[500 Themes: 96]
Barnaby doesn't know how he ends up in these situations.
It was supposed to be a normal day of training exercises – stupid, stupid simulations that he hates with a passion because what is the use in them, really? He refuses to throw his all into them, after all, what with his energy much more better used in real and true situations.
Fortunately, Kotetsu seems to feel the same.
And it's with those same notions in mind that he's dragged aside with a firm hold upon his arm, back shoved flat into the nearest hard surface – something that Barnaby thinks is actually a wall, even if it looks like the rubble of a broken down building. A hiss of protest escapes through his teeth, because really – of all the times –
Even if he isn't fond of simulations, this is a bit much to avoid them.
"Kotetsu – "
"Hush," is the man's simple command, and Barnaby opens his mouth to protest further before shutting it again only a moment later. A wise decision, isn't it, to stay quiet, especially with their fellow heroes only meters away – and that thought alone makes him shudder, makes him want to drag a hand to his own mouth to clamp it shut to make sure nothing incriminating escapes.
This is a bad idea.
Normally, he'd be the one initiating such bad ideas, wouldn't he? He can't help but feel like he's a bad influence upon Kotetsu, and yet Barnaby can't find himself to truly care when the man's broad hands are closed about his hips, strong and so demanding as they shove him back. It's amazing how much he can feel even in the undersuit that clings so steadfastly to his form, and Barnaby's back slides back against the makeshift, fake slant of the dilapidated building, bringing him to reach back and claw for purchase as his center of gravity is suddenly less than vertical.
And he's quite fine with this.
Kotetsu's teeth nip just above the suit upon his neck, making Barnaby that much more inclined to tip his head back, sucking in a deep, shaky draught of air when Kotetsu sucks just underneath his chin, licking at the soft flesh that is salty and damp with sweat and fake rain from overhead sprinklers. It's hard not to groan aloud when Kotetsu's hands slide lower, gripping his ass, kneading firm muscle and jerking Barnaby forward against him – all the better to feel every bit of the other man, hard thighs slipping between his legs, lean hips and every inch of his hard cock, grinding against him in hard, tight little circles.
He's already panting. Barnaby knows it well and knows all of the other sounds Kotetsu can drag from his throat – expletives and moans and whines, all from the moment the older man is sliding against him, his mouth on his throat, his mouth against his own, teeth nipping and tongue sliding over his lower lip, prying his mouth open with an all-too suggestive thrust of his tongue.
"Shhh," is the growl against his lips meant to shush him, and Barnaby just hisses in response, biting Kotetsu's lower lip back, which only earns him a muffled laugh before he's simply grabbed by the shoulder, flipped around, shoved flat back against the rock-apparent with Kotetsu's hands broadly sweeping down his spine.
Barnaby arches like a cat when Kotetsu's fingers are prying at the undersuit, and he swears if not for the sturdiness of the material, it would have torn beneath the aggressive snatch and drag of his fingertips. It's pulled down, down, clinging to his thighs just under his ass, and he barely has time to whimper at the feel of cold air against too-hot skin before a hand is firmly cinched into his hair, tugging his head back, sharp and possessive and an uncomfortable twinge rakes through his shoulders at the strain.
He loves it all the same.
Long, calloused fingers are brushing over his lips and Barnaby's immediately response is to part them – to wrap them around the pair of digits as if they were Kotetsu's own cock. They twist against his tongue and he groans, thankful that they muffle the sound of his voice as he feels, so very clearly, the outline of Kotetsu's erection rubbing against the cleft of his ass. His fingers and toes curl alike, clawing into slate and making him pant as he tastes salt and sweat and dirt on Kotetsu's fingers, and unabashedly hollows his cheeks, licking and sucking all of it away.
"Fuck," is Kotetsu's muttered, breathless curse underneath his breath, and Barnaby bites his lip once his hand is withdrawn to keep back something akin to a mewl. He can feel Kotetsu's eyes raking over him, just like his hands – memorizing every line, every muscle, every tremble and quake. Molten gold is what they are, boring into his flesh and making him all the more eager to splay himself against the rock, to set his legs further apart, wanton and mindlessly wanting when those saliva-slick fingers press against him and wriggle inside of his body.
He's tense enough from wanting that it hurts. Barnaby's teeth dig into the back of his own hand, his eyelashes fluttering and with each hot puff of breath, his glasses fog. Kotetsu's fingers are a poor substitute for what he wants – but oh, they can curve and twist and squirm inside of him, hooking around to press perfectly, to drag against him and make him arch up onto the balls of his feet, torn between wanting more and needing so desperately to get away from overly intense, white-hot pleasure that rakes up his spine. His fingers are pressed so deep that he can feel the scrape of his wedding band and fuck, fuck that shouldn't be as good as it is.
He wants to beg, and it's agonizing that he can't.
Fortunately, Kotetsu knows him. Knows him so well that he realizes when Barnaby can't take any more – that his cock is throbbing and aching and god, if those fingers twist just right one more time, he's done for. Barnaby's voice is a muffled, choked sob when Kotetsu's fingers draw away, but he's glad, so glad, when the man's cock is pushing against him instead, slick from spit.
Barnaby thinks he'll claw his way up the rock with the first, initial slide – thinks he'll start hiccuping out sobs of Kotetsu's name. Kotetsu's hot breath is against his neck, the tremor in the man's hands enough to betray exactly how difficult it is to hold himself back as their hips jerk flush together and Barnaby sinks his teeth hard enough into his own hand to break skin.
It's torture to keep his voice down. It's torture to keep himself sane in moments like these, when he's flushed and desperately wanting to pant and groan and scream when Kotetsu slowly draws back, every hard inch of him making Barnaby's thighs tense and tremble and making his back arch. The threat of others looming nearby makes him ache that much more – the possibility of them slipping close enough to hear something, to catch a glimpse of the normally composed, cold Barnaby Brooks, Jr., being fucked flat against a rock and loving every second of it –
His body is against all coherent thought, it seems, and clenches and jerks, far from of the mind to let himself last when posed with so many stimuli. It's embarrassing how fast he comes, but Barnaby finds he doesn't care in moments like these, not with how Kotetsu growls into his neck, bites down into his shoulder like he owns him and just grabs him by the hips to fuck him harder, to ride out every tense spasm of muscles for all it's worth and leaving Barnaby feel that much more worn and used and satisfied by the end of it when he pulls out to come over the back of his thighs as if to make it clear how much he owns him.
"… Fuck," is the blond's ineloquent, half-moan, still muffled into the back of his hand, and Kotetsu grins, sways, flops back against the rock next to him.
"Does this count as our daily exercise regime?"
Barnaby would kick him if he had the strength, but he settles for a half-groan, half-mumble of agreement instead.
There's no use arguing with something this good, anyway.