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Title: His All, His Everything
Rating: PG-13, maybe a touch higher
Characters/Pairings: Gomez/Morticia
Summary: on a balcony in the moonlight, while inside they play the Devil's Waltz
Wordcount: 1261
Notes: warning for schmoop, and a touch of blood. Well, it is the Addams.
His All, His Everything
He watched her as she stood in the moonlight, the silver glow shining in her corpse-pale skin, her eyes like black pits in the shadows from her midnight hair. Inside, the violins whirled with madcap abandon, a screeching tour through the Devil's Waltz that drove the dancers to pulsating madness, but here, in the hollow night, in the presence of her unearthly beauty, it was as though a veil of stillness had been drawn over the world. And inside that silent, awed bubble, Gomez looked on his love, and was lost.
There was none such as her in all the world, he thought. In any world. No woman or man to match her dark radiance, no creature to touch the bewitching curve of her smile, the deathly allure of her midnight gaze. No woman alive or dead could compare to the bloodless perfection of her skin, or the wine-red intoxication of a drop of her life-blood. No star could outshine the sharpness of her teeth as she smiled, no shadow contain the vibrant tendrils of her hair. Morticia was a thing beyond, unearthly, darkly divine, a goddess bathed in the blood of her ardent suitor, drinking him as he died in ecstasy.
No better death could Gomez imagine than that, and it would be his, he knew. For she was his, this terrible, beautiful creature, his to have and to hold, to love in life and in death, with every drop of love and passion in his heart. And such love he had! He had never known such love as he felt for her, never thought he could pour so much of himself, all of himself, so readily into the grasp of one person. But for her ... everything. Anything. All he was and more, he meant to give to her, his witchly goddess. Blood, sinew and bone, life and heart and soul. Everything he was and more, to the woman who had given him love, who had given him the lives of his children, who had set fire to his blood and sown magic in his heart.
His Morticia. His querida.
As if sensing his regard, or at last deigning to respond, she turned in that moment, a shifting slide of shadow and gleaming skin, a flash of smile as dark eyes fixed upon him. Gomez caught his breath at the sight, feeling the mad whirl of the Devil's Waltz begin to pound in his veins, the drumbeat of his heart that answered to one call, and one call alone. Hers.
She smiled, holding out a waxy, elegant hand towards him, and he could not restrain himself even a moment. He barely felt his body's lunge across the intervening space, conscious only that he had reached her, feeling only the cold, intoxicating caress of her skin on his lips, the burn of her lace sleeve against them like the burning of the fire in his soul. Ardent, passionate, feeling the flex of alabaster muscle as her arm curved possessively around his head, he kissed his worshipful way up her arm, behind her head, fingers sliding through hair that snatched and curled around them in painful caress, moving over the soft round of her pale, pale shoulders, down the other arm into her embrace, the chill warmth of it, the void-like calm that held him safe as a babe, wondering as a child.
“Cara mia,” he whispered, throaty, undone, his heart in his mouth for her to take and smash as she pleased.
“Mon cher,” she whispered back, dark and predatory and adoring, and reached in to take that heart between her lips, and swallow it with a wicked smile while her eyes shone softly into his. He moaned, fierce and impassioned, her every touch a madness to him, her kiss an engulfing flame. She laughed, a bubbling, purring sensation that carried through the kiss into the core of him, touched his soul with its glee and spun away, dancing, into the love that swam inside him. He moved into her, arms tugging her close, sweeping her low, feeling the curve of that spine as it bent beneath him in passionate supplication, a goddess bowing for a mortal man, a gift no other man would ever know.
The thought moved like a howl through him, like the roar of a hurricane, the thunder of an earthquake. Mine, it roared, fierce and terrible in possession, maddened with the scent of her surrender, his Morticia, his goddess, his beloved. Mine! His to touch, his to hold, his to drive beneath him with all the power he could muster. His to cherish, his to love, his to belong to for all eternity. Mine, he whispered, and she smiled.
Dizzy, breathless as the kiss broke, almost blue without air, the tinge so beautiful, so divine on those milky features, she smiled up at him, all the darkness of the world in her eyes, smoldering beneath his gaze. He gasped, helpless before it, before her majesty, her terrible, deathly beauty.
“Gomez?” she asked, a curve of blood-stained lips, a raising of elegant eyebrow. He growled, and bent low to bite those lips again, to taste her, to drink her. She gasped, arching into him, trusting all her weight to his strength as her feet lifted to drum against his legs, a sharp, beautiful pain. “Oh! Mon cher, what is it? Oh!”
“Querida,” he growled, nuzzling those torn lips, licking that wicked mouth. “Cara mia, if only they knew!”
“Mmmm,” she murmured, delicate tongue darting out to catch his, pulling him in, pushing him away, tasting herself in him. He shuddered, gasped. “Who, mon cher?”
“If only they ... ah! ... if only they knew what black pleasure it is,” he began, striving to speak, to draw words from a mind drowned in her, in the weight of her in his arms, the curve of her body against his, the tang of her blood in his mouth. “What pleasure it is to be ... to be your slave, to love you ... Cara mia! All the men in the world would lay siege to our door!”
She paused then, went still and quiet as a corpse in his arms, her sinuous weight limp against him as her eyes found his and dove beneath his surface, her soul questing inside his, a rich, terrible invasion. He opened himself with a silent cry, torn wide for her pleasure, his soul hers to plunder. She dove inside, searching, seeking, the searing pressure of her presence boiling his blood within his veins. She searched, and found what she sought, the rich, black tide of possessiveness, of jealousy, of adoration and passion and bone deep love he held for her, his all, his everything. She found it within him, and flowered inside him in answer, a dark bloom of love and pride and possession. Her all. Her everything. Soul to soul, body to body, they bloomed together in the night beneath the moonlight, statues in a graveyard forever bound together, flowering with poisonous beauty. The world shattered in that moment, a still and silent screaming, and they stood entwined at its heart, uncaring.
And then, in the passing of one breath to the next, it was over, and Gomez once more stood on a balcony, Morticia in his arms, her eyes meeting his as her bloodied mouth curved into a smile. “Gomez,” she promised, quiet as the grave, her arms curling around his neck. “They would lay siege in vain.”
And his laughter whirled out into the night, carried with the Devil's Waltz on the breath of a dark and beautiful goddess.
