Without further ado: Have fun with the rest of this (now DEFINITELY M-rated) show ; )

Part II

The moment she'd entered, it felt like… like when one steps out from an air-conditioned building, into the most intense, pressing heat one might ever be exposed to, enveloping all her senses, drowning her – just, a very different kind of heat. It crushed into her so hard she immediately fell to her knees, shuddering, shivers rippling along her skin, prickling, stroking.

It was intense, so intense the need she felt. Not from inside, but in herself, and so, so…

This was no outside force, like she'd imagined. This was all her, but as if through a magnifying lens.

Every dream and fantasy and last glimmer of lust she'd ever felt crushed into her all at once, welcoming her like an old friend, pooling in her belly, between her legs, on the end of every fine hair on her skin that stood up as if electrified. Every last ounce of desire she had ever felt in his proximity – every impact with him that had left her breathless, every time he'd accidently touched her hand, or brushed against her leg, swept her away out of danger with his hand pressing warm into her waist, her thighs, her soul. Every late night she'd spent with her hand between her legs and lip between her teeth, imagining him entering through her window and pressing her back into her bed, or dreamt about a situation not dissimilar to this one. Like thick adrenaline it rushed through her system, clouding her every thought and perception, painting it in desire.

There were no words to describe the sensation, only delirium that rushed and pooled within her in an intensity it clouded her brain, her judgement, until she could only pant, clutch at her chest, as she stared at Mamoru's back in front of her. Delicious, irresistible Mamoru.

It was too much. There was too much to draw from.

Every time Tuxedo Mask had whisked her out of harm's way, his hands pressed into her skin, and she'd spent the following nights imagining those hands brushing lower, his lips brushing against her neck as he stroked gloved hands across her bum, lifting the short skirt of her fuku, and the gasps she made when he pushed forcefully into her from behind.

Every time Mamoru had spent training with them in the heat of summer in the isolated corners of Hikawa Shrine, and the sweat had glistened on his lean, but rippling muscles, when his shirt was gone and his sweatpants rode so low, and she'd overpowered him with heaving breaths and stolen touches and so utterly turned on, and she'd spent the nights tormented in the soothing blow of the too loud fans, when she imagined herself straddling him and licking every last drop of salty sweat off of him from the fine, chiseled lines across his stomach and abdomen, and riding him until she cried from exhaustion.

All those endless times she'd caught him looking at her, absentmindedly – whenever his eyes found her so unerringly in any crowd, or the sideways glances at senshi meetings, and they all always lingered a second too long, and her mind stopped working and instead she imagined holding his gaze until he walked to her through parting crowds, seized her lips in a searing kiss, promised her it was all a lie, crushed her into the nearest wall and made her come in apology, again and again.

Every last, embarrassing moment of fantasy came back to her, crushing her, big and small.

She had to scrunch her eyes shut, had to dig her fingers so hard into her own skin, heard him whimper when she moaned so pitifully and pressed her knees together. This was too much. Too much.

Every dream of shuddering moans in her ear, of her body moving across his futon as he pushed so hard, or whispered, mindless, desperate declarations as he came undone and into her mouth with roars that shuddered through him.

Her fingers twitched, clenched, curled. So did her toes, and she couldn't keep still as she writhed and bit her lip so harshly…

It was so hard, so hard not to reach out and… and…

Her eyes flew back open when he whirled around.

His hair was disheveled from where he'd kneaded his hands into it, pulling. His mask had long been flung away, his eyes were wide, almost only pupil, and he was breathing hard.

He gulped, when she licked her lips, breathing even harder. She couldn't control her face as good as he could. She knew it was all there to see, and he scrunched his eyes shut, bent over and whimpered.

His hands were twitching, too.

She could see the bulge pressing against the front of his tuxedo pants. The way his pupils had dilated. He covered his ears with trembling hands and yelled, grunting in frustration.

"NO!" he screamed, to no one in particular, but perhaps, she felt, to himself. "I can't! You don't understand! I can't!"

A wave hit her – a pulse of … even more lust, and she fell forward, shuddering, catching herself by falling on her palms and curving her back. She bit her lip until it hurt, squeezing her eyes shut as her vision turned white and she lost control of her voice, and her insides spasmed and the need grew so bad she felt she might die if he didn't—

All she could do to keep from attacking him, from diving straight into him and his mouth, was to angle her body away, turn her back to him.

It affected Mamoru, too. She felt it rather than heard or saw it, as if every movement of his was echoed on her very skin.

Heard him mewl in utter torture as he fell to his knees – so close, so close to her.

Right behind her.

She shuddered violently, and it was too hard, she couldn't not…

She bucked back into him, rubbed herself against him with a guttural groan, and he cried out.

With a powerful push, he was on top of her. Tackled her to the ground, his front to her back, his harsh breathing in her neck, his hands aligning with hers, curling with hers, glove against glove, squeezing tight, his cape enveloping them both.

She shuddered, pressed into the ground, her cheek pressing against the weirdly soft, cool floor, mewled and trembled as she pushed her ass back up into his heavy weight on top of her, felt him press back, his erection pressing into the cheeks of her bum and she started crying from the sheer need.

His hands squeezed hers tighter, and she felt his voice vibrate right through her core when he spoke harshly, lips against her jugular, brushing her skin with every word.

"We can do this," he hissed through his teeth. "We can withstand this, I know—"

He broke off, groaning, when Usagi once again bucked her hips upwards, felt the slip of his silky, smooth black trousers against the back of her naked thighs where her fuku exposed her skin, and with it, the shift of his cock against her ass.

She cried out, voice muffled by the floor, felt his harsh, low groan against her neck, and he withdrew slightly and pushed against her again, bucking into her more powerfully than she had done before him, and she whimpered, fingers twitching in his strong grip.

He did it again, and this time she cried out even louder, burying her teeth into the soft ground as she spasmed from the intensity, felt the metal of her tiara press into her forehead as she pushed her head closer to the ground in order to press back against him harder, and she heard his roar ring in her ear and felt his fingers turn stiff before squeezing her even tighter. She pushed her bum back into him, and his forehead fell into the crook of her neck, the soft, inky black strands that usually fell into his eyes tickled her neck and she shuddered, twitched, her eyes rolling back into her head.

The sounds she made must have been absolutely animalistic. She had no room in her brain to even hear them herself, when he pushed himself up against her hands, only slightly, and pushed his erection against her at a new angle, lower. She felt the way her skirt had hiked up, the way the sides of her barely exposed butt cheeks slipped against the soft fabric of his tuxedo trousers, and it made her skin boil and her core clench, and he pushed again with such force, pushing her whole body forward, and then he did it again, and again, only faster, and faster, and her throat began to hurt from the way she shouted and cried and grunted it all out.

She arched her back as much as she possibly could, curving, bending, pressing her belly and breasts and thighs into the ground almost painfully, in order to curl her bum upwards as much as possible so he'd hit that spot, and she cried out in a strangled moan when, with a loud, tortured groan he let go of one of her hands and his hand flew to her hip. It clawed into and underneath the fabric covering her butt, lifting her up even higher so he hit it even harder, even more directly, and her side lifted from the ground causing her thigh to tremble and shake with the pressure and her toes to flex. It vibrated through her body as she let all her weight fall into his hand, and his direction to press deeper, harder, into where she needed it most.

His hand slipped deeper into the white fabric of her fuku, it moved under his touch and she let out a stuttered moan as she felt more of it all, and the way the fabric of his pants now felt rougher, slightly damp from where it kept rubbing, hitting against her, and he howled and curled the hand that still held hers so tight her fingers felt numb.

He pushed again, harder, deeper, rocking her against the soft ground. It was only when she spasmed so violently, the sensation pulsing from her core to the tips of her toes and fingers in rhythmic waves that left her blind and without control of even her tongue, that she cried out, high-pitched and frantic, when suddenly he launched himself off and away from her.

It was hard to even open her eyes, much less move, under the constant pressure and throbbing of this pure and pressing lust, bubbling, sizzling in her blood, but it physically hurt when he was gone, and so she rolled to her side, curled her knees up and underneath her as she crawled towards him, awkwardly, panting harshly.

The sight in front of her was a familiar one. Mamoru, on his knees, head hanging low, his hair falling forward so she couldn't see his face, hands pulling hard on his hair.

What was new were the two, lone, thick frustrated tears that hit the ground beneath his spread knees.

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'm so sorry."

Her voice was dry, her eyes wide. For a second, just a second, she was able to swallow the waves, ignore them. "What for?" she whispered.

"I'm not –" he choked, "strong enough," he cried. "I can't – This need, I can't control—"

The wave buried her under again, and him, too, it seemed. He shuddered, turned his face skyward, blinking, biting his lower lip and breathing hard through his nose.

"Then don't be strong," she cried, her voice a beg. "I don't want you to. I need you, t—"

"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND!" he shouted, launched himself farther away, but she crawled towards him, slowly, on her hands and knees.

Her voice was too calm. Betraying the storm in her blood.

"What don't I understand?"

He faltered, breathed hard, and for a second his eyes seemed clear as he looked her in the eyes.

"I'm your doom," he whispered.

She shrugged. That was honestly not news.

"I don't care," she whispered, voice hitching in a moan.

He shook his head, ready to argue.

But she bit her lip, moaned out a wave, and she felt him waver, his eyes burning into the soft hairs of her skin, when she was able to open them back up, slowly, so slowly.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up once, slowly, then down.

They both groaned out, when another wave hit. Stronger, so much stronger than the one before, and Usagi pressed her eyes shut and struggled for breath against this blistering, exquisite, unbearable torture that tore her out from the inside, because she wasn't allowed to touch—

She couldn't. She couldn't stand this. She wouldn't survive this without—with a gasp, she clawed her gloved hand into her crotch, bit her lip, pressed her knees together as hard as she could, and rode out the wave.

When she opened her eyes again, her breath caught once more.

Mamoru had moved closer. Knelt so close, so, so close, eyes wide and glassy and focused on her hand, lips trembling.

If she would straighten up her back, angle up her head…

He licked his lips, eyes wide, and his eyes landed on her mouth as he did so, and she had to cry out, raw and sharp, from the throb the simple action caused within her, the way it traveled along every nerve ending.

With a shiver that ran down her spine, his eyes – intense and dark – met hers, and she straightened up her back, moved up onto her knees, and with that, the bow that held her brooch brushed against the crisp white of his vest, and her breath stirred the color of his thin, soft evening shirt.

Holding his gaze, she brought one of her gloved hands up to her lips, bit into the fabric, and pulled it off with her teeth.

His breathing turned erratic, she could feel the muscles in his stomach curl as he watched her remove the second glove as well. Sliding her freed hand into the fabric and peeling it down without moving her eyes away from his.

This was a dream, right? In reality, they both lay in that park, surrounded by her senshi. She had nothing to lose, really. She just needed to keep telling herself that.

She could feel him tremble, close as she was. All her senses honed in on him, and the sizzle in her veins.

He didn't move away.

With shaking hands and the delirium that roared in her ears, she lifted up her hands, and peeled his vest away from the few, white buttons, one by one.

She didn't even touch skin. Revealed nothing but more crisp white, but the charge between them was so taut, so intense, she might as well have run her tongue across his…

She swallowed, throbbing, aching, and pushed her fingers inside the vest. She felt the tremor in him, the warmth, as her hands slid across the soft fabric.

She slid her hand up higher, held her breath when she settled her palm above his chest, and she could feel the thump-thump, thump-thump of his wildly beating heart… even faster than hers, and she exhaled audibly, shakily.

Mamoru whimpered.

And then, oh thank god, his hands that wound into her hair, hands that pulled and crushed her against him, and for the first time in 9 years, she felt her lips were where they belonged.

She cried into his mouth, shook so hard the kiss was sloppy, wild, and his hands roamed across her back, slid over the fabric of her skirt across her bum and pressed her to him.

She pushed her tongue into his mouth just as he pushed his erection back against her, and cried out again with her lower lip between his teeth.

Not enough. God, not enough. She needed more.

She wound her arms around his shoulders, needing more leverage, needing to be closer. Attacked his mouth as if she wanted to crawl into him, and he kissed her back as frantically as the feeling that burned unyielding in her chest.

This hunger. This insatiable hunger.

There was nothing but his hands, and his mouth, and his cock against her abdomen, and the pressing, roaring lust in everything she was, and she needed him with a force she knew she would never need anything again ever in her life.

Just that, with an audible pop of their lips and a shove of his hands against her shoulders, he wrenched himself free with a tortured groan, and turned, jumped, flew away from her.

Her cry was so agonized, his hands flew to his head as if to to cover his ears, but hovered in the air instead, as he closed his eyes and grunted harshly, as if in physical pain.

"Please," Usagi cried, her very skin crying out along.

His answering groan was more tortured than hers, and he crushed his hands into his temples.

She lowered herself down to her thighs, knees apart, chest heaving, and looked up at him.

"Please," she repeated. Much quieter, more desperate.

She swallowed, tried to focus, tried to get her head out of this burning fog that was her mind, tried to reason.

"I…" she started, broke off. Her voice was so small, so sad, so frantic. "You… don't even…" she swallowed. "You could… close your eyes, if that's it. I don't mind. You can pretend I'm someone else."

He froze. Lowered his arms. And once again, this time, his eyes looked clear as he looked at her so… appalled.

She heard her heart beat so loud in the silence, she was sure he could hear it, too.

He moved so quickly it startled her, and she jumped a little when he skidded back to his knees, back to her so fast in one movement that his knees bumped against hers when his hands cradled her cheeks and she forgot how to breathe but not how to thirst.

His face was so close that his eyes had to jump between hers to really look her in the eyes, but he did, as if reading them, as if searching them, and she wasn't sure what he saw.

And slowly, so slowly, to the soundtrack of her hitching breath, he lowered his face to hers, but did not close his eyes.

He kissed her nose first, soft lips connecting to her skin and it felt like fire. Her left cheek came second, lips lingering against her skin, and his eyes were so wide, so piercing, and she had no control of her own look, didn't know if she looked as if she was about to burst into tears or absolutely disbelieving, or if she would melt at his touch, because she felt all those things and more.

His eyes. Open and wide, boring into her, and she still felt them when she, at last, closed hers, and he kissed her eyelids, so softly, one by one, her forehead, her jawline, the corners of her lips. She whimpered, softly. The rush still boiled in her, wanted him to kiss her differently, in different places, and she could feel his fingers – his gloves gone, too, finally, having been ripped off by him - claw into her hair in a way that she knew he must still feel the same, and yet…

Yet, he kept kissing her face, stroking across her cheeks, but never closing his eyes.

She struggled to keep her mind silent. Interpret. She knew he was seeing her, was trying to tell her something her heart needed to ignore, or else it would shatter when this dream was over.

His restraint, his struggle, or so it seemed, was over. He was here, and open. And he wasn't closing his eyes. Not at all. Not for a second. Not for a single kiss. He was looking at her.

And it broke all of her control, all of her restraint.

With a shudder, she moved, and he didn't hold her back.

She clawed her hands into his shirt, and her tongue found his in a kiss so deep, so desperate, so fast, it made her insides throb and her fingers shake.

She ripped open his shirt, felt the fabric tear, and she curled it off around his open vest and tuxedo jacket and across the big, golden shank buttons that fastened his cape to his form. It took her a while until she got it all off, connected to his mouth so frantically, and he bent and flexed his body to help her get rid of it all, shaking his arms impatiently, stuck in jumbled, twisted layers of thick fabric, but finally it was gone, and she gasped when his arms wound around her and he lifted her up by the hips and into his lap. She curled her legs around him on instinct, locking long legs around him, and they both cried out when they connected so intimately, once again separated by layers of fabric. He moved his lips away from hers to a loud, embarrassing, needy whimper from her, only to kiss along her neck, back up her chin, her jawline, and back to her mouth, twisting and kneading the skin of her back so deliciously it rippled through her.

He was sexy, just in his tuxedo pants, and looking at her in them like so, but they needed to go. And so, she ripped at the archaic, infuriating buttons that laced him up, ripped them out – at least some of them, by accident – and curled her hand inside and he howled into her mouth.

She could touch him now, even if there was no way she was getting these pants off his hips or past his shoes this way, and it had to suffice for now.

But he had different plans, and she protested with loud moans when her hand was ripped from his cock when she'd barely started, and with a touch that felt almost too gentle for her frantic need, he leaned forward with her still in his lap, supporting her back with one arm, the other clutching her thigh, as he lowered her to the ground.

She exhaled, shuddering, when her thighs unlocked from around him and he traced them, outside to deliciously tingling inside, with a strong grip as he withdrew.

He sat on his knees between her legs, pants open, exposing him, and his chest lowered and lifted as he tried to catch his breath, but the look in his eyes was so intense and she couldn't tear her gaze away from it, not even with the sight of his open pants tempting her, when he leaned back in.

Without looking for it, really, her found her newest scar. Exposing her shoulder with one single, precise and impatient tug at her fuku, he pulled the fabric aside, and ran his lips along the puckered, paling edges, never closing his eyes.

She shuddered, and he touched the very tip of his tongue to it, incredibly lightly, and traced the line, slowly, so slowly, before he pressed a soft, so soft kiss to it. Usagi's heart jumped, when, ever so lightly, she felt him press his lips to it, and felt, much rather than heard, the almost imperceptibly soft, "I'm sorry," that he mumbled into her skin, to her skin, almost.

And as if possessed, his eyes went wild. As if he only now remembered there were more. With that, he pressed his hand deep, deep into her brooch, pressing it into her chest.

It listened to him like it would to her, exploded into ribbons that surrounded her loosely, exploding out from her in wide angles, leaving her bare in a puddle of pink.

He didn't have to look for the other scars. He knew them. He'd been there for almost all of them, had treated most of them. It didn't feel new, his touch. It felt familiar. So, so familiar.

No, he didn't have to look for her scars, found them as if he had memorized their each and every location on her body like a map, kissing and stroking and lapping at them, mumbling hushed, "I'm sorry's," barely audible, to each and every one, harried, frantic, like a madman starving.

He found the small, now almost faded scratches left of the claws of one of Palla-Palla's Remless that had gotten way too close to killing her, as well as the deep, ugly, zigzagging scars across her belly made by Nehelenia's mirrors of when she'd kidnapped Usagi and tortured her. He found the round, punctured indenting scar in her hip bone, where Senishenta had impaled her on her 15th birthday, and the tiny, pretty much invisible shadows of faded scratches where that catwoman daimon had cut her to shreds like that puzzle that she herself was, when she couldn't transform, but wouldn't leave Tuxedo Mask behind nevertheless, however much he'd screamed and yelled and tried to order her to go, and he'd carried her out of there unconscious in the end.

He found them all, whispered to them, brushed his lips and cheeks and tongue against them, as if he were trying to kiss them all away.

She felt his twitching, weeping cock against her thigh, where it peeked from the destroyed mess she'd made of the front of his pants. She felt the tremor in his fingertips and skin and muscle, felt the need that vibrated through him like it did through her... and yet, he didn't stop this penance he paid to her skin, as if she were holy, as if he weren't worthy, no matter how deafening the need.

It caused the tears to pool in her eyes, this sudden surge of feeling protected, and, so new, of feeling almost… worshipped. With it, she lifted herself up, abruptly, the muscles in her belly flexing with the movement, and even when she couldn't recognize each of the blemishes on his skin like he could with her, she knew where the one would be that was no longer there.

The one he'd died for when she was only Usagi, when he'd had no memory of Serenity as he jumped in front of Zoisite's crystal, after she'd transformed in front of him and he in front of her.

It was no scar, it had been erased from time, and by dark magic even before that, but she traced invisible lines across his shaking chest, and ran her fingers to his back to find the rest of it that did not exist.

On the way, her fingers traced countless other scars. Most of them much more faded than hers, barely scratches, yet they were countless. And her throat throbbed in pain that she did not know what each of them were, even when she knew she'd been there when they'd been inflicted. Had been the cause, for most of them. Every time he'd jumped into the line of fire to get her out of it.

She leaned forward, and her lips connected with a tiny, thin line across his collarbone, and she could feel him moving as he swallowed thickly, felt his skin shake in tense tremors when her lips traced the faded scar she had no recollection of.

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered against him.

He shook his head, only once, abruptly, and jerked alive. And in a flurry of satiny pink ribbons that fluttered around them and slipped softly against her skin, she was on her back once more, and his mouth moved over hers in that needy way she'd always dreamt of, as if he wanted to crawl into her, too, frantic and deep, in a way that almost made her believe he'd been yearning for her like she'd been yearning for him all these years.

He cried into her mouth, when she grabbed onto his cock, and shoved at his pants that seemed as if they were molded onto his form and lifted her legs to hook her toes into the waistband to shove even harder.

They came barely down his hips, exposing his butt only partly, and she gave up the fight except that she dug her fingers into the soft, tight, flesh of his ass and pushed him against her.

The shudder that vibrated through her when his cock finally connected to her wet, slick, naked flesh was blinding, a wave of pleasure so deep she forgot to breathe as she arched her back and his lips slipped from her mouth against her jaw as he howled out and shuddered, too.

It throbbed against her, thick and hard and delicious, and her eyes rolled back into her head, she couldn't help it, as she lifted her hips only barely, rubbing against him, coating him in slick moisture, biting her lip as he slipped back and forth and back and forth across her and it was the sweetest torture she had ever known. His breathing was irregular, harsh and almost pained, before she positioned him where she needed him, and she felt his trembling fingers clench in her hair and his teeth against her shoulder.

And with her fingers flexing on the smooth skin of his butt, she brought her second hand around him, and pressed him towards her again.

The feeling that exploded within her when he slipped inside, thick and stretching and slick and noisy, was a wave of pleasure she knew was amplified by the magic around them, a wave too thick, too long, too lasting as it rolled across her blood again and again, and his cheeks were wet when they slipped against her face as he withdrew and thrusted back inside, again and again, to a litany of her name on his lips.

Except it wasn't her name. It was better.

"Usako, Usako, Usako—"

She howled, deep and guttural, when he drove into her again and again, felt the muscle of his butt tense under her fingertips so deliciously, rode out this wave of blinding ecstasy that just wouldn't stop, as she cried for him to go deeper, to go harder, to shove himself back into her and never stop, and fuck her until she could no longer see or press out garbled words, because it wasn't enough, it would never be enough.

But thankfully, they had more than enough time, and one never grew tired in dreams.

Makoto stroked gloved hands across Usagi's hair. Her form was completely still, except sometimes, her fingers would curl almost imperceptibly, or she would stretch her spine just that miniscule amount. Her breathing was deep and even, but her heartbeat thumped alarmingly hard.

They were still pretty sure it was working, though. Mamoru's form was evidence enough, even when he, too, lay completely still.

Makoto's face burned, she couldn't look where Minako had pooled his cape to conceal his very evident…

"Oi!" Rei called up from her perch against the wall of the fountain, slapped Minako across the legs. "Quit staring at his boner!"

"How else are we supposed to know if this is working?!" Minako said, not in the least blushing whatsoever, though not very slightly amused and hyper.

Rei rolled her eyes, cheeks a rosy hue, and Makoto went back to curling her gloved fingers into Usagi's hair.

She really hoped Usagi's heart would survive this…

She sighed. "Shouldn't they…" Makoto started, glanced up at the little clock tower above them. It's been too long. She was growing concerned. And from the look of it, so was everyone except maybe Minako.

It had almost been half an hour. Way more than 3 minutes and 46 seconds, and also exceedingly longer than Ami's calculations had predicted were needed in order to pop this thing.

"What is that in dreamscape?" Minako asked, now growing thoughtful "Like, a day?"

Ami inclined her head, shook it softly. "About 11 hours, if the curve of the rift can be trusted," she said, voice quiet. "Still…"

Minako whistled, eyes going back where they weren't supposed to be, and Makoto's eyes drifted towards the space Mamoru had strode towards. No bubble in sight, of any size. She couldn't see it, even when Ami kept close to it, worried, scanning, updating them with data and numbers she couldn't really grasp except that obviously that thing she couldn't see had tripled in size by now.

"THERE!" Ami called out, piercing, startling them.

Makoto's eyes flew back to the spot – still nothing there – but Ami's hologram flared, running numbers in rapid speed, and Rei jumped to her feet, alarmed.

And with a loud groan, Usagi stirred awake in Makoto's lap, and Mamoru lifted trembling arms to his face.

It felt as if to them, they weren't even there. Instead, they found each other's eyes. Usagi got up – slowly, awkwardly, as if it took all her strength, and her arm twitched, as if she wanted to reach out.

They looked so frightened, so panicked, the way they looked at each other.

And then, just as suddenly, Usagi collapsed back against Makoto, and she could barely catch her, and Rei moved to keep Mamoru's head from hitting the ground.

Ami came fluttering.

"Sleep," Ami said, relieved. "Just normal exhaustion, now."

She woke up with a moan, lost in the remnants of a dream that... well. It turned into a startled groan instead, when Minako's face hovered way to close to hers when she opened her eyes.

"So?" she asked. "How do you feel? Like you wanna run across town and fuck Mamoru's lights out, or are you good?"

Usagi blushed bright red, the memory slowly coming back to her. And she blushed some more.

She was in her bed, in the top she'd worn last night and her favorite PJ bottoms – the girls must have brought her home and put her to bed.

She blinked, found her alarm clock, then frowned at the sky outside her window that was definitely not a morning sky, and, maybe not quite irrationally, wondered if she'd been out for more than a day.

"We called in sick for you," came Ami's voice from the doorframe, and Usagi started, still disoriented. She hadn't noticed Ami there.

"Well," Minako started again, head cocked to the side, as Usagi swung her legs around and touched the mess that was her hair. "How do you feel?" she asked.

Usagi frowned.

"Horny?"

And then blushed.

It all came flooding back to her and she nearly jumped from her bed, embarrassed, and suddenly not only slightly aroused from the memories, and she blushed harder, started pacing, walking out into the small living area.

"How— Did I—" she croaked, bright red.

Ami was quick to follow. "You slept peacefully. We have no idea what happened, and you didn't… y'know," she trailed off, and Usagi nodded, relieved.

"And we also don't need to know. At all," Ami said. "You don't have to tell us anything."

Usagi exhaled a shaky, relieved breath, even when Minako looked at Ami appalled, in that 'Speak for yourself!' way.

"Did it…work?" Usagi asked.

Ami shrugged apologetically. "I think it popped – the energy signature vanished the moment you woke up."

For the first time, Usagi noticed the array of her favorite, fatty foods on the coffee table. Lukewarm, and yet they looked more delicious than anything she'd ever seen.

Her stomach roared as if on cue. She thought she might have never been so hungry in her life. Or so tired.

Without thinking, she fell to her knees in her usual spot, and bit into a cold nikuman that made her moan so hard she had to blush again for the memory it evoked.

Minako chuckled. "Well, she seems fine," she said to Ami over her head.

She paid them no mind, completely ignored them as they made a phone call – to Mako-chan, it seemed. Instead, Usagi ate, and ate and ate. And by the time she came up for breath, she still felt hungry, but not like she was starving anymore, and Ami and Minako were watching her.

And when she was entirely honest, there was still a different kind of hunger mixed in there.

"How's…" she frowned. "How's Mamoru," she finally managed to ask.

Ami looked at her sympathetically. "He's ok. Just exhausted as you are. Mako-chan and Rei got him home. He passed out just like you did, and they stuck around like we did. He woke up a few hours before you and felt alright. The girls left, now."

She nodded, felt awkward for the thought that the girls had been on crazy-sex-urges-watch over them to see if they'd…

"But…" Usagi exhaled forcibly, asked something else instead. "What happened to the others? Have they stopped?"

…Because really, she still felt some of that need. It was piercing, every time she remembered their – she swallowed – dream.

Minako shrugged. "You find out," she said.

Wordlessly, Minako handed her the phone. Usagi sighed defeatedly when she dialed her father's number and rolled her eyes when Minako pressed the loudspeaker button, but Usagi didn't change it back.

It rang a few times, until it connected, and her father's cheerful voice greeted her in that affectionate way he always did when he knew it was her.

She cleared her throat, asked him about his day, got a "fine, fine", until she felt brave enough to casually ask.

"Um, Papa," she started, struggling. "How are the victims doing… you know, of the… y'know…"

She rolled her eyes at herself, frustrated that she couldn't even say it without blushing so hard when she had lived the experience now.

"What do you mean, honey?" her father asked, sounding confused.

Usagi blinked, met Minako's and Ami's startled looks.

"Um, y'know, your case? The one you've been working on for weeks? The… couples?" Usagi asked, voice clearer, more careful now.

"What are you talking about, honey? It's been such a quiet month…"

Ami rose, alarmed, even when all eyes flew back to the window. There they all were, the interview transcripts, the police press reports, the articles under her father's name, the photos, Ami's scans, taped to their window.

"Are you alright, honey?" she heard her father through the tinny, now distant sounding loudspeaker.

She barely remembered to brush him off semi-normally, apologize for the mix-up, wish him a hurried, half-hearted quiet afternoon before she hung up, and Minako started pacing.

Ami went to work immediately, called the hospitals, pretended to be relatives of the victims, asked of their status.

There was no one admitted under these names.

It all gave her a giant headache, and she was just still so tired, and both Ami's and Minako's excited discussions went over her head, but a couple phone calls later, and more colorful writing and crossings on the papers of the windows scratched noisily from bright green and purple pens, they'd come up with some theories. None of it made sense.

Except there was a pattern.

Usagi's feet pounded across the red cobblestones. She hadn't changed, she hadn't showered, just threw on different clothes that she had randomly grabbed from Minako's wardrobe under loud protests and ran across Juuban.

Her throat burned, there was a stitch in her side, but she didn't slow down, even when she barely dodged the people in the streets coming home from work, going for drinks.

Her mind was screaming, whirling, repeating their conversation over and over as she ran like a madwoman.

"It doesn't choose just anyone," Minako had said. "I thought it was couples at first, but they weren't! And mostly very young, but not always."

The first ones had been high schoolers – both 17, and he was her best friend's boyfriend. Two in-the-closet gay college freshmen. The third ones were two athletes, going through life side by side. Then the two colleagues, fresh from university. The fifth was the young, female professor and her student. And then them.

Minako had worked it out, even when Usagi hadn't wanted to believe at first. A combination of two factors.

"No, no! Usagi!" Ami had said. "She's right! That's what it chose – it all adds up!"

Usagi's eyes were wide, she shook her head. "But…Mamoru, he's... And he has all these dates, all these girlfriends!"

"Well, you're 23 and you hadn't, either," Minako said.

"But that's different!" Usagi said. Her brain felt like it might explode. "I didn't because it didn't feel right if it wasn't Mamoru – not because I didn't have the opportunity, and he had so much opportunity, believe me, I saw—"

"Well maybe it's the same for him!" Minako said quite vehemently, pounding her fist on the coffee table.

Usagi snorted. "Yeah right. He broke up with me, remember? He didn't do that and then secretly pine for me so much he can't have sex with anyone else."

"There's the other part," Ami repeated, calmly.

Usagi ran right across Azabu Juuban's little square, lit up with fairy lights against the dark evening sky. She jumped the steps up two at a time, basically leapfrogged over Kimi-chan's statue and ran down a businessman or two who cursed after her. Usagi didn't hear him. She ran – furious, heart-pounding, angry.

"Well it's…" Ami had started. "Let me rephrase."

"First, those that could see the bubble, but nothing happened," Minako cut in, tapping her finger against the notes in the first column on their window.

There'd been the hordes of young middle and high schoolers, sweet and innocent as can be, in heartbreakingly intense unrequited loves, or so Minako claimed to have found out. And when they walked by the bubble with their oblivious, uninterested crushes, they could see it, but their crush could not. Or the lonely, pining salaryman who'd never been in a relationship and who was in love with his team leader who had absolutely no eyes for him – and when they walked by, he could see it, and yet she could not. Nothing happened to these people when they touched the bubble.

"Now," Ami had said. "Compare them to the pairs where something did happen."

"The high schoolers?" Minako said. "They were deeply, deeply in love, but denied it. He was her best friend's boyfriend. They only met through her, and they didn't want to hurt her. They pretended for months they had no feelings for each other, but he had all these walls of hand drawn sketches in his art folders, and she cried herself to sleep over him."

She'd waved her hand, tapped her fingers erratically, almost excited, against the photos taped to their window.

"The college freshmen were closeted and 'best friends' for years," Minako continued. "Their friends saying the sexual tension between them had been so palpable they'd had bets when they'd just… you know," Minako trailed off, wiggled her eyebrows suggestively with a smirk, and Usagi had waved her hand, urged her to continue.

The colleagues had met their first day at work and fell in love so hard it hurt, for the first time in their lives, but the company had a non-fraternization policy, and so they chose to ignore their feelings. The athletes fell in love without telling the other, when they were both still in middle school and he her sempai that trained her after school, and they kept it secret because they felt it was unprofessional, and yet they spent years pining for each other, never pursuing other people, so much their friends grew worried. Same for the young professor and her student, both of them in love, but keeping it a secret…

"Do you... do you get the pattern?" Ami had asked, ever so careful, while Minako was practically jumping, hopping, hands almost flailing while Ami talked.

Usagi frowned. "I mean... of course I pine. You know I love him. You know I've been wanting him. It's…"

"No, you don't understand!" Minako cried, frustrated. She looked as if she wanted to shake her.

Both. It only worked when both… it was…

"Consensual?" Usagi asked, with a frown. Not daring to believe what they were insinuating.

"MORE! Usagi, open your eyes. What did they do that the others did not?"

Both… it needed to be both of them. So deeply it hurt them, kept them lonely, and yet they kept it hidden.

Usagi's heart pounded. Hard, frightened, angry, when she pushed into Mamoru's apartment building right when someone exited it.

She had no patience for the elevator, took the stairs instead.

She banged on his door so hard her fist hurt, and then she banged even harder.

Her chest lifted harshly – up and down, up and down – with her hard breathing, when he finally answered.

His hair was tousled, he was only in black, tight, boxer briefs and he smelled like sleep and like man and like Mamoru.

His look was irritated, when he creaked the door open, but it was wide and terrified once the door was open all the way.

She pressed her lips together. Glared at him.

"You jerk!" she cried. "You absolute bastard! You—"

She lifted her fists, banged them against his smooth, naked chest - they didn't even hit, they just settled on his warm skin, and he wrapped his gentle, warm hands around her wrists. Immediately, his eyes filled up and he had trouble swallowing.

"I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I—" Her fists moved halfheartedly as she dissolved into sobs, and his hands slipped from her wrists and into her hair, when he crushed her lips to his, then slipped his hands down beneath her bum to lift her up.

She wrapped her legs around him instinctively, clung to him for dear life as he carried her in.

She didn't hear the click of his door, as he checked it shut with his hip, didn't notice the slight stumble when his foot caught on the step of the genkan.

She only heard his soft words against her lips that he uttered next. Almost broken, almost pained, so very desperate – as if he'd lost a fight he'd led for god knows how long just by uttering them…

His soft, barely audible, "I love you," whispered into her mouth, and she melted against his lips as he kicked in the door to his bedroom, sheets still warm from his sleep.

... They could talk this out later, she supposed.

Ami, sighed, leafing back through Minako's collected files one last time, before filing it away in her metal cabinet, and locking it.

It had been such a weird case. And it didn't add up. At all.

She picked up her coffee mug, sighed into it as she stood by her window, and watched the sunset.

Ami decided not to tell them, but in the end, she guessed it didn't matter. It was over either way, strange as it was. They'd assumed it was residual Black Moon energy that had caused the rift.… She hadn't questioned it at first, just assumed, but now, with this weird outcome… once she had looked closer, there had been no dark energy surrounding it at all.

It had been a rift in space and time alright. Filled to the brim with all-consuming lust. But it hadn't been dark energy. And it stopped, after Mamoru and Usagi went in, never turned up again, never caused harm again.… And everyone civilian involved had forgotten about it, except them, and every trace of it had disappeared, from every record, every outlet, except those that they had collected. As if the whole incident had been erased from time.

As if it had been placed there just for the two of them, waiting.

She shook her head at the silly thought. She must have overlooked something.

Who in all the world would mess with space time just to get these two idiots finally back together?

Soooo… you knoooow… remember how I posted this long tumblr post on how I'm totally adamant of showing realistic sex? Well, this is magic dream sex. No rules apply here, lol. It's your dream, go dream of all the crazy sex you want in those xD (Also, people don't get pregnant in dreams, soo… y'know, chose against the condoms I'm also usually a hardliner about lol)

Aaaalso, new, alternative headcanon on the origin of those dreams that caused the whole break up arc: What if, one day during this war with Nemesis and his wife unresponsive and locked in a Crystal, and overall living this aristocratic royal life that could never have been Usagi's dream, who'd dreamed of being a housewife and of white picket fences… what if King Endymion had that moment of… what if she'd never been with me? What if this life had been spared her? Would she be happy today? Would she be awake today? …And him being magic, this short moment of insecurity turned into a recurring nightmare in his past that turned that shit into reality, and King Endymion's reality to disappear from one moment to the next, when Mamoru started believing in these dreams.

As for the title, here's an explanation: La douleur exquise (French) is an expression meaning, literally, "the exquisite pain". It originates from a medical term which defines a pain which morphine cannot dull. It describes a state with drug like effects, and over time its meaning has evolved to also describe that deep pain of being hurt by the one you love, and the 'exquisite' pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have, but knowing you'll forever try to be with them. I thought it fit rather well ;)

Anyway, a last comment about consent: In my eyes, the crux about this trope is and will always be the consent. And it's a fine line – always! Here, too! In fact, in a way, this is still coerced consent here – you know, the thing when you try and try and try until the person gives in, or until the person sees no other alternative to give in, which is NOT consent but the person "giving up"? Mamoru, strictly speaking, didn't want to do this bubble business. He went in because the alternatives felt worse to him (and also because he was tempted by this SO SO HARD lol, but yeah). Just that in this case, it wasn't actually the sex he didn't want – he very, very much wanted that oh so much – but because he was convinced by his old nightmares that he would be her downfall, and that's why he didn't want it. So, my fine line about this trope that is supposed to sex up people who otherwise wouldn't under normal circumstances, was to make him want the sex (and, really, Usagi, not just the sex with Usagi) but forbid himself, and what is broken was his will to restrain himself and these wants, instead of, y'know, not wanting the sex. So, that was how I dealt with this trope. Plus, you know, the thing where I built this whole narrative around it how only sexually frustrated people with years of pent up sexual fantasies and want for each other and ONLY each other – very mutually – would be subject to this treatment, lol. But it's still a fine, fine line, that I tried to skim and explore very deliberately.

So yeah, I did my best. And it was a wonderful challenge to write, and I'm glad I got to tell it!

Anyway, here you go guys. This was my entry for the 4 Authors 1 Trope Sex Pollen Challenge. Antigone2's fic is already up (Love Potion No 9 in her Moonbeams and Lemon Dreams Series), Irritablevowel's entry is coming up next, and Uglygreenjacket closes this party after that, and it's been a frigging DELIGHT doing this with these wonderful, amazing women. So please check those out, too, because this is a collection of works!

Please, let me know what you thought of it (and this whole project!), as always, because reviews are love!

(And yes, I know, the end is very open again, lol, but I love them like this, and would love to hear your interpretations ; ) - of this world, of the state of their future after this end, of what made him break, of how long it took to finally open up after this and spill his beans and what it took for him not only to break in this but also to stay, of how this went on from there !)