Revolutionary Girl Utena (Touga/Saionji)
Title: Yield
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,701
Warnings: Mild spoilers through the end of the first arc, explicit m/m, rough sex
Prompt: Rivalry - "on straw matting"
Saionji hasn’t sparred with Touga in months, not since before his expulsion and Touga’s…whatever happened to Touga. Nobody really talks about why he shut himself up in his room with scratchy classical records playing on the phonograph and velvet curtains draped over the windows, although the girls at school think he was pining over a lost love. How princely, they sigh. How noble, they simper. Saionji resists the impulse to spit. When Arisugawa deigns to talk to him, she implies that his pride took a nasty fall, and that it was Tenjou’s fault. Good for her, he thinks savagely, tightening his grip on his shinai’s hilt. She’s a bitch, but good for her.
Thinking of Tenjou conjures up Himemiya’s face, rose-petal lips parted dully and green eyes painted over with a white glaze; he feels a growl build up deep in his throat and pushes it down. This isn’t about her. This is about Touga, and how he’s going to wipe the smug grin from his face with his shinai’s padded tip.
“Are you nervous?” A lock of Touga’s hair still hangs in front of his forehead, obscuring one of his eyes. It should hamper his vision, but it won’t. Not enough. Saionji knows from experience.
“You should be the one who’s nervous,” he says. “Unless you kept practicing after you shut yourself up.”
“Shinohara let you practice when you stayed with her?” And there it is-Touga’s smirk uncurling like a snake, with just as much venom behind it. “That was generous.”
Saionji’s fingers stiffen. How does he know? How the hell does he know? Bastard. “Let’s just do this,” he growls. He has to get himself back together before the timer signifying the start of the match rings. It’s harder to beat Touga when he’s angry. It distracts him, fills his head with fuzz and static.
But damned if Touga doesn’t know how to worm his way under Saionji’s skin. And when he does, he sinks his nails in the wound and twists, and Saionji doesn’t know how to shake him off.
“To the first contact?” Touga asks.
No. Touga always gets that. He’s faster than Saionji is-he hates to admit it, but it’s true, and he might as well assess his opponent’s strength’s accurately-but Saionji’s blows, when they connect, have more power behind them. “Until one of us yields.”
“If that’s what you want, old friend.”
“Shut up,” Saionji hisses.
The timer’s bell cuts through his thoughts cleanly and he brings the shinai down hard in an arc destined to end at Touga’s shoulder. Touga twists aside (it’s his speed again) and blocks Saionji’s shinai when he tries to reverse its initial arc and cut to the right. His next strike is an overhand one, plunging from above to strike at Saionji’s chest. He usually aims for the heart. Saionji brings the wood of the shaft up to knock his blow aside, but Touga drops his left shoulder and brings the shinai around in a semicircle to tap the base of Saionji’s ribcage.
“Yield?” Touga asks, his ponytail loosening.
“No.” And Saionji raps Touga’s knuckles with the padded tip; Touga’s fingers twitch and redden, but he keeps his grasp on the hilt steady. He realizes a second too late that he’s left himself open for Touga’s riposte, which comes in an upward thrust towards the unguarded left side of his chest and lands there smartly. It might leave a bruise. Saionji doesn’t particularly care, because he plans to leave Touga with worse.
Saionji advances on him this time. If they’d been using katanas, the sound of the colliding blades would have rung through the practice room and made the paper walls vibrate, but there’s only a hollow wooden thud instead, and it doesn’t send a chill through him the same way the sound of a real sword would. Touga’s footwork parallels his own perfectly-he crosses a foot in front of the other and steps left as Touga steps right, and Touga barely has to swing his shinai lower to catch the sideways strike aimed at his elbow.
He brings his shinai up parallel to the ground and catches Touga’s blade above his head before it has a chance to tap his skull, then plants his foot forward and stomps in Touga’s stomach. It’s not a gentlemanly move, it’s not a proper move, but Saionji’s wanted to do it for ages. Touga exhales sharply as his grip on the hilt slackens, but he’s still smiling. Damn him, anyway.
“Do you yield?” Saionji says.
“What do you think?” Touga keeps low to the ground as he darts forward and smacks the back of Saionji’s legs with the shinai, right behind the knee. His legs buckle reflexively and Touga closes the distance between them until they’re almost pressed body-to-body. Saionji imagines he can hear his heartbeat from here, still steady and rhythmic in spite of all the adrenaline that must be flowing through his blood. It must be. Doesn’t this get Touga excited? He’s not imagining the sweat beading on Touga’s forehead, or the way the fabric’s starting to cling to his skin. Saionji’s own breathing is coming in more ragged now. Their blades cross and lock at the hilt. If he can just force Touga to his knees now-he’s stronger, or he was the last time they fought…
Touga pushes away from the bind. Before Saionji can react, his hand wraps around the upper part of Saionji’s sword arm and squeezes hard, hard enough to bruise if he kept it up. His grip slackens, and his shinai rolls to rest on the straw matting.
“Shit.”
“Now do you yield?” He feels Touga’s breath coming in hot puffs against his neck.
“No,” he snarls, and with that smashes the back of his head into the area where he’s sure Touga’s face is. From the hiss behind him, it seems like he guessed right. While he’s still dazed, Saionji twists free of his grasp and presses his hands flat against Touga’s chest. His foot hooks around Touga’s ankle and wrenches it up from where it’s rooted to the ground; the two of them tumble to the mats, with Saionji on top.
Saionji decides he might as well ask again, now that their faces are centimeters away from each other. If he stretched his tongue out, he could lick the droplets of sweat hanging from the tip of Touga’s nose. “Give up?”
Touga’s response isn’t verbal this time. He leans forward and his lips press against Saionji’s and-they’re kissing, hard and fast, their battle carried out through the clash of teeth and tongues instead of through shinai. Saionji forgets to think. For the tiniest part of it, the best part of it, he forgets to be angry. That’s when Touga winds his leg around Saionji’s and flips them so Saionji’s pinned under him, and of course that’s the way he’d want it. The blood starts pounding through his veins again, setting a course straight for his cock.
He grabs the few strands of red hair remaining in Touga’s ponytail and jerks them up hard; Touga responds by clawing apart the v of his kimono until Saionji hears the fabric rip.
“You’d better pay for the repairs on that. Asshole,” he adds for good measure.
“You can afford it.”
Saionji rakes the stubs of his nails over Touga’s back until he reaches the hard knot holding his hakama in place. Neither of them bother undoing the knots properly; it’s faster to tear through them, though Touga makes his rips precise and unties the strips of fabric he’s left intact and Saionji just shreds through everything until Touga’s obi hangs in tattered shreds. It’s a good look on him. Not nearly as pristine as what he usually favors, but it’s better. It shows more of who he really is.
Saionji laughs. “You’re not a prince.”
“You don’t want a prince.” Touga laughs derisively, just once, then grabs Saionji’s cock and takes it into his mouth.
He’s too stunned at first, too overwhelmed by the way Touga’s tongue rubs little circles against the tip, to notice that Touga’s guided Saionji’s hand to his own cock. He curls his hand around it and jerks up hard, stroking every time Touga descends to take in more of his length. Saionji doesn’t know if Touga’s putting himself at his mercy by doing this or if he’s just showing off what he can do or if he should be more worried about Touga’s teeth, which so far are just grazing the underside of his shaft lightly but could clamp down at any second…He feels Touga’s balls tighten under his fingers as he pumps harder, then Touga swallows around him and takes him in up to the base, and he snaps. His hips move up, up until they hit infinity, up until they take him to the castle floating upside-down over the duel arena and he throws himself at the doors again and again, begging for release, for something, anything at all.
“How am I supposed to go back to the dormitories like this?” he says once he gets a better chance to inspect Touga’s handiwork. There are rips everywhere, tiny gaps in the seams that keep stretching out even bigger every time he moves.
“I could ask the same thing.” Touga gestures to the wreckage Saionji made of his obi. “But I left my uniform in my locker. Didn’t you?”
Saionji bares his teeth and plants his fists in the matting as Touga gets up and walks calmly by, putting his face back on before he meets his admirers once more. He’ll leave here untouched, not caring about anything that might have happened within these papered walls. Because he’s Kiryuu Touga, Ohtori’s prince. Everyone’s favorite. The armored knight atop his trusty steed, and Saionji’s lucky to get the privilege of hoisting Touga’s standard. That’s what the rest of them think, because they’re all fools.
The door slides closed. Saionji wonders how Touga will sleep tonight. Will he be comfortable surrounded by his whores? Does their simpering lull him to sleep?
And Saionji will spend the night buffeted by terrible dreams of what might have been.
Author: puella_nerdii
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1,701
Warnings: Mild spoilers through the end of the first arc, explicit m/m, rough sex
Prompt: Rivalry - "on straw matting"
Saionji hasn’t sparred with Touga in months, not since before his expulsion and Touga’s…whatever happened to Touga. Nobody really talks about why he shut himself up in his room with scratchy classical records playing on the phonograph and velvet curtains draped over the windows, although the girls at school think he was pining over a lost love. How princely, they sigh. How noble, they simper. Saionji resists the impulse to spit. When Arisugawa deigns to talk to him, she implies that his pride took a nasty fall, and that it was Tenjou’s fault. Good for her, he thinks savagely, tightening his grip on his shinai’s hilt. She’s a bitch, but good for her.
Thinking of Tenjou conjures up Himemiya’s face, rose-petal lips parted dully and green eyes painted over with a white glaze; he feels a growl build up deep in his throat and pushes it down. This isn’t about her. This is about Touga, and how he’s going to wipe the smug grin from his face with his shinai’s padded tip.
“Are you nervous?” A lock of Touga’s hair still hangs in front of his forehead, obscuring one of his eyes. It should hamper his vision, but it won’t. Not enough. Saionji knows from experience.
“You should be the one who’s nervous,” he says. “Unless you kept practicing after you shut yourself up.”
“Shinohara let you practice when you stayed with her?” And there it is-Touga’s smirk uncurling like a snake, with just as much venom behind it. “That was generous.”
Saionji’s fingers stiffen. How does he know? How the hell does he know? Bastard. “Let’s just do this,” he growls. He has to get himself back together before the timer signifying the start of the match rings. It’s harder to beat Touga when he’s angry. It distracts him, fills his head with fuzz and static.
But damned if Touga doesn’t know how to worm his way under Saionji’s skin. And when he does, he sinks his nails in the wound and twists, and Saionji doesn’t know how to shake him off.
“To the first contact?” Touga asks.
No. Touga always gets that. He’s faster than Saionji is-he hates to admit it, but it’s true, and he might as well assess his opponent’s strength’s accurately-but Saionji’s blows, when they connect, have more power behind them. “Until one of us yields.”
“If that’s what you want, old friend.”
“Shut up,” Saionji hisses.
The timer’s bell cuts through his thoughts cleanly and he brings the shinai down hard in an arc destined to end at Touga’s shoulder. Touga twists aside (it’s his speed again) and blocks Saionji’s shinai when he tries to reverse its initial arc and cut to the right. His next strike is an overhand one, plunging from above to strike at Saionji’s chest. He usually aims for the heart. Saionji brings the wood of the shaft up to knock his blow aside, but Touga drops his left shoulder and brings the shinai around in a semicircle to tap the base of Saionji’s ribcage.
“Yield?” Touga asks, his ponytail loosening.
“No.” And Saionji raps Touga’s knuckles with the padded tip; Touga’s fingers twitch and redden, but he keeps his grasp on the hilt steady. He realizes a second too late that he’s left himself open for Touga’s riposte, which comes in an upward thrust towards the unguarded left side of his chest and lands there smartly. It might leave a bruise. Saionji doesn’t particularly care, because he plans to leave Touga with worse.
Saionji advances on him this time. If they’d been using katanas, the sound of the colliding blades would have rung through the practice room and made the paper walls vibrate, but there’s only a hollow wooden thud instead, and it doesn’t send a chill through him the same way the sound of a real sword would. Touga’s footwork parallels his own perfectly-he crosses a foot in front of the other and steps left as Touga steps right, and Touga barely has to swing his shinai lower to catch the sideways strike aimed at his elbow.
He brings his shinai up parallel to the ground and catches Touga’s blade above his head before it has a chance to tap his skull, then plants his foot forward and stomps in Touga’s stomach. It’s not a gentlemanly move, it’s not a proper move, but Saionji’s wanted to do it for ages. Touga exhales sharply as his grip on the hilt slackens, but he’s still smiling. Damn him, anyway.
“Do you yield?” Saionji says.
“What do you think?” Touga keeps low to the ground as he darts forward and smacks the back of Saionji’s legs with the shinai, right behind the knee. His legs buckle reflexively and Touga closes the distance between them until they’re almost pressed body-to-body. Saionji imagines he can hear his heartbeat from here, still steady and rhythmic in spite of all the adrenaline that must be flowing through his blood. It must be. Doesn’t this get Touga excited? He’s not imagining the sweat beading on Touga’s forehead, or the way the fabric’s starting to cling to his skin. Saionji’s own breathing is coming in more ragged now. Their blades cross and lock at the hilt. If he can just force Touga to his knees now-he’s stronger, or he was the last time they fought…
Touga pushes away from the bind. Before Saionji can react, his hand wraps around the upper part of Saionji’s sword arm and squeezes hard, hard enough to bruise if he kept it up. His grip slackens, and his shinai rolls to rest on the straw matting.
“Shit.”
“Now do you yield?” He feels Touga’s breath coming in hot puffs against his neck.
“No,” he snarls, and with that smashes the back of his head into the area where he’s sure Touga’s face is. From the hiss behind him, it seems like he guessed right. While he’s still dazed, Saionji twists free of his grasp and presses his hands flat against Touga’s chest. His foot hooks around Touga’s ankle and wrenches it up from where it’s rooted to the ground; the two of them tumble to the mats, with Saionji on top.
Saionji decides he might as well ask again, now that their faces are centimeters away from each other. If he stretched his tongue out, he could lick the droplets of sweat hanging from the tip of Touga’s nose. “Give up?”
Touga’s response isn’t verbal this time. He leans forward and his lips press against Saionji’s and-they’re kissing, hard and fast, their battle carried out through the clash of teeth and tongues instead of through shinai. Saionji forgets to think. For the tiniest part of it, the best part of it, he forgets to be angry. That’s when Touga winds his leg around Saionji’s and flips them so Saionji’s pinned under him, and of course that’s the way he’d want it. The blood starts pounding through his veins again, setting a course straight for his cock.
He grabs the few strands of red hair remaining in Touga’s ponytail and jerks them up hard; Touga responds by clawing apart the v of his kimono until Saionji hears the fabric rip.
“You’d better pay for the repairs on that. Asshole,” he adds for good measure.
“You can afford it.”
Saionji rakes the stubs of his nails over Touga’s back until he reaches the hard knot holding his hakama in place. Neither of them bother undoing the knots properly; it’s faster to tear through them, though Touga makes his rips precise and unties the strips of fabric he’s left intact and Saionji just shreds through everything until Touga’s obi hangs in tattered shreds. It’s a good look on him. Not nearly as pristine as what he usually favors, but it’s better. It shows more of who he really is.
Saionji laughs. “You’re not a prince.”
“You don’t want a prince.” Touga laughs derisively, just once, then grabs Saionji’s cock and takes it into his mouth.
He’s too stunned at first, too overwhelmed by the way Touga’s tongue rubs little circles against the tip, to notice that Touga’s guided Saionji’s hand to his own cock. He curls his hand around it and jerks up hard, stroking every time Touga descends to take in more of his length. Saionji doesn’t know if Touga’s putting himself at his mercy by doing this or if he’s just showing off what he can do or if he should be more worried about Touga’s teeth, which so far are just grazing the underside of his shaft lightly but could clamp down at any second…He feels Touga’s balls tighten under his fingers as he pumps harder, then Touga swallows around him and takes him in up to the base, and he snaps. His hips move up, up until they hit infinity, up until they take him to the castle floating upside-down over the duel arena and he throws himself at the doors again and again, begging for release, for something, anything at all.
“How am I supposed to go back to the dormitories like this?” he says once he gets a better chance to inspect Touga’s handiwork. There are rips everywhere, tiny gaps in the seams that keep stretching out even bigger every time he moves.
“I could ask the same thing.” Touga gestures to the wreckage Saionji made of his obi. “But I left my uniform in my locker. Didn’t you?”
Saionji bares his teeth and plants his fists in the matting as Touga gets up and walks calmly by, putting his face back on before he meets his admirers once more. He’ll leave here untouched, not caring about anything that might have happened within these papered walls. Because he’s Kiryuu Touga, Ohtori’s prince. Everyone’s favorite. The armored knight atop his trusty steed, and Saionji’s lucky to get the privilege of hoisting Touga’s standard. That’s what the rest of them think, because they’re all fools.
The door slides closed. Saionji wonders how Touga will sleep tonight. Will he be comfortable surrounded by his whores? Does their simpering lull him to sleep?
And Saionji will spend the night buffeted by terrible dreams of what might have been.