Making Love in Iambic Pentameter

Rated NC-17

GN!V and GN!EV

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Moore, Lloyd, Vertigo and DC

Evey knelt to open the trunk in the Theatre Room. This trunk was the largest and the most ornate and as such had attracted her attention like none of the others. She ran a timid finger along the edge of the curved lid; the bright nickel edges were smooth and cold. V had told her she could explore this room and its many treasures. Already she had uncovered costumes of all types, from elaborate masquerade ensembles to plain togas and an intriguing loincloth. V had racks of costumes, wardrobes filled with accessories. She had touched and handled Cyrano's sword, Hamlet's skull, Titania's donkey, and the Queen of the Night's scepter. This trunk was the last unexplored item in the room and she had found it by accident; it had been behind and beneath the rack of Elizabethan costumes, its bright colors muted by the shadows of the velvets and silks, its great bulk secreted behind the metal legs of the rack itself.

But now this particular trunk thwarted her efforts to unlock its secrets. Like its owner, the trunk defied her efforts to explore it. Its clasp was not locked but her searching fingers had been unable to open it. This trunk was twice the size of the others that rested on the floor against the walls. This one was made of wood, carved deep with Celtic designs on every surface. The nickel corners remained bright, no dents or cracks marred the surface. Yet the elegant dome lid refused to lift for her. The longer the top resisted, the more fierce her desire to lay it open. She struggled, trying to force the clasp to unhinge itself. It would not budge, it was stubborn. Resolute.

She sat back on her heels. Perhaps this trunk is empty. Perhaps there is nothing beneath the lid. Perhaps I am grappling with a lost cause. She pushed at the trunk with a bare foot. It remained firmly in place. It was monstrously heavy. It is not empty at all. In fact, I suspect that it contains the most wondrous of all the treasures in this room. Evey leaned back to think. Force will not crack the trunk, only thinking. Think. She leaned back against the wall, resting, and her eyes took in the masks hanging from a wire he had strung across the room, one end to the other. Masks of all types, sizes, colors…all in plain view. The masks were there, easy enough to access: light, colorful, obvious. Their very accessibility made them monotonous in their variety. She looked back at the trunk.

But this trunk…Evey's eyes swept the room for a tool. A crowbar? No. That would damage the trunk. He would notice, he would be hurt. A pick? Perhaps. Her eyes fell upon a dagger that lay on the table above her. She took it down, felt the prick of its tip. A stage dagger. Not a real one. With V you never know, do you? She smiled grimly. The dagger might be firm enough to penetrate the lock. She slid the small blade into the keyhole, feeling around for a latch inside. There was a click, yes, the dagger was effective. She withdrew the blade and tried to lift the lid with her hands.

Nothing. The latch remained firmly attached. The lid remained stubbornly shut against her advances. Evey set her jaw, narrowed her eyes. I will not be thwarted by a mere security device. He told me nothing was locked. He told me to look at whatever pleased me. He told me to handle his things, to feel his assets. He told me I could have this. She leaned against the lid again, using all her strength. After a valiant struggle she sat back again on her heels. Brute strength will never work. This trunk is stronger than I am and will always be. I cannot open it myself. Something else must open it for me. Someone else.

A waft of air across her cheek made her look up. There he is. In the doorway. Silent as ever, the air currents alone betrayed him. The white mask gleamed in the harsh lights as he looked down at her. "Ah, Eve, the tea is done. Please come and dine."

"Oh." Eve did not try to hide her disappointment. She was not ready to concede defeat. The trunk appeared supercilious now, laughing at her. Eve made a wry face at it. Staring intently at the lock, she said to V, "Can tea wait? Will you open this trunk for me? Just let me look inside, and then I will come with you." She waited, but he did not respond. She glanced up at him. "V?" The mask tilted at the trunk, then he stood very tall and still for a long moment as though considering her request. "V?" she repeated.

In lieu of an answer he descended beside her, knelt before the trunk and ran a gloved hand across the nickel plating just as she had done. He turned so his broad shoulders blocked her view of the trunk. She had to look under his arm to see him stroke the lock with one finger. The latch instantly popped up, the lid relaxed with a groan of its hinges, but he did not lift the lid. The mask tipped to the side, the wig hair waved gently like a curtain between her and her view of the inside of the trunk. Eve could not see the eye holes, but she could hear him breathing. "Do you know, dear Eve, what is in this trunk?" He voice was so soft, that as close as he was to her, she had to hold her own breath to hear him.

"No," she answered, "I mean, that's why I wanted you to open it for me. I want to know what's inside." Eve moved closer to get a better view. He still blocked most of her field of vision with his back, but she could see a glimmer of light reflecting off the nickel plated lid beneath his arm.

He murmured low, almost a whisper, but she knew he meant her to hear. "This trunk is a special coffer, a chest. A casket, if you will, a paean to..."

She scooted even closer, touching his leg with hers. "Is that why it was behind the racks? Did you mean to hide it from me?" She wanted him to move over so she could see.

"No. Not hidden. Not forbidden, but lost." He had both gloves on the lid; thumbs under the catch, his arms strained with the effort then the heavy lid rose up. He lifted it all the way up and over, letting it come to rest against the wall. "Lost. Long ago. Long ago. Forever gone."

Eve jostled him in her eagerness to see. He leaned away slightly but made to move to clear the way for her to reach inside. She pushed him a little more, but he remained firmly in place. He raised his arm and blocked her from thrusting her hands into the trunk. "Patience," he said. "This is not merely a costume. This came to me from some fellow subversives. Eradicated long ago. I possess their last vestige." Eve held her breath as he reached in and slowly pulled out what looked like a fur blanket. No, not fur, hair…a hide of some kind. She smelled the animal leather of it, saw the browns and reds and blacks of the hairs. She recognized it as he drew it completely from the trunk and laid it out on the floor behind them. Deer. It was a huge deerskin.

She bent over it, glancing at him wordlessly to see if he would give her permission to touch it. As if in answer, he leaned over the pelt himself and drew both gloves over the long hairs, stroking it, combing it, laying the hairs straight where the folds had mussed them. Eve helped him. For a few long minutes they worked side by side, smoothing the deerskin, pulling at the wrinkles and folds, brushing at the hairs until almost the entire open area of the room was covered with the pelt. Eve watched him; on hands and knees he worked the skin from corner to corner. His hair hung down on either side of the mask, his arms moved quickly, efficiently, the suede boot cuff protected his knees on the hard floor while he carefully kept the soles of the boots from marring the pelt. She waited for him to finish before speaking, "This appears to be no ordinary costume."

He sat back, took a deep breath. "No. Hardly a costume at all, but see?" He made an expansive gesture with his hand, encompassing the huge pelt. "Its great weight, its presence, speaks, does it not? Do you hear it? It speaks eloquently of its purpose and its function. I know you can hear it if you listen. Listen."

Eve listened to his voice, as sonorous as ever, but tonight his voice held a strange timbre, a different key. She closed her eyes as she knew he expected her to, in order to listen to the deerskin. She heard nothing. Disappointed, she blinked her eyes open and looked to him again. I hear you, V. I hear you. The deer is silent, but you speak volumes. She put her thoughts into her eyes so he could see them there. He saw them, and with a sigh he crawled back to the trunk and leaned over the side. Eve stayed where she was, sitting cross-legged on the thick smooth hairs of what must have once been an enormous stag, one hand absently stroking the long stiff hairs of what used to be the neck ruff. She watched V from behind. He was moving something heavy around in the bottom of the trunk, the muscles of his back bunched as he lifted it up. Eve gasped.

Antlers arose from within the trunk, emerging point by point until the entire rack was visible over his shoulders. Ten points at least, velvet covered, fully two feet wide and at least that tall. Evey's eyes widened, for the antlers continued to rise above the trunk until she could see that the antlers were attached to a mask. No, more like a helmet. She unfolded her legs and crept closer on hands and knees. V's back was still obscuring most of what she could see, but the fantastic creation he was grasping beckoned to her with a voice she now could hear. The mask was an elaborate creation, carved from a single block of wood, sturdy enough to support the dramatic rack that crowned it. The artist had used his chisel and mallet to etch a face into the wood, a man's face, handsome, strong, authoritative. It was painted, dark colors, greens and browns, his hair and short beard were made of oak leaves, some the golden brown of autumn and some a fresh summer green. The eye holes were small, not smiling eyes, no, not smiling. Intent. Engaging. Authoritative eyes. The eyes of a god. V tilted the headpiece toward her and she suddenly recognized it.

The Green Man. Cernunnos. The horned god. Herne. A little thrill ran through her. It was a beautiful mask, each leaf attached separately, each inch painted with care, the antlers were real ones, fixed firmly, the velvet a rich brown, painstakingly glued to each prong. The neck of the headpiece was another length of deer hide, the hair still on, split so that the hide would hang down front and back. A man wearing this mask would find himself completely enveloped. A stag with the face of a man. She crawled a little closer. She wanted to touch it. It called to her, the strong jaw, the planed cheekbones, the matte finish of the brown and green paint spoke to her of unrestrained masculinity and power. It was magic. She reached under V's arm, a trembling finger ardently drawn to it. I must touch it. It belongs to him, it is his. He is holding it, it is his, and he owns it…but I must touch it, just once. As her finger approached, V lifted the mask high out of her reach. The harlequin smile turned on her.

"No, Eve. You cannot have it. Not today."

"Oh my god, V, why? It is so beautiful! Why can't I touch it? I won't hurt it, I promise. It is so beautiful. It's yours, isn't it? What play is it from? Midsummer Night's Dream? I have never seen anything so lovely. It's…it's…" she could no longer think of a word to describe it. Both masks looked at her intently.

Then the white mask moved. She heard the click of his tongue as he prepared to speak. "This mask…this…" he faltered, the turned back to the antlered mask and lowered it against the edge of the trunk. Eve watched him stare into the eye holes of Herne the Hunter, of Cernunnos the God of Fertility, the Celtic hunting god. The Forest King. She watched him from behind, and then moved closer when she heard him draw in a deep breath.

"Herne the Great Hunter, huntsman to the king was betrayed by his compatriots, Eve. It is common knowledge that excellence is always envied by the weak and the incompetent. Greatness misunderstood is a threat to the ignorant. Herne was betrayed, defeated not by force or accident, but by his own capability. He trusted the untrustworthy, Eve, and then, ashamed, killed himself for it."

Eve listened to him, not understanding what that had to do with touching the mask, but not willing to interrupt.

"Did you know, Eve," and his voice was deep, preoccupied, distant. "that the velvet of a stag's antlers is filled with thousands of nerves, and hundreds of blood vessels desperately nourishing the bone? Did you know this Eve?"

She did. She had learned it in school. Her throat tightened, though, and refused to allow her to answer him, afraid that a word would bring him out of his reverie. Instead she made a soft murmur of affirmation. He continued.

"Yes, but did you also know that those nerve endings are erogenous? That every nerve is pulsing and alive? The ancient peoples of Britain had observed the great stags in the autumn, in the time of rut, move out of the forest and into the meadows of long grass." He turned the mask so the velvet antlers tipped towards her. He did not turn around, but Eve saw him tip his mask in tandem with the antlered mask. "The stag would step out into the meadow, lower his head and draw the antlers slowly back and forth, back and forth through the rough stems, allowing the grass and reeds to stroke the velvet like a hundred searching fingers. A hundred curious fingers, a hundred stalks, stroking and rubbing the velvet prongs." He tipped the Herne mask, waved it slowly back and forth, demonstrating the stag's movements as he spoke. "As the stag became aroused, he would hunch his back, his ecstasy now obvious beneath his great belly. The ancients watched from the trees, from the forest, they watched, Eve, as you are watching now, they watched as the stag swung his antlers on his great neck, swung his head, eyes closed. His back humps once, twice and his great thighs shudder as his seed spatters the ground beneath him. The ancients watched this ritual of fertility between the stag and the grass. They made a connection Eve. A connection I'm not sure you have made."

"Ah, ah," Eve swallowed, "I have, I have," she whispered, pressing her knees together. "I… have made the connection. Ah…can I touch it now?"

The shoulders turned, the white mask faced her. In silent answer to her question, he brought the antlers around in an arc, extended them toward her and put them close to her hands. She reached out, touched them this time, touched the golden brown velvet, felt the soft caress of the fibers then the hard bone beneath it. She stroked the velvet, closed her eyes, thinking of the wild stag standing alone in the field, the unblinking eyes of his human audience tucked away among the branches of the old oaks. She put both hands on the rack, blindly. Shivers of delight coursed from her fingers through her arms to her heart. As she leaned forward to take in more of the antlers, she heard a low sound, like a growl and the antlers vanished from her hands. She opened her eyes. V was gone. A brief glance at the floor between her knees located the Fawkes mask lying there, grinning up at her, the straps flaccid. A glance up revealed the Horned God, turned to her and now moving sinuously above her, the antlers sweeping the air out of reach of her fingers. Her heart stopped. He had put it on. He was Cernunnos. He was making a lowing sound in his throat, a gloved hand reached for her.

She put her hand in his. Just as the velvet antlers were soft on the outside and hard inside the gloves where soft, covering the strong fingers and hard bones of his hands. These were not dancing hands; he was not going to lead her in a waltz. He was leading her somewhere else. He raised himself up on his knees and loomed over her, Eve looked up at the mask, waiting.

He spoke, his voice a sonorous echo from within the heavy mask, "'Ill met by moonlight."

"Ah." Eve sent her mind back to Midsummer Night. She smiled at him, more than willing to play with him. "'I must be thy lady.'"

"How long within this wood intend you stay?"

Eve could not remember the next line, but she was loathe to stop him, desperately needed to keep him in character, keep him like this, close. Warm. Sensual. She smiled at him, looked at him with love in her eyes, Titania's words came to her, then. "Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed." She patted the pelt beneath her and pulled ever so gently upon his hand.

He turned, the antlers waved. Eve saw him look at the pelt. The antlers waved again as he brought the mask back to her face. Softly she heard, "'My mistress with a monster is in love'…"

Uh oh, thought Eve, that is Puck's line. I shall have to salvage this. Thinking quickly, she whispered to him, ""The female ivy so entwines the barky fingers of the elm…'" Does he remember what Titania says next? He must. Titania says, 'Oh, how I love thee.' Those words remained unspoken, but not unheard. She tugged his hand again, "My lord…?" She saw him pause. Painfully aware of his dilemma, she took her hand from his and lifted her blouse, pulling it up and over her head.

"No…" his breath was a wispy blur. Eve kept her eyes on the wooden mask, as she stood and then bent to take off her skirt. She looked down at him as he knelt on the deerskin. The heavy mask swayed on his shoulders as he looked up at her. Yes. He sees me offer myself. The antlers rocked back and forth. Evey noticed not all was well with his trousers. They seemed uncomfortable, too tight. Yes, he sees, yet he does not move.

Eve knelt beside him on the pelt and encircled his waist with her arms, bringing her cheek to the wooden mask. "'I will wind thee in my arms'" she whispered Titania's words in his ear, "'so doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle gently entwist'." As she listened to him breathe through the mask she brought one hand slowly to his waist, then his hips, then to the clasp of his trousers. She twisted the fabric with her fingers and sighed with satisfaction when the stretched trousers loosened and fell down to cover the tops of the suede boots. He is the stag, but he is captured, shackled by trousers. Eve moved closer, placed her hand on his chest under the deerskin and leisurely slid it down, over the muscles of his chest, over the tight muscles of his abdomen, to the edge of his coat and below. He growled as she approached his very obvious arousal. She stopped, heeded his warning and did not touch it, but placed her hand flat against the warm skin of his belly behind it instead. The back of her hand could feel it as he breathed in and out. She leaned closer to his ear. She spoke to him with the voice of a goddess, "The stag steps deliberately out into the open field, his head held high, nostrils widening. He sweeps the air with his noble head, listening, catching the scent, trembling with his lust. The doe approaches…" She put her other hand on his shoulder, smoothed it up over the mask and to the antlers. She knew he could feel her caressing the velvet prongs. The mask moved with every stroke of her hand. "The doe approaches, delicate hooves on long thin legs lift high in the long grass. He waits for her. She lowers her head as she nears him, her luminous eyes dark in the afternoon shadows." Eve brought her hand down from the antlers and squeezed his shoulder. She moved so the eye holes could allow him to see her luminous eyes. Inside the wooden mask a storm was brewing. She could hear the sound of the tempest, the force of the wind, the surging tide. The hand on his belly pressed hard against the muscles there as she simultaneously pressed her lips to the mouth of the carved mask. She tasted the dark wood, the oaken bitterness, the smooth hard curves the artisan had made with his chisel. Inside the mask she heard a rumbling growl, an animal was inside, fighting the tempest. Eve clutched his shoulder to hold him still as her other hand now defied him by grasping him firmly.

She was ready for him. As expected he reacted immediately to her touch. The gloved hands came up and seized her hips. Shook her. Just a little. He hardened further in her hand as held him there. Eve transferred her lips from the mouth hole to the ear hole. "'Why, let the strucken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep,— So runs the world away'." She squeezed him below, stroked him upward at the end of each line, finishing by pressing herself against him on the last word. Eve longed to kiss him, but the only flesh uncovered by silk or wood or leather was rigid in her hand. Instead she purred to him through the holes in the mask, forming the words she had long desired to speak. She did not get beyond the breath she took to voice them, for she was thrown down upon her back, the thick pelt beneath her cushioned her fall, but her breath was lost just the same. It whooshed from her lips as her hand was wrenched from his body.

He spoke not to her, but strong fingers beneath the soft leather of his gloves gripped her thighs and pushed them up and apart. He came down on her, snorting, breathing fire and thrust himself inside her. Eve arched her back, and held onto his arms, eyes wide with surprise. She had expected to entice him to make love to her, had planned on putting his proud flesh to good use, had welcomed the idea of him being inside her…but another thrust and another stopped her thoughts abruptly. She had not known how close he was, how near the edge of chaos. She had brought him to that edge and he leapt off and into her. The mask was high over her head; the antlers were brandished with wild swings to and fro as he slacked his lust upon her body, towering over her, upright, his chest and shoulders supporting the great rack above him.

The rut had him in its grip. Eve rolled her eyes upward as her body finally caught up with her mind. Inside her, his pounding and surging lust stoked the fires of orgasm with the bellows of a great beast. He roared within the mask, as he plunged himself into her, snorting and huffing. He gripped her knees; she felt every muscle in his body engaged in the effort as his hips propelled his maleness powerfully between her legs. Evey held on tightly as waves of pleasure coursed over her, small waves at first, lapping at the shores of her cleft. As the power of the great tempest increased, the pounding surf of her orgasm overflowed and she threw her head back and cried out with exquisite release.

That sound was followed by the bellow of a stag and a final thrust that threatened to whirl her into the maelstrom of her tempest-formed sea. She clutched his shoulders and pulled herself up to the mask, her spine on fire, her legs like ice around his back and there between her legs a wonder of throbbing satisfaction. She sat there in his lap, holding him. He was panting, breathing hard, and voicing his breaths like the beast he had become. He reached around her and brought her closer, holding her, still impaled on him. She hugged him to her, tears in her eyes. To the ear hole she whispered, "'The marriage of true minds is an ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken'." She listened to him continue to catch his breath, his chest rose and fell as he composed himself. "Never shaken," she repeated, "Love bears it out even to the edge of Doom." She took his hand and pressed his fingers into her breast. "Edge of Doom."

"Ah," he breathed.

Eve squeezed her legs around his waist and shifted on his lap, intending to carefully disengage herself. She froze. Inside her, instead of a warm and comfortable connection, she felt him stiffen. The strong thighs beneath her repositioned themselves as he moved, the antlers swayed gently like the branches of a tree. He grew harder and harder inside until she had to take in great gasps of air to breathe. She gripped his shoulders. He moved slowly beneath her, his gloves never left her hips as he lifted her leisurely up and then gently down over him. Eve sighed as his erection stroked her delicately inside and from beneath the mask she heard the sounds of a low hum, mellifluous in its droning purr. She leaned into him, responding to his manipulation of her body, helping him, lifting herself, guiding him to the rhythm of her pulse. Up and down she rose, serene in the easy progress of her pleasure. Too soon she felt his thighs trembling beneath her.

Again he was close to his own release. Too close. Eve was not ready, greedily wanting to feel another electric spark amid the churning seas of his lust. She resisted the increasing tempo of his arms on her hips, slowing him, forcing him to wait. Soon, it will be soon, but not yet. Her body below her waist was on fire, every nerve a pathway of pleasure. It will be, she breathed, soon. Wait for me. Small tingles of delight began to run up and down her inner thighs, yes soon, but not…quite…there…yet. She closed her eyes

The mellifluous hum became a dangerous rumble as she continued to defy him, working against his rhythm, pressing down into his lap, refusing to be lifted to better delight in the stimulation he had already sparked within the pulsing folds inside her. Eve began to breathe rhythmically in time with his own ragged breaths, only mildly aware of his growing frustration. His grip became more insistent, his thighs like iron beneath her. She became aware through the fog of her increasing delight that he was no longer gentle, no longer careful. The growling voice beneath the great wooden mask deepened and increased in volume.

Eve opened her eyes to see the mask, dark eye holes sinister now as she realized that by defying his will she had cracked something dangerous. Beneath the mask churned a cold chaos indeed, cold, but rapidly warming and melting his icy façade with his newfound fervor. Eve released her grip on him, permitted him to pace his thrusts as his need dictated. Immediately the rhythm increased, his growls punctuated her rise and fall on his erect intent. Her inner folds responded immediately to this increased pressure, releasing a moist invitation for him to continue. He must have felt the difference, for he drove into her now with vehemence. Eve held his arms, not to slow him but to keep from falling. Inside, her body responded to him, leaving her breathless and unprepared for the violent onslaught of his passion. With each mighty thrust her body sang to her until all she could hear was the sound of her heart beating and his loud rasping breaths in her ears. He brought her hips up and down on him and she squealed as that push, the last one, heaved her heart into her throat with ecstatic frenzy and finished her. Now his subsequent thrusts were too intense. Her orgasm had left her quivering and sensitive. She tried to stop him again, but it was like trying to stop a charging stag. He snarled as his hips rose to meet hers in a ferocious lunge. She heard him inside the mask, she heard his choking rumble as he climaxed, his gloves pressed her unbearably close against him, she felt him high inside her, pulsing his seed once, twice, again…finally she felt him relax and come down.

She held him tightly, reluctant to allow him to remove her. Any movement at the point where they joined promised to be unbearable. She hugged him close, her chin on his shoulder, resting. For several long minutes they remained ensconced. When his breathing had returned to normal, Eve ventured under the mask with her voice. "V?" she whispered, "Are you there?"

"Ah. Eve." She felt him sag in her arms.

"Yes," she held him, touched his back, felt his arms. He shuddered.

"Eve."

"Hmmm, V." She lowered her mouth to the ear hole of the elaborate mask. "So good, so very very good."

"Time for your tea, Eve."

"I don't want my tea."

"Hand me my mask, Eve."

"No. I like you as Herne."

He lifted her off his lap setting her down on the pelt in front of him. He pulled his trousers around him, fastening them without looking at them. "Hand me my mask, Eve."

Eve sighed. The wooden mask is heavy and uncomfortable. I know. She leaned past him and picked up the Fawkes mask and looked at it briefly before handing it over to him. He took it with the black glove, turned around. The Herne mask came off. She watched the towering antlers as they tilted, coming down, not waving through the long grass. No. They came down like the felling of a great oak. He tucked the Herne mask into the trunk and closed the domed lid over it with a determined push. Evey watched as V smashed the harlequin mask to his face and strapped it on hard, snapping the straps with a violent twist of his wrist. Then he lifted his wig from the table and threw it on over the straps, the long strands flew about his head before coming to rest on his shoulders. Without turning to look at her he said, "Time for tea, Eve," He pivoted on his heel and walked out.

Eve felt a chill onher naked skin. She lifted the edge of the heavy deerskin and wrapped herself in the pelt. I don't want tea. I want you.

References:

Shakespeare:

Midsummer Night's Dream,

"The marriage of true minds…" Sonnet XVI

"Why, let the strucken deer go weep…" Hamlet

Sexual behavior of red deer: C.S. Ford F.A. Beach, A Herd of Red Deer, Oxford University Press, 1937