A/N: Well, here we go again. All I'll say is that the plot bunnies made me do it. Yes, the title is a horrible ripoff of "My Big, Fat, Greek Wedding;" please forgive me. I still don't own anything.
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Women in my family are largely free to do what they want. The general attitude seems to be, "Leave her alone and see what happens," and it works; we may turn out tragic or angelic or explosive, but none of us has yet been unexceptional.

There's just one expectation in place for us. If an Addams woman marries, she's supposed to marry a man who fits in well with the family. That usually means someone like my father, who wears pinstriped tuxedos on a day-to-day basis, dances, and likes to wreck toy trains. Wed your perfect Count Dracula, keep him in line, produce neigh-demonic children, and go about your other business as usual- that's how it's supposed to go.

I've never been one to buck family tradition. It's difficult to rebel when there's so little to rebel against, but that's not the only reason. I like darkness, death, and heavy artillery. Steak and potatoes make me vaguely queasy. My closet is a solid wall of black, with occasional touches of white, gray, or burgundy. And that's how it's always been.

At age two, I shot my first pigeon. For my fifth birthday, I received and promptly guillotined a rather expensive doll. When I was twelve, my summer camp burned down under mysterious circumstances- meaning, the counselors were left too frightened to press charges.

I was the perfect Addams child, and everyone expected me to grow into the perfect Addams woman. In most respects, I didn't disappoint.

Until, that is, I got engaged.

My fiancé wears oxford shirts and khakis. He couldn't tango until I taught him, he writes poetry, and he's studying to become a high school English teacher. And before we get married, I have to introduce him to the rest of my family.

Heaven help us.