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oh my god they were roommates

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Viktor Nikiforov has a problem. A dark-haired, brown-eyed, and very naked problem.

“Have you seen my towel anywhere?” the problem asks as he shuffles through the living room, his hair still dripping from the shower that he’s just finished. Viktor looks past the open door to their shared bathroom, and has never felt more solidarity with the steam slowly wafting out of the doorway than he does now.

Slowly, he raises his phone so that it’s directly obscuring his line of sight. “No,” he says, determinedly flicking through Instagram posts and trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the problem’s footsteps receding into his bedroom. “Have you checked your room?” he offers. “I’m pretty sure it’s not in mine.”

“I just want to be sure,” replies the problem, with a problematically sweet voice. Viktor swallows hard, dredging his glance upwards at the sound of rummaging. Moments later the problem emerges, and Viktor quickly submerges himself again in his scrolling.

“It’s probably in your laundry,” he mumbles, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on the screen and not at all on the way the afternoon light glistens off the curves of the other man’s ass. Viktor Nikiforov has a problem, and that problem is named Yuuri Katsuki, his unfairly gorgeous dancer roommate.

His unfairly gorgeous dancer roommate who also happens to be quite hung, but Viktor is not going to fixate on that.

Yuuri strides into his room, closing the door behind him, and Viktor groans as he sinks into his armchair. His poodle Makkachin’s tail wags slyly at him a couple feet away on the couch. Slowly dragging his hands down his face, Viktor looks over at the closed door, and tries not to think about just how pretty and perfect and thick Yuuri’s cock is, especially in comparison to his perky ass — which Viktor has, to his personal shame, admired on numerous occasions prior to this.

Yuuri Katsuki is the new principal of the Baranovskaya Dance Company this upcoming season. His lissome body has been plastered all over the billboards downtown, especially near the Ina Bauer Dance Theatre. The Ina Bauer technically isn’t on the way to Viktor’s own work at the little tech startup he’d founded two years ago, but he goes by anyway, just to admire how the cameras caress Yuuri’s graceful form and expressive gestures.

Not a day goes by where he hasn’t fantasised about putting his hands on that body, on seeing what sort of expressions he could coax out of that face. Yuuri is beautifully untouchable in those billboards, but in person — in the nude, no less — he is temptation itself. The last cookie in the jar. The last drop of drinkable water on a stranded raft at sea.

The door to the room suddenly flies open. “It’s not there, either,” says Yuuri, and this time Viktor deliberately keeps his gaze fixed above Yuuri’s collarbone, definitely not focusing on the way he’s silhouetted in the light filtering in through the bedroom windows. Yuuri steps forward, and Viktor tries not to shrink back too far as he smiles and shrugs.

“You could borrow mine?” he ventures.

A smile curves onto Yuuri’s lips. “Oh, you don’t mind?” he asks. Mutely, Viktor shakes his head, so Yuuri turns and flounces back into the bathroom, seizing Viktor’s green towel and securing it firmly around his waist.

Viktor has never been more jealous of a piece of terrycloth than he has in that moment.

“Roommate problems again?” wonders Christophe idly over a glass of wine.

Viktor groans as he swirls his own glass, resting his head on the counter. “You could say that,” he sighs. “It’s laundry day.”

“Laundry day,” echoes Christophe. His mobile pings with a message; he fires off a response, before nodding at Viktor to continue.

“The closer it gets to laundry day, the sluttier his outfits get,” explains Viktor. “And L-Day is the worst of the bunch. Today he’s got on booty shorts that say ‘Are You Nasty?’ and I am afraid of my answer.”

“…Your answer?” prompts Christophe.

“I am nasty,” moans Viktor, looking forlornly up at his useless wine bar-owning friend. “I should just turn myself over to the local church and make them prescribe penance. Father forgive me for I have sinned, because I keep thinking about fucking my roommate over the washing machine.”

Christophe’s eyebrows vanish somewhere in his bleach-blond curls. Viktor hides his face in his arms.

Every time, Chris,” he complains. “Every time I catch a glimpse of him in his ridiculous laundry outfits, bending over the machine… I just — want to be the one doing that.”

“You want to bend your roommate over the washing machine.” Christophe takes a sip of wine. “And you want to fuck him.”

“Well, not immediately,” Viktor protests. He’s more than a little grateful for the fact that he’s the only person at the bar; some people might have conniptions at seeing the founder of the Aria dating app complain about not being able to make a move on his own damn roommate. Christophe, who’s been with him since university, nods sagely.

“Just sticking it in wouldn’t do your months of longing any justice at all,” he agrees. “You should wine and dine him first. Or at least eat him out before you take him home.”

Viktor gapes at him. “You’re making fun of me,” he accuses.

Christophe’s expression is innocent. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies airily. “But I have been hearing about your roommate woes since move-in day.”

Viktor feels warmth crawl from his ears across his cheeks and nose. “No way.”

Christophe shakes his head. “On the first day of Thirstmas, Yuuri wore a loose blue tank top that let his nipples show. I only know this because you spent half an hour talking about it.”

Viktor finishes his wine glass. “Fuck me,” he declares.

Christophe chuckles. “I’m sure he’s willing to,” he teases. “After all, if I wanted to seduce my red-blooded roommate, I’d be running around in the skimpiest clothes I own, too.”

Viktor rolls his eyes, and shuts Christophe up by ordering a bottle of wine.

When he returns to their flat with the bottle, the first thing he notices is the classical music filling every corner of the flat. Toeing off his shoes, Viktor looks around just in time to see Yuuri emerge from the laundry nook of their flat with a hamper full of clothes.

“Hey! Sorry for the mess,” Yuuri says cheerily, wiggling his hip towards the hamper in his arms. Viktor quickly clutches onto the doorknob, trying not to collapse at the sight of the accursed ‘Are You Nasty?’ shorts dangling over Yuuri’s perky ass.

“Laundry day,” he remarks, nodding. “I got some wine.”

“Great!” Yuuri steps gracefully towards his room. Viktor’s not sure if he’s imagining the extra sway in Yuuri’s hips, but he decides not to comment on it.

The classical music is coming from Yuuri’s laptop, currently set on the kitchen counter. As Viktor stashes the bottle in the fridge, he looks over to see that the track is part of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet.

“Is that the new ballet of the season?” he asks as Yuuri comes over to fetch his laptop. His roommate flushes, nodding as he slams the lid closed, cutting off the music.

“I’m Romeo,” he says. “Not sure if I’m the best fit for it, but it’s the prima’s last season and she’s always wanted Juliet, so…” he trails off, shrugging, before abruptly heading back to his room. Viktor sighs, and whistles for Makkachin to come over so he can go take him out for a walk.

He catches a glimpse of Yuuri in the sliver of light from the doorway later that night, as he’s hanging up Makkachin’s leash and hefting a bag of Chinese takeout in his arms. Yuuri is practicing his footwork, if the music and flickering shadows across the floor are of any indication. Setting down the bag on the kitchen table, Viktor pads over silently and watches.

A light sheen of sweat slicks Yuuri’s skin; a furrow of concentration sets in his brow. Moving deftly through the choreography, Yuuri hammers out each turn and step with single-minded determination. Viktor is rooted to the spot with fascination, especially since Yuuri hasn’t changed out of his laundry outfit at all. In fact, the addition of his ballet shoes makes the entire ensemble even worse.

He clears his throat after a moment, knocking at the doorframe. Yuuri freezes, looking towards the door.

“I got dinner,” Viktor says. “If you want egg rolls, they’re on the table.”

It takes a minor miracle to move his legs away from the door.

It gets worse, however:

In addition to being the new principal of the Baranovskaya Dance Company, on the weekends Yuuri often teaches Barre classes. Viktor signs up for all the ones that he teaches, claiming that he needs to remember what good posture feels like after a work week hunched over his computer at the office.

“Your posture is fine,” Yuuri says as they approach the studio together. Viktor makes a face, having realised he’d just said that aloud.

“Not as fine as yours,” he replies, which is probably not the right thing to say to one’s roommate when one is trying to not check out his ass, but Viktor’s self-preservation where Yuuri is concerned has always been as nonexistent as water in the desert.

Yuuri’s cheeks flush at that. Without a word, he pushes open the door to the studio and gestures for Viktor to go in before him.

A hush falls across the other students already there as Yuuri enters. Some of them blush and giggle, their gazes transfixed on Yuuri as he strides to the front of the class. Viktor doesn’t blame them at all: today Yuuri is clad in a royal blue leotard and leggings, which means the entire class is getting an eyeful of his muscles rippling under tight spandex.

“All right everyone!” Yuuri says cheerily, getting into position at the barre and bending his knees into a first position plié that should not be nearly as sexy as it is, “let’s start with some leg warm-ups.”

The class passes in a blur. Viktor follows Yuuri’s instructions for each stretch, feeling the burn in his muscles with every one. Yuuri works them through different sets of poses and moves, all of it set to sugary Japanese pop. Viktor tries to keep his attention focused on his own inflexible joints and stiff muscles, though he can’t help but sneak occasional glances over to where Yuuri is folding his body and extending his legs as if all of this is as easy as breathing.

For him, it probably is. Viktor’s seen the new posters, and it should be criminal for someone to pull off tights and epaulets as dashingly as Yuuri does. Just like how it should be criminal for him to be wearing those leggings right now.

“You need to squeeze your glutes a little harder.” Yuuri’s voice cuts through his thoughts suddenly, causing him to startle. His roommate smiles, extending a hand. “Want some help with the form?”

Viktor swallows, nods. He doesn’t trust what he’d say otherwise.

Yuuri reaches out and gently places a hand on his pelvis. His breath tickles Viktor’s ear as he leans in, guiding his leg into the proper position. It burns a little, but Viktor’s cheeks are burning harder at the feeling of Yuuri’s hands on his hips.

“There we go,” Yuuri declares. “Now hold it a little longer before relaxing, and repeat that five times for the sets.”

Viktor is thankful for the presence of other people in the room. If they were alone, it’d be too easy to lean in and close the distance. Would Yuuri’s lips taste of his chapstick? Would they be flushed and swollen afterwards, parting breathlessly as Viktor reaches down to tear open those leggings to claim what he wants?

He could almost imagine it as he watches Yuuri correct the other students: the arch of Yuuri’s spine, the toss of his hair as he moves against Viktor’s body. He could probably bend Yuuri in half, stretch his legs into a pretzel, sweetly ask him to hold the pose as Viktor works him open and thrusts in.

“Viktor?” Yuuri’s breath is at his ear again, his hands at his hips. Viktor’s knees almost buckle. “We’re switching legs.”

Numbly, he nods, lets Yuuri guide his other leg into the same stretch, and clutches onto the barre for dear life as his knees wobble at Yuuri’s touch.

After that class, Viktor drops Barre, citing an increased work schedule. They’re releasing a major update to the Aria UI, streamlining profiles and enabling Instagram syncing. When he tells Yuuri that, his tease of a roommate tilts his head and pouts his lips.

“I’ll miss having you in class,” he says. Viktor wants to sweep him off his feet, which seems incongruous with such a simple, friendly statement. So he keeps his hands folded, and a small sad smile firmly on his lips.

“I’ll be back once the update’s launched and bugs are fixed,” he says, gesturing towards the door of the theatre. He offers his arm. “Want to get ice cream on the way home?”

Yuuri takes it readily, his cheeks flushing as he does. It’s the perfect accompaniment to the rest of his ensemble, which currently consists of an oversized cream-coloured jumper and carefully-rolled up jeans. He looks like a warm hug on a lazy Sunday morning, like sunshine distilled into human form. Viktor traces a line along the back of his hand, and thinks there’s nothing comparable to the perfection of Yuuri’s body against his.

The ice cream parlour isn’t far from their building, nestled under an awning of candy-striped white and red. Its floors and tables are polished, and the flavours are ever-changing on their little whiteboard. The teenager behind the counter scoops Yuuri a cone of vanilla and mint, while Viktor gets one of strawberry and butter pecan.

“Are you all right?” Yuuri asks as they sit down in a booth together, his eyes bright and inquisitive. They’re nowhere near accusatory, yet under his gaze Viktor feels pinned down like a butterfly on a collector’s board.

“All right?” he echoes, trying not to fixate on how Yuuri’s tongue deftly laps at the cone, or how that action seems to spark a direct line to his cock.

“You seem a bit flushed,” Yuuri remarks shrewdly, examining him over the top of his glasses. Viktor exhales, biting into his ice cream with what he hopes is a good approximation of innocence.

“I’m fine,” he lies. “You’ve got some ice cream on your…” he leans over, then, swiping a stray smudge of mint from the corner of Yuuri’s mouth. His roommate’s cheeks flush.

“Thanks,” he says, licking his lips. Viktor’s throat goes dry.

“No problem.” Viktor now desperately focuses on his own cone instead of the halo of sunlight filtering across Yuuri’s dark curls. “How’s rehearsals?”

Yuuri makes a face at that. “Busy. I’m sorry if I ever keep you up with the practicing.”

“You’re lucky I’m a deep sleeper,” lies Viktor. He’s been awoken by Prokofiev in the middle of the night more times than he can properly recall.

Yuuri chuckles. “Lucky me,” he agrees, fitting his mouth over the tip of the ice-cream. Viktor’s knees go weak under the table. “The season opening gala is this weekend, and Romeo and Juliet starts the day after. I feel like I’m going to wake up any minute, and all of it will have been a dream.”

“Have you tried pinching yourself?” Viktor teases. Yuuri pinches his forearm, and sighs.

“I know it isn’t, but it just… it feels too good to be true,” he admits. “Like any minute now Lilia is going to look at me and say I’m not actually cut out to be the principal.”

Viktor shakes his head. “You’re the most hard-working person I’ve met,” he says. “If anyone’s earned that spot, it’s you.”

“You’ve never even seen me dance,” Yuuri points out. Viktor blinks. The memory of Yuuri illuminated in the golden glow of his room as he tirelessly works through his steps hovers before his mind’s eye. He swallows.

“Is that an invitation for a private show?” he jokes, winking. Yuuri flushes, making Viktor’s heart flutter.

“Maybe someday,” Yuuri replies, finishing up his cone. Viktor’s dimly aware that he’s only halfway through his own.

He manages to finish it on the way back to to their apartment. As soon as they get their apartment door open and Makkachin petted, Yuuri carelessly shucks his shoes, stretches cat-like in a beam of sunlight from the window, and flops onto the couch, unbuttoning the fly of his jeans.

“These jeans are too tight,” he says matter-of-factly, as Viktor tries to hide the fact that he’s having a minor heart attack at the sight. “I’ll go get my shorts, if this bothers you —”

“It’s fine,” blurts Viktor, tearing his gaze from Yuuri’s thighs. He could kiss a trail along that skin, could trace designs from his ankle up those slender but strong legs, up to the hem of the big creamy jumper just barely hiding his black briefs. Like the ice cream cone he’d devoured earlier, Viktor would lick from the tip of his cock to the base, and then try to take in as much of him as he can.

“You’re flushing again,” Yuuri teases as he finally kicks off the offending jeans. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

Viktor wants to sink into the floor. “Sorry,” he says, but Yuuri only laughs, and tosses a wink over his shoulder as he skips into his room and closes the door.

Viktor waits for the sound of Prokofiev to begin, and then groans, burying his face in Makkachin’s curls. His poodle huffs amusedly. Viktor shakes his head.

“Shut up, Makka,” he chides.

Makkachin’s eyes twinkle knowingly in reply.

The next weekend, Viktor snaps.

It’s the night of the gala. Yuuri has hogged the bathroom for a good part of the afternoon, and the sound of sugary Japanese pop filters through the flat as he gets ready.

Viktor is reading a book with Makkachin in his lap when the music abruptly turns off. Looking up in the silence, Viktor realises that the shadows across the apartment floor have lengthened, and that the light from outside is growing ruddy in the early sunset. He turns on a lamp, adjusting his reading glasses before trying to dive back into the story.

The sound of a throat clearing thwarts that immediately. Viktor turns around, slamming his book closed on one finger as he takes in Yuuri’s evening ensemble.

It’s a suit. Sleek, slim-cut, and well-fitted, the navy ensemble brings out the warm tones of his skin, the bright sparkle in his eyes. Yuuri’s cheeks are flushed as he steps closer, holding up what is probably the ugliest tie Viktor has ever seen in his life.

“I can’t find any others,” Yuuri says. Immediately, Viktor springs into action. Swiping the offending neckwear from Yuuri’s fingers, he rushes into his own room and flings open his closet door, grabbing a slim black one to replace the eyesore. Yuuri smiles appreciatively at him as Viktor puts it around his neck, deftly tying a knot and smoothing down his lapels with slightly trembling fingers.

“There,” he says. “I can’t have my roommate go to his big night with a tie like that.” He jerks a thumb back to his bedroom.

“Thanks.” Yuuri smiles, and takes a step back, twirling in place. “How do you like this?”

“If you keep dressing like this, I’ll have no choice but to fuck you.”

The sentence escapes his throat before he can really grab ahold of it. But for some reason, Yuuri’s flush only deepens at that, and he reaches out to take Viktor’s hands, squeezing his fingers.

“You really think so?” he wonders. Viktor swallows down a groan.

He is so dead. There is no way this is happening to him while he’s alive.

But Yuuri is still smiling, his fingers sparking butterflies in Viktor’s stomach as they gently flutter from Viktor’s grasp. The buzzer rings, alongside Yuuri’s mobile. Viktor slowly sinks back into his seat.

“Phichit’s at the door,” Yuuri says as he pockets his phone. “He helped me pick this out, by the way.”

“He has a good eye,” replies Viktor, before mentally smacking himself. Of course a five-time winner of National Geographic’s Photographer of the Year would have a good eye. But then again, Phichit has the unfair advantage of a free license to photograph the eighth wonder of the world whenever he wants.

Said eighth wonder is now at the door, and for a moment Viktor yearns to cross the room, pull him in by the tie, and crush their lips together. Instead he smiles, averting his gaze from temptation. The door closes, Yuuri’s footsteps recede down the hall, and Viktor is left to his own ruminations while Makkachin rests his head in Viktor’s lap.

After a moment, he strides over to the fridge to pour himself a glass of wine. Makkachin barks in betrayal, glaring reproachfully at Viktor from over the back of the sofa, but Viktor pays him no mind as he clambers out of the living room window onto the fire escape with bottle and glass in hand.

The city stretches out below him, sunset tinting the glass façades of the financial district skyscrapers in shades of pink and gold. From up here, he can pretend to follow the route of Yuuri and Phichit’s cab across the Schiedam River to the beacon of sleek silver light that is the Ina Bauer Dance Theatre. Yuuri will be feted tonight, the subject of toasts and admiration and the glare of a thousand cameras. The entire world will fall in love with him, which seems so unfair considering Viktor had done it first.

A part of him regrets not acting on what he told Yuuri earlier. Regrets not striding over and kissing him, pressing him against the wall and leaving a mark on that lovely neck for the world to see. But Yuuri is only his roommate, so that might not have gone down as well as Viktor’s imagination insists it could.

Yet Yuuri had smiled and squeezed his fingers at his stupid declaration. Had flushed at all of Viktor’s other attempts at complimenting him. He could have just been trying to be nice, but would an average nice roommate say You really think so? with such a sweet smile in response to their roommate openly confessing to wanting them?

Maybe all of it — all of these outfits, all of these moments — had been part of a pointed message on Yuuri’s half. Or maybe his wine-drunk brain is just telling him that to try and get him to fuck things up.

Either way, he has to know now. Has to take that leap of faith.

“Fuck it,” says Viktor, and finishes his glass.

The sunset is dimming into twilight as he hails a cab for the Ina Bauer. “Heading to the gala?” asks the cabbie. Viktor nods.

“A friend of mine is in the company,” he explains through a tight smile.

“Tell them I said break a leg.” The cab passes a bus with an advertisement for Romeo and Juliet. “The new principal seems so nervous. I hope he doesn’t crack under the pressure tomorrow night.”

“What makes you say that?” Viktor asks.

“My last customers were talking about a video of him leaving the gala almost as soon as he showed up,” replies the cabbie. “It’s apparently making the rounds on social media.”

Viktor has his phone out before the man even finishes the sentence. “Mr Katsuki! What are your hopes for the season?” a reporter asks in a grainy camera feed. Yuuri blinks owlishly at them, fiddling with his tie.

I… love.” He’s white under his apprehension and the flashes of a thousand cameras. “I have to go.”

Mr Katsuki!” The press swarm in. “Do you have anything to say to your fans?”

Yuuri pauses, and looks directly into the reporter’s camera. “To the ones who haven’t seen me dance,” he says, “I’ve wanted this for a very long time.”

And then he tears out of the crowd.

Viktor looks up. Their cab is inching its way through the traffic congesting the Schiedam Bridge. The Ina Bauer glows in the distance, but — almost as if Viktor had willed him into being — there’s a familiar figure in a navy suit rushing along the walkway of the bridge.

Viktor pockets his phone. “Here is fine,” he says, pushing over the fare and escaping the cab before the cabbie can protest. With his heart in his throat, Viktor leaps over the barrier separating the walkway from the street, lurching into Yuuri’s path just in time for them to collide.

The apology dies on Yuuri’s lips as he looks up at Viktor with widening eyes. “Viktor?” he breathes. “What are you —”

“I’ve wanted this for a very long time,” Viktor says, and kisses him.

Yuuri freezes, but then he surges into the kiss, looping his arms around Viktor’s neck and drawing him in closer. The world narrows down to the space between their bodies, to the warmth of Yuuri’s fingers against his nape and the softness of his lips on Viktor’s own.

He can still dimly taste the sweetness of Yuuri’s chapstick as they break apart, momentarily breathless as their surroundings fall back into place around them. Yuuri traces the line of Viktor’s jaw with one finger, his expression fondly exasperated.

“I can’t believe it took you this long,” he says. “I was beginning to wonder if I hadn’t been explicit enough.”

“I didn’t — explicit?” Viktor feels like he’d been sucker punched instead of kissed. Yuuri laughs, moving his hands down to slide under Viktor’s coat, teasing his fingers against Viktor’s hips. “You planned this?”

Yuuri quirks an eyebrow. “Didn’t you say you’d have to fuck me if I kept on dressing like this?” he wonders, now pulling Viktor by the lapels of his coat down along the bridge. “Haven’t you realised already that that’s exactly what I want?”

Viktor’s pretty sure this should be taken as evidence that the concept of heaven exists, because how else could this be happening to him? “Where are you taking us?” he asks.

Yuuri’s smile is fond, but his eyes twinkle with promise. “Home,” he replies, and Viktor eagerly follows.

Viktor wakes to a sweet soreness in his lower back and kisses on his face.

“I’ve fed Makkachin,” Yuuri’s voice resounds from somewhere close to his ear. “We’ll have to take him out in a bit, but only after breakfast.”

For a moment, Viktor wonders if the events of last night had been a dream. If he’d somehow drunken himself into a heated fantasy about peeling Yuuri out of his perfect navy suit and guiding Yuuri’s perfect thick cock into him. But when his eyes open, he’s confronted by the vivid marks along Yuuri’s neck and the mischievous smile on his face, and the pièce de résistance: Viktor’s own striped shirt from last night carelessly draped over Yuuri’s lithe form.

“Oh my god,” breathes Viktor, because the rest of the English language has failed him.

“It’s just me,” retorts Yuuri, smiling as he sets down a tray of fluffy golden pancakes on the bed. Viktor pulls himself up with a slight wince, taking the fork as Yuuri moves the tray to his lap. “You’re okay, right? I know you haven’t… in a while.” His cheeks are redder than the sliced strawberries along the sides of the pancakes.

“It’s beautiful,” Viktor says, pouring some syrup across the pancakes and slicing into them. Yuuri nods, sitting on the edge of the bed. The striped shirt hangs off one shoulder; Viktor quickly takes a gulp of coffee to quench his sudden dry throat.

He only takes a couple bites of breakfast before he can’t take it anymore — Yuuri is here, so close, so warm. Surging forward, Viktor captures his lips, chasing down the strawberries and syrup with the sweetness of Yuuri’s sigh as he melts into the kiss. They only have the presence of mind to move the tray to the nightstand, before Yuuri straddles his hips and kisses him again.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, smiling wickedly against Viktor’s lips.

“Amazing,” breathes Viktor, his hands coming down to rest against Yuuri’s hips. “A little sore, but. Amazing.”

“Would you want…” Yuuri trails off, his fingers trailing down Viktor’s chest, slipping below the coverlets. A jolt of warm arousal hits Viktor in the gut.

“Please,” he breathes, bucking his hips up against Yuuri’s weight. Giggling, Yuuri scrambles off him and pulls back the covers before pushing him down against the pillows, kissing hungrily against his neck. Viktor’s fingers card through his hair, skim along the bumps of his vertebrae under the striped linen shirt.

“I can’t wait for the next weekend,” Yuuri breathes against his collar. “I’ve wanted your cock in me for the longest time, you can’t even imagine —”

“I think I could,” Viktor manages breathlessly. Yuuri huffs.

“What a pair we make,” he teases, and any thoughts of rebuttal fly out of Viktor’s mind as Yuuri’s mouth closes around his nipple. Almost unconsciously, Viktor’s legs fall open to let Yuuri slot between. The shirt bunches, teases against the tip of his rapidly hardening cock. Yuuri presses forward, and Viktor gasps as he feels the head of Yuuri’s cock tease against his entrance.

“Yeah?” Yuuri asks, flushing a little as he rocks his hips again. Viktor’s toes curl; he nods, bucking needily in Yuuri’s direction. With a soft chuckle, Yuuri rummages in the nightstand, and moments later Viktor feels slick fingers pressing into him, warm and slow.

He’s still a bit loose from last night, so it doesn’t take long for Yuuri’s fingers to retract and roll on a condom. Viktor lies back, breath hitched and heart racing as he feels Yuuri slowly enter him again. Last night had been more hurried, more desperate; now Yuuri’s strokes are indolent and loving, his fingers now taking the time to explore every plane and curve of Viktor’s body.

He pulls Yuuri closer to capture his lips, urging his hips a little faster. Yuuri complies, pressing a line of kisses down Viktor’s neck, along his throat. Viktor suspects he’s retracing marks from last night; in turn he digs his fingers harder into Yuuri’s ass, urging him in deeper.

Yuuri exhales against his collar, his fingers now tangling in Viktor’s hair again. “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. Viktor’s heart flutters; with a smile, he flips their positions, straddling Yuuri’s hips and driving himself down onto his cock. The sweet stretch of it, the hard warmth of Yuuri’s shaft rubbing against his prostate, and Yuuri, ethereal with the morning light dancing across his face, across the purpling marks that Viktor’s shirt aren’t even bothering to hide —

“I’m so close,” Viktor gasps, his hand wrapping around his own cock even as he continues to ride Yuuri’s at a increasingly frantic pace, chasing the edge of his release. “I’m so — Yuuri.”

“Yeah,” Yuuri’s face is flushed, his knuckles white against the sheets. He swipes a thumb across the head of Viktor’s cock, admiring the translucent strand of precome that comes away. “Don’t hold back, don’t —”

Viktor lets go. Yuuri’s hands stroke along his shaft, coaxing him over the edge. He only has the presence of mind to surge forward and cup Yuuri’s head with his hands, breathing Yuuri’s name in soft reverence against his lips as he comes all over Yuuri’s fingers.

Yuuri comes soon after, panting heavily against Viktor’s skin as he does. Pulling back, he licks his fingers clean before bringing Viktor closer by his waist. Viktor’s heart races, especially as Yuuri’s lips carelessly smudge kisses into his shoulders.

“What are we now?” he asks, as Yuuri finally pulls out of him. He falls back onto the pillows, listening to the sounds of Yuuri moving to dispose of the condom and wrappers. Moments later the bed sinks under Yuuri’s knee again, and soft kisses rain down along his shoulder blades.

“More than roommates, at least,” says Yuuri. “At least, I hope so?”

Viktor quickly sits back up, surveying the mess of clothes across the room, the cooling pancakes on the nightstand, the silhouetted form of Yuuri sitting hopefully across from him. For a moment, his breath flees him in the light of Yuuri’s eyes, in the soft quirk of his smile. This must be heaven, if the halo tousled across Yuuri’s hair is of any indication.

“Absolutely,” he says, leaning in closer. Yuuri’s smile widens, and he closes the distance.