[ Yuuri has some idea of how happy he makes Viktor, if it's even a fraction of how happy Viktor makes him. Contrary to what some of the press might have suggested, Viktor hasn't molded Yuuri into anything. Viktor's choreography didn't create the diva under his hands. She had always been there, along with everything else that Yuuri had tapped into ever since Viktor crashed into his shamble of a life. His best self had always been there in his head, his heart, his gut, and yet alone in the world his anxiety wrapped around him like a hardened shell. A vicious cycle of never achieving self-actualization, begetting less and less. Before Viktor, the only thing he was really sure about himself was that he had failed, but failed what? Himself? His family? His dreams? All of it, he thought, until Viktor. Viktor smashed through that shell he built around himself, simply by being his truest self. Simply by being Viktor.

If Yuuri's love is selfish, he would have it no other way. Without Viktor, he simply couldn't be. Yuuri loves him completely.

His breath catches in his throat as Viktor's palm presses against his lace-covered cock, the sound and feel of the stutter in his breathing no doubt grazing the shell of Viktor's ear. His hips roll again, and again, gently fucking into Viktor's hand like his hips could beckon Viktor closer. His fingertips toy with Viktor's hair, his other hand moving to grip his shoulder. A teasingly chaste kiss is pressed in front of Viktor's ear, before Yuuri nips at his fiance's earlobe, before he lets his eros out on the tip of his tongue. ]

Show me Vitya, show me how much you love me. Show me that you love me as much as I love you. Do you feel how wet you get me?

[ He should be flushing, but he isn't. Only Viktor could get draw this level of filth out of him. Viktor who is alone privy to the inner workings of Yuuri's head and heart. ]