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The day had been long; longer than most in recent memory. There hadn't been any death-defying antics, no shoot-outs with mad scientists or leaping off of rooftops - just a very long, very hot, very cramped day. The Martian humidity did absolutely terrible things to his hair, and hiding in an air ventilation shaft for five hours hadn't helped matters.
Still, at least he had escaped in the end, short a few more patches of skin thanks to his little army-crawl through the vent, but they would heal in time. The cool night air drifted through the slight crack he'd left in the window, the sounds accompanying the breeze the familiar rush of cars and life. It made his skin prickle, and the master thief pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it towards the rickety chair in the corner. The desk was a mess of notes, doodles, and fast food wrappers. Good thing he rarely had company over.
While he wanted, mostly, to land face first in the squeaking pile of springs he barely deigned to call a 'bed' and pass out for several hours, something else tinged in the pit of his stomach. Hours of hot, tight quarters had not left a man like Peter Nureyev without ideas; most of them involved a partner, but he could improvise. Some of the best cons he'd ever pulled had been one-man acts.
So he loosened the buckle of his belt, working it out and testing the heft of it. No, he decided, not tonight. Discarding it next to the bed, his pants and underwear were next; plain but expensive, the kind of expensive that cost you more because it looked innocuous and exuded a tone that said if you needed to ask how much it was, you couldn't afford it. Those he stepped out of, stretching his arms above his head with a long, low groan that almost drowned out the popping sounds his spine made.
Swinging his arms a bit, feeling deliciously looser, Peter knelt on the bed with one knee, arranging the pillows for a moment before laying down, settling himself into them. The blanket, kicked down to the end of the bed sometime during the night before stayed there, a sad heap of stiffing cotton blend. Stretching out fully now, Peter luxuriated in the cool sheets, bringing one hand up to lazily tweak at a nipple, rolling it in small, tight circles while his other hand rested on his hip, the jut of the bone circled by his thumb, legs spreading wider in increments as the man with no name moaned out one that was certainly not his.
Sometimes just thought of that night made his blood turn to ice; tonight he ignored it, folded it into himself - it wasn't important right now. He could muse over that later; he didn't need to ruin his fun tonight for an old wound. Perhaps a tad sharply, Peter scraped a nail across one nipple, gasping quietly at the sting. He'd always been quiet - growing up with thin walls and being constantly on the move did that, and it had been a habit he never quite shook. He could be loud, if his partners needed it, but left to his own devices it was rare.
Pausing, Nureyev lifted himself up on his elbow, pushing the pillows further back before resettling, legs slide open wider now, cock starting to thicken. Left hand reaching down to stroke along his cock, Peter choked down noise at the sensation while his off hand gripped at the sheets underneath him, glasses slipping further down his nose as his hand started moving quicker, flashes of thoughts in his head - sweat rolling down skin, the moans of someone under him, bruises and scratches and that lovely whining noise they made when he thrust into them, slow and hard.
He wasn't going to last long, but that was alright. He had all night.
Stroking, Peter thumbed at the head of his cock, swiping through the precome and slicking himself with it, gritting his teeth at the hard tug. He could feel the muscles in his neck straining, his mouth open but nary a sound coming out as he moved, back arching up instinctively.
More images, ideas, memories; a sure, firm grip on the barrel of an old blaster, grunts of pain as his fist sinks into soft, willing flesh, the panting desperation of the night they'd shared, kisses blazing hot and slow like a star burning out.
Arousal coiled tight in his stomach as the thief panted and shook, biting his lip and whining as he felt the edge nearing, cock heavy in his hand as he stroked the shaft, fast and hard and oh, there, almost --
Quick and dirty as it was, Peter is pleased he caught most of the come in his hand; less clean-up. Oh, not for him - not tonight. Tonight, he's got audience and attendant all rolled into one. Considering this, Nureyev looks up and grins, knowing the flush on his face must be bright where the moonlight shines, catching across his body.
"Now you see what I had to do while we were apart? See what you missed, my dear, beloved, stubborn detective?" Peter asked from the bed, nearly purring as he saw the desperate gleam in Juno's eye.
The PI nodded, as mute as he'd been since they entered the apartment, leaning forward in the chair desperately as he watched Peter stroke himself languidly once more, come dripping down his knuckles at the motion, sliding off his hand and onto his thigh. Peter did loved having an audience, what could he say? And one so attentive was hard to find.
"Alright then. You've been a good boy, not touching yourself, not making noise - come over here and I'll let you clean me up, how about that? If you do a good job, we'll see if you earned an orgasm." Peter spoke up again as Juno stood, nearly leapt from the chair, a smirk curling across his face. "Ah-ah-ah, did I say you could walk? Good boys crawl, Juno."
His knees hit the floor so quickly Peter half-expected him to make a hole in the thin floorboards. Juno started forward on his hands and knees, and Peter leaned back against the pillows and waited patiently.
He honestly couldn't think of a better way to spend their anniversary.