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“Oh my god.” Mizi’s slaps her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. “You guys look so cute!”
“We’re not even done yet,” Till says. He has the handle of a makeup brush clenched between his teeth, so the words come out somewhat stilted. He’s sitting on Ivan’s lap, holding a black eyeliner pencil in one hand and cradling the side of Ivan’s face with the other. Ivan’s fishnet-covered arms are wrapped around his waist, shiny metal and leather bands looped around his wrists.
“Okay, but still, I see the vision,” Mizi says happily, plopping down on the bed next to Ivan.
“Is Sua almost done with her costume?” Till asks. “Close your eyes,” he tells Ivan.
“Yeah,” Mizi says. “She looks hot as fuck.”
Ivan grimaces.
“Don’t move, dumbass,” Till says. “Relax your face. I don’t want to poke your eye out.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Ivan says. “It’s just weird hearing that about your sibling.”
“You should be used to it by now,” Mizi says.
“I’ll never get used to it.”
Till smudges the eyeliner with the pad of his thumb before sitting back to examine Ivan’s face as a whole.
“Open your eyes,” Till says.
Ivan does so, staring up at Till through smoldering eyeshadow. The stark black really brings out the red shards in Ivan’s eyes.
“You should wear eyeliner more often,” Till says. “You look hot.”
“Yeah?” Ivan pulls Till in to steal a quick kiss. “If it means you’ll sit in my lap every morning.”
Till rolls his eyes. “You wish.”
He ignores Ivan’s sound of affirmation, reaching over to grab a sheet of metal studs lying on the bed. He then digs around in his makeup bag and takes out a small tube of lash glue. Till peels a tiny, round stud off the sheet and dabs lash glue onto the back, then applies a matching dot right above Ivan’s forehead. He waits a bit for the glue to get tacky, and then sticks the stud onto Ivan’s face. He moves his hand away slowly; the metal stays in place.
“Nice,” Till says, mostly to himself. He applies the other end of the “piercing” below Ivan’s eyebrow. “Should we do snakebites?”
“Whatever you want,” Ivan replies.
“Hmm.”
And so they do snakebites.
The faux piercings show up nicely in their selfies; shiny accents that match the metal accessories scattered around Ivan’s outfit, contrasting against his pale skin and dark tank, ripped jeans, and boots. He’s staring at Till in every picture, eyes fond like he hung the stars, looking either at Till’s laughing smile or the football jersey Till is wearing—it’s a vibrant, almost egregious, red and white, with a bold “Anakt” on the front and Ivan’s name on the back. The number 45 is plastered in large, blocky print on both sides.
The only picture where Ivan isn’t looking at Till is the one where they’re kissing, both with their eyes closed and grins on their faces. (That one goes on Till’s private story, and if he had to touch up Ivan’s makeup a bit after that picture… well, no one has to know.)
—
The party is already rowdy and raucous by the time their uber drops them off at the frat house—Till and Ivan had taken a while to get ready, too easily distracted by each other. (But who can blame them, really.) Monster Mash is blaring from speakers loud enough to be heard from outside, and people are wandering in and out of the pumpkin-covered entryway. The open door and windows glow orange against the late night sky.
As soon as they step inside, Mizi and Sua wander off to find Mizi’s friends, and some random guy immediately starts talking to Ivan. Till can’t decipher their conversation over the clamor, but Ivan soon leans over to talk into Till’s ear.
“I’ll be right back, gonna say hi to some people,” he says. “Meet me by the drinks?”
Till nods.
Ivan kisses him before walking away with the (presumably) frat dude.
Till wanders over to the kitchen. There’s a few clusters of people, a bunch of open chip bags, and a massive container filled with bright red liquid. Plastic eyeballs float along the surface. Till grabs a plastic cup and fills it.
Mingling has never really been his thing, so Till just leans one hip against the counter and nurses his drink. It only tastes mildly like hand sanitizer—whoever mixed the punch did a half-decent job of burying the alcohol under juice. He takes another sip, but when he lowers the red plastic cup from his face, he’s greeted with a leering man standing in front of him. He’s dressed in a tattered hoodie and oversized black pants, with some shitty black makeup smudged around his eyes. (Ivan’s makeup tonight is infinitely better, if Till does say so himself.)
“A football player, huh?” he says.
“A raccoon, huh?” Till retorts.
“Not quite,” the stranger laughs. “I’m Robert Pattinson’s Batman.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
The stranger chuckles again. “So why the football jersey? Cheapest to find?”
“It’s my boyfriend’s.”
“Where’s your boyfriend now?” The stranger inches closer, and Till takes a step back.
“I dunno, talking to a friend, somewhere.” Till really wants this conversation to be over.
“That’s what they all say,” the stranger mutters.
“What did you say?”
“Do you really have a boyfriend?”
“Are you serious?”
“Very.”
Till stares at him. “Yes, I have a boyfriend that is real and here.”
“Well, I don’t see him.” The stranger gets closer, grabbing Till’s free hand. Till tries to yank his hand away, but the stranger’s grip is painfully tight.
“Let go of me.” Till sets his drink down on the counter and grabs the man’s arm.
“I just wanna talk.”
“I said let go.”
“Come on, don’t be like tha—”
“Step away from him.”
The stranger freezes, gaze catching on something—someone—behind Till.
Till glances back, and he sees Ivan, his boyfriend, the love of his life. But he knows that the stranger sees something very different—Ivan is almost two meters of solid muscle, dressed in ripped black fabric and metal, and the look on his face could kill.
When Till turns back around, the stranger’s face has whitened to a sickly pallor. Till can see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows nervously.
There’s a moment of silence, and, without looking, Till can feel Ivan’s stare taking the stranger apart piece by piece.
“Oh—uh, sorry, man,” he stammers out as he drops Till’s hand and starts backing away. He breaks off into a half-walk half-jog and quickly disappears into the crowd.
Till turns around. Ivan’s eyes, threatening and dark, track the stranger until he leaves the room, and then they lock onto Till. His face softens—a change nearly imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him.
But Till knows him. And the transformation stirs something low and heated in his gut.
“Are you okay?” Ivan asks. He lifts Till’s hand, gentle, and presses a kiss to the residual grip marks.
“Yeah,” Till says. He’s a little breathless.
“Sorry I took so long,” Ivan said.
“It’s okay, you got back just in time.”
Ivan frowns. “A little late.”
“Hmm, maybe,” Till concedes. He reaches up and pulls Ivan down by the metal ring in his collar, so they’re standing eye-to-eye. “It was kinda hot, though.”
Ivan’s face goes blank as he stares at Till. Till knows this look, too: an expressionless exterior because Ivan is schooling his emotions, shoving them under the surface—but they swirl in his eyes, chaotic. Concentrated.
“Yeah?” Ivan says.
“Yeah. The all-black really works for you.”
“Hmm.” Ivan’s gaze drifts from Till’s eyes to his lips, but he waits obediently. Till’s finger is still looped through the collar, holding him in place.
Till leans forward, connecting their lips. Ivan instantly reciprocates, arms circling Till’s waist to pull him closer. Ivan opens his mouth, licking at Till’s, and his hands move down to squeeze at Till’s ass over the large jersey and his tight, black pants. Till’s eyes fly open in surprise.
He roughly pushes Ivan back by the neck and slaps his other hand over Ivan’s mouth.
“Ivan! Not here.”
“Why not?” Ivan asks, muffled. “I don’t care if anyone sees.”
Till flushes. “That is not happening.”
Ivan blinks at him. “…Fine.”
Ivan grabs Till’s hand, dragging him out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The deeper they get into the house, the fewer people there are. Ivan—ever the socialite, so he’s surely been here before—seems familiar with the layout; he leads Till directly to a secluded, unoccupied bathroom on the second floor. As soon as Till steps inside, Ivan slams the door shut and pins Till against it, leaning down to resume their kiss.
Till immediately puts his hands all over Ivan’s torso, sliding up under his tank and over the rippling muscles. He scratches his fingernails along Ivan’s back. Ivan’s hand slides downward, pressing over Till through his pants.
“Nnngh, Ivan—” Till moans, grinding against Ivan’s fingers. “Need you—ah!”
Ivan swallows Till’s whimpers in the kiss, then moves to mouth at Till’s jaw and neck, and he sinks down to lick at Till’s stomach, along his happy trail. And god, he looks really fucking good on his knees, staring up at Till with dark eyes and messy hair and that stupid fucking costume. His shoulders and biceps bulge in the fishnet, his hands—painted black nails and decorated with gleaming metal rings—are wrapped around Till’s thighs, and his black jeans are tight enough for Till to see Ivan’s cock straining against the fabric. Till, wind knocked out of him from the sight, runs his hands through Ivan’s hair.
Ivan unceremoniously pulls Till’s pants down until they pool at at his ankles, and he guides Till’s legs out one at a time before tossing the pants onto the floor behind him. He sucks marks into Till’s inner thighs, spreading them apart. Till is nearly desperate at this point, trying to move Ivan’s face closer to the wet heat between his legs.
And then Ivan lifts Till clean off the floor and onto his shoulders, so Till is basically sitting on Ivan, back propped against the door, shoes barely skimming the floor. Ivan buries his face in Till and inhales. (When they first got together, it weirded Till out, but now he’s grown accustomed to Ivan’s obsessions.) He licks circles around Till’s clit, lips pressing in gently around his tongue. He sucks lightly and Till curls in on himself.
“Fuck, mmnngh—”
And then Ivan presses in deeper, his nose nudging Till’s clit as he licks between the folds. He pokes shallowly into Till’s hole, hooking his tongue inside him as he sucks at Till’s clit. It’s so wet and warm, and, fuck, Ivan’s hands pull Till’s legs farther apart so he can lap deeper, suck harder—
“Ivan, I’m close,” Till pants, voice wobbling. His fingers clench around fistfuls of Ivan’s hair.
Ivan moans encouragingly, and the vibrations of it sends Till over the edge. His thighs squeeze around Ivan’s head as his orgasm washes over him, bliss crashing through his nerve endings like tidal waves. He’s probably loud enough to hear several rooms away, but Till can’t focus enough to even think about it, much less care about it. Ivan keeps licking Till through it, and Till weakly tries to shove him away, but it doesn’t work. Ivan nudges a finger into Till’s still-spasming cunt and Till cries out, squeezing, trying to get on his tiptoes to escape but it’s no use. Ivan’s fingers just push up further into him, and Ivan’s tongue is lapping at his clit and he sobs as he cums again, head falling back against the door as his body goes limp, save for the sporadic twitches and contractions. He’s leaking all over Ivan’s hands, all over his face, but Ivan slurps everything up.
Till manages to inhale a breath when Ivan’s tongue finally relents and he stands up, leaving Till wobbling on unsteady legs. But his fingers don’t leave. Till panics when Ivan starts to move them.
“Wait, Ivan—please—”
Ivan engulfs him in a kiss.
Two fingers spearing deep inside him, scissoring, spreading him open.
The other hand around his neck, pressing against his thudding pulse.
Ivan’s mouth on his, their tongues slick and messy.
And then Ivan rubs his thumb against Till’s clit and Till is gone—his eyes roll back, his knees shake, and he clenches and flutters around Ivan’s fingers, dripping a puddle onto the floor. Ivan is saying something, but Till can’t hear it. He feels loose in his body, high off pleasure. When he finally returns to reality, Ivan is licking his fingers clean.
“You’re a freak,” Till breathes out.
“Your freak,” Ivan says.
“Mm.”
“Can I fuck you?”
“I don’t have a condom.”
“I do.”
Till stares at him. “Freak.”
Ivan kisses him again, and Till can feel him smiling against his lips. Ivan’s stupid fucking hands start wandering south again, and Till doesn’t think he can survive much more of that, so he breaks away from the kiss, a shiny strand of saliva still connecting the two of them.
“I swear to god, Ivan, if you don’t start fucking me in the next five seconds I will go find someone else to do it.”
Ivan growls.
He picks Till up and hoists him up onto the counter—which is remarkably clean for a frat house—before digging around in his pockets for the condom. Till lifts Ivan’s jersey and spreads himself open, slick pussy fluttering in the open air, aching to be filled. It’s a sly, teasing invitation, and it works: Ivan groans, and Till watches his hard cock twitch when he finally takes it out of his pants.
“Two seconds.” Till is aware that they both know he’s lying; he probably can’t even walk right now, with his legs turned to jello. But Ivan’s reactions spur him on.
Ivan rips the foil clean in half and rolls the condom on.
“One se—”
Ivan sheaths himself inside Till in one hard, deep thrust, bottoming out in a split second. Till forgets how to breathe, filled to the brim.
“No one can fuck you better than I can,” Ivan says roughly.
“Yeah?” Till can barely speak. “Big words for a—mmmngh—” The air is shoved from Till’s lungs when Ivan pulls back and fucks in again, pelvis pressing against Till’s swollen clit.
“Big cock,” Ivan fills in. “Fucking size queen.”
Till smiles up at him.
Ivan lifts both of Till’s thighs up until Till is leaning back, head against the mirror, and the new angle presses Ivan’s cock up into that spot within Till that makes his hips twitch and his vision blur. Ivan grinds slowly against it, intently watching how Till’s eyes roll back.
Ivan rubs at Till’s clit with his fingers and presses gently on Till’s navel as he fucks in and out, thrusts getting faster and faster. Till’s whines start to build, he clenches, he’s so close—and then Ivan’s hands leave. Till whimpers, frustrated, riding the edge, and he reaches down to touch himself, give himself that final push, but Ivan snatches both of Till’s wrists in one hand, holding them up in the air between their bodies.
“You’re going to cum from just my cock,” Ivan says.
“Oh fuck you,” Till bites out, struggling to free his arms.
“Already doing that,” Ivan quips.
Till is about to say something but Ivan starts drilling into him and any response becomes buried in cries and moans. Ivan releases his hands but Till is too busy being rocked, fucked into the counter, into the wall, to remember to use them. Ivan switches to gripping Till’s waist, firm enough to bruise, holding him in place as he drills into Till at a brutal pace, leaning over Till’s quaking body, his disheveled hair dripping sweat. He takes and takes and takes, and fuck, Till is going to split apart, wracked by spasms that shake the words from his brain so he can’t even warn Ivan, beg him to wait just a—
Till convulses, clamping down and squirting around Ivan’s cock. Ivan bites Till’s neck, almost hard enough to draw blood with his fang, and Till cries out, and then Ivan slams deep into Till and cums hard, cock pulsing, throbbing, kicking inside Till’s vise-like cunt. He ruts shallowly against Till through the orgasm, pressing down on Till’s overstimulated clit and Till sobs. His cheeks are wet with tears and his thighs are a sticky mess, trying to squeeze shut but Ivan is so fucking big that Till can’t move an inch. There’s a lewd schlick sound when Ivan pulls out, and Till’s cunt clenches around nothing.
“Fuck,” Ivan exhales.
He takes off the condom, tying it off before walking over to the trash can and throwing it in.
Till makes grabby hands at him and Ivan comes back to swoop Till up in a hug, both their cunt and dick still out. Till plays with Ivan’s collar, tracing his finger across the leather seams, pressing against the metal studs.
“Maybe you should’ve been my dog for Halloween,” Till says after a bit. “I could drag you around by your collar.” He feels Ivan twitch against him.
“Isn’t halloween the time to dress up as something you’re not?” Ivan asks.
Till laughs. “Touché.”
Ivan kisses him again. “Let me clean you up.”
Ivan lifts his ripped black tank up off his body and turns on the faucet, letting it run until it warms up. Till’s eyes graze over the silver chains falling between his pecs. On Ivan’s back, red scratch marks are visible through the fishnet. (Till might have even torn some extra holes, oops.) Ivan wets the shirt and uses it to wipe at the mess between Till’s thighs. He then cleans his dick off and tucks himself back into his jeans.
“Don’t you need that? To wear?”
“Mm, not really.” Once Till’s skin has air dried enough, Ivan helps him back into his football pants. “I’ll just carry it back with us.”
“Shameless.”
“Only for you.” Ivan scoops Till into his arms bridal-style.
“Yeah.” Till turns Ivan’s face towards his and kisses him gently. “I know.”