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May 16

wild-imagines-and-stories

This Is For You

Pairing: Yuri Plisetsky x Fem!American Figure Skater!reader

Genre: Fluff

WC: 4,337

This is Part 2 of this! Fanfiction Masterlist

The following night at the Olympic Ice Skating Arena, the energy feels entirely different from the evening before.

Yesterday was a triumph.

Tonight is judgment.

Nearly ten thousand spectators fill the arena, their voices blending into a restless hum that vibrates through the steel structure itself.

Camera flashes burst like distant lightning.

Flags from every competing nation ripple above the stands, and the ice gleams beneath stadium lights so bright it almost hurts to look at.

It’s the Men’s Free Skate—the final battle.

And the world waits for one skater.

The boy commentators have begun calling the Russian Tiger.

— — —

You sit in the athlete section, close enough to the rink that you can see shallow grooves carved into the ice from warm-ups.

Cold air curls around your ankles, familiar and grounding.

Your own gold medal rests hidden beneath your Team USA jacket, its weight pressing lightly against your chest.

Twenty-four hours ago, the crowd roared for you.

Now your hands tremble for someone else.

You try to steady your breathing, but your heart refuses to cooperate.

Because, unlike the audience, you know exactly what Yuri Plisetsky sacrificed to stand here.

You remember Saint Petersburg winters when darkness fell before afternoon practice ended.

Empty rinks echoing at midnight.

The sharp crack of failed landings.

Yakov shouting corrections while Yuri stubbornly demanded one more attempt.

You remember kneeling beside him as he retied shredded skate laces with shaking fingers.

“I’m not leaving until it’s perfect,” he had snapped once.

You stayed anyway.

Every time.

Much like he had done for you.

The announcer’s voice booms overhead.

“Representing the Olympic Athletes from Russia… Yuri Plisetsky!”

The arena explodes and you see him stepping onto the ice like it belongs to him.

Not arrogantly.

Naturally.

His costume catches the light immediately—black and silver panels slashing across his body like claw marks, crystals flickering with every breath and movement.

His blond hair is slightly damp from warm-up, framing sea-foam green eyes that are sharp enough to cut glass.

He doesn’t wave to the crowd.

Doesn’t acknowledge the cameras.

Instead, he skates slowly toward center ice, posture low and coiled, like a predator measuring distance before the strike.

Then his gaze lifts.

Straight to you.

The noise from the crowd fades and for a single heartbeat, it is just the two of you—rink lights reflected in his sea-foam green eyes.

You nod once.

He doesn’t smile or smirk.

His jaw tightens.

And then the music begins.

— — —

The first notes crash through the arena.

Yuri moves instantly.

No hesitation.

No easing into the choreography.

He launches into a Quadruple Salchow–Triple Toe Loop combination, exploding upward with terrifying height.

Gasps ripple through the audience as he rotates faster than seems possible.

Landing.

Clean.

Sharp.

Perfect.

Ice sprays as he accelerates directly past your seat, blade edges carving deep crescents.

His expression doesn’t change, but the intensity in his eyes burns brighter.

Watch me.

You grip the barrier without realizing it.

— — —

His skating is not gentle tonight.

It’s feral.

Each transition snaps with precision; every spin tightens until he becomes a silver blur.

The choreography pulses with rebellious energy—the unmistakable spirit that earned him the nickname ‘Russian Punk’, refined now into something more dangerous.

Control.

Power.

Ownership.

The audience begins clapping along midway through the program, drawn into his rhythm.

Even the judges lean forward in anticipation.

But you notice what others don’t.

The slight heaviness entering his shoulders.

The deeper inhale before footwork.

Fatigue creeping in.

During a complex step sequence, his blade nearly slips.

Your breath stops.

For a terrifying instant, his balance wavers—but then he slams his weight into the next movement, transforming instability into aggression.

His steps grow sharper, faster, daring his body to keep up.

The crowd erupts, believing it intentional.

You know better.

He’s fighting.

And he refuses to lose.

— — —

The music swells toward its climax.

Thirty seconds remain.

Everyone knows what’s coming.

The Triple Axel—the jump that stole months of sleep, the one that followed him into nightmares after competitions.

He circles once, gathering speed.

Twice.

His eyes flick toward you again and you stand without realizing it.

He takes off.

Time fractures.

Rotation—

two—

three—

The landing is heavy.

His hand grazes the ice, fingertips brushing frost.

Gasps echo through the arena.

But Yuri snarls—an audible sound caught by rink microphones—and drags himself upright through sheer stubborn force, ripping into the final choreography as if defying gravity itself.

The last note hits.

He strikes his ending pose.

Silence hangs for half a second.

Then the arena detonates into sound.

— — —

Yuri stands motionless at center ice, the final echo of his music dissolving into the vast space of the arena.

For a few seconds, it feels as though time forgets to move forward with him.

His chest rises and falls rapidly, breath fogging faintly in the cold air.

Strands of his blonde hair cling to his forehead, and tiny crystals sewn into his costume catch the overhead lights, scattering silver reflections across the ice around him.

The crowd is already on its feet.

Applause crashes through the arena like thunder—loud enough to vibrate through the boards, loud enough that you feel it in your ribs.

But Yuri doesn’t react.

He doesn’t throw his arms up. Doesn’t smile for the cameras circling him. Doesn’t celebrate.

Instead, he slowly straightens his posture, spine rigid despite exhaustion, and gives a single nod toward the audience—sharp, controlled, almost military in its precision.

Acknowledgment.

Respect.

Nothing more.

It’s the same composure he’s worn since he was fifteen, the armor he built to survive expectations too heavy for someone so young.

From your seat in the front row, your hands tremble against the barrier.

You hadn’t realized until now that you’re crying until a tear slips past your jaw and onto your glove.

“He did it,” someone behind you whispers.

But you barely hear them.

All you see is Yuri standing alone under the lights, surrounded by roaring sound yet somehow isolated inside it.

He turns slightly toward the exit gate where skaters wait for their scores.

Officials gesture for him to come off the ice.

He takes one glide forward—and stops.

His blades scrape softly as he slows, hesitation breaking through his perfect composure.

His gaze lifts toward the stands.

Searching.

You recognize the look instantly.

You’ve seen it after brutal practices, after failed jumps, after nights when frustration nearly broke him.

He’s looking for one thing.

For you.

His eyes scan past waving flags and flashing cameras until they land on the athlete section.

Until they find you.

When his eyes meet yours, the world narrows.

Noise fades into a dull hum.

For a moment, it feels like you’re the only two people inside the arena.

His expression changes—not dramatically, not enough for cameras to notice—but you see it.

The tightness in his jaw loosens.

The fierce edge in his eyes softens into something uncertain.

He doesn’t speak.

He won’t, not here.

But you can read him perfectly.

Was it enough?Did I do it right?

Your throat tightens.

You nod immediately, smiling through tears.

“You were perfect,” you mouth.

He squints slightly, trying to read your lips through the distance.

You repeat it, slower. “Perfect.”

For half a second, Yuri just stares at you.

Then his shoulders drop—barely, almost invisibly—as if a weight slips free.

A faint huff of breath escapes him, something between relief and disbelief.

He pushes off the ice and glides closer to the boards nearest your seat before stopping again.

“You’re crying,” he says quietly, voice rough but teasing enough that nearby microphones barely catch it.

You laugh shakily. “You scared me with that Axel.”

A small smile threatens at the corner of his mouth before he quickly suppresses it, remembering where he is.

“I landed it,” he replies.

“You did.” you nod. “Barely.”

“Tch.” He scoffs with a roll of his eyes. “Still counts.”

“Yeah, it does.” you smile, taking his hand in yours.

That’s when you see the officials by the Kiss & Tell with Yakov who is yelling at him to get over there for the score in Russian.

Hearing Yakov, from behind him, he clicks his tongue in annoyance but doesn’t move immediately.

His gaze lingers on you one last second.

“…Stay here,” he mutters.

“Where would I go?” you question with a smirk, asking the same question he had to you last night.

He nods once at you—small, decisive, satisfied—and then finally turns away.

The sound changes immediately as he leaves the ice.

The crowd is still roaring, applause rolling endlessly through the arena as Yuri reaches the Kiss & Cry.

Yakov is already talking rapidly beside him, hands flying as he gestures toward the monitors.

Yuri barely seems to hear him.

Even from across the rink, you can tell.

His attention drifts.

His eyes flick back toward the ice.

Toward you.

Your heart stutters when you realize he’s checking if you’re still there.

You lift your hand slightly, an unconscious reassurance.

He relaxes just enough that only someone who knows him as well as you do would notice.

Your pulse pounds wildly—just as hard as it had before your own Olympic skate, maybe harder now that you can’t control the outcome.

The arena lights dim slightly.

A hush spreads through the crowd, anticipation swallowing the lingering cheers.

The scoreboard flickers to life.

Numbers begin appearing one by one—technical score first.

A murmur rolls through the crowd as the total climbs higher.

And higher.

Gasps ripple outward like waves.

You clasp your hands together so tightly your fingers ache.

“Come on…” you whisper under your breath, before your eyes wander over towards Yuri again.

Across the rink, Yuri leans forward in his chair, elbows braced against his knees.

He tries to look calm, but his leg bounces restlessly, betraying nerves he would never openly admit.

“What did I get?” you see him mutter impatiently.

“Wait,” Yakov snaps beside him, eyes fixed on the screen.

The components appear next.

The numbers rise again.

Your breath catches.

The final score calculates.

For one suspended second, the entire arena feels frozen.

Then the screen flashes bright gold.

1st PLACE.

Your mind goes blank.

Across the rink, Yuri doesn’t react immediately.

He just stares at the scoreboard, eyes unmoving, as if he needs proof that it’s real.

Processing.

Understanding.

And then it hits him.

Olympic Champion.

Just like you.

The arena detonates into sound.

Cheers explode.

Plush toys rain onto the ice like colorful snowfall.

Commentators shout over one another, voices nearly lost beneath the noise.

Yakov grabs Yuri’s shoulders, shaking him while yelling excited Russian you can’t quite make out from this distance.

You laugh helplessly, tears blurring your vision.

Yuri exhales—long and shaky—like he’s finally allowed to breathe after holding it in for years.

And before he acknowledges the cameras.

Before he celebrates.

Before medals or interviews or the world rush in to claim him—He looks across the arena.

Straight at you.

The distance disappears again the moment your eyes meet.

A slow, victorious smirk spreads across his face—proud, relieved, unmistakably Yuri.

You raise both thumbs, laughing through tears you don’t bother hiding.

He shakes his head slightly, amused, lips moving in silent words only you can read.

Told you.

Your chest aches with warmth.

And for the first time all night, Yuri Plisetsky smiles—not for the crowd, not for the title, not for history.

For you.

For the person who watched every failed jump, every frustrated practice, every moment he doubted himself before this one.

Olympic Champion.

But this time, as you watch him surrounded by celebration, you know something has changed.

He isn’t standing there alone anymore.

— — —

The medalists skate back onto the ice one by one.

Bronze first.

Then silver.

And finally—

“Olympic Champion… Yuri Plisetsky!”

The arena erupts louder than before.

Yuri skates out from the tunnel, posture straight, expression composed but unmistakably brighter now.

His hair is still damp from exertion, cheeks flushed pink from cold and adrenaline.

He pretends not to notice the deafening cheers.

You know he notices every single one.

As he approaches the podium, his gaze flickers upward automatically—searching.

Finding you.

You grin and clap harder.

He rolls his eyes slightly, but the corner of his mouth lifts before he steps onto the highest platform.

Gold.

Exactly where he has always believed he belonged.

— — —

The official approaches carrying the medal on a white cushion.

The arena quiets, anticipation settling like snowfall.

When the ribbon slips over Yuri’s head, the gold medal rests against his chest with a soft metallic sound.

For a moment, he just looks down at it.

All the years of training.

Injuries.

Expectations.

Loneliness.

You see it cross his face—not pride first, but disbelief.

Then he straightens.

Flashbulbs explode across the arena.

The flags begin to rise.

Music swells—the Russian anthem filling the space, powerful and echoing.

Yuri stands perfectly still, shoulders squared, eyes forward.

Halfway through, though, his focus drifts.

His gaze shifts sideways.

Toward you again.

You place a hand over your heart in silent congratulations.

His expression softens—only slightly—before he looks forward again, composure snapping back into place.

— — —

During the flower ceremony, the noise inside the arena never truly settles.

Applause rolls endlessly through the stands, echoing off steel beams and glass panels high above the rink.

Camera flashes burst like lightning from every direction, reflecting off the ice and turning the entire arena into a storm of white light.

At the center podium, Yuri stands rigidly beneath it all.

The gold medal rests against his chest, its weight visibly unfamiliar despite how fiercely he fought for it.

His fingers curl loosely around the bouquet handed to him moments earlier, petals trembling slightly each time another wave of cheering crashes over the rink.

He shifts his weight.

Then again.

You recognize the signs immediately.

He’s uncomfortable.

Victory itself never rattles him—but attention without movement, without purpose, leaves him exposed in a way competition never does.

Photographers shout instructions.

“Yuri! Look here!”

“Center camera!”

“Smile!”

His expression tightens almost imperceptibly.

He gives a polite nod toward one camera, then another, clearly counting down the seconds until escape.

Then an official steps forward.

And places a microphone into his hand.

Yuri freezes.

His eyes drop to it as if it’s an unexpected enemy.

From your seat, you can practically hear the internal ‘no’.

A faint grimace crosses his face before he schools his expression, shoulders straightening out of pure discipline as he takes the microphone.

The arena gradually quiets, curiosity replacing noise as thousands of spectators lean forward.

Public emotion has never been his specialty.

He clears his throat softly.

“I’m not good at sentimental stuff,” he begins, voice echoing across the arena speakers—slightly rough, still edged with adrenaline.

Gentle laughter ripples through the crowd, warm rather than mocking.

He exhales through his nose, already regretting the situation but pushing forward anyway.

“But someone told me yesterday I’d be a pathetic loser if I didn’t match her gold medal.”

The audience laughs louder now, amused by the blunt honesty.

Heat creeps up your neck instantly.

Yuri’s gaze lifts.

Out of thousands of faces, he finds you without hesitation.

The shift is immediate—subtle, but unmistakable.

The sharp Olympic composure softens just enough to reveal something private beneath it.

He raises the medal slightly, pointing directly toward your seat in the athlete section.

Cameras swivel to follow the gesture.

“This is for the girl who stayed on the ice with me until two in the morning when I couldn’t land combinations.”

His voice softens just a fraction.

Not enough to lose projection—but enough that sincerity slips through the cracks of his usual confidence.

You remember those nights instantly: empty rinks, exhausted laughter, frustration echoing through cold air.

“For you, ‘Kotik (Kitty)’.” A faint flush appears across his cheeks, but he doesn’t look away. “We’re a set now.”

The arena erupts.

Cheers swell louder than before, whistles and applause blending into one overwhelming sound as spectators react to the rare glimpse of vulnerability from the famously untouchable “Russian Tiger”.

Yuri pauses, clearly realizing how emotional that sounded.

His ears turn pink.

He shifts awkwardly, recovering the only way he knows how—with pride.

“Don’t think you’re ahead of me,” he adds quickly, lifting his chin.

Laughter and cheers double instantly.

Someone shouts his name.

Another wave of applause crashes through the arena.

And for a brief, unguarded moment —Yuri looks shy.

Not the confident champion.

Not the fierce competitor.

Just a young man standing beneath bright lights, suddenly aware that he revealed more of himself than he ever intended.

He hands the microphone back almost immediately, muttering a quiet “thanks” to the official before retreating half a step, clearly relieved to be finished.

But before facing forward again, his eyes flick back toward you one last time.

Checking.

Making sure you heard.

Making sure you understand what he was saying to you.

And when you smile and nod through tears, his shoulders finally relax—just enough to show that this victory was never meant to belong to him alone.

— — —

Before his victory lap, a Russian flag is handed to Yuri.

He hesitates—just briefly—before taking it.

Then he pushes off.

The moment his blades touch open ice again, something changes.

The rigid competitor disappears.

He skates freely now, powerful strokes carrying him around the rink as cheers follow him like waves chasing a ship.

Fans lean over barriers, reaching out.

Children wave flags.

Phones glow everywhere.

He circles once—twice—and then deliberately alters his path.

Toward your section.

Your breath catches.

He slows in front of your section, blades carving a soft crescent into the ice as he comes to a stop beneath you.

The roar of the crowd rolls endlessly around the arena, but up close the world feels smaller—quieter somehow.

His chest rises and falls quickly, breath still uneven from the program, strands of blond hair clinging to his forehead.

The gold medal resting against his chest flashes beneath the lights every time he moves.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

You lean slightly over the barrier, smiling down at him.

“So,” you say, voice warm despite the emotion still caught in your throat, “how does it feel… being an Olympic Champion?”

He blinks.

The confidence he wore moments ago falters just enough for you to notice.

Yuri looks down at the medal as if seeing it for the first time, fingers brushing the edge absently.

The cheering crowd chants his name somewhere behind him, but he seems distant from it—caught between disbelief and exhaustion.

“…Loud,” he mutters finally.

You laugh softly. “That’s it?”

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to recover his usual composure. “I worked for it. Of course I won.”

There’s the smugness again—familiar, comforting.

You tilt your head. “That Axel almost killed me, though.”

“I landed it,” he says immediately.

“Your hand touched the ice.”

“Barely,” he insists, lifting his chin. “It was intentional drama.”

You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” he replies, clearly pleased with himself, though the corner of his mouth softens into something quieter.

His gaze lifts back to yours, confidence fading just slightly.

“…It feels different,” he adds after a moment, almost reluctantly.

“How?”

He hesitates, clearly annoyed at himself for answering seriously at all.

Then his eyes flick toward you again.

“…Better,” he admits under his breath.

Before you can respond, the crowd nearby begins noticing the exchange.

Cheers swell louder as phones turn toward the two of you, excitement rippling through the stands.

Someone shouts, “Kiss!”

Yuri freezes.

Color floods his face instantly, bright red climbing all the way to his ears.

“Shut up!” he snaps toward the crowd, horrified—which only makes everyone laugh and cheer louder.

He turns back to you, mortified but smiling despite himself.

“…You’re still crying,” he mutters.

You sniff, grinning. “So are you.”

“I am not,” he insists though his voice cracks halfway through.

You raise an eyebrow slowly.

He glares up at you. “That doesn’t count.”

“Sure it doesn’t.”

He clicks his tongue, shifting his weight awkwardly, suddenly unsure what to do with all the attention—or the emotions threatening to spill over.

“…Stay here,” he says quickly.

“Where would I go?” you ask like you did earlier.

He huffs, satisfied.

But instead of pushing off immediately, he lingers.

His gaze flicks from your eyes… to your smile… then back again.

The cheering grows louder, chanting now, playful and relentless. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath.

For a split second, you think he’s going to escape like usual—skate away before things become too real.

Instead, Yuri suddenly reaches up, grabbing the barrier with one gloved hand.

“Lean over the barrier,” he says quickly.

Your heart skips. “What—?”

“Just—” he flushes deeper, avoiding eye contact. “Just do it.”

You lean over the railing.

He pushes up slightly on his toe picks, closing the distance just enough—and presses a quick, warm kiss to your lips.

It’s brief.

Slightly clumsy.

Completely impulsive.

But unmistakably real.

The arena explodes.

The crowd erupts into deafening cheers, whistles echoing through the stadium as cameras flash wildly around you.

Yuri pulls back instantly, face burning bright red.

“…There,” he mutters defensively. “Happy?”

You’re too stunned to answer right away.

His expression softens for one unguarded second, relief and affection shining through before embarrassment takes over again.

He clicks his tongue, pushing off hard from the boards.

Before you can say anything else to him, he accelerates into the rest of his victory lap, skating faster than necessary—faster than the moment demands—as if motion itself might cool the heat in his face.

The crowd roars as he passes, flag trailing behind him like a streak of gold.

And even as he circles away, you catch him glancing back once over his shoulder—just to make sure you’re still watching.

— — —

Backstage smells like cold air, melting ice, and hairspray.

The moment Yuri’s victory lap ends, chaos takes over.

Reporters crowd narrow hallways.

Staff rush past carrying equipment.

Screens replay Yuri’s program on a loop while commentators excitedly dissect every jump.

You lose count of how many interviews he’s pulled into.

“How does it feel to win the Olympics?”

“What were you thinking before the Axel?”“Is this the peak of your career?”

You watch from the edge of the media zone as Yuri answers with practiced composure—short responses, sharp confidence, carefully controlled expressions.

The Olympic Champion.

Untouchable.

Every answer sounds effortless.

But you notice the details no one else does.

The way his shoulders stay tense. How his fingers keep brushing the medal unconsciously. How his eyes keep scanning the room between questions.

Searching.

For you.

Finally, the last interviewer thanks him and the cameras shut off.

Staff begin packing equipment, conversations dissolving into background noise.

For the first time since he won the gold medal, Yuri is alone.

His gaze lifts immediately.

He sees you.

And everything changes.

The confident posture drops almost instantly, tension leaving his shoulders like a string cut loose.

Relief floods his expression so openly it almost startles you.

He walks toward you fast.

Not calmly.

Not carefully.

Fast enough that people instinctively step out of his way.

“You disappeared,” he says the moment he reaches you, voice low and rough.

You blink. “You were being interviewed.”

“Still.”

The single word carries more weight than it should.

Up close, you can see exhaustion finally catching him—flushed cheeks, damp hair curling slightly at the edges, adrenaline still bright in his eyes but wavering now that the performance is truly over.

“You did amazing Yura,” you say softly.

He exhales shakily, like hearing it from you matters more than the entire arena screaming his name.

For a moment he just looks at you.

Really looks.

And then, without warning, he pulls you into him.

The hug is sudden and tight—arms wrapping around you with surprising urgency, face pressing briefly into your shoulder.

You freeze in surprise.

Yuri Plisetsky does not cling to people.

Except right now, apparently.

“…I thought I messed up the Axel,” he mutters against you, voice barely audible over distant hallway noise.

“You didn’t though.”

“My hand touched.”

“Barely.”

He huffs a weak laugh, breath warm against your neck.

The bravado is gone.

No cameras.

No audience.

Just Yuri.

His grip tightens slightly, like he’s grounding himself after hours of adrenaline.

“You were there,” he says quietly.

“Of course I was.”

A pause.

“…I needed that.”

Your chest tightens.

You pull back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face steals your breath—open, vulnerable, eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them under arena lights.

Before you can say anything else, he leans down.

This kiss isn’t careful.

It isn’t planned.

It’s adrenaline and relief and emotion crashing together all at once.

His hand slides to the back of your neck as he kisses you—warm, insistent, a little desperate—like he’s been holding it in since the moment the music ended.

You gasp softly against him, hands gripping the front of his jacket.

The world outside the moment disappears: no reporters, no staff, no Olympic pressure.

Just him.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing unevenly.

“…Don’t tell anyone I did that,” he murmurs.

You laugh softly. “The entire whole world watched you kiss me earlier.”

“That was different,” he mutters immediately.

“How?” you ask.

He hesitates, cheeks tinting pink again.

“…This one was real.”

Your heart skips.

He realizes what he said a second too late and looks away, embarrassed.