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

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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

YOU MADE IT EVEN BETTER +1231398294

Victor doesn't have as much stamina as Yuuri, so after a busy day of training he often exhausted and falls asleep right after getting into bed. But he knows that Yuuri gets horny after training, so Victor gives Yuuri permission to do whatever to his body even when he's out cold.

Please no watersports/scat/pain/humiliation/etc, but other than that go wild! Bonus points for Victor waking up in the morning and getting off to any marks and stains Yuuri left on him the previous night.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11283246

I hope you'll enjoy it even if it doesn't cover all of your request and is rather short :)

p l e a s e

Note: This takes place in an AU where Victor and Yuri never meet Yuuri, and nobody's happy about it.

People who haven't met Victor assume a lot about him. They assume his life must be as polished and perfect as his routines, that his flawless public persona must be a reflection, or perhaps only a slight exaggeration, of who he is in private. They call him the ice prince, and assume that when a prince pays attention to you, that means something.

Yuri fell into the same trap, when he was younger. Kind of embarrassing to think of now. If Victor was the prince, he was the chosen heir, and he wanted to be, so badly. He remembers his last junior Grand Prix, Victor telling him to work on his step sequence; he shrugged it off with a roll of his eyes, and then practiced until even Yakov only had a few minor criticisms to make. He let Victor choreograph his senior debut, a stamp of ownership on the first page of his adult career, and when he took silver, Victor's arm around his shoulder on the podium had even taken the bitterness out of second place.

He should have known better than to look up to someone and expect them not to let him down. But it was Victor. Victor was different. Everyone knew that.

And even now, in some locked part of his mind, he wants to believe it means something that it's his room Victor comes crashing into, in the small hours after the gala.

"Fuck off," he says reflexively when he opens the door, more because of the brightness of the corridor lights than anything. It's too bright to see, but he knows Victor from the blur of silver hair and from the way he smells when he pushes past. Yuri tries not to think about that too hard, that he can identify Victor by scent. They've shared hotel rooms before, so he can recognise Victor when he's stumbling in drunk. That's all it is.

"Did you forget your room, old man? You're across the hall." But he's closing and locking the door even as he says it, and his heart is in his throat, pounding.

"I'll be quiet," Victor says. He puts his arm around Yuri's waist, maybe for support. "Let me stay, Yura, it'll be fun."

What kind of fun? Yuri wants to ask, thinking it'll sound cynical, older than his years, the age he feels. But in the end it doesn't come out. He says, in a slightly hoarse voice, "Yeah, okay."

He takes Victor's hand and pulls him towards the bed. Victor laughs and pulls back. "I can't sleep in my suit. Let me take it off."

This time Yuri can't speak at all; he just nods and climbs into bed to wait. He can't resist sneaking a few glances while Victor strips down to his briefs, but he doesn't quite dare to look as openly as he'd like to. He just lies there, rigid.

The light clicks off. Victor climbs in next to him.

"Roll over on your side," he says. "Don't be so stiff, I'm not going to hurt you."

He does as he's told, thinking, God, yes, please, thinking, No, this is too fast, can't we —

Victor's arm slips around his waist and he tenses involuntarily, expecting — it doesn't matter what he's expecting. It doesn't happen. Victor only cuddles up behind him, burying his face in Yuri's hair. A moment later he seems to be asleep. Of course. He just came in here to sleep. Why else?

Yuri has never been more awake. Victor's hand is on his chest, Victor's body is pressed full-length against his back. And he can smell it now, beneath the sweat and champagne, the musk and cologne: something sour and seedy and familiar, like when Yuri jerks off in bed before his alarm and doesn't clean up right away.

Gross. He tries to swallow, but his mouth and throat are dry.

If he thought about it, he could probably guess who Victor's been with, but he doesn't want to. Doesn't want to think at all. Especially doesn't want to think about what he's doing when he brings his hand up — slowly, so slowly it's like he's not moving at all — and lays it over Victor's on his chest.

For a minute it's just like that, their hands moving up and down with the rhythm of Yuri's breath. He's breathing like after a training session, almost panting, unbearably hot.

Still not thinking about it, he starts to push Victor's limp hand downwards. It skims over his nipple, down his ribs one by one, over his stomach, past his navel. There he stops. He can't bring himself to go any further. If Victor woke up now...

But he can picture it. Pressing Victor's hand hard between his legs, rocking up against it, god, it's so clear, so real, so terribly possible. His cock twitches — he feels it move against the heel of his hand, and Victor's. What kind of person would do something like that? What kind of person would get off on the thought of it?

He gets up. He doesn't make any effort to be subtle, but Victor doesn't stir at all; his arm falls from around Yuri's waist, dead weight.

It doesn't mean anything. It's not — whatever it looks like. Yuri's just taking care of a problem that won't go away by itself.

He's fumbling with his pants before the bathroom door is all the way closed. He barely has time to get a hand around his dick before he's coming in desperate, eager spurts, nearly biting through his lip in an effort to keep silent. When it's over he slides down the wall, his legs shaking, and stares without seeing across the room, waiting for his breathing to go back to normal.

When he gets back into bed, Victor still doesn't move. Yuri doesn't look at him, certainly doesn't touch him. He lies as far away as he can, practically hanging off the edge, and closes his eyes resolutely.

It doesn't mean anything.

In the morning, Mila says, "Did Victor come to your room last night?"

Yuri jumps as if scalded. How the fuck did she know? He can't say anything, but she sees it on his face.

"Oh, relax, I know nothing happened. Victor wouldn't do anything like that. He doesn't like being alone, that's all. I figured it would be you now Georgi's retired."

Yuri flashes back to the wild leap of hope he felt when Victor came in. The way his heart sped up at Victor's arm around his waist. His face burns.

"I know," he says, turning away from her. "It's not a big deal."

The articles all say it's a minor injury. They say the timing is lucky — right at the end of the season, so he has the summer break to rest up and recover. They're all adamant it won't affect Victor's career, but all of them, as if in passing, mention that he's almost thirty. The unspoken question is, how long can he keep this up? Nobody says 'retirement', but everyone's thinking it.

Victor laughs it off in interviews. "I haven't had a holiday in ten years," he says. "Maybe I'll go sightseeing."

Maybe he does. Yuri doesn't know. But not long after they get back to St. Petersburg, at eleven o'clock at night, Victor's at the door of his apartment, hell beast in tow, wanting to come in.

"Fuck off," Yuri says, less reflexively this time. "Get that dog — "

Potya sees Makkachin, hisses once and retreats to a high shelf. Yuri's expecting some kind of cartoon cat-and-dog chase, furniture flying, but Makkachin is better behaved than that. Her ears perk up when she sees Potya jump, but then she relaxes again, tail swinging lazily from side to side, and pushes her nose against Yuri's wrist. He doesn't intend to pet her, it's just that her head kind of ends up under his hand.

"We came to see how you're doing," Victor says, beaming. "I brought beer, so don't tell Yakov. I've never had a sleepover, have you?"

Yuri groans. "You're not staying the night."

But Victor did come all this way, and Makkachin's old and probably shouldn't have to walk back home again, so reluctantly he lets them in. He fills up a bowl of water for the dog and is tempted to leave it at that, but he can't help thinking what his grandpa would say about his lack of hospitality. So he says, "There's food in the fridge, do what you want," and throws himself back down on the couch.

Victor sits next to him. He's already opened one beer for himself, and one for Yuri, which Yuri doesn't touch.

"What are you watching?"

"Old routines. Trying to think of what to do next season."

"I have a few ideas!" Victor says. "Why not let me choreograph for you again? Your last short program was okay, but I think it could have used a little more — "

"No," Yuri says sharply. "Piotr's choreography is fine. I'm not firing him so you can feel like your life has meaning again."

That came out... not how he meant it to. There's an exquisitely awkward silence, then Victor lets out a short laugh and reaches for his beer. He doesn't say anything else.

After half an hour Yuri realises he's never going to be able to concentrate with Victor there, and sitting in silence while Victor gets steadily more intoxicated beside him is no one's idea of a good time. He snaps his laptop shut and retrieves Potya.

"You can sleep on the couch if you want to stay. I'm going to bed."

But he lies awake. Eventually Potya becomes offended by his tossing and turning, and goes to sleep on a pile of clothes in the corner. The room is stuffy — he doesn't usually close the door — and he can't stop thinking about Victor out there in his living room. Victor coming in, asking to share the bed. Victor wrapped around him, draped over him, and this time maybe Yuri would just roll over and rock himself against Victor's thigh, slow and careful until he couldn't be slow and careful any more, until he was coming in his pants with Victor's arms heavy and limp around him.

Fuck. He gets up again with no plan in mind — he didn't even know he was going to get up until he was standing in the middle of the room with a hard-on and a need to do something, anything.

The living room is half-lit, only the light from one of the small fluorescents in the kitchen that Victor must have forgotten to turn off. He's asleep on the couch with Makkachin, lying on his front with his head on Makkachin's back, hugging her. His shoes and socks are lying next to the couch, but he hasn't hasn't bothered to fetch a blanket. His feet are bare and vulnerable. Yuri looks at the blisters and bruises — fading, because Victor hasn't been allowed on the ice since he hurt his knee. Further up, Victor's ass is a perfect curve, and where his shirt has ridden up slightly, Yuri can see the muscles of his back, the slim lines of his waist. He thinks about slipping his fingers up along that slope of warm skin, Victor's shirt crumpling around his wrist. He thinks about climbing on top of Victor right now and grinding down against that firm ass.

Victor sighs in his sleep and turns his head, eyelids fluttering. Yuri starts back in a thunder of guilty adrenaline. Stupid. Stupid. What was he thinking?

He goes back to his room and makes himself lie still, with his hands in tight, furious fists at his sides and a fever running through him. Even in his dreams, when he finally manages to fall asleep, he's hard, aching, needing.

Victor comes again the next night, much later, when Yuri's already given up and gone to bed. This time he arrives drunk, his shirt buttoned wrong, and envelops Yuri in a hug before Yuri can do anything to avoid it.

"Yura," he says, his lips moving warm and wet against Yuri's neck. He smells like sex again, like someone else's cologne, and he's wet from the rain and shivering. "Little Yura, you're the only one who understands. What happens when it goes away? What do we do when we can't find it any more?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Yuri mumbles, fighting to get away. The worst thing is, though, he knows exactly what Victor's talking about. The fire, the ambition, the inspiration — you can't be a top-level skater without those things. Yuri's always felt like he's overflowing, like he'll never run out, but last season he watched Victor try and discard half a dozen different programs, unsatisfied with all of them, and then go back and try them again and settle on one he didn't even like that much because nothing else would come. If that can happen to someone like Victor, it can happen to anyone.

"You have a home," he says, just for something to say, not really meaning it. "Go there."

"It's empty. Don't want to. Let me stay."

"What about Makkachin?"

"With my neighbour. Don't want to wake her up."

"But waking me up is fine? Ugh. Whatever. Wait here."

He disentangles himself from Victor's arms and heads into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and, fuck, he doesn't know, maybe some bread or something. What do you give drunk people? He's intending to let Victor have the couch again, but when he comes out, Victor's not there; only his jacket is folded over the back of a chair. Victor is in Yuri's room, stretched out on the bed.

"No," Yuri says, insides churning. "Get up. You're not sleeping in my fucking bed. Victor."

He's talking loudly, almost shouting, but Victor doesn't move, doesn't react. He's dead to the world again, just like —

No.

Yuri's shaking. He goes back out into the living room, puts the water down. He'll sleep on the couch. He won't even go in there, won't even look. Hell, he'll go for a run, never mind the rain. He'll exhaust himself past the point of thought or action.

He walks back towards the bedroom and stands in the doorway. Something twists in him, in his heart or his guts or both. Victor is beautiful even in disarray, sprawled out and flushed, with his shirt damp and half-translucent and his collarbone jutting in a sharp line where his collar is lopsided at the top.

Yuri goes in and starts to take Victor's shoes off. He can do that much, at least. His hands are trembling.

Victor doesn't stir, not for the shoes or the socks, and not when Yuri, shaking, strokes a light hand up his ankle, just under the cuff of his pants. Victor's skin is cold. He should be under the covers.

"Victor," Yuri says, whispers, knowing there'll be no response. He licks his lips. His hand seems to move of its own accord, up Victor's shin and past his knee. He crawls up onto the bed. His hand goes between Victor's legs. He can feel the slight, soft bulge of Victor's cock there, and suddenly he wants to see it, more than anything. It's not like Victor's shy about nudity, but then again it's not like Yuri can just stare as much as he wants in the changing rooms, either. He's never really looked at another guy in real life, only thought about it, over and over. He just wants to see it properly. There's nothing wrong with that. If Victor were awake, maybe he wouldn't even mind.

He's hard again, but he tries to ignore it. This isn't — it — it just isn't. Whatever happened before, that's not what this is.

It takes him three tries to unfasten the button of Victor's pants. The fly is easy, but it sounds so loud, he can't help a nervous glance up at Victor's face, even though he knows Victor's passed out. Slowly, grimacing with concentration, he works Victor's pants down around his hips. No underwear. It's what he half expected, but his ears burn all the same.

He sits back. His breath is coming in shallow little bursts, and his dick juts up ridiculously in his pants, with a visible wet spot at the tip. Victor's is soft, resting on his thigh, but it looks big all the same. Yuri wonders how much bigger it might get. Maybe if he took it in his hand — or in his mouth — Victor would feel it, even in his dreams, and get hard too. Would he moan in his sleep, thrust up in mindless pleasure? Could Yuri make him come without ever waking him up?

Fuck. Fuck. He can't go any longer without touching himself, not even for the sake of pretending that this is just curiosity, that it doesn't mean anything. He curls over his dick as if it hurts, wraps his hand so tight around it it's like he's trying to make it disappear. He never looks away from Victor's exposed skin. He thought he'd come quickly, but his orgasm builds and builds until he thinks he'll spend forever on this excruciating edge, and finally he puts his hand, just the tips of his fingers, on Victor's hip, and then he's tumbling past the point of climax, only it's more like something's being wrung out of him, his body jerking helplessly.

At some point, when his mind went blank, he closed his eyes. When he opens them again, there's a ribbon of semen trailing across Victor's stomach, down to where his pubic hair would be if he weren't shaved. Yuri stares at it, his breath hissing in and out between his gritted teeth. He can't look away. It's a stamp, a claim, a revelation. His mark on Victor Nikiforov, like the mark Victor's haphazard mentorship has left on him.

He reaches for his phone and takes a photo, because he can. It's too dangerous to keep, he knows that, but he has to save it for a little while.

Then he fetches a paper towel and cleans up with painstaking care, making sure there's nothing left. He pulls Victor's pants back up and fastens them — they're a little twisted, a little low, but Victor will probably just assume they got that way while he was asleep. Then, too tired to do anything else, he changes into clean pajamas and crawls into bed next to Victor, drawing the blanket up over them both.

Victor does move then, nearly giving Yuri a heart attack, but a moment is enough to reassure him Victor hasn't woken up. He's just seeking warmth, seeking comfort; he needs something, someone, to hold on to. He cuddles up against Yuri and Yuri lets himself be drawn in. He should be ashamed — he knows he will be — but right now it just feels good to be held.

There's no training the next day. After Victor leaves, Yuri tries to make pirozhki, his grandfather's recipe, but he gets distracted and they burn. He sits picking morosely at dried-up cabbage and beef from inside the blackened shells.

He wishes he could ask his grandpa for advice. Even as his mind recoils from the idea, he keeps returning to it. He tries to think of ways to ask without confessing what he's done: "Hey, grandpa," he could say, "what if you're doing something you know is wrong, but you can't stop doing it?"

It's no good. He knows what his grandpa would say — what all of them would say, Yakov and Mila and Beka and even Georgi. They'd say, if you know it's wrong, then you have to stop. And if he said he couldn't? They'd scoff and say, You? Yuri Plisetsky? What is there you can't do, if you set your mind to it?

But they're wrong. He can't stop. This morning he woke up with Victor's arms still around him and lay like a stone, cold with horror, disgusted with himself, imagining what Victor might do if he somehow remembered what had happened. Then he got up and went to the bathroom, and jerked off to the photo of his come on Victor's stomach. He couldn't bring himself to delete it.

They'd all say, If you want to stop, then stop, as if it's easy. But what would Victor say? Victor, whose smiles are all lies, whose public image is a giant fucking sham? Victor who forgets his promises, Victor who clings to the nearest person who'll have him and never means any of it?

Maybe Victor would say the same as the others. Or maybe... or maybe he'd smile that fraying smile, and say, "What does it matter, if no one finds out?"

That night he gives Victor a spare key. "You can come over whenever you want," he says, not looking at him. "Just stop fucking waking me up, all right?"

He runs for the shower before he has to listen to Victor thanking him.

The day after, he stops at the pharmacy for toothpaste, foot tape, hair grips, and a bottle of lube. When he gets home he throws them all into his bedside cabinet without looking, without thinking, without thinking at all.

He wakes up when the bed dips, and half sits up in alarm and confusion, forgetting for a moment.

"Just me," Victor says. He pulls Yuri against him. He's shirtless, bare-chested. Tonight he smells like red wine. "Thanks."

Yuri closes his eyes. Maybe he can just go to sleep this time. If he does, if he can do that, this might all be over. Just a fucked up phase he went through once, when he was young and inexperienced and -

"Victor?" he says, after a few minutes.

Nothing.

He can't sleep. His nerves are electrified, and he's already getting hard in anticipation.

He pulls free a little, enough to reach the drawer. The hair grips rattle as he dislodges them, and he pauses, but only for a moment. By now he's not as worried about Victor waking up.

He sits up in bed and strips off his T-shirt and pants quickly, without much thought. Do it, then, he catches himself thinking. Get it over with. He forces himself to stop, slow down.

The door is half open, the kitchen light on again, and in its bluish glow he makes himself look at Victor, really look. Victor's stripped down to his briefs again, like that first night. He's so perfect he doesn't look real. Yuri's been looking at that face for as long as he can remember, wanting Victor, wanting to be Victor, wanting everything Victor has, until the three are hopelessly jumbled and all he can feel is want. Now he just looks. Pale hair, silvery eyelashes, every muscle picked out in the soft light. Yuri even looks at the support bandage Victor's wearing around his injured knee, looks for a long time, taking in that single sign of weakness with jealous greed.

He puts his hand on the back of Victor's neck, possessively. You're mine, and I'm yours. He strokes his thumb up and down, from the short hair behind Victor's ears, over his jaw and down the curve of his throat. Victor doesn't stir, but his skin goes prickly with goosebumps, an automatic reaction. Growing bolder, Yuri leans in and kisses the soft place just under Victor's jaw, darting his tongue out to taste the skin. Wine, sweat, salt. He shudders, and rubs his stiffening cock against Victor's side. If he's not careful, he could finish like this.

He lets his hand go wandering down Victor's back, exploring him, shoulder-blades, ribs, spine, muscles and bones. When his fingers encounter Victor's briefs he keeps going, over the top for now, tracing the cleft of Victor's ass through the cotton, all the way down to his balls. It feels just like he thought it would, firm and yielding at the same time, and he rocks against Victor's hip again, imagining how it will feel when he's fucking him.

With his other hand he reaches for the lube, but this isn't going to work one-handed, so he forces himself to pull back. His cock keeps throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but he manages to slow his breathing and stop his hands shaking long enough to slide Victor's underwear down. Then he has to concentrate on getting the lube in his palm, not all over the bed, and he's grateful for the distraction from the need to come right this instant. He rubs the lube between his hands to warm it a little, and wonders if Victor did the same thing earlier tonight, when he was with whoever it was. Or did the other person do it for him? Even now, Yuri can't imagine what Victor would be like as a partner, but that doesn't stop the hot spike of jealousy he feels when he imagines it.

He finally allows himself to wrap one hand around his cock. The lube makes it hard to get a proper grip, but that's a good thing — Yuri still isn't sure of his self-control. For the moment he just holds it, only giving himself a light stroke when the ache gets too much. He works the fingers of his other hand between Victor's ass cheeks, spreading the lube around his hole and watching Victor's face for any sign of wakefulness. His fingers go in with surprisingly little resistance, but it makes sense: Victor's body is completely relaxed. Somehow that's the thought that makes Yuri's cock jerk and his balls tighten, the idea that he can do this and nothing in Victor will resist him, not at all, not even the involuntary tensing of muscles he can't consciously control. He'll accept Yuri in a way he's never accepted anyone else, like he's not even a different person, like they're the same.

It's been long enough. Yuri swings his leg over Victor's hip, straddling him. It's hard to get the angle right, without Victor awake to help him, but when he starts to push in he forgets everything, everything but the need to hold back, to go slow, not to lose control.

He realises, too late, he's been gripping Victor's hips hard enough to leave bruises. Victor is still asleep, though, his mouth slightly open. Yuri strokes the hair out of his forehead with a shaking hand — like Victor's going to notice or care that it's falling in his eyes, but Yuri has to do something to make himself hold still. He's in up to the root now and all he wants is to start thrusting, hard, fast; he'd probably last five seconds at best, but he's afraid, too, of hurting Victor, or doing something Victor might notice in the morning.

Finally he trusts himself enough to start moving his hips in shallow jerks. It's like nothing he's ever felt, so tight around every bit of him, and even though he's usually quiet he can't help making noise now, little strangled sounds that probably sound like he's dying. Maybe he is. When he's close again he thinks maybe he should pull out and come on Victor's back, like a sequel to the photo from before, but just thinking about it is enough, too much. His hips drive forward — he's pushing Victor up the bed, holding him with desperate strength, and then all movement goes out of him and his knees give way, and he lies with his chest on Victor's back and his cheek on Victor's shoulder and white light bursting before his eyes.

He washes standing up in front of the sink before taking the damp cloth back to his room to deal with Victor. Potya watches him from the top of the cat tower, her eyes narrowed.

"I know," Yuri whispers. "Shut up. I know."

When he finally gets back into bed, feeling drained and exhausted, Victor doesn't move. After a few minutes, Yuri picks up Victor's arm and pulls it around him, nestling back against Victor the way Victor likes to snuggle up around him. He doesn't think he could fall asleep, otherwise.

If Victor notices any bruises or soreness the next morning, he doesn't say anything. Maybe he puts it down to whoever he was with before Yuri. He's already in the shower when Yuri wakes up, and he comes out with a towel around his waist, completely unselfconscious and apparently cheerful, although he shies from the light when Yuri opens the curtains.

"Are you coming again tonight?" Yuri asks, before he can stop himself.

"Probably not. I have an appointment with the physiotherapist today, so I think I'll just want to stay in." He tests his knee. "It's feeling better, though. I'll be back to training soon!"

"Great."

It comes out sounding sarcastic, and for a second Victor looks surprised, bewildered, maybe even hurt. Then he grins dutifully. "Ah, sorry, Yurochka, if you want gold this year you're still going to have to beat me for it."

"One day I will."

"We'll see! Oh, that reminds me." He fishes in his coat pocket, and pulls out the key Yuri gave him. "I'll give this back for now. If I'm going back to a regular training schedule, I shouldn't be coming here at all hours."

Yuri looks at the key. He should take it back. Everything from common sense to conscience is telling him he should take it back, put this behind him for good and count himself lucky. Anything else is just inviting trouble.

He reaches, then pulls his hand back. "Keep it," he says. "You never know."

god, i need this.

Holy shit this was incredible, I wish you'd write more!

Not OP but this was great! The escalation, the raw detail, Yuri's thought process, Victor's ambiguity. Awesome fill!

OP HERE AND IM SHRIEKING....... ?????? This is even better than in my wildest dreams oooooh my goodness. wowie wowowowowowowo. Your writing is so good. SO GOOD. Also I'm in love with you a little bit. Also would it be selfish of me to ask for more?
THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU MADE MY WHOLE WEEK/LIFE

Echoing everyone above: great fill. Their surface relationship is everything I want from a Victurio fic but you've paired it with a heathly helping of angst and it all works.

This is an excellent fill - Yuri's voice and the way you portrayed their relationship were perfect, and the slow build-up was great.

The days were long and lonely in summer. No longer were kids in school all day, giving Yuuri a feeling of kinship since he, too, was stuck inside; everybody was outside, laughing and and chasing each other around on the big green lawns outside of the even bigger houses in this neighborhood. Yuuri had never liked sports, and yet he found himself watching groups of boys tossing around a football or kicking a soccer ball into goals made of sticks broken from trees as he folded laundry in the mornings, feeling... envious. Envious, perhaps, of the group of friends, or the freedom to run around and do what they wanted. Yuuri /could/ leave the house if he wanted to, but what would he do? Go to the grocery store? He'd already been three times this week. Go see friends? Nobody he knew lived in this neighborhood. Take a walk? This block was practically infested with teenagers at peak presenting age, and, as expected of a typical wealthy neighborhood, a lot of them were alphas. The smell was so strong that Yuuri could not trust himself to walk through it. Nothing was fun, anyway, without his husband around.

He was lonely. That was what it came down to. He found himself dreading the menial tasks that he, as an omega, was supposed to love to do, like cooking and washing dishes and tidying the house. It wasn't that he disliked them, it was just that... well, Viktor had picked up a full-time job just before they'd moved here after months of courting Yuuri in his hometown, and he'd gotten promoted right after their wedding, which left newlywed and newly-mated Yuuri all alone at home, aching for the child his biology was made to create. There was no time for him to get pregnant, not now. Viktor had made it clear that he wanted to be home to look after Yuuri when he was with child, especially their first child, and although Yuuri would rather take care of himself than wait, he had no say in the matter. He adored his alpha and obeyed him.

And Viktor was a good alpha. He was, he really, really was. Every omega Yuuri had known back in his little town hours away from where he lived now had been viciously jealous of him when Viktor had shown up seemingly out of nowhere and swept him off of his feet. Viktor had made it very clear how wanted Yuuri was. He would come home to bouquets of flowers, handwritten love letters, boxes of chocolates, all left by-- as his parents put it-- a handsome, foreign-looking alpha. The whole community had expected Yuuri to accept this strange, eccentric, perfect specimen of an alpha, and it was one decision Yuuri had not felt any pressure about. He had fallen so hard in love with Viktor that sometimes it still made him dizzy. He still loved Viktor desperately, with every piece of himself, but... omegas were not meant to be mated and then left alone, plain and simple. He knew Viktor only worked so much because he wanted the best life for his omega and eventually his children, but--

Yuuri's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a knock on his door, and he realized he'd been sitting by the window for god knew how long now with the same shirt clutched in his hands, half-folded. It was Viktor's shirt, and no amount of washing could strip it of the musky scent of an Alpha. It was a comforting smell, and he put it aside without folding it so that he could bring it to their shared room tonight, and maybe their bed would not seem so empty. Of course, it would be joining the ten or so other shirts of Viktor's that Yuuri had kidnapped from the wash and tucked into Viktor's side of the bed to lay against during the night.

He didn't know who could be at the door. He did not have any friends in this neighborhood-- he quickly squished the brief, hopeful thought that maybe his parents or Phichit had come to visit him-- but he was not worried, because this was one of the safest neighborhoods in the country. Or so the realtor had said, anyway. Still, the worst thing that had ever happened in the few months they'd lived here was someone accidentally backed into somebody else's mailbox. So Yuuri opened the door, and--

-- and he was hit head-on with the scent of alpha. Newly-presented, thick, overpowering, alpha-alpha-alpha. Like nothing Yuuri had ever smelled before. It practically made his eyes water and he automatically stepped back. His whole body felt tingly just at the smell of it and it took exorbitant effort just to open his eyes and look at who was there. Or, rather, who all. It was a group of boys, three or four. In fact, they were the same boys who had been playing on the lawn across the street. Yuuri's discomfort was briefly interrupted by a jolt of fear-- had they seen him staring? Were they here to tell him off? Oh, if somebody told VIktor-

"Hi," one of the boys said, a dark-haired boy who held himself with enough confidence that it was easily ascertainable that he'd come from a family of power. He held himself exactly like Viktor, actually, and Yuuri felt an inappropriate shock of longing and... arousal. He hoped that his face did not show his embarrassment.

"H-Hi," he blurted out in response. Luckily they did not laugh at it. Yes, now that Yuuri had adjusted to the smell a little, he could see that there were, in fact, four of them. They were young, too. A little young to be presenting, in Yuuri's opinion, but then again, it was different from region to region. "What... um, do, um... is everything okay?" Great. He was making a really great impression on the neighbors. His husband was going to come home to everyone thinking his omega was a fucking idiot.

"We were wondering if we could come in for some lemonade." The words were innocent enough, and Yuuri relaxed minutely. There was only so much relaxing that could be done when it felt like he was inhaling honey. Musky, dark, comforting honey. Every time Viktor came home to find Yuuri nesting in his shirts from loneliness his alpha scent got just like this from guilt and a heightened sense of need to protect his omega. Once again he felt comforted by it, and, embarrassingly, he had to fight the urge to take one of the boys into his arms. Misdirected affection could be dangerous. Oh, the kid was still talking. He tried to listen. "...so his house is locked and we can't get in," was what Yuuri caught the tail end of. Lemonade. They just wanted lemonade. Yes, this was perfect. Yuuri would be a courteous, generous host, and Viktor would be proud of him.

"Come in," he said, and stepped back as all four boys came into the house, filling the living room with their scent. Part of him was always glad. If Viktor came home to the house stinking like another alpha, Yuuri knew there would be no way he could resist knotting him, staking his claim. And then maybe Yuuri would finally get the child he so desperately wanted. With that thought in mind he headed to the kitchen, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the boys shelled their shoes in time with one another, like they intended on coming all the way in instead of just standing on the mat. That was okay. They were teenagers, he reminded himself. Teenage alphas, no less. They had no concept of where they were and were not welcome.

Lemonade was easy. He took the juicer out and then a green mesh bag of lemons from the fridge; he'd bought them at the farmer's market the other day. He hadn't needed lemons-- actually, he hadn't needed anything at all-- but it was something to do and he'd been bored to tears at home. So he'd bought all kinds of fruits and vegetables that he would never get to cook for Viktor. He tried not to think about that as he carefully used a knife to slice six of them in half and place them one at a time on the juicer, using the crank to squeeze as much out of them as possible. Later he would look back on the absolute silence in the house as a warning, but he was so focused on his task that he did not notice a thing. It was only when he felt somebody press up against him from behind that he froze, eyes wide, hands still on the crank.

"What... what are you..." his voice came out soft, frightened. He was afraid. Were they going to rob him? Kill him, even? No, his scent wasn't violent. It was... it was...

"You stink," was the simple comment from behind him. It was the dark-haired boy from before and Yuuri went quiet again, mouth still open, intended words never having quite left his mouth. The boy went on. "You're stinking up the whole block. Did you know that? Everyone knows you're missing him because you smell like it. You smell like you're begging someone to come inside and take you." It was vulgar, juvenile, and Yuuri could only gather the strength to turn his head, closing his mouth again and swallowing. The other three boys were standing there in the kitchen too, still silent but looking like they'd just stepped into a candy store. Excitement was clear in their expressions.

"I-..." Yuuri began. He could not even bring himself to be humiliated by what he'd heard. An alpha was holding him, pressing up against him like he was wanted, and god, that fucking /smell/. His mouth was practically watering. "I don't... I..." he couldn't get any words out. It was like he'd been struck dumb. He could not tell them to leave or tell the one behind him to get off, because, well, he didn't want him to. Plain and simple. He was so desperate for an alpha's touch that he was practically shaking.

"Hey," one of the other boys said, finally breaking their silence. He pointed at Yuuri and Yuuri looked back down at the counter, taking long, labored breaths. "Look, he's all wet. Look." This time Yuuri did feel embarrassment, because he knew exactly what the kid was talking about. He could feel that the back of his pants was sticky already. He could not help it. He really, really could not. The smell, the touching, the feeling of being cornered-- it was in his genes to enjoy it. The boy behind him paused, then let go and seemed to take a step back like he was surprised. Yuuri almost thought for a second that he was going to stop and leave him alone, but that was not in the cards. No, the next thing Yuuri felt were fingers at the waistband of his pants. He could only inhale sharply as they were pulled over his ass, soaked underwear coming with it. His bare bottom and thighs were wet and cold in the air and he rested his sweaty palms down on the cool marble of the counter, not moving an inch. He should be telling them to get off. He should be telling them that Viktor would kill them. Viktor, oh god, Viktor, his husband, the love of his life--

Something hot bumped into the back of his thigh, skidded upward, and then Yuuri felt the unmistakable prod of a cock between his cheeks. It was still absolutely silent save for the wet sound of his slick and Yuuri /absolutely had to stop this/. No further. This teenager shifted, standing on his tiptoes so he could reach, and Yuuri inhaled to tell him to stop.

"Don't stop," was what came out. It burst out of him like a dam breaking, and.. that wasn't what he'd meant to say. No, he’d meant to tell him to stop, because he had an alpha, and he was going to have a child, and—

The first press of an alpha cock inside of him was truly, honestly the best thing Yuuri had ever felt. It had been literal months since Viktor had been inside him. The last time they’d slept together was on their wedding night and although the boy inside of him now was smaller than average, still growing, it filled a hole in Yuuri that had been aching for weeks and weeks and weeks. He did not fight it. He arched, upper body sliding forward on the counter and knees bending on instinct, letting out a high, breathy moan that turned into something like a mewl when the thrusting began. The teenager fucked like, well, a teenager. It was jackrabbit-fast and hard, too hard, the kind that had his thighs smacking into Yuuri’s ass so hard that it echoed around the kitchen, the kind that had Yuuri’s cock and balls and stomach pressed painfully into the edge of the counter, but Christ, Christ, he had never felt anything like it, anything so good. His body pulled at the kid, sucking at him, trying desperately to keep him inside each time he pulled out on a thrust. So good. It was so good. But just like that, it was over, and— he was pulling out?  “No,” Yuuri gasped out, desperately reaching back. No, he couldn’t give it up yet, no, no, he’d /die/, he’d die if it stopped now before he got what he needed. “No, knot me, you h-have to knot me, please, please, do it, I need it!” His begging would have humiliated him if he’d been more cognizant, but all he knew now was that he had never needed anything as badly as he needed this teenage boy’s knot and come inside of him. He needed it like he needed to breathe. But the kid pulled away again and Yuuri thought he might cry until someone took ahold of his wrist and he was being led to the couch. Part of his hazy brain recognized what was going to happen, and he accepted it. It took less than a second for him to lay down and get his pants and underwear off and his shirt pulled up, and then someone was kneeling on the couch between his legs, and— it was the same boy, pushing into him again, and the fast thrusting started up once more. Yuuri reached up and held onto the arm of the couch because the force of the thrusts was pushing him up rhythmically and the part of him that was still aware knew that he might hit his head. It was messy and wet and he could hear the squelching of his slick, and vaguely thought about how hard it would be to get the stain out of the couch. The teenage alpha’s cock was hot, and it felt like it was burning its way into Yuuri’s insides, leaving a trail behind. He could have cried with joy when he finally felt a knot starting to form, rubbing against his rim on every push forward. Before he could so much as take a breath it was being forced inside of him, the pain so good, and the feeling of the first hot stream of come gushing into him made his vision white out with orgasm. He wasn’t thinking about Viktor, he wasn’t thinking about anything except how good it felt.

When he came to, the knot was already being pulled out. It was small, as was expected for a young teenager, and-… there was the sandy blonde haired boy, pants down, dick out. Yuuri opened his legs and accepted him easily. He slid inside without resistance and he was a little slower, a little more uncertain, until he thrusted the first few times and his alpha instincts kicked in. This one held Yuuri down hard as he fucked him, and although he was too small to knot, the burning hot trail his come made into Yuuri’s body once again made him spasm into his own orgasm, this one harder than the last, almost painful. He didn’t know what kinds of noises he was making but he was sure they were obscene. This was what he’d so desperately needed. The ache inside of him, the heavy feeling that had kept him sad and housebound for months, that was gone. He hadn’t felt this good since they’d moved here. He couldn’t think about anything at all, anything except for the slide of a third cock inside of him, and a fourth, and—

It was an hour before they finished with him. All four of them had spilled their load inside of him, leaving him wetter than before and tensed up automatically in an effort to keep the alpha come inside. Three of them had had him more than once and the third Yuuri had sucked on, worked with his mouth until he was rewarded with a bitter rush onto his tongue, too. The taste was familiar and he’d gulped it greedily down. His whole body felt like it was three hundred degrees and he knew he had bruises from hands and hips colliding with his own, but.. he did not care. Not even a little. He couldn’t name a time he’d ever felt this good before. He laid on the couch and tried to breathe as the four of them got up, finished making the lemonade in the kitchen, had a drink and a snack from his fridge, then came back and had him again. He couldn’t count how many times someone had come inside of him by the end of it. He was willing, opening his legs for whoever knelt between them, accepting them into his body with the same desperation as the first time. If he had been less out of it, he might have noticed the man standing in the hallway to the guest bedroom watching. But he could barely remember his own name, much less find the strength to look around the room.So the man went unnoticed until night fell and Yuuri fell asleep, exhausted.

Viktor tucked himself back into his pants, smoothed back his hair, and proceeded to scare the hell out of the teenagers, running them easily out of his house. They would not be back. He lifted Yuuri, brought him to the bathtub, where he washed his stomach and chest and arms but did not try once to wash him out between the legs. Instead, he tucked the fast asleep Yuuri into bed, and pushed the pile of shirts out of the way to climb into it with him.

It was three months later that Viktor finally secured paternity leave for himself. He gathered the things from his office he’d need at home and brought them in a box, setting them down in the foyer once he’d unlocked the door and stepped inside, smiling at the sight of his husband stirring something on the kitchen counter, hands covered in flour, stomach noticeably more round than usual.  “I’m home,” he called, and the smile he got in return warmed his heart. He walked right to his beautiful omega and hugged him from behind, kissing the back of his neck, one hand sliding down to his belly. “What did the doctor say?”  “Everything’s fine,” Yuuri said, turning his head to kiss Viktor’s mouth. “Probably more than one. He’ll know a little later on.” This was the life he had always wanted. He was so, so happy. Viktor was home, and now they had a baby—or more— on the way. And he had the teenagers to thank. He still saw them playing on the lawn sometimes, though they never came back to his doorstep, and sometimes he watched them, smiling, one hand on his belly, and wondered which of them was the father.

(Pre-relationship) Victor asks Yuuri to wear a butt plug one practice to help him get used to skating when there are distractions. Yuuri's embarrassed, but willing to do anything Victor suggests to help him win. Victor helps him inserting and removing it and Yuuri can't help but react.

omg anon thank you so much!

omg thank you so much. It's perfect.

Hi nonnie, I used this prompt as a springboard for a fic here:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/11298459

It ended up more feels-y than shenanigan-y, but the drunk stripping games are there!

"It's none of your business!" Yuri shouts and stomps his foot.

Victor rubs a hand across his face, both because of the shouting and the foot-stomping, and thinks about how horribly young Yuri is. "You've got to think of your career! What do you think, that you'll be in juniors forever? What happens when someone goes to the tabloids? What happens if someone leaks pictures?"

Yuri turns his back to Victor and starts peeling off his practice garb. There's a hickey under the turtleneck cover. Jesus.

"Stop staring at me." He spits.

"I'm not-"

"You are. I can feel you staring. So quit it."

Victor sighs. "Yura, you can't-"

"Don't tell me what I can and can't do. Get that silver spoon you've got in your mouth and shove it up your ass." Yuri peels down his tights, too, and tosses them on the messy heap in his locker.

"You need to wash-"

"Shut the fuck up!" Yuri turns, teeth bared, fists balled up.

"If you need money-"

"-And take your stupid charity and stuff that up your ass, too!"

Victor sits down on one of the benches. Sighs. Rubs his face. Exhales loudly through his nose. "You know, I think I'm just jealous." He looks up.

Yuri gives him a stinky look from the side of his eye and starts dressing in his regular clothes.

Victor watches--really watches, this time. Yuri's jeans are threadbare. His socks are discolored, with holes at the toes. The faux patent leather of the cheap shoes he got a couple of months ago are already cracking. Wherever the money from his tricks goes, it's not on new clothes.

"I think you're hot," Victor says and levels Yuri with a look. "And you were always around; my protege. I always thought of you as mine." He tries to go for calmer, more settled.

"Well, you're not the boss of me, are you," Yury grumbles--which is definitely better than shouting.

"I think I want to be," Victor says. "I don't want you to go off with some random guys. I want you all to myself."

Yuri snorts.

"Name your price. Whoever you're going to, I can pay you better than them."

Yuri's not saying anything, but he seems in less of a hurry to leave. He even takes his sweaty practice clothes out from his locker and folds them into a plastic bag.

He takes his time to arrange them in the bag.

"Think about it. I'll be at my place all night, come over if you want. I just have the one condition--I don't care what arrangement you have and with whom. You're mine."

OUCH, YOU FUCKING-- FUUUUUUCK GUH

i loved how well this was wrtten, and how subtly it was characterized. VICTOR GO BACK
MAKKA AND POTYA MAKE FRIENDS-

In the movie Mean Girls there's a scene where someone says "will you please tell him his hair looks sexy pushed back" or something like that, and I was hoping for a group dinner between or the skaters or something, and the topic of Yuuri's hair style pops up, and Victor does the whole pushes-Yuuri's-hair-back thing with his hand and asks the group at large the questions + everyone's answers.

OP LOVES THIS AND WOULD LOVE MORE. Thank you!

This is bonkers good, nonnie, really amazing stuff!

Since he was a little kid, Victor is abused and raped by Yakov. He is in the man's hands, both physically and psychologically. Even nowadays, Yakov still takes advantage of him, and he doesn't know how to escape from this situation (because Yakov is really powerful, is part of the Mafia, etc).

Please include in there some nasty and disturbing graphic scenes or descriptions of what Yakov did/does with "his Vitya".

Bonus points if it has victuuri and Victor does everything to hide this from Yuuri, because he is afraid that if Yuuri finds out, he will abandon him, will be disgusted with him, etc. And also because he is deeply ashamed of his situation.

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Page 37 of 59

Prompt Post 1

Re: Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov noncon

Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov consensual somnophilia

FILL: Yuri Plisetsky X Otabek as older men

Re: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov consensual somnophilia

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - Omegaverse /Cheating/Underage

looking to shed your next skin [1/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - Omegaverse /Cheating/Underage

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - FILL PART 1/2

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - FILL PART 2/2

Yuuri Katsuki/Viktor Nikiforov, butt plug during ice training

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - FILL PART 2/2

Re: Mob Alpha/Yuuri Katsuki - FILL PART 2/2

Re: Victor Nikiforov/Yuuri Katsuki/Yuri Plisetsky drunk shenanigans [FILL]

Re: Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky - Prostitution/sugar daddy

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Yuuri Katsuki/Victor Nikiforov "Will you please tell him his hair looks sexy pushed back?"

Re: Victor Nikiforov/Yuri Plisetsky - Prostitution/sugar daddy

Re: looking to shed your next skin [2/2] Yuri Plisetsky/Viktor Nikiforov, noncon, somnophilia

Yakov Feltsman x Victor Nikiforov, noncon