Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11473773.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Yuri_Plisetsky, Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Isabella_Yang,
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Katsuki_Yuuri/Victor_Nikiforov
  Character:
      Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin, Isabella_Yang, Victor
      Nikiforov, Katsuki_Yuuri
  Additional Tags:
      Pliroy, otayuri_-_Freeform, peripheral_vituuri, peripheral_jjbella,
      Angst, Cheating, mild_catholic_angst, Some_Crack, Daddy_Kink, DaddyJJ
  Series:
      Part 8 of please_please_please_let_me_get_what_I_want_this_time
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-07-11 Words: 2537
****** heaven can not see this ******
by Blownwish
Summary
     Jean Jacques needs Yuri's rage and insanity because he can not have
     his own.
Making love on his wedding night was as solemn as a sacrament. Jean Jacques
kissed Isabella and touched her and held her and took her with every ounce of
tenderness he could muster. Then, when she was asleep in the snowy white
sheets, he tiptoed into the honeymoon suite bathroom, turned the shower head on
and jerked off to the photos of he took, last week, of Yuri Plisetsky.
Heaven didn't mind because heaven couldn't be hurt by sin. God just knew how to
look the other way and forgive. That's part of what made God, God. People
weren't like that, though. Isabella was just a human being. If she knew what he
was doing, who he had done it with, she would break. After all, she wasn't God.
Jean Jacques stopped at the one where Yuri came. It was a full frontal shot:
his legs were spread, Jean Jacques was balls deep inside him, and his come was
squirting everywhere. Yeah, it was hot as hell, but that wasn't what he liked
the most about this shot. It was the was the crazed look on Yuri’s face. He
remembered the way he moaned through his orgasm, the way his eyes rolled to the
back of his head right after this moment, and then the way he snarled as Jean
Jacques kept going, pinning him down and pounding into him until he came again.
“Mon chaton, mon petit chaton. Tu es à moi,” he whispered to the screen.
He wasn't his, not really. But in that moment he was. And Jean Jacques kept
that moment in this perfect picture, that captured that raging, crazy lust. He
pumped himself harder, faster.
”Tu es à moi!” He shivered as he came, hard, all over his fist. His perfect
picture, in that perfect, moment. Heaven didn't care, as long as he confessed,
and Isabella was asleep. He turned off his phone and stepped into the shower.
++
“Doesn't it bother you? Even a little?”
“I can't believe I'm having this conversation.” Yuri slams his fist on the bar
room table. “I'm eating, you ass!”
Things like consideration never stopped Viktor Morherfucking Nikiforov before,
and it isn't going to stop him, now. “We all do it. Don't tell me you don't do
it, Yurio. Don't lie.”
“I don't talk about it at the table!”
Okay, so maybe it was a little silly to order fried potatoes and steak at a bar
when everyone else was just drinking. But it wasn't the weirdest thing ever.
The damn place had a menu and a kitchen, and Yuri was starving because he
couldn't eat a damn thing at that goddamn wedding reception. Otabek told him he
would regret it - and he was right, again. But, still. No - this topic? Right
now? Viktor is doing this on purpose!
“Doesn't anyone here worry about passing gas when they're being intimate?”
He slams his fist down, and this time the table shakes. “For the last time -
NO! Only old men with incontinence worry about farting in bed.”
Otabek snorts and looks the other way because Yuri is right and Viktor is
stupid and Otabek knows his like he knows the sun will rise. “I'm going to kill
you, old man.” Yuri stabs the steak he can't eat. “Kill you in your bed while
you fart on your Piggie’s face!”
Katsudon put down his scotch and water and did that sad little face. The one he
uses whenever he expects his knight in shining Chanel and Armani to save him.
What a loser. “Why are you such an ass, Yurio?” Aw, poor Katsudon. He's always
the victim, even when he's not the one who can't eat because this decrepit old
man keeps talking about farting during sex.
“Don't get all weepy just because your husband is disgusting in bed, Piggie.”
Viktor rides to the rescue, on queue. “Yurio! Apologize this instant!” Typical.
Otabek puts his hand on his knee. He means well but he's not going to get the
results he wants. “Hell, no! I don't talk about disgusting shit at the table.
You apologize to me.” Yuri tosses his napkin on the table. “And pay for my
dinner”
He crosses his arms. “No. And fine.”
“You're getting me desert, too.”
Otabek gently rubs his fingers against his inner thigh. Okay, that's nice and
everything, but no. It still won't work.
“Wait, I thought you said you lost your appetite?” Oh, he's not weaseling out
of this one. “No. Buy your own desert. Or get your boyfriend to buy it for
you.”
Oh, that does it. Yuri leaps up. “He's not my boyfriend and it's not his fault
you ruined my appetite. I want a to go box. I want a desert. I want you to curl
up into a little blue ball and roll yourself off a pier so you can just fuck
off and die, already!”
Viktor smiles at Otabek. “He farts in bed, doesn't he?”
This time Otabek stands up. He takes out his wallet and counts out enough to
pay the entire tab and a small nation’s national debt. “Let’s go, Yuri.”
“You have such a good boyfriend, Yurio!”
If Otabek didn't take his hand and pull him toward the door, Yuri would've been
committing homicide.
++
He didn't need to text. Jean Jacques didn't even have his number. He never
messaged him directly on Instagram, either. He knew Yuri would show up at his
hotel room door, like complimentary Champagne, without fail. It had been
happening since Skate Canada, years ago.
He arrived with three short knocks, always pushing through the door and swiping
one of those tiny bottles of vodka out of the mini bar, before he stripped off
his tracksuit as if he was in a locker room. Jean Jacques liked watching him
try to hide his blushing face with all that hair as he presented himself,
beautifully naked, with a shrug. The only difference, tonight, was the gold
ring on Jean Jacques’ finger.
He combed the hair away from his eyes and smiled because Yuri never could look
at him when they did this. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
He still jerked away, just a little, when they kissed. It was new to them,
something Jean Jacques had started doing just last year at Worlds in Madrid,
when the pressure of winning gold and marrying Isabella was turning into a
repeat of Barcelona. He managed to do both, and so he kept kissing Yuri. It was
one of his favorite things to do.
His lips were never soft, almost always they were chapped, like Jean Jacques’.
The ice did that. But wet tongues and open mouths fixed everything. Yuri sighed
into the kiss and let Jean Jacques pull him down on the bed, and hold him. He
was still so much smaller than Jean Jacques, but not delicate - no - strong,
and he grabbed at his hair, his arms, his back and demanded.
Jean Jacques liked that. ”Mon chaton, tell me what you want.”
“Don’t make me say it, you ass!”
Jean Jacques wished he could bite his neck, mark him up, and claim him. Because
Yuri was his, right now. ”Tu es à moi. Mon chaton.” He breathed this into his
ear and nipped his lobe. “Say it, the way you know want to say it for me.”
He moaned and Jean Jacques laughed because Québécois always did this to him.
“Don't make me…” But he would. He had to, because he wanted to, despite
everything that told him not to. Just like Jean Jacques, those things just made
him want to, even more. “Jeh Jeh…” Yuri wiggled against his hand as Jean
Jacques teased him with the slightest ghost of a touch along his inner thigh.
“Oh, fuck you Jeh Jeh - “
“Say it, chaton. What you want. Out loud. And don't use that name.” Not JJ. JJ
was for the ice. There was no King JJ, here.
“I want you to touch me and fuck me, okay? With a please?” It came out in a
delicious, desperate rush. Yuri still wouldn't look at him, even when Jean
Jacques held his chin and made Yuri face him.
“Please, what?” He needed to hear it.
He whispered.
“Look at me when you say it.” Look, because heaven wasn't looking.
And he did. His eyes were wide, so wide, and Jean Jacques could see everything
in those eyes. “Please, Daddy?” All the raging, needy insanity Jean Jacques
could never show. He wanted to see it. Had to see it. Yuri growled. “Daddy…”
It was like pinning down a hellcat. Yuri bit and scratched and wrapped his arms
and legs around him and bucked against his body. “That's it, Chaton. That's it…
show me who you really are.” There was more lube on the sheets than his
fingers. Yuri grabbed his hand and shoved Jean Jacques’ two fingers in, fast,
hard, and angels would have wept if they saw the way Yuri moaned and ground and
cursed in Russian as Jean Jacques finger fucked him. “You're a dirty little
kitty, aren't you?” Jean Jacques propped his ankles over his shoulders and
smacked his ass. “Dirty little kitty needs his Daddy to fuck him. Right…
there.”
“Hurry up! Damn it!”
Jean Jacques twisted his wrist and worked him, pumped him, slapped his hand
away - because the only person who was going to touch Yuri right now was him.
“Mine!” He meant it. All of him. All the fear he was afraid to feel, all the
anger he could never express, all the desire he could never have - he wanted it
from Yuri.
And when he held him tight, when he took his mouth, and fucked so deep and hard
inside him, the devoured it all until Yuri threw his head back and wailed:
”Fuck me Daddy! Oh, god! Keep fucking me!”
++
Otabek is tired. “Why don't we just go to bed?” Yuri knows he's going to be
gone by the time he wakes up in their hotel room, probably swimming laps in the
hotel pool and working out whatever he's got rolling around in his head after
the drama known as JJ’s Wedding.
He knows. Of course he knows. Otabek isn't an idiot. He knows and he says
nothing, just like he says nothing when Yuri refuses to call Otabek his
boyfriend. He silently suffers through Yuri’s thoughtlessness with a leather
jacket shrug.
“I can't believe Viktor.” Yuri still hasn't touched his steak. It's cold and
the potatoes are a waste. There is nothing worse than cold fried potatoes. “Why
did you pay? You know he probably pocketed some of your money.”
Otabek is already in his shorts and he falls into the bed. “I don't care.”
Yuri rolls his eyes. “But I care. He takes advantage of you.” He takes
advantage of everyone. Yuri hates that.
Otabek holds out his hand. “I don't want to talk about Nikiforov or LeRoy. Just
come here.”
“Who's talking about him?” He can't say his name. Not with Otabek. “I'm talking
about that old man. Fuck him and his farting ass.”
Otabek drops his hand.
“I mean… he's so annoying. He acts like his relationship is so perfect, right?
Like he doesn't spend every June in Chris’ little chalot while Katsudon sits in
Hatsetsu babysitting his dog while he fucks that pervert.”
Otabek groans into his pillow.
“And he's such a jerk! Did you see him give that speech today? Like he was the
best man? And all he could talk about was that Love and Life shit, like he
invented them?” Yuri dumps his fries in the trash. The streak falls in, too.
Fuck! At least he has his cheesecake. Still! “Fuck!”
“Are you coming to bed or not?”
Yuri flaps his arms. He's hungry and he's pissed and he's going to get fucking
wasted on about five or six or seven of those little vodka bottles in the
minibar before he even lets himself lay down. “I really, really wish he'd drop
dead. I mean it. Dead.”
He really, really wishes he wasn't here. That he didn't see that ceremony. That
he didn't have to stand next to Otabek while he watched - he watched - he
watched -
No. It was no big deal. It was just some stupid religious nonsense. It wasn't
changing anything, not that it even mattered. Because it didn't. That wasn't
why he wanted to drink.
Oh, fuck. This was that Grey Goose shit he always had when he and JJ -
“Don't drink, Yura.” Two warm hands are on his shoulders. Otabek, somehow
(how?) managed to surprise him. He's right behind him, kissing his neck. “You
don't need that.”
Yuri unscrews the top, but Otabek takes the bottle out of his hand and - holy
fuck! - throws it across the room. It's just plastic. It doesn't break. But
still.
Still.
“Beka?”
“When is it going to end?” His voice is soft. His voice is low. His voice is
angry.
Yuri swallows hard. “He's married.”
“Yeah.”
Yuri turns and sobs as Otabek wraps his arms around him. “I'm sorry, Beka! I'm
so sorry!”
“Shhh.” He kisses his hair, his eyes, his lips as he keeps sobbing. “I know.”
He knows. Even that - he knows. “It’s okay.”
He lays him down on the bed, kissing every part of him like he's something
precious, then bends his head, and his mouth is so warm. So wet and warm and
then he sucks - Yuri combs his fingers through his hair and keeps sobbing until
he comes, because he knows there is a room in this hotel, a room where he is
not, a room where he wants to be instead, and Otabek loves him anyway.
“It's okay, Yura.”
Yuri curls into his arms and wishes Otabek hated him, instead. “No, it's not.”
++
He turned her over and pretended it was Yuri. He couldn't help it; it was the
only way he could make himself get hard. He didn't even come. He got off of her
the moment she was finished because she was too round, too soft, too sweet. He
needed fire and rage.
He needed Yuri.
“You okay, babe?” She couldn't see him in the dark, but she had to know he
didn't come. They'd been together long enough.
He sighed. “Sorry, I just - I don't want to hurt you.” He lied. He lies all the
time and he tells himself it is to protect her. But she knew he was lying, now.
She knew because he can barely bring himself to touch her, anymore.
“The doctor said it's alright.” She put his hand on her belly. “You won't hurt
the baby.”
He did his duty, he made a child - a son - who would carry on the family name,
gave his wife a home, and yet he felt as if he had done everything wrong. This
was what the Church commanded her flock to do, to live this life as god
intended, despite any sin they might commit. God forgave him every time he
sinnned, because God was perfectly merciful. Jean Jacques closed his eyes. That
mercy gave him no peace. He needed something else. Someone else. Someone angry,
someone crazy, someone who made those things beautiful.
There was always next season.
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