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The steering wheel felt slick beneath your palms, not from the rain that still traced faint streaks across the windshield, but from the tension in your grip. Your knuckles ached with how hard you held on. Every red light seemed longer than the last, every horn from impatient drivers an arrow through your already-throbbing head.
You tried the radio. Static chatter, a too-bright song. You shut it off almost instantly. The silence pressed in, making the headache pulse harder, but it was still better than noise.
Your eyes burned, frustration threatening to spill over in tears you refused to let fall here, in traffic, in the glare of strangers’ headlights. Not yet. You forced a breath through your teeth, shoulders tight, throat thick.
The day had asked too much of you and given nothing back. And now, in the dim wash of streetlights flicking across the windshield, you felt the weight of it bearing down.
Still, you kept driving. Because there was somewhere waiting for you. Someone.
You pictured her. Cool, steady, dark as midnight and twice as soothing. Morticia. Just the thought of her voice, low and velvet, was enough to draw another shaky breath from you, to keep your hands steady as you turned down the familiar road leading home.
The mansion rose from the gloom ahead, its silhouette strange and beautiful against the evening sky. Even in your exhaustion, a knot in your chest loosened. Home.
The wrought-iron gates loomed ahead, curling into intricate, sinister patterns that somehow felt welcoming tonight. Your hands loosened slightly on the wheel, the tension in your shoulders easing as you coasted through the driveway. Grave; crunched under the tires, a sound that seemed to echo across the expansive, shadow-draped grounds.
The mansion itself rose like a dark guard against the twilight sky. Its spires and turrets pierced the dusky clouds, windows glimmering with warm light that spiralled onto the lawn in soft, golden rectangles. Gargoyles crouched on ledges, frozen in grimace or watchful vigilance, yet somehow they seemed less forbidding than usual. Tonight, they felt like guardians.
You parked the car with a sigh, taking a moment to breathe in the sharp, autumn air scented faintly with the roses that crept along the stone walls. The mansion’s silhouette was severe and elegant, every shadowed archway and pointed roof softened by the glow of interior lamps. The sight of the lights inside, warm and alive, made something inside you unclench.
Stepping out of the car, your boots clicked against the cobbled path. The chill kissed your cheeks, but it was a welcome sensation compared to the day’s stifling stress. You lingered a moment, eyes drinking in the play of candlelight across ornate windowpanes, the flicker of shadows on carved stone, the way ivy clung stubbornly to every surface. Even in its darkness, the mansion exuded life.
The front door creaked as you pushed it open, the familiar scent of old wood, roses, and a hint of something earthy wrapping around you like a cloak. Relief washed over you in a soft, undeniable wave. Home.
Thing scuttled along the floor in greeting, his tiny movements oddly comforting, tapping your shoe with an enthusiastic flourish. You smiled faintly, a genuine curve for the first time all day, and stepped further inside.
The grand hallway stretched before you, candlelight flickering across the portraits of ancestors who seemed stern yet approving. Shadows danced along the walls, playful and patient, like they had been waiting for you all along. You exhaled, letting the door swing shut behind you, leaving the stress of the outside world to clang against the iron gates.
Somewhere ahead, you could hear Morticia’s soft, deliberate footsteps. Or perhaps, it was the faint whisper of silk across the floor. The thought made your chest tighten just a little, the tight coil of headache and frustration beginning to unwind.
Home. You were finally home.
The flicker of candlelight guided you down the hall, leading you toward the sitting room. The soft, unmistakable perfume of roses and damp earth lingered in the air, and even before you crossed the threshold, you knew she was there.
Morticia sat poised on the velvet chaise, a length of rose stems laid across her lap, each bloom trimmed off its petals with the precision of ritual. The silver shears in her hand glinted as she set them down, and when her gaze lifted to you, it was as though the entire house exhaled in relief.
“Darling,” she greeted, her voice low, velvet, and threaded with the kind of concern that never had to announce itself.
You tried to muster a smile but only managed a tired curve of your lips. “Hi,” you whispered, the word breaking softer than you meant.
Morticia tilted her head, eyes sweeping over you with that uncanny perception that always felt like she could see far deeper than the surface. “The day has been cruel,” she said simple, not as a question but as if she had plucked the truth straight from your skin.
You let out a shaky laugh and moved closer, lowering yourself onto the chaise beside her. The exhaustion hit all at once when your body met the cushion, and you leaned instinctively into her side. “That obvious?”
Her arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you into her embrace without hesitation. “Only to me,” she murmured, pressing a cool kiss against your temple. Her fingers began their gentle sweep through your hair, deliberate and slow. “The world may think it has hidden its claws, but I see every mark it leaves on you.”
Your throat tightened, words stuck somewhere behind the ache in your chest. “I just… it was too much today. Everything was too much.”
Morticia hummed softly, an indulgent sound, neither dismissing nor pressing. “Then you were right to come home to me.” Her nails grazed your scalp in soothing lines, each touch unwinding another knot of tension. “Tell me, my love… shall I destroy the offenders? Or would you prefer i simply hold you until the day dissolves?”
You huffed a breath. Half laugh, half sigh, closing your eyes against her shoulder. “Just hold me. Please.”
“As you wish,” she whispered, her tone rich with devotion. She shifted slightly, cradling you more fully, until your head rested perfectly against her. “Let me be the balm for you, darling. The world has no dominion here. Only my arms, and the night to keep us.”
You allowed yourself to sink further, the headache easing beneath the soft press of her hand and the velvet lull of her voice.
Morticia lowered her head, lips brushing your hairline as she spoke again, quieter now, almost like a vow. “You needn’t fight alone. Not when you are mine.”
The words wrapped around you warmer than any blanket, anchoring you, unspooling the last of the day’s turmoil until you could finally breathe.
Morticia’s hand continued its languid path through your hair, her touch deliberate, unhurried. For a long while she let the silence breathe, as though even words might strain you. When she finally spoke, it was the softness of candlelight.
“Tell me, darling… was it the people, or the hours, that drained you so?” Her tone was velvet, but the way she phrased it made it sound like either answer might be deserving of punishment.
You gave a tired smile against her shoulder. “Both. People talking too much, hours dragging too long.”
Her nails skimmed lightly against your scalp, sending a shiver down your spine. “Mmm. I despise chatter without substance. It gnaws at the mind like rats in the walls.” She tilted her head to press a kiss just above your temple. “No wonder you ache.”
A sigh slipped out before you could stop it. “My head’s been pounding since the afternoon. Feels like it hasn’t stopped.”
Morticia hummed, a sound of sympathy and certainty all at once. “And yet you endured until now.” She drew you closer, her arm enveloping you. “You are far stronger than the world deserves, my love. But even the strongest need sanctuary.”
You closed your eyes, letting the weight of her words wash through you. “You’re my sanctuary.”
Her lips curved into the faintest smile against your skin. “As you are mine.”
Her hand drifted down to trace lazy circles across your back, grounding and rhythmic. “Would you like me to brew you something for your head? A tincture, a tea… or perhaps nothing but my arms?”
“Just this,” you whispered, melting into her. “I don’t want to move.”
“Then you shan’t,” Morticia replied simply, as if your wish has already become law. She pressed another kiss to your temple, colder than most lips but infinitely more soothing. “Let the night do the moving for you. You need only rest.”
For a while you let her words settle, and when you shifted slightly, she tucked you closer, chin resting lightly atop your head.
“Do you find it easing?” she asked softly. “Or shall I whisper you darker comforts until it does?”
You laughed weakly at that, the sound vibrating against her. “Maybe both.”
Morticia smiled, stroking your hair again. “Then both it shall be.”
Morticia’s fingers stilled in your hair for a moment, then began a slow, deliberate rhythm again, each stroke meant to unravel the day’s tension thread by thread. Her voice lowered to a hush, almost conspiratorial, as though she were offering you a spell.
“Do you know, darling,” she murmured, “when I was a girl, I used to imagine my headaches as tiny spirits. Relentless, whispering things that were not mine to carry. My mother taught me that the only way to banish them was to starve them of attention. To treat them as nothing more than dust in the corners, destined to wither.”
Her lips brushed your temple, cool and steady. “Perhaps yours are like that too. Fickle little creatures. And now, in my arms, they will surely lose their strength.”
You gave a quiet laugh, weary but genuine. “You make even headaches sound romantic.”
She smiled faintly against your skin. “All suffering deserves to be romanticised when endured by the one I adore.”
Her thumb traced soothing circles along your cheekbone as she frew back just enough to study your face. “You eyes are heavy, cara mia. Your body is begging for reprieve.”
“I don’t want to move,” you whispered, though your voice trembled more with exhaustion than protest.
“Then I shall move for you.” She rose gracefully, pulling you gently with her. Her hands were sure, guiding, never rushed. “Come. Let me tuck you away from the world.”
You allowed her to lead you down the corridor, her hand enveloping yours, cool and steady against your warmth. In the bedroom, Morticia turned to you with that same unwavering calm, fingertips brushing along your collar.
“These clothes are unworthy of you tonight,” she said softly, her eyes dark with devotion. “Allow me.”
Her touch was reverent as she helped you out of your work clothes, each button undone with care, each gesture deliberate and slow, as if unwrapping a precious relic. She never hurried, never faltered, simply moving with quiet elegance until the weight of the day’s garments slipped away.
From a nearby drawer, she withdrew silk pajamas. Deep, inky black that caught the candlelight like water. She held them out as though presenting an offering. “Here. Something softer, something worthy.”
She dressed you with the same careful hands, smoothing the fabric against your shoulders, adjusting the hem until it lay perfectly. Her touch lingered, tracing the silk once it was in place.
“There now,” she whispered, her voice a balm. “My darling is restored.”
With a final kiss to your temple, she guided you beneath the covers, ready to draw you into her arms once more.
Morticia smoothed the covers into place around you with her usual precision, the way one might prepare an altar. Every movement was deliberate, every touch reverent. She brushed her hand down the length of your arm before leaning close, her lips grazing your forehead in a kiss so soft it felt almost spectral.
“There,” she whispered. “The day can no longer touch you.”
You sighed, muscles unwinding under her careful attention, but your eyes followed her as she crossed to her vanity. She extinguished the last of the candles with graceful motion, leaving only a few faint flames to paint the room in honeyed light. The silk of her gown whispered against the floor as she slipped free of it, exchanging the day’s elegance for the softer weight of her own nightdress. Still black, still impossibly refined, yet made for the intimacy of sleep.
When she returned, the mattress dipped as she slid in beside you. She pulled you into her arms immediately, no hesitation, your head finding its place against her chest. The scent of roses and earth wrapped around you, as her perfume enveloped your senses as surely as the blanket did.
Her fingers resumed their gentle tracing at your temple, down the side of your face, across your back. “Do you feel it, my love?” she asked quietly. “The world fading? Its claws blunted? It cannot follow you here.”
Your breath caught against her, exhaustion threatening tears again. “You make it sound so easy.”
Morticia tilted her head to kiss your hair. “With me, it is.”
The steady rhythm of her breathing began to anchor yours, your heartbeat falling into step with hers. She whispered again, words smooth as silk in the dark.
“Close your eyes, cara mia. Let the night cradle you as I do. You are safe, you are cherished, and you are wholly mine.”
Her hand stroked down your spine once more, languid, grounding, until your body sagged against her, sleep tugging hard at your edges.
“Rest,” she murmured, voice dropping into velvet lullaby. “For when the dawn comes, the world must ask your strength again… but tonight, you belong only to peace.”
The final candle guttered as if on cue, leaving the room in soft shadow. Morticia’s arms tightened just slightly around you, her lips brushing your hair one last time. And with her cool, steady presence surrounding you, the ache in your head slipped away, carrying you both into sleep.