by R. Cooper
Piotr could. He pulled the corseted bodice from Bartleby’s slight form and added it to the pile on the floor. The pounding of Bartleby’s heart, the shaky moan he couldn’t stop, made it only logical to tug on his petticoats too. Bartleby stepped willingly from them, and then curved his body into Piotr’s when Piotr kept one hand beneath his skirt to stroke his cock, slow, dragging pulls that made Bartleby’s breath come faster.
Bartleby buried his face in Piotr’s shoulder and shuddered weakly. “What a dutiful bridegroom you are, Piotr.” His panting made the words less teasing than he might have meant them to be. “But will you not take me soon? Bring me to your bed and keep me there?” He clutched harder at Piotr’s sweater. “We’ve waited too long already.”
“Bridegroom?” Piotr was breathing heavily and his blood was hot, but he stopped to stare at Bartleby in the remnants of his Halloween costume, and the glow of the bared skin of his neck. He touched him there, and then bent down to offer another kiss.
When Bartleby trembled, Piotr did it again. Only a kiss, but it was to such lovely skin. He didn’t feel grounded. He was a giant holding a rose petal. He was a bear permitted to cup a kitten in his paw, when he deserved no such prize.
“Bartleby.” He didn’t know his own voice. He pulled his hand from Bartleby’s cock and set it at his hip instead. He was going to lay Bartleby out in his bed and kiss him until he trembled. He was going to run his hands along his flesh, and part his thighs and push his slender hips to the mattress. He would let Bartleby’s soft, pleading cries echo through the house and taste his spunk again, and when Bartleby was panting and pliable, he would do it once more before sliding his cock into him. He could already feel the power building in expectation.
Bartleby would give and give until the years of waiting had been spent, and then Piotr would provide the rest. The house, the garden, the rain and the wind. He kissed Bartleby and hoped it was pleasing enough to keep him always. He could not be soft, but he had strength Bartleby was welcome to.
“Bartleby,” he said again, a growl into Bartleby’s shoulder as he moved the dress out of his way. “I will plant flowers, honeysuckle at the fence. If you stay. They will bloom through generations with what we can give them.” His begging should have shamed him. Perhaps every Russell had begged so. But Bartleby held onto him, so he could not stop. “If you want me to attend the revels with you, I will. All of them, even Samhain, if you stay.”
Bartleby pushed his hands beneath Piotr’s sweater onto his skin, and then slid them down to Piotr’s fly. “Our revels are here. For us.” He hummed in pleasure when Piotr pulled their bodies together. “Groom,” he sighed, in absolute contentment. “Witch. Piotr.”
Piotr went still, shocked somehow, by the happiness emanating from him.
“Bartleby,” he began, then hesitated. “Bartleby, do you… love me?”
“Who’s a fool?” Pallas questioned, but somewhere distant, where her mockery didn’t matter, because she’d known the answer all along, as had everyone else.
“Do I love you?” Bartleby seemed to struggle to focus as he raised his head. “Do I…? You wild creature, I forgot you require a translator,” he murmured, in his lower, aroused voice, and then gracefully and expectantly lifted his arms.
Piotr tugged the last layer of his costume up over his head and stared into Bartleby’s eyes as the dress fell to the floor. His gaze held a trace of fear, but then he apparently saw something in Piotr’s expression that banished it. Perhaps it was the wonder he glimpsed when Piotr opened the door and found Bartleby on the threshold.
Bartleby stood there for another moment, naked, his cock stiff and his eyes near to gold, and then smiled as he took Piotr’s hand and led him down the hall.
The End