Tori

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, pwnp, dom ilia, mean ilia, pussy eating, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, fingering, edging, rough here and there, degradation, humiliation, unprotected sex, creampie, overstimulation, dacryphilia, orgasm denial, forced confession, morally gray reader and ilia

ᯓ‎♪ bad decisions - ariana grande

"i hate you."

your voice is weak. burning in the back of your throat with a half-sob. bruises littered across your neck, the column of your throat, your thighs.

ilia's face between them.

your sentiment doesn't seem to mean much.

"i'm sure you do."

every time he speaks, you get angrier; the tears flow harder. yet still, you crave more of him — his tongue, fucking into your pussy like he's starved, his fingers, pressing prints into the outer edges of your thighs. your hand tactfully threaded into his hair, yanking and pushing in an indecisive motion as your hips buck into his face.

you shouldn't be here, with him.

you never liked him.

he used your best friend — another skater, pretended to have interest in her, just to get closer to you. fucked her just to make her believe it was her that he wanted. and when you found out, you despised him more than you already had.

yet, in the heat of the moment — the pressure of the upcoming olympics — you find yourself in the middle of nagoya, locked away in ilia malinin's hotel room with his head buried between your thighs, unable to slip away, even if you wanted to.

your fingers tug harder at his hair; he moans into your pussy, the vibration making you clench around nothing but the heat of his tongue, the muscle pushing into you like a threat.

"fuck, stop," you whine between stifled breaths, eyes falling onto his as he lifts from your skin, a string of saliva connecting his chin to you.

"stop what?" his voice laced with venom, a grin tugging at his lips as a laugh trickles out — pitiful, almost innocent sounding, like this is some kind of fucking joke to him.

stop moaning. stop teasing.

"fuck…you," you breathe weakly, fingers flexing in the blond strands of hair on his head.

he kisses your clit.

fuck.

you've already come once; pussy weak from just his mouth, sensitive already as he tries to coax another release, not willing to let you go until your cum rests on his taste buds again.

his necklaces are drenched; a mixture of arousal and sweat and cum, his cock aching between his thighs as he focuses only on the sound of your moans.

you squirm under his touch. your elbow bends on the mattress as you try to lift off the bed, but his palm flattens over your stomach and holds you down, tongue swirling over your clit before delving back into your heat.

"shh…shh," he whispers, hand gliding down to your thigh to spread you further open.

it's a scramble of unintelligible whines slipping from your lips, a mix of expressions of hatred that fall on deaf ears; he knows every word that spills from your lips is a load of bullshit.

the tip of his tongue curls harshly inside you and prompts your hips to fuck up and into his face; another grin that you feel against your folds. you whine, tugging at his hair as an irritated half-complaint falls from your parted lips, but the noise barely touches his ears.

"shh," he hushes again, tongue flattening to lick a stripe along your folds, soaked with saliva and slickness as you drip onto his taste buds. body unable to resist the pleasure, the way he teases you like something to be pitied. "don't want me to stop, do you?"

your hips roll involuntarily against his face; another weak noise evaporates into the moist air as your brows pull together in agony.

"you gonna cry?" he pouts.

you swallow.

"you're a prick."

the ghost of his breath over your clit sends a shiver up your spine; draws a whimper you've been withholding in your chest. "don't pretend you don't fucking love it," he taunts, lowering his voice to a rasp. "you're weak."

you push his head down to muffle the grating sound of his voice.

all the talking is keeping you right on the edge, pussy throbbing under the heat of his mouth.

the desperate gesture makes him moan lowly into your clit, savoring the sweet taste of your arousal on his tongue as it fucks back into you faster, more calculated with each dip until your head thrashes against the pillow.

"and you get wetter," he laughs bitterly, the low vibration hitting your clit in just the right spot to bring you to the edge.

you come before your mind can even catch up with your body — a hot, white gush of liquid pools on his tongue, and he slurps it up without a trace. you're breathless, inner thighs pulsing with an ache you've never felt.

he brings two fingers to his lips and leaves them in a thick coat of saliva; your thoughts swirl, eyes locked on the motion.

and fuck, you crave more. more of him, of his touch, of—

his fingers pushing into you.

long, insistent, curling into your sweet spot with barely any time to adjust.

your hips chase the feeling, back arching off the bed as a sob rips through your throat. you try to raise your voice, cuss him out, give him another rephrased rendition of "i hate you."

all that releases is a string of sputters that barely form a coherent phrase.

"cat got your tongue?" he asks tauntingly, lips reconnecting with your clit and sucking gently as his eyes never leave yours.

your lip quivers, and your hips grind up and into his face; you don't respond.

he scoffs.

ilia parts from your legs with another heavy, hot kiss to your clit. he hovers just above, just where he needs to watch your face contort and your pussy clench around his fingers.

"you're an asshole," you finally mutter, fisting the sheets beside you until your knuckles turn white; ilia's disappear into you once again. "shitty fucking person."

"i know," he murmurs into your inner thigh, sucking a mark into the plush skin to match the one on your opposite leg.

arousal drips onto his fingers.

"so wet for someone you're supposed to hate," he chuckles, pushing his fingers in deeper, the tips brushing your cervical wall and pulling a squeak from your chest.

between a sob and a groan, "i do."

"doesn't feel like you hate me, baby," as his fingers glide so easily in and out of your pussy, lubricated solely from the slickness of your arousal and remnant of your release(s).

your stomach curls at the nickname — you're so fucking weak. you shouldn't even be here. you should be in bed, in your own room, sleeping. minding your own business instead of letting him win.

but god, he's so fucking good; it makes you angrier. hornier. wetter.

his lips trail up the side of your midsection, over your ribcage, past your tits, and up to the dip in your collarbone. he deposits another red and blue mark.

"i hate you," you grit loudly enough for your voice to vibrate in the air between you, and ilia's fingers spread inside you, stretching you out until a shot of pain shoots through your body; you cry out, a tear cascading down your cheek from anger.

"yeah?" he asks, thumb tracing your clit and rubbing over the nerves, sending your irises to the back of your head in pleasure. "you hate me?"

"yes," you whimper, unsure if you're answering his question or crying out from the sensation between your thighs.

"then we can stop," as his fingers begin to draw out of you at a tantalizing pace.

your fingers catch his wrist and push him back in, "no."

he laughs.

this is the same person who made your best friend think she was cared for. who manipulated her into letting him befriend you. who took the first chance he got to make a move when she wasn't around.

you thought he was a pig.

and you resisted, for a while.

until tonight, with the final women's discipline on the line until olympics, and you snapped.

because deep down, a part of you wanted him, too.

you slide upward, trying desperately to quell the urge to grind against his hand, clit brushing the pad of his thumb harder with every stroke.

his fingers fuck into you faster, harder, until you're seeing spots, thumb dragging over your clit as he moans into your neck like this is some sort of game.

another white-hot flash of heat bubbles in your stomach, hotter and hotter until your body can't take the pressure, the over-sensitivity at your clit any longer.

another sob breaking through your chest, a swell of tears bursting down your cheeks as a pounding ache sears between your thighs. all as ilia's fingers keep fucking you, deeper, deeper, deeper, until you're limp beneath him.

cum coated all over fresh sheets, no towel in place to keep them — or you — clean.

as you sit up, half-gaining your composure, he settles on his knees, fingers reaching for the tie on his pants — tent pitched between his thighs after pulling three orgasms from your body, all while going untouched.

your hands instinctively grasp the fabric, curling into both waistbands to pull them down.

"don't be so eager, now," he taunts, lifting each leg to kick off the fabric, leaving him exposed to the crisp air in the hotel room, the only light coming from the LEDs attached to the headboard.

his arm wraps around your back to pull you up, sliding you half-into his lap as he sits back on his knees.

his cock head drags over your soaked folds. catches on your clit and rips a whimper from your throat. you groan, palms bracing your weight on the mattress behind you as you lean back.

precum smears across your skin, your eyes threatening to flutter shut as the delicious threat of his cock presses against your core, heavy and so, so warm.

you could come like this, if you weren't already so painfully oversensitive that you're clenching before he's even inside. hand wrapped around the weight of his cock, sliding between your lower lips agonizingly slow, dipping the head into your heat just to urge a yelp from your throat.

you squirm in his lap, eyes squeezed shut as his lips find your neck, cum smearing across the skin, taking it between his teeth and sucking until you whine — from either the sting or the agonizing drag of his cock as it teases your pussy; he doesn't care which.

"you want it?" he murmurs into the skin just below your ear, tongue licking a stripe over the fresh mark to soothe the ache; you feel his cock pulsing against you.

your lips flatten into a line as you try to maintain your composure, any shred of pride left in your body. still, you make a poor attempt at a nod.

"look how wet you're getting over this," he mumbles, voice taunting against the shell of your ear. he lets the head catch at your hole again; listens to the dissatisfied moan spill from your lips as you grind against the pressure.

lifts from your neck to look up at you and mockingly imitates the noise before letting the grin settle back into his features.

"use your words, baby," he whispers. "tell me you want it."

"yes," you groan, fingers tightening their grip on the sheets as a frustrated tear slips down your cheek, "yes, fuck, i want it, ilia."

he leans up to kiss the column of your throat.

"there you go," a mumbled praise as he thrusts entirely in with one harsh push, and you nearly scream into the quiet of the hotel room; his moan lands at the underside of your jaw, where he bites another mark into your slick skin.

"i fucking hate you," you sob angrily, red-hot tears streaming down your face as his hips press against yours — your own meeting them halfway and grinding down onto him. "fffuck."

"then prove it," he rasps. "leave."

"fuck you."

his lips curve into a grin, head shaking as he grips you tighter, your hand slipping back into his hair just to tug at it again. "that's what i fucking thought."

he's thick, stretching you out as his pelvis bumps your clit with every grind, sending a recurring shiver up your spine that makes you fight to stay upright. your teeth pull your bottom lip in to keep yourself silent — nearly draw blood with the pressure.

"shh," he ridicules, breath grazing cum-coated skin, "don't want her to hear what we're doing."

your head falls back, and his mouth attaches to your collarbone. litters another bruise on your skin like it's some kind of sinful painting.

"you're making me do this to her," you whine.

it feels like a mistake when your gaze locks with his again. he's laughing, like it's a joke. like it's fucking funny.

he doesn't even respond.

every move hurts — your thighs ache from the movement, your arm from trying to keep you steady, your head from sobbing, and fuck, your pussy. so sensitive from every touch, every stretch, every pulse inside you.

"screw you," you whimper again as the tip of his cock pushes against your cervix, making you dizzy.

he pulls back, just to look at you; to watch the tears fall from your eyes, throat blistering with anger. your gaze matches his, blue eyes staring back at you. god, he's fucking perfect — you understand why she fell for him so easily.

"fuck, you're beautiful," he murmurs, completely ignoring your sentiment, your complaints, the way you clench around him as you draw closer to the release he knows you won't reach without his help. "so perfect."

it pisses you off more.

"ilia," you sob so loudly that some fucked up part of you hopes your friend hears — just to know what a shitty friend you really are. how easy you are. how quick you were to discard her.

his cock slows, refuses to hit the spot that made you dizzy; the one he noticed just moments ago and pressed into again just to watch your face contort.

you groan — the noise extends until your heartbeat pulses in your head. the steady throb that feels like pain.

"you're a piece of shit."

his hips snap toward yours again, and you try to swallow, but the noise trickles out as a whimper. "yeah?" he asks.

you nod.

"so am i," you whisper shamefully.

he chuckles softly, "that's right, baby."

he fucks into you again, harder, pulling a huff of air from your lungs that forces you to jolt upward, arms wrapping around him to keep yourself steady.

he pulls you closer in his lap; your legs lock around his waist, shifting the angle to let him hit the spongy spot buried inside you again, pussy throbbing around him as your body begs for another release.

you want to come so fucking bad, and he knows it.

and he's refusing to let you.

"fuck…fuck, please. please," you babble absentmindedly, voice tearing at the edges as you try to regain a semblance of strength in your chest.

"but, i'm an asshole," he recalls in the mocking tone of voice that sounds like everything you've ever despised. "this is what assholes do, isn't it? isn't this what you wanted?"

another flood of hot tears releasing onto your cheeks.

and ilia has the nerve to fucking kiss them away.

you thrash your head in the opposite direction; it only makes him smile wider, like he's proud of the mess he's made.

"you knew what this was," he mumbles into your jaw. his teeth move lower and graze the skin just below your ear — your hips grind into his, desperately seeking the friction, and he doesn't stop you.

he finds this all amusing.

"stop being such a dick, and just fucking let me come," you finally break with your voice teetering on another sob, all raspy with want and unkept arousal. "please, fuck, please."

it hurts.

"no," he asserts firmly. "not until you admit it."

"fuck you," you spit, a noise slashing through your throat that borders on a scream when he drives into you from below.

ilia keeps fucking laughing.

"so pretty."

your hand finds his hair and yanks at the strands again, but it only takes the opposite effect; he moans lazily, biting his lower lip to suppress a grin.

"just say the magic words."

your eyes fill with tears.

different than the others.

sadder.

"fuck. you."

he fucks you harder. so intensely that air catches in your chest and fights to break loose, only surfacing as a wheeze, a gasp for more. you're sensitive — too sensitive — inner thighs covered in release, tears staining your cheeks, all in a shameful display for a man who just wanted to get in your pants from the start.

and you let him.

the pressure hurts, his cock is stretching you until you cry, and still, he's fucking laughing.

"oh my god," you shout, finally letting suppressed cries release into the air as you look him in the eyes. "i love you. oh my fucking god, i love you."

and every time you told him you hated him, it just made the opposite so much fucking truer.

because you loved him long before any of this, really.

his laughter dulls into a wide smile, and he leans forward, pushing you down until your head hits the pillow. his arm loops below your knee and lifts, positioning it just above his shoulder.

he turns and kisses your ankle.

you squirm, cock still inside of you, unmoving.

"wasn't so hard, was it?"

you want to call him every profanity in the fucking book. you want to make him regret every single thing he's doing to you and your friend. you want him to pay for what he's causing.

and you want him.

fuck, you need him.

"need you, please," as you tug him closer.

his hips snap into yours as he pushes back in, a yelp resounding in the quiet hotel room. skin slaps against skin, echoes off the walls, bounces back into your ears like fucking punishment. a filthy squelch blooms between your thighs, right where you're joined.

and finally, finally, he brings his hand to your clit and rubs circles into the nerves until the pleasure blinds you.

"i hate you," you sob, "god, i hate you."

he kisses you.

rough.

so fucking hard that you can barely breathe.

"keep fucking telling me that," a mumble against your lips as he applies more pressure to your clit, hips driving into yours.

"keep," another thrust, "fucking," a broken moan from your throat, "reminding me."

his mouth is hot, making no effort to stay composed as he kisses you messily, all tongue and teeth and saliva dripping down your chins in a filthy fucking display.

and when you come,

it feels like you're seeing fucking god.

breaking off with a scream that tears through the half-soundproofed walls. nearly reaches the whole goddamn building.

for a moment, you forget where you are.

that you're in japan.

that you're at the last grand prix final before your first olympics.

that you've let ilia malinin come inside of you without as much as a second thought.

heavy breaths fill the space between you, no words exchanged; none more to say. your head is far too empty, only repeating the same filtered sentiment over and over again like a skipping record.

i fucking hate you.

you cry.

hard.

until your shoulders shake below ilia's weight, and he lifts to find a flood of tears rushing down your cheeks. your expression a little heavier. more weighted with emotion.

"fuck," you whimper between bated breaths, lip quivering as your thighs tremble in pain, and your core throbs with overstimulation.

you keep mumbling it, stuttering on the syllable until you choke on that, too, drowning the noise with tears.

ilia doesn't find it so funny anymore.

he pulls out carefully, coaxing a heavy whine from you at the loss of fullness. his mouth travels down, down, until he's perched at the junction of your thighs again.

as he pushes them open with the smallest pressure, the sight greets him — cum, tacked onto your thighs, spit still bubbled in the crevices of your skin, a mess all around.

his hand rests on the inner edge of your thigh as his mouth finds your skin; you shiver, head falling against the headboard as his tongue laps at the leftover shame.

he has no intention of getting you off again.

simple relaxation of your muscles that soon unfolds beneath his fingertips.

a long, soft kiss to your clit like some form of a false apology.

you choke on another breath, and ilia rises.

"hey, hey," he murmurs. his arms pull you into his warmth, though your thighs remain covered in the remnant of your weakness. "shh…it's okay."

"you're a dick," you whisper.

"i know."

he kisses the droplets off your cheeks.

you pull away.

he doesn't get to do that. to act like everything is fine, like he hasn't left a permanent tarnish on your life, on your morals. on everything you've ever stood for.

you shouldn't have let him.

as you curl into his side, the thought continues to replay in your head. and against everything your mind tells you, your body disobeys. it keeps close to him, basks in his warmth as you fight every bone in your body to tell him no, to up and leave as you should have the moment you stepped inside.

but you can't. and instead, you let your eyes flutter shut in his hold, feeling every last emotion flowing through your body, except comfort.

you should've left before falling asleep.

you should never speak to him again.

you shouldn't keep sleeping with him behind everyone's back afterward, like it's all a game.

or maybe, you should.

because maybe, that's who you are.

and maybe, you're beginning to like it.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @tiramisutin, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag, @sinistersnakey, @ladybuzgs, @veniley, @in3edcuddles

love u all <3

bathroom. now.

the message you sent from behind the locked door when you heard ilia's voice trickle into the dressing room. you only had to wait about three minutes before his knuckle rapped on the door.

you opened the door; let him pass through; closed it behind him; locked it again.

lunged forward and gripped the mint green lapels on his blazer, kissing him with a fervor he hadn't felt since the first time you slept together (you've been fucking on the DL for a while, now).

and, well, now you're here.

sinking to your knees, fingers pulling open the three buttons on his dress pants, watching ilia lean into the vanity behind him without a protest forming on his tongue.

rather, his fingers clawing your hair and gathering it into his palm as your tongue darts out to wet your lips. your hand reaches into the fabric and pulls out his cock, taking the silky white shirt with it.

"saw what you did," as a trail of saliva drips onto the head; he swallows. "who am i not to indulge?"

"oh, so you assume it was for you?"

"wasn't it?"

you wrap your lips around his tip, mouth warm as your tongue swirls over the surface. his head tilts back, and a faint groan slips into the air. you pop off, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his skin.

"you're always begging me to blow you, illie," you coo, licking a stripe along the underside of his cock.

you pepper a trail of wet kisses down the length, hand wrapped tightly around the base. he runs a hand through his hair, forehead already slick with sweat from the performance, work song blaring through the arena halls outside.

you moan against his tip; his eyes nearly roll back.

his chest rises and falls heavily, necklaces glowing in the light as his fingers tighten their grip on the makeshift ponytail.

you take him into your mouth again; precum glides across the roof of your mouth. another semi-loud groan from ilia's throat that makes you grin around his cock.

"fuck," he mumbles, slurring something in russian under his breath.

his supporting hand grips the edge of the vanity until the corner of the countertop nearly slices his palm. your eyes bat up at him, cheeks hollowing as you suck him down. your fingers fist what you don't take, pump slightly at the base.

a breathy moan vibrates around his dick, the sound desperate as if he's the one doing this to you; fucking your face.

but no — you love being the one in control, watching his face scrunch up and feeling his hand gently push your head down.

especially in this suit — god, you've always found it hot, but usually, he and you have the decency to wait until after hours to fool around. no one knows you've been up to this, sneaking around for god knows how long on this tour. even before that. even at worlds.

you just want to make sure that ilia knows his message was received.

oh, and that you love to suck his cock.

ilia smiles, watches his phone flash on the vanity beside him as another number begins, another announcement echoes through the packed arena.

"you know you're almost on?"

you pop off with a loud slurp, "i'd rather miss my cue."

he laughs.

"wanna keep tasting you."

"then don't waste time," his voice taunts as his eyebrows quirk, and his hand nudges your head closer as a signal.

you kiss the tip. take him again, hand still forming a tight ring around him, stroking carefully as the edges of your teeth just barely graze his skin. your eyes flutter shut when you feel him tense between your lips, a careful sign; a warning.

normally, you'd pull away; let him do what he wants, no worry about a mess or some form of humiliation. you're shameless, really — it's why you started messing around in the first place.

but this time, you can't afford for the mess to spill on your custom-made costume, so you settle.

pull back and let him watch the strings of saliva form between your mouth and his dick. gently stick out your tongue and direct the head to rest against it as your hand lazily strokes the remainder of his length.

you look up through thick lashes with half-smeared lip gloss and saliva decorating your chin. pumping, moaning, until you suddenly feel it smear across the back of your throat.

hot, thick, melting on your tongue and pooling at the center as your palm delicately works every last drop out. the corners of your lips quirk into a grin, and ilia mirrors from above, winks down at you.

fuck, if you had time to get his cock in you.

your tongue curls upward as your lips pull shut, and watchful eyes fall on your throat, studying the way it bobs when you swallow.

you lean forward and press a final, featherlight kiss to the very tip, where a little wetness remains, and tactfully stuff it back into his pants. make easy work of tucking the shirt back in and buttoning up the minty fabric.

your thumb swipes along the edge of your lip and cleans off the smear of lip gloss.

and you stand again in front of him, lowered just slightly from leaning against the sink. ilia looks up at you with lazy eyes, lips parted as a warm stream of breath releases into the air between you.

"well," he whispers, "that's your cue."

kissing the tip of his nose, you giggle, "more later? finally have a hotel room."

"of course," he teases, "wouldn't dare waste it."

you fluff the curled tips of your hair and unlock the door with a soft click, walking out into the hallway and down the black fabric tunnel.

ilia's head falls back; a humorless laugh as he shakes his head, tongue poking through the inside of his cheek. the sound of the announcer bleeds into the quiet of the empty bathroom.

"please welcome back, two-time national champion…"

yeah.

he's definitely making that move permanent.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, dacryphilia, heavy angst, lots of arguing (during sex too), rough sex, mean dom ilia, hickeys, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex, pull out method, cumming on stomach, pussy eating, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, sexual neglect, sexual humiliation, seriously a lot of crying, near-panic attack, eventual comfort, soft/make-up sex, atonement goes crazy y'all

ᯓ‎♪ norman fucking rockwell.

it happened in 2022.

april.

world junior championships. rules were strict; you weren't allowed to leave your sectors, always had to be under supervision, had to keep a watchful eye on your belongings so you wouldn't trade germs, if the circumstances allowed.

you heard the first whispering of a quad axel not long before. he'd been working on it. you, amongst many, hadn't believed it to be true; not only had it only been attempted twice (and failed), but ilia was young. he was decent, sure, but to make history like that? it was nearly unbelievable.

that being said — if all of that was really true — you thought he might have been the coolest person in the world.

so it was safe to say that, at competitions, you two would get along pretty well.

back then, you were pretty good acquaintances with ilia.

friends, even.

you liked him. ran into him at the vending machine and bought him a hershey bar after his performance. "for winning the gold," you'd smiled, then walked away as if nothing had happened.

it wasn't meant to be an ordeal. just something nice, just to let him know you cared.

a day or two before you were set to take your flights back home, you'd dropped your bag amongst the growing pile in the gym. sure, you weren't competing anymore, but you liked to keep fit, even on the off-days.

his bag was not far off from yours; the same color, same brand, almost exactly the same style. distinguishable, but hard to differentiate in the spur of the moment, when you'd walk past the pile again and grab the first bag that looked like yours on the way out. it was an honest mistake, really.

well, you would have thought you pulled a gun out on ilia that day.

he'd angrily slipped out of his room with your bag on his shoulder, stomped down the hallway, and banged on the door until you — confusedly — opened up. yelled like some kind of spoiled kid, dropped the bag at your feet, and accused you of intentionally taking his instead. took his back irritatedly and sifted through it only to grow louder, more frustrated at some false truth he'd conjured up in his head.

a staff member finally caught up and scolded him for leaving unattended.

he said you stole his skate guards, as if you'd even want those. tampered with his shit because you were, quote, "obsessed with him."

you yelled back. the woman tried to mend the situation, only to no avail; ilia was persistent, and honestly? you were pissed off (if your mother yanking you back into the room wasn't already enough to go by).

you weren't simply offended; you were hurt.

because you had liked him. until then.

and for the next four years, you argued. everywhere.

the nail in the coffin was post-quad axel; you noticed the shift immediately after. it was the first time you'd seen him since the incident at the hotel back in april, hoping to move on for the sake of the friendship and your feelings, only for him to treat you with the same demeanor he took on that night.

thankfully, most of the off-season allowed for time alone, with about five or six states separating you, depending on how you looked at it. yet for the alternative cases — competitions, galas, shows, appearances — you were forced to be near him, whenever possible. take photos, bunch up with one another.

"you're in my bubble. move."

and he'd just glare right on back. maybe even roll his eyes if the mood struck him.

but you were meant to be friends. you've skated together for years, so why wouldn't you be attached at the hip? shockingly, it wasn't always easy to pretend to like each other, alongside the other team usa skaters.

who — unsurprisingly — became fed up with both of your bullshit a long time ago. because your business was their business, and it wasn't just you and ilia's responsibility to hide the lack of sportsmanship, despite competing for the same country; it was everyone's weight to bear.

amber often took the brunt of it, being sandwiched right between both of you. fans loved to post photos and videos, clip any fragment of content that could be misconstrued as bonding to pit the three of you together like siblings.

meanwhile, amber was constantly breaking up arguments and trying her damnedest to keep you separated unless absolutely necessary.

and somehow uphold a relationship with each of you simultaneously.

irritation for everyone.

mostly yourselves.

typically, it would never extend past mild bickering — at least, when other people were around. but sometimes, it was personal; it was calculated; it was meant to do more than just puncture skin.

like boston, 2025.

your skate was less than perfect, if at all even comparable. it wasn't just a stumble — it was a fall, nasty, hard, painful. so uncomfortably landed that your knee ached for the remainder of the performance, no matter how hard you tried to will it away. that throbbing pain resulted in a number of failed elements, ranging from the simplicity of a spin to the awkward bend halfway through your step sequence.

the numbers weren't high; frankly, you were lucky to have even stayed on both feet by the end.

and twelfth place wasn't exactly something to brag about.

you barely survived the kiss and cry, standing up with suppressed tears as you gripped the plushie you swiped from the ice and rushed down the tunnel. your coach didn't follow; he figured, more or less, that you needed your space. though, not everyone thought that way. or at least, not everyone was as kind as him.

"nice skate."

perched against the wall that gave him just enough of an angle to see the flatscreen television about half-a-hundred feet down the hallway; to know.

"fuck you," as you pushed past him, though the words lacked the usual malice, instead replaced with a tinge of hurt.

ilia didn't care; why were you still so uptight about something that happened years ago, when you were teenagers? in fact, he laughed quietly to himself as his eyes found the floor in front of him, and he heard the distant sniffle drift into the air from the direction you'd walked in.

still, he didn't budge.

you'd laugh when he fell. you'd scoff at the mere mention of his name. you'd insult his ability, chance you got, and complain near-daily about the quad axel; how it was an anomaly. the only thing he had going for him, given the shitty person he acted like off-ice. even if everyone under the sun loved and praised him.

so, no — he didn't particularly care after pouring that same sour taste right back onto your tongue.

even if anything you ever said was derived from a place of hurt that even he didn't know existed.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

you swipe the multi-colored keycard from the top of the dresser and slip your feet into a pair of slip-ons just beside the door. your fingers reach for your olympic lanyard, hanging on a hook in the closet, and toss it lazily over your head, slipping the keycard into the plastic.

and as you walk down the hallway, just about to stop at the vending machine, another door clicks open.

blond, wearing black and gray sweats. unmistakable frown perpetuating on his face as he bolts down the hall, almost stomping.

"nice skate."

he stops.

"oh my god, you are so fucking petty."

you let the machine eat your cash, more or less not caring that you shouldn't have said anything, and quietly — peacefully — gotten your snack and returned to your room as you'd planned.

"i'm petty?" you scoff, folding your arms in front of your chest. "you attacked me for stealing shit that — newsflash — i didn't fucking want. and mind you, i never even tampered with your precious bag."

"this bullshit started when we were kids. you're a grown adult, and you still won't let it go," ilia refutes angrily, voice slightly raised in the quiet of the hallway, nearly bouncing off the walls if he's to get any louder. "not my fault i wanna finish it."

"finish what?"

you step further into the hall and away from the machine; footsteps trickle out and into the stairwell from somewhere on the floor. you don't know from where or who.

"this isn't one-sided, and you know it. you decided that day that you didn't like me anymore, and that was that. now you act like you're above me, because what, you can land a fucking jump?"

ilia laughs and rolls his eyes; entirely humorous, a little threatening to the small ego you have left.

"honestly, do you hear yourself? you're only here because your coach paid someone off and someone else is hurt," he nods his head, gestures for the lanyard sitting around your neck; just a badge, no medal attached.

"there's a reason you don't win anything."

that one hurt.

"fuck you, ilia," as your palm flattens over his chest and shoves him backward until his balance falters. "as if you won today. you don't think i saw the train wreck? same team, remember?"

his eyebrow twitches.

"ever since you landed that stupid jump, you've acted like a cocky piece of shit, like you should be treated differently because you've won a couple of golds," your voice raises further, echoes through the hallway and bleeds through the walls, though no one on the floor is awake to hear it; not yet.

"as if you have any more skating skills than i do in my left fucking pinky. flopping around, can't even keep an edge, fucking up your idiotic step sequences, and the god-awful music you abuse everyone's ears with."

and suddenly, it breaches the line between professional and personal.

nothing that left your mouth is foreign to him. ever has been, really.

because of course, people don't like him — he's the embodiment of a stolen opportunity. of someone that slid into an empty space and fucked his way to the top. "disgraced" the sport.

but you don't stop there.

he hurt you first.

and it wasn't tonight.

"i'm sick and tired of this shit. you make fun of every little thing i do, then come out tonight and can't even land the jumps you're supposed to be so good at? give me a fucking break."

you watch the way his jaw clenches beneath rosy skin. his eyes begin to brim with hot tears that don't quite spill over. just noticeable enough under the dim hallway lamps.

"and you cry like a pussy when you don't get your way in front of the whole world."

"stop."

"you're a self-centered, overscored asshole who deserved to lose."

"please, fucking stop."

his mouth twitches next. he's weak. he's quiet. he doesn't have a defense, some snarky comment to rebut you with.

he never has on the internet. he won't with you, either.

the sight almost makes you falter.

almost.

"you gonna cry again?" your tone mocking, degrading, if you're being honest.

he doesn't answer.

you mumble under your breath, "pussy."

ilia swallows.

"you pay attention to everything, don't you?" as he suddenly stalks forward, nearly looming over your body with every step closer that you don't back away from.

his palms find the sides of your face, and your mind freezes over, eyes shooting open.

"pain in my fucking ass."

and he kisses you.

you shouldn't like it — or return it just as angrily — but you do. you shouldn't still want it, him. surely, you shouldn't let him get away with the things he said, the way he's been treating you for the four years you won't get back.

and as you part your lips to remind him,

"shut up."

his fingers curl around his lanyard and yank it until the clasp snaps open at the nape of his neck. the plastic sits in his grasp, polyester draping loosely over the edge of his hand.

your hands find his shoulders first, then travel into his hair, one staying in its place and gripping the thickness of his crewneck to keep yourself grounded. teeth catch his bottom lip and bite down, just enough to draw the pain and release a hum from his throat; a noise you admittedly enjoy.

he flattens the keycarded side over the sensor on his door until the small click registers in his ear and lets himself in — fingers grasp your waist and tug you into the room along with him.

you suppose you won't be heading back to the vending machine, after all.

lips find the side of your neck and litter the expanse with kisses that feel too angry to be affectionate, a hand tracing over the hem of your sweatshirt before fisting it in his palm. when he tugs, you don't resist — throw your arms up and let the expensive fabric flop onto the cold floor as the air ignites your skin.

animalistic is too harsh a word.

rough, is more like it.

like an alternating game of cat and mouse.

until all that remains are panties and black sweatpants, and your back digs into the mattress below.

though, that look doesn't quite vanish from his eyes — glossy, empty, a little pained, if you had to guess. you think it acts as a motivator; the pain he's experiencing, from both the argument and the earth-shattering skate he gave.

buildup, to put it simply.

teeth graze along your neck. marks form in their wake, and your throat deposits a pained moan into the air, hand flying to his hair to pull him off.

"ilia, i have to skate in a few days."

his voice almost pitiful when he replies, "should i care?"

oh.

he moves to your collarbone, leaving the same spots you'd just told him to stop making. his eyes don't bother to cross yours, instead focusing on the wetness of your skin, the sweet scent of old perfume that drives him wild, though he won't admit it.

"i fucking hate you," your voice a frail whine as you squirm beneath him.

something you say far too much. something you're not even sure you mean anymore.

"tell me again," he rasps, "maybe this time i'll listen."

"i hate you," you repeat as if it means anything to him. your hand tightening in his hair, tugging a little at the root to make it hurt. "and your programs, and your skating, and your stupid f—"

two fingers inside of you.

already shoved in as far as they can go. pulled back just enough not to slip out, and forced right back where they came from. the cycle is vicious, and it's quick, hard — usually, you'd make your way up to this point, if at all, but not ilia. not for you.

it hurts.

you deserve it.

"ah," the moan soft at first, sharpening when his fingers spread apart inside, the sear drifting down your legs and up your spine.

you didn't get a warning; you aren't prepped; you aren't even ready. nothing forms on your tongue. pain blooms between your legs.

"got nothing to say now?"

the side of his hand collides with the apex of your thigh every time his fingers force themselves back in. the tips prod at the deepest spot they can hit; a broken sob pulls from your throat.

it still burns.

despite the situation, you've never been touched this way.

which doesn't go to say you don't like it — but you're surely not used to any of this, either. let alone by the man you're supposed to hate. you shouldn't want him like this, not after the things he said to you. after what you've said to him, even.

the squelch finally arrives — quiet, but noticeable — and a grin spreads across ilia's face. your eyes barely process it through the blurred vision and watered eyes.

your knee bends to give him further access, and he takes it, slipping further above you as the edge of a necklace scratches your chest.

his mouth creates new marks; more on your neck, along your chest, just below your jaw. and that, too, hurts.

none of what ilia is doing carries relent.

"you tell me you hate me, then go and do this," as his fingers deliver a harsh thrust, and your pussy throbs around them. "pick a side."

"you're — the one who cried before, no?" a pitiful laugh registering between you. another thrust, another moan, head thrashing against the pressed, white pillow. "twice in one day — even."

he breathes. it's heavy. fingers tighten around your waist.

"think that'll get your component scores up?"

"god, don't you shut up?"

you didn't think it was an option until now.

shoving them ruthlessly against your cervix as his thumb rises to your clit.

it stunts your breath. you hear the release from his own chest, the way the air catches in his throat as if he's holding something in, and for a fraction of a second, your heart stops.

a shot of throbbing pain through your stomach; a low rasp from ilia's lips that borders on something far more vulnerable.

"ah — oh," you whimper. only those short, unintelligible noises spill out of your mouth — nothing of real substance. just their expression, the connotation when your hand slips back into his hair and pulls as if to make him slow down.

"ilia, it — hurts."

but when his fingers curl suddenly into your sweet spot, everything stops.

you come before your mind can catch up with your body — just as intensely as his fingers still working at you, thumb doing nothing but apply heavy pressure that makes your head feel light.

a jumbled mess of words drift into the stale, cold air in the half-empty dorm. slurred fucks, whines derived from the sheer intensity, high-pitched squeaks when you realize he won't stop until every last drop of release has dripped down the side of his hand.

and he doesn't.

scissors his fingers again to bring back the sear, opening you up until the first sign of a cry reaches his ears.

only then — when the noise is reduced to a shallow release of breath — does he whisk his fingers away.

although, you clench around nothing, whining at the sudden loss. still, despite everything, the initial pain won't subside.

"ilia," you try, but he doesn't budge.

he's gone cold.

almost emotionless, save for the fresh brim of tears in the corners of his eyes — always there, but never quite ready to fall.

after all, none of this would be happening if not for you.

the insults. the judgment. the ruthless criticism of what makes him as a person, always used against him online; he never thought even you would stoop so low.

you feel the head first — swollen, hot, heavy in his palm. dragging across soaked folds. catching on your clit. you don't know why he bothers now with any semblance of patience.

"do it," you whisper, voice tinged with need and impatience, despite the unpleasant outcome. "ilia — fuck, please."

every inch at once.

it's brutal.

it's fucking bruising.

god, it hurts. so fucking bad.

he hopes it does.

as much as every word you've ever said hurts him.

your arms instinctively reach for him — anything to hold onto, to distract from the stretch between your thighs. it's entirely unfamiliar; the size, the force, pushing in raw without anything to ease the slide besides the remnant of arousal coating your walls.

a whimper draws past parted lips and dissipates into the air. ilia's hips begin their descent, thrusting forward until your legs fall open around him — too weak to keep in place.

ilia mumbles something in russian, unrecognizable against your neck. you groan, squirming below, tightening your grip on his hair.

"what?" you breathe; an obvious complaint that doesn't fall on deaf ears.

"nothing," another harsh snap into your hips, fingers pressing black and blue marks into the side of your waist, "don't ask again."

"you're such an," interrupted by a whine as his palm pushes your thigh open further, "asshole."

the angle shifts, and his cock sinks impossibly deeper — stretching you open in a way that stuns every nerve ending in your body.

a bitter laugh deposits into the air between you, thin, charged. "still mad because of the — the truth? that you're — a baby?"

his hand slides into your hair and gathers its entirety into his palm. he yanks your head forcefully to the side, holding every damp strand of hair into a makeshift ponytail. your eyes focus on his — bright blue, brimmed with liquid threatening to spill over at any given moment.

"just stop."

"no," you whine. his tip collides with the spot buried deep inside of you, and you swear you feel him in your stomach. "want you to cry."

his eyebrow twitches.

"it was — hot."

ilia's muscles suddenly tense up beneath your fingertips. his jaw ticks. just slightly. just enough for you to see.

and perhaps, you don't quite understand the weight of what you said.

ilia experienced the single worst moment of his career just a few hours ago, in front of the entire world. and not only has he been torn apart for every single aspect — down to the words he anxiously rattled off afterward — but now, it has all been completely objectified; sexualized.

and by the girl he can't stand.

or, so he thought.

the first tear finally cascades down his cheek — more of a threat than a display of weakness. in all the years you've fought, exchanged words, thrown glances, he has never once looked at you this way.

the expression in your eyes finally shifts into something unrecognizable in its own right — you're nervous. a little shocked.

he pushes harder.

makes damn sure that you feel every painful inch gliding along sensitive, overstimulated walls. pulls almost entirely back, only to slam back in just as you try to gasp for air. your head falls onto the flat, dampened pillow behind you, barely bracing any of your dead weight.

every time you part your lips — try to tell him to be more careful, mumble something incoherent about being close again — your chest constricts on itself, and another rough push of his hips makes any remaining thought crumble to pieces in your head.

as he feels you constrict around him, "don't fucking come."

"ilia—"

"no."

hot tears finally spill onto your own cheeks; your body's only defense mechanism against the ache blooming in your stomach. but everything hurts, your limbs are tired, and your fingers struggle to find the strength to keep holding on — you're not sure what part of any of this is pleasant anymore.

you're crying because it hurts; he's crying because he hurts.

your throat tries to manage a soft please, but even gasping for enough breath becomes too much.

so much that your body almost gives in.

and when he feels it, he slides completely out; you whine anxiously and sink impossibly further into the mattress below, your knee shaking at his side as it fights to stay upright.

with tightly-shut eyes, you almost don't notice the warmth suddenly spilling onto your stomach. the sensation heats up slick skin, and his elbow taps against your inner knee with every careful stroke. hazed, your mind struggles to put a circumstance to the feeling — but when it hits, you freeze.

ilia finished on your stomach.

and you still haven't.

your eyes shoot open, and a shallow breath falls from your lips as you look for his face — still stone-cold, still infuriated, still pained. staring back at you as if you've turned his entire world upside down. maybe you have.

"you're such a dick," as a fresh wave of vulnerable tears bloom within your eyes, cascading down flushed cheeks when you try to blink them away. "i — i can't believe people…actually like you."

with a heavy huff of breath, ilia scoffs. "you think they'll ever care about the girl who is always fourth best?"

your heart sinks.

"nothing more than someone to fill the spot of someone better."

oh.

your lips part, and your head becomes dizzy, the walls almost looking as if they're spinning around you — you know they aren't.

you're still close — still worked up — your body is in more physical pain than any rough fall can deliver, and you've been completely neglected in favor of his own pleasure. and on top of everything, the evidence is painted across your stomach like some sort of attempt at humiliation. which, heartbreakingly, worked.

"clean it off," you whisper, your voice unsteady and raised to such a high pitch that it is nearly unrecognizable. you're visibly stressed, using every ounce of strength you have left to will away a sob. "ilia, clean me up."

because god, if you have to do that, too.

but this time, the switch flips in ilia's chest.

it all hits. the vulnerability in your voice, the jaded look in your eyes, the sight of your body laid bare before him because you trusted him with it, despite everything you've ever said to him. every mark he vandalized your skin with suddenly stares back at him like a threat; a reminder that you never asked for any of this.

and worst of all, it's the sound of stunted breath as your body trembles with the desperate, blinding need for a release that he refused to give you.

he reaches for the discarded crewneck still resting against the mattress and wraps the soft material around his fingers. you swallow with anticipation, yet all he does is carefully lower the fabric onto your skin and swipe away the liquid until it has melted into the material. the sweatshirt was expensive, and this will likely stain it, but he doesn't care. not really.

the fabric lands on the hardwood floor with a soft puff as ilia slides down the length of the mattress. his eyes link with yours from the space between your legs. their gaze asks the question; you answer without a nod, nor a shake of your head, nor a word. he simply comprehends.

the first kiss lands at the edge of your inner thigh.

"i'm sorry," a whisper into the warm skin, amongst a bundle of repeated apologies and peppered kisses along the expanse until your body relaxes into his hold, palms pressed gently over your waist.

a stripe over damp folds that coaxes a soft, heavy moan — of satisfaction, more than discomfort, though still overstimulated. your fingers thread into his long, blond hair again, applying pressure rather than pulling off, craving the friction he offers, even if in small amounts.

ilia's soft voice hums against your pussy as the tip of his tongue cards slowly along your skin, collecting the taste of arousal and sweetness on his taste buds. the edge of his nose nudges your clit, his movements a little hurried in light of making up for the loss — what he took from you, the things he said, everything he'd done to make you feel unworthy.

you flex your fingers in his hair, impatiently craving the release you've been chasing for so long that the sob you tried to suppress finally breaks out of your chest.

"it's okay," ilia urges, pulling your clit between his lips and lazily swirling his tongue over the sensitive area. he listens to your soft whine, pulls you a fraction closer, and runs the pad of his thumb over your hip as if to offer an ounce of comfort. "just let go."

finally, finally — you come.

hard.

you think you're seeing stars — if that's what it looks like, when people describe it. blurs of vision morphing the room into small dots of light, your eyes squeezing shut when the pressure consumes your ability to keep steady. his lips pull into a grin as you fist his thick hair a little tighter, and he knows he's done his job.

the taste lands on his tongue just as he expects it — sweet, warm, uniquely yours. he never thought he'd enjoy anything about you this much, let alone your taste, but here he is, eyes fluttering closed as he savors the flavor on his taste buds and swallows it down. all while you huff quiet noises back into the air, one sounding far too much like his name to not be.

and just like that, it's over.

all that remains is the gentle sound of shared breaths and the unrelenting pain between your thighs that you know will burn in the morning.

then, clarity hits. in a wave you've never quite experienced at this volume. ilia's face slides into view as he parts from your body with a kiss to your clit.

"did you mean it?"

ilia's brows pull together.

"no."

you don't know how much you believe it.

and right now, as you try to inch upward and pain shoots through every bone in your body, you don't think you want to.

the moment he kissed you, every single feeling flooded back as if you'd never tried to suppress them, as if they'd never really disappeared in the four years you've spent carefully pushing them away. but you couldn't let him know. and worse, as you gave to him the part of yourself that you never thought you'd have the chance to, he tore you down.

he made your career feel worthless.

and he humiliated you.

"…i have to leave," you whisper as nausea rises to your throat.

still trembling, you do your best to sit upright and swing your legs around the edge of the bed — ilia sits back, so as not to disrupt; he knows he's in the wrong.

you rush to grab your discarded clothes, haphazardly slipping them back on. when you reach for your lanyard, your fingers struggle to pick it up from the nightstand. they're still shaking too hard to grip the plastic.

ilia takes it and places it over your shoulders for you; you don't thank him.

he opens his mouth to speak, but your disheartened voice cuts him off.

"you didn't even kiss me for real."

his heart sinks to his stomach.

oh.

he had it all wrong.

tears bloom in your eyes again, "you just did it to shut me up."

the pad of your index finger wipes away the wetness below your eyes, and you fold your arms in front of your chest. you pad over to the other side of the room, headed for the door, barely managing a limp as the pain between your thighs (and in your chest) worsens.

"i never really hated you," you tell him quietly, fingers scratching your forearm. he swallows, nodding softly, necklaces reflecting in the moonlight as his chest rises and falls.

"but i do now."

ilia's jaw ticks.

you walk out without another word.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the next few days drag along slower than usual.

before, you'd entertain ilia's advances — argue back, make your own witty comment, slip digs into conversation when he wasn't involved.

but now, it's different. humiliation aches in your chest when he enters the room, and you can't bring yourself to look at him, to even speak to him.

two days later, you're sitting in the cafeteria with amber and a handful of others, some on their phones, only half paying attention. you're conversing quietly with christina when the door swings open — which you don't quite notice — and the chair beside you is tentatively pulled back.

as your head turns to the sound, your stomach curls in on itself.

ilia's apologetic eyes fall on yours.

you stand up and slam your chair in, walking out without another word. the group exchanges confused glances — as much as you'd claimed to hate him, you never avoided him.

ilia doesn't follow.

the women's short arrives just four days after you left ilia's dorm with wet cheeks and tousled hair. you spend the day preparing anxiously in the gym — stretching, exercising, doing anything to keep your mind off external stress.

you've heard the rumblings regarding ilia — his social media pages, his severe lack of a support system, the internet tearing him to shreds over small things, plastering his failures on front pages to make a quick dollar.

the things you'd made light of.

torn him down for, too.

just twenty minutes before you're set to touch the ice, everything you've been holding in rises to the back of your throat. you run suddenly to the nearest bathroom, leaning over the first sink and closing your eyes, trying desperately to hold down the nausea.

the door swings open behind you and slams; the lock clicks, and you turn to find madison strutting your direction, clad in her white jacket. a worried look shaping her features.

"what happened, baby?"

you swallow, turning back to the mirror. "nothing, madi. i'm — i'm fine," you lie, staring at the marks still littering your neck and collarbone, only half-healed.

"we both know that isn't true," she counters, stepping up and placing her palm gently on your back. she rubs it back and forth, the motion soothing enough for your lungs to release a heavy breath. "you've been acting different since friday night. and i know you don't want to hear it, but…" her fingers trace over your neck as she looks at you through the mirror, "these are pretty telling."

soft music draws in from the arena, muffled by the door. you close your eyes, taking a long, deep breath as madi's hand continues drawing circles over your shoulder blade.

"we…hooked up."

"you and…" she trails. she lifts her hand to run her nails through your ponytail, smoothing out the tangles. when her hand stops, and her eyes meet yours knowingly, you swallow.

"ilia?"

slowly, you nod.

"oh, sweetheart…"

"i really liked him, madi."

madison's face morphs into a pout, and she nods, eyes focusing on the edge of your hairline. "i know…i could tell."

"even when we fought?"

"especially when you fought."

your bottom lip trembles.

"i just…i liked him so much, and it just was not what i wanted. at all."

your eyes begin to water, and you shake your head, trying desperately not to let them fall. you can't ruin your makeup, not with your slot being so soon.

"it wasn't anything like i thought it would be."

"what happened?" she asks again, palm returning to your back, its familiar warmth seeping into your skin. "tell me," she whispers, "you've gotta get it out."

madison has always been a big sister to you; you'd trust her with anything. including this. especially this.

so, you break.

"i started it," you breathe into the stale bathroom air, eyes choosing the edge of the faucet to focus on to keep from crying. "he was walking by, and we argued, and — and yes, the sex was good, it was great, i just," your voice shakes as you speak, words blurring until they become nearly inaudible.

"i didn't want it to happen because of an argument."

madi frowns. nods to urge you on.

"i wanted him to want me, too."

her shoulders fall; your head finally turns to face her, and you meet her with glossy red eyes, a droplet of liquid finally slipping onto your powdered cheek.

"i hate that we argue, madi," with a sob bubbling in your chest.

"c'mere," she urges, extending her arms. you step into them and rest your chin on her shoulder, careful not to transfer your makeup onto her jacket.

"it's the olympics, baby," she hums, fingers brushing through your ponytail. "you stress each other out. and you both are already under so much stress and pressure — neither of you has ever done this before. it's hard."

"he humiliated me."

madison's brows furrow; she pulls back. "he what?"

"we kept arguing through it," you explain weakly, chest tightening as you begin to ramble. "and he left these," you motion to your chest, "and he got angry, and he then wouldn’t let me — you know. and i was so — so worked up, and then he just—"

you gesture to your stomach with a trembling hand.

"and i had to tell him to clean it off."

for a moment, her eyes go dark.

she's going to kill him.

but as quickly as it came, the expression dissipates and falls into something softer, her fingers resting on your upper arms.

"please don't tell anyone," you beg, shaking your head as the pace of your breathing quickens. "please don't say anything to ilia."

"i would never," she affirms softly.

"i need to cover these up," you choke out, hands smoothing over your costume. "my coach — she yelled at me, and i tried, but the concealer didn't work, and i don't know what to do."

madison nods.

"stay here. lock the door when i leave. i'm gonna grab something and fix it for you, and then you'll be ready to go, okay?"

"okay."

you do as she says when she leaves, clicking the lock open again and leaning against the door, eyes closed as you try to steady your breath. about two minutes later, madison returns with two bottles and a tub of powder.

she makes quick work of covering the remainder of the marks that show, and you breathe carefully under her touch, letting her presence soothe your body. she steps back when she's done and turns you to the mirror, where your skin no longer looks tainted.

"it never happened," she reassures, and you nod back at her through the reflection. "now go make us proud, okay?"

"okay."

you step closer and pull her into a hug. "thank you, mads."

"of course."

despite her help, you're still incredibly nervous. of course, it lifted a weight off your chest that you couldn't withstand alone anymore. but it doesn't change that it happened, or that every emotion and word still resides in your head and chest like a threat.

still, you wear a brave face and step onto the olympic ice for the first time. the team event gave you time to relax, settle into milan, make some friends, and explore. it was your time off, and now, you have to prove yourself worthy of the spot you were given.

you don't.

you pop the first jumping pass; a heavy exhale as the first thoughts slip through the protective walls you built.

the next is clean — cleaner. a triple flip. typically, your best jump, though it isn't so strong tonight.

your edges border on clean, and your third jumping pass results with your palm on the ice. not a fall — but a deduction.

your most successful element is your layback spin — often regarded as one of your cleanest and strongest talents, alongside your flip. your secret weapon, on most days.

but when you're off, you're completely lost.

and the tears begin to surface before you can even slide into your ending pose.

perhaps, it wasn't as technically poor as your boston worlds skate. but it was triple the embarrassment, and as you skate off to the kiss and cry, you feel like you've failed the federation.

and madison, who'd done so much to help you get out of your own head.

and isabeau, whose spot you were meant to fill seamlessly, due to her injury.

"nothing more than someone to fill the spot of someone better."

the memory flashes involuntarily.

she is better.

she always will be.

ilia still holds that power over you.

hours later, you're bundled up in cream-colored sweats — a set gifted to you by one of the many sponsors — and comfortable shoes, your lanyard hanging around your neck as you pad quietly down the hallway.

your phone pings; you've been tagged in a post.

the clock reads twelve on your screen. you're scared. but you open it.

a discussion thread about your skate. hundreds of comments on your instability and inconsistency, questioning the committee's credibility for even considering sending you here.

does she ever land her jumps?

you swallow.

sure, but her technique is all wrong. her GOEs show for it.

people calling you names. saying you don't deserve to be here. an allusion to someone being paid off to get you here, since you "clearly" haven't displayed enough talent.

ilia's words hit your chest again; every bad thing he'd ever said about you, from your unstable lutz to the inconsistency of your performances.

despite your hostility, you'd always sought ilia's approval.

in some fucked up way, you desperately wanted him to think highly of your ability.

the weight of everything crashes on top of you all in one moment. your phone falls onto the floor beside your foot, and your hands rise to your face, your head spinning as a string of sobs bubbles in your chest, begging to break loose; you only don't let them due to the quiet of the empty hallway at such a late hour.

then, footsteps.

your head turns on a swivel.

of course.

"go the fuck away."

blue eyes soft, staring back at you through thick-rimmed glasses. bangs air-dried and hanging in front of his face. tired, visibly.

"no."

"i don't want to see you."

ilia steps forward, but doesn't touch. his hand lifts in surrender with spread fingers, only carefully hovering in the air between you.

"i know what you're going through," he whispers with a tone he has never quite used with you before. "stay off the phone. let me help."

his arms lift just enough to create the gesture, and the moment the palm of his hand finds your shoulder blade, your body melts into his hold. he pulls your frame closer until you're pressed comfortably against him, the first few sobs finally breaking through your resolve.

it's not just about your performance — it's about everything.

you still crave his acceptance; you still want him to think more of you. you want him to care, because, even after everything he'd put you through, you still fucking care.

ilia leans into the white wall and carefully slides down. "c'mon," he coos gently into your hair, letting you find the spot most comfortable before settling. his fingers wrap around your phone and slip it neatly into his pocket; you've dealt with enough for one night.

in a nutshell, you're cuddling into him.

you never thought you'd cry in ilia malinin's arms.

especially not recently. but god, you need it — and moreover, you need someone to understand.

you need him.

sobs muffled by the soft sweatshirt he'd slipped on before leaving, a few tear stains sinking into the material and leaving marks in their wake. something unintelligible whispered into his chest that he can't decipher.

one hand slips into your hair, careful not to cause you further discomfort, while the other shifts against his chest. you quickly reach over and lace your fingers with his — unfamiliar, and entirely without forethought, given the clouded mess that your mind has become.

right now, in this moment, you're not the girl who hates ilia malinin and walks around with his name stale on her tongue, who avoids him at every event possible.

you're the sixteen-year-old girl who had the biggest crush on the boy she always looked up to. who sought every last droplet of his approval, even if he was barely any older. who wants him to want her so, so bad.

you squeeze his hand tightly and let another string of weak cries emanate into the long hallway, a fraction quieter with his chest there to brace the impact.

"i won't even make the top ten."

ilia swallows from above; his fingers flex between yours. and when he speaks, you almost don't recognize him.

"yes, you will."

you look up, confusion lacing your expression when your face falls into his view. ilia doesn't compliment you. ever.

nor does he do any of this, really.

"i've seen your free," he whispers, eyes not parting from yours. "it's more than enough if it's clean."

the side of your head rests on his chest again, the soft material of his sweatshirt caressing your skin and absorbing old tears. "you watch?" you ask, voice tentative.

"can't insult it without watching it," which earns a quiet chuckle, though your eyes still release leftover tears onto warm cheeks.

you feel the warmth of his breath graze over the crown of your head. his lips find the part in your hair and place a gentle kiss to the opening, only with just enough pressure for you to feel it. "i'm sorry," he whispers.

you know — from the way in which he says it, the weight it carries — he doesn't only mean for friday night.

he means for all of it. for accusing you that night in the hotel, when he knew better. for hurting you and letting it continue without apologizing. but especially for the night after his free; in all the years you'd spent together, he'd never seen you look as ashamed as you had lying on that bed.

those same emotions find your heart again at the thought; your shoulders shake slightly as you cry a little harder. ilia's palm comfortingly rubs the side of your arm, a stable reminder that he doesn't want to hurt you again, not this time.

"…i'm sorry, too."

"don't be."

maybe he does care.

maybe the way your heart throbs in your chest at his sentiment proves it. or maybe, you're grasping at straws.

you hope you're not.

your head lifts again and cranes carefully to the side. you lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his perpetually rosy cheek. the tips of your eyelashes brush against the frame of his glasses — so lightly that you barely feel it.

"thank you," you whisper to him, ocean-blue eyes wielding a newfound softness as they look back at you.

the corner of ilia's mouth twitches upward, just barely curving into a smile; he nods.

and then, he leans in — gauging your body's reaction — until his lips carefully slot with yours. lingering for one, two seconds more before pulling back.

now, he's kissed you for real.

you breathe softly into the air between you, heartbeat drumming in your head, your wrists, your fingertips, your chest.

his lips are slotted with yours again just half an hour later; you'd decided to give him a second chance when he offered up his half-empty dorm. it was meant to be for sleep, for comfort, to have someone beside you to keep you from feeling lonely.

but when he kissed you goodnight, you didn't want him to stop.

his mouth trails a path of featherlight kisses over your stomach as his fingers curl into the hem of your sweatshirt and hold it up at your ribcage.

a whispered i'm sorry over lacy fabric before sliding it down your thighs and off. tongue parting your folds as he gazes at you through half-fogged lenses, insisting to keep them on so he can see you.

your taste gathered on his tongue, sweet and warm and tinged with the thin coat of saliva left behind. he presses a kiss over your clit — your satisfied hum serving as a reward — and lets the pads of his fingers trace the area, only applying pressure to part you further and allow him in.

dipping into your warmth just enough to gather the taste and the feeling, stopping when your face contorts and pulling upward, hovering just centimeters above. "is this okay?" asked softly until your head offers an equally gentle nod, and he dips back in.

another slew of sincere apologies muffled by soft skin, fingers tangled comfortably in his hair just to state their presence. one for each time he'd messed up; each time he wronged you.

your eyes flutter shut, and your mind turns off, letting your body sink into sensation and relish in the feeling of his mouth between your thighs. the skill of someone far more experienced than your past, which you'd barely noticed the first time through the clouded state of your mind and body.

ilia moans quietly into your skin and lingers in his spot for an extra beat, letting you feel and fear his own pleasure, his will to continue.

a few more languid strokes of his tongue, paired with the carefulness of his fingers, and you're coming down from the high. a breathy, tired sigh that signals the release of long-lasting tension in your muscles — some of which, likely caused by him — and your hand slipping out of his hair to rest atop the bedsheet. warm liquid drips onto his tongue once more, the taste ever so familiar after committing it to memory.

and soon after, his fingers are laced with yours as he slides into you, lips pressed against your neck as a shudder racks his spine.

he'd asked if you were cold before curling his fingers into your sweatshirt; he waited for your response to remove the material and let it pool on the floor. lips left kisses on now-warm skin, depositing softer apologies in their wake.

if you're going to trust him with this so soon, he's going to make damn sure that he properly atones for what he's done.

"ilia," your voice a gentle hum in his ear as his hips collide with yours, your mouth slightly parted and eyes lazily shut.

your hand squeezes his, and he takes the cue to pick up his pace — the system you're in complete control of, and he will conform to in light of your pleasure. the scent of your floral lotion melts into the air he breathes, something he'd always attribute to you, since the day he'd accidentally opened your bag and spotted it inside. he leaves a kiss at the curve of your neck and moves upward until he hovers just above your face, a crown of sweat lacing the skin just below your hairline.

you sense his presence and lean up to connect your mouth with his, savoring the taste on your tongue as your hand slips out of his and meets the other around his neck, pulling him down with you. his hands move to your hair and your waist, both offering soft caresses as he kisses you until both of your mouths are sore.

you constrict carefully around him, and ilia places a kiss at the corner of your lip. follows with a gentle encouragement.

"come with me?"

you nod and find his lips again, head filtering every distraction out, save for the careful drag of his cock along your walls. every inch more delicious than the last until the line of tension snaps again in your stomach, and you're gripping him a little tighter, another gush of liquid slowly coating his skin.

ilia spends hours alternating through each form of pleasure — offering pauses between rounds and muttering endless amends into your skin — until you're comfortably laid in his arms, the side of your head resting upon his chest as air slowly returns to your lungs, and the steady lull of your breathing matches his.

his fingers card carefully through your hair, tips brushing along your scalp; your arm lies bare across the edge of the sheets, pulled up to the bottom of his chest, palm flat over his skin.

"this wasn't…because you pitied me, was it?"

your voice frail, still sounding a little heartbroken, perhaps as the clarity set in.

"no," he replies honestly, pulling you closer. "of course, not."

"okay," you nod, nuzzling your head further into his chest. "good."

his lips find the top of your head once more, lingering for a moment before pulling off. and soon, the calm of his breathing and the sound of the air wisping outside draws you to sleep.

your eyes flutter open to something white in your vision. a figure. you blink to clear your vision.

a…ferret?

"good morningggg," in a theatrically high-pitched baby voice.

"why are you doing this," you mumble, closing your eyes again. "i get it," you yawn, "you got a team medal…"

"no," ilia presses, "it's for you."

your eyes open.

"huh?"

"you said you wanted one, so here," he nudges the little tina plushie forward. "have mine."

amber, they're so cute! i wish i had one…no, i don't think buying one is the same.

you'd said it once; he was there, but you hadn't known he was listening. he always was.

"really?"

"mhm."

"really?"

"yes, really."

he almost falls off the bed when you leap into his arms. you wrap your own around his neck, giggling into the side of his head as you grip him tighter.

"it's stupid, but i just—" you sniff, "thank you, ilia."

"no problem."

it's about more than the doll.

you feel valued.

and maybe it's not enough to make up for everything he'd done, but it's a start. ilia knows it will take a lot more to gain your trust back, and he knows what he did was wrong. but further than that, even something as trivial as a plushie is enough to convince you that he is for real, this time.

or the whisper into your ear that you're going to be great tomorrow.

your head finds its place on his warm chest again, the small ferret resting comfortably beneath your palm.

"y'know…i've had a crush on this guy for almost ten years," you breathe, voice nearly a whisper. "do you think he likes me back?"

"yeah," ilia responds gently, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

"he definitely does."

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag

love u all <3

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, feeding, unprotected sex, creampie, bloodsharing, heavy mentions of blood, vampires, mentions of other supernatural beings, depictions of gore, deceased bodies, (brief) decapitation, rippers (feral, predatory, murderous vampires), tvd rules and regulations; if you have not seen it u might need a quick google search for the future, slightly ambiguous ending for future considerations

I.

the leaves rustle under your feet as you take a step across the sidewalk. a beam of light from the moon shines just along the path, through the wooded area surrounding you, a crow flying overhead to break you from your trance.

"it's warm tonight," you whisper into the early-summer air, fingers brushing against ilia's.

he nods.

his black jean jacket weighs heavily on his shoulders — the weather a little too warm for it, but it shields him from the cooler breeze that passes by on occasion.

not that he's ever really cold.

"i think i'm gonna try to compete."

your head turns; the crackle of a streetlight nearby breaks the silence in the air, save for the rustle of an animal or two. "really?" you ask. "i thought you couldn't have your name in records like that. vampire stuff…and all that."

"i can, i'll just…have to be careful with it," he shrugs. "erase it, if need be."

your elbow nudges his arm. "unfair advantage."

"not really."

"compelling a bunch of people to forget you? come on," you scoff; he laughs quietly beside you, and your tone softens. just a little. "and you have literal superhuman strength, ilia. i'm pretty sure that's going to affect the way you skate."

"for your information, i thought i was going to die the first time i put on skates."

"you can't die."

"i'm immortal," he corrects, "i can be killed."

"not from a nasty fall."

"what if i fall face-first onto a piece of wood?"

you close your eyes and sigh. "ilia, where would there be a sharp piece of wood lying around on an ice rink?"

"i don't know. it was a figure of speech, you know. i knew i wasn't actually going to die."

even the smallest phrases like that can send a chill through your body; you've been together for all of a year and five months, give or take, and you often feel like you know everything about him and nothing at all. a feeling you couldn't begin to put into words, something you'd have to experience to understand to its fullest.

and it scares you.

not of him — of what it means. what it comes with. what he's been warning you of since the moment you decided to step into that realm.

"anyway, there's a local competition in november." around two years since you met him. "it's not too big or anything. i think i might have a chance. maybe it could be fun."

"i think you have more than a chance with your — er…"

"lutz."

"yeah, yeah. that."

you blink. "when did you start skating?"

"i was twenty-eight, so," he pauses, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he thinks, "1930?"

your head tilts back, and you blink again. "woah."

"yeah," he laughs quietly, a hint of pity seeping through the cracks. "about eighty years of practice. i've been working with one of the ladies at the rink on choreography for it. i think with a little tweaking —"

he stops.

you keep walking at first, only noticing the halt when his hand begins to slip out of yours, falling limp at his side. you furrow your brows and turn carefully on your heel, now standing just a few feet in front of him.

when your eyes catch his face, your stomach drops.

dark circles. veins. clouded eyes.

"ilia?"

he isn't looking back at you; eyes transfixed on something past you, behind the trees, what you assume is something too far away for someone like you to register.

fear settles in your stomach.

you don't often see him like this.

not so — god, you don't even have the word.

you never know why, because he's always refused to tell you.

ilia had frozen at the scent of blood; fresh, human, still dripping from the tap. when it's human, he knows. when it's thick, heavy, still warm, he knows. he doesn't want to know. and he doesn't have a choice.

"someone's dead."

he says it as if it's normal.

but the tinge of something unpleasant in his tone says otherwise, never mind the deceased — when you're caught up in his web, death follows. it becomes normal. disgustingly and immorally ritual.

but it's that barely-identifiable edge in his voice that sets you off — that, and the look in his eye, the veins protruding from skin paler than usual. the sheer lack of control in his body. the subtle twitch of his index finger just by his thigh.

"what?"

"i said," his eyes finally slide over to you, "someone is dead."

when he blinks, his features return to normal.

"you're just…hearing things. or, seeing. i'm sure it's fine," you try to intervene, stepping closer and carefully taking his hand again. "come on, we're almost back at the car."

"bad idea."

as you walk further down the path, he obliges, albeit reluctantly. he swallows heavily, body fighting off the urge to follow the scent.

a heartbeat pumps in his ears.

not his own.

"oh — oh my god."

you step back when you see it.

a girl. you don't know how old she is — or was — maybe twenty, no older than you. her neck is mutilated, blood still pouring from what had to have been her carotid and forming a dense pool on the grass below her.

her shirt is torn, stained with crimson, but once colored a bright pink.

even with the scene, you're able to see the marks littering her wound. teeth. all too familiar. equally as daunting.

when ilia gave in, he told you he would protect you from all of this. he swore on everything he'd ever loved that he wouldn't let you fall into his fucked-up version of living, too. that he'd either shield you from everything or die trying.

the funny thing is, no amount of time and effort will ever make it possible.

this only proves it.

"ilia, what — i thought we were safe here, we're towns away," you shake your head, turning back to him, expecting him to be stable, calm, comforting as he always would be.

but he's staring.

he can't stop fucking looking at it.

at her.

at her neck.

at the blood.

"we need to go."

"what's wrong with you?" you ask, perhaps a little too loudly. if someone is even half a mile away, they might have heard. "you don't look like yourself. you're not acting…yourself."

"it's too dangerous."

"don't ignore me, ilia," you bite back. "stop hiding things from me."

"i'm not, i just —" he swallows, "shit."

his eyes flutter shut as he fights with his own body, torn between rushing to the scene and staying firm in his place. he knows that if he tastes even a drop, he loses you. he loses everything. again.

"feed if you need it," you try, "i'll look away."

"i can't."

"why? god, make me understand, ilia!"

"because i'm a ripper!"

he finally snaps, veins reappearing on his face, expression morphing into something you've never seen him wear; it scares you so deeply that a tremble runs to your fingertips.

he sees it in your eyes — the fear, the confusion. and it hurts.

"because i can't stop. even if i want to, i can't stop. if i got my hands on her — on anyone with human blood — i won't stop until every ounce is drained from their body," he finally admits as the words turn stale in the humid air between you. he notices the way your foot steps backward. "i'll kill them."

his voice cracks on the last words.

"i—"

"i tried to keep it from you. i tried so hard, because i don't want you to think i'm some kind of monster," he tries, but you can't find it in you to move. "i would never hurt you."

"i know," you whisper.

"i should have told you." he steps closer, and you let him, watching the life slowly return to his eyes. "i'm sorry."

"let's just — get out of here before someone finds her."

he nods, and you grip his wrist firmly. he whisks both of your bodies out in the blink of an eye — you don't think you'll ever get used to the weightless feeling — and plants your feet in the grass beside his car, moist from the earlier rainfall.

you shift your weight, swallowing when his gaze catches yours again. he's embarrassed. you're…conflicted.

"so, if you got ahold of her…you'd just…drain it."

ilia waits for a moment, lets a short beat pass. "yeah."

"i can't blame you for something you can't control," you tell him honestly, fingernails dragging light paths up and down your forearm. "but…i need time to think, ilia."

his chest releases a breath that borders on a sigh; shaky, weak. but he nods in understanding.

"i'm gonna walk home. okay?"

"no," he shakes his head. "it's dangerous," he warns, a spark of worry igniting within his voice. "that girl could have been you."

"ilia."

"whoever killed her is still out here," he scolds. "if something happens to you, i won't forgive myself."

"ilia."

he stops. lets out the rest of his breath and swallows.

"i know," you add quietly, folding your arms loosely in front of your chest. "but i need this. i need to clear my head."

his shoulders fall as he sighs in defeat. "be careful. please."

"i will."

your heels click on the half-damp pavement below as you walk away. ilia watches until the sound dulls — long after you've left eyeshot — and even his extended hearing no longer senses your presence.

he takes a long, heavy breath and leans against the side of his car — a deep blue '67 camaro that followed him with each new restart, every new town he'd set foot in since he bought it. the only constant in his life since his best friend was killed, until you came along.

the question suddenly blooms in his mind.

how did she end up there?

towns away, intentionally. directly on ilia's path. where he wasn't alone.

who killed her?

the smell of her blood still lingers in the air; it distracts him. the sight of her neck. the sound of her heart completely stunted — or, rather, the lack thereof. every bone in his body aches for the taste.

you're long gone, yet he still quells the urge.

he wasn't always like this; he never wanted to be. he never even asked to be.

eighty-three years go, ilia turned twenty-one. he's been that age since — or, his body, at least.

she was blonde, at least ten years older than he was. he'd seen her in passing, riding gracefully in her carriage with two beautiful horses pulling her down the old dirt road. her status was eons above his — wealthy, beautiful, self-righteous. the perfect man on her shoulder.

yet she'd taken a liking to the young, human ilia.

one night taken him out to the woods and bared her secret to him. watched the life freeze in his eyes as he stepped away from the tree in bewilderment.

she was obsessed with his innocence — the filth and forbiddenness of it all. he was vulnerable, too gullible, too enamored with her to see the flashing red lights behind her.

and when she brought her teeth to her wrist, forced a drop, another, a third into his mouth, he complied. he hadn't known the consequence. not yet. not until her hand tenderly gripped the back of his head and brushed the light brown hair down.

pulled sharply until a snap registered in the air.

and he woke up on the ground, suddenly starving, nightfall reaching its peak. there was no sign of her — gold, was her name — only the silence of dusk, and…

blood.

a deceased figure in the distance, yet close enough for his wandering eye to catch. he'd stepped closer, tentatively, until it came into view. ilia fearfully knelt down and pushed the man's coat to the side — covered with deep red stains. he dragged a finger along the cold, stiff expanse of his neck, enough to gather a droplet of blood onto his fingertip.

and like instinct — something he would have never imagined himself doing — he brought it to his mouth.

he hadn't known it then. how could he have, alone and cold in the depths of the woods? but there, in the silence, in the darkness that chilled his spine, he'd become the impossible.

he'd been turned into a vampire.

"good job, ilyusha."

he'd turned to find the blonde rounding the corner, a falsely proud smile displayed on her face that involuntarily settled in his chest. she stepped closer, ran a hand through his hair, whispered a sentiment of praise into his ear.

let him discover what he'd become as she leaned into the tree behind her, lifted the layers of her dress; finally allowed him to have his way with her. laughed into his ear — the sound of superiority, her obsession with power — and held him as if she cared.

she parted with a kiss to the tip of his nose, whispered a sultry goodbye into the thick air, and whisped away in the blink of an eye.

and the woman he'd fallen in love with — perhaps, more infatuation than pure love — with whom he'd spent months sneaking around, was gone.

the bitter memory fades back into obscurity.

ilia kicks off from the door of his car, bends over, and wipes the dirt smear away. he slides into the seat; your scent remains etched in the cream-colored leather. a stinging reminder that this whole ordeal, this whole relationship, was founded on the lie he wanted to protect you from.

he wonders if you got home safely.

I.II

the air is still when you step outside.

two weeks since you told him you needed time. and you took it; thought over everything he'd admitted to you, and sat with it. ultimately, you wanted to hear him out.

you looked for him. he wasn't in the dorm, where he barely spent any time, anyway. he wasn't at his house. hadn't been much of anywhere, really. but you remembered where he spent most of his friday nights. so you took yourself to the only place you thought you'd find him and landed yourself here.

it's dark. so quiet that you can hear the crickets in the grass. about twenty degrees warmer than the rink.

you're about to part your lips when you hear the noise.

it's familiar — something you've only heard from a distance, feared when ilia would shield you from the threat. you know what it is.

feeding.

but something is different. something is entirely off.

you step forward, a few inches toward the sound. the moon shines off the burgundy brick wall beside you. you swallow and take another careful step — land just a few feet shy of the corner, the only edge separating you between this and whatever waits on the other side.

as you slowly round the corner, you freeze.

you know his silhouette.

you know his hair. you know the side of his face.

and worse —

"ilia?"

then, the body.

dropped to the cold ground with disregard.

you gasp. jump back on instinct. eyes dart around — no sign of other pedestrians — and center back to the figure. drenched from head to toe in blood, female, limp. neck torn and littered with deep craters.

you think the shock has settled until you recognize what sounded so different.

her head has completely separated from the remainder of her body.

and the person standing above it?

"oh my god."

slowly, he turns.

eyes dark, completely faltering when they find your face. veins slowly fading back into hot skin.

crimson decorating his lips, running down his chin, dripping down his neck and onto the neckline of his shirt. daylight necklace stained. fingers and palms dyed completely red.

the first thought thrashes in your head.

you're dating a murderer.

"what did you do?" your voice horrified, so frail that the noise barely carries to his body, still about twenty feet away, still frozen. "you killed her."

his arms lower to his sides.

"i didn't — i wasn't trying to."

the skate hadn't gone as planned. he'd been off his axis every time he left the ice. he popped three times. all his mind could focus on was you. and later, those walking outside, their blood, their hearts pumping in their chests.

after he'd rushed out, the stale summer air slapped his face. he turned the corner for the parking lot, and there she was: heading in the opposite direction, minding her own business.

it was almost…convenient.

so he grabbed her. fed. tried so fucking hard to prove that he would stop, that he could stop.

and he didn't.

"you tore her fucking head off, ilia!"

your head shakes, and you swallow, tears springing unwillfully to the corners of your eyes.

you'd come here to apologize.

but now, you've seen what he's capable of. what he does to people. what he could do to you, no matter how many times he could assure you otherwise. everything he's been hiding from you for an entire year, to what — keep you safe, or in the dark?

"i tried. fuck, i tried."

his eyes have glossed over, too.

you open your mouth to speak, but the words die on your tongue before you can even utter them.

ilia steps forward. it's careful, hands only slightly raising in reassurance, pain throbbing in his chest as he fights the sound of your pace quickening.

you flinch.

you're scared of him.

and god, it hurts.

"do you think i'm a monster?"

teardrops slip down your cheeks and catch along your jaw. your lips don't part. your chest rises and falls. he watches your throat bob as you swallow, yet make no effort to speak.

"…you do," the coating around his mouth glistening beneath the moonlight.

"i'm so sorry, ilia."

you shake your head and take another hesitant step backward, breath hitching as if he'd chase. "i can't."

he doesn't stop you when you run.

and curls into himself on the cold cement, head pressing into the brick wall behind him as tears stream down his face, guilt eating at him for taking another innocent person's life.

wondering when the torment ends.

a flash of blonde whisks away in the distance.

II.

when you met him, you hadn't expected any of this.

it was 2011, late november. you were twenty, out with your roommate on a friday night. a half-empty cup of whatever in your hand; probably something you shouldn't have been drinking.

people loved to make a big deal out of friday the 13th; you always thought it was stupid. halloween was over, people — come on.

but even then, in the height of your disapproval, when your roommate slipped off to the bathroom, he was there.

blond. no taller than five-foot-ten. eyes so starkly blue that you could see them from your comfortable hundred-foot distance away.

he wasn't putting a move on. in fact, you weren't even sure that he was looking at you. if anything, he looked…nervous.

no,

hesitant.

as if he was holding something back.

you shrugged it off when your friend came back and mostly forgot about him.

but you kept seeing him — in the hallways, at the campus restaurant where your friend, liv, worked, simply walking around wherever he saw fit.

you finally approached him after two weeks of the "convenient" back and forth. complimented his necklace — which you'd grown to recognize him by, after noticing he regularly wore it — and bought him a coffee, which he reluctantly accepted.

something was different about ilia.

you didn't know what.

you just felt it.

pulsing in your veins, pulling you toward him as if you were tethered to him by some supernatural string.

you knew he felt it, too, when he'd appear just outside your lectures, americano in hand, prepared exactly the way you liked it. or when he'd find you sitting on a bench a few hundred yards away from your dormitory building, working on a research paper, and sit calmly beside you.

but when you'd inch closer, he'd pull away.

any time you wanted in, he'd force you out.

you were pure.

he was everything but.

you didn't deserve that. he couldn't involve someone like you in his fucked-up life, couldn't let himself put you in that position. in the grand scheme, he barely knew you — but even still, he wouldn't let you become just another casualty.

"is something wrong with me?"

you'd asked the question with a tentative voice, turning to look at him as he walked you to your door. one sleeping roommate perched on her bed on the other side, your movements deliberate.

"what?"

"i mean, is — is something wrong with me?" you repeated a little quieter as your thumbs toyed with one another. "every time i try to tell you, it's like — like you don't want to be near me anymore."

"tell me what?"

"that i want you."

he let the words hang dry between you, turning more stale with each dragging second, the low tick of the clock down the hallway serving as the only nearby noise.

you swallowed and dropped your hands to your sides. "okay," you whispered, turning to the door, "you made your point."

"no, it's not that," he tried, but you shook your head and brought the key to the knob.

his head whipped around to scan the hallway — cameras weren't allowed in the buildings; he should have known that by now.

"i'm not human."

you froze.

"what?"

ilia swallowed.

"i said," as he took a careful step closer, dark gray veins spreading across his cheeks beneath bloodshot eyes, "i'm not human."

your lips parted.

from shock or fear, you weren't certain.

"this isn't real," you shook your head, "this is a joke. you're not — i'm not — i'm hallucinating, right? too much homework, not enough sleep."

ilia's face didn't change. it stilled, the inhuman features fully settled as your eyes shot back and forth, unwilling to believe what they were seeing.

when his lips parted just slightly, you caught them — the fangs.

a small gasp.

and a step backward.

"i'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, unmoving.

you watched his hands extend forward in surrender. slowly trailed your gaze upward and back to his face, where the blueness in his eyes glowed from within the deep red fog.

but even now, their gaze hadn't changed — he still looked at you like something precious, something he adored, cherished.

and with an unsteady breath, you stepped forward to kiss him.

the insistent press of your lips startled him at first, and his immediate instinct was to pull back — too afraid of letting you in. but the softness of your lips, the way your hand suddenly slid up to his cheek and traced over the veins, convinced him otherwise.

his hands found your waist, pulling you closer without force. a quiet hum into your mouth that was reserved only for your ears, perhaps the buildup from two months of suppressed desire.

the moment he felt your head tilt back, he removed his hands from your body and swallowed. his face had returned to its normal state — eyes a little jaded and lips slightly smudged with the remnants of your clear lip gloss.

"i trust you," the words fell before you could stop them, "and i still like you. more than i want to admit, so…"

ilia swallowed, shook his head. "i'm not good for you."

"i didn't ask you to be."

"i can't let you get hurt."

"you won't. you said it yourself, right?" you stepped closer and brought your hand to his chest, spreading the warmth from your fingertips through his white t-shirt. "then i trust you."

"it's not just me, it's…everyone. everything that comes with me, follows me."

"so, you're a…" you hesitated, "…vampire…?"

he nodded.

"oookay," you cleared your throat.

ilia's brow twitched; his eyes drifted shut, and he stepped back again. "i can't."

"ilia—"

"—i hurt people. i kill people."

your breath caught in your throat.

"i won't involve you in that."

"what if i want to be involved?" you countered firmly, voice raised, yet still quiet enough not to wake the girls on your floor.

"why?"

"because i'm not ready to let you go."

it was ilia's turn to kiss you this time.

as firm as your words, hands finding their resting place on your waist again. still a little nervous, held back in fear of scaring you off.

and maybe you were a little scared — hands shaking as they found the curve of his jaw and the edge of his shoulder. but something in your heart still told you that you were safe with him, at least in this moment, at least now.

even if he was fighting every bone in his body to ignore the sound of your blood flowing through your body, up your neck.

"okay," he murmured against your lips, the buzz electrifying the air between your bodies, "you win."

III.

you haven't seen him in five months.

not even a passing glance.

somewhere between three and four, you'd assumed he left. started over again in a new town. found another girl.

it was one week ago that you saw it: a lazily hung sheet of paper on the bulletin board in the hallway. an advertisement for the competition. surely, he wouldn't be there.

but the shred of hope left in your heart brought you here.

feet planted on the concrete floor below metal seats. hands folded in your lap, a crowd of people slowly filtering in as the sky transitions into darkness.

ilia steps onto the ice around two hours in.

he takes a few steady laps around the rink — gets a feel for the environment, the steady hum of the audience watching. and then, the muffled hum of bloodflow from the hundreds of sitting bodies, gradually rising in volume. as he steps into his beginning pose, everything falls silent.

all except one little noise.

your heartbeat.

of course, he recognizes it. and now, he knows you're here.

he skates like butter until the final jumping pass; a pop.

your breath stunts.

a few more mistakes — small, barely noticeable, but there. it isn't a perfect skate; his heart races in his chest; his palms are unsteady at his sides.

his body only withstands the ending position for half a second before he's gone. no bow, no kiss and cry, no score. just the quick bolt off the ice and past the doors, not even bothering to slip on his guards. the crowd gasps; a few patrons around you whisper to one another as they watch with confusion.

you follow without thinking.

the door nearly snaps off its hinges when he pushes past the threshold; it doesn't close behind him, not as quickly as it should. only once he has crossed the street does it slam shut, footsteps clicking loudly behind him that take no effort to recognize.

"ilia."

"go back inside."

"no."

you walk faster, and he picks up his own pace. maintains the careful distance between you, not even bothering to turn his head and face you directly.

even now — months since you've last seen him — you recognize the shift in his body. the paleness plaguing his skin, even if his face is still hidden. the way he hesitates with each movement, as if one misstep will cause another unnecessary death.

"you're hungry again."

it's then that he turns.

he looks unhealthy. not just hungry — starved.

deprived.

"go back inside," he repeats, voice heavier, chest releasing a huff of air to keep him leveled. "i'm not asking."

and rather than listening to whatever counterargument you could conjure up, he walks again in the opposite direction, forcing his back into your view once again.

you follow him to the car.

your heartbeat hammers in his head; he tries so hard to ignore it. the stress, the pressure, the skate, the handfuls of bodies sitting idly in the arena just a few hundred feet away, and the severe lack of blood consumption from the past few months. it all meshes together inside of him. makes this whole ordeal so fucking difficult.

"feed on me."

his body turns on a swivel. "are you crazy?"

"are you?" you rebut, raising your voice to match his. "you can't just leave like this, ilia! i can tell you've been starving yourself, and it's dangerous. another person will end up dead."

"so you want it to be you?"

"you said you wouldn't hurt me," your fingers slip beneath your sleeve and tug it forcefully up your forearm until it bunches at the bend in your elbow, "so feed on me."

you hold your wrist up in front of you. for a split second, his eyes shift. something behind them as they flit down to the warm skin, veins in your arm protruding with the constriction of your muscles.

his own spread like dead roots beneath his eyes, and his fist tightens at his side.

he takes one small, quiet step forward.

wraps his fingers around your forearm.

clouded eyes find yours. slightly glossed over, perhaps only an effect of the moonlight. or maybe, guilt.

an intensity behind them that only exists when he's trying to — oh, fuck.

"turn around, go home, and forget i ever —"

your arm thrashes out of his grip. "don't do that," you grit. "don't try to compel me to listen. it won't work."

that damn vervain bracelet he gave you.

you raise your wrist again and shove it closer to his face. "you need this, so take it."

"no," he rasps firmly, shaking his head.

a tear wells at the corner of your eye and slowly cascades down your cheek. and even in the face of the bloodthirsty, intensely unfamiliar version of your [ex] boyfriend, you don't relent. "you're weak, ilia. feed."

he tries to pull back, but you won't let him.

through the agony, he can see your hand shaking. you're scared — of course, you're scared.

of him.

a part of you, somewhere, buried beneath the trust that's still settled around your heart, fears him. the sight burns deep within his chest.

but you'd rather it be you than another innocent person.

"go home," ilia warns, voice raised again in a manner that doesn't quite match the person you know — or, knew. something caught between desire and hesitance. between giving in and staying under crafted control; keeping your innocence, your safety.

"you don't want to be a part of this."

"and i don't want you dead, either," your voice cracks at the very end, and your wrist inches closer to his face.

the torment behind his expression is undeniable.

"i don't care that this makes me insane. i don't care if this kills me," you shout, tears slipping looser, more frequent. "fuck, i still care about you, ilia! why do you think i even came tonight?"

when he doesn't respond, you shove your arm further into his closed lips, forcing it into range. "feed," your voice a little louder, a sharp edge to your tone, "i'd rather die myself than let you wither away until —"

sharpness piercing through warm skin.

a shot of excruciating pain up your arm until it dissipates in your shoulder. a whimper pried from the back of your throat like a consequence.

you hadn't known what to expect. the pain, sure; that's a given. perhaps, it's the discomforting pull of your blood towards the identical wounds that you hadn't accounted for. the way ilia's lips create an airtight seal around your skin, suck until you can feel the liquid seep out.

somehow, his hand finds the edge of your wrist, where it bends to meet your hand, and wraps so tightly around it that you can barely feel your fingers.

and it hurts — god, it fucking hurts — but one curt glimpse of his face is enough to counteract the pain.

he makes no effort to stay clean; crimson already smeared across the expanse of your inner forearm, loose droplets falling onto the white cotton shirt adorning his chest. and the more he tastes, the weaker he gets.

he's fucking insatiable.

leaning against his car, ignoring the smudge across the handle that will take hours to clean off. it's messy — so fucking messy — and you're bracing your weight onto your palm, fingerprints decorating the old backseat window. on a normal day, he'd be furious; tonight, the car could be totaled, and he wouldn't bat an eye, so long as the taste of your blood still lingers on his tongue.

"ilia," a heavy whisper, your hand shaking within his grasp.

you're still frightened.

and worse, some part of you almost likes it.

he grips you tighter; a hand flies to your waist to keep your body stable. teeth sink deeper into sensitive skin.

lightheadedness bleeds into your senses, and the trees up ahead begin to tilt. yet still — despite the obviously-threatening state of your body — you don't try to pull away.

you told ilia to feed; this is what you asked for.

a loud slurp that makes you gasp, and ilia pushes you off, hard.

he drops your arm and watches it fall limp at your side, two small holes punctured in the skin as fresh blood forms around the wounds and drips onto the cold, damp concrete. you stumble, nearly falling back from the sudden force.

he lets only a few moments of recollection pass before taking your wrist into his grasp again. pulls you into a firm, hungry kiss that makes you gasp into his mouth before settling in.

you taste yourself on your tongue — warm, metallic, almost revolting in a way that, oddly, makes your stomach flutter. his hand finds the back of your neck and smears a rough trail of blood across the hem of your shirt and along the crook of your neck.

ilia moans softly into your mouth; a heavy, breathy noise that prevails amid the quiet of nightfall, save for the gentle hum of the crowd still inside, wisping through the air.

he kisses you the way he feeds — hungry, desperate, starved for every last drop you'll give him.

and after the last five months, you think you'd give him anything if he asked. surely, if offering up your body under the notion that it would kill you is any proof.

"i love you," ilia murmurs, the confession a buzz against your lips that has your body arching into his, begging for the friction.

your lips curve into a grin, smudged with the filthy mix of lipstick and dried blood, "good."

you almost forget about the searing pain still in your wrist. the blood still oozing down your arm and destroying his shirt, dirtying his daylight necklace; the sexiest stain in the world, in ilia's mind.

he finally breaks off the moment your lips begin to pull away. heavy releases of breath into the crisp fall air, his fingers digging into your body with pressure far beyond human. his vision unblurring to find the state of your face — pupils blown out, makeup smudged, eyebrows knit together in weakness.

"…fuck," he whines.

brings the pad of his thumb to the corner of your lip and wipes away the amassed liquid.

licks it off the tip and hums contentedly.

"i don't think you're a monster."

the words land heavier than you might have intended; ilia breathes.

his breath fogs and rises between you.

"you don't know what i've done."

"maybe i don't care," you whisper softly, fingers trailing up the side of his arm.

"you should."

you swallow, inching closer as his thumb rests just below your jawline. applies the smallest bit of pressure to feel your pulse beneath the pad — reminding himself that it's still there.

"you didn't kill me," is your response, voice a low hum that only falls on his ears. "that's enough for me to keep loving you."

the corner of his mouth pulls into a smile at your own admission.

he leans down to kiss you again, his fingers drawing your head closer until you have to steady your balance again. your head still feels light, and your wrist still throbs where the two wounds remain open, laced with the remains of something far beyond human; perhaps, you simply don't care.

"so you are crazy, then," he mumbles, amusedly against your lips, half-limp body still pulled closely against his.

"enough to date a ripper? yes," you respond quietly, only really half joking. maybe less. "enough to enjoy it?…maybe."

he kisses you harder.

⎯⎯ ⚜.⋆♱🩸♱ ⋆. ⚜ ⎯⎯

two months later, and you can't keep your hands off each other.

it's disgusting, really; extremely uncouth. the sheer display of want with every look — public or private — the way it almost always escalates into something neither can speak of. you weren't even like this before.

it's happened everywhere — bedrooms, counters, bathrooms, against alley walls, one time in a closet (that you'll never forget). you'll claim it's to make up for lost time, yet before all of this, you'd barely touched each other.

and worst of all, it's the goddamn messes you leave.

sheets mangled and covered in blood stains (he's getting much better at feeding), scratch marks left on soft surfaces, clothes ruined with stains that no amount of cleaner can remove. three times already ilia has had to visit the store, find a set of replacement sheets, and purchase them, with the same cashier every time.

"buddy, what do you need all of this bedding for?"

"i run a hotel."

but god, you've become addicted to the feeding; his face buried in your neck, the shot of pain that stings with the first pierce, the moans he produces while your blood flows straight from your body.

it's all so much.

you once would have refused to even entertain the idea of him doing this to anyone, let alone yourself.

you love it.

ilia kisses a path from the corner of your mouth to the edge of your jaw, teeth taking your skin between them to leave a mark. you moan weakly, hands finding his shoulder blades and splaying flat across them, feeling the muscles tense as he moves.

his cock drags along your walls, bare, heavy, persistent when a sob blisters in your throat. somehow — still — it feels as if you're begging for more.

his lips trail down your neck and kiss the familiar spot; the curve, just along your carotid, where his ears find the steady pulse beneath.

hips moving rhythmically against yours, your knee curled to wrap around his waist.

"i'm hungry," he mumbles into your neck, his voice some shred of wrecked and insistent all at once.

your neck cranes further to the side. "eat," you whisper back.

and he does.

teeth push out and sink into your skin; an elongated moan falls from your lips, rather than the usual whimper. you're becoming used to this. in fact, you're starting to want it.

heavy slurps fall on your ears. your nails dig into his shoulder blade — bracing yourself from the pain that doesn't quite dissipate with time, but somehow evolves into arousal.

his tip brushes your cervix; a sob into the air, and he's drawing you closer by the waist. your hand slips into his hair, almost applies pressure, but can't quite find the strength to.

ilia breaks off and watches a trail of crimson trickle down the side of your neck, fall onto the sheets he'd just replaced for you a few nights ago. he thinks he might contact that bennett witch to find some way to keep a new set clean.

he watches the way your eyes flit to his, brows knit together as if to ask for more, despite arriving at death's door if he takes too much. yet his mouth finds your neck again, draws a path of hot, wet kisses into the skin. smears the evidence across your throat. hips driving into yours, the line of tension pulled taut in your stomach, threatening to break at any given moment.

when he feels a shred of strength return to your muscles, a little color return to your skin, his teeth sink in again; another sound derived from pleasure, his own mouth depositing a groan against your neck.

god, he's obsessed with you.

the way you let him do this — help teach him to control it, even ask him for it most days — the softness of your moans, the ease with which he fits, as if your pussy was made for him.

the sweet, delicious taste of your blood that he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of.

"ilia," the syllables barely able to roll off your tongue.

you're never really able to speak. or regain the ability to, once it's lost, given the consistent lack of blood in your system when you're only fooling around.

let alone fucking.

"mm," he hums, knowing you won't respond. takes another thick mouthful of blood onto his tongue, letting it marinate on his taste buds. feels it slide smoothly down his throat when he swallows. warm, sweet, perfect.

no matter how many times he trains himself, his hunger will always be insatiable.

especially for you.

his fangs pull back into hiding when he breaks off again; features revert to their human state, hot breath fanning the slick, coated skin on your neck.

he presses the first kiss to the dip in your shoulder. your chest releases a breathless sigh — he grins, moving up. finding the crook, the sweet spot sporting two lasting wounds, with small droplets forming around the openings.

then, it's his tongue licking a stripe over stained skin, dried remnant that barely lifts under the wetness. the muscle curling at the tip when he reaches your jaw. his breath finds the wet skin again, and your body shivers, involuntarily writhes into him as your dirtied fingers dye his blond roots red.

lightheaded, limbs just strong enough to keep you grounded, throat sore and covered in marks, saliva, blood, sweat — cock pressing into the exact spot that tips you over.

his mouth finds yours when you come, hot, breathy, tongue grazing his teeth as if to somehow map out more of him without wasting your breath on another word. blood smears across your lips and chin like old lipstick; you taste yourself in his mouth, flavor still foul, yet somehow delicious.

you clench around him — pull him in as your nails scratch disappearing marks into his back, pressing, digging until he's there with you. voice a heavy rasp against the corner of your mouth, the noise something you'll never be quite used to.

your neck throbs with pain; a groan that blurs into his name wisps from your throat, into his ears, pale blue eyes almost too enamored by you to care.

ilia loves to admire the mess he makes of you.

every single time.

before you knew what he'd done, before the rink, before the feeding — any of the fucked up turnout of this relationship — he wouldn't have ever thought this possible. you'd slept with him once, twice? and he was softer; you were cleaner, innocent, well-kept and mannered. but now?

god, he ruined you.

your inner thighs pulse as he carefully pulls up and out — covered in mixed release, never mind new stains once again seeping into the fresh sheets. a breeze streams in from the cracked window, mid-winter, the room at least ten degrees cooler than it should be (not that it would bother ilia). and although your body is drenched in various liquids that should make you shiver, one of them is sweat; skin hot, rosy, sensitive all over.

his weight lowers onto the bed just beside you, and for a moment, your eyes fall shut as the aches slowly dissipate into the air. though the slow trickle of blood down the side of your neck doesn't fall unnoticed. it stops only when the edge catches on the bedsheet below and bleeds into the expensive fabric. because — of course — even given the number of replacements, he makes sure you live in luxury.

your body slowly turns on its side in favor of facing him, who lies comfortably on his back; the tarnished necklace reflects the dim moonlight onto the wall opposite the bed.

your hand slides across his chest and lands softly against his collarbone, wrist facing upward. despite its proximity, ilia's eyes don't leave your face — albeit wrecked — laser-focused on the gaze you return.

"still hungry?" you whisper, lifting only to brush a few messed-up strands of hair out of his face.

the corner of his mouth quirks up.

you hold the edge of your wrist just in front of his lips, "eat, baby."

fingers carefully wrapping around your wrist as sharp teeth puncture skin; just a quiet breath inhaled through your nose, since you've become so accustomed to the feeling. and in some sort of screwed-up way, it makes you feel more connected to him than ever.

doesn't seem to hurt so much anymore; not like this.

your free hand shifts from its place and finds its way into his hair, fingers gently running through it as if any of this is normal. as if something so inhuman could ever be this intimate.

his eyes still lock onto yours, something unplaced behind them.

you smile.

when he notices the shift in your features — the weakness starting to settle in your eyelids — his mouth disconnects, parting from the skin with a soft kiss.

"lean over."

you do as he says, inching forward as he brings his own wrist to his mouth; the crunch sounds between you, sharper than normal, perhaps within the silence of your bedroom.

you part your lips to invite him in and take what he offers — the taste always unfamiliar on your tongue, different from that of a human, though you have only your own to compare it to. warm as it spreads through your bloodstream and closes the wounds embedded in your skin, marks that decorate your throat blending back in with your complexion. the taste equally unpleasant, though you find yourself willing never to stop, so long as the source is him.

the pad of his thumb wipes the remainder away that remains on the surface of your bottom lip; your head finds its resting place on the edge of his shoulder, where his jaw brushes against your hair.

your fingers slip between his hand and the place it rests on his stomach, and you run the pad of your thumb along the soft surface of the back. a thick swallow as your eyes study the everlasting youth embedded within his skin.

"you've really been here for a hundred years," your voice a careful whisper when you say it, as if speaking it aloud acts as some kind of curse.

"yeah."

a wisp of cool air blows into the room and kisses bare skin. "…then why me?"

ilia's breathing pauses for just a moment. a quiet beat passes through as he thinks.

his necklace charm suddenly feels as if it's burning through his chest, and your heartbeat pulses in his ears like a threat. the clock ticks in the corner of the room. his eyes flit toward the calendar, which reads as just another year, another life he'll live. then to the bracelet on your wrist, made to protect you from people like him.

from him, even.

his hand shifts to lace his fingers with yours.

"you're different."

you smile,

but you have no idea just how different you really are.

or who has been watching.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag

love u all <3

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, feeding, unprotected sex, creampie, bloodsharing, heavy mentions of blood, vampires, mentions of other supernatural beings, depictions of gore, deceased bodies, (brief) decapitation, rippers (feral, predatory, murderous vampires), tvd rules and regulations; if you have not seen it u might need a quick google search for the future, slightly ambiguous ending for future considerations

I.

the leaves rustle under your feet as you take a step across the sidewalk. a beam of light from the moon shines just along the path, through the wooded area surrounding you, a crow flying overhead to break you from your trance.

"it's warm tonight," you whisper into the early-summer air, fingers brushing against ilia's.

he nods.

his black jean jacket weighs heavily on his shoulders — the weather a little too warm for it, but it shields him from the cooler breeze that passes by on occasion.

not that he's ever really cold.

"i think i'm gonna try to compete."

your head turns; the crackle of a streetlight nearby breaks the silence in the air, save for the rustle of an animal or two. "really?" you ask. "i thought you couldn't have your name in records like that. vampire stuff…and all that."

"i can, i'll just…have to be careful with it," he shrugs. "erase it, if need be."

your elbow nudges his arm. "unfair advantage."

"not really."

"compelling a bunch of people to forget you? come on," you scoff; he laughs quietly beside you, and your tone softens. just a little. "and you have literal superhuman strength, ilia. i'm pretty sure that's going to affect the way you skate."

"for your information, i thought i was going to die the first time i put on skates."

"you can't die."

"i'm immortal," he corrects, "i can be killed."

"not from a nasty fall."

"what if i fall face-first onto a piece of wood?"

you close your eyes and sigh. "ilia, where would there be a sharp piece of wood lying around on an ice rink?"

"i don't know. it was a figure of speech, you know. i knew i wasn't actually going to die."

even the smallest phrases like that can send a chill through your body; you've been together for all of a year and five months, give or take, and you often feel like you know everything about him and nothing at all. a feeling you couldn't begin to put into words, something you'd have to experience to understand to its fullest.

and it scares you.

not of him — of what it means. what it comes with. what he's been warning you of since the moment you decided to step into that realm.

"anyway, there's a local competition in november." around two years since you met him. "it's not too big or anything. i think i might have a chance. maybe it could be fun."

"i think you have more than a chance with your — er…"

"lutz."

"yeah, yeah. that."

you blink. "when did you start skating?"

"i was twenty-eight, so," he pauses, teeth gnawing on his bottom lip as he thinks, "1930?"

your head tilts back, and you blink again. "woah."

"yeah," he laughs quietly, a hint of pity seeping through the cracks. "about eighty years of practice. i've been working with one of the ladies at the rink on choreography for it. i think with a little tweaking —"

he stops.

you keep walking at first, only noticing the halt when his hand begins to slip out of yours, falling limp at his side. you furrow your brows and turn carefully on your heel, now standing just a few feet in front of him.

when your eyes catch his face, your stomach drops.

dark circles. veins. clouded eyes.

"ilia?"

he isn't looking back at you; eyes transfixed on something past you, behind the trees, what you assume is something too far away for someone like you to register.

fear settles in your stomach.

you don't often see him like this.

not so — god, you don't even have the word.

you never know why, because he's always refused to tell you.

ilia had frozen at the scent of blood; fresh, human, still dripping from the tap. when it's human, he knows. when it's thick, heavy, still warm, he knows. he doesn't want to know. and he doesn't have a choice.

"someone's dead."

he says it as if it's normal.

but the tinge of something unpleasant in his tone says otherwise, never mind the deceased — when you're caught up in his web, death follows. it becomes normal. disgustingly and immorally ritual.

but it's that barely-identifiable edge in his voice that sets you off — that, and the look in his eye, the veins protruding from skin paler than usual. the sheer lack of control in his body. the subtle twitch of his index finger just by his thigh.

"what?"

"i said," his eyes finally slide over to you, "someone is dead."

when he blinks, his features return to normal.

"you're just…hearing things. or, seeing. i'm sure it's fine," you try to intervene, stepping closer and carefully taking his hand again. "come on, we're almost back at the car."

"bad idea."

as you walk further down the path, he obliges, albeit reluctantly. he swallows heavily, body fighting off the urge to follow the scent.

a heartbeat pumps in his ears.

not his own.

"oh — oh my god."

you step back when you see it.

a girl. you don't know how old she is — or was — maybe twenty, no older than you. her neck is mutilated, blood still pouring from what had to have been her carotid and forming a dense pool on the grass below her.

her shirt is torn, stained with crimson, but once colored a bright pink.

even with the scene, you're able to see the marks littering her wound. teeth. all too familiar. equally as daunting.

when ilia gave in, he told you he would protect you from all of this. he swore on everything he'd ever loved that he wouldn't let you fall into his fucked-up version of living, too. that he'd either shield you from everything or die trying.

the funny thing is, no amount of time and effort will ever make it possible.

this only proves it.

"ilia, what — i thought we were safe here, we're towns away," you shake your head, turning back to him, expecting him to be stable, calm, comforting as he always would be.

but he's staring.

he can't stop fucking looking at it.

at her.

at her neck.

at the blood.

"we need to go."

"what's wrong with you?" you ask, perhaps a little too loudly. if someone is even half a mile away, they might have heard. "you don't look like yourself. you're not acting…yourself."

"it's too dangerous."

"don't ignore me, ilia," you bite back. "stop hiding things from me."

"i'm not, i just —" he swallows, "shit."

his eyes flutter shut as he fights with his own body, torn between rushing to the scene and staying firm in his place. he knows that if he tastes even a drop, he loses you. he loses everything. again.

"feed if you need it," you try, "i'll look away."

"i can't."

"why? god, make me understand, ilia!"

"because i'm a ripper!"

he finally snaps, veins reappearing on his face, expression morphing into something you've never seen him wear; it scares you so deeply that a tremble runs to your fingertips.

he sees it in your eyes — the fear, the confusion. and it hurts.

"because i can't stop. even if i want to, i can't stop. if i got my hands on her — on anyone with human blood — i won't stop until every ounce is drained from their body," he finally admits as the words turn stale in the humid air between you. he notices the way your foot steps backward. "i'll kill them."

his voice cracks on the last words.

"i—"

"i tried to keep it from you. i tried so hard, because i don't want you to think i'm some kind of monster," he tries, but you can't find it in you to move. "i would never hurt you."

"i know," you whisper.

"i should have told you." he steps closer, and you let him, watching the life slowly return to his eyes. "i'm sorry."

"let's just — get out of here before someone finds her."

he nods, and you grip his wrist firmly. he whisks both of your bodies out in the blink of an eye — you don't think you'll ever get used to the weightless feeling — and plants your feet in the grass beside his car, moist from the earlier rainfall.

you shift your weight, swallowing when his gaze catches yours again. he's embarrassed. you're…conflicted.

"so, if you got ahold of her…you'd just…drain it."

ilia waits for a moment, lets a short beat pass. "yeah."

"i can't blame you for something you can't control," you tell him honestly, fingernails dragging light paths up and down your forearm. "but…i need time to think, ilia."

his chest releases a breath that borders on a sigh; shaky, weak. but he nods in understanding.

"i'm gonna walk home. okay?"

"no," he shakes his head. "it's dangerous," he warns, a spark of worry igniting within his voice. "that girl could have been you."

"ilia."

"whoever killed her is still out here," he scolds. "if something happens to you, i won't forgive myself."

"ilia."

he stops. lets out the rest of his breath and swallows.

"i know," you add quietly, folding your arms loosely in front of your chest. "but i need this. i need to clear my head."

his shoulders fall as he sighs in defeat. "be careful. please."

"i will."

your heels click on the half-damp pavement below as you walk away. ilia watches until the sound dulls — long after you've left eyeshot — and even his extended hearing no longer senses your presence.

he takes a long, heavy breath and leans against the side of his car — a deep blue '67 camaro that followed him with each new restart, every new town he'd set foot in since he bought it. the only constant in his life since his best friend was killed, until you came along.

the question suddenly blooms in his mind.

how did she end up there?

towns away, intentionally. directly on ilia's path. where he wasn't alone.

who killed her?

the smell of her blood still lingers in the air; it distracts him. the sight of her neck. the sound of her heart completely stunted — or, rather, the lack thereof. every bone in his body aches for the taste.

you're long gone, yet he still quells the urge.

he wasn't always like this; he never wanted to be. he never even asked to be.

eighty-three years go, ilia turned twenty-one. he's been that age since — or, his body, at least.

she was blonde, at least ten years older than he was. he'd seen her in passing, riding gracefully in her carriage with two beautiful horses pulling her down the old dirt road. her status was eons above his — wealthy, beautiful, self-righteous. the perfect man on her shoulder.

yet she'd taken a liking to the young, human ilia.

one night taken him out to the woods and bared her secret to him. watched the life freeze in his eyes as he stepped away from the tree in bewilderment.

she was obsessed with his innocence — the filth and forbiddenness of it all. he was vulnerable, too gullible, too enamored with her to see the flashing red lights behind her.

and when she brought her teeth to her wrist, forced a drop, another, a third into his mouth, he complied. he hadn't known the consequence. not yet. not until her hand tenderly gripped the back of his head and brushed the light brown hair down.

pulled sharply until a snap registered in the air.

and he woke up on the ground, suddenly starving, nightfall reaching its peak. there was no sign of her — gold, was her name — only the silence of dusk, and…

blood.

a deceased figure in the distance, yet close enough for his wandering eye to catch. he'd stepped closer, tentatively, until it came into view. ilia fearfully knelt down and pushed the man's coat to the side — covered with deep red stains. he dragged a finger along the cold, stiff expanse of his neck, enough to gather a droplet of blood onto his fingertip.

and like instinct — something he would have never imagined himself doing — he brought it to his mouth.

he hadn't known it then. how could he have, alone and cold in the depths of the woods? but there, in the silence, in the darkness that chilled his spine, he'd become the impossible.

he'd been turned into a vampire.

"good job, ilyusha."

he'd turned to find the blonde rounding the corner, a falsely proud smile displayed on her face that involuntarily settled in his chest. she stepped closer, ran a hand through his hair, whispered a sentiment of praise into his ear.

let him discover what he'd become as she leaned into the tree behind her, lifted the layers of her dress; finally allowed him to have his way with her. laughed into his ear — the sound of superiority, her obsession with power — and held him as if she cared.

she parted with a kiss to the tip of his nose, whispered a sultry goodbye into the thick air, and whisped away in the blink of an eye.

and the woman he'd fallen in love with — perhaps, more infatuation than pure love — with whom he'd spent months sneaking around, was gone.

the bitter memory fades back into obscurity.

ilia kicks off from the door of his car, bends over, and wipes the dirt smear away. he slides into the seat; your scent remains etched in the cream-colored leather. a stinging reminder that this whole ordeal, this whole relationship, was founded on the lie he wanted to protect you from.

he wonders if you got home safely.

I.II

the air is still when you step outside.

two weeks since you told him you needed time. and you took it; thought over everything he'd admitted to you, and sat with it. ultimately, you wanted to hear him out.

you looked for him. he wasn't in the dorm, where he barely spent any time, anyway. he wasn't at his house. hadn't been much of anywhere, really. but you remembered where he spent most of his friday nights. so you took yourself to the only place you thought you'd find him and landed yourself here.

it's dark. so quiet that you can hear the crickets in the grass. about twenty degrees warmer than the rink.

you're about to part your lips when you hear the noise.

it's familiar — something you've only heard from a distance, feared when ilia would shield you from the threat. you know what it is.

feeding.

but something is different. something is entirely off.

you step forward, a few inches toward the sound. the moon shines off the burgundy brick wall beside you. you swallow and take another careful step — land just a few feet shy of the corner, the only edge separating you between this and whatever waits on the other side.

as you slowly round the corner, you freeze.

you know his silhouette.

you know his hair. you know the side of his face.

and worse —

"ilia?"

then, the body.

dropped to the cold ground with disregard.

you gasp. jump back on instinct. eyes dart around — no sign of other pedestrians — and center back to the figure. drenched from head to toe in blood, female, limp. neck torn and littered with deep craters.

you think the shock has settled until you recognize what sounded so different.

her head has completely separated from the remainder of her body.

and the person standing above it?

"oh my god."

slowly, he turns.

eyes dark, completely faltering when they find your face. veins slowly fading back into hot skin.

crimson decorating his lips, running down his chin, dripping down his neck and onto the neckline of his shirt. daylight necklace stained. fingers and palms dyed completely red.

the first thought thrashes in your head.

you're dating a murderer.

"what did you do?" your voice horrified, so frail that the noise barely carries to his body, still about twenty feet away, still frozen. "you killed her."

his arms lower to his sides.

"i didn't — i wasn't trying to."

the skate hadn't gone as planned. he'd been off his axis every time he left the ice. he popped three times. all his mind could focus on was you. and later, those walking outside, their blood, their hearts pumping in their chests.

after he'd rushed out, the stale summer air slapped his face. he turned the corner for the parking lot, and there she was: heading in the opposite direction, minding her own business.

it was almost…convenient.

so he grabbed her. fed. tried so fucking hard to prove that he would stop, that he could stop.

and he didn't.

"you tore her fucking head off, ilia!"

your head shakes, and you swallow, tears springing unwillfully to the corners of your eyes.

you'd come here to apologize.

but now, you've seen what he's capable of. what he does to people. what he could do to you, no matter how many times he could assure you otherwise. everything he's been hiding from you for an entire year, to what — keep you safe, or in the dark?

"i tried. fuck, i tried."

his eyes have glossed over, too.

you open your mouth to speak, but the words die on your tongue before you can even utter them.

ilia steps forward. it's careful, hands only slightly raising in reassurance, pain throbbing in his chest as he fights the sound of your pace quickening.

you flinch.

you're scared of him.

and god, it hurts.

"do you think i'm a monster?"

teardrops slip down your cheeks and catch along your jaw. your lips don't part. your chest rises and falls. he watches your throat bob as you swallow, yet make no effort to speak.

"…you do," the coating around his mouth glistening beneath the moonlight.

"i'm so sorry, ilia."

you shake your head and take another hesitant step backward, breath hitching as if he'd chase. "i can't."

he doesn't stop you when you run.

and curls into himself on the cold cement, head pressing into the brick wall behind him as tears stream down his face, guilt eating at him for taking another innocent person's life.

wondering when the torment ends.

a flash of blonde whisks away in the distance.

II.

when you met him, you hadn't expected any of this.

it was 2011, late november. you were twenty, out with your roommate on a friday night. a half-empty cup of whatever in your hand; probably something you shouldn't have been drinking.

people loved to make a big deal out of friday the 13th; you always thought it was stupid. halloween was over, people — come on.

but even then, in the height of your disapproval, when your roommate slipped off to the bathroom, he was there.

blond. no taller than five-foot-ten. eyes so starkly blue that you could see them from your comfortable hundred-foot distance away.

he wasn't putting a move on. in fact, you weren't even sure that he was looking at you. if anything, he looked…nervous.

no,

hesitant.

as if he was holding something back.

you shrugged it off when your friend came back and mostly forgot about him.

but you kept seeing him — in the hallways, at the campus restaurant where your friend, liv, worked, simply walking around wherever he saw fit.

you finally approached him after two weeks of the "convenient" back and forth. complimented his necklace — which you'd grown to recognize him by, after noticing he regularly wore it — and bought him a coffee, which he reluctantly accepted.

something was different about ilia.

you didn't know what.

you just felt it.

pulsing in your veins, pulling you toward him as if you were tethered to him by some supernatural string.

you knew he felt it, too, when he'd appear just outside your lectures, americano in hand, prepared exactly the way you liked it. or when he'd find you sitting on a bench a few hundred yards away from your dormitory building, working on a research paper, and sit calmly beside you.

but when you'd inch closer, he'd pull away.

any time you wanted in, he'd force you out.

you were pure.

he was everything but.

you didn't deserve that. he couldn't involve someone like you in his fucked-up life, couldn't let himself put you in that position. in the grand scheme, he barely knew you — but even still, he wouldn't let you become just another casualty.

"is something wrong with me?"

you'd asked the question with a tentative voice, turning to look at him as he walked you to your door. one sleeping roommate perched on her bed on the other side, your movements deliberate.

"what?"

"i mean, is — is something wrong with me?" you repeated a little quieter as your thumbs toyed with one another. "every time i try to tell you, it's like — like you don't want to be near me anymore."

"tell me what?"

"that i want you."

he let the words hang dry between you, turning more stale with each dragging second, the low tick of the clock down the hallway serving as the only nearby noise.

you swallowed and dropped your hands to your sides. "okay," you whispered, turning to the door, "you made your point."

"no, it's not that," he tried, but you shook your head and brought the key to the knob.

his head whipped around to scan the hallway — cameras weren't allowed in the buildings; he should have known that by now.

"i'm not human."

you froze.

"what?"

ilia swallowed.

"i said," as he took a careful step closer, dark gray veins spreading across his cheeks beneath bloodshot eyes, "i'm not human."

your lips parted.

from shock or fear, you weren't certain.

"this isn't real," you shook your head, "this is a joke. you're not — i'm not — i'm hallucinating, right? too much homework, not enough sleep."

ilia's face didn't change. it stilled, the inhuman features fully settled as your eyes shot back and forth, unwilling to believe what they were seeing.

when his lips parted just slightly, you caught them — the fangs.

a small gasp.

and a step backward.

"i'm not gonna hurt you," he whispered, unmoving.

you watched his hands extend forward in surrender. slowly trailed your gaze upward and back to his face, where the blueness in his eyes glowed from within the deep red fog.

but even now, their gaze hadn't changed — he still looked at you like something precious, something he adored, cherished.

and with an unsteady breath, you stepped forward to kiss him.

the insistent press of your lips startled him at first, and his immediate instinct was to pull back — too afraid of letting you in. but the softness of your lips, the way your hand suddenly slid up to his cheek and traced over the veins, convinced him otherwise.

his hands found your waist, pulling you closer without force. a quiet hum into your mouth that was reserved only for your ears, perhaps the buildup from two months of suppressed desire.

the moment he felt your head tilt back, he removed his hands from your body and swallowed. his face had returned to its normal state — eyes a little jaded and lips slightly smudged with the remnants of your clear lip gloss.

"i trust you," the words fell before you could stop them, "and i still like you. more than i want to admit, so…"

ilia swallowed, shook his head. "i'm not good for you."

"i didn't ask you to be."

"i can't let you get hurt."

"you won't. you said it yourself, right?" you stepped closer and brought your hand to his chest, spreading the warmth from your fingertips through his white t-shirt. "then i trust you."

"it's not just me, it's…everyone. everything that comes with me, follows me."

"so, you're a…" you hesitated, "…vampire…?"

he nodded.

"oookay," you cleared your throat.

ilia's brow twitched; his eyes drifted shut, and he stepped back again. "i can't."

"ilia—"

"—i hurt people. i kill people."

your breath caught in your throat.

"i won't involve you in that."

"what if i want to be involved?" you countered firmly, voice raised, yet still quiet enough not to wake the girls on your floor.

"why?"

"because i'm not ready to let you go."

it was ilia's turn to kiss you this time.

as firm as your words, hands finding their resting place on your waist again. still a little nervous, held back in fear of scaring you off.

and maybe you were a little scared — hands shaking as they found the curve of his jaw and the edge of his shoulder. but something in your heart still told you that you were safe with him, at least in this moment, at least now.

even if he was fighting every bone in his body to ignore the sound of your blood flowing through your body, up your neck.

"okay," he murmured against your lips, the buzz electrifying the air between your bodies, "you win."

III.

you haven't seen him in five months.

not even a passing glance.

somewhere between three and four, you'd assumed he left. started over again in a new town. found another girl.

it was one week ago that you saw it: a lazily hung sheet of paper on the bulletin board in the hallway. an advertisement for the competition. surely, he wouldn't be there.

but the shred of hope left in your heart brought you here.

feet planted on the concrete floor below metal seats. hands folded in your lap, a crowd of people slowly filtering in as the sky transitions into darkness.

ilia steps onto the ice around two hours in.

he takes a few steady laps around the rink — gets a feel for the environment, the steady hum of the audience watching. and then, the muffled hum of bloodflow from the hundreds of sitting bodies, gradually rising in volume. as he steps into his beginning pose, everything falls silent.

all except one little noise.

your heartbeat.

of course, he recognizes it. and now, he knows you're here.

he skates like butter until the final jumping pass; a pop.

your breath stunts.

a few more mistakes — small, barely noticeable, but there. it isn't a perfect skate; his heart races in his chest; his palms are unsteady at his sides.

his body only withstands the ending position for half a second before he's gone. no bow, no kiss and cry, no score. just the quick bolt off the ice and past the doors, not even bothering to slip on his guards. the crowd gasps; a few patrons around you whisper to one another as they watch with confusion.

you follow without thinking.

the door nearly snaps off its hinges when he pushes past the threshold; it doesn't close behind him, not as quickly as it should. only once he has crossed the street does it slam shut, footsteps clicking loudly behind him that take no effort to recognize.

"ilia."

"go back inside."

"no."

you walk faster, and he picks up his own pace. maintains the careful distance between you, not even bothering to turn his head and face you directly.

even now — months since you've last seen him — you recognize the shift in his body. the paleness plaguing his skin, even if his face is still hidden. the way he hesitates with each movement, as if one misstep will cause another unnecessary death.

"you're hungry again."

it's then that he turns.

he looks unhealthy. not just hungry — starved.

deprived.

"go back inside," he repeats, voice heavier, chest releasing a huff of air to keep him leveled. "i'm not asking."

and rather than listening to whatever counterargument you could conjure up, he walks again in the opposite direction, forcing his back into your view once again.

you follow him to the car.

your heartbeat hammers in his head; he tries so hard to ignore it. the stress, the pressure, the skate, the handfuls of bodies sitting idly in the arena just a few hundred feet away, and the severe lack of blood consumption from the past few months. it all meshes together inside of him. makes this whole ordeal so fucking difficult.

"feed on me."

his body turns on a swivel. "are you crazy?"

"are you?" you rebut, raising your voice to match his. "you can't just leave like this, ilia! i can tell you've been starving yourself, and it's dangerous. another person will end up dead."

"so you want it to be you?"

"you said you wouldn't hurt me," your fingers slip beneath your sleeve and tug it forcefully up your forearm until it bunches at the bend in your elbow, "so feed on me."

you hold your wrist up in front of you. for a split second, his eyes shift. something behind them as they flit down to the warm skin, veins in your arm protruding with the constriction of your muscles.

his own spread like dead roots beneath his eyes, and his fist tightens at his side.

he takes one small, quiet step forward.

wraps his fingers around your forearm.

clouded eyes find yours. slightly glossed over, perhaps only an effect of the moonlight. or maybe, guilt.

an intensity behind them that only exists when he's trying to — oh, fuck.

"turn around, go home, and forget i ever —"

your arm thrashes out of his grip. "don't do that," you grit. "don't try to compel me to listen. it won't work."

that damn vervain bracelet he gave you.

you raise your wrist again and shove it closer to his face. "you need this, so take it."

"no," he rasps firmly, shaking his head.

a tear wells at the corner of your eye and slowly cascades down your cheek. and even in the face of the bloodthirsty, intensely unfamiliar version of your [ex] boyfriend, you don't relent. "you're weak, ilia. feed."

he tries to pull back, but you won't let him.

through the agony, he can see your hand shaking. you're scared — of course, you're scared.

of him.

a part of you, somewhere, buried beneath the trust that's still settled around your heart, fears him. the sight burns deep within his chest.

but you'd rather it be you than another innocent person.

"go home," ilia warns, voice raised again in a manner that doesn't quite match the person you know — or, knew. something caught between desire and hesitance. between giving in and staying under crafted control; keeping your innocence, your safety.

"you don't want to be a part of this."

"and i don't want you dead, either," your voice cracks at the very end, and your wrist inches closer to his face.

the torment behind his expression is undeniable.

"i don't care that this makes me insane. i don't care if this kills me," you shout, tears slipping looser, more frequent. "fuck, i still care about you, ilia! why do you think i even came tonight?"

when he doesn't respond, you shove your arm further into his closed lips, forcing it into range. "feed," your voice a little louder, a sharp edge to your tone, "i'd rather die myself than let you wither away until —"

sharpness piercing through warm skin.

a shot of excruciating pain up your arm until it dissipates in your shoulder. a whimper pried from the back of your throat like a consequence.

you hadn't known what to expect. the pain, sure; that's a given. perhaps, it's the discomforting pull of your blood towards the identical wounds that you hadn't accounted for. the way ilia's lips create an airtight seal around your skin, suck until you can feel the liquid seep out.

somehow, his hand finds the edge of your wrist, where it bends to meet your hand, and wraps so tightly around it that you can barely feel your fingers.

and it hurts — god, it fucking hurts — but one curt glimpse of his face is enough to counteract the pain.

he makes no effort to stay clean; crimson already smeared across the expanse of your inner forearm, loose droplets falling onto the white cotton shirt adorning his chest. and the more he tastes, the weaker he gets.

he's fucking insatiable.

leaning against his car, ignoring the smudge across the handle that will take hours to clean off. it's messy — so fucking messy — and you're bracing your weight onto your palm, fingerprints decorating the old backseat window. on a normal day, he'd be furious; tonight, the car could be totaled, and he wouldn't bat an eye, so long as the taste of your blood still lingers on his tongue.

"ilia," a heavy whisper, your hand shaking within his grasp.

you're still frightened.

and worse, some part of you almost likes it.

he grips you tighter; a hand flies to your waist to keep your body stable. teeth sink deeper into sensitive skin.

lightheadedness bleeds into your senses, and the trees up ahead begin to tilt. yet still — despite the obviously-threatening state of your body — you don't try to pull away.

you told ilia to feed; this is what you asked for.

a loud slurp that makes you gasp, and ilia pushes you off, hard.

he drops your arm and watches it fall limp at your side, two small holes punctured in the skin as fresh blood forms around the wounds and drips onto the cold, damp concrete. you stumble, nearly falling back from the sudden force.

he lets only a few moments of recollection pass before taking your wrist into his grasp again. pulls you into a firm, hungry kiss that makes you gasp into his mouth before settling in.

you taste yourself on your tongue — warm, metallic, almost revolting in a way that, oddly, makes your stomach flutter. his hand finds the back of your neck and smears a rough trail of blood across the hem of your shirt and along the crook of your neck.

ilia moans softly into your mouth; a heavy, breathy noise that prevails amid the quiet of nightfall, save for the gentle hum of the crowd still inside, wisping through the air.

he kisses you the way he feeds — hungry, desperate, starved for every last drop you'll give him.

and after the last five months, you think you'd give him anything if he asked. surely, if offering up your body under the notion that it would kill you is any proof.

"i love you," ilia murmurs, the confession a buzz against your lips that has your body arching into his, begging for the friction.

your lips curve into a grin, smudged with the filthy mix of lipstick and dried blood, "good."

you almost forget about the searing pain still in your wrist. the blood still oozing down your arm and destroying his shirt, dirtying his daylight necklace; the sexiest stain in the world, in ilia's mind.

he finally breaks off the moment your lips begin to pull away. heavy releases of breath into the crisp fall air, his fingers digging into your body with pressure far beyond human. his vision unblurring to find the state of your face — pupils blown out, makeup smudged, eyebrows knit together in weakness.

"…fuck," he whines.

brings the pad of his thumb to the corner of your lip and wipes away the amassed liquid.

licks it off the tip and hums contentedly.

"i don't think you're a monster."

the words land heavier than you might have intended; ilia breathes.

his breath fogs and rises between you.

"you don't know what i've done."

"maybe i don't care," you whisper softly, fingers trailing up the side of his arm.

"you should."

you swallow, inching closer as his thumb rests just below your jawline. applies the smallest bit of pressure to feel your pulse beneath the pad — reminding himself that it's still there.

"you didn't kill me," is your response, voice a low hum that only falls on his ears. "that's enough for me to keep loving you."

the corner of his mouth pulls into a smile at your own admission.

he leans down to kiss you again, his fingers drawing your head closer until you have to steady your balance again. your head still feels light, and your wrist still throbs where the two wounds remain open, laced with the remains of something far beyond human; perhaps, you simply don't care.

"so you are crazy, then," he mumbles, amusedly against your lips, half-limp body still pulled closely against his.

"enough to date a ripper? yes," you respond quietly, only really half joking. maybe less. "enough to enjoy it?…maybe."

he kisses you harder.

⎯⎯ ⚜.⋆♱🩸♱ ⋆. ⚜ ⎯⎯

two months later, and you can't keep your hands off each other.

it's disgusting, really; extremely uncouth. the sheer display of want with every look — public or private — the way it almost always escalates into something neither can speak of. you weren't even like this before.

it's happened everywhere — bedrooms, counters, bathrooms, against alley walls, one time in a closet (that you'll never forget). you'll claim it's to make up for lost time, yet before all of this, you'd barely touched each other.

and worst of all, it's the goddamn messes you leave.

sheets mangled and covered in blood stains (he's getting much better at feeding), scratch marks left on soft surfaces, clothes ruined with stains that no amount of cleaner can remove. three times already ilia has had to visit the store, find a set of replacement sheets, and purchase them, with the same cashier every time.

"buddy, what do you need all of this bedding for?"

"i run a hotel."

but god, you've become addicted to the feeding; his face buried in your neck, the shot of pain that stings with the first pierce, the moans he produces while your blood flows straight from your body.

it's all so much.

you once would have refused to even entertain the idea of him doing this to anyone, let alone yourself.

you love it.

ilia kisses a path from the corner of your mouth to the edge of your jaw, teeth taking your skin between them to leave a mark. you moan weakly, hands finding his shoulder blades and splaying flat across them, feeling the muscles tense as he moves.

his cock drags along your walls, bare, heavy, persistent when a sob blisters in your throat. somehow — still — it feels as if you're begging for more.

his lips trail down your neck and kiss the familiar spot; the curve, just along your carotid, where his ears find the steady pulse beneath.

hips moving rhythmically against yours, your knee curled to wrap around his waist.

"i'm hungry," he mumbles into your neck, his voice some shred of wrecked and insistent all at once.

your neck cranes further to the side. "eat," you whisper back.

and he does.

teeth push out and sink into your skin; an elongated moan falls from your lips, rather than the usual whimper. you're becoming used to this. in fact, you're starting to want it.

heavy slurps fall on your ears. your nails dig into his shoulder blade — bracing yourself from the pain that doesn't quite dissipate with time, but somehow evolves into arousal.

his tip brushes your cervix; a sob into the air, and he's drawing you closer by the waist. your hand slips into his hair, almost applies pressure, but can't quite find the strength to.

ilia breaks off and watches a trail of crimson trickle down the side of your neck, fall onto the sheets he'd just replaced for you a few nights ago. he thinks he might contact that bennett witch to find some way to keep a new set clean.

he watches the way your eyes flit to his, brows knit together as if to ask for more, despite arriving at death's door if he takes too much. yet his mouth finds your neck again, draws a path of hot, wet kisses into the skin. smears the evidence across your throat. hips driving into yours, the line of tension pulled taut in your stomach, threatening to break at any given moment.

when he feels a shred of strength return to your muscles, a little color return to your skin, his teeth sink in again; another sound derived from pleasure, his own mouth depositing a groan against your neck.

god, he's obsessed with you.

the way you let him do this — help teach him to control it, even ask him for it most days — the softness of your moans, the ease with which he fits, as if your pussy was made for him.

the sweet, delicious taste of your blood that he doesn't think he'll ever get enough of.

"ilia," the syllables barely able to roll off your tongue.

you're never really able to speak. or regain the ability to, once it's lost, given the consistent lack of blood in your system when you're only fooling around.

let alone fucking.

"mm," he hums, knowing you won't respond. takes another thick mouthful of blood onto his tongue, letting it marinate on his taste buds. feels it slide smoothly down his throat when he swallows. warm, sweet, perfect.

no matter how many times he trains himself, his hunger will always be insatiable.

especially for you.

his fangs pull back into hiding when he breaks off again; features revert to their human state, hot breath fanning the slick, coated skin on your neck.

he presses the first kiss to the dip in your shoulder. your chest releases a breathless sigh — he grins, moving up. finding the crook, the sweet spot sporting two lasting wounds, with small droplets forming around the openings.

then, it's his tongue licking a stripe over stained skin, dried remnant that barely lifts under the wetness. the muscle curling at the tip when he reaches your jaw. his breath finds the wet skin again, and your body shivers, involuntarily writhes into him as your dirtied fingers dye his blond roots red.

lightheaded, limbs just strong enough to keep you grounded, throat sore and covered in marks, saliva, blood, sweat — cock pressing into the exact spot that tips you over.

his mouth finds yours when you come, hot, breathy, tongue grazing his teeth as if to somehow map out more of him without wasting your breath on another word. blood smears across your lips and chin like old lipstick; you taste yourself in his mouth, flavor still foul, yet somehow delicious.

you clench around him — pull him in as your nails scratch disappearing marks into his back, pressing, digging until he's there with you. voice a heavy rasp against the corner of your mouth, the noise something you'll never be quite used to.

your neck throbs with pain; a groan that blurs into his name wisps from your throat, into his ears, pale blue eyes almost too enamored by you to care.

ilia loves to admire the mess he makes of you.

every single time.

before you knew what he'd done, before the rink, before the feeding — any of the fucked up turnout of this relationship — he wouldn't have ever thought this possible. you'd slept with him once, twice? and he was softer; you were cleaner, innocent, well-kept and mannered. but now?

god, he ruined you.

your inner thighs pulse as he carefully pulls up and out — covered in mixed release, never mind new stains once again seeping into the fresh sheets. a breeze streams in from the cracked window, mid-winter, the room at least ten degrees cooler than it should be (not that it would bother ilia). and although your body is drenched in various liquids that should make you shiver, one of them is sweat; skin hot, rosy, sensitive all over.

his weight lowers onto the bed just beside you, and for a moment, your eyes fall shut as the aches slowly dissipate into the air. though the slow trickle of blood down the side of your neck doesn't fall unnoticed. it stops only when the edge catches on the bedsheet below and bleeds into the expensive fabric. because — of course — even given the number of replacements, he makes sure you live in luxury.

your body slowly turns on its side in favor of facing him, who lies comfortably on his back; the tarnished necklace reflects the dim moonlight onto the wall opposite the bed.

your hand slides across his chest and lands softly against his collarbone, wrist facing upward. despite its proximity, ilia's eyes don't leave your face — albeit wrecked — laser-focused on the gaze you return.

"still hungry?" you whisper, lifting only to brush a few messed-up strands of hair out of his face.

the corner of his mouth quirks up.

you hold the edge of your wrist just in front of his lips, "eat, baby."

fingers carefully wrapping around your wrist as sharp teeth puncture skin; just a quiet breath inhaled through your nose, since you've become so accustomed to the feeling. and in some sort of screwed-up way, it makes you feel more connected to him than ever.

doesn't seem to hurt so much anymore; not like this.

your free hand shifts from its place and finds its way into his hair, fingers gently running through it as if any of this is normal. as if something so inhuman could ever be this intimate.

his eyes still lock onto yours, something unplaced behind them.

you smile.

when he notices the shift in your features — the weakness starting to settle in your eyelids — his mouth disconnects, parting from the skin with a soft kiss.

"lean over."

you do as he says, inching forward as he brings his own wrist to his mouth; the crunch sounds between you, sharper than normal, perhaps within the silence of your bedroom.

you part your lips to invite him in and take what he offers — the taste always unfamiliar on your tongue, different from that of a human, though you have only your own to compare it to. warm as it spreads through your bloodstream and closes the wounds embedded in your skin, marks that decorate your throat blending back in with your complexion. the taste equally unpleasant, though you find yourself willing never to stop, so long as the source is him.

the pad of his thumb wipes the remainder away that remains on the surface of your bottom lip; your head finds its resting place on the edge of his shoulder, where his jaw brushes against your hair.

your fingers slip between his hand and the place it rests on his stomach, and you run the pad of your thumb along the soft surface of the back. a thick swallow as your eyes study the everlasting youth embedded within his skin.

"you've really been here for a hundred years," your voice a careful whisper when you say it, as if speaking it aloud acts as some kind of curse.

"yeah."

a wisp of cool air blows into the room and kisses bare skin. "…then why me?"

ilia's breathing pauses for just a moment. a quiet beat passes through as he thinks.

his necklace charm suddenly feels as if it's burning through his chest, and your heartbeat pulses in his ears like a threat. the clock ticks in the corner of the room. his eyes flit toward the calendar, which reads as just another year, another life he'll live. then to the bracelet on your wrist, made to protect you from people like him.

from him, even.

his hand shifts to lace his fingers with yours.

"you're different."

you smile,

but you have no idea just how different you really are.

or who has been watching.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag

love u all <3

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, improper use of a gold medal, fingering, she taunts him about losing olys, he doesn't like that, unprotected sex, creampie, bruising, his hand is on her neck but he isn't like choking her, lanyard as a gag, rough sex, she cries a little, slight degradation if u read between the lines??, (brief) aftercare cus he's passionate not rude

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️🥇𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

one month ago, your life was filled with cameras, anxiety, unyielding pressure, and fresh tears that you carefully wiped away as you comforted ilia through what was arguably the worst moment of his career.

today, you're barely past the hotel room door's threshold before his mouth is capturing yours, tongue slipping past your lips as if it belongs there.

the door slams behind you with the pressure of his body pressing against yours. you gasp into his mouth, fingers tightening into his freshly-cut hair, hips involuntarily chasing the friction of his.

his gold medal still hangs between you, the deep blue lanyard heavy around his neck as he runs a palm firmly over your side; it lands just below your ribcage, squeezing the flesh until you whine.

and you're still pulling him closer. your free hand grips his bicep and slides upward, in pursuit of a place to rest, yet not finding one. instead, you crane your neck further, deepening the kiss until the only noise left in the entryway is the sloppy, desperate, wet sound.

he trails to your waist and hooks the bend of a finger into your skirt, pulling, pulling, until it falls to the floor on its own.

you've barely processed the loss when he shoves his middle and index fingers into you, pulling a raw noise from your throat that anyone close by could hear through the thin walls.

"ohmygod," you gasp. "ilia—"

"shh," he hushes firmly, lips bruising yours again as his fingers piston into you, painful pleasure coursing through your body as you fight to keep yourself upright.

"they'll hear."

"fucking let them," you mumble in response; another whine pries from your chest and falls on his ears.

his cock twitches in his pants. his fingers spread apart inside, opening you up until the sear burns between your legs, up to your stomach, heat transferring to your fingertips as they fist his hair like a lifeline.

the binding pressure in your stomach builds higher, weakness overtaking your limbs.

ilia's thumb finds your clit; he presses until another moan shoots into the air.

you feel his grin against the underside of your jaw, where he mouths wet kisses into your soft skin. you can't help the heat blooming in your stomach, the way your hips chase his fingers to bring you closer to the edge.

it hits when he murmurs lowly into the crook of your neck.

"come."

your head falls to his shoulder; forehead presses into the strap as his fingers fuck a gush of white out of you. you breathe weakly into his shirt, hands and knees trembling with the rush of pleasure.

ilia's fingers swiftly slip out from between your thighs — now slick with a thin coat of cum — and brings them to his mouth. he swipes them over his lips, letting the liquid collect on the surface before his tongue licks them clean.

you swallow at the intensity of his gaze.

ilia isn't usually like this.

he's sweet, gentle, kind. the type of guy to hold the door for an elderly woman behind him or wave to someone walking on the street. he's attentive, but focused.

one month ago, he was a puddle in your arms, lost in the comfort of your embrace as your hands carded through the long strands of hair on his head.

and here he is now — someone you almost don't recognize.

"where—" you pant, head distracted by the fizzling high and slickness still sitting on your inner thighs, "where was that in milan?"

"what do you mean?"

"i mean," you swallow, "you won gold in milan. and then, y'know…"

your fingers curl around the medal and tug gently. "you flopped and placed 8th."

"flopped?"

when he repeats it back, you hear the edge in his voice. even the small reminder, just barely masked as a joke, settles wrong in his veins. you can tell, from the look behind his eye, the tick in the way he breathes.

"well, you know," you nudge.

your fingers still grip him for stability as a small beam of light shines on his cheek from the peephole beside your head.

"you blew it."

it sounds like a taunt.

ilia takes it as such.

he doesn't like to be made fun of.

you don't tease him.

his kiss is just as desperate this time; more bruising.

his hands move to your waist and pull you backward, feet stepping behind him until the side of his leg brushes the edge of the mattress.

he hoists you up and forces your legs around his waist. you hold on with a tight grasp as he turns, leans over to essentially toss you onto the bed.

you brace yourself with your elbows; heavy breaths part from your lips as your eyes follow his movement, crossing his arms over to remove his shirt.

you nearly moan.

he tosses the medal onto the nightstand; when your gaze follows it, his eyes twitch like a threat.

you swallow.

okay.

his fingers find the buckle on his belt. yank it from the loops around his waist and toss it to the floor. then, it's the button, the zipper coming undone, heavy fabric sliding down smooth, thick thighs.

you feel yourself clench around nothing. a droplet of release nearly soaking the sheet beneath you when it drips.

the time between that and his hand pushing up your shirt as he hovers above you seems to pass in the blink of an eye. you're barely processing it until the fabric is on the floor, and his lips are slotted with yours again, no regard for safety as he kisses you as if you've wronged him.

"ilia," you try, but he presses harder, shaking his head as his hand moves between you.

and then, you gasp so loud that it half-echoes.

no warning, no carefulness, no moment to adjust.

a low apology against your lips, buried between heavy breaths.

ilia groans, a quiet hiss tacked onto the end at the way your walls constrict around him, your body stiff from the uncomfortable suddenness.

but pain quickly turns to pleasure — the harsh glide of his cock, one hand keeping you open at your inner thigh, with the other wrapped around the side of your neck, keeping your head angled in his direction.

a bead of sweat forms above his eyebrow and drips onto your cheek. you feel the wetness cascading down your rosy skin, barely noticeable amid the flood of sensation coursing through your bloodstream as it all rushes to your head.

the dullness of the hotel past midnight amplifies the squelch, the moment; only a dim light casting through the crack beneath the door, the soft pitter-patter of feet on outdated carpet in the hallway outside, the hushed actions of other inhabitants trying to reach their rooms.

it's almost obscene — far rougher than anything you're used to with him. and further, he doesn't seem to care.

even through blurred vision — tears clinging to your eyelashes — you notice his subtle glance to the bedside table.

"put it on," you manage through unstable breaths, the tips of your nails grasping at his arms for support and leaving marks in their wake. "since you're so — accomplished."

it leaves your lips before your conscience can shut it down.

and — against your better judgment, and to no one's surprise, given the way this has all unfolded — he reaches for the medal.

"is this all a joke to you?"

he drops the lanyard around his neck; the weight of the gold suddenly hits your chest. the pressure between your legs builds with another forceful thrust. the medal collides with your skin, pulling a moan from your strained lungs.

and then, your body decides to push his buttons.

you don't do that.

but you won't lie and say that any of this — the force of his hips against yours, the brush of his tip against your cervix, the grip on your neck that starts to bruise — doesn't feel good.

great, even.

and coming from the gentlest person you know?

hot.

"no," you scoff. "but that performance was."

he mouths the skin just below your jaw, teeth taking it between them and applying pressure until you wince. you swallow down the lump in your throat.

"who are you talking to right now?"

"you, i think."

"you think?"

"i think you're a little," you sputter, chest attempting to catch your breath as his hand slips away from your neck and finds your chest, "—overconfident."

his eyes catch on the delicate fingerprints left in his hand's wake on your neck; though he's internally a little proud, they narrow.

"because i won?"

"because it isn't going to erase the shiny 8th-place participation trophy."

you hear the gear turn in his head.

he stills and fists the fabric around his neck, angrily (yet somehow, carefully) ripping it off.

your eyes anchor on the movement. too shocked by the suddenness of it all, the halt of his hips, the pulse of him inside you that he doesn't care enough to notice; you feel it travel into your stomach.

he folds the lanyard — thick, wide in his grasp.

you don't know what he's doing with it.

you find out when he coaxes it between your lips and presses.

one hand on each side of your face.

each end of the polyester.

shutting you up.

when you try to speak, only a small noise comes out — something akin to a squeak. it's muffled by the material.

"no more talking," he tells you firmly, pulling the lanyard a little tighter.

oh.

okay.

when he moves again, you wince at the sear. and he quickly realizes that this won't be practical.

so he takes the strap into one hand, slips the lanyard over your head, and holds it in place by the medal. just beside your ear.

where he can control how tightly it constricts.

while his other hand finds your thigh and spreads your leg further, letting him slip deeper until air evades your lungs.

you moan into the lanyard and reach for any semblance of him to hold onto — his bicep, his shoulder, the sliced strands of hair that are just long enough to grasp.

but god, it feels good.

so fucking good.

meanwhile, his lips continue to work at your neck, trailing down to your collarbone, where his teeth graze sweat-slick skin.

thrusts harder, until the wetness mixes with connecting skin, strings of arousal coating his and your thighs as he fucks it out of you with no remorse for the pain — albeit enjoyable — it causes.

you try to mumble his name, but the syllables barely escape, chest too fragile and throat burning with the ghost of his fingertips.

he tightens the lanyard.

the punishingly rough drag of his dick along your walls pushes you closer to the edge. a sob escapes your throat and vibrates against the taut strap running across your lips; the corners of your mouth burn from the friction.

they'll probably be sliced in the morning.

you lift a hand to loosen it — or try — but he catches it before your fingers can even brush the blue material. he sets your palm back to where it was and returns his own to your thigh. a handprint begins to form.

he tightens the lanyard.

tugs.

a tear springs to your eye; another wells in the other. more brim in your waterline until you blink, sending them down flushed cheeks in a lewd display as weakened, breathless groans fall from forcefully-parted lips.

ilia kisses a droplet away at the curve of your jaw.

you squirm, scratching thick, bright red marks into his back that sting; he hisses into your skin. it seems you won't be the only one wearing the evidence of this moment into next week.

"god—"

"i said you're done talking," he rasps.

a hard thrust that pushes him straight into your sweet spot.

it stings.

you whimper.

"about the olympics," his stare burns through your eyes, "and about today."

you've never heard him speak this way.

to anyone.

let alone yourself.

maybe you like it.

his hand squeezes your thigh, eyes focused on the finger-shaped bruises still forming on the side of your neck. "i won," as another thrust rams against your sweet spot, "it's over," you whine into the polyester, "and you're done talking."

he grabs your chin with his fingers and turns your head toward him.

"got that?"

if there weren't a piece of fabric lodged between your lips, you'd be grinning.

just slightly.

instead, you nod silently — refraining from pissing him off further.

he tightens the lanyard.

and when he smiles and leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to the tip of your nose…

you break.

you sob heavily around the fabric, gripping ilia as tightly as you can; heat scorches in your lower belly, so heavily that you can barely function.

your walls constrict around him, squeezing his cock as the orgasm tears through every muscle in your body. you cry out his name, all muffled and broken by the dark blue strap.

tears stream down your face, wet and ugly and tattered. your chest rises and falls with every deep, painful breath.

air barely makes its way into your lungs.

and for his own selfish reasons, ilia lifts the medal off your head and tosses it haphazardly onto the bedside table.

his mouth finds yours when he comes, the kiss all tongue and teeth. it's sloppy and heavy and hot, and if the way your pussy flutters around him is anything to show for it, he'd say you could get off again just from that alone.

he deposits a sigh into your mouth, voice weak and half-wrecked.

then, a low mumble against your lips that sounds too much like russian.

warmth dripping down your thigh as you gasp for air, each attempt sounding more like a cry than a breath.

ilia pulses inside of you — faint, but enough to notice.

and finally, he carefully shifts his hips. angles them just the way he needs and slides out.

you wince.

his thumb finds the corner of your mouth. the pad traces over burned skin, red with irritation, stinging slightly under his touch.

he kisses the spot.

another stray tear runs down your cheek. it catches on your jaw, and you breathe out — steadily, for the first time.

"are you okay?"

icy blue eyes softening when they find yours; returning to the sweet, affectionate gaze they always look at you with.

you nod slowly, "mhm."

his fingers brush your hair away from your face, a little damp with sweat when the clumped strands land on the pillow behind you.

this is who you're used to.

this is ilia.

or, is it?

"i didn't know you were…"

"—sometimes."

"oh."

he chuckles softly. when you try to match it, everything hurts — from your face to your stomach, down to pained calves.

he parts from your body with a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek and steps into the bathroom.

water runs. your ears half-tune out the noise in their jaded state, and your eyes find a speck of dust on the ceiling to focus on; it lets your body forget about the ache still pulsing through it.

but then — quietly — ilia pads back in.

one arm slips beneath the bend in your knee, the other across your shoulder blades.

he lifts your frame into his hold; your arms wrap around his neck as he carries you carefully into the bathroom and clicks the door shut with his foot.

as he lowers your body into the warm water, your limbs begin to loosen. he slips in behind you and rests his soft palms on your waist, pulling your back against his chest until the back of your head lies carefully on his shoulder.

he kisses the side of your head, letting the plush of his lips linger against the skin.

the calm nature, the carefulness in his touch, the soft press of his lips — all things you're accustomed to.

things that make ilia, ilia.

and when you think about tonight — the marks decorating your neck and thigh, and the redness around your lips — it isn't anything like your version of him; like the person holding you as if you're the most precious thing in the world.

and you love that about him. you appreciate it.

you always have.

but…you wouldn't not do it again.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars

thank u for 1k and god bless tatiana malinina for this haircut <3