Kitayama might be taking a picture of this (mousapelli) wrote in writetomyheart,
Kitayama might be taking a picture of this
mousapelli
writetomyheart

[Team 3] Vanilla

Yurabeka shmoop for no reason, enjoy.



"Secret fantasies?" Yuri snorted, eyes glued to his phone. "Beka, literally none of your fantasies were at any point a secret."

"Hmm." Otabek didn't bother to hide his fond smile since Yuri wasn't looking at him anyway. It was hard not to smile at Yuri first thing in the morning, despite the fact that Otabek was, if possible, even less of a morning person than Yuri was. But neither 18 months of Skype and Instagram nor 6 months of dating had prepared Otabek for how cute Yuri was first thing in the morning.

His hair was tangled and sticking up, he was squinting at his phone through half-stuck eyes, his shirt was perpetually falling off his shoulder, and his voice was rough in his throat. He wasn't cranky so much as abrupt and blunt, not awake enough to be sly or evasive if asked even embarrassing things. It was fucking adorable. It did things to Otabek.

"Not to mention," Yuri continued, unaware of Otabek's internal loop about cuteness, "I dunno if I'd call any of the thoroughly vanilla stuff you told me a fantasy." Yuri deepened his voice into a terrible imitation of Otabek's softly accented Russian. "'I can't wait to hold your hand, Yura.' 'All I want is to nap with you spooned up against my back.'"

"You wanna do this?" Otabek asked, now too amused to keep it out of his voice. Yuri looked up, eyes narrowed. Whoops, caught. "You wanna talk about vanilla? Mr. let's go get ice cream and hold me this horror movie is too scary and no I won't roll over I want it face to face? Bring it, Plisetsky, I'll talk about vanilla aaaall day long."

"Fuck you, Altin," Yuri said around a yawn. He reached for his coffee mug and missed on the first try, and Otabek's heart tripped over itself. "You're so fucking sassy first thing in the morning. Who gave you the right?"

"When your boyfriend is three time zones over, things like holding hands are the things you can't replace, aren't they?" Otabek came to lean his hip against the side of the table, looking down over Yuri. He slipped a hand into Yuri's blond tangles, fingers skimming along Yuri's scalp to tip his head back so he could see Yuri's eyes. "The rest of it we can do regardless. How many times did I make you come with just my voice this winter?"

"Not the same," Yuri grunted, the pink creeping across his cheek warm against Otabek's palm. "You don't even do it right, you don't tell me what to do or shit like that. You just talk about whatever. If I asked you to dirty talk for real, your head would explode."

Oh, that was too much to resist. "Yura," Otabek said, drawing out the syllable low and sweet just so he could feel Yuri flush even darker, Yuuura. "You get off on me 'talking about whatever,' so I think in fact, if I ever did dirty talk, it would be you who might…explode."

"Beka!" Yuri blurted. He was pink all the way down his neck now, spreading to touch his collarbone just where his T-shirt was slipping off of it. Otabek wanted to put his mouth right there, wanted to suck until it left a mark that both of them would be blushing about for the rest of the day, wanted to drag Yuri right back into bed and stay there until they were late for practice.

Hell, Otabek wanted to stay there until they were late for the Grand Prix.

"You're staring." Yuri scowled when Otabek only hummed in agreement. Yuri started to squirm, but Otabek tightened his grip in Yuri's hair, not letting him pull away. "Seriously, what's with you this morning?"

Instead of answering, Otabek used his free hand to pull Yuri's coffee mug from his hand and set it on the table, out of harm's way. Then he climbed into Yuri's lap, knees on either side of Yuri's hips, weight on Yuri's thighs. This way he was taller again, pleasantly so. When he used the hand still in Yuri's hair to pull him into a kiss, Yuri tasted like coffee.

He'd meant for it to just be the one kiss, but it turned into two, and then the third was so long he forgot what he was counting for. Yuri's hands were clutched tight in the back of Otabek's T-shirt, he realized. "Should I stop?" he murmured against Yuri's mouth.

"Don't be a moron," Yuri growled. The next kiss started with Yuri nipping Otabek's lower lip hard enough to sting. One of his hands was suddenly at Otabek's waistband, slipping under it to wrap around Otabek's dick. "Molesting me in the kitchen doesn't make you not vanilla, by the way."

"Can live with that," Otabek said breathlessly, thrusting into Yuri's hand in sharp, limited thrusts, as much as he could manage in his current position. He kissed Yuri again, open-mouthed, messy, the burn of his thigh muscles only adding to the pleasure of it. Yuri tipped his head back, out of the reach of Otabek's mouth, looking him over, eyes glittering.

"You're so pretty," Yuri said, not because saying it made Otabek moan shamelessly, which it did, just because he had no brain-to-mouth filter in the morning. "When you're desperate. When you're getting what you want. All the fucking time, god, it's so annoying."

"Sorry not sorry," Otabek choked out, laughing and groaning at the same time. A few seconds later he came, almost a surprise as it dragged an electric finger down his spine and forced his back into an arch, spilling over Yuri's hand and T-shirt.

"Ugh. Hope you're pleased with yourself," Yuri grumbled. Otabek grinned down at him, dazed and satisfied. "Joke's on you, though, this T-shirt's yours. And who the fuck taught you 'sorry not sorry?'"

"Leo, obviously," Otabek answered, dangerously close to giggling helplessly. He felt so good half-slumped against Yuri and still coming down, like a roughly tossed can of soda. "Mm, I love you. Did you know?"

"I had an inkling," Yuri said, voice dry, but his eyes flashed like they always did when Otabek said that he loved Yuri and meant it. He always meant it. "Whatever, get off, my leg's falling asleep."

Otabek stole one more kiss and then did as Yuri asked. But he didn't let go of Yuri, and when he stood he pulled Yuri up with him and spun them around so that he could push Yuri back against the counter. Before Yuri could ask or say anything, Otabek dropped to his knees, hands on Yuri's waist, head tilted back enough to keep his eyes on Yuri's face.

"Do it," Yuri said, spreading his arms out to grip the edge of the counter. He hissed when Otabek pulled his sweatpants down just far enough to free Yuri's cock, flushed pink just like his shoulders, damp at the tip. Otabek licked his lips, and Yuri groaned. "Fuck, Beka, I'm dying here."

Otabek didn't waste any time about it, using one hand to steady Yuri's dick while the other sank into the muscle of Yuri's thigh. He licked the salt from Yuri's tip, then swallowed the length of him until his lips met his fist, humming low in his throat. One of Yuri's hands migrated into Otabek's hair, tugging at the short strands and sending ripples of heat over his skin. Otabek loved taking Yuri apart like this, the quiver of Yuri's thigh muscle under his hand, the hot weight of Yuri's dick on his tongue, the soft, choked noises Yuri couldn't swallow, the heat of Yuri's gaze when Otabek looked up, focused only on him, like Yuri's eyes could burn right through him.

Yuri didn't bother to warn Otabek when he was going to come, and Otabek wouldn't have moved if he had. When the burst of salt-bitter hit the back of his tongue, Otabek drew back enough to suck Yuri more directly, hand squeezing at Yuri's base until he'd ridden it out and was half-slumped against the counter, breathing hard.

"Hey," he said, voice unsteady. Otabek let Yuri slip out of his mouth and turned his face up, resting his cheek against Yuri's hip. Yuri was biting his lower lip, already puffed from abuse, his hair an even bigger mess than before from Otabek's hands, the T-shirt hanging off one delicately pink shoulder. Yuri trailed fingertips across Otabek's cheekbone. "I do too. You know."

It was the closest Yuri had come so far to saying the words, and Otabek should have been satisfied with the way he could read love in Yuri's gaze, in every line of his body. He barely dared breathe for fear that the entire morning would pop like a soap bubble, but with Yuri still sharp on his tongue and warm against his cheek, he had just enough courage to keep his eyes on Yuri's as he asked, "Please?"

Yuri clenched his jaw. "Love you. I love you."

"Zhanym." Otabek surged to his feet all at once, clutching Yuri tight to him, burying his face in Yuri's neck. More words were spilling out of him, out of his control, only half in Russian and wholly embarrassing. Otabek didn't care.

"Stop," Yuri muttered, the voice that meant actually don't stop ever. "Ugh, that was all my energy for the rest of the week. Take me back to bed, you giant vanilla weirdo."

"Anything," Otabek promised, already starting to walk backwards, pulling Yuri along. He bumped into the side of the chair and bruised his hip on the corner of the table, but he still refused to turn around, eyes only for Yuri's flushed and ruffled expression, trusting that Yuri would at least tell him if he were going to crack his skull open.

They tumbled into bed with only minor injuries, all of them Otabek's; Yuri kissed all his bruises, and the bruises from practice yesterday, and then sucked a new one into the ridge of his shoulder hard enough to curl Otabek's toes.

"Mine," Yuri growled against Otabek's skin, something he said much easier than the other thing.

"Yours," Otabek agreed, Yuri's hair spilling through his fingers and sprawled on his back, bonelessly content to be entirely at Yuri's mercy. "All yours."

--------

Next up is alchemicink for real this time.
Tags: *team three, fandom: yuri on ice, love ranger: mousapelli, warning: here tharr be porn
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