It is a huge relief to finally find himself back in his hotel room. The day has been a rollercoaster of intense emotions which would already be exhausting all on their own, without the added factor of actually competing. How is he going to pull off the free tomorrow? Panic is already starting to climb up his spine, his head spinning, his—
Yuuri shakes his head, clearing away the cloud of anxiety slowly building up in his mind. He promised Victor he'd be okay. That Victor could go back to Hasetsu to take care of Makkachin and that Yuuri wouldn't collapse in his absence. He's done this before. All his life, he's been able to compete even if Celestino wasn't present, there's no reason he wouldn't be able to do it now just because he has a different coach.
Still, he can't help pacing around the room, or the jitters in his knees as his worry increases by the minute. His mind wanders to Victor and Makkachin and his eyes sting just thinking of the possibilities. If something happens and Victor doesn't make it on time, Yuuri will never forgive himself.
He slaps both his cheeks harshly, vanquishing the negative thoughts. He can't allow himself to even consider the possibility. He needs to focus on the free skate tomorrow, on landing the quadruple flip and proving Victor hasn't been wasting his time coaching him. But what if he has? What if he bombs the free skate and kills his aspirations to reach the Grand Prix Final? What will he do if today turns out to be the last day he had Victor as his coach? It had all gone by so fast he hardly got to relish in it. It feels like barely a minute ago he was watching Victor down on his knees lacing up his skates and how the casual intimacy of it ignited a pleasant heat in his gut.
Victor Nikiforov. The Living Legend.
On his knees. For Yuuri.
Just for Yuuri.
Well, there's a thought.
He gasps, his cheeks burning up in shame the moment he catches the train of thought. It's not right to be thinking of this at all, let alone right now, in these circumstances.
And yet, in spite of how ashamed he is, it also feels… so good. Empowering. Alone, the memory of Victor's eyes looking up into his makes his skin tingle and takes the edge of anxiety off his mind.
Tentatively, he splays the palm of his and against the nude illusion mesh of his costume. He hadn't had time to change out of it in the hustle and bustle of leaving the rink before the event was officially over, coming back to pick up Victor's things and rushing to Sheremetyevo airport to drop him off.
Absentmindedly, his fingers trace the shape of the cut-outs. Eros. Sexual love. The costume itself has made him feel powerful since the first time he wore it. Wearing Victor's old costume on the ice, flush against his own body, and claiming it as his own. Capturing Victor's full attention; seducing him, feeling Victor's eyes on him, and him only, for 136 full seconds that become a lifetime.
It ignites something in him that goes beyond his usual competitiveness. It's not just about proving himself anymore. He remembers how he felt in Beijing, how he preened at the thought of showing the thousands of onlookers, everyone who doubted him and laughed at him, that no one else in the entire world could satisfy Victor Nikiforov. No one but Yuuri. And he thrived in their jealousy and bitterness, soared knowing they all wanted something only he could have.
His thumb brushes past his nipple through the fabric, and he gasps softly in surprise, feeling it harden slightly.
And today he'd shown them again, all of them. He'd brought Victor with him to his home turf in Russia and showed them that he alone knew of Victor's love and owned it. Without ushering a single word, their champion had kneeled at Yuuri's feet, his expensive suit pants touching the unworthy floor. When they chanted his name, Yuuri had tugged on Victor's necktie once, and just like that, Victor stopped being theirs and became his, all his, every heartbeat tuned to Yuuri's every word.
"I'll show my love to the whole of Russia."
He remembers Victor's sharp inhale and the elastic fabric of the costume starts to feel tight between his thighs. He moans. His hand wanders down his body, pressing the black mesh further against his skin, leaving goosebumps in its path.
His hand stops right above his crotch, where the heat keeps pooling and the clothes grow tighter, and he bites his lip briefly. He really shouldn't do this. It's so, so wrong. His relationship with Victor is so abstract now. They haven't even talked about that kiss in Beijing. Just the fact that he's this hard, his mind so clouded with inappropriate thoughts whilst Victor flies back to Japan to take care of Makkachin makes him feel horribly guilty.
And yet...
He remembers, how the crowd gasped –shocked and horrified- when Victor the Living Legend knelt on the floor of Moscow to kiss Yuuri's foot. The flashes of the cameras, the screaming reporters, even Yurio's scorching glare. And Victor, probably unaware of the weight of what he'd just done, had simply smiled, still cradling Yuuri's worn, dirty skate in his hands like it was worth more than all the gold medals he'd ever held.
His dancer belt isn't enough to keep the tent from showing through his pants any longer.
A low whine rumbles at the base of his throat, his hips jolting, craving friction. He hesitates before pressing the pad of his thumb to the head of his cock and whimpers when he feels a droplet of precum through the fabric.
I guess we're doing this after all…
It wouldn't be the first time that he touched himself thinking of Victor. During his late teens, Victor's numerous participations in magazines and fashion campaigns with various degrees of (in)modesty were his main source of relief. He hasn't done it since Victor showed up in Hasetsu though. Fantasizing about a distant idol in a bout of pubescent hormonal fever is too different from letting his imagination and passions run wild for the man sleeping right next door. The thought hadn't even occurred to him in spite of all the new material he's been provided with in the last half year.
He lies down on his back and bends his knees, legs spread wide, his palm cupping the bulge of his cock, rubbing the soft fabric against his heated flesh. He closes his eyes and goes back to the day he first found Victor, naked like the day he was born, skin smooth as silk, deliciously flushed with the heat of the bath. Even in his shock, he couldn't stop himself from staring at his statuesque figure, so much more irresistible in person than in the dozens of posters and photos Yuuri had seen. In his memory, he roams over the sharp angles of Victor's body, the harsh edges of his hipbones, the curves of every muscle, trained and shaped with precise perfection for the sole purpose of skating the most beautiful, entrancing programs. It's so easy, Yuuri thinks, he doesn't even need to imagine how it'd feel to touch Victor's skin and to be touched by him, standing flesh to flesh with nothing but steam and sweat in between them, he knows the sensation already. 'It's just stretching' he'd told himself back then, but now that seems unimportant compared to how he feels himself burn at every spot where Victor's skin had touched his.
How many people have known that feeling?
He moans as he bucks his hips to increase the friction on his erection. The idea of being the only one who knew the heat of Victor's body against his sends his head swimming.
Of course, he knows Victor's had other lovers. But whoever and however many they might be none were important enough to be known, none that Victor liked enough to keep. None had been worthy of Victor.
I'm the only one who can satisfy Victor.
He bites down on his lower lip to swallow the howl that threatened to tear through his throat. He doesn't know how thick the walls are. What will his competitors think if they find out he's indulging himself like this?
Maybe they'll be jealous, a wicked voice whispers in his ear, jealous that they'll never know what he really looks like.
That's yet another thing he doesn't need to imagine. Although staring would've been inappropriate, he can't say he hasn't gotten a peek or two (mostly accidentally, a few of them not so much so) of Victor's uncut cock. And he would be lying if he said he hadn't wanted to touch it, stimulate it until it was flushed and hard and leaking. How would it look like if he did? How would Victor look like? The thought sends a shock of pleasure to his constrained cock: Victor, naked, flesh burning with want, Yuuri's hands stroking his rock hard erectionleisurely. Would he moan loud and shameless? Or would he bite his lip and hold it all back? Perhaps he would arch his back beautifully, his body shaking with pleasure, and he'd beg Yuuri for mercy, he'd thrash and whine and plead that Yuuri would let him cum already.
"Yuuri…please…"
Victor, pliant and pleading; begging.
On his knees.
For Yuuri.
And just like that he's back to the memory that started all of this, Victor's knee to the floor, lacing his skates, his head low enough for Yuuri to touch that whorl that anguishes him so and that Yuuri adores. And it occurs to him that, perhaps, he should stop now to take off the costume, before he passes the point of no return. How would he explain it if Victor were to catch the evidence of Yuuri's indecency? What would he think if he found his own old costume, forever tarnished by Yuuri's uncontained lust?
His hand keeps moving, each stroke of fabric against his flesh torturously rough. He has to take it off now, he realizes, or his scent will remain permanently mingled with Victor's, and once more he'll be taking something of Victor's and claiming it as his own. He'll ruin it, this beautiful, flawless costume, just like he's ruined Victor, and everyone will know. And people will whisper 'how shameless, how filthy', but Yuuri won't listen because he'll be looking only at Victor and Victor will look at no one but Yuuri and—
Orgasm ripples through his body from the top of his head to the tips of his pointed toes, his jaw hangs slack and a long moan gets caught at the base of his throat. He rides it through, bucking his hips desperately into the heat of his palm. The friction sends sparks up his spine, his mind swimming in pleasure and Victor, Victor, Victor…
The mattress bounces underneath him when he collapses on his back, finally coming down from the high. Yuuri pants, exhausted, and wipes beads of sweat from his forehead, still not quite believing what he's just done. He can feel the distinct sticky wetness on the front of his costume, and he shuts his eyes tight, shame slowly catching up to him.
Oh god.
He can never, ever let Victor lace up his skates again.
The end
I actually googled the statistics of circumcision in Russia, just set me on fire and let me die why am I like this. Sorry if this is kinda boring porn compared to what everyone else is putting out D: Hope y'all have enjoyed the NSFW Victuuri week and thanks to the organizers for their hard work!