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Till is emptying a portafilter when someone clears their throat.
Till freezes.
He knows that sound.
Till turns slowly, and waiting at the register is a man, slightly taller than Till. Dark eyes. Dark hair. Well put-together outfit that falls perfectly over his silhouette, at least from what Till can see over the counter. Till eventually lifts his eyes from the man’s expensive clothes to meet the piercing gaze that seems to peel Till back layer by layer and—there is no way that Till heard what he thought he did. It’s not possible. Till must be going insane.
The man looks at him, waiting. His head tilts ever so slightly.
On reflex, Till hastens to the register and asks, “Hi, what can I get for you today?”
“One iced americano, please,” the man replies.
Till stares at the register screen and thanks the heavens for his many, many repetitions of this conversation, because he’s running purely on momentum of memory and nothing else: “What size?”
“Medium.”
“Anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
Till taps in the drink. He swallows dryly. “Great, can I get a name for your order?”
Till finally looks up at the man and knows immediately that he’s made a mistake. His script exits his brain, along with every other thought he’s ever had.
“Ivan,” the man says as he taps his card.
“Uh—cool,” Till says. “Thanks.”
He grabs a cup and scribbles Ivan’s name onto it before he can forget.
Ivan walks away and sits at a table. Till hurriedly walks to the espresso machine; it’s tall enough to block the view between the baristas and some of the customers, so he lets his customer service smile drop.
There’s no way.
There’s no way.
Till manages to scrape himself back together in the time it takes to pull the shot and then pour it over the water and ice. He sticks a lid on, calls out Ivan’s name, and pushes the drink across the counter.
When Till glances up, Ivan is already there. Till goes completely still. He’s leaning forward, hand still outstretched—a breath away from Ivan’s cup—when Ivan goes to take his drink.
Ivan offers him a small smile, and he says, “Thank you.”
Till watches Ivan walk out the door. It jingles shut behind him.
Well shit.
—
Till listens to ASMR.
Kind of.
To be fair, the audio titles do often include ASMR, or some variant of it.
It started when he had his bi awakening in high school but was too cowardly to actually make a move on a guy, and too skittish to attract anyone his type. Naturally, he resorted to the interwebs to supplement his urges—but even there, butt-naked porn with random dudes’ dicks was a little intense.
Audio was a happy medium. Not too little, not too much.
In some ways, it felt more personal, as if the man on the other side was talking to him directly. But there was some comfort in knowing that it wasn’t actually to Till; rather, to the arbitrary, perpetual listener. Till had no responsibility to engage or respond, so he could just follow along with the voice murmuring in his ears.
He discovered n0wh3re fairly early on. There was something to his scripts and his voice—some dark, rumbly quality to it—that drew Till in like a moth to a flame, and kept him coming back, again and again and again. Till even listened to his safe-for-work audios, and tried not to be too mortified at the fact that n0wh3re’s voice talking about nothing at all made Till feel warm and cozy and, oddly, safe.
Eventually, as he grew older, Till found his confidence and ventured into the real, physical world. He had a few flings here and there, both men and women. Never anything lasting, though.
But audios—and n0wh3re—were always there for him when he wanted them.
—
Ivan returns to the café the very next day, and Till only dies a little bit inside.
He dutifully plasters the customer service smile onto his face, smothering his nerves. “What can I get for you today?”
“One medium iced latte, please.”
“Gotcha. Is whole milk okay for that?”
Ivan nods. Till rings him up. Ivan pays.
“Thanks, we’ll have that right out for you,” Till says, grabbing a cup.
“No name?”
“Oh. Uhh,” Till starts.
Something like mirth gleams in Ivan’s eyes.
“Good memory,” Till mumbles.
Ivan just hums in response—an echo straight from Till’s most private fantasies—and takes a seat.
Till makes Ivan’s drink, and Ivan takes it and leaves.
—
Later that night, Till is doomscrolling in bed when he gets a notification that n0wh3re has posted a new audio. He clicks it immediately, scans the title and tags, and almost drops his phone onto his face.
[M4A] One iced latte, please, extra milk? [MDom Speaker] [Meet Cute] [Ramble]…
There’s no way.
All the signs are pointing to it—but Till can’t accept it.
There’s no way.
—
(It’s a good audio.)
—
There’s a week of peace before Ivan shows up at the café again.
During that time, Till had mostly convinced himself that he was connecting non-existent dots, and that the new audio drop had been pure coincidence. Ivan’s absence had lulled Till back into his regular routine, including his late-night audios. He could listen without the lingering worry and embarrassment.
As soon as Ivan stepped into the café, it all came rushing back.
Ivan orders an iced latte. Waits at a table while Till makes it. Walks up to the counter to pick it up and then—
He sits back down.
Till almost does a double-take. He’d forgotten that was an option. Ivan orders and leaves. Till is supposed to be able to decompress after Ivan’s brief visits.
But no, Ivan sits back down. And he stays there.
Other customers come and go. Time ticks by, far too slowly for comfort. Eventually, Till glances at the clock. Ivan has been here for almost two hours; he’s the only patron left. The café is going to close soon.
In fact, Till is just about ready to end the day (and everything else, really), so he flips the Open sign by the door to Closed, and tells Ivan, “Take your time,” with a weak smile.
Then, he goes into the storage room—a small space lined with shelves of sealed bean bags and oat milk cartons and thick paper cups—telling himself that he’s getting ready to close up, but really it allows him to sink to the floor, unseen. Although it doesn’t help with Till’s spiraling thoughts, it’s a brief respite from Ivan’s dissecting gaze.
There’s a knock on the storage room door.
“Do you need any help?”
Till’s heart stops.
He has to blink a few times.
Ivan had said—
There’s no way. Till knows how this goes. It’s in the script. The audio that he’s listened to for the past week. The one that’s been steeping in his brain for the last one hundred and seventeen minutes, sending all the blood in his brain south and making him very, very grateful for the heavy weave of the apron.
Till slowly stands and opens the door. Ivan is waiting on the other side, an expectant expression on his face.
There’s no way.
“No way what?” Ivan asks.
Fuck. “Did I say that out loud?”
“Perhaps,” Ivan says with a slight smile. Till notices that Ivan has a fang, and quickly stores that information for later use.
“Uh…” Till flounders for words.
“There’s no one else here.”
That’s the next line. One line could be a coincidence, but two for two?
Ivan interrupts Till’s thoughts: “Something wrong, Till?”
“What?”
“I asked if something is wrong. You look faint.”
“I—how do you know my name?”
Ivan’s gaze flicks downward. “Your name tag.”
“Oh. Right.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Till?”
“Ah, sorry.” Till runs a hand through his hair, pushing his bangs out of his eyes for a moment before they fall back down. “Just… sorry, going through some stuff right now.”
Ivan smiles. Till swears there’s something evil in it. “Déjà vu?”
Till needs to leave this conversation. Now.
“I, uhh, I was just grabbing some supplies to restock,” he blurts, quickly turning around and going to one of the shelves. He reaches for a bag of beans—amid the chaos in his brain, he does actually manage to remember the roast they were low on—and has to stand on the tips of his toes.
Suddenly, a hand reaches up from behind him and grabs the bag, then holds it in front of Till’s chest.
“I’ll ask again: do you need any help?” Ivan’s voice is low is Till’s ear.
Till shivers, and he hopes it’s not visible, but Ivan’s chuckle says otherwise.
The door, having slowly been closing this entire time, finally shuts, leaving them in semi-darkness, only one dim, measly light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
Ivan isn’t touching Till, but even so, his presence is overwhelming. Till takes the bag from Ivan’s hand.
“W-what are you saying?” Till asks.
Ivan moves his hand to rest on the shelf, casual, but effectively trapping Till in.
“Oh, Till,” Ivan purrs. “You don’t have to play dumb anymore. You know who I am.”
“And what about it?” Till bites back, defensive.
“Hey, kitten, no need for claws,” Ivan says. His tone is lighter. Softer. But still sultry and teasing. “You’re cute, and I know you’ve listened to me enough to recognize me. Thought we could have a little fun, if you want to.”
Till stares at the bag of beans in his hands.
“…Okay,” Till breathes.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Ivan’s hand drifts from the shelf to Till’s arm, trailing from his bare wrist to his clothed elbow to his shoulder, then down the side of Till’s ribcage to settle around his waist. His other hand joins on the opposite side.
“This okay?” Ivan asks.
Till nods shakily. He sets the bag back on the shelf—a lower, more reachable tier—and leans against the shelf with both hands, because he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
Ivan leans in, and Till can feel heat ghosting over the nape of his neck before Ivan starts to place gentle kisses over his skin.
Ivan’s hand works it’s way under Till’s shirt and up to his chest. He flicks his thumb over Till’s nipple, and Till’s breath snags in his throat. Till has never played with his nipples before, not by himself, but apparently when someone else—when Ivan—is doing it, his knees go a little weak. Till tries to focus on breathing, uneven, labored, and squeezes his legs together in some pathetic effort to alleviate the heat building between them.
Ivan pinches Till’s nipple, and Till gasps.
“It’s okay to make noise,” Ivan says. “There’s no one here but us.”
“’m not noisy, usually,” Till says.
“Usually,” Ivan echoes.
Till doesn’t like the sound of that, but he can’t ignore the spark it sends dancing down his spine.
Ivan traces faint circles around Till’s nipple, teasing, and his other hand slides down over Till’s hipbone. His thumb presses into the dip between Till’s pelvis and the top of his thigh. His other fingers squeeze around the muscle, and Till’s hips jolt forward, seeking more friction, something, anything.
“Can I touch you?”
Till wants to say something snarky about how Ivan is already touching his neck, his thighs, his chest, but he’s been turned on for so long, too long, and he finds himself nodding before a sentence can form. Till can almost feel Ivan’s smile against his skin.
Ivan unzips Till’s pants, shoving them down only enough to gain access to what matters, and then Ivan is touching him—and the last bit of Till’s sanity disintegrates. Ivan’s hand is warm and big, his fingers curling around nearly the entire length of Till’s shaft. Ivan grips him experimentally and tugs upward.
“Oh fuck,” Till breathes. He’s not going to last long.
Ivan hums in his ear.
That damn sound alone makes Till’s cock throb. It’s so much more rich, tangible in real life. The vibration of it echoes through his body, traps a swirling heat in his core.
Ivan doesn’t even have to do much for Till to squeeze his eyes shut, his head falling forward, as he fervently wills himself not to cum. It’s so hard—he’s so hard, and Ivan is, too, Till can feel it. He can’t concentrate on the bulge pressing against his ass, though, not with Ivan’s thumb sliding over Till’s slit, with his other hand moving in to cup Till’s sac, rub over his taint. Till’s knees jerk together on one particularly cruel stroke, trapping Ivan’s lower hand.
“Spread your legs.”
Till obeys without thought.
Ivan huffs, amused. “Good boy.”
A whimper leaks from Till’s throat, and Till flushes even hotter.
“Oh, that’s what gets you?” Ivan says.
Till doesn’t say anything, instead stewing in his embarrassed silence.
Ivan toys with Till’s dick, grip loose enough for Till to start wriggling restlessly and push forward into Ivan’s hand.
“Impatient,” Ivan says.
“Go fuck yourself,” Till says.
“What fun would that be? When I have you here, leaking in my hands…” Ivan trails off, nibbling at Till’s ear, licking behind it. He squeezes Till’s tip, smearing precum.
Till whines. “Ivan…”
“Yes, Till?” Ivan says, feigning ignorance.
“Come on,” Till says.
Ivan trails a single finger up the underside of Till’s cock. “You’re going to have to be more specific, kitten.”
He slows toward the top, massaging right under the head. Till lets out a ragged gasp, overwhelmed at the single point of contact. He curls in on himself, but Ivan uses the other hand to pull Till back upright.
Ivan leans in. “What do you want, Till?”
“I—ggh, wanna cum. Please.”
“Alright, then cum,” Ivan says, letting go of Till.
“Nooo, Ivan,” Till whines, pawing at Ivan’s hand. He can’t bring himself to be irritated at Ivan’s obtuse banter when he’s so desperate for Ivan to just touch him. “Want you.”
“Hmm, okay,” Ivan says. “You want me to make you cum?”
“Please, please Ivan—mmngh!” Till’s hips buck when Ivan resumes stroking again, fast.
“Yeah? You wanna cum so hard you forget how to breathe?” Ivan nips at Till’s skin. “You want me to wring your pleasure from you until all you know is my name? Whimpering it so pretty for me…”
Till’s vision, even in the dark, starts going fuzzy. n0wh3re’s voice had always gotten him to the edge relatively quickly, but Ivan speaking directly to him, teasing him, his hand on Till’s cock, controlling him…
Ivan’s other hand goes to Till’s chest, again, and his fingers are long enough to rub over both of Till’s nipples at the same time. Till keens.
“Close, Ivan, gonna cum,” Till gasps. “G’nna—”
Ivan grips the base of Till’s cock tight, abruptly cutting off the tidal wave Till’s orgasm. Till cries out, his abdomen muscles spasming as he whines.
“Not yet,” Ivan cooes. His voice is gentle, but there’s an underlying darkness to it, and it makes Till’s cock kick in Ivan’s grip.
“Ivan,” Till says. “Ivan, Ivan…”
“Can I fuck your thighs?” Ivan asks.
Till’s legs almost give out. “Yes, please—”
Ivan’s hands leave Till for a brief moment, and Till he can hear Ivan unzip his pants. Somehow, that makes Till’s mind even more clouded and heady. And then Ivan’s cock is pressing in between Till’s legs, just under his ass, thick and hot and fuck—
“There you go,” Ivan murmurs.
“Oh god,” Till says.
Ivan wraps one arm around Till’s waist, using him like an anchor as he slowly thrusts in and out. Ivan exhales roughly, and Till savors the sound. He—Till—is affecting Ivan, too. Enough for him to lose his composure. To want to use Till to get himself off.
Till does his best to keep his knees together, to make it good for Ivan, and is rewarded with a low growl. Ivan starts jerking Till off again, the pace of his hand matching that of his thrusts. He sucks on Till’s neck, bites down. Till moans.
“You feel so good, Till,” Ivan says. “So good.”
“Mmmm, Ivan—”
“Like you were made to take my cock,” Ivan continues. “All of you, fucking perfect for me. I’d take my time taking you apart, fuck your mouth until you cry, work you open on my fingers, make you cum so much you cum dry, and only then would I give you my cock. Fill you up—”
Fuck, Till can’t take it. Ivan’s rhythm speeds up, and Till’s eyes start to roll back.
“Ivan, close, close—”
“Yeah? Cum for me, Till,” Ivan says. “My perfect boy.”
“Yours,” Till babbles mindlessly. His brain is mush, and he clings to Ivan’s words like a lifeline through the haze. “’m yours.”
“Mine.”
There’s a possessive heat to it that’s never been in any of the audios, and it makes Till feel so overwhelmed and small and owned, and he cums into Ivan’s hand with a long, keening whine. Ivan murmurs sweet nothings as Till shudders apart in his arms. He spurts over Ivan’s fingers, onto the back of his apron, drips onto the floor. The spasmic pulsing ebbs and Till starts to twitch with overstimulation instead, but the arm across Till’s waist just tightens, holding Till solidly in place as Ivan ruts between his legs and strokes Till’s cock. The slide is now wet with cum; slick, loud, obscene. Till’s thighs squeeze together reflexively as he tries to escape the onslaught of sensation, and the tightness makes Ivan hiss.
“Shit, just like that, kitten,” Ivan mutters.
Till can only cry out, wordless, and try to push Ivan’s hand away from his cock, but it’s no use—he’s weak with painful pleasure, limbs shaking, tears starting to drip down his cheeks. He’s gasping and Ivan’s cock keeps rubbing against his, and the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor is Ivan’s grip around his waist.
Ivan groans and his fingers over Till’s stomach dig in, bruising the soft flesh, and his hand on Till’s cock goes still. He pushes in deep, pelvis flushed against Till’s ass, and cums. In the back of Till’s mind, somewhere, he is immensely satisfied at the feeling of Ivan’s cock throbbing and kicking between his legs, the low vibration of his voice in Till’s ears. He rocks against Till as he rides out his orgasm, and Till rests his free hand over the arm across his waist as Ivan slows.
Till makes a small noise, shivering, when Ivan pulls out from between Till’s legs. He leans back against Ivan, some of the strength returning to his wobbly legs.
“You ruined my apron,” Till grumbles.
Ivan places a soothing kiss on the nape of Till’s neck. “I’ll buy you another.”
“…Hmph.”
“You’re cute when you pout.”
“You can’t even see me that well.”
“Don’t need to,” Ivan says, and he nuzzles his face into Till’s hair. Then, he asks, “Can I get your number?”
Till can’t help but feel that this is all disastrously out of order, but who is he to turn the audio-pornstar of his life down? “You’re going to have to let me go for that.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Ivan sighs. “If I must.”
Till is grateful for the darkness mostly concealing his smile. Ivan relinquishes his hold around Till’s waist.
Till tucks himself back into his pants, cringing internally at the sticky mess—but he has no other choice, really. He can hear Ivan doing the same. Till turns around, and then takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to Ivan, unlocked. The small screen illuminates the room, casting the two of them in a somewhat ominous light.
“Text yourself,” he says.
Ivan accepts the phone, types in his number and a quick message, and hits send. Till watches as he does, taking in the details of Ivan’s face up close. His hair is a little mussed up, as to be expected after fucking in the storage room, but other than that he seems to be annoyingly perfect. Long lashes around sharp eyes, plush lips, dark eyebrows—Ivan glances up and catches Till staring, and Till quickly averts his gaze. Ivan returns the device to Till, and Till slips it back into his pocket, plunging the room back into darkness.
“Perfect,” Ivan says. “Can I kiss you?”
Till huffs. “Take me to dinner first, at least.”
Ivan laughs, surprised. “What are you doing after this?”
The audacity of this man. “Closing up, and then finding a change of clothes,” Till says.
“Fine, fine, make me work for it,” Ivan says. “Fair enough, I suppose.”
He pushes the door open and steps out, holding it open for Till to exit, too. Till squints against the bright light of the evening. Ivan sets something down on the counter—the bag of beans, when did he get that? But before Till can say anything, Ivan takes one of Till’s hands and bows, kissing the back of it.
Despite himself, Till blushes a little bit.
Ivan looks up at him, and then stands. He smiles. “Pleasure meeting you, Till. I’ll be in touch.”
With a gentle chiming of bells, Ivan walks out of the café, leaving Till stunned, sticky, and stupidly happy.