Sailor Moon Fic: of the wisest, an interlude
For tosca1390 because, well, just because. Also because this was easy to finish. And ... yeah. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
of the wisest, an interlude
serenity tries to be reasonable. really, if anything she does. sailor moon | serenity/endymoin | Silver Millennium | 2,015 words, T.
-
What is left is lace, the thinnest piece of lace that Serenity has ever seen. It is black and perhaps too intricate for its primary use. She doesn’t even consider this a dress either, or even a skirt - they’re telling her that this is skirt. She stares blankly at the offending fabric, dangling out of Venus’ hand as the older woman smirks back at her too.
“I -” the princess shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
The fabric drops in front of her then. It’s a skirt, she realizes - horrified. It’s a skirt and there’s an apron and it only serves to make Venus’ grin grow wider. She ignores the smile, kneeling briefly to pick it up.
“This,” she starts, and then stops. It’s silk that stretches over her palm and her fingers. It uncurls against her nails and she shakes her head again, her lips pressing tightly together. She cannot find the words.
“It’s how we’ll get you in,” Venus reasons. “Especially since the usual entrance is compromised. There’s only so much a proper cloak can do.”
Serenity narrows her eyes. “You give me so little credit.”
It’s then that Mars finally speaks up, pushing herself away from the bed. She slips an arm around Serenity’s waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek and grinning wickedly at the two others.
“Trust us, Princess,” she says solemnly. “It’s not the credit that you’ll need.”
This is her fourth or fifth trip to Earth. Serenity admits to only a semblance of romanticism; Endymoin is still very much Endymoin, after all, and her guardians will attest to all particular incidents that have led up to these moments. But she also knows that she is the worst kind of stubborn and responsible just as well.
“I still hate all of you,” she breathes, and Venus stifles a laugh next to her. She links her arm through her own, drawing herself closer to Serenity. The two women walk quickly. “And he’s going to gloat.”
“Easily taken care of, my lady,” Venus drawls.
But Serenity rolls her eyes.
It’s cold tonight, she thinks. Her cloak covers her hair and face, the sliver of a braid dusting against her chest. The air catches against her legs too and she tries not to look down, to be too aware of just how much her skirt makes the cloak sink out, wisps of silk and lace and everything else running against her skin.
Venus keeps the pace though, and they turn into the maze of the palace gardens, walking briskly to the appointed meeting place. There isn’t much to this route; there is a sense of silence and privacy that unnerves her a little. It’s all too different from home, from the palace, and her own landscape; the flowers seem rarer, the colors too bright, and the strange but distinct smell of roses are heavier than needed. She can see how one could get lost in her, or, if anything, fall directly in love with the Prince himself.
And that he does not need to know just yet.
“Kunzite.”
Startled, Serenity stops. Venus’ hand goes to the hilt at her hip. There is a low snarl from her guardian as the Earth General appears. His mouth quirks and he inclines his head, bowing before the two of them.
“Your highness,” he murmurs. His gaze falls on Venus, eyes dark. He licks his lips. “And the Lady Venus,” he greets. “I believe Princess Serenity is familiar enough for the rest of the way?”
Serenity sighs, squeezing Venus’ arm. “Try not to … stab him,” she says dryly. Venus blushes, glaring at her. “I’ll see you soon,” Serenity adds.
Venus mutters something. Serenity laughs and ignores her, fixing the hood over her head. She moves quietly, pausing to reach out and squeezes the general’s arm. He doesn’t smile at her, but she feels the warmth and the lazy greeting of his own energy against hers.
If anything, it’s a comfort that not all things have changed.
She cannot explain how any of this has happened. How politics, really, have transformed her life and her choices into a mountain of secrets and securities. There are no vague memories either and at the heart of it, there is Endymoin, there is always Endymoin curtailing her focus to other places.
There is little comfort to the maze. There are high walls and strange figures. She read somewhere that parts of it were built for the king and his lovers, or that there is said to be another entrance to Elysium hidden here. It speaks to the same kind of romanticism that surrounds the Prince, she thinks.
But when she is far enough away, she stops and leans into a wall. She takes a deep breath and brushes her hands against her face, forcing her blush to calm. She listens to the murmurs and picks at the energies - Kunzite and Venus remain stable, but she can sense the others close by.
There is no time to rest, really. Serenity pushes herself from the wall again and moves on.
“Please tell me that this wasn’t your idea.”
Serenity’s hands clutch her cloak. She shifts from foot to foot in the grass.
He looks up from the grass when she arrives, pulling back her hood. Her bangs spill and fall, a stranger weight without the proper pattern she is accustomed to at home. Endymoin’s mouth turns though, slowly and thoughtfully, as he leans back against his elbows to take her in.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he says, and she eyes him wearily. The press of his armor is elsewhere. “I was merely concerned with your safety.”
She shakes her head. She moves a hand to her braid, pulling at the strands. She loosens it and her hair tumbles forward, spilling around her. She watches his eyes narrow and good, she thinks.
“So you went to Venus?”
He chuckles. “Mars, really.”
Her eyes narrow. She shakes her head and then unclasps the cloak, letting it fall to the grass. She flushes and then rocks onto the back of her heels, her fingers curling around the end of the skirt. Her nails catch at the lace and then Endymoin is sliding onto his knees, reaching for her.
His palms press over her knees, then drag against her thighs. His fingers are cool, flexing lazily over her skin.
“Endymoin,” she murmurs.
“And if it was?” he asks.
Her lips part and she slides a hand through his hair, her fingers curling lightly. She shudders when his mouth curls, and then his hands, as they drag to untie the bow against her back.
“Serenity,” he murmurs. “I wonder -”
“No,” she snaps. “No, no.” She tugs at his hair. “You do not get to make those faces at me,” she says stubbornly. “It’s cold, and this is impractical, and what is with you and my legs, you idiot -“
It really just takes a pull of her arm, and then he’s dragging her over his legs. The grass is cool against her knees. Her eyes are wide with surprise and his mouth slides over hers, that slight, impossible smile of his turning against her lips.
Serenity sighs. She relents a little, just a little, and the skirt starts to drag up against her thighs. It’s an odd combination of sensations; it pulls and pushes, scratches and softens against her legs and thighs, as his palm flushes against her skin.
She lets him bite at her lip. “You know how I like you,” he murmurs.
“I cannot believe that everybody thinks you’re this charming,” she shoots back. His hands slide under the skirt. He pulls, just a little, and then pulls, one more time. The skirt sinks lower on her hips, but does not peel off.
“You secretly do,” he teases. Endymoin’s fingers are soft against her hair, then they drag against her neck as she sighs.
He is not careful. This maybe what she loves most about him. He pushes his hands and fingers, then his mouth, leaning her back. His hand slips to cup her between her legs, his fingers brushing over her clit. She makes a noise and he laughs.
“It is true.”
She makes another sound. It curls against her throat, and he slides his fingers inside of her. They curl and she sighs, her eyes closing.
“You are lucky I do,” she breathes, and he laughs, his mouth at her throat.
His hand starts to rock. Her legs spread, her knees sinking further into the ground. It is the pull of the fabric - against her legs, over her breasts - and how it finally does her in, as she feels him take her in greedily.
His mouth finds hers again. It’s hot, slick even. He is smiling and she thinks maybe, just maybe he tastes too, too sweet for her. “You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he murmurs.
She bites at his mouth. She does not tell him this is true.
He rests his forehead against hers. His fingers catch at the clasp at her throat. His shirt is hastily closed underneath her cloak, the buttons haphazardly pulled together over her breasts and legs.
The fabric is warm and there is that odd smell, the soft pull of the roses and the gardens and the grass. The cuffs sink over her hands, but the cloak seems to hide it all and hide it well.
“It’s about creativity,” he teases. But then his expression becomes serious, solemn even as his gaze weighs over hers. “Are you all right?”
“Mmm.” Her lips curl. She shakes her head. “Idiot,” she murmurs, and her fingers curl against his chest. She pulls a little at his chest, and then traces her fingers against a scar. She could tell him, she reasons. But it may be too much.
They’re quiet then. The sun has yet to peek out; there seems to be no concept of time for her here, and perhaps, there is more so back at him. She feels him lean his weight into her and his hands brush against her hips.
The strange part is that they do talk about it all, about politics and choices, about her worries and his own. He is much more serious than they all know, perhaps too serious - much to her amusement. But their worries are the same and that, there, may be the saving grace to all of this.
“I will not wear that again,” she says.
He chuckles. “Wear?” he follows her gaze to the mess of fabric in the grass, half-ripped at the skirt. The dew seems to swallow it and there is a mess of stains that collect at the collar. “Oh,” he laughs. “The maid outfit. It was Jadeite, really.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s terribly uncomfortable.”
“But flexible,” he counters, and she hits his chest. She earns a laugh, warm and low. “It was meant to reassure Mars, I imagine.”
“Please,” she says.
He grows serious again, his hands cupping her face. His fingers are flushed and sticky. She blushes and turns her mouth into his palm.
“Don’t worry.”
He snorts. “Serenity.”
She tries not to roll her eyes. She pulls his hands from her face and then leans forward, letting her mouth slide against his chest. She kisses him once, then twice, and then it’s her mouth fitting over a scar or two. He sighs and she relaxes finally - maybe too late. It doesn’t matter.
“Don’t worry,” she still tells him. She laughs softly. “I may do that enough for the both of us as it is. It will be fine, you know.”
After, she does not remember what he says, or if it’s important - she knows it ends as it always does, and carries the press of his mouth over her own back to Venus and Kunzite, then back to her return home. It won’t be until she reaches her rooms and until she clutches the cloak to her chest that she thinks she may have to tell him soon.
She always keeps the shirts as it is.
of the wisest, an interlude
serenity tries to be reasonable. really, if anything she does. sailor moon | serenity/endymoin | Silver Millennium | 2,015 words, T.
-
What is left is lace, the thinnest piece of lace that Serenity has ever seen. It is black and perhaps too intricate for its primary use. She doesn’t even consider this a dress either, or even a skirt - they’re telling her that this is skirt. She stares blankly at the offending fabric, dangling out of Venus’ hand as the older woman smirks back at her too.
“I -” the princess shakes her head. “Absolutely not.”
The fabric drops in front of her then. It’s a skirt, she realizes - horrified. It’s a skirt and there’s an apron and it only serves to make Venus’ grin grow wider. She ignores the smile, kneeling briefly to pick it up.
“This,” she starts, and then stops. It’s silk that stretches over her palm and her fingers. It uncurls against her nails and she shakes her head again, her lips pressing tightly together. She cannot find the words.
“It’s how we’ll get you in,” Venus reasons. “Especially since the usual entrance is compromised. There’s only so much a proper cloak can do.”
Serenity narrows her eyes. “You give me so little credit.”
It’s then that Mars finally speaks up, pushing herself away from the bed. She slips an arm around Serenity’s waist, pressing a kiss to her cheek and grinning wickedly at the two others.
“Trust us, Princess,” she says solemnly. “It’s not the credit that you’ll need.”
This is her fourth or fifth trip to Earth. Serenity admits to only a semblance of romanticism; Endymoin is still very much Endymoin, after all, and her guardians will attest to all particular incidents that have led up to these moments. But she also knows that she is the worst kind of stubborn and responsible just as well.
“I still hate all of you,” she breathes, and Venus stifles a laugh next to her. She links her arm through her own, drawing herself closer to Serenity. The two women walk quickly. “And he’s going to gloat.”
“Easily taken care of, my lady,” Venus drawls.
But Serenity rolls her eyes.
It’s cold tonight, she thinks. Her cloak covers her hair and face, the sliver of a braid dusting against her chest. The air catches against her legs too and she tries not to look down, to be too aware of just how much her skirt makes the cloak sink out, wisps of silk and lace and everything else running against her skin.
Venus keeps the pace though, and they turn into the maze of the palace gardens, walking briskly to the appointed meeting place. There isn’t much to this route; there is a sense of silence and privacy that unnerves her a little. It’s all too different from home, from the palace, and her own landscape; the flowers seem rarer, the colors too bright, and the strange but distinct smell of roses are heavier than needed. She can see how one could get lost in her, or, if anything, fall directly in love with the Prince himself.
And that he does not need to know just yet.
“Kunzite.”
Startled, Serenity stops. Venus’ hand goes to the hilt at her hip. There is a low snarl from her guardian as the Earth General appears. His mouth quirks and he inclines his head, bowing before the two of them.
“Your highness,” he murmurs. His gaze falls on Venus, eyes dark. He licks his lips. “And the Lady Venus,” he greets. “I believe Princess Serenity is familiar enough for the rest of the way?”
Serenity sighs, squeezing Venus’ arm. “Try not to … stab him,” she says dryly. Venus blushes, glaring at her. “I’ll see you soon,” Serenity adds.
Venus mutters something. Serenity laughs and ignores her, fixing the hood over her head. She moves quietly, pausing to reach out and squeezes the general’s arm. He doesn’t smile at her, but she feels the warmth and the lazy greeting of his own energy against hers.
If anything, it’s a comfort that not all things have changed.
She cannot explain how any of this has happened. How politics, really, have transformed her life and her choices into a mountain of secrets and securities. There are no vague memories either and at the heart of it, there is Endymoin, there is always Endymoin curtailing her focus to other places.
There is little comfort to the maze. There are high walls and strange figures. She read somewhere that parts of it were built for the king and his lovers, or that there is said to be another entrance to Elysium hidden here. It speaks to the same kind of romanticism that surrounds the Prince, she thinks.
But when she is far enough away, she stops and leans into a wall. She takes a deep breath and brushes her hands against her face, forcing her blush to calm. She listens to the murmurs and picks at the energies - Kunzite and Venus remain stable, but she can sense the others close by.
There is no time to rest, really. Serenity pushes herself from the wall again and moves on.
“Please tell me that this wasn’t your idea.”
Serenity’s hands clutch her cloak. She shifts from foot to foot in the grass.
He looks up from the grass when she arrives, pulling back her hood. Her bangs spill and fall, a stranger weight without the proper pattern she is accustomed to at home. Endymoin’s mouth turns though, slowly and thoughtfully, as he leans back against his elbows to take her in.
“I don’t know what you mean, my lady,” he says, and she eyes him wearily. The press of his armor is elsewhere. “I was merely concerned with your safety.”
She shakes her head. She moves a hand to her braid, pulling at the strands. She loosens it and her hair tumbles forward, spilling around her. She watches his eyes narrow and good, she thinks.
“So you went to Venus?”
He chuckles. “Mars, really.”
Her eyes narrow. She shakes her head and then unclasps the cloak, letting it fall to the grass. She flushes and then rocks onto the back of her heels, her fingers curling around the end of the skirt. Her nails catch at the lace and then Endymoin is sliding onto his knees, reaching for her.
His palms press over her knees, then drag against her thighs. His fingers are cool, flexing lazily over her skin.
“Endymoin,” she murmurs.
“And if it was?” he asks.
Her lips part and she slides a hand through his hair, her fingers curling lightly. She shudders when his mouth curls, and then his hands, as they drag to untie the bow against her back.
“Serenity,” he murmurs. “I wonder -”
“No,” she snaps. “No, no.” She tugs at his hair. “You do not get to make those faces at me,” she says stubbornly. “It’s cold, and this is impractical, and what is with you and my legs, you idiot -“
It really just takes a pull of her arm, and then he’s dragging her over his legs. The grass is cool against her knees. Her eyes are wide with surprise and his mouth slides over hers, that slight, impossible smile of his turning against her lips.
Serenity sighs. She relents a little, just a little, and the skirt starts to drag up against her thighs. It’s an odd combination of sensations; it pulls and pushes, scratches and softens against her legs and thighs, as his palm flushes against her skin.
She lets him bite at her lip. “You know how I like you,” he murmurs.
“I cannot believe that everybody thinks you’re this charming,” she shoots back. His hands slide under the skirt. He pulls, just a little, and then pulls, one more time. The skirt sinks lower on her hips, but does not peel off.
“You secretly do,” he teases. Endymoin’s fingers are soft against her hair, then they drag against her neck as she sighs.
He is not careful. This maybe what she loves most about him. He pushes his hands and fingers, then his mouth, leaning her back. His hand slips to cup her between her legs, his fingers brushing over her clit. She makes a noise and he laughs.
“It is true.”
She makes another sound. It curls against her throat, and he slides his fingers inside of her. They curl and she sighs, her eyes closing.
“You are lucky I do,” she breathes, and he laughs, his mouth at her throat.
His hand starts to rock. Her legs spread, her knees sinking further into the ground. It is the pull of the fabric - against her legs, over her breasts - and how it finally does her in, as she feels him take her in greedily.
His mouth finds hers again. It’s hot, slick even. He is smiling and she thinks maybe, just maybe he tastes too, too sweet for her. “You wouldn’t have me any other way,” he murmurs.
She bites at his mouth. She does not tell him this is true.
He rests his forehead against hers. His fingers catch at the clasp at her throat. His shirt is hastily closed underneath her cloak, the buttons haphazardly pulled together over her breasts and legs.
The fabric is warm and there is that odd smell, the soft pull of the roses and the gardens and the grass. The cuffs sink over her hands, but the cloak seems to hide it all and hide it well.
“It’s about creativity,” he teases. But then his expression becomes serious, solemn even as his gaze weighs over hers. “Are you all right?”
“Mmm.” Her lips curl. She shakes her head. “Idiot,” she murmurs, and her fingers curl against his chest. She pulls a little at his chest, and then traces her fingers against a scar. She could tell him, she reasons. But it may be too much.
They’re quiet then. The sun has yet to peek out; there seems to be no concept of time for her here, and perhaps, there is more so back at him. She feels him lean his weight into her and his hands brush against her hips.
The strange part is that they do talk about it all, about politics and choices, about her worries and his own. He is much more serious than they all know, perhaps too serious - much to her amusement. But their worries are the same and that, there, may be the saving grace to all of this.
“I will not wear that again,” she says.
He chuckles. “Wear?” he follows her gaze to the mess of fabric in the grass, half-ripped at the skirt. The dew seems to swallow it and there is a mess of stains that collect at the collar. “Oh,” he laughs. “The maid outfit. It was Jadeite, really.”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s terribly uncomfortable.”
“But flexible,” he counters, and she hits his chest. She earns a laugh, warm and low. “It was meant to reassure Mars, I imagine.”
“Please,” she says.
He grows serious again, his hands cupping her face. His fingers are flushed and sticky. She blushes and turns her mouth into his palm.
“Don’t worry.”
He snorts. “Serenity.”
She tries not to roll her eyes. She pulls his hands from her face and then leans forward, letting her mouth slide against his chest. She kisses him once, then twice, and then it’s her mouth fitting over a scar or two. He sighs and she relaxes finally - maybe too late. It doesn’t matter.
“Don’t worry,” she still tells him. She laughs softly. “I may do that enough for the both of us as it is. It will be fine, you know.”
After, she does not remember what he says, or if it’s important - she knows it ends as it always does, and carries the press of his mouth over her own back to Venus and Kunzite, then back to her return home. It won’t be until she reaches her rooms and until she clutches the cloak to her chest that she thinks she may have to tell him soon.
She always keeps the shirts as it is.