He was sweating under his jacket, sweating in a way that had nothing to do with the leather trapping in his body heat and everything to do with the scene in front of him -- with Yuri’s muscles peeking out of that torn t-shirt as he moves and stretches, as he beckons Otabek forward. And he goes without thinking, his hands seeking out the flesh that has been tantalizingly out of reach through the whole routine -- that has teased him as Yuri moved, danced and skated like sex on ice.
He had been hard in his jeans since he had snagged Yuri’s glove between his teeth, and it had been pure torture after -- watching, just watching and knowing he couldn’t touch. But now he could -- he could touch all he wanted, the tips of his fingers pushing through the rips in his shirt to find hard muscle beneath and Yuri moans, moans and asks for more and Otabek can’t deny him, won’t deny him anything.
There was a tangible feeling of danger that had surrounded Yuri on the ice, dirty and intriguing --
Yuri had skated like sex and violence and Otabek doesn’t think he’s ever been so turned on in his life.
His hand skims up to Yuri’s nipples, tiny nubs hard beneath his fingers as Yuri sucks in a breath and his hips cant towards him, desperate and Otabek hasn’t even done a thing yet, not really -- just hands innocently touching skin, just eyes raking across his body. But he wants to. He wants to do so much, make Yuri feel more desperate -- more -- more of everything.
But he can’t. He can’t do everything, not now, not here, pressed up against the wall so close to prying eyes -- all those people that just watched Yuri fuck the ice, all those people feeling as desperate as him, just a short distance away. He can still hear them screaming their praises and Otabek --
He should care more, but the truth is Yuri is his. They can look all they want, but they could never experience this -- Yuri hard under his hand, rubbing obscenely against him, hips thrusting forward against their will because he needs this, he needs Otabek’s hands on him, his mouth, anything and everything -- but Yuri gave them a taste, showed them what he could offer. But it’s all a tease -- a big fucking tease. They have no idea that Yuri’s mouth is hot against his, no idea that Yuri’s fingers are ripping away the short hairs at the base his neck in an attempt to devour him -- but he wishes they could, wishes he could have fucked Yuri right there on the ice, in front of everyone.
Yuri’s fingers are digging into the tender flesh behind his jaw, fingernails biting in, and it makes him feel more alive than ever before because he had dreamed about this moment for days, imagined what it would be like, Yuri beneath him -- but this is beyond his wildest fantasy, behind anything he’s felt before.
Pants are peeled down slowly -- too slowly -- the tight pleather suctioned to Yuri’s flesh with sweat and precome, but Otabek manages, fingers shaking as he takes Yuri’s cock in his hand, blood pumping fast and hot under his fingers.
“Suck me, fuck me -- fuck --” Yuri groans, his words nearly lost under panting breath and Otabek wants -- wants so bad to give him everything he asks for. But there isn’t time -- they’ve barely begun and he’s too close, far too close.
Yuri’s fingers fall away from his jaw and he can’t even mourn the loss, because Yuri’s fingers are prying open his jeans, button roughly worked between shaking fingers even as Otabek strokes Yuri, thumb flicking over his cockhead, smearing precome, but he keeps his mind focused, keeps his fingers working despite the fact that Otabek can feel his legs shaking where they’re pressed against him, can feel the way his thighs tremble from exertion on the ice and off. But there’s determination -- it’s always there with Yuri, a fire that burns too hot and spreads so rapidly -- teeth catching Otabek’s lips between them as he works, because it takes all his concentration to pull down his zipper and it’s too much.
He’s doing this to Yuri -- driving him out of control and into the madness and it’s only fair, because Otabek hasn’t been able to think about fucking anything else since Yuri showed up in Barcelona. Like every moment has led to this -- to Yuri’s fingers fumbling with his zipper, to the tang of blood filling his mouth as his lip begins to bleed, to Yuri’s cock heavy and hard in his hand and ---
Fuck! Yuri’s fingers finally find flesh, nothing shy at all about the way he takes Otabek in his hand and squeezes the precome from his cock like a pro, and he wants to think more about that, wants to think more about why he’s so good but he can’t.
“Fuck me,” Yuri repeats, a demand this time -- no more begging, they’re on equal ground now, and --
Otabek pants, but no reply comes forth -- he’s always been a man of few words, but Yuri has taken even that from him now.
Instead he replies with action, fingers leaving Yuri’s bare skin, forcing him to turn, face pressed against the cold bricks of the wall --
And Yuri hardly seems bothered by the crowd that has gone silent, by the bright spotlights that shine under the door and chase the darkness back into the deep corners of the room -- he doesn’t care that this is the last place for this, and suddenly Otabek doesn’t either.
Instead, he’s tearing at the fabric of Yuri’s pants, desperation giving him a strength he didn’t know he had and he can hear them tear, can hear the dull sound of rubber ripping open stopped only by the fabric woven beneath but -- it doesn’t matter. They’re pulled down lower, forced taut between his knees as Yuri spreads his legs and Otabek can’t imagine it’s comfortable, but this isn’t about comfort -- that’s not what Yuri’s after and --
He’s never done this before but he can’t stop now; it’s like an avalanche crashing through him and he’s forced to continue to the bottom of the mountain, pushed against his will along the path that Yuri’s created -- except that he does want, he wants so bad that sweat cascades down his temples and into his eyes, that his breath comes in gasps, that his knees quake and his fingers shake as he wipes the sweat from his burning eyes and he spits into his hand.
He’s still wearing the gloves, the thought that he should take them off never crossing his mind even once until now, until he realizes that the wetness from his mouth -- the saliva mixed with his own blood -- is staining them darker. But there isn’t time, there’s a sense of urgency rising up in him and he just can’t be bothered to stop, to peel them away -- instead raises his hand, rough fabric on his palms meeting resistance against Yuri’s cheek as he grips his face and forces Yuri’s neck muscles to strain, forces him to look to the side. But he doesn’t need to see that desperate look in his eyes, doesn’t need to see the fire that lies just under the surface ready to lash out -- and Yuri just knows what he needs.
Yuri takes Otabek’s fingers in his mouth, no words needed, no hesitation, because Yuri doesn’t hesitate about anything, just feels -- feels more fully than anyone that Otabek has ever known before -- and he feels Yuri’s tongue, hot and slick against his sensitive fingertips and he almost feels too much. But it’s not enough, it’s all promise and he’s so fucking hard, so fucking wet and dripping against Yuri’s bare ass that promise isn’t what he wants, he wants--
And Yuri seems to understand, seems to want, seems to need -- tearing his head away from Otabek’s grip and grinding backwards against him. His cock sliding along the crease of his ass, his dick weeping with need as his eyes burn again, this time not from the sweat that clings to his lashes and he needs -- needs --
Taking a deep breath he pulls away from the lure of Yuri’s body, hot and hard and everything he’s ever wanted -- but he has to, because his fingers are slick with Yuri’s spit and Yuri’s begging before his fingers even find his entrance and God he’s not going to last long.
There’s resistance against his fingers for only a few moments before they push forward, inwards into the fire of Yuri’s body and it’s like he’s been swallowed, heat radiating up from his hand like hell itself is beckoning him onwards, because he doesn’t care that the crowd outside is cheering, doesn’t care that someone’s skate time has probably just ended, doesn’t care that any minute now they might be interrupted -- there’s just him and Yuri and the rest of the world no longer matters. They had never really mattered to him, but to Yuri, they had mattered to Yuri and as much as he tries to prove the contrary he’s --
He’s pulling his fingers free, because Yuri’s head has rolled back against his shoulder exposing the expanse of his throat, because Yuri’s pushing back against him, because he just can’t anymore.
Then he’s wetting his cock with his own spit-slicked fingers and pushing into him, one hand guiding his dick into Yuri’s tight hole, the other gripping the back of Yuri’s shirt, hanging on, because he needs something to hang onto, because it’s intense -- too intense and he’s afraid --
But Yuri’s not bothered, Yuri’s confidence flows over Otabek and he breathes deep and takes everything he has to offer, every inch disappearing into tight heat, and it’s too hot -- too tight -- it’s too much everything and he --
His vision is swimming, fingers tightening in Yuri’s shirt, the thin cords of his t-shirt bunching beneath his fist and pulling the material tight against Yuri’s front -- but Yuri doesn’t seem to care that his throat is being constricted, that his breath is labored from more than just sex -- his own brain has stopped functioning beyond the thought of thrust, push, pull, repeat --
But Yuri’s still thinking, still wanting, still needing Otabek’s hands on him.
His grip loosens, but Yuri’s ragged breaths don’t stop.
“Touch me,” Yuri pleads and somewhere a neuron in his brain recognizes the word, understands, because his fingers find Yuri’s cock, pulse beating rapidly through his veins as Otabek strokes, the rhythm messy and uncoordinated because he doesn’t have room for anything beyond the feeling of Yuri stretched around him.
The leather of his jacket is pressed against Yuri’s back, the fabric sticking to sweat-slicked skin that peeks out from Yuri’s shirt and he’s sure he’ll care later when his skin is rubbed raw, when the indent of the zipper is red and angry, but right now --
Yuri’s breath hitches and Otabek can feel the moment that Yuri’s body tightens, the moment orgasm starts to surface, the moment he knows it’s going to be all over and he’s filled with a bittersweet thought that it’s too soon, but he’s been waiting too long and he needs --- he needs to come.
Liquid is spilling hot across his hand, but he can’t stop stroking Yuri, can’t stop working him through his orgasm, because he knows he can’t stop yet, because he -- he’s not there, not yet, just a little more and --
His lungs ache with the effort of biting down his noise, swallowing down the air attempting to escape his body. His muscles are tense and he knows his grip still on Yuri is too much, too strong, but he can’t --
His breath returns with a gasp as he pumps himself and Yuri through the best orgasm of his life, Yuri’s tight body milking him of every drop. Then his muscles are quickly uncoiling like a spring set loose and he can’t control his limbs anymore, his legs melting beneath him and Yuri’s not much better.
He pulls out and tries not to think about the way his come drips down the back of Yuri’s thighs because it’s all too much right now. He’s trying to find his thoughts through the haze and he knows that will absolutely not help.
Leaning hard against the wall, he looks over at Yuri and maybe he shouldn’t have. If he thought Yuri had looked obscene and dangerous on the ice, it was nothing compared to now -- the skin of his cheek rubbed raw from Otabek’s glove, his t-shirt ripped in ways that were no longer artistic, his pants still pushed around his knees. He looked thoroughly used and he couldn’t help but feel guilty because Yuri had probably been exhausted before Otabek had so thoroughly had his way with him.
As is on cue, Yuri turns around and sinks down against the wall, his shirt riding up to his armpits as he allows the floor to catch him. It's far from graceful, and he can't help the wince that goes through him when Yuri's bare backside solidly meets the cold concrete. Otabek wanted to help slow him down, but he didn’t entirely trust his own legs to hold him up anymore. Yuri doesn't seem to notice his concern, looking too fucked out to be thinking much of anything beyond sleep -- which this was certainly not the place for.
“That was --” Yuri seems at a loss for words, but Otabek understands.
“Yeah,” he agrees because that’s really about the only word his brain can process at the moment.
“Next time,” Yuri starts, his breath still coming fast -- he probably never really had time to recover after skating.
Otabek waits for a few moments for Yuri to go on, but he doesn’t seem that inclined to share, instead pulling a face and sticking out his tongue in disgust at the sticky mess between his legs.
“Next time?” Otabek prompts, his heart pounding at the words and what they implied.
“Next time let’s do it somewhere with a bed and a shower,” Yuri says before his head falls back against the wall and he lets it loll to the side.
His face is glistening with sweat, the skin below his eyes stained with black, his hair a dark blonde with sweat and clinging to his forehead -- he looks beyond fucked out and Otabek is pretty sure everyone that sees them is going to know exactly what they just did.
“Yeah,” he agrees, because that’s really not such an unreasonable request.