* X/1999 - Seishirou/Subaru - orgasm denial - and I control you -- "Obligation Chocolate" Obligation Chocolate x/1999 Mithrigil Galtirglin
1999.2.15 00:14
Once the door’s shut, Seishirou slams Subaru back into it. By the neck—face out—hard enough to make Subaru see nothing but red, but he holds onto the keychain so tight that it makes no sound. Seishirou’s wearing gloves today, smooth hide gloves that match his sunglasses and still ring with the chill of a February snap. The breath in his mouth tastes like chocolate. Someone must have favored him, and it sure as hell wasn’t Subaru.
He keeps his fists curled at his sides, lets the keys bite into one palm, his nails the other. The gloved hand that’s not throttling him strokes, cold, up around Subaru’s eyes and chin, works a long hard finger in between their mouths. Cold leather and chocolate seem to make sense. He closes his teeth on the hide, bites, waits for a shudder to make it past the glove and—it doesn’t. Even when Seishirou laughs, he doesn’t shake with it. The sound comes out of nowhere and nothing, just like he does.
“No parcels from admirers, Subaru-kun?” The words swell around his hand, make even more sense with the leather than the taste. “Or are they waiting four more days, just to be economical for you?”
Apparently the different between a groan and a growl is just closed teeth.
Seishirou’s knee grinds up hard between Subaru’s legs. They’re both still in shoes. “Twenty-five,” he says so conversationally it stings, “isn’t it?”
Subaru knows better than to say “yes” until all contexts apply.
But whether he says it or not, he’ll get what’s coming—steady hands shoving down his coat, keeping it apart to undo his pants—hard shoulders crushing his own, bearing down on his spine until it aches no matter how he stands—all the life sucked out of him, nose bent and throat blocked and only Seishirou’s tongue to breathe—
The apartment air is dry and merciless and now Subaru’s bare to it. His tongue stutters into a hiss against Seishirou’s teeth. The cold, the impersonal leather—a fist curls around him, loose enough to feel every raised thread in the seams. He strokes brusquely, drives up with his hips as much as his hand. Subaru’s back rakes up against the door, the backs of his boots scrape woodenly on it, and Seishirou’s mouth stifles a moan that Subaru hopes is angry. The more—the more flushed he gets under Seishirou’s touch, the colder the leather of the glove stays—the chill obligation-chocolate kiss siphons all the heat and breath from him and makes his head spin, makes his fist tighten and his eyes roll back and his hips cant wantonly. Hot shame washes down the back of his coat, where his shoulder-bones rock against the door.
The strokes quicken, grasp shifting and thumb rolling and the seam of a fingertip tracing a vein—sore, tight, Subaru thinks, when has the skin there ever been this tight?—and the unyielding oilcloth arm of Seishirou’s coat slams into him, high under his chin and cold-crisp like the rest. “But it is a Western holiday after all,” Seishirou murmurs into Subaru’s mouth, “I suppose they think someone like you wouldn’t observe it.” Subaru gasps futilely for air that won’t come and swells hard against the wrinkled crotch of his pants, against Seishirou’s steady thigh—
Seishirou scoffs and lets go. “In fact, I’ll postpone things until your birthday,” he whispers past Subaru’s lips, with hot breath and malice.
The keys hit the shoeboard, rattling.
“And oh,” Seishirou adds as he steps back into illusion, “don’t even consider taking care of that yourself. I’d hoped you’d learn discretion by the age of twenty-five.”