Yuri's fingers are back in his hair, running a little more firmly and quickly through it, and it. Is. Bliss. It must be how Maccachin feels when he gets his ears rubbed, and it makes Victor shift and melt and mumble something incoherent directly into Yuri's stomach.
He feels like a warm sauce being slowly poured, or like a gradually dissolving sheet of tissue paper in a warm bath. Yuri's fingers rubbing against the thin skin over his skull, and there are so many nerves there, it feels nothing like shampooing or brushing his own hair, or even like running his own fingers through it. Laying him absolutely low, a useless puddle of himself. He'd had such good intentions: intentions of talking, figuring things out, explaining. If he'd thought about this at all, he would have pictured it the other way around, taking care of Yuri and Yuri's sore muscles, and letting Yuri, who must be exhausted, rest against him.
He hadn't considered this, and he's too selfish in this moment to give it up, even to flip the image. Even as his fingers sneak lightly under the hem of Yuri's shirt, to run the pad of his thumb over the skin at the small of his back before flattening his palm and fingers there.
(He's so warm.)
An unintelligible mumble slipping from somewhere between his mouth and Yuri's shirt, that has no effect on the looseness of his shoulders, the heavy pool of him trying its best to sink into Yuri's side and leg. Thinking, blearily, that Yuri should stop, if he's ever going to be able to answer any of Yuri's questions. Absolutely certain that Yuri should never stop, because nothing in his whole life has ever felt this good.
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Date: 2017-04-29 03:22 pm (UTC)He feels like a warm sauce being slowly poured, or like a gradually dissolving sheet of tissue paper in a warm bath. Yuri's fingers rubbing against the thin skin over his skull, and there are so many nerves there, it feels nothing like shampooing or brushing his own hair, or even like running his own fingers through it. Laying him absolutely low, a useless puddle of himself. He'd had such good intentions: intentions of talking, figuring things out, explaining. If he'd thought about this at all, he would have pictured it the other way around, taking care of Yuri and Yuri's sore muscles, and letting Yuri, who must be exhausted, rest against him.
He hadn't considered this, and he's too selfish in this moment to give it up, even to flip the image. Even as his fingers sneak lightly under the hem of Yuri's shirt, to run the pad of his thumb over the skin at the small of his back before flattening his palm and fingers there.
(He's so warm.)
An unintelligible mumble slipping from somewhere between his mouth and Yuri's shirt, that has no effect on the looseness of his shoulders, the heavy pool of him trying its best to sink into Yuri's side and leg. Thinking, blearily, that Yuri should stop, if he's ever going to be able to answer any of Yuri's questions. Absolutely certain that Yuri should never stop, because nothing in his whole life has ever felt this good.