Nothing is ever as irredeemably fucked up as it could be. Otabek doesn't allow himself to get surprised by much.
Which is probably why he took this job — as novice as it sounds. An online ad caught Otabek's eye on Friday, requesting a cameraman with experience for private filming. Namely, full frontal sex videos.
During the initial phone call, the Alpha explains he and his Omega have been been selling their videos to bidders, working cam-time and special screenings for nearly a year — but anything further demands better camerawork, higher quality videos. A third participant and strictly Betas only.
"Can't risk any distractions," the Alpha says. Despite him chuckling over the line, Otabek senses absolutely no joke on the subject matter.
Suits him. He's not looking for trouble.
The guy answering the door has shaggy, dark hair piled up into a messy bun on top of his skull and is at least two heads taller than Otabek. He's not even inside yet, and the pheromones are strong. Musk-heavy and noticeable and very fresh.
"Well, well, you're a looker yourself," the Alpha drawls, leaning a huge arm on the door-frame. Otabek says nothing, merely gazes ahead and stiffens his shoulders, but the other man flashes a professionally charming grin and shrugs. "Sorry. Just ignore me—I run my mouth way too much."
After this, they shake hands politely, introducing themselves before Otabek enters, lugging in his spare equipment.
The air feels stifled and thin, and practically drips with humidity and the two different, distinct pheromones in the living space. One of them — off the Alpha crowding around Otabek, hustling and pointing out where to set up this new shoot — that pheromone reeks fiercely and masks all other scents, coming off as acrid and peppery in his nostrils. It's unpleasant enough for Otabek to turn away quickly from the source, bending down on his knees to pull out his camera.
He hasn't seen the Omega yet. Otabek suspects they are either in the bathroom or hidden by the studio flat's wall divider, preparing themselves.
The lighting is terrible. Otabek curses softly, rearranging the lamps.
"Do you mind?" he asks.
"Nah. You seem like you know what you are doing. To be honest… I thought you were too good to be true when you called us," the Alpha tells him with a smug expression.
He sprawls out into recliner, legs kicking out and hands folding comfortably across his lap. The only article of clothing the Alpha has been wearing is a pair of black jeans. The rest of him fake-tanned orange skin and oiled, bulging muscles.
"You have an actual goddamn resume. Jesus, you know what — the rest of the losers I've been interviewing were either perverts or their so-called 'credentials' didn't back up their claims, so they were probably looking for a free show too."
"Can't be too careful, I guess," Otabek mutters, shucking off his leather jacket. It's getting fucking hot in here and he's already beginning to sweat copiously under his pits.
The Alpha hums offhandedly, suddenly eyeing him.
"You're not gonna be spooked if my Omega is a little young, are you?" he speaks up, as if cautious.
Otabek's hands still, midair.
"… How young?"
"Jeez, no — I ain't into deep-dicking kids." The other man glares and curls his upper lip, as if Otabek were the one to insinuate the offending remark. "I'm asking you only 'cause he's a few weeks over the legal age, but Yuri looks smaller. Younger. It's part of our customers' appeal."
Otabek doesn't know what kind of crowd they're drawing in with these porno vids, but he's thankful that everything is strictly camerawork on his end—
The hairs on Otabek's forearms prickle. It's as if the air surrounding him lightens from the previous hot-heaviness, mingling faintly with a crisp, honey-sweet odor. Omega — the sharp-bright realization passes Otabek's consciousness, as he glances up towards the figure approaching.
A male Omega — short and spry, with creamy, flushed skin — he does look young.
Fine, yellow-blond hair reaches about neck-length. A pair of glass-green eyes that narrow in defiance and partly curiosity. He says something lowly in Russian and the Alpha clicks his tongue in obvious reprimanding, but stays firmly in his recliner.
"Are you going to behave for us or not?" he asks softly in English, almost teasingly.
The Omega — Yuri, Yuri, Otabek's memory points out helpfully and a tad frantic — presents out his middle finger with a wicked, toothy smile. But he says nothing further, pulling on sunglasses.
Otabek tries his best to not stare outright, but what's most distracting is the extravagant costume.
A magenta faux-leather coat hangs off Yuri's body, trimmed in deep purple lapels. Black wrist-length gloves and a black cutout, loose tank top. A golden cross dangles off Yuri's neck. The eye makeup is smudged and black as sin, but Otabek's job isn't to critique any fashion choices.
He finally jerks his head away, setting up the self-stabilizing audio equipment. "We are ready to go," Otabek announces after double-checking.
The Alpha smacks his palms together, leaping to his feet. Yuri mutters out "thank god" and flops onto his back, right against the nearby futon — a two-toned splitback in black and piped in white.
That's when Otabek notices the sweet scent again, emitting off Yuri shifting impatiently and frowning. It's a genuine Heat scent and growing thicker.
A whisper drops into Otabek's ear.
"If you're any good with that camera like you say you are, he'll be ready to go for an hour after I'm through with him." The Alpha grasps onto Otabek's shoulder, dipping his head towards him and leering, breathing harshly. "Sampling isn't off-limits then…"
Otabek steps away, keeping his voice dull.
"I don't fuck my clients."
"Oh, you don't fuck him," the Alpha says knowingly, raising an eyebrow. He laughs. "Even when you think you're fucking him, he fucks you."
Despite his better judgment, Otabek stares around at Yuri who hasn't noticed their conversation. He flicks an ebonized switchblade open and shut, pressing his fingertip against the blunt edge.
Amateur porn is obvious, besides the poor location and poorer lighting, and the stilted acting.
But at the same time… Otabek thinks he's witnessing poetry, composed with Yuri and his semi-nudity. His grunts and groans as the Alpha's uncut penis rubs sloppy, wet circles against Yuri's shaved, puckering hole. Even without a fully formed knot, it's a massive cock.
Yuri arches in vain, stripped of his tight, black pants and the sparkly, magenta jacket, without his decorative sunglasses, his bare thighs held wide open with the Alpha's rough, clenching hands. It doesn't appear especially cozy to be forced upside down, Yuri's back molding to the futon.
The tank top slips downwards, from gravity, up to Yuri's collar and reveals tiny, rosy nipples. Otabek focuses the camera there for a moment, as the teenager plays with one nipple, twisting gently.
"You're so fucking pretty," the Alpha mutters, crouching deeper above Yuri, until he's pushing himself into Yuri's fluid-shiny, pinkened rim.
The noises escaping Yuri, at each pounding, erratic thrust, comes out high-pitched and desperate for more. He's so wet that his Omega-slick pools out of his ripe hole, gushing free when the Alpha-cock eases out of him, leaving only the cockhead.
Yuri cries out, reddened and heaving with perspiration, and squeezes his eyes shut.
He knuckles onto the cushion above him when the other man snaps his hips and then buries himself entirely in, grabbing Yuri's inner, muscular thighs.
"My little slut…"
"Fuck," Yuri huffs out, releasing a whine.
The scent of Yuri's heat rolls off intoxicating, still irresistibly candied and delightful. It cleanses away the more irritating, vinegary rut pheromones and the Alpha's own disgusting scent. Otabek has never encountered a Omega smelling this phenomenal before.
He films every existing second, from the knifeplay with the tip of Yuri's exposed switchblade caressing the Alpha's mouth, to when Yuri chokes, eyes bulging and struggling weakly against the Alpha's right hand gripping his throat.
The first knotting happens shortly, with Yuri gasping and trembling against the sensation of blockage to his rim, his Alpha's cock so deep within him and throbbing, flooding Yuri's belly with come.
"How's it feel, baby?"
Otabek hears the Alpha through a sea of fog, too focused on Yuri's lust-darkened, green eyes on the camera lens, blinking lazily.
A slow, boyish smile.
Otabek ducks outside to the studio flat's balcony, right through the sliding door, to clear his head.
His veins sing with the hit of travka offered by the Alpha, during the conversation about payment. Otabek sighs out, running his hand over his face. What the hell is he doing…?
The sliding door creaks open, and Yuri joins him wordlessly, staring down thoughtfully at his mobile. He's painted in the cottony pink glow of dawnlight.
Otabek's heart thuds faster.
He's still in the last costume during filming — a black fishnet bodysuit, covering hands to hips. Every metre of Yuri naked beneath the netting.
There's three obvious holes to the bodysuit, and two are heart-shaped: the one between Yuri's plump, milky white asscheeks, and the other between Yuri's pecs. A much smaller, round hole allows his Omega-cock to dangle uselessly.
Speaking helps Otabek not feel distracted.
"You're very good," he murmurs, side-eyeing the teenager concentrating on his mobile.
Yuri snorts, nose wrinkling. "I know."
Well, that was a failure.
Otabek sucks in another breath, crossing his arms over the railing and maintaining eye-contact with Yuri's bored facial expression. "… Gymnast?"
This time, Yuri squints and looks up. He furrows his brow, scrutinizing the other man before Yuri's mouth thins into a half-smile.
"Ballet dancer. Former."
"That had been my second guess."
It's kind of a lie — Otabek had been sure about the gymnast observation. He's about to ask about the classes, and how Yuuri ended up here, when the teenager grimaces visibly, wiping his mouth.
That's when Otabek notices his quivering knees. The daze, unfocused quality in Yuri's gaze.
"Are you still in heat?" he asks, suddenly worried.
Part of being Beta is being blissfully unaware of the trials and turmoils of the others unlike himself. Betas were less spontaneous and possessive and violent by nature, typically able to control their aggression. Nor were they submissive or docile.
Everything is about choices.
Otabek unfolds his arms, stepping closer to Yuri as the male Omega shudders a little, rocking in place.
"Feels itchy," Yuri whispers. He's looking more dizzy and lightheaded, uneasy by the second. Yuri's mobile clatters onto the ground.
Otabek considers poking his head back in, shouting for the Alpha to attend to his Omega, and then banishes the thought immediately. Yuri needs to be calmed, not agitated by overloaded stimulation.
He emphasizes his motive by gesturing with opened arms. It may be rumor or maybe just the placebo effect, but Otabek has heard the success of prolonged touch between Beta and Omega having the ability to stop an ongoing Heat cycle.
Yuri stares doubtfully before nodding, pushing up against Otabek's front, clutching onto his t-shirt.
Ever so slowly, Otabek feels him relaxing. He embraces Yuri's waist, rubbing his sides and back in soft, lingering rhythm until Yuri gulps down a whimper, nestling his face against Otabek's neck.
"Are you alright?" Otabek asks, trying to look at him as the teenager flushes darkly, embarrassed.
"Vozmozhno," Otabek answers him in Russian, not bothering to hide his amusement. It's likely not the right way to say perhaps, but he's always been more accurate with Kazakh and English.
Yuri muffles out a laugh, and Otabek feels the pleasant reverberation through the material of his T-shirt, all the way to the centre of his ribs.
"There's your Alpha-scent all over you."
Yuri finally untangles from him, making a face. "Seriously? He's not my Mate. Look." He lifts up his blond hair, turning for Otabek to glimpse his nape.
Indeed, no bruises, no marks of any kind.
"Not all Mate-marks are done on the back of the neck," Otabek tells him, watching Yuri roll his eyes. "I've seen it an Omega's left ankle before."
"I'd know if I had one… and this Alpha is way too fucking traditional." Yuri scowls in the direction of balcony's sliding door. "Trust me."
Otabek doesn't feel reassured by the hint of fear.
Moscow doesn't feel like home.
He ducks his head and ignores his loud, arguing neighbors in the stairwell, fumbling for his key and unlocking his apartment door down on the far end.
To Otabek's astonishment, someone else is on their knees in his corridor, whistling softly to his marmalade cat and petting her furry chin.
"Your back window is open," Yuri announces, gazing up at the other man, smiling cheekily.
The corners of Otabek's mouth perk up.
"Do I want to know how you found me?"
Yuri rises to his feet, wiping his knees, allowing Otabek a moment to observe him. Unlike the last week he's filmed him, Yuri dresses casually. A tiger-print, long sleeved sweatshirt in black, with matching thigh-shorts and patterned, darkly tinted, see-through tights disappearing under Yuri's boots.
"Otabek, right?" he asks, fiddling with his off-white, knitted pom-beanie. "It's easy to find people now." Yuri waves his mobile as if to prove his point. Otabek's cat mewls, rubbing herself to his ankles.
"She likes you," Otabek murmurs.
The teenager shrugs, pocketing his hands into the slit in the front of his baggy sweatshirt.
"Helps that I'm an Omega. I've… never seen a cat take a liking to an Alpha. Did you ever notice that?"
Otabek doesn't agree or disagree, placing a hand against his scratchy, unpainted wall. It's still only the late afternoon. "Are you hungry, Yuri?"
"Always," Yuri replies, face brightening.
That is a sight Otabek could get used to.
He figures the local restaurant is a good option.
Traditional Russian food and delicacies, served on white-clothed tables far apart from each other, and standard, orange-lit lamps and bookcases on all sides to bring out aesthetic, Otabek supposes.
They talk for a little while, about Otabek's home country, about ice skating they watch religiously.
A film of rainy mist trickles down the window by Otabek's elbow, marring the view of a lavender-cream sunset. "How did you end up with him?"
Yuri twirls his fork into the plate of vinegret.
"Been homeless since my grandfather died. There's nobody left," he mutters, Yuri's voice toneless.
Otabek's stomach curdles.
"I went into my first heat in a club, while squatting in one of the back rooms. He had gotten there first, keeping the other Alphas away. They would have had their way with me right there, but he fucked me only after we got to a hotel ourselves. My heat lasted for five days straight, and I got pregnant right after it ended. That had been last year."
Yuri's eyes widen when the other man stares in horror, Otabek's brows scrunched together.
"No! Fuck no, I didn't keep it," Yuri says, frowning and scoffing. "I'm not a fucking idiot, god. He helped me get access to a clinic and then to the birth control. I ended up squatting at his place, and it's easier to pay him back with sex and the money we earn while filming. That's it."
Otabek can't tell if it's relief or shock about this, reaching into his leather jacket for a cigarette.
"He thinks I'm his, even though we're not mated," Yuri mutters, shoveling in another forkful. "But you try telling a hotheaded, shithead Alpha anything…"
Otabek twists his lips, peering to his companion.
"You're not going to keep breaking in, are you?"
"Vozmozhno," Yuri mocks Otabek's deep, monotonous voice, exaggerating a stoic look.
The other man stifles out a chuckle, teeth biting down gently on the end of his unlit cigarette. He's requested the smoking section for a reason.
"Just don't let my cat out, alright?"
Otabek should have guessed with the sly look that Yuri had other thoughts on his mind. He sucks a mouthful of tobacco smoke, holding it and releasing. Hold, release. At the next drag, Yuri drops his beet-smeared fork and grabs onto Otabek's jacket, slamming their mouths together.
The open-mouthed kiss startles Otabek to his core, as well as the faint, crystal-powder taste of amphetamines coated underneath Yuri's tongue.
Yuri's hands tighten on the leather as he inhales against Otabek, their noses mashed together.
He's vanished in seconds, pulling away. Yuri sits back down across the rattling table, blowing out a little of Otabek's cigarette smoke from red-raw lips.
There's no mistaking the glee in Yuri's smile.
Otabek has seen its mischieous light, but only through the camera lens, while Yuri's gagged and lying on a mattress with come-splattered skin. He bucks his hips midair and riding his own fingers, or while Yuri's captured, his wrists bound in thick, bright purple cords and stretched behind him.
For that session, it had been a tougher angle to film Yuri's reactions, as the Alpha insisted on fucking Yuri with his legs spread and face-flat. His heavy, throbbing balls pressed down and slapped against Yuri's leaking-wet buttocks. He growled and buried a long, dry finger in, along with the Alpha-cock already taking Yuri in deeper, stroking against Yuri's walls as the teenager humped the mattress, screaming to come, come inside, uugh—
Otabek knows he's already endangered his job.
By entertaining a forbidden relationship with Yuri, for loving how fiery and confident he is, for the way he allows Yuri to invade every part of him — picturesque and disarray with his yellow-blond hair uncombed and sleepily kissing Otabek's upper lip.
Otabek knows he's actively doing what he shouldn't. Unfocused and breathless, he watches through his trusty camera as the Alpha lunges backwards and cradles Yuri's legs uselessly into the air, thrusting hard from underneath him.
Yuri remains upright, glassy-green eyes locked on the camera, lids hooding.
Arousal sweeps over Otabek, electrifying him, when Yuri smirks and dips two fingers into his mouth, suckling noisily.
Otabek licks his lips, burning with humiliation as Yuri sweetly kisses his own fingertips, reaching out and smearing them roughly to Otabek's mouth.
As if kissing him.
The camera weighs heavier and heavier in Otabek's right hand, until he lowers it. Yuri's mouth feels soft and moist, pliant to Otabek messily pushing his tongue inside him, urging Yuri to do the same, wanting to drown in this ecstasy.
He kisses, kisses him as the huge, aching knot in Yuri's passage swells up further. Yuri cries out at the familiar sensation of being full, impossibly full of Alpha's hot, sticky come, practically bursting.
Otabek swallows down Yuri's continuous whimpers, fingering through the clear, pre-ejaculate slickness drooling out of his little Omega-cock, and pumping lazily. Yuri deserves to not wait — they deserve —
After a downwards, rolling stroke, Yuri stops bouncing himself impatiently, spilling globs of warm, clear Omega-fluid right onto Otabek's hand wrapped to him. It's enough to clamp Yuri down on the Alpha-cock, drawing out another orgasm from it, and more hot come pulsing up inside him.
Otabek stumbles back, paling and turning around entirely. He climbs onto his feet with shaky limbs and letting his camera tumble to the floor.
"What the fuck?" the Alpha shouts as if mildly aggravated, glimpsing over Yuri's bare shoulder.
"Sorry," Otabek whispers, forcing himself to bolt.
I'm sorry, Yuri.
He's a coward.
Charcoal-greys and blues swirl overhead, dimming the skies as the ocean waves rage and cascade. Otabek watches them with numbed awareness, before jerking in place. He glances at an equipment bag thrown and landing in the clay-dark sand beside him.
Yuri snorts, irritated, eyeing him.
"Great job. You left your camera, Beka."
A thread of fear clings to Otabek's memory.
"He doesn't know," Yuri explains firmly. He's a bright spot among the dreary colors, in his canary-yellow hoodie. "I'm not gonna tell him anything because I left."
Otabek stares, his jaw loosening.
"Been considering it before this whole thing. I kept psyching myself out and never packing my shit."
The fear snaps apart, replacing with warmth growing in Otabek's chest. "So you packed your shit," he murmurs, beginning to smile widely.
Yuri tosses another bag, aiming it for the lonely space besides Otabek's equipment bag.
"I packed my shit," Yuri repeats, smiling too.
He runs up to the other man and hugs him tightly. Otabek circles his arms around a trembling Yuri and presses his face into Yuri's hair, wonderstruck.
"… This is fucked up, isn't it?" Yuri murmurs, so meek, so unlike himself. "Did we fuck it all up?"
Otabek shakes his head, pulling back and thumbing over Yuri's cheek. "No. This is finding your home and keeping it. No fuck-ups." He wipes patiently under Yuri's eye dripping a single tear, leaving a kiss to Yuri's hairline. "My cat misses you, Yura. How about we make it official?"
A hiccuping, gruff laugh.
Moscow, Russia isn't missed by either of them, four years later. Not even a little.
Living alone had its perks, but nothing compared to Otabek walking into the kitchen and discovering his fiance doing splits as if massaging a cramp.
"Hey," Yuri calls out, lowering his right leg and raking his fingers through his half-braided hair.
Otabek reprimands himself for taking too long to answer, but this isn't his fault. Yuri dares to be incredible while others look foolish in the early hours — shirtless in his leopard-print boxers, Yuri's exposed, five-month pregnant belly spilling over.
He clears his throat, sipping on his coffee.
"Hey," Otabek says hoarsely, listening to the love of his life cackle, abandoning whatever urge led Otabek here, cupping Yuri's face and kissing him.
He lifts Yuri onto the kitchen counter, mindful of Yuri's current condition, grasping his hips.
Kissing silences him for a good minute before Yuri mumbles out Otabek's name hungrily, and all decent, PG-rated thoughts retreat completely.
Otabek's chapped lips press down against the blood-red, tingling Mate-mark to Yuri's collarbone.
He sucks with his teeth on it, attempting to draw out the heat scent, closer to the surface to manifest. Yuri tilts his head back, moaning and grinding himself up to Otabek's crotch.
There's visible, gleaming dampness collecting between Yuri's inner thighs and crease of his ass when Otabek helps slip off Yuri's boxers. He nudges his fingers between those creamy-white legs, prodding and checking Yuri's looseness.
"You better be putting something bigger than that in me," Yuri huffs out, rocking on Otabek's hand.
He doesn't have to wait long as Otabek grunts in satisfaction and pulls out his cock, working himself to rock-hard fullness. Otabek's cock is about average size, with the base curving up halfway. Yuri reaches for him, groaning in frustration when Otabek insistently pushes his fingers away.
"I've got you… it's alright…"
Otabek angles beneath him, holding Yuri's hips and pressing in the tip. He expects the initial resistance, with Yuri's hole squeezing tight, before thrusting inside with one smooth movement, bottoming out.
Yuri's legs clumsily hook to him, as the Omega gasps loudly, mouth hanging open. Yuri arches sharply, his round, pregnant belly jutting out.
It's a deep and steady fucking, with Otabek guiding Yuri's naked hips, caressing his sides.
"Tell me, Yura," Otabek murmurs, freeing up a hand to touch the side of Yuri's face, exhaling harshly, mesmerized when a grinning Yuri bites down on Otabek's lower lip, tugging it playfully.
"Need it harder…"
He really shouldn't be surprised.
YOI isn't mine. HURRAY FOR MORE FESTS. I ended up dropping a few for personal reasons, but this one I was already ready to go. This one was the YOI Shit Bang which I immediately joined because I'm all for fandom creativity over negativity, and I highkey love productive forms of pettiness ahaahaha. Thank you to the mods for hosting this event! Thank you to my artist Nelaineivory for being so amazing, as well as being patient with me. Thank you to everyone reading this and I hope you enjoy the story! Also thank you to the people waiting on another story for YOI Weds (I ended up rescheduling for today) lol! I wanted to do the Wildest™ thing I could imagine for this and here we are as a result. Please leave your thoughts if you enjoyed! FANDOM IS HERE FOR CREATION AND LOVE! THANK YOU!