Princess Tutu, "Feel," Fakir/Mute, NC-17
First Tutu fic I ever wrote, and I wrote it after having seen only half the series, which, if you've seen the whole thing, you can tell. It's dark, be warned, though I don't think it's NCS.....Emily didn't like it, at first, because it's not fluffy like most of my stuff.
Feel
by Mistress Quickly
For Janet, who’s so sweet one needs an insulin shot after being around her. I’m hoping her incredible cuteness will balance the darkness of this story ...
Fakir smoothed the dark blue quilt over Mute’s sleeping form, succumbing to the need to touch the other; to reassure himself that the pale boy was still there, still safe with him. Behind him, the windowpanes rattled in the autumn wind, suggesting a coming rainstorm. Fakir shuddered and refused to turn around, wanting just once to ignore the possibility of a raven at the window, challenging him for Mute’s safety.
It had been so simple, before, when Mute was completely under his care. Life had been predictable, full of routine and comfort, punctuated only by the occasions when Mute needed to be reminded that he was obligated to obey Fakir in all things without question, trusting Fakir to do what was, in the end, best for him. Allowing Rue to call Mute her boyfriend had been a bit of a stretch, but it had helped quell any rumors that might have found the whispers of the school suitable for habitation.
Mute obeyed him; Mute was safe. It was Fakir, full of emotions and doubts and fears, who wasn’t safe. He had no one to obey; nothing to hold on to, save his foster father’s regret, his classmates’ gossipy glances, and his own fears, taking on the form of an old children’s book to haunt his dreams.
“Fakir.”
Drawn from his thoughts, Fakir turned and looked down at the golden eyes that watched him from the soft pillows on the bed. Mute was a comfort, he realized. Always beautiful. Always sad. And, best of all, always his.
Wordlessly, he turned and sat on the edge of the bed, hands automatically moving to once again smooth the quilt over Mute’s slender form, his fingers reaching out to brush away a stray lock of pale hair from those stunning eyes.
“How do I feel about Princess Tutu?”
Anger and apprehension welled up inside Fakir, along with a heartfelt wish that Tutu had not returned curiosity to Mute. The questions-especially those regarding feelings-were damned difficult to answer, and the frequency with which Mute had taken to asking them was becoming tiring, in the least.
“How do I feel about Rue?”
Fakir felt a familiar emotion rise in his chest. Jealousy, perhaps, with a bit of guilt. He didn’t know how Mute felt about the dark-haired ballerina, with her soft body and gentle voice. He, like all the other students at the Academy, had watched them dance; watched Mute’s long-fingered hands caress and hold Rue’s body just right, never dropping her, making her appear lighter than the air. At those times, it was clearly jealousy that he felt.
At other times, like those when he sat on Mute’s bed, trying to answer impossibly difficult questions, guilt surfaced more clearly. How exactly was he supposed to answer questions about Mute’s emotions when he himself couldn’t decipher his own?
“How do I feel about you?”
Ah, the dreaded question. Fakir looked down at the curious golden eyes that searched him, obviously pained by the desire to know, not yet able to understand the notion of things that cannot be known. He drew a deep breath and toyed with another strand of pale hair.
“You want to know how you feel about me?”
Mute nodded, his lovely golden eyes going even wider than before.
“You feel trust,” he answered, leaning down to place a whisper of a kiss on Mute’s forehead.
“Trust?”
“Trust. Like the first time you came into the village. I brought you home and helped you get well. You trusted me to get Charon to keep care of you while you were healing; trusted me to stay with you when you finally got strong enough to walk around. You knew I’d scold you when you did things that were dangerous; you trusted me to keep you safe.”
“Trust,” Mute repeated, his brow creasing a little. “I feel trust for you?”
Fakir nodded. “That’s not all you feel, though, Mute. You feel a lot of things about me. I’ve been with you longer than anyone else, so it makes sense that you’d feel more about me.”
“I feel trust,” Mute said again, eyes never leaving Fakir’s face. “I feel other things, too?”
Fakir smiled and leaned down, this time kissing Mute’s soft lips, gently at first, then with more pressure, running the tip of his tongue across Mute’s lower lip.
“You feel loyalty,” he murmured, keeping his lips close to Mute’s, brushing them as he spoke.
“Loyalty?”
“Loyalty. Like the time I yelled at you for going into the cobbler’s shop to save his daughter’s pet canaries when the building caught fire. I yelled at you because you could have gotten hurt. You trust me to take care of you, and because I’ve always fulfilled your trust, you stay with me. That’s loyalty: staying with me because you trust me to take care of you.”
“Loyalty,” Mute repeated, his eyes sliding shut for a moment as he brushed his lips against Fakir’s. “I feel loyalty to you?”
Fakir nodded. “That’s why you do as I say, Mute. Because you’re loyal to me, and you trust me to not harm you for being loyal.” He gave the pale boy another kiss, then rose from the bed, shrugging out of his school cardigan and peeling down the dark blue quilt before sliding into the bed beside Mute, kissing the boy again as he tangled their legs together. He sighed and coaxed Mute’s mouth open with his tongue, kissing him deeply while blindly unbuttoning his pajama top.
“You feel affection, too, Mute,” he breathed, easing Mute’s arms out of the soft cotton shirt. “Do you know what affection is?” Silly question, really; he knew full well that Mute hadn’t a clue what affection was, but it made the situation a little less painful to ask, as though the pale boy were capable of knowing.
“Affection?”
“Affection. Like what you feel when you let me kiss you like this; what you feel when I touch your skin.” A mean part of him-jealousy again, he suspected-prompted him to go further. “It’s something you feel for me, but not for Rue. Not for Tutu, either. Just for me.”
“Affection,” Mute breathed, his voice softer and deeper, breath coming quicker as Fakir untied the drawstring of his pajama pants. “I feel affection for you.”
Perhaps it had been intended to sound like a question, but Fakir didn’t hear a rise in the intonation well enough to worry about Mute’s intent. Instead, he groaned with frustration, his emotions tangling wildly with his hormones, confusing him beyond words. Tearing madly at the jeweled clasp at the collar of his shirt, he leaned in and claimed Mute’s mouth in a deep kiss, wanting viciously to show the boy his feelings, to place some of the burden of understanding on his shoulders; to share it instead of quietly asking for an explanation of it. He broke the kiss with a gasp when he felt Mute’s hands on his belt, helping him to wiggle free of his garments.
He doesn’t do this because he feels anything for you, Fakir reminded himself. He trusts you to do what is good for him; he’s loyal and wants to do as he knows you want him to do, to do what he’s been praised for doing before. He’s gentle because he’s returning your affection ... it isn’t real.
Pushing the cold voice of reason as far back in his mind as he could, Fakir pulled away from Mute long enough to pull his clothing completely away from his skin, dropping it in an untidy bundle on the floor. Groaning with want, he lay back down in the bed, kissing Mute feverishly while groping under the pillow for the tube of lubricant he kept there. He remembered how embarrassed he’d been, buying it and bringing it back to their dormitory, blushing under Mute’s golden gaze when the pale boy had asked him what he was doing. He’d been so relieved to realize that, without a heart, Mute wouldn’t think him strange or dirty, he would just accept and trust and obey ...
Nudging Mute’s thighs apart with his knee, Fakir broke the kiss and moved lower, taking the tip of Mute’s cock into his mouth and sucking it as he cradled and lifted the pale boy’s balls out of the way, seeking his entrance with a slicked finger. Mute keened softly, arching his back and thrusting gently into Fakir’s mouth. Fakir allowed it, relaxing his throat to accept the other’s movements, taking pleasure in getting a response from his roommate, even if it was a solely physical reaction. He opened his eyes to locate the lube, wanting to re-slick his fingers before opening Mute up any more, and felt his breath catch in his chest at the sight of the pale boy. Head pressed into the pillow, a blush forming on his pale cheeks, Mute was the image of bliss; of a pleasure even heartlessness could not deny him. Fakir slid up Mute’s body and claimed his mouth for a fast, brutally passionate kiss. Pushing two fingers into Mute’s warm body, he twisted and scissored them, desperately wanting to be inside the other as soon as possible.
“You feel lust,” he panted, his voice little more than a whisper, pulling his fingers away and slicking his own erection, biting his lip at the sensation of his own hand on his sensitive member.
“Lust?” Mute echoed, his voice a little ragged.
“Lust,” Fakir confirmed, gently pressing into Mute’s body, fingers gripping the sheets as he warred with himself, wanting to go slowly enough to not hurt his roommate, yet tempted nearly beyond reason to shove himself in completely, to take his pleasure in the warm, willing body beneath him. “Like this; like now. The pleasure your body feels, the warmth and tingling you get when I make lo-, when I do this with you.” Fully sheathed, he drew a steadying breath and waited, watching for Mute to draw a breath as well and look at him. After what seemed like an eternity, Mute’s golden eyes opened, meeting Fakir’s with an expression of passion the dark-haired boy wished he could believe was genuine rather than merely a reflection of his own want. Gently, he began to move, thrusting in and out only a little at first, gradually speeding as he felt Mute relax under him.
“Lust makes you want this,” he growled, grabbing one of Mute’s legs just behind the knee pressing it into the pale boy’s chest, permitting him a deeper penetration. “Lust makes you like this and want this. You trust me to give you what you want, Mute. You trust me, and only me, because you are loyal to me. This is how you show your affection; this is how you tell me what you feel. This is how I’m able to tell you what you feel.” He found it progressively more difficult to think, his mind fuzzing with the intense lust and desire he felt pooling in his body, drifting lower and begging release.
“You ask me what you feel because you know I’m the only one who can tell you,” he gasped, pushing in as deep as he could, his thrusts hard and unmeasured now, driven wild by his need for release. “You ask me because you know I’m the only one who knows. Tutu will never know. Rue will never know. Only me. Only me, Mute. You know that.”
Mute’s only response was a moan, deep and ragged from the back of his throat. More sounds followed, growing louder and higher in pitch as Fakir released his leg, wrapping his hand around Mute’s erection instead, rubbing it hard and fast, bringing about orgasm with only a few strokes. Mute arched and groaned loudly, semen splashing wetly on his chest and the bedsheets. The sight and sound were enough to push Fakir over the edge, and with a desperate cry of Mute’s name, he came, filling his roommate with his passion.
“Lust,” Mute panted, his eyes open but unfocused. “I feel lust for you.”
Fakir gasped and pulled carefully out of Mute’s body, then leaned over the edge of the bed and groped in his discarded uniform for a handkerchief. “I should say so,” he agreed with a snort, carefully cleaning Mute’s skin with even strokes. The humor of his sarcasm was, of course, lost on the pale boy, who lay rather still, breathing gradually returning to its normal pace.
Satisfied that Mute was clean, Fakir cleaned himself quickly, dropping the wet handkerchief to the floor before settling down onto the mattress beside his pale companion, pulling the dark quilt over their bodies before pressing his body against Mute’s side.
“Sleep now, Mute,” he said softly. “You’ll wear yourself out if you do too much.”
“As you say, Fakir,” Mute answered, obediently closing his eyes. It wasn’t long before his breathing turned deep and even, his hands relaxing as he shifted to lie more closely against Fakir’s body. Fakir watched him sleep, emotions tangling painfully in his chest.
“You also feel love,” he whispered, his breath barely disturbing the strands of pale hair that lay against the curve of Mute’s ear. He drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, nuzzling into the warm curve of Mute’s side, praying that someday the prince would understand; would love him back.
He prayed that, someday, he would know that his own words were true.
Feel
by Mistress Quickly
For Janet, who’s so sweet one needs an insulin shot after being around her. I’m hoping her incredible cuteness will balance the darkness of this story ...
Fakir smoothed the dark blue quilt over Mute’s sleeping form, succumbing to the need to touch the other; to reassure himself that the pale boy was still there, still safe with him. Behind him, the windowpanes rattled in the autumn wind, suggesting a coming rainstorm. Fakir shuddered and refused to turn around, wanting just once to ignore the possibility of a raven at the window, challenging him for Mute’s safety.
It had been so simple, before, when Mute was completely under his care. Life had been predictable, full of routine and comfort, punctuated only by the occasions when Mute needed to be reminded that he was obligated to obey Fakir in all things without question, trusting Fakir to do what was, in the end, best for him. Allowing Rue to call Mute her boyfriend had been a bit of a stretch, but it had helped quell any rumors that might have found the whispers of the school suitable for habitation.
Mute obeyed him; Mute was safe. It was Fakir, full of emotions and doubts and fears, who wasn’t safe. He had no one to obey; nothing to hold on to, save his foster father’s regret, his classmates’ gossipy glances, and his own fears, taking on the form of an old children’s book to haunt his dreams.
“Fakir.”
Drawn from his thoughts, Fakir turned and looked down at the golden eyes that watched him from the soft pillows on the bed. Mute was a comfort, he realized. Always beautiful. Always sad. And, best of all, always his.
Wordlessly, he turned and sat on the edge of the bed, hands automatically moving to once again smooth the quilt over Mute’s slender form, his fingers reaching out to brush away a stray lock of pale hair from those stunning eyes.
“How do I feel about Princess Tutu?”
Anger and apprehension welled up inside Fakir, along with a heartfelt wish that Tutu had not returned curiosity to Mute. The questions-especially those regarding feelings-were damned difficult to answer, and the frequency with which Mute had taken to asking them was becoming tiring, in the least.
“How do I feel about Rue?”
Fakir felt a familiar emotion rise in his chest. Jealousy, perhaps, with a bit of guilt. He didn’t know how Mute felt about the dark-haired ballerina, with her soft body and gentle voice. He, like all the other students at the Academy, had watched them dance; watched Mute’s long-fingered hands caress and hold Rue’s body just right, never dropping her, making her appear lighter than the air. At those times, it was clearly jealousy that he felt.
At other times, like those when he sat on Mute’s bed, trying to answer impossibly difficult questions, guilt surfaced more clearly. How exactly was he supposed to answer questions about Mute’s emotions when he himself couldn’t decipher his own?
“How do I feel about you?”
Ah, the dreaded question. Fakir looked down at the curious golden eyes that searched him, obviously pained by the desire to know, not yet able to understand the notion of things that cannot be known. He drew a deep breath and toyed with another strand of pale hair.
“You want to know how you feel about me?”
Mute nodded, his lovely golden eyes going even wider than before.
“You feel trust,” he answered, leaning down to place a whisper of a kiss on Mute’s forehead.
“Trust?”
“Trust. Like the first time you came into the village. I brought you home and helped you get well. You trusted me to get Charon to keep care of you while you were healing; trusted me to stay with you when you finally got strong enough to walk around. You knew I’d scold you when you did things that were dangerous; you trusted me to keep you safe.”
“Trust,” Mute repeated, his brow creasing a little. “I feel trust for you?”
Fakir nodded. “That’s not all you feel, though, Mute. You feel a lot of things about me. I’ve been with you longer than anyone else, so it makes sense that you’d feel more about me.”
“I feel trust,” Mute said again, eyes never leaving Fakir’s face. “I feel other things, too?”
Fakir smiled and leaned down, this time kissing Mute’s soft lips, gently at first, then with more pressure, running the tip of his tongue across Mute’s lower lip.
“You feel loyalty,” he murmured, keeping his lips close to Mute’s, brushing them as he spoke.
“Loyalty?”
“Loyalty. Like the time I yelled at you for going into the cobbler’s shop to save his daughter’s pet canaries when the building caught fire. I yelled at you because you could have gotten hurt. You trust me to take care of you, and because I’ve always fulfilled your trust, you stay with me. That’s loyalty: staying with me because you trust me to take care of you.”
“Loyalty,” Mute repeated, his eyes sliding shut for a moment as he brushed his lips against Fakir’s. “I feel loyalty to you?”
Fakir nodded. “That’s why you do as I say, Mute. Because you’re loyal to me, and you trust me to not harm you for being loyal.” He gave the pale boy another kiss, then rose from the bed, shrugging out of his school cardigan and peeling down the dark blue quilt before sliding into the bed beside Mute, kissing the boy again as he tangled their legs together. He sighed and coaxed Mute’s mouth open with his tongue, kissing him deeply while blindly unbuttoning his pajama top.
“You feel affection, too, Mute,” he breathed, easing Mute’s arms out of the soft cotton shirt. “Do you know what affection is?” Silly question, really; he knew full well that Mute hadn’t a clue what affection was, but it made the situation a little less painful to ask, as though the pale boy were capable of knowing.
“Affection?”
“Affection. Like what you feel when you let me kiss you like this; what you feel when I touch your skin.” A mean part of him-jealousy again, he suspected-prompted him to go further. “It’s something you feel for me, but not for Rue. Not for Tutu, either. Just for me.”
“Affection,” Mute breathed, his voice softer and deeper, breath coming quicker as Fakir untied the drawstring of his pajama pants. “I feel affection for you.”
Perhaps it had been intended to sound like a question, but Fakir didn’t hear a rise in the intonation well enough to worry about Mute’s intent. Instead, he groaned with frustration, his emotions tangling wildly with his hormones, confusing him beyond words. Tearing madly at the jeweled clasp at the collar of his shirt, he leaned in and claimed Mute’s mouth in a deep kiss, wanting viciously to show the boy his feelings, to place some of the burden of understanding on his shoulders; to share it instead of quietly asking for an explanation of it. He broke the kiss with a gasp when he felt Mute’s hands on his belt, helping him to wiggle free of his garments.
He doesn’t do this because he feels anything for you, Fakir reminded himself. He trusts you to do what is good for him; he’s loyal and wants to do as he knows you want him to do, to do what he’s been praised for doing before. He’s gentle because he’s returning your affection ... it isn’t real.
Pushing the cold voice of reason as far back in his mind as he could, Fakir pulled away from Mute long enough to pull his clothing completely away from his skin, dropping it in an untidy bundle on the floor. Groaning with want, he lay back down in the bed, kissing Mute feverishly while groping under the pillow for the tube of lubricant he kept there. He remembered how embarrassed he’d been, buying it and bringing it back to their dormitory, blushing under Mute’s golden gaze when the pale boy had asked him what he was doing. He’d been so relieved to realize that, without a heart, Mute wouldn’t think him strange or dirty, he would just accept and trust and obey ...
Nudging Mute’s thighs apart with his knee, Fakir broke the kiss and moved lower, taking the tip of Mute’s cock into his mouth and sucking it as he cradled and lifted the pale boy’s balls out of the way, seeking his entrance with a slicked finger. Mute keened softly, arching his back and thrusting gently into Fakir’s mouth. Fakir allowed it, relaxing his throat to accept the other’s movements, taking pleasure in getting a response from his roommate, even if it was a solely physical reaction. He opened his eyes to locate the lube, wanting to re-slick his fingers before opening Mute up any more, and felt his breath catch in his chest at the sight of the pale boy. Head pressed into the pillow, a blush forming on his pale cheeks, Mute was the image of bliss; of a pleasure even heartlessness could not deny him. Fakir slid up Mute’s body and claimed his mouth for a fast, brutally passionate kiss. Pushing two fingers into Mute’s warm body, he twisted and scissored them, desperately wanting to be inside the other as soon as possible.
“You feel lust,” he panted, his voice little more than a whisper, pulling his fingers away and slicking his own erection, biting his lip at the sensation of his own hand on his sensitive member.
“Lust?” Mute echoed, his voice a little ragged.
“Lust,” Fakir confirmed, gently pressing into Mute’s body, fingers gripping the sheets as he warred with himself, wanting to go slowly enough to not hurt his roommate, yet tempted nearly beyond reason to shove himself in completely, to take his pleasure in the warm, willing body beneath him. “Like this; like now. The pleasure your body feels, the warmth and tingling you get when I make lo-, when I do this with you.” Fully sheathed, he drew a steadying breath and waited, watching for Mute to draw a breath as well and look at him. After what seemed like an eternity, Mute’s golden eyes opened, meeting Fakir’s with an expression of passion the dark-haired boy wished he could believe was genuine rather than merely a reflection of his own want. Gently, he began to move, thrusting in and out only a little at first, gradually speeding as he felt Mute relax under him.
“Lust makes you want this,” he growled, grabbing one of Mute’s legs just behind the knee pressing it into the pale boy’s chest, permitting him a deeper penetration. “Lust makes you like this and want this. You trust me to give you what you want, Mute. You trust me, and only me, because you are loyal to me. This is how you show your affection; this is how you tell me what you feel. This is how I’m able to tell you what you feel.” He found it progressively more difficult to think, his mind fuzzing with the intense lust and desire he felt pooling in his body, drifting lower and begging release.
“You ask me what you feel because you know I’m the only one who can tell you,” he gasped, pushing in as deep as he could, his thrusts hard and unmeasured now, driven wild by his need for release. “You ask me because you know I’m the only one who knows. Tutu will never know. Rue will never know. Only me. Only me, Mute. You know that.”
Mute’s only response was a moan, deep and ragged from the back of his throat. More sounds followed, growing louder and higher in pitch as Fakir released his leg, wrapping his hand around Mute’s erection instead, rubbing it hard and fast, bringing about orgasm with only a few strokes. Mute arched and groaned loudly, semen splashing wetly on his chest and the bedsheets. The sight and sound were enough to push Fakir over the edge, and with a desperate cry of Mute’s name, he came, filling his roommate with his passion.
“Lust,” Mute panted, his eyes open but unfocused. “I feel lust for you.”
Fakir gasped and pulled carefully out of Mute’s body, then leaned over the edge of the bed and groped in his discarded uniform for a handkerchief. “I should say so,” he agreed with a snort, carefully cleaning Mute’s skin with even strokes. The humor of his sarcasm was, of course, lost on the pale boy, who lay rather still, breathing gradually returning to its normal pace.
Satisfied that Mute was clean, Fakir cleaned himself quickly, dropping the wet handkerchief to the floor before settling down onto the mattress beside his pale companion, pulling the dark quilt over their bodies before pressing his body against Mute’s side.
“Sleep now, Mute,” he said softly. “You’ll wear yourself out if you do too much.”
“As you say, Fakir,” Mute answered, obediently closing his eyes. It wasn’t long before his breathing turned deep and even, his hands relaxing as he shifted to lie more closely against Fakir’s body. Fakir watched him sleep, emotions tangling painfully in his chest.
“You also feel love,” he whispered, his breath barely disturbing the strands of pale hair that lay against the curve of Mute’s ear. He drew a shuddering breath and closed his eyes, nuzzling into the warm curve of Mute’s side, praying that someday the prince would understand; would love him back.
He prayed that, someday, he would know that his own words were true.