Work Text:
4 new messages
From: Hyuna
>Hey
>The guys are performing in about an hour n we need a guitarist
>U in?
1 missed call from Hyuna
Till squints at the too-bright screen, blinking until the blobs on his screen start to look like actual words. It takes a few more moments for his brain to catch up, having just woken up to the insistent buzz of his phone. His eyes languidly wander to the side, landing on a sleeping figure nuzzled into the soft sheets beside him.
Eyes half-lidded, he stares, appreciating how the soft flush of skin contrasts with the dark red marks littered across it, (his hard work, a small, prideful voice supplies in his head) they lead up to a soft chest, an enticing neck, and Till hungrily rakes his gaze all up to the messed-up black-and-silver hair spread prettily on white sheets.
Wow, he thinks.
He blinks.
Oh god. He's in Ivan's house right now.
The night comes back to him in startling clarity. He feels his head swim with the depraved memories of what they indulged in just mere moments (or was it hours?) ago. In Ivan's bed. His dresser. His bathroom. His doorway, where he tripped over Sua's Mary Janes in his rush to take his (and Ivan's) pants off. The thought hits him with heat and shame all at once. It effectively snaps him out of his thoughts, and he looks back down at his phone.
To: Hyuna
>uhhhhhhhhh
He types, pressing the 'h' key until it holds. The keyboard effects start to make a light popping sound. He winces, and toggles his phone to silent mode. He backspaces.
>cant make it
>sorry
Hyuna sends him an "OK!" sticker of some cute, innocent looking bunny. Till stares at it, his insides churning with slowly mounting dread.
He checks the time— 8:04. It's a half hour walk to the station. The trains will already be closed by the time he gets there, he reasons. Plus it could be snowing outside. Nevermind that it's the middle of August. It's still possible. Global warming and shit. He nods with a finality.
He really has no choice but to stay.
He's also full of shit.
Biting his cheek, he types again.
To: Hyuna
>also
>is sua there?
From: Hyuna
>Yeh why
Goddamnit…. Might as well.
His fingers are shaking.
It's probably the cold. Fucking global warming.
To: Hyuna
>can u tell her not to comw home
>pls
From: Hyuna
>Uhhh ok?
>Oh
>Ohhhhh
>Lol
Till stares, waits, and tries his best not to feel like he just signed his own death certificate. After about a minute, those dreaded three dots pop back up.
From: Hyuna
>Shes so maaddd lmaokgjk=.
>ARE U FUCKING SERIOUS
>GET OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE
>YOU ARE SICK IN THE HEAD!!!!/
Hyuna is calling you…
1 missed call from Hyuna
>PICK UP PUSSYBITCH
Hyuna is calling you…
Message and call notifications have been muted.
He shuts his phone down without another thought, throwing it somewhere on Ivan's truly massive bed to be lost forever. It's fine. He can live as a hermit for the rest of his life— if it meant impeding Sua's wrath for even just a little bit.
He drops back down on the soft sheets with a tired sigh, and immediately regrets it when he feels Ivan stir next to him.
"Mmntime is it?" He slurs, and suddenly, magically, Till couldn't care less about anything else.
"Early," He answers. "Go back to sleep."
"Dun' wanna."
Ivan's nose crinkles as he says it. Till leans over and kisses it.
He's so different now, he thinks, compared to how he was, the first few times they had this… Arrangement. He would always wake up before Till did, leaving nothing behind but cold air and cold sheets. And in the rare times Till caught him leaving— it was to his back turned, shoulders hunched in an admission that Till recognizes now as one of guilt— of insecurity. He worked hard to break those walls down, and nowadays he revels in how comfortable Ivan's become, to the point of waking up so cutely like this. It's unbefitting for a man his age, his status.
Till revels in the fact that he's the only one in the world who gets to see it.
"Sorry I woke you up," He murmurs, against the space on the side of Ivan's nose. He peppers kisses on it, on his cheek, his eyes, his chin. Ivan hums happily.
"You can make it up to me," Ivan smiles serenely, a perfect picture of faux-innocence, wrapping a warm hand around Till's waist. Till looks down at his dark eyes, gets lost in the red, feels a familiar desire snake its way up his spine from where Ivan holds him, and he knows he's already doomed— and hard, he notes drily, glancing down. He should be all tuckered out by now, considering what they've already done. But their compatibility exceeds all known physical laws, or something.
Ivan's eyes sparkle with a well-worn mischief, as if he's read his mind. They've gotten a lot better at that, too. He shifts impossibly closer, and he knows to take Ivan's subtle hitch of breath for what it is— a hesitance, an appeal, with a hint of almost-fear that never did quite leave him— either of them.
Till answers by kissing him, deeper now, pressing his whole body against him, trying to relay with his mouth what his words always seemed to fail at— acceptance, permission. Ivan whines against the entirety of him, overwhelmed. Till holds him and doesn't let go.
His hands roam down Ivan's sides, his lower back, before finally settling home on his round butt.
He kneads it indulgently, grinning at the way Ivan pants against his mouth.
"Stop it." He grouses.
"Nah,"
Ivan huffs against him, a pretty blush spreading all the way to his ears. Till wants to bite it until it stays red forever. Till wants and wants and wants.
"What do you want?" He asks instead.
Ivan furrows his brows and purses his lips, pretending to think.
"A mint."
Till licks into his mouth.
"Hyung is annoying."
He punctuates it with a roll of his hips, and Ivan keens.
He glares.
"And you're impatient."
"Let me make you feel good,"
Ivan raises a brow.
"Please?"
At that, Ivan smiles crookedly, and it's the kind that stretches a little more on one side and makes his smile lines more apparent.
(Ivan expressed his displeasure at it once, and maybe very slightly implied he's considering surgery to get rid of it— and Till obviously wants him to do whatever he likes— but if you asked him if that had anything to do with how he fucked Ivan until he forgot his own name that same night, he'd insist it was completely unrelated.)
Till unabashedly enjoys the sight of them now, and he's aware of how he looks. Ivan called him weird, (creepy when he felt like pissing Till off), for the intense look he gets when he's laser-focused on something— be it a project that's very nearly due, a piece that's going really well, and apparently, Ivan's smile lines.
Ivan could handle it when it wasn't directed at him, like back when they had a perfectly normal relationship— at least, normal enough for a divorced, repressed middle aged man and a college student who wanted to completely devour him. He didn't know it then, spent months denying it even while they were actively fucking each other, and that's why nothing could have ever prepared him for this.
The way one look could affect him so much it makes him feel boneless, weightless, mind clouded in both a comforting and thrilling way… He doesn't know.
There's a small, self-preserving part of him that's a little glad that either Till held back or Ivan just refused to see it back when they still weren't really okay, or healthy, because if Till had pinned him with this look then— towards that version of him that he's much more familiar with, weary, with bone-deep loneliness that clutched onto him his whole life, like a parasite, like his own coffin— he would have let him done anything.
The clouds would have felt suffocating, and he would have been so far away as Till bites down on the giving flesh of his chest, powerless as he's ripped to utter pieces. He would have been destroyed, stripped to the bone, and he doesn't think he would have ever forgiven himself.
This time, though— he's grounded.
He gets to watch.
"What are you thinking about?"
Maybe he got a little too wistful at the memory, because Till asks, no, demands, and Ivan is forcefully pulled back to earth. A shudder runs through him and he can tell Till is pleased by it.
"Stay with me, Ivan."
Ivan nods, almost subconsciously.
"Till," He starts, syrupy sweet, and Till perks up.
He's like a dog.
"Hurry up and fuck me."
…
Ivan's moans echo in his too-big bedroom, pairing with the rhythmic creaking of the bed frame as Till thrusts, forming the perfect symphony to Till's ears. He revels in it, the grip he has on Ivan's legs feels like holding an instrument, conducting an art only they can create— between the delicious friction, the passion, and the beauty unraveling below him.
"Till,"
Ivan whines, brokenly, and Till thinks, ah, here's what was missing.
"You like that?" He rasps.
He hikes Ivan's leg slightly higher, and that earns him a high pitched moan that answers for him.
"Till,"
Ivan reaches for him, and Till follows. His legs fall to Till's sides as Ivan tugs him down, cupping his face.
Till immediately buries his head in the strong crook of Ivan's neck, and inhales. He smells sweat, and a bit of the menthol rub Ivan uses for his shoulder pain, but mostly, he smells the sweet scent of his favorite perfume mixing with his natural scent and Till sniffs it so hard he thinks he could get high off it.
He feels something wet drag along his ear, and he shivers at the feeling. And then, a mumble, the words pressing into his skin.
"Feels good,"
"Yeah?"
A confession, and a revelation all at once. Soft, because it's just for them to hear. Till pauses, but keeps close, letting Ivan know he's not pulling away. Still, Ivan whines.
"Why'd you stop?"
Till pulls out to just the tip, and slowly grinds down. Ivan whines the whole way, feeling every inch.
Till's hands find Ivan's legs, maneuvering them so both legs are comfortably folded to the side. He places his other hand on the bed for balance, and keeps that slow rhythm that makes Ivan shake.
He watches, transfixed, as Ivan comes undone. His eyes are half-lidded, and Till realizes he's watching him, too.
Embarrassed, he bends, and kisses near his stomach, his side, wherever he can reach with this position, his ministrations earning him a giggle. He strokes Ivan's legs, feeling the muscles twitch, and actually, when has Ivan last gotten a massage? Through the haze, he files that away for later.
Ivan suddenly clenches around him, and he snaps back to life. Sharp heat pools in his gut, and he can tell Ivan is similarly affected. He's panting with his mouth open, and Till aches to paint the moment in the walls of his mind.
"You're so beautiful," He blurts, and Ivan's breath hitches. He gets impossibly more flushed, more red, and Till stares in amazement as a thin white string bursts out of Ivan's neglected dick.
He takes him in his hand, and Ivan moans. He picks up the pace, stroking Ivan in tandem. Ivan's legs seem to open on their own, and Till takes the opportunity to push them into the bed, trapping Ivan into a mating press. At that moment he doesn't care if it hurts him later on— as long as it lets Ivan keep making those sweet noises that make him feel so wanted— he'll take responsibility, for everything.
Just let me have this.
"Did you just squirt for me?"
Ivan cries out, death-gripping on the sheets.
"Ah, Ahn— Till!"
Till's eyes catch on the rise and fall of Ivan's chest, and he aches to sink his teeth into the swell of it. He bends to reach it, still thrusting, and hits a spot that makes Ivan see stars.
"Fuck… Hyung—"
Ivan's hands fly up, wrapping around Till's shoulders in a desperate attempt to anchor himself.
"I'm close,"
Till can steadily feel himself slipping away, the coil in his belly getting tighter and tighter the more Ivan screams his name.
"You're too much,"
Ivan gasps, and Till fights against his lidded eyes to look up at Ivan's face, wanting desperately, more than anything else, to witness the moment he cums.
Suddenly, Ivan's eyes snap to his, alight with something burning, something livid.
"More,"
He demands.
"'M so close. Faster, Till, fuck— ah— why are you so fucking slow?"
Till sees red.
He doesn't feel much of what his body does, at that point.
All he can comprehend is Ivan, Ivan, Ivan.
Though he must have done something right, if the way Ivan chokes and clenches on him that it actually hurts is any indication.
But Till's attention is on the more important things— the way Ivan's brows furrow and twitch in the loveliest way, how his eyes, scrunched close, are dripping wet and sticky with tears. He is completely uninhibited in the most depraved way, at the mercy of his own twisted desire. Thoroughly wrecked.
And it's all because of Till.
Distantly, he feels something wet, sliding against the skin where he and Ivan meet.
He crumples against Ivan, feeling the rise and fall of their chests, erratic until it naturally syncs up. He lets himself lay boneless, utterly exhausted. He clutches Ivan, still— like a lifeline, like he'll melt right into him, feverishly wondering if he looks upon the stars in his head, or the stars in Ivan's eyes, and wishes hard enough— that he really will.
He thinks he can die happy.
But he wants, still, so (with great effort) he goes down— And licks a stripe up Ivan's dick.
Ivan startles, sensitive. Till guides his softening length into his mouth and sucks.
"Till! Too much— Ah—"
Ivan's hands clutch at Till's hair, not knowing whether to pull him closer or push him away.
Till continues to lap up his cum, moving to what dripped down his stomach and licking everything clean. His tongue drags a wet path across the map of Ivan's skin, leaving goosebumps that make Ivan shiver.
He leaves his ass for last, and Ivan cries again.
…
Ivan looks… Divine. It's the closest to religion he'll ever experience. This must be what fallen angels see, witnessing the sky and the earth before they inevitably crash hard— against the unforgiving soil, and straight to hell.
He thinks that maybe, just for that moment, witnessing rivers bend to the shape of the earth (the way Ivan's sweat clings to his skin, travels a path down his side, down his curves), the utter magnificence of what the world had to offer, at its most natural state, untouched by neither God nor man (the way he gasps for breath, as Till strokes him far beyond sensitivity and still, he endures, and endures, and endures), the final glimpse of sunlight, winking teasingly through the clouds, striking although fleeting (a golden flush, a steady-falling tear, Till greedily licking his spent up to the very last drop, the tired smile before the inevitable crash)— that perhaps it was all worth it.
…
He doesn't know how he lived so long without this, in all his 20-something years of life he's never felt fire like this, like it's all-consuming, constant, and eternal. You can call him a fool, blinded by love, or lust. It could be true. (The lust part, definitely.)
But Till has grappled with himself many times in his life— he knows what his own cowardice looks like.
He'll never forget those moments, staring at Ivan's retreating back, helpless, not knowing what to say to make him stay. To make him believe he meant more to him. Desperately chasing after Ivan only further served to make him look like a dumb kid in Ivan's eyes, widening the distance between them, because of what, Till doesn't know.
Expectations, he guesses.
But what they had was just so magnetic that despite all of Ivan's attempts, he never got very far.
Those times just further solidified in his mind—
(He knows how to let go, too. When the love you had for someone was fleeting, burning, but ultimately, ephemeral. But for this—?)
He knows it, intrinsically, from the very first moment he truly saw Ivan.
He was teasing him as usual, still maintaining that professional, socially acceptable distance— when he offhandedly mentioned something about some guy courting him.
Till felt a chill so quick he could tell Ivan felt it too. Watched as Ivan laughed awkwardly, mistaking his coldness for envy. He says he's sure Till will find someone too. Anyone would be lucky to have him. He looked as if it hurt him to say it, shoulders hunching with the weight of the life he lived, settling deep and making a home in Ivan's mind, making him believe he could never be wanted— that the too-bright torch Till possessed, he's undeserving of it— and Till burned for him.
That's when he knew. He could finally name that feeling deep in his chest whenever Ivan implied they belong to anyone other than each other. It felt like a threat, like a challenge.
Till held onto that feeling, something instinctive and otherworldly, almost primal, as if it was written into the very stardust that makes up his soul, urging him to chase, to clutch and beg for a place in Ivan's world— His place.
Predetermined by the universe. Or some cheesy bullshit like that.
Basically, he thinks, his tongue buried deep into Ivan's tight heat, he's a jealous and possessive fuck, and he's never been more sure about someone in his life. His nails dig into where he clutches Ivan in place. Fuck everyone else. He hears Ivan moan and hopes he leaves a mark. He's never letting go.
It'll destroy him if he loses this, anyway.
…
"Hold still, dammit."
"It tickles!"
"'Cuz you keep fuckin' moving!"
Ivan sighs dramatically, falling back into the pillows as Till runs a cloth down his leg. He twitches, and Till glares at him.
The glide of the towel is noticeably softer.
"My Till is so nice to me." Ivan murmurs.
The praise and the way he said it goes straight to Till's dick. He throbs, inwardly berates himself for it, and Ivan chuckles as if he noticed.
"Shut up." He says. It lacks the usual bite.
The moment passes in comfortable silence, Till intent on cleaning Ivan thoroughly.
He's about to do another pass, just to be sure, but something compels him to look up.
Ivan's smiling, but his eyes bore into him and he sees it for what it is: a plea.
A thread snaps.
Till finishes up quickly, tossing the towel toward the general direction of the laundry basket, and quickly snuggles up into Ivan's side. Ivan watches him with thinly-veiled amusement.
"How are you feeling? Any pain?"
Ivan hums, and it tells Till there is, but it's not something he wants to do anything about.
He's about to protest, but Ivan beats him to it.
"How'd a guy like you end up with someone like me?"
"If you're trying to piss me off, it's working."
"Yay,"
He chucks a pillow at his stupid face.
"You're impossible,"
The pillow falls, revealing Ivan's tousled raven hair, silver strands catching the warm lamplight. His eyes are tired, the corners crinkled in a smile. Till is absolutely obsessed with him.
"You love me."
He softens.
"Yeah."