It starts late at night in Helsinki. They’re in the locker room after an excellent practice; Yuuri had hit his quad lutz, a jump he’s been struggling with for months because of his finicky arches. Victor is talking excitedly about the long program, how perfectly suited the tech is for Yuuri’s skills, how thrilled he is that Yuuri is so on and that the competition starts so soon. Victor’s been talking Olympics lately, and Yuuri’s been trying not to get his hopes up but he’s really hit a stride recently; his body feels strong, his movement has been tight. It feels good to land each and every trick a few nights in a row. And now they’re in Finland.
Yuuri’s undressing, which is nothing new. Victor’s seen him naked loads of times, in multiple settings, some professional, most not. The trouble is this outfit - it’s tighter than Yuuri would normally choose for himself, but Victor had been going on about his flexibility, so he’d caved and bought some stretchy velour practice pants. He can very nearly do a Biellmann in them, and can easily hold his skate for a Y-spin.
So Yuuri has to - to get these off, he has to sort of roll them down. The high waist has a tendency to snap back up into place if it’s just folded, and shoving it down makes the fabric bunch badly, and he’d prefer not to have to wash the color (a gorgeous deep navy) out of them too quickly. So he’s leaning against his locker, shirt off but draped back over him for warmth, rolling the waist down. Victor is still laying on praise, but he’s watching him, talking but with his eyes tracking down Yuuri’s chest, his abdomen.
And then he goes quiet, just cuts off mid-sentence. He’s staring at Yuuri’s hand, the way his thumb is under his half-rolled-down waistband. His sharp pink tongue darts out between his thin lips and runs over each a couple times, leaves them wet. Yuuri smiles. Victor is the most obvious person on Earth.
He doesn’t bring it up then; they go back to the hotel on foot, dodging press. By the time Yuuri has finished his shower, Victor is snoring lightly, which is some thrilling dirt to have on Victor Nikiforov if things ever go sour. Yuuri watches his chest rise and fall in the dim light as he puts on clean shorts and climbs into bed next to him; Victor is warm and inviting above all else, and any thought he had of fooling around falls away in favor of falling asleep.
On the final night of Worlds, Yuuri skates second to last. On the little couch in the kiss & cry, as a score gets announced that’ll give him a silver or a gold, depending on Emil’s results, Victor pulls Yuuri’s quarter-zipper down, studies the skin of his collarbone. And after the podium, he leaves the medal on even after he’s taken the rest of Yuuri’s clothes off, and Yuuri is glad they’re going home soon because the lanyard will do nothing to hide the fresh bruising.
Weeks later, Yuuri happens to find a couple more pairs of velvet practice pants at a boutique in Tokyo and buys them instantly. One is a tighter legging, stirrup style, that will clasp under his boot. Yuuri can’t wait to pull one over on Victor, see if maybe he wants to go to the ballet studio with him again and place his hands on his hips to guide him while he does some barre work.
His costumes, however, remain on the conservative side - he sees guys competing in one-pieces and is thankful for the snap-up shirt and trousers they’d settled on for his free skate in Helsinki. As he rewatches some of the programs, he can’t help but laugh at how flamboyant JJ looks, but he supposes that’s part of his appeal. Yuuri knows his strength, and Victor knows it, too: where the other guys have flash or maybe emotional gravitas, Yuuri has honed a quiet sexuality in his performance. He doesn’t need to peacock; his body does the attention grabbing itself, these days. It’s odd, when he thinks about it, how awkward he has historically been in everyday life in contrast with the way stepping onto the ice feels like fitting into a disguise, an alternate persona where he’s confident, alluring, captivating. Yuuri used to feel so invisible; Victor has made him blossom into someone present.
He’s got to thank him, one of these days. Maybe starting with a perfect Biellmann spin, among some other exhibitions of his newfound flexibility, performed slowly and in private.
They’re taking a weekend off. Yuuri’s anxiety has been acting up, and Victor liked the idea Yuuri’s mother had suggested - a luxury hotel in the city, someplace they could fill their days from sunrise to set, to get Yuuri’s mind off the upcoming season.
Osaka is incredible at night, and Yuuri lets Victor wine and dine him, happily chattering away as Victor prods him to tell him more about his time in the States. He usually feels a bit self-conscious and childish, telling Victor about his life and friends; but he’s slowly getting used to the fact that Victor hangs on every word. He has an elbow on the table, elegant fingers around his wine glass, and this dreamy, far-off look in his eyes. Yuuri blushes, but that could also be the copious amounts of sake he’s drank.
It’s weird not to skate, not to go out only after skating, not to expect to wake up and go skating. Probably for both of them, he reasons. Even on hiatus, Victor is on the ice more often than he is off; he’ll often sneak off to work out on his own, not to even mention how much time he spends in the rink with Yuuri. Yuuri’s limbs feel pleasantly heavy, relaxed. He’ll be sore when they go back to their regimen, even after a scant three days off, but spending time with Victor like this is worth it. Dates aren’t something they often have time or energy for. It’s nice to have some time as boyfriends, not as coach and client.
They even leave the restaurant hand-in-hand, and Yuuri tries and fails to suppress the thrill that runs through him as they step out into the hot night. With as many people who are out at night in the summer, the air is stifling. Yuuri cuddles into Victor anyway, letting him lead the way, happy to let the kids on the street assume he is just drunk.
Their hotel is a big, ultra-modern, glass-faced building, and the penthouse suite Victor rented for them is way too much for Yuuri’s frugal, small-town impulses, but he’s feeling loosened and secure enough to not feel so out of place. He dives into the huge bed from the door, giggling as Victor follows him down, still in his windbreaker and shoes. He wraps his arms around Yuuri tightly and covers his forehead, cheeks, and hair with playful kisses, and Yuuri squirms around to maintain the appearance of putting up a fight but relaxes quickly into Victor’s coddling. They eventually end up pressed chest to chest, Victor’s hands at Yuuri’s waist, one of Yuuri’s hands carding through Victor’s hair. There’s quiet while they look at each other, stillness; Yuuri breathes in and out, settling in for what he’d be very content to turn into a night of nothing more than cuddling.
Victor does seem amenable to other options. He’s buzzing a little more than Yuuri, and with a grin plastered to his face he slips his hands down to cup each side of Yuuri’s ass. Yuuri gasps and finds himself pressing back into the touch. His other hand is placed on Victor’s chest; he pushes back for some distance, but Victor follows him, nips at his jaw as he tips his head back.
Yuuri growls and pushes instead. Victor rolls easily, letting Yuuri straddle him; Yuuri replaces a palm in Victor’s hair, tugging slightly; Victor groans. Yuuri grins. Predictable boy.
“How do you like the things I bought you?” Victor asks, nuzzling into Yuuri’s forearm, the one planted by his face.
Yuuri feels himself blush again, but he circles his hips, drawing on his reserve of fake-it-till-you-make-it confidence. “Comfy,” he says by way of explanation. Victor hums, trailing a hand across Yuuri’s chest.
“Show me?” he asks. And, well. Yuuri hasn’t been able to deny him a single thing since they met, not really. He hardly has plans to start now.
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, but Victor’s hand is on his wrist in an instant. A tiny reminder of the power he never shows, the strength he would never use against Yuuri. Yuuri looks down at him, questioning.
Victor’s eyes flash. “Slow?” he says, sounding almost shy about it. And… ah. The change in his gaze since Worlds. Suddenly it all makes sense, the way he’s touched Yuuri slower and slower each time since, lightly trailed his fingertips over completely innocuous inches of skin, lingering and making nerves light up that Yuuri would otherwise forget he had.
He scoots back, gets off the bed. He looks around the room; the suite has windows on three sides, and the old Yuuri works his way in for a moment of panic. But shyness is a creeping thing that swallows you up and paralyzes if it’s left to simmer, so Yuuri looks around for something else to focus on. His eyes settle on Victor, perched at the corner of the bed, toeing off his shoes. They smile at one another, and Yuuri takes another moment to steel his nerves before turning his back and working at the top button of his dress shirt.
He looks back at Victor over his shoulder when he’s two buttons down and is taken aback to see him fiddling with his phone, paying half the attention he should be. Yuuri huffs, and Victor looks up at him; he meets his eyes with a grin, and explains easily, “Don’t worry, star. I’m just setting the mood.” He taps his phone again and a slow instrumental begins; apparently the room has some sort of bluetooth speaker system that Victor had keyed into. Yuuri recognizes the music; it’s a somewhat experimental string arrangement, energetic but patient. He and Victor have skated to it in practices, working on leg position and rotation. Not exactly strip club music, but Yuuri knows how to move to this, can pull all the grace up through himself as effortlessly as a musician’s bow drags across a violin.
Yuuri swallows. He goes back to unbuttoning his shirt, feeling his hips move as he does; the shirt slips down the back of one shoulder, and he bites his lip as he looks back at Victor, fabric clinging to him with the fastening of the bottom two buttons. He pulls it closed again as he turns around, lets Victor watch him intently as he slides his finger and thumb along the lapel side, pushing it back as he goes down.
Victor’s tongue is firmly in his cheek, and he’s got a fist in the white comforter, fingers denting the fabric. If Yuuri were bolder, he’d ask him if he likes what he sees, if he wants more, but the silence between them seems more fitting somehow. It allows him to think, and for Victor to observe; that is, after all, how their relationship generally works. He thinks of things, and Victor processes them for him into more reasonable conclusions than Yuuri could draw himself. Victor has tested revolutionary theses on Yuuri’s body since the night after the Cup of China, and he’s been thorough about it each and every time.
Yuuri enjoys his reaction, lets it feed his ego. In a perfect world he’d be doing this after a competition, in some skimpy little costume, but he can’t exactly wear this underwear with most, unless he wants it showing in slow-motion instant replays on TV; it’s too textured. He lets his shirt fall open in one motion and slide to the floor. Victor lets out a little gasp that Yuuri promises to kiss away from him later.
Yuuri shifts his hips again, trying not to feel too out of his depth; he vaguely knows of the intricacies that professionals go to, and has no interest in such things, but still, it’s hard not to feel like an amateur. Victor doesn’t seem to care; he’s palming his dick through his slacks. Yuuri sinks his fingers into the waistband of his khakis, riding low on his hips, a little baggy. He comes a little closer to Victor. They can feel each other’s body heat from about this distance, the energy both of them are radiating. Yuuri wants to invite him to reach out, to touch; he wants to feel Victor’s hands on his waist through the fabric of his lingerie, scratching soft against his skin. The lace lays pretty and deep blue in contrast to his skintone - even he can appreciate it. He hopes Victor does, too.
He unzips his fly, centimeter by centimeter over his overheated, sensitive skin. He is sweaty with late-summer heat and the first few promises of desire; he pushes his camisole up and lets his palm skate over his lower abdomen as he shimmies out of his pants, pushing each side down in turn. Victor groans, and Yuuri sees that he is gripping the bed tighter with one hand, the other pressing hard against his own thigh in an effort to cool off. Yuuri grins at him, a devilish thing rank with potential, and slips his twills down more, leaving him in the camisole and matching, tighter, sheerer trunks.
In truth, they are exceedingly comfortable under his jeans, but now that Yuuri is aroused the fabric is affording him just a bit of stimulation as he moves, the slight tease of the open lace against the swollen head of his cock. Yuuri makes a little noise as he goes to push the lace down, but Victor makes a gesture with his index finger that indicates that he should turn around. He does; he goes up on the balls of his feet as he slips his hands down the back of his underwear, pushes them down and away from his skin, and he hears Victor groan softly. More pressure on his dick as the underwear gets pulled down to his thighs; he lets go of that garment in favor of the other one, peeling the top away from his skin. He inhales sharply as the air conditioning in the room kicks on, sudden cool air making his nipples peak.
“Oh my God, malysh,” Victor says, and Yuuri looks over his shoulder again. Victor is standing now, coming toward him, and Yuuri lets out a breath as his hands finally come to rest on him, on his hips, pushing down and tucking into the sides of his trunks, fingertips wrapping around to the front to press into the hollows of his hipbones. Yuuri sighs happily, leans back against Victor, feels the rough drag of his clothing against his bare back, thighs, ass.
Victor pulls him back gently by the hair so he can lean down and kiss him. It’s an incredible, intimate, full-bodied kiss, and Yuuri wants to melt into him. He turns into Victor, reaches up to sink his fingers in Victor’s hair and yank him down for more. His groin is pressed against one side of Victor’s body, and Victor is bringing that leg up to part Yuuri’s thighs and press up into him. This is normally the point at which Yuuri would break the kiss to moan aloud, but it just renews his effort to kiss Victor breathless; he breathes him in through his nose and keeps going, and with his eyes shut and his body alight like this his whole world is Victor, Victor, Victor.
He says it. Victor, Victor, Victor, straight into his mouth, inhaling him, synthesizing him, exhaling him. There is as much time as he needs, here; all the time he needs to process, to decide. Victor has never rushed him, never pushed him past a limit he hadn’t expressed wanting to breach. His patience is endless. Yuuri is so grateful for his generosity, for his time; he feels as if at this point he has a right to take ownership, but when he thinks of the way Victor came into his life he wants to cry, so fortuitous and lucky. He wants to tell Victor this but all that comes out is his name, over and over again, against his lips, and he can feel Victor telling him to calm down with his touch (the rhythmic brush of his hand on his hip gets slower; he backs off with the pressure of his leg) even as Victor’s cock is hardening further against his lower stomach by the second.
Victor finally pulls away by force, pushing at Yuuri’s shoulder until he lets him go, and he backs up toward the bed as Yuuri follows after him, growling. He has just enough time to discard of his t-shirt and unbutton his trousers before Yuuri shoves him back on the bed and straddles him, the same position they’d been in before.
Victor looks gorgeous like this, all splayed out on the high-thread count sheets, the pristine white of them offsetting Victor’s suntan. Yuuri is paler than him now, preferring to spend most of his summer in full shade, and he loves the contrast between them no matter what but right now it’s intoxicating.
As Victor runs a hand up his thigh and hip, Yuuri shifts against him, eyes roving over his chest and neck; he bends to nip along his collarbone and relishes the groan Victor gives him, the way he drops his shoulders back to allow him more room. Yuuri can press his front into Victor’s like this, drop his knees back and rub against him, and whines as the fabric becomes too rough for how sensitive his cock’s become. Victor helps, hands that were on the small of his back coming around to once again tuck under the waistband of his panties and slide them down his legs, and then he shoves his own pants and underwear down. Yuuri moans, long and broken, as his bare skin meets Victor’s; it’s not slick enough but he rubs against him anyway, holds himself up just barely to drag his cock against Victor’s abs.
“Up, myshka.” Victor’s voice cuts through eventually and Yuuri goes, eager to abide any whim or fancy that Victor might present. It turns out his whim is bending him over the bed, and Yuuri goes down to his elbows, feet planted with his back arched sharply. He pants softly in anticipation as he listens to Victor pop the bottle on some lube and slick himself down, groaning and gasping as he strokes his own cock. Yuuri tries to spread his legs, ready himself for Victor’s fingers, but Victor’s hands go straight to his thighs, holding them firmly together.
“Wait for me. Just a little longer, star,” Victor says. Confused, Yuuri slumps down to the bed, puts his face on his arms and wiggles back and forth; he’ll wait, but not without teasing.
And then there’s the unmistakable press of Victor’s cock against his skin, and Yuuri gasps in shock before realizing it’s not where he’d expected it to be.
Victor’s sliding between his upper thighs, the curve of them hugging his cock tight from every angle. It’s an entirely new and unexpectedly pleasurable sensation, knowing Victor is in a way simply using his body for his benefit, and Yuuri mewls, bends his knees; it brings him down so Victor’s dick slips up higher, and then he’s brushing against Yuuri’s balls as he thrusts. He growls, pauses, reaches down. Gets Yuuri pulled up by the waist and rocks against him; the penetration is more shallow, but Yuuri can lean forward in Victor’s arms and push back against him, control the situation a bit in his own way even as he feels himself losing his own control. He puts an arm up behind him and sinks his fingers into Victor’s hair again, giving him some leverage.
Victor is panting hot on Yuuri’s neck, kissing when he can think about it, sloppy just under his ear and down along his shoulder. Yuuri actually likes that Victor is mostly quiet during sex; it lets him listen to the pattern of his breathing. Their matching movements are almost minute now, hovering on the knife’s edge of being enough, and Yuuri wants to speed up but Victor won’t let him; Victor’s got a hand on his belly, now, steadying him, fingers making a V Yuuri knows could slide down a few inches and wrap around his dick and bring him to completion but they won’t. His hips jerk forward and Victor’s palm reins him back in, again and again.
Yuuri is overhot, wants Victor desperately, vaguely, distantly wants to get off but he wants this to never end. Victor’s movements become erratic and Yuuri tries to clamp his thighs around him, give him some more friction; the moan Victor lets out tells him it’s appreciated. He comes all over Yuuri’s thighs, spilling hot between his legs.
There’s a moment where Yuuri can’t decide whether he wants to move. His legs feel like jelly but Victor’s kissing his neck softly, supporting him with gentle hands on his waist, and he feels like he could stand forever if only Victor would stand with him.
Victor coaxes Yuuri to turn and kisses him, pressing against him until the backs of his knees hit the bed and Yuuri topples onto it, kissing back with as much force as he can as Victor presses them together, now chest to chest. Victor lets him go and smiles devilishly at him - and he looks so good , cheeks deeply flushed, hair hanging over his eyes, lips bitten and kiss-swollen - and then he begins skirting his hands down Yuuri’s body and following with his mouth.
Yuuri lies back flat on the bed, putting a hand beneath his own head so he can prop it up and watch Victor work. He gazes down at him, eyelids heavy, and when Victor sees that he is watching he plants a bold line of kisses over the tops of his hipbones, nudging his cock out of the way with his chin as he goes. Yuuri sighs, threads the fingers of his free hand into Victor’s hair; he will never get tired of playing with it, picking up sections and putting them down, yanking it to get Victor’s attention or his own way, feeling the strands slip silkily between his fingers. Victor’s come is sticky and thick on his inner thighs; Yuuri stares at the mess as Victor pushes his legs open to make room for himself and feels his stomach flip with a deep need, being pulled sharply through his core and out to where Victor is licking and nipping at his skin.
“Victor… I…” Yuuri doesn’t know what he wants to say, but it seems to egg Victor on anyway; he hums and latches his lips onto Yuuri’s skin with more suction, and Yuuri fights the urge to squirm away. Victor kisses the bruise he made with such gentle fondness. Yuuri makes a sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whine and Victor laughs softly, nuzzles against his thigh.
Victor flashes him a quick grin before taking Yuuri into his mouth, and the sensation is like electric shock flickering up his spine. Yuuri cries out, pulls a little at Victor’s hair; Victor hums and the vibration sends another wave of pleasure crackling through Yuuri’s body. He pulls harder, making a fist, and gets the same result. Victor sighs against him. He doesn’t pull off, just breathes through his nose against Yuuri’s groin, flittering through the curls at the base of his cock that travel upward to trail into a dark peach fuzz around his navel. Victor touches him, extends his arm to trail his fingers, soft and tickling, over Yuuri’s side.
Yuuri sits upright a bit, scoots forward toward Victor; it pushes Victor further off the bed until he’s kneeling on the floor at the side of it, and he stubbornly does not take his mouth off him for a moment as they adjust. Yuuri pets the hair at his temples and coaxes him off. Victor lets Yuuri’s cock bob obscenely in front of his swollen lips as he stares up at him, looking fucked-out and beautiful below him. His hand is still at Yuuri’s side, examining the light stretch mark on his hip. Yuuri takes that hand in his, brings it up to his mouth to kiss the pads of his fingers, and then opens up to let Victor's index and middle fingers press down on his tongue, and Victor watches him, gaze intense through his evident arousal.
Victor’s other hand goes tentatively to Yuuri’s stomach and he dances his nails over it, tracing the fine lines of his musculature; Yuuri shivers a little, feeling self-conscious but willing. He has always made a point not to look at himself, really, hiding the parts of himself he’s never cared for, but Victor has brought him out of his shell and out from under the covers. He never saw himself as a lights-on type, but here he is, legs spread out to frame his boyfriend kneeling under him. His blood feels thick and hot as it courses through him with the heavy beat of his heart.
Yuuri sucks on Victor’s long fingers, and Victor kisses up the length of his cock till he reaches the tip. This time he goes slower, wrapping his lips around the head to apply the barest hint of pressure. He keeps the suckling up as he sinks straight down. Yuuri groans, lets Victor’s hand drop from his mouth in favor of focusing on the feeling of him surrounding him. Victor’s fingers dig into the tops of his thighs, and Yuuri watches him bob slowly on him, letting him further and further into his throat, each time going a little lower. The way his wet, tight throat works around the head of his dick, combined with the show he’s getting - the way Victor slurps messily, not a sexy sound but fevered, closes his eyes in pure, relaxed enjoyment - is a little too much, and Yuuri whines and holds Victor’s hair tight as he presses Victor into him and arches his back, shuddering as his release overtakes him and he pulses into Victor’s mouth.
His orgasm feels nearly endless - there’s a point at which he feels exhausted, and he vaguely knows he’s babbling, as Victor is smiling around him like he does when he wants to poke fun at Yuuri but is too busy enjoying him to do it. But Victor takes it beautifully, slackens the grip of his throat and lips around him to let Yuuri thrust in at his own pace as he comes down.
The way Victor looks when he smiles up at him from between his legs is something Yuuri wants to remember for the rest of his life. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear and smoothes it all down - but Yuuri’s fucked it up profoundly, and he grins, all teeth. Only I can get through the famous Nikiforov composure, he realizes.
Yuuri thinks nights out in the city could grow on him. After all, there’s something to be said about a bathroom with heated floors, especially when it’s dark and full of flickering candles. There’s something to be said about snoozing on your boyfriend’s chest in an oversized tub.
“You know,” Victor says, and Yuuri stirs unhappily, turning over in the water to shove his nose into Victor’s neck - he doesn’t want to talk, he wants to rest, wants to let the remarkably hot water soak into his muscles and then his bones. Victor puts his hands on the small of Yuuri’s back and runs his thumbs along his spine.
Victor hums. “I think,” he starts again, and he shifts to let Yuuri nibble under his ear, and his voice goes a little higher but he doesn’t stop, “I think, as we’ve continued to find your confidence, that I like this little mysterious edge that you’re giving me. We should work that into your program next year.”
Yuuri snickers against Victor’s shoulder. “You want to incorporate stripping into my free skate?” He can feel the way Victor’s cheekbones widen as he smiles. The ends of Victor’s hair are wet. He buries his face in it and sighs deeply, incredibly content. He loves making Victor laugh.
“No, my dear, the mystery will of course be revealed only to me,” Victor retorts. Yuuri smiles, hazily remembering the way they’d spent the evening. “But the way you move your hips out there -” here Victor traces the curve of Yuuri’s waist - “what do you think goes through people’s heads at the prospect?”
“Doesn’t matter.” Yuuri bites sharply at Victor’s earlobe. “I only care about what you think.”
“That’s not true,” Victor says, but he bites his tongue, because - yeah, it’s not. But Yuuri doesn’t feel, for once, like analyzing his own worries, or having Victor analyze them for him. He feels like floating. He puts his arms around Victor’s neck and lets him hold him up.