yurionicekink | Prompt Post 1

Prompt Post 1

Notes: This post might contain adult contents. Proceed at your own discretion.

This is the place where you can request fics and fill requests

Rules (May change later):
1.Anon not necessary but recommended.
2.Put pairings/kinks/tropes/warnings on the comment title.
3.Any kink is fine. Fic or art fills is fine. Multi fills is encouraged.
4.If you see anything you don't like scroll down or use Dw blocker.
5.For the ease of prompt finding and email tracking please use full names from the official site in the comment title, except please write Yuri Katsuki as Yuuri Katsuki to differentiate him from Yuri Plisetsky.
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_{Names:
-Yuuri Katsuki
-Victor Nikiforov
-Yuri Plisetsky
-Seung Gil Lee
-Emil Nekola
-Otabek Altin
-Georgi Popovich
-Cristophe Giacometti
-Guang-Hong Il
-Jean-Jacques Leroy
-Phichit Chulanont
-Michele Crispino
-Kenjiro Minami
-Leo De La Iglesia

-Toshiya Katsuki, Hiroko Katsuki, Mari Katsuki
-Takeshi Nishigori, Yuko Nishigori, Axel / Lutz / Loop Nishigori
-Minako
-Hisashi Morooka
-Yakov Feltsman
-Celestino Cialdini
-Mira Babicheva
-Lilia Baranovskaya
-Sara Crispino
-Kolya Plisetsky}

Ao3 collection:
https://archiveofourown.org/collections/YuriOnIceKink

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Seconded! Possessive Yuuri is my fave

You said any pairing.

None of them were paying any attention to Yakov, not even the woman who still had a hand clutched in his jacket and who was supposed to be making sure he didn't try anything – not that there was anything he could do in this situation, at least not now.

None of them, that was, except for Victor, who had barely looked away from Yakov since they were kidnapped. Cheerful, fearless Victor who had been smiling and chattering like normal only an hour ago, and who now, for the first time Yakov could remember, looked terrified under the façade of calm he was trying to plaster over his face. He kept looking at Yakov with his eyes gone huge, as though Yakov knew exactly what to do, as though he could fix this.

Yakov wished those things were true, too, especially since the moment they'd been forced into this dusty room with its boarded-up windows. Aside from the bits of stone and metal scattered in the corners on the bare concrete floor, the only thing in here besides the people with knives and guns was a wooden chair. Sitting in the chair was a man, a leader of some kind, who might have been handsome if it weren't for the cruel twist to his smile.

Yakov had been able to tell, right away, that this man probably liked young, pretty things. Probably liked breaking them. And Victor was young, only a teenager, and very, very pretty.

"Oh, what have we here," the man had said, his eyes lighting up as Victor was pulled in after Yakov. Yakov had been shoved to the side, unable to do anything with the gun trained on him, heart sinking as he realized that no, they wouldn't just be put in a side room while some ransom was demanded. The faint hope had turned to a sick feeling as Victor was walked up to the man, who was already running his eyes up and down his frame. "Perhaps we could have some real fun while we wait to hear about the money," he said, and several of the other people in the room had started looking quite pleased, too.

And then he'd pulled Victor sideways into his lap, causing laughter to break out. Put an arm around his shoulders. Touched a hand to his face and laughed as Victor tried to flinch away. He hadn't even untied Victor's hands from behind his back, so Victor was left struggling to keep his balance as he attempted to move away.

If Yakov had thought shouting would help, he would have yelled himself hoarse right then. But his hands were tied, too, and there were a good dozen people in here, all armed. If he reminded them of his existence, as they gradually became distracted by their leader playing with Victor, he wasn't sure what they would do to enjoy both of them suffering at once.

The man pulled the elastic from Victor's braid and started to undo it slowly. "What lovely hair," he said. "So long. And it really is silver, can all of you see it? I thought it was just editing in the pictures, and he was really platinum blond, or maybe bleach, but no, even his eyelashes are silver."

"Are you sure we can't keep him?" someone called out.

"I'm starting to consider it," the leader laughed.

Victor kept looking back at Yakov, his breath picking up. That calm front of his was beginning to break. Yakov wasn't sure if he'd ever felt so awful for not doing anything, so angry at his own helplessness. Here was Victor, begging him for help, and Yakov had always tried to help him, when it was reasonable, and here he was, doing nothing. Surely – there had to be something, surely, if only for a short while. To buy some time. He was fairly certain that the police were looking for them. Maybe he should make a nuisance of himself and see if they wanted to make Victor cry by hurting him, instead of watching him protest as they kept running their hands over Victor. Or maybe their idea of fun would be even worse, which was the only thing keeping him still for the moment.

"Lovely," the leader said again as he finished pulling apart the top of the braid. He ran his hand down Victor's hair, brought part of it forward over his shoulder. "I can't imagine why you would ever put it back. Hiding it. Why did you have it back?" He was trying to catch Victor's gaze; it worked, for a moment, before Victor's eyes skittered to the ground, then back to Yakov, and then back to the ground. "Hm? Why did you braid it?" He tugged on the section he was holding. "Come on, you can speak, can't you?"

Victor glanced at Yakov, who jerked his chin down. Yes, play along, don't let him get angry yet, he tried to communicate. Maybe it worked, because Victor swallowed and looked back at the leader. "It was in the way," he said, and his voice only trembled a little. He was being so brave. Yakov hoped that would help in some way.

"I see." The leader stopped playing with Victor's hair and touched his face again, crooked a finger under his jaw and went to kiss him. Already? Yakov bit back a curse. Victor tried to fling himself back. He almost tumbled off the man's lap and to the floor, and was only barely caught in time. "Come on," the man said. "It's just a little kiss. It's not gonna hurt." He tried once more, but Victor squirmed and turned his face away, the disgust and fear evident in his expression.

Eventually, the man tired of this and grabbed Victor, jerked him in and forced him into a kiss. Yakov watched him struggle even more, heard him make a little cry, and felt sick. Felt furious. This man had no right to be touching anyone, let alone Victor, who for all his annoying points had done absolutely nothing to deserve being hurt. Who had no business reeling as the man let him go, looking like he was on the verge of angry tears, when he should have been cooing over his spoiled dog or trying to convince Yakov of his latest crazy idea for his programs or sitting in the window and studying that French textbook he'd been so attached to lately.

"He's a fighter," someone chuckled, though Yakov could barely hear over the sound of his teeth grinding against each other.

"Good," the man said, sliding his arm from Victor's shoulders to his waist, pulling him closer, leering. "It's always so much fun when they—"

Yakov couldn't stand to see it for a second longer. "Get your hands off him," he snarled, stepping forward and pulling his surprised guard along with him.

Everyone else started and looked over at him. "Oh," the man said after a second of staring. His eyes slid to the woman, who had readied her gun again. Yakov noticed, though, that she wasn't holding it right. "Weren't you supposed to be keeping an eye on that one?"

"I'm very sorry, sir, it won't happen again."

"It's fine," he said, still eyeing Yakov, who kept glaring at him. "Although, you know... why don't we play a game? What do you think, pretty?" he asked Victor, tugging on his hair again, that creepy grin on his face. "I'll even let you choose what we play."

"What are you talking about?"

Yakov was pretty sure he had an idea after the man helped Victor to his feet and stood himself, then gestured for Yakov to be brought closer. "Untie his hands."

Victor looked lost. The leader was still holding him firmly by the shoulder, and he cringed away when he went after his hair again. Yakov kept his eyes squarely on the man as he rubbed his freed wrists. Following more directions, he shrugged off his trench coat as slowly as he dared (anything to buy more time), then draped it on the back of the chair before sitting down. He put his hands on the arms and stared back at the leader.

"This is your coach, isn't he, pretty. How long's he been teaching you?"

Victor sent him a questioning look. Yakov made a tiny motion again. Anything that would keep him talking instead of touching. "I don't know." Victor paused. "Seven or eight years?"

"You like him? Is he nice to you?"

"Yes?" Victor leaned away as the man tugged him in, started to play with the hem of his shirt.

"How nice?" he asked in a teasing tone.

Yakov try to banish the nausea he felt at where this was going. Victor didn't seem to get it, or if he did, hid it well; his eyebrows knit together with confusion. The man laughed, and Yakov was ready for him to ask something more blunt, or at least lewd enough that Victor would catch on, but apparently he decided that it would be more fun to force Victor into another kiss, rough and long.

Yakov's hands tightened on the arms of the chair until he could hear the wood creak, aching to get up and do something. If only there weren't so many of them. He would have enjoyed dragging this man off Victor and punching him in the face.

"Here's the game, pretty," the leader said when he finally released Victor, who panted and tried to pull away from him. "Option number one." And he threw Victor into Yakov's lap.

Yakov caught him before he could overbalance, or fall back on the ground. Victor struggled to right himself without the use of his hands, but then he snapped his head up and stared at Yakov, expression blank.

"You let your dear, precious coach fuck you first," the leader continued, prompting another outburst of laughs with some comments thrown in. "Or, you decide that you'd rather he just watch from up close as we have some fun. What will it be? Oh, wait, you're nice and young, aren't you? Maybe it's not fair to ask you to make such a big decision. I should be asking your coach. Which will it be, Mr. Feltsman?"

Yakov spared a moment to glower at him over Victor's shoulder – which only made him grin more widely – before looking back at Victor. From this close, he could see the bruise starting to form on Victor's jaw, the way that he was trembling. "Vitya," he murmured lowly, hoping it might calm him momentarily. Which option would hurt him less? One would give them more time, hopefully, but the thought of forcing Victor through something so cruel was making him taste bile at the back of his tongue. But watching these people do it instead, letting them touch him without even delaying them, seemed just as awful for Victor.

Victor ducked his head, though due to the way he was kneeling on the chair, Yakov could still see his face through his hair falling around it. He mouthed something; Yakov wasn't an accomplished lipreader, but it looked like please. Please what? That didn't tell him anything. He tilted his head, and Victor glanced up at him, pleading. Scared. His fingers were digging into Yakov's arm to the point of pain. Another word – no, two. Not them.

Fine. If Victor preferred it this way, then fine. Yakov would make himself do it. He could try to be as kind as he could, try to make it not hurt, at least. And if, even with that, Victor couldn't stand to be near him afterward – if it came to it, and there was nothing else to do, Yakov could help him find a new coach. He had connections. Almost anyone would be willing to take him on, no matter how disobedient he was, with his natural grace and beautiful skating and the way he cheerfully followed his whims to such effect.

He heard feet shuffling. They were getting impatient. He slowly wrapped an arm around Victor, glared up again. "I'll do it," he growled. Victor's hand tightened even further on his arm, then relaxed.

If only a look could kill. The leader looked far too pleased (and healthy) as he smiled at Yakov and took a couple steps back. "Then by all means. Get started."

*pulls up chair, sits down very emphatically*

::sits right down to wait for part 2::

“Are you calling me a liar?” Yuri asks indignantly.

“Oh, I’ve seen it done. I’m just expressing doubt that you can do it.” Otabek's voice is flat and reasonable and Yuri kind of wants to scream.

“Fuck you, Altin,” he snaps. “I can do a full Biellmann spin, of course I can suck myself off.”

Otabek stares him down through the webcam, inscrutable as always. Yuri worries suddenly that he's said too much as one of Otabek's eyebrows lifts.

“Prove it.”

All the blood in Yuri’s body sinks and then surges again. “That sounds like a dare.”

“And if it is?”

Otabek is blushing, obvious even with the shitty video quality, but his dark eyes remain steady. Yuri swallows in an attempt to bring moisture back to his suddenly parched throat and holds Otabek's gaze.

Yuri Plisetsky does not back down from a challenge.

“Fine.” Yuri takes great satisfaction in the momentarily-uncensored look of shock that flits across Otabek's face. What, he thought Yuri would refuse? He ought to know better by now. “Sure, I'll prove it.”

Otabek is tongue-tied. Yuri has rendered him speechless. Excellent.

Now Yuri just has to figure out where to start. He fiddles with the angle of his laptop screen for a moment, unsatisfied, then gives it up as a lost cause and relocates to his bed, settling the laptop on his pillow and arranging himself sideways in front of it.

“There. Can you see?”

Otabek clears his throat. “There’s not much to see yet.”

“Oh, fuck you and your mother. This is just setup.” Banter is good. Banter distracts him from the fact that he’s unzipping his jeans so he can blow himself for his best friend’s amusement.

What did he get himself into?

“My mother is a saint, Yura,” Otabek sasses in his driest tone. “Watch your tongue.”

“You watch my tongue.” The retort slips out of Yuri’s mouth without thought as he pushes his jeans down his legs, but then he realizes just what he said. “No, really. Watch my tongue.” He wiggles his eyebrows at the camera — play it for humor, make him laugh and it’ll be less weird — then folds himself over his knees to loosen his spine.

He sneaks a look at the screen through his hair to find Otabek watching him intently.

“Put your hair up,” Otabek says. Yuri shivers involuntarily at the commanding note in his voice. “I won’t be able to see if it’s down like that, and if I can’t see then I can’t say for certain that you’ve done it.”

“What, don’t you trust me?”

“To cheat? Yes, I do.”

It feels silly, but the teasing puts him at ease. It’s just Otabek. Nothing strange about this at all.

“I would never! This is serious now, Beka; you’ve called my honor into question. Give me a second.” Yuri rolls out of his stretch and pads to his desk in his boxers to hunt for a hair tie. He scrapes his hair up as he walks back to the bed, and when he can see his laptop screen again it shows Otabek lounging against his bed pillows.

“Getting comfy?” Yuri asks, securing the tie.

“I want to be able to enjoy the show.”

Now that’s just unfair. Otabek shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that when Yuri is about to— do what he’s about to do.

Yuri flops back down, then scrambles to catch his laptop when it almost slides off the bed.

“Trying to get out of it?” Otabek asks, laughing at Yuri’s struggle.

“You wish,” Yuri snorts. The laptop is stable again, and he shakes his shoulders in preparation.

He’s really going to do this. He’s going to suck his own cock on webcam. For Otabek.

He is in way over his head.

“Yuri,” Otabek starts, sounding suddenly serious, and Yuri marvels that he can tell the difference between teasing-serious and real-serious in Otabek’s voice — the two are almost identical, but Yuri is so familiar with all his shades of tone that the difference is plain now. “You know you don’t have to—”

Yuri cuts him off. “Beka. You know me better than that. I don’t do things I don’t want to.”

Otabek stares. Yuri can feel the tension returning, ratcheting tighter in his ribcage.

“Besides,” he continues with a laugh that’s only a little forced, “I thought I told you: my honor is on the line here. I have a point to prove.”

“Of course,” Otabek says magnanimously.

Yuri has to look away from the screen when he shoves his boxers down. He’s barely hard. Knowing Otabek is watching stirs something deep in his core — he likes people to watch him, it’s a job hazard — but fuck, he’s nervous. This isn’t like performing at all. It’s a lot more like learning a new jump, taking off without knowing if he’ll land cleanly or crash to the ice. This is fresh ice and brand new choreography with no coach in sight.

There’s only one way to go: forward. Yuri didn’t get to be the best through a lack of willpower.

He lowers the leg closest to the camera so Otabek will have an unobstructed view (and hell, that means Otabek is looking at his dick, that Yuri is inviting Otabek to look at his dick, which is a heady thought that’s certainly having an effect in the hardness department), takes a deep breath—

—and drops his head between his thighs, his mouth pressing against the crown of his cock.

“Holy shit,” Otabek gasps. The words smooth over a large swathe of Yuri’s scored nerves and his cock throbs against his lips in reaction, swelling further. Yuri wants to make Otabek say things like that all the time.

He licks over the head, showy, pulling back the foreskin with his hand (the back hand, don’t block the camera’s view) and circling his tongue around. It’s a little salty, a little musky, but the point isn’t the flavor, or even the pleasure of having a mouth on his cock.

The point right now is the skill. The showmanship. Knowing how impressive he is like this, twisted in on himself impossibly, and feeling someone else’s eyes — Otabek’s eyes — on him, recognizing his talent, drinking him in.

Yuri slides his mouth down, closes his lips around the shaft and sucks until his cheeks hollow. God, that feels good. Everything feels good, even the tightness in his neck.

“Fuck, Yura, I believe you, you don’t have to—” Otabek sounds wild, consumed, and Yuri lets the thrill of it travel down his spine. His mouth makes an obscene noise when his dick pops free.

“If I’m doing this then I’m doing it right.” He trains his gaze directly on the camera as he wraps his lips around his cock again.

Otabek breathes like the air is being forced out of him.

“...Shit,” he whispers. “Goddamn.” Yuri is pretty sure that Otabek has no idea he’s even speaking. He sounds absent.

Yuri did that. He knocked the sense clean out of steady, stoic Otabek. The idea is intoxicating.

Yuri runs his fingers up the underside of his cock and pulls his mouth back to rub the head across his lips, drawing a sticky line with his precome which he then licks off. He knows what his mouth looks like when he does that, red and wet and inviting, and the strangled sound coming from his laptop speakers says that Otabek appreciates the view.

It takes a lot more brainpower to suck dick than to have your dick sucked. Yuri doesn’t mind; he likes the feel of a cock in his mouth, the velvet slide heavy on his tongue, the burn in his throat when he goes a little too far. And so what if he imagines, more often than not, that the cock in his mouth belongs to someone else, someone currently on the other end of a Skype call.

Yuri watches the laptop screen from the corner of his eye while he lowers his head down to take his cock as deep as he can get it. He moans when he feels the head pushing into his soft palate, picturing Otabek spread out beneath him, thrusting up into his mouth. Picturing himself thrusting into Otabek’s mouth, his full lips wrapped around Yuri’s cock, sucking so sweetly.

Otabek on the screen is too still, frozen but for the rise and fall of his chest, eyes wide.

Yuri swallows once, shivers and does it again, then pulls off.

“Come on, Beka,” he says, voice a little raspy. “You don’t have to just sit there. If I’m putting on a show, you should enjoy it properly.”

“...Yeah?” Otabek asks, lust-slow and breathy. Yuri smirks.

“Yeah. Absolutely.”

“Fuck,” Otabek says. “All right.”

The view jiggles as Otabek moves his laptop; it ends up a little farther from his face and lifted higher, like it’s sitting on a pillow on his legs. Yuri can’t quite see what his hands are doing, but his forearms disappear out of the bottom of the frame.

“Better?” Yuri asks with a wicked smile. Otabek makes a wordless noise of assent.

Yuri drops back down without preamble, plunging his mouth over his own cock and working his tongue in swirls along the shaft as far down as he can reach, covering the rest with his fingers. When Otabek hisses with pleasure, the sound sears into Yuri’s stomach, burning in a line from navel to spine. Otabek’s shoulders shift, just a little at first and then more, faster, and Yuri may not be able to see it onscreen but he knows exactly what’s happening there: Otabek’s wide palm wrapped tight around his own dick, his fingers rubbing along the underside, thumb teasing the head — Yuri wants that hand on him. He moans around his cock and the sensation shoots through him from balls to throat and down to his toes, makes his back coil tighter.

Otabek groans in response. The motion of his forearm, what’s visible at the bottom of the frame, speeds up.

Yuri is not going to last like this. Fuck.

There’s a sound bubbling in him, caught in the curve of his ribs, and he’s reasonably sure it’s Otabek’s name. He keeps his mouth sealed around the head of his cock and sucks for all he’s worth, feeling the suction like electricity all the way through his spinal column, pleasure sparking all his nerve endings. It pools in his nipples, his fingertips, the hollows behind his eyes. His hand fists around his cock, tugging frenetically.

His breath is too short for this; he has to pull off to gasp into his thigh, his hand still working between his legs, shocks traveling from his cock to his hairline. God. He’s going to feel this orgasm in his teeth.

“Yura,” Otabek whines, high and thin, and Yura nearly tips over the edge at the sound.

“Fuck,” Yuri pants, “Beka, Beka—”

He curls into himself again, slips his lips over the head of his cock and feels lightning strike him in the solar plexus, jagged ribbons of plasma slicing along his bones as he comes on his own tongue, salty-sharp and overwhelming. He can’t fucking breathe through the force of his climax. Come drips messily from the corner of his mouth.

When his muscles release him, he swallows and flops backwards across the bed.

Long moments pass before he can force his eyes open.

The sight that greets him nearly drives them closed again in a rumble of echoed pleasure, the thunderclap after the lightning. Otabek’s head is tipped back against his headboard like he can’t be bothered to use his neck and there’s a streak of white up the front of his shirt. His mouth hangs open around his labored breathing.

“Holy shit,” Yuri whispers, and then again because it bears repeating. “Holy shit.”

Otabek blinks slowly and tilts his head back upright. He starts to raise his hand and then apparently notices that it’s dripping with come; his face flushes and Yuri grins at him, sated and easy.

Yuri’s neck is going to kill him tomorrow. Yakov will probably kick him out of the rink for extra ballet practice once it becomes obvious how stiff his back is.

It’s so fucking worth it. It’s worth every single leap combination, every barre exercise, every painful drill Lilia will throw at him to see Otabek with that fucked-stupid look on his face and to know that he, Yuri, put it there.

“So?” Yuri asks. Otabek looks at him blankly for a moment, visibly groping for words.

“...I think I should have bought you dinner first.”

Yuri bursts out laughing.

This was hot as fuck, anon.

♥♥♥

I love how they're both in over their heads. Yuri's right, Otabek should know better by now.

Thank you!

Thanks! <3 Honestly, they should both know better by now, but I doubt they'll ever learn.

PLEASE

((a friend was like why tho and i was like why tf not! hope op and everyone enjoys))

These are the terms.

Yuuri's throat clenches up, making it difficult to swallow. He's dizzy.

He's… excited?

The man across from him, with the Hollywood blue eyes and sandy, cropped hair, tilts his chin. The building's corridor now emptied, seeing as Yuuri and everyone else huddles inside the men's locker room. On the way in, Yuuri feels someone's hand touching his back, skimming lightly to curve of Yuuri's ass.

He jumps for a second, heart fluttering. A flash of arousal grips him without warning, reddening Yuuri's cheeks.

It's your body… in exchange for your skating pals to have the rink. Got it?

"Got it," Yuuri murmurs in agreement. His eyesight is pretty horrendous without his glasses — but he can, without a doubt, see Hollywood Blue smiling fiercely, his forehead crinkling as he belts out a laugh.

Some of the Detroit Hockey Team shake their head as if disapproving, and others lick their lips, tracing their hungry gazes over Yuuri, head to toe, without shame. The locker room's occupants lessen. All five men, left remaining of the eleven originally, begin stripping down, quietly arguing and knocking into each other.

Yuuri contemplates his decision, carefully unlacing and removing his guard-covered ice skates.

Not a bad compromise. Phichit and their skating club now have the last few weeks of the mouth to practice. Celestino doesn't have to fight about the schedule, or with the officials running the local ice-teams. It's too much of a hassle, considering how much everyone needs the rink.

He has his top layer off when he squawks, fingers grabbing his hair roughly and a semi-erect cock appears in Yuuri's face.

"Open wide." Any protest Yuuri hopes to voice — crammed and vanished. An unnamed man forces himself into Yuuri's widening mouth, giving a bone-jolting thrust and kickstarting Yuuri's gag reflex.

A man with several upper-arm tattoos, and more heavyset with muscle than this man, separates them with a concerned look.

Yuuri gags out more noisily and squeezes his eyes shut, holding onto the edges of the locker-bench with quivering hands. Yuuri's scalp burning in agony.

Shit, oh shit…

"Hey—chill, Marco. Let the kid breathe." Tattoos leans over, using a softer tone for Yuuri. He strokes the top of Yuuri's head, gently petting his dark hair. "He'll behave, won't you, Marco?"

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that," Marco says vacantly, but glares at Hollywood Blue who smirks.

Yuuri's anxiety still hitches his chest, but he calms enough to undress, Yuuri's bare skin feeling the cool, polished metal of the bench. "Down on your knees, alright?" Tattoos coaxes him, waiting for Yuuri to do so before petting Yuuri's hair again, soothing and slow, bringing him in closer.

This time, Yuuri opens his mouth willingly for a cock, lips smearing across the swollen, pink glans. It tastes wet and sweaty and like cock— he's only given Phichit a "blowjob" (as he's heard it in America) once. Yuuri has never let Phichit come inside his mouth, or planned to, but did let him come on his face. It had been disgusting and incredible at the same time, witnessing a kind of lost, blissed out expression on Phichit.

Because of Yuuri's actions.

This cock isn't as hairy or stinks as bad, but Yuuri's jaw begins to ache. He groans out and shifts with palms flat to the unscrubbed tiles, attempting to loosen his facial muscles to accommodate the girth.

"Good boy," Tattoos whispers above him. His pale hips lift and buck forward, pressing deeper inside Yuuri's throat for a long, heart-pounding moment.

Yuuri manages to not gag. He's forgotten about the men waiting, eyeing him and mumbling, creeping closer to inspect Yuuri kneeling.

Hands — everywhere hands, caressing his sides and back, at first tentatively before getting rougher, pinching, scratching. Yuuri keens out at the sensation of a new, cool hand fondling Yuuri's own cock standing out from his body and dribbling pre-cum, jacking him several times.

Other hands peel apart Yuuri's buttocks, massaging the line of his perineum, up to his hole. He squirms when the tip of a forefinger pushes firmly against Yuuri's exposed anus, testing its resistance.

"Well, well, got ourselves a virgin," someone hollers out.

There's an echo of cheers and hoots. Tattoos pulls off, his dick sliding out of Yuuri's slopping-wet mouth. Yuuri squirms harder, flushing darkly as more fingers invade his space, holding his legs and ass wide-open, probing and rubbing all over. Some fingers coat in saliva, attempting to nudge past Yuuri's rim.

It hurts when the first one is successful, jabbing and spreading him to prepare for the next finger.

Yuuri cries out, head hanging low, before it's another unnamed man in front of him, cupping the side of his face. This man has lovely, dark brown skin and a obviously crooked nose, as if something inside it broke and didn't heal quite the way it needed to. It's not so unusual for someone playing hockey, he thinks.

Broken Nose strokes over Yuuri's temple and forehead, offering a silent, close-lipped smile.

"Anyone got lube for their night out?"

"Catch!" One of the men shouts.

Whoever asked must have caught it, because a new round of cheers rear up, erupting around Yuuri. "This is some flavored shit?" A groan of displeasure from the catcher. "Who the hell even likes grape?"

Everyone else begins laughing, jostling each other, and somebody fiercely smacks Yuuri right on his hole. Yuuri clenches himself up instinctively, around the forefinger knuckle-deep inside him.

"Be easy on him, Rod," Hollywood Blue says warningly.

It's a little difficult to remove the forefinger, but Yuuri gets a millisecond's rest before bigger, slickened fingers plunge into him, dilating open Yuuri's rim further.

"He can take it, right, sweetheart?" Rod pretends to coo, thrusting his fingers clumsily and grasping Yuuri's hip to steady him. Yuuri bites down on his lower lip and ignores him, focusing on making himself relax instead. "Gonna get yourself a nice big rod… in that sweet little ass."

They must have worked out who was going first— as soon as Yuuri thinks he's used to it, he feels something blunt and huge attempting to fit instead of a man's fingers. The cockhead presses, and presses to Yuuri's rim, sinking in, centimetre by centimetre, filling Yuuri to a near breaking point.

Yuuri pants and collapses to his elbows, his vision hazing.

It's… shit, it's amazing…

He barely moves when Rod begins fucking him, slamming and grinding against Yuuri's ass. The pace continues to increase, brutal and with no intentions of slowing when Rod's meaty hand grips one of Yuuri's hips to the point of leaving bruises. "Fucking hell—fucking fuck yes," Rod moans out breathlessly, pressing up entirely to Yuuri's hips and grinding down as he orgasms, shooting his come deep into Yuuri's ass.

The next man takes his place, just as Rod slips out of Yuuri, wagging his spent dick in victory. Yuuri doesn't know who it is but he's kinder with him, gradually pushing in. The thrusts are shorter and slower, easing through body-warmed semen and lubricant. He covers Yuuri's back, pressing on him.

Hollywood Blue's voice drops into Yuuri's ear, stirring the bits and pieces of arousal Yuuri clings to.

"You're good. Sure you're a virgin, baby?"

His pale hand slides and cups over Yuuri's balls, squeezing down, drawing a sharp-soft sobbing noise out of Yuuri. Hollywood Blue fucks him like a lover might, greedy for his own and yet allowing Yuuri the chance at a release. He empties himself into Yuuri, dragging his open mouth and nose against Yuuri's nape. The other, younger man gasps out and trembles, his dick spurting onto Hollywood Blue's right hand.

From there, it seems like routine — new man, new cock — but all five of them must have their turn. Marco fists Yuuri by the hair again, yanking minutely as he pounds into him, cursing and using words like "bitch" and "slut" which only fuel Yuuri's desire to get off harder than before.

Tattoos refuses his turn initially, before agreeing to fuck Yuuri's mouth as Rod gleefully takes a second turn — once or twice, he pulls out too far out of Yuuri's ass, fumbling around to get back.

Yuuri's belly feels tight and hot, almost swelling with how much come there's inside him.

Broken Nose agrees to Tattoos' decision, slipping into Yuuri's throat instead — at the same time, Hollywood Blue takes his round, slowly massaging Yuuri's back and shoulders, kissing down and then biting on one area hard. Yuuri groans, licking and suckling lazily on the tip of Broken Nose's cock.

He recognizes the pre-orgasmic twitching in his mouth. Tattoos gave him a nonverbal warning before it happened, pulling back out of Yuuri's throat so the other man wouldn't choke on the hot fluid jetting.

This time, Broken Nose jerks his hips and holds Yuuri's head in place, stuffing his dick all the way in. Yuuri's eyes water at the corners. He muffles out distressed noises, choking on the unexpected, possessive motion, before an soft-spoken, genuine apology reaches his ears.

Yuuri nods, coughing. Drool and a little of Broken Nose's come slides on Yuuri's chin, dripping the floor.

"You did great, oh my god," Hollywood Blue groans out, partly in ecstasy, giving one last, messy thrust. He claps Yuuri's leg and rises to his feet, highfiving Marco who leers slightly down on Yuuri. "Rink is yours."

"Thank you," Yuuri murmurs, hardly audible.

The members of the hockey team aggressively celebrate and toss each other paper towels, wiping themselves off quickly and dressing back into their red-and-white jerseys.

Soon enough, they're gone.

He takes his time, already sitting up and gingerly keeping his weight off his abused hole. Come leaks between Yuuri's thighs as he rolls onto his knees, standing and heading for the showers. Yuuri cleans himself with the hot water, only visibly wincing as it hits his genitals and especially all of the sore, sensitive skin.

"Yuuuuuuuri!" Phichit, still dressed in the casual clothes Yuuri saw an hour ago, pokes his head around the corner. He glances around for his best friend. "Shall we skaaaaaaaate?" he singsongs.

Yuuri's mouth uplifts.

"In a minute," he calls back. "I've got good news for Celestino…"

Not OP, but this is like a direct straight shot to my id. I think I love you.

Either she seduces him (much to his delight) or you can go with noncon. Would prefer serious over crack, but it doesn't matter too much.

Let them be friends! Friend-date?

This is so fucking good; pls more.

Victor is a sexy and bold omega who loves to show off his gorgeous body, loves to tease and flirt, to use sexy outfits, etc.

One day, he is minding his own business when a male alpha attacks and rapes him, saying it is his fault for being "such a slut" or something.

Bonus points:
- people judging him, saying bullshit like "he was asking for it" or "poor alpha ): how could he resist? Alphas will be alphas"; this breaks Victor;
-Yakov is 100% supportive of Victor and stays by his side no matter what;
-Years later, when he is with Yuuri (his second gender doesn't matter), he opens up about the incident and tells everything to him. Of course Yuuri comprehends and supports him.

And please, no teenager!Victor.

OP here. My first reaction was OMG, OMG, OMG... I did say any pairing and I'm certainly not complaining. You have a very nice writing style, by the way. Thank you so much *brings out tent to camp here*

Well, goddamn that is hot.

*fans self* Perfect!

Yessss! The whole scenario hits my id so hard, and you're writing is amazing. I love the perspective, your handle on Yakov, his disgust and trying to do the best thing for Victor. So good.

You are the hero this kink meme needs. ♥

Would you prefer Yuuri or Victor getting off on being menaced with skate blades?

It doesn't have to be a foot fetish, but Victor keeps finding excuses to do this. Also (knife/ice blade)play and a little blood/injury is fine!

oh no... i'm so into this...

(that's a compliment, i promise, sometimes i forget how much of a kink this is for me so thank you very much for reminding me ;D)

Okay, that was fantastic. Really really hot with an excellent punchline.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 40 of 59

Prompt Post 1

Re: Yuuri Katsuki / Victor Nikiforov - exhibitionism/voyeurism

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Victor Nikiforov/Young Victor Nikiforov/Chris Giacometti, time travel threesome

[FILL] - explicit sexual content, situational humliation

Re: [FILL] - explicit sexual content, situational humliation

Yakov Feltsman/Mira Babicheva, pervy old man

Otabek Altin/Phichit Chulanont, fluff

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

MOB/Victor Nikiforov, omega!Victor, omegaverse, noncon

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: [FILL] - explicit sexual content, situational humliation

Re: [FILL] - explicit sexual content, situational humliation

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]

Re: Katsuki Yuuri/Viktor Nikiforov, bladeplay

Victor/Any, kissing other skater's skates

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [1/?]

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Otabek Altin - Yuri is just THAT flexible - FILL: Stress Tested [1/1]