Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/ works/12459537. 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: otayuri_-_Freeform, Gloryholes, restroom_sex, Public_Sex, anonymous_sex that’s_not_so_anonymous, dance_floor_sex, yet_another_fic_where_they’re having_sex_at_the_club, Blow_Jobs, Dry_Humping, obsessed_Otabek, sex kitten_yuri Stats: Published: 2017-10-22 Words: 1997 ****** until we meet again ****** by Blownwish Summary Yuri doesn’t realize he’s had contact with Otabek before Barcelona - very personal contact. Notes Live beta’d by Annabeth and inspired by notgneissatall’s Vain in Costume. And I am too stupid to get the fic link to work. But please read it despite my stupid? “Vain in Costume”: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386064 Long live my long suffering friends. -_- If he thinks about it too much, he’s going to feel guilty. Yuri Plisetsky’s not supposed to be here. He’s not even sixteen, and yet here he is, sexed up in leggings and a barely there t, smack dab in a swarm of hungry animals on the dance floor. They’re going to eat him alive. Yeah, Otabek ought to feel guilty: he was the one who sent Plisetsky the anonymous invite. He ought to, but he doesn’t. He’s too focused on that neat little belly button, the pert little ass just made for a man’s hands to squeeze, and the way it sways to the beat. If he was DJ tonight, he would slow the tempo so he could study how that ass moves. Make that kid grind slow and tight, back and forth, back and forth. He watches anonymous bodies bump and grind against Plisetsky. Hands groping him, slipping under the shirt, over the crotch, pinching his ass. Otabek ought to be ashamed of himself. He should be. He isn’t. Not when he sees the way Plisetsky throws his head back, the way Plisetsky puts his hands over his head, the way Plisetsky fucking revels in the attention. Otabek knew he would. Does Otabek leave the bar? Does he forget the vodka and push through too-cool Russians and tourists? Does he put his hands on that pink, flushed skin and brush his body against the boy who’s driven Otabek so far out of his mind, that he’s here, in Moscow, instead of training back at his home rink for Barcelona? No. No, he sits at the bar, watching Plisetsky, like he’s done for too many years. It’s a habit. No, an addiction. Otabek only moves when Plisetsky leaves the dance floor. The crowd parts, like butter to a hot knife, and no one stands in Otabek’s way when he follows that sweet, tight ass into the men’s room. He wants to watch him stand in front of one of those filthy urinals, he wants to see if that cock is as pink as his lips, he wants to imagine holding it while Plisetsky pisses, grinding against his ass; to taste the salt and sweat on his tender neck, as he shakes out that last drop as everyone watches. But Plisetsky goes into a stall. A stall at the end of the line, a stall with a door and a lock and he’s out of Otabek’s sight for the first time since he stepped into this place. Otabek is only slightly disappointed, though. The stall next to his just happens to be empty. He shoves the blue haired asshole who’s about to take it away. Slams the door shut and stares at the partition separating them from the sounds of men cursing and pissing, and there are grunts coming from another stall further towards the front - men only take to these stalls for one thing - and Otabek is seriously thinking about peeking through the glory hole between him and his fantasy. Until he gets other ideas. Why the hell not? The grunting gets louder. Otabek’s dick throbs, it always throbs when he thinks about him. How many nights did he spend lying on his back, staring into the darkness of his own soul, aching for something so far out of reach? Coming as he whispered one name, only one name. Why the hell not? But it isn’t out of reach anymore. It’s right there. He’s right there. Right on the other side of this filthy wall. Otabek can shove his dick in that hole. He can offer it to Yuri like a dish on a silver platter, no risk, no shame, and still face him in Barcelona, even if he turns Otabek down. Why the hell not? He pulls down his pants. He doesn’t have to work his dick because he’s already hard. All he has to do is push it through the hole. All he does is brace himself against the wall. All he can do is close his eyes. Hold his breath and wait. He’s been doing that for years. And he waits. Then he starts realizing why he shouldn’t: Otabek is exposed. Plisetsky could actually hurt him. He doesn’t know who Otabek is and even if he did he probably wouldn’t care. Otabek is showing his hard on to a fifteen-year-old kid with a reputation for expressing himself through a kick. And then he feels it. It’s warm, it’s wet, and it’s a firm grip. Otabek closes his eyes. Otabek feels hot globs of spit splatter over his dick and then Otabek groans because it’s Yuri’s spit. He wonders what it tastes like - and then his hand moves, slowly, testing the foreskin with firm tugs until Otabek’s head is— oh... That was not a finger. That was too wet. Too soft. Fucking nasty, beautiful, filthy boy. He’s only fifteen. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s not, but Otabek brought him here, Otabek knew what this place was about. And he isn’t sorry. He’s never going to be sorry. Not when the mouth he’s dreamt of is around his dick. And sucking. Sucking and licking. The boy is hungry for cock. He’s jerking what he can’t fit into his mouth while he crams the rest in. Has Plisetsky done this before? How many times? How many men? Otabek wants to ask him and he doesn’t want to know. Otabek braces himself against the wall, presses his cheek against chipped paint that can’t hide years of crude drawings and long forgotten names. He wishes he could touch Plisetsky. His fingers scrape the wall as Plisetsky hums. He wishes he could see Plisetsky. He wishes Plisetsky could see him. Know him. His mouth - his tongue - Otabek groans and he’s so close. So close and Otabek dreams of Yuri Plisetsky’s body moving to the music throbbing through the walls. His back arching, his hair cascading like a waterfall as Otabek catches him and pins him down and takes him - makes him - Oh, fuck - Otabek thrusts and Otabek gasps and Otabek comes into the warmest, warmest place and it’s so hard not to die a little. Maybe he is. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Plisetsky keeps sucking, and it’s too much and Otabek has to pull away because it almost hurts and he huffs when Plisetsky slams against the wall. Otabek touches his wet foreskin. Licks it. How much is him, how much is Plisetsky? A Doc Martin nudges Otabek’s Elsinore boots. There’s a tap. Otabek blinks and he sees the most delicious pink cock poking through the gloryhole as Plisetsky clears his throat. Oh. Otabek doesn’t need to start with his hand. He doesn’t need to pretend he doesn’t know where to start. He’s been waiting years for this. Years - years that feel like nothing as he falls to his knees and he opens his mouth and he closes his eyes and he does more than dream. Finally. Plisetsky tastes like piss and he whimpers, as if he’s never felt a mouth on his cock - and Otabek doesn’t dare let himself hope that’s true. But he can’t help it. He sucks hard, he pulls up, he pulls back the sweet foreskin and laps at the head and underneath and he imagines taking Yuri Plisetsky out of this club, out of Moscow, taking him to Almaty and setting him up in an apartment, where Otabek would spoil him, pamper him like a kitten, and Otabek would have him every night, over and over until Yuri Plisetsky couldn’t remember his own name. He would only scream, Otabek! Otabek! Plisetsky is slamming his hips against the wall now. Thrusting into Otabek’s mouth and he can keep thrusting that pretty pink cock in Otabek’s mouth all night long. Otabek loves it. He wants it. He wants all that come so bad he’s already getting turned on, all over again. He’s going to suck this dirty boy - his kitten - off and he’s going to make him feel so, so good. And when he comes? When he sobs and when he spurts in Otabek’s mouth? Otabek swallows every drop. He loves it. And then, then it’s over. Yuri Plisetsky’s cock is gone and a zipper and a bang at Otabek’s stall door makes it clear that it’s time to get off his knees and leave. Plisetsky’s door slams open first. Otabek counts to ten. He hasn’t had enough. Not near enough. He’s got the taste of come in his mouth and the feel of Plisetsky’s tongue on the brain and he’s got to have another fix. He’s got to. Otabek follows him like a hound out of the men’s. Back the pulsing crowd, careful to fall back so Plisetsky can not see him. So he doesn’t know he’s being chased. But he is. Oh, he is. The lights slide over Plisetsky’s skin as he looks up and lets the beat infuse his body. As he lets hands slip and slide over his clothes. Under his clothes. As some random asshole rides up behind him and pulls kitten too close. He will be gone. Otabek peels him away and glares when the rando pulls back his fist. Yuri Plisetsky, his kitten, his sweet, dirty kitten, doesn’t even turn to look and see who’s behind him as Otabek’s hands finally - finally! - slide over the creamy, smooth skin under his shirt, as he cups his ass and feels how tight, how gloriously fucking tight it is. And he pulls Plisetsky close. So close, his back is plastered against Otabek. He’s Otabek’s and he doesn’t even know. He’s Otabek’s, all Otabek’s, as Otabek’s hand slides down and cups him there, right there, and Otabek moves against him. There, right there on the dance floor, where everyone can see. Everyone knows. His finger presses against Yuri’s mouth until those soft, wet lips open and suck it in. Otabek isn’t dancing with him. He’s fucking him through their clothes as he pulls Yuri’s head back and licks his neck. Tastes the sweat and sex. Grinds into his ass and reaches under Plisetsky’s leggings. And finds him, hard again, because he’s a needy little kitty, he’s only fifteen and Otabek is going to take care of him, right here, as the bass thrums through their blood and bodies dance around them like a Rite of Spring. No one can hear Plisetsky scream as he comes. But Otabek can feel it. He lifts up his hand and he can taste it. Otabek thrusts one more time. One last, delicious time as he presses his mouth against that soft blond hair and he’s never been closer to another person. He’s never felt closer to himself. Otabek comes as he whispers, Yura…. He has to leave before he turns around. He has to leave before he sees him and recognizes his face. He sinks back into the crowd. He becomes nameless, faceless as he leaves the lights and hides in a shadow custom made for post orgasmic reflection, where a man could find his mind again and decide who he had to be after he lost it. But he couldn’t, even after a shot from the bar. He can still taste Yuri Plisetsky in his mouth. And he can see Yuri Plisetsky, fucked out and flushed, as hands and bodies brush over his body. His sweet, needy kitten. Oh, he’s still not sorry. He should be. The boy is too young. He’s only fifteen. Yeah - but Otabek isn’t sorry at all. Otabek watches him until the club closes. Until the Uber comes and whisks Plisetsky away from this dirty little shithole no fifteen year old had any business in. He follows in his Harley, several paces behind the blue SUV, and makes sure Plisetsky is dropped off at his hotel, safely - and alone. Plisetsky doesn’t know it, but he’s now spoken for. He is Otabek’s, and he will find out in good time. Barcelona is just around the corner. They will meet, soon.  Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work! s, well, they are even worse. Rarely a day goes by without Derek and Laura driving Peter insane with their incessant bickering, or their raging hormones, which is why he is glad for the momentary reprieve. Sure, the house is not completely empty. He can still hear his sister Talia rummaging around the kitchen, cleaning up the rest of the dinner, while his brother-in-law is helping Cora get ready for bed, but at least his annoying niece and nephew are gone for the weekend, visiting their uncle Jonas, Peter’s older brother, in San Francisco. This is such a rare occasion. Not just the peace and quiet, but the fact that Derek and Laura are out there on their own. Sure, technically speaking they aren’t really on their own. They are with family and friends, but still, it doesn’t mean that Talia likes it. As a rule she tends to keep her family close at all times. It’s an Alpha thing. Well, actually, it’s more than that. The fact that his sister is pregnant again heightens that need considerably, but her children can be very persistent when they want things, especially Laura. True, usually Peter would give his niece a piece of his mind; telling her that just because she is fifteen, it doesn’t mean she knows what she is doing, or how their world works. This time he wisely kept his mouth shut. He even volunteered to drive Laura and Derek to the airport, making sure they got on the plane on time, simply because he wanted to reap the benefits, no matter how short-lived they are. So sue him, if he (occasionally) lets his own desires overrule common sense. He is only half-human, after all, and quite frankly, he deserves a break. Sure, theoretically speaking Peter has another choice. He could just do the same thing like his brother, move out and leave his pack, but he doesn’t want to. Being part of a pack is important, vital even. It grounds the wolf within, providing security as well as stability. Being on his own, while it would bring peace and quiet, would also mean he’d become an Omega. And that’s anything but a good idea. Some say that Peter is barely stable enough as it is, and there is probably some truth to it. Sure, he is smart and cunning, but it’s hard to dismiss the fact that he also has a very short temper on occasion. It’s not necessarily a bad thing for a wolf within a pack, but for a lone wolf … it’s pretty much disastrous. Anyway, Talia says that he just needs a mate, but naturally Peter disagrees. While he can see the advantages – and there are certainly a few pleasurable perks – he can also see the negative aspect. Having a mate makes a wolf vulnerable, weak and unfocused. Why the hell would he want that?   + + +   Taking full advantage of the situation, Peter retreated to his room right after dinner, making himself comfortable in his armchair with a new book and a glass of well-aged bourbon. Sure, the alcohol doesn’t do much for him; it actually doesn’t have any effect on him at all, but he likes the taste. He’s just finished the second chapter when his sister suddenly barges into his room, with no a warning whatsoever. “Ever heard of knocking?” Peter grumbles under his breath, taking another sip of his drink. He doesn’t even bother looking up to acknowledge his Alpha. Of course he knows it’s considered an insult. Then again, when has he ever kept up with werewolf protocol? Only when it suits him … Being used to it, Talia simply ignores his insubordination and comes right to the point. “I need your help.” That’s a new one. Even though it’s obvious (and not just to him) that Talia is a bit swamped with all of her responsibilities, she never asks for help. Peter can hardly fault her for that, though. Pride runs deep in their family; pride and stubbornness. “Help with what?” Peter prompts, trying his best to sound nonchalant but probably failing miserably. “A child has gone missing, and we’ve been asked to join the search party.” “Why? Beacon Hills has a fully staffed sheriff’s department.” “That’s the thing. It’s the Sheriff’s son.” “Huh.” Peter comments dryly. Apparently that changes things. He doesn’t know how or why, but clearly it does, otherwise his sister wouldn’t be here. “Isn’t he like 4?” “Five actually, he is just a few months younger than Cora.” “Did he run off?” “No,” Talia replies, curtly, “And before you ask, there were no signs of breaking and entering at the house.” “So it’s not a kidnapping either …” Peter hums. “They think he might be sleepwalking.” “They think?” Peter frowns, putting his book and half finished drink down. “It’s never happened before,” Talia argues on the parent’s behalf. She doesn’t sounds very convincing, though. Clearly, she doesn’t understand it either, that they’d have no knowledge of their son’s condition, habit, whatever, but obviously she is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. “And it’s the only thing that makes sense …” Not wanting to waste any more precious time, Talia rattles through the rest of the facts. Apparently the boy’s name is Stiles; or rather that’s what he prefers to be called. His mother Claudia put him to bed early, shortly after six, because he was running a slight fever and she suspected that he might be coming down with something. When she went to check on him an hour later, he was gone. She didn’t hear him come down the stairs, or sneak out the back door. Naturally, she called her husband at once and they have been searching the area around the house for the last hour, together with a large number of volunteers as well as half of the police department, but to no avail. The boy seemed to have vanished without leaving a trace whatsoever. Well, more or less. Fortunately, one of the search dogs finally managed to pick up the boy’s scent, leading towards the Preserve. That’s when they decided that they would need more help than they already had. “He made it to the woods without being spotted by anyone?” Peter remarks with a smirk. “That’s more than three miles. I’m impressed.” “Of course you are,” Talia growls, clearly not amused. Actually, it’s more than obvious that she is slowly but surely losing her patience, or rather, what little she had to begin with. And Peter gets it. As a mother herself she clearly emphasizes with the parents and wants to do everything in her power to help them find their missing child. “I know you don’t care about these people. Just tell me. Are you in or are you out?” It sounds like she is giving him the option to say no, but her eyes tell a different story. They are blazing red, piercing. She is daring Peter to defy her, to disobey his Alpha’s order, because that’s what it is, an order, not a friendly request. A part of him wants to do it, wants to defy her, challenge her, because he is curious to find what she would do, if he said no, but for some reason he decides against it. Instead he gets up, huffing, “As if I have a choice…” ***** Chapter 3 ***** They decide to split up. Well, actually, that’s Peter’s idea. Just for the record. Sure, they are both faster on foot than any human, and most animals, but still, it’s a huge area to comb through and the fact that they are unacquainted with the boy’s scent means that they are practically doing this blind. It’s not an impossible task, but the lack of familiarity certainly makes the whole thing a bit harder than it needs to be. Thankfully, most humans know better and keep away from their property, so the area should be easy to scan for a scent that doesn’t belong there. Well, in theory. When Peter volunteers to search the west, Talia doesn’t question him. She readily takes over the east, clearly not caring who goes where, just wanting to find the boy as soon as possible, hopefully still alive and kicking. They agree to meet up south, right where the only road leading towards their house meets Miller Street. They don’t even consider moving north. The boy may have accomplished the impossible, sneaking past a lot houses without being seen, not to mention crossing the main road leading in and out of town without being run over by a car, but Peter doubts that he made it past their house. Meanwhile Michael stays home with Cora. Of course he does. Sure, the odds of finding the missing boy sooner rather than later would be a lot better with Talia’s mate helping out, but even though his sister cares about that strange, human child she would never put her own children in harm’s way by leaving them alone, unprotected. She will always put the safety of her own family first. Always. And that’s something Peter concurs with one-hundred percent.   + + +   The night is clear. There are plenty of stars visible in the sky, and so is the moon. It’s just a sliver, though … which is both a blessing and a curse. If tonight was the full moon, the Hales would be too busy dealing with something else, something far more important to answer an unexpected call for help. On the other hand it would fuel them with more power. It’s not that their abilities aren’t working outside of the full moon, they do, quite perfectly mind you, but the extra boost would come in handy right now. There is also a slight chill in the air. Sure, it doesn’t bother Peter, but it might become a serious problem for a human child in just his PJs and slippers, which is why he promised Talia to make this quick and efficient. True, unlike his sister he doesn’t really give a damn, but he doesn’t want the kid to die out here, be it from exposure or something else. He may be a jackass, but he is not a soulless monster. This is an inconvenience he didn’t ask for, but Peter didn’t just agree to help Talia because he wasn’t in the mood to argue with her. Well, okay, that was definitely part of the reason, but it wasn’t the only one. There was also something else. A nagging feeling that he needs to be out here, looking for the boy instead of sitting at home and letting his sister deal with it all on her own. It’s a feeling he is pretty familiar with. He gets it from time to time. It’s like an itch he can’t seem to scratch. Most of the time he tries to ignore it, but when he does it always gets stronger, more irritating, right until the point he can’t take it anymore. In fact, it only seems to get better when he yields in some way or another, but he never knows why and how it happens in the first place. He probably should have told somebody about that, because let’s face it; this is not normal, not even in the supernatural world. Not to mention that uncertainties never sit well him. Peter is the kind of person who always needs to have all the answers, prodding and poking until he gets them. But in this case, he decided to keep his mouth shut. For one, he can’t really put it in words what is happening to him and secondly, he rarely opens up to anybody. Some things are simple too personal to talk about. So what if that makes him a hypocrite. That’s who he is. Deal with it. Anyway, Peter is glad that he is permitted to search the west. Granted, given the fact that he spends a lot of time roaming through the woods, he knows the Preserve probably better than anybody else; but still, he is most familiar with the western part, especially with a certain area of it. Namely the Nemeton. The first time Peter stumbled upon the place he was around the same age as Stiles is now; four maybe five, he doesn’t remember that clearly. Both of his parents were still alive, which was a long time ago. Anyway, his mother used to take him on long walks, showing him their territory, making sure he knew all the plants and herbs by name and their purposes, be it medical or something else. He has learned which areas to avoid, places where wolfsbane and mistletoe grow like weeds, but he also knows which areas seem to hold a lot of magic. Again, namely the Nemeton. It’s not unknown in the supernatural world. In fact, most druids probably know where and how to find them, including Deaton. But unlike the rest of those sacred trees, this one has been cut down by someone unknown. Peter has his suspicions, though. Hunters don’t only have it out for creatures like him, but for anything that supposedly poses a threat. Which is completely ludicrous. How could a tree pose a threat to anyone? It’s just a tree. Well, in theory, anyways. Even Peter knows there is something special about this one. Of course, he tried to get some information out of Deaton, but like always, their emissary only tends to really answer to the Alpha. He doesn’t exactly turn everyone else down, but he likes to speak in riddles instead of giving straight answers. It’s very annoying, to say the least.   + + +   Maybe Peter shouldn’t be concentrating on one specific area, but the tingling feeling in the back of his neck tells him that he is heading in the right direction. It may be a nuisance but it has never steered him wrong. The place seems to have a mind of its own, though. Some days he finds it without actually looking for it, like a magnet pulling him in. On others, he walks around and around in circles for hours, and he never even catches a glimpse of the meadow. It’s almost like a game of hide-and-seek. Like the tree stump only allows him to find it when it suits it. It’s weird. But what’s even weirder is that there are rarely any animals around, not even birds. They seem to avoid the place like the plaque, like they can feel the magic and are afraid of it. Peter on the other hand doesn’t share the same sentiment. Of course he can feel the power emanating from the tree stump, but he has never been scared of it, only intrigued. Hence his tenacity to seek it out again and again … The closer Peter gets to the Nemeton the thicker the air gets. The temperature also rises a few degrees. It’s nothing unusual, not really anyway. It always happens to be warmer in the surrounding area. Even though he is still a few meters away, Peter slows down, treading more carefully. He never knows what to expect, but for some reason this time he feels the need to be extra careful. So far he hasn’t picked up anything, but that changes when the wind suddenly changes direction and a strange smell tingles his nose. It’s not unpleasant, quite the opposite, it makes his wolf whine, roll over and show his belly. Naturally, Peter ignores it. Not the scent, but his wolf’s pathetic reaction. Without making any noise whatsoever, Peter rounds the last tree which is blocking his view of the Nemeton and steps into the meadow. There is someone sitting on the tree stump, and not just on the edge, but right in the middle of it. It’s the boy. Stiles. It has to be him. What are the chances that two boys of the same age, wearing black pajamas with batman logos printed all over it would go missing at the same time? Slim to none. So, now that he found him, and much quicker than he thought he would, Peter should probably make his presence known, introduce himself, and then take the boy back to his parents. It’s what Talia would do. But that’s just the thing. He is not his sister. He may have offered (read: reluctantly agreed) to help, and he did what his sister asked him to do, but he always has his own agenda. Always. Even now, well, especially right here and now. Sure, at first he didn’t want to leave his room and search the woods for some kid he didn’t know, but now that he has found him, he doesn’t want to leave. There is something weird going on. Finding the boy without actually looking for him, it was too easy. And now that he is here, just a few feet away from him, it feels even weirder, causing Peter to stop in mid-stride. Don’t take this the wrong way. He is not scared of approaching the human child. That would be ludicrous. He is just stunned. The boy seems to have no reservation whatsoever being that physically close to the Nemeton. In fact, he seems to be quite comfortable. Well, for the most part. But even the boy has his back turned towards him and he can’t see his face, the werewolf can tell that the boy had been crying. Fortunately, he seems to have calmed down somewhat, but Peter can still smell his tears. They taste like acid in his mouth, unsettling his wolf to no end. It takes quite the effort, but Peter manages to swallow the growl, threatening to escape his mouth. It’s true; there is no real distinction between the man and the wolf. A werewolf is both, and not just on a full moon, but every second of every day. But still, sometimes it feels like he is two beings fighting over dominance – one trying his damnedest to act human, the other running on pure instinct. Usually, it’s not a problem to find the balance between the two, but that’s not the case right now. For whatever misguided reason, the wolf longs to close the distance between himself and the boy, to wrap himself around him and lick the tears away, soothing him any way he can, but Peter knows he can’t allow his wolf to take control over the situation. It probably wouldn’t end well, if he did, for neither one of them. Shaking his head, Peter shushes his wolf and goes back to watching the boy from the tree line. The sight is rather mesmerizing. Stiles keeps petting the tree stump lovingly, treating it like someone would do with an injured family member or a wounded pet, while continuously whispering sweet nothings. Or rather, that’s what Peter thinks he is muttering. It’s not that he can’t hear the boy. Thanks to his enhanced senses, the werewolf can pick up each and every word. He just doesn’t understand any of them. They sound like Russian or Polish. Too bad he doesn’t speak either. All of the sudden the boy turns his head and stares accusingly at Peter with his red, puffy eyes. “Was it you?”   End Notes Thoughts? Suggestions? Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed their work!