[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star Masterlist // Pornstar Satoru headcanons

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five - Chapter Six - Chapter Seven - Chapter Eight

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream.

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation, mentions of drug use, weed smoking, Gojo has an OF hehe, lots of longing, pining, Satoru can't get hard if it's not you, whipped ass Satoru, explicit sexual content, angst -

Finished - WC 85k 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 Playlist -Ao3 link

Headcanons below!

Pornstar Satoru is one of the most famous pornstars there are, hence him constantly wearing jet black shades and hoodies at times, he never knew just who he'd run into that would recognize him. Whether it's his flicks or his OF - he's the top .01 % - he gets a lot of notice, especially in bustling LA. But, he loves what he does, he especially loves watching his abs flex in the camera as he hits one of his lovely costars from the back.

Pornstar Satoru loves making the costars and girls he collabs with actually cum, where they're shaking and squirting all over his latex covered cock. Not that fake shit like he watches them do with other men- no Satoru makes sure to slam that curved tip against their cervix, to roll his thumb right on their clit with the perfect amount of pressure. Perhaps that's the secret to how famous he really is, along with his good looks.

Pornstar Satoru makes so much money from each shoot and is in high demand, so he can have whoever he wants as a co star. They line up to have a chance at him, watching his videos and aching for a chance to feel his cock hitting them deeper than damn near anyone could hit, to say they got to shoot with the Satoru Gojo. This just makes Satoru fuck them harder, smiling right at that camera, as women dream it's really them that have captured his pretty blue eyed gaze.

Pornstar Satoru thinks it's a pretty damn good life, being rich for fucking beautiful women on camera, as he's inhaling a blunt after a threesome shoot with his best friend - and often costar- Pornstar Suguru, as they talk about who got the girl to squirt more, right in the middle of a bouguie party in East LA. Suguru let's out a throaty laugh, while Satoru narrows his blue eyes. 'I had her cumming so hard she was shaking' he says, taking a hit and handing it back to Suguru. 'Nah, that was all for me, did you see...'

Pornstar Satoru stops listening when he sees you enter the room, completely out of place at the coke filled, booze filled party, wearing a pair of black glasses that cover half of your pretty face, and a little nervous look as you stand there, in a cute white pleated skirt and a big oversized sweater. Satoru smacks Suguru on the shoulder then and he coughs up smoke. 'Shit what is it?' Satoru looks back at you, when you're handed a drink, some guy flirting as you look down shyly. 'Who's she?' Suguru blinks a bit curiously. 'I don't know, she's pretty though'

Pornstar Satoru scowls at Suguru who snorts in laughter then. 'Satoru we don't have 'girlfriends' and she... looks like a good girl' your eyes catch his then, across the room, like something shifts as you smile sweetly, before peering at your phone, biting your lip in concentration. 'I'm talking to her' Suguru chuckles as he watches his friend, and Satoru feels his heart race when he comes too close to you, something he can't say he's felt, even pleasing countless beauties, nothing has quite altered him as your sweet turn of lips, as you look down at your converse, so out of place you're fucking adorable. 'Hey sweetheart... Satoru Gojo' he says, introducing himself with ease, expecting you to maybe notice him, get starstruck, fuck women get wet just near him, but you simply grin, and your name whispers through his mind when it spills from your lips.

Pornstar Satoru has you sitting with him later, you fall into easy conversation, you're a little gamer nerd, you love science and the environment, he just bets you were head of your ecology club in college, which you quickly confirm, all while you're in awe of just how beautiful this man is. He's sweet, he's sexy... you feel he shouldn't even be talking to you. You're pretty but... he's experienced so clearly, by every way he moves, he's worldly, so confident, and you've never really left this little part of LA, but the two of you can't stop talking, to the point you forget what brought you here.

Pornstar Satoru laughs with you, as you're sitting side by side, and he lights up a blunt, leaning back on the burgundy couch on the outskirts of the party, inhaling it deep into his lungs. 'Want a hit, sweets?' he murmurs, you take it nervously, putting it to your lips and inhaling a bit, before coughing, covering your mouth. Satoru chuckles, 'you're cute' earning your cheeks heating up. 'Can you tell I don't do this?' you're nervously tapping your leg now. 'Yeah, what does bring you here, doesn't seem your...' 'my scene?' he nods then. 'yeah, that.'

Pornstar Satoru watches avidly as you sip on your drink, wincing at the strong liquor. 'Well, my friend invited me over, but she's running late' Satoru grins now. 'Party time is different, everyone comes late, that's on time. About fifteen minutes late' 'oh no I came early!' you smack your own forehead, giggling along with him. 'Are you like... a model, or an actor?' you ask, eyeing him and his baby blues, the cheekbones so perfect, those lips that wrap the blunt again. 'You could say I'm a bit of both,' he muses, then spits out his drink when you ask 'what are you in!?'

Pornstar Satoru coughs just a bit, he's never been ashamed of what he does, but he's nervous for some reason to tell you. Why, he doesn't know. 'I'm... into some indie flicks' you brighten up then. 'Oh, let me know, I love lowkey films! I bet you're great' Satoru sighs, gulping down the rest of his drink and eyeing your cup. 'Want more?' you frown now, maybe you're asking too much, or offending this actor that you don't recognize him!? You nod, the amount of people around you making you press against this friendly, pretty white haired stranger just a little more.

Pornstar Satoru has another drink, eyeing the sea of bodies undulating in the extravagant mansion, and soon the two of you are dancing together you're cute and so awkward, Satoru's enjoying this far, far too much. He has plenty of costars and fans come up to the two of you, but he's too interested in showing you how to move your hips to pay them any mind, when finally your friend comes. Satoru instantly recognizes her, she's a pretty famous co star he's collabed with on her Onlyfans not long ago. When she sees you giggling and enjoying yourself so much, she damn near drags you away, making Satoru curse.

Pornstar Satoru eyes you when your friend whispers in your ear- 'you really don't recognize him!?' you blink curiously, looking at him more closely. 'Should I?' she sighs then, eyeing Satoru up and down. 'He was in my OF videos, we collabed' you heat up furiously then. 'I never watched your videos! I just subbed to be supportive!' she giggles. 'You're so cute, I thought you at least watched some?' you shake your head nervously. 'I don't really watch, is he... like an OnlyFans guy?' Satoru is back over with Suguru now, while you sip your drink, feeling your body warm up. 'He's the top pornstar there is, the collab was like a dream. He's really sweet but you should know is all, you're kinda...' you glare. 'kinda what?' she giggles again. 'you're just... sweet, emotional, is all'

Pornstar Satoru expects you to be done with him once you find out, after all you just seem innocent, uncorrupted for this city, not the kind of girl to be at this party where lines are being snorted off bodies, and people are naked and jumping in the pools, a heady, wild atmosphere. But you smile at him, as you murmur - 'he's sweet?' to your friend. She nods then. 'He is, but just know... he doesn't date so, it'd only be physical' you frown at that now, that's not something you think you can do, you're about as demisexual as it gets, hence your very limited experience. 'He doesn't date at all?' Your friend gently touches your shoulder. 'No, love, I'd hate to see you hurt'

Pornstar Satoru catches you before you leave later that night, when you are just feeling too out of place, his big hand wrapped around your delicate wrist, earning you looking up at him. He can't stop thinking how pretty your eyes would look rolled back, how good your lips would feel wrapped around his cock, as you relax a bit, turning and looking up. 'Headed out already?' he asks softly, you flush as you remember just what he does for a living, your friend had just described his cock in far too vivid detail. 'It's not really my thing, but I'm glad we met, Gojo' you smile so cute then, leaning up and pecking him on the cheek, his arm wraps your waist as he leans down, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent cloying to your skin.

Pornstar Satoru pulls you in closer, blue eyes staring under snowy lashes. 'Can I... get your number?' Satoru has never asked for a number a day in his life, but he delights in watching you shift nervously, nodding as you tuck your hair behind your ear. 'Yeah, I'd like that' he exchanges numbers, tilting your chin up then, watching the way your eyes dilate, the color spread on your pretty cheeks. 'She told you?' you clear your throat, nodding a bit, still being captured by his fingers. 'I don't judge at all, Gojo, I'd still like to be... friends...' your whisper is met with the most subtle kiss on your lips, shooting desire hot and heavy until Satoru releases you, plump lips smirking- 'sure, sweets, we can be friends'

Pornstar Satoru can't get you off his mind, the feel of your skin on his, the sweet sigh against his lips. He is on a big shoot and - the Satoru Gojo that never gets soft - is having trouble keeping it up, to the amusement of his costar Pornstar Sukuna. Satoru scowls at his comments, just picturing your sweet lips against his for that brief moment. A man who just fucks and fucks, and doesn't feel, is hung up just on some fucking kiss. He has to take a break after pleasing his costar with his fingers, she's cumming so much she doesn't notice, but the directors wonder why he's off. He's in his own dressing room, eyeing the phone, hands shaking as he decides to type a message - 'could you give me a picture, sweets, to save as your caller id?'

Pornstar Satoru finds his cock is right back on hard when you send one quickly, just a cute selfie with a little peace sign, but he sees your glossy fucking lips, the teeth indentations he aches to rub the tip of his cock on, along with just a hint of your breasts. Your nipples press against the thin material of your little tee shirt- Pokemon, he notices, smiling- his cock throbbing. 'Can I get one too?' you're biting that lower lip nervously as you ask, getting a picture of him shirtless then, doing nothing to stifle the curiosity in your mind, your heart racing as you seee his body. 'You at a shoot?' you ask in the messages, he hesitates before answering - 'yes' - and somehow you feel jealous of whoever his costar is. You message a - kill it, Gojo! - despite the feeling in your tummy, little do you know you're drowning his fucking mind when he performs later, feeling the star squirting all over his latex covered cock.

Pornstar Satoru can't stop texting you that week, he can't even get hard if he doesn't look at that picture, and you can't stop your curiosity, when you friend mentions he's doing a live stream. Since Satoru can hardly perform, he's decided to masturbate on live cam, in minutes making more than he'd make in a shoot, all while having your picture propped up. People are chatting, watching, dollars by the hundreds being tipped every moment, fuck he's making way more than he usually would, and he can think of you. He laughs softly, abs flexing as he hits the right angle, reading the comments, making you dripping wet, this isn't what you do!?

Pornstar Satoru is stroking his wet, slick cock that's glistening, up and down with his huge hand, and you feel your pussy clench, breath coming faster, unsure whether to look away or keep staring, meanwhile he's picturing you in all sorts of positions, on your knees, a fucking mating press. He's shutting his eyes for a moment, grinning as the viewers go crazy. 'I know, it's pretty, huh?' he spits right on that long, veiny cock of his, pinching his pink tip and whining, white lashes fluttering open right when he sees a familiar name enter the chat.

Your name.

Pornstar Sukuna hcs here // Pornstar Suguru hcs here // Onlyfans Nanami hcs here

Kofi link (if you feel generous & wanna buy me a ☕️

[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]

ilia malinin ― all's well that ends well to end up with you

𝓸r ── .✦ when you're in a relationship with someone for over three years, it's hard to let them go. harder when you grew up just a few homes apart. especially difficult when they've become your home. months of pettiness masking pain, anonymous posts that sounded too familiar to be distant, and the crumbled remains of a dream, all bloom into a mess of everything but closure. and, of course, one moment of weakness that makes you realize exactly what you're giving up.

𝓹airing: ex.ᐟilia 𝔁 𝓯.ᐟreader      ⟢ 𝓬ontains smut ♱ mdni ♱ masterlist

𝔀ord count: 14.6k

⟢ 𝓻achel: i know i lowkey said i wasn't going to torture anyone with more angst but...initially this fic was planned to be based around the anonymous exposé and be a crapshoot but then i angstmaxxed and here we are at fourteen thousand words and the most maternal i've ever been for a reader/ilia pair. uhhhhhhhh so enjoy the angst and smut and fluff and everything i love them!!! ── tags below the cut .ᐟ

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, angst, ex!ilia, lots of implied sex, making out, very semi-public sex, shower sex, unprotected sex, fingering, handjob, #angstsex, slight aftercare, co-dependency lowkey, breakup, february 13th, loooots of fluff, they're so in love, nicknames :], reader's roommate has a crazzzy coincidence, dirty jokes in a public rink, lots of great surprises, yay happy ending :3 ᯓ‎♪ lover - taylor swift | lover, you should have come over - jeff buckley | bad idea right? - olivia rodrigo

in the life of two souls, cursed with distance, bound by love; excerpts in time. frozen moments of us. — — — JANUARY, 2026. "ilia malinin drools when he sleeps."

the post surfaces from an anonymous account on twitter. some user640388337, a nobody. behind it? identity unknown.

to the public, at least.

it wasn't meant to spread across the figure skating community and accumulate nearly a thousand likes in one day. realistically speaking, the odds of it happening are low; extremely low, at that, given the thirteen followers it started with. mostly bots.

it only took one person to repost. then another, and another, and suddenly, your phone is blowing up on your nightstand at ten o'clock at night.

it's harmless, anyway. no one would actually believe a faceless, joined december 2025 user.

to do that is about as intelligent as believing a reddit poster.

you laugh, place the phone face down where it was before, and roll over to sleep.

rule of thumb: when your figure skater ex-boyfriend appears on nbc for "making team usa" in the olympics, you log on to twitter and embarrass him.

if he can be petty and wear your clothes on air after you've broken up, then why can't you make a harmless little hate post? — — — OCTOBER, 2022. he was always shorter than you.

in every photo of the two of you over the years, you always towered over him. but you took care of him, even if he was actually a few months older. it was funny how it took years to realize that you lived just a few houses away from one another, on the same street, even. but when you did, you suddenly spent every waking moment together.

most people thought you had to be related; you were attached at the hip.

tonight is no different.

"you look really pretty," ilia tells you softly. his hands clasp around your waist, your own around his neck.

homecoming; you'd come together as friends. best friends. the kid who barely showed up to school because of his "special schedule," and the girl who was always beside him.

you always liked each other a little more than you let on.

like the day on the playground, when he approached you under the slide, pecked your lips, and ran away mischievously. you'd pretended to be disgusted, but really, your heart was racing.

something unspoken dusts over your cheeks. "thank you," you whisper back.

"i mean it."

he sounds so sure that it scares you.

you don't pull away when he leans in.

the kiss is soft, a little hesitant. but it's warm, and it makes you forget that you're standing in an old gymnasium, surrounded by people you can't really stand.

his fingers flex on your lower back as he breaks off. he looks — proud, almost.

you were mad when the growth spurt hit earlier this year.

ilia, on the other hand, got to lean down to kiss you.

"sorry, was that okay?"

"i don't know," you shrug, "maybe you should try again."

his lips curve into a smile — and his head shakes — as his head cranes again, and this time, you meet him halfway.

your fingers trail carefully into the brown hair at the nape of his neck, opposite palm finding his shoulder. it's careful, still a little nervous. your hands shake.

but you're smiling.

and ilia malinin might just be the happiest man alive. — — — JUNE, 2023. "you should visit the school one day."

ilia pulls up from your neck, "if i can find the time, i will."

"it's only two hours from here," your fingers trace his shoulder blade through his thin t-shirt. "i move back in the first week of august. you won't be competing then yet, right?"

"no," he shakes his head.

"do you want to help?"

your voice is soft. a little nervous, as if he'd decline.

"you can meet liliana. she's really nice."

he smiles, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth. "then i'm busy that day."

you pull him back down and kiss him again, tangling your fingers into his short, soft strands of hair, freshly bleached for the first time.

which, you'd reacted to accordingly a few days ago.

you never quite made it back home that night.

he grins against your lips. you mirror the stretch and bend your knee at his waist, letting the edge rest against him.

"i wish i didn't have to go back," you murmur into his mouth, the noise quiet, muffled.

"wish i didn't have to compete."

his hips apply pressure to yours; you almost don't notice the subtle grind, the shift in weight above you. your eyes instinctively flutter.

"you have an olympic appearance to worry about," you counter, voice a little weak at the edges.

"in three years."

his palm finds your kneecap and rests upon the surface. grounding. warm.

you squirm. kiss a little firmer.

as his lips disconnect from yours, "let's just run away."

"what about your competitions?"

"fuck them."

"and your family?"

"fuck them, too," he moans into your mouth, at which you laugh and flatten a palm to his chest, pushing him away.

"you're crazy," you add lazily. "now c'mon, you said you were supposed to stream. go do that. i'll be right here."

ilia rolls his eyes. "mm, few more minutes."

"you told people six o'clock. which, you never do. you usually hop on and hope for the best," you lecture. "it's already five past, and i have to schedule my classes for next semester, so go."

he sighs and moves to his computer, albeit begrudgingly.

he opts for minecraft — simple, calming, not too much noise to distract you. speaks quietly into the microphone. only a few bursts of sound when he falls into a ravine or gets slain by a skeleton he hadn't seen. and a laugh from the peanut gallery (you).

you type at your computer, studying the courses and making sense of the options. now, there are plenty of seats open, enough to choose from to maintain your part-time work schedule.

you click on your fourth and final course, weigh in the options, and opt for the simplest morning class.

realizing you left your bag leaning against the leg of his desk, you lift your head.

"baby, can you hand me my bag?"

your eyes shoot open. hand flies to your mouth. a soft fuck muffled by your palm.

ilia hesitates.

"uh, yeah, that's my friend," he tries to recover to the chat, most questions popping up from — of course — a few people in particular; they're too pushy for his liking. "no, guys, she said maybe. not baby. ew. hold on."

he clicks the mic into its muted position and leans over, wrapping his fingers around the bag's handle. it slings onto the bed for you to grab.

you cock a brow.

"maybe?"

"do you have a better suggestion, sherlock?" he folds his arms and cranes his neck; you pout in response. "exactly. now go back to your school shit, or whatever."

you flip him off.

he blows a kiss.

initially, your parents wanted to keep your and ilia's relationship private. they didn't want your seventeen-year-old self in the limelight that way. you couldn't blame them, partly. for ilia, it already seemed like too much spotlight, and he was still on the rise, barely scratching the surface of recognition.

then, you went off to your first semester of college.

met friends, matured, lived alongside liliana for a year, who has been nothing but kind to you.

you're nineteen. old enough to make the decision for yourself.

you decided to stay private.

it's simpler. calmer. less noise. and you're not apt for the spotlight.

plus, you get ilia all to yourself when the cameras are off. and you like that.

thankfully, the chat loses its memory, and your slip-up becomes a thing of the past.

you lean against the headboard and watch quietly this time, clutching one of ilia's toothless plushies in your arms.

and you watch. admire. quietly. a tiny smile shaping your lips.

waiting for him to return to you. — — — AUGUST, 2023. "i think you'll love him."

you place a heavy box onto the bare mattress and step back with your hands on your hips. a bead of sweat forms on your forehead and drips down. "phew, that's heavy."

"i'm excited," your roommate muses. "you never shut up about him last year."

"that's not true."

"is so."

you roll your eyes, "well, he should be coming up any minute. i convinced him to take more stuff up. y'know, athlete strength."

"athlete? i didn't know he played a sport," liliana mentions, cocking her head. she pulls a rolled-up poster out of one of her boxes.

"really? i swear i told you."

you furrow your brows and rack your brain, but you suppose it never came up. you were pretty busy last year, and you almost always went home on the weekends. naturally, it makes sense.

"well, he figure skates."

liliana's eyes narrow.

"what did you say his name was again?"

you part your lips to respond. "ilia…?"

her eyes shut, and she huffs out a particularly irritated breath. "no fucking way."

confused, you blink.

"like, the quad axel?"

"…yeah," you smile bashfully.

she doesn't look amused. "like, ilia malinin. like, the quad god guy."

"yes?" you confirm again, your tone a little stale as if you've just stated the obvious. "wait, you know him?"

you rack your brain. every conversation you've ever had with her swirls around like a hot mess.

it clicks when you remember u.s. nationals, back in january.

you'd come back to an oddly dissatisfied roommate. and then she added something to her story that you hadn't processed at the time.

oh, boy.

YOU: i think my roommate hates u

ILIA: what why

YOU: uh

YOU: you'll see

ILIA: ?????

you slip your phone back into your pocket. "i didn't even realize you watched figure skating."

"i know you're fucking lying," she laughs unamusedly, almost accusatively. there isn't a drop of evidence on your face that you're not telling the truth, but she'll be damned to let you play in her face.

"he's literally bringing half of my shit up here, lily."

"that'll be the day that ilia 'quad god' malinin steps into my dor—"

the door slams open.

"okay, i'm — fuck — i'm here," ilia pants, dropping the two boxes (and bag over his shoulder) onto the floor.

you puff air into your cheeks.

this won't be awkward.

he looks between you two; something stale sits in the air. he can't quite place it. ilia isn't really great with social cues.

"liliana, right?" he asks, stepping up to introduce himself. "i'm—"

"ilia malinin."

the name breezes past her lips with malice.

"wait, huh?"

"i know you," she replies through gritted teeth, reaching for the poster she'd taken out. she removes the elastic and lets the thick paper fall open; then, it all makes sense to him.

yuzuru hanyu.

your roommate is a fanyu, and your boyfriend is ilia fucking malinin.

it sounds like the punchline of a bad joke.

"oh," ilia mumbles.

"uh…" you chuckle nervously, "so now that we've determined you're — uhm — well-acquainted with him…already..."

"you could say that."

ilia scratches his head. "i can go," he suggests, thumbing towards the door. "if i'm not," he scratches the back of his neck, "wanted."

"no, you're staying here," you tell him firmly.

you watch lily carefully set the poster onto her bed. her hands find her hips. she doesn't even look angry. unsettled, if anything. shocked, too.

it's not that you're a nobody, or anything, but she hadn't expected her photography major roommate's boyfriend to be who is essentially her archenemy, if you read between the lines.

you never posted anything about him. you don't even follow him. how the hell would she know?

"you stole it from him," she mutters.

you palm your forehead.

"oh my god, the jump? that's what has your panties in a twist?" you roll your eyes. "lily, you've got to be kidding."

"he did!"

"it's a jump!"

"i'm not like, mean," ilia interrupts to clarify; you palm your forehead. "i like him, too! i'm a big fan of his."

"you said he was pissed about you landing the stupid quad axel."

"jesus, i was kidding."

"oh, you know you weren't," she huffs.

"well, was i wrong? last i checked, he didn't land it."

"when i tell my group chat about this—"

"no," you and ilia interrupt in unison.

"we're keeping it private," you continue, hands out in surrender to keep her at ease. you've never had to walk around eggshells with her before. it seems necessary.

"don't tell anyone. no one knows he has a girlfriend. we intend to keep it that way."

lily cocks a brow. "how long have you two been together?"

"dude," ilia scoffs.

you slap his arm.

"i told you," you remind her. "it'll be a year in october."

"right. yeah," she huffs. "you did."

"well, i haven't unpacked anything yet. so…you can either get over whatever hate you've got going on, or i'm switching dorms."

the two of you eye her like she's a ticking time bomb.

she steps back and lowers her arms to her sides.

you glance at ilia.

he shrugs.

"okay, well." she empties more decorations from the box and litters them onto the mattress. "i guess i'll just have to get used to him, then. i like you."

"i'm a person, you know. with ears?"

"oh, i'm sure you are."

"lily!"

"you're bitter for someone who doesn't even know yuzuru personally," he adds.

"oh my god, will both of you shut the fuck up?" you palm your forehead and drag it down your face, letting out a heavy sigh. "this is stupid."

you dart your finger towards your roommate. "you need to stop eyeing my boyfriend like you want his knees bashed in." you turn to ilia, "and you need to take your ego down a peg. do i make myself clear?"

"yes," the two mumble in unison.

"great."

lily grabs her keys and moves the emptied box onto the floor. "luckily for you, i have more stuff to grab. i'll be back."

she leaves the room, and the door clicks shut behind her.

"well," you cough. "now you've met my roommate."

ilia laughs, steps closer. "she's something."

"yeah, but," you frown, toying with the hem of his gray t-shirt. "i really wanted her to like you."

"she'll come around," he reassures you, arms resting on your shoulders.

"i hope so."

spoiler alert: she eventually does. — — — MAY, 2024. user640388337: "ilia malinin wears women's aerie shorts."

it isn't often that ilia spends the night at your house.

usually, you shack up in his bedroom. it has more space, more entertainment, and his mother always cooks dinner and prepares the house for you.

tatiana adores you.

but, your parents were set to spend the weekend one state away. so, naturally, you figured he could visit your house for once.

tldr; you didn't have to fuck at the rink, or excruciatingly quietly in his room.

you're barely finished when the sound of your father's car chirps.

"what the fuck?" you crane your head to the window. "oh, god."

"what?" ilia mumbles, face left buried in your neck.

"parents are home."

"fuck."

he springs from the bed and scans the room for any sign of his clothing. a thick hoodie sticks out from the corner, tucked beneath your desk chair. he grabs it and slips it over his head.

you search the floor, find your own pajamas to tug back on as if they'd never left.

"where are my pants?"

you turn to your boyfriend, "i don't know, i can't find them, either."

he rummages through the sheets to no avail, while your heart races. something downstairs sounds too much like approaching footsteps.

"oh my god, ilia, just pick something up and go."

he grabs the first pair of shorts he can find and slips them on.

they barely fit around his ass.

you stifle a laugh.

"can you not. right now."

"nah," you giggle. "this is funny."

he rolls his eyes. the footsteps draw too close.

"fuck, go," you usher him towards the window and yank it open. "someone is coming. unless you want me to get put on 'ilia timeout' again, you gotta get the fuck out of my room."

"okay, okay, yeah."

he climbs out. hits the grass with a thud, but manages to somehow land on two unbroken feet.

he flashes you a thumbs-up.

"now go home before someone sees you in booty shorts."

ilia then walks down the street with his head in his hands.

because he will be damned to be caught taking the walk of shame out of your house in the middle of the night with yellow women's aerie shorts on that don't even fit right.

the quad god does not roll like that. — — — DECEMBER, 2024. one of your favorite days of the year has always been ilia's birthday.

as kids, you'd celebrate together by doing christmas activities, long after his birthday parties had ended. you'd make a gingerbread house every year and decorate it with the things you liked.

one year, it was minecraft-themed. another, you'd convinced him to make it star wars.

as you grew older, the parties and festivities wore off. but even up until today, you never stopped the gingerbread tradition.

and of course, you got him something every year as a gift.

yours were always his favorite.

"illie, you're twenty years old now," you sigh. "can you stop eating our roofing?"

a glob of blue icing smears across his lip; he licks it off.

"i can't help it if our roofing tastes good."

this year's theme is fortnite. he'd been begging for years, and finally, you gave in. only because you love him — and maybe because it's kind of a milestone year.

you even printed out tiny little pieces of paper with your skins on them.

like clockwork, when he's over the honeymoon phase of eating your supplies, he hyperfocuses. you're never sure if it's from the sugar rush or if he just gets bored with eating the frosting instead of doing the work. either way, you eventually get your help.

you take photos when it's done, set it onto the windowsill in the kitchen, and pad up the stairs to his room — your home away from home, most nights.

the moonlight illuminates ilia's room, his face beneath you as your hips rest in his lap, lips connected softly in the darkness.

your mouth travels over the expanse of his cheek, pressing slow, gentle kisses into his fair skin. you feel the stretch of his smile and the carefulness of his touch at your waist, drawing you closer.

"you want your gift?"

he nods.

you climb out of his lap and grab the gift bag you'd placed beside his desk earlier today. putting it in his hands, you straddle his knees again.

your eyes watch intently as he pulls the tissue paper out and carefully takes hold of the contents — a heavy black and gold case in his hands. you toss the bag back onto the floor.

"it's custom," you whisper as his eyes find the tiny "ilia" embroidered on the side. "it's for your console. and your controllers, and stuff. anything else you wanna bring."

you clear your throat, thumbs toying with one another in front of you, clearly nervous about the whole thing.

"it's supposed to prevent damage. and i know you like to take it with you for competitions, so…you can use it tomorrow, maybe…when you go," you explain. "i know it isn't much, but—"

"i love it."

your shoulders relax; ilia carefully leans the case against his nightstand.

"you do?"

he draws you closer, "it's perfect. thank you."

your lips curve into a downward smile.

"there was, uhm. one more thing, too."

"what is it?" he asks with furrowed brows, head tilted slightly.

you breathe, curling the tip of your index finger into the pair of sleep shorts at your waist. slowly, you pull the fabric down.

the motion exposes the deep red, lacy waistband snug around your waist.

his eyes shoot open; he looks up.

"bro, my parents are down the hall."

you snap the sleep shorts back into place and let the palm of your hand fall onto his bicep, just barely ghosting over the skin.

"when has that ever stopped you?"

"shit, you're right."

he pulls you into a kiss far deeper than the last. much hungrier, too.

he has a lot of ground to cover, after all the time he'd spent recently training for the grand prix final. so, given this half of your gift, and him leaving for france tomorrow, it's safe to say that you'll be staying the night.

he takes his time with you; admires the lace you'd been bashfully hiding, the way its color blends so perfectly with your skin. shines in the dim moonlight that highlights every dip and curve of your body.

prayers of "you're so gorgeous" and "i can't believe you're mine" spilling from his lips and seeping into the skin at your collarbone.

needless to say, minutes blend into hours. long, slow, time-consuming moments in the comfort of his four walls. drags of tongues and desperate touches upon heated skin.

repeated hums of "i love you" melting into your ears each time the words pass ilia's lips.

the clock hands lie somewhere between one and two when you finally relax into ilia's mattress. some old, half-stretched japanese shirt draped over your upper half. bodies on their sides, facing one another, faces inches apart.

heavy eyelids fighting to stay open as your palm lifts to his cheek.

"happy birthday, illie bear," you whisper, half-asleep.

ilia's expression morphs into confusion. "what did you call me?"

you offer a tired smile.

"illie bear," you repeat, thumb and index finger lightly pinching his cheek with a beaming smile.

"you need some sleep," he declares, and you giggle softly, lowering your hand to his flattened palm between you. you lace your fingers with his.

"only if you sleep, too."

"deal."

you fall asleep shortly after, letting the soft noise of wind outside the window and ilia's soft breaths lull you into relaxation. his pulse beats below your thumb.

the faint smile never leaves your cheeks, even in slumber. — — — JULY, 2025. you always told him that hell would have to freeze over before he would ever catch you in a pair of ice skates.

yet somehow,

"oh my god, i'm gonna fucking die."

ilia laughs a few feet ahead of you, skating backwards to keep you from falling. "you're not gonna die."

"i cannot believe you convinced me to do this shit," you shout. "this is embarrassing!"

"hey, hey," he tuts, reaching to nudge your shoulder, and you grimace. "there are kids around."

"there are, like, two. and i do not care."

one of the kids skates into the center of the rink. she practices a waltz, a single loop. nothing too difficult to take up space or hinder the — albeit small-numbered — other skaters.

her eyes keep darting to ilia. it's subtle, but you notice. it's a sequence you know all too well. she recognizes him.

"hey," you pipe up, jerking your head towards center ice. "i think that girl knows who you are."

ilia turns. he offers the girl a little wave; she smiles and skates excitedly over to her mother, tugging at her sleeve.

"how is an eleven-year-old looking girl better at this than me?"

"this isn't her first time skating," he responds amusedly. "there are people here who have never even put skates on before. you used to when you were five, right?"

"yeah, and i have nothing to show for it."

okay, so you're not getting it.

fine. he'll just take matters into his own hands.

he lets you inch in front of him and puts his hand on top of yours. "hey," he whispers into your ear, "lift it off the boards."

hesitantly, you take it off.

you almost hurl forward.

ilia's hand on your waist keeps you upright.

"try to stay more on the inside edge. lean back a little."

"dude, what?"

he breathes.

"okay, just — don't walk. glide," he instructs, but the words mean nothing to you. "push off your foot."

a little boy, no older than seven, whizzes by and nearly knocks you over.

"this is embarrassing, i reiterate."

ilia laughs in your ear.

"you're thinking too much. just push."

you manage a few steps. they're messy, and you nearly toe-pick yourself on the second, but you're able to stay on your feet. accomplishments come in baby steps.

"that's it," he whispers. "good."

"thanks, illie bear," you giggle.

he scoffs, rolls his eyes. he'll never live that nickname down.

he leans closer, breath drifting past your nose. it smells faintly of the mint gum he's been chewing. refreshing. sharp.

you're still not quite getting it.

perhaps, you just need the proper motivation.

the whisper is so soft that even you almost don't hear it.

"if you can do one lap without me, i'll fuck you in the lounge when everyone's gone."

your head turns on a swivel. lips parted in a mix of shock and contemplation.

"that's nothing we haven't—"

"two, and you can sit on my face."

you leap out of his arms and hurl yourself forward.

you didn't even know you could do that.

ilia leans with an elbow on the boards to watch, fighting a hysterical laugh at your struggle. a bunch of people skate by, and at least a handful are struggling more than you ever were.

the gum smacks in his mouth as he watches you nearly faceplant about six times, more than entertained, by now. you pass him once without acknowledgment; he laughs harder.

truthfully, he didn't even think that was going to work.

fortunately, you're just as sex-crazed as him.

you don't quite know how to stop, so you speed into his arms to brace the impact.

"that's two," you declare.

"told you, you could do it."

you wave your hand. "yeah, yeah, just get me out of these things."

his hand snakes around your waist as he guides you to the open board.

"and to that lounge." — — — SEPTEMBER, 2025. ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]

you smile at the pop-up, slipping into bed after a long, rough day. it's only seven o'clock — twelve, for ilia. falling back into your schooling schedule is always difficult, but this year, with your new roommates and the grueling schedule, it's hard to adjust.

they're your friends, and you love them, but it just makes some things more difficult.

YOU: i sawwww

YOU: congrats baby 🫶🫶 can u ft?

the call comes in without a proper response.

"hi illie bear," you whisper-yell, trying to be cognizant of the usually-asleep roman on the other side of the room.

ilia pouts.

"would you please stop it with that?" he complains. "and i have my earbuds in. you can talk."

you giggle, "i'm not stopping because you hate it."

you snuggle into the sheets and puff the pillow behind your neck, resting the phone against the crease above your chest to let him see your face.

"seriously though. how was everything? did it feel good? i know your costumes didn't come in time."

"besides that, it was good," he smiles. "i really like these programs."

"me too," you add. "i like your short. it's fun."

"you always say that."

"it's not every day your boyfriend is the coolest skater on the ice."

it's his turn to laugh. some days, you think it's your favorite noise in the world.

the light from his phone makes his eyes look extra blue, even from behind the glare in his glasses.

"show me the dorm."

you flip the camera and carefully flick on your lamp to its lowest setting. it's a quick scan of the room — not too much to report on, maybe besides the little poster of ilia on your wall, accompanied by a few clothes pinned polaroids hanging beside you.

"i like those," he tells you.

"me too."

when the room falls back into shade, and your face comes into view again, ilia swallows.

"how was your first week?"

"it was good. just a lot of syllabi and introductions, to be honest," you shrug. "your life is much more exciting."

"not true," he counters. "you're not here."

you frown theatrically, like a really overcustomized mii.

"aw, illie…"

you giggle when he rolls his eyes.

"i wish i were there, too," you pout. "but it's okay. i'm making all of the sacrifices now so i can see you kill it in milan."

he fights off a bashful smile.

"i can't wait to watch you."

"can't wait to have you there." after a few beats of silence, he rolls onto his side, taking the phone with him. "miss you already."

"i miss you too, illie."

a yawn finds itself forming between your lips; your jaw stretches with the sudden sensation, and you hum, settling further into the mattress below you.

"you should get some sleep," you finally whisper. "it's much later there."

"mmm…okay," he agrees, slipping the frames off his nose, folding them up, and placing them neatly on the nightstand. "you should sleep, too. you look exhausted."

"it's way too early for me to be this tired," you tell him, pulling the sheets up. "i feel like a grandma."

"then you're my favorite grandma."

you giggle at that.

"i'll text you first thing in the morning, okay?" you whisper, and he nods, blowing you a small kiss. "goodnight, illie bear."

he forces back a sigh.

"goodnight," he whispers back, lifting his hand to wave.

you wave back softly, letting the phone screen fade into sleep when he hangs up.

either you're far too tired, or you're becoming really dependent, or both, and it's about time you stop practically living at ilia's house when you're not at school.

or showing up to almost every competition, despite all of that.

because even if you can work around time zones, find time to text one another, update each other on the little aspects of your lives…

it doesn't change the fact that sometimes, you really miss him.

and with how busy you already are, plus the workload of ilia starting the olympic season, the thought of your schedules overlapping less and less weighs heavily on your heart.

because if they do, you'll inevitably stop having time for each other.

you just hope it never comes to that. — — — DECEMBER, 2025.

ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]

ILIA: 😁😁😁🥇🥇🥇 did u see?

the phone buzzes in its locked box at the front of the exam room. reasonably, you don't hear it.

you retrieve the device at nine, when you've finally gotten out of your exam. you told yourself that you wouldn't check anything until you've eaten, so that's what you do.

the on-campus cafe is only a short distance from the building. it smells of warm hazelnut when you step inside; your favorite scent to walk into.

you order your usual and a small donut to hold your stomach over until lunchtime. you all but shovel it down your throat. you'd been studying since six, and you haven't eaten anything at all.

you use a napkin to wipe your hands clean and take the drink in one hand, pulling your phone out with the other as you walk down the pathway back to your dorm hall.

your heart drops when you read it.

YOU: oh my god

YOU: i completely forgot

YOU: i'm so sorry ilia

in his hotel room, ilia frowns. roman is asleep on the bed opposite to his. it's past one in the morning in japan.

ILIA: oh

he bites the inside of his cheek.

ILIA: it's okay

YOU: how did you do?

ILIA: i won. and i set a record 🙂

and you missed it.

you key yourself into the dorm and beeline for your bed, flopping onto it as soon as your bag hits the floor.

ILIA: why didn't you watch?

maybe it's the stress of competing.

that's usually what you tell yourself when he forgets. but today, even that can't convince you.

YOU: i had an exam. i told you about it.

YOU: you texted me in the middle of it. i knew you forgot 😕

ilia palms his forehead.

you had told him.

ILIA: fuck i'm sorry

ILIA: i was really focused on today because i finished so low in the short

ILIA: and i needed to get the seven quads

you sniff. turn on your side as you stare at the words on the screen.

this isn't the first time he's pushed you to the side. nor is it yours.

it was barely a month ago when your camera broke in the middle of an important shoot you'd driven two hours out to hold. you knew he couldn't help, but you wanted to hear his voice — you just sought comfort, like he always offered.

he never even answered your call; practice had been too intense, and he hadn't checked his phone. you fixed the camera, but the damage had been done.

you just needed him, and he wasn't there.

YOU: i have stressful things in my life too and i know my exam isn't as important as your competition but it's important to me

YOU: i just want my boyfriend to wish me luck on my important things too :(

you've traveled across the country to watch him compete. you've skipped classes. you've sacrificed so much to be present.

at the start of the semester, a day hadn't gone by that you didn't think of him. he would have never been an afterthought, no matter how tight your schedule became, or how knee-deep ilia found himself in training.

you found a way.

you always found a way.

ILIA: call me

the only option that seems to work anymore; the only way ilia has been able to pretend that this is enough. that you haven't been blowing each other off for weeks.

like the beginning of this month, when you were finally supposed to have a weekend to yourself. you'd planned it to work around both of your schedules — ilia managed a few days away from the rink, and you cranked a little harder on your assignments to get them done.

the day before, he asked if it was still okay that he comes.

you told him that something came up to avoid the truth. that you'd become so wrapped up in this year that you forgot.

of course, you wanted to see him.

fuck, you loved him.

but you felt like the biggest asshole on earth.

and today, neither of you remembered. maybe — you think — that's a sign. you swallow.

YOU: ilia

YOU: i don't think i can do this anymore

from the other side of the world, his heart drops into his stomach.

his thumbs tremble over the keyboard; the second message follows before he can respond.

YOU: us.

he might throw up.

ILIA: call me.

ILIA: please

the tears in your eyes make it hard to read his words. you don't even know that you want to.

ilia tucks his lips into his mouth. the last thing he wants is to wake his dad, cause him any more stress. not that ilia would have the heart to tell him anyway.

he's too embarrassed.

he's not even sure he'd get the words out.

the longer you hold back a response, the harder his heart pounds. the hotter his face becomes.

YOU: ilia i can't

YOU: i'm sorry

his throat constricts.

ILIA: okay

ILIA: i understand

thirty minutes ago, he couldn't wait to talk to you.

when he sent the message, he only cared about your reply. he had hundreds of notifications. he only wanted your approval.

like always, you'd been his first thought. even on the ice, the moment he stepped out of his ending position.

it was you he thought of.

you hadn't texted him since the win — it worried him. even when you didn't watch, you'd ask how it went, or sometimes, check the scores yourself to congratulate him. you hadn't done any of that.

but even if you completely forgot — in which case, you had — all he wanted was to tell you. make you proud of him. let you know that every practice you sat in for — with calculus work in your lap, or adobe photoshop open on your computer — didn't go to waste.

that he finally got to achieve the seven-quad layout you watched him train for years for.

instead, he lost you.

that same night.

because he forgot about you.

because — between the olympic season and the workload of your junior year — you haven't had time for each other anymore; the very fear that struck you after lombardia.

his heart is shattered, and sleep evades him.

you cry in bed until the tears stop flowing and skip your eleven a.m.

two days later, you text him that you left his things with tatiana. he reacts to the message with a thumbs-up.

afterward, the message thread falls dead for the first time in years. — — — JANUARY, 2026. user640388337: "ilia malinin finishes fast."

okay, so maybe you've been getting carried away with the anonymous tweets. but the amount of stigma around your ex-boyfriend's name has been enough to kill you.

and you'd be lying if you said the attention your posts are attracting isn't thrilling. really, some people are gullible.

not that you're lying.

but how could someone seriously believe the bullshit you're spewing? as far as the internet knows, ilia malinin never had a girlfriend. you never even followed him.

except for quaddevil — which you promptly unfollowed a few days after you broke up; the account had too many pictures of you on it. too many memories, emotions to let surface.

moving on from a person you've spent your whole life knowing isn't easy.

since you were six years old, you haven't gone more than two days without speaking to ilia.

it will be two months in a week.

as if on cue, your phone buzzes.

it's barely eight o'clock. one in milan.

ILIA: can you stop

ILIA: [attachment: 1 image]

ILIA: i know this is you

you swallow. you knew he was bound to notice them.

you spent three years with him; he lied when he said he didn't spend time on twitter.

some nights, after competitions, he'd search his name.

not to look for the praise.

YOU: idk what you're talking about

ILIA: it happened once. i was fucking 19

YOU: anyone can say that, ilia

ilia rolls his eyes.

this feels all too familiar.

too stale.

ILIA: i wear fucking aerie shorts? ring a bell?

YOU: u wore my hoodie into the fucking olympic village. and u never gave back those shorts, by the way

he sighs.

ILIA: can you please just stop

maybe you're being too harsh.

but you're still hurting, too. even if you refuse to admit it.

you leave him on read. — — — FEBRUARY 13, 2026. after every competition, he would text you.

it started during the first season you spent together. skate america, to be exact. he'd sent a photo of him holding a thumbs-up, followed by a text that read "comp over! 😁 got first!"

it became the template for every competition you didn't personally attend.

ilia takes a cold shower when he gets back to his dorm. he doesn't think he deserves more.

having the room to himself makes his thoughts too loud. with roman there, he can talk. distract himself. or do the complete opposite, and suppress his emotions so as not to worry his father.

alone, he doesn't get that privilege.

all he has are thoughts.

none are positive.

he opens your messages and takes a photo with his thumb up; the flash bursts in his face. it's only when the photo loads into the queue that he remembers.

he closes his eyes like a wince.

damn the muscle memory.

he types out the message anyway, as if he'll send it. maybe just to feel something. just to simulate the comfort you once would have offered him.

a tear cascades down his cheek.

the air suddenly feels too hot, despite the chill of twenty degrees outside the window.

god, he misses you.

he doesn't even know what time it is.

he doesn't even care.

when he throws the phone down, he doesn't notice the message send.

back in virginia, you gasp.

your roommates turn to the noise.

you'd just come back into the room a few minutes ago, and you're already gasping at something on your phone.

earlier, they offered to watch the men's free with you. you watched the short together, too. they wanted to support you — make fun of ilia, after all that he'd done and whatnot. even if they hadn't known him personally, most of their knowledge extending from word of mouth.

living with them is different; chaotic, sure, but fun. definitely the distraction you've needed, even if you had to spend the winter break at home, where his house stood just a few hundred feet away from yours like a threat.

still, through the breakup, they were extremely supportive.

watching the men's competitions together was something one of the girls suggested. and during the short, it was fun. it got the stress off your chest. of course, they knew about your anonymous tweets, about your schedules falling too tight, that he was too busy. it was all in good fun — girls supporting their friend.

but they didn't know him.

they'd only met him once. he visited at the very beginning of the season, greeted them briefly, and followed you into your room. you spent the stretch of time making out, in the absence of any proper time together since the season's start. it was the only perception they had of him.

they didn't know how long you'd known each other.

they didn't know how much he loved you.

they really had no fucking clue.

but tonight, it all fell apart; every piece of the resolve you thought you'd built up crumbled to pieces. all at five in the afternoon in front of a fifty-inch television screen.

at the end of the day, you knew a part of you still loved him. but watching him skate, watching the falls, the pop, the step outs — it broke you. tore you into something you didn't even know was still active.

it was his dream.

you watched him nearly kill himself every day for four years just to achieve it, only for it to crumble to pieces, and you weren't even there when it finally arrived.

you walked out of the room before he even reached the kiss and cry.

and you sobbed in your bed until the pain started to subside.

no one followed you inside. they knew better.

it was that moment that your roommates realized just how important he still was to you. they felt horrible. of course, how would they have known? they couldn't have.

but they knew you needed your time.

and now you're here. staring at this message two hours later like it's some kind of fucked up hallucination, and he never even meant to send it.

ILIA: didn't medal. wish u were here.

your hand sits over your mouth to keep from releasing a sob you thought you'd willed away.

"what's wrong?" one of your roommates asks.

you don't answer. none of them will understand.

you really fucking miss lily.

"nothing, it was, uhm," you hesitate, gnawing at the lining of your cheek. "just a video." you prop the meat of your palm on the floor and hoist yourself up to your feet, shoving your phone into the pocket of your sweatpants. "i think i'm gonna go to bed."

they nod in understanding and bid you goodnight.

but you don't sleep.

you lie face-up on the mattress until the ceiling begins to morph into an unrecognizable blur. when you close your eyes, it's his face. first, from the free.

then, the picture.

thumb up. frown on his face. dejected eyes. bangs in front of his forehead because he couldn't even be bothered to push them out of the way.

and the words.

didn't medal. wish u were here.

the clock burns in your vision when you turn your head.

two in the morning in milan.

you swallow.

pick up the phone. open his contact.

illie 🧸

just as you'd left it.

like a time capsule.

your finger hovers unsteadily above the call button. you don't even know what you're doing, what business you have pressing it and listening to the ring.

your heart nearly stops when he picks up.

breathing.

soft.

"illie?"

a quiet sob.

russian.

you recognize the syllables too clearly. the weakness in his voice. the rambling. you always told him to use it when he had too many emotions to put into english. to use it so you didn't have to understand.

just to hear.

just to listen.

a tear falls from the corner of your eye.

you haven't heard his voice in months. not to you. only the shell of it in interviews or pre-recorded videos.

never your ilia.

"i blew it," he finalizes.

your breath hitches as you try to find the words.

"it's okay," you whisper. "you'll be okay."

god, he needed to hear your voice.

so bad.

"get some sleep, illie. please."

you have no place telling him any of this.

you broke up with him.

you made petty comments behind a screen.

you let your roommates poke fun at him.

yet, all you've been able to think about since the moment he popped his first jump is how deeply you feel for him.

how much you care.

how deeply you're still in love with him.

you hear the mellowed noise of collected breaths from the other end of the line and settle into the mattress beneath you.

"okay," he finally whispers back, voice so soft that it barely registers through the phone.

you part your lips, but he interrupts before a word can come out.

"thank you."

the call ends.

you miss him. — — — FEBRUARY 23, 2026. user640388337: "ilia malinin was a bad boyfriend."

the last tweet that the public ever saw, posted on the morning of february thirteenth.

it was cold.

it wasn't even true.

you logged out that night and never spoke of the account again.

lily texted you the following morning.

LILY: hi bb :( i saw what happened yesterday

LILY: do u wanna grab food today?

she never fully admitted it, but she came around to ilia. everyone always did.

she knew he treated you right. really, that was all that mattered.

you decided to come home for the weekend. you hadn't done it since you returned from winter break. too scared of rehashing the charred memories. this weekend, you built the courage. you decided to stay an extra few days and skip your classes. they could wait.

it's barely eleven. the moon is out. the sky is pitch black. you're perched comfortably on the couch, mindlessly watching a rerun of friends on tv.

the doorbell rings.

being the only one awake, you stand to head for the door. you assume it's another one of your mother's late-night amazon deliveries.

it isn't.

he's standing still when your eyes catch him, as if you'll slam the door in his face if he makes any movement.

he should be in switzerland. not here.

"i need to talk to you," he all but whispers. "please."

you nod.

"not here."

it goes without saying where he'll take you.

the rink feels colder tonight when you step onto it. the ice welcomes you like a friend.

you came here a lot when you were home.

doing choppy laps around the ice.

just thinking.

you finally got the hang of the whole skating thing, after so long. he doesn't mention the improvement. he knew you had it in you.

"i didn't mean to bother you."

he speaks to you as if you're some kind of stranger.

like he hasn't devoted every inch of himself to you.

"you didn't," you tell him honestly, hesitance in your own voice. "i wanted to help."

the quiet is almost relaxing.

it isn't awkward silence. it's full. of emotions, of unspoken feelings, of tension neither of you wants to acknowledge. it's daunting, but it's only just shy of comfortable.

weighted.

being an olympian has its perks, you guess. and it includes special access to your rink.

you skate side by side in slow circles; ilia matches your pace. you ask him about milan, but his answers are short. almost rehearsed. nothing like the boy you know, who would have rattled every little detail off at a mile a minute.

your chest hurts.

not a physical pain.

just something ugly.

"the rink is empty."

ilia raises a brow. "good observation."

you chuckle.

"no, i mean…" you turn to him, blinking as if to shift a gear in his head. "it's empty."

you scratch the edge of your forearm, "…can you do it for me?"

he considers the request — something you haven't asked of him since before you broke up — and skates to center ice. you lean against the boards to watch.

a layback.

your favorite.

it's corny, and it's stupid. but you'd always ask for him to do it because he'd stopped using them in programs. they strained his back, but he always obliged, because he loved you.

and he loved to see you smile the way you always would.

it's bittersweet, when his eyes find yours.

the same expression you always assumed. something different behind your eyes — behind the adoration, there's longing. pain, almost.

"still beautiful."

ilia shrugs, hair falling into place around his bandana, "i like jumps."

"so many people would love you if they saw you skate like that."

he parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes out.

i only care if you do.

instead, he brushes it off and falls back into place beside you.

his brows furrow in thought when you reach the open board, as if something just popped into his head. it looks like he isn't sure whether to say it aloud.

he decides not to ask.

you step onto the mats first and head towards the locker room. sit comfortably on the wooden bench you'd stuffed your shoes under, ilia just across from you.

another careful silence as you untie your laces. once the skates are loose, you pull them off and push them to the side. rise to your feet to stretch out your back, careful not to harm any muscles.

ilia stands to meet you.

that thought from earlier — he's going to ask.

"why did you tell people i was a bad boyfriend?"

your stomach curls, and your bottom lip suddenly twitches. the words don't come easy.

"i don't know," you admit.

his gaze doesn't part from yours. it's scary, almost intimidating. it's the opposite of a threat.

somehow, that's worse.

"was i really that bad?"

tears brim at your waterline. hot. sensitive. familiar.

you shake your head as you try to will them away.

"no," you whisper honestly, "not at all."

he nods, head falling to track the movement of your hands clasped at your waist.

"it's late," you finally manage into the warm air of the locker room, a beam of moonlight illuminating the room as the only source of light. "i need to shower, and you're…leaving again soon."

"i need to shower, too."

the words hang in the air.

less of a statement, and more of a suggestion.

"ilia…"

he steps closer; your eyes trail upward to meet his.

soft. brows pulled together. long, blond bangs falling carefully in his face.

"ilia, we can't," you whisper, but the words lack conviction. "you're famous now. and we don't — we don't have the time."

"can't we just pretend for tonight?"

his face is centimeters away from yours. "please."

you lean up and slot your lips with his before your mind can catch up with your body.

"okay," you murmur into his mouth, bordering on a sob, "okay."

his hands, on a mission, pull your sweatshirt up and off your head. he tosses it onto the bench, where the cuff brushes the wet foam mat. he does the same with his own; haphazardly discards it, too.

you shed quickly, carefully.

still so comfortable in his presence, bare, despite the time apart.

ilia slips his bandana off and drops it to the floor.

reaches over to turn the water on.

stands below the stream and uses his hands to gently pull you closer.

he kisses you again with a carefulness that makes your heart flutter. you reciprocate with a fraction of hunger, letting your fingertips glide into his wet hair and rest at the back of his head.

the water's warmth soothes the ache in your muscles, running down to your ankles, a little weak from the boots. his hips press into yours — a reaction, more than an intention.

"illie," you whisper against his lips like a prayer, his palm splayed across your lower back to keep you steady.

he kisses you a little firmer.

your palm glides down the center of his chest, the edge of a finger brushing one of his necklaces on the way. your lips pull apart — noses still pressed together — as your fingers find him, wrap around the length just loosely enough to create the glide.

he hums into the air, a little weak. the sound familiar, something you haven't heard in much longer than just the months you've spent apart.

your head tilts to kiss the skin below his eye, the edge of his cheek. you move then to the mark just above his top lip. press another just below his jaw, all while your hand carefully strokes him beneath the hot stream, droplets of water cascading down his body.

you shift a little lower, kissing another spot on the left side of his chest.

he realizes then.

you're kissing his freckles.

you've never done that.

it's too intimate.

his fingers find the apex of your thigh; they freeze in their spot, a silent question. you offer a nod, almost begging him to continue.

slowly, he presses them in.

it draws a low, breathy moan from your chest.

your hand grips his shoulder tighter; the other pauses momentarily before resuming the motion, speed a little quickened.

he winces, cranes his neck to kiss you again. his tongue slips past your lips, hot against yours, matching the temperature of the water above.

it feels like everything you've bottled up since you broke up with him.

every emotion you've ignored.

his fingers find a steady rhythm to keep you grounded as your hand glides mindlessly, the pad of your thumb brushing over the head and sending a chill up his spine.

he loves it.

it's the little things about each other you'd picked up; the tells, what the other did and didn't respond to.

you know each other's bodies like your own; better, sometimes.

it feels like following a map you've already committed to memory.

"i miss you," you mumble against his lips, unsure if you've ever meant anything more. the admittance feels unfamiliar on your tongue, something you should never have to say to him.

ilia kisses you harder.

"fuck," he murmurs into the plush of your lips, fingers digging into your side as the others glide in and out the way he knows you need to feel good. "i miss you, too."

somewhere between beads of sweat and droplets of sweltering hot water, tears fall. the saltiness blends with the rest on your cheeks, nearly unnoticeable if not for the redness around your eyes.

or even the weakness in your voice, unmistakably present.

"i'm sorry, illie," you whisper into the steam, voice trapped somewhere between a sob and a moan. "i'm so sorry. i'm so sorry i did it that way."

you're rambling to keep from breaking.

it isn't working.

"it's okay," he breathes, "it's okay, baby."

god, the name, the tremor in his voice, the way he refuses to put any blame on you. all of it forces your knees to crumble under the weight, leaving you propped against the tile for support. the back of your head leans into the coldness embedded in the wet surface.

ilia's body keeps under the stream.

your eyes flood with tears that don't stop flowing, and your chest fills with the type of pain you can't even begin to describe. nothing you've ever felt in all twenty-one years.

guilt takes over any semblance of strength left in your head. your hand creates a tighter ring and hurries its pace. because you want him to feel good. you want to hear the edge in his voice.

you want him.

your free hand slides up to his cheek and brushes over the rosy skin beneath, gently pulling him in as your lips connect firmly with his again. the moonlight reflects off his necklace in the changing angle, onto one of the lockers on the edge of the room.

his fingers curl into your sweet spot with the perfect pressure, exactly what your body craves. the sensation sends a wave of heat through to your fingertips, and your head forcefully breaks away, leaning into the tile behind you.

your hand shakes as you try desperately to get him off first, to make him satisfied. a careful drag of your palm, another gentle stroke that lets the precum smear over the head, halfway gone from the running water.

your eyes flutter open to find his staring back at you. every emotion he has ever felt for you lies carefully behind his expression, tentative and translated in the way his fingers work between your thighs, sliding again and again until a breathless moan breezes past your lips.

"you're so pretty," he whispers.

it hurts so bad.

your chest fights a swell of sobs, and you shake your head against the wet tile, breath catching in your throat.

"don't say that," you try, but the words only release as a whimper amid the tightness in your stomach, the way your hands tremble uncontrollably. "please," you beg.

tears find his cheeks again.

your vision blurs until ilia almost bleeds out of focus, and you can barely stand.

and despite everything, you reach your release before him.

your hand lets go, unable to finish him off, and painfully grips ilia's bicep, while the other finds the nape of his neck, where the tips of his soaked hair reside.

the kiss is sloppy, unplanned, heavy as your head dips to deepen the angle. his hips press into yours, an involuntary reaction to your body's pressure.

"i'm sorry," you murmur into his mouth, another apology pressed into the edge of his jaw. "want — want you inside, illie."

he nods, shifts his hips, aligns them with yours to press forward until the gasp echoes off the empty lockers. your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him into your embrace as his hips chase his own release.

as his lips kiss a gentle path along the curve of your jaw, drawing a slew of quiet, breathless noises from your parted lips, your chest aches.

only one thought travels across your mind like a threat.

you want him back.

every push sends you against the wall slightly firmer than the last, careful, gratifying in sensation. a whine falls from his lips — so soft that you nearly don't catch it. he's close, too.

his hands wrap around to the small of your back and pull you off the wall until your figure stands weakly in his arms, craving another release.

i miss you, the voice screams again in your head, i want you back.

"i messed up," you sob into the small space between you, the smell of the open bottle of soap on the shelf wafting into the air.

"no," he whispers into the corner of your mouth, "you didn't."

"god, i'm so sorry."

he ends the torment with another kiss, like punctuation. a final drag of his hips bringing you down, a thick moan into your mouth as his body reaches the same conclusion. warmth in your stomach, heat rising to your neck.

sobs burning in the back of your throat and dying on your tongue.

clarity doesn't quite arrive in the wave it normally would, even with the thick droplets running slowly down the inside of your thigh.

before realization can reach your head, the gentle breeze of his breath grazes the side of your face. he's still close enough to feel, even if your eyes haven't quite focused.

instead, they travel sideways, over to the shelf, where the half-empty bottles of shampoo and soap reside. your body pulls away in favor of the shelf, arm extended as your fingers wrap around the shampoo.

like muscle memory, ilia turns his back to you.

you would always do it after long skates.

after competitions.

after anything that warranted the comfort it offered.

it was co-dependent; everything you did together was.

when you're with someone for three years, when you've grown up with them, when you've devoted every inch of yourself to them in hopes of never losing them, yeah — you become dependent.

and it crumbles when they're gone.

so, you think now — after the torment of this month, after you — he needs it more than ever.

the bottle releases a dollop of liquid into your hand. you warm it in your palms, swallow thickly, and bring the tips of your fingers up to the back of his head.

the tips massage the shampoo into his scalp, letting the liquid turn to foam in his hair, white suds coating the outgrown roots. the scent of warm florals erupts into the air around you, your sinuses opening to the soft aroma.

ilia's eyes flutter shut; although you don't see it, you recognize the way his shoulders slump into relaxation.

your lips press a kiss over another freckle, just by his shoulder blade. another just a few centimeters away. a path that extends to the tip of his shoulder.

a murmur into his skin that sounds too much like an apology.

as if on cue, he turns — like routine, he knows.

the soap washes out. runs down his face and barely evades his eyes.

but their gaze doesn't leave yours.

your hands shake as they brush through his hair.

you're not nervous. you never have been with him.

you're afraid.

scared of screwing up what both of you have already silently accepted as the last time you'll ever do any of this.

an unsteady exhale finds its way into the air from your chest. within seconds, ilia's mouth is enveloping yours again.

it's different.

careful.

as if you'll shatter like something fragile if he isn't.

you return the kiss with a hunger you're still unsure of how to satiate. your body pushes closer as if to solve the problem, to create as little space between you as possible. perhaps, if you hold him tightly enough, the moment never has to end.

slowly, your tired muscles relax, as your mind focuses only on the insistent press of his lips and the warmth of the water slowly beginning to trickle down your back once again. it's now that you notice his tentative steps back into the stream and the palm of his hand finding the back of your head.

it's quiet, save for the running water and sporadic contented hum. intimacy laces itself between connected skin, and your hands tremble as they find the sides of his face.

his skin feels softer now in your hold. perhaps, exhausted from the tiresome months in milan. relaxed, even, under the familiarity of your comforting touch.

carefully, your arms slip around his neck, palms resting over your bent elbows, while his arms mirror the movement at your waist.

the kiss draws into something deeper, too slow to classify as anything less than intimate — romantic, rather than physical. he kisses you for so long that your movement inevitably stills with time, and somewhere, in the corner of the room, an old hand clock strikes one.

you've missed kissing one another for so long, holding each other the way you so delicately had — the same way you do now, under the warm stream — that you don't even realize how personal all of this has become.

ilia almost tells you he loves you on pure instinct.

the phrase burns a hole in his head that no amount of plaster could fix.

now, you're standing entirely still, completely devoid of movement in your limbs. arms wrapped around one another, hugging and kissing oh, so romantically, with tears decorating your cheeks, camouflaged amongst stray droplets of water.

for a moment, you forget that any of this is temporary.

that you're still pretending.

and after what feels like forever, you break apart. slowly, hesitantly, as if to savor every last drop of one another. to commit it all to memory before it's ripped away again.

"ilia," you whisper, lip quivering against your wishes. "we have to stop."

clarity falls on his chest with the weight of an anvil.

"yeah," he clears his throat. "yeah…okay."

he swallows, takes a step back to give you space. "i'm sorry."

maybe, he got carried away.

but you never stopped him.

"don't apologize," is your quiet response, voice fighting to stay afloat.

he nods.

the ball of your foot flinches when it comes into contact with the cold, dry tile. eyes closed, you bear a breath and tread carefully over to the benches, where tossed clothes lie.

the mundane routine plays like an old record — underwear, pants, shirt, jacket. sit, tie on your shoes, repeat for your counterpart.

all in silence that doesn't feel so comfortable, this time around.

your palms smooth over the heavy fabric adorning your waist; the jagged edge at the hem of your sweater catches on the tip of a finger.

ilia's shadow falls into view.

"i'll see you around?"

the question rolls off his tongue like light humor.

none of it is funny.

you nod carefully, "yeah."

biting your inner cheek, you rise slowly to your toes and lean up to his cheek, depositing a kiss onto warm skin.

"take care of yourself, okay?"

"okay."

when you finally walk out, he watches.

and any form of closure he thought he'd gotten leaves with you. — — — MARCH 20, 2026. "they say that when you truly love someone, you find their beauty in places that most don't," your voice explains in the quiet of the gallery as a humble crowd of ten stands around, admiring the photos hanging behind you. "i wanted to capture that here, with my subject."

an older couple nods their heads, and a woman standing a few feet away raises her phone to snap a photo. somewhere in the distance, your professor smiles and makes a note beside your name.

your display pulls the four strongest elements from your portfolio. as most everyone always warned, junior year takes a toll on everyone; you were no exception. but tonight, the work pays off.

the first two are simpler stills from earlier in the semester — an old car with chipped paint, whizzing below a half-dimmed street light, and a plant beginning to bloom with oncoming warmth.

the third is a reflection of moonlight off a window that creates an illusion. something you'd need the eye for, to catch in passing and capture properly.

the fourth became the crowd-favorite. even at a glance, with an untrained eye, it's far from technical. personality oozes through its elements, down to the arrangement of color, and the simple placement of the subject.

the profile of a boy in the bottom left corner, the lens focused on the very tip of his nose, which barely kisses the center of the frame, aligning with the glow of the sun behind it. his hair is blond, a little toned, with roots growing just under an inch from his scalp.

nature brews between winter and spring as he presumedly looks toward the melting body of water before him — eyes masked by bangs. small petals from a cherry blossom tree decorate the outer edge of the approaching shore. two petals rest atop honey-blonde strands of hair, unmoved by the gentle breeze.

a candid, confirmed by parted lips, as if the subject had been speaking.

your smile is warm as you greet more folks in passing, explaining away your visions with each crafted photo, each with different expressions, new meanings. yet still, the invisible pull toward one keeps your heart on a swivel.

love, captured.

the plaque reads in shiny, engraved silver.

the watch on your wrist strikes eight. moonlight shines into the gallery through a nearby skylight, and the warm lighting of the wall lamps makes your eyes grow tired. a low hum of instrumental jazz emanates through the soundproofed space, a maze of art, each piece with its own careful consideration, your peers in various corners of the room.

your gaze finds itself transfixed on the same image passersby found compelling; the soft rays of sun blend into the warm, orange sky. the memory of that moment spreads warmth through your chest in a calm wave.

perhaps, a few weeks ago, you would have willed the sensation away; tonight, you welcome it.

then, a voice breaks you from your thoughts.

"do you think that's my good side? my nose looks a little weird."

a quiet gasp, and the instinctual turn on your heel toward the noise.

ilia stands quietly behind you — a comfortable ten, fifteen feet away — with black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and arms full.

one a resting place for a thick bouquet of red roses and yellow daffodils (which you'd once named your favorite), the other a small, brown teddy bear with a pair of smaller frames to match his own, and a small box of chocolate strawberries attached to its front.

alongside a smile that nearly melts your heart.

"oh my god," you whisper, unmoving as he steps closer and extends his arms out to you.

"they're for you."

glossed lips part in shock, and you mindlessly take the gifts into your own hold, blinking as if to confirm that this is real.

once they're secure, your lips finally stretch into a smile, a thin coat of liquid forming along your waterline.

your eyes admire the items in your hands, grazing along the expanse of the bear's soft fur and up to the tiny pair of glasses on its nose. then, to the bouquet — a small card perched on a stem sticking up in the center.

his writing is still as messy as ever.

it's perfect. i'm so proud of you ♡ — illie a little circular head with two ears and a smiley face drawn beside his name.

"is that a bear?" you ask, looking up with tears in your eyes.

"i tried."

it's the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you.

you place the gifts carefully on the hardwood floor, leaning them up against the wall, just below your photos.

and before he can get another word in, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a hug.

"you should be training," you whisper into his ear as the tips of his hair brush the side of your cheek.

"you're more important."

at that, your stomach drops a little.

your arms tighten.

"how did you even know about this?"

his chin relaxes into your shoulder. "you posted about it when i was in milan, and," he clears his throat, "i wrote it down…in case."

you pull back, "in case what?"

"you wanted me here."

ilia's thumb rises to your cheek to wipe away the tear that falls. rather than protest, you lean into his touch, the softness of the pad of his thumb.

"i wouldn't want anyone else."

the sweet familiarity of his perfume wafts into the air you breathe. when you finally step back, smoothing over your sweater, your body misses his touch — his warmth.

"everybody loved you," you tell him quietly as you lean over to retrieve the bear and flowers, scooping them into your arms. "it was a hit." most everyone has already cleared out by now, while the other students bid goodbye to your professor, the soft hum of their conversations blurring into background noise behind you.

"i would have thought you wouldn't use me."

"i didn't have time to choose new photos," you admit. "and…" you trail off as you turn to look at the framed image again, "i think it still applies."

the name, you mean.

love.

ilia insists on walking you home, keeping a flattened palm on the small of your back as you walk side-by-side down the pavement.

you should protest.

that night at the rink, one month ago, should have been the last time you saw him. it was meant to serve as a point of closure, to let both of you finally begin to move on.

instead, it took the opposite effect.

ilia showed up tonight because he hasn't stopped thinking about you since the moment your feet padded out the locker room door.

and you welcomed him back — though you tell yourself again that it's just for tonight — because he hasn't left yours, either.

yet still, you stand your ground; he understands, quietly.

"you didn't have to do this," you whisper to him as you approach the door to your building, somewhere he hasn't seen in half a year, only stopping by the one time at the start of your first semester.

"i made time for you," is the response he gives, at which your body almost freezes. "i'll keep making time for you."

the very thing that tore you apart, laid bare.

you don't acknowledge it.

how could you?

you fear that if you do, you'll end up doing something you'll regret — if selfishly relapsing and having sex with him in the rink wasn't already shameful.

you swallow.

planting a kiss on his cheek only fuels the flame you thought you'd put out; you do it, anyway.

his head turns, lips find yours with determination that nearly makes you relinquish your strength all over again.

for a moment, you let it happen.

then, you relent.

"ilia."

"i know."

you stand back and wish him good luck at worlds with a disheartened smile. walk into the building and up to your dorm, where your roommates greet you with warm smiles and endless questions about the items in your arms.

one tells you not to give in; you nod reassuringly, knowing the only person who knows about the rink is lily (who secretly beamed with happiness when you told her, because she really did like you and ilia together).

as you drift off to sleep after a long, hot shower, teddy bear tucked comfortably beneath your arm, emotions rise again to your throat.

you don't cry because you're upset.

you're simply feeling too much.

and maybe this time, you really do consider getting back together with him. — — — MARCH 25, 2026. prague's air is brisk at this hour.

ilia isn't sure how long it has been since he took the elevator down to this level and sat in the chair by the pool.

it's far too cold to jump in the water.

though he considers it anyway to clear his head.

the legs are low to the ground, and he sits on the very edge of the seat, elbows pressed against his kneecaps as his forehead rests on a folded forearm.

crickets emerge from the grass. the gentle breeze creates a quiet hum of moving water. shadows pass by as other hotel guests make their way to their rooms, some still checking in.

it must be at least eleven by now, if he had to guess; roman hasn't checked on him. perhaps, he'd fallen asleep, or had called tatiana and liza.

the men's discipline starts tomorrow. the short — an event he hasn't been nervous about for nearly two years, now.

of course, the downside of being undefeated was unimaginable. but the perks it came with the erosion of nerves. anxiety. fear.

they're all back.

not because he isn't prepared. nor is it because he's suddenly incapable.

tomorrow, he has something to prove.

somewhere in the blur of noise, a keycard beeps, and the lock on the nearby door clicks open; it becomes familiar to his ears, by now.

footsteps draw closer. the unmistakable sound of a suitcase rolling on pavement. just another guest checking out the pool, probably the fourth of the night, since he came outside. he half-expects the "wow, come look" next, much like everyone else (usually small children).

"do you think they'll accept my credentials this late? or am i doomed to an overpriced ticket in the crowd?"

ilia could pick out that voice in a crowd of one thousand, if he were asked to.

he trips over the edge of the lounge chair trying to get to you. your laughter buzzes into the air, a few careful steps forward and away from your luggage, the cheesy custom tag he'd gotten you one year for your birthday hanging off the handle.

you're in his arms before you can even think of stopping him.

it's different from last time. from the rink, even.

the sweetness of his giggles bubbling to the surface in your ear, his body using its strength to hoist you into the air, spinning around like it's some kind of corny romance film you'd make him watch. your legs wrap snugly around his waist as your palms rise to his cheeks, cupping the rosy skin in your hands.

"hi, illie bear," you whisper.

the kiss arrives before his words do.

god, he's never been so happy to hear that stupid nickname.

"what are you doing here?" a mumble into your mouth that barely sounds audible.

"one, slow down," you laugh, thumb brushing over his cheek. "two, you went to support me, so…i came here to support you."

you haven't been set to accompany him to a competition since last season.

olympics were the only trip you could finagle this year, and you never went.

so the time off school felt reasonable.

and the federation still has your information readily available.

"you shouldn't even be here," he shakes his head. "i'm wasting your time and money."

"no, you're not," you reassure him gently, pressing your forehead to his until the tips of your noses brush. "and this was my choice."

you kiss the corner of his mouth, lingering for a beat to savor the moment.

"i'm tired of missing things, ilia."

his fingers flex against the undersides of your thighs, keeping your weight comfortably in his grasp. "even still."

you shake your head.

"i missed your dream, illie," you counter, arms slipping around his neck. "no more."

behind him, another burst of wind blows through the chlorinated water; a light rock plops into the pool.

startled, his head pivots to the noise. returns almost as quickly as it went. at his flinching, you laugh again.

your presence really makes him this on edge now?

instead of trying to make sense of the situation, ilia kisses you again.

you dip your head to the side to better the angle, depositing a little satisfied hum into his mouth to egg him on. he grins against your lips and pulls you tighter, bending his knees until he's sitting on the lounge chair again.

this time, taking his favorite girl in the world along with him.

you melt into his lap as if you were never meant to be anywhere else, fingers carding into his freshly-cut hair just to keep him close, to let every inch of your body connect with his.

"this is my hoodie," you murmur jokingly, free hand fisting a handful of the fabric at the tip of his shoulder.

"i missed you," he simply states.

"missed you more."

his palms run along the expanse of your lower back, your own sweatshirt rising to expose warm skin. at his touch, you kiss him a little harder.

"dude, this is mine," he points out lightheartedly, "you said you gave everything back."

"i also said i missed you more."

the sound of his contented laughter makes your heart soar out of your chest.

god, he's so cute.

he's so perfect. and he's yours again.

even if you really never lost him, anyway.

"i love you," he breathes happily, gripping you so tightly that you think he may never let go.

your lips stretch into a wide smile, and a swell of tears forms in your eyes — happy, this time. absolutely overjoyed.

"i never stopped," you whisper back.

your forehead rests against his again, laughter moving across your bodies like a transaction. you can feel his hands trembling at your back, still a little put off, a little anxious.

so you offer another kiss to serve as comfort, a little slower than the last.

it lasts so long that you start to forget where you end and he begins. seconds blurring into minutes, no noise for yards, save for the occasional chirp of a cricket and the chime of the elevator just by the door to the pool area.

people walk past and stare through the windows. you don't care.

some guy yells at you to get a room.

ilia pulls back, "fuck off."

you nudge his arm, giggling quietly as he leans back up to envelope your mouth again, unwilling to let some old fuck ruin his mood.

the man shouts back that he's going to tell the front desk.

ilia flips him off.

"oh my god, ilia," you sigh, "you're gonna get us kicked out."

"did you get a room?"

you break off with furrowed brows, the pads of ilia's thumbs rubbing circles into the small of your back. he cocks his own brow, urging your answer.

"…yes?"

"'kay," as he stands from the chair, and you gasp, sliding to your feet, "we'll go there, then."

he laces his fingers with yours. kisses you against the elevator wall. refuses to let go of you until you're in the hotel room, dragging your suitcase behind him.

the luggage doesn't move past the entryway.

he pulls you back into his lap like you never left, fingers cupping the side of your face, a smile tugging at his lips again.

"i love you, illie bear."

the words roll off your tongue so sweetly that he swears he'll never complain about them again.

you needed the break — even if every second felt like torture. you needed to grow, separately. to mature, separately. to sort your own lives before entwining them as tightly as they were.

ilia knows one thing for certain: he never wants to lose you again.

and he won't.

you've always loved each other too much to stay apart forever, anyway. — — — EPILOGUE - APRIL, 2026. "you just got back two days ago, and you're already leaving again."

ilia turns to face you; a droplet of vanilla ice cream stains the corner of his mouth.

"perks of being a celebrity."

"you are not a celebrity," you tease, licking the tip of your thumb to wipe off the ice cream. "you're an athlete, and you're busy. plus, you're way too shy to be on a red carpet, anyway."

"my worlds experience would say otherwise."

your face turns cold. "never bring that shit up in front of me again," you demand, finger pointing accusingly at his chest. "there was no reason for you to have no protection. i cannot believe people thought it was cool to follow someone into an elevator, of all places."

"hey, i'm okay," he reassures. "and we're working on that."

"good."

as you approach the all-too-familiar front lawn of ilia's house, your chest releases a sigh. he takes your empty cup and stacks it with his, tossing it into the bin around the side of the house.

"i'm gonna miss you," you whisper as his arms wrap around you, hands settling behind your back.

"you always say that."

"oh, god forbid," you roll your eyes. "we've been back together for like, two weeks. and you used to cry every time you left. talk about dependent."

ilia scoffs.

"co-dependent, more like," he corrects. "you barely slept in your own house. and you used to just borrow my clothes without permission."

"you still have my freaking aerie shorts, dude. oh, and you flew all the way to vienna for one night with the hope of speaking to me, instead of just going straight to switzerland and asking to talk when you got back."

"we did more than talk."

okay. fair enough.

"well, whatever," you huff. "fly safe, okay? and tell your dad i said goodbye, too. and call me when you get to philly."

"i thought we were working on that dependency thing."

your eyes narrow, "ilia roman."

"okay, okay, jeez — i'll call you." he pulls you into a hug and rests his chin on the top of your head, lowering his voice. "like i wasn't gonna anyway…" he mutters.

you giggle into his chest; he smiles.

"i'll miss you, too."

out of the corner of your eye, you catch mysti watching through the window. your smile stretches a little wider, and she scratches the glass. you wave.

"she misses her mama."

you pull back, chin resting at the valley of his chest. "you know i came back to visit and saw them when you weren't here."

"still."

he leans forward, kisses you gently — much less of a display than it would be if you weren't standing on his lawn for anyone, including his parents, to see.

"i missed her mama, too," he adds quietly.

you entertain him for ten, twenty more seconds before breaking off, stepping off the grass and onto the pavement. he masks a frown.

"call me when you land, and take a bunch of pictures."

"will do."

you're halfway down the road to your house, still shouting to him.

"love you, illie!"

(he already knows).

bright and early in the morning, he's awake, packing the last of his things into his luggage and gathering the rest into a duffel. he says his goodbyes to tatiana and liza (and of course, the cats) and heads out with roman.

the flight to philadelphia from vienna isn't long. only barely surpasses an hour, but it's easier than driving. it's easier to fly straight to florida afterward for the first stars on ice stop.

still, the lack of wi-fi is punishing for someone this addicted to their phone.

the minute he steps back into the terminal, the phone buzzes to life in his pocket. messages, dm requests that he won't answer, subscriptions on various apps. some other useless pop-ups.

one sticks out.

you tagged him in a post. your_username

your_username: life with my favorite person he almost thinks it's fake, and this is all some figment of his imagination from the change in air pressure; his fingers grip the device tighter.

you'd always agreed to stay private. it was easier. safer.

maybe — he guesses — that was before.

maybe, you're tired of pretending he doesn't exist. of making him do the same.

a text comes through next.

as if you'd been waiting until you knew he saw the post to press send.

YOU: i love u illie bear 🫶

YOU: now everyone gets to know

roman asks ilia what he's smiling at. "nothing." ilia_quadg0d_malinin commented on your post: my good luck charm. love u forever 🧸❤️

— © 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

love u all <3

dividers by @222luvr and @angeliicide <3

[jaeyundazed]

i didn’t feel like setting up a whole fic for this, but i really needed to get this shit off my chest. because tfym you choreographed this and then decided to touch your shit. okay. okay white boy. okay.

𝓬ontains: smut mdni, blowjob, cumming in mouth, swallowing, bathroom sex. fwb relationship. ok thank u ♱ masterlist

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the logistics of head mid-stars on ice

bathroom. now.

the message you sent from behind the locked door when you heard ilia's voice trickle into the dressing room. you only had to wait about three minutes before his knuckle rapped on the door.

you opened the door; let him pass through; closed it behind him; locked it again.

lunged forward and gripped the mint green lapels on his blazer, kissing him with a fervor he hadn't felt since the first time you slept together (you've been fucking on the DL for a while, now).

and, well, now you're here.

sinking to your knees, fingers pulling open the three buttons on his dress pants, watching ilia lean into the vanity behind him without a protest forming on his tongue.

rather, his fingers clawing your hair and gathering it into his palm as your tongue darts out to wet your lips. your hand reaches into the fabric and pulls out his cock, taking the silky white shirt with it.

"saw what you did," as a trail of saliva drips onto the head; he swallows. "who am i not to indulge?"

"oh, so you assume it was for you?"

"wasn't it?"

you wrap your lips around his tip, mouth warm as your tongue swirls over the surface. his head tilts back, and a faint groan slips into the air. you pop off, a string of spit connecting your mouth to his skin.

"you're always begging me to blow you, illie," you coo, licking a stripe along the underside of his cock.

you pepper a trail of wet kisses down the length, hand wrapped tightly around the base. he runs a hand through his hair, forehead already slick with sweat from the performance, work song blaring through the arena halls outside.

you moan against his tip; his eyes nearly roll back.

his chest rises and falls heavily, necklaces glowing in the light as his fingers tighten their grip on the makeshift ponytail.

you take him into your mouth again; precum glides across the roof of your mouth. another semi-loud groan from ilia's throat that makes you grin around his cock.

"fuck," he mumbles, slurring something in russian under his breath.

his supporting hand grips the edge of the vanity until the corner of the countertop nearly slices his palm. your eyes bat up at him, cheeks hollowing as you suck him down. your fingers fist what you don't take, pump slightly at the base.

a breathy moan vibrates around his dick, the sound desperate as if he's the one doing this to you; fucking your face.

but no — you love being the one in control, watching his face scrunch up and feeling his hand gently push your head down.

especially in this suit — god, you've always found it hot, but usually, he and you have the decency to wait until after hours to fool around. no one knows you've been up to this, sneaking around for god knows how long on this tour. even before that. even at worlds.

you just want to make sure that ilia knows his message was received.

oh, and that you love to suck his cock.

ilia smiles, watches his phone flash on the vanity beside him as another number begins, another announcement echoes through the packed arena.

"you know you're almost on?"

you pop off with a loud slurp, "i'd rather miss my cue."

he laughs.

"wanna keep tasting you."

"then don't waste time," his voice taunts as his eyebrows quirk, and his hand nudges your head closer as a signal.

you kiss the tip. take him again, hand still forming a tight ring around him, stroking carefully as the edges of your teeth just barely graze his skin. your eyes flutter shut when you feel him tense between your lips, a careful sign; a warning.

normally, you'd pull away; let him do what he wants, no worry about a mess or some form of humiliation. you're shameless, really — it's why you started messing around in the first place.

but this time, you can't afford for the mess to spill on your custom-made costume, so you settle.

pull back and let him watch the strings of saliva form between your mouth and his dick. gently stick out your tongue and direct the head to rest against it as your hand lazily strokes the remainder of his length.

you look up through thick lashes with half-smeared lip gloss and saliva decorating your chin. pumping, moaning, until you suddenly feel it smear across the back of your throat.

hot, thick, melting on your tongue and pooling at the center as your palm delicately works every last drop out. the corners of your lips quirk into a grin, and ilia mirrors from above, winks down at you.

fuck, if you had time to get his cock in you.

your tongue curls upward as your lips pull shut, and watchful eyes fall on your throat, studying the way it bobs when you swallow.

you lean forward and press a final, featherlight kiss to the very tip, where a little wetness remains, and tactfully stuff it back into his pants. make easy work of tucking the shirt back in and buttoning up the minty fabric.

your thumb swipes along the edge of your lip and cleans off the smear of lip gloss.

and you stand again in front of him, lowered just slightly from leaning against the sink. ilia looks up at you with lazy eyes, lips parted as a warm stream of breath releases into the air between you.

"well," he whispers, "that's your cue."

kissing the tip of his nose, you giggle, "more later? finally have a hotel room."

"of course," he teases, "wouldn't dare waste it."

you fluff the curled tips of your hair and unlock the door with a soft click, walking out into the hallway and down the black fabric tunnel.

ilia's head falls back; a humorless laugh as he shakes his head, tongue poking through the inside of his cheek. the sound of the announcer bleeds into the quiet of the empty bathroom.

"please welcome back, two-time national champion…"

yeah.

he's definitely making that move permanent.

— © 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, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars, @thenerdysimp, @scamandersdoorbell, @lanadelquad, @iliaspradabag

[jaeyundazed]

ilia malinin — stifle: wrap me in your success

𝓸r ── .✦ it must be pretty exciting to watch your boyfriend win his third world championship title in a row. at least, that's what most people would assume. so what exactly prompts you to bring up the trainwreck of february thirteenth? you don't really know. but when you do — and ultimately decide to push him further, for good measure — ilia decides to let you have a taste of gold, too...in his own, special way.

𝓹airing: bf.ᐟilia 𝔁 𝓯.ᐟreader     ⟢ 𝓬ontains smut ♱ mdni ♱ masterlist

𝔀ord count: 2.7k

⟢ 𝓻achel: so like i'm in this group chat on twitter right and we saw this photo of ilia at worlds right and we shared some ideas if you're all picking up what i'm putting down and ilia malinin i am free tonight at 7 if you are also free tonight at 7 because i am free and would like to go to dinner with you tonight at 7 if you are also free. uhm. anyway enjoy ilia malinin and his gold medal!!!11!1!!!1 happy reading xo

── tags below the cut .ᐟ

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, improper use of a gold medal, fingering, she taunts him about losing olys, he doesn't like that, unprotected sex, creampie, bruising, his hand is on her neck but he isn't like choking her, lanyard as a gag, rough sex, she cries a little, slight degradation if u read between the lines??, (brief) aftercare cus he's passionate not rude

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️🥇𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

one month ago, your life was filled with cameras, anxiety, unyielding pressure, and fresh tears that you carefully wiped away as you comforted ilia through what was arguably the worst moment of his career.

today, you're barely past the hotel room door's threshold before his mouth is capturing yours, tongue slipping past your lips as if it belongs there.

the door slams behind you with the pressure of his body pressing against yours. you gasp into his mouth, fingers tightening into his freshly-cut hair, hips involuntarily chasing the friction of his.

his gold medal still hangs between you, the deep blue lanyard heavy around his neck as he runs a palm firmly over your side; it lands just below your ribcage, squeezing the flesh until you whine.

and you're still pulling him closer. your free hand grips his bicep and slides upward, in pursuit of a place to rest, yet not finding one. instead, you crane your neck further, deepening the kiss until the only noise left in the entryway is the sloppy, desperate, wet sound.

he trails to your waist and hooks the bend of a finger into your skirt, pulling, pulling, until it falls to the floor on its own.

you've barely processed the loss when he shoves his middle and index fingers into you, pulling a raw noise from your throat that anyone close by could hear through the thin walls.

"ohmygod," you gasp. "ilia—"

"shh," he hushes firmly, lips bruising yours again as his fingers piston into you, painful pleasure coursing through your body as you fight to keep yourself upright.

"they'll hear."

"fucking let them," you mumble in response; another whine pries from your chest and falls on his ears.

his cock twitches in his pants. his fingers spread apart inside, opening you up until the sear burns between your legs, up to your stomach, heat transferring to your fingertips as they fist his hair like a lifeline.

the binding pressure in your stomach builds higher, weakness overtaking your limbs.

ilia's thumb finds your clit; he presses until another moan shoots into the air.

you feel his grin against the underside of your jaw, where he mouths wet kisses into your soft skin. you can't help the heat blooming in your stomach, the way your hips chase his fingers to bring you closer to the edge.

it hits when he murmurs lowly into the crook of your neck.

"come."

your head falls to his shoulder; forehead presses into the strap as his fingers fuck a gush of white out of you. you breathe weakly into his shirt, hands and knees trembling with the rush of pleasure.

ilia's fingers swiftly slip out from between your thighs — now slick with a thin coat of cum — and brings them to his mouth. he swipes them over his lips, letting the liquid collect on the surface before his tongue licks them clean.

you swallow at the intensity of his gaze.

ilia isn't usually like this.

he's sweet, gentle, kind. the type of guy to hold the door for an elderly woman behind him or wave to someone walking on the street. he's attentive, but focused.

one month ago, he was a puddle in your arms, lost in the comfort of your embrace as your hands carded through the long strands of hair on his head.

and here he is now — someone you almost don't recognize.

"where—" you pant, head distracted by the fizzling high and slickness still sitting on your inner thighs, "where was that in milan?"

"what do you mean?"

"i mean," you swallow, "you won gold in milan. and then, y'know…"

your fingers curl around the medal and tug gently. "you flopped and placed 8th."

"flopped?"

when he repeats it back, you hear the edge in his voice. even the small reminder, just barely masked as a joke, settles wrong in his veins. you can tell, from the look behind his eye, the tick in the way he breathes.

"well, you know," you nudge.

your fingers still grip him for stability as a small beam of light shines on his cheek from the peephole beside your head.

"you blew it."

it sounds like a taunt.

ilia takes it as such.

he doesn't like to be made fun of.

you don't tease him.

his kiss is just as desperate this time; more bruising.

his hands move to your waist and pull you backward, feet stepping behind him until the side of his leg brushes the edge of the mattress.

he hoists you up and forces your legs around his waist. you hold on with a tight grasp as he turns, leans over to essentially toss you onto the bed.

you brace yourself with your elbows; heavy breaths part from your lips as your eyes follow his movement, crossing his arms over to remove his shirt.

you nearly moan.

he tosses the medal onto the nightstand; when your gaze follows it, his eyes twitch like a threat.

you swallow.

okay.

his fingers find the buckle on his belt. yank it from the loops around his waist and toss it to the floor. then, it's the button, the zipper coming undone, heavy fabric sliding down smooth, thick thighs.

you feel yourself clench around nothing. a droplet of release nearly soaking the sheet beneath you when it drips.

the time between that and his hand pushing up your shirt as he hovers above you seems to pass in the blink of an eye. you're barely processing it until the fabric is on the floor, and his lips are slotted with yours again, no regard for safety as he kisses you as if you've wronged him.

"ilia," you try, but he presses harder, shaking his head as his hand moves between you.

and then, you gasp so loud that it half-echoes.

no warning, no carefulness, no moment to adjust.

a low apology against your lips, buried between heavy breaths.

ilia groans, a quiet hiss tacked onto the end at the way your walls constrict around him, your body stiff from the uncomfortable suddenness.

but pain quickly turns to pleasure — the harsh glide of his cock, one hand keeping you open at your inner thigh, with the other wrapped around the side of your neck, keeping your head angled in his direction.

a bead of sweat forms above his eyebrow and drips onto your cheek. you feel the wetness cascading down your rosy skin, barely noticeable amid the flood of sensation coursing through your bloodstream as it all rushes to your head.

the dullness of the hotel past midnight amplifies the squelch, the moment; only a dim light casting through the crack beneath the door, the soft pitter-patter of feet on outdated carpet in the hallway outside, the hushed actions of other inhabitants trying to reach their rooms.

it's almost obscene — far rougher than anything you're used to with him. and further, he doesn't seem to care.

even through blurred vision — tears clinging to your eyelashes — you notice his subtle glance to the bedside table.

"put it on," you manage through unstable breaths, the tips of your nails grasping at his arms for support and leaving marks in their wake. "since you're so — accomplished."

it leaves your lips before your conscience can shut it down.

and — against your better judgment, and to no one's surprise, given the way this has all unfolded — he reaches for the medal.

"is this all a joke to you?"

he drops the lanyard around his neck; the weight of the gold suddenly hits your chest. the pressure between your legs builds with another forceful thrust. the medal collides with your skin, pulling a moan from your strained lungs.

and then, your body decides to push his buttons.

you don't do that.

but you won't lie and say that any of this — the force of his hips against yours, the brush of his tip against your cervix, the grip on your neck that starts to bruise — doesn't feel good.

great, even.

and coming from the gentlest person you know?

hot.

"no," you scoff. "but that performance was."

he mouths the skin just below your jaw, teeth taking it between them and applying pressure until you wince. you swallow down the lump in your throat.

"who are you talking to right now?"

"you, i think."

"you think?"

"i think you're a little," you sputter, chest attempting to catch your breath as his hand slips away from your neck and finds your chest, "—overconfident."

his eyes catch on the delicate fingerprints left in his hand's wake on your neck; though he's internally a little proud, they narrow.

"because i won?"

"because it isn't going to erase the shiny 8th-place participation trophy."

you hear the gear turn in his head.

he stills and fists the fabric around his neck, angrily (yet somehow, carefully) ripping it off.

your eyes anchor on the movement. too shocked by the suddenness of it all, the halt of his hips, the pulse of him inside you that he doesn't care enough to notice; you feel it travel into your stomach.

he folds the lanyard — thick, wide in his grasp.

you don't know what he's doing with it.

you find out when he coaxes it between your lips and presses.

one hand on each side of your face.

each end of the polyester.

shutting you up.

when you try to speak, only a small noise comes out — something akin to a squeak. it's muffled by the material.

"no more talking," he tells you firmly, pulling the lanyard a little tighter.

oh.

okay.

when he moves again, you wince at the sear. and he quickly realizes that this won't be practical.

so he takes the strap into one hand, slips the lanyard over your head, and holds it in place by the medal. just beside your ear.

where he can control how tightly it constricts.

while his other hand finds your thigh and spreads your leg further, letting him slip deeper until air evades your lungs.

you moan into the lanyard and reach for any semblance of him to hold onto — his bicep, his shoulder, the sliced strands of hair that are just long enough to grasp.

but god, it feels good.

so fucking good.

meanwhile, his lips continue to work at your neck, trailing down to your collarbone, where his teeth graze sweat-slick skin.

thrusts harder, until the wetness mixes with connecting skin, strings of arousal coating his and your thighs as he fucks it out of you with no remorse for the pain — albeit enjoyable — it causes.

you try to mumble his name, but the syllables barely escape, chest too fragile and throat burning with the ghost of his fingertips.

he tightens the lanyard.

the punishingly rough drag of his dick along your walls pushes you closer to the edge. a sob escapes your throat and vibrates against the taut strap running across your lips; the corners of your mouth burn from the friction.

they'll probably be sliced in the morning.

you lift a hand to loosen it — or try — but he catches it before your fingers can even brush the blue material. he sets your palm back to where it was and returns his own to your thigh. a handprint begins to form.

he tightens the lanyard.

tugs.

a tear springs to your eye; another wells in the other. more brim in your waterline until you blink, sending them down flushed cheeks in a lewd display as weakened, breathless groans fall from forcefully-parted lips.

ilia kisses a droplet away at the curve of your jaw.

you squirm, scratching thick, bright red marks into his back that sting; he hisses into your skin. it seems you won't be the only one wearing the evidence of this moment into next week.

"god—"

"i said you're done talking," he rasps.

a hard thrust that pushes him straight into your sweet spot.

it stings.

you whimper.

"about the olympics," his stare burns through your eyes, "and about today."

you've never heard him speak this way.

to anyone.

let alone yourself.

maybe you like it.

his hand squeezes your thigh, eyes focused on the finger-shaped bruises still forming on the side of your neck. "i won," as another thrust rams against your sweet spot, "it's over," you whine into the polyester, "and you're done talking."

he grabs your chin with his fingers and turns your head toward him.

"got that?"

if there weren't a piece of fabric lodged between your lips, you'd be grinning.

just slightly.

instead, you nod silently — refraining from pissing him off further.

he tightens the lanyard.

and when he smiles and leans forward, pressing the gentlest kiss to the tip of your nose…

you break.

you sob heavily around the fabric, gripping ilia as tightly as you can; heat scorches in your lower belly, so heavily that you can barely function.

your walls constrict around him, squeezing his cock as the orgasm tears through every muscle in your body. you cry out his name, all muffled and broken by the dark blue strap.

tears stream down your face, wet and ugly and tattered. your chest rises and falls with every deep, painful breath.

air barely makes its way into your lungs.

and for his own selfish reasons, ilia lifts the medal off your head and tosses it haphazardly onto the bedside table.

his mouth finds yours when he comes, the kiss all tongue and teeth. it's sloppy and heavy and hot, and if the way your pussy flutters around him is anything to show for it, he'd say you could get off again just from that alone.

he deposits a sigh into your mouth, voice weak and half-wrecked.

then, a low mumble against your lips that sounds too much like russian.

warmth dripping down your thigh as you gasp for air, each attempt sounding more like a cry than a breath.

ilia pulses inside of you — faint, but enough to notice.

and finally, he carefully shifts his hips. angles them just the way he needs and slides out.

you wince.

his thumb finds the corner of your mouth. the pad traces over burned skin, red with irritation, stinging slightly under his touch.

he kisses the spot.

another stray tear runs down your cheek. it catches on your jaw, and you breathe out — steadily, for the first time.

"are you okay?"

icy blue eyes softening when they find yours; returning to the sweet, affectionate gaze they always look at you with.

you nod slowly, "mhm."

his fingers brush your hair away from your face, a little damp with sweat when the clumped strands land on the pillow behind you.

this is who you're used to.

this is ilia.

or, is it?

"i didn't know you were…"

"—sometimes."

"oh."

he chuckles softly. when you try to match it, everything hurts — from your face to your stomach, down to pained calves.

he parts from your body with a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek and steps into the bathroom.

water runs. your ears half-tune out the noise in their jaded state, and your eyes find a speck of dust on the ceiling to focus on; it lets your body forget about the ache still pulsing through it.

but then — quietly — ilia pads back in.

one arm slips beneath the bend in your knee, the other across your shoulder blades.

he lifts your frame into his hold; your arms wrap around his neck as he carries you carefully into the bathroom and clicks the door shut with his foot.

as he lowers your body into the warm water, your limbs begin to loosen. he slips in behind you and rests his soft palms on your waist, pulling your back against his chest until the back of your head lies carefully on his shoulder.

he kisses the side of your head, letting the plush of his lips linger against the skin.

the calm nature, the carefulness in his touch, the soft press of his lips — all things you're accustomed to.

things that make ilia, ilia.

and when you think about tonight — the marks decorating your neck and thigh, and the redness around your lips — it isn't anything like your version of him; like the person holding you as if you're the most precious thing in the world.

and you love that about him. you appreciate it.

you always have.

but…you wouldn't not do it again.

— © 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, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars

thank u for 1k and god bless tatiana malinina for this haircut <3

[jaeyundazed]

ilia malinin — teamwork (and then some)

𝓸r ── .✦ swamped with schoolwork and missed time at your job, you slip on a pair of sunglasses and bask in milan, italy, alongside your overnight superstar boyfriend, ilia malinin. when he wins the gold in the team event, you're both enthralled. and you? well, you might be a little too excited...because making him keep the medal on while you fuck? that's a new low, even for you.

𝓹airing: bf.ᐟilia 𝔁 𝓯.ᐟreader     ⟢ 𝓬ontains smut ♱ mdni ♱ masterlist

𝔀ord count: 1.5k

⟢ 𝓻achel: another day, another dollar, or a beautiful submitted request. saw this in the inbox and went "oh yeah, that's the stuff." just...don't ask why it took so long to write. anyway, THAT'S A 3X WORLD CHAMPION TO YOU!!!!! enjoy, and happy reading! xo

── tags below the cut .ᐟ

𝓬ontent: smut mdni, established relationship, fingering, roman spotted??, p in v, protected sex (we cheered), they have sex with his medal on, he kinda makes fun of her for being turned on by that, implied second round

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️🥇𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

you don't remember how you ended up here.

you're not even an athlete. in fact, you don't think you have an athletic bone in your body. yet still, you managed to snag over a month's time off at your job, convince your professors to excuse any late work, and complete said assignments at 3:00 in the morning (milan time, of course).

it's not every day that your boyfriend competes in his first olympic games; nor is it that you get the chance to accompany him.

but this?

it isn't exactly an everyday occurrence.

or ever,

…really.

ilia's palms skate over bare skin, exposed ribs that absorb the warmth from his hands. your head — emptied — rests carefully on the fluffed pillow behind you.

a long, heavy sigh when his fingers curl around your waist just to draw you near.

and the gold medal hanging around his neck; that's a new one.

"i cannot believe you want me to leave this thing on," his voice muffled by your neck, lips dragging over the skin until they reach the curve where it meets your shoulder.

"because it's hot, ilia," as the medal brushes cold over the center of your chest; heavy.

"you're freaked out."

you smile, your upper body shaking with a gentle laugh. your fingers slip into his hair, guide him along your skin.

he pushes the band of your sleep shorts down — disregarding the fragile material — until your hips lift.

the clock burns somewhere around one in the morning. you should be asleep, counting sheep instead of numbers of fingers pressing into you.

the heavy gold sits in the valley of your chest; a delicious threat to your breathing that you make no effort to minimize. his fingers dip further in, curling into the spot he knows you like. it pries a low hum from your throat, nothing more than casual approval.

the embossed olympic rings brand their shape into your skin, medal trapped between heavy breaths. his free hand rests at your ribcage, thumb pressing into the muscle just firmly enough for you to feel its warmth.

it's almost embarrassing how well ilia has learned you. to treat your body with the exact calculated measure that nearly makes your soul lift.

but you love him for it. and if the electrified — yet strikingly intimate — sex is anything to go by, he'd say he does a pretty good job.

as his mouth draws kisses into slick skin, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. you laugh from below, a sharp intake of breath when his fingers slip out. he wipes them dry on the edge of the bed, reaches over, and tilts the screen toward him until the facial recognition unlocks.

his father; something about the practice tomorrow morning. the phone thunks back onto the table.

"that's gross, you know. touching your phone like that."

"you want me to keep an olympic medal on while we have sex, and your issue lies with my dirty fingers," he blinks.

but you don't protest; he's shaking his head and returning to the column of your neck before a defensive thought can form. a soft, teasing kiss to the skin that melts into your body.

his fingers fish around the nightstand — the room dark besides the moonlight streaming through the sheer blinds — and produce a wrapper. similar to the many you've already gone through since the plane landed in milan.

you're lucky ilia was so prideful that he had the nerve to pack his own condoms.

seriously, ten thousand in less than two weeks?

foil tearing, excess wrapper spat onto the floor. you swallow, holding his bicep tighter, heart beating beneath the steady weight of gold.

his eyes find yours with a silent question; you nod, eyebrows suddenly knitted together.

careful pressure when the tip pushes in. heavier with every inch. his hand nudges the bend in your knee until your heel lifts from the hard mattress. instinctively, you let the curve rest at his waist, pulling him deeper.

ilia breathes from above; the medal dangles dangerously below your chin, over a pound of weight threatening to bruise skin if he makes one wrong move.

but he doesn't.

it's one, two careful motions to adjust before presses turn to angled thrusts. adrenaline radiating into the brisk dorm air from his body — after the near-perfect free skate, medal-winning performance, the ceremony that set his victory in stone.

spots cloud your vision with every push, the calculated, demanding drag of his cock along your walls. you breathe into his ear, a soft murmur of his name with the little russian twang you adopted that makes his stomach curl.

fingers fisting into the soft hair on his head, a little tug when he brushes the sensitive spot buried in your lower stomach. the medal shifts against your chest, and an unwanted whimper pries itself out of your throat. ilia grins; dips his head to kiss the corner of your mouth where a droplet of sweat once lay.

your manicured nails press into his shoulder blade. firm, grounding. telling him to keep going just like that, without explicitly stating it.

"beautiful," ilia mumbles into the side of your head, hand resting at your hip.

damn right.

you tug at his hair until your lips find his, kissing him to soften the ache between your thighs. languid rolls of his tongue over yours — stark contrast to the heaviness of his thrusts as they pull the air from your lungs.

your free hand slides up to his chest, fingertips brushing the lanyard around his neck. you try to wrap them around it, grip the silky material for stability, but his hand finds yours before you can get a hold.

"it'll break," he breathes low, chest rising with a heavy breath.

"but ilia—"

"shh."

he hums into your mouth; places your hand at his bicep, and doesn't let up until he feels your fingers grip the taut muscle.

someone in the hallway mutters his name as if they can't be heard — a whisper meant to serve as gossip. you laugh, pull him closer until your strength waivers.

his voice falls to a breathy whisper against the column of your neck; a command in russian that you've become familiar with, that pulls at your stability like a thread. the gentle nature of his voice sends a wave through your spine and settles in your stomach, where the line of tension finally snaps at his word.

gripping him until your knuckles turn white, you gasp for breath — just hushed enough to go unnoticed by the rooms adjacent. the medal's cool gold surface shifts toward your neck, resting just above your collarbone as ilia lifts.

release coating the length of him and finding its way onto the clean, lavender-scented sheets beneath you. a moan falling from your boyfriend's parted lips that resonates in your ears, your chest, your belly, your core.

his cheek — flushed, warm — presses to the side of your head with a swell of passing breaths. the weight of his body atop yours and the medal just below your throat, relief slowly drifting into your muscles, is heavy to bear.

your fingers trace the dip of his collarbone. ilia breathes, a small puff of breath grazing the tip of your ear. the room is suddenly quiet. stripped bare of the tension that once graced the four walls.

"did you get what you wanted?"

his voice soft, a little frail at the edge as he asks the tentative question.

"mhm," you nod, brushing back a strand of hair that was stuck to his forehead. your hand lowers to his shoulder, fingertips grazing the silky edge.

"perfect, as usual."

ilia laughs.

"good."

your eyes trail down to the medal, where they linger for a few comfortably silent moments. your fingers find the sharpened edge, glide forward until the embossed olympic rings press into the skin.

he watches with a smile.

you're smiling, too.

"i'm proud of you, ilia," you whisper softly into the air; the words disappear as they leave your tongue, just loudly enough to reach his ears.

his smile grows, and he releases a small huff of air.

you tilt your head to kiss him, gently, running your fingers through his hair to relax his muscles.

he shifts, kissing a path along the side of your face and bringing the cold metal surface with him, letting it brush firmly against the underside of your jaw. with the sudden movement, you wince, fingers finding his bicep again and squeezing gently. the pressure doesn't alleviate the ache between your thighs.

ilia apologizes; hums a gentle apology into your hairline as he pulls the remaining length out and breathes.

he kisses the tip of your nose; the corner of your mouth; your top lip.

"i love you," he murmurs in a tone so soft that it almost sounds as if he thinks he needs to remind you.

your gaze flits to the medal, then to his lips, and lands back on his blue eyes, careful in their stare.

filled with love and affection and everything in between that he can never place the words to say.

"i love you, too," you respond with conviction, fingers tugging playfully at the overgrown strands of hair in their hold. you let them trail back down until they curl into the silky lanyard, "and this."

ilia shakes his head, laughing as his head cranes to slot his lips with yours again.

a little firmer.

a little messier.

a little hungrier.

and, well —

with that stupid medal still around his neck.

— © 2026 jaeyundazed, all rights reserved

tags: @mcwilla, @3r1sm1rm1r, @cosmicswirlg1rl, @runfor-roses, @delayed-delusions, @prettyraspberry, @jongst4r, @dazzlingjaeyun, @sambiohazard, @stargirlaf, @starlitsecret, @wishonasunset, @iberiariussy, @trentione, @aziscooler, @lizzygrantwrld, @sunnytkm23, @charlielotte, @pinkcoquettebow, @haleyrenenelson, @procastinatingbitch, @maddds333, @bey0nd-1he-stars

love u all <3

[ramblingwannabe]

2 Ounces Vodka, 5 Ounces Cranberry Juice, 1 Lime (Optional)

Based on: "you’re so pretty. it’s actually unfair. i’m mad at you now." from @bookished's fic prompts found here.

A/N: um, only drink if you're over 21 I guess? Or do as you please, I'm not the government ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Pairing: Ilia Malinin x drunk!reader

Word count: 1,864

*~*~*~*

Someone was pounding at the door, although how you could hear that was a mystery.

The loud choruses of “party in the USA!” rang across the room, almost drowning out the pulsing bass of the speakers by the fireplace. You recognized one of the shouting voices as your own, raising your arms as you danced, which you only regretted a second later when you felt a splash of vodka cran slip out of the red solo cup you were holding.

You brought your arm down to examine the red trail with a giggle, still bopping your head to the beat.

“You good?” someone—Kira from Business Finance class?—yelled next to you. You looked up at her, struggling to keep her dark hair and brown eyes in one as the edges of her figure oscillated into a body double.

“Yes! Just got a spill, give me a sec!” you grinned.

You separated yourself from the jumping crowd of girls, slipping past a couple making out on one side of the entrance to the living room, and headed towards the small kitchen. The walls held a spice cabinet and a printed-out picture of Gordon Ramsey pressing two pieces of bread on a man’s ears. The wooden cabinet rattled as the song changed into “Tití Me Preguntó.” But the deserted kitchen was considerably quieter, giving you a chance to finally catch your breath.

The pounding was still there, but it couldn’t possibly be the front door.

Within the silence of the kitchen, you realized that it was your own pulse, loud and steady as the blood rushed through your ears. You swayed and reached for the doorway with your free hand, closing your eyes tightly. Darkness flooded your vision, but even in the absence of the dim party lights, you could see traces of the light swirling in your eyelids.

How much had you had? you thought. It couldn’t have been that much…right? The pre-game shots (just two), and the first vodka cran, maybe a couple of jell-o shots, maybe another actual shot (strong maybe), and the second vodka cran. Nothing unbelievably wild.

But the second you opened your eyes and watched what was supposed to be one single round table turn into two, you had to admit it. You were definitely drunk.

You stumbled to the table and set the red solo cup aside, letting it join more discarded cups, the heavy glass bottles with a mix of dark and clear liquids that were to blame for your current state, and some empty soda cans. With your hands gripping the edge of the table, you shut your eyes again and took a deep breath, feeling the rhythm of “Gas Pedal” drift further and further away, as if your senses were slowly getting numb. When had the songs changed? The minutes were passing by so quickly and so slowly at the same time.

“You’ve looked better,” someone said behind you. “And I rarely get the chance to say that.”

You turned around too fast, and the room spun, causing you to stumble back a bit. You hit the table behind you, hearing the liquor bottles clink against each other.

Ilia rushed forward, chuckling as he grabbed onto your forearms and steadied you.

“Wow, I thought you said it was going to be a chill girls' night,” he said, raising his eyebrows.

“This is a chill girls’ night,” you said, laughing, trying not to slur your words together.

You’d always found it easy to read his emotions. After all, his expressive, bright blue eyes were the first thing you noticed when you met him two semesters ago in ECON 2302, then obviously confused at the aggregate supply and demand models on the projector screen. And right now, in the multi-colored twinkle lights running along the top of the kitchen cabinets, you could tell that he was both disbelieving of your words but also, thankfully, amused.

“Chill, uh-huh,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You have a funny definition for that… What’s this?”

He looked down, and you copied him, remembering that he was still holding on to your forearms. One of his hands released your right arm. Ilia examined the sticky, red residue and shook his head.

“Oops,” you giggled, trying to convince yourself that your heart was still pounding from the alcohol rather than the proximity between you. “I spilled, lol.”

“Did you really just say ‘lol’?”

“Ilia! You don’t say that? You gotta live a little, old man, be like the rest of us cool kids,” you said, sluggishly allowing your head to drop to your shoulder before it rolled back, and you closed your eyes again.

“Alright, alright, don’t go all limp on me yet,” Ilia sighed, guiding you over to the sink. “I could carry you back if you want, but it’s gonna be a lot harder if you’re dead weight.”

“Party pooper,” you whined, leaning against him. He rotated one of the faucet handles and held your arm over the sink.

“You do realize you’re the one who called me and asked me to pick you up, don’t you?” Ilia asked as the cool water ran down your arm, washing away most of the red streaks.

“I did?”

“Like ten minutes ago,” he grinned.

“Oh.”

His hand reached for the hand soap, pumping a small dollop of white foam onto his palm. Ilia shut the faucet off for a moment and gently rubbed the soap against the stubborn stains that had dried on your hand and forearm.

Your clean hand rested on the kitchen counter, helping you keep still as you watched him. Messy blond locks fell on his forehead and over his eyes, which were focusing intently on your arm. His cheeks were rosy, like he had sprinted in the cold November air to get to you, a few drops of sweat shining down his neck.

That couldn’t be it, though. Sure, he was being a very good friend for coming over to get you, but worried enough that he literally ran to you? No, you shook your head, who are you kidding?

“What?” Ilia smiled, catching you shaking your head. He turned the water on again and started rinsing away the soap.

“Nothing,” you blushed. The alcohol was clouding your thoughts, and you suddenly pulled your arm back and out of Ilia’s grasp. Small drops of water pooled on the tile below you. You turned around, spotting a kitchen towel hanging from the oven, and stumbled that way, keeping your back to Ilia.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he questioned, following behind you.

“Nothing,” you repeated, handing him the towel, still avoiding his gaze. What if he were just as good at reading your emotions? You hadn’t really considered that before.

“Liar,” he called you out.

“Can we just leave?” you groaned.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, just drop it.”

“You were perfectly happy and drunk one second, and then you just shook me off. Something’s obviously wrong,” he insisted.

“Ilia,” you started, “it’s n—”

“Don’t say it again. You’re not even looking at me,” he muttered quietly.

You did look up at this. The combination of the liquor hindering your logic and the confusion on Ilia’s face was too much for you. How dare he be so adorably sad, even if it was justified, when you were the one whose heart would inevitably get broken once he wasn’t the guy to come pick you up from parties, once he had someone else to actually care for and worry about, once his cute smile wasn’t directed at you anymore.

“It’s just—it’s…ugh!” you exclaimed, surprising Ilia as you crossed your arms angrily. The truth tumbled out before you could stop it, “You’re so pretty. It’s actually unfair. I’m mad at you now.”

Your eyes widened, and you clapped a hand over your mouth. Ilia looked at you with a mixture of shock and…and what? Still confused? Worse, pity maybe?

“All I Do Is Win” echoed from the living room. There was a brief moment of silence when DJ Khalid sang, “Everybody hands go up!” A moment that felt like a torturous lifetime of awkward silence before, “And they stay there” resumed the music in the background.

“You think I’m pretty?” Ilia said slowly.

You swallowed, acutely aware of the thirst forming in your dehydrated throat.

“I—well, yes,” you admitted. No use in denying it now. Who knows, maybe the quicker you got it out, the quicker he would let you down, and you could move on. Drop out of college, sell all your things, move to Ireland, and live in a tiny cottage. Maybe you’d find a nice, old lady to teach you how to make wool and run a small knitting shop. Nothing too drastic.

“And it’s unfair, why, exactly?”

“Because, you know,” you trailed off, gesturing to the empty air. “I mean, it’s unfair because I have to put up with looking at your cute face and knowing…”

“Knowing what?”

“Knowing you don’t like me.”

Ilia stared, frowning.

“So, you’re mad at me?”

“Yup,” you confirmed, popping the ‘p’ at the end.

“You’re mad at me because you mistakenly think that I don’t find you cute as hell, too,” he said, though it was no longer a question.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. At least the room had stopped spinning now, perhaps some pity from the universe.

“I sure am, so just got ahead, you can take me out back and shoot—wait, what did you say?” You stopped, bringing your hands down.

“I said, ‘I don’t know why I ever copied your accounting homework’ because I thought you were supposed to be the smart one out of both of us,” Ilia smirked, stepping closer.

The stuffy air of the house threatened to close around you like a boa constrictor as you began sobering up, but Ilia’s presence shifted the energy into something else, something dangerously dream-like. You really hoped you weren’t already blacked out and dreaming.

 “Did you know my roommates set a bet on when you would notice I like you?” Ilia asked, raising a hand to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch hesitantly, smiling, and shook your head. “Alex lost last week, Max was aiming for Thanksgiving.”

“At least Alex had faith in me,” you said, holding your breath as Ilia’s nose pressed against yours.

“Well, he also bet that you’d turn me down,” he confessed. “An extra five dollars if you said that I was nice but just not your type. I thought he’d be right.”

“And what do you think now?”

He didn’t reply, not really, but there was no doubt in your mind about his answer as he pressed his lips against yours, holding a slow kiss before he parted for a second, laughing.

“What?” you smiled, unable to tell what song was playing now over the sound of your heartbeat.

“You taste like vodka cranberry.”

“So?”

 “That was Max’s other bet.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, “you’ll probably need to confirm that, just to be sure.”

Ilia nodded, grinning.

“It’s only fair,” he agreed before he kissed you again, planning to do whatever it took to verify the results of the bet.

[starlitsecret]

Sweet as a pink lemonade mimosa

Masterlist

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

❀ Ilia Malinin x reader

❀ Wordcount: 1.2k

❀ Warnings: NSFW, mdnit, like no plot at all, just pure smut

❀ Summary:

❀ Note: So this was fun! I hope you enjoy, thanks for requesting it <3

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

You’d heard about him before, it was impossible not to. Ilia Malinin, the self proclaimed quadgod who’d actually managed to live up to his stage name when he’d rewritten history by landing seven clean quads in a single program at the ISU grand prix final. You’d been there but you didn’t talk at all back then, just friendly greetings and knowing nods when you met each other in the corridors. A few congratulations and waves across the ice but that was about it. 

Then, during the Olympics, you’d gotten a little closer, sharing tables in the cafeteria, talking about everything and nothing, quickly becoming friends. The two of you shared a flight from Milano to Zurich and discussed what programs you were going to do at Art on ice. What he hadn’t told you about was the goddamn outfit he was going to wear.

The mesh shirt was… a statement. And a goddamn thirst trap. 

And he knew that, he knew exactly what he was doing with the long, heated glances, the playful nudges that made a blush dust your cheeks, that sinful thing he did with his tongue while skating.

Safe to say it wasn’t hard for him to convince you to come back to his room with him after the show, dragging you by the hand and pressing messy kisses to your lips in the elevator. When you stumble out of it, heading to his room, full of giggles and need, he wraps an arm around your waist pressing you close. 

He unlocks his room swiftly, guiding you inside. You drop your bags by the door and he’s back against your lips before they even land fully on the floor. With gentle but hurried motions, he guides you to the bed, letting you crawl up the length of it and settle against the pillows. The scent of him surrounds you immediately and it has your whole body relaxing. You barely get ten seconds to take it in before he’s back kissing you.

“Fuck this dress is so pretty on you,” he groans against your lips, tugging at the material of your pink lemonade colored dress, pushing it off your shoulder and mouthing kisses along the exposed skin. You arch up into the touch, hands tangling in his hair, tugging gently and pulling a soft groan out of him. 

He pulls away to tug the mesh shirt over his head but you stop him with a hasty shake of your head. 

“What, something wrong?” is his immediate reaction, hands falling to your hips. 

“No, no,” you assure him instantly, leaning up to mouth kisses along his jawline. “Just… keep it on?” 

He blinks down at you, a little shocked at your request but then a smirk pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You find it that hot?” he laughs a little in disbelief. A harsh swallow, him trailing the movement of your muscles with lustful eyes and then snapping up to your eyes again. 

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah.” 

He nods once. “Then it stays on,” he agrees before returning to kissing you, molding his lips with yours, tongue swiping across your lips seeking entrance as he fumbles for the zipper on your dress. 

“I get to take this off though?” The words are just hot breaths against your lips, eyes dark with desire. You can’t nod fast enough. 

“Yes,” you gasp, “yes, please.” 

The fabric slides down along your arms when he peels it off, tugging it off and dropping it on the floor beside the bed. His warm fingertips hook into the waistline of your panties, looking up at you to silently ask for consent and you lift your hips silently telling him to go ahead. 

“Okay?” he checks in with you, because of course he does. He barely gets the whole word out before you’re nodding, leaning up to kiss him again. When you pull away you’re both out of breath and your lips are swollen and a little sore. Getting a little impatient, you hook your fingers in the waistband of his jeans, pushing them down and he soon pulls away to push them off completely along with his boxers, but keeping the shirt on just like you’d asked. 

“How do you want to do this?” he gasps against your skin, trailing kisses along your collarbone. 

“Get on your back,” you decide after a moment, pushing at his shoulder, switching places with him. His eyes grow wide when he catches on what you intend, groaning when you settle over his hips. He can’t seem to decide what to do with his hands, where to place them, they roam your body, never stopping until you actually sink down on him and they land on your hips to keep you steady. 

“Fucking hell-” he groans, head thrown back and sweat beading on his brows at the sensation. 

You let out a moan in agreement, the stretch incredible. He guides your hips to roll against his and the sound you both let out at the first motion is straight up pornographic. His neighbors can probably hear exactly what you’re doing but you don’t find it in you to care at all. 

He won’t last, it’s been a while since he did this with anyone and you feel way too good. Your hands grab ahold of the fishnet material of his shirt, fisting it using it to steady yourself as you start riding him with more vigour. Time blurs, the only thing left in your world is sensation and pleasure, his warm hands on your skin, the way his cock drags along your walls and his blissed out look that has his eyes rolling back. 

You reach your peak and collapse on his chest. He wraps his arms around your waist, plants his feet against the bed and starts rising his hips up into yours to chase his own high. He cums with a groan of your name, hips stuttering and breathing uneven. 

Afterwards he pulls the blanket over the both of you, offering to get you some water or to help you through a shower, but you decline. 

“Just want you,” you mumble sleepily, tracing the stitches in the shirt you’ve gotten to borrow from him, a washed out band tee from a band you don’t recognize. “Alright,” he agrees softly, finally getting out of the black shirt you’d insisted he kept on during sex. You almost mourn the loss of it but he makes it up by climbing down into bed with you, pulling you close and keeping you warm. 

“You better wear that shirt again sometime,” you mumble into his neck. That has him laughing. 

“Yeah? And have you jump my bones as soon as you see me?” he teases. 

"Obviously." 

That has him laughing softly. “Yeah yeah, we’ll see,” is what he settles for. 

He does wear it again, whenever you ask him to actually. And he looks just as good in it every damn time. 

[starlitsecret]

New hair, new me

Masterlist

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

Ilia Malinin x reader

Wordcount: 900

Warnings: Lovebites

Summary: Ilia's got a new haircut

Note: Hi! I'm sorry for skipping over a bunch of requests but @prettyraspberry pitched this idea to me before work and then I couldn't stop thinking about it so I had to get it out! I'll go back to my ordinary que of requests after this, I promise! For now, I hope you enjoy this!

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

“Promise me you won’t hate it,” Ilia grumbles from behind the door, holding off on revealing his new haircut to you. You’re sitting on his bed, Mysti in your lap, waiting for him to get home from the hair salon. You’d only last night expressed how much you loved the longer hair on him, playing with it and carding your hands through it. Now he almost felt bad he’d cut it off. 

“I can’t promise that, I have no idea what it looks like!” You laugh, fond of his fanatics. 

He groans and his head falls against the door with a thud. “You know what I mean.” It’s a little whiny and he really does worry you won’t find him as good looking with this shorter haircut. He won’t let you know about that though. 

“Yeah yeah,” you agree, assuring him it’ll be fine. When he finally steps around the door and into the room, you let out a little gasp, a hand over your mouth and eyes big as saucers. It’s much shorter than it was before, the hair in his neck barely brushing his skin. And most shocking of all, it’s much darker, almost brownish, especially in the roots. 

“You hate it,” he whines, turning around to walk out again. That has you snapping out of your trance, leaning over Mysti to reach for his hand, stopping him mid-step. 

“I don’t hate it-”

“You do!” he cuts you off. A small laugh slips past your lips and you pull him down into bed with you. Mysti hops off as the mattress dips, slipping out through the door that’s still cracked open. 

“I don’t, it’s just… different,” is what you offer in consolation and he all but pouts at your words like a toddler. With a dramatic groan he flops down with his head in your lap, taking over Mysti’s place, looking up at you with big, blue eyes. 

“Honestly,” he mumbles, more seriously,” Do you like it?” You lean down to press a swift kiss to his forehead. 

“Of course I do,” you assure him, carding a hand through the short strands, pushing them away from his forehead. “The darker tone suits you.” 

He smiles at that, real and bright, like a child receiving candy.

“But I have to admit,” you continue with a laugh. “It’s quite the dramatic act.” He raises an eyebrow in question. 

“You know, getting the olympic results you got and then cutting your hair off and dying it dark,” you shrug, a teasing smile on your lips. “Kind of like how girls cope with a major break up.” That has him barking a laugh. 

“I honestly didn’t even think of that,” he admits through the giggles, shoulder shaking and eyes crinkling. “I guess I’m just dramatic in nature.” 

That has you laughing along with him, nodding. “Yeah you probably are.” 

He doesn't tell you how he’s so relieved at your assurance. The colour didn’t really come out like he’d intended and maybe it was a little too short cut, but the loving kiss he receives is enough to tell him you still think he’s hot as hell. 

He does regret the short hair for a moment though when he wakes up next morning and takes a look in the mirror. You two got a little carried away last night, your lips sucking gently on his soft skin right below his ear, along his collarbones and jaw. Now blue and purple marks litter his fair skin and he has absolutely no way of even covering them up in the slightest. 

“What’s this?” he wakes you up with an accusational groan, pointing at the lovemarks. You blink away sleep, pushing your hair out of your face and look up from the pillow, meeting his gaze. 

“Oh…” is your only answer, breathed out and astonished. 

“I can’t even hide one of them!” But as soon as the complaint is out of his mouth the blanket falls down and pools around your waist and his eyes zero in on the skin that peeks up above the collar of the shirt you’ve worn to bed. Just as prominent marks as his litter your own skin and the sight of them has him in awe. 

“Oh wow,” he breathes out, reaching out gently to trace them, his soft touch gliding across your collarbones and dipping down slightly under the collar of your shirt, or his shirt. He’s completely forgotten why he was even complaining in the first place. Your own hand trails the marks along his throat with a gentle touch, so soft he shivers underneath your fingertips. 

You give him a sheepish smile and a shrug, “It was much easier to kiss you there now, you know, after your haircut.” That has him blushing a deep crimson, averting his gaze from yours. He doesn’t have to tell you how much he loves it when you let your lips map out his skin where he’s so sensitive and the skin is soft as silk. 

He’d been on his way to make some breakfast for the both of you, wanting to bring you breakfast in bed, but the idea is abandoned when he pushes your shirt off of your shoulder, exposing the clean canvas of warm skin there. And when your lips reattach themselves to trail along his neck, the tips of his hair brushing over your cheeks softly, he thinks that maybe it wasn’t that bad of a haircut after all. 

[starlitsecret]

What’s mine is yours

Masterlist

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

Ilia Malinin x reader

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warnings: none

Summary:

Note: Thanks for the request! I hope you enjoy!!

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

When Ilia had dragged you across the world with him to Milan for the Olympics, he’d promised you he’d booked a hotel for you and everything. When you actually got to Italy and he’d gone with you to check into the hotel, the receptionist had told you with a very extravagant apology that they’d gotten overbooked because of the Olympics. 

“I’m so sorry, there’s nothing I can do except refund your money,” she’d told you, apologizing for the third time. You both just shook your heads, assuring the poor girl that it was alright and that you would come up with something. With that Ilia had thrown an arm around your shoulders and walked out into the italian afternoon sun. Just to try, you poke your head into a few other hotels to try and see if there's a place at any other hotels but everyone shakes their head, saying they’re fully booked for the Olympics. 

“We’ll just get you a credential and you can stay at the Olympic village,” he assures after the fifth hotel turns you away. 

“But I’m not an athlete-” you begin to protest. 

He cuts you off, “We’ll sign you up as my coach or something.” 

That has you raising an eyebrow. “And you think people will believe that?” 

“Why not?” he questions with a shrug. 

“Take a look at me,” you gesture to yourself. “Then look at you. What could I teach you?” 

“Don’t undermine yourself,” he protests, shoving your shoulder gently. “You’ve taught me a lot of things.” 

You hum, “Yeah? Like what?” 

You arrive at the Olympic village and Ilia checks you in under his name, vouching for you. Then he pulls you through the gates and starts to lead you to his room. 

“Like knowing to have fun between the endless drill of perfecting jumps and spins.” 

His answer is way more honest than you’d expected and it catches you off guard. But it also warms your heart and you slip your hand into his free one, his other carrying your suitcase after insisting he was a gentleman, especially to his best friend. 

“Good,” you mumble contentedly as he opens the door to his room, letting you step inside first. He’s barely been here for two full days and the room is already a mess. Clothes and sponsorships everywhere, a half unpacked suitcase is lying open on the floor and another is pushed against the foot of the bed. His costumes are thrown over the sofa’s backrest and the curtains aren’t even pulled back properly. 

“I’ll go down after dinner to get you a room,” he says, flicking the lights on and starting to snatch up clothes from all over the room and dumping them in the suitcases again. 

You spend the rest of the afternoon watching him train, then you go out into Milan and explore the city with some of his skating friends that are here too. You find a pizza place you decide to try out and the whole group settles down around a big table, talking, laughing, just enjoying yourselves as if it was any other vacation. 

It’s late when you get back to the village, everyone stepping off the elevator at different floors. 

“Shit,” Ilia curses when he unlocks the door to his room and turns to you, wide eyed and a sheepish look on his face. “I forgot to get you a room.” 

You had also completely forgotten about that, the thought getting lost in the fantastic night you’ve had. 

“It’s alright,” you wave him off. “I’ll take your sofa if that’s okay with you?” He shakes his head instantly. 

“No,” he protests, “I’ll take the couch, you can sleep in my bed.” 

His stubbornness earns him a disbelieving look from you. “I’m not the one who’s going to compete in the Olympics,” you point out. “You need that bed more than I do.” 

And well, he can’t argue with logic. But at the same time, chivalry is very important and the fact that he genuinely doesn’t want you to have come all the way halfway across the world for him only to have to sleep on his couch. No, he’s better than that. You deserve better than that. 

“Well it is quite a big bed,” he shrugs. It’s definitely at least 1,20m, you both would fit comfortably in it. 

You grimace, “I really don’t want to disturb your sleep. You need your rest.” He shrugs again. 

“You won’t. Besides, I always fall asleep on you during our movie nights and I’m never as rested as I am after those.” 

He does have a point, he always falls asleep during your movie nights, either with his head on your shoulder or your lap. Sometimes he’s out cold with his head laying heavy on your chest and you card through his hair absentmindedly until the end credits roll. 

“Alright,” you give in. “We’ll share the bed.” 

He nods contently, throwing you a T-shirt of his that you can sleep in and a pair of sweatpants without you even having to ask. Then he takes the bathroom so you can change. 

You slip into the bathroom after him and he settles down in bed, pulling the comforter up to under his chin and wiggling his way into the pillow until he’s comfortable enough. When you come out he’s buried under the blankets like a cocoon. It has a grin spreading on your face. 

“You look cozy,” you giggle, rounding the bed to slip in on the opposite side. 

“I am cozy,” he agrees, eyelids starting to feel heavy after the long day. 

You settle in opposite him, head resting on the soft pillow and hair fanning out like a halo. He turns to face you, but he’s almost too tired to keep his eyes open. A few blond curls fall into his face and you have to restrain yourself from reaching out and pushing them away. It feels too intimate to do that now, here, in the position you’re in. Were it any other day, time, and place, you’d do it without a second thought. 

“Get some rest.” Your request is soft and he nods sleepily, agreeing with a silent nod. You let your own eyes drop shut, letting the warmth and comfort envelope you and lull you into unconsciousness. 

When the light starts streaming in through the blinds in the morning, you two are curled up close under the covers, legs tangled, your head tucked under his chin and a warm hand of his is resting on your waist. You both have moved closer during the night, unconsciously seeking out each other’s warmth, touch, the familiar feeling of being safe with each other has you sleeping better than you have in months. 

[starlitsecret]

Catnap

Masterlist

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

Ilia Malinin x reader

Wordcount: 1k

Warnings: none

Summary:

Note: Thanks for the request!! This was so cozy to write! I hope you enjoy it <3 Also, I’ve gotten obsessed with including Mysti and Miu Miu so yeah, they’re here too (again)

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

Ilia had come home late from training, having stayed a few hours extra to drill some jumps and some runthroughs of the long program he had planned for worlds. When he slipped through the door to his home, his parents were watching some show on the TV, and they greeted him tiredly as he kicked his shoes off. “There’s dinner in the fridge,” his mother tells him, waving a hand towards the kitchen. “Y/N’s in your room waiting.” A wide smile slips onto his face at those words and he grabs the plate from the fridge, putting it in the microwave for probably a shorter time than he should have because it comes out not even lukewarm. “You should’ve led with that,” he grins, slipping away into his room, plate in one hand and bag still over his shoulder, and he manages to grab a glass of water in the passing. Then he makes his way into his room, pushing the door open with his shoulder and closing it softly with a kick. Whatever greeting he had ready dies on his tongue when he spots you. You’re curled up on his bed, fast asleep, Mysti snuggled against your chest and Miu Miu shares your pillow. His hoodie is too big on you, the sleeves giving you sweater paws. 

He softly puts the plate and glass on his desk, dumping his bag on the floor by the foot of the bed with a dull thud. Mysti looks up when he crawls onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. 

“Hey sweetheart,” he mumbles, even if you’re not awake to hear it. His snuggles close, wrapping an arm around you from behind and pulling you against his chest. Your hands are a bit cold and he wraps his own warmer ones around them. Mysti looks just a bit displeased by his disturbance but settles into you again, falling asleep in seconds. 

His dinner is forgotten on the desk, and he should probably take a shower, but now that he’s settled in he’s not leaving your side or the bed unless it’s an emergency. You press back into him, even unconsciously, and it has his heart melting. The fact that you always seek him out, knowingly or not, is so heartwarming for him he doesn’t know what to do. 

“Hey,” you mumble tiredly, still half asleep, the warmth he brought also didn’t help lure away the drowsiness.

With a soft sigh you sank even further back into him and into the bed, sleepily petting Mysti in your arms. 

A laugh slipped past his lips at your softness. “Hello sweetie,” he murmured against your shoulder. 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” you insisted softly, turning around in his arms, waking Mysti once again. She looked thoroughly displeased and padded down the length of the bed to settle by your feet instead. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I got home way later than I thought. I’m sorry.” He felt a bit bad that you had come over to spend time with him only for him to stay longer at the rink, so late that you managed to fall asleep in the time you spent waiting. Not that you usually had any problem falling asleep anywhere, at any time of the day, but he still felt bad. You shake your head, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“It’s okay,” you shrug, finally a bit more awake. “I think I needed that nap anyway.” 

That has him smiling. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling so tired all the time lately,” the confession is soft, gentle, as if not to startle him to start worrying that something's wrong. It seems your attempt fails because as soon as the words leave your mouth, a crease of worry appears between his eyebrows. 

“Is everything alright?” The worry is clear in his words, genuine care and love dripping from his words.

Your insistent nod doesn’t seem to convince him at all. “Yeah, I just haven’t slept very well this last week. It’s really nothing.”

He heaves a long sigh and buries his nose in your hair. “You tell me if you need anything, hm?” 

That has you laughing softly. He’s the same caring, loving, incredibly attentive boy that you knew he’d turn into as soon as you mentioned it. 

“I sleep better with you,” is what slips out from between your chapped lips. You hadn’t really meant for that to come out, but the words have him softening. “So, just… stay?” The request is barely out in the air before he’s nodding, assuring you that, yes, he’ll stay for as long as you need. And to be honest, he sleeps better when he’s with you too, so it’s a win win really. Miu Miu gets up and tramples around on the pillow, stepping on your hair and swiping a tail in Ilia’s face. Mysti has started snoring softly from the foot of the bed, and his dinner is still very much dumped on his desk, already cold again. 

That’s how his parents find you when they go to say goodnight, assuming you both are still up because the lights are still on in his room. But no, all four of you - you, Ilia, Mysti, and Miu Miu, are passed out on the bed, fast asleep and curled tightly together. They turn the lights off, return Ilia’s unfinished dinner to the fridge, and throw a blanket over the two of you. His mother presses a kiss each to your foreheads, mumbling softly in russian how thankful she is for both of you and how thankful she is that you have each other. The cats receive a pet each as well, then they close the door, letting the room be engulfed in darkness, your soft breaths and the comfortable love you share in the familiarity of each other’s arms. 

[starlitsecret]

Like a shattered heart across the ice

❀ Masterlist

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀ ❀ Ilia Malinin x reader ❀ Word count: 1.9k

❀ Warnings: NSFW, MINIORS DO NOT INTERACT, handjob, crying, like a breakdown ❀ After the men's free skate in the 2026 Olympics is finished, you try to patch him back up again.

❀ °˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖° ❀

The first thing you do when you come back to the village after the men’s free skate is finished is coax Ilia into taking a warm shower while you prepare something for him to eat. The disappointment in himself is practically oozing off of him and he’s been leaning on you the whole way from the stadium, hiding his face in your neck on the bus home with his hood pulled up over his head, holding your hand and leaning slightly into you the short walk from the bus to where he stayed. You figured a warm shower, some comfort food and just a quiet night would help him feel at least a little bit better.

You’d seen the moment he skated to his starting pose, something different had passed over his face. Something haunted had settled in his eyes and right there you decided you’d be happy if he finished his program at all. And finish it he did, although with the pieces of his broken heart scattered all over the ice.

“Come on,” you mumble softly, “get in the shower and I’ll prepare something for you to eat.” He shakes his head, the tip of his nose brushes against your neck at the motion. He’s wrapped himself around you from behind, refusing to let go.

“Join me?” He mumbles into your shoulder, pressing you closer to him.

“But-“ your protest, “I need to fix some food for you.”

He shakes his head again, “it can wait.” A pause, blinking back tears. Then; “Please?”

You sigh, shoulders sagging in defeat.

“Alright,” you agree softly.

His breath is hot against your ear. “Thank you,” he breathes out, a bit shaky. You just turn around, facing him and giving him a soft smile, grasping his hands from where they’re resting over your hips and start pulling him into the bathroom.

You put the water on, letting it turn hot while you undress. With heavy movements, Ilia pulls his hoodie off, dropping it on the floor, letting you untie his sweatpants and push them to the floor. When you’re done you guide him to the shower, putting him under the warm spray of water, watching as it visibly melts away some of the fatigue and frustration. You wait a few moments before pulling your own clothes off, joining him as he holds a hand out for you to take, pulling you close under the water, returning to leaning on you.

“I think I’d fall apart without you here,” he mumbles against the wet skin of your shoulder. The words are barely audible but you catch them over the sound of water spraying over the two of you. You only hum, carding a hand through his hair, pushing it back away from his eyes.

He drags in a shaky breath and when he breathes out again, the tears fall. He tightens his hold on you, his grip almost bruising.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you gasp as he surrenders to the overwhelming feelings he’s been keeping inside. They all come flooding at the same time, leaving him gasping for breath. There’s little you can do besides hold him close, upright, keep him from falling apart. He’s shaking in your grasp, gasping for breath between the sobs and holding you so tightly it almost hurts.

“I’m so tired,” is all he gets out between the sobs. You shush him gently, trailing kisses along the side of his face.

You press a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. “I know.”

“And- fuck, I blew it out there,” he hiccups. “I don’t- I don’t know what happened, I just-“ he stutters out between the short breaths he manages to get in.

“You don’t have to know right now,” you tell him gently, the words whispered, your nose pressed into his wet curls. He shakes his head, frustration taking over.

“No I- I should have done better.” It’s insistent, even if his voice shakes.

You pull away, just enough to be able to look him in the eye, and cups his face in your hands.

“You did your best and there’s nothing better than that,” you remind him, gentle but firm. He lets his gaze linger on you, eyes glazed over, breath short and uneven. Then, out of the blue, or maybe out of thankfulness for your words, or just pure love, he pulls you close again, kissing you like there’s no tomorrow. The press of his lips is hot, desperate and hungry. A search for redemption, or revenge, or maybe just a way to drown out the world and his own thoughts. You don’t know but you indulge him. If this is what he needs, you’ll give it to him.

He tugs at your hips, placing a hand flat across the small of your back, pressing you into him, your hips pressing into his and you gasp into the kiss at the feeling. Ilia sighs softly, chasing your lips as you try to pull away, capturing your lips in another kiss.

“Ilia..” you breathe against his lips, pulling away slowly. He shakes his head, not wanting to hear it, opting for directing his attention to the soft skin along your shoulder, up along your neck and over your pulse point below your ear. His hands wander along your sides, down the dip of your hips, up, tracing softly under the swell of your breasts. The hot water feels cold in the wake of his hands.

“Ilia-“ you gasp, gently pushing at his shoulders, trying to get him to listen. “Hey- mhm- stop, stop,” you ask softly. You can indulge in his kisses but both of you know it isn’t right for him or you to channel his feelings into sex, to drown his sorrows in pleasure.

“Sorry,” he whispers against your skin, a bit ashamed, but he still presses his hips into you.

You gently trace a line along his cheek, and his eyes flutter close at the feeling.

“You’re not in the mindset for sex right now,” you tell him, and he agrees with a shake of his head, still mouthing a gentle line of kisses along your jawline.

“I just- want to feel something else, something good,” he confesses brokenly, beggingly. And you can’t deny him that entirely.

You kiss him again, softly. “I know.”

You let the water run over you both as you pour some soap in your hands, warming it between your palms before you let your hands glide across his body. Along his shoulders, down his arms, sides, you turn him around and massage his back gently. He groans under your touch, melting into your hands.

“God, you’re an angel,” he whispers, still sniffing slightly from his earlier breakdown.

“Feel better?” You wonder with a small smile at the sight of him finally relaxing a bit. You can barely remember the last time that happened.

He hums in appreciation, turning around in your arms, and your hands glide from his back to the plain of his chest, one hand settling over his erratic heart. Gently, you lean up, kissing the corner of his mouth. Just as he melts into it, you wrap your hand around his member, and he moans loudly at your touch.

“Gods-“ he groans, almost doubling over.

With slow, gentle motions, you work him through it, bringing a blissful pleasure to his body, his muscles relaxing and his whole demeanor melting away, leaving nothing but him. Simple, clean, pure, innocent, human. Just him.

And he lets you see him, doesn’t try to hide behind humor, or pull up the hood on his hoodie, or skate away on the ice with a smirk. He stays right in your arms, vulnerable and open.

“Fuck, I’m gonna- gods I’m gonna cum,” he groans and you allow him to hide away his face in your neck. The water washes away his release immediately and you let your hand travel back up to rest across his back.

“Thank you,” he rasps, pulling away slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

You kiss his cheek, a lingering press of soft lips against his warm skin.

“Feeling better?” You ask, gentle, kind, patient. He sighs softly, but nods.

His breath fans across your face. “Better than I should,” he grimaces, feeling a bit ashamed at his way of blowing off some steam.

“Something is better than nothing,” you remind him. “I wouldn’t let you go further than a handjob when you’re this overwhelmed,” you apologize. “You’re not in the right headspace to give consent or not.” He nods slowly, his breathing settling back into a rhythm again.

“You’re too considerate sometimes,” Ilia whispers. You only shake your head.

“It’s nothing,” you insist. “Let’s get you clean for real and then I’m fixing some food for you, okay?”

He sighs, but finally, for the first time since he stepped off the Olympic ice, a small smile makes its way to his lips.

“Okay.”

The sight of his smile has something settling in your chest. Fulfillment, happiness, contentment, you don’t really know. But it feels good. Seeing him smile is good.

You shampoo his blond curls, massaging his head gently. Then you soap him up again and he does the same to you, even if you protest that you should be the one taking care of him.

“Who takes care of you then? While you’re busy taking care of me?” He mumbles softly, pushing away the wet strands of hair from your forehead. You sigh but a small smile adorns your lips as he massages shampoo into your hair and runs soap covered hands along your body.

When the water almost runs cold, you step out, take turns to dry each other off and you leave Ilia wrapped in a towel as you go to fetch a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie for him. You pick a pair that he brought himself, leaving all the sponsorship stuff in the bags on the floor. It earns you a soft, thankful look as you pull the hoodie over his head. It still smells like home.

Ilia buries himself under a blanket on the bed while you go out to fetch some food. When you come back, he’s on his side on the bed, scrolling on his phone. He looks up when you step inside the door, sitting up a little, leaning back against the pillows.

“When I went to take my starting position,” he tells you, quietly as if something loud would break him again, “I was overwhelmed by- all the traumatic things that have ever happened to me just flooded my mind and- and I couldn’t handle it.”

You set the food down on the small table before joining him on the bed as he starts to tell you about what happened.

“It was just- too much and, well I broke under the pressure.” He falls back a little, the voices in his head are still loud and demanding but… sharing the burden with someone, sharing it with you, makes it a little easier.

“I saw it,” you admit quietly. Ilia’s eyes go a bit wide at your confession, but he doesn’t say anything, allowing you to continue. “I didn’t know what it was but, I saw it and my only thought was that I just wanted you to cross the finishing line, finish the program, without hurting yourself. And you did finish, grandly so.” He begins shaking his head but you stop him.

“You did, and it was beautiful. And I’m so incredibly proud of you.” He blinks back tears, swallows harshly and then he nods. Your words of validation are suddenly enough at this moment. He doesn’t need the affirmation of the world, of anyone else, not when he has you.

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

Here me out childhood sweethearts, just really sweet things between them. Maybe with his cats and family also but could be just Ilia and his childhood sweetheart

Tehe i might have made it into a thread of time…

“illy”

The rink had always been their middle ground.

Before sponsors, before cameras, before the world knew the name “Ilia Malinin”there was just Ilia and her, racing each other across scratched up ice at some half lit rink, breath fogging in the cold.

She used to beat him.

He’d deny it every time.

“You cheated,” he’d accuse, breathless, pointing at her skates.

She’d grin, skating backward like it was nothing. “You’re just slow, Illy.”

“I am not slow.”

“Then catch me.”

And he always tried.

their childhood was intertwined…

She practically grew up at the rink.

Not just because of him but because of them.

“Again,” his mom would say from the boards, arms crossed but eyes warm. “And this time, don’t rush the entry.”

“Yes, Tatiana,” she’d reply, already pushing off again.

Ilia would groan dramatically from the ice. “You never make me redo it that many times.”

His dad didn’t even look at him. “Because you don’t listen the first time.”

She snorted mid glide.

“Traitor,” Ilia muttered.

“She’s just better than you,” his mom added casually.

“Wow,” Ilia said flatly. “I see how it is.”

But they adored her.

It was in the way his mom would fix her hair before competitions, fingers gentle as she smoothed down flyaways.

“In this family,” she’d say softly, securing a pin, “we don’t go on the ice looking messy.”

“I’m not in your family,” she’d tease.

Tatiana would just smile. “We’ll see.”

His dad would stay late after practice just to run her programs one more time.

“Your timing is improving,” he’d tell her, nodding. “But you hesitate before the jump. Trust it.”

She’d nod seriously.

Ilia would skate up beside her, nudging her shoulder. “He never gives me compliments like that.”

“Because you’d get a big head,” his dad replied.

“Too late,” she chimed in.

And later, when practice ended and the rink lights dimmed, the three of them would sit on the boards, sharing snacks like it was their own little world.

She fit there.

Too easily.

By 12 and 13, things had changed but not really.

He got better. Way better.

She got prettier. Way prettier.

And suddenly, the teasing felt different.

“You’re looking at me again,” she said once, tying her laces, not even looking up.

“I’m not.”

“Yes…You are.”

“I’m analyzing your technique.”

She snorted. “My technique?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “It’s distracting.”

She finally looked at him, eyebrow raised. “You’re such a liar.”

He smirked. “You like it.”

She rolled her eyes but her smile gave her away.

High School…

They didn’t call it flirting.

But everyone else did.

He’d bump her shoulder in the hallway just to hear her complain.

She’d steal his hoodie and refuse to give it back.

He’d stay late at the rink if she was there, even if his practice ended an hour earlier.

“You don’t have to stay,” she told him once, sitting on the boards, unlacing her skates.

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

He shrugged, looking out at the ice. “It’s quieter when you’re here.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Just bumped her knee into his.

“Liar,” she whispered.

But softer this time.

Before things got busy… before everything stretched thin… she used to be at his house almost as much as her own.

And his cats?

They loved her.

Traitors.

“She likes me more,” she said smugly once, sitting crisscross applesauce on his bedroom floor with one of his cats curled in her lap, purring loudly.

Ilia leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “That’s my cat.”

“Not anymore.”

“Wow.”

She scratched under its chin, smiling when it leaned into her touch. “See? I have a gift.”

“You bribed it.”

“With what?”

“…love,” he muttered.

She laughed. “Jealous?”

“No.”

“Very.”

“Shut up.”

The other cat jumped off the bed, padding over toward her like it had been summoned.

She looked up at him, grinning. “They know good energy.”

He rolled his eyes but pushed off the wall, dropping down beside her anyway.

The cat immediately abandoned her lap to climb onto his.

She gasped. “Rude.”

He smirked. “Guess she remembered who she belongs to.”

“Fake,” she accused, poking the cat lightly.

He bumped her shoulder. “She just pities you.”

She leaned into him slightly without thinking.

“Yeah?” she murmured. “You sure about that?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stayed there.

Closer than necessary.

Eventually…The Drifting Came…

She stopped skating first.

Not all at once. Just… less.

Less practices. Less competitions. Less time at the rink.

Until one day, she just wasn’t there anymore.

Ilia noticed.

But life didn’t slow down for him. It sped up.

More training. Bigger competitions. International travel.

They still texted sometimes.

Memes. Random jokes. The occasional “you alive?”

But the space between those messages stretched longer… and longer.

Until missing her just became something quiet.

Something he didn’t really look at too closely.

Then…Olympics

It wasn’t what he wanted.

Not really.

The pressure. The expectations. The weight of everything.

And when it was over… it didn’t feel like relief.

Just emptiness…and loss

The night he got home it was too quiet.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Silent room.

Phone in his hand.

Her name glowing on the screen.

His thumb hovered for a second.

Then..

“You up?”

The reply came fast.

“f- boy vibes, illy”

He let out a quiet laugh.

“only for you”

A pause.

….

“i don’t know if to be flattered or nauseated”

“both?”

“yes lol. but what’s up?”

He stared at the screen for a second.

Then typed

“can you open your window? i’m coming over to talk.”

Three dots.

“open and waiting for you”

The window creaked softly as he climbed in, like they were kids again.

She was sitting on her bed, knees pulled up, watching him like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“Still dramatic,” she said.

“Still judging,” he shot back.

“Always.”

There was a beat.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

And suddenly, it wasn’t light anymore.

He sat down across from her.

Ran a hand through his hair.

“I…” he started, then stopped. “The Olympics were…”

“Hard?” she offered gently.

He let out a breath. “Yeah. Not how I wanted it to go.”

She nodded, not interrupting.

“I thought it would feel… bigger. Better. But it just…” he shook his head. “It sucked.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “That happens sometimes.”

He glanced at her. “That’s it?”

“What?”

“No big speech? No ‘everything happens for a reason’?”

She smiled faintly. “You’d hate that.”

“…yeah,” he admitted.

Silence settled between them.

But it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It never was with her.

After a long stretch of silence…

“I missed you,” he said suddenly.

It slipped out before he could stop it.

Her expression softened instantly.

“I’ve missed you too.”

He looked down at his hands. “These past couple years… I just kept thinking I’d reach out more. Or see you. And then I didn’t.”

“I know.” she paused…

“In a way, you were my first love.”

Her words were quiet.

Careful.

He looked up caught off guard and let out a small, disbelieving laugh.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled.

But then like always…he deflected.

“So… the Olympics…”

“Ilia.”

She said his name like a warning.

He stilled.

“You don’t get to run from that,” she said softly.

“From what?”

“From this.”

Her hand gestured between them.

His chest tightened.

heart beating too fast.

“I didn’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted finally.

The words came out rough.

“Even when I was gone. Even when I was busy. You were just… there.”

She swallowed.

“I’d land something big and look up,” he continued, voice quieter now, “and expect you to be there. Saying something sarcastic.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Like ‘mm… needs work’?”

“Exactly.”

He let out a breath.

“And you weren’t.”

Silence.

“I think I’ve always loved you.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

“And I think I was too stupid to realize it.”

She let out a soft laugh, tears threatening.

“Yeah,” she said. “You were.”

He huffed. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They sat there for a second…both smiling, both wrecked.

Then she shook her head a little.

“I’ve always loved you too.”

His breath caught.

“Even when you got busy. Even when you disappeared into… all of this,” she gestured vaguely. “It never really went away.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugged lightly. “Same reason you didn’t.”

“Fear?”

“Timing.”

“Yeah,” he murmured.

He shifted closer.

Slowly and careful.

Like if he moved too fast, he’d ruin it.

“You’re still annoying,” she whispered.

“You love it.”

“I do.”

His hand brushed against hers.

“You gonna make a move or just sit there?” she teased softly, heart racing.

He smirked faintly.

“There she is.”

“Shut up.”

He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in.

Slow enough that she could stop him.

Close enough that she didn’t.

Their foreheads touched first.

Then he tilted his head…

Then…FINALLY

He kissed her.

Soft. Familiar.

Like something they’d done before. Like something that had been waiting years to happen.

When they pulled back, she smiled against his lips.

“Took you long enough, Illy.”

He laughed quietly at the name, resting his forehead against hers.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’m here now.”

“I’m glad you are….” She said before leaning in again

And for the first time, the kids who loved each other were finally adults admitting it.

[callmeawifeorwhatever5]

can i request one revolving around ilia’s “i was made for loving you” program?

i’ve been WAITING for an excuse to post this! after watching him skate the program i wrote this😩

The opening guitar riff of I Was Made for Lovin’ You pulsed through the speakers hard enough to shake the seats.

And she hated this program.

Not because it was bad.

Because Ilia skated it like he was in love.

Every sharp turn of his blade, every cocky grin he flashed at the judges, every slow drag of his hand down his chest during the choreography sequence…it drove the crowd insane.

It drove her insane.

Especially lately.

Especially after the fight.

She stood near the tunnel entrance with his jacket folded over her arms, trying not to look at him as he launched into a quad like gravity personally offended him. The crowd erupted. Ilia landed perfectly, immediately throwing his head back with that smug little smile he got when he knew he was untouchable.

Then his eyes found hers at the boards.

And held.

Even while skating.

Her stomach twisted.

God, he was impossible.

The music shifted lower, heavier, and he leaned into the performance with dangerous precision. Hips. Eye contact. The whole damn routine felt less like skating and more like a threat.

Or a message.

Their fight from two nights ago still sat ugly between them.

“You flirt with everybody,” she’d snapped after seeing one too many edits online of girls thirsting over him and him laughing about it with his friends.

“It’s performance,” Ilia argued. “I’m literally entertaining people.”

“No, you like the attention.”

“And you like acting like you don’t trust me.”

That part hurt because it wasn’t fully wrong.

Now he spun across the ice beneath flashing lights while thousands of people screamed for him, and she suddenly felt stupid for even being there.

Because how were you supposed to date someone the entire world wanted?

The final chorus hit.

Ilia’s breathing turned ragged with exertion, curls damp against his forehead as he skated straight toward her side of the rink. Too close. Close enough that ice sprayed against the boards.

Close enough that she saw the look in his eyes.

Not performance anymore.

Something rawer.

His expression sharpened as he mouthed the lyrics…

‘I was made for lovin’ you.’

Her pulse stumbled.

Then the music ended.

The crowd exploded to their feet.

Ilia finished breathless at center ice before gliding backward, chest heaving, eyes still locked on her like he didn’t care about the audience, the cameras…none of it.

Only her.

Which honestly just made her angrier.

Because if he could look at her like that, then why had he let her walk out crying two nights ago?

He came off the ice sweaty and overheated, guards half on his skates, adrenaline practically vibrating off him.

“Hey,” he said carefully.

She handed him his jacket without looking at him. “Good skate.”

“That’s all?”

“What do you want me to say, Ilia? Congratulations? Everyone wants to marry you?”

His jaw tightened immediately. “Don’t start.”

“Oh my word.” She laughed once, sharp. “You know what? Forget it.”

She turned to leave, but his hand wrapped around her wrist before she made it two steps.

“Stop walking away from me.”

The tension in his voice made heat crawl up her spine.

People moved around them constantly…coaches, skaters, event staff but somehow the hallway suddenly felt too small.

She looked down at his hand on her wrist. “You’re still sweaty.”

“That’s your concern right now?”

“No, my concern is dating somebody who acts single whenever girls throw themselves at him.”

His expression darkened instantly.

“I have never acted single.”

“You love the attention.”

“I love skating,” he snapped. “The attention comes with it.”

“Same difference.”

“Not to me.”

The silence after that felt dangerous.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You think I looked at anybody tonight the way I looked at you?”

Her breath caught despite herself.

Because no.

No, she didn’t.

That was the problem.

“You make me crazy,” she muttered.

His laugh was soft and exhausted. “Yeah? You think you’re easy?”

She finally looked up at him fully.

Big mistake.

Post performance Ilia was unfair, flushed skin, damp hair, chain resting against his throat, pupils blown wide from adrenaline. He looked like he’d stepped directly out of every fantasy she’d tried not to have since they started dating.

And he knew it too.

“You were staring at me during the step sequence,” he said quietly.

“I was not.”

“You were.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “You looked jealous.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He moved even closer, backing her lightly against the concrete wall. Not enough to trap her. Just enough to make her heart pound.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

She swallowed. “What?”

“I think you hate that routine because you know exactly who I’m thinking about when I skate it.”

Her face burned.

Because she did know.

Every single time he performed I Was Made for Lovin’ You, he looked at her like the lyrics belonged to them.

Like she was stitched into every beat of the music.

“You really hurt my feelings the other night,” she admitted finally, voice smaller now.

The smugness disappeared from his face immediately.

“I know.”

“And then you didn’t call.”

“Because if I called, we would’ve screamed at each other again.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know us.”

That one landed hard because he was right.

Ilia sighed, forehead dropping briefly against the wall beside her head. “I need you to understand something.”

His voice was quieter now. Serious.

“I perform for crowds.” His fingers slid carefully along her waist. “But I skate for you.”

Her chest physically ached.

“And when you act like I’m gonna wake up one day and choose random people online over you…” He shook his head. “It makes me feel like none of this” he gestured between them…“is real to you.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is acting like I don’t love you.”

The words hung there.

Heavy.

Terrifying.

Because he hadn’t said it before.

Neither of them had.

Her lips parted slightly, but before she could respond, he looked down at her mouth and muttered, almost frustrated…

“See? This is why we fight. Because I wanna kiss you when I’m mad at you.”

A nervous laugh escaped her.

Then his hand slid gently against her jaw.

“Tell me to stop.”

She didn’t.

So he kissed her.

Hot, breathless, messy with leftover adrenaline and unresolved feelings. The kind of kiss that felt one second away from becoming another argument entirely.

His hand tightened at her waist.

She grabbed the front of his shirt.

And when he pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against hers, he whispered…

“You’re the only girl I look for after every skate.”

Kissing her again…he pulled back one last time to bit her lip before continuing…

“Only you…Every time.”

[rengoatku]

𝐌 𝐲 𝐫 𝐢 𝐯 𝐚 𝐥 𝐦 𝐲 𝐢 𝐝 𝐨 𝐥 ── .✦ ݁˖

ac — @/inkyck on ig

.✦ ݁˖ Synopsis — You and Satoru are long time rivals. While you constantly push yourself to your limits Satoru somehow always manages to one up you. Unfortunately for you being paired with him for the upcoming physics assignment means you’ll be forced into a collaboration, along with more endless arguments. Old feelings are forced out and fizzle into something neither of you could’ve expected.

.✦ ݁˖ Content — all characters are 18 (last year of high school), rivals-friends-lovers, slight angst, fluff, slow burn-ish?, academic stress, self-esteem issues, parental pressure, emotional vulnerability, awkward first kisses, physics

wc — 4.6k

a/n: a late thank you all for 1k!! I wanted to post this when I hit the milestone but we got there sooner than expected. I love you all so much I hope you enjoy this! (yes the title is based off of that song about chainsaw man)

The first time you were dethroned was when you were ten. Kids crowded around the bulletin board, scampering to find out their end-of-year marks. Usually, you came out victorious, always leading in terms of grades. Key word: usually.

You sauntered over after the push and shoving died down, pride welling in your chest as you prepared for another year of victory. “Who the hell is Gojo Satoru?!” Your mouth moved before you could process, eyebrows furrowing as you reread the chart.

1. Gojo, Satoru and just below, in second place, was your name — second place.

Your classmates turned to look at you, some giggling, some gasping, some even teasing. “Hey, looks like you aren’t the top nerd anymore!” You turned around with a scowl, shoving the boy to the side in search of your new nemesis.

“Hey, Gojo! You were the top scorer. How did you do that?” Your head whipped around to the source, fury bubbling in your chest. You saw a white-haired boy with another boy, Suguru, from the opposite class. You didn’t recognise the pale one, was he Satoru?

Suguru noticed your scowl from across the hall, and he gave a meek smile in an effort to mollify your nasty look. You marched over, “Are you Gojo Satoru?” Your tone was harsher than needed, face already heating up with a new wave of rage as the boy grinned. “Yeah, I moved here a few weeks ago! But er… who are you?”

Suguru gave a toothy smile, slinging his arm around Satoru before speaking again, “Yeah, Satoru joined recently, he's super smart — maybe smarter than you!” Now, ten-year-old Suguru had no intention of causing harm; he believed that you and Satoru could ‘nerd out’ together.

“Take that back! He just got lucky.” You crossed your arms, snarling at the boys. Gojo puffed his chest out, stepping closer to you in the process, “Well, Suguru isn't wrong. I was one of the top scorers in Kyoto. That's where I used to live.”

Suddenly, all the lectures, all the warnings, and all the lessons that the adults in your life had taught you about ‘bad words’ flew out of the window.

“Fuck you!”

It's no secret that the rivalry between you and Gojo Satoru continued throughout Junior High and into High School; many students were aware of the bickering between the two of you. Classmates often teased you both about it, claiming that you would end up together eventually.

That idea sickened you.

The teasing slowed as you came to the end of your high school years; classmates matured, and university applications were around the corner, so you couldn't even afford to waste time arguing with that dandelion head. However, it was hard not to have him teetering on your last nerve every other class. Being on the same academic frequency meant you and Gojo shared many classes. And most unfortunately for you, he sat right next to you in Physics.

A sing-song drawl of your name lurched you from your focus, a certain white-haired boy being the source. “Hey, are you even listening? I asked when lunch is, idiot.” He slumped onto the desk, holding his head up by his hand as he awaited your response. You rolled your eyes, “There is a clock right there in case you haven't noticed, four eyes.” Gojo clutched his chest with mock offence, straightening up just to dramatically flop back down again. “You wound me, truly.”

You scoff in response, turning back to your physics teacher who was now droning on about particle accelerators — seriously, what? You sighed; now you were going to have to catch up on whatever you'd missed in the minutes Gojo had distracted you. You were supposed to stay on top of everything in this class so it would be easier to study later! Unfortunately for you, Gojo continued his rambling. “Would you shut it? I'm trying to concentrate.”

Gojo grinned, then, in the highest pitch he could muster: “I’m trying to concentrate, Gojo-san, stop distracting me with your good looks.”

Oh, he didn't.

A gasp tore through your throat before you could stop it, eyes widening and fists clenching. “Stop that! I do not sound like that, and I didn't even say that!” you whisper-shouted at him, glancing around to make sure no one heard. He only giggled in response, using his hand to mimic your talking.

You smacked his hand back down, scowling as you tried to turn your focus back to the lesson, but Gojo had other plans.

You felt something hit the side of your head, you jerked to the side and winced in pain. Turning, you found Gojo snickering behind his hand. “Did you just throw something at me?” You gaped at him in disbelief, eyes glancing down to the pen that sat on the floor as evidence.

He only giggled harder, “Now why would I do that?” He batted his milky lashes, putting on a show of acting ‘innocent.’ You snarled in return, “You did! Ugh, you're such an ass!”

Before he could retaliate, you had swooped the pen off the floor and hurled it back at him; it narrowly missed his ear and was sent flying into the wall with a loud clack. The class went silent, aside from you and Gojo’s continued bickering. “Oh, real mature —” He was cut off by a cough from the teacher.

“Since the two of you seem to work so well together, how about I assign the two of you as partners for the assignment?”

Everyone was staring. Gojo’s ears were bright red, and his glasses began to slip down the bridge of his nose; you could feel the heat crawl up your neck. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole then and there.

You timidly spoke up, “Um, sir… do you mind going over the assignment once more?”

The rest of the class was somewhat humiliating. You had to ask your teacher to re-explain concepts for the assignment while everyone just stared — including Gojo! He hadn't even been paying attention. How was he not as confused as you were? And to make matters worse, he was your partner for the end-of-year project. How annoying.

“It wasn't even my fault! He's the one chucking pens around,” you complained to Shoko in your biology class. She was good friends with Gojo, but she always agreed with you when you'd spew complaints about the white-haired boy.

Shoko groaned, “He can be a real pain sometimes, sometimes I think Suguru likes him so much because they flirt with each other every chance they get. I mean, hey, good for you, but at least do that in another room.” You snorted in response to her words, scribbling down notes while doing so.

“But the thing I don't get is how come you and Geto are nice, but Gojo is like… insufferable.” Shoko’s lips twisted into a smile, “You complain about him a lot, y’know? Makes me think there are some underlying feelings.” You gasped loud enough for the table beside yours to shoot quizzical glances over at the two of you.

“Don’t you ever say that again. He looks like a dandelion with an attitude.”

She snickered to herself, turning back to her notes. You bit your lip as you watched her, fingers drumming anxiously against the desk. “Although… could you give me his number so I could text him about the project?…”

Later that night, you lay in bed, phone held awkwardly in your hands while your thumb hovered nervously over the keyboard. You didn't know why you were so scared to message him; it wasn't like you were doing it out of your own will, it was simply a way of communication for the project.

You sighed, typing out a few words before deleting them, “No, that's too formal,” you mumbled to yourself, brows furrowing as you began to retype.

Hey, Gojo, I got your number from Shoko.

When's a good time to discuss the topic for our project?

Before you could swipe off the app, a typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then reappeared, followed by a message.

Ig we could go to the library tmr at lunch

Wow, for a kid that smart, he didn't seem to grasp grammar all that well.

You thumbs-upped the message, switching your phone off and preparing to go to sleep when a ping cut through the silence. Rolling over, you groaned, picking up your phone and opening the notification.

Why don't we do a coffee shop instead

Yk so ppl don't steal our ideas

Once again, you reacted with a thumbs up, tossing your phone back onto your side table. He better be paying for your coffee, knowing Gojo, he would pick the most expensive and performative coffee shop in town.

The next day, you realised two things very quickly. One, Gojo looked unfairly good for someone who was approaching their final exams. And two, he had, in fact, chosen the most obnoxiously overpriced cafe in town. “For God's sake,” you muttered under your breath as you stepped through the door.

Soft light spilt across the polished floors, the music hummed softly, floating across the coffee shop while tables filled with students and office workers alike rattled on about their days. The menu hung on the wall looked more like your maths textbook than a list of snacks and beverages.

Unfortunately, Gojo was already there, plopped down in a booth at the far corner. His long legs stretched out beneath the table, circular glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. An expensive-looking laptop sat open in front of him, along with what looked to be two desserts.

You trudged over, slinging your bag onto the cushions across from him and sliding in. “There you are! You’re late.” He tutted, wagging his finger in your face, “Oh, be quiet, it took me forever to find this place. Next time, pick a known cafe.” Gojo ignored you; instead, he slid over one of the cups, “Got a drink for ya, try it.”

The so-called drink had an abnormal amount of whipped cream, chocolate drizzle and sprinkles. He himself had a similar-looking beverage, except he had a flake. You rolled your eyes, “What is this? It looks like a cup of cavities.”

Picking up the cup, you analysed it, trying to find what on earth Gojo had ordered for you.

Your name had been scribbled across the cup in scraggly writing alongside what looked vaguely like a very angry cat.

“What is this?”

His grin widened, “You like? I drew you from memory.” You blinked at him, “That is not me.”

“It’s angry, just like you.”

You bit back a smile, trying to wrack your brain for an appropriate insult, but your words died on your tongue when Gojo leaned over and took a scoop of your whipped cream with his finger. “Hey!”

He leaned back, smirking to himself, “Hey, you snooze, you lose.”

Despite the usual bickering and Gojo stealing your drink, the assignment discussion started surprisingly smoothly.

The inverse square law wasn’t the simplest of assignments, especially considering how your teacher expected a practical demonstration alongside the written report. Most of the pairs were doing basic presentations like Ohm's law or refraction.

But of course, as always, Gojo had to be difficult. “You know what? We should do a full experimental model —” he spun his pen between his fingers, “— like measuring radiation intensity mathematically by using controlled distances.”

You blinked at him, “Gojo, as much as I’d love to show off, I’d rather work with you for as little time as possible.” He rolled his eyes at you, turning his laptop to face you. “It’s not that hard, don’t be a baby.”

Equations filled the screen, diagrams and notes followed suit. Your eyes widened at his words.

He already planned it? Within what? Two days.

That familiar feeling that settled in your stomach, that awful sensation that you had carried since you were ten. You had spent hours revising and relearning formulas and facts, pushing your brain to its limit while you studied for every test like it was your last. He was the complete opposite. It was like he could just glance at the revision materials and understand them like that.

People praised you for your discipline, the hard work and dedication it took you to get to where you are now, but with him?

He was gifted. That was something you could never achieve, not with discipline, not with hard work or even motivation.

The fact was that Gojo was miles ahead of you, and you would never catch up.

“Hello? Earth to stupid?” His voice snapped you from your thoughts, “Sorry, I was just uh…” Your mind blanked, eyes scanning over his laptop screen once more. “I know, I know. You were trying to wrap that little head of yours around these complex equations.” He reached a faux sympathetic hand out, attempting to grab your hand just to be smacked away, “Dream on, dandelion.”

A faint smile graced his lips, turning the laptop back, “Alright then, where do we find the materials for our experiment?”

Over the next few weeks, the project became impossible to escape. Casual library meetings turned into cafe meetings, which ran on for hours until closing, which meant the two of you ended up walking home together most nights.

Gojo claimed it was because your house was on the way to his; you suspected it was because he enjoyed having someone to talk to.

He continued to be as patronising as ever, scolding you for getting equations wrong, oversimplifying findings, and even teasing you when you didn’t understand concepts. But you also learned a few things about him.

Like how he ate a ridiculous amount of sugary snacks, possibly enough to kill a small rodent, and how he spun his pen in his fingers when concentrating.

Or how he got strangely competitive, always challenging you to petty competitions like who could finish their food the fastest, or who could recite the phonetic alphabet the quickest.

You hated how fast he was growing on you.

“Hey! Why are you always zoning out? We have a project to finish.” You jolted upright from where you had been absentmindedly staring at him from across the table. “Huh? Sorry, just — uh — tired.” He hummed, unconvinced.

“Just get to work, I’m the one doing everything here.” You snorted at his words, “Seriously? Like, I haven’t been hauling your weight for the past two weeks?” Satoru scoffed, “Well, the deadline is soon, and I work best under pressure.” You kicked his shin under the table, “Ouch!”

A cafe employee passed by and shot the two of you a warning glance, shushing aggressively at you both while doing so. You bowed your head apologetically while Satoru whispered a small ‘sorry’ with pink ears.

You turned back to look at him after the server had left, “Get back to work, dandelion.”

A few more silent minutes passed by as the two of you worked, occasionally catching the other's eye and averting your gaze. Then Satoru leaned over the table towards you, “Let’s ditch this place, I’m bored.” You sighed, eyes staying fixed on the paper in front of you, “No, Satoru, besides, you were the one who said the deadline was soon.”

“Oh, c’mon, we’ve been here for hours.” He whined, propping his chin onto his hand. “Yeah, and seventy-five percent of the time spent here was us bickering over the project instead of actually working on it.” Your eyes finally met his; his bright eyes stared up at you through his thick-rimmed glasses. It was truly unfair how good he looked despite only drinking liquefied sugar.

“You’re such a nerd.”

“You quite literally built an entire electrical system out of Lego and dissected chargers for fun,” you countered.

“Yeah, but I’m not a try-hard, like someone.” He grinned at you, lopsided but still holding the same cocky persona. You muttered under your breath, “Oh, go test the law of gravity on the nearest staircase.” Satoru snorted, pushing his glasses further up his nose, “Seems like I struck a nerve, idiot.”

“I’m going to strike you in the face if you don’t get back to work.”

The day for the final presentation crept closer and closer, and almost everyone in your physics class was on edge. Aside from the obvious Gojo Satoru, of course.

Satoru managed to stay relaxed about the entire thing, cracking jokes while he was supposed to be researching and dragging you on walks to ‘refresh your mind’ when in reality he wanted to stop by an ice cream parlour. You wanted to get mad at him, spit snarky comments and berate him like you usually would, but for some reason, you found his interruptions to be surprisingly helpful.

Each passing day, your project became more refined, and with each edit, Satoru’s ego grew; his teasing made that obvious.

‘Hah, I bet you didn’t catch that mistake in the results,’ or ‘you really need to amp up your mathematical analysis, it’s embarrassing,’ were just some of the many so-called jokes he would make at your self-esteem's expense.

Subconsciously, you began to feel inferior to Satoru, not because you wanted to, but something deep down told you that it was true. Years of hard work and dedication only to come second to him every single time, and each loss would mean being berated by your parents about ‘underperforming.’

You tried to push those feelings down, especially since, for once, you and Satoru had actually been getting along. Shoko had commented on it in biology, and since then, you started to become more aware of the growing friendship between you two.

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

He approached you after class, just a few days before the assignment was due, “Hey, uh, do you mind coming over after school to go over the final details? I may or may not have gotten grounded.”

You snorted, “Grounded? At your big age? What did you do this time?” The two of you fell into step as he walked you to your next class. Satoru had memorised your timetable by now, using it to bother you in between classes.

“Ah, y’know, I broke an expensive vase while testing projectile physics. No biggie,” he shoved his hands into his pockets, turning his head away to hide the red creeping onto his cheeks from embarrassment.

A giggle escaped you before you could stop it, and his blush only deepened. “Shut up,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll see you after school, then?” You waved him off as you stepped into the class. Satoru watched for a moment before catching the eye of your teacher and scurrying off.

After school, he met you by the gates, offering a cheeky grin.

The walk to his house was surprisingly quiet. Usually, the two of you would’ve started squabbling by now. Maybe you would’ve insulted his haircut, maybe he would’ve teased you about the accessories on your bag. Instead, you walked side by side, comfortable in the silence.

“Y’know,” he said, kicking a pebble along the pavement, “You’re not half bad.” You scoffed playfully, “What’s that supposed to mean, dandelion?”

Satoru rolled his eyes, turning away. “I dunno, I mean we get along better than I thought.” You let out an airy laugh, shaking your head. “I guess, I mean, it’s hard not to get along with someone you’ve spent practically every day with for a month.”

Another wave of silence passed over the two of you.

You let out a shaky breath, “Do you think we’ll score high enough?” Satoru stared at you as if you had two heads, “Come on, you idiot. When have I ever come second?” His words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest, a feeling you knew all too well.

Before long, you had reached the grand entrance to his house. Tall, pristine white gates circled the property, similar to the gates surrounding nearby houses.

“You’re such a liar! We didn’t even pass anywhere near my street.” Satoru shifted uncomfortably, “Yeah, well… I take a different route from the cafe. It’s quicker.” He nudged past you, punching in the code for the gate.

You followed him in. “This is ridiculous. Why is your house so big?” The garden alone was huge, rows of pretty flowers accompanied by the greenest grass you’ve ever seen, topped off with large trees. Satoru shrugged, unlocking the front door and stepping inside, “My family’s the one who chose it, not me.”

The house itself was beautiful — and even that was an understatement. Although you couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was.

His room, however, was the exact opposite of the rest of his neat, modern house.

The walls were plastered with Spider-Man posters, small figures of what looked to be those Digimon characters he always rambled on about. Your eyes wandered over to a bookshelf which was practically overflowing with textbooks, comics, and what you assumed to be collecting card binders.

His desk was cluttered with Lego projects and half-built gadgets. You walked over, poking at an unfinished Lego set, “Do you ever clean up after yourself?”

Satoru launched himself into his chair, “Nah, we have cleaners who come by. Besides, they’re not allowed in my room in case they mess up my projects.”

You gave a puzzled look, “Girls won’t want to come over if you live like some slob.”

“You’re here, though.”

You felt your body heat up, “I don’t count!” Satoru gave his signature grin, sitting up to pull out the materials.

The next hour passed with the two of you revising and reviewing the final report. At first, everything was going well. Neither of you had made a petty comment, and the assignment had seemingly gone well.

Towards the end of the paper, Satoru frowned, “Hm.” You turned to look at him. “What?”

“Nothing, but your analysis is kinda weak. You should rewrite this; it isn’t up to my standard.” You felt your jaw clench, “Your standard?” He nodded, “I mean, it might be okay for you, but I don’t think it matches the pace we’re setting.”

Your shoulders stiffened. “I think it’s well written.”

That familiar feeling bubbled in your chest. That feeling you tried to ignore all these weeks.

“Honestly, no wonder you missed that,” he laughed playfully. You tried to remain composed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just that I caught it first.”

You felt something deep inside of you snap.

“Yeah. No fucking wonder.”

He looked up, “Huh?”

“I said: no fucking wonder. No wonder I’m always behind you because even at my best, I’m still not enough to beat you.”

Satoru stared at you, blue eyes widening in a mix of shock and confusion.

You continued, “It’s just easy for you, isn’t it? You can just be smart, but I’m not like you, Satoru! I’m not naturally like that. I work so, so hard and I still come up short.”

The room fell silent, and the air felt thicker. You felt tears prickle in your eyes from the overwhelming jealousy coursing through your veins.

“What are you talking about?” He said quietly, tilting his head as if it would help him understand better. You stood so quickly that a few of his figurines clattered off his desk.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

His brows furrowed as he stood up, carefully repositioning his figurines before facing you once more.

You felt years of anger — jealousy — resurface.

“I spend hours — days or weeks even — studying, revising, just trying to be better.” You felt the tears fall before you could stop them, “I go over my notes over and over until my eyes sting, I pay attention in every class, I barely take days off even when I’m sick!” You sniffled, “Y-Yet somehow you’re always ahead of me. Every damn time.”

You couldn’t stop the frustrated words that continued to pour out, “Do you know how infuriating that is? To have all your hard work thrown down the drain because someone is so effortlessly smart?”

A small hiccup escaped you, “I’m so jealous of you, Satoru, and I hate myself for it.”

Satoru’s expression slowly changed, his eyes softened as he took a step closer.

“I wish — I wish I wasn’t always runner-up every single time.” Your voice cracked slightly as you spoke.

You suddenly felt small in his all too spacious room, and the air felt warmer than it did ten minutes ago. “I hate it, and I wish I could hate you for it too.”

For the first time in years, Satoru didn’t ridicule you. He didn’t crack a single joke at your expense; instead, he took another step closer, until he was staring down at you.

“You’re wrong, idiot.”

You scoffed at the juxtaposition of that stupid insult during this time.

Your eyes met his. “Well, you are right, but not entirely.” He reluctantly held onto your wrist, “I only really try when I’m up against you. You give me a real challenge.”

You let out a watery laugh, “Really?” He nodded all too enthusiastically, “Really! Gosh, it’s so exhilarating having someone to compete with for once. It’s not like I study as much as you do, but you put up a fight.”

His voice was quieter now, “Besides, I’ve always been jealous of you, of your determination, your hard work. I don’t think I’d make it very far if it wasn’t for my brains.” He knocked the side of his head awkwardly.

You choked out a noise of surprise, eyes widening at his confession. “I’m jealous of the fact that you’ve worked for everything you’ve achieved, I just… have it.” You felt your chest tighten.

For years, you had assumed Satoru looked down on you, that he always thought of you as lukewarm at best. But now? He’s telling you he admires your drive.

You stared at each other for what felt like minutes before he turned away, his cheeks taking on a pink tint.

“Wow.”

You giggled, wiping away your tears with your free hand, “Wow?” Satoru’s eyes darted around awkwardly, “I think that’s the most emotionally vulnerable I’ve ever been.” You laughed quietly, earning a soft chuckle from him.

“Yeah, never do that again. It was so weird,” you joked. He scoffed at you, “I take it back.”

You laughed again, louder this time. Your eyes met his once more, your smiles softening into something quieter, rawer.

His glasses began to slip down his nose, and you moved to push them back up. Satoru’s breath hitched, and his eyes flickered to your lips.

“Satoru?” You whispered.

“Yeah?”

His face burned, white hair beginning to stick to his forehead from the nervous sweat. He leaned in closer, his nose barely grazing your own, “C-Can I…?” It was as if the words died on his tongue.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his in an awkward kiss. His glasses bumped your forehead, causing you to wince against his mouth, then you accidentally stood on his toe, making him yelp.

He pulled away with a chuckle, “Wait, stop, I’m going to laugh.” You burst into a fit of giggles at his confession, intertwining your hand with his absentmindedly.

Suddenly, he stopped, “Oh my god.”

“What?” You asked worriedly, scanning your face for any harm.

“You were my first kiss! Ew.”

You punched him in the shoulder, “As if I wanted you to be mine, dandelion.”

“Ouch! Who punches someone after a kiss?” He winced, rubbing his shoulder. “Who insults them afterwards?” You retorted.

Satoru grinned, that same infuriating face. Loud and bright as ever.

And for once, maybe you didn’t mind it.

🏷️ @kamislop @hangenism @valberryboos @silentfriday @moonlightbae2016 @winxclubluvrr @clarasthoughtss @yong-yong-ma-boi @qrxswan @theogmamaguro @tchmiya @biasangel @yukiyaaaa @itzmyszn-nn + join

[bambieyedpoet]

🎸six strings - satoru gojo x reader

summary: you think gojo’s forgotten about you, after all he’s the guitarist of the most famous band - six strings - the same band you pushed him to pursue with his best friends shoko and geto. he got it all, the band, the fame but lost you in the midst of pursuing this passion. however, with the release of their new song has gojo really forgotten about you?

| wc: 5.3k | art credits - clemenlush | listen to the playlist attached for the best reading experience| rock star gojo au, angst.

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝

satoru gojo had always been described as someone built for the cosmos, as if his entire existence had been engineered for equations, telescopes, and the kind of research that made academics salivate. his parents certainly believed it -- they’d mapped out his future with the precision of a launch trajectory, leaving no room for deviation, let alone rebellion. to them, he was a prodigy destined to expand humanity’s understanding of the universe.

but you, you’d never met anyone who looked more suffocated by praise.

the university’s astrophysics building loomed over the courtyard like a monument to ambition, it was all sharp lines and reflective panels that caught the afternoon light in a way that made the whole place feel like whoever you were...you were going places with your life. you stood beside satoru on the steps, both of you pretending you weren’t waiting for the results of the latest exam to drop. the two of you had been rivals since first year, constantly pushing each other, constantly pretending it was all casual.

it wasn’t casual. not even close. is it ever?

there was a current between you that neither of you acknowledged outright, an unspoken awareness that every argument, every late‑night study session, every shared glance carried a charge that didn’t belong to simple rivalry. it was apparent in the way he leaned a little too close and in the way you never quite pulled back, both of you pretending not to notice the gravity drawing you in. and somewhere in that unspoken space, the pattern revealed itself .

six eyes seeing too much, six strings waiting to be played, and saturn circling as the sixth planet.

all of them orbiting the same truth that the two of you kept avoiding, as if the universe itself had been quietly arranging your trajectories long before either of you realised.

satoru nudged your shoulder, “if the professor doesn’t adjust the marking again, half the cohort’s going to riot,” he said, his voice carrying that familiar mix of arrogance and theatrical despair.

“you mean you’ll riot,” you replied, adjusting your bag. “you looked like you were about to combust halfway through question three.”

he scoffed, flicking his platnium hair out of from his glazes, revealing his bright blue eyes. “i don’t 'combust'. i merely reassess my priorities.”

you rolled your eyes, but the truth was you’d noticed the way his leg bounced under the desk, the way his pen tapped out restless patterns, how he stared at the page like he was somewhere else entirely. satoru gojo was brilliant, but brilliance didn’t always mean contentment.

you’d known him long enough to see the tension beneath the surface, he would stiffen whenever his parents’ names came up, he always avoided talking about the future, and his fingers drummed on tabletops with a flow that didn’t match any academic habit you’d ever seen.

you didn’t understand it fully until that afternoon.

instead of heading to the study session you’d both agreed to attend, satoru veered off the main path without warning, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “come on,” he said, not bothering to check if you were following.

you did, because you always did.

he led you across campus, past the observatory and the labs, past the places where he was meant to thrive. eventually he stopped in front of the old music building -- a relic from a time when the university pretended to care equally about the arts. the paint was peeling, and the windows rattled in the breeze, but there was something strangely inviting about it.

satoru pushed open a side door, and the scent of aged timber and dust drifted out.

inside, the room was cluttered with forgotten instruments and abandoned sheet music. he walked straight to a battered guitar case propped against the wall, hesitated for a moment, then opened it with a care you’d never seen him show to anything academic.

the electric guitar inside was sleek and dark, it was an instrument that demanded attention and fit his cocky personality perfectly. it didn’t match the version of satoru the world expected. but it matched the version of him you’d glimpsed in fleeting moments, the one who seemed desperate for something he couldn’t name.

“since when do you play?” you asked.

“since before i knew what astrophysics even was,” he said, his tone stripped of its usual bravado.

he lifted the guitar with a familiarity that made your chest tighten. his fingers slid along the strings, not producing sound, but tracing something like memory.

“this is what i actually want,” he said, eyes fixed on the instrument. “not the research, not the expectations, not the future everyone keeps planning for me.”

you stepped closer, studying the tension in his shoulders. “then why aren’t you doing it?”

he let out a breath that seemed to carry years of pressure. “because wanting something doesn’t mean it’s possible.”

you didn’t even think before responding. “that’s rubbish.”

he finally looked at you, and for the first time, his expression wasn’t smug or amused or performative. it was uncertain, almost vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to confirm that he wasn’t being ridiculous.

“yeah?” he said quietly. “and what do you reckon i should do?”

you nodded toward the guitar. “start there.”

── six strings: the rise ⟢ ・⸝⸝

fame meant freedom to satoru gojo -- and he's chased that for years, the kind he only reached because you were the one who told him his music wasn’t a distraction but a direction.

you were the first person who treated his playing like something worth taking seriously. you listened to every rough demo, every late‑night recording, every half‑finished idea he sent you with a mix of nerves and hope. you told him he had something rare, something that deserved a stage, and your belief became the foundation he built the rest of his life on.

the band formed around him with a sense of inevitability. suguru geto stepped in as their vocalist, his voice carrying a raspy, seductive sensitivity that cut through any room and held attention without effort. ieiri shoko joined on drums, grounding their sound with a steady, deliberate rhythm that shaped every track. satoru’s guitar threaded through it all, distinct and controlled, the element that gave their music its identity.

they called themselves the six strings, a name that stuck quickly and spread even faster. their first major release, robbers, hit the scene with a unsettling, restless energy that caught listeners off guard. the intro sending chills down listeners spines and it climbed charts with surprising speed, appearing on radio rotations, festival lineups, and playlists across the country. people connected with the intensity of geto's vocals and the precision in satoru’s guitar, and the band’s following grew almost overnight.

fallingforyou pushed them further. the track carried a silent tension, and audiences latched onto it instantly. it became the song people played on repeat, the one fans recorded covers of, the one that turned the six strings from rising artists into a band everyone recognised.

then heartout arrived, and everything accelerated. the song exploded across social media, festival crowds screamed the lyrics back at them, and ticket sales for their tour vanished within minutes. journalists compared them to the biggest acts of the decade. critics praised their cohesion, their sound, their presence. the band’s name appeared everywhere -- billboards, magazines, late‑night shows, international festival posters.

concerts became events. fans queued overnight, traded bootleg recordings, and filled venues with an energy that felt electric. shoko commanded the stage with ease, geto drove the rhythm with precision, and satoru played with a focus that drew every eye in the room. he became the face of a new generation of guitarists because he wasn't someone who didn’t just perform but shaped the entire atmosphere of a song.

the six strings were a listers, they were the band everyone talked about, the band shaping the sound of the moment, the band that seemed to rise out of nowhere and take over everything. and at the centre of it all stood satoru gojo, living the life you once told him he deserved.

── six strings: about you ⟢ ・⸝⸝

on february 14th, six strings dropped a song called ‘about you’ with an album announcement following later that may. if six strings were popular before, then the release of ‘about you’ lead them straight to music royalty status. it was everywhere yet never got over played, even after a month of constant media attention to the song the hype never died down. it was a timeless piece, slowly becoming a classic. everyone wanted to know what the song was about, more so who?

꒰ ･ a clip from an interview ｡ﾟ ꒱

interviewer: why are you called ‘six’ strings when there are only three of you?

geto: the extra three came from when i f#cked your mum last night-

[camera cuts]

shoko: it just sounded cool, can we not sound cool? why does everything have to have this deep meaning…we’re six strings because it sounds cool!

gojo: saturn is the sixth the planet…when i was younger someone special to me loved saturn and space the way i loved music and guitar. the guitar has six strings…when i came to that revelation it only made sense to call us the six strings. an ode to the instrument and the person who- uh- six strings because of the instrument.

geto rolls his eyes and sighs, just then a group of girls cheer in the audience just at his mere existence. shoko is sitting there unbothered, fidgeting with the cigarette pack in her lap which she’s been restrained from opening. gojo however bites the inside of his cheek, shocked at himself for stuttering when answering such a clear question with an even clearer answer.

꒰ ･ end clip ｡ﾟ ꒱

you’re back in your room and the only light comes from your desk lamp, warm and soft, pooling over your physics notes and the half‑finished assignment that’s been draining your soul since dinner. the equations stretch across the page like they’re mocking you, each line a reminder that your life now revolves around deadlines and problem sets instead of guitar strings and half‑baked dreams in someone’s mum’s garage.

it’s almost comical when you think about it. a few years ago, you and gojo were sitting on the floor arguing over which formula applied to a projectile motion question, both of you waving pencils like weapons and insisting the other was catastrophically wrong. now you’re not even sure what he talks about anymore.

maybe he’s debating which toner keeps his hair from going brassy under stage lights?

maybe he’s deciding which part of the chorus is the optimal moment to stick his tongue out for maximum crowd hysteria?

the hater in you cringes at the theatrics, at the glitter, at the persona he’s built like a second skin.

but beneath all that, there’s an admiration you can’t quite shake. because you know, better than anyone, that this version of him isn’t fake. it’s loud and messy and dramatic, sure, but it’s also the truest he’s ever been. the same ambition that used to spill out of him in that cramped garage. the same dorky enthusiasm that made him bounce on his toes when he figured out a new chord. the same spark, the same damn thing that made your heart surrender long before you were ready to admit it.

you finally close your laptop, the click shut sounding like victory after hours of mental warfare. you stretch your arms above your head, feeling every muscle complain, and wander into the bathroom to start getting unready. the mirror greets you with tired eyes and smudged mascara, a reminder that you’ve lived several lifetimes in one day. you tie your hair back, reach for your cleanser, and let the warm water run over your hands.

just as you’re about to wash your face, your phone buzzes sharply against the counter, one of those vibrations that feels urgent, like the device itself is panicking.

you freeze, water dripping from your fingers.

another buzz, louder this time, rattling against the porcelain.

you grab it, thumb swiping across the screen, and your best friend’s name flashes at you, followed by a message typed with the kind of ominous energy only she possesses:

“answer your phone. i’m calling.”

before you can even process it, the screen lights up again-- this time with an incoming call. you sigh, wipe your wet hands on your pyjama pants, and pick up.

“what,” you say, not even trying to hide the exhaustion.

your friend doesn’t bother with hello. “okay, don’t freak out, but i just scored glastonbury tickets.”

you blink. “you what.”

“from that guy i’m hooking up with,” she continues breezily, like this is the most normal sentence in the world. “he had extras. like, actual passes. not the fake ones that get you arrested.”

you stare at your reflection, cleanser still foaming in your hand. “you’re joking.”

“i never joke about free festival tickets,” she says, dead serious. “pack a bag. we’re going.”

you let out a breath that’s half‑laugh, half‑groan, the absurdity of it all settling over you. glastonbury. the band. the boy you’ve spent years trying not to think about. the world you left behind.

and now it’s knocking on your door again, loud and impossible to ignore.

“you in?” she asks, voice buzzing with excitement.

your heart thuds once, hard.

you don’t answer and cut the call. mainly because your friend knows you all too well and that your answer is yes.

── first live perfromance of 'about you'⟢ ・⸝⸝

the crowd forms, six strings are headlining glastonbury, an even higher career high from everything they achieved with their first EP. this was massive, performing the most popular song of the moment in one of the most renowned festivals. this is what dreams are made of, baby!

꒰ ･ back stage: 3 hours before going on stage ｡ﾟ ꒱

shoko: you don't think your hair gel is a bit excessive, suguru?

geto: i think you're a bit jealous i'm on girls pinterest boards for hair inspiration and not you. and for the record, i don't use gel...i use kerastase hair serum.

shoko elbows him, geto whincing even before her elbow reaches his crotch.

shoko: for the record i don't give a f#ck about being on anyones pinterest board, i myself am the pinterest board. and i think you're forgetting there was only one memeber in our band not invited to paris fashion week and it wasn't me or toru.

gojo is fidgeting with his guitar strings and let's out a deep chuckle.

geto: why am i even arguing with you? i am supposed to be saving my voice for our performance in a bit.

shoko: funny way to accept defeat.

gojo walks up to the both of them. doing little excited jumps and shaking his hands to get rid of his nerves.

shoko: eww, i don't want to ever see a 6'5, grown man ever do something like that...

gojo tilts his head, going up to shoko to condescendingly squish her cheeks.

gojo: whatever you say...and i'm not in the mood to argue so say whatever you want...we have the number one song in the world, we're young, we're talented, and we're headlining f#cking glastonbury! we're on top of the worlddddd

this gets geto and shoko to smile, both shaking their heads at gojo's cheerful antics.

shoko: excited to finally tell people who 'about you' is about?

gojo sitffens, usually youthful blue eyes turning dull, perssing his lips together.

gojo: it's not about anyone...it's just a concept i came up with in the middle of the night.

gojo looks to geto for support, but he throws his hands up and points to the fact he can't speak because he's saving his voice. shoko places a friendly hand on gojo.

shoko: the only way we're going to make this performance iconic is if we give the people what they want, and what they want is answers to what this ethereal yearning anthem is actually about.

gojo: i told you it's not about anyone.

shoko sighs and goes to put on her jewellery, leaving gojo to his own devices. it wasn’t rocket science for them two to figure out all these lyrics from fallingforyou to now about you are all about the same girl who used to accompany them all when they would practice.

── ⟢ glastonbury, 30 minutes before set・⸝⸝

thirty minutes to glastonbury and the festival feels like it’s conspiring against you, every path you take folding back into the same heaving artery of bodies moving toward the main stage, as if the entire place has decided you need to confront the one thing you’ve spent years pretending you’d outgrown. the air is thick with unpleasant beer breath and the sweet burn of incense, and the sky is doing that smug late‑afternoon shimmer where everything looks dipped in gold, which would be lovely if it didn’t make every memory of him feel more brighter, harder to ignore.

your friend is half‑dragging you, half‑floating through the crowd, her wristbands clacking together like she’s wearing festival‑issued handcuffs, and you keep trying to slow her down with increasingly desperate distractions. you linger at a stall selling ethically questionable henna, you pretend to be fascinated by a man balancing on a slackline, you even stop to examine a pair of sunglasses shaped like fried eggs, but she’s immune to every tactic, buzzing with the kind of excitement that makes her impossible to deter. she keeps talking about how this is a once‑in‑a‑lifetime moment, how six strings are about to rewrite history, how you’ll regret it forever if you miss even a second of their set, and you nod along even though your stomach is twisting itself into a sailor’s knot.

the bass from the previous act rolls across the field in slow, heavy waves, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and up your spine, and you can’t help thinking about the nights you spent sitting cross‑legged on the floor of gojo’s mum’s garage, watching him fiddle with pedals and strings like he was trying to coax the universe into tune. you remember the way he’d grin at you-- wide, reckless, too bright for the dim little room, and how you’d pretend you weren’t melting under it. you remember geto humming half‑finished melodies, shoko tapping out rhythms on empty paint cans, all of them dreaming out loud about stages like this one while you tried not to imagine what would happen when those dreams carried them somewhere you couldn’t follow.

you try to shake it off, but the universe is committed to the bit. the crowd shifts, and suddenly you’re staring straight at a massive screen looping behind‑the‑scenes clips of the band: geto adjusting his mic with that lazy confidence, shoko spinning a drumstick between her fingers, and gojo...god, gojo laughing at something off‑camera, head thrown back, hair a mess of white‑blond chaos that somehow still looks intentional. the sight hits you like a punch, devastating, and you look away so quickly you nearly collide with a girl wearing angel wings made of tinsel.

your friend squeezes your hand, oblivious to the way your pulse jumps.

“we’re close,” she says, weaving you deeper into the crowd until you’re swallowed by a sea of glitter, sweat, and anticipation. the stage looms ahead, enormous and electric, framed by towers of lights that flicker like they’re warming up to blind you. the countdown clock is projected across the screens, each second slipping away with the smug inevitability of fate.

you tell yourself you’re fine, that you’re just another face in the crowd, that he won’t see you, won’t think of you, won’t feel that old gravity tugging at the edges of his composure. but then the lights dim, the field of people finally goes silent, and the first soft hum of the opening synth drifts across the air like a ghost brushing past your shoulder. the crowd erupts, a tidal wave of sound that rattles your ribs, and you lift your head despite every instinct screaming at you to look anywhere else.

the stage blooms in blue light.

the silhouette of his guitar is unmistakable.

and in that suspended moment, caught between the past you ran from and the present you’ve stumbled into -- you realise you’ve spent years avoiding a story that was always going to find you again.

── ⟢ flashback: university first year・⸝⸝

you step inside just in time to see geto pacing like a man reconsidering every life choice that led him here, his hair tied back messily, his jaw tight. shoko is slouched over her drum kit, tapping the rim with a stick in a way that feels less like rhythm and more like a threat. gojo stands in the middle of the room, guitar hanging off him like it’s personally offended him, shoulders hunched in a way you’ve never seen before.

you lift the bag in your hand, the plastic rustling with the weight of your peace offering-- pocky, umaibo, kinoko no yama, those weirdly addictive calbee prawn chips, a couple of ramune bottles clinking together like they’re cheering you on. the smell of strawberry and seaweed hits the air, and shoko’s head snaps up like she’s been summoned by a deity.

“oh thank god,” she mutters, abandoning her sticks to rummage through the bag before you’ve even set it down properly. “i was about five minutes away from committing a crime.”

geto stops pacing long enough to take a ramune, popping the marble with a sigh that sounds like relief and despair at the same time. “he keeps missing the timing,” he says, gesturing at gojo like he’s presenting evidence in court. “and then he says he’s not missing the timing, which is somehow worse.”

gojo bristles, cheeks pink, fingers tightening around the guitar neck. “i’m not missing it, you’re just counting weird.”

“i’m counting in four-four,” geto deadpans. “the most normal, simple, time signature known to man.”

shoko snorts, mouth full of pocky. “toru, babe, you’re playing like you’re trying to summon a demon.”

gojo groans, dragging a hand down his face, and for a moment the room feels too small for his frustration, too small for the dream he’s trying to force into shape. geto and shoko exchange a look and then they’re grabbing their things, muttering something about vending machines and fresh air as they slip out the door.

the room is just know you two, the leftover unspoken tension settling like dust that geto and shoko left behind. gojo stands there, staring at the floor, shoulders still tight, breath shallow. you walk over slowly, the crinkle of snack wrappers the only sound between you. when you reach him, you lift your hands and cup his face, palms warm against his flushed cheeks.

he startles a little, eyes flicking up to yours -- blue, bright, uncertain in a way that makes your chest ache.

“hey,” you say, voice low, steady, threading through the room like a melody meant only for him. “you’re fine. you’re more than fine. you just need to breathe.”

his lashes flutter, the tension in his jaw easing under your thumbs. he leans into your touch without meaning to, like gravity’s doing the work for him.

“i’m trying,” he murmurs, the words small, he is so embarrassed. “i just… i don’t want to hold them back.”

you shake your head, brushing your thumb along his cheekbone. “you’re not holding anyone back. you’re going to be the biggest star in the world, toru. you just have to keep going.”

the words land softly but deeply, sinking into him like they’ve been waiting for a place to root. his breath catches, something bright flickering behind his eyes. hope, belief, the beginning of something enormous.

he smiles then, slow and crooked, the kind of smile that could light up a stage long before he ever steps onto one.

“you really think so?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

“i know so,” you answer, and for a moment you can feel his heartbeat and yours sync up.

── ⟢ glatsonbury・⸝⸝

gojo steps up to the mic, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the crowd and his bandmates as if either one might save him. geto’s staring at him with a confused half‑frown, one hand hovering near his own mic like he’s ready to yank it back. shoko’s frozen mid‑lean over her drums, her expression somewhere between what is he doing and this better not ruin my eyeliner.

the crowd screams anyway, loud and wild, because they think this is part of the show. because they don’t know he’s improvising. because they don’t know he’s seconds away from saying something he’s avoided for years.

he grips the mic with both hands, knuckles white, and clears his throat. the sound echoes across the field, sharp and awkward. he winces. shoko winces. geto winces harder.

but he doesn’t step back.

he takes a breath. slow, shaky, a metaphor for it dragging his whole past up with it, and then he starts talking.

“people change you,” he says, voice rough but steady enough to carry. “not in some big dramatic way like in those sappy movies. sometimes it’s just… one moment. one sentence. one person who looks at you like you’re capable of more than you think.”

the crowd quiets, leaning in.

“and when someone believes in you like that,” he continues, eyes fixed somewhere far past the lights, “it sticks. even when life moves on. even when you do. even when you’re trying really hard to pretend it doesn’t matter anymore.”

geto’s eyebrows shoot up. shoko’s mouth falls open a little. neither of them expected this.

gojo swallows, thumb brushing the mic like he’s grounding himself. “i wouldn’t be here without that. without… someone who told me to keep going when i was ready to quit. someone who said i could be something. someone who meant it.”

the crowd murmurs, everyone have their phones pulled out and recording by now.

he lets out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound. “so before we play this next song… i just wanted to say that. that sometimes the right person shows up at the right time, and it changes everything.”

he pauses, chest rising and falling, the truth sitting heavy in the air.

“and this song is for them.”

the field erupts.

and gojo stands there, heart pounding, knowing he’s just crossed a line he can’t uncross.

shoko’s sticks hover above the snare, her whole body coiled with the clean, sharp focus she only gets right before a song starts. she gives the band a quick look, geto steady, gojo wired like a live wire, and then she counts them in, her voice cutting through the roar of the crowd.

“one, two--”

the lights shift, the synth swells, and the opening chords of about you are seconds from breaking open across glastonbury. geto steps forward, ready to sing the first line, breath already drawn, posture relaxed because of all the hours he spent practising.

but gojo moves before the sound even hits the air.

it’s quick. messy, instinctive, almost clumsy. he reaches out and grabs the mic stand with one hand, dragging it toward himself so abruptly that geto actually stumbles a half‑step, eyes wide with shock. shoko’s sticks freeze mid‑air, her mouth parting in disbelief. not again.

the crowd screams, thinking it’s part of the show, but the band knows better. gojo’s chest is rising too fast. his fingers are shaking. his eyes are locked on the crowd like he’s searching for one face in a sea of thousands.

the backing track still playing, but the entire field goes still.

gojo leans into the mic, breath catching once in his throat before he forces the words out-- loud, clear, and so direct it slices through the night like a blade.

“this is about you.”

the crowd erupts into confused cheers, but he doesn’t blink, doesn’t smile, doesn’t play it off. he tightens his grip on the mic, knuckles white, and says it again. slower this time, like he wants to make sure the right person hears it.

“you know who you are.”

geto’s jaw drops. shoko actually nearly drops a stick, the clatter swallowed by the noise of fifty thousand people losing their minds.

and then gojo says the thing he’s been holding in his chest for years, the thing he swore he’d never say out loud, the thing that feels too big for a stage and too raw for a crowd this size.

“i love you.”

the field explodes-- screams, gasps, hands thrown into the air-- but gojo doesn’t move. he stands there in the middle of the chaos he just created, breathing hard, eyes shining under the stage lights, looking like a man who’s finally stopped running.

but it’s nothing compared to the way your chest caves in when gojo’s voice cuts through it. the words hit clean and direct, no metaphor, no shield, just truth thrown into the night like he’s daring the world to catch it.

this is about you. you know who you are. i love you.

your best friend’s head snaps toward you so fast her earrings nearly fly off. her eyes are huge, glitter catching the stage lights, and she looks at you like she’s watching a plot twist she’s been waiting seven years for. her mouth opens, closes, opens again--no sound, just pure shock .

you don’t look back at her. you can’t. your eyes are glued to the stage, to the tall figure standing under the lights like he’s been carved out of them, shoulders tight, chest rising too fast, fingers still wrapped around the mic stand like he’s holding onto something that might slip away.

your heart drops. it plummets-- heavy, sudden, like it’s falling through every version of your life where you and him were still in the same orbit.

the crowd is losing its mind, people grabbing each other, screaming, filming, crying, but all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears and the faint echo of a rehearsal room years ago, when he could barely look you in the eye without turning pink.

your friend grabs your arm, nails digging in. “that-- that’s--” she tries to shout over the noise, but the words dissolve before they reach you.

because you’re staring at him, and he’s staring at nothing.

he’s not scanning the crowd.

he’s not searching for a face.

he’s not looking for you.

he doesn’t know you’re here.

you’re one person in a sea of thousands, swallowed by lights and smoke and the sheer scale of the world he’s built for himself. he’s on a stage that belongs to legends, and you’re standing in the mud with a plastic cup of cheap cider, heart in your throat, listening to a confession meant for a ghost version of you he’s been carrying around.

the band launches into the opening chords of about you, the sound swelling, bright and aching. geto steps in, voice steady, shoko’s drums hit like thunder, and gojo bows his head over his guitar, fingers moving with a confidence he didn’t have back then.

you watch him, this man who used to trip over his own amp cables, who used to ask you if his hair looked stupid, who used to grin at you like you were the only person in the room. and you realise how far away he is now. how far you’ve drifted. how far he’s climbed.

you’re still supporting him, still cheering for him, still loving him in that quiet, private way that doesn’t ask for anything back.

but you’re not part of his world anymore, you’re part of the crowd.

and he’s part of the sky.

the song ends, the lights flare, and the distance between you stretches out.

bittersweet doesn’t even begin to cover it.

── ⟢ the end・⸝⸝

an: formal apology for a) making t@kumi as geto, b) for not having a happy ending, because this was originally an angsty headcanon but then this storyy came to me. i love the 1975 sm, i just hope there is someone out there who loves jjk and 75’ and is the perfect target audience for this. oki, baiiii

[ryosbaby-deactivated20260215]

satoru is used to being the biggest tipper

sixeyedgod sent $50!

you wore the blue that i requested tonight <3 ahhh you’re a goddess

you tilt your head, showing off the baby blue lacy lingerie, “you like? it's a thank you gift for being the most generous ever.” you had wore it in exchange for him being last month's top tipper. he never missed a stream, he always tipped and it was the least you could do for him. you keep scrolling, reading the messages aloud.

then a new name pops up.

neonarcher sent $100!

first time stumbling into you here. cupid must’ve hit me cause what the fuck is this beauty

your eyebrows lift slightly. “…okay,” you murmur. “first timer, big move.” you keep your tone sweet, acknowledging it. “anyways, welcome! the more–"

sixeyedgod sent $75!

boo corny

"hey now behave," you giggle quietly, barely reacting. “but sure, i’ll take it.”

and then it escalates.

neonarcher sent $300!

something ridiculous here

sixeyedgod sent $250!

ahhhhhh careful, my spot

the chat explodes. laughing emojis, “oh??” messages, people clocking the tension instantly. you don’t rush it. it's not like you're holding these wealthy bored people hostage to donate. it's all in your favor! you just read what comes in.

“wow,” you murmur, glancing at the screen. “that’s… a lot for a first timer. you see sixeyedgod here is a regular."

neonarcher sent $400!

guess starting tonight you'll see me more then

you hum softly. “will i? who's to complain?"

sixeyedgod sent $450!

yeah no. absolutely not.

your lips twitch, but you keep it together. “someone’s very… passionate about the leaderboard.”

neonarcher sent $450!

is this how this usually goes or am i special

“i’d say tonight’s a little intense. we usually just try lots of things and have fun but you guys are stealing my show."

sixeyedgod sent $500!

yup. you're stealing her show you may exit

chat starts placing imaginary bets. people are tagging friends. someone types rich people fighting again. you pretend not to see that one or you would've bursted out laughing.

neonarcher sent $800!

oops

there’s a tiny pause, just enough to register the number. that's insanely too big. satoru usually never goes above $500, he doesn't need to cause he's the biggest tipper always.

“…okay,” you say gently. “that’s an awfully big donation for someone new.”

sixeyedgod sent $900!

you’re not winning this

your tone stays light. “alright, chat, reminder: please don’t feel pressured to compete—”

neonarcher sent $1000!

what am i not winning

your eyebrows lift. just a little. “wow. okay. thank you.”

the chat is fully unhinged now. you wait for the familiar handle, you know how smug and competitive he is.

sixeyedgod sent $1200!

i literally never lose

you exhale through a small laugh.

neonarcher sent $1500!

we all like a little challenge. can you wear something neon next time pretty lady? you'd look absolutely amazing

you nod once, “in honor of your first live? i don't have neon—but let's see if that could be arranged."

sixeyedgod sent $1800!

neon is beyond ugly. you're torturing her

you almost laugh until you glance at the timer in the corner of your screen. “ahhh we're having so much fun but the live is getting close to the end of the live, just so everyone knows.”

neonarcher sent $2000!

worth it

“…thank you,” you say softly. “again that’s extremely generous. also you too six—"

half a second later—

sixeyedgod sent $2500!

goodnight

that one makes you pause. okay he's obviously losing it.

you composed, “okay. i think that settles it.”

the leaderboard refreshes. sixeyedgod back on top. by a lot.

you clap your hands once, “alright everyone, we’re gonna wrap it up here. thank you for hanging out tonight. we couldn't do much as i said in the beginning i wanted to chat more. next live we'll do the weekly truth or dare! i'll get more cards this time."

the chat is still buzzing as you end the stream.

you lean back, stretching. the room is quiet, camera off and then your door bursts open.

“WHAT THE HELL,” satoru shouts, hair messy, pajamas disheveled, phone in hand. “WHO THE FUCK IS NEONARCHER AND WHY ARE THEY SPENDING MORE THAN ME ON MY GIRL?!”

you blink looking at your boyfriend who's obviously distraught, still perched on your chair. “toru,” you say softly, sweetly, “i told you leaderboard’s not real. you're ridiculous for spending."

“NOT REAL?” he groans, throwing himself onto your floor dramatically. “$700? $600? first-timer?"

you tilt your head, smile small and polite. “relax, babe. it’s fine. he’s just… a new fan. we like fans, right?"

“not fans like that,” god he's so dramatic, “he's trying to steal my spot? my blue? my top donation spot?!”

“uh-huh,” you murmur, still calm, brushing your hair back. “you got it back, just tip harder next time? does it really matter—"

he groans, “they should be grateful that im kind enough to share—that they can look."

you chuckle softly, leaning closer, hand brushing his arm. “you're adorable toru."

“babyyyy,” he whines, voice loud, pouting like a child. “i hate it” he flails.

you giggle, shaking your head. “i know, you outdone yourself tonight."

"i did now give sixeyedgod all the attention."

“but he already has it."

he pouts, dramatic as ever, and you watch him, calm and sweet. your viewers would probably lose it if they knew that your boyfriend is literally here, raging.

you murmur quietly about how ridiculous he is to yourself, “how bout you help me pick out the options for truth or date instead of being a big pout."

a/n: neonarcher reveal