Stop distracting me so I can call down is what's about to come out of his mouth next, a little tease to make Yuri blush and make his eyes shine, but he never gets the chance because all of a sudden there are fingers sinking into the thin fabric of his dress shirt and the thicker, but better fitted fabric of his vest right at the inner curl of his shoulder, first pushing him back and then yanking him forward, while his eyebrows shoot up and a stupid, surprised noise slips out from between his teeth like a string of question marks.
Almost surprising enough to miss that sound Yuri makes, but not quite, because it skips across his skin like a pebble on water and sinks in with a hiss of steam directly over his gut. From. That? Just his teasing? After he'd tackled Yuri on the ice and thrown himself in a hug at Yuri only moments ago here and then picked Yuri up to deposit him on his lap, and Yuri had only managed that one agonizingly slow exploration of Victor's forehead, temple, cheek, lip, in return, but this ––
It's like yesterday, just before Eros.
Don't ever take your eyes off me.
Words written in fire across his ribs, as impossible to disobey as they were unnecessary, but Yuri's grip, that sound, have the same effect now, with Victor's wide eyes staring at him in perfect compliance.
Anything. Anything. Anything. He'd do anything. Whatever Yuri wanted. What sort of black magic is this? Like Yuri directing him on the dance floor, and Yuri gripping his hand yesterday, and Yuri's forehead searing against his, and isn't he the one who's supposed to give the orders and be obeyed?
How is it he feels ready to live or die on a single word from someone who doesn't even know what they're doing to him? And why does he love it so much? More than seems right. Like the bliss of pure oxygen, whiting out his senses, deftly removing any attempt at sanity or shame or self-restraint, and if Yuri liked that –– if Yuri wants more ––
Victor certainly isn't going to deny him.
Leaning a little more carefully, his balance thrown all off by Yuri's grip on his shirt and vest, to run his mouth up the cord of muscle at the side of Yuri's neck, ending in the soft skin just below his ear, and nipping there, teeth light. There's a particularly satisfied –– it might even be smug note –– in the rumble of his voice, that gets said low and a little more hoarse than he'd ever admit to, with such little provocation, right there. "You're going to rip my shirt."
There are easier ways to get rid of it sharp and sticking in the back of his throat, but he does his best to swallow it. That would probably be a little more teasing that Yuri is strictly comfortable with.
no subject
Almost surprising enough to miss that sound Yuri makes, but not quite, because it skips across his skin like a pebble on water and sinks in with a hiss of steam directly over his gut. From. That? Just his teasing? After he'd tackled Yuri on the ice and thrown himself in a hug at Yuri only moments ago here and then picked Yuri up to deposit him on his lap, and Yuri had only managed that one agonizingly slow exploration of Victor's forehead, temple, cheek, lip, in return, but this ––
It's like yesterday, just before Eros.
Don't ever take your eyes off me.
Words written in fire across his ribs, as impossible to disobey as they were unnecessary, but Yuri's grip, that sound, have the same effect now, with Victor's wide eyes staring at him in perfect compliance.
Anything. Anything. Anything. He'd do anything. Whatever Yuri wanted. What sort of black magic is this? Like Yuri directing him on the dance floor, and Yuri gripping his hand yesterday, and Yuri's forehead searing against his, and isn't he the one who's supposed to give the orders and be obeyed?
How is it he feels ready to live or die on a single word from someone who doesn't even know what they're doing to him? And why does he love it so much? More than seems right. Like the bliss of pure oxygen, whiting out his senses, deftly removing any attempt at sanity or shame or self-restraint, and if Yuri liked that –– if Yuri wants more ––
Victor certainly isn't going to deny him.
Leaning a little more carefully, his balance thrown all off by Yuri's grip on his shirt and vest, to run his mouth up the cord of muscle at the side of Yuri's neck, ending in the soft skin just below his ear, and nipping there, teeth light. There's a particularly satisfied –– it might even be smug note –– in the rumble of his voice, that gets said low and a little more hoarse than he'd ever admit to, with such little provocation, right there. "You're going to rip my shirt."
There are easier ways to get rid of it sharp and sticking in the back of his throat, but he does his best to swallow it. That would probably be a little more teasing that Yuri is strictly comfortable with.