kay kay kay, hear my out...
older Yuri and Victor where they are all happy and married and beautiful right? they have a daughter (reader) they adopted from America when she was you and she is a teenager now and a figure skater like her dads (about 15/16 and skating at the senior level). imagine reader was adviced to gain weight by a medical professional because she was a bit too close to the line between healthy and underweight, so she took a break for a while to do so.
now imagine when she comes back, her coach starts fat shaming her because she gained 10 pounds and doesn't necessarily fit into some of her old stuff anymore, and when her dads hear it gets all cute and protective??
Just a thought, you can ignore this!!!
Where Love Holds Me.
Older Dad Yuri and Older Dad Victor x Female Daughter reader.
When you were little, you did not understand how one day could change your whole life.
You only knew that the room was too bright, your shoes felt too tight, and the teddy bear in your hands was brand new.
It had soft brown fur, round black eyes, and a ribbon tied around its neck in an oversized bow, satin and pale blue. You held it so tightly that your tiny fingers disappeared into its fur. The social worker had smiled and told you it was a gift. A welcome present.
You did not feel welcomed.
You felt scared.
You sat on the edge of a chair in a small office in America, knees together, heart pounding so hard that even breathing felt difficult. You were trying to be brave, because brave girls did not cry in front of strangers. Brave girls sat still and listened. Brave girls nodded when adults talked.
Then the door opened.
Two men walked in together.
Even years later, you would remember how beautiful they looked to your little self.
One of them had soft black hair and gentle brown eyes behind blue half-rim glasses. He looked nervous, almost as nervous as you were, with his hands clasped together like he was trying very hard to say the right thing. The other had bright silver hair, sharp light-blue eyes, and the kind of smile that lit up the entire room before he even spoke. He wore confidence like it belonged to him, but when he looked at you, his expression softened into something warm and careful.
Victor and Yuuri.
At the time, they were just names someone had told you five minutes ago.
At the time, you did not know that one of them would stay up all night when you had fevers and press a cool cloth to your forehead.
At the time, you did not know that the other would braid your hair badly for school picture day and then laugh so hard he had to sit down.
At the time, you did not know they would become home.
Victor knelt first, slow and easy, so he wouldn’t seem too tall. Yuuri crouched beside him, hands resting on his knees. Both of them looked at you as if you were something precious.
You stared back at them over the teddy bear’s bow.
Victor smiled gently. “Hi, y/n.”
Your throat felt tight. You looked down at the bear, then back up at them. Your voice came out tiny and uncertain.
“Um… hi.”
Yuuri’s whole face softened at those first words. You did not know then that he would remember them forever.
For a moment, nobody moved. Nobody rushed you. Nobody told you to smile.
Victor tilted his head a little. “That’s a very nice bear you have.”
You looked down at it again, squeezing it harder. “It’s mine.”
“Of course it is,” Victor said, as if that were the most important truth in the world.
Yuuri swallowed. “We… we brought that for you.”
That made you blink.
You looked between them again, two strangers who were smiling like they wanted to know you but did not want to scare you. It made something strange twist in your chest. Hope, maybe. Or maybe the shape of it.
Your legs swung once under the chair. Then, because little you had always been practical even when scared, you asked the question that mattered most.
“What do I call you two?”
Victor’s eyes widened with surprise, then turned impossibly soft. Beside him, Yuuri looked like he might cry right there in the office.
Victor glanced at Yuuri. Yuuri glanced at Victor.
Then Yuuri said quietly, “If you want… you can call me Dad.”
Victor smiled, his hand brushing lightly against Yuuri’s sleeve. “And you can call me Papa.”
You tested the words silently in your head.
Dad. Papa. They felt foreign.
They felt frightening.
They felt a little like standing at the edge of the ice for the first time, toes at the line, not knowing whether you would fall or fly.
You held the teddy bear against your chest and whispered, “Okay.”
That was the beginning.
Years later, your teddy bear still sat on the shelf in your room in Saint Petersburg.
The bow was frayed now. One eye was a little scratched. The fur was worn soft in patches where your hands had loved it thin. But you never got rid of it.
It had been the first gift your fathers ever gave you.
Now you were sixteen, nearly as tall as Yuuri, and a senior-level figure skater with callused feet, aching muscles, and an entire life built around blades and music and timing and breath. The little girl in the office had become someone fierce on the ice, someone who could land jumps under pressure and hold a step sequence like she had music in her bones.
Sometimes the cameras said you looked like Victor when you performed.
Sometimes people said your softness off-ice was all Yuuri.
Your dads always said you were simply yourself.
That morning, sunlight spilled across the apartment kitchen while Victor stood at the stove in a slate-blue robe, making blini with the dramatic concentration of a man performing for an audience. Yuuri was at the table in one of Victor’s old sweaters, glasses slipping down his nose as he read over your training notes while sipping coffee.
Your skates should have been by the front bench.
They were not.
You tore through the hallway with one sleeve half on, bag bouncing against your hip.
“Papa! Dad, where are my skates?” you called.
Victor didn’t even turn around. “Good morning to you too, my love.”
“Morning,” you said automatically, still looking under the bench. “Seriously, where are they?”
“At the table,” Yuuri said.
You spun around. “Why are they at the table?”
“Because,” Yuuri replied in the patient voice that meant he was trying not to laugh, “your blades needed new guards and if I left them by the door, you would have run out with the old ones again.”
Victor set a plate down and looked over his shoulder, smiling. “Also because your father loves you.”
Yuuri’s ears pinked. “Victor.”
You crossed the kitchen, found your skates resting neatly beside your breakfast, and grinned despite yourself. “Thank you, Dad.”
Victor set more blini on your plate. “Eat first.”
“Papa-”
“No negotiating. You have training, and training requires food.”
Yuuri pushed the jam toward you. “And you know Dr. Sokolova wants you staying consistent.”
At that, some of the ease in your shoulders faded.
A few months ago, one of your routine medical checkups had ended with the sports physician sitting across from you, calm but firm, explaining that you were too close to underweight for the demands you were putting on your body. Not technically past the line, but close enough to worry her. She had advised weight gain, rest, reduced training, and careful monitoring.
You had nodded like it was simple.
It had not felt simple.
Taking a break had felt like losing language. Like waking up and finding out the world still moved without you. You had done what the doctor asked. You had eaten more. Rested more. Trained less. Your body had softened in places. Your hips felt different. Your old costumes fit tighter. Some of your practice dresses did not fit at all.
You had gained ten pounds.
Your dads had never once looked anything but relieved.
Victor turned down the stove and came over, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I know that face.”
“What face?”
“The face that says you are thinking too much before breakfast.”
Yuuri reached over and squeezed your hand. “Your body needed care, y/n. That’s all. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
You looked down at your plate. You knew they were right. You really did.
But coming back to full training still made nerves gather in your stomach like storm clouds.
“I know,” you muttered.
Victor crouched beside your chair, blue eyes level with yours. His tone, for once, held no teasing. “Listen to me. Strong is not a number. Healthy is not a punishment. You are allowed to take up space.”
Yuuri nodded at once, his own expression quiet and steady. “More than allowed.”
Your throat tightened. Sometimes their love was so immediate that it caught you off guard.
You took a bite of blini. Victor looked ridiculously pleased, like he had personally won a medal.
“Good,” he said. “Now finish breakfast, and then we’ll drive you.”
At the rink, the air smelled like cold metal, sharpened blades, and old ice. It should have felt comforting. Usually it did.
You changed in the locker room, pulling on one of your newer practice outfits, a dark navy top and black leggings that fit your body now instead of the body you had before. You caught your reflection in the mirror and hesitated.
You looked healthy.
You also looked different.
Before you could think too hard about it, you grabbed your guards and hurried out.
Your coach was already waiting at the boards.
He had trained you for years. He knew your habits, your jump timing, the way you bit the inside of your cheek before difficult run-throughs. He had praised your discipline. Praised your lines. Praised how “light” you used to look.
At first practice back, he just frowned.
Today, after you finished your warm-up laps, he called you over.
You glided to the barrier, breathing lightly. “Yes?”
His eyes moved over you in a way that made your skin crawl.
“You need to be careful,” he said.
You blinked. “About what?”
“Your body.”
Your stomach dropped.
He went on, voice low and critical, as if he were discussing a flaw in choreography. “You were always elegant because you looked long and lean on the ice. Now you look… heavier. Slower. The extra weight shows.”
For a second, all you heard was the hum of the rink.
You stared at him.
“I was told to gain weight,” you said carefully. “By my doctor.”
He shrugged. “Doctors are not judges. Or costume fitters. You can’t expect your old costumes to flatter you now. And if you want to stay competitive at senior level, you need to think about appearances.”
The words hit with surgical precision.
Your old costumes.
Flatter you.
Appearances.
You looked down at your hands gripping the top of the boards.
He was still talking.
“Maybe we adjust your meals now that you’re back. Be more disciplined. You don’t want people noticing.”
You did not realize you had gone completely still until another skater brushed past and sent a spray of ice against your boot.
A hot, painful shame spread through your chest.
The worst part was not that he said it.
The worst part was that some frightened, hidden part of you had already been thinking it.
You managed a brittle nod because you did not trust yourself to speak. Then you pushed away from the boards, skated to center ice, and missed your first jump so badly that the landing sent a hard shock up your ankle.
By the time practice ended, your hands were trembling.
You pulled off your skates too fast, stuffed them into your bag, and walked straight past the lobby. You needed air. You needed not to be looked at.
You made it to a side hallway before the tears came.
You hated crying here. Hated it.
You pressed your sleeve to your face and tried to stop, but the humiliation sat heavy and alive under your ribs. Maybe he was right, a cruel little voice whispered. Maybe everyone had noticed. Maybe everyone was being polite. Maybe you had come back wrong.
“Y/n?”
You looked up sharply.
Yuuri stood at the end of the hall, his glasses fogged slightly from the temperature change, concern already all over his face. Victor was right behind him carrying two coffees and your extra blade cloth, because of course he was.
The second they saw you crying, both of them changed.
Victor set the coffees down on the nearest windowsill so quickly one almost tipped over. Yuuri crossed the distance first.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, voice breaking on the words.
He cupped your face so gently it made you cry harder.
Victor was there a second later, one hand warm between your shoulder blades. “What happened?”
You shook your head once, embarrassed and angry and hurt all at once.
“Y/n,” Yuuri whispered, “please tell us.”
Something in his expression undid you. Maybe because Yuuri knew what it was to hear your body discussed like it was public property. Maybe because he looked frightened for you in a way that made you feel small and loved at the same time.
You sucked in a shaky breath. “Coach said I look heavier. That I don’t fit my old costumes right. That if I want to stay competitive, I need to watch what I eat again.”
Silence.
Not empty silence.
Dangerous silence.
Victor’s hand stilled on your back.
Yuuri’s eyes widened behind his glasses, and for one rare second, the softness dropped away completely. What remained was steel.
Victor blinked once. Slowly. “He said that to you?”
You nodded.
Yuuri’s jaw tightened.
Victor turned toward him. “Yuuri.”
“I know,” Yuuri said.
You had seen your father upset before. Anxious, certainly. Emotional, often. But this was different. This was the quiet fury of a man whose child had been hurt in exactly the place he knew could wound deepest.
Victor’s expression went cold in a way that made him look every inch the living legend people once feared competing against. “No.”
Yuuri kept one hand on your shoulder. “Did he say anything else?”
You stared at the floor. “That doctors aren’t judges. That people would notice.”
Victor actually laughed once, soft and disbelieving. It had no humor in it at all. “Oh, I would love to see him say that to a panel of sports physicians.”
“Victor,” Yuuri said, but he did not sound like he was disagreeing.
You wiped your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Both of them answered at once.
“No.”
Victor crouched in front of you, taking your cold hands in his. “Do not apologize for someone else’s cruelty.”
Yuuri nodded firmly. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You listened to your doctor. You took care of your body. I am so proud of you.”
The tears started again, quieter this time.
Victor squeezed your fingers. “And for the record, ten pounds is nothing except proof that your body is recovering like it should.”
Yuuri inhaled slowly, visibly composing himself. “You know,” he said, voice still gentle but edged with experience, “there were years when comments like that would have destroyed me for months. People talk about skaters’ bodies like they belong to the sport before they belong to the person. It’s wrong. It was wrong when they did it to me, and it is wrong now.”
You looked up at him.
He smiled sadly. “Your body is not a problem to solve.”
Victor stood. “Stay here with Dad.”
“Victor-”
“No, no. I’m being calm,” he said, which meant he absolutely was not calm.
Yuuri almost smiled despite everything. “Try to remain mostly calm.”
Victor touched your hair once as he passed. “For you, I will be dazzlingly restrained.”
Then he strode back toward the rink lobby with the crisp grace of a man about to ruin someone’s afternoon.
You stared after him. “Papa’s scary when he’s mad.”
Yuuri let out a breath through his nose. “Yes. Very.”
He sat beside you on the bench and pulled you gently against his side. You leaned into him automatically, your head resting on his shoulder the way it had since childhood.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Yuuri said, “When I was competing, I used to wear extra layers sometimes.”
You blinked. “Because you were cold?”
He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Sometimes. Mostly because I was worried about how I looked. People had opinions whenever my weight changed. I knew logically that bodies change. I knew performance is more complicated than numbers. But knowing something and believing it about yourself are different.”
You thought of old photos of him, the ones from before you were adopted, before he fully grew into his confidence. Sweaters layered over shirts, jackets zipped high, softness hidden like it was something shameful.
“You’re not ashamed of it now,” you said quietly.
Yuuri adjusted his glasses. “No. Not anymore. And do you know why?”
You shook your head.
He glanced toward the lobby where Victor had disappeared. “Because your Papa spent years loving me loudly until I started hearing him over everyone else.”
That made a watery laugh slip out of you.
Right on cue, Victor returned.
His smile was bright and beautiful and utterly dangerous.
“Well,” he said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his coat, “you won’t be training with him alone again.”
You sat up. “What did you do?”
Victor looked offended. “I had a conversation.”
Yuuri gave him a look.
Victor relented, but only slightly. “A very direct conversation. Then a second, more professional conversation with the rink director, who was surprisingly interested to hear that a coach had decided to contradict medical guidance and comment on a minor athlete’s body in those terms.”
Your mouth fell open.
Yuuri blinked. “You already talked to the director?”
“I walk quickly when motivated.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
Victor’s expression softened instantly when he saw it. He came over and held out his hand to you. “Come on. We’re leaving.”
“What about practice?”
Yuuri stood too. “Today, practice is over.”
Victor nodded. “Today, we are getting lunch, buying you that new practice dress you liked, and reminding you that your worth does not decrease because old clothes fit differently.”
You hesitated. “But—”
“No.” Victor’s voice gentled. “Listen carefully. Missing one practice will not ruin your career. Staying in an environment that teaches you to mistrust your body might.”
Yuuri zipped your bag for you because your hands were still shaky. “We can review your program at home later, if you want. No pressure.”
Your eyes burned again, but this time it was from relief.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Victor took one side of your bag. Yuuri took the other, even though you could easily carry it yourself. They did it anyway, each holding one strap between them like they were physically sharing the weight.
It made something in your chest unclench.
They took you to a quiet café first.
Victor ordered far too much food. Yuuri made sure you drank water. Neither of them commented on how much you ate, only chatted about choreography ideas and whether your step sequence needed stronger musical accents. After that, Victor insisted on taking you shopping, sweeping through a boutique with the dramatic purpose of a man correcting an injustice.
He picked out dresses based on color. Yuuri picked them out based on comfort and line. Between the two of them, you ended up in a fitting room with three options and a tiny, reluctant smile.
One of the dresses was deep wine-red with subtle crystal detailing at the sleeves. It fits your current body perfectly.
When you stepped out, Victor put a hand over his heart. “See? Stunning.”
Yuuri’s eyes went bright and soft. “You look happy in that one.”
You looked in the mirror.
You did. Not smaller. Not lighter. Just… good.
That evening, back at home, the apartment felt warm with lamplight and the smell of dinner. Your new dress was draped over a chair. Your old teddy bear watched from its shelf. Outside the windows, Saint Petersburg glowed blue-gray under the fading sky.
Victor sat on the floor by the couch, polishing your skate blades with theatrical seriousness. Yuuri was beside him, mending a loose crystal on one of your gloves with the focus of a surgeon.
You stood in the doorway for a moment and simply looked at them.
Your dads.
Your Papa with silver hair and impossible brightness, who had crossed countries and careers and still somehow made room in his heart for you as though it had always been waiting.
Your Dad with the glass heart everyone talked about, who understood fragile things because he had once been one, and who had taught you that tenderness was not weakness.
They noticed you at the same time.
Victor glanced up first. “Why are you hovering? Come here.”
You crossed the room and dropped down between them, nearly knocking Victor sideways. He laughed and wrapped an arm around your waist while Yuuri steadied the skate in his lap.
“Careful,” Yuuri said, amused. “Sharp blade.”
“Sorry.”
Victor rested his chin briefly against your shoulder. “Better?”
You thought about the hallway at the rink. The shame. The sting of those words.
Then you thought about today: warm hands, firm voices, lunch, laughter, a new dress, your fathers standing between you and the kind of harm that wore professionalism as a disguise.
“Yes,” you said honestly. “Better.”
Yuuri set the glove aside and touched your cheek. “You know we mean it, right?”
“What?”
“That none of this changes how proud we are of you.”
Victor nodded. “Not your weight. Not your costumes. Not one coach’s opinion. Nothing.”
You looked down at your hands. “I was scared you’d be disappointed.”
Both of them went still.
Then Yuuri’s expression crumpled in the tenderest way. “Oh, y/n.”
Victor gently took your chin and lifted your face. “My darling girl, the only thing that would disappoint us is you believing you have to hurt yourself to deserve this sport.”
Your eyes filled again.
Yuuri pulled you into him first, and Victor folded around both of you a second later, until you were tucked between them like you had been when you were small and sick and needed comfort.
You could hear Yuuri’s heartbeat at your ear.
Victor kissed the top of your head.
You let yourself sink.
When you finally spoke, your voice was muffled by sweaters and warmth and love.
“I love you, Papa. I love you, Dad.”
For a second, the room went quiet.
Then Victor made the softest sound, halfway between a laugh and something emotional, and tightened his arms around you.
“We love you more,” he said immediately.
Yuuri smiled against your hair. “So much more.”
You laughed, because they always said that, every single time, as if love were a competition they intended to win.
Maybe, in your family, it was.
Later that night, after dinner, after reviewing your program on the living room rug with socks instead of skates, after Victor demonstrated a dramatic arm movement and nearly hit a lamp while Yuuri scolded him fondly, you stood in your room getting ready for bed.
Your gaze landed on the teddy bear on the shelf.
You picked it up.
The bow was faded. One side drooped lower than the other. You brushed your thumb over the worn fur and remembered a tiny office, bright lights, trembling hands, and two men kneeling to meet you at eye level.
What do I call you two?
Dad.
Papa.
Back then, you had not known what those words would come to mean.
You knew now.
They meant sharpened blades left by your breakfast so you would not forget them.
They meant doctor’s appointments, new costumes, and lunches after bad practices.
They meant someone standing in the doorway when you cried, and someone else already reaching for you before you had to ask.
They meant being protected without being smothered, loved without conditions, and reminded again and again that your body was your home before it was ever a performance.
They meant family.
You tucked the teddy bear under one arm and padded down the hall.
Your fathers were already in their room. Victor was reading, stretched dramatically across the bed like a painting. Yuuri was beside him, glasses on, half-hidden by blankets and a skating magazine.
Both looked up when you appeared in the doorway holding the bear.
Victor smiled instantly. “Ah. A sleepover guest.”
Yuuri moved the blankets back. “Come here, sweetheart.”
You climbed in between them, because you were sixteen and nearly grown and still their daughter, and some kinds of comfort did not expire with age.
Victor dimmed the lamp.
Yuuri tucked the blanket around all three of you.
In the dark, your hand found theirs, Dad on one side, Papa on the other.
Safe.
Loved.
Home.
And when sleep finally came, it came easy.
