yurionicekink | Prompt Post 1

Prompt Post 1

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

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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

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Based on Mitsuro Kubo's interview, where she joked about Victor's tears being a national treasure, that could grant an eternal youth, start wars and attract goblins.

So, Fantasy or Sci/fi AU. Victor's tears for some reasons are special. They could heal any wound or illness (or maybe turn stones into gold). For this reasons he is always hunted by bad guys. His captors usually do terrible things to him, to make him cry and produce more tears. They physically, emotionally or even sexually abuse Victor every day, and every new his captor is not better than other.

Than, one day, Yuuri steals or buys Victor. Yuuri really needs his tears, because he has some incurable illnes or someone form his family is hurt. But, after meeting him personally, Yuuri just can't bring himself hurting Victor. Instead, he decided to make sure that Victor will never cry again.

This is awesome omg, i'm seconding this so hard

Seconded.

Thirded

Warnings: angst, violence, very vague noncon

It starts as a beautiful thing, something Victor is awed and proud of. He’s stepped on a piece of glass, tears of pain drip down his face. “Mama,” he cries out and she hurries over to pick him up. His tears land on her wrist- that she’d burned on the stove several days back and Victor’s eyes widen as the burn fades away. Victor’s mom laughs, brushes a few tears to heal Victor’s foot and kisses him on the cheeks.

Victor grows up helping others like them, others with no other way to heal. The Popovich family brings extra coal for their fire, Ms. Baranovskaya watches Victor while his Mama works, cleaning and cooking for other families. So, when Mr. Feltsman limps into their home, his ankle clearly crushed, Victor cries for him. When Mr. Plisetsky brings a tiny, wailing infant, blubbering about how he’s too small, he won’t eat, he won’t stop crying, Victor cries for him too.

When the Bad Men come, when Victor watches his mother crumple beneath their beating, when he sees her limp form lying against the floor of their home, Victor cries and cries and cries. It’s then that Victor learns there are some wounds that are too big for his tears. They dry against his cheeks as the men roughly bind him, toss him in a wagon and take him away from everything he’d ever known or loved. Victor vows never to cry again.

It takes the men half an hour to get him to produce tears. They start with beating him, punches to his stomach, to his arms, some slaps his face. He bites his lip, endures the pain. He can feel the tears at the corner of his eyes, but he doesn’t want to help these men.

“I killed your mom,” one says gruffly, pulling his hair, breathing into his ear. The breath smells foul against his face. “And I’d kill her again and again, this is your life, kid. It’ll go easier if you cry for me.” The tears well up against Victor’s will at “I killed your mom.”

“It’s getting harder to get a rise out of him,” foul breath admits. Victor sits listlessly in the chair. They’d quit binding him to it months ago. He’d learned how impossible escape was. He’d learned to trap his emotions in his chest, to endure the pain, the beating, the harsh words, the lack of food, to live through his hardships without crying. His dry eyes are his only weapon against them.

“True and Mr. Plisetsky is offering a large sum.”

Something flutters in Victor’s chest at the name. It feels like hope, like a chance to escape. The men do bind him before taking him outside and a few drops leak from his eyes at feeling the sun on his face. Foul breath collects them in a vial. “Wouldn’t want waste these while he’s still ours,” the man laughs. Victor blinks, does not allow himself to cry for them again.

“I’m sorry about this,” Mr. Plisetsky says as he locks Victor into a dark room in the basement of their new, nicer house. “But my first little boy passed away, I think, if your mother had been more generous,” he stutters, “I think then maybe that son would be alive. I can’t risk anything with this son.”

Victor doesn’t want to, but he cries when realizes how much he’d hoped he would be free. Mr. Plisetsky collects his tears, apologizing the entire time.

“I’m sorry to do this son,” Mr. Plisetsky says, “but little Yuri is almost two years old, I think he’s healthy enough now. And we can use the money, you see?”

Victor blinks at the man who’s beaten him, who had his ankles broken, who’d beaten others in front of him, all in the name of keeping his son healthy. He says nothing as he’s led outside again, sold again. He feels nothing as he’s traded to another person, another owner, another person to cry for.

This time, Victor wants to produce tears. He’s so tired of the pain. He can’t stand more of it. There is nothing left though, he thinks as the new woman huffs at him impatiently.

“I wonder,” she says, fingering his long hair, “if you are worth what they say.”

Victor is surprised when she helps him to the bath, bathes him, washes his hair. Her touch feels so good, he shivers as she brushes down the sides of his chest, his legs, his breath hitches when she washes his groin.

“Shh,” she says, singing softly to him. She helps him out of the bath, wraps him in a towel and pulls him into a hug. He cries then, wet tears slide down his cheeks and she’s prepared. She catches them in a vial and strokes his hair. “Thank you, sweet thing,” she says, leading him towards a bed. “Go on sleep,” she whispers. Victor aches inside as she hurries away. He wonders distantly how she’ll feel about the tears he’s currently wasting.

She takes him out, he cries at the first party he attends. She dresses him in fine clothing, silk against his skin, brushes his hair and places a crown of blue flowers on top of it. She holds his hand during the carriage ride and hooks their elbows together when they enter the Babicheva estate. There are so many noises, smells, sounds, Victor is overwhelmed quickly and she’s ready with her vial, strokes his arm as he composes himself.

“You didn’t say he was so pretty,” a man purrs.

She laughs at him, Victor doesn’t hear what she says as he watches all the people whirling around the room. He’s mesmerized by their movements, the swirls of the women’s gowns, the strength in the men lifting and twirling those same women.

“Mistress,” he whispers softly, “could I learn…” he waves his hands at the crowd.

“To dance?” she frowns. “Whatever for, sweetness?”

She stares at him for a moment, then turns back to the man when he doesn’t cry for her.

He’s stolen not more than a few weeks after the party, by that man. He’s old and tall and broad, his hair his dark and his beard is scratchy.

“You’re so lovely,” the man says, before he’s whisked away, bound, blindfolded, thrown into a carriage. The man pants heavily during the entire carriage ride, Victor hears slapping and grunting noises as they travel. The carriage develops a cloying, unfamiliar smell. The man groans a final time and Victor trembles on the floor of the carriage.

Victor sobs, produces tears the first time the man uses his body. He cries the first time he realizes what he’s been stolen for. He cries when it feels good to be touched, when his own body reacts, when he shudders with pleasure at the hands of this man. The man collects his tears, though he’s not as careful as his previous owner had been. Victor cries when he realizes he’s locked away from the world again. Victor cries until his tears dry up again.

~

Yuuri pleads with the village healers, he yells, he throws his offering to the ground at their feet.

“We’re sorry, Katsuki-san,” they say. “There is little to be done. Your sister has lived a good life, let her go with grace.”

“We lost our parents to the plague,” Yuuri says, “my sister is all I have left. I will find a way to heal her.”

One of the healers, a man near his own age looks up. His eyes are foggy as he speaks. “You will,” he says, voice echoing through the healing temple, “but will you have the strength to do what is right?” The man blinks, stares at the silent room.

“Did something happen?” he asks.

Yuuri smiles. The signs of a true prophecy bolster him as he prepares for the journey.

Mari sleeps fitfully in her bed, in the inn owned by their family. By him and her, he remembers with a jolt. He makes certain their sign still indicates they are closed and tucks the blankets around her. “Yuuko will check in on you,” he says, brushing a hand against her pale face, pushing back her streaked hair.

“Yuuri, I’ll be fine,” Mari slurs, “don’t go.”

“I’ll return with help,” he says, emitting a confidence he doesn’t feel.

“Please,” Yuuri says, ignoring the younger boy glaring at him. “I can find nothing else that can help my family, I’ve come so far.”

“It’s a cruel fate the Nikiforov boy faced,” Nikolai Plisetsky says. “Faces. I’m not sure where he is now, but his tears can heal anything.”

“Bullshit power,” the boy hisses, Nikolai nudges him harshly with his cane.

“By that power you live, be grateful.”

“I never asked my father to be that kind of an asshole, just to live,” the boy mutters. “Rumor has it he’s been held at Dimitry’s manor the last few years. But that his tears are dried up. If you wanted to know,” the boy glares at him. “I guess I owe that asshole something.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, bowing to the two. “Where can I find this manor?”

The boy groans. “Oh whatever, I’ll show you. C’mon.”

Yuuri doesn’t expect the Nikiforov “boy” to be so old, maybe a few years older than himself. He doesn’t expect him to be so beautiful. He’s sitting in a chair with a book in his lap, blue eyes gazing forward, unfocused. His hair is pale silver, falling over his shoulders. He’s wearing only a thin pair of sleeping pants. His body is littered with bruises, though his face is unblemished. He’s thin, brittle looking. Yuuri nearly stops at the sight of him.

Yurio (” You absolutely cannot call me Yurio! That’s ridiculous. Yuri is my name, pick a different one.”) smacks him in the leg.

“Hurry up, pig,” he says. (” Like “pig” is a better nickname than Yurio?”)

“Or you’re going to get caught.”

“We’re going to get caught,” Yuuri corrects. He looks at Nikiforov. “We’re here to rescue you,” he says.

Nikiforov looks up. He closes his book and sets on it on the floor in front of him and stands up. He follows both Yuris silently as they leave.

“Victor,” he answers when Yuuri asks his name.

“Okay,” he says when Yuuri says Victor is free to go as he wishes. It tears at Yuuri’s heart to think of Mari, wasting away from the sickness that had taken so many from their village already. He doesn’t want Victor to leave, he wants to know this man, he never wants to be the reason this man cries.

Yuuri gathers his things, thanks Nikolai for his hospitality and Yurio for his help. Yurio kicks him and tells him to “take that useless old fucker with you”. Yuuri heads towards home. His heart skips when Victor follows him.

Yuuri had saved his gold on the trip here, uses some to rent them a coach. It’s a long walk home and Victor tires easily. Victor takes a deep breath before he steps in. By the time they’re halfway through the journey, Victor has fallen asleep, his head lolling against Yuuri’s chest.

“What do you want from me,” Victor asks, sleepily as they’ve neared the inn.

“Just be,” Yuuri says.

Victor blinks, two tears travel down his pale cheeks. Yuuri brushes them away. Victor gazes at him, shock clear on his face.

“Just be who you are,” Yuuri says.

I love this.

Nicely done, anon.

Kudos ♥

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Prompt Post 1

Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

Re: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

Re: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

Re: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

Fill: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

Re: Fill: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort

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Re: Fill: Yuuri/Victor, Victor's tears are magical, TW: violence, hurt/comfort