None of this belongs to mem aside from plot.

It was more of a formality, a tradition really, than something that was strictly required. However, both parties were in the majority, very willing. But she found it horrifying and knew it could never come of any good. Her mother had scolded her for having her thumb in her mouth, while the boy stared at her with those intense bug-eyes. She couldn't help herself, she liked the oddly gratifying feeling of her long nail digging into the roof of her mouth (she has always had long nails). They lock eyes and this time she is compelled to stand up straight, so she can try and compete with the older boy's height. Though they are standing a few feet apart - she feels as if she is tied to him. He has a cigar hanging from his pale pink mouth - which has a smile she hates, in which it is continually arranged. It is as if he cannot make another facial gesture, as if he feels only one emotion.

She is so little she fears she will be swamped by his joyous, yet quiet presence. She has always been astutely quiet, deliciously overbearing but as a child it is more awkward than alluring. Her mother pulls her to stand against her and the boy is watching her with kind curiosity.

"So," her father grasps Mr Addams' hand and Morticia can practically see the social ladder in front of her, with her desperate father clambering up it, "What a wonderful match this will be."

Morticia cringes inside, she does not want to marry the boy with the magnetic eyes and the pin stripe suit. And certainly not the cigar. She stares at him though, unwillingly, feeling that she has no choice. Even at her young age she can feel lust - but she is not comfortable with it at all. She understands discomfort.

"You have to," her father mutters with an unfair finality. She raises her head and stares at him, her eyes are hard and defiant. He looks away, with just the tiniest hint of guilt.

"I won't."

"It was finalised when you were a child," he turns his eyes on her, the same calmly calculating black, "And it will be so good for this family, you understand. What a connection; Addams and Frump."

The mood in their dilapidated house has been strange today. The weather is cursedly warm and she had spent most of the day brooding over the ill mood that had come over her recently. It had been that way since she had returned from France, much to the chagrin of everyone but herself.

She had been at a finishing school there and had been expelled for licentious behaviour with some very inventive French sailors - though that had only been the icing on the cake. The headmistress had been threatening it for a quite a while beforehand. She had contemplated never coming home but had decided against it - because even though she had not seen those eyes in years, they had made her waltz her way across a continent and ocean.

Now she was sitting in the study, which was damp and cold, blatantly trying to deny this very fact. She sighed and looked at her father again.

"Perhaps this marriage will calm you down."

She can't ever remember a time when she has not been calm. She does not even react to the statement, instead just tries to think of a time when she has not been ice cold. And she can think of none. Ice cold is her forte, apart from when she is near him - it is the only time she feels heat.

"Alright."

She sits straight, her back erect and poised. Her father is not bowled over by her resignation, in fact he expected it. She has never argued with her parents, unlike Ophelia. She is the one who knows when to be quiet, who knows the intimate workings of the relationships around her. She is the one so plagued by her deft ability to speculate that she can barely cope sometimes as her head fills with ideas. She stands up and bends at the waist to kiss her fathers cheek.

"Morticia? "He demands of her. She had thought her resignation to her fate would be enough, but it seems he wants more than that., "This really is for the best."
"I understand," she nods her head and leaves.

This is one of the few thing she fails to understand. But now, she understands lust. And it is lust that drives her.

"Hello," he is standing before her, still with that manical smile, but yet he is more dapper now. He is wearing a fabulous coat, lined with fur against the blistering snow that is falling in sheets outside the old, cracked windows. A Cossack hat on his head, his smile more intelligent now and she wagers he could pass for a Russian General in his attire. He bows slightly and takes her grudgingly offered hand.

"Good evening," she answers, tossing her black sheets of hair over her shoulder.

"My dear Miss Frump," he stands in front of the fire and motions to the window, "It is cold outside, perhaps your cloak…"

"My stubborn daughter insists that she shall not accompany you," her Father finally looks up from his paper.

She shoots a furtive glance at the man in front of the fire and stares defiantly. He smiles with an irritating kindness.

"Please, Miss Frump," he smiles genially and she cannot help but feel compelled to smile in return, "At least give me a chance. I wager niether you nor I feel this is the optimum situation for romance yet here we are and we have no choice."
he smiles again, "I can only hope to please you."
She feels like saying she is pleased, simply by that fabulous monologue and that already she feels that she is drawn to him, yet she cannot bring herself to do it.

"Shall we?"

She smiles slightly, "I shall fetch my cloak."

"Please," he laughs, "That would make me very happy."

"So where are you taking me?" She finally brakes the silence as she pulls her fur lined cloak around herself. Even in his car it is cold and she feels it with a pleasurable discomfort.

"It's a surprise," he answers, turning to smile at her. She finds it infuriatingly endearing and he finds her fascinating. She nods with a kind of dignified grace, even though she feels as if she is throwing herself to the lions.

"So," he motions to their grand surroundings, "What do you think of the Addams Swamp?"
she can't form the words for their surroudings are so spectacular, the snow covering the gore of the swamp, making it look even more dangerous and she doesn't quite know what to say.

"It's quite astounding," she answers.

He offers his arm and reluctantly, she takes it as he escorts her to an old marquee in the centre of the swamp. It is perilous crossing the slimy stones yet she finds that with the safety of him behind her, she feels that she would be quiet all right if she were to flounder.

The marquee is lined with furs and silks, old velvet and dusty cushions. It is like a disturbingly dirty harem and she finds it utterly attractive. Acrid smelling candles are set around the ledges, lighting the small and dusty space in a stunning glow.

"It is lovely," she looks at him and his face is blazing with something she recognises, something he is trying to supress. She smiles coquettishly.

"Please," he motions to the silver dome in the centre, surrounded by candles, "Shall we eat?"

He pours her some wine, after he has settled her on a fine bearskin(which occasionally roars). The syrupy liquid is strong on her lips and the exciting taste of almonds is unmistakeable. He recognises her glee.

"Arsenic," he laughs as he bites a rotten strawberry.

"Mmmm," she shakes her head, "It makes me so very light headed."

He raises his brow, "Tell me Miss Frump, what is your favourite book?"
she contemplated this entirely ordinary question for a moment, "I have so many Mr Addams."

"Gomez," he smiles, "Please, call me Gomez."

"Alright, Gomez…" she smiles, "I must admit to being a fan of De Sade."

"Beautiful, intelligent and exquisite taste," he laughs, "I think I could not wish for more in a future wife."
she bows her head in misery for she had forgotten entirely about the impending wedding.

He moves closer immediately, "I implore you to forgive me, my darling Morticia."

It is the first time he has said her name and she feels herself burn inside, it is as if he was made to say it. It has never sounded so good.

"Please forgive me," he continues, "I understand how hard it is for you…even for me. You think I wish it on myself? For it is my Father and Mother that insist on this match. I only wish to make you as happy as I can for I know that you will never be happy."

Her head shoots up and she is unreasonably close to his lips, they meet in a furtive kiss.

She understands romance. It is romance that drives her.

The rain is pounding the smeared windows and they rattle in their frames pleasantly. A dangerous noise that shatters the quiet of the dull room. This is the only way she can gain control as this situation, this overpowering relationship she is in, spins out of control. She is sitting in a massive, sunken chair that is beside a lamp, covered in fraying red silk. It casts dramatic, unnecessary shadows on the peeling walls. She has always been a fan of fine materials, and the slight smell of burning as the oil of the lamp meets with the silk is comforting, it takes her back to her childhood. She lifts her legs up, and the miles of silk that slide into folds where her feet should be are actually the components of her robe. She slides her pale legs, ill looking beside the midnight silk, under herself as another, less familiar noise comes into the room. She narrows her eyes, glittering hauntingly in the pallor of her face.

"You're late."

The figure removing his cloak as he simultaneously clambers in the window, raises his head and smile pleasantly. He bows and throws his cloak over the rotting, spindly chair that is at her dresser.

"I apologise," he says quietly, taking a cigar from his pocket and igniting it. It's the only light apart form the lamp in the room, moving with him like a firefly as he comes toward her. But she simply, irritatingly rattles her long nails against the chair and stares defiantly.

She hates tardiness and she hates all of this - apart from him, apart from relishing his glorious body and soul. She feeds of it.

He bends to meet her eyes and water drips from his body onto her. A droplet, cold and comforting lands on her lips. She flicks her tongue over the water, snake like. He smiles again.

"Hello."

He bends to kiss her forehead and for a moment, he feels her go tense. She hates being out of control and such a romantic gesture makes her uncomfortable for she is young. But her hands come to rest on his shoulders and she squeezes gently, and touches her lips to his jaw. He feels the linger of words on her lips, but thinks they might never come.

"Hello," he feels her red lips curl in a smile against his skin. He pulls her to her feet and in the red light, a diamond, obscenely large glitters on her finger. He takes her hand in his and kisses her knuckles. His hands rest on her hips, and he draws her close with a possessive squeeze. This she has waited for all night but she will never dare tell him. Or perhaps she will, sometimes her self-control deteriorates in his presence.

She claws away the transparent shirt, dripping with rain water to reveal the chest she loves so much. Her nails rake over the skin but he stops her, gripping her wrists with unnecessary but pleasurable force. Her breath catches in her throat slightly as he forces her hands to her sides and kisses her . She does not know what to do to gain control and so she bites down hard on his lip - this man has too much over her. A forced promise of marriage, the ability to make her smile secretly, to make her think of him constantly. Blood trickles from the puncture but does not dissuade him. In fact he forces his kiss on her more and the metallic taste of blood sends spirals of heat through her. She presses her hips against him, capitalising on the sensation of closeness.

"Lie down," she commands, pushing him away with all the force she can muster. She is still young, he conjectures, but not so young to be inexperienced. He does as she asks for he adores her. And how he wants to please his beautiful, if surreal fiancée. She is crawling all over him yet she is so far away it hurts him. All he wants is to love her. All he wants is to make their marriage work, to make this betrothal work. To work for her, to be her slave. He wants nothing more than for her to return his love.

She takes her time undressing him and her silence is deafening. She runs her sharp, beautiful nails along every contour. And he cannot help but stare at her as she drags her tongue along the lines of his abdomen.

He reaches down to fondle the ebony silk of her hair, twisting it in his hands as she removes his trousers with a delicate air of experience. He is not stupid enough to think she is innocent. But how he wants her, every moment of every day. He thinks about her over his ticker tape machine, while he draws on a Cuban.

"I love you," he whispers into the air. It thickens with doubt as she raises her intelligent eyes to his face. She says nothing but continues to slowly, teasingly remove his trousers. She rests back as he moves to remove her night robe, sitting up so she is straddling his legs. Her white skin glitters in the dark and he has never witnessed something so beautiful. She moves against him, so the olive skin and pale alabaster meet with a fitting grace. Blood trickles from his lips, landing against hers.

"I love you," he whispers, his voice croaking with a desperate arousal. She does not answer, only she stares into his eyes.

He cannot stand this and so pulls sharply at her hair, she cries slowly and raises her eyes again to his lips. All he wants is for her to love him.

She bites him in return, just at his collar bone. Her lack of words is more than aggravating and he wants this young woman to say something, to validate what he feels and make it exchangeable for her words. But she never speaks, only she stares at him with those black and dangerous eyes, those eyes she scanned him with the night they learned of their betrothal. Sometimes he imagines he sees them glitter with pleasure, even love but yet never long enough for him to build up the courage to answer back. She slides against him and her eyes glisten with something, something he wishes he could recognise.

She watches the vain in his neck tighten in pleasure, the skin there glistening with a concoction of blood and sweat. It is enough to push her over and she cries slightly, crashing onto his fine chest as he hisses - she has come to know his body well. She can predict him, his movements and patterns. She does not want to detach herself from him, for she feels indescribably drawn to him. Part of him.

His hands come up to touch her hair, which is slightly ruffled by the pull of his hands. She is holding him, trying to fathom why she feels so miserable. The rain is pounding the windows, the sound so comforting, the red light calming her. And he is breathing heavily, his eyes closed - his chest raised. He has not moved, for he holds her wrapped against him. She touches the contours of his face, the lines that separate them - that make him older.

"The wedding is soon," he whispers quietly, "Are you feel-"
"I love you," she says quietly and presses herself to him, "I am afraid it's the only thing I do feel."

She says it with a keen sense of simplicity. Like she has said it before.

"What?"

"Je t'aime," she whispers, kissing the vain (still throbbing) on his neck.

"Say it again," he demands, rolling over so that she that he is lying on top of her, holding her in a passionate clinch. Heat pools between them, the room is stiflingly comfortable. Her breathing is short.

"I love you," she whispers and suddenly he recognises the look in her eyes, accompanied by the most sinister laugh. It is love. And how he loves her. This woman who was chosen for him, not by his meddling parents but by the miraculous Gods' of Fate.

He laughs with her, kissing every inch of her body. He smoothes her hair from her forehead and stares into those eyes. Which are suddenly much more readable, like a familiar book - a favourite story.

"I love you because you are so intelligent," he smiles, "And beautiful, and mysterious."

"You make me laugh," she whispers, giggling in an exceptionally childish manner. It is something he never expected from her but it makes him smile.

"I fear I may never know you, Morticia," he whispers, "I fear you are so beyond me. Our parents have thrown us together… and yet, this is very real, I think about you, always. Since we were just little. And I wonder…."

"I want you to know every detail of me," she whispers, so that a chill of breath travels across his burning skin as she laces his fingers with her own, "Intimately."

"Intimately."

"I want to have your children," she curls against him, "I want to give you everything."
"You have," he says honestly, pulling the silk covers from her.

She will marry him, she thinks, as clouds of ecstasy gather in her brain. And she will love him forever, and always with this intensity. Because she can't imagine being without that feeling of fire.

She understand lust…and love. And it is love that drives her.

Wine trickles down his chin, mingling with the heady smell of the room and dripping into the fresh lacerations across his chest. It is laced with arsenic, so the slight smell of almonds swims in his head. This is how she chose to celebrate their anniversary and he can hardly deny her.

He strains his wrists against the leather straps and they burn into his already marred wrists - she had removed his antique watch before she had tied him. She tips his head back and forces his mouth open, pouring the finest French wine and arsenic till it spills over his mouth and floods down his neck. And onto his chest again, causing him an alcoholised pain. She stands behind him, so he has a perfect view of her décolletage if she bends at a certain angle over him. She meets his mouth roughly and it tastes of poison and wine and utter lust and he cannot breath for he is drowning in her and the syrupy poison. He has not been so desperate for her touch in months. Not like this has been so frustrated by such a vehement need in a while.

She bends to his ear and he feels her cold breath, laced with the intoxication of wine and the uninhibited air it gives his ice cold wife. He loves her drunk, he enjoys how cruel she becomes - how many boundaries Morticia Addams is willing to push just for him.

She flick her tongue over his collar bone and pours some wine there, then proceeds to lick it off.

"I hope you're going to behave," she whispers, bringing the riding crop down heavily on his back - after such a pleasurable affectation, the shock of it is startling. He lurches forward with the mix of pleasure and pain. Her choice of accoutrements have always interested him. Silk and leather he has learned can cause the most pleasurable of pain.

"I didn't hear your answer…" she says threateningly, which only serves to reward him with a twinge of pleasure. He tries to force the words out.

"Yes, darling," he bites out eventually.

"Good," she digs her nails into his pectorals, leaving little half moon marks, "Good boy."

She bites his neck again, this time sinking her teeth into the vain that throbs. She had thought she had known his body when they had first known each other, when they had hated their betrothal but were inexpiably drawn together. Now it is different. Now they have three children and a past. And now, she is him. They sometimes cease to be different entities - they exist only as people who exist for each other.

"Morticia," he whispers, with the strain of arousal showing on his face, "Come and sit on my knee."

She stands back for a moment, entirely out of his vision. But soon she reappears standing commandingly over him. He knows the only things separating them is the belt of her robe and the leather tying him to the chair.

"Morticia," he whispers, "Beautiful, dangerous Morticia."

She says nothing but he can read her eyes, which are glittering with pleasure. She straddles his legs, the silk of her robe settling on either side of fine alabaster legs covered in stockings. He loses breath just at the sight of them.

"I-" he coughs out, "Don't know why you hide those…"

"They're your property," she laughs, holding the bottle to his lips. He takes a drink as she moves into kiss him, the wine spilling into her own. He groans as she grinds herself against him.

"Do you still love me?" She questions, her hands moving to the tie of her robe.

"Forever, yes," he answers.

"Prove it."

"Untie me."

"Touché," she smiles and he growls.

"French…"

"Mmmm," she smiles again, this time with a more romantic inclination rather than one of a predatory nature.

She reaches out her hands to slowly untie his bonds and then slides of him with a cat-like gesture. He loosens himself and stands up, uncomfortable in his straining silk lounging trousers. She is lying supine and languid on the bed, all the more enticing for her slight intoxication and the fact she is modestly covered and melting into the silk of the bed. He does not make his way toward her, and still throbbing from the blossoming pain on his chest, takes an old piece of darkened silk and places it over the oil lamp on the dresser. She smiles with a feline grin and wriggles on the bed.

He clambers on top of her, his body gentle on the weight of her own.

"Slowly," she demands with a whisper, "Torturously."
"Always."

She understands eternity.