A/N: Edited & reposted because I am a retard. This is my drabble for the Addams Family Short Fanfiction Contest, it's a Morticia/Gomez fic, as promised. The theme is taken from a very familiar children's story, see if you can figure it out (it's painfully obvious). Now, there is a large dose of sensuality with it being Morticia & Gomez, this fic would be damned out of character if there wasn't, so it's slightly saucy. I'd give it a good, solid PG-13 rating. There is also a tad French involved (duh), but I will post the translation in my ending note.
Enjoy, beloved Addams minions.
P.S: Flames shall only add to the Hell fire that consumes my domain.
An Addams' Fairytale
Grandma Addams sat upon her crooked stool as she mixed the concoction in her cauldron with an old, knotted, wooden staff. The potion's steam flowed out of the cauldron's rim like the fog of a swamp with its dank and musky mists.
“Morticia, I'm brewing a mixture for the Lupus Vulgaris curse and I need you to go into the woods to pick some Lymph berries.”
Morticia left her mother's room and headed for the cloakroom. Sashaying down the stairs, she smoothed out her black dress; the side-split almost exposing the laced tip of her stocking.
One white hand ghosted along each cloak; neatly hung up on their ornate, polished pegs. Her fingers paused at the midnight blue cloak. She often draped it around her like the vale of the night's sky, but instead, she lifted a lustrous red cloak fashioned from velvet. Whisking the cloak around her body with elegant ease, she tied the ribbon securely across her collarbone.
Grabbing a wicker basket and raising her hood, she stepped out of the mansion; unsuspecting of the pair of eyes watching her leave.
The scent of the graveyard air enveloped her senses with its moldy, mossy vapors. Passing the tombs and headstones of ancestors long dead, half dead and undead, she made her way beyond the graves and into the thick density of trees and bushes that comprised the woods.
Finding it increasingly difficult to move around, her arm hauled her dress through the side-split along with her cloak; bunching them awkwardly into a bundle under her arm, fully exposing her legs. Swiveling around the gnarled branches, she could see the Lymph berries up ahead; growing near a thicket past a waist-high row of thick, thorny shoots.
Reveling in the sensations of thorns tearing through her stockings, slashing her skin and drawing fresh blood, she finally reached the thicket. Thin, nimble fingers plucked the poisonous fruits from their tough, turgid stems; filling the basket to the brim. Unable to resist, she plucked a berry and placed it in her mouth; cherishing the sour flavors that flooded over her tongue, stinging her taste buds like venom-tipped razors.
Gliding back through the thorns and the ancient, twisted shrubs, she strolled along the graveyard once more. She whistled a familiar tune as she walked, clicking her fingers twice after every few beats. She faintly noticed her solo had turned into a duet; the corresponding whistling impeccably in tune. As she paused and glanced around the graves, the melody quickly dissipated into the crisp, frosted air. Wide, brown eyes settled upon a large tombstone forged from granite with a statuette of a goblin atop its peak.
A sultry smile slipped onto blood red lips as the figure stepped into the moonlight.
Gomez sauntered towards her; adorned in a black, velvet suit; the hair at the sides of his head styled outward like the ears of an animal, a rueful smile on his own lips.
“And where might you be going, my dear?”
Morticia cast her eyes downward, black lashes contrasting against ghoulishly pale skin, appearing shy.
“I'm on my way to Grandma's.”
With fixed, unflinching eyes, Gomez kneeled before her upon the damp earth. Breathing raggedly, he slipped a hand behind her calf and traced the nylon ladders with his tongue; savoring the coppery taste of her bloody flesh, eyes slipping closed.
Licking his lips, he hooked one arm behind her knees and the other around her ribs; raising her body close to his chest. Gazing upon her pallid face, her hood tipped back. He lowered his head; brushing against the high cheekbones and exquisitely defined jawline. Nudging her head back, he nipped sharply at the delicate flesh of her neck.
Gomez lifted his head to take her mouth with his own, the delectably sour taste of Lymph berry spreading over his tongue; bringing his attention to her basket.
“I'm afraid I cannot let you go, ma petite fille.”
“Oh, mon grand, mauvais loup...”
French translations: Ma petite fille = My little girl.
Mon grand, mauvais loup = My big, bad wolf.
Comments and reviews are always welcome.