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His boyfriend has a tiny cock.
Tiny, sensitive thing, pebble-hard and leaking wet – it is simply so adorable.
Sensitive, so sensitive that it only takes a light brush over clothes for it to stand up, all cute and short, almost immediately spurting. Something he uses for his entertainment, teasing just before the match, an exam or on the way home, so Ivan, his Ivan, has to breathe a little harder, walk a little slower trying not to cum just from friction.
When he calls it “clit” there’s a whine of protest but it starts pulsing and twitching even more, pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Chest pressed to Ivan’s back, he can’t see his face but he’s sure that his eyes are rolled back, jaw gone slack and loose.
Small dick, flushed red, above balls so full after a week of denial, tortured, reserved just for his touch alone. He always chuckles then, ears cupped by headphones plugged into nothing, pen scraping on paper as he outlines eyes, downturned, lashes thick and wet with tears, then eyebrows, slanted. Smiling and humming to himself in the cafeteria, while girls and boys alike discuss his boyfriend —his future fiancé (surely, he wouldn’t say no) — his perfect looks, perfect grades, speculate on his imaginary preferences in bed, positions, likes and dislikes.
Oh, they just don’t know. They will never know how he pleads and moans, butt stuffed full, cum dripping down his thighs, how his dick spurts over and over, neglected and untouched—and even more when he pinches it, tugging up and down and up again. How he loves to suck and swallow, panting and salivating, how he whines when he doesn’t get his way but still obliges.
Composed, tall, beautiful, perfect—a man who gives in to him, gives all of himself so easily.
Bratty and taunting, both tongue and tooth sharp, shut up immediately when his nipple is circled, then flicked over and over, and then he’s the one left flustered and red everywhere.
He can be timid too, still begging for attention with plausible deniability, a careful tactic lingering from childhood. Bold asks turned into jokes before there’s a chance to answer, things stolen only to be returned later, if at all. But now that he sees him, past the beautiful skin and beautiful bones, he will give him everything he silently asks for and more.
His boyfriend — one who actually gets tired so fast, who cries a lot. Extroverted, but completely closed off if you pay attention. And it’s a good thing they never really pay attention, because, if they did, inevitably… Yes, he’s sure. Inevitably. And if this were to happen, just what would he do? Something stupid, of course, something big and stupid, like that he was already preparing to do once and would—
If this idiot, this absolute moron did not forget his shit lying around for once.
Bury it deep inside his heart? Unknown till the end? Stealing his lyrics, huh? A thief and a liar, as lies by omission are still lies.
He can live in him. He should, in fact, really just live in him alone and never see the light of day or face of another. A beautiful dream, a wish for two, entirely impossible but the one he cherishes deeply nonetheless, realms of possibility never caged his imagination after all. His only other dream is to know with absolute certainty that this devotion is mutual, will stay mutual forever.
Smooth, flexible to the point of bending backwards until he breaks, quite easy - for anyone that’s not him, but he loves challenges.
Wasn’t always like this, though, as a good challenge needs to have a reward befitting the effort, and back then it was just pins upon pins stabbing into his poor heart. Getting suddenly shoved away from a changing room with no explanation after they’ve reached a certain age, cold turndown of any events including various state of undress, bitter sting of rejection seeping into his easily irritable mind, happy, fun times at the pool or sea discarded as if they meant nothing at all. All of this left him so hurt and cold that he only had his anger to keep himself warm. A fuel that works, but burns both his owner and everyone around until there Is nothing left. And there was almost nothing left, but god, he’s just so, so lucky—
To be rewarded like this for his intrusion, for stealing—what else could it be but pure luck?
Finding out like that does feel a little sour, yes, and maybe it wasn’t a good thing to do, but after all, didn’t he have the right to? Ivan had taken so many things from him, too.
Some were tangible: pencils and erasers, a recorder dubbed his greatest treasure dismantled and useless, mouthpiece gone; Some were not —all space in his head and chest, carved hollow just so Ivan could fit inside.
Ivan, his, reaching out for something endlessly but when his fingertips finally touch it, when something reaches back confusion and doubt contort his features. Was waiting for something with no end in sight easier than being finally seen? It would seem so, but through this newfound, delightful hardship Till will lead the way.
Blind leading the blind? Perhaps. But he is not the one to read this damned classical literature to know of such things. He’s a genius, after all, doesn’t need someone whispering old-age wisdom into his ears to make decisions.
Good thing upon good thing, he’s just so, so lucky. Seemingly by mistake Ivan was placed into his hands, clumsy and unknowing (and reading the meaning of his name under bed covers, face lit up by phone, alarm set for 7 sharp — he really, really should’ve gotten the memo sooner) —almost slipped away, even, but now he will never let go. With those hands he will rip Ivan’s heart open, claw out everything he buries and hides, tears and protests only marking the way.
He can apply himself when needed. Teachers, of course, would say otherwise.
Highschool ending — them finally, finally official — prying off layers of clothes from a stiff body, ten promises not to laugh — one written and signed, even. Till is not a patient boy nor a patient man, but for all his hard work, for stretching shreds of this elusive quality just enough, he is rewarded. Ivan is beautiful, always was, but like this even more so, a delight for an artist’s mind – pale pink and red on black and finally adorned with white, translucent. Hushed voice and vacant eyes as he whispers that he doesn’t feel like anything, anyone in particular.
A creature, then, and such a lovely one. So easy to fall for, so hard to love sometimes, biting back in fear, just like him, really. It’s good his teeth are small and dainty and heart is too warm and tender for real cruelty. Once it felt like one, but looking back it’s so stupid and so, so pathetic, just like him now when he writhes and ruts, tears welling up in pretty eyes.
Sweet-toothed. You are what you eat, and a lot of times he is just like that — sweet. Rubbing his forehead into tense shoulder, then caressing, holding until everything melts into a soft blur. Caring, taking everything upon himself without being asked to. And without asking, too, knowing that pride is a thing that binds hands that want to reach out, a thing that forces mouths shut. Kind, having learned to respond to anger with softness even when hurt seeps out of his eyes. So peaceful, morning light cradling his features, chest rising and falling slowly again and again.
And what if somebody took him away after all, what then? He wouldn’t be in his right mind to consider options and outcomes, not head nor heart wired for weighing risks. High risk, his boyfriend, in every sense, hundreds of eyes always on him, looking for a piece or two to steal.
Shy, bashful, lacking self-worth apparent in how uneasy and unsure he looks when his toes are sucked and licked, eyes to the ceiling, lip bitten in shame instead of pleasure — undoubtedly feeling undeserving, but to change that Till will once again persist.
His muse, on a good day agreeing to be exposed further, to pose — collared, drawn over and over, and his skills are woefully not enough to depict such divine imagery.
His lover — the one who still can’t seem to confess in broad daylight, feelings spilling out in words only when he faces someone’s sleeping — pretend sleeping, stupid — back, breath trembling and voice wobbling. A lingering habit, perhaps, and a bad one, just like stuffing his fingers into his own mouth and biting them bloody when worried. Fingers he will easily swap for something else, but this secrecy has to be trained out of him completely, sooner or later.
His, his, his, as long as he permits it, as long as he allows to hold him, to love him, to cherish.
Only thing he prays for, every day without fail, is for this to never end.