Chapter Text
Yuri takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. When that doesn’t help, he tries to convince himself that he has no nerves to calm, but he’s just not persuasive enough for that to work either. He’s just anxious as hell and, really, he kind of knows that he should be. This is big. This is important. This is something he’s never done before.
“Are you nervous?” asks Otabek, sitting down on the edge of the bed, next to him.
It takes a second for him to reply, a second in which he decides he shouldn’t lie to Otabek. “Yeah, but… I want to do it.”
“All right.”
Then there is silence, silence so harsh and thick that the ceiling fan’s blades can barely cut through it. Three weeks of having Otabek in Saint Petersburg with him seems like a good long time, but time spent well is always time spent fast. He’ll be back in Almaty in less than a week, the off-season will flick on like a switch, and the power to be together in person will get quite out of their hands for much longer than either of them likes. There’s just not enough chances, not enough time.
“Beka, you want to too, right?”
“Yeah, I do.”
Yuri catches sight of those dark eyes looking at him and has to look away. He’s staring down so intently that he doesn’t realize Otabek’s reaching out to him until he feels his hand on his cheek, an enticing thumb just near the corner of his mouth, the gentlest motion to bring them back face to face. It’s such a mushy gesture that Yuri doesn’t know if he should kiss or punch his stupid beautiful face. Luckily, Otabek acts before Yuri has any chance to, and presses his lips against Yuri’s. He closes his eyes, giving himself a moment to soak in the wonderful warmth of Otabek’s mouth and just enjoy the moment, then raises his outstretched arm, phone in hand. The camera clicks.
Their mouths part away, and they both look at the picture. Yuri took it from an angle slightly over Otabek’s shoulder, so while you can’t actually see their lips lock, it’s obvious to anyone that they’re kissing. Yuri’s free hand is just visible, his fingers combed into the longer hairs of Otabek’s undercut – he didn’t even realize he had done that, but it looks pretty good, he admits to himself. Besides that, the rosiness of Yuri’s face is prominent, but what draws his own attention is the slight flush in Otabek’s cheek. His eyes shift from the boy on the screen to the boy in the flesh and, yes, that flush is still there.
“I’m impressed you took this with your eyes closed.”
“I’m good, right?” Yuri grins, then starts tapping on the keyboard, excitement now more than anxiety making his hands shaky. Nevertheless, he writes what he wants written, shuffles through a few filters before finding the right one, breathes deeply again (it works a bit better this time), and looks back at Otabek. “Ready?”
“Go for it.”
He taps to post it, the page takes a second to load, and then it’s done. This won’t be a surprise to some people – Yuri’s dedushka and Otabek’s parents, nosy but otherwise tight lipped Victor and Katsudon, and suspicious fans – but now, after nearly two years of trying to keep it to themselves, the world knows.
this man is MINE @otabek-altin #myboyfriend, the words below the photo reads.
It’s liberating. It’s exhilarating. It’s a little terrifying. This intimate part of both their lives, private until now, or at least as private as anything that two people in the public eye do can be, had been set free and could never be reined back in. Certainly by now someone from the other side of the globe had already shared it with someone back on this side of the globe. How will people react? Would they be happy for him? Will they go nuts for some fresh ,celebrity dirt? Will the Yuri’s Angels (the ones who haven’t figured it out already, anyway) start screaming at Otabek online for stealing Yuri away, not knowing that social media-abstaining Otabek would probably never see any of it? Would Otabek’s fangirls scream at Yuri online, only abstaining from shooting back a “Yep. Hands off, bitch” for Otabek’s sake? Would Yakov chew him out for posting something like that? (It’s not that suggestive. Pretty innocent actually, he thinks) Would that asshole Victor, no longer sworn to secrecy, make every post he makes about how cute they are, and what a good influence Otabek is for Yuri, and how much he’s looking forward to the wedding, the shithead.
Whatever they think about it, with each passing second, more people would know that Otabek Altin was his. All his.
Holy shit, this is one hell of a rush.
“How are you feeling, Yura?”
“Kinda horny.” He puts his phone on the bedside table, his hands shaky from excitement. “Really horny, actually.”
Otabek raises his eyebrows just barely from where they naturally rest on his brow, in that way that somehow expresses both surprise and no surprise at all. “Hm” is the only sound close to a word he makes. Overall, an underwhelming reaction.
“Really?” says Yuri. “Got nothing to say to that?”
“No,” he responds bluntly. “Not really.”
Before Yuri can call him an asshole, Otabek kisses him, muffling what there was of the first syllable. It’s not like the kiss they had for the camera, that’s obvious at once. It’s hungry and hot, tongues and saliva, the kind of kiss that belongs only in the bedroom, the kind of kiss that doesn’t stay just a kiss.
They part for a breath. Yuri catches Otabek’s lower lip between his teeth, keeping them connected just a second longer, before he slips free.
“Asshole,” Yuri huffs, forcing the word out so Otabek feels it against his face.
Otabek laughs softly at Yuri’s oddly endearing term of endearment. And, really, laughter from Otabek is such a rare privilege that it’s almost more intimate for Yuri than having the man’s tongue practically down his throat. Even besides that, it just sounds so good. It makes him weak. Weak and hard.
“Ugh, just shut up and get naked.” Yuri, the kind and benevolent soul that he is, begins to help Otabek out of his jacket. Why is he still wearing this thing, anyway? Can he not feel how insanely hot it is in here?
“So do you want me to say something, or to shut up?”
Otabek’s messing with him, but at least he seems to have understood the “get naked” part, since he’s pulling his shirt off over his head. Yuri gets a good glimpse of his bare abs before following suit himself, and then he’s back in Otabek’s arms, skin against skin and mouth against mouth. Yuri feels a hand slip down past his waistband and around his cock, and feels his skin prickle in response. Kisses punctuate their sentences, and interrupt them.
“You’re already pretty hard, Yura,” Otabek comments, fondling him at his leisure.
“Duh. I already told you I’m horny.” Yuri gropes him back, from the outside of Otabek’s jeans because the waistband’s too stiff for him to just shove his way in like he did. He’s not as hard as Yuri is, but he’s well on his way there.
“Isn’t it uncomfortable,” Yuri begins to ask, pausing to swallow the pathetic little sound Otabek’s roving palm nearly wrings out of him, “keeping your dick like that in those pants?”
A couple seconds later he thinks of adding “when it could be in my ass instead” to the question, but he’s already lost his chance to say it. He’s pissed about it. He nips at Otabek’s lip again because he’s pissed about it. He gets significantly less pissed about it once Otabek guides him down onto the bed. He takes hold of Yuri’s pants and tugs them down, along with his underwear, working with Yuri’s wriggling to get them off with minimal effort. Yuri kicks them aside sets his fingers on Otabek’s buttons and zippers to likewise free him, and he’s just on the cusp of pulling his pants south of his hips…
… when the grating sound of his phone vibrating against the wooden table suddenly fills his ears, and his hand desperately darts out on cue to grab it. But before he can get it in his grasp, Otabek gets his wrist in his grasp, pinning his arm down against the mattress.
“I’m muting this entirely,” says Otabek, crossing over with his free hand to grab Yuri’s phone to do as he declares, eluding Yuri’s attempts to reclaim his property.
“What the hell, Beka?” Yuri tries to swipe at it again, and fails again. “Just let me check it.” After all, it’s probably about the photo he posted. No, it definitely is.
“You can check later.” Otabek puts the phone back on the table, then looks down and keeps looking down at Yuri with those dark eyes of his. “Right now, you’re mine.”
Fucking Otabek Altin. For being such a man of few words, he sure knows which ones go straight to Yuri’s dick, reminding him of the much more pressing issue at hand. Speaking of dicks, pressing and hands, Otabek managed to distract him enough with his deliciously suggestive gaze and voice to slip his dick out of his pants, press it against Yuri’s, and grasp them together in his hands. He gives them both a lazy but firm stroke, just enough to force Yuri to inhale.
“Can I trust you?” Otabek asks, giving Yuri’s still-trapped wrist a small squeeze to clarify the question. It is, in full, “If I let you loose, can I trust you not to act like someone who’s been frozen for a thousand years and REALLY needs to see what everyone’s been up to?”
Yuri looks at the strong hand forcing his own down, catching a glimpse of his phone, then looks at Otabek’s other hand, fingers tight around the pre-cum streaked heads of their cocks. The phone is shamefully tempting, he can admit to himself, but the winner here is clear.
“Y-Yeah,” Yuri answers, behaving himself as promised when his wrist is released. Otabek wasn’t being unduly rough with, but there’s still a slight throb when his hand moves away, felt more in the absence than the presence. On second thought, maybe he wouldn’t have minded if he’d been kept pinned down like that.
“Do you want lube for this?”
Yuri, sidetracked by his own contemplation, almost misses the question entirely, but does manage to catch the word “lube” and piece it together well enough. He shakes his head. “Nah, this is fine.”
Yuri remembers it fairly well, how the first time they tried this out went. Yuri was still 17 at the time, high as a kite off of winning his first gold medal at Worlds and eager to try something new with his boyfriend to celebrate. Otabek generously provided the idea and a three-ounce bottle of water-based “personal” lubricant, artificially flavoured and scented with raspberry and pomegranate. Yuri didn’t bother questioning the choice. Once they got down to business, Otabek, who later admitted how nervous he was about making sure it felt good for Yuri, poured out what seemed like the whole damn bottle on their crotches. Seriously, Yuri swore that he, or at least part of him, smelled like the stuff for weeks. In the end, the result was a comically slippery mess, the action of which lasted between thirty (Otabek) and thirty-four (Yuri) seconds. It was still pretty good.
Now it’s better. Much, much better. He prefers it with lube for the most part, but sometimes Yuri craves this friction of just skin against skin, the slower grind that becomes necessary in its absence. Otabek leans down to kiss him, pushing their chests together, rolling his hips in tandem with his fist, getting firmer and just a bit faster with each thrust. They breathe moans into each others’ mouths, Otabek’s delicious growls escaping as their kisses get clumsier. Everything about this is better now, not least of all that Yuri can last long enough to enjoy it.
Shit, even so, he’s close. Part of him wants it, the fast and suspense-free orgasm he’d get right now rubbing against Otabek, part of him just wants to let himself come undone right now. But there’s also the small but very adamant voice in his skull screaming the virtues of delayed gratification over it all, reminding him how much damn better it’d feel if he could just hold out a little longer. And the little fucker is right, he knows. Almost begrudgingly, because he’s literally a stroke or two away from bursting, he breaks away to speak.
“W-Wait, Beka, wait,” he pleads, with it coming off as pleading more than intended. Otabek stills himself, loosening his grip. Yuri exhales, both in relief and the lack of it.
Otabek nuzzles absentmindedly against his cheek, leaving behind the welcome sting of day-old stubble. He hadn’t bothered shaving this morning. “Had enough?”
“Of the warmup. yeah.” He positions his hands on Otabek’s chest and shoves him off to the side, immediately feeling it in his arms. Yuri may have gained an inch or two on his boyfriend’s height since their relationship began, but their overall physiques have remained fairly constant. True, Otabek’s broad frame and the bulkiness of his muscles does things to Yuri; it just also makes him hard to push around.
“How do you want to—“ Before Otabek can finish the question, Yuri flips himself over, wraps his arms around one of the pillows, and lifts his hips off the mattress. “Ah. All right.”
From behind him, Yuri can hear the rustle of denim – so he’s finally, actually taking his pants off – and then the conspicuous pop of the bottle of lube opening.
“We’ll need to pick up more soon,” Otabek says casually, as if they’ve run out of eggs or milk.
“This is not the time for shopping lists, Ota—nn.”
His boyfriend’s slippery fingertips are against his hole, tracing circles while his other hand keeps Yuri spread open, his thumbnail digging into one ass cheek. Otabek knows just how long to taunt him like this – the jerk – before carefully sliding in a single finger, taking his damn sweet time before adding a second. Yuri huffs into his pillow.
“I don’t need all this prep.” Not after getting plowed into the bed on a daily basis after those first few gentler and more restrained reunion sessions post-ride home from the airport. “Just do it already.”
Otabek makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, his fingers pumping and twisting steadily. “You’re so impatient.”
“Quit acting like you’re not dying to fuck this,” Yuri shoots back, with a not-at-all subtle wriggling of his hips. Yuri’s not above playing the “just look at my perfect butt” card to get what he wants in bed. If anything, he’s been conditioned to – it always works.
Otabek withdraws his fingers and uses them instead to tear open a condom, the sound of which is enough to make every hair on Yuri’s body stand on end in anticipation. And it doesn’t disappoint. Slicked up, Otabek slips in with little resistance, filling Yuri so perfectly that he swears this Kazakh cock must have been made just for his Russian ass. And if he wasn’t already convinced of this, he would be by the time Otabek positions himself at just the right angle to rub against Yuri’s already roused prostate in just the right way. After a few thrusts he can’t even handle it. His knees give out and he melts into a prone puddle moaning into his pillow.
“Doing okay?” Otabek asks, his voice noticeably pleasure-strained, even with so few syllables to be affected.
“Mm-hm!” The same can be said for Yuri, even without words.
That’s when Otabek sinks down, bringing down the whole of his weight against Yuri’s supine form, locking him in between the mattress and skin hot with sweat, trapped and vulnerable and ecstatic. It doesn’t take long for Otabek to find his bearings again, to find the rhythm that lets his attention wander elsewhere, into the crook of Yuri’s shoulder or the nape of his neck, hair swept away to give his lips unimpeded contact with nerves eager for it. The loud, wet slap of skin against skin mingles with grunts and groans and names and swears, creating the delightfully obscene soundtrack to the performance. Yuri yearns for this part, when sensation overcomes thought, when he shifts from thinking human to feeling animal, when nothing else matters and nothing else exists but the pleasure he’s being given.
“Beka, Beka, Beka,” he repeats mindlessly, like it’s the only word he knows anymore, his mouth half-covered by pillowcase, his strangled voice urging Otabek to hold nothing back. And he doesn’t.
Yuri’s climax hits him hard, electric tendrils needling into his every muscle, making his whole body shake beneath Otabek’s. It’s not long before he can feel the cock inside him pulsing, the mouth at his ear forcing out shaky grunts, the boy against his back going slack and heavy in his exhaustion.
How many times would they have to do this for Yuri to get tired of it? Never. Never’s the answer, he’s sure.
Yuri whimpers when Otabek, still more-or-less hard, slides himself out from extremely sensitive flesh. “Sorry,” he whispers, briefly kissing the spot where Yuri’s earlobe and neck meet. “Good?”
Yuri sighs and licks his too-dry lips. “Gold medal good.”
“That implies I have competition.”
“Then take the silver and bronze too. Just take it all.”
The hazy trip that always follows a good round in bed begins to make way for reality, specifically the reality that Yuri’s lying in what feels like an entire small lake of his own cum. Otabek’s already flipped over and started dealing with his own cleanup, so Yuri doesn’t have to try and shove him off again. Good, because he certainly doesn’t have the energy to. He lazily drags himself up onto his knees to survey the damage done to the blanket. It’s not quite a lake, but it’s still an impressive stain, a monument to Otabek’s hard work and well-utilized skill. In other words, it’s going into the laundry.
Otabek retrieves his clothes and excuses himself to wash up a bit more thoroughly. Yuri wipes off the mess that he got onto his abdomen, tosses the tissues in the trashcan, and bundles up the sullied blanket, leaving it on the floor to be dealt with later. Chores dealt with, Yuri flops onto his back, and the warm bed and his hormone-driven bliss nearly knock him out right then and there. Nearly.
But not with his phone right there.
Roused back into complete wakefulness, Yuri swipes his phone off of the table, steadying his hands enough to unlock it. Holy crap, that’s a lot of notifications. He has to check when he posted the photo to actually know how long Otabek kept him busy, and the amount of attention he’s reeled in seems even more ridiculous with how much ttime has actually passed. It may be partially because, as Yuri is quick to realize, Victor has apparently decided that a simple “like” and an exclamation-filled comment isn’t enough to demonstrate how happy he is for them. He’s taken it upon himself to share the photo with his added comment of “YOUNG LOVE~!!” several times across several social networks, including some that Yuri’s sure nobody’s touched in years, leaving a trail of heart emojis in his reposting wake. It’s kinda creepy. No, it’s extremely creepy, but it’s at least seemed to have gotten the photo more attention than it would have otherwise. Yuri tries not to think too hard about how inexplicably invested Victor Nikiforov is in his love life, and scrolls down.
The reactions seem pretty positive, lots of stuff about how good they look together (duh), more than one comment about how their babies would be amazing (duh, but…), and one guy going on about how they’re almost as cute as his wife and him (ugh, he thought he blocked JJ). At some point, someone started commenting with #powercouple, a hashtag that his fans seemed to quickly gets fond of, and one that makes his grin a bit bigger every time he sees it. He’s definitely stealing that for future selfies with Otabek.
Yuri’s thumb barrels through mountains of similar responses, not giving any of them more than a quick glance, when something that doesn’t seem to automatically fall into any of the patterns catches his eye. He scrolls back up, having sped past it, and reads it fully:
so which one’s the girl?
In a bizarre moment of naiveté after having so many fuzzy warm reactions wash over him, he reacts with an audible “huh?”. He scrolls through the replies, many of which are just his own name, but several go beyond that.
lol do you really need to ask
Hey it says right there that otabek’s the man
It’s the hero of Kazakhstan and the Russian fairy, what do you think?
If you don’t think the fairy’s the one taking it up the ass you’re #delusional
i wish I was as pretty as @yuri-plisetsky so otabek would bend me over and make me his bitch #justsaying #sodreamy
“The fuck is this?” Yuri blurts out, his hand a vise around his phone.
“Did you say something?”
“Huh?” Yuri looks up and sees Otabek stepping out of the bathroom, his outfit back on and his hair combed back into place. You can’t even tell that he just had sex, unlike Yuri with his beet-red face, wind tunnel hair, and complete lack of clothes. “No… I didn’t say anything.”
“Hm. Must be hearing things.” Otabek absentmindedly scratches his ear and shrugs his shoulders then walks back over to the bed. “I guess people have seen it by now?”
Yuri flicks his thumb down, making the page speed away from those comments before Otabek gets any closer. “Yeah,” he says, “tons of ‘em.”
“How are they reacting?”
They think I’m your bitch, Yuri thinks, biting his tongue down to keep the thought locked up in his head. “We’re a power couple,” he says instead, with a smile. It’s forced, partly, and doesn’t stay around for long. Somehow it’s not resonating with him the same way it did a couple minutes ago.
“Is that so?” The subdued but definitely genuine smile on Otabek’s face tells Yuri, at least, that he’s not opposed to the title. “You can tell me more later,” he says, picking Yuri’s clothes up from the floor, avoiding the balled-up sheet as he goes to hand them to their rightful owner. “We’re running late.”
Trying to ignore how sore he is and why, Yuri gets dressed and makes himself presentable, slips on his shoes and grabs his backpack, shoves his phone into his jacket pocket, and he’s ready to go. They hurry out front to where Otabek has his rental Harley parked, strap on their helmets, and get going. Otabek drives; Yuri, of course, rides behind. When the engine roars to life and the wheels start turning, he instinctively wraps his arms around Otabek’s waist, pressing himself against his back.
Otabek’s learned the route to the rink well enough by now, so Yuri doesn’t have to pay attention to make sure they don’t end up on the other side of the city. He kind of wishes he had to give directions, at least to give him something to do instead of mentally rereading those bullshit comments over and over again. Is it really so unthinkable that Yuri Plisetsky could top Otabek Altin? For fuck’s sake, what would those shitheads say if they knew that he does top him?
Well, did.
Twice. Twice-ish.
Both-ish times over a year ago.
Then they switched.
And he’s been bottoming ever since.
“Tch,” he scoffs, the bike so loud that he can barely hear it himself, so it certainly doesn’t reach Otabek’s ears.
At the first red light, another motorcycle pulls up beside him. At the handlebars is a man with a leather jacket that looks surprisingly like the one Otabek has on, although Otabek looks leagues better in it, and behind him is a woman, her light blonde hair peeking out from under her helmet, her arms wrapped tight around the driver and her cheek smooshed against his shoulder. It’s not until she suddenly looks extremely uncomfortable that Yuri realizes not only that he’s been staring at her like a huge creep for this entire red light, but that he’s been staring right into a mirror.
Son of a bitch, he is the girl.