Victor is pulling away. Yuri's not certain when he realized it. Probably after it had already started, or after some punctuation that made each kiss Victor hadn't stopped dropping on him, softer, smaller, shorter, faster. Until it was barely more than the breath of anticipation met with empty air instead of a kiss and the need to let his eyes roll open again.
His lips and his limbs somehow with the exact same ache and a throb. The same overblown, and unexpected, want for more and not less. For that unnamed rush, pulsing with every beat of his blood, in every part of his body, some more than others, even when the late stumbling sticky-fingered concern of the same things trip after it, like ripples, caused only after the first drop of water hits a pond.
Victor's voice filling up that caustic dark swimming in front of his eyes and settling shadow-depths into Victor's face not far away, while Yuri's throat tried to relearn how to swallow even as it did it. Everything snapping a second later to a soft stroke down his cheek, unexpected and snap sudden relocating almost all feeling in his body. He doesn't know if it is the darkness, or the exhaustion, or the weekend, or just Victor. (Or all of it.)
Only that it's everything. Only that he wants more. Only that he's supposed to be answering. Each of them like a wave. Each of them the only thing. Each of them rolling up and back and up again. It's hard to parse anything together out of the rush and roar of his head, the press of heat sinking away inward from his lips, the warmth of every part of Victor pressed against him, and what comes out is a little wandering. "You said you needed me to sleep."
It's only out a second when he knows that's not helpfully clear. That he'd meant Victor had wanted him over here so Victor could sleep, and he'd moved, and this had all ... but at the same time, it sounds entirely like he just repeated that Victor needed Yuri, himself, to sleep. It makes him crinkle his nose, but words are short, and his breath is only beginning not to be, and he can't stop himself from shifting toward the touch on his cheek, even if it mostly closes his eyelids, again, as he does.
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Victor is pulling away. Yuri's not certain when he realized it. Probably after it had already started, or after some punctuation that made each kiss Victor hadn't stopped dropping on him, softer, smaller, shorter, faster. Until it was barely more than the breath of anticipation met with empty air instead of a kiss and the need to let his eyes roll open again.
His lips and his limbs somehow with the exact same ache and a throb. The same overblown, and unexpected, want for more and not less. For that unnamed rush, pulsing with every beat of his blood, in every part of his body, some more than others, even when the late stumbling sticky-fingered concern of the same things trip after it, like ripples, caused only after the first drop of water hits a pond.
Victor's voice filling up that caustic dark swimming in front of his eyes and settling shadow-depths into Victor's face not far away, while Yuri's throat tried to relearn how to swallow even as it did it. Everything snapping a second later to a soft stroke down his cheek, unexpected and snap sudden relocating almost all feeling in his body. He doesn't know if it is the darkness, or the exhaustion, or the weekend, or just Victor. (Or all of it.)
Only that it's everything. Only that he wants more. Only that he's supposed to be answering. Each of them like a wave. Each of them the only thing. Each of them rolling up and back and up again. It's hard to parse anything together out of the rush and roar of his head, the press of heat sinking away inward from his lips, the warmth of every part of Victor pressed against him, and what comes out is a little wandering. "You said you needed me to sleep."
It's only out a second when he knows that's not helpfully clear. That he'd meant Victor had wanted him over here so Victor could sleep, and he'd moved, and this had all ... but at the same time, it sounds entirely like he just repeated that Victor needed Yuri, himself, to sleep. It makes him crinkle his nose, but words are short, and his breath is only beginning not to be, and he can't stop himself from shifting toward the touch on his cheek, even if it mostly closes his eyelids, again, as he does.