[500 Themes: 299]

Even Barnaby has to be embarrassed about this.

He's decked out in some frilly maid outfit the day before Halloween – the day before his birthday, and god, why, why? He shouldn't be treating anyone to anything, shouldn't be catering to anyone because he's going to be 30 in a few more years and men his age didn't do things like this, didn't flounce around in ruffles and silk and stockings scarcely held up by skin-tight garters, and certainly didn't spent time pulling his hair back into a short ponytail of tightly wound curls because Kotetsu liked looking at the nape of his neck, liked kissing it, liked touching it.

Kotetsu's lips were on his skin right then and Barnaby's forehead presses to the wall as he sucks in a ragged breath. His face is bright red and the normal fall of his hair can't even help him being tied back as it is, and Kotetsu's mouth is so warmagainst the nape of his neck, licking and sucking and kissing over his skin. Barnaby finds himself a little chilled, actually, what with that ridiculously short skirt, the layers of silken ruffles and the flash of pale skin afforded between the top of his stockings and the drape of said skirts.

So much for being cold, though, when Kotetsu's hands sweep up his skin – rough and calloused and strong against that soft flesh, spreading his legs open wider, making him teeter on too-high heels and bow forward further, elbows to the wall. A hard swallow is impossible to suppress and Barnaby's lips part as he tries to breathe properly, finding it impossible when Kotetsu's hands are kneading his thighs, snapping those damned garters against his flesh, obviously loving the way it makes Barnaby jump and the way it reddens his flesh.

There hadn't been much of a need for underwear, and when Kotetsu discovers this, Barnaby can't help but flush deeper. The next huff of his breath fogs his glasses, the full body tremble that sweeps up his spine leaving his knees feeling so very, very weak when Kotetsu's hands drag up further, kneading his ass, and at some point, when Barnaby's mind has been wrapped up in everything Kotetsu (how warm he is, how gentle he is while still being so demanding and clumsy, how perfect he is), the older man has managed to pry open his belt and fly and Barnaby gasps, loud and ragged, as he feels the grind of Kotetsu's erection between his cheeks, blushes so damned hard that it hurts over how his skirts are being hiked up.

Barnaby's hands curl against the wall, clawing as he feels a warm, slick something that must be lube dribbled over Kotetsu's cock, slickening the slide of him against his flesh. For a moment, they do nothing but simply grind – twist against one another, Kotetsu's hands on his hips, grabbing him, pulling him back, and Barnaby attempts to plant his feet even in those stilettos, back arched and head tipped back as he pants toward the ceiling, feeling every sinuous slide of Kotetsu against him, every throb and twitch and heated, sticky bit of friction.

"Fuck me." To hell with being something sweet and demure and polite. Kotetsu doesn't want it just then, and neither does he; Barnaby knows that much from the rough exhale of Kotetsu's breath against his flesh, the tightening of his hands, the jerk of his hips, needy and insistent, wanting to be inside of him, wanting to shove as deep as he can, stretch him wide and leave him begging for more still. "Fuck me, Kotetsu, please."

Slick fingers are suddenly prying him apart, then, leaving him weaker-kneed still and nearly sobbing for a breath. Two of them, maybe three, Barnaby doesn't know or care, are sliding into him, working him open, stretching and wriggling and leaving him rocking back into the touch, openly needy. It isn't enough, nothing will be enough, not with the embarrassing rustle of silk, the unsteadiness of his own legs and the grasp against the wall that does nothing to steady him.

The withdrawal of those fingers leaves Barnaby quite nearly sobbing. Every fiber in his being aches, wants, needs, and he nearly chokes on a prayer when Kotetsu finally presses into him – that first inch tense and making him ache all the more, his head falling back just slightly more as his lips part in a silent, desperate groan, and then Kotetsu is sliding into him to the hilt, a low grunt of effort escaping his own throat and Barnaby sags, clinging to the wall, his own erection grinding into the layers of silk as his hips thrust forward for that friction, needing it just for a moment as a distraction from the mix of almost-pain, almost-pleasure of being so completely filled.

And then Kotetsu moves – gripping his hips tightly, dragging him back into each thrust, his cock slick as it slides in and out of him. Barnaby's senses are swarmed by nothing but Kotetsu, the scent of him thick in his nose, the heat of his breath against his back, the splay of his hands wrapped around his hips, grasping so tightly that he bruised and Barnaby knew he'd be admiring those handprints in the morrow along with the ache and shiver that would travel down his legs for at least half a day to come.

Kotetsu shoves himself as deep as he can and Barnaby groans, whimpers, mewls, something entirely unmasculine and fuck it all, he doesn't care. He wants to be owned by this man. Wants to be claimed by him, to be marked by him, inside and out so everyone can see and so that there is a brand, a neon glowing sign that he is Kotetsu is his, his lifeline, his everything.

Barnaby loses himself first. There's no helping it, not with each jerk of his lover's hips driving him madder still, and while Barnaby sinks into the wall, one cheek pressed to the flat of it, his entire body aching and spasming and the edges of his vision gone to white, all he can still feel is Kotetsu dragging him closer – those long, tense slides – every hot breath, every pulse of his blood, every insistent, possessive snap of his hips.

And when Kotetsu comes, Barnaby shudders, somehow loving the sensation of the man coming inside of him, no matter how he will undoubtedly want to shower and scour himself less than an hour from now. There's such a base, primal thing associated with it that he can't help but swallow and not whine, not whimper for Kotetsu to keep going, to stay right there, to not pull away just yet.

As usual, Kotetsu only seems to read his mind, and there's a steadying arm around his waist, dragging him backwards as Kotetsu seems to give in as well and drops down ungracefully into the nearest piece of furniture. Barnaby's breath is lost for a moment as he falls into the man's lap, Kotetsu still buried entirely inside of him, and he wriggles for a moment, searching for comfort and trying not to be so very embarrassed by his still rather questionable state of dress.

"You're perfect, Bunny," is Kotetsu's low, husky murmur against his throat. "So perfect."

Hearing that from Kotetsu – when Barnaby can normally only think of how perfect Kotetsu is, how warm and genuine and flawless the man is in spite of all of his mistakes and stupid moments – simply makes him melt back into his embrace, embarrassment forgotten and only sheer intimacy left.

Well. Catering to Kotetsu's whims once in awhile isn't such a bad thing after all.