Victuuri | Ongoing

Steam- Fluff

Word Count: 798

Not until my legs move do I remember my own need for release. The moment water touches my skin, I can hardly breathe from renewed pleasure. Victor quickly relieves me, and I'm grateful for the disencumberment. As if a veil is lifted over my eyes, I can suddenly see Victor in a new light. A steam-filled, rosy, blurry light.

I find myself leaning on him as he rubs shampoo into my hair with one hand and seeps soap down my body with the other. Steam lifts from the tile flooring, clouding my already unclear vision. I find it easier to just close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of being washed and cared for by someone who loves me. Describing the feeling as nice is a gross understatement, but it is nice, and blissfully comforting.

The water is off too soon, in my opinion, but I do feel refreshed and invigorated. Victor presses a warm kiss to the top of my head before helping me into a bathrobe.

I am so ready to cuddle with him.

"Victor," I yawn, slipping under the covers and waiting for him to join me.

"Mm?" He slides into the empty space beside me, propping himself up on one elbow to look down on me affectionately.

"Cuddle," I murmur, inching toward him until I can bury my face in his chest.

He leans back with a content sigh and hugs me close. "Of course, my love," he smiles. "Come here," he adjusts so that I lie with one half of my body directly on top of him and the other half spilling onto my side of the bed.

"I love you, Victor," I yawn, clutching my arms sleepily around his slender torso.

"I love you too, Yuura, darling." I infect him the yawn.

*****

I'm unprepared for the pain of post-sex aftermath when the morning arrives. Victor brings me my breakfast with an air of guilt and obvious feelings of responsibility. I stare at the plate on the nightstand next to the steaming cup of coffee, willing them to levitate to my mouth but, sadly, this isn't a Harry Potter AU. The author is probably laughing way too hard at that break in the fourth wall.... I have to bite the bullet and sit up.

Pain erupts down my back and into my thighs. I break a sweat just trying to inch my way up to a sitting position. My stomach suddenly protests the new position, commanding me to double over in pain, which only aggravates literally every other muscle in my body. Defeated, I collapse under the covers again.

"Is it always going to hurt this bad?" I wince.

Victor shrugs from his position atop a stool at the foot of the bed. He lowers his mug of coffee and says, "The first time hurts the worst for everyone— men, women, young, old, etcetera, etcetera— your body will get used to it eventually, Yuura." Before he finishes speaking he sets down the mug and walks over to me, concern clearly written on his face as if tattooed across his forehead in bold lettering.

He feels my own forehead with the back of his hand. His hand is cool as ever to the touch. I wonder if that's a good or bad sign this time.

"You feel warm to me, Yuuri," he finally decides. "I'm going to pour you some ice water, instead of coffee. Is that alright?"

I nod weakly, watching him disappear down stairs, heading into the kitchen. He reappears moments later, a wet rag and a frosted glass of ice water in hand. He replaces my steaming mug with the glass and lays the rag over my head with a frustrated air of delicate concentration about him now. I smile as I watch him, accidentally catching his attention.

"Am I amusing you?" he blesses the side of my face with the endearing touch of his hand.

"Mm— no," I mumble. "I just love the way you love me," I laugh hoarsely. "You understand that I actually asked for this last night, and it's not your fault in any way, shape, or form— don't you?I'll be better in a day, Vitya. You said, yourself, it happens to everyone."

I already need to turn the rag over and hope the other side is cooler from the embarrassment of trying out the endearing diminutive of his name.

"Mm," he hums, scrutinizing me before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. "Alright, Yuura," I relax at the endearing diminutive of my name. "I wish you could see how beautiful you are, even when you're mildly sick," he pauses to press another ginger kiss to my lips. "How are you this perfect?"

"I ought to be asking you a similar question," I find the strength to lift one arm and run my fingers through the rush of soft platinum hair adoringly. "I couldn't have— I can't imagine anybody more perfect than you, Victor."