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

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

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

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

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

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

Headcanons below!

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

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

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

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

•18+ Adults Only

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motionlessxgirl

Ilia drinking your breast milk and sucking on your tis so hard milk comes out

Night In

Warning: Smut, mdni, nipple play, breastmilk kink

Ilia x fem!reader

Ilia had been quiet all evening, the kind of quiet that settled after a long day of training and video review. The house was dim, only the soft light of the living room lamp and the low hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen. You sat curled against him on the couch, legs tucked under a throw blanket, scrolling mindlessly through your phone while his arm rested heavy across your shoulders.

You felt him shift first. His fingers traced lazy circles on the bare skin of your upper arm, then drifted higher, brushing the side of your neck. When you tilted your head toward him, he was already watching, eyes darkened and half-lidded.

“Come here,” he murmured, voice low.

You set the phone aside without a word. Ilia pulled you fully into his lap, one hand sliding under the hem of your soft cotton tank top to rest against the warm skin of your lower back. The other cupped your jaw as he leaned in and kissed you—slow at first, tasting, then deeper, tongue sweeping against yours until you made a small sound into his mouth.

The kiss turned heavy fast. His hands moved with purpose now, pushing the tank top higher until the soft fabric bunched under your arms. You lifted them so he could strip it off completely, leaving you in just the thin nursing bra you still wore most evenings. Ilia’s breath caught as he looked down at the full swell of your breasts, the faint outline of dampness already darkening the fabric where your milk had let down earlier.

He kissed you again, harder, one hand sliding up to cup the heavy weight of your left breast through the bra. His thumb stroked over the nipple, and you felt the familiar tight ache bloom under the pressure. When he squeezed gently, a small wet spot spread wider against the pad of his thumb.

Ilia pulled back just enough to look at your face, a slow, wicked curiosity in his eyes.

“Still full?” He asked quietly.

Your cheeks warmed. “A little. Lena only took one side earlier.”

He made a soft sound of interest and reached behind you to unhook the bra. The cups fell away, and the cool air kissed your bare skin for only a second before his hands were there, lifting the soft, full weight of your breasts, thumbs brushing over the already-peaked nipples. A thin bead of milk appeared at the tip of the left one almost immediately.

Ilia stared at it for a long moment, then leaned down and dragged the flat of his tongue across the nipple, catching the drop. The taste made him hum low in his throat. He sealed his mouth over you and sucked—not gently this time.

Your head tipped back against the couch cushion with a sharp inhale. The strong pull sent a jolt straight down between your legs. Milk flooded his mouth in a warm rush, and he swallowed, then sucked harder, cheeks hollowing, drawing more from you with steady, rhythmic pulls. His free hand kneaded the other breast, fingers pressing and rolling until a second thin stream of milk leaked down over his knuckles.

He switched sides without warning, latching onto the right nipple with the same hungry pressure. The suction was firm, almost rough, the kind that made your toes curl and your hips shift restlessly in his lap. Every strong draw pulled another wave of milk free, and Ilia drank it down like he had all the time in the world, tongue working against the sensitive tip while his lips stayed sealed tight.

When he finally released you with a soft wet sound, a thin trail of milk clung to his lower lip. He licked it away slowly, eyes glinting with pure mischief as he looked up at you.

“Milk does the body good,” he said, deadpan and completely unrepentant, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Building strong bones. Important for recovery.”

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh that turned into a soft moan when he immediately ducked back down and sucked hard on the left nipple again, drawing another heavy mouthful. He swallowed audibly, then murmured against your skin, still playing the smart-ass, “See? Already feeling better.”

He kept going, long minutes of it, alternating breasts, sucking until each one felt lighter and more sensitive, until your nipples ached in the best way and your shorts were thoroughly soaked. Milk ran freely now, coating his lips and chin, dripping onto the soft skin of your stomach.

One hand slid down between your legs, finding the damp heat through your sleep shorts, and he pressed two fingers against you through the fabric while he continued to nurse from you with that same deliberate, greedy pressure. Your hips rolled into his hand. The dual sensation—the strong suction at your breast and the firm pressure between your thighs—made your thighs tremble.

Only when you were panting and restless did he finally ease off, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to the damp curves of your breasts before looking up at you with dark, satisfied eyes. A faint sheen of milk still glossed his mouth.

“Still explorative?” You managed, voice unsteady.

Ilia’s mouth curved into that same smart-shit grin. He wiped a streak of milk from the corner of his lips with his thumb, then offered it to you. When you closed your lips around it and tasted yourself on his skin, his eyes went even darker.

“Just getting started,” he said quietly, and leaned in to kiss you again—slow, deep, and tasting of milk and heat—while his hands returned to your still-leaking breasts and began to play once more.

motionlessxgirl

how do we feel about...a quickie (however you spell it) backstage during stars on ice practice? Like reader and ilia have been teasing each other all day and one of them snaps.

Also your writing has been distracting me from the Instagram stories as well 😅

I LOVE quickies

Stars On Ice

Warning: Smut, mdni, dirty talk

Ilia x fem!reader

The ice was still humming under the lights when practice finally breaks. Stars on Ice is in that mid-tour stretch where everyone’s a little frayed—skates clacking, coaches barking last notes, the arena half-empty and echoing. You’ve been circling each other all day. Lingering looks across the boards. A hand that stayed too long on your lower back when he guided you through a quick run-through. The way he kept “accidentally” brushing the inside of your thigh when he helped you lace up after the second session.

You’re both still in practice clothes—Ilia in black compression pants and a thin long-sleeve that clings to every line of him, you in your usual black tights and cropped hoodie. The rest of the cast is filtering toward the tunnel for water and notes. Ilia doesn’t follow.

He catches your wrist the second you’re both behind the heavy black curtain that separates the ice from the backstage corridor. The fabric is thick enough to muffle the arena noise, leaving only the low thump of distant music and the faint smell of ice and sweat.

His voice is rough when he leans in, mouth against your ear. “You’ve been doing that on purpose.”

You don’t get the chance to play innocent. His free hand is already sliding under the hem of your hoodie, palm flat and hot against the bare skin of your stomach. He walks you backward until your shoulders hit the cool concrete wall, the curtain brushing the side of your face.

“All day,” he mutters, kissing the hinge of your jaw. “Looking at me like that. Letting your hand drift lower every time you fixed my collar.” His thigh slots between yours, pressing up, and the friction makes your breath hitch. “You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the boards in front of everyone.”

You tip your head back, giving him the line of your throat. “Maybe I wanted you to.”

That’s what does it.

Ilia makes a low, frustrated sound and kisses you hard—open-mouthed, a little desperate, the kind of kiss that says he’s been holding himself back for hours. His hands are already shoving your tights and underwear down just far enough. The cool air hits your skin for half a second before his fingers are between your legs, finding you already wet from the teasing.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. “You’ve been like this all practice?”

You nod, rolling your hips into his hand. He works two fingers into you without preamble, curling them just right, thumb circling. The angle is tight, rushed, perfect. You’re both breathing hard, trying to stay quiet while the rest of the cast is only a curtain and a short hallway away.

Ilia pulls his hand free only long enough to shove his own pants down. He’s hard, flushed, already leaking. He doesn’t bother with more teasing. He hitches one of your legs up around his hip, lines up, and sinks into you in one smooth, deep thrust that punches the air out of both of you.

Your head drops back against the wall with a soft thud. His forehead presses to yours. For a second he just stays buried, breathing through his nose, adjusting to the tight heat of you.

Then he starts moving.

It’s not soft. It’s the kind of quick, sharp rhythm that comes from hours of tension finally snapping. Short, deep strokes that keep him almost fully inside you the whole time. The wet sound of it is quiet but unmistakable in the narrow space. His hand covers your mouth when a soft moan slips out, eyes locked on yours, dark and intense.

“Quiet,” he whispers, voice strained. “Unless you want them to hear how wet you are for me.”

You bite the heel of his palm instead, and he groans softly, hips snapping harder. The wall is cool against your back; his body is burning hot against your front. Every thrust drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re already close—have been for most of the day—and the risk of it, the hurried secrecy, only winds you tighter.

Ilia’s rhythm stutters. He drops his hand from your mouth to grip your thigh harder, keeping you open for him. “Come on,” he murmurs against your lips. “I’ve been thinking about this since warm-up. Give it to me.”

You do—quiet, shaking, clenching hard around him as the orgasm rolls through you in sharp waves. He follows almost immediately, burying his face in the side of your neck to muffle the low, broken sound he makes as he spills deep inside you, hips jerking through it.

For a few seconds neither of you moves. Just the sound of your breathing, the distant arena noise, the faint drip of melting ice somewhere nearby.

Ilia presses a softer kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another to your temple. He carefully lowers your leg and eases out of you, already reaching to tug your tights back up with surprising gentleness for how rough the last few minutes were.

“We’re not done talking about how much you were teasing me,” he says quietly, voice still rough. But there’s a small, satisfied smile pulling at his mouth as he fixes his own clothes. “Later. When we don’t have to be quiet.”

He smooths your hoodie down, then leans in one more time, lips brushing your ear.

“And next time you look at me like that on the ice… I am not waiting until we’re behind a curtain.”

He steps back just as someone calls his name from farther down the hallway. The curtain sways. Ilia gives you one last lingering look—heated, possessive, already promising more—before he slips back toward the ice like nothing happened.

You’re left against the wall, legs still a little unsteady, the evidence of him warm between your thighs, heart pounding harder than any run-through you’ve done all day.

motionlessxgirl

Could you write something where maybe the reader is in a meeting (working from home) and ilia is under the desk teasing her the whole time (dom ilia smut pls)

He is such a little shit

Zoom

Warning: Dom!Ilia, smut, mdni, oral f receiving

Ilia x fem!reader

The Zoom meeting window glowed on your laptop screen, six faces in neat little boxes, your boss mid-sentence about Q3 projections. You sat at the desk in the home office, hair pulled back, blouse buttoned just high enough to look professional, camera angled carefully so nothing below your collarbones showed.

You felt the shift of air under the desk a second before his hands settled on your bare knees.

Ilia.

He’d been quiet as a shadow when he slipped into the room twenty minutes ago, closing the door with that soft, deliberate click that always meant trouble. You shot him a warning look. He’d only smiled—slow, dark, the kind of smile that never meant anything good—and dropped to his knees.

Now those big, warm hands slid higher, pushing the soft fabric of your skirt up your thighs inch by inch.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the desk. You kept your face carefully neutral as your boss asked a question about the revised timeline.

“Y/N? Any thoughts on that?”

“I—” Your voice came out steadier than expected. “I think we can hit the original date if we cut the secondary review cycle. The data’s clean enough.”

Under the desk, Ilia’s mouth brushed the inside of your knee. A soft, open-mouthed kiss. Then another, higher.

You swallowed.

His hands kept moving, slow and proprietary, until the skirt was bunched around your hips and the cool air of the room kissed the thin lace of your underwear. He made a low sound of approval—quiet enough that the mic wouldn’t catch it—and hooked two fingers under the waistband.

Your breath hitched.

You unmuted yourself only when you had to speak again, answering another question with a calm you didn’t feel. The second you muted, Ilia tugged.

The lace slid down your thighs, over your knees, and disappeared somewhere under the desk. You were bare now, completely exposed, and the knowledge of it made your pulse hammer between your legs.

Ilia didn’t rush. He never did when he was like this—quiet, focused, in complete control. He simply settled between your spread thighs like he belonged there, one hand wrapping around your left ankle to keep you open, the other stroking slow circles along the soft skin of your inner thigh.

Then his mouth was on you.

A single, deliberate lick through your folds, slow enough that you felt every millimeter of his tongue. Your hips jerked. You bit the inside of your cheek hard and forced your eyes back to the screen.

Someone was talking about budget reallocations. You nodded along like you were listening.

Ilia’s tongue found your clit and stayed there, circling with maddening patience. Not enough pressure to push you over. Just enough to make you wetter by the second, enough that you could already feel yourself starting to drip on the chair.

You reached under the desk with one hand, fingers finding his hair, trying to guide him, to make him go harder.

His free hand shot up and caught your wrist. He pinned it against your own thigh without ever lifting his mouth, a silent, iron command: stay still.

Your stomach fluttered.

He licked you open with long, filthy strokes, then sealed his mouth over you and sucked—gentle at first, then harder. The wet sounds were soft but unmistakable in the quiet of the room. You prayed the laptop mic wasn’t sensitive enough to pick up.

“Y/N, you’re on mute,” your boss said.

You unmuted with a slightly shaky hand. “Sorry—yes. I agree with the phased rollout. We can absorb the first hit in marketing without touching headcount.”

The second you muted again, Ilia pushed two thick fingers inside you in one smooth thrust.

A tiny, broken sound escaped before you could stop it. You covered it with a cough, cheeks burning.

He curled those fingers and found the spot that always made your thighs shake, rubbing firm and steady while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles. Your free hand gripped the edge of the desk hard enough that your knuckles went white.

He was edging you on purpose. Every time your breathing got too sharp, every time your hips started to roll against his face, he backed off—lighter licks, slower fingers, just enough to keep you hovering right on the edge without letting you fall.

Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The meeting dragged on and on and he never stopped. He just kept you there, dripping and aching and completely at his mercy, while you had to keep answering questions in a professional voice that grew thinner by the minute.

When the final agenda item finally wrapped and people started saying their goodbyes, you were trembling. Your thighs were slick. Your clit throbbed so hard it hurt. You could feel how swollen you were against his tongue.

The second the last person left the call and the Zoom window closed, you slammed the laptop shut.

Ilia didn’t give you a second to breathe.

He surged up from under the desk, spinning the chair so you faced him fully, and dragged you to the edge of the seat. One big hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back. The other shoved your blouse up, yanking the cups of your bra down so your breasts spilled free.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “You stayed so quiet for me. Look at this pretty pussy—soaked just from having my mouth on it while you pretended to be all professional.”

He kissed you hard, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, then pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Hands on the armrests. Don’t move them.”

You obeyed instantly. The order sank straight into your bones.

Ilia shoved his sweatpants down just far enough to free his cock—already thick and hard and leaking at the tip. He didn’t tease any more. He lined himself up and pushed into you in one long, relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

Your head fell back against the chair with a broken moan.

He fucked you like he’d been holding back the entire meeting—deep, hard strokes that made the chair creak and your breasts bounce with every snap of his hips. One hand stayed fisted in your hair; the other gripped your thigh hard enough to bruise, keeping you spread wide for him.

“This is what happens when you try to work from home and think I won’t take what’s mine,” he growled against your mouth. “You’re going to come on my cock right here at this desk, and then you’re going to thank me for it.”

He changed the angle, grinding against your clit on every thrust, and the orgasm that had been building for almost half an hour finally ripped through you. You cried out, legs shaking, pussy clenching hard around him as you came.

Ilia didn’t slow down. He fucked you straight through it, chasing his own release with short, brutal strokes until he buried himself deep and came with a low, guttural groan, pulsing hot inside you.

For a long moment the only sound in the room was your breathing.

He stayed buried in you, forehead resting against yours, one hand still tangled in your hair—gentler now, stroking.

“Next time you schedule a meeting,” he murmured, voice softer but still dark with satisfaction, “you’re going to sit at this desk knowing exactly what I’m going to do to you under it.”

You laughed weakly, still trembling, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Promise?”

motionlessxgirl

Sitting in godawful DC traffic rn…got me thinking ab sucking ilia off while he’s driving…

This pic was TOO good to not use come onnn😂😂😭🥵

I-495

Warning: Smut, mdni, blowjob

The beltway was a parking lot. Red brake lights stretched as far as the eye could see under the dull gray DC sky, and the only sound was the low idle of engines and the occasional frustrated honk.

Ilia had one hand draped over the top of the steering wheel, the other resting on your thigh, thumb stroking absently. He’d been quiet for the last ten minutes, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the cars ahead and the GPS that kept cheerfully estimating another forty-seven minutes.

You shifted in the passenger seat, turning toward him. His eyes dropped to you for half a second before going back to the road.

“Don’t,” he warned, already reading the look on your face. His voice was low. “We’re in the middle of traffic.”

You didn’t answer. Just reached over, unbuckled your seatbelt, and leaned across the center console. Your hand settled on his thigh, then higher, until your palm pressed against the growing hard line of his cock through his jeans.

Ilia’s breath left him in a sharp exhale. “Y/N—”

You popped the button open. The zipper hissed down. He was already half-hard, thick and warm when you wrapped your fingers around him and pulled him free. The second your hand closed around the bare skin he cursed under his breath, hips shifting once against the seat.

You bent lower.

The first slow drag of your tongue up the underside made his whole body go rigid. His free hand left the wheel and landed heavily on the back of your head, not pushing yet, keeping still. You licked again, slower, then took the head into your mouth and sucked gently, tasting the salt of him already.

“Fuck,” he muttered. The car inched forward. He had to let go of your hair to shift into drive again, then immediately put his hand back, fingers sliding into your hair. “We’re going to get pulled over.”

You didn’t care. You took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, tongue working the underside while your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach. Every time the traffic stopped he groaned quietly, the sound almost swallowed by the low music playing through the speakers. Every time it started moving again his thighs tensed under your cheek and his grip in your hair tightened like he was trying to keep control.

You pulled off just long enough to look up at him. His eyes were now dark, fixed on the road, but his lips were parted and there was a flush high on his cheekbones.

“You’re so hard,” you murmured against the wet tip, then took him back in, slower this time, letting him feel every inch.

Ilia’s hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust. “You’re going to make me crash.”

You hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his fingers flex hard in your hair. The next time the cars stopped completely you went all the way down, nose brushing the soft hair at the base of him, throat working. His breath punched out of him like he’d been hit.

“Jesus—Y/N—”

You stayed there, swallowing around him, until his hand started trembling against your head. Only then did you ease back, sucking hard on the way up, and do it again. And again. The wet sounds filled the quiet car. Outside, people sat in their own vehicles scrolling their phones, completely unaware that the man next to them was fighting not to come with your mouth wrapped around his cock in the middle of fucking I-495.

His voice had gone rough. “I’m close. Baby, I’m—fuck, I’m close.”

You didn’t stop. You sped up instead, one hand stroking the base while you worked the head with tight, wet pulls of your lips. His breathing turned ragged. The hand in your hair finally pushed, holding you down as his hips jerked once, twice—

He came with a broken, quiet sound, flooding your mouth while the cars around you started moving again. You swallowed everything, slow and thorough, until he was twitching and oversensitive. Only then did you ease off, give the tip one last soft kiss, and sit back up, wiping the corner of your mouth with your thumb, putting him back into the confinements of his jeans.

Ilia was still gripping the wheel with both hands now, chest rising and falling hard. He glanced at you once, eyes dark and a little wrecked, then looked back at the road like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“…You’re evil,” he said roughly.

You just smiled, rebuckled your seatbelt, and settled back against the seat like nothing had happened.

Traffic started moving a little faster.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

motionlessxgirl

How about reader and ilia doing „something“ over the phone bc he is at a competition far away and she misses him? 👀

Call Me

Warning: Smut, fingering, dirty talk, mdni

Ilia x fem!reader

The hotel room in Beijing was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner and the distant city noise bleeding through the thick glass. Ilia sat on the edge of the bed in a loose black shirt and sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower after the short program. His phone was propped against a water bottle on the nightstand, FaceTime already connected, waiting.

You answered on the second ring, curled sideways on the couch in your shared Virginia house wearing an old hoodie drowning you. The living room lights were low. Your hair was messy from the long day of work and the empty space beside you in bed later.

“Hey,” you said, voice soft.

Ilia’s face filled the screen. The sharp line of his jaw, the faint dark circles under his eyes from jet lag and early morning ice, the small, tired smile that still managed to look like it belonged only to you.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was lower than usual, rough from the cold rink air. “Miss you.”

“I miss you too.” You shifted, pulling the hoodie tighter. “How was it?”

“Clean. Quad Axel, clean triple Axel. Second after the short.” He shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes stayed on you. “Doesn’t matter much when you’re not here.”

You smiled, small and aching. “I’m proud of you.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds, comfortable but heavy. He watched you the way he always did when the distance started to get under his skin—like he was cataloguing every detail so he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were soft and missing him.

“What are you wearing under that hoodie?” He asked eventually, voice casual, but the way his gaze dropped told you it wasn’t casual at all.

You glanced down. “Just a tank and underwear. It’s late.”

“Show me.”

Your stomach fluttered. You sat up a little, angling the phone so he could see the soft black tank stretched over your chest, the hem of the oversized hoodie riding high on your thighs. His eyes darkened immediately.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Take the hoodie off.”

You hesitated only a second, then pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. The tank was thin. He could see the outline of your nipples already tightening under the fabric.

“Good girl.” His voice had dropped another register. “Now the tank.”

You peeled it off slowly, letting him watch. The cool air of the living room kissed your skin. You were left in nothing but a pair of plain black boyshorts. Ilia’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.

“Jesus, look at you.” He shifted on the bed, adjusting himself without trying to hide it. “Been thinking about you all day. Every time I landed something I wanted to call you just to hear your voice. Then I got back here and all I could think about was how you sound when you’re close.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. “Ilia…”

“Touch your tits for me.” It wasn’t a request. “Slow. Like I’m the one doing it.”

You brought both hands up, cupping yourself, thumbs brushing over your nipples. A soft breath left you. On the screen, Ilia’s hand drifted down to rest over the obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

“Harder,” he said. “Pinch them. I know how you like it.”

You obeyed, rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers until the ache sharpened into something hotter. Your hips shifted restlessly against the couch cushion.

“Fuck, that’s it.” His breathing had changed. “Are you wet already?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

You slid one hand down your stomach and under the waistband of your boyshorts. Your fingers slipped through slick heat. You lifted them into the camera so he could see the shine.

Ilia let out a low, rough sound. “Christ. Take the underwear off. Spread your legs for me.”

You hooked your thumbs in the sides and worked them down your legs, kicking them away. Then you opened your knees, angling the phone lower so he had a clear view of everything. The cool air made you shiver.

“Look at that pretty cunt,” he said, almost to himself. “Missed it so fucking bad.” His hand finally pushed into his sweatpants. You watched the movement of his wrist as he stroked himself slowly. “Put two fingers in. Nice and deep. I want to watch you fuck yourself like it’s my cock.”

You pushed two fingers inside, the stretch familiar and nowhere near enough. A quiet moan slipped out. Ilia’s eyes were locked on the screen, pupils blown.

“That’s it. Curl them. Find that spot you always push back against when I’m inside you.”

You did, and your hips jerked. The wet sound of your fingers moving in and out filled the quiet room. Ilia’s breathing grew heavier. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself—thick, hard, the head already flushed and wet. He stroked in time with your fingers.

“Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you whispered. “I need you. Miss the way you fill me up. Miss how heavy you feel on top of me.”

“Fuck.” His fist tightened. “I’d be so deep right now. Holding your legs open so you couldn’t close them even if you wanted to. Making you take every inch while I kissed that soft spot under your ear.”

Your fingers moved faster. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter.

“Add your thumb,” he ordered. “Rub your clit. Don’t be gentle.”

You pressed your thumb against the swollen bud and circled hard. A broken sound left your throat. Ilia’s hand sped up, the wet sound of him stroking himself audible now.

“Gonna come for me?” His voice was strained. “Gonna soak those fingers while I watch?”

“Yes—Ilia—”

“Do it. Let me hear you.”

The orgasm hit hard and sudden, rolling through you in waves. Your thighs shook. You kept working your fingers through it, gasping his name, watching him lose the last of his control on the other side of the world. His head tipped back, jaw tight, a low groan tearing out of him as he came hard across his stomach and fist.

For a long minute the only sound was both of you trying to catch your breath.

Ilia eventually looked back at the camera, eyes soft again, mouth curved in that private, wrecked little smile he only ever gave you.

“Miss you,” he said quietly. “So fucking much.”

You smiled, still floating, still aching for the real weight of him. “Miss you more. Come home soon.”

“Two more days,” he promised. “Then I’m not letting you out of bed for a week.”

motionlessxgirl

How about reader and ilia doing „something“ over the phone bc he is at a competition far away and she misses him? 👀

Call Me

Warning: Smut, fingering, dirty talk, mdni

Ilia x fem!reader

“Hey,” you said, voice soft.

“Hey, babe.” His voice was lower than usual, rough from the cold rink air. “Miss you.”

“I miss you too.” You shifted, pulling the hoodie tighter. “How was it?”

“Clean. Quad Axel, clean triple Axel. Second after the short.” He shrugged one shoulder, but his eyes stayed on you. “Doesn’t matter much when you’re not here.”

You smiled, small and aching. “I’m proud of you.”

“What are you wearing under that hoodie?” He asked eventually, voice casual, but the way his gaze dropped told you it wasn’t casual at all.

You glanced down. “Just a tank and underwear. It’s late.”

“Show me.”

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Take the hoodie off.”

You hesitated only a second, then pulled it over your head and tossed it aside. The tank was thin. He could see the outline of your nipples already tightening under the fabric.

“Good girl.” His voice had dropped another register. “Now the tank.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. “Ilia…”

“Touch your tits for me.” It wasn’t a request. “Slow. Like I’m the one doing it.”

You brought both hands up, cupping yourself, thumbs brushing over your nipples. A soft breath left you. On the screen, Ilia’s hand drifted down to rest over the obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

“Harder,” he said. “Pinch them. I know how you like it.”

You obeyed, rolling the sensitive peaks between your fingers until the ache sharpened into something hotter. Your hips shifted restlessly against the couch cushion.

“Fuck, that’s it.” His breathing had changed. “Are you wet already?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

You slid one hand down your stomach and under the waistband of your boyshorts. Your fingers slipped through slick heat. You lifted them into the camera so he could see the shine.

Ilia let out a low, rough sound. “Christ. Take the underwear off. Spread your legs for me.”

You pushed two fingers inside, the stretch familiar and nowhere near enough. A quiet moan slipped out. Ilia’s eyes were locked on the screen, pupils blown.

“That’s it. Curl them. Find that spot you always push back against when I’m inside you.”

“Talk to me,” he said. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” you whispered. “I need you. Miss the way you fill me up. Miss how heavy you feel on top of me.”

Your fingers moved faster. The tension in your stomach coiled tighter.

“Add your thumb,” he ordered. “Rub your clit. Don’t be gentle.”

You pressed your thumb against the swollen bud and circled hard. A broken sound left your throat. Ilia’s hand sped up, the wet sound of him stroking himself audible now.

“Gonna come for me?” His voice was strained. “Gonna soak those fingers while I watch?”

“Yes—Ilia—”

“Do it. Let me hear you.”

For a long minute the only sound was both of you trying to catch your breath.

Ilia eventually looked back at the camera, eyes soft again, mouth curved in that private, wrecked little smile he only ever gave you.

“Miss you,” he said quietly. “So fucking much.”

You smiled, still floating, still aching for the real weight of him. “Miss you more. Come home soon.”

“Two more days,” he promised. “Then I’m not letting you out of bed for a week.”

motionlessxgirl

Idk if ur taking requests/take requests but could you do one where reader is a figure skater aswell and she has a disastrous performance and is crushed about it later and complaining to ilia and he fucks the sadness away

Support

Warning: Smut, mdni

Ilia x fem!figureskater reader

You step off the ice with legs that feel like lead, the roar of the crowd a distant, mocking hum in your ears. The lights of the arena blur through the sting of unshed tears as you make your way to the kiss-and-cry. Your program was supposed to be your comeback—clean triple Axel, solid jumps, that intricate footwork sequence you’d drilled for weeks. Instead, it was a nightmare: a popped Salchow that turned into a fall, a shaky landing on the Lutz that cost you precious points, and a final spin that felt more like spinning out of control than artistry. The scores flash up on the screen—far below what you needed. Personal best? More like personal disaster.

You force a smile for the cameras, mumble something polite to the interviewer about “learning experiences,” but inside, you’re crumbling. By the time you reach the locker room and change into sweats, the weight of it all crashes down. This was your shot. Nationals. Eyes on the next Olympics cycle. And you blew it.

Ilia finds you in the quiet hallway outside the athletes’ area, his hoodie pulled low, that familiar concerned furrow between his brows. He’s fresh from his own practice earlier, still smelling faintly of the ice and his cologne—clean, sharp, like cedar and citrus. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls you into his arms, right there against the wall where anyone could walk by. His body is warm, solid, the kind of strength that always makes you feel small and safe at the same time.

“Baby,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice low and Russian-accented in that way that always hits you deep. “I saw. Talk to me.”

The words spill out in a rush—how your edge caught wrong on the takeoff, how the nerves got the better of you after that first mistake, how it felt like every hour in Oberstdorf, every early morning session, every bruise and blister had been for nothing. You’re crying now, hot tears soaking into his chest as you clutch his shirt. “I fucked it up, Ilia. I’m supposed to be better than this. What if I’m not cut out for this anymore?”

He listens, really listens, his hands stroking down your back in slow, soothing circles. Then he tilts your chin up, his blue eyes intense and steady. “Hey. One program doesn’t define you. You’re the strongest skater I know—the one who pushes me every damn day on the ice. This? This is just ice. Temporary. You’re forever.” His thumb brushes away a tear. “Let me take care of you tonight. No more thinking. Just us.”

You nod, letting him lead you out of the arena and back to the hotel. The elevator ride is silent, his hand firm on your lower back. The second the door to your room clicks shut, the air shifts. Ilia cups your face and kisses you—soft at first, tender, like he’s pouring all that reassurance into you. But it deepens quickly, hungry, his tongue sliding against yours as he backs you toward the bed.

“Strip for me,” he says quietly, voice rough. “I want to see all of you.”

You peel off your sweats and top, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel—not just physically, but raw from the failure still clinging to your skin. Ilia watches, shedding his own clothes until he’s bare, his body a masterpiece of lean muscle from years of quads and triples, cock already half-hard and thickening under your gaze. He pulls you down onto the bed, covering you with his weight, and kisses along your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at the spot that always makes you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he whispers against your collarbone, hands roaming—cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they’re tight peaks. “Every part of you. The skater who falls, the one who gets back up… all of it.” His mouth follows, hot and wet, tongue flicking over one nipple while his fingers dip between your thighs, finding you already slick. He groans softly. “So wet for me already. My sweet, beautiful girl.”

You arch into him, the complaints and self-doubt fading under his touch. He works you open slowly at first—two fingers thrusting deep, curling just right against that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes. His thumb presses circles on your clit, steady and relentless. “Let it go, baby. All that shit from the rink. Feel me instead.”

When you’re trembling on the edge, he pulls back, positioning himself between your legs. His cock nudges at your entrance, thick and hot, and he locks eyes with you as he pushes in—inch by inch, stretching you perfectly. “Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight. Mine.”

He starts slow, intimate thrusts that grind deep, his hips rolling in that precise way he moves on the ice—controlled power. You wrap your legs around him, nails digging into his back as he hits that perfect angle again and again. The sadness cracks open, replaced by heat, by the sound of his low grunts and the slap of skin on skin.

But Ilia knows you need more tonight. He flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up so you’re ass-up, face buried in the pillows. His hand comes down in a firm smack on your ass—sharp, stinging just enough to jolt you—and then he’s slamming back in, harder now, one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“This is what you need, isn’t it?” he growls, pounding into you with deep, punishing strokes. “To forget. To feel me fucking the doubt right out of you.” Every thrust drives the failure further away—the missed jumps, the low scores, all of it dissolving in the wet sound of him claiming you completely. He reaches around to rub your clit, relentless, until you’re crying out, clenching around him.

“Come for me,” he demands, voice strained. “Right now. Let go.”

The orgasm crashes through you like a perfect program—waves of pleasure that make your toes curl, your body shaking as you soak his length. Ilia follows right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, spilling hot inside you as he collapses over your back, kissing your shoulder, your neck, murmuring praises in Russian and English.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, he rolls you both to the side, still connected, his arms wrapped tight around you. His hand strokes your hair, your arm, anywhere he can reach—tender again, the roughness melting into care. “You did good out there, even if it didn’t feel like it. And tomorrow? We train. We fix it. Together.”

You nestle back against his chest, the exhaustion and release leaving you boneless and warm. The disaster on the ice feels distant now, softened by the steady beat of his heart and the way he holds you like you’re his greatest prize. Ilia presses a kiss to your temple. “I love you. All of you—the quad attempts, the falls, the fire. Always.”

motionlessxgirl

Sooo… could you please write wrote an Ilia Malinin smut?

Basically he and reader had been together for three years and now they really want a baby, so yeah, could write about that.

Also, if you add like the pregnancy test moment where they find out she’s pregnant.

Thank you!

Coming Soon: Future Skater

Warning: Heavy smut, creampie, mdni, pregnancy

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Three years with Ilia had flown by in a whirlwind of triple Axels, late-night training sessions, and the kind of love that felt both exhilarating and grounding. He was your everything—the quad god who melted into a tender, teasing partner the second he walked through the door. Lately, though, the conversations had shifted. No more “someday.” You both wanted a baby. Now.

Tonight was different. Ilia had come home from practice with that focused glint in his eyes, the one he usually reserved for competitions. He’d pulled you into his arms the moment he saw you, kissing you slow and deep like he was already imagining the future.

“You sure about this?” he murmured against your lips, his hands sliding under your shirt to trace the curve of your waist. His voice was low, that slight Russian accent thickening with want. “Because once we start… I’m not holding back.”

“I’m sure,” you whispered, tugging at the hem of his hoodie. “I want this with you. A little one with your eyes and my stubbornness.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest as he lifted you effortlessly onto the bed. “Then let’s make a baby, solnyshko.”

Clothes disappeared in a heated rush—his hoodie, your leggings, his compression shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle earned from years on the ice. Ilia hovered over you, his body heat enveloping you as he kissed down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always made you arch. His hands were everywhere: cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peaked, then drifting lower to part your thighs.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet for me,” he groaned, sliding two fingers through your folds and pressing them inside with practiced ease. You gasped, hips bucking as he curled them just right, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his free hand pinning your hip down. “Gonna fill you up tonight. Keep you full until it takes.”

You moaned his name, fingers threading through his hair as he worked you open, adding a third finger and scissoring gently. The stretch was perfect, building that deep ache. When he finally withdrew, he brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting you with a filthy groan that made your core clench.

Ilia positioned himself between your legs, his cock heavy and leaking against your thigh. He was thick, veined, the head flushed dark—he rubbed it along your slit, teasing your clit until you were whimpering.

“Please, Ilia… inside.”

He pushed in slow at first, inch by inch, letting you feel every ridge as he stretched you open. “So tight… always so perfect for me.” Once seated fully, he stilled, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Love you. So much.”

Then he started moving. Deep, rolling thrusts that hit every sensitive spot, his hips grinding against your clit on every downstroke. You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back as he picked up pace. The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mixing with skin-on-skin and your mingled moans.

“Harder,” you begged, nails raking down his back.

Ilia growled, flipping you onto your hands and knees without pulling out briefly. He gripped your hips and drove back in deeper from behind, the new angle making you cry out. One hand reached around to rub tight circles on your clit while the other tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back.

“That’s it, baby. Take it. Gonna pump you so full.” His thrusts grew punishing, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing. You pushed back to meet him, lost in the rhythm, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter.

He leaned over you, chest to your back, biting at your shoulder as his hand sped up on your clit. “Come for me. Want to feel you milking my cock when I fill you.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard—walls fluttering, then clamping down around him as pleasure ripped through you. Ilia followed right after, burying himself deep with a guttural moan, hips stuttering as he spilled hot and thick inside you. He stayed there, pulsing, grinding lazily to push every drop deeper.

You collapsed together, him pulling you into his chest, still buried inside. Gentle kisses rained on your temple, your neck. “Round two in a bit,” he whispered with a lazy smile. “Gotta make sure it sticks.”

A couple weeks later, the morning arrives when the test is supposed to be taken.

You’re both up early. Ilia pretends he’s only making coffee, but you catch him glancing toward the bathroom every thirty seconds. You close the door, follow the instructions with hands that refuse to stay steady, and set the stick on the counter.

Three minutes has never felt so long.

When you open the door again Ilia is right there, leaning against the wall like he hasn’t moved. His eyes search your face.

You hold the test out between you.

Two lines.

Clear. Unmistakable.

For a second neither of you speaks. Then Ilia’s breath leaves him in a rough, disbelieving sound. He takes the test carefully, stares at it, and looks back at you like the world just tilted.

“You’re—” His voice cracks. He swallows. “We’re—”

You nod, throat tight.

Ilia sets the test down with exaggerated care, then pulls you in so hard you almost lose your balance. His arms lock around you, face buried in your neck, and you feel him shaking—tiny, almost invisible tremors.

“Holy shit,” he whispers against your skin. “Holy shit.”

You laugh, watery and helpless, and hold him tighter. His hand slides down to rest over your stomach, palm warm and protective, like he’s already guarding something neither of you can see yet.

“Three years,” he murmurs. “And now this.”

You tip your head back just enough to see his face. His eyes are bright, soft, a little wild.

“Yeah,” you say. “Now this.”

Ilia kisses you—slow, deep, tasting like coffee and pure relief—then rests his forehead against yours again.

“I’m going to be so annoying,” he warns, already smiling. “You’re going to get so tired of me asking if you’ve eaten.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going to talk to it. Constantly. Even when it’s the size of a blueberry.”

“I know.”

He kisses you once more, gentler this time, and his hand never leaves your stomach.

“We’re going to be so good at this,” he whispers.

You believe him.

motionlessxgirl

My one request is more dom ilia smut pls and thanks 🫶💕

You ask. You receive.

Night Out

Warning: Dom!Ilia, heavy smut, fingering, edging

Ilia x fem!reader

The bass from the sponsor’s private club still throbbed in your bones as you stepped out into the humid night. The event had been for one of Ilia’s biggest equipment deals—an exclusive after-party with executives, other skaters, and too many people who thought they owned a piece of him. You smiled through every handshake. Ilia kept a hand on the small of your back the entire time, fingers pressing just a little too hard whenever someone lingered too close to you.

Your argument started in the VIP lounge, quiet enough that no one else heard, sharp enough that it still cut.

“You didn’t have to laugh like that when he asked if I was ‘the one who keeps you grounded,’” Ilia had said, voice low and cold against your ear. “You didn’t have to let him touch your arm either.”

“He was being polite,” you snapped back. “And you were the one who disappeared for twenty minutes with the marketing team and left me standing there like decoration.”

He looked at you then—really looked—and something mean and hungry had settled behind his eyes. “Decoration. Is that what you think you are tonight?”

You both didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Not in the car. Not in the elevator. Not when the hotel door clicked shut behind you and the city noise finally died.

Ilia walked past you without a word, shrugging out of his jacket. The rings on his fingers caught the low light—thick silver bands, one with a dark stone, another etched with something Cyrillic. He never took them off for events like this. You watched him roll his sleeves up to his elbows, the metal flashing every time he moved.

“Take the dress off.”

Your pulse kicked. “Ilia—”

“I didn’t ask.” His voice was quiet, almost bored. “Take it off. Now.”

You reached back and unzipped. The black dress slid down your body and pooled at your feet. You stood there in the lace bra and panties he’d chosen for you earlier, heart hammering. He didn’t look impressed. He just pointed at the bed.

“On your knees. Facing the headboard. Hands on the mattress.”

You climbed up. The second you settled, he was behind you, one knee on the bed, the cool metal of his rings dragging slowly up the back of your thigh. He hooked two fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down to your knees, leaving them there like a restraint.

“You spent the whole night performing for strangers,” he said, almost conversational. “Smiling. Letting them look at what’s mine. Letting them think they could touch.” His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to sting. “And now you’re going to sit here and take what I give you until I decide you’ve earned an orgasm. Understand?”

“Yes,” you whispered.

He leaned over you, chest to your back, and one hand slid around your throat—not tight yet, just resting there, the rings cool against your warmed skin. His other hand reached between your legs and stroked through your already slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“Already wet,” he murmured. “Of course you are. You get off on making me jealous.” Two fingers pushed inside you without warning, curling. “Don’t you?”

You tried to rock back onto his hand. He stopped moving completely.

“I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I get off on it.”

He hummed, low and mean, and started fucking you with those two fingers in long, deep strokes. The rings on his hand brushed your clit every time he pulled out. You were already shaking when he suddenly stopped again, fingers still buried inside you.

“Don’t you dare come.”

You whimpered. He pulled his fingers out, wiped them across your lower lip, then pushed them into your mouth.

“Clean them.”

You sucked as Ilia watched you for a moment, then withdrew and shoved you forward so your chest hit the mattress, ass still high. The sound of his belt was loud in the quiet room. Fabric rustling. Then the blunt head of his cock dragged through your wetness, once, twice, teasing.

He didn’t give you the tip. He just kept sliding back and forth, coating himself, the metal of his rings pressing into the soft flesh of your hip where he held you steady.

“Beg.”

“Please—”

“Not good enough.” He tapped the head against your clit, light and cruel. “Beg like you mean it.”

“Please, Ilia, please fuck me— I need it, please—”

He pushed in halfway and stopped. The stretch made you moan, but he only gave you that much, holding your hips in an iron grip so you couldn’t take more.

“You think you deserve the rest after the way you acted tonight?” His voice was soft and vicious. “After you let that bastard’s hand linger on your arm like he had any right?”

You tried to push back. He held you still and pulled almost all the way out.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you gasped. “I don’t— please just—”

He slammed the rest of the way in on one hard thrust. The force knocked the air from your lungs. His rings dug into your hip as he started fucking you in deep, punishing strokes, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

Every time you started to climb, he slowed. When your thighs trembled and your moans got high and desperate, he stopped completely, buried to the hilt, and waited until the edge faded. Then he started again—harder, meaner.

The third time he edged you, you were almost sobbing into the sheets. He reached around, gathered a mouthful of spit, and let it drip onto the small of your back before smearing it down between your cheeks with his thumb.

“Look at you,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction. “Shaking. Dripping. Still not allowed to come.” His hand slid up your spine and closed lightly around your throat again, the rings cool and heavy against your pulse. He squeezed just enough to make your vision spark at the edges while he kept fucking you in short, brutal thrusts.

“You’re going to stay right on that edge until I say otherwise. And if you come without permission, I’ll put you on your knees and use that pretty mouth until you cry. Clear?”

“Yes— fuck— yes, Ilia—”

He spat again, this time onto the side of your face, then used two fingers to smear it across your cheek and into your open mouth. The dominance of it made you clench hard around him. He growled and tightened the hand on your throat just a fraction more.

“Greedy little thing. You love it when I’m mean to you.”

He edged you two more times after that—once with his cock buried deep and his fingers circling your clit so slowly it was torture, once with you flipped onto your back so he could watch your face while he fucked you in shallow, controlled strokes and denied you every time your eyes started to roll.

When he finally decided you’d had enough, he yanked you to the edge of the bed, shoved your knees up, and drove in hard. One hand stayed wrapped lightly around your throat. The other pinned both your wrists above your head, the metal of his rings pressing into your skin.

“Come,” he ordered, voice low and dark. “Come on my cock right fucking now.”

You shattered with a broken cry, pulsing hard around him. He fucked you through it without slowing, chasing his own release, and when he came it was with a rough groan and his forehead pressed to yours, still holding your throat, still mean even in the aftershocks.

He didn’t pull out right away. He stayed buried deep, breathing hard, thumb stroking once over the marks his rings had left on your wrist.

“Next time you decide to test me in front of sponsors,” he murmured against your mouth, “remember how this felt.”

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motionlessxgirl

welcome back goat all i request is ilia malinin smut thank u

Bad Day

Warning: Contains smut, mdni, domination, spitting

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Ilia slammed the front door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the house like a slap. His practice had been absolute garbage—quads that felt heavy and under-rotated, a fall on a simple triple Axel that shouldn’t have happened, and his Dad’s disappointed silence cutting deeper than any yell. His body ached, his ego was bruised, and all he wanted was to punch something or disappear. Instead, he kicked off his shoes, leaving them scattered in the entryway, and stalked toward the kitchen.

You were there, earbuds in, humming along to some playlist as you wiped down the counters. You wore one of your old shirts and tiny sleep shorts, your hair pulled up in a messy bun. The sight of you usually melted his mood instantly, but today the frustration just coiled tighter in his chest.

You glanced up, pulling out an earbud. “Hey, how was— whoa. That face. Practice sucked, huh?”

“Understatement,” Ilia muttered, yanking open the fridge for a water bottle. He twisted the cap off too aggressively, water sloshing over his hand. “Felt like I was skating on fucking concrete. Everything off. Dad didn’t even have to say it—I know I looked like shit out there.”

You set the cloth down, leaning against the counter with that knowing little smirk you got when you were about to poke at him. “Poor baby. Did the ice bite back today? Or was it the quad Axel throwing a tantrum again?”

He shot over a glare, but there was heat under the pissiness. “Don’t start with me. Not in the mood.”

“Oh, come on,” you teased, stepping closer, your voice lilting with that bitterness that always got under his skin. “You’re the Quad God, right? One bad session and you’re stomping around like a toddler who dropped his ice cream. Want me to kiss it better, or should I just let you brood in peace?”

That did it. The banter snapped something inside him—the mix of the sass and the way you looked at him like you could handle whatever storm he brought home. Ilia crossed the space between you in two strides, grabbed you by the waist, and crushed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle. His lips claimed yours roughly, tongue pushing in without asking, tasting the faint sweetness of whatever tea you’d been drinking. You gasped into the kiss, hands flying up to grip his shoulders, but you melted fast, kissing him back just as hard. He could feel you smile against his mouth for half a second before it turned hungry.

“Fuck your mood,” he growled against your lips, biting your lower one. “You’re gonna fix it.”

Before you could sass back, he bent down, hooked his hands under your thighs, and lifted you clean off the floor. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, a surprised laugh breaking free that turned into a moan when he ground his already-hard cock against your core through your clothes.

“Ilia—bedroom?” You breathed, but he was already moving, carrying you down the hall like you weighed nothing. His hands dug into your ass, fingers bruising as he kneaded your flesh.

“Yeah. Bedroom. Now.”

He kicked the door open, crossed to the bed, and tossed you onto it. You bounced once, hair coming loose from your bun, cheeks flushed. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes dark with want, but that teasing spark still there. “Bossy today. Rough practice really got you worked up, huh?”

“Shut up.” Ilia yanked his hoodie off, shirt following, revealing the lean, muscled torso you never got tired of. His sweatpants were next, cock springing free—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip. He crawled over you, caging you in, and ripped your shorts down your legs in one rough tug, shirt shoved up to expose your breasts.

No preamble. He gripped your jaw hard, thumb pressing into your cheek as he forced your mouth open. “You talk too much when I’m like this. Open.”

Your eyes flashed with heat, but you obeyed, tongue out just a little. Ilia leaned over you and spat directly into your mouth, watching it land on your tongue. “Good girl. Swallow.”

You did, with a filthy little moan that made his cock twitch. “Fuck..”

He didn’t let you finish. Shifting up, he straddled your chest, knees pinning your arms lightly to the bed. One hand fisted your hair, the other guided his cock to your lips. “Take it. All of it.”

He pushed in without waiting, sliding over your tongue until he hit the back of your throat. You gagged, eyes watering instantly, but your hands came up to grip his thighs, pulling him deeper instead of pushing away. That was his girl—always ready for him, even when he was mean about it.

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, hips snapping forward in short, brutal thrusts. Face-fucking you hard, the wet sounds of your throat obscene in the quiet room. Spit dripped down your chin, tears streaking your cheeks, but you kept your eyes on his, that mix of submission and challenge driving him insane. “Look at you. Such a dirty little girl for me when I’m pissed. Choking on my cock like it’s gonna fix my practice.”

He pulled out just enough for you to gasp a breath, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his glistening shaft, then drove back in deeper, holding your head still so he could grind against the tight heat of your throat. Your muffled moans vibrated around him, your hips squirming uselessly beneath him, thighs pressing together for friction.

Ilia reached back with one hand, shoving your legs apart and plunging two fingers into your soaked heat without warning. You cried out around his cock, the sound garbled and perfect. “So fucking wet already. You love it when I use you like this, don’t you?”

He fucked your face in a steady, punishing rhythm, fingers curling inside you, thumb rubbing your clit roughly. Every thrust made you gag and drool more, your breasts bouncing with the force. When he felt your throat fluttering around him, close to the edge yourself from just his fingers, he pulled out completely, strings of spit breaking across your flushed face.

“Not yet.” He gripped your face again, fingers digging into your cheeks as he leaned down, spitting into your open, panting mouth once more. “Swallow. Then I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

You swallowed obediently, voice hoarse when you spoke. “Then do it, Quad God. Stop talking and wreck me.”

That snapped the last of his control. Ilia flipped you onto your stomach, yanking your hips up so your ass was in the air, face pressed into the mattress. He lined up and slammed into you in one brutal thrust, bottoming out with a groan. No slow build—just raw, deep pounding, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy.

“Fuck— so tight,” he snarled, one hand fisting your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass hard enough to leave a red print. He set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward like he was trying to punish the ice through your body. Every thrust dragged against that spot inside you that made you scream even louder.

You pushed back against him, moaning his name in those broken cries he loved. “Ilia— harder— yes—”

He reached around, gripping your throat lightly from behind, pulling you up so your back was against his chest. His other hand stayed on your hip, fingers bruising as he railed you. “You’re mine. Say it.”

“Yours— fuck, I’m yours,” you gasped, voice raw from the face-fucking.

He turned your head just enough to crash his mouth to yours again, messy and biting, then pulled back and spat onto your tongue once more while still buried deep inside you. You clenched around him at the degradation, coming hard with a shuddering cry, pussy pulsing and gushing around his cock.

But Ilia didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, flipping you onto your back again so he could watch your face—mascara smudged, lips swollen, spit and his earlier mess still shining on your chin. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your jaw again as he kept thrusting, slower now but deeper, grinding against your clit with every stroke.

“Look at me,” he demanded. When your hazy eyes met his, he spat into your mouth a final time. “Swallow. Then cum again. I want to feel it.”

You did, and the combination sent you over the edge once more, body shaking beneath him. Only then did Ilia let go, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside you with a loud and guttural groan, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

You both collapsed together, sweaty and wrecked. Ilia stayed inside you for a long moment, forehead pressed to yours, the pissy mood finally bleeding out. “Sorry I was an asshole earlier,” he mumbled, kissing you softly now, almost tender.

You laughed breathlessly, running fingers through his damp hair. “Don’t be. I like you like this sometimes. Means I get the rough Quad God instead of the broody one.”

He chuckled, nuzzling your neck. “Yeah? Round two in the shower after I make you something to eat?”

“Only if you promise to be that dominating again.”

“Deal.”

motionlessxgirl

Could you maybe do a fic of ilia and reader were so in love in till he started focusing on skating more. And so they break up. But then she finds out she pregnant and hides it from him because she doesn’t want to give up on figure skating. And so she has the baby. And then maybe she runs into his mom and Liza at the store and the clearly see the baby. And his mom was always really close with reader so she agrees to keep it a secret. But Liza later that night accidentally lets it slip to ilia. And then you can run with the ending I’ll be happy with anything! Also I love your work!

Thank you so much for the kind words.

Hidden

Ilia Malinin x femskater!reader

Thank you so much for the kind words.

The rink lights had always felt like home to you—cold, bright, unforgiving, but honest. That was where you’d first fallen for Ilia Malinin. He was a force of nature on the ice, throwing quads like they were warm-ups, his focus laser-sharp even then. But off the ice? He was yours. Laughing into your neck after late practices, stealing kisses in the parking lot, promising forever between whispered dreams of Olympic golds and shared futures. You’d both been rising stars in the skating world, training partners turned lovers, the kind of couple everyone whispered about with envy.

Until the focus shifted. His skating became everything. Triple Axels turned into Quad Axels, then attempts at history-making combinations. Sponsorships, media, endless travel. Dates turned into quick texts. Nights together became “I need to visualize the jump again.” You tried to support him—God, you did—but the distance carved a canyon between you. Arguments grew sharper, his exhaustion making him snap, your hurt making you withdraw. One rain-soaked night outside the rink, it ended.

“I can’t keep coming second, Ilia,” you’d said, voice breaking. “I love you, but I have my own career too.”

He hadn’t fought as hard as you’d hoped. “Maybe this is what we both need right now.”

The breakup shattered you. Weeks blurred into months of throwing yourself into training, landing your own jumps cleaner, pushing for that elusive senior-level breakthrough. Then the nausea hit. The missed period. Two pink lines on a test in your bathroom, hands shaking.

Pregnant. With Ilia’s baby.

Fear crashed over you. Telling him meant derailing everything—his Olympic push, your own skating dreams. You’d fought so hard to get here; you couldn’t give it up, not yet. Not when single motherhood on the competition circuit already felt impossible. You made your choice in silence. Hid the bump under loose hoodies and strategic layering. Skated through the first trimester with gritted teeth, adjusted your programs as the second brought fatigue and careful balance. Your coach thought it was stress. You powered through, landed jumps that felt heavier every day, and told yourself it was worth it.

The baby came in the quiet off-season: a perfect little girl you named Hazel. Light hair like her father’s, eyes that already held that Malinin spark. You managed with help from your family, training lightly when you could, dreaming of a comeback. Motherhood softened you in ways you hadn’t expected—late nights rocking her, whispering skating stories like lullabies—but the ache for Ilia never left. You followed his results from afar, heart swelling with pride even as it broke again.

****

Months passed. Hazel was six months old now, chubby-cheeked and curious, bundled in a carrier against your chest as you navigated the grocery store aisles in your quiet suburb. You’d moved closer to family for support after the birth, keeping your head down and your social media skating-focused but baby-free. The last thing you expected was the familiar voice behind you in the baby aisle.

“Oh my goodness…”

You froze, turning slowly. There stood Ilia’s mom, Tatiana, and his sister Liza, both staring at the carrier with wide eyes. Hazel cooed softly, waving a tiny fist.

Tatiana’s hand flew to her mouth. She’d always been like a second mom to you—warm, encouraging, the one who’d teased you about future grandkids with a wink during family dinners. The recognition hit her instantly.

“Is that…?” Her voice was soft, eyes glistening as she stepped closer, gently touching Hazel’s cheek. “She looks just like him.”

Liza stood beside her, phone halfway out of her pocket, face cycling through shock, confusion, and something like hurt. “Wait, this is… yours? And Ilia’s?”

You swallowed hard, glancing around the empty aisle. “Please. I can explain, but not here. I didn’t want to… I couldn’t pull him away from skating. Not when he was finally getting everything he wanted.”

Tatiana’s expression softened with understanding—and that deep, maternal love that had always included you. She pulled you into a careful hug, mindful of the baby. “Sweetheart, I wish you’d told us. But I see you. You’re doing this on your own while still chasing the ice? That’s strength.” She glanced at Hazel again, her voice dropping. “I won’t say a word. Not until you’re ready. This stays between us.”

Liza nodded quickly, though her eyes darted. “Yeah. Of course. Wow… she’s so beautiful.”

You exchanged numbers again, promised a quiet coffee soon, and left with your heart pounding. For the first time in months, the secret felt a little less heavy.

***

Ilia’s POV

The house was quiet after practice, the kind of silence that used to drive me crazy before her. I’d thrown myself harder into skating after the breakup—quads cleaner, programs sharper—but the wins felt hollow. Gold medals didn’t fill the space where she used to curl against me, laughing about silly rink gossip or planning ridiculous future dates. I missed her fire on the ice, her steady presence off it. Every time I landed a jump, part of me wondered if she’d seen it.

Liza burst through the door that night like a whirlwind, still buzzing from whatever errand she and Mom had run. “Ilia, you will not believe what happened at the store—”

I looked up from reviewing video on my laptop, eyebrow raised. “What, did they have those protein bars you like on sale again?”

She waved me off, pacing. “No, listen. We saw her. Your ex. And she had a baby. A little girl. Like, six months old? Totally looked like a mini-you. Mom talked to her and everything. She said not to tell you yet, but—”

The words hit like a fall on cold ice. “What?”

Liza’s face paled as she realized. “I wasn’t supposed to— Mom promised to keep quiet because she hid it and everything, but the baby… Ilia, she looks like you.”

My stomach dropped. The room spun. I was on my feet before I could think, heart hammering harder than after a full long program. Pregnant. Alone. Skating through it? Hiding our child because I’d been too buried in my own world to fight for us?

I grabbed my keys. “Where?”

Liza gave the address reluctantly, texting Mom in a panic behind me. The drive was a blur—regret, anger at myself, fierce love I’d never fully let go crashing together. How had I let it get this far? I’d chosen the ice over the one person who made everything make sense. Never again.

You were halfway through bedtime routine, Hazel drowsy in your arms after a bath, when the knock came. Firm. Urgent. Your heart stuttered as you peeked through the peephole.

Ilia.

He looked wrecked—hair messy from running fingers through it, eyes red-rimmed, still in practice sweats. You opened the door slowly, shifting Hazel protectively.

“Ilia…”

He stepped inside without waiting, gaze locking on the baby. On his daughter. The air thickened. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, raw. “I would’ve been there. For both of you. God, I thought losing you was the worst part, but this…”

Tears welled as you explained—the fear, the timing, your need to keep skating, the love that never stopped even when it hurt. He listened, then crossed the room in two strides, pulling you both into his arms. Hazel stirred, blinking up at him curiously. He touched her cheek with trembling fingers, awe breaking across his face.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered. “Like her mom.”

The kiss he pressed to your forehead was soft, reverent. Then deeper when you leaned in, months of missing crashing together. “I’m done putting skating first,” he murmured against your hair. “Not if it means missing this. Let me in. We’ll figure out the ice together—both of you. Family first.”

That night, after Hazel was down, you talked for hours. He held you through the tears, shared his own regrets, the empty victories.

In the weeks that followed, Ilia showed up. Helping with night feeds between his training, adjusting his schedule to watch Hazel while you hit the ice. Tatiana and Liza became your village, the secret blooming into open support. Your skating returned stronger, fueled by a fuller heart; Ilia’s programs gained new depth, dedicated in quiet ways to his girls.

The Quad God had always chased perfection on the ice. Now, he was building it at home—messy, real, and yours. Hazel’s first steps came on the edge of the rink one day, both of you there to catch her. Forever, this time.

motionlessxgirl

Do you accept Requests?

Can you do an Ilia x reader fic where they dislike eachother then end up having sex?

But they dont fall in love or anything. They sleep together as stress relief or a coping mechanism so its a lil unhealthy but even tho they hate eachother and don't tend to get on they cant deny the other is hot and they wouldn't say no to sleeping together

Enemies on Edge

Warning: Heavy smut, mdni

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

The practice rink was emptying out, the last of the coaches and skaters trickling toward the locker rooms. You lingered by the boards, arms crossed, clipboard in hand—media relations coordinator for the event, not that anyone here gave a damn about your actual job. Ilia Malinin was still on the ice, carving out one last run of his quad Axel like the arrogant prick he was, sweat darkening his practice shirt, hair sticking to his forehead. He looked infuriatingly good doing it. Always did.

You hated how your eyes tracked him anyway.

He’d been a thorn in your side since the tour started. Snide comments during pressers, blowing off scheduled interviews, that cocky smirk when you had to chase him down. “Busy,” he’d say, like your time meant nothing. You gave it right back—sharp words, eye rolls, zero tolerance for his diva bullshit. The tension had been simmering for weeks. Mutual dislike, pure and simple.

Tonight it boiled over.

He skated off the ice, blades scraping, and nearly collided with you as he stepped through the gap in the boards. “Watch it,” he muttered, voice low and edged.

“Watch it yourself, hotshot. Some of us have actual work to do instead of stroking our egos on the ice all night.”

Ilia’s gaze flicked over you—slow, deliberate. Your fitted top, the way your skirt hugged your hips from all the running around after these athletes. He didn’t hide the heat in it. “You always this much of a bitch, or just to me?”

You stepped closer, chin up. “Only to guys who act like the world owes them a medal and a blowjob.”

Something flashed in his eyes—anger, yes, but also that undeniable spark. He was hot. Tall, lean-muscled from years of explosive power, sharp jaw, those intense eyes. You hated admitting it, even to yourself. And from the way his stare dropped to your mouth, he felt the same unwilling pull.

“Fuck this,” he growled. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, and he yanked you toward the dimly lit corridor leading to the unused storage area behind the rink. No cameras. No people. Just the distant hum of the Zamboni and the heavy scent of cold air and exertion.

You could’ve pulled away. But you didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind you. Ilia spun you against the wall, caging you in with his body. “You drive me insane,” he said, breath hot against your ear. “Always in my face, acting like you’re better than this.”

“Back at you,” you shot back, but your hands were already fisting his damp shirt, pulling him closer. Your mouths crashed together—angry, messy, all teeth and no tenderness. Tongues sliding, biting. He tasted like salt and frustration. You moaned into it despite yourself, and he swallowed the sound like he owned it.

His hands were rough, shoving your skirt up your thighs, palming your ass hard enough to bruise. “This what you want? Stress relief from hating my guts?” He ground his hips forward, letting you feel how hard he already was through his practice pants. Thick, insistent. “Say it.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you hissed, nipping his bottom lip. No feelings. No softness. Just bodies and the raw need to burn off the constant irritation.

Ilia laughed darkly, low in his throat. “That’s what I thought.”

He didn’t waste time. Your panties were shoved aside; his fingers found you slick already—traitorous body—and he groaned at the feel of it. Two thick fingers pushed inside without warning, curling deep, stroking that spot that made your knees buckle. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, hips rocking against his hand.

“Greedy,” he muttered, thumb circling your clit with ruthless precision. “Hate me but you’re dripping for it.”

“Same for you,” you gasped, palming the hard line of his cock through the fabric. He was big—thicker than you’d imagined in those fleeting, annoyed fantasies. You squeezed, and he thrust into your hand with a curse in Russian.

Clothes were half-ripped off in the scramble. Your top pushed up, bra yanked down so he could suck a nipple into his mouth, teeth grazing. His pants shoved low enough to free his cock—flush, veined, the head already glistening. He spun you around, bending you over a stack of old mats, your hands bracing the wall.

No condom talk. You were on birth control; he knew the drill from the tour’s medical checks. This was raw, stupid, perfect for what it was.

Ilia kicked your legs wider and thrust in with one brutal stroke, bottoming out so deep you saw stars. “Fuck—tight,” he grunted, gripping your hips hard. He didn’t ease you into it. He fucked you like he competed—explosive, relentless, chasing the high. Long, punishing strokes that slapped skin against skin, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room.

You pushed back to meet him, moaning despite the hate still burning in your chest. Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you. “Come on. Let it out. Hate me while you come on my cock.”

“Asshole,” you panted, but your walls were already fluttering. The angle, the roughness, the sheer wrongness of it—it hit hard. Your orgasm crashed over you suddenly, thighs shaking, a broken cry escaping as you clenched around him.

Ilia cursed, pace faltering for a second before he doubled down, fucking you through it. Deeper. Harder. “Good girl—fuck, just like that.” His free hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite the junction of your neck and shoulder. Marking. Claiming in the only way that fit this toxic pull.

He pulled out abruptly, flipping you to face him. Lifted one of your legs high around his waist and slammed back in, eyes locked on yours. The new angle made you whimper—too deep, too much, perfect. His thrusts grew erratic, sweat dripping from his brow onto your chest.

“Gonna come,” he growled. “Where?”

“Inside,” you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. “Do it.”

Ilia buried himself to the hilt with a low groan, hips stuttering as he spilled deep, pulsing hot inside you. You milked him through it, riding the aftershocks, both of you breathing ragged.

For a long moment, the only sound was panting. He stayed buried in you, forehead pressed to yours—not tender, just exhausted. Then he pulled out slowly, cum slicking your thighs. You both fixed your clothes in silence, the dislike still thick in the air, maybe even sharper now.

Ilia zipped up, running a hand through his messy hair. “This doesn’t change anything. Still think you’re a pain in the ass.”

You straightened your skirt, legs shaky, core aching in the best-worst way. “Mutual. But… if the stress builds up again…”

His smirk was back, lazy and satisfied. “Yeah. I won’t say no.”

He left first, slipping out the door without a backward glance. You waited a minute, then followed, the secret ache between your legs a filthy reminder. No feelings. No future. Just this—ugly, addictive relief whenever the hate got too loud to ignore.

The rink lights flickered off in the distance. Tour life went on. And you both knew it wouldn’t be the last time.

motionlessxgirl

Do you write smut? If so….

Would love a bangin piece about ilia’s athlete stamina. Like he is just on go and will hold you up against a wall for hours and it’s just like good? :)

Stamina

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Ilia had just come off the ice from a grueling private session—quads clean, landings sharp, that signature explosive power still humming through every muscle like live current. The rink was empty except for the two of you now, the cool air thick with the scent of fresh ice and his sweat. You watched from the boards, cheeks flushed under your beanie, your own practice leggings clinging to your thighs. You’d been teasing him all afternoon with little glances and that bratty lilt in your voice: “Quad God… you think you can keep up with me later?”

He didn’t answer with words. The second the doors clicked shut behind the last staff member, Ilia crossed the distance in three strides, scooped you up like you weighed nothing, and pinned your back against the padded wall of the hallway leading to the locker rooms. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, ankles locking at the small of his back.

“Ilia—fuck—” you gasped, but he swallowed it with a deep, hungry kiss, tongue stroking yours like he was still chasing that perfect rhythm on the ice.

“You wanted stamina talk, hm?” His voice was low, rough, breath hot against your ear as he ground his hips forward. He was already rock-hard, the thick outline of his cock pressing insistently through his compression pants against your core. “Figure skaters don’t gas out. We train for four-minute programs that feel like war. Quads. Explosive power. And right now? I’m just getting started.”

He shoved your leggings and panties down in one rough tug, not even bothering to strip fully. His own pants got yanked low enough to free his cock—thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip from the adrenaline. One hand gripped your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, while the other braced against the wall beside your head. Then he thrust up into you in a single, relentless stroke, burying himself to the hilt.

You cried out, nails raking down his shoulders through his damp shirt. The stretch was perfect—almost too much, the way he filled you completely, pressing right against that spot that made your vision spark. “Uggh, you’re so deep like this…”

Ilia didn’t give you time to adjust. He started moving—deep, powerful rolls of his hips that lifted you higher up the wall with every thrust. No shallow bullshit. Full, punishing strokes that made your breasts bounce under your bra and your breath hitch into broken moans. His quads and glutes—those insane athlete muscles built from years of explosive jumps—did all the work, holding your entire weight like it was nothing. Sweat slicked his forehead, hair sticking to it, but his rhythm never faltered.

Minutes passed. Five. Ten. He fucked you like a machine, steady and brutal, the wet slap of skin echoing down the empty hallway. Every time you clenched around him, thighs trembling, he’d just growl and adjust his grip—spreading you wider, angling deeper. “That’s it, baby. Take it. I could do this for hours. Hold you right here until you’re dripping down my thighs and begging.”

Your head fell back against the wall with a thud, eyes glassy. You were already close, the angle hitting everything perfectly, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every upstroke. “Ilia—harder—”

He gave it to you. One arm hooked under your knee, spreading you obscenely as he pounded up into you. His free hand slipped between you, thumb circling your swollen clit with merciless precision while his cock drove in and out, glistening with your arousal. You came hard the first time—shaking, clenching around him like a vice, a sharp curse word spilling from your lips—but he didn’t stop. Didn’t even slow.

“First one,” he panted against your neck, biting down just hard enough to mark you. “Give me another.”

He shifted you higher, changing the angle so he dragged against your front wall with every thrust. The stamina was unreal—his breathing controlled like he was mid-program, heart rate steady, those powerful legs never shaking. Sweat poured down his back, muscles burning in the best way, but Ilia thrived in the burn. He’d trained through worse. This? This was a reward.

You came again, louder this time, soaking his cock and the front of his pants. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging hard as you sobbed his name. Still, he kept going—long, dragging strokes now, savoring the way you fluttered and pulsed around him. He kissed you through it, messy and tender at the same time, murmuring praise between thrusts. “So fucking perfect for me. My strong girl. Look at you, taking everything I give…”

Twenty minutes in and he finally let himself chase it. He pinned you completely, chest to chest, hips snapping up in short, devastating thrusts that hit so deep you swore you felt him in your stomach. “Gonna fill you up, honey Right here against the wall like you deserve.”

With a loud groan, Ilia came hard—cock pulsing thick ropes deep inside you, hips grinding through every wave until he was spent. But even then, he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried, holding you suspended, kissing you slow and deep while your hearts hammered together.

“See?” he murmured, lips brushing yours, a cocky little smirk breaking through the haze. “Athlete stamina. We’re not done yet. Locker room next. Then the car. Then home, where I’m bending you over the kitchen counter until sunrise.”

You laughed breathlessly, thighs still quivering around him. “Quad God never quits, huh?”

He kissed you again, already half-hard inside you again, ready for round two. Because for Ilia Malinin, the program was never truly over until he’d given everything—and then some.

jaeyundazed

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

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

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

𝔀ord count: 14.6k

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

•18+ Adults Only

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jaeyundazed

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

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

༄⋆₊❅.⛸️𓂃.˚৻ꪆ

the logistics of head mid-stars on ice

jaeyundazed

ilia malinin — stifle: wrap me in your success

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

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

𝔀ord count: 2.7k

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

── tags below the cut .ᐟ

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