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Ivan had stormed off, tail coat swishing in annoyance, his cloak fluttering behind him. Backstage was a maze of industrial lighting and unused props, but he knew the space like muscle memory. Or at least, he thought he did until his shoulder clipped the wrong corner and sent him toppling sideways.
His arm shot out to catch himself, but the narrow crevice between wall panels was less forgiving. Ivan froze with a grunt, half-twisted, one arm pinned above his head, hips flush against cool metal. His horns scraped the upper panel with a quiet clink. He tried to wriggle back up to no avail, stuck.
“No,” he hissed. “No no no—!” his pleas come to deaf ears,
“You always get into trouble when you run off.” Till’s voice echoed behind him with a frustrated sigh. And Ivan stilled at the sound of footsteps coming in.
He didn’t need to turn to know Till was close. That familiar presence pressed in like static, heat and ego and curiosity bundled in velvet shadows. There was a long silence, and then the unmistakable sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.
Click. Click. Click.
Till stopped behind him. Ivan held his breath. “This is new,” Till mused, a low hum vibrating behind Ivan’s ear. “I like the framing.”
“Don’t even think about it,” Ivan growled. He twisted again—his hips arched back without meaning to, grinding slightly against the wall.
Till exhaled, sharp and pleased. “Oh, I’m thinking. I’ve been thinking about this alright.” A gloved hand slid over Ivan’s waist, fingers tracing the seam of his bodysuit, over the swell of his backside where he was perfectly, helplessly presented. Ivan cursed softly, already feeling the heat blooming low in his spine.
“You're enjoying this too much,” Ivan bit out, voice frayed at the edges.
“I enjoy many things,” Till murmured. “But you? Stuck and flushed,” His hand squeezed, firm and reverent. “That's my favorite.”
Ivan’s breath caught as Till tugged his hips just enough to arch him further, the wall cold against his chest and neck. Another hand pulled his cloak aside, baring more of him to the shadows. He hated how fast he was getting hard from the teasing.
“You should be embarrassed,” Ivan spat, biting his lip.
“I am,” Till said. “Embarrassingly hard.” Ivan made a choked sound—half a laugh, half gasping for air as Till pressed close. The heat of him burned through layers of fabric. One gloved hand dipped between Ivan’s thighs and cupped him from behind, fingers wicked and slow.
“You gonna scream if I don’t prep you?” Till teased, nosing along Ivan’s horn.
“I’ll scream if you don’t hurry,” Ivan hissed. A groan spilled from Till’s throat. He didn’t wait to take his gloves off, slick conjured from wherever he kept it in his ridiculous coat. Ivan clenched the edge of the panel with his free hand as Till spread him with fingers careful but insistent, opening him up with expert patience and barely restrained hunger. Ivan tried to keep quiet—but every push of Till’s fingers made his legs tremble.
“You’re so tight,” Till murmured, almost reverent. Ivan growled, but his voice broke as Till brushed against the spot that made his knees buckle.
Till laughed softly, breath fanning against Ivan’s spine as he lined himself up. And then he pushed in.
Ivan gasped, back arching, the stretch intense, electric. Till groaned behind him, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. The sound of skin on skin echoed faintly in the corridor, rhythmic and growing in intensity.
“You’re going to be sore,” Till rasped, thrusts deep and possessive. “Maybe you’ll remember next time not to mouth off before a show.”
“You like when I mouth off,” Ivan shot back, breathless.
“I love it.” Till drove in harder, pulling a whimper from Ivan’s throat. “Because it means I get to shut you up like this.”
Ivan bit his lip, trying not to cry out—he could hear faint voices down the corridor. Other staff. Maybe even fans. The idea that they might hear made his body clench around Till’s cock, drawing another deep groan from the man. “You’re into this,” Till chuckled darkly. “Exhibitionist little thing.”
Ivan didn’t answer, he was trembling, eyes half-lidded, lips parted with desperate little gasps as Till pounded into him, pace unforgiving now. “Say it,” Till demanded, close to his ear. “Say you like being mine.”
Ivan whined, too far gone to deny it. “Y-yeah—yes—yours—!"
Till drove in deep, once, twice, then held Ivan tight and emptied into him with a low, possessive growl. Ivan gasped, thighs trembling, the hot spill of it pushing him over the edge seconds later. He came hard, hips jerking, panting like he'd run a marathon.
For a moment, all they could do was breathe—Till resting his forehead against Ivan’s back, Ivan limp in the wall, boneless and soaked in sweat.
“You’re cleaning this up,” Ivan mumbled hoarsely.
“I’ll clean you up first,” Till purred. “Then the wall. Maybe. Unless we leave it as a signature.”
Ivan groaned as he sagged against the panel, legs still trembling, his cheek pressed to cool metal as he tried to catch his breath. Till didn’t move far—just enough to keep his arms around Ivan’s waist, hands splayed like he didn’t want to let go.
For once, the silence between them wasn’t laced with insults or performance tension. Just warmth. Just breath. Just the low thrum of Ivan’s heartbeat finally starting to settle.
Till was the first to speak, voice quieter now. “You alright?” Ivan snorted. “Are you asking as the man who just bent me over a structural panel or as my stage partner?”
“Yes,” Till said smugly, but there was a softness under it that didn’t go unnoticed. Ivan shifted, finally pulling himself back an inch—and immediately winced. “Ugh. Dammit.”
Till leaned in, nuzzling the edge of his hair, not quite apologetic. “Told you you’d be sore.”
“Next time,” Ivan muttered, trying to tug his cloak back into place without looking too wrecked, Till smirked, but there was something else in his eyes now—a gentler fond. “I’d rather be stuck with you.”
Ivan blinked, caught off guard. For all the heated dominance and snarky banter, it was moments like this that made his chest ache in ways he didn’t like to name. “...Idiot,” he mumbled.
“And yet,” Till said with a smirk, wiping his glove clean and helping Ivan stand more comfortably, “you keep letting me in.”
Ivan didn’t reply, just looked down, lips twitching faintly. Then, very quietly: “We better leave before someone sees this mess.”
Till only smiled and adjusted Ivan’s cloak with surprising gentleness. “Too late.”
Ivan’s eyes widened. “What?” Till tilted his head toward a security cam in the corner, its light blinking lazily.
“I disabled the audio,” he said. “But… who knows how many frames it caught?”
Ivan groaned and smacked a hand over his face. “You’re dead.”