Princess Tutu, "Happy Ending," Fakir/Ahiru, NC-17
Sick of being teased for being a YAOI-obsessed fanboy, I wrote het. Beware, beware!
Happy Ending
by Mistress Quickly
This is the first in my challenge to myself to write at least one het fic for each fandom that I’ve slashed.
For Abi, who’s a real princess.
~*~*~*~
Sunlight poured through the dusty window-panes, filling the room with the deceptively warm-looking light of early evening, the orange glow stroking the rough wooden frame of the bed and inciting the scowling shadows into devious plots of mischief.
It was cold, despite the sunlight. Cold, and somehow no matter how many blankets he put on the bed, she didn’t look like she was warm enough.
He’d never touched her, really, save for when she was in her true form, a duck, and at that time, he was usually seeking her comfort, not offering his own to her. Now, sitting beside her, his weight tipping the mattress ever so slightly, he wondered that he’d never really noticed before how small she was, how frail. Curled up on her side, her back to him, she slept deeply, twitching every so often, an indication that she dreamed, her short hair fanned across the soft pillow, its dark orange a soothing counterpoint to the indifferent sun.
He wanted to touch her.
Tentatively, he reached out with his hand and stroked her hair, smiling at its texture under his finger-tips, somehow feeling the shame of the ink-stains lessened through the simple contact. She shifted to lie on her back, her eyelashes fluttering against pale cheeks, indicating wakefulness rather than dreams. He pulled back his hand, blushed and thought to stand; to return to his earlier place at the window sill on the other side of the room, but found he could do little else but sit at the edge of the bed and watch her wake, watch her open her eyes and see him; watch her smile and shift again, lying on her side and curling around him, warm and soft and loving.
He wondered what she felt, and wondered at his own lack of fear at the thought of her feelings.
“Are you cold?” he asked softly, stroking his fingertips down her hair once again, trailing them further, feeling the softness of her skin, the shiver of sensation when he trailed down her neck, touching her back before the blankets prevented him moving further. “I had to douse you to bring you back into human form.”
She giggled, bumping her nose into his knee as she did, which made her giggle more. So human, for a princess; so adorably normal for a girl her age. He found himself wondering at such a thing; loving it.
“Did you ...?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Rue dressed you, although all we could find was your Tutu dress. I just helped tuck you in.”
She sighed, relieved but still blushing, and snuggled into the warm nest of bed-covers. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. Your bed really is warm.”
Why that should make him blush, he hadn’t a clue. It wasn’t a bad feeling, really; not embarrassment like he’d felt when he first learned she was the duck to whom he’d poured out his soul. That had been embarrassing.
“Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “No. Turning back from duck form always leaves me a bit ... confused, I suppose,” she explained. “When I do get hungry, it’s always for bread and crackers ... the things ducks like to eat.” She giggled again, this time leaving her nose rubbing against his knee. “Isn’t that strange?”
No. Not strange at all.
“I don’t suppose so,” he answered, hand moving of its own volition to stroke her back through the covers. “I shared a bit of bread with you, once, back when I didn’t know that was you. Not that I wouldn’t share it with you now, knowing it’s you, but ...” He trailed off, biting his lip and feeling a fool. She giggled and moved her arms to cradle his leg like a stuffed toy.
“I want to be a normal girl,” she confessed softly, her jaw moving against his leg, allowing him to feel her form each word. “Not a duck who pretends to be a girl; not a girl who pretends to be a princess. Just normal, like Pique and Lillie.”
“Your friends are hardly normal,” he murmured, half to himself. //And if you take it into your head to start acting like them, I might have to smack you senseless,// he added mentally, but instead of voicing such threats, he returned his hand to the bare skin of her neck and rubbed the stiff muscles there.
She really was small and frail in his hands. So vulnerable.
“They just try to take care of me,” she sighed, melting bonelessly into the massage. “Even if they are a bit odd about it sometimes, they mean w-oh, Fakir, that’s good.”
He smiled at the sound of his name sighed on a breath of pleasure. The knight and the mysterious princess, always ignored by the writer: it thrilled him to steal time with her, to indulge in her company without the burden of protecting Mute. She’d made him face his fears; she’d shown him her own struggle to face hers.
“Shouldn’t you change back into Ahiru?” he asked, moving the blankets with his wrists to slide his hands lower, massaging her shoulders. It struck him as odd that he’d never noticed how little her Tutu dress really covered. Little wonder she’d been shivering when he’d tucked her in, damp as she was from the transformation from the little yellow duck to the princess he now stroked and rubbed.
He felt his body stir and heat. Princess Tutu was a beautiful girl.
“I don’t have my uniform; transforming would be a bad idea. And besides, do you know what Neko-sensei would do to me if he found me sneaking out of your dormitory in my uniform?”
Fakir laughed. “Probably insist that you marry him on the spot before you soil your image any further.”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a weak attempt to communicate pleasure, stretching as his hands traveled lower, teasing out the tension in the muscles under her sharp shoulder-blades. A thought occurred to him; a stupid thought. A stupidly accurate observation that he scolded himself for not noticing before.
“You know, you’re not much different from a cat yourself, Ahiru,” he said softly, watching her stretch into the sensation of his hands on her back. “It’s no wonder Neko-sensei’s always after you.”
“Fakir, that’s mean,” she mumbled into the pillow. “I’m a duck, remember? Just a duck.”
“You’re not just a duck.”
“I’m not really Tutu. I’m really just Ahiru. Just a duck.”
“You’re very strong.”
“I’m awkward.”
“You’re smart and loving.”
“I’m clumsy.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Ahiru was quiet, muscles tensing and shifting under Fakir’s hands as she pushed herself up to twist and look at him, eyes searching his. Hurt was evident in her gaze, pooling painfully where tears would have been.
“Only as Tutu,” she said softly, smiling at him in a way that was all at once fragile and sad, confident and condescending. He slid one hand down to rest on the mattress behind her, the other reaching up to stroke her hair, pulling free the little crown she wore. He pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her gasp of protest, eyes closed, seeing naught but the shift of light as she transformed from Tutu to Ahiru in his arms, short hair falling long around her naked shoulders, messy and tangling as she wiggled, embarrassed and unable to move away from him.
Finally, she kissed him back.
Her mouth was warm and wet against his, a feeling he was used to sharing with Mute out of necessity and frustration, but her body was mobile, shifting the covers and the mattress as she moved, trying to find a position that would keep her covered while allowing her to reach out and touch him; a tentative stroke of fingers down his chin, a squeeze on his shoulder. When she pulled away, her eyes told him she was confused and frightened and excited, just as he was.
The princess’ heart, and he could see it just as clearly as he’d seen Mute’s when Tutu had returned it to him.
“You’re beautiful, just like this,” he said softly. Then, seeing her blush brilliant red, very aware of her own nakedness, he hurriedly amended: “I mean as Ahiru. You’re beautiful as Ahiru. I’ll, uh, I’ll get you a shirt or something to wear.”
He dug one of his own nightshirts from his dresser, the fabric soft and clean-smelling, a hint of pine from its place in his dresser, and handed it to her, facing the dusty windowpanes as she dressed, listening to her make soft little sounds as her hands caught in the cuffs, he supposed, and a little sigh of pleasure once the soft cotton settled around her. He turned and smiled; the garment swallowed her, dropping past her knees and bunching around her wrists, giving the illusion of a little bird flapping its new wings, unsure of how to fly.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, closing the distance between them and cupping her face in his palms as he bent to kiss her. “More beautiful than Princess Tutu ever was.”
He closed his eyes and kissed her again, slow and deep, shivering when her hands slid around his waist, fingers stroking him through his uniform dress-shirt in rhythm with her tongue in his mouth. He broke the kiss and began kissing his way along her jawline, down her neck and over to settle on the sensitive skin just below her ear, nipping softly, the way he’d done to Mute, wanting the boy to react.
Ahiru reacted. She yelped, surprised, then sighed and turned her face away, giving him better access to the same spot, wordlessly asking for more. He complied, sucking gently, eyes still closed against the onslaught of pleasure. As though frightened of the pleasure she felt in his arms, Ahiru curled her body against his, the warmth and shifting of her legs against his mesmerizing, teasing to life every nerve ending they brushed. He trailed his hands down her sides, smiling against her neck when she jumped, ticklish; giggling breathlessly as she clung to him as though he could save her from his own tickling hands.
“Ticklish?” he asked, answering her giggles with a soft laugh.
“Fakir! No, don’t, that’s AH!” she yelped, squirming against him. “That TICKLES!”
“Good,” he breathed, but he stilled his fingers and instead grabbed her about the thighs, lifting her off the cold floor and settling her in his arms, legs wrapped securely around his waist. She was just as light and small as she’d seemed, lying in his bed, and in a sudden urge to protect her, he wrapped his arms firmly around her and buried his face in her chest, holding her close.
“Fakir?” she asked softly, voice full of curiosity; full of confusion and excitement and apprehension. No more the dead tone of the heartless prince, no more the puppet to be played with until boredom took over. Ahiru was real and warm against him, squirming to find a comfortable position on his bony hips.
“Ahiru,” he sighed, carefully walking to the bed and laying her back onto the soft mattress, climbing on as well and kneeling between her legs, smoothing the fabric of the borrowed nightshirt with his hands as he looked down on her, her smile reflected in his eyes. Her long hair, deep orange in the dying light of the sunset, fanned across the white sheets and the pale fabric of the shirt, unbound from its braid for the first time since he’d met her.
“Are you alright?” she wanted to know, reaching up to touch his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, covering her hand with his own and twining their fingers together. “I’ve avoided thinking of you for so long, Ahiru, because I didn’t want to have to fight you. I wanted so badly to protect Mute, but now ...”
“Mute’s safe,” Ahiru said softly, her voice a little sad. “He no longer seems to need us. But he’s safe, and like you said, that’s what we wanted.”
“Yes, that is what I wanted,” Fakir agreed, turning his face to kiss her palm. “What do we do now? A prince who’s been saved no longer needs a princess nor a knight. What becomes of the story now?”
Ahiru smiled and pulled her hand away from his, grabbing a handful of his hair and giving him a tug, pulling him down for a soft kiss.
“Now, you figure out what you want, just as you figured out that you wanted to save Mute,” she told him, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “You’re still a knight; protect me if you want to. I won’t stop you.”
“Protect you?” he echoed, opening his eyes and looking down at her. “From what?”
Ahiru smiled. “From whatever I need to be protected from. And I’ll protect you, Fakir, and help you get your heart back. I know you’ve been hurt; I’ve watched you fight for Mute long enough to know that.”
“So you protect me and I protect you, eh?” he said, kissing her slowly and brushing his lips across her soft cheek. “And if there’s nothing we need to protect each other from?”
“You’re the writer,” she said, laughing a little. “Do we not get a ‘happily ever after’?”
Fakir pulled away and looked at her, all innocence and smiles, calmly asking him for a happy ending, showing him that, indeed, he could finally hope for such a thing. It was almost more than he could bear, the temptation of hope, but with Ahiru smiling at him, her fingers stroking his arms reassuringly, it was enough.
Firmly, he returned to kissing her, not chaste nor slow, but fast and passionate, hands working to unlace the front of the borrowed nightshirt, wanting to seal the promise with her. With a sigh of happy pleasure, Ahiru wriggled until she could reach his garments, quick fingers easily unbuttoning the front of his shirt, leaving it open and dangling, almost a privacy screen for her fingers as they moved lower, unfastening his pants and tugging at them, wordlessly requesting that he help her free his legs from the restrictive garments.
//She may blush like she’s innocent, but she’s far from it,// Fakir thought, his mind too lust-hazed to argue with his body as he lifted his hips and pulled his hands away long enough to slide his trousers and underwear down his legs, dropping them to the floor with an oddly satisfying *flumph*. By the time he was freed of his shirt, the cuffs catching conspiratorially on his hands, she had managed to wiggle free of the nightshirt and was lying back against his pillow, blushing a little but smiling in approval at the sight of his body, uncovered before her. He allowed his eyes to trace her skin, looking at her carefully where before, he’d always looked away, guiltily wishing he’d gotten a better look.
“You’re beautiful,” he said once again, not knowing what else to say.
“You’ve seen me like this before,” she said, blushing more deeply and looking away. “Tons of times. Every time I change back into a human.”
“Never been able to look before,” he answered, wiggling down the bed to kiss the soft skin of her belly, right beside her navel. She squirmed and pushed herself up to a seated position, grabbing under his arms and tugging him up for another kiss, falling back into the pillows and pulling him with her. Feeling the soft skin of her thigh rub against his cock, already hard and leaking with excitement, Fakir blushed and struggled, trying to pull away from her, or at least shift so that his erection wouldn’t touch her, somehow ashamed for her to feel him in such a state: hard and wanting and vulnerable.
“Fakir?” she breathed, breaking the kiss and looking up at him, blue eyes round with concern.
“Ahiru, we shouldn’t ...” Fakir faltered, seeing hurt pooling in Ahiru’s eyes. //She’s too young,// he scolded himself. //She doesn’t know what she’s doing, and you shouldn’t ...//
“You’ve done this with Mute-sempai, haven’t you?” Her voice was quiet, but the hurt in her tone was clear and deep. “Do you not ... because I’m ...?”
No. Not at all.
With firm resolve, Fakir bent and kissed her again, eyes closed and hand shaking as he trailed his fingers down her side to tickle the soft skin of her thigh, pausing to squeeze the dance-strengthened muscles before slipping softly upwards, gently brushing her skin before pressing forward, slipping his index finger inside her, only a little, then pausing, waiting for her, giving her the chance to stop him.
She rocked her hips, kissing him deeper and sighing, giving silent permission to continue.
He should have stopped before going further, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask; to risk losing her. Never having been with a lover who truly wanted him before, he found himself fragile and afraid, questioning with his eyes as he slid a second finger into her, gently stroking her, testing her body to make sure she wouldn’t tear. She looked frightened, frightened and aroused and wanting, just as he felt. It seemed so odd to him to see emotion in her eyes, emotion that was more than just a mirror of his own feelings. He feared hurting her, losing her, filling her with regret; he could see in her eyes fear of the unknown, fear of pain, yet mixed with it the desire and pride and lust that he’d never thought he would see there.
He watched the feelings disappear behind her eyelids, watched her dark eyelashes flutter on her blushing cheeks, watched her brow furrow slightly in pain as he slid slowly into her body, every inch of her soft skin caressing him, reassuring him, as he carefully took her virginity.
It was indescribable, the mix of physical sensation with the burden of responsibility, the thrill and the fear filling him as he slowly filled her.
“Ahiru, does it hurt?” he asked, remembering the pain flickering across Mute’s face the first time he’d done this with the pale boy. Was it different with girls, or did it hurt? She was so wet, he’d not used lube, but watching her open her eyes, an indecipherable expression in them, he wondered if perhaps he should have; if perhaps he’d not done what he needed to and was hurting her.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s good, Fakir. It’s good ...”
He’d never been affirmed during sex before. Never.
Feelings of gratitude and love flooded him, pulling him down onto her and making him sob into her neck, wrapping his arms around her slender body and cuddling her to him, pressing his sex deeper into her warm body. She responded with a soft moan, squeezing her knees into his hips. He held her close, hugging her as though comforting her, as though he were merely a friend holding a friend, not a lover rocking slowly into her, humming softly with each thrust, his voice melting with hers.
“Are you ... okay?” he gasped, resisting the urge to thrust faster. Could he hurt her, moving too fast? He knew with Mute that it was very possible to cause pain, going too fast; knew how to prevent such things. But with Ahiru ...
“Mmm-hmm. Good,” she answered. She cried out softly as he rocked back onto his legs, kneeling seza with his legs splayed out to either side, pulling her onto his lap and holding her there, burying his face her neck, settling against him, her arms draped over his shoulders, the new position giving her room to rock against him, showing him what she liked; how far she could go. He matched her rhythm, thrusting forward to meet each rock of her hips.
It wasn’t long before he was close. //How do you know a girl’s come?// he wondered, a sudden panic rising in his chest. //They don’t come like guys, do they? How do I know ...//
He felt her tighten in his arms, the muscles in her back spasming and going rock hard; heard her gasp, head thrown back and eyes wide as though in surprise. Her hips moved faster, their rhythm erratic and wild, worrying Fakir through the sea of erotic sensation that she might hurt herself on him. Finally, she cried out, eyes closed as though she were in pain, then all the tension drained from her body and she slumped against him, soft and pliant as he thrust into her, wild with lust from her display. He bit his lip and pressed his forehead into her shoulder, gasping and moaning as he came inside her, orgasm tearing from him so hard it nearly hurt.
Gently, he rocked forward, laying Ahiru back into the soft mattress and pulling carefully from her body. She shuddered at the sensation, a shadow of a smile crossing her lips as she moaned. Fakir watched, fascinated. Mute had always winced when he’d withdrawn, feeling the sting from the penetration after the euphoria of sex had passed.
Did that feel good to girls?
“Ahiru,” he asked, voice breaking on her name. “Are you alright?”
She looked up at him and smiled, pulling him to lie beside her. He complied, stroking his fingers up and down the soft skin of her belly for a moment before reaching down and pulling the quilt over them, marveling at the difference. Her happy, sated smile; the soft kisses she placed on his shoulder as he leaned over her to smooth the quilt across the bed, making sure she was covered and warm. It seemed odd to him to make love to her and not have to break the pleasant afterglow by leaving the bed to get a towel from the bathroom, needing to clean his lover and himself of semen and lube. With Ahiru, there was just warm and wet between her legs and his, and soft warm skin to snuggle.
He smiled faintly, nuzzling the errant strands of her long hair. It had been wonderful, making love to her, but in the back of his mind, he faintly missed Mute’s masculinity, missed the pale boy’s erection pulsing sticky-wet in his hand, a silent compliment to his ministrations.
He wanted to ask if she’d come, but couldn’t quite find the words.
“Thank you,” he whispered instead, pressing the length of his body against her side and snuggling against her, weak and happy as a kitten.
“Fakir,” she breathed. “I love you.”
And they lived happily ever after.
~*~*~*~
Fakir set down his quill and stretched his fingers, wincing at the popping sound of his joints as he wiggled them in the low lamplight. He looked down at his erection, hard and wanting, precome leaking through the fabric of his trousers.
I could take care of that pretty quickly, he thought, but I’d get ink smudges on it again, and those didn’t go away for days last time ...
He rubbed his inky fingers over the sticky bulge anyway, glancing over the drying script on the page. His hand stilled as he re-read his own fantasy, blushing madly over the simplicity of his own desires.
This is the worst story anyone has ever written, he thought dejectedly. It doesn’t even make any sense ... Ahiru letting me make love to her just because ... is there even a reason in this horrid thing?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, light from outside flooding into his study around the silhouette of a rather pissy Aotoa. He sighed and crossed his legs, silently cursing his writing mentor and apologizing to his cock.
Later, I promise, he thought, shifting and feeling the coolness of the fabric where his cock had leaked excitedly under the mental image of Ahiru, naked and wanting and writhing in his arms. And this time I’ll come up with a fantasy that’s actually plausible ... if it’s even plausible that she’d like me.
“You’d better not be writing foolish drivel again,” Aotoa snapped, crossing the room and leaning over the desk to see Fakir’s writing. Fakir glared and folded the parchment, securing it in the top drawer of his desk with a twist of the key. Slipping the key into his pocket, he stood and shrugged.
No sense letting a perfectly good fantasy go to waste, no matter how poorly it’s written, he told himself, but glaring at Aotoa, he said: “None of your business what I write, Aotoa-kun. Now, what do you want?”
Aotoa sighed and began rambling about something banal related to Drosselmeyer. Fakir leaned against the desk and half-listened, idly wondering what he would do were he to succeed in courting Ahiru; were he to find that his affections were not one-sided.
Not everything I write comes true, he mused, but it’s definitely worth a try.
He smiled to himself and rubbed his inky fingers together, feeling more optimistic than he’d felt in years.
~*~*~*~
Author’s Note:
Yuck. Ahiru and Fakir have absolutely no business having sex. I mean, they’re 11 and 15, respectively, and that’s just gross. Fakir’s a normal teenaged boy, however, and has every right to fantasize.
If I have anything to do with it, he’ll not get past kissing her until she’s well over 20 ...
Happy Ending
by Mistress Quickly
This is the first in my challenge to myself to write at least one het fic for each fandom that I’ve slashed.
For Abi, who’s a real princess.
~*~*~*~
Sunlight poured through the dusty window-panes, filling the room with the deceptively warm-looking light of early evening, the orange glow stroking the rough wooden frame of the bed and inciting the scowling shadows into devious plots of mischief.
It was cold, despite the sunlight. Cold, and somehow no matter how many blankets he put on the bed, she didn’t look like she was warm enough.
He’d never touched her, really, save for when she was in her true form, a duck, and at that time, he was usually seeking her comfort, not offering his own to her. Now, sitting beside her, his weight tipping the mattress ever so slightly, he wondered that he’d never really noticed before how small she was, how frail. Curled up on her side, her back to him, she slept deeply, twitching every so often, an indication that she dreamed, her short hair fanned across the soft pillow, its dark orange a soothing counterpoint to the indifferent sun.
He wanted to touch her.
Tentatively, he reached out with his hand and stroked her hair, smiling at its texture under his finger-tips, somehow feeling the shame of the ink-stains lessened through the simple contact. She shifted to lie on her back, her eyelashes fluttering against pale cheeks, indicating wakefulness rather than dreams. He pulled back his hand, blushed and thought to stand; to return to his earlier place at the window sill on the other side of the room, but found he could do little else but sit at the edge of the bed and watch her wake, watch her open her eyes and see him; watch her smile and shift again, lying on her side and curling around him, warm and soft and loving.
He wondered what she felt, and wondered at his own lack of fear at the thought of her feelings.
“Are you cold?” he asked softly, stroking his fingertips down her hair once again, trailing them further, feeling the softness of her skin, the shiver of sensation when he trailed down her neck, touching her back before the blankets prevented him moving further. “I had to douse you to bring you back into human form.”
She giggled, bumping her nose into his knee as she did, which made her giggle more. So human, for a princess; so adorably normal for a girl her age. He found himself wondering at such a thing; loving it.
“Did you ...?”
He shook his head. “No, I didn’t. Rue dressed you, although all we could find was your Tutu dress. I just helped tuck you in.”
She sighed, relieved but still blushing, and snuggled into the warm nest of bed-covers. “Thank you for taking such good care of me. Your bed really is warm.”
Why that should make him blush, he hadn’t a clue. It wasn’t a bad feeling, really; not embarrassment like he’d felt when he first learned she was the duck to whom he’d poured out his soul. That had been embarrassing.
“Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “No. Turning back from duck form always leaves me a bit ... confused, I suppose,” she explained. “When I do get hungry, it’s always for bread and crackers ... the things ducks like to eat.” She giggled again, this time leaving her nose rubbing against his knee. “Isn’t that strange?”
No. Not strange at all.
“I don’t suppose so,” he answered, hand moving of its own volition to stroke her back through the covers. “I shared a bit of bread with you, once, back when I didn’t know that was you. Not that I wouldn’t share it with you now, knowing it’s you, but ...” He trailed off, biting his lip and feeling a fool. She giggled and moved her arms to cradle his leg like a stuffed toy.
“I want to be a normal girl,” she confessed softly, her jaw moving against his leg, allowing him to feel her form each word. “Not a duck who pretends to be a girl; not a girl who pretends to be a princess. Just normal, like Pique and Lillie.”
“Your friends are hardly normal,” he murmured, half to himself. //And if you take it into your head to start acting like them, I might have to smack you senseless,// he added mentally, but instead of voicing such threats, he returned his hand to the bare skin of her neck and rubbed the stiff muscles there.
She really was small and frail in his hands. So vulnerable.
“They just try to take care of me,” she sighed, melting bonelessly into the massage. “Even if they are a bit odd about it sometimes, they mean w-oh, Fakir, that’s good.”
He smiled at the sound of his name sighed on a breath of pleasure. The knight and the mysterious princess, always ignored by the writer: it thrilled him to steal time with her, to indulge in her company without the burden of protecting Mute. She’d made him face his fears; she’d shown him her own struggle to face hers.
“Shouldn’t you change back into Ahiru?” he asked, moving the blankets with his wrists to slide his hands lower, massaging her shoulders. It struck him as odd that he’d never noticed how little her Tutu dress really covered. Little wonder she’d been shivering when he’d tucked her in, damp as she was from the transformation from the little yellow duck to the princess he now stroked and rubbed.
He felt his body stir and heat. Princess Tutu was a beautiful girl.
“I don’t have my uniform; transforming would be a bad idea. And besides, do you know what Neko-sensei would do to me if he found me sneaking out of your dormitory in my uniform?”
Fakir laughed. “Probably insist that you marry him on the spot before you soil your image any further.”
She made a sound that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a weak attempt to communicate pleasure, stretching as his hands traveled lower, teasing out the tension in the muscles under her sharp shoulder-blades. A thought occurred to him; a stupid thought. A stupidly accurate observation that he scolded himself for not noticing before.
“You know, you’re not much different from a cat yourself, Ahiru,” he said softly, watching her stretch into the sensation of his hands on her back. “It’s no wonder Neko-sensei’s always after you.”
“Fakir, that’s mean,” she mumbled into the pillow. “I’m a duck, remember? Just a duck.”
“You’re not just a duck.”
“I’m not really Tutu. I’m really just Ahiru. Just a duck.”
“You’re very strong.”
“I’m awkward.”
“You’re smart and loving.”
“I’m clumsy.”
“You’re beautiful.”
Ahiru was quiet, muscles tensing and shifting under Fakir’s hands as she pushed herself up to twist and look at him, eyes searching his. Hurt was evident in her gaze, pooling painfully where tears would have been.
“Only as Tutu,” she said softly, smiling at him in a way that was all at once fragile and sad, confident and condescending. He slid one hand down to rest on the mattress behind her, the other reaching up to stroke her hair, pulling free the little crown she wore. He pressed his lips to hers, swallowing her gasp of protest, eyes closed, seeing naught but the shift of light as she transformed from Tutu to Ahiru in his arms, short hair falling long around her naked shoulders, messy and tangling as she wiggled, embarrassed and unable to move away from him.
Finally, she kissed him back.
Her mouth was warm and wet against his, a feeling he was used to sharing with Mute out of necessity and frustration, but her body was mobile, shifting the covers and the mattress as she moved, trying to find a position that would keep her covered while allowing her to reach out and touch him; a tentative stroke of fingers down his chin, a squeeze on his shoulder. When she pulled away, her eyes told him she was confused and frightened and excited, just as he was.
The princess’ heart, and he could see it just as clearly as he’d seen Mute’s when Tutu had returned it to him.
“You’re beautiful, just like this,” he said softly. Then, seeing her blush brilliant red, very aware of her own nakedness, he hurriedly amended: “I mean as Ahiru. You’re beautiful as Ahiru. I’ll, uh, I’ll get you a shirt or something to wear.”
He dug one of his own nightshirts from his dresser, the fabric soft and clean-smelling, a hint of pine from its place in his dresser, and handed it to her, facing the dusty windowpanes as she dressed, listening to her make soft little sounds as her hands caught in the cuffs, he supposed, and a little sigh of pleasure once the soft cotton settled around her. He turned and smiled; the garment swallowed her, dropping past her knees and bunching around her wrists, giving the illusion of a little bird flapping its new wings, unsure of how to fly.
“Beautiful,” he repeated, closing the distance between them and cupping her face in his palms as he bent to kiss her. “More beautiful than Princess Tutu ever was.”
He closed his eyes and kissed her again, slow and deep, shivering when her hands slid around his waist, fingers stroking him through his uniform dress-shirt in rhythm with her tongue in his mouth. He broke the kiss and began kissing his way along her jawline, down her neck and over to settle on the sensitive skin just below her ear, nipping softly, the way he’d done to Mute, wanting the boy to react.
Ahiru reacted. She yelped, surprised, then sighed and turned her face away, giving him better access to the same spot, wordlessly asking for more. He complied, sucking gently, eyes still closed against the onslaught of pleasure. As though frightened of the pleasure she felt in his arms, Ahiru curled her body against his, the warmth and shifting of her legs against his mesmerizing, teasing to life every nerve ending they brushed. He trailed his hands down her sides, smiling against her neck when she jumped, ticklish; giggling breathlessly as she clung to him as though he could save her from his own tickling hands.
“Ticklish?” he asked, answering her giggles with a soft laugh.
“Fakir! No, don’t, that’s AH!” she yelped, squirming against him. “That TICKLES!”
“Good,” he breathed, but he stilled his fingers and instead grabbed her about the thighs, lifting her off the cold floor and settling her in his arms, legs wrapped securely around his waist. She was just as light and small as she’d seemed, lying in his bed, and in a sudden urge to protect her, he wrapped his arms firmly around her and buried his face in her chest, holding her close.
“Fakir?” she asked softly, voice full of curiosity; full of confusion and excitement and apprehension. No more the dead tone of the heartless prince, no more the puppet to be played with until boredom took over. Ahiru was real and warm against him, squirming to find a comfortable position on his bony hips.
“Ahiru,” he sighed, carefully walking to the bed and laying her back onto the soft mattress, climbing on as well and kneeling between her legs, smoothing the fabric of the borrowed nightshirt with his hands as he looked down on her, her smile reflected in his eyes. Her long hair, deep orange in the dying light of the sunset, fanned across the white sheets and the pale fabric of the shirt, unbound from its braid for the first time since he’d met her.
“Are you alright?” she wanted to know, reaching up to touch his face.
“You’re beautiful,” he said, covering her hand with his own and twining their fingers together. “I’ve avoided thinking of you for so long, Ahiru, because I didn’t want to have to fight you. I wanted so badly to protect Mute, but now ...”
“Mute’s safe,” Ahiru said softly, her voice a little sad. “He no longer seems to need us. But he’s safe, and like you said, that’s what we wanted.”
“Yes, that is what I wanted,” Fakir agreed, turning his face to kiss her palm. “What do we do now? A prince who’s been saved no longer needs a princess nor a knight. What becomes of the story now?”
Ahiru smiled and pulled her hand away from his, grabbing a handful of his hair and giving him a tug, pulling him down for a soft kiss.
“Now, you figure out what you want, just as you figured out that you wanted to save Mute,” she told him, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “You’re still a knight; protect me if you want to. I won’t stop you.”
“Protect you?” he echoed, opening his eyes and looking down at her. “From what?”
Ahiru smiled. “From whatever I need to be protected from. And I’ll protect you, Fakir, and help you get your heart back. I know you’ve been hurt; I’ve watched you fight for Mute long enough to know that.”
“So you protect me and I protect you, eh?” he said, kissing her slowly and brushing his lips across her soft cheek. “And if there’s nothing we need to protect each other from?”
“You’re the writer,” she said, laughing a little. “Do we not get a ‘happily ever after’?”
Fakir pulled away and looked at her, all innocence and smiles, calmly asking him for a happy ending, showing him that, indeed, he could finally hope for such a thing. It was almost more than he could bear, the temptation of hope, but with Ahiru smiling at him, her fingers stroking his arms reassuringly, it was enough.
Firmly, he returned to kissing her, not chaste nor slow, but fast and passionate, hands working to unlace the front of the borrowed nightshirt, wanting to seal the promise with her. With a sigh of happy pleasure, Ahiru wriggled until she could reach his garments, quick fingers easily unbuttoning the front of his shirt, leaving it open and dangling, almost a privacy screen for her fingers as they moved lower, unfastening his pants and tugging at them, wordlessly requesting that he help her free his legs from the restrictive garments.
//She may blush like she’s innocent, but she’s far from it,// Fakir thought, his mind too lust-hazed to argue with his body as he lifted his hips and pulled his hands away long enough to slide his trousers and underwear down his legs, dropping them to the floor with an oddly satisfying *flumph*. By the time he was freed of his shirt, the cuffs catching conspiratorially on his hands, she had managed to wiggle free of the nightshirt and was lying back against his pillow, blushing a little but smiling in approval at the sight of his body, uncovered before her. He allowed his eyes to trace her skin, looking at her carefully where before, he’d always looked away, guiltily wishing he’d gotten a better look.
“You’re beautiful,” he said once again, not knowing what else to say.
“You’ve seen me like this before,” she said, blushing more deeply and looking away. “Tons of times. Every time I change back into a human.”
“Never been able to look before,” he answered, wiggling down the bed to kiss the soft skin of her belly, right beside her navel. She squirmed and pushed herself up to a seated position, grabbing under his arms and tugging him up for another kiss, falling back into the pillows and pulling him with her. Feeling the soft skin of her thigh rub against his cock, already hard and leaking with excitement, Fakir blushed and struggled, trying to pull away from her, or at least shift so that his erection wouldn’t touch her, somehow ashamed for her to feel him in such a state: hard and wanting and vulnerable.
“Fakir?” she breathed, breaking the kiss and looking up at him, blue eyes round with concern.
“Ahiru, we shouldn’t ...” Fakir faltered, seeing hurt pooling in Ahiru’s eyes. //She’s too young,// he scolded himself. //She doesn’t know what she’s doing, and you shouldn’t ...//
“You’ve done this with Mute-sempai, haven’t you?” Her voice was quiet, but the hurt in her tone was clear and deep. “Do you not ... because I’m ...?”
No. Not at all.
With firm resolve, Fakir bent and kissed her again, eyes closed and hand shaking as he trailed his fingers down her side to tickle the soft skin of her thigh, pausing to squeeze the dance-strengthened muscles before slipping softly upwards, gently brushing her skin before pressing forward, slipping his index finger inside her, only a little, then pausing, waiting for her, giving her the chance to stop him.
She rocked her hips, kissing him deeper and sighing, giving silent permission to continue.
He should have stopped before going further, he knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask; to risk losing her. Never having been with a lover who truly wanted him before, he found himself fragile and afraid, questioning with his eyes as he slid a second finger into her, gently stroking her, testing her body to make sure she wouldn’t tear. She looked frightened, frightened and aroused and wanting, just as he felt. It seemed so odd to him to see emotion in her eyes, emotion that was more than just a mirror of his own feelings. He feared hurting her, losing her, filling her with regret; he could see in her eyes fear of the unknown, fear of pain, yet mixed with it the desire and pride and lust that he’d never thought he would see there.
He watched the feelings disappear behind her eyelids, watched her dark eyelashes flutter on her blushing cheeks, watched her brow furrow slightly in pain as he slid slowly into her body, every inch of her soft skin caressing him, reassuring him, as he carefully took her virginity.
It was indescribable, the mix of physical sensation with the burden of responsibility, the thrill and the fear filling him as he slowly filled her.
“Ahiru, does it hurt?” he asked, remembering the pain flickering across Mute’s face the first time he’d done this with the pale boy. Was it different with girls, or did it hurt? She was so wet, he’d not used lube, but watching her open her eyes, an indecipherable expression in them, he wondered if perhaps he should have; if perhaps he’d not done what he needed to and was hurting her.
“No,” she whispered. “It’s good, Fakir. It’s good ...”
He’d never been affirmed during sex before. Never.
Feelings of gratitude and love flooded him, pulling him down onto her and making him sob into her neck, wrapping his arms around her slender body and cuddling her to him, pressing his sex deeper into her warm body. She responded with a soft moan, squeezing her knees into his hips. He held her close, hugging her as though comforting her, as though he were merely a friend holding a friend, not a lover rocking slowly into her, humming softly with each thrust, his voice melting with hers.
“Are you ... okay?” he gasped, resisting the urge to thrust faster. Could he hurt her, moving too fast? He knew with Mute that it was very possible to cause pain, going too fast; knew how to prevent such things. But with Ahiru ...
“Mmm-hmm. Good,” she answered. She cried out softly as he rocked back onto his legs, kneeling seza with his legs splayed out to either side, pulling her onto his lap and holding her there, burying his face her neck, settling against him, her arms draped over his shoulders, the new position giving her room to rock against him, showing him what she liked; how far she could go. He matched her rhythm, thrusting forward to meet each rock of her hips.
It wasn’t long before he was close. //How do you know a girl’s come?// he wondered, a sudden panic rising in his chest. //They don’t come like guys, do they? How do I know ...//
He felt her tighten in his arms, the muscles in her back spasming and going rock hard; heard her gasp, head thrown back and eyes wide as though in surprise. Her hips moved faster, their rhythm erratic and wild, worrying Fakir through the sea of erotic sensation that she might hurt herself on him. Finally, she cried out, eyes closed as though she were in pain, then all the tension drained from her body and she slumped against him, soft and pliant as he thrust into her, wild with lust from her display. He bit his lip and pressed his forehead into her shoulder, gasping and moaning as he came inside her, orgasm tearing from him so hard it nearly hurt.
Gently, he rocked forward, laying Ahiru back into the soft mattress and pulling carefully from her body. She shuddered at the sensation, a shadow of a smile crossing her lips as she moaned. Fakir watched, fascinated. Mute had always winced when he’d withdrawn, feeling the sting from the penetration after the euphoria of sex had passed.
Did that feel good to girls?
“Ahiru,” he asked, voice breaking on her name. “Are you alright?”
She looked up at him and smiled, pulling him to lie beside her. He complied, stroking his fingers up and down the soft skin of her belly for a moment before reaching down and pulling the quilt over them, marveling at the difference. Her happy, sated smile; the soft kisses she placed on his shoulder as he leaned over her to smooth the quilt across the bed, making sure she was covered and warm. It seemed odd to him to make love to her and not have to break the pleasant afterglow by leaving the bed to get a towel from the bathroom, needing to clean his lover and himself of semen and lube. With Ahiru, there was just warm and wet between her legs and his, and soft warm skin to snuggle.
He smiled faintly, nuzzling the errant strands of her long hair. It had been wonderful, making love to her, but in the back of his mind, he faintly missed Mute’s masculinity, missed the pale boy’s erection pulsing sticky-wet in his hand, a silent compliment to his ministrations.
He wanted to ask if she’d come, but couldn’t quite find the words.
“Thank you,” he whispered instead, pressing the length of his body against her side and snuggling against her, weak and happy as a kitten.
“Fakir,” she breathed. “I love you.”
And they lived happily ever after.
~*~*~*~
Fakir set down his quill and stretched his fingers, wincing at the popping sound of his joints as he wiggled them in the low lamplight. He looked down at his erection, hard and wanting, precome leaking through the fabric of his trousers.
I could take care of that pretty quickly, he thought, but I’d get ink smudges on it again, and those didn’t go away for days last time ...
He rubbed his inky fingers over the sticky bulge anyway, glancing over the drying script on the page. His hand stilled as he re-read his own fantasy, blushing madly over the simplicity of his own desires.
This is the worst story anyone has ever written, he thought dejectedly. It doesn’t even make any sense ... Ahiru letting me make love to her just because ... is there even a reason in this horrid thing?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, light from outside flooding into his study around the silhouette of a rather pissy Aotoa. He sighed and crossed his legs, silently cursing his writing mentor and apologizing to his cock.
Later, I promise, he thought, shifting and feeling the coolness of the fabric where his cock had leaked excitedly under the mental image of Ahiru, naked and wanting and writhing in his arms. And this time I’ll come up with a fantasy that’s actually plausible ... if it’s even plausible that she’d like me.
“You’d better not be writing foolish drivel again,” Aotoa snapped, crossing the room and leaning over the desk to see Fakir’s writing. Fakir glared and folded the parchment, securing it in the top drawer of his desk with a twist of the key. Slipping the key into his pocket, he stood and shrugged.
No sense letting a perfectly good fantasy go to waste, no matter how poorly it’s written, he told himself, but glaring at Aotoa, he said: “None of your business what I write, Aotoa-kun. Now, what do you want?”
Aotoa sighed and began rambling about something banal related to Drosselmeyer. Fakir leaned against the desk and half-listened, idly wondering what he would do were he to succeed in courting Ahiru; were he to find that his affections were not one-sided.
Not everything I write comes true, he mused, but it’s definitely worth a try.
He smiled to himself and rubbed his inky fingers together, feeling more optimistic than he’d felt in years.
~*~*~*~
Author’s Note:
Yuck. Ahiru and Fakir have absolutely no business having sex. I mean, they’re 11 and 15, respectively, and that’s just gross. Fakir’s a normal teenaged boy, however, and has every right to fantasize.
If I have anything to do with it, he’ll not get past kissing her until she’s well over 20 ...