loverboyseb

Jacob Sanchez (USA)

“hey sweet thing. missing ya’.”

his voice erupted, you could only hear the sound of his breathing, imagining the slow rise and fall of his chest.

“how have you been, mm? eating well? hydrating? you best be taking care of yourself while ’m gone.” he laughed, that squeaky one where you could tell his throat was tight from holding something in.

“wish you could feel how much i’m missing you.” you heard his breath shake at the last syllable, then the tell-tale sound of his zipper slipping down rang out. a loud zzziipp like he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

a moment of silence then a harsh hiss came from his side as he wrapped a hand around his aching member, stroking it to full mast. “shit baby, i’m so hard just thinkin’ about you.” he groaned, then a rustle of clothes came as he shoved his pants down to his ankles.

he shifted his phone so that it was placed right beneath his cock, you could hear it slap against his phone screen, hot and heavy. “listen to it. listen to what you do to me.” he panted, beginning to pump himself, every tug of his length drawing a throaty sigh from him.

“wish you were here. y’know, sucking me off.” he paused to breath, stifling a whine as he imagined the scene in his head. “gosh, you’d look so pretty, mouth full of me. choking on me.” he continued.

“or you could just sit on it. let me hump you ‘til you pass out, all dumbed out on my dick.” he rasped, voice dropping a milky octave. you could hear him spit down on his cock, smearing the glob of saliva over his length.

“if you were here, i’d bend you right over this desk and fuck—” he sped up his strokes, you could tell he was close with how whiny he got. “i’d do so much to you darling, but you’re just not here. and it’s killing me.”

“miss you, so fuckin’ bad.” his voice cracked, you could hear the lewd fap-fap-fap of him fisting his cock ruthlessly, teetering on the edge of release.

“bet you’re touching yourself too, huh?” you could hear his smirk through the phone, “bet you’re getting off at seeing me so desperate and needy. you’re evil.” he grunted.

“shit, i’m close.” he cursed through gritted teeth, you could hear his chair creak under his weight as he pumped his cock, chasing his orgasm.

“this one’s for you.” he panted, the sounds of his fist becoming slicker. after a couple more strokes, he came all over himself with a muffled groan, making a mess everywhere.

“it’s so much.” he grumbled, already regretting what he did knowing he would have to get up and clean off. “and i blame it on you.” he chuckled, you could hear him tucking himself back into his pants.

Save the Skates, Edge the Skater

Ilia Malinin x f!reader

Summary: Let’s just say you’re hands on

Contains: Smut, mdni, sub!ilia, handjob

The late afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen windows of the quiet suburban home, casting a warm golden glow over the countertops. You stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, scrubbing the lunch dishes with a soft hum on your lips. The house smelled like the faint remnants of garlic and herbs from the pasta you’d made earlier—simple, domestic, the kind of ordinary Saturday that felt like a luxury after Ilia’s grueling training weeks. Your hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, a few strands escaping to frame your face, and you wore one of his old team hoodies over leggings, the fabric swallowing your frame in that effortlessly cute way he loved.

Ilia had just come back from a light mobility session in the basement gym, his body still humming with residual energy. He padded into the kitchen barefoot, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, a white tank clinging to his chest. He watched you for a moment from the doorway—your hips swaying slightly as you rinsed a plate, the way the hoodie rode up just enough to show the curve of your lower back. A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face.

Without a word, he slipped up behind you, arms sliding around your waist as he pressed his chest to your back. His chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear. “Missed you,” he murmured, voice low and playful, nipping at your earlobe. His hands splayed across your stomach, pulling you back against him just enough for you to feel the growing interest beneath his sweatpants.

You laughed softly, leaning into him but not stopping your scrubbing. “You were gone for like forty-five minutes, you big baby.”

“Forty-five minutes too long.” He kissed the side of your neck, slow and open-mouthed, then let his hands wander higher, cupping your breasts through the thick hoodie. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, teasing them into peaks. “You look way too good doing dishes. Dangerous, even.”

You shivered, biting your lip as you set the plate aside. “Ilia… I’m almost done.”

“Mmm, but I’m just getting started.” His tone stayed light, teasing, as he rocked his hips forward once, letting you feel how hard he already was. One hand slipped under the hem of the hoodie, fingers tracing warm skin, dipping just beneath the waistband of your leggings. “Bet I could make you drop that sponge in ten seconds flat.”

You turned your head, catching his mouth in a quick, playful kiss. “You’re impossible.” But your voice had that breathy edge already. You rinsed the last fork, dried your hands on a towel, and turned in his arms to face him fully. Your hands came up to rest on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” he said, grinning down at you, eyes dark with want. He backed you gently against the counter, kissing you deeper now—slow, languid strokes of his tongue that made you melt against him. His hands roamed, squeezing your ass, pulling you closer until his erection pressed insistently against your stomach.

You both stayed like that for long minutes, kissing and touching like you had all the time in the world. Ilia’s fingers eventually found their way under your leggings, teasing between your thighs, but you caught his wrist with a wicked little smile. “Not yet. You started this. Let me play.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Yeah? Bossy today.”

“Very.” You tugged him by the waistband of his sweatpants toward the living room couch, the one with the big soft cushions you had christened more than once. “Sit.”

Ilia dropped onto the couch, spreading his legs wide, watching with hungry eyes as you knelt between them. The playful energy still crackled in the air—he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re so fucking pretty like this.”

You hooked your fingers in his sweatpants and boxers, pulling them down just enough to free his cock. It sprang up, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. You wrapped your hand around the base, giving one slow, firm stroke from root to head, thumb swirling over the sensitive underside. Ilia groaned, head tipping back against the cushions.

“Eyes on me,” you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the head, tasting the salty bead there. Then you pulled back, settling into a steady rhythm—long, languid strokes, your grip perfect, twisting just a little at the top the way he liked. Your other hand cupped his balls gently, rolling them, massaging as you pumped him.

“Fuck, Y/N…” His hips twitched, but he kept them still, letting you set the pace. The pleasure built quickly, coiling tight in his core. You watched his face the whole time—his parted lips, the way his abs flexed under the tank top, the flush creeping up his neck.

Just as his breathing grew ragged and his cock throbbed harder in your fist, you slowed. Deliberately. The strokes became feather-light, barely there, dragging your fingertips along the veiny underside until he was panting.

“Y/N…” he groaned, half-laughing, half-desperate. “Don’t tease.”

“But you love it when I do.” You smiled up at him, innocent as anything, and leaned in to lick a slow stripe from base to tip, swirling your tongue around the head before pulling away again. Your hand resumed—tighter now, faster, building him right back up to that trembling edge. Precum dripped steadily over your fingers, slicking every stroke with wet, obscene sounds.

Ilia’s hands fisted the couch cushions, thighs tensing. “Baby, please… I’m so close—”

You stopped completely for a few heartbeats, squeezing the base firmly to hold him back. Then you started again—slow, torturous pumps, your mouth hovering close enough that he could feel your warm breath but not your tongue. Over and over you brought him right to the brink: stroking faster, twisting your wrist, thumb pressing into that spot under the head that made his toes curl… only to ease off, letting the orgasm recede like a tide.

Minutes stretched into what felt like an eternity. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His cock was flushed dark red, painfully hard, twitching in your hand with every denied peak. “Y/N, you’re killing me,” Ilia rasped, voice wrecked. “I need to come so bad.”

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips shiny, eyes sparkling with mischief and heat. “Not yet. I want you desperate.” Another long, tight stroke, your free hand trailing up his inner thigh. You leaned in and sucked just the head into your mouth for a few torturous seconds—hot, wet suction—before popping off and resuming the handjob.

Ilia’s head fell back, a broken moan escaping him. His hips bucked involuntarily now, chasing your fist. You let him fuck your hand a little, matching his rhythm, building him higher than before… then slowed again, edging him mercilessly. The living room filled with the slick sounds of your hand on his cock, his heavy breathing, and the occasional whimper when you denied him again.

By the fifth or sixth edge, he was a mess—whining your name, muscles trembling, cock leaking in a steady stream down your fingers. “Please, Y/N… I’ll do anything. Just let me come.”

You finally took pity, but not completely. You stroked him faster, firmer, your grip relentless as you leaned in and whispered against his thigh, “Come for me, Ilia. Now.”

The orgasm crashed through him like a wave. He cried out, hips jerking as thick ropes of cum spilled over your hand, painting his abs and your fingers. You kept stroking him through it, milking every last drop, drawing it out until he was oversensitive and shuddering.

When he finally slumped back, chest heaving, you crawled up into his lap, kissing him softly. “Good boy,” you murmured against his lips, playful again. “Think you can help me with the rest of those dishes later?”

can’t even describe what I’m feeling right now he looks like a prince from a fairytale. He did this for me.

Cr. Dazed magazine, edited by me

(M)oral Support

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: You’re stressed. Ilia offers some help.

Contains: Smut, oral, fingering, minors dni

The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the city outside the window and the occasional frustrated sigh from the couch. Ilia closed the front door behind him with a gentle click, kicking off his sneakers and padding across the hardwood in his socks. He’d just come back from a light training session, hair still damp from the shower at the rink, wearing a loose gray hoodie and black sweatpants. His eyes found you immediately—curled up in the corner of the couch, laptop balanced on your knees, eyebrows pinched together in that way he knew too well.

“Hey, babe,” he said softly, voice warm like melted chocolate. He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of your head. “Still at it?”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “This project is killing me. I’ve rewritten the same section four times and my professor’s going to tear it apart anyway. I can’t even think straight anymore.”

Ilia’s hand slid down to your shoulder, thumb rubbing slow circles against the tight muscle there. “You’ve been staring at that screen for hours. Come on, take a break with me.”

“I can’t. Deadline’s in two days and—”

He cut you off with another kiss, this one to your temple, lingering. “I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re stressed out of your mind. Let me help you relax.” His fingers slipped into your hair, gently massaging your scalp. You leaned into the touch despite yourself, eyes fluttering half-closed.

“Ilia…” There was a warning in your voice, but it was soft, already melting.

“Shh. Just a little while.” He set your laptop on the coffee table, then eased down beside you on the couch. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into his lap so you straddled his thighs. Your foreheads touched. “You work so hard. I hate seeing you like this. Let your boyfriend take care of you, yeah?”

You exhaled shakily, arms looping around his neck. “You’re too good to me.”

“Nah. I just know what you need.” His hands roamed up and down your back in long, soothing strokes, thumbs pressing into the knots along your spine. He kissed the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, slow and deliberate. “You’re so tense, baby. Feel how tight your shoulders are? Breathe for me.”

You did, inhaling deeply as his lips trailed lower, feather-light kisses along your neck. A tiny shiver ran through you. Ilia smiled against your skin. “There she is,” he murmured, voice dropping just a little. “My pretty girl. Always so wound up until I get my hands on her.”

The kisses grew a fraction deeper—still soft, still teasing. He sucked lightly at the spot just below your ear, the one that always made you squirm. Your fingers tightened in his hoodie.

“Ilia… we should probably—”

“Probably what?” He nipped your earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue. “Talk about your project? No way. Not right now.” One hand slid under the hem of your shirt, palm warm against your bare lower back. “Right now I want to hear those little sounds you make when you stop thinking so much.”

You laughed breathlessly, but it turned into a soft moan when he rocked your hips forward against him, letting you feel how he was already half-hard just from touching you. The friction was barely there, just enough to tease.

“See?” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “Your body’s already saying yes. Let me make you feel good. Please?”

How could you say no to that voice—low, sweet, a little husky with want? You nodded, and Ilia rewarded you with a proper kiss, slow and deep, tongue sliding against yours in lazy strokes that promised more. His hands slipped higher under your shirt, tracing your ribs, thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts but never quite giving you what you suddenly craved.

When you two broke apart for air, he rested his forehead against yours again. “Couch or bed? Your choice.”

“Couch is closer,” you admitted, cheeks warm.

He grinned, that boyish, mischievous flash of teeth you loved. “Good answer.” In one smooth motion he lifted you, flipping you two so you were on your back against the cushions, him hovering above. He peeled your shirt off slowly, kissing every inch of skin he uncovered—collarbone, the valley between your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your leggings he paused, looking up through dark lashes.

“Still okay?” he asked, voice gentle even as his fingers toyed with the elastic.

“Yes. God, yes.”

He tugged the leggings down your legs along with your panties, taking his time, kissing the inside of your knee, your thigh, the sensitive crease where leg met hip. By the time the fabric hit the floor you were already breathing faster, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Ilia settled between your legs, broad shoulders spreading you open. He kissed the top of your mound, then lower, but only brushed his lips over your folds—light, maddening. “So pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Already wet for me. Been thinking about this all day?”

“Since you walked in,” you confessed, voice shaky.

He hummed, pleased. “Good girl. Just relax. I’ve got you.” His hands slid under your ass, tilting your hips up like you were something delicate and delicious. Then he finally gave you what you wanted—his tongue, flat and warm, licking a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit.

You gasped, back arching.

“Mmm, there’s that sound,” he said, smiling against you. He did it again, slower, savoring. “Taste so fucking good, baby. Sweet and all mine.” The dirty words were soft, almost reverent, laced with that teasing edge he knew drove you crazy.

He took his time, exploring every inch with lazy licks and gentle sucks. When your hips started to twitch he held you still, strong hands pinning you down just enough to make you feel it. His tongue circled your clit in slow, deliberate spirals, never rushing, building the heat in your belly like a slow-burning fire.

“Ilia—fuck—” your fingers threaded into his hair, not pulling, just holding on.

He pulled back for a second, blowing cool air over your slick skin, making you shiver. “Yeah? Feel better already?” He dipped down again, this time sliding his tongue inside, fucking you with it in shallow thrusts while his nose nudged your clit. “So tight. So needy. Let me hear you.”

You moaned louder, hips rolling as much as he’d allow. He switched back to your clit, sucking it gently between his lips while two fingers teased your entrance, not pushing in yet—just rubbing, spreading your wetness.

“You’re dripping down my chin,” he groaned, the vibration shooting pleasure through you. “Love when you get like this. All stressed and pretty, then I open you up and you’re soaked for me. My perfect girl.”

The praise mixed with the filthy words had your head spinning. He finally slid one finger inside, curling it just right, then added a second, pumping them slow and deep while his mouth sealed around your clit, sucking with steady rhythm.

Your thighs started to tremble around his ears. “Close—Ilia, I’m—”

“I know,” he murmured against you, not stopping. “Come on my tongue. Let it all go. I want to feel you.”

The orgasm hit you in waves, slow and intense, drawn out by his relentless mouth and fingers. You cried out, back bowing off the couch, fingers tightening in his hair as pleasure crashed through every nerve. He kept licking you through it, gentler now, drawing out every last shiver until you were boneless and panting.

Only then did he crawl up your body, kissing your stomach, your chest, your lips so you could taste yourself on him. His eyes were dark, lips shiny, that cocky little smirk in place.

“Feeling less stressed?” he asked, voice rough.

You laughed weakly, pulling him down for another kiss. “Ask me again after round two.”

I’m picking up what you’re putting down 👀

Morning Wood Headcanons - Ilia Malinin x Fem!Reader

As soon as he wakes up, it’s like clockwork. It happens almost every morning, especially when you’re laying in his bed.

He turns over and he’s immediately hot and frustrated. His cock is uncomfortably pressing on the fabric of his sweatpants.

And you’re just laying there beside him, still dead asleep.

He selfishly wants to wake you. Make you help him. Beg you to help him.

He’s able to have some self control for a couple minutes, reminding himself that if he wakes you, he’ll probably just get a punishment instead of any help, but all self control leaves the second he shucks his pants off, trying to alleviate some pressure on his cock.

The cool air caresses his cock and he whines at how sensitive he already is. Fuck it. He needs you.

He turns over into you, presses his dick to your backside and slowly starts to grind. He can’t help but let out a shaky moan at the feeling of your pajama pants on the head of his cock.

He leaves a trail of precum on your pants as he continues to grind. His arms wrap around your stomach, pull you into him closer. You think he’s just trying to cuddle, so you sleepily lean in, gentle smile on your face.

Meanwhile Ilia’s eyes are scrunched closed in focus. He’s desperately reaching for that high, getting closer and closer and closer ever so slowly. Every grind sends pleasure straight through his spine, clenching his teeth and panting out hot breaths against your neck.

You only start to groggily creak your eyes open when you hear him whimper into your ear, hands grasping your hips. You let out the softest, “mm? You okay?”

He nods, presses a needy kiss to your neck. One that speaks for itself.

You reach your hand around to feel his cock, hot, hard, and coated in precum against your back. He moans at your touch, squeezing at the base.

You don’t waste any time, pumping your hand in fast strokes that has Ilia letting out the tiniest “ah, ah, ah” sounds that you’ve only ever heard in porn

He stuffs his face into your neck. You can feel how tense he is, how close.

You pump up, thumb the slit. He keens, whimpers into your ear. You do it again. And again. And again. And then he’s at the top, shooting ropes onto your backside as he pants like a dog in heat.

Homecoming Heat

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: Well you forgot someone has a spare key.

Contains: Smut, minors dni

The front door clicked shut behind Ilia as he dropped his duffel bag in the hallway, the familiar scent of the apartment—clean laundry, leftover takeout, and the faint citrus of your perfume—hitting him like a triple Axel. He’d just flown back from the competition in Japan, medals still rattling around in his suitcase like loose change. His body ached in that good, exhausted way, but the second he saw you standing in the living room, everything lit up.

You had gotten in from Munich an hour earlier. Your suitcase was still half-open by the couch, a tangle of sweaters and German chocolate wrappers spilling out. You wore one of his old Team USA hoodies, the sleeves too long, and a pair of tiny sleep shorts that made his brain short-circuit.

“Hi, stranger,” you said, smiling that crooked little grin he’d missed every single night.

Ilia didn’t answer with words. He crossed the room in three strides, cupped your face with both hands—still cold from the airport—and kissed you slow. Just lips at first, soft and warm, tasting the faint strawberry of your lip balm. You sighed into it, hands sliding up his chest, fingers curling into his hoodie. The kiss deepened gradually, tongues brushing, teasing. He tilted your head back a little, savoring the way you melted against him.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, nipping your bottom lip. “Two weeks is criminal.”

“Tell me about it,” you whispered, tugging him closer by the waistband of his sweats. “Munich was nice, but nobody there kisses like you do.”

He chuckled, low and playful, walking you backward toward the bedroom. “Nobody better be kissing you in Munich, Y/N.”

You laughed, bright and teasing. “Only my Oma. On the cheek. Very scandalous.”

You tumbled onto the bed in a mess of limbs and laughter. Ilia hovered over you, brushing your hair out of your eyes. The kissing picked up heat now—deeper, hungrier. His hand slipped under your (his) hoodie, palm gliding over the soft skin of your stomach, then higher until he cupped your breast. You arched into his touch with a breathy little moan that went straight to his dick.

“Ilia…” you sighed, legs wrapping around his hips.

He kissed down your neck, sucking lightly at the spot that always made you squirm. “Mmm. Say it again.”

“Ilia,” you repeated, half-laugh, half-plea, grinding up against the growing bulge in his sweats. “Stop teasing and fuck me already. I’ve been thinking about this on the plane the whole way back.”

“Bossy,” he teased, but he was already pulling the hoodie off you. No bra underneath—just perfect, soft breasts and hard little nipples begging for his mouth. He latched on, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging hard enough to sting in the best way.

Clothes came off in a playful scramble. Your shorts and panties flew somewhere toward the dresser. His hoodie and sweats joined them. Naked skin on naked skin felt like coming home. Ilia settled between your thighs, cock hard and leaking against your slick folds, rubbing slowly, teasing your clit with the head until you were whining and trying to pull him inside.

“Patience, baby,” he grinned, eyes sparkling with that mischievous skater-boy energy. “I wanna taste how much you missed me first.”

He slid down your body, kissing every inch—collarbone, ribs, the little freckle right below your belly button—before spreading you open with his thumbs. You were soaked, glistening, and the first long lick up your center made your hips jerk off the bed.

“Fuck—Ilia!” You laughed breathlessly, one hand fisting the sheets, the other in his hair again.

He ate you out like he trained: focused, relentless, playful. Long licks, tight circles on your clit, two fingers curling inside you exactly where you liked it. He hummed against you, the vibration pulling desperate little sounds from your throat. When you started trembling, thighs squeezing his head, he doubled down until you came hard, back arching, moaning his name like it was the only word you knew.

He crawled back up, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. “Good girl,” he whispered, lining himself up. “Ready?”

You nodded frantically, legs locking around his waist. “Now. Please.”

He pushed in slow at first, savoring the tight, wet heat. You both groaned. Inch by inch until he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. For a moment you two just stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in.

Then Ilia started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that had your nails digging into his back. The bed creaked rhythmically. Skin slapped skin. He hooked one of your legs higher, changing the angle, and you cried out, clenching around him.

“Harder,” you demanded, playful fire in your eyes. “I’m not made of glass, Malinin.”

He laughed, low and wrecked. “Yes ma’am.” He picked up speed, pounding into you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your ass to pull you into every thrust. Sweat slicked your bodies. Your breasts bounced with every snap of his hips. The sounds you made were filthy and perfect—wet, desperate, mixed with breathless laughter when he hit a ticklish spot or when you clenched around him just to make him curse in Russian.

“Y/N—fuck—you feel so good,” he panted, kissing you messily. “Gonna come soon.”

“Inside,” you gasped, heels digging into his lower back. “Fill me up, baby.”

He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles until you shattered around him a second time, pulsing and fluttering so perfectly he followed right after. Ilia buried himself deep, groaning your name as he came, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

You both collapsed in a sweaty, tangled heap, giggling like idiots.

“Welcome home,” you murmured, tracing lazy patterns on his chest.

“Best welcome ever,” he replied, pressing a kiss to your damp forehead.

You were still catching your breath, Ilia’s softening cock still inside you, when the front door opened.

“Ilia? I brought the cats! Mysti kept trying to escape in the car and—Mysti, no!”

Tatiana’s voice carried down the hall like a cheerful freight train. The jingle of two cat collars followed.

Your eyes went wide. “Oh my God—”

Ilia froze, still balls-deep. “Shit. Mom has keys.”

Before either of you could move, Tatiana appeared in the bedroom doorway, carrier in one hand, Mysti already half-out and trotting ahead like she owned the place. Miu Miu meowed indignantly from inside the carrier.

For one long, horrifying second, nobody spoke.

Tatiana blinked at the scene: her son naked, glistening with sweat, on top of an equally naked Y/N, sheets barely covering anything important. The unmistakable smell of sex hung in the air.

“Oh,” Tatiana said, perfectly calm. Then, in Russian-accented English, “Well. At least you’re not practicing jumps on the bed this time.”

You made a mortified squeak and tried to hide under Ilia, who was turning bright red but also fighting a laugh.

“Mom—out! Jesus Christ!” Ilia yelped, grabbing a pillow to shield you two while still somehow staying inside you because pulling out right now felt even more awkward.

Mysti, completely unbothered, jumped onto the bed and headbutted Ilia’s arm, purring like she’d just discovered the world’s best scratching post.

Tatiana set the carrier down, covering her eyes dramatically with one hand but peeking through her fingers. “I’m going. I’m going. I brought sushi too—thought you’d be hungry after traveling. It’s in the fridge. Use protection next time, or don’t, I want grandbabies eventually. But maybe lock the door, da?”

She backed out, still talking. “Miu Miu, come on, your father is busy being disgusting.”

The front door clicked shut again a minute later.

You buried your face in Ilia’s neck, shaking with embarrassed laughter. “I am never showing my face in this house again.”

Ilia finally pulled out, rolling off you and pulling you close, both of you still cracking up. “She’s seen worse. Remember when she walked in on me watching porn at sixteen? This is nothing.”

“That was your mom?” You wheezed.

“Yep.” He kissed the top of your head, hand lazily stroking down your bare back. “Welcome to the Malinin family. Cats, chaos, and zero boundaries.”

You peeked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. “Round two after she’s definitely gone?”

Ilia grinned, already rolling on top of you again. “Hell yes. But this time we lock the damn door.”

Throned

Ilia Malinin x fem!reader

Summary: Ilia offers you a seat.

Contains: Smut, oral, minors dni

The living room was lit by the warm glow of string lights Ilia had insisted on hanging last month—“for the vibe, babe, trust me”—and the air smelled faintly of the takeout you had abandoned on the coffee table. Ilia had barely kicked off his shoes after training before he pounced on you, pulling you onto the couch with a playful growl.

“Gotcha,” he laughed against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip. You squealed, half-protesting, half-melting as your kiss turned hungry. His hands were everywhere—sliding up your thighs, squeezing your waist, tangling in your hair—while you tugged at the hem of his hoodie like it had personally offended you.

“You’re so sweaty from practice,” you teased between kisses, wrinkling your nose dramatically even as you pressed closer. “Gross. I should make you shower first.”

“Liar,” Ilia shot back, grinning wickedly as he flipped you so you were straddling him. “You love it. Admit it—you’ve got a thing for post-training Ilia.” He rocked his hips up teasingly, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you. You laughed, a bright, breathy sound that turned into a soft moan when he sucked on your tongue.

The make-out session was messy and perfect: deep, open-mouthed kisses full of tongue and little playful bites. Ilia would pull back just to pepper your face with quick pecks—your nose, cheeks, forehead—making you giggle and swat at him, only to dive back in with renewed heat. You tugged his hoodie off, tossing it dramatically over the lamp and plunging the room into an even cozier glow.

“Oops,” you said innocently, batting your lashes.

Ilia’s hands slipped under your oversized t-shirt (one of his, naturally), palms gliding up your bare back. “You’re trouble tonight, huh?” He squeezed your ass with both hands and gave it a light, playful smack that made you yelp and grind down harder against the obvious bulge in his sweatpants.

You kept going like that—kissing, teasing, laughing between gasps. You sucked a mark onto his neck, then immediately soothed it with your tongue. “Mine,” you declared proudly.

“All yours, baby,” he murmured, voice dropping low as his fingers traced the waistband of your tiny sleep shorts. Your tongues slid together again, wet and eager, until both of you were breathing hard and smiling like idiots in love.

Finally you pulled back, lips shiny and swollen, cheeks flushed. You rested your forehead against his. “Bedroom,” you whispered, then grinned mischievously. “Unless you want to risk your mom walking in on us out here like last time—”

Ilia barked out a laugh and stood up in one smooth motion, hands cupping your ass so you stayed wrapped around him. “Hell no. Bedroom. Now.”

He carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing, kicking the door open with his foot. The second it shut behind him, clothes started flying. Your shirt sailed across the room. His sweatpants joined it. Your shorts and panties were next, and you laughed as Ilia practically wrestled his boxers off, nearly tripping in the process.

“Graceful as ever, Olympic champion,” you teased, crawling onto the bed.

“Shush, you.” He tackled you gently onto the mattress, both of you laughing as you rolled around, trading kisses and ticklish touches. But the laughter faded into heat when Ilia pinned your wrists above your head and kissed you so deeply you forgot how to breathe.

He released your hands and sat back on his heels, looking down at you with dark, sparkling eyes. “Y/N… I wanna try something tonight. Something new. If you’re into it.”

You propped yourself up on your elbows, biting your lip. “Tell me.”

Ilia leaned down, kissing along your collarbone before whispering hotly against your ear. “I want you to sit on my face. Like, really sit. I wanna drown in you while you ride my tongue.”

Your breath caught, a visible shiver running through you. “Oh my god,” you laughed breathlessly, covering your face for a second. “You’re so dirty. I love it.”

“Yeah?” He grinned, flopping onto his back and patting his chest. “C’mere then, trouble. Don’t be shy.”

You swung a leg over him, hovering teasingly above his face on your knees. “What if I smother you?” You asked, playful and a little nervous.

Ilia gripped your hips, eyes locked on yours with pure hunger. “Then I’ll die happy. Now sit, baby. I’ve been thinking about this all damn day.”

Still giggling softly, you lowered yourself. The moment his mouth made contact, your laugh melted into a long, shaky moan. Ilia’s tongue was warm and eager, licking a slow, broad stripe up your already soaked folds.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he groaned, the vibration making your hips twitch. He didn’t hold back—licking, sucking, teasing your clit with the tip of his tongue while his hands kneaded your ass encouragingly.

You braced your hands on the headboard, experimentally rolling your hips. “Oh… Ilia…” you looked down between your thighs and nearly lost it at the sight of his eyes smiling up at you, shiny with mischief and lust. “You look ridiculous and hot at the same time.”

He pulled back just long enough to wink. “Less talking, more riding, princess.” Then he dove back in, sucking your clit between his lips and flicking it rapidly until your thighs started trembling.

You gave in fully, grinding down onto his face with growing confidence. Wet, filthy sounds filled the room—his eager slurping, your breathy moans and little giggles whenever he did something especially playful (like blowing a gentle raspberry against your inner thigh just to make you squeak). His hands guided your rhythm, squeezing your ass, occasionally giving it light, encouraging smacks that only made you move faster.

“God, yes—right there,” you panted, one hand dropping to thread through his messy hair. Ilia hummed happily, sliding two fingers inside you while his tongue worked your clit in tight circles. The stretch, the pressure, the playful little curls of his fingers had you seeing stars.

“You’re so fucking good at this,” you laughed-moaned, hips stuttering. “I’m gonna—Ilia, I’m—”

He doubled down, sucking hard and pumping his fingers faster. You came with a bright, surprised cry, grinding through every pulse while Ilia licked you through it like he was starving. Your legs shook violently, but he held you steady, drinking every drop until you were whimpering and oversensitive.

Finally you lifted off, collapsing beside him with a breathless laugh. Ilia’s face was flushed and glistening, hair wild, grin huge. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pulled you in for a messy, self-satisfied kiss so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“Best idea ever,” he declared, voice rough. “Ten out of ten. We’re doing that again.”

You giggled against his lips, still trembling. “Give me five minutes to recover, face-sitter, and maybe I’ll return the favor.”

Ilia’s eyes lit up with playful challenge. “Only five? I was hoping for at least ten. I’ve got more tricks, Y/N.”

You kissed him again, slow and deep, bodies still buzzing. The night was young, and you guys had all the time in the world to play.