#jaeyundazed

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, angst, hurt/comfort (if u read between the lines), fingering, unprotected sex (i mean the village ran out...so...), rough sex, ilia speaking russian, disclaimer i did use a translator so tell me if it's incorrect, reader is highkey a dacryphiliac on the dl, she's still so dedicated to her job that she's literally trying to comfort him while they're fucking, other us skaters mentioned

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

you came to the olympic village to support your closest friend; you didn't come to contribute to the condom shortage.

look, ilia's attractive, and all that, but he's kind of like your brother. sort of. at least, that's your typical excuse.

so when you're sitting in some stuffy lounge in the backrooms of the dingy ice arena alone, snacking on shitty olympic-branded chips and sipping from a tiny water bottle, you wonder why you still put up with this bullshit, have endured it multiple times in the last handful of years. sure, it isn't pleasant — and it's a little sad to be watching it completely alone — but you could've sat in the crowd as most people would. you chose not to because you thought it would be too nerve-wracking, yet you suppose this alternative isn't exactly ideal, either.

you're typically walking on air when he takes the ice. today is no different. you're a little nervous, and the ice doesn't look particularly grand, but you have faith in ilia. you won't give that up until he really screws up. and that's what everyone knows you as: the friend who would go to war for him.

but when his free skate turns to mush at the drop of a hat, time nearly stops. ilia doesn't fall; it doesn't take another skater or even a fan to know that. you sit stunned, frozen with the half-empty bottle of water perched between your fingertips as your lips part in shock.

"oh my god," you mumble to no one, blinking as if to wake yourself up from some kind of sick dream sequence. but you don't wake up. because you're not asleep, and it's real. the domino effect of one little mistake is very fucking real.

because — while ilia doesn't make mistakes — he's his own worst enemy, and once he's messed up, he can't recover.

your eyes catch the visible wince as he comes out of his ending pose — displayed on the surprisingly large flatscreen tv mounted to the wall — and covers his face with gloved hands. places his hand on his heart and gives curt bows to the crowd. and as rough as the sight of your friend is, you…can't look away.

has his hair grown exponentially? yeah. has his face matured over the years? also yeah. and does the sight of him holding back tears make your thighs involuntarily press together?

well, fuck. it does.

you can't stay to watch him score. you know he won't medal; he knows he won't medal. and now you have a particularly unpleasant pit forming in your stomach that needs to be dealt with. which cannot be eradicated or taken care of within a mile radius of this arena, regardless of the outcome, out of a) sheer embarrassment, and b) pure confusion.

your hand scrambles for the remote lost somewhere in the leather cushion beneath you until your fingers find the sleek plastic and press hard on the power button to turn the trainwreck off. you grab your phone and your keys — and an extra bag of off-brand chips for the ride back that you can only assume will be long and painful — and beeline for the door, not bothering to acknowledge the wandering eyes watching you sprint out of the building.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

after about twenty minutes' worth of being hounded by reporters in the back hallway, ilia finally gets a moment to himself after what was, for all intents and purposes, the single worst moment of his career.

and the person who is supposedly closest to him — so much so that amber, alysa, and isabeau have all become by-association friends with — is nowhere to be found. ilia swallows, nodding and composing himself as his father finally catches up to him, mumbling something in russian that his ears barely register from the mix of disappointment and irritation coursing through his veins.

on the lovely bus ride back to the village — earbuds sitting comfortably in his ears to drown his thoughts — he checks his phone. for a missed call, a message, fuck, even a dm on instagram, or something. his face is absolutely everywhere, and you haven't even acknowledged him, nor his loss, nor the negative emotions floating in his head that your sole purpose is to quell. maybe he's pissed. maybe he has a right to be.

the bus drops him near the building he's lodged in, giving him time to (lazily) grab his bags and step off. a few staggered stares greet him as he walks into the lobby, an unpleasant reminder that he opts to ignore as he heads for the elevators. his finger presses the button, and he opens his phone, staring blankly at the home screen without clicking on anything.

his mind wanders for half a second, back to the messages (or lack thereof), back to the ice, the falls, the eighth place score, and then—

ding.

"…fuck."

he enters the unoccupied elevator with a sigh, presses his floor, and watches the blank wall across from him until the doors close. he scans the compact space, looking for something to focus on. his eyes settle on the tiles beneath his feet. they're new — freshly polished, if the potent chemical scent is anything to go by — a little scuffed in the far right corner by someone's luggage.

the tile is neat, pretty, clean, perfect. it has an image. a reputation to hold in the upscale building. but even the newest and shiniest square feet of tile, even the most pristine-looking pieces in the world, can be damaged just as easily.

yeah, really fucking easily.

he finds his door and unlocks it in a mindless trance, pulling his earbuds out and tying them off neatly before tossing them onto his nightstand. the inviting pile of half-folded, half-bunched clothes welcomes him from the spot where it accumulates, just beside the window. rather than bothering to care, ilia grabs the pajama pants lying across the top and a loose hoodie from one of the umpteenth sponsored brands. then a pair of boxers from his suitcase as he walks into the bathroom and runs the shower.

he submerges his face in the gentle rainfall, running his palms through his thick, dirty blond hair as it dampens. eyes closed, he breathes — lungs emptying and refilling with the warm, comforting steam arising from the water's temperature. the shower doesn't clear his head, but it tames the ache. a problem that could have been solved a lot sooner. maybe a bit more effectively.

"take it easy," is what you'd always tell him, offering a hand on his shoulder or a soft brush of your fingers along his hairline. never in a way that suggested more; just your presence, your support. "you're human."

ilia doesn't take things easy. even when you are there to remind him.

pants hanging loosely around his waist, hoodie draped over his tired shoulders, he leans over the bathroom counter. he takes the folded-up bandana from the corner of the sink and ties it around his forehead, adjusting it until it blocks the moisture from his half-dripping, towel-tried hair. his routine feels a little monotonous — wash face, rinse, pat dry, brush teeth, rinse, wipe dry — but he gets it done.

his (complimentary) slippered feet hang over the edge of the bed, arm behind his head, phone in his hand. he stares, reads an article, a comment on his last post, and breathes unsteadily. everything is ilia malinin; his failure, his embarrassment, his contorted face on blast for the entire fucking world.

the three quiet raps on the door come just as the phone's screen turns black.

ilia stands up, placing the phone face down beside his earbuds, and walks up to the door. he doesn't bother to check before his hand is migrating toward the chain lock, while the other wraps around the handle and pushes down, eventually pulling the door open with a slow, soft creak.

his face turns cold.

"ilia," you try, but he shuffles away carefully, letting the door start to swing shut until your foot wedges between the carved wood and the doorframe. "ilia, please."

"where were you?" the words spit in a tone he doesn't use with you; with anyone, really. not even at his worst.

"i left," you admit quietly, "but—"

"—no," he interrupts, shaking his head almost in pity of himself. "the one time. the one time i need you there, you're gone," he mumbles. "was it that humiliating for you, too?"

"illie—"

"—don't."

"do you seriously think i'd just get up and fucking leave because you lost? is that really what you think of me?" you counter, stepping closer; ilia doesn't move. "i wouldn't come all the way to milan for that, ilia. you know that."

"mm," he mumbles, lips pressed together as his eyes stay fixed on your face, heart torn between keeping cold or pulling you into a hug that he really fucking needs.

"since the day i met you, i've never missed as much as a minute of a program. i've sat with you when no one else would. i came halfway across the world to watch you skate. you're the most important person in my life."

he doesn't speak.

"okay," you nod, "fine."

"cut the shit."

your eyes fall shut.

"if you weren't angry with me, too, then tell me why you left."

your heart throbs in your chest, nervous heat spreading to your fingertips as your gaze reconnects with his. hurt still sits in his eyes; you can't help but feel guilty. you know that part of it is because of this, you, while the other is his mind's own way of torment.

"watching you didn't feel right. not the way it should," you admit tentatively, giving him no more room for accusation. "i don't feel like this, okay? i don't look at you and want—" you hesitate, "more." your gaze flicks between his eyes, studying them as if one wrong word will push him away. but you see it, the subtle shift.

"but seeing you out there, on that ice, looking the way you did? yeah, fuck, i wanted you, ilia. that's why i left."

his throat bobs when he swallows. heavy, intense.

the decision flashes briefly in his eyes before he steps forward, hand sliding under your jaw and angling it just right to kiss you. it's hard — emotion pouring into it like a dam had exploded inside of him — but it doesn't hurt. it isn't controlling, it isn't punishing. it's careful, calculated, desperate. it's ilia; a painful, beautiful reminder.

one hand fists the bright red coca-cola hoodie, while the other tangles into his damp hair, the edge of a finger catching on the bandana's fabric. you giggle when it shifts a little on his head and sits just slightly crooked. ilia smiles back against your lips, hand ghosting over your waist as he walks you backward, around the corner of the bed until you're standing between it and the wall.

"i'm sorry, ilia," you murmur into his mouth, fingers tugging at his hair when he leans forward to lower you down, back pressing carefully into the soft mattress. "i shouldn't have left."

"it's okay," he counters as he curls his fingers into the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head and tossing it onto the floor beside him in one motion. you run the tip of a finger along his midsection, upward to trace a line through the center of his chest, and flatten your palm at the crevice between his neck and shoulder, tugging him down again.

he moans against your lips; gentle, soft, a little fried with exhaustion. your stomach flutters, back lifting slightly from the mattress as your body seeks his warmth.

"lemme help you, illie," you whisper, your t-shirt bunching at your ribs as ilia's hand pushes it up. "want you to feel better."

he lets your shirt fall to the floor beside his hoodie, palm sliding up to the curve of your chest and dragging his thumb over your nipple. your mouth tries to form his name, but only a half-moan, half-gasp slips into the room. his lips press a trail of kisses against the side of your neck, dipping a toe into a realm he'd never imagined.

"you angry?"

he breathes, lifting his head until his eyes meet yours. "yeah."

"are you mad at yourself, or me?"

"myself," his voice low.

fingertips glide up the side of his cheek, still a little red from the scalding hot shower, the ghost of a tear lingering in the skin. your manicured nails land just above the bandana, snug around his head; you think if he ever wears it in public with you, he'll never be allowed to skate again. at least, if any cameras are around. or a person.

"then show me," you whisper.

he surges forward, lips crushing yours firmer than before. anger bleeds into it, alongside the leftover adrenaline from the performance that he couldn't wash away in the shower. his hips roll against yours, an involuntary moan wisping into the warm air.

his every move is suddenly more intentional — fingers gliding down your side until they're hooked in your sleep pants. you lift your hips to let him slip them off, watching the way his eyes study every curve from your outer thighs to your ankles. you've only ever seen him so intent when he skates; it's jarring, a little hot, if you're being honest.

the pads of his fingers trail along your inner thigh until they brush over the dampened black fabric adorning the space between your legs. your breath hitches; he leans closer, and the faint scent of his soap wafts into the air you suck in. a droplet of water falls from a strand of blond hair and lands on your collarbone.

ilia's mouth covers the spot, teeth grazing the skin there as he sucks gently. you're not sure if the noise that follows originates from that — as erotic as it looks, blue eyes still focused on your face through his lashes — or the pressure of his fingers pushing into you without warning. you don't remember feeling him push the underwear aside, though you don't think you'd realize an axe murderer if there was one standing beside you.

the excruciatingly deep push and pull distract you from fully processing that this is ilia. the same person who you've heard say at least eighteen times that his main focus would always be the ice. though, you guess he never denounced sex. but that wasn't a typical topic of conversation between two people who were supposedly completely unattracted to one another. and you figure a guy like him doesn't get this kind of expertise naturally.

in five years, you never even batted an eye in his direction like that, and after seeing one measly clip of him crying, you wanna fuck him? goodness.

"y'know, you could have — fuck, taken them off," you nudge, delivering a harsh tug to his thick hair when he curls a finger into your sweet spot.

and instead of responding like any sane person, he rips his fingers out and yanks the half-ruined panties down your legs. shocked — and a little more turned on than before, admittedly — you listen to the stitches tear as they catch on your ankle, and then, they're out of sight and on the floor.

"i liked those," you pout.

ilia leans forward again, placing a hand on your waist that leaves a stain of your arousal on the skin beneath it. "then don't complain next time," he mumbles into the crook of your neck, and you hear the smile in his voice. intentionally innocent.

"next time?"

"maybe."

you don't try to make sense of it. really, you're on the same page here.

yeah, you kinda regret complaining because you wanted to come, and sure, your hand is pulling the tie on his pants loose, but none of this should really be happening in the first place. it's just the result of your sexual frustration and his remaining adrenaline-turned-anger.

did you actually rub one out to the mental image of your best friend suppressing tears? no. you got back to the village, ate the extra bag of chips you swiped, and sat idly on the bed, munching and irritatedly reprimanding yourself over and over again. did it work? also no, because you still got up and went to ilia's room.

the end goal wasn't to get his dick in you. you were supposed to see his face and remember that you should be comforting him. then he was angry, you admitted to something you probably shouldn't have, and then you essentially implied that he should take said anger out on you.

y'know, comfort, and all that.

new technique.

it's a bit hypocritical of you to judge him for not taking everything off, only to stick your hand past the waistbands of both his snoopy-themed sleep pants and his boxers just to wrap your hand around him. out of sheer impatience, mostly, and it's difficult to maneuver your wrist that way, but the reward comes in the form of a whine in your ear.

you've known ilia since you were sixteen, and you have never heard him sound like that.

your pussy throbs. thing is practically screaming for him, despite the fact that you typically wouldn't even entertain the idea of him fucking other girls, let alone yourself.

his hand constricts over your hip bone, and you squirm, palm gliding along the length of his cock. slow, careful strokes that shoot up his spine. you're not even trying to be an asshole about it; you simply want to feel him. and — wow.

he pulls back to kick the remaining clothes off; you don't even think they've fully left the bed by the time his elbow nudges your knees open, keeping it in place as your pussy clenches around nothing, slick dripping onto the expensive sheets beneath you.

"you know they're out," he states plainly. not a question, not even proposing a choice, really.

"don't fucking care."

you don't receive a single word of warning before he's buried inside of you. the sudden stretch sears between your thighs, pulls a cry from your chest that sounds long overdue, like every ounce of tension from the night releasing in one fluid motion.

"fffuck," he breathes, the russian word rolling harshly off his tongue. even in your clouded state, your brain instantly recognizes it, after years of him unintentionally lodging it into your memory (and inevitably, your vocabulary).

your stomach flutters; oh, yeah, that'll do it.

"ilia — jesus," you sputter, breath hitching as your hand reaches for his bicep and squeezes. "oh my god."

"sorry," he half-whispers, hips barely giving your body time to adjust before moving against yours. he sets a pace that sits somewhere between tolerable and blinding, leaning forward as he settles into the movement. the angle shifts just enough for you to notice he's deeper.

you're somehow more alert with your eyes squeezed shut. the bed creaks quietly beneath your bodies; you're aware of every individual finger dragging up your side; the edge of his necklace — which you don't think you've ever seen him without — collides with your chest, so you know he's closer.

ilia's always been particularly attentive. you can't decide whether it works in your favor or against your favor now. the pace quickly turns brutal as his mind fogs with the surfacing emotions from just a few hours ago. and he lets it happen, because he'd know you like it even if you never told him so. because he watches. because he listens.

your hand would pull his hair, or you'd clench subconsciously every time the tip of his finger just barely brushed your cervix. your eyes perked with the first harsh stroke of his cock inside of you. the moan that initially left your parted lips entirely lacked displeasure and simultaneously begged for more.

and like, the look in your eyes when you finally open them is completely unfamiliar.

it's hungry. desperate. literally fucking dripping with want that he hadn't even seen you look at your ex or a drunk hookup with.

he props himself up on a flattened palm — just above your shoulder — and wraps his hand around the opposite bend at your knee, pulling back far enough to sling it over his shoulder. his lips kiss your inner ankle, and your pussy flutters around him from the sight. he groans, mumbles something incoherent.

your hand impatiently leaves the sheets in favor of the bandana's knot, tugging it off his head and watching his air-dried hair fall into his face, the roots at his hairline decorated with sweat. as you pull him back down, he braces himself with a bent elbow, and the mattress shakes under the weight.

ilia laughs, kissing you messily while his hips drive into yours, forcing a whimper from your chest with every rough push.

"stop saying things i don't understand," you argue, fingers brushing his hair back and fisting the fluffy strands.

he squeezes your calf, "no."

well, okay.

the following kiss is all tongue and teeth, sloppy and grotesque as wet noises blend with the squelch between your legs. he's moaning into your mouth, burying every inch of your body into the mattress beneath you, sheets turning damp from the mixed sweat dripping onto them. you almost forget entirely that he even touched ice tonight.

the light in the dorm's hallway flickers; a bus from below pulls in at the building's entrance to drop off another group of athletes; a half-empty water bottle crinkles on the nightstand.

and none of this is pleasant.

it's not private — anyone in the rooms adjacent to or below his will surely have something to say tomorrow, if they're awake now — and it's not quiet, and the room smells like a mix of sex and shampoo and plastic from the pile of sponsorships lying on the floor.

still, all you can focus on is the way he pounds into you, bruising the sweet spot inside you with every thrust until your head, too, becomes hazy, and a tear springs to the corner of your eye that you blink away.

he finally pulls back to take a breath, chest heaving as the metal necklace swings forward and hits the underside of your jaw. his face tenses, eyes squeezed shut as the same pained expression from earlier appears — the one plastered on every national broadcast you could possibly name. the face that catapulted you into this mess in the first place.

fuck, he's gorgeous.

you've really been missing out by not entertaining romantic feelings. on that face and good sex.

great sex, even.

your fingers trace the side of his head. the gesture's gentleness is a heavy contrast to the rough nature of his thrusts, but you've always been good at multitasking. though, taking his dick and simultaneously pressing a kiss to his cheek (and another to the corner of his mouth) isn't a challenge you've taken on before. this would be a first.

"you know — mmph — you're incredible, ilia," you offer unsteadily, eyebrows knitted together. "right?" your palm flattens over his hair, using the pressure to ground you. "one performance isn't — everything."

"i looked like a fool," he laughs bitterly, "and then i cried like a fucking baby."

"i thought you looked good."

he opens his mouth to ask a follow-up question that you don't let him get to. you kiss him again, gasping when he lifts your waist off the bed just enough for him to hit the spongy spot inside you again, nearly ramming into it repeatedly until the stimulation actually coaxes a squeak, and you shake your head embarrassedly.

you cannot believe you just did that for him. he's never letting you live that down.

thankfully for you, he's too focused now to comment on it.

"ебать," he sighs into your mouth, voice all strained and whiny, and you huff out a frustrated breath. "я сейчас кончу."

confused, you choke out, "what?"

"'m gonna come," he instead mumbles. you involuntarily tighten around him, a mix of irritation and (unfortunately) arousal bombarding your nerves.

the angle of the following thrust is just accurate enough to tip you over the edge and snap the coil of tension built in your lower stomach. a gush of hot, white cum drips all around his cock where you're joined, coating the inner faces of your thighs and connecting your skin to his with thin strings. a ring of liquid builds up at the base and coats the whole length of his dick as he keeps the punishing — albeit gratifying — pace afloat until the bubbling sensation grows in his own stomach.

he twitches inside of you; envelops your mouth to muffle the wrecked moan that escapes. definitely the hottest sound you've ever heard, second to the whiny russian you just tried to complain about. the noise buzzes against your lips, and warmth spreads across your belly as your inner walls fill with white. you fight to keep your head up, gripping his hair like a lifeline as the weakness finally starts to wash over you, the physical release of tension leaving your body more exhausted than it's been in months.

he lowers his shoulder to let your leg roll down his arm, catching it and placing it carefully on the warm mattress. a hand slips below your jaw, perches his thumb underneath your chin, and he kisses you. sweetly — slow and deliberate, unlike the others, tongue grazing your top row of teeth as if to map them out. he isn't claiming; he's studying.

the pad of his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, blue eyes flitting back and forth between yours, with the softest affection in their gaze.

"feel better now?" you ask quietly, voice weak as your chest rises and falls. ilia's necklace's cold metal rests between your collarbone and the center of his chest; you briefly wonder if it will leave a mark.

"is it bad to say yes?"

you roll your eyes and ruffle the hair on the back of his head. "considering i suggested it, no."

his smile is pretty, too. you just never took the time to notice.

for the first time today, you actually recognize the person looking back at you. it's ilia; your ilia, who you know better than the back of your own hand. and after all of this, that does frighten you. just a little.

just enough.

"hey," you say, lazily nudging him with your shoulder. "i'm sorry for leaving. i should've sucked it up."

"i was already mad at myself," he counters. "i just redirected it at you." he carefully lifts himself up and shifts your leg to let him lie beside you. suddenly becoming aware of the cold air hitting his bare skin. "that isn't fair, either."

you shiver when his palm lowers onto the curve of your hip. he assumes it's from the exposure — much like his own discomfort — and tugs the sheets out from under you, pulling them up to the tip of your shoulder. the gesture is sweet, almost domestic.

meanwhile, your body can't decide whether the reaction actually came from the cold or the fact that it was ilia's hand touching you.

"you know everyone is still going to love you, illie," you whisper, resting at the edge of the bed as the blanket's warmth envelops you. "they'll still watch. and if they're not on your side, you know that i always will be."

"yeah," he shrugs, "i guess."

your fingers toy with the elastic part of the fitted sheet, right where the fabric cinches at the corner of the mattress. "this doesn't…change anything, does it?"

ilia chuckles behind you; the noise eases your muscles enough to relax into the bed. "we're friends," his tone reassuring. "i think it will take a lot more than one night to ruin that."

"good," you sigh with relief, letting your eyes fall shut. "but i'm not leaving this bed until i've slept. sorry."

"be my guest."

ilia's hand doesn't move. you let it stay there.

he doesn't move any closer. keeps a comfortable distance and studies the small patch of skin that is still exposed, a few droplets of sweat still decorating it. the negative emotions and voices still linger from before, but they're not as strong, as loud.

you've always been able to eradicate them, no matter how poorly he skated or how deeply he'd been ripped into. tonight was no different, albeit the unconventional form of comfort you gave him (and he accepted). it worked, didn't it?

his head inches forward — so slightly that you won't even notice — until he can smell the familiar softness of your signature vanilla perfume.

"я люблю тебя," his voice so soft that it blurs into the air before it can even reach your ear. not that you'll understand. and even then, you've already fallen into a gentle slumber, unable to hear anything that leaves his parted lips. he can tell by the way your fingers hang idly over the edge of the mattress and how your breathing evens out.

you don't have to understand that he loves you; you don't even have to know.

he just needs you to hear it.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

love u all <3

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

For as long as you could remember, Ilia was a steady presence in your life.

He'd been a part of it since the days of scraped knees and dirt-covered fingernails, when the sun seemed to set at the perfect hour, and the smell of freshly-cut grass wafted into the air with the gentle summer breeze. When your largest worry was whether you could run fast enough to catch the ice cream truck before it drove away, laughing when Ilia would trip over a small dip in the pavement.

You remembered spending every possible minute with him, down to the nights you'd beg your parents to let him stay for dinner.

"Pleaaaase, Mom?" you would beg, tugging at the edge of her sleeve as she stood over the stove, a boiling pot of water emitting steam into the air. "Just for tonight. Ilia loves pasta!"

And of course, she would oblige, because — much like most of your family — she loved your best friend. Over time, he'd become a second child to her, much like you'd become Tatiana's honorary daughter (until Liza was born, and you were bumped to eldest daughter).

During the cold winters, your mother would bundle you up in your favorite baby pink coat and matching scarf and send you off with Ilia and his parents, who would drive you two to the ice rink. Of course, Ilia's perfect genes made skating feel like walking.

And, well — you fell more times in one session than you had fingers. But with time, and the careful coaching of Tatiana and Roman, you'd finally gathered your footing. Ilia would watch from the sidelines, thick-lensed glasses perched on his nose (with a small crack in the corner from one of the times they'd fallen off), smiling proudly.

What was nothing more than a childlike bond morphed into something deeper, blooming in your teens through stares that lingered a beat too long and touches in passing that felt too intimate to be platonic.

As your relationship developed, so did Ilia's growing spotlight. It started small, at first. A short interview after a competition, usually, and maybe a four-minute YouTube video essay about the up-and-coming son of two former Olympians.

The narrative shifted when Ilia was seventeen. He'd made figure skating history as the first to land a Quad Axel in competition. As the person who'd stood by through every misstep and fall, even holding ice on his bruised knees for hours straight while he rambled on about his mistakes with the television humming softly in the background, you watched with sparkling eyes that could've lit up the venue if the lights had suddenly gone out.

You thought then that you would never be so proud of someone again.

"Ilia, oh my god," you boasted when he finally walked up to you, his costume's bright colors peeking out from beneath his half-zipped navy blue jacket.

He carefully wrapped his arms around your waist. You stepped into his hold, sighing into the softness of his chest. He smelled of spandex and a hint of fresh sweat. It was almost comforting.

"I couldn't have done it without you."

His voice was gentle as he murmured the sentiment into your hair. You laughed quietly, melting deeper into his chest as the crowd noise faded into static behind you.

"Sweet, but that's not true."

"It is."

"Is not."

You pulled back to look at him, expecting the typical lighthearted expression he'd wear. You were met with something harder, which made you uncomfortable when your eyes caught it.

"When I'm too in my head…I look at you, and it all goes away." He lifted a hand and spread his fingers, "Poof."

The air suddenly felt thicker, as if his words emptied a weight you weren't prepared for. And they had. Because you knew Ilia. He never said things he didn't mean.

"…You mean…"

"Haven't I made it obvious that I like you?"

The words landed like a rock on thin ice. They cracked the resolve you'd carefully constructed to shield yourself with denial. To keep yourself from becoming irrational.

This was Ilia — not some boy from school. You had everything to lose with him, and it kept you up some nights, when you would stare heavily at the photo of you and him at your first competition and think. A medal was slung around your neck, and Ilia was holding your flowers so the camera could see both.

That's who he always was. The sweet, caring, thoughtful boy you grew up with, who would go to war for you, if he had to. Even if it started as a brotherly instinct. Even if, along the way, it became a different form of love that he wanted to learn to navigate.

"Do you mean it?"

"You know I do."

A crew member brushed past you with a soft excuse me, but it didn't break the shared gaze. The careful way Ilia's eyes studied your face for a reaction. Hoped for the answer he craved.

Your head curled back into the comforting support of his chest, cheek brushing the USA patch beside the zipper.

"I like you, too, Ilia."

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

The transition from friends to more was gradual. A careful shift that you agreed to take your time with. It moved at a slow pace until things began to feel natural, reaching milestones sometimes weeks apart, though you wouldn't have wished for it go any other way.

The first came two weeks after Ilia's little confession. You were sitting together on his front steps, munching on a shared Hershey's chocolate bar you'd broken in half. The sky was clear, stars shining so brightly that you could have mistaken the sight for a painting.

Ilia had cracked some stupid, corny joke — you playfully wiped the melted chocolate on his pants and left a sticky fingerprint. He yanked your hand away in feigned offense, but he didn't let go.

Instead, as he scanned your face for silent permission, he let his fingers slip between yours, trapping the collected warmth between your palms.

You stayed that way for the following twenty minutes, until his mother called him inside and asked you to get home safely.

The first time Ilia kissed you wasn't too long after. It wasn't grand, either.

He was driving with the windows rolled all the way down, the warm summer breeze blowing in as you listened to quiet music. The car came to a slow halt at a red light.

Ilia leaned over and pecked your lips unceremoniously. Your eyes were wide with shock, but his expression was so sure, even if you'd absolutely hated it. Realization washed over you quicker than the shock came, and your lips curved into a soft smile. The kind that made his heart leap in his chest.

You leaned back in to kiss him again — this time sure of yourself, too. It was slow and awkward, teeth bumping as you worked together to figure it out. It was horrible, and it was perfect.

Neither of you pulled away until the car behind you leaned on its horn. The light had been green for nearly ten seconds, and you hadn't moved an inch. You both jumped, Ilia's foot immediately switched to the gas pedal, and you laughed out the window, the full kind that came from your chest; you'd never been so happy.

Every day that passed felt as natural as that moment — you were just yourselves, and you loved each other just as you were. Ilia was never someone you had to be someone else for.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

Fame crept into your entwined lives when you least expected it. It appeared like something rotten stored in the back of a cabinet — unnoticeable, but there, until the smell eventually left the captivity of the closed door, and you'd have no choice but to confront it.

It was something you vowed to navigate together. And while you enjoyed the attention, interacting with followers on the internet and reposting stupid videos of yourself, Ilia couldn't say the same.

It wasn't just attention. It was a blinding spotlight that followed his every move.

And it was eating him alive.

But you never left his side. Some days came with a sharp edge, when you'd sit against the headboard on Ilia's bed while his head rested on your shoulder. His legs would ache from the nonstop training — failed attempts that resulted in bruises and shallow cuts in fragile skin.

The room would be quiet, save for the hum of the heater kicking on to keep the temperature comfortable. You'd kiss the crown of his head. Whisper a gentle I love you into his hair, just to remind him. To let him know that it was true, no matter what happened that day, or any day after.

There wasn't an exact moment that cemented your importance in Ilia's life. You'd always been there, through his best and worst. But now, as the weight of the world was slowly being placed on his shoulders, you were everything.

Some days, he needed you to breathe.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

"I was thinking of doing Fear."

He announced it as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone on the bed next to him, thighs brushing one another. You didn't look up, but you responded.

"For what?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It's just…really hard to deal with all this. And I want to show it."

You placed the phone face down on the mattress. "I think it's a nice idea," you told him, lowering your palm gently on his knee. "You know I'll support you no matter what."

He rested the side of his head on your shoulder. Your hand rubbed a circular pattern into his knee. His hair brushed the side of your neck, soft and familiar; you smiled, leaning into him.

"Thank you. For being here."

"Always," you whispered, and you meant it.

Ilia was always the steady presence in your life. The light at the end of the tunnel that showed you what it meant to live, to love. And lately, you've had to remind him, because through everything, he'd almost forgotten.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

"Did you guys finish mapping it?"

You stood between his legs, fingers carefully tying a folded bandana around his forehead. You brushed a few strands of hair out of the way, trying not to get them caught.

"Yeah," he nodded, "but I don't think it will be ready any time soon. I haven't brought it to the ice, yet, so…I'm not sure how it will translate."

You kissed the tip of his nose.

"I'm sure it'll be perfect, no matter what."

Ilia stepped forward and wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you snugly into his chest. His necklaces pressed against your cheek as you nuzzled into his nylon shirt. The material still smelled like the faint spritz of the new cologne he'd insisted on spraying earlier that morning.

It was warm and sweet, with a hint of something fresh, familiar — the perfect combination of everything that reminded you of him.

His chin rested on the top of your head.

"How are you always so positive?" he asked softly, swaying back and forth as a cool breeze drifted in when someone walked through the rink door.

"Someone has to be, right?"

"But you're always so…good at it."

You looked up, chin pressing into the valley of his chest. When his gaze met yours, your heart fluttered in your chest; he was so beautiful. Absolutely perfect. And he was yours.

"Because I love you." You leaned in to peck his lips, soft and sure, like the first time Ilia had in his old car. "And that makes me happier than I'll ever have to be."

His neck craned to capture your lips again. A soft brush that deepened when his arms pulled you closer. A low hum transferred into your mouth just before you pulled back.

"C'mon," you whispered, "let's go see that program."

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

It was mid-July when Ilia's schedule was sparse enough to polish the program.

You would accompany him to training sessions, warming up yourself with a few laps and sequences. And once you were done, you'd sit with the bags and shoes and watch. He'd fall into a rhythm. Work through the motions, the sequences, the music.

This routine was different; you saw it in his eyes.

It was personal. It was raw. It was him.

Sure, his competition programs reflected him — his voice was even featured in his latest — but none delved into his head this way.

Even in its incomplete state, you felt the pain spark in your chest.

"It's already looking great," you encouraged when he skated over.

He popped open the water bottle you'd been guarding. Gulped down a sip as a bead of sweat formed on his forehead and dripped onto the ice.

"It's decent," he shrugged. "But it isn't complete."

"It doesn't have to be finished to be good, Ilia."

He shrugged, and you shook your head, laughing as you lifted a hand to ruffle his hair. You ushered him back to center ice and resumed your spot on the bleachers, watching intently for the rest of the session.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

Months later, through various practices and competitions, it was finally complete. And it would be all the more painful now, despite the number of times you'd already watched it.

You found it difficult not to stare with every run-through.

Fingers mimicked a phone. Arms shielded him from spotlights. A collapse midway through.

It wasn't just a program. It was a story.

Ilia's.

You didn't know when he planned to show it to the world. He'd toyed with the notion, yet he seemed unsure. If it would be too much, or not enough, or something people wouldn't care to see. If the whole thing was a doomed idea from the start.

But you reassured him, reminding him of the sentiment he'd always told you in your moments of weakness.

"All athletes go through this," he would say. "It's important to show people that, to speak up on it."

And even if it was barely a fraction of what he was dealing with, you knew that story all too well. Most days, you couldn't even imagine the mental turmoil, even with your own experiences. But for you, as long as he was there, you knew that you would be okay — the same couldn't be said for Ilia.

Spotlights; flashing cameras; headlines; social media posts; endless news outlets with every angle of every step out and mistake and fall. World records. Pressure.

"The favorite."

Having you in his life was the only thing keeping Ilia grounded, even if it didn't show; you had no idea how much you meant to him. None at all.

And you were the reason that Fear would touch broadcasted ice, one day.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

The arena was packed to the brim with fans when the Olympic skaters were introduced. You had already been announced when Ilia's name echoed through the crowd, a series of claps and applause following the noise before he stepped out of the hallway and onto the ice.

You stood carefully beside Roman, but your eyes weren't focused on anything other than your boyfriend. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he'd looked thrilled; it made your heart soar in your chest.

As he stepped off, someone slipped the white USA jacket over his shoulders, and he shrugged it on. The crowd buzzed with excitement as he took his place on the podium. Delivered the sweetest interview while his eyes flitted over to you every few seconds. Just to remind himself that you were there too.

He pridefully slipped the Olympic baseball cap on when they handed it to him, smiling brighter than you'd seen since you were still teenagers.

You remembered four years ago — Beijing, how he'd begged, stripped his body to the bone to make the team. Worked tirelessly to no avail when they told him with finality that he wouldn't be going.

Today, he was happy; you were so proud.

The moment his guarded blade touched the foam mat, you ran. The thousands of eyes weren't a threat anymore. Even if just for this small moment. This was yours.

You jumped into his embrace. His laughter buzzed in your ear, loud and unsteady and perfect.

He didn't try to hide because he didn't have to.

Because he loved you more than the spotlight. Or any single fan perched in one of the burgundy arena seats.

Or anyone, really.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

There you were, in Milan, Italy, with a pair of sunglasses perched on your nose and a large duffel slung over your shoulder, suitcase dragging behind you. Ilia walked closely behind, his own luggage weighing him down as he stumbled in a dramatic display.

"It can't be that heavy," you'd pointed out with a suspicious brow, stopping to let him catch up.

"It is," he countered, but you didn't buy it.

"There is no way you have more in that than I have in mine."

"You don't know that."

It was the casual banter you'd always shared, like finally being in the Olympic village was enough to lift his spirits. And it was, at first — until the pressure began to set in. It was nothing he'd ever experienced before.

You were there for the experience. You weren't going to medal, and that was okay; you just wanted to be there, to prove yourself, and to support Ilia.

Part of you knew this wouldn't be the cake walk a lot of people assumed it would be for him.

Ilia was the gold hopeful — it carried a weight he wasn't prepared to bear, despite the years of torture to reach that point. He was expected to exceed, and with time, you knew it would eventually chip away at him. At his thoughts.

A gradual process that wouldn't hit until it was too late.

And it had.

Maybe a little stronger than either of you had anticipated.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

"I knew you would pull through. I knew it."

Your white Team USA jacket had become half-unzipped as you jumped happily within Ilia's arms.

His hands tried to stay clasped behind your back, sweat was still dripping down his forehead, and his ears were fogged from the perpetual buzz of the audience during the ceremony, but nothing could wipe the smile off his face.

"I don't know about that."

You shook your head. "You're an Olympic gold medalist, Ilia. You won that shit, team event or not, so you better wear it."

Ilia laughed, and you shoved him, arms folding across your chest. The force threatened his balance, and he huffed a tired breath as he walked away from the hallway chock-full of reporters.

"Come on, let's celebrate," you nudged.

"I'm tired."

"You're always tired."

"Yeah, I know," he replied matter-of-factly, one hand wrapped around your waist with the other perched on his hip. "That's kinda my trademark."

"You're no fun. We're in Milan. This is the Olympics, you know. Not Worlds. Live a little."

"Believe me, I know."

He did know; he'd been gnawing at that fact since the moment he stepped off the plane. And he wouldn't let you see it, but it was already eating away at him. He was able to mask it with the win, but that didn't mean by any stretch of the imagination that it hadn't already cemented itself.

After the excitement of the team event wore off, you finally noticed the fear setting in. The nerves shook him by the shoulders. Not enough to crumble. Just a jolt.

The strike of a match that burned near the wick, but hadn't yet caught. Just there. Just present.

Just enough.

It burned through his short program. He let it. The 108.16 placed him at the top.

That night, you were in his dorm. Knees pressed together. Air thick, but not tense. Just heavy, with the weight of something unspoken.

Your hair was still wet from the shower. You borrowed a pair of pants, despite the growing mound of sponsorships in your own dorm (which, in all fairness, you were never really in).

"You were perfect out there," you smiled.

"Finally."

You laughed quietly, leaning your head onto his shoulder. "As if Ilia Malinin ever makes mistakes."

"I do."

"Not big ones."

"Not yet."

Your lips pressed a gentle kiss into the side of his neck. Another just below his jaw. The corner of his mouth when his head turned to look at you. His face was drawing closer, so slowly that it was barely noticeable.

"Day by day," you affirmed as you always had, voice soft at the edges. "Take this win today, chase the next tomorrow."

His mouth landed firmly on yours, his palm ghosting carefully over your waist. He took the cue to pull you comfortably in his lap when you inched a little closer.

It wasn't soft, but it wasn't bruising — rather insistent, like a release of adrenaline still circulating through his body. His thumb rested over your pulse point, feeling the intense heartbeat beneath his touch.

He wanted the release; he needed the calm reassurance. He was sick of hearing words of encouragement and reading headlines with his name in bold letters.

All he needed was the sweet, wordless praise you offered.

It wouldn't lead to anything — you were both tired, and Ilia's mental state was far too fragile for you to pursue anything more in good conscience.

But for those few quiet minutes, with his fingers tentatively brushing the skin below your hoodie, you felt free.

Of the stress, of the upcoming skates, of the eyes following your every move.

It felt nice.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

First placement was like standing at the top of a mountain. Above everyone else, the air thinner, a little cooler. Where safety was nothing but an illusion and could falter with the smallest slip of an ankle. Tumble down at the drop of a hat.

So fast that you could miss it.

But it would still happen.

The inevitable crash.

Eighth place.

Your face was frozen in a state of absolute shock. You'd arrived at the free skate alone, too afraid and bundled with nerves to sit alongside another person.

As he gave Mikhail a congratulatory hug, you sat with your hands over your mouth.

Your head could barely form a thought amid the swirl of confusion and disappointment.

You were horrified for him. Because, as much as you stayed at his side with your full, unwavering support, it hadn't been enough.

The attention had gotten to him. The eyes. The expectations. The overwhelming pressure.

Ilia looked ruined.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

The hallway had finally fallen dull; reporting voices faded, the flash of cameras halted, and heat left with the bodies of temporary inhabitants.

You pushed past the exiting crowd with hesitation. Your eyes were looking forward, but your head was somewhere else — thinking of him, ignoring everyone else, disregarding the offended gasp when you bumped into someone.

You caught the distant glimpse of dirty blonde hair, and your feet dealt with the rest.

In a blur, you were stepping up to him, tapping his shoulder, and pulling him into your arms like second nature. He melted into your hold; you felt his body sigh against yours.

"Oh, Ilia," you whispered into his hair, flattening your palm over the back of his head and urging his chin to your shoulder.

"I fucked it up."

"I know, I know."

Your lips brushed the crown of his head; his hair was flat from pushing it back, still a little damp at the root.

"It's okay. You're okay. Everything is fine."

"I let it get to me," he muttered. "When I got out there, I — I tanked."

Roman glanced over from behind him. He tilted his head, as if to ask, "Is he okay?"

You offered a soft nod. He will be.

He turned around to grab his things and gave a soft wave as he walked away. He knew Ilia would be in better hands; maybe he didn't want to see him right then, anyway.

You lifted from Ilia's shoulder and pulled back, slipping your palm up to his cheek.

"Ilia, look at me."

He turned.

"You know that one performance doesn't define you."

He shrugged.

"You haven't lost in over two years," you continued softly, running your thumb along the expanse of his cheek, rosy from the brisk rink air. "Fourteen times. Today…It doesn't make any of that go away."

His eyes drifted shut as he nodded slowly. He was listening — just drained. And he knew you wouldn't accept any of what he wanted to say, even if he had tried to speak.

"Come on," you told him softly as your hand left his face in favor of his lower back, "get changed, and we'll head back."

As you walked down the near-empty corridor, your free hand patted the center of his chest. The contact loosened his muscles; you felt them relax beneath your fingertips. He mumbled about every little mistake as if he'd been replaying the skate over and over in his head like a tape that wouldn't pause.

Your heart ached for him — there were only so many assurances you could offer, and you weren't too sure that any of them would help this time around.

On the bus ride back, he murmured about Beijing into your shoulder.

Back in the dorm bed, after a long, scalding hot shower, your arms wrapped around him. His body pressed heavily into yours, head lying carefully on your chest. Exhaustion laced his features — both mental and physical.

Your fingers carded softly through his hair just the way he liked it, fingertips brushing against and soothing his scalp.

"Day by day, Illie," you whispered as he slowly drifted off, your breath eventually lulling him to sleep.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

The following day passed in a strange blur of caution and masked disappointment. Ilia's media availabilities had been promptly cancelled to give him space. A little room to breathe that he desperately needed.

The weight gradually lifted as the week dragged along. Once he was back on the ice, things got a little easier.

You sat on the small bed with your arms pressed together the night before your free skate. You'd practiced a little yourself that morning, while Ilia trained for the Gala. It was a tiring day for both of you.

And, as if on cue, you knocked on his door just when he needed the reminder to breathe.

"You don't have to be strong right now," you told him as his head landed on your shoulder, the tips of his hair grazing the side of your neck. "You have every right not to be."

"I did it to myself."

"That shouldn't make it any less painful."

Your arm snaked around his back and pulled him further into your side. He swallowed as your hand rubbed the side of his arm soothingly.

"You don't have to be Ilia Malinin with me," you whispered. "Just Ilia. I fell in love with him. Not the medalist."

He closed his eyes and listened to your voice, offering a nod at your sappy words.

And the next day, he didn't have to be anyone but your biggest supporter.

Ilia insisted that watching you skate made all the difference in his mood. You scoffed, saying it should take a lot more than that to eliminate the pain of a very public, very inflicted loss.

But it was true, as much as the reverse. He adored watching you just as much as you loved watching him.

The sound of your blades scuffing resurfaced ice, your light pink and green dress flowing at your waist as you spun, your tightly-curled hair cascading down your back.

A clip of Ilia cheering circulated around the internet; him jumping out of his seat, yelling, urging the people around him to cheer for his girlfriend, too. Because he would've been damned to let you go unnoticed just because you weren't going to medal.

You gracefully delivered your bows, smiling outwardly at the audience — you were simply elated to have skated on real Olympic ice. You didn't care about anything else.

You could have tumbled, and you probably would have been just as happy.

But you hadn't; your free skate was flawless, and you felt as if you'd somehow been transported into the clouds, weightless as you skated off the ice and blew endless kisses to the crowd and camera.

Ilia's face contracted the same ear-to-ear smile you wore as he stood in the crowd, still buzzing. You were perfect — you were his.

It was moments like these that reminded him of what he had — what he would never give up, for all the money and medals in the world.

He found you in the corridor just after the event ended. The hallway bustled with people, from skaters to staff to reporters, all looking for Alysa amid the chaos.

Yet Ilia found you first, in the same spot you'd approached him two days earlier, and hoisted you into his arms.

"You were amazing."

You giggled breathily, hands splaying over his back to keep from falling onto the matted floor. "I know," you teased. "I was pretty great."

He kissed the side of your head, lips lingering on your hairline as staff members passed by with setups and equipment, making their way to the ice.

You hadn't seen this version of Ilia in months; it felt like a breath of fresh air.

"I'm so proud of you."

"Then we're both on the same page," you whispered, but he shook his head.

"This isn't about me."

"Right," you affirmed. "It's about us. We skated on Olympic ice, medal or not, and if my memory serves, you're a gold medalist."

"Whatever."

"Stop being so self-deprecating, Ilia." You planted a kiss on his cheek, thankful for the artificial height your skates provided. "You're literally ranked first in the world."

"But,"

"But nothing. Come on, you have sleep to catch up on and a lot of training to do."

You tugged him down the dense corridor by the wrist. Ilia swore he clipped a phone dipping in his direction, and he was fairly certain a video of him being dragged around was going to surface the next day.

Well, at least he'd look happy doing it.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

"You're gonna do great."

Your fingers fluffed his hair until the front strands framed his face the way you wanted it to. His gray hoodie was bunched underneath his elbows as he tightened his belt around his waist.

"I hope."

"It was the nerves that broke you down, not your ability," you reminded him before stepping back to admire your work. "You spam quad axels like they're singles."

He dropped the sweatshirt and smoothed it over his stomach with flat palms. You internally frowned.

So what, if you wanted to ogle your boyfriend's waist a little more? Couldn't kill a girl for trying.

The thought slipped out of your head when you saw the nervous glint in his eye. The one you recognized instantly, after noting it time and time again over the years. That only appeared when his brain was gnawing on something he hadn't said aloud.

"I have something to prove," he stated plainly.

"I know," as you stepped closer, brushing a spec of something unidentified off his shoulder, "but that's what will make it that much better. Show them what you're made of. Tell them you're not going anywhere."

Your chin nudged the valley of his chest; his hands came around to your waist. "They don't know what it feels like to be in your position. I don't even know. So give them a reason to shut their mouths and leave you alone."

"Do you always know what to say?"

"Obviously," you pecked his chest through the thick hoodie.

His fingers flexed at your waist as he craned his neck. A faint grin played on his mouth with his eyes zeroed on your lips.

"Ah, ah," you tsked, "not yet."

"I can't kiss my girlfriend now?"

"I saw that look."

He'd wear it when he wanted something.

"You can do it all you want after you've performed. Speaking of…I think it's time you head out there, hm?"

He obliged, albeit begrudgingly.

Together, you walked toward the designed archway, where a small circle of people had accumulated. Coaches and staff members, skaters awaiting their performances with zipped jackets and twiddling hands.

You greeted the others sweetly with Ilia's hand still perched on the small of your back; the touch was firm, steady. He wouldn't voice it here, but he just needed something to ground him.

And like that — it was his turn.

You followed closely behind as he carefully toed into the arena. Eyes were so focused on Kaori's skate that no one had yet noticed his arrival.

As her performance came to a close, you clapped happily with a soft smile that she'd noticed as she stepped off the ice. You greeted her with a gentle hug and a warm congratulations as she made her way back to the filled corridor.

Ilia slipped his blade covers off and placed them into your waiting hands. He stole a quick kiss anyway, at which you glared in response.

And left a whispered I love you as he took the ice and perched himself on the edge of the boards.

Then, the first ping of a notification.

Your heart ticked as you sat beside Roman.

The program unfolded slowly. Timid gestures turned to aching glances. Hands pulled at his hair as he mouthed Is this what you wanted? at the camera.

The backflip hit. Crowd noise filtered out the music. He entered a blended sequence of frantic movements, arms flailing at his sides, hands fisting his hair, head shaking. Tension released in a Bauer.

A tear rolled down your cheek somewhere toward the end.

The music stopped, and you rose on impulse. Your heart pounded in your chest. You stood completely still with your hands level at your sides, unable to even lift them to clap.

Tear-brimmed eyes followed his weak movements. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Roman met him at the door to hand him the blade covers. You stared.

And of course, he found you.

The embrace was everything he couldn't find the words to say. It was an apology and a thank you wrapped into one warm, all-consuming moment.

His breath stuttered against your shoulder as your hand found the back of his head. Fresh tears cascaded down your face and collected at the corner of your mouth.

You didn't care how many eyes were on you.

You didn't care if you never touched ice again.

The softness of his sweatshirt caressed your body, radiating the warmth from the skin beneath the fabric. The comforting scent of his sweet cologne from the summer etched into the material as if to engulf you with his presence.

The audience faded into obscurity, morphing into a dull hum.

A soft kiss followed, of poured emotion and a timidness that only existed amongst the thousands of watchful eyes. He didn't aim to draw attention; just ached for the warm press of your lips.

"You were perfect," you beamed.

His forehead leaned against yours. Chests just barely touched.

"Couldn't have been without you."

"You said that the first time."

"And I meant it."

You laughed at the absurdity of his claim.

"Oh, hold on." You lifted your hand into the air and spread your fingertips in a bursting motion. "Poof?"

"Now you're getting it," with a grin stretched across his face as he craned his neck to capture your lips again.

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

Walking through the door to his dorm was quiet, a silent agreement established between aligned gazes as the metal clicked shut.

Ilia stepped forward.

He kissed you first with his palms on either side of your face, thumbs tracing circles into the skin until he'd memorized the texture all over again.

Movements were slow and deliberate, messy in execution but purposeful with every gentle drag of a tongue, every part of lips to let a small breath escape.

It was long overdue. The eventual liberation of tension, which had been gradually building up day by day for four excruciating years. Nerves which had pulsed through every vein in Ilia's body until he finally gained the strength to set them to rest. Bared himself to the world.

Your hand moved from his shoulder to his hair, while the other gripped his hoodie's thick fabric like a lifeline. He let a soft noise slip into your mouth, and you pulled him closer.

His hold on you was tight — scared, as if you would disappear if his grip loosened even slightly.

"I'm here," were the first words you whispered with your back pressed to the mattress. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Good."

His voice sounded as if it had been shredded into pieces and only halfway stitched back together.

Layers were shed carefully and tossed to the cold hardwood, skin warm to the touch, limbs tangled together like pieces of a puzzle sliding into place. His cold metal necklaces left a shiver where they touched.

Somewhere in the mix, Ilia had laced his fingers with yours. His thumb brushed the outer shell of your hand as if it was mapping out every detail — or perhaps, just reminding himself you were there.

God, he loved you.

Cool air ultimately swept over warm skin, its thickness dissipating in a gradual descent alongside jaded frames melting into the sheets. Your shared breaths steadied and fell into a quiet rhythm.

Your head rested just below Ilia's collarbone. The warmth from your palm spread through his chest. His hand rested over yours, muffled heartbeat drummed in your ear.

"Sometimes I still think about the day you landed the quad," you mentioned out of the blue. "Before…all of this."

His fingertips skated along your ribs. "Yeah?"

"Mhm," you nodded. "In the blue and pink costume…You were pacing like a madman trying to decide whether to go for it or not."

"It was a hard decision."

"And I told you to, because I knew you would land it."

"Which is another reason I thanked you for."

"And, it led to this," you added happily. "Us. And, y'know, all that in between stuff. Congrats on the million, by the way."

"That was a week ago."

"Then I take it back."

He shook his head and laughed amusedly to himself; the first smile that lit up his face in months, aside from your free skate.

"I think about it, too," he finally added.

Your hand slid up to his jaw, letting his fingers glide down to the outer bend at your elbow.

"I thought you were the prettiest boy in the world that day."

The pad of your thumb ran over one of the moles just below Ilia's nose — traced a path to the corner of his lip.

"You still are."

He smiled.

The two of you stayed that way, fell into calm conversation as your body curled into his. He talked about Worlds coming up in March. Said that he would be training right up to the short, and you guessed that, by association, you'd be accompanying him in that.

You'd pointed to the console sitting below the television set and asked if he was actually going to use it, now that the events were over. He nudged your arm in retaliation — he'd spent enough time distracting himself from you, pressure and all.

And eventually, your eyelids grew too heavy to hold open.

Your head nuzzled into the warmth of his chest. The lingering fragment of coconut still stuck to the skin, carrying the scent you'd now attributed to him.

"You did great tonight, Ilia."

As he breathed through his nose, a light breeze fanned your face. His arms held you a little closer.

"Always my #1."

You thought that day, four years ago, that you could never be prouder of someone.

Yet there you were, proving yourself wrong.

Because Ilia's best was never final; he could only ever be better.

In most people's eyes — especially yours — he was everything. And you'd always be there to remind him.

That no single moment defined him. No mistake determined his ability.

Surely, no eighth-place ranking.

None of what happened erased who he was and what he'd already accomplished. And nothing ever would.

Even if a little fear got in the way sometimes.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

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

love you all and thank you to everyone wanting to be tagged <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

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, established relationship, fingering, roman spotted??, p in v, protected sex (we cheered), they have sex with his medal on, he kinda makes fun of her for being turned on by that, implied second round

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️🥇𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

you don't remember how you ended up here.

you're not even an athlete. in fact, you don't think you have an athletic bone in your body. yet still, you managed to snag over a month's time off at your job, convince your professors to excuse any late work, and complete said assignments at 3:00 in the morning (milan time, of course).

it's not every day that your boyfriend competes in his first olympic games; nor is it that you get the chance to accompany him.

but this?

it isn't exactly an everyday occurrence.

or ever,

…really.

ilia's palms skate over bare skin, exposed ribs that absorb the warmth from his hands. your head — emptied — rests carefully on the fluffed pillow behind you.

a long, heavy sigh when his fingers curl around your waist just to draw you near.

and the gold medal hanging around his neck; that's a new one.

"i cannot believe you want me to leave this thing on," his voice muffled by your neck, lips dragging over the skin until they reach the curve where it meets your shoulder.

"because it's hot, ilia," as the medal brushes cold over the center of your chest; heavy.

"you're freaked out."

you smile, your upper body shaking with a gentle laugh. your fingers slip into his hair, guide him along your skin.

he pushes the band of your sleep shorts down — disregarding the fragile material — until your hips lift.

the clock burns somewhere around one in the morning. you should be asleep, counting sheep instead of numbers of fingers pressing into you.

the heavy gold sits in the valley of your chest; a delicious threat to your breathing that you make no effort to minimize. his fingers dip further in, curling into the spot he knows you like. it pries a low hum from your throat, nothing more than casual approval.

the embossed olympic rings brand their shape into your skin, medal trapped between heavy breaths. his free hand rests at your ribcage, thumb pressing into the muscle just firmly enough for you to feel its warmth.

it's almost embarrassing how well ilia has learned you. to treat your body with the exact calculated measure that nearly makes your soul lift.

but you love him for it. and if the electrified — yet strikingly intimate — sex is anything to go by, he'd say he does a pretty good job.

as his mouth draws kisses into slick skin, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. you laugh from below, a sharp intake of breath when his fingers slip out. he wipes them dry on the edge of the bed, reaches over, and tilts the screen toward him until the facial recognition unlocks.

his father; something about the practice tomorrow morning. the phone thunks back onto the table.

"that's gross, you know. touching your phone like that."

"you want me to keep an olympic medal on while we have sex, and your issue lies with my dirty fingers," he blinks.

but you don't protest; he's shaking his head and returning to the column of your neck before a defensive thought can form. a soft, teasing kiss to the skin that melts into your body.

his fingers fish around the nightstand — the room dark besides the moonlight streaming through the sheer blinds — and produce a wrapper. similar to the many you've already gone through since the plane landed in milan.

you're lucky ilia was so prideful that he had the nerve to pack his own condoms.

seriously, ten thousand in less than two weeks?

foil tearing, excess wrapper spat onto the floor. you swallow, holding his bicep tighter, heart beating beneath the steady weight of gold.

his eyes find yours with a silent question; you nod, eyebrows suddenly knitted together.

careful pressure when the tip pushes in. heavier with every inch. his hand nudges the bend in your knee until your heel lifts from the hard mattress. instinctively, you let the curve rest at his waist, pulling him deeper.

ilia breathes from above; the medal dangles dangerously below your chin, over a pound of weight threatening to bruise skin if he makes one wrong move.

but he doesn't.

it's one, two careful motions to adjust before presses turn to angled thrusts. adrenaline radiating into the brisk dorm air from his body — after the near-perfect free skate, medal-winning performance, the ceremony that set his victory in stone.

spots cloud your vision with every push, the calculated, demanding drag of his cock along your walls. you breathe into his ear, a soft murmur of his name with the little russian twang you adopted that makes his stomach curl.

fingers fisting into the soft hair on his head, a little tug when he brushes the sensitive spot buried in your lower stomach. the medal shifts against your chest, and an unwanted whimper pries itself out of your throat. ilia grins; dips his head to kiss the corner of your mouth where a droplet of sweat once lay.

your manicured nails press into his shoulder blade. firm, grounding. telling him to keep going just like that, without explicitly stating it.

"beautiful," ilia mumbles into the side of your head, hand resting at your hip.

damn right.

you tug at his hair until your lips find his, kissing him to soften the ache between your thighs. languid rolls of his tongue over yours — stark contrast to the heaviness of his thrusts as they pull the air from your lungs.

your free hand slides up to his chest, fingertips brushing the lanyard around his neck. you try to wrap them around it, grip the silky material for stability, but his hand finds yours before you can get a hold.

"it'll break," he breathes low, chest rising with a heavy breath.

"but ilia—"

"shh."

he hums into your mouth; places your hand at his bicep, and doesn't let up until he feels your fingers grip the taut muscle.

someone in the hallway mutters his name as if they can't be heard — a whisper meant to serve as gossip. you laugh, pull him closer until your strength waivers.

his voice falls to a breathy whisper against the column of your neck; a command in russian that you've become familiar with, that pulls at your stability like a thread. the gentle nature of his voice sends a wave through your spine and settles in your stomach, where the line of tension finally snaps at his word.

gripping him until your knuckles turn white, you gasp for breath — just hushed enough to go unnoticed by the rooms adjacent. the medal's cool gold surface shifts toward your neck, resting just above your collarbone as ilia lifts.

release coating the length of him and finding its way onto the clean, lavender-scented sheets beneath you. a moan falling from your boyfriend's parted lips that resonates in your ears, your chest, your belly, your core.

his cheek — flushed, warm — presses to the side of your head with a swell of passing breaths. the weight of his body atop yours and the medal just below your throat, relief slowly drifting into your muscles, is heavy to bear.

your fingers trace the dip of his collarbone. ilia breathes, a small puff of breath grazing the tip of your ear. the room is suddenly quiet. stripped bare of the tension that once graced the four walls.

"did you get what you wanted?"

his voice soft, a little frail at the edge as he asks the tentative question.

"mhm," you nod, brushing back a strand of hair that was stuck to his forehead. your hand lowers to his shoulder, fingertips grazing the silky edge.

"perfect, as usual."

ilia laughs.

"good."

your eyes trail down to the medal, where they linger for a few comfortably silent moments. your fingers find the sharpened edge, glide forward until the embossed olympic rings press into the skin.

he watches with a smile.

you're smiling, too.

"i'm proud of you, ilia," you whisper softly into the air; the words disappear as they leave your tongue, just loudly enough to reach his ears.

his smile grows, and he releases a small huff of air.

you tilt your head to kiss him, gently, running your fingers through his hair to relax his muscles.

he shifts, kissing a path along the side of your face and bringing the cold metal surface with him, letting it brush firmly against the underside of your jaw. with the sudden movement, you wince, fingers finding his bicep again and squeezing gently. the pressure doesn't alleviate the ache between your thighs.

ilia apologizes; hums a gentle apology into your hairline as he pulls the remaining length out and breathes.

he kisses the tip of your nose; the corner of your mouth; your top lip.

"i love you," he murmurs in a tone so soft that it almost sounds as if he thinks he needs to remind you.

your gaze flits to the medal, then to his lips, and lands back on his blue eyes, careful in their stare.

filled with love and affection and everything in between that he can never place the words to say.

"i love you, too," you respond with conviction, fingers tugging playfully at the overgrown strands of hair in their hold. you let them trail back down until they curl into the silky lanyard, "and this."

ilia shakes his head, laughing as his head cranes to slot his lips with yours again.

a little firmer.

a little messier.

a little hungrier.

and, well —

with that stupid medal still around his neck.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @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

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: mostly fluff, yearning ilia, kissing (desperate), little bit of angst, reheated zingnik crumbs but idc, she fell first but he fell HARDER, lots of hand holding and touching and lingering glances and—

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

it was always singles.

always just you.

you didn't like to rely on other people. not really.

at fifteen, your parents drove you to the rink like any other normal day. your mom carried your bag, your dad held your skates, and you…woefully bared the weight of your water bottle.

and when you walked in, a boy your age was perched against the boards.

no taller than you. a pair of chunky glasses resting beside his forearm.

a blonde woman beside him that must have been his mother.

your parents informed you there that ilia — whose name you came to find out — was going to be your new skating partner.

of course, you protested — how could they? didn't they consider that you liked to be alone?

but they were damn persistent, and…you guessed he wasn't so bad.

spoiler: he wasn't.

learning to work together was difficult, sure, but you eventually found a rhythm. and you grew to like ilia, who wasn't so different from you, after all.

when you saw him in his glasses for the first time, you fought the urge to laugh right in his face.

to be fair, he was sixteen and sporting the single most old-man pair you might have ever seen, nevermind that his vision was so strikingly bad that the lenses were visibly thick.

but as you grew older, they became a trait you liked about ilia.

when he wore them, he wasn't fronting.

he was just him.

that, you liked.

with age came new experiences for both of you — you had to navigate changing bodies, complex sequences, appearances in the media that you quickly learned would be twisted into some sort of romantic ordeal.

social media was brutal — you already knew that much — but when the primary assumption for any pair your age is that you're, at the very least, fucking? well, that was a culture shock that neither of you were prepared for.

this was ilia; the boy you met with a crew cut and a -2.50 prescription.

well — maybe you did have a little bit of a thing for him.

or, do.

you think it started when you turned eighteen. ilia bleached his head for the first time and showed up to practice entirely blond. shocking, to say the least, but you liked it.

it was the first time you ever touched his hair outside of a lift or piece of choreography.

ilia didn't protest.

you didn't want him to.

that day, a gear turned within your chest; something unspoken bloomed in the blink of an eye.

it pulsed with every touch — on and off the ice — that lingered for too long. every glance with blue eyes that softened at the edges. every curve of his lips when he was proud of you, or when you'd said something funny, or really, when he remembered you were there.

you have this way of making ilia malinin soft; something no one else on earth has the privilege of achieving.

but he wouldn't ever let you know that.

not because he didn't want you to.

he did.

but because he was — and still is — too afraid of fracturing the best part of his life.

and if that means suppressing the unrequited feelings into the darkest crevices of his heart, then he will.

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

"do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if you stayed in singles?"

you're perched on the edge of a rock — no higher than ten feet above the grass — gazing at the sunset before you. the sky is illuminated in a soft orangey-yellow, the sun halfway through its descent below the horizon.

ilia sits quietly beside you, keeping a mindful distance of two feet away from your still frame. his hand braces the weight of his body between you; the rock's jagged surface dusts his palm, occasionally digging angrily into the skin, though he doesn't move.

his head turns slowly to meet the side of your face as your eyes remain focused on the yellowing sky above.

he clears his throat; turns back to the soft fairfax skyline, where the sun's dimming light reflects off the clock tower.

"sometimes, yeah."

a gentle breeze passes through the air; it brushes your exposed skin.

"do you think there would be less…noise?" you ask, as if your counterpart's answer could somehow mend the sudden wound in your heart. "i mean…less…everything?"

"you mean attention?" he inquires, at which you nod softly. "i don't know."

"neither do i."

ilia swallows.

"it's just…a lot of pressure, you know?" you breathe, fingers toying absentmindedly with the hem of your thin jacket, a deep blue, decorated with team usa logos and colors. "sometimes i just…wonder if it would be less to bear if i didn't have to worry about all…this."

you don't need to gesture for him to know what you mean.

"maybe," ilia hums.

in three days, you'll be on a plane to your third senior world championship as a pair. the last two years were like trial runs — careful, calculated, safe. but this year, you've become somewhat of a favorite.

the pair that finally broke out of their shell.

but now, the pressure is on — it's heavier than you ever expected.

"don't you ever think about where you'd be now? if you'd still be under this kind of pressure?"

"i used to," he answers honestly, "but…we're a team, and we carry the weight together."

his hand inches carefully toward yours — nothing he hasn't done handfuls of times during the kiss and cry, or surely even a fraction of the way he holds you during a program.

his warm skin brushes the edge of your hand.

nothing to suggest.

just comfort.

same as always.

just ilia.

"and we're gonna medal next week," he adds firmly, eyes locked on yours when your head slowly turns to him. "okay?"

a smile tugs at your lips.

"okay," you whisper back.

ilia's smile mirrors yours.

warm, comforting. platonic.

though the way your hearts hammer in your chests suggests otherwise.

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

it's a matter of hours before the short program.

your short program; perhaps, the single most important qualifier of your careers.

your muscles are tense; your head feels heavy; the room spins around you like some kind of theme park ride that you can't step out of.

ilia's voice brings you back down to reality. it always seems to have that effect on you.

"relax," he nudges your shoulder, the thick material of his hoodie brushing your arm.

an unfamiliar chill runs down your back.

"we've done this plenty of times. 100% success rate," he reassures you with a lopsided smile, stepping in front of you until you're forced to look at him.

you laugh — loudly, in fact. so loud that one of the other skaters turns to find the origin of the noise, only to see you half-keeled over in front of ilia, who blinks at the sight.

"did i say something wrong?"

"what are you wearing?"

ilia looks down.

okay, so maybe the black and gold sneakers are a little too flashy for a competition. or — is it the black sweatpants hanging too loosely around his waist? god forbid they make small enough men's sizes…but that isn't right, either. it can't be that.

oh.

it's the naruto t-shirt, isn't it?

"oh…"

"ilia, you're twenty-one — oh, my god," you fight the urge to laugh again, but all it does is force a loud cough out of your throat. a bead of sweat embarrassingly forms at your forehead, and you're quick to swipe it away. "twenty-one years old. that is for," another cough, "—kids. and the — the shoes."

"you've known me since i was like, fifteen. you literally have known this. you've probably seen me wear it."

he sounds awfully confused.

"i know," you manage through another laugh, then swallow. "i know…"

and as the words leave your lips, your shoulders slump; the final syllable drags past your lips. the smile that had just graced your face dissipates, faltering until a new expression forms.

uncertainty.

fear.

the familiar warmth of ilia's embrace envelops you. his arms find their way around your neck, where his elbows rest just at the edges of your shoulders.

you sink your head into his chest; the gentle aroma of coconut and flora wafts into your airways. it's just enough to calm the nerves, something familiar amidst the newness of this whole experience.

"i don't wanna fuck this up," you mumble into the faded t-shirt.

ilia's heart skips; beats a little faster when your breath grazes the inner edge of his bicep.

"you won't. we won't," he reassures you quietly.

"you promise?"

he pauses.

you tilt your head upward at the loss of noise. but you find him already looking back at you, a sureness in his gaze that — similarly to most of this — isn't so familiar.

"cross my heart."

the smile returns to your lips, a little softer at the edges, a little warmer where it needs to be. the heat spreads to the fingertips resting on his lower back. he feels them press firmly into the tattered t-shirt fabric.

holding him tighter, as if to imply that this moment — even with handfuls of eyes and cameras watching — means something.

more than just a stupid competition.

or some medal.

or even your career.

and all the while, ilia's eyes never leave your face.

not a passing glance at someone walking by, the loud noise when someone drops their water bottle.

just his eyes on you.

he stays this way until you're calm enough to pull back.

admires.

loves.

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the crowd noise is dull when the score flashes on the screen.

you've qualified.

you nearly jump out of your seat as a smile spreads across your face.

fifth place.

that's tangible.

most other pairs in your position would be merely satisfied; you and ilia are grateful to even be advancing. taking this moment one step at a time.

as you stand from the kiss and cry, ilia's palm finds the small of your back. he keeps it tentatively in place, skin barely brushing the fabric of your dress.

but you feel it.

the hesitation.

the small voice in your head tells you to lean into it.

you don't.

you think that if you do, everything will start to change.

and right now, the last thing you need is a distraction.

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the next day passes in a blur.

ilia takes you out to explore the city; your nerves cloud your mind so heavily that you barely enjoy the moment.

the weather is warmer here than at home, the sun shining down on your bodies and casting a warm glow onto your faces. you reach into your bag and slip on your sunglasses, while ilia watches — jealousy bleeds into his features.

you quickly spot the familiar look.

"y'know, if you didn't want to deal with the sun, then you could have just worn your contacts."

ilia rolls his eyes and pushes the thick pair of glasses up his nose. "i'd rather not have plastic in my eyes when i don't have to."

"then don't look at me like that," you glare, raising your hand and giving his bicep a squeeze.

"like what?"

but when you look back at him, the playful jealousy is gone.

it's that look; the one from the night you watched the sunset.

blue eyes softened behind slightly fogged glasses. something implicit behind them that you refuse to name. hesitation etched in his features.

ilia doesn't hesitate around you.

you've been inseparable since you were fifteen years old.

yet here, in the sun, where the only noise around is the calm music from the nearby village, he can't find his footing. even though he knows what you meant.

he knows you were joking about the sunglasses.

but he can't shake the idea that you meant more than that.

…has he always looked this soft when he's flushed?

no.

you blink, clear your throat; no distractions.

"like you want to kill me."

dismissive. denial, even.

you take a long, heavy breath of fresh air into your lungs, letting it settle in your chest before blowing it carefully back out. you'll be damned to speak something so complicated aloud today. it can wait. it always waits.

"i'm scared…for tomorrow," you settle on, itching to get something — anything — off your chest, despite this being the obvious second.

"we're gonna be fine."

like a flipped switch, he's back to normal — the cool, collected ilia malinin that everyone seems to enjoy.

the version of him that settles your nerves and stores them up all the same, like a slow-burning candle that first smelled sweet, now slowly approaching the base of its wick.

sometimes, you think you're the only one it affects this way.

"you don't know that," you still add, because most times, he's all you have to talk to.

"i do."

you step carefully onto the chipped wood of an old, narrow bridge; the water below drifts calmly along its path, emitting a soft, pleasant noise that soothes the ache in your chest for a fraction of a second.

when you place a hand on the railing, you feel the roughness beneath your fingertips. the surface is warm from the sunlight overhead. comforting, despite the nerves rumbling in your chest and stomach.

a cool breeze brushes over your face.

"we've barely made it this far before, ilia," you finally whisper, voice just loud enough to reach his ears as your eyes watch the water run along the dirt. "it feels like — like so much pressure weighing on me, on us. if we don't medal, what are we? are we doomed to just be average? do we even have a chance in hell tomorrow?"

ilia shakes his head. "hey, hey," he hums, palm splaying over the small of your back in the spot it always slides perfectly into. "you're getting carried away. none of that is going to happen."

"but what if it does?"

ilia pauses, letting a long beat of silence pass until he feels the muscles beneath his fingers relax. only then does he step half an inch closer — enough to maintain the careful distance between you, to remain…whatever this is.

"do you remember the first time we skated together?"

"like, competition?"

"no," he hums. "skated. really skated. the first day we took our short to ice."

"a little bit, yeah," you shrug. "…why?"

"it was the first time we really had to work together. doing it on mats was a step, but nothing worked until we were on knives."

you always laughed when he called them that.

a smile tugs at the corner of your lip.

"one throw. nothing crazy, right? that's all we wanted to accomplish that day."

you nod slowly, swallowing when his thumb brushes your lower back in circles. "yeah…and when we did it, you reached into your bag and pulled out a hershey bar."

"okay, that wasn't important, but — whatever."

"it was to me."

his thumb freezes for a second.

then continues as if it never stopped.

"my point is…we spent that whole day thinking we wouldn't be able to do it. all week, you dreaded putting skates on."

you nudge his shoulder, and he laughs; that soft, little giggle that melts your heart when it almost turns to a squeak.

"but we did it, and i still don't think i've ever seen you as happy as you were the exact second you landed on that blade." he turns to you, lowering his voice as if anyone is around to hear it. "except for yesterday."

you meet his gaze.

and for a moment, your smile falters.

ilia almost doesn't notice.

but he catches the shift.

his hand stills again, and all that comes to mind is the night in fairfax. all you see is the boy who chipped off a corner of your heart and slipped between the cracks when you were eighteen.

ilia wanted to kiss you that night.

he wanted to kiss you last night.

he wants to kiss you today.

yet all he does is lift a hand to ruffle your hair, mumbling a soft reassurance into the cool air between you as you remove your hands from the bridge's tattered wood and walk forward, heading for the restaurant emilea and vadym have been waiting in.

though the ghost of his fingertips never quite vanishes from your exposed skin, up to the moment your head hits the pillow in the quiet of your hotel room, hours later.

༄⋆₊❅.🥉⛸️🥉𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the pair just before you step onto the ice.

their music is calm, a warm melody as pink and white costumes wisp through the air.

you're anything but calm. everything but.

ilia stands idly beside you, the space so quiet that you can hear the soft blow when he breathes. seconds later, he's fixing the fabric at your shoulder — he thinks it somehow got twisted.

the tender brush of his fingers along the edge of your neck should relax you. you find your heartbeat quickening in your chest instead, a spot of sweat forming in the center of your palm, a breath far too heavy passing your lips.

"are you okay?"

his voice breaks the silence. you swallow.

of course, he noticed.

"yeah," you breathe, "just…thinking."

he flattens his palm over the spot where the costume meets your skin. you feel the warmth and close your eyes. another thick swallow.

"we've been lights out all season," he whispers, and you swear you feel the edge of his lip graze your hair. "you gotta let go."

"it's easier said than done, ilia—"

"—so do it."

you almost turn to him when his mouth draws too close to your ear.

but then,

"you're on."

security ushering you into the arena.

blade guards slipping off. the crunch of fresh ice under thin blades. hands shaking at your sides. reaching center ice as a foreign announcer shouts your names.

ilia's hands finding their places on your body as he sets into position.

all a routine. all calculated. all the same song and dance.

the music starts.

the first throw lands like butter. something of a grin tugs at your mouth. not wide, not noticeable, just there as a subtle ounce of relief.

elements falling into place as if they're meant to be there. the flawless synchronization of a jump, lines extending through flowing limbs, your half-pinned hair brushing the side of his face when you're close.

a lift with intertwined limbs that never felt intimate until now.

until you're landing centimeters apart.

when the music becomes nothing but noise, and the muscle memory carries the weight of the moment.

when your eyes find his, and the switch finally flips.

let go.

so you do.

every move feels intentional, but not in the way it usually would. as if it isn't all an act for points. as if any of this is more than the competition, more than winning, more than proving yourselves worthy to a bunch of nobodies watching from their tattered sofas.

and when you reach the final pose, it barely lasts for a second — him, knelt on the ground beside you with a hand on your arm, and you, standing upright and looking away.

ilia rises to his feet and hoists you into his arms, hand sliding up to the back of your head as you bury the side of your face in his shoulder.

he sniffles loudly enough for you to hear.

ilia malinin is confident — he doesn't cry.

yet here he is, a tear or two streaming down rosy cheeks, with you melted in his hold, regardless of the thousands surrounding you.

"i told you," is what he manages as you swiftly slip away and take your bows. a proud smile graces your lips as you skate off, leaning over to snatch a small, brown teddy bear from the ice whose fur reminds you of him.

an old woman beckons you over to the railing when you step off the ice and lowers a handmade flower crown into your palms. you smile softly and thank her, slipping it onto your head while ilia does the same.

you take your spots in the kiss and cry.

ilia's hand ghosts over yours; habitual, though the unfamiliar feeling rises again as it had in fairfax.

then, the score.

it slides you into first.

it's a personal best.

you're in the air before you can even realize it. the flowers nearly fall off their base in your hand (since the crown could barely withstand the jumping). ilia's laughing all the same, trying to calm you down.

the audience is clapping; you hear a girl yell to you from one of the first rows above the setup, a sweet congratulations from someone no older than fourteen.

then, you sit at the leader's podium.

hands locked.

adrenaline so high that your body doesn't flinch this time.

you watch the next few programs with jaded eyes. nervous still, sure, but content — you did well, exceptionally even. surely, you don't need a medal to prove that.

but there are mistakes. ones you barely notice amidst everything.

and when the scores come in, it doesn't hit you at first.

not until you look over at ilia.

the expression on his face, the glint in his eye, tells you everything.

because there are only two pairs left.

which means you and ilia are going to medal internationally, for the first time.

tears stain your cheeks, but you don't care enough to wipe them away. ilia's hand squeezes yours, shaking it gently back and forth as he repeats the same three words back to you:

we did it.

the ceremony is everything you've ever wanted — lights, cameras, bronze shining on your chest like the most beautiful plaque in the world. ilia beside you, american flag draped over his shoulders as you skate along the perimeter of the ice, letting the red, white, and blue colors trail gracefully behind you.

he talks quietly with the others; you do the same, opting to find the edge of the boards and blow kisses to a few fans in the crowd as they hold up signs, wave, shout your name with a fondness you've only ever dreamt of hearing.

all while ilia's eyes never leave you.

just watching — admiring.

eyes catching yours when you turn, finally letting the contact linger before you look away.

you finally step off the ice and slip your blade guards back on before treading lightly down the tunnel, into another hallway lit just enough to see.

the moment your feet plant themselves in place, ilia's arms are slipping around your waist.

the embrace is softer than usual. warmer, that same soothing hint of sweet coconut drifting into your nose.

your arms find their place around his neck. when your head tips back, and the crown begins to slip, ilia catches it and drops it gently onto the mat behind you. you laugh, unintentionally pulling back until your faces are centimeters apart again.

yet this time,

"can i…" ilia murmurs breathily into the thin veil between you, already leaning forward. "please."

"yes."

when he finally kisses you — after all these years — it's everything.

hesitant and hungry at the same time. palms pressing into your back as one rises to your shoulder blade, your hand drifting into his brown hair and pulling softly at the thick strands.

ilia hums into your mouth. you sigh in response, grinning softly against his lips until he mirrors it. he pulls your body flush against his, neck craning to deepen the kiss as if it will never be enough.

"i'm in love with you," as he pulls back and presses his forehead against yours, voice wrecked and breathless; your stomach curls at the sound. "have been since we were fifteen, and the first thing you told me was that my haircut was ugly."

"it was ugly."

"doesn't matter," he rasps, leaning down to kiss you again, tongue slipping past your lips like filthy routine.

"i know i don't have a whole speech planned," he breathes into your mouth, "but i just needed you to hear it. now."

you pull back just enough to look him in the eyes, and his mouth tries to chase yours.

"good thing i love you too, then."

shaking his head, he leans back down, fingers etching creases in your navy blue jacket as he grips you like you'll somehow slip away.

and in this moment, he's not your partner; he's not your coworker; not a friend, not something caught stagnant between personal and professional.

he's ilia — the boy you met six years ago who captured your heart, slowly at first, until every piece of him consumed you.

you let go on the ice.

and you'll let go now.

stop seeing those pesky feelings as a distraction and let yourself love him for the first time in your life.

with bronze medals perched between warm bodies, gentle carresses, and soft hums against desperate lips.

ilia was right; you were the happiest when you qualified two nights ago.

but right now?

you've never been happier.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

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