Another starless night in Almaty, a night that is both too hot and too cold.
Another night with too much Vodka, and music too loud, yet still too quiet for Yuri’s taste.
Another night with Otabek, the only reason that keeps Yuri here, even if it means he has to keep living in the shabby hotel one of Otabek’s distant cousins booked (to Yuri it feels like Otabek has about fifty cousins). It’s classic Soviet style with too many floors and not enough elevators, its ugly grey blending with the mountains in the distance. Indeed the place lacks everything Yuri is quite fond of: no jarring art screaming at him from the walls, no armada of plushies from his travels, no blinding white rugs or large TVs. At least the dirty dishes resemble something like home for him. Days blur easily into weeks, and weeks blur nearly into a month. It’s day twenty-one for him in Almaty, Kazakhstan’s secret capital, Yuri last visited when he was but a child. For skating reasons, obviously. That’s all he had ever lived for.
Naturally, when Otabek first mentioned the idea of staying at a hotel where nobody would recognize them, he had freaked out. He always does. Freaking out is Yuri’s favorite thing to do.
(Apart from fucking Otabek, needless to say, though he’d never say so.)
That’s why Otabek keeps calling him ‘my volcano’. A major turn on for Yuri, that is. After ranting wholeheartedly for a good part of an hour, anxiety had washed over him that he had said something wrong, something that could truly upset Otabek – not like the little things he says on purpose to rile him up. Well, he would never admit it. Not even to Otabek, who knows anyways.
Yuri [11:01 pm; seen 11:01 pm]: Why? What about your apartment?
Otabek [11:02 pm; seen 11:02 pm]: Is being renovated. Why else do you think am I living at my parents’ house again?
Yuri [11:02 pm; seen 11:03 pm]: Why not there, then?
Otabek [11:03 pm; seen 11:03 pm]: Because you can’t keep your mouth shut at night, Yuratchka.
Yuri [11:03 pm; seen 11:03 pm]: Asshole!
Otabek [11:03 pm; seen 11:04 pm]: See? You are loud at night.
Yuri [11:10 pm; seen 11:10 pm]: Fuck you!
Yuri [11:53 pm; seen 08:04 am]: Otabek? Are you still awake?
Yuri [11:59 pm; seen 08:04 am]: Beka? Hotel is fine.
Yuri [01:30 am; seen 08:04 am]: AGREED. Talking to me again? Please?
Otabek [08:04 am; seen 11:04 am]: Sorry, I was sleeping already, dreaming of you. Miss you.
Otabek’s not so subtle hints of scarves and ropes and headboards throughout the night dissolve in Vodka.
Otabek’s remark to slow down with the booze nearly sparks an argument with Yuri telling him he’s not fifteen anymore.
(Yuri thinks Otabek is glad he isn’t anymore.)
After that, Otabek doesn’t say a word and allows Yuri to drown his non-existent sorrows. With every glass he drinks, a slide show of things he still wants to do whilst being in Almaty, begins to play. Given, it’s not about the mountains.
“Let’s go home,” declares Yuri, clumsily attempting to touch Otabek’s thighs beneath the table.
A teasing smile flashes in his direction. “Didn’t know it’s already home, Yuratchka.”
Yuri shoves him roughly, smiling stupidly with his head swimming. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” He takes Yuri’s wandering hand into his own, squeezing it. “Never knew you were so eager to get laid,” he adds, lowering his voice significantly. They aren’t alone in the bar. A pity.
Yuri turns his head, leaning in. “Probably it’s you who’s getting laid tonight,” he whispers, trying to sound both coquettish and sincere in his drunken state.
“Yura,” Otabek’s voice is almost a whimper; it would be fucking pathetic if it isn’t so confusingly hot, “that’s what you dream about when you jerk off in the shower, isn’t it?” he snorts, teasingly, because on half the occasions this is exactly what happens. Despite the gap in age their experience (or rather inexperience) in anything sexual matches perfectly, something that had caused Yuri much dismay at the beginning. Yuri isn’t known for his patience, especially not with himself.
“Yes, sometimes,” Yuri confesses without further ado, much to Otabek’s surprise. It’s obvious in the way Otabek’s eyes widen a little bit. Yuri doesn’t notice many things tonight, but that he does.
There is just a hint of a smile on Otabek’s smile, Yuri observes. “Anyway, let's go,” he suggests and Yuri couldn’t agree more.
The moment the door falls shut behind them, Yuri finds himself pinned against said door, with Otabek’s fingers slipping immediately beneath Yuri’s shirt. Keeping their hands off each other while walking home hadn’t been easy, especially since Yuri is always a clingy drunk.
Well, damn. He could have expected this from Otabek. It’s not the first time it happened since he’s been staying here.
“Oh never knew that was what you had in mind,” Yuri slurs, his breath hitching. He finds himself already drooling in anticipation, even if the room is spinning all of a sudden. The last time he found himself against the wall, needless to say equally drunk, Otabek’s mouth had brought him the most blasting orgasm. Not the best ever, no. But certainly the best since coming to Almaty.
“I haven’t.” The smirk rings in Otabek’s voice before he leans in, kissing Yuri on his mouth possessively. If Otabek rubs his arousal on purpose or by accident against him, Yuri probably will never find out. Right now, he can’t ask. Doesn’t want to ask. Not when Otabek's fingers fumble beneath his shirt, not when he kisses him breathless. Yuri's shirt soon falls to the floor, hiding itself amidst the other clothes lying scattered across the room
“A pity,” pants Yuri, trying to persuade Otabek to go down on him with his hands pressing against his shoulders, “you’re so good at it.” Well, the fact that Yuri doesn’t have much to compare his boyfriend’s skill with, makes it no less true.
“Come on,” Yuri says, dragging his eyes back up to Otabek’s face where realization that Otabek doesn’t wish to be persuaded right then, hits him. It makes him surrender, dropping his head to the space between Otabek’s neck and shoulder and breathe in.
The distinct smell of Otabek’s aftershave. The smell that makes him feel home in St. Petersburg when Otabek isn’t there. It's a strange notion when actually St. Petersburg is his home. Still, home is where Otabek is, even if it’s a shabby hotel in fucking Almaty.
Golden hair, a little longer than he usually wears it, sweeps back from Yuri’s face when he lets his head fall back, exposing his throat to Otabek. If he can’t have him on his knees, Otabek perhaps feels inclined to fulfil this need? He likes that, too: Otabek’s lips wandering along the pulsing veins of his throat, Otabek’s tongue licking the shell of his ear, perhaps with the addition of whispered filth? It’s so beyond sensual that at the beginning this was enough to send Yuri over the edge.
(Much to his dismay, naturally, because Yuri Plisetsky, the great pretender, finds coming undone so easily does not exactly fit the mould of how he loves to be seen. That this is perhaps what Otabek loves most about him never crosses his mind. Ridiculous.)
This time, Otabek follows Yuri’s silent plea. Yuri’s throat is peppered with tiny kisses, which soon become more daring, with Otabek’s lips wandering down towards Yuri’s collarbone, nibbling, biting, and pecking. They are so close that Yuri can feel Otabek’s heartbeat against his skin, so close that every sound they make reverberates like an echo against each other’s skin. Somewhere between kisses they finally get Otabek’s shirt off, hands groping at it at the same time so that they produce a rather tangled mess of arms and hands and fabric instead of discarding the useless thing. After a night out things usually get steamy quite fast between them.
Otabek strokes Yuri’s face for a mere second with a glint in his eyes that Yuri fails to even notice in all his drunkenness, just before he spins him round by the shoulders towards the direction of the bed.
“Damn it,” Yuri slurs, half excited, half worried, nearly tumbling over his own feet, “what .. are you planning?” With Otabek one can never know, not even Yuri who, by now, knows him better than most. For Yuri it is still hard to believe that everything started as sort of a strange friendship between two lonely wolves at the rink.
Otabek’s fingers run across Yuri’s skin, leaving a shiver in its wake. “We shall see.”
Excitement wins over worry. It always does. At least when Otabek speaks in that way to him. Though he never says what’s on his mind, Yuri knows it’s something they never tried before. Perhaps it’s something he never heard of before, as otherwise Otabek wouldn’t be as mysterious.
Yeah! It makes him freak out, in a good sort of ways. Surprises were always his kind of thing.
When exactly their relationship had drifted towards such kinky shit, Yuri can’t quite remember, only that he likes it. A lot. Much more than he had originally thought he would.
At the beginning, they’d been so terribly bad at sex that they still laughed about their failures on a regular basis. It is no wonder though. They both had been virgins with exactly zero experience in anything, affection limited to their cats. Fears of coming too soon (which, in fact, was always the case for several months), fears of disappointing the other, especially on Yuri’s side, had been a constant companion. Most of the time they had ended up fumbling, clumsy and awkward, when in Yuri’s wet dreams everything seems so easy, so straight forward.
Oh yes, of course: everything is so incredibly hot and inventive whilst jerking off. In reality it is always hot, yes, but inventive? Rather not.
Whenever Yuri thinks about their first time he nearly bursts out laughing: it had ended a good while before it even started on mutual agreement (something for which he is very glad) of coming too early.
Realization of what an incredible blessing their inexperience actually is comes much later on Yuri’s side.
(That fact that Otabek keeps telling him so from the beginning, he ignores deliberately.)
Aren’t all these awkward situations part of the appeal of their blossoming relationship?
Isn’t laughing in bed equally satisfying as jerking off?
Over time they learned to read their feelings, learned about their bodies, where to put their hands and fingers (and other things, too).
Isn’t it the joyous journey that matters in the end? Yuri supposes it makes sense.
Of course it does: as weeks and many months went by the trust between them grew, and slowly insecurities began to vanish, even on Yuri’s side.
These days, it’s hard to imagine. Now, a good year later, they still aren’t running out of new scenarios and filthy idea to be explored. Yuri hopes they never will. Their ‘Naughty List’ is the most read document in their shared Dropbox folder – the sizzling blessing of so many lonely nights they have to spend apart from each other. Some images of what they’ve already done flicker like a slideshow across Yuri’s mind as Otabek’s hands slip beneath the waistband of his trousers.
- BJs in the changing room right after the tourney
Yuri had edited it immediately to tourneys after the first one.
Otabek had made this a header.
- Bonus: motorcycle
Yuri had taken a mental note to bring Kleenex the next time.
…and on and on the list goes.
Sometimes, well, no – mostly when they are together after weeks too long apart, they rate what they already did. Quite quickly it sort of became a ritual, and more often than not, as they talk about it, desire overcomes them.
Each day they pray that the list never leaks.
It turns out that filthy role play is exactly Yuri’s kind of thing. He still remembers how embarrassed was when he had first given Otabek a small insight into what he is fantasizing about quite frequently, his face burning hot and red. To let his perfectly choreographed façade of the badly behaving youth shatter in Otabek’s arms isn’t an easy task for Yuri. Speaking about those fantasies, stupidly spun together in his head when he felt as if he couldn’t bear his loneliness anymore, wasn’t either. As much as he babbles and talks shit and never can quite shut up, he’s deadly insecure when it comes to how he feels. Sometimes, he still wonders how Otabek managed to make him speak openly with persisting reassurance, telling him that there is no need to be ashamed of anything, even though he felt as if he would drown in his insecurity.
“Otabek,” Yuri hears himself crying out loud when he falls face forward into the bed, being flipped over on his back shortly after. Strong hands pin his arms high above his head, with Otabek’s chest against his own leaving him no chance to escape.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
This wasn’t on the list when last he checked.
He’s thrashing, he’s kicking, snarling like a dog right into Otabek’s face with a waterfall of swearwords following. For nothing. The hold Otabek has on him is unforgiving. He always suspects that swearwords are secretly a major turn on for Otabek. It must be so.
“What the fuck even, Beka?” Yuri repeats.
A sly smirk spreads over Otabek’s face as he wraps the scarf around Yuri’s wrists and secures its end to the bedpost.
“Taming the Russian tiger, what else?” Otabek says with mock sincerity and a self-confidence Yuri somewhat still isn’t used to. Otabek’s demeanor changed by 180 ° since they became friends, and lovers shortly after. They are not so unlike in this.
Yuri’s jaw drops at Otabek’s proposition and he can’t help but remain frozen in place (not that he has much other alternatives though), trying to digest what he just heard.
Yuri feels a shiver of excitement laced with a bit of dread soar through him, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. “I can’t be tamed,” he mutters, still protesting physically.
“Perhaps not,” snickers Otabek, apparently not caring too much about Yuri’s words, “doesn’t matter. I find enough pleasure in trying.”
As always, Otabek’s words are beyond carefully chosen, something Yuri always is a little bit envious of. Otabek never speaks without having thought a good while about it, whilst Yuri always speaks and thinks only afterwards. Sometimes he doesn’t think at all. Afterwards, he usually regrets it, or somebody makes him regret it.
Perhaps, if stupid Yuri Plisetsky wasn't that drunk he’d have a chance to escape. By now Yuri’s stronger than he appears, grown much in height the past year, so that he even surpasses Otabek. Something Otabek seems to be quite fond of. He can’t fight, because hell, he’s pissed, the entire room spinning around him.
“I hate you,” snarls Yuri. Granted, it’s a shallow lie because he’s intrigued by Otabek. He’s also intrigued by the scarf around his wrists.
Otabek merely laughs, his fingers crawling over Yuri’s exposed skin. “Yes, yes, you told me so before.”
He has no idea where the scarf in Otabek's hand comes from. And more importantly: why the fuck Otabek even has a scarf with him? Despite being night already, the thermometer still is somewhere around twenty-five fucking degrees. That’s why he feels as if he’s visiting Phichit in Bangkok during wet season. (It’s not the alcohol. It never is. It’s also not Otabek who’s now straddling him. No. It’s also not that Yuri can never stop laughing whenever Phichit says wet season.)
“Damn it.” Yuri feels fucking pathetic. “What’s this ridiculous shit?”
Genuine surprise flitters across Otabek’s face, his eyes widening for a split second.
He’s stopping everything he does, hands falling idly to his sides. “Yuri?” whispers Otabek, confused and unsure. “Do you wish me to stop?” Immediately Yuri feels apologetic for the overdramatic show he’s throwing. This time it’s not Otabek’s hands that make his heart race but his returning anxiety.
Yuri shakes his head, eyes closed. He can’t bear to see the disappointment wash over Otabek’s face again. “No.”
“Certain?” asks Otabek, short for ‘are you absolutely certain you want this? Like 100% certain?’, kissing him on the forehead. Only then does Yuri dare to open his eyes again. The understanding he sees in Otabek’s eyes makes him feel apologetic all the more.
Yuri nods. “Yes,” he admits with a certain amount of shame. There’s in fact nothing to be ashamed of, because they only do what both of them want and enjoy. Nevertheless, Yuri can’t stop the awkward feeling. Can’t let go. Sometimes, well no, most of the time, he hates himself for it. He hates his fucking anxiety all the time, although it got much better since he started dating (yes, dating, not fucking) Otabek.
Otabek looks at him intently, still doing exactly nothing, much to Yuri’s dismay.
“The fuck yes, Beka. Seriously. Yes. How many yes's do you need?” mutters Yuri under his breath when in truth he’s so fucking thankful for Otabek being the way he is. Understanding. Sincere. Caring.
Yeah, well, all the others do care, too: about his medals and the money that’s rolling in with each victory, about his fame. About the boy curled up inside the rising star on Russia’s skating horizon – who ever cared about him, other than Yuri’s beloved grandfather? Not a single soul.
“Good.” Otabek removes his weight from Yuri’s thighs and sits on his heels between them instead, fingers brushing against the waistband of Yuri’s trousers.
Yuri nods again. There is a desperate look in Otabek’s eyes as he strips Yuri of his trousers and briefs, wriggling out of his own clothing after that, when his gaze lingers for a good while between Yuri’s thighs. Nah, of course Yuri isn’t staring back. He never is when Otabek is perfectly, gloriously nude, muscles flexing beneath his skin from the effort to control himself.
Even if Yuri previously had said no to the question if he wanted this, it would have undeniably been a lie. He’s hard as fuck. Hard for Otabek. He always is. Needy, and wanton. And ashamed of being all of it.
Otabek made it abundantly clear in the past that there’s absolutely no reason to be ashamed; he also made it very clear that he would never do anything that would hurt Yuri, or would truly upset him, within or outside the bedroom. It isn’t that Yuri doesn’t believe or trust him, no, he fucking does. He never trusted anybody as much as he trusts Otabek, and that’s exactly why he hates his stupid mind so much. There’s fucking no reason to behave as he always does.
Yuri jumps as he feels Otabek’s hands grip his hips, gentle and yet very sure and determined. His fingers and the palm of his hand only linger momentarily there: it’s Yuri’s stomach, his hips, his nipples caressed shortly after. A brief kiss to Yuri’s cock and his balls, which makes him thrash against the restraints again, a kiss on his mouth some time in between all of this.
With a heavy yet content sigh, Yuri surrenders to Otabek’s touches, realizing all too soon that shutting his eyes isn’t exactly a good idea. The Vodka sings in Yuri’s blood, screams in his mind, and Otabek’s hands upon his skin tell him about missed opportunities and so much wasted time.
“I told you so,” laughs Otabek, when Yuri shakes his head to rid himself of the dizzy feeling.
“Yes,” sighs Yuri, exaggerating as always, “you always keep telling me.”
Actually he has quite enough of talking already, feeling oversensitive : Yuri’s head snaps upwards, indulging Otabek in another kiss, wet and hard, and so fucking desperate with teeth and tongue combined, leaving Otabek gasping and breathless. ‘Ha!’ Yuri thinks, taking in the sight of Otabek struggling for control of the situation. Without the scarf, Otabek would never stand a chance against Yuri. Never. Ever. He almost doesn’t have a chance as it is. In the end it takes the entire weight of Otabek's body, his hands and lips to restrain Yuri again, who bites into every inch of skin he’s able to reach.
“Drama soldier,” mutters Otabek, rolling his hip suggestively against Yuri, “next time I tie up your legs, too.”
Yuri groans, his breath rattling in his chest. He’s tempted to force out yet another insult, debates pretending to argue for a moment but the kiss to his cock has him so distracted that he just can’t, because hell: he knows he’s getting more and more aroused by the second. Not that he wasn’t since becoming touchy at the bar, or when Otabek stripped him down.
Damn it, if he only knew what slideshow plays in Otabek’s mind for tonight – if they’re watching the same show in their minds? As always, Otabek doesn’t reveal his plans, at least not entirely. He merely continues to tease Yuri with those light touches, the sort Otabek knows are driving Yuri mad, every caress punctuated with gentle nips on every inch of skin he can get hold of. It has him thrashing again within seconds.
“Damn it, Beka.” Not being able to give in into any temptation to interfere with the veneration of his body is a fucking glorious concept, Yuri decides. Though he’d never tell Otabek, simply out of spite.
“Kay.” Sitting on his heels between Yuri’s legs, Otabek takes one appreciative look down at him, hands resting on Yuri’s thighs. Yuri feels as if he’s in a waking dream, not fully conscious, but his body is very much alert and participating.
And then Otabek is gone from the bed, switching off the lights.
Yuri knows when Otabek stares at him, even if it’s dark. Somehow he always knows, especially when Otabek is as close as he is just now. “Why are you staring at me, you can’t even see me?” he asks, mildly surprised, his brows furrowed as he always does when he's thinking. It's not making sense at all.
“Not with my eyes, no,” affirms Otabek, pinching Yuri’s nipples, until an audible response follows, “but I can still explore you with all my other senses.” As if to prove the point, he lets his fingers dance across Yuri’s belly, lets his tongue run along Yuri’s earlobe, inhaling his scent deeply. “And so can you. Exploring your senses, I mean. You know you never can leave your hands idle when we fuck, you’re always trying to focus on something that isn’t your own pleasure, interfering with what I want to do.”
Soft lips brush against Yuri’s ear, nibbling at it, biting at it with his hot breath tickling his skin. It’s true. It always is. No other reads him with such perfection even if he’s not speaking.
Yuri blinks into the darkness. Despite his drunkenness his other senses are set ablaze by the lack of vision. Never quite before have Otabek’s hands felt that intense, his lips so sensual and questing against his skin. A firework of touches burning right on his skin, blue, and pink, and violet, each color blending with the other.
“When you skate you are best when your head is free, Yuratchka, when you do not think what you are doing. When you don’t try to perform, to impress whoever stands around you. When you’re free.” Each word is punctuated by a kiss, the trail starting from Yuri’s lips down across his throat, further down his belly where he’s so incredibly ticklish that he writhes in the bond. Without warning, Otabek traces the tip of Yuri’s cock with his tongue, so slowly that he hardly can be sincere.
“So you had that in mind all along?” Yuri’s breath hitches in excitement. “And you were lying to me before?”
“Hm?” The breath against his wet cock just makes everything worse, or better, or simply fucking more intense.
To Yuri, Otabek’s talents with his mouth are legendary. He loves it. Lives for it. Well, he lives for being on the receiving end, too, though he doubts that he has the same skill. Otabek never minds. Otabek doesn’t seem to mind when Yuri cries out in ecstasy right then, either.
Good thing. After all that’s why Yuri is living in the cheap hotel. He’s also living there, because hell, it’s not only him being noisy during sex. Otabek, always quiet, almost silent, screaming Yuri’s fucking name does it every time for Yuri. It’s nearly as good and as important as the sex itself, finds Yuri, whose thoughts are slowly drifting away.
Yuri closes his eyes again, and this time it feels good, feels incredibly good. A lewd moan escapes his lips as he feels Otabek’s wet tongue teasing him, drawing his cock slowly into his mouth. Otabek bobs his head several times in just the way he knows Yuri likes best – with a sound that is wet and obscene and just so beyond thrilling that every fiber in Yuri’s body sings. He can’t help but wonder when and where Otabek learned such tricks.
(Sometimes, Yuri suspects it’s the bananas Otabek literally hoards.)
In contrast to everything else there never were any obstacles or funny incidences with Otabek using his filthy mouth on him. And, fuck, that mouth is filthy tonight.
Gasping, he tries to control the uncontrollable jerks of his body when Otabek sucks all too hungrily, all too intense on him. Although he knows Otabek is able to swallow him fully, he apologizes for jerking his hips right into his face. “Sorry.”
If it’s ‘never mind’ that Otabek mumbles around his cock, Yuri will never find out, doesn’t even want to find out. Not when Otabek takes it as a silent invitation, even encourages him to do it again with hands sneaking under his buttocks, lifting them upwards.
Is he really supposed to do this – again?
Shame creeps up towards his ears. Outside the bedroom dignity is a concept entirely lost on him. With Otabek it isn’t for it does matter what Otabek thinks of him.
Mouth occupied, Otabek nods.
Fuck, because a jolt of pleasure courses through him with what automatically comes with the nod: Otabek sinking down on his cock completely, his nose hitting against Yuri’s skin.
Fuck, because it sends his hips flying on their own accord.
Fuck, because fucking Otabek Altin is smirking around his cock.
After that, desperation wins over shame.
Yuri’s cock pushes against the back of Otabek’s throat when he thrusts his hips intentionally, hard and almost merciless. Otabek gags and splutters but otherwise tries to remain still. He doesn’t withdraw, not once, he never does. Probably he can take even more, and therefore Yuri does it again. And again.
Damn it feels good, it makes him feel good. Otabek’s hand glides down Yuri’s body, now slick with sweat, dragging his knuckles over Yuri’s rib cage. Still, he keeps going with his mouth, his rhythm not even faltering a little. Yuri’s a bit envious – he’d not be able to manage that.
Yuri knows that by now Otabek is drooling, that spit trickles down his chin, and perhaps his eyes have even gone watery. Fuck it, it’s a pity that he can’t see him, because: there’s nothing more arousing than catching Otabek’s wrecked expression, nothing more arousing than Otabek looking up into his face under dark lashes. Fortunately, Yuri’s imagination always is a wild one, and his memory extraordinarily vivid; the sight of Otabek on his knees is etched into his mind, and so he imagines everything he can’t actually see.
What comes across Otabek’s lips sounds almost as if he’s crying. Surely he isn’t. Rather moaning, perhaps even Yuri’s name. The sound of it never fails to set the tiny hairs on Yuri’s neck to stand on edge, today is no different.
Well, there’s something else missing, too, Yuri figures, something his mind can’t help him with. And damn it, just how much he misses it. It’s the first time Yuri complains in earnest about the scarf around his wrists. Usually, when they are doing this, he twists his fingers into Otabek’s hair just in the way he knows for certain Otabek has come to love. Not too gentle, not too hard – just perfect. For both of them.
Yuri’s grunts turn to moans, and then he cries out Otabek’s name. Otabek is sucking, gagging, making the most obscene sounds Yuri’s ever heard, and in rhythm to it, his hips respond.
Fuck, if Otabek keeps going like this with his wet and willing mouth, the show is over in less than a minute. He doesn’t want this!
Otabek stills the bobbing of his head, granting Yuri a second to gather his scattered thoughts.
Mouth still wrapped around Yuri’s cock, he reaches for the lube, which is still standing on the nightstand from a couple of nights ago. Tidiness isn’t Yuri’s thing exactly, and for once he’s glad the hotel is so shabby that the chambermaid visits only once a week. It would be fucking embarrassing.
Apparently, Otabek has greater plans for tonight, Yuri notes to himself, with Otabek squeezing a little lube into his hand, slicking his fingers with it before he adds more and brings them between Yuri’s cleft.
Out of reflex, Yuri tenses. He doesn’t want to. He fucking doesn’t want it, never wants it.
He trusts Otabek, he loves Otabek (did he really think this?!). And still: he just can’t help it.
Without any ease at all Otabek tries to slide his index finger into him. He’s tight, way too tight and tense, and Otabek’s single finger just seems way too large for him. Not even Otabek’s mouth can act as diversion now, with a whine bleeds from Yuri’s lips.
“Stopping?” asks Otabek, withdrawing his finger immediately.
Yuri all but forces the words past his lips. “Nah, I’m good.”
Otabek grunts in response. May be translating to ‘stop lying’.
“Nah, seriously, Beka. Go on. I want this. I want you.” This time, Yuri isn’t lying.
And so it begins anew. Pain knots in Yuri’s chest, tightening and burning up his throat when he struggles too much against the bonds; no matter how often they’re doing this, no matter how gentle Otabek tries to be with him, it never gets any better. The beginning, especially the first two fingers are always hard to bear, leaving Yuri quite often a wrecked and unaroused mess.
Now he knows at least that the initial pain is fucking worth it. Fucking worth it, because after a while he feels great in Otabek’s arms; feels like flying; feels warm and loved and fucking good.
Some may say he’s simply too young for it, something he’d even confirm if it wasn’t Otabek kneeling between his legs. With him there’s no too young, there’s no too much, nothing too intense, either. There’s just all or nothing, and it had been very clear from the beginning that he wants everything Otabek is willing to give.
(Which is a lot, still surpassing Yuri’s wildest dreams.)
“Kiss me,” Yuri whimpers, unable to pull Otabek close as he usually does when discomfort seems far too overwhelming.
“I am sorry,” mumbles Otabek against his lips, lifting both of Yuri’s legs on his shoulders, before he kisses Yuri hard and demanding, letting his hand slip between their bodies. It’s exactly what Yuri needs, what he craves and dreams about late at night when he’s alone, sore from too many hours of training under Lilia’s unrelenting gaze. Sometimes he wonders how he survived so long without knowing there’s somebody out there who cares about him, perhaps thinks about him in the same way he does. Otabek doesn’t stop kissing him all the while as he stretches him, butterflies him open for what both crave to follow.
This, with his legs resting upon Otabek’s shoulders, is the position Yuri loves best. Finally, the twelve years of doing ballet and the flexibility that comes with it are paying off, Yuri thinks with a stupid smile. His thoughts shatter into a thousand pieces as he feels Otabek’s cock, hard, and wet, and slick, pushing against his stretched entrance. When the fingers are withdrawn he doesn’t even remember.
Fuck, Yuri tries not to tense, tries not whimper, too, and fuck it, he does both, resulting in Otabek hesitating.
“Kiss me and keep going,” says Yuri under his breath. Once, Otabek told him that raspy voices sound incredibly sexy. He hopes it’s still the case. And fuck, Otabek keeps going, as slow as possible, though it doesn’t help much to make it better for Yuri. It only prolongs the discomfort, it always does. Yuri’s sob of misery is muffled by Otabek’s tongue sliding past his lips, the pain diverted momentarily by the not so gentle scrape of teeth against his mouth. Eagerly, eyes tightly squeezed shut, Yuri responds, kissing back with ardor. Their kiss is like a promise, like a cure, like a firework of reassurance, just everything he needs and lives for.
“Breathe.” Otabek’s voice washes over Yuri again, dark, and rough and sinful, smoky as those Whiskeys from the Scottish Highlands they like to drink. In the mornings Otabek’s voice is quite different: a whisper of silk over steel, a tone which usually makes Yuri’s eyes shut involuntarily at the softness of it.
With effort he tries to obey. It is easier said than done when he’s still trying to ignore the pain and thinking of how good Otabek feels inside of him instead, how much he loves to feel his weight on top of him, and so much more.
“You’re good?” Otabek asks, fully inside him now, one arm shifting from the bed to Yuri’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, sighing. A half-lie this time.
How is he supposed to say he’s not feeling good when Otabek looks down at him that way? He can’t see him, no, still he knows Otabek does.
Yuri lets out a long exhalation as Otabek begins to thrust into him, slow and deep, with his lips glued to Yuri’s throat. Surely, Otabek must feel the quick expansion of Yuri’s ribcage against his chest with every stuttering breath Yuri takes, must feel the shaking of his legs on his shoulders.
Well, he must feel, too, how Yuri’s body begins to relax finally. Discomfort vanishes, drowned out by something greater, far more pleasurable. He’s not yet meeting Otabek’s thrust, no, but he’s not far from it. He’s not far from becoming vocal, either.
“Fuck, Otabek,” Yuri moans, pulling Otabek’s face down to his own with his legs. There’s nothing he can hold on to with his hands bound like this. It’s a goddamn fucking pity not being able to rake his fingers through Otabek’s hair; a fucking pity he can’t grip Otabek’s shoulders.
“Hm?” Otabek asks, stilling his movements just to be an asshole. It’s not only Yuri who’s able to behave like one.
“Damn you.” Panting, Yuri pushes back against Otabek, hands gripping the headboard. At least that he’s able to do that when Otabek’s biceps can’t serve. “Move.”
“This an order, my soldier?” Yuri curses about not being able to see Otabek’s face right then, because he’s quite certain that Otabek is fucking smirking that smirk, which is so rare and precious.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, wriggling his ass against Otabek’s hips whilst he takes the mental note to add soldier role play to the list next morning. There must be some inspiration for that out there. Why he thinks that Yakov may know where to find it, leaves him shocked. For once, he’s glad the lights are out.
“Glad to serve, then.” The words nearly make Yuri come right away, all the more when Otabek rocks his hips, cock in to the hilt, again. Deep and undulating his thrusts are, panting the most filthy things right into Yuri’s ears now. Between the sheets Otabek, shy and controlled Otabek is nearly as vulgar as Yuri is in his daily life.
Fuck, how he loves it.
How he gets off it every fucking time.
Today, it has him moaning and cursing and thrashing like a madman beneath Otabek, making even the bed creak in excitement. Yeah, the walls are too thin to conceal what they’re doing, not even the running water of the shower would be helping, yet Yuri can’t care less. Otabek can’t, either. Instead, he makes a sound that shoots straight into Yuri’s cock. For a second Yuri can only marvel at the fact that he’s the only one who gets to hear this, has ever heard it, wishing that he’ll be the only person ever hearing it.
“You okay, soldier?” Otabek asks, hips snapping.
“Yeah,” Yuri chokes out, his mouth having problems to even form a single word out. This time, it isn’t a lie at all. He’s feeling fucking gorgeous.
When exactly Otabek’s lips are withdrawn from Yuri’s ear he won’t be able to tell afterwards, neither how his big toe ended up in Otabek’s mouth. In the process of Otabek sucking it as he sucked Yuri’s cock earlier, moving to the next two toes, Yuri’s head hits the headboard. From where Otabek picks up all that kinky shit he brings to the bedroom on a regular basis Yuri simply has no idea.
Yuri grimaces. Not that Otabek can see though. “Stop it, it’s gross,” he demands, his words not quite matching how he feels. Actually, it doesn’t feel gross, nevertheless, given the chance he’d batter Otabek’s face away.
“No, it’s not,” Otabek says, continuing what he does, entirely unimpressed by Yuri’s words, “I figured only because others say it is, doesn’t make it true necessarily. When you’re grossed out by it because you don’t like it, it’s fine and I stop immediately, but if you’re only grossed out because you think you should be, I won’t.”
Yuri is conflicted, the words keep him thinking. As always there’s a good amount of truth in them. “How can you even think like this when you’re fucking me?” Yuri grunts, half in earnest, half mocking.
Otabek’s breath is ragged. “I can’t.”
Toes in Otabek’s mouth, Otabek’s cock deep inside him, has Yuri squirming and cursing within moments, and has him wrecked in the most wonderful sort of ways.
“Untie me.” The words flitter through the darkness. The need to feel Otabek’s skin beneath his fingers, to kiss him, hold and scratch him, do just everything he can’t is overwhelming in its intensity. “Untie me and switch on the goddamn light again!”
Next time it’s Otabek who’s going to suffer, who’s going to be at his mercy, he’s going to make sure of that. Needless to say that Yuri’s not putting it on the list, either, but wonders if there’s a sex shop somewhere in fucking Almaty where he can buy whatever he needs. Well, the internet is full of it, however, shipping the stuff to Otabek’s parents perhaps isn’t exactly a good idea. Asking Otabek if he knows also isn’t an option, as it will ruin his surprise.
Otabek gently skims Yuri’s sides, before he focuses his attention on Yuri’s nipples, pinching. “Keyword?”
“Otabek! Please!” Yuri sighs, writhing against the bed like a fish on the beach. “Please! The fuck this is, lemme go!”
Finally, his pleas are heard. Otabek granting Yuri his wish means that Yuri is covered by Otabek’s body, hot and heavy, as he reaches for the scarf, untying the knot. By now Yuri’s wrists are aching, even burning a little, though this is entirely his own fault. Less struggling, less pain. Any other time he’d rub them, flailing about it and complaining in Otabek’s ear what a poor thing he is, but right now he doesn’t. Even if he wants to, Yuri’s not quite sure if he can manage. Instead he shoves a startled Otabek off him and jumps out of the bed and switches the god damn light on again.
“You –“ The snarl is lost when his gaze lands on Otabek, lying on the side with his head propped up on his elbow, smiling at him, his cock wet and glistening. Instead of cursing when he doesn’t feel like it, another idea begins to form in Yuri’s mind, something he likes far better than what he originally planned.
On the bed again, Yuri crawls towards Otabek, shoving him on his back with all strength that is left in him, before he straddles him, hands pressed flat against Otabek’s chest. For moments Yuri’s content to simply let his eyes drift over Otabek’s face. Damn, why is he so fucking beautiful?
“I’m gonna die,” Otabek says, voice hoarse and rough, skimming Yuri’s sides with his hands.
Yuri eyes flutter shut for a second, hearing Otabek’s words in his mind again, ‘You’re best at skating when you do not think.’ Maybe it’s a little odd to think when you’re trying to teach yourself not to think, because this is exactly what Yuri does: thinking about how to dance in Otabek’s lap to the sound of his last year’s short program music.
Fucking weirdo, a voice in his head keeps telling him.
Yuri’s been always good at ignoring things.
He grips Otabek’s shoulders in the process of positioning his ass on his cock, bending down until their noses are almost touching. Otabek blinks at Yuri with wide eyes, so full of love, his mouth already kiss-swollen and red at the edges, when the head of his cock slips inside Yuri’s ass again.
The light is too glaring to be romantic, yet Yuri thinks Otabek never looked more beautiful with his hair tousled, his mouth standing wide ajar. There’s one face of Otabek for the world to see. There are a thousand faces only meant for Yuri.
The words come out of nowhere, simply bubbling across Yuri’s parted lips. “Love you, Beka,” Yuri confesses, his voice sounding needy and strangled.
“I will love you all the more if you move,” says Otabek, pulling Yuri’s face towards his own.
Yuri goes deadly still, glaring, until encouragement in form of Otabek’s hand flickers along his cock.
Yuri’s mouth opens in protest, nails scratching Otabek’s skin. “Asshole.”
Otabek smirks, indulgent, just the way he knows it upsets Yuri the most. “Persuasive asshole, if you please.”
“Just shut up now.” Impatient as ever, Yuri silences him with a kiss, conceding defeat all the same by his actions.
In the process of sinking down fully on Otabek’s cock he makes Otabek sit upright, half straddling him with his shins pressed into the mattress. They’d tried this position in a slight variation, with Yuri’s legs wrapped around Otabek’s body, but this isn’t what he wants right now though he remembers how it had gotten Otabek off. Angels need space to soar, and so does he.
‘People shine brightest when they seek to understand what kind of love sustains them.’
Gross romantic bullshit that doesn’t even make sense Yuri thought then, almost snarling it right into Lilia’s face. Well, that was before he became friends with Otabek.
He’s grinding his hips just at the right angle, nails digging into Otabek’s skin. In his head the imaginary music of last year’s short program plays, and with its cadence Yuri tries to rock his body against Otabek’s, carefully, almost innocently at first.
The devil in angel’s disguise. Oh, he likes that allegory. He likes it very much. In fact he’s so thrilled by it that his rhythm falters exorbitantly. The collapse against Otabek’s chest wasn’t planned.
“Stop thinking, will you?” Otabek mumbles against the crook of Yuri’s neck, pressing him even closer against his body, just before his hands reach downwards, cupping Yuri’s buttocks. Yuri groans, embarrassed, yet lets him be moved and groped.
How can he not?
They are desperate for each other. Hard for each other, too. Even if his perfect choreography is no more he keeps going so that every shred of coherent thought Otabek still holds on to shall scatter.
Otabek tugs on Yuri’s hair before loosening his hold, whilst Yuri’s fingernails, not so neatly trimmed as Otabek’s, rake over his back. The innocence is gone, as everything is far from the gentle touches, fluttering and warm, as they always are in the mornings. Otabek is now somebody else, just as he is.
There’s no show, no pretense, just yet another side to them to be discovered.
It’s as if they are caught in a special realm of fantasy where only the two of them and their pleasure exist. Where in the morning fluffy caresses dominate, those of the sort Yuri finds incredibly disgusting when others share them, now adrenaline races through their veins, drowning out sanity and gentleness. It’s savage and filthy, obscene in the most wonderful way Yuri ever imagined; it’s needy, too, aching, consuming.
Whining sounds caused by simple overstimulation bleed from Yuri’s lips, mingling with Otabek’s gasps and moans. It’s too much. Too much of everything.
Yuri cards his hands through the undercut of Otabek’s hair that he loves so much, claiming his mouth until Otabek’s body tenses. He’s close, so very close already, and whilst Yuri still kisses him roughly, he grips between their bodies and tries to stroke his own cock. Tries – until his hand is slapped away. Ah, yes, he’s forgotten again already, it’s all about him tonight. Yuri’s floating in a surreal word he never knew before he met Otabek; a world only consisting of lewd sounds, and breathy whimpers; of nails digging into sweaty skin. He feels the heat of Otabek being inside him coursing through his body; feels his hips aching; and fuck, he feels his heartbeat keeping pace with Otabek’s breathing.
They can’t get close enough that not even a sheet of paper would fit between them in their want to devour each other with teeth and hands and lips. They do all of this, and it’s not even close to being enough.
In this suspended moment, it’s silence.
It’s beyond beautiful, Yuri thinks just when Otabek looks at him that way again, eyes dark and hungry. And then, everything changes, shifts, with them melting and dissolving, as if they’re falling into each other more fully. Otabek reaches up and catches Yuri by the neck, drags him forward until they’re face to face, nose to nose, kissing until oxygen deserts their lungs.
“Love you.” A ragged murmur stirs against Yuri’s wet lips, with Otabek suppressing a shiver. “I love you, Yuratchka.”
With Otabek’s cock inside him, Yuri easily forgets his principles. He pulls back, just enough that the tips of their noses are still touching. “So do I Beka.” His voice trails off; he’s simply not supposed to speak when Otabek makes him feel so wonderful.
Yuri can feel the tension building between them as the control of Otabek’s body dissipates; his thrusts become shallow, his breathing ragged and hot against Yuri’s skin. Not only his sounds fill the air now, because Otabek breathes out a moan that sounds close to Yuri’s name. That nearly does it for him. He leans closer to Otabek, opening his eyes to marvel at the beauty of his face in the throes; those tiny wrinkles at the corner of his mouth, the slightly raised eyebrows, those brown eyes in which are reflecting all the lust and love and longing that he feels. All those little things which are only meant for him to see.
Fuck, how Yuri wishes he can keep going, can make this last the entire night, he well knows he can’t when his body screams so desperately for release.
At the end, they scream together to the stars.
Yuri wakes up in the morning with such a headache that he complains before he’s even fully awake. Despite Otabek always saying Kazakhstani vodka doesn’t give headaches, he’s terribly hung-over. Again.
Unsurprisingly, he finds Otabek already awake, iPad in hand. He’s glad and thankful that Otabek is still around to tend to his own misery.
“Good morning, Yuratchka,” Otabek whispers, when Yuri finally looks up. Immediately afterwards he’s placing an affectionate kiss on Yuri’s brow, touching the back of Yuri’s hand affectionately. “I hope your sleep was pleasant?”
It was, indeed, most likely.
Yuri can’t tell for certain because when drunk, he often spends the night tossing and turning.
Like a cat Yuri stretches and yawns, overdramatically pushing his body against Otabek’s, just before he rolls over completely, half lying on Otabek with his arms crossed on Otabek’s chest. Otabek doesn’t seem to mind, merely smiling at him, carding his fingers through Yuri’s tousled hair.
Yuri’s voice is rough from disuse. “What are you looking at?” Curiously, Yuri tries to catch a glimpse on Otabek’s iPad but Otabek won’t let him, shifting the angle of the thing so Yuri can’t see.
Something is odd, Yuri figures, as Otabek cheeks flush a little red.
A long silence tells him that Otabek is choosing his words, a silence he now bears. At the beginning of their relationships he had always interrupted Otabek after a second or two, but now he gives him all the time in the world. (Which doesn’t necessary imply he’s becoming more patient, no.) The results is usually more satisfying.
“I drew you a while ago,” Otabek admits with slight hesitation, smiling that winning smile that would make Yuri excuse him anything, “and I was wondering if I can improve the drawing. That is all.”
‘That is all? Are you fucking kidding me?’ Genuine astonishment flitters across Yuri’s face. “Drew me? When? Why?” Yuri says, voice cracking. Of all things, he didn’t expect this. “May I see?” he asks, his tongue meddling with the words. When terribly excited, sometimes Yuri seems to forget how to speak properly.
Otabek glances down at Yuri’s face, flipping a strand of stray hair out of Yuri’s eyes before offering an explanation. “Because you look lovely in your sleep,” he says, searching in Yuri’s face for any sparks of anger. Otabek often does. Yuri keeps wondering why. “You always wondered why I am awake long before you, that’s the reason why,” he adds, turning the screen towards Yuri, “here.”
Now it’s Yuri’s turn to blush. He never knew Otabek loved to draw, he never knew he had such a talent with it, because that he has is beyond obvious: what Yuri sees is the most beautiful drawing ever.
“I .. “ Yuri begins to stammer, eyes shifting between the screen and Otabek’s face, truly lost for words, “I’m not that pretty?”
Otabek looks down, looks directly into Yuri’s wide eyes. The love and affection, the beauty of the moment and the depth of emotion between them hits Yuri physically like a slap across his face.
“But you are,” says Otabek, catching Yuri in a tight embrace. “What I drew is nothing in comparison to what I am blessed to see each time I watch you in the morning, Yura.”
Gross romantic bullshit.
Not at all.
Yuri feels like crying of happiness. A year ago, he had no friends, let alone a partner, nobody to share his dreams and worries with. Nothing that truly made him happy, that was worth living for, apart from the ice.
“I am glad I agreed to be friends with you,” says Yuri, kissing Otabek on his lips. It’s as much ‘I love you’ that ever comes across Yuri’s lips when his voice isn’t hazed with pleasure.
Arm wrapped around Yuri’s waist, Otabek responds, “I am glad I asked.”
The Russian Tiger has long been tamed.