[ mail's here, aren't you excited? a bill, two bills, a plethora of letters from your editor that you've been ignoring for a few weeks now (he's bundled them up in twine), and a letter from one (1) anonymous fan of yours.
nureyev gives a light knock to the closed study door to announce his arrival before slipping in, mail in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. it's a stormy early afternoon. ]
You make it sound as thought I exist to torture you.
[ the anonymous letter slides onto the desk, the bills are tucked slightly into the waistband of nureyev's skirt, the editor's letters walked over to the small hearth in the study and set down among some recently burned bits of wood. he does take the drink with him, however as he searches the narrow mantle for matches. ]
that's his drink, he claimed it. did you not hear him claim it? he picks up the letter, turning it over between his fingers ( same stationary as always, rough and homespun off-white exterior, silken grey-blue interior, butterfly motif seal; juno knows his stationary ) before he rises from his seat and heads towards the fireplace. ]
[ did you want to play keep away? ok. he has the precious glass cradled in the crook of one arm as he plucks a match from the box and strikes it sharply against the bottom of his heeled shoe before kicking said heel off and flicking the lit match into the mouth of the hearth.
he heard you and he's taking a sip anyways, leaving a maroon print on the rim and holding it out. ]
A little gratitude would be nice, but of course I know that's not your style at all.
[ no he wants to play "give me the thing you clearly brought for me"; which leaves him trying to snake his hand under nureyev's watchful gaze, across the width of his slender torso. and then nureyev drinks the whiskey right before his eyes and passes it over, leaving juno looking silly.
he scowls a little, tipping the whiskey into his mouth ( he sets the maroon stain against his own bottom lip, watching nureyev out of the corner of his eye as he does so ). the wash of warmth across his bare toes, from the burning of his editor's reminders, spreads up to the space in his throat full of whiskey. the corner of his mouth lifts, sly and pointed, as he tips the glass back and licks the stain off his bottom lip. ]
[ the other heel kicks off with a muted clatter as he watches juno have his fill of the glass, the ice clinking softly, the stain of nureyev's mouth imprinting on his own. there's routine and there's this, a small game played between the both of them. where he might normally bring juno his drink without fanfare, tonight he partakes of it just to see what he'll do.
and he's satisfied, padding over on stockinged feet to perch himself on the edge of the large wooden desk that fills much of juno's study. he hikes his skirt up, beginning to unclip stockings from garters, long expanse of milky thigh exposed as he speaks. ]
You're quite welcome. I figured you could use the break. You've been in here all day, you're aware.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ecats w me binch
nureyev gives a light knock to the closed study door to announce his arrival before slipping in, mail in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. it's a stormy early afternoon. ]
u bully!!!!!
[ a vague gesture at the stack of envelopes in nureyev's hand, before settling on the whiskey - neat, three fingers of it, his mouth is dry ]
But that? That better be for me. None of this carrot-and-stick business, either.
no subject
[ the anonymous letter slides onto the desk, the bills are tucked slightly into the waistband of nureyev's skirt, the editor's letters walked over to the small hearth in the study and set down among some recently burned bits of wood. he does take the drink with him, however as he searches the narrow mantle for matches. ]
no subject
[ excuse you
that's his drink, he claimed it. did you not hear him claim it? he picks up the letter, turning it over between his fingers ( same stationary as always, rough and homespun off-white exterior, silken grey-blue interior, butterfly motif seal; juno knows his stationary ) before he rises from his seat and heads towards the fireplace. ]
You're torturing me right now.
no subject
he heard you and he's taking a sip anyways, leaving a maroon print on the rim and holding it out. ]
A little gratitude would be nice, but of course I know that's not your style at all.
no subject
he scowls a little, tipping the whiskey into his mouth ( he sets the maroon stain against his own bottom lip, watching nureyev out of the corner of his eye as he does so ). the wash of warmth across his bare toes, from the burning of his editor's reminders, spreads up to the space in his throat full of whiskey. the corner of his mouth lifts, sly and pointed, as he tips the glass back and licks the stain off his bottom lip. ]
Thanks.
no subject
and he's satisfied, padding over on stockinged feet to perch himself on the edge of the large wooden desk that fills much of juno's study. he hikes his skirt up, beginning to unclip stockings from garters, long expanse of milky thigh exposed as he speaks. ]
You're quite welcome. I figured you could use the break. You've been in here all day, you're aware.