Quickly. Dear God quickly, Viktor surprises himself at the pace. Leaping off the edge. Hips snapping hard against Yuuri's.

"Fuck," he pants, in Russian, then his mouth's busy with other things. Specifically working a bruise into the crook of Yuuri's neck. So deep even the cashmere's probably going to sting when it's back on. Bring a blush to his cheeks, the red pretty against the blue.

Fuck this boy is so pretty. Dressed or naked Viktor doesn't care at this particular second.

He just wants him. Every single inch bright and hot and here.