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

[tuxedomax]

[motionlessxgirl]

(M)oral Support

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: You’re stressed. Ilia offers some help.

Contains: Smut, oral, fingering, minors dni

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside the window and the occasional frustrated sigh from the couch. Ilia closed the front door behind him with a gentle click, kicking off his sneakers and padding across the hardwood in his socks. He’d just come back from a light training session, hair still damp from the shower at the rink, wearing a loose gray hoodie and black sweatpants. His eyes found you immediately—curled up in the corner of the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, eyebrows pinched together in that way he knew too well.

“Hey, babe,” he said softly, voice warm like melted chocolate. He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Still at it?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “This project is killing me. I’ve rewritten the same section four times and my professor’s going to tear it apart anyway. I can’t even think straight anymore.”

Ilia’s hand slid down to your shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles against the tight muscle there. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours. Come on, take a break with me.”

“I can’t. Deadline’s in two days and—”

He cut you off with another kiss, this one to your temple, lingering. “I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re stressed out of your mind. Let me help you relax.” His fingers slipped into your hair, gently massaging your scalp. You leaned into the touch despite yourself, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Ilia…” There was a warning in your voice, but it was soft, already melting.

“Shh. Just a little while.” He set your laptop on the coffee table, then eased down beside you on the couch. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap so you straddled his thighs. Your foreheads touched. “You work so hard. I hate seeing you like this. Let your boyfriend take care of you, yeah?”

You exhaled shakily, arms looping around his neck. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nah. I just know what you need.” His hands roamed up and down your back in long, soothing strokes, thumbs pressing into the knots along your spine. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re so tense, baby. Feel how tight your shoulders are? Breathe for me.”

You did, inhaling deeply as his lips trailed lower, feather-light kisses along your neck. A tiny shiver ran through you. Ilia smiled against your skin. “There she is,” he murmured, voice dropping just a little. “My pretty girl. Always so wound up until I get my hands on her.”

The kisses grew a fraction deeper—still soft, still teasing. He sucked lightly at the spot just below your ear, the one that always made you squirm. Your fingers tightened in his hoodie.

“Ilia… we should probably—”

“Probably what?” He nipped your earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue. “Talk about your project? No way. Not right now.” One hand slid under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare lower back. “Right now I want to hear those little sounds you make when you stop thinking so much.”

You laughed breathlessly, but it turned into a soft moan when he rocked your hips forward against him, letting you feel how he was already half-hard just from touching you. The friction was barely there, just enough to tease.

“See?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Your body’s already saying yes. Let me make you feel good. Please?”

How could you say no to that voice—low, sweet, a little husky with want? You nodded, and Ilia rewarded you with a proper kiss, slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours in lazy strokes that promised more. His hands slipped higher under your shirt, tracing your ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts but never quite giving you what you suddenly craved.

When you two broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against yours again. “Couch or bed? Your choice.”

“Couch is closer,” you admitted, cheeks warm.

He grinned, that boyish, mischievous flash of teeth you loved. “Good answer.” In one smooth motion he lifted you, flipping you two so you were on your back against the cushions, him hovering above. He peeled your shirt off slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered—collarbone, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your leggings he paused, looking up through dark lashes.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice gentle even as his fingers toyed with the elastic.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He tugged the leggings down your legs along with your panties, taking his time, kissing the inside of your knee, your thigh, the sensitive crease where leg met hip. By the time the fabric hit the floor you were already breathing faster, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Ilia settled between your legs, broad shoulders spreading you open. He kissed the top of your mound, then lower, but only brushed his lips over your folds—light, maddening. “So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Already wet for me. Been thinking about this all day?”

“Since you walked in,” you confessed, voice shaky.

He hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Just relax. I’ve got you.” His hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up like you were something delicate and delicious. Then he finally gave you what you wanted—his tongue, flat and warm, licking a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

You gasped, back arching.

“Mmm, there’s that sound,” he said, smiling against you. He did it again, slower, savoring. “Taste so fucking good, baby. Sweet and all mine.” The dirty words were soft, almost reverent, laced with that teasing edge he knew drove you crazy.

He took his time, exploring every inch with lazy licks and gentle sucks. When your hips started to twitch he held you still, strong hands pinning you down just enough to make you feel it. His tongue circled your clit in slow, deliberate spirals, never rushing, building the heat in your belly like a slow-burning fire.

“Ilia—fuck—” your fingers threaded into his hair, not pulling, just holding on.

He pulled back for a second, blowing cool air over your slick skin, making you shiver. “Yeah? Feel better already?” He dipped down again, this time sliding his tongue inside, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts while his nose nudged your clit. “So tight. So needy. Let me hear you.”

You moaned louder, hips rolling as much as he’d allow. He switched back to your clit, sucking it gently between his lips while two fingers teased your entrance, not pushing in yet—just rubbing, spreading your wetness.

“You’re dripping down my chin,” he groaned, the vibration shooting pleasure through you. “Love when you get like this. All stressed and pretty, then I open you up and you’re soaked for me. My perfect girl.”

The praise mixed with the filthy words had your head spinning. He finally slid one finger inside, curling it just right, then added a second, pumping them slow and deep while his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking with steady rhythm.

Your thighs started to tremble around his ears. “Close—Ilia, I’m—”

“I know,” he murmured against you, not stopping. “Come on my tongue. Let it all go. I want to feel you.”

The orgasm hit you in waves, slow and intense, drawn out by his relentless mouth and fingers. You cried out, back bowing off the couch, fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure crashed through every nerve. He kept licking you through it, gentler now, drawing out every last shiver until you were boneless and panting.

Only then did he crawl up your body, kissing your stomach, your chest, your lips so you could taste yourself on him. His eyes were dark, lips shiny, that cocky little smirk in place.

“Feeling less stressed?” he asked, voice rough.

You laughed weakly, pulling him down for another kiss. “Ask me again after round two.”

Ilia grinned against your mouth. “That’s my girl.”

[cosmicswirlg1rl]

THE SMIRK!?!

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

(this was requested via comment☺️ not my fav but it’s short and sweet.)

The first mistake was agreeing to stay friends.

The second mistake was actually trying.

Because if there was one thing you and Ilia had never been good at, it was pretending you didn’t feel everything too much.

It had been three months since the breakup.

Three months of awkward texts.

Three months of accidentally showing up at the same competitions because your lives revolved around the same ice rinks.

Three months of pretending neither of you noticed how hard the other was trying not to look.

And somehow it hurt more than when you’d been together.

You were sitting in the nearly empty rink after practice, unlacing your skates, when you heard familiar footsteps.

You didn’t have to look up.

You knew exactly who it was.

“You’re still here?”

Your stomach immediately tightened.

Ilia.

Of course.

You focused on your laces.

“Apparently.”

He laughed softly.

You hated that laugh.

Not because it was annoying.

Because it still did things to you.

Because after all this time your brain still associated that sound with late night drives, stolen hoodies, and being loved.

You finally looked up.

Big mistake.

His hair was damp from practice.

His cheeks were pink from the cold.

And he was looking at you the way he always did.

Like he knew every version of you.

The good ones.

The bad ones.

The ones you tried to hide.

“You skated well today,” he said.

“Thanks.”

Silence.

God.

You hated silence with him.

Silence was dangerous.

It made room for memories.

“You landed the quad loop.”

“Yeah.”

“Looked easy.”

“It wasn’t.”

A smile tugged at his mouth.

“There she is.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“The attitude.”

“I don’t have attitude.”

His grin widened.

“Sure.”

You rolled your eyes.

For a second it felt normal.

Like before.

Like nothing had changed.

Then you remembered.

Everything had changed.

The smile disappeared from both of your faces almost immediately.

The rink suddenly felt too quiet.

Too empty.

Too cold.

Ilia shifted his weight.

You looked away.

And somehow that hurt more than looking at him.

Because there was still so much there.

You could feel it.

The unfinished conversation hanging between you.

The things neither of you had said.

The things both of you regretted.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I almost texted you yesterday.”

Your heart skipped.

You hated that it did.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You swallowed.

“What stopped you?”

He stared at the ice.

“You.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His jaw tightened.

“You said you needed space.”

The words landed harder than you expected.

Because he remembered.

Of course he remembered.

Every word from that awful night.

The night you ended things.

Not because you stopped loving him.

But because everything felt too big.

The expectations. The pressure. The distance.

The fear that one day one of you would choose skating over the relationship.

And maybe you already had.

You weren’t even sure anymore.

“You listened?” you asked softly.

A humorless laugh escaped him.

“You think I wanted to?”

Your chest tightened.

“I missed you every day.”

The confession knocked the air out of you.

Ilia looked away immediately after saying it.

Like he regretted it. Like it had slipped out.

You stared.

He never admitted things first.

Never.

Yet here he was.

Looking absolutely miserable.

“Ilia…”

“I know.”

His voice was rough.

“I know we’re not together.”

You stood slowly.

The distance between you suddenly felt enormous.

And somehow not enough.

Because being near him always felt dangerous.

Like standing too close to the edge of something.

“You don’t make this easy.”

His eyes finally met yours.

Neither do you.

Neither of you said it.

But it was there.

The truth sitting between you.

You still knew exactly how to hurt each other.

Exactly how to pull each other back in.

Exactly how to make each other stay.

The worst part?

Neither of you wanted to stop.

“I hate seeing you,” he admitted quietly.

You laughed once.

A sad little sound.

“Good. Me too.”

That made him smile.

Actually smile.

And suddenly you remembered every reason you fell in love with him.

The way he smiled when he was trying not to.

The way his eyes crinkled.

The way he looked happiest when he forgot to be careful.

Your chest ached.

“You don’t mean that.”

“No,” you admitted.

His smile faded.

Neither of you looked away.

For a moment the entire world seemed to disappear.

No competitions. No expectations. No breakup.

Just you and him.

The way it had always been.

The way it probably always would be.

Even if you tried to fight it.

“I still love you.”

The words escaped before you could stop them.

The silence afterward felt deafening.

Ilia froze.

Actually froze.

His eyes widened.

And for a second you wanted to disappear.

Then he took a step forward.

Just one.

But it felt like everything.

“I know.”

Your breath caught.

“You know?”

His laugh was soft.

“Yeah.”

Another step.

“Because I still love you too.”

The air left your lungs.

Three months.

Three months of pretending.

Three months of missing him.

Three months of trying to convince yourself you could move on.

Gone.

Just like that.

He stopped in front of you.

Close enough to touch.

Not touching. Just looking. Always looking.

Like he was waiting. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed anymore.

And somehow that broke your heart.

Because this was Ilia.

The boy who had once reached for your hand without thinking.

The boy who used to kiss your forehead before competitions.

The boy who had become careful around you.

You closed the distance first.

His relief was immediate.

Visible.

The second your arms wrapped around him, he pulled you against his chest like he’d been holding himself back for months.

Maybe he had.

You buried your face in his shoulder.

His arms tightened.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because for the first time in a long time, neither of you were pretending.

And standing there in the cold, empty rink, holding each other like something precious you’d almost lost forever, it felt like finally exhaling after being underwater for far too long.

[baldmalinin]

who else up watching videos of ilia at the stars on ice shows….FUCK

i need to rip off his suit (respectfully) and **** *** ***** **** until he ***** ****

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

just got this idea yesterday and i just knowwww you will do it so good. only if you feel up for it though!! no rush at all

but i would die for a “seven minutes in heaven” trope with ilia omggg. maybe him and reader could be fwb or something and while they in the closet during the 7 minutes they end up confessing to each other

The music downstairs was loud enough to shake the floorboards.

Someone had turned the living room lights purple, people were yelling over each other during beer pong, and the entire house smelled like cheap vodka and someone’s overly sweet perfume.

And somehow, through all of it, Ilia only noticed her.

She was sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter in an oversized sweatshirt and shorts, laughing so hard at something one of her friends said that her head tipped back. His stomach did this stupid little flip every time she laughed like that.

Which was annoying.

Because this whole thing between them was supposed to be easy.

No feelings.

No labels.

Just six months of sneaking into each other’s apartments at midnight, tangled sheets, lazy mornings, and pretending neither of them cared when the other left.

Except he did care.

Way more than he was supposed to.

“You’re staring dude,” his friend said, bumping his shoulder.

Ilia rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You’re down horrendous.”

“I said shut up.”

But he couldn’t stop looking at her.

And then her eyes found his across the room.

That smile.

The tiny one she only gave him.

She hopped off the counter and made her way over, weaving through people until she stopped directly in front of him.

“Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi.”

Neither of them moved away.

It had always been like this too close, too intense, too much pretending that they weren’t basically attached at the hip already.

Someone suddenly yelled from the living room, “WE NEED MORE PEOPLE FOR SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN.”

A chorus of drunk cheers followed.

“Oh absolutely not,” she laughed.

But somehow twenty seconds later they were both dragged into the circle anyway.

Ilia sat beside her on the floor, knees touching hers.

The bowl got passed around.

Names were picked.

People disappeared into the hall closet amid screaming and applause.

She leaned toward him. “This game is so high school.”

“You came to a college party,” he reminded her.

“Unfortunately.”

Then someone pulled a folded slip from the bowl.

The guy reading it blinked once before grinning.

“Oh this is GOLD.”

Ilia already knew.

He could feel it.

“Ilia and….”

The room exploded before her name was even finished.

She buried her face in her hands. “You have got to be kidding me.”

His friends were practically dying laughing as they shoved him toward the hallway.

“Have fun, Quad God!”

“Don’t traumatize her!”

“She’ll survive!”

Ilia flipped them off while she laughed helplessly beside him.

Then the closet door shut behind them.

Darkness.

Tiny space.

Her perfume immediately filled his lungs.

And suddenly the noise outside felt very far away.

For a second they just stood there, awkward and smiling.

“Well,” she whispered, “this is kinda on the nose.”

Ilia laughed quietly. “A little.”

There was barely enough room to breathe in there. Her knees brushed his, hands lightly touching in the dark.

Then she tilted her head up toward him.

And that was it.

His hand slid to her waist automatically as he kissed her.

Soft at first.

Familiar.

They’d kissed hundreds of times before.

Against kitchen counters.

In his car.

Half asleep at 2 a.m.

But this felt different.

She kissed him deeper, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie, and he swore his heart almost punched through his ribs.

God, he wanted her.

Not just like this.

Not just in secret.

Not just when it was convenient.

He wanted all of her.

The kissing got heavier, breathless little laughs between it, her hands sliding into his hair while his palms pressed against her hips.

Then suddenly…

He pulled back.

Breathing hard.

“Wait.”

She blinked in the darkness. “What?”

He ran a hand through his hair nervously.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Her expression dropped instantly.

“Oh.”

“No, no not like that.” He grabbed her hand quickly. “I just…fuck, I know we said no feelings but…” He swallowed hard. “I want you. Like actually want you. I wanna be more than whatever this is.”

Silence.

His pulse was so loud he could hear it.

Then she smiled.

A real one.

Soft and stunned and happy.

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Ilia genuinely forgot how to breathe.

“What?”

She laughed nervously. “I said I think I’m in love with you.”

He stared at her for half a second before breaking into the biggest smile she’d ever seen on him.

“So we’re doing this?” he asked.

She grinned. “Oh hell yeah.”

And then he kissed her again.

Different this time.

Not rushed.

Not secretive.

Not temporary.

His hands cupped her face so carefully like she was something precious, and she melted into him smiling so hard she could barely kiss him properly.

Outside the closet, people started pounding on the door.

“TIME’S UP!”

“ARE YOU GUYS ALIVE?”

“ILIA IF YOU MADE IT WEIRD IN THERE I SWEAR…”

He laughed against her lips.

Then he opened the door.

The entire hallway went silent.

Everyone stared at them.

She was still holding onto the front of his hoodie.

Ilia looked completely wrecked flushed cheeks, messy hair, stupid grin.

One of his friends narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“…Why do you both look emotional?”

She burst out laughing.

Ilia just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into his side.

“We’re dating now,” he said casually.

The hallway erupted.

Half the group started screaming while the other half yelled variations of “FINALLY.”

His friend looked personally offended. “You mean to tell me you idiots weren’t already together?”

“Nope,” she said.

“That is actually insane.”

Ilia didn’t care.

Not when she was tucked against his side smiling like that.

Later that night, after the party died down and they escaped to his car for some quiet, she sat curled into him in the passenger seat while he absentmindedly traced circles on her thigh.

“My boyfriend,” she teased softly.

He looked over at her immediately, smiling so hard it hurt his cheeks.

“Say it again.”

She laughed.

“My boyfriend.”

He leaned over the console just to kiss her one more time.

And for the first time in six months, neither of them had to pretend it meant nothing.

[jaeyundazed]

♱ ― [𝖑𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖆𝖋𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖔𝖚.𝖊𝖝𝖊]

the world isn't kind to people like him. standing at one hundred and nine years old, ilia malinin's history with love is ― complicated. he was turned in 1923 by a woman whom he adored, betrayed by her that same night; a pawn in her game since the day he'd met her, left to navigate supernaturality himself.

you came along in late 2011, showed him what life could be (although he'd already lived a handful of lives). he let you in, perhaps, against his better judgment. and in short, ilia's world is changing for the better.

until ― inevitably ― the passage of time takes you away, too.

WARNING: 18+ CONTENT. DARK THEMES. DEPICTIONS OF BLOOD AND GORE. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

♱ ── 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎: 𝖘𝖆𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖊 (𝖊𝖆𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖚𝖕) [7.9k]

⤷ what happens when a hundred-year-old vampire meets a twenty-year-old human. and when she wants all of it.

 ⟢ when i'm losing my control, the city spins around      you're the only one who knows, you slow it down

♱ ── 𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖎𝖎: 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 (𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓) [3.9k]

⤷ when the bottle lands on both you and your hundred-year-old vampire boyfriend, spending seven minutes locked in a closet doesn't sound so bad. and they're definitely fucking heaven.

 ⟢ what's mine is yours to make your own

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

[jaeyundazed]

♱ ― 𝖞𝖔𝖚, 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 (𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖛𝖊𝖓)

── part ii of the look after you series. can be read as a standalone.

𝓸r ── .✦ when the bottle lands on both you and your hundred-year-old vampire boyfriend, spending seven minutes locked in a closet doesn't sound so bad. and they're definitely fucking heaven.

𝓹airing: vampire.ᐟilia 𝔁 𝓯.ᐟhuman!reader      ⟢ 𝓬ontains smut ♱ mdni ♱ masterlist

𝔀ord count: 3.9k

⟢ 𝓻achel: at last, another installment of my vamp!ilia series! this was an idea i'd thought of while writing the first part, but i have another handful that i'd rather flesh out in separate parts instead, so i decided to make this the first. hope u all enjoy!! heavily inspired by tvd rules and stories.

WARNING: DARK THEMES. DEPICTIONS OF BLOOD AND GORE. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

── tags below the cut .ᐟ

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, fingering, thigh riding, feeding (as a sexual device), semi-public sex, compulsion, fucked out reader, attempted hand job in a car oops, heavy mentions of blood, vampires, mentions of other supernatural beings, ripper ilia (feral, predatory, murderous vampires), tvd rules and regulations

ᯓ‎♪ just like heaven - the cure

it's not like they knew you were already fucking.

when the bottle landed on you, spun again, and found itself pointing toward ilia, they honestly thought it was funny. you two barely even talked; they assumed you only ever interacted when the group got together, given that you never seemed to be seen together otherwise. your roommate welcomed you into their group, and ilia weaseled his way into it through another entry not long after.

in short, you were calculated.

none of them would have predicted, well — you know.

"ilia, ffffuck."

they don't mesh with the other end of your acquaintances. they surely don't know that ilia is a bloodsucking vampire; nor that he's your boyfriend; nor that he sinks his teeth into your neck like a thanksgiving meal every other day.

so, naturally, it seemed like a funny joke to them when the bottle made its choice.

you put on your best show to date — aw, man, really? come on.

ilia had to spend seven whole minutes locked in a closet with you? a crime against humanity, they would have thought.

your friends told you and ilia that you guys were, quote, "no fun."

okay, so you'd show them fun.

the second the door closed, the switch flipped. and, well, here you are.

"do you think they bought it?" ilia mumbles into your mouth, pulling you into his lap as he slides down the cool expanse of the closet wall, hair creating static electricity from the contact.

"i think we sold it pretty well," you laugh, fingers moving to his deep red button-up and slipping down the center. with each popped button, the shirt falls further open, exposing the paleness of his skin. warmth radiates onto your fingertips; you leave the bottom attached, keeping the fabric on his shoulders.

your mouth begins just below his ribcage, dragging upward and mouthing wet kisses into the plush of his chest. ilia sighs from above; you hum a quiet shush into his pec, sucking a mark into the skin. you really fucking wish those wouldn't heal so fast.

"don't really wanna get caught," you mumble, at which he nods in agreement. "we don't have much time, anyway."

"you think i'm only keeping you here for seven minutes?" he suggests.

huh.

well, then.

you're sure as hell not going to complain.

your lips pull into a grin, hips grinding into his, the swell in his pants pressing into the apex of your inner thigh.

his hand finds the nape of your neck and pulls you down, mouth enveloping yours to muffle the careful hums rising from his throat. beneath the pad of his thumb, your heartbeat thumps, increasing in pace the harder his kiss becomes.

you whine, rolling your hips harder. the harsh material of his pants brushes over the thin expanse of your panties, already dampening between the plush of your thighs.

your palm slips between you, starting just above the waist of his pants — the softness of his stomach — and glides carefully upward until you reach his shoulder, just beneath the open shirt fabric. his skin is hot, cheeks already turning red as a mixture of heat and want rises to his face.

he groans into your mouth; the noise is deep, heavy, hot.

you swear you've already been in the closet for hours, and it's been all of three minutes.

just shy of half the time.

your hips shift just enough to position you against his thigh; his knee lifts, applying pressure between your legs. the gesture creates a wet patch on his pants. frankly, he couldn't care less. it'll dry by the time you're out — though your friends likely wouldn't notice it, anyway, with the inevitable mess you're going to walk out as.

you've gone a whole two days without sex. that's a record, nowadays.

damn your exams, and ilia's — well, vampire troubles. dangerous threats, and all that. typical business for that of whitmore, and the bunch of crazies you find yourself in classes with.

seriously, they must think they're slick, talking so openly in their lectures about prison worlds and witches and heretics — whatever the fuck those are — in front of other people. you only became acquainted with a few of them after you'd about had it with their very obvious supernatural banter (thanks to ilia's grand coaching).

thankfully, your friends are a lot more naïve.

and that daniel kid has no clue what is about to become of his poor closet.

you whine into ilia's mouth as your hips push further against the thickness of his thigh, rough fabric burning through your panties and against the sensitive, slick skin. arousal drips onto the thin, black cotton; your eyes squeeze tighter.

he lowers his knee flat onto the carpeted floor again, and you break off for air. your chest presses into his with every intake, hot breath fanning the tip of his nose when you exhale.

he doesn't make a show of tearing off clothes or ripping fabric, like most depictions of people (or, creatures?) like him make it seem. yeah, he's horny, and he's hard as fuck in his pants, but he doesn't have to act like an animal. and he has some respect for your money.

if he's going to absolutely destroy your white shirt, then the least he can do is spare your underwear.

he'd much rather save time, anyway, by bunching your skirt up, shoving your panties to the side, and sinking two fingers into your core, all before your mouth has properly reconnected with his.

you let a groan slip into the quiet air of the closet, hoping the smallness of the space and the thickness of winter coats inside are enough to mask the noise to your friends, no more than thirty feet shy of the door. either way, ilia could just compel them — make both of your lives a lot simpler.

as if he hasn't done that to about nine people already, since you started fucking like bunnies every day.

some days, he can't believe you've just accepted that he could get carried away at any given moment and rip someone in half, whether it's yourself or someone else. after witnessing it. all in the name of what, love?

his mouth finds your neck — the pulse of your carotid beating against his plush lips. your hips push against his hand, craving the friction already offered by the easy glide, arousal dripping onto his clothed thigh.

"'m hungry," he rasps into your skin, the sharpness of his teeth dragging over your neck and shooting a wave of desperation straight between your thighs. of course, as if the jagged glide of ringed fingers along your inner walls isn't enough to almost get you off.

"then eat," you moan, sucking in a hiss when teeth puncture skin, and the pain rises to your neck like a dangerous threat that you'll never get tired of.

really, you never considered yourself to be a masochist. but when someone is literally tearing into your skin so deeply that it throbs, and you're aroused by it, the sentiment isn't exactly falsified.

let alone, if you can't even get off anymore without ilia feeding on you like some kind of human blood bag.

his fingers curl inside, and a slurp sounds at your neck, a few stray droplets of blood trickling down the side and catching on your white top. it pulls a moan from your chest that nearly echoes off the wall adjacent to you; you decide trying to stay quiet won't be enough not to draw eyes (and ears).

you yank the nearest coat arm toward you and shove the fabric into your mouth; ilia grins into your neck, pushing long digits further into your pussy, already aching with the combination of need and pleasure-pain. an elongated moan as his hand grips you harder, and your thighs try to close involuntarily.

he's not even trying to be neat. not even remotely respecting that nothing in this room is his property to deface.

blood spurting onto the wall behind him when he breaks to catch his breath, dripping down his chin like some kind of filthy display that almost has you kissing him again, just to taste yourself on his lips.

delving back in before you can properly consider the idea, fingers spreading inside of you and stretching you out, the burn searing between your thighs as you grind down on his hand, trying to take as much of the length of the digits as you can.

"my fucking god, ilia," you whine into the thick coat, voice teetering on a rasp — and muffled by the fabric — as it breaks in the back of your throat. your eyes find the back of your head, hips chasing the high, continuous pain still throbbing at the side of your neck.

you bite down too hard on the sleeve, and the coat falls onto the floor beside you, revealing a few tiny droplets of blood around the cuff. you let the fabric fall from your mouth, leaving your lips parted with heavy breaths that trail into whimpers.

his hair — slick with sweat, blood decorating the blond tips — brushes the underside of your jaw, and your hand tangles into the bunched strands, fisting them in your palm and pushing him closer. your opposite palm wraps around his shin for support, keeping your weight up as your back arches in his hold.

"taste so good," he praises with a murmur, kissing over the wounds on your neck and licking a stripe over blood-stained skin. "my favorite girl."

your quiet laugh buzzes against his mouth, nearly a perfect moment, if not for the sudden knocking on the door.

"hey, are you guys okay in there? it's been almost ten minutes."

fucking daniel, man.

"give us a few more minutes," ilia mumbles, pulling his fingers out to the tips and shoving them back in, drawing a squeak from your chest that he stifles with his mouth; the metallic taste you craved finally hits your tongue. still arousing, despite the unpleasant flavor.

"come on," he bangs, "you've been in there for way too long."

"go away," ilia threatens, and you don't even have the strength to protest.

rather, you moan.

of course, he hears.

"that's it," he shakes his head, "i'm coming in."

when the door swings open, your head turns over your shoulder to the noise, a soft beam of light streaming in from the cracked-open door.

and a gasp.

the sight is less than ideal. certainly daunting for someone entirely unsuspecting.

you, perched in ilia's lap, with his hand wedged so far between your thighs that it's fully disappeared. blood splattered across your neck, dripping all over your top from two puncture wounds in the soft skin. ilia's face covered, blue eyes even brighter from their bloodshot state, dark veins protruding beneath them.

blood everywhere, actually.

"what the fuck."

"ilia," you whisper, and his hand grips you firmer, intense gaze locking on your friend's.

"go back outside, tell your friends not to bother us, and forget this ever happened."

he walks out and shuts the door with a click.

ilia's lips find yours again, much firmer this time, hand pulling your hips closer and forcing your palm to glide up his shin. you moan into his mouth, not even caring to acknowledge being caught — it was far from the first time — hand reaching up to the array of hanging jackets and gripping one tightly as his fingers shove back into your pussy.

"feed," your voice a desperate, whiny plea for more as your hand fists into his crimson-dyed hair again and pulls him back to the crook of your neck. "eat, ilyusha. please."

at the sting of the nickname, he delves back in. as his teeth sink back into the wounds, blood exiting your stream once more, a noise trapped halfway between a moan and a sob breaks through your chest.

you no longer care who hears you.

if he were going any harder, you swear the edges of his rings would slice into you. and given your track record, it doesn't sound so bad.

the tips of his fingers press so deeply that they just barely brush your cervix; you swear you feel it in your stomach. wetness coats the outer shell of his hand, enough for it to glisten in the light, if there were any in the closet, save for the tiny beam where the door rises above the threshold.

another harsh tug at the jacket, and that, too, falls askew on the floor, just a few feet beside the first. you don't bother to reach for another; instead, brace your weight against the stained wall, smearing a small amount of blood across the beige paint.

"c'mon, baby," he urges gently, fangs disappearing behind his lips as he mouths at your neck, pressing soft kisses over the deep holes in your skin.

simultaneously, his thumb rises to your clit and applies pressure to the nerves, urging a breathy, strained noise from your throat; your hips grind one, two more times against his hand until he curls his fingers into just the right spot you need them.

you try to stifle the scream, but it barely works.

it's all too much — the throb at your pulse point, his fingers still working at your pussy, and the white-hot snap in your stomach as a gush of liquid coats the length of his fingers and drips from the back of his hand onto his thigh, then the carpet. your eyes rolling to the back of your head again as a string of incoherent sobs blisters on your tongue.

you've never come so hard.

ilia trails kisses up the column of your neck. the remnant of your blood leaves crimson kiss marks in his lips' wake, up to the edge of your jaw, where he sucks a spot into your skin as your pussy slowly unclenches around his fingers, now stilled inside you.

when he finally pulls them out, you whine at the loss. his fingers lift to his mouth, drenched in slickness, tongue slipping out to lick the sweetness away. he swallows you down, hums with satisfaction, wipes it dry on the outer edge of his thigh.

he runs a hand through sweat and blood-ridden hair, slicking it down to the top of his head before reaching between you again.

he tugs your panties down your thighs, the sudden roughness of the fabric burning against your already hot skin. your knees lift enough to let him slip them off — eyes still screwed shut as you try again to catch your breath, pussy still throbbing between your thighs.

he shoves the cotton into his pocket; you almost don't notice.

"what're you doing?"

"mine now," he murmurs into your bloodstained neck, and you hum when his human teeth graze the skin.

you tilt your head to kiss him again, savoring the feeling, the dull noise of his groan into your mouth as you shift in his lap — cock still hard in his pants, material all soaked by a mix of your cum and blood.

your arms wrap loosely around his neck as your back arches gently into his figure. his chest is littered with tiny splatters of blood, easily maskable with his shirt, while yours…not so much. only the sound of heavy breaths through noses remains in the small space; by now, you've forgotten that you're in someone else's home, someone else's closet, and that you've been inside it for all of twenty minutes.

the palm of your hand slips back between you and glides down the valley of his chest, resting over his stomach before letting the tips of your fingers brush the waistband of his pants.

"no no no," he mumbles, wrapping his hand around your wrist and moving it back over his shoulder. "not here."

"come on," you pout, eyebrows pulled together, "i can be quiet. and quick."

"no," he repeats, voice a little softer. "when we get home."

his house. mansion, more like.

home, as he started referring to it with you. it sends a chill down your spine. of want or love, you're not sure; maybe both.

you huff in reluctant agreement, shifting again to feel him beneath you. swallowing down a breath and moaning gently into the air, you let your weight fall into his lap.

"we gotta go," he whispers firmly, bringing his hands to your waist and lifting you to your knees, allowing him to slip out from under you.

"ugh," you complain under your breath; ilia chuckles.

though the very obvious tent in his pants isn't exactly a laughing matter.

as you manage to keep on your feet, the palm of your hand braces your weight on his shoulder, still bare and littered with blood. his fingers work at the buttons on his shirt, putting them back together and leaving the first two loose.

it's enough to hide the evidence, mostly.

perhaps, his hair is more to worry about.

or his chin.

or the stains all over your neck, your collarbone, your shirt, and the tips of your own hair. plus the marks all over.

ilia steps forward and brings his wrist to his lips; you grab him prematurely and pull his arm away.

"don't heal them."

"what?" he asks, confused. "you have cuts on your neck, baby." his fingers brush over the wounds, still depositing droplets of blood down the skin, "they're gonna notice."

"let them."

the corner of his lip twitches.

"okay," he whispers. "but you're not going out there like this." he reaches for the nearest jacket still hanging — leather brushes his fingertips, and he settles, yanking it off the hanger and holding it up by the collar behind you for your arms to slip in.

it should be enough to cover some of the blood.

perhaps, not the dried residue on your skin, but enough to get you out of the house and into the car.

when you finally emerge from the closet — leaving it a complete mess, blood smeared onto the walls, white stains etched into the carpet just below where he sat, clothes strewn on the floor — your friends' heads pique toward the noise.

it's somewhere between twenty and thirty minutes, now.

your hands are holding the jacket closed in front of your chest; ilia's palm stabilizes you at the small of your back, legs still not quite strong enough to hold their own.

"what the hell happened to you?"

you don't speak.

"she's tired," ilia answers instead, gaze locked on the girl who asked the question, perhaps a little too intense. "i'm gonna take her home."

daniel lets you out of the house without a word, entirely unbeknownst to what he'd witnessed, or why he's so calmly letting you leave, amid the confusion bubbling in his chest.

it's almost as if he doesn't have a choice…

he realizes — once you're snugly seated in the car and halfway down the road — that your jacket was his. yet still, he can't find it in him to take action. nor can he manage to conjure up an explanation to the others when he finds the fucked-up state of his poor hallway closet.

"illliaaaa," you murmur, voice sultry over the quiet music playing through the speakers.

you keep the jacket snug over your clothes — he keeps the white interior of the camaro spotless, and you're afraid to tarnish more of the car, after what you'd done to the exterior in the rink parking lot.

"yeah?"

"you're still hard," you point out, as if it isn't obvious, as your hand reaches over the console and slides onto the outer surface of his thigh. "lemme help."

"no, baby," he hesitates, "we're almost back."

your bottom lip juts out as the car rolls to a stop at a red light; no other vehicles in sight, nor a soul on the street.

"please?" you all but beg, voice dripping with sweetness as you ask oh, so politely.

somewhere in the mix, between stepping into the closet and coming so hard that you could barely think, you've become so cock drunk that all you can think of is getting him off properly, regardless of the circumstance.

surely, it isn't the same woman who had the nerve to back him against the car and force him to feed, even if it killed her.

"i wanna make you feel good, ilyusha," you pout.

god, every time you call him that.

you have no clue.

the tips of your fingers just barely brush over the tent between his thighs, so featherlight that he sucks in a breath. his eyes nearly flutter shut — cock so fucking sensitive, like this, even the smallest touch making him twitch. the warmth of your palm settles in his lap like a threat; it coaxes another careful noise out of him.

he almost considers pulling himself free right at the light and letting you give him a handjob under the wheel.

and while that's nothing you haven't done before, he has every intent to finish what he started at the house. where he can come inside of you, rather than classlessly on the edge of your hand on the side of some dingy road.

"no," he finalizes, "wait until we get home."

"…okay," you sigh, lifting your hand and planting a kiss onto his cheek as the light finally turns green.

he won't lie and say he doesn't miss your touch, though.

you rest your chin on your palm and gaze out the window, at passing trees and half-dimmed streetlights. in the distance, you swear you notice the figure of a blonde, but you opt to ignore it; you're probably just jaded.

you let out a relieved sigh when his house comes into view, the porch light illuminating the driveway just enough to let you see.

ilia — chivalrously — opens the passenger door for you. it barely closes before you're kissing him, pulling his body down to yours, and leaning into the deep blue paint on his car.

the leather jacket, two sizes too large, finally falls open and bares your top to him — ripped at the neckline, stains far too deep to wash out, a few decorative stitches pulled out. and, of course, your neck.

marked up and sore, two puncture wounds still delicately placed around your carotid as he runs the pad of his thumb over them.

he'll have them reopened soon enough.

"come on," as his hand slides down to your wrist and impatiently pulls you up to the door. lips finding yours again as he fumbles with the key and jams it into the hole.

the warmth of his house — your house — greets you as you step past the threshold, his hips involuntarily pressing closer to yours as he tries to close the door.

he's desperate, by now.

starving, again, too.

and based on the way he speeds you to the sofa, hand already making its way to the zipper on his pants, grin plastered on his face like some sort of threat — it's going to be a long night.

and you've long forgotten about your friends.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @qu4dgod, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @tiramisutin, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag, @sinistersnakey, @ladybuzgs, @veniley, @in3edcuddles, @fionasapplepie

love u all <3

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

could i get a cheeky oneshot where reader suffers from bad mental health stemming from SA PTSD and it puts her into a like rut where she doesnt want to get up or do anything she just exists and ilia comes over lets himself in and like is just physically there for her by hugging or wtv pls 🙏🤗😛

Trigger warning- Mental of SA, SA comfort, Unnecessary apologies.

The apartment was dark.

Not because it was nighttime it was barely three in the afternoon…but because the curtains were still drawn and every light remained off.

The same way they’d been for almost three days.

You were curled up on your side beneath a blanket, staring at absolutely nothing.

The TV wasn’t on.

Your phone battery had died sometime yesterday.

You hadn’t eaten anything substantial.

Hadn’t showered.

Hadn’t really slept.

You just… existed.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him.

Not the man from your past.

The stranger from two days ago.

The one at the grocery store.

He hadn’t done anything wrong.

He’d simply looked enough like him that your brain filled in the rest.

The same build.

The same haircut.

The same way he’d stood at the end of the aisle.

And suddenly it was like years of healing had disappeared.

The PTSD had grabbed you by the throat and dragged you backward.

Since then, you’d been stuck.

Frozen.

Unable to move.

Unable to think.

Unable to do anything besides survive each minute.

You vaguely heard your apartment door unlock.

Normally that would’ve startled you.

Today you barely reacted.

There was only one person who had a key.

A moment later you heard soft footsteps.

Then silence.

You knew he was standing in the doorway.

Watching.

Taking in the untouched water bottle on your nightstand.

The closed curtains.

The way you hadn’t moved.

Your eyes immediately filled with tears.

“I know,” you whispered.

You hadn’t spoken to him all day.

Or yesterday.

You hadn’t answered texts.

Hadn’t picked up calls.

Hadn’t been capable of explaining what was happening.

And somehow…

He knew.

The mattress dipped.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you.

You felt a hand brush gently through your hair.

Not forcing conversation.

Not demanding answers.

Just there.

Your lip trembled.

“I’m sorry.”

The words came out broken.

Immediately his hand moved to your cheek.

“Hey.”

His voice was soft.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“I was doing so good.”

The tears finally spilled over.

“I was okay.”

“I know.”

“I saw someone that looked like him and now I—”

Your voice cracked.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

The confession made another sob escape.

“I hate this.”

Ilia’s heart shattered every single time he saw you blame yourself for surviving something terrible.

He shifted closer.

Not enough to crowd you.

Just enough for you to feel him.

“You don’t have to fight it alone.”

The tears kept coming.

You felt exhausted.

Embarrassed.

Broken.

Every emotion all at once.

“I don’t wanna do anything.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I don’t wanna get up.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“That’s okay too.”

Your chest tightened.

Because there wasn’t a hint of frustration in his voice.

Not even a little.

He wasn’t trying to fix you.

Wasn’t trying to force you out of bed.

Wasn’t telling you to be positive.

He was just meeting you where you were.

Exactly where you were.

You finally looked at him.

His hair was messy.

His hoodie looked hastily thrown on.

Like he’d come straight here the second he realized something was wrong.

His eyes were full of concern.

And love. So much love.

The sight alone nearly made you cry harder.

He brushed away a tear with his thumb.

Then glanced at the blanket wrapped around you.

His voice got even quieter.

“Baby…”

You watched him.

“Can I hold you?”

Your throat tightened.

Because he always asked.

Always.

Even after years together.

Even on your worst days.

Even when he knew the answer.

He still asked.

You couldn’t get words out.

So you just nodded.

Immediately he moved.

Slow and careful.

Sliding beneath the blanket beside you.

Opening his arms.

You practically melted into him.

Like your body had been waiting for permission.

The second his arms wrapped around you, something inside you finally loosened.

Not fixed. Not healed.

Just…

Less alone.

His chest was warm against your back.

One arm wrapped around your waist.

The other rested across your stomach.

Holding you securely.

Like nothing in the world could touch you.

You felt his lips press softly against the top of your head.

Then again. And again.

Tiny kisses.

No expectations attached.

Just love.

“I’ve got you.”

The words were barely above a whisper.

You buried your face in his sweatshirt.

The familiar scent of him grounding you.

“You don’t have to be strong today.”

A tear slid down your cheek.

“You don’t have to do anything.”

Another kiss.

“We can stay right here.”

Another.

“As long as you need.”

For the first time in days, your breathing started to slow.

The panic wasn’t gone.

The memories weren’t gone.

The hurt wasn’t gone.

But Ilia was there.

Solid. Steady. Safe.

And for right now, that was enough.

His fingers traced lazy circles against your arm.

Never stopping. Never rushing you.

Just reminding you he was there.

Minute after minute.

Eventually your eyes grew heavy.

Exhaustion finally winning.

You felt one final kiss pressed against your hair.

And heard his quiet voice.

“I love you.”

Your eyes stayed closed.

But your hand found his.

Intertwining your fingers.

A tiny response.

The only one you had energy for.

Ilia smiled against your head and squeezed your hand back.

Then he settled in closer.

Holding you through the silence.

Holding you through the memories.

Holding you until sleep finally came.

[loverboyseb]

y’all have no idea how badly i just want to sit and do nothing but write, especially with worlds, but i unfortunately have a life and shit to do 😩 and i’m mad about it 🤨😭

[loverboyseb]

feeling this again but with wanting to write part two of this fic. it’s coming at some point!! it just might be a little bit. why is life so busy 😅😭😭🫠

[jaeyundazed]

YES PLEASE.

[jaeyundazed]

#goodbye heeseung 🥰🥰

[baldmalinin]

CRUSH — ilia malinin/f!reader

You hate Ilia. You can’t get enough of him. Tensions rise to a head at Milan, and he’s more than happy to talk - and fuck - it out.

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆

contains: dom!ilia x f!reader, enemies to lovers-ish (they’re stupid and down bad for each other), semi-public sex, oral (m + f receiving), slight praise and degradation, mentions of dacryphilia

a/n: for the sake of this fic, pretend than men and women’s free skates compete together + no feb 13th. also wc: 3.5k

─────────────────────────

You didn’t know if you wanted to get on top of him or get under him.

2024, Worlds, free skate - you gave what you considered a show-stopping performance and received good applause, even the occasional cheer. Then it was his turn - about as good as yours but with some less-than-clean jumps. Impressive, albeit, but with shaky landings.

Yet, as he left the ice, the arena thundered with applause - more applause than you got during your entire routine.

“You did great,” he enthused as he headed towards the locker rooms, receiving a rain of pats on the back. “My favorite silver medalist.”

You tried to remain stone-faced, to not to sulk like a sore loser. He broke away from the sea of praise, motioning for you to follow.

“What?” you asked, arms crossed.

“Nothing. You look really pretty.”

And then he blew you a kiss and left - really, just waved to all his fans, teammates, parents, anyone but you - and raced off before you could get a word in. Before you could think about the way that his muscles flexed beneath the shirt he was wearing and how they’d feel caging you under him.

2025, Worlds. Ilia rubs his gold in your face before trying to hug you, and you wince. You see the flicks all over social media the next day. 2025, Grand Prix Final. You try to congratulate him, put a pin on this weird, one-sided rivalry, and he rushes off. Your coach gives you a bouquet that feels like a consolation gift. 2025, US Championships. You don’t catch him at all, but the first post on your TikTok feed is saying that you should switch to pairs skating. With him. As if you weren’t polar opposites in artistic direction.

He reposts it.

You shouldn’t have been checking in the first place. (You still do). He has that effect on people, the poster boy for the sport, sure to go Olympian. And you’re - well, you’re just one of them.

You see the TikTok before it reaches fifty likes - a humiliating metric that proves you’ve been lurking more than you’d like to admit. Can you teach me how to skate?. Ilia slides across the ice, tongue out, and winks.

You cringe.

You watch it three more times.

2026, Milan, free skate. It’s a dizzyingly larger crowd than you’re accustomed to. Fans - fans - wield signs with your face on it, standing and pointing their phones straight down at you, fire the trigger of their cameras. Point, click, flash. You pace in the entryway towards the ice, willing the adrenaline to wear off.

A hand on your shoulder startles you.

“Feeling ready?”

“Yeah.” It’s abrasive and through your teeth. He laughs nervously, running his hands through his hair.

“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot,” he says. And he smiles. The sight makes your stomach flip in ways you don’t want to think about. Like how you felt watching that Tiktok. Ilia, can you teach me how to skate?

“No, yeah, uh - for sure.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice - weak, cracking at the edges. And you’re still staring at him. The chatter of the crowd fades to the contour of his jaw, the fanning of his lashes, the slopes of his face. “I like your costume.”

His eyes flutter, surprised, and soften. “Thanks. I took inspiration from your fit in that one training video.”

“You watch my training videos?”

Ilia ducks his head bashfully. Stuffs his hands in his pockets of his windbreaker.

“I mean, yeah. You’re a great skater.”

You open your mouth, questions flooding your mind but none sitting right in your mouth. “Thanks.”

“Wow, you’re not gonna say it back?”

“Fuck off, Ilia.” You storm off, white-hot irritation swallowing any ounce of anxiety you once had.

“Hey - hey! I’m sorry.” Ilia chases after you, catching you by the arm. “When’s your skate?”

You yank your arm out of his grip. “Like, fifteen minutes. Why?”

“I, uh. I thought we could talk for a bit.”

You sigh. Jab him lightly in the side, the lines of his abdomen tensing and contracting beneath your hand. You try not to picture what it would feel like to put your hand up his shirt.

The back hall winds past a series of warmup rooms, one of which is empty. “Fine,” you say, fidgeting with the trim of your dress. “Let’s talk.”

He nods, gaze dropping to the floor. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

You cross your arms, painfully aware of the seconds ticking by. The clock seems to thunder in your ears. You wonder if this is a mistake, if there’s a reason competitors aren’t friends-

And then he pouts, big eyes, soft, pretty lips. And he knew you’d looked down at his lips, because they’d curled into a grin, and he was inching towards you. Hand on your shoulder, sliding down your arm, touch burning and leaving you drunk in its wake.

“Is this because of Worlds?” he says, pitch an octave lower than usual. You bristle. “Come on, that was two years ago.”

“You were mean to me.”

“Two years ago!”

It’s your turn to pout.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, then, bordering on a whine - “let me make it up to you, please?”

You try to ignore how your heart’s thumping a million miles an hour, how you can’t lie anymore and attribute it to nerves.

“I can think of a way.”

You kiss him.

Ilia may have been a two time world champion, soon three if he had his way, but when it came to resisting you, he always lost.

The doors aren’t air-tight. You can hear chatter outside, footsteps, and the flashing of cameras, but fuck, does his mouth feel good on yours. His curls tickle your neck as he lathes open-mouthed kisses into the expanse. Thighs wedge tightly around yours as you fall back onto the table - stained with dried ice stains and god-knows-what. Arms flex as he pushes you further down, biceps taut on top of your ribs. You swear you can taste the sweet musk of his cologne as you kiss the underside of his jaw, drawing a shaky gasp from him.

“Fuck,” he groans through gritted teeth. “How many minutes till you have to skate?”

You check your phone. “Ten.”

He smooths your now-frazzled hair behind your ear, peering thoughtfully into your eyes. “I can make you cum in five.”

“You’re so fucking cocky,” you grit out, as he slides his hands out of your shirt to yank down your skirt. The contact of his hands to bare skin feels electrifying. You can’t bring yourself to care that it’s Ilia when he undoes his pants just enough to free himself. His hair’s extra curled from the thin layer of sweat forming in it. Cute. He’s cute.

You get why people fawn over him. When he’s like this - baby blue eyes straining to stay open, lips parted, hair mussed in his face - it’s hard not to. He’s a sensation. A class act that fucks in backrooms before skates. A poet that uses his mouth for his skating intros and to-

Ilia slides his tip against your clit, achingly swollen. Wet and dirty and warm. You whimper into the empty room.

“Fuck, we really shouldn’t,” he says, breathing raggedly into your ears.

“Why? Ilia, please. Need you.” One side of his lips twist up.

“But you’ll scream.”

And he pushes in without warning, muffling your cry with his mouth. The synchrony of your sounds, his tongue swiping your bottom lip in a slow, aimless way, his hips bucking into yours - it’s the epitome of sex and hate and everything in between. Ilia’s cock nudges that spot and you keen, clit bumping against his pelvis with each thrust. You clench around him. He fucks harder, wipes away the tears on your lash line with a smug grin.

“Aww,” he coos as you squirm and whine, clawing at his hair, chest, anywhere to ground yourself. “What happened to all that attitude?”

You clench involuntarily around him. “Ilia,” you moan weakly.

He groans into your ear. Plants your hands firmly above your head as he snaps his hips into yours. His necklace falls into your face. You bite the chain.

“Don’t do that, pretty girl.”

You smile playfully, craning your head to kiss his cheek. “Why not?”

“Because - fuck,” he positively whines as you latch onto his neck, warm and beating, teeth barely grazing the surface. “Our teammates are right outside. They’re gonna hear us.”

He buries his face into your neck as his thrusts slow down. You tuck his hair behind his ears, whispering into it-

“I’ll be quiet.”

He snaps his head up. Sears his mouth onto yours hard. Your teeth click together, but you can’t bring yourself to care when he fists a handful of skin at your waist and hisses into your ear.

“For someone who hates me so much, you sure like how I fuck you. Sucking me in so tight, fuck. Pretty pussy on a very pretty girl.” His hips again slow to a lazy rhythm, cock barely nudging the spot you need him most. “But you’re mean to me every time I try to make amends. Remember when you got flowers after your last big comp?” When you nod, he leans in, mouth nipping at the shell of your ear and whispering-

“That wasn’t your coach. That was me. I wanted to do something nice, make it up to you, but I had to leave before I could apologize.”

Your heart flutters, a dopey smile breaking across your entire face before you can help it. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He slowly drags his length out, tapping the tip against your clit - the spikes of pleasure and the emptiness making you squirm.

“Thanks, Ilia. That was sweet of you. Though,” you start, “if I’m being honest, I like it when you’re mean to me. Like it when you’re cocky and mean and have a big mouth.”

He lets out a pained sound, cock twitching in you furiously. “You’re such a freak,” he groans, punctuating his words with a particularly hard thrust.

“Ilia,” you whine, seeing stars as his hand rests on your throat - not pressing, just holding your head in place. “Please don’t stop, please. You feel so good.” His fingers draw careful circles into your clit.

He spins you around so that your back presses against the wall, throwing your legs over his shoulders as he crouches over you.

“My favorite silver medalist,” he coos as you tighten around him. “You gonna cum?”

You bite his lower lip angrily. “No, I’m gonna win.”

He laughs, squishing your cheeks together with his spare hand while the other speeds up on your clit. “If you beat me, I’ll eat you out until you cry.”

The knot in your lower tummy tightens impossibly. “And if I don’t?”

“I’ll eat you out anyway.” He smiles charmingly, contrasting the dirty, wet sounds of his cock hitting your ass. “Wanna make you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

You finish with a squeal that he muffles with his hand, pouting when you claw at his chest and beg him to slow down.

“Aw, is it too much?” he mocks. “But she’s crying for me, your pretty pussy. You and her. Only right that I give her what she wants.”

His hips stutter as he chases his high. “Fuck, pretty girl. So good. So pretty, wanna take you out to dinner and fuck the attitude out of you for dessert.”

He guides you to your feet, smoothing your skirt and hair and tucking himself back in his pants. His release spills out of you onto his underwear, creamy white. Filthy. A communion of you and him. “Check the time.”

“Five minutes and fifteen seconds left,” you read out from your phone.

He kisses your forehead and clasps your hands with his. “Told you I could do it.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, whatever. I gotta run, they’re waiting for me.” The knocks on the door, loud and frantic, make you jump. Your coach is calling your name, asking you to hurry up, we’re waiting for you.

“You hear that?” says Ilia. “They’re waiting for you.”

He smooths out your hair, pecking your forehead before you walk towards the doors.

“Good luck,” he calls softly as you turn the handle. You glance back at him, renewed with strength.

“Thanks, Ilia.”

“Meet me outside the locker rooms after we’re both done.”

“For what?”

Ilia smiles shyly. “You’ll see.”

The second your skates hit the ice, you feel like you’re soaring. You fall into an easy rhythm, a smile never leaving your face as you scan the crowd, gnawing on your bottom lip when you spot him. His head rests in his hands as he observes you.

A high-pitched cheer nearly blasts your eardrums as you as you step off the ice. He immediately shuts his mouth, then leans into your ear to whisper as you cross paths.

“Great job, pretty girl.”

You can’t help the stupid grin that bursts onto your face.

The yolk of early evening sneaks through the hallway’s windows, casting a golden flush upon his skin.

“Hi,” he says hoarsely, thumbing the pockets of his sweats.

“Hey, you.”

“I…think I have a promise to fulfill.”

You end up in a rental car in a secluded parking lot, windows fogged up and the enclosed area barely concealing the sounds of sex. He has your skirt bunched up in one hand, panties pushed to the side with the other, and his lips are swollen and covered in your arousal.

He pulls away from your clit with a pop, tongue lolling from his mouth and cheeks ruddy. You card your hands through his hair as he preens.

“So pretty, Ilia. You look like a dream.” He latches back onto your pussy with fervor, whining and groaning into your skin. You absently register that he’s humping the seat, eyes rolled all the way back when they flutter open.

“Fuck,” he whispers, staring up at your fucked-out expression. You whine at the loss of contact, and he pats your thighs. “I know, baby, I know.” Without breaking his gaze, he slides two fingers into you, curling them straight into your sweet spot.

You squeal. Squeal. Fuck, you hate him.

“Right there?” he asks. “Already made you cum three times and you still want more.”

“Please, Ilia.” Tears bead your waterline, and a sick part of him likes it. Likes when you beg and cry and cum all over his face.

Slowly, his head dips, sucking and biting at any skin he can reach. And then you feel it - his lips wrapping around your clit. Kneading, flicking, drawing circles into it. He groans into your pussy, hips chasing his own high. Traces hearts along your inner thighs.

As you fall over the edge, Ilia tenses, gripping your waist for dear life. There’s a wet spot at the front of his pants once he rises.

“Did you just-”

“Shut up.”

He swats you playfully as you crawl into the front seat, inspecting yourself in the car mirror. Swatches of deep purple litter your neck and chest.

“Come on, Ilia!”

He evades your swats, half-playful, half-indignant, as he drives the two of you back.

You jump when you see him the next morning, hovering by your door.

“Breakfast?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

You were imagining the dining hall, but he, evidently, had other plans. You marvel at the scenery as you drive through winding streets, stopping at a diner tucked into the corner of two brick buildings.

Ilia opens the car door. “After you.”

Chatting with Ilia is, shockingly, as easy as breathing. He peppers jokes into lulls, asks questions about your life, peers thoughtfully as he talks about his. You laugh so hard that tears brim your eyes.

The sight is the best thing he’s ever seen, he thinks. He props his head on his hands just to look at you.

You’re three mimosas and a lemon-blueberry pancake deep when you decide to pop the question.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

You take a swig of your drink. Purely for the flavor, not for liquid courage. “Ilia, why’d you say that at Worlds?”

He groans. “I don’t know. I saw you, and I guess I just got nervous.”

“Ilia, that is the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

He not-so-surreptiously mops an egg off your plate with your toast. You glare at him playfully.

“Hey - you’re just - fuck, you’re really pretty, okay?”

You spend the rest of the Olympics fucking in secret, yes. You also get brunch, and you go on walks around the city, and you paint each other’s portraits over wine (Ilia, I do not look like that!), and you massage each other’s sore muscles every damn night in a bubble bath.

“Relax.” he murmurs, eyes lasered on your tense legs and methodically kneading them.

You push him off, motioning for him to stand. The startled expression on his face fades when you drop to your knees in front of him.

“Can I?” you ask sweetly. He cards his hands through your hair, smoothing out any knots, and whispers a breathy yeah.

“Just wanna thank you,” you add, as he unbuckles his belt. The clink of metal makes you bounce on your heels in anticipation.

When he finally unzips his pants, pulling himself out of his boxers, you salivate. Shiver from the tub water clinging to your skin. Ilia notices and hands you a towel.

You plop back down.

“Come closer,” he groans. You tilt your head back to take the tip just between your lips, the warmness settling on your tongue. “Fuck-” you suck gently “ah-” and the tip keeps dripping precum, no matter how much you swallow. He scrunches his nose - cute - as his hands card through your hair, tugging lightly - enough to say, get a move on without hurting you.

Ilia’s left hand flies up to cover his mouth when you take him fully. You bob your head, swirling your tongue along his length before pulling away with a pop. It jumps against your cheek, hard and heavy and wet, when you nip at his inner thighs.

“Dinner tomorrow?” he asks, once he comes down from his high.

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. I’d love that.”

He pumps his fist. “Yesssss.” Kicks his feet in the air before collapsing them on the mattress.

“Dork.”

“You still hate me?” he asks, worry masked by humor.

You shake your head vehemently. Trace tiny hearts into his back.

“Ilia?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He nods.

“What would you do if you had a crush on someone but wasn’t sure how they felt?”

He slumps in your arms, brows drawn together. “Well, it would depend on your relationship with them. If it’s good, then I would tell them and trust that our connection is stronger than the outcome. But no one is as good as me.” He kisses you hard that you’re breathless. “No one does this as good as me. No one fucks you better than I do.”

You poke him in the nose. His elbows, propping himself over you, falter, then collapse. He falls onto you like a deadweight, then turns his head away so you can’t read his expression.

“Ilia…” you whisper into the midnight air. You cup his cheeks with your hands. He lies perfectly still - not moving away but not leaning in.

“What if you and this person had a…complicated history? Like, you thought you hated each other and kind of did for a bit?”

He whips around so fast that your hands almost get crushed by his torso. “What?”

You blink. Realization dawns upon him.

“Me?”

You force yourself to look at him as you speak.

“Yeah, you.”

For a moment, you can’t pull your eyes away from each other. Then, after a beat - you interlace your fingers together, look down at where they meet. And laugh. You don’t know why, but you do. And then you’re rolling around in the bed together, clutching onto each other for dear life as you laugh, and laugh, till you’re heaving for air.

“She likes me!” he says dopily, kissing your forehead. “She likes me.”

You nod. He kisses you.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

You answer, and he pretends to jot it down into an invisible notebook.

“Got it. I’ll have to get some at the store before I ask you to be my girlfriend tomorrow, on a very special date, for a very special girl.”

You wear a face of false contemplation. “As long as we don’t have to be pairs skaters.”

“Aw, what’s so bad about that? More time with me.”

He pouts, and you kiss it away.

“Ilia, I really like you, but I’m not doing a backflip on ice.” You shut him up with more kisses before he can protest.

Best (future) boyfriend ever.

[jaeyundazed]

FUCKING CINEMA OH MY GOD GOOD MORNING TO ME (it is 7am yes)

[motionlessxgirl]

Fear Takes Flight

Ilia Malinin x f!reader

Summary: You have a fear of flying.

Contains: Angst, fluff

The fluorescent lights of the airport terminal buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry hornets, amplifying every racing heartbeat in your chest. You clutched the boarding pass so tightly that the edges bit into your palm, your other hand gripping the strap of your carry-on like it was a lifeline. Ilia walked beside you, his usual easy stride relaxed, earbuds dangling around his neck as he hummed something under his breath—probably one of those skating playlists he loved. His presence should have been comforting. Instead, it felt like another weight pressing down on your already fraying nerves.

You hated this. The crowds, the announcements crackling over the speakers, the distant roar of engines outside the massive windows. Flying had always been your nightmare, a helpless trap of metal and air where control slipped away completely. But this trip—heading to a competition Ilia was invited to showcase at in Europe—meant you couldn’t back out. Not when you’d promised to support him.

“Hey,” Ilia said softly, his voice warm as he nudged your shoulder. “You okay? You look like you’re about to fight the TSA agent with your bare hands.”

You forced a tight smile. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Ilia Malinin, with his golden retriever energy and those sharp, observant eyes that saw through every spin on the ice and every deflection off it, always noticed. He reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together. “We’ll be boarding soon. Once we’re in the air, I’ll distract you. We can watch that movie you wanted—”

The gate agent announced pre-boarding for their row, and your stomach dropped like you’d already hit turbulence. Your pulse hammered in your ears. The thought of being sealed in that tube, thousands of feet up, with nothing but physics and luck keeping you alive… it clawed at your throat.

You yanked your hand away harder than you meant to. “Ilia, stop. Just—stop.”

He blinked, freezing mid-step. “What?”

“You don’t get it,” you snapped, the words tumbling out sharper than you intended, fueled by the rising panic. People nearby glanced over, but you couldn’t stop. “You fly all the time. Competitions, shows, training camps—it’s nothing to you. But for me, it’s… it’s terrifying. And you’re just standing there humming like we’re going on some cute little vacation, and I can’t breathe, and I hate this, and I hate—”

You cut yourself off before you said something unforgivable, but the damage was already there. Ilia’s face shifted—hurt flickering across those expressive features he usually kept so light and playful for the cameras. His shoulders tensed, the easy smile fading into something guarded.

“I know you’re scared,” he said quietly, his accent softening the words. “That’s why I’m trying to help. You think I don’t see it? Every time we talk about travel, you get that look. But snapping at me isn’t going to make the plane disappear.”

The anxiety twisted into guilt, then defensiveness. “Well, maybe I don’t need your help right now. Maybe I just need you to leave me alone for five seconds so I can deal with it.”

Ilia stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he nodded once, sharply. “Okay. Fine.” He stepped back, giving you space, but the distance felt like miles. He turned toward the window, hands shoved in his pockets, watching planes taxi outside. The silence between you stretched, heavy and aching. You could see the hurt in the set of his shoulders—the same ones that carried quadruple jumps like they were nothing, now rigid because of you.

Boarding started. You moved through the line like a ghost, every step heavier. Ilia followed a few paces behind, not pushing, not leaving either. The aisle felt too narrow as you found your seats. You took the window—your choice, stupidly, because part of you thought staring at the clouds might help, but now it just mocked you. Ilia sat beside you, buckling in without a word. No humming. No teasing. Just quiet.

The plane pushed back from the gate. Your breathing grew shallow. The engines revved, and your hand shot out instinctively, gripping the armrest until your knuckles went white. Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and angry.

Ilia’s hand hovered near yours, uncertain. “I’m sorry,” he whispered finally, voice barely audible over the roar. “I didn’t mean to make it worse. I just… I hate seeing you like this and feeling useless.”

You turned to him, the anxiety cracking open into raw vulnerability. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap. It’s not you. It’s this—this stupid fear that makes me feel like I’m drowning before we even leave the ground. And I took it out on you because… because you’re here. Because I trust you enough to fall apart in front of you, I guess.”

His eyes softened, that familiar warmth returning. As the plane accelerated down the runway, pressing you back into your seat, Ilia gently pried your fingers from the armrest and laced them with his. His grip was steady, calloused from years of blades and ice, grounding.

“I’m right here,” he murmured, leaning closer so his forehead nearly touched yours. “Not going anywhere. Not even if you yell at me again. We’ll get through the flight together. Breathe with me, yeah? In… out. Like before a tough program.”

The wheels lifted off. Your stomach lurched, but you focused on his voice, on the rhythm of his thumb stroking over your knuckles. The angst lingered in the air between you—raw edges from the argument—but it was softening, melting into something warmer. Safer.

“You know,” he added after a minute, a small, tentative smile tugging at his lips, “if the plane starts falling, I’ll just do a quad Axel out the emergency exit and carry you down. Perfect 10 landing.”

A choked laugh escaped you despite everything. “Idiot.”

“Your idiot.” He squeezed your hand tighter. “Always.”

As the plane climbed higher and the seatbelt sign dinged off, the tension in your chest eased, bit by bit. Ilia stayed close, sharing his headphones, queuing up that movie, whispering dumb skating stories to distract you. The fight wasn’t forgotten—it stung a little still—but the makeup felt like solid ground in a sky full of uncertainty. You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting his steady heartbeat anchor you.

For the first time that day, flying didn’t feel quite so impossible. Not with him beside you.

@prettyraspberry

[jaeyundazed]

who up thinking.

[mrkestis]

Just Ilia looking cute and huggable

[vampbers3a]

all these dropping overnight... how r we supposed to survive

(isabeau in the bottom right pic is absolutely taking me out 😭 me too girl me too)