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The knock is unexpected; it’s late, for one, and Ivan's room is hardly ever graced with guests. Curious, he crosses the short distance from his bed to the door, distantly wondering if Unsha has asked for him before realizing how ridiculous that would be. If Ivan's owner had need of him, the Anakt Garden wranglers certainly wouldn't be politely knocking on his door about it.
Despite that rational conclusion, Ivan is still surprised to find Till standing on the other side. Though not as surprised as Till himself, apparently, given the way he nearly jumps out of his skin at the sight of him.
“Did you think I wouldn't answer?” Ivan teases.
He expects an annoyed reply, a familiar huff and roll of the eyes; what he gets is silence instead, Till's gaze shifting to study the undoubtedly riveting sterile white walls without a word. That’s when Ivan takes his appearance in.
The exposed skin of Till’s face and rolled up sleeves sports a fresh layer of bruises and scrapes—decidedly not as bad as Ivan has seen him before, but still noticeable enough. No doubt consequences of his latest bout of rebellion. That's not what gets Ivan's attention, though; the physical evidence of Till's abuse at the hands of the segyein is an all too common sight. His searching gaze locks onto Till's expression, instead, the way his complexion is flushed bright red, sweat beading on his forehead and running down his temples. His brows are furrowed, too, but not twisted into their usual scowl. It all adds up in a way that not even Ivan, a self proclaimed expert on Till's every muscle twitch after years of empirical research, can quite pinpoint.
“Do you want to come in?” Ivan asks, once it becomes clear Till won't volunteer any information on his own.
Till fidgets slightly, considering, as if he hadn't been the one to knock on Ivan's door in the first place. Then, with a lowered head and hands white-knuckling the hem of his shirt, Till shuffles pathetically inside.
The door clicks shut behind the two of them. Till stands in the middle of the room, blatantly uncomfortable. Ivan approaches him slowly, treating Till like the skittish animal he knows him to be, keeping a safe distance between them.
“Care to explain what's going on?” Ivan tries conversationally. Till chances a glance at him and immediately rips his eyes away with a squeak, hands tugging his shirt downwards almost desperately.
There's a strange bashfulness to him, the likes of which Till only ever displays in reaction to Mizi. The only times Ivan manages to make Till flush like that are when he annoys him to the point of blood-boiling rage—fun, but not quite as sweet as his rosy, love-drunk face. It is with this ironclad logic, then, that Ivan concludes there's only one possible explanation for Till exhibiting this behavior in front of him: he's diseased.
Wordlessly, Ivan brings a hand to Till's forehead to check for a fever. Till attempts to stop him, his own hand clutching Ivan's forearm just a second too late.
Ivan's palm makes contact. He barely has time to register the burning temperature before he hears Till whimper, high-pitched and needy and impossible to ignore.
They stare at each other, wide eyed—Ivan in shock, Till in utter mortification.
A beat passes like that. Till seems to come back to himself, wrenching Ivan's hand away by his grip on his forearm. Ivan doesn't fight it, dazed, the exact pitch and cadence of Till's whimper already permanently burning themselves into his brain.
They're standing pretty close, now. Ivan can clearly hear Till's labored breathing, count each frantic rise and fall of his chest. He wonders if Till’s ribs poke through his lean flesh whenever he breathes in.
“Till,” Ivan starts, as composed as he can possibly manage. “If you need something, you have to tell me what it is.”
Till’s eyes snap towards every part of the room not occupied by Ivan’s face. He glances at the door, briefly, makes an aborted gesture towards it. Doesn’t go running.
The urgency must’ve truly set in, as Till finally elects to say his first words of the night: “Urak gave me something.” His voice is shaky.
He doesn’t elaborate. Clearly Ivan will have to wring every answer out of him. “What did he give you?”
Till’s brows furrow. “I don’t know. I was fighting against his shitty training like always, and he got pissed and shoved a needle in my arm. Said I might as well get used to it.”
Clenched fists nearly dig holes into the hem of his shirt. “He’s been threatening to whore me out for a while now. Guess I’m not escaping it for much longer.”
It shouldn’t be surprising, but the chilling certainty in Till’s voice still hits Ivan like a punch to the gut anyway.
Ivan won't call any of them lucky, but he knows he’s at least a step or two above Till in the hypothetical food chain. Whereas Unsha prefers to treat him with calculating indifference, Urak treats Till worse than the dirt beneath his feet. It probably hadn’t been in his best interest to damage Till too badly as a child, but he's just recently turned eighteen—allegedly old enough to suck it up and take it without breaking apart completely. No opportunity of profit can be ignored, after all.
It’s a sickening thought. Not for the first time, Ivan wishes Till hadn’t turned back, that one night. Their life wouldn’t have been easy, but surely anything would be better than this.
Yet Till hadn’t thought so, had he?
Ivan clenches his own fists. Opens his palms slowly. It’s no use, losing himself in hypotheticals. Ultimately, what matters is where they’ve ended up—here, with Till drugged in his room in the middle of the night.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re here,” Ivan states, after the silence has stretched on for too long. He skips the meaningless comfort altogether. Till has always hated being coddled, and Ivan never much cared for mincing words. His bluntness caused many fights between them over the years, but Ivan thinks his lack of pity might be one of the few things Till begrudgingly likes about him. Sometimes.
Till flushes impossibly redder at that. “The… effects won’t go away no matter what I do, so I figured I’d… g-get it over with. Before they make me.” Green eyes dare to look up at Ivan for a brief moment, but dodge his piercing gaze just as quickly.
Ah.
Familiar resentment rears its ugly head in Ivan’s chest.
“And you want me to help?” Ivan asks coldly. He can’t quite contain the bitterness in his voice.
Till squeaks. “I-I mean…”
“You’re not in your right mind,” Ivan continues, face twisting in a way he’s certainly not practiced. “You might think otherwise, Till, but I’m not deplorable enough to treat you like they do.”
Ivan wants. He wants Till in a way he wants nothing else in his apathetic life, feels for him a depth of emotion he can’t begin to describe, much less untangle. But he won’t have it like this. Not with Till asking for Ivan to touch him perfunctorily, to get it over with, because whatever drug Urak forced into his system is making him do it.
“My mind is fine!” Till exclaims suddenly. Ivan stares at him, caught off guard by the outburst.
“I guess if it weren’t for the drug I wouldn’t have thought about it, but…” Till huffs. “You’re gonna think I’m stupid for saying this,” he mumbles, staring at his feet.
“I didn’t want my first time to be with one of them,” Till says, small. “I know it doesn’t matter in the end, but… that’s the one thing I can keep them from taking away from me. S-So, I figured, if I was gonna—do it with anyone, then…” he trails off, allowing the implication of his words to do the work for him.
The bitterness frees Ivan from its claws in an instant.
Till could be so unimaginably cruel sometimes.
Ivan knows Till will never match his twisted feelings, not even close. It’s a truth he came to accept quite early, one of those immovable, universal facts of life. While love comes to Till as easy as breathing, pours out of him in everything he does, Ivan chokes on it. Why, then, would Till ever bother with him? Ivan will never be more than a footnote in his life, a passing thought in his memory.
But sometimes, sometimes, Till will throw him a bone—a brief show of trust, a slight affectionate gesture. Crumbs Ivan ravenously devours. He left the back alleys long ago, yet still he survives off of scraps.
In a moment of vulnerability, Till weighed his options and decided to seek him out. Ivan knows it doesn’t mean much—but he’s never claimed to be unselfish.
“I’ll help you,” Ivan says.
Till startles. Red-cheeked and curled in on himself, he looks adorably shy—sensitive, soft. Beautiful. The face Ivan gave up freedom for.
“O-Okay,” Till squeaks out pathetically. Ivan's heart leaps in his chest, the dumb thing.
He gestures to the bed. “It'll probably be easier if you sit down.”
Till obliges without a word. He sits ramrod straight at the very edge of the mattress, wringing his hands on top of his lap.
Ivan huffs out a laugh.
“What’re you laughing at?!” Till snaps at him, hopelessly embarrassed.
“It won't help if you're so tense, you know.” Ivan approaches Till. “How about you lean against the headboard?”
Not waiting for an answer, Ivan climbs on the bed, languidly pressing Till in like he's cornering prey. Till plays his part accordingly, cowering against the headboard, eyes wide in trepidation—yet there's a thrill in the minute shake of his pupils, the way he clutches at the sheets helplessly.
Ivan licks his lips subconsciously. Till's eyes follow the movement.
Seated in front of Till, Ivan begins by pulling his legs open—not obscenely so, despite the urge to do otherwise. Till still yelps anyway. It reminds Ivan of their physical lessons, how he somehow always manages to convince Till to let him do whatever he wants to him, bend his puny body this way and that in motions that are very much not actual exercise.
Ivan starts to pull up Till's shirt, revealing the soft, mouth-watering skin of his stomach, but is quickly stopped by a hand clutching tightly at his wrist.
“What’re you doing?” Till admonishes with a glare, voice already slightly slurred.
“I'm getting your shirt out of the way,” Ivan explains simply. “Besides, you're hot, right? Isn't this more comfortable?”
Till mumbles something under his breath but lets him go nonetheless. Not one to lose an opportunity when it's given to him, Ivan wastes no time pushing Till's shirt up to his collarbones.
Skin littered with bruises and ribs indeed poking through when he breathes, Till borders on sickly. Ivan wants to eat him alive.
He doesn't even need to eat Till whole, really—Ivan would settle for putting his mouth around his pebbled pink nipples, practically begging for his attention, for sucking and biting at them until sweet tears sprang to Till's eyes.
Till squirms impatiently. Ivan allows himself to run his hands down Till's exposed sides, delighting in the shiver it gets him.
Ivan doesn’t know what it’ll take for the drug in Till’s system to wear off, or how far he wants to go—sex constitutes many acts, after all. So he starts off simple. Ivan reaches for Till's waistband, teasing his fingers under the hem until Till is poised to snap at him again, then pulls his pants and underwear down to his thighs in one quick motion.
Till squeaks, bringing an arm up to cover his eyes, like hiding his sight would mean Ivan wouldn't be able to see him either.
But he is seeing him, couldn't look away if the tried, transfixed by the state Till is in. His dick is an angry red, swollen and probably painful with it, dripping wet onto Till's stomach where it stands fully hard. As for its size, Ivan doesn't really have a frame of reference—he can only measure it against his own, which is… well. Significantly bigger would sound conceited, but it's true. If only he could hold them together to compare, feel Till's modest cock twitching against his.
“Cute,” Ivan breathes out, eyes trailing a bead of precum from Till's pink tip down his length.
“Don't fucking call it—aah,” Till's indignant screech is cut off by a moan when Ivan wraps a hand around him, giving him an experimental pump.
Eager to hear his sweet sounds again, Ivan builds up a faster pace, rubbing the head with his thumb on upward strokes, spreading the wetness around Till's length until every move of his hand makes a filthy wet noise.
The pleasure and the sounds bouncing off the walls in the quiet room prove to be too much for Till. He's squirming restlessly, hips making aborted little thrusting motions, still so hesitant to let himself go despite the drug burning through his veins. Till stuffs his mouth with the hem of his shirt in an attempt to muffle his mewls, but the high-pitched sounds still leak out all the same, desperate and uncontrollable.
The motion reveals a new sliver of skin—combined with his arched back, thrusting his chest forward, Till might as well be presenting himself to him.
Ivan can't help it—he wraps his hand around the side of Till's chest, rubbing his neglected nipple with the pad of his thumb.
“What—” Till moves his arm away from his face, letting the fabric fall from his lips to shakily question Ivan with wide eyes.
“I'm trying to get you to relax,” Ivan lies, hand still pumping Till in even strokes. His attention is drawn elsewhere, though, caught by the first good look he's gotten at Till's expression. His face is a deeper shade of red than Ivan's ever seen on him, eyebrows tilted upwards and eyes half lidded in bliss, mouth not quite able to close around whiny gasps.
“It's—hah—it’s not w-working,” Till grits out in between moans. Ivan strokes him harder in response, thumb teasing his nipple relentlessly. Till's body contradicts himself—his legs fall open wider, hips snapping up in shallow thrusts, cries increasing in volume. His hands curl helplessly where they lay against the pillow.
“That's it,” Ivan coos. Till's body is wonderfully responsive—the knowledge will only serve to haunt him, but for now, Ivan delights in learning what makes him shiver.
He removes his hand from Till's nipple with a parting caress—Till unconsciously whimpers so dejectedly at that, Ivan almost puts it back—and splays his palm at the small of his back, directing Till's hips to fuck up into his fist.
“Ngh, fuck, ah—hah—” Head tilted back, Till finally allows himself to grind into Ivan's tight grip, giving in to what his body desperately wants.
Ivan holds back a moan of his own, drinking in the sight before him. Till, pink and sweaty and overwhelmed, reduced to mindless cries and thrusts of his hips. All because of him. It's a heady thought, circumstances be damned—Ivan stares at him manically, eyes snapping back and forth between every inch of skin, wanting nothing more than to duck down and sink his teeth into tender flesh.
He must get lost in it, in the increasingly frantic grind of Till's hips against his soaking palm, because he doesn't even notice how long they've been at it until Till speaks up.
“S-Stop,” he stutters out, stilling his hips and pushing Ivan away lightly.
Ivan stops immediately, letting go of Till in a heartbeat. Despite being the one to ask, Till still whines mournfully at the loss.
“Is something wrong?” Ivan questions.
Till brings his balled up hands to his face in frustration. “It's not gonna work,” he groans.
“Isn’t it?” Ivan raises an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Till's groin. He hadn't cum yet, but it sure seemed like it was working.
Till moves a hand to glare at him, effect somewhat diminished by his flaming face. “No, it isn't. I… I tried doing it in my room before, and it didn't work.”
“You need to be a little more specific than that, Till. You can't cum?”
Till squeaks like Ivan hadn't been jerking him off two seconds ago, hiding beneath his hands again. “I can’t. N-Not like that.”
Now, Ivan would be more than glad—thrilled, even—to spend an indeterminate amount of time toying with Till's cute dick and pretty pink nipples, could do it forever, but… if it’s not enough…
“Then what do you need?” Ivan asks, failing to mask his excitement.
Till squints at him through his fingers. “Why are you being so helpful? It’s suspicious.”
Ivan slots his muscles into place in the familiar shape of an unassuming smile. “Can’t I be willing to help a friend? You wound me, Till.”
Glaring at Ivan one last time for good measure, Till looks away with an audible swallow, for once unwilling to argue further. “I… need something… m-more,” he chokes out after much struggle, the words caught in his throat.
Ivan's heart does a funny thing—a lurch, or something, like it wants to jump out and kiss Till all over, more honest than its owner.
“Tell me what it is,” Ivan nearly pleads, voice breathy.
Ashamed beyond belief, Till refuses to leave the cover of one of his hands—his other one, though, he uses to clutch at Ivan's arm, the one with the filthy hand, and guide it between his legs. Ivan doesn’t know what he expects, his mind a perfect blank, but he’s still surprised when Till goes straight past his dick, instead spreading his legs ever-so-slightly wider and placing Ivan's hand on—on his—
Holy fuck.
Ivan's surprised gasp is lost to Till's own, high and breathy as he allows Ivan's fingers to rest on his hole.
“Till—”
“Please,” Till's voice breaks, “it’s the only thing that helped, but my fingers weren't long enough and I couldn't get the right angle and—” he babbles, losing himself to the urgency.
Ivan groans aloud. He can't help it. Blood pumps into his dick so fast he’s sure the segyein would preserve his outstandingly efficient heart for future genetic improvements if they found out about it.
But his mind doesn’t linger on his inevitable fate as a corpse on an autopsy table—not when Till is spread open so pretty in front of him, begging to be fingerfucked. God.
Till sitting on his bed, maybe even on the floor, fruitlessly shoving his too-small fingers in and out of his hole while crying adorable, pathetic tears, wishing Ivan was there to do it for him instead—
Ivan leans his forehead against Till's raised knee to compose himself.
“Okay,” he lets out after a tense few moments where he thought he might start slobbering all over Till, or come immediately in his pants. Or both.
“I'll take care of you, Till,” Ivan reassures, and pulls his hand away.
Till whimpers, attempting to hold his hand in place by his grip on Ivan's arm, to no avail. His hold is laughably weak, no strength in his skinny arms. Ivan swallows. He wants to break him apart.
In one swift motion, Ivan pulls off Till's pants entirely.
“What the hell?!” Till nearly shouts, closing his legs like he’s trying to preserve his modesty.
The characteristically irrational and exaggerated response has Ivan somewhat snapping out of his horny daze, chuckling.
“Are you really going to get shy now?” He teases. “I'm only taking your pants off for easier access to your hole. Which you just asked me to—”
“I get it,” Till cuts him off with a flustered snarl.
His annoyance is immediately replaced with urgency when Ivan moves to get up from the bed.
“Where are you going?” Till asks anxiously, looking at Ivan with wide, pleading eyes.
He's so needy. Ivan has to physically hold himself back from reaching out and comforting him with gentle caresses on his pretty face and sweet kisses on his lips.
“I'm just going to grab something,” he replies, strained.
Unsha keeps an eclectic library. It's somewhat of a symbol of his wealth and worldliness, how he owns all sorts of books by different species and societies from across the galaxy. Well-behaved as he is, Ivan is allowed free reign to it—it’s not like he can understand what most texts say, anyway.
Among the human books he can read, and read repeatedly, though, he'd come across a couple that detailed their species’ experience with sexuality. Raptly pouring over them, Ivan had internally catalogued all the information he could—useless, other than to fuel his unattainable fantasies. Or so he thought.
Ivan had learned, then, that what Till is asking of him requires additional lubrication for a comfortable experience. In his daydreams, Ivan had repeatedly thought about using his tongue, licking Till open wet and filthy until he was falling apart around him, but he figured he wasn’t in a position to indulge. Not too much, anyway.
As part of the pristine image they sell of him, Ivan is required to do all sorts of self-care rituals to keep himself neat. Working out, eating this and that, drinking so and so supplements. He doesn't really care about what he looks like, about any of it—except for the working out part, as he enjoys lording his muscles over Till—but now, reaching for the lotion he's supposed to slather all over himself every day, Ivan could kiss the slimy knuckles of his manager.
He returns to the bed, Till's eyes following him eagerly, breath audibly picking up. Ivan settles back between his legs, carelessly tossing the bottle of lotion on the sheets and moving his hands between Till's closed thighs to stretch them open wide. Till hides behind his arm again, a keen escaping him. No matter—Ivan’s focus is lower, on the way his partially stretched hole contracts slightly at the attention. His hands tighten on Till's legs involuntarily, the soft muscle beneath his grip twitching.
Ivan struggles to get the lotion on his fingers one-handed but manages it eventually, unwilling to let go of Till if he can help it.
Deeming his fingers sufficiently lubed up, Ivan unceremoniously brings them to Till's hole, rubbing along his rim.
Till jumps at the slightest contact. He pants, hips chasing the touch.
If Ivan weren't so worked up he'd probably be teasing Till, perhaps trailing the pads of his fingers just short of where Till actually wanted them until he begged for it—but as it stands, Ivan might be more desperate to put them inside than Till is.
He finally lets the tip of his index finger sink in, rubbing along the inner walls gently. Till's reaction is instantaneous, hips grinding down to get another inch in with a moan. Ivan's hips do a corresponding twitch against the bed, neglected length throbbing at the feel of Till squeezing around his finger.
“C-Cold,” Till mumbles into his arm.
“It'll warm up soon—you’re so hot inside,” Ivan marvels, pulling his finger out slowly and pushing it back inside deeper. Till clenches tight around him in response.
They continue along this rhythm until Ivan is able to easily sink his finger up to the knuckle with no resistance at all, eyes glued to the way Till sucks him in.
“Another,” Till pleads sweetly, and really, how could Ivan ever deny him anything?
He carefully introduces a second finger in. It's a much snugger fit—Till sinks his teeth into his bottom lip in discomfort, but still grinds back against him anyway.
“I thought you’d already stretched yourself,” Ivan wonders aloud, casually, like the image won’t plague his every waking and sleeping thought ‘til the day he dies.
“Yours are bigger,” Till replies absentmindedly, preoccupied with fucking himself on Ivan's fingers.
As it turns out, the day Ivan dies isn't too far off—not if Till keeps talking about getting spread open on his thick fingers. Ivan allows himself to rut against the mattress with a groan. Till won't even notice anyway, distracted as he is by Ivan's ministrations. Fuck.
Ivan presses both fingers in entirely, pulls them out until only the tips are still inside, then shoves them back in again. Till cries out, the hand not covering his face moving to clutch white-knuckled at the sheets.
A thought comes back to Ivan—something he'd learned in one of those books he'd so diligently studied. With half-remembered anatomical diagrams in mind, he curls his fingers, searching.
“What're yo—ah!” Till's slurred question is cut off by a sharp gasp. Experimentally, Ivan rubs the same spot again, hard and merciless.
Till falls apart around him.
“Ngh, t-there—hah, aah—don’t stop,” Till moans desperately, trembling hands moving to clutch hard at Ivan's arm to keep it there, keep up the onslaught of pleasure, frantically grinding against his hand.
As if Ivan could stop. He's completely enthralled, barely aware of the way his fingers are starting to cramp from the constant movements. Till's face is uncovered, now, allowing Ivan to openly stare at his blissed-out expression—too caught up in the unbearable heat of it all, he's not even bothering to hold back anymore, eyes closed and mouth slack so all his pretty sounds bounce around the walls.
Till’s grip turns bruising on his arm, holding on for dear life while he fucks himself on Ivan's fingers with loud cries, back arched and legs spread as far as they'll go. Is he always this sensitive, Ivan wonders, or is it the drug? Half-mad, he thinks he’d be able to make Till feel good regardless, make him so drunk on it he'd let go of all the tension his horrible life forces him to carry and just let Ivan take care of him.
“One more?” Ivan croons, teasing a third finger on Till's rim.
“Yes, ah, please,” Till nods, begs, so pliant, so perfect.
Ivan obliges his honeyed pleas, introducing a third thick finger Till enthusiastically takes in with a groan. Spellbound, Ivan stills his hand to marvel at how easily Till takes him, stretching his fingers wide, testing the give. Till twitches around him once, involuntary, then again, hard, trying to suck him back in.
Till half-opens his bleary eyes to glare at him. “Stop messing around,” he pouts, using his grip on Ivan's arm to shove his fingers back in with a drawn-out whine.
Ivan licks his lips, pupils blown wide. “You want it that bad?”
“‘s not my fault,” Till denies, slurred, frustratedly attempting to grind into Ivan's still hand.
The drug might be making Till unbearably aroused, but it's not affecting him mentally—he’s still his usual, irritable self, embarrassed and impatient and honest. Till is spreading his legs for him and begging for it out of his own volition.
A tiny, insignificant part of Ivan sparks with the thrill of it meaning something. It’s promptly smothered with practiced ease.
Ivan gives Till what he wants, pulling his fingers in and out hard, fast-paced and precise, hitting the spot that makes Till fall apart with filthy wet squelches.
With a garbled moan, Till lets go of Ivan's arm to hold on tight to the sheets, melting into them. He cries out in satisfaction, Ivan stoking the fire in him to an all-consuming blaze.
“Don't stop, don't stop, ah, c-close—”
Ivan feels the tight clench around him before he sees it, milky white ropes shooting across Till's chest as he whines pitifully and trembles all over. Ivan wants to lick it off of him.
He fingers Till through it instead, slowing his pace until his hand is resting still inside his pulsing heat. Ivan doesn't even have time to feel disappointed that it's over—Till is still rock hard against the flat planes of his stomach.
“Was that not enough?” Ivan asks, unable to contain his eagerness at the prospect of making Till cum again.
Till groans in frustration. “No. It's still burning me up.”
“I got it,” Ivan says hurriedly, already pumping his fingers in and out of Till's hole again.
“W-Wait, wait,” Till stops him, grabbing Ivan's arm to pull his hand away this time around. Ivan pouts.
“Do you want me to try your dick again?” He offers, hopeful.
“It won't work,” Till sulks, letting go of Ivan to fiddle with his sleeves. Nervous gesture. Is he still embarrassed? That's so cute. Till is so cute.
“C-Could you… maybe… I-I mean, not if it's too much or anything, um,” Till stutters, uncharacteristically shy around him.
“It won't be too much,” Ivan reassures.
Till looks away, flushed. “I think… i-it’d work better if it was, um… biggerthanfingers,” he squeaks out in a breath.
Ivan blinks at him. Feels the information run down the chain of command in his brain, then back up and down again for good measure. Replays Till's muffled request, considers if he misheard him. Looks around, checking for any objects bigger than his fingers Till might feel inclined to shove up his ass. None are ergonomic enough, he decides.
Short of more fingers or, better yet, his fist, there's really only one possible explanation. Although Ivan figured sex usually involves it, he’s not particularly inclined to believe Till would want to go that far with him.
“You want me to put my dick in you?” He asks, astonished.
“Don't say it like that!” Till screeches, kicking him. Ivan takes it mindlessly. He didn't deny it. He didn't deny it.
Honestly? Fuck Ivan's feelings. He knows, deep down, that having sex with Till is a much bigger step than just getting him off in a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing. Knows he won't be able to get over it, knows the physical intimacy with a total lack of the emotional one will only serve to hurt him, but. Till is naked and stretched open on his bed like a feast, saying he won't be able to cum if Ivan doesn't stretch him open wider with his cock. Fuck his feelings.
“I'll do it,” Ivan agrees, a manic edge to it, roughly pulling Till's legs far apart where they'd fallen closed while they talked. Till yelps, but doesn't put up a fight. Because he wants Ivan to fuck him. The thought makes him dizzy.
Regrettably, Ivan has to let go of Till's thighs to shuck his clothes off. He makes quick work of his shirt, which isn't strictly necessary, but he's unbearably hot under it. In his haste to pull his pants away, Ivan misses Till's ogling stare dragging across his torso.
He doesn't miss the way his eyes bulge at the sight of his cock, though.
“What the fuck? You're huge,” Till lets out incredulously, then realizes what he just said and clamps his lips shut.
Ivan smirks, reaching for the forgotten bottle of lotion. “Do you like it?”
“No,” Till is quick to deny. “It's ridiculous. How do you even walk around with that thing between your legs? Totally unmanageable.”
“Oh, you'll manage,” Ivan says breathily, feeling Till’s heavy gaze follow the slow pumps of his hand, spreading the lotion along his length.
If Till wants to watch, Ivan will give him a show. Moaning low in his throat, he rubs himself languidly, swiping a thumb over the leaking tip to mix his precum with the tacky substance coating the rest of it. It's wholly unnecessary—Ivan has been fully hard since he saw the bulge in Till's pants—but he can't help showing off a bit to such an attentive audience.
By the time Ivan lines up his cock, Till’s breathing is labored, dazedly spreading his legs wider without a word. He's really desperate for it, now.
Ivan has an idea.
“Ready?” He asks, rubbing his tip against Till's soft, loosened hole.
“Mhm,” Till hums in affirmation, eagerness painted all over his face when he lifts his head up to watch Ivan tease him, almost, almost pushing in. Ivan smirks.
In one quick motion, Ivan flips their positions, leaning against the pillow with Till on his lap, cock resting between his cheeks. Till squawks, hands landing on Ivan's chest for support.
“Take what you need,” Ivan says, smiling the shit-eating grin he knows Till despises.
Till glares at him, not moving an inch.
Ivan chuckles. “What, did you think I'd do all the work? You're the one who wants it.”
The proof of Ivan wanting it is currently poking Till's ass, but in his neediness, Ivan’s reasoning must seem sound enough for him. Till hurriedly grips his shirt where it’s ridden down and tears it off with a huff, then lifts himself up on shaky knees and scoots back to place Ivan's cock on his hole.
It takes everything Ivan has to not cum immediately when Till grasps him by the base, and then some more once he starts to sink down. Ivan obediently keeps his hands on the sheets, fantasizing about bucking up into Till, taking him by the hips and pushing him down in one stroke.
Till isn't better off, sweating bullets on top of him, thighs quivering while he whimpers and whines over a third of Ivan's dick in his wet heat. It's tight, so tight as Till clenches around him, body struggling to accommodate his size.
“Fuck,” Till wheezes out, “why’re you so big. You're—hah—you’re gonna tear me apart.”
Ivan groans, precum leaking into Till. Does he even know what he's saying? Till's usual brand of insults doesn't really pack the same punch when what he's complaining about is how much Ivan's big dick fills him up.
“You're out of shape,” Ivan pants out like he just ran a marathon, “I’ll help you exercise more.”
“Shut—shuttup,” Till slurs, unable to come up with a better comeback as he sinks down another inch.
About halfway down, Till experimentally lifts himself up until only the very tip remains inside, then slides back down on Ivan's cock as far as he can go.
It's clumsy and too slow and delicious, Ivan's pleasured grunt drowned out by Till's desperate moan when he rises again to chase the friction, taking in an extra inch once he sinks back down.
With a couple more uncoordinated, cautious moves, Till finally, finally impales himself fully on Ivan's cock, leaning heavily against his hands on Ivan's stomach, whimpers caught on the end of his heaving breaths.
Ivan doesn't want to miss a single second of it, but his eyes can't help fluttering shut with the pressure around his cock, concentrating heavily on not busting inside Till then and there. He breathes deeply while Till adjusts on top of him, his cock carving out a space for itself inside him.
His efforts are almost in vain when he opens them back up, though—Till is boneless in his lap, eyes hazy and unfocused, a trail of drool leaking from his open lips, unable to close around his constant cries. He looks wrecked already, and they haven't even done anything yet. But the most dangerous part somehow isn't his face, Ivan realizes once his eyes trail down Till's quivering form; no, it's much, much more maddening than that.
Till's stomach is bulging out where Ivan's cock rests inside him, stark against the otherwise flat surface. Ivan drinks in the sight like a man parched. He wants to press it so badly, wants to feel it shift under his hand while he thrusts his cock in and out of Till's frail body, stretched past its limit just for him.
Bunching the sheets under his iron grip, Ivan contends himself with just watching instead.
“Comfortable?” He teases, strained, because his instinctual response to feeling too much for Till is to bully him.
Till can't even be bothered with a retort, choosing to do his first proper bounce in retaliation.
It backfires immediately, Till’s thighs trembling hard as soon as he tries, unable to raise himself to even half of Ivan's cock before his legs give out and he sinks back down. Till moans anyway—because he just can't hold it in, apparently, a fact Ivan will agonize over forever—but it's clearly not what he wanted.
Not one to admit defeat, Till continues to put in a valiant effort, attempting to bounce on Ivan's cock to no avail. Ivan, on his part, watches it all unfold with equal parts amusement and burning hot arousal.
After a significant number of failed attempts, Till finally gives up, all but melting back on Ivan's lap with a frustrated groan. He looks up at him, then, eyes pleading despite his furrowed brows, bottom lip sticking out in a pout.
Ivan laughs quietly, taking pity on him for once. “Do you want help?”
Till scrapes his nails on the planes of Ivan's stomach. Ivan holds back a moan. “...yes,” Till spits out, the admission taking a great deal of effort.
“Alright,” Ivan replies heatedly, not bothering with a tease as he finally lets go of the sheets and reaches towards Till.
Till is small. He's decently tall, yes, but also skinny and weak-limbed. Ivan knows this—it’s why he stopped picking physical fights with him. At one point it just felt too unfair to slap the little guy around. That point was around age fifteen, the two of them fresh off of the throes of puberty, biology newly arming Ivan with a sizeable height and muscle mass advantage. Till punched him in the face and it didn't hurt as much as it used to. Ivan punched back in retaliation, and Till's head wrenched sideways so hard he fell on his ass, disoriented.
That moment, Ivan decided Till was small. He knows this. But it's still a wonder how easy it is to manhandle him.
Ivan squeezes his large hands around Till's tiny waist—they don't go all the way around, but it's a near thing—and effortlessly bounces him on his cock, planting his feet on the bed to snap his hips up in tandem with his pulls.
Till sobs. His fingers scramble helplessly against Ivan's abdomen, throwing his head back to cry out in ecstasy as Ivan gives it to him hard and fast like his body so desperately craves.
Ivan gets so addicted to resetting the bulge on Till's soft stomach, wrecked moans rewarding his every in and out motion, he doesn't even notice Till staring dazedly at his arms, transfixed by the muscles flexing to easily lift his weight.
The snap of Ivan's hips is merciless, the two of them settling on a back-breaking rhythm that has Till's eyes filling with overwhelmed tears.
“Is it good, Till? Hah, is it what you wanted?” Ivan pants, wanting to hear Till say it.
“S-So good,” Till moans out, high-pitched and whiny, the mind-numbing pleasure making him honest. “Need it—ngh, aah, hah, so full—”
The tears flow freely down Till's face, now, dripping down to Ivan's chest where Till sags against him, remaining strength fucked out of his body. Still, he rocks back against Ivan as best he can, hungry for all of it, skin slapping skin.
“Can you cum like this?” Ivan asks, just to keep Till talking, surprised at how rough his voice comes out.
Till nods frantically, “yes, yes, j-just, ngh, don’t stop, please—”
Ivan groans. He takes Till by the hips, then, slowing down their pace a bit as he adjusts his angle.
“You bastard,” Till immediately cusses him out, slapping his chest weakly, “cruel, insensitive asshole, messing with me when I'm—”
Ivan pays him no mind, used to it. Instead, he focuses on moving their hips carefully until he nails it, grinding nice and slow against Till's most sensitive spot on the tail end of each languid thrust.
“Oh,” Till's complaints die down as quickly as they came, eyes rolling back into his head. Syrupy pleasure fills him and spills out of his lips in sweet, needy moans.
“Feels nice, hm? You're doing so well, Till, so open for me, so warm,” Ivan praises, babbling a bit as he nears his orgasm. Till answers him with a mewl.
It's a done deal after that. Ivan drives Till to the very edge with his well-placed rubs, then pushes him over it with a couple rough thrusts until he's falling apart around him. Till cums with a wail, trembling all over while a fresh wave of tears spills down his face, his spend gushing out and splattering on both their chests.
Ivan fucks him through it for as long as he can but, with Till's hole milking him for all he's worth, he can't last. It only takes Ivan a couple more messy thrusts to explode inside Till with a loud groan, cock twitching as he fills him up with burst after burst of hot cum.
Till whimpers pitifully as he's stuffed, aftershocks still running through him, barely holding himself up from collapsing on Ivan's cum-stained chest. Ivan wishes he would.
Coming down from their highs, they both pant heavily, sweat cooling on their skins, Till's face sticky with tear tracks.
“You're still hard,” Ivan points out.
“I’m aware,” Till grimaces.
“Wanna go again?”
Till gives him a funny look. “But you're not…”
“It won't take much more than a minute,” Ivan says easily.
Sitting on his cock, Till has the gall to still be embarrassed, dodging Ivan's gaze in lieu of voicing his wants.
He's so adorable, so silly. Begging to be teased. Ivan wants to hold him tight and squeeze until the violent urges in him subside.
“Well, if you don't want to, I guess I'll go back to sleep,” Ivan sighs, hands on Till's bony hips pulling him up until his dick slips free in a wet slide.
Ivan immediately misses the pressure, biting his lip to hold back a bereft sound. It gets him the intended reaction, though.
Till gasps, then cries a little, hole clenching around nothing, thighs quivering despite Ivan so generously supporting his weight. A trail of cum runs down his leg. I need to fuck it back into him, Ivan thinks, losing his mind.
“Okay, okay! L-Let's go again!” Till scrambles to ask now that he's empty. “But put me down first.”
Ivan easily flips them to their previous position, Till’s back on the mattress while Ivan looms over him from between his legs.
Till looks well and properly fucked, now. His chest is covered in cum and sweat, face splotchy red, eyes dazed and teary. His hole is a mess, gaping wide where it'd stretched to accommodate Ivan's length, cum slipping out even with the muscles spasming to keep it inside. The sight gets a low moan out of Ivan, moving to line up his half-hard cock again and push the head in.
Till sighs in contentment, relieved. “G-Go slow… ‘m still sensitive.”
Selfishly, Ivan grabs Till's legs and winds them around his hips, yearning for closeness as he opens him up anew. Till doesn't seem to mind, perhaps not even paying attention at all, linking his ankles together on Ivan's back and allowing him to set the pace.
It's a raw sort of pleasure, both of them overstimulated by Ivan painstakingly pushing his cock back into Till inch by burning hot inch. The all-consuming heat brings Ivan to his forearms, closer to Till, so close he can hear every minute hitch in his breath, every tender gasp and moan.
Ivan bottoms out, their hot pants mingling in the tiny space between them. He stays still, looking into Till's eyes while they get reacquainted with the feel of it, with each other. Blown out pupils reflect red, Till for once meeting his gaze, open and unguarded.
There's no other way to describe it—it’s intimate, the tangle they find themselves in, sweaty skin resting on sweaty skin as though they’re still in time. The worst of their urgency has passed, leaving in its wake something that resembles affection far too much for comfort. Ivan basks in it regardless.
He moves a hand to brush Till's hair away from his sticky face, cups a flaming cheek, his thumb gently rubbing away sweet tears. Till leans into the touch unconsciously, and Ivan's heart squeezes painfully in his chest; somehow, the times Till lets him get away with tenderness hurt so much worse than when he pushes him away.
Tentatively, Ivan pulls back as much as Till's legs will allow him, thrusting back inside in a slow slide, making them both feel every inch of it.
Till's face contorts in pleasure, lashes fluttering as he moans right next to Ivan's face. Ivan wishes he could drink the sounds right from his lips instead.
“Is this alright?” Ivan murmurs quietly, afraid of breaking whatever spell they're under.
“Yeah,” Till mewls. “Feels nice.”
They've probably never agreed more. It is nice, this little bubble of easy pleasure they're in, pace syrupy slow, enjoying the feel of it instead of hurtling towards orgasm. The still air of the room is broken by their soft pants and moans, by the wet squelches of Till's sloppy hole as Ivan languidly pumps in and out of him.
Till is beautiful and pliant and glowing beneath him, skin flushed pink and expression blissful. He whimpers under Ivan's ministrations, nuzzles into his hand. Pleasure is a good look on him. Ivan longs to see it more often, to shower Till in all his affection, make him feel good as he is now, even if only for a little while.
“Look, Till,” Ivan pants, using his free hand to grab Till's and place it on his lower abdomen, “I'm poking through.”
Till lifts up his head slightly, moving their hands so he can see, confused. Ivan chooses that moment to push back in, letting Till feel it at the same time as he watches his stomach bulge.
Till gasps brokenly, transfixed. Ivan covers Till's hand with his, puts it back on top of the bulge and presses.
“F-Fuck, Ivan,” Till sobs.
Something in Ivan short-circuits.
“Say it again,” he pleads.
Till's legs squeeze tighter, spare arm moving to wind around Ivan's neck and fist into his hair, bringing him impossibly closer. Their chests rub together when Ivan buries his face in the crook of Till's neck, breathing him in.
“Ivan, Iva—ah, fuck, I-Ivan…” Till moans into his ear, delirious, like he can't help himself now that he's said it once.
Ivan groans, loud and affected, muffled by Till's skin. Hips picking up speed a bit, he clutches at Till's waist, other hand still pressing down on his bulging stomach. Ivan's name spilling so sweetly from his lips is just too much to bear.
Fingers clutched tight in his hair, Till pulls Ivan closer still and leans his head on his, seemingly determined to meld them together, not an inch of space between them.
Being so close to Till's skin is dangerous, Ivan thinks, his ragged breathing causing his tooth to scrape against the side of his neck. Till whimpers.
“You can, hah,” he pants shakily, “you can. B-Bite.”
Oh, fuck.
Not needing to be told twice, Ivan ravenously sinks his teeth in, moaning at the taste of it, the give of Till's flesh under the pressure. Till rewards him with a shiver and a ruined moan of his own.
Ivan is drunk, lost, completely gone in Till's arms, the world narrowed down to just the two of them. Till clenches around his cock, whines Ivan's name in a dulcet melody, and Ivan hopes it'll never end.
Reality has never heard his prayers, though—the drug is still coursing through Till's system, and soon he's begging for faster, harder, there as his orgasm builds and builds.
“Ivan, are you—ah—’re you close?” Till asks unexpectedly.
Ivan momentarily pauses his crusade to put as many bite marks as possible on Till's neck to answer him.
“Yeah,” he grunts. Despite his best efforts, with Till sucking him in, Ivan can't possibly stave his orgasm off for long.
“D-Do it inside,” Till whines.
Ivan stills his hips. Raises himself up to look at Till's face.
“It, uh, h-helped,” Till squeaks. “With the drug.”
Ivan purses his lips, holding back a laugh. He's so full of it.
“Don't laugh!”
Burying his smile on Till's neck, Ivan picks up his pace again. “I’ll fill you up, don't worry. For the drug.”
Ivan drives in where Till likes it—and it's almost surreal, to know where Till likes to be fucked—making sure to tighten him up by pressing down on his stomach. Till clenches around him like crazy, increasingly desperate cries escaping his open mouth.
Wave after wave of heat washes over Ivan; where his last orgasm sneaked up on him, this one spreads over his body slowly, threatening to consume him entirely until it finally crashes over, Ivan's jaw clamping down on Till's neck as he stuffs him full, just like he asked.
Till gasps, frantically removing his hand from around Ivan to press against his stomach as well, as if to feel for where Ivan's cum bloated him. The sight gets another spurt out of Ivan, riding out his high with rough, uncoordinated thrusts into Till's wet heat.
It's enough to send Till over the edge, hiccuping around his tears while he cums on Ivan's cock, no more than a weak few droplets escaping his spent dick. His climax is no weaker for it, though, as far as Ivan can tell—Till’s eyes roll back into his head hard, messily grinding back against Ivan as his hole spasms repeatedly, enough to make him hiss in overstimulation.
Ivan uses every last ounce of strength in his tired muscles to hold himself up from collapsing on Till's heaving chest. Pleasure haze fading, Ivan is suddenly acutely aware of the bodily fluids drying uncomfortably on his skin.
The feeling seems to hit Till at the same time. “I feel disgusting,” he says, grimacing when he runs a finger through the mess on his chest, dick finally soft and sated. As with everything else Till does, it's not supposed to be enticing, but Ivan's cock still twitches valiantly anyway.
Till's hole clenches involuntarily around the motion, making both of them wince.
“Get off,” Till grumbles, pushing against Ivan's chest.
“I already did.”
Till glares at him, exhausted and unamused.
Ivan laughs. “Alright, alright. Brace yourself.”
He pulls out his cock as gently as possible, but it's still too much on their oversensitive nerves—especially with Till’s muscles doing their very best to suck him back inside. Ivan allows himself the brief delusion of Till not wanting to let him go.
Regrettably, Ivan's spent cock springs free, a stream of cum spilling out of Till's gaping hole. Ivan has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the sight. Till makes no such effort—his inhibitions thoroughly squandered, he whines at the loss, not even bothering to close his legs.
Remembering Till's discomfort, Ivan grabs a corner of the sheets to wipe him down, putting slightly more pressure between his legs than necessary just to hear him whimper.
Till scrunches up his nose. “Don't use your sheets for that,” he says, but still allows himself to be cleaned up anyway.
“I don't mind,” Ivan replies, already devising a plan to hide them from being taken away for laundry cleaning.
“All done,” Ivan hums, taking stock of his handiwork. Till's waist bears the red outlines of his fingers, while his neck is marked up with half a dozen perfect indents of his teeth. Against all reason, Ivan hopes Till will look at them and think about him before they fade, even if just for a second.
Because no good thing ever lasts, Till starts to come to his senses. As the fog of pleasure dissipates and the usual embarrassment sets in, Ivan can see in real time how Till becomes increasingly mortified at his current position, splayed open on the bed with Ivan ogling his naked form.
With a squeak, Till all but jumps away. His legs are of a different mind, however, quivering madly when he attempts to support his own weight after being bent and railed for an hour.
“You can lean on me, if you want,” Ivan offers, knowing Till's pride won't allow him to accept.
“I'm fine,” Till predictably insists, wobbly making his way towards his discarded clothes at a snail's pace.
Ivan doesn't bother dressing back up, content with watching Till nearly fall on his ass while he tries to put on his pants despite his legs having the consistency of jelly. A trail of cum runs down his thigh. Such a waste.
Battle against the pants won, with only a serious blow to Till's dignity as casualty, he moves on to the shirt. Till puts on Ivan's shirt accidentally, and Ivan nearly coos at how adorably oversized it looks on him. If only Till would stay and allow Ivan to cuddle him to sleep in it.
The moment is short-lived. Soon enough, Till is fully dressed, lingering awkwardly in the middle of the room.
“So, uh…” he shifts uncomfortably, already refusing to meet Ivan's eyes again. “Thanks,” Till finishes lamely.
“No problem,” Ivan says, smiling the way he always does, practiced and horribly fake.
“I'll… I'll go back to my room, then.”
Ivan hums in assent, saying nothing.
Till shuffles to the door. Just as he's reaching for the handle, though, he stops, turning around slightly and—
“Don't tell anyone, okay?”
Ah. Of course.
“I won't,” Ivan promises. Till leaves without looking back.