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makkachin ([personal profile] makkachin) wrote in [community profile] yurionicekink2016-11-07 01:57 pm

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.
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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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-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
-Hisashi Morooka
-Yakov Feltsman
-Celestino Cialdini
-Mira Babicheva
-Lilia Baranovskaya
-Sara Crispino
-Kolya Plisetsky

Ao3 collection:

Fill: Narratives

(Anonymous) 2017-08-10 02:37 am (UTC)(link)
Putting a lil first comment here for the fic to go under. I'm also posting this on ao3 ( but I wanted to post here too!

Narratives [1a/?]

(Anonymous) 2017-08-10 02:59 am (UTC)(link)
I forgot how much I hated formatting on dreamwidth

“You know,” Yuuri murmurs, quiet in the early dawn light, running his thumb along Victor’s cheek with such open tenderness that Victor could almost weep, “I was so afraid of it, for so long.”

“Afraid of what, my love?” Victor replies, kissing Yuuri’s palm, his wrist, as he continues to touch.

“Sex,” Yuuri says, matter of fact, unashamed.

“Ah,” Victor says, trying to keep the note of surprise out of his voice.

“I was so afraid it would hurt,” Yuuri continues, beginning to hesitate a little bit and monitor Victor’s expression.

It’s fine, Victor tells him with his eyes, the nod of his head, I don’t mind you talking about this.

“I heard, ah, it’ll hurt the first time, but your instincts will make you like it. That it would hurt because alphas don’t prepare you enough even if you can get wet yourself. I was scared. So,” he went on, quickly, “I’m glad my first time was with you. And that it didn’t hurt. And it was good, so good.”

“It should be good,” Victor says, thoughtfully. “It should always be good.”

It’s good with you, Victor thinks.

“Am I enough for you?” Yuuri frets. “I mean, I can’t… Biologically, I can’t…”

“Am I enough for you?” Victor shoots back.

“Yes,” Yuuri gasps, “Yes, but you’re Victor Nikiforov.”

They are in Hatsetsu, taking in the peaceful, quiet moments between the Rostelecom Cup and the Grand Prix final. It’s cold outside, but they warm each other with the heat of their bodies. Makkachin slumbers in the small space next to them, blissfully calm after her near-death experience.

“Haven’t we already been over this?” Victor laughs. “You’re perfect. Japan’s ace.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri blurts out, “I don’t mean to be so anxious about this. I’m just not used to wanting. Or, wanting and not being too nervous to do anything.”

“Oh?” Victor teases. “You want me?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, softly.

“Oh Yuuri,” Victor breathes, lips turning up into a giddy smile. “Please believe how much I want you, too.”

Yuuri blushes cutely and Victor kisses him, inhales something sweet like cherry blossoms. Their relationship is so new, budding just like a flower in spring, and even though Yuuri knows about him, about the trauma in his past, he can’t quite verbalize it to Yuuri yet.

Communication is still an elusive, flighty thing. When they can’t find it, there are misunderstandings and tears. Victor needs to learn how to process and support Yuuri’s anxiety, and Yuuri needs to take in Victor’s past without judgement. Victor is still so wary of what Yuuri might say.

One day in the near future, after the stressful Grand Prix Final is finished, he’ll sit down and make Yuuri tea, just like Hiroko showed Victor Yuuri likes it. It will be quiet and soft and Victor will be calm, content, fighting through the fluttering nerves in his stomach.

He’ll explain, “I don’t need an alpha. I don’t want an alpha. I still can’t think of being knotted by one without wanting to vomit, so please - you’ve always been enough. And I’m so, so glad that I love you and that you’re an omega, because I never want to sleep with an alpha ever again.”

Yuuri will cry, and Victor’s heart will thump painfully in his chest, and they’ll hold each other after, during a bitterly cold winter night. Yuuri won’t judge him, though, won’t tell him what he should need or should want.

And Yuuri will whisper I love you as he cries, pressing the words into Victor’s cheeks and hands and forehead with his lips, and Victor will feel lighter than he has in years.

It’s been so, so long since he’s been loved like this.


Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot. Victor is eighteen and wanton and moaning loud enough that the neighbors already came down once to bang on the door. There’s an alpha behind him, whose name Victor didn’t bother to learn because it won’t matter come tomorrow morning.

It’s not his heat, but he’s so good, so hot and so good. A full-bodied giggle makes his back curl upward, and he ruts back onto the fingers scissoring him open, wide and thick.

“Moooore,” he moans, barely coherent. “Faster, faster.”

The alpha teases him more, licking a wet stripe along the curve where his thighs meet his ass, taking in his slick and his sweat. He spreads his cheeks wide and licks him, pressing his tongue into Victor’s hole, and Victor squeals in pleasure.

“Yesss,” he nearly sobs, “Yes, yes, yes-”

Victor practically begs the alpha to shove his thick cock inside him already, pretty pretty please. Victor wants, he wants, he wants.

The friction burns delightfully, the sounds of skin and the smells of alpha and omega pheromones mingling is almost enough for Victor to lose himself completely.

(He never loses himself completely. Even at the peak of his heats, his rational mind can remind him to drink, to eat, to think - he’s never fully gone, and he suspects his partners aren’t either.)

“I’m going to fill you up,” the alpha growls as he fucks him, “I’m going to fill you up with my come, till you’re swollen and full of me.”

“Oh, oh, oh,” Victor gasps. He’s not worried about pregnancy, he’s been on birth control since he was fifteen and his single heat a year isn’t for another two months, but he can let the alpha pretend.

The alpha grips his long silver hair, pulled back into a thick braid, and pulls.

Victor comes, and comes, and moans at the way the alpha fills him, on his hands and knees, sloppy and begging and having so much fun.

The next morning, in the early light of dawn, he snaps a picture, then another and another, struggling with the angle as he can’t see himself on the gen-one iPhone camera. Eventually, annoyed, he prods the alpha awake and asks him to take the picture.

It’ll go on Myspace later, probably. The description will probably be Mornings in Venice, because he’s in Venice, celebrating a successful touring ice show, but he’ll be sure to play up the playful pout of his kiss-bitten lips, the gentle part of his thighs, barely covered by a buttondown shirt two sizes too big.

This alpha was a good lay, but he wasn’t too much better than the one in Paris, or the one in Beijing, or the one in Colorado Springs.

Yakov is probably going to yell at him, but Victor lies back, sated and giddy, and finds he doesn’t mind.


The cameras flash, bright and loud. Yuuri blinks, still half-blind without his glasses, grasping for something to ground him from the overwhelming rush of emotions. A scent wafts over him, sweet and cloying and sharp like wintermint - and he relaxes, breathing it in along with the familiar heady cold of fresh ice.

Victor comes up behind him and holds him close, warming him with his body and his scent, his arms wrapping a tight embrace around his stomach and his cheek cool against Yuuri’s flushed face.

“You were wonderful, solnyshko,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s ear, and Yuuri shivers.

The press is jabbering already, throwing questions at him that quickly blur together as he stammers out answers.

“N-no, I’m not retiring after this season.”

“Yes, I feel I improved greatly from the last season.”

“I think it’ll be very interesting to be competing against my coach next season.”

Yuuri can picture the press releases already, his red-flushed cheeks, Victor pressed up behind him - but it’s hard to worry about that now, not with the heavy weight of silver against his chest and the softness of Victor’s skin right there.

“Your program was bold, sexual - almost scandalous. I know every alpha in the building had their eyes on you. Tell me, did your coach play a part in that sexual awakening?”

Yuuri goes bright red. He feels Victor stiffen, and not in a sexy way. He’s not sure whether this particular reporter is commenting on his and Victor’s relationship, very public very quickly, or Victor’s famously (or infamously, depending on who’s commenting) shameless sexuality.

Yuuri has always admired his confidence. He hates that anyone would want to take that away.

“My program was on love,” Yuuri says, hoping he sounds firmer than he feels under the reporter’s strangely intense stare, “All kinds of love. Eros is just one component of a feeling too big for me to put one label on, and it’s inspired by the people in my life who love me.”

The reporter, Russian going by his accent, makes a small tutting sound. “Come now, don’t be shy. It’s hard not to see some threads of young Victor in you, with you in a costume of his that infamously was inspired by bondage and lingerie.”

Yuuri knows this. Fifteen year old Victor had been quite clear on this costume’s inspiration - and had even expressed interest in modeling actual lingerie, which had caused a lot of gleeful squealing on the forums Yuuri frequented as a kid but was in no uncertain terms shot down by a furious Yakov Feltsman.

This reporter’s gaze, a strange mix of leering and disapproving, flicks from Yuuri to Victor back to Yuuri.

“I have always loved this costume,” Yuuri stammers. “It’s what Victor wore at his senior debut, a-and the program he skated is still one of my favorites. It was such a big part of why I decided to take up skating professionally. Even at such a young age, I knew. I wanted to skate on the same ice as Victor.”

The other surrounding reporters make cooing sounds, already crafting headlines about how the grand prix silver medalist fell in love with his childhood icon, and Yuuri relaxes a little bit. Feels Victor relax a little bit.

“This will be the first time you’ve really earned significant prize money from a senior event outside of Japanese nationals,” a different reporter pipes up, Italian maybe, and Yuuri winces at the reminder of his late success, “What do you plan on doing with it?”

“Is Victor forcing you to put it away in his charity?”

There’s that same reporter from earlier. Yuuri swallows, caught off guard by just how aggressive he is.

“He’s a brilliant skater and he won on his own talents, therefore he can do what he wants with the prize money,” comes Victor’s voice, sharp and annoyed, “How much did you bribe for your press pass this year, hm?”

There’s a very awkward pause at this, and Yuuri feels the tension, thick as fog in the air. He really doesn’t like this reporter.

“I am going to do what I want with the prize money,” Yuuri echoes Victor, staring the reporter in the eye. “And what I want is to donate all of it to Victor’s charity.”

Victor stiffens again, but his arms tighten around Yuuri’s stomach and his breath hitches in Yuuri’s ear.

The reporter’s eyes widen in shock, and he glares, furiously writing something down.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Victor smirks, “We are both very tired and need to prepare for the banquet. No more questions at this time.”

Narratives [1b/?]

(Anonymous) 2017-08-10 03:00 am (UTC)(link)


“Who was that?” Yuuri hisses, pulling on sweatpants with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Volkov,” Victor sighs, sounding very tired. “An old friend.”

Yuuri recognizes the sarcasm immediately and abandons his frantic attempts to tie the tie at his waist. He curls up next to Victor on their hotel bed, pulling Victor to his chest and baring his neck so Victor can nuzzle into the scent glands there, breath feather-soft. Victor makes a very pleased noise, running his thumb along Yuuri’s collarbone.

“Volkov,” Yuuri mutters, “Why does that name sound familiar?”

“If you’ve read anything bad about me in the last eight years,” Victor laughs humorlessly, “There’s a good chance you’ve run across something by him.”

“I would never!” Yuuri gasps, sounding very affronted. This time, Victor’s laugh is genuine, and he holds Yuuri tight, listening to the pounding of Yuuri’s heart in his ear. It’s soft, comforting, just like the way he smells. Victor drowns in it, blissfully.

“I know, love, I know,” Victor assures him, pressing a finger to his lips. He pauses then, and cups Yuuri’s cheek, meeting his gaze properly to ask in a trembling voice, “Did you mean it? That you’d donate your winnings to Athletes Against Sexual Assault? I know, I mean, I have more prize money than you do, and it’s not gold-”

Yuuri gives him a look . A very, very irritated look. Victor isn’t afraid, though, not of this look, because he’d never be afraid of Yuuri. Precious Yuuri.

Yuuri who pokes him on the head, right at the whorl of his hair part, indicating he’s annoyed at Victor’s callousness. Victor supposes he deserves that, but it doesn’t stop him from whining and burying his face in Yuuri’s shoulder.

Suddenly, soft hands cup his cheeks and lift his chin up so that they’re staring at each other, meeting each other’s gaze.

Yuuri kisses his forehead. “Yes,” he breathes, watching the light flicker in Victor’s bright blue eyes, “All of it. I know how much it means to you.”

Victor lets out a choked gasp and brings their lips together. He slides up Yuuri, slides his hands along Yuuri’s bare chest, trying his best to memorize every inch of Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri squeaks in surprise, and Victor pulls back, lips red and cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glassy.

The prize money is only a small part of his figure skating income, so this is more symbolic than anything, reminiscent of how Victor has donated most of his prize money to his charity in the three years it’s been active. And anyway, Victor has never been one to ignore symbolism.

They shower together, Victor’s hands working wet, soapy circles into Yuuri’s hair. The bathroom perfumes with the scent of their bodies, and as he admires Yuuri’s porcelain limbs, defined with beautiful muscle, arousal builds in the pit of Victor’s stomach.

When they have sex, make love, whatever - it’s always warm. A steady thrum of heat that curls around him, cozy as a blanket. Whether Yuuri is just pleasuring him with his hands, his mouth - or whether Victor is inside him (because bottoming is still out of the question, and Yuuri understands), it’s like the feeling in his belly after a bowl of hot katsudon, or the tug of emotion he’d felt when puppy Makkachin had finally crawled out from under Yakov’s couch and curled up to sleep on the bed beside him.

It’s nice to feel like this again, to know that he can .



Yakov discovers Victor’s first Myspace when Victor is sixteen. The next day, at practice, he snatches away Victor’s bright pink flip phone and gives him perhaps the most intense lecture of his career.

On that Myspace were catalogs of pictures - Victor with various boyfriends, Victor in various states of undress, pictures he’d clearly taken himself or asked the boyfriends to take for him.

“I don’t get it,” Victor cries, stamping his feet in fury. “What’s so bad about me being confident? You let me do whatever I want in my routines, Yakov. So why can’t I show off off-ice as well?”

“I couldn’t stop your routines even if I tried, you hate my choreography,” Yakov growls, sounding like he’s reaching into the depths of his soul to find the patience for this conversation. “But Victor, you’re not even an adult-”

“I’m legal in Russia!”

“And once something’s out there, you have no control over what people do with it!”

Victor pouts. He’s wearing his favorite skating outfit, a crop top and skin-tight athletic leggings, and was definitely planning on taking a few choice mirror pictures after practice, all sweaty and hot, but now he feels stupid and wants stupid Yakov to leave him alone.

“I read the comments people left you,” Yakov snaps. “Can you honestly say you like getting things like that?”

No. That’s a firm no. Victor doesn’t mind being told he’s gorgeous (and hot, and sexy, and even fuckable) but there’s been more than one occasion where Victor has gotten a comment from an alpha, or sometimes even a beta, that was too crude even for him. Too gross. Things like, I can’t wait until you’re legal so I can turn you into the slutty omega fucktoy you are and I want to tie you up in my house and make you have my babies .  

He keeps silent, though, face burning.

“I’ve never had so much trouble with any of my other omega skaters,” Yakov shouts.

Victor feels like Yakov has dunked him in icy water. His breath hitches, and he takes a step back, furious as his eyes start to burn. It’s hard for him not to notice that there are only two or three other omegas at the rink, how they seem to slowly dwindle in numbers as the years go on. How the scent of alphas is thick and strong because rink protocol demands all omegas wear scent blockers.

Yakov’s face drains of color as he seems to recognize his mistake.

“I’m sorry,” he says, gruffly, sincerely. “Victor, you’re the best skater I’ve seen in decades, but that won’t be enough to get you sponsorships - or worse, it’ll attract the wrong kinds of sponsors. It’s unfair, but it’s so much harder for omegas. So much harder.”

“How is it my problem that they’re a bunch of stuck up jackasses?” Victor shouts back, hiding his embarrassment behind anger.

“It’s not,” Yakov concedes, “But they will make it your problem anyway. It’s easier to change things when you’re already at the top.”  

“What do you know about that?” Victor hisses, furiously.

It’s a fair question. Yakov seems to realize that, and he rubs the back of his neck, a little embarrassed.

Yakov hides guilt behind his gruff exterior, but because Victor is sixteen and has always been petty even if he didn’t have a reason to be, he storms off the ice and doesn’t speak to him the entire trip home, and barely says anything over dinner, even when Yakov offers Victor a chocolate croissant, a rare treat especially during a skating season.

The next day, he practices his quads again and again and again, despite Yakov telling him to fix his footwork before even thinking of jumps.

He does delete the pictures, though.

Re: Narratives [1b/?]

(Anonymous) 2017-08-11 04:44 am (UTC)(link)
I'm really interested, I hope you keep updating this!