Everything unfocuses, and it's not just his eyes, it's everything in the world that isn't Victor. Isn't this impossible slide away from vision and thought and cohesive remembrance of anything other that Victor kissing him. Than feeling Victor's mouth find his, again. Than pushing up to find it, dizzy, desperate, electric snapping, against something that has nothing to do with balance, that doesn't care at all about balance, in those not-even-seconds between.
That doesn't care about does or doesn't. The thundering race of his heart running a marathon inside his body. His chest. His ears. Every joint. Fast. Loud. Hot. Against the rushing, bleeding, swallowing black behind his eyelids, defined not even into colors, but into swatches of heat, of impossible, reckless, overwhelming feeling, beyond any of the control he clutches at so tightly, especially in his head. Both dissolving into and tension defining every muscle.
The small jolt of his whole body when Victor's mouth leaves his and finds the top of his neck again.
A bursting bubble, pushing up through waves, rippling scalding heat in the center of his head, of his body, against the soft tickle and drag of Victor's hair on his cheek, the side of Victor's face next to his. The way there should be the pain, but for a moment it's not there. Not under the heated second of shock. Not under the way his bare heels dig into the bed, his lips throb, and his fingers are in Victor's hair, against the back of his head, his neck, caught in the pull of gravity between the bed below and beyond the wall of those arms, and Victor's body, Victor's mouth, above him.
None of this should be possible, and it is. Every short desperate pull for air.
The way his head tips back, hair and the back of his head brushing the pillow, barely, and just barely bent.
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skylark_photos
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Date: 2017-05-09 12:30 pm (UTC)That doesn't care about does or doesn't. The thundering race of his heart running a marathon inside his body. His chest. His ears. Every joint. Fast. Loud. Hot. Against the rushing, bleeding, swallowing black behind his eyelids, defined not even into colors, but into swatches of heat, of impossible, reckless, overwhelming feeling, beyond any of the control he clutches at so tightly, especially in his head. Both dissolving into and tension defining every muscle.
The small jolt of his whole body when Victor's mouth leaves his and finds the top of his neck again.
A bursting bubble, pushing up through waves, rippling scalding heat in the center of his head, of his body, against the soft tickle and drag of Victor's hair on his cheek, the side of Victor's face next to his. The way there should be the pain, but for a moment it's not there. Not under the heated second of shock. Not under the way his bare heels dig into the bed, his lips throb, and his fingers are in Victor's hair, against the back of his head, his neck, caught in the pull of gravity between the bed below and beyond the wall of those arms, and Victor's body, Victor's mouth, above him.
None of this should be possible, and it is. Every short desperate pull for air.
The way his head tips back, hair and the back of his head brushing the pillow, barely, and just barely bent.