Peonies

She remembers how naïve she truly once was, as she stands ever graceful, ever adorned with a superior elegance, in the small annexe that serves as a greenhouse- merely tending to some of the plants that have grossly flourished over the summer. She draws out a long, hollow sigh as her unsettlingly spindly fingers lace around a particular flower, a peony. It is soon decapitated, and her conservatory looks a little more macabre, a little more bearable, than it perhaps did before. She plucks up the strength to prune a few more, wondering how on earth it could have gotten into such a state of colourful disarray, when she had simply neglected it for a few weeks.

At first she hardly thinks the few weeks of domestic disregard in favour of languid bliss is worth an entire day's work. She quickly backtracks upon that train of thought when her reverie stumbles across a beautifully delicious memory of solidly warm flesh; heavily blurred with blinding passion that momentarily halts her, giving the delicate flower that stems from her slight fingers a moment of hope. The hope is quickly snatched away, however, as its executioner mentally scolds herself for allowing such a distraction to enter her head when there are other... things to ponder over.

Morticia is newly married, and still, even to such a wonderfully wicked mind as her own, the thought of love making- as wild and as passionate as her first experiences are with Gomez- are bizarrely still awkward to think of. Indeed, she knows herself now to no longer be as naïve as she was before her wedding night, but it is extraordinary to think that someone, a man, has seen her stripped bear of all her clothes, of all her façades. For all her womanly wiles, all the times she emotionally seduced him during their secret courtship; standing as bare as a candid canvas in front of him for the first time, had seen her confidence falter somewhat. Of course she's had other suitors, a man would be stupid not to be enraptured with her enthralling beauty, her seductive mannerisms; but Gomez Addams is something other-worldly. He's sauve and sophisticated, passionate and lustful... what woman wouldn't be deeply affected by him?

She knows how severely he affects her, and she loathes it. No other man has made her quite so desirous, so enamoured, but in all honesty she wants him to quiver under her touch. Their first few exploraions of each other have been relatively unadventurous, each wondering how comfortable they really are with the other. She knows now, with her in the condition she is, playing safe is no longer an option.

Suddenly it strikes her, just as her husband saunters into the room, leaning curiously against the door frame, "Cara mia? You seem troubled?"

Morticia turns slowly to face him, quizzical eyebrow arched, as she snips the head off one of the roses growing on the rose bush he bought her a few weeks previously. She pauses deliberately, searching for the right words, "I do? Forgive me, mon petit bon homme, I am not quite myself today."

"Oh, Tish..." he groans aloud, lurching from the doorway towards her, encircling her in a possessive embrace as he lips begin to attack the exposed skin of her neck.

She smirks in satisfaction, gratified by his irrational craving for her as soon as anything French leaves her lips. Dismissively, Morticia twists around, her attention once again focused on the hideous peonies that adorn her plant pots, "Oui, Bubula?"

It sends him over the edge. He growls something inaudible, though evidently not in English, and his teeth gently bite into her soft skin. She resists the urge to cry out asshe usually does, instead a low, demonic hiss is torn from her throat. She pauses, feeling Gomez stiffen against her. She places her secateurs down on the soil dusted sideboard, before picking up a single peony, her fingers teasing its head with a leathally real threat. She tears the head off with disturbing glee, knowing full well Gomez can see every move from his vantage point at her shoulder.

"Ti Desidero," He simply mutters with renewed vehemence, although he is somewhat thrown by her recent behaviour, it being a little out of character, "My darling, what's gotten into you?"

"What on earth do you mean?" She glances at him over her shoulder.

"Do I no longer drive you wild, querido?"

Morticia sighs, placing the stem of the peony down, its disembodied head tumbling to the floor, "But of course you do, my dearest Gomez, it's just I find... myself no longer in control, and I despise it."

"Oh Morticia, you have more control over me than anyone, anything, upon this abysmal planet!" He cries, merely drawing her closer.

He misunderstands her, but she muses that it is probably for the best, she's not entirely sure she wants him to know that she no longer feels in power of her own sexuality, at least, not when they are in the confines of their bedroom. It's one of the many things she will gradually change over the years, and by the time little Wednesday's born, the transformation from girl to woman is complete.

She will no longer let him dominate the bedroom.

With her new found confidence and drive, she contentedly continues with her gardening, ignoring his new exploration of her skin.

"Are you sure, Cara mia, nothing else is bothering you?" He mumbles into the thick smooth of hair that cascades down her back.

"Oh, but of course, I almost forgot," Morticia allows a brief smile to grace her lips; she takes one of his roving hands and places it on the near-visible curve of her abdomen, "You're going to be a wonderfully awful father."

He tenses and turns deathly pale with the unexpectedness of the news, and for once she feels like she's finally in power.

Oh! How she likes it.

Reviews s'il te plait!

I know it's a little random, but I was desperate to write something.

GPR