Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10589637.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin_&_Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin
  Additional Tags:
      Aged-Up_Characters, Welcome_to_the_Madness_skate_program, Post-Canon,
      Blowjobs, Canon_alteration, Teasing
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-04-10 Words: 2839
****** recollect me, darling ******
by harlequindreaming
Summary
     To Otabek Altin, Yuri Plisetsky is many things -- strong, beautiful,
     steely. Dangerous. When Yuri performs his exhibition skate after the
     Grand Prix, however, Otabek finds he's underestimated Yuri. This boy
     is a force in himself, and Otabek's pretty far gone.
Notes
     What's a summary lol.
     Basically the Yuri!!! On Ice team released a thirty second teaser
     clip of Yuri Plisetsky’s hot mess of an exhibition skate, I
     subsequently died, and resurrected to drop this on Ao3. Because yes,
     this is what I’m breaking my fanfic drought with.
     The title is from Inertia Creeps by Massive Attack, which I 100% want
     Yura to skate to at some point.
     (Whispers we are pretending Yuri is sixteen.)(Practice safe sex,
     folks. Fanfic is not reflective of reality.)
     hit me up on twitter at @okw_tr and tumblr at plstskys!!
===============================================================================
 
 
To Otabek Altin, Yuri Plisetsky is many things.
Yuri Plisetsky has the eyes of a soldier;Yuri is strong, a force in and of
himself. Yuri has storms at the tips of his fingers, the blades of his skates.
His beauty and grace are crushing in their intensity. He flows like molten
steel on the ice.
Yuri is an enigma. Otabek has long grown used to the different ways he treats
people; his anger towards JJ, his resentful admiration of Viktor, his brash
regard for Katsuki. And then he turns and that dazzling smile is directed at
Otabek as he pulls Otabek down the street towards this café, as he asks about
Kazakhstan and Canada and America. For all the sternness of Otabek’s
expression, he doesn’t feel nearly as complex and inexplicable as this boy he’s
befriended.
Yuri is bright, and surprisingly childish, and quick to insecurity. He is
exceedingly competitive and uncertainly affectionate.
And, Otabek realizes as he watches that same boy step out onto the ice, Yuri is
dangerous.
Yuri Plisetsky is a hurricane, and Otabek is quite frankly ruined.
 
His eyes are drawn first to the shades, because he distinctly remembers Yuri
jeering JJ for wearing sunglasses on his head, indoors. Then his gaze flicks to
the hair, his fringe pulled back in a half-ponytail, making him look older,
harsher. The purple jacket is extremely Yuri,and the shirt—
Otabek inhales sharply. He knows that shirt.
He stands rooted to the ice (where Yuri had told him to stand at the beginning
of the routine), staring, staring,as Yuri lithely shrugs out of that blazer to
reveal a ripped black singlet underneath and that is Otabek’s shirt.
It’s big on Yuri, as is any piece of clothing that Otabek owns. The fabric
pools around Yuri’s hips, which are clad in the tightest material Otabek has
ever seen, and Otabek is desperately trying to keep his eyes at a more
respectable level. Yuri tosses the blazer away carelessly, jumping right into a
quad toe loop, stealing Otabek’s breath away with every flick of his arms,
every bend of his body. And Otabek is sincerely regretting that he’d agreed to
Yuri’s request that Otabek promise not to touch him for the entire day, because
the curve of Yuri’s spine through the cutouts of the shirt is driving Otabek
mad.
His hands twitch at his sides. His throat is dry. And Yuri Plisetsky, enigmatic
and beautiful and dangerous,slides down to his knees and lifts his body into
the most obscene arch, from which Otabek cannot look away. Yuri’s head is
angled back, baring his throat, his torso one long line from the cant of his
hips to the tip of his chin.
Otabek swallows once, twice, and remembers – Yuri coming up to him, right after
his own routine had finished, leaning in close and mischievous. One hand
resting lightly on Otabek’s chest, thumb stroking in tiny circles. One
sentence, low and whispered, with a heat he hadn’t known Yuri was capable of.
Don’t you fucking dare look away from me.
As if he could. As Yuri opens his eyes to stare at Otabek dead-on, lips parted
and chest heaving, Otabek raises his hands in a little shooting gesture as he’d
been asked. He wouldn’t tear his gaze away even if his life depended on it.
This is not Katsuki Yuuri’s eros,not Christophe Giacometti’s sensuality. This
is filthy, and ruthless, and hot.Yuri bites his lip and Otabek flinches, feels
something white-hot under his skin. Yuri leans back in a perfect cambré,baring
his throat again, and Otabek cannot breathe.
Otabek wants.
Yuri meets his eyes at the end of the routine, chest heaving and hair a mess.
There is a storm in his eyes; look at me.
Otabek realizes two things: he has severely underestimated Yuri Plisetsky, and
he is in for trouble tonight.
 
Later, at the exhibition after-party, Otabek realizes one more thing: Yuri is
infuriating as all hell.
Otabek stillcannot touch him. Yuri hovers close, so close, and Otabek can feel
the heat off his skin. He’s still wearing that singlet over a new and equally
indecent pair of black pants. Yuri doesn’t shy away from contact with other
people, suffering Katsuki’s scandalized flailing and Viktor’s overbearing hugs
and even Chris’s arm around his waist. He meets Otabek’s eyes over his glass of
cider and there’s a tease there, a challenge. Otabek grips his glass of
champagne harder and forces air into his lungs.
He lets himself be distracted by Viktor’s loud begging for Katsuki to dance
with him, but he can feel the weight of a gaze on him. It’s almost tangible.
Then there’s a touch, a light graze of fingers to his hip, but before Otabek
can react Yuri is with his rinkmates. Over her own glass, Mila smirks at
Otabek, leaning in to whisper something in Yuri’s ear.
The gestures pile up. A tap to his wrist. A brush of the shoulder. A hand on
the small of his back. Yuri’s gaze on Otabek’s lips, his chest, his throat.
Yuri biting on his lip, running his tongue over a stray drop of cider. Yuri
touching people who are not Otabek.
Look at me.
Otabek gives easily enough; it is nothing he doesn’t want. His gaze darkens
when other people touch Yuri. His eyes follow the sway of those hips, the lean
of Yuri’s neck. He breathes heavy, deliberate; the tension in his shoulders is
unhidden. He watches Yuri drink in this adoration that borders on eye-fucking,
knows Yuri is heady with it.
He lets Yuri read it, openly, that he wants.
Yuri licks crumbs off his fingers and smirks.
 
When Yuri finally makes his excuses to leave, Otabek is ready to just chuck
everything and drag him into the nearest enclosed space.
There’s a light flush on Yuri’s skin, a sheen of sweat. The overhead lights of
the hotel corridors throw shadows onto his collarbone, his neck, his back.
Otabek watches Yuri’s muscles shift under the shirt, follows a bead of sweat
down the dip of his spine.
He reaches out without thinking, and Yuri neatly catches his wrist. The young
Russia skater clicks his tongue, glancing at Otabek in mock-disapproval.
Those slender fingers are fire on his skin, and Otabek could beg for more.
Yuri turns to face him completely, looking up at him with a taunt and a
promise, and leads them in the last few steps to Otabek’s hotel room.
The heat is pooling in Otabek’s body.
The door clicks shut, and Yuri lets go. Otabek chases the contact, reaching,
but Yuri steps lightly away and wags a finger at him.
“Not yet, Beka,” he says teasingly, even as he beckons Otabek further into the
room. “Sit,” he orders, pointing to the newly-made bed. The crisply-laid sheets
make Otabek want to pull Yuri down to make a mess.
Otabek sits.
Yuri comes in close, brushes his hands through Otabek’s hair. The Kazakh skater
clenches his fists in the covers; his exhales come through his mouth, eyes
flicking all over Yuri’s body. There’s a smirk pulling at the corner of Yuri’s
lips as he leans down, right by the shell of Otabek’s ears.
“Watch,” he breathes out, and it almost rips a groan from Otabek’s throat.
He’s promised, so he holds back, fighting to control his breathing as he
watches Yuri step back, lick his lips, sway his body. Yuri drags his hands down
the singlet, tugging the fabric to expose more skin. In one smooth and
unexpected motion, he drops to his knees, lifting back into that shameless arch
as his hands push down to the waistband of his pants.
“Yura.” When Otabek finally speaks, it’s hoarse and pleading. Yuri bares his
teeth in a grin while his fingers slowly, deftly unbutton his pants. The sound
of the zipper is loud in the room where the only other noise is Otabek’s
breathing.
Yuri lifts himself back up on his knees, fingers teasing under fabric. He
pushes the pants down little by little, until Otabek can see the little
strawberry birthmark in the divot of his left hip. Then he stands, shucking off
his pants, left in nothing but black boxers and that damn singlet and Otabek
cannot remember how to breathe. Cannot think of anything except want, want,
want.
With a flick of his finger, Yuri gestures for Otabek to move further up the
bed. He complies without hesitation. And without breaking eye contact, Yuri
leans down and crawls up the bed after Otabek until their faces are inches
apart and he’s practically straddling Otabek’s lap.
Otabek thinks he might rip the sheets with how hard he’s holding them.
“Were you watching?” Yuri asks softly, as he starts to unbutton Otabek’s shirt.
“Yes,” Otabek breathes in immediate reply.
The smirk returns. “Did you enjoy it?” Light fingers push the sleeves down over
Otabek’s shoulders; he shrugs out of his shirt as fast as possible.
“Yes.”
Yuri’s index finger traces a long line from the dip in Otabek’s collar to where
a trail of dark hair starts to disappear into his pants; Otabek’s skin burns in
its wake. This is torture, and it is exquisite.
Yuri leans in closer and murmurs his words along the cut of Otabek’s jaw.
“Do you want me?”
“Yes.”
Yuri’s fingers play along his hips and Otabek is going to spontaneously
combust.
“Yura,” he says again, brokenly, when Yuri does nothing but press his face into
the curve of Otabek’s neck and skim his palms down Otabek’s thighs. His chest
is heaving; he feels dizzy. He’s never been so turned on in his life.
“Yura, please.”
Yuri kisses him.
 
Everything he can reach, he touches. Palms splayed across Yuri’s back; teeth
dragging down his neck. Hips pressed against each other’s, hot and heavy. Yuri
threads his fingers through Otabek’s hair and pulls, scrapes lightly at the
nape of his neck. Otabek groans against the dip of Yuri’s shoulder.
“You,” Otabek mutters into Yuri’s waist, where he’s sucked an angry red mark
through the gaping arm hole of the singlet, “are extremely unfair.”
“Look who’s talking,” Yuri bites back, although it’s ruined by the hitch in his
voice.
Otabek lies back on the pillows, pulls Yuri on top of him, a delicious and
promising weight. They kiss and they kiss, open-mouthed and needy. Yuri rocks
his hips in small motions, pressing harder and harder into Otabek. There’s a
pretty red blush over Yuri’s chest, his cheeks. It makes Otabek want to consume
him.
“Beka.” Yuri gasps his name between kisses, and Otabek answers by biting more
marks onto his skin where people won’t see (but they both will know). “Fuck,
Beka—”
Otabek growls, fingers digging into Yuri’s hips, pulling harder. They keep
kissing, messier now, and Otabek keeps pulling away to kiss as much of Yuri as
he can reach. His hands move, sweep over thighs and calves and bruised feet.
“I’m going to blow you,” he states with as much composure as he can muster.
Yuri moans into his shoulder.
With great reluctance, Otabek slides Yuri off his lap. The boxers come off
while Otabek divests himself of his pants. When Yuri makes to take off the
singlet, Otabek stops him.
“Keep it on,” he says, his expression dark. Yuri inhales sharply, but complies.
He lies back, near the foot of the bed; Otabek drinks in the sight of those
lithe limbs spread out. He wants.
(Look at me.)
He starts with Yuri’s ankles, little kisses to the bone, hands curled
reverently around the joint. Up the calves, index finger drawing circles on the
backs of his knees. The insides of Yuri’s thighs become littered with small red
marks soothed by the press of lips, until Yuri is writhing and panting, the
singlet riding up his body like it had during his skate program.
Otabek worships this boy, his strength and his beauty and his steel.
“Beka,” Yuri whines, reaching down to tug at Otabek’s hair again. The Kazakh
skater smirks against the crease of Yuri’s thigh, drags his tongue over skin.
He hitches Yuri’s legs over his shoulders, and heels dig into his back in a
silent demand.
“So impatient,” he teases, biting at the soft skin of Yuri’s inner thigh. But
he complies. After not being able to touch Yuri the entire day, he would rather
not wait either. So he sinks down, takes Yuri in his mouth, ruins him with his
tongue and with the hollowing of his cheeks. His hands press Yuri down onto the
bed as he sucks, licks, hums. He flicks at the slit and Yuri muffles a cry with
one hand, the other still pulling desperately at Otabek’s hair. And Otabek
drinks it all in, the weight and scent of Yuri around him, the taste of his
cock. He inhales and goes down, down, until the tip is pressing at his throat
and Yuri is keening.
Then he pulls off, mouths down the length, and keeps going. His hands slide
under Yuri’s ass, grabbing two handfuls and lifting up.
“Beka—”
Otabek drags the flat of his tongue up the crease of Yuri’s ass and Yuri loses
it.
Otabek is neither skilled nor experienced, but he makes up for it with
enthusiasm and acute attention to what makes Yuri squirm and moan. He
alternates between eating Yuri out and lapping at his cock until Yuri is a
quivering, aching mess, hand clenched almost painfully in Otabek’s hair and
hips twisting frantically.
“Beka – hng– B-Beka, I’m going to – Beka–”
Otabek pulls up to fumble around the bedside table for the small bottle of lube
he’d been using the other day to help jack himself off, letting Yuri catch his
breath. Then he is back on Yuri, relentless, sinking back down onto his cock
and moaning around it. One finger gently, carefully, circles Yuri’s entrance.
He presses lightly, easing into tight heat (and he imagines it around other
parts of his body, but that is not for tonight—), allowing Yuri to adjust. And
then he starts to crook his finger, moving it back and forth, curling, until—
Yuri’s hips jolt as he screams into the palm pressed desperately against his
mouth, and he comes inside Otabek’s mouth. The singlet has scrunched up by his
armpits and is damp with sweat; his hair is plastered to his forehead. One leg
has slipped off Otabek’s shoulder. He looks like an absolute mess.
He looks beautiful and ruined.
Otabek swallows as best as he can, pulling off Yuri with a wet pop.He reaches
for the lube again, slicks up his hand, and jerks himself off with his cheek
pressed into the inside of Yuri’s thigh. He’s so aroused that it only takes a
few strokes for him to come as well, spilling into his palm.
“Yura,” he groans, hand tightening around Yuri’s hip. In response, Yuri weakly
cards his fingers through Otabek’s hair, murmuring something Otabek cannot
hear.
They lie there for a few moments to catch their breath, Yuri splayed out on the
sheets and Otabek between his legs. Eventually, Otabek presses a reverent kiss
to Yuri’s stomach, then up on his chest.
“You were amazing out there,” he says honestly, looking Yuri in the eye. Yuri’s
gaze moves a little to the left, teeth worrying his lip in embarrassment.
“Look who’s talking,” he grumbles in response, and he looks so shy that Otabek
laughs.
“Yura,” he says again, just because he can, and he leans down to kiss Yuri.
There is no heat this time, and Otabek rolls them so they are both on their
sides. They kiss lazily, pressed against each other; Otabek skims his palm down
the curve of Yuri’s side, around to his back.
Yuri Plisetsky is still a hurricane, a force on the ice, but in bed like this
Otabek thinks he’s more like a lazy cat. After they’ve cleaned up themselves
and the bed, they settle in for the evening, ordering room service and
connecting Otabek’s laptop to the television. Yuri is in another of Otabek’s
shirts, though one much less revealing this time.
“By the way,” Otabek says halfway through their movie, “why did you settle for
this theme for your exhibition program?”
Yuri looks up at him with a mouthful of pirozhki. Otabek figures that’s a
counter-question.
“Well.” Otabek taps his finger on his knee. “Your short program was about
agape,and your free skate was about strength. This was very – different.”
There’s a pause, in which Yuri chews very slowly and Otabek looks at him
expectantly. Yuri picks at the crust of the pirozhki, littering crumbs on the
sheet.
“Because.” There’s another pause, and then Yuri huffs. “Because,” he says with
finality.
(The entire program had been very Yura, truthfully; Otabek is just curious.)
Yuri eventually drifts off first, exhausted, slumped against Otabek and
drooling slightly. Smiling softly, Otabek shifts him to a more comfortable
position and turns off the movie. Then he, too, slides under the covers beside
Yuri to sleep.
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