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Yuuri on Stiles

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Stiles sipped tea from a thermos and watched a young Japanese figure skater practice his routine. 

Stiles had never seen top-level figure skating in person before. He'd watched it on tv a few times before deciding it wasn't really for him. 

In person it was different. He could really see the athleticism, the effort and power that went into those graceful glides and spins. The skater's powerful legs, encased in black-and-blue exercise pants, propelled him, dangerously fast, over the ice; he effortlessly switched from foot to foot, blade to blade, reversed direction so quickly Stiles couldn't understand why he didn't fall. He leaned into his turns, swiveled his hips, arched his back and threw out his arms, opening his chest. He did a jump, spinning in midair, and when he landed - now skating backwards on one foot - the wind of his velocity blew his shirt up, exposing the small of his back.

It was hot.

Stiles was the proud owner of a brand-new BA, double-major in criminology and psychology, and a freshly-broken heart. In a month he'd pursuing his Master's at Georgetown University, and he had an internship lined up with the Justice Department. The internship was paid, but it wouldn't pay for Georgetown: he was looking down the barrel of big loans. It was gong to be a lot of hard work, far from home. Far from a certain gray-eyed man. He'd stressed out just thinking about it, and when he'd overheard a college friend say, in passing, that the mountains and springs of Kyushu were a perfect place to relax and get away from it all, Stiles had impulsively bought a plane ticket.  A vacation was just what he needed.

There wasn't a lot to do in Hatsetsu. The owner of his anonymous western-style hotel was buddies with the people who ran this ice rink, and suggested he might like to sit in and watch the skaters prepare for some big competition that was happening the next day. Stiles hadn't expected to enjoy it so much. But this was world class eye-candy.

Now the Japanese skater had come to a halt, and was being ticked off by his coach, an slim androgynous white guy with prematurely silver hair and what certainly appeared, at a distance, to be a mocking demeanor. The young skater clenched his fists with determination. Stiles watched them skate the routine together, side by side. Stiles could see, as the two men skated together, that the coach was far more fluid and confident. The younger skater's emotions were transparent, telegraphed by his body: anxiety, frustration.

Then the silver-haired coach dismissed the Japanese skater and began working with a little blonde teenager with a shitty attitude. The Japanese man came and sat on a bench near Stiles. He sighed, his body slumped with dejection.

Stiles took his phone out of his pocket, opened up a translator app, and said, "I'm sorry to interrupt. Are you okay?" Then he extended the phone towards the skater and let it repeat the words in Japanese. 

The skater looked over at him, smiled a little. He said, in careful English, "Thank you, I am fine. Just ..." He puffed out his cheeks, blew in frustration. "This routine is ... not me ... and it is hard."

"Not you?"

"The choreography I can do. But the, the theme, is something I don't know."

"The sports I've played don't have themes," admitted Stiles.

"Ai," agreed the Japanese skater. "The athletic side is important. But skating is like dance - there is an expressive side. My coach wants me to express something, and I do not know how. I do not really know how it feels."

"That sounds like an unfair expectation," said Stiles, glancing over at the silver-haired coach.

"I should be able to do it," said the skater, miserably. He began to unlace his skates; apparently he was done for the day. 

Stiles was interested in problems that weren't his own. He said, "Can I buy you a cup of tea?"




They didn't go to tea. Apparently Yuuri was on a bitch of a diet; he didn't want to be anywhere near food. Instead they went for a walk along the harbor, talking, and ended up sitting together on the sea wall, looking out at the ocean. Without his skates Yuuri was shorter than Stiles, but lean and well-proportioned. Stiles liked his messy dark hair, his little shy smile, the glasses he'd donned when he was done skating. They laughed together as Yuuri struggled with Stiles's name - he could do it, but he had to concentrate. Instead, he called him "Stiruzu-san." 


"It's respectful."

"I know, but I'm not, like, your dad."

Stiles told him about his upcoming internship. He didn't mention his broken heart. Yuuri told him all about his career, about his coach, Victor ("the greatest skater in the world"); the shitty blond teenager ("a genius, a prodigy"); and the crazy competition they were in for Victor's favor. It seemed sketchy as fuck to Stiles, and he said so, but Yuuri would tolerate no criticism of Victor. To even have a chance at skating a program choreographed by Victor was an honor he had never expected, and was determined to earn. But he was intimidated by the theme.

"Eros?" repeated Stiles. "Like, you're supposed to be sex on ice?" 

He eyed Yuuri, doubtfully. Not that Yuuri wasn't gorgeous: he had pretty soulful eyes and the body of a world-class athlete; his ass and thighs alone were a work of erotic art. But he didn't exactly radiate fuckability. Stiles mentally compared him to the sexiest man he knew, then determinedly set the comparison aside.

"I tried to skate it the way he did," said Yuuri. (He being Victor. To Yuuri, he was always Victor.) "I imitate his moves, his attitude. But I don't feel it."

"Okay," said Stiles, soothingly. It seemed a little unfair, to push Yuuri into a public performance of sexuality, when he seemed to be so uncomfortable with the idea. He might be asexual. "Have you talked to him about this?"

"I can't," confessed Yuuri. "You're so easy to talk to, Stiruzu, but I can't talk to Victor like this."

"Why not?"

"I tried. He asked me what Eros meant to me, and I said, for me, it was katsudon."

"What's katsudon?"

"It's ... it's pork, fried pork, with rice and -" 

Stiles cracked up.

Yuuri shoved him, indignantly, and Stiles fell over laughing. "Shut up!" yelled Yuuri, blushing, but he was laughing too. "You don't understand. This diet is killing me."

"Oh my God." Stiles tried to get serious, wiped tears of laughter off his face. "No, no, no, I'm sorry. So you told Victor that your idea of sex is yummy pork -"

"He was very nice about it. He accepts this about me," said Yuuri. "But Yurio definitely thinks I'm an idiot. He's fifteen, and he could do an Eros program better than me." 

Stiles put a hand on Yuuri's shoulder. "Hey, I'm really sorry. I'm not laughing at you, I swear, it's just a funny comparison. And I don't think you're not an idiot. If that's what sensual pleasure means to you, that's totally normal and -"

Yuuri rolled his eyes. "I said that because I was embarrassed," he explained. "Because I'm, I've never ... but that doesn't mean I don't want to." He gazed at Stiles, his brown eyes shining. "I’m an adult male of twenty-three. I want to. But I never have. I don't really know what it's like."

Even with the language barrier - even with the fact that he was so inexperienced he didn't even know how to talk about sex - he was so expressive. His eyes and voice and body all conveyed that he was lonely, full of longing and sensual desire, and for the first time Stiles suspected that Victor might actually know what he was doing. If Yuuri could channel that longing into his art, it would really be something. But he had no confidence. He couldn't even say the words, much less perform it for an audience. 

"You should have seen how hot he was when he skated this program," groaned Yuuri, despairingly. "I almost got pregnant."

"Well," he said, practically, "don't look to him for Eros."

The skater looked at him, wide eyed. "I can't help it."

"Yeah, I get it," Stiles said bitterly. There was nothing about eating one's heart out for an unavailable older man that Stiles didn't get. "But look, that guy has too much power over you already. He's your coach, and a lot more experienced, and you're obviously completely in love with him. He's five steps ahead of you. You need experience with someone else, where the stakes aren't quite so high." 

He smiled at the skater invitingly.

Yuuri blinked at him. "Practice more?" he said. "But I train every day."

"Practice Eros," said Stiles. "With someone like me. For instance."

"Oh. Um."

Such cute, so blushes, many shy. Wow.

"My flight leaves tomorrow night," said Stiles. "But I'm clean, and I'm nice, and I'd never hurt you or do anything bad to you. We could just ... you know. Spend some time together. And then if you don't like it, you'd never have to see me again."

Yuuri's brows were drawn. "If I did like it, it would help my program tomorrow." He tapped his lips, thinking, in what looked like an unconscious mimicry of his coach.

He was being offered sex on a platter, and what he cared about was whether it would help his program. The guy was focused. Stiles was momentarily tempted to use this - Let me help you find your Eros, to help your skating, to surprise Victor - but he didn't. He wasn't going to be that guy. Instead, he just said, "Maybe we could just hang out tonight? See what happens?"




Getting Yuuri alone wasn't easy. He might be twenty-three, but he lived with his parents and the coach he was in love with and the shitty teenager for whom he was competing for the coach's attention. Everything about this situation was draining his confidence; he needed a shot of brashness.

Brash Stiles could do. A quick vacation exploration of Eros with a hot dark-eyed virgin? Hell yes, he could do that. It would be good for both of them.

Victor, The Greatest Skater in the WorldTM, was not super-duper pleased about Yuuri going out on a date the night before the big competition. He pissily lectured them on Yuuri's diet, on getting back early because rest was important, on not getting distracted and losing his concentration. He came within an inch of suggesting that if Yuuri wasn't taking his coaching seriously. 

Yuuri wavered at this. Victor only backed down when Stiles pointedly raised his eyebrows at him: I see you there, acting like a jealous boyfriend. Stiles wasn't feeling particularly friendly towards manipulative older guys right now. He looped an arm around Yuuri's shoulders, smiled his meanest smile, and said, "Don't worry, I'll take very good care of him." 

Victor raised his chin, tossed his hair back, delivered an icy glare out of admittedly spectacular jewel-toned eyes, but he didn't say anything else. Stiles led Yuuri away, giving Victor a little finger-wave over his shoulder. 

"Stiruzu, he is mad at me," Yuri whispered anxiously to Stiles as they headed away from the inn.

Stiles immediately felt guilty. Yuuri wasn't a toy for him and Victor to fight over. "Hey." Stiles cupped his face in one hand. "I promise you something."

"What," whispered Yuuri.

"Nothing we do is going to interfere with your training," said Stiles. "We're not going to eat, we're not going to get drunk. We're not going to be out late. I promise." He kissed him, very gently, on the cheek. "We're just going to be alone for a little while," Stiles murmured, his lips brushing Yuri's skin, "and do whatever you want to do. Nothing's going to happen that you don't like, because you'll tell me if you don't like something, and I'll stop. Okay?"

Yuuri nodded.

"Do you want to go back?"

Yuuri glanced at him sidelong, attraction warring with nervousness. "No."

Stiles smiled at him. "Okay, then. Come on."

They walked, hand-in-hand, through the deserted downtown. This city fell asleep at nine; no one was around, but the moon was out, bright enough to cast velvety shadows, and the breeze off the ocean was cool and fresh. Stiles took him to his hotel - a slightly soulless cube of identical rooms overlooking the bay - but it had a beautiful garden. There was an intimate little grove under big ancient maple trees; in the darkness there, under the trees, it was even better than Stiles had hoped, dark and fragrant with flowers. Stiles turned to Yuuri there, in the darkness, and asked, "Is it okay if I kiss you?"

Yuri responded by going up on his toes and pressing his mouth to his. 

They made out, easy and gentle, Stiles's hands in Yuuri's soft black hair, Yuuri's hands on Stiles's waist. Yuuri was hesitant - he hadn't kissed much - but he was so sweet, trembling a little with eagerness. Stiles showed him what he liked - the flicker of his tongue, the nip of his lips - and Yuuri played the game, flicker, nip. Then Yuuri reminded him that he wasn't a boy - tilted his head, opened his mouth and kissed Stiles fervently, with tongue, at the same time sliding his palms down to cup his ass. Stiles groaned with pleasure. 

"You're so gorgeous," he whispered, kissing Yuuri's jaw. "Do you know how beautiful you are? Not just the way you look, but the way you move, oh my God. I didn't know skating could be so sexy."

Yuuri tipped his head back so Stiles could kiss his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. He was breathing hard, clutching Stiles for support. 

"I sat in that rink watching you skate with my thermos in my lap to cover up a boner like a hammer -" Yuuri choked a little with laughter, and Stiles grinned at him. "You think that's funny? I've been hard since I saw you. Just grab me if you don't believe me."

"Me too."

"Really?" Stiles leaned in, his lips brushing Yuuri's as he spoke. "You're hard right now?"

Yuuri nodded.

"Do you want to go up to my room?"

Yuuri smiled.




They sat on the bed in Stiles's room, kissing. Stiles didn't rush him, let him take the lead, let Yuuri touch him everywhere - his eyebrows, his neck, his arms. Yuuri ran his hands up under his shirt and tugged on the hair at the center of his chest, ran his hand down his belly. Stiles wanted to do the same to him, explore his whole body, but he wanted to let Yuuri feel in conrol.

"Can I suck you?" Stiles whispered.

"You really want to?" Yuuri's eyebrows crooked doubtfully, but his eyes were on Stiles's mouth.

"I really do."


Stiles knelt between Yuuri's knees, running his hands up Yuuri's strong thighs to his hips, nuzzling his belly. Yuuri took off his shirt and Stiles gazed at him happily - apparently figure skating wasn't all leg work. Together they pulled down Yuuri's track pants, Yuuri shifting his hips to get them off, and Stiles lipped the hot skin of Yuuri's cock. 


Yuuri put his hands in his hair to steady himself and Stiles growled, "Yeah, grab my hair. I love that," and swirled his tongue around the head of Yuuri's cock.

He was uncut and lovely. Stiles closed his mouth over the head of Yuuri's penis and used the suction of his mouth to gently pull the foreskin up, over the head, then slid it back, swirled his tongue. Yuuri, who was always expressive with his body, shuddered and gasped, just from that, his hands kneading gently in Stiles's hair like a kitten's. Stiles tightened a fist around the base of his cock and slid his mouth up and down, keeping his tongue flat and wide, not using too much pressure, just getting Yuuri used to the rhythm. Yuuri picked it up immediately, widening his legs and undulating his hips, just a little. Stiles pressed his free hand on Yuuri's abdomen so he could feel the hard muscles there contract as he rocked gently into Stiles's mouth.

Stiles pulled off. "God, yes, you are so fucking hot," he whispered. "I want you to grab my hair and fuck my mouth."

"Will that hurt you?" 

"No, I want it bad. Please, Yuuri."

Yuuri tightened his fingers in Stiles's hair. Stiles groaned with excitement, sucked Yuuri's cock back into his mouth. Hesitantly at first, but with increasing confidence, Yuuri clasped Stiles's head and thrust into his mouth. He fell back onto the bed, eyes closed, lost in pleasure. He didn't race straight to a fast orgasm, the way Stiles had expected; he thrust into Stiles's mouth with slow deliberate crunches of his abdomen, eyes closed and head back, obviously relishing the deep, leisurely pace he set, fucking Stiles's mouth with a lingering pleasure. Stiles watched him. Yuuri tightened his grasp in Stiles's hair and gently went deep, sliding into Stiles's throat, and Stiles closed his eyes, relaxed his muscles, loving the intimacy of this. Yuri moaned raggedly, his cock twitching, getting harder against Stiles's tongue. Stiles thought he was coming, but he didn't; he pulled out, slow, relishing the suction of Stiles's mouth, then just as slowly pushed back in, right to the back of Stiles's throat, and cried out again. 

This might be the hottest blowjob Stiles had ever given, and he wasn't even doing much, just letting Yuuri have him. The way Yuuri pleasuring himself with his mouth was burning him up. His own cock was hard and sensitive, pushed up against his stomach under the waistband of his jeans; it was getting none of the stimulation it needed but he felt like he was on the verge of orgasm anyway. 

Yuuri began to pick up the pace, short shallow thrusts between each long deep one, his eyes squeezed shut and his lips curled in against little whimpering cries. Stiles moaned, too, letting the feel and smell and sound of Yuuri's pleasure roll over him.

"I want," gasped Yuuri, thrusting. "I want to -"

Stiles gripped his ass to encourage him, and Yuuri's body clenched, his cock throbbed, and he came in Stiles's mouth, a salty-bitter rush accompanied by a shout loud enough to wake the neighbors. Stiles held him in his mouth through the aftershocks. 

Then Yuuri melted right off the bed, and Stiles caught him in his arms. They cuddled there together on the floor, arms around each other, Yuuri's face buried in Stiles's shoulder while he caught his breath. "That was so good," growled Stiles, holding him tight. "Kiss me." Yuri's drowsy eyes opened; he looked at Stiles's wet mouth, considering. "Yeah, it'll taste like jizz," said Stiles. "It'll be nasty. Come on." Yuuri's eyes glinted in the moonlight, and he tilted his head and gave Stiles the dirty kiss he'd been hoping for, licking the taste of his own pleasure from Stiles's mouth, and Stiles shivered.

"Do you want me to do the same for you?"

"Only if you want to."

Yuuri's eyes were wide, curious in the darkness. "Really?" He tilted his head, and Stiles watched him think, analyze. "You would let me do that, and give you nothing in return?"

"Are you kidding? I loved that."

"Why? What is Eros to you? Is it ..." He searched for the English word. "Is Eros surrender?"

This was Yuuri, thinking about his program. Thinking about how he would use this for his art, before he even stopped breathing heavy. Stiles licked his lips, trying to figure out how to answer.

"Maybe," he said. "But it's not that simple. You're thinking that I surrendered to you. That I just got on my knees and you took what you wanted, and left me hanging." Yuuri touched Stiles's lips, still puffy from friction. "I did surrender," whispered Stiles, smiling against his fingertips. "But then I had you. For just a little while, you were all mine, and I was everything to you."

"Oh," said Yuuri. "You felt powerful?"

"Yes," said Stiles.

"Power in surrender."


Yuuri's eyes were bright. He flushed, and smiled. Then Yuuri did something Stiles could never have predicted. Kneeling on the floor, he bowed, touching his forehead to the floor. "Stiles-san," he said, carefully pronouncing his name, "I surrender to you."

"What?" asked Stiles.

"You must take whatever you want from me," said Yuuri, to the floor. "I surrender."

Stiles laughed. Yuuri wanted to learn about power in surrender? "Well, if you insist," he said. He put his arms under Yuri, scooped him up off the floor and dumped him, laughing, onto the bed.




Stiles walked him home. At the gate of his parents' resort, he kissed him on the cheek and said, "See, I got you back by bedtime." Yuri lifted his face, so he pecked Yuuri's lips, too. 

"Remember what I said."

"I will." Yuuri started to say something else, but Victor there, in the courtyard of the resort waiting. 

"Have a good time?" he asked Yuuri, mildly.

"Yes, Victor," said Yuuri, humbly. Stiles hated how humble Yuuri was with Victor; but maybe that was his own baggage.

"Good night," called Stiles.

He started to leave, but Victor touched his arm to stay him. They waited until Yuuri was inside, and then Victor turned to him. He was almost eerily beautiful in the moonlight: the kind of beauty born or truly perfect bone structure, striking coloring, and the self-confidence that came from being literally the best in the world at something. His air of annoyance from previously was gone; he looked grave, his turquoise eyes dark and troubled.

"Are you serious about him?" Victor asked, low.

Surprised, Stiles said, "No. I'm a fling." He returned Victor's stare. "Are you?"

Victor paused, then said, "Very much so."




Yuuri stood poised in the center of the ice, slim and graceful in sparkly black. Stiles watched, feeling surprisingly nervous for him. The little teenager had gone first, and he'd been really good. Stiles didn't understand figure skating, not really, but he knew the teenager was good, and he knew that a lot was riding on this moment for Yuuri. In the hush before his program started, the pressure was intense.

Then the music started. Yuuri's body went sensuously fluid; he turned his head, shot Victor a sizzling look that said I would give you anything you wanted, and began to skate. He heard Victor whistle with surprise.

Yuuri spun and soared with a sinuous loose-hipped grace that was new to him since yesterday. Stiles listened to the commentary about Yuuri's skate - the difficult footwork, the flawless spins. His jumps were all in the second half of the skate, which was seen as an indication of Yuuri's great stamina. 

Stiles smirked.

He'd shown his stamina, in the way they'd been last night: hands tangled together, clenching as they'd moved, bodies slicked with sweat. Yuuri had started out spread underneath him, beautiful in full surrender, letting Stiles take him. His body rippled and flexed with each of Stiles's thrusts, with each surge of pleasure. And then he'd rolled them over and rode him, smooth and slow, and they'd kissed, gasping, finding just the right rhythm to make it last, lost in each other.

The way Yuuri moved, when he was pleasured. Oh my God. Tireless, tenacious in pursuing his satisfaction, so supple and lithe and wanton, the way he moved. Now, on the ice, he was bringing a little of that, and he was hot enough to melt the ice. People around Stiles were talking, and though he couldn't understand them, he could feel their elation and surprise, at what Yuuri was showing them. 

This is what I want to show him, Yuuri had whispered, afterwards. That I can surrender to a man.

Stiles said, If you bring even a little of this to your program, you'll show him that you can rock his fucking world.

Yuuri won.




"You didn't have to come see me off," said Stiles, as they walked, hand-in-hand, to his airport gate. "You should be celebrating."

"I wanted to."

"I'm glad." They came to the security gates. "This is it."

Yuuri tangled his fingers with Stiles's, preventing him from leaving just yet. "Do you have a Victor, Stiruzu?" Stiles looked at him, and he clarified, "Someone who is five steps ahead of you?"

He sighed. He'd been successfully not thinking about this since he'd met Yuuri. "Yeah. Something like that. His name's Peter."

"Does he love you, too?"

"When the mood strikes him," said Stiles. 

"Is he nice to you?"

"... No," said Stiles. "He's not very nice to me at all." Stiles's flight was announced over the loudspeaker. "I'd better go."

Yuuri kissed him on the cheek. "I'll always remember, Stiruzu-kun. Take good care of yourself. Don't let anyone hurt you."

Stiles shrugged, smiling a little sadly, and left him there.