I Ship Us

BY : Slytherkins
Category: -Misc Anime > General
Dragon prints: 227
Disclaimer: I do not own Yuri!!! on Ice and I'm not making any money from this.


“What is it now, Yurio?” Victor chirped drunkenly from his seat across the table from the young man.

Yuri slammed a fist on the tabletop. “Dammit, for the last time, my name isn’t Yurio!”

“Ah, sorry. Slip of the tongue,” Victor chuckled, sounding not at all sorry but definitely amused. His fledgling aspiring doppelganger was so entertainingly high strung. “So, Yu-ri,” he said, over-pronouncing the skater’s name, “what are you seeing on that prehistoric device that’s got you so upset, hm?”

“Fuck you, Victor! We aren’t all as rich as 'the legendary Victor Nikiforov’,” he said, sneering at the title. “Some of us have responsibilities. Did you ever think about that, you asshole? No, you’re just a lonely old fart. Just you and your fame to worry about. Why don’t you buy me a new phone instead of making fun of my old one, Grampa?”

Victor laughed at the gibe and waved his hands to beg peace, but Yuri’s words had cut deeper than he wanted to admit.

He was lonely. Which was why they were in Hasetsu. Though, Yuuri’s persistent shyness was proving difficult to overcome even now; and Victor somehow felt even lonelier being so near to the man who held his heart but not being able to hold the man himself.

Which was also why he was presently drunk, wishing he was bold enough to force the issue out into the open with Yuuri. They were so close; and Victor cherished that closeness so much, he was afraid of jeopardizing it by rushing the bespectacled wallflower into confronting his feelings. Despite all of Victor’s none-too-subtle flirtations and Yuuri’s flustered reactions to them, Victor wasn’t convinced Yuuri even recognized the nature of those feelings.

Of course, Yuuri wasn’t such a wallflower after a few drinks, but Victor didn’t want to risk another forgotten encounter, either. He would only ache the harder after and be no closer to his goal.

He swallowed a frustrated sigh - then another mouthful of vodka - before turning a bleary-eyed smirk toward Yuri.   

“Are you avoiding my question?”

Yuri blushed, but having failed at redirecting the conversation, he muttered a response.

“Yuri’s Angels,” he said, not really explaining anything. Victor knew Yuri cherished his fan club, no matter how they seemed to annoy him in person, and he frequented the fan sites devoted to him. Not that he’d ever confess to the obsession.

“It’s bad enough that they write stories about me doing unspeakable things with other skaters,” he went on, once again bellicose, “but do they have to pair me with the fucking Katsudon?” he demanded, nonetheless seeming to read the offending piece of fiction with irate enthusiasm.

“Eh? That’s a thing?” Victor asked, stretching to catch a glimpse of Yuri’s phone. The young man hurriedly yanked it out of view with a scowl. Victor pouted.

He had wearied of his own fan base long ago. It wasn’t that he didn’t genuinely appreciate their support, there were simply so many of them, and so many sites and clubs and blogs. It really was too much to follow, so he had stopped trying. He’d never heard of this story phenomenon, though.

“Hey, Yurio, let me read it,” he cajoled.

Yuri literally choked on his indignation, turning a red-faced, sputtering glare at his mentor.

“LIKE HELL I WILL! Fuck off, already!”

And with that, he clutched his phone to his chest and rose abruptly to his feet to storm from the room. (Though Victor spied him reading intently again before he disappeared behind the door frame into the hallway.)  

Victor swayed a bit where he sat, contemplating. He was not as drunk as he could be, but he’d had enough that his thoughts were fuzzy and elusive.

Fans wrote stories about the objects of their infatuation doing ‘unspeakable things’ with each other? What kinds of things? Surely not those things. Victor picked up his own phone and tapped a query into the search bar.

“Yuri. Plisetsky. Fan. Story.” Victor haltingly spoke the words aloud as he typed. “Huh? RPF? Ships? What does boating have to do with skating?” he mumbled. He shoved his drink aside to set his elbows on the table and focus on this bizarre new world he’d discovered.

“Yuri P/Otabek A? Welcome to the Madness. Rated E...Well, if everyone can read it, how unspeakable could it be?” he asked himself.

And then he started reading.

And then he kept reading, his eyes growing wider, his mouth falling further and further open with each sentence until he reached a passage that caused him to clap a hand over the gaping thing with a gasp.

Victor slapped his phone face down on the table in front of him and shook his head to try and dislodge the very animated mental images writhing there. Yuri was entirely too young for him to be imagining him that way...doing those things...with Altin. (Who was marginally older but still seemed forbidden.)

After he shook off the visuals, though, and before he could allow himself to be ashamed of the quasi-erection nudging the inside of his robe, Victor realized something.

If fans wrote these stories about Yuri, perhaps they also wrote them about Yuuri. Perhaps they even wrote them about Yuuri/Victor. They were certainly more publicly affectionate than Yuri and Otabek.

Victor snatched up his phone so frantically, he fumbled it and nearly batted it across the table into the floor. He eventually managed to wrangle it back into his eager hands, though; and he only had to backspace six times before he succeeded in typing the desired keywords into the search bar.

Victor gasped as he scrolled, scanning the links that returned.

There. Were. So. Many.

Some were obviously innocent, but several were marked E, which Victor now knew to mean Explicit. His heart pounded. He could scarcely breathe as he finally settled on one and started to read.

“Wow,” he sighed dazedly, several minutes later. Victor stared blankly at nothing for almost as long as it had taken him to read the thing. Then he grinned, hugging his phone momentarily to his chest before staggering very urgently to his feet.

What he needed to do could only be done in the privacy of his own room.  

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