Disclaimer: The Addams Family (as well as anything else that is remotely recognizable as belonging to someone else) does not belong to me.
I've been reading a lot of Addams Family fanfiction lately, and I figured that it was high time that I made my own contribution. Reviews are greatly appreciated, as this is my first attempt at an Addams Family story.
Enjoy!
It was a dark and stormy night—perfect for a funeral. Rain sheeted across the sky, pounding against the roof with a thunderous, droning rhythm as lightning arced across the sky. Adorned with its usual macabre décor, the Addams estate bore the brunt of the deluge with cheerfulness only it could manage, its heavy brass doorknocker and shutters pounding against its sides with the gusting wind. Pinpricks of candlelight were visible through the rain-splattered windows, the warped, twisted candles casting a sinister glow on the rooms within. Behind the house, a massive cemetery sat amid the weeds and twisted trees, the occasional lightning flash illuminating the grotesque figures that sat perched upon the headstones.
In his room, Gomez Addams was adding the final touches to his attire.
His hair was combed and slicked back, his suit straight; he had just finished tying his boots when his mother's voice rang through the manor. "Gomez! Are you ready yet? The guests have started to arrive!" Her shrill voice permeated the musty air of the house, sending spiders scuttling back to their webs in alarm.
"I'll be down in a minute!" Gomez called. He took a last puff on his cigar, eying it wistfully, and put it in his pocket for later. He adored funerals, and this was certainly no exception—the corpses, the caskets, the celebration…could there be a better combination? He ran a hand lightly over his hair one last time, making sure that it was behaving itself, and straightened his cravat, quirking his lips into a smile at the smoke that was curling up from his breast pocket.
He turned to the door, pausing briefly to snag another cigar. There was no reason that he shouldn't enjoy the festivities; after all, the weather was sublime, and he was still a suspect in the murder case.
What more could one ask?
break
"Morticia! Aren't you ready yet?" A blonde head appeared around the doorframe to glare at the woman seated in front of the mirror. "Mother and Father are ready to leave. We don't want to be late for the funeral!"
The woman rose, running her long, crimson nails through her black hair. "I'm ready, Ophelia," she said softly. "It is my first funeral, after all. I want to look my best." She glanced in the mirror a last time, and then turned to address her sister. "Oh, Ophelia, your roots are showing."
Ophelia reached up to pat the flowers on top of her head, twining her fingers exasperatedly through the exposed anchors. "Drat!" She rearranged the blossoms for a minute, lips pursed in concentration. "There!" she exclaimed, and lowered her hands. "Are they better now, Morticia?"
"Much!" her sister replied. She raised a critical brow, eying the flowers distastefully. "I don't see why you insist on keeping those appalling flowers on your head, Ophelia; thorns are so much nicer. And the pain is…exquisite." She smiled.
Ophelia rolled her eyes. "I know you prefer those horrid things to my beautiful blossoms, but I like my head just the way it is. Now, hurry up or we'll be late! I just adore funerals!"
Morticia sighed and followed her sister, pausing to glance out the window. "Oh, the rain stopped." She pouted, disappointed. "What a pity. I was so enjoying a reprieve from that dreadful sunny weather we've been having."
"Mmm…" her sister made a noncommittal noise from the doorway. "Are you coming or not?" she demanded. "Some of those Addams men are simply divine! Practically the entire clan will be there. It's a great honor for us to be invited," Ophelia turned to leave, pausing to look slyly at her younger sister. "Who knows, Morticia, maybe you'll meet someone."
Morticia erased the politely skeptical look from her face as she left the room, rearranging her countenance to a more dispassionate expression. Ophelia was always searching for love, hopelessly infatuated with even the idea of infatuation itself.
Still, her sister's opinions were no reason not to have a good time. Death and decay were such pleasant topics after a long week of sunlight and verve.
break
"Itt, old man, how wonderful it is to see you again!" Gomez exclaimed, beaming as he answered the door. "It's such wonderful weather for a funeral, isn't it?"
Cousin Itt chattered a reply, and Gomez frowned and stuck his head outside. "You're right, it has cleared up. That's a pity; I was hoping the storm would last at least through the burial. There's nothing like a muddy grave to engulf a sodden casket!" Ever the optimist, he gave a great shrug and smiled broadly. "Ah, well, we can't have everything! I'll walk you around to the cemetery. The rest of the family has already arrived."
The cemetery looked as every cemetery should—desolate, dark, and depressing. The night air was moist, and steam emanated from the still-damp ground, wafting up to twine lovingly around the weeds. The light of the full moon, revealed by the receding storm, gleamed down on all present, casting a luminous glow on the cemetery and reflecting from the glimmering headstones, whose carved, misshapen faces of the tombstones loomed over and leered at the living.
In the opinion of all present, it was the perfect night.
Chairs had been arranged in one corner of the cemetery, in front of a deep, open grave. In anticipation for the arrival of Cousin Balthazar, they were arrayed in two sets, with an aisle down the middle. Most of the chairs were already full, occupied by Addamses and their guests. Gomez escorted Itt to a chair, and then took his seat at the front.
A distant aunt-Lenore, he thought, casting about for a name-stepped forward to begin the eulogy.
Gomez found himself tuning out most of the eulogy, as he'd never been exceedingly fond of Balthazar anyway. He did, however, jump up and take a bow a quarter of the way through in acknowledgement to Aunt Lenore's reference to the murder investigation; it had been one of the proudest moments of his life to have been named the primary suspect.
As Mama always said, "Practice makes perfect, Gomez."
It was during one of Lenore's long, rambling tirades that Gomez first noticed the woman, ethereal in the silver light of the moon. She was sitting across the aisle from him, raven hair cascading down to frame her pale face. Her eyes were dark and mysterious-and focused directly on him, glittering with suppressed amusement. She noticed his gaze and her mouth turned upwards in a slow smile, drawing his own eyes to her lips, full and crimson against her pallid visage.
Gomez grinned. She was a beautiful and mysterious woman, clad in a black, clinging dress, her arms folded batlike at her waist. He was enthralled, enraptured by the mysterious air she exuded.
He turned his gaze to meet hers once more. Her eyes were slanted and impossible to read, catlike in the moon's silvery glow. She glanced away demurely, and he pretended to return his attention to the eulogy. He tilted his head slightly so that he could keep her in his line of sight, still feigning interest in his aunt's monotonous drone.
His heart sped up as he saw the woman's eyes shift. She gazed at him coquettishly through her lashes, and he could feel a flame burning within him. It was eating him alive, consuming him from the inside out. Compelled by a force he could not control, Gomez leveled his burning gaze toward her, watching with delight as she returned it with one of her own.
As Great-Aunt Lenore finally drew to a close, taking leave of the makeshift stage before the grave, Gomez was forced to break their optic connection; it was time for the casket to be brought in.
The casket itself was truly beautiful—its creators had outdone themselves. A rich mahogany, it was trimmed with black and had the Addams credo embossed in silver on the cover. To the delight of all present, the pallbearers had left the coffin open, displaying the corpse in all of its still, rotting glory.
It was all Gomez could do, however, even to glance once at the cadaver of his departed cousin as it passed by him, for his attention was drawn to the raven-haired beauty sitting across from him. The pallor of her skin put even the corpse to shame, luminous and silver under the moonlight.
He had to meet her.
break
Morticia could barely suppress her excitement when they arrived at the estate for the funeral. Fate could not have arranged for a more picturesque night: the bats were flying overhead, the ground was sodden and boggy, and the scent of mold permeated the dank air.
As the family was escorted to the cemetery, Morticia took the time to familiarize herself with her surroundings, which proved to be more magnificent than she could have ever dreamed. The cemetery was delightfully macabre—hundreds of tombs, headstones, and crypts encompassing the surrounding area, casting dark shadows on the ground. The creatures and effigies carved atop the tombs stared unseeingly into the gathered crowd, their blank eyes following passerby and casting their silent judgment. There were even, if she was not mistaken, a few stems of poison hemlock coiling around the mausoleum to the left.
Morticia sighed in appreciation.
As the night wore on, the guests began to quiet, until finally all conversation dwindled away, signifying the start of the ceremony. Watching the speaker stride to the food of the grade, Morticia noticed two latecomers slip into their seats: one a mess of hair, the other—intriguing, she had to admit. His hair was slicked back, emphasizing the swarthiness of his complexion, and a telltale trail of smoke curling from his breast pocket gave away the location of a hidden cigar. The mist rising from the ground curled about his feet like a lonely pet wanting to be adored, twining up his legs and clinging to his pants. A pencil-thin moustache rested just above his mouth, drawing her gaze and taunting her with its appeal. Flicking her eyes toward his, she delighted in recognizing the child-like glee. He sat just across the aisle from her, in a chalk-stripe suit adorned with a matching silk cravat.
Morticia allowed a small smile to grace her features before directing her attention to the presenter of the eulogy.
Despite her fascination with the speech, Morticia constantly found her gaze drawn to the man in the front row. She watched him as he sat and fidgeted, obviously bored with the progressing eulogy. She watched his eyes, glinting with suppressed mirth in the light of the moon. They were enthralling. Her own eyes traveled down to his moustache, neat and refined and resting just above his upper lip. It practically invited a kiss.
She watched his mouth as it turned up in a grin, exposing pointed teeth as he silently laughed at Lenore's aside about the quicksand and bogs. Morticia sat transfixed, watching as this mesmerizing man stood and elegantly bowed to the applause of all present—it had just been announced that he was a suspect in the homicide investigation.
She felt a swell of pride for this unknown young man. It was but her first funeral, and yet here this man was—seemingly only slightly older than she—already a suspect in a homicide. How talented he must be! Her mouth turned into a sultry smile. Perhaps he could…share some of his knowledge.
Her gaze slid back up to his face, this time meeting his eyes. He looked a tad overwhelmed, and she gave him a measured smile, watching as his eyes followed her lips.
Something inside of Morticia shivered at his responding grin. His smile was suave and innocent, predatory and rapacious—the perfect combination of sweet and seductive. She caught his gaze once again, and then turned away, feigning modesty. Morticia watched as he directed his attention to the speaker once again, and then glanced sideways at him through her lashes, trembling slightly at the heat that was being emitted from his eyes; the passion in them was unmistakable.
She caught his eyes once again, meeting his smoldering stare with her own, tearing her eyes away only as the coffin was brought out.
With some regret, she watched as the pallbearers made ready to bear the casket to the grave. It was a work of art, and, joy! It had been left open. The corpse inhabiting it was magnificent as well, stiff and pale— the rigor mortis had long since set in, and the body had taken on a delightfully white hue. Morticia found, however, that she could not spare the cadaver more than a glance or two; her attention remained centered on the alluring man to her right.
She had to meet him.
break
The family left the grave open after they lowered the casket; it would be completely filled in later once the booby traps and explosives had been set into place. Every Addams knows that there is no challenge in robbing an unprotected grave.
They met across the grave of Balthazar; he was planning the layout for the explosives, she placing thorny stems—devoid of any petals—on the ground before the hole.
The whisper of her dress as it slid along the ground drew his attention to her. She was even more breathtaking up close, pure white in the pale light of the moon.
He walked around the grave to greet her and bowed deeply, placing his hand over his heart and sweeping low before her.
"I am Gomez Addams," he stated, his eyes seeking hers as he returned to a standing position.
"I am Morticia Frump." She extended a pale, elegant hand, which Gomez took. He raised it to his mouth, his eyes never leaving hers. She shivered slightly as his lips touched her hand, caressing the soft skin with his mouth.
Gomez reveled at the feeling of her hand beneath his lips—satin against his mouth. Unhurriedly he released her hand, and Morticia brought it back to her side.
"It is a lovely night, isn't it," Morticia remarked, flexing the hand that still tingled from his touch. She tilted her head to gaze at the moon, its silver light reflecting off of her dark eyes. "It's perfect for werewolves." She smiled slightly, and crossed her arms at her waist.
"That it is," Gomez agreed, glancing up at the silver orb. "It's a shame that my Uncle Ulric had to miss such a wonderful funeral."
A low howl cut through the air, raising goose bumps on Morticia's arms and stirring up the hair at the back of Gomez's neck. Both shivered appreciatively.
"I take my words back!" Gomez said, animated. "It appears he made it after all!"
"He sounds quite personable," Morticia said conversationally, listening to the continuous howls with a content smile resting on her lips.
"He is a fine specimen, to be sure! His eyes are amber in the darkest of nights, and his fangs are twice as long as my finger." Gomez looked mischievous. "You should see him after he transforms."
He offered Morticia his arm. "Would you walk with me, Tish?" The name came out without his meaning it to, and he hastened to amend his slip of the tongue. "That is, if I may call you Tish?" he inquired.
She took his arm, fingernails lightly scratching his skin as she curled her fingers around his arm. Eyes glinting in the moonlight, she answered both of his questions simultaneously. "Certainly."
Together they strolled around the graveyard, stepping from grave to grave, pausing to examine the more gruesome grave markers. Morticia stopped next to a dignified marble headstone, lightly running her fingers across the face of the stone hunchback that adorned it.
"And who was this?" she inquired, resting her hand atop the figure's head.
"Ah! That would be Jean, a great-uncle on my father's side. He was incredibly fond of ballistics and explosions—blew himself to smithereens." Gomez looked fondly at the statue.
"A man ahead of his time," Morticia commented, withdrawing her hand.
They continued their walk, aimlessly wandering from grave to grave, studying the final resting places of generations of Addamses.
Gomez paused next to a particularly magnificent statue, that of a granite woman who loomed above all the others.
"That is my Great-aunt Lavinia," he said. "She was beheaded by her own children."
Morticia allowed a small smile to play around her mouth. "How romantic."
"Isn't it?" Gomez remarked. "Poor Uncle Roderick…he was unfortunate enough to escape them."
Morticia sighed. "C'est la vie," she said, eyeing Roderick's headstone sympathetically.
Gomez stiffened. He didn't know why, but those words…they were killing him, setting his entire being aflame. "Tish," he murmured, seizing her hand. "That's French…"
"Oui," she purred, delicately raising an eyebrow in response to his reaction.
Before Gomez knew what he was doing, he had brought her hand to his mouth again, caressing the soft skin with his lips. "Say something else, Tish," he breathed, moving his free hand to encircle her waist. "Anything."
She raised her free hand, running the back across his cheek. "Mon cher…" The words flowed from her mouth on their own accord, circulating through the air to filter up to caress his ears.
Gomez was like a man possessed, his mouth leaving a trail of fire along her arm. "Tish," he murmured again, this time into her neck. "When you speak French, I lose control." How did she have this power over him? All of his life, he had been the one in charge, yet here he was reduced to a quivering mass at a single word uttered by her melodious voice.
"I noticed, mon cher," she said, eyes alight with amusement and passion. The power she held was seductive, drawing her into its gaping maw. She could not resist its call.
He growled softly and lifted his head to bring his eyes level with hers. Her hand moved to trace his jaw line, and he turned slightly to place a light kiss on her palm. She allowed him to sit like that for a minute before she moved, shifting her hand so that it rested on his chest.
The hand on her waist tightened, and he brought its partner to rest on the back of her pale neck.
Her deep eyes bored into his as their faces drew closer, and then were obscured as they fluttered closed.
Their lips met, melding together.
She was supine in his grasp, her lips soft and insistent against his. They fit perfectly together, he noticed. Her hand rested on his face, her nails digging lightly into his skin as he moved his mouth against hers.
He held her tightly, his mouth both teasing and demanding, resolute in his ardor. His hands were warm weights on her neck and waist, his lips enticing and unrelenting. She savored the feeling of his kiss, of him. He was danger and comfort, death and life.
They broke apart, he fervent, she composed: both were breathless. His eyes were filled with a burning love and desire that only increased as he gazed at her. She stood before him in her black dress and white skin, breathtaking in the ethereal light of the moon.
Her gaze held much the same as his, a passion and love that were very thinly veiled.
"Morticia," Gomez breathed, the slight tremor in his voice betraying his passion and longing. Taking her hands in his, he drew her once again into his embrace.
She freed one hand from his hold, bringing it to trail lightly down his chest. "Gomez," she said, her tone slightly questioning.
With the hint of a smile, he dropped down onto one knee, clasping the hand still in his possession between both of his. "Cara mia," he asked, the endearment flowing readily from his lips, "will you marry me?" he asked.
"Oh, Gomez," she said, and smiled outright, "I thought you would never ask."
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