rachel ꨄ︎

(18+) let the fantasies become the ink that bleeds into your story.

[jaeyundazed]

WELCOME TO: [ jaeyundazed.exe ]

── .✦ in the fleeting moments that come and go, i finally realize the beauty of life.

       ⟢ RULES | MASTERLIST | TAGLIST .ᐟ

   i've been looking for you since you left; night and day, what a pity life. ✦. ──

⟢ REQUESTS: CLOSED (IN PROGRESS) .ᐟ

dividers by @uzmacchiato <3

[raspberrycinnamonpumpkin]

did you know that there's a tunnel under ocean boulevard

[prologue]

author's note: i haven't written in a long time. let me know if this is worth continuing. explicit content ahead. comments, reblogs, and feedback would be greatly appreciated.

word count: 3.9k

u.s. figure skating championships, 2026

“you’re sure you don’t want to come?” amber asked. “or i can stay with you, if you want.” 

you shook your head. “thanks, but i’m sure. i’d rather have a quiet night rewatching some movie i’ve seen a thousand times.” you smiled and stretched across your hotel bed. “go have fun. you deserve it.” 

she smiled. “alright, if you’re sure. but call me if you get bored or lonely, okay?” 

“i promise,” you said, waving. as she opened the door to your shared room, you grinned. “hey, amber?” 

she turned. “yeah?” 

“we’re olympians.” she laughed as you shook your head. “sorry, i had to say it again. it still doesn’t feel real.” 

she smiled softly. “it doesn’t feel real to me, either. not yet, anyway.” 

you hesitated for a second then slid off the bed and ran over to hug her for what felt like the thousandth time that evening. “sorry,” you said sheepishly as you pulled away. 

“no,” she said sternly. “you don’t get to apologize for being happy.” she grasped your shoulders. “you just turned in a fantastic short program and great free skate. you’re the national silver medalist, and you’re going to have so much fun when you compete at the fucking olympics in a month.” 

you grinned. “says my fellow olympian and the national champion of skating and pep talks.” she laughed and hugged you again. “oh, and hugs. and fun, unless i keep you here for the rest of the night.” 

she squeezed you one last time. “if you’re asleep when i get back, i’ll try not to wake you.” 

“i don’t know how i’m expected to get any sleep over the next month,” you said dryly, “but i suppose i should try.” 

she laughed. “you do that. sleep is important.” 

you waved as she headed out then flopped back down on your bed with a goofy grin. as of a few hours ago, you’re officially part of team usa. just because you’d dreamed of it as a little girl didn’t mean you’d thought it would ever actually happen. you pulled out your phone and scrolled through social media, still unable to believe the photos and headlines. 

blade angels headed to milan. is the 24-year wait over? is gold in the cards for team usa? 

suddenly, a knock sounded at your door. you frowned and stood up. “amber, did you forget your–” your eyes widened as you opened the door. “oh! hi, ilia.” 

ilia smiled crookedly. “hi.” you stared at him for a moment before he cleared his throat. “uh, sorry for, you know, showing up unannounced, but amber said you were staying in?” 

you fidgeted with the room service tag on the back of the door. “yeah, i am. i’m not exactly a fun time where karaoke is concerned. or any kind of going out, really.” 

he laughed. “oh, come on. you’re fun.” 

“unless your idea of a good time is rewatching a movie and going to bed early, which i doubt it is, i don’t think i’ll medal in fun,” you said dryly. “congratulations, by the way. you know, on winning. i think i said it earlier, but there were so many people around that it didn't really count.” 

he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “thanks. you skated really well, by the way.” you could’ve sworn his cheeks turned slightly pink, but he cleared his throat before you could give the matter much thought. “also, i happen to consider rewatching movies and getting some well-earned beauty rest a very good time. why else would i make an appearance after every competition?” 

“because you pity me and my lack of a social life?” you rolled your eyes teasingly. “alright, come on.” 

he grinned as he followed you into your room, shutting the door carefully. “what’re we watching?” 

you shrugged and sat on your bed, gesturing to your laptop. “pick whatever you want.” he whooped in delight and flopped down next to you, eagerly scrolling through the choices. you watched him, smiling softly. 

you’d met ilia about seven years ago, but you’d really started talking to him right after the last olympic cycle. you’d spent a few months harboring a massive crush on him before he’d introduced you to his then-girlfriend. you’d handled it like the mature teenager you were and spent the night eating an entire pint of ice cream, binging a comfort show, and crying yourself to sleep. the next morning, you’d decided you were okay with just being his friend. now, you were over him, really. you loved being friends with ilia. he was an incredible skater, sure, but he was also a total dork. he refused to drink coffee or tea, hated waking up early, spammed you pictures of his cats, and always made you smile. he never forgot to wish you luck before you skated, and he cheered you up when programs didn’t go how you’d wanted. and now, he was spending his celebratory evening hanging out with you instead of going to karaoke with everyone else. again. friends did things like that all the time, didn’t they? 

“how to train your dragon,” he said with relish, dragging you out of your thoughts. “it’s a cinematic masterpiece.” 

you laughed. “okay.” 

his eyes widened. “okay? what do you mean, okay?” 

you poked him in the side, smirking playfully when he squirmed. “i mean, whatever you say. your animated dragon movie is a classic, but cinematic masterpiece might be taking it too far.” 

he gasped dramatically. “you wound me.” 

you laughed. “aren’t they making some olympics ad for you with toothless now?” you’d heard him talking about the possibility a few days ago. 

his cheeks turned red. “uh, yeah, actually.” 

you laughed and leaned against him, ignoring the way the contact made your heart skip a beat. “so, you’ll be petting a giant green mechanical arm that’ll become a cgi dragon.” 

“shut up,” he groaned. “i love toothless.” 

you raised your eyebrows and pointed to the toothless shirt he was currently sporting. you were somewhat surprised that he had decided to pair it with snoopy pajama pants and minecraft socks instead of more how to train your dragon merch. “believe me, i am well aware. besides, most of your tossies are toothless.” 

he turned to you, fighting a smile. “i actually brought one of them with me. he’s huge, so he’s great to sleep on during flights.” 

you snickered. “of course you did.” 

he shrugged. “he’s cozier than your boyfriend ever was.” the mention of your now-ex-boyfriend made you scowl. ilia winced. “sorry. i shouldn’t have said that.” 

“don’t be,” you said flatly. “it’s his own fault he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.” 

his eyes widened as he sat bolt upright. “wait, what? i thought you said you broke up with him because long-distance wasn’t working!” 

you groaned. “well, it wasn’t. in addition to refusing to let me sleep on him on the very rare occasion that we were on an airplane together, he always forgot to watch me skate, never called, said i spent more time with the rink than him, and refused to come to competitions. oh, except the one he spent hitting on isabeau, who is way out of his league.” 

he didn’t say anything for a moment, so you glanced at him. to your surprise, he looked…sad? “you didn’t deserve to be treated like that,” he said quietly. 

something warm and unfamiliar settled in your chest. you didn’t know what to say, so you smiled awkwardly. “well, he was also terrible in bed, so i actually pity the girl he cheated on me with.” 

ilia laughed. “that’s not a surprise. you looked irritated the morning after the one competition he showed up to.” 

you glared at the ceiling. “he didn’t believe in foreplay and couldn’t find anything. he never made me come.” your eyes widened as you realized what you’d said. you buried your face in a pillow as heat rushed to your cheeks. “oh my god. you didn’t hear that.” 

you could hear him struggling to fight another laugh. “sounds like you dodged a bullet.” 

you nodded as you slowly peeled the pillow off your face. “yep.” 

he fidgeted next to you. “so, what, you’re going to the olympics hoping to pick up a very sexy local? i bet the bachelors of milan make great lasagna.” 

you groaned. “no. i don’t even know what i’m looking for. i don’t want another asshole boyfriend, but i also don’t want to just hook up with some italian guy. that sounds like a pr crisis waiting to happen.” you frowned. “maybe i should find another athlete. it’d be a good way to relax or blow off steam, and i can probably trust him to keep his mouth shut. what happens in the village stays in the village, right?” 

“yeah, whatever,” he said thinly. “can we watch the movie now?” 

your face felt hot. “oh, yeah. sorry for rambling about my miserable sex life and my nonexistent love life.” you pressed play on your laptop and laid down near him, mentally congratulating yourself for making it awkward. 

a few minutes into the movie, he slid his arm around you. you curled up against him, relieved that some of the tension was dissipating. you loved hanging out with him, and you didn’t want to screw up your friendship over a few stupid comments. 

he tucked your head under his chin, and your heart skipped a beat. “your hair smells nice,” he said. “did you get a different shampoo?” 

you smiled nervously and fidgeted with the hem of your oversized shirt, suddenly very aware that you were wearing your pajamas: an old band shirt and loose shorts that barely touched your midthigh. “yeah, tsa-approved green apple.” 

he laughed quietly. you tried to turn your attention back to the movie, but you couldn’t focus. for some reason, talking about your unimpressive romantic history had made you antsy. it shouldn’t have mattered. you were way past mooning over him. 

you convinced yourself to think about your recent skates instead, which brought a crease to your brow. your short program had been very good, even by your high standards. there were details to nitpick, of course, like your lutz edge, but you were generally pleased. your free skate, however, had been less than ideal. you had still managed to place second overall, but it was not nearly as clean as you would have liked. 

ilia cleared his throat. “you know, if you think any louder, i might be able to hear you.” 

you groaned. “sorry. even after a competition, i guess i still manage to overthink everything.” you fidgeted slightly. “i’m still thinking about the combo i barely landed. i still can’t figure out how that was an acceptable double axel. i definitely underroatated it.” 

he smiled softly. “it’s okay. my last combo left something to be desired. but i meant what i said earlier. you skated well.” 

you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “thanks.” you risked a glance at him, and he grinned when you looked away quickly. 

he gently poked your side. “be honest. if i weren’t here, would you be trying to rewatch footage and nitpick?” 

“no,” you said honestly. he raised his eyebrows, and you sighed. “amber made me promise not to before nationals even started. apparently, post-skate analysis makes me tense.” 

he laughed. “of course she did.” he fidgeted suddenly. “you’re tense right now.” 

you sighed again and stared at the laptop screen. “well, i only have a month to nitpick my lutz edge and try to fix the axel combo, and i’m sitting here watching how to train your dragon and hoping your jumping prowess rubs off on me instead of doing something productive.” you smiled thinly. “i’m also missing that hypothetical hockey player fuck buddy, so i guess i’m a little tense.” 

ilia wrinkled his nose. “a hockey player? really?” 

you frowned at him. “do you have something against hockey players? not that it matters, since you’re not the one getting dicked down in our hypothetical situation here.” 

he shook his head too quickly. “no, it’s…it’s nothing. forget it.” 

you rolled your eyes and sat up. “ilia, if you’re about to tell me all of the hockey players have chlamydia or something, that’s very relevant information.” 

he hesitated for the briefest moment, his eyes still fixed on the laptop, before he paused the movie and met your eyes. you were startled by the intensity in his gaze. “let me get this straight. you’re looking for a fuck buddy during the olympics, preferably an athlete, who isn’t going to run his mouth? and this is all in the name of stress relief, blowing off steam, et cetera?” 

you groaned and flopped down on the bed, smashing a pillow over your face. “god, don’t say it like that!” you expected him to make a joke, but he stayed quiet. you peeked out from behind the pillow cautiously. 

he gently tugged the pillow away from your face. “i’ll do it.” 

you sat bolt upright as butterflies stupidly exploded in your stomach. “what?” of all the things he could’ve possibly said, that was the last one you were expecting to hear. he wanted to be your fuck buddy? there were a million reasons why that was a terrible idea, chief among them the way his words had made heat pool between your thighs. 

his cheeks turned red. “nope, never mind. forget i said anything.” he clicked play on the movie and started to turn away from you. 

you slammed the laptop shut. “no, you don’t get to say that and just take it back.” a twinge of fear poked your heart. “wait, were you making fun of me?” 

“no!” he looked offended by your suggestion. 

you raised your eyebrows. “well, by all means, explain yourself.” 

he groaned and picked at a loose thread on the bedspread. “i don’t know. it seemed like the obvious solution and a totally harmless proposition. you wouldn’t have to worry about me running my mouth or anything. we already know each other, so you’d get to skip the awkwardness of meeting someone and explaining what you want. we could just stay friends, but i’ll…help you out when you need it. if you need it. if you want.” 

you swallowed hard and ignored the shiver threatening to race up your spine. “so, we’d be friends with benefits?” 

he looked at you sheepishly. “i mean, yeah. i guess.” 

you bit your lip. “obviously, we’d have to lay out some ground rules.” 

his eyebrows shot up. he clearly hadn’t expected you to consider his offer, never mind take him up on it. “uh, yeah. right. ground rules.” 

“rule one,” you said, “is this stays between us. no telling max or torgs or misha.” 

“no telling amber or alysa or isabeau,” he countered. “agreed.” 

“rule two: no kissing.” 

he frowned. “you want to hook up, but you don’t want me to kiss you?” 

for some stupid reason, heat rushed to your cheeks. “not on the lips!” you glared at the bedspread. “that’s romance territory. this isn’t romance.” 

he sighed. “fine, no kissing on the lips, and no romance. but i can kiss you anywhere that isn’t your mouth?” 

if your face was hot earlier, it was now contributing to glacial melting. “uh, yeah,” you said, trying desperately to force your voice to stay level. “sure. i mean, if you want.” 

he smirked. “okay, what’s rule three?” 

“no seeing other people?” you suggested. you winced. were you being too strict? “or, if you want to, at least tell me first so i don’t look like a total idiot?” 

he nodded firmly. “no seeing other people. we’re exclusive.” 

“and no staying the night,” you added. “it’s too mushy.” 

he groaned. “we’ve fallen asleep watching movies together more times than i can count. what’s the difference?” 

“there’s a huge difference,” you protested. “staying the night is, like, the gateway to cuddles and catching feelings!” you snickered. “besides, we’re always sharing rooms with other people. do you want amber to see your ass?” 

he cringed. “uh, not particularly.” he sighed. “i don’t see why it can’t just be platonic like always, but if you really want me to not spend the night anymore, that’s fine.” 

something about hearing him say that made you sad. you didn’t know why, because of course all of your time spent together was platonic. you were friends, and that wasn’t supposed to change. “no, you’re right. platonic sleepovers and cuddles, but no catching feelings.” you pursed your lips. “that won’t be hard.” because you’re over him. 

he laughed. “ouch, okay.” 

you force a laugh. “so, just keep it…fun and casual? i don’t know.” you bit your lip. “i don’t really do fun and casual.” 

“hey,” he said, “i meant what i said earlier. you’re fun. i really do like hanging out with you. okay?” 

you smiled softly and ignored the warm feeling filling your chest. “okay.” 

ilia grinned. “great. anything else?” 

you shook your head sheepishly. “i’m sure i’ll come up with something later?” 

he smirked. “i’m sure you will.” he offered you his hand to shake; your mouth went dry when his skin touched yours. “okay, we have a deal.” 

“yeah,” you said, very aware of how shaky your voice sounded. 

“you know,” he said gently, “we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.” 

you bit your lip. “no, i want to. i just…don’t really do things like this often. if ever.” 

he smiled. “well, let’s fix that.” he slid his warm hand up your inner thigh and toyed with the hem of your shorts. “let me know if you want me to stop, okay?” you nodded, unsure if you could properly form words. all the technical talking had sucked some of the tension out of the room, but you were fighting the urge to clench your thighs together now. 

you laid back against the pillows as he gently slid your shorts off. you fidgeted with the hem of your shirt as he crawled between your legs and started to nip and kiss your inner thighs. “uh, no marks where the costumes won’t cover,” you said suddenly. “i don’t want to explain a bunch of hickies.” 

he smirked. “too bad. i’d enjoy watching you try.” 

you glared at him. “you talk a lot for someone who’s supposed to be using his mouth for something else.” 

he rolled his eyes. “god, bossy much?” 

“well, if you would just–oh–oh–” 

he cut you off by gently pressing his thumb to your clit through your underwear, which was embarrassingly damp. “hm? what was that?” 

“oh, fuck off,” you whined. 

he grinned at you cheekily and caught the waistband of your underwear in his teeth so he could pull them off you. you tried to roll your eyes, but you were so turned on it wasn’t very convincing. he snickered. “does sassing me get you off? that’s hot.” 

whatever reply you were about to send his way vacated your brain when he hitched your thighs over his shoulders and ran his tongue over your clit. a whimper escaped your lips as you ran your fingers through his hair. “oh, fuck.” 

he hummed in approval, sending waves of pleasure vibrating through your core. he slid his tongue through your folds, his nose nudging your clit as he moaned. “you taste so good.” 

you didn’t have a word for what he was doing with his mouth. any coherent thoughts you may have had vanished, replaced with the desperate urge for more. as if he knew exactly what you wanted, ilia started tracing a pattern on your clit; you tugged on his hair and fought the urge to clamp your thighs around his head. heat began to build in your core as you realized that he was grinding against the mattress. 

when he suddenly wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked hard, you couldn’t stop yourself from moaning. heat rushed to your face as you fumbled around with both hands for a pillow to clamp over your mouth. he pulled back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on your soaked pussy. “no need for that. everyone else went out.” 

the sounds his mouth was making were obscene, and you hoped nobody came back early, because they would definitely be able to hear what was going on. he didn’t even wait for you to acknowledge what he’d said before he dove back in. you whimpered as he worked his tongue inside of you, curling it sinfully. 

“fuck,” you whined. “ilia, i’m–ah! i’m gonna come.” he moaned loudly and worked faster. your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, and you threw your head back when he sucked your clit into his mouth. you cried out as you finally fell apart, gushing all over his tongue. “fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

you’re quite sure you saw stars on the hotel ceiling. nobody had ever made you feel like that before. you’d give him a five for goe. 

he slowly ran his tongue through your folds a few more times, smirking when you trembled from the oversensitivity. eventually, he glanced up at you innocently. he looked obscene and beautiful with his hair all messy and your slick coating his nose, lips, and chin. the pupils of his eyes were blown so wide that you could barely see the cold blue of his irises. “was that good?” 

you laughed softly, your thighs still shaking. “please don’t make me answer that.” 

he grinned. “i’ll take that as a yes.” he swiped his fingers along his chin and licked them off. “you know, you look considerably less tense.” 

you were too blissed out to deny it and instead looked up at him. “do you want me to, you know, help you out?” 

his cheeks pinked. “uh, not necessary.” 

“okay, that’s hot.” lingering sparks of arousal settled in your core as you sat up and stretched. 

he shrugged and stood up. “what can i say? i like eating pussy.” he offered you his hand, and you took it without hesitating, though you were unsure where you were going. to your surprise, he led you to the bathroom. you leaned against him as he gently cleaned you up with a warm cloth, briefly closing your eyes. was all of this going to be a regular part of your competition schedule now? you’d like that. 

once he’d straightened himself out, he led you back to the bed and helped you get dressed. you curled up at his side, feeling perfectly at ease. 

suddenly, you realized that you were getting dangerously close to cuddles that didn't feel quite as platonic as usual. you sat up and forced a smile. “should we finish how to train your dragon?” 

ilia nodded quickly. “uh, yeah.” he sat up and pressed play on the movie. you hesitated for a moment then leaned against him. he immediately put his arm around you, just like he’d done when you’d started the movie. “is this okay?” 

something warm fizzled in your chest as you tucked your head under his chin. “yeah.” 

this wouldn’t mess anything up. you could still be friends, even while hooking up and trying to win olympic gold. right? 

[jaeyundazed]

oh hell yeah

[jaeyundazed]

somebody gotta fucking sedate me

[jaeyundazed]

oh my god yall idek what to say im wet

[jaeyundazed]

somebody gotta fucking sedate me

[love-leah]

scared but curious sweet and brave zoo animal whom I love more than anyone in history

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[philoph4bic]

Cruel Summer ☀️

[Chapter 3]

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: 7,5k

author’s note: it took me like 2 weeks, but it's finally here! 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! this chapter contains sexual content, MDNI

taglist: @scuderiapng @sinistersnakey @amori1i @jmgrule @prettyraspberry @tiramisutin @iliasleftcontact

dividers by: @pxrce-lain

masterlist

Ilia: At some point you have to talk to me

You stare at the screen again, Cam's voice slowly fading into the background. She's on FaceTime with you, showing you two dresses she has as options for a last-minute wedding invitation. Originally, she had planned to decline, but your and Ziggy's points were convincing enough that she decided to put her gaming console aside for one night, opting instead to spend time with her relatives.

"Is it, like, too slutty for a wedding?"

"No, it's perfect."

"But the cut is low."

"Well, it's not like you have the boobs to fill it out."

"Bitch," she chuckles, throwing you a half-annoyed, half-offended look. She squints at the screen because she still hasn't picked up her new prescription glasses, being the procrastinator she is. "Are you still dwelling on Ilia's text?"

"What am I supposed to reply?!"

"Tell him you'll talk to him once your exams are over."

"My exams are over in, like, two weeks," you sigh, leaning back in your gaming chair as you shut your eyes tight for a few seconds. You feel entirely overwhelmed by the single text message you haven't opened since this morning. It's almost 5 p.m. now.

The truth is, you're not really ignoring him. Sure, maybe you ran away after he confessed to you and kissed you, but it's not like you've seen him since then or have been deliberately avoiding him. And it's only been two days. You're just not actively seeking to resolve whatever happened because the whole situation scares you even more than the reality excites you. The embarrassment still lingers every time you relive those few seconds when you tugged the door handle and ran away as he called out your name.

"Why are you so uptight about this whole thing? It's Ilia."

"Yes, exactly!" you huff, rolling your eyes. Explaining something to your best friend is hard, especially when you don't even understand it yourself. "He kissed me and I ran away like an idiot!"

"And now you're acting like a bigger idiot because you keep ignoring him."

"I mean, I'm not exactly ignoring him."

"Oh, shut up," she exhales, throwing you a dirty look before she puts the black dress away in the closet, presumably brushing aside your opinion that it looks appropriate for a wedding. "Tell him you needed time to think and you'll talk to him soon."

"When is soon?"

"Honestly, I'm running out of patience with you."

"Alright, alright," you admit in a defeated voice, straightening your spine as if it somehow gives you the confidence you desperately need. "I'll figure something out."

"Yes, like you always do."

"But this is, like, an exceptional case."

"Are you going to keep ranting about that Russian boy, or will you help me finish my wedding look?"

You nod, leaning forward so you can see the jewelry options she's showing you. You try to bite back the comment that all of them are ugly—but you do, because it fits Cam's style perfectly and you are a good friend.

The call with her ends approximately twenty minutes later. You find yourself spinning in your gaming chair, thumbs hovering over the keyboard as you type out several responses before aggressively hitting the delete button, never satisfied with the outcome. Eventually, you stop and ask yourself if it's really that serious. The next second, you've sent a message before fully thinking it through. Your heartbeat quickens just enough when you see that he has read it almost immediately.

You: I'm sorry. I know we need to talk.

Ilia: Are you home?

You: I'm kind of in the middle of something.

You panic when he doesn't respond. Your eyes widen as you realize he hasn't even opened your last message, meaning he's probably already on his way over. Cursing under your breath, you leap up from the chair. You frantically look around the room to find something to put on instead of your washed-out t-shirt, which has holes in the collar thanks to your habit of chewing on it whenever you're bored. A dark blue t-shirt that you snagged from Jace's room at some point is in much better condition, complementing a pair of gray shorts that were also his before puberty fully had its impact on him.

The doorbell rings just as you're sprinting down the stairs. He knows your dad is still at work, and he also knows that Jace hits the gym around this time every Tuesday. There's not really a reason for him to hide or hold back, meaning you're forced to have this conversation even if you're not fully prepared for it. Maybe it's better this way, before you start overthinking and potentially ruining something that hasn't even started yet.

"Hi."

You give him a somewhat shy smile, stepping aside to silently welcome him in. He eyes you for a second, opening his mouth slightly as if he's about to say something, but ultimately decides against it. He's wearing one of the many Toothless t-shirts he owns, his shorts hugging him perfectly. You subtly eye him as he steps inside, wondering when exactly his glutes managed to grow like that.

"What are you up to?"

"Um… just the usual stuff," you shrug, heat rushing to your face despite trying so hard to sound casual. It's almost like you've completely forgotten how to talk to him.

He gives you an expectant look, the kind that encourages you to start talking, but the silence hangs heavy in the room. Your palms seem to grow sweaty, so you hide them at your sides as if they are the sole thing giving away your uneasiness and not the panicked expression plastered on your face.

"Can we just talk?" he asks abruptly, as if he's finally had enough of the awkwardness. He sighs, looking at you with slightly raised eyebrows—an expression you know well from when he's feeling sorry or worried about something. You shift uncomfortably, pressing your lips together as he continues. "It's me. Things don't have to be awkward."

"I know."

"Then why are you avoiding me?"

"I'm not," you exhale, resisting the urge to bury your face in your hands. Looking him straight in the eye is deeply embarrassing, especially when he shakes his head, his gaze hardening. "I'm just…"

"You're just what?" he presses, vaguely gesturing with his hands. "Look, I understand if you needed time to think, and I wanted to give you space, but you haven't talked to me in almost three days. You ran away after I kissed you. I just… I don't know what to think."

"I know it was a stupid thing to do."

"Are you still mad at me?"

The question takes you aback. You pause when his voice comes out quieter. The answer doesn't come easily because you haven't actually thought about it. All you could think about these past few days was the fact that Ilia kissed you, and that he actually liked you back—just as you had always wished he would.

"No," you reply after a while, concluding that you don't feel an ounce of the rage you felt a few days ago. "I ran away because I was confused and… scared. I'm just stupid."

"You're not." He shakes his head and steps forward, gently pushing your blue-light glasses back up after they had slid down your nose. You only wear them because of your dad's insistence; he always uses the excuse of being a doctor who "knows better" when he forces you and your brother to do things you don't really want to do.

"Usually I'm not, no, but running away that night was one of the most embarrassing things I've ever done."

"It doesn't top the talent show you did back in middle school."

"Oh, shut up," you groan at the memory, avoiding his gaze as he lets out a laugh. He tugs at your arm, pulling you toward him. It's as if the heavy tension completely breaks with the solo memory, a stark reminder that this is Ilia—the guy you grew up with, the boy you never need to shy away from. He stares down at you with a soft expression, fixing the pieces of hair that messily frame your face. "You weren't so great at that talent show either."

"I got first place."

"Just because you sucked less than the other kids doesn't mean you didn't suck."

The corner of his lip lifts, a smile stretching across his face as his voice loses its teasing edge. "As much as I enjoy this conversation, can we go back to where we started?"

"You like embarrassing me, don't you?"

"No, I just want to establish the fact that I like you," he repeats, more confident this time. His eyes search yours while you stare at him quietly, your chest tightening at the words that make you dizzy. They still feel unfamiliar, but you could easily get used to them. "And I'm sorry for being a coward and not sticking up for us when it mattered. I was a jerk that night."

"It hurt. A lot."

"I know."

"I've spent the last few years having a massive crush on you," you admit openly, your heart hammering against your ribs. Something twists in your stomach as you hold back, choosing not to tell him that your feelings are actually much greater than a silly crush. It's too soon, you tell yourself, clinging to the excuse. "And hearing you say that… it just destroyed me. You brushed me off like I was just Jace's annoying little sister you're forced to tolerate… And then you just confessed out of the blue when I was so mad at you, and I just…" You can't even finish the sentence, unable to find the words for what you felt in that moment. "It was a lot to take in."

"I'm sorry. I hate myself for how I handled that," he says, his voice apologetic. He reaches down, gently taking your hands in his, forcing you to look up at him. "The second Jack brought you up, I panicked. He kind of already knew, and I was afraid he would see right through me. And if Jack found out, Jace would find out."

The image of your brother flashes across your mind. He loves Ilia; there's no doubt that in any world, he would consider his best friend worthy of you, but you also know him well enough to know he won't be happy about this. Both you and Ilia know that if Jace finds out, things are going to get ugly.

"I took the easy way out because I was terrified," Ilia confesses, his blue eyes sincere, pleading with you to understand. "I was terrified of how messy things would get if they found out how I actually felt about you."

"Jace won't approve."

"I know."

You exhale, your shoulders dropping, heavy with a secret that already feels like a burden. He lets go of your hands only to cup the side of your face, his fingers sliding into your hair. "Look at me."

You look up, meeting the intense blue of his eyes.

"I've felt this way about you for a while, and I always tried to tell myself it was wrong," he says softly, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "Yeah, maybe I'm not supposed to have feelings for my best friend's sister because of some unwritten moral code, but it's not wrong. It doesn't feel wrong anymore. The whole time I was on tour, I missed home terribly, and then I realized it was you I was homesick for."

The honesty in his voice completely undoes you, stripping away the last string of your hesitation. Suddenly, you find yourself leaning in, sneaking your arms around his back and burying your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. His response is immediate. He pulls you tighter against him, rubbing your back affectionately and pressing a light kiss into your hair.

You don't know how much time passes before he gently lifts your head up, caressing your jaw with his palm. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his thumb eventually coming to rest on your bottom lip.

"Can I kiss you?"

"It's not like you asked the first time, either."

He grins, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. Closing your eyes, you sigh into the touch. His mouth is warm against yours, his hands roaming over your back as they clutch your t-shirt. Your hand flies into his hair, the short strands soft between your fingertips as you gently tug at them. You only pull back when you're left breathless, your chest heaving up and down just like his. A smile breaks across his face.

"By the way," his voice turns teasing, his fingertip tracing a slow line up your arm. "You're wearing my t-shirt."

"What?" Your brows furrow, genuine confusion making your lips pout.

"Yeah. Jace ended up borrowing it a while ago, but he never gave it back."

"Well, I'm not giving it back either."

"Good," he smiles, his eyes almost shining. "I don't want you to."

You grin at him, intertwining your fingers with his—at first shyly, then gripping him tightly, leading him up to your room to show him the new Lego set you've built before Jace comes back.

Neither of you talk about it, neither of you openly discuss it, but you quickly slip into a routine.

His texts come in every morning and night, the day never ending without late-night conversations with him, your friends teasing you that you have temporarily replaced them. He gives you rides to the university—half the time you secretly slide into the passenger seat, and the other half of the time you casually mention to Jace that you two happen to have the same schedule. Your brother doesn't think anything of it, you're sure, casually waving you off before his stare fixes back on the computer screen.

On the rare occasions that you're free from studying and working and the house is empty for you to use as you please, he comes over. You watch movies, play games, cook pasta for him, and teach him how to play Sudoku. He brings you your favorite snacks and you cuddle on the couch, always glancing at the clock to make sure you don't get caught. Sometimes it's hard, pretending nothing exists between you two except a platonic relationship, and perhaps there's no reason to wait anymore, because Jace will rage at both of you anyways—but still, neither of you speak about it. Perhaps you like the thrill of sneaking around behind everyone's back. Perhaps, despite how much you don't want to admit it out loud, the idea of things getting real scares you both.

"Come on, just one more lap."

"I can't!"

"Stop whining."

Jace exhales, nudging you to continue running while your chest heaves up and down, your whole body sweaty as you try to fight off your legs from giving up. You watch him run ahead of you, wiping the sweat from your forehead before you straighten your spine, jogging after him in a way less energetic way.

Jace thinks of himself as a caring brother, which is why he has decided to take care of your physical health, forcing you to run with him almost every day and feeding you the protein smoothies he enthusiastically makes every morning. You're doing laps around the neighborhood, having just passed your house, when you see Jace stopping. You squint your eyes to confirm that the blonde talking to him is Ilia.

"Hey."

"Hi," you wave at him, still breathless. His face is completely relaxed, unlike yours, a smile plastered across it. You're wearing nothing special—just shorts and a sports bra—but his gaze still shifts, subtly eyeing you before he fixes his stare back on Jace. He's wearing Snoopy pants and a plain white t-shirt, making it evident that he just rolled out of bed, holding some letters in his hand. Tatyana must have sent him out to collect the mail.

"You should run with us," Jace tells him, nudging him on the shoulder. Then he gestures toward you, pointing a finger. "I have to keep this one in shape, and I need help because she's awful company."

"Oh, shut up."

"You've been whining for the whole run!" he insists, throwing you an annoyed look while Ilia witnesses the sibling interaction with an amused expression. "No, ever since this morning, before we even started running."

"Because instead of helping me gradually build stamina, you just force me to run for over an hour and I'm exhausted!" you argue, looking over at Ilia so he can prove your point. "You're an athlete. Tell him that he's an awful instructor."

"I fear she's right, Jace."

"What's up with you always agreeing with her lately?" Jace rolls his eyes, throwing him a dirty look. The smile washes off your face, but he doesn't notice it. He doesn't notice either when Ilia nervously shifts, his smile turning awkward. "You're supposed to be my best friend."

"It's not like you own him."

"I own him more than you do."

Jace winks at you, convinced that he's made a point, while you bite down on your tongue before you regret the next words escaping your throat. Ilia must notice that Jace's words leave a bitter taste in your mouth, because he swiftly changes the topic, talking about their next hangout as you look at your watch, contemplating that you should just go home.

"I'm streaming this afternoon."

"What are you going to play?"

"Probably Fortnite again."

"Bro, people are tired of watching you play that shit," Jace groans, his dislike of Fortnite shining through. It's a topic he and Ilia still haven't agreed upon after all these years. "Even Geometry Dash is more entertaining."

"I was going to play FIFA with Jacob, but he ditched me for practice," Ilia sighs, and even though your eyes are fixed on your phone screen, you can feel him subtly glancing at you. "I asked your sister to accompany me, but she turned me down… playing Valorant would be fun."

Feeling both of them burning their stares through your skull, you lift your head up, shrugging as you purse your lips. "I don't really want to engage with your crazy fangirls."

"People usually behave, and I have mods."

"Yeah sis, show him some generosity," Jace backs him up, to your surprise, your eyes squinting at his behavior, which seems suspicious. "Teach him how to play Valorant properly."

"I can absolutely play Valorant!"

"I said properly," Jace grins, slapping his back in what is supposed to be an affectionate way. Then he backs up a few steps, looking at you with determination as he motions for you to follow him. "Now come on, one last lap."

You throw Ilia a helpless look, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips as he mouths words you absolutely cannot decipher. Then you leave him there, jogging after Jace as you glance behind your shoulder every few seconds, only to find him staring right back at you.

You: NO

Ilia: Come ooon

Ilia: It's gonna be Fun

Ilia: I want to stream with you

Ilia: Please :(

You stare at the screen, then back to the clock, contemplating whether you're ready to give in and accept his invitation or not. Occasionally streaming with Ziggy and Cam is fun because the chat is chill, and mostly the conversation is just about Valorant or other games you play together. But even from just watching bits of Ilia's stream a handful of times, you know his is drastically different. You know you'll probably get dragged online for no reason, because some fans can just be that crazy.

Maybe you just don't have the heart to turn him down, or maybe a secret, deep part of you wants to remind others of your existence and your place in his life. It sounds stupid, but when another text comes through—this time a picture of him making a pouty face—you find yourself smiling. You agree without giving it any further thought.

Jace helps you set up the camera, removing a few plushies from your bed because he insists they leave a "loser impression" of you. He takes Dusty too, with the excuse that she might be frightened by the loud noises you and Ilia will probably make, but really he just wants to cuddle her.

"You're all set up!" he exclaims with unusual enthusiasm, patting you on the back as he leans in to wipe the lens once again. "Destroy his ass."

"Why are you so excited about this?"

"Because you're a good gamer and I want people to appreciate you."

"Are you soft-launching that you want me to become a full-time Twitch streamer?" You squint your eyes at him, an almost disgusted expression plastered on your face.

"Nah, you donut, you're way too intelligent to be a Twitch streamer," he ruffles your hair, earning a sharp slap on the arm in exchange. He backs off toward the door, clutching Dusty in his hands while she looks at you with a helpless expression. He's about to walk out when he stops, whipping his head around as he squints at the t-shirt you're wearing. "You stealer, that's mine."

"Start learning how to do your laundry, maybe then you won't lose your clothes," you grin at him, completely omitting the fact that it isn't his shirt at all, but Ilia's. "Okay, go now, Ilia is calling."

"Alright."

He disappears, the door softly clicking shut behind him. It takes you and Ilia approximately five minutes to figure everything out, him ceaselessly reminding you that it's nothing to worry about even though you aren't showing an ounce of uneasiness. You're not so bad at pretending.

"Okay, I'll start the stream in a minute."

"Alright."

"You should start streaming, and then I'll send you an invite you can accept."

"I know how this stuff works," you laugh out loud, rolling your eyes at him while he stares back at you with a wide smile. "You should clean the mess behind you before they start making fun of you for having a messy room again."

"Literally, what am I supposed to do with these?" he gestures helplessly behind himself. "It's a mountain of plushies!"

"And a half-ass made bed, along with empty chocolate wrappers on the nightstand."

"Okay, stop judging me!" he huffs, giving you a pouty look. "Do you want to do a shared chat?"

"Sure, it's not like people will be watching my stream anyway."

"No, I'm sure they will." He says it with a determination that amuses you, but you don't argue.

You try to recall the last time you did this—not streaming on Twitch in general, but doing it with him. It was back in 2023, when he was supposed to play with Jace. Since your brother caught a cold, you were summoned to sub in for him. It lasted maybe an hour before Ilia got bored. Jace joked that he ended the stream early because you beat him at every single game.

The moment you go live, you have three viewers: your best friends Ziggy and Cam, and another online friend you sometimes play with. They immediately flood the chat, the inside jokes never ceasing until you tell them to keep their mouths shut. Ilia sends you the invite soon after, and then his face pops up on your screen. His chat starts flooding in, and your throat goes dry for a second before you manage to smile, your voice coming out softer than usual.

"Hi."

The all-caps messages quickly catch your eye. Most of them are asking who you are, some of them already know, and a few are showing you love that takes you aback. Ilia quickly introduces you, a bitter taste lingering in your mouth when he refers to you as his friend—but it's fine. You both know it's not true. You shouldn't care about what outsiders believe.

"Why are you reloading? You had twenty-two bullets!"

"I forgot about it, okay?!" Ilia's voice comes through your headset, sounding slightly panicked.

You sigh, keeping your eyes locked on the screen. "Don't you dare peek."

But it's already too late. The second Ilia swings the corner, a shot rings out. You watch him drop right in front of you. You hear him groan, irritation seeping into your own voice. "I told you not to peek!"

"I thought I could get him," Ilia says, immediately trying to defend himself. "I had the angle."

"No, you had confidence. That's different," you note, a layer of smugness coating your voice. You peek at his webcam for a second to find him smiling. "You're so bad at this."

"Everyone starts somewhere!"

"Guys, even Liza plays better than him," you snort, leaning back against your seat as you watch your own agent die, surrendering the round to the opposite team so you can start another one with Ilia. So far, you've only won three times.

"Let's take a break for a while and answer some questions," Ilia announces, leaning close to his screen so he can read the comments. He squints until his face falls, a disappointed expression shooting in your direction. "Never mind. I shouldn't have."

You laugh, reading the comments that keep roasting him in contrast to praising you. He spends the next two minutes scanning the questions, trying to involve you, but mostly you keep to yourself. It's his stream, after all. And it's not like most of these people care about you.

"Someone's asking about our favorite superheroes," Ilia laughs like it's obvious, his gaze wandering behind you, looking at the Spiderman poster displayed on your wall. "I think yours is Batman, right?"

"Yes, either him or Quicksilver," you grin, going along with him, purposely sliding around in your chair so you can give them a better view of the poster. "I like lots of superheroes, with a few exceptions. Spider-Man is, like, so overrated."

"Yeah, totally."

"I feel like it's one of those superheroes targeted specifically for a children's audience."

"Yes," he says, a subtle smile tugging at his lips before he bursts out laughing. "I think we can play FNAF next, yeah."

"Oh my god, I love FNAF," your voice immediately gets excited. Leaning toward the screen, your eyes practically sparkle under the dim lights as you scan the comments. "Resident Evil too… Dead Space is definitely underrated, I agree… The last horror game I played, mhm, I think it was Soma."

"I have not played any of them."

"Sure you haven't," you snort at Ilia's comment, your eyes crinkling. "You get jump-scared all the time."

"I am gonna let that slide."

"Jace is working on a deadline, guys," you answer one of the comments, and the chat immediately floods with his name like they just remembered his existence. Then you squint at another message. "Oh my god, we do not look alike!"

"Who is she?" Ilia reads out loud. He spins around in his chair, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips when his eyes snap back to yours through the screen. "Jace's annoying little sister."

You laugh, not even slightly offended by it, because you know this time he doesn't mean it. You find yourself enjoying the secrecy you two share right in front of a chat of a few thousand people. Ilia proceeds to answer some questions regarding his training and skating, and then you two are just about to boot up Five Nights at Freddy's when a blur of motion cuts across your vision. Dusty comes sprinting across your keyboard, pausing for a second to look at the bright screen.

"Oh, hi Dusty," Ilia coos from the screen, his voice turning high-pitched just like when he talks to his cats. "That's her chinchilla, guys."

You scoop her up before she flees, gently pressing a kiss to her fur before you let her go. She immediately sprints down from your shoulder, jumps onto the bed, and settles somewhere behind the pillows.

"Ilia is scared of Dusty, guys."

"Stop spreading misinformation!" his voice rises in disbelief, shaking his head like he's deeply disappointed in you. "I'm not, guys. I love animals."

"Yo, what's up, bro?"

Suddenly, a loud noise breaks the flow as Jace comes into the frame, slapping his hands down on your shoulders. He makes you jolt, and you throw him an annoyed look through the lens.

"Hi, Jace."

"Hey, everyone," he waves at the camera, hovering over your chair as he looks at the chat, his smile wide and impossible. "Did my sister beat your ass?"

"I fear she did."

"Well, it's my turn then," he grins, motioning for you to get up. You look over your shoulder, giving him an offended look, but he completely ignores you. "I finished the deadline. Let me play with him, sis."

"We were about to play FNAF."

"Ilia sucks at that game."

"Bro, can't I just enjoy games?!" Ilia complains, shaking his head. "I don't have to be good at it."

"That's an excuse bad gamers use."

"My god, you're so annoying." You stand up from the chair, removing the headset and handing it to him because you know he won't leave you alone anyway.

A twinge of irritation sets in as he settles into your chair, seamlessly resuming the stream with Ilia as if you were just a temporary placeholder for him until he arrived. You know Jace doesn't have ill intentions, and he definitely doesn't realize the weight of what he's doing, but a sharp prickle of anger burns through you nonetheless. You close the door behind you and head down the stairs with an excuse of getting something to eat. He yells after you to make your signature pasta and leave some for him.

You ignore him. But when you get into the kitchen and start prepping the sauce while the water boils in the pot, you find yourself rationing enough for more than just yourself.

Your phone buzzes on the counter.

Ilia: Are you mad?

You almost roll your eyes at the question, but a smile still tugs at your lips because he noticed, and he cares.

You: just a bit annoyed

Ilia: I'm sorry

You: it's fine, it's not your fault

Ilia: He just invited me over For a Movie night

You: should I make pasta for 3?

Ilia: Yes please

You grin at the messages, locking your phone away and setting it on the table. He hasn't slept over since that night, and the thought of him staying in the room right next to yours while Jace sleeps dead to the world leaves you both excited and nervous.

Ilia arrives shortly after they end the stream. The pasta is ready, and the three of you eat at the table, no longer waiting for your dad because he decided to get drinks with his friends and called to say he might crash at a friend's place tonight in Washington—which means he definitely isn't coming home.

"What's up with him always staying somewhere else lately?" Jace asks, giving you a weirded-out expression as he shrugs his shoulders. "He has conferences, like, every two weeks."

You stop eating, briefly sharing a glance with Ilia to see that he confirms your thoughts. You straighten your spine, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you pause, unsure of how to strike up a conversation about it.

"Jace…"

"What?"

"You really think he's traveling for medical conferences?" You raise an eyebrow, trying so hard not to make him feel stupid, but failing anyway.

"What do you mean?" He furrows his eyebrows, looking at you first before his eyes lock back onto Ilia, who stays silent, letting the two of you settle it. "Where else would he be going?"

"Jace, he's seeing someone."

"What?" He snorts, rolling his eyes like you've said something impossible. Maybe it isn't supposed to, but it makes a spark of anger ignite within you. "Come on."

"Why is that so funny to you?"

"Because it's dad we're talking about."

"So?!"

"Why would he be sneaking around behind our backs?" he asks, looking at you in confusion. While you don't have a definitive answer to that question, you still can't believe he hasn't realized it until now. "He's an adult."

"I don't know, but do you seriously think he attends all these medical conferences and goes out to grab a drink with Dale every week with an excuse not to come home at night?" You roll your eyes, huffing at how stupid it sounds. "It's clear that he's seeing someone. I don't know why he feels the need to hide it from us, and I'm not going to bring it up until he does, but I thought you knew about it and we just didn't discuss it."

"Yeah, I haven't really thought about my dad sneaking behind my back like a teenager," his voice turns frustrated, something bitter laced in his tone.

He resumes eating, your eyes snapping back to your plate as you feel Ilia squeezing your hand under the table. Abruptly, Jace drops his fork, the clinking noise loud against his empty bowl. "I don't understand why he would hide it! It's not like we're children and we'd get mad or something!"

"I don't know, Jace."

"So, Dad is having a secret relationship behind our backs," he snorts, repeating the words like he's trying to let the information sink in. He leans across the chair, squinting his eyes as he looks at you for a second. Panic almost settles into your body because you can't quite decipher his expression. "Are you, by any chance, too?"

You roll your eyes, shrugging off his question as a joke. Thankfully, he doesn't dwell on it, and most likely, he doesn't notice the quick glances you and Ilia share with each other either.

Since you usually don't tag along with them when Ilia comes over and the movie Jace chose is boring to you, you go upstairs to your room, finishing the book you started a few days ago before you play with Cam and Ziggy for a while. You barely get a chance to talk to Ilia, and it only happens when you go downstairs for a snack while Jace is in the restroom.

"Streaming was fun," he murmurs, leaning against the counter while you cut up some fruit. You give him a piece of peach, which he takes without hesitation. "We should do it again."

"Maybe."

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy it."

"I did, before Jace crashed it."

He sighs, giving you a pouty look as he leans in, quickly pressing his lips to yours, letting you taste the sweetness on his lips. You smile through the kiss, fixing his hair that's been growing out steadily over the past few weeks. A part of you wants to beg Tatyana to cut it again.

"Are you going to sleep?"

"It's not even 11 p.m. yet."

"Would you, um… would you like a cuddle buddy afterward?" he asks almost shyly, your heart on the verge of bursting at how adorable he is. His blue eyes sweep over your face, his cheeks flushed with heat.

"Are you asking for permission to sneak into my room?"

"Respectfully."

"Then you have it."

You reciprocate his grin, leaning in one more time to kiss him again before you hear Jace's heavy footsteps on the stairs.

They stay up way past midnight, both of them entirely engaged in their game, not even noticing you when you go down to get a glass of water and slip right past them.

It's way past 3 a.m. when you lock your phone and put it aside, Ziggy finally recalling that he has to wake up early tomorrow for his fencing practice. It keeps raining, the drops hitting against the window making a pleasant sound to fall asleep to, but you keep tossing in your sheets, unable to find a comfortable position.

Your eyes are shut tight when you slowly feel drowsiness wash over you, and just as you're about to drift off, you're snapped back to wakefulness. The floor creaks, the footsteps light as he quietly closes the door behind him. You keep your eyes shut, pretending to be asleep when you feel the mattress dip down. He carefully climbs under the blanket, the weight of his legs subtly pressing against yours. You feel him shift closer, slowly circling an arm around your waist as he leans down and presses a light kiss to your cheekbone. You can't contain the smile that breaks across your face when he tucks his chin over your shoulder, his breath fanning over your neck.

"I know you're awake," he murmurs, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

Switching sides to face him under the moonlight that spills into the room, you make out his nose and blue eyes, his grip tightening around your waist. Throwing your leg over his waist to chase his warmth, you snuggle deep into his chest, a content hum escaping your throat as his familiar scent floods your nostrils.

"I couldn't sleep," he whispers, his lips brushing against your forehead. "I thought you were long asleep but I'm pretty sure I heard you giggling, like, fifteen minutes ago."

"Yeah, Ziggy said something stupid," you smile, a chuckle escaping your throat at the memory. Sliding your hand under his t-shirt because his warmth is comfortable against your skin, you trace lines on his back, wishing you could somehow close the distance that doesn't exist between you two anymore—wishing you could completely let him swallow you in. "You can't fall asleep here."

"Just let me stay for a little bit," he mumbles. "I'll sneak out early." "Mhm."

The silence, the soft sound of the rain, and the warmth of his body against you feels just right, leaving you ready to let sleep consume you. But then, you notice his body suddenly stiffen. His breathing hitches. He stops moving completely, freezing like a statue against you. Before you can even ask what’s wrong, you feel the hardness pressing against your thin shorts, your eyes slowly opening as the realization sinks in.

"Oh, fuck," he murmurs, gently pushing you away, untangling his legs from yours and rolling onto his back. He groans, covering his face with his arm, refusing to look you in the eye. "Shit, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I mean, fuck, I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's fine."

"No, it's not," he insists, clearly unable to let the initial embarrassment go. "We were having this sweet moment and I got a boner like a schoolboy."

"I mean, I'm honored."

He huffs, a breathless chuckle escaping your own throat at his stubbornness. You glance toward the closed door, your pulse picking up just enough for you to feel the heat radiating from your body. Licking your lips, you glance back at him, sprawled on his back, still refusing to look at you. You stretch out your hand, gently touching his arm. "Do you, um… do you want me to help?"

Ilia drops his arm from his face, his blue eyes widening. He looks at you like he can't quite process what you just said. "What?"

"I mean…" You shift a little closer, your voice dropping to an absolute whisper, shy as you feel your face burn with heat. "Jace is right down the hall. We can't do it. But I can… you know."

He sits up, biting down on his lip as he stares at you. "You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"You don't have to, really—"

"Ilia," you stop him, pressing your palm against his mouth until his body relaxes. "I want to."

You remove your hand, leaving his mouth slightly agape as he stares up at you. Before you can overthink it, you nudge him back into a comfortable position, throwing your leg over his thigh to straddle him. Your fingers are almost trembling when you reach the waistband of his shorts, slipping your hand underneath to wrap your palm around him. The moment your hand makes contact with his burning skin, a low breath hitches in his throat. His mouth falls open, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

"Ilia…" You lean in, your face so close to his that you can feel his hot breath on your skin. Your own body is slowly setting on fire, something twisting deep in your stomach as you feel your shorts getting damper. Brushing your lips against his ear, you whisper, "You have to be quiet."

"I am trying," his voice is weak, so soft that it makes your chest tighten. "It’s just… you’re really warm."

You take his hand, placing it on top of yours where it's wrapped around him, silently asking him to guide you. With pure instinct and the direction of his trembling hand against yours, you begin to move, the rhythm clumsy at first before you adjust to the unfamiliar feeling. The moment you find a steady pace, his eyes flutter shut.

"Like that?" you whisper, your face burning as you watch him completely unravel under your touch.

"Yeah," he chokes out, his other hand digging into your hip. "Exactly like that. Just… don't stop."

His head rolls back against the bedframe, his chest heaving up and down in shallow, ragged breaths. His hand falls away to his side, letting you fully take control. The sight of him is enough to make your mouth water, your own breath uneven as you pick up the rhythm.

He lets out a soft whimper, the stillness of the room pierced by the sudden rise in his voice. You lean in to kiss him, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth to keep him quiet. You continue moving your hand up and down, feeling his hips subtly shift against your palm. As you swirl your tongue over his, he abruptly pulls back, his mouth glistening in the dark.

"Wait," he mutters suddenly, his eyes snapping open. His gaze looks almost drunken in the moonlight. He grips your wrist, slowing you down for a fraction of a second. "Hold on, I don't want to—"

"It's okay," you whisper fiercely against his cheek, leaning your weight into him to keep him right there, refusing to let him pull away.

He lets out a defeated, ragged sigh, his fingers locking tightly between yours as you guide him through the final moments. His entire body goes rigid, a tremor running straight through his muscles as he buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, smothering a heavy groan right against your skin.

For a minute, he stays just like that, the ragged sound of his breathing slowly quietening down. Gradually, the tension in his body drains away, leaving him completely relaxed against you. He pulls his hand back, his face still half-buried in your shoulder as he lets out a long, exhausted breath.

"Wow," he murmurs, finally looking up at you. His hair is a total mess and his cheeks are flushed a deep red. A quiet, shy smile touches his lips. "That was… woah."

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh, reaching over to grab a tissue from your nightstand to clean your hand. As you're about to climb off him and slide back into the warmth of the bed, he stops you, keeping his grip on your waist tight so you don't move.

"You think I'm just gonna let you sleep after that?"

He leans in, his voice soft and his mouth warm against your skin as he places a gentle kiss on your neck. One of his hands slides up underneath your top, your eyes fluttering shut when he slowly trails his fingers to your breasts. A shiver runs down your spine, your breath hitching in your throat when he cups them with his palms. His fingertips brush across your hardened buds as you throw your head back, biting down on your lip so a moan doesn't escape your throat—because if it does, you know it'll be impossible to contain yourself.

You offer no resistance as he pulls the shirt over your head, his stare almost hungry. He gently nudges you down onto the mattress, hovering over you while he continues trailing kisses down your chest. The moment his mouth closes around your nipple, your back arches instantly. You bury your fingers into the bedsheets, gripping the fabric until your knuckles turn white to stifle the muffled gasp tearing from your throat. His hands slide down to your hips, removing your shorts in one smooth motion that leaves you entirely exposed to the cool air of the room.

When he dips his head between your legs, you open them for him in a welcoming way. The first touch of his tongue makes you slap a palm firmly over your mouth, your mind turning dizzy with the unfamiliar feeling that runs down your whole body, completely consuming it.

[jaeyundazed]

YUP YUP YUP YUP YUP YUP YUP

[motionlessxgirl]

Could you do a fic abt reader get her wisdom teeth removed?

I’ve had my wisdom teeth removed. Not good haha but here you go!

Wisdom Teeth

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: Reader has wisdom teeth removal surgery

Ilia sat in the sterile waiting room of the oral surgeon’s office, one leg bouncing restlessly against the linoleum floor. His phone rested in his lap, screen dark—he’d tried scrolling through skating videos earlier but couldn’t focus. Every few minutes he glanced at the clock, then at the closed door leading to the recovery area. You had been back there for over an hour now. He knew wisdom teeth removal wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, especially for someone with a low pain tolerance, like his girlfriend, but the nurse had assured him it went smoothly.

He’d cleared his entire afternoon for this. No training, no streams, no sponsor calls. Just you. You’d been nervous that morning, squeezing his hand extra tight before you left the house, and he’d kissed your temple and promised he’d be right there when you woke up. That was Ilia’s thing—he showed up. For everything. Today was no different.

Finally, a nurse in pale blue scrubs poked her head out. “Mr. Malinin? She’s ready.”

He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over a magazine rack. “How is she?”

“Groggy, but doing great. Still a little numb. We gave her the pain meds and instructions. She’ll need soft foods for a few days and lots of rest.”

Ilia nodded, following her down the hallway. The recovery bay smelled like antiseptic and faint cherry flavor from whatever they’d used to rinse mouths. You were sitting up on the edge of a recliner, a white gauze pad pressed gently to one cheek, your hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that had seen better days. Your eyes were half-lidded, a little glassy from the anesthesia, but when they landed on him, your whole face softened.

“Ilia,” you mumbled around the gauze, the words thick and slow.

“Hey, you,” he said softly. He crouched in front of you, hands resting lightly on your knees. “You did so good. Ready to go home?”

You nodded, then winced a little at the movement. One hand reached out clumsily and patted his cheek. “You waited.”

“Of course I waited. Wouldn’t miss it.” He helped you stand, steadying you when you swayed. The nurse handed him a bag with prescriptions, extra gauze, and an ice pack. Ilia thanked her, then slipped an arm around your waist, guiding you toward the exit like you were made of glass.

The drive home was quiet at first. Ilia kept one hand on the wheel and the other reaching across the console to hold yours. The late spring sun filtered through the trees lining the suburbs, casting dappled light across your face. You leaned your head against the window, eyes drifting shut, then fluttering open again.

“Everything feels… fuzzy,” you said after a while, your voice still muffled but clearer now that the gauze was adjusted. “Like my face is someone else’s.”

He chuckled gently. “That’s the medicine. It’ll wear off soon. You’re doing amazing. Proud of you.”

You turned toward him, a small, loopy smile tugging at the unswollen side of your mouth. “You’re warm. Always warm. Like a quad Axel… but cuddly.”

Ilia laughed outright at that, the sound bright in the car. “A cuddly quad Axel? That’s a new one. I’ll take it.”

When he pulled into the driveway, he parked close to the door and came around to help you out. You moved slowly, still a bit unsteady on your feet, so he scooped you up bridal-style without warning. You let out a surprised little huff that turned into a giggle.

“Ilia! I can walk.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to.” He carried you inside easily—years of training had made him strong, but this felt different. Sweeter. He kicked the door shut behind him and headed straight for the couch, where he’d already set up a nest: pillows, blankets, your favorite plushie, and a tray with water, applesauce, and yogurt on the coffee table. The ice packs were ready in the freezer.

He lowered you onto the cushions and tucked the blanket around your legs. “Comfy?”

“Mhm.” You reached for his hand again, not letting go even as he tried to grab the ice pack. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” He sat beside you, gently pressing the wrapped ice pack to your cheek. You sighed in relief, leaning into his touch. Your eyes were clearer now, though still soft with fatigue.

You stayed like that for a while—Ilia alternating ice packs, feeding you tiny spoonfuls of applesauce when you asked, and talking in low, soothing tones about nothing important. He told you about the new program he was workshopping, how the quad Axel had felt extra solid that morning because he’d been thinking about you cheering him on from the boards. You listened, occasionally murmuring responses that were half-slurred but full of affection.

“You’re good at this,” you said after swallowing a sip of water. “Taking care of me. Makes me feel… safe.”

His heart did that familiar flip it always did when you looked at him like that. Ilia brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead and leaned down to press a feather-light kiss just above your eyebrow, careful not to jostle you. “That’s because I love you.”

You smiled, a little lopsided from the swelling. “Love you too. Even when my face is puffy like a… like a snowman.”

“Cutest snowman I’ve ever seen.” He grinned, then stood up briefly to grab the prescriptions and a fresh gauze. When he returned, you had shifted to make room for him on the couch, patting the spot beside you insistently.

“Movie?” You asked.

“Whatever you want. Something gentle—no loud noises.” He queued up one of your comfort films, a light animated one you had watched a dozen times during travel days between Ilia’s competitions. As the opening credits rolled, he stretched out and pulled you carefully against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other resting lightly on your waist under the blanket.

“Thank you for today. For everything.”

He kissed the top of your head, breathing in the faint scent of your shampoo mixed with the clinical smell still clinging to your skin. “Always. Get some rest. I’ll be right here when you wake up. Maybe I’ll even make that mashed potato soup you like—extra smooth, no chewing required.”

Your breathing evened out, your body relaxing fully against him. Ilia kept the volume low on the TV, one hand gently stroking your back in slow, rhythmic patterns. Outside, the afternoon light shifted to golden hour, painting the living room in warm tones.

As the evening settled in, the house quiet except for the soft hum of the movie and your breathing, Ilia stayed exactly where he was—holding you close, ready for whatever came next. Puffy cheeks, fuzzy words, and all. This was love: showing up, staying close, and turning the ordinary (even the slightly painful) into something warm and unbreakable.

[jaeyundazed]

🥹🥹🥹🥹 babies

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

request.

High school flirt…

Ilia had a problem.

Actually, according to everyone around him, he was the problem.

Specifically, his inability to stop flirting with his girlfriend.

“Malinin.”

Ilia looked up from where he’d been doodling on his notebook.

Their history teacher sighed. “Would you like to share with the class?”

“Nope.”

A few snickers echoed through the room.

His girlfriend, sitting beside him, nudged his knee under the desk.

Behave.

At least that was what the look on her face said.

Ilia grinned.

He leaned over until his shoulder brushed hers.

“You look pretty today.”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the teacher.

“Thank you.”

“You look pretty every day.”

“Ilia.”

“But especially today.”

She bit back a smile.

The worst part was that he sounded completely sincere.

Because he was.

He spent half his life staring at her.

During lunch he’d come up behind her and kiss her neck. Sometimes he’d hint at skipping lunch and having “study time” instead.

During class he’d whisper “when that bell rings your mine.” and her face would burn red.

At football games. He’d whisper jokes in her ear just to make her laugh.

During movie nights…they never actually watched a movie. Unless the opening and ending credits count.

Sometimes he’d look at her and genuinely forget what he was supposed to be doing.

Like now.

His gaze drifted over her face.

The sunlight from the classroom window hit her hair.

She caught him staring.

Again.

“Pay attention.”

“Oh, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.”

“The teacher is talking.”

“I know.”

“What did he just say?”

Ilia paused.

“…something about the Civil War?”

She laughed.

His heart practically stopped.

God.

That laugh.

He leaned closer.

“You know, I think your laugh is my favorite sound.”

Her face immediately turned pink.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The blush.”

She shoved his shoulder.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” he whispered.

She blushed 10x harder.

He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

Movie nights were somehow worse.

Depending on who you asked.

His friends had long since stopped pretending they could get through a movie without the two of them being ridiculous.

Halfway through a horror movie, his girlfriend was curled into him beneath a blanket.

The movie was supposedly terrifying.

Ilia had no idea.

Because he was busy watching her.

“You’re not even looking at the screen.”

She glanced up.

Neither was he.

He smiled.

“You’re pretty.”

“That’s such a bad line.”

“It worked though.”

Her eyes rolled.

He kissed her cheek.

Then her jaw.

Then the corner of her mouth.

“You are impossible.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Unfortunately.”

He kissed her again.

This time properly.

The kind that made her forget what she was about to say.

The kind that made his friends groan from across the room.

“Ew.”

“Get a room.”

“Movie’s still playing, guys.”

Neither of them cared.

Senior year only made things worse.

They’d been together long enough that everyone expected them to act normal.

They never did.

One afternoon she was studying at the library when Ilia dropped into the chair beside her.

“You’ve been staring at that page for ten minutes.”

“I’m studying.”

“You look stressed.”

“I have exams.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I know something that would make you feel better.”

She immediately knew where this was going.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I was gonna say a kiss.”

She pointed at her textbook.

“Study.”

He leaned over anyway.

“One kiss.”

“No.”

“Half a kiss?”

“How does that even work?”

His grin widened.

“Let’s find out.” he said with a smirk.

She turned bright rest, but then she laughed.

And five minutes later she was kissing him anyway.

Which he considered a victory.

Years passed.

Graduation happened.

Competitions happened.

Life happened.

But some things never changed.

Like Ilia flirting with her every chance he got.

Or finding excuses to touch her.

Or looking at her like she’d personally hung the stars.

One evening, years later, she walked into their apartment after work.

“Ilia?”

“In here.”

She followed his voice into the kitchen.

He was standing by the counter making dinner.

Older now.

Taller somehow.

Still annoyingly handsome.

He looked up.

Immediately smiled.

The exact same smile from high school.

“Hey, beautiful.”

She laughed.

“You still use that line….”

“It still works.”

“It absolutely does not.”

He walked over.

Wrapped his arms around her waist.

Pulled her against him.

“You sure?”

His voice dropped lower.

The familiar teasing tone that had been making her blush since she was sixteen.

She hated how effective it remained.

“Maybe a little.”

“A little?”

He kissed her blushing cheeks.

Then her lips.

Slow and familiar.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because after all these years, I’d be concerned if I suddenly lost my talent.”

She laughed.

He smiled.

There it was.

His favorite sound.

Still.

After all this time.

And looking at her standing in their kitchen, sunlight spilling through the apartment windows, his arms around her waist and her smile directed entirely at him…

Ilia decided he was still every bit as hopelessly in love as that high school kid whispering compliments during history class. The Only difference? He got to spend the nights with her now too…

[motionlessxgirl]

Do you write smut? If so….

Would love a bangin piece about ilia’s athlete stamina. Like he is just on go and will hold you up against a wall for hours and it’s just like good? :)

Stamina

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Ilia had just come off the ice from a grueling private session—quads clean, landings sharp, that signature explosive power still humming through every muscle like live current. The rink was empty except for the two of you now, the cool air thick with the scent of fresh ice and his sweat. You watched from the boards, cheeks flushed under your beanie, your own practice leggings clinging to your thighs. You’d been teasing him all afternoon with little glances and that bratty lilt in your voice: “Quad God… you think you can keep up with me later?”

He didn’t answer with words. The second the doors clicked shut behind the last staff member, Ilia crossed the distance in three strides, scooped you up like you weighed nothing, and pinned your back against the padded wall of the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, ankles locking at the small of his back.

“Ilia—fuck—” you gasped, but he swallowed it with a deep, hungry kiss, tongue stroking yours like he was still chasing that perfect rhythm on the ice.

“You wanted stamina talk, hm?” His voice was low, rough, breath hot against your ear as he ground his hips forward. He was already rock-hard, the thick outline of his cock pressing insistently through his compression pants against your core. “Figure skaters don’t gas out. We train for four-minute programs that feel like war. Quads. Explosive power. And right now? I’m just getting started.”

He shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough tug, not even bothering to strip fully. His own pants got yanked low enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip from the adrenaline. One hand gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, while the other braced against the wall beside your head. Then he thrust up into you in a single, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, nails raking down his shoulders through his damp shirt. The stretch was perfect—almost too much, the way he filled you completely, pressing right against that spot that made your vision spark. “Uggh, you’re so deep like this…”

Ilia didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving—deep, powerful rolls of his hips that lifted you higher up the wall with every thrust. No shallow bullshit. Full, punishing strokes that made your breasts bounce under your bra and your breath hitch into broken moans. His quads and glutes—those insane athlete muscles built from years of explosive jumps—did all the work, holding your entire weight like it was nothing. Sweat slicked his forehead, hair sticking to it, but his rhythm never faltered.

Minutes passed. Five. Ten. He fucked you like a machine, steady and brutal, the wet slap of skin echoing down the empty hallway. Every time you clenched around him, thighs trembling, he’d just growl and adjust his grip—spreading you wider, angling deeper. “That’s it, baby. Take it. I could do this for hours. Hold you right here until you’re dripping down my thighs and begging.”

Your head fell back against the wall with a thud, eyes glassy. You were already close, the angle hitting everything perfectly, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every upstroke. “Ilia—harder—”

He gave it to you. One arm hooked under your knee, spreading you obscenely as he pounded up into you. His free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your swollen clit with merciless precision while his cock drove in and out, glistening with your arousal. You came hard the first time—shaking, clenching around him like a vice, a sharp curse word spilling from your lips—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.

“First one,” he panted against your neck, biting down just hard enough to mark you. “Give me another.”

He shifted you higher, changing the angle so he dragged against your front wall with every thrust. The stamina was unreal—his breathing controlled like he was mid-program, heart rate steady, those powerful legs never shaking. Sweat poured down his back, muscles burning in the best way, but Ilia thrived in the burn. He’d trained through worse. This? This was a reward.

You came again, louder this time, soaking his cock and the front of his pants. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard as you sobbed his name. Still, he kept going—long, dragging strokes now, savoring the way you fluttered and pulsed around him. He kissed you through it, messy and tender at the same time, murmuring praise between thrusts. “So fucking perfect for me. My strong girl. Look at you, taking everything I give…”

Twenty minutes in and he finally let himself chase it. He pinned you completely, chest to chest, hips snapping up in short, devastating thrusts that hit so deep you swore you felt him in your stomach. “Gonna fill you up, honey Right here against the wall like you deserve.”

With a loud groan, Ilia came hard—cock pulsing thick ropes deep inside you, hips grinding through every wave until he was spent. But even then, he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, holding you suspended, kissing you slow and deep while your hearts hammered together.

“See?” he murmured, lips brushing yours, a cocky little smirk breaking through the haze. “Athlete stamina. We’re not done yet. Locker room next. Then the car. Then home, where I’m bending you over the kitchen counter until sunrise.”

You laughed breathlessly, thighs still quivering around him. “Quad God never quits, huh?”

He kissed you again, already half-hard inside you again, ready for round two. Because for Ilia Malinin, the program was never truly over until he’d given everything—and then some.

[jaeyundazed]

hi guys i’m still alive

i’ve been working on a 3-part series & i’ve already surpassed 30k on it so look out for that soon

be patient w me pls im cooking over here..

[philoph4bic]

Heat Of The Moment ⚽️

(Footballer!Ilia Malinin x Referee!Reader)

summary: Ilia Malinin is a referee’s worst nightmare: charming when it serves him, but cocky and impulsive the moment things don't go his way. It’s impossible not to harbor a prejudice against a player like him—especially when you’re assigned to official his high-stakes away match. But in the heat of the moment, things get a little too intense on the pitch... and the fury might just continue off it.

word count: 5,5k

author’s note: and the surprise fic drop! with world cup around, I had to do this.. 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! this one-shot contains sexual content, MDNI!

taglist: @scuderiapng @prettyraspberry @iliasleftcontact @amori1i @sinistersnakey

masterlist

Usually, sleep finds you easily.

It comes almost the moment you slip into the soft sheets and your head hits the pillow—dreams sometimes pleasant, sometimes scary, sometimes nonexistent, but nevertheless, it comes. It is entirely unlike you to be tossing and turning in your sheets at 3 AM, unable to find a comfortable position, especially when you have a match to referee tomorrow.

It wasn't even supposed to happen. You were called up as an assistant referee for the Chelsea vs. Manchester United game. But the evening before the match, right after you had checked into the hotel and gone down to the restaurant to enjoy a late dinner with your colleagues, the main referee left the table early. A few hours later, he was admitted to the hospital, the exact reason remaining slightly unclear to you.

Maybe they thought you deserved a shot. Maybe they wanted to make headlines with the unusual choice of giving a young female referee a high-stakes Premier League game. Or maybe they just didn't have another option. Whatever the reasons, they chose you to referee the match, leaving a heavy mixture of both excitement and terror settled deep in your chest.

You've refereed hundreds of matches before, having received your certificate when you were still a teenager, but this occasion is completely different. It's almost the end of the season, and both teams are ruthlessly fighting for the final points needed to secure a top-four spot for the Champions League. The tension is almost visible in the damp London air. Your mind races with every possible scenario the match could take, weighing every decision and opportunity.

Somewhere in the middle of those thoughts, you finally fall asleep. But your mind never truly lets you rest, forcing you to blow your whistle in a dream while a crowd of angry players swarms around you, suffocating you in the dark.

"Are you nervous?"

"No," you lie, giving Oscar a tight smile. He nudges your shoulder in encouragement, his smile warm and bright, completely unlike yours.

Both teams line up behind you in parallel rows. Some of the players are whispering, but most are dead silent, bouncing on their toes, nervously shifting, and breathing annoyingly loudly in the confined space. Your grip tightens on the match ball, your palms uncharacteristically sweaty.

Then, it's time. You lead the march out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, flanked by your assistant referees, with both teams trailing behind you as the stadium erupts into a deafening roar. Everyone lines up facing the main grandstand while the Premier League anthem plays over the loudspeakers, the television cameras gliding past to capture their focused faces one by one. You fight to keep your cool, keeping your chin up and maintaining a professional posture as the away team begins to walk down the line for the fair play handshakes.

You offer polite, tight nods to the passing players, but the moment his hand touches yours, a sudden jolt runs through you. The atmospheric pressure in the stadium seems to shift. He takes a second longer than the others, his grip lingering just enough to be intentional, his calloused palm warm against your skin. He looks at you with an intense, unreadable expression, his piercing blue eyes locked onto yours as the corner of his mouth lifts into a subtle, knowing smirk. It's a look that says he knows exactly who you are—and that he knows you weren't supposed to be holding the whistle today.

Ilia Malinin is the type of player who commands equal parts adoration and hatred. Fans love him for his aggressive style and exceptional, game-changing skills; rivals hate him for the exact same reasons. To match officials, he is an absolute nightmare. He is a player who always demands to get his way, entirely unaccustomed to being told "no." Whether he's attempting to charm his way out of a yellow card with a flashy smile or running a big mouth to fiercely defend a dive, he is constantly pushing boundaries, testing patience, and trying to provoke a reaction out of everyone around him. You had spent the entire night mentally preparing yourself for his inevitable whining, theatrics, and pretenses, repeatedly reminding yourself not to let him get under your skin.

His arrogant persona seems to grow more formidable every year, and it certainly doesn't help that he has the looks to match. He is undeniably attractive, a fact the media loves to exploit. His blonde hair and blue eyes give him an almost ethereal appearance when he jogs across the pitch, damp strands sticking to his forehead, his expression perpetually cocky and his lips parted as he breathes heavily. He carries himself like he owns the stadium, and you can already feel the exhausting weight of having to keep him in line for the next ninety minutes.

You forcefully push the thoughts away, stepping into the center circle and calling over the two captains, Bruno Fernandes and Reece James. You briefly introduce yourself and flip the coin, the two men staring each other down with intense focus. Bruno wins the toss, choosing which side of the pitch United wants to defend first.

With the formalities concluded, your assistants sprint to their respective touchlines, and the Fourth Official heads toward the benches. Standing alone in the dead center of the pitch, you check your watch one last time, glance up to ensure the broadcasters are ready, and raise the whistle to your lips.

You blow a sharp, loud blast. The game has started.

For the first twenty minutes, the match is a tactical chess game. You run diagonal sprints across the pitch, positioning yourself close enough to see the ball but far enough to stay out of their lanes. Every few seconds, you glance at your assistant on the touchline, ensuring your positioning stays synchronized.

Then, the first real test comes.

The match is barely fifteen minutes in when a Chelsea midfielder and one of Ilia's teammates collide heavily while chasing a ball. To the stadium, it looks like a simple crash, but from your angle, you see the United player pull down the Chelsea midfielder by his jersey.

You blow a sharp blast on your whistle, pointing the other way to award Chelsea a free kick.

The home crowd cheers, but the decision doesn't please everyone. From the corner of your eye, you see someone jogging over to you, catching the flash of his blonde hair when he gets close. His breath is even, a frustratingly calm smile playing on his face.

He stops right in your space, the faint scent of his perfume lingering around you. A few damp strands of blonde hair stick to his forehead, his blue eyes gleaming with pure amusement as he looks at you.

"Ref, come on," he says, his voice smooth, almost innocent. "They just ran into each other. There's no way that's a foul on us."

"Martínez grabbed the jersey, Malinin. It's a foul. Move back," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional as you try to walk past him to position yourself for the free kick.

He lets out a soft, almost mocking chuckle, effortlessly jogging backward right alongside you so you can't ignore him. You have a feeling he won't leave you alone. "A jersey tug? Really?"

"Are you questioning my decision, Malinin?" you ask, stopping dead in your tracks.

"Me?" he chuckles, flashing you his white teeth. A sharp spike of irritation hits your chest. His overly familiar, casual attitude is maddening. "Never—"

"Drop the commentary and get back into position before I give you a yellow card," you cut him off, giving him a warning look, your tone matching the expression. "Now."

He raises his hands in mock surrender, the corner of his mouth twitching into an arrogant smirk. He holds your gaze for an extra second, clearly thrilled that he managed to get a reaction out of you, before finally turning around to chase the play.

The match is intense, but you can already feel the underlying pressure that always carries a quiet dread—the fear that the moment a tough call goes against them, the players will stop seeing you as a professional official and start seeing you as a woman they can intimidate.

A few minutes later, a heavy tackle in the midfield breaks the play. A Chelsea defender, known for his aggressive attitude, storms up to you when you don't pull out a yellow card for United.

"Are you even watching the same game?" he spits, waving his hand aggressively right in front of your face. "Come on, open your eyes. This isn't a charity match, love."

The word love hits you like a slap. Your blood runs cold, a familiar spike of rage tightening your chest. He would never say that to a male referee. He's trying to diminish your authority, trying to make you feel small. Before you can even open your mouth to flash a yellow card for the blatant disrespect, a shadow falls over both of you.

It's Ilia, somehow always managing to be in your space every time the game stops for a reason.

Ilia steps right into the space between you and the Chelsea defender, his frame completely blocking him from you. He doesn't look angry; instead, that familiar, irritatingly calm smirk is plastered across his face.

"What did you just call her?" Ilia asks, his voice dangerously smooth as he pokes a firm finger directly into the defender's chest.

"Get lost, blondie, this has nothing to do with—"

"I think it does," Ilia cuts him off, poking him again, harder this time, deliberately trying to provoke him. "You're crying about a tackle because you're too slow to keep up with it. Are you getting outpaced? Is that why you're throwing a tantrum like a child?"

The defender’s face flushes with fury as he steps up to Ilia, shoving him back. Before the confrontation can spiral into a full physical fight, teammates from both sides instantly swarm the area. A couple of Chelsea players quickly grab their defender by the jersey, pulling him back as he keeps shouting, while Fernandes and Mount haul Ilia away by his shoulders, forcing him out of the huddle.

You stride over to the Chelsea player who is still being held back by his teammates and flash a yellow card directly into his face. Once he's dealt with, you turn your sharp gaze onto Ilia, who is leaning back against a restraining arm, entirely unfazed.

"Go back to your position, Malinin."

"Yes, ma'am."

He catches your eye for a brief second as if to say you're welcome, before finally shaking off his teammate to jog back into position. Your chest heaves as you watch him go, a knot forming in your stomach that you desperately ignore.

The second half is barely five minutes old when the stadium erupts.

A teammate passes the ball perfectly across the grass, cutting right through the Chelsea defense. Ilia sprints out of nowhere, catching the ball on the run. His leg whips through the air, and the ball slams directly into the back of the net.

It's a goal.

The stadium goes wild. Ilia turns around, sliding on his knees across the grass, his arms wide open as his teammates crash into him to celebrate. The arrogant expression dances on his face, his smile wide and impossible.

You don't react yet. Through your earpiece, your assistant’s voice is sharp and immediate: "He started running too early. He was offside. Call it off."

You don't hesitate. You blow a loud blast on your whistle and wave your arms across your body. The goal is canceled.

The roar of celebration instantly shifts into a wave of furious boos from the Manchester United fans. Within seconds, a sea of red jerseys swarms you. Five, six, seven players surround you in a tight circle, waving their hands and yelling over one another, a mixture of desperation and disbelief on their faces as they try to get you to change your mind.

You stand strong on your ground, refusing to let them crowd you, using sharp hand gestures to push them away from your space. You're yelling at them to back off, and then Ilia finally breaks through the crowd. He is breathing heavily from the sprint, damp blonde strands of hair sticking to his forehead, but he doesn't join the screaming. Instead, he blocks out the rest of the circle, extending his hand to touch your shoulder in a way that's supposed to convince you of his reasoning—but you back off, not letting him touch you. The smooth, playful charm he had earlier is starting to crack under pure frustration.

"Ref, come on," he says, his voice breathless, irritation seeping into it. He stops less than a foot away, his chest heaving. "I timed that perfectly. I was right in line with the defender!"

"You were past the defense before the pass was made," you respond, keeping your voice flat and professional, refusing to waver under his intense stare. "It was offside."

"You've got to be kidding me!"

His voice turns deeply frustrated, but you don't answer him, waiting for the VAR booth to review the footage. He stays right at your elbow, running his mouth, completely unable to let it go. He is convinced of his own reasoning and desperate for the video to prove him right.

"You'll see it on the replay, ref, seriously," Ilia says, his voice low but urgent as he tracks your steps. "The left-back played me on. It was a perfect play. Tell them to look at the frame where the ball is kicked."

"Malinin, stand back and let them do the check," you warn, keeping your eyes away from him, focusing entirely on the audio in your ear.

Finally, the voice in your earpiece speaks: "Confirming the on-field decision. The attacker's shoulder was offside. No goal."

You drop your hand from your ear and blow a sharp whistle, waving your arms across your body to officially disallow the goal.

"The decision stands. Offside," you declare.

The news hits him like a physical blow. His frustration boils over, his eyebrows drawing together, his blue eyes turning almost dark as he refuses to accept it. "No way! That's impossible!" he snaps, shaking his head in disbelief and stepping right back into your space. "Is this a joke?! You guys are literally throwing our momentum away on a bad guess!"

"The check is complete, Ilia," you say, his name slipping past your lips before you can stop it. You can't help but match the rising volume of his voice. "There are professional officials in the booth reviewing every single angle with millimeter accuracy. It's not a guess, it's a fact. Now move."

"That's bullshit!"

"Watch your mouth!" you fire back instantly, your voice sharp and cutting.

Before the confrontation can boil over any further, Fernandes quickly steps between the two of you. He puts a heavy, firm hand on Ilia’s chest, pushing him a couple of steps back. He turns to you with his hands raised, his voice almost apologetic. "Sorry, ref. He’s just frustrated."

"Keep your players under control."

"Yes."

You turn on your heel, walking away toward the center circle to let Chelsea take their free kick, but Ilia isn't done. Even with his captain right in front of him, he just can't leave it alone. Behind your back, his voice carries clearly over the stadium noise, laced with bitterness.

"Unbelievable," Ilia mutters loudly to his teammate, spitting out the next words. "Ruining the whole match because they don't know how to do their fucking job. It’s an absolute joke."

You stop dead in your tracks, the anger boiling within you. You don't even turn around first; your hand goes straight to your breast pocket, your fingers locking onto the smooth plastic. You whip out the yellow card, striding right past the captain and flashing it directly in Ilia's face.

The captain lets out a heavy sigh, throwing his hands up, but Ilia stops dead. His eyes snap to the yellow card. For a split second, the anger in his face freezes, and then a sarcastic chuckle escapes his lips. He shakes his head, looking down at the grass and then back up at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he expected it.

"Play restarts with a free kick for Chelsea," you say, your voice completely unyielding. "Get back to your position."

He shakes his head once again, the bitter amusement gleaming in his blue eyes, before he finally turns around to jog away.

You ignore the boos coming from the United stands, feeling the anger radiating from you at his foolish confidence. What gives him the right to think he knows better than professionals with years of expertise in such things?

The game resumes, more intense than ever as both teams struggle to score. Throughout the remaining match you catch him throwing you looks, his stare almost burning your skin.

Then it happens for the third time.

They are pulling and shoving for position as they chase a long ball. Ilia wins the positioning, but the Chelsea defender lunges, and both of them crash violently into the turf.

It happens right in front of you. You blow your whistle, but instead of pointing toward the Chelsea goal for a United free kick, you point the other way. You've called the foul against Ilia for pulling the defender down first.

Ilia scrambles up from the grass, his face completely flushed, sweat pouring down his skin, his breathing ragged. He storms directly into your space, his expression dark as he loses his composure entirely.

"Are you fucking blind?!"

"Mind your language!"

He almost screams right in your face, his raw rage drawing out the roar of the stadium. "He pulled me down! He was holding my shirt the entire run!"

"You grabbed his shoulder first! Back up right now!" you yell back, matching his volume, your own adrenaline spiking as you refuse to let him intimidate you.

"That's a lie and you know it!" He steps even closer, his hot breath fanning against your face. "You’ve been looking for an excuse to ruin this game for us all night! You're incompetent!"

"I'm incompetent?!" You finally lose your cool, the professionalism you learned to carry yourself with vanishing completely under his intense stare. "You keep whining about the whole match instead of actually doing your job on the pitch!"

"Oh, like you do yours?!" he lets out a harsh laugh, shaking his head like he can't believe it. "You sure you're here refereeing like you're supposed to?! You're just favoring them over us for the whole match!"

"Back off right now! I'm warning you for the last time!"

"I won't back off! It's a pathetic call and a pathetic—"

You don't let him finish. In one sharp, explosive motion, you rip the straight red card from your back pocket and thrust it high into the air, right between his eyes.

"Get off the pitch! You're done!" you shout, your voice ringing with unyielding authority.

Ilia stops instantly, his sentence cut short. He stares at the red card, his chest heaving up and down. For a second, his fists clench at his sides, his jaw tightens so hard the veins in his neck bulge, and he looks like he might actually explode right there on the grass.

But then, the rage suddenly drains out of him.

Something shifts in his eyes. It’s as if something inside him completely breaks. This match meant everything to him, the season was on the line, and his own temper just threw it all away. He looks down at you, his lips slightly parted, his blue eyes suddenly looking completely defeated.

He doesn't say another word. He just turns around slowly, his shoulders slumping as he begins the long, lonely walk off the pitch toward the tunnel.

Standing in the center circle with the red card still tight in your grip, you watch him. The heavy adrenaline in your chest suddenly sours. For a fleeting second, you feel a twinge of guilt creeping into you—but you quickly push it away, focusing entirely on the game ahead of you.

The match ended exactly the way you feared it would.

Facing ten men, Chelsea finally broke through Manchester United’s defense in the 87th minute, slotting home a goal. The moment you blew the final whistle, relief washed over you, the exhaustion of the past two hours consuming you as you exited off the pitch.

You couldn't stop thinking about him on the way back to the hotel, not even when you'd showered and changed, not even when you replayed the moments on your laptop, once again making sure it wasn't you who did anything wrong.

It was his fault; he kept running his mouth despite warning him a thousand times. Another referee would have booted him off the pitch way earlier than you did—that's what you kept telling yourself. You had been patient. You had done your job.

It is late evening when you hear a knock on the door. You slide down from the bed to open it and let the visitor in, presuming it’s Oscar, who often plays card games with you whenever you two are assigned together.

You open the door, a smile stretched on your face, but the moment your eyes meet his, your expression falls. Your eyebrows draw together as you look at him with wide eyes.

"What are you doing here?!"

Ilia pushes right past you, brushing your shoulder as if he hadn't even heard you speak. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him with a loud thud. You look at him with a shocked expression, almost amazed at his audacity, the words lost in your mouth.

He is wearing a black hoodie, the gray sweatpants hanging from his hips. His blonde hair is damp, his expression still as stubborn as it was a few hours earlier on the pitch.

"You can't just barge into my room! This is unacceptable!"

"Why? Because it's unprofessional?" he mocks, letting out a bitter snort at your reaction. "Just like the way you refereed our high-stakes game, right?"

"You have the audacity to come here and scream in my face after what you did?!"

"You booted me off the pitch!" he spits out, his voice raising. "You gave me a straight red card when you know exactly how much the team needs me. The season is literally ending, and you threw me out!"

"You received exactly what you deserved! I gave you a red card because you were acting like the asshole you are!" You point a trembling, furious finger toward the door, signaling him to leave. He doesn’t even blink. Infuriated by his stillness, you bring your hands up, slapping them against his broad chest to physically shove him away.

He doesn’t move an inch. He stands there like a wall, absorbing the impact as his jaw tightens.

"Blame it on your own pathetic temper!" you yell, your breathing turning ragged. "Leave right now, or I swear—"

"You swear what, huh?" he challenges you, taking a step toward you, his eyes almost sparkling as he tries to break your composure. "The little authority you had was left right back on the pitch, ref."

He drags out the last word, dripping it in mockery, reducing your entire career and the whistle around your neck to a joke.

Rage surges through your veins, making your throat go dry. Your hands curl into tight fists at your sides, your chest heaving as you glare at him. You are closer now than you had been on the pitch—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the scent of his cologne

"Get out," you whisper, your voice shaking with an anger that is rapidly blurring into something suffocating. "I mean it, Ilia."

"Make me," he mutters, his voice dropping breathless. He doesn’t back down; instead, he leans into your space, his jaw tight as his eyes drift down to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. "You love being in charge, don't you? You loved pulling those cards out. You loved ruining my night."

"You ruined it yourself because you wouldn't shut your mouth!" you yell back, your hands flying up to grab the fabric of his hoodie, intending to push him toward the door.

But he catches your wrists in a tight grip. He doesn’t pull away—he steps even closer, pressing his chest right against yours, his hot breath fanning against your face as his voice lowers.

"I was onside. It wasn't a foul."

"You're delusional."

"And you're a liar."

"You're insane!" you fire back, your voice cracking with irritation. "A bitter loser who keeps crying just because he lost!"

"Shut up!"

"Make me," you said, mimicking his own words from earlier. A breathless chuckle escapes your throat, but the laughter dies instantly because he leans in, crashing his mouth into yours and knocking the breath right out of your lungs.

You push at his chest at first, your mind screaming at you to pull away, but then the moment gets to you. That familiar, heavy feeling flares in your stomach—the exact one you had desperately tried to ignore every single time he stood in your proximity on the pitch, and just seconds ago when he was screaming into your face.

He abruptly stops, pulling back just an inch as if to search your face for a reaction. But you don’t move. Your expression is completely dazed, almost drunk on the sheer rush of him. Satisfied, he leans right back in, kissing you even more forcefully as he nudges you backward toward the bed. Your legs blindly follow his lead until the back of your knees hit the frame, the mattress dipping beneath you as you sink down onto the sheets, his heavy weight immediately following you down.

He takes off your t-shirt in one fluid motion, then rips his hoodie over his head to reveal the toned chest you’d seen hundreds of times online. But now he is actually here, looming over you in the dim light of your room. His large hands roam hungrily over your body, sliding down to pull your panties down your legs.

He pauses for a fraction of a second, a dark, breathless smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth as he looks down at you.

"Don't got anything more to say, ref?"

"Shut the fuck up, Malinin."

"Gladly." he mumbles against your lips.

You wrap your legs around his waist, feeling his bare chest onto yours, the hardness pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. His mouth is warm against yours, sucking your bottom lip, his tongue swirling around yours. His hands slip upward, cupping your breasts, and a soft moan escapes your throat when he pulls his mouth away. He trails wet, deliberate kisses down your neck and chest, his fingertips brushing over the hardened buds in an almost agonizingly slow way. He's teasing you, his eyes almost dark as they sweep over your face, his lips wet and red, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"You're awfully quiet, ref."

"I thought we agreed on that you'd shut up."

"I don't have a condom."

"Is your timing just the same as it is on the pitch?" you tease him, a mocking chuckle escaping your throat as his jaw tightens for a second. You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking up at him through your lashes. "Not so great, I mean."

"Are you willing to let me show you?"

"Are you willing to finish what we've started, or are you gonna keep running your mouth again?"

That seems to push him. He gets off the bed, pulling down his sweatpants and underwear as you stare at him unashamedly, a familiar feeling burning deep inside your core, your mouth watering at the sight. He looks ethereal, the sight so beautiful that your chest physically tightens. He seems to notice the reaction he elicits from you, a knowing smile stretching on his face as he hooks his fingers around your ankle, yanking you down to his level.

Without a single word he sinks into you and a gasp leaves your mouth, his ragged breath fanning over your ear, a shiver running down your spine. He keeps thrusting into you even before you can catch a breath, setting a pace that makes you close your eyes, unashamed moans tearing through you as his hips snap into yours. You dig your fingers into his back, keeping your eyes shut as he presses his head into your shoulder, sucking on your collarbone. You know the marks will form, ugly bruises you won't be able to cover entirely, but you can't bring yourself to open your mouth and stop him, not when it feels so good, not when your body is completely undoing beneath his, craving his touch desperately.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you clench around him. His head snaps backward as he curses out, ragged breaths escaping his throat. You feel tears pricking your eyes, the intensity of it slowly washing over you as you mumble out the words incoherently.

"Turn me over."

"What?" He seems to not hear you the first time, his brows slightly furrowed as he stops for a fraction of a second, his gaze carrying a worry you weren't expecting from him. You swallow, repeating the same words as you bite back a moan. "Why?"

"So I don't have to look at you," you choke out, a soft chuckle escaping his throat at your stubbornness.

He does what you ask him to, flipping you over with a single movement as you clutch your hands into the sheets, arching your back instinctively as his sweat-slicked chest presses flush against your spine. He digs his fingers into your hips, his mouth hot against your shoulder as he curses out, the words barely registering to you as the tears quietly stream down your face, the intensity making you breathless, almost unable to take it anymore.

Then, you feel his damp fingertips on your jaw. He tilts your chin, forcing you to look up. Suddenly you catch a reflection of yourself in the mirror through your blurry vision—your hair in disarray, your mouth agape.

"Look at yourself, ref." His voice is low, sending shivers down your spine. His blonde hair is a mess, his face flushed with heat, his lips red and wet. "Look how pretty you look beneath me."

You reach behind, pulling his hair back as a moan escapes his throat, slowly losing that rhythm as the climax approaches. The knot in your stomach tightens and then you feel a familiar feeling washing over you, burying your head down in the sheets as you softly curse out.

He keeps his promise. You watch him over your shoulder as he pulls out, his chest heaving up and down as he hunches back on his knees, wiping the sweat that coats his forehead. Your limbs are spent, useless, but you manage to roll onto your back, tilting on your elbows so you can properly look at him, memorizing the sight so you can imagine it over and over vividly.

Then he does what you don't expect him to. He slowly reaches out, his fingers gently brushing the tears away from your face. His expression is soft, a lazy smile stretched across his face, his gaze dropping to your lips once again before he looks at you.

"I didn't know you could be so vocal, ref."

"Shut up."

You roll your eyes, leaning in to kiss him once again because you can't get enough of him. He slowly pushes you down on the bed, his movements unhurried unlike the minutes before. He presses his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss, before trailing them down to your jaw, placing gentle kisses over the sensitive skin of your neck. He lingers over the fresh marks he left on your collarbone, his tongue soothing the bruises in a way that makes your chest tighten for an entirely different reason.

He rests his head on your chest, his breathing rising and falling heavily against yours as you instinctively slip your fingers into his hair.

"Where do you live?" he murmurs, his fingers tracing a line down your arm.

"London," you reply quietly, your voice a little breathless.

He shifts slightly, lifting his head to look down at you. His usual arrogant smirk is completely gone, replaced by a soft expression as he holds your gaze.

"I'm free this weekend," he says, his voice casual but his eyes searching yours intently, the meaning behind his words obvious.

"Is that so, Malinin?" you whisper, a lazy smile stretching across your face, mimicking his. "So am I."

He chuckles, burying his head down in your neck as his grip on your waist tightens. You stare up at the ceiling, completely unable to conceal the smile that refuses to leave your face.

[jaeyundazed]

CINEMA

[philoph4bic]

Cruel Summer ☀️

[Chapter 2]

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: 6,3k

author’s note: just dropping this without further comment..! 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!

taglist: @scuderiapng @sinistersnakey @amori1i @jmgrule @prettyraspberry @tiramisutin

dividers by: @pxrce-lain

masterlist

You’re the first one to wake up in the morning. Jace is snoring on the couch, Max and Jack squeezed together on the other side of it. You wonder where he is, glancing at the hallway to check whether his shoes are there or not, but it’s impossible to tell. All of the four pairs of trainers are the exact same type that guys with no fashion taste usually wear, scattered messily across the floor with a few of them flipped upside down like they just kicked them off the second they stumbled through the door. Someone must’ve left early—either Josh or Ilia. You don’t bother fixing them; you don’t lift a single finger to tidy up anything around the house today. Instead, you go through your usual morning routine and lock the front door behind you, slamming it a bit harsher than necessary in hopes of waking at least one of them up. The raw hurt and disrespect from last night are lingering, settling into your chest even heavier than yesterday.

Due to a deeply warped rear wheel rim—the metal frame having bent into a useless "S" shape after you hit a brutal pothole a few days ago—and the incredibly slow service of the local repair shop, you’re forced to walk to the cafe instead of cycling. Your prized vintage sage green Electra cruiser bike, with its thick cream-colored tires, had to be left at the mechanic for five whole days while they wait for matching parts to arrive.

The confectioner has already arrived an hour before you, the fresh, comforting smell of warm cinnamon buns hitting your nose the exact second you step inside the cafe.

The day moves painfully slow. You spend the hours taking orders, decorating buns, trying out new latte art techniques, and thinking about last night for the thousandth time. Despite the years of hearing him shyly gushing over his school crushes, despite the fact that he had a girlfriend for almost two years, and despite the years of him never showing a single shred of romantic interest in you, you always had this small, stubborn spark of hope. You always believed that some day, one day, he’d finally look at you differently.

But his comment last night—the careless, easy way he brushed you off to his friends like you were never even an option—finally broke something inside you.

Maybe it was the exact wake-up call you actually needed. It was time to get over this pathetic teenage infatuation that you had labeled as something greater just because you liked the idea of being in love. You needed to move on, completely and permanently, instead of dwelling on some guy who didn’t even acknowledge you as a girl.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey,” you hear his voice through the speaker, the tiredness heavy in his tone. “I’m at the airport. Just waiting for Jace.”

“How was the flight?”

“Average. I didn’t like their sandwich. You make better ones.”

You chuckle, a soft smile stretching across your face as you pull your clothes out of the locker, ready to change out after a long, boring afternoon. “I just finished my shift. I’ll make them for you when you get home.”

“No, don’t bother. I’m not hungry, just rest.”

“Have you talked to Jace today?”

“Yes, why?”

“Well, he was pretty hammered last night,” you shrug, not exactly proud to tell on your brother, but unable to completely harbor the lingering resentment over last night—over him for bringing those guys home in the first place. “Just wanted to make sure he was actually awake this time to come and get you.”

“Did he throw a party again?”

“Haha, no,” you laugh, mentally recalling when you had successfully talked him out of it by bringing up the strict threats your dad had made throughout the years whenever Jace acted irresponsible. “Okay, I gotta go change. I’ll see you later.”

“See you later. Love you, kid.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hang up, locking the locker door behind you. Wriggling out of the staff t-shirt—which is a size too small for you—takes a bit of effort, leaving your breath slightly uneven. By the time you’re changed into your regular clothes, you wave goodbye to the rest of the staff, their almost envious stares following you out because you finally get to go home.

Busy scrolling through your playlist to choose a song for the walk, you don’t see him at first. Not until you look up from the screen to push through the glass exit door, almost colliding straight into his chest.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Your voice is almost confused. You furrow your brows, quickly taking in the sudden, unexpected sight of him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was nearby. Thought I could swing by.”

“Yeah, I think they still have some buns left.” Your voice is flat and dismissive, practically blowing him off as you slide right past him through the door.

He calls out your name before following you onto the sunlit pavement, placing his palm gently on your shoulder to stop you in your tracks.

“I’m not here for the buns, obviously,” he laughs, his teeth on display. No matter how furious you are, no matter how desperately you stare at his face trying to find some flaw—some pathetic attempt to start forcing yourself to forget about him—all you can think of is how pretty his eyes look in the daylight.

“Did you finish your shift?” he asks.

“Obviously...?”

“Where’s your bike?”

“At the repair shop.”

“Oh, what happened to it?” His brows draw together, shielding his eyes from the harsh sun that’s hitting him directly in the face, making his skin almost glow. “Wait, you’re walking home?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m going home too. Let’s go.”

He subtly wraps an arm around your shoulder, leading you toward his parked car like it’s not even up for discussion. You want to protest, desperately trying to come up with a valid excuse he will actually buy, but your mind goes completely blank. Before you can even open your mouth to argue, you’re already sitting in the passenger seat, buckling your seatbelt.

He must be waiting for you to start the conversation like you usually do. You can feel him repeatedly glancing in your direction as he pulls out into traffic, but you stubbornly keep your eyes pinned to your phone screen, mindlessly scrolling through social media in total silence.

“So…” you hear him start. His voice is a bit more strained than it was minutes ago, almost like he recognizes the heavy tension in the air, acutely aware there’s a reason behind your unusual attitude. “How did you spend last evening?”

“As usual.”

“So, Valorant night?”

“Yes.”

“Cool.”

You almost snort at him, his voice painfully awkward. Subtly glancing at him, you realize he’s nervous; his posture is almost stiff as his fingertips drum on the wheel, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Did you, um… did you enjoy the gaming session?”

“Did you enjoy playing Fuck, Marry, Kill in my living room?”

The words snap out of you before you can stop them. You turn toward him with your full body, the demand in your voice impossible to brush off. You watch his face get hotter, his throat bobbing hard before he looks at you with an apologetic expression, sighing like you’ve just confirmed one of his worst fears.

“You heard?”

“The part where you all discussed girls like a piece of meat?” The resentment slips into your voice, your palms growing sweaty at your sides. “Or the part where you involved me in your disgusting jokes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything!”

“Jack was drunk, okay?” He sighs again, and before you have a chance to open your mouth to rage at him, he pulls up to the side of the road. Shifting in his seat so he can look at you directly, his expression softens into the exact same look he always gets when he realizes his mindlessness has caused you real harm.

“It doesn’t excuse it,” Ilia rushes out, his voice lowering. “I’m not defending him. Jack was being an idiot. He always says stupid shit when he’s had too much to drink, and you know how he gets. He was disrespectful and disgusting. But the second your name came up, I told him to shut his mouth. I completely shut it down.”

“Oh, so you want me to praise you for doing the bare minimum?”

“That’s not what I said at all!”

“Is that what happens every time Jace passes out?” Your voice changes, shifting from defensive anger to raw hurt, and his expression instantly falls at your vulnerability. “You guys reduce me to a joke everyone laughs over?”

“What?!” He shakes his head fast, looking at you as if you’re losing your mind. “You think I’d let them do that?! You seriously think I’d sit there and laugh at you??”

“Well, yeah. To be fair, you don’t even have the right to laugh at me—you’re a bigger loser than I could ever be!”

“Okay, this is insane.” He lets out a breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if it helps him erase what you just said. “I understand that you’re upset about it, but I swear to you, no one thinks of you like that. Literally everyone adores you! It was just a stupid, thoughtless game because they were drunk!”

“You weren’t drunk though, were you?!”

“I wasn’t!” he finally raises his voice, matching your energy. Unlike your deep hurt, it's pure, desperate frustration seeping from him. “And that’s why I shut it down! I did what any decent person would do! What else did you want me to do over a stupid drunken joke?!”

You stare at him, your chest heaving up and down. Your throat tightens at his utter obliviousness, your inner self screaming at him to just open his eyes—to see it, to realize that you wanted him to defend you because you wanted him to see you as something more than just Jace’s little sister. You wanted him to see you as a option. As a woman.

But you don’t tell him. Even though the confession is threatening to burst right out of you, something in your stomach twists almost painfully, forcing the words back down.

He sighs heavily when you don’t answer him, running a hand through his hair and leaning back into his seat like he’s done everything in his power to fix this. You turn away to stare through the windshield, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as hot tears prick your eyes. You desperately try to blink them away, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Just drive,” you mutter, unlocking your phone again to continue what you were doing, trying your best to ignore his presence, which suddenly feels suffocating in the car.

“Are you still mad at me?” he asks quietly.

When you don’t answer, he stretches his hand across the console, his palm gently touching your shoulder to get your attention. Even though his face is completely full of regret, you can’t find it in yourself to just forgive him. You know this isn’t actually about the crude joke Jack made. It’s about something much bigger—something he doesn’t see, or maybe something he just doesn’t want to see, completely refusing to acknowledge it.

“I’m just upset at the situation,” you lie, your voice dropping into a quiet, empty tone. “I know you meant no harm.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you wave it off, forcing your tone to slip effortlessly back into your usual, casual baseline. “Let’s just go home. I have to cook for Dad.”

“Okay.”

The rest of the ride is short, spent in a heavy silence. He doesn’t ask you anything further, even when you briefly thank him and say goodbye. It’s obvious that he isn’t convinced by your fake assurance, but he lets it drop anyway. Maybe he thinks you just need a little time to cool down. Or maybe, you think bitterly, he just doesn't care all that much.

Once inside, you feed Dusty, cuddling with her on the couch for a while before your dad gets home. You don’t intend to, but the sheer exhaustion of the day and the suffocating weight of your conversation with Ilia finally catch up to you. You fall fast asleep, only jerking awake when Jace rolls the heavy suitcases into the house. Presuming you’re upstairs, he yells out that they’re finally home.

“I’m right here, you donut,” you mutter, blinking away the sleep.

“Oh, didn’t see you there,” he grins, walking over to the couch to lean against the back of it and stare down at you. His gaze shifts to Dusty, who is unusually calm, almost politely sitting on your stomach. He extends an affectionate hand, rubbing her head. “Hey, Dusty—”

Before he can even scoop her up, Dusty bolts off your stomach, sprinting out of the living room. You yell at Jace to close the front door, and he starts cursing loudly, chasing your chinchilla around the house. He ultimately slips on the floor, groaning in pain just as you see her stop right at the top of the stairs, looking down at him with what feels like a subtle smile.

“Hey.” You feel a soft, comforting kiss on your temple. You briefly pull your dad into a warm hug before walking up to scoop Dusty up, completely ignoring Jace, who is still sprawled on the floor, glaring at you like you’ve personally betrayed him. “How was work?”

“Moderately mundane.”

“Is that so?” Your dad raises his eyebrows, unzipping his suitcase. You roll your eyes, already anticipating exactly where this conversation is heading. “Maybe you should quit.”

“You know, other parents beg their children to get a job.”

“You don’t need a job yet,” he counters smoothly. “You’re responsible and dutiful, and you have to focus on your studies.”

“Now, where was that attitude towards me?” Jace complains from the floor, already sighing because he knows the inevitable answer.

“Unfortunately, you’re none of those things listed above, Jace.”

“Thanks, Dad. Super supportive of you.”

“Here,” your dad says, extending his hand toward you. The book feels solid and slightly heavy as you take it, a grin breaking across your face. It’s a Sudoku book, one of your absolute favorite leisure activities. “Bought it at the airport.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“The house seems clean. Did Susie drop by?” He looks between you and Jace with an expectant expression.

You glance pointedly at your brother, waiting for him to give you the credit you deserve. Susie helps out around the house a few days a week to clean and prepare meals, and you always end up gossiping with her about her daughters while you share updates about your university studies and creative stories. Jace merely points a finger at you, no words needed for the implication, and your father chuckles, shaking his head in that way that indicates he’s long since gotten used to his son being lazy.

“Tatyana invited us over for dinner on Saturday,” your dad announces.

“Is she the one cooking?” Jace asks.

“Obviously,” he replies, both of them visibly excited about the prospect of a good meal.

You don’t stay to listen to the rest, heading up to your bedroom to finally put Dusty back in her cage. You flip to a random page in the Sudoku book and start solving it, trying to drown out your thoughts. Even though you’ve really missed Tatyana’s cooking, you’re already mentally scrambling for excuses to bail out. You just don’t have the emotional bandwidth to sit at a dinner table with him, pretending everything is completely fine while the anger still burns hot within you.

The evening passes quickly enough between filling out the grid numbers, playing a few rounds of Valorant with Cam and Ziggy, and eventually watching a sitcom with Jace and your father. Then the house goes dark, and it’s night. You find yourself texting Allie, who is aggressively pushing plans on you that you never actually agreed to, insisting on taking you to a concert for some artist you’ve never even heard of.

Before finally closing your eyes, you go through your follow requests to delete people—a chore that has become part of your nightly routine ever since the Olympics. Ever since Ilia completely blew up, you’ve been forced to keep your social media strictly private. Strangers keep trying to comment on your profile and share your photos online; half of them speculating about a non-existent relationship between the two of you, half of them laughing at the mere possibility of it. Some people call you ugly, while others praise you for doing absolutely nothing. Yet, the requests keep piling up, people desperate to get even a tiny glimpse into his life through you.

Jace, of course, happily benefits from the secondhand clout of being Ilia's best friend. He regularly entertains his thousands of followers with mindless thirst traps, even pulling in a few dedicated fan pages. Edits of him being shirtless flood your TikTok feed periodically, making you internally cringe every single time you swipe past them.

Locking your phone, you slip it onto the nightstand and stare into the dark. Deprived of distractions, your mind inadvertently wanders right back to the afternoon in the car. A heavy, suffocating feeling tightens around your chest. A single, hot tear rolls down your cheek into the pillow, no voice escaping your throat as the quiet house swallows your heartbreak.

Tatyana is disappointed when she first hears you aren’t attending dinner. Lying with an excuse about an unexpected shift at work is the most solid way to bail out, and you go all the way with the cover story, swapping your regular shift with Betty just in case anyone decides to double-check your whereabouts. Allie is the only one thrilled about the sudden change of plans, always vastly preferring your company over Betty, who spends the better part of her shifts whining relentlessly about either her boyfriend or the customers.

“Should I get a bob?” Allie asks.

“No,” you reply without looking up from your screen, your fingers mindlessly scrolling through X for any new Spider-Man promotional content.

“Why not?”

“Because longer hair suits you better.”

“You’ve never even seen me with short hair,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she pops her gum with a loud, echoing smack.

It is almost 10:00 PM, and the cafe is entirely empty, scheduled to close in approximately fifteen minutes. Allie has already changed out of her uniform; her tight, black leather jacket makes a distinct, stiff noise every time she raises her hands—which, given how animated she is, happens a lot.

“I have an excellent imagination.”

Deciding it is finally time to change out yourself, you hop down from the high barstool. You pull your clothes out of the staff locker, slipping out of your uniform and into a washed-up, oversized graphic t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. Jace sometimes jokingly complains that those specific shorts are too short, clearly enjoying playing the role of the overprotective older brother—a role he rarely actually occupies unless it really, truly matters.

When you walk back out, you are surprised to find Jace himself leaning comfortably across the counter, talking to Allie and flashing her his signature, effortless smile. Unlike you, Jace has an inherently flirty nature, possessing a natural ability to engage absolutely anyone in easy conversation. Maybe he should give his best friend some pointers, you think bitterly, a flash of resentment crossing your mind as you recall every single unsuccessful moment Ilia has ever tried speaking to a girl in front of you. Back in middle school, you used to tease him mercilessly about his awkwardness around girls—right up until you found yourself slowly crushing on him.

You snap back to the present, realizing neither of them has noticed you walk up. Allie doesn't seem particularly impressed by Jace’s charm, laughing over something he says in that polite, practiced way she always laughs at mediocre jokes to please tipping customers.

Jace finally notices you, his face instantly lighting up. He must be tipsy, you assume, tracking his loose posture.

“Hey, sis.”

“Are you drunk?”

“You think Dad would let me drive his car to pick you up if I were drunk?” Jace gives you a look of exaggerated disappointment, glancing over at Allie in a desperate hope that she will take his side.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at the dinner?”

“Yes, and I’m here now so we can both go back together.”

“Yeah, no. I’m tired.”

“That’s nonsense,” he shakes his head, slinging a heavy arm over your shoulder and nudging you toward the glass entrance before you can even protest.

You wriggle free from his grip, double-checking with Allie to make sure the registers and doors are fully secure before you officially close up the cafe. Jace waits patiently by the door, acting the part of the chivalrous gentleman he claims to be by offering Allie a ride home—which she immediately accepts. Throughout the entire drive, the two of them chat away. Their words barely register to you as you keep your eyes glued to your phone, stubbornly scrolling.

You realize then that there is absolutely no way to bail out of this dinner anymore. Not without Ilia suspecting that you are still harboring massive anger toward him—assuming he even remembers the car ride at all.

Once Allie is dropped off, thanking both of you as she hops out, Jace immediately continues talking your ear off, physically unable to sit in a quiet car.

“The mechanic called me, by the way. Your bike is fixed.”

“Really?” you exclaim, your eyes practically sparkling as the heavy cloud over your mood lifts for a split second. “Thank God, finally! I’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”

Jace chuckles. “I already picked it up.”

“Wow. When exactly did you become so considerate?”

“I’ve always been considerate, you ungrateful brat.”

You laugh, leaning forward from the backseat to playfully ruffle his perfectly styled hair. He immediately slaps your hand away before you can even touch his curls.

The ride ends disappointingly quickly, and before you know it, you are stepping through the front door of the Malinin household. You greet Tatyana and Roman, quickly deflecting the attention away from yourself by focusing entirely on Liza, who immediately starts animatedly telling you all about how she has started playing Valorant. You completely ignore Ilia, who is sitting at the dining table right next to Jace. He is stubbornly staring in your direction, clearly waiting for you to say literally anything to him besides the dry, fleeting "hello" you muttered when you walked through the door.

You try your absolute best not to look at him, which is incredibly difficult considering the vibrant red t-shirt he is wearing and the blond curls falling softly over his shoulders make him look maddeningly cozy.

“Eat, dear,” Tatyana says warmly, emerging from the kitchen with a plate piled high with food. The rest of the table is already moving on to dessert, Ilia mindlessly picking at a slice of cherry pie. “You must be starving after that shift.”

“Well, not really—I ate a little something at work—but I’m never going to say no to your cooking,” you joke. The comment elicits a bright chuckle from her as she rubs your shoulder in an affectionate, maternal way, sliding into the empty seat right next to you.

“Eat fast so we can play Valorant before my bedtime,” Liza chimes in, leaning over her own plate.

“Liza, let her be, she’s tired from work.”

“She’s never too tired for Valorant.”

You chew slowly, looking around the floor. “Where are the cats?” you mumble between bites, suddenly realizing the family pets haven’t run to greet you at the door like they usually do.

“Probably in my room,” Ilia answers. The sudden sound of his voice cuts through the air; he has completely stopped engaging in the sports conversation with the rest of the men at the table, his full attention snapping to you. “How was the shift?”

“Good.”

“I thought you didn’t work on Saturdays.”

“My schedule changes pretty often,” you lie smoothly, wiping your mouth with a napkin as you give him a perfectly casual, detached look.

Something in his expression shifts instantly. You couldn’t exactly pinpoint what the subtle change means—maybe it is the slight, tense pull of his lips, or the way his eyebrows knit together just a fraction of a millimeter—but it is clear that he is highly skeptical of your words.

“I see,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours, silently calling your bluff.

You don’t reply, fixing your eyes back on your plate and listening to Liza. Eventually, you follow her up to her room, despite Tatyana’s protests for you to stay and eat the cherry pie.

Liza fires up the game, eagerly asking for your tips and following them with thorough consideration. She eventually lets you take over the keyboard; you lean over the back of her chair to guide her, your expression intensely focused as you show her the skills you’ve obtained throughout the years. You completely lose track of time. You don’t even notice anyone entering the room—certainly not Ilia, who observes the scene quietly from the doorway until Liza calls him out, snapping you right out of your concentration.

“Leave us,” she almost groans, waving him off. “Go play your stupid Fortnite that you’re not even good at.”

“I’m literally just watching.”

“Well, I don’t want you to watch me,” she huffs, her eyebrows drawing tightly together. “Go!”

“She’s just mad because I was busy and couldn’t play Roblox with her earlier,” he quickly explains to you, raising his eyebrows to highlight the sheer dramatics of his little sister.

“You weren’t busy, you were shopping online for ugly clothes.”

“Liza!” He shakes his head, sighing in disappointment. Then, he points triumphantly to the clock on the wall. “It’s way past your bedtime, by the way.”

“Worry about your own sleep schedule.”

Right on cue, Tatyana walks into the room, gently reminding her daughter of her bedtime routine. Liza shuts off the computer with an annoyed expression, barely paying any attention to Ilia, who looks thoroughly amused by her temper tantrum. You say a warm goodnight to Liza, prepared to call off your own night and finally head home since Jace and your dad are way too busy engaging in a deep conversation with Roman over glasses of red wine. You prepare to say your goodbyes and leave, but the moment you leave Liza’s room, Ilia stops you. His fingers lock gently around your wrist, and an involuntary shiver runs through your entire body at the sudden contact.

“Don’t you want to see the cats?”

Despite the lack of any deeper meaning behind the question, the moment takes you completely aback. You find yourself shyly nodding at him, quietly following him downstairs to his room as the loud laughter and clinking glasses from the living room slowly muffle out. Mysti is asleep, lifting her head to look at you for a fleeting second before she closes her eyes again, cuddling further into her cat tree. Miu Miu, however, trots straight toward you, going completely limp the exact moment you scoop her up and cradle her against your chest.

It is undeniably weird. You are standing there petting his cats while he just observes the scene, both of you completely silent. Only the soft purrs and occasional quiet meows of Miu Miu pierce the stillness of the bedroom.

“Did you finish university?” he asks suddenly.

“No, I still have final exams left.”

“When?”

“In a week.”

“I’m streaming on Twitch next week,” he goes on, pivoting seamlessly as if he entirely switched the subject just because he didn’t know what else to say. He smiles at you, oblivious to the internal war you are currently fighting with yourself. You silently curse your own heart because, despite everything that happened, butterflies still flutter wildly in your stomach. It feels incredibly pathetic. “Maybe you can join me for a bit if you’re free. We haven’t played together in a while.”

The invitation takes you completely by surprise. As much as you desperately want to agree, and as hard as it is to turn him down when he is looking at you with such a genuine expression, you firmly shake your head. His lips press together into a thin line.

“You know I don’t like streaming on Twitch.”

“But you do it when Ziggy asks you to.”

“Yeah, because he’s my friend.”

“And I’m not?”

The tone his voice carries is accusatory, the way his eyebrows furrow together almost making it look like you’re the guilty one. A spike of panic floods your brain for a second, but it quickly mutates into anger. Your voice comes out completely flat as you keep stroking Miu Miu’s fur.

“Well, not exactly,” you shrug, your voice stripped of any emotion.

“What?” His face falls completely, his eyebrows raising like he can’t even comprehend what you’re saying. “What do you mean? We literally grew up together!”

“Yeah, because we’re neighbors and Jace is your best friend.”

“What does Jace have to do with us?”

“What us, Ilia?” you snap, your tone cutting and annoyed as you mentally remind yourself to keep things under control. “There’s no us. We talk sometimes and we hang out sometimes because you’re my brother’s best friend. That’s it. What is so surprising to hear about that?”

“Because I consider you my friend, and apparently, I’m just a 'brother’s best friend' to you.” He looks visibly frustrated, a sudden twinge of guilt creeping into your chest when you see just how deeply the comment has rubbed him the wrong way.

“You consider everyone your friend, Ilia. That’s not how it works.”

“You’re not everyone, are you?”

“I don’t see the point of this conversation,” you huff, rolling your eyes as you set Miu Miu down on the bed, ready to call it a night. “I’m going home. Goodnight.”

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can even protest, he crosses the room in two sharp strides and closes the door behind him, standing firmly in front of it to block your exit. He looks angry—maybe even angrier than you are—but before you can rage at him, he beats you to it.

“Why are you being so cold? Are you still mad because of Jack, or what?”

“Stop insisting that I’m some kind of loser who keeps dwelling on mediocre, tasteless jokes!”

“Then what is it with you?!” He throws his hands in the air, exhaling a sharp, frustrated breath when you don’t immediately answer him. “You’re always so sweet, and now you’re basically blowing me off because apparently we’re not friends? You’re reducing me to just one of Jace’s friends when we literally grew up together?! You’ve been acting weird ever since that stupid thing!”

“It’s not stupid!” you yell out, immediately regretting the volume in fear of someone downstairs hearing you. You can only hope the loud way Jace laughs in the living room is enough to overshadow any voice coming out of this bedroom. “It’s not stupid when you brushed me off as a joke! Like I don’t even exist outside the role of Jace’s sister!”

The words come out incredibly bitter, but a strange wave of relief washes over you the exact second you admit it out loud for the very first time. Days of built-up frustration and hidden resentment finally rip right through your defenses.

His face softens instantly at your reaction. The frustration drains from his features, leaving him looking almost apologetic. He licks his dry lips, his voice coming out much quieter. “That’s not…”

“You don’t even see me as a girl, right?” you cut him off. Your voice is almost quivering now, hot tears pricking your eyes before you desperately swallow them down. “I’m just Jace’s little sister. That’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

You try so hard to mask it, but it’s completely impossible to control the raw hurt in your voice—the sheer heartbreak. He looks at you with an intensely guilty expression, his lips pressed tightly together as he avoids your gaze. He fixes his eyes on his shoes for a long second while you stand there, waiting for him to do something. To say something. Anything.

You stare at him for seconds, maybe even minutes, completely losing track of time in the heavy silence. Finally, you sigh in utter defeat. Turning your body, you try to move past him to go through the door and just forget this ever happened—forget the burning humiliation and embarrassment tearing through you.

You push at his shoulder to clear a path, ready to tug at the doorknob and leave him behind, but his hand tightens around your wrist once again. This time, his grip is firm and powerful—almost forceful, completely desperate—as you try to wiggle your arm free.

“I didn’t mean that, okay?!”

“Just let me go—”

“No, you don’t understand!”

“What do I not understand?!” You push hard against his chest, barely making him budge before he catches your other hand, pinning them together to stop you from fighting him. “Spare me the humiliation and just let me go, alright—”

You don’t get a chance to finish. He doesn’t give you one.

Ilia slips his hand into your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands to tilt your head up when you stubbornly refuse to look at him. He crashes his mouth into yours like it’s the only thing he knows how to do—the only thing he can desperately hold onto when his words have completely betrayed him.

You freeze instantly at his touch. The situation barely registers as your skin burns hot, the breath knocked clean out of your lungs as your body goes totally limp against him. Then, it hits you vividly. The solid, warm pressure of his mouth against yours, his familiar scent surrounding you, the subtle taste of cherry pie lingering on his tongue. You clutch at the fabric of his red t-shirt—first hesitantly, and then almost desperately—leaning your entire weight into his body. His hands lock tightly around your waist, flushing you completely against him as his lips move against yours. The feeling is entirely unfamiliar, beautifully strange, the exact kind you could easily get used to.

He finally pulls away when you are both entirely breathless, both of your chests heaving up and down as you stare at him, not quite knowing what to make of what just happened. He reaches up, his knuckles incredibly gentle against your skin as he brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His pale blue eyes sweep over your features, intense and completely focused on you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his lips red and wet just like yours. “I was a coward. I didn’t mean it.”

You don’t know what to say. You’ve dreamed of this exact moment for years, imagining it over and over again in your head, but you never actually prepared yourself for what comes afterward—when the reality is so wildly different from what you hoped for.

“Why did you kiss me?”

The question comes out hesitant, almost childishly quiet, entirely unlike you. Both of you already know the answer, but you need the reaffirmation. You need to hear the words come out of his mouth.

“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice drops, coming out almost shy as a faint trace of color hits his cheeks. “I lied that night because I didn’t want them to know. Because you’re Jace’s sister, and even though I’m not supposed to… I like you.”

Your heart drops at his confession, your face burning hot as you stand there, completely lost for words. Isn't this exactly what you wanted? Then why do you stand there frozen, unable to do anything, unable to say a single word?

Sudden panic floods your brain, and before the reality of it can trap you, you react on pure instinct. You tug down on the door handle, breaking his grip, and bolt out of the room. You sprint up the stairs despite him yelling out your name behind you.

Tatyana is in the kitchen tidying up, while the rest of the men are still deeply engaged in a loud, heated discussion over some sports team you have no knowledge of or interest in. Moving on sheer adrenaline, you quickly say goodbye to Tatyana, thanking her for the evening, and offer the others a breathless, barely coherent explanation about missing some type of tournament you forgot was scheduled. Jace calls out to you, confused, but you don't stop.

The moment you push through the front door and step outside, you let out a ragged exhale, closing your eyes. You cross the dark lawn separating your houses without looking back a single time, terrified that if you do, the gravity of what just happened will pull you right back under.

Only when you lock yourself away in your room does the realization fully hit you. Ilia just confessed to you. He kissed you. After all this time, after years of pining and scripting a moment like this in your head, it actually happened—and instead of reacting like any sane person would when they're madly in love with someone, you did the exact opposite and ran away.

A wave of intense embarrassment consumes you. You cover your face with your hands, letting out a muffled groan of frustration into your palms.

You only tilt your head up when you hear a distinct clinking noise coming from the corner of the room. You drop your hands to see Dusty shifting against the metal bars of her cage. She stares down at you from her little ledge, her twitching nose and bright eyes making it look like she is smiling at you almost mockingly.

[motionlessxgirl]

FIFA

Ilia Malinin x German!reader

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the glow of the massive TV mounted on the wall opposite the king-sized bed and the soft golden lamp on Ilia’s nightstand. The air smelled like the vanilla candle you had lit earlier—now mostly a forgotten afterthought—and the faint, clean sweat of two human beings who’d decided “cuddling” was code for something much more fun.

Ilia was buried deep inside you, your legs hooked loosely around his hips as he moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm that was equal parts teasing and loving. Your back was arched just enough, your head turned toward the screen where Germany’s national team was locked in a tense World Cup group stage match. Your eyes were wide, locked on the action, even as your body responded beautifully to him.

“Y/N,” Ilia groaned, half-laughing, half-frustrated, as he rolled his hips in a particularly deep thrust that made you gasp. “Baby, come on. I’m literally inside you right now and you’re watching soccer?”

“Fußball,” you corrected automatically, not even looking at him. Your German accent thickened with excitement as a player sprinted down the wing. “And it’s the World Cup, Ilia. Shh, this is important.”

Ilia let out a dramatic huff, dropping his forehead to the curve of your neck. He nipped at your skin, then soothed it with his tongue, trying to win you back. “More important than your boyfriend’s dick? Wow. I’m wounded. Devastated. Might have to stop.” He didn’t stop. If anything, he ground against you a little harder, circling his hips just the way you liked.

Your breath hitched, but your gaze stayed glued to the TV. A tiny smirk played on your lips. “You won’t stop. You love this too much.” One of your hands stayed tangled in his messy hair, the other clutching the remote like it was a lifeline. “Besides… they’re playing Spain. This is revenge for the last Euros.”

Ilia laughed against your collarbone, the sound vibrating through the both of you. He pushed up on his forearms so he could look at you properly—flushed cheeks, messy hair fanned across the pillow, sports bra pushed up so he could admire your breasts bouncing with every thrust. You were so fucking cute like this. Distracted, competitive, and still clenching around him every time he hit that perfect spot.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered fondly. He shifted his angle, sliding one hand down to grip your thigh and hitch it higher. The new position made you moan, finally drawing your eyes to him for a glorious second. “There she is. Hi, baby. Remember me? The guy giving you the best orgasm of your life?”

“Second best,” you teased, eyes sparkling with mischief before flicking back to the screen. “The first was that time after your quad Axel at Nationals—”

“Y/N L/N, I swear to God—” Ilia cut you off with a playful growl, capturing your mouth in a deep kiss. He poured everything into it—tongue, teeth, the kind of hungry affection that always made you melt. For a few blissful seconds, you kissed him back, your free hand sliding down his back to grab his ass and urge him deeper.

Then the commentator’s voice rose in excitement. You broke the kiss with a gasp, head whipping toward the TV. “Oh! Oh, come on, pass it—yes, yes—!”

Ilia groaned theatrically and buried his face in your neck again, picking up the pace. “Unbelievable. I’m doing all the work here and you’re coaching from the sidelines. Should I get you a clipboard? A little German flag to wave?”

“Shut up and keep going,” you laughed breathlessly, but there was a playful edge to it. Your hips rolled up to meet his, finally giving him some real attention. “You feel so good, Ilia… but if they score right now I might actually—”

“You might what?” he challenged, nipping your earlobe. He reached between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles. “Come on, tell me. I wanna hear it.”

Your answer was a garbled mix of English and German, half moan, half cheer as Germany pushed forward again. “Scheiße, you’re evil… Harder, please—”

Ilia obliged, grinning like an idiot even as sweat beaded on his forehead. He loved this—loved your competitive fire, loved how you could be completely wrapped up in him and still have room for your beloved team. He kissed down your chest, sucking a mark onto the swell of your breast just because he could. “My girlfriend’s a football hooligan in bed. Who knew?”

“Fußball hooligan,” you corrected again, but your voice cracked into a whimper when he hit a particularly sensitive spot. Your walls fluttered around him, and Ilia’s rhythm stuttered for a second. God, you felt incredible.

The match intensity built. The crowd on TV roared. Ilia kept his pace steady, whispering filthy-sweet things against your skin in that low voice he knew drove you crazy. “Look at me. Just for a second. Let me see those pretty eyes while I fuck you.”

You tried—you really did. Your gaze flicked to him, hazy with pleasure, lips parted. For a heartbeat, the TV faded. Then—

“TOR! TOR! TOR!” The commentator exploded. Germany had scored.

Your entire body reacted instantly. Your legs locked tight around his waist, back arching hard off the bed as you let out a triumphant cry that was half cheer, half orgasmic moan. Your inner muscles clenched down on him like a vice—hot, rhythmic, devastating.

“Fuck—!” Ilia’s eyes slammed shut. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, burying himself to the hilt as pleasure slammed into him like a freight train. He was right there, teetering on the edge, balls tightening, every muscle straining not to spill inside you right that second. “Y/N—baby—shit, you’re squeezing me so hard—”

You were laughing and moaning at the same time, arms wrapped around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders. “Yes! Yes! Did you see that?! Beautiful goal—oh my god, Ilia, you feel amazing—”

He was panting, forehead pressed to yours, fighting for control. His body trembled with the effort of holding back. “You almost made me bust a nut the second they scored. You evil, beautiful, football-obsessed woman.”

“Fußball,” you whispered, still giggling breathlessly, but your hips were moving again, encouraging him. The clenching eased just enough for him to breathe, but you were still pulsing around him, warm and slick and perfect.

Ilia pulled back just far enough to grin down at you, eyes sparkling with playful challenge. “Alright, that’s it. New rule: every time Germany scores, you have to look at me and tell me how much you love my dick.”

You burst out laughing, the sound bright and joyful. You cupped his face with both hands and pulled him down for a messy kiss. “Deal. But only if you keep moving like that… and maybe score one of your own.”

He groaned at the pun, but his hips were already snapping forward again, the game temporarily forgotten as he kissed you properly this time—deep, claiming, full of love. The TV kept playing in the background, crowd roaring, but your attention was finally, gloriously split between your team and your man.

[mishaspandasuit]

Emotional Rehabilitation

Summary: Y/N’s goals for Stars on Ice are straightforward: keep her Olympic heartbreak neatly compartmentalized, survive six weeks on tour, and absolutely do not fall in love with Ilia Malinin. It’s a solid plan. Unfortunately, reality has other ideas.

Author’s note: hey divas. Let me know what yall think. I have had this idea for a while and am excited to see where it goes. This is my first time writing x reader!

Chapter 1: (3.6k words)

You were not excited for the Stars on Ice Tour.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

You were initially pleased—and a little shocked—when your agent told you that Stars on Ice had offered you a spot on the tour.

The 2025–26 season had been a huge disappointment. It was a season littered with injuries, inconsistent performances, and constant pressure to just tough it out. It was Olympic season, after all. If there was ever a time to push through the pain, this was it.

All of it culminated in a disaster at U.S. Nationals in January. During your free skate, you fell so hard that you had to be helped off the ice before the program was over. You never even got the chance to finish.

The worst part was that the previous few seasons had been good. Really good. You had made the podium at U.S. Nationals the year before and had even won a couple of Grand Prix events. Still, after failing to finish at Nationals and struggling internationally throughout the season, you weren't surprised when you weren't named to the U.S. Olympic Team.

Devastated, yes. Surprised, no.

A decade and a half of hard work felt like it had amounted to nothing. Moving away from your parents at thirteen to live with your grandmother so you could have access to better coaching and training facilities. Countless hours spent at the rink before school, after school, and on weekends.

Of course, deep down, you knew it wasn't all for nothing.

Before this season, you had been a relatively successful skater. You had titles, medals, and a small but loyal group of fans who swore you were underrated and consistently underscored. And your career wasn't over.

But ever since you were a little girl, you had dreamed of going to the Olympics.

Representing your country in a way few athletes ever get the chance to. Competing alongside the best skaters in the world. Being part of something bigger than yourself—a celebration of sport, community, and excellence.

Being so close to that dream, only to watch it slip away, hurt more than you could put into words.

Watching girls you had grown close to achieve the goal you had spent your entire life chasing hurt too.

You had always known that Amber, Alysa, and you couldn't all make the team. There were only three spots available, and all three of you had spent years battling for them. Even so, some part of you had always believed you would find a way onto that Olympic roster.

Instead, you found yourself sitting in a hospital bed, watching the announcement on a screen and realizing that your dream would remain exactly that—a dream

So, all of this to say you were a little hesitant going back on tour. You were one of 3 skaters going on the tour that was not a part of the Olympic Team. And Jacob was not even signed up for the full run, unlike you who was slated for every date, he was only joining a couple of shows. And Jason Brown had more than proved why he deserved to be there.

You were unsure how it was going to feel every night seeing the Olympic Team's gold-medal program - a sore reminder of what you missed out on.

And then there was the small problem of him.

Ilia Malinin.

If anyone asked, you would probably say the two of you were acquaintances more than anything. Friendly, but not friends.

And you thought it was better that way.

Sure, you'd watched each other grow up over the years at training camps and international competitions.

Sure, you thought he was an incredible athlete. A once-in-a-generation talent.

Sure, you'd maybe had a tiny, microscopic crush on him when you'd both been juniors.

Sure, your stomach had done a ridiculous little flip the first time you saw him in person after he'd dyed his hair blond.

Sure, you'd been a little—okay, very—disappointed when he changed out of his original "I'm Not a Vampire" costume.

He looks like a prince, you'd thought at the time. Not that you'd told anyone that. That information would have to be water boarded out of you.

Sure, sometimes you found yourself staring a little too long at his high cheekbones and blue eyes.

Sure, you knew exactly what his laugh sounded like from across a crowded rink.

Sure, you remembered random things he'd mentioned years ago—his favorite movies, the snacks he always bought at competitions, the song he'd been obsessed with one summer.

That didn't mean anything. Probably.

Sure, your heart had broken for him as you watched the disastrous events of February 13th unfold.

Sure, you'd picked up your phone more than once, wanting to text him something—anything—but never managed to find the right words.

So, yeah.

The idea of spending a month and a half on tour with him felt a little torturous.

This would be the most time you'd ever spent together.

You were a good pretender. For a week-long camp here or a competition there, you could fake indifference. You could smile, chat, and act like seeing him didn't affect you at all.

But a month and a half?

A month and a half of bus rides, hotel lobbies, backstage hallways, and shared meals.

A month and a half of seeing him every single day.

A month and a half of pretending your heart didn't speed up every time he smiled at you.

Well. That seemed like a much bigger challenge

The first tour stop is in Fort Myers.

You arrive at the arena with a coffee in one hand and a bag slung over your shoulder, trying very hard to ignore the nervous energy buzzing beneath your skin.

It’s ridiculous.

You’ve competed in front of thousands of people.

You’ve skated at World Championships.

You’ve stood in the kiss-and-cry waiting for scores that can determine the trajectory of your entire season.

And somehow, walking into a Stars on Ice rehearsal feels more terrifying than all of those.

The arena is already busy when you get there. Crew members hurry across the floor. Music echoes through the speakers. Skaters mill around the boards, chatting in small groups.

You spot Alysa first.

Thank God.

You gravitate toward her immediately, letting yourself relax a little as she pulls you into a quick hug.

“You made it.”

“Barely,” you say. “I think I got three hours of sleep.”

“Rookie mistake.”

“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”

“Tour rookie.”

“Fair.”

“Y/N!” You turn at the sound of your name and immediately find Isabeau gliding toward you, somehow managing to look graceful despite basically sprinting across the ice.

A second later she wraps you in a hug.

“Finally you’re here.”

“Yeah, Charlotte was on lightning watch and my flight got delayed by like 12 hours. I came straight from the airport.”

“Oof.”

“I’m choosing to view it as the universe giving me one last chance to turn around.”

“Too late,” Alysa says. “You’re trapped now.”

You groan.

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“Well,” Isabeau says, hooking her arm through yours, “I think that officially makes you the last one here.”

Your stomach drops. For some reason that makes you nervous.

“Oh.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Amber says, appearing seemingly out of nowhere with a grin already tugging at her mouth. “Save the best for last.”

You know she means it—more or less.

It’s just a joke.

A tease.

But something in your chest tightens anyway.

Because you are not the best. There are standings, scores, entire seasons that can prove that in black and white.

You give a small laugh that hopefully sounds normal.

“Right. Sure.”

“How is practice shaping up?” you ask, mostly to steer your brain away from where it’s already going.

“Well, we’re in choreography mode right now,” Alysa says.

“Ah. Right. The group number.”

Stars on Ice has sent out a run of show a couple of weeks ago, so everyone already knows what to expect. You’re in all the group numbers—woven into the rest of the cast in various formations and transitions—and then a solo, which you’re oddly grateful for, like having something that belongs only to you might keep you steady.

But the one thing you can’t stop thinking about is the partner section.

The dance where everyone gets paired up.

Alysa is sitting that one out, probably because she’s already in nearly everything else, which means you won’t be spared. You’ll be paired with one of the men on the tour, and you tell yourself that doesn’t mean anything at all, even as your brain quietly starts treating it like a problem it needs to solve before it happens.

It isn’t that you can’t skate with a partner. You can. You have. You’re fine at it, even if you’ve never really been anyone’s permanent half.

It’s just that partner work means something different. Proximity in a way singles skating never does. Timing and trust and the kind of easy, unavoidable closeness that leaves very little room for pretending you aren’t aware of another person every time they move.

And suddenly you are very aware of exactly who is in this building.

You stare at the ice a little too long, like if you focus hard enough on the empty space in front of you, you can delay whatever is coming.

“Well, I’m excited for our group number,” Isabeau says with a grin.

“Oh yeah, the Blade Angels number is gonna be so cute,” you say, letting yourself smile a little for the first time since walking in.

“No, no,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean our group number.”

She gestures between the four of you.

You blink. “What?”

“Did someone forget to read the email?” Amber asks, already looking mildly offended on principle.

You watch her for a second, a little amused.

Amber is the oldest, and she wears it in a way that makes sense—organized, attentive, always three steps ahead of whatever chaos is about to happen.

You’ve grown up very differently.

Your grandmother gives you a place to land, but she also trusted you with a lot of independence early on. The result is that you’re extremely self-sufficient in a way that occasionally surprises people and rarely surprises you.

Still, watching Amber step into responsibility so naturally makes you wonder what it feels like to not have to think and try so hard about everything all the time.

You shrug lightly. “I guess I just missed that one.”

“Oh,” Alysa says immediately, pressing a hand to her chest like she’s been personally wounded. “I’m hurt. Deeply hurt.”

You laugh. “I’ve been in survival mode since January. Emails are not making the cut.”

“That actually explains a lot,” Isabeau says, grinning.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” she continues, “you’ve been a little different since then.”

You huff a quiet laugh, shrugging it off like it’s nothing. “Yeah. I guess I have.”

You thought you had been putting on a better front than that. But apparently they knew something was up.

Alysa nudges your shoulder lightly. “It’s fine. We’ll fix you.”

That makes you laugh for real. “That sounds ominous.”

“It should,” Alysa says, dead serious for half a second before breaking into a grin.

Isabeau nods and you know that this is actually something that they have talked about before and that thought makes you nervous. Them talking about you when you are not there “We’re very committed to emotional rehabilitation.”

“Oh, I can tell,” you say.

Amber leans slightly against the boards, watching the three of you like she’s considering something. Then, almost casually, she adds, “You’re not the only one in need of emotional rehabilitation, you know.”

You pause.

“Excuse me?”

She blinks at you like the confusion is yours alone. “Ilia.”

That name lands differently, even said that casually.

You frown slightly. “What about him?”

Amber hesitates just long enough to make it feel intentional. “He’s been different since the Olympics.”

Alysa nods. “Like… he’s trying really hard to act normal, but everyone kind of knows he’s not.”

“Not normal how?” you ask, though your voice has already gone careful without permission.

Isabeau tilts her head. “Just quieter. More in his head. Like he’s there, but not really all the way there.”

You try to imagine him like that.

Ilia Malinin—quiet. Careful. Trying.

It doesn’t fit neatly with the version your brain has catalogued over the years, even if that version was never fully accurate either.

You shrug lightly. “Well. Maybe that’s fair considering what happened.”

Dreams dashed in a moment—you know what that feels like. Thankfully you only receive a fraction of the media attention Ilia does. Your fall at Nationals is not plastered across headlines.

Alysa snorts. “Yeah. Fair.”

For a moment, the four of you stand there in comfortable silence, watching skaters drift across the ice as rehearsal slowly comes together around you.

“Well, we should probably get back to practice,” Amber says.

“And you should warm up,” Alysa adds, pushing herself off the boards.

“Bossy.”

“You love us for it.”

“I tolerate you.”

“Liar,” Isabeau says immediately.

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you set your coffee down and begin to put on your skates.

For the first time since arriving, you take a proper look around the rink.

The cast is scattered across the ice in various states of rehearsal. Some are stretching. Some are running through choreography. Others are chatting in small groups while waiting for instructions.

You tell yourself you’re just taking everything in. You are definitely not looking for anyone. Unfortunately, your brain seems to have other plans.

Your gaze drifts across the ice, passing over skaters you know almost as well as your own reflection.

Jason is talking animatedly with one of the choreographers, his hands moving almost as much as the rest of him.

Amber is off to one side, walking through a section of choreography with focused precision.

Isabeau has somehow collected three people into a conversation less than two minutes after leaving your side.

Madison and Evan are practicing something near center ice.

And then there is Ilia.

He’s standing near the opposite boards talking to one of the crew members, one hand shoved into his hoodie pocket while the other absentmindedly spins a skate guard around his finger.

It’s a little unfair, honestly.

You’ve spent the better part of the last month convincing yourself this tour isn’t going to be a problem. That six weeks in close quarters with Ilia Malinin is something you can handle with the same professionalism you apply everywhere else.

And then you see him in person and immediately understand you’ve been lying to yourself.

Because suddenly you are thirteen again—sitting across from him at junior team breakfasts and trying not to stare. Thirteen and pretending your stomach isn’t doing strange flips every time he chooses the empty seat next to you. Thirteen and absolutely terrible at having a crush despite considering yourself generally competent.

The annoying thing is he isn’t even doing anything.

He is just standing there talking.

Somehow that has always been enough.

Your conversation with Alysa and Amber drifts back in.

He’s been different since the Olympics.

Maybe they’re right.

There is something slightly off, though you can’t quite name it. If you didn’t know him, you probably wouldn’t notice. He still laughs when people say something funny. Still smiles. Still Ilia.

But there is a hesitancy now. Like part of him is elsewhere.

You frown before you can stop it.

The truth is, you don’t know him all that well.

At least, that is what you always tell people.

You know him well enough to recognize the way he bounces on his toes before competitions, and how he misplaces important things at the worst possible times. You know that when he’s excited he talks faster, and when something is bothering him he pulls inward.

None of that means anything.

Except apparently it does.

Because you notice when he isn’t quite himself.

Which is probably more than someone should know about an “acquaintance.”

You look away. Three seconds later, you look back.

He is still there.

And you are still hopeless.

[baldmalinin]

i see your "ilia getting himself off to mundane pictures of reader" and i raise you "reader knowing her boyfriend is a pervert so she teases him just subtly enough that he thinks hes just making it up but it drives him insane"

pulling him in by his belt loop and rubbing up against him so slightly that he can’t say anything about it because it’s just a goodbye kiss!!! he has a competition today! you’re just wishing him good luck!! so why does he find himself jerking off in the locker rooms at the rink?

bending over in a skirt to show him that you’re not wearing anything underneath and hearing his breath hitch: you turn around, seeing his face flushed, and ask him what’s the matter. “well, you know…” he says, trailing off, staring at the hem of your entirely indecent skirt, and you bat your eyes at him innocently. he doesn’t say anything after - just picks you up and throws you on the nearest surface. kitchen counter? couch? bleachers at the rink? the last one could’ve risked his career, but he couldn’t have cared less when he pushed your panties to the side and ate you out <3

one afternoon he comes home from a long day of practice. you’re wearing those low waisted jeans he loves because they hug your ass, and when you stretch, he sees a peek of lace!!! and when you turn around, your thong reveals rhinestones spelling out his name. he fucked you so hard after that he kept going, even after you’d both already finished and the overstimulation was making you tear up

also! since it’s summer: going to the beach with him and asking if he can apply sunscreen to your back. as he’s lathering it along your skin, you push your ass back against him and gasp quietly when his hands dip to your lower back. then, before he can react, you point out that maybe he needs extra sunscreen on his legs, since he’s so pale and all (“i’ve been tanning!” he says indignantly), and you sink to your knees, squeezing his taut leg muscles as you apply the cream. and yeah, maybe you spend more time than necessary massaging him, mouth grazing against the front of his swim trunks when no one’s watching. if the beach is especially empty, you might even give him a kiss on his clothed upper thigh, mouth ghosting right over his dick before standing back up.

(he has to spend an absurd amount of time after in the water, willing the frigid waves to soften his raging hard on.)

this is not related but i also like the idea of him being needing extra motivation, the morning before competitions, so he eats you out until you cry. he never leaves enough time to fuck you properly, but by then, he’s so pent up that he can get himself off quickly and finish all over your pussy. the juxtaposition is sinful: he gives you a tender goodbye kiss while fingering his cum back into you, imagining you squirm all day as it slowly trickles into your underwear.

he’s a freak. but so are you <3

[itzyayaa]

Late Night Cuddles

Pairing: Ilia Malinin x reader

Warnings: none other than slight cursing

Author’s note: i personally love how this came out, did you like it?

The amber glow from the dual monitors cast long, quiet shadows across Ilia’s bedroom as the clock ticked past Midnight.

Outside, the Fairfax streets were completely still, but inside, the low hum of the PC tower and the clacking of mechanical keys filled the space.

Underneath the heavy, oversized comforter on the bed just a few feet away, you shifted slightly, completely buried in the warmth of the blankets.

It had been a year and a half since the two of you first crossed paths in that crowded college hall. Back then, your worlds couldn't have been more different—you were focusing on your studies, entirely separate from the high-stakes world of competitive figure skating, while he was balancing life as an elite athlete.

A simple request to share missed notes had turned into an effortless conversation the next day, which quickly led to a casual lunch date at a local spot near campus and long, easy walks through town.

You had been the one to take the initiative and kiss him on your third date, breaking through his natural shyness. Since then, you had become his absolute safe haven, the person who loved him simply for who he was, completely outside of the "Quad God" persona the media knew.

Now, Ilia was deeply focused on his screens, leaning into his desk as he ran a late-night test stream with his close friend Jacob Sanchez.

They were configuring chat commands and overlay settings for upcoming collaborative gaming broadcasts.

Because your relationship was completely public and your presence in his life was well-known to his followers, the stream chat immediately began buzzing with comments the moment the viewers noticed the large, shifting shape under the blankets in the background.

"Yeah, that’s my girlfriend," Ilia murmured into the mic, a soft chuckle vibrating in his throat as he glanced back over his shoulder. He turned back to the screen, lowering his voice to a gravelly whisper. "Guys, I have to keep it down so I don't wake her up."

On the other side of the Twitch call, Jacob’s voice came through Ilia’s headset as they adjusted the stream's audio levels. Just then, the blankets on the bed shifted more drastically.

Your arm poked out from the warmth of the comforter, your fingers rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you stretched. The chat instantly erupted with fast-moving text pointing out that you were waking up.

"Babe, you awake?" Ilia asked, spinning his gaming chair around halfway to face the bed.

"Yeah... don’t worry about me, keep playing," you mumbled sleepily, blinking against the sudden brightness of the monitors. You sat up against the headboard, offering a tired smile, and raised a hand to wave directly at the camera lens. "Hi, guys."

"Jacob’s here too," Ilia added, his expression softening completely as he watched you try to tame your messy sleep hair.

"Hi, Jacobbb," you called out, your voice growing a bit more energetic. Being a year older than Jacob, you never missed an opportunity to treat him like a younger brother, and the dynamic between the three of you was completely effortless.

As Ilia turned back to his monitors to start another testing round, Misty, his cat, padded into the room. Seeing you awake, she hopped onto the mattress, purring loudly.

"Hey, Misty," you whispered, reaching out to scoop her up against your chest. She immediately curled into a tight, furry ball, resting her chin right below your collarbone as you slowly ran your fingers through her soft black fur. Within minutes, the rhythmic purring had both you and the cat drifting back into a light doze.

After finishing the round, Ilia abruptly paused his stream overlay, muttering to Jacob, "Just wait a moment." He muted his microphone to the public chat but kept the voice channel with Jacob open.

"You're totally ditching me for your girlfriend," Jacob’s voice echoed through the headset, dripping with dramatic, exaggerated offense.

Ilia just laughed, sliding the headphones down to his desk. He stood up from his chair and walked over to the edge of the mattress, intent on stealing some affection. "Sorry, Misty, my turn," he murmured, gently nudging the cat aside.

Thoroughly annoyed at having her sleep interrupted, Misty leaped off the bed, gave a tiny flick of her tail, and bolted straight out the open bedroom door.

"You’re a monster," you joked, looking up at him with mock disapproval.

Instead of answering, Ilia climbed onto the bed and slid into the space between your legs, leaning his weight against you. He buried his face into your shoulder, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he anchored himself to you.

Your hands instinctively found their usual places—one resting flat against his back, the other threading through his hair, gently playing with the blonde strands. He let out a long, contented sigh, sinking deeper into the embrace as the tension from the long day melted away.

The quiet moment lasted until Jacob’s muffled voice traveled across the room from the headset resting on the desk. "Bro? You still there?"

"Stream calls," Ilia muttered, his voice thick with reluctance as he began to lift his head from your shoulder.

"No, stay," you complained, tightening your grip on his shoulders to pull him back down against you.

One of the things Ilia loved most about you was how naturally affectionate you were; you were always reaching for him, wanting him close without any hesitation.

"Just wait a bit, and then we can cuddle as much as you want," he promised, leaning up to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

Reluctantly, you let him go, watching him settle back into his gaming chair and readjust his headset. But within less than ten minutes, the lack of warmth felt entirely noticeable, and the quiet room felt a little too quiet.

"Iliaaaaa, I want cuddlessss," you cooed from the bed, your voice just loud enough for his sensitive microphone to pick up the faint sound.

"Just wait a bit, babe," he pleaded, his fingers flying across his keyboard as he tried to wrap up the server configurations with Jacob as quickly as humanly possible.

Another five minutes passed in silence before you spoke up again, your voice dropping into a playful, exaggerated whine. "I want cuddlessss."

Ilia defeatedly let out a breath, a massive grin breaking across his face. He pushed his chair back from the desk, swirled it around, and patted his thigh. "Okay, come here."

You didn't need to be told twice. Slipping out from under the heavy comforter, you walked across the cool floor to the desk and settled sideways across his lap.

You tucked your legs up, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck while your arms looped securely around his middle.

Because PDA were standard for the two of you, and fans regularly made compilation edits of your background appearances at his trainings or competitions, seeing you thoroughly exhausted and clinging to him wasn't going to surprise anyone online.

Ilia’s left hand dropped to your thigh, his thumb tracing soothing, repetitive circles against your sweatpants, while his right hand remained on the mouse, quickly navigating the final setting menus on the screen.

"What time even is it?" you asked, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Way past midnight," Ilia answered, glancing at the digital clock displayed in the bottom corner of his monitor.

"Why the fuck are you streaming at 1:00 AM?" you groaned softly.

"Because we’re testing the server commands, obviously," Jacob’s voice cut in through the headset speakers.

"Jake, this is way past your bedtime, go to sleep," you teased.

"I’m not a baby, I can sleep whenever I want," Jacob retorted, laughing on the other end.

"You are a baby," you giggled, resting your chin comfortably on Ilia’s shoulder.

"You’re literally only one year older than me, shut the fuck up," Jacob laughed back.

"Still older," you smirked, completely victorious in the banter.

Throughout the entire exchange, Ilia had stopped looking at his monitor completely. He was looking at you with an expression of absolute devotion, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your cheek the moment you finished bickering with Jacob.

You kissed his cheek in return before tucking your face back into his neck. The steady warmth of his skin and the rhythmic, distant sound of his typing quickly worked like a charm, lulling you back into a deep state of drowsiness.

"Yeah, she completely passed out on me," Ilia whispered to the chat a few minutes later, nodding toward your limp form.

As the stream wound down over the next half hour, he periodically leaned down to kiss the top of your head or lightly play with your hair whenever his character encountered a loading screen.

Finally, he called it a night, muttering a quick goodbye to Jacob and shutting down the entire broadcast system. The dual monitors flashed dark, plunging the room into relative darkness, saved only by the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp.

"Babe, wake up, beautiful," Ilia whispered, gently shaking your shoulder to see if you could walk the short distance.

"Five more minutes..." you mumbled into his neck, tightening your hold on his shirt.

Recognizing that you weren't going to move on your own, he carefully slipped one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you up bridal style.

He carried you the few steps over to the bed, lowering you gently onto the mattress and pulling the thick comforter all the way up to your chin.

After sliding his glasses off and placing them safely on the nightstand, he climbed in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

Immediately, he pulled you against his chest. Your bodies aligned perfectly, chests pressed together as he hooked your leg over his to anchor you to his side.

He slid his arm underneath your neck, completely unbothered by the fact that it would most likely be completely numb by morning; he just needed you as close as possible.

"I love you," he whispered against your forehead, his breath warm against your skin.

"I love you more," you murmured. Your eyes remained closed, but you shifted your head upward to press a sleepy, clumsy kiss to his jawline, awakened slightly by all the movement.

"I do more," he challenged automatically, a quiet chuckle vibrating in his chest as he looked down at you in the dim light.

"Alright, fine, you do more," you conceded, too tired to argue the logistics of it, even though you both knew the feeling was entirely equal.

Ilia smiled in the dark, tightening his grip around your waist as you finally relaxed completely against him, your breathing slowing down as you fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. Holding you close, he closed his eyes and followed shortly after.