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: guys, I lied. this isn't the final chapter. there was just way too much to unpack, so I decided to split it into two parts.. 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!
You have invited Allie over for a pool day, tired of listening to her whine about her nonexistent tan until she leaves for her vacation at the end of August. She comes prepared with two different tanning oils—no sunscreen in sight until you force her, rubbing the white cream into her back yourself when her golden skin starts taking on a reddish hue.
"You're going to get sunburnt."
"I feel fine."
"Just get in the pool for a minute to cool down." You motion for her to follow, kicking your feet up and floating backward. She lays sprawled on the sunbed, a Bruins cap covering her face. You can already imagine Jace rolling his eyes at the hat, being the massive hater of Boston's hockey team that he is. Thankfully, he's not at home to interrupt your peace by doing backflips in the water alongside a certain someone who always tags along.
While Allie continues basking in the sunlight, you float in the water, dive, and test your limits to see if you can swim across the entire length of the pool on a single breath, trying to beat your previous record. With your head ducked under the surface, the world shrinks to the muffled sound of splashing water, your movements fluid and precise from years of practice. You're close to the wall—you can almost see the edge—but your lungs start to burn and your legs give out. You kick down, breaking the surface with a loud gasp.
"Well done, sis."
Whipping your head around, you squint up at Jace, who’s clapping for you. His curls are falling over his forehead, a towel messily slung over one shoulder. Your eyes dart past him to find Josh already applying sunscreen to his burnt shoulders, and even though you can clearly see him standing right next to Jace, you don't dare look at Ilia. You pretend his shirtless torso and red swim shorts don't affect you in the slightest. You pretend you haven't spent every single second of the past few days thinking about him.
"You were so close."
"Aren't you supposed to be out of town?"
"Change of plans," Jace shrugs, kicking off his slides and tossing his towel toward a sunbed, nearly missing it entirely. "Decided I wanted to keep my lovely sister and her friend company at the pool."
"More like annoy us."
You barely finish the sentence before he jumps straight into the water with a backflip, sending a massive spray of water straight into your face. You groan at the intrusion, while Allie looks thoroughly unimpressed by Jace's antics—or by Josh, who joins him shortly after, looking significantly less graceful in his entry.
You can feel Ilia's eyes practically burning through your skin as you climb out of the pool. You're acutely aware that the bikini you're wearing offers far less coverage than the ones you usually wear when you know Jace's friends are going to be around.
Wringing the water from your hair, you lay down next to Allie, picking up a pencil and the newspaper Sudoku puzzle you haven't been able to concentrate on for the life of you. From the corner of your eye, you catch Ilia diving into the deep end, and soon the three of them are shouting and debating whatever they usually talk about. Jace aggressively highlights his hatred for the Bruins in hopes of getting a reaction out of Allie, but she pays him no mind.
Still, you can't help but glance at Ilia from time to time. Your chest tightens at how effortlessly handsome he is—how his sun-kissed skin makes the ocean blue of his eyes pop, how his body has filled out over the last few months, his biceps flexing in a way that makes something twist sharp and low in your stomach.
"Can someone play music or something?" Allie calls out.
"I fear Jace's hyena laugh will overpower any audio source."
"I do not laugh like a hyena!" Jace protests from the water, splashing a wave toward you that barely reaches your toes.
"It's definitely not a pleasant sound," you add.
"You guys are such buzzkills," Jace exhales, narrowing his eyes at you. "What's wrong with you today? Did that chick fail to update that Zutara fanfiction again?"
"You read fanfiction?" Allie lifts her hat, an amused smile dancing on her lips.
Jace snickers from the water, completely ignoring the death glare you're throwing him as you toss the newspaper aside. "She used to write it, too. Maybe she still does, who knows."
"I don't!" you protest, throwing your hands in the air in sheer frustration. "I don't have time for that! And even if I did, it's nothing to be ashamed of!"
"Not even if it's a Tom Holland reader-insert or whatever?"
Mortification cuts through you as they burst out laughing, leaving you completely defenseless. Ilia is the only one who stays completely silent, likely terrified of doing any further damage between you two. For a fraction of a second, your eyes flicker to his. You can't avoid him any longer, and the expression he gives you is so soft, so raw and pure, that you almost break right then and there, suddenly exhausted from pretending to hate him.
Instead, you force yourself to roll your eyes, flashing your brother a middle finger before flipping onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against a towel that has grown rough over years of use.
"Allie, do you know how to swim?" Jace asks casually.
"Yes, I do," she replies disinterestedly, smoothing another layer of tanning oil onto her arm.
You don't think twice about Jace's innocent question—not until you hear the wet slaps of his bare feet against the concrete. You can see what's coming, but you'd be lying if you said it wasn't funny; Allie definitely needs to cool off after baking in the sun for over an hour anyway, and she isn't the type to get genuinely mad over a harmless prank.
You don't bother warning her. Allie only manages a sharp yelp before Jace hooks a firm arm around her waist, hoisting her over his shoulder effortlessly as he launches both of them into the deep end. Allie's hands slap uselessly against his back the entire way down.
"You… cunt!" Allie gasps as she surfaces, coughing up a mouthful of water.
Jace only laughs harder, pushing his wet hair out of his face. "I didn't want to get my hair wet!" she fumes.
"You'll dry off, princess."
"Ew. Do you seriously flirt with girls by calling them 'princess'?"
"Bold of you to assume you're worthy of my extra attention."
Allie rolls her eyes, leaning in to push his head under the water. You observe for a minute as they playfully fight, and when you get tired of watching, you throw a crumpled towel over your face, shielding yourself from the glare as you bask under the sun.
They keep talking about random stuff, the words barely registering to you except for the rare times Ilia chimes in, his voice much quieter than usual. Jace eventually suggests making cocktails, and to your surprise, Allie offers to help, both of them disappearing into the house. For a while, you listen to Ilia giving Josh tips on how to backflip into the water, but Josh quickly grows tired of his vain efforts and complains about needing to catch his breath.
Then everything goes quiet.
When you uncover your face a minute later, Josh is gone. It's just Ilia sitting on the edge of the pool with his back turned to you, his gaze fixed on the water and his shoulders slouched in a way that makes your heart ache with a quiet, dull pain. You notice the dark pinkish hue his skin has taken on, unable to bite your tongue despite telling yourself that it's not your problem, that you shouldn't care.
"You should put sunscreen on," you mumble, so softly that he barely hears.
His head whips around like he can't believe his own ears. "I don't plan to stay out much longer."
"Your shoulders are already burning," you casually point out, avoiding his gaze.
From the corner of your eye, you see him glance over his shoulder, inspecting the damage. He gets up without another word, trotting toward the spot where Josh left an open bottle of sunscreen, droplets spilled across the concrete. You watch him squeeze a generous amount into his palm, reaching awkwardly behind his back. Between the sharp angle and his broad shoulders, he’s missing half his spine entirely.
You tell yourself to close your eyes. You tell yourself to roll over, ignore it, and let him deal with it on his own. But as the seconds tick by, the sight of his raw skin sits heavily on your conscience. No matter how furious you are, no matter how deeply he hurt you, you can't just watch him burn—especially when you vividly remember all the times he and Jace spent too long under the sun without protection, crying hot tears at night because they couldn't lie on their backs.
Exhaling, you stand up and walk toward him with slow, deliberate steps. His blue eyes widen—cautious, almost afraid to breathe, as if any sudden movement might make you turn right back around.
"Sit down," you say softly, your voice flat, stripped of any trace of hostility.
He doesn't hesitate for a second, sinking onto the edge of the sunbed with his shoulders slightly hunched. Squeezing the white lotion onto your palms, you step up behind him. His bare skin radiates intense heat under your touch, and feeling the warmth under your fingertips, a part of you deep down doesn't want to let go. You rub the cream across his broad shoulders in gentle, even strokes.
Ilia slowly tilts his head back, looking up at you from over his shoulder. The vulnerability in his face is almost painful to look at.
"Thank you."
"It's fine."
You take a step back to put distance between you, wiping your palms down against your thigh. He watches you retreat to your seat. You contemplate going inside to eliminate any possibility of talking to him, but a part of you wants to stay—a part of you longs to talk to him like you used to, the way you used to steal quiet moments together every time Jace turned his back.
You're lost in thought when you hear him move. He stops at your sunbed, staring down at you for a fraction of a second before sitting at the edge. His blue eyes sweep over your face. You stay silent, simply bending your knees upward in a subtle attempt to put some distance between you—a boundary you both dread.
"Aren't you ever going to talk to me?" he murmurs, extending his hand to touch yours. He brushes his fingertips over yours so softly, so gently, as if you're something fragile, and you can't even find it in yourself to pull away at first. "Please."
Your heartbeat quickens. Your lips purse as a wave of anger takes over, and you yank your hand away from his touch.
"I am talking to you," you point out with a shrug, deliberately missing the point. "I told you we'd go back to how things were. I'm doing exactly that."
"I don't want to go back."
"Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you slept with your ex."
"Please," he exhales, shutting his eyes tight for a moment as his jaw tightens. He pushes his damp hair out of his face, staring at you with those ocean-blue eyes you've come to equally curse and cherish. "You never gave me a chance to explain."
"Because it doesn't matter! It happened, and I can't pretend that it didn't."
"I didn't come to you because she rejected me," he says, shaking his head firmly. "I came to you because I realized it was you I wanted to be with."
"Oh, so what? You had some type of post-nut clarity?"
A bitter laugh escapes your throat at his reasoning. He looks at you in shock, unable to believe you're reducing the whole situation to a crude joke. He opens his mouth to say something, but you don't let him. Instead, you stand up, intending to join the others who are taking far too long inside.
Before you can take a step, he tugs firmly on your arm, forcing you to turn around and face him. His gaze is so intense, his body heat so close, that the words die in your throat.
"You're so stubborn."
"And you're so shameless."
"I fucked up. Yes, I did," he admits, his voice firmer now, like he's running out of patience. A sudden hardness enters his eyes that takes you aback. "I'm a bastard. I'm an idiot. I'm stupid, and I did you dirty. But I swear to God, it wasn't what you think. It doesn't excuse it, but—"
"Jace is coming."
"I don't care."
"Right," you note with bitter amusement. "Is that why you've been hiding me the whole summer?"
You cut him off cleanly, wriggling free of his grip. Chest heaving, you drag your feet toward the house, your bare soles stinging against the hot concrete.
Jace and Allie are in the kitchen, but the drinks are nowhere near ready.
"What's taking you two so long?"
They simply shrug, Allie continuing to cut lemons into thin slices. You offer to help, finishing up what took them twenty minutes in under five. And when they inevitably forget, you're the one to remind Jace that Ilia doesn't drink alcohol, fetching him a glass of fresh orange juice instead.
You don't see him after that.
Soon enough, you leave for a trip to Italy with Ziggy and Cam, and by the time you return, he has already left for California to train with Raf, Liza going along with him.
He leaves likes on your Instagram stories and posts, but that's where your communication ends. He doesn't comment, and he doesn't send you a message like he would have months ago—not even to ask if you're enjoying the trip.
It's mid-August when he comes back, right during the days when you're working overtime because someone has to fill in for Betty and Lucy while they take their respective vacations—much to your and Allie's joint misery.
"I'm gonna die," Allie groans, lifting her head up from the counter and staring at you with empty eyes. "Who the fuck wants to eat cinnamon rolls in August?!"
"We've already sold like a hundred and twenty."
"Does that include the two rolls you ate today?"
"Bitch," you chuckle, tossing a pencil at her. She giggles, dipping her fingers into a cup of water and splashing you back.
The fun ends when a customer walks in, and you two silently split the responsibilities. She prepares the buns while you steam hot chocolate, practically fuming over the fact that someone is ordering a boiling drink at three in the afternoon. Then, your hand slips. Sparks of scalding liquid splash all over your apron and t-shirt, the hot droplets burning against your skin.
"Ah, fuck!"
You softly curse, and Allie nudges you away from the counter, taking over to clean up the mess. "Go change."
"I don't have a spare t-shirt," you groan, trying in vain to dab the dark spots out of your pale pink top, only smudging them further. "They're all dirty. I forgot to take them home to wash."
"Go look through my locker. I should have one or two clean ones."
"Thanks, Allie."
With her permission, you browse through her locker, wading past random pieces of clothing that have nothing to do with work. Your fingers close around a thick material, and you pull out a dark green t-shirt. The print is washed out, but it's recognizable enough to instantly trigger a memory: it's from a summer camp you and Jace used to attend back in high school. It's big enough to cover your entire butt, and even bigger on Allie.
Pulling it over your head without much thought, you walk back out to the bar. Allie has already wiped down the counter and is mindlessly scrolling on her phone.
"I didn't know we attended the same camp."
"What camp?" She looks up, her expression tired until her eyes flicker over your choice of clothing. Her mouth falls slightly open. She chuckles nervously, and your face drops at her sudden shift in demeanor, acutely aware of the deep flush creeping up her neck.
"Allie...?"
"Um, I don't really know," she stammers, waving a hand off in a desperate attempt to brush the topic away. "I thrifted it a while ago."
"Three sizes too big?"
"I like oversized stuff."
The sudden loss of her usual composure makes you instantly suspicious. You narrow your eyes at her as her gaze darts back to her phone screen, her posture far stiffer than it was a moment ago. A sudden, absurd thought crosses your mind, and before you can filter yourself, your eyes widen and your voice rises.
"Are you hooking up with Jace?!"
You emphasize your brother's name like you're trying to convince yourself it isn't true. When her face completely falls and she blurts out a defensive "No!", you blink at her, the reality settling in fast.
"Oh my god." Your expression turns horrified, white-hot disbelief rushing through your veins. "You're sneaking around with my brother!"
"It's nothing serious, I promise—"
"Goddamn it, Allie," you groan, burying your face in your hands, wanting to dissolve into the floorboards right then and there. "Jace? Out of everyone?!"
"I'm sorry!"
"And how long has this been going on?!"
"Um..." She swallows hard, biting down on her lip with a deeply apologetic look. "Since... June?"
"Allie!"
"Okay, okay! I know I broke girl code!" she sighs, throwing her hands up in the air. Luckily, the café is completely empty and the rest of the kitchen staff are out of earshot. "It just happened! And... you know how your brother is!"
"Wow," you chuckle, an incredulous expression taking over your face as a thousand thoughts race through your head. "I can't believe Jace's pathetic attempts at flirting actually worked on you."
"I mean, if Ilia's attempts worked on you..."
You ignore the low blow, far more fixated on the bigger picture. "So what? The whole time you knew about me and... him, you were sneaking around behind my back with my brother?!"
"That pretty much sums it up... yes."
"He's such a fucking hypocrite." A bitter laugh escapes your throat as anger consumes you—not at Allie, and not even at Jace for liking your friend, but for the sheer audacity of it all. He spent the entire summer warning his friends away from you, enforcing his hypocritical rules, while secretly hooking up with your friend behind closed doors. "He goes around forbidding everyone else, and then does the exact same thing!"
Allie doesn't argue, clearly too ashamed of keeping the secret to defend herself.
The rest of your shift passes in near-total silence. The second the clock strikes four, you're out the door. You hop on your bike and pedal furiously toward home, where you know Jace is waiting—ready to confront him, tear into his hypocrisy, and get every bit of petty satisfaction out of calling him out.
Your palms are sweaty when you tug down the door handle, already preparing to yell out his name, but your throat goes bone-dry the moment you step into the hallway.
Shouting echoes through the house, followed by the sharp, terrifying sound of something shattering. Jace's voice is so loud, so crystal clear, that your heart drops straight into your stomach.
"You've been fucking my sister?!"
You rush into the living room, only to discover Jace violently shoving Ilia. Your expression turns horrified as Jace grabs him by the collar of his t-shirt, slamming him brutally against the wall where the picture frames rattle above them.
"I'll fucking kill you!"
"Jace!"
You yell at the top of your lungs, dropping your bag to the floor. Both of their heads snap toward you. You gasp when you see Ilia's lip is busted, blood dripping down onto his white graphic t-shirt. He doesn't even use the moment to wriggle free from Jace's crushing grip; he doesn't budge at all, looking as if he has completely accepted his fate—like he knows he deserves it, fully prepared to pay the price.
"Oh, another fucking liar has arrived," the words spit from your brother's mouth, bitter and raw, his brow furrowed in a terrifying display of rage. Instead of letting Ilia go, he grabs him harder, slamming him against the wall again. "You've known her since she was a baby! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
"Jace, what the hell?!" You try to remain calm, rushing across the room to tug desperately at his shirt in an attempt to pull him off Ilia, but he doesn't move an inch. "You're acting like an animal!"
"Go to your room!"
"Fuck no!"
Then Ilia speaks up, calling your name so softly, so pleadingly, that your chest violently tightens. His ocean-blue eyes lock onto yours, motioning you toward the stairs. He looks worried—not for himself, but for you. "Just go, please. We'll sort it out."
"What's there to sort out?!" You let out a harsh, incredulous snort, your expression bewildered. "I'm not some fucking object for you two to discuss ownership over!"
"This loser? Really?" Jace gestures wildly at Ilia. When Ilia opens his mouth to speak, Jace slams him back into the wall, choking the words right out of his throat. "You've been lying to me for months for him?!"
"Just like you have with me, you fucking hypocrite!"
You raise your voice, shoving Jace hard in the shoulder. Taken aback by the sudden accusation, his expression softens for a fraction of a second, his eyes widening in the unmistakable realization that he's been caught.
"Yeah, I know you've been seeing Allie all summer!"
"That is different!" His jaw tightens, finally letting go of Ilia, who immediately uses his thumb to wipe at the blood, smearing it across his t-shirt. The sight of the red stain twists something agonizingly deep in your gut. "Allie didn't grow up with us!"
"Allie is my friend! It's not fucking different!"
"You know it's different!" he shakes his head, pointing an accusatory finger in your face. "That's why you've been hiding it from me!"
"Yeah, because I knew you'd have a fucking Neanderthal reaction just like you're having right now, you moron!"
Jace's hands tighten into fists, his knuckles turning pure white. He glances back and forth between you and Ilia, his chest heaving as he shakes his head in utter disbelief that the two closest people in his life could betray him like this.
"So what? You guys are in love now?!" He spits the words out, sneering at the possibility, mocking the concept as if it's a pathetic joke. "Is that what this is? Or did you trade our friendship for some summer fling?!"
You don't reply. You avert your gaze to the floor, absentmindedly twisting the single ring on your finger—the Spider-Man ring. The one Ilia gave you before any of this mess started. Your heartbeat quickens, waiting in agonizing silence for Ilia to say something, dying for him to claim those words after all these months of waiting.
Ilia looks directly at you—his blue eyes bloodshot, desperate, and entirely unblinking.
"Yes," Ilia says softly, his voice cutting clean through the rage in the room. He looks back at Jace, his gaze steady. "I am."
The heavy confession hangs in the air, suffocatingly real.
These are the words you spent weeks, months, years yearning to hear—yet they don't hit you the way you always imagined. They don't bring the soft warmth or overwhelming relief you used to dream about.
Why now?
Why wait until Jace is raging at both of you, until your world is actively crumbling around your ears? Hearing him claim you in front of your brother now doesn't feel like a victory; it feels like a cruel joke, coming months too late to save a single thing.
Jace stares at him, the disgust on his face morphing into a cold, permanent disappointment. Without another word, he storms out of the room, leaving you and Ilia standing alone in the heavy silence as the front door slams shut behind him.
You let out a long breath the moment he's gone, dragging both palms over your eyes as sudden, crushing exhaustion catches up to you.
"Did you tell him?" you ask after a second, staring at Ilia with a completely worn-out expression.
"I did."
"Why would you?!" You throw your hands in the air, raw frustration seeping through every word. "What was the point of doing that when everything between us is already over?!"
"Because I don't want it to be over!"
"That's not your decision to make!" you huff, stepping closer and pointing an accusatory finger right at his chest. "And it isn't just your story to go around telling, either! What the fuck were you actually thinking?!"
"I was thinking that I'm tired of this!" He throws his hands into the air, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. "I'm tired of you acting stubborn and pushing me away without even talking to me! I'm tired of you acting like you don't mean anything to me when I would drop every single person in this world for you—including my best friend!"
You stand there frozen. His stare is so intense that you find yourself completely stripped of words. He takes a sudden step toward you, gripping your shoulders firmly, as if he could physically shake some sense into you.
"I was a coward that night," he starts, his voice dropping into a calmer, raw tone. "The guys almost realized how I felt about you, and I panicked. I said stupid shit because I thought it was wrong—because I wasn't supposed to fall for my best friend's little sister."
"You brushed me off like a joke," you recall, unable to release the memory, the humiliation resurfacing instantly.
"I did," he confirms, exhaling heavily. "And I will regret that for the rest of my life."
"You went to Macy's that night," you mumble, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. "What else was I supposed to think, other than the fact that I was your backup option?"
"No," he shakes his head firmly. "I didn't go to Macy's because I wanted her back, I swear to god."
"Then why did you?!"
"Because she texted me and I was confused!" He lets go of your shoulders, something agonizing twisting on his face, as if he's struggling to explain it to himself. "I thought maybe… maybe I was just infatuated with you. Maybe it was a stupid crush that would eventually fade!"
He pauses, licking his dry lips, completely lost on how to continue. You stay silent, letting him dig his own grave.
"And I was stupid, and I thought—I thought if I saw Macy and talked to her, I'd come to my senses. That I'd understand my feelings. But nothing changed. I spent that entire night doing nothing but comparing her to you. I couldn't stop thinking about you. And then she just kissed me, and—"
He stops right there, leaving the rest unspoken between you.
You stare at him in utter confusion, barely able to process what he's even trying to say. His logic is so absurd to you that you can only blink, your voice coming out completely hollow.
"So what? You just went to Macy's to test if she could cure what you felt for me?"
"It sounds stupid, I know—"
"Yeah, you're barely making any sense, Ilia!" you exclaim, squeezing your eyes shut for a second to swallow down the tears threatening to spill over. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to stand there and listen to her tell me how you tried to fix things with her while I was sitting by my phone waiting for you to call?! How she basically boasted about you two fucking all night?!"
"Don't say it like that. Please."
"Why not? Because that's exactly what happened!"
He just shakes his head violently, words lost on his tongue, at a total loss for how to convince you or how to break through the armor of your stubbornness.
"How much did you tell him?" you ask after a second, your voice demanding and sharp.
"I told him I had feelings for you," he says, licking his dry lips and watching you carefully, as if trying to gauge your reaction. "And that we've been in a secret relationship behind his back since the start of summer. I didn't tell him about our... fallout." He carefully chooses the word, physically wincing at it. "I was going to, but he didn't really give me the chance."
"So what? You were just going to lay out all the ugly details to my brother?"
"I'm done keeping secrets."
"Right. Because you honestly think Jace will forgive you not only for messing with me behind his back, but for playing with my feelings, too?"
"What is wrong with you?!" A heavy crease forms between his eyebrows, his expression a chaotic mixture of disappointment and rage. "Why are you being so cruel?! Why can't you just believe me?!"
"And what do you think Jace is going to believe when you tell him this whole ridiculous story about Macy, huh?!"
He goes completely silent, avoiding your gaze, because deep down, you both know you're right.
"It won't just be your lip that gets busted," you push, your voice dripping with bitter reality. "You think you can actually convince him of your... pure intentions?"
"I'm willing to try."
"Just shut the fuck up and sit."
Your tone is harsh, and a flicker of surprise passes over his face. Unable to stand the sight of the blood drying on his chin for another second, you turn on your heel and walk into the kitchen. Your footsteps ring heavy against the floor as you yank open the cabinet door, pulling out one of the many first-aid kits your father keeps scattered around the house.
He's still standing in the exact same spot when you return, looking unsure of how to carry out your command because he hadn't realized what you were going for. Glancing at the red box in your hands, he finally moves toward the couch and sinks onto the edge, parting his legs slightly so you can step into the space in front of him.
He winces when you dab a damp cotton pad against his split lip, unashamedly staring up at you while you refuse to meet his eyes. His hot breath fanning across your face ignites that familiar, frustrating warmth—the kind that always sparks in your body whenever he's this close.
"How exactly are you planning to explain this to your parents?"
"I told you," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm done keeping secrets."
Rolling your eyes, you step back to discard the bloody cotton pads. He doesn't move an inch, as if the thought of leaving and going home hasn't even crossed his mind.
Exhausted, all your energy entirely drained from the shouting, you give up on trying to push him out. You collapse onto the other side of the couch, burying your head against a mountain of throw pillows.
"Did you know about Allie and Jace?"
"No."
"How come?" You glance at him over the edge of a pillow, suspiciously narrowing your eyes. "He tells you everything."
"I knew he was seeing someone, but he kept brushing it off—told me it didn't matter, that it was just casual," he replies softly. He pauses for a second, hesitating before offering an insight he isn't quite sure you're ready to hear. "I think he realized he actually caught real feelings for her, and it terrified him. If he was scared to say her name out loud to me, it means she wasn't just some summer fling."
Your mind wanders to your friend and your brother, trying to picture them together. You replay the last few months in your head—trying to fill in the missing pieces and understand how the hell you failed to notice.
Neither of you says a word.
You stare blankly at the ceiling while he sits hunched over, head hanging low between his broad shoulders, mindlessly twisting the bracelet on his wrist. Minutes bleed into silence, the air thick and suffocating with lingering tension.
You keep replaying the moments before—the way Jace had looked at you with that sickening mix of rage and disappointment, and the way Ilia had surrendered under his weight, completely ready to absorb every punch thrown his way just because he believed he deserved it. And then you recall his words. Those words. Confessing his feelings in front of your brother without a single trace of hesitation in his voice.
His head snaps upward, glancing over his shoulder at you with pursed lips.
"Are you ever going to forgive me?"
You choose not to reply, unable to swallow your pride.
"If you need time, take however much you need," he continues softly, his voice trembling with a quiet, desperate sincerity. "Just please don't think for a second that you were a backup option. You were never an option. You were always my only choice because I love you."
Your heart tightens, goosebumps tracing across your skin as your pulse begins to race. As if he senses your reaction—the subtle softening of your expression—he leans in, his warm, familiar fingers slowly intertwining with yours.
He doesn't say a word. He just holds you like that, tracing the lines of your hand in the quiet.
Then, the front door is yanked open with violent force. The sudden noise causes you to instinctively yank your hand back, sitting up straight to brace yourself for whatever storm is about to break over the house.
Heavy footsteps echo into the living room as Jace barges in. His expression looks superficially calmer now, but a dangerous, underlying trace of rage hums beneath the surface—a fuse bound to explode eventually. It's as if he suddenly remembered that he'd left things abruptly unfinished.
He paces back and forth for a few seconds before coming to a sudden stop right in front of you two, glaring between you both like he can't decide which one he should strangle first.
"Okay," he establishes, his voice dripping with venom as he emphasizes every single word. "So you two have been sneaking around behind my back for months. The entire time, you both acted like I didn't exist—treating me like some blind moron!"
"I still don't understand how you have the nerve to say that out loud when you've been doing the exact same thing behind my back with Allie."
"That is different," he shakes his head, utterly adamant. "You've known Allie for what?! Five months?!"
"Jace, I'm sorry," Ilia sighs, finally getting up to face his fate once again. "I'm sorry we lied. But I am not sorry for having feelings for your sister. It's not something I can just turn off."
"What feelings, man?!" Jace snorts, his eyes widening in complete disbelief, as if he can't even grasp the concept. "We were raised together! She's like a sister to you!"
"You don't get to define us—"
"What us?!" Jace yells, throwing his hands up in pure frustration. You shut your eyes tight, letting out an exhausted breath, knowing he won't come to his senses no matter how hard anyone tries—not until he decides to on his own. "I swear to God, if another word comes out of your mouth, I'm gonna beat the shit out of—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Tired of his empty threats, you push yourself up onto your feet. "You and your pathetic, fragile masculinity! Who the hell are you to order me around about who I can or can't be in a relationship with?!"
"That's what you call a relationship?!" He laughs right in your face. "The way he's been hiding you because he was a fucking coward who couldn't face me?!"
"Jace," Ilia exhales, trying not to enrage him further, but clearly tired of staying silent and letting him be unfair to you both. "I know I broke guy code, but you know me. I would never mess with your sister if I wasn't dead serious about her. Come on."
Jace must realize he actually has a point, because the words stall in his throat. He doesn't reply, squeezing his eyes shut and exhaling heavily as if trying to keep himself from snapping. He shoves his dark curls out of his face, his expression suddenly looking battered and worn out.
"Do you guys even realize how fucking betrayed I feel?"
You avoid his gaze, staring at the floor.
"My best friend and my sister," he repeats softly, letting the reality sink in as if he still can't believe his own words. "Sneaking behind my back. What a fucking joke."
He doesn't even sound angry anymore—just deeply disappointed, completely heartbroken. Without another word, he turns around and storms back up the stairs, slamming his bedroom door shut behind him so hard the floor vibrates.
"I think you should leave," you speak up after a long moment, bending down to pick your bag off the floor and gathering the items that spilled out when you dropped it. "He's not going to stop being angry until he decides he's ready."
"I don't want him taking it out on you."
"Well, I'm just as guilty as you are," you shrug, slinging the strap over your shoulder. You turn around to face him, the dark red spots drying on his t-shirt catching your eye. "Are you seriously going to tell your parents Jace beat you up?"
"I wouldn't call this beating me up.'"
"Not the time for jokes, Ilia."
"I'll just tell them exactly what happened," he shrugs, acting as if it isn't even up for debate.
You don't reply, and the cold silence is enough to remind him of your earlier instructions. He hesitates, his feet lingering on the hardwood, looking like he desperately wants to say something else but doesn't quite know how. Finally, he turns around and slips out the door.
The moment the front door clicks shut, you let out a ragged breath, burying your face in your hands. You know the next few days—possibly weeks—are going to be ugly. And deep down, you know you can't just ignore the words Ilia said to you. His explanations were so stupid, yet so painfully sincere, leaving you torn between your pride and your heart, completely lost on what to do next.
Ur at practice w Ilia and you’re landing your jumps funny because he fucked you too hard the night before and everyone’s like omg ru okay?? and ur like…Ilia ur dick was too good and he takes care of you/makes sure you don’t hurt yourself and gives you a massage and it’s just silly pretty please and thank you!
Hahaha😂
Landing Issues
Warning: Mention of sex
Ilia x fem!reader
You’re on the ice at the rink, trying to act like a professional athlete instead of someone whose legs still feel like overcooked spaghetti from last night’s activities. The morning session is supposed to be light technical work—just edge quality and a few jump combinations—but every time you dig into the ice for a takeoff your thighs protest like they’ve been personally victimized.
You set up for a triple Lutz. The entry feels fine. The takeoff feels… optimistic. You rotate, land, and immediately buckle sideways with a little whoop sound that is extremely undignified. Your free leg swings out wider than planned and you have to plant both hands on the ice for a second to keep from eating it completely.
A couple of the younger skaters glance over. One of the coaches raises an eyebrow.
“You good?” Someone calls.
You push yourself upright, face already heating. “Yep. Totally fine. Just… technical adjustments.”
Ilia is skating slow circles near the boards, watching you with that particular expression that means he’s already piecing things together. You attempt a triple flip next. Same problem. The landing is soft and weird and your right knee dips like it’s considering early retirement. You recover, but the recovery involves an awkward little hop-hop-slide that makes two people stop what they’re doing.
“Y/N?” Your coach asks, skating closer. “You landed that like you forgot how knees work.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Then, because your brain-to-mouth filter is apparently still offline from last night, you turn toward Ilia and stage-whisper, loud enough for half the ice to hear:
“Ilia, your dick was too good.”
There is a beat of pure silence.
Then someone snorts. Someone else coughs into their glove. The junior who was practicing spins nearly falls over from laughing. Ilia’s ears go pink under his beanie, but the corner of his mouth is already twitching upward like he’s fighting a losing battle with a grin.
He skates over, completely unhurried, and stops right in front of you so the rest of the rink only sees his back.
“Technical adjustments, huh?” He murmurs, voice low and amused.
“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, but you’re already smiling despite yourself. “My hips are filing a formal complaint. My left hamstring is writing a strongly worded letter. I think my glutes are on strike.”
Ilia’s eyes flick down your body and back up, the look pure smug affection. “You were the one who said ‘harder’ approximately eleven times.”
“I was compromised,” you whisper. “You had me bent over the kitchen counter. There was strategic use of the counter edge. That is not fair.”
He hums, reaching out to steady your elbow as you try another tentative push of the blade. “Okay. New plan. No more jumps until I check the damage.”
“It’s practice—”
“It’s my practice partner looking like she’s about to fold in half every time she lands,” he corrects, already guiding you toward the boards. “Come on. Off the ice for five minutes.”
You let him steer you. The second your skates hit the rubber mats he crouches in front of you without ceremony, hands settling on your thighs like he’s assessing a jumper who just had a bad fall. His thumbs press carefully into the muscle above your knees, then higher, mapping the tenderness with clinical precision that is completely ruined by the tiny, satisfied smirk he can’t quite kill.
“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. “I did a number on you.”
“Understatement of the year.”
He stands, tugs you over to the bench against the wall, and sits you down like you’re made of something breakable. Then he drops to one knee again, peels your skate guards off, and starts working his thumbs into the tight line of your hip flexors right through the practice tights. It’s not even particularly sexual—just firm, knowing pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut for a second because god that exact spot has been aching since approximately 1 a.m.
“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re holding everything.”
“I’m holding you accountable,” you mutter, but you tip your head back against the wall and let him work. His hands move higher, digging into the places that still feel bruised in the best and worst way. Every so often he glances up to check your face, making sure the pressure is helping instead of making it worse.
From the ice, one of the coaches calls, “Everything okay over there?”
Ilia doesn’t even look away from your legs. “Just taking care of my partner. She overdid it last night.”
You nearly choke. “Ilia—”
He gives you the most innocent look known to mankind. “Training. Obviously.”
You kick his shin lightly with the side of your skate. He just grins wider and keeps massaging, fingers finding every sore spot with the kind of precision that only comes from having mapped your body thoroughly the night before. When he hits a particularly tender place on the inside of your thigh you make a tiny involuntary sound and he softens immediately, gentling the pressure until the muscle starts to release.
“Better?” He asks after a few minutes.
You nod, a little dazed. “You’re unfairly good at this.”
“I’m unfairly good at a lot of things that affect your jump landings,” he says, completely deadpan, and then stands, offering both hands to pull you up. “Come on. We’re doing edges and turns only for the rest of the session. If I see you so much as think about a triple I’m putting you on the bench.”
You let him haul you to your feet. Your legs still feel a little wobbly, but the sharpest of the ache has faded under his hands. As you step back onto the ice he stays close, one hand hovering near your lower back like he’s ready to catch you if the residual consequences of last night decide to reappear.
Halfway through a slow forward outside edge you catch him watching you with that soft, possessive little smile he gets when he’s both proud and a little smug about the state he left you in.
You lean in as you pass him and murmur, “Next time you’re the one who has to explain why you’re landing funny.”
Ilia’s laugh is quiet and warm. “Deal. But for the record?” He skates a small circle around you, eyes bright. “Worth it.”
okay, more fluff: ilia being obsessed with handholding. like he does it whenever possible, regardless of if it's convenient or appropriate. i'm telling you, he'd die without physical contact
Handsy
Warning: Fluff
Ilia x fem!reader
You’d long since stopped counting the times it happened in a single day.
It was never dramatic. Never announced. Just… inevitable.
Ilia’s fingers found yours the way some people reached for their phone or their keys—reflexive, constant, quietly insistent. He held your hand like it was the only part of the world that made sense.
This morning it started before either of you were fully awake.
You were still half-buried in the blankets, face pressed into the pillow, when you felt the mattress dip and the soft scrape of his knuckles brushing your palm. Even in sleep he had somehow found you. His hand slid over yours, thumb tracing the soft inside of your wrist in slow, sleepy circles until your fingers curled around his without thinking. He made a low, contented sound and shifted closer, tucking your joined hands against his chest like he was protecting something precious. You drifted off again to the steady thump of his heartbeat under your knuckles.
Later, in the kitchen, he stood behind you while you poured coffee, chin resting on your shoulder, one arm loosely around your waist. The other hand was already seeking yours. You tried to reach for the sugar and he simply followed, keeping your fingers laced, letting you drag his arm along like an oversized, very determined accessory. When you turned to face him he lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow kiss to the back of yours, eyes soft and a little amused at himself.
“I know,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s ridiculous.”
You smiled into your mug. “You’re ridiculous.”
He didn’t let go.
At the rink it became almost comical.
He walked you from the car to the doors with your hands locked together, even though his skate bag was heavy on the other shoulder and the parking lot was uneven. Inside, while he laced his skates on the bench, he kept your hand trapped between both of his, absently playing with your fingers—stroking the lines of your palm, tapping each knuckle in turn, lifting your hand every so often to press his mouth to the center of it like he couldn’t help himself. Coaches and other skaters passed by. He barely noticed. When it was time to step onto the ice he finally released you, but only after one last squeeze and a look that clearly said I’ll be right back for this.
The moment he stepped off after practice his hand was searching for yours again, still cold from the ice, still damp at the edges of the glove he’d just peeled off. He didn’t care. He threaded his fingers through yours and held on while he talked to his coach, while he signed the occasional autograph, while he answered questions from a junior skater who wanted tips on the Axel. You stood beside him, fingers laced, and watched the way his thumb kept moving over yours in tiny, unconscious strokes the entire time.
In the car on the way home he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting palm-up on the center console, waiting. The second you set your hand in his he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. At red lights he lifted your joined hands and rested them against his thigh, or brought them briefly to his lips, or just stared at the way your fingers fit together like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Even at the grocery store he refused to be reasonable about it.
He pushed the cart with one hand and kept the other firmly wrapped around yours, steering the two of you through the aisles in a slightly awkward tandem. When he needed both hands to lift something heavy he simply transferred your hand to the cart handle first, pressing it there for a second as if to say stay, then immediately reclaimed it the moment the item was in the basket. A woman in the produce section smiled at the two of you. Ilia didn’t notice. He was too busy turning your hand over in his so he could run his thumb along the soft skin of your inner wrist again.
That night on the couch he sat sideways, legs stretched out, and pulled you in until your back was against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your middle. The other found your hand without looking, fingers sliding between yours and locking tight. He rested your joined hands on your stomach and kept them there while the movie played, occasionally lifting them just high enough to press another quiet kiss to your knuckles. When you shifted to get more comfortable he adjusted with you, never once loosening his hold.
You turned your head enough to glance up at him. “You know you don’t have to hold my hand every single second, right?”
He looked down at you, expression soft and a little sheepish, but the grip of his fingers didn’t ease even a fraction.
“I know,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost private. “I just… like knowing where you are. That you’re right here.” He lifted your hand again and pressed his mouth to the back of it, lingering. “Everything feels better when I’m holding you.”
fluff! cuddles in bed all day with the cats? ilia's so touchy and clingy i just know he wouldn't let go without a fight. he seems like the "i'm gonna crawl in your heart while we cuddle" type
Stay
Warning: Fluff
Ilia x fem!reader
The morning light filters soft and golden through the half-drawn curtains, painting slow stripes across the rumpled sheets. You’re still half-asleep when the first warm weight settles heavier against your back—Ilia’s chest, solid and familiar, his arm already locked around your waist like he’s afraid you might somehow evaporate if he loosens his grip even a little.
A tiny, disgruntled mrrp comes from somewhere near your knees. Mysti, the most dramatic of the three, has claimed the exact center of the bed as her personal throne and is currently using your shin as a chin rest. Miu Miu is a soft, purring lump curled in the hollow of your stomach, and Mila—tiny, chaotic Mila—has somehow wormed her way under the blanket and is currently using Ilia’s calf as a heated pillow.
Ilia nuzzles the back of your neck, voice still rough with sleep. “Don’t even think about it.”
You smile into the pillow. “Think about what?”
“Getting up.” His arm tightens, pulling you more fully against him until there’s no space left between your spine and his chest. “Not happening. Not today. Not ever.”
You twist just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is a complete disaster—sticking up in every possible direction—and there’s a faint red mark on his cheek from the pillow. He looks ridiculously soft. Ridiculously yours.
“The cats need food,” you murmur, mostly just to tease him.
Mysti opens one judgmental green eye as if she understands the betrayal. Miu Miu’s purr deepens in protest. Mila simply digs her tiny claws into Ilia’s leg in solidarity.
Ilia’s response is immediate and dramatic. He throws a heavy leg over both of yours, effectively pinning you in place, and buries his face in the curve of your shoulder with a low, playful growl.
“They can wait. I cannot.” His lips brush your skin with every word. “You’ve been mine since I woke up and I’m not releasing you. Fight me. I dare you.”
You laugh, the sound muffled against the pillow, and give a half-hearted wiggle just to feel him clamp down harder. He does. Instantly. His arm becomes an iron band, his leg locks tighter, and he even manages to trap one of your hands under his so you can’t push him away.
“Ilia—”
“No.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another, softer one right behind your ear. “You’re warm. You’re soft. You smell like my shampoo and last night’s laundry detergent. The cats are already using us as furniture. This is peak existence. Do not ruin peak existence.”
Miu Miu chooses that exact moment to stretch luxuriously, little pink toes spreading, and then climbs higher until she’s nestled between your chests like a living, purring heart. Mysti relocates with great dignity to the pillow above your heads, curling into a perfect cinnamon-roll shape. Mila, never one to be left out, emerges from under the blanket only to flop dramatically across both of your thighs with a tiny, contented sigh.
Ilia goes completely still for a second, as if the sheer cuteness of the situation has short-circuited him. Then he melts even further into you, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder.
“See?” He whispers. “Even they agree. Nobody’s allowed to leave the bed. It’s a family decision.”
You reach back blindly and find his messy hair, carding your fingers through it the way you know makes him go boneless. He does, almost immediately, a quiet sound of pure contentment vibrating against your skin.
“You’re so clingy,” you tease, voice soft.
“I’m in love,” he corrects without missing a beat. “There’s a difference. Clingy is temporary. This is permanent. You’re stuck with me and three spoiled cats for the rest of eternity. Sorry not sorry.”
He shifts just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck, then one more against the soft spot just below your ear. Each one is lazy, warm, utterly unhurried—like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it touching you.
Mila kneads her tiny paws against your thigh. Mysti begins a low, continuous purr that somehow synchronizes with Miu Miu’s. The bed is a warm, soft nest of limbs and fur and quiet breathing.
You turn carefully—Ilia allowing the movement only because it means he can pull you fully into his chest instead—and settle against him face-to-face. His eyes are half-lidded and ridiculously fond. One of his hands finds the small of your back under the blanket and stays there, thumb stroking slow circles like he’s counting the seconds he gets to keep you.
“Hi,” he murmurs.
“Hi back,” you whisper.
He leans in and noses at your cheek, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth—never quite kissing, just existing in your space like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. When he finally does kiss you, it’s soft and lingering and tastes like sleep and happiness.
Miu Miu meows in quiet protest at being slightly squished between you. Neither of you move.
“I’m not letting go,” Ilia says against your lips, playful and certain. “You’ll have to pry me off with a crowbar. And even then I’ll just attach myself to your leg and follow you around the house like a very tall, very determined barnacle.”
You laugh, the sound bright and warm in the quiet room, and loop your arms around his neck. He makes a soft, pleased noise and pulls you impossibly closer, careful of the cats but still managing to tangle every possible limb with yours.
Outside, the day continues without you. Inside the bed, time softens into something golden and endless—Ilia’s heartbeat steady under your ear, three sets of tiny purrs vibrating through the mattress, and the absolute certainty that neither of you (nor the cats) have any intention of moving for a very, very long time.
Okay so fluffier promt for you - Ilia and Reader are long distance either different sides of the states or different countries] and he shows up one day to surprise you either at work or at home - ensure cuddling and kisses.
Here With You
Warning: None
Ilia x fem!reader
You hadn’t seen him in almost three months.
Three months of FaceTime calls at odd hours, of falling asleep to the sound of his voice while the time difference stretched between you like a cruel elastic band. East Coast to West Coast. Practice rinks and early-morning ice cuts on his end, your ordinary life on the other. You’d gotten good at pretending it didn’t ache. You’d gotten good at smiling through the screen when he said I miss you in that soft, slightly rough way of his, like the words were still warm from his mouth.
Today had been one of the harder ones. You’d come home from work, dropped your bag by the door, and immediately gone for the oversized hoodie he’d left the last time he visited—the soft gray one that still smelled faintly like his cologne if you buried your face in the collar long enough. You were curled up on the couch in it now, legs tucked under you, half-watching some mindless show while your phone sat face-down on the coffee table. You’d already checked it too many times. He was supposed to be in a long practice block. You weren’t expecting anything.
Then the soft knock came.
Three quiet taps. Not the Amazon guy’s usual double-bang. Not a neighbor. Just… careful.
You frowned, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands as you padded to the door. You didn’t bother checking the peephole. Habit. Safety later.
You pulled it open—
And the world tilted.
Ilia was standing there.
Real. Solid. Breathing the same air as you. Travel bag slung over one shoulder, a small duffel at his feet, hair a little messy from the flight, wearing a simple black hoodie and jeans like he’d just stepped out of one of your late-night daydreams. His eyes—those sharp, blue eyes—found yours instantly, and the softest, most careful smile curved his mouth.
“Surprise,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse, like he’d been holding the word in the whole way here.
You stared.
For one full second you just stared, brain lagging behind your heart, which had already started slamming against your ribs.
Then you made a sound that was half sob, half laugh, and launched yourself at him.
Ilia dropped the bag without looking, catching you like he’d been waiting for exactly this. Your arms locked around his neck. His wrapped tight around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground as he stepped inside and kicked the door shut behind him with his heel. You buried your face in the side of his neck, breathing him in—clean skin, faint cologne, the soft scent of airplane and something uniquely him—and felt his arms squeeze tighter, one hand sliding up into your hair.
“You’re here,” you whispered against his skin, voice cracking. “You’re actually here.”
“I’m here,” he murmured, turning his face so his nose brushed your temple. “Missed you so fucking much.”
He set you down only long enough to cup your face in both hands, thumbs stroking over your cheeks like he needed to make sure you were real too. Then he kissed you.
It started soft—almost reverent. Just the warm press of his mouth against yours, lingering, tasting the moment. You melted into it immediately, hands fisting in the front of his hoodie, rising onto your toes. He made a quiet sound in the back of his throat and deepened it, tilting his head, kissing you like he’d been starving for it. Slow, thorough, the kind of kiss that made your knees go weak and your heart do stupid, fluttery things in your chest.
When he finally pulled back, just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you were breathing a little harder.
“Hi,” he whispered, smiling against your mouth.
“Hi,” you breathed back, laughing wetly. Your eyes were stinging. “You’re insane. You didn’t even tell me—”
“Wanted to see your face.” His thumbs kept stroking your cheeks. “Worth every second of the flight.”
You pulled him down for another kiss—shorter this time, but just as sweet—then tugged him fully inside by the front of his hoodie. He followed easily, toeing off his sneakers, never once letting go of you. The second the door was locked behind him he was wrapping you up again, arms sliding under the hem of his own hoodie that you were wearing, palms warm against the small of your back.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” he said, voice fond and a little rough. “God, look at you.”
You flushed, burying your face in his chest. “It still smells like you.”
“Good.” He pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head, then another to your temple, then the soft spot just in front of your ear. “Keep it. I like seeing you in my stuff.”
You didn’t make it far.
Somewhere between the entryway and the living room the urgency softened into something slower, deeper. He guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch, then sank down with you, pulling you into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. You straddled his thighs without thinking, arms looping around his neck again, and he immediately gathered you close—one arm banded around your waist, the other hand sliding up your spine under the hoodie until his fingers could sift through the hair at the nape of your neck.
You stayed like that for a long time.
Just breathing each other in. His heartbeat steady under your cheek. The quiet sound of the TV still murmuring in the background, completely forgotten. Every so often he would tip your chin up and kiss you again—soft, lingering presses of lips that turned into slow, deep ones, the kind that left you dazed and smiling against his mouth. You kissed the corner of his jaw, the hinge of it, the warm skin just below his ear. He made that quiet, contented sound again and held you tighter.
“Missed this,” Ilia murmured into your hair. “Missed holding you. Missed the way you fit right here.” His hand spread wide between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer still. “Everything feels wrong when you’re not in my arms.”
You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, pressing a soft kiss there. “I was wearing your hoodie and still felt cold.”
His arms tightened. “Not anymore.”
He shifted, stretching out along the couch and tugging you down with him until you were half on top of him, half tucked against his side, one of his legs hooked loosely over yours. The oversized hoodie rode up a little; his hand immediately found the bare strip of skin at your waist and stayed there, thumb tracing slow, absent circles. You tucked your face against his chest again, listening to the steady thump of his heart, and felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head. Then another. Then one more, lingering, like he couldn’t quite stop.
Outside, the world kept spinning—practices and time zones and the long stretch of country between your lives. But right here, on the soft cushions of your couch with Ilia’s arms locked around you and his mouth brushing soft, endless kisses against your hair, none of it mattered.
He was here.
And for the first time in months, everything felt exactly right.
Request for slow and heavy make out session with some dry humping?
I fear make out sessions are a lost art ✋🥲
I feel like no one really does this anymore. So was refreshing to see.
Make Out
Warning: Moderate smut, mdni
Ilia x fem!reader
The house was quiet. His parents were out. The only sounds were the distant hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the old floorboards.
You were sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed, talking about nothing and everything the way you always did when it was just the two of you. He was leaning back against the headboard, one knee bent, watching you with that lazy, half-lidded look that always made your stomach flip.
You glanced toward the open doorway, then back at him, voice dropping without meaning to. “Is the door… allowed to be closed?”
Ilia’s mouth curved, slow and boyish. He made a soft pfft sound under his breath, eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. “I’m the Quad God,” he whispered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s my room.”
He pushed off the headboard just enough to reach past you, fingers brushing your hip as he leaned over and nudged the door shut with the heel of his foot. The soft click of the latch felt louder than it should have. When he settled back, he was closer. His knee bumped yours. The air between you thickened.
You didn’t move away.
For a moment you just looked at each other, the conversation trailing off into something quieter. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingered, then rose again. You felt the shift before either of you touched—like the room had leaned in with you.
Ilia’s voice was barely more than breath when he spoke again. “Come here.”
You shifted onto your knees and crawled the short distance across the mattress. He met you halfway, one hand sliding up the outside of your thigh, the other rising to cup the side of your neck. The first kiss was soft. Almost careful. Just the warm press of his mouth against yours, tasting faintly of the mint gum he’d been chewing earlier. You exhaled into it, and he answered by tilting his head and kissing you deeper, slower, like he had all the time in the world.
His lips parted yours gently. The tip of his tongue brushed the seam of your mouth, asking. You opened for him, and the kiss turned heavy in the best way—wet, unhurried, full of soft sounds that stayed trapped between you. His hand slid from your neck into your hair, fingers threading through the strands and holding just firm enough to angle your head the way he wanted. You felt the quiet pull of it all the way down your spine.
You shifted closer until you were half in his lap, one knee on either side of one of his thighs. The moment your weight settled against him, Ilia made a low sound in his throat—quiet, almost private—and his free hand found your waist beneath your shirt. His palm was warm. He didn’t rush. He just held you there while he kissed you like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth.
The kisses grew slower, deeper. He would pull back just far enough to breathe against your lips, then lean in again, dragging the next kiss out until your head felt light. You whispered his name once, soft against his mouth, and felt him smile into the next press of lips.
“Yeah?” He murmured, voice rough and quiet.
You didn’t answer with words. You answered by rolling your hips forward, just a little—barely a shift—and the friction of your body against the hard line of him through the soft fabric of his sweatpants pulled a deeper sound from his chest. His hand tightened on your waist.
“Fuck,” he whispered against your mouth, the word almost lost in the next kiss. “Do that again.”
You did. Slow. Deliberate. Dragging the soft center of yourself along the thick shape of him until the pressure made both of you exhale. Ilia’s head tipped back against the headboard for half a second, eyes half-closed, before he pulled you down into another heavy kiss. This one was wetter. Hungrier. His tongue stroked against yours in the same unhurried rhythm your hips had found.
His hand slipped fully under your shirt now, palm sliding up the bare skin of your back, fingers spreading wide. The other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you close while the two of you moved together in small, grinding circles. Every slow roll of your hips dragged the softest part of you over the ridge of his cock, and each time the pressure built a little more. You could feel how hard he was—thick and warm even through the layers—and the way he kept twitching under you when you ground down just right.
You broke the kiss only long enough to breathe against the corner of his mouth. “Ilia…”
“I know,” he whispered back, voice low and a little strained. “I feel it too.”
He guided your hips with the hand on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made both of you quiet and desperate at the same time. The soft fabric of your leggings and the thin cotton of his sweats created just enough friction to make every slow drag feel filthy. You weren’t rushing toward anything. You were just moving together—kissing deep, breathing each other’s air, hips rolling in lazy, heavy circles that kept the heat building without ever quite tipping over.
Ilia’s mouth left yours to trail along your jaw, then lower, pressing open, wet kisses to the side of your throat. You felt the soft scrape of his teeth, the gentle suck that would probably leave a mark later, and your hips stuttered against him. He groaned quietly into your skin and pulled you tighter, grinding up to meet you.
“You’re so warm,” he whispered against your neck. “Fuck, you feel so good like this.”
You answered by sliding your hands under his T-shirt, palms flattening against the hard planes of his stomach, then higher, feeling the way his breathing changed when your fingers brushed over his ribs. He kept kissing your throat while the two of you moved, the slow grind turning a little more insistent without ever losing that heavy, deliberate pace. Every time the thick length of him dragged against you, a soft sound escaped one of you—sometimes him, sometimes you—quiet enough that they stayed private between the closed door and the golden light.
Ilia’s hand left your hair only long enough to tug the collar of your shirt aside so he could mouth at the curve of your shoulder. Then it returned, cradling the back of your head again as he brought your mouth back to his. The kiss that followed was slower than the ones before—deeper, almost lazy, full of soft tongues and shared breath. You kept rolling your hips in time with it, and he kept answering with slow upward presses of his own, the two of you locked in that sweet, filthy friction that made everything feel thick and intimate and inevitable.
Outside the room the house remained quiet. Inside it, the only sounds were the soft wet noise of kissing, the quiet rustle of fabric, and the low, breathless whispers the two of you kept trading against each other’s mouths.
“Stay like this,” he murmured once, voice almost gone.
You nodded against his lips, and kept moving—slow, heavy, completely lost in him.
Could you do one where the reader tries on ilia’s infamous quad god varsity jacket, The black and yellow one? So cute and if i’m not missing i don’t think seen one like this yet🤭
Letterman
Warning: Fluff
Ilia x fem!reader
The black-and-yellow varsity jacket was hanging on the back of the dining chair like it owned the place.
Ilia had tossed it there after practice one day and never bothered to hang it up properly. The leather sleeves were a little scuffed at the elbows from years of being dragged across rink boards and hotel chairs. The body of the jacket was a deep, matte black, soft from wear, and across the front, in that loud, unapologetic yellow, the words QUAD GOD stretched wide. A smaller yellow number 01 and the name MALININ and 4A on the back. It smelled like him—clean laundry, the faintest trace of the cologne he only wore on competition days, and that warm, specific scent that always clung to his skin after hours on the ice.
You stood there in the quiet house for a long moment just looking at it.
Then, almost without deciding to, you reached out.
The leather was cooler than you expected when your fingers first brushed it. You slid one arm in, then the other, the heavy sleeves swallowing your hands completely. The jacket was enormous on you. The shoulders dropped far past yours, the hem hit mid-thigh, and when you snapped the buttons halfway up it still left a soft gap at the collar. You buried your nose in the collar anyway and breathed in.
A tiny, helpless smile pulled at your mouth.
You padded barefoot into the living room, the oversized sleeves flapping a little with every step, and found him on the couch with his laptop open, headphones around his neck. He glanced up absently at first—then did a full double-take.
The laptop lid slowly closed.
“Y/N…” His voice came out low and warm, like he’d just been handed something he didn’t know he wanted this badly. “What are you doing?”
You spun once in a slow circle, the jacket swinging around your legs, and gave him the most innocent look you could manage.
“Trying it on,” you said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It looked lonely.”
Ilia’s mouth curved. He set the laptop aside without looking away from you and leaned back against the couch cushions, arms spreading along the backrest like he was settling in for a show.
“Come here.”
You went, the sleeves still covering your hands so only your fingertips peeked out. When you reached the couch he didn’t pull you into his lap right away. Instead he caught the open edges of the jacket and tugged you closer until you were standing between his knees. His hands slid up the inside of the leather, warm palms against the soft fabric of your shirt underneath, and he looked up at you with that quiet, devastating fondness that always made your chest feel too full.
“You’re drowning in it,” he murmured, almost to himself. One hand came up to adjust the collar, fingers brushing the side of your neck as he smoothed it. “It’s ridiculous.”
“I like it,” you whispered.
“I can tell.” His eyes dropped to where the buttons sat halfway up your chest, then lower, to the way the hem swallowed most of your shorts. A soft, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You look like you stole my entire personality.”
You leaned down until your noses almost touched. “Maybe I did.”
Ilia’s hands settled on your waist beneath the jacket, thumbs stroking slow circles through your shirt. He tipped his head back against the couch and just… looked at you for a long moment, like he was committing the picture to memory. The light coming through the windows caught the yellow lettering across your back when you shifted, and something soft and almost shy flickered across his face.
“Turn around,” he said quietly.
You did, slowly. His hands never left you. When your back was to him he reached up and traced the big yellow letters with one fingertip, following the curve of the M, the sharp angle of the N. The touch was so light it barely registered through the fabric, but it still sent a little shiver down your spine.
“Looks better on you,” he said, voice low against the nape of your neck.
You turned back around, climbing carefully into his lap so you were straddling him, the oversized jacket pooling around both of you like a shared blanket. Ilia’s arms slid inside it immediately, wrapping around your waist and pulling you in until your chests were pressed together. He buried his face against the side of your neck, right where the collar of his own jacket framed your skin, and breathed in the same way you had earlier.
“You smell like me,” he mumbled, the words warm and a little muffled.
“That’s the point.”
He huffed a quiet laugh and pressed a slow kiss just under your jaw. Then another, softer, against the hinge. His hands rubbed up and down your back beneath the leather in long, lazy strokes, like he had nowhere else in the world to be.
You rested your cheek on top of his head, fingers carding gently through his hair. The jacket was warm now from both of your body heat. It felt like being wrapped in him twice over.
After a while he tilted his face up so he could look at you properly. His eyes were soft in that rare, unguarded way he only got when the two of you were alone and the rest of the world had temporarily stopped existing.
“Keep it on,” he said.
“All day?”
“All day.” He leaned up and brushed the softest kiss against the corner of your mouth. “And maybe tomorrow. And the day after that.” Another kiss, this one lingering. “I like seeing you in my things.”
You smiled against his lips. “Possessive.”
“A little.” His arms tightened around you inside the jacket, holding you closer. “Sue me.”
You stayed like that for a long time—curled into his lap, swallowed by black fabric and yellow lettering, the quiet house wrapping around the two of you like a second layer of warmth. Every so often Ilia would press another slow kiss to your temple or the hinge of your jaw, or just rest his forehead against yours and breathe, like the simple fact of you wearing his jacket was something he needed to keep confirming was real.
Eventually he reached up and snapped the rest of the buttons all the way up, sealing you both inside it together, and the soft snaps sounded almost like a promise.
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: 3,9k
author’s note: it's been a while but it's finally out! it's short one but.. important? better days are ahead for them! only 1 chapter left before we finish the story! 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!
He keeps texting and calling, but you never pick up the phone.
Unable to pretend around your family, you ask Allie if you can stay over at her flat. She instantly agrees, picking you up in her father’s old truck—the one that finally belongs to her now. The moment you get there, she makes you pasta, knowing it’s your favorite and that you haven't eaten a single thing since morning. She listens without pressing for details, never making it look like it's the end of the world, but never downplaying it either.
"I feel so fucking stupid," you repeat for the hundredth time, your voice weak after crying nonstop for what feels like hours. "I thought he finally saw me. I thought he finally liked me back, and it turns out all this time I was just a placeholder. I was just… what?! His fucking getaway car?!"
"I'm so sorry."
"I should've known better." Using the back of your hand, you swipe at your tears, your eyes stinging from the mascara running down your face. "It's not like he was suddenly going to catch feelings for me when he never pretended otherwise before. I'm so fucking naive."
"Hey, it's not your fault." She shakes her head firmly, nudging your shoulder to force you to look at her. You've never seen her this serious; her usual playful, carefree nature is completely stripped away, her brows knitted together in deep concern. "It's never our fault. What he did is fucking wrong, and he's a piece of shit for it. That is entirely on him, no one else."
"How does someone just… get over this?" you ask, the question coming out sounding painfully innocent. "I've spent the last four years loving him. I spent the last month thinking I finally had him and… it hurts, Allie."
"I know," she sighs, wrapping a warm arm around your shoulder and pulling you against her chest. She smells familiar and comforting, a soft flowery scent that brings a tiny, desperate piece of peace to your mind. "I know it sucks to hear right now, but time will fix this. Trust me."
"Allie, I slept with him."
Your voice breaks completely, the words laced with a crushing mix of desperation, regret, and the deep shame of letting someone disrespect you like this. You gave him everything. You let him convince you that you were meant to be together, let him take a piece of you, only for him to treat you like you never actually mattered at all.
You don't mean to, but the exhaustion finally takes over and you fall asleep.
When you wake up in the dead of the night, it's way past midnight. Allie is softly snoring on the other end of the couch, her feet tucked right behind your shins. Realizing she must be cold, you gently drape a thin blanket over her before quiet tracking into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
You had sworn earlier that you wouldn't touch your phone for the rest of the day, but the pull is too strong. You slide it out to check the notifications. The group chat is active with everyone wondering where you've been all day, your dad is asking why you skipped your planned movie night, and sitting right above everything else are dozens of notifications from him.
Ever since this morning, he has been sending you pictures of his outfits and selfies, asking which one is better for an Instagram dump, whining about his hair looking dead, and telling you to reply as soon as you can. He tried FaceTime a few times without success, his texts becoming noticeably frantic as the hours ticked by.
Ilia: Okay i'm worried
Ilia: You haven't talked to me since the morning and I can't reach you
Ilia: Is everything Alright??
Ilia: Did something happen at work??
Ilia: Jace mentioned you're at allie's
Ilia: Please answer me
The last one was sent just twenty minutes ago. He’s probably back at the hotel from the Time100 Gala by now, you realize. The thought spins in your head, accompanied by a voice in the back of your mind that poorly resembles your own, screaming at you to block him, to erase him from everywhere. But you know that won't fix it. If anything, it will just create chaos because you'll have to explain it to everyone else.
While you stare at the screen, three moving dots suddenly appear. He must have seen the read receipt. Before you can even close the chat, his next text pops up.
Ilia: Hello???
Before you can lock the screen, the phone lights up with his incoming call. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, a sharp pang of guilt creeping in because you know he's worried. But you quickly brush the feeling away. He doesn't care about you—not the way he’s supposed to. You have nothing to feel guilty for. He deserves this. He deserves to feel just as confused and lost as you are right now.
Instead of hitting the decline button, you let the phone keep ringing, a small, petty effort to hurt him back. Flipping the switch to silent, you quickly type out a text to your friends letting them know you're fine and will talk to them later.
Not wanting to risk waking Allie, and not caring enough about your own comfort to move to the bed, you slip back into your spot on the couch. You close your eyes in the dark, quietly cursing his name, wishing he had never picked you up from that stupid salon appointment, and wishing with everything you had that you had never looked at him differently.
"He did WHAT?"
Ziggy exclaims, his mouth wide open, his eyebrows drawn together so fiercely that it must be uncomfortable. Cam listens without saying a single word, which surprises you, her expression so calm that it almost irritates you.
"What a fucking cunt," Ziggy huffs, his British accent thicker than usual now that his composure is completely gone. "He slept with his ex and the next day came onto you, asking why you were mad when he perfectly knew you heard it? And the audacity to say that he was in the neighborhood and swung by, like he didn't just fuck his ex? What the fuck, mate? It's so bizarre, man. He hundred percent went to her place, did he?"
"I checked the cameras, Ziggy. He did."
"Are you sure that they slept together?"
Cam finally speaks after being completely nonverbal for almost fifteen minutes. Her question spikes instant annoyance in you because you’ve already said it, and because in your eyes, it’s a simple, painful truth that doesn't need to be questioned.
"We spent the whole night talking… well, not just talking," you repeat, recalling the exact words that are engraved in your brain, refusing to leave even for a second. "What else does it mean, Cam, other than they fucked? What else would they do? Play Jenga?"
"Or tic-tac-toe."
"Not the time to joke, Ziggy."
"Yeah, I'm sorry."
"Listen, I hate to be that person, but I don't think everything is as it seems," Cam starts, raising a hand to signal you not to interrupt because you've already opened your mouth, deeply offended by her comment. "There has to be some type of explanation."
"What explanation, Cam?" You chuckle, sheer disbelief slipping into your voice. "Are you seriously defending him right now?"
"I'm not!"
"Then what the hell does it mean?!"
"I'm just saying that I don't think Ilia is some type of villain who would play with you like that," she raises her voice, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Yeah, he slept with her. Yes, what he did was shitty and wrong, but I don't believe he's just using you."
"Cam, do you even realize how insane you sound?!"
"I get that you're mad, but think about it for a second," she exhales, her expression softening as if she's suddenly lost all her fighting power. "It's Ilia we're talking about. I've only met the guy a few times, but I know a lot about him through you, and I just don't think that's the case. Not every situation is black and white. You have to hear him out first. Maybe Macy even lied, who knows? But okay, let's believe that he slept with her. Maybe it was a vulnerable moment? Maybe she pushed him? Do you honestly believe he'd just use you and treat you like that? Do you think he's that type of guy?"
"I didn't think he was the type to sleep with his ex the night before crawling to me, but turns out he is," you reply, your tone drop-dead calm.
She's insane, you think to yourself, your blood boiling with anger at her attempts to rationalize his behavior. Yet, despite your fury, her words stay with you for the rest of the day—a desperate anchor you find yourself clinging to just to ease the sharp, crushing pain in your chest.
Later, Jace is buried under the weight of an assignment he crammed for the night before, but he still notices the shift in your mood. He tries sweet-talking you, he tries bribing you, and he ultimately tries to blackmail you in a desperate attempt to figure out what's wrong. To keep him off the trail, you lie and tell him that you had a fight with Cam and you're worried about how it will impact your friendship. He seems to buy it.
Meanwhile, Ilia's texts become more and more frantic. One hour he's raging at you, furious that you're deliberately ignoring him instead of just explaining what he did wrong, only to come crawling back a few hours later, completely broken and begging you to just talk to him.
You keep ignoring him.
He's coming back tomorrow, but it will be late at night by the time he gets home. You tell yourself you'll be fast asleep when he does. You will make sure that you are.
You keep your promise. By the time his flight lands, you're already in bed, getting your mandatory screentime before trying to sleep. Within approximately half an hour, you've already put the phone away and tucked your Spider-Man plushie into the sheets beside you, Dusty already long asleep in her cage. Whether it's the natural herbal supplement your father keeps around for stressful days, or simply the sheer emotional exhaustion of the past forty-eight hours catching up to you, sleep surprisingly comes easy.
Then, you hear the rustling sound of the tree outside.
Slowly, you differentiate the noise, realizing it isn’t part of a dream but coming directly from the window. Twisting in your sheets, you try to find a comfier position to force yourself back to sleep, but then comes the sharp snap of a branch. It's so loud that your eyes fly wide open. A muffled, soft curse follows from just outside the glass, and a cold sweat instantly coats your forehead as you sit up in bed.
Staring at the glass, your pulse quickens. You see a dark shadow looming right against the windowpane. You're already wildly contemplating whether to scream at the top of your lungs or sprint out to wake up Jace, when the window slides open and the shadow slips through the frame with practiced ease.
You let out a sharp, terrified yelp, too frozen to actually move.
"No, no, it's me!"
The familiar voice cuts through the dark. The immediate panic washes off you for a split second, replaced by a surge of pure fury as you reach out and slap the light switch. Dusty is startled, her high-pitched screams piercing the quiet room, but you're too shaken to even think about soothing her. Wincing at the sudden, harsh glare of the bulb, you look up to glare at him. His expression is a mixture of apology and instant regret.
"What the fuck, Ilia?!"
"I'm sorry," he exhales, gesturing vaguely with his hands. He's wearing a black Toothless hoodie paired with Snoopy pajama pants, and it's so ridiculous that you find yourself mentally scolding yourself for falling so hard for the loser standing in front of you. "I couldn't sleep. I needed to see you."
"So you decide to sneak into my room at… four in the morning?!" You glance sharply at the digital clock on your nightstand, your chest still heaving up and down from the sudden rush of adrenaline.
"Why are you ignoring me?" He completely brushes off your question, taking a few cautious steps toward the bed.
The moment you step back, retreating farther into the room, he catches the heavy implication behind the movement. His expression drops instantly, something resembling deep hurt flashing across his features.
"What's wrong? Why did you suddenly decide to ghost me?"
"Right. Because I don't have a single reason, do I?"
"I don't understand," he says, shaking his head, completely taken aback by your tone, which is heavily laced with sarcasm and hostility. "What did I do? Why won't you talk to me?"
"Why won't you just own up to it and tell me the fucking truth?!"
"What?!" His blue eyes widen, his expression horrified, as if he's witnessing something he never thought was possible. "What truth?!"
"That you slept with Macy the night before you came to visit me."
You put every ounce of effort into staying strong, but your voice still betrays you, quavering right at the end of the sentence.
His expression is all the confirmation the cynical, broken part of you needed over the past two days. You watch his face fall completely. Panic flashes across his eyes as he swallows hard, his mouth opening and closing as if he has completely lost the ability to form words. It's as if Dusty senses the sudden, suffocating shift in the room, because she goes completely silent, staring out at the two of you through the bars of her cage.
"Who… who told you that?" he asks, his voice sounding entirely pathetic. The blood rushes directly to his cheeks, and you let out a bitter chuckle, shaking your head in absolute disbelief.
"Does it even matter?"
"It's not how it sounds—"
"Did you sleep with her or not?"
"I swear, I'd never deliberately hurt you—"
"Did you fuck her or not?!" you snap.
You are ready to repeat the exact same question over and over again until he gives you a straight answer. You want him to admit it out loud himself. You want to watch him be embarrassed, to see him ashamed of himself because he deserves it—he deserves to feel just as humiliated as you have felt.
"It's a simple question," you shrug, your eyes watering despite your desperate attempt to keep the cold facade up. Something twists painfully in your chest. "Just answer it."
"I did."
It feels like a slap to your face.
The words echo in your head—weak, quiet, and brutal. It's the exact answer you've already had for the past two days, the one that, despite everything, a childish part of you wished you would never hear uttered from his mouth. Something breaks in your heart, something you cannot quite name, but you know deep down that it will never be the same again.
You stare at him, your expression turning almost indifferent despite the violent turmoil unfolding inside your body. His face is hot with embarrassment, his eyes quickly darting to the floor when you refuse to look away.
"I'm sorry."
"Get out."
"No, you have to listen—"
"There's nothing to listen to—"
"It didn't mean anything—"
"Just shut the fuck up," you snap. The harsh language feels unnatural on your tongue, but you don't care, violently pushing against his chest when he extends his fingers to loop around your wrist.
He takes a few quick steps back, a hand flying into his short hair, sheer desperation seeping from his voice. "I know I fucked up, but I swear to you, it didn't mean anything! It was just a weak moment, you have to listen to me—"
"You fucked your ex-girlfriend, and the next afternoon you came to me!" It's impossible not to raise your voice, the veins in your neck straining. "She told me everything! She told me that you tried fixing things, and she told me it didn't work out! That's why you crawled back to me, right? Because I was the safe option who would worship your fucking ego?!"
"That is so not fucking true!"
"Just get the fuck out, Ilia!"
"No!" He shakes his head, his voice adamant as he glares at you. He looks furious—a sight that makes your blood boil. He doesn't have a right to be angry, you think, white-hot fury spiking at his sheer audacity. "You don't get to jump to conclusions without hearing me out first!"
"What's there to hear?!" You let out a harsh, bitter chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. You can't believe him. You can't believe he can stand here and be so completely shameless. "Oh my god, just go, Ilia! Don't you realize how fucking pathetic you sound?!"
"Why are you doing this?! Why won't you just listen to me?!"
"Because I don't want to hear your shitty excuses!" You take a sudden step forward, shoving at his chest, your hands twisting into the thick sleeve of his hoodie to push him toward the door.
Before you can nudge him, he catches your hands. You don't even have time to process what's happening before you feel the heavy weight of his hands on your arms and waist, the heat of his body pressing against yours as you frantically try to wriggle free of his touch.
"Let me go!"
"Not until you listen to me!"
"Ilia, please—"
Something breaks in your voice, sharp and fragile. He must realize it instantly, because his grip loosens, and he steps back. He goes dead silent as you turn your back on him, frantically wiping at the tears pricking your eyes—the tears that refuse to stop streaming down your face.
"Please just go." Your voice is weak now, the defensive hostility you'd built up over the past two days stripped completely bare. "I'm tired. I have a morning shift tomorrow."
"We'll talk tomorrow, then."
"Just leave."
The cold authority slips back into your voice, and this time, he doesn't dare argue. You don't watch him go. You only hear his quiet steps, the soft rustling of the tree branches outside, and the faint thud as he drops to the ground. The absurdity of him choosing to leave through the window instead of the front door doesn't even cross your mind—not until you are tucked back under the covers, tears dried on your cheeks, trying in vain to shake off the heavy weight in your chest that refuses to leave.
"What's gotten into you?"
Jace questions, slipping into the seat next to you and biting into an apple, the crunchy sound filling your ears. You continue eating your steak without giving him a glance, cutting the meat into precise, even pieces.
"What do you mean, what's gotten into me?"
"You're unusually quiet today," he notes, leaning across the table in hopes that you'll finally pay attention to him. "You're moody."
"Not every day is sunshine and rainbows."
"Tough shift at work?"
"Maybe."
"You should quit."
"Yeah, I might."
You reply absentmindedly, giving him whatever answer he wants just to get him to switch the topic. He doesn't take the bait, but he doesn't press you either. He just keeps you company while you finish eating, mindlessly scrolling on his phone while shooting you curious, concerned glances every now and then.
Through Allie, you had learned that Ilia showed up at the café after she finished the morning shift—the one you swapped with her because you couldn't bear the thought of smiling and making small talk with strangers today. He hasn't stopped texting you, insisting that you both need to talk, sending message after message that you swiftly ignore.
"Would you be kind enough to make me a tuna sandwich when you're done eating?" Jace asks.
"We don't have tuna."
"I picked some up from the store earlier."
"Fine," you say, but unlike usual, you don't make him beg. You just raise an eyebrow to let him know you're serious about your one condition. "You do the dishes."
"I will place them in the dishwasher, yes," he promises, holding up his pinky finger. You hook yours around his. "Make it two, by the way. Ilia’s coming over later."
At the mention of his name, your entire body goes stiff. Suddenly, the bite of food in your mouth feels impossible to swallow. You force yourself to maintain a casual expression, taking a slow sip of your orange juice before licking your lips.
"Is he staying over?"
"I don't know," Jace shrugs, his eyes fixed on his phone screen. "Maybe. There's this new anime we've been meaning to watch."
You don't ask for any more details, and Jace doesn't seem to notice the way your jaw tightens.
You know you can't keep ignoring Ilia forever—you're fully aware of that—but the sheer thought of looking at him right now makes you nauseous. You can't stand the idea of him repeating the same weak, pathetic excuses to your face, the hollow ache in your chest deepening every single time you think about what he did, your brain involuntarily picturing him with her.
Maybe you're a coward. Maybe you're being childish. But the thought of having another confrontation with him sits so terribly in your stomach that you pull out your phone, finally typing out a reply after days of silence.
You: i know what you're trying to do by coming over tonight, just don't bother.
You: i don't care how or why it happened, and i don't want to discuss it again.
You: just forget whatever happened between us and leave me alone. this summer didn't exist. that's it.
His reply comes barely a minute later. Your fingers tremble as you unlock the screen.
Ilia: Whatever?? Is that how you refer to Us??
You: there is no us, Ilia.
You: apparently there never was.
Ilia: I understand that you're mad And heartbroken and I'm so fucking Sorry for everything. I know it hurt you and I know That I fucked up, but please believe me When I tell You that I never meant to hurt you.
Ilia: You were never my second choice.
Ilia: I never once lied to you.
Ilia: Please.
You don't even open the messages, letting them sit unread in your notifications.
Later that evening, after spending hours upstairs trying to lose yourself in a book, you walk back downstairs. The second tuna sandwich sits untouched on the counter, and Jace is snoring softly on the couch—quiet evidence that Ilia decided not to come.
A small, heavy sense of relief washes over you. You quietly head back to your room and climb into the sheets. Dusty hops up, settling directly onto your lap, and you absentmindedly stroke her fur with one hand while turning the page of your book with the other. You try not to think about it, repeating Allie's words over and over again in your head like a quiet, desperate mantra.
this got me thinkin some thots. what about grinding on him/dry humping/lap dance until he comes in his pants? hehe pls and thank uuuuuuuu
You are so welcome. Happy to help your thots
Talking Body
Warning: Moderate smut, mdni, dry humping
Ilia x fem!reader
You’re tangled in the middle of the bed, still in the soft clothes you threw on after your showers—Ilia in dark gray sweatpants and an old tee, you in one of your oversized black nightgowns that fall halfway down your thighs and a pair of thin cotton panties. The lights are low. The only sound is the quiet hum of the ceiling fan and your voices, low and easy.
You’re lying on your side facing him, head propped on your hand. He’s on his back, one arm folded under his head, the other resting between you. Your free hands keep finding each other without really meaning to. Fingers brushing, palms pressing together for a second, then sliding apart again like you’re both too shy to fully lace them. Every time your hands meet he smiles like it’s the first time.
“You’re staring again,” you say, voice soft and a little teasing.
“I know.” His thumb skims across the back of your hand, tracing the line of a knuckle. “Can’t stop. You look… I don’t know. Soft. Happy. It’s unfair.”
You laugh under your breath and push your palm against his again—still not quite interlacing, just pressing, feeling the warm solid weight of his hand. “You’re one to talk. You’ve been smiling at the ceiling for the last five minutes like an idiot.”
“That’s because you’re here.” He turns his head on the pillow to look at you properly, eyes warm. “Still can’t believe I get to come home to this. To you. Just… lying in bed talking about nothing.”
“We could be talking about something,” you offer, smiling. “Like how you almost ate it on that last combination in your practice. Or how you kept looking over at me every time you landed something like you wanted a gold star.”
Ilia grins, slow and a little sheepish. “Maybe I did. You give the best gold stars.” His fingers slide against yours again, pressing, almost lacing, then slipping away. “Also you were watching me the whole time. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“I was stretching.”
“You were staring.”
“Maybe a little.” You shift closer on the bed so your knees bump. “You’re very watchable when you’re focused. All serious and quiet and then you land something and that little smile shows up. It’s… a lot.”
He’s quiet for a second, just looking at you, thumb still moving slowly over your knuckles. “You know what I was thinking about while I was out there?”
“What?”
“This.” He lifts your almost-joined hands a little. “Coming home. Getting in bed with you. Talking until one of us falls asleep mid-sentence. It’s my favorite part of the day.”
Your chest goes warm. You lean in and bump your forehead lightly against his. “Mine too. Even when you’re being disgustingly sweet.”
“Especially when I’m being disgustingly sweet.”
You laugh again, soft and giddy, and this time when your hands meet you let your fingers curl just a little more, still not fully lacing them, just holding on. You both stay like that for a while longer—talking about nothing important. About a dumb video one of the juniors sent in the group chat. About whether you should make actual dinner later or just order something and stay right here. About how the sheets smell like him and how you might never leave the bed.
Ilia listens to every word like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever heard. Every so often he presses his palm more firmly against yours, or runs his thumb along the side of your hand, or just looks at you with that quiet, stupidly in-love expression that still makes your stomach flip.
Eventually he shifts onto his side so you’re now face to face, hands still resting between you. “Come here,” he says quietly.
You let him tug. He guides you carefully until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, the nightgown riding up your thighs. You settle your weight, still smiling, still a little breathless from how gently he moved you, and the second the soft cotton of your panties meet the front of his sweats you feel him—already half-hard just from the closeness and the way you’re looking at him.
His hands settle on your waist, thumbs stroking slow circles over the fabric of the fabric. “Hi,” he murmurs, eyes soft and bright.
“Hi,” you answer, just as quiet, and leans down to bump your nose against his.
You stay like that for another stretch of soft talking—trading slow kisses between sentences, still smiling against each other’s mouths. Every time you shift even a little, the thick line of him presses more firmly against you. You can feel him getting harder under you, the heat of him soaking through both layers of fabric. Your own body answers without permission; you get wet enough that the panties cling.
Ilia notices. Of course he does. His smile turns a little softer, a little hungrier at the same time.
“You’re moving,” he says against your mouth, voice low.
“Am I?” You roll your hips once, deliberately slow, dragging the front of your panties along the full length of him. The friction is soft and filthy. His breath catches.
“Y/N…”
You do it again, slower this time, watching his face the whole way. The head of his cock catches against your clit through the fabric and a tiny, helpless sound slips out of you. His fingers tighten on your waist.
“Keep going,” he whispers. “Please.”
So you continued.
You start grinding on him properly—small, rolling circles that keep constant pressure right where you need it. The soft scrape of cotton on cotton, the growing wetness making every movement slicker. You can feel exactly how hard he is now, how the thick outline of him jerks every time you drag yourself along it. His sweats are already damp from you, and the knowledge that you’re soaking him only makes you move harder.
Ilia’s head tips back against the pillows. His hands slide under the nightgown to grip your bare waist, guiding without taking over, letting you set the pace. His hips keep twitching up to meet you, like he can’t help chasing the friction.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes. “Just like this—using me—”
You lean down so your foreheads touch, still grinding, still slow and deliberate. Your hands find each other again between your bodies, fingers pressing, almost lacing, then slipping apart as you roll your hips. The room fills with the quiet wet sound of fabric and the soft, broken noises you’re both making.
“Gonna come just from this?” You whisper, voice trembling with how close you are yourself. “In your pants, with me sitting on you like this?”
His answer is a wrecked little laugh that turns into a moan. “Yeah—fuck, Y/M, I’m—”
You feel it the second it starts.
His whole body goes tight under you. A low, dragged-out sound leaves his throat as he comes hard, cock pulsing against the soaked crotch of your panties, flooding the inside of his sweatpants. You keep grinding through it, slower now, softer, milking every spurt out of him while he shakes and clutches you and buries his face against your neck.
When it finally eases he goes boneless, breathing hard, still holding you like you might float away. You stay right where you are, gently rocking against the warm mess he made, feeling how sensitive he is now.
Ilia lifts his head after a minute, eyes dazed and soft and completely gone for you. He looks down between you at the dark wet stain spreading across the front of his sweats and lets out a quiet, breathless laugh.
“Jesus Christ.”
You smile, still a little giddy, still a little high on how much you love him, and lean in to kiss the corner of his mouth.
• He becomes obsessed with the baby’s heartbeat. After the first appointment he makes you play the recording on loop in the car, at the rink, while you’re trying to sleep. He falls asleep with one hand on your stomach and the little speaker still playing against your ribs.
• Morning sickness wrecks him more than it wrecks you. He keeps a cold washcloth, ginger tea, and saltines on the nightstand like it’s a mission. When you throw up he holds your hair, rubs your back, and then goes into the bathroom and quietly panics for thirty seconds before coming back with a fresh glass of water and a kiss to the top of your head.
• He talks to the bump constantly. In Russian when he’s emotional, in English when he’s trying to be funny, and in terrible, goofy voices when he’s trying to make you laugh. “Listen, little one, your mama is the strongest person I know, so you better be ready to work hard… but also you can rest on me whenever you want.”
• He buys every pregnancy pillow that exists. The big U-shaped one, the wedge, the tiny one that looks like a cloud. The bed turns into a fortress. You have to dig yourself out every morning while Ilia pretends he didn’t overdo it.
• Public skating events become a whole production. He walks half a step behind you with one hand hovering near the small of your back like he’s ready to catch you if you so much as stumble. When people congratulate them he gets this soft, almost shy smile that only appears when it’s about the baby.
• He starts reading pregnancy books at night under the covers with a flashlight like a kid who doesn’t want to get caught. You wake up to him whispering facts about week-by-week development and then acting like he wasn’t doing anything.
• He practices swaddling on a stuffed animal for weeks. By the time the real baby arrives he can do it in under thirty seconds with one hand while half-asleep.
• Nesting hits him hard. He reorganizes the entire nursery three times, alphabetizes the tiny onesies, and builds the crib himself even though the instructions are clearly designed to destroy marriages. When it’s finally done he just stands there staring at it for a long time, quiet.
• The second your water breaks (or the contractions get real), Ilia goes into pure survival mode. He’s the one who has the hospital bag already double-checked, the car pre-packed, and the route memorized. He still almost forgets his own phone because he’s too busy making sure you have everything.
• He becomes obsessed with timing contractions and tracking everything on the app, but the second you say you don’t want to know the numbers anymore, the phone disappears into his pocket without argument.
• At the hospital he is that partner. He refuses to leave your side for longer than it takes to grab ice chips. Nurses keep offering him a break and he just looks at them like they’re speaking another language. “I’m fine.”
• The second the baby is born and they put them on your chest, Ilia completely breaks. He presses his face into your hair and sobs—quiet, shaking, overwhelmed sobs—while still trying to keep one hand on both of you. He can’t stop saying “I love you” and “hi, baby” in the same breath.
• He cuts the cord with hands that are visibly trembling. The nurse has to steady the scissors for a second and he mutters a soft apology, eyes never leaving the baby.
• The first time he holds your child properly, he sits down hard in the chair next to the bed like his legs just gave out. He stares at the tiny face for a long time, then looks up at you with the softest, most wrecked expression you’ve ever seen on him. “We made this,” he whispers, like he still can’t believe it.
wedding planning/ wedding day headcanons with ilia!
Cute cute cute request⛸️🫶🏼💒
Wedding Planning/Wedding
Day Headcanons
• Ilia is the quiet logistics guy who pretends he’s “just helping” while secretly controlling half the details. You are the emotional one who changes your mind three times a week and then cries when something is perfect.
• You settle on a private Virginia estate with a wide lawn that slopes down to a small lake. Ilia vetoes anything with indoor-only options because he wants the open sky. You insist on a backup tent that looks elegant, not like a circus.
• You want simple flowers. Ilia secretly goes overboard. He finds a florist who can do white roses mixed with little blue forget-me-nots (because “they look like the ice when the light hits right”) and keeps the order a surprise until the morning of.
• The week before the wedding Ilia starts practicing the first dance in the living room every night after dinner. No music at first—just holding you and swaying while he mutters the counts under his breath. When you laugh and call him a dork, he dips you and says, “I’m not falling on our wedding day. That’s a non-negotiable.”
• He writes his vows in Russian first, then translates them into English so you and family can understand every word. On the day of, he still slips a few soft Russian lines in, the ones only you know the meaning of, and his voice cracks a little when he says them.
• Ilia refuses to do the whole “don’t see the bride before the ceremony” thing for more than an hour. The second you’re in your dress, he finds an excuse to walk past the room just so he can look at you for three seconds, go completely soft-eyed, and then leave again before anyone notices.
• During the ceremony he can’t stop rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand. Every time the officiant says something about forever, Ilia squeezes once—tiny, private, like a secret only the two of you share.
• Right after you kiss, while everyone is still clapping, he leans in and whispers against your mouth, “Hi, Mrs. Malinin,” like he’s still a little stunned he gets to say it.
• The reception is long tables under string lights. Speeches are short and honest. Ilia keeps stealing you for tiny dances between songs. No big production—just pulling you close on the edge of the dance floor, forehead to forehead, while the rest of the party keeps going. Every time someone tries to pull you two apart for photos he makes the same face he makes when his dad tells him to rest: soft refusal.
• The first dance is slow. Close. Ilia’s hand on the small of your back the entire time. At one point he dips you just enough that your veil (already off) would have fallen if you still had it on.
• Cake cutting is messy on purpose. Ilia smears a little frosting on the tip of her nose and then kisses it off.
• After most guests leave, you guys sneak down to the lake in your wedding clothes. Your dress is already slightly grass-stained at the hem. You sit on the dock with your shoes off. Ilia takes your hand, looks at the rings, and just says, “We’re married.” Like he’s still testing the words.
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