You Are Something But Not Nothing

This is my Ilia Malinin account. Everything Ilia Fill in my ask box

[motionlessxgirl]

Masterlist 2

💦- Smut 🤍- Fluff 🔥- Angst

Main Masterlist

The QuadCats🤍

Start Over🔥🤍

Favorite🤍

An Open Door🤍 Part Two🤍

Mercy💦

Dream A Little Dream💦

Call Me💦

Update🤍

Safe🤍💦

Blended Family🤍

Casual Dominance🤍

Head💦

Helpless💦

Caught💦

69💦

Warm Up💦

Do Not Disturb💦

Like A Virgin🤍💦

Offsides🔥💦

Needy💦

Night In💦

Day Off🤍

Here With You🤍

Tiny Surprise🤍 Part Two🤍

Closer🤍

Yours🤍

Careful🤍

Surprise, Love🤍

Handsy🤍

Stay🤍

Labor of Love🤍

Landing Issues🤍

Friday the 13th🤍

Final Lights🤍

Breed💦

[motionlessxgirl]

Yeah I can totally see ilia having a breeding kink now 🤤🤰🏼

You might think I'm crazy

The way I've been cravin'

If I put it quite plainly

Just gimme them babies

😂😂😂

[motionlessxgirl]

me: no i don’t have a breeding kind wym

you: *drops that*

me:

me: i may need to reconsider

Come to me. Come to the dark side😈😈

[motionlessxgirl]

*awkwardly types this out and wishes it could be whispered*

Ilia has a breeding kink smut

*hides of shame as its not something I'm remotely interested in but im so morbidly curious to see what you'd come up with for a fic*

I can see it.

Breed

Warning: Smut, breeding kink, dirty talk, mdni

Ilia x fem!reader

The second the bedroom door slammed shut behind you, Ilia had you pinned against it. His hands were already under your shirt, rough palms dragging up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your tits like he owned every inch of skin he touched.

“You’ve been walking around all day looking like you’re begging for it,” he growled against your mouth, voice low and thick with that accent that always made your cunt clench. “Soft little belly, hips I can grab… you know exactly what you’re doing to me.”

You barely got a moan out before he yanked your shirt over your head and shoved your bra down, sucking one nipple into his mouth hard enough to make your back arch. His teeth scraped, tongue flicked, and the wet heat of it pulled a broken sound from your throat.

“Fuck—Ilia—”

“Yeah. Say my name while I fill you up.” He bit down just hard enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue. “I’m gonna pump you so full tonight you won’t be able to walk without feeling me leaking out of you. Gonna breed this pretty pussy until it takes.”

He spun you, marched you to the bed, and pushed you onto your back. Your pants and panties were dragged off in one impatient yank. He didn’t bother with his own clothes beyond shoving his shorts and boxers down enough to free his cock—thick, flushed dark, already dripping at the tip. He stroked it once, slow, eyes locked on the way your thighs fell open for him.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice rough with hunger. “Already wet and open. Perfect little breeding hole.” He rubbed the head of his cock up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick, then pushed in with one long, relentless thrust that forced a high, broken moan out of you.

“Ah—fuck—”

“That’s it. Take it.” He bottomed out and stayed there, grinding deep, letting you feel every thick inch stretching you open. “Gonna stay right here and breed you. Fill this cunt until it’s overflowing.”

He started moving—deep, hard strokes that slapped skin against skin. Every thrust punched a moan out of you. His hand came up to wrap lightly around your throat, not choking, just holding, thumb stroking the side of your neck while he fucked you like he was trying to plant something permanent.

“You feel that?” He panted, hips snapping harder. “That’s me getting ready to flood you. Gonna come so deep you’ll feel it in your stomach. Gonna keep you full and dripping for days.”

Your walls fluttered around him. The wet, filthy sound of him driving into you filled the room. He leaned down, mouth against your ear, voice dropping into that filthy register that always ruined you.

“Gonna breed you properly. Put a baby in this tight little cunt. Make you walk around with my cum leaking down your thighs so everyone knows who owns you.” His next thrust was brutal, grinding against your cervix. “You want that, don’t you? Want me to keep you pregnant and swollen and dripping my cum every night?”

“Yes—please—Ilia—” The words came out broken between moans.

“Then take it.” He fucked you harder, faster, the headboard knocking against the wall. One hand slid between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit. “Come on my cock while I fill you. Milk every drop out of me. I want to feel this pussy squeezing my cum out of me.”

Your orgasm hit hard—thighs shaking, cunt clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses as you cried out. The second you started coming he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, low and guttural, hips jerking as he pumped rope after thick rope of cum as deep as he could get.

“Fuck—take it—take all of it—” His voice was wrecked. He kept grinding through it, forcing every pulse of cum deeper, refusing to pull out even when the last spurt left him. “Stay full. Don’t you dare let any of it drip out yet.”

He stayed buried inside you, breathing hard against your neck, one hand stroking over your lower belly like he could already picture it rounding. When he finally spoke again his voice was quieter, but no less filthy.

“We’re not done. I’m gonna keep you like this all night. Every time I get hard again I’m putting more in you. Gonna breed this pussy until it has no choice but to take.”

He rolled his hips once, slow and deep, and you felt the warm wet mess of his cum shift inside you.

“Say it,” he murmured against your mouth. “Tell me you want me to keep filling you until it sticks.”

Your answer came out as a shaky, needy moan against his lips. “I say yes.”

[motionlessxgirl]

Oooo how was meeting the man the myth the legend

It was awesome! He thanked me for coming out. He liked my outfit and called me gorgeous-ness. He really takes the time to talk with his fans. He’s so down to Earth

[motionlessxgirl]

SHIT YOU MADE ME CRY IN FRONT OF MY FAMILY W THE CANCER THING AHHHHHHHHH AGONY

IM SORRY

If it makes you feel any better I cried in front of a celebrity today😂😂

[motionlessxgirl]

Hey hope you are well :)

Thanks for always taking my requests with an open heart. I know this might be a heavyly emotional angstyish request and it's completely fine if you don't accept to write it, I wanted to ask if it's possible for you to write one where Ilia is diagnosed with cancer and he wants to take a break from competing and skating to have the treatment and it's his last show before starting it all. He performs a contemporary program to a meaningful and emotional song (I'd like to see which song your imagination flows us into) and then he makes a speech about the whole situation while he is looking for but can't catch the reader in the audience. But after the speech when he wants to perform another programme, the song is not write, it's Thinking out loud by Ed sheeran or Medicine by Daughter and the reader, who just skates for fun, comes and asks for a dance, so they do it together like ice dance and a promise of forever and the rest is history.

Thanks again for being an amazing artist 🕊🌿

Thank you so much.

Final Lights

Warning: Mention of cancer, chemo

Ilia x fem!reader

The lights dimmed to a soft blue glow, the kind that made the ice look like a frozen lake under moonlight. The crowd was restless, a low murmur of confusion and concern. Word had already leaked—whispers in the press box, quiet conversations in the stands. Ilia Malinin was skating tonight. His last competition program before everything changed.

He stood at the edge of the boards in a simple black costume, no rhinestones, no flash. Just fabric that moved with him like a second skin. His hair was shorter than usual, already starting to thin at the temples from the early rounds of treatment they had begun in secret. The diagnosis had come six weeks ago. Stage II thyroid cancer. Treatable. Curable, the doctors kept saying. But the chemo would be brutal, and the recovery longer. He had told only a handful of people. His parents. His coaches. And you.

You sat three rows up, slightly off-center, wearing the soft gray hoodie he had stolen from you last week because it still smelled like your perfume. Your hands were clenched so tightly in your lap that your nails had left crescent marks in your palms. You had begged him not to skate tonight. He had kissed your forehead and said he needed one last time on the ice as himself—before the exhaustion, the nausea, the months of not being able to jump or spin or even stand without leaning on something.

The first notes of the music drifted out.

It was a quiet, aching contemporary piece—piano and strings, something that felt like a held breath. Lost Boy. Just music that rose and fell like a pulse. Ilia stepped onto the ice and the arena fell silent.

He didn’t open with power. He opened with stillness. Arms hanging loose, head bowed, as if the weight of the diagnosis sat on the back of his neck. Then he began to move—long, stretching lines, edges that carved soft curves into the ice. Every movement was deliberate, almost fragile. When he lifted one arm overhead, you could see the way his ribs expanded under the fabric, the careful way he conserved energy even as he gave everything.

He spun slowly, body folding in on itself, then unfolding again. A single spiral that held for an impossible length of time, free leg extended, head tipped back toward the lights. The crowd didn’t cheer. They watched. Some people were already crying.

Halfway through, he landed a triple Axel—clean, quiet, no arms thrown up in triumph. Just a soft landing and a continued glide, as if the jump had been only another step in a longer conversation he was having with the ice. His face never changed. Concentrated. Almost peaceful. Only when the music swelled did something crack open in his expression—grief and gratitude and fear all at once.

You felt it in your chest like a physical bruise.

When the final note faded, Ilia stood still in the center of the ice, breathing hard. The applause started slowly, then grew into something raw and sustained. People stood. Some shouted his name. He lifted his head and looked straight into the stands, eyes searching, searching—

Looking for you.

You were frozen. The lights were still dim. He couldn’t find you in the sea of faces. His gaze moved left, right, higher, lower. A small, almost invisible flinch crossed his features when he didn’t lock onto yours. He gave a small nod to the crowd anyway, raised one hand in quiet acknowledgment, and skated toward the boards where a microphone waited.

His voice, when he spoke, was steady but low.

“Thank you for being here tonight.” He paused, swallowing. “I need to tell you something before I leave the ice. A few weeks ago I was diagnosed with cancer. It’s treatable. The doctors are optimistic. But I need to step away for a while. Chemo starts next week. I’m going to take the time I need to fight this properly, and that means I won’t be competing—or even training the way I used to—for a while.”

A ripple of sound moved through the arena. Shock. Sympathy. A few soft gasps.

Ilia’s eyes kept scanning the seats as he continued. “I’m not asking for pity. I’m asking for patience. And I’m asking the people who love this sport to understand that sometimes the hardest thing an athlete can do is stop. I’m going to stop. Temporarily. So I can come back stronger. Or at least… come back.”

His voice caught for half a second. He looked again, more urgently now, searching the same section where you sat. Still not finding you. The lights had come up a little; the glare made it harder.

“I want to thank my family. My coaches. And…” He hesitated, the words clearly meant for someone specific. “And the person who has been sitting with me through every scan and every hard conversation. I don’t know if she can hear me right now. But I need her to know that this—” he gestured vaguely at the ice, at his body, at the whole impossible situation “—doesn’t change what I promised her. Nothing does.”

He lowered the microphone. The arena was so quiet you could hear the soft hiss of the ice resurfacer waiting in the tunnel.

Ilia skated a slow circle, then stopped near center ice again. He looked up toward the sound booth and gave a small signal. Another song began—something more familiar, the piece he had planned as an encore. But the moment the first notes of Medicine by Daughter hit, his face tightened. It was wrong. Too ordinary. It didn’t belong to this night.

He raised a hand. The music cut abruptly.

Silence again.

And then you were moving.

You didn’t think. You just stood, climbed over the people in your row with quiet apologies, and walked down the steps to the boards. A security guard started to step forward, but someone from Ilia’s team recognized you and waved him off. You stepped through the gate, quickly throwing on skates and stepped onto the ice.

Ilia turned at the sound.

When he saw you, something in his shoulders dropped—relief so visible it looked like pain. You glided carefully across the ice toward him. He met you halfway, gliding the last few meters, and when he reached you he didn’t speak. He just took your hands.

“I couldn’t find you,” he whispered, voice rough. “I kept looking and—”

“I’m here.” You squeezed his fingers. Your own voice was unsteady. “I’m right here.”

He closed his eyes for a second, forehead nearly touching yours. Around you the arena watched in complete stillness.

You looked up at him. “Dance with me.”

His brows drew together. “But it’s not rehearsed. And I—”

“I know.” You stepped closer, sliding one hand to the small of his back the way you had seen ice dancers do. “Just… move with me. Slow. Like we do at home when the music’s on and no one’s watching.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he nodded once, sharply, as if deciding something important.

Someone in the booth must have understood, because the song began—soft, almost private. A slow version of something the two of you had listened to a hundred times in the kitchen at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep. The kind of song that felt like a promise already kept.

Ilia guided you into a simple hold. Your skates made softer indents against the ice while his blades whispered. He kept the movements small, careful of your balance and of the fatigue already living in his bones. You followed. Step, glide, turn. His hand stayed warm and steady at your waist. Every so often his thumb stroked once across the fabric of your hoodie, as if reminding himself you were solid.

You weren’t skating the way professionals did. You were just two people moving together on ice that suddenly felt smaller and safer than the whole world outside. He spun you slowly under his arm. You came back into his chest. He rested his cheek against your temple for three long heartbeats while the music continued.

Somewhere in the stands people had started to cry openly. Cameras were still rolling, but neither of you looked at them.

When the song began to fade, Ilia stopped and framed your face with both hands. His eyes were bright.

“I’m going to get through this,” he said quietly, only for you. “And when I do, I’m coming back to the ice. But more than that—” his voice dropped even softer “—I’m coming back to you. Every day. For as long as you’ll have me.”

You covered his hands with yours. “I’m not going anywhere. Not for chemo. Not for the hard days. Not ever.”

He kissed you then—gentle, lingering, right there in the middle of the ice under the arena lights. Not a performance. A vow.

When he finally pulled back, he kept one arm around you and raised the other toward the crowd in a quiet wave of thanks. Then he guided you carefully toward the boards, still holding on, as if letting go even for the few steps off the ice would be too much.

Behind you the ice shone under the lights, empty now except for the twin trails of his blades and the faint scuff marks of your sneakers side by side.

A promise written in frost.

[motionlessxgirl]

i dont mind smut dont get me wrong- but what about fluff T^T

figure skater reader who was retiered and then came back to compete- kinda like alysa- she goes to the olympics- places second (we cant take the win away from baddie) maybe a segment where after the nightmare of the 13th she comforts him- but just their experince at the olympics <3

Friday the 13th

Warning: Fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

The Milano Ice Skating Arena still hummed with the residual energy of the free skate long after the final scores flashed across the boards. Confetti from the medal ceremony drifted in lazy spirals under the lights, but the air in the mixed zone and the quiet corridors beyond felt heavier, thicker with the kind of silence that follows something unexpected.

You had finished second.

Silver hung around your neck, cool and solid against the skin still warm from your own free skate. The program you had rebuilt after retirement—after the long months of deciding whether your body and heart still wanted this—had held. Not perfect. Never perfect. But enough. Enough to stand on the second step of the podium while the anthem of another country played and the crowd rose for the woman who had edged you out by less than two points. You had smiled through the ceremony. You had waved. You had felt the quiet, private satisfaction of knowing you had come back and belonged here again.

Ilia had not.

You found him in the small athletes’ lounge they had cleared for the American team after the individual event. Most people had already filtered out—coaches speaking in low voices, teammates offering careful, awkward congratulations on the team gold he still carried from earlier in the week. He sat on the edge of a training table in his Team USA jacket, still in the black performance costume from the free skate, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if the ice might still be under it.

He looked smaller somehow. The Quad God who had arrived in Milan carrying the weight of every expectation, who had led after the short program with that clean, almost arrogant 108, who had still managed to help the team take gold even when the free skate in the singles event hadn’t been his absolute best. Tonight the same ice had turned on him. Two falls. Jumps that never fully rotated. A program that had started with the possibility of gold and ended in eighth place on a Friday the 13th that already felt cursed.

You closed the door quietly behind you.

He didn’t look up right away. When he finally did, his eyes were red-rimmed but dry, the kind of dry that comes after someone has already forced the tears back down.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He let out a short, humorless breath. “Don’t. Please don’t say it was still a good Olympics or that the team gold counts or any of the other things people keep trying.”

You crossed the space between you and stopped in front of him. Close enough that your knees nearly brushed his. You didn’t reach for him yet. You just stood there, silver medal still against your chest, and let him see that you weren’t going to fill the silence with anything easy.

“I won’t,” you said. “It was a nightmare. You felt it the whole way through. I could see it from the boards.”

His throat worked. For a second he looked like he might argue, or deflect, or make some dry joke about Friday the 13th the way his agent had earlier. Instead his shoulders dropped.

“I had it,” he said, voice low and rough. “I had the lead. I felt ready. And then it was just… gone. Like someone flipped a switch and my body forgot how to do the one thing it’s supposed to know how to do.”

You stepped between his knees then, hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs brushed the high points of his cheeks, still flushed from the cold and the adrenaline crash. He leaned into the touch almost immediately, eyes closing for a brief second as if the contact itself was the first solid thing he’d felt since leaving the ice.

“I know,” you whispered. “I watched every second. I watched you fight for every landing after the first fall. I saw the way your hands came up to your face at the end. You didn’t give up. The night just took it from you anyway.”

He exhaled, long and shaky, and his forehead dropped against yours. The silver medal between you pressed into both of your chests, a quiet reminder of the different ways the same Games had written themselves across your bodies.

“You were so good,” he murmured. “Coming back the way you did. Standing up there with silver. I’m so proud of you it hurts, Y/N. And I can’t even feel it properly because everything else is so loud.”

Your fingers slid into his hair, still slightly damp at the temples. “Then let it be loud for a minute. You don’t have to perform the recovery yet. Not for me.”

He was quiet for a long time. The arena’s distant sounds filtered through the walls—staff moving equipment, a few lingering voices in Italian and English—but inside the small room it was just the two of you breathing the same air. Eventually his hands came up to rest at your waist, thumbs tracing small, absent circles against the fabric of your team jacket.

“I keep replaying it,” he admitted. “The quad Axel that never happened. The Lutz. The way the crowd went quiet. I could feel them waiting for me to pull it back together and I just… couldn’t.”

You pressed a soft kiss to the bridge of his nose, then another to the corner of his mouth. “Then we replay it together until it loses some of its teeth. And when you’re ready we go back to the village and order too much food and you can be as quiet or as angry or as empty as you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He finally lifted his head enough to look at you properly. There was still devastation in his eyes, the particular ache of a dream that had been so close it had already started to feel real. But there was also something steadier underneath it—the same quiet trust that had carried the two of you through every version of your life together.

“Second place looks good on you,” he said, almost smiling. The words were small, but they were real.

You touched the edge of the silver medal between you. “Eighth place doesn’t define you. Not even on the worst Friday the 13th in Olympic history. You’re still the skater who helped us win team gold. You’re still the one who made half the rink hold its breath every time you stepped on the ice. And you’re still mine.”

His arms tightened around you then, pulling you fully against him until you were standing between his legs with your cheek against his hair and his face pressed into the side of your neck. You felt the exact moment some of the rigid tension in his shoulders loosened. Not all of it. Not yet. But enough.

Outside, Milan kept moving toward the rest of the Games. Inside the quiet room, the two of you simply stayed like that—silver against the fabric of his jacket, the memory of a nightmare still fresh, and the steady, wordless comfort of knowing neither of you had to carry any of it alone.

[motionlessxgirl]

OOO I GOT ONE!!!

It’s silly n fluffy and a bit suggestive ig?

Ur at practice w Ilia and you’re landing your jumps funny because he fucked you too hard the night before and everyone’s like omg ru okay?? and ur like…Ilia ur dick was too good and he takes care of you/makes sure you don’t hurt yourself and gives you a massage and it’s just silly pretty please and thank you!

Hahaha😂

Landing Issues

Warning: Mention of sex

Ilia x fem!reader

You’re on the ice at the rink, trying to act like a professional athlete instead of someone whose legs still feel like overcooked spaghetti from last night’s activities. The morning session is supposed to be light technical work—just edge quality and a few jump combinations—but every time you dig into the ice for a takeoff your thighs protest like they’ve been personally victimized.

You set up for a triple Lutz. The entry feels fine. The takeoff feels… optimistic. You rotate, land, and immediately buckle sideways with a little whoop sound that is extremely undignified. Your free leg swings out wider than planned and you have to plant both hands on the ice for a second to keep from eating it completely.

A couple of the younger skaters glance over. One of the coaches raises an eyebrow.

“You good?” Someone calls.

You push yourself upright, face already heating. “Yep. Totally fine. Just… technical adjustments.”

Ilia is skating slow circles near the boards, watching you with that particular expression that means he’s already piecing things together. You attempt a triple flip next. Same problem. The landing is soft and weird and your right knee dips like it’s considering early retirement. You recover, but the recovery involves an awkward little hop-hop-slide that makes two people stop what they’re doing.

“Y/N?” Your coach asks, skating closer. “You landed that like you forgot how knees work.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. Then, because your brain-to-mouth filter is apparently still offline from last night, you turn toward Ilia and stage-whisper, loud enough for half the ice to hear:

“Ilia, your dick was too good.”

There is a beat of pure silence.

Then someone snorts. Someone else coughs into their glove. The junior who was practicing spins nearly falls over from laughing. Ilia’s ears go pink under his beanie, but the corner of his mouth is already twitching upward like he’s fighting a losing battle with a grin.

He skates over, completely unhurried, and stops right in front of you so the rest of the rink only sees his back.

“Technical adjustments, huh?” He murmurs, voice low and amused.

“Don’t you dare,” you hiss, but you’re already smiling despite yourself. “My hips are filing a formal complaint. My left hamstring is writing a strongly worded letter. I think my glutes are on strike.”

Ilia’s eyes flick down your body and back up, the look pure smug affection. “You were the one who said ‘harder’ approximately eleven times.”

“I was compromised,” you whisper. “You had me bent over the kitchen counter. There was strategic use of the counter edge. That is not fair.”

He hums, reaching out to steady your elbow as you try another tentative push of the blade. “Okay. New plan. No more jumps until I check the damage.”

“It’s practice—”

“It’s my practice partner looking like she’s about to fold in half every time she lands,” he corrects, already guiding you toward the boards. “Come on. Off the ice for five minutes.”

You let him steer you. The second your skates hit the rubber mats he crouches in front of you without ceremony, hands settling on your thighs like he’s assessing a jumper who just had a bad fall. His thumbs press carefully into the muscle above your knees, then higher, mapping the tenderness with clinical precision that is completely ruined by the tiny, satisfied smirk he can’t quite kill.

“Yeah,” he says, mostly to himself. “I did a number on you.”

“Understatement of the year.”

He stands, tugs you over to the bench against the wall, and sits you down like you’re made of something breakable. Then he drops to one knee again, peels your skate guards off, and starts working his thumbs into the tight line of your hip flexors right through the practice tights. It’s not even particularly sexual—just firm, knowing pressure that makes your eyes flutter shut for a second because god that exact spot has been aching since approximately 1 a.m.

“Breathe,” he says quietly. “You’re holding everything.”

“I’m holding you accountable,” you mutter, but you tip your head back against the wall and let him work. His hands move higher, digging into the places that still feel bruised in the best and worst way. Every so often he glances up to check your face, making sure the pressure is helping instead of making it worse.

From the ice, one of the coaches calls, “Everything okay over there?”

Ilia doesn’t even look away from your legs. “Just taking care of my partner. She overdid it last night.”

You nearly choke. “Ilia—”

He gives you the most innocent look known to mankind. “Training. Obviously.”

You kick his shin lightly with the side of your skate. He just grins wider and keeps massaging, fingers finding every sore spot with the kind of precision that only comes from having mapped your body thoroughly the night before. When he hits a particularly tender place on the inside of your thigh you make a tiny involuntary sound and he softens immediately, gentling the pressure until the muscle starts to release.

“Better?” He asks after a few minutes.

You nod, a little dazed. “You’re unfairly good at this.”

“I’m unfairly good at a lot of things that affect your jump landings,” he says, completely deadpan, and then stands, offering both hands to pull you up. “Come on. We’re doing edges and turns only for the rest of the session. If I see you so much as think about a triple I’m putting you on the bench.”

You let him haul you to your feet. Your legs still feel a little wobbly, but the sharpest of the ache has faded under his hands. As you step back onto the ice he stays close, one hand hovering near your lower back like he’s ready to catch you if the residual consequences of last night decide to reappear.

Halfway through a slow forward outside edge you catch him watching you with that soft, possessive little smile he gets when he’s both proud and a little smug about the state he left you in.

You lean in as you pass him and murmur, “Next time you’re the one who has to explain why you’re landing funny.”

Ilia’s laugh is quiet and warm. “Deal. But for the record?” He skates a small circle around you, eyes bright. “Worth it.”

[motionlessxgirl]

My feet are killing me but meeting Jamie Campbell Bower was totally worth it.

Ignore my ugly face BTW

[motionlessxgirl]

I know you’ve written a lot about ilia and reader expecting a baby, but what about when reader actually goes into labor and has to give birth? I feel like he would be the most supportive labor coach! And of course be so excited and cry when he sees the baby for the first time!

Labor of Love

Warning: Childbirth, pregnancy, fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

The first real contraction hit just after midnight, a deep, rolling wave that stole your breath and made you grip the edge of the mattress. You’d been having Braxton Hicks for weeks, but this was different—lower, stronger, impossible to breathe through the way the others had been. You reached for Ilia without thinking, fingers finding the warm skin of his back.

“Ilia,” you whispered, already a little shaky. “Babe… I think it’s time.”

He was awake instantly. Years of early-morning training had wired him that way. He rolled over, one hand already sliding over your swollen belly, the other cupping your cheek so he could see your face in the soft glow of the nightlight.

“How far apart?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the way his heart had already kicked up.

“I don’t know. That was the first real one. It just… felt different.”

He kissed your forehead, lingering, and then he was out of bed, flipping on the lamp and pulling on sweatpants. Within minutes he had the hospital bag by the door, your phone charger, a water bottle filled, and the contraction timer app open. He never once looked panicked. He looked focused the way he did before a clean program—steady, present, completely yours.

The next contraction came twelve minutes later. Then ten. Then eight. By the time they were consistently five minutes apart and lasting over a minute, the sky outside was just beginning to lighten. Ilia helped you into the passenger seat of the car like you were made of something precious, buckled you in, and kept one hand on your thigh the entire drive, thumb stroking slow circles whenever a wave hit.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmured every time. “Just breathe with me. In… and out. I’ve got you.”

At the hospital everything moved in a soft blur of fluorescent lights and kind nurses and the low hum of monitors. They settled you into a labor room with a wide window overlooking the city just waking up. Ilia never left your side. He held your hand through every check, kissed your knuckles when the midwife confirmed you were, and helped you into the gown with the same careful hands he used when he laced your skates for you back when you still sometimes skated together for fun.

Labor stretched. Hours blurred into one long, intense tide. You labored in the shower with the water beating against your lower back while Ilia stood behind you, arms wrapped around your belly, breathing with you. You labored on the birth ball while he knelt in front of you, forehead pressed to yours, whispering every soft endearment he knew and a dozen Russian ones too. When the pain peaked and you started to cry from sheer overwhelm, he didn’t try to fix it. He just held your face between both hands and let you fall apart against him.

“I know it hurts,” he said, voice rough with feeling. “I know. But you’re so strong. You’re already the strongest person I’ve ever met. Just keep coming back to me between them. I’m right here.”

Transition hit hard. You clung to him, forehead buried against his chest, moaning low through clenched teeth while he rocked you gently side to side. His shirt was damp with your tears and the cool cloth he’d been pressing to the back of your neck. Every time a contraction released he kissed your hair and told you how proud he was, how beautiful you looked even like this, how he could already feel how close their little person was.

When it was time to push, the room filled with quiet encouragement. Ilia stayed at your head, one arm behind your shoulders, the other hand locked tightly with yours. He counted with you. He breathed with you. When your strength flagged he leaned in until his mouth was right by your ear.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “Just look at me. You’ve got this. One more. Give me one more. You’re almost there. Our baby’s almost here.”

You pushed with everything you had left. The burning stretch, the impossible pressure, the way the world narrowed to nothing but the sound of his voice and the midwife’s calm instructions. And then—

A sudden, slippery release. A thin, indignant cry that filled the entire room.

Ilia made a sound you’d never heard from him before—half laugh, half broken sob. His hand tightened around yours so hard it almost hurt, and when you looked up his eyes were glassy and overflowing.

“Oh my God,” he breathed. “Oh my God, look—look at them—”

They placed the baby on your chest, warm and wriggling and impossibly small, still streaked with the evidence of the journey. You were shaking, laughing and crying at the same time, trying to count fingers and toes through blurred vision. Ilia’s forehead dropped to yours for one trembling second before he turned his attention fully to the tiny person between you.

He cried openly. Silent tears sliding down his cheeks as he reached out with one careful hand and brushed the damp dark hair on the baby’s head. His voice cracked completely when he spoke.

“Hi, baby,” he whispered. “Hi. We’ve been waiting for you. Mama did so good. She was so brave.” He pressed the softest kiss to the top of the baby’s head, then another to your temple, then another to the baby again like he couldn’t stop. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect. Look at those little hands—God, I love you already. I love you both so much.”

The baby’s cries settled into soft snuffling as skin-to-skin warmth took over. Ilia stayed right there, one arm around your shoulders, the other cupped protectively around the tiny back, his tears still falling freely onto the blanket. He kept murmuring in a mix of English and soft Russian—how beautiful, how small, how completely and forever yours.

When they finally took the baby for the quick checks, Ilia followed every step with his eyes, only looking away long enough to kiss you properly—slow and deep and full of everything words couldn’t hold. His cheeks were still wet.

“You were incredible,” he said against your mouth. “I’ve never been prouder of anything in my life. Thank you. Thank you for our baby.”

A few minutes later they brought the wrapped bundle back and placed them in Ilia’s arms for the first official hold while you rested. He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, staring down like the entire universe had just been placed in his hands. The tears started again the second the baby blinked up at him.

“Hey,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m your dad. I’m going to take such good care of you. And your mama… she’s the bravest, strongest, most beautiful person in the world. You’re so lucky. We’re both so lucky.”

He looked over at you then, eyes shining, smile soft and wrecked with joy.

“We’re parents,” he said, almost disbelieving. “We really did it.”

You reached out, and he carefully shifted so the three of you could fit together—your head on his shoulder, the baby nestled between your bodies, his free hand stroking slow, reverent circles over both of you.

Ilia pressed one more kiss to your hair, then to the baby’s forehead, and simply held on—supportive, overwhelmed, and completely, endlessly in love.

[motionlessxgirl]

fluff! cuddles in bed all day with the cats? ilia's so touchy and clingy i just know he wouldn't let go without a fight. he seems like the "i'm gonna crawl in your heart while we cuddle" type

Stay

Warning: Fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

The morning light filters soft and golden through the half-drawn curtains, painting slow stripes across the rumpled sheets. You’re still half-asleep when the first warm weight settles heavier against your back—Ilia’s chest, solid and familiar, his arm already locked around your waist like he’s afraid you might somehow evaporate if he loosens his grip even a little.

A tiny, disgruntled mrrp comes from somewhere near your knees. Mysti, the most dramatic of the three, has claimed the exact center of the bed as her personal throne and is currently using your shin as a chin rest. Miu Miu is a soft, purring lump curled in the hollow of your stomach, and Mila—tiny, chaotic Mila—has somehow wormed her way under the blanket and is currently using Ilia’s calf as a heated pillow.

Ilia nuzzles the back of your neck, voice still rough with sleep. “Don’t even think about it.”

You smile into the pillow. “Think about what?”

“Getting up.” His arm tightens, pulling you more fully against him until there’s no space left between your spine and his chest. “Not happening. Not today. Not ever.”

You twist just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His hair is a complete disaster—sticking up in every possible direction—and there’s a faint red mark on his cheek from the pillow. He looks ridiculously soft. Ridiculously yours.

“The cats need food,” you murmur, mostly just to tease him.

Mysti opens one judgmental green eye as if she understands the betrayal. Miu Miu’s purr deepens in protest. Mila simply digs her tiny claws into Ilia’s leg in solidarity.

Ilia’s response is immediate and dramatic. He throws a heavy leg over both of yours, effectively pinning you in place, and buries his face in the curve of your shoulder with a low, playful growl.

“They can wait. I cannot.” His lips brush your skin with every word. “You’ve been mine since I woke up and I’m not releasing you. Fight me. I dare you.”

You laugh, the sound muffled against the pillow, and give a half-hearted wiggle just to feel him clamp down harder. He does. Instantly. His arm becomes an iron band, his leg locks tighter, and he even manages to trap one of your hands under his so you can’t push him away.

“Ilia—”

“No.” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then another, softer one right behind your ear. “You’re warm. You’re soft. You smell like my shampoo and last night’s laundry detergent. The cats are already using us as furniture. This is peak existence. Do not ruin peak existence.”

Miu Miu chooses that exact moment to stretch luxuriously, little pink toes spreading, and then climbs higher until she’s nestled between your chests like a living, purring heart. Mysti relocates with great dignity to the pillow above your heads, curling into a perfect cinnamon-roll shape. Mila, never one to be left out, emerges from under the blanket only to flop dramatically across both of your thighs with a tiny, contented sigh.

Ilia goes completely still for a second, as if the sheer cuteness of the situation has short-circuited him. Then he melts even further into you, pressing his forehead to the back of your shoulder.

“See?” He whispers. “Even they agree. Nobody’s allowed to leave the bed. It’s a family decision.”

You reach back blindly and find his messy hair, carding your fingers through it the way you know makes him go boneless. He does, almost immediately, a quiet sound of pure contentment vibrating against your skin.

“You’re so clingy,” you tease, voice soft.

“I’m in love,” he corrects without missing a beat. “There’s a difference. Clingy is temporary. This is permanent. You’re stuck with me and three spoiled cats for the rest of eternity. Sorry not sorry.”

He shifts just enough to press a slow, lingering kiss to the top of your shoulder, then another to the side of your neck, then one more against the soft spot just below your ear. Each one is lazy, warm, utterly unhurried—like he has all the time in the world and intends to use every second of it touching you.

Mila kneads her tiny paws against your thigh. Mysti begins a low, continuous purr that somehow synchronizes with Miu Miu’s. The bed is a warm, soft nest of limbs and fur and quiet breathing.

You turn carefully—Ilia allowing the movement only because it means he can pull you fully into his chest instead—and settle against him face-to-face. His eyes are half-lidded and ridiculously fond. One of his hands finds the small of your back under the blanket and stays there, thumb stroking slow circles like he’s counting the seconds he gets to keep you.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi back,” you whisper.

He leans in and noses at your cheek, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth—never quite kissing, just existing in your space like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. When he finally does kiss you, it’s soft and lingering and tastes like sleep and happiness.

Miu Miu meows in quiet protest at being slightly squished between you. Neither of you move.

“I’m not letting go,” Ilia says against your lips, playful and certain. “You’ll have to pry me off with a crowbar. And even then I’ll just attach myself to your leg and follow you around the house like a very tall, very determined barnacle.”

You laugh, the sound bright and warm in the quiet room, and loop your arms around his neck. He makes a soft, pleased noise and pulls you impossibly closer, careful of the cats but still managing to tangle every possible limb with yours.

Outside, the day continues without you. Inside the bed, time softens into something golden and endless—Ilia’s heartbeat steady under your ear, three sets of tiny purrs vibrating through the mattress, and the absolute certainty that neither of you (nor the cats) have any intention of moving for a very, very long time.

[motionlessxgirl]

okay, more fluff: ilia being obsessed with handholding. like he does it whenever possible, regardless of if it's convenient or appropriate. i'm telling you, he'd die without physical contact

Handsy

Warning: Fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

You’d long since stopped counting the times it happened in a single day.

It was never dramatic. Never announced. Just… inevitable.

Ilia’s fingers found yours the way some people reached for their phone or their keys—reflexive, constant, quietly insistent. He held your hand like it was the only part of the world that made sense.

This morning it started before either of you were fully awake.

You were still half-buried in the blankets, face pressed into the pillow, when you felt the mattress dip and the soft scrape of his knuckles brushing your palm. Even in sleep he had somehow found you. His hand slid over yours, thumb tracing the soft inside of your wrist in slow, sleepy circles until your fingers curled around his without thinking. He made a low, contented sound and shifted closer, tucking your joined hands against his chest like he was protecting something precious. You drifted off again to the steady thump of his heartbeat under your knuckles.

Later, in the kitchen, he stood behind you while you poured coffee, chin resting on your shoulder, one arm loosely around your waist. The other hand was already seeking yours. You tried to reach for the sugar and he simply followed, keeping your fingers laced, letting you drag his arm along like an oversized, very determined accessory. When you turned to face him he lifted your joined hands and pressed a slow kiss to the back of yours, eyes soft and a little amused at himself.

“I know,” he murmured against your skin. “It’s ridiculous.”

You smiled into your mug. “You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t let go.

At the rink it became almost comical.

He walked you from the car to the doors with your hands locked together, even though his skate bag was heavy on the other shoulder and the parking lot was uneven. Inside, while he laced his skates on the bench, he kept your hand trapped between both of his, absently playing with your fingers—stroking the lines of your palm, tapping each knuckle in turn, lifting your hand every so often to press his mouth to the center of it like he couldn’t help himself. Coaches and other skaters passed by. He barely noticed. When it was time to step onto the ice he finally released you, but only after one last squeeze and a look that clearly said I’ll be right back for this.

The moment he stepped off after practice his hand was searching for yours again, still cold from the ice, still damp at the edges of the glove he’d just peeled off. He didn’t care. He threaded his fingers through yours and held on while he talked to his coach, while he signed the occasional autograph, while he answered questions from a junior skater who wanted tips on the Axel. You stood beside him, fingers laced, and watched the way his thumb kept moving over yours in tiny, unconscious strokes the entire time.

In the car on the way home he drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting palm-up on the center console, waiting. The second you set your hand in his he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. At red lights he lifted your joined hands and rested them against his thigh, or brought them briefly to his lips, or just stared at the way your fingers fit together like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Even at the grocery store he refused to be reasonable about it.

He pushed the cart with one hand and kept the other firmly wrapped around yours, steering the two of you through the aisles in a slightly awkward tandem. When he needed both hands to lift something heavy he simply transferred your hand to the cart handle first, pressing it there for a second as if to say stay, then immediately reclaimed it the moment the item was in the basket. A woman in the produce section smiled at the two of you. Ilia didn’t notice. He was too busy turning your hand over in his so he could run his thumb along the soft skin of your inner wrist again.

That night on the couch he sat sideways, legs stretched out, and pulled you in until your back was against his chest. One of his arms wrapped around your middle. The other found your hand without looking, fingers sliding between yours and locking tight. He rested your joined hands on your stomach and kept them there while the movie played, occasionally lifting them just high enough to press another quiet kiss to your knuckles. When you shifted to get more comfortable he adjusted with you, never once loosening his hold.

You turned your head enough to glance up at him. “You know you don’t have to hold my hand every single second, right?”

He looked down at you, expression soft and a little sheepish, but the grip of his fingers didn’t ease even a fraction.

“I know,” he said. His voice was quiet, almost private. “I just… like knowing where you are. That you’re right here.” He lifted your hand again and pressed his mouth to the back of it, lingering. “Everything feels better when I’m holding you.”

[motionlessxgirl]

you asked for fluffy prompts! What about surprising ilia at a competition he didn’t expect you to be at!

Surprise, Love

Warning: Fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

The arena was loud in that particular way only figure skating competitions ever managed—metal blades cutting ice under the warm-up music, the low roar of the crowd settling into their seats, the distant chatter of coaches and officials. You had timed everything carefully. Ilia’s short program was still two groups away. He would be in the locker room corridor right now, headphones on, bouncing on the balls of his feet the way he always did when the nerves started to feel useful instead of heavy.

You had told him you couldn’t come. Work. A last-minute shift you couldn’t get out of. He had been disappointed but understanding, the way he always was—kissed the top of your head that morning, told you to text him after, and left for the arena with his skate bag over one shoulder and that focused little frown he wore on competition days.

You had never planned on staying home.

The badge hanging around your neck felt heavier than it should have. You had sweet-talked a contact in media relations (and maybe promised a very expensive coffee later) to get you into the restricted hallway that led toward the skaters’ warm-up area. You kept your hood up, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the cold air leaking from the ice.

You saw him before he saw you.

Ilia was leaning against the wall just outside the locker room, one skate already on, the other still in his hand. His competition jacket was zipped halfway, the team USA crest bright against the dark fabric. His hair was slightly messy from the warm-up, cheeks still flushed. He was scrolling through his phone with that distant, focused expression he got right before he needed to lock in—until something made him glance up.

His eyes found you.

For half a second he simply stared, like his brain was still buffering. Then the phone lowered. The skate in his hand was forgotten. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again.

“Y/N?”

Your name came out soft, almost disbelieving.

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face—wide and a little sheepish, the one that always gave you away. You lifted one hand in a tiny wave.

“Surprise.”

He moved first. In three long strides he was in front of you, skate still dangling from his fingers, and then both of his free hands were framing your face like he needed to make sure you were solid. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, eyes searching yours with something bright and stunned and almost painfully soft.

“You said you couldn’t come,” he whispered, voice low enough that only you could hear it under the arena noise. “You said work—”

“I lied a little.” You leaned into his touch, heart doing that ridiculous flutter it always did when he looked at you like this. “I wanted to see your face when you realized I was here.”

Ilia let out a quiet, breathless laugh that sounded half like relief and half like something closer to wonder. He pressed his forehead to yours for a long second, eyes closed, just breathing you in. When he pulled back, his smile was the private one—the one that belonged only to you, the one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“You’re here,” he said again, like he still needed to say it out loud to believe it. “You’re actually here.”

“I’m here.” You reached up and smoothed a strand of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “I wouldn’t miss it. Not when it matters this much to you.”

His hands slid from your face to your waist, pulling you carefully closer even though he was still half in skates. The contact was warm and steady. You could feel the residual adrenaline already humming under his skin.

“I was going to call you right after,” he murmured. “I kept thinking about how quiet the car would feel on the way home without you.”

“Well.” You tipped your head, smiling up at him. “Now you don’t have to.”

Ilia’s expression softened even further. He leaned in and kissed you—slow, sweet, lingering just long enough that you felt the quiet intensity of it all the way down to your toes. When he drew back, his forehead stayed against yours.

“You have no idea what this does to me,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “Knowing you’re out there. Knowing I get to look for you in the stands.”

“I’ll be easy to find,” you promised. “I’ll be the one looking like she’s about to cry every time you land something.”

He laughed under his breath, the sound warm against your mouth. “Don’t cry. I’ll get distracted.”

“No promises.”

Roman’s voice called his name from farther down the hallway. Ilia’s shoulders tensed for half a second before he exhaled and nodded without looking away from you.

“I have to go finish warming up.”

“I know.”

He didn’t move right away. Instead he cupped the side of your neck, thumb stroking once over your pulse, and looked at you like he was memorizing the moment—the way the hallway light caught your eyes, the soft smile you couldn’t quite hide, the fact that you had somehow made the entire day feel lighter just by showing up.

“Stay where I can see you,” he said quietly. “Please.”

“I’ll be right there.” You squeezed his wrist. “Go be brilliant. I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”

Ilia kissed you one more time—quicker this time, but no less full of feeling—then rested his forehead against yours for a final second.

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too. Now go. Before they come looking for you.”

He stepped back reluctantly, still smiling that soft, private smile, and finally turned toward the ice. You watched him walk away, one skate on, one still in his hand, glancing back over his shoulder twice before he disappeared around the corner.

You pressed a hand over your own chest, feeling how hard your heart was beating, and let the sweetness of it settle in.

He hadn’t expected you.

And the look on his face when he realized you had come anyway was going to stay with you for a very long time.

[motionlessxgirl]

How about that one time ilia fell on SOI and was bleeding on his arm bc of the splinters and she has to comfort him?

Careful

Warning: Fluff

Ilia x fem!reader

The rink lights at the Stars on Ice practice session were softer than usual that afternoon, the big arena quiet except for the scrape of blades and the occasional shout of laughter. Most of the cast had already finished their run-throughs, but a handful of the other skaters and a few of the veterans had stayed on the ice for one of those spontaneous, chaotic games that always seemed to break out when no one wasn’t watching too closely.

Sharks and Minnows.

Ilia was a shark.

You stood at the boards near the benches, still in your street clothes after arriving late from running errands, watching him with that soft, private smile you always wore when he was like this—competitive, playful, a little too full of himself. He looked ridiculous and perfect at the same time: black practice pants, black SOI hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, hair damp from earlier drills. Every time he lunged after one of the “minnows,” his edges bit hard into the ice and that familiar low laugh of his carried across the rink.

You were just about to call out something teasing when it happened.

One of the guys cut sharply in front of him. Ilia tried to pivot, but his right blade caught on a rough patch near the boards where the ice had been chewed up all week. His edge gave. The world tilted.

He went down hard.

Not the graceful kind of fall he usually recovered from in a second. This one was ugly—shoulder first, then his forearm scraping along the boards as he tried to catch himself. The sound of wood and ice and fabric tearing was sharp enough that half the skaters stopped mid-stride.

“Ilia!”

You were already moving, heart slamming against your ribs as you shoved the gate open and stepped carefully onto the ice in your sneakers. He was still on his knees when you reached him, one hand braced against the boards, the other pressed to his left forearm. Blood was already welling up in thin, bright lines where the rough wood had dragged across his skin. Tiny splinters of the barrier were stuck in the scrape, some of them deep enough that you could see them catching the light.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice tight. He tried to laugh it off the way he always did, but the sound came out thinner than usual. “I’m fine. Just—”

“You’re not fine.” You dropped to your knees beside him, careful not to slip. Your hands hovered for a second before you gently took his wrist, turning his arm so you could see better. The scrape ran from just below his elbow almost to his wrist, raw and angry, blood already starting to drip onto the ice in small dark spots. “Jesus, Ilia…”

Around you the other skaters were starting to gather, concerned voices overlapping, but you barely heard them. All you could focus on was the way his jaw had gone tight and the slight tremor in the hand you were holding.

“Hey. Look at me.” You waited until those dark eyes lifted to yours. “I’ve got you.”

One of the athletic trainers was already jogging over with a first-aid kit, but you didn’t move. You stayed right there on the ice with him, one knee pressed to the cold surface, your free hand coming up to brush damp hair off his forehead. His skin was warm under your fingers despite the chill of the rink.

“Doesn’t even hurt that bad,” he lied, voice low enough that only you could hear. The corner of his mouth twitched like he was trying for a smile and not quite making it. “Just looks dramatic.”

“Mm-hmm.” You kept your voice soft, steady. “You’re allowed to admit it hurts, you know. No one here is going to revoke your quad-Axel license.”

That earned you the ghost of a real smile. He huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh and leaned into your touch for a second, forehead resting briefly against yours.

The trainer arrived and crouched on his other side, already assessing the damage. You stayed exactly where you were, still holding his wrist, thumb stroking slow circles over the uninjured skin just above the scrape while the trainer carefully cleaned the blood away and began tweezing out the worst of the splinters.

Ilia’s fingers tightened around yours every time one came free.

You didn’t look away. You just kept talking to him in that quiet, private voice you used when the rest of the world didn’t matter—telling him he was doing so well, that it would be over soon, that you were right here. When the antiseptic stung and his breath hitched, you pressed a soft kiss to his temple and stayed there, lips against his skin, breathing with him until the sharpest of it passed.

By the time the trainer finished and taped a clean gauze pad over the scrape, Ilia’s shoulders had relaxed a fraction. He still looked a little pale under the rink lights, but the tension in his jaw had eased.

You helped him stand, careful of the arm, and guided him off the ice toward the tunnel. The other skaters called out a few concerned jokes—“Quad God gets taken out by the boards, classic”—and he managed a weak wave with his good hand. You stayed close the entire way, one arm lightly around his waist, matching his slower pace.

In the relative quiet of the hallway outside the locker rooms, you finally stopped and turned to face him fully. Your hands came up to frame his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones.

“You scared me,” you admitted softly.

“I know.” His good hand settled at your waist, pulling you in until your bodies touched. He rested his forehead against yours again, eyes closed. “I’m okay. Really. Just… stay close for a minute?”

You did. You wrapped your arms carefully around him, mindful of the bandage, and held him while the adrenaline slowly drained out of both of you. His heartbeat gradually steadied under your cheek. After a long moment he pressed a kiss into your hair, then another to your temple, lingering there.

“Love you,” he murmured against your skin.

You tipped your head up and kissed him properly—slow, careful, tasting the residual tension and the quiet relief underneath it. When you pulled back just enough to speak, your voice was soft and certain.

“I love you too. And next time you decide to play Sharks and Minnows like it’s the final of Worlds, maybe try not to sacrifice an arm to the boards?”

He huffed a real laugh this time, the sound warm against your mouth.

“No promises,” he said, but he was smiling now, eyes softer. “You’re stuck with me either way.”

You reached up and gently touched the edge of the bandage, then laced your fingers through his good hand.

“I know,” you answered. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The two of you stood there a little longer in the quiet hallway, foreheads together, breathing the same air, while the distant sounds of the rink continued without you. The scrape would heal. The bruise forming under the gauze would fade. But the way he leaned into your touch—open, trusting, letting himself be taken care of—settled somewhere deep in your chest and stayed.

[motionlessxgirl]

So I just linked my first masterlist onto the second one so everyone can find all m my fics

[motionlessxgirl]

u should link ur 2 masterlists together so people can easily find both and all of ur amazing writing im also living for all the fluff rn i think people majorly sleep on good old classic fluff so pls keep em coming i love ur writing sm have an amazing day AND DRINK WATER

How do I do this?? I’m still fairly new to using tumblr