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Ivan stood on the bottom step of the porch, adjusting the strap of a canvas bag that had seen better days. His parents’ car wasn’t in the driveway—it rarely was on Tuesday afternoons, or Wednesday mornings, or most weekends.
The kitchen table inside held an empty cereal bowl and a sticky ring where an orange juice glass had rested three days ago.
Ivan hit the pavement with a light bounce in his step. The neighborhood was small, a single loop of cracked asphalt framed by overgrown lawn edges and dusty hydrangeas
At house 408, Mrs. Shine was out on her front lawn, leaning over a bed of stubborn marigolds with a hand trowel.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Shine!" Ivan called out, coasting to a halt at the edge of her driveway. "Did the yellow ones finally come in?"
The elderly woman straightened up slowly, wincing as her hand found the small of her back. She squinted through her bifocals, a fond tired expression softening her wrinkled face. "Oh, hello, Ivan. No, those are the orange ones again. The rabbits ate the buds off the yellow batch last night."
"I can set up those plastic mesh guards for you later if you want," Ivan offered, resting his hands on his hips. "I saw some behind Mr. Luka's shed. He said I could take whatever scrap wire was sitting back there."
"You're a sweet boy, Ivan," she sighed, brushing dirt off her garden gloves. "Have you had lunch yet? You look like a gust of wind could blow you into the next county."
"Ate an apple on the way out," Ivan lied smoothly, his smile appearing on his face. "I'm heading down toward the corner. See you later!"
He was already moving before she could offer a sandwich—not because he wasn't hungry, but because accepting food meant answering questions about why his mother hadn't gone grocery shopping that week.
He continued down the street, waving to Mr. Luka, who was tinkering under the hood of an ancient blue pickup truck, and shouting a quick greeting to the two younger kids riding tricycles.
Then he reached the house at the very end of the street. For months, the place had sat vacant, its lawn turning brown and wild. But two days ago, a battered white moving van had parked in the driveway. The front blinds were open for the first time in a year.
Ivan slowed his pace, his eyes bright with curiosity.
Sitting on the top step of the front porch was someone new. He looked to be around nineteen or twenty, clad in a faded black t-shirt and dark jeans with frayed knees. He had messy hair, sharp collarbones, and a scowl that looked like it had been carved into his face permanently.
He was leaning back against the wooden pillar, a half-eaten sandwich in one hand and a cheap notebook open on his lap, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
He swung open the rickety wooden gate and stepped onto the path.
"Hi," Ivan said, stopping right at the edge of the lawn. "You're the one who moved in. I'm Ivan."
The guy didn't look up immediately. He slowly lowered his sandwich, his dark eyes shifting down toward the kid standing at the base of his steps. His forehead creased into a heavy, uninviting frown.
"You're on my lawn," the guy said. His voice was low, rasping slightly like he hadn't used it all morning.
"It's crabgrass anyway," Ivan pointed out, stepping up onto the first wooden porch stair without an invitation. "I live at 412. The blue house with the squeaky screen door. Mrs. Shine lives over there, and if you leave your trash bags out past eight on Thursday, the raccoons will rip them open. You’re Mister Till, right? I saw the name on the mailbox."
The older guy—Till—stiffened slightly. He shut the notebook with a sharp clap, tucking the pencil into his pocket.
"It's none of your business what my name is," Till snapped, his tone sharp and defensive. "And I don't need a tour guide. Go play somewhere else, kid."
"I'm not playing, I'm just telling you," Ivan replied, his expression unbothered by the hostility. He was used to sharp edges; his father spoke in flat icy commands, and his mother spoke in sighs that cut deeper than knife edges. A loud, angry voice was almost refreshing to him.
"Also, your rain gutter on the left is loose. It'll rattle when it rains tonight."
Till stared at him, clearly exasperated by the kid's total lack of self-preservation or basic awkwardness. Most kids ran off when an adult snapped at them, or knew the basics of stranger danger. Ivan just stood there, hands tucked into his sweater pockets, watching Till with clear, wide eyes.
"I don't care about the rain gutter," Till said, standing up. He was tall, lean, and looked perpetually exhausted, with faint dark circles under his eyes. "And I don't need company. Beat it."
Till turned on his heel, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside, shutting it firmly behind him. The lock clicked into place with a thunk.
Ivan stood on the porch for a moment, listening to the silence of the house. He didn't look hurt. Instead, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"See you tomorrow, Tilly!” Ivan shouted softly to the closed wooden door.
Wednesday brought a light drizzle, exactly as the dark clouds from the night before had promised. The air smelled of wet soil and old ozone.
Ivan spent the morning sitting on his own front porch, watching the rain drip through a hole in the porch roof into a plastic bucket he'd set out.
His parents hadn't come home.
There was a note on the kitchen counter—three short words written in his mother's sharp cursive: Back on Friday. A twenty-dollar bill sat under a salt shaker next to the note. Ivan had tucked the bill into his shoe and left the house by noon.
By one o'clock, the rain had tapered off into a chilly mist. Ivan found himself back at the end of the block, leaning against the chain-link fence that bordered 401 Anakt Street.
Till was out again. He was leaning over the open hood of his grey hatchback, a wrench in hand and grease smudged across his jaw. He looked infuriated, mumbling under his breath every time a bolt refused to turn. Ivan hopped over the tiny decorative flower garden at the edge of the lawn and walked up to the driveway.
"It's the alternator, isn't it?" Ivan asked, leaning over the side of the car engine to peer inside. "Mr. Luka's truck made that same whining sound before it died last month."
Till jumped, nearly dropping his wrench onto the engine block. He spun around, scowling fiercely down at Ivan.
"What is wrong with you?" Till barked, rubbing a hand across his forehead, which only succeeded in smearing dark grease across his skin. "Do you just creep around people's yards all day? Don't you have school or parents or something to bother?"
"It's summer," Ivan shrugged simply. "And my parents are busy. What are you fixing Mister?"
"Nothing that concerns a little kid," Till grunted. He turned back to the car, leaning his weight into the wrench. His knuckles turned white with the effort, but the bolt didn't budge. He let out a harsh curse under his breath, dropping his arm with a huff of pure frustration.
Ivan leaned against the fender, watching the older boy's shoulder muscles tense up. "If you pour a little vinegar or oil on that rust, it comes off easier. Mr. Luka uses WD-40, but he says cooking oil works if you're broke."
Till froze. He looked over his shoulder at Ivan, his dark eyes narrowing into slits.
"Are you calling me broke?" Till asked, his voice dangerously low.
"No," Ivan said honestly, tilting his head. "I'm just saying rust is sticky. I have some oil in my house if you want it."
Till took a slow, deep breath, clearly trying to regulate a temper that sat right on a razor's edge. "Kid. Listen to me very carefully. I moved here to be left alone. I don't want advice. I don't want to talk to you. Go away."
Ivan didn't flinch. He looked at Till’s tight posture, the grease on his face, and the defensive, fortress-like energy radiating from him. To anyone else, Till looked mean and dangerous. To Ivan, who spent eight hours a day in a house full of cold silence, Till just looked incredibly tired.
"Okay," Ivan said smoothly. He stepped back off the driveway. "I'm going to Mrs. Shine’s to help her carry her groceries. But I'll be around later if you need the oil."
Till didn't reply. He threw the wrench onto the plastic tray next to the battery with a loud metal clang and leaned heavily against the car, staring down at the engine with his teeth clenched.
Ivan walked away down the street, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, humming a light tune under his breath.
A week passed in a slow, monotonous crawl.
Ivan’s routine remained unchanged. He woke up early, checked the empty house, swept the porch, and then began his rounds. He checked in on the neighborhood: he helped Mrs. Shine pull weed roots; he fetched a stray tennis ball for the Golden Retriever down the lane; he listened to Mr. Luka complain about his cat for forty-five minutes on the front steps.
And once a day, without fail, Ivan visited 401 Anakt Street.
Till tried various tactics to deter him.
On Thursday, he ignored Ivan completely, sitting on the porch with headphones clamped tight over his ears, staring straight ahead while Ivan sat on the bottom step and talked about the weather.
On Saturday, Till came to the door, looked at Ivan standing on the welcome mat, said "No," and shut the door before Ivan could open his mouth.
On Monday, Till tried shouting. "I am not your friend!" he yelled from the driveway, throwing a bag of trash into the bin with violent force. "Get a life, Ivan! Go play video games! Go do whatever normal kids do!"
Ivan had simply watched him, his calm dark eyes unblinking. "We don't have a console," Ivan replied quietly. "And the TV only gets two channels because the antenna broke last winter."
Till had stopped mid-rant, his jaw dropping slightly. He looked at Ivan—really looked at his scuffed shoes and his faded sweater that was two sizes too large. For a second, something soft and some concerns flickered across Till’s harsh face. But just as quickly, Till slammed the lid of the trash bin down and retreated indoors without another word.
By mid-July, the weather turned suffocatingly hot. The air hung thick and heavy over the neighborhood, smelled of baking tar and dry grass.
Ivan was sitting on the curb outside Till’s house. The heat inside his home had become unbearable—the old air conditioner in the master bedroom was broken, and his parents hadn't left enough money for a repairman, nor were they home to care.
Ivan's sweater was finally gone, replaced by a threadbare t-shirt that showed his thin arms and prominent collarbones.
Till came out onto the porch carrying a cardboard box filled with old newspapers. He stopped dead when he saw the small figure sitting by the mailbox, resting his head against the wooden post to find a sliver of shade.
Till stepped down the stairs. His own shirt was damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He walked past Ivan toward the recycling bins, his boots crunching on the dry grass.
"You look like a corpse," Till said, not looking at him as he dumped the box.
"It's hot," Ivan muttered. His usual bright voice was slow, dragged down by the oppressive heat. "Our house is like an oven today."
Till paused. He looked back at Ivan.
Till felt his throat go dry. The kid's skin was flushed, and his lips looked dry but there was a breathtaking raw beauty to him—the way a single bead of sweat traced the line of his collarbone, the delicate rosy bloom spreading across his cheekbones.
His eyes lingered, completely trapped by the sight of Ivan’s parted, sun-bleached lips, and for a fleeting second, Till almost forgot how to breathe. He shook off the thought–getting ahold of himself–and grunted, turning back toward his front door.
"Wait here."
Ivan didn't move; he didn't have the energy to.
A minute later, the screen door slapped shut. Till walked back down the path and stopped right in front of Ivan. He extended a hand. In it was a glass filled with ice water, condensation dripping down the sides.
Ivan blinked up at it, stunned for a second. It was the first thing Till had ever offered him.
"Take it before it melts," Till grumbled, thrusting it forward awkwardly. "And don't get ideas. I just don't want a kid passing out on my driveway. The cops would ask questions."
Ivan took the glass. The glass was shock-cold against his warm palms. He drank half of it in short, desperate gulps, the icy water chilling his throat.
"Thanks," Ivan murmured, holding the cool glass against his cheek.
Till stood there for a second, rubbing the back of his neck–he looked deeply uncomfortable.
"Your parents let you wander around in ninety-degree heat without water?" Till asked, his tone laced with a sharp, suspicious edge.
"They're working," Ivan said smoothly, using the standard excuse he gave everyone.
Till’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked down the street toward house 412. The driveway was empty, as it had been for three days straight. Till was stubborn and preferred his privacy above all else—but he wasn't blind. He had noticed the complete absence of adults at the blue house.
"Right," Till said softly, his voice dropping some of its usual bite, replaced by a quiet skepticism. "Working."
He turned around and walked back up the porch steps, but this time, he didn't slam the front door. He left it cracked open just an inch, letting the faint breeze from his indoor fan drift outward onto the porch.
Ivan sat on the curb, drinking the cold water slowly, listening to the soft, rhythmic hum of the fan inside Till's house.
Till hadn't explicitly allowed Ivan into his life, but he had stopped actively driving him away.
Ivan was allowed to sit on the porch steps while Till worked on his sketches or cleaned his car. Till didn't talk much, and Ivan learned when to keep quiet—usually when Till had a deep crease between his eyebrows, which meant he was stressed about something
It was a quiet afternoon when the storm hit.
It wasn't a soft mist like the week before; it was a sudden, violent summer thunderstorm that turned the afternoon sky dark grey and sent torrential rain slashing sideways against the houses.
Ivan had been sitting under the awning of Mrs. Shine’s porch when the sky opened up. Mrs. Shine wasn't home—she had gone to her daughter's house in the next town for the weekend. Ivan had tried his own front door, but in his hurry to leave that morning, the rusty latch had jammed from the inside, refusing to turn.
He was locked out.
He stood on his own porch, drenched to the bone, his clothes clinging to his shivering frame. The wind ripped through the trees, making the old screen door slam violently against the frame.
He didn't have anywhere else to go.
Ivan ran down the sidewalk, his shoes squelching with water, until he reached 401 Anakt Street. He took the porch steps two at a time and knocked on the door.
A moment later, the door pulled open. Till stood there, wearing an old grey hoodie, looking thoroughly annoyed by the thunder.
"What now—" Till started, but stopped instantly when he saw Ivan.
The kid was soaking wet, water dripping from his dark hair into his eyes, his shoulders trembling slightly from the sudden drop in temperature brought by the storm. He looked small, pale, and entirely drenched.
"The lock on my door jammed," Ivan said, his teeth clicking together slightly. "And Mrs. Shine is away."
Till stared at him before letting out a long, heavy exhale that sounded like a surrender.
He stepped back, holding the door wide open.
"Get inside," Till said softly. "You're tracking water everywhere, but get inside."
Ivan stepped over the threshold into the warmth of Till's house.
It was the first time he had been allowed past the porch. The house was lightly furnished—a faded couch, a coffee table covered in drawing pads and empty coffee mugs, and a small TV sitting on a wooden crate. But it was dry, it was warm, and it smelled like peach and cheap tea.
Till walked toward the hallway closet, pulled out a thick, dry towel, and tossed it at Ivan's head. Ivan caught it, wrapping it around his shoulders with a quiet breath of relief.
"Sit on the wooden chair by the kitchen," Till commanded, pointing a finger toward the small dining area. "Don't sit on the couch while you're dripping wet."
"Okay," Ivan said softly. He walked over and sat down, pulling the towel tight around himself.
Till went into the kitchen, his footsteps heavy on the linoleum. Ivan heard the sound of a kettle being filled with tap water, followed by the click of the stove burner lighting up.
Till came back out, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked down at Ivan, his expression unreadable.
"Your parents really aren't home, are they?" Till asked quietly. There was no anger in his voice now—just a flat, direct question.
Ivan looked down at his wet shoes. The lie he usually used felt thin and pointless in the small, dry kitchen.
"They'll be back Friday," Ivan said softly.
Till closed his eyes for a second, rubbing his temples. "It's Wednesday, Ivan."
Ivan didn't reply. He just squeezed the dry towel tighter around his shivering arms.
Till didn't yell. He didn't lecture. He just turned back into the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle softly on the stove.
The whistle of the kettle softened as Till killed the flame under the burner. He returned to the kitchen doorway holding two mismatched mugs, steam rising into the chill left behind by the rain.
He set one down on the wooden table in front of Ivan—hot water with a generous spoonful of honey—and kept the black coffee for himself.
"Drink it," Till said, sitting down on the couch. "And take off those wet shoes. They're making a puddle."
Ivan untied his soaked sneakers, placing them carefully by the door, and wrapped his fingers around the warm mug. He took a small sip, the sweet warmth spreading through his chest. "You have honey," Ivan noted, his voice quiet. "My mom says honey is expensive."
Till didn't answer right away. He stared into his coffee mug, his thumbs tracing the chipped rim.
"It lasts a long time if you don't use it all at once," he muttered. He looked up, taking in Ivan’s wet hair and the visible bone structure of his face. "So. How often does that lock jam?"
"Only when it rains hard and the wood swells," Ivan said. "Usually I just stay at Mrs. Shine’s, but her knee was hurting so her daughter picked her up."
"And your parents?" Till asked. "They just leave you a key and assume you'll figure it out?"
Ivan looked down at the table. "They leave money."
"Twenty bucks?" Till guessed, remembering the crumpled bill he'd seen Ivan pull out of his shoe earlier that week to pay for a soda at the corner shop.
Ivan didn't deny him.
Till let out a short bitter laugh through his nose and took a drink of his coffee. He didn't offer a lecture on parenting, nor did he express pity—something Ivan would appreciate instantly.
Till set his mug down on the table with a soft clink. He looked across at Ivan, taking in the kid's damp, miserable state before leaning back.
"Look," Till said, his voice quiet. "You can’t stay in a cold house with a stuck door every time it pours. Stay at my place until your parents get back."
Ivan hesitated, his shoulders tensing up. He looked down at his lap, picking at the edge of his sleeve. "I don't think I should. Mrs. Shine said not to go to people's houses when I'm alone."
"Mrs. Shine isn't here, is she?" Till countered, voice cold, tilting his head slightly. He let out a small sigh, making himself sound more worn out than irritated. "And I'm not some random guy on the street, Ivan. I'm trying to help you out, but if you'd rather sit in the cold and wait for a lock to fix itself, that's on you."
He paused, letting the silence heavy up the room.
"I just thought you had a bit more sense," Till added softly, looking away as if he was already dropping the subject. "Guess I was wrong. Go ahead, go back outside if you want."
Ivan swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The cold rain was still hammering against the window, and the thought of going back to the dark porch made his stomach drop.
Ivan was always a little gullible, wasn't he? Well, not because he lacked intelligence or intellect—he had plenty of both.
"It's... it's really okay?" Ivan asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Only if you stop wasting my time," Till said, looking back at him. "So, are you staying or not?"
Ivan slowly nodded. "Okay."
Till leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and looking Ivan over. "Actually," Till said, his voice lowering a bit. "I'm not running a charity here. If you're staying under my roof, you make yourself useful."
Ivan blinked, pulling his chin back. "Like... chores?"
"Hm. Something other than chores," He leaned back, tapping his fingers against his coffee mug, a grin tugging the corners of his lips before disappearing quickly.
“C’mere,” Till called out softly, his voice low and inviting against the quiet hum of the living room.
Ivan slid off the oversized chair, his socks swishing against the floorboards as he found his footing. He wobbled slightly on his small legs, balancing himself like a toddler before shuffling his way toward the couch where Till sat watching him.
When Ivan finally reached the cushions, Till reached out and pulled the young boy in close.
“You’re a very pretty kid, Ivan. Did you know that?”
Till stroked his dark hair lovingly, his thumb gently smoothing down a stray lock behind Ivan's ear. Till shifted his palms to the boy's small shoulders, applying just enough gentle pressure to push him down until Ivan rested comfortably on his knees on the rug between Till's legs.
Ivan crossed his arms over Till’s knee, puffing out his cheeks. “Hmph– My mom also said I was a very handsome boy,” he announced, his chest swelling with pride. “And she said I'm gonna get a pretty girlfriend when I grow up.”
Till let out a quiet huff of a laugh, genuinely amused. He shook his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he tilted Ivan’s chin up with two fingers.
“Is that so kiddo?” Till murmured, brushing a bit of dust off Ivan’s cheek before tugging his hair forward the dark strands falling back into a messy fringe over his eyes. Ivan lets out a small hiss, eyes shutting close.
“Mister?” Ivan murmured, the word laced with a quiet confusion but didn’t dare to open his eyes.
He felt afraid for the first time.
Every movement felt thick with unseen pressure, Till’s fingers slipped against the cold metal before finally snagging a firm hold.
With a sharp metal clink that echoed loudly in the quiet space, he unbuckled the belt, snaking the leather through the loops with a harsh drag. He tossed it aside—it hit the floor with a dull thud—and pulled his pants down just slightly, his cock slipping out, half hard.
The touch was wet against Ivan’s cheek and pulled him back to reality, snapping his eyes open, everything racing through his mind slowed.
Till’s dick was right in his fucking face. The rosy tip, pulsing against him, forming a bead of precum that smeared across his cheek. He could see his veins pulsing beneath his skin.
“Such a little naïve thing, aren’t you?”
Till right hand moved up to cup Ivan’s chubby cheek. “That’s the thing I like about you is that,” he began to say with a calm voice, almost too mesmerizing. “you see people based on how you think they are, not bothering to see their real intentions." Till gently caressed his face.
He moved his hand to Ivan’s chin, barely touching his bottom lip.
“Now be a good boy and say ah.”
As Ivan opened my mouth to ask him why–what did he do wrong–Till forced his way in, shoving his dick down his throat.
He stayed there for a few moments, grunting at the feeling of his full length surrounded by the heat of Ivan’s mouth. His swollen tip touched the back of his throat, making the smaller boy tremble. His stillness inside Ivan’s mouth makes him gag, tightening his poor throat and the sides of his lips stretched painfully.
A tiny cut seeping blood.
Ivan wept, bright tears catching the light leaving his cheeks hot and deeply flushed. Till savored the raven’s distress—a sickening warmth that twisted and churned inside him. Ivan tried to push his legs in an attempt to pull away, but in his current state he could barely do anything.
Till was way stronger than him, a groaning, filthy mess. His sweat drenched his hair as his hands were around Ivan’s head, one gripping his hair and the other grasping the back of his neck, making it impossible for Ivan to move his head as Till's hips started to thrust.
Ivan’s lips made a wet obscene sound as they dragged up and down his length, strands of saliva stretching briefly before snapping.
"Breathe through your nose," Till muttered, hips jerking forward on the last word. Ivan’s nostrils dilated as he sucked in air that smelled like wet dirt, leather seats and his cologne—something cheap and peachy, his head was pressed against the wiry hair at his base as he sucked in another desperate breath through his nose.
Tears blurred his vision.
“Fuck… you like this, don’t you? Always bothering me every fucking day, maybe you just want to be used like a little whore hm?” The tip of his cock reached once again for the deepest part of Ivan’s throat, but this time rougher than before, holding his head in place, choking him in the act with his pulsing cock.
His lips were swollen from friction, stretched wide around him. The fast, aggressive pace was making Ivan’s head spin. Till’s fucking his face so hard and Ivan can’t help but choke.
Every ragged attempt to inhale only trapped the bitter acidic residue at the back of his throat, triggering another round of violent spasms. Wet, suffocating noises echoed from his mouth—a slick, mess of thick saliva and hot desperate gasps that he couldn't control.
"Shit– look at you, so much prettier on my cock," Till groaned through clenched teeth, his fingers tightening in Ivan’s hair until his scalp burned. A drop of spit slid down his chin, landing hot on his knee.
Watching Ivan break down so completely only fed the dark flame in Till’s chest. The sight of those helpless desperate tremors, paired with the wet pathetic sounds of Ivan struggling for air, didn't disgust Till—it thrilled him.
Without any warning, he released himself inside his mouth and Ivan flinched when the first hot pulse hit the straight back of her throat—thick and sudden forcing him to swallow every drop or choke with it. His nose was mashed against Till pelvis, lips stretched taut, tears falling silently down his cheeks.
Till’s hips jerked forward twice more—small thrusts that dragged his softening length against Ivan’s tongue with a wet sound. Till suddenly pulled his dick out and Ivan sucked in a sudden sharp breath, his chest heaving as a violent wave of nausea hit him.
Before he could stop it, he hurled. He snapped his head to the side and collapsed to the ground, trying to hold himself with little strength, his spine jerking as he gagged heavily, a harsh, retching sound echoing in his throat.
A stomach-churning mix of his dinner spilled from his mouth, splashing onto the cold floor in a pale, murky puddle. Flecks of un-digested food were scattered throughout the liquid, glistening under the dim light as Ivan slumped, breathless and twitching from the pain of his throat.
“Fuck, are you serious? Whatever—I’m still not done with you,” Till spat out, his voice dripping with cold irritation.
Before Ivan could process the words or force out a single breathless protest, Till reached down and buried his hand deep into Ivan’s dark, tangled hair. With a ruthless jerk, Till hauled him upward.
Ivan stumbled blindly to his feet, his balance completely off; his raw, abused throat could only manage a sharp, broken cry that dissolved into a pathetic gasp. His legs barely held his weight, but Till gave him no time to recover.
Till dragged him forcefully toward the staircase, his grip on Ivan's hair stubborn with every step they took. Ivan was forced to stumble along, dazed and struggling to keep his footing, his vision blurring from the pain and lack of air.
They reached the upper floor and Till shoved open the door to his bedroom. The space was showered in a low ominous amber light casting long shadows across the floorboards.
Without a trace of mercy, Till flung Ivan forward. Ivan crashed heavily onto the mattress, the sudden impact knocking whatever faint breath he had left right out of his chest as the bed springs groaned under the force.
Till didn’t give him a single second to react, his movement driven by a harsh, reckless urgency.
Fingers tangled violently into the thin fabric of Ivan’s shirt, tugging hard enough to strain it before pulling upward. The sharp crack of threads echoed in the space as Till yanked the attire up over Ivan’s head and threw it aside without a second glance.
Before Ivan could even settle his breathing, Till was moving down, his knuckles scraping rough against bare skin as his hands slid toward the waistband of Ivan’s shorts.
With insistence, he gripped the material and dragged it down in one swift, fluid motion—leaving no room for retreat.
“N–no, T–Till please!”
“Come on, don’t be a fucking crybaby, you were practically asking for this. I’m actually giving a fuck about you rather than your deadbeat parent’s, you should respect me.” Till spat out.
“Say ‘Thank you Mister Till.’”
Ivan's chest was heaving in ragged, desperate gasps. A low, pathetic whimper caught in the back of his throat, the air in his lungs burning as he lost the ability to form coherent words. His eyes—blown wide—stared up at Till, glistening with terror.
Every tremor in his body silently begged a single plea–let me go.
Till’s brows pitched together, a dark crease forming between them. When Till raised his hand, the air seemed to vanish from the room.
Ivan flinched hard, his hands violently hunching up to protect his face as a slur of broken sob-choked pleas poured from his lips.
“I’m sorry– s’–sorry, Thank you M–Mister Till! T–ank you!” he slurred, hiccuping cries tearing past his raw throat as he squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the impact.
Till cooed, letting his hand fall into the soft bush of Ivan’s tangled curls. “Good boy, see how easy that was. Just stay still and it’ll be over soon.” His thumb gently stroked behind Ivan's ear, tracing the quiet rhythm of his breathing.
Ivan swallowed, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. If he was good then surely Till would keep his promise and it’d be over.
Till scoffed faintly under his breath—mostly at Ivan—for giving in so easily, yet his fingers didn't move away, sinking deeper into the messy dark hair instead.
Soon after calming Ivan down, Till pulled Ivan towards himself, until he was between Ivan’s spread legs. Till licks his lips and intently watches his soaked pussy.
Ivan flinched when he felt Till’s fingers between his thighs. Till ran his fingers between his folds, playing with his wetness.
His thumb pressed against Ivan’s clit, and Ivan hissed, squeezing his eyes shut again. He was embarrassed to feel himself twitch slightly, body responding to the oddly brief pleasure.
There was a cold gel that started to ooze over his cunt, and Ivan fought the urge to squirm away from the feeling of a single digit sliding inside of him.
It wasn’t painful– just a little weird and uncomfortable. When Till slid the tip of his finger up, Ivan had to bite down on his lip to prevent himself from making any noises.
Till took two fingers as he spread Ivan’s puffy lips and he gasped.
His thighs trembled, and much to his humiliation, he could feel himself getting wet–what the hell was wrong with him.
Till dragged his fingers up his small clit, Ivan’s wetness coating his fingers. He felt Till’s finger pushing inside of him, rubbing him gently before pulling out to the first knuckle. He let out a mewl when the fingers slid inside him.
“Ow!” Ivan cries out, hands flying to hold onto Till arm. “T–take it out!” He gurgles.
“It’s just two fingers, don’t be a baby.”
Ivan’s hole clenched at the intrusion, Till’s finger being way too thick to easily slide in, the warm muscles tightening.
“Relax, Ivan. It’s hard to move when you're squeezing so tightly.” Till didn’t sound particularly upset, sliding the digits in and out of Ivan’s pussy with a few troubles though.
Ivan bucked his hips into the man’s fingers, whining as he melted on the spot.
“S-sorry,” he whimpered, letting out a small whine as the fingers inside him spread apart, though it was still tight. Ivan didn’t know how to relax himself, this was all new to him and everything burned with a painful heat in his stomach that made him instantly clench.
“Fuck– I said relax damnit, can’t you listen?!” Till clicked his tongue, patience running low. Ivan barely had time to register the words before a sharp
SLAP
echoed throughout the room, and he screamed.
Another slap. Ivan sobbed hips jumping up on instinct. Four slaps in and his pussy was already red and twitching with pain. He cried, begging for the older to stop, but Till kept going. Ivan tried to cover his aching pussy from the hits, but Till just grabbed his wrist and pinned them over his head, leaving him defenseless.
Another slap, and another, Till kept spanking his pussy, the wet noises echoing throughout the room. By the time he decided to stop, Ivan was shaking– a fucking mess as he sobbed even more.
“Till, no more— p–please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”
Above him, Till smirked. He let Ivan’s hands go and watched, amused, as the poor kid quickly tried to soothe his aching pussy. Seeing him like this, teary eyed and so vulnerable, had Till shiver with excitement.
He could feel his cock hardening again. Till lowered himself down until he was eye level with Ivan’s fluttering folds. He teased, flicking the kid's cute little nub, making Ivan flinch.
He felt a hot breath between his thighs as Till lowered his head and licked, his tongue running between his folds.
He licks over him again eagerly, flicking his tongue back and forth and humming, causing waves of pleasure to shoot up Ivan’s entire body.
Till pushes a hand flat to his stomach and a loud gasp comes pouring out of Ivan as he throws his head back. Till wasted no time, sucking on Ivan’s cunt. He worked his tongue along his slit, flicking it over his clit before sucking hard, making Ivan squirt for the first time.
Till didn’t stop, just slurped it all up and continued wrecking his pussy with his tongue.
And Ivan? Ivan was losing it.
He thrashed, overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure coursing through him. And Till just listened, thoroughly amused and pure music to his ears, as Ivan sobbed beneath him.
He wasn't supposed to enjoy it, he wasn't allowed to enjoy it.
But the way Till’s tongue nibbled his clit, It was good, beyond good and Ivan disliked every second of it.
He moaned before he realized what he was doing, hell he was grinding himself against Till’s face, wanting more of the sensations that were driving him closer and closer to his orgasm.
Ivan shuddered violently as he came, digging his nails into Till’s scalp as he came against his mouth. For a few minutes, Ivan had to compose himself, puffing short breaths. It was awfully quiet, too quiet and before he could call out to Till, he shivers feeling something thick and heavy slap on his pussy sliding along it.
He chokes back a cry and when he finally looked at Till he saw him wiping a plentiful amount of wetness from his face while his other hand was holding his hard cock between his foods. “You taste so good, sweet little thing.” Till groaned, licking the corners of his lips.
Ivan quickly realizes what the older boy was planning to do. His pussy is barely stretched and Till is going to break his cunny with his huge cock, the boy is sure of it.
"No, no, please Ti–Till!" Ivan cried, kicking his legs uselessly. "you can't, I–can’t! Please let me go, I'll never bother you again—"
The cockhead pops inside of his pussy with a wet sound and he screams desperately. It's splitting him apart, he can feel his cunt tearing with every second.
The moment Ivan was fully lowered, Till began fucking his stretched pussy right away, he didn't want to wait for Ivan’s body to adjust– he was too greedy to wait. Till continued the delicious drag of his girth, stretching his boy's tight little pussy.
In and out.
Wet squelching echoed in the silent room, and Till can see, between Ivan’s spread legs, what has become of his cunny. It's all ruined now, forced to take something too big, blood struggling to find a place to ooze out with how tight the pussy is.
“Shit, Ivan, you're tight as hell.” Till grunts, stroking his bony hip. Ivan screws his eyes shut, shaking his head and replies with some garbled moan, focusing on his breathing.
Ivan struggles to stop crying, blops of tears run down his cheeks as the cock makes his belly bulge around it, sending pain up his spine every time he takes a breath.
Ignoring Ivan’s pained mewl, Till begins to roughly fuck into him. Till hips thrust into the boy’s ass, kissing the boy's nape and is rewarded with a clench of the cunt enveloping his cock. Ivan wailed and struggled as the man moved his hips, fucking him at an unforgiving pace.
Till savored the feeling, watching as Ivan’s pussy tugs on the veins of his dick with every pull back of his hips. Each thrust gets easier and faster as he gets his dick wetter, the little whines Ivan lets out every time Till buries himself to the hilt sounds adorable.
Ivan feels the same sensation swell between his legs as before as he approaches another orgasm. Every brush of Till’s hips against his thigh, his insides twitch.
“Ple–asee–hic I-I’m g-gonna–” He begins babbling, tears streaming down his burning hot face. It doesn’t take long, the repeated jabs against his sweet spot push him over the edge.
He’s borderline screaming, desperately clawing at the sheets as he squirts.
He feels Till bottom out and finishes inside, his cock twitching as cum pools inside. Ivan swears he can feel the individual spurts landing against his walls. Till pulls his hips back and thick cum with slick spills out, dripping down Ivan’s ass, he steps back and lets Ivan collapse as he pulls out.
Ivan barely understood what just happened. He couldn’t process the warm sticky fluid dripping down his thighs.
Till laughs, running a hand through his damp hair pushing it back.
“Hopefully you learn your lesson to quit bothering people.”