Have You Ever Tried This One?
Ilia Malinin x fem!reader
He flopped dramatically onto the king-sized bed in your bedroom, the one you christened with far more successful activities than this current quest. The glow of his phone screen lit up his face, casting shadows that made his sharp jawline look even more sculpted—like he was posing for a post-competition vlog instead of doom-scrolling fertility forums at 10 PM. You, his wife, lounged beside him in one of your oversized sleep shirts, legs tangled in the sheets. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head, as you scrolled on your own tablet with the focused intensity you usually reserved for analyzing Ilia’s triple Lutz footage. 
“Another month,” you sighed, your voice softening the frustration. You tossed the tablet aside and rolled into his side, resting your chin on his chest. “The app says I’m ovulating, the basal temp is perfect, and still… nothing. I feel like my uterus is ghosting us.”
Ilia wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, the same gentle touch that had comforted you through unsure job interviews, bad managers, and that one terrifying pregnancy scare last year. “Hey, we’re in this together. The doctors said stress doesn’t help. We’ve got time. And honestly? I’m not complaining about the practice sessions.” He grinned, that boyish, cocky smile that always made your knees weak, even after years together.
You laughed softly, but there was a serious edge beneath it. “I know. I just… I want our little one so badly. Watching you with the kids at the rink, coaching them through their first jumps… it makes me picture it. Us, as parents. Your voice cracking just a little. “What if we’re doing something wrong?”
Ilia’s expression softened. He tilted your chin, kissing your forehead, then lips—slow, reassuring, full of that deep love that had carried you through the wedding night, tour exhaustion, and every jealous argument that ended in explosive makeup sex. “We’re not. But maybe we need to stop treating this like a training regimen. Less charts, more fun. Remember when we turned the kitchen into our personal sex shop surprise? That was ridiculous and hot.”
Your eyes sparkled with mischief. You grabbed his phone, pulling up a browser. “Fine. Let’s make it stupid. I have the perfect song, ‘Juno.’ Listen to this part.” You queued it up, the playful beat filling the room. Your voice joining in on the lyrics, teasing: “Wanna try out some freaky positions? Have you ever tried this one?”
Ilia barked out a laugh, nearly choking. “Oh, we’re doing this? Alright, Mrs. Malinin. Challenge accepted. Google, show us the dumbest positions for baby-making.”
What followed was a descent into glorious, sweaty absurdity.
Position One: The Wheelbarrow
Ilia started strong, channeling his athleticism. You got on all fours on the edge of the bed, giggling already. He grabbed your legs like wheelbarrow handles, lifting your hips while you braced on elbows. “This is supposed to get the sperm closer to the goal,” he grunted, lining up and sliding into you with a deep thrust that made you moan.
“Oh god, yes!” You gasped, voice husky. The angle was incredible, hitting that spot that made you see stars. He started moving, powerful and controlled, one hand steadying your waist while the other reached around to tease your clit. It felt serious for a moment—raw connection, his grunts mixing with your whimpers, the wet slap of skin on skin.
Then your arms buckled. “Ilia—my elbows! I’m sliding—ah!” You face-planted into the mattress with a muffled “Crap!” He tried to adjust, but momentum sent you both tumbling. His dick slipped out mid-thrust, and you guys collapsed in a heap of limbs, laughing hysterically.
“Ten out of ten for depth, zero for stability,” Ilia wheezed, rolling you over and kissing your neck. “You okay?”
“More than okay,” you purred, pulling him on top for a proper missionary reset. He entered you again, slower this time, eyes locked. “I love you. This is going to happen when it’s right.” The seriousness lingered as you moved together, tender and deep, your legs wrapped around him. But the mood lightened fast when he whispered, “Next one?”
Position Two: The Acrobat
You took charge this time, pushing Ilia onto his back. “My turn to explore you.” You straddled him reverse cowgirl style, then carefully leaned all the way back until you’re lying on his chest, head near his, legs bent awkwardly. It was like a contortionist act gone sexy. 
“Have you ever tried this one?” You quoted breathlessly, grinding down onto him. The stretch was intense—full exposure, his hands roaming your breasts, pinching your nipples while you rode him in shallow, teasing circles. It was filthy and vulnerable. You felt every inch of him, the angle pressing perfectly against your front wall.
“Fuck, you’re so tight like this,” Ilia groaned, thrusting up. His voice was wrecked, that dominant edge creeping in as one hand gripped onto your hip hard enough to bruise. You loved it—the mix of his control and your power. You reached back, tangling fingers in his hair, pulling as you clenched around him.
But sometimes core strength has limits. Your abs started burning. “Ilia, I—cramp! Quad Axel in the bedroom, my ass!” You tried to sit up, but balance failed. You both rolled sideways off the bed in a tangle, landing with a thud on the carpet. His cock, still hard and glistening, slapped against his stomach as he burst out laughing.
“Emergency dismount!” He declared, pulling you into his lap on the floor. You didn’t even make it back to the bed. He guided you down onto him again, facing him this time, and you guys fucked like that—desperate, laughing, you bouncing while he sucked marks into your collarbone. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Make that baby right here on the floor.”
The seriousness hit again in the aftershocks: you resting against his chest, his cum leaking down your thighs as you whispered about names—Sofia for a girl, maybe another Ilia for a boy.
Position Three: The Standing Wheelbarrow (Kitchen Edition, Because Why Not?)
You and Ilia migrated to the kitchen for “new terrain.” You braced your hands on the counter, Ilia lifting your legs again. Laughter echoed as he nearly dropped you into the sink. “This is how you break a hip before Nationals!”
But once he was inside you—deep, pounding from behind while you gripped the edge—it turned scorching. His hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head back for messy kisses. “Gonna put a baby in you right here where we made those turnovers last week.” The dirty talk mixed with your moans; you came hard, clenching, and he followed, holding you up as your legs shook.
You both slid to the floor afterward, sticky and spent, sharing water and more serious pillow talk (floor talk?). “Whatever happens,” you said softly, tracing his Stars On Ice scar, “we’re a team. On ice and off.”
“Real talk,” he murmured. “All this nonsense… it’s because I want this with you. The laughs, the fails, the wins. If it takes a hundred ridiculous positions, I’m here.”
In the quiet, hours later as sleep pulled you under, the hope felt real—freaky positions or not, the love was the real fertility boost. And if a little chaos led to your future child? Well, that would make one hell of a vlog story someday.
