Victor doesn't stop. He doesn't stop, and whatever it is in Yuri's stomach goes on tightening, before it's stumbling and bumbling, while Victor presses his face into Yuri's skin, and he thinks, in a burst of confusion then clarity that seems brighter and clearer than anything he's ever heard or seen, that he'll never forget that. This feeling. Victor's face pressed to his skin.
The way everything in him is starting to hopscotch and short, as Victor starts kissing back up his neck, this time not as slow or as specific. Like. Like. Yuri doesn't have the words. Language is hard. It's all tiles on a gameboard, falling out of his hands, on each new quick kiss. It feels giddy and slightly messy, and absolutely nothing like focused, and also still perfect. Slightly hilarious. Each one still a fire blossom against his skin, even as it's catching in his chest and he's curling, slightly to the side he'd been leaning, eyes crinkling.
When there's a snort, but it's resplendent and penny-bright in his eyes at Victor's first.
Impossible, insane words, after he's kissed Yuri's ear, and Yuri's jaw and Yuri is still trying not to squeak, and his cheeks hurt from this sudden, crazy smile, from an explosion of sparkles in his stomach, in the air, and this sudden, attack that feels nothing like seconds ago, and everything like everything he knows. Victor's overabundance of affection. Arms thrown around him from nowhere. A pile of legs, laughing on the floor. The overly playful nature he's grown so used to with it's extravagant over exaggeration that was so very foreign in the beginning.
Like this. This notion at all that Victor is the one who won't be able to stop. Who has no control.
But then he's got his mouth against the underside of Yuri's jaw, focused, pressing kiss and kiss and kiss to it, again before he can even answer, and it's all dazzlingly impossible to keep straight. It's like his body is still made of giddy summer sparklers, even submerged and going off in a pool of boiling water, and he wants to die in it. And he wants to never die because he wants to know, suddenly, certainly, what else there is. Beyond this, even.
He wants to still be here for whatever that is and however, it happens.
Here. With Victor. So very, very alive for it.
Even if his words, when Victor pulls back, are true. He knows they are. Even when they swing and swoop, in the too fast spaces between Yuri's rapid heart beats and it tenses everything in his stomach just a little too much, but he still answers. A floating question, when nothing about the pain in his skin holds a candle to everything else Victor has covered that pain with. Even if he's right, even if there's a slippery condensation of flickered tension in him at the offering.
![[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: 2017-04-15 03:03 pm (UTC)The way everything in him is starting to hopscotch and short, as Victor starts kissing back up his neck, this time not as slow or as specific. Like. Like. Yuri doesn't have the words. Language is hard. It's all tiles on a gameboard, falling out of his hands, on each new quick kiss. It feels giddy and slightly messy, and absolutely nothing like focused, and also still perfect. Slightly hilarious. Each one still a fire blossom against his skin, even as it's catching in his chest and he's curling, slightly to the side he'd been leaning, eyes crinkling.
When there's a snort, but it's resplendent and penny-bright in his eyes at Victor's first.
Impossible, insane words, after he's kissed Yuri's ear, and Yuri's jaw and Yuri is still trying not to squeak, and his cheeks hurt from this sudden, crazy smile, from an explosion of sparkles in his stomach, in the air, and this sudden, attack that feels nothing like seconds ago, and everything like everything he knows. Victor's overabundance of affection. Arms thrown around him from nowhere. A pile of legs, laughing on the floor. The overly playful nature he's grown so used to with it's extravagant over exaggeration that was so very foreign in the beginning.
Like this. This notion at all that Victor is the one who won't be able to stop. Who has no control.
But then he's got his mouth against the underside of Yuri's jaw, focused, pressing kiss and kiss and kiss to it, again before he can even answer, and it's all dazzlingly impossible to keep straight. It's like his body is still made of giddy summer sparklers, even submerged and going off in a pool of boiling water, and he wants to die in it. And he wants to never die because he wants to know, suddenly, certainly, what else there is. Beyond this, even.
He wants to still be here for whatever that is and however, it happens.
Here. With Victor. So very, very alive for it.
Even if his words, when Victor pulls back, are true. He knows they are. Even when they swing and swoop, in the too fast spaces between Yuri's rapid heart beats and it tenses everything in his stomach just a little too much, but he still answers. A floating question, when nothing about the pain in his skin holds a candle to everything else Victor has covered that pain with. Even if he's right, even if there's a slippery condensation of flickered tension in him at the offering.
"We could sit down?"