Chapter Text
Yuuri has always resented his orientation, from the moment his school counselor assessed him all those years ago, to the way people treated him differently when they knew. Even now, he has a little s on his work badge, right below his photo, name, and job title.
In theory, this is to protect him from being taken advantage of in the workplace, but he sees the way people's expressions shift, the way their behavior changes. It's an encroachment on his privacy, and with Yuuri's personality, it feels unbearable.
Public or private, however, his nature can't be ignored.
The craving starts off predictably enough, as an itch under his skin—a sort of hyperawareness, an inability to fully rest. The longer Yuuri puts it off, the worse the need grows, until he's forced to do reckless things to try to relieve the pressure. Alcohol can numb his urges, and there are phone apps and other services that mimic orders, but nothing works like the real thing.
If only he was stronger. Or a different person entirely. Not everyone feels their needs with such intensity. Hell, there is a not-insignificant percentage of the population who is entirely immune to the major dynamics, and they're the luckiest people alive, in Yuuri's opinion.
He rubs his eyes and sighs, knowing he's at the edge of something dangerous and hating that he will give in. Sleeping has been a challenge for the past few weeks, and his focus at work is completely shot. It's been bad enough that even his manager pulled him aside at the end of the day, concerned and disappointed. He, a man thirty years his senior and with a family at home, had offered to help. The offer was non-sexual, but still, Yuuri politely declined while privately feeling disgusted at the thought of someone he has to see at work every day seeing him and knowing—
It's time to schedule something. Yuuri pulls out his phone and checks a quasi-legal app, hidden behind passwords and a biometric login, where users schedule meetups and arrange payment for services rendered in coded language. It's risky, but he prefers the security of one night stands who will forget him in the morning to the regimented industry that makes him feel like a managed child, with its paperwork and legalities. And even that is better than a real relationship, where someone would know him and his terrible weakness. He does not want those lines to cross.
If Yuuri gets caught using this service, he can count on his nature giving him a lesser sentence, on the legal assumption that he's easier to coerce into joining such a network. Doms have no such defense. That irks him too, immeasurably so.
Prioritizing speed above all else, Yuuri checks to see who’s available nearby and sorts by references. It is dangerous, putting your mind and body in the hands of someone else. But since he hates that part of himself anyway, he's not going for nice. Getting it done is all that matters.
It’s a weeknight, and options are unusually slim, especially for men interested in men. Yuuri contacts the closest one with availability and a handful of references, barely skimming his profile with the thought that the less he knows, the less it can bubble up in memory.
Yuuri only checks the Dom's photo as he waits in the hotel lobby, just to make sure he's approaching the right person.
The man who greets him was either lying about his age or chose some older photos, because he looks about the same age as Yuuri's father. His hair is almost full-gray, but he’s well-built, with hazel eyes and a nice jacket. They’ve taken care of the terms of their arrangement electronically, and it’s only a few digital signatures in the app before they head upstairs and Yuuri gets a leather collar tightened around his neck.
He hands the Dom an envelope of cash, and waits patiently while it's counted. Money is not necessary for these types of hookups, not at all, but he prefers it to feel like a transaction. Yes, the Dom is getting his needs met in the same way he is, but to Yuuri, it doesn't feel right.
“Looks good. Strip,” the Dom commands, after putting away the money. Yuuri is grateful he's getting right to business. He slides out of his clothes as quickly as he can.
“Kneel.”
The hotel carpet is dense and rough under his knees. The collar is too tight.
The Dom has brought a bag of supplies, and he cuffs Yuuri’s wrists together without fanfare, again too tight. He tugs him into place, using his collar as a grip, and Yuuri tries not to think, just to obey—it’s hard for him, but it’s also what he needs, especially after denying himself for so long. His body likes it, erection filling out predictably and pathetically at someone taking his choices away.
The clicking of a cell phone camera is audible above his quickened breathing. These will be added to Yuuri’s profile, along with any others from the night. His limits and preferences are listed alongside them, so everyone is on the same page when choosing to meet, and for the most part they have been respected by guys he's hooked up with.
“Open your mouth. Tongue out.” A few more clicks. He takes off Yuuri's glasses and sets them in his own pocket, thankfully blurring his perception of the room. “Open your eyes and give me that fucktoy look. Good boy.”
It’s degrading. Revulsion roils in his stomach, but there's more to it. Praise, even the simplest praise, feels good, and he hates that about himself.
“Ass up. Spread.”
It’s hard with his hands bound, but Yuuri obligingly balances his chest on the rough carpet and holds his ass up in the air, spreading his thighs. Another camera click.
"It says in your profile you haven't submitted for three months," he scolds. "Is that right?"
"Yes." This is why he prefers men who will gag him; no conversation.
"Stupid. You should be giving yourself up at least once a week. Think of your health."
Great, a lecture. Yuuri wishes he would just hurry up. A lecture is why he doesn't do this the legal way.
"Well?"
He wants an answer, and Yuuri can feel himself sinking into that version of himself who needs to respond. "You're right. I'm sorry. I won't wait so long next time."
A firm smack to his ass. "I don't believe that lying mouth for a minute. Count the strikes."
It's a bare-handed spanking. He counts out loud at each hit, one for each of the times he should have been submitting and did not, trying not to flinch and not managing well, as the same places are hit over and over again. He can feel blood rushing to the area and knows that it will be hard to sit at his desk tomorrow.
"Learn from this," the Dom says, "and think about how to do better."
"Yes," Yuuri says, voice small. The part of him that comes out during times like this is always lesser.
"What are you going to do?"
"Submit more often," he says, fighting frustrated tears. They drip into the filthy carpet; the Dom, like most people in this country, is just fine wearing his shoes in a hotel room.
"Good. Now let's put that mouth of yours to work. I'm going to fuck your throat."
He's not shy about it, firmly gripping Yuuri's head as he takes his pleasure. While not the biggest cock Yuuri's taken, he's thick and merciless. When Yuuri gags, he grinds deeper, relishing his discomfort, takes his time until Yuuri's jaw aches and saliva and cum are dripping out of his abused mouth.
"You're out of practice," he says, pinching Yuuri's tongue between thumb and forefinger. "Stop trying to fight what you are. And clean up this mess."
Yuuri licks his hand clean, shuddering at the disgusting taste, and then carefully cleans the Dom's cock, bound hands making it awkward. Some of the pressure has left him, but self-hate blooms stronger in the fertile soil of his mind as he licks.
"I'll let you come," the Dom says, almost bored. "If you're quick about it, that is."
Once he's clean, he tucks himself back into his pants and then, with deliberate slowness, presses his shiny leather shoe against Yuuri's straining erection. "Go on."
"Yes. Thank you." Yuuri says, stomach twisting even as he begins to rub himself against the smooth leather. The sensation is not really pleasant, and dirty, like the man's eyes watching him. This kind of act isn't listed as a preference in his profile and should not be pursued; the illegal route has these risks. But it's not too far off from what he does have listed as allowed, and Yuuri is who he is, sadly, being ordered to hump his shoe turns his stupid cock on. He comes with a pathetic gasp against it, far too quickly, and is already getting into position to lick it clean before the Dom gives the order. At least his mess barely hit the carpet.
Simple. Transactional. Yuuri's cold and shaking by the time he gets home, head a complete mess after he'd turned down the conversation about aftercare. It isn't fair of him—Doms experience drops too—but the sketchiness of these arrangements works in his favor sometimes. His stomach hurts, and he can't wait to chase the taste of that man out of his mouth.
Apart from the bruises, Yuuri's alive, and that terrible need inside him is a fraction quieter. Serious bodily harm and assault is always a risk as a sub with under-the-table Doms, the ones who hate being constrained by social norms, but he rolls the dice on that rather than risk intimacy.
He takes a scalding hot shower, cleans his mouth thoroughly with stinging mouthwash, and manages not to throw up, even though his stomach is churning. He'd skipped dinner, and it's not worth it to try to choke something down now.
Yuuri curls up on top of his covers, still nude, self-hatred burning, knowing he'll feel the bruises tomorrow at work and hoping that pain will help fuel him a little longer.
Some subs get their enjoyment out of entirely non-sexual things; others only by doing what's pleasurable. His stupid body, it likes the pain.
By the time the sun is peeking over the horizon, Yuuri is back at the office, putting in extra work during the quiet hours before others get in. He gets a lot of his workload complete, chugging coffee and letting the busywork consume him. Here, he can feel like he's in control of his life, capable and functional.
"Yuuri," his manager says, leaning over the wall of his gray cubicle. "I have a special request for you."
"What is it?" By request, he means a task, and it's not like Yuuri can refuse.
"You know that photoshoot we're having downtown this afternoon? The photographer we've hired has some specific lines in his contract about catering, and I want you to pick up and deliver a special order to him."
Yuuri blinks. "A special order?"
"Yes. I've already called you in, you'll just need to drive it to the location. I'll forward you the addresses."
That's how Yuuri ends up, takeout bag in hand, at the site of the company's spring photoshoot. The location is bustling, with models, makeup artists, lighting techs, and assistants rushing around with numbered outfits and printed-out shot lists. Among all the hustle and bustle, Yuuri's not entirely sure where the photographer he's supposed to find even is, and the food itself is getting cold.
"Excuse me," he tries flagging down someone he vaguely recognizes from the office, "Do you know where Mr. Nikiforov is?"
He's pointed in the direction of a cluster of tall, expertly made-up models, and as he approaches the only way he can spot what he hopes is his target is because he's holding a camera.
"Excuse me," he says again, after hovering outside the circle for a moment, not wanting to interrupt their heated discussion but needing to find the right person. "Mr. Nikiforov?"
The silver-haired man with the camera turns his way and Yuuri freezes in place, bag held before him in a peace offering as those bright blue eyes look him up and down. "Yes. Is that my lunch?"
"Yes," Yuuri says, relieved he doesn't have to explain. He hands over the bag.
"I'll be right back," Viktor tells the models, "Marcus, go back to makeup and have them fix the highlighter on your cheekbones; we're going for chic, not Halloween. The rest of you, sit and take a 15 minute break—do not leave the area, I want to get started again immediately."
Yuuri turns to leave, but is stopped by a firm, "Wait. I need to check this before you can go."
Is he that worried about his lunch? The receipt had a special order section with dense instructions that took up most of the page, and the restaurant staff had looked a bit haggard when he'd come to retrieve it. This special photographer seems high maintenance.
"All good," he says, after a moment poking through the bag and inspecting the contents. "Thank you. You can go."
"Do you not like the site's catering?" Yuuri asks.
Mr. Nikiforov barely looks up, with a practiced smile that fades quickly. "I have very specific instructions for my lunch, to make sure people booking me have read the contract all the way through."
"I see. Enjoy your lunch, then." Task complete, Yuuri begins to walk away, mind already on what he still has to get done at the office.
"VIKTOR!" A tall man with dark hair and sharp enough eyeliner to cut wood nearly bowls Yuuri over on his way out, in his haste to get to the photographer. "It's an emergency!"
"Oh?" Mr. Nikiforov—Viktor, apparently—doesn't seem surprised or concerned, as Yuuri appears unharmed. "Watch where you're running, Georgi."
Yuuri catches his balance, marks on his skin from last night stinging at the sudden fall, and takes that as his cue to hurry up and get out. He texts his boss.
> Delivered. On my way back.
> Thank you, Yuuri.
Organizing a massive photoshoot is like coordinating a live performance, with all the models, costumes, and support staff ensuring each element appears right when it's needed. It's so far removed from what Yuuri does at the office that it might as well be a different world.
Before he can get out the door, he's stopped by a hand on his elbow. Startled, he looks up into the eyes of Mr. Nikiforov. "One moment, please. What's your name?"
It takes him a second. "Yuuri. Katsuki Yuuri."
"And you work for the main office here?"
"Yes," Yuuri says, "was something wrong with your meal after all?"
"No. It was perfect, thank you." Mr. Nikiforov looks him up and down again. "Have you ever modeled before?"
"No?" Yuuri looks down at his worn department-store suit and tie, then back up into his face, baffled.
"Would you like to? Just for today, and it won't be showing your face—We just need another body in the scene. I will make sure you are compensated appropriately, and speak to your manager for approval. I'm running on a tight timeline, and one of our models had a family emergency and needed to leave immediately."
Yuuri looks around at the many other people on the site, managing the chaos of the photoshoot with ease. "I- why me?"
"When Georgi—that's my assistant, the lout that ran into you just now, sorry about that—nearly knocked you over, you moved with such grace. And you're the right height we need for the scene. I think you have potential. What do you say?"
When Yuuri doesn't immediately respond, he adds, "And everyone else on site already has a task. As I said, the timeline is tight."
That makes more sense. And it won't be photos of his face—there are enough of those in the dark parts of the internet already. "Okay. Sure."
The smile that blooms over his face is breathtaking. Why he's behind the camera and not in front of it makes no sense at all. "Great. Thank you, Yuuri. You can call me Viktor."
Viktor has Georgi go with him to read and sign some paperwork, and then shepherd him to abbreviated hair and makeup by an intimidatingly fashionable woman with more brushes in her bag than he can count. Yuuri doesn't understand why he needs any makeup on his face, if it's not going to be seen, but he tolerates the quick application, and the products used to slick his bangs out of his face. A black fitted shirt and pants are produced from seemingly thin air, and he changes into them behind a temporary curtain with haste.
"Excellent," Viktor says, once he catches sight of him. "And fast, too. We're just about ready."
Viktor makes sure he can see well enough without his glasses before taking them away, on the thought that they'd be too distracting. The way distant scenery blurs actually helps Yuuri calm down as he's directed to stand by a few of the real models. All of them seem kind enough to this scruffy interloper, and after quick introductions, they're off.
Yuuri's back is to the camera for all of it, as the real models work around him. All he has to do is hold out his hand, or face a certain way, all to Viktor's clear directions.
"Yuuri, put your weight more on your left foot, and reach out again like you're helping her down the stairs." Click, click. "Marcus, reach towards Yuuri like you're offering a handshake."
He can't make heads or tails of the photoshoot's concept, or keep great track of the names of all the beautiful models around him, but with Viktor's direction and his assistants swapping out scenery, outfits, and lighting elements, the rest of the photoshoot passes in a flash.
"Thank you, everyone," Viktor says, clapping as the chaos of the day comes to a close. "Great job today. We'll be back here tomorrow at 6, do not be late."
Finally. His feet are sore, it's hot under the lights, and there are spots in his eyes from the flashing of the lighting rigs
Yuuri changes back into his regular clothing as the rest of the workers filter out, chatting amongst themselves. What a strange day, he thinks, catching his reflection in the mirror. The minimal makeup brings out his eyes and cheekbones, and even covers up the deep dark circles under his eyes, making him look more alive than he feels. Maybe that's why the makeup artist had bothered applying it; out of pity.
Traffic is going to be intense at this time of day, so Yuuri pulls out his phone to try and map the best route. The photoshoot location is far from both his office and home, and he's not familiar with the area.
"Excuse me."
Yuuri looks up to see Viktor Nikiforov standing before him for the second time that day, the camera that had felt like an extension of his will no longer present. He can't help but look around to see if he's talking to someone else—but no, Yuuri's the only one nearby.
"I just wanted to thank you for helping us out today," he says, smiling a bit at Yuuri's reaction. "Would you let me take you out to dinner?"
Things like this don't—happen. He must not be understanding. "Oh, um," he says, "I don't know this part of town very well, so I won't be able to recommend anything nearby."
"What a coincidence, I don't know this part of town well either. We can find out together."
Viktor's wearing a handsome gray coat over this clothes, in deference to the still-chilly spring weather. It makes him look even more beautiful.
"Are you sure?" Yuuri asks.
"I'm sure," Viktor says, with a secure confidence he's envious of.
"All right." His mouth answers without his mind's input. It doesn't make sense, and is probably reckless, but he does more reckless things all the time. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't interested in spending time with this beautiful, talented man, even if it's just as a baffling thank-you for becoming a prop in his photoshoot. "Anything in particular you're hungry for?"
There are online reviews they can check, at least, and he unlocks his phone to see what's nearby.
"I'm very hungry," Viktor says, leaning in to peek at his phone, "but as for the cuisine, I'll defer to your preferences, since this is a thank-you for you."
Yuuri can feel the pressure sink down on his shoulders. What if he picks somewhere too expensive, or too cheap? Viktor's lunch today had been both expensive and meticulously customized. He bites his lip, scrolling options but not really reading them as the worry rises up.
"Unless, you'd prefer if I decide," Viktor says, his voice softer than before.
"Please."