𝓸r ── .✦ swamped with schoolwork and missed time at your job, you slip on a pair of sunglasses and bask in milan, italy, alongside your overnight superstar boyfriend, ilia malinin. when he wins the gold in the team event, you're both enthralled. and you? well, you might be a little too excited...because making him keep the medal on while you fuck? that's a new low, even for you.
⟢ 𝓻achel: another day, another dollar, or a beautiful submitted request. saw this in the inbox and went "oh yeah, that's the stuff." just...don't ask why it took so long to write. anyway, THAT'S A 3X WORLD CHAMPION TO YOU!!!!! enjoy, and happy reading! xo
── tags below the cut .ᐟ
𝓬ontent: smut mdni, established relationship, fingering, roman spotted??, p in v, protected sex (we cheered), they have sex with his medal on, he kinda makes fun of her for being turned on by that, implied second round
༄⋆₊❅.⛸️🥇𓂃.˚৻ꪆ
you don't remember how you ended up here.
you're not even an athlete. in fact, you don't think you have an athletic bone in your body. yet still, you managed to snag over a month's time off at your job, convince your professors to excuse any late work, and complete said assignments at 3:00 in the morning (milan time, of course).
it's not every day that your boyfriend competes in his first olympic games; nor is it that you get the chance to accompany him.
but this?
it isn't exactly an everyday occurrence.
or ever,
…really.
ilia's palms skate over bare skin, exposed ribs that absorb the warmth from his hands. your head — emptied — rests carefully on the fluffed pillow behind you.
a long, heavy sigh when his fingers curl around your waist just to draw you near.
and the gold medal hanging around his neck; that's a new one.
"i cannot believe you want me to leave this thing on," his voice muffled by your neck, lips dragging over the skin until they reach the curve where it meets your shoulder.
"because it's hot, ilia," as the medal brushes cold over the center of your chest; heavy.
"you're freaked out."
you smile, your upper body shaking with a gentle laugh. your fingers slip into his hair, guide him along your skin.
he pushes the band of your sleep shorts down — disregarding the fragile material — until your hips lift.
the clock burns somewhere around one in the morning. you should be asleep, counting sheep instead of numbers of fingers pressing into you.
the heavy gold sits in the valley of your chest; a delicious threat to your breathing that you make no effort to minimize. his fingers dip further in, curling into the spot he knows you like. it pries a low hum from your throat, nothing more than casual approval.
the embossed olympic rings brand their shape into your skin, medal trapped between heavy breaths. his free hand rests at your ribcage, thumb pressing into the muscle just firmly enough for you to feel its warmth.
it's almost embarrassing how well ilia has learned you. to treat your body with the exact calculated measure that nearly makes your soul lift.
but you love him for it. and if the electrified — yet strikingly intimate — sex is anything to go by, he'd say he does a pretty good job.
as his mouth draws kisses into slick skin, his phone buzzes on the bedside table. you laugh from below, a sharp intake of breath when his fingers slip out. he wipes them dry on the edge of the bed, reaches over, and tilts the screen toward him until the facial recognition unlocks.
his father; something about the practice tomorrow morning. the phone thunks back onto the table.
"that's gross, you know. touching your phone like that."
"you want me to keep an olympic medal on while we have sex, and your issue lies with my dirty fingers," he blinks.
but you don't protest; he's shaking his head and returning to the column of your neck before a defensive thought can form. a soft, teasing kiss to the skin that melts into your body.
his fingers fish around the nightstand — the room dark besides the moonlight streaming through the sheer blinds — and produce a wrapper. similar to the many you've already gone through since the plane landed in milan.
you're lucky ilia was so prideful that he had the nerve to pack his own condoms.
seriously, ten thousand in less than two weeks?
foil tearing, excess wrapper spat onto the floor. you swallow, holding his bicep tighter, heart beating beneath the steady weight of gold.
his eyes find yours with a silent question; you nod, eyebrows suddenly knitted together.
careful pressure when the tip pushes in. heavier with every inch. his hand nudges the bend in your knee until your heel lifts from the hard mattress. instinctively, you let the curve rest at his waist, pulling him deeper.
ilia breathes from above; the medal dangles dangerously below your chin, over a pound of weight threatening to bruise skin if he makes one wrong move.
but he doesn't.
it's one, two careful motions to adjust before presses turn to angled thrusts. adrenaline radiating into the brisk dorm air from his body — after the near-perfect free skate, medal-winning performance, the ceremony that set his victory in stone.
spots cloud your vision with every push, the calculated, demanding drag of his cock along your walls. you breathe into his ear, a soft murmur of his name with the little russian twang you adopted that makes his stomach curl.
fingers fisting into the soft hair on his head, a little tug when he brushes the sensitive spot buried in your lower stomach. the medal shifts against your chest, and an unwanted whimper pries itself out of your throat. ilia grins; dips his head to kiss the corner of your mouth where a droplet of sweat once lay.
your manicured nails press into his shoulder blade. firm, grounding. telling him to keep going just like that, without explicitly stating it.
"beautiful," ilia mumbles into the side of your head, hand resting at your hip.
damn right.
you tug at his hair until your lips find his, kissing him to soften the ache between your thighs. languid rolls of his tongue over yours — stark contrast to the heaviness of his thrusts as they pull the air from your lungs.
your free hand slides up to his chest, fingertips brushing the lanyard around his neck. you try to wrap them around it, grip the silky material for stability, but his hand finds yours before you can get a hold.
"it'll break," he breathes low, chest rising with a heavy breath.
"but ilia—"
"shh."
he hums into your mouth; places your hand at his bicep, and doesn't let up until he feels your fingers grip the taut muscle.
someone in the hallway mutters his name as if they can't be heard — a whisper meant to serve as gossip. you laugh, pull him closer until your strength waivers.
his voice falls to a breathy whisper against the column of your neck; a command in russian that you've become familiar with, that pulls at your stability like a thread. the gentle nature of his voice sends a wave through your spine and settles in your stomach, where the line of tension finally snaps at his word.
gripping him until your knuckles turn white, you gasp for breath — just hushed enough to go unnoticed by the rooms adjacent. the medal's cool gold surface shifts toward your neck, resting just above your collarbone as ilia lifts.
release coating the length of him and finding its way onto the clean, lavender-scented sheets beneath you. a moan falling from your boyfriend's parted lips that resonates in your ears, your chest, your belly, your core.
his cheek — flushed, warm — presses to the side of your head with a swell of passing breaths. the weight of his body atop yours and the medal just below your throat, relief slowly drifting into your muscles, is heavy to bear.
your fingers trace the dip of his collarbone. ilia breathes, a small puff of breath grazing the tip of your ear. the room is suddenly quiet. stripped bare of the tension that once graced the four walls.
"did you get what you wanted?"
his voice soft, a little frail at the edge as he asks the tentative question.
"mhm," you nod, brushing back a strand of hair that was stuck to his forehead. your hand lowers to his shoulder, fingertips grazing the silky edge.
"perfect, as usual."
ilia laughs.
"good."
your eyes trail down to the medal, where they linger for a few comfortably silent moments. your fingers find the sharpened edge, glide forward until the embossed olympic rings press into the skin.
he watches with a smile.
you're smiling, too.
"i'm proud of you, ilia," you whisper softly into the air; the words disappear as they leave your tongue, just loudly enough to reach his ears.
his smile grows, and he releases a small huff of air.
you tilt your head to kiss him, gently, running your fingers through his hair to relax his muscles.
he shifts, kissing a path along the side of your face and bringing the cold metal surface with him, letting it brush firmly against the underside of your jaw. with the sudden movement, you wince, fingers finding his bicep again and squeezing gently. the pressure doesn't alleviate the ache between your thighs.
ilia apologizes; hums a gentle apology into your hairline as he pulls the remaining length out and breathes.
he kisses the tip of your nose; the corner of your mouth; your top lip.
"i love you," he murmurs in a tone so soft that it almost sounds as if he thinks he needs to remind you.
your gaze flits to the medal, then to his lips, and lands back on his blue eyes, careful in their stare.
filled with love and affection and everything in between that he can never place the words to say.
"i love you, too," you respond with conviction, fingers tugging playfully at the overgrown strands of hair in their hold. you let them trail back down until they curl into the silky lanyard, "and this."
ilia shakes his head, laughing as his head cranes to slot his lips with yours again.
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