Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11515158.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Victor_Nikiforov/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Additional Tags:
      Drunk_Sex, Oral_Sex, Teasing, Hair-pulling, Biting, Resolved_Sexual
      Tension, Kissing, Insults, Post-Barcelona_Banquet, AU_where_Victor_and
      Yuuri_are_just_friends
  Collections:
      Rare_Ships!!!_on_Ice_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-24 Words: 3635
****** A Night Without Consequences ******
by shadow_lover
Summary
     “I have the gold,” Yuri agrees, and it’s a filthy sort of
     possessiveness. A reverence. His eyes gleam with it. “I want
     something else, too.”
     The world lurches, and Victor is untethered. His loudest thought is,
     he should be surprised.
     He isn’t.
Notes
     Hi, Icicle! You asked for so many delightful things, and I hope this
     ends up suiting your taste :)
Nobody notices when Victor drinks too much in Barcelona. They’re used to him as
a friendly, laughing drunk; they’re used to him celebrating. But tonight,
Victor is quiet. He doesn’t know what he’s drinking towards. Relief, maybe.
Resolve.
One last night to let loose, before he returns for his crown.
He hasn’t announced anything, of course. He’s still working it out in his head.
Besides—this isn’t his moment. He gets one more night in the shadows, while the
spotlight lingers on his competition in waiting.
On Yuuri, who’s as quiet as Victor is tonight, though rather more sober—it’s
been a long week. He must be exhausted.
On Yuri, who is a firework crackling through the room. He’s smug and gleeful
and infectious, smiling, laughing, drawing every eye in the room.
Victor—drunk, restless—can’t look away either.
For a sodden moment, he feels a pang that he wasn’t there for Yuri’s debut. But
maybe it’s better this way. Let him win a moment to shine on his own, before
Victor steps back onstage.
Victor has always chased gold. Tonight, gold is slim limbs, a narrow chin
lifted, and wisps of hair falling from its tail. The next time he takes the
ice, Victor will be there, to cut him down.
The afterparty is in Christophe’s room, as always. Everyone who matters is
invited, and even some who don’t matter. Some beg off—it’s late—but too many
people still crowd into the double room. Victor lingers in the hallway with
Yuuri while two pairs of pairs skaters block the doorway.
Yuuri says quietly, “I’m going to head out now.”
Victor doesn’t ask if he’s sure. They’re still rough, still uncertain what
it’ll mean to compete and collaborate. He says, “See you tomorrow,” because
after they fought, he booked a separate hotel room for the rest of the weekend.
It was worth the extra expense for the space and quiet, to hear himself think.
He misses the moment that Yuuri leaves. Next thing he knows, the doorway is
clear. He walks through into a wall of noise. The crowd bumps elbows, and
nobody notices his stumbling.
He lands against the dresser, where he can smirk mysteriously and observe.
Christophe lands next to him long enough to hand him a plastic cup, full to the
brim and sloshing over their hands. Then Christophe dives back into the crowd,
twisting his shirt off as he goes.
Victor sips what he’s been given. It’s the orange soda Christophe always buys
in Spain. He can’t taste the alcohol, but his tongue buzzes with it, and he’s
warm. He loosens his tie, and resists the urge to take it off—this isn’t his
night to fall apart.
There is a lightning strike at the door: Yuri storms in, flanked by Mila and
Otabek, and Georgi too close behind Mila. Even surrounded by people, Yuri
stands alone. He surveys the room, eyes narrowed. His tie’s still tight around
his narrow throat.
Then Yuri’s gaze meets his, and his smile curves wickedly. He’s caught Victor
looking at him. Victor doesn’t look away. The room darkens, blurs, except for
the clear gilded brightness, smirking at the door.
When Yuri moves, the spell breaks, and Victor’s left poised against the
dresser. His suit—his skin—is too hot and tight, something heavy pulses through
him, a rhythm deeper and stronger than the music.
He’s had far too much to drink.
He takes another sip.
Two Chinese skaters stop in front of him for a giddy hello. He thinks the woman
won silver. Then a young man he doesn’t recognize stumbles up—Victor isn’t sure
what discipline—maybe still juniors, even—shoved by his friends. The kid
mumbles in accented English, “Can I take a selfie with you?”
Victor hides the drink behind the boy’s back, bends down next to him, and gives
a dazzling smile. The kid says thank you too many times. Victor just dazzles
again, and drinks. The crowd shifts, and his stomach lurches with it.
There’s a thud on the dresser next to him, jostling his elbow, and he looks
down to where Yuri has thrown himself. His scowl is so picturesque, so sharply
etched, Victor can’t even feel the anger’s bite.
He wants to keep Yuri angry, if he’ll keep glaring like this. “Do you want a
selfie too?”
Yes—Yuri’s scowl deepens. But he doesn’t answer the question. “Before the free
skate, you told me not to forget what I wanted.”
His voice is low and intimate, so Victor has to lean close to hear. The cup’s
thin plastic is sticky under his fingers. His collar’s too tight, and Yuri’s
shoulder too sharp where it presses into his arm.
“You have the gold,” Victor says.
“I have the gold,” Yuri agrees, and it’s a filthy sort of possessiveness. A
reverence. His eyes gleam with it. “I want something else, too.”
The world lurches, and Victor is untethered. His loudest thought is, he should
be surprised.
He isn’t.
Victor knows he is a prodigy, a genius. Once more, the prize is his for the
taking. He asks, because he wants to hear the score announced: “And what is
that?”
Yuri leans in closer, shoulder a blade in Victor’s arm, voice a blade in
Victor’s ear: “I want you,” he murmurs, gaze flicking to the cup in Victor’s
hand, “to blow me.”
Hazily, Victor wonders how he would answer this if he were sober. Perhaps it is
a relief he’ll never know. Tonight, he drinks, lifts his free hand, and brushes
a wisp of hair from Yuri’s temple. Strokes over the pulled-back gold, and Yuri
freezes. He’s tense, like he’s poised before a jump.
Victor touches the hairband, twists, and pulls it out.
Yuri jolts, but doesn’t pull away. His hair falls to his shoulders, forward
over his eyes. He glances around as if checking whether anyone’s seen.
Victor just smiles, like normal. To anyone else, this looks like normal: Victor
teasing, Yuri scowling. They’ve done this for years.
He isn’t sure when the teasing changed—nor does he care, right now. He bends
low enough his breath stirs Yuri’s bangs, and purrs, “It’s past your bedtime,
Yura. Want me to tuck you in?”
Yuri elbows him. “How much have you had?”
“Enough, probably.” The cup is halfway empty, and Victor takes one more sip.
It’s cold going down him, which feels odd when his skin is so warm, buzzing,
alive. He feels loose, but Yuri still looks so stiff. “Do you want the rest?”
Yuri takes it, sniffs, and makes a face. “Gross. That’s Christophe’s awful
fruit piss, isn’t it.”
But he drinks anyway.
Victor grins. “Say good-bye to your devoted fans, and meet me in room 423.”
Yuri drinks again. His throat moves as he swallows. “Is Katsudon there?”
“He isn’t.” Victor considers explaining, but he can’t get the words in the
right order, and besides. It doesn’t matter why. This isn’t about the three of
them, about coaching, about what Victor’s doing next. This is just the night
before tomorrow, and it’s about taking what they want.
“All right,” Yuri says. He looks relieved. Victor wonders what Yuri would have
done if Victor hadn’t had a room to himself tonight. If he’d be pulled into a
storage closet, or bathroom, or out by the pool deck—if Yuri was counting on
his roommate being out late.
This is better, because Victor is reckless, not stupid. He wants a night
without consequences.
So. He ruffles Yuri’s hair, sways away from a kick, and does not stumble to the
door. As he makes good-bye excuses, to Georgi and Christophe and Naoko and
Francesca, he holds back the urge to tell them how soft Yuri’s hair is, like
spun gold clouds, and how he can still feel it sliding through his fingertips.
He laughs and declines Christophe’s offer of another cup.
He glances over his shoulder when he reaches the door, and through the crowd
sees Yuri, red-faced, head thrown back, downing the awful fruit piss.
The door closes behind him, and the hallway is a long well of quiet. He feels
muffled, walking down to the elevator. Inside, he slumps against the metal
wall. It’s cold on the back of his head. It feels good.
The elevator is empty, as is the fourth-floor hallway once he reaches it. It’s
not even midnight, and it’s like he’s the only person there. His room, at
least, shows signs of life. Two nights is enough to strew most of his
belongings over it.
He kicks his shoes off, then leans over the bathroom counter. The mirror shows
his eyes are red, and there’s sweat at his temples. The alcohol’s loosened him,
relaxed his face—he looks younger than he is. He runs the sink, splashes water
on his face, and has time to practice his most obnoxious smirk before there’s a
quick, sharp knock on the door.
Yuri’s outside, jaw tense, coiled to spring. He blazes past him, into the room,
and then Victor’s collar’s tight around his throat because Yuri’s yanking on
his tie, shoving him back. The door slams shut as Victor falls against it,
pinned by Yuri’s slim form, and Yuri yanks harder, dragging him down for a—
No. Victor grabs Yuri by the hair, twists hard enough to draw out a pained
gasp. They freeze, panting, bare centimeters away. Yuri’s breath is hot on his
lips, and Victor smells the rum and orange soda.
“Don’t fucking play with me,” Yuri hisses.
“I’m not kissing you like that.” If Yuri wants him, he’ll get him. His way.
“I’m kissing you like this.” He holds Yuri still, hand tightening in that soft,
soft hair, and leans in.
Yuri tastes just like he expected: rum and orange and victory. He kisses how he
expected, too. Wet, messy, the desperation outweighing any skill. Yuri opens to
him, moves, presses closer along his body. Victor grunts as teeth sink into his
lower lip. He tightens his grip on Yuri’s hair in warning, but Yuri just bites
harder before letting go.
Like expected. What Victor didn’t expect was how much he enjoys it. Warmth
coils in him, and a fluttering anticipation, like he’s at the rink side, braced
on the railing, and a slight, scowling figure has launched above the ice.
And Victor’s waiting to see how he’ll land.
He pulls back, just barely, and Yuri makes this little whine that Victor
pretends not to hear. His face is pink, lips red, and he’s breathing hard. He
looks as dizzy as Victor feels.
Victor finally lets go of Yuri’s hair, lets the strands slide through his
fingers, curves his hand down Yuri’s flushed neck. His thumb rests lightly over
his windpipe. “Is that what you wanted?”
Yuri swallows hard, and shoves away. His chin lifts stubbornly. “It’s a start.”
Victor pushes off the door. “Then tell me what you want next.”
He reaches, but before he can touch that sharp jaw again, Yuri backs away. He
perches on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his braced arms, and looks up,
so his hair falls from his face.
“Strip for me.”
So Victor strips. This is nothing new, and he’s never been shy, but in the dim
hotel room, he’s hyperaware of Yuri’s attention. Yuri doesn’t meet his eyes,
which means Victor in turn is free to stare at him. To see the hunger burning
as Victor slides his tie from around his neck. The way Yuri’s hands tighten in
the sheets when he shrugs his jacket off. The way Yuri’s breath catches when he
begins working loose the buttons at his cuffs, at his neck.
Cursing, Yuri launches forward. “You’re too fucking slow,” he snarls, tearing
at the rest of the buttons.
His hands are sloppy, he half-falls against Victor, and the two of them working
together takes twice as long. Victor doesn’t mind the delay, not when it comes
with Yuri’s hot, wet mouth pressed against his collarbone, his chest. They’re a
tangled mess of limbs and teeth, and suddenly everything is urgent. Victor
twists his shirt off, and it hasn’t hit the floor before he’s grabbing Yuri
next. He kisses his neck, breathing in, shoves Yuri’s jacket off.
Yuri growls, “Don’t fucking play with me,” which he doesn’t even understand. He
isn’t playing. He doesn’t know what he is doing. But this isn’t a game.
“How do you want me?” Victor asks.
Yuri snarls something unintelligible, and drags him back. They topple onto the
bed, Yuri splayed out and Victor poised over him. His thigh presses up behind
one of Yuri’s, and the contact is so hot, so firm, his whole consciousness
focuses there. They aren’t all the way undressed, even. Victor’s still in his
socks and boxers. Yuri’s in boxers, and his shirt’s only half-unbuttoned,
fallen back to bare his shoulders.
Victor braces on one elbow, runs his other hand up Yuri’s exposed side. Feels
the shudder in his ribs. Kisses his neck, slowly, softly, tastes him, and Yuri
swears.
“Have you done this before?” Victor murmurs into his neck.
Yuri’s fingers tighten like claws in Victor’s shoulders. “You worthless old
man, blow me already.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the hour. Maybe it’s the ache in his own
cock, or maybe it’s Yuri arching up, clawing at him, wanting him—but Victor
can’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t.
And after all, he said he would. If he wants to come out of retirement, he
really ought to take the competition seriously.
He presses a last kiss to Yuri’s throat, then catches his lips—less a kiss,
more two mouths pressed artlessly together—as he unbuttons the rest of Yuri’s
shirt. Pushes it half-off his shoulders, and breaks away. He licks his lips,
and savors the way Yuri flushes even redder.
“Move back against the pillows,” Victor says, because fuck if he’s kneeling on
the floor for this. Drunk as he is, he wouldn’t feel the ache until morning,
but even foggy with booze and arousal, he knows better.
Yuri’s bright red, and he moves back like Victor says, in jerky, scrambling
movements. His knee catches Victor in the chest. Victor grabs him by the calf,
fingers digging into sleek muscle, and looks up Yuri’s body. Smooth skin and
bruises, a fragile frame made strong through fire, and maybe Victor will burn
him again.
Or Yuri will burn him. He thinks, through the haze, he might like that.
Still in boxers and his undone shirt, Yuri looks more disheveled and vulnerable
than if he were naked. Probably. Maybe. Victor would like to test that. But not
now; now he has a a demand to meet, as Yuri lifts his chin and says, “Get the
fuck on with it.”
Victor kisses the inside of Yuri’s knee. He likes the twitch under his lips,
and thinks it would be worth getting kicked in the head if he got to see Yuri
bite his lip like that. But Yuri doesn’t even kick, just holds tense and still
as Victor kisses again.
Victor leans his cheek against Yuri’s knee and touches inside his other thigh.
Trails fingertips through soft, barely-there hair, over soft skin, upwards, and
now Yuri isn’t meeting his eyes. Yuri’s looking down, as Victor’s fingers meet
the hem of his boxers, and dip upwards. Yuri’s hips jerk up. He’s hard. Really
hard. The line of his cock presses clearly against the thin fabric.
Victor wants to tease. To say something. Anything. But he can’t summon words.
He leans forward, and touches Yuri’s cock through the fabric. He spreads his
palm, cupping him, and feels the heat crackling up his arm. Victor squeezes,
gently, feels Yuri twitch and hears him groan, and it’s—
Victor’s hard too. He’s too tight and hot all over, heat tingling all down his
belly. He traces his fingers down Yuri’s shaft, slides the fabric against it,
and he hardly even hears Yuri groaning over the pounding of his heartbeat.
He unwraps Yuri like a gift. Fast, sloppy. He doesn’t care about tearing the
paper. Yuri shifts, folds and unfolds, and then his boxers are down around one
ankle, and Victor’s holding his thighs apart. Yuri sits a bit straighter, his
thin arms taut, and says, “Any day now,” and it almost sounds like he doesn’t
care.
Victor bites his inner thigh, hard, and Yuri whines, “Victor. Someone will
see.”
He bites again, harder. Yuri’s whole body jerks up into his teeth. Victor likes
the give of Yuri’s muscle, the taste of his skin when he licks. The way he
shivers when Victor lets go and kisses between the teeth marks. Yuri’s cock
jumps, bright and pink against his pale belly. His balls are tight.
“You taste good, kitten.”
“Don’t be romantic,” Yuri snaps, and then he gasps, contorts, when Victor grabs
his cock.
This isn’t romance, Victor doesn’t say, because as his palm warms around Yuri’s
cock, as the smooth, hard length fills his grasp—it’s slick under his thumb—he
isn’t sure it would be true.
Yuri’s telling him to hurry again, but that’s not why Victor bends down. It’s
because his mouth waters, and he’s hard, and he wants to taste him. He holds
the base of Yuri’s cock, braces the other hand under Yuri’s thigh, and licks
his head. Barely registers the salt-musk taste before he’s chasing more of it.
He mouths down the length as Yuri swears, jerking under him in sharp, halting
movements, like he’s trying to hold himself still.
Victor pauses, with Yuri’s cock resting warm and wet on his cheek. The taste
and smell of him cuts through the too-sweet liquor aftertaste. When he looks
up, Yuri’s holding one hand over his mouth, and his eyes are saucer-wide. His
other hand’s white-knuckled in the sheets, and Victor nearly purrs in
satisfaction.
Yuri took down his world record this week. It’s only fair that Victor take him
down too.
Victor shifts his weight, braces one hand on the bed so his weight’s not all on
his knees, and dives in. Yuri’s cock is warm and heavy on his tongue, and it
tastes so fucking good. He can’t see well from this angle, but he doesn’t need
to. He needs to spread his jaw, breathe slowly, breathe in Yuri’s scent, and
swallow him down.
Yuri makes a rough noise, almost pained. Victor shifts angles and takes in the
rest. His nose presses to Yuri’s belly, and Yuri jerks up into him—but he can’t
go any deeper. He’s taken it all. Victor’s own cock strains in his boxers. His
hand digs into Yuri’s thigh, and he swallows again—holds in place, and his
blood sings with the whine edging Yuri’s every breath.
Yuri jerks again. It hurts his throat, like the last half of the free skate,
when the air’s stabbing through his lungs. Victor pulls back, a little, enough
to push his tongue against Yuri’s cock, enough to push again—just to hear that
whimper again—
He sucks hard, and Yuri freezes, then shudders. Victor barely has the presence
of mind to look up so he can see Yuri arch, mouth wide and silent and shocked,
as he comes on Victor’s tongue.
Victor’s already so full up with Yuri, he barely tastes the splash of salt.
Yuri slumps back against the headboard, and Victor sits up between his spread
thighs. His throat hurts. He rolls his tongue through Yuri’s come. Tastes it
against his teeth. He swallows, and he knows there’s some left on his lip by
the way Yuri is staring at his mouth.
Yuri’s red-faced and messed up and panting as hard as he did after the free
skate. For a second, Victor isn’t sure whether he will cry. He isn’t sure
whether he’d like that or not. He thinks he’d like anything Yuri did right now.
The bite mark is purpling on Yuri’s thigh. Victor wonders if that was Yuri’s
first blowjob. He wonders if that should matter.
He licks the come from his lip, leans up, and breathes into Yuri’s ear. “Are
you going to return the favor?”
Yuri’s breath hitches. Then he drags Victor down and kisses him, soft, sweet,
wet and open, licks himself from Victor’s lips. He breaks away, and seizes
Victor tight by the hair. His voice is low and his face is vicious when he
says, “Are you coming back?”
And Victor is too drunk to pretend he doesn’t know what Yuri means.
“Yes.”
Yuri’s expression doesn’t change. “Nationals?”
“Yes. If it works out.”
“Then no,” Yuri says. His fingers tighten in Victor’s hair, and it’s painful
and vicious and fond, and Victor’s heart flips funny in his chest. Yuri growls,
“That was not a fucking favor, you balding fuck. That was my prize for wiping
the floor with your charity pig. Will you stop smiling.”
Victor will not stop smiling.
Yuri half-tugs, half-pushes Victor up with him, until Victor’s sitting back and
Yuri is climbing into his lap to better confront him. Spread over Victor’s
thighs, on his knees on the mattress, he can look down at Victor, and Victor
can look up at him, at the way the light catches gold in his hair. At that
beautiful sharp scowl, flushed with victory and fixed on him.
Victor thinks, stunned, I need to fuck him sober, too.
He runs his hands up Yuri’s sides, then down. He digs his thumbs into the
hollows of his hips. “Then when I win gold, I’ll claim my prize, too.”
“If you win,” Yuri corrects, “then yeah. I’ll suck your dick.”
Victor laughs. Takes Yuri by the jaw, touches his mouth. Dips his thumb between
soft pink lips.
“When I win,” he says.
He kisses the protest from Yuri’s lips.
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