He remembered sundown in Almaty, back home — Yuri would visit during the off-season, jumping across walkway ledges and straining through the broken wire fences. It felt like they were more alive than ever.
Yuri flicked Otabek's cheap, unfiltered cigarette butts onto the blacktop while they were alone in the basketball court outside a row of unlit, rundown apartments. He would lie back in the scratchy, overly dried grass, coughing on the nastiness of the beer bottle, his pouty, thin mouth scrunching up.
His hand groped himself over his jeans, as soon as Otabek is looking, one of his knees bending up.
Yuri licked his bottom, silvery-hoop pierced lip in a sensual and obvious and greedy slowness, rucking up the fabric of his dark, ripped t-shirt to his pale and nearly skeletal chest. It's a vision.
His pink, untouched nipples bud underneath Otabek's lips, his tongue sweeping over Yuuri's warm, perspiring skin, coaxing him to moan underneath Otabek, swearing and roughly breathing as the other boy snatched onto Yuri's hips, dragging them upwards and grinding their erections harshly.
Being young faded like the sun, immersed by a howling chasm of shadowy, cold obscurity.
Yuri on Ice isn't mine. WHEN ARE WE GETTING OTAYURI CONFIRMED CANON? LET'S GOOOOOOOO. Thoughts/comments appreciated! Hope you enjoyed reading!