Prompt Post 1

[makkachin]

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

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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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<sub>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</sub>


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

Comments

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

There was a long moment where everyone around them stared at Victor. "Isn't this kid a dancer or something?" said one man. "He's got nice shoulders, considering."

"Don't you pay attention to anything? He skates," someone else corrected. Yakov could see how those eyes swept down Victor's spine, then back up again.

When the talking died down, Victor shifted, then tossed his hair over his shoulder with a throw of his head. This was apparently very impressive to their captors, and he did get most of it off his chest; Yakov pushed one of the stray strands off his collar as there were more comments, some admiring, a couple disparaging, more than a few speculating on how it would look with their hand grabbing it or if they pulled Victor down and—

Yakov put a hand back on Victor's waist and encouraged him up a few centimeters into a more comfortable position. He didn't look quite as small now, and it wasn't like he was delicate despite the impression his pretty, flowing costumes tended to give, but he seemed – vulnerable, perhaps. Like someone could overpower him. He still had growing to do, muscle to put on; perhaps someday soon he would start to grow out of this slender build that made it so easy for him to play the lithe, fey dancer, both on and off the ice, but not yet.

The flush on his face had extended almost to his collar by now. Yakov could see the bones there moving – he was breathing too hard and too much, and only just disguising it. But their captors were settling back into their positions, a few playing with a shirt hem or belt, ready for more. There wasn't time to try and calm him, or a way to give him more seconds to calm himself.

Yakov felt awful as he did it, but he reached up with his free hand and drew his fingers across the smooth skin of Victor's chest. Victor's eyes, still glued on his, still looking so desperate, did not make it any easier to touch him, and Yakov had a hard time looking away as he found one nipple with his hand. At first, Victor made a few fake noises, kept shifting – half the time away from the touch, not into it, not that anyone else seemed to either notice or care – but then Yakov adjusted his hand, accidentally pressed harder just as Victor leaned in, and—

Victor gasped and rolled up into his touch, then ground down into Yakov's lap. He froze for a moment, before he ducked his head and peered up at Yakov. His eyes had suddenly gone very wide, and so had his pupils.

The chatter had started up again. Laughter. They were enjoying this. They were enjoying Victor's reaction. They were enjoying seeing Yakov make him get off. Yakov had not felt so sick in a long time.

Victor pressed his lips together, and then carefully wiped his face blank. Sat up again. He intentionally pushed into Yakov's hand this time, flexed his shoulders, made a soft little sound. But his eyes were somewhere past Yakov's head, and his cheeks could not possibly get any redder.

Yakov wanted very much to sigh and let his hand slip away. (He wanted very much to stop, but that option wasn't anywhere near the table, so he tossed it to the side and ignored it for his own sake.)

Instead, he kept it up, tried to give Victor a few seconds of reprieve here and there by running a hand up his back, instead, or curving fingers around the nape of his neck for a few moments. Victor avoided his eyes, but did a good job at playing up his reactions.

Well, it was pretty obviously fake from Yakov's perspective, and as someone who had been subjected to Victor's dramatics for years. Their captors seemed to believe it, though, or maybe they just liked to watch Victor moving around in his lap, occasionally trying to hide behind his hair, making all of those sounds.

But even still, they eventually started to tire of the sight. Yakov let his hands drift down to Victor's hips, just above his belt. Before he could go for the buckle, though, Victor shoved their lips back together, pushed into Yakov when he reflexively leaned away. Was he trying to stall a bit more? Yakov let him, let him take another uncomfortable kiss, and another, until his energy seemed to run out and he slumped against Yakov's chest.

He paused to stroke Victor's hair once, and after he did so, Victor lifted his head and met his eyes for a moment.

Then he jammed his face into Yakov's shoulder. He heard a tiny, tiny whimper right in his ear. Oh, Vitya. Yakov rested a hand on his back for a moment, felt him jerk – he wasn't going to cry, was he? Yakov knew what to do with a crying person – pat their back, give them water afterward, maybe let them cry into his shoulder if necessary, attempt to solve the real problem – but that would hardly work here. He had a sudden mental image of their captors jeering at him to continue as Victor sobbed, and he had to force it away as it made him feel another wave of nausea. Besides, Victor was brave; Yakov believed (hoped) in his ability to hold it together for a while longer.

"Do we need to get a knife again?" the leader asked, and Yakov's attention snapped to him. He had the most unbearable smile on.

Yakov's glare made it falter, though only slightly, and then he raised an eyebrow.

No, he did not want anyone cutting the rest of Victor's clothes off. On top of his many other objections to the idea, Victor was wearing jeans; it would be much more difficult to slice through the denim without hurting him than it had been with the shirt. So Yakov reached down and started to undo his belt blindly. Victor drew in a deep gasp as he got it open and went for the fastenings, but he stayed still. He didn't start to cry, either. That was good. He could cry all he liked when they were out of here, if he wanted, when he had his dog to cuddle with and there was nobody who was going to start going on about how pretty he looked crying or talk about how they wanted to lick the tears from his cheeks.

Yakov didn't look as he started to pull down his jeans and underwear. It turned out to be rather tricky to get them off, given the way Victor was sitting and how his hands were still tied, especially given that Victor didn't seem very inclined towards moving to help make it easier (not that Yakov could blame him). At least nobody stepped forward to 'help', just stared, looking far too eager.

Finally, he finished wrestling them off, and the fabric hit the floor. "Socks, too," the leader said. Yakov bit back a comment about how no, he did not want to see Victor's battered feet; it didn't seem worth it. (Though the thought did come into his mind of hoping they wouldn't make Victor walk around on this filthy, hard floor barefoot.) He hooked his fingers under the fabric and peeled both of them off, one and then the other. Victor's toes curled as they were exposed.

He slid his hands back onto Victor's hips, careful to avoid the bruises Victor had accumulated from practice, and sighed to himself. He still couldn't see most of Victor, given how he was doing his best to plaster himself against Yakov's front, but he could feel that Victor was hard. The teasing had served its purpose.

And now should he – should he move on as quickly as possible, or touch him? Which would be better for Victor, less terrible? The room was very quiet as Yakov ran his thumbs over Victor's hipbones, trying to think. It didn't look like they would be getting anything to make this easier, and Victor was scared; he could feel how tense he was under his fingers. If he came, first, his body would relax, and then it might not hurt as much, physically.

Yakov hated that he had to make that decision. But he made it, and he forced his hand from Victor's hip to touch him. Victor gave a light moan as Yakov stroked him slowly, so low that Yakov could barely hear him.

"The view'd be better if he was turned around," someone commented.

The leader said, "You'll get your fill of looking later. Let him enjoy the comfort of his dear coach's face for a while longer."

Yakov felt another pulse of anger at the chuckles that erupted at the words, but there was nothing to do for it. He stroked Victor again, getting little reaction except harder breathing as he started to find a pace. This couldn't take that long, not with a teenager. But it was awkward, and he was startled into stopping when the leader clicked his tongue.

"You're not going to get him off yet, are you?" he asked. "That's no fun, is it? Much more enjoyable for everyone if you make him come on your cock." Fine. So Yakov let him go and started to move his hand towards his mouth – spit would be better than nothing – only for the leader to tilt his head and add, with that terrible grin he kept putting on, "And I think he should help out with that."

...of course. Of course they would want to see that. But if Victor had paid any attention to the words, he wasn't moving. Yakov tried to shift him as gently as possible, but when that didn't work – when Victor remained very stubbornly stuck to him for someone who didn't have the use of his arms – he pulled lightly on his hair. "Vitya."

That got him to move, sitting up again. Face blank. Yakov put his fingers to his lips, and Victor didn't just open his mouth and let Yakov slide them in; he lunged his head forward to get them in there, and bit his knuckles.

It was probably an accident, but it was painful; Yakov winced. The people surrounding them didn't notice, or were too busy enjoying watching Victor with fingers in his mouth. Victor still didn't look at him, stared somewhere under Yakov's jaw as he sucked on his fingers, then did something with his tongue to coat them further in saliva.

Neither of them seemed to want to draw this out. Victor opened his mouth; Yakov withdrew his fingers. He was a little surprised that Victor didn't go back to hiding his face. He just sat there, expression almost gone, except for the pronounced downturn to the corners of his lips, the way that he kept his eyes down. Victor never lowered his eyes even when he was scolded or unhappy.

Yakov drew Victor's head towards his, dipped down so he could murmur into Victor's hair somewhere near his ear. "Vitya, I know it's difficult, but if you can make your body relax, it will be easier."

"Okay," Victor breathed. Then, a moment later, he said something even more quietly, which Yakov couldn't catch. He shifted his head up a centimeter and repeated himself: "Will it hurt?"

The twist in Yakov's stomach that had never gone away sharpened. He'd never seen a use in lying to his students. "It might. I'll try to help."

"Okay." He could see Victor's jaw set, and he started to take better control of his breathing. Good. He was trying. It would have to do.

Victor's expression hadn't otherwise changed, but he was looking at Yakov again. He flinched a little – just a little – as Yakov reached between his legs, eased a finger into him. Then he shuttered his face again, took a deep breath; Yakov could almost count along with him, in, one, two, three, out.

He could feel the room go stiller, everyone gone silent and content to look for now. The heavy weight of their stares was better than their words, at least.

He matched his next breath with Victor's, tried to relax along with him. The stressed tension in his back and shoulders was starting to get painful. He didn't let it build again as he started to work in a second finger. Victor's breath stuttered, though, and Yakov paused for a second. Then he took another breath, slow and deliberate, and this time he could see Victor try to follow it. Could see his shoulders lose tension and shift down as he breathed out, could – feel him relaxing around his fingers. Better.

Yakov put his other hand on his lower back to help support him, and Victor grabbed it with one of his. Squeezed it before letting go. Yakov didn't know what that meant – looking for comfort, trying to say he was okay, reassuring him that he could still feel his hands. Someone in their audience went, "Aww."

Someone else started to say, "Are you sure we can't turn him—"

"Shut the fuck up," their leader said. His smile was gone now, and his eyes were intent as Yakov slid a third finger in.

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

(OP) Oh god, it starts.... I love the thoughts Yakov has and his inner conflict. Poor Yakov and poor Victor. And Yakov referring to Victor as Vitya ;__; You do know how to make reading this give people goosebumps. Thank you so much.

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh this is so lovely it's killing me but I want more

Re: Any/Any, Fuck or Die and/or Bad guys made them do it - Fill, Ashes on the Water [3/?]

[(Anonymous)]

I am so glad you are still writing this, thank you