Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/394182.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Tiger_&_Bunny
  Character:
      Barnaby_Brooks_Jr._|_Bunny
  Additional Tags:
      Masturbation
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-29 Words: 1200
****** It Really Shouldn't Matter ******
by animehead
Summary
     Barnaby's favorite hero has and always will be Wild Tiger.
He’s seventeen, almost an adult, so it really shouldn’t matter.
He opens the front door and steps inside. Mr. Maverick is in the living room
with the receiver end of a cordless phone nestled between his ear and neck. He
smiles at Barnaby, picks up a glass half full of brown liquid and ice cubes,
brings it to his lips, and takes a sip.
Barnaby waves at him and gracefully strolls through the living room. On his way
past his adoptive guardian, he notices that Mr. Maverick is wearing his shoes,
which means that he’ll be going out soon. Barnaby finds this information
comforting. He really does like to be alone for what he has planned.
He practically hops up the stairs, taking them two by two. His backpack flops
against his backside, the books inside spanking him for having such wicked
thoughts, needs, and desires. He gets a rush from the feeling, craving for
something harder, wishingthat his gray slacks and designer underwear were gone
so he could feel the abrasive material rubbing against his bare ass.
When Barnaby finally reaches his room, he steps inside, shuts the door, and
locks it. He carelessly tosses his backpack to the floor, relieving the tension
in his shoulders from the weight of being an advanced student.
Moments later, he’s mostly undressed, wearing nothing but his shirt—starched
and pressed and bright white. The color brings out the dazzling green
desperation in his eyes. The shirt is loose enough for him to slide his hand
beneath it and pinch a nipple. He likes the way it feels when he does that. The
mixture of pleasure and pain seems to somehow be connected with his cock, which
twitches and strains harder against his boxers. Barnaby lowers his hand, palms
the lump there, wraps his fingers around it and squeezes it hard enough to make
himself softly cry out.
He hears footsteps, freezes, and calls down a goodbye to Mr. Maverick who tells
him that he’ll be gone for a couple of hours. When he hears the familiar sound
of Mr. Maverick’s car pulling out of the driveway, Barnaby moves across his
bedroom. His feet pad along the plush carpet, sinking into it, the fibers
massaging his soles and tickling his heels.
He reaches his dresser and opens the second drawer from the top. He’s greeted
by rows of socks neatly rolled and positioned perfectly. His brushes his hand
over them—cotton and nylon gliding across his fingertips—before digging his
hand beneath them. He ruins the neatness and order, turning his sock drawer
into nothing more than a chaotic mess of black, white, navy, and gray.
He feels the smooth surface of laminate and knows that he has found what he’s
looking for without ever having to look down to conform it. He pulls it out of
the drawer, rescuing it from its grave and gently places it down on his bed. He
doesn’t want a single crease or bend in his treasure.
Lowering himself to his knees, he leans down and pokes his head under the bed.
His head now only a few inches above the floor, he searches for the small
bottle lotion that he has replaced with lubricant several days ago. Mr.
Maverick never really comes into his room, so Barnaby has no reason to hide it.
It’s usually just shame that forces him to pick up the bottle and chuck it
under the bed after he’s committed the act.
Barnaby eyes the bottle in between two shoe boxes and he has to lie flat in
order to reach it. He groans when he’s pressed against the floor, the carpet
caressing his thighs. A part of him hates himself for how much he wants this,
for how long he’s thought about it, looked forward to it.
He’s been doing this every day for three weeks now.
Long, slender, fingers roll the bottle toward his palm and he grips it in
triumph. Eagerly, he pushes himself up to his feet and crawls into bed. He
spreads his legs wide, creamy skin and toned caves making the shape of a ‘V.’
He places the sealed image between his legs, green eyes staring down intensely
at the amber ones staring back at him.
Wild Tiger.
Barnaby doesn’t know how much he’s dreamed about this particular hero. He can’t
remember how many times he’s stared at this image, admiring the way white and
blue clung to covered muscles. He imagines his hand trailing down Tiger’s
thigh, caressing it, squeezing it. He wants to tear off the suit with his
teeth, exposing the skin beneath it. Barnaby gazes at Tiger’s lips and tries to
imagine how they taste. Sweet, he decides, like honey or caramel.
Barnaby draws his legs back, bending them. He moves the poster closer with one
hand and pulls his cock though the opening in his boxers with the other. He
pumps some of the lubricant into his hand and tosses the bottle onto the floor.
Licking his lips, he focuses on the sensation of his slick hand stroking,
jerking, and gripping him until he’s panting.
He hopelessly imagines that it’s Tiger’s hand pumping him. He wants to close
his eyes, but if he does, the image will disappear. Instead he continues to
stare down, eyes threatening to shut while he visualizes Tiger’s mouth around
him, warm and wet and sucking him. His heels dig into the bed and his toes curl
to the point where they almost cause cramps in his feet. He thrusts upward,
forcing his cock deeper into the hero’s mouth, wanting Tiger to take all of
him, to taste every inch of his cock, drain him of every bit of tension in his
body, mind, and heart. They’re connected, him and Tiger. They share the same
power. But Barnaby wants more than that. He wants a physical connection with
his favorite hero, a mental connection, a sexual one.
Those eyes are still staring at him, demanding attention and pulling him from
his body. His hand speeds up, a blue light illuminating from it. This is the
only time he allows himself to lose control, when it’s just him and Tiger—Tiger
accepts him, understands him.
He startles himself when he shouts, jerks his hips, and spills onto the poster
of Wild Tiger. He aims for Tiger’s face, his mouth, chest, and abs. His eyes
are closed now and he doesn’t want to open them, not really, but he does
anyway. Wild Tiger is still staring up at him, covered in Barnaby’s cum, still
grinning that same familiar grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Barnaby
knows that type of smile. He’s perfected it.
Barnaby is still looking at the cum covered poster when the guilt he’s grown
accustomed to attempts to set in. He unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and
cleans off the poster of Wild Tiger. He knows he should feel disgusted in
himself. Wild Tiger is an admirable hero and surely not someone who would
appreciate having cum dumped all over him. He protects the citizens of
Sternbild and Barnaby should respect that.
But Barnaby’s seventeen, still a minor, so it really shouldn’t matter.
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