![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For a prompt on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic. Gomez/Morticia, introspective one shot.
Title: Unfettered
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Addams Family (movieverse, I think)
Characters/Pairings: Gomez/Morticia
Summary: He had not known he was bound, until she tore him loose, and drowned him soft within her
Wordcount: 571
Warnings/Notes: Introspection, power dynamics, Addamses
Disclaimer: Not mine
comment_fic. Gomez/Morticia, introspective one shot.Title: Unfettered
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Addams Family (movieverse, I think)
Characters/Pairings: Gomez/Morticia
Summary: He had not known he was bound, until she tore him loose, and drowned him soft within her
Wordcount: 571
Warnings/Notes: Introspection, power dynamics, Addamses
Disclaimer: Not mine
Unfettered
He had thought himself uninhibited, in his youth. The world was his oyster, his treasure chest, and there had been naught in it that he had feared to leap into, to wrestle with, to throw himself upon with gleeful abandon. He had thought himself free, thought himself passionate, thought himself unchained. He had thought, in those strange, distant days, that there was nothing more powerful than he, no terror in all the world equal to his passion.
Oh, what a fool he had been. He admits that now. Without a second's hesitation, every moment, every night, every day. Thinking back. He admits it, with a laugh, joy and glee and all the love in this world or the next.
He had not know passion, then. He had not known freedom. He had been the most powerful thing in all the world, and he had not, until she came, understood how weak that had made him. How limited. How shackled.
Until her. Until he caught her eyes across the width of a graveyard, turned in mid-laugh to find her watching him, and ... felt it.
Power, like nothing he had ever known. A wealth of it, in her eyes, a dark dimension, an undertow that caught him up before he could even murmur, and swept him down with never a care for his will. In her dark, pale serenity, he had found a match to all the power, all the passion in the world. He had found a drowning pool, that would swallow his every plunge, his every sally, without a ripple, that would part itself before every passion and close again over its head without a flinch. Merciless and infinite. Smiling that soft, serene smile, with that endless love in her eyes that offered him no quarter, and never would.
There had been no freedom, until she owned him. There had been no power, until she had appeared to embrace his every move, and swallow it without thought. There had been no passion, until she had foundered it on the rocks of her serenity, spurred it to heights inconsiderable on the strength of her answer, caught it as it fell into the pool of her forgiveness.
He had not been free. Not until he had met the goddess who could take all the power in the world, all the power in his hands, and render it moot. His equal, his match, the water to his fire, the cup to his sword, the darkness to his light.
He had not known he was bound, until she tore him loose, and drowned him soft within her.
His Morticia. His dark goddess. His querida.
He makes a sound, adoring, inconsolable, and buries his face in that dark hollow where her pale, endless throat meets the satin darkness of her shoulder. "You will be the death of me, querida," he whispers, and it is something close to a prayer, a helpless wish, that one day it will be she who breaks that last shackle about him, and swallows the very last of what he is.
She smiles, his goddess, his love, and closes her arms about his head. "And you of me, mon cher," she murmurs, soft and infinitely smiling.
And for a moment, lying in her arms, remembering all those foolish things he had once believed, Gomez thinks there is no greater pleasure, no greater freedom, in all this world ... than having been proved wrong.
He had thought himself uninhibited, in his youth. The world was his oyster, his treasure chest, and there had been naught in it that he had feared to leap into, to wrestle with, to throw himself upon with gleeful abandon. He had thought himself free, thought himself passionate, thought himself unchained. He had thought, in those strange, distant days, that there was nothing more powerful than he, no terror in all the world equal to his passion.
Oh, what a fool he had been. He admits that now. Without a second's hesitation, every moment, every night, every day. Thinking back. He admits it, with a laugh, joy and glee and all the love in this world or the next.
He had not know passion, then. He had not known freedom. He had been the most powerful thing in all the world, and he had not, until she came, understood how weak that had made him. How limited. How shackled.
Until her. Until he caught her eyes across the width of a graveyard, turned in mid-laugh to find her watching him, and ... felt it.
Power, like nothing he had ever known. A wealth of it, in her eyes, a dark dimension, an undertow that caught him up before he could even murmur, and swept him down with never a care for his will. In her dark, pale serenity, he had found a match to all the power, all the passion in the world. He had found a drowning pool, that would swallow his every plunge, his every sally, without a ripple, that would part itself before every passion and close again over its head without a flinch. Merciless and infinite. Smiling that soft, serene smile, with that endless love in her eyes that offered him no quarter, and never would.
There had been no freedom, until she owned him. There had been no power, until she had appeared to embrace his every move, and swallow it without thought. There had been no passion, until she had foundered it on the rocks of her serenity, spurred it to heights inconsiderable on the strength of her answer, caught it as it fell into the pool of her forgiveness.
He had not been free. Not until he had met the goddess who could take all the power in the world, all the power in his hands, and render it moot. His equal, his match, the water to his fire, the cup to his sword, the darkness to his light.
He had not known he was bound, until she tore him loose, and drowned him soft within her.
His Morticia. His dark goddess. His querida.
He makes a sound, adoring, inconsolable, and buries his face in that dark hollow where her pale, endless throat meets the satin darkness of her shoulder. "You will be the death of me, querida," he whispers, and it is something close to a prayer, a helpless wish, that one day it will be she who breaks that last shackle about him, and swallows the very last of what he is.
She smiles, his goddess, his love, and closes her arms about his head. "And you of me, mon cher," she murmurs, soft and infinitely smiling.
And for a moment, lying in her arms, remembering all those foolish things he had once believed, Gomez thinks there is no greater pleasure, no greater freedom, in all this world ... than having been proved wrong.
Tags: