Mom said it's my turn with the au

[ the fanfiction that inspired this artwork ]

Morticia's hand doesn't move to reach the handle.

The car door opens anyway. Not quickly. But steadily. With assurance.

A small smile creeps to the corner of her lips, eyes closed as if in light meditation.

"Are you always accompanied by such... inclement weather conditions each time you choose to revisit this place?"

The voice enters the suede and brass-buttoned interior of the car’s body first. Followed by a gently extended hand, wrist adorned with a slim, black leather wristwatch. The square, polished silver face, similar to that of its owner.

Morticia's eyes lift open, sliding toward the world just outside of her metal carriage. To the voice just beyond the door's frame.

She slips a pale hand delicately over the extended palm. The ticking of the wristwatch keeps time with the raindrops drumming against the roof of the car.

"You speak so ill of it," Morticia smiles softly, her body exiting in one slow, fluid movement of black and silk. She fully rights herself, dark eyes peering up to meet the steely blue ones of the impossibly tall woman beside her. Her fingers still rest —hovering— within the woman's palm. Surprisingly warm against the cold bite under the damp air.

"I think it's a perfect day for a reunion."

The tall woman, fitting hardly beneath the large umbrella grasped in her opposite hand, sighs through her nose. It’s the sigh of someone who knows – with the only kind of knowing that comes from years of firsthand experience – that trying to disagree with this woman was a lost cause. As though years of her had made the raven-haired woman more predictable, and more infuriatingly so because of it. She did the least to hide the small smile that tugged at her mouth. She knew Morticia could see it anyway.

"Morticia," she nods, an acknowledgement rather than a greeting, decades in its making.

"Larissa." An equally small nod.

"Shall we?"

Morticia hums softly, her hand quietly slipping from Larissa’s and folding with the other in front of her as Larissa shifts her shoulder, just hardly, to put Morticia further beneath the umbrella’s cover.

They turn, both in unison, toward the climbing stone walls and twisting spires of the school; looking well like something from a gothic-era novel when placed against the dark grey sky and sporadic sheets of rain. The only thing truly missing is a jarring clap of thunder...

It doesn't come.

Larissa's fingers peel from the car door’s handle and find themselves ghosting near the small of Morticia's back —not touching— but simply... there. Like a breath being held. Guiding without touching. Bracing without tension. Civil by all appearances. Chivalrous, almost. The line that dares not to be crossed.

Still the same, I see, Morticia notices to herself, politely filing the gesture away so as to not draw any additional attention to it.

They begin their paces toward the large wooden doors, tandem sets of heels clicking damply over the cobblestones. The air feels tailored to such a scene: Crisp, unforgiving, honest in a way that only the cold can make bare. The rain doesn't seek to invade, but rather cloak. The density of the atmosphere dulls the outside world to a hush, like a conference room door shutting. Here, the world feels like it sits between cupped hands. The important and detailed things remain within while the rest simply stays out, somewhere beyond cold fingertips.

Larissa counts the steps without truly counting them. She moves with the assurance of someone who’s walked this exact path —from the front parking way, left of the fountain, up the twelve (thirteen if you count the unlucky half-buried first step that is certain to trip you if you walk up the rightmost side instead of the left), to the ancient wooden entrance doors that welcome visitors with two cold gargoyle knockers that haven’t actually been used as functional pieces of equipment in at least 20 years— thousands of times.

Her final two strides are slightly longer, using the full length of her legs to step just barely ahead of Morticia without breaking pace. She reaches the large doors first. Without missing a beat, she pushes down on the ancient handle to sweep them open. All while maintaining her natural height, the exact tilt of the umbrella over Morticia, and her own orientation out of the fall of the rain. There is not a single misstep or pause. Clean. Fluid. Professional.

Morticia enters, her head nodding subtly, courteously. Still the same. She waits until she has crossed Larissa to smile inwardly to herself.

Larissa holds the door – and her breath – as Morticia passes. Her height, she thanks, keeps her head higher and out of Morticia's line of sight. It is here, in that small blind window of space, that Larissa lets herself feel it:

The contrasting temperature of the outside air and that of Morticia's body near her. The smell of her – something ashen and woodsy with a hint of ancient herbs. Lavender or rose, usually. Morticia had always smelled like she had either stepped out of a recently-performed seance, or a centuries-old romance novel flower shop. In Larissa's experience, it was very likely for both to be true. 

She watches Morticia move, like the smoke of a gently blown candle. Graceful. Ethereal. Untouchable. Her dark hair, trailing like trickled ink down her shoulders, bleeding into the black of her dress. A shadow taking physical form.

She dares not to glance toward Morticia's face, though something in her chest and behind her eyes claws for her to. 

But Larissa knows. 

She's had her face memorized for years. She doesn't need to look to know the soft porcelain of her skin, or the darkness that swims in her eyes like an invitation to the abyss. Or the red of her lips, like the blood of an oath. The soft curl at their edges when she smiles. Like the curling of rose petals... The taste—

Larissa swallows hard. 

Then blinks even harder. 

Her fingers tighten on the handle of the umbrella and she quickly, without missing a beat —thank God— returns to the world around her, giving the umbrella a single, stern shake to rid its surface of any lingering water droplets before folding it closed.

Morticia doesn't stir at the sound it makes. The sharp snap of the material, almost as sharp as the line of Larissa's posture. She turns slightly, politely. Waiting for Larissa to finish with the umbrella and the door and the smoothing of her tailored coat collar. Morticia gathers the sights of the school around her: The unchanged architecture, the ancient smells, the way sound travels, skitters, and hides in between the stones of the walls, like secrets to the light.

But mostly, she gathers the sight of something else. 

Someone else, rather.

She watches from the corner of her eyes, shaded partly by her hair, as Larissa's long fingers work the umbrella into place. The way they glide with precision and waste no movement where it isn't needed. Two folds of the fabric. A single snap of the reining strap clasping into place. The soft click of the handle receding into its position of retire. Not a single ounce of anything is wasted in her motions. Controlled. Precise. Yet, delicate.

So... very... delicate…

They move to tuck the umbrella under her arm. Then to her hair. That platinum, perfectly manicured hair, twisting in soft swirls like piped buttercream in the tone of sunlight against her rich, sky-blue eyes. Morticia was never one for the taste of sweets anyway, but she wouldn't hesitate to make an exception for—

Her thoughts stop. Eyes far off, suddenly snapping into the present. She lifts her chin, a soft clearing of her throat.

Larissa hears it and looks up, suddenly aware of something she can't quite place. Morticia speaks to push past whatever it is she, too, can't seem to shake.

"All set, are we?" She says with a betrayingly innocent smile.

Larissa pauses, quickly cataloguing her thoughts into new order. "Yes," she says with a final smoothing of a non-existent crease on her coat front. "My apologies. This way."

Rigidity returns. Structure in place. Business as usual. Everything is fine.

Except...

Somewhere in the small space of Larissa's body passing beside Morticia's there is something there. Something slower. Something deeper. They both feel it like static, though no part of them actually touches the other. 

Morticia can feel it in the way Larissa adjusts her pace, slower than she knows the taller woman is capable of carrying herself. 

Larissa, too, feels it in the way Morticia seems to lean in, just slightly, as though at any moment she will pick up a conversation they'd been having for years – though no such one has occurred, at least not aloud.

They say nothing, however. Acknowledge nothing. Like always.

Still the same, they both concede to themselves.

A/N:

i know there is an entirely different visual audience for reading-based versus image-based art, but i just want to say that i appreciate everyone so much for the positive reception of "Habits." truly, it means the world and inspires me to want to share more of my writing (trust me, there are plenty more by the tune of Morissa if you are interested). i know my works aren't polished, but i genuinely thank everyone that has taken the time to look at my drawings or read my writings.

Those that wanted to be tagged:@selfdoubter

@the-new-nightmare-of-homophobes

Your labor in May lasted almost a full 24 hours—and Larissa didn't leave your side once.

You begged her to get herself food, or at least some coffee, from the cafeteria, but she refused. Instead, she had your family pick up food on their way to the hospital, and only left you to use the bathroom. Larissa doted on you the entire time—whatever you needed, she made sure you got it.

Ice chips? She fed them to you with a spoon.

Another pillow, even though you already had four? She got you two more, just in case you ended up wanting another.

She massaged your lower back, she held your hand, she took walks with you around the labor and delivery floor. Larissa comforted you, she encouraged you, she wept the second your daughter let out a shrill cry and was placed on your chest.

Through the summer, Larissa was more than helpful. She had no problem alternating feeding times at night, or cleaning, or cooking dinner. She went to every doctors appointment with you, she made sure you were getting enough rest, and when your parents came to stay with you for July, she even took you out on a date for the first time in months.

You could never resent her—never. When school started mid-August, it wasn't bad. You had a routine by now. You'd wake up with her alarm, she'd get ready in the bathroom, you'd wake your daughter up to feed her, and you'd make breakfast for yourself and Larissa. She'd say goodbye with a kiss, grab her things, and head out the door.

The first couple weeks of school, you'd bring your daughter to Nevermore with you and the three of you would have lunch in Larissa's office—the students especially loved this as you were technically on sabbatical for the fall semester and had a substitute teacher that they didn't particularly care for.

In Larissa's office, on the second Wednesday of the school year, you greet her with a kiss. She takes your daughter from your arms with a bright smile and kisses her on the cheek as she sits back down. Before you unpack the lunch that you picked up, you pause. On Larissa's desk is a framed picture of the three of you—which isn't the part confuses you. It's the frame itself that confuses you.

It's bright and colorful and is clearly a store-bought frame covered in air-dry clay. There are bunnies and cats and flowers, and you pick it up carefully to examine it. "Where did you get this?"

"One of the new students," she says. "Her name is Enid. She came into my office with a question and saw the, and I quote, 'plain and boring frame' and she insisted on decorating it."

However, the spontaneous lunch trips to Larissa's office slowly begins to dwindle. Her days are filled with meetings and your days are filled with running errands, cleaning the house, cooking dinner, and taking care of a baby.

As the weeks go on, Larissa works later and later. You cover her plate of dinner in plastic wrap and put it in the fridge and she's usually home by nine when you're finishing up feeding your daughter before putting her to bed. By time Larissa joins you on the couch with her face clean and her plate of dinner, you're dozing off on her shoulder.

You don't want to tell her how exhausted you are. You don't want to tell her that when she works until eight or nine at night you feel impossibly lonely, and that all you want after fourteen hours of taking care of a fussy baby is her. You don't want to tell her that you're doing the 2am feedings alone, that you're struggling to keep everything together—laundry's piling up, you haven't showered in days because your daughter cries every time you put her down, and now she's beginning a sleep regression. Larissa is stressed enough as it is dealing with running a boarding school, a monster that's being written off as a bear, and Wednesday Addams. The last thing you want her to feel is like she's not doing not enough.

"I just don't understand what else I can do," she huffs.

You're curled into Larissa's side as she lays on her back in bed, your fingers curled into the satin slip she wears and her hand running over your arm. "I know, honey," you mumble, and you try so hard to make your tone sound supportive through your exhaustion—and the smell of her body wash and shampoo only serves to make you sleepier.

"It's not even her being headstrong anymore," Larissa says. "It's complete insubordination. And she has straight A's, so it's not like she's a bad student. She pays attention in class, all of her teachers praise the work she turns in, she's just…I don't know…" When you don't respond, she looks down at you. Your eyes are closed, face pressed close to her neck as your breathing evens out. She smiles softly and chuckles before kissing your hairline. "I love you."

You get maybe a total of four hours of sleep. Larissa doesn't wake once and by the time you finally get your daughter to fall asleep, Larissa's alarm is going off. You want to cry, you want to throw a tantrum, but you don't. Instead, you leave your daughter to sleep while you make breakfast.

Larissa enters the kitchen not long after seven, heels hanging by her middle and pointer fingers. She wraps her arms around your waist and places kisses over your neck. You're quiet as you scramble a bowl of eggs and she notices immediately. Her hand comes to your face gently and turns it to give you a proper kiss.

"Are you alright?" she asks, and you nod.

"Yeah." You go back to scrambling the eggs, and you're relieved that she accepts your answer and turns on the coffee pot.

By ten, you've had almost two cups of coffee, and at noon you're drinking from a to-go cup on your way to your daughter's doctors appointment—something Larissa would've been able to accompany you with if it wasn't for a meeting.

The doctors appointment doesn't take very long. Your daughter is perfectly healthy and her developmental milestones are about a month ahead, which is definitely something she got from Larissa. Your ride home is nothing but the sound of plastic toys being hit together and your daughter cooing and gurgling at the entertainment.

At home, you've convinced yourself that the caffeine is working, and you're able to clean the house—somewhat. The living room is still littered with baby toys and clutter that you intended to put upstairs days ago, but when you put your daughter down for her nap, you bring the clutter upstairs with you before you do the laundry. You're relieved just by the sight of the washing machine on, knowing that there's at least one thing out of the way for a couple hours. Back downstairs, you tackle the kitchen—sort of. The caffeine from the past couple of hours has worn off, but you force yourself to clean anyway, even though you know the kitchen will just end up messy again.

At four, your daughter wakes up from her nap, shrieking for you to let her out of her crib prison. By now, you've completely forgotten about the laundry that now sits in the washing machine, waiting to be put in the dryer. Your mind is scrambled and when you open the fridge to start dinner, you realize that you completely forgot to stop at the store to get ingredients for tonight.

We cannot have pasta for the third night in a row.

But at this point, you don't really have a choice. So, after setting your daughter down on her play mat and giving her some toys to distract her, you start preparing whatever you can find—garlic, onions, there's enough ingredients to start on homemade garlic bread, you find spaghetti noodles, half a jar of pasta sauce, you should be good.

A pot of salted water sits on the stove, waiting for you to turn on the burner. You stand at the counter, focused on the parsley that you're chopping, when your daughter starts crying. You know the cry that means 'feeds me before I raise all hell', and you sigh as you set down the knife and rinse your hands off. Several steps away in the living room, you pick up your daughter as she cries and your hand cups her back as you try to calm her down enough to feed her.

Her tiny hand grips your shirt tightly as you stay standing, eyes focused on the TV as you feed her. You know you shouldn't sit down on the couch. You know that if you sit down for even a moment, your eyes will close and you won't see dinner. But after burping your daughter and setting her back down on the bright and colorful mat, you can't help it.

Just for a moment.

Just for a couple minutes.

The second Larissa saw you this morning in the kitchen, she knew what was happening. For the rest of the day, she felt nothing but guilty as she thought about you home, by yourself with the baby while you juggle everything. For the first time in weeks, she's home before the sun completely sets. When she unlocks the door, she smells garlic and onion, but it's quiet—far too quiet for it being almost 6pm.

Quietly, Larissa closes the door and locks it. She can hear the TV, but she doesn't hear either of you—no playing or sauteing veggies, when she looks up the staircase where the bathroom is, she hears no splashing or giggling like there would be if you were giving your daughter a bath. After taking her coat off and setting her purse down, she slowly walks through the foyer and into the kitchen. There, she finds a cutting board with minced garlic, diced onions, and half-finished chopped parsley. The water on the stove is still, and her brows furrow before hearing the rattle of one of your daughter's toys in the living room.

When Larissa turns her head, she smiles at the sight of her daughter on the play mat—kicking her feet, waving her toys around, smiling and gurgling. "And what do you think you're doing all by yourself?" she asks, picking her up and kissing her on the cheek. "Did you have a good day? Where's your m—oh." She stops when she sees you laying on couch. Your face is half on the pillow, half on the couch, your hand is curled under your chin, and you look completely and utterly exhausted. She sighs and sets the baby back down before taking a throw blanket from the chair and laying it over you gently.

With your daughter back in her arms, she talks very quietly as she leaves the living room. "Your mummy is very tired, hm? Let's clean up the kitchen and get you a bath."

With the play mat now in the kitchen, Larissa keeps a close eye on your daughter as she cleans up the kitchen. With the dish washer running and the kitchen now clean, she takes your daughter upstairs for her bath, but when she sees the washing machine still occupied with clothes she makes a pit stop.

"Looks like we have some laundry to dry," she tells your daughter, voice light as she opens the door to the washer.

Larissa, as expected, leaves bath time with damp clothes. It's nearing eight as she feeds your daughter a warmed bottle in her room. She sighs as she sits in the armchair, eyes staring off as she thinks about you falling asleep on the couch. She saw it this morning—the exhaustion in your face as you made her breakfast, the hesitation when you told her you were okay. She wishes she spoke to you before it came to this.

When your daughter is in her crib, Larissa leaves quietly, turning off the lights and leaving the door open a crack. She doesn't go back downstairs and instead goes into your shared bedroom to wash her face and change her clothes.

When your eyes open, you're immediately met with panic. You barely register the blanket on you as it falls to the floor, and the only thing you focus on is the absence of your daughter. When you're in the kitchen, you see that it's spotless—the trash and recycling have been taken out, hand washed dishes are put away and the dish washer is running, and dinner prep has been tossed. You hurry upstairs and the only thing that brings you relief is seeing your daughter fast asleep in her crib.

The lights in your bedroom are on and when you open the door, Larissa is emerging from the bathroom in her pajamas and running her fingers through her hair. "Oh, good, you're awake," she says.

"How long have I been asleep?"

She shrugs as she pulls back the duvet and sheets on the bed. "Well, I got home around six, so at least a few hours."

"Did you feed her?"

"Fed and bathed," Larissa says.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" you ask, looking up at her as you go over to the bed.

Larissa's hands run over your arms. "Because you clearly needed the sleep," she says softly, and she pulls you into a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry that I haven't been there to help you."

Something in you finally breaks when you hear those words and you can't hold back your tears.

"Why didn't you tell me you were struggling so much?" she asks.

"I'm sorry!" you sob, trying to wipe your tears, but they don't stop. "I didn't—want—to make you fee—feel like you aren't doing enough! You've been so stressed with everything that's been happening at Nevermore and I didn't want to worry you—but I'm so tired!" Your shoulders shake as Larissa pulls you back into her arms, guiding you into bed with her. You sit between her legs as she holds you close, listening to everything you say. "I haven't showered in three days, and I hate cooking, and my nipples are cracking, and I just did my laundry for the first time in two weeks!"

You pick your head up from her neck and take a deep breath, wiping your eyes on your sleeve. "I know you're tired from working late, but I've been doing all of the late night feeds, Larissa." Your words are meek and watery. "I've only been sleeping for a few hours each night—I don't even remember the last time I went into REM!"

Larissa's thumbs wipe the tears that slowly trickle down your cheeks. "I am so sorry, sweet pea," she mutters.

"You're never here," you say, voice quiet as she holds you again. "I know you're running a school and I know I'm not doing much, but I miss you."

She presses a kiss to your head and her hands run over your back as your breath steadies. "Don't do that," she mumbles. "Don't downplay yourself. You're doing so much—too much. You're doing everything for us and I haven't even acknowledged it. I am so sorry if I have made you feel unappreciated." Larissa pulls away. Her hands hold your face gently as she sighs. "Thank you—for everything you've done for us. I love you so, so much."

You kiss her softly. "I love you too."

You kiss her again.

And again.

And again.

Your hands travel up Larissa's front and into her hair as she kisses you back, both of you breathing hard. "Five months," you breathe, and kiss her hard. "We haven't had sex in five months."

Larissa's hands grab at you, pulling you close before guiding you onto your back. "I know," she murmurs. "It's been fucking killing me."

"I want you to fuck me." Your hands slip under her night shirt, feeling the smooth expanse of her skin. "Please, Larissa." Her hand slips beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, rubbing over the gusset of your underwear, but you gasp into her kisses when she removes it and you feel the hard press of her shape shifted bulge. "Wait! Wait, use the strap. I'm ovulating."

Larissa's head falls into the crook of your neck as you both laugh. She kisses you quickly before getting out of bed to retrieve the strap, stumbling as she tries to walk and remove her pajamas at the same time. By the time she gets back to bed with the strap in place, you're completely undressed with your arms reaching out for her.

"I love you," she mutters, and kisses you softly.

Your arms wrap around her neck and you swear you could finish right there from the feeling of her skin on yours. "Fuck, I love you too."

Larissa's fingers run through your folds and dip inside of you before going up to circle your clit. "Look at you," she says. "So wet for me already."

Your hips buck with every brush of the strap, begging for any bit of relief she'd grant you.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" she mumbles, eyes dark in the lamp light. When you nod, she grins, and the kiss she gives you is so soft that you'd consider it teasing. "What do you say?"

You huff. "Please, fuck me, Larissa. Please, please, please!"

She lets out a satisfied hum. "Good girl."

Your lips press together in a heated kiss as she slowly sinks the strap inside you. Your nails dig into Larissa's shoulders as her arms pull you close, and your hips begin matching her thrusts as the two of you become more and more frantic. Her name comes out of you, strained on a pathetic moan as your legs tighten around her, starting to tremble.

Larissa kisses you hard and one of her hands rests at the top your head, fingers gripping onto your hair as she cages you in. "You're taking me so well. Are you gonna cum for me?"

Your head falls back and her lips place rough kisses over your neck and jaw. You swallow hard and it becomes harder and harder to get the words out. "Yes—fuck—oh my god, Larissa!"

She knows there's no point in waiting to give you permission; by the time you get the last syllable out, you're already writhing beneath her. Larissa smiles as she looks down at you, hand holding your face steady as she mumbles praises and continues her steady and firm thrusts. "Good girl," she says, bringing her lips across your cheek and over your jaw. "That's it—breathe—you did so well for me."

You sit in bed with a half-eaten box of pizza as it reaches eleven. Larissa's arm holds you close with your head on her shoulder as the two of you watch a movie, and her fingers run over your scalp and through your hair. "I put in a request for some time off," she murmurs with a kiss to your head.

You lift your head, looking up at her. "What?"

"The second I saw you this morning—how exhausted you looked—I knew," she says. "I got to school and immediately emailed the head of the board…And I've also decided that when I have extra work to do, I'll bring it home instead of staying late. I love you both so much and I hate that I haven't been able to be here for you."

Your feel tears prick your eyes and you sniffle. "Thank you."

The sound of your daughter crying on the baby monitor makes you sigh, and as you move to get out of bed, Larissa's arm holds you back and she gets out of bed. "Ah—don't even think about getting out of bed," she says with a pointed look before kissing you on the forehead. "I will bring her to you, alright? You'll feed her while I put the pizza in the fridge, and then when you're done feeding her, I'll put her to bed."

She pulls on her robe and ties it as she comes back over to the bedside, looking down at you with a soft smile and warm eyes. "Then, after that, I'll come back here and we'll cuddle and we'll watch this silly film, and I'll hold you until you fall asleep. And when she inevitably wakes up at four in the morning, you'll stay in bed, and I'll make her a bottle. Sound good?"

You nod lightly as you look up at her, and words melt on your mouth. "Yeah," you mutter. "I love you."