Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11299959.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Katsuki_Yuuri/Yuri_Plisetsky, background_Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov
  Character:
      Katsuki_Yuuri, Yuri_Plisetsky, Victor_Nikiforov
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Oral_Sex, Fingerfucking, Sexual_Humiliation, Hair-pulling,
      Polyamory, Pre-OT3
  Collections:
      Rare_Ships!!!_on_Ice_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-24 Words: 7718
****** the taste, the flavor ******
by pageleaf
Summary
     "I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri asks faintly. "You—you want me to—"
     "I want you to fuck me," Yuri repeats, resolute.
Notes
     for Teuthida, who asked for yuri/yuuri and mentioned liking confident
     virgins who know exactly what they want, top!yuuri, and sexual
     humiliation. hopefully this delivers :)
     the underage warning is because yuri p is 16 here
     title is from "dangerous woman" by ariana grande
See the end of the work for more notes
"I'm sorry, what?" Yuuri asks faintly. "You—you want me to—"
"I want you to fuck me," Yuri repeats, resolute. "I've never done it." He's
been thinking about it for a while, since he realized that he was only going to
get busier from here on out, and it would therefore only get harder for him to
find someone he trusts enough. He doesn't want to have to cave and fuck another
teenager who has no idea what they're doing, and he doesn't want to put it off,
so it has to be now.
Besides, he's not ashamed anymore of being attracted to Yuuri. It's not a crush
(no matter what Mila says), it's just a healthy appreciation of
Yuuri's...thighs. And his ass. And his mouth, and his fucking eyelashes and—
"Why me?" Yuuri asks, voice high. "Wouldn't you rather Viktor, or someone else?
Otabek, maybe?"
"Otabek's too busy to fly out to Russia just because I want to have sex," Yuri
snaps. "And if you think I'm gonna give it up for that old bastard, you're an
even bigger idiot than I thought."
"But Yurio..." Yuuri hesitates. "You don't even like me."
Yuri scowls. "So you have to be best friends with someone to have sex, now?"
Yuuri's eyes are wide and unhappy. "Maybe not everyone does, but I do?"
Yuri flinches.
Yuuri sighs. "Sorry, Yuri, I just...can't." He turns to go.
"Wait!" Yuri says, panicked. He grabs Yuuri's hand. "I..."
Yuuri stares back at him, apprehensive.
"I like you, okay?" Yuri admits. "I want you."
Yuuri bites his lip. "Don't pretend just because you know I'll say no
otherwise."
"I'm not!" Yuri shouts, frustrated. "Jesus, have I ever lied to you?"
Yuuri blinks, and then smiles, faint but present. "No, you've never had a
problem with honesty." He's making fun of Yuri, but it's better than him
leaving. Yuri can work with this.
"I want it to be you," he says.
Yuuri looks at him, curious and intent. "Why me?" he says again quietly.
Yuri fidgets. "I trust you."
"You know I don't have much more experience than you, right?" Yuuri says
frankly. "Other than Viktor, I've only been with a couple of people."
How does Yuri tell him that that's not it, at all? That experienced or not,
there's something about Yuuri's patience and his quiet self-assurance, even
when he's anxious or frightened, that makes Yuri sit up and take notice?
"That doesn't matter to me," Yuri says. "Unless you're scared?" he taunts,
hoping to goad Yuuri into a response, even if it's a rejection.
Yuuri narrows his eyes, and then he smirks. "That's not gonna work," he says,
and his tone is confident, teasing. "But you could try asking, again."
Yuri swallows. "I want you to have sex with me."
"That wasn't a question."
"Will you have sex with me," Yuri says through gritted teeth.
Yuuri's glasses catch the light. "Nicely."
Fucking—
"Please," Yuri says, "will you fuck me, please?"
Yuuri smiles. "I'll think about it."
He jogs off, leaving Yuri standing in front of the entrance to the skating
complex with his mouth open, dumbstruck and overheated.
 
When Yuri's phone rings that night at eleven, he takes one look at the caller
and answers so quickly he almost drops his phone.
"Yeah?"
"If we're doing this," Yuuri says on the other line, and Yuri crows internally.
Yuuri might be wearing his Serious Mentor Voice—the voice he uses whenever he
thinks Yuri's in danger of injuring himself or doing something stupid—but he's
basically agreeing. "If we're doing this," he's saying, "then I have some
ground rules."
Yuri nods, before he remembers Yuuri can't see him. "Okay."
"I haven't told Viktor anything yet, but if we do this, I'm going to." Yuuri's
tone brooks no argument. "We've each slept with friends before, and neither of
us minds, but we always talk about it before."
Yuri thinks about it. He doesn't think Viktor will be weird or an asshole about
it, so he's okay with it. Although it might make things a little awkward for a
bit, he thinks ruefully. "That's fine."
"We always talk about it after, too," Yuuri says, his voice dark with meaning.
That's—oh. Yuri doesn't know how he feels about it, but he's forced to admit it
might be...good. "That's fine too," he says, trying not to sound too
breathless.
"One last thing," Yuuri says. "If either of us—me or you—has a moment of
uncertainty about whether they want to continue, we stop and talk about it.
Non-negotiable."
Yuri scowls. "Fine," he says shortly.
Yuuri ignores his tone. "Okay. Tomorrow's our off day, right?"
Yuri rolls his eyes. "Why do you think I asked you today?"
"Ah," Yuuri laughs sheepishly, "that's true," and the seriousness is gone from
his voice. Yuri can picture him—the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, hand
rubbing the back of his head, embarrassed.
It's definitely not cute, Yuri tells himself sternly. He doesn't want to see it
again at all.
"Are we good, then?" he asks, brusque.
"Yeah, I guess," Yuuri replies, "unless you had anything to add? Any
questions?"
"No," Yuri says. "Pick you up at 8?"
"What?"
"Katsudon," Yuri exhales, exasperated, "I'm not getting fucked for the first
time in Viktor Nikiforov's apartment. I'll pick you up at 8?"
"O-oh," Yuuri says. "Oh, yeah, sure. That sounds fine. I'll see you then."
Like they're going out for dinner or something, Yuri thinks half-hysterically,
as he hangs up. Something casual, friendly. Which, he supposes, is all this is.
Great. That's exactly what he wanted.
 
A month ago, Yuri moved out of Lilia's place and back to his old apartment, the
one he'd bought as soon as he could afford it. Viktor's—well, Viktor-and-
Yuuri's, now—apartment is a five minute walk from it, something he maintains is
completely accidental and not at all intentional.
It's 7:45 when Yuri finds himself standing outside their apartment door,
wondering if he should knock early and risk looking painfully eager, or loiter
in the hall like a delinquent.
Before he can make up his mind, though, the door opens, and Viktor almost slams
into him, walking backwards like the idiot he is.
"Oh, Yura!" he says, bright. "You're early! I was just about to go pick up
food. Have you eaten?"
It's funny, Yuri marvels, how Viktor can be so normal at the most surprising
times. He'll be possessive and petulant when Yuuri so much as brushes shoulders
with someone else, but when Yuuri's actually having sex with another person
he's...the perfect host.
"I wasn't planning on staying," Yuri says, a reminder to Viktor, and to
himself.
"Yuuri hasn't had dinner," Viktor says, "so if you wouldn't mind waiting for at
least a little bit."
Yuri makes a face. He's impatient, but he wants Yuuri at his best. "Fine."
"We have extra," Viktor prods.
Yuri sighs. "Yeah, I'll take some."
Viktor beams. "Great! Go ahead inside, okay? I'll just get the delivery from
downstairs and join you."
Yuri shrugs and pushes the door back open. He takes his shoes off and
then—after a moment's hesitation—his coat as well.
He pokes his head into the kitchen, and there he finds Yuuri. "Viktor sent me
in to help set up," he says, even though Viktor hadn't asked. Yuri would feel
weird not helping, but he feels equally weird offering on his own.
Yuuri jumps, startled. "Yurio!" he says breathlessly, breaking into a smile
Yuri feels in his toes. "I think we were just going with paper plates on the
couch," Yuuri adds with a laugh. "But grab drinks?"
Yuri nods and heads for the fridge. He's contemplating the beer when Yuuri
appears at his shoulder. "No alcohol," he says sternly. "Not tonight."
Yuri considers protesting, but then he sees the firmness of Yuuri's expression,
his dark eyes, and remembers why he's here. He grabs three sodas.
They sit quietly on either side of the couch, the air—not awkward, but
anticipatory. Yuri feels like he's buzzing.
Viktor comes back quickly enough. Yuri can see him from the living area, tongue
wetting his lip in concentration, three plastic bags dangling precariously from
his fingertips. He kicks the door closed behind him. When he catches sight of
them, watching him expectantly, he grins. "Hungry?"
It's Thai, the takeout. Yuri is hungrier than he'd realized, and he devours his
food in near silence, every once in a while huffing a laugh or rolling his eyes
at the other two's conversation.
"You're so quiet, Yura," Viktor remarks, and Yuri flushes pink, caught.
"Thinking," he says, and Viktor looks so knowing that Yuri goes from pink to
full red.
He looks down at his feet while Yuuri changes the subject to something one of
the other skaters posted on twitter that day. The carpet is nice and soft, Yuri
notices, digging his toes into the plush grey. He never got around to putting
carpet in his apartment, just a few threadbare rugs over the old tile and
hardwood. Viktor's—Viktor-and-Yuuri's—apartment is all like that: soft, lived
in comfort, none of the clean but cold lines Yuri remembers from when it was
just Viktor. Yuri thinks of his own apartment, with standard college dorm room
furniture his grandpa had hastily picked out for him when he'd decided all of a
sudden at 13 to move to St. Petersburg.
"Yuri?" Yuuri asks, and his tone says it isn't the first time he said it.
Yuri swallows. "Yeah?"
"I was saying," Yuuri offers, "if you're done, we could head out?"
"Oh," Yuri says, and his voice is flat and telling.
"If you're not finished—"
Yuri shakes his head. "I am." He starts to stand up, but then Viktor touches a
hand to his knee.
"I can clear out," he offers casually, "if you'd like to stay."
Yuri hesitates. "Sure, I guess," he says, deliberately casual. "Too much effort
to go back home, anyway."
Yuuri's face goes a little soft, and Yuri looks away.
Viktor kisses Yuuri quickly. "Let me get my coat, and then I'll go bother Yakov
for a few hours."
This is something else Yuri hadn't expected, Viktor leaving his own home so his
husband can have sex with another man. Yuri doesn't know how to feel about it.
Once Viktor's gone, Yuuri stands, stretches, and reaches out a hand to help
Yuri up. He doesn't let go after, just tugs Yuri into the guest bedroom, his
hand warm and dry in Yuri's. Inside, he sits on the edge of the bed, his thighs
falling open a little, and Yuri thinks about sucking him off. His breath stalls
in his chest.
"Okay?" Yuuri asks, and Yuri drags his eyes back up from the bit of skin
between Yuuri's soft t-shirt and his sweatpants. Yuuri's smirking, and arousal
flares hot in Yuri's stomach.
"I'm going to kiss you," he says, demands, shoving his way to stand between
Yuuri's legs.
Yuuri tips his head back to look at him, one eyebrow arched. "Oh? Come on,
then."
Yuri growls under his breath, and does.
 
Things progress quickly after that—Yuuri's shirt is the first to go, and Yuri
braces his hands on his shoulders to keep his balance while he attacks Yuuri's
neck, Yuuri letting out tiny, maddening moans in his ear. After a few minutes,
Yuri realizes he's crawled his way into Yuuri's lap, thighs spread wide on
either side of Yuuri's, and the room is too hot, so he pulls at his own shirt
hem too.
"Here, let me," Yuuri says, voice rough with arousal already, and Yuri's
satisfaction distracts him enough that Yuuri has to take his still hands from
the shirt to replace with Yuuri's own. He peels Yuri's shirt up to expose his
abdomen, his ribs. When he bends his head to follow the trail with his mouth,
Yuri gasps and closes his eyes.
This isn't exactly new for him; he's fooled around with friends every once in a
while, and kisses are familiar and well-loved territory for him. But the pace
of this, the way he's spiraling so quickly into desperation while Yuuri's still
mostly put together, while they're technically taking it slow, while they still
have so much farther to go—that's new.
"D-don't," he stutters out, when Yuuri mouths over Yuri's nipple. "I don't want
to—"
"Want me to slow down?" Yuuri asks, his speech vibrating fascinatingly against
Yuri, and Yuri's hands form claws at his shoulders.
He bites his lip. "Nnnn," he says, uncertain.
He feels Yuuri's smile on his skin, in his very core. "Want me to take the edge
off?"
Yuri's so hard he hurts, but he pulls it together enough to say, "Yeah,"
embarrassingly breathy.
Yuuri pushes Yuri's leggings and underwear down his hips, just enough to expose
his dick. "Like this?" he says slyly, licking his palm and wrapping it around
Yuri.
"Fuck, yes," Yuri groans, collapsing forward.
"Whoa," Yuuri laughs, steadying Yuri with his other hand at Yuri's waist. He
sounds so amused, and it's embarrassing and something about that makes Yuri
squeeze his thighs around Yuuri's, frenzied. His face feels too warm, he feels
like—like—
Breathe, he chides himself, and gulps down air, only to waste it all on a moan
when Yuuri rubs his thumb over the head of Yuri's dick.
This isn't new, either. There's no reason it should be hitting him this hard,
it doesn't make any sense.
Yuuri lets go, and Yuri presses his open mouth into the hollow of Yuuri's neck
and whines.
"Shh," Yuuri soothes, coaxing Yuri's face out from its hiding place. His eyes
are so dark behind his glasses, almost glittering. He looks smug, indulgent,
and Yuri wants, suddenly, more than anything, to see him wrecked. He opens his
mouth, dazed, when Yuuri puts his thumb on his lower lip, flicks his tongue out
to taste himself. "Look at you," Yuuri says, awed, and Yuri presses closer,
impatient.
Yuuri laughs at him again, the bastard. He puts both hands on Yuri's ass and
hauls him in as close as they can get, so Yuri can rock his hips up against
Yuuri's abs. "Better?" Yuuri says in a low voice.
"You're an asshole," Yuri says, breath hitching as he grinds his hips forward
again, again.
He tries to hide his face again, rests his forehead on Yuuri's shoulder, but
Yuuri gets a hand in his hair and pulls—not too hard, not enough to really
hurt, but hard enough that Yuri's head goes back, throat bared.
"Keep looking at me," Yuuri says darkly.
Yuri gasps out, "Asshole," and comes against Yuuri's stomach.
"There you are," Yuuri murmurs, and tips Yuri gently to the side until he falls
lightly to the mattress. He wiggles out of his remaining clothes and rolls onto
his back so he can gaze up at Yuuri, heavy-lidded, his mouth still open and
panting from his orgasm. "You're shivering," Yuuri notes. "Good?"
Yuri narrows his eyes at him. "Stop fishing."
Yuuri makes a face at him, childish, and Yuri's startled into a laugh—and
that's when Yuuri kisses him again, licking into his open mouth, and Yuri's
laugh morphs into a moan.
"Wait, wait—" he cries out.
Yuuri stills immediately, and Yuri uses his knees and thighs to flip them both
over again. Yuuri lands flat on his back and bounces once, winded. "What—"
"There's something I've wanted to do," Yuri says.
Yuuri props himself up on his elbows. "Go ahead, then," he says, unfazed, and
that tone, more than anything, makes Yuri clench his jaw with determination.
He's going to get Yuuri to lose it, one way or another.
He slips off the bed and yanks at Yuuri's hips until he's sitting at the edge,
and then Yuri drops to his knees.
"Oh?" Yuuri says, under his breath.
Yuri smooths his hands over Yuuri's thighs, thick and toned beneath his
sweatpants. He inhales, and then leans in to mouth wetly over Yuuri's cloth-
covered dick.
Yuuri's makes a tiny noise. "Yurio—"
"Don't call me that," Yuri snaps, jerking himself back so he can glare up at
Yuuri. It's started to irritate him less recently, but right now, it just
sounds wrong.
Yuuri bites his lip. "'Yuri' sounds odd," he says. "Like I'm mad at you." Yuri
makes a face. He can't argue with that. "Yura?" Yuuri suggests, his mouth
forming the vowels in a way Yuri isn't used to, and Yuri shivers.
"That works," he says, and presses his hand against Yuuri's dick, feeling the
outline of it through his pants.
"Oh," Yuuri moans, and when Yuri looks up, he has his eyes closed, head tipped
back. His stomach is still splattered with Yuri's come, and it makes him look
all the more obscene when he swallows, visibly, his hands flexing and clenching
at his sides. Yuri wonders, idly, if he could get Yuuri to pull his hair again.
He decides he wants to find out.
Yuri pulls down Yuuri's sweatpants, and Yuuri obediently lifts his ankles and
steps out of them, kicking them to the side. Yuri shuffles in on his knees
again and contemplates Yuuri's dick. He's had this done for him before, but
never done it himself. It might not be what he's here for, but hey—who says he
can only try one thing at a time?
"Need some help?" Yuuri asks archly, and Yuri grits his teeth, that hot mixture
of annoyance, embarrassment, and arousal swirling in his stomach again. He'd
been hoping Yuuri hadn't noticed.
"Shut up," he snarls, and opens his mouth over the head of Yuuri's dick,
sucking hard.
"Fuck," Yuuri cries out sharply, above him, and Yuri smirks internally.
He pulls back, inhales, and then sinks down a little further, covering his
teeth with his lips. He concentrates, hard, on the weight of Yuuri in his
mouth, trying to decide if he likes it or not. He thinks he does—the power trip
is a little intoxicating.
Yuuri is quiet above him, which Yuri finds frankly offensive, so he goes down
as far as he can—and then chokes. Yuuri groans, and then eases him back with
both hands, gentle.
"Careful," he says. "Go slower."
Yuri makes a face and dives back in. He barely gets his mouth open though
before there's a hand in his hair, pulling him back, brooking no argument.
"Ah," Yuri gasps, satisfaction hot in his chest.
"Slow," Yuuri says again, and this time, Yuri doesn't argue.
He takes his time on the way back down, using his hand to work what he can't
get in his mouth. Yuuri keeps his hand in Yuri's hair the whole time, not
guiding but reminding. Yuri's mouth won't stop watering, and he has to keep
pulling back to swallow until he gets the hang of swallowing with something in
his mouth. The first time he does that, he feels some spit leak from the
corners of his mouth, and his face burns hot—but the punched-out groan Yuuri
makes is worth it.
He only gets about two-thirds of the way down before Yuuri pulls his head back
again.
"What did I do wrong?" is the first thing out of Yuri's mouth, demanding, and
Yuuri's eyes widen.
"Nothing," he says, and a smile splits his face slowly. "You were good."
"Oh," Yuri says, sitting back on his heels. "Then why—"
"You were too good," Yuuri says, his grin going sharp. The realization hits
Yuri hard, and his hands curl convulsively around his own knees. His mouth
tastes bitter with desire, or maybe that's just Yuuri.
"We're not done yet," Yuri says.
"No," Yuuri confirms, and pulls Yuri up by the shoulders into his lap again.
"Messy," he chides lightly, wiping a hand over Yuri's spit-slick mouth, his
chin. Yuri stares at him, his heart racing—at the knowing glint in his eyes—and
then hits him on the shoulder.
"You're fucking with me," he accuses and Yuuri shrugs one shoulder and laughs.
"You like it," he says, self-assured.
Yuri bites his lip and looks away. "It surprises me," he admits.
Yuuri is silent for a moment and then he says, "Can I tell you a secret?"
Yuri looks back at him.
"It surprises me too, every time," Yuuri says, his eyes trained on the careful
circles his thumb is rubbing into the skin of Yuri's hip. "How easily it
comes."
"Is this how you are with Vitya, too?" Yuri asks, and then wants to kick
himself when Yuuri's eyes shoot upward, surprised.
"Yes," he says, and then smiles. "Being embarrassed doesn't turn him on,
though."
"Ugh," Yuri groans, his cheeks burning.
"Really though," Yuuri says. "Every time it comes so easily, and then when I'm
done, I'm a mess of anxiety all over again. Only worse, because everything I've
done while—ah, under the influence is replaying in my head and embarrassing me
and." He laughs, wry. "And I really don't get off on that."
He shakes himself. "So. Let's enjoy it while it lasts, okay?"
Yuri knows he's just talking about his own self-confidence, but he feels it
anyway. Enjoy it while it lasts: what he's been telling himself since they
started this. He doesn't think this'll make things awkward between the two of
them—the three of them really, counting Viktor. But any more than once would be
weird, given how much time they all spend together. It's asking for trouble.
"Let's make the most of it," he agrees, resolute, and Yuuri grins at him,
infectious, intoxicating.
"How do you want to do this, then?" Yuuri asks, his hands still warm and
present on Yuri's hips, sliding up to his waist and back.
"What?" Yuri asks, distracted by the sensation. He can feel the goosebumps rise
in the wake of Yuuri's touch.
Yuuri huffs out a laugh. "Want to stay on top? You can set the pace however you
like. Or—" He tightens his grip on Yuri's waist and raises an eyebrow. "I can
put you under me."
Yuri chews on his lip. He wants to see Yuuri's face when he's fucking Yuri,
but. Having Yuuri's weight on top of him, pinning him—that sounds...good. And
he doesn't want to be responsible for moving; he wants to be able to focus on
cataloguing every sensation as and when it happens, so that if it never happens
with Yuuri again, as he expects, he'll always at least remember this.
"On my back?" he suggests, and Yuuri's eyes glint in approval.
He flips Yuri onto his back and then inspects him carefully, and Yuri stretches
under the attention, catlike, showing off.
"Stop stalling and get on with it, Katsudon," he challenges, and Yuuri rolls
his eyes and gets off the bed. "Hey, where are you going?"
"Lube, Yura," Yuuri says from the adjoining bathroom, where he's rummaging
through the cupboard. "And condoms. I forgot, because we—" Viktor and I "—keep
them in the nightstand, but the guest room isn't so..." He pokes his head out
to smile at Yuuri, crooked. "Well-stocked."
"Haven't you done this before, though?" Yuri asks, meaning having, fucking
someone else in this bed.
"Not here, usually," Yuuri replies. He comes back into the room and leans in
the doorway, unreadable. "This is only really something we do at competitions.
Or," and here he laughs, "once, the two of us slept with—ah, nevermind, it's
not important. But that we did in the master."
Unbidden, Yuri feels a flash of envy for whoever else Yuuri and Viktor took
into their home, who they probably wined and dined and then took into their own
bed. He didn't even think he wanted it, still doesn't even know if he wants
Viktor in that way. But he feels possessive of this place, this home that isn't
even his. He doesn't want anyone else to be in parts of it he hasn't.
Yuuri's watching him. "Are you okay?"
"Are you going to stand there all night?" Yuri fires back, ignoring the
unpleasant clench in his gut.
Yuuri sighs and then climbs back into the bed. "Someone should teach you some
patience," he mutters.
You could, Yuri's brain thinks without his consent, and he huffs, frustrated.
"Patience is for losers," he says, a weak, terrible comeback, telling in its
lukewarmness, but Yuuri doesn't seem to notice.
"Have you done this before?" Yuuri asks, lubing up his fingers fastidiously.
"To myself? Obviously," Yuri says.
Yuuri tilts his head curiously. "Never with anyone else?"
Yuri looks up at the ceiling. "Today's a day for trying new things," he says,
the same thing he'd told himself while blowing Yuuri, "right?"
Yuuri hums agreement and then says, "Relax, okay? I'll take care of you."
That makes Yuri lose his breath, and he's distracted enough that the first cool
touch to his asshole comes as a surprise. "Ah," he says, sharp.
"Relax, Yura," Yuuri reminds him in a low voice, circling around his entrance
slowly, lightly. It almost feels like it tickles but Yuri's not laughing. He's
felt oversensitized since he came, and the little touches are the worst kind of
tease.
"Put it in," he growls.
Yuuri raises an eyebrow, shrugs a shoulder, and then does. It goes in easy, but
then again, Yuuri's fingers are slim. They're long, though, a detail that Yuri
had already noticed and furtively filed away, and which comes to his mind now
when Yuuri's finger is all the way in him. Inside him.
"Okay?" Yuuri asks, voice low.
"Yeah," Yuri responds, breathless. He can't be bothered to be bratty right now.
"You're so tight," Yuuri marvels, and Yuri clenches unconsciously, heart rate
kicking into high gear. Yuuri sucks in a breath. "I'll have to spend some time
stretching you out, hm?"
Yuri closes his eyes, pained. It sounds like torture. "Can't you just—" He
makes a vague, obscene hand movement that he hopes conveys Fuck me already, I'm
ready without revealing the sheer magnitude of his want.
"Sorry," Yuuri says, unsympathetic. He draws his finger out and then works it
back in, lower lip sucked between his teeth in concentration. Yuri squirms. "I
wonder—"
He bends his finger a little and brushes over Yuri's prostate, and Yuri
twitches.
"Shit," he says, startled even though he'd half-expected it. Yuuri does it
again and then again, little sharp, shocks of sensation that it takes Yuri a
confused second to realize are pleasurable. The confusion doesn't last long
though, and soon he's arching up into it, thighs taut and trembling faintly,
while Yuuri keeps rubbing over and over, intent and relentless, his eyes hard
and affectionate at once. "Shit," Yuri says again, his dick hard again and
leaking against his stomach.
He flattens one hand to his abdomen urgently, as if by doing so he can contain
himself, when he knows it would only take four, maybe five more crooks of
Yuuri's deft finger before he's spilling over. The back of Yuri's other hand is
pressed against his open mouth, so he can at least make some semblance of
hiding the filthy, wanting moans he can't help but let out.
Yuuri is smirking, and he looks perfectly composed, even though by now his hair
is stuck to his temples, his neck, and his glasses are smudged. "How does that
feel?" he asks solicitously, and Yuri hisses at him.
"You fucking ashhole," he spits, and Yuuri makes a sad face at him and slides
in another finger. He must add more lube because it's so easy Yuri almost
misses it.
"Better?" Yuuri asks, cheeky, and Yuri thinks seriously for a moment about
kneeing him in the stomach—but then Yuuri stretches his fingers inside of him,
slow, indulgent, and Yuri whimpers and that's it, he can't stand it anymore.
"Put your cock in me," he tries to yell, but it comes out weak and thready.
Embarrassed, desperate, he turns his face into the sweat-soaked sheets. His
knees close automatically around Yuuri's forearm, like they want Yuri to keep
him inside forever.
Yuuri sighs and pries his legs back open gently. "My fingers aren't very
thick," he says, serious for the moment. "And I'm not taking any chances with
your first time. Besides," he adds, "it'll do you some good to wait. Learn some
patience."
"Okay, but if I die of stress before ever getting fucked, that's on you," Yuri
mutters into the sheets, and Yuuri rolls his eyes.
"You're such a teenager," he says, and puts in a third finger.
"Oh, there," Yuri moans, muffled by cotton, his eyes falling shut without his
consent. Three has be enough, he thinks, even for someone as apparently
sadistically patient as Katsuki Yuuri. He knows Yuuri has to be laughing at him
again, but he's officially reached the point where he doesn't give a fuck. He
just wants, he wants.
"All right," Yuuri says, after less than a minute, and pulls out his fingers.
Yuri wonders if he's getting impatient too; he's shown no signs of it so far.
Then the feeling of emptiness catches up to Yuri, jarring in its intensity, and
he clenches down on nothing. It feels weird, to be so slick and loose, and
still have every other muscle in his body so taut with anticipation. He makes a
disgusted noise, and Yuuri smiles.
"Soon," he says, and rips open the condom he left by his hip.
"I thought about making you do this," Yuuri says as he rolls it on efficiently.
"But to be honest, I don't think you'd remember anything I showed you right
now. You're too far gone."
And Yuri, peering up at him from one eye, can't argue with that, except—
"I know how to put a fucking condom on," he snaps. He did his research, and he
doesn't do things by halves.
Yuuri laughs. "I also kind of expected that." Yuri blinks, and feels a warm,
involuntary rush of satisfaction. Yuuri pours more lube into his hand and
slicks himself up, and then he's looking at Yuri, expectant. "Ready?"
Yuri glares at him and uncurls so he's firmly on his back. He reaches down and
grips his own thighs just above the knees, the muscle tight and slippery under
his fingers, and pulls them up to his chest.
"There you go," Yuuri says, appreciative. "Put that ballet training to good
use."
Yuri glares harder and stretches until his legs are straight over his head,
feet arched and toes pointed gracefully.
"Very nice," Yuuri says, and leans in to kiss him. He braces his hands on
Yuri's thighs, grinding up against him. "Tell me you're ready, Yura."
"I will kick you in the face," Yuri says.
Yuuri snorts and takes one hand off to grasp his own cock, lining himself up.
"Relax," he says preemptively, and pushes the head in.
Predictably, Yuri tightens up immediately. "Oh," he breathes, inanely, his
fingers digging into the meat of his thighs.
"Relax," Yuuri repeats, and pushes in a little more.
It doesn't hurt, with the amount of time Yuuri spent stretching him out, but it
feels like so much—Yuri's sensitive, from being on the edge so long, from
having already come once, from being young. He imagines he can feel every
millimeter of Yuuri's cock going into him, and he wants it.
"Give me more," he demands, and Yuuri pulls out a little, and then pushes back
in smoothly, until Yuri's taken him about halfway deep.
Yuri throws back his head and pants, staring up at the ceiling and trying to
gain some composure—but there's none to be had. "Does it always feel like
this?" he asks dizzily, and Yuuri laughs at him, choked from the effort of
holding himself back. Yuri counts that as a point for himself. He catalogues
the way Yuuri's holding his hips just short of actually tight, and wonders if
he can get Yuuri to grip hard enough to bruise.
Yuuri pulls back an inch again and thrusts forward, and then repeats, until
he's all the way in. "How's that?" he asks, leaning in until Yuri can feel the
rapid puffs of his breath on his cheek.
"I feel like I'm burning up," Yuri says honestly.
"Is it what you wanted?"
Yuri realizes his knees have folded a little, his feet dropping from above his
head. He hastily straightens his legs again, like he's proving a point. "I
don't know yet," he says, coolly, or as coolly as he can, when his voice
catches halfway in his throat and fizzles out into a groan, "you've barely done
anything."
Yuuri huffs and pulls out, slamming back in.
"Oh, fuck," Yuri cries out, losing his grip on his legs. They drop, almost
hitting Yuuri in the face, and Yuri swears, grabbing at his disobedient limbs
again, but his hands won't grip securely enough. They're trembling finely, and
Yuuri eyes them pointedly as he picks up Yuri's legs and pushes them flat
against his chest.
"Hold them up," he says, "if you think you can." And then he's fucking Yuri
properly, not fast but with intent, deep and solid thrusts that make Yuri
unable to fill his lungs completely. His head is swimming from it.
Of course I can hold them up, Yuri tries to say, but all he gets out is "O—"
before Yuuri fucks in at an angle that makes him moan, high and shocked.
Yuuri smirks, and shoves in again at the same angle, only harder. Yuri tosses
his head to the side, his hair finally escaping its ponytail entirely and
falling across his face, fanning over the sheets. His dick is red and aching to
be touched, but right now, his whole body feels the same. Yuuri has a tight,
unmoving grip on his hips, far from his dick, but Yuri feels like if he touched
any other part of Yuri for too long—his lips, his nipples, his waist—then that
would be it, Yuri would be coming. He can't decide whether he should be trying
to prevent that or not.
The decision gets taken out of his hands, though, when Yuuri leans down to kiss
him, a position which puts his stomach directly in contact with the painfully
sensitive head of Yuuri's dick. That, and the following touch of Yuuri's teeth
to his throat with nearly surgical precision, right where his t-shirt collar
will rub against it, and—
"Shit, I'm—" Yuri says, and Yuuri's head comes up immediately, like he's been
waiting.
"Hang on," he says, and then he really starts fucking Yuri.
Yuri comes with a sharp cry, splattering the remnants of his previous orgasm on
his and Yuuri's abs, tightening around Yuuri's cock again and again. His left
leg slips from his chest, and Yuri's shaking too hard to get it back up, so he
wraps it around Yuuri's waist and clings.
"Tell me if this hurts and I'll stop," Yuuri says, because he's still fucking
Yuri, he hasn't come yet.
Yuri shakes his head because he knows what kind of hurt Yuuri means, and this
isn't it. This is the kind of shivery, sparkling oversensitivity you get when
you've done your hardest jump in the program and your adrenaline rush is two
seconds from crashing, but you have to keep skating until you're done. And
they're not done.
"It's good," Yuri croaks, because the sensation is too much, but the kind that
fires in the pleasure centers of his brain.
"Good," Yuuri responds, or echoes, but he seems to understand because he draws
Yuri's left leg tighter around his waist, and brings the right up farther to
hook over his shoulder. The position gives him the angle and leverage to go
even deeper than before, and Yuri's hands are flying up to his mouth before he
notices, trying to contain the embarrassing, overstimulated whimpers coming out
of his mouth.
"Your face is really red," Yuuri says wickedly, through the rough moans he lets
out on every thrust. "You look cute."
Yuri stares up at him, and then whines, shutting his eyes tight. His body is
wound up tight, looking for a release it thought it already got, and Yuri curls
onto his side to try to escape it, the enormity of the unknown feeling building
inside him.
"Your ears, too," Yuuri says relentlessly, and he brings up one hand to the
nape of Yuuri's neck. For a moment, Yuri thinks he's going to grip it and push
Yuri's face into the sheets, an intrusive thought—and the image makes his gut
clench, spent cock twitching between his thighs.
"Don't," he whines, turning his face fully into the mattress, and Yuuri slows.
"Do you need me to stop?" he asks, even though Yuri knows he's close, even
though it would be so easy for him to keep going.
Yuri tightens his fingers helplessly in the sheets. "No," he says. "I want you
to come."
Yuuri's hips jerk at that, helpless. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, you idiot," Yuri snaps, exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but he still
has something he wants and he's not resting till he gets it.
"Fine," Yuuri says, and buries his face in Yuri's shoulder while his hips start
moving sharper, faster. He's not aiming for Yuri's prostate anymore, which is a
blessing, but Yuri's sensitive enough that it still makes him shake, mouth open
on a soundless cry. He thinks he feels wetness spring at the corners of his
eyes, and sucks in a shuddering breath, squeezing his eyes shut again.
When he comes, Yuuri bites Yuri's shoulder, and his hands dig into Yuri's
thigh, bruising, and it's perfect. It's everything Yuri wanted.
 
Yuri almost falls asleep after, exhaustion hitting him like a tidal wave and
sucking him in. Yuuri goes to the bathroom to throw away the condom and comes
back with a wet washcloth, which he uses to gently wipe Yuri's face, and then
the come from his stomach and thighs. He wipes himself off last, and then
throws the cloth on the bathroom floor.
Yuri half expects him to leave then, but instead Yuuri turns off all the lights
but one lamp, shifts Yuri under the sheets, and then crawls in after him.
Yuri's chest feels tight. He wasn't prepared for this. "You can go," he
attempts. "I'll be fine. Not like I've never slept in here by myself, before."
"The full experience means cuddling too, Yura," Yuuri shuts him down easily,
throwing an arm around Yuri's waist and tucking his head into the curve of
Yuri's neck.
"Shouldn't you be in your own bed?" Yuri asks. "With your husband?" He realizes
he's tracing an idle pattern over Yuuri's shoulder-blade with his fingers, and
forces himself to stop.
"Viktor's not home yet," Yuuri answers. "But we can move there if we like?"
Yuri looks away. "The sheets here are messy," he grumbles.
"Spoiled," Yuuri chides, but he obligingly rolls out of bed. He offers a hand
to Yuri. "Need me to carry you?" he asks, cheeky.
Yuri rolls his eyes and ignores him, swinging his legs over the side of the
bed. He gathers his bearings and then stands up on shaky thighs, wincing at the
soreness between them.
"Sorry," Yuuri says, and Yuri shoots him a quelling look.
"I asked for it, didn't I?"
"Yeah, I guess," Yuuri says. He reaches out to steady Yuri with a hand to his
waist. They go into the hallway, and are almost to Viktor-and-Yuuri's room when
Yuuri continues, hesitant, "Was it what you wanted?"
He doesn't sound smug, or like he's fishing. He sounds unsure, worried. Yuri
remembers what he said before, about his anxiety catching up to him. It forces
Yuri into honesty.
"It was exactly what I needed," he says, and is rewarded by the way Yuuri's
face lights up with a grin.
Yuuri sits him in the center of their bed, on cool gunmetal silk sheets that
scream of Viktor's particular brand of ostentatiousness. The texture feels
weird against Yuri's bare skin; he's never slept naked before.
As if reading his mind, Yuuri turns to the wardrobe in the corner. "Want to
borrow some clothes?" he asks over his shoulder.
The novelty of it is wearing off, and now Yuri's just cold. "Yeah, sure."
Yuuri pulls out a couple of things and tosses them in Yuri's direction. Yuri
catches them out of the air and turns them over in his hands to look. A pair of
tiny sleep shorts that have to be Yuuri's. A stretched-out, well-loved t-shirt
with some brand name on it, that Yuri vaguely recognizes from a commercial
Viktor did years ago. Yuri hadn't met him yet, but it played during, like,
every other commercial break during the 2010 Winter Olympics. Yuri can still
remember the stupid pop music in the background, and the white flash of
Viktor's smile. The shirt is so soft.
I shouldn't be here, Yuri thinks, his heart suddenly slamming behind his ribs.
He doesn't belong here.
His face must show something, because Yuuri's smile falters when he looks at
him again. "Is this not okay?" Yuuri asks, hands nervously twisting the shirt
in his hands. "I—I can go change the sheets in the guest room, and you can
sleep there, if you're more comfortable."
If Yuri is more comfortable?
"What about Viktor?" Yuri asks, and Yuuri's face clears.
"Oh," he says, "this was his idea, actually. He says you've shared a bed
before?"
They have, but not in years. It was just once, when all of Yakov's skaters got
together at Viktor's old place for a party, and at the end of the night, it was
too late for Yuri to go back home alone. Yuri had slept on the other side of
Viktor's giant-ass bed, a pillow wedged between the two of them because Yuri
didn't want to be seen cuddling with a living legend. In the morning, Viktor
had woken him up with pancakes—blueberry, Yuri's favorite.
This is the stupidest thing you've ever done, Yuri says to himself, but he puts
on the clothes.
Yuuri turns out the lights and takes off his glasses, then slides in next to
him, their backs pressed together warmly. "Goodnight, Yura," he says.
Yuri grunts in response, and closes his eyes.
 
He's not sure what wakes him up, but when he blinks his eyes open, it's
morning. The light filtering through the curtains tells Yuri it's still early,
and he's about to close his eyes, when he realizes there's an arm around his
waist, and he's being spooned.
"Sorry," Viktor says, "did I wake you?"
The space on the bed in front of Yuri is empty, and cold. "Yuuri," he says
hoarsely, and clears his throat.
Viktor huffs, and it tickles the back of Yuri's neck. Yuri shivers. "Yeah,"
Viktor says. "I think he's freaking out."
Yuri's stomach drops. "Why would he—"
"Don't worry about it," Viktor says, squeezing Yuri's middle reassuringly.
"I'll take care of it."
Yuri feels a light touch against his shoulder, and it isn't until after Viktor
rolls out of bed that he realizes it was a kiss.
Not knowing what else to do, he goes back to sleep.
 
He wakes up again probably an hour later, wide awake. He's alone in the bed,
and he can smell something cooking.
Slowly, Yuri gets out of bed and wanders into the bathroom. He steals one of
Yuuri's hairbands to tie his hair into a small bun, and then washes his face.
The face wash smells like both of them. There's also a toothbrush with a pink
sticky note attached to it that says Yuri, so he shrugs and brushes his teeth,
too.
He finds that either Viktor or Yuuri brought his phone into the bedroom and
left it on the nightstand, so he looks at his notifications. Nothing urgent—a
couple snapchats from Otabek, a voicemail from his grandpa asking when he's
going to visit next—nothing that he can waste a little time on. Yuri sighs,
nervousness making his stomach churn.
Leaving the room, he's not sure what to expect. He follows the sound of
murmured conversation—it doesn't sound like anyone's arguing? maybe that's a
good sign—down the hall to the kitchen, which makes sense with the food smells
in the air. Yuri wonders who's cooking.
When he enters the kitchen and stands in the doorway, the first thing he thinks
is Oh, pancakes. And then he sees them.
Viktor's standing at the stove, facing away from Yuri, trying to cook. Yuuri's
leaning up against the counter a foot away, his hand on the small of Viktor's
back. They're talking about something, and Yuri can't hear from here. But from
the sly, intent look on Yuuri's face, the redness of the back of Viktor's neck
and ears—Yuri has a feeling it's about him. We always talk about it after,
Yuuri had said, and Yuri feels irritation swell in him, acrid. They could have
at least waited until he'd left.
"I'm fucking starving," he says, over-loud, and they startle, but don't move
away from each other.
"Yura!" Viktor says, beaming wide. "I'm making pancakes."
Yuuri just looks at Yuri, wide-eyed and nervous. What does he have to be
nervous about? It's his home.
Maybe that's what prompts Yuri to say, "What were you talking about?"
Pointedly, because he knows.
Except then Viktor blushes, and looks at Yuuri for direction.
Yuuri fidgets with the hem of his shirt. "Come sit down and eat, and you can
find out?"
Yuri swallows. There's a barstool at the corner of the kitchen island that he
always uses when he's over, and his hand clenches tight on the back of it now.
"Do you do this with everyone you sleep with?"
Yuuri smiles softly and shrugs one shoulder. "We broke protocol with you pretty
much as soon as we started."
And that's—that's good, to hear. Yuri feels something inside of him settle, and
his anger deflates. "Oh."
"Sit down," Viktor says. "I made blueberry, just for you."
Yuri pulls the barstool out and sits, propping his chin up on his hand. "So?"
he asks, and revels in the way Yuuri's eyes darken, the way Viktor's spine
straightens in anticipation. "Talk, then."
Maybe he can try a few more things with them, after all.
End Notes
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