hiii:) can i request ilya x fem!reader who smokes weed or takes edibles occasionally? like they’re driving home from a party and she feels like she got a bit too high and starts to get anxious and physically overwhelmed from side effects (heart racing, spacing out, numbness, shaky hands) basically feeling like she doesn’t have control over her body? maybe she’s crying a bit?
but ilya catches on in the car immediately:( and once they get home he helps her calm down, grabbing her the things she needs, and getting her all changed and comfy so he can take care of her ☹️☹️ him helping her say what she needs and reassuring her that she’ll be okay;( idk i think that would be so sweet
anyway love ur writing sm btw 🫵🫵
Pairing: Ilya Rozanov x Reader
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Music in your chest. Too many people touching your shoulders when they laughed. Too many conversations overlapping.
You’d taken half an edible earlier. You knew your limit. You always did.
But maybe you hadn’t eaten enough. Maybe you were more tired than you realized.
Maybe it just hit differently tonight.
In the car, the world feels… wrong.
Your heart is beating too fast.
You’re staring at your hands in your lap and they don’t feel like yours.
He glances at you immediately.
Your voice sounds far away. “I think I’m… too high.”
He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t minimize.
He nods once, calm. “Okay.”
Your chest tightens. “My heart’s racing.”
“That can happen,” he says evenly, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to rest gently on your thigh. “You’re safe.”
Your breathing starts to stutter. “I don’t feel like I’m in my body.”
He glances at you again, sharper this time. He can see it now,the glassy look in your eyes, the way your shoulders are creeping toward your ears.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Look at me.”
You try. It’s hard. Everything feels delayed.
“Ilya, I don’t like this,” you whisper, and your voice cracks.
His hand squeezes your thigh gently. “I know.”
Your fingers start trembling.
“I can’t control it,” you breathe. “It feels like I can’t control my body.”
He nods again, calm but focused. “That is anxiety. Not danger.”
Tears spill down your cheeks suddenly. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.
“I don’t want to feel like this.”
“You won’t forever,” he says firmly. “This passes.”
You shake your head. “What if it doesn’t?”
“It will,” he says without hesitation. “I promise you.”
Your breathing gets shallower.
He lowers his voice. “Breathe with me.”
“In,” he says slowly. “Four seconds.”
You clutch your seatbelt.
He repeats it with you again. And again.
By the time you pull into the driveway, you’re still anxious,but you’re not spiraling quite as hard.
The second the car stops, he’s out and at your door.
He opens it gently. “Okay. We go inside.”
Your legs feel wobbly when you stand.
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Lean on me.”
Inside, the house feels too bright.
He immediately dims the lights.
He guides you to the couch. You sit, curling into yourself instinctively.
“I feel weird,” you whisper.
“You are high,” he says gently. “And overstimulated. That is all.”
Your hands are still shaking.
He kneels in front of you.
You shake your head helplessly. “I don’t know.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “We figure out together.”
He disappears for a moment and comes back with water.
You obey, hands unsteady.
“I feel like my heart is going to explode.”
He takes your wrist gently, feeling your pulse.
“It is fast,” he admits calmly. “But not dangerous. Your body is just reacting.”
You stare at him, eyes wide. “You’re not mad?”
He frowns. “Why would I be mad?”
He cups your face immediately. “No.”
“You did not ruin anything,” he says firmly. “You tried something. Your body said no. That is not failure.”
“I hate not being in control.”
He helps you stand again.
“Come. We make you comfortable.”
He walks you to the bedroom slowly.
“You want pajamas?” he asks.
He helps you change,gentle, respectful, steady. Moves slow so nothing feels overwhelming.
When you’re in soft clothes, he guides you into bed and pulls the blanket up around you.
He adjusts the blanket carefully.
Then he climbs in beside you, not crowding,just close enough that you can feel him.
“I’m still shaky,” you whisper.
He takes your hand and places it flat against his chest.
His heartbeat is steady. Slow.
Your fingers curl into his shirt.
“I feel stupid,” you mumble.
He presses a kiss to your hair.
“Maybe,” he says gently. “But even if you did, that does not mean you deserve to suffer.”
You breathe in his scent,clean soap and something warm and familiar.
“It feels like I’m floating,” you whisper.
“That is okay. I am holding you down.”
You let out a small, shaky laugh through tears.
He brushes his thumb over your knuckles.
“This is temporary,” he reminds you. “Your body metabolizes it. In one hour, you will feel much better.”
He tightens his arm around you.
“You are allowed to be scared,” he says. “But you are not alone in it.”
Your breathing evens out slowly.
“Can you stay awake?” you murmur.
Your grip loosens slightly.
“Thank you for noticing.”
You don’t feel fully normal yet.
And that makes all the difference.
