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This hunger is a vice at his neck; the point of a blade digging into the hollow of his throat.
The breath he lets in is damp with the air left after rain, and when he exhales, everything is Till, Till, Till—
He’s falling forward, forward into the point of the blade, blood oozing, skin burning; forward into the euphoric allure coating the silk of his sheets, muscles aching. He bites into the pooling fabric under him, thread tearing, jaw aching, syrupy sweetness dripping into his teeth and dribbling down through the space between his lips, down his jaw, mixing with his tears.
Till laughs somewhere above him, a breathless thing, raspy at the edges, punched out sardonic. There’s a sun burning somewhere inside him, growing hotter, hotter, hotter. An ache manifests itself in the spaces of his gums, and he wants to sink his fangs into Till; rip into his jugular, chew at his insides, fuse with the sinew that comprises his God, satiate the growing hunger, the persistent blaze of fire in his veins.
A hand fists into his hair, yanking, harsh and possessive and too much and not enough, and his back arches, following the orchestrated line of his neck, pillow falling from his grasp. He aims for a growl, an animalistic protest, arms thrashing where they lay tied together against the sticky skin of his lower back, wrists chafing, breath heavy. Drool runs down his chin, traces the jut of his Adam’s apple, and the hand in his hair yanks harder. His muscles strain with the position; fingers spasming, jaw falling open, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t—
He mewls.
A hand brushes the frizzy curls from his forehead, traces the slope of his nose, wipes at the tears streaming down his face, and wraps around his neck: a hairs breadth away from squeezing. The hand in his hair lets go. Cups his jaw and turns his head until his bleary eyes are shifting, focusing on a blurred heap of grey and teal. There’s a mirthful whisper of ‘open’ and he’s too far gone, mind muddled, body boneless, driven solely by the orders given to him and the desire thrumming in his veins. His mouth falls open again, tongue lolling out on one side, and he feels something wet land on his tongue. It's thick and warm, sliding along the hollows of his mouth, coating his molars, and slipping down his throat. He swallows reflexively, mouth opening and closing, breath leaden when he pants into the hand holding his jaw again.
The hand around his throat starts to close, fingers drumming along the tremble of his throat, tightening its hold incrementally, until black dots dance around his vision and he falls limp against the body behind him.
His muscles lock, spasming, and he’s gasping, voice garbled, moans threading into nonsensical pleas into laboured heaves of breath.
Just as he feels the throes of unconsciousness hit him, the grip lessens entirely. He’s coughing, deep, heavy, gasping into the sheets, and then three fingers press into him. It’s too much, too much, not enough. He bucks into the thrusts, head thrown back, pressing deeper and deeper into the pillows.
“Till—”
There’s no response, just a kiss against his shoulder, a thumb against the swell of his lips. Ivan frowns, eyes burning, lungs capsizing, leading into the fingers against his mouth, pushing back against the fingers inside him, trying to quell the relentless pleasepleaseplease buzzing in his ears, under his skin.
“Till, Till, please.”
The hunger grows stronger in his veins, replacing blood with water. Till shifts, gaze boring into Ivan’s, and suddenly that water is evaporating with the heat threatening to consume him. An ache in him grows tenfold, a ravenous need pooling wet and warm against his lashes.
Till’s fingers in him curl, and Ivan sees stars. It’s perfect, it’s not enough, it’s Till, and he wants nothing more than to have everything Till has. His hands strain harder against the bindings, and Till’s thumb presses consolingly down on both of his lips.
“Shhh, baby, I’ve got you. Just breathe, okay? I’ll give you what you need.”
Ivan nods, hair sticking to the back of his neck, sweat cooling against the planes of his abdomen. The answering ‘good boy’ makes him sigh, breath stuttering, lashes fluttering closed.
He needs more; his teeth gnash against each other with arousal. It pools around them in swirls, musky and heavy and warm against him. But Till will give him what he needs, and he knows Till will follow through, so he moans against the frenzied thrusts against his prostate, and devours it anyway.
Till spreads his legs apart and settles into the space between his hips, fingers relentless even as he pushes down on Ivan’s ass, pressing him farther into the bed, stretching his legs out wider, wider, wider.
Ivan tastes honeysuckle on his tongue, hibiscus, and the teal of Till’s eyes when Till leans down to kiss him. Feels the shift in angle and almost stops breathing at the next thrust of Till’s fingers. There’s fingers tracing along the skin of his inner thigh, calming the goosebumps, feeling the violent shake.
Till kisses him again, smirk feral against his lips, and Ivan feels the building pressure in his spine threaten to unravel.
“Are you close, pretty thing?”
Ivan nods frantically into the sheets, swallowing, voice hoarse.
Till pulls out.
Completely.
He’s burning, flames growing hotter and hotter. Ivan collapses into the bed, writhing, pupils trembling, face flushed pink, lips sticky with spit.
“Till, Till— Why, Till I was so—” Ivan whines, low in his throat, reedy with want, helpless with it all.
“I told you, my sweet boy, I’ll give you what you need. I promise.” Till’s fingers circle his rim again, teasing, gentle, probing. Ivan whines again, lips chasing Till’s, sighing into the kiss when Till’s tongue licks at the roof of his mouth.
“Please.”
His fingers thrust in, all three again down to the last knuckle. Ivan’s back arches, cheeks burning.
“Ahn— Till— ngh…”
Till cooed as he rubbed against his prostate, steady thrusts aiming directly for the bundle of nerves.
Curl.
Press.
Curl.
Press.
Again and again and again, fingers dragging against his walls, feeding at his burning hunger, milking at his prostate. Till kisses him again, and it tastes of honeysuckle and hibiscus.
Ivan’s toes curl, and he whines pathetically against Till’s lips.
Curl.
Press.
Curl.
Press.
Till laughs again, cruel, exhilarated. Ivan’s cock twitches against the sheets, fabric rubbing harshly with each dragging thrust that has him moving up the bed. Ever thrust was angled perfectly against his prostate, slow, grinding, purposeful.
Curl.
Ivan stayed on the precipice of orgasm, dizzy, mindless, stretched out around three fingers, cock leaking, tears streaming steadily from his eyes. Till presses harder, circling his fingers, and Ivan chokes.
Press.
“Ah—! Ahhn… ngh—!” Ivan’s voice comes out cracking, thin, and hoarse.
Till drags his fingers out almost entirely, and pushes back in all the way, grinding into that sweet spot, nosing at the skin of Ivan’s thighs. Ivan whimpers, nipples rubbing against the sheets, cock hard and heavy, pressed between him and the bed.
“Till, I’m gonna— Till, please let me— Ah!” Till kisses his thigh, pulls out his fingers.
Ivan sobs, lips red and swollen and wet with spit and tears, and he was so close. Till rubs his back soothingly, whispering hushed apologies against the knobs of his spine. His toes curl, uncurl, hole clenching against nothing, mind hazy.
He whines out Till’s name, begging, whining, wiggling his hips down against the air, staring imploringly up into Till’s eyes until the hardened edges soften and Till’s fingers sink back in, knuckle by knuckle, curling slowly, dragging against the hypersensitive spot that has Ivan twitching, shaking, moaning. He pulls out again, and Ivan lets out a wrecked noise. He pushes in one finger and starts tapping.
Light, rapid flicks right against the overstimulated nerves. It was euphoric. Ivan moaned, warbled and wet, hands locked together in their bindings, nails digging into the soft skin of his palms. Gentle thuds, sure and fast that had his vision turning white. His body burned, his teeth ached, cock angry and red, slick with his own precum, nipples peaked and stiff, rubbing painfully against the bedsheets.
“Till—ahhh….pl— nghhh—!” Each inhale was torturous, every second building up a steady mounting wave of pleasure on brink of breaking.
“Hm? Baby boy, I thought I told you to be patient? Or do you not want this?” Ivan cries harder, denial weighing heavily on his tongue, hips grinding down harder against Till’s fingers. Till kisses the arch of his brow, licks at the beads of sweat dripping down his face.
Careless little ah, ah, ah’s spilled unbidden from Ivan; Till beginning to rock his hand back and forth, fingers pressing deep and dragging in measured strokes across the bundle inside Ivan. A careening ocean wave, a sweat push and pull.
“Look at you, so helpless. Do you really want it that badly?” He flicked his wrist, grinding his fingers in a slow, maddening rhythm, circling in a way that he knew made Ivan kick helplessly at the sheets. Scream out his name. Smiled when every reply Ivan tried to give him ended in a wanton mewl.
“Please, please, please, Till, please, need it so bad, Till—!”
His hole clenched around Till's now still fingers, voice wavering as Till leans over him, mouth wet and warm on his ear. Ivan can't speak anymore, can't think, can't breathe, only wants to consume, burn, feel, fall apart until Till’s ministrations. Till kisses the point of Ivan's ear, free hand untangling Ivans clenched fingers and playing with the shaking digits.
“Too much? Or can my sweet navi do more for me? Hm?”
And, oh, wasn't his Till so cruel? He wanted to desperately to be good, to let himself go and fulfill every wish of his shining star, but he's so close, and it's been so long and—
“That's okay, baby, I've got you, you've been so good, hm? Listening and not cumming for so long. Let go, yeah? Come for me, okay?”
He nods, tongue leaded, body limp, and screams when he feels Till’s fingers pull out and slam directly into his prostate. Phantom tremors Shoot through his body, cock leaking and jolting.
“Please, please, need it. Need to cum so bad—” Till trailed his fingers down Ivan's thigh, delighting in the glassy-eyed look he send him. Each thrust was sucked in by burning, pulsating walls. When Ivan's muscles locked, mouth going clack, back arching, Till knew Ivan was as the threshold.
His thrusts turned fast, fingers coaxing, massaging, commanding. Tears spilled down either side of Ivan’s face, streaking his temples, soaking his hair.
“Kiss? Kiss, please, wan’ a kiss.” Ivan’s voice cracked, mouth rounded in an ‘o’. Till’s heart stutters, adoration bleeding into his voice when he leans down, nose brushing Ivan’s. Cracked Littles noises keep spilling out of Ivan, and Till kisses him, warm and slow and sweet before breathing into his ear—
“Let go for me.” Ivan crumbled, strings cut, orgasm tearing through him, eyes squeezed shut, shaking violently.
Through it all, Till didn't slow, didn't pull out, just kept rubbing Ivan’s prostate with in slow circles, stretching the orgasm longer and more intense than anything before. He unties the tie on Ivan’s wrists, rubs at the chafing soothingly intwines his fingers his Ivan’s, holding him through his orgasm, kissing his tears away, pushing back his sweaty bangs.
“That's it, you did so good for me, Ivan. So good, so perfect.” He presses a chaste kiss to the bridge of Ivan’s nose, his cupid's bow, the junction of his ear and jaw, until Ivan’s eyes cleared and a dopey smile filled his view.
“There's my boy.” Till smiles at him, all teeth and teal eyes and Ivan’s skin feels light, heart bursting.
Ivan smiles, wide-eyed, pink cheeked, and entirely his.
Fin.