Thread by @quinnpriv1

#ivantill one sided tillmizi | modern AU, weed, alcohol, unsafe sex, mistaken identity pt 5

Ivan doesn’t usually shotgun with him, and before today, Till would have written it off as a frilly idiosyncrasy. Now that he knows, he wonders if it’s because Ivan knew he wouldn’t be

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able to hide his desire so close, face to face, dark eyes like whirlpools of depth dragging Till under.

Once upon a time, Till asked Ivan what his type was. “I don’t know. I’m pretty shallow,” had been Ivan’s reply, but Till had never actually seen Ivan hook up with anyone just

for the hell of it. He wonders what’s supposed to feel shallow about Ivan’s open and obvious hunger, like he’s been waiting a lifetime to swallow Till whole.

Till made sure to watch Ivan’s intake. Ivan might not be as drunk as him, or as high as him, but he’s not sober.

It shows in Ivan’s touch, a bit more bruising than he would usually be. He sucks on Till’s skin like he’ll never get a chance to taste it again, murmuring filthy things in Till’s ears.

Ivan has a damned nice voice, low and smooth even with a rasp from the smoke in his lungs.

He makes his way south slowly, opening his mouth. Till claps a palm over Ivan’s lips. “Don’t you want to do something else?” *Anything else?* Till wonders. He has no right to be hurt, but he is, somehow, wondering if Ivan thought he wasn’t good enough.

“Do you have any

requests?” Ivan asks, putting the ball back in Till’s court.

Till opens his mouth. Closes it. Truthfully, he had never considered anything other than holding hands with Mizi—maybe a few wet kisses and some fondling. Ivan had no breasts to speak of and the kind of porn Till

watched wasn’t exactly a good reference for this.

With heat crawling up his neck, Till mutters. “At Mizi’s last party, you…” He trails off, stammering. “That was fine.”

Ivan blinks. Till feels more than sees him smirk. “I see.”

He pulls away long enough to grab things out

of his bag—lube and condoms. Till is terrified about what they’re doing, all of the sudden. They’re crossing a line they can’t uncross.

Still, he has some pride. When Ivan asks him to roll over, Till shakes his head. He can’t say, *I want to see you,* because that would be too

much like a confession, too much like he was leading Ivan on. Still, he /does/ want to see Ivan. Till wants to see what Ivan sees in him, oblivious and warped as he is.

Ivan complies easily. Too easily. *Why didn’t you say anything?* Till thinks, air pushed out of his lungs

when Ivan rocks him backwards, grip firm on Till’s thighs as he wipes Till clean, then licks his way inside. He must’ve done the same last time, but Till can’t remember. Tears leak out of his eyes as Ivan inserts a finger along with his tongue, searching for Till’s sweet spot.

Ivan’s spit leaks down his ass crack and onto the sheets, tacky and viscous. Clumped with lube, there’s a fine mess to be had and Till is shivering when Ivan releases him, watching his own cock drool like someone else is coming. It’s an out of body experience.

The weed has

him loose and emotional, whining Ivan’s name. “Again,” Till groans, wanting—no, needing—Ivan to stop treating him like he’s fragile.

Ivan hums, taking a moment to kiss Till’s fingertips. He doesn’t bother using his mouth this time, too busy sucking bruises into Till’s chest.

Till begs for a kiss. Ivan reminds him where he’s been and Till pouts, telling him to go brush his teeth, then.

Abruptly, the fingers pull away from his prostate, Ivan leaving to do just that. “You could have finished me off first, bastard,” Till gripes, but Ivan’s tinkling

laugh is satisfaction enough and the promise of a kiss—*finally*—has him buzzed.

Kissing Ivan is a lot like drinking shots sideways on a stranger’s bed; inebriating and heady. He’s good at it, because of course he is, stupidly talented prick. He probably had his pick of

talents on the circuit, women throwing themselves at him like flies.

*Or men,* Till belatedly reminds himself, toes curling as Ivan sucks on his lip, sharp canines caught on sensitive skin.

He’s not a nice kisser. Ivan’s not a nice person, period. He’s demanding and

all-consuming, the type of person who doesn’t settle for halves. It’s only when it becomes apparent that Ivan is spoiling him rotten that Till grabs him by the hair, a fistful of black silk in his fingers as he manages to speak. “I said I wanted more.”

Till is not a nice person,

either.

Ivan smiles like Till hung the moon in the sky, bearing down on him. For such a slim guy, he’s awfully dense. All that time spent at the gym was good for something, Till supposed.

This time, when he stretches Till out, Till claws at him with wide eyes, sobbing in

earnest. It’s worse still when Ivan finally enters. Ivan’s not much bigger than him, but Till can’t shake the unconscious bias that he’s not meant to fit there and that’s why it hurts so bad. Ivan licks his tears, because he’s a freak like that, allowing Till to get used to him

before he finally moves his hips, thrusting in and out like a piston.

Fucking Ivan. Fuck. He looks like a maniac, taking what he wants at long last. Till feels like he’s going to split in half, pleasure and pain swirling in his head, but the pleasure wins out in the end.

He can’t shake the feeling that they wasted a lot of fucking time. “We could have been doing this the whole time,” Till mumbles, unsure if that’s the weed or the alcohol talking.

“A dick in the ass would have been a bit hard to disguise,” Ivan explains. It is reassuring that

he sounds as woozy as Till feels, lost in lust, sweating like a pig. What would his precious fangirls think if they could see him now?

“I could be down for Mizi pegging me.”

“I can go get the wig.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Bit busy at the moment. Maybe next time,” Ivan promises.

Something warm blooms in Till’s chest at that. Ivan pulls out when he gets close, spilling hot all over Till’s abdomen. He looks horribly human, flushed pink and grinning like a loon.

Till drags him down for another kiss, a chaste one this time, then he closes his eyes and

promptly blacks the fuck out, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

//

Till wakes up panicked in the morning, convinced he’s going to be alone in his bed.

At some point last night, Ivan must have gotten up and removed his contacts because he’s wearing his glasses.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty.”

Till sticks out his tongue. “Don’t be gross.”

“Do you dislike being called beautiful?”

He freezes in place, taken aback. Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck, forcing himself to laugh. “It just doesn’t fit, y’know?” Till had heard

people call him handsome before. ‘Rugged’ was more common, and ‘appealing to punks’ even more so, but his looks were not often the subject of conversation—his musical skill was.

—last part later today! 💫🌃

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