[24 Hour Themes: 12 PM]
Barnaby was never fond of facial hair.
… Until Kotetsu, that is.
Kotetsu was a study in exceptions, but this, of all things – Barnaby had to roll his eyes at himself sometimes. He was not lying alone in his bed at not, imagining the brush of Kotetsu's lips against his throat, the warmth of his breath huffing against his skin, or the oddly pleasant, rough scrape of Kotetsu's damnably ridiculous beard dragging against over his flesh.
Except that he was.
Barnaby groaned lowly to himself, turning onto his side as he pressed his face into a pillow. It was a blindfold to his reality – the reality that was one of his own hands, tiptoeing down his stomach and to the waistband of his boxers. His teeth grit in his own, self-induced anticipation, the memory of what Kotetsu felt like when he was nuzzling up to his throat, breathing into his ear – the memory of what it was like to drag his own fingers down the line of Kotetsu's jaw, feeling stubble and roughness underneath his fingertips as he drew the other man in for a kiss –
At some point, Barnaby's fingers had slipped past his waistband, and he gripped his cock with a long, firm stroke. His toes curled, his entire body curled as a calloused thumb dragged over the head of his erection and he panted, letting his head droop into his pillow as he imagined Kotetsu's fingers, maybe his tongue doing the exact same thing.
He never lasted very long when thoughts of Kotetsu were involved. Several moments later, Barnaby found himself choking a stuttering, gasping moan down his throat as he spilled himself into his own hand. His other hand lifted, raking his now sweat-soaked bangs back from his face, and he contemplated, dazedly, moving to actually clean up.
Then the thought occurred to him that he had just jacked off to the idea of Kotetsu's goddamned beard.
Getting out of bed wasn't happening any time soon when all he wanted to do was sink through the floor.