Distracting

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/63049396.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: M/M
Fandom: Alien Stage (Web Series)
Relationship: Ivan/Till (Alien Stage)
Characters: Till (Alien Stage), Ivan (Alien Stage), Brief mentions of Mizi and Sua
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Disguise, Crossdressing,
Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, Porn With Plot, Enemies to Lovers, Kinda?,
Childhood Friends to Enemies, Criminal Leader Ivan, Spy Till,
Miscommunication, Banter, Fighting, Rough Sex, Anal Sex, Lingerie,
Anal Fingering, First Time, till attempts to seduce ivan (gone wrong), do
not be fooled by ivans charm, he is still very much ivan, Tags Are Hard,
no beta we die like alnst fans on feb 14, Aphrodisiacs, Top Ivan (Alien
Stage), Bottom Till (Alien Stage)
Language: English
Collections: ivantill exchange 2025
Stats: Published: 2025-02-14 Words: 9,837 Chapters: 1/1
 Distracting
by Vykha

Summary

“You started this,” Ivan purrs, fingers tightening ever so slightly around Till’s waist.
“Don’t look so surprised.”

“I’m going to strangle you with my hands.”

Ivan sighs dreamily. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

Till’s new mission gets thrown into disarray when he realizes exactly who his target is.

Notes

not pwp as i originally intended bc i am physically incapable of forgoing plot

See the end of the work for more notes

The air in the briefing room was sterile, heavy with the faint tang of disinfectant and the stale
scent of paper. Till’s fingers tap restlessly against the polished table of the briefing room,
feeling the hum of fluorescent lights overhead drilling into his skull. It’s a scene that he’s
seen a thousand times, but the manila folder before him feels more ominous, more foreboding
than usual.

The handler — a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual frown — pushes the file
across the table with bored disinterest. “This one’s sensitive,” he starts, tone clipped, “and it
requires someone … adaptable. That’s why it’s you.”

The corner of Till’s mouth curls into a humorless scoff. Sensitive has always been an
understatement. “You mean no one else volunteered.”

The other doesn’t deny it. Figures. “Have a look.”

With a sigh that does little to mask the simmering irritation beneath, Till grabs the folder and
flips it open. His eyes skim the first page — name redacted, background classified, relations
unknown. What the hell? Why was it so vague? A furrow etches itself into his brow, and he
reads through the page more thoroughly, searching for something — anything — that might
be of value. Something even as simple as ‘likes to frequent the local bakery’ would work.

In the end, he’s left with nothing but vague dates. He snaps his head upwards, lips forming a
faint sneer. How the fuck is he even supposed to plan anything around this bullshit—

And then, his gaze catches it — a photograph, haphazardly paperclipped to the top corner of
the dossier on the next page — and whatever irritation he’d felt is swiftly replaced by
recognition and dread.

Formal, neatly combed hair, framing a familiar face that has haunted him for years. Chiseled
features sculpted by the hands of an artist, sharp and symmetrical like a masterpiece come to
life. Lips curved upwards into a charming smile that could disarm and devastate in equal
measure, hiding something more sinister beneath the surface. But most importantly — dark,
magnetic eyes, so deep and intense that they seem to pierce through flesh, boring into the
camera with an intensity that feels unnerving even through a photograph.

Ivan.

His expression must have given something away, because the handler arches a brow.
“Problem?”

Till shuts the folder abruptly. Problem doesn’t even begin to cover the fact that he just saw a
fucking ghost. His heart pounds — from shock, from anger, from something else, something
darker and more possessive that claws at the edges of his rationality.

“No,” Till finally says. “I can handle it.”

The handler studies him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Whether he notices the
slight strain in Till’s voice, he doesn’t let it show. “Good. Your job is simple — keep him
occupied long enough for the extraction team to move in.”

Keep him occupied. Till didn’t need to ask what that meant. Ivan wasn’t the type to be
distracted by meaningless chatter. No, this was going to require something riskier, something
far more dangerous. Something that Till doesn’t know if he can pull off without accidentally
shooting himself in the foot — but he’ll try, dammit, because he has an idea. A stupid,
terrible, dangerous idea, but an idea nonetheless.

He rises from his chair with the folder tucked securely under his arm. “I’ll get it done.”

There’s a shitload of things he has to prepare in order for this to work: disguises, contingency
plans, and, most importantly, a way to keep his own emotions in check before he goes and
does something stupid. The kind of stupid that Ivan has always been able to pull out of him.
But he can’t afford to lose his edge now — not with so much on the line.

He’s halfway to the door when the handler’s voice stops him mid-step. “Oh, and one more
thing,” the other calls out, tone a touch too casual.

Till glances back, his brows knitting together. There’s a hint of humor in the man’s tone that
he does not like one bit.

“Word on the street says he’s developed a taste for light-haired ladies. You might want to start
there.”

The comment hits Till like a slap, heat rushing to his face at the obvious implication. What a
shitty bastard.

When Till first became a spy, he quickly realized one thing: he wasn’t built for this kind of
work. Which is odd, in a way, since he is a spy.

But disguises, stealth, subtlety — he hates it. He’s more prone to kicking down doors than
sneaking through them, more comfortable with the sharp crack of confrontation than the
suffocating quiet of pretense. He doesn’t need any masks or fake smiles to bullshit his way
through a mission. Acting fast and dealing with the mess later has always worked out just
fine for him anyway.

Now, he regrets accepting this mission in the first place.

The music was a low, seductive hum, weaving through the chatter of high society elites
dressed in silks and tailored suits. Vaulted ceilings stretch high above, adorned with intricate
gold filigree that catches the light of the sprawling crystal chandeliers. The floor is made of
smoothly cut marble, perfect for ballroom dancing, and the walls are painted a deep, velvety
red, the kind that whispered luxury. It was a palace of decadence and debauchery — the
furthest thing from anything Till knows — and here he was, thrown in the middle of it.

Till shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, the tight fabric of the midnight-blue dress clinging
to his skin. Every movement makes the fabric strain, the sequins digging against him
mercilessly with each shallow breath. His wig itches like hell under the heat of the room, and
his feet already hurt from the medieval torture devices strapped to his heels. Most of all, his
garments are riding up in places he doesn’t even want to think about before he promptly dies
of embarrassment.

His reflection in the glass is nearly unrecognizable: smokey eye makeup and delicate
contouring to soften his more masculine features, all courtesy of Sua and Mizi. Sua wasn’t
nearly as delighted to help him with his problem, but Mizi had been overjoyed, pulling him
into every dress and wig imaginable until they managed to find one that’s suitable. He felt
awkward then, swarmed by two women determined to transform his raggedy self into
something more presentable, but he has to thank them for doing remarkably well in making
him look like … well … not him.

Perhaps almost too well. Till can feel eyes on him from leering passerby, and it makes his
skin crawl. He feels exposed. Air hitting the back of his thighs and shit. Where the fuck is he?
Ivan’s arrival is supposed to be soon, but the intel was so vague that the bastard might not
even show up. Maybe it was at another party. Another country. Continent. Fuck.

Till takes a sip of his wine glass, then immediately recoils when he’s slapped in the face with
the taste of spoiled fruit. How can a place have shitty music and shitty wine? This entire
mission fucking blows—

“—let me buy you a drink?”

The voice comes to his left, far too close, but he forces himself to relax. The scent of heedy
cologne hits him before the man’s face does — sharp and cloying, a blend of citrus and musk
that makes Till want to gag.

“No thank you,” he replies, pitching his voice just high enough to pass off as a woman. Or so
he hopes. Really, he can’t tell. Do women even act like this? Should he bat his eyelashes or
something?

Thankfully, the man doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He grins, leaning in closer. His
breath fucking reeks of alcohol. “Aw, come on. A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be
drinking alone, don’t you think?”

Till fights the urge to smash his skull onto the table; it wouldn’t be good to expose himself so
soon. After — however — is fair game. “I’m waiting for my partner,” Till says coolly,
wondering how the hell Mizi can tolerate these kinds of people without strangling them first.

The man chuckles, undeterred. “Partner, huh?” Infuriatingly enough, he slides into the seat
next to him, and Till’s hand tightens around the glass like it’s the only tether keeping him
from snapping. “Lucky guy. I don’t see him anywhere though?”

Ugh. Till shifts, putting just enough distance between them to make his immense discomfort
known. “He’ll be here soon.”

The other’s elbow brushes against Till’s arm, and Till feels his eye twitch. “I’m sure he
doesn’t mind if I keep you company for the time being—”
Like a gift from God — or, more accurately, a curse — Till’s salvation arrives.

Everything seems to slow. The grand doors swing open with a slow, delicate creak, cutting
through the hum of conversation. Voices drop, laughter stifles — like the whole damn room
is holding its breath. Till feels the hairs on the back of his neck standing, feels the sharp
prickle of apprehension run down his spine.

The man is still talking — something about the dress looking good on him, or how rare it is
to find someone with ‘suck striking features’ — but Till tunes him out until the son of a bitch
finally leaves. His eyes narrow onto the tuft of familiar black hair, and, for the second time
that week, his heart stumbles in his chest.

Ivan sticks out like a goddamn wolf among sheep.

There’s a kind of pretentiousness to the way he strolls in like he owns the place, but the
reality is probably not far off. The soft light from the chandeliers gleams off his impeccably
tailored suit, the fabric clinging to broad shoulders and tapering down his muscular frame
with precision. His hair, dark and perfectly styled, sweeps to one side, framing a face carved
from marble. And those eyes — the very same ones that Till remembers from across the
playground — seem deeper now, darker, like staring into an abyss.

Something lodges itself in the back of Till’s throat, making it hard to breathe. It’s not hate —
not entirely, at least — that churns in Till’s chest as he watches Ivan exchange pleasantries
with the other rich fucks as if he belongs with the crowd. Ivan had been the bane of his
childhood, the asshole that had stolen his shit and thrown hands with him at every turn. High
society doesn’t suit him. Never has. And yet, here he is, blending in so seamlessly that he
nearly feels unrecognizable.

It’s absurd how the crowd parts for him in unison like they’re making way for royalty, but
Till can’t really blame them. As much as it pains him to admit, the bastard has a way of
standing out. Even the light seems to bend in his favor, catching on the fine fabric of his suit,
the glint of his cufflinks, the gleam of his polished shoes. Everything about Ivan was just so
fucking pretentious. Tacky, even. All flash and no substance.

How is this even the same asshole who pinned him to the ground while covered in mud? It
pisses him off just thinking about it.

Till tells himself that bitterness is all that’s left now, that the boy he once knew is gone, but
it’s fucking unfair that he looks about the same as he did all those years ago, only much more
handsome. And Till’s not the only one who seems to think so either; the air in the room shifts
as Ivan walks, the crowd collectively drawn to him like moths to a flame. A gorgeous woman
with cascading waves of golden hair clutches Ivan’s arm, a coral dress hugging her
voluptuous figure. She was everything this disguise was supposed to imitate, and yet he feels
like a fraud in comparison.

Till tears his gaze away, almost draining his wine in one gulp. Fuck. He’s having doubts now.
His disguise suddenly feels suffocating — the wig itching against his scalp, the dress clinging
too tightly in all the wrong places. Even the faintest trace of red lipstick on the rim of his
glass makes his stomach flip in embarrassment.
He wishes his damn brain would turn off sometimes, so that he won’t have to think about
anything. Like Ivan’s stupid smile. Or his infuriatingly perfect laugh. Or his ridiculous,
overly polished shoes that probably cost more than Till’s rent. How the hell is he supposed to
distract someone like him anyway?

Maybe he should start small — a light conversation, a coy smile. Something about using his
‘womanly wiles’ or whatever the hell Mizi was going on about before he left, not that he’s
got much of a grasp of what it meant. He just hopes that Ivan falls for it before he realizes
that Till is very much not a woman and—

The faintest movement in the crowd pulls his attention back. Ivan shifts, saying something
low to the blonde on his arm before he lets her go. And then, he starts walking.

Not towards the hundreds of people vying for his attention like swarms of hungry piranhas.
Towards him.

Till’s breath catches in his throat. For a second, he thinks there’s something wrong with his
eyesight, but there’s no mistaking it; the son of a bitch really was heading his way.

Why the fuck is he coming over here? His heart kicks into overdrive, the wine he just downed
pooling uneasily in his stomach. He’s not ready for this. He needs more time to think, to plan,
to do something—

“Three drinks in already?”

Ivan’s voice cuts through Till’s panic like a blade — rich, smooth, and entirely too close.
Then, he slides into the seat next to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

A cold weight settles in Till’s gut, causing his throat to dry. Fuck. He forces himself to stay
still, to keep his grip loose around his glass, but his pulse betrays him, hammering against his
ribs. Up close, Ivan is worse — larger than Till remembers, sharper, all tailored decadence
and deadly beauty. So, so close, yet so far away at the same time.

His mouth moves before he can even think. “Is there a rule against that?” Till snaps
instinctively, before realizing what the fuck he had just said. Then, he forces out a breathless,
airy laugh as he tucks a stray curl behind his ear. “Sh—Sorry. You caught me off guard.”

Ivan huffs out a laugh. He looks like he doesn’t buy a damn word of it, but he lets it slide.
“Hm. I suppose I tend to have that effect.”

Cocky bastard. Till bites down his annoyance and musters up what he hopes passes as a
coquettish smile. “So you’re aware of it.”

The corners of Ivan’s eyes crinkle. “Aren’t you?”

How can I not be, Till wants to snap. But he meets the other’s gaze and — damn, he gets it
now. The bastard really is too handsome for his own good. No wonder he can get away with
practically anything.
“Maybe.” Till lifts his glass, letting the edge press against his lower lip to buy himself a
second to think. “Or maybe I have a thing for men who look like trouble.”

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to bash his head against the bar. Flirting is
already bad enough, but flirting with Ivan? The same Ivan who used to shove him into
puddles? He would rather throw himself off the balcony.

A slow, lazy smile tugs at Ivan’s lips. “What makes you think I would be trouble?” he drawls,
resting his chin on his hand like this was the best entertainment he’s had all night.

At least the bastard is playing along. Till huffs, shifting in his seat like he can shake off the
embarrassment. “You have that … look.”

Ivan lifts a brow. “That look?”

What the fuck is he even talking about anymore? “You know,” Till says, racking his brain for
anything that doesn’t sound like complete bullshit, “the kind that says you’re either gonna
ruin someone’s night or make it unforgettable.”

Ivan doesn’t laugh exactly, but his lips twitch. “And which one would you prefer?” he asks,
his eyes glinting with amusement.

There’s no way this is actually fucking working. Either Ivan knows, or he’s just too damn
easy. “Wouldn’t be much of a gamble if I already knew, would it?”

Ivan exhales a soft laugh, but there’s nothing light about the way he looks at Till. His gaze
drags over every inch of the other’s frame like he can see through his shitty disguise.

“Well,” Ivan finally replies, eyes flickering back to the bar with lazy interest, “I was only
planning on getting a drink. But you seem like far more entertaining company for the night.”

The way Ivan speaks — slow, leisurely, like he’s savoring every syllable — sends a cold
shiver crawling up his spine. His stomach twists into a tight knot, every instinct screaming at
him to run. And yet — damn it — there’s something about the way Ivan’s voice dips, all low
and velvety, that makes his pulse spike for all the wrong reasons.

“Tell me,” Ivan continues, his lips curving into a knowing smile, “do people often tell you
that you remind them of someone?”

Oh fuck. Till forces himself to stay still, to keep his fingers from snapping the stem into
pieces. There’s no way Ivan recognizes him. It’s been ten years, for fuck’s sake. Ten years
since they last saw each other, since Ivan disappeared like smoke, leaving Till behind with
nothing but old bruises and a hollow ache in his chest.

He tilts his head, masking the tightness in his throat with a practiced smile. “Why?” His
fingers trail along the rim of his wine glass — anything to keep his hands steady. “Do I
remind you of someone?”

For a moment, Ivan says nothing. He merely hums, low and thoughtful, as he idly runs a
fingertip along the edge of his cuff. But his gaze stays locked onto Till. Heavy. Unreadable.
Till tries not to fidget, but it’s fucking impossible when he feels like he’s being dissected.

“Forgive me,” Ivan says. “I was curious.”

Curious. Right. Till has known Ivan long enough to know that’s bullshit. Ivan is never
curious about mundane things, especially when it comes to strangers. If he’s prying, it’s
because he already knows something. Or worse — he suspects.

Till needs to change the topic now.

“Oh?” He crosses his legs, letting the slit in his dress part just enough to tease. “And here I
thought you were just another man looking for company.”

For a fraction of a second, something flashes in Ivan’s gaze, sharper than it should be. But he
doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t even let his gaze dip below Till’s neckline.

“Flattering,” Ivan muses, voice smooth as silk, “though I’d argue that I’m not just another
man.”

Till bites the inside of his cheek, swallowing down his wounded pride. Damn it. Mizi should
have gone instead of him. She would have Ivan wrapped around her finger by now, all
effortless charm and honeyed words. Meanwhile, Till is sitting here like a goddamn idiot,
letting Ivan run circles around him.

Fine. If Ivan wants to play difficult, he can do the same.

Till leans in closer, exposing the curve of his neck — enticing, not obvious, Mizi said. “Oh
yeah? And what makes you so special, huh?” Outside the fact that he’s a goddamn criminal
with a neverending list of crimes that would put the fucking Joker to shame.

Ivan purses his lips. “I’m a good dancer,” he offers. “Would you like a demonstration?”

Till wants to scoff. It’s an invitation. Or a challenge. Maybe both. He isn’t sure which would
be worse. It’ll save him from the awkward conversation though, and that’s exactly what he
needs right now—

Except he doesn’t even get the chance to respond.

A bartender approaches, setting a fresh glass of whiskey beside Ivan with a practiced flick of
the wrist. Ivan acknowledges it with nothing more than a slight incline of his head — but
then, just as he takes a sip from the glass, his brow twitches, subtle enough that anyone else
would have missed it entirely. But Till doesn’t.

Ivan doesn’t hesitate. Ever. Something’s wrong.

Till feels his stomach churn. It’s not poison, surely. Ivan wouldn’t drink it otherwise. Was it
precaution? A lapse in composure? He had planned on slipping something into Ivan’s drink
in case his plan didn't work out, but did someone beat him to the punch?

Now Till’s all worried about the bastard. Go fucking figure.

If Ivan was about to die from cyanide poisoning in the next few seconds, he doesn’t show it.
Not even a twitch. He exhales, setting his drink down with ease, before standing and
adjusting his cuffs like he has all the time in the world. And then, he extends a hand towards
Till.

“Shall we?”

Till stares at the hand like it was on fire. If Ivan collapses, the entire crowd will think he
would have something to do with it. His cover will be blown. He’ll be targeted. Worse, killed.
He can’t afford that kind of risk right now.

Till tugs at Ivan’s sleeve instead. “Not here,” he insists.

He expects resistance. Instead, Ivan simply blinks at him. “No?”

Till should have thought this through. He scrambles for an excuse and lands on the first thing
that comes to mind. “I’m not a good dancer,” he blurts out, hoping that it sounds believable
enough. Then, he bats his eyelashes. Twice, for good measure. “Can’t we go somewhere
more private?”

A beat of silence, then Ivan extends his hand again, smooth and deliberate. “I know
somewhere else.”

No hesitation. The warning bells in Till’s head are going off. His instincts scream at him to
run, to get the fuck away, mission be damned.

But he slips his hand into Ivan’s palm and the rest is history.

It helps that the party was in a hotel. If Till had to walk much farther in these damn heels,
he’d have eaten carpet by now.

Ivan leads them through the gilded halls and into the elevator, still holding onto Till’s hand.
He’s warm. Warmer than Till expects. It throws him off for some reason. Maybe because it
makes Ivan seem more human. Or maybe it reminds him of back then, when things were
simpler.

Ivan reaches for the panel. Top floor. Of fucking course.

“You’re really just going to take me upstairs?” Till asks before he can help himself. Mizi
prepared a thirteen-step plan for him and none of them involved Ivan just rolling over and
saying yes.

Ivan’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk. “Shouldn’t I? It would be rude to leave a guest
in the foyer.”

“You don’t even know my name,” Till points out.

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Till thinks the other would elaborate, but he doesn’t. No questions, no attempts to pry. Maybe
this was just a normal thing for him — taking back nameless girls to his high-end apartment
to fuck before sending them on their merry way. Not that Till would’ve given his name in the
first place.

The elevator dings. Till steps inside, standing stiffly as the doors close. He’s not at all
surprised to see a penthouse the size of a goddamn castle before him, the sheer scale enough
to make him feel like an intruder. Soft, ambient lighting pooling across sleek, modern
furniture. Floor-to-ceiling windows offering an open, uninterrupted view of the city. The
world looks smaller from up here, lights blinking in the distance like stars. It’s a kind of
luxury that doesn’t belong to people like them. Like him.

Till lingers by the elevator, feeling something unpleasant gnaw away at him. It’s too pristine.
Too untouchable. Everything feels so much more real now. He shouldn’t be here, but he can’t
leave. Not when he’s so close to being done.

Ivan’s hand slips from Till’s. He shrugs off his jacket with an easy roll of his shoulders and
drapes it over the back of a chair, eyeing the other with amusement.

“Having second thoughts?”

Till stiffens. His heart hammers loud in his skull, nerves twist so tightly that he feels like he’s
being strangled.

He’s not an idiot — he knows exactly what Ivan means by bringing a woman back to his
hotel room. Kissing men is nothing new, especially for the sake of a mission. But kissing
Ivan? He has no fucking idea how that will feel.

But the mocking lilt in his voice snaps Till’s spine straight. “Like hell.”

Ivan hums, reaching for the decanter on the side table. The scent of whiskey curls in the air as
he pours himself a drink and takes a slow, deliberate sip, watching Till over the rim of his
glass.

He’s waiting, Till realizes. Waiting for him to make the next move.

Fuck it. Till marches towards him, close enough to catch the faint scent of cologne clinging to
Ivan’s shirt, and yanks him down by the tie. Ivan doesn’t resist. Doesn’t even blink. The
whiskey in his glass sloshes, an amber wave cresting dangerously close to the rim, but not a
single drop spills.

Then, before Till can think too hard about it, he crashes his lips against Ivan’s hard enough to
bruise.

His lips are soft, is what Till first notices. It’s enough to throw him off for a split second
before he’s pressing in harder, slipping his tongue into the warmth of Ivan’s mouth with a
low, breathless moan. He tastes whiskey instantly — rich, smoky, with a faint burn that
sweeps across his tongue and clings to the back of his throat.
The heat of everything is dizzying, so much that Till nearly forgets why he’s doing this.
Then, he sees Ivan’s insufferably smug smile against his lips and remembers.

Annoyed, Till fists the tie and kisses him harder, like he can shut Ivan up forever. The kiss is
all teeth, spit, and clumsy angles, too desperate and eager for much else. He accidentally bites
down on Ivan’s bottom lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood, but Ivan only groans into
his mouth in response, sliding his hands down to Till’s waist and pulling him closer.

For a second, Till thinks he has the upper hand, some semblance of control over what’s
happening. But Ivan doesn’t let it last.

A sharp tug, and Till is stumbling backward, hitting the couch before he can catch himself.
Ivan follows, pressing him down with the full weight of his body, one hand bracing against
the cushions and the other tangling in Till’s wig. His lips move with growing urgency, each
kiss rougher than the last, and all Till can do is let out an involuntary whimper, powerless to
stop him.

It’s too messy to be called a real kiss. It more so feels like Till is being devoured.

Heat churns in his gut, spreading like fire under his skin. It’s too much. Ivan’s touch is
demanding, a sharp contrast to his usual polished charm. His fingers dig into Till’s hips,
pinning him in place. Something’s off, but Till’s thoughts are slow, sluggish. A fog settles
over his mind, his skin fever-hot. He sucks in a breath and tries to ground himself, but the
moment he does—

“I missed you, Till.”

Till freezes. His breath hitches, stuck in his throat.

Ivan knows.

The realization sends a violent shock down his spine, his muscles coiling so tight that they
ache. His heartbeat slams against his ribs, every rational thought drowned out by the dread
rising in his throat. Suddenly, the scent of his cologne, the warmth of Ivan’s body, the press of
his lips — it all feels wrong.

There’s no time to think. Instinct kicks in, fast and brutal. His hand flies to the slit of his
dress, fingers curling around the cold handle of the blade strapped to his thigh, and in one
sharp movement, he wrenches it free and swings.

Ivan catches his wrist mid-strike, stopping the blade mere inches from his throat, and Till’s
world tilts. His back slams against the cushions, forcing the breath out of his lungs, and the
knife is ripped from his grasp, wretched away like it was nothing. Before he can even react,
his arm is twisted roughly and pinned above him, pain exploding in his shoulders until he
feels his eyes burn.

“Do you think I won’t be able to recognize you?” Ivan croons, mocking fingers capturing
Till’s chin between them.
A snarl rips from Till’s throat as he bucks violently, twisting with every ounce of strength he
has. He thrashes, kicks, and claws — anything to throw the bastard off. But the other doesn’t
even flinch.

“Still so reckless,” Ivan muses, his lips curving into a fond smile. “I was starting to wonder if
you had softened in the time we were apart.”

Till bares his teeth. “Fuck you,” he hisses, his voice rough with fury. With a sharp jerk of his
head, he spits in Ivan’s face in some kind of petty act of defiance, only to be horrified when
he sees Ivan’s tongue flicking out to lick up the saliva. “What the fuck—”

“So this was the plan?” The words roll off Ivan’s tongue, smooth and unhurried. “Distract me
while your team moves in? I have to admit, I’m flattered you thought I’d be so easily
swayed.”

Till freezes, the fight draining from his body in seconds. There’s no fucking way Ivan knows.
Only the highest officials at headquarters were aware of it, and yet, here he is, smiling faintly
as if he’s already ten steps ahead.

A mole. There’s a fucking mole. He needs to get the fuck out of here. To warn headquarters.
To do something — anything — other than being pinned like a fucking idiot, unable to free
himself—

“Relax,” Ivan murmurs, voice low and steady, but there’s a glint in his eyes — something
sharp, almost predatory, that cuts through the façade of calm. “I don’t mind being distracted,
especially when it’s you.”

Till grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. Rage spikes hot beneath Till’s skin. He’s toying with
him.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance,” Till bites out, voice raw.

Ivan doesn’t flinch. “Should’ve,” he agrees easily. “But you didn’t.”

Till glares up at him, chest heaving in angry puffs. So much for all that fucking preparation.
He’s been made from the start. “So what now? You’re gonna kill me?”

Ivan’s eyes curve. “You make it sound like I’m some kind of beast,” he says, almost chiding.
“I wasn’t lying when I said that I’m willing to indulge you.”

Till’s brow furrow, irritation flashing through him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean
—”

Ivan shifts, pressing them closer together, and that’s when Till feels it.

He’s hard. He’s fucking hard.

Till’s face burns, a furious blush spreading across his cheeks as Ivan’s hand slides lower,
fingers gliding to his hips in a way that’s far too gentle, far too intimate. There’s no way in
hell Ivan is pitching a fucking tent because Till tried to stab him. It’s absurd. It’s insane. It’s
fucking Ivan.

But now that Till understands what Ivan is implying, his thoughts are taking a turn for the
worse. Ivan is huge. It’s like a gun being pressed against him. And his hands. Till is by no
means the same scrawny, malnourished boy he was those years ago, but Ivan’s hand nearly
covers half the circumference of his waist and the sheer difference makes him want to die.
Hadn’t Till been taller back then? How the hell did Ivan grow like a weed in ten years?

Till blames everything on his busy schedule — it’s the only reason why he can feel his body
traitorously betray him, arching into the other’s touch like he’s been deprived for centuries.
His first instinct is to deny it — to pretend it’s not happening, to pretend he doesn’t feel it, to
pretend his own body isn’t reacting — but the way Ivan watches him, smirk tugging at his
lips, tells him that it’s no use.

“You started this,” Ivan purrs, fingers tightening around Till’s waist. “Don’t look so
surprised.”

“I’m going to strangle you with my hands.”

Ivan sighs dreamily. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

Fucking freak. He’s never wanted to throw a punch and disappear into the floor so badly at
the same time. “If you can’t tell, I’m not a woman.”

“I don’t recall ever saying that I was only interested in women,” Ivan says pleasantly, the
corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “And judging by this—” His hand darts forward,
grasping Till so firmly that the other bucks into him with a gasp, “—I suppose neither are
you.”

It’s not because it’s Ivan, he tells himself. It’s the mission. It’s the exhaustion. It’s the fucking
adrenaline. But deep down, he knows it’s a lie. It doesn’t help that the bastard is stupidly
handsome and built like a damn statue.

“Besides,” Ivan continues, his voice rich with something dangerously close to delight, “the
dress suits you. More than it should.” His gaze sweeps over Till, taking in every detail like he
wants to commit it to memory. “It’s a shame to not take a picture.”

Till’s cheeks flush crimson. Ivan can’t be serious. He looks like the plastic version of the
woman on his arm earlier. “There’s no way in hell you find this attractive.”

“Why shouldn’t I? You went through all this trouble after all.”

He’s so full of shit. “Your standards are terrible. Do you fuck just about anything that
moves?”

“Not quite.” He trails his fingers over the exposed skin of Till’s leg, right where the dress
parts. Till feels his face going aflame. “I think you underestimate my ability to appreciate the
finer things in life.”
Ugh. Talking to Ivan makes him want to bash his head against the wall. He has no idea if this
was all some kind of fucked up game to him or if he really means it. After all, who the hell
thinks with their dick in a situation like this?

He should push him off. Should, now that Ivan is distracted by the swell of his fake breasts.
But he hesitates, pulse hammering in his throat.

“And isn’t this a good thing for you?” Ivan continues, absentmindedly tracing circles on
Till’s skin. “You do need to distract me for the entire evening after all. Or was this not what
you initially had in mind?”

“What I initially had in mind,” Till spits, “is to knock you out cold and leave.”

Ivan frowns, feigning hurt. “That’s a bit disheartening to hear. Are you sure you’re not the
least bit intrigued?”

Ugh. Ivan isn’t wrong, and that’s what ticks him off the most.

When Till considers the situation, he’s at a disadvantage in more ways than one. Assuming
that he can somehow manage to free himself from Ivan’s grasp, he’ll still have to escape
altogether — which is a little difficult, considering that they’re on the eighteenth floor. Not to
mention that leaving Ivan unchecked will put the entire extraction team in jeopardy, and he
can’t risk their lives for something like this.

And the worst part is that yes, he is intrigued. But Ivan doesn’t need to know that.

“Fuck,” Till mutters, his shoulders slumping. There was never really any choice from the
start, was there? “Hand me the whiskey. I don’t want to be sober for this.”

It was as good of a yes that Ivan was going to get.

Ivan chuckles, insufferably smug, and Till immediately regrets the words as soon as they
come out of his mouth. “Cute, but not an option.” His smile twists with dark satisfaction,
eyes brimming with a hint of madness. "I want you to remember everything.”

“You’re fucking annoying—”

He doesn’t get to finish. A pair of lips crashes against his own, and suddenly, he can’t even
breathe.

Till’s first instinct is to shove him away, but then, Ivan’s tongue slides against his, hungry and
insistent, and the protest dies in his throat.

A moan slips past his lips before he can stop it. Ivan exhales sharply, grip tightening like he's
scared that Till will run. Till has never been kissed like this. Never been consumed like this.
It’s more messy, frantic, like Ivan can’t help himself, driven by some kind of animalistic,
maniacal urge to see Till writhing beneath him. Till burns hot, his head spinning.

He can feel the difference in Ivan now — the way his breath stutters against Till’s skin when
he finally tears his mouth away, dragging his lips down his jaw, his throat, like he can’t stop,
possessed by some horny ghost. What the hell is wrong with him—?

“I think,” Ivan whispers against his neck, low and husky, “the aphrodisiac is finally kicking
in.”

Till’s brain stalls. “The fuck are you — oh.” The drink. The fucking drink. His eyes widen in
alarm. “That was an aphrodisiac?!”

Ivan blinks. “The aphrodisiac wasn’t yours? That’s quite unsettling.”

Till gapes, trying to process what he’s hearing right now. “Are you telling me you drank that
shit because you thought it was mine?”

“Well.” Ivan’s eyes sparkle. “It would’ve been rude to waste it.”

Till opens his mouth, ready to launch a tirade on how fucking stupid Ivan is, but Ivan’s hands
are on him again and his mind promptly blanks in turn.

A whimper escapes him, his fingers twisting in the fabric of Ivan’s shirt. He doesn’t even try
to fight this time. He tips his head back as Ivan moves lower, dragging his mouth over the
line of his jaw, his throat, sucking a mark into his skin with a groan so guttural it makes Till’s
legs tremble. Ivan’s hands roam lower, palms pressing into his skin hard enough to leave
bruises on his hips, and Till would yell at him to be careful, but he can’t, because it’s Ivan and
his big hands and—

Without warning, Ivan reaches up, fingers curling into the blonde strands of Till’s wig, and
with a single, forceful yank, he rips it off, sending the bob flying across the room.

Till flinches. “What the fuck is wrong with you—” he tries to say, but Ivan’s fingers are
threading into his hair, combing through gray locks with uncharacteristic tenderness, and
Till’s voice tapers off into nothing.

“I missed this,” Ivan murmurs, his nose brushing against Till’s hair. Then, he presses another
kiss to Till’s lips, short and sweet, and Till melts. “I missed you.”

Bullshit. “You were the one who left me, you fuck,” Till rasps, but he still pulls him closer,
desperate for another kiss. “Don’t act dumb now.”

Disappointingly, Ivan doesn't kiss him back. Instead, he stills. His grip in Till’s hair slackens
— not enough to let go, but just enough to hesitate. Then, he exhales, pressing his forehead
against Till’s.

“I didn’t want to leave you.”

His voice is quiet. Steady, but softer than usual.

Till stiffens. He doesn’t say anything — doesn’t want to think what Ivan means. He came to
terms with it years ago that Ivan was gone. No goodbye, no explanation, just gone, taking the
first chance to escape that hellhole of an orphanage while Till was left behind to rot.
He won’t let himself hope for something else again.

“You’re full of shit,” Till mutters, eyes flitting away.

Ivan doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even try to explain. Just watches him for a moment, eyes dark,
unreadable.

Then, just as smoothly, he leans in and kisses him again like the conversation never existed.

It’s obvious that Ivan is affected by the aphrodisiac, despite the calm façade he’s trying to
maintain. His breathing comes out in short, intermittent huffs, fingers twitching like he’s
trying hard to maintain some semblance of reason. Not to mention — his bulge is still
pressed against Till’s leg, all hot and heavy like he’s already about to come.

“Till,” Ivan whispers, burying his face in the crook of Till’s neck and lavishing kisses all over
his collarbone. He keeps repeating his name over and over until Till flushes, color blooming
on his cheeks. “Let me have you for tonight.”

“Fuck, I already said you can — ah!” Till whimpers, shivering when Ivan’s snaggletooth
drags across his skin. “N—Not so obvious, you fucker—”

But Ivan doesn’t listen. He bites and sucks until Till feels the telltale sign of a bruise start to
form on his neck, like he wants the world to know that Till was his. The sting, the heat, the
slow pull of lips following soon after — it’s too intense. Every graze has Till’s toes curling,
has his knees going weak until he’s squirming and tugging at Ivan’s dark hair like he’s ready
to tear out strands.

Ivan’s hands drift lower, landing on the exaggerated curve of Till’s chest. His brow twitches
for a second before he grabs the padding and yanks it free, tossing it aside like it had
somehow personally offended him. Then, he rubs his face into Till’s flattened chest, a low,
pleased hum rumbling from his throat.

Till swats away Ivan’s hands. “I don’t even have anything there.”

“Nonsense.” His thumb brushes over one of Till’s nipples, light, teasing, before he leans
down, tongue flicking out to circle his areola. Then, his teeth catch skin.

Till’s body convulses. “Ivan—” he gasps, fingers digging into the broad expanse of Ivan’s
shoulders as Ivan latches onto the sensitive bud, sucking gently. His lips are hot against Till’s
skin, pressing, branding. It shouldn’t be this good, but it is.

Ivan’s hands are everywhere — palming at his waist, his chest, sliding up and tugging at the
thin silk like he wants to rip it straight from Till’s body. His dress is still on — barely, the
delicate fabric hanging loose around his shoulders, one of the straps already slipping down to
his arm. But from the way Ivan salivates like a dog, he might as well be naked already.

“You said my name,” Ivan murmurs, voice low, maniacal. His fingers flex against Till’s hips,
hovering just over the bruises he’s painted across skin, and his laugh comes out breathless.
“Say it again for me. Please?”

Till glares. “Fuck you.” Ivan doesn’t seem to like the answer, because the next thing Till
knows, he’s being flipped, shoved down into the couch until his face lands on the cushions
and his ass is propped into the air. Till barely has time to suck in a breath before Ivan
descends, teeth grazing along his nape and down his spine, biting hard enough to make Till
writhe beneath him. “Ngh—Ivan—”

In this position, Till can feel the weight of Ivan’s bulge pressed directly against his ass, and it
makes him all helpless and needy. He’s not even under the aphrodisiac, yet every nerve in his
body feels hypersensitive, alight with something molten and dizzying. His mind feels
sluggish, thoughts slipping like water through his fingers.

The reality hits him then. Ivan was going to fuck him, spear him open on his cock, and Till is
about to let it happen. Worse, he’s okay with it. Even worse, he wants it. Wants more.

“Do something, you asshole,” Till whines. He doesn’t beg, not exactly. Doesn’t rub all up on
Ivan or anything like that because that would be embarrassing, but if Ivan doesn’t fucking
move, he might crush his balls with a fist instead—

Ivan’s voice comes out in a low growl. “I want to be a gentleman, Till, but you’re making it
difficult.”

Till barks out a sharp, incredulous laugh. What a fucking joke. Ivan? A gentleman? Not when
the bastard is damn near ready to come in his pants from a breeze alone. To further his point,
Till roughly palms Ivan’s erection, grinning when he feels the other violently twitch. “That’s
the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard, you fucking—”

Till’s dress hikes up, silk sliding past his bare thighs, and whatever insult he prepared dies on
his tongue.

Ivan freezes. Fingers gone stiff.

“Till.” His grip tightens. “What is this?”

Oh. Suddenly, jumping out of the eighteenth story window doesn’t seem like too bad of an
idea anymore.

But Ivan — curse the perceptive bastard — senses his plan before he can even move. He
grasps Till’s ankle, yanking him back with enough force until they’re crushed together. Then,
before Till can stop it, his dress is pushed up even further, exposing the rest of his lower half.

Till’s face burns, humiliation flooding him as he tries to futilely squirm away. Behind him,
Ivan doesn’t even breathe.

“Lingerie,” he mutters, low and disbelieving.

Till wants to fucking die. He buries his face deeper into the cushions, as if he could disappear
in them completely. “Stop looking.”
But Ivan doesn’t. A hand trails up, slow, agonizingly deliberate, skimming over the fabric
stretched taut over Till’s hips. His thumb hooks under the edge, tugging just enough to snap it
lightly against skin. The jolt sends Till whining, unable to stop himself.

Finally, Ivan exhales — the first breath that he’s taken in what feels like minutes. “Was this
for me?”

His voice is deceptively calm, but there’s a raw edge to it, something wild and downright
insane, like he’s barely refraining himself from stripping Till naked.

The thought sends a tingle down Till’s spine. He’s so fucked.

“N—No, the fuck, it’s not,” but it doesn’t even sound convincing, even to himself. The dress
was just too damn short for him to wear anything else. “I wasn’t—”

Ivan — the fucking asshole — laughs. His hold shifts, hands ghosting over the lace, tracing
its pattern with the kind of reverence that should be seen in a church and not on the couch of
some fancy ass penthouse that’s about to be defiled. “Black did always look good on you,” he
murmurs, more so talking to himself than anything but Till hears it anyway. He should
strangle him, but like an idiot, he shivers instead.

Except Ivan doesn’t fucking do anything but stare, pupils blown wide like he’s in some kind
of fucking trance. All it took was a little lace to turn Ivan into a dumbass. How fucking great.

Annoyed, Till twists in Ivan’s hold, fisting his hand in the front of the other’s shirt and
dragging him down into another kiss — teeth clashing, lips parting with a ragged gasp.

“Take it off,” Till demands, breathless. “All of it.”

Finally, Ivan’s brain starts working again. His hands move quickly, yanking his tie loose,
shoving his shirt down his shoulders in one smooth motion. It barely hits the floor before Till
is already reaching up for another kiss.

“Impatient, aren’t we?”

Till glares back at him. He’s not the one who practically came in his pants after seeing
lingerie. “Shut the fuck up and finish undressing,” he growls, tugging at Ivan’s belt. “Or do I
have to do everything myself?”

Ivan grins, all teeth and hunger. “As you wish.” He shifts around behind Till, working to
undo his belt with swiftness. Then, in the next few seconds, Till feels something heavy
pressed directly on the curve of his ass.

He pauses. What the fuck is that? Is it a fucking weapon? And then, because he can’t help
himself, he turns around again.

“Get. Get that thing out of my face.”

“That’s rude,” Ivan says.

What’s rude is the monstrosity that’s about to destroy his virgin asshole. Till tells him exactly
that, but instead of being a kind, understanding soul, Ivan just bursts out into laughter.

His eyes sparkle. “So you’re a virgin?”

“Did you just not listen to a damn thing I said — ack!”

Ivan nips at Till's earlobe. Then, he presses another kiss behind his ear. “Don’t get shy on me
now,” he drawls. His hand generously squeezes the curve of Till’s ass. “I’m barely holding
onto my reason as it is.”

Till tries to squeeze his knees shut in defiance, but it’s no use — Ivan shoves a knee between
them, positioning himself between Till’s legs like he belongs there. “You’re crazy,” Till
stutters, trying to crawl away. “I—It’s not going to fit.”

Ivan drags him back by the thigh. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises. Begs, almost. It’s his
turn to bat his eyelashes at Till. “Please?”

Till’s instinct is to snap a resounding no. But then he looks at him — really looks at him —
and, damn, he’s truly weak to that face. Ivan’s breathing has gotten so ragged from holding
himself back that Till’s half surprised that Ivan hasn’t pinned him down by the neck and
shoved it in him already. He’s so wound up it’s almost pathetic. Almost.

“Fucking fine,” Till grumbles, screwing his eyes shut. “If it hurts, I fucking swear to God I’ll
drive my foot so far up your ass just to see how you like being—”

Ivan tugs Till’s lingerie aside, and Till chokes, horribly. His body quivers, face growing
scarlet at how Ivan caresses his hole like it was the prettiest thing he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s
going to die of embarrassment before Ivan even fucks him.

Ivan’s fingers disappear for a brief second before Till jumps, feeling something cold and
slippery being poured down his backside. The texture is viscous, dribbling down his crack
and onto the couch. Ivan must have used the entire fucking bottle or something because the
entirety of his thighs are practically drenched.

Till wants to complain, but he seizes up instead when Ivan’s grip tightens, spreading his ass
apart. A finger prods against Till’s fluttering hole, circling the entrance in languid strokes. It’s
big. Bigger than Till’s fingers. Till tenses, instinctively clenching down, his heart beating so
loudly that he’s sure that Ivan can hear it.

Ivan isn’t gentle. At all.

He bullies his way past Till’s rim, shoving his fingers so far inside that Till writhes, a sharp
gasp tearing its way from his throat. The intrusion is so foreign that Till’s vision blurs, tears
pricking at the corners of his eyes, hot and stinging. His fingers scrabble against the couch,
nails digging into the cushion for something to hold, to ground himself, but he can’t fucking
think, let alone yell at Ivan for being so rough.
How do people even do this? There’s nothing particularly pleasurable about having a finger
up his ass. It’s uncomfortable, unbearably tight for all the wrong reasons. And Ivan, the prick,
isn’t making it any better — poking and prodding around like he’s mapping out Till’s insides
with every deliberate brush, like he’s trying to search for something deep—

Till spasms. Stops breathing altogether. His mind shuts down, racked by shockwaves. He
wants to ask Ivan what the fuck just happened, but his voice fails him, and the only thing that
leaves his lips is a loud moan.

Through the blur of tears, he sees Ivan’s unhinged smile, all wild and predatory like he’s
already won. “I found it.”

“W—Wha, wait, found what—” but Ivan doesn’t stop, doesn’t even let him catch his breath
before he’s pressing that spot, again and again, thrusting until Till is trembling, drooling,
clinging to whatever he can reach.

A second finger joins the first, stretching him so widely that his lungs stop working. Tears
burn in his eyes by the time Ivan slides the third inside, ramping up the pace until he’s
practically fucking Till with his wrist. He can’t do anything but take it — take every drag,
every stroke, every thrust, until his knees practically give out.

It’s too good. Why does it feel so fucking good? His brain feels like cotton, stuffed full of
static. He tries to say something, tries to rasp out Ivan’s name, but the syllables dissolve on
his tongue, lost in the broken moans and breathless whimpers spilling from his lips.

It’s like his body doesn’t even belong to himself anymore. He’s close, so, so close, teetering
on the edge of something he can’t control.

Then Ivan pulls his fingers out, and the world falls apart.

Till bursts into sobs. His hole clenches around nothing, despairingly empty. “Y—you fucking
bastard, f—fuck you, why—”

A firm hand presses down on the nape of his neck, shoving him deeper into the couch. Ivan’s
grip is possessive, his own breath coming out erratic against the shell of Till’s ear. The way
his fingers dig into Till’s skin — too tight, too desperate — makes it abundantly clear that the
aphrodisiac is tearing him apart.

Thrill tears through him like wildfire — part terror, part something darker, deeper, something
he doesn’t want to name. He should be scared. Should be. Instead, his body quivers, taut with
anticipation.

“F—fucking hell,” Till rasps, his voice wrecked and breathless. His head lolls against the
cushions, but Ivan doesn’t let up. If anything, the pressure on his neck tightens. “I—Ivan—”

“Stay still.”

Till sniffles but listens. He tries not to think about how hot Ivan’s voice was, how it sent a
shiver straight down his spine, how he wants Ivan to do it again—
Ivan’s cock slides between his cheeks, kissing the rim of his hole, and Till’s mind blanks for
the second time.

“Till,” Ivan says pleasantly. “You should hold on.”

It’s the only warning Till gets before Ivan brutally snaps his hips forward.

A scream rips from his throat, his vision going white. He feels like he’s being torn apart.
Speared open. Empty matter between his ears. He’s going to die. He’s going to fucking die on
Ivan’s obscenely big cock, and it’s all fucking Ivan’s fucking fault—

“Till,” Ivan breathes, his voice all rough and ruined against the sweat-damp skin of Till’s
shoulder. “Breathe for me.”

Till barely hears him over the frantic pounding of his own heartbeat before Ivan starts
moving in earnest, pulling out just enough to leave the tip before slamming inside. The force
has Till in tears, choking on his own moans. Ivan feels like lava inside of him, pulsating and
twitching, forcibly stretching Till’s hole to the size of his girth. He’s never felt so hot before
— like he’s burning from the inside out, heat curling deep in his stomach and spreading
through his veins like wildfire. It’s unbearable, stifling, making every breath feel too thick,
too heavy. His skin is flushed, feverish where Ivan’s hands roam, and every touch sends
another pulse of molten heat straight to his core.

Ivan’s pace is brutal, relentless, reaching the deepest parts of him like he wants to carve Till’s
walls to his shape, like he wants to brand Till’s insides with his cum. His movements are
desperate, outrightmanic. Teeth sinking into his shoulder, leaving a trail. He shoves Till on
his cock over and over, forcing him to take everything like a champ.

Till chokes on his own voice, delirious. His dick rubs against lace with every thrust, weeping
and oversensitive. He’s dripping all over the couch. Staining Ivan’s stupidly expensive
furniture with his fluids. The thought brings some satisfaction — some — before another
thrust leaves him breathless all over again.

A whimper escapes him when Ivan goes deeper, deep enough that he can feel it in his throat.
It’s unbearable. It’s not enough. “I—fuck—I’m g—gonna die—” Till slurs, voice so raw that
it’s on the verge of cracking.

He feels so full. So fucking full. The warmth seeps into his skin, crawls up his spine, and
burns beneath his ribs. It’s downright filthy — the sound of skin slapping on skin along with
his own whimpers, so deafening in Till’s ears that he feels himself blushing all the way down
to his toes. His body feels hypersensitive, senses hazy and overwhelmed, unable to focus on
anything but the engorged cock lodged inside, rearranging his guts.

Ivan’s hands move in a frenzy, sliding up Till’s heaving chest before roughly grabbing Till’s
chin and forcing him to look over his shoulder at Ivan. Ivan looks far gone, just like Till. His
once perfect hair now falls to the side in damp strands, sweat clinging to his forehead. He
looks wrecked, wild, pupils blown wide and dark with something unhinged, his breath ragged
as it fans hot against Till’s cheek.
Till barely registers how fucked-out he must look — his dress in tatters, hair matted with
sweat, makeup ruined and body marked all over with hickies — but Ivan stares at him like
he’s the best thing he’s ever laid eyes on and it makes Till shiver all over.

“Till,” Ivan says hoarsely, “I love you.”

I—what?

Till doesn’t answer — can’t — before Ivan’s thrusting into him again, erasing every coherent
thought from his head. Till’s voice breaks into a wail when Ivan snakes a hand to his front,
palming at the bulge in Till’s stomach. His dick is leaking so much precum that the lingerie is
ruined, sticky with his own semen. He’s drooling on the couch, all strung out and pliant,
reduced to nothing but raw sensations.

It’s too much. His mouth hangs open, variations of Ivan’s name spilling from his lips like a
broken record. “I—I’m gonna—Ivan—”

Till screams as he comes in spurts, completely drenching the couch underneath him.
Shockwaves tear through every nerve in his body, his muscles locking up before going slack
all over, leaving him trembling and gasping. His vision blurs, eyes rolled to the back of his
head as white-hot pleasure floods every sense.

Ivan’s teeth sink down into Till’s shoulder before his hips finally stutter. The next thing Till
knows, something hot is spilling inside of him, filling him completely to the brim until his
stomach distends from the thick ropes of cum. A strangled noise leaves his throat — half a
sob, half a moan — before he’s seized by a fit of hiccups. Ivan kisses his tears away,
whispering something that Till can’t hear over the beat of his own heart.

He feels bloated. Stuffed to the brim. Cum sloshes all around, dripping down his thighs and
his stomach. He barely has the strength to lift his head, let alone keep his eyes open, but he
forces himself to, just for a little longer. Just long enough to see Ivan’s face, to hear his voice.

“I—Ivan,” he rasps, his throat raw, shredded beyond recognition. “Don’t leave me again.”

Ivan stiffens against him. His breath hitches — just a small, sharp inhale — but it’s enough to
betray him, to shake his perfect exterior.

But Till’s already drifting off to sleep.

Ivan’s fingers tighten around Till’s hand. Then he lifts it to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss
to the back of his knuckles.

“I won’t leave again.”

In Till’s dream, he remembers small, sunlit hands clasped tightly around his own, laughter
ringing like church bells as they ran barefoot through the orphanage halls, never once letting
go. When he wakes, that same hand is still there, warm and unwavering on his own.
End Notes

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