ADDAMS.

IT'S FAMILY FIRST AND FAMILY LAST. AND FAMILY BY THE BY.

[morticane]

MORTICANE   :     a    dying    woman     only     listens     to     the     sound      of      her      own      laughter           [  …  ]       darling,      i     always     wear    black.       THIS     MORNING,     WHEN     I     WOKE     UP,     THE       SKIES       WERE       ALL       GREY       AND       CLOUDY     !   ───────      i       knew       right       then       and       there         that         it         was         going         to         be         a         lovely         day.    

#MORTICANE           an        extremely        private        blog        for       MORTICIA           ADDAMS           from           assorted           addams       family        media.           seduced           by           elliot           (           THEY           +           HE           ).  

RULES + MUSES.          INTEREST TRACKER.          MEMES.          STARTER CALL.

[woednesdayaddams]

♱ starter for @morticane

tiny sized predator enters the room and sneaks upon her mother, as quietly as possible. she doesn't blink nor is she breathing ﹘ it has to be a surprise. otherwise, what is she even doing? hand reaches out, grabbing morticia's piece of clothing, carefully analyzing her movements. a sigh follows. she gives up. torturing pugsley ended hasty and along with it, her disposition.

“mother, i can't believe i was brought to this position and to say the following is truly agonizing,” she whines, taking a seat to next to her mother. lot of thoughts are plaguing wednesday, yet none as important as losing her interest in toying with her siblings. “but i'm afraid i no longer have macabre interests.” she almost throws her hands in the air in defeat. she feels sick. “sure, pugsley's locked in the bathroom and i used etherum gas through the ventilation shaft to induce hallucinations and possibly knock him out. but it no longer feels right... am i... sick?”

[morticane]

woednesdayaddams​:

♱ starter for @morticane

tiny sized predator enters the room and sneaks upon her mother, as quietly as possible. she doesn’t blink nor is she breathing ﹘ it has to be a surprise. otherwise, what is she even doing? hand reaches out, grabbing morticia’s piece of clothing, carefully analyzing her movements. a sigh follows. she gives up. torturing pugsley ended hasty and along with it, her disposition.

“mother, i can’t believe i was brought to this position and to say the following is truly agonizing,” she whines, taking a seat to next to her mother. lot of thoughts are plaguing wednesday, yet none as important as losing her interest in toying with her siblings. “but i’m afraid i no longer have macabre interests.” she almost throws her hands in the air in defeat. she feels sick. “sure, pugsley’s locked in the bathroom and i used etherum gas through the ventilation shaft to induce hallucinations and possibly knock him out. but it no longer feels right… am i… sick?”

a mother lion will often lay down their heads to let their pups pretend to hunt.    she does this for wednesday   :       one of pugsley’s burned shirts is in her hands.     she weaves it into little strips of cloth for the kitchen,    as it would be a waste otherwise.       she jumps exaggeratedly when wednesday’s hand touches at her.        do you know how i knew you were with me?     a mother always knows.    shadow of a girl,   she had once clung to morticia,   stealing black dresses and lipstick smears.    she places the cloth down and turns in her chair,   hands settling in her lap.     ‘   make sure you don’t let the door creak when you’re sneaking.   ’

she reached out a hand to run lightly across wednesday’s hair.   a sigh leaves her,  endlessly fond.     ‘   you went through the same thing when you were six,  my dear.   beheading dolls no longer gave you that macabre kick.   you simply have to think bigger   --    to let yourself grow.    ’

[morticane]

damn hi wednesday fandom

[morticane]

its honestly morticia’s month can we show some respect

[morticane]

childactress​:

the rot reveals itself before morticia:   mara is a ghastly shape of a woman,  all weakness and eyeliner scars where her spring-summer heart should be   (     but trauma takes its course,  the occupational hazard of stardom rearing its head.  her regrets are few but permanent nonetheless.  for better or for worse,  she wouldn’t be the wilted mara of today without them.  she certainly wouldn’t be here,  a broken bird flocked to a new nest   –   stranger danger rolled over dead a long time ago     ).  still,  she doesn’t flinch at the sweep of morticia’s palm.  it feels too tender to tear away,  and too new to celebrate.     ❝  well,  gomez sounds like a real keeper.  lucky you.  ❞     mara sweeps past the matter,  curiosity unshared:  names always make conversations feel too real.  rarely does she linger on good news,  on the impressions of joy skating her by and blessing someone else.  happy endings are only palatable to her on-screen:   a fictional mr. and mrs.,  bound in forever by a screenwriter’s busy hand and the same ninety-minute runtime.  there,  there’s nothing mara can want for.  there’s nothing mara can grieve.     ❝  but for the record,  i’m not waiting for anyone,  ❞     she feels the need to say.  she stands dutifully,  following morticia along and filling the air with the chatter of her nerves.     ❝  i’m exceedingly happy on my own.  modern,  independent,  liberated woman and all that.  seriously,  i’m good.  ❞

morticia’s heart grows cold at the thought of gomez        (      it is the surge of fondness that cannot be suppressed for long,      the ache and burden of a happiness that overwhelms her   :       she likes when it love comes with a pinch of salt,   with a bite that tears open the swooning meat of her heart        ---       what is love,   if not a scalpel to all that is tender?       ).        everyone,  after all,   has a soulmate,   though one might spend their entire life looking for it.    cassandra and her cut out eyes,    helen of troy and a ruthless war,    madea and the knife she used.   gomez is her knife,  her agony,   her tremendous grief   :      he is as familiar to her as a scar.       ‘   he isn’t in right now,   ’     she sighs,  holding the ache of her heart in her palm.    when she touches the chambers just right,   they begin to scream in perplexed mutiny.     ‘   oh,   but you must come back for dinner one night.   we throw the most lavish of parties--     guillermo the rotten once said that it was the most exciting night of his life.   and we know just what debauchery he’s seen.   ’     a shared wink,   inviting mara into the joke.    she tilts her head,  considering the little flower’s declaration.     ‘   why,  of course.   you’re still so young.   why would you not have your taste of the napoleons and the alexanders before settling for someone a little quieter?   ’

[morticane]

childactress​:

family is a dark alley’s allure,  the same appeal as a wasp’s nest,  as a road lined in thorns     (     and mara,  ripped from her fairytale too young,  has always indulged in the danger.  she thinks of her father and knows she’ll cry of the want,  she yanks the familial bandage off and lets herself scream with the shock,  just to remind that there’s a voice somewhere underneath the time gone by     ).   she hurries herself beyond a nod.     ❝   mhm,  the guillotine,  i was gonna say the same thing.   ❞     with little more than a surprised breath,  she surrenders her hand to morticia,  skin moving bright and fast like a lightning bolt.     ❝   sure,  i guess i could do with a great love or two.   ❞     her mother married young,  signing away her adult life with a happy hand;  mara doesn’t envy that kind of decision-making.  on her wedding day she’ll carry a bouquet of silver linings,  thread from sob stories and her favorite headlines she’s ever read.  until then:     ❝   but i’m not worried,  really.  i’m just kinda shopping around right now,  y’know?  me and my winning…  complexion.   ❞     she chokes on the idea of the future,  as vague and as far away as she needs it to be.  everything is held at arm’s length:  a tomorrow,  a commitment,  lifelong promises that she’ll do it right this time.  silently,  she’s thankful for morticia’s patience.     ❝   yeah,  okay,  let’s see it.   ❞

shopping around     --     ah,  the unkempt dandelions of youth,   spilling their bright petals against mara’s dark past       (       she skims headlines of the macabre and the unusual   :       she knows there were once a wedded couple that perished and left behind two young starlettes,    their beaks twisted into bullets and their spines snapped beneath the weight of the presses’ cool disregard      ...      her heart enjoyed a brutal tragedy,     but some cruelty was just too much for her       ).    as she stands,  she brushes an absent hand over mara’s hair      --      she looks so much like wednesday did before she left home,  vacant dithering staunching the flow of her movements.   she had been filled with a potential that must be released through bloodshed and torment   :     the metaphorical severing of the veil.    perhaps she sees parallels only because she is desperate to do so.     two black - haired girls dropped on her doorstep by an unknown stork     --     baskets could bring omens just as easily as tidings.     ‘   why,  of course.   it’s a hard time out there for young ladies.    so many rotten dishes to be eaten!     i’ve always said you must save yourself for the man you want to be beheaded with,   because you never know when that lucky day will come.   of course,  my courtship with gomez was rather fast.   one must act quickly when the man of your nightmares is engaged to your sister.   ’    her smile is secretive as she gestures for mara to stand with her.    ‘   the closets are this way,   dearest bedbug.   ’

[morticane]

vamporn​:

𝖆        𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙        𝖌𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖑,        𝖆       𝖗𝖚𝖒𝖇𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌        𝖍𝖚𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗        …       ‘   a        man        after        my        own        heart.   ’        creature        to        creature,        blood        to        blood   :        here,        he       feels        at        rest,        red        velvet        in       exchange        for        spider   -   web        smiles.        black   -   lacquered        fingers        curl        as        an        underline        around        the        hem        of        his        dinner        jacket   ;        nursing        throaty        laughter,        laszlo        draws        himself        up,        all        vainglory        and        velvet        vanity.        ‘   paintings,        i’ve        sat        for.        busts,        i’ve        merely        fondled     …     but        i’m        a       quick        learner,        my        dear.   ’

hands are clasped as she takes in the joke   :       the laughter she returns is all morose glee       (        to invite a monster into one’s home might be unsavoury,   if one’s home hadn’t been built for monsters      --      she keeps this place as a sort of haven,   welcoming in night creatures with motherly hands       ).      ‘   delightful,    ’     she settles on,  with a forgiving nod of her head.    her hand reaches out,   pale flesh meeting cold touch,   to clasp at his own   :      she has met so many strange beings    --     but kindness is what she searched for above all else,  despite what fangs and claws might follow.     ‘   let me show you some of our art.  then perhaps you’ll let me sketch you?   ’

[morticane]

vamporn​:

@morticane​ :   has anyone ever told you you look just like a statue?     *

it’s     a     statue     that     stands     before     him,     ₐₗₐbₐₛₜₑᵣ ₋ cₐᵣᵥₑd     ₐₙd     cₗₒₐₖₑd     ᵢₙ     ₙᵢgₕₜ,     her     mouth     a     bloody     kiss.     (   𝖙𝖍𝖊     𝖛𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊     𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖊𝖓𝖘 :     ʇsɐǝq     pǝ̖ɓuıʍ     uıɐʌ     ǝɯos     …     salivating     at     the     scent     of     flattery   )     ‘ not     in     a     long     time,     though     i’ll     happily     pose     nude     if     you’d     like     to     erect     one. ’     his     words     are     as     habitually     provocative     as     they     are     sincere     in     their     salaciousness.     ₜₕₑ     ₛₕₐdₒw     ₒf     ₐ     ₛₘᵢᵣₖ     plays     pianissimo     upon     full     and     hungry     lips,     𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖊𝖉     𝖔𝖓𝖑𝖞     𝖇𝖞     𝖙𝖍𝖊     𝖙𝖊𝖑𝖑 - 𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖊     𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖙     𝖔𝖋     𝖋𝖆𝖓𝖌.

the mythology of the addams house does not disappoint,  with its yawning display of weapons and a design that consisted mostly of greys   :       morticia circles him with wide - eyes,  mouth painted black with a spider’s legs brew that grandmama recommended     (       somewhere in the distance,   a growl is heard,  brutal and raw      ...      poor kitty is no doubt hungry,   but she’s been put on a rather strict diet by the vet!        ).       ‘   oh,  no,  no,  gomez is much more interested in the nude body.     but your head...   ’       she raises her hands around his head.     ‘   if you’d be kind enough to let me create a bust...   ’

[morticane]

THIS LONELINESS EXISTS IN EXAGGERATION   :       she wraps her tongue around gothic hardwood and the slanted roofs of rotted futures         ...        a tour of a home that is the inverse of homely       (         to the naive stranger       --       morticia is the matronly saint of abandoned horrors,    each one crawling through the walls like half - heard shouts       ).          ‘   you will have to forgive my dearest,   darlingest pugsley.    he finds it hard to adjust to any change that isn’t entirely violent        ...       but don’t we all?       the guillotine was merely a little prank.   ’          morose tongue filled with a mourning that hasn’t quite realised itself yet   :        an ancestor hangs in a gloomy corner,   watching morticia brush dust from her dresser.         ‘   take a seat on the bed if you cannot stand the suffering of your own legs.    how funny,     that coffins resemble beds so very closely.   ’        @childactress

[morticane]

childactress​:

❛❛   well,  aren’t you two a love story for the ages?   ❜❜     bitterness clips,  clips,  clips like it always does,  scraping her voice with a razor blade and leaving it raw.   sentiment’s never sat right with her    –    that’s hollywood talking,  bright eyes dimmed by twenty-some years of heartbreak and scandal.   better women have tried to emerge untouched,  kicked their stilettos into glass ceilings and only managed to get themselves cut on the shards left behind     (     that’s mara talking,  filing her failures under the universal disillusion of the system.   she is exceptional until she isn’t,  singular until she isn’t,  a cog or the machine,  depending on the day.     ).     ❛❛   y’know,  i bet we could ask.   ❜❜     she sighs and lets on a see-through smile,  then shakes it away.     ❛❛   god,  no.   i don’t even wear whites.   i mean,  like,  jewel tones.   winter tones.   i mean,  what you’re doing now works.   ❜❜     emphatically,  her palms hover over morticia,  a careful gesture at her dress,  make-up,  general air of gloom and doom.     ❛❛   but you’re gorgeous now.   you might not be forever.   have fun with it!   bleach your hair,  get a tattoo,  i don’t know,  do whatever you want.   if you don’t like it,  just do somethin’ different the next day.   and if you really don’t like it,  you can have the honor and privilege of calling me up and telling me to go fuck myself for the idea.   who could turn that down?   ❜❜

if bitterness is noticed,   it is not mentioned.   morticia’s smile stretches wide and empty at the declaration   :      she has always felt the love she shared with gomez was special     (     but decorum dictates all and she knows not to brag about the gifts she had always been so fond of     ...       life had given her much and asked for little in return     ).      ‘   we don’t like to brag.    my great aunt was prone to bragging,  and,  well,   the french dealt with her how they’ve always dealt with their usses.   ’      she lies a hand against her throat in foreboding,   before shaking her head to rid herself of such thoughts.     ‘   of course,  i’ve always admired the guillotine,  but i confess i think it’d work better for torture than murder.    far too quick and easy otherwise.   ’      this seems like something she has put thought into.  suddenly,  jaggedly,   morticia reaches out to snatch up mara’s hand.     ‘   you’ll find your great love soon.   you have the complexion for it.     ’     the idea of change sits uncomfortably in her chest,   but her frown is only a temporary slip.   stepford smilers had often been a symbol of unhappy women   :       morticia’s grin is macabre joylessness forced into joy.    she drops mara’s hand and waves it away.     ‘    oh,   beauty doesn’t fade with age,  dear.   you should see our lovely grandma.   her wrinkles have very much set nicely into her face.     ’      of course,  that was gomez’s mother,   and what good genes they had!     ‘   but alas!    you’ve convinced me   ...   to try it.   would you like a look at my closet?    ’

[morticane]

childactress​:

❛❛   well,  aren’t you two a love story for the ages?   ❜❜     bitterness clips,  clips,  clips like it always does,  scraping her voice with a razor blade and leaving it raw.   sentiment’s never sat right with her    –    that’s hollywood talking,  bright eyes dimmed by twenty-some years of heartbreak and scandal.   better women have tried to emerge untouched,  kicked their stilettos into glass ceilings and only managed to get themselves cut on the shards left behind     (     that’s mara talking,  filing her failures under the universal disillusion of the system.   she is exceptional until she isn’t,  singular until she isn’t,  a cog or the machine,  depending on the day.     ).     ❛❛   y’know,  i bet we could ask.   ❜❜     she sighs and lets on a see-through smile,  then shakes it away.     ❛❛   god,  no.   i don’t even wear whites.   i mean,  like,  jewel tones.   winter tones.   i mean,  what you’re doing now works.   ❜❜     emphatically,  her palms hover over morticia,  a careful gesture at her dress,  make-up,  general air of gloom and doom.     ❛❛   but you’re gorgeous now.   you might not be forever.   have fun with it!   bleach your hair,  get a tattoo,  i don’t know,  do whatever you want.   if you don’t like it,  just do somethin’ different the next day.   and if you really don’t like it,  you can have the honor and privilege of calling me up and telling me to go fuck myself for the idea.   who could turn that down?   ❜❜

if bitterness is noticed,   it is not mentioned.   morticia’s smile stretches wide and empty at the declaration   :      she has always felt the love she shared with gomez was special     (     but decorum dictates all and she knows not to brag about the gifts she had always been so fond of     ...       life had given her much and asked for little in return     ).      ‘   we don’t like to brag.    my great aunt was prone to bragging,  and,  well,   the french dealt with her how they’ve always dealt with their usses.   ’      she lies a hand against her throat in foreboding,   before shaking her head to rid herself of such thoughts.     ‘   of course,  i’ve always admired the guillotine,  but i confess i think it’d work better for torture than murder.    far too quick and easy otherwise.   ’      this seems like something she has put thought into.  suddenly,  jaggedly,   morticia reaches out to snatch up mara’s hand.     ‘   you’ll find your great love soon.   you have the complexion for it.     ’     the idea of change sits uncomfortably in her chest,   but her frown is only a temporary slip.   stepford smilers had often been a symbol of unhappy women   :       morticia’s grin is macabre joylessness forced into joy.    she drops mara’s hand and waves it away.     ‘    oh,   beauty doesn’t fade with age,  dear.   you should see our lovely grandma.   her wrinkles have very much set nicely into her face.     ’      of course,  that was gomez’s mother,   and what good genes they had!     ‘   but alas!    you’ve convinced me   ...   to try it.   would you like a look at my closet?    ’

[morticane]

@childactress​

❝   uh…  the one on my dad’s side died in her sleep,  she was just old.  the other one had a heart attack,  i think.  i don’t really remember.  i was young both times,  we weren’t close.  it wasn’t really a big deal.   ❞     childhood came too crowded in cameras and friday night premieres for any other big deals.  for a long while,  the only room was reserved for mara and her flashbulb smiles,  a daughter of the arts who learned to read off of teleprompters.  she saved her mourning for the off-season   :   a sad twist of fate later,  and she spent the next fifteen years crying enough tears for every father,  mother,  and grandparent taken from the world.     ❝   hm.  mold,  yeah.   ❞     she gives it a beat of consideration,  her stare sweeping over the pair of their hands curiously.     ❝   or i can just take you to,  like,  sephora some time.   ❞     mara lifts her palm free and tucks it in her back pocket.  the spotlight’s always a welcome warmth,  her home away from home,  but the one she’s getting now is more like a magnifying glass with a lick of flame dancing over it.  mara blinks,  braving a closer look at morticia.     ❝   but really any accent color would look great on you.  maybe not yellow.  but anything else.  monochrome’s great,  but long run?  it’s not gonna do you any favors.  trust me,  i tried the all-black thing once,  and i looked like a total ghoul in half my pictures for six months straight.   ❞

morticia nods sagely,   savouring the gentle taste of every death   :       mourning is the healthiest thing a human can do       (        truly,   the most wonderful thing about a death is that it bathed the soul in new light       ...        the cleansing potential of death should be celebrated        ).       ‘   dying in one sleep’s is always a tragedy.    such potential wasted.     i’ve always much preferred the thrill of screaming out my last words.    of course,   i’d have to make sure that i’m close to gomez when i pass     ---     but there is still a lot of creativity to be found in that intimacy.    ’        a dreamy sigh leaves her at the thought.   the romance of dying side by side with her love had always struck her as romantic.    a soulmate understood that.     her head tilts fondly as she focuses back in on the situation,   on the young starlet in front of her who reeked of desperation and a haunted sense of self.     morticia would like to commission a portrait of her face   :      those wide eyes,   those expressive breakdowns        (        morticia’s aunt had been an actress before she had drowned     ).        ‘   what’s that     ...      sephora?   it sounds positively egyptian.    oh,   do they do mummification samples there?   ’       morticia’s smile is all amusement and teeth.      ‘   i don’t wear just black,   my dear.   i throw in some greys   --   and i have sampled a red or two.    are you suggesting         ...         whites?   ’

[morticane]

cultstay-a​:

“    this is your backyard?    ”           he asks with the absence of shock,    taking in the scenery around him with small glimpses over each shoulder.       ( his own backyard is something similar with absent markers and buried remains. )       thick fog licks at the stone graves and pools around his feet,     it felt like a threat to tether him there or take him under.      he thinks she must have ascended along with it.     or descended from one of the stone graves surrounding them.       SHE IS A GHOSTLY FIGURE WHOSE CLAD IN ALL BLACK,    WITH LAUGHTER SPILLING FROM UNKNOWN ORIGINS.      these are all the things that defined a haunting.       these are the things that built up a lump in his throat.     he pushed it down in a hard swallow.         “    are you related to all of them?    ”                ARE YOU A GHOST?

her smile is easy and dark,     a macabre painting of flush black spreading open like a cut wound         (       she sways closer   :       with the fog at her feet,   nature’s red carpet little more than bloodstain - aching heels,     it seems as if she is floating       ...       flight would not be the most unlikely thing to happen in her little family        ).        ‘   oh,   yes,   they’re all family.   by blood or through blood or because of blood   :       family is family.   ’       feline curiosity and motherly warmth give way to a purr of words.    a pale finger slides over his shoulder to point,  omen - like,    to the grave he stands on.       ‘   dear terrance was flayed alive for practicing witchcraft.     four days of brutal agony before his heart eventually gave in        ...       he drew it out on purpose.   such a stubborn man.   ’       there’s pride in her voice.       ‘   careful,  though.   he’s a biter.   ’

[morticane]

childactress​:

❝   ah.  yeah.  i wouldn’t know.  my grandmother died a long time ago, both of ‘em.   ❞     one of a stroke, one in her sleep.  given the choice between the two, mara would happily take the former   :   dying during your own inactivity must be a special sort of humiliation.  LET INDULGENCE TAKE HER WHEN IT’S HER TIME.  she hasn’t been digging her own grave for the past twenty years only to be limply rolled into it at the end of the road.  when her coffin comes, it’ll be wrapped in leopard print and arrive half an hour late  –  maybe some other showy homeowner’ll keep it as decor.  maybe she’ll end up a conversation piece herself   (   …and in this coffin!  female, thirty to thirty-five, once in serviceable health.  has seen better days and probably worse ones, too.   ).     ❝   sure, i like black.   ❞     she lifts the back of her hand to morticia, wiggling black-chip fingernail polish.     ❝   just like other colors, too.  people get so scared of color, like anything a shade brighter than black’ll blind you.  but i like black and blue, black and green  –  like, dark shades, i mean.  cool shades.  eye-catching but not loud.  i can help you find a full palette if you want.   ❞

morticia’s life had always been lived in pursuit of death   :       she teased herself with its inevitability,    edged towards the sweet void and carefully side - stepped its vicious touch        (        one day,  one day,   one day        ).        DEATH WAS ALWAYS JUST AROUND THE CORNER        ...        her ancestors had been lucky enough to endure all sorts of macabre endings.     burned alive for being witches,    drowned in salt - fresh oceans,    trampled by horses       --       her end was a tantalizing affair and morticia had imagined it over and over again,    worn and weary from use.      one day,   one day,   one day.         ‘   how lucky.    how did they pass?   ’        dreaminess blends easily into fluttering eyelashes and a pale hand resting against her chest,    her beating heart becoming a mockery in her chest       (       curiosity has never been sated in her   :       she hungers and bites and devours,     a watchful mouth       ).      when mara’s hand parades in front of her face,    morticia slips the hand between her own       --       the touch of the venus flytrap,   quick and deft,    brushing over the faded nail polish.        ‘   black and green can work well,   if the green is all natural.    homegrown mold is so hard to cultivate,   though,    you have to dedicate yourself to it,    like a child.   ’

[morticane]

@cultstay       ...        my tolerance for being freaked out is pretty high.

the graveyard ripples around them,    a haunting fog running over the stone idols   :       when she grins,   she shows too many teeth       (       do not let this make you hesitate to approach       --       most of the teeth aren’t hers,   after all       ).     her hair hangs like a black cape down her back,    her dress flowing around her waist like shadows.     there is laughter coming from her left,   but it does not spill from her own mouth.    IT COMES FROM THE DYING GRASS AROUND THEM,    FROM THE CORPSES STILL TURNING IN THEIR GRAVES:     there are three types of people in this forbidden land       ...      the living,  the dead,   and the undecided.        ‘   why does everyone always assume i’m trying to freak them out?     you’re the one who stumbled into my backyard.   ’

[morticane]

talbite​:

 this     place     does     not     welcome     life.     death     is     etched     into     the     very     marrow     of     its     bones     …     MONSTER     KNOWS     MONSTER.     the     blood   -   and   -   metal     pain   -   creatures     that     make     their     home     here     loom     out     of     the     shadows,     seek     the     warm     embrace     of     flesh.     ‘   oh,     what     the     hell     is     this,     some     kind     of     torture     chamber?   ’     monster     knows     monster   :     claw   -   writing     on     the     wall,     an     ode     to     imprisonment.     ‘   do     you     keep     animals     locked     away     in     here?   ’     the     woman     beside     him     cloaks     herself     in     the     night,     a     mother     of     terror     and     of     wolf     pups     with     blood     and     milk     smeared     upon     their     maws.     here     among     the     horrors     woven     into     the     eaves,     among     those     who     understand     what     a     beast     can     be,     both     man     and     wolf     are     home. 

the wolf seems content to bite   :       morticia knows his maw must ache in unfulfilled relish       (       how many meals had slipped between those fangs of his?       how much had he failed to catch?       MONSTER KNOWS MONSTER        ...       and hunger calls to hunger like a filthy promise,   vibrating along the column of her chest        ).       she wipes dust from the brick windowsill,    the long bones of prison bars blotting out the light.       ‘   you poor thing,   ’       she sighs,   but it sounds like a scold.    SHE CAUTIONS IN ANY OTHER WORDS BUT THE TRUTH   :       beware on sweeter tongues,   bathed in the language of decorum.       ‘   this is where we keep things that might bite.    how lucky you’ve found yourself in here,  then       ...       considering your rather obvious predicament.     do stop me if i speak out of turn.   ’

[morticane]

childactress​:

THE HARDEST PART OF HER JOB     :     ASSIMILATION.     the multi-step system begins with a reintroduction to the world,  and most often ends in a hushedly polite goodbye.     socialization is her strong suit,  less so when she’s made to do it soberly          —          and less so when she feels she’s being set up for a bad punchline at every turn.          ❝     ah,  i’d hate to put grandmother out,  then.     ❞          her brows lift along with the bite of her voice.     warily,  she looks back and over her shoulder.     a spiderweb clings to a corner of the ceiling,  empty drapery with a spider nowhere close by     (     mara fills in the rest of the scene herself     :     the spider crawls and crawls until it’s crawled its way to her,  and even as she stares into an empty web,  she can’t help herself from drawing her palm over her knee to swat nothing away.     ).          ❝     naturally.     ❞          right in place of her california twang,  subtle but natural enough,  mara lets her voice drawl in an indulgent impression,  all for her own amusement’s sake.     a swing and a miss     ;     she clears her throat and faces morticia again.          ❝     uh,  you ever think about introducing some more color?     like,  even just one more?     ❞

this house is an infestation   :        you can never walk far without meeting a horrible little bug trying to crawl upon your skin,    creatures leaking from the walls with wide - spread smiles and too many legs        (        the only thing that keeps dearest wednesday from being a spider is the fact she doesn’t quite have enough limbs for it       ...       but everyone is subject to faults,   of course,   and morticia has learned to be forgiving with her own children        ).        ‘   grandmother is more than content to sleep in the graveyard.    HONESTLY,   SHE’D TAKE ANY EXCUSE TO SLEEP LIKE THE DEAD       ...       we’re thinking of getting her a little tomb for her hundredth and eighteenth birthday present.    ah,   but it’s so difficult to figure out what they want after they pass into their hundreds   :       such a special time of a rather specific decay.   ’        morticia cherishes every word like she’s trying to drink it.    a spider crawls from the vanity across her knuckles and morticia plucks the creature into her palm,     feeling its spindly legs begin to twitch at her wrist.        ‘   black is a classic.    don’t you agree?   ’

[morticane]

spenried​:

social dinners were a common thing,     usually surrounded by those he knew, his team,       his family.       wonders off from the social unrest,      trails off into the quiet of the next room.     this dinning room was vacant with the exception given to them.    quiet as the room,     his slow pacing steps come to a full stop when she turns on her feet in his direction.      his brows rise against her fright and he can’t yield his lips from parting with quick apologies thrown her way,           ❝  i’m-    i’m sorry,    i didn’t mean to scare you.    did you need some help           ❞        with that?     wait,   did he hear her correctly?      he has become a lump of apologies,         ❝    i’m sorry         ❞      a breath attempts to take form of some kind of chuckle with disbelief,       brows are now pulling to meet one another against this suggestion of head - loss more than once.         ❝   did you say the first time?  ❞

morticia’s gaze is slow,  patient.     she reels back the spiral of anger that had snapped free from her,    coiling cool blues into the grit of her teeth,    the plate letting out a small yelp as mortica’s pruned claws clasp around it.      she blinks with one long,  drawn - out hum of a movement,    before forcing the uptick of a smile to be born anew across her lips.          ‘   you seem rather startled.    that’s often a sign of a weak disposition       ...        though,   those with the weakest dispositions make excellent prey,   so fret not!     there is a place for you yet.   ’       the upperhand is not something she takes possession of for cruel purposes   :       she is flushed with the momentary slip,    she is alight with an adrenaline she tries to fight against.     TO BE CAUGHT IN WEAKNESS IS TO BE SEEN STRIPPED AND BARE         --       she is ashamed of her own insides.       ‘   did i?   i can’t quite remember.   ’