Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12079665.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Otabek_Altin, Yuri_Plisetsky
  Additional Tags:
      Welcome_to_the_Madness_(Yuri!!!_on_Ice), Seduction, First_Time,
      Knifeplay, Marking, bloodplay_(mild), Under-negotiated_Kink, Bad_BDSM
      Etiquette, Kink_Discovery, Fluff
  Collections:
      NSFW_Yurio_Week_-_Unanon
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-13 Words: 6740
****** Smile Like a Knife ******
by Farasha
Summary
     Otabek has never seen anything like Yuri. He's a force of nature, a
     gravitational pull, and Otabek is just along for the ride wherever it
     takes him.
     This wasn't what he expected when he decided to meet Yuri in
     Barcelona.
     He isn't complaining.
Notes
     This fic has teenagers making somewhat not-smart decisions. Don't
     play with knives in bed without talking about it first. That said,
     everything here is enthusiastically consensual, even if you shouldn't
     try it at home.
     Or at least disinfect your blades first.
Watching Yuri work was like watching a supernova, light brighter than mortal
eyes should see. Otabek looked anyway. Yuri was graceful even in sneakers and
too-tight jeans, his hair falling messily out of the half-bun he'd swept it up
in. Otabek's first memories of him were as a dancer, so it was fitting how
full-circle it had come. He sat on a stone bench by a night-dark stretch of
beach while Yuri sketched out a step sequence with the lines of his body and
the squeak of rubber on pavement.
It was aggressive, in-your-face, just the way Yuri had been in the club. He was
all concentration now, a line carving itself between his blonde brows, his eyes
narrowed and fixed on his feet. This skate would be nothing like his
competition pieces, definitely nothing like the exhibition he'd been skating at
the qualifiers. This wasn't Yuri Plisetsky the prima ballerina, the Russian
Fairy who floated on the ice like a vision. This was the tiger, vicious and
predatory, out to make the world take him seriously. One gold medal could be a
fluke. This program said that Yuri was here to stay.
"Come on," Yuri said, grabbing Otabek's hand suddenly. His palm was dry and
warm, and it should have been unremarkable, but Otabek had spent years watching
Yuri from afar. Getting to touch him was like a rush of adrenaline. "Let's get
back to the hotel. I have to figure out what I'm wearing on the ice."
"There's that shirt you bought," Otabek said, following Yuri's tugging on his
hand like it was a gravitational pull. "While we were out the other day?"
"Yeah, yeah, that's perfect!" Yuri squeezed his hand a little tighter. Otabek
swallowed - Yuri was pulling them over to Otabek's bike, clearly intending to
ride on the back of it back to the hotel. He released Otabek's hand to swing
his leg over the seat and settle on the back. Otabek ripped his eyes away from
how tight Yuri's jeans were on his thighs. It was ridiculous. They had
technically only known each other for a handful of days, despite how long
Otabek had followed Yuri's career and social media.
Best not to tell Yuri that. He would seem like a weird stalker, like JJ had
accused him of so many times while he was in Canada, scrolling through Yuri's
Instagram on break.
Otabek passed Yuri the spare helmet from the bike's saddlebag and got on in
front, settling his own on his head and clipping the chin strap. The last time
Yuri had been on the bike behind him had been a little awkward, Otabek taking
the turns slow to account for his inexperienced passenger. This time, Yuri slid
forward until he was snugly fitted against Otabek's back, his arms wrapping
around Otabek's waist. Otabek was glad it was dark, and he was the one facing
forward. It meant Yuri couldn't see the flush rising in his cheeks. He started
the bike, and Yuri's grip around him tightened as they took off.
It was strange to be in the same place as him, to be able to talk to him and
touch him. He hadn't known what to expect when he asked Yuri to be his friend,
but it wasn't this immediate, electric connection. For Otabek, following Yuri's
career had been motivation and professional interest in one. Yuri in person was
at once similar to and entirely unlike his social media presence. At one level,
what you saw was what you got - Otabek had realized over the past three days
that Yuri didn't care to hide his opinions from anyone. There was more too it,
though, that he didn't show the public. That was true of all of them; they
lived in the public eye, and that eye was unforgiving. Better to keep some
parts of themselves sequestered away.
Yuri had a vulnerable side, one that Otabek was only beginning to be able to
touch. He hadn't thought about it when he'd left Yuri back at the hotel, riding
off to the club where he'd been invited. He hadn't expected Yuri to see it as
an abandonment, much less track him down, but now that he thought about it, who
else would Yuri be celebrating his victory with? He was too young to get into
any of the bars and clubs, and all the other skaters would be drinking away
their defeat.
He didn't know what the right answer was -- if he hadn't gone to the club, Yuri
would never have found this inspiration, and Otabek wouldn't be able to watch
him build something from the ground up, a front-row seat to the creative
process of the Russian Tiger. But maybe he should have stayed, or at least
should have tried to bring Yuri with him as an assistant. Sometimes they let
performers bring their crews, even if the crew wasn't technically old enough.
Yuri seemed to have forgiven him for it. Otabek hoped he would be forgiven his
desire, too.
The motorcycle roared louder in the hotel's parking garage than it had on the
streets. When he parked, leaning the bike on the stand, Yuri stayed seated with
his arms around Otabek even after it shut off. Otabek's heart was racing, and
not just from taking the turns a little too fast down the Spanish streets.
"Yuri?"
"Yeah," Yuri said, seeming to shake himself out of something. His arms unwound
reluctantly, and Otabek tried not to let it give him hope. They were here to
work on Yuri's program, despite what it might look like. Anything else was a
distraction, and he and Yuri were the same in one respect -- distractions from
skating were irrelevant and to be ignored.
They went to Yuri's room. The foot of space between them in the elevator felt
charged with potential energy, both of them silent, watching the floor count
tick up. In the mirrored surface of the elevator doors, Otabek caught Yuri's
eyes and felt like he really was looking into the eyes of a soldier. There was
something fierce and bright in his gaze. Otabek wanted it to consume him.
Yuri caught his hand again to pull him out of the elevator and down the hall.
That had to mean something, Otabek thought, feeling just a little pathetic that
Yuri's palm in his could make him dizzy. He didn't let go even as Yuri pulled
him into the room and shut the door behind them, and only reluctantly let
Yuri's hand slip from his when Yuri tugged it away.
His mouth went dry when Yuri shed his jacket and stripped his shirt over his
head. He probably didn't think anything of it; they'd both spent their lives
changing in front of others, in locker rooms at their home rinks and at
competition. Yuri's short program costume left very little to the imagination
as well. It was different like this, in the privacy of Yuri's room and without
a layer of glittery mesh between Otabek's eyes and his bare skin.
"Hand me that bag," Yuri said, his hands falling to the button of his jeans.
Otabek's cheeks were on fire as he turned to search the room for the bag Yuri
had pointed at.
This was even more tortorous than the other day, watching Yuri thumb through
the racks and hold things up to himself, demanding Otabek's opinion without
regard to the splash of pink across Otabek's cheeks. He ignored the blush this
time, too, standing nonchalantly in tiger-striped boxer briefs and holding his
hand out for the bag.
Otabek should have looked away as he started to shimmy into the leather pants,
his hips wiggling as he worked the material up over muscular calves and thighs.
Instead, it was like looking into the sun all over again, and he couldn't have
torn his gaze from the line of Yuri's spine and his slim, bare waist if he
tried. Heat spread from his cheeks down his neck. This couldn't be accidental.
Yuri might be a couple years younger than him, but he wasn't completely
oblivious.
Yuri pulled the tank top on, the V-neck falling down to bare his collarbones
and some of his chest, the material so thin it was nearly sheer. Otabek felt
like an idiot, motionless with his fists clenched at his sides, his tongue a
heavy weight in his mouth. He wanted to touch. He didn't dare to touch.
There was a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Yuri brushed
past him to get to it. There was plenty of space for Yuri to walk by without
touching, but instead their shoulders bumped together. Otabek swallowed around
his dry throat, his eyes going straight to the perfect curve of Yuri's ass in
leather pants.
"It looks okay," Yuri said, twisting around to catch a look at himself in the
mirror. The back of the shirt had a cutout, baring his skin again, and Otabek
clenched his fists harder to keep from reaching out to him.
"Just okay?" he asked, glad his voice came out steady. The last thing he wanted
was to look like as much of an idiot as he felt.
"It needs something else. I mean, besides the jacket, I know I'm wearing that."
He turned to face the mirror again, green gaze heavy on his own reflection. His
body twisted into the same steps he'd tried on the pavement by the beach, his
eyes following the motion of his clothes, craning his neck to look over his
shoulder at the mirror as he moved.
"It looks good," Otabek said. He restrained himself from saying that Yuri
looked good by the skin of his teeth.
"It looks okay," Yuri said again, dubious. "Hey, do you have a knife?"
The question derailed Otabek's thoughts suddenly, like a record skipping a
track in his head. He caught Yuri's eyes in the mirror and frowned at his own
reflection, confused at the question.
"Yes," he said slowly, "but it's in my suitcase. I don't carry it on me." In
Almaty it would have been in the saddlebag of his motorcycle, but he was in
Spain, and he didn't know the laws here.
Yuri made a disgusted noise. "This needs more skin showing," he said, plucking
at the shirt.
"More?" Otabek asked, hoping his voice didn't sound as rough as it felt in his
throat.
"Yeah, why not? Everyone looks at me and sees a kid, and it's about time they
stopped doing that."
Otabek's mouth twitched into a small smile, looking at Yuri stretching the
shirt tight over his stomach. When it was pressed against his skin, Otabek
could see his nipples through the fabric.
"What?" Yuri asked, green eyes glaring at him in the mirror. "You don't think
of me like that, do you?"
"No," Otabek said immediately. "Definitely not."
The anger in Yuri's eyes was replaced by something even hotter. Otabek didn't
have any doubts anymore; this was seduction. Or an attempt at it, anyway.
"Take me up to your room," Yuri said. "We're going to need your knife."
"I'm just down the hall, I can go get it--"
"I share with Yakov," Yuri said, disgusted. "He and Lilia are probably still
down at the hotel bar. Let's go to yours."
Otabek had his own room, as the only competitor from Kazakhstan. His coach had
stopped booking their rooms together the first time she walked in on him naked.
A young man needed privacy, she said.
"Alright," Otabek said. "Let's go."
The tension between them was even worse, walking down the hall to Otabek's
room. It felt like they were sneaking. The back of Otabek's neck prickled,
expecting his coach to swoop down on him at any moment. Or worse, Lilia
Baranovskaya. Otabek had never been as terrified of someone in his life.
His hand shook a little as he slipped the keycard in and out of the reader.
Yuri was standing just a little too close, in a shirt just a little too sheer,
and pants just a little too tight. The way he was looking at Otabek when he
turned to shut the door behind them was downright predatory.
"Go get it," Yuri said. He prowled into Otabek's room, sitting on the bed. He
hadn't worn shoes on their walk down the hall. His bare feet looked delicate
against the rest of the outfit, pale against the dark cuffs of the leather
pants. Otabek could barely tear his eyes away to open his suitcase, feeling
along the bottom for where he'd put the small pocketknife. It was useful
sometimes, for stripped screws or things that needed rewiring on the bike. He'd
never expected to put it to this kind of use.
For a second when he turned around, everything stopped. Yuri Plisetsky was in
his room, dressed like he wanted Otabek to peel his clothes back off him, and
he had a knife in his hand. It was really fast, all of it.
"Yuri," he said, hesitating for the right words. Yuri's chin went up, his mouth
tight. There was a wary look in his eyes, like the one he'd had earlier that
night after he'd practically climbed over the DJ booth. He'd asked, Are you
going to tell me to get lost? like he expected Otabek to ditch him.
"Yeah?"
"What do you want?" Otabek had always had the best luck being direct.
Yuri tilted his head a little, leaning forward on his hands, looking like a cat
with something interesting in his sights. "You have to know what I want by
now."
"Have you ever--?"
"Why, because I'm fifteen?" The sheets twisted under Yuri's hands. "No, but it
doesn't matter. I like you."
"We met three days ago," Otabek said. The knife felt heavy in his hand. It was
weird to mix the two, and it was weird to be having this conversation with Yuri
already sitting on his bed.
"Fuck that," Yuri snapped. "I competed next to you. I saw you on the ice, I saw
you practice, I saw you miss the podium to that bullshit overscored short by
that shithead, JJ. You have to get to know someone fast in this world, right?
You're the best competition I'm going to have once the geezer and his pet pig
retire, and we're friends. Tell me why we shouldn't."
We're friends, Yuri said, like it was a foregone conclusion just because Otabek
had asked and he'd agreed. Like they'd known each other for months instead of
days. Yuri didn't do anything halfway.
Otabek felt like an idiot, suddenly, standing in the middle of the room arguing
with Yuri about having sex. He'd had Yuri's body pressed up against his on the
back of the bike, he'd seen Yuri strip and squeeze himself into those pants,
and he wanted to take them back off. This whole night seemed to have been
building to this conclusion, and he was messing it up. Yuri expected him to be
cool, and probably to know what he was doing. He had to do something before
Yuri got impatient and left.
"You still haven't told me what you want," Otabek said. Yuri would probably
kill him if he got something wrong, or at least never talk to him again. This
was Yuri's first. This was important.
This was so much more than what Otabek had expected when he planned to meet
Yuri in Barcelona.
"Come over here," Yuri said. His face was flushed, and for the first time all
night, he actually seemed nervous. It was a strange look to see on Yuri's face,
his eyes darting down and to the side, a little scowl between his eyebrows. "Do
you want to?"
"Yes." There was no other answer. Of course Otabek wanted to. He'd wanted to
since Yuri had danced on the sidewalk by the beach. Maybe before that, he
wasn't sure.
"Alright, well, kiss me or something." Yuri didn't sound very sure of himself
anymore, but he had the same look in his eyes that he'd had in the elevator
when he tipped his face back up, and Otabek couldn't say no.
Yuri grabbed his shirt as their lips met, leaning back onto the bed and pulling
Otabek with him. If it hadn't been Yuri, Otabek wouldn't have been impressed.
His lips were chapped and stayed motionless against his, surprisingly innocent
after Yuri had put in all the work to seduce him.
Otabek leaned down over Yuri, fitting between his spread legs like he belonged
there. He pulled back to take a breath and kissed Yuri again, biting softly at
his lip, swallowing the little sound Yuri made. Yuri's fingers were still
twisted in his shirt, holding him in place while Yuri tried to match what he
was doing. He was a quick study, his tongue slipping between Otabek's lips,
making the kiss just a little too wet. He slid his fingertips along the bone of
Yuri's jaw, his thumb over Yuri's cheek, and then combed his fingers through
Yuri's hair, gently tugging away the hair tie.
He had to pull back to look. Having Yuri underneath him still felt like a
dream, especially with him looking like this, his hair fanned out like a halo
of gold, his lips pink and wet. Yuri yanked at his shirt again, pulling him
back down.
"Don't stop," he mumbled into Otabek's mouth, licking at Otabek's lip before
kissing him again. Otabek could drown in this, overwhelmed by Yuri, and do it
happily.
The knife was heavy and warm in his hand, the metal hilt digging into his palm
as he rested his weight on it. Reluctant, he sat back, holding it up. "What did
you need this for?"
Yuri's eyes flicked from the knife to Otabek, his mouth parted. He seemed to
gather himself, tucking away whatever had been on his face in the favor of that
same hard, determined look. He grabbed the hem of his shirt and stretched it
taut, lifting it about an inch away from his stomach.
"I want you to cut the shirt right there, across the stomach. Not all the way
across, just a gash across the front."
"While you're wearing it?"
"How else are we going to know where they're supposed to go?" Yuri asked, like
it was a stupid question. "Yeah, while I'm wearing it. It's fine, right? It
can't be that sharp."
Otabek kept his knife fairly sharp. He eyed the way Yuri was holding his shirt
critically, and grabbed his wrists, making him raise the fabric a couple more
inches off his skin.
Yuri rolled his eyes. "Come on, let's get this part over with so I can take it
off."
"I don't want to cut you."
"It's not like you'd hurt me," Yuri said, and the distinction made Otabek pause
as he unfolded the blade. Yuri was watching him hungrily, his eyes flickering
from Otabek's face to his hands, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the
hem of his shirt.
"That's a little much for the first time, isn't it?" he asked. He would do what
Yuri wanted, sure, but this seemed like getting in over his head.
Yuri flushed dark red, breaking eye contact to turn his face into the pillow.
"I like to think about it," he admitted, nearly lost in the plush cotton of the
hotel bedspread.
"About what, being cut?" The knife clicked as Otabek finally unfolded it. He
should have known Yuri would be intense.
"Ugh, I just-" he fidgeted, sucking his lip in his mouth, scowling at the
bedspread as he tried to find the words. "I want to feel it. You know something
is real because it hurts, and I... I don't know what I'm doing, okay? But it's
hot. Thinking about it. Not with you specifically, at least not before now, but
you know what I mean."
Otabek shifted until he was kneeling between Yuri's legs again, careful of the
open blade, looking down at where Yuri was still holding his shirt stretched
tight. Yuri turned his face to look up at Otabek again. It was beginning to be
obvious now that Yuri just pushed through anything that made him uncertain,
threw himself into it like he'd never had anything to lose, or like he knew
he'd win it all anyway. Maybe it was both.
"I want you to do the shirt," Yuri said. "Whatever else is whatever else. I
shouldn't have-- forget I said anything, okay?"
Instead of answering, Otabek slipped his fingers under Yuri's shirt, fingertips
tracing the firm muscles of his stomach. Yuri jerked at the sudden contact, his
chest heaving with sudden breaths.
"Hold very still," Otabek said, and set the tip of his knife to the cloth.
Yuri's shirt parted easily under the sharp bite of the blade - too easily.
Otabek felt it when the tip dug into skin instead of cloth, a thin scratch of
red blooming in the wake as he jerked the knife away, swearing under his
breath. He hadn't meant to do that. He'd known the knife was sharp, he'd known
it was a bad idea, so why had he--? Otabek wasn't reckless. He wasn't
impulsive. He shouldn't be going along with whatever Yuri said, no matter how
much they both wanted it.
Under his other hand, Yuri's stomach expanded and contracted with a long,
shivery sound.
"Did it leave a mark?" he asked, his voice strangled in his throat.
Tiny beads of blood were welling from the cut, stark against Yuri's smooth,
pale skin. Otabek ground his teeth into the side of his tongue, the knife
trembling in his hand, terrified of how much the mark made him want to do it
again.
"A scratch," he said.
Yuri rolled his hips up, his spine arching into a beautiful, perfect curve. It
made the front of his too-tight pants grind against the crotch of Otabek's
jeans, heat and hardness meeting between their bodies. Yuri was as graceful in
this as he was in everything else, and all Otabek could do was rut at him
mindlessly, making them both moan and the knife tremble in Otabek's hand.
"Kiss it better," Yuri said, breathless but just as demanding as he'd been when
he told Otabek to climb on the bed with him and cut slits in his shirt.
Otabek's hand slipped around Yuri's back, pulling up until Otabek could put his
wet mouth on the bloody scratch he'd left with the knife. He licked along
Yuri's abs, greedy for the coppery taste of his blood, signs that Otabek had
put his hands on perfection and left it human.
Yuri's hand flew up from the bed, landing on the back of Otabek's head. His
fingers dug into the back of his scalp, not tangling in his hair but resting on
the buzzed-short part of his undercut. Otabek let his lips linger on Yuri's
skin, sucking the salt taste from the barely-bleeding scratch.
"You've gotta do the back now," Yuri said.
"I thought you said the back was fine." Otabek's voice hummed against Yuri's
skin.
"I changed my mind. Let me up."
Otabek sat back, letting Yuri sit up and flip over, sinking back onto his
heels. He looked at Otabek over his shoulder, and Otabek was sure he knew
exactly how his body looked best and was using it to his advantage.
"Where back here?" Otabek asked, scooting closer. Yuri had to arch his spine to
reach back and grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it tight again.
"Under the cutaway. Make a couple. Don't rush."
Otabek knelt up behind Yuri, kissing his bared shoulder, the side of his neck,
the hinge of his jaw. The way Yuri looked at him, it seemed like he thought
Otabek would devour him whole. Yuri wanted to be ravished, and if that's what
he was after, that's what Otabek would give him, even if his own heartbeat was
thumping rapidly against his ribs at the thought.
He flipped the knife over in his hand, not missing the sharp gasp that left
Yuri's lips, and traced the back of it over Yuri's bare arm. He could feel Yuri
breathing against his chest, shaky and rapid. Without using the edge, Otabek
felt better about having it in his hand. The thrill that had come over him when
he watched Yuri's skin part under his hand scared him. He'd put on this bad boy
image because he thought Yuri would like it, and he'd been right -- but he
hadn't anticipated how right.
Yuri groaned when Otabek slipped the cold steel along the inside of his elbow,
up the curve of his bicep. He rolled his hips, his thighs shifting like he was
trying to get friction. Otabek bet his pants were uncomfortable by now, but he
had a job to finish before they could fix that problem.
"Hold still," he said, his free hand settling on Yuri's waist. He didn't want
to cut Yuri again. Well-- he did, but he didn't think he should want that.
He dragged the knife down Yuri's spine, listening to the little noise he made
when the back of the blade skipped from cloth to bare skin. That skin would
break and bleed so easily, little scratches marring the smooth, flawless
surface. Otabek took a deep breath to keep his hand from trembling.
He cut toward himself this time, not toward Yuri, watching the edge of the
knife emerge from cloth like the fin of a shark rising from deep water. Was it
the danger or the pain that excited Yuri? He hoped he would have a chance to
find out. He hoped this wouldn't be the only time he got his hands on Yuri's
skin.
"How does it look?" Yuri asked, once he'd made three slightly uneven cuts in
the back of the shirt. Yuri craned his neck to look over his shoulder, the
tendon in the elegant line of his throat standing out. Otabek couldn't resist,
and leaned in to bite, his teeth firm but not savage enough to bruise.
Yuri melted against him, his hands letting go of the back of his own shirt to
reach behind, sliding into Otabek's hair again as he kissed Yuri's throat.
"You can leave a mark if it's somewhere nobody will see," Yuri panted, rolling
the sinuous line of his body against Otabek like he couldn't stand to hold
still.
Otabek eyed the tattered shirt, his pulse beating hard in his ears. He
carefully folded the blade, tossing it farther up the bed and ignoring Yuri's
disappointed little noise. He was pretty sure Yuri Plisetsky was the only
person he would ever know who jumped from virginity straight into playing with
knives.
It was stunning. Yuri was stunning, stripping his shirt off over his head and
tossing it aside, naked to the waist. Otabek couldn't resist, reaching out to
fit his hands on Yuri's waist, lips gravitating to the knob of his spine.
Otabek wanted to worship him. He let his mouth linger, moving slowly downward,
biting at his shoulders. He kept the nips light, not staying long enough to
mark even though the desire burned through him. Yuri's shirt was too thin and
too revealing for Otabek to mark him here.
Yuri was panting by the time Otabek's tongue hit the waist of his pants,
licking along the leather like he could make the infuriating leather melt away
with the touch of his mouth. Yuri swore, fumbling with the button and the
zipper. Otabek sat up, hooking his chin over Yuri's shoulder so he could see.
"Take your clothes off," Yuri said, still demanding. He rolled his shoulders,
shrugging Otabek off and flipping over. On his back, it was easier for him to
squirm out of the pants. Otabek fitted his palm over the muscle of Yuri's
thigh, his thumb tracing the angry imprint left by his underwear.
"You won't be able to wear these underneath." He had no idea how his voice was
still steady, especially as Yuri pulled his underwear down and kicked his pants
off, naked and spread out on the bed. His body was already marked by the ice,
his hip a mottling of greenish bruises from the fall he'd taken during his free
skate. Otabek's eyes skipped right over that, a hazard of their careers, and
landed on the faint pink scratch he'd left with his pocketknife.
"Clothes, come on," Yuri said, lifting his foot to push against Otabek's chest
with his toes. Otabek caught his ankle, thumb rubbing over the Achilles tendon,
and watched his eyes flutter. He bent down to press a soft, closed-lipped kiss
to the top of his foot. Yuri made a noise that was like a cross between a growl
and a demanding whine. "At least take your shirt off, you're killing me."
Otabek reluctantly pulled his hands away, letting Yuri's foot slide down into
his lap. A wicked look flashed over his face, and he pressed the ball of his
foot into the crotch of Otabek's jeans right as Otabek's arms were tangled in
his shirt. His hips jerked, a grunt wrenched from his gut.
"You're so hot," Yuri breathed, pressing harder. Lights burst along the edges
of Otabek's vision, and he hurriedly threw his shirt away, yanking at the fly
of his jeans before Yuri made him come in his pants.
The round-eyed stare Yuri fixed on him when Otabek struggled out of his jeans
and boxers and kicked them down to the edge of the bed felt like it left burns
on his skin. Yuri was definitely staring at his dick. He'd never felt self-
conscious about it before, but Yuri wasn't circumcised. Maybe he thought it was
weird that Otabek was. Otabek ran his hands up the back of Yuri's calves,
spreading his legs until he could kneel between Yuri's thighs and kiss the
inside of his knee.
"Otabek," Yuri gasped, a jarring note in the middle of the intimacy.
"Beka," Otabek said, biting the tender inside of Yuri's thigh.
"Then-- fuck, Beka," Yuri moaned, and yeah, that was a hundred times better.
Otabek sucked at the skin between his teeth, soothed it with his tongue, and
dragged his mouth a couple inches to the left to start again. He wanted Yuri
covered in the evidence of him, wanted him to touch those bruises as he
showered, wanted him to touch himself thinking about Otabek's mouth leaving
them.
He sucked hard at the sensitive crease of Yuri's thigh, his fingers digging
into Yuri's knees to keep him from kicking out in reflex. The noises Yuri was
making were intoxicating, high-pitched little moans like Yuri didn't even know
what to do with himself. Yuri's cock was hard next to his face, and Otabek's
mouth watered just looking at it.
He remembered that Yuri had been trying to say something, though, before Otabek
stole all the words from his mouth. "Then what?" he asked, looking up the
length of Yuri's body to his face, flushed bright red, his lip caught between
his teeth.
Yuri blinked down at him, looking dazed, and laughed suddenly, his head falling
back against the pillows.
"This is fucking amazing," he said. Otabek was transfixed by his smile; it was
brilliant, and sharp like the knife sitting innocuously on the bedspread beside
him. "I was just going to say, if I'm going to call you Beka then you have to
call me Yura."
"Yura," Otabek said, letting the name roll off his tongue. "Can I suck you
off?"
"Fuck," Yuri croaked, propping himself up on his elbows. His dick jerked, a
drop of fluid welling at the slit. "Yeah."
Otabek didn't waste any more time. He felt like he was starving for Yuri's
body, like only Yuri's skin under his hands and the taste of Yuri in his mouth
could sustain him. He dragged his thumb over the underside of Yuri's cock
before wrapping his fingers around it. The skin was silky in his grasp, warm,
and Yuri moaned like he was dying. The muscles in his stomach flexed as he sat
up, grabbing for Otabek's shoulders to steady himself, his this still spread
wide around Otabek's ribcage.
"Beka," Yuri said, and it went straight to Otabek's cock, achingly hard and
rubbing against the fine cotton sheets. Yuri's fingers dug into the muscles of
his shoulders, his green eyes piercing. "Beka, come on."
It was the little note in Yuri's voice like a plea that made Otabek lean down
and lick the tip of his cock. Yuri tasted bitter and a little like leather, and
Otabek dedicated his entire being to memorizing that taste and figuring out how
to give a blowjob to an uncut dick.
He pulled the foreskin back gently and sucked the head into his mouth, moaning
around it when Yuri's fingernails bit into his shoulders. The dark part of him
that had wanted to put more little red lines on Yuri's skin wanted Yuri to
press harder, to scratch and draw blood, to leave marks on his skin, too.
Sucking Yuri was messy, the angle weird with Yuri's knees tucked into Otabek's
armpits and his stomach contracting against Otabek's forehead. He could barely
get half of Yuri in his mouth, saliva slipping from his lips as he tried vainly
to swallow the rest, his hand moving in erratic strokes. He felt like he could
do better -- he wanted to give Yuri the best blowjob of his life, to live up to
this person Yuri seemed to like enough to give his first time to.
It didn't seem to matter whether he could do better. Yuri was spitting out
whining curses and hitched cries of his name, his thighs squeezing so tight
around Otabek's chest that he had to pull off to draw breath.
Otabek stroked his hand all the way up to the tip of Yuri's cock and back down,
following with his mouth. He barely had the head between his lips when Yuri's
breath left him on a groan that sounded like it had Otabek's name in there
somewhere and spilled all over his tongue.
"Beka, holy shit," Yuri gasped, falling back against the pillows. "You've done
that before."
"A couple times," Otabek said, wiping his mouth. He sat up, moving gingerly,
his cock so hard he felt like he'd come with a touch.
Yuri's eyes went straight to his cock again. Otabek wasn't nervous this time.
Yuri was disheveled, gasping for breath, his face and neck pink, and he was
staring at Otabek's cock with his lips parted. It was flattering, actually,
that Yuri couldn't keep his eyes away.
"You still haven't gotten off," he said, trying to push himself up.
"We can't go all the way, you have to skate in--" Otabek glanced at the clock
and felt his stomach drop "--twelve hours for practice, it's four in the
morning."
"I'll skip practice," Yuri said. "I don't want anyone to see it until I perform
it anyway. And I'm not going anywhere until you come."
Otabek swallowed, pinned in place by Yuri's fierce glare. It shouldn't have
been sexy, watching him scramble to roll up on his knees, his limbs watery. A
line of bite marks marched down the inside of his thigh, and a scratch marred
the skin of his stomach. Otabek met him halfway and kissed him again, not even
thinking about what he'd just been doing until Yuri pulled back a little.
"Is it okay if we don't? Or, I don't know, you could wash your mouth out." Yuri
scowled and looked down, shoulders hunching. "I don't like the way it tastes."
"Then we won't," Otabek said. He cupped Yuri's face in his hands and tipped it
to the side, kissing his neck instead. Yuri shivered. Then Otabek was gasping
against Yuri's skin as Yuri touched him, a slow, curious hand closing around
the shaft of his cock. His grip was a little too firm and a little dry, but it
didn't matter. Otabek was so far gone after all the attention he'd lavished on
Yuri that he clutched Yuri to him and moaned into his skin.
"Yura," he murmured. The touch around his cock grew bolder, Yuri's fingers
reaching down to slide over his balls, cup them in Yuri's hand. Otabek
shuddered, kept shaking as Yuri's other hand grabbed onto his hip, nails
digging in again. Otabek wanted the imprints in his skin, wanted marks to
complement the ones he'd left on Yuri.
He came to the image of pink crescent moons dug into his skin, lingering while
Yuri was out on the ice. Yuri kept stroking him, come slicking his shaft, until
Otabek reached down and grabbed his wrist in a trembling hand.
They pulled apart just enough to look at each other, sharing each other's air,
close enough to kiss. Otabek, mindful of what Yuri had asked him, didn't give
in to the temptation. It was a near thing, with Yuri's mouth so close, swollen
from Yuri's teeth digging into it.
"Will your coaches worry that you're out so late?" Otabek asked, conscious of
the time once again like he was waking up from sleep. It felt like a dream, an
experience outside normal reality. This didn't happen to real people, but it
had happened to Otabek.
"They'll probably think I went to bother Mila or Georgi." Yuri shrugged,
scooting over to the edge of the bed. "I'll be right back, I've got to, uh." He
made a face at his sticky hand, retreating toward the bathroom before Otabek
could say anything else.
Otabek fell back against the bed, staring at the ceiling. The air of the hotel
room felt a little too cool on his naked skin. He shook out the blankets until
he found his boxers and pulled them on, then found Yuri's for him, passing them
along when Yuri emerged from the bathroom smelling like hand soap.
"My turn," he said, and went to brush his teeth. He paused in the mirror,
twisting to see the backs of his shoulders. Four crescent marks were pressed
into the skin of his back on either side, and four more on his hip. Otabek took
longer than he strictly had to, staring at the marks as he counted to twenty
for each section of his teeth.
Yuri was on his phone when Otabek finished, scrolling through something. A
blush remained on his cheeks, and he hadn't put on anything else besides the
tiger-striped boxer briefs. He'd pulled his hair back up and was propped up on
some of the squishy hotel pillows against the head of the bed. As Otabek
watched, he stretched out his legs, pointing his toes, a motion that looked
automatic, like Yuri had done it a thousand times when he was sitting still or
lounging around.
"Your program will be stunning," Otabek said, because he couldn't think of
anything else to say.
"Yeah," Yuri said, tossing the phone aside on the bed. "It will, now come over
here. You brushed your teeth, right? We can make out and then I'll finish the
choreography."
"You should sleep, and your coaches will come looking if you don't go back to
your room at all." Otabek didn't want to say it, but he'd been along for the
ride all night. Maybe it was time for him to try and steer.
"I already texted Yakov and told him I was crashing here," Yuri said. Otabek
hoped Yuri didn't see the cold sweat he'd broken into at that. Yakov Feltsman
was almost as scary as Lilia.
"You should sleep before you skate anyway," Otabek said.
Yuri rolled his eyes, then shifted a little lower against the pillows and let
his knees fall apart again.
"You're saying you don't want to make out, and maybe leave me a matching set of
these?" Yuri traced the purple marks Otabek had left on his thigh. The other
thigh was bare. He smiled, slowly, looking up at Otabek through the long fringe
of his hair, and Otabek's resistance buckled.
He crawled on the bed, settling his body over Yuri's, and kissed that smile off
Yuri's face. If he closed his eyes, he could forget about the blue, digital
numbers reading too-early in the morning and the vibrating of Yuri's phone
against the bed, probably his coach.
It all fell away forgotten, and there was only Yuri, blinding him like a
newborn star.
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