Victuuri | complete

Tense !

Word Count: 1425

His body is considerably cooler than my own hell-fevered skin. Embarrassed, flushed, and melting against him, his hands take me back to the feeling of a beautifully cool breeze amid an otherwise muggy afternoon; so fluidly do his calm, if not quietly auspicious, movements intermingle with mine. When I close my eyes, I can see it— he and I looking out at the water as he asks me what I expect him to be. I remember the tense nausea, wanting so badly to say words inhibited by fear.

Blissfully unaware of the dizzying memory behind my eyes, Victor nuzzles his face into my hand. He's still wrapped in the present— wrapped around me, wrapped in warm blankets. Eyes closed, I perfunctorily fist and unfist, twirl and untwirl his hair in short tufts. I can feel my self-control slipping with the hair I let flow through my fingers. The idea terrifies me, but I suddenly want to press myself differently into his oasis-like communion.

"Yuuri, my love," he purrs. He pauses to draw a hand around my face, sweeping fallen threads of hair from my eyes, "what's on your mind? You look tense."

I can say it now— should say it now? I mean I have no reason to fear Victor. He doesn't scare me, after all. I'm ready for it, aren't I? After all this time spent teasing him and coming close to the real thing... I'm surely ready by now.

"Could we," I begin, mouth completely dry, "try something new tonight, Victor?" Breathless, sweaty, and scared of the leap I've never dared take before now, I watch his face transform with thought.

"Try something new?" His whisper sends goosebumps quivering down my spine.

His chin lifts upward into my ear as he speaks, voice changing to accommodate the weight of sexual suggestion. I feel as if I've evoked the underlying passion from the core of his body up to the epidermis, feeling it tremor with his pulse. I feel pale and weak in my skin, compared to the confident glow about my lover now. Gingerly, I sit up from his loose grasp to set aside my glasses in the hope that I may also set aside my doubts.

The loss of my glasses, I think, does it for Victor, if not myself. I hardly notice what's happening, though, still trying to adjust to the sudden loss of vision. Victor groans, sitting up to run his hands around my body again. Shyly, I straighten to slip the shirt from over my shoulders. Victor stiffens in something like excited shock, our soft late-night cuddling session pivoting now into a sexual threshold.

I can't seem to gather enough air to speak properly, so I guide his hands to grip my hips. Luckily, he makes no move to refute my timid guidance, fingers hooking under the hem of my pants as a question. The reactive balk of my hips is enough of an answer. My clothes, under his further direction, easily become but a memory. Victor's own are not, just yet, and he teases me by pressing the material of his pants against my unbearably hard want for him.

Desire suddenly burns the underbelly of my skin, begging to taste freedom from the shackles of my shy inhibitions. Victor takes the reigns, though, relieving me from the stress of further instigation. Relaxing under his dominance, I am unprepared for the crashing of lips to enter the fire. Slogging hungry new kisses, I realize with a flash of surprise that I still need more— more out in the open for me to consume.

I don't want to break the chain of delicious kisses so I'm left to encourage his clothes away through a series of rough tugs and frustrated moans. But I was hideously wrong to think relieving him of his clothes would relieve me of the sexual frustration. Now that his garb joins mine in the void of clouded memory, I am a terribly tense mess before him.

A frustrated moan leaves my lips before I can staunch it. Victor leans back, apparently taking in the view of me, listing for him. I take this moment to be the right segue for a change in positions. I turn and push myself up on my hands and knees. It feels strange to raise my haunches for someone else to clearly see. I normally do everything in my power to stay completely under the radar, after all. In this situation, though, I really want Victor to do a lot more than study me or ogle me.

"Fuck me, Victor, please," a new sweat breaks harshly, like a wet lash to my back, as the request squeezes from my chest.

I'm nervous, inexperienced. Victor means me no harm, but I fear condescension from his more experienced paradigm. My lungs constrict as Victor obediently positions himself over me, leaning down to whisper in my ear.

"I need lubricant or protection or something," he chuckles.

I collapse onto my stomach, feeling like a green idiot. Victor jolts in surprise, losing his balance for a split second. He regains it almost at once, that agile figure skater, and then his eyes soften with the creases of his smile.

"I forgot about that," I cringe into the duvet. "I don't know what I'm doing, Victor-kun."

Unaware of the adoring look just inches above my head, I assume I've aggravated or annoyed him.

"Don't worry, my love," he cooes. "I'll get it."

I lift my head, embarrassed but also interested. I watch Victor disappear into the bathroom, reappearing moments later with lubricant in hand. My body flushes with heat when he gives me that signature wink that only Victor Nikiforov can deliver with such compelling charm. This time, as we position ourselves, something in me finally understands the gravitas of what I'm asking Victor to do.

Fear and anxiety sap the strength from my arms, leaving me trembling and fighting for air again while Victor plays with my opening. Just as it begins to feel good, his voice is suddenly in my ear again.

"Are you sure you want this, darling? I'll be honest," he exhales, the lust in his voice dark and husky. "Once I start, I don't know if I'll be able to stop."

I understand, but something in me wants to trust that— even with that primal hunger— Victor loves me enough to stop if something has truly gone awry. I wonder if he actually could, if it even matters since I don't think I'll want him to stop. I hang onto that thought in tense fear for several heartbeats. I think my heart might explode from the tidal waves of emotions hungrily pounding and lapping upon all of my strength.

In an effort to calm the violent storm of fear and anxiety, I remember the resolve I've made within my time getting to know Victor: Love has changed me, and I'm stronger now for it. I dutifully remind myself that I'm not the boy I used to be, fearful, timid, and alone— I'm the man Victor helped me become, strong, confident, and anything but alone.

"I'm ready, Victor," I gasp, already fighting to keep myself from collapsing into the duvet again.

His only response is a low grunt and the migratory motion of his hand from wherever it was to the base of my want for him. Red pain ripples up and down my body, his girth larger than my opening— even with what quick stretching he offered. Tears instantly fill my eyes seemingly out of nowhere the moment Victor's length penetrates my body. With every push, my body violently convulses and with every pull my body protests his absence. Simultaneously, I seem filled with assaulting anguish and aureate pleasure to extremes I never imagined I could experience in tandem with one another.

Tears stream down my face and I clutch the duvet, trapped in a fit of something close to searing agony because of how tense I have become. I bow my head low and flatten my spine in an effort to keep my legs from sliding. Victor utters a stream of inarticulate Russian swears, head lulling back in pleasure as his length weaves, glides, and slides in and out— is this how the ice feels when he skates?

"Oh! Victor!" I hear his name tumbling from my own lips on an uncontrollable loop. "Victor— Victor! O-oh!"

Merciful God, it hurts so bad, but I want so much more before I'm through.