.

.

"Bozhe moy…"

Viktor's mouth hangs open. His and Yuuri's head incline towards the apartment's ceiling clustered and every metre obscured with green and white mistletoe. Yuuri nods slowly, eyes bugging out behind his fogging glasses.

"You said it," he announces, Yuuri's voice strained and weak. "How… are we getting all of this down?"

.

.

He doesn't mind living with Viktor.

There's nobody Yuuri knows very well in St. Petersburg, and he doesn't want to intrude on anyone. But since he and Viktor are engaged, it only makes sense that Viktor extends an invitation to Yuuri to stay.

When the pressure seems too much, in the rink or off of the ice, Yuuri discovers himself running his thumb over the gold, glinting ring to his finger. A way to console himself and to keep his nerves at bay. Maybe Viktor does the same, he thinks. Maybe Viktor touches his own matching ring and imagines Yuuri and their bond.

Yuuri has seen Viktor twist it absently during a conversation with Yakov, Viktor's brow furrowed.

The apartment's heat kickstarts, warming up their reddened, chilled ears and faces.

It turns out all of the mistletoe is a holiday-themed prank pulled by Mila and another rinkmate—according to the cheerful note left behind on a plate of homemade, sugary pastila. Yurio provided the opportunity and had an additional key to Viktor's apartment, gifted by Viktor himself whenever Yurio needed a place to retreat to. And apparently, Yurio only agreed to help because it would make their lives more difficult.

But not too difficult, thankfully. Yuuri discovers that bundles of the mistletoe were netted together, and once he finds each stringed portion, removing everything from the ceiling goes much easier.

He's the person on the stepladder, unknotting the lines and tossing the mistletoe into an opened trash bag.

Yuuri says nothing when Viktor loses interest in holding the trash bag, deciding to kneel down with Makkachin and supervise him. They already dealt with an excitable, whining Makkachin attempting to ingest a bunch of loose, stray mistletoe on the rug. There's absolutely no need for another pet emergency.

If he can finish up here as quickly as possible, then they could prepare dinner…

"Yuuri."

" … hm?" Yuuri hums out distracted, not looking away from pulling on another netted, green clump.

"Yuuuuri," Viktor says, whining on the floor.

He finally spares a glance, confirming mentally that Viktor is indeed pouting up at him. The other man stops hugging and petting Makkachin who trots off somewhere mistletoe-less, rising to his feet. Viktor's fuzzy socks are tri-colored red and blue and white stripes, but nowhere near as ugly as his baggy sweater.

"There's all this mistletoe—" Viktor's eyes peer upwards as he motions casually "—and you still haven't kissed me."

Yuuri considers this for a moment and then steps down, landing on the bottom rung. When Viktor gets close enough, he presses a soft, thoughtful kiss to Viktor's mouth. "Are you happy now?" Yuuri tells him, before gasping aloud into a rougher, sloppier kiss, Viktor's arms winding under his bottom.

Viktor helps him off the ladder with a huge smile, locking his arms under Yuuri and holding him up. Yuuri's hands grasp onto the other man's shoulders, attempting to stabilize himself.

"No, dorogoi," Viktor answers, gazing at his fiance somewhere between impatience and longing.

Yuuri blinks through his skewed glasses, cheeks flushed visibly. He gulps.

"Vitya…"

His own name hitches Viktor's chest. He dumps Yuuri onto the roomy couch, much to a surprised, groaning protest. Viktor eases himself between Yuuri's legs, bending over when Yuuri frantically removes his glasses. Their mouths slot together, Viktor's top lip caught in the wet, opening embrace of Yuuri's lips.

Viktor always kisses him like he's not getting enough. He needs the constant reminder of touch, from Yuuri's naked skin, or when his fingers rake and tangle up into Yuuri's dark, longer hair.

This time, Viktor's pale fingers hurriedly and clumsily pull apart the cords of Yuuri's track-pants. Yuuri knows exactly where this is going and muffles out a snorting laugh to the underside of Viktor's jaw.

It's fine by him. He can't get enough of Viktor either, even in that grey-and-blue holiday sweater with the antler pattern that is so ugly, even when Viktor's mouth tastes like okroshka (and Yuuri's not a fan of the smetana when Viktor uses too much garnish, let alone the raw cold soup itself).

They end up changing positions while stripping off their clothes, Yuuri straddling Viktor lying out on his back, one of his hands forcing up Viktor's crocheted sweater, exposing his abdomen and his pecs.

Viktor's cock full and throbbing and darkened red, leaking all over Yuuri's mouth when he hunches and smears his parted lips over the glans. Yuuri grasps his fingers to the base, tonguing over the fleshy, moist slit before taking Viktor's cockhead past his puckering lips. As many times as he's done this, Yuuri refuses to look Viktor in the eye. He feels too-warm and embarrassed, afraid of pulling away if he does.

A low, breathy noise sounds out of Viktor. Yuuri flushes harder despite himself, his own cock twitching. Both of Viktor's hands cup over Yuuri's face, the cool metal of the gold ring pressing sweetly to Yuuri's heated skin. Viktor's fingers slide into dark locks and comb Yuuri's bangs from his face.

"Lyuimiy," Viktor sighs out.

The overly affectionate term only builds more heat in Yuuri's cheeks, as well as his lower body.

He tries to focus, moaning noticeably around Viktor's cock and swallowing down on it. Viktor's fingernails dig into his scalp as a response. A shallow, eager thrust hits the back of Yuuri's throat, instinctively clenching the walls, and he pins the side of Viktor's hip, sucking down harder.

Yuuri's tongue flattens, running along the veined underside. He's grateful for remembering the lubricant from their bedroom, before undressing. His slicked fingers rub and massage Viktor's balls, inching to push slightly behind his peritoneum, grinning with a mouthful of cock when Viktor squirms and calls out Yuuri's name.

He waits to push against that bundle of nerves again, instead gathering more lubricant and circling a forefinger against Viktor's rim, pressing in so-slowly, waiting also for that familiar give of Viktor's muscles.

"Aah… more…" Viktor breathes out, squirming harder in Yuuri's hands. What? Yuuri realizes after a long moment he mistook Viktor's word for English other than the heavily accented Japanese.

Oh, god yes.

Yuuri pulls off his cock, looking a smiling Viktor in the eye. He heaves forward and latches onto Viktor's mouth, knocking the air out of both of them, corkscrewing another lube-slickened finger deep inside him.

Having Viktor like this feels like a bliss, their hips undulating, Viktor's legs clutching into his hands. Getting deeper inside him—sinking into Viktor's heat entirely, his body taking Yuuri's cock gradually. Yuuri presses his face against Viktor's cheek, listening to the other man's muffled whimpers and happy, soft noises.

Viktor's hand shifts out of Yuuri's hair, his fingertips spanning down each bump of Yuuri's spine. They can't hold onto each other much more tightly, when the brutal, fucking pace increases, Yuuri pounding into him.

It's too hot, too amazing.

A gush of come shoots out of Viktor's cock, landing on his stomach clenching up from his orgasm. He writhes against Yuuri's frenzied thrusts and chokes on his almost shouting exhale, touching over Yuuri's upper arms.

For a moment, Viktor can only breathe, drowsy and lightheaded, before he meets Yuuri's lidded eyes. It's true eros revealing itself if anything, if ever felt before. Yuuri's cock eases out of him in a slow-slow rhythm, spending onto Viktor's abdomen, mixing hot with the already cooling semen.

"Oh, gospady…" Viktor moans out, pushing his hands over his face. He trembles violently when Yuuri drops his mouth on Viktor's navel, licking an erratic, damp line across it, cleaning up the mess.

Yuuri shuts out any lingering doubts and chuckles, licking up to the middle of Viktor's chest. "Yuuri's too good for me," Viktor whispers, embracing Yuuri's waist and tugging him back up for a gentler, quiet kiss.

Not really.

But Yuuri doesn't mind letting Viktor think the world of him.

.

.

Yuri on Ice isn't mine. It's our first Wednesday without a new episode! :C But I decided to put up a new fic to compensate! And, well, my pal Clare on Tumblr kinda told me to write Yuuri rawing Viktor under some mistletoe and if you know me, I don't usually turn down a challenge or friend request SO THIS HAPPENED. THIS JUST KINDA. SPAWNED AS A RESULT. Hopefully everyone enjoys it? I guess I'll find out with comments ehehee and any thoughts are much appreciated thank you!

Bozhe moy= Oh my god (Russian)

dorogoi= dear (Russian)

Lyuimiy= loved/my loved one (Russian)

gospady- jesus