You Are Something But Not Nothing

Not sure how long my break will be, but I will return.

Trends

Ilia Malinin x fem!skater

Summary: The fans love when you two do TikTok trends.

You and Ilia had been dubbed “the ice’s favorite couple” for so long that it felt like your official title now. Not world champions (though you both were), not record breakers (again, technically yes), but the couple. The one fans made edits of with heart filters and slow-motion replays of you two laughing in the Kiss-and-Cry. The one commentators mentioned with fond exasperation when your practices ran long because you kept trying to one-up each other’s spins.

But the real secret to your internet fame wasn’t the medals. It was the trends.

It started innocently enough. A bored evening in your shared apartment after a long day of training. Ilia had been scrolling on his phone, shirtless because “the his hoodie was too warm,” eating cereal straight from the box like a gremlin.

You’d pointed the camera at him. “A boy who’s jacked and kind,” your phone played.

Ilia had looked up, crumbs dripping down his chin, and immediately flexed with the cereal box still in his hand. The video blew up overnight. Comments flooded in:

“THE WAY HE LOOKED SO PROUD OF HIMSELF 😭”

“Ilia Malinin saw ‘kind’ and chose violence (affectionate)”

“POV: you’re dating a golden retriever with abs”

From there, it became tradition.

Today you were both at the empty training rink, golden hour light pouring through the high windows and turning the ice into liquid amber. Practice had technically ended thirty minutes ago, but neither of you could resist staying late when the rink felt like your own little world.

Ilia skated backward in lazy circles, hands in the pockets of his black training jacket, watching you with that soft, mischievous grin he only ever wore around you.

“Okay, next trend,” he called out. “I found a good one.”

You glided over, suspicious. “If this is the one where you pretend to drop me, I’m filing for couple separation.”

He laughed, that bright, boyish sound that still made your stomach flip even after two years together. “No, no. It’s ‘Things my partner does that make me blush.’ Easy points.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t blush. Your face is permanently set to smug.”

“Challenge accepted.”

He pulled out his phone, propped it against the boards on a towel, and hit record. Then he skated back to you, took both your hands, and started.

“First,” he said, looking straight into the camera, “she does this little scrunchy face when she lands a triple axel. Like she’s personally offended the jump existed.” He demonstrated, nose wrinkled, eyes squinted, and you shoved his shoulder.

“Second,” he continued, undeterred, “she always steals my hoodies but leaves the sleeves too long so her hands disappear. It’s stupidly cute.”

You felt your face heating. “Ilia—”

“Third,” he said, softer now, turning to you instead of the camera, “she looks at me like I’m the best thing she’s ever seen even when I fall on my ass doing a quad. Every single time.”

The rink went quiet except for the soft scrape of your blades. Ilia’s thumbs brushed over your knuckles.

You swallowed. “My turn.”

You turned to the camera, still holding his hands.

“Things my partner does that make me blush,” you started. “He pretends he doesn’t speak English when fans ask for photos so he can hide behind me. He brings me soup when I’m sick and tries to feed me like I’m a baby bird. He—” your voice caught for a second, “—he kisses my skates before competition like they’re lucky charms even though he says it’s ‘just hygiene.’”

Ilia’s ears went pink. Victory.

The video ended with both of you laughing, foreheads pressed together, his arms looped around your waist as you spun slowly on the ice.

Later, you set your phone on the tripod in the sunny living room, adjusting the angle so it captured you perfectly in frame. The trending lipstick audio played softly as you queued it up. Ilia was somewhere behind the camera, just out of view on the couch, pretending to scroll on his phone while you filmed.

You hit record and smiled brightly at the lens, holding up a tube of deep crimson lipstick. You applied it smoothly across your lips first, then deliberately smeared a streak across your cheek with an exaggerated “oops” face.

“Oh nooo,” you said playfully to the camera, dabbing at the mess.

Before you could continue the bit, Ilia’s hand entered the frame from the side—strong, familiar, with that silver ring you’d given him on his finger. His thumb gently swiped across your cheek, “helping” clean the smear… but mostly just spreading it more while being adorably tender.

You giggled as his hand lingered for a second, then turned the camera around with a mischievous grin.

There was Ilia, already completely covered in your lipstick kisses.

Red prints decorated his face and neck like a map of affection: cheeks, forehead, jawline, the tip of his nose, even a few along his collarbone where his t-shirt dipped low. He looked up from his phone with a sleepy, amused smile, one eyebrow raised.

You laughed behind the camera. “I couldn’t resist. You were too cute after breakfast.”

Ilia reached out again, this time pulling you gently by the waist into the frame with him. His hand—still faintly smudged with your lipstick—rested on your hip as he looked straight into the lens.

Five Feet Apart part 2

WARNING: Mentions of surgery, chronic illness

The weeks blurred into a fragile routine until the night everything tilted.

Ilia had pushed too hard again. The nurses adored him—he remembered their names, asked about their kids, cracked jokes during blood draws—but they also wanted to strangle him. “Mr. Malinin, you cannot do triple axels in the gym with sats at 89%,” they’d scold. He’d flash that disarming smile, apologize, then do it anyway two days later when the energy returned. Stubbornness was his sharpest blade.

This time, the blade cut back.

A sudden infection hit his already compromised lungs. By morning he was in distress, oxygen demands skyrocketing. They moved him to a higher-acuity room. By evening, he was on high-flow nasal cannula that still wasn’t enough. Doctors decided on emergency intervention—bronchoscopy first, then a thoracic procedure to clear scarring and infection under general anesthesia. Nothing life-ending, the surgeons promised, but serious enough that the entire floor felt the shift in energy.

You paced the lounge that night, five feet from where he usually set up his camera. The room felt hollow without him. Your laptop screen glowed with something new—not your usual angry prose, but a poem. Words you’d written in the dim light of 3 a.m. while worrying about him.

You titled it simply: Edges.

The next evening, after surgery, Ilia was back in his room but exhausted. He lay propped up in bed wearing a BiPAP mask that hissed rhythmically, forcing air into lungs that fought every breath. The ends of his blonde hair were damp with sweat, IVs snaking across both arms, monitors casting green light across his pale face. The stubborn sparkle was dimmed, but not gone—he still managed a weak thumbs-up to the nurse adjusting his settings.

“You’re supposed to rest,” the nurse reminded him gently. “No vlogging tonight, superstar.”

He gave her a tired salute. She rolled her eyes fondly and left.

You stood at the doorway, masked, gloved, keeping the careful distance even as your heart squeezed. They’d moved you to the room across the hall for the night so you could be close if things shifted. Hospital rules. Their rules.

Ilia’s eyes found yours. He lifted a hand and motioned you closer, then pointed at the chair five feet from his bed. You sat, clutching your notebook.

“How are you feeling?” You asked softly.

He gave a small shrug, the mask muffling his voice into a mechanical rasp. “Like I lost a fight with gravity… again.” A pause as the BiPAP pushed another breath into him. “But I’ll be back on the ice. Doctors said the scarring should improve after this.”

Typical Ilia. Already planning the comeback while his body was still fighting for air.

You opened your notebook, fingers trembling slightly. “I wrote something. While you were in surgery. I… I don’t read these to anyone. But I want you to hear it.”

He turned his head toward you, blue eyes steady despite the exhaustion and the mask fogging with each labored breath. The machines kept their steady rhythm—hiss, release, beep.

You began reading, voice quiet but clear:

Edges

You carve the air like it owes you beauty,

even when your chest fights every lift.

Shoulders squared against invisible blades,

the same ones that scar your lungs from within.

I watch the way pain makes you luminous—

not despite the struggle, but because of it.

Sweat at your temples like morning frost on ice,

each breath a deliberate program you refuse to scratch.

There is grace in your stubbornness,

in how you befriend the nurses who scold you,

then ignore their warnings with that half-smile

that says the disease will have to catch you first.

When the mask forces air you cannot pull alone,

you are still sketching futures with tired hands—

jumps that defy the weight in your chest,

spins that turn limitation into art.

You are beautiful in the fight, Ilia.

Not the polished version the cameras capture,

but this one—

raw edges, oxygen lines, and unyielding will—

a quad in human form,

landing every time on trembling blades.

I write this from five feet away,

afraid to touch what the world needs shining,

but closer than yesterday.

Keep breathing.

I’ll keep writing the words

until we both cross the distance.

When you finished, the room was silent except for the BiPAP’s mechanical whisper. Ilia’s eyes were closed, but not in sleep—tears slipped down the side of his face, catching in the mask’s seal.

He reached for the small whiteboard the nurses left him. With shaky handwriting, he wrote:

That’s the most beautiful thing anyone’s ever given me.

Then, underneath: Thank you for seeing the ugly parts as art too.

Your own eyes burned. You wanted to cross the room so badly it hurt. Instead, you stayed in your chair, five feet of careful air between you two, and whispered, “You make me want to keep fighting for my white coat. Even on the days I hate this body.”

He wrote again, slower this time: We’re both stubborn. Good thing.

A small laugh escaped you, watery and real. The nurse came back in to check vitals, saw the moment, and quietly stepped back out, giving you the space the machines wouldn’t allow physically.

Ilia pointed at your notebook, then at himself, then made a small writing motion. Your turn next, he mouthed behind the mask. When I’m off this thing… I’ll draw you something new.

You nodded, closing the notebook against your chest like a promise.

Outside, the hospital lights flickered on against the coming night. Inside, between beeping monitors and forced breaths and careful distance, something stronger than your illnesses kept growing—one poem, one stubborn recovery, one shared understanding at a time.

They still couldn’t touch.

Have You Ever Tried This One?

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

He flopped dramatically onto the king-sized bed in your bedroom, the one you christened with far more successful activities than this current quest. The glow of his phone screen lit up his face, casting shadows that made his sharp jawline look even more sculpted—like he was posing for a post-competition vlog instead of doom-scrolling fertility forums at 10 PM. You, his wife, lounged beside him in one of your oversized sleep shirts, legs tangled in the sheets. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, as you scrolled on your own tablet with the focused intensity you usually reserved for analyzing Ilia’s triple Lutz footage. 

“Another month,” you sighed, your voice softening the frustration. You tossed the tablet aside and rolled into his side, resting your chin on his chest. “The app says I’m ovulating, the basal temp is perfect, and still… nothing. I feel like my uterus is ghosting us.”

Ilia wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, the same gentle touch that had comforted you through unsure job interviews, bad managers, and that one terrifying pregnancy scare last year. “Hey, we’re in this together. The doctors said stress doesn’t help. We’ve got time. And honestly? I’m not complaining about the practice sessions.” He grinned, that boyish, cocky smile that always made your knees weak, even after years together.

You laughed softly, but there was a serious edge beneath it. “I know. I just… I want our little one so badly. Watching you with the kids at the rink, coaching them through their first jumps… it makes me picture it. Us, as parents. Your voice cracking just a little. “What if we’re doing something wrong?”

Ilia’s expression softened. He tilted your chin, kissing your forehead, then lips—slow, reassuring, full of that deep love that had carried you through the wedding night, tour exhaustion, and every jealous argument that ended in explosive makeup sex. “We’re not. But maybe we need to stop treating this like a training regimen. Less charts, more fun. Remember when we turned the kitchen into our personal sex shop surprise? That was ridiculous and hot.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief. You grabbed his phone, pulling up a browser. “Fine. Let’s make it stupid. I have the perfect song, ‘Juno.’ Listen to this part.” You queued it up, the playful beat filling the room. Your voice joining in on the lyrics, teasing: “Wanna try out some freaky positions? Have you ever tried this one?”

Ilia barked out a laugh, nearly choking. “Oh, we’re doing this? Alright, Mrs. Malinin. Challenge accepted. Google, show us the dumbest positions for baby-making.”

What followed was a descent into glorious, sweaty absurdity.

Position One: The Wheelbarrow

Ilia started strong, channeling his athleticism. You got on all fours on the edge of the bed, giggling already. He grabbed your legs like wheelbarrow handles, lifting your hips while you braced on elbows. “This is supposed to get the sperm closer to the goal,” he grunted, lining up and sliding into you with a deep thrust that made you moan.

“Oh god, yes!” You gasped, voice husky. The angle was incredible, hitting that spot that made you see stars. He started moving, powerful and controlled, one hand steadying your waist while the other reached around to tease your clit. It felt serious for a moment—raw connection, his grunts mixing with your whimpers, the wet slap of skin on skin.

Then your arms buckled. “Ilia—my elbows! I’m sliding—ah!” You face-planted into the mattress with a muffled “Crap!” He tried to adjust, but momentum sent you both tumbling. His dick slipped out mid-thrust, and you guys collapsed in a heap of limbs, laughing hysterically.

“Ten out of ten for depth, zero for stability,” Ilia wheezed, rolling you over and kissing your neck. “You okay?”

“More than okay,” you purred, pulling him on top for a proper missionary reset. He entered you again, slower this time, eyes locked. “I love you. This is going to happen when it’s right.” The seriousness lingered as you moved together, tender and deep, your legs wrapped around him. But the mood lightened fast when he whispered, “Next one?”

Position Two: The Acrobat

You took charge this time, pushing Ilia onto his back. “My turn to explore you.” You straddled him reverse cowgirl style, then carefully leaned all the way back until you’re lying on his chest, head near his, legs bent awkwardly. It was like a contortionist act gone sexy. 

“Have you ever tried this one?” You quoted breathlessly, grinding down onto him. The stretch was intense—full exposure, his hands roaming your breasts, pinching your nipples while you rode him in shallow, teasing circles. It was filthy and vulnerable. You felt every inch of him, the angle pressing perfectly against your front wall.

“Fuck, you’re so tight like this,” Ilia groaned, thrusting up. His voice was wrecked, that dominant edge creeping in as one hand gripped onto your hip hard enough to bruise. You loved it—the mix of his control and your power. You reached back, tangling fingers in his hair, pulling as you clenched around him.

But sometimes core strength has limits. Your abs started burning. “Ilia, I—cramp! Quad Axel in the bedroom, my ass!” You tried to sit up, but balance failed. You both rolled sideways off the bed in a tangle, landing with a thud on the carpet. His cock, still hard and glistening, slapped against his stomach as he burst out laughing.

“Emergency dismount!” He declared, pulling you into his lap on the floor. You didn’t even make it back to the bed. He guided you down onto him again, facing him this time, and you guys fucked like that—desperate, laughing, you bouncing while he sucked marks into your collarbone. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Make that baby right here on the floor.”

The seriousness hit again in the aftershocks: you resting against his chest, his cum leaking down your thighs as you whispered about names—Sofia for a girl, maybe another Ilia for a boy.

Position Three: The Standing Wheelbarrow (Kitchen Edition, Because Why Not?)

You and Ilia migrated to the kitchen for “new terrain.” You braced your hands on the counter, Ilia lifting your legs again. Laughter echoed as he nearly dropped you into the sink. “This is how you break a hip before Nationals!”

But once he was inside you—deep, pounding from behind while you gripped the edge—it turned scorching. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back for messy kisses. “Gonna put a baby in you right here where we made those turnovers last week.” The dirty talk mixed with your moans; you came hard, clenching, and he followed, holding you up as your legs shook.

You both slid to the floor afterward, sticky and spent, sharing water and more serious pillow talk (floor talk?). “Whatever happens,” you said softly, tracing his Stars On Ice scar, “we’re a team. On ice and off.”

“Real talk,” he murmured. “All this nonsense… it’s because I want this with you. The laughs, the fails, the wins. If it takes a hundred ridiculous positions, I’m here.”

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

Wisdom Teeth

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: Reader has wisdom teeth removal surgery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ilia! I can walk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Movie?” You asked.

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

“Thank you for today. For everything.”

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

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

Ice Queen

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Ilia pushed open the front door of his townhouse, the Virginia evening chill clinging to his hoodie like an unwelcome guest. Practice had run long again—quads and triples on repeat until his legs burned—but the second he stepped inside, he heard it: the familiar rustle of blankets from the living room couch, followed by a dramatic shiver.

“Y/N? Baby, you still alive under there?”

A muffled groan emerged from the mountain of throws, fleece, and the heated blanket he’d bought you last month. Only a tuft of hair and one socked foot poked out. “Ilia… it’s freezing in here. The thermostat is lying to us again. I think I’m turning into an ice sculpture. Like those ones they carve at the Christmas market.”

He kicked off his shoes, smirking as he dropped his gear bag. His girl, the one who could do no wrong but complained about “Arctic conditions” the second the temperature dipped below 68°F. Perpetually freezing. It was a running joke. Your hands were always blocks of ice, your feet sought his warmth under the covers like heat-seeking missiles, and half the closet was dedicated to oversized hoodies (mostly his, stolen).

“Drama queen,” he teased, peeling off his hoodie as he crossed the room. The fabric was still warm from his body and carried the faint scent of the rink. “Come here, iceblock.”

You peeked out, eyes narrowing playfully even as another shiver ran through your body. “Don’t call me ice block, you Russian furnace. Some of us didn’t grow up training in Siberia-level cold.”

Ilia laughed, that low, warm sound that always melted you a little. He yanked the blanket fortress open and slid in behind you on the wide sectional, pulling you back flush against his chest. You were in his Team USA sweatshirt that swallowed your small frame, leggings, and thick socks. Your skin was cool where it touched his arms.

“Fuck, you really are an ice cube,” he murmured, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His hands—big, calloused from years of gripping blades and bars—slid under the sweatshirt, palms flat against your stomach. You squeaked out at the contrast: his heat pouring into you like a furnace.

“Warmer already,” you sighed, pressing back into him. But then you wiggled deliberately, your ass grinding against his lap. “Though… maybe I need more thorough warming. Full body contact. Doctor’s orders.”

Ilia’s grip tightened, one hand drifting higher to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through the thin sports bra you wore underneath. It pebbled instantly under his touch. “Yeah? You gonna let your hot-blooded boyfriend take care of that, or are we doing the blanket burrito all night?”

You turned in his arms, face flushed, lips brushing his. “Take care of me, Quad God. Make me forget what cold even feels like.”

He didn’t need telling twice. Ilia scooped you up effortlessly—skater strength had its perks—and carried you toward the bedroom, legs wrapping around his waist. The hallway lights were low, the house quiet except for heavy breathing and the occasional shiver that still escaped you.

“Lick the fucking dirt off my boots like a good dog.”