Work Header

Fierce Little Thing

Work Text:

"Vitya?" Yuuri rolls over in bed and cards his fingers through Viktor's bangs. "Tell me a secret from your past."

Viktor feels himself go cold all over. There are plenty of things he could tell Yuuri, things he's not ashamed of, but there is one thing he can never breathe a word of to anyone. And he's afraid that one day, these hot summer night confessionals will catch up to him.

Yuuri is restless in summer, often lying in bed and peppering Viktor with questions. He swallows, then says,

"Well, you remember the long hair?" He launches into the story of why he cut it; he'd gotten too old and the androgyny didn't fit anymore, Yakov had said. Viktor had known that what Yakov meant was that the skating world was starting to see something besides a phenomenal performer.

But as he speaks, words like little stones falling into a waterfall, his mind is elsewhere. He hates to do this with Yuuri, the man he is going to marry, but back when he skated he had become quite proficient at dividing his mind, and without intending to, he's doing that now.

"You'll choreograph a short program just for me!"

Yuri was little more than a grasping, petulant child at the time; Viktor thought it likely Yuri didn't accept the love of those willing to give it to him.

But Yuri grew up, bit by bit, and when he was fourteen, he became… a bit distressing to be around.

Because when Yuri was fourteen, he cornered Viktor in the men's changing room, and said, firmly, without any embarrassment:

"I want to fuck you, Vitya."

"Never going to happen, Yura," Viktor said. "I'm twelve years older than you. Much too old."

"I don't care." Yuri had shoved Viktor against an unused locker, and Viktor, surprised by his vehemence and the force of the push, stumbled backward and stood there, palms up.

"Yura, please, listen to sense," he tried. But Yura pressed against Viktor, chin nudged against Viktor's chest, and Viktor was loathe to move. He was older, bigger; he could easily manhandle Yura out of the way.

But Yura was a child, and obviously desperate for love. Later, if anyone had asked, Viktor would have said those were the only reasons why he let it happen.

Why he didn't stop it.

Why, when Yura clumsily melded their lips together, Viktor was frozen, brain on the fritz, unable to really comprehend that the child he cared for so much was actually assaulting him.

Then Yura's hands were between their bodies, inside Viktor's costume, on his soft dick. He was a child—! But it didn't seem to matter; hands on his sex made him hard regardless, and with a puff of breath he couldn't stop his hips from juddering forward, into the small hand that was gripping him so tightly it should have hurt—but instead it felt wonderful.

"Touch me back, Vitya," Yura said breathlessly, stroking and stroking. Viktor's body strained for release; Yura ground his own young erection against Viktor's thigh. He was so much shorter! Viktor tried to pull out of the embrace, to find some other way to soothe Yura besides sex, but Yura suddenly lifted one leg to Viktor's waist, and stared him straight in the eye. "Pick me up," he demanded, and Viktor didn't quite have the heart to refuse him: in those eyes was a wealth of pain, and Viktor died a little inside to see it.

So he grasped Yura's leg, slid his hand up under his buttock, and Yura leapt into the air—all grace and beauty—and wrapped his legs around Viktor.

"Yes, yes,, Vitya, please," Yura moaned, and those small, clever fingers circled Viktor's cock and nudged it upward. Yura had been stripped down to his naked skin, even before he trapped Viktor between a rock and a hard place. Viktor rather thought the hard place was actually his own dick.

"Yura, lube—" Viktor started to say, but again those intense green eyes stared into his.

"I don't need it," Yura said confidently. "I stretched myself already."

Against his will, an image popped into his mind of Yura widening his tight little hole with his fingers, and suddenly Viktor, who had been about seventy percent hard, was full of blood in that region and absolutely desperate for it.

"A condom, Yura—"

"Yes," Yura said, all swagger and arrogance. "Anyway, it's prelubed, so don't worry."

Talented, thief's fingers rolled the condom on, and whatever objections Viktor had had vanished. When Yura brought the crown of his cock to his entrance, Viktor stiffened and breathed out heavily; one fast push and he was inside Yura, his young, taut body gripping him like a vise.

Yura didn't need any help, or direction; he raised his own hips—the upper body strength he had!—and fucked himself raw on Viktor's dick until Viktor was gasping for air and coming, so fucking much, too much—

Yura bit Viktor's shoulder and broke the skin, using the meaty part to muffle his scream as he splattered them both with his come.

"And so I had to cut it," Viktor finishes, and hopes Yuuri won't notice his hard-on beneath the blanket.

He had lost his head completely that day, to give in to Yura like that. And everytime Yuuri begs for secrets, Viktor is afraid that this will be the time he tells Yuuri that he fucked the Russian Yuri long before he ever got to know the Japanese Yuuri.

He has to keep it a secret. He must.