[ that's not a question. it didn't have the cadence of once and it's music to juno's ears. his head tilts a little, neck tilting against connor's fingers and palm as he watches him from his place on the bed, his own fingers now down, uselessly flexing against the sheets as he tries to come up with the words. his eyes drag along connor's collar bones, against the plane of skin spattered with a constellation of freckles that seem too real to be synthetic in their haphazard scattering. he bites his lip and decides to put his own hands to use.
he hooks thumbs into his trousers and pulls down his hips, the jut of bone and curve of skin rising while the material slips low. ]
You gotta get closer to do that, genius... geez...
[ the last bit stammers out, a half rasp because the idea of connor touching him more sounds really fucking good. his body feels like it's overrun with some kind of fever, but he likes it. it makes his limbs heavy the way a nice whiskey might, so each motion is like pushing through honey, but in a nice way.
like time's fake, like there's no rush, like all he has to do is reach out and be met stroke for stroke. he wants more skin - his skin, connor's skin, so he kicks at his trousers to get them from where they're pooling around his ankles and reaches out to get his palms in line with the skin connor's waist, fingers pressing in, guiding further from where he's just kneeling (totally useless!) on the bed. ]
What kind of jerk keeps a lady waiting, huh?
[ flushed, voice thick with want, low and hungry, juno tries to pull him down, closer. connor's solid - all metal parts and wire, but he's trying, digging fingers in with desperation to move him if he'll deign to be moved. ]
no subject
[ that's not a question. it didn't have the cadence of once and it's music to juno's ears. his head tilts a little, neck tilting against connor's fingers and palm as he watches him from his place on the bed, his own fingers now down, uselessly flexing against the sheets as he tries to come up with the words. his eyes drag along connor's collar bones, against the plane of skin spattered with a constellation of freckles that seem too real to be synthetic in their haphazard scattering. he bites his lip and decides to put his own hands to use.
he hooks thumbs into his trousers and pulls down his hips, the jut of bone and curve of skin rising while the material slips low. ]
You gotta get closer to do that, genius... geez...
[ the last bit stammers out, a half rasp because the idea of connor touching him more sounds really fucking good. his body feels like it's overrun with some kind of fever, but he likes it. it makes his limbs heavy the way a nice whiskey might, so each motion is like pushing through honey, but in a nice way.
like time's fake, like there's no rush, like all he has to do is reach out and be met stroke for stroke. he wants more skin - his skin, connor's skin, so he kicks at his trousers to get them from where they're pooling around his ankles and reaches out to get his palms in line with the skin connor's waist, fingers pressing in, guiding further from where he's just kneeling (totally useless!) on the bed. ]
What kind of jerk keeps a lady waiting, huh?
[ flushed, voice thick with want, low and hungry, juno tries to pull him down, closer. connor's solid - all metal parts and wire, but he's trying, digging fingers in with desperation to move him if he'll deign to be moved. ]