#the crypt

You wake up draped in silk and sin.

The sheets are a black satin crime scene and your thighs are sore in the best possible way. Someone's teeth left blooming violets on your hips. Your lip gloss is gone. Your body glitter has migrated across multiple necks.

You're warm. Boneless. Claimed.

You try to shift and your stomach tightens at the memory: Morticia’s tongue against your throat, Gomez between your thighs like he was starved for centuries and you were the last luxury on earth. Their voices still echo in your ears—praise and poetry and filth in equal measure.

You remember the way Morticia’s lipstick smeared across your jaw when she kissed you—deliberate and unhurried—before whispering, “Sleep in our bed, darling. We’ll take care of everything.”

You do not remember making it to the guest room.

---

You barely get time to gather your thoughts before a hand—cool, gentle, possessive—glides across your waist.

“Good morning, cara mia,” Gomez purrs against your bare shoulder. “You were divine last night.”

A hum from the other side of the bed. “She still is,” Morticia murmurs, her voice low, velvety. She stretches like a cat, her fingers tracing the swell of your thigh. “And she smells like heaven.”

You blink up at the canopy.

You’re sandwiched between them. One of Gomez’s robes barely clings to your frame, untied and useless, your skin a mural of red lipstick and faint bruises. Morticia is lounging beside you like a painting, wearing a sheer dressing gown and zero shame. She smiles when your eyes catch hers, slow and reverent.

“We let you sleep in,” she says. “You earned it.”

Gomez presses a kiss to your shoulder. “You moaned poetry in your sleep.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Morticia confirms. “And begged quite beautifully.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I can never look at my sister again.”

“Darling,” Morticia drawls, slipping off the bed like a nightmare in silk. “Your sister high-fived me last night and said, and I quote, ‘Get her, queen.’”

---

The shower is warm. Steamy. Unfair.

Morticia joins you first, hair pinned up, lips painted black like temptation. She lathers your body with practiced ease, like worship. Her hands are respectful—until they’re not. They pause at your thighs, linger at your breasts, thumb across the curve of your belly like she’s memorizing it.

“She’ll want to mark you again,” Gomez says casually as he steps in, utterly unbothered and equally naked. “But perhaps after breakfast.”

You forget how to stand for a moment.

You lean back against Gomez’s chest, mouth parted as Morticia trails kisses down your front, and it’s so unfair—how good they are at this. At you.

“Tell us if it’s too much,” she whispers, licking a slow stripe up your sternum. “We’ll wait.”

You don’t say stop.

You say her name.

---

Breakfast is an unholy miracle.

You’re still wearing the robe, but now Morticia has tied it for you and kissed the knot. Your hair is in a loose bun and you’re not sure who twisted it up—Morticia or Gomez—but it doesn’t matter. You’re still glowing. Still aching sweetly. You sip dark coffee like it’s your last tether to reality.

Your little sister plops down next to you with a plate of fruit, smug as hell.

“You look happy,” she grins.

“I should ground you.”

“No you shouldn’t. You’re in love.”

Morticia floats past in a high-collared black gown, humming a waltz. Gomez flips an omelet with one hand and kisses your cheek with the other. Pugsley walks by and offers you a fist bump. Wednesday raises a brow but nods once, which from her is basically a blessing.

“I told you they’d love you,” your sister says, biting a strawberry. “Can we come back next week?”

“You mean so I can be seduced into another threesome while you braid Wednesday’s hair?”

“Exactly.”

---

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no.

Not when Gomez feeds you a bite of omelet with a flourish. Not when Morticia runs her nails down your spine and whispers about plans for tonight. Not when your sister leans over and whispers: “They like like you.”

You glance up at the Addamses—dark, devoted, watching you like the sun rose just for them to see you bask in it.

You’re in so much trouble.