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The first mistake is that Ivan moans when he says Till’s name.
It’s drawn out. Out loud. With intent. Like a prayer. Or a problem. Or both. Who knows when it’s Ivan.
Till is halfway through his fourth insult of the hour—something about how jocks are incapable of critical thinking and deserve to be dunked headfirst into a trash can—when Ivan tilts his head and goes,
“I like when you talk like that. You’re hot when you’re mean.”
Till forgets how to breathe for a second.
Then he says, “You’re disgusting.”
But it’s too late. The damage is done.
Ivan smiles like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Because he does.
—
They end up in the music department.
Technically it’s locked. Technically this is trespassing. Technically they could both get expelled.
But Till has a bobby pin and zero survival instinct, and Ivan has a talent for looking at him like he’s already got his mouth open and his knees spread, so. You know. Here they are.
The second mistake is that Ivan looks good.
Like, annoyingly good.
Letterman jacket, white t-shirt that stretches over his chest, blue jeans that fit too well. All black hair and barely-there smirk, eyes already burning with some smug promise Till wants to knock out of his skull.
He looks like the protagonist of a bad teen movie. The kind Till would yell at, then secretly rewind.
“Stop staring,” Ivan snorts, smiling.
“I’m thinking about where to bite.”
Ivan laughs. “You’re really gonna give me head while threatening me?”
Till drops to his knees.
“Yeah.” He deadpans, lips spewing one thing while his brain says another, practically short-circuiting and frying whatever nerve endings he has in his legs.
Till is nervous. Of course he is.
He’s only done this once. Kind of. Okay, it was two years ago and it barely counted and he bit the guy by accident.
But he’s not thinking about that.
He’s thinking about how warm Ivan is, how broad, how easily he feels suffocated between Ivan’s legs like he fits there a little too snugly.
He’s thinking about the way Ivan’s fingers twitch at his sides when Till runs his hands up his thighs, like he’s already barely holding it together.
He’s thinking about how stupid and sweaty and lucky he feels and it’s making him nauseous. The silence is loud. Too loud.
“Say something,” he mutters, halfway to peeling open Ivan’s jeans. “Or I’ll get bored.”
Ivan breathes out, low.
“I’ve never seen anyone look so good on his knees after threatening to bite my dick off.”
Till’s ears burn.
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
He will. He does.
—
Till’s lipstick is black.
He bought it at the mall with Mizi on a dare and pretended it was ironic.
It’s not ironic now.
Now it’s smearing down the length of Ivan’s cock, slow and shiny and obscene. Till’s jaw aches already and he’s only halfway down, but he refuses to stop.
Ivan’s hand clenches in his hair. He doesn’t pull. He just holds.
“Ffffhuck,” Ivan mutters. “Till— Jesus—”
Till hums.
Ivan twitches.
There are lipstick rings. Black ones. Till’s.
Smudged around the head, halfway down the shaft, one thick perfect line near the base like he measured it with his mouth. It’s branded along Ivan’s skin in soft, ruined circles, smeared and perfect and his. They look like someone stamped him with a wax seal: owned. Messy and wet and shiny, still gleaming with spit.
It’s sick how much it turns Till on.
He almost chokes on it—on the heat, the weight, the stretch of his throat and the sound Ivan makes when he gags just a little too hard and doesn’t stop.
Till pulls back for air. Ivan lets out a noise that isn’t even human. He’s flushed, panting, eyes glassy.
Till wipes his mouth, smearing more black across his palm as he begins to speak.
“Look at you.”
Ivan does and he groans low in his throat. It’s a fucking sight.
Because Till is flushed, messy, lips ruined, and Ivan’s cock is soaked—lipstick-stained and dripping. Saliva is running down his shaft, glistening over the smears like melted ink. There’s a trail on his thigh. Another glinting at the corner of Till’s mouth.
Ivan practically whines. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, that’s the idea.” Till can’t help but retort—and the next time he sinks down, he doesn’t stop.
He flattens his tongue and lets his spit pool at the tip. Sucks him in all the way, until the head hits the back of his throat, until his nose is pressed to Ivan’s skin, until the lipstick ring there smears sideways across his cheek.
Ivan makes a sound like something snapped.
His hips jerk.
He’s trying so hard not to fuck into it. It feels like he’s going insane. “Please, fuck— Till— ‘m gonna— ffuck—”
He doesn’t finish.
He doesn’t have to.
Till lets him, humming. Mouth full.
Ivan loses it.
It’s sudden— sharp— warm. The first shot hits the back of Till’s throat and he chokes a little but takes it, because he’s hungry, because he has something to prove, because he wants Ivan to see what he did to him.
Ivan’s moaning, swearing, fingers gripping grey strands with white knuckles. He keeps twitching, hips jerking every time another thick pulse spills out.
It doesn’t stop. It spills out of the sides of Till’s mouth, mixes with lipstick, glides down his chin and neck in a slow, obscene drip.
Till swallows what he can.
Lets the rest coat him.
Lets Ivan see it.
Ivan’s knees buckle, legs still shaking, completely fucked-out and wide-eyed.
Till pulls back with a slick pop and just… admires.
There’s a mess. His mess.
Streaks of spit and cum glistening over red skin and smeared black. A collage of filth. His favorite art piece.
He stands. His knees shake. He pretends they don’t.
Ivan’s still recovering, but he looks down, sees the lipstick rings—his mouth, his colors—and groans like it’s too much. “Holy shit,” he mutters.
Till wipes his chin with the back of his hand and scowls, but his voice is threaded with mirth. “You’re disgusting.”
Ivan can’t even bring himself to speak.
He’s still hard, still catching his breath. He’s moved to slump into a chair, shirt half-ridden up his chest, thighs trembling, face flushed, dick wet and streaked in black lipstick like he got branded by the devil’s own mouth.
Till stands over him, flushed and cocky, wiping slick from his chin with the back of his hand like he didn’t just suck the soul out of Ivan’s body.
“You’re welcome,” he says, smug.
Ivan blinks at him. Breathing hard.
Then, he’s moving.
Till doesn’t get a second to react before Ivan grabs his waist and walks him back—slow, unhurried—until the backs of Till’s knees hit the couch behind them. Ivan is practically glowing, eyes low and steady, and Till realizes way too late that Ivan hasn’t just recovered—
He’s hungry.
“What the fuck,” Till mutters, heartbeat rising. “What are you doing?”
Ivan says nothing.
Just sinks to his knees.
“H-Hey—hey! Hold on- Ivan—”
Fingers on his belt. Thumbs at the waistband. His jeans and briefs yanked down before he can stop it, before he can remember how to say hey, wait, you horny bastard, but the words get stuck in his throat the second Ivan breathes over the heat between his thighs.
Ivan stares.
Till’s cunt is already slick—soaked , really, glistening in the low room light like it’s begging to be touched. His folds are flushed, puffy, soaked straight through with arousal that glues his thighs to the plush couch.
“Holy fuck,” Ivan whispers, eyes dark.
Till glares. “Shut up.”
Ivan doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
“You’re dripping.”
“Shut up—”
Ivan doesn’t say anything else. He just drags his tongue up the mess between Till’s thighs and moans like he’s the one being touched.
Till jerks. “Jesus— fuck—what the hell are you—”
Ivan doesn’t answer. Just mouths over Till’s slit, tongue lapping like a dog at a dish. It’s disgusting how wet it gets immediately—louder than it should be. Sloppy. Every motion of Ivan’s tongue stirs slick that doesn’t stop coming, like Till’s body is producing it just for him.
“Holy shit,” Ivan breathes, voice wrecked, lips shiny. “You’re so sweet.”
He licks again—deep now—flattening his tongue and pushing in, nosing at Till’s clit with reverence while his mouth works the leaking, twitching hole below.
“God, Ivan—f-fuck, that’s—”
The way his slick coats Ivan’s chin should be illegal. Ivan wants it there—wants to wear it, wants to feel it drying sticky and warm into his skin so he can carry it with him like a blessing.
Ivan pulls away. Spreads Till open with both thumbs.
Slick clings to his folds, puffy and flushed and leaking, literally shining in the low light like some cursed miracle. There’s already a damp spot of it on the couch under him. The air smells thick and sweet.
Ivan stares. He can’t help it. Till is just so fucking pretty. It’s like it’s calling to him. He watches the wet glisten right at the entrance, little pulses of arousal squeezing out like his pussy is trying to milk him.
Then he leans in again and begins lapping with urgency.
Till gasps—a sound punched out of him raw, sharp, humiliated.
Because Ivan doesn’t ease in. He devours.
Tongue dragging from hole to clit with a lewd slurp, filthy and wet, nose buried in the softness there as he presses in again with more pressure, like he’s desperate to memorize the taste.
“Jesus—fuck, Ivan—”
Ivan groans into him. “I want to die here,” Ivan mutters, tongue already back on him.
The sound vibrates, shakes straight through Till’s hips and into the back of his skull.
Ivan eats pussy like he’s trying to drink him.
Like he’s dying for it.
His nose presses against Till’s clit again, his tongue swirling filthily into the slick folds, dipping into the heat of his cunt and scooping the fluid out with each pass.
Till’s leaking onto the sofa now. God, it’s wet. It’s so fucking wet.
The way Ivan eats him out should be illegal. Sloppy and unrestrained, open-mouthed and slobbering. His whole mouth is coated, jaw slicked in it, lips glossed in Till’s arousal.
Ivan doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even look up.
Just keeps licking—deeper now, tongue pushing past Till’s folds like he’s trying to fuck him open with it.
Till’s entire spine arches off the sofa.
His arm warmers bunch at his elbows. His choker is biting into his collarbone. His thighs tremble around Ivan’s head, and the worst part? Ivan doesn’t even seem fazed.
“Why the ffhhuck a-are you good at this—”
Ivan hums again. Another shockwave.
“I hate you—”
“You taste so good,” Ivan mutters, voice muffled, mouth still messy. “I can’t—hah—can’t get enough of you.”
Till chokes. “Shut UP— ”
Ivan pulls back, gasping for air, soaked in slick.
And then—he spits on it.
Till jerks.
Ivan smiles, eyes dragging up Till’s body with a particularly heavy heat pooling in obsidian irises.
“You’ve got tattoos,” Ivan breathes, hands dragging up Till’s thighs.
“Wow. Congratulations on learning how eyes work—”
“No , like— here.” Ivan kisses just under his hipbone, where a black ink womb tattoo wraps down his pelvis. His lips trail the line. “They’re hot.”
Till says nothing. Because his throat’s closing.
Ivan presses another kiss to the tattoo, then another, then mouths at it open and reverent like he’s praying into his skin.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Till mutters.
“I’d die for you,” Ivan whispers. He doesn’t give Till a chance to reply, his hand moving lower.
Fingers.
Till doesn’t register it until he feels them—Ivan’s thick, calloused fingers rubbing through the slick between his folds, then lining up right at his entrance.
“Wait—” he gasps, but it’s already too late.
Ivan presses two inside, slow but deep, and Till wails.
Because it’s stretching—full and perfect and good, and his pussy takes it like it’s meant to. Like it’s thirsty for it. Slick rushes down Ivan’s hand, coating his palm in a heartbeat.
“Shit— tight,” Ivan groans. “You’re fuckin’ clenching on me.”
Till bites his wrist to stay quiet.
Ivan doesn’t seem to like that very much, thrusting his fingers deep —all the way in, knuckle-deep, and curls.
Till jerks, legs kicking out.
“Right there, huh?” Ivan says, voice wrecked.
He crooks again. And again.
Till moans so loud it echoes.
Then Ivan leans in—and keeps licking. Around his fingers. Like a fucking freak.
He mouths at Till’s clit while his fingers fuck him deep and slow, tongue swirling around the little piercing, drool running down to join the slick already pouring out of him.
It’s obscene.
“Stop— stop licking it, fuck—”
Ivan doesn’t stop. He doubles down.
Three fingers now. The same ones that throw perfect spirals on the field.
Till nearly screams. It comes out more like a cracked gasp, high and desperate, as Ivan’s fingers stroke the front wall with stupid precision—just the right spot, over and over, crooking in until Till’s hips buck into it, chasing pressure.
“S-stop—nnhh!— fuck, that’s, m’gonna—”
“You’re gripping me so tight,” Ivan groans, thrusting his fingers shallowly, curling up every time. “You like this, don’t you?”
Till nods without meaning to. Body betraying him. Pussy sucking Ivan’s fingers in like it’s starving.
The stretch is just obscene. Just shy of too much, pushing his walls wide, slick squelching around each slow, shallow thrust. Ivan’s lips never leave his pussy. He’s still lapping around his own fingers, mess soaking his jawline, his cheeks, his neck.
And Till?
Till’s falling apart. Lips parted, face red. His voice gone hoarse, all curses and helpless whining.
“ Ivan, Ivan, fuck—I’m gonna—m’gonna cum—”
Ivan moans.
Literally moans. Into Till’s pussy. Like it’s the most sacred thing he’s ever tasted.
He’s rutting against the couch, desperate.
Till looks down—just in time to see Ivan shudder, panting, hips jerking once, twice—
And cum in his pants.
Untouched.
No warning.
Did he mention untouched?
A stuttered gasp and a shudder that rocked through Ivan, hips rutting weakly into the edge of the sofa while he’s still shoved in Till’s cunt, still tasting him, and he’s cumming.
Till barely registers it.
He’s already cumming too. Hard. Spasming.
His thighs clench around Ivan’s head. He claws at the fabric of the sofa, mouth open in a soundless cry, tears pricking the corners of his eyes from how intense it is.
Ivan doesn’t let up.
Not until Till physically pulls his hand away, oversensitive and trembling, the mess between his legs soaking both of them.
The room is silent.
Ivan kisses Till’s inner thigh.
Then his tattoo.
Then the soft skin of his belly.
“You’re holy,” he mumbles.
Till stares at the ceiling.
Dead.
“I hate you so fucking much,” he says.
Ivan scoots up. Kisses him. He’s insatiable, but he doesn’t argue, and neither does Till.
—
…Till had no business being this loud.
He was supposed to be the cool one. The detached one. The “I don’t need you, I just want to cum” one.
Instead, he was gasping like a sinner in church with his thighs shaking around Ivan’s hips and both hands planted on Ivan’s shoulders like he’d die if he let go.
“Fuck,” Till breathed, head dropping forward.
Ivan was beneath him, chest bare, jaw slack, black eyes locked on the place where Till’s pussy kept swallowing him over and over again. Hands tight around Till’s waist. Gripping. Guiding.
“You’re taking me so good,” Ivan mumbled. “I’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”
Till glared at him. Or, tried to.
His face was red. His lipstick was gone. His thighs were slick and sticky where they met Ivan’s skin, and every bounce just made that obscene wet noise again—messy, fast, filthy.
Ivan’s cock dragged against that spot inside him every time he sank down. And Till kept sinking. Because he couldn’t stop.
“Sh-shut up,” he stammered. “You talk too much.”
Ivan smiled. That lazy, stupid smile he always had when he was seconds from making Till break.
“Yeah?” he said. “Then make me.”
Till snapped his hips down harder.
Ivan groaned. Loud.
Till bit his lip. “Idiot.”
It had started slow… at first.
Till on top, taking control, riding Ivan’s cock with that steady rhythm he knew would drive them both insane. The stretch had nearly made his knees give out the first time, but he played it cool. Pretended like he could take it.
Pretended like he wasn’t going absolutely stupid every time Ivan’s cock kissed the deepest part of him.
Now?
He was trembling.
Hair sticking to his face. Chest flushed. Fingertips digging into Ivan’s shoulders to anchor himself.
“God—f-fuck, Ivan!—”
Ivan’s hands were everywhere.
On his waist. Up his ribs. Thumbs brushing the underside of his pecs before grazing over the sensitive scar tissue there—Till shuddered, almost lost his balance. One of Ivan’s hands dropped back to his hip, fingers gripping like a vice, the other reaching up to tease the silver bar through Till’s left nipple.
Till whimpered. He didn’t mean to.
Ivan’s pupils blew wide.
“You like that?”
“Wh—what the fuck?! No!” Till lied.
Ivan rolled his hips up into him.
Till moaned—open, cracked, devastating.
Ivan grinned. “Liar.”
Till tried to stay upright. He tried.
But his thighs were shaking, slick gushing down Ivan’s cock every time he dropped his weight onto him. His clit was throbbing, bumping against Ivan’s pubic bone with every grind. He needed friction. Needed more.
Ivan saw it.
“Touch yourself,” he murmured. “You can do it. C’mon.”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Till panted, but his hand was already moving—fingers between his legs, rubbing over his soaked clit in tight, fast circles.
His voice broke.
He gasped. “Oh—oh fuck—right there, that’s—”
Ivan sat up. Wrapped his arm around Till’s back. Nudged his forehead against his.
“You sound so pretty,” he whispered. “Like music. I could listen forever.”
Till’s eyes fluttered shut.
His cunt fluttered too, clenching down hard on Ivan’s cock—and Ivan felt it, groaned like a man being dragged to hell.
“You feel so good inside,” Ivan said, voice cracking. “So fucking tight. Like you’re made for me.”
“Shut up,” Till whispered.
But he was riding harder now.
Faster.
Needier.
The slick between them was loud now—dripping down Till’s thighs, coating Ivan’s cock, soaking the backs of his hands where he held Till steady.
The room reeked of sex.
Till’s cunt clenched again, and again, and Ivan’s cock hit just right, and Till saw stars.
“F-fuck, Ivan— oh my god—”
Ivan was panting. “That’s it—ride it, Till, come on—”
“Stop talking,” Till cried, but his voice was high and wrecked, his fingers flying over his clit, his body arching forward as he started to come so hard that his ears rang.
Ivan held him. Watched him.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
Till collapsed onto his chest. Shaking. Moaning softly through it, thighs twitching, still twitching—until Ivan’s cock twitched too.
Ivan bucked.
Till squeaked.
“Wait— Ivan—”
Ivan growled.
“Fuck this.”
He flipped them.
Till hit the floor with a breathless “oh fuck —” but he didn’t even have time to yell before Ivan was back inside, deep, pounding into him with a rhythm that sounded like thunder.
Skin slapping. Slick splattering. Till’s legs thrown over Ivan’s shoulders, his arms pinned to the floor by Ivan’s weight.
“You gonna stop me?” Ivan panted, breath hot against his throat.
Till couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
He just gasped, eyes glassy, hole fluttering around Ivan’s cock as it split him open with every thrust.
“Didn’t think so.”
Ivan fucked him harder.
Till screamed.
He came again before he knew it.
His pussy clenched violently around Ivan’s cock, gushing slick across his thighs, his belly, Ivan’s abdomen, and the carpet under them.
Ivan was moaning into his neck, body trembling, still moving even as Till’s nails carved red half-moons into his back.
And then Ivan broke too.
Came with a stuttered gasp, buried balls deep inside Till’s fluttering cunt, flooding him with warmth and whimpering Till’s name into his skin like a prayer.
They didn’t move for a while.
Just laid there, breathing like they ran a marathon.
Till’s thighs still trembled. Ivan’s arms were shaking.
“You okay?” Ivan whispered eventually.
Till blinked at the ceiling.
Sighed.
Then whispered:
“.. Yeah.”
Ivan kissed his shoulder.
His collarbone.
Then his mouth.
Slow.
Soft.
Like he meant it.
And Till?
He let him.