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It is late at night when the prince seeks his presence. Closer to the pale light of dawn than the lingering warmth of dusk. It’s concerning; his prince’s mornings are regimented, steeped in tradition and tedium, and today will be no different. Till won’t be well-rested. Ivan is certain of that, has memorized his schedules by heart, for he vehemently grasps every fleeting moment of break for himself.
It must be urgent. And more than that, personal. No official summons, no herald. Only a coded note, tucked within a diplomatic pouch — a message meant for Ivan alone. An invitation to Till’s private quarters, after the lights went out.
And hopelessly, Ivan obeys. He succumbs to the hunger he dare not name, the craving that heaven deems a sin.
He allows himself in. Not just out of fear of being caught, but also to claim every precious second his prince has given him. There, seated with casual elegance despite the simplicity of his robe, Till awaits him. Water trails down the curve of his nape, glistening under the faint light like a necklace. Breathtaking. Deliciously unguarded, an intimate sight that has only been bestowed upon Ivan. As of now, that is. Soon, far too soon, the prince, his Till, would be promised to a princess from a foreign land. And Ivan will bear witness to vows he will never be permitted to speak aloud.
His prince has never been adept at veiling his emotions, unlike himself. Till wears his heart as openly as his crest. So quick to anger; Ivan has experienced so first-hand. Yet, he is just as tender as fierce. Cradling Ivan’s wounds with bare hands and soft hands, heedless of the blood his people deem sullied, blood unworthy of staining cloth woven for the royal.
Till is achingly human when alone. And now, also in Ivan’s presence. Which is why, instead of turning away and retreating into his princely poise, he chooses to share his fragility by facing Ivan.
Like second nature, Ivan crosses the distance and sinks to one knee before Till, gloved fingers reaching to cradle his face. His prince leans into the touch; sighing shakily, before he withdraws, if only to tug the glove free with trembling grace, and then presses his cheek to the scarred, calloused palm beneath. Seeking solace so desperately that something in Ivan shatters.
When has he ever ached for another’s pain, as though their sorrow were his own to bear?
“What troubles you?” He inquires, equally as concerned as upset, for what could furrow his prince’s brows so deeply, cause his eyes to shine with unshed tears.
“Ivan…,” Till begins, voice laced with wavering resolve, “I order— demand you to… to take me as yours. For tonight.”
Time slows as the words Ivan has longed for spill from the lips he worships. But to have them spoken so forcefully, wrapped in despair, oh how cruel his Till is.
Ivan should question it. But he doesn’t; the answer already hangs between them, as suffocating as it is sacred. Till wants him to be his first, and Ivan cannot bring himself to deny his wish. Whether it is from the conviction of his love’s tears, or this selfish yearning to carve a place for himself in Till’s heart, he cannot turn away.
Not long ago, Ivan would have never knelt before another, let alone a man his people once swore to end. Nor would he have offered more than allegiance. Yet, here he is, with one knee to the ground as warm, soft palms cup his face tenderly.
“Please,” Till begs, so sweetly, and Ivan is irrevocably weak for him.
Ivan obliges. With reverent care, he lifts one of Till’s hands and brings it to his lips, whispering, “Of course. Anything you desire,” before sealing his promise with a kiss to the knuckles.
His prince moves with practiced grace, but only just. His inexperience shows in the way his arms tremble as he reclines further on the bed, legs drawn up and feet pointed subtly toward Ivan, as if expecting his clothes to be taken off like this. Unsure, endearingly so, so unlike the charismatic persona he plays in public.
Ivan chases after him — perhaps a touch too eagerly, because teal eyes widen, but they are quick to soften once he settles above Till, forearms braced on either side of his face.
“Don’t be so nervous,” Ivan murmurs, a huff escaping him. Breathless, inexplicably so. His heart pounds rapidly, and he wills the words to echo back to himself. Inhaling deeply, exhaling with a shudder of his body.
Till mirrors him, likely mistaking it for instruction, as their breaths intermingle.
It’s almost absurd; a seasoned general, undone like a lovesick boy at the weight of laying with the one who commands both his heart and ruin.
Ivan’s first time had not been warm. The room was suffocating, air thick with sweat that trickled down their bodies. But never warmth. It was detached, methodical, an attempt at conforming to the social standards befitting a man of his success. An act of erasure, rather than intimacy.
But here, feeling satin sheets spun for royalty beneath his palms, hovering above the man who they are meant to cradle, the victim of this forbidden, sinful love — he feels alive. That there is blood thrumming through his veins, that time is moving and carrying him toward a tomorrow; one more day devoted to his prince who anchors his every breath.
“Let me take care of you, Till,” cherish you as you deserve, is left unsaid.
Ivan bows over him, easing a knee between the smaller’s thighs to gently open them, as his mouth kisses a line down Till’s jaw, to the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder. His prince jolts, sensitive there, and Ivan takes quiet note of it. He wants to pleasure Till. To become a memory burned so deeply it is carried with him to the grave.
So responsive, slim fingers weave into his hair, tugging, encouraging him. Soft nibbles at fragile skin turn into sucking, then biting, before he soothes the sting with a slow drag of his tongue. He leaves an indentation — distinctively in the shape of him, a darker red blooming where the sharper canine dug in.
The sight satiates something in him, a depraved urge to mark Till as his. Or perhaps, it only incites the need, guiding him lower, where delectable collarbones await to be lavished with attention. So unlike Ivan’s public figure, there is little finesse. Instead, he is driven by hunger and desperation alike, taking what his prince has given him, and maybe, greedily, more.
Impatience colors his touch as his fingers fumble with the cloth securing his prince’s robe, and when the knot finally comes loose and he unveils his beloved, he finds himself stunned. Till’s body is as he had imagined; slender, pale, and yet far more ravishing in the flesh. A shy flush dusts his narrow chest pink, in that same hue he so often sees across his nape — when flustered, when angered, or when the weather borders on unbearable.
The curve of his waist is elegant, slim, as though made for Ivan’s hands to settle on. And so he does, finding his fingertips nearly meet when he tightens his grip. It feels wrong, hands marred from war enclosing around his prince’s unblemished self.
The princess’ hands would never reach around him; daintier, softer, as flawless as her designated partner. Nor would her weight cause the bed to dip as much.
Her imprints would be smooth, without a disgustingly sharp tooth nearly breaking skin.
Ivan wonders how long this fragile charade of love will be played. When secret meetings guised as cultural exchange cease to exist, when there will be no more longing glances burning into his back.
“Don’t falter. Please,” Till’s voice cuts through his reverie, calling him back to the now. Where his prince lies vulnerable on a bed far too spacious for one. Legs parted in invitation, the robe slipping from his shoulders and barely clinging on doing little to conceal and everything to entice.
Counterproductive. Rather than tempting him to resume, Ivan leans away, drinking up the sight like a man parched with thirst.
Completely unintentional, his delay earns him a furrowed brow. Till’s foot comes up to his chest, applying just enough pressure to be reproachful. “Drifting off now seems very unprompted, or?”
Ivan’s gaze is involuntarily drawn lower as Till’s garment shifts further open, revealing the stretch of a thigh bathed in soft lamplight. Fair, smooth, and he cannot help the way his hand grasps that dainty ankle, lifting gently. Just enough to press a kiss to the fragile bone, before letting his lips trail upward.
He is meticulous in worshiping Till. Mere grazes to the thin skin over his prince’s shin, whereas he allows himself teasing nibbles along the meatier parts of his calf — deliberately slow, like offerings laid upon an altar. It’s fitting, for the litany that is Till has long since replaced every coherent thought. Though, when at his knee, where his hand rests on, Ivan stills. To gather himself, if only briefly, and it is with wild and untamed eyes that he proceeds, his tongue laving a path up Till’s body, lingering to paint those lovely thighs in shades of red and blue.
Flustered, or perhaps purely reflexively, Till’s legs tighten around him, heels digging into his back and pulling him in. Ivan acts instantly, hands leaving Till to brace himself on the mattress. It’s hardly elegant; expensive fabric nearly tearing as he strips away the robe, baring his prince wholly to him.
Ethereal. Oh, how can heaven condemn this when Till is nothing short of angelic?
But perhaps this is the very sin of temptation, irresistible, as her gentle hands cradle his throat.
From above come small, breathy whimpers, each a bit more inhibited than the last, as though his prince’s embarrassment urges him to stifle those noises.
Ivan’s jaw tightens in displeasure. He craves Till’s vulnerability, the entirety of it; every tremble beneath his fingertips as he lets his hands roam, every frantic heartbeat pressed against his own as Till arches into him, and the warmth of his breath as Ivan holds him close.
So he asks, he begs the man he gave himself to, “Please, don’t hide from me.”
Ivan has not once heard pain lace his own voice so openly. Until now, he has never known such a cruel kind of craving, where each passing day stretches the distance between them further, to the point where it feels like torture. A punishment, likely.
Despite being someone whose blood is not one to take orders, Till complies without hesitance. His lower lip slips free from where it has been gnawed, bitten so harshly it has taken on a darker shade of red. Glistening with saliva, and perhaps that inviting gloss is what drives Ivan forward to capture his prince’s lips in a searing kiss.
He feels Till’s startled yelp more than he hears it, muffled by himself, but quickly, the smaller relaxes, eyes fluttering shut instinctively. Ivan, however, watches intently how Till’s brows knit in focus, attempting to mimic him. Gone is the usual refinement of his prince; the press of his lips is stiff, forceful. Like a shove, but the way he clutches at Ivan’s shirt says otherwise.
Inexperience colors Till’s every move, and like some filthy pervert to be damned, Ivan drinks it all in.
A tad too much, because without any tact, he allows one hand to cup Till’s face, tilting his head as his thumb tugs gently at his lower lip, coaxing it open. His prince, so trustful, obliges, permits the intrusion, lets Ivan slip his tongue between and meet his own. Each second strips away more of Ivan’s restraint, peeling him down to that primal urge; to devour, to savor what he has been granted. Even if only for this night, he wants to brand the taste of Till into memory, pressing him into the mattress and licking into his mouth fervently.
It is only when the grasp on his collar weakens that he pulls away, and only then does he realize how labored his breathing has gotten. Till appears even more undone, wrecked in the most exquisite way. The teal in his eyes is nearly engulfed by black, his hair is mussed, the longer strands curled around the nape while the rest fans out. Like a halo, his mind, sacrilegious as it may be, insists on.
If this is what it means to be defiled, then let heaven condemn him.
“Till,” he calls, the name not as foreign on his tongue as it should be, “If you wish for this to stop, tell me now.”
A flicker of hurt, or maybe concern, crosses Till’s face as he tries to curl in on himself, “Would you have preferred a woman?”
“No. No, of course not,” Ivan rushes to reassure, “I just… cannot promise to control myself, to be able to. I need you to be certain, Till.”
A bit vague, but from the pink high on Till’s cheekbones, he understands the implication. Even so, his prince nods, affirming his request one final time.
“Alright, love, I…,” Ivan exhales, forces the words out. He withdraws, only to undress with deft hands, before returning to Till. “I understand. Allow me.”
His arms wind under the small of Till’s back, and in a single motion, he adjusts their position. Despite his best intentions, he manhandles Till a touch too roughly, jostling the smaller onto his lap after having taken his place on the bed.
“Is this alright?” He asks, a steadying palm on Till’s nape to prevent his head from lolling.
Vision likely cluttered with black spots, it takes Till a moment to gather himself, elegant hands landing on Ivan’s shoulders like second nature. And despite the unfamiliarity of it all, his prince is calm. Not a single muscle tensed, his legs parted willingly to accommodate Ivan between. If anything, he arches into him, leans in the moment his foggy mind catches up.
This position allows Till to move at his own pace.
“Oil. By the nightstand,” he urges instead of answering, presumably too embarrassed, and gestures toward the side, where a vial of expensive lavender oil lays.
Heeding, Ivan reaches over, keeping one hand on Till’s hip — equal parts for balance and comfort. His thumb draws circles there, a quiet attempt to distract his prince as he opens the vial.
“Have you ever pleasured yourself like this?”
Unexpectedly, his prince nods. Then, softly, “Earlier. During my bath. I wanted to make this pleasant for both of us. Being a… man, I know that I require more effort—”
“Please do not call it that,” Ivan cuts in, voice low but firm. “If anything, I want to take my time with you. To make you fall apart for me, to crave my warmth the same way I long for you.”
At that, Till averts his eyes; a shy thing. Ever so proud, delicate brows drawn in firm lines, but now so pink and sweet in the throes of love. If love is what his prince dares to call this.
Ivan’s hand, the one holding the vial, reaches behind Till, his arm wrapped around his form as he tilts the glass, letting its contents trickle down the curve of him. Between, where his fingers delve to spread the slick, and in turn, whether from the coolness or being sensitive there, his prince jolts, hands curling around Ivan’s shoulders.
To pull himself closer, and Ivan, weak as he is, seizes the chance to tuck his head into the crook of Till’s neck. Nipping at the sensitive skin, then laving a line up his trembling throat with his tongue, lingering where that erratic pulse feels beneath.
“Is this unpleasant?” He asks, mindful. Given Till’s admission, this must not be unfamiliar, but his muscles are coiled tight nevertheless.
“No— I’m alright, proceed. Please,” Till adds shakily, taking a deep breath, “You feel… different. Compared to my fingers.”
Unsurprising. His fingerpads are rough — hardened, uneven. But Till pays it no mind, instead, he deepens the arch of his back, encouragingly pushing onto those thick fingers encircling his rim, his chest pressing against Ivan’s. The shift causes one to sink in, that tight heat so clutching it is almost dizzying. Punching a groan from Ivan’s throat, guttural and raw, as he meets Till’s impatient rocking with firm thrusts. One of Till’s hands slips from his shoulders, reaching behind to find Ivan’s hand, guiding, demanding. More, greedily urging his general to give him more.
Like a man in servitude, Ivan obeys. Until there are three fingers, and Till, wonderfully disheveled, clings to him. Tearful, hair mussed, painted in pinks and reds that Ivan memorizes to heart.
Till is achingly beautiful.
“So gorgeous like this, my prince. Taking me so well, my, look at you.”
It might be inappropriate to let those words slip, but that line was crossed long ago.
And Till revels in them, answering with a breathy moan before canting his hips forward. Even like this, stuffed full and filling the room with lewd noises, his prince manages to seize control, bracketing Ivan with his thighs on each side of Ivan.
Till’s arousal presses flush against his, and the blatant difference in size momentarily stops all thought.
It seems to entice Till as well, who clenches down so tightly that Ivan is unable to stifle a low groan, his fingers curling upward, brushing against that one spot that makes the smaller choke on a gasp.
Teal eyes, half-lidded just moments ago, are wide open. Startled, adorably so as he stares at his general.
What a heady reaction, and Ivan seeks it. By no longer thrusting but instead indulgently teasing his prince, petting that sweet, sensitive thing drawing the lewdest sounds from Till’s mouth. High-pitched and broken in the most delicious way.
It must be too much, because Till tries to pull away by rocking forward. But all that does is rub his drooling dick against Ivan’s abdomen, smearing the wetness across firm muscles. And Ivan, oh his greedy devotee, chases after him unapologetically, pressing in deeper.
Then, without any indication, or at least none that Ivan could discern, Till’s hole clamps down on his fingers — in their position, it is impossible to miss the way his body trembles, quivering harshly on top of him. His head drops, sweat-matted bangs brushing Ivan’s neck, and tear-damp lashes flutter against his skin. Till finishes quietly, as though ashamed, trying to hide himself. A shame, really.
Ivan makes sure to not miss it again; an unspoken promise etched into the careful way he soothes Till through the aftershocks. One palm rests against the small of his back, applying just enough pressure to ground him, until slowly, the greedy gasping evens out into gentle huffs of air. Till’s lips are red, Ivan notes. Plush. Bitten raw.
His staring is not for long, not when elegant fingers curve under his chin and tilt his head back, forcing him to meet eyes blown wide. Asking for more, even as he is whimpering from oversensitivity when he lifts himself off his fingers, if only to grasp Ivan’s cock and guide it toward his twitchy hole. The eagerness makes up for the inexperience with which he circles his hips, trying until the head catches on his rim.
Till exhales. A soft, relieved sigh before sinking down with shaky thighs.
Oh, his prince is tight. Even after the ample preparation, it is a struggle to fit. And when nails rake down his back almost painfully, he halts Till with a firm grip on his waist, so only the first few inches are inside.
If indulging in Till means tainting this precious memory with pain, then Ivan will abstain from it.
But Till curses, irritated. “Did I tell you to stop?” He snaps. “Oh, my experienced general, do I not measure up the ones you usually bed?”
Oh, he will not allow his prince to harbor doubts, especially not from something like his restraint. Till wants him whole, and he shall grant his entirety, in every sense. So Ivan loosens his grip, rather guiding him down with steady hands. A few tears slip, and Ivan cannot help himself; he pulls Till close, close enough to lick them away. Undignified as the act may be, it distracts the smaller enough for him to take all of him, until he is seated flush on his lap.
“You feel so good—,” Ivan mutters airily, heart rabitting, certain Till can hear it from where he is tucked in his neck. “So good for me.”
Till tightens at that, and oh how precious he is. Who would have thought he enjoyed being praised?
With that knowledge, Ivan leans in to whisper sweet nothings into Till’s ear, his palms trailing over slim sides, settling beneath him — grasping the smaller firmly in both, lifting him up and down his cock, preventing his thighs to burn from strain. Even from below, Ivan takes it upon himself to pleasure him, to make it easy. Good. So all Till has to do is feel, to enjoy, to be loved .
His mouth finds that sensitive spot just below his ear — nipping, sucking, pulling the skin taut between his lips until it bruises. It will be harder to conceal there, but that is of little matter to Ivan.
He keeps a slow pace, to savor every bit of Till; memorizing his warmth, every twitch, every clench around him. So perfect. And he voices as much, the praise huffed against Till’s neck as his fingers dig into soft hips with unadulterated need.
Till whines airily, his breath catching on a sob, and he clamps down so tightly it borders on painful, drawing a sharp hiss from Ivan. He abandons the tender skin of Till’s neck, littered with bites, in favor of leaning back slightly, enough to drink him in. How utterly undone Till is, his face contorted in pleasure; eyes glassy, mouth open and tongue just barely peeking out. Mere minutes ago, he was such a proud thing, and now he appears nothing short of wrecked. Beautiful. Entranced, he can only watch Till lose himself wholly. Not quite riding him, his prince is far too dazed for that, but circling his hips in eager, hurried grinds.
Perhaps it is mean to still, to make Till chase after his pleasure so pitifully, but there is something intoxicating in the way he sobs for Ivan. Clawing at his shoulders, slurring out pleas to just move, all pride long forgotten. It takes a near skin-breaking scratch for Ivan to finally yield. Leaning back and bringing the smaller with him, he reaches under before beginning to pound up into Till in earnest, dragging him down onto his cock with every thrust.
When Till cries out loudly, spine bowing and toes curling into the sheets, Ivan immediately acts on it. A bit ruthlessly perhaps, the way he hammers that spot over and over until Till is babbling nonsense against his shoulder, fluttering around him. Gripping him like vice, but even then, he does not slow even the slightest. If anything, he slams the smaller down harder, spearing him on his cock as his fingers dig into the skin just above his hipbones.
“Ivaa-angh— pleaseee,” his prince drawls out, asking so sweetly. As if he can handle that, like he is not a drooling mess too weak to even lift himself on his own.
Not that Ivan minds. Being granted this side of Till is nothing short of precious, and to have silenced every coherent thought, the highest form of praise. Which is why he adds a slow, deliberate grind each time he buries himself deep, to push Till over the edge once more.
When his prince’s hiccups catch in the back of his throat and his breathing turns impossibly more erratic, Ivan shifts one hand from under Till up to splay behind his nape. Tugging at the longer gray strands there, forcing him to abandon the haven he had made of Ivan’s neck. Sweet thing, really, when he is not being an arrogant brat for once. Sweet with broken whines tumbling from his lips as his body convulses violently, eyes squeezing shut and clutching onto Ivan like a lifeline.
Without Ivan to hide into, he is louder. High-pitched, almost a scream with that Till comes, cum spluttering up as far as Ivan’s chin. He sobs through it, utterly undone, body trembling and sheets bunched up beneath his feet, and there even is saliva dribbling down the corner of his mouth. Ivan should show consideration, he really should, but Till is so tight, pulsating so deliciously, and he cannot resist slamming in harder, desperate to fill his prince up.
“Just a little more,” he rasps, pleading, cradling Till closer, like he might disappear.
His hips stutter, rhythm faltering, and with one final thrust, he buries his cock as deep as Till can take him. Vision blurs at the edges, everything else dissolving into white noise. Only belatedly does he register that deep, guttural groan, his prince’s name pulled from his throat.
“So perfect, Till, ” he breathes, half gasp, half prayer.
It takes a blurry moment to gather himself. When he does, his hand, the one on Till’s nape, guides him to rest against his shoulder, fingers combing through sweat-dampened hair.
“Are you alright?”
The answer comes in a breath — shaky but certain, “Yes.”
Ivan is sure the face he wears is an ugly one. Fear crashing over him like a tide, doubt settling in his chest. For this, whatever this is, surviving on a fragile thread already fraying, set to be severed. In the near future, just months away.
“Do you regret it?” Comes from above, layered with thick worry. When he turns to the source, he meets downturned teal eyes, Till having straightened on his lap to gaze at him.
“The only regret I have is not having you to myself,” he replies, the evenness in his voice at odds with the unrest clawing at his ribs. Or maybe it is detachedness, that numbness with which one names their own ruin, like a bystander.
Silence.
The prince does not answer. His gaze drifts past Ivan, to the window behind. He shifts slightly, a gasp catching in his throat at the sudden stimulation, still connected, but neither moves, despite the stickiness and discomfort.
Then, against all sense, Ivan leans in. Cups his beloved’s face and kisses him — messy, full of unadulterated desperation. Spit exchanged, breaths shared, and his chest tightens with this unfamiliar sting behind his eyes.
Oh, why can they not be everlasting?
So unfair. So, so unfair, he pulls back, not allowing his lungs the air they need as the words tumble, “Will you marry me?”
There is no stopping now, “Marry me, Till,” he demands, or begs, like the obsessed man he has been turned to.
Tears fall, but not his. They run down flushed cheeks, gathering on his chin. Silently weeping, Till is crying from neither pain nor pleasure, but something far more shattering.
“What?” Till whispers, the most broken he has been all day.