Summary: Being forced into an arranged marriage with the Fire Lord is bad enough. Realizing he's kind, ridiculously attractive, and somehow convinced you hate him? That's definitely worse.
Author's Note: okay so this is just zuko being the sweetest, most patient man alive 😭 i loved the idea of a reader who accidentally looks angry all the time when they're actually just really shy.
The throne room of the Fire Nation palace feels colder than it should.
You stand at the far end, positioned like a piece on a board game that never asked to be moved. Your arranged betrothal was announced three days ago—a political alliance, some said. A union to strengthen ties with your family, others whispered. You called it a prison sentence with silk curtains and gold trim.
Your mother spent hours grooming you for this moment, pinching your cheeks until they flushed, reminding you to smile, darling, try not to look so… severe. As if you could help the way your face naturally settled into what she called "that expression." As if being trapped in an arrangement with a stranger was supposed to make you beam with joy.
The doors swing open.
You don't look up. You've trained yourself not to—it's easier to maintain your walls when you're not making eye contact. But even without looking, you can feel him. There's a shift in the air, a warmth that has nothing to do with the eternal flames licking at the palace braziers.
Fire Lord Zuko enters like he was born walking into rooms. Like every step is deliberate, purposeful, graceful.
And then you make the mistake of glancing up.
Oh, gods.
Your heart performs an involuntary gymnastics routine that you have no control over. He's tall—so much taller than the reports suggested. His shoulders are broad, the kind of broad that comes from a lifetime of discipline and training, and he wears his Fire Nation formal robes like they were designed specifically for his frame. Rich crimson and black silk, detailed with gold threading that catches the light like captured fire. His long black hair falls past his shoulders, framing a face that seems almost unfairly beautiful—sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and those eyes.
His left eye bears the ragged edge of his scar, pale against his skin, and yet somehow it only makes him more striking. Both eyes are a molten amber that seem to hold the weight of a kingdom, intelligent and calculating and—
He's looking at you.
Your face immediately shifts into what you can only assume is your most menacing glare. It's a defense mechanism at this point, your features rearranging themselves into something cold and unapproachable before you can stop them. You tear your gaze away, staring instead at a point on the wall just past his left shoulder.
You don't miss the way his expression flickers. Confusion? Disappointment? It's gone too quickly to tell.
"Your Highness," the Fire Lord says, and his voice is like warm honey—unexpected softness wrapped around something strong. He bows, a gesture that seems ridiculous given that he's essentially your future husband, and you're trying very hard not to notice the way his hair catches the light when he moves. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
Your jaw tightens. Of course he's charming. Handsome and charming. The universe's idea of a joke at your expense.
You offer a stiff nod, still refusing to look directly at him. The silence stretches, uncomfortable and heavy.
"Perhaps we should speak privately?" he suggests, and there's something almost hopeful in his tone. "There's much we should discuss about the arrangement."
You finally meet his eyes for half a second—long enough to see them searching your face for something, anything—before you turn on your heel and stride past him. Not rude enough to be outright disobedient, but cold enough to make your point clear: you have no interest in this. You have no interest in him.
Behind you, you hear him exhale slowly. It sounds almost like resignation.
It gets worse.
Over the following weeks, you're forced into proximity after proximity. State dinners where Zuko sits across from you, his golden eyes tracking your every movement. Political meetings where he somehow always ends up sitting beside you, his warmth a constant, distracting presence. Family walks through the palace gardens where he attempts conversation and you respond with monosyllabic answers and glacial stares.
The worst part? Everyone else loves him.
You watch from a shadowed corner of the dining hall as your future sister-in-law throws her head back laughing at something he's said, her face lit up with genuine joy. His smile—a real smile, not the diplomatic one he gives you—is warm and easy, and it transforms his entire face into something almost boyish. He listens to the servants with genuine interest, asks them questions about their families, remembers their names.
But with you?
You catch him studying you sometimes when he thinks you're not looking, his expression unreadable. That's when you turn your head away the quickest. Because the more time you spend around him, the more you realize how spectacularly unfair he is. No one should be allowed to look like that and be genuinely kind.
No one should be allowed to make your traitorous heart skip when he walks into a room.
It happens three weeks into the arrangement, and you're furious at yourself for it.
You're in the palace library, supposedly researching Fire Nation history for your upcoming wedding ceremony. In reality, you're hiding from another dinner where Zuko will inevitably try to engage you in conversation and you'll inevitably respond like a glacier with a conscience.
He finds you between two towering shelves, afternoon sunlight filtering through the window and catching in his dark hair like gold leaf.
"There you are," he says, and there's something different about his voice. Something that sounds dangerously close to exhaustion. "I was wondering if you'd—" He stops, and you watch his shoulders drop slightly. "Never mind. You're probably reading something important."
He starts to leave.
Against every instinct screaming at you to let him go, you find yourself speaking. "Wait."
He turns, eyebrows raised with something that might be hope. You immediately feel your defenses rising, your face falling back into its default position of disdain. But you force yourself to stay, to not run away like you've been doing.
"I…" Your voice comes out smaller than you'd like, betraying the anxiety beneath all your walls. "I wasn't reading. I was just… I needed some quiet."
He's quiet for a moment, and you can feel him assessing you. Really looking at you, not at the mask you wear. "From all the wedding preparations?"
You nod slightly, still not meeting his eyes directly. From you, you think but don't say.
"I understand." He moves deeper into the shelves, but not too close—giving you space, you realize. Showing you he's not a threat. "I found these archives overwhelming too, when I first became Fire Lord. Everything feels very… final. Very heavy."
Something in his tone makes you glance at him. His golden eyes are reflecting the sunlight, and they look almost sad. He's looking at the shelf of books, not at you, and for some reason that makes it easier to speak.
"Does it get easier?" you ask quietly. "Feeling trapped in something you didn't choose?"
The question hangs in the air between you. You realize too late what you've admitted.
Zuko is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost vulnerable. "I was a prisoner once. Not literally, though that too. But I meant…" He pauses, choosing his words carefully. "I was trapped in expectations. In anger. In the belief that I wasn't worthy of anything good, and that I deserved only what was taken from me."
He finally looks at you, and his gaze is steady, unflinching. "The cage wasn't the worst part. The worst part was believing I belonged inside it."
Your throat feels tight.
"How did you escape?" you whisper.
"Someone showed me I didn't have to." He gives you a small, sad smile. "But I had to let them. I had to stop pushing them away, even though I was terrified."
The subtext hangs between you like a held breath. He thinks you're pushing him away. He thinks you're terrified. And gods, he's not wrong.
"I'm not good at this," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "At people. At… at you."
"I know," he says, and it's somehow more comforting than if he'd denied it. "But you're kind to everyone else. I see it. The way you speak to the staff, the way you read to the children in the lower city. You have this light, and it's…" He trails off, shaking his head like he's said too much. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to—I know you don't feel the same way."
"You don't know that," you blurt out, before your brain can catch up to your mouth.
He goes very still.
You're already mortified, already backpedaling. "I just mean—I'm difficult. I can't seem to control my face, and I know I probably look like I hate you constantly, but I don't. I'm just—" You squeeze your eyes shut, hating yourself. "Shy. And terrified. And you're so—"
"So?" His voice is gentle, almost teasing.
Your eyes snap open. "Don't make me say it."
A smile blooms across his face, slow and genuine and absolutely devastating. It's the kind of smile that makes his entire face soften, that reaches his golden eyes and makes them shimmer with something like hope. Something like joy.
"What?" he asks, stepping closer, and his voice has a warm amusement to it. "Not going to tell me I'm 'annoyingly attractive' or 'infuriatingly graceful'?"
Despite everything, despite your mortification and your anxiety and the four-alarm fire his proximity is setting off in your chest, you feel a laugh bubbling up. It comes out as a small, startled sound, and his smile widens.
"For what it's worth," he says softly, "you're the most beautiful thing I've seen since the moment you walked into the throne room. And your 'resting bitch face,' as I've heard it called, is absolutely terrifying."
You make a small noise that might be a laugh or might be a cry of embarrassment. Probably both.
"But your smile," he continues, reaching out carefully, as if you're something wild that might bolt, "is worth every cold stare. It's worth the walls you put up. Because it means you're letting me in, even just a little."
His hand hovers near yours, not quite touching. Asking permission.
You think about running. You think about retreating to your comfortable cage of indifference and ice.
Instead, you reach out.
Your fingers brush his, and the contact sends electricity up your arm. His hand is warm, calloused from a lifetime of bending, and when he gently closes his fingers around yours, you feel something crack open inside your chest.
"Hi," he says softly. "I'm Zuko. Would you like to get to know me?"
You're trembling slightly, still terrified, but you take a breath.
"Hi," you whisper back. "I'm… working on letting people in. But I'd like to try."
He squeezes your hand gently, and when he smiles again, it's like the sun breaking through clouds you didn't know were blocking out the sky.
"That's all I've ever wanted to ask for," he says.
The wedding happens on a night when the fire lilies are in full bloom, their crimson petals falling like snow. You wear white and gold, colors that make you feel less like a political pawn and more like a bride. Zuko wears his finest robes, and when you meet his eyes across the ceremony, you don't look away.
His smile is soft, patient, and it promises that he'll wait for you to catch up. That he'll give you time to shed your walls brick by brick.
You're still terrified. Still struggling with the way your face naturally settles into something cold when you're nervous. But now, at least, Zuko understands. He sees the shyness beneath the glare, the tender heart hiding under all those careful defenses.
When he takes your hand during the ceremony, his touch is warm and grounding. When he cups your face gently and kisses you for the first time as your husband, it's soft and asking and so achingly tender that you feel tears prick your eyes.
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing the same air.
"We can take this as slow as you need," he murmurs. "All the time in the world."
And as his golden eyes search your face—not looking for judgment or coldness, but for the real you beneath—you finally, finally let yourself smile.
debating between angry!captor!viltrumite!mark grayson or angry!captor!zuko…dih-cisions dih-cisions… (never written for either of these “archetypes” but especially haven’t ever written for zuko please lmk what you guys want to see before i lose motivation)
shoutout to everyone with forget disorders (adhd, DID/osdd, ptsd/c-ptsd, asd, dementia/alzeheimers, schizophrenia, other psychotic disorders, major depressive, chronically ill/phys disabled people with brain fog, people with long-Covid, natural memory degradation, and etc.)
viltrumite!mark paired up with fem!reader as his companion after the hostile takeover of earth where all of age women are paired with a viltrumite man. (it would be a series)
𝓸r ── .✦ ilia doesn’t often make mistakes, but when he does, you’re always there to pick up the pieces. yet tonight, amidst the heartbreaking chaos, you try to run away from the inescapable feeling that suddenly blooms in your stomach. so when you're finally forced to confront that truth, you find a different way to help him. and this one benefits both of you.
⟢ 𝓻achel: so here it is...my official first contribution to iliablr(?). since i have been informed of the draught (which i myself have also noticed), i decided that i would actually go through with this and post it 😛 pls let me know if you like this because i lowkey started going thru it trying to make it good and i'm scared that i like, enhypen-ified him...so yeah pls tell me if i'm just annoying. happy reading!
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
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.
*taps mic* 🎤is this thing on?..um well hi hello im J and i love your kai fics :3 🕸️
aw omg hi !!!! i haven’t written for kai (or written in general..) for so long so i’m glad to see people are still enjoying my fics. much love & good energy to you babydoll & thank you for all the love !!!
I always forget there are maga people on tumblr, this doesn’t feel like a website you’d find them on, so to keep them away:
Reblog if your blog is a maga free zone because if it wasn’t clear enough fuck ice, fuck maga, fuck Trump, Fuck Rowling, and fuck all the other bigots I missed
i wanna post a thought piece because i’ve been told recently i should have an outlet where i share my opinions because i “have really good takes”. idk i study a lot of philosophy & psychology & media & media literacy & i make a lot of video essays so lmk if you’d be interested in a thought piece
here are some topics i’m very knowledgeable in/really like writing and talking about
— the damage of internet culture & the downfall of media literacy
— the rise in purity culture & biblical obedience
— the pedophilic and perverted beauty standards for young women
Im so serious when I say I hope ilia has access to all the support he needs after this. I’m not saying he’s perfect or that he hasn’t made mistakes in the past but we all know that when the Olympics rolls around the most outspoken, rude and uncaring people are the ones that suddenly become experts after 24 hours of watching the sport and they do not speak with the same decorum as actual fans and I really do hope he is protected from that side of the internet.
Roxy I’m sorry to say that I first knew you from Reddit and only discovered your Tumblr because amogus euthanasia was on every tumblr and furry subreddit
