The red-orange is a soft fade as his breathing continues to lengthen, continues to deepen. It doesn't fade, as the lights don't dim or change from anything they've been the whole time. He says those two so soft, known, but equally as founded as unfounded words, and there's a good long stretch, broken only by a continued tension in Victor above and against him, that seems to get tenser, fingers pressing harder for a second, before he shifts. Just barely. Enough to flicker Yuri's eyelashes and list him barely toward it and the hyper-awareness of it.
Victor. Being touched. (More.) Victor's face still buried against him, and Victor's hand. Disjointed, but all him.
Victor's hand, half under him and half curled up his side, slipping there, under and sliding down his side, sending out a strange, sparking, elastic warning of its coming, and swallowing right after with the warm cuff of a slow slide of fingers over his so thin shirt. Over his ribs, and his trying stomach, and settling against his waist and for a second that Yuri can't decide if he's just aware of it, and holding his breath, or waiting, before something else shifts, and Victor breaths out into his skin, snapping his focus to his neck under it.
The breath against it. Warm and calculated slow, like a specific requirement. Warmth tickling almost and dragging him back to full focus, with a faintly unsteadily lurch from, he's not quite sure where. Not when his attention centers back on that breath.The tickle and the even pressure of the air. The same kind of press on the air as the shift of muscles and body, releasing and being pushed back looser, over the top half of him. Shoulders widening a little, breath back in, with the expansion of his lungs, slightly deeper.
The way the muscles even under his fingers on Victor's neck try to stretch and press out more. His fingers stretch a little more, curl a little closer, as though not wanting to lose anything if was already touching, before his thumb shifts, if a question of movement, and then the soft, simplicity of it. Brushing his thumb gently back and forth along the side of Victor's throat and the ends of his hair, and for a second, Yuri has the unexpected urge to yawn tapping at the back of his throat.
Not long. Long enough to feel it in what feels like the whole bottom half of his face, before Victor is adding more words than his single first affirmative and it slides back, without happening, behind the idea of knowing but not understanding. Those next words don't fall under either. Good, then like it's some obvious equation. Good, then like that made some sort of sense. Good, then and Yuri is running mental fingers through a million memories of these months, for anything that even looked remotely like Victor had ever seemed like that in his presence.
Breathless because of him. Flustered by him. Even, just barely, here and gone ruffled.
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Date: 2017-05-13 12:52 pm (UTC)The red-orange is a soft fade as his breathing continues to lengthen, continues to deepen. It doesn't fade, as the lights don't dim or change from anything they've been the whole time. He says those two so soft, known, but equally as founded as unfounded words, and there's a good long stretch, broken only by a continued tension in Victor above and against him, that seems to get tenser, fingers pressing harder for a second, before he shifts. Just barely. Enough to flicker Yuri's eyelashes and list him barely toward it and the hyper-awareness of it.
Victor. Being touched. (More.) Victor's face still buried against him, and Victor's hand. Disjointed, but all him.
Victor's hand, half under him and half curled up his side, slipping there, under and sliding down his side, sending out a strange, sparking, elastic warning of its coming, and swallowing right after with the warm cuff of a slow slide of fingers over his so thin shirt. Over his ribs, and his trying stomach, and settling against his waist and for a second that Yuri can't decide if he's just aware of it, and holding his breath, or waiting, before something else shifts, and Victor breaths out into his skin, snapping his focus to his neck under it.
The breath against it. Warm and calculated slow, like a specific requirement. Warmth tickling almost and dragging him back to full focus, with a faintly unsteadily lurch from, he's not quite sure where. Not when his attention centers back on that breath.The tickle and the even pressure of the air. The same kind of press on the air as the shift of muscles and body, releasing and being pushed back looser, over the top half of him. Shoulders widening a little, breath back in, with the expansion of his lungs, slightly deeper.
The way the muscles even under his fingers on Victor's neck try to stretch and press out more. His fingers stretch a little more, curl a little closer, as though not wanting to lose anything if was already touching, before his thumb shifts, if a question of movement, and then the soft, simplicity of it. Brushing his thumb gently back and forth along the side of Victor's throat and the ends of his hair, and for a second, Yuri has the unexpected urge to yawn tapping at the back of his throat.
Not long. Long enough to feel it in what feels like the whole bottom half of his face, before Victor is adding more words than his single first affirmative and it slides back, without happening, behind the idea of knowing but not understanding. Those next words don't fall under either. Good, then like it's some obvious equation. Good, then like that made some sort of sense. Good, then and Yuri is running mental fingers through a million memories of these months, for anything that even looked remotely like Victor had ever seemed like that in his presence.
Breathless because of him. Flustered by him. Even, just barely, here and gone ruffled.
Ever.
Even once.
Even just for a single second.