summary: For as long as she can remember, it always started with him—the boy next door and her brother’s best friend. Over the years, an innocent childhood crush became a habit, a secret she got used to keeping to herself as she stayed stuck in the role of the nerdy little sister. Now that summer has arrived, things are finally beginning to melt under the heat—and it might just turn cruel.
word count: 6,5k
author’s note: and it’s the era of a new series! i’m a pathological liar because I said I was locking in for my exams, but the moment my first exam got rescheduled, I immediately locked in for the new series instead… i’ll try to keep things lighthearted and more entertaining, so expect less torture from me 🥰 english is not my first language, so I hope you keep that in mind! any feedback, questions, writing tips, and criticism will be greatly appreciated!
“Here you go, sir.” You place the green cup on the counter, smiling at the middle-aged customer who is taking his sweet time despite the line forming behind him. “Flat white with one sugar!”
He gives you a lazy smile, taking the cup and inhaling the fresh aroma of the coffee. The woman behind him is glaring at you like you’re the sole reason for the delayed service, before throwing another dirty look at Allie. Allie is currently preparing an online order, spreading pistachio cream onto buns and feeling absolutely no need to rush.
“Would you happen to have cinnamon by any chance?”
“Yes.” You nod, gesturing to the spice shakers laying on the counter, internally screaming at how stupid his question is. He takes off the cap and sprinkles the cinnamon over his coffee, not even slightly considerate of the people waiting. He stirs it with a small wooden stick and gives you another smile before finally leaving.
“Hi! What can I get you?”
“Double espresso.” Not even a please. Her expression is exhausted and annoyed, her arms tightly crossed over her chest.
“Would you like to drink it here, or should I put it in a takeaway cup?”
“I’ll drink here.”
“Would you like a water chaser with it?”
“Chaser is for Turkish coffee, not espresso,” she huffs, gesturing vaguely. “I’ll wait at the table.”
She disappears without giving you a second look. You exchange a glance with Allie, who remains completely unfazed. Unlike her, you’re still trying to get used to how rude people can be for no reason. You prepare the coffee and serve it to her with the biggest fake smile plastered on your face, silently judging her bangs, which do absolutely nothing to frame her face correctly.
The afternoon moves slowly. Allie slides down behind the counter to scroll on her phone while you take the chalk and cross yet another line off the board. For the fifth time today, someone has asked if you happen to have cinnamon by any chance—a question you always snort at internally. It’s pretty stupid, considering the cafe is literally called Cinnamon and your main products are cinnamon rolls.
“Would you happen to swap shifts with me tomorrow?” Allie asks, looking up at you through her curly bangs with an innocent face.
“I don’t even work tomorrow, Allie.”
“Well, don’t you want to cover an extra shift?” Her eyebrows wiggle. “You’ll be 120 bucks closer to your new computer.”
“That sounds tempting, but I want to stay home tomorrow.”
“Why?”
You can’t tell her it’s because Ilia is finally coming home tomorrow after months away, and you’re secretly hoping to spend even just an hour with him, even though you don’t have anything planned. You can’t tell her that without her thinking you’re weird, or without having to explain that you harbor a massive crush on your brother’s best friend that borders on love.
Okay, it’s not a crush. You’re helplessly in love with him.
“I have to finish assignments!”
“Ugh.” She groans, her face falling dramatically into her knees, which are tucked up to her chest. “I’m supposed to be partying tonight. I can’t come to work tomorrow on three hours of sleep and a hangover!”
“It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”
“What if I give you an extra thirty?” She tilts her head, her eyes practically sparkling with mischief, convinced she finally knows how to get through to you. “150 bucks is huge progress.”
“You can’t bribe me, Allie.”
“What if I do the assignment for you?”
“You?” You snort, ignoring her insulted expression. “You think you can analyze Descartes?”
“I can analyze anyone if I want to badly enough, bitch.”
Just then, someone clears their throat, indicating they want attention. Allie signals that she’ll take this order, so you flop onto the high chair, checking X for any updates on the upcoming Spider-Man promo.
It’s 10 p.m. when you and Allie finally close up the cafe. Exhaustion settles deep into your bones as you wave her off and walk in the opposite direction. Taylor Swift spills through your right earbud—part of a playlist your brother and Ilia would ceaselessly mock you for if they ever found out.
The walk home is short, approximately ten minutes through the quiet streets of Vienna. It rained an hour ago, and the petrichor in the air brings a weird type of comfort as you stride down the pavement. No one is really outside except for a few cars with their headlights cutting through the dark. Suddenly, one of them drives past and splashes dirty water all over you.
“Oh, great!” you huff out, looking down at your drenched pants, which have turned three shades darker from the knees down. Despite the annoyance, it does little to dampen your mood. You’re excited. You’re seeing him tomorrow.
The front door is unlocked, as it usually is when Jace is home alone. He’s in the living room, his face illuminated by the video game on the TV as he curses softly under his breath. He grips the controller with a hyper-focused expression, his tongue sticking out slightly at the corner of his mouth. The room smells like chips, with empty bags and crumbs scattered all over the coffee table. You sigh and flip on the overhead light, eliciting a yell from him. He looks over his shoulder for a split second, barely glancing at you.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, his eyes already fixated back on the screen. “I would’ve picked you up.”
“You know when my shift finishes. You could’ve picked me up if you wanted to.”
“Well, sometimes you stay late.”
“I stayed late once because I had to clean up the mess Allie made,” your voice rises an octave, annoyed at having to explain this for what feels like the hundredth time. “Did you check on Dusty?”
“Yeah...”
“You don’t sound sure.”
Rolling your eyes, you wiggle out of your thin jacket and kick off your shoes, stepping onto the carpet. You lean over the back of the couch, observing the screen for a few minutes with curious eyes. “Jace, your aim is shit.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in.” He huffs, and even though you can’t see his face, you know he just rolled his eyes. “Wanna join?”
“No, I’m tired. I’m gonna take a shower.”
“Yes, please do. You stink like cinnamon.”
You playfully tug at his curls. He blindly reaches out to swat at you, but you wiggle out of his reach, a chuckle escaping your throat as you start climbing the stairs. You’ve almost reached the top, ready to scold Jace for a random t-shirt sprawled on the wooden floor, when a voice from behind stops you in your tracks.
“Hi.”
You recognize it instantly. Your eyes widen as you spin around on your heels.
Ilia smiles up at you, his expression resembling the Toothless printed on his t-shirt. His hair has grown out, and his face looks a bit fuller and healthier as he steps toward the base of the stairs.
You practically sprint back down, excitement bubbling in your chest as you try to contain your racing heartbeat. He opens his arms to pull you into a hug—a sweet gesture he always reserves for the people closest to him. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything romantic, even though you desperately wish it did. He rubs your back with his palm, and you breathe in his familiar scent, your eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“You smell nice,” he murmurs.
“I thought you were coming back tomorrow,” you say when he finally releases you, a helpless smile tugging at your lips. “Did Jace mix up the dates again?”
“Haha, no.” He smiles. “I wanted it to be a surprise. No one knew... well, except Jace, since he had to pick me up from the airport.”
“Bro, get back in here!” your brother yells from the living room, unnecessarily loud. You internally roll your eyes. “I’m getting cooked!”
“Yeah, just a second!” Ilia calls back.
“Hurry up!”
“I have something for you.” Ilia reaches into the pocket of his black shorts, pulling out a small box. Your chest physically tightens with anticipation. He nudges you to open it, looking just as excited to give the present as you are to receive it.
Inside the box lies a small pinky ring with a tiny spider carved into the gold metal. Your mouth parts slightly. You turn it over in your fingertips, taking in every single detail. It’s a nod to your favorite superhero, Spider-Man—something you’ve loved since childhood. Everyone who knows you knows about your obsession.
“Oh, Ilia...” Your smile widens, your eyes practically sparkling as you slip it onto your finger. The ring fits seamlessly. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“I saw it in a store in New Jersey and thought of you.”
“Oh, I love it.”
You step in and give him a brief, tight hug. He reaches out and affectionately ruffles your hair with a chuckle. Then he leaves you there, finally returning to the living room to appease Jace, whose whining is getting more unbearable by the second.
You linger on the stairs for a moment, watching them play and debating whether to ask to join. You feel like you're going to burst from happiness. Turning around, you finish climbing the stairs and close your bedroom door behind you, a massive smile plastered on your face.
“Hey, Dusty.”
You crouch down by the cage, scooping up your chinchilla before she has a chance to wriggle away. She must have actually missed you tonight; instead of squirming out of your grasp like she usually does, she settles right into your lap, never once complaining as you carefully stroke her soft fur.
From downstairs, the muffled noises of loud exclamations drift up. They don't stop even after you've showered and midnight rolls around. Lying awake in your dark room, you twist in your bed to find a comfortable position. He’s staying the night, you realize. A soft, relaxed smile washes over your face as you finally close your eyes.
Almost the entire night, it keeps raining. At some point, Dusty starts making noises in her cage, startled by the thunder, forcing you to groggily roll out of bed to soothe her. The heavy rain sounds like a melody against the window, and a deep content settles over you as you close your eyes to go back to sleep.
Then, you hear his voice. He’s whispering your name softly, a dream so realistic that you can practically feel his touch on your arm.
But it’s not a dream, you slowly realize, when his grip tightens and he carefully shakes your shoulder. You blink a few times, squinting your eyes as you sit up to look at him. His face is softly illuminated by the moonlight spilling through the window, his expression almost apologetic.
“Sorry for waking you up,” he whispers. “I couldn’t find the extra blankets. It’s freezing.”
It takes you a few seconds to process his request. Nodding, you unwrap yourself from your comforter and slip your slippers on. He’s wearing a pair of Jace’s pajama shorts and your old t-shirt—the one your brother ended up stealing from you because he thought the half-washed-off graphic print looked cool.
He follows you out of the room. Then, suddenly, he lets out a muffled yell. Before your eyes can even widen, he wraps an arm around your waist from behind, using you as a human shield.
“What the hell?!” you hiss.
“She jumped on me!” His voice sounds almost childlike, and you can feel his heavy breathing, warm against your neck. His palms are gripping the bare skin of your waist, his touch almost knocking the breath right out of you.
You crouch down to scoop up Dusty before she can sprint down the hallway, double-checking this time that her cage door is actually latched. “Sorry. I must’ve forgotten to lock it.”
“Why does she always do that?” he groans, his voice quieting down in an attempt not to wake Jace up. “I didn’t even see her!”
“Shouldn’t you be used to her by now instead of being terrified?”
“I’m not scared of her!” he whispers, rolling his eyes as he follows you down the stairs. His blatant hypocrisy makes you snort. “I was just... taken aback.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, Ilyusha.”
Downstairs, you lift the heavy lid of the corner sectional's storage section, pulling out a thick blanket and handing it over. He mutters a quick thank you. You notice the living room is completely neat—the coffee table cleared of the empty chip bags and wrappers Jace usually leaves behind. Of course Jace wasn’t the one who cleaned it. You're entirely sure of that.
“Thanks again,” Ilia says, giving you a small smile. “I wasn’t sure Jace would even know where they were, otherwise I wouldn't have woken you.”
“Jace doesn’t know where anything is in this house.”
“Yeah, true.” He laughs softly.
He follows you back up the stairs, heading toward the guest room right next to yours. Jace’s door is wide open, his loud snoring echoing down the hallway. Rolling your eyes, you step into your room. Ilia lingers by your doorframe for a second, looking as if he wants to say something else.
“Goodnight,” you say softly.
“Goodnight.”
You give him a tight smile, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet as you close the door. Only when you’re back under your sheets does the weight of the situation hit you. It feels so incredibly familiar, like a sudden wave of deja vu.
Suddenly, you’re transported back to Jace’s nineteenth birthday.
After begging your dad for weeks, Jace had finally convinced him to hand over the keys to the lake house. He had bought tons of drinks and snacks—along with a small cake at your and his then-girlfriend's insistence—ready to throw a party with his friends. Ilia was there, of course, alongside a mix of Jace's old high school friends and new ones from college.
Setting up proper beds for ten people had been impossible. You had ended up squeezing onto a mattress with Ruby and Maya, but Ruby kept snoring so loudly that you almost went crazy. Frustrated, you had finally dragged your pillow and a thin blanket downstairs in the middle of the night.
Everyone else had passed out by then. Ilia occupied the main part of the L-shaped sectional, softly snoring with his cheek pressed against a decorative pillow. The extended chaise lounge part of the couch was just enough space for you if you curled up tightly. You settled down with your head on the opposite end, your feet barely touching his.
Sleep had taken you over instantly, but around dawn, the rain had picked up and the temperature dropped completely. You started shivering violently, the thin throw blanket doing nothing to keep out the chill. You kept hugging yourself, twisting in the small space and rubbing your feet together in a weak attempt to stay warm.
You weren’t in love with him back then—not yet. You just harbored a massive crush on him because he was the only guy who treated you with a genuine, gentle decency. The extra blankets were nowhere to be found, and you felt like you were on the verge of crying from the cold.
You glanced over at Ilia, who was buried comfortably under a comforter that was definitely heavier than yours. Taking a breath, you sat up and slipped over to his side of the sectional, your stomach flipping with sudden anticipation.
“Ilia,” you murmured, gently nudging his shoulder. You shook him a little harder when he didn’t budge. “Ilia.”
“What?” He lifted his head, his brown hair messy from sleep, squinting up at you. “Did something happen?”
“Can I sleep next to you?”
“What?”
“Ruby’s friend was snoring and I had to come downstairs,” you whispered, gesturing toward the chaise lounge where your crumpled, useless blanket lay as evidence. “And I’m really, really cold.”
“Oh.” He nodded slowly, understanding clicking in as he lifted the edge of his comforter so you could climb underneath. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Thanks.”
You smiled, but you weren’t sure he even heard you. He immediately turned his back to you to continue sleeping. The sectional wasn’t huge, but there was still a decent amount of distance between your bodies. You shuddered against the initial chill, the warmth of the heavy blanket slowly settling into your bones, but it wasn’t quite enough to stop your shivering. Your deep, shaky breaths sounded incredibly loud in the quiet room.
Finally, you turned toward his back, softly cursing under your breath as you bit your lip. “Ilia.”
“Now what?” his muffled voice came into the dark.
“Can I...?” you asked shyly, closing the small gap between you. You hesitantly pressed your shins against the back of his legs, seeking his warmth.
“Sure.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
He didn’t reply. You nudged forward a little more, the heat radiating off him bringing an instant wave of comfort. First, your legs overlapped with his. Then, you shyly leaned into his torso, nuzzling your face against the soft cotton of his shirt right between his shoulder blades.
You heard him let out a low groan, and your eyes widened in sudden panic, thinking you had made a grave mistake. But then, he rolled over to face you. With his eyes still closed, he reached out and wrapped a heavy arm around your waist, pulling your back tightly against his chest. You almost went entirely limp under his touch.
“Is that better?” he asked sleepily. He rubbed his palm up and down your arm, locking his legs with yours, his warm breath fawning over your cheek.
The heat spread through your entire body so fast you felt like your face was burning. Something fluttered wildly in your stomach as you managed to mumble out the words. “Yeah. Thanks.”
You had lain awake for hours after that, completely unable to sleep—this time not from the cold, but from the overwhelming realization that Ilia was cuddling you. Your brother’s best friend. The boy next door you had grown up with.
Back in the present, a subtle smirk tugs at your lips as you recall the memory. It’s so incredibly vivid that, for a split second, you can still feel the exact weight of his arm wrapped around you. You wonder if he ever thinks about that night at the lake house. You wonder if, to him, it was just a half-asleep favor to his best friend’s freezing little sister—or if he lies awake in the room next door, remembering it exactly the way you do.
You’re the first one to wake up. You let Dusty out of her cage, letting her wander around but keeping your bedroom door shut tight so she doesn’t slip out and potentially scare Ilia once again. Even though you’ve owned her for three years now, he still isn't comfortable around her, constantly asking you to keep her in your room when he comes over. He’ll pet her soft fur if you’re holding her securely in your embrace, but the moment she looks like she might jump onto him or even swat her tail, he gets all jerky.
With your father away at a medical conference in Boston, you're the sole responsible person around the house. Surprisingly, the dishes aren’t piled up in the sink—either Jace actually recalled his duties for once this week, or Ilia did you a silent favor. You start preparing a quick breakfast, making enough for the boys to eat later whenever they finally decide to crawl out of bed. Afterward, you sweep the floor, take out the trash, and by noon, you’ve already finished your assignments.
Allie sends you pictures from last night, proudly texting you that she successfully dumped her shift onto Betty, smugly noting that she didn't even need the extra thirty bucks to bribe her.
You’re downstairs on the couch, having started a new book, when you hear footsteps on the stairs. You already know it’s not Jace by the quiet, light rhythm of the steps.
“Hey.”
“Hi.” You look up as Ilia smiles at you, flopping down onto the cushions right next to you. “What are you reading?”
“The Death of Ivan Ilyich.”
“Who’s the author?”
“Tolstoy.”
“Oh.” He nods as if he understands, though his modest knowledge of literature prevents him from striking up a real conversation about it. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about a man who spends his whole life doing exactly what society expects of him until he gets sick and realizes he wasted his life away pursuing meaningless things,” you explain quickly. His curious gaze is locked onto yours. Unlike Jace, when Ilia asks you about a book, he genuinely listens. He often remembers the ones you’ve read and loved, or the ones you completely hated. “Basically, it’s about what is really meaningful in life and how we choose to focus on all the wrong stuff.”
“Sounds... smart.”
“It is.” You chuckle, closing the book against your lap as you take him in. His hair is completely messy from sleep, the pillow creases still visible on his cheeks, and his puffy lips make him look even cuter than he usually is. “How was Stars on Ice?”
“Really fun.” His face instantly lights up as the memories flood back, and you can’t help but mimic his smile. “But tiring. It’s good to be back home.”
“I’m surprised you spent the night over here and didn’t force your cats to cuddle with you instead.”
“Believe me, if that worked, I wouldn't be sitting here.” He smiles, giving you a strange look you can’t quite decipher. His eyebrows furrow slightly as if something just hit him. “Did you cut your hair?”
“Yeah, last month.”
“Looks good.”
“I’ve been wearing it like this for a while,” you chuckle, secretly thrilled by the fact that he notices even the slightest changes. “Have you got anything planned today?”
“Yeah, I’m going out with Jace and some friends.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“Are you working today?”
“No. I plan to finish this book and I have a new Lego set to build,” you announce proudly, recalling the unopened box resting on top of your closet. “I’ll probably play Valorant with Ziggy and Cam later.”
“Have you upgraded your rank?”
“Sadly, no.” Your face falls slightly at the thought, a heavy sigh escaping your lips. “Between studying and working, I don’t have much time for competitive grinding.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
You linger on the silence, waiting for him to invite you along, but he doesn’t mention the plans again. You brush the disappointment aside—he’s probably going out with just the guys, which isn’t exactly the perfect hangout scenario for you to squeeze into anyway. At the mention of video games, you secretly hope he’ll suggest playing Fortnite with you, something you two haven’t done together since the winter, but the invitation never comes.
“There’s leftover breakfast in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks.” He smiles at you, leaving the living room with lazy, heavy footsteps.
You’ve known Ilia for as long as you can remember yourself. He lives just two houses down, his parents having been longtime friends with yours since before either of you were even born. In fact, his mother, Tatyana, is the closest thing to a mother figure you have in your life.
Your own mom passed away when you were barely a year old. A tragic highway accident took her and her sister’s lives way before you ever had a chance to form a memory of her. Jace doesn’t remember her either. You once overheard a conversation between him and Ilia, where your brother confessed that every time he closed his eyes to try and imagine the mother he only knew from framed portraits, it was your face that floated up in his mind.
Even though you’re three years younger than Jace, you’ve always been the one taking care of him. You scold him for leaving the living room messy, you rage at him for failing to do the dishes when it’s his turn, and you give him deeply disappointed looks every time he messes up something as simple as an omelet because his hands just don’t seem to cooperate in the kitchen.
But despite all his flaws, his lazy personality, and his careless nature, Jace is the one person you can always truly rely upon. He’s the one who brightens your worst days with his mid-tier jokes, the one who always solves your problems when it actually matters, and the one who fiercely defends you the second he feels like someone is mocking you. Flaws and all, he’s your brother—the one you would give your life for without hesitation.
Then there's your dad. As a plastic surgeon based in Washington, he leaves early in the morning and comes home late in the evening. He’s successful, and his earnings allow the family to live a very comfortable suburban life. Because of that, he doesn’t really like the idea of you working a part-time job, constantly insisting you should focus entirely on your studies.
But you think otherwise. You like being independent and busy, and honestly, you really enjoy steaming the milk and trying out different latte arts. The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls brings a distinct comfort to you, making the little cafe feel like a second home. Squeezing a few shifts a week into your schedule isn't that hard, especially now that the university semester is winding down.
Jace, on the other hand, was perfectly happy benefiting from your father’s generosity—until your dad threatened to freeze his bank accounts, forcing him to finally get a job during his second year of college. He works remotely as a junior software engineer now, which means he’s mostly home, always available to hang out with Ilia, and seamlessly capable of fixing any technical issues your gaming PC runs into.
You reopen your book, your eyes tracing the hallway toward the kitchen where you can hear Ilia moving around. Even though the three of you grew up together, he always belonged to Jace, being his best friend foremost.
You remember being five years old and chasing after them, desperately wanting to be included in one of their games that seemed super cool to you. Jace would usually turn you down, but Ilia would hesitate until the tears pricked your eyes and he finally felt bad for you enough to include you.
Growing up you had a huge crush on Ilia. Your dad often jokingly recalled how you always chased after him in your little skirts and pigtails, essentially forcing him to sit down and play dollhouse with you. It wasn’t anything surprising. Just like you, Liza had a crush on Jace growing up. But unlike you and Ilia, their age gap was almost eleven years, and unlike Ilia, Jace wasn’t nearly as considerate of her feelings.
You can’t exactly pinpoint when you realized your feelings for him, but you remember vividly when it all started—when you first looked at him as a boy, and not just the boy next door or your brother’s best friend who happened to be nice to you.
You had impulsively decided to get a new haircut, walking into a random salon that happened to have a free spot that day. Usually, you were good at making decisions, but that idea had been a disaster. You left the salon with tears slowly pooling in your eyes, entirely convinced the world had ended. You kept your head down so people wouldn't notice and make fun of you, finally sitting down on the curb. Too ashamed to continue walking like that, you unlocked your phone and called Jace, begging him to come pick you up.
Sitting there, you made sure to keep your face buried in your knees. No one really noticed your haircut, but no one noticed that you were crying, either. Maybe they just chose not to.
“Hi.”
You recognized the voice instantly, but it didn’t belong to Jace.
Lifting your head, you looked up at him, confused, through wet, crumpled lashes. Ilia was standing right in front of you, an awkward smile plastered across his boyish features. He hadn’t discovered blonde hair dye back then; he hadn’t landed a quad axel yet. He was barely seventeen, just two years older than you.
“What are you doing here?” you asked, your brows drawn together.
“Jace couldn’t come, so he sent me,” he shrugged, his eyes lingering on your hair for a split second before you embarrassedly ducked your head back down. “Why are you crying?”
“Please, this is not the time to make fun of me.”
“I’m not.” He shook his head, his voice firm as he reached down and gently tugged your arm to get you onto your feet.
You kept your gaze fixated on the pavement the entire walk to the car, as if looking down would somehow make your haircut less noticeable. He didn't say a word, not until you climbed into the passenger seat and immediately shifted your stare to your shoes.
“It’s not bad,” he said softly.
You let out a bitter snort. He exhaled, looking at you with a touch of annoyance at your sheer stubbornness.
“No, seriously,” he insisted. “You’re just not used to it. Give it a few days and you’ll learn how to style it.”
Something in his tone made you look up. The absolute softness in his expression caused a strange, tightening sensation in your chest that you couldn't quite pinpoint. He reached into the car's door pocket, extending his hand to offer you a napkin, which you took without hesitation. Then, he leaned across the center console toward you. His hands flew into your hair, carefully fixing a few stray strands, a peaceful, focused expression on his face.
You watched him, frozen, almost too stunned to even breathe.
“I promise you it looks fine,” he repeated, his voice more adamant this time. “Stop crying about it. There’s nothing wrong with it.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.” He smiled, finally leaning back into his seat as he slotted the key into the ignition and turned it.
You wiped the remaining tears from your eyes, your body finally relaxing as a sudden wave of peace washed over your mind.
“Do you want to get donuts on the way?”
“Yeah. I do,” you agreed softly.
You stared at his profile as he pulled out onto the road, glancing over at him throughout the entire drive home. You tried to make sense of the heavy, fluttering feeling tightening your chest—the one that, instead of disappearing, only seemed to grow stronger with every passing second.
Later that night, you had lain awake in your bed, endlessly replaying the way he had leaned in, the careful way he fixed your hair, and the ghost of his fingertips brushing against your face. You had smiled into your pillow, thinking for the very first time about how cute he was when he laughed, his eyes crinkling up around the edges.
“Oh, fuuuuck!”
You yell out, slamming your hands onto the desk as you let out a long sigh, shutting your eyes and leaning back in your gaming chair. From the headset around your neck, you can hear Ziggy laughing hysterically. Before he can say something about your short temper like he usually does, you rip the headphones off and toss them across the bed.
It takes you a couple of seconds to realize your outburst has terrified Dusty. Her little paws are grasping the bars of her cage, a horrified expression on her tiny face.
“Sorry,” you mutter, giving her an apologetic smile.
You generally consider yourself a composed person—someone who can control their emotions under pressure—except when it comes to Valorant. You were so close to victory. It was a 12-11 match point on Ascent, a literal 1v1 situation where you had the spike defused halfway, only for the enemy Reyna to swing around the corner and catch you with a lucky headshot because your crosshair placement was a millimeter off.
Despite your morning shift at the cafe tomorrow, you completely lost track of time, having been grinding competitive queues for almost four hours straight. Shutting down the PC, you place your headphones back where they belong and unlock your phone. You send a quick text to the Discord group chat, letting them know you're calling it a night, ignoring the way the chat is currently going wild over your sudden outburst.
Jace still hasn't come home from wherever he is with Ilia and their friends. You don’t plan on waiting up for him. The fact that they chose to invite Melanie and her sister out tonight, but didn’t even bother to extend the invitation to you, quietly stings.
It’s way past 2 a.m. when you’re jolted awake by a barrage of loud noises from downstairs. A heavy thud is immediately followed by muffled laughter, indicating that someone has fallen over. It’s most likely Jace, who can barely hold his liquor yet always insists on drinking.
Curiosity gets the better of you. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you find yourself padding out of your room barefoot, quiet as a ghost as you glance down at the living room from atop the stairs.
You see Jace with his head thrown back against the cushions of the sectional, completely wasted. Max is sitting right next to him. Even though you can't see the others from this angle, you immediately recognize the remaining voices. They belong to Josh and Jack—the identical twins you could never tell apart until Josh gained ten kilograms—and, lastly, Ilia.
“I’d put a ring on Maggie, yeah,” Jack’s loud voice cuts through the room, followed by a few murmurs of agreement. “She’s total wifey material.”
“Why? Because she knows how to cook?”
“Not only,” Jack replies to Josh, the disgusting, suggestive implication in his voice so apparent that your stomach instantly turns. “She even gives better head.”
You freeze, waiting for Ilia to say something. You wait for him to stop Jack, to scold him for discussing a girl like she’s an object on a shelf, but no one does. Everyone just laughs it off.
Then Jack proceeds to talk about how he’d have to 'kill' Julie because, despite her having a "banger ass," she is incredibly annoying and never stops talking.
You realize they’re playing Fuck, Marry, Kill. Even though you’re completely unimpressed and borderline mad about their choice of game, you still stay. You can't make your feet move. You want to hear if Ilia participates. You desperately, foolishly want to know if he has his eyes on someone else, despite the fact that the answer will absolutely destroy you.
You wait for Max to name Becky, Gabriella, or literally anyone else as the third choice. But the moment your own name leaves his mouth, your fingers grip the wooden railing. The breath hitches sharply in your throat.
“Come on, that’s Jace’s little sister,” Josh’s voice cuts in, sounding surprisingly considerate. “That’s not cool.”
“All the girls are someone’s sister or daughter,” Max rolls his eyes, entirely dismissive.
You glance at Jace, praying he’ll wake up and shut it down, but his head remains thrown back against the cushions, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, alcohol-induced sleep. He’s completely out. They wouldn’t dare talk about you like that otherwise; Jace would never allow it.
Up on the dark stairs, you wait for Ilia to intervene. A part of you hopes he will do exactly what Jace would do. But another, deeper part of you—a secret, desperate part—is secretly hoping that he’d actually pick you.
“It’s just a game, there’s no harm in it,” Max pressures, throwing a heavy, expectant look across the room. “Come on, what would you do with Jace’s sister?”
“Shit, her?” Jack lets out a low chuckle, a drunken smirk in his voice. “I mean, she’s a total nerd but she’s getting fine as hell lately. I'd definitely smash. Just lock the bedroom door so Jace doesn't catch us.”
A sick wave of humiliation washes over you in the dark, your stomach doing a violent, painful flip at the blatant disrespect.
“Shut the fuck up, Jack,” Ilia snaps.
His voice completely loses its relaxed warmth. It cuts through the room with a sharp edge that makes everyone instantly freeze.
“Don't talk about her like that. Show some respect.”
An uncomfortable, heavy silence falls over the living room. But Max just sits up a little higher on the couch, a smirk spreading across his face as he instantly pokes at Ilia's sudden anger.
“Whoa, alright, defensive much?” Max chuckles, leaning forward to lock his eyes on him. “Jace is completely passed out, bro. You don't need to play the protective big brother.”
“She’s like my little sister,” Ilia mutters, his voice tight and strained. “Just pick someone else.”
“Oh, bullshit excuse,” Max’s voice is adamant, completely enjoying how much he’s successfully getting under Ilia's skin. “Is that why you have such a soft spot for her? Look at you, you’re practically ready to fight Jack over a joke.”
“You’re insane, man,” Ilia laughs, though the sound is entirely forced, stripped of any genuine amusement. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don't look at her like a girl at all.”
The words feel like a physical slap to your face.
Your heartbeat violently quickens, your palms growing slick and sweaty against the wooden railing as you instantly back away. You can’t stay to listen to another word, hot tears already prickling your eyes and blurring the shadows of the hallway.
You take a few rushed, blind steps backward, but your ankle collides with a ball lying on the floor. Furious and completely heartbroken, you kick it with all your force. The ball goes clattering loudly down the stairs, bouncing sharply against the wood before rolling into the living room.
“What was that noise?” Max asks, his voice suddenly sharp.
As if to give them a definitive answer, you storm into your bedroom and slam the door shut, the noise echoing like a gunshot. You turn the lock, ensuring that no one has a chance to bother you tonight—whether someone ends up feeling sick from the alcohol, or they suddenly realize they need extra blankets and pillows from the hallway closet.
You crawl into the bed, tears quietly streaming down your face in the darkness, his words replaying over and over and over in your head in a cruel, agonizing loop until you finally fall into a heavy, restless sleep, the suffocating weight pressing down on your chest.
pairing: luke castellan x daughter of aphrodite!reader
synopsis: with your boyfriend being way too occupied with camp duties, you decide to call a friend for help. now something's in the air.
genre: fluff !!! tad bit suggestive
word count: 1.6k words
warnings: f bombs, a bunch of kissing
a/n: based on this req!!
glass bottles clicked as will rummaged through the infirmary shelves. he was barely paying attention to your dramatic sprawl across one of the recovery cots—or the rant you’d been delivering for the last twenty minutes.
“i just don’t understand him,” you groaned, throwing an arm over your face to block out the harsh apollo-cabin sunlight. “it’s not like chiron would smite him for saying no once. honestly, i think chiron would be relieved if luke actually admitted he needed a break.”
a muffled, “mhm,” came from will, his head buried between rows of nectar and gauze.
you sat up with a frustrated huff. “we haven’t spent actual time together in a week. and i’m not trying to be the clingy girlfriend, but for fuckssake—” you glared at the ceiling. “i miss him.”
“found it.”
he turned, wearing a grin that looked a little too mischievous, holding up a tiny glass vial. the liquid inside shimmered with an iridescent, pearly swirl.
you narrowed your eyes. “what is that? it looks like liquid headache.”
“your solution.”
“will,” you deadpanned, “this is genuinely the worst possible time to start drinking.”
“what—no!” he laughed, grabbing your wrist and tugging you off the cot. “we are not drinking it! you want your man’s attention?” he shook the bottle once. “here’s your answer.”
you eyed the vial. “babe, that looks like something circe would hand me right before turning me into a guinea pig.”
will roll his eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. “well, if you wanted divine intervention, you should’ve prayed to aphrodite. i’m just being a supportive friend. it’s an olfactory stimulant.”
“fine,” you sighed dramatically, pushing yourself off the bed and snatching the bottle from his hand. “so what, do i pour it all—”
“only a little bit—” his sentence cut off into a horrified gasp as you tipped the bottle back carelessly, spilling nearly the entire thing down your neck.
you blinked at him, holding the now-empty bottle in your hand. will stare at you like he had just witnessed a fatal accident.
“…why are you looking at me like that?” you asked slowly.
“fuck,” he breathed.
“will.”
“okay. maybe that was slightly more than the recommended amount.”
you freak out, “am i going to die?”
“no,” he said immediately.
a breath of relief escaped your lips, but it was cut short as he added, “but i do wish you luck.”
he took the bottle from your hand carefully, lips pressed together like he was physically restraining himself from laughing. “maybe this’ll be good for you two.”
“good for us how?”
instead of answering, he patted your shoulder and started steering you toward the cabin door.
“go get him, tiger.”
“wait—” you twisted around as he shoved you outside. “you still haven’t told me what the hell that was!”
“sorry, honey!” he was halfway through shutting the door. “nico’s coming over and i need to clean before he starts judging me.”
“will!”
“oh— it’s pheromones. okay bye!”
the loud slam of the door didn’t help you snap out what the hell he just said, “…pheromones?”
the word bounced around your brain uselessly as you wandered down the camp pathways, trying to remember where you’d heard it before.
then it clicked.
“charles wasn’t paying attention to me,” silena had once said during campfire gossip, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “so i asked will for help. he gave me pheromones and, gods, charles wouldn’t leave my side for the rest of the day. best decision ever.”
you looked toward the training grounds. a slow, devious grin spread across your face. if luke wanted to play the "busy leader" card, you were about to overrule his deck.
the ring of bronze against bronze echoed across the arena. at the center of it all stood luke. he was in his element—shirt sleeves pushed up, brow damp with sweat, and a sword slung over his shoulder as he corrected a younger camper’s footwork.
normally, getting luke’s attention required a flare gun. you could glare holes into his head and he’d still stay focused on his supposed duty.
but the second your foot hit the edge of the dirt, his head snapped in your direction. it wasn't a casual glance, it looked more like a predator catching a scent on the wind. not a minute later, he was already on his way towards you.
“hey, my love.” his voice came warm and immediate as he reached you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“thought i smelled you from over there,” he murmured. “guess i was right.”
you nearly laughed. “you could smell me?” you asked, raising a brow. “wow. i was starting to think i needed to hire a circus troupe just to get your attention today.”
“baby,” luke said softly, like the idea itself offended him, “you know i could never ignore you.”
his lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then lingered near your neck like he physically couldn’t help himself.
you opened your mouth to argue—because yes, actually, he absolutely had been ignoring you—but the words died in your throat when his hands settled around your waist, pulling you closer with almost desperate ease.
“you smell really good,” he murmured against your neck, nose brushing your skin again. “different.”
you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. “different good or different concerning?”
“different addictive.” he whispered, hands slid lower on your hips as he buried his face into your shoulder again, and somewhere behind him, one of the campers training nearby wolf-whistled.
“captain’s down bad,” someone muttered.
“shut up,” luke snapped immediately, though there was no real bite to it. his attention returned to you within half a second. “you weren’t at breakfast.”
you raised your eyebrow at him, “you weren’t either.”
head tilting on the side, “because i was busy.” sounding almost too sarcastic.
“exactly my point! you’re always too busy—first for me, now even for yourself.”
and there it was finally, luke looked mildly guilty, “baby—”
“no, because we have to talk about how workaholic you are.” you crossed your arms, though the effect was ruined by the way he still held onto your waist. “i sat outside your cabin for twenty minutes last night. connor said you were on 'do not disturb' mode.”
luke looked like you’d just stabbed him. the usual defensive bickering was gone; he just looked pained. “i was exhausted. i didn't—i didn't know you were there.”
“too exhausted even for me?”
“never.” the answer was immediate. he dropped his forehead against yours, breathing you in. “i missed you. gods, i missed you.”
he sounded like a man admitting a state secret. usually, luke castellan was the king of composure, the cool-headed leader especially in the presence of the other kids. right now, he looked ready to drop his sword in the dirt and carry you back to his bunk.
“can i kiss you?” he asked quietly.
you blinked. “since when do you ask?”
“please.” it was a low, desperate command.
the second your lips met, the world vanished. luke didn't just kiss you; he devoured you. it was warm, frantic, and entirely too public. you could hear the entire arena erupting into cheers from behind you.
“luke,” you managed to gasp out, breathless. “the campers... they’re watching.”
then a loud “get a room!” echoed from the cheering
luke didn't break the kiss. he just reached out a hand and blindly flipped the arena at large with his middle finger.
“let them watch,” he growled. lips trailing from yours, back to your jaw, and to the sensitive spot just behind your ear. “you smell… incredible. like summer and something i can’t quite name, but i don’t think i can let you go. ever.”
you felt a twinge of guilt. the pheromones were working too well. usually, luke was the one in control. now, he was acting like a starving man offered a feast.
“is that so?” you teased, trying to regain some semblance of the upper hand. you leaned back slightly, expecting him to let you breathe, but his grip only tightened.
his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, focused entirely on you with a predatory sort of adoration. “i’m serious,” he whispered, his forehead dropping against yours. “i was going to stay out here for another three hours to help the other kids with their footwork, but now? i can’t even remember why i’m holding a sword.”
blade clattering to the dusty ground, luke is now completely indifferent to the surprised whispers of the younger campers. shouting a list of orders over to one of his brothers before dragging you away to somewhere more quiet and intimate.
“luke, wait,” you said, your heart starting to hammer. “i have to tell you something. will gave me this bottle, and i might have used… the whole thing.”
luke didn't seem to care about the logistics. he just hummed, a sound of pure contentment, and began to guide you backward toward the edge of the woods, away from the prying eyes of the arena.
“whatever it is,” he muttered, his lips catching yours again, “it’s working. you have my undivided attention. for as long as you want it.”
you realized then that will’s "good luck" wasn't a warning about the perfume—it was a warning about luke. as he swept you up into his arms, ignoring everything that kept him preoccupied the past week. that’s when you decided the explanation could wait until tomorrow. after all, you did say you missed him and he did say he misse you too.
⟢ 𝓻achel: been cooking this up for a while now, and let me say - i am not done. i have about three blurbs of these two [freaks] that i cannot wait to write and release, and plenty more ideas. so, without further ado, i introduce to you: my contribution to (and take on) the vamp!ilia agenda. heavily inspired by tvd rules and stories.
WARNING: DARK THEMES. DEPICTIONS OF BLOOD AND GORE. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
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.
stormborns
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