Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/9664052.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Yuri_Plisetsky, Katsuki_Yuuri, Victor_Nikiforov
  Additional Tags:
      Established_Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov, Jealousy, Resolved_Sexual
      Tension, Voyeurism, Exhibitionism, Power_Dynamics, Mild_Praise_Kink, Hand
      Jobs, Hand_&_Finger_Kink, Come_Eating, Canon-Typical_Engagement_Ring
      Fixation
  Collections:
      Chocolate_Box_-_Round_2
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-02-14 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 3203
****** An Excuse to Be There ******
by shadow_lover
Summary
     Yuri blames the insanely unfair pair of distractions for what he does
     next: he hands Victor his phone, unlocked, open to his photo gallery.
Notes
     Happy Valentine's Day! I hope this fic suits your vision for the ship
     :)
***** Chapter 1 *****
Yuri doesn’t forget his sweatshirt on purpose. He just happens to come back for
it when Victor and Yuuri were practicing alone, and of course he’d stop by to
harass them. It’s not like he intends to end up on the edge of the rink,
leaning on the wall, with his elbow almost, almost brushing Victor’s.
He’s just accidentally hanging out with them, like he does every day.
When Victor asks him to film Katsudon’s last jump of the day, he agrees, just
to have an excuse to be there. He definitely doesn’t blush when Victor ruffles
his hair, or wish Victor’s hand lingered longer.
Katsudon—fuck him—lands the axel perfectly. Yuri zooms out for the ending shot,
and kind of hopes his sigh is audible in the video. At least Victor isn’t
whooping and clapping like a moron this time. Yuri ends the recording and turns
to Victor, and realizes it’s even worse: he’s making those fucking googly eyes
again, with his knuckles pressed to his lips.
Yuri thinks he does that just to show off the sparkling ring.
It’s fucking unfair. He can’t even gaze obsessively at his crush’s pink, soft
lips without the reminder of how completely off-limits Victor is. He looks
away, only to be blindsided again by Katsudon gliding towards them.
That’s another unfair thing: the way Yuuri gets so lightly flushed with
exertion, his cheeks faintly pink and his lips parted as he pants. His hair’s
mussed from the spins, soft and disarrayed instead of gelled back like he is in
competition. In practice, Yuuri looks so touchable, so attainable, and it kind
of kills Yuri not to reach out. When Yuuri grins at him, Yuri scowls and looks
away.
Victor’s eyes are still on Yuuri when he asks, “Did you get the video, Yura?”
“Obviously.”
Yuri blames the insanely unfair pair of distractions for what he does next: he
hands Victor his phone, unlocked, open to his photo gallery.
He leans against the wall, tapping his foot. He needs to get out of there
before they start holding hands or something. They have a way of making it
clear this ice rink is not a public space—it’s practically their bedroom—and he
isn’t welcome. He needs to get out of there before he kicks someone.
“Hm,” Victor says.
Yuri looks up. Katsudon hadn’t jumped badly at all, and usually Victor would be
praising him or licking his hand or something. “Are you done? I want my phone
back.”
Victor turns around to where Yuuri’s bending to put on his skate guards.
“Yuuri, have you seen these?”
“Seen what?” Yuuri asks, and Yuri realizes what’s happened.
“You asshole!” he shouts, diving for his phone. “Give that back! You can’t just
look at people’s phones like that!”
Victor holds it out of reach and catches Yuri by the collar. He pins Yuri to
the wall long enough to pass the phone to a baffled Yuuri—and then longer. He’s
completely pressed up against Yuri, and the heat in Yuri’s cheeks is only
partly embarrassment.
His pulse thuds in his ears. Victor’s hands are tight on his wrists, holding
him half-bent back over the wall, and he’d be in fucking heaven over it if he
couldn’t also see Katsudon five feet away, flipping through his photos.
Yuuri’s eyebrows are so high they disappear into his bangs, and his mouth forms
a tiny, oh. He blinks, rubs his eyes, then turns and bends over to dig in his
bag. After an instant’s worth of black fabric stretching over incredible
curves, Yuuri straightens and put his glasses on.
“Oh, my god. I didn’t—I did.” He flips through the photos for what feels like a
solid hour, but is probably more like ten seconds. Then he addresses his
fiancé. “You told me there weren’t pictures.”
“I told you there weren’t pictures online. I didn’t know about these.” Victor’s
grip hasn’t loosened on Yuri’s wrists, and in fact only tightens when Yuri
tried to wiggle loose.
“Chris is, um, very talented.” Yuuri’s cheeks are still faintly pink, and no
longer from practice.
“He used to take classes.”
“Give that to me,” Yuri hisses. “I’m sorry! I’ll delete them! Just give me the
phone back.”
Yuuri finally makes eye contact with Yuri, grinning through his blush. “Sorry!
You don’t have to delete them—can you just send them to me?”
“Sure. Yeah. Whatever.”
“Great,” Yuuri says, but he keeps fucking swiping as he walks towards Yuri and
Victor. He had to be reaching the end of the banquet photos, and then—
—and then he stops, scant feet away, and his expression changes.
Victor lets go of Yuri. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”
It’s too late. Yuri wants to curl up and die; he settles for just curling
up—hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched, head down so his hair
obscures his face. He stares down at his leopard print sneakers.
“Huh,” Victor says. “These aren’t from…”
“This is from Hatetsu,” Yuuri says quietly. “So’s this, and this. These ones
are the Grand Prix Final, and all of these—”
“Since you came to Russia. Oh—there’s me!”
Yuri doesn’t care about Katsudon finding the pole dancing photos. Anyone would
have taken and kept those for—for blackmail material, of course. Not because he
likes to look at them, to curl up in bed and memorize the lines of bare limbs
and an infectious smile. Blackmail.
It’s the other photos he can’t explain. Yuuri leaning over the counter at
Minako’s snack bar. Yuuri turning at something Victor said, baring a perfect
curve of neck. Yuuri asleep, with his glasses askew, at the dinner table. Yuuri
looking at his phone, smiling at something on the screen. Yuuri with his eyes
closed and earbuds in, intent, caught in the liminal moment before nerves and
determination. Yuuri yawning, Yuuri laughing, Yuuri, Yuuri, Yuuri—
Yuuri’s feet coming into Yuri’s limited sightlines, and stopping right in front
of his. Yuri braces himself for a scolding—from Victor, or if Katsudon’s been
pushed past the edge—but all he gets is a finger under his chin, tilting his
face up.
“What’s going on, Yuri?” Yuuri asks softly.
“It’s nothing,” he blurts, at the exact same time Victor says, “I knew he had a
crush on you, but not this bad.”
Yuri fancies he can see his breath in the frozen silence. That’s surely why his
vision’s fogging.
“Weird,” Yuuri says. “I always thought he had a crush on you.”
“Fuck off,” Yuri snaps, shoving past Yuuri.
“Hey,” Yuuri says. “It’s okay, really.”
Yuri’s eyes sting with embarrassment. He needs to get out of here. He could
possibly survive them blowing up at him, because he could screech right back,
but he knows that soft tone in Yuuri’s voice, and if he’s going to be
understanding about this—
He stands in front of Victor and glares, hand out. “I’ll delete them,” he says
again. “Just give me the phone.”
Victor frowns thoughtfully, but at last relinquishes the phone. The case is
warm to the touch, and his thumb brushes Yuri’s palm. “They’re good photos.
Don’t delete them.”
Yuuri walks up and leans his arm on Victor’s shoulder. “He really can’t keep
stalking me like that, though.”
“I guess,” Victor muses. “But what if he made it up to us?”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Yuri took photos of Yuuri, so Victor declares it’s only fitting that they get
to take photos of Yuri too.
“What kind of photos?” Yuri asks warily, kicking off his shoes as he enters
Victor’s apartment. Makkachin’s jumping on Katsudon, and Victor flicks on the
lights. They strip off their coats and scarves.
“We-ell,” Victor starts, but Yuuri interrupts, “Victor. Just photos.”
Which is, Yuri thinks, supremely disappointing. He fiddles with his sweatshirt
sleeve, not sure what to do next.
“Go to your room,” Yuuri tells Makkachin. Once the poodle obediently bounces
out of the living room—does the dog have his own room?—Yuuri turns to Yuri and
says, “Sit on the couch.”
He’s going before he realizes he’s obeying. He feels off-balance. This isn’t
how it goes. He’s gotten used to third-wheeling it, hanging on for any sliver
of attention and contact he can carve off the edges of their bond. Now they’re
making space for him, and Yuuri’s telling him what to do.
He sits on the couch and smirks. “What now—take my shirt off?”
He expects Yuuri to splutter and Victor to leer, but instead Victor just laughs
and Yuuri frowns contemplatively. “No,” says Yuuri. “Just the sweatshirt for
now.”
Yuri swallows, and wiggles out of the sweatshirt. Under Yuuri’s dark, sharp
gaze, he feels like he’s stripped off even more.
Victor tugs the coffee table back and sits on it, right in front of Yuri. He’s
got his phone out.
Yuri throws his arms over the back of the couch and tilts his head. His hair
spills over his shoulder. “Shoot away,” he says loftily. “I don’t have bad
angles.”
“What was your nickname—the ice princess of Russia?” Victor’s looking at the
screen.
“Tiger,” Yuri snarls.
The phone clicks. “Nice! I like your angry face.”
“Fuck you, old man!”
Click. Click. Click. Katsudon moves behind the coffee table to lean over
Victor’s shoulder. “I like that one.”
Yuri sighs and slumps back on the couch.
“Sit up straight,” Victor says. Click.
Yuri straightens. He probably looks stupid, shoulders stiff and face pink. He
isn’t sure whether to look at Victor or Yuuri or the phone. “Do you want me to
pose?”
“No,” Yuuri says. “Just sit there.”
Click.
“Tell us if you want to stop,” Yuuri says. Click.
Victor snorts. “He doesn’t want to stop.”
Something warm and resonant in Victor’s voice sends shivers down Yuri’s spine.
The world shifts, and when it settles, everything is different. No. It’s all
the same, but Yuri’s seeing it as it really was. Katsudon’s smile after
practice, just for him—how close Victor let him stand—Victor’s hand ruffling
his hair—
Click.
His hands curl against the couch cushions, and his jaw drops. “You’ve been
hitting on me this whole time.”
Victor just grins. Yuuri says, “Okay, now take your shirt off.”
Yuri takes a deep breath, then obeys. The couch cushions are scratchy against
his spine. Click. Click.
“That’s good,” Victor says. It’s unclear whether he’s talking about the photos
or Yuri or both, but Yuuri murmurs agreement.
Yuri’s skin prickles, and he wonders what they see when they look at him. He’s
wanted their attention so long, he’s not sure what to do when he has it, and
has it so completely. Victor’s still looking at him through the phone screen,
but Yuuri’s gaze is direct. There’s no lens between him and Yuri’s bare skin.
Click.
“What are you doing with these anyway?” Yuri asks. He probably should have
asked that earlier.
Victor hums. “What did you do with your photos of Yuuri?”
Yuri bites his lip. Click. “I just kept them.” At Victor’s disbelieving snort,
he added defensively, “Sometimes I looked at them! That’s all.”
“Yuuri used to have posters of me in his bedroom,” Victor says. He raises his
voice over Yuuri’s groan. “He says he just looked at them too, but honestly I
don’t believe him either.” Click. “Yuuri, go sit down with him.”
“Are you sure about this?” Yuuri says, straightening up. The question’s for
Victor, even though Yuri’s the one having a minor heart attack. He’s red-faced
and shirtless on Victor’s couch, and zero iterations of his fantasies have
involved Victor actually telling Yuuri to go touch him. He’s desperately afraid
Victor will change his mind, but Victor just turns around and tilts his face
up.
Yuuri kisses him, and somehow Yuri feels none of his usual jealousy—he’s too
caught by the way Victor’s entire body leans up into the kiss, and the
concentration in Yuuri’s brow. Yuri’s warm all the way through, and he isn’t
sure when he got hard but his jeans rub uncomfortably through his briefs every
time he shifts on the couch.
“Are you going to take all night?” he says loudly.
Yuuri pulls away. Victor touches his lips, ring glinting, as Yuuri moves around
the coffee table. He sits next to Yuri. They only touch at the knee, but it’s
enough to make Yuri shudder.
“We could take all night.” Victor leans back for a wider angle: Click.
“Seriously, tell me if you want to stop,” Yuuri says, turning towards Yuri.
Click. Now his hand’s warm on Yuri’s knee.
Yuri’s breath hitches. “Don’t you fucking dare stop.” And Yuuri’s smiling the
sort of smile he’s only seen directed at Victor before, something dark and
dangerous, and it lights a spark of courage in Yuri. He seizes Yuuri’s
collar—click—and swings a leg over. He straddles Yuuri, and is gratified both
when Yuuri’s eyes widen in surprise and when strong hands settle over his hips.
Palms on bare skin, sliding up his back, are a new reminder that he’s half-
undressed.
Click.
“No more photos,” Yuuri says tersely.
Yuri leans forward, gripping Yuuri’s shirt with both fists now. “What? You
don’t want this on Instagram?”
Suddenly, Yuuri’s hand is tight under his jaw, and he breathes, “I really
don’t,” before yanking Yuri in for a kiss. Yuri squeaks into the harsh press of
lips, but he doesn’t even have room to bemoan the indignity before Yuuri’s
mouth opens under his. He closes his eyes and melts forward, arms sliding
around Yuuri’s neck.
The end of the couch dips down to Yuri’s left. Yuri jerks back, panting, eyes
wide, and glances at Victor. He’s hyperaware of Yuuri’s hands splayed at his
heaving sides, and from the direction of Victor’s hooded gaze, he is too. Yuri
thinks he can feel Yuuri’s pulse through his palms, reverberating through him
until his whole body thrums with Yuuri’s heartbeat. The smooth, hard spot on
his left side is the ring on Yuuri’s right hand, hot as a brand with the heat
of their touch.
When Yuri shifts, he feels Yuuri’s cock pressing hard against his inner thigh.
Yuuri’s as breathlessly into this as he is, and Yuri’s dizzy with the thought.
“That look suits you, Yura,” Victor says, voice low.
Yuri likes that voice, and he likes the praise. He leans back and shoves his
hair out of his face, not missing the way Victor’s gaze traces the line of his
arm down to his ribs. He asks, “Are you just going to watch?”
And Victor answers, “Yes.”
Yuri doesn’t have time to respond, because then Yuuri’s mouth is working wet
down his throat, and Yuuri’s hands are sliding up his back, and Yuri can’t
manage anything more articulate than a heated moan. His arousal is nearly
painful. Yuuri bites his chest hard, a sharp burst below his collarbone, where
the bruise won’t show.
“Fucking vampire,” Yuri gasps, and Yuuri kisses the sting away. Somehow the
tenderness is hotter than anything else. Yuri should be doing more, kissing
back, touching back, but it’s all he can do just to hold onto Yuuri’s neck. He
jerks forward, desperate for friction.
Yuuri leans back again. His lips are wet and his glasses half-fogged. His eyes
stay intent on Yuri’s face as he says, “Fuck, Victor, he’s about to come.”
“No, I’m good, I—ah.”
Yuuri’s hands dropping down to his ass cut off the rest of his protest—long
fingers digging into muscle lightly, then firmly, like Yuuri’s testing new
territory. Yuri rocks forward shamelessly in response, and he whimpers,
“Please, can I…”
“Go on, Yuuri,” Victor urges, or he might have meant Yuri—either way, Yuuri’s
hands are now at Yuri’s fly. His knuckles brush his cock through his jeans.
Yuuri looks into his face for a long moment. His lips part like he’s about to
ask if Yuri’s okay again, but whatever he sees in Yuri’s face must be
permission enough, because he spreads his right hand over Yuri’s crotch,
cupping him.
Yuri whimpers. It’s so slow and steady, he’s going to go insane.
“Fuck, that’s…” Victor says, as Yuuri unbuttons, then unzips Yuri’s jeans. The
angle’s awkward, and Yuuri’s got that intense concentration on his face again,
and it’s all focused on Yuri. The force of that is almost as hot as Yuuri’s
hand slipping into his jeans, and tugging his cock out.
Almost. Yuri whimpers again at Yuuri’s touch. He’s never been this sensitive
before. He’s never been touched by someone else like this before, only
imagined—Yuuri strokes up his shaft, and he can’t even stay upright anymore. He
curves forward, face pressed into Yuuri’s neck, eyes screwed shut. Yuuri’s left
arm is solid and stabilizing behind his back as he works over his cock. Even
the goddamn ring only makes it better, especially when the grip rotates.
Yuuri’s thumb swipes over the head, and again, smearing through the precome.
His next strokes are slicker, but Yuri doesn’t mind the edge of friction. He’s
going to be jerking himself raw over this for the next month, may as well get a
head start.
Yuri rocks into Yuuri’s firm hand, each breath more like a whine. He thinks
Victor’s saying something, but he’s too dizzy and gone to interpret the words.
Yuuri kisses his shoulder, and that’s enough—Yuri’s orgasm rolls through him in
a hot, breathless wave. He shudders, clawing at Yuuri’s shirt. It’s so sudden
and sharp, his eyes sting. He pants open-mouthed against Yuuri’s neck as Yuuri
continues stroking him just a bit too long.
Then Yuuri lets go. His left hand sinks into Yuri’s hair, and he tugs gently
until Yuri sits up in his lap again. “There you are—how’re you doing?”
Yuri blinks. His lashes are wet, and his hair sticks to his sweat-damp temple.
He struggles for sarcasm, but all he manages to say is, faintly, “Wow.”
He suddenly remembers that both Yuuri and Victor are still fully dressed, and
Yuuri’s still hard against his thigh. As Victor’s pink tongue laps over Yuuri’s
palm, Yuri shifts in his lap. “Do you—I mean, if you want, I can…”
“No, we’re good,” says Yuuri, and when Victor starts to protest, he repeats,
“We’re good. Maybe next time.”
Yuri scowls, and slides off of Yuuri’s lap. He doesn’t get far—his legs are too
wobbly to stand on—and ends up slumped next to Yuuri, tucked under his left
arm. “What makes you so sure there’s going to be a next time?”
Yuuri just ruffles his hair again, and turns to Victor. “Could you get me a
towel?”
He gestures: his hand gleams from palm to fingertips with Yuri’s come. A streak
of it clings to the golden band on his finger.
“I could,” Victor says, but instead he crawls forward on the couch. He takes
hold of Yuuri’s wrist and kisses his knuckles, like a prince to his beloved.
“But I won’t.” Then he turns over Yuuri’s hand and begins sucking his
fingertips.
It’s gross, it’s awful, and Yuri likes it so much, he can’t look away. And as
he watches Victor’s pink tongue licks the ring clean, all Yuri can think is
that next, time, he’s taking the pictures.
He has plans.
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