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blushnote · 4 years

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↳ requested | 1.6k words

↳ dom!wonwoo smut

a/n: HELLO. i’m sure everyone is wondering what’s going on and WHY i’ve been absent for a few months. put simply: things got hectic and i needed a break! i’m not saying i’ll jump back into being completely active again, but that i’m going to come on as often as i can! (which might be every few days or so! i apologize!!)

as a treat for everyone - this features rich girl wonwoo! <3

wonwoo stands at the street pole, conversing with his friends. the bar is unusually crowded. mostly likely because it’s a friday and there isn’t much else the townspeople would rather do than get plastered, forgetting the atrocities of work. his friend extends a box of cigarettes to wonwoo, offers him one, but he shakes his head.

since getting involved with you, wonwoo has attempted to forfeit smoking. it has always been something he’s done to pass the time at the street corner. plus, he likes the idea of blowing a big, stinging cloud right into someone’s face when they give him attitude.

instead wonwoo suckles on a lollipop that tastes like an artificially sweet strawberry, pushes up the bridge of his glasses, and folds some silvery hair under his beanie. he knows it’s about the right time for you to be returning from that dinner party your parents forced you into attending.

as wonwoo’s friend exaggerates a tale about getting into a fist-driven confrontation at a bus stop last week, someone strutting by on the packed street bumps wonwoo’s shoulder.

“choose a better place to stand.” the stranger rumbles, agitated.

wonwoo flicks up his middle finger indifferently. “fuck off.” he grunts, the fog of his breath appearing in the night air.

he’s feeling sort of agitated himself. your parents have tethered you to a leash lately, forcing you to all these fancy gatherings and opening ceremonies and dinners. to put it frankly – wonwoo misses you. your laugh, your eyes, the texture of your skin, your voice in his ear. he’s been wanting an excuse to get his hands all over you. every single inch.

that’s when he hears the ding in his jacket pocket. looking away from the dramatic enactment involving his friend driving a fist into his palm, wonwoo checks his phone to see a text from you. a series of images.

23:28 // JPEG.1034

23:28 // JPEG.1035

23:28 // JPEG. 1036

the three pictures load. he chokes on his breath.

23:28 // i know u don’t like when i spoil my lingerie but.

23:28 // don’t i look so cute :( so fuckable?? im srry but I had to :(

his teeth crack the strawberry lollipop into sugary shards in his mouth. that lace is squeezing your flesh in all the right places. the picture with your fingers splayed teasingly over your underwear, hiding your core, it’s enough to make him shudder, salivate even. he’s officially ignoring his friend’s story by tapping a reply, fiddling with the thin stick in his mouth.

(ww) 23:30 // u free now? head to my place.

he receives an answer immediately.

23:30 // hmmm why?

(ww) 23:30 // u know why. don’t act like such a brat.

already, wonwoo can sense the desire form inside him. pounding almost. like a second heartbeat. you’re usually compliant and bending to his carnal whims. maybe all this time away from each other has you forgetting just how well wonwoo can fuck that stubbornness out.

23:30 // it’s new. i don’t want u ripping anything!!

(ww) 23:30 // idc.

23:30 // so mean!! not even gonna let u touch me now :-)

(ww) 23:30 // yeah. ok. we’ll see about it then.

after sliding his phone back in his pocket, wonwoo glances briefly in through the bar window. he sees a bartender pour a glass full of ice cubes before sloshing in a surge of alcohol. at that, wonwoo gets an idea. when his friends question about why he’s leaving so suddenly, he smirks.

“need to teach someone how to behave.” wonwoo shrugs before jogging quickly across the street.

“i’m not gonna tell you again. keep your fuckin’ thighs spread nice and wide for me or else i won’t let you cum – not even once. you understand?”

a harsh dip in your stomach suggests the breath you just inhaled. after a moment of silence, he hears you comply, and watches with his hungry, intent gaze as your legs part open for him. wonwoo has been teasing you with a bowl of ice cubes. at first, he held them to your nipples, had you whimpering into his mouth while he simultaneously rubbed his tongue against yours. but the real fun began when he introduced the ice cubes to your lower region. it was a very different punishment compared to his past endeavours, a tantalizing one.

wonwoo returns the cube to the nook of your inner thigh, then creeps it slowly toward your core. you’re beginning to tremble with the restraint required to not snap your legs shut. the ice cube ghosts transiently up your slit, a contact you had yet to experience, and a beautiful gasp tears from your lungs. he swears that you leak even more onto the sheets.

he takes the cube away, then drags his warm tongue from the bottom of your pussy right to the top, delivering a slow, flat lick which tastes sweet and cold and makes him so unbelievably dizzy with how much he loves it.

“w-wonwoo, please, pl-please keep going.” you stutter, opening your thighs even wider to invite his tongue.

he shakes his head. “what else did i tell you? don’t ask me to do anything. you’ll lie there and you’ll fuckin’ take it.” smiling, wonwoo issues a tight grip on the ice cube and presses it right into your clit. you whine sharp and loud, your hands traveling all over your body in confusion, not sure if it’s more pleasure than pain, or a hot mix of both.

“or are you still interested in acting like such a brat, hm?” wonwoo utters in his deep voice. “ like a smug little princess who thinks she can tease me whenever she wants and she’ll still get my cock all the way inside her? nice and full, just how she likes it. is that it, babygirl?”

he feels the ice melt under his fingers. you can hardly piece together a response, just a very incoherent, “no wonwoo” as tears start slipping down your cheeks. wonwoo takes the cube away, then massages your clit with his thumb, warming you up slowly. a few jolts pass through your body. he can tell you’re falling apart inside with how badly you want to cum, though wonwoo had strictly told you to hold it. he rubs and rubs and rubs, barking at you to control yourself, your pussy so slippery with arousal that it’s running all down your skin and wetting the bed.

right when he feels you’re about to snap, wonwoo completely removes his touch. you wail at that, suckle in a shaky breath and cry his name.

“please, wonwoo! i-i’m sorry, m’soso sorry! i’m sorry for acting so bratty and sending those pictures, t-teasing you like that! but i just c-ccan’t take this anymore. treat me however you want, but please let me cum!”

he’s truly missed the sound of you begging for him. his cock twitches in his pants, reminding him of how hard he currently is. each time you cry the boy’s name in such a lewd manner, there’s another surge of pleasure and he aches even more, to the point where he could cum just from touching himself over his clothes. still, wonwoo must ensure you’ve really learned your lesson. so, he offers you a deal. he’ll get to watch you pleasure yourself with the ice cube until he cums.

and so wonwoo sits in a chair based at the end of the bed, a hand stuffed down his pants, watching you swirl an ice cube at your sensitive core. he guides you every now and then: “hold it right there, pretty baby. let it melt all the way down. that’s it, sweetheart. n-now rub it, okay? f-finger yourself too. nnrgh, f-fuck. fuck you sound so wet. m’gonna c-cum—”

his strokes lash faster until wonwoo’s head rolls back against the chair, his eyes blinking shut while he chases his high. he hears you continue to whine as he cums, his cock throbbing in his hand, still so hard and heavy. in fact, wonwoo requires a moment just to breathe and let the heat circulate properly through his body.

with his fingers covered in the sticky mess of his cum, wonwoo approaches the bed again, fingering it as deep as he can inside you. he’s unable to remove his gaze from the filthy sight. there’s something so raw and intimate about watching his own seed getting pumped into you that sets his whole body aflame. he decides to let you orgasm as well, stimulating your g-spot consistently, letting you clamp down tight and ride his hand until you’ve got a full fix.

wonwoo supposes he’s done his job.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be able to look at an ice cube the same way again.” you laugh, sitting back against the headboard, tucked into his t-shirt.

drawing a warm washcloth between your thighs, wonwoo blinks at you, a very sly grin forming on his mouth. he plants a kiss on your nose.

“good. means it worked.” the boy says.

he folds the cloth over and finishes the last of his cleaning, ensuring there’s nothing more of his fluids that are still leaking out or anything sticking from your orgasm. grabbing your overnight bag off the floor, wonwoo pulls out a fresh pair of underwear and helps you slide into them. your lingerie sits in a pile off to the side, a few lace straps ripped.

“sorry about your little outfit.” wonwoo apologizes, staring at you earnestly. “it was pretty. you look good in everything.” he squeezes your hip and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“it’s okay.” you murmur. “i’ll order something even better. and i’ll surprise you with it. maybe for your birthday. sound good?”

“mmhm.” wonwoo purrs, pulling you down with him to cuddle up close for the night.

“as long as i can take it off you, sweetheart, i’m fine with that.”

#seventeen smut #wonwoo smut #svt smut #jeon wonwoo #seventeen scenarios #wonwoo scenarios #svt fanfic #wonwoo fanfic #svt x reader #wonwoo x reader

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infinite-indie-horror · 4 years

Text

Preview of HN WWII AU

The place smelled of fresh ink and paper, and the walls were lined with books of all sizes. There were few people there; Ladies and gentlemen who came for the morning paper; all who gave me looks up and down at my tattered clothes.

A boy about my age pops up from behind the counter.

“What can I get for you?” His thick Italian accent threw me off a bit. A cap sat crooked on his head and he had overalls that were a bit too big.

“The paper...” I started, then I remembered my manners, “Please.”

He reached under the counter still looking at me and pulled out the paper. “Here. It’s a five pence, please.”

I took the crisp paper and handed him whatever coin I could pull out of my pocket. I wasn’t familiar with British money yet, but the boy found this out when he started looking at the coin strangely and said, “This is a shilling...” But he didn’t give me a funny face like I was just some illiterate Polish immigrant; instead, he smiles knowingly.

“Oh,” I reply and take all the money I had in my pocket that my mother had given me. I opened up my grimy hand, silently asking him which was a nickel.

“Ah, now this is a five pence,” He took a single coin from my hand and drops it into a small wooden box in a back shelf.

“You should have taken the shilling,” said a girl, a bit younger looking, to the other boy.

“I do not cheat!” He threw his hands in the air, “Unlike you, who cheat these poor people!”

“And us? We are poor!” She snapped back before turning to me with disdain. “Where you come from?”

“Poland,” I barely made out.

She turned to the boy with a sour look, and retreated to the back of the store.

The boy scoffed and turned to me, “That is my sister; she has no manners!” He yelled a bit too loud. I noticed a few heads turning our way before returning to whatever they had been doing.

The sound of a book dropping on the counter next to me caused me to flinch.

The boy turned to the sound. “Ah, Ruthie!” He smiled, his eyes sparkling.

“I thought I told you not to call me that, Vincenzo,” A girl-like voice said with an accent I couldn’t decipher. I turn to her; her fuzzy hair cropped short and her skin is as smooth as freshly melted chocolate.

The boy, who I figured to be Vincenzo, only smirked, “More books?”

“What can I say? I like poetry,” She smiled, her previous annoyance seeped away.

“A pound please,” He said.

She promptly gave the money to him.

“One book for the pretty lady,” Vincenzo winks.

Her annoyance comes back, but I could tell she was enjoying it. She was about to turn and leave when she saw me. Apparently, I had been staring because she says, “Surprised to see a black girl in a bookstore?”

I shook my head, not able to find the right words, “No, no...”

“That’s alright if you were,” She said, looking around the room to the people side-glancing her. “I’m Ruth.”

“Uh, Nikolai,” I said, almost forgetting my own name.

“Nikolai,” She and Vincenzo said together.

“Where are you from, Nikolai?” She asked me.

“Poland...” I said quietly.

“Oh...because of the invasion...” She nodded to Vincenzo sadly.

I only looked away. It had been almost a year, but it was still painful to remember the screams, the wailing, and the gunshots. So many piercing, ear-splitting gunshots. I had left everything behind; my friends, my home, and my way of life to come here; a place where I only knew the few words of English I read in my comics.

Vincenzo was the first to break the silence, “But you are here now, and you can start again. And look, you have already made a friend.” He smiled at me.

“Make that two,” Ruth piped in.

I was overjoyed to make new friends, I just wished I could’ve expressed it better; I only nodded with the happiest smile I could muster. Then I remembered my mother’s instruction. “I must go...” I stuttered.

“Come back anytime, anytime!” Vincenzo put a hand on my shoulder.

I nodded to him and to Ruth before walking out of the store, shooting one last smile to both of them. Now I have the paper and two new friends; that was more than I could ever imagine I would’ve gotten.

When Nikolai meets James (kind of)

“Ah, Nikolai!” Vincenzo greeted me from the counter, still wearing his oversized overalls and cap; this time, however, it was a little straighter.

“Hi,” I responded shyly.

“The morning paper again?” He smiled.

I only nodded, trying to match his cheery smile.

“Have you made friend?” He asked, reaching for the paper.

“Mmm,” I question whether my roommates could be considered friends. We didn’t talk when I saw them first. Their crusted, bloody faces had a menacing look on them, especially the boy my age. He kept staring at me, not in disgust but in fear, and that somehow had made me more nervous.

“Describe them, I know everyone around here,” Vincenzo leaned to me resting his head on his hands.

“The face...” I made a motion around my face, “Frostbite...” I only knew that word from one of my Batman comics.

Vincenzo looked away thoughtfully. “I need more...”

“Ah...European...” I shrugged. I apologized to him in my head for my bad English.

“Mmm,” He grimaced a bit, shaking his head. I knew I wouldn’t be of help.

His eyes seemed to look past me for a moment before leaning in to whisper, “You mean him?”

I turned to where he was looking to see the same boy I saw the past night. Now that I could see him better, I realized he looks worse than I do. His clothes were too tight for him, revealing his bony figure; his face looks worse than I remember, the dried blood crusted on his cheeks and nose. His eyes were still fearful, but they were mixed with a tired gloominess typical to most refugees.

I nodded to Vincenzo, who gave me a look as fearful as the boy did the past night.

“Do you know what he is?” He hissed.

Now it was my turn to be fearful; I shook my head hesitantly.

Vincenzo had always been somewhat of a bad whisperer, so when he said “He is German!”, everyone turned their head to us then to the boy.

The boy flinched a bit when he heard us, his eyes darted around like prey surrounded by predators.

“You be careful with people like him...” Vincenzo finally had lowered his voice. “You say you Jewish, yes?”

I nodded, my eyes as wide as saucers; I still glanced over to the boy who had since slouched so much he looked like he was trying to curl into a ball and hide. Not that I couldn’t blame him.

Vincenzo took my shoulders, “Careful, Jew...” His eyes flickered to my right. “Ah, how can I help you?” His whole demeanor changed into something more friendly, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“The paper please.” I turned to see the boy accused of being a German; his accent didn’t sound like a German, but where it was from I couldn’t figure out at the time. He side-glanced me and bowed his head, a move that I was familiar with, especially these days.

“Five pence, please,” Vincenzo’s voice had turned cold and business-like; this new voice didn’t seem to fit his personality at all.

The boy dug into his pocket and took out a few coins that he quickly gave Vincenzo.

He only reached for the paper and gave it to the boy gingerly.

“Thank you,” The boy nodded to him and to me without meeting our eyes.

He briskly walked out, the remaining people in the store eyed him and shook their heads.

By the time I got home that day, I dreaded seeing the boy again. The way he was humiliated only made me feel sick. I know Vincenzo didn’t mean it, but the damage was done. He didn’t seem German, but I didn’t want to ask to find out.

“Mama, Papa,” I called out as I entered the hotel room. Our family was more lucky than most refugees in hotels. We only had to share with one family. What made it harder is that I still had that sinking feeling that our roommates had ulterior motives. As long as I kept my identity a secret, I would have nothing to fear, right?

Vincenzo’s warning rang in my head as I saw the boy and his father and sister sitting on the other side of the room. All heads turned to me, their sullen eyes staring me down. The boy’s eyes, however, kept flickering at me then the floor. His father, who had been previously reading the paper, looked at me with almost amusement, then his eyes stare back at his paper. The girl, her hair matted on her moist forehead, stared at me without shame. I hesitantly sat on my family’s side of the room, where my mother and father had mysteriously disappeared. A tinge of dread sprung up in me, reminding me of the day I had lost my parents on the way to the train station. I was cold, afraid, and felt small compared to the towering people trampling me. But, I stayed were I was supposed to, and eventually my parents found me. That’s what I learned; stay where you’re supposed to be; that was hard for me to do, it still is.

I took out one of my comics; the one I had read over a hundred times, but it entertained me just the same. Every once in a while, I would sneak a glance at the so-called Germans. They seemed harmless, though their countenances were intimidating. Sometimes I would catch the boy looking at me, but instead of returning my hesitant smile, he’d look back at the floor, absentmindedly picking at the peeling skin on his bloody fingers. It made me cringe only a bit, for I knew my bad habit for biting my nails wasn’t any better.

“Niko,” A soft voice whispered into my ear. I look up and see my mother’s tired but soft face, my father close behind her.

“Mama,” I say, and hug her tightly; “Papa,” I gave him one too; I was afraid I had lost them again. “Gdzie byłaś?” I asked where mom was.

“Z twoim ojcem.” She was with my dad, but she didn’t say where.

Her expression seemed to harden a bit, and I left the subject alone.

“Rozmawiałeś już z nim?” She asked if I talked to the boy yet, which I responded with a quick head shake.

“Jest Niemcem,” I told her what Vincenzo told me about him earlier. Her face became grave as she glanced over at the family on the other side of the room. She turned back to me, her eyes fearful, “Nie mów im kim jesteś.” Her warning was the same as Vincenzo’s. I looked from her to the family, and decided that if my mother was afraid of them, I should be afraid too.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Even the soft snores of my parents couldn’t calm me like it usually does. I had to squeeze out from in between them, careful not to make too much noise on the rickety bed. I glance at the other side of the room, where the family was also sleeping together. When I was sure they were asleep, I slipped out of the bed and searched through the only bag I was allowed to bring with me filled with a few extra clothes, my three comics, and my lock picks and their locks.

I had taken up the art of lock picking out of boredom of being on a boat for a month. I found them in an abandoned cargo area; apparently they used to sell goods to thieves. But I wasn’t about to tell; they treated us okay, better than most refugees from what I observed. The actual locks came from practicing on the restricted areas on the boat. Not that anyone really cared, or caught me, it was fun to watch the confused look on the sailors faces when they find the locks missing.

I sat on the ground, digging in my bag for the first lock I find. I couldn’t quite see what kind of lock it was because it was so dark, but I saw just enough to find the keyhole. I took out the rake and set any pins I could before trying some other lock picks to get the remaining ones. When I could feel the last pin almost set, I hear a squeak not too far from me. I froze in place, glancing around trying to identify the source of the noise. When I look up, it was the boy standing up staring at me. He seemed to flinch a bit, but his gaze didn’t deter from me. We were in a stalemate, neither of us brave enough to say the first word. He kneeled down to me, and I started to shift backwards a bit, trying to get away from him as fast as possible. He seemed to notice this because he said in perfect Polish, “Gapienie się jest niegrzeczne.” Which I understood as “staring is rude.” I blinked in surprise, but still refused to say anything. He smiled a bit, apparently amused by my surprise.

I finally asked if he spoke Polish. “Mówisz po polsku?”

“Lepiej mówię po rosyjsku. Mòwisz po rosyjku?” He seemed to stutter a bit; and I believed that he couldn’t speak Polish very well. However, he spoke a language I was familiar with, Russian.

“Да, я немного говорю по-русски.” I answered in Russian.

He smiled at me, understanding.

After a few moments of silence, I dared to ask him if he was German. “А вы немец?”

He looked at me in slight confusion, and maybe even irritation. I went on to further explain that I didn’t believe he was because he spoke Russian. “Потому что ты говори��ь по русски.”

His face became dark, the wounds on his face became more vivid in contrast to the shadows. “Нет, я не немец.” He wasn’t German, as I thought, but why would Vincenzo lie to me?

“Но он сказал мне—“ I started, but he interrupted me.

“То что он сказал вам не имеет значения. Я не немец,” He affirmed a bit too harshly that he wasn’t German.

I hesitantly said, “Тогда ты не сделаешь мне больно?” and asked if he would still hurt me.

He looked at me confused, “Зачем мне причинять тебе боль?”

“Я еврей.” I did the exact opposite of what my mom had told me.

But instead of looking angry or disgusted by my religion he said, “Нет, я не сделаю тебе больно.” The confidence in his answer calmed me down a bit. He didn’t care if I was a Jew; something that I had been disgraced for all my life.

“Как Вас зовут?” I asked for his name, something that seemed appropriate to ask to a possible friend.

He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if I was trying to pry out top secret information. “Джеймс,” He finally said, which translates to “James” in English.

I couldn’t help but smile because that’s my dad’s name, “Джеймс это имя моего отца.” Then I continued with saying my name a lot less hesitantly than he did, “Я Николай.”

He held his hand out, “Приятно встретить тебя.”

I mimicked a handshake my father would do; I grabbed his hand with both of mine and shook it firmly, “Мне тоже приятно познакомиться.”

___________

if i got something wrong plz tell me

#Hello Neighbor #nicky roth #aaron peterson #Enzo Esposito #maritza esposito #trinity bales

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dandelion-san · 7 years

Text

Close Encounters of the Third Kind

Fandom: Yuri on Ice tags: humor, friendship, alternate universe, implied murder summary: While disposing of a corpse, an alien crashlands into Yuuri. (or the one where Yuuri is an assassin, Phichit is an alien and now his roommate, and Victor is the very ordinary bartender who is in love with Yuuri and is also his neighbor) notes: how many genres and tropes can I fit into one series? Answer: a lot. (warning for probable job inaccuracies?)

–

Yuuri is just taking a break from dragging the two hundred pound corpse from his car to the woods when the world suddenly turns bright and a high-pitched ringing sound makes itself known. He covers his ears by reflex and quickly squeezes his eyes shut, taken so off-guard that he is half-delirious in both pain and panic.

But as soon as it came, the ringing stops and the light seems to fade away from behind his closed eyelids.

Before he can tentatively open them, something heavy crashes into his body and sends him to the ground.

“OW,” says a young voice.

Yuuri’s eyes snaps open. He blinks rapidly at first, clearing away blurriness and the black spots appearing in his vison, but the first thing he sees is the starry sky.

…Actually no.

The first thing he sees is smoke and fumes coming out of a very large saucer-shaped ship that is currently crashed into some trees just up ahead. That – that is – something with a size of that magnitude – how could he have missed – what?

No, seriously. What?

Very slowly, he turns his head.

There is a boy who looks just a little younger than Yuuri himself (NOT AN ALIEN, his brain says in Denial) lying next to him, eyes closed, curled up in fetal position and rubbing a bump on his head. His hair is in a funny bowl-cut that is currently sticking out with leaves and sticks and there’s dirt on his face. There are two antennas sticking out from his hair that is curling and uncurling (NOPE, his brain continues to say). Obviously a physical deformation, of course. Obviously.

Yuuri swallows thickly.

The boy opens his eyes finally, dark brown mirroring Yuuri’s own. The boy blinks, a reflection of his previous actions.

The boy grins sheepishly. “WHAT’S UP, DUDE,” he says. “I COME IN PEACE. THERE IS NO NEED TO TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER.” He sticks his hand out in an oddly familiar gesture, palms flat with his ring and pinky sticking together and out from the others to make a ‘V’.

Yuuri, eyes wide, asks, “Can you, please, not shout?”

“SORRY,” the boy says. Then, “sorry. Is this better?” He gains a look of satisfaction at Yuuri’s whimper and then starts stretching his limbs out. “Wow, this is great! What a lucky night it is for me!” He laughs loudly and then rolls over to his other side, startling when he nudges the target’s body. “Hm, and what about you? Sorry about the landing, dude. Didn’t mean to land on top of you two. My name’s Phichit, by the way.”

Yuuri stares at the sky, refusing to look at the giant, smoking ship, or the Not-Alien talking to the corpse of his last target.

“Not a talkative one, are ya?” Then the boy pauses.

It is a long pause.

“Oh my dear stars, I killed an Earthling!”

–

Yuuri has never had a conversation on this end before so he’s quite a bit out of his depth. But he’s trying his best, repeating what Mari used to do for him during his crying-sessions, and he’s not doing too badly if he does say so himself.

“Come on now, just breathe,” he says in a croon, rubbing the Not-Alien’s back. They are currently sitting upright together while the boy has his knees up and currently sobbing into them. He is so distraught that everything about him looks like it’s drooping, like his antennas which are hanging low over his ears like a sad puppy. “Yup, there you go. Just let it all out. You’re doing so well, buddy.” The tears are glowing a bright blue. Yuuri refuses to acknowledge this.

Phichit says, hysterically, “I’m so – sooo sorry, I didn’t mean to k-k-kill your friieeeend.” He can barely even get the sentence out and wails out the last word.

“No, no, no you didn’t!” Yuuri is quick to reassure him. “See, he was already dead. And he wasn’t my friend,” he adds.

The tears are actually starting to stain his shirt. Not that it is glowing, or anything.

Yuuri gently tilts Phichit’s head up with one hand. “It wasn’t your fault, I promise. Okay?” He gently pats his head with his other. “There you go. Shh, shhhh.” Thankfully, Phichit is visibly calming.

He peers up at him with watery eyes. There are two rings in his irises. “R-really?” He hiccups.

“Oh yeah,” says Yuuri. “He was definitely already deader than dead.” He smiles a little, fondly reminiscing his little adventure from that afternoon. It was such a challenge trying to get into the target’s office. The mercenaries were a bit of an obstacle, of course, but nothing that he couldn’t handle.

Phichit is staring at him in wide horrified realization. “Oh kriff.” He scrambles away, pointing a finger at him and shrieking, antennas standing straight up. “You! You killed him!”

Yuuri puts his hands up and slowly stands. He sweats. “Come on, buddy, uh – Phichit –“

“Back off!” Phichit hits the trunk of a tree. “They warned me about this! Earthlings are crazy, war-mongering people! I mean, what kind of species chooses to live on a Class F-designated planet that you people named after DIRT.”

Yuuri sighs. “Oh boy.”

He hopes he doesn’t have to kill this one.

–

“Twooooooooo Piña Coladas, please. One tab!”

The bartender, to his credit, just widens his eyes at both of their appearances – Yuuri, who is wearing a muddy and blood stained trench-coat over a skin-tight black jumpsuit with leaves and dirt in his hair, and Phichit who is Phichit. They both reek of alcohol.

(He mostly just widens his eyes at Yuuri. His breath catches in his throat. BA-THUMP, screams his heart, while his mind screams ohmygodit’shimwhatishedoingherehe’sadorableaseverIhopethat’snothisboyfriend.)

“Dun listen to ‘im, he’s a murderer,” Phichit slurs. His eyes reflect oddly in the dim lighting of the bar, like a cat’s. His antennas are wriggling.

“Imma good murderer,” Yuuri grumbles. He shoves a hand over Phichit’s mouth. “Shh, listen. Listen! Imma good guy and the dead man was not a nice man which is why he’s dead!” He shoves his other hand over Phichit’s head. “Stop movin’!”

“I canna help it!” wails Phichit. “I canna control ‘em!”

Yuuri giggles, letting go of Phichit to cover his face. The bartender, whose nametag reads VICTOR, shoves two cups at both of them.

“Here are your Piña Coladas,” he tells Yuuri. Yuuri wonders why his voice sounds so deep and why the bartender is smiling at him like this. He squints at him.

“Ya look kinda… familiar…”

The bartender gives a sparkly grin, and pulls at his tie. “D-do I?” He looks pleased.

They both get cut off from this line of conversation as Phichit spits his drink out. “GROSS,” he howls. He tears up, his eyes gaining a wet blue shine. “What’s happenin’ ta me? What didja do ta me? Who are ya? Who am I?”

Yuuri is not listening. He quickly downs his drink, wiping off his lips with the back of his hand when he’s done.

He strips off his gloves. Then his coat. Then he turns to the bartender and gives him a saucy wink.

“Wanna see my guns?” he purrs. “Victor.”

The bartender looks around wildly, but most of his customers are not paying attention to them as they are too busy wallowing in their own lives. There are a couple drunken people who are staring at them, but they are mostly staring at Phichit. “Um,” he says. His face is so pink that it looks like it’s glowing. He turns back to Yuuri and swallows thickly.

Yuuri licks his lips and stands up. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly raises his leg up and places it on the counter. He reaches down to the holster that is wrapped around his thighs.

“Oh,” the bartender says weakly. “You mean guns, literally.” He’s staring at Yuuri’s legs now, visibly sweating. (He misses the fact that there is something very obviously illegal going on his bar and instead feels a hint of disappointment.)

“Mmmhmm.” Yuuri pulls out a black handgun. “Beretta 90Two,” he says dreamily. He sets it down on the counter. Then he puts his leg down and starts to strip out of his jumpsuit.

–

“Oh my god,” Yuuri whispers the next day, after vomiting three times in the toilet. Phichit is snoring somewhere on his bedroom floor, covered in glitter and lipstick stains. Yuuri stares at him for a while and then sighs.

Okay, yeah. So aliens are real and now there’s one in his apartment. Whatever, what’s an alien compared to the time he slipped into Guantanamo Bay for a mission? Or the time he was caught in a power struggle between two mafia groups and Interpol? Or even the time he was kidnapped by a megalomaniac and had to pole-dance his way out? Now that was wild.

Besides, there are more pressing matters to attend to. So Yuuri cleans himself up as best as he can. He throws on some clean clothes and takes off his contacts, which feel like they have been crusted to his eyes. After grabbing his glasses, he walks outside and across the hallway and contemplates death.

He knocks instead.

A dog barks somewhere on the other side and then someone curses – there’s a crashing noise. A few minutes tick by with Yuuri growing ever more concerned, when the door finally opens, revealing his neighbor whose eyes are bloodshot and hair in a wild disarray. He’s still wearing his bartending uniform, only now it’s stained in various places.

“Hey Victor,” Yuuri says. “I am so sorry about what happened last night.”

Victor shuts the door in his face.

Yuuri stands there, stunned, as he hears what sounds like muffled screaming, but then the door opens again.

Victor leans against the frame, casually. “Don’t worry about it,” he says with a mega-watt smile. “It was fun!”

Yuuri doesn’t really know what to say. He still kinda wants to go die in some ditch after humiliating himself in front of his attractive neighbor last night, but also because he may have outed himself and he really really really does not want to kill Victor, who is constantly running out of flour, sugar, or other miscellaneous baking/cooking ingredients. Yuuri has yet to taste a single non-alcoholic creation of Victor’s and Victor owes him after two years of begging off some sort of ingredient from him.

(Yuuri does not think about other reasons he may not want to kill Victor)

“Do you want to come over for breakfast?” he says instead and then blushes.

Victor brightens. “Yes!” he shouts and then coughs. “I mean, yes.”

–

Phichit – whose skin is now green, like actually green – runs into the kitchen where Yuuri has just finished making oatmeal and eggs.

“Everything hurts,” he warbles.

Yuuri sighs and shoves a glass of water at him. “Drink. Drink it all. Then go lie down.”

“Ugh.” He wobbles to the couch and collapses, sobbing of “war-mongering dirt people.” His antennas sway back and forth soothingly.

Victor, eyes wide, starts to yell.

–

Well, if Victor has finally noticed that there is something just a little different about Phichit, then Yuuri figures he’s probably safe for now.

#mywriting #yuri on ice #yoi #writing yoi

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