I be writing @ramblingwannabe - Tumblr Blog

Breaking Regulations

Based on: my own idea for the improper use of an ice skating rink. Probably been done before, but I hadn't seen it here, and I just couldn't get the thought out of my head.

A/N: I genuinely think I blacked out over the last three days as I hyperfixated on writing this. Bear in mind (🐻) that not only did I just start writing fics again at the beginning of this year, but out of the 100+ one shots and who knows how many small drabbles I've done, I've only ever written three other actual smut fics... so, all that to say, I hope this is good and y'all enjoy! ☺️

Word count: 7.9k

Pairing: Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Contains: Smut mdni, fingering, sex in public space, established relationship, praise, fluff, pet names (princess, pretty girl), no use of Y/N, p in v, hair tugging, idk it's been a while since I've put out explicit warnings so let me know if I need to edit anything in!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first time he suggests it, you scoff and roll your eyes, thinking he’s not serious.

“Yeah, right.”

“C’mon, wouldn’t it be fun?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

“Hard pass.”

He’s skating backwards, gliding with a natural ease achieved more than a decade ago. The ice slices quietly, smoothly, a satisfying melody to your ears. You’ve proposed more than once that he start an account dedicated solely to the ASMR of his skates, which he’s refused countless times. If you were better at skating, you would follow him with the camera and mic yourself, but alas.

The deep, crisp hisses of the blades are accompanying the hum of the rink and the echoed chatter of the last skaters cooling down and packing up for the night. He doesn’t even bother looking behind him, acutely aware of the remaining people on the ice. He’s in tune with every sharp divot in the layers this evening, most caused by him, and knows the dimensions of the surface like the back of his hand.

You can see it as he holds your gaze—it’s automatic, the way somewhere in the back of his head he’s got this whole area mapped out, and is effortlessly calculating how to navigate it. Maybe he doesn’t even realize that he’s thinking about it. He just lets his body do what feels right intuitively, when in reality, the dedication of thousands of hours has nailed down the process so perfectly that the coordination of his movements is set out ten yards in advance. And by the time he reaches a corner, his muscles are applying pressure to the inside edges of the skates, an order commanded thirty seconds earlier, and he’s already subconsciously carving out the ice on the other side of the rink.

“It’d be hot,” he suggests, still trying to convince you.

“Actually, it’d be the opposite of hot,” you object quietly, throwing a smile to the woman skating by you on her way out. Ilia shoots her a grin, and she nods at both of you. As soon as she’s out of earshot, you continue. “It’d be cold. Really, really, cold.”

There are still fifteen minutes left before it’s time to go. He could be going faster, throwing more power into each move, practicing the jumps that are the very essence of his nickname. But he’s not. He’s holding on to one of your hands, patiently watching you skate in front of him, tightening his grip in reassurance when you falter and throw your other hand up by your side for balance.

Slow. Gentle. Safe.

The opposite of a quad axle.

And exactly what you need.

“It’s probably illegal,” you reason, shifting the weight of your hips as you regain stability.

“If we get caught,” he counters. “I doubt we’d actually get to the arrest part.”

“Not to mention how it would affect your image,” you try instead.

“My image has been through a lot of shit this year, what’s one more thing?” he shrugs, like it wouldn’t make the headlines of more than a few national newspapers, dozens of online articles, and a handful of international athletic magazines.

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, shaking your head.

“Maybe. But you love me,” he says.

“That I do.”

Ilia smiles, quietly letting you ride out the rest of the minutes in peaceful silence, letting you concentrate as it’s your turn to map out the ice. It's only for the fifth try since you started dating.

Skating wasn’t something you were eager to do at the beginning of your relationship. You could see how it was ironic for someone going out with one of the most currently acclaimed competitors in a sport completely based on skill. But you’d never been the best at coordinating your balance, and you simply found it reasonable to stay off the ice and in shoes that were level with the ground. Perhaps it’d been easier if you were a kid with somewhat indestructible bones and the confidence to fall and get back up without a second thought, but, in your wiser logic, you were avoiding a potential, high-cost hospital bill.

Ilia was always understanding, joking to anyone who asked that “opposites attract,” and you were more than grateful he wasn't forcing you into it. After all, it was true that you were opposites in most regards; that’s what made him so attractive at first, before you truly got to fall in love with the rest of him. He was eager to prove himself, a risk-taker skating dangerously close to the pinnacle of physics at best, and, at worst, recklessly pursuing to break those rules. You, on the other hand, were reserved. Dedicated, but not overtly craving more than you needed, happy to stay in the safe lane and build a solid rhythm.

You found him exhilarating, the thrill missing in your life.

He found you comforting, a much-needed anchor in his world.

Eventually, though, the night came when it was just the two of you left, and the temptation to join him was too much to fight against. As you predicted, you fell a few times during the short practice, spotting some bruises and scratches on your legs and hands the next day. But the happiness in Ilia’s eyes when you joined him, even as you were shaking like a leaf and holding on to the walls for dear life, was addicting. Like every other part of him.

From then on, he carried your pair of skates in his duffel bag any time you came over to watch him practice, just in case the ice rink was solitary enough at the end to tempt you in. They were barely broken in, since you’d tend to join him for half an hour at most on a good night, five minutes or less if you were feeling too self-conscious. You insisted he didn’t have to buy you a pair. The rentals at the rink were more than good enough for a recreational user like yourself, but he drove you to the store as soon as it opened the morning after your first try. And who were you to turn him down when he looked so excited at the prospect of picking out the perfect skates for you?

He carries the extra five pounds on the strap that digs into his shoulder easily, happily, as if the additional weight in the bag doesn’t make a noticeable difference. Except it does, because it reaffirms the weight of your love and the trust you have in him, letting him teach you in a landscape that has been foreign for most of your life.

A trust that you’re questioning playfully, raising an eyebrow the second time he brings it up on your eighth attempt on the ice.

“The ISU would probably ban you from any competitions,” you say with a small laugh, picturing the reaction of the president who, not so long ago, gave him a world record. “There’s gotta be a rule about it in all those regulations.”

“Rules are made to be broken.” Ilia throws a hand up, dismissing the thought.

You’re skating by his side now, still not as confident, still not as graceful, but more steady in your strides and more comfortable handling the shift of your weight when you go around the corners.

You still hold his hand, though. Some habits die hard.

He’s not complaining. He wouldn’t dream of having it any other way.

“What about the security cameras?”

“They’ve been broken since January,” Ilia replies. “The only working ones are on the outside. Tell me that’s not a sign.”

“No, that’s a liability issue waiting to happen,” you maintain.

You wonder how long he’s really thought about this.

You smile at him, and he smiles back, like his idea is the most casual thing in the world.

Surely, he can’t be serious. Surely, he understands the implications of what he’s suggesting, the risks that outweigh the benefits of pulling it off successfully. Surely, he’s just testing your reaction, expecting you to be appalled—as you rightfully should be—and keep it all in a world of what-ifs and imaginary can-you-believe-we-did-that?’s. Surely.

“My ass would freeze.”

“Wear a skirt,” he states, an obvious solution. Thinking twice, he adds with a smirk, “Just the skirt.”

“In your dreams,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

“Yep,” he replies, matter-of-factly. “There, too.”

He leans over to kiss your cheek, and he lingers there a second too long, cold nose pressing against your warm temple. Then his breath fans down your neck in a hot wave, leaving goosebumps on the exposed skin.

He pulls back, still smiling, gives you a wink, and looks forward again, stirring you towards the exit wall.

You start to doubt that he’s joking. What clues you in is the dilation of his pupils, the way he seems a little more out of breath now despite the eased skate, and the tell-tale rosy start of a blush on his pale cheeks.

But he has to be joking.

Because the notion is insane.

Well.

Mostly insane.

Maybe, when you think about it in the darkness of your bedroom, safely tucked by his side and away from prying eyes, maybe then you can see the appeal of it. The excitement of trying something new, of turning what has been the base of his career and achievements into something so lewd, something he’s not going to forget anytime he steps onto the ice for the next decade (at least). Well, you can see why he thought about it in the first place.

He doesn’t mention it again, but he planted the seed, and the idea starts to take over everything else when you are at his practices.

You think about it six weeks later when he is racing across the ice, confidently turning back and taking off with a force so massive you can only imagine what it's like to have that strength. You’ve seen it a million times, the jump, the height, the crush of the surface as he lands, steady, allowing his body to take the pounding energy into his conditioned muscles, and skating away like it’s nothing.

Instead of following his routine as usual, your eyes stay glued to the spot where he landed, absorbed in the replay of the movement, heart pumping slightly faster than normal as you think more and more about the way his body settled into place. You’re not shy to it, you know exactly what lies beneath the black skating gear, but seeing it out here, in his element, with his suggestion running through your mind?

It just makes sense.

You throw caution to the wind that day.

He’s hunched over the edge, elbows resting on top of the wall, speaking in quiet Russian with his dad. You can’t understand what’s being said, but you recognize the downward draw of his eyebrows and the determination in his eyes. Usually, it means that he’s in for a long night. It doesn’t happen too often, as it would drive both of you mad; you, from getting too irritated out of the sleep deprivation since you insist on staying up until he comes home, and him, from being at the receiving end of that grumpiness, and, not to mention, the missed time with each other.

But every now and then, Ilia will get special permission to stay an hour or two after closing, tirelessly skating to a repeat of his program or practicing jumps until his knees ache.

He’s expecting to see you frown and do a small pout when his dad walks away. To watch the polite grin on your face drop after Roman smiles at you, giving your shoulder a squeeze and saying goodbye, but it doesn’t. Instead, it turns into a different smile, more mischievous, like you know something he doesn’t.

“Long night, I’m assuming?” you question, hands clasped in front of you, swaying back and forth on your feet.

“Uh-huh,” Ilia confirms, eyeing you suspiciously. You don’t say anything, just nod and continue to smile. “You look…happy.”

“I thought your goal in life was to make me happy,” you tease.

“What are you up to?” Just as much as he knows the rink, he knows you, and he is not sure if he should be excited or scared of whatever it is you have planned.

“Oh, you know, just this and that,” you answer vaguely, shrugging. A skater passes behind Ilia, and you momentarily follow her path.

He thinks you’re distracted by the movement. In reality, you’re looking at the clock on the other side of the rink, trying to figure out how long you have to make the drive out and back, factoring in the stop at your shared apartment. The rink is minutes away from closing, but you should still have enough time when you return.

“How long will you be staying?” You step closer to Ilia, and he grabs your hand.

“Two hours, tops,” he says. “I can try to leave earlier if you want to, though.”

“No, it’s okay!” you insist, and his frown deepens. “I want to bring you dinner from that Italian restaurant, the one with the good tiramisu,” you explain, technically true. “It’ll be closed even if you can cut it to an hour. I’ll just go now and come back, and you can stay as long as you need to.”

He’s silent for a moment, sizing you up, unsure of what’s going on. You know you have the upper hand, though. Mentioning tiramisu will get you almost anywhere with Ilia.

“…okay,” he finally says, blue eyes staring at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“Usual order?” you ask, leaning in to give him a quick kiss. “With a slice of tiramisu, of course.”

“Yes, please,” he says. You begin to let go of his hand. He smiles at the last second and pulls you back for another kiss. It’s short, too many people lingering, and you can tell that he still wants to ask more questions, but at least he’s a bit more relaxed now. “Thank you, you’re an angel.”

You hum, biting down on your bottom lip briefly as you consider the contradiction of the sentence and your plans.

“Keys in the side pouch?”

You’re already unzipping the duffel as he answers.

“Yeah. I’m gonna lock up soon, so call me when you’re back, okay? Can you make sure my phone’s not on silent?”

You check the phone and turn the ringer on, and then dash over to the wall for one more kiss, too quick again, and he’s already missing the contact as you walk away.

“See you in a bit!”

He watches you leave in a hurry, almost skipping away with the keys jingling in your hand, and keeps trying to think of what could be making you feel this way. It’s not like you at all to have this reaction to a late practice.

Then the answer comes to him.

You probably wanted the extra time in the ice rink alone to practice some more. Maybe even let him try to teach you how to glide back, or some trick you would be too shy to practice with other people around. He smiles, happy to figure it out, happy that you are sharing in his interests, even when it’s out of your comfort zone, and pushes forward to the middle of the rink, already wanting his phone to ring.

—————

The heavy glass door is pushed open from the inside, and Ilia holds it there as you move past him, keys and phone in one hand, plastic bag with takeout containers in the other. The rink is much cooler than the settling summer night outside, the air icy-crisp as you breathe in with every step. But you’re ten feet in, and the door hasn’t banged shut behind you, so you glance back.

He stands there, hand still wrapped around the key in the metal arm of the door as he shoulders it open, mouth half open and eyes wide. Blue irises drift down, not for the first time since you walked in, if you had to guess. They roam past the thick, gray crewneck—straight from his closet, he recognizes—and land below your waist, momentarily glancing at the long, white socks before they go back up just a bit. They stay glued there.

The pleated folds of your white skirt brush across the middle of your thighs as you shift the bulk of your weight to one leg, resting the hand with the keys and phone on your hip. You look at him with mock confusion, eyebrows raised, and a tiny smile pulling at the corners of your lips.

“What?” you ask, eyes darting to the open door. “Aren’t you going to close that?”

He’s not moving.

“What are you doing?”

The question comes out drily, as if the shock of your outfit has him in a chokehold and all oxygen has dissipated from the building. You can see that he understands exactly what’s going on now, but he can’t quite believe it.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m bringing you dinner,” you answer.

“No. You’re not.” A slight breeze blows in, stirring Ilia’s hair. He’s been growing it out again, though it’s not yet the same length it was at the beginning of the year. You miss running your fingers through the longer strands, but you had to admit that the new look gives him a different edge that was a big turn on the day he came home from the barber.

“I think you’ll find my evidence right here,” you say, shaking the bag hanging by your side. The plastic rustles. “Anyways, I’m starving, so you can wait by the door all night long, but I’m eating.”

You turn around with a shrug, feeling his eyes on your backside as you walk across the front lobby, past the closed skates’ rental booth, and over to the bench where his bag sits.

It takes a few seconds, but eventually you hear the slam of a door, and Ilia’s frantic whispers of common Russian swears as he struggles to lock the entrance again. You smile, picturing the way his hands must be shaking, knowing exactly how he is feeling.

Your fingers are trembling, too, as you fumble with the knot on top of the plastic bag. Why would they tie it to the point that this requires scissors? But before you’re able to get it open, two larger hands cover your own. You let go of the knot. He’s pressed behind you, taller than usual from the skates he’s still wearing, arms wrapped around your waist. You can’t see his expression, but he’s breathing hard, and the heat of every exhale is a welcome warmth to the back of your neck in the frigid proximity of the rink.

You can feel his heart hammering against your back, beating almost as fast as yours.

“You weren’t wearing that earlier,” he murmurs in your hair.

“Nothing slips past you, Sherlock,” you sass, closing your eyes when he presses a kiss to your temple. They open a second later. “Wait, does that make me Watson?”

He ignores the comment and briefly lets go of you, only to turn you around so that you’re facing him. One arm goes around again, open palm on your lower back, keeping you close. His other hand combs up the hair at the back of your head, gripping softly.

You’re looking up at him, knowing he can feel your pulse racing now, and he can see the scorching heat running across your cheeks. You spot it again, the ink-black pupils dilated with excitement, reminiscent of his expression after stepping off the ice in competitions.

“The question is—why are you wearing a skirt?” he muses, waiting for your confirmation.

A pout pulls forward your bottom lip.

Does he really have to ask when the answer is so obvious?

“Because you told me to.”

The shift is immediate.

One second, you could blame the excitement and apprehension for the lack of air in your lungs, only managing to take short, flustered breaths. But after that, Ilia is to blame. His lips crash against yours desperately, not allowing a moment’s peace to breathe in. It’s wild, demanding a satisfaction that can’t be reached by this action alone, but he tries anyway. Of course he does. That’s him, always testing out the boundaries.

You give in completely, a willing accomplice in his pursuit of the impossible. When his grip on your hair tightens, you gasp accordingly, granting him the slight opening he needs to deepen the kiss. It’s wet and oppressive. Excruciatingly needy, to the point that you almost whimper from the touch of his tongue along your teeth before it finds your own.

By the time he grants you respite and moves to kiss your jaw, you’re feeling lightheaded. You heave in air, which in turn becomes an actual whimper this time as his teeth leave a tender bite right below your ear.

“You sure you want to do this?” he mumbles against your neck, peppering soft kisses as he waits for your answer.

“Ye—ah—yes,” you pant, acutely aware of the heat spreading under your skirt, and the growing firmness in the middle of Ilia’s pants that’s pressing against your waist.

He doesn’t let go immediately like you’re expecting. Instead, the hand that was holding on to your hair grabs the top of the crewneck and pulls it to the side. His lips find your pulse for a second, and then he bites at the junction of your neck and collarbone, drawing the skin in. It doesn’t last too long, only enough to force a moan out from your lips. As soon as he hears the sound, he parts.

You’re more dazed than normal, senses heightened by the sheer exhilaration of it all. You don’t need to look in a mirror to know that’s going to leave a mark, possibly already visible. The fact that you’re doing this, shamelessly at Ilia’s mercy and without concern for the noises you’re making, completely outside the privacy and comfort of your bedroom walls, has you in an unexpected rush.

“We should have done this sooner,” you say breathlessly, catching up with the world as Ilia digs in his bag.

“Whose fault is that?” he chuckles, successfully producing your pair of skates from the duffel. “Aha! Come here.”

You obey, sitting where he pats on the metallic front row bench. You leverage the front of your right shoe against your left Achilles, and then repeat the motion on the other side, kicking off your shoes. Ilia kneels in front of you and hands you one skate. At the same time, he already has a hand under your knee, pulling one of your legs up. You don’t miss the glance at the inside of your skirt.

He throws his head back for a moment.

“Fuck, you’re going to be the death of me,” he groans. There’s a mixture of love and lust and even more desperation when he looks at you again. “You really do listen.”

All you can do is nod and watch him grin.

He lifts your left foot off the ground and places the top of the boot against it, letting you push forward before he brings it back down and starts tying the laces. You slip the other skate on the right, but your hands are still trembling, and you struggle to complete your part. Ilia is quick, the muscle memory built into his fingers, and he turns to your trembling hands.

He covers them again, and this time it’s different. He just holds them, not in a hurry anymore. Ilia presses a calming kiss to your knee and lets his warm cheek rest against it, craning his neck up to look at you. When his eyes find yours, the desire is still there, but so is concern.

“Are you okay? We can stop if you want,” he reassures you, searching for any signs of hesitation that you’re not voicing. But they’re not there.

“I’m fine,” you promise with a nod. He gives your hands a squeeze, still worried, and you copy the movement. “Really, I am. I’m just a little nervous, but I want to do this.”

“You sure?” he asks again.

“I’m sure,” you say.

“Say the word, we leave and either do it another time or I don’t bring it up again—”

“Ilia, you'd better tie that skate before I march on the ice without them,” you advise him, crossing your arms. “That’s gonna get my socks all wet, and you know how moody I get when that happens.”

He finally relents with a goofy smile, expertly tying off the right skate in seconds.

Once he’s done, he pushes himself up with ease and offers you a hand. You take it gratefully, allowing him to pull you up, only wobbling slightly as you find the balance on the edges. Much improved from the first time you put them on.

Ilia slides the guards off his skates before he steps onto the ice. The hand that’s not on his grips the edge of the wall, and you feel the familiar apprehension set in as the first blade makes contact on the slippery surface. The initial action is probably the biggest fear of the skating basics that you’re still working on, but it’s hard to adjust to the complete drop of friction below you. Thankfully, Ilia’s grip is steady, and you make it on without falling on your skirt for now.

He’s elated, giving you a blinding smile like you just told him he’s won yet another world championship. Despite the nerves in your body, you can’t help returning the smile.

“I love you,” he says, tugging on your hand so your skates bring you nearer to him.

“I love you, too,” you tell him.

He closes the distance again, but he’s a lot more careful now, not wanting to throw off your balance. He’s mindful of the complete trust you have in him on the ice, and he’s not willing to jeopardize that, no matter how great the urge to pin you down against the edge of the rink may be. He shakes the idea out of his head for now, letting you take charge.

You kiss him back unhurriedly, allowing the seconds to crawl before your arms reach up and link behind his neck, sighing contentedly into the kiss. His hands move to your hips, planting you firmly on the ice, providing the same stability that you give to him off the rink. It’s not long until the pressure is amping up, with his hands kneading small circles to your hips before they start to roam up your waist, and he soon has you gasping once more.

It’s a repeat of the last time, except he’s holding back, controlled. Instead of grasping your hair, a hand drifts under the oversized sweatshirt and grips your waist. The other moves down your back, above the skirt, and squeezes at the curvature there, restraining you to him safely. He’s dragging his tongue against yours slowly, trying to convey just how much he wants you and how careful he’s willing to be.

Somehow, you find that turns you on even more.

But when he goes to move to your neck, you’re the one who makes the decision to separate this time. You push him back gently, and he doesn’t object. He simply lets the force drive his skates back. The ice swishes quietly.

“Slow down, there,” you say, smiling. Your heart’s pounding against your ribcage. “You can’t just expect a classy woman like me to do this without you earning it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ilia asks, humoring you. “And how do I earn such a favor with a classy lady like yourself?”

You smile, taking off before the proposition is fully out.

“Catch me!”

Ilia lets out a surprised laugh behind you.

There’s a heat in your core; however, the rest of your extremities are still warming up as you skate away, muscles tight. They start loosening up when you’re rounding the first bend. It’s not a perfect rhythm, but you’re building confidence with every stride, listening out for the hiss of sliced ice that’s following a few yards away.

You know he could catch up with you faster than you’re able to turn around, but he’s playing along. You don’t even think to factor in how he is also gaining something out of this, happily getting to watch the bounce in your skirt as you move along the ice.

Three laps feel like enough effort, and a small bead of sweat trails down your neck as you slow down, veering off to the middle of the rink. Ilia is there in a heartbeat, helping stop you against his body.

“Caught ya,” he smirks.

“Took you long enough,” you tease.

“Well, you were just too fast,” he shrugs. He can’t stop himself this time; his hands are already starting to dip under your sweatshirt again, enjoying the way your body has warmed up. He leans down for a kiss, but it’s short, and his lips quickly move to your jaw, pleased at the way your breath stutters in his ear. “Plus, I got distracted by the best ass in the world. I really had no chance.”

“You poor thing,” you manage.

Ilia can tell you wanted to say something else, but what comes out of your mouth next is unintelligible, a mix of a moan and some syllables as his hands boldly cup your breasts and he sucks on the side of your neck. If he thought he would die when he spotted the full nudity under your skirt, he reasoned he must have actually passed and gone to heaven now, hands fully stretched on your bare chest, no bra to slow him down.

“Holy shit, princess,” he mumbles, alternating between gentle bites and sucking on your neck, spreading marks you’re not sure you’ll be able to cover with just concealer tomorrow. The underused nickname is enough reward, though. “I really, really, love you.”

He takes a hardened nipple between his thumb and index finger and pinches—he doesn’t know if it’s pebbled from the cold or the arousal, and he doesn’t care to really get an answer. All he cares about is the needy whimpering falling from your lips at the act. But, combined with the bite to your shoulder, it’s too much.

He recognizes the motion at once; the way one of your knees gives in as your mind shuts off all control to your limbs, lost in everything he’s making you feel. And usually that would be fine, except you’re not on solid ground right now.

The skate drives forward, and your body jolts backwards, the falling sensation instantly kicking your brain back into gear and driving for self-preservation. You go to clutch at Ilia, but he’s already there, smug smile tugging on the corners of his mouth as his hands seize your back, holding you tight.

“Careful,” he cautions. Your nails dig into his biceps over the black quarter zip he is sporting, feeling the tense flex of the muscles as he supports your weight back up. “Too in the moment, huh?”

“Shut up,” you laugh, slightly embarrassed over the panic. You relax your grip around his arms so your nails are not digging in as deeply, though not letting go completely. Ilia looks down at you with amusement, and you stretch up carefully to place a kiss on his flushed cheek. “Thanks, cutie.”

“Anytime, gorgeous,” he replies with a wink. “Here, I’ve got an idea—if you don’t mind putting your knees on the ice.” You frown, and he rolls his eyes. “You won’t fall this way.”

“I guess that sounds better than breaking my skull.”

“Drama queen,” he chuckles. He pushes you back gently, and you let go of his arms, giving him the freedom to kneel down on the ice and then fully sit there. He stretches his legs out and reaches his hands up to you. “C’mere.”

You slide forward, realizing what he wants to do. You take his left hand with your right, balancing with his support as you lift your foot and plant it on the other side of his legs. Then you take the other hand, and he helps you stoop down until you're eye-level with him, and your knees touch the ice on either side of his hips. It’s colder than you prepared for, and the chills run up your body.

“Too cold?” he asks.

“I can take it,” you shake your head and give him a suggestive smile. “I’ll just need your help to stay warm.”

“I can do that,” he assures you, promptly picking up where he left off.

His mouth is back on your neck, and the warmth of his breath in between kisses is blissful, sending goosebumps down your arms and back. A cold hand rests on your thigh, already below the skirt, slowly massaging its way up, while the other travels up your waist once more. You can feel Ilia smile against your collarbone when his hand contours around the underside of your breast, causing you to shiver against him.

It’s nothing compared to the full buck of your hips when his thumb presses the soft flesh on the inside of your thigh, right on the cushioned abductor muscle. A desperate whine that you don’t recognize reaches your ears. It takes a moment before you become aware that it’s coming from your lips, broken and distressed because his mouth is no longer on your neck, and the hand on your thighs has stopped just shy of where you need it.

He’s leaning back, slightly out of breath, bright blue eyes taking you in as you try to writhe against him. His hands grip hard, preventing any movement. You want nothing more than to wipe the satisfied look from his face, knowing this is simply adding to his pride at the cost of your dignity.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says quietly, watching the desperation grow in your eyes when you try to grind down again, unsuccessfully. “All worked up for me. Just a mess.”

He waits for you to bite back, to retort that he’s thinking too highly of himself and he needs to bring his ego to more realistic levels. To give him the usual sass that keeps him grounded.

But you don’t.

You just close your eyes and push your body into his hands, surrendering to a wild state of need he hasn’t seen before.

“Ilia,” you rasp out.

It’s not his name anymore. It’s a prayer, a command, and a beg, all at once.

He answers.

You moan into this mouth when he captures your lips hungrily, finally placing his hand between your legs. He doesn’t have to do anything at first, letting you grind down on his fingers and take the friction you’ve been seeking. You’re more far gone than he thought, leaving his fingers soaked within seconds, absolutely dripping.

His other hand moves to tweak your nipple again, groaning in return as you whimper in between kisses. He’s there at the first falter of your hips, taking control so you can relax. Your knees must be red from the pressure and frostiness of the rink, but you can hardly tell if that’s the case, because the rest of you is hot to the touch. For a second, you think about the intentionality of his actions, feeling your chest tighten at the consideration he’s demonstrating without a second thought. That, and any other thought, is gone as soon as his hand twitches.

His middle finger dips between your slick folds, slipping back and forth teasingly before he fully dives in, palm pressing against your clit with every upward drag. You break away from him, unable to maintain enough coordination to kiss him back when it’s taking all your willpower just to stay up. Burying your head into the crook of his neck, you gasp sharply in cadence with each movement of his hand.

He feels your pathetic squeeze around his single digit, your body pleading for more; more speed, more contact, more him. So, he responds mercifully, adding his index finger without any difficulty. Your relieved sob vibrates against his neck, and he tries to adjust his hand so he can apply more pressure against your swollen clit. He knows he’s successful when your previous gasps become high-pitched whines that you’re attempting to muffle with his shoulder. He won’t have that.

“Fuck,” he groans, pulling out the hand that was under your sweatshirt to tangle it in your hair. He grasps at the base of your scalp and yanks your head back, eliminating any chance you have of stifling the sounds. “Don’t lean down again—wanna hear you.”

“But what if—?” You don’t finish your objection, the worries dissolving into pleasure as Ilia plunges in as far as possible, quieting any protest from your brain.

You’re loud now, full-on pornographic moans echoing against the walls of the rink. He’s painfully aware of the hardness tenting his joggers, and that you’re more than ready to take him in, but he wants to have control for just a little longer, knowing he’s going to lose it quickly when the time comes. He can tell you’re close, eyes shut and mouth parted in endless cries, wrapped up around his fingers tighter than ever.

He gives another gentle tug to your hair.

“Look at me, pretty girl,” he coos softly. “Let me see you come on my fingers.”

Your eyelids crack open, agonizingly making eye contact like it’s the most arduous request he could give you. The second they do, his ring finger joins in, and he keeps his hand close to your body, confidently anticipating your reaction like he anticipates a jump. Your eyes widen at the intrusion, but the ache is gone within seconds. You start grinding down on his hand one more time, taking in his fingers greedily and sinfully rubbing your clit against his calloused palm, chasing to release the pressure built up in your abdomen. You can’t help closing your eyes again, lips parted with a silent moan as you hold your breath.

There’s a sharp sting at the base of your skull.

“Look at me,” Ilia reminds you forcefully.

The tension in your core snaps at his demand, and you just barely manage to open your eyes to look at him as you come, soft walls clenching excruciatingly hard around his fingers. The final moan is closer to a scream, and Ilia is sure his name was partially there. Blood rushes up your neck and onto your face, carrying a heated, crimson blush with it as you tremble, still pulsing against his wet digits. Your chest heaves up and down rapidly, lungs trying to compensate for the lack of oxygen in your body. As you start coming down from the high, you look at Ilia again.

His eyes never stopped watching you. He is looking at you with a mixture of adoration and wanton lust, pupils so dilated that the usual blue is a shadow now.

You’re both quiet, nothing but the hum of the AC systems, the buzz of the rink, and your quick inhales.

He lets go of your hair, keeping eye contact with you as he also withdraws the hand under your skirt. You almost want to cry at the loss.

“You’re hot,” he says simply. Sincerely. Because words elude him, and even if he had a dictionary, he doesn’t think he’d find the correct term to describe how he’s feeling. How you make him feel.

“Nuh-huh,” you deny, shaking your head, and your voice cracking from your dry throat. “You’re just saying that because I’m your girlfriend.”

“I’ll prove it to you,” he smiles, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You ready?”

You nod.

His hands are on your waist, and he helps you squat up briefly so he can tuck his knees close to his chest, lowering you back down in front of him carefully. The skirt is not thick enough to protect you from the chill of the ice for more than a second, but the cold is comforting, refreshing even. It’s Ilia’s turn to kneel, but your legs are still caging him in.

There’s one more slow kiss, his hand pulling your chin up to meet him, and then he helps you lie down. The thick sweatshirt does a better job than the skirt in keeping your upper body warm. Once the back of your head touches the frosty surface, you can breathe more easily.

Ilia’s hands are on your knees, massaging some of the redness away, pressing feather-light kisses to the irritated spots. You know his intentions, despite the evidence to the contrary, are actually innocent this time, just looking to soothe the inflammation. But every caress and soft kiss is traveling down to your core again, reminding you of the loss you’re still feeling between your legs. Your hips shift irritably, causing Ilia to pause with his lips on your left knee.

“What?” he smirks, straightening up. His hands move to your thighs, inching down to your hips, annoyingly slow.

“Nothing,” you pout, refusing to say it despite the ache within you. It’s a lot easier to sass him now that his fingers are not in you.

“Nothing?” he repeats, thumbing with the edge of the skirt. “You sure?”

“Mmm-hmm,” you hum, nodding. But your eyes fly back up, avoiding his as he pulls the fabric up and stares at the soaked folds, fingers pressed tight into the top of your thighs.

“So pretty,” he murmurs. His hands land on the ice by your sides, back muscles flexing as he leans down to place a kiss on your jaw, then your neck, which is covered in marks in different stages of bruising. “Please, pretty girl. Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

His voice is reverent, petitioning a higher power than him. Almost holy, if it wasn’t for the outright transgression of his position, hard cock pressed to your thigh, as he supplicates to you, his deity.

You’d love to deny him, if anything, just to make the moment last longer. However, any determination you have is broken down when you look at him again. The desperation that you felt seems to be multiplied by the tenfold in his eyes, imploring.

“I don’t want you, Ilia,” you breathe out. His face falls for a second before you continue, “I need you—I need you to fuck me.”

He’s motionless, frozen as the ice you’re lying on, staring at you in awe.

“Please.”

That brings him back to reality.

His hands hastily untie the knot keeping his pants in place, and he shoves them down to his knees. You barely get a second to glance at his erection, head angry-red and leaking with pre-cum, before he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He breathes out a sigh of relief as you start taking him in, stretching around his length easier than usual. It’s only when he’s fully sheathed in that you wince, nose wrinkling as you shut your eyes tightly and inhale slowly.

The fullness alone almost has you orgasming again; it’s satiating beyond belief, and maybe it’s just biological engineering built in to your body for the goal of reproduction, but in this moment, you’re almost sure that this is your sole purpose in life. That nothing will feel better than Ilia burying himself deeply in you, soft Russian praises falling from his lips as he slowly shifts his hips back and then goes in again.

You turn your head to the side, cheek pressed against the ice, and try to picture your breath fanning on the surface of the rink, rolling as a small cloud of condensation. You know that if you give in, Ilia will be right there with you, but you want him to enjoy this as long as possible, you want to give him the same pleasure he gave to you.

It’s hard, though, especially as he begins to pick up the pace. He’s hitting at an angle that causes a sharp tinge of hunger and distress in you, and you can tell by his groans that he’s also exponentially struggling with each passing minute. His breath is coming out in ragged exhales, one hand on your hip and the other on the ice, holding onto both for dear life.

You plant the heels of your skates into the rink and hear the surface crack with a familiar crunch. Your arms reach out as you try to grab for something, typically sheets, to hold back the snap again, but there is nothing for you to grip here. Your hands slide on the ice desperately, and the cold spreads on your fingers.

In the end, it’s Ilia who makes you cave. The hand that’s on your hip moves right above where he is pounding, flicking the bundle of nerves that has been crying out for attention. It’s impossible to restrain yourself anymore, and you come with a whimper of his name, nails digging into the ice. Your heart is beating in your throat as your moans continue, milking the orgasm out of Ilia next.

His hips stutter, once, twice, and one more time before he stills, face scrunched and eyes shut for a few seconds.

You can’t look away from him, entranced.

His hair is damp, and beads of sweat run down his face and trail off at his neck. The blush dusting his cheeks is so red, you’d almost swear he was sunburnt. And above all, the look of satisfaction that tugs on his lips is the best thing you’ve seen today.

When he opens his eyes, you’re smiling softly at him, lovingly.

“Hey,” he grins.

“Hey, you.”

"That was... Holy shit, that was something."

"Yes," you agree. "Your great words are always so poetic."

He shakes his head, rolling his eyes.

“I love you,” he says, leaning forward to give you one last kiss.

“I love you, too,” you say, heart soaring.

He hasn’t quite caught his breath yet, but it’s slowing down enough. He pulls out of you with a small wince, eyes darting to the mess between your legs that’s starting to pool onto your skirt.

“Uh, sorry,” he chuckles, tenderly tugging his pants up and over his softening shaft. “I think I owe you a new skirt.”

You laugh—now that he’s starting to think with his upstairs brain again, he recognizes that he loves hearing your laugh even more than the lewd moans.

“Why would I need a new skirt?” you ask, accepting his hands as he helps you stand up again. You feel a rush of warmth trickle down your thighs and silently thank the universe for the dark night waiting for you outside, concealing any major details from the security cameras.

Your legs struggle to support your weight on the skates, so you cling tightly to Ilia’s arm, one hand on his bicep and the other holding his hand. Some habits die hard. You allow him to do the work of skating back to the entrance of the rink, only concentrating on keeping yourself up.

“It’s a bit messy now,” he explains, looking back down at the skirt.

The ice swooshes with the strides of his blades and whispers quietly behind yours as they simply slide alongside him.

You look down at the skirt too, considering something. When he reaches the opening in the wall, you're giving him the same smile from earlier, like you know something he doesn’t.

“What?” he asks amusedly, helping you step off the ice.

“Well, there’s no point to getting a new one,” you shrug, legs wobbling as you head to the first bench within reach.

“Why not?”

You grin.

“Because it would just get ruined again.”