Victor's skin under his thumb is softer than he's ever imagined (and had he? Had he imagined this? Not this. Only certain things, dreams, trapped seconds of confused reaction. Moments he was certain. Moments that weren't real. Reactions the were impromper and out of place, that shouldn't have come up. Not from Victor just spurring him on to do Eros right, or Victor drunk and forgetting that Yuri was even Yuri.
Right?)
Except Victor's face is tipping up, into his thumb, into his curled fingers tips, into his too warm palm, all of it, and Victor's hands tighten on his waist, skin, under his shirt, and he's says Yuri's name with the kind of plaintive, gasp of want that even Yuri can't miss it. Blushes, blinking, even as something in the center of him gives a pleasurable shudder in a way he's not sure he ever knew it could. He could.
Like everything he's ever known about himself, his body, the things he's done with it, himself alone, his heart, and Victor (the jolt of the whole of that notion, with and Victor as an actual list inclusion and clause), all of it is changing, on the head of this pin, this day, this moment, this moment. While Yuri can't stop. He can't stop at where he is. When his thumb reaches the top of Victor's cheekbone not far from his temple, under that hair, and the first of his three fingertips drag down the edge of Victor's face.
When he doesn't want to be done yet, and he almost wants to lean in and press his lips, just there, right where the center of his cheekbone is. Where nothing touches but his bangs, and the whole world seems half hidden, or Victor is half-hidden from it, from everyone. An untouchable and perfect star, and yet still there, right under the touch of Yuri's fingers. Saying Yuri can touch him, sounds like ... like he wants him to.
Where just the startling clarity of that consideration, the want to do it -- and not the whisper thin comparison and snide comment his brain tries to throw out, of how juvenile he sounds, to even question whether he should could can place a kiss on Victor's skin, after Victor had covered both sides of his neck in kisses , after Victor had already said he could touch him -- makes him color, soft and pink at the highest part of his cheeks, makes him feel reckless and bolder than he thinks he's maybe ever felt outside of a long perfect stretch of ice.
When he holds in his head, in his hand, like a surprised slip of fingers. Or a shell, Victor found on the beach in the summer.
A coal glowing in his chest, when his fingertips trace down his jawline, trying, trying so hard not to offend some level of profanity and perfection when they wobble, so very imperfectly, between above the line of it and below, before pausing. Just a second. Just stuttering, forgetting, painful moment. Forgetting entirely his first thought. Because it's obliterated away by the staggering pound of his heart when his fingers stop against the bottom of his chin.
When he can't breathe, and he might never stop again, and he still watches his fingers move, even shaking slightly, more than even seems to feel them. To touch the bottom of Victor's lips, right off to the side the center. Victor's lips that have changed everything. Everything, Yuri thinks, with a thrill that is made both of fire and ice ( ... the way he is? The way Victor is?). Everything that was ever anything, and all of him with it.
![[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 07:03 pm (UTC)Victor's skin under his thumb is softer than he's ever imagined (and had he? Had he imagined this? Not this. Only certain things, dreams, trapped seconds of confused reaction. Moments he was certain. Moments that weren't real. Reactions the were impromper and out of place, that shouldn't have come up. Not from Victor just spurring him on to do Eros right, or Victor drunk and forgetting that Yuri was even Yuri.
Right?)
Except Victor's face is tipping up, into his thumb, into his curled fingers tips, into his too warm palm, all of it, and Victor's hands tighten on his waist, skin, under his shirt, and he's says Yuri's name with the kind of plaintive, gasp of want that even Yuri can't miss it. Blushes, blinking, even as something in the center of him gives a pleasurable shudder in a way he's not sure he ever knew it could. He could.
Like everything he's ever known about himself, his body, the things he's done with it, himself alone, his heart, and Victor (the jolt of the whole of that notion, with and Victor as an actual list inclusion and clause), all of it is changing, on the head of this pin, this day, this moment, this moment. While Yuri can't stop. He can't stop at where he is. When his thumb reaches the top of Victor's cheekbone not far from his temple, under that hair, and the first of his three fingertips drag down the edge of Victor's face.
When he doesn't want to be done yet, and he almost wants to lean in and press his lips, just there, right where the center of his cheekbone is. Where nothing touches but his bangs, and the whole world seems half hidden, or Victor is half-hidden from it, from everyone. An untouchable and perfect star, and yet still there, right under the touch of Yuri's fingers. Saying Yuri can touch him, sounds like ... like he wants him to.
Where just the startling clarity of that consideration, the want to do it -- and not the whisper thin comparison and snide comment his brain tries to throw out, of how juvenile he sounds, to even question whether he should could can place a kiss on Victor's skin, after Victor had covered both sides of his neck in kisses , after Victor had already said he could touch him -- makes him color, soft and pink at the highest part of his cheeks, makes him feel reckless and bolder than he thinks he's maybe ever felt outside of a long perfect stretch of ice.
When he holds in his head, in his hand, like a surprised slip of fingers. Or a shell, Victor found on the beach in the summer.
A coal glowing in his chest, when his fingertips trace down his jawline, trying, trying so hard not to offend some level of profanity and perfection when they wobble, so very imperfectly, between above the line of it and below, before pausing. Just a second. Just stuttering, forgetting, painful moment. Forgetting entirely his first thought. Because it's obliterated away by the staggering pound of his heart when his fingers stop against the bottom of his chin.
When he can't breathe, and he might never stop again, and he still watches his fingers move, even shaking slightly, more than even seems to feel them. To touch the bottom of Victor's lips, right off to the side the center. Victor's lips that have changed everything. Everything, Yuri thinks, with a thrill that is made both of fire and ice ( ... the way he is? The way Victor is?). Everything that was ever anything, and all of him with it.