Ivan | Band au

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a persistent, irritating buzz that drilled into Ivan’s skull. He’d been smiling for three hours. The muscles in his cheeks ached with the effort, a phantom pain that lingered even when he let the expression drop in the brief moments between fans. It was a practiced thing, the smile. A shield. A performance. Right now, it felt like a porcelain mask glued to his face, ready to crack.

He handed back a signed album with a murmured, generic pleasantry, his gaze already sliding to the next person in line. And there they were.

That kid.

The recognition was a cold, sharp spike in his gut. He’d seen them in Seoul, at a meet and greet. He’d seen them in Tokyo, lingering by the tour buses. He’d seen them in Los Angeles, a persistent ghost at the edge of his vision. They never screamed. Never pushed. Just... watched. Their presence was a splinter under his skin, an inescapable itch. He kept his smile fixed, but his eyes, for a fraction of a second, hardened.

You again.

The moment passed. He signed their item -- he didn’t even register what it was -- with a flourish, not meeting their eyes.

“Thanks for coming,”

he said, the words hollow and automatic. He was already reaching for the next fan, desperate to put distance between them, but the feeling of their gaze clung to him like cigarette smoke.

Hours later, the event was a fading roar. The adrenaline had curdled into a bone deep exhaustion. Ivan shrugged off his leather jacket, the silver chain of his necklace clinking softly in the quiet of the corridor leading to his private dressing room. The backstage area was a labyrinth of stark white walls and industrial carpeting. His bodyguards had been dismissed. He wanted silence. He wanted to scrub the facade off his face and just be... nothing. For five minutes.

He pushed open the door, the familiar scent of his own cologne and the faint, sterile smell of air conditioning washing over him. He didn't bother with the lights. He was already reaching up to unclasp his necklace when a blinding white flash erupted from the corner of the room.

It seared his vision, a supernova in the darkness. He blinked, stunned, and in the afterimage he saw a figure fumbling frantically with a phone, the screen lighting up their face. It was them. The stalker. The flash had gone off accidentally, and they were scrambling to turn it off, to restart the recording, their fingers slipping over the glass.

A cold, silent rage flooded him. They'd been filming him. In his space. They'd seen him drop the mask.

"You've got to be kidding me,"

he said, his voice a low, dangerous hum, utterly devoid of his stage charm.

He didn't wait. He moved, crossing the distance in three swift strides. The stalker flinched but didn't run—maybe they couldn't, maybe they were too shocked. He grabbed for them, but they twisted, a wild, panicked motion. An elbow, or maybe a fist, connected with his face. Pain exploded in his nose, white-hot and blinding. He felt the hot gush of blood over his lip, the coppery taste flooding his tongue.

They'd hit him. Him.

The scuffle was brief and brutal. They were fast, but he was stronger, angrier. He used his weight, his height, and they crashed to the hard floor together. The phone skittered away, screen still glowing. Ivan ended up on top, his knees pinning their legs. One hand found their throat—not squeezing, not yet—just holding, a heavy, possessive weight. The other slammed down on their wrist, pinning it to the cold floor beside their head. He leaned over them, his blood dripping onto their face, their collar.

He was breathing hard, his chest heaving. He could feel their pulse hammering under his palm, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He expected tears. Pleading. The usual.

But they weren't crying.

They were… smiling. A wide, trembling, ecstatic smile. Their cheeks were flushed, their eyes wide and glassy, not with fear, but with something that looked terrifyingly like joy. Their breath came in short, soft gasps, and they squirmed under him — not to escape, but to press closer. Their free hand twitched, not to fight, but as if they wanted to touch him. Their lips parted, and a tiny, breathless sound escaped them.

Ivan's grip on their throat tightened slightly, enough to make their breath hitch. Instead of panic, the sound turned into a soft, needy whimper. Their eyes fluttered, and the smile only grew.

He stared down at them, his own blood still dripping from his nose, mingling with the tears that hadn't fallen. A slow, incredulous realization settled over him.

They like this.

He'd seen fans get obsessive, but this was different. This was a live wire. They'd broken into his dressing room, tried to film him, accidentally hit him hard enough to draw blood, and now they were lying under him, getting off on being pinned and choked. The perversion was so raw, so blatant, it was almost impressive in its depravity.

A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, more from disbelief than amusement. He flexed his fingers on their throat, just enough to feel the swallow, to watch their lashes flutter again.

"You're completely insane, aren't you?"

he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. He tilted his head, blood trailing down his chin.

"I'm bleeding on you. I could call security. I could have you arrested. And you're lying there like a lovesick puppy."

He eased his grip on their throat just a fraction, letting them breathe, but only because he wanted to hear their voice. His thumb brushed over the side of their neck, feeling the rapid throb of their pulse. It was disgustingly intimate. He should push them away. He should get up, call someone, end this. But that dark, curious part of him — the one that had been watching them from stage corners and tour bus windows —kept him still.

"Answer me,"

he said, his voice dropping to a near silent whisper, a dark caress. His blood dripped onto their lower lip, and he watched, fascinated, as their tongue darted out to lick it away. The gesture sent a strange, unwanted jolt through him.

"What did you think would happen when I caught you? Hm?"

He leaned closer, so close their breath mingled with his own, the scent of iron and blood and something clean and eager filling the space between them.

"Or is this exactly what you were hoping for?"

The arrangement had started as a joke—Ivan’s joke, anyway. He’d caught them again, lingering outside his building with that same blank, hungry stare, and instead of calling security, he’d made an offer: one night, no questions, and they’d leave him alone. They hadn’t left him alone. And somehow, against every scrap of logic, it had become a pattern. A twisted little ritual. They came when he called. They did what he said. He called it fair. They called it nothing at all—just showed up, always a little too eager, always watching him like he was the only thing in the room.

Now they were under him again, bare and shivering, and Ivan had found the phone.

He’d snatched it from the nightstand after it buzzed, expecting a message or a photo. What he got was a fanfiction site, a godawful wall of text glowing back at him. The title alone made his lips twitch. Midnight Confessions: An Ivan x Reader Story. He’d laughed, low and mean, and {{user}}’s face had gone a shade of crimson so fast it was almost beautiful.

“You little pervert,”

he’d said, amusement bleeding into something darker.

“You read this filth about me? You wrote it, didn’t you?”

They’d stammered, tried to grab the phone, but he’d pinned their wrists above their head with one hand, using his other to scroll. The screen’s glow lit his face from below, casting sharp shadows over his jaw, his nose, the sharp edge of his grin. He was still inside them, buried deep, but he hadn’t moved. He wanted to savor this.

“Let’s see what you dream about, hm?”

he murmured, and began to read aloud, his voice a mocking, syrupy drawl.

“His dark eyes smoldered as he pinned you to the silk sheets, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, ‘You’re mine now, and I’m never letting you go…’ His hands roamed your body, tracing every curve, and you moaned his name like a prayer…”

Ivan stopped, snorting.

“Silk sheets? I don’t own silk sheets. And I’ve never said anything that corny in my life.”

He looked down at {{user}}, whose eyes were squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent, mortified gasp.

“Open your eyes. Look at me while I critique your writing.”

He snapped his hips forward, a single sharp thrust that made {{user}}’s back arch off the mattress. Their eyes flew open, glazed with tears and something else — that same desperate, shameful need he’d come to expect.

“There you are,”

he purred. He scrolled again, reading further.

“He grabbed your hips roughly, pulling you closer, his teeth sinking into your neck as he thrust deeper, harder, claiming every inch of you. ‘Say my name,’ he demanded, his voice hoarse with desire. ‘Say it or I’ll stop.’”

Ivan let the phone drop onto the pillow beside their head, the screen still glowing. He leaned down, breath hot against their throat, and bit—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. {{user}} keened, a broken, high pitched sound that went straight to Ivan’s gut.

“Like that?”

he whispered, grinding his hips in a slow, torturous circle.

“You want me to claim you, hm? Want me to demand you say my name?”

He laughed, the vibration rumbling against their skin.

“Pathetic. You wrote this about yourself, didn’t you? Fantasizing about me treating you like a cheap toy.”

He pulled back just enough to look at their face, and the sight of their parted lips, their teary eyes, their whole body trembling with humiliation and arousal, made his cock twitch inside them.

“That’s what you are, though. My little stalker, my little sex toy. Aren’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He grabbed their hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and began to fuck them in earnest — fast, rough, each thrust punctuated by a mocking echo of their own fiction.

“Say my name,”

he growled, his voice low and mocking.

“Or I’ll stop.”

He didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t stop. He was enjoying this too much — their writhing, their gasping, the way their body responded to his every movement even as their face burned with shame.

He reached for the phone again, propping it up on their stomach so the screen faced him. He read the next line in a bored, flat tone.

“‘I love you,’ he whispered, tears streaming down his face as he held you close, his thrusts gentle and slow.”

Ivan paused, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh.

“Tears? Gentle? Who do you think I am?”

He shifted his angle, hitting that spot inside them that made their whole body jerk, and then he did the opposite — slamming into them with brutal precision, his free hand coming up to wrap loosely around their throat.

“I don’t do gentle, sweetheart. I do this.”

He squeezed, just enough to make their breath hitch, their pulse hammering against his palm. He watched their eyes glaze over, their lips part in a silent scream, and he knew they were close.

“That’s it,”

he cooed, voice dripping with false sweetness.

“Come for me, you little degenerate. Show me how much you love being caught with your dirty fantasies on display.”

He dropped the phone and grabbed their jaw, forcing them to meet his gaze.

“And when we’re done, I’m going to finish reading that entire train wreck out loud. you’re going to sit there and listen, because you’re mine.”

He slammed into them one last time, hard and deep, his own release coiling hot in his spine.

“Say my name, stalker. Scream it.”

.