notes: so every once in a while i write smut for this pairing that's short or nonsensical. here's where i'll be dumping them from now on. just a collection of good old fashioned PWP, i suppose. all of these will be post-series and take place after ahiru has been rehumanized unless otherwise stated.
i own nothing.

2014 note: going back and rereading a lot of these, i'm finding that quite a few of them have unfortunate implications where the line of consent isn't clearly placed and a character pressures or pushes another into sex. i suppose back then i thought i looked at it as just more silly banter between them, but now i'd be more comfortable if i left at least some sort of warning that they're present nonetheless.

If you're going to be frustrated then it might as well be sexual

Ahiru sighs, chin leaning on her hands propped to their elbows on the vanity. Staring back at her is a woman with tied up hair and colorful make-up accentuating the fullness of her lips and curve of her eyes. She pokes at the mirror, not quite sure if she likes the image. It doesn't quite look like Ahiru but at the same time it's someone who actually looks pretty, she thinks. Slowly, she's improving at applying the cosmetics to her face without any help. It will come in handy once the special date arrives.

Gazing at the unfamiliar picture staring right back at her, Ahiru hears a quiet creak. Her eyes catch the movement of the door behind her from the mirror, and she watches as Fakir steps in. She doesn't move as he walks up to her, taking a shoulder in each hand and giving a squeeze. She wants to ask him if she looks fine, but the words don't come as she observes the depth of his eyes slowly changing.

They look at each other through their reflections, both silent.

Ahiru has the temptation to turn around and lightly kick him away—he really isn't allowed in that room, and she was pressed for time to get ready. Instead, she gives him a questioning look, unmoving. He looks right back at her, and in the next moment she can feel his grip on her shoulders tightening strongly.

Her words are caught in her throat as he suddenly lifts her up and spins her around, sitting her right on the vanity desk before shoving her back against the mirror and pressing himself to her. She squeaks, and demands him to get off because—he doesn't hear the reasons. He can only feel the muffled vibrations of her shouts against his lips.

She huffs against him, and he can practically feel the roll of her eyes. But in the next moment she's pushing back against him, and he allows a smirk to pass through as he climbs more thoroughly on top of her and holds her in place, fingers trickling through that perfectly placed bun on her head. Ahiru makes an indignant noise upon feeling him mess up the strands, but it's quickly ignored.

It doesn't take long to remove those fancy clothes of hers and eventually he has her bare, hands running appreciatively over her skin. He cups a breast in each hand and she arches before sighing, legs rising to take a hold around his waist. He doesn't expect the sudden squeeze and his arousal instinctively jerks against her thigh with a grunt. Oh, that definitely brings a triumphant grin out of her, and through her clouded mind the redhead manages to slide her hands to his backside, constricting fingers guiding him to helplessly buck against her once more.

He retaliates with a stroke and a pinch against her most sensitive areas, leaving her releasing him to squirm. When her defense is down, Fakir goes in for the kill. He bites, sucks, and licks at her shoulders and breasts and every little spot he knows can make her thrash. And god, her moans are the most beautiful sound in the world. But when she unexpectedly has enough mind to reach below and caress him in a way that drives him mad with a strained groan, he allows his dress pants to slide down his legs, hissing in her ear.

The mirror rattles behind them as he grabs at her thighs and shoves himself inside, teeth gritting at the way she practically screams his name aloud to the room. He kisses her, and she holds tight to him as he begins moving. It's a steady drum beat, blood pumping relentlessly in their ears. He can hear her small gasps, and the woman manages to elicit a moan out of him whenever her legs squeeze around his rear, guiding him back in. His hands reach down to grab at her own, and she arches to him on a strangled cry.

Eventually he's bucking, and the mirror shifts precariously on its hinges as her back slams against it over and over. Fakir leans his head down, tasting the salt of her shoulder on his tongue. Ahiru can only helplessly jerk her hips back against his, completely failing to recall her previous confusion at him invading her room during preparation hours.

When there's fire burning in his gut, he grunts and begins to coax her, tells her to come, come with him. Ahiru doesn't think; she listens, and that tightness and heat collide almost violently into each other. Their guts clench and toes curl together; both gasping and trying to do everything they can just to get even more impossibly close to each other. Their muscles convulse and they spill out the tension they had been working together on for the last several minutes, air escaping their lungs in strangled moans.

When all is said and done, the tiny dressing room is almost rank in perspiration and breath. But it's still hard to think straight, and Ahiru simply allows herself to slowly come back down like a small leaf in the soft breeze.

Her lazy eyes look at him. The afterglow is potent, but she still reaches up to poke him on the forehead with a raspy voice.

"…You…jerk. How can I…how'm I s'posed to…?"

She feels him chuckle against her neck, and her hazy eyes widen. It suddenly clicks with her—he did it all on purpose.

Flustered, the redhead takes both hands and shoves at his chest. "H-Hey, you—! You big—!"

"You should be getting ready, you know," he says, lifting his head up to sneer at her. "Don't want to keep the rest of the cast waiting, now."

Ahiru's jaw drops, and whines as he steps back to pull out of her. "…How…how'm I supposed to go to dress rehearsal NOW? I can't DANCE like this!" She gestures to her spent and naked body, legs still quivering from the intensity of his thrusts.

Pulling back up his black pants and cracking his neck with a palm, Fakir simply replies, "Don't give up so quickly now, I'm sure you can do it if you try." But it's obvious by the tone that he's mocking. Turning to go back out the door, he glances over his shoulder with a smirk. "Break a leg. Can't wait to watch." In the next moment he's disappeared, the door shutting behind him.

And once she's alone in the room again, disheveled and still catching her breath, Ahiru practically steams at the ears. He did all of that on purpose! Just so he could see her tripping around and messing up, when for once she was one of the main roles in the ballet! And now she has to get dressed and re-do all of that make-up all over again…not to mention the fact that she can barely stay still when she's so exhausted like this. It wasn't fair! The stupid jerk!

…But on the contrary, as Fakir strides down the backstage hall and readjusts the hair in his ponytail, he can't help but feel that she deserved every little moment.

Serves her right for getting him all hot and bothered a week prior just as he was about to give a presentation of his own, introducing his latest works at the local book chain. He could barely contain himself when up in front of all those people, and all because of her damn attentions on him in the minutes prior. The moron.

And all things considered, Fakir showed much more mercy on Ahiru than she had to him, so she should be grateful of his 'compassion.'

At least he actually allowed her to release.