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Immaculate Dream, Made Breath and Skin

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By the time he turned fifteen, Yuuri had made two important discoveries: that Victor Nikiforov was not just the greatest skater alive but also the hottest man on the planet, and that if he thought about Victor while fingering his asshole and pulling on his cock he could come hard enough to hit his chin.

Yuuri used all his off-ice time learning his own body with hands playing a part envisioned for someone else. Adolescence made him a useless ball of endless need; every movement was fiery agony between his legs, and the dark, hot core of him ached to be filled. The professional admiration he'd felt as a kid morphed into smoldering want as he grew older. The first time he saw Victor's short program at the 2011 Worlds, he had to excuse himself to the bathroom where he shoved three fingers inside himself and came in two strokes, the image of powerful thighs beneath his own and the spill of pale hair over his shoulder enough to make him jerk a second time. He had to stay in the stall for almost ten minutes to calm down. It took even longer to remind himself that he was training to be a professional figure skater and remembering how to walk shouldn't be so hard.

He spent so much time fantasizing about Victor over the course of his stay in Detroit—Victor's fingers, his mouth, his cock, and all the things that they could do together to stretch the limits of human biology—that Celestino would have been well within his rights to kick Yuuri out of the program. Phichit walked in on him using the rubber dildo he'd shamefully bought at the sleazy shop on Michigan Ave and sobbing Victor's name so many times that Yuuri has no idea why Phichit even still talks to him.

Almost half his life has been spent training for the day that Victor Nikiforov takes him to bed, so when it finally happens after the Grand Prix Final, Yuuri's prepared. More than prepared: he's ready. No one's ever touched him as a lover, sure, but there's nothing that he hasn't already dreamed about doing or having done to him to make anything that could happen a shock.

But he's said it before and he'll say it again: Victor lives to surprise him.

Nine years of getting off to the idea of Victor fucking him through the mattress—and in various public places all over the world—could never have prepared him to be on his hands and knees, gasping into the sheets, while desperate fingers spread his ass open and bare him to a hot gaze, which he can almost feel. His hole clenches at nothing, grasping and greedy, practically begging for Victor to make good on years of imagining his cock sliding hot and slick inside.

"Victor, oh my god, please," Yuuri groans, the sheet dragging across the back of his teeth until he gags a little around it, needing something, anything, to fill his mouth. He'd tried to fit Victor's cock all the way to the back of his throat, but it was too much too fast. He wants to try again. He wants Victor to fuck him so deep that he chokes on his cock anyway.

"Yuuri." It's practically bitten out, so unlike the reverent caress that turns his name into spun sugar, to be consumed gently and savored. Now it sounds as though a fist has forced its way into Victor's diaphragm to pull it out of him. "Боже, look at you."

His hole clutches frantically at the thumb that brushes against it, and Yuuri whines around the sheet, thwarted, when nothing else follows.

It started out as he always thought it would: with sweet, drugging kisses, with Yuuri shuddering under Victor's worshipful touch, every gentle press of his lips to newly bared skin a benediction made of ice and sunlight. Minutes dripped by like hours as a clever mouth slowly dismantled every inch of him, and Yuuri couldn't think of a time he'd been so present in his own body, so aware of his iron-clad control slipping away from him kiss by stroke by murmur. Victor would stop exploring whatever new territory he'd claimed to travel back up and press his smile to Yuuri's lips, whisper secrets in an impossible, guttural tongue to the stretch of skin behind his ear. Every part of him was alive and straining, an exposed nerve trembling under the onslaught of panting breath and the murmurs of utter adoration.

Yuuri had laughed, high-pitched and stretched thin, and gasped, "This is exactly like I imagined."

"Tell me," Victor had rumbled as his fingers rolled over Yuuri's nipples, his teeth playfully tugging at his throat. "What did little Yuuri imagine all those nights in his bed?"

In all honesty, he's not sure what he burbled to make Victor pull away, eyes wide and pupils blown, but the simmering heat between them combusted, and Yuuri found himself on his front with Victor biting a line of filthy expletives down the notches of his spine. All's well that ends well, he supposes.

Except Victor still isn't doing anything, and this sort of idleness isn't getting them anywhere. This is not what he had in mind when he was eighteen and feeling his insides shift to make way for the only thing that could ease the nagging, painful craving. He needed to be filled then and he needs it now.

Shivering, Yuuri reaches back and slides his fingers over Victor's where they hold him open, and he spreads himself even wider. It's humiliating and grotesque, but he's never felt so hot, so wanton, with his hole spasming when Victor's thumb returns to tease at it, pressing in just the slightest bit. Yuuri keens like a wounded animal. The pound of blood in his ears is so loud that he can barely hear Victor moan, "Yuuri, would you let me—"

Victor doesn't finish. Instead, he reaches out and presses his fingers to the head of Yuuri's cock, smearing the precome there over his thighs, dragging it up over his perineum, slick, and back to his hole.

"Anything," Yuuri sobs, holding himself open. His thighs tremble with the strain and for a moment he thinks he might collapse, but he's worked harder than this for the scraps of pleasure his imagination could scrounge up; he can do better for the real thing. "Victor, why won't you do something."

Lips brush the bone at the small of his back, a tongue darting out to taste the sweat that's gathered there, and then move lower. Hot breath washes over where his fingers grip the swell of his cheeks, over the greedy clutch of his hole.

"I didn't get to kiss a gold medal today, so I guess this will have to do."

Before Yuuri can figure out what he means, Victor buries his mouth right there. He squeals into the sheets, piggy piggy, his grip on his ass falling away in shock as Victor picks up the slack, spreading him wider until Yuuri's muscles tighten and his spine locks.

"Oh my god," he chokes out. His chest is going to collapse, his stomach is going to rise into his throat. It's positively lewd. It's the hottest thing he's never thought of. "Oh my god, Victor—"

He can feel himself clutching at Victor's filthy tongue, but then it's gone, replaced by a mouth that sucks at his rim, kissing his hole like a mouth and moaning as though it's the best thing he's ever tasted. The noises are so loud, so wet, and he feels swollen, twitching in horror and ecstasy, like he'll never be able to close his legs around the place where Victor's forcing his tongue inside, flicking just a little bit where he's scorching. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, dripping down his thigh, and he wants to wrap his fingers around it, fuck into his own touch and back onto Victor's stabbing tongue, but his hands won't let go of the sheets.

"You take it so beautifully," Victor rasps as he forces Yuuri's hips up more so he can suck the skin of his perineum. Yuuri wails. "You were made for this."

God, he doesn't even know. What would Victor think if he could see 15-year old Yuuri press spit-slick fingers to his hole, alone in his room with dozens of strangers downstairs eating wholesome meals and talking to his parents? What would he do with 18-year old Yuuri, sneaking out to venture into that store, asking the leering clerk practically through tears if they had anything a little bit bigger? Or even the Yuuri from months ago, only a few rooms down the hall, clenching around a dildo just this side of too much while shoving his own fingers down his throat, imagining it was him all along? For the last nine years, when he wasn't on the ice, he was a creature made entirely of pleasure to be used only at Victor's say-so. Every step he's ever taken has brought him here.

Victor presses an almost nasty kiss to his loose, sopping hole, and then two fingers slide around his tongue to tease at his rim, sliding in right to the knuckle with startling ease. "Oh my god, Yuuri, look how much you want it."

"I want it." The relief that breaks through him at the feel of Victor's fingers brushing against his prostate dresses up the words in a pretty sob. "I want it all the time, Victor, please, I need it—"

"C-Can you take another?"

He shoves his finger into his mouth, gets it nice and wet, before reaching back to slip it in alongside Victor's two. Victor gasps around his name and bathes the stretched skin just above Yuuri's stuffed hole with his tongue, sucking hot at the flesh there as his fingers stretch to rub on the outer edge of his prostate.

"I'm—I'm ready, Victor, please." He's been ready for years, and he's gotten to the point where fingers and tongue aren't enough. He flails an arm in the direction of the nightstand, and Victor stretches over to open the drawer, groaning a little when he finds the lubricant that Chris had given Yuuri with a conspiratorial wink two nights ago. Yuuri had been absolutely mortified, but not enough to throw it away.

"I wonder," Victor says, faint, thoughtful, and he takes their joined fingers out. A cold squirt of lubricant hits his hole like a slap, and he hisses, back arching, but Victor doesn't give him any time to get used to it or rub it in before Yuuri's howling into the sheets as Victor's cock splits him right up to the hilt in a single go. His body doesn't even put up a fight.

Yuuri's knees buckle, but Victor's arm slides around his waist to hold him up, pulling Yuuri with him when Victor sits back without dislodging the fat cock inside of him, sliding impossibly deeper with the new angle. Crying weakly, Yuuri's head falls back onto Victor's shoulder, unable to stay up. Light fills him up inside, popping like embers being forced to reignite, as Victor's cock slots against his prostate. Yuuri's right foot jerks at the sudden strike of heat in his belly, helpless.

"You're burning inside," Victor breathes against his cheek, then nudges his chin up to lick at the skin behind his ear. His hips begin a syrupy slow thrusting that makes sparks go off behind Yuuri's eyes. "I can feel your heart beating around me, Yuuri."

Because he's awful, he punctuates that with a quick slap to Yuuri's thigh and, startled, Yuuri clenches around his cock. It's like taking a sudden fall on the ice, the air punching out of him and leaving him to blink dumbly at the ceiling.

Victor chuckles, like Yuuri's a child who's done something particularly charming, and snaps his hips. Hard. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh is obscene. "Did you imagine this, Yuuri? Is it exactly as you wanted?" A hand slides into his hair and yanks it back, baring his throat for tongue and teeth. "Because it's better than the best thing I could've dreamed of. Yuuri, you're amazing."

When they were kids, Takeshi used to make him watch the most horrendous hentai on his dad's computer that starred tiny girls with impossibly large breasts that bounced when they were fucked on huge, veiny cocks. Eventually their cries would stop and their eyes would roll into their heads and their tongues would loll out of slackened jaws, overcome by the fucked-out inevitability of being broken by pleasure. He feels exactly like that, a marionette with its strings cut, and thinks that Yuuri at 15, at 18, at 23 had no idea what was to come. Nothing could have prepared him for this.

Victor wraps a hand around Yuuri's cock, thumb sliding through a wad of precome to rub at the underside of the head, while his own carves out a space inside Yuuri's body, grinding right up against his prostate.

Choking pitifully on tears, he turns to draw his tongue up the hard line of Victor's throat, over his jaw. He tastes like salt and the champagne from earlier. "More."

No one can say that Victor is nothing if not obliging, because his thrusts go from fluid to fierce, hips pistoning so fast that Yuuri's spine bends under the onslaught, little cries of confused pleasure finding their way of out him.

The hand in his hair turns his head to meet a deep kiss, and Yuuri whimpers into it, stuffed at both ends by Victor's tongue and cock, unable to do anything but take it. The familiar coil of tightening pleasure begins growing bright thorns that score the soft insides of his belly and ass, and his cock, leaking all over Victor's fist, pulses in warning.

Hips stuttering, the rhythm breaking down, Victor presses his mouth to Yuuri's temple and whispers tightly, "I'm gonna come."

"Please," Yuuri sobs, grinding down and clenching as hard as his body will allow, fucked out and sloppy and so close. "Victor, please, I want it. Fill me, please. I want it, it's all I've ever wanted—"

Victor's fist flies over his cock, his other hand sliding around to pluck at his nipple, and Yuuri loses the words as blinding pleasure cuts him with the precision of a blade over ice, writhing helplessly as stripes of come paint his belly and throat. Grunting, Victor licks it from his neck, working him ruthlessly through his orgasm, and Yuuri watches his come drip down Victor's fingers through blurry eyes. He closes them, shuddering, oversensitive, at the drag of the cock still moving inside him and the hand still stroking over his own.

"I want it," he tries to say, but he can't get it out, and just mouths it over and over against Victor's cheek. "I want it, I want it, I want—"

With a punched-out cry, Victor comes hard and hot inside him, and a shivery moan claws its way out of Yuuri at the phantom flutter of it. God, he can almost feel the wet burn, and the thought of it is so hot that he rocks himself on Victor's cock to chase the last of his pleasure before it abandons him altogether.

"Yuuri." There it is, the familiar softness rounding his name like the gentle fall of surprise snow in March, and Yuuri tilts his head back to accept the lush kiss that Victor presses to his mouth.

He's loath to get off him, wants to stay right where he is forever, but Victor's cock is starting to soften and their position is starting to become uncomfortable. His thighs scream in relief when he rolls onto his side and stretches out.

Still panting, face blotchy and pink, Victor reaches for his Makkachin dispenser and grabs a handful of tissues, gently cleaning up the mess, then balls them up and lobs them in the direction of the trash can. Yuuri can't see if they make it in. He can barely keep his eyes open.

"So," Victor says brightly. He's way too awake for someone who did most of the work. Aren't guys supposed to just roll over and fall asleep after coming? Yuuri always does. "You never answered my question. Was it everything you dreamed of?"

Sighing, Yuuri allows himself to be tugged up against Victor's side, pillowing his head on Victor's shoulder. He presses a kiss to skin and closes his eyes, nine years worth of triumph lulling him into a half-doze. "It was definitely podium-worthy."

Victor laughs and brushes his lips over Yuuri's hair. "That's impressive, medaling at a debut."

"Well, we have plenty of time to set records," Yuuri hums, drifting. "Years to perfect the routine and make history together."

A hand cups his jaw without any intent, fingers splaying wide. This used to be the way all his fantasies ended: the two of them pressed together, basking in the closeness, the understanding that when they woke up, it would be to greet the new day together.

He never could have imagined what body-warmed gold would feel like against his skin, though.