
“Yes, Victoria,” you choked out, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
Her laugh was low, victorious. “That’s it. That’s my good little slut. Now finish. Cum all over me like the needy toy you are.”
The command tore the last of your control away. Your orgasm hit hard, violent, your hips jerking helplessly against her thigh as you cried out. She held you steady, forcing you to grind through every pulse, every spasm, until you were trembling and boneless in her hold.
“That’s it,” she murmured, dragging her nails down your thigh. “So messy. So perfect. All mine.”
You collapsed against her chest, chest heaving, body weak. But she didn’t let go. Her hand slid higher, pressing firmly against the soaked fabric between your legs.
Her smirk was merciless. “You thought that was it?” She pressed one finger against your clit through the drenched material, dragging it slowly, teasingly. You whimpered, still oversensitive.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” she purred, lips brushing your ear again. “We’re not finished. I’ve barely begun.”
Her fingers never left your thigh as she eased you back against the leather of her chair, tugging you until you were spread over her lap. Your body still twitched with aftershocks, every nerve ending sparking and raw. You opened your mouth to protest, to beg for a breath, but she pressed two fingers to your lips and shook her head.
“Shh,” she soothed, voice still low but softer now, almost coaxing. “I know, baby. You’re trembling. You’ve already been so good for me.” She pulled her hand away, dragging her thumb over your damp bottom lip. “But you can give me more, can’t you? You can take more.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp anymore. It was velvet, warm, like she was coaxing you into something inevitable. And god, you wanted to.
“I’ll help you through it,” she whispered, sliding her hand beneath your skirt, fingers tracing the edge of your panties. The touch was featherlight, teasing, as if she was giving your body a chance to breathe. “I’ll make it feel so good. You’ll come undone all over my fingers, and I’ll hold you while you shake. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
You nodded before the word even formed.
“That’s my girl,” she murmured, and the praise burned hotter than her teasing had. She hooked two fingers into your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside. The air against your swollen skin made you jolt, another reminder of how sensitive you already were.
“Look at you,” she cooed. “So wet it’s dripping down your thighs. That’s all for me, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you breathed, the word fractured.
Her smile softened, still sinful but edged with approval. “Good. Open wider for me.”
You obeyed, thighs spreading over her lap, back arching against the leather chair. She slid two fingers through your folds, slow and deliberate, coating herself in your slick before pressing against your entrance.
The stretch made you gasp, your body tightening reflexively, but she soothed you with a kiss to your jaw. “Easy,” she murmured, easing one finger in. “That’s it. Breathe, baby. You’re doing so well.”
Her finger curled inside you, dragging over that spot that made your vision blur. Your hips twitched without permission, and she chuckled softly.
“See? Your body knows me already. Knows exactly where I’ll touch to make you fall apart again.”
She added the second finger, slow, deliberate, and your whole body seized up, overstimulation threatening to overwhelm. Tears pricked your eyes from the intensity, but she caught your face in her free hand, thumb stroking your cheek.
“Look at me,” she commanded, gentle but firm. “You can take it. You’re perfect when you take it.”
Her rhythm stayed steady, curling deep inside you, her palm grinding against her clit with every thrust. Your whimpers filled the office, sharp little sounds that she devoured with hungry eyes.
“That’s it,” she praised, voice low and constant. “You’re opening up for me. You’re so fucking beautiful when you lose yourself like this. My perfect girl, giving me every sound, every drop.”
Your walls clenched tight around her fingers, and she kissed your temple, murmuring encouragements between every thrust.
“You’re going to come for me again. You can do it. I want you to. Give me every bit of it. That’s it, sweethearts. Let go.”
The orgasm ripped through you, harsher this time, tearing a ragged cry from your throat. Your hips bucked against her hand, every muscle shaking from the effort of holding on, of surrendering to the overwhelming flood. She held you through it, her fingers never stopping, her other hand cradling your face so you had no choice but to see the satisfaction in her eyes.
“That’s my good girl,” she murmured, kissing the tears from your cheeks. “You did so well for me. I could watch you fall apart like that forever.”
Your body was still trembling, oversensitive and flushed, but you couldn’t stop staring at her. Her dark hair framed her face in dishevelled strands now, lips swollen from biting them as she watched you recover. She looked unfairly composed, even after wringing you out, and something inside you tightened at the thought of undoing her in return.
Before she could guide you again, you slid off her lap, sinking to your knees on the office floor. The leather chair creaked under her as she leaned forward in surprise.
“What are you doing?” she asked, voice husky, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion.
You placed your hands on her thighs, thumbs stroking the firm muscle beneath her skirt. “Returning the favour,” you murmured, kissing the inside of her knee.
Her smirk twitched, her voice softening with a warning edge. “Careful, sweetheart. You think you can handle me?”
You smiled up at her, bolder now. “I think I can make you fall apart just like you did to me.”
The sharp breath she drew betrayed her, even as she shook her head like she was still in charge. “Confident little thing, aren’t you?”
But when you slid your hands higher, pushing her skirt up to her hips, her thighs parted without hesitation. Her lacy underwear was already damp, a dark patch spreading across the delicate fabric. The sight made your stomach flip with desire.
“You’re wet,” you teased softly, pressing a kiss just above the damp spot. “Were you getting off on watching me fall apart?”
Her hand shot down, fingers curling into your hair with a sharp tug. “Don’t get cocky.” But her voice cracked halfway, betraying her, and it made you grin.
You licked slowly up the damp lace, savouring the way she shuddered above you. “You taste like you’ve been waiting,” you whispered, sliding her panties aside.
Her composure cracked further the second your tongue found her. She let out a low, guttural moan, hips twitching against your mouth. Her grip on your hair tightened, guiding you with shaky insistence, though you could feel her restraint faltering.
“That’s—ah—good,” she gasped, trying to smother the sound with her hand against her mouth. “Fuck, don’t stop.”
You wrapped your arms around her thighs to hold her still, tongue working in long, deliberate strokes that made her legs tremble. Every time you pressed harder, circled slower, she gasped louder, her control slipping piece by piece.
“Look at you,” you murmured against her, lips slick with her arousal. “So desperate already.”
Her head fell back against the chair, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight. “I’m not—” she tried, but her voice broke on a whimper as your tongue flicked her clit just right.
“Oh, you are,” you whispered, and dove back in, sucking hard until she cried out.
Her thighs clamped around your head, trying to pull you closer. Her hand trembled in your hair, the once-firm grip loosening as her strength ebbed with each shuddering breath.
“Fuck—don’t you dare stop,” she begged, her voice breaking now, the cool authority gone. “Please. Please, I need—”
The word please falling from her lips made you smirk against her. You slid one finger inside her, curling up gently, and she nearly came undone instantly, bucking against your hand with a desperate sob.
“Shh,” you soothed, echoing her own words from earlier, though your tone dripped with playful confidence. “I’ll help you through it. You can take it. You’re perfect when you take it.”
Her body convulsed around your tongue and fingers, sharp cries filling the office as the orgasm tore through her. She clutched at the armrests, then at your shoulders, like she couldn’t decide whether to hold on or let go.
When she finally came down, her chest heaving, hair sticking to her damp temples, she looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. For the first time, she wasn’t composed or smug. She was undone. Raw, needy, vulnerable.
You kissed her inner thigh softly, grinning up at her. “Told you I could handle you.”
She laughed weakly, breathless, running a trembling hand through your hair. “Cocky little thing,” she whispered, her smile edged with pride. “But god, you’re dangerous.”
Victoria slumped back against the chair, fingers still tangled in your hair, breathing uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her eyes, dark and smouldering, watched you with a mixture of amusement, pride, and something more vulnerable you hadn’t seen before.
“You’re impossible,” she murmured, voice husky, running a trembling hand down your arm. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
You grinned, brushing your lips against her knee, teasing, playful. “I think I have some idea.”
Her smirk returned, slow and dangerous, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her chest was still heaving, her composure only partially restored.
“Careful,” she warned, though the warning lacked its usual bite. “One day, I might just decide to take back control in a way you won’t forget.”
You chuckled softly, letting your hands drift over her thighs, tracing the lingering heat beneath her clothes. “I’ll be ready for you,” you teased. “Or maybe I’ll get first say next time.”
Victoria’s lips twitched in a half-smile, her eyes darkening again with that familiar, predatory glint. “Next time, huh?” she murmured. “Don’t think this ends here. You’ve stirred something in me… something that won’t let me forget this.”
You leaned back, still close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body, watching her chest rise and fall. Even now, even after everything, she still radiated control. Though you could see the cracks, the places where she’d lost it to you.
“Good,” you whispered, a smile playing on your lips. “I like it when you lose a little.”
Her laughter was low, throaty, and for a moment, she let herself sink into it. “Don’t get used to it,” she said, though the tension had left her voice, replaced by something softer, almost intimate. “But… maybe next time, we’ll see who really takes charge.”
The air between you was thick, electric, lingering with heat and unspoken promises. Neither of you moved to leave. Neither of you wanted to. The office lights hummed above, but the world outside had vanished. All that remained was the shared understanding that this was far from over, and that next time, the game would continue.
And with that, the two of you sat, close and untangled, breathing together, a charged silence holding the weight of everything unsaid.
Trigger warnings (DL, DI): Dumbification, strap on use,
Genre: Smut
A/n: Yes, this was planned to be short! XD
Word count: 0.5k
...
...
The familiar feeling of your aching cunt being stuffed with your girlfriend's strap on filled your body, your eyes rolling back into your head as you screamed out your thoughts.
You couldn't even think straight, your eyes were hooded, and the sight of Morticia leaning over you as her waist pounded into your center was too much for your libido.
Your body felt all warm and prickly with each touch from the ravenette, her hair falling down and gently touching your face as a stark contrast with how mercilessly she was fucking you into oblivion.
You couldn't hear anything she was saying, and you certainly couldn't speak, it was like your brain could only think using its libido.
Your legs were shaking, covered in your previous releases as you tasted the fluid from Morticia's fingers which she had stuffed inside of you really quick.
The sight of her was so breathtaking, the way sweat dripped down her face, the way she bit her lip just a little bit more with each thrust of her cock, the way her eyes looked down at your body with a predatory shine in them.
"Tish...Please..." You managed to whimper out, your eyes shutting as all of the energy you had left that wasn't sucked out by the intense sex was quickly used by your speech.
You could just barely see her smirk in response, leaning down to leave a trail of soft and tingly kisses across your neck, lowering her frame to place a hand on her neck, sucking out more moans from your mouth that you yourself could not even hear thanks to how thorough she had fucked you.
Her voice barely filled your ears, the sweet and sultry vocals making you shudder with each thrust she made.
"One more...Cum one more time for me..." She said, nibbling on your earlobe slightly as you felt your body build up another orgasm.
The bubbling in your stomach eventually became too much, and you could feel your walls tightening around nothing as Morticia pulled out of you, watching the cum squirt out of your pussy, covering your legs in another layer of the liquid.
You laid there in a moment of bliss, cuddling up to your girlfriends warm body as you remained silent, too fucked dumb to even think about speaking.
You could hear her now though, and her voice brought a comforting feeling in your chest as she shushed you to sleep, stopping you from attempting to speak by placing her finger on your lips.
"You can speak tomorrow," Morticia smirked, placing a kiss on your head as you drifted off into sleep.
alex is surprisingly tender once the adrenaline fades. she’ll straighten your clothes, stroke your hair, and insist you drink water—her version of affection is quiet caretaking, making sure you’re steady before she is.
B = body part
she takes pride in her legs—always crossed just so, always deliberate. but she secretly loves when you kiss along her collarbone; it makes her lose composure faster than she’d ever admit.
C = cum
discreet but needy. she hates mess, but she loves watching your face when you come for her—it’s the one time she doesn’t care about appearances.
D = dirty secret
behind her icy, untouchable persona, alex harbors a weakness for being pinned against her own desk. there’s something about being “caught” in her domain that thrills her.
E = experience
she’s confident, not reckless. alex isn’t wildly experimental, but she is precise—when she learns what you like, she’ll use it against you expertly.
F = favorite position
she likes control—riding you while keeping eye contact, or bending you over her desk where she’s standing tall behind you.
G = goofy
it’s rare but if she laughs during sex, it’s genuine and unguarded—it means she trusts you enough to let her guard slip.
H = hair
alex is neatly trimmed, never sloppy. she doesn’t do “unkempt” in any part of her life.
I = intimacy
she doesn’t hand out softness easily. but when she lets you see her vulnerability, she’s almost shy about it. pillow talk is low-voiced, hesitant, but meaningful.
J = jack off
not often—she’s too busy, too structured. when she does, it’s clinical and efficient, unless she’s thinking of you.
K = kink
power dynamics. she enjoys control, but even more enjoys when someone she trusts pushes back.
L = location
her office. risky, dangerous, but intoxicating to her. otherwise, she prefers privacy— your apartment is a fortress where she can finally let go.
M = motivation
she works brutal hours, so sex is both release and grounding for her. passion usually spikes after a long, hard case.
N = no
she won’t entertain humiliation, degradation, or anything that makes her feel powerless without her consent.
O = oral
giving: she loves eating you out, especially the control of having you undone under her.
receiving: she’ll try to stay composed, but she melts if you take your time—she might even grip your hair harder than she intends.
P = pace
she builds tension deliberately, savoring control. but once she loses it? she’s relentless.
Q = quickie
she’ll roll her eyes if you suggest it—then drag you into her office and prove she’s just as desperate.
R = risk
calculated. she likes the thrill of almost being caught, but only where she feels she can manage the fallout.
S = stamina
alex’s stamina is high. she runs on coffee and stubbornness—once she’s started, she’ll push through exhaustion until you’re the one begging for a break.
T = toys
has a curated collection, nothing frivolous. a vibrator she trusts, cuffs she keeps locked away, maybe a strap for nights when she wants absolute control.
U = unfair
alex teases with words—she’ll whisper just enough to keep you on edge.
V = volume
she isn’t loud. her sounds are breathy, restrained—gritted moans through clenched teeth, the occasional sharp gasp when you surprise her.
W = wild card
her glasses. she knows what it does to you when she keeps them on. sometimes she’ll even make you beg before she takes them off. (she usually doesn’t)
X = x-ray (what’s underneath the surface)
shes someone who craves being seen as human, not untouchable.
Y = yearning
when she misses you, she throws herself into work. but the second she has you again, she makes up for lost time—fast, hard, overwhelming.
Z = zzz…
she doesn’t fall asleep easily, but if she does while tangled with you, that’s the real proof she trusts you.
(i saw @sanityprotector do the casey version of this so here’s my alex version)
Catherine's usually composed, polished and untouchable. But tonight, she can't wait any longer. Desperate, needy, and teasingly whiny, she takes what she wants in the car, letting herself unravel completely... with you.
Read on AO3
𝑵𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑵𝒐𝒘
The studio lot was almost deserted by the time you rolled into the private exit lane, headlights sweeping over a row of empty trailers. You always came this way. Far from the street, far from the paparazzi who lingered like vultures at the main gate. Out here, the night felt sealed off, quiet except for the soft tick of your engine cooling when you parked.
Your fingers drummed the steering wheel, restless. She always made you wait a little while, she finished her goodbyes and wrapped up her last-minute notes with the director. You never minded. It gave you time to notice the details. The way the sodium lights buzzed overhead, throwing amber halos across the pavement, the faint smell of rain still clinging to the air after the afternoon’s storm.
The side food finally creaked open, spilling a slice of fluorescent light across the asphalt. Catherine stepped out. Not the immaculate star who smiled on carpets, but Catherine in black rehearsal clothes, her coat shrugged half over one shoulder, hair pinned up hastily with wisps falling loose. Even from the car, you could see how the exhaustion tightened her shoulders, how the heat in her eyes cut straight through it.
She crossed the lot quickly, her heels clicking in uneven staccato against the concrete. The second she slid into the passenger seat, shutting the door behind her, the air changed. Perfume clung to her, heady and warm, layered over the faint tang of sweat from hours under stage lights.
She leaned back with a soft groan, head tilting against the seat, then turned to you. Her lips were smudged, eyes dark and hungry, and for a long beat she didn’t speak. Just breathed, gaze roaming over your face like she’d been starved of it all day. When she finally did, her voice came out low and frayed at the edges.
“Drive,” she murmured, then paused, shaking her head. A hand found your thigh, fingers tightening suddenly, nails grazing just enough to make your breath hitch. “No–don’t. I can’t–”
She bit down on her lip, almost laughing at herself, though there was nothing light in her expression. “Darling, I’ve been thinking about you all night. Please. I can’t wait until we’re inside.”
For a second, you just stared at her, half-certain you’d misheard. Catherine Zeta-Jones, sliding into your car at half past midnight, eyes burning, voice wrecked, begging?”
“Right,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth, “because what every actress dreams of after fourteen hours of rehearsal is a quickie in a Toyota.”
Her head tipped back, a throaty laugh spilling out, the tension in her shoulders loosening like a cord snapped free. The sound filled the car, warm and unguarded, and you found yourself grinning wider just to keep it going.
But when her laughter ebbed, she didn’t look away. Her eyes stayed on you, sharp and gleaming under the dashboard lights. That hunger hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it was brighter now, like the joke had only given her cover to keep staring at you the way she wanted to.
“You’re impossible,” she said, breathless still. “And terribly smug.” Her fingers were still on your thigh, and though she hadn’t moved them, the weight of her hand felt heavier now, deliberate. “You think I’m joking?”
The smile faltered on your lips, just slightly.
Catherine shifted, slow and sinuous, leaning toward you until the silk of her hair brushed your arm. Her coat slipped open, and you caught a glimpse of the thin tank clinging to her skin beneath. She inhaled, shaky as though she’d been holding back all evening, and this closeness finally cracked her restraint.
Her thumb began to stroke, back and forth over your thigh. Soft, absent at first, then firmer. She angled her body toward you, eyes hooded, voice sinking into that dangerous low register that always undid you.
“I’ve spent the entire night pretending I wasn’t thinking about this. About you.” Her lips hovered near your ear now, warm breath feathering your skin. “And now I’m in this car, and you’re right here, and if you make another joke instead of touching me–” She broke off, catching her own laugh in her throat, shaking her head as if annoyed with herself. “I’m trying to resist, darling. I am. But god help me, I don’t think I can.”
You opened your mouth to answer, some half-hearted tease about her patience, but the words died as Catherine’s hand slid lower, squeezing hard enough to make your breath catch. Her eyes were locked on yours, burning, her jaw tight like she was holding herself back with the thinnest thread.
And then she snapped.
With a sharp inhale, she dropped her hand from your thigh and reached down between the seat and door. The familiar click of the lever releasing made your pulse leap. She shoved the seat back with practised force, giving herself space, and for a second, you just froze, staring, heart pounding at the sudden clarity of what she was about to do.
She didn’t wait for permission.
In one fluid moment, she shrugged her coat off her shoulder and climbed across the console, the cramped car groaning under the shift of her weight. Her knee brushed the gearshift, her perfume enveloped you, and then she was straddling your lap, her thighs pressing firm against your hips.
The space was tight, awkward, the roof low enough that she had to duck her head. She didn’t care.
Her hands framed your face, desperate, greedy, dragging you into a kiss that was all heat and pent-up hunger. No slow teasing, no careful composure, just Catherine, mouth hot and urgent against yours, the sound of her breath rough between gasps.
“God, finally,” she whispered against your lips, the words half a groan. Her hips shifted restlessly, grinding down against you as if she couldn’t stop herself. She kissed you again, harder, biting gently at your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you. Her eyes were glassy, wild, nothing of the polished star left.
“I told you,” she breathed, voice trembling but fierce, “I can’t wait until we’re inside. I need you now.”
The kiss dissolved into something frantic, teeth knocking, her breath coming ragged as she pressed her forehead against yours. Catherine’s hips moved before you could even steady your hands on her waist– a hard, desperate grind that dragged a broken sound from her throat. The denim of your jeans rasped against her, friction sharp and messy, and she chased it like a woman starved.
“God, yes… that–fuck, don’t you dare stop me,” she gasped, voice raw with need. Each thrust of her hips was sharper, her breath hitching every time she found the pressure she craved. Her nails dug into your shoulders, anchoring herself as she moved against you, grinding like she’d been holding herself back for weeks.
The car was already fogging up, every window glazed with heat. The console dug into your hip, the seatbelt buckle bit into your side, but she didn’t give you the room to care.
Catherine’s mouth was everywhere. Your jaw, your throat, your lips again, biting kisses that bruised. All while her hips worked harder, faster, messier and relentless.
“You feel that?” she panted, lips dragging across your ear. “That’s what you do to me. I can’t–I can’t even wait to get home. Christ, I’m losing my mind on you right here.”
Your hands gripped her tighter, guiding her movements, but she only rode harder, her voice climbing higher. The rhythm of her hips grew almost frantic, a low moan spilling from her every time she pressed down.
Then suddenly she shifted, one hand sliding down between you, fumbling impatiently until her fingers slipped beneath your waistband. The shock of her touch made you jolt, breath tearing out of your chest, and her answering moan was shamelessly loud.
“Oh fuck, yes–there you are,” she groaned, her hips never stopping their rhythm as her fingers found your clit. She was still grinding, chasing her own friction against your thigh, but now every movement dragged her hand harder against you too. The dual sensation lit her up; she gasped, eyes fluttering shut, her control cracking with every sound she made.
“God, you’re wet… you want this as bad as I do, don’t you? Say it.” She bit down on your neck, moaning through her teeth, her voice wrecked and breaking. “Tell me you want me to ruin you right here.”
Her words spilt without filter now, desperate and filthy, her accent slipped raw with every thrust of her hips. She was loud, unashamed, filling the car with gasps and groans that tangled with the squeak of leather seats and the frantic slap of movement.
Her head tipped back, dark hair falling loose around her face as she moved against you, hand working harder, mouth spilling everything she usually kept under tight control.
“Oh god, yes–yes–don’t stop, don’t fucking stop–”
Her rhythm faltered suddenly, hips jerking once, twice, then stuttering as she caught herself. Catherine groaned low in her throat, forehead pressing into the crook of her neck as if she could hide the sharp edge of her desperation. Her hand inside your waistband stilled for a beat, trembling against you, before she forced herself to slow down.
“Christ–no, no… not yet.” Her voice was wrecked, broken in a way you’d never heard from her before. She kissed your skin hard, teeth grazing, breath hot and ragged. “I want to come with you. Do you hear me? With you, darling. Don’t make me finish without you.”
She dragged her hips slower, rolling against you in deep, grinding circles now, keeping herself perched at that unbearable edge. Her fingers slipped lower again, stroking you in time with her movements, coaxing you toward her urgency.
“God, you’re perfect,” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear, words tumbling out hot and unrestrained. “So wet for me… let me feel you fall apart. I want to hear it, I want to taste it. Come on, give it to me.”
Every word shivered down your spine, her accent thickening with need, each moan punctuating her filthy encouragement.
The car was an oven now, windows dripping with condensation, seats squeaking under the press of your bodies. She never stopped moving against you, her own breath spiralling faster with every thrust, but she held back, barely, trembling as she whispered you closer.
“Come with me, love. Let go for me. I’ll be right there, I promise. I’m so close–oh, fuck. I’m so close–”
Her fingers continue against you, her hips slam down harder, messier, losing rhythm as her control shatters. She cried out, sharp and guttural, body bucking against yours as the climax ripped through her. At the same moment, her hand dragged you over the edge with her, your release flooding her fingers as she gasped your name, loud and shameless.
The car shook with it. The sound of your breath, the squeal of the leather, the desperate cry she couldn’t bite back. Catherine clung to you through the aftershocks, still grinding, still wringing every last shudder out of both of you until she finally collapsed forward, chest heaving against yours.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your panting, the sharp beat of your hearts, the oppressive heat fogging every window into secrecy. Then Catherine’s lips brushed your jaw, soft now, her laugh breathless and wrecked.
“God,” she murmured, her voice husky, “you see what you do to me? One night without you, and I lose every control I’ve ever had.”
Her body softened against you slowly, the frantic edge ebbing into shivers and ragged breaths. For a while, she just stayed there, draped over your lap, her cheek pressed to your shoulder. You felt the weight of her, warm and grounding, her chest still rising and falling in quick bursts. Then she stirred, lifting her head just enough to find your mouth again.
The kiss was different. Slower. A little messy still, but gentler now, as though she wanted to savour the taste of you between gasps. Her hands, though, hadn’t moved yet. Her fingers were still nestled inside your pants, slick with your release, stroking faintly as if she couldn’t quite let you go.
When she finally drew them back, it was deliberate. You felt the wet drag as she pulled her hand free. She leaned back on your lap just enough to hold her fingers up in the glow of the overhead lights, glistening. Her lips parted, eyes locked with yours, and she drew them into her mouth one by one, groaning low in her throat at the taste.
“God…” she whispered, eyelids fluttering as she sucked the last of you clean. “You’re… addictive.”
She didn’t give you time to react before she was kissing you again, needier, deeper, her tongue sliding past your lips like she needed to share the taste with you. It was clumsy, urgent, and when she pulled back, her pupils were blown wide, her lips swollen.
You couldn’t help it; a laugh escaped you, soft and disbelieving. “You’re insatiable, you know that? Can’t you wait until we get home?”
Catherine’s mouth curved into the faintest grin, though her eyes stayed heavy, greedy. She leaned back in, brushing her lips over yours with a teasing graze.
“Just one more, sweetheart?” she breathed, her voice husky, pleading in a way that cut through every ounce of composure she usually carried.
You smoothed your hands down her sides, still trying to catch your breath, still laughing at how wild she looked. Hair mussed, lips red, eyes gone dark with want. “You’re impossible,” you murmured against her mouth, kissing her once more before pulling back just enough to meet her gaze. “Back seat. Now.”
Something in your tone must have cut straight through her haze because Catherine shivered, a visible tremor that ran down her spine. For a heartbeat she looked like she might argue, still clinging to that control she carried like a second skin. Then, her lips parted on a shaky laugh and she slid off your lap, fumbling for the handle.
The two of you tumbled into the back together, the cramped space thick with heat, your knees bumping awkwardly against the seats. Catherine barely managed to shrug out of her tank top before your mouth was on her, pressing her back against the leather. You kissed her like she was oxygen, tongue sliding against hers, catching her moans as your hand slipped between her thighs.
She was already soaked, her body betraying how close she’d been earlier. When your fingers brushed her, she let out a sound so broken it punched straight through your chest.
“Fuck–oh god, yes… please, don’t stop, sweetheart.” Her hips jerked up into your touch, whiny now, every bit of poise stripped away. “My sweet girl, my clever girl… you always know what I need, don’t you? Christ, you make me feel so good–”
You slid two fingers into her, curling just right, and at the same time your mouth latched onto her breast, teeth grazing before you soothed it with your tongue. Catherine nearly sobbed, her head thumping back against the window, one hand clutching at your hair like she was drowning.
“God, I can’t–fuck, I can’t handle you,” she gasped, voice breaking on every word. “So perfect, darling, so perfect for me… oh, please, harder–please.”
Her thighs trembled around your hand, her hips chasing every thrust, the whines spilling out of her constantly now. She tried to keep giving orders–”faster, right there, don’t you dare stop”–but they kept turning into moans, into desperate little praises that tumbled free without filter.
“My girl, my love, oh god–yes, yes, you’re making me lose my mind–”
She writhed beneath you, every inch of her undone, her need spilling over into shameless cries as you worked her toward that breaking point again.
Catherine’s body was a live wire under you, every muscle taut and trembling, every sound tumbling out louder than the last. Her thighs clamped around your hand but kept jerking open again, unable to decide if she wanted to trap you there or spread wider to take more.
“God, yes–don’t stop, don’t stop, fuck–” The words came out high and broken, her accent thickening until it tangled with each whine. She dragged her nails down your back through your shirt, arching up into your mouth as your tongue flicked over her nipple in time with your fingers driving deeper.
Her hips started to lose rhythm, bucking unevenly against your hand. She gasped, head knocking back against the fogged window, completely breathless.
“Oh fuck–oh, please, darling, I’m so close, I can’t–” The end of the sentence dissolved into a sharp cry as your fingers curled just right again, pressing into that spot that made her shake. “Yes, yes, there, don’t stop–please, please, let me–”
Her voice broke into a sob of pleasure as she came, thighs clamping tight around you, her entire body shuddering violently. She wailed your name, shameless and raw, back arching off the seat as the orgasm tore through her. Every squeeze of her body around your fingers dragged another sound from her throat. Moans, gasps, fractured praises tumbling out without thought.
“My baby–oh god, my sweet, perfect girl–fuck, yes, yes–”
You held her through it, fingers working her down as your mouth soothed over her skin, kissing her collarbone, her jaw, anything you could reach while she fell apart for you.
At last, she collapsed back against the seat, chest heaving, hair sticking damp to her temples. She was wrecked–beautifully, utterly wrecked–her thighs still twitching around your hand, her lips parted on shaky breaths. She turned her head toward you, eyes glassy but locked on yours, and let out a wrecked laugh.
“You’re going to kill me,” she whispered hoarsely, pulling you into a sloppy, desperate kiss that tasted of sweat and need.
Catherine knows exactly what she wants, and she knows exactly how to make you give it to her. Cold, commanding, and endlessly indulgent, she takes her time pulling you apart just to put you back together. Again and again.
Read on AO3
can be read as catherine or morticia :)
𝑴𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝑻𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕
You hear the soft click of the door before she even steps into the penthouse, the sound alone making your pulse hitch. Catherine leans against the frame for just a moment, her gaze sweeping over you with that calm, measured confidence that always leaves you both breathless and unsettled. She’s impeccably dressed. Skin-tight dress hugging her curves. There’s something in her smirk, the subtle glint in her eyes that tells you tonight isn’t about appearances.
“I’ve been waiting,” she says, her voice low, teasing, but threaded with command. “And I don’t like waiting.”
Before you can answer, she’s closing the distance, her presence overwhelming. One hand rests briefly on your shoulder, and the warmth of her touch ignites something low in your chest. The other slides to the small of your back, guiding you without asking. Every step she takes makes the penthouse feel smaller, more intimate, the ambient lights catching the glimmer of gold accents and velvet, heightening the tension curling in your stomach.
She brushes your hair back from your neck, eyes darkening as she studies your reaction. “Look at me,” she orders, and you do, because resisting is suddenly pointless. Her fingers trail down your jaw, firm, confident, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “Do you know what I want?” she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear. “I want every part of you, every inch, and I don’t want you thinking you get to lead tonight.”
The heat in her words wraps around you, tight and inescapable. Her lips press against your temple, then your neck, slow, deliberate, savouring your reactions. Your fingers twitch toward her, but she catches your wrist, holding it firmly against her body.
“Not yet,” she commands, and the two words make your pulse spike. “I said I’m in charge. Every move, every sound–you’ll give to me.”
Her lips find yours in a demanding, insistent kiss. It’s not gentle, it’s deliberate. Possessing and leaving no space for hesitation. You respond immediately, leaning into her, tasting the faintest hint of her perfume, sharp and intoxicating. Her hands roam over your back and sides, pressing you closer, guiding your body against hers. You’re acutely aware of every curve, every contour, the warmth of her touch tracing lines over your skin, exploring and claiming.
“God, you feel.. Perfect,” she growls against your mouth, her teeth grazing your lower lip. “All mine. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” you manage to gasp, your voice shaky, weak under her intensity.
She smirks, teeth flashing in that way that makes your stomach tighten, and slides her hands lower, over your hips, thumbs teasing the edges of your clothing.
“Good. I like obedience,” she whispers, and her teeth graze your earlobe, sharp and thrilling.
She steps back just enough to push you lightly toward the lounge, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you down onto the plush velvet couch. Every inch of you pressed into luxury, every detail heightened. The soft throw beneath you, the warm glow of the chandelier, the subtle scent of her perfume mixed with your anticipation.
Her fingers skim over your thighs, over the fabric, teasing, testing, drawing soft whimpers from you before you can even realise you’re making sound.
“Do you feel how much I want you?” she asks, her voice dipping low, intimate, and your answer is a shiver, a gasp, the smallest whine escaping your lips.
Her lips follow the path her hands have marked, kissing and sucking, nipping, leaving marks along the soft skin of your thighs. She doesn’t rush, but every motion is deliberate, controlled, designed to pull every gasp, every moan from you.
“You’re mine tonight,” she murmurs against you, and the power in her words sends heat pooling low in your stomach. Her hands roam higher, teasing the edges of your sensitive spots, dragging the sensations out, making you ache and shiver under her mastery.
Even when she lets you touch her, it’s guided, directed, always returning to her control. Her body responds to yours, but she’s careful and dominant, guiding your hands over her curves, leaning into your fingers, commanding, teasing.
“Yes… just like that,” she murmurs, her voice a low growl that vibrates against your skin.
Every word, every touch, every glance is an exquisite assertion of control, making your body burn hotter, every nerve alive and raw.
And then she takes what she wants. There’s no hesitation, no question. Just the firm, commanding pull of her hands guiding you exactly where she wants you, pressing you against the sofa so every inch of your body is exposed, every nerve alight with anticipation.
She leans in, lips brushing against your neck as her hands roam freely, exploring, teasing, and testing, mapping your reactions with meticulous precision.
“You feel that, don’t you?” she murmurs, her voice low, velvet and steel at once. “All that heat just for me. You’re trembling, and I love it. You’re mine.”
Her fingers trace over your body, deliberate and slow, drawing whimpers and shivers from you. Every brush, every press, every gentle scratch against your thigh sends a jolt straight to your core. She doesn’t just touch; you can feel her owning you, claiming you with a confidence that makes your knees weak.
“Look at me,” she commands, holding your gaze with those piercing eyes. “I want you begging. Tell me how badly you want this.”
“I… I need you,” you gasp, voice shaky under her control.
She smirks, lips brushing yours in a teasing, dominating kiss. “Good. You will need me,” she murmurs, sliding her hands lower, teasing the edges of your underwear, dragging her nails along your lower stomach in a way that makes you arch, desperate for more. “I’m going to make you feel every inch of me, every touch, and you won’t know where I end and you begin.”
Her lips trail down your body, kissing and sucking along the sensitive lines of your neck and collarbone, her hands spreading you just enough to test, to tease, to make you gasp and writhe beneath her.
Her fingers slip between your thighs, brushing over your folds with a deliberate, slow pressure, exploring and stroking in a rhythm that’s all her own. Every motion is calculated to make you arch into her, every brush and curl of her fingers driving heat deep into you.
You whimper and clutch at the cushions as she teases, pressing just enough to elicit sharp gasps, then pulling back to the edge of your sensitivity before resuming, a slow, teasing torment that makes your body tremble.
She whispers filthy, commanding words in your ear, alternating between praise and sharp instruction, her voice keeping you on edge, perfectly balanced between agony and ecstasy.
“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” she purrs, dragging a finger across your clit, pulling you right to the edge. “Not yet. I said, not yet.”
Her fingers don’t stop. Moving with deliberate, merciless precision, curling and pressing just where you’re most sensitive. Every time your hips try to lift into her touch, she pins you gently but firmly to the cushions, letting you writhe but never giving full release.
“You’re so good for me,” she murmurs, her lips brushing your ear, her voice velvet and steel. “Look at you, trembling under my fingers. Do you like how I touch you? Huh? You’re shaking, and I love it. All of this–every gasp, every whimper– how wet you are. It’s mine to take.”
Her fingers tease, stroke, and press in a rhythm that drives you to the edge, then she slows, just enough to make you beg. “Beg for me,” she orders, her tone sharp, commanding, deliciously dominant. “Say my name and tell me how badly you need to come.”
“Please… please, Catherine–I need you,” you gasp, your body trembling under her control.
“Good girl,” she purrs, smirking, enjoying the way your body bends and folds to her will. Her fingers curl inside you, teasing, curling, then slipping out and rubbing just the right way to make you shiver violently. “That’s it. Feel me, feel everything I’m giving you. You’re so perfect like this, all wet and trembling for me. You belong to me, and I’m gonna make you come again and again.”
She presses a finger back inside, holding you right at the edge until you’re shaking, chest heaving, legs trembling. Then she pulls back slightly, just enough to make the sensation ache, dragging out the anticipation, before resuming with a slow, punishing rhythm that makes your body scream with need.
“Look at you,” she whispers, lips brushing over your temple. “So sensitive, so needy. You love this, don’t you? You love being mine.”
“Yes–fuck, yes!” you cry, body shaking as her hands work together to edge you over and over.
She alternates pressure, teasing, and withdrawal, drawing multiple climaxes from you while you cling to the velvet cushions, breathless and moaning under her. Each orgasm rocks through you, only to be held at the precipice and teased again, your body slick and trembling, entirely at her mercy.
“You’re coming for me again,” she murmurs, her voice teasing, “and this time, I’m not letting go until I say. You’ll ride out every cry until I’m satisfied. And I will be satisfied.”
She guides you through wave after wave, pressing, teasing, whispering filth and praise into your ear, commanding your every movement. When your body finally quakes and shudders in release after release, she holds you through it, her touch firm and indulgent, lips trailing slow, possessive kisses over your flushed skin.
“You’re mine,” she breathes, voice low, triumphant, and you feel it deep in every nerve. “Every moan, every orgasm–I own it. Fuck, you love this, don’t you, princess?”
“Yes… yes, I love it,” you whisper, utterly spent, trembling, and utterly hers.
Finally, she pulls back slightly, letting you catch your breath, though her eyes are dark with hunger and dominance.
“Enough about you for now,” she murmurs, voice low and velvety. “It’s my turn. You’re gonna help me, and you’re gonna love every second of it.”
She slides onto the couch beside you, pressing her body close, her lips grazing your neck as her hands roam over herself, slow, deliberate, teasing.
“You see this?” she whispers, fingers gliding over her curves. “I want you to watch me, touch me, make me feel all of it. All of it. You’re mine to serve, remember?”
Her hand drifts to her dress, lifting it to reveal her exquisite lace. Her hand moves to her own core, teasing herself as she looks at you with that commanding, sultry gaze.
“Touch me,” she whispers, voice low and dangerous. “Just like this… right there. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
She guides your fingers, pressing your hand to the perfect spot, curling them exactly the way she likes, letting you feel how sensitive she is under your touch. Every motion she makes, every subtle shift of her hips, every soft moan is instruction, showing you how to drive her wild.
“Yes… just like that… harder–don’t let me wait,” she groans, her own fingers brushing her clit in time with yours plunging deep inside her. You follow her perfectly, desperate to feel every inch of her pleasure in your hands.
You follow her instructions, curling and pressing your fingers just as she wants, each subtle arch of her back, each tiny moan guiding your every movement. Her own hand teases her clit in rhythm with you, the sound of her gasps filling the penthouse. Rich and intoxicating.
“That’s it–yes, just like that,” she purrs, voice low and commanding, teeth grazing your shoulder. “You feel how tight I get when you do exactly what I want? You’re making me lose my mind. Faster… fuck… don’t you stop, you little obedient thing.”
Your fingers obey, pressing and curling exactly where she needs, her body trembling under your touch. She grips your hair gently, pulling your gaze to hers. “Look at me while you fuck me. Watch how I cum… and you’ll keep going until I tell you I’ve had enough. Do you understand?”
“Yes… I understand,” you whisper, flushed and trembling.
Her hips roll subtly against your hand, matching the rhythm you’re following, her own fingers circling her clit with increasing urgency.
“Good… so good for me. Feel how wet you’ve made me, feel how perfect you are for me,” she groans, voice rough, every word dripping with command and praise. “You’re mine. It’s all for me, and I own it.”
The first wave hits her, her back arching, lips parting in a sharp, beautiful gasp. She shivers under your touch, and even as she comes, she pulls you closer, guiding you to continue.
“Don’t stop… don’t you dare stop,” she hisses, dragging you through the edges, teasing, coaxing, commanding. “Again, again… make me cum again. Show me you’re mine.”
Your hands follow her subtle cues, curling, pressing, sliding just as she wants. Every wave of pleasure leaves her trembling, gasping, grinding against your fingers, and every moan she utters is a sharp, filthy command that drives you to keep going. “Yes–harder… exactly like that–oh, fuck, yes–I can feel every inch of you inside me. That’s it–yes, yesyesyes,” she almost whimpers, voice thick with lust, tugging you closer for another wave.
Again and again, she climaxes, each orgasm more intense, each gasp and moan from her fueling your obedience, until her body trembles across the couch, slick and shining, utterly consumed by the way you obey her, and yet fully devoted to her pleasure.
She pulls you flush against her, still guiding you with soft, demanding pressure. “See what you do to me?” she whispers, voice low, velvet and steel. “All of this… my pleasure, my control… It’s all for you.”
Her gaze pins you in place, dominant and indulgent, and even in the aftermath, she still commands every inch of your attention, every motion, every heartbeat. Keeping you wrapped in the intoxicating heat of her.
If she just ate you out she'll get up from down there with a smirk on her face, so pleased with herself at the high she got you on. Then, as she hovers over you, she takes you in with adoring eyes; the way your chest rises high with every breath you take, recovering from amazing sex.
She'll hum and, remaining as close a she can to your body, she will go up to your face, taking you in for a moment, your glossy eyes staring back at her lovingly. "That was amazing," you'll tell her. She'll hum, her eyes flicking to your mouth and then leaning in to give you a loving kiss.
"You're amazing," she'll tell you. She's never short on compliments when you're in bed together (or wherever you're doing it), even when she's being bossy and teasing you.
Then she'll give you pecks all over your body, still not able to keep her hands off you, but neither can you give up the physical touch.
She'll pull you close or have you snuggle against her and play with your hair while you fall asleep, and not long after she'll doze off too.
B = Body part
You absolutely love everything about her, she's just drop dead gorgeous (and amazing, and funny, and caring...). But if you'd have to choose, you'd say her face. Her lips look so perfectly plump and soft, through which she tells all her witty remarks and smart arguments, and flashes you her cute smile. Her beautiful eyes that are green, though sometimes appear blue under the bullpen lighting. Her jawline that's so prominent but still her cheecks look so plump and fluffy you want to kiss and trace them all the time.
She loves your eyes the most. Every time you talk she'll make sure she looks at you, and she'll get lost in them or try to take them in because through it she can discover so much about you. But her eye-contact never feels like too much, if anything you feel seen by her. (But of course she's a boob lover too. Above all, she's a you lover though, but I don't need to tell you that.)
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
One thing about Casey is she loves to eat you out. She really loves doing anything with you when you make love together, but something about going down on you and seeing you all wet because of her makes her go crazy. She's crazy good at it too. And when you're coming, she'll ride you out and take one last long lick; your cum is like sweet honey to her.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
(Haven't come up with one yet. If anyone has an idea coming to mind, please do share. When an idea pops up in my head, I'll add it.)
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)
She was a virgin until she was twenty-five, but she's always been a quick learner. She's had her first time before being with you, and some other hook ups after dates where she generously took in all tricks that she, along other new stuff she's come up with and wants to try out, shows off to you.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Between your legs to get to be surrounded by you, crushed by your thighs, the perfect place take you in. But especially to drive you crazy; she'll praise with groans and low moans that drive you further on edge, she'll praise with words too and then earn a desperate "Case, please-" from you if she decides to verbally praises you in the midst of eating you out. Safe to say she wants to devour you and love you and show it by having you take everything she has to give, because she'll give everything to you.
Another thing --which technically also takes place in between your legs-- is she loves to drop to her knees in front of you, fully aware of how her hooded eyes full of lust and desire never once leaving their gaze from yours, drives you crazy. At the same time she loves how your equally lust-filled eyes, tinged with adoration, stare back at her from above as she drops down below you with her hands trailing down your sides.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
There's no Casey without goofiness and playful jests here and there. One thing about you and Casey is you get along really well, even though you banter, and her sarcasm and wit you also share, you care for each other deeply and one could propose it's part of your love language, and though you'd deny it with a scoff it's the very truth. It shows in the bedroom that you get along well, where she'll be so passionate with you but never without making you feel loved and show you through playful banter just how comfortable she is with you. It's also how she makes you that much more comfortable.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Not much to say except that she's well groomed. It doesn't look like a wild bush, it looks well kept, though she won't shave completely. If she'd want to do so, she wouldn't have the time for it anyway, but she doesn't, she prefers to keep it natural but clean and groomed.
I = Insatiable (how do they act when they're desperate to have you?)
Something strange about Casey is that if she's looking for cuddles and hugs she's never going to ask you. She's going to give you subtle nudges and touches, leaning her head on your shoulder and into your body, but she's rarely, if ever, going to straight up ask you for them. With sex though? You'll be at the bar with the others drinking and having fun when you notice Casey hasn't said anything for a good minute. She'll down the last bit of her drink and tell you: "Let's go."
"What, already? Why?" You ask, giving her a confused look, but she pushes you up by your lower back while giving the others her goodbye. Reluctantly you'll do the same and when she opens the door for you she'll tell you: "I need you."
She'll probably never actually straight up ask you to have sex, like 'let's have sex'. Its not conscious of her, it's just that she thinks about sex more like making love to you and making you feel good and needing you. See? You. Either way she'll tell you when she needs you, and if for some circumstantial reason she can't ask you straight up or you can't have sex, she'll follow you around with her eyes like some desperate adorable puppy at a distance, or tease you.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Before you were together with all the tension going on she's probably touched herself. She's always been busy though, so not often. But after a hard case, going to the bar and then home, the case still heavy on her shoulders and thinking about your smile today and the way you walked around the bullpen it's just too much and she needs to release it somehow. She always felt something lacking though, even when coming with your whimpered name on her lips. It never compared to actually having you and she desperately craved you, that was the missing thing.
Now that you're together she doesn't really touch herself anymore. She'd rather suffer through the horny-ness to go home to you than waste time on something that doesn't compare to being with you anyways (or she'll just call you over to her office if she's down bad). And if she does touch herself, it's to tease you.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
I know she doesn't have a dick, but if she did I think she'd have some sort of a breeding kink. But not as strongly all the time, it's always around the same every month or so. Funnily enough it always seems to line up with when you're ovulating, or your body is acting like it.
Besides the obvious things like dirty talk and hearing your breath and whimpers during sex, she loves to watch your face through a mirror while she fucks you from behind. Though you aren't eager to see whatever face you make when she makes you feel good, you do enjoy getting a glimpse of her enjoying herself behind you whenever you manage to keep your eyes open.
(Bonus I guess: your kink, which isn't really a shocking one but has to be mentioned, is listening to her voice. Her voice hoarse, husky and smooth like silk. The way she groans and whimpers when you're together. When she kisses you or eats you out and the low noise vibrated right through you. Every time you hope she talks as much as possible, praising you, saying anything really. She soon learned that whenever she does talk or make noise you seem that much more desperate for her, so she uses it.)
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
Because you both work so much, there's a few times you do it in the office. But both your favorite places is at home in your bed. Where you can make all the noise you want, try all the things you want and then snuggle up together with not a care in the world except each other.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
The noises you make, the way you pull her closer to you and your body acts so desperate for her touch, as if you'd want to merge into her and have her consume you whole.
She loves to feel how your walls clench around her fingers, the way she feels your euphoric high through your trembling thighs. Just the fact that she made you feel that way.
N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
Honestly she'll do whatever with you, she loves you crazy much. And though she won't directly act like a crazy doe-eyed puppy with no principles, if you pay enough attention you'll notice how she'll do just about anything for you. Even if her face may show a frown, her glossy eyes tell a different story.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Like I said, she loves to eat you out. She also loves to be eaten out by you, to praise you for being such a good girl (she loves calling you 'baby', or any words of endearment really, but baby is her most used one).
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
She's very gentle with you and sensual wanting to make you feel loved and appreciated while taking her time to take you in and take in your reaction to new things she tries or see how you still grin when she spins you around to push you against the wall, to not quite believe she still has such an effect on you making you act like a teenager in love even after all this time. Of course to you it's foregone that you're still in awe of her entire being the way you always used to be when you'd all debrief and you'd focus so attentively on whatever smart things she said or witty remarks she'd make. Even when she didn't say anything and Liv was adding something to the case you'd keep half your focus on Casey instead of the debrief.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
She prefers to take her time with you. So, even when one of you is so desperate for the other you know you're not done for the day.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Like previously mentioned, she'll try anything with you. She won't mind any proposals from you, and she won't judge you for it either (though she will quirk her brow in interest at new discoveries about your desires).
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
She can go a while. Usually you don't get to see her stamina wrung out. She'll please you, you'll return the favor, then you'll rest for a bit and go at it again; she's the one who loves to test your limits. But the occasions where you're the one returning the favor of squeezing every last orgasm out of her you can go up to three until she whimpers your name with a desperate, "Please," as she's a complete out-of-breath mess.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
She'll use a dildo on you, especially when those particular fantasies discussed previously arise, and though not often, you'll use it on her as well.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Though it might not seem like directly, Casey is very patient and therefore a big tease. But sometimes her desire to hear that particular way in which you say her name, begging softly for her when you're near your high, just goes above her patience.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
She's not loud, especially because her voice is so deliciously low. She'll groan and moan lowly. She'll praise you, and when she receives, she'll praise you again. But when she's coming to her high and you surprise her with your fastening pace or some other move, she'll whimper for you and her moans will be higher-pitched.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
She loves your belly and loves to rub circles to the side of it with her thumb while you recover and pant from having come just a moment ago. She also love to give you kisses on your belly, and everywhere; she'll trace every body part and leave a kiss and a compliment to which you can't help but smile like a buffoon and call her out embarrassed, "Case-"
"Hmm?"
You let out a giggle as she continues to place pecks from your abdomen to your thigh. "Come up and give me a proper kiss," you tell her.
"Every part of your body deserves a proper kiss," she says, and after another peck she comes up with a smile on her face and she cups your face, pulling you in for a deep kiss.
X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)
Idk.
Y = Yours (how they'll show that someone's theirs, if they would do such thing)
She loves the classical way to just kiss you and leave hickeys all over your body, especially your neck and thighs. And honestly, you love it too, your thighs that is. Your neck? You don't appreciate that so much because you have to bother with wearing a turtleneck or do something to cover it up. Casey will just smirk at your slight annoyance, telling you "Babe, come on it's not that bad."
"Not that bad? Case, I look like I've got full-on prunes under my skin," you say. Casey chuckles at your strange analogy. "I'll help you put on ..., how's that?"
"But it's hot today, I'll feel icky."
"Then put on my turtleneck."
You groan. "I'll feel like I'm suffocating all day. How about you just kiss me some other place if we both know my skin doesn't have the time to recover in time for no one else to see?"
"Fine," Casey says reluctantly. She leans in to give you a quick kiss and then smile at the annoyance still visible with your furrowed brows, taking in her work on your neck too with a smirk while she's at it.
"Now give me your shirt," you tell her and she throws it to you from your closet. At least her scent so close to you all day is a start from Casey to make it up to you. Though, you both know this won't be the last time you'll wear her turtleneck for this reason, it wasn't the first time either.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
She'll wait for you to fall asleep first, but usually you both drift off around the same time. You'll snuggle against her and she'll hold you close with your head in the crook of her neck where you can take in her intoxicating scent: her luxurious and soft perfume mixed with her sweat due to your previous activity. She'll play with your hair too because she's always loved your hair and when she played with it in the past, it felt so good you told her to not stop, and so she's kept doing it ever since.
Hi babe! Im so excited that you're writing for Olivia! Would you consider writing something or maybe even just some headcannons about how she would react getting a call that you're hurt or in the hospital? It doesn't have to be for anything super serious or it could be, but it's totally up to you if you feel like writing something. :)
summary: a cozy afternoon walk in central park turns into a string of stolen kisses when casey novak’s cute rambling—and even cuter ranting about a case—proves too irresistible to ignore.
warnings: fluff, established relationship, comfort / wholesome
for @vcrkisses 🧸
it was one of those october mornings where the air still bit at your cheeks, but the promise of winter lingered somewhere in the wind. you spotted casey before she spotted you—easily done, given her laser focus on the small paper cup in her hand and the way her hair glinted copper in the sunlight.
“exactly on time,” she said when she finally looked up, that small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “i was about to give you the benefit of a five-minute grace period, but—”
you groaned, stepping into her personal space before she could get too far into her mock lecture. “casey, it’s a saturday. i’m not on trial for tardiness.”
her eyes danced with amusement, and she tilted her head toward the park entrance. “hmm maybe not, but i’ve been known to prosecute my girlfriend for lesser offenses.”
“mm-hm. and I’ve been known to distract my girlfriend from finishing her sentences.”
casey’s brows lifted, intrigued. “is that so?”
you reached for her free hand, threading your fingers through hers as you started walking. “guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”
the park path curved ahead, dappled with patches of stubborn snow melting into the earth. casey’s scarf—soft, thick, and a shade of lavender that made her hair look like it belonged on a postcard—was looped perfectly around her neck.
she gestured toward the lake with her free hand. “i’ve been dealing with assholes all week.”
“and then” she said, gesturing with her free hand, “the defense had the nerve to argue chain custody violations when they were the ones who—honestly, if you’re going to stand there and waste the courts time at least have a coherent—“
you smiled, only half listening to the details. this wasn’t new— but today, her cheeks were pink from the cold, her eyes lit up every time she got into a rhythm, and her voice…
“—and the judge just sat there, letting him ramble as if i’m the one—“
you tugged gently on her scarf, halting her mid-step. she blinked, surprised, before you closed the space between you and pressed your lips to hers.
she blinked, caught off guard mid rant. “what are you—“
the kiss was warm, lingering just long enough to make her lean in for more. when you pulled away, her brows arched in mock indignation. “i was talking.”
“you were,” you said, smiling. “but you were also being way too cute, and i had to do something about it.”
her lips twitched into a smirk. “i’ll allow it. for now.”
by the time you found a food cart tucked along the path, the wind had picked up enough to warrant another layer of warmth. casey ordered two hot chocolates, insisting on paying despite your playful protests.
you took your first sip and sighed happily. “it’s perfect. not too sweet.”
casey, of course, had managed to get a tiny dollop of whipped cream right on her lip. you reached out instinctively, brushing it away with your thumb. “messy,” you teased.
her eyes softened in that way they only did when it was just the two of you. “you like cleaning up after me.”
“only when it’s this fun.” you leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to the spot you’d just wiped clean.
she shook her head with a smile and guided you toward a bench. sitting side by side, she leaned into your shoulder, still ranting about the case. you let her talk, content just to listen to the rise and fall of her voice.
you didn’t see the jogger until the last second—a blur of neon barreling down the narrow path. casey’s arm was suddenly around your waist, pulling you firmly against her side as the runner passed without so much as an apology.
“some people,” she muttered, glaring after them. “that was reckless endangerment, if you ask me.”
you stifled a laugh. “casey, it’s not a crime to run past someone.”
“it’s not,” she admitted, still frowning, “but it should be, if it’s you they almost run into.”
warmth spread through you, not from the cocoa or the cold air, but from the quiet conviction in her voice. “you’re ridiculous.”
“and you like me for it,” she said, giving your side a gentle squeeze.
⸻
the bridge came into view, its arch reflected in the rippling water below. casey slowed her pace, her gaze sweeping over the scenery. “you know, this is one of the most romantic spots in the city. films, proposals… it’s practically a tradition.”
You looked at her with mock suspicion. “are you trying to charm me, counselor?”
“do i need to try?” she asked, stepping closer.
you tugged her forward by the scarf again, kissing her before she could answer her own question. this one lingered, deepening just enough that you felt her smile against your mouth.
⸻
by the time the sun dipped low, the park had taken on that golden, late-afternoon glow. casey’s gloved hand was snug in yours, her stride slowing as you neared the exit.
“what’s for dinner?” she asked.
“depends who’s cooking.”
her grin was instant. “so… me, then?”
you rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. letting her win had its own rewards.
and the city noise grew louder around you, she gave your hand a squeeze. “we should do this more often.”
you glanced at her, heart already agreeing. “we will.”
and you knew, with absolute certainty, that you meant it.
warnings: dark themes, power dynamics, rough sex, oral, fingering, gun play, smut
summary: after a brutal case, abigail borin takes control. she teaches you the hard lessons of trust, fear, and command. cold steel and heated skin blur as control turns into craving, and hesitation becomes submission.
You were still shaking when the elevator doors slid shut behind you. The case had ended badly — suspects dead, gunfire too close to your head, your own hands trembling as you replayed every flash of the night. You barely remembered holsteing your weapon, let alone what you said to the rest of the team when it was over. Abby had taken one look at you, ghost-pale and silent, and told the others she’d drive you home.
Only she didn’t take you to your place.
You didn’t argue. Couldn’t, really. The ride to her apartment was almost silent. City lights flickered past the windshield while your heart struggled to slow, each blink of the passing world dragging you further from the crime scene and no closer to calm. Abby’s hand stayed steady on the wheel. Her jaw was set. And the only time she touched you was to rest her palm on the small of your back as she guided you inside. Gentle, grounding, but not too soft. Never soft.
You thought she’d offer you a drink, maybe a cigarette. A quiet seat on the couch while she debriefed you in that low, even voice she used when things went sideways in the field.
Instead, she set her sidearm on the coffee table in full view, eyes raking over you in a slow, deliberate scan.
“You freeze like that again and you’re dead,” she said, voice low but edged.
Your mouth opened, then closed again. You knew she wasn’t wrong. That moment, split-second hesitation, breath caught in your throat, had nearly gotten someone killed. Could’ve been her.
“I didn’t mean to–”
“I don’t care what you meant,” she cut in. “You had a clear shot. You didn’t take it.”
You flinched. Her voice wasn’t raised, but it didn’t need to be. That razor-sharp tone had cut deeper than any yell could.
“You don’t get to be scared when it counts,” she added, stepping toward you. “Not in the field. Not when I’m out there trusting you to have my back.”
“I wasn’t scared,” you said, quieter than you meant to. “I just–I hesitated.”
Abby didn’t speak right away. She studied you, head tilted slightly like she was reading something more in your posture than in your words. Then, her voice dropped. Quiet, but impossibly firm.
“And you need to learn what that costs.”
You swallowed hard, throat dry. You weren’t sure what lesson you expected. A cold lecture. A forced night on her couch. Anything but this.
But the air had shifted.
You weren’t just her teammate right now. You were something else. Something she had taken responsibility for. Something she was about to make understand.
Before you could answer, she stepped into your space, fingers curling into your collar to pull you close. The glint of steel caught the lamplight as she lifted her gun again — not to put it away, but to tilt your chin up with the muzzle.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. The cool press of steel under your chin was nothing compared to the heat in her gaze. She didn’t blink.
“Look at me,” she said, and the words were more command than request.
You did — because you couldn’t not.
The weight of her presence crowded every inch of you, pinning you more effectively than any weapon could. Her voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, the kind you lean toward even when you should lean away.
“You don’t move until I say.”
The barrel shifted just enough to force your head back a fraction further, and you realized — this wasn’t just about control. She was teaching you something. Testing how far you’d follow.
Somewhere deep down, you knew the lesson wouldn’t end with words.
Ḥer breath was steady. Yours wasn’t.
The muzzle slid slowly down from your chin, grazing along your throat. The threat, the promise, the deliberate act of control. You could feel the weight of her eyes tracking every reaction. The goosebumps rising along your skin, the way your lips parted like you were about to beg without knowing for what.
"You don’t get to hesitate out there,” she said, the steel tracing your collarbone now. “So you’re going to learn what it feels like to give up that choice. In here.”
The words sank in deep. You weren’t sure if you nodded, or just surrendered something silently. But Abby saw it. She always did.
"Take off your dress," she said.
You moved on instinct. Hands fumbling a little at first, but her look–firm, unwavering–steadied you more effectively than any kind touch could. Your breath catching as the muzzle followed your exposed skin.
"Slow for me," she murmured.
You froze mid-motion. Then obeyed. Slower. She was watching the fabric slowly fall to the floor, not just for pleasure, but for precision.
“That’s it baby,” Abby said quietly.
Her words rooted you in place, forcing you to meet her gaze while you obeyed. Every movement felt exposed under that scrutiny, your own awareness of each motion sharpened to a knife’s edge.
“You’re learning,” she said. “But you’re not done until I say you’re done.”
You did not expect the night to end here. Not pressed between Abigail Borin’s living room wall and the hard line of her body, her perfume in your lungs and the faint clink of metal as she let her sidearm shift in her grip. The low gold light from the lamp caught the shimmer of her dress, every curve of her body drawn sharp against you. Your pulse was in your ears, heavy and insistent, your thighs already pressed tight together in a useless attempt to calm the ache that had been building since she first leaned in close hours ago.
She smiled like she knew every thought running through your head. “You ever been this close to a loaded weapon before” Her voice was quiet but it had weight. You shook your head without even thinking, your eyes already locked on hers. That was all the answer she needed.
The muzzle of her gun touched under your chin, tilting your face up. The metal was cool and startling, sending a shiver right down your spine. You could smell the faint oil on it, taste the adrenaline pooling at the back of your throat. She watched you, eyes dark, her body perfectly still except for the slow movement of her thumb over the grip. The air between you was thick and electric.
She drew the gun downward, dragging the cold steel over the center of your throat, then lower, sliding over the swell of your breasts. Your nipples tightened instantly under your dress, straining against the thin material, and her mouth twitched into a small smirk. She circled one breast with the barrel before pressing it in, the firmness of the gun flattening the soft flesh and making your breath hitch.
You could see her reaction in the small changes of her body. The way her pupils widened. The way she shifted her stance, thighs pressing together for just a second like she was grounding herself. Her breathing was a touch faster, almost imperceptible if you were not looking for it.
The gun kept moving, deliberate and slow, until the cold weight was against your stomach. You could feel your pussy pulse in anticipation, your panties already wet enough to cling to you. When she finally pressed the muzzle between your thighs, the shock of the chill made your hips jerk against it. The hard shape parted your folds through the lace, the slick heat of you meeting the unyielding steel. Your lips felt swollen and sensitive, every nerve tuned to that single point of contact.
eyes dropped to watch and her voice came lower, rougher. “You’re soaking already.” She pressed harder, the muzzle grinding against your clit through the damp fabric, and you felt your slick spread, making the pressure more intense. The danger in it only made you wetter, your breath coming out in small gasps.
She pulled the gun away only to slip her free hand down, pushing under your panties. Her fingers slid into your folds easily, the heat of her skin a stark contrast to the cold steel seconds before. She dragged the pads of her fingers over your clit, slow circles that had your knees threatening to give out. The gun moved back up to your chest, the barrel tracing the curve of your breast before she pinched your nipple between the steel and her thumb.
You moaned without meaning to and she leaned in close to your ear. “First time and you’re dripping on my floor.” Her fingers dipped lower, pressing at your entrance until the tips slid in. She curled them, dragging along the front wall of your pussy, each stroke pulling more slick from you until it coated her knuckles. The sound was obscene in the quiet room, wet and raw.
Her other hand never stopped with the gun, keeping it against you like a reminder of who was in control. She worked her fingers faster, her palm pressing up against your clit, her own breath now catching. You could see her jaw tighten, her tongue wet her lips, and the subtle shift of her hips like she was holding herself back from grinding into you.
“Beg for it” she said softly, her tone all command. You were already trembling, your chest heaving against the gold of her dress, the muscles in your legs tightening with each deep curl of her fingers. You barely managed to get the words out, voice breaking around them.
“Please Abby… please make me cum.”
Her mouth curved into a sharp grin and she gave you exactly what you wanted, driving her fingers harder and faster, the heel of her palm crushing against your clit until your whole body seized with the rush of release. You came hot and fast around her, slick coating her hand, your cry muffled against her shoulder as the aftershocks rolled through you.
She did not stop right away. She kept her fingers moving slow, easing you down from the edge, the gun still resting against your breast. Only when your breathing began to steady did she step back, her eyes dragging over you like she was memorising the wreck she had made of you. She brought her fingers to her mouth, licking them clean in one long, slow pull before tucking the weapon back into its holster.
“You’ll get used to it” she murmured. “And next time… you won’t be standing.”
You were still catching your breath when Abby’s hand came back between your thighs. Your muscles twitched, still sensitive, but she didn’t care. Her fingers slid through your folds again, gathering more of the slick dripping from you. You could hear it now, wet and filthy, the sound making your stomach knot in heat all over again.
“You came on my gun” she said flatly, almost like she was disappointed in you for not holding back. “And you think we’re finished” She stepped in close, pressing her chest to yours so the rough glitter of her dress scratched your nipples through the damp fabric.
The muzzle was back, this time pushing under your dress without hesitation. The cold steel pressed right to your bare cunt when she shoved your panties aside, and the sharp contrast of temperature made your knees buckle. Your lips parted around a moan you couldn’t bite back. She moved the gun head against you, parting your folds with it, dragging it through the slick mess she’d already pulled out of you. The tip tapped against your clit once, twice, each time making your hips jerk.
“Look at you. Open like this for me. Dripping. All over my weapon.” Her voice had dropped lower, rougher, with a thread of disbelief that only made it filthier. She pressed it in just far enough that you felt the unyielding shape threaten your entrance. Your body clenched around nothing, begging without words for her to push it further.
She didn’t. Instead, she pulled it back and lifted it between you, holding it up so you could see your wetness coating the metal. “You’re fucking soaked. Taste yourself.” The command was sharp. She brought the slick muzzle to your lips and waited. Your mouth opened, tongue darting out, the taste of yourself mixed with the faint tang of gun oil hitting your tongue in one hot rush of humiliation and arousal.
Abby’s eyes were locked on you as you licked the steel clean, her breathing heavier now, the rise and fall of her chest pressing her tits harder against you. “Good girl” she murmured, and you felt your pussy clench just from the praise.
The gun went back into her hand as she knelt suddenly, dragging your dress up around your waist. She didn’t bother to take your panties all the way off, just shoved them to the side and pressed her mouth to you. Her tongue was hot and soft where the gun had been cold and hard, and the contrast made you cry out. She licked through your folds slow at first, tasting the mess she’d made of you, before flattening her tongue against your clit and sucking hard.
You could see her eyes flick up from between your thighs, sharp and hungry, her hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise. She slid two fingers into you again, curling them with a practiced snap of her wrist while she kept sucking your clit like she wanted you to scream.
And you did. Loud, raw, your fingers buried in her hair as your second orgasm hit harder than the first, coating her chin in slick. She didn’t pull back. She kept licking you through it, the overstimulation making your thighs shake against her shoulders until you were almost trying to push her away.
Abby pulled back just enough to speak, her lips glistening. “I’m not done with you. You’re going to cum again, sweetheart, and you’re going to do it with my gun inside you.”
Abby didn’t give you time to come down. Your lungs were still dragging in short, uneven breaths, your thighs twitching with every tiny aftershock from her mouth, when she stood up and reached for her gun again. The shift in her energy was immediate — the lazy drag of her tongue gone, replaced by that razor-sharp focus you’d seen earlier when she had you pinned to the wall.
You thought she might holster it. Instead, she stepped in so close you could smell the faint tang of gun oil and your own slick on the steel. Her hand slid between your thighs, fingers dipping briefly into your mess before pulling back, her eyes following the string of slick that stretched between you and her knuckles. Her smirk deepened.
She bent just enough to press the cold muzzle to your entrance. Even after everything she’d done to you, the shock of the temperature made your hips jolt back against the couch cushions. She didn’t let you retreat. A firm grip on your hip kept you pinned, the heel of her hand digging in.
The first push was slow, deliberate, the steel sliding past your swollen folds and easing inside inch by inch. The weight of it filled you differently than her fingers had — it was unyielding, cold at first, then quickly taking on your heat as she fed you more. The stretch was blunt and merciless, forcing your body to take it without any give. Your walls clenched automatically around it, slick from your earlier orgasms making the glide almost too easy.
Her voice was low, but you felt it everywhere. “That’s it. Take it. Every inch. Feel that, sweetheart? That’s your cum already coating my weapon.” The words alone had your pussy tightening around the steel, the base of it pressing against your clit when she bottomed out.
She started to move it in short, controlled thrusts. Each slow withdrawal had you clenching to keep it, each deep push making the wet, obscene sound of your release being shoved back inside you. She angled it slightly, dragging the rigid length against that spot inside you that made your stomach tighten and your breath catch.
Her eyes never left your face. She wanted to see every twitch, every shiver, every moment you tried and failed to keep quiet. “You like it. You’re dripping all over my gun and you’re still hungry for more.” She pushed harder, the thrusts picking up speed until you could feel the deep, rhythmic pressure building again. The sheer wrongness of it — the danger, the way you could still smell the faint metal under your own slick — had your head tipping back against the cushions.
“Look at me” she ordered, her free hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressing against your lower lip until you opened for her. You could barely focus, but the command pulled your gaze back to hers. Her pupils were blown wide, her own breathing ragged now, her thighs shifting like she was aching for friction. “That’s it. Keep those pretty eyes on me while I fuck every drop back into you.”
Your body answered before your mind did, your hips rolling to meet each thrust, your clit catching on the base of the barrel every time. You were leaking around it now, the wet spreading down your ass, your inner thighs shining under the lamplight.
When she finally slowed, it was only to draw the gun out slowly. The empty ache was immediate and almost unbearable. She looked down between you, watching the cum and slick drip from your stretched hole. Her smirk returned, sharper than before. “Messy girl.”
She dropped to her knees without warning. Her hands hooked hard behind your thighs and lifted, folding you nearly in half as she pulled your legs up over her shoulders. The angle had you spread wide open for her, every inch of you exposed, the mess she’d made glistening between your folds.
And then her mouth was on you again. No teasing, no gentle licks — she went straight in, her tongue plunging deep to scoop the warm slick she’d just fucked back inside you. The heat of her mouth after the steel was devastating, her groan vibrating against your cunt as she swallowed you down.
She was ruthless. Her tongue curled deep before dragging up to your clit, lips closing around it in a hard, hungry suck. The pressure had you gasping, the sharp pleasure almost painful after everything she’d already done. She held you in place, your thighs locked over her shoulders, her fingers digging into the backs of your knees so you couldn’t move away even if you wanted to.
Every slurp, every wet sound, was filthy. She licked like she wanted every drop, chasing the taste of you until her chin was soaked. You could barely think, your vision blurring as she built you up fast, relentless in the way her mouth worked you. Your clit throbbed against her tongue, your pussy fluttering around nothing as the orgasm hit you like a wave, sharp and deep, pulling a cry from you that echoed in the quiet room.
She didn’t stop. She worked you through every twitch, every aftershock, until you were shaking, your voice gone from begging and moaning. Only then did she pull back, her lips wet, her eyes blazing as she looked up at you.
Abby eased back, finally letting the weight of the night settle. She brushed a stray lock of hair from your damp forehead, her fingers firm but gentle. Deliberate, not tentative.
“Look at me,” she said, voice low and steady.
You met her dark eyes, still flushed and breathless.
“You handled that better than I expected,” she said, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Most wouldn’t have lasted this long.”
She pulled you into a rough, one-armed hug—steady and grounding, but not suffocating. Her hand pressed firmly against your hip, anchoring you. The heat of her body was a solid weight against your own unsteady pulse.
After a moment, she eased you back onto the couch. “Sit down. I’ll get you some water.”
Her hands were sure as she helped you settle, brushing the hair from your neck and shoulders with a rough kind of gentleness. When she returned with the glass, she crouched beside you, her hand resting heavy on your thigh.
“You did good. Hell, you did more than good.”
Her thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin, a quiet rhythm that grounded you better than words. “Next time, you won’t hesitate. You’ve got this.”
She leaned closer, voice low enough that it was almost a growl. “You’re stronger than you think, and I’m not about to let you forget it.”
No coddling. No sugarcoating. Just honest praise and the quiet promise that she was right there, steady and unyielding.
And somehow, that was exactly what you needed.
—————————————————————
(my loves @littlemonstrosityy & @jareaufiles helping me write again :)))
summary: a dinner date with olivia ends with her taking you back to her apartment—and pulling out a new toy she’s been dying to use on you.
———————————————————————————
It starts the way it always does—with her eyes on you like you’re already undressed.
You’re seated across from her in a cozy, dimly lit restaurant. Candles flicker on the white tablecloth, wine glasses half-full, and the soft murmur of other patrons is barely noticeable over the jazz trickling through the speakers. Everything feels intimate. Enclosed. Yours.
Olivia’s dressed in dark navy—button-up shirt slightly open at the collar, blazer slung over the back of her chair. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms you’ve thought about kissing more times than you’ll ever admit. Her hair is pinned up messily, a few strands falling loose and wild. And that smile? Crooked. Dangerous. Patient.
She’s watching you swirl the last of your wine, her expression unreadable—but her eyes are dark.
“You know you’ve been teasing me all night,” she says eventually, her voice low and velvety.
You blink up at her. “Me?”
“Mmhmm.” She leans in. “That little dress. Those legs. The way you keep biting your lip.”
You look down at your drink, flushed, smiling despite yourself.
“And now,” she adds, her voice dipping even lower, “I’m wondering what I’m going to do about it.”
Your stomach flips.
She doesn’t break eye contact when she downs the last sip of her wine, then gently sets her glass aside. Her fingers slide across the table and take your hand—strong and firm, warm and certain.
“You’re coming home with me,” Olivia says simply.
You’re not sure if it’s a question. You don’t care. You nod anyway.
Her apartment smells like her—sandalwood, leather, and the faintest hint of vanilla.
The door shuts behind you with a click, and before you can turn around, Olivia’s there—her hands on your hips, lips brushing the side of your neck.
“You look so good, baby,” she murmurs into your skin. “All fucking night I’ve been thinking about getting you out of this dress.”
Your hands reach behind you to touch her thighs, her waist, anything solid. You lean into her, exhaling shakily.
But she pulls back.
“Bedroom,” she says with a quiet authority. “Now.”
You obey.
By the time you step into her bedroom, your pulse is racing. The lights are dim. The sheets are turned down. And sitting on the bed like it was waiting for you—is a small pink box with clean, expensive packaging.
Your brows lift. “What’s this?”
Olivia steps around you, undoing the top button of her shirt with one hand, casually.
“I got something new,” she says, walking past you toward the bed. “Wanted to try it on you.”
She lifts the lid of the box.
Inside, nestled in velvet, is a brand new rose toy—soft silicone, sleek, and blushing pink.
Your throat goes dry.
She turns toward you with it in her palm, brows slightly raised. “Ever used one?”
You shake your head.
“Good.” She sets it on the bed and walks slowly toward you, eyes scanning your face. “I want to see how you fall apart for me.”
“Take off your dress,” Olivia says softly. “And lie back.”
Your breath hitches. That voice—low and sure, no room for argument—sends heat rushing through you. You step back, unzipping the side of your dress with trembling fingers, and let the fabric fall around your ankles.
Her eyes trail over you slowly, hungrily, as if she’s been waiting for this all night.
Maybe she has.
You lie back on the bed, heart pounding in your chest, and she walks around to the side table where she’s set the toy. She picks it up like it’s something precious, testing the weight of it in her palm.
You’ve never felt this vulnerable. This seen.
“I’ve done the research,” she says, amused, running her thumb along the silicone rim of the rose. “It’s supposed to feel… intense.”
You swallow. “Yeah?”
She looks at you, smile softening. “If it’s too much, you tell me.”
You nod. “I trust you.”
That changes something in her expression—something deeper. Her dominant edge never fades, but for a second, there’s something tender in her gaze. Something reverent.
“Good girl.”
Your body lights up.
Olivia kneels on the bed beside you and gently nudges your legs apart with her hand. She doesn’t rush. She watches your reaction with every movement, enjoying the anticipation stretching between you like silk.
Then she leans in, lips brushing your inner thigh. “You’re already wet for me.”
You let out a soft, broken sound as she places a slow, open-mouthed kiss over your panties. Her nose nudges you through the thin fabric before she sits back, sliding them down your legs.
The air hits your skin, and then—Olivia lifts the toy.
“I want you to relax,” she murmurs, thumb brushing the outer button before she presses it.
A soft hum fills the room. Gentle at first.
And then she brings it to your clit.
The sensation is instant. A fluttering suction, rhythmic and warm—more intense than anything you’ve ever felt. Your hips jump, and your eyes fly open.
“Oh my god—Liv—”
Her hand presses lightly to your thigh, keeping you still.
“That’s it,” she whispers. “Take it for me.”
Your mouth falls open, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. The toy pulses again, soft and focused, and your spine arches. It’s like her mouth, but somehow deeper—more insistent. Constant. Unrelenting.
She watches you squirm beneath her, eyes glued to your face, lips parted slightly as if she’s memorizing the exact second your control snaps.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” Olivia says, voice thick. “Falling apart and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
She increases the intensity—just one button tap.
Your legs shake.
“Too much?” she asks, tilting her head.
You’re not sure you can speak, so you just shake your head hard, jaw slack. “No—fuck—don’t stop—”
She leans down, mouth to your ear. “Beg for it.”
The suction pulses again—sharper this time—and your whole body jerks.
“Liv—please, please, I’m so close—”
“Mmh. I know, baby.” She kisses your neck, the underside of your jaw. “You sound so good like this.”
Her free hand trails up your thigh and rests gently over your stomach, grounding you, as the toy continues its merciless rhythm.
“You gonna come for me?” she asks, low and steady. “Soaked and shaking, right onto my sheets?”
You nod desperately. “Yes—yes, I—fuck—”
And then it hits.
Your whole body locks up, thighs clamping around her wrist, hips rolling uncontrollably against the soft vibration. The orgasm takes over like a wave—crashing through you in hot, endless pulses as you moan her name over and over, half-sobbing into the sheets.
She never stops watching.
Even when your body finally goes still, trembling, breathless, Olivia gently turns the toy off and sets it aside.
You’re panting, skin flushed, eyes glassy—and she climbs up beside you, pulling you into her arms like you’re something breakable.
“You okay?” she asks softly, lips to your temple.
You nod into her shoulder, body limp but warm. “More than okay.”
She laughs gently and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Told you.”
She’s still holding you when the idea comes.
Your breathing is slower now, the buzz of the orgasm still pulsing faintly in your limbs—but your mind is sharp. Sharp enough to realize: she’s fully clothed. And watching you with that smug satisfaction like she hasn’t been silently begging for your touch all night.
You lift your head from her shoulder and meet her gaze. Her pupils are dark. Lips parted.
And maybe it’s the high of her taking you apart like that—but you want to see her lose control too.
Your fingers ghost over her collarbone, down to the buttons of her shirt.
Her brow lifts. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”
You smile. “Returning the favor.”
Her tongue flicks across her lower lip—curious now, maybe even a little amused—but she doesn’t stop you as you unbutton her shirt slowly, one after another. You push it off her shoulders, kissing the skin there as she watches you from beneath heavy lashes.
When your fingers go to her belt, she exhales—just the smallest sound.
“You’re getting bold.”
“Maybe I want to see how you sound with this thing.”
You reach beside her and pick up the toy—still slick with you, still warm from use. You give her a look, deliberate and slow, and she tilts her head, eyes narrowing.
She lies back against the pillows, arms behind her head.
“Well then,” she says, that same dark grin tugging at her mouth, “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Your pulse pounds as you settle between her legs, pulling her slacks down along with her black lace underwear. She’s soaked—of course she is—and the sight makes your throat dry.
You kiss the inside of her thigh first, just to see her twitch. She hums.
“Don’t get shy now, baby.”
You smile up at her—and press the toy to her clit.
She gasps.
Even Olivia Benson can’t hide it when she’s caught off guard. Her hips jerk, her thighs tense around your shoulders, and her head drops back against the pillow.
“Fuck—”
You adjust the angle, letting it settle into that same pulsing rhythm she gave you earlier.
Her breath starts coming quicker.
“Oh, that’s—” she bites her lip, jaw flexing. “Shit, that’s good.”
You watch her come apart slowly, savoring every twitch of her, every tremble in her thighs. You ease the toy against her, building the pressure in waves, and her hands shift—gripping the sheets now instead of resting lazily behind her head.
“Look at you,” you murmur. “So cocky at dinner, and now you’re shaking.”
Her eyes flicker open, half-glazed. “You better finish what you started.”
“I plan to.”
You increase the intensity by one notch—and Olivia moans. Full-bodied, low, deep in her throat.
It sends heat right back between your legs.
“Come on, Liv,” you whisper, pressing a kiss just above her mound. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
“Goddamn you—” But her hips are rolling now, breath ragged, hands clenching into fists. She’s holding herself together by threads.
You lean closer, lips brushing her inner thigh. “Let go for me.”
And that’s all it takes.
Her body bows off the bed, a choked sound breaking from her lips as the orgasm hits. It rips through her, raw and unrestrained—hips jerking, legs shaking, hands gripping anything within reach. She says your name, half-growled, half-moaned, and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.
You turn the toy off gently and toss it aside, crawling up beside her as her breathing slows.
She’s flushed, damp, trembling with aftershocks—and grinning lazily now, her eyes still closed.
“Well, damn,” she mutters, one arm flopping over her eyes. “That was…”
“Good?”
She huffs a laugh, turning toward you. “Fucking amazing.”
You curl into her side, resting your hand over her chest where her heart still pounds.
And then—softly—she kisses your forehead.
“Next time,” she murmurs, voice rough and low, “I’m tying you up.”
You smile against her skin. “Can’t wait.”
Her body is still warm beside you, flush with the aftermath of everything you just did to her.
You lie tangled in Olivia’s sheets, one of her arms thrown around your waist, fingers splayed possessively over your stomach. Your legs are still tangled with hers, your cheek pressed to the curve of her shoulder.
Neither of you says anything for a while.
The room is filled with only the soft sound of breathing, the occasional rustle of cotton as one of you shifts slightly. The air smells like sex, skin, and something faintly sweet—vanilla from her lotion, maybe, or her hair.
Her hand drifts lower over your stomach, slowly circling your navel, dipping teasingly toward the waistband of the sheets.
“Don’t get cocky just because you made me come once,” she murmurs, voice still scratchy from earlier. “I let you.”
You turn into her, smirking. “Let me?”
“Mmhmm.” Her lips graze your temple. “Could’ve stopped you at any time.”
“But you didn’t.”
She doesn’t answer. Just slides her thigh between yours again, slow and casual.
You close your eyes, exhaling shakily. Your body is still buzzing, oversensitive and aching in the best way. “Olivia…”
“You were a mess under me earlier,” she reminds you softly. “Squirming. Practically begging.”
Her fingers trace light, lazy circles on your inner thigh now. Not pushing. Just reminding.
“I could’ve made you come again. And again. Until you cried.”
You shiver.
She shifts closer and kisses just beneath your ear.
“But I wanted to see what you’d do to me. You always get like this when I give you control for a minute. It’s cute.”
You snort. “Cute?”
She grins against your skin. “Hot, too. But mostly because it makes me want to flip you over and ruin you again.”
You go silent.
Your heart skips at the way she says that—like it’s a promise, not a threat.
Then her voice changes—still low, but slower, more sincere.
“I love the way you look at me,” she murmurs. “Even when I’m bossing you around. You look at me like you’re proud to be mine.”
You open your eyes and meet her gaze. She’s close, her face serious now, lips parted like she’s waiting to speak again but doesn’t need to. You reach for her hand and lace your fingers together.
“I am,” you whisper. Her throat works once. Her fingers squeeze yours. Then she pulls you tighter, like the idea of you being anywhere but here is unbearable. “I don’t share,” she says into your hair. “You know that, right?”
You nod against her chest. “Good. Because the way you moaned my name earlier?” She kisses your forehead. “That belongs to me.”
You smile. And maybe it’s the wine, the afterglow, or the way she’s holding you like you’re something sacred—but you want to stay here forever.
“You’re mine too,” you murmur, tracing slow shapes on her ribs. “Even when you pretend you’re the one in charge.”
She laughs. “Pretend?”
You yelp as she flips you onto your back again, hovering over you in one smooth, effortless motion.
“Say that again,” she warns, voice rough, playful. You laugh, breathless, heart thudding all over again. “I dare you.”
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