[ as soon as peter leaves, juno immediately strips out of the rest of the dress, letting it pool visibly at his ankles from the bottom of the door. there’s strategy to this, the kind that nureyev would normally employ, he’s almost certain. the cool air on his skin, the flush heating over his cheeks, the way the silken fabric feels on his skin sliding down and then gathered up in his hands as he steps out of it slowly and begins to return it to its proper hanger. the third dress is hanging there next to the slightly shoved aside pants, a skirt that is tiered in all kinds of rich jewel tones that make juno’s fingers twitch with anticipation as he reaches for it and begins to slowly layer it on.
this isn’t an experience he’d ever thought himself taking part in... not even in his wildest dreams. he looks down at each individual skirt, how they layer over one another in fantastical, intricate patterns that as he gathers them in his hands, pulling them in and close, he feels like he has to most definitely be day dreaming or something.
or it’s a nightmare and he’s about to fall through the floor and into a giant birthday cake again while his mother’s voice mocks him from on high.
he shakes his head and continues dressing, finding no trouble with this dress. but it feels so rich between his fingers, almost as if he’s sullying it with his touch, every scarred finger falling atop embroidered ridges as he lets the skirts settle and the draping sash fall naturally over his arm. looking in the mirror in this moment makes him pause a moment, eyes trailing down over where it comes down at his waist and spreads out in all kinds of colors that he hadn’t dreamt of wearing in years. emeralds and sapphires and ruby reds hidden cleverly underneath those cooler colors that make his fingers shake as he lifts them up and then drops them. a breath. hesitance.
he reimagines the sensation of peter’s hands on his hips, the feel of his mouth on his spine climbing slowly with the zipper. the prickling feeling that had crawled all the way up to the nape of his neck has tattooed itself so thoroughly, like the scent of him into the folds of his brain.
juno’s voice is soft as he opens his eyes, half breaking. ]
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this isn’t an experience he’d ever thought himself taking part in... not even in his wildest dreams. he looks down at each individual skirt, how they layer over one another in fantastical, intricate patterns that as he gathers them in his hands, pulling them in and close, he feels like he has to most definitely be day dreaming or something.
or it’s a nightmare and he’s about to fall through the floor and into a giant birthday cake again while his mother’s voice mocks him from on high.
he shakes his head and continues dressing, finding no trouble with this dress. but it feels so rich between his fingers, almost as if he’s sullying it with his touch, every scarred finger falling atop embroidered ridges as he lets the skirts settle and the draping sash fall naturally over his arm. looking in the mirror in this moment makes him pause a moment, eyes trailing down over where it comes down at his waist and spreads out in all kinds of colors that he hadn’t dreamt of wearing in years. emeralds and sapphires and ruby reds hidden cleverly underneath those cooler colors that make his fingers shake as he lifts them up and then drops them. a breath. hesitance.
he reimagines the sensation of peter’s hands on his hips, the feel of his mouth on his spine climbing slowly with the zipper. the prickling feeling that had crawled all the way up to the nape of his neck has tattooed itself so thoroughly, like the scent of him into the folds of his brain.
juno’s voice is soft as he opens his eyes, half breaking. ]
Get in here.