
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12536448.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Otabek_Altin, Yuri_Plisetsky
  Additional Tags:
      stalker_Otabek, creeper_Beka, obsessive_Beka, Underage_-_Freeform, Otabek
      Altin_Week, a_smidge_of_smut, otayuri_-_Freeform, vikturio_mentioned, Bad
      boy_beka
  Collections:
      Otabek_Altin_Week
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-28 Words: 1650
****** Two Kilometers ******
by annabeth
Summary
     Otabek follows Yuri closely--some might say obsessively--on social
     media. So when his kitten posts a particular photo, Otabek feels like
     it's his duty to... instruct him.
Notes
     Written for Otabek Altin week on Tumblr, day four, "social media". I
     was totally stuck on the prompts for today until I saw the new art.
     Everyone and their mother is going to wax poetic on Yuri in that
     outfit, but I had to throw in my two cents.
     Beta'd by ShadesofHades.
     warning: Otabek is not a nice guy in this fic.
See the end of the work for more notes
It could be three o'clock in the morning, but if Otabek's phone pings with a
notification that Yuri's posted something or updated something, or added a new
photo to his Instagram, Otabek is instantly awake. He will pore over the new
information about his beautiful boy like a man possessed, unable to sleep for
hours afterward, sick and groggy on his skates at practice.
Because ever since Barcelona, his beautiful boy has been… up to something. It
goes beyond that, of course. Otabek has been watching, silently, from the
shadows for years. He's admired that leonine grace and impeccable posture since
he was twelve years old. But as the years passed, things changed.
Otabek went through puberty first. So he started saving all Yuri's photos,
favoriting videos of him skating, all through inconvenient hardons that he used
to think were normal, until he got a little older and started beating himself
off to those bright green eyes, those pink, soft-looking lips, that glossy
curtain of blond hair. The slender, fluid lines of his body. Even the
imagination of what his young cock might look like.
Even now, at almost nineteen, Otabek hasn't been able to break himself of the
habit. So many nights spent glorifying that beauty of his boy, of spanking it
while thinking of those pink lips on his, just as soft as they'd always looked.
Yeah, Otabek knows now that Yuri favors chocolate flavored lip gloss, and it's
become Otabek's favorite taste: even down to the slightly waxy aftertaste.
And usually Yuri's a good little kitten. Usually he doesn't tease too much in
his photos; he doesn't flirt with Otabek online. In words, anyway. And what he
does in his photos, well, no one but Otabek knows they're for him. The time
Yuri wore black leather pants and sunglasses half-tipped down his nose to
expose the brilliance of his eyes, well, it was obvious to Otabek, if not to
anyone else.
It's four in the morning, and Otabek already knows that, when he sees Yuri in a
week, his kitten will have been punished and hopefully suitably chastened. Yuri
is posing, his hand in his hair, his mouth a pouty little line, a large V of
his chest exposed by a very indecent suit. It's expensive, Otabek can tell that
on sight, and the height of fashion, but his naughty little kitten shouldn't be
wearing it.
He's inviting the wrong kind of stares, attention. Men will flood his social
media pages with gross, chauvinistic attention. They'll DM him pictures of
their ugly cocks. They'll try to steal away what belongs to him, Otabek. His
Yuri's Angels might even be worse. More than once Yuri has taunted Otabek by
sending him some girl's naked tits, incandescent white from the flash of a
camera, or on one notable occasion, pink pussy. Yuri knows full well that
Otabek has no use for that sort of thing, but he likes to torment Otabek with
the thought that maybe Yuri likes it, and more than just the attention.
Yuri Plisetsky is still only sixteen years old. He doesn't need to be showing
off that much skin unless he's in private with Otabek, uncovering all the pale
white inches of his flesh for Otabek's consumption, and his alone.
Otabek is tapping the 'call' button for Yuri before he even really thinks about
it.
Of course Yuri answers on the first ring. Yuri knew what he was doing; he
posted that photo and then he waited, probably feeling way too pleased with
himself, for Otabek to see it. He knows who he belongs to—and he knows Otabek
won't be happy.
"Heeey, Beka," Yuri says, drawing out the salutation. "D'you like my new
clothes?"
"I'm going to burn it when I next see you," Otabek replies.
"It cost thousands of dollars! You can't just—"
"I bet you didn't pay for it, though. No, whoever wanted that photo shoot paid
for it. What else did they pay for, Yura?"
"I'm no slut. I'm not that easy." Yuri's voice is petulant. Technically, he
would be a whore, but that's besides the point. He's also lying. Yuri is the
sluttiest boy Otabek knows, and he figured that out within five minutes of
choosing his outfit for the Welcome to the Madness routine, and then helping
him choreograph it. He probably didn't fuck anyone involved in the photo shoot,
but Otabek is definitely going to make him sweat it out.
"But aren't you, Yura?" Otabek leans back against his headboard. He's been as
hard as the wood at his back since he saw the picture. Since he zoomed in on
it, and examined every single detail, from the tiny bead of sweat at the hollow
of his throat to the peaked nipples barely noticeable beneath the fabric. Even
the fact that Yura was wearing the necklace Otabek gave him, with Beka in
script centered between the links of the chain. But he wasn't going to get off,
not then. He's going to make Yuri work for it—and then he's going to let him
go.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I never slept with anyone besides
you." Yura is clearly frowning now.
"Oh, didn't you?" Otabek knows about Yura's "adorable" little crush on Viktor
Nikiforov. Pretty much anyone with eyes knows about it, to be honest. Otabek
doesn't think Viktor would have ever actually sampled that tasty delicacy, but
he's never been certain about Yuri. What Yuri might have done, as a reckless,
budding teenager? Slipped Viktor a kiss? Maybe more, if he could get Viktor
fucked up enough?
Oh no, Otabek doesn't trust his kitten a bare centimeter. Give him a
centimeter, and he'll take two kilometers. He's that rebellious. He needs
taming, and Otabek will do it, eventually, one small step at a time.
"I thought you'd like it." Now Yuri is on the offensive. Otabek is not going to
tolerate that.
"You knew perfectly well I would like it. You also knew you weren't behaving to
have done it. And so you're going to be punished." Otabek hangs up, switches to
Skype. Yuri's eyes are so goddamn green, and his skin so pale, with the barest
flush on his cheeks and chest and—shit!—he's still wearing that fucking suit.
He adjusts his phone so Yuri can see the hard line of his interest in his
cotton underwear.
Yuri, like always, is one step ahead of him. The buckle on the suit is undone,
and he can see the faintest trace of moonlight limning his pale chest, down
into the deepest part of the V, where it gapes open just a little. Yura's
flushed pink cock is already hard enough to be peeping out of the suit.
"You fucked yourself up already?" Otabek asks, but the question isn't really
necessary. It's obvious that Yuri was waiting for this phone call with one hand
in his pants, even though both are now innocently next to his hips on his bed.
Two little pink nipples are peeking from the lines of the suit.
"I didn't do anything," Yura protests. Way too innocent to be trusted. "I was
just thinking about you and this happened."
Otabek leans forward.
"That?" He points to Yura's cock, then waves his hand to encompass everything
else. "That's mine. You show it to anyone again, and I won't be responsible for
my actions."
Yura just pouts. Otabek frowns.
"I mean it, Yura. You didn't think I was just going to roll over like a whipped
puppy, did you?"
The first hint of uncertainty enters Yura's gorgeous eyes. They're so green
Otabek just wants to lie down, as if he'll be cushioned by soft grass. But it's
a good thing he's starting to get it. Otabek isn't really a nice guy. He rented
a bike in Barcelona so he could take a fifteen-year-old—not so far from the
last blush of childhood—to a ticketed area so he could begin a seduction on the
real thing, a seduction he'd started years before in his dreams. Someday Yura
will know the truth, but by then it will be too late. Otabek already has him
well and good; a few more judiciously placed hooks and tighter knots and Yura
will never get away. And Otabek will never give up.
"I'm sorry, Beka." Yura's pout this time seems genuine. Otabek knows better,
confirmed by Yura's next words: "I'll take it off."
But he hasn't learned his lesson quite yet, if he's still trying to taunt
Otabek with his nudity.
"You will." Otabek pauses, allowing it to linger. "But not now. I'm going to
hang up; you're going to put on a pair of decent pajamas. And you're going to
bed."
"Beka!" Yuri whines, obviously realizing that nowhere did Otabek specify that
he was going to get to jerk off.
"Touch yourself, and I won't touch you next week. And I'll know, Yura. You know
you won't be able to hide it from me in those eyes when we meet. Now go to
bed."
He hangs up with a little half-smile. Yura's not going to fall asleep for
awhile. He's going to be frustrated and unhappy and burning for Otabek.
Otabek reaches beneath the elastic of his underwear and cups his own cock. No
one said he couldn't get off—Yura wouldn't dare.
It's pretty clear now that the whole stunt was supposed to provoke Otabek into
giving him exactly what he wanted, which was more spank bank material and maybe
a live show from his boyfriend.
What Yura doesn't know is that Otabek isn't his boyfriend. He owns him, plain
and simple: that's his Yura on display for everyone. He's already collared,
even. He just doesn't understand the significance yet.
Well, Otabek thinks as he strokes himself languidly, the way he likes it best
to start, what Yura doesn't know won't hurt him.
Yet.
                                     end.
End Notes
     Come find me (helm-puppet-trash) on Tumblr!
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