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Till knows what he's doing. He knows Ivan has a dog-like libido—that nasty fucker—and he turns Till over multiple times a week to satiate it.
It didn’t mean anything, of course. Till would sooner take a long walk off a short pier before he ever called someone like Ivan his boyfriend, much less his lover. He wouldn’t even consider them friends, though there’s some degree of need from either of them that keeps them tied.
One being Ivan is his shadow. A ghastly thing, the creep follows him to gigs and the store and back home where he does as he pleases with the reasoning of, “I behaved tonight.”
Like hell he did.
There’s only a fifteen-minute break in the middle of Till’s set and he’s supposed to spend it rehydrating and resting his voice. Instead, he spends it with Ivan’s tongue down his throat or his fingers in his mouth or hands on his body that are impossibly reliable when it comes to wandering downward.
He’s a dog—an honest-to-god mutt.
Till swears each morning he won’t let it happen again until Ivan’s eyes of black fire swallow him whole and every cell in his body becomes unbearably pliant, burning with unadulterated desire. He’s not stupid, after all, or stubborn enough to pretend what they get up to isn’t enjoyable. If anything, it’s a steady outlet for whatever Till’s got simmering beneath his skin all the time.
He just wishes Ivan could show a little restraint.
The breaking point comes when Till experiences a very bad day.
It starts with the rain. He checked the forecast twice this morning—twice—since the walk to his gig is a long one and he needs to know if other transportation methods should be arranged. Both times, the phony weatherman assured clear skies in the evening.
Till curses the station to hell and back when ten minutes from his apartment thunder cracks and the sky breaks open like the second coming of Christ.
Ivan is already at the bar when he arrives, dry, perfect, handsome as always. His grin is wicked, dragging mirthful eyes up and down Till’s soaked form to further humiliate him.
“Decided to shower on the way?”
If Till’s sixteen hundred dollar electric guitar that he’d saved up three years’ worth of gig money to buy wasn’t nestled in the case in his hand, he’d fling the thing at the towering asshole’s skull.
Instead, he sets it down gently on the floor of his cramped guest dressing room and takes a deep, useless breath. Maybe the poor excuse for meditation would’ve worked if Ivan hadn’t followed him in, shutting the door behind them and grinning that freakish grin. Although, Till would’ve been a little weirded out if he didn’t.
He ignores the eyes stuck to his body, feeling their presence more than he feels the soaked fabric clinging to his skin. Chill bumps rise, and Till doesn’t know if they’re from the frigid air-conditioned room he’s in or the intensity of Ivan’s devouring stare.
Likely both.
Ivan takes the small towel Till uses to start drying himself off, applying much gentler force as he rubs it over sopping strands of short grey hair. It irks him that the taller feels the need to take part in every little thing that Till does, but he allows the doting anyway, admittedly enjoying the process more when he’s not trying to strip his outer layer of skin off from how hard he tries to dry it.
His kindness always has a motive, to get closer. Till waits for the hands stripping him of his soaked outerwear to reach for his ass and almost misses them when they don’t. Strange.
“You’re going to get sick.”
“I won’t.”
He does. He’s already feeling the effects by the end of his set, pushing Ivan’s hand from his forehead at he gauges his temperature during his break. Till swears the shudders he’s getting are from the chilly moonlit air as Ivan walks him home, bundled in both his jacket and Ivan’s, sniffling at the occasional drip of his runny nose.
Ivan gives him a piggyback ride up to his apartment despite Till’s adamant protests, depositing the starving artist onto his bed and slowly working off his clothes. Till knows where this is going.
He pushes Ivan away with one sturdy hand on that stupidly muscular chest, “Fuck off.”
The taller doesn’t even budge, pinching the hem of Till’s shirt and peeling it over his head.
He raises an eyebrow at the evident flush of Till’s cheek, “You want to sleep in your outer clothes?”
It’s not the first time their fits of passion have started this way. Till grits his teeth, fighting off the increasing ache in his muscles and the fog of approaching fever. He really can’t do this tonight.
“I’ll take them off myself.”
He won’t. If Ivan leaves now, Till will sleep just like this, exhausted from his set and his developing cold and the effort it takes to keep his desires on a leash when Ivan is nearby. Ivan knows this, so he keeps going.
And really, Till can’t.
The two of them are no strangers to experimenting in the bedroom, but Till’s not into having sex while he’s knocked out cold and shivering with fever. At least, he doesn’t think he is…
“Ivan,” It’s whinier than intended, more plea than warning.
Ivan freezes with his fingers tucked into the waistband of Till’s pants, hovering there for such a short moment before he’s leaning over Till’s upper half. One hand supports his weight on the other side of Till’s head while the other gently cradles the side of his face, confirming that those hazy teal eyes are looking back at him, conscious and aware
“We’re not going any further tonight, Till. I’m going to change your clothes and get you settled then I’ll leave and come back in the morning to check on you. Is that alright?”
Everything Till and Ivan do is done with consent. This is an unbroken law that’s always reiterated—nothing new—but there’s something about this specific confirmation that sends a different sort of heat through him.
Ivan, with his seemingly unquenchable thirst, is getting no sexual pleasure from this. He’s going to take care of Till and then leave before they go their usual rounds because—Well, Till doesn’t know why.
And he wants to know if it’s alright.
Till swallows hard, subconsciously leaning into that comforting palm at his cheek while maintaining eye contact with those infinite voids Ivan has for eyes.
“That’s… fine.”
It’s more than fine. It’s nice. It has no reason.
Ivan does as promised. Till falls asleep the second he’s tucked beneath his comforter, unaware of the way Ivan stays at his side for longer than he should have or the water and medicine he leaves on his bedside table before making the long journey back to his own apartment.
Till’s condition has worsened by morning, muscles achy, feverish enough to hardly register that Ivan has used his spare key to get into Till’s apartment. He can’t stop looking at Ivan now that he knows he’s there, humming under the palm at his forehead, mumbling sluggish protests to Ivan’s theory that it’s more than a cold.
He makes Till drink an entire glass of water before encouraging him to eat, helping him to the bathroom and leaving for privacy until Till decides he’d really like to wash off the sweat that’d accumulated on his skin throughout the night. Ivan returns to help him shower. Till waits for the advance, anticipates it, falters when it doesn’t come.
Ivan has never resisted Till when he’s naked. He doesn’t so much as witness a wandering eye and realizes whatever the fuck his immune system is failing to fight off must make him look so gross that Ivan isn’t even attracted to him anymore.
It turns Till’s blood to tar, anxious swell giving him a new sense of clarity.
Ivan is too busy washing Till’s hair to notice. He reaches up, grasping at the smooth appendages scrubbing his scalp and coaxing them lower. He places those familiar hands covered in suds over his chest, breath hitching at the sensation of Ivan’s fingers running over his nipples.
Till has little doubt Ivan will be able to resist, having a history of pinching and biting the buds until they’re swollen. By some force of god, Ivan manages.
“What are you doing?”
He wilts.
With hands still holding Ivan’s, Till cranes his neck toward the taller, moving them down to hold his own waist before pressing a wet kiss to Ivan’s lips. Ivan allows one, two, three kisses before he pulls away, hot hands holding Till back from where they rest above his hips when he chases after the exchange.
Till catches the threads of hunger in Ivan’s eyes and nearly sags against the shower wall in relief.
“As much as I’d love to, there’s no way we’re doing anything while you’re sick.” He tilts his head, cocky grin brightening his face, “But it’s nice to know you want me that much.”
Till glares. They’re back to square one.
The end of Ivan’s doting comes on the fourth day, when Till has recovered enough that he doesn’t actually need Ivan to come and take care of him. His fever is gone, as are his sniffles and the minor cough. He’ll be back to doing gigs the day after tomorrow, itching to get his hands back on his guitar.
Ivan comes over to make them dinner. Till sits atop a parallel counter as he watches Ivan cook, the veins in his arms more prominent as he lifts the pan, moving around Till’s kitchen like it’s his own. It might as well be.
Ivan bent Till over this exact counter two weeks ago, pent up from a long day of work and resorting to his usual method of stress relief that involved Till’s ass. He’d made Till strip bare, watched his skin shiver as it made contact with the laminate, had completely unraveled him all while fully clothed like Till was just a whore he used for quick release—fuck.
His dick twitches in his pants and he nearly curses aloud.
Not once in his life did he think he would miss Ivan’s insatiable libido. All along, Till put up with it because he had desires of his own that he’d much rather release with someone he knows over a lousy hookup with a stranger. He’d tried that route once already. It didn’t go over well with Till or Ivan.
Till still shivers thinking about that broad palm coming down on his ass for the umpteenth time in the span of five minutes. His knees knock together as he pushes his thighs closed.
Plus, Ivan knows what Till likes. He knows exactly where to poke and prod and kiss, what to say to get him riled up enough to short-circuit, knows how to reduce him to a mess of wanton need. If there is ever a time in Till’s life where he can completely surrender it is beneath Ivan’s skilled touch and his touch alone.
He bites his lip.
“Ivan.”
Ivan pushes pasta around the pan, his back to Till.
“Hm?”
“Come here.”
Mercifully, Ivan does as he’s told. Till traps him the second he’s close enough, wrapping his legs around the taller’s thighs and snaking his arms around that pale neck.
Till kisses him before he can say something egotistical, pleased by Ivan’s surprise and practically purring at the reciprocation.
He’d missed this, the hunger. Ivan worships Till’s lips anytime they’re stuck together, coaxing out moans and hitching his breath, licking at the inside of his mouth and over his teeth before he bites and pulls until they’re red and swollen.
Till thought the kissing was strange at first.
It seemed like a thing couples did, and they were obviously far from that status since all they did was annoy each other and screw around. It took him about forty-five seconds to warm up to the exchange once he realized the effect it had on his dick, cumming hard enough to make him lightheaded when Ivan refused to let up for a second as he worked Till’s ass to the point of overstimulation.
Now, they never have sex without it.
Just as Till reaches for Ivan’s zipper, he pulls back.
Till chases him, pressing smothering kisses over closed lips, feeling pathetic and desperate all at once. Ivan is the one who’s always so needy, isn’t he? How could he reject Till now, when he needs him just as much?
“You’re still recovering,” Ivan placates, attempting to soothe Till with a few more waning pecks.
“And the pasta will burn.”
Just like that, Ivan exhibits an uncharacteristic amount of self-control and leaves a horny Till alone on the kitchen counter. It sets off the ticking time bomb that lasts for exactly one hour, long enough for them to eat and for Till to guide Ivan toward his bedroom before he mentions he should be getting home.
Then, it explodes.
“Why are you doing this?” He can’t hide his frustration, his anger. Ivan has done nothing but care for him the past few days, doting on his every need, treating him like he’s—like they’re—
“What do you mean?”
Ivan gets nothing out of this, that beastly creature. The same man that ravages Till every chance he gets, that loves to pick him apart until he’s a drooling mess, until he’s subhuman, until he acts on Ivan’s will and his will alone. Taking care of Till when he’s sick and gross hasn’t the slightest benefit.
“What are you getting out of this? Why are you doing it if you’re not even going to, if we’re not—“
It’s a bad time to get shy. Ivan understands anyway, and his eyes darken to a mahogany shade Till seldom gets the chance to witness, flat and dull and angry. Then, Ivan smiles, cynical.
“Do you think I only stick around to have sex with you?”
If the frequency of their intimacy is anything to go by, he does.
Of course, that’s not the only thing they do together.
Ivan watches all of Till’s shows, no matter what kind of hole-in-the-wall bar he ends up playing at. When he comes over, sometimes they do something else before they’re at each other’s throats, like watching a movie or playing games on Till’s Nintendo Switch. They go grocery shopping together. Ivan goes with Till to his doctor’s appointments because hospitals make him anxious.
But it’s all for the reward, Till thinks. Ivan does it as a means of exchange.
“…Don’t you?”
Ivan pulls back, creating a distance between them so suddenly that Till reaches out to grab at the air and pull him back. Hell, he nearly follows before he realizes that Ivan does not want Till in his vicinity at the moment. It stings more than it should, a physical pain beneath his ribcage that actually startles him.
Till doesn’t know what to say.
Ivan picks up his slack, “I’m sorry I made you feel that way.”
It’s so unlike him, the distance. The poorly concealed anger, the disappointment.
Till gapes. He takes a wobbly step forward on a whim, wanting to touch, to hold, not knowing if it’s allowed. Ivan spent the last five days caring for a sick man and he did it because he wanted to, not because there was something to be gained. Hell, he did it because he cared, and all Till could think about was getting laid.
The world tips onto his axis too fast for him to keep up with.
“I need to get going. I’ll see you later.”
Ivan turns toward the door, doesn’t hesitate to pull it open, to leave. Till stands and stares at the place Ivan once was for long enough that even the setting sun leaves him and he’s left alone in the dark.
✩
It takes Till a little under a week to realize what he’s done. Ivan disappears in the meantime.
He ignores all of Till’s texts, is absent from his gigs, no longer puts the spare key Till gave him over a year ago to use. Sometimes, Till stares at all his one-sided outgoing messages. Other times, he catches himself up late at night, curled up atop his mattress with his ears tuned in to listen for the twist of his front door lock.
Till doesn’t think it’ll last forever until he wonders if it could.
The thought sets his body ablaze with such fearful alarm that he braves the thirty-five-minute walk to Ivan’s apartment at midnight in his plaid pajama pants and a worn-down t-shirt he only keeps to sleep in. Ivan answers the door after a series of pounding knocks—alarmingly shirtless—with a tired frown and disheveled hair that Till would kill to run his hands through.
Instead, his mouth opens and confesses.
“I don’t think you stick around me just for sex, Ivan. I—That’s not why I stick around you.”
If Ivan is surprised to see Till at his doorstep, he doesn’t show it. His obsidian eyes bore through him, unflinching as he gives Till the chance to get what he’s denied himself from wanting all this time—if he’s brave enough to admit it. He hopes Ivan’s neighbors are heavy sleepers.
“I do it because I want to. Because I like spending time with you. Because being around you annoys me as much as it makes me happy, and being without you is fucking miserable. And yes, the sex is great. It’s better than great, I mean, it’s—It’s addicting. But that’s not why I stick around you, Ivan. I’m sorry… about what I said before. You don’t make me feel that way.”
He swallows hard, “I was wrong.”
There are three words Till’s never said before. It’s a testament to his admission, a plea so desperate he might as well get down on his knees and beg. He hopes he will, later.
Ivan is a dick, so he makes Till wait for an agonizingly long amount of time before the corner of his lip pulls up into a snide grin and his eyes sparkle with poorly concealed delight.
“You look like shit.”
Till breathes a sigh of relief and masks it with anger, “Fuck you.”
Of course, he looks like shit.
Between dealing with the overdue realization of his feelings and Ivan’s absence, he’s been prone to forgetting things like eating or sleeping or his sorry excuse for a skincare routine. Not to mention the only thing he’d done before leaving his apartment was throw on a pair of slides despite his obvious need to freshen up.
Ivan smiles, fox-like, hungry. He steps aside, “That was an adorable declaration, Till. I think you’ve earned your reward, hm?”
Horny bastard.
Till, who’s no better, stalks past the taller and beelines to Ivan’s bedroom with a heart hammering in anticipation. He’s shed everything down to his underwear by the time Ivan catches up with him, eyebrows pinched at his lack of urgency.
It’s been almost two weeks since they’ve had sex. It used to be a miracle if they lasted two days.
He bites, “Why aren’t you getting undressed?”
Ivan’s pupils are dilated, roaming over Till’s unblemished body. Usually, Ivan can’t keep his teeth to himself, which means Till ends up with love bites in all the places people can and can’t see. Time heals all wounds, so Till is a clean slate.
“I think I’ll take my time with you tonight.”
The shiver starts at his neck and crawls down to the base of his spine, feeling the moment his heartbeat stutters before quickening. Till is almost scared. He’s briefly thankful that he kept his underwear on so that his dick’s reaction to his impending destruction isn’t as obvious—But of course, it isn’t entirely unnoticed.
Nothing ever is under Ivan’s watchful gaze, mapping his skin with ink-colored eyes as if meticulously deciding which patch of bare skin he wants to paint first. Till feels smaller already, spine curling against his will, fingers vibrating with a subtle tremble.
They haven’t even gotten started.
He manages to hold his ground as Ivan approaches. It doesn’t matter, not as he’s pushed down onto the bed behind him, quivering stare fixated on Ivan’s expression of pure lust as large hands roam from his neck to his chest, over his waist and down to his hips where they squeeze.
“You lost weight.”
It might’ve been a pound or two at most, but Ivan is a sick freak who could probably recite how many moles Till has on his body without even having to count. He is nothing if not meticulous in his study of Till.
“That’s your fault.”
Till can’t cook for shit, so he often relies on Ivan’s unscheduled pop-ins to feed himself properly. The taller always makes enough for the two of them and then some, packing the rest into a container and leaving it in his fridge so Till can pick on it later. Without the constant food supply, he’s been slacking in terms of adequate consumption.
Ivan’s voice drags, mischievous and promising, “I’ll have to make it up to you, then.”
Till is glad he’s already lain on his back, limbs turning to jelly.
The dim lighting casts shadows that highlight Ivan’s muscle mass, not bulky but toned, his thick arms and the whisper of abs the result of his methodical workout routine he’s been sticking to since middle school. Till always thought it was funny that Ivan started his road to bulking up the day after Till got into a fight with another classmate for the first time.
Typical.
Teeth drag across his neck as Ivan hovers, latching onto the smooth skin and sucking hard enough to arch Till’s back off the bed. He’s always been particularly sensitive to love bites, craves the sensitive tingling, the ache of the bruise leaves that follows for days afterwards. Two needy hands come up to grip Ivan’s leaning form, grounding Till as the first wave of that pleasureful fog rolls over him.
Ivan hadn’t lied about wanting to take his time with Till.
He’s particularly careful about his marks, paying special attention to the places he knows Till is most sensitive. His neck, collarbone, chest, stomach. When Ivan bites the first mark into Till’s inner thigh he tries to crush the man’s head between them, to which Ivan restrains him with either hand pushing the thin things against the mattress.
All the while, Till squirms beneath him, pathetic mumbles of pleasure increasing to whines as Ivan makes art of his skin.
Only when he’s satisfied with his work does Ivan relent, looking down at Till while standing on his knees atop the bed. His lips are red and wet with saliva, Till watching as they curl into a satisfied grin, following Ivan’s movement as he shifts to lay with his back to the headboard.
Then, he stares, expectant.
Till awaits instruction.
“Go on. Eat.”
Ah. This is the making up for it, then.
Till crawls the rest of the way up Ivan’s bed, on his stomach in Ivan’s lap, sensitive nipples brushing against the soft fabric of the taller’s sweatpants. He pulls at the hem, sliding his boxers down with it just low enough for Ivan’s cock to spring free.
It’s fucking weird that Ivan’s dick is just as stupid and handsome and large as the rest of him.
“Freak,” He mumbles, unable to summon the insult’s usual bite when he’s too lost in the sight before him. Till has missed this and it shows, eagerly licking up from the base until he can swallow the tip into his mouth.
Ivan’s hand squeezes either side of his face in one muzzling grip and pulls him off, “Slowly,” He commands, eyes shining with amusement.
Till suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He wants his dick worshipped. After two weeks of Ivan refusing to give him what he wants, Till bends to his every will.
With a hand at the base of Ivan’s cock, Till takes the tip back into his mouth and spares a few slow, restrained pumps. He slides his tongue over the slit, getting a taste of Ivan’s accumulating precum and humming around the satisfaction of their mutual sensitivity.
“There you go,” Ivan praises, the furrow of his brow relaxing marginally as the calloused skin of his hands pushes Till’s hair back and holds.
He wonders if Ivan masturbated in the time they were apart, or if he knew the shorter would be back and waited for a moment just like this one so that he’d be full and eager to savor it. Till’s cock, which has been untouched ever since he and Ivan’s last engagement, aches with neglect in his briefs.
He hopes they’ve both been practicing abstinence.
Till takes Ivan deeper into his mouth, each movement of his tongue deliberate, measured. Just as Ivan knows all of Till’s sweet spots, Till knows Ivan’s, using them to his advantage and watching his stomach tense and relax in succession. Pleased that he’s already garnered such a reaction, Till starts to steadily bob his head, working in tandem with his hand and he hollows out his cheeks and sucks.
Ivan hums, a deep, guttural sound. Till would’ve smiled at the sound if it meant his teeth wouldn’t scrape the sensitive appendage. He does it anyway.
That pleased moan morphs into a hiss, fingers laced in his hair tightening before they pull. The pain goes straight to Till’s dick, feeling a familiar wetness stain his briefs as he watches Ivan’s lips curl into a sardonic smile.
“Already in the mood to stop?”
Till’s stomach curls, his grip on the man’s thighs tightening in distress. He couldn’t bear to be abandoned by Ivan now, not when he’s been starved of him for this long—when he needs this. He releases Ivan’s dick from his mouth and licks at the place he’d scraped pathetically, the closest thing Ivan will get to an apology.
Based on Ivan’s hungry expression, it seems to be working.
Instead of stopping, Till licks down to the base of Ivan’s cock and back up again, kittenish laps that cause the hot flesh beneath his tongue to twitch. He manages to maintain heady eye contact with Ivan while doing so, feeling just as unraveled from his place in the man’s lap, cheeks heating to the point of fever.
It’s scarily easy, this surrender.
Till, who’s always wound up so tight, relishes in the release of tension, savoring the relief that comes with submitting to his and Ivan’s whims alike. It’s a freedom that blurs his vision with tears, the pool of warmth within boiling to a melting point that reduces Till to liquid.
He dares to think it’s religious, this exchange. Till looks at Ivan like he’s been made by him and preens when he’s destroyed and reborn again and again and again beneath the hand of his maker.
There’s a bit of drool leaking from the corner of Till’s lips when he takes Ivan’s cock back into his mouth. The taste of precum coats his tongue, knowing Ivan is getting closer to release by the way his body tenses. He seems to grow impossibly bigger inside Till’s mouth, jaw aching at the width it has to open to swallow the appendage.
Till’s hand pumps the base unhurriedly—taking his time as Ivan intended, worshipping as any devout believer would. He can only fit so much down his throat before it’s unbearable, palm covering the rest of his absurd length as he slowly, slowly, works Ivan to his climax.
Till pulls off at the subtle twitch of Ivan’s hips, watching the string of salvia between his bottom lip and the head of Ivan’s cock break at the same time a cloudy spurt of cum pools at the tip.
Ivan’s groan reverberates through his chest. The short spurts of cum build until they start to leak down in thick drops toward his balls. Till watches the spectacle with a certain subdued twinkle in his eyes before Ivan encourages him back into action.
“This is the part where I make up for starving you, Till.”
He trembles, knowing his face is burning scarlet.
“Bastard.”
Till doesn’t allow a single drop to go to waste. He curls his tongue over every inch, licking up the milky substance and keeping it for longer than he should have in his mouth. Ivan grabs his face by his cheeks again, pulling his gaze from where it’d been focused on his cock and forcing their eyes to meet when Till swallows it down.
They repeat this until Ivan’s dick is licked clean.
The crimson center of Ivan’s obsidian eyes burns like candlelight, alight in the dim room. He pets Till’s hair back, smiling gently, proud.
“You did such a good job, Angel.”
Till’s cock aches. He thinks he spends an even amount of time getting degraded by Ivan as he does praised, but the taller knows the latter has a certain effect on Till that can reduce him to something syrupy. Till had already teetered on the edges of that headspace before, but the words of appraisal tip him over that invisible line and begin his descent to pure submission.
Of course, he’s not there quite yet. Ivan prefers to have full control over when exactly Till falls.
“Come here.”
Till doesn’t have it in him to be angry over being called like a dog. He climbs up to straddle Ivan’s lap and pitches forward. Their lips meet at the same their cocks do, Till’s clothed while Ivan’s exposed. He shudders at the sensation, needing more pressure, trying to sneak a few subtle grinds.
Ivan pins his hips in place with his stupidly large hands, smiling into their kiss. He bites Till’s bottom lip and pulls at it.
“You’ve been patient so far,” Dread builds, “I’m sure you can handle a little while longer.”
Till can—he knows he can—but he doesn’t want to. The thought of throbbing in his briefs for a second longer has him squirming, speaking around merciful kisses as Ivan covers his mouth again.
“Ivan.” It’s a plea.
Ivan licks into his mouth, thumbs rubbing circles over Till’s painfully sensitive nipples. Till’s back curls, trying to escape the contact and whining when Ivan chases. His kisses are relentless, hands more so, overstimulating Till with contact in the places he doesn’t desperately need it.
“Ivan, please.”
He’s begging. It’s what they both wanted.
Ivan smiles.
“On your stomach.”
Till does as he’s told, laying flat on the comforter beside Ivan. The taller sits up, shifting to sit on his knees by Till’s hips, reaching a hand beneath him and dragging so that his ass is up in the air. Till’s thighs shake, knees pressed into the mattress, anticipation lighting his nerves with fire.
Ivan settles with one folded leg between Till’s thighs to keep them separated, the other in the same position on the outside. The hand that lifted him from his navel slides up, sparing his nipples the last bit of attention before it travels down between his legs.
He palms at Till’s clothed cock, the firm grip twisting Till’s torso with pleasure. Tears spring to his eyes, cheek pressed down into the bed, too weak to look back at what Ivan’s doing to him. The teasing doesn’t last long, tepid air of Ivan’s room hitting his ass as Ivan pulls his briefs down to gather at his knees.
“Tell me when you’re about to cum,” Ivan orders, gently stroking Till’s cock as it hangs down between his legs.
Precum drips onto the comforter as fear mixes with desperation. Till knows what’s to come of this.
His tone reveals his distress, “Ivan, I can’t.”
Ivan grips his shaft so tightly it almost hurts, “If you don’t then we’ll have to stop.”
Till weighs the lesser of two evils. Ivan will make him cum either way, but it’s about how he wants to do it that makes Till both alarmingly hard and scared. Till can cum when Ivan allows it, and Ivan is disgustingly reluctant to let him do so.
He hisses, “Fuck, just—“ Till’s breath hitches around a deep exhale, “Fine, I’ll try.”
He doesn’t have to see Ivan to know he’s grinning. The hand holding his dick loosens, stroking it lightly as if trying to comfort him. Till wants to curse Ivan again but holds his tongue as gentle kisses are pressed to his back.
“I know you can do this, Till.”
Ivan hovers over him, a mountain of a man, casting shadows on Till’s bare back which he continues to pepper with his lips.
“If it gets too much, let me know.”
They have safe words for things like this. Till’s never had to use them before and he doesn’t think he’ll need them now, but Ivan always likes to reiterate for his sake. It makes Till nauseous.
He hums in confirmation.
Ivan bites his shoulder blade, likely leaving a mark, “I need verbal confirmation.”
Till claws at the bedding beneath him, sick of the torment that has yet to truly begin.
“Okay, yes, I got it! Get on with it.”
Ivan chuckles against his skin. It’s a bad sign. His presence at Till’s back disappears along with the hand that’d been leisurely tugging at his dick, the eyes Till had squeezed shut barreling open at the loss of contact.
He half-raises himself back onto his hands as if he intends to follow.
“Iv—“
Ivan presses a heavy palm to the small of his back, “Easy, I’m not going anywhere.”
Till watches Ivan reach for his bedside drawer, procuring a familiar bottle of lube. He relaxes back into the mattress at the sight, eyes closing as he puffs out a sigh of relief. Till doesn’t know why he thought Ivan would leave him, not after he’d just promised Till’s impending unraveling.
Ivan would have to be locked up or murdered to miss out on that.
He blames this past week for putting the possibility into his head. Ivan, always looking at him, following him, touching him. Ivan, gone entirely. His heart falls into his gut and he needs Ivan more than he ever has.
As if sensing this desire, Ivan’s hand returns to his cock and a cold sensation slides down over his hole. Till shudders at the feeling, gritting his teeth when Ivan’s free hand prods at his entrance, lathering his finger in lube before forcing its way inside. The grip Till had on the comforter returns, breathless moans spilling past his saliva-soaked lips.
The combination of Ivan’s touch inside and around him causes Till to twitch. He wants to cum already.
Steeling himself, Till wills himself to calm down, blinking tears out of teal eyes and ignoring Ivan’s distant cooing. The finger inside him curls and Till tenses.
“Ivan.”
Ivan chuckles, the hand on his dick slowing to a stop.
“So soon?”
Till burns. He’d deprived the artist of all contact for almost two weeks and he thinks it wouldn’t have an effect? After years of his constant presence? Of course he knows, Till thinks bitterly. That’s why he’s doing this.
The curled finger straightens out so it doesn’t prod that sensitive nerve anymore, allowing Till a short moment of consolation before a second finger enters and the hand on his cock starts moving again. Pressure builds in Till’s gut, muscles tightening and relaxing in an endless cycle of pain and pleasure.
Ivan works his hole in the same rhythm as his dick, tandem pleasure that reduces Till’s body to jelly. Again and again, he works Till to his climax before stopping just short, the intense pressure building to the point of pain until Till can’t stake it anymore and he starts begging through free-flowing tears.
Ivan must’ve choked his orgasm six or seven times now. Till can only withstand so much.
His breath heaves, “Ivan, please—I want to—“
Ivan pumps faster, “You want to?”
Till prays, “Fuck—I need to, you bastard. I can’t—it hurts.”
Ivan hovers over him, both hands still working at an increasingly unbearable pace. He places gentle kisses over his back, such a stark contrast to the torture his hands supply, making Till shiver. Till’s whole body quivers, writhing in the presence of another doomed orgasm, twitching with want.
Ivan’s voice is low, merciful.
“Alright, Till.”
Till isn’t stupid. It’s not a green light. Ivan is such an asshole, he makes Till wait until he gets specific. The fingers inside of him curl, pressing that sweet spot again.
“You can cum now.”
Till’s toes curl, a pathetic whine of a moan spilling out as his vision swims. Ivan works him through the orgasm, milking his dick until Till has no doubt the bedding is ruined with a puddle of his cum. The release of pressure is equally painful and pleasurable, Till’s mind reeling at the combined influence of his orgasm and the encouraging words Ivan whispers.
Except, it doesn’t stop.
Ivan keeps pressing that sensitive bundle of nerves, hand roughly tugging at Till’s cock even after the last few drops of come have been spent.
His eyes shoot open, body electrified. His plea is laced with alarm, “Ivan?”
Ivan doesn’t stop, “You’re not done.”
Till all but thrashes, trying to remove himself from Ivan’s tight grip with little success, “No, Ivan, I can’t—“
“You can’t? Isn’t this all you wanted to do, and now you can’t?”
Till bites his lip around a pained groan as another orgasm builds and crashes, a few dribbles of cum leaking from his dick. Drool drips down the side of his mouth, dampening the bedding beneath him, the whole affair horribly wet and disgusting.
“I already did, Ivan—“
“You can give me more, Till. If you want to stop, say the word.”
A reminder. A reminder that Till can free himself if he really wants to. He clenches his jaw shut tight and hisses as those insistent fingers grope that spot again.
“God—“
“It’s Ivan, but God is close enough.”
Stupid, horny, egotistical mutt.
Ivan makes him cum a second, third time. His fourth orgasm is dry. Till fights to turn himself around, to pull away from Ivan, but the man anchors him to his annoying sturdy body and continues until the only words coming out of Till’s mouth are incomprehensible. It’s then that he enters that subhuman space, the one that casts a haze of fog over his mind and silences his sobs to heedless whines.
Ivan slows, just enough for Till to gain the slightest bit of composure.
Then he’s on his back. Ivan appears between his legs, the tip of his cock prodding at his hole as if he’s asking.
Till reaches forward, grabbing onto whatever part of Ivan he has the strength to, encouraging him despite the way his body squirms. He’s hardly there when Ivan enters, feeling a warm hand cradle his tear-soaked cheek, soft and warm.
“Stay with me, Till.”
It grounds him for a short period.
Sometimes, Ivan lets him drift into that mindless haze, fucked out and half-aware—because he knows Till likes being reduced to such a state. This time, Ivan wants Till present for the way he’s being reduced to nothing beneath him, wants him to feel every press of his cock as it overstimulates that bundle of nerves and drives him to his breaking point.
Till chokes, blinking through his tears, meeting the tender gaze Ivan graces him with. Noticing the moment of clarity, Ivan continues his ruthless insertion as he leans down to Till’s lips, capturing the slobbery things between his own and licking them clean.
Till wraps his arms around him to hold him there, digging his nails into his back to make it impossible to pull away, lost in the heat of his body and the heat building within.
“You’ve done so well, Till.” A kiss, “Such a good job.”
The praise sends him further into that drowning headspace, mumbling incoherencies against Ivan’s lips. Till looks down at his stomach when they break away, watching the impression of Ivan’s dick poke through the skin like it might pierce right through him.
His head swims, senseless.
“Focus, Angel. Stay with me.”
Till does his best, but it’s proving difficult.
Ivan knows this. His pace quickens until Till hears a muffled groan, pressing his hands on the man’s stomach to feel the way the muscles clench through his orgasm. That strange feeling erupts through Till’s lower half, oddly comforted by the sensation of fullness, reeling as Ivan unloads every last drop into Till’s ass and stays there until he’s sure he’s empty.
Ivan lowers himself so that the majority of his body presses against Tills, kisses roaming from Till’s lips down to the skin of his neck. He bites a few possessive marks into the juncture before removing himself, hands on either side of Till’s body as he pushes away.
Till panics at the loss of contact, arms quick to return behind the taller’s back, holding with as much strength as he can muster. There’s no doubt that Ivan could easily break away, but he stills instead, peering down at Till with soft fondness.
“I’m not leaving. I just need to clean us up, hm? I won’t be far.”
Till is still reluctant.
Ivan smiles, shifting his weight to one side so he can free up a hand to push Till’s hair back in soothing motions. Till doesn’t really care that he’s being pet, he just cares about keeping Ivan near him. Ivan hears his silent plea, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.
“I’ll be right back.”
Till has the chance to return to his senses in Ivan’s absence, but the dreary haze mixes with exhaustion and leaves him half alive anyway.
He’s hardly awake when Ivan returns in a matter of three minutes, wet towel in hand, running the warm cloth over Till’s skin to clean him. He follows some of the strokes with loving kisses, eliciting hums from Till that purr out of him subconsciously and bring a grin to Ivan’s face.
The taller makes quick work cleaning himself afterward. He throws the towel into the hamper at the far side of the room before gathering a dozing Till into his arms and carrying him toward the bathroom.
Till’s eyebrows furrow, feeling Ivan’s cum move around inside him.
“It’s going to come out,” He mumbles, miffed.
Ivan assesses his expression, sharp stare picking apart the subtleties of Till’s desire and annoyance. He gathers his reply, “You want it to stay inside?”
Till says nothing, but his face turns scarlet. Ivan’s grin is wicked, knowing.
“That’s good to know, for next time. I don’t have anything that can keep it in now, so we’ll have to get it out, alright?”
Till’s too tired to show his disappointment. Ivan had drawn a bath for them when he’d been warming the water for the towel, lowering Till into it after checking to make sure the temperature wasn’t too hot. The tub is big enough for both of them, an obnoxiously large thing that suited Ivan’s taste and income.
The taller joins him after cutting off the tap, facing Till as he settles and pulling him closer. He grabs Till’s thighs, still trembling slightly, and places them atop his own. Till wraps his arms around Ivan’s neck, pressing their chests as close as they can get and humming contently when Ivan’s large arms come around him.
He thinks he could spend forever here until the hands at his waist travel down his ass and he groans.
“Ivan.”
Ivan kisses his temple, placating, “All of it won’t come out on its own. Bear with me.”
He’s far too sensitive to have Ivan’s fingers inside him again. Till twitches in his lap, soothed by the warm water and Ivan’s mumbled comforts in his ear.
By the time he’s emptied, Till is heavy with exhaustion again. Ivan keeps him in his lap, hands returning to wrap around Till’s waist while a head of grey hair rests on his shoulder. Short puffs of air caress his neck and Ivan smirks.
“Ready for bed?”
“Mhm.”
The pair makes quick work of drying off. Till would like to take a proper shower, but he thinks his legs will give out if he stands for too long, the ache in his lower back persistent already. Ivan helps him dress in the clothes Till always leaves at his apartment, wrapping him in a blanket and carrying him to the couch despite Till insisting that he’s fine to walk.
“I’ll be back when the bedding is changed,” He assures, pushing the bangs back from Till’s forehead and kissing the skin.
It’s nothing more than they usually do, but it feels different now. Till had practically declared his love for Ivan at his doorstep, though the taller hadn’t made it entirely clear as to what his own emotions entail. Did he want more than what they already have? Or did he just want more of this?
Ivan turns the TV on before he goes so Till isn’t left in silence. He’s thankful, not because he particularly cares about the wildlife documentary playing, but because he knows if left alone his thoughts would fester into one of two things. The first being booking it for the door, and the second would be booking it to Ivan’s bedroom to interrogate him until he gets some sort of verbal confession.
Till, who’s too tired to book it anywhere, stays on the couch listening to a British man describe the lifestyle of a fruit bat instead.
He’s asleep when Ivan comes to collect him, jostled by the move even though Ivan does so delicately. Till doesn’t speak until they’re between the sheets, nestled into Ivan’s side, the place he’d like to be most nights if not all.
Had this information always been so easy to digest?
He tests the waters, “Ivan—“
“I don’t stick around you for the sex either, Till.”
Till hides his smile in Ivan’s chest stupidly, knowing the taller can feel it.
“So it’s always been more?”
Ivan’s body is warm, his voice smooth as silk. Till wonders absently what he would sound like when singing.
“It’s always been more.”