V's V-Day Appreciation Gift
Hey, it's not midnight here yet!
venusorbit1, where do I start? How about: if it weren't for your questions and time, I wouldn't be in this fandom, writing right now. How about: if it weren't for your comments and enthusiasm, I wouldn't be trying so hard to finish things, instead letting them go. How about: if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made contact with nearly as many people in this fandom, content to quietly lurk behind locked entries and cut tags.
If it weren't for you, there'd be no Six Ways, no Torchverse, no plot for the rest of The Necklace...nothing. I would've drifted right back out like I usually do, instead of holding on for over a year now. (OVER A YEAR!)
V, I kinda get the feeling that you don't understand how much your comments and enthusiasm mean. But it's not just that; it's that you have it for everyone. In chat, everyone gets the V "WRITE MOAR"; everyone can blame you for some work of fiction they've got going on. And really, by "blame," we mean "thank."
Thank you, V. Thank you so very, very much.
And on top of that, you're a kick-ass writer to boot. How you manage to be that creative and that generous is beyond me, but damn lady, you are amazingly bad-ass.
We love you, V. <3
I. The Bracelet
"Habit and Punishment"
Emi stepped out of the bathroom, wisps of steam curling around her as they escaped the room. "Ah," she sighed into the cooler air. "That felt--"
She paused and looked around the room. She had left Nephrite sleeping in a dark room, and the room remained dark; however, the mass of auburn hair that should be on her pillow was conspicuously absent. The covers were still mounded on his side of the bed, but no trace of him showed.
"Nephrite?" she asked, stepping closer. "Nephrite, are you--"
The top edge pushed back, revealing a slice of auburn and a hint of a brown eye beneath it. "Uh. Lady," came the deep voice, muffled by the covers. "Good shower?"
"Yes," she replied, brow furrowing. "Quite...refreshing." A pause. "Are you all right?"
"I--I am--uh, fine. Fine," he replied, pushing down the covers a little more.
His hesitant answer puzzled her, but she decided it wouldn't do to question him more. She moved around to her side of the bed and started to pull the covers towards her; without warning, he jerked them back, visible eye turning away from her.
She paused, then said, "Nephrite. What's wrong?"
He let out a sigh, then rolled flat on his back. "Lady," he said, "I fear I must apologize."
"Apologize?" What could he--oh no. We've just begun this! He was so sure--
His voice intruded on her thoughts. "Yes," he said, moving under the covers, pushing part of the mass of blanket towards her. "I fear I have been...unfaithful."
Her eyes went wide, and her thoughts tumbled over themselves as if he had pushed them down a steep hill. Finally, she managed, "How?"
"Oh, my Lady, not with another body. But..." He pushed himself up a little, revealing his bare chest, the blankets settling into a smoother line on his body.
"But?" she asked, unable to divine where he was leading her.
He caught her eye, and then looked down. She followed his gaze.
Under the blanket, there was a distinct bump.
She blinked. "You were--" She paused and double checked the bump, then finished, "--touching yourself?"
"Yes," he rasped out, eyes dropping from her.
For a moment, she wasn't sure how to answer that. Her body, though, took over for her, letting out a soft giggle.
His eyes snapped to her. "Lady?"
Once one had escaped, more wanted to follow. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to stem the tide, and after a few minutes, it subsided. Then she looked back at his face, which wore a confused look, and the giggles bubbled up again.
"Lady," he said again, sounding both confused and a little hurt.
"Oh, Nephrite," she said, moving onto the bed now, her towel slipping from her grip a little. "That's not being unfaithful to me."
"But I didn't even think," he protested. "I awoke to your scent, and instead of waiting for you to return, I...without thinking..."
She slid closer to him, touching his bare shoulder. "It's all right," she said.
He blinked up at her. "But Lady," he protested, "you must think me sex crazed. After we--then I--"
"That was many hours ago, Nephrite," she pointed out gently.
"Still, I should have bested my--"
She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Nephrite, if you believe that is being unfaithful, then I, too, have a confession to make."
His eyes widened. "You?" he whispered.
She felt herself flush, and gave a little shrug, as if to deflect the embarrassment. "I am used to taking my pleasures in the shower," she said, hoping her voice was cool. "My fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own. When it's habit--" She gave another little shrug, as if to say, "what can you do?"
He tilted his head. "I, too, was used to such things when I woke," he said, voice soft. "But Lady--Emi--you truly do not take offense?"
The way his voice shaped her name sent a warm thrill through her, one that made the tips of her fingers and toes tingle. Her nipples, as well, rose.
"I cannot," she said, voice as soft as his. "I understand having those lonely habits. However--"
"Yes?" His voice was hushed.
"If you think you deserve punishment for such a trespass," she paused to pull her towel completely free, letting it fall to the bed, "I can think of a few ideas."
The line of his mouth finally softened. "Such as?" he asked, voice still soft, but now with that heated rasp to it.
She moved in closer, and with a little fumbling, straddled him, her trim pussy barely held away from his face.
"Ah," he said, hands finding her ass, "fitting." He pulled her down to him, and as she held herself open, took his punishment well.
(809)
II. The Necklace
"Ode to My Lady's Face"
Venus slammed the door as she came into his quarters.
Kunzite looked up from his papers, stilling his face to coolness. The events of the last few days seemed to resist sinking in, so that every time he saw her, he wanted to rush to her, touch her, affirm that yes, he could touch her. But given how she faced him now, veil askew and stance angry, he settled for, "Long day?"
"RRRRGH" was her response.
"A yes, then," he said, leaning forward to put his papers on the table. "Come here, love, and tell me about it."
She stormed over and dropped on the couch, clearly fuming. He hid his wincing as she roughly curled up on him, head in his lap, feet jammed into the couch arm.
He paused a moment, then asked, "Love, do you want me to take your--"
"I HATE THOSE FUCKING PLUTONIANS."
Ah. Now was not the time for that, even though her hair looked to be twisted painfully in the clips.
"THEY BARELY HAVE A PLANET--IF THE GATES OF TIME WEREN'T THERE--" She let out a hiss of air between her teeth, and he suddenly wondered if it was wise to have an angry Venus's head in his lap. She did bite.
"Yet they trade on that like they owned the whole Solar System," she continued, voice softer but no less angry. "Fucking PLUTO!"
She went quiet, though he could feel her fuming. He chanced to stroke her hair then, or at least the parts he was sure he could get to without hurting her.
He could remember, in his dreams, seeing her angry. But as with many things, there was a difference between the dream and reality, and it was a difference he needed to consider with caution. He had not forgotten Mars's warning about that. Had this been one of his men, he would've drawn the rest of the story out and perhaps offered counsel. But this was his love, the woman he'd known all his life, yet not at all.
So he waited.
"And if it's not fucking PLUTO," she suddenly snarled, "it's NEPTUNE. So you have valuable gasses. So you have a really cold moon. SO WHAT? You're WAY THE FUCK OUT THERE! Don't get all hoity-toity in MY face just 'cause oooh, you can have kids!" She finished with a hard snort, as if children were in no way important to anything EVER.
He continued to stroke her hair, holding in the urge to hum in a soft, calming way, as he'd seen court mothers do with their upset children.
She made a sound like a growl, then suddenly rolled in his lap. "And what have YOU been doing?" she snapped.
He paused, hand on the crown of her head, then said, "I have been reading through the latest papers from the agents of," he paused, "Neptune."
She bared her teeth.
"And," he hastened to add, "I worked on a poem for you."
Her face went slack, and she blinked a few times up at him. "For me?" she said, voice hesitant.
"Yes," he said. Having made it through two exchanges without getting eaten, he added, "Would you like to hear it?"
She rose slowly from his lap. "I--" She bit her lip, then reached up to fiddle with her veil.
"If you do not feel up to it--" he started, but she shook her head.
"No! No, it's not--" She stopped and gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry. It's just--I didn't expect you to write a poem about me."
There was a weird pause at the end of her sentence, as if she'd left off a word, but he did not dwell on it. "It is my pleasure to write poems about you, my love," he said.
She bit her lip again, then gave a quick nod. "It would be my pleasure to hear such a poem, then," she said.
He gave her a short nod, then turned back to the table. He leafed through his papers until he found the sheet, and cautiously pulled it out, careful not to show her what was written on it. He had a fair hand, but his poetry was not kind to paper; he did not want her to see the many heavy lines through words.
He waited until she had finished pulling her veil off and smoothing her hair down, then cleared his throat. "A Paean to My Lady," he intoned.
She covered her mouth, then gave him a quick nod, pushing her hand back to her lap.
He cleared his throat again, and recited:
A rumination upon my lady's locks
And her face, so clear of pox
To her eyes, how bright and blue
The gentle orbs that see me through
To the lift of her bust
And her carriage unfussed
To her legs, so curvy and long
About which I could make songs
To her heart, gentle and true
That loves me dear as I love, too
At which point, she made a sound.
It was not a gasp. It was not a snarl. It was more like a...gurgle.
He looked up from the paper. Her hand was over her mouth again, and her eyes seemed to be watering.
"Venus?" he asked.
She made another noise against her hand, this one more like a sputter. Then, as he watched, she tensed up, shoulders bowing, head moving forward, eyes scrunching up tight. She held this pose for a moment, then abruptly straightened.
"Is that all?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
He looked back at the paper. "There are another few couplets," he said.
"Ah," she said, then reached out and snagged the paper from him. "It might be good to stop there, then."
He felt his eyes narrow. "Did you not like your poem?"
She took a deep breath, then smiled at him, the coy, cute smile he'd seen her use on other diplomats. "You want my honest opinion, Lord?"
He nodded.
"My love, you are...a terrible poet."
His hand curled at his side. "So my men have told me," he said. "Jadeite always says that when he is in a foul mood, the best thing to cheer him up is one of my poems."
"In that, Jadeite and I can agree," she said.
Before he could say anything, she moved closer to him on the couch, pressing herself against his arm.
"But truly, love," she said, breath tickling his ear, "no one has ever written me a poem like that before."
He tilted his head to look at her. "No one has ever written you a poem? The Lady of Venus?"
"Oh," she said, "they've written me poetry. And some of it has even been good poetry. But," she shifted, and suddenly he could feel every place where she pressed against him, "none of it has been poetry from the heart."
She pressed a kiss to his cheek. He moved to intercept the next with his lips, and turned more to pull her closer to him on the next kiss. Gentle the kisses started, but he could feel the heat behind them, and the small flame that burned in them both slowly grew brighter, hotter, as the kisses began to run together, as their mouths opened to each other, tongues touching--
She moved against him, and two things happened.
He started to slip backwards, pulling her with him.
His injured ribs went CLANG.
With a hiss he tensed, then fell all the way back. She paused above him, reddened mouth in an O of surprise.
He carefully monitored his breathing until the pain subsided a bit, then said, "Apologies, love. My injury, it still--"
Her eyes widened, and she slipped off him to the floor. "I'm sorry, I forgot," she rushed out. "Does it--is it--"
"I'll be fine," he said, fingers brushing the tips of her hair. He huffed softly. "Not that I wouldn't prefer to be doing what we just were--"
She sighed, placing her hand on his chest. "Not if it hurts you," she said.
He put his hand over hers. "My Lady," he said, "you are worth a thousand such hurts."
She lowered her head, and he stroked the back of her hand, sending silent comfort. She still blamed herself. Yet the smooth, unscarred skin under his fingers was worth it, as he had told her--as he would tell her a thousand times more.
All of this--learning who she was, learning to love the her of reality--was worth such pains.
"Besides," he added, breaking the silence, "if you can endure my poetry, I can endure an ache or two."
Her eyes came up, wide and unbelieving, a hurt it would take time to ease. Then she smiled, and the look became a wicked one.
"Perhaps, my Lord," she said, sliding her hand down his stomach, "I can teach you some of my poetry."
"Oh?" he asked, feeling his breathing shift.
"It doesn't involve much in the way of words," she said, coming up on her knees, fingers finding the clasp on his pants, "but I have been told I am very good at it."
"Of that, Lady, we shall--"
She didn't let him finish his sentence.
In the end, she did turn out to be a better poet in her style than he was in his.
For the time being, at least. One day, he swore to himself, he would do more with his words.
But for now, he would enjoy hers.
(1595)
<3 <3 <3 V <3 <3 <3
venusorbit1, where do I start? How about: if it weren't for your questions and time, I wouldn't be in this fandom, writing right now. How about: if it weren't for your comments and enthusiasm, I wouldn't be trying so hard to finish things, instead letting them go. How about: if it weren't for you, I wouldn't have made contact with nearly as many people in this fandom, content to quietly lurk behind locked entries and cut tags.
If it weren't for you, there'd be no Six Ways, no Torchverse, no plot for the rest of The Necklace...nothing. I would've drifted right back out like I usually do, instead of holding on for over a year now. (OVER A YEAR!)
V, I kinda get the feeling that you don't understand how much your comments and enthusiasm mean. But it's not just that; it's that you have it for everyone. In chat, everyone gets the V "WRITE MOAR"; everyone can blame you for some work of fiction they've got going on. And really, by "blame," we mean "thank."
Thank you, V. Thank you so very, very much.
And on top of that, you're a kick-ass writer to boot. How you manage to be that creative and that generous is beyond me, but damn lady, you are amazingly bad-ass.
We love you, V. <3
I. The Bracelet
"Habit and Punishment"
Emi stepped out of the bathroom, wisps of steam curling around her as they escaped the room. "Ah," she sighed into the cooler air. "That felt--"
She paused and looked around the room. She had left Nephrite sleeping in a dark room, and the room remained dark; however, the mass of auburn hair that should be on her pillow was conspicuously absent. The covers were still mounded on his side of the bed, but no trace of him showed.
"Nephrite?" she asked, stepping closer. "Nephrite, are you--"
The top edge pushed back, revealing a slice of auburn and a hint of a brown eye beneath it. "Uh. Lady," came the deep voice, muffled by the covers. "Good shower?"
"Yes," she replied, brow furrowing. "Quite...refreshing." A pause. "Are you all right?"
"I--I am--uh, fine. Fine," he replied, pushing down the covers a little more.
His hesitant answer puzzled her, but she decided it wouldn't do to question him more. She moved around to her side of the bed and started to pull the covers towards her; without warning, he jerked them back, visible eye turning away from her.
She paused, then said, "Nephrite. What's wrong?"
He let out a sigh, then rolled flat on his back. "Lady," he said, "I fear I must apologize."
"Apologize?" What could he--oh no. We've just begun this! He was so sure--
His voice intruded on her thoughts. "Yes," he said, moving under the covers, pushing part of the mass of blanket towards her. "I fear I have been...unfaithful."
Her eyes went wide, and her thoughts tumbled over themselves as if he had pushed them down a steep hill. Finally, she managed, "How?"
"Oh, my Lady, not with another body. But..." He pushed himself up a little, revealing his bare chest, the blankets settling into a smoother line on his body.
"But?" she asked, unable to divine where he was leading her.
He caught her eye, and then looked down. She followed his gaze.
Under the blanket, there was a distinct bump.
She blinked. "You were--" She paused and double checked the bump, then finished, "--touching yourself?"
"Yes," he rasped out, eyes dropping from her.
For a moment, she wasn't sure how to answer that. Her body, though, took over for her, letting out a soft giggle.
His eyes snapped to her. "Lady?"
Once one had escaped, more wanted to follow. She pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to stem the tide, and after a few minutes, it subsided. Then she looked back at his face, which wore a confused look, and the giggles bubbled up again.
"Lady," he said again, sounding both confused and a little hurt.
"Oh, Nephrite," she said, moving onto the bed now, her towel slipping from her grip a little. "That's not being unfaithful to me."
"But I didn't even think," he protested. "I awoke to your scent, and instead of waiting for you to return, I...without thinking..."
She slid closer to him, touching his bare shoulder. "It's all right," she said.
He blinked up at her. "But Lady," he protested, "you must think me sex crazed. After we--then I--"
"That was many hours ago, Nephrite," she pointed out gently.
"Still, I should have bested my--"
She held up a hand, cutting him off. "Nephrite, if you believe that is being unfaithful, then I, too, have a confession to make."
His eyes widened. "You?" he whispered.
She felt herself flush, and gave a little shrug, as if to deflect the embarrassment. "I am used to taking my pleasures in the shower," she said, hoping her voice was cool. "My fingers moved as if they had a mind of their own. When it's habit--" She gave another little shrug, as if to say, "what can you do?"
He tilted his head. "I, too, was used to such things when I woke," he said, voice soft. "But Lady--Emi--you truly do not take offense?"
The way his voice shaped her name sent a warm thrill through her, one that made the tips of her fingers and toes tingle. Her nipples, as well, rose.
"I cannot," she said, voice as soft as his. "I understand having those lonely habits. However--"
"Yes?" His voice was hushed.
"If you think you deserve punishment for such a trespass," she paused to pull her towel completely free, letting it fall to the bed, "I can think of a few ideas."
The line of his mouth finally softened. "Such as?" he asked, voice still soft, but now with that heated rasp to it.
She moved in closer, and with a little fumbling, straddled him, her trim pussy barely held away from his face.
"Ah," he said, hands finding her ass, "fitting." He pulled her down to him, and as she held herself open, took his punishment well.
(809)
II. The Necklace
"Ode to My Lady's Face"
Venus slammed the door as she came into his quarters.
Kunzite looked up from his papers, stilling his face to coolness. The events of the last few days seemed to resist sinking in, so that every time he saw her, he wanted to rush to her, touch her, affirm that yes, he could touch her. But given how she faced him now, veil askew and stance angry, he settled for, "Long day?"
"RRRRGH" was her response.
"A yes, then," he said, leaning forward to put his papers on the table. "Come here, love, and tell me about it."
She stormed over and dropped on the couch, clearly fuming. He hid his wincing as she roughly curled up on him, head in his lap, feet jammed into the couch arm.
He paused a moment, then asked, "Love, do you want me to take your--"
"I HATE THOSE FUCKING PLUTONIANS."
Ah. Now was not the time for that, even though her hair looked to be twisted painfully in the clips.
"THEY BARELY HAVE A PLANET--IF THE GATES OF TIME WEREN'T THERE--" She let out a hiss of air between her teeth, and he suddenly wondered if it was wise to have an angry Venus's head in his lap. She did bite.
"Yet they trade on that like they owned the whole Solar System," she continued, voice softer but no less angry. "Fucking PLUTO!"
She went quiet, though he could feel her fuming. He chanced to stroke her hair then, or at least the parts he was sure he could get to without hurting her.
He could remember, in his dreams, seeing her angry. But as with many things, there was a difference between the dream and reality, and it was a difference he needed to consider with caution. He had not forgotten Mars's warning about that. Had this been one of his men, he would've drawn the rest of the story out and perhaps offered counsel. But this was his love, the woman he'd known all his life, yet not at all.
So he waited.
"And if it's not fucking PLUTO," she suddenly snarled, "it's NEPTUNE. So you have valuable gasses. So you have a really cold moon. SO WHAT? You're WAY THE FUCK OUT THERE! Don't get all hoity-toity in MY face just 'cause oooh, you can have kids!" She finished with a hard snort, as if children were in no way important to anything EVER.
He continued to stroke her hair, holding in the urge to hum in a soft, calming way, as he'd seen court mothers do with their upset children.
She made a sound like a growl, then suddenly rolled in his lap. "And what have YOU been doing?" she snapped.
He paused, hand on the crown of her head, then said, "I have been reading through the latest papers from the agents of," he paused, "Neptune."
She bared her teeth.
"And," he hastened to add, "I worked on a poem for you."
Her face went slack, and she blinked a few times up at him. "For me?" she said, voice hesitant.
"Yes," he said. Having made it through two exchanges without getting eaten, he added, "Would you like to hear it?"
She rose slowly from his lap. "I--" She bit her lip, then reached up to fiddle with her veil.
"If you do not feel up to it--" he started, but she shook her head.
"No! No, it's not--" She stopped and gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry. It's just--I didn't expect you to write a poem about me."
There was a weird pause at the end of her sentence, as if she'd left off a word, but he did not dwell on it. "It is my pleasure to write poems about you, my love," he said.
She bit her lip again, then gave a quick nod. "It would be my pleasure to hear such a poem, then," she said.
He gave her a short nod, then turned back to the table. He leafed through his papers until he found the sheet, and cautiously pulled it out, careful not to show her what was written on it. He had a fair hand, but his poetry was not kind to paper; he did not want her to see the many heavy lines through words.
He waited until she had finished pulling her veil off and smoothing her hair down, then cleared his throat. "A Paean to My Lady," he intoned.
She covered her mouth, then gave him a quick nod, pushing her hand back to her lap.
He cleared his throat again, and recited:
A rumination upon my lady's locks
And her face, so clear of pox
To her eyes, how bright and blue
The gentle orbs that see me through
To the lift of her bust
And her carriage unfussed
To her legs, so curvy and long
About which I could make songs
To her heart, gentle and true
That loves me dear as I love, too
At which point, she made a sound.
It was not a gasp. It was not a snarl. It was more like a...gurgle.
He looked up from the paper. Her hand was over her mouth again, and her eyes seemed to be watering.
"Venus?" he asked.
She made another noise against her hand, this one more like a sputter. Then, as he watched, she tensed up, shoulders bowing, head moving forward, eyes scrunching up tight. She held this pose for a moment, then abruptly straightened.
"Is that all?" she asked, wiping her eyes.
He looked back at the paper. "There are another few couplets," he said.
"Ah," she said, then reached out and snagged the paper from him. "It might be good to stop there, then."
He felt his eyes narrow. "Did you not like your poem?"
She took a deep breath, then smiled at him, the coy, cute smile he'd seen her use on other diplomats. "You want my honest opinion, Lord?"
He nodded.
"My love, you are...a terrible poet."
His hand curled at his side. "So my men have told me," he said. "Jadeite always says that when he is in a foul mood, the best thing to cheer him up is one of my poems."
"In that, Jadeite and I can agree," she said.
Before he could say anything, she moved closer to him on the couch, pressing herself against his arm.
"But truly, love," she said, breath tickling his ear, "no one has ever written me a poem like that before."
He tilted his head to look at her. "No one has ever written you a poem? The Lady of Venus?"
"Oh," she said, "they've written me poetry. And some of it has even been good poetry. But," she shifted, and suddenly he could feel every place where she pressed against him, "none of it has been poetry from the heart."
She pressed a kiss to his cheek. He moved to intercept the next with his lips, and turned more to pull her closer to him on the next kiss. Gentle the kisses started, but he could feel the heat behind them, and the small flame that burned in them both slowly grew brighter, hotter, as the kisses began to run together, as their mouths opened to each other, tongues touching--
She moved against him, and two things happened.
He started to slip backwards, pulling her with him.
His injured ribs went CLANG.
With a hiss he tensed, then fell all the way back. She paused above him, reddened mouth in an O of surprise.
He carefully monitored his breathing until the pain subsided a bit, then said, "Apologies, love. My injury, it still--"
Her eyes widened, and she slipped off him to the floor. "I'm sorry, I forgot," she rushed out. "Does it--is it--"
"I'll be fine," he said, fingers brushing the tips of her hair. He huffed softly. "Not that I wouldn't prefer to be doing what we just were--"
She sighed, placing her hand on his chest. "Not if it hurts you," she said.
He put his hand over hers. "My Lady," he said, "you are worth a thousand such hurts."
She lowered her head, and he stroked the back of her hand, sending silent comfort. She still blamed herself. Yet the smooth, unscarred skin under his fingers was worth it, as he had told her--as he would tell her a thousand times more.
All of this--learning who she was, learning to love the her of reality--was worth such pains.
"Besides," he added, breaking the silence, "if you can endure my poetry, I can endure an ache or two."
Her eyes came up, wide and unbelieving, a hurt it would take time to ease. Then she smiled, and the look became a wicked one.
"Perhaps, my Lord," she said, sliding her hand down his stomach, "I can teach you some of my poetry."
"Oh?" he asked, feeling his breathing shift.
"It doesn't involve much in the way of words," she said, coming up on her knees, fingers finding the clasp on his pants, "but I have been told I am very good at it."
"Of that, Lady, we shall--"
She didn't let him finish his sentence.
In the end, she did turn out to be a better poet in her style than he was in his.
For the time being, at least. One day, he swore to himself, he would do more with his words.
But for now, he would enjoy hers.
(1595)
<3 <3 <3 V <3 <3 <3