Angel surprises Cordelia with his roleplay scenario:
a 1940’s private detective and his femme fatale client.

CONTENTS: C/A in AtS
CATEGORY: Established Relationship / Roleplay / Smut & Fun
RATING: NC-17
LENGTH: Short Story / 1,700 words
CHALLENGE CREDIT: Illusion / Lysa Says: Challenge Me / Challenge #14
FICPIC CREDIT: Lysa
PREQUEL: Roleplay Rivals: Go Team! 
SERIES DEVELOPMENT: Potential for standalone serial stories.
STATUS: Completed. Posted June 2026

Roleplay Rivals: Private Dick

Cordelia Chase had been daring Angel for days.

Every time they passed each other in the Hyperion lobby she’d toss out a teasing challenge—“Still waiting on you to up your game, big guy”—and every time he’d just give her that slow, dangerous half-smile and say, “Patience, doll. The right night will come.”

Tonight was apparently the right night.

She stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around her, steam still curling in the air, and stopped dead in the bedroom doorway. A large flat white box sat in the center of their bed like a challenge. On top rested a single cream envelope in Angel’s elegant handwriting.

You’re the client. Office hours are now open. Wear this. Come downstairs when you’re ready. – A.

Cordy’s lips curved into a wicked grin. She lifted the lid.

Inside lay an elegant soft crimson Rita Hayworth-inspired dress — long sleeves, deep V neckline, fitted bodice, nipped waist with a soft drape detail, and a knee-length pencil skirt — along with a slinky black silk slip to wear underneath, black garter belt, seamed stockings, strappy heels, a single strand of faux pearls, and a tube of deep crimson lipstick. No further instructions. Just the clothes and the quiet promise that Angel had been planning this for a while.

She took her time.

Drying her long dark hair until it fell in sleek 1940s waves, pinning it just so, then painting her lips the exact shade of trouble. She slipped into the black silk slip and garter belt, rolled on the seamed stockings, then stepped into the beautiful crimson dress, fastening it carefully. When she finally looked in the mirror she felt dangerous, expensive, and exactly like the kind of woman who would walk into a private detective’s office and turn his whole night upside down.

Perfect.

She took the grand staircase down, heels clicking on the marble, and the moment she stepped into the lobby she knew she was in for it.

The entire space had been transformed into a 1940s private-eye office. One desk lamp cast hard, dramatic shadows. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and two lowball glasses sat on the counter beside an old typewriter with a fresh sheet of paper that read “Case File: Chase.” Fake rain streaked the front windows, and the air smelled faintly of old paper and rain.

Angel stepped out of the shadows already wearing the fedora tilted just right and the trench coat open over his crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, suspenders in place. He looked every inch the hard-boiled private detective who’d seen too much and was about to see a whole lot more.

He stayed completely in character, voice low and gravelly with that perfect old-school drawl.

“Well, well. Look what the rain dragged in.”

Cordy felt a thrill shoot straight down her spine. She sauntered forward, hips rolling, letting the slit in the dress flash a long stretch of leg.

“I hear you’re the best in the city at… finding things, Detective.”

A slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth. “Lady, I don’t just find things. I investigate every inch until the case is closed. Thoroughly.”

He circled her like a predator, stopping just out of reach.

“Name’s Angel. What brings a dame like you into my office at this hour?”

Cordy leaned one hip against the desk, crossing her legs so the slit rode higher. She was already having far too much fun.

“Call me Cordelia. I seem to have… misplaced something very personal. A piece of jewelry. It’s somewhere on my person, but I can’t quite remember where.” She trailed a finger slowly down her own throat, over the pearls, and lower. “I was hoping you might help me look.”

Angel’s eyes darkened with heat and amusement. He stepped closer, voice dropping even lower.

“Sounds like a job for a professional. Sit down, sweetheart. Let’s start at the beginning.”

He pulled the chair out for her. When she sat, he remained standing, looming just enough to make her pulse race.

The interrogation began.

He asked questions in that perfect noir drawl—pointed, teasing, filthy—and every time she answered he “searched” her with slow, deliberate hands. Fingers traced the line of her collarbone, skimmed the edge of the dress, slid under the slit to stroke bare thigh. The fedora stayed on, the low lamp light throwing sharp shadows across his face.

Cordy overplayed the femme fatale shamelessly. She purred, she pouted, she leaned forward so the dress gaped just enough to drive him crazy. When his hand slid higher, she reached down boldly, fingers brushing the very obvious bulge straining against his trousers.

“Mmm… I see your private dick is already on the case,” she teased, voice smoky and wicked. “Very impressive evidence, Detective.”

Angel’s breath hitched. He shrugged out of the trench coat in one smooth motion, letting it fall over the back of the chair, then caught her wrist before she could do more than stroke him through the fabric. “Easy, doll. Clients don’t get to conduct their own investigation.”

He peeled the dress off her shoulders inch by inch, narrating every movement like he was dictating a case file. The crimson fabric slid down her body and pooled at her waist, revealing the slinky black silk slip beneath. He let it linger for a heated moment, hands skimming teasingly over the thin silk, fingers brushing across the curve of her breasts through the delicate fabric. Then he dropped to one knee in front of the chair.

“Time for a closer examination,” he murmured.

His mouth followed the path his hands had taken—slow, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of her thigh that made her tremble. When he reached the apex of her thighs, he looked up at her from under the brim of the fedora, golden eyes gleaming.

“Exhibit A,” he said, voice rough. “Very promising.”

Cordy’s breath caught as he leaned in. His tongue traced her slowly, thoroughly, exploring every sensitive inch while his fingers held her open. Long, languid strokes followed by teasing flicks and gentle suction had her gripping the arms of the chair, hips lifting helplessly. He hummed against her, the vibration sending sparks through her veins, and when he slid two fingers inside her while his mouth continued its relentless work she cried out, the sound echoing through the empty office.

“Detective—God—” she gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “You’re enjoying this interrogation far too much.”

He didn’t stop. He drove her higher and higher until her thighs shook and she came hard against his mouth, one hand tangled in his hair, the other pressed over her own lips to muffle the shameless moan.

Angel rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the fedora still perfectly in place.

“Case is progressing nicely,” he rasped. “But I’m not finished yet.”

He lifted her onto the desk, papers scattering. Cordy immediately reached for his belt, fingers brushing the hard length of him again. “Let me help with that evidence, Detective…”

He caught her hands, pinned them above her head with one of his, and drove into her with one deep, possessive stroke. The edge of the desk pressed cool and hard against her bare skin. She wrapped her legs around him, heels digging into his back, and rocked against him as much as his grip would allow.

He took her there with measured, powerful thrusts, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding between them to circle her again while he moved. Cordy twisted her wrists free just enough to tug his shirt open, palms sliding over his chest, nails grazing his skin.

With a low growl, Angel swept her off the desk and carried her across the office to the old leather couch against the wall. In one fluid motion he bent her over the back of it, her hands braced on the cool leather, bottom exposed and arched toward him.

“Perfect view for the investigation,” he growled, running his palms over the curve of her ass before gripping her hips.

Cordy looked back over her shoulder with a wicked smirk. “Careful, Detective. A girl might start thinking you’re enjoying the evidence a little too much.”

He drove into her from behind with one deep, possessive stroke. The position left her completely open to him, hands pressed flat against the couch as he took her in slow, powerful thrusts that had her gasping and pushing back to meet him. “Harder,” she demanded, voice breathy but full of snark. “I hired the best—prove it.”

Angel’s laugh was low and rough as he gave her exactly what she asked for, one hand sliding around to tease her while the other kept her steady. The rhythm built until the only sounds were skin on skin, her breathless moans, and the soft patter of fake rain against the windows.

Later he stood her up, turning her to face him. He kissed her deeply, hands sliding under the silk slip, slowly peeling it off her body as they moved toward the tall wooden file cabinet, leaving her in nothing but the black garter belt, seamed stockings, and pearls. One hand hooked beneath her knee, propping it over his hip as he took her there again—slow, deep strokes that had her gasping his name while her fingers dug into his suspenders and tugged him closer.

Cordy came again against the file cabinet, clenching around him with a cry that echoed through the office. Angel followed moments later, burying his face in the curve of her neck, the low growl rumbling through his chest and into hers as he spilled inside her.

They stayed locked together, breathing hard, her arms around his neck and his fingers low on her waist toying with the lace edge of her garter belt. Cordy finally broke the silence with a soft, satisfied laugh. “Nice investigation, Detective Broody. I approve.”

She sighed happily before pulling back just enough to add, “But next time I’m picking the scenario again—and I’m bringing props.”

Angel kissed her slow and deep, eyes already gleaming with new ideas.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

End of Story