There's a small sound that comes up, and Victor is kissing him back the second his lips touch Victor's, like maybe Victor's only been waiting for that, had only managed to not start without him, and it gets lodged somewhere in Yuri's head. A question that doesn't form enough to be a question, that holds on to that sound, and even without begin asked, repeats, like an answer in everything else.
The sudden way his shirt gets tight, as Victor's fingers ball toward a fist under his hand, with his shirt in them. Victor arm around his waist pulling them closer, pressing against sore muscles, while erasing any of the inches and centimeters and shadows that had come between them since Victor decided they should move from their knees. Pushing them back flush together, all but from the arms between, and that hand gripping his shirt.
Victor who is shivering under his fingers, under his lips, and how is that even possible. Even in an ocean of impossible things. Except that he is. Except that somehow, beyond all sense Yuri has, it makes something in his chest groan, the unsticking of a rusty, unused door, shoving at everything else, everything that is just in the way between itself and Victor. Fingers tightening against Victor's cheek, and jaw, pulling his closer, kissing him more.
Impossible, impossible, impossible, he can't even explain anything, and all he wants is more of this. Victor.
To get lost right here in the sudden tension of his shirt, and that sound Victor made, and the words that are hooked in his skin as much as Victor is, because he doesn't. He doesn't want more of a second ago, and he doesn't want to make sense. It feels like it was all in his arms second ago, and he doesn't care about any of it. Putting it in order. Language. Talking. Breathing.
Anything that isn't kissing Victor suddenly, surely, wanting to press him into that hand, into that shake, into his mouth. Hand leaving the back of Victor's, of himself, needing more, wrapping around Victor's neck, the bottom of his head. Because it's not close enough. Nothing is, and nothing matters like pressing into that need and Victor.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
zaluzianskya and ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
skylark_photos
no subject
Date: 2017-04-26 12:21 pm (UTC)There's a small sound that comes up, and Victor is kissing him back the second his lips touch Victor's, like maybe Victor's only been waiting for that, had only managed to not start without him, and it gets lodged somewhere in Yuri's head. A question that doesn't form enough to be a question, that holds on to that sound, and even without begin asked, repeats, like an answer in everything else.
The sudden way his shirt gets tight, as Victor's fingers ball toward a fist under his hand, with his shirt in them. Victor arm around his waist pulling them closer, pressing against sore muscles, while erasing any of the inches and centimeters and shadows that had come between them since Victor decided they should move from their knees. Pushing them back flush together, all but from the arms between, and that hand gripping his shirt.
Victor who is shivering under his fingers, under his lips, and how is that even possible. Even in an ocean of impossible things. Except that he is. Except that somehow, beyond all sense Yuri has, it makes something in his chest groan, the unsticking of a rusty, unused door, shoving at everything else, everything that is just in the way between itself and Victor. Fingers tightening against Victor's cheek, and jaw, pulling his closer, kissing him more.
Impossible, impossible, impossible, he can't even explain anything, and all he wants is more of this. Victor.
To get lost right here in the sudden tension of his shirt, and that sound Victor made, and the words that are hooked in his skin as much as Victor is, because he doesn't. He doesn't want more of a second ago, and he doesn't want to make sense. It feels like it was all in his arms second ago, and he doesn't care about any of it. Putting it in order. Language. Talking. Breathing.
Anything that isn't kissing Victor suddenly, surely, wanting to press him into that hand, into that shake, into his mouth.
Hand leaving the back of Victor's, of himself, needing more, wrapping around Victor's neck, the bottom of his head.
Because it's not close enough. Nothing is, and nothing matters like pressing into that need and Victor.