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As it turned out, it was shockingly easy to get a fake ID. Ivan handed over a stack of bills without hesitation — his classmate’s eyes had widened, like he hadn’t actually expected Ivan to pay up. Ivan knew that he was being overcharged, but money had never been an obstacle in his household, where there were more staff taking care of the sprawling gardens than actual family members living in the house itself.
A few days later, Ivan had his very own fake ID tucked away inside his wallet, behind his actual ID.
The thing was, Ivan had been told that he could be oblivious, sometimes. Naive, once or twice. It wasn’t the worst thing to be called, but the way his classmates would trail off into silence when he neared, his father’s sighs when Ivan would misread social cues just a little at dinner parties and charity galas…all of it made his skin prickle, his face silently burning with humiliation.
Google had suggested that he put himself out there, make friends, go to social gatherings, don’t be afraid to text first. Like loneliness could be cured by just forcing his presence upon his peers. The truth was, Ivan didn’t fit in. Even at school, amongst classmates in a similar tax bracket, he was always the odd one out. Ivan didn’t get invited to parties or asked to join conversations.
But a club on a shadier side of town, where no one knew or would recognize him? Where he could just be Ivan, no weight of his family name pushing people away? It would work. It had to work. Because otherwise the issue wasn’t with his family name, it was just Ivan.
His older sister leaned against his doorframe, arms crossed over her chest as she watched Ivan tuck in his shirt, take it out, tuck it back in. Ivan got his dark eyes from their mother, Sua got her perfectly disapproving stare. “Where are you going?”
“Study group.” Ivan lied.
Sua raised an eyebrow. “Sure. Text me if you need a ride home.” The heels of her brand new mary janes clicked against dark hardwood floors as she walked away, calling over her shoulder, “And don’t let anyone spike your drink.”
The bouncer barely glanced at his fake ID, eyes sliding right over the fake birthdate to Ivan’s height before waving him inside. The bass thumped through the dark club, and it took Ivan a moment for his ears to register it as something other than a cacophony of sound. His shoes stuck to the floor just a little with every step. A couple were groping each other a few stools down. Someone else was trying to get the bartender’s attention. Two girls were grinding together on the small dance floor that was otherwise empty.
Two hours later, Ivan left. He nursed several too-sweet, too-strong drinks with ice that melted long before he gathered the courage to talk to anyone. The best part of the night was some guy running onto the empty dance floor to do a backflip when the beat dropped and then shuffling off to a few cheers and scattered applause.
Ivan is nowhere near drunk. He tells himself this as he wanders down the crowded street, the sidewalk tilting beneath his feet just a little. His face is too warm in the night’s chill, maybe from the alcohol, maybe humiliation. He should text Sua to come get him. But then he’d have to admit that this whole night was just another failure, another attempt at being someone likable that ended with him alone.
He’s already dreading returning home. He knows that his mother’s eyes will slide over his appearance with clinical detachment. His father will close the door to his study when Ivan walks past, like he’s trying to dissuade his own son from saying hello. School, home, random clubs…it’s all the same. It’s just Ivan.
He keeps walking.
A flicker of movement catches his eye; a figure in the shadowy alleyway up ahead. A man is leaning against a motorcycle in the alley’s mouth, the glow of a cigarette dangling between gloved fingers. Ivan blinks, keeps walking as he watches the man slide down the visor on his helmet, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out under the heel of a thick-soled boot. For a moment, Ivan swears the man is looking at him, streetlights reflecting off the visor in a way that makes something heavy settle in his gut. He quickens his pace.
Ivan doesn’t hear the footsteps, not over his own heartbeat in his ears.
A gloved hand closes around his wrist, yanking him into the alley with enough force that his breath is forced out of his lungs. His shoulders hit brick, his head connecting with the wall hard enough that everything whites out and stars dance behind his eyelids. Ivan makes a sound of hurt muffled by a hand over his mouth. The motorcycle man crowds into his space — he’s shorter than Ivan by a handful of inches. This does not lessen Ivan’s terror in the slightest. He surrounds Ivan, broad shoulders blocking out what little light makes its way into the alley.
Ivan’s heartbeat hammers in his throat. The man’s other hand is there, fingers pressed to his pulse point on either side. A little hysterical, Ivan wonders if the man can feel how afraid he is through the thick leather of those gloves. The helmet visor reflects Ivan’s own wide-eyed expression back at him, face pale with fear. After a long moment, that hand on his throat trails downwards.
Ivan’s breaths come fast and terrified through his nose, sharp little slips of air as he teeters on the verge of hyperventilating.
If Ivan had any misconceptions about what’s going to happen, any hopes of a simple mugging, the man’s broad hand groping his chest makes it devastatingly clear. A thumb finds a nipple through the thin fabric of his shirt, mortifyingly stiff in the cold night air, and rolls it cruelly between two fingers. Ivan sobs against the palm covering his mouth, his body arching instinctively away from the touch. He thinks he hears a sound like a huff of laughter from inside the helmet.
The hand keeps moving. He feels fingers yank at his belt. The buckle clinks, too loud in the otherwise silent alleyway. Cold air hits his stomach as his shirt is pulled free from his waistband, fingers splaying almost possessively over the dip of his spine. The man’s hand is broad, fingers long, nearly spanning the width of Ivan’s waist. The leather is warm against his skin.
When the man’s knee forces his thighs apart, Ivan jerks and his heels skid against the wet pavement as he tries to scramble away. The man makes a sound like a growl and shoves him harder into the wall, digs fingers into his jaw hard enough that Ivan knows to expect bruises.
Ivan’s thoughts spiral in frantic, hysterical loops. He should’ve texted Sua. He should’ve swallowed his stupid pathetic pride and asked his parents’ driver to pick him up. Fuck, he should’ve ordered a goddamn Uber. He shouldn’t be here, he shouldn’t fucking be here, he should’ve stayed home and stayed content with being alone and —
Ivan knows that he’s begging, some slurred-together mess of pleas and sobs and I’ll do anything please don’t please let me go behind the man’s hand. Tears finally spill over as his words go unheeded.
The stranger doesn’t speak. Somehow, that makes it worse. Ivan can’t see the man’s face, can’t hear his voice, can’t put any sense of humanity to the violation he’s experiencing. The man becomes something inhuman, a predator that exists purely to torment Ivan.
Those hands paw at his body like they’re greedy for every inch of skin they can dig into. Then the man presses fully against him, and Ivan feels it — the hard, thick line of a cock unmistakable even through dark denim. A wounded sound escapes Ivan’s throat as the man ruts against him like an animal, taking pleasure in using Ivan’s body however he wants. The man’s cock leaves a damp spot on the crease of Ivan’s thigh as he grinds forward again and again.
When the man spins Ivan around to face the wall, the brick scrapes against his cheek. He feels rough hands yanking his shirt higher, hears the man make a low sound as gloved fingers trace the line of his spine, like he’s pleased by the way Ivan is trembling. Fingers press into the small of his back and Ivan feels his muscles jump. Ivan chokes on a sob as those fingers dip beneath the waistband of his pants, both his jeans and underwear dragged down under the curve of his ass in a single rough motion.
The cold air hits his bare ass and Ivan instinctively tries to close his legs, but the man’s knee keeps them apart. The man crowds against him, a solid weight that Ivan’s pathetic attempts at squirming do nothing to dislodge. Ivan can feel the cold bite of a belt buckle pressed to his lower back. Hears fabric, that belt buckle clinking, the slide of leather. The sharp sound of a zipper being pulled down. Ivan’s breath hitches as gloved fingers push past his lips. His tongue is pinned flat, saliva dripping down his chin in thick strands. All he can taste is leather and some kind of oil. It’s disgusting. His body locks up in a panic, trying to reject the fingers from his mouth — but the man doesn’t care. Or worse, judging by the rough sound he makes, he likes it.
The man kicks his feet further apart. A few moments of silence, leather-clad fingers brushing over his rim , Ivan sobbing harder around the fingers in his mouth because no one’s ever — he’s never —
The fingers in his mouth disappear. Ivan’s tongue feels clumsy and heavy in his mouth as he tries to swallow the spit that’s pooled there. Ivan yelps, jerking away when those fingers press to his hole, two saliva-covered leather digits rubbing and pressing in. Ivan sobs an endless stream of no no no no no.
The stretch hurts. The leather catches on his insides, Ivan’s spit hardly doing a thing to ease the friction. The man works him open, brutally efficient, scissoring him open and shoving in deeper than anything has ever been. Ivan can hear the filthy sounds of his own body being violated, feel as the tight muscle eventually gives a little.
The fingers move faster, and Ivan realizes with a full-body chill that the man isn’t trying to pleasure him; he’s preparing him, making room for what’s about to come next.
The fingers are gone. Ivan shudders at the disgusting sensation of cold air over his hole, clenching pathetically around nothing. Then something larger presses against him. The blunt head of the man’s cock grinds over his hole once, twice, smearing precum where he’s soft and wet and open.
“P — please,” Ivan sobs, his voice wrecked. His following shriek is choked off by the hand gripping his hair to shove his face harder into the brick wall. The thick head of his cock stretches Ivan’s rim wide, too wide, for a second Ivan can’t breathe, he swears to god he’s going to tear —
The man’s pelvis slams into his ass as he grinds in deep, pulls almost all the way out and rams back in, his pace immediately brutal from the start. There’s no pause to let Ivan adjust, no hesitation, just the sharp, agonizing pain of being forced open around a too-big cock. The stretch is unbearable, his vision blurs with tears as his hole clenches. His knees give but the man holds him up easily, arm wrapped around his waist keeping him at the perfect height to be violated by that monstrous cock, like he’s nothing more than an object to be used.
The pain is white-hot, it’s everything, Ivan’s toes curl in his shoes, Ivan screws his eyes shut and tries to shut everything out. It doesn’t work. He can feel the friction of the brick on his cheek, every inch of that cock bullying its way inside him, the thick veins dragging against his walls. Tears stream down his face, like the drool dripping from his open mouth.
The man shifts his grip, his hand sliding up to paw at Ivan’s chest again, now pinching and roughly twisting his nipples. Ivan chokes on his own sobs.
Then, on a particularly deep thrust, the angle changes and fuck.
The sensation is like nothing Ivan has ever felt before. It’s a pleasure so intense it borders on pain, it pulses through his entire body in waves. Ivan’s cock is hard between his thighs, already leaking despite his fear.
Ivan’s legs shake uncontrollably every time the man’s cock hammers away at his prostate. The man seems to sense the change — maybe he feels it in the way Ivan’s hole spasms around him. Maybe he hears how Ivan goes from wet sobs to muffled moans. Ivan tries to silence his own sounds, they’re a thousand times worse than his cries or ignored pleas, but those pathetic high whimpers spill out anyway.
Each thrust comes at a slightly different angle, until the fat head of his cock is pounding into Ivan’s prostate and Ivan’s hips stutter, chasing the pleasure he doesn’t want to crave.
The man groans, low and approving, fucks in harder, deeper. Ivan’s vision whites out. He’s distantly aware of his nails scraping against the brick, the too-loud slap of skin on skin, the way his body clenches around the man’s cock like he wants it, like he’s begging for more. Ivan’s head spins, tears hot on his cheeks.
The stretch is still agonizing. But the pleasure builds with every rough grind, until Ivan can’t tell where pain ends and pleasure begins. His cock bounces untouched, there’s a wet puddle on the filthy alleyway between his spread legs. Ivan can hear the man’s ragged breathing behind the helmet now. Ivan’s sounds are worse, fucked-out moans and cries barely muffled as the man relentlessly assaults his prostate.
When the man suddenly abandons his aching nipples to wrap a hand around his throat, cutting off his air, Ivan spasms at the pure pleasure that pulses through him. His vision whites out as his prostate is abused relentlessly, his cock pulsing and dripping. The lack of oxygen makes everything sharper, more intense; the stretch of his rim, the ache in his jaw, the way his hole is fluttering around the thick cock splitting him open.
Ivan’s spine arches as shame floods through him more than the overwhelming pleasure. His orgasm rips through him. Ropes of cum stripe the dirty alley wall. His hole spasms around the man’s cock in a way that makes him curse (if Ivan had any level of higher brain function, he would recognize this as the first word the stranger had said) and pound into him even harder, like he’s trying to carve the very shape of his cock into Ivan’s body.
The man fucks Ivan through it, through the dizzyingly sharp pain of overstimulation that quickly becomes unbearable. Each thrust sends jolts of agony through him, even as his spent cock keeps twitching and dripping.
Those thrusts become erratic and jerky. Ivan hates himself for moaning at the spill of heat inside. The man keeps grinding inside him until he finally pulls out with a wet sound. Without the man keeping him propped up, Ivan falls to his knees, cum dripping from his abused hole.
Sensation returns to Ivan in pieces; the cold bite of the pavement against his knees through denim, the wet drip of cum sliding down his thighs, the taste of leather and motor oil still on his tongue. Fabric shifts and Ivan hears the familiar metal clink of a belt buckle being fastened. Ivan, jeans bunched around his thighs and shirt clinging to his back with sweat, has never felt more exposed in his life.
The man crouches beside him. Ivan flinches at the cold press of the helmet against his cheek, startlingly soft. It takes Ivan a long moment to realize that it’s meant to be some fucked up show of affection, almost like a kiss. The touch lingers for a second before the man pulls away. Ivan’s vision swims, still blurry with tears as he struggles to focus on the man at his side.
The man picks something up from the ground, a small dark shape. The familiar sound of the zipper is loud.
Ivan watches, sick to his stomach, as his ID is pulled out — his real ID. His name, his address, his entire life in the leather-clad palm of this man’s hand. In his school photo Ivan is smiling, his hair styled, his uniform perfect. Ivan has never felt further from the boy in the photo than he does right now.
“Ivan.” The man reads aloud, a little muffled behind the helmet.
Ivan corrects, “Ih- vahn.” the way he always has, an instinctive reaction to a lifetime of his name being pronounced wrong, to teachers and classmates and strangers who frown as they form their mouths around his name. The helmet lifts slightly, looking at him for a long moment. A gloved finger taps Ivan’s ID against his wallet. Finally, the man huffs a laugh, barely audible, sliding the ID back where he found it.
His wallet gets dropped into his lap and Ivan stares at it. Somehow, it feels heavier than ever before. A hand brushes his cheek, thumbing away a stray tear. Ivan’s skin crawls.
Ivan flinches as the man stands, but he just walks past Ivan to his bike. For a moment, Ivan thinks the man might say something; an apology, or maybe a threat.
The man swings a leg over his bike, kicks it to life with a roar so loud Ivan flinches, and rolls out of the alley without a backward glance. The sounds of his engine fades. Ivan is left on the pavement with a hollow ache between his legs, the taste of leather on his tongue, and streaks of his own cum on the brick wall in front of him.
Ivan isn’t sure how long he sits there before he remembers his phone. His hands shake so bad he can hardly find Sua’s contact.
He sends her his location. She replies to it with a thumbs up reaction. Ivan staggers to his feet. He pulls up his jeans and fixes his shirt almost mechanically. Each step makes tears sting his eyes but he forces himself to walk to the curb, where he stares blankly at passing headlights and waits for his sister to take him home.
Two months pass. Ivan attends classes, smiles politely at dinner parties, gets perfect grades. Sua had been concerned in her own distant way, her sharp eyes following his every move around their parents’ house. Her hands had been steady as she helped him into her car that night. She’d asked what the hell happened. Ivan made up vague excuses about drinking too much. They both knew he was lying. It was easier that way, for the both of them.
Ivan’s favorite cafe is, as always, crowded, the scent of caffeine and sugar heavy in the air. Ivan sits tucked into his usual corner, textbooks spread across the table around his almost-empty latte. He’s been considering getting another one for the past fifteen minutes. Ivan rubs at his eyes, yawns behind his hand and squints at the blurry words on the page in front of him.
“Mind if I share your table? Everywhere else is taken.”
The voice knocks Ivan out of his daze; warm, a little rough in a way that scratches Ivan’s brain just right, curls around the rungs of his ribcage like it belongs. Ivan looks up into teal eyes framed by pale hair, streaked through with gold under the cafe’s warm lighting.
“I — yes.” Ivan blurts, a little breathless, “yes, of course.”
The man smiles and slides into the chair opposite him. He offers a hand across the table. There are silver rings on his fingers, his knuckles painted healing-bruise shades of violet and mottled green, a guitar pick dangles from a worn leather cord around his wrist. “I’m Till.”
“Ivan.”
Till’s smile widens, his eyes crease at the corners, his thumb brushes the thin skin of Ivan’s wrist as they shake. “Ih-vahn.” Till repeats. Ivan is staring at his mouth, at the way his lips shape the syllables.
He got it right on the first try, Ivan thinks, something warm and dangerous blooming in his chest. He falls a little bit in love.
Till steals the last sip of his latte (too sweet, he says, still smiling, sweet drink for a sweet boy) and heads to the counter to buy him another. Ivan presses his hands to his cheeks, like his cool fingers could somehow bring down the burning in his face. Till lets Ivan take a sip of his own drink and laughs when Ivan grimaces at the bitter edge. His laughter is bright, a little sharp, always like he’s surprised into it.
Ivan finds himself feeling like he’s glowing from the inside every time he manages to get one of those laughs from him.
Till talks about music, about a rock band he used to play with, about how pretty the city looks on late nights when he just drives and drives with no destination in mind. He vaguely mentions late-night shifts loading and unloading trucks, says that his real passion is in photography and painting. There’s a scar through one of his eyebrows and a notch out of the top of his left ear.
“Old piercings.” Till says with an easy shrug and a wave of his hand. Ivan wonders what other piercings he’s had, what he has, and presses his knees together under the table.
In return, Ivan finds himself talking more than he has in months; about his literature class, and his family, and the frustration of always feeling misunderstood. Till opens up about his own experience with not quite fitting in.
Ivan is hooked on his every word. Till’s very presence drowns out everything else, he has his own gravitational pull and Ivan is helpless to resist being dragged in — not that he could imagine even trying to resist Till.
When Till finally stands to leave, he tilts Ivan’s chin up with two fingers. “Let me take you out.” he says, smiling like he already knows the answer will be yes, “A pretty boy like you deserves a proper first date.”
Ivan can hardly breathe. Till’s fingers are warm on his skin, calloused and smelling faintly of cigarette smoke. “First date.” Ivan echoes a little stupidly, captivated by the shade of Till’s eyes when the light hits them just right.
Till’s grin sharpens. Arousal (and maybe something else, but Ivan can't quite name it) pools low in his stomach. Till scribbles his number on a napkin with a pen from his jacket pocket and slides it across the table. “Call me. Or text. Whatever you want, sweetheart.”
The bell above the door jingles as Till leaves. Ivan stares at the napkin, at the ink already bleeding towards the edges. The napkin doesn’t disappear, Ivan doesn’t wake up uncomfortably hard with vague memories of a man whose face he can’t remember. A group of students in the same uniform are laughing a few tables down, espresso machines are hissing, there’s a commotion on the other side of the room when someone drops their drink and several people scramble to clean the mess.
Ivan presses the napkin to his chest, right over his racing heart, and can’t stop himself from smiling for the rest of the day.
Till’s house is warm, lived-in, the small one-bedroom place cluttered with records and half-finished sketches and the lingering scent of cigarette smoke. Piles of books have begun making their way onto various surfaces, all titles suggested by Ivan over the past four months. The bathroom light always flickers a few times when they flip the switch. Till always sits on the left side of his couch, drags Ivan into his lap, fingers tracing patterns over his bare hip.
Ivan spends more time here than he does in the sprawling isolation of his parents’ house. Till texts him come home and Ivan smiles at his phone, smiles so wide his cheeks ache, because they both know he isn’t talking about the place Ivan grew up. Till picks him up from school most afternoons, parks a few streets down, leaning against his beat-up car with a cigarette in one hand and his phone in the other while he waits for Ivan. When Ivan calls his name, Till drops the cig and grinds it to nothing under the toe of his boot, pressing a kiss to Ivan’s jaw and sighing I missed you, like the few hours apart were torture.
Ivan gets it. He feels the same. He always clings to Till a little tighter, feels Till’s absence a little stronger every time he returns home for the weekend to attend some dinner party his parents are hosting.
One time, Till picks him up from his parents’ house. By the time Ivan gets outside, Sua is already there, arms crossed over her chest. Till smiles over Sua’s shoulder when he catches sight of Ivan, but Ivan sees the tightness around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Till is pissed.
Sua yells at them both. He’s thirty, she yells, like Ivan is some kind of child. He’s an adult, he has no business even knowing your name, what the hell are you thinking?
For the first time since they were kids, Ivan yells back at her. He doesn’t remember what he said. He remembers crying, Till guiding him to the car and buckling his seatbelt, Sua’s stunned expression through the window as they drove away.
“She just doesn’t get us,” Till said gently, hand in Ivan’s hair while Ivan sobbed into his chest, “she wants to be a good big sister but she’s being a little crazy.”
Till’s right. She doesn’t get it.
Till is perfect.
He remembers how Ivan takes his coffee, he kisses the small silvery scar on the inside of his knee from when he fell as a kid, he sings when he cooks and sometimes spins Ivan around the kitchen while doing so. Once or twice they’ve gotten so distracted by each other the food burns. Till never gets angry about it. He’s sweet, he’s attentive, he’s everything Ivan has ever wanted without knowing it.
Sometimes…
Sometimes, Ivan catches flashes of something else. Till’s fingers digging crescent marks into his own palms when Ivan smiles at something on his phone, the heavy drag of his gaze when Ivan stretches, the way his voice drops when someone looks at Ivan for too long.
Ivan isn’t stupid. He knows that it should scare him.
It does scare him.
But fear has been tangled up in arousal for Ivan, ever since he was —
Ivan’s brain skips over the word, even just thinking it to himself. Ever since that night in the alley. He can’t cum properly without the thrum of fear in his veins, can’t get off unless he’s thinking about the brutal stretch of a too-big cock forcing its way inside him. And, likewise, arousal sits heavy in his gut when he’s afraid.
His wires are crossed. Something is wrong with him. Something broken. So, doesn’t that mean it’s okay that Till is a little scary sometimes? Isn’t that a good thing? Isn’t that proof that they’re meant to be together?
Till doesn’t hurt him. Not really.
Just a hand on his throat, a little too tight, when Till kisses him breathless. Bruises in the shape of Till’s hand on his hips.
The first time they sleep together, Ivan unbuttons his shirt with trembling hands. Till watches him with those sharp teal eyes, like he’s memorizing every inch of bare flesh revealed to him, like Ivan’s body is one of the works of art in the galleries Till has taken him to.
The sheets are already messy when Till lays him back and crawls on top of him, something almost predatory in his gaze. Ivan’s voice trembles as bad as his hands when he says that he’s a virgin.
It’s not a lie. Not really. He was a virgin, before that night in the alley. Before the hands, the helmet reflecting his own misery back at him, the bite of leather and motor oil it took weeks for him to stop tasting.
Till goes very, very still above him.
For a second, Ivan thinks he’s said something wrong. Till’s jaw tightens, his fingers flex against Ivan’s hips. Ivan flinches. Till’s grip gentles, his expression softens, he presses a kiss to Ivan’s forehead.
“I just want it to be good for you, sweetheart,” Till murmurs, “I’ll be gentle.”
And he is.
He’s so careful. Every kiss is adoring, every movement slow. He murmurs endless praise against Ivan’s skin. Ivan eventually manages to cum with a whimper, his cock spilling over Till’s hand. Till pulls out and strokes the length of his cock until he cums on Ivan’s stomach.
Afterwards, Till holds him close, fingers tracing those familiar patterns over his ribs. Ivan presses his face into Till’s chest and breathes in the scent of his sweat.
“I’m glad I was your first.” Till says into the darkness of the room. Ivan swallows and thinks of tears, leather gloves, agony, a pleasure like he’s never felt before and hasn’t felt since, the spill of cum against his violated insides.
Ivan curls into Till’s chest tighter, like their very cells could fuse together. “Me too.” he mumbles.
Till never lets him inside the garage.
"It’s a mess, sweetheart," he laughs, blocking the door with his body. "Just tools and bike parts. You’d be bored."
Ivan nods, but his fingers curl into the hem of Till’s faded band tee and worry at a worn thread there. The garage door is always locked. It’s the only locked door in the house. Something about it, about the intensity in Till’s gaze, makes the back of his neck prickle.
Ivan tells himself it’s nothing.
It’s easy to pretend, when Till smiles at him and pulls him in, kissing his cheek. “Trust me,” he says, lips against the corner of Ivan’s mouth, “It’s embarrassing. I’ll get it nice and clean one day. We can make a little library in there for you, yeah?”
Ivan nods. Ivan tells himself he’s being paranoid. Some fucked up part of his brain is trying to ruin the one good thing in his life.
But then he finds the key.
It’s tucked inside one of Till’s jackets, the heavy black leather one he wears on especially cold days. Ivan isn’t snooping, really. He’s looking for a pen, because the ink in his pen started to dry out, and Till always has at least one pen tucked into his jackets and jeans and bags. The pros of dating an artist.
The key is small, unassuming. So very tiny in the palm of his hand.
Ivan knows he shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t. The garage will be a mess of tools and bike parts, just like Till said, and then Ivan will feel guilty for doubting him.
The door creaks when he opens it, loud enough that Till would hear it if he were home. The space is dim, blackout curtains over the high-up windows. Ivan fumbles for the light switch on the wall.
The fluorescent lights shine on a bike in the center of the room, sleek black and chrome. Tools and bike parts are scattered across various benches, but they certainly aren’t everywhere.
Then Ivan turns. And he sees the photos. Ivan finds his feet moving towards them even as his brain is screaming at him to get out.
Pictures of Ivan cover a wall. Dozens of them. Ivan half-asleep in the cafe, walking to class with his favorite headphones on, leaning against Sua’s car while he waited for her to give him a ride home after her shift. Some are recent. Some are before they even met.
Before Till approached him.
Ivan’s face prickles, somehow too hot and too cold at the same time. His breaths come ragged, for a moment everything spins and he forces himself back, away from the fucking shrine.
Ivan knocks into a workbench and flinches at the clatter of tools. Beside an open toolbox, he sees it. The helmet. Black, with a deep purple visor. Ivan sees his own reflection in it again, wide-eyed and afraid.
Time fractures and he’s back in the alleyway, staring at his own terrified face. The bite of brick against his cheek, the smell of leather, rough hands on his body.
His vision tunnels, he can’t fucking breathe —
His hands shake so violently he can’t find the lightswitch for a moment that drags into an eternity. Then the room plunges into darkness and his reflection disappears. He barely remembers locking the door, barely remembers shoving the key back into the pocket he’d found it in.
Ivan loses track of time sitting on the bathroom floor, knees drawn to his chest. He knows. He knows . But his brain runs in circles, always recoiling at the last moment, refusing to admit the truth. He’s been dating the monster who ruined him.
His phone is in his hand. Sua’s contact is pulled up, his thumb hovers over the call button.
What the hell would he even say? How could he explain this? I found out my boyfriend — yeah, Till, the guy you don’t like — is the man who raped me in an alley. Yeah, that night you picked me up. I’m in love with him. I let him touch me. I let him kiss me. I told him he was my first but he already knew exactly how he broke me open around his cock.
Ivan presses his palms to his eyes until color bursts behind his eyelids and he gasps for air. He should leave, run, call the police, tell someone, anyone —
But he doesn’t have anyone. He has Till. He has Till’s broad hands and barking laughter and soft humming in his ear and —
And Till knows him. Till quotes his favorite lines from Ivan’s favorite books, he sings when he’s cleaning and encourages Ivan to do the same, he kisses every freckle he’s found on Ivan’s body and holds him when he wakes up gasping from nightmares. Nightmares about Till.
Till, who has a shrine of Ivan photos in his garage. Till, who knows exactly how to touch him because he learned it while wearing a helmet in a filthy alley. Till, who has been lying every single day for months.
Fuck. Fuck. Some sick, twisted part of Ivan likes it.
Till wanted him so bad he couldn’t stay away. He memorized Ivan’s ID, watched him for months, chose him. No one has ever chosen Ivan. He took Ivan apart in that alley and then spent weeks, months, putting Ivan back together.
It’s fucked up. It’s so, so fucked up. His body betrays him, pleasure sits at the base of his spine, that same burning arousal that only comes tangled up with fear. His cock throbs against his thigh.
Till wanted him. Not just for a night of violence in an alley, but for months. Isn’t that love? Real, true love? To be wanted so desperately, so completely.
Till gets home a few hours later. The floorboards creak as he kicks off his boots. When he sees Ivan in front of his textbooks at the kitchen island, his face brightens with a smile. “Hey, sweetheart. I got dinner.” His hands are full of takeout bags, his hair windswept. Those same hands pinned him to a wall, groped his chest, forced their way inside his untouched hole with only a thin layer of spit on his leather gloves to ease the way.
Ivan looks at him and wonders if he really didn’t see the hunger in those teal eyes, the possession in every casual touch. Had he been too love-drunk to notice? Was it just his mind trying desperately to avoid the truth yet again?
When Till kisses his temple, Ivan leans into it. His heart is racing. It isn’t entirely from fear. He’s always thought something in him is broken. If Till is broken too, isn’t that just right? That their jagged, shattered edges fit together so perfectly?
For the next week, the thought grows. Festers, like something rotten. If love is possession, if love is taking…why shouldn’t he claim Till in return? Till touches him so gently now, all sweet words and soft hands.
Ever since their first time, Ivan telling the very man who stole his virginity that he was still a virgin, there have been no more bruises on his waist. No hands wrapped around his throat when Till kisses him. His cock is so fucking big he never quite bottoms out, instead covering Ivan’s face in kisses and promising that they’ll get there one day.
I don’t want to hurt you, he always says.
Liar, Ivan thinks, because he knows.
Till sleeps like the dead after long shifts spent hauling boxes back and forth from warehouse to truck. Ivan is taller by a handful of inches, but Till is broader, his biceps nicely defined in a way that makes saliva pool in Ivan’s mouth.
That strength is why Ivan waits.
Till sprawls on his side, one arm thrown over Ivan’s waist. Ivan lies awake and watches how the moonlight paints his hair silver, watches the rise and fall of every breath. Slowly, carefully, Ivan peels back the sheets. Till’s eyelids don’t so much as flutter when Ivan nudges him onto his back.
Till’s boxers sit low on his hips, the fabric a little darker where the heavy weight of his cock sits. Ivan’s mouth waters. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down just enough to free him. Till’s cock is warm in his palm, thick and long even when soft. Ivan runs his thumb along a vein, acquainting himself with it as not only his boyfriend’s cock, but the one that had violated him. Ivan adjusts the angle of his wrist as he strokes the length, his fingers not quite meeting around its girth.
On each downstroke, the skin pulls back, revealing the flushed head — the same one that had split him open in that alley, made him sob with the agony of being stretched too wide too fast. Now, he feels Till’s cock harden in his hand, veins throbbing along the shaft, the foreskin gliding back with every stroke. He thumbs at the slit, feels beads of precum well up under his touch.
Till’s breath hitches and his hips jerk helplessly into the touch. Powerless, the same way Ivan himself had been for their first time — their real first time. Ivan pants, almost dizzy from how good it feels to have Till so vulnerable under his hands.
Ivan straddles his thighs, his own boxer briefs discarded down the end of the bed, his cock hard and smearing wetness against his stomach. He shoves two fingers into his mouth, lets spit drip onto the digits as he sucks on them. Then he leans forward, bracing himself over Till with a hand beside his head on the pillow, and sinks those fingers deep into his hole.
It doesn’t hurt as bad as when Till did it. He’s more used to penetration now, his hole always a little soft and ready for his boyfriend to make love to him. Ivan closes his eyes, focuses on getting spit up inside himself.
Heart pounding, Ivan fumbles between them and guides the head of Till’s cock to his hole.
The first press down is agony and ecstasy in equal measure. Ivan’s vision blurs. They always use enough lube that Till teases him for his wet little pussy, while Ivan shoves at his chest and whines at him to shut upppp.
Like this, Till’s thickness forces him open, a brutal drag of dry flesh that makes Ivan bite his lip hard enough to taste blood. He remembers this; the pain, the way his rim struggles around the stretch, the dizzying fullness as Ivan grinds down, down, down. Tears burn behind his eyes, cling to his eyelashes, drip down his cheeks.
He doesn’t stop.
He sinks down, until Till is buried inside him, until he’s gasping for air and clutching at his stomach with a trembling hand where he swears he can feel the head of Till’s cock throbbing. His own cock is twitching between his thighs, dripping onto the pale hair beneath Till’s navel.
Till tosses his head to the other side, his mouth open around near-silent moans, his hips twitching instinctively into Ivan’s tight heat. Ivan freezes, one hand on his stomach and the other clutching at the headboard hard enough that his nails dig into dark wood. For a moment, Ivan is terrified that Till will wake, will be furious, maybe — maybe he would fuck Ivan into the mattress with the same brutal violence he showed in the alley. The thought sends pure pleasure down his spine, his cock jerking, for a second Ivan swears he almost cums.
Till’s eyes stay shut and his breathing evens out again.
Ivan swallows and starts to move.
It’s clumsy at first; he’s never ridden Till before. His thighs shake as he lifts himself up and drops back down. The dry friction is bordering on painful, though Till’s cock always drips when he’s turned on; Ivan can feel the slide getting a little easier with every bounce. Pleasure sparks up his spine each time Till’s cock drags over his prostate so perfectly, each time the tip of his own cock rubs against Till’s stomach.
Sweat drips down his back, between his shoulder blades, his thighs are already burning with the effort of the slow, grinding rhythm he sets.
It’s good. It’s so fucking good . Little whimpers leave him, pathetic ah-ah-ah s as he fucks himself on his boyfriend’s cock. As he — as he —
As he rapes his boyfriend.
Ivan spasms, eyes rolling back, knees digging into Till’s sides as pleasure lights up his brain at the thought. His cock jerks, spills thick ropes of cum onto Till’s stomach.
Panting atop Till, Ivan tells himself that he should stop. He should clean them both up, never mention this, tuck this away in the same dark little corner of his mind where he buried his trauma.
But he remembers the way Till didn’t stop when he begged, the agony of Till fucking him through overstimulation, the way his body found pleasure in being violated.
Before they even met, Till loved him enough to rape him.
Ivan braces both hands on Till’s chest for better leverage, his thighs burning as he begins moving again. He can’t keep his mouth closed, pathetic fucked-out whines leave him every time he drops down, the only other sounds in the room are Till’s soft groans, the filthy slap of skin on skin. Spit is dripping from his lips onto Till’s chest, right over the silver chain necklace he never takes off.
Till’s breathing changes, growing heavier, more ragged. His quiet sounds turn to throaty moans. Still, Ivan continues grinding in tight circles that make his oversensitive prostate ache . Till’s eyelids flutter, his slim brows furrow.
“Fuck,” Till slurs, voice rough with sleep, “sweetheart…what —”
Ivan doesn’t let him finish. He leans down, capturing Till’s mouth in a messy kiss that tastes like the salt of his own tears. Their lips fit together as perfectly as always. He licks into Till’s mouth, swallows his confused little sounds. Every slow, filthy grind of his hips drag moans shared on their tongues.
“I love you,” Ivan pants, because it’s true. “I love you, Till, I love you —”
Till’s hands grip Ivan’s hips, fingers finally digging in hard enough to bruise, Ivan tips his head back and makes a sound that’s part hurt and part relief at the pain. Till’s eyes are wide, pupils blown with arousal despite the confusion on his face.
Till almost looks betrayed. Ivan bites his lip.
“I love you,” Ivan repeats, the words broken up by panting breaths as he keeps moving, “See? I love you the same as you love me. I love you more. ”
Ivan sees the moment Till realizes what he means. Those teal eyes widen, his breath catches, his grip tightens even more on Ivan’s sides.
“Fuck,” Till rasps, looking up at Ivan like he can’t quite believe that the man on top of him is his boyfriend, “You know?”
Ivan presses their foreheads together as he rolls his hips. “I know.” Ivan whispers against Till’s lips.
Ivan watches several expressions flicker across Till’s face, shock and anger and hunger and finally something like guilt. “Ivan —”
Ivan shakes his head, silences him with another kiss. He could feel the lie coming, the apology. He doesn’t want it. Till is a sweet man, a good man, the kind of guy who would apologize even if he didn’t do anything wrong.
There’s no need for him to apologize for loving Ivan first. If anything, Ivan should apologize for how long it’s taken him to show that he feels the same.
Till’s expression shifts, all of that guilt turning into something darker. Ivan yelps as he finds himself slammed into the mattress.
“How long have you known?” Till demands, fitting the dripping head of his cock to Ivan’s abused hole again and shoving in, splitting him open on that thick length all over again.
Ivan’s cock, already soft, twitches pathetically against his thigh at the overwhelming stretch. “Only a few days!” he swears.
Till fits a hand to his throat and for a second, Ivan’s vision whites out at the threat of it. He distantly hears Till’s voice, “Did you get into the fucking garage?”
“Yes!” Ivan sobs, and Till makes a sound like Ivan has disappointed him. Somehow, that hurts worst of all.
“Was it worth betrayin’ my trust, at least? You liked finding my collection? All those pictures of my pretty boy?” Till fucks him like it’s a punishment, the headboard slamming into drywall with every thrust.
Ivan’s vision blurs with tears as Till tightens his grip around his throat, cutting off just enough oxygen. His nails dig into Till’s shoulders as he nods frantically. The lack of oxygen makes everything feel so much more — the slide of sweat between their bodies, the way Till’s cock reaches so deep Ivan swears he would be able to see a visible bump if he looked down.
Till finally releases his grip when Ivan starts seeing spots. Ivan only manages to gasp for a small slip of air before Till angles his hips just right to slam into his prostate. That little bit of air is forced back out on him on a broken wail.
“Is this what you wanted, baby?” Till pants, dragging his cock out slow , watching the way Ivan’s puffy rim clenches around him, “You saw those pictures, saw how much I love you, you needed me to ruin you again?”
Ivan sobs, nodding frantically. He does.
Till shoves back in and Ivan shrieks, his bare feet uselessly sliding along the sheets. Till fucks him like he did that first time; no mercy, no restraint, just taking what he wants from Ivan’s body. Ivan claws at his back, his vision going blurry at every brutal thrust. Till’s mouth is on his throat, teeth grazing over his racing pulse.
“Thank you,” Ivan gasps, “thank you for loving me, thank you for making me yours.”
“From the moment I saw you stumbling down that street, your cute little face all pink in the cold, I knew you were mine. I just knew.” Till’s hands are everywhere, grabbing his hips, digging into the soft fat of Ivan’s inner thighs as he spreads them wider, calloused fingers rubbing at his nipples until Ivan is sobbing. They feel like a livewire connected to his spent cock. He shoves at Till’s hand without thinking about it. Till gathers both of Ivan’s wrists in one broad hand and pins them to the mattress above his head.
“You gonna cum again, sweetheart?” Till purrs, returning to tormenting Ivan’s chest, rolling a swollen nipple between thumb and forefinger.
Ivan shakes his head frantically, tears dripping down his cheeks. He can't, not again, not when every nerve ending feels raw and exposed, not when Till’s cock grinding against his prostate feels like pressing on a fresh bruise.
Till laughs a little, leans in close enough for Ivan to taste the words on his tongue, “I know your body better than you, remember? I know how to make you fall apart.” He thrusts deep into that tender spot that makes Ivan see stars. “I love you.”
He does. God, he does. It only takes another minute for Ivan’s spine to arch off the mattress, his mouth open on a silent shriek as his soft cock spurts weakly between them. Till doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, just keeps fucking him through it.
“That’s it, baby.” Till says, voice all sweet the way it was the first time Till taught him how to position his fingers on the neck of his bass. “So perfect for me.”
Ivan can only sob in response. The hand on his chest moves to his throat again, not tight enough to cut off air, just…as a reminder. Of who owns him. Of who loves him.
Ivan tilts his head back, baring his throat, offering himself up completely.
Till cums with a groan, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside. Ivan always enjoys Till cumming inside him. But like this, when he’s aching inside, his walls throbbing and swollen? Till’s cum makes him whimper and squirm a little at the fresh heat against sore flesh.
This is exactly what he’s been craving for all these months, even when his mind recoiled from the very thought.
This is what love feels like, Ivan thinks dazedly as Till nuzzles into his jaw, trailing kisses down the length of his neck and murmuring praise into the sweat-damp skin there. Love is being ruined by the same person who will put you back together.
“Next time,” Ivan whispers, lips brushing the curve of Till’s pierced ear, “can you wear the helmet?”