ilianator

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆

hey sexy people!! i love that man (ilia malinin) downnnn. i am extremely late to iliablr BUT i just got done with college…so be prepared. please reach out if you are also interested in teething over this beautiful sexy iconic man!!!!!

awwww hope you feel better soon 💞 came up with this quick something!

Harsh, overhead lights swim in your vision, then a flash of blonde. Warm hands cup your face - a tinge too hard - and you groan in protest through layers of gauze. They quickly retreat, followed by an apology kiss on the forehead. You nod deliriously.

“Thank you,” you slur, jaw so puffy you can hardly move it. Another kiss. “Thank you.”

Your eyes flit up to the source - “Ilia!” You kick your feet against the operating chair. He snickers.

“Someone’s excited.” He pokes you on the nose. You huff theatrically, hands forming weak fists as you playfully attack him from the chair.

“Oh, I’ll get you for that,” you growl, as he deftly dodges - rearing back, swinging his arms in a circle and all. You laugh-

-and you find that you can’t stop laughing, and your jaw already hurts, but how can you help yourself when it’s him, with his dorky antics?

“Want ice cream?” He helps haul you to your feet. Says a few words to your dentist that you, quite frankly, could care less about, because your beautiful boyfriend is basically carrying you in his very beautiful arms to the car.

You grumble as he buckles you in with a kiss. He leans against the open door and frowns.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you chirp in a sing-song voice. “Just can’t kiss you back. Makes me sad, like, really sad.”

He attacks you face with a flurry of kisses, careful to avoid any swollen parts. And you giggle (or more like, screech, but you’re not giving him the satisfaction of knowing you did that!).

“Be back in a flash,” he says, and re-emerges with a plush pink-and-green checkered blanket from the backseat, the kind with fur that glides on your skin.

“Thanks, lutz muffin.”

You can practically hear each vertebrae of his neck as he turns to face you.

“What?”

You bat your sleepy eyes at him innocently. “Didn’t say anything.”

He shakes his head, putting on some quiet music. The beats drift through one ear and out the other. You mumble something incoherent as your stream of thought rises and dissipates.

As he drives off, he keeps one hand on the steering wheel, one in yours.

“Is this NF?” you ask as he turns a corner semi-sharply, waking you. “Turn it off.”

He pouts. “I thought you liked this song.”

You prop your head up with your free hand, pretending to think long and hard.

“You’re right. I do like it.”

The blankets overtake your senses as you melt into their soft, silky feel. You kick your feet out once more, giving into the low rumble of the car, his hand squeezing your periodically, and the sun peeking through the trees in flashes.

A small, plastic bag in the cup holder catches your eye.

thank you!! i’m so excited, i have so many thoughts that will be released onto tumblr 😋😋

my hb will finally be free

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

☆*:.｡. .｡.:*☆

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

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

─────────────────────────

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” you asked, arms crossed.

“Nothing. You look really pretty.”

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

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

He reposts it.

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

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

You cringe.

You watch it three more times.

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

A hand on your shoulder startles you.

“Feeling ready?”

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

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

“No, yeah, uh - for sure.”

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

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

“You watch my training videos?”

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

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

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

“Wow, you’re not gonna say it back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

“You were mean to me.”

“Two years ago!”

It’s your turn to pout.

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

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

“I can think of a way.”

You kiss him.

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

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

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

You check your phone. “Ten.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you’ll scream.”

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

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

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

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

“Don’t do that, pretty girl.”

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

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

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

“I’ll be quiet.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Ilia.”

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

“For what?”

Ilia smiles shyly. “You’ll see.”

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

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

“Great job, pretty girl.”

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

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

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

“Hey, you.”

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

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

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

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

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

You squeal. Squeal. Fuck, you hate him.

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

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

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

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

“Did you just-”

“Shut up.”

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

“Come on, Ilia!”

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

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

“Breakfast?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

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

Ilia opens the car door. “After you.”

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

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

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

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You plop back down.

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

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

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

“Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. I’d love that.”

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

“Dork.”

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

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

“Ilia?” Your voice is barely a whisper.

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Realization dawns upon him.

“Me?”

You force yourself to look at him as you speak.

“Yeah, you.”

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

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

You nod. He kisses you.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

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

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

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

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

He pouts, and you kiss it away.

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