I can see me/Can you see me?/The main attraction at the picture show/Like Clara Bow/Like Clara…
When Juno Steel was young, he used to dream of being on the silver screen. His family rarely had the cash to buy movie passes, but he and Mick and Sasha used to sneak into the theatre through the back entrance and slip into screenings of old silent films. Juno was dazzled by the suave men and glamorous women he saw onscreen, and he'd spend hours fantasizing that it was him in those tailored tuxes and sparkly evening gowns, dripping with diamonds and sex appeal and beloved by every citizen of Hyperion City. He, Mick, and Sasha would re-enact scenes from the movies in the living room, using whatever was around the house for props and costumes—blankets became shawls, broom handles canes, and chipped mugs champagne glasses.
"It's gonna be me on that screen someday," Juno told his friends. "Just you wait."
And they all believed it, for a while.
I want to live the life of an outlaw/I'm gonna be like Billy the Kid/And when the law has got me surrounded, no doubt/I'm gonna shoot my way out
"Bang! Bang! You're dead!" A pint-sized Peter Nureyev declared, his fingers pointed like a gun at a stray cat napping in an alley, who looked entirely unimpressed by his antics.
"That's enough of that, Peter," Mag called from inside. "It's nearly dinner time."
Peter holstered his imaginary gun and squatted next to the cat.
"I'm gonna be a famous outlaw one day," he told the cat, who shut its eyes sleepily. "Like Billy the Kid. Or Al Capone. I'll make lots and lots of money. You'll see."
"Peter!" Mag called again.
"Coming!"
Don't you think it's time/That you lost that egg-stained apron/And wore somethin' made of satin/From a fine Manhattan store?
These days, Juno Steel spends far more time in a worn, ragged apron than any pseudo-Hollywood garb. That's because an apron is part of the uniform for the Nebula Diner, a greasy spoon on the outskirts of Hyperion City that brings in just enough from third shifters to stay open but not enough to afford to replace its staff aprons. Juno had long given up on any foolish childhood dreams of stardom, instead tolerating shift after shift at the diner, flirting with the regulars to boost his tips and barely making ends meet month to month.
The morning he meets Peter Nureyev, he's especially tired, a bout of insomnia the night before stretching his patience even thinner than usual, and it's taking everything in him not to snap at Tom Hinton, a local cop and Juno's least favorite regular customer.
"One of these days you'll see sense, Juno," says Tom with a smirk over his fourth latte of the morning. "And let me take you out someplace nice instead of keeping up that rotation of trashy women and unambitious men. You can do better than that."
"Enjoy your coffee," Juno says through gritted teeth. "And let me know if there's anything else I can get you."
"A piece of that ass!" hollers one of Tom's friends, and Tom high-fives him. Juno stalks off toward the kitchen, ready to break something, but the hostess stops him.
"You've got a customer at table five."
"Not now."
"Yes, now. You don't want the boss cussing you out again for slow service do, you?"
She's got a point, so Juno sighs deeply, braces himself, and plasters on a fake grin as he strides over to table five.
"Welcome to the Nebula Diner. I'm Juno, I'll be your server today. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
"Coffee, please, and a fresh-squeezed orange juice." The man at the table puts down his menu, giving Juno a good look at him for the first time. He's gorgeous—all sharp cheekbones and glittering dark eyes and sharp teeth. Maybe too sharp.
"Coming right up," Juno says, and he scurries off to the kitchen before the man has a chance to respond. Juno's heart is racing, his face warm. He's sure he's blushing, which is humiliating, so he stops in the bathroom to splash his face with cold water before fetching the man's drinks. Chill out, he thinks at his reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror. Don't go losing your head over a pretty face.
When he comes back to the table with the orange juice and coffee, the man is smiling at him.
"Thank you, Juno," he says when Juno places the drinks on the table, and much to Juno's mortification, he feels himself blush again. He curses internally.
"You, uh, ready to order?"
"I'm not quite decided yet. What's your favorite, Juno?" The man gazes at Juno with an intensity that's almost startling, like the fate of the entire universe rests on learning what Juno's favorite menu item is.
"The pecan waffle. Drown it in enough syrup and whipped cream and it almost tastes like food."
The man laughs, the sound light and musical. "You're a delight."
"Uh, thanks?"
"You ought to be in movies."
And for a second, time stops, and suddenly Juno is eight years old and standing in his living room, a battered lace tablecloth draped artfully over one shoulder, calling his friends "dahling" and walking on the balls of his feet to pretend he was in heels.
"You have a face for film, you know," the stranger continues in the present moment. "You've got that 'It Girl' look."
"You see all that…in me?" Juno breathes.
"Absolutely." The stranger grins, and the sight of those sharp teeth makes Juno weak in the knees.
"Listen," Juno starts, not certain this is a good idea but too intrigued to back down. "My shift is over in half an hour…why don't you stick around until then?"
"I'd be delighted to," the stranger replies. "And I look forward to my pecan waffle."
At the end of his shift, Juno punches out so quickly he forgets to take off his apron, which he doesn't realize until he's standing outside the diner and his mystery customer glances down at his waist.
"Do you wear that everywhere?"
"Oh. Jesus, no, I just. Hang on." Juno reaches behind his back to try to untie the apron, but the knot's gone tight after an eight-hour shift, and his fingers fumble unsuccessfully with the strings.
"Here. Let me." The stranger steps behind him and has the knot undone almost instantly. He pulls the apron off Juno's waist and hands it to him.
"Thanks, uh—I never actually caught your name?"
"Chestnut Barrow."
"As in…Clyde Chestnut Barrow? The famous outlaw?"
The man who calls himself Barrow laughs. "You're the first person to catch the reference, Juno. You're insightful and pretty."
"I watched a lot of old movies as a kid. So what's your real name?"
"Rex Glass."
That one sounds fake too, but Juno decides not to push it for now.
"So Juno," Glass continues, "What did you have in mind for this evening?"
"Well," Juno replies. "I thought I'd take you back to my apartment."
Glass grins. "I'd like that very much."
They climb into Juno's ancient Ford, and away they go.
How 'bout a dance?/What do you say?/I've got some moves that I'd love to show ya/Let's find a spot/And dance the night away…
Juno's going to have bruises tomorrow.
They won't be anywhere anyone can see—Glass has been careful about that. He's been nibbling at Juno's lips and running his teeth along Juno's neck, sending shivers down his spine as those too-sharp incisors scrape his sensitive pulse points, but he only bites where clothes will conceal: Juno's collarbones, his shoulders, the insides of his thighs. At one point, when he bites Juno's hip, he breaks skin and starts to apologize, but Juno cuts him off.
"It's okay. More than okay."
"But Juno—"
"Get your mouth back on me."
And Glass complies. He looks Juno dead in the eyes as his tongue laves at the blood on Juno's hip, and Juno throws his head back and groans, so deep and guttural that it surprises even him. Glass just grins and bites him again, the sharp pinch of his teeth on Juno's skin a perfect mix of pain and pleasure.
Yeah, he's going to have an awful lot of bruises tomorrow, but Juno can't say he minds. The way Glass bites him, it's almost like he's claiming him—and that bothers Juno less than it should.
There's no time to think about that, though, because Glass moves his mouth to Juno's cock and swallows him whole.
Juno sputters, aborted half-syllables that in another context would have blossomed into full-blown curse words. And damn that pretty mouth of his is good for so much more than just witty banter; those soft pink lips wrapped around him in stark contrast to his wicked tongue pressing rough patterns into the underside of Juno’s cock. Juno wraps his fingers in the other man’s hair, pulling him closer and begging him silently to keep going. Glass’ fingers reach down to cup his balls, rolling them once and earning a soft moan from Juno, before dipping lower to tease at his hole.
“Jesus fuck,” Juno gets out as the other man plays with him, tracing his entrance with one finger as his mouth keeps working at Juno’s cock.
Glass pulls off. “Odd,” he says, smirking. “I wouldn't have taken you for religious.”
“I don't care how you take me, just take me!”
Glass laughs, full-throated and unbridled. “Oh, believe me, Juno,” he says, a dark edge in his voice, “I intend to do exactly that.”
Juno had noticed earlier, when they'd both still been clothed, that Glass had startlingly full pockets in spite of the sharp, clean lines of his jacket. He hadn't thought too much of it at the time, but now Glass leans off the edge of the bed to rustle inside a coat pocket—and pulls out lube and a condom.
“Jesus, how much do you carry in that thing?”
Glass grins. “Exactly as much as I need.”
Juno could probably come up with some clever remark about that, but he decides instead to watch as Glass tears open the packet and rolls the condom down over his cock. Perfectly ordinary, mundane actions—ones Juno’s seen a hundred times before and done a hundred times himself—but when Glass does it, it's elegant, graceful. Hypnotic, almost, like a dance.
Glass pops open the bottle of lube and squirts some onto his hand, warming it between his palms before slicking up both his own cock and Juno’s entrance. Glass keeps teasing him—using his thumbs to part Juno’s cheeks, then slowly stroking the tender skin between them. Juno wriggles and squirms, little desperate moans escaping his lips.
“Does that feel good, Juno?” Glass says, husky voice and blown pupils betraying his own urgent lust behind the smooth, sultry façade.
"Fuck," Juno says back, his coherence abandoning him.
"Very well, then," Glass replies, and at long last slides a finger into Juno's ass.
Glass' finger is slender, warm, exquisite—and not nearly enough. Juno tries to fuck himself against it, but the gentle and all-too brief brushes against his prostate this provides are more tantalizing than satisfying, and Juno whimpers with frustration.
"Easy, Juno," Glass says softly, and he adds a second finger to the first. He begins fucking Juno in earnest, alternating thrusting in and out of him with scissoring motions that press Juno open, the stretching its own kind of vulgar bliss.
Two fingers become three, and Juno loves the sensation of it, of being filled up by this man, this complete stranger who's captivated him so completely and so effortlessly. Glass keeps finger-fucking him, slow and burning, until Juno wants to scream, and he almost does scream, because Glass pulls his fingers out of his ass and Juno keens at the loss of contact.
“My, you’re a desperate little thing,” Glass says as Juno squirms. He bends down and puts his lips to Juno’s ear. “It's delicious.”
And he slides his cock into Juno, just as smooth and effortless as everything else about him, and Juno breaks. He loses all control of his voice, his breathing, his muscles. At some point, Glass pulls Juno’s leg up over his hip, or maybe Juno does, and at another point he can hear himself shouting words like “shit” and “yes” and “God.” Glass is vocal too, calling him darling, murmuring soft praises into his skin as he thrusts, every cell in Juno’s body a spark of electric energy, until Juno comes with a shout, his hands curled into fists in the sheets, his eyes locked with the other man’s.
“Oh, Juno,” Glass murmurs as he comes down. “You're so beautiful like this.”
“Thanks,” Juno says, breathless and spent. “Do you want me to…?”
“Oh, I can take care of myself. Shouldn't take long, not with you looking so utterly ravishing. Or ravished, I should say.”
Juno wants to argue, wants to insist he can help him out in some way—after all, Glass has done most of the work tonight—but he finds he doesn't have the words or the motivation to say anything once Glass pulls out of his ass and begins touching himself with longing, languid, heavy strokes. And those eyes—God, he keeps his rich, dark eyes focused on Juno the whole time, drinking in the sight of him hungrily until he comes, too, quieter than Juno, more elegant, and the sight is so beautiful Juno wants to cry.
Later, when they're cleaned up, they lie side by side in the darkened room, only a faint glimmer of moonlight and the occasional blink of a broken streetlight coming in through the cheap blinds. Glass reaches across the space between them to play with Juno’s hair, and Juno has to concentrate to keep from humming with pleasure at the touch.
“You were right earlier, Juno, when you guessed that Barrow wasn't my real name. I suspect you've caught on that Rex Glass isn't either.”
“I knew it was fake the minute it fell from your pretty lips.”
“And yet, you invited me to your apartment anyway.”
“Maybe you missed the emphasis on the word pretty.”
Glass shifts so that he's on his side, naked body stretched long and luxurious, one arm propping up his head.
“And is a pretty mouth all it takes to win your heart, Juno?”
“Guess you'll just have to wait and see,” Juno says, the retort easier than admitting the ease with which this man has won him over.
“How's this for a tactic, then,” he says, leaning over, his lips brushing against Juno’s neck. “My real name is Peter Nureyev.” This time, the words ring with truth.
“Nice to meet you, Peter,” Juno says, aiming for an ironic tone and missing by a mile, sounding altogether too sentimental for his liking.
“Likewise, my darling waitress.”
Juno winces. “Don't call me that,” he says. “I hate that job.”
“All right. Just ‘darling,’ then. What would you say if I told you I could find you a job that would be much better suited to your skill set—and to your devastating good looks?”
Juno doesn't know about “devastating,” but anything’s got to be better than another three years at the Nebula Diner.
“I’d say, tell me more,” Juno says honestly.
Peter Nureyev grins at him, those sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight.
"Would you like to commit a robbery with me, Juno?"
You'll lose the blues/And you may lose/Your heart…
"Pull three jobs, what does that mean?"
"What do you think it means?"
The fact that "no way in hell" aren't the first words out of Juno's mouth is proof of just how far gone he is.
"What kind of robbery?" he says instead, ignoring the part of him that's screaming at him to run, go now, get out while you still can.
"Oh, nothing too serious. Just a small grocery store at the edge of town. The Supernova Supermarket. Have you heard of it?"
"You're gonna take money from a mom-and-pop store? What are you, a cartoon villain?"
"The Supernova has been a mafia front for years. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed, Juno, you seem so perceptive."
Damn it. Juno had known there was something off about the place ever since sweet old Mrs. Yee had sold it to her dodgy twentysomething nephew, but he'd never connected the dots between Brandon Yee's criminal record and the sudden decrease in customers and increase in after-hours activity. Juno just liked the place for its bakery. Mafia or no, those people knew how to make a damn good doughnut.
"Makes sense," Juno says. "Isn't it dangerous to get mixed up with the mafia?"
"Juno, darling, if it weren't dangerous, it wouldn't be any fun. Besides, Brandon Yee is only getting what he deserves. From the reports I've heard, Mrs. Yee wasn't exactly a willing participant in the sale of her business."
Juno pictures the wrinkled, smiling face of the friendly old woman, who'd always given free donut holes to little kids—and to Juno, if he came in looking like he'd had a particularly rough day. His blood began to boil.
"I don't rob mom-and-pop stores, Juno. I have more integrity than that. I steal only from those who themselves have stolen from the less fortunate. Big corporations, greedy politicians, bullies like Yee—people who have it coming to them."
"So you've got, what, a moral code? Steal from the rich, give to the poor? Like some sort of modern day Robin Hood?"
"More like a modern day Clyde Barrow. Steal from the rich, enact revenge on the corrupt systems that have wronged so many, and give to myself—and anyone else I might decide I want to share with along the way."
Peter looks at him expectantly. Juno blinks.
"What, you mean me?"
"Clyde Barrow didn't make a name for himself on his own, Juno. He was nothing without Bonnie Parker."
"And you—what, you want me to be your Bonnie or something?"
"That's what I'm proposing."
Juno frowns. He tries to imagine himself in the passenger seat of a getaway car or in a bank pointing a gun at a teller, chomping cigars and taking lives. It's a struggle, and he tells Peter so.
"Oh, darling, it wouldn't be like all that—I mean the robberies, sure, but not the cigars or the killing. Unless you like cigars."
"Not really, no." Juno bites his lip, considering.
"Just think of it. You could have money, Juno, real money, for the first time in your life. Expensive clothes and rich food and fine jewelry. Everything you always dreamed about but could never afford. Everything a beauty like you deserves but has had denied to him by unjust systems that makes the rich richer and the poor ever more destitute." Nureyev leans in, wrapping an arm around Juno's shoulder and pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Juno, can't you see yourself all dolled up in silks and satins, a diamond stud in each ear, the world your oyster? I know I can.”
Juno pauses for a moment, running his fingers through the thief’s hair. Then, he makes a decision.
“Two.”
"What?"
"Two diamond studs in each ear. I've got double piercings, and I won't have you shorting me diamonds, Nureyev."
Nureyev flashes that dangerous smile. "Two studs per ear it is, Juno. And the promise that the presence of diamonds will by no means stop me from nibbling on your earlobes."
"It had better not." Juno sits up. "All right. Let's do this thing before I come to my senses."
I won't pay the law no mind/they'll always be behind/and man, that just feels great
Juno's job is simple. He's to wait outside the store, in a high-end convertible he's certain is stolen, with the car in drive and his foot on the break, until Peter returns. Then, he's going to haul ass until the Supernova Supermarket is nothing more than a speck in the rearview mirror.
In short, he's driving the getaway car.
Juno can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips as he drums them on the edge of the steering wheel, his pulse pounding in his throat. It's been six minutes since Nureyev entered the store with a gun and a grin, the latter, Juno suspects, a calculated move, meant to show off. Don't worry, that grin seemed to say. I know what I'm doing. Just wait and see.
Well, Juno's waiting, but he has yet to see. He has no idea how long a grocery store robbery is supposed to take, but with every second ticking by in anxious agony, it feels like it's taking far too long. What if something's happened?
Well, what if? Juno has to consider the question. He barely knows this man, after all. They'd had a few conversations and one afternoon of—admittedly, excellent—sex. What would happen if he left now, drove away in this stolen car and left this handsome stranger to whatever punishment the HCPD would inflict on him?
Juno doesn't have time to settle on an answer, though, because just then, Peter comes rushing out of the grocery store, a bulging Supernova Supermarket-branded tote bag in one hand and his gun in the other, and hops over the edge of the open convertible and into the passenger seat.
"Drive," he says, and Juno doesn't think twice, just floors it. The car goes speeding out of the grocery store parking lot and out toward the city limits, toward the vast red emptiness of the Martian desert.
"I take it it was a success," Juno shouts over the wind whipping around their ears.
"Oh, yes," Peter shouts back. "I daresay Brandon Yee regrets swindling his aunt. I daresay he regrets it deeply."
Juno doesn't have the mental energy to ask what that means—he's focused entirely on getting the car where they need to go as quickly as possible. There's a gas station about thirty miles from the grocery store, just off the highway. Nureyev insisted that that was where they needed to go, although he wouldn't say why.
It's astonishing how much Juno is willing to accept from this man on trust.
Then, with wail like a banshee's, and just as terrifying to Juno, sirens begin to blare behind them, flashing blue and red lights visible in the rearview mirror.
"Shit shit shit shit shit," Juno says, more reflex than speech.
"Step on the gas, Juno," Nureyev says, calm as anything. This has the opposite of its intended effect: Juno's now panicking twice as hard, as if he has to panic for the both of them.
"I'm going as fast as I can!" he shouts, just as a bullet whizzes past his left ear. "What the fuck!"
"Never mind that," Nureyev says, and he pulls out his gun and fires back. "Just focus on getting us to the gas station."
The fucking gas station. Juno can see it now, coming up on the left, shiny chrome roof glinting in the desert sun. The police cars are gaining on them and Juno's not sure they're going to close the gap to the station before they get caught.
Another bullet flies by, this one shattering the driver's side mirror. "Nureyev!" Juno screams.
"Don't worry, darling, I've got it under control." Nureyev looks exhilarated now, his eyes alight with something Juno can't quite name. He fires off four shots in a row, taking out the front tires on one of the police cars, which goes skidding off the road. The other car fires at them, this time hitting the windshield, where the glass begins to crack, spiderlike, between them.
The gas station is only a few yards away. Spitting out a steady stream of curse words, Juno turns the car hard and steers toward it.
"See the diesel pump on the left?" Nureyev shouts.
"Yeah!"
"Pull up to it."
Juno screeches to a halt next to the pump, certain that braking is the worst thing possible thing he could be doing right now, every muscle screaming at him to keep going, don't stop, get the hell out of here.
The police car is practically on top of them now, only seconds away from catching up. Juno holds the steering wheel in a death grip, certain they're about to be arrested or worse. Nureyev reaches out and presses a button on the pump and then—
The desert landscape disappears, and suddenly they're in a field, long stalks of blue-green grass waving lazily in a gentle breeze. There isn't a building in sight.
"Where the hell are we?" Juno demands, still shaking from adrenaline but continuing to grip the wheel tightly so it doesn't show.
"Kerberos, one of Pluto's moons. A quiet farming planet—the last place anyone would think to look for a pair of Hyperion City grocery store robbers."
"This is insane. This is fucking insane. You didn't tell me you were going to take me to another planet."
"I decided it would be best for you to have as little information as possible so that, should we get caught, you could hopefully avoid jail time by claiming ignorance. A face like yours is too pretty to put behind bars."
Juno ignores the flattery, focuses in on his anger. It's easier than panic. "And did you also decide it would be best not to tell me I'd be shot at? Jesus, Nureyev, I thought this was going to be lowkey. You said it would be lowkey!"
"I'll admit, the HCPD did arrive much faster than I expected them to. They're usually rather lackadaisical about minor crimes like this one. Perhaps the mafia's paid them off. Still," he says, setting his feet on the dashboard, "My teleportation device worked perfectly. They can't get us here."
"What do you mean, they can't get us here? If you can use that gas pump to zap us off Mars and into an old-timey pastoral painting, then who says the HCPD can't?"
"Well, I suppose they could, if they really wanted to. But we're officially outside their jurisdiction. Officers can only pursue those who are wanted on their own planet, while on their own planet. The HCPD can't touch us here, and neither can the Plutonian authorities."
"That seems like a pretty major oversight."
"Interplanetary policymaking has never been humanity's strong point, Juno. Good thing for us. It means we can take this cash and treat ourselves to a nice Plutonian dinner. The sushi here is simply divine."
Juno frowns. He looks at Nureyev, expression smug, long legs stretched out, a bag full of stolen cash under his seat. He looks at the car they're in, also stolen, now with bullet holes in two places—two places, Juno thinks, that could have just as easily been his and Nureyev's skulls. He reaches for his anger again, his outrage at this insanely dangerous thing this man has talked him into doing. But he finds none.
Instead, he finds his anger and panic melting away, leaving only steady streams of adrenaline and endorphins behind and he feels—well, exhilarated. They'd done it. They'd pulled it off. He and Nureyev had just robbed a store and, against all odds, they'd gotten away with it. He wants to run, to scream, to throw things, to pop open a bottle of champagne and drink until it's empty.
Instead, he unbuckles his seatbelt, leans over, and kisses Nureyev hard on the mouth, shoving his tongue in and grabbing his shirt collar roughly.
"Oh, Juno," Nureyev says when they pull apart, his hand on the back of Juno's neck.
"You're gonna take me to get that sushi, Nureyev," Juno says, breathing heavily. "And then we're gonna get a hotel room and you're gonna fuck me into the mattress so hard I forget my own name. Got it?"
"Your wish is my command, darling."
I am making love to Bonnie/And that sure beats counting sheep…
Nureyev is as good as his word. He takes Juno to a boutique sushi place tucked into an adorable small town, and as focused as Juno is on what's to come, he can't help but savor the exotic taste of spicy tuna, king crab, and, at Nureyev's insistence, eel, which is surprisingly delicious. Juno's mother could never afford sushi, so this is Juno's first experience with the stuff, and when he pops a particularly tasty dragon roll into his mouth, he moans a bit.
Nureyev chuckles. "I'm looking forward to hearing more of that tonight."
"Yeah?" Juno swallows. "You'll have to earn it."
"I don't imagine that will be too much of a problem. Not after last time." Nureyev grins.
"Last time?" Juno eats as he talks, a habit his mother often scolded him for, but she's dead and this is the best food Juno's ever tasted, so he continues shoveling sushi into his mouth as Peter flirts with him. "The hell do you mean, last time?"
"Is everything all right?" The waitress, a petite woman with gorgeous silver eyes and a low-cut neckline, appears from nowhere and asks.
Juno starts choking, startled by her presence. The waitress looks at him, concerned, but Peter steals her attention back with a smooth "The food is excellent. Please give my compliments to the chef."
The waitress nods and walks away, just as Juno chugs down some water and regains his composure.
"Are you always this charming to your servers?" Nureyev asks, laughing a bit.
Juno flips him the bird. "I was a little distracted by your criticism of my performance in bed. She snuck up on me."
"Darling, I wasn't criticizing you." Nureyev leans closer over the table and speaks in a low whisper. "I love how easy it is to make you moan. The sounds you make while I do things to you—they're delicious, Juno. They make me want to gobble you up just like you're doing to this sushi."
Gobble has no business being a sexy word, but something about the way Nureyev says it has Juno half-hard already. "Check," he demands, all thought of dessert driven from his mind, although he's sure the green tea ice cream he spotted on the menu is just as lush as the rest of the food.
Nureyev laughs and flags down the waitress.
Juno's pretty sure there's damage to their clothes—Nureyev definitely lost a button or two, and Juno's not sure the seams of his shirt are all still sewn together, but he couldn't care less with Nureyev's mouth on his, sharp teeth digging into his lower lip and drawing blood. Juno groans and Nureyev pulls away just a millimeter or so, one hand clutching Juno's neck and the other squeezing his ass.
"My, my. You're quite the glutton for pain, aren't you, Juno?"
Juno grunts, and Nureyev dives for his throat, biting lightly at it before dipping lower and sucking hard on one of his nipples. He takes his hand off Juno's neck and twists Juno's other nipple between his fingertips.
Juno moans, low and deep. Nureyev pulls his mouth off his nipple with a pop.
"I'm going to hurt you, Juno."
"Yes."
"I'm going to make you bleed."
"Yes."
"I'm going to fuck you so hard you forget your own name."
"Please."
Nureyev stands up to his full height before grabbing Juno's hips, turning him around roughly and shoving his back hard so that Juno's bent over the bed, ass up in the air. Nureyev rubs his fingertips lightly along the tops of Juno's shoulders, massaging them gently.
"Is that all you've—"
Nureyev pulls his nails down Juno's back, scratching him hard and deep. Juno cries out.
"More?" Peter asks.
"More."
Nureyev does it again and again, tearing into Juno's back like he's a cat and Juno's his scratching post. Or no, not his scratching post. Another cat who's made him angry. Juno lets out grunts and moans and finally screams as he feels skin splitting along his right shoulder blade.
"All right?" Nureyev asks softly.
"Keep going," Juno breathes.
But he doesn't keep going. Instead, he hits Juno's ass, once, twice, a dozen times or so until Juno loses count, writhing under the burning sweetness of the smack of his hand.
"Fuck," Juno says. "Fuck."
"Not just yet, darling. I have to get you ready first."
And then his thumbs part Juno's cheeks and he licks a stripe up the inside of his ass.
"Fuck!" Juno shouts it this time, and he's certain that every other hotel guest in the place must be able to hear him.
Nureyev bites his ass once before returning to lavish his attentions on Juno's ass crack, running his tongue wetly along both cheeks and teasing his hole, licking circles around it and making Juno thrust his hips back with want.
Nureyev chuckles. "So impatient."
"I'd be a little more patient if you—ah!"
Nureyev cuts him off again, this time by sticking his tongue into Juno's ass, sliding it in and out like he's fucking Juno with it. When he adds in a finger and brushes Juno's prostate, Juno thinks he just might lose his mind.
"Fuck me, Nureyev!"
Nureyev takes his mouth off Juno's ass, although he slides in a second finger and keeps playing with Juno's prostate. "What was that, darling?"
"Fuck. Me."
"Fuck me what?"
"Please." Juno's grinding against the bed now, his cock so hard it almost hurts.
"I want you to say my name."
"Nureyev."
"No."
"I don't know, Barrow?"
Nureyev shoves his fingers in hard and twists them. Juno cries out.
"Peter! Fuck me, Peter!
"There's a good little lady."
Peter pulls his fingers out, and before Juno can try to come up with some clever remark, slams his cock in, his whole length at once, offering Juno no mercy.
"How shall I fuck you, darling?"
It drives Juno crazy how calm Peter sounds, while he's falling apart faster than a thrift store T-shirt.
"Hard. Fast. I don't care, just fuck me."
Peter slides almost all the way out of him before slamming into him again. The sensation burns a little—they hadn't bothered with any lube, Juno realizes—but it feels too good to stop, and Juno curls his fingers into the sheets, forming fists as Peter grabs his hips and fucks him hard and fast.
Juno is lost in this. This is why he loves sex like this—hard and fast and rough—because in this moment he can feel nothing else, think of nothing else but Peter pumping into and out of him, the smell of his cologne mixing with the smell of sex and sweat and sending Juno's head spinning. He can only be here and now, in this moment, overwhelmed by sensation, by the feeling of Peter, everywhere in him and around him.
Juno comes first, but barely. Peter follows shortly after, shaking as he does, the first moment his smooth composure breaks. They stay there for a moment, breathing heavily. Then Peter pulls out and begins to clean up, tossing a condom in the trash and wiping his mouth and the place where Juno's stained the sheets.
"What do you think housekeeping'll think of that?" Juno asks, regarding the stain from his position on the other side of the bed, where he's sitting up against the pillows, arms crossed.
"Oh, I’m sure they see it all the time." Peter climbs into bed beside him, wrapping Juno in his arms. "Now. Was that the kind of fucking you into the mattress that you were hoping for?"
"Nope."
Peter looks at him, concerned.
"It was far, far better."
Peter grins.
Put me behind the wheel and stand well back/Like a crackerjack/I'll get your heart pumpin'
Their next job is a gas station, not unlike the one that had provided their escape from their first job, Juno points out when they scope the place out the night before.
"No, this one is quite different," Peter replies. "This one is owned by a shell corporation that a politician is using to avoiding paying his taxes. That way, he can keep more of the profit he makes from child labor."
And that's all it takes for Juno to commit to being a distraction; using another stolen—"borrowed," Peter insists—car, he pulls up to the station in a tight black miniskirt and six-inch heels and uses a fake credit card to install a virus into the pump's software. When it starts flashing angry error messages at him, he presses the help button and watches as the attendant, a middle-aged woman with greasy hair tied into a messy top knot, slowly rises from her seat and walks outside, moving faster once she catches a glimpse of Juno's ass in his skirt and heels.
Juno can't help but smirk a bit, his hot pink lips glistening under the fluorescent lights of the gas station. Peter had said he was irresistible in this getup, and he'd been right. Juno shifts his weight to one side, popping his hip up just slightly and emphasizing the curve of his ass even more as the attendant arrives at the pump.
"Hey, sweetheart," the attendant says, her eyes hungry as they run up and down Juno's figure. "What's the matter?"
Juno sees Peter slipping into the store, unnoticed with no one inside and the cameras disabled from the virus. Juno adds a breathy quality to his voice as he replies.
"I don't know what happened. I put in my credit card and it gave me this error message." He laughs airily. "I'm pretty awful with technology." That, at least, is true. "Could you help me out?"
"Of course, sweetheart." The attendant brushes deliberately against Juno's side as she steps up to the pump. "This'll just take a second."
It would take a lot longer than that to undo whatever Peter's code had done to the gas station's systems, Juno knows, but he simply says "Thank you so much. I swear, this sort of thing always happens to me."
"That's a shame, pretty thing like you." The attendant frowns at the screen. "Huh. That's weird. I've never seen an error message like this one before. Better check the handbook." The attendant turns to go back to the station, but Peter's still inside. Juno grabs the attendant by the arm.
"No!" he says, and the attendant raises an eyebrow. "I mean…I don't have to get gas today. I'd much rather talk to you."
The attendant grins, a wicked glint in her eye. "That so, sweetheart?"
"Oh, yes." Juno really wants to look back at the store and see if Peter's made his way out yet, but he doesn't want the attendant to get suspicious. He tries to think of something flirty to say to this woman, who frankly smells too much like old hot dogs to be appealing to anyone but maybe a dog. "I love a woman in black," he finally says, figuring that, at least, was close enough to the truth to be convincing. He did like women—and men, and anyone, really—in black, but usually it was tuxedos and little black dresses that appealed to him, more so than sweatpants and gas station-branded polos. Juno tries to focus on the thought of Peter in a little black dress so he can maintain the flirty little smile on his lips.
"You know, my shift ends in twenty minutes," the attendant replies, running a finger down Juno's arm. "Why don't I take you back to my place?"
Peter appears behind Juno so quickly Juno almost starts. "Bonnie, darling, what on earth is taking so long?" Juno has to control the impulse to roll his eyes at Peter's choice of fake name.
The attendant's eyes are like storm clouds as they flicker to Peter's arm, which he has wrapped possessively around Juno's waist.
"I got one of those blasted error messages again." He sighs. "I suppose we'll have to come back later."
"I swear, darling, it's like you're cursed." Peter presses a kiss to Juno's cheek. "Ah, well. Let's get going."
"Nice to meet you," Juno coos at the attendant, whose irritation at the sudden appearance of Juno's counterpart has him giggling internally. He slides into the driver's seat and takes off, leaving the entire unpleasant interaction in his wake.
"You really blew my whole flirting routine at the end there, Nureyev," Juno comments in his regular voice as they speed down the highway, a bag full of cash at Peter's feet.
"I couldn't help myself, Juno dear. To my own surprise, it turns out I have quite the jealous streak when it comes to you."
"Really?" Juno raises an eyebrow, skeptical.
"Indeed. I couldn't stand watching that filthy attendant put her hands on you; it was quite a new sensation. You're full of surprises, darling."
Juno can't help but flush a bit at Peter's words. "You know this whole thing was your idea, right?"
"Certainly. But I think it will all work out in the end."
"Oh? How's that?"
"Well. This gives me the opportunity to remind you exactly who you belong to."
"I don't belong to anyone, Nureyev."
"Are you quite sure?" Peter's long fingers find their way up, up, up, Juno's thigh. "I'm reasonably confident I can convince you otherwise."
Juno swallows. "Wait until we get back to the hotel, Jesus, Peter."
Peter leans in and whispers against Juno's ear. "Call me Peter again and I might not be able to."
Juno steps on the gas.
I only care that he's mine and I am his/There ain't no rules, that's how it is
Peter’s hands are on Juno as soon as the hotel room door clicks shut behind them. Peter’s back is against the door and Juno’s back is against Peter as the thief slides his hands down Juno’s chest.
“You filthy slut,” Peter breathes, long fingers pushing down Juno’s top and finding their way to already-erect nipples, rolling and teasing them with his fingertips. “You dress like that, and you expect anyone to be able keep their hands off you?”
“Hey, you told me to dress like this, so—” Juno’s next words are smothered by Peter’s hand clamping shut over his mouth.
“Hush,” Peter chides. “Don’t argue with me.”
Juno practically melts, Peter’s hand tight against his mouth and the other pressed against his chest the only things keeping him upright with his knees so weak.
“But not everyone gets to put their hands on you, Juno,” Peter says, returning to his earlier stream of conversation as though nothing's changed. “Only I get to do that.”
The hand not over Juno’s mouth starts to wander lower, lower, until Peter’s fingers dip below the hemline of Juno's skirt and underwear and he starts to rub his palm roughly against Juno's cock. Juno groans, the sound muffled by Peter’s hand.
“You pretty little thing, you belong to me,” Peter whispers in Juno’s ear, and Juno swears he gets goosebumps. “I wanted you the moment I saw you in that restaurant, and so I made you mine.”
Peter stars pumping him hard, fast, and Juno would be writhing if Peter weren’t holding him so tightly to him. As it is, he can hardly move, held in place by the strength of Peter's body and his want.
Without warning, Peter pulls his hand off Juno's cock. Juno whines—a sound he hardly knew he was capable of making—but there isn't time to reflect on that because Peter's speaking again.
"You're going to suck me off, Juno. I want to see that lovely mouth of yours stretched around my cock, and if you're good and you make me happy, I'll fuck you up against the wall."
Juno's mouth waters, and Peter grabs him by the hips and spins him around so their chests are pressed together, their mouths just a fraction of an inch apart.
"Is this okay?" Peter whispers softly, his voice sweeter than before, with just a hint of nerves in it, as though afraid that Juno might say no.
"Yes," is all Juno can think to say. "Oh my God, yes."
"On your knees, Juno."
Peter pushes down hard on his shoulders, and Juno falls to his knees, breathless and expectant and longing. Peter takes off his belt, slowly, torturously slowly, and Juno makes that pathetic whimpering sound again.
"Quiet," Peter scolds, and he undoes his trousers with equal slowness, the sly grin on his face letting Juno know that he knows exactly what he's doing to the helpless lady in front of him and is enjoying it.
When at long last Peter's cock is out in the open, Juno leans forward and swallows as much of it as he can, relishing the weight of it on his tongue, the soft, smooth skin against his lips, the taste and the scent and the feel of Peter. He knows it's time to perform, but all he can think about is making Peter feel good, making his skin tingle and blood rush like Peter is doing to him with his every word, every touch, and so Juno starts to suck Peter with a single-minded devotion almost akin to worship. He bobs his head and presses his tongue against the underside of Peter's cock, and Peter grabs the back of Juno's head, long fingers curled into Juno's hair.
"That's it," Peter says, his breathing ragged. "You love this, don't you? You love sucking my cock."
In response, Juno swallows around him, and Peter moans.
"Good girl," he breathes, and then yanks Juno's hair, pulling his head back and off his cock. "Up."
Juno stands, Peter's fingers still in his hair, and Peter whirls him around and slams him into the door, quick and forceful enough to make Juno gasp, but controlled enough he doesn't hurt him.
Peter sucks hard on Juno's shoulder, and then bites, hard enough that Juno knows it'll leave a mark. Again, he's grateful for Peter's body against his, pressing him to the door and keeping him from melting back down to the floor.
Peter shoves Juno's skirt up and tugs his panties down, until Juno's ass is bare and exposed. He hears shuffling and then a click as Peter pops open a bottle of lube, which he'd likely been hiding in those improbably deep pockets of his.
"Who do you belong to?" Peter asks, his slick fingers circling Juno's entrance with tantalizing lightness.
"No one," Juno answers, and Peter slides a finger into him without warning. Juno gasps.
"Is that right?" Peter says, and he starts to fuck Juno slowly, his fingertip just barely flicking Juno's prostate with each inward stroke.
"Yeah," Juno manages, not without effort, his breathing ragged and uneven.
Peter slides a second finger into him and begins making scissoring motions, pressing Juno open wider and wider. "I disagree," he says, sounding far too cool and collected. "I think you're mine."
Peter adds a third finger and Juno makes a strangled sound. Peter continues, calm as ever, as he finger-fucks Juno senseless.
"I think every inch of you belongs to me, from those perfect cherub curls to that utterly foul mouth to those oh-so-sensitive-nipples to that gorgeous cock. I think I can do whatever I like to your pretty body and you'll let me. You'll let me do the filthiest things to you, Juno Steel. You'll let me come on your face, or choke you with my cock, or cut you with my knife and watch you bleed because you like it. You like being mine, Juno, and you'll let me come inside your tight, slutty ass."
He's right, Juno knows. Every word of what he says is true, and Juno's always thought of himself as a lone wolf, as totally self-sufficient, as not needing anyone, and as much as it scares him, he thinks it's possible that he might need Peter Nureyev, might need this gorgeous thief who showed up at his restaurant and stole his heart quicker than he ever would have thought possible.
Peter pulls his fingers out all at once, and Juno almost cries from the loss of contact. He can feel the tip of Peter's cock between his cheeks and he presses backward, desperate, but Peter won't give him want he wants.
"Say you're mine, Juno."
"Mph."
"Say it. Whose are you?" Peter runs the length of his cock between Juno's cheeks and Juno practically shouts.
"Yours! I'm yours, Peter!"
Peter drives into him, and Juno lets out half a sob, so relieved but so desperate, and Peter sets up a relentless pace, pushing him against the door with every stroke. Juno thinks maybe a lamp or something is rattling, like in a bad porno or something, but he doesn't care, he doesn't care if the entire hotel hears them, hell, he doesn’t care if the whole planet hears them, because Peter's cock in his ass feels so. damn. good. and he's going to ride that feeling as far as it takes him.
"I'm yours," Juno pants again, the words like the refrain of a favorite song, slipping out again and again. "I'm yours, Peter, I'm yours."
When Juno comes, he swears he sees stars, the intensity of it hitting him hard, his whole body twitching and guttural moans escaping him as it goes on and on, forever it seems. Peter doesn't stop, keeps pumping inside him until he, too, comes with a cry, and then they're breathing, fast and heavy, their bodies sweaty against each other as they slowly come down together.
It could be a few minutes or a few lifetimes before Juno speaks.
"Fuck," he says.
"Indeed," Peter replies.
"That was… intense."
"Too much?" And there's that hint of worry again, just playing at the edges of Peter's smooth tone. Juno wonders if a stranger would even hear it.
"No. No. Just right."
"I know you're not an object, Juno. I know I don't really own you. Of course I don't. You're your own person, I…I don't want you to think I really want to possess you, for all that I may be jealous at the thought of someone else having you."
"No," Juno says. "No, I don't think that. But I sure as hell like it when you fuck me like you want to own me."
Peter laughs, a small, fluttering thing.
"If it helps," he says softly, pressing a gentle kiss to Juno's cheek. "I'm yours, too. Body and soul."
"Yeah," Juno says. "I love you, too, you bastard."
Peter grins against Juno's cheek. "Let's get you cleaned up, hm?" He guides Juno gently to the shower, where he tenderly washes Juno's skin with a washcloth, and although he protests at first, he finds that he likes how it feels, Peter taking care of him, and so he lets him finish.
They fall into bed naked, and Peter curls himself around Juno, like he's protecting him from the world.
"Good night, Juno."
"Good night, Peter."
Juno can't remember ever getting a better night's sleep.
I gotta get out now while I still can/While I’m still in the clear/The dream is done, it’s over now/Gotta get me outta here.
Everything goes wonderfully until it doesn’t.
Juno and Peter fall into a kind of rhythm, counter-intuitive as it sounds. No two jobs are alike; they find different planets, different businesses, different ruses and false personas. The only thing they have in common is that every place they rob has something rotten at its core: profits made off the backs of slave labor on the Outer Rim, a CEO with a dozen confirmed sexual assaults to his name and not a single conviction thanks to the size of his bribes to the police, ingredients in baby formula that the higher-ups know harm children but that are much cheaper than the alternative. These places are remarkably easy to find. Juno shudders at the thought of how many more are out there that they don’t know about, whose scandals are better hidden below the surface, actual secrets instead of open ones. But there’s some satisfaction in knocking them down a peg, in seeing the rapist CEO talking on the news, red-faced and enraged, about his plummeting stocks after their supposedly-secure warehouse was cleaned of its valuables. Last Juno heard, he was being replaced by his female Vice President. Justice tasted sweet.
Of course, the money doesn't hurt, either. Peter's as good as his word and buys Juno two pairs of one-carat diamond studs. They’re ridiculous, extravagant, set in white gold and almost too large to wear both pairs at once, but Juno does anyway, just because he can, just because they’re from Peter, just because a little part of him is still the kid dreaming of studs like these while he played pretend all those years ago.
And that’s not all Peter buys him. Floor-length satin gowns with plunging backs and dangerous slits up the side; elbow-length silk gloves in black and white and pink and silver; stiletto heels sharp enough to be stiletto knives; lingerie in a dozen colors and infinite varieties of leather and lace; and more jewelry, so much fucking jewelry. Peter buys or steals no shortage of it for himself, bedecking himself in rings and necklaces and earrings and entirely impractical bangles that he piles halfway up his arms. But he insists on treating Juno to some as well, and though Juno was never much of a jewelry gal in the past, he figures maybe that’s because he’d never been able to afford anything nice. Even he, in his constant state of self-deprecation, has to admit that the sapphire pendant Peter picks out for him brings out the blue in his eyes and the way his ruby bracelet sparkles when it catches the light is nothing short of breathtaking.
The abandoned ranch house on Eris that they set up as their headquarters begins to resemble a jeweler, or perhaps a museum, as fond as Peter is of vintage pieces. Their new life is a far cry from the meager living Juno had eked out as a waitress on Mars. They eat extravagant dinners every night, in different cities and with different aliases, and Peter takes special delight in introducing Juno to foods he’s never tried before, desserts made from exotic fruits and kabobs of meat marinated in spices Juno can’t pronounce the names of, and cheese plates with a two dozen varieties or more arranged in careful patterns, which they order as an appetizer and eat as an entree.
Juno hopes he never sees another stack of pancakes again.
They work with partners here and there. Peter has a friend on Ceres, a useful acquaintance in the Andromeda sector. They all call Peter different names, and Juno trusts none of them, but they always provide some skill, some bit of knowledge, some advantage they wouldn’t have otherwise, and so Juno tolerates their presence. Always, before these joint jobs, Peter sucks a few hickeys onto Juno’s neck, the dark purple ovals marking him as Peter’s, as the part of the loot they wouldn't be sharing. Juno can hardly say he minds.
“They’re calling us the Barrow gang,” Peter says one morning over breakfast. He always dutifully reads the paper, chipper and awake even before his morning coffee, while Juno shotguns his in a sulky stupor, barely aware of what’s happening around him until the caffeine kicks in.
“Eh?” he replies, his attention on reaching the bottom of his mug without burning his mouth (his mouth is already burned).
“You and me and our helpers. The papers are calling us the Barrow gang.”
Juno’s brain takes a moment to work. “That’s what they called Clyde Barrow’s people. The real one.”
“Yes,” says Peter with a smirk. “I can’t tell if it’s an intentional reference or if the reporter thinks they’re being original. Either way, that’s what they’re calling us.”
He slides the paper across the table, and Juno is surprised to see himself on the front page, an old selfie in his waitress uniform, and Peter beside him.
“Is that a mug shot?”
Peter snorts. “Don’t sound so shocked, Juno. One does not become a master thief without a few...mishaps along the way.”
“How long were you in for?”
“Oh, a few months.”
“Didn’t get caught doing anything major, then.”
“Oh no, I was sentenced to sixteen years.”
“But you just said…”
Peter grins. “Oh, Juno. Didn’t you ever hear of the man who broke out of Eastham Prison? It was quite the scandal. He was never found.”
“Holy shit,” Juno says, sitting up straight, the caffeine hitting him, or maybe just the shock. “That was you?”
“Indeed it was.”
Juno stares, open-mouthed. “How’d you do it?”
“Well, I had some help.” Nureyev’s eyes are glittering. He’s enjoying this, enjoying teasing Juno, keeping his information to himself for as long as possible. Fine, then. Juno would play along.
“Help from who? The people who’ve been helping us?”
“The Barrow gang?” Peter says with a smirk.
“Yeah, whatever. Them.”
“No. I do have a bit of a talent for seduction, as you may have noticed.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed all right.” Juno barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. As if he could have somehow missed how easily Peter had won him over. Prick.
“Well, I picked up right away that a certain guard had taken an...interest in me. So I played it up. Flirted a little. Then flirted a lot. They really were quite taken with me.”
“Sure.”
“So I started to pay attention to their movements. When their shifts started and ended, which wings of the prison they rotated through. One night I struck up a conversation with them and convinced them to come into my cell for a little...one-on-one time.”
“Uh-huh.” Juno ignores the ugly spike of jealousy that flares up in his chest.
“I came closer and closer to them, my fingers ghosting over their waistline, my breath hot on their ear. And when the moment was just right…” Peter pauses for dramatic effect. Juno literally bites his tongue to keep from screaming.
“I slammed their head into the wall, knocked them out, and stole their keys.”
“That’s it? You lead me on, tell me that whole story, and then just—?” Juno shakes his head. “I hate you sometimes, you know that?”
“What? I was simply telling you the events as I remember them,” says Peter, eyes still glinting with mirth.
“Yeah, and making me think you slept with some guard when really all you did was smack their head into a wall.”
“You wound me, Juno. It was a much more delicate operation than that! I had to woo Selene, coax them into giving me information, carefully stoke their interest in me—“
“You hit them in the face.”
Peter grins. “There is some value to your ‘punch first, ask questions later’ philosophy, when used appropriately, of course.”
“Where are we hitting up today?” Juno says, changing the topic to the day’s job.
“Loretta Lassoon’s.”
Juno’s brow furrows. “The overpriced legging company?”
“The very same. Loretta Lassoon came up with the concept, the branding, the designs. Then her ex-husband took all of it in the divorce thanks to a few carefully placed bribes and left Loretta and their three children penniless while he makes millions off her name and idea.”
Juno lets out a low whistle. “Real upstanding citizen, huh?”
“Precisely. So I thought we might relieve their flagship store on Ganymede of a few thousand dollars or so.”
“And some merch?”
Peter raises an eyebrow.
“What? I look good in crop tops.”
“I can’t argue with that. All right. You’ll get your pick of merchandise as well.”
They’ve done away with subtly by now; the Ruby 7 outstrips every police vehicle they’ve encountered, and with Peter’s encyclopedic knowledge of the underground network of teleportation points they use, they can afford to be flashy without risking being caught. Besides, Juno has to admit he’s on a bit of a high from the newspaper headline. He’d made the front page! Little Juno Steel from Oldtown, on the front page. If only Sasha and Mick could see him now.
Loretta Lassoon is full of customers at this time of day, all of them young, rich, and exceptionally attractive, like the store is actually a talent agency or a whorehouse. Juno amuses himself by imagining how one of them might react if he asked how much for a night. Soon they’re at the registers, and the flurry of conversation comes to a sudden halt when Nureyev’s gun comes out.
“Hands where I can see them, please,” Peter says pleasantly, almost cheerfully to the cashier. “And the rest of you, too,” he says, gesturing to the shoppers, who huddle against a wall with their hands up, eyes wide.
“Hey, you’re that guy from the papers!” a woman in a pale pink sports bra and matching high-waisted leggings says. “Clyde Barrow!”
“In the flesh,” Peter says, bowing slightly but keeping his gun pointed at the cashier. “And this is my lovely assistant, the gorgeous Bonnie Parker.”
“What do you think?” Juno asks him, ignoring the fascinated gazes of the crowd and holding up two crop tops. “The blue or the purple?”
“Get them both,” Peter advises.
“Can I have your autograph?” blurts the woman in pink.
“What the hell, lady, you’re in the middle of an armed robbery and you want—” Juno begins, but Peter cuts him off.
“Of course. Bonnie, darling, could you get a pen and paper out of my pocket?”
Juno looks from Peter to the woman and back, then sighs and rifles through Peter’s coat pocket until he finds a notepad and a black fountain pen. Peter takes the pen with the hand not holding the gun and signs with a flourish. Ambidextrous bastard. Juno rips the sheet off the pad and moves to hand it to the woman, but Peter tuts.
“You too, dear. What’s Clyde without his Bonnie?” Juno snorts but adds, in his small cramped writing, “Bonnie Parker,’ before handing it to their priority-challenged friend.
“Now then,” Peter says, turning has attention back to the cashier. “All the money in the register, if you would.”
But while Peter’s attention was elsewhere, the cashier had pulled out a gun from under the counter.
"Don't move," the cashier says, trying to sound intimidating and failing because of how much her voice and hands shake.
Peter tuts, although Juno can see the tension in his jaw that gives away the stress hiding under his cool exterior. "Come now. We both know you're not going to use that thing."
"I will!" The cashier almost shrieks, like the words are being ripped from her body. Her eyes are wide, terrified, but her stance is solid, feet shoulder-width apart, as though bracing herself for a fight. "I'm warning you, I will!" She takes half a step forward.
It happens in a flash, and then in slow motion. Juno hears the gun go off, the familiar bang of his childhood, the one he'd heard outside his window practically daily, but he’s never been this close to the shot before, and it’s like an explosion in his ear, almost deafening him for a moment. And the bullet is far too fast for him to watch its trajectory; in the same instant that Peter pulls the trigger, blood blossoms out of the cashier’s skull and she’s collapsed behind the counter, lifeless, shattered. And then the world starts moving slower. People are screaming. Juno sees the woman in the pink sports bra duck for cover. Two more customers run for the exit, hand in hand. A child, previously invisible inside a stroller, is crying, and the adult next to him is crying, too, trying to calm her toddler while out of control herself. And someone is pulling at his arm. Pulling, and pulling. Juno blinks. He turns his head and sees Peter shouting at him.
“We have to go! Now!”
There are no words in Juno’s mouth, no resistance in his body. He gives in to Peter’s tugging, and they run out the front door together, Juno still scanning the chaos around him: an elderly couple clutching at each other, mouths agape; more people rushing, rushing toward the exit, not the side door Peter is pulling him to, but the main entrance, running like their lives depend on it, and Juno is in the car now, but Peter is driving, and he’s going fast, and careless, skidding over the curb on a turn and blowing through a red light. There is honking, but it sounds distant, like it’s coming from a few blocks over and not the same intersection they’re passing through.
He becomes aware, once again, that Peter is speaking to him.
“Juno? Juno, are you all right? Say something, Juno.”
“She’s dead.” Juno surprises himself with the words and with the raspiness in his voice when he speaks them.
“Yes, darling, I know she is, but I had to—”
“She’s dead,” Juno says again, with more clarity this time, and suddenly the reality of what’s just happened hits him like a kick to the stomach. “She’s dead because you killed her. You killed someone, Peter.”
“I know,” Peter says, his voice quiet, his eyes never wavering from the road. “But I had to, Juno. It was her or me.”
“Peter, I don’t think you understand. You fucking killed somebody! You’re a murderer! And I’m your fucking accomplice! It was one thing when we were just robbing people but—holy hell.” Juno runs his hands over his face. “I can’t do this.”
“What do you mean, you can’t do this?” Peter’s voice is sharp with something—anger, maybe, or fear. Juno can’t tell.
“I said, I can’t do this!” Peter makes a sharp turn and Juno slams into the car door and curses. “Goddamn it, Peter, I can’t do this anymore! Not if murder’s on the table, I can’t fucking—“
The car lurches to an abrupt halt, and Juno is confused before he registers that Peter’s pulled up to a parking garage and is slamming numbers into a key pad. A pleasant female voice says “proceed,” Peter hits the gas, and they’re driving down the streets of some other city, the haze and light from the street lamps unfamiliar.
“Welcome to Osiris,” Peter says dryly.
“Did you fucking hear me?”
“I heard you, Juno!” The sharpness is in his voice again, and Juno can hear it more clearly now. It’s not anger, or even fear—it’s terror. Peter pulls ungracefully into a street parking space and fixes his gaze on Juno, his eyes blazing. “You can’t leave me, do you understand? You can’t.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want, Nureyev!” Juno spits back. “I didn’t sign up for this, I didn’t fucking—”
“Didn’t you, Juno?” Peter’s gaze is intense, burning, and Juno couldn’t look away if he tried. “When I asked you to come on the road with me, to travel the galaxy stealing from the rich and giving to ourselves, did I ever once promise there would be no consequences? Did you imagine there would be no cost?”
“Of course not, I’m not an idiot, but I thought the people we’d be hurting were corrupt politicians and morally bankrupt CEOs, not innocent cashiers just trying to do their jobs!”
“I didn’t want to do it, Juno,” Peter says, his volume lower now but the intensity in his voice and eyes no less so. “I wish it hadn’t happened that way, but it did, and I’m sorry to have killed her, but I would do it again. For you. For us. For us, Juno, I would destroy the entire galaxy.”
“Well, what if I don’t want you to?” Juno spits back, but he can feel his resolve giving, melting under the fire in Peter’s eyes.
“Then I’ll only destroy what threatens to destroy us.”
They’re silent for a moment. Juno looks out the window, watching a stray cat pick through scraps in an alley between two restaurants. Peter speaks again, his voice shaky but determined.
“When I said earlier, Juno, that you couldn’t leave me, I didn’t mean because you have no choice. Of course you have a choice. You always have a choice. I only meant that if you leave I don’t think I could carry on without you. I lived so much of my life without you before we met but now? I can’t imagine not having you by my side. It feels impossible, like living without breath or blood. That’s the truth.”
Juno turns his head away from the window to look back at Peter, who’s still looking at him, his eyes pleading and afraid.
“I don’t think I could live without you either, Nureyev. Besides.” He exhales deeply. “It’s too late to turn back now, huh? Let’s get a hotel room. I’m wiped.”
Peter puts the car back in drive, and they continue onward.
My mistake is lovin' you/even if I walked away/my heart won't let me get far…
When the hotel room door shuts with a thud, Juno hears echoes of the gunshot that killed the cashier, followed by a silence like the sound at the beginning of the world.
Now is normally when they dive into each other, the adrenaline-fueled euphoria pulsing through their veins, their clothing flimsy wrapping to be ripped away and discarded as quickly as possible in pursuit of their urgent need for skin on skin. Instead, they hover awkwardly, Peter's long fingers fidgeting with the edge of the duvet, Juno standing barely inside the room, his back practically to the closed door.
"Do you want—" Peter starts.
"I'm gonna—" Juno says at the same moment. They both fall silent abruptly.
"Please," Peter says politely, almost demurely, and gestures at Juno to speak.
"I'm gonna take a bath, I think," Juno says.
"Oh. Yes," Peter replies, the words clumsy on his tongue. "Would you like some tea, as well?"
"What do they have?"
Peter rifles through the selection of teas provided by the hotel. "Lipton black, mostly."
"Eugh."
"The chamomile is Celestial Seasonings, though."
"That would be good, yeah."
"Okay."
Juno shuffles into the bathroom and starts running the water at the hottest temperature it can reach. The mirror steams up immediately, and Juno's grateful he can't see his face, which is probably blotchy and horrible from how high his emotions are running. He strips off his clothes slowly, his limbs heavy, and drops them into a crumpled heap on the floor. He steps into the tub before it's full and the water scalds his feet and ankles. The burn is uncomfortable and welcome, forcing him back into his body and away from the thousand threads of thought that threaten to pull him into a dizzying spiral of panic.
There's a knock at the bathroom door, and Juno says "come in" without thinking. The door swings open, and it's Nureyev with his tea.
"I'll just leave this on the counter then, shall I?" Nureyev says, his voice lacking its usual confidence, his eyes not meeting Juno's.
"Sure," Juno replies and then, as Nureyev turns to leave, "Wait."
Nureyev pauses in the doorway and turns his head to look at Juno. "Yes?"
"C'mere."
Nureyev takes the few steps he needs to cross the room and stand in front of Juno, who feels slightly ridiculous, standing naked in a bathtub as it fills, closer to Nureyev's height than usual because of the few inches the tub gives him. Juno has no idea why he called Nureyev back, no idea what he wants to say to him, only that it's something, and it's important. He decides to wing it, and pulls Nureyev into a kiss.
It's not their usual kissing, hot and desperate and needy. It's deep, yes, and intense, but it's also softer, slower. Juno takes his time, tracing Nureyev's lips and teeth with his tongue, trying to find the patterns there, to commit them to his memory. Nureyev kisses him back like the world is ending and he wants to spend the last of his existence with Juno's mouth pressed against his. His hands, usually energetic, moving, fiddling with a set of keys or picking a lock or running up and down Juno's body, trying to touch as much skin as they can, are remarkably still, one on each side of Juno's waist. Juno's got one hand on Nureyev's shoulder and the other against his cheek, tracing the shape of his jawline with his thumb.
They stay like that for a long time, entwined in one another, the whole world confined to their lips against each other's, until Juno feels the scorching tub water approaching his knees. "Shit," he mutters, pulling away and reaching for the tap. The tub is deep, but not so deep that it's not close to overflowing. As soon as he shuts the water off he can hear the overflow drain working its hardest to suck up the excess water.
By now, there's a humid mist filling the bathroom like fog on a Hyperion City morning. "You should've turned the fan on," Nureyev says gently, and he flips the switch. The fan whirs to life.
"Nureyev," Juno says, the words he wanted earlier finally taking shape in his mind, and the other man turns to look at him, his eyes troubled. "Remember when you slammed me against that door and made me tell you I was yours?"
A hint of a smile appears on Nureyev's face as he says, "How could I forget?"
"I think I need to remind you of something important from that night."
"And what's that?"
Juno puts his hands on either side of Nureyev's face, ensuring they're making eye contact when he says, "You're mine, too."
Nureyev's expression changes then, from the caution of the moment before to something unbridled, overwhelmed by love and affection and want.
"Oh, Juno. I am."
"Why don't you get in here and show me, then?"
Peter doesn't take his eyes off Juno as he quickly strips out of his clothing. When he steps into the tub, he curses.
"For heaven's sake, Juno, what is this, the inside of a Martian volcano?"
"I like the water hot," Juno says defensively.
"There's hot and then there's burning. This is not pleasant—"
"Well, why don't I make it a little more pleasant for you?" Juno sinks to his knees, water sloshing over the edge of the tub as he does so. He ignores it, and the unforgiving hardness of the ceramic tub against the soft places on his knees, and slowly licks a stripe up Nureyev's cock.
"Juno," Nureyev sighs, and his eyelids flutter shut, and fuck his stupid knees; he could do this all night if it means keeping that serene expression on Nureyev's beautiful face.
Juno's sucked a lot of cock in his time—hell, he's sucked a lot of Nureyev's cock in the time they've been together—but tonight feels special, somehow, a turning point, and what he lacks in flowery language he can make up for with this. He takes his time, just like with the kiss, letting his tongue find all Nureyev's most sensitive places and even licking his balls for few moments before finally sliding Nureyev's cock between his lips. He sucks slowly, dragging his lips over Nureyev's shaft, breathing in the thick, heady scent of him. He puts one hand on the edge of the tub to stabilize himself while the other wraps around the base of Nureyev's cock, pulling the skin there slowly in sync with the movements of his mouth.
Juno lets his throat relax to take even more of Nureyev in and lets himself choke on Nureyev's cock, the thickness of it filling his throat before he has to pull off for a moment and breathe.
"Fuck, Juno," Peter says, his eyes open and fixed on Juno's face. Juno smirks with satisfaction that he's got his usually smooth-talking lover at a loss for words. The smirk doesn't last long, though, as he takes Nureyev's cock down his throat again and again, drawing moans of pleasure from the other man that echo through the hotel bathroom and make Juno's own cock twitch with wanting.
Finally, Juno pulls off and says, voice too raspy to sound properly teasing, "Come on in; the water's fine."
"I highly doubt that," Nureyev says breathlessly, but he lowers himself into the tub as Juno repositions himself so he's on his back, legs spread, probably not looking as sexy and composed as he's hoping he does. Nureyev doesn't seem to mind, though, and positions himself between Juno's thighs, hovering over him, their faces inches apart.
"Hello," Nureyev says, smiling.
"Hi, there," Juno replies, then leans in and kisses him again, this time letting his hands roam freely over Nureyev's bare skin. Nureyev moves his mouth to Juno's neck, licking and kissing and sucking him until Juno's thrusting pointlessly against the water. Nureyev doesn't tease him tonight; instead, he wraps his hand around Juno's cock and starts stroking him, his movements firm but gentle.
"I love you," he whispers in Juno's ear.
"I love you, too," Juno says back, so quietly he only knows Peter hears it because of the brief smile he flashes before returning his mouth to Juno's neck, working the sensitive places there with his mouth as he works Juno's cock with his hand.
When Juno comes, Nureyev kisses him, their mouths open, almost sloppy, and Juno wants to spend forever in that moment, with Nureyev's hand on his cock, their mouths and chests pressed together, surrounded by water and Peter and all that has blossomed between them.
A moment of happy afterglow passes before Juno says "Want me to finish you off?"
"If you don't mind," Nureyev says, awfully politely for someone who's just been ravishing him in a hotel bathtub, but Juno grabs his cock, and while he doesn't have it in him to be as sweet and gentle as Nureyev was with him, he gets the job done well enough, and soon, Nureyev's over the edge too, coming with Juno's name on his lips.
Nureyev rests his head on Juno's shoulder, and Juno wraps his arms around him. They stay like that for a few minutes, heartrates slowing, just holding each other. Just breathing.
Finally, Nureyev says, "Ironically, I think we both could use a shower."
"What for?" Juno says, voice heavy with contentment.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but we're now in a bathtub full of both water and semen."
"Oh," Juno says, opening his eyes. "I guess you're right."
"I can start running the shower," Peter says, sitting up. "But I'm not putting it at volcano temperature."
"This is a perfectly fine temperature, Nureyev."
"Is it?" he says, his face skeptical but his eyes alight with playfulness.
"Get out of my bathtub," Juno says, splashing him with water, and he pulls up the stopper.