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In these kinds of situations usually Till would kick Ivan in the shins and accuse him of planning whatever sordid affair that he’s planned and executed against Till, forever a victim of Ivan’s schemes, and Ivan would say: “I don’t know what you mean, Till, everything just kind of happened on its own,” and he would be lying. That’s what usually happens. But in the current situation Till is wrung out like their bedsheets hanging in the sun to dry. His head hurts. His back hurts. His hips hurt. Ivan beams at him, his ears perked up and his tail wagging so fast there’s a breeze. He really is lucky he’s got a handsome face, Till thinks, head pressed against Ivan’s solid shoulder, feeling like death warmed over. At least he’s still able to gather the energy to slap Ivan in the face when Ivan’s hands wander a little too far down. He flicks his tail, annoyed. Especially when Ivan makes that dumb, slack expression that makes his face go all soft. Ivan thumbs one of Till’s ears. Till bites Ivan’s wrist, canines digging into skin.
Anyways. It’s kind of a tragedy. Till always thinks he’s learned his lesson about trusting Ivan, but somehow he always ends up like this: naked in Ivan’s bed. This time Ivan had lured him in with promises of unlimited meat and soju at Till’s favorite barbecue place, and somewhere between Ivan pouring Till his shots and cutting meat up with a pair of scissors and separating Till’s perilla leaves they had ended up kissing in the dingy back alley, smelling of smoke and grilled meat and Ivan’s mouth had tasted like peach soju, and then somehow Till had ended up face down ass up with his tail coiled around Ivan’s thigh, and so on and so forth.
Right now, Ivan’s warm hand pets up his spine, from the base of Till’s tail up to his shoulder blades, slow and syrupy. Till can’t help it—a cat is a cat is a cat. An unwilling rumble builds at the back of his throat. Ivan’s tail thumps against the mattress. Till doesn’t have to look to know that he’s probably making that deranged expression again.
“Stop that,” Till grumbles.
“I’m hard,” Ivan kindly informs him.
Till can feel it, pressed up against his stomach. Ivan’s stupidly big. He’s twitching a little, the tip starting to leak. Till wants to sigh, but his purr kind of gets in the way. His vocal cords are all tangled up, and it’s all Ivan’s fault.
“I’m not letting you fuck me,” Till says. Ivan whines, bucking his hips up hard. Till bounces a little. Ivan never knows his own strength. What a dog.
“Please,” Ivan says. He never has any dignity, either, even though he’s always neat and perfect in front of everyone else. He begs, and he whines, and his hands wander like the world’s going to end if he’s not touching Till. “Till, please, please, can you suck me off at least?”
Till’s not mean enough to blueball him, even if Ivan is an insatiable horndog. And the way Ivan’s ears and tail are drooping would make anyone with a heart sympathetic to his cause, undeniably horny as it might be. Till squints up at him. Ivan sparkles down at him with the enthusiasm of ten thousand puppies.
Till groans. He knows a losing battle when he sees one.
“Fine,” he says, Ivan’s unblinking stare pinning him in place. “Fine, fine. Do whatever you want.”
“Really?” Ivan smiles. His smiles are always vaguely manic-edged. Tinged with horny insanity. “No take backs, okay?” Ivan’s tail wags itself into a blur. Fuck. Too late to regret it now.
Ivan always starts off nice, which is how he manages to manipulate the entire population of people he interacts with. He starts off nice here, too, says: “Open your mouth, Till,” all polite and pleasant, tapping the tip of his dick against Till’s lips.
Till knows better, though. Ivan has the shitty kind of personality that will take a freebie while stealing your entire wallet. Give a dog a bone, and all that. Till licks the precum Ivan smears on his lips and Ivan’s eyes darken in an instant, and he pushes forward until Till’s mouth opens and he’s still careful, still gentle, stroking Till’s ears and the back of Till’s head with one hand while Till tries to swallow him down. It’s stupid that Ivan has height and muscles and a big dick, but that’s maybe why Ivan’s such a freak, too. Balances out, or something. Ivan watches him with an intensity that makes Till’s skin crawl.
“You’re so warm,” Ivan marvels. His tail’s gone stiff behind him, his ears twitching. “You’re so beautiful, Till.”
Till glares. His tail whips around once, twice, curling in the air. He can feel his ears flattening onto his skull. He forces his head forward, opens his mouth wider, thinking shut up shut up shut up as he drools on Ivan’s dick. It’s a little embarrassing. It’s a lot embarrassing. Ivan stares like he’s been starved as a child and has now developed crazily unhealthy eating habits as an adult. It’s heavy, his staring, so Till shoves himself down all the way and chokes, throat spasming.
Ivan’s breathing comes out in pants. His nails are digging into his own thighs, white-knuckled and trembling. Till hums, pleased, and Ivan groans, head thrown back.
A hand lands in Till’s hair, right between his ears. “Till,” Ivan says, his voice pitched soft and deceptively sweet. “I want to fuck your mouth.”
Till can feel himself burning up. More drool slips out from the corners of his mouth. He makes a muffled noise, mouth full of dick, and he taps Ivan’s thigh as a go ahead, and Ivan lights up like a firework.
Ivan really doesn’t hold back. He shoves Till’s head down, all eager, and he thrusts his hips sloppily like he’s never gotten off before. He’s clumsier than usual, maybe, but Till’s too busy choking on dick to really notice a difference. He manages to flatten his tongue against the base of Ivan’s dick though, where the vein is prominent, and Ivan pants like a dog and ruts like a dog because he is a dog. He moves his hips fast, his grip tight on Till’s hair, his dick hot and heavy in and out of Till’s throat. Till squeezes his own thighs together, fidgeting. It’s not that he’s turned on from Ivan fucking his mouth like a toy or anything like that. Till doesn’t have kinks like that. He doesn’t. Then Ivan’s pushing him down until Till’s nose is against Ivan’s stomach, skin on skin, dick really hitting the depths of Till’s throat, and Till makes a nasty wet choked noise, almost a sob, and then Ivan’s knot swells, pressed up against Till’s lips, and he cums.
It’s awful, the taste. Thick and hot and covering the back of Till’s throat. Ivan’s orgasms always last longer than Till’s. He cums a lot. Till has to swallow a little before Ivan’s cum waterfalls out of his mouth. Till feels hot all over. His eyes are wet. Ivan forces his head up, his features blurry in Till’s hazy vision, and he says, a crazed note in his voice, the same one that Till hears when Ivan says I love you, Till when he thinks Till’s unconscious: “I came on your tonsils,” matter of fact like he’s commenting on the weather.
Till’s deciding between “You’re crazy,” and “Go seek professional help,” with his tail lashing against the floor when Ivan hooks his fingers into Till’s mouth. He presses down on Till’s tongue, forcing Till to open his mouth and dribble cum all over his chin. It drips, slowly, onto Ivan’s bedroom floor. Ivan’s smile is wide. Psychotic from euphoria, almost. Till shivers. Ivan hauls him up. Crushes Till into his lap. Licks the remnants of his own cum off Till’s chin.
“Honey,” Ivan coos, tail starting to wag again, “you did so well. Your mouth felt so good. Let’s do it for real, now.”
Till’s mouth says: “Fuck off.” It comes out weak, uncertain, his voice rough. His hands open and close against Ivan’s chest, kneading. Digging his claws lightly into Ivan’s skin. Ivan laughs, one of those quiet, back of the throat laughs that Till only gets to hear when he’s rolling in Ivan’s bed with him. Till likes that laugh, maybe. Likes the rumble in Ivan’s throat and Ivan’s chest. Ivan pats his back, gentle, and then his hand dips lower, and lower, and lower, until he’s got two handfuls of Till’s ass. He squeezes; Till squeaks, and then Till feels the humiliating drip of slick, damp on Ivan’s thigh.
Ivan groans. “You’re wet,” he sighs, shoving his wretched hand between Till’s thighs. His palm grinds against Till’s clit, rough. Till tenses, shuddering, moving up onto his knees, but Ivan loops an arm around his waist and shoves him back down and Till’s trying to close his thighs, but his hips are moving on their own, back and forth, back and forth, riding the meat of Ivan’s palm. “You’re dripping,” Ivan says, the tone of his voice awfully warm, sticky like the air around their sweating bodies. “Till,” he says, his wrist caught tight between Till’s legs, and he’s nearly drowned out by the keen that rips out of Till’s throat, but he repeats Till’s name almost longingly, “Till, Till, you’re so cute, you’re so—“
“Ivannn,” Till grits his teeth around Ivan’s name, two syllables, but his voice comes out high and whining anyways. Ivan’s fingers are digging into the side of his waist, his pupils blown wide, panting into the crook of Till’s neck. Ivan’s tongue is hot against his hammering pulse. The entire length of his hand is sliding wet and slick-smooth against Till’s dripping pussy, and then Ivan makes some kind of unhinged growling noise and digs the heel of his palm against the soft base of Till’s belly, and the wetness building in Till’s eyes spill over, tears welling and dripping as Ivan rubs Till’s swollen clit and pushes his fingers into Till, impatient.
“You’re so warm inside,” Ivan mumbles, sucking on Till’s pulse. His canines are sharp. The left one—the longer one, Till knows, is dragging with ominous intent along Till’s throat. Ivan’s the kind of dog who likes to bite. Till would be more worried about it if Ivan wasn’t currently fingering him open. “So wet,” Ivan continues, like he’s narrating on one of his radio shows, or his dumb social media updates in his stupid silk-smooth voice, “so tight. Do you like my fingers? Are you going to cum?”
“S-stop talking,” Till manages to choke out. Unfortunately, Ivan is well-trained and skilled with his fingers, dexterous enough to fuck Till loose and flick his clit every now and then with his thumb, one-handed. Till does like his fingers. Till is going to cum. He wants to kill Ivan, just a little, especially when Ivan gives him that wide grin that does nothing to mask his narrow-eyed glee. His narrow-eyed hunger. Ivan’s throat bobs with every swallow. His mouth hangs open like he wants to fit his jaw around Till’s neck. Ivan regulates the pace of his fingers, going from slow to fast back to slow, the wet squelch of Ivan feeling up his insides ringing loud in Till’s ears.
“It tickles,” Ivan says. Squelch, his fingers go. Schlick, schlick, schlick. “Your tail.”
“Don’t look,” Till says, his entire person on fire. His tail’s always been hard to control, especially in these kinds of situations. Always curling itself around Ivan’s arm, or his thigh, or even his ankle, if Till’s on his knees. It’s wrapped itself around Ivan’s wrist, the fur damp from Till’s own slick. It’s so humiliating, but at least he’s not the one who’s broken his tail from slamming it too hard against the wall. Ivan kisses the side of his face. Licks a large, sticky wet stripe up Till’s cheek.
“That’s asking for the impossible,” Ivan says, and he’s staring so intently, at Till’s face and between Till’s thighs where his fingers are disappearing into Till’s soft hole. He must see something on Till’s face because he ducks his head, a sudden movement, and he sucks Till’s nipple into his mouth, bites it lightly, and he spreads all three of the fingers inside Till and presses down on Till’s clit and then Till’s wailing and cumming, nails in the meat of Ivan’s shoulders.
Till gets the entirety of Ivan’s hand wet. Up to the wrist. Ivan slides his fingers out and holds them up, wriggling them around in front of Till’s face. They’re wrinkled. Till wants to die.
“That wasn’t your best squirt,” Ivan says, and now Till wants to kill him and then die.
"Can you shut the fuck up," Till says, tugging at Ivan's ear. It's soft. Soft cartilage, soft skin, twitching between Till's fingers, involuntary. Ivan's staring and smiling at the way Till's tail is leaving a significant wet stain on the bedsheets crumpled underneath them, so Till shuts Ivan up with the best way he knows, action over words and all that. He slams his mouth against Ivan's hard enough that Ivan makes a pained little noise.
"Ow," Ivan says first, and then he says: "You're so sexy when you tell me to shut up." His lip is bleeding from where Till's bitten down. Till bites him again. Ivan groans, a little too loud. He licks the blood off his lip and shoves his tongue into Till's mouth with a sort of frenzied excitement, which is standard for Ivan. He's always been so weird about various—various body fluids. Case in point: Till's caught Ivan going through his dirty laundry at least twice, which would usually instigate a bigger argument if Till wasn't always distracted by Ivan's hazy, flushed expression and the boner significantly tenting his pants. Second case in point: Ivan has taken to tracking Till's period cycle with an iron fist clutching iron supplements and a strangely zealous affinity for baking soda as his number one bloodstain removal tool, and he spreads towels all over the bathroom floor and gets down on his knees to beg Till for some truly freaky shit that Till doesn't want to think about. In any rate: Ivan's a strange guy. It's probably his fault that Till's sex-life is getting out of hand. Ivan licks the roof of Till's mouth. He tastes rusty, like blood, and his tongue tickles. Ivan pushes a glob of spit into Till's mouth. Till yells, muffled against Ivan's everything, and he tries kicking Ivan in the balls, but then Ivan catches him by the tail and yanks, hard.
Till yowls. Ivan smiles like a demon, even with Till's nails digging into his scalp. Till's trying to pull out Ivan's hair by the roots the same way he weeds their backyard garden, but Ivan is undeterred. He tightens his grip around Till's tail and with that leverage he lifts Till's hips into the air. Ivan leans down, eyes glinting, and he says: "Now we have the same microbiome in our mouths," which is weird and kinda gross, but that's just Ivan in general—king of weirdness and grossness. Two titles; the Ivan noblesse. "Think about it," Ivan is saying, his hand sweat-slick against the slippery fur of Till's tail, his face rapturously flushed, "our mouth germs are kissing. Like—pilus to pilus. Sharing DNA and everything. Conjugating."
Unfortunately, Till is a stupid (Sua's adjective) young (Hyuna's noun) man (Mizi's noun) who is incredibly susceptible to Ivan's stupidly good-looking face, so instead of doing something normal like saying what the hell and shoving Ivan away, he whimpers at the sound of Ivan saying DNA, or maybe even conjugating, and his pussy starts dripping again.
"Ivan," Till whines, "let go."
"No." Ivan's smiling one of those fang-filled curled-lip smiles that reminds Till of the expression he sometimes makes at Hyuna's pet psycho-bitch, or some random colleague wheedling Till for a favor, or even to Sua when they're having one of those dog-rabbit hissy fits that Mizi finds so adorable—like he wants to dig his fangs into fresh meat. Till claws at him and puts gashes down his shoulders but Ivan just wags his own tail and pulls harder on Till's. "You're wet again," Ivan notes, with the frenzied excitement of a dog who's gone for a frolic in the mud against all its owner's wishes. "Do you like it this much?" Ivan’s knee digs briefly up against Till’s pussy. Another tug and Till's hips are hanging in the air, ass up and cold. He makes a muffled noise into the meat of Ivan's shoulder—something like a sob. He's not crying though. He's not crying.
"Till," Ivan sighs, stroking Till's cheek with his thumb. "Sit on my face?"
"Go die," Till says.
"Wrong answer." Ivan pulls Till's hips up higher, and he slides down until Till's weirdly balanced on his chest, the backs of his knees pressed against Ivan's shoulders. "Sit, please."
Till sits. Ivan makes a pleased noise, buried between Till's thighs. His nose is wet. Till's slick is dripping down the bridge of Ivan's nose. This is the end for him. Till is about to explode and change the trajectory of Ivan's life forever when Ivan slides his tongue in. Ivan moans loud and slurred and he starts sucking sloppily on Till's hole, mumbling half-bitten praises into Till's skin. He's rubbing circles into the side of Till's hip, his blunt nails dragging gently along the edges of Till’s pelvis. Till clamps a hand over his mouth, his belly tensing. Ivan flattens his tongue against Till's clit, and Till throws his head back, trying not to snap Ivan's neck with his knees.
"Ivan," Till cries, "ahh, Ivan, Ivan—"
Ivan moves Till's hips with his grip on the base of Till's tail, his tight grip and his mild tugging, swaying Till to the rhythm of his tongue. It's so unfortunately hot, Till thinks, the dark glint in Ivan's eyes and the obscene wet noises his tongue makes in Till's pussy. Till bends back a little, hand flattening on Ivan's flexing stomach, feeling the muscles shift. There's a sticky puddle pooling in the plane of Ivan's belly. Till runs his fingers through the wetness and Ivan whines, shifting his hips up. The pad of Till's middle finger pokes the head of Ivan's dick. Ivan dribbles precum like crazy. Till's never seen anything like it. Not like Till's been with anyone other than Ivan, though. It's just—it's not normal, is it? Or, actually, is it a dog thing? Till doesn't really know. Till's experience with dogs starts at Ivan and ends at Ivan, and he's never sniffed any other cat's scent on Ivan so it's probably the same for Ivan, with Till. It better be.
"Don't get distracted." Ivan's looking at him like Till is a delicious leaf and Ivan is a particularly thin worm. It's a little crazy, the mania in his eyes. He’s given up on Till’s tail, his hands searing hot on Till’s hips. Till wants to smooth down the flattened, damp fur on his tail, but then Ivan sucks on his clit and moves his tongue and then Till cums. Again. He’s breathless and slumped over Ivan’s head when he realizes there’s something wet and warm on his tail. And his back, but mostly his tail.
“Did you cum on my tail?”
“Yeah,” Ivan sighs, blissful. He’s always had a weird obsession with Till’s tail, especially since he broke the end of it when they were roughing around as kids. It hurt, at the time—Ivan had taken the fist to his face graciously, and he’d licked up all of Till’s tears afterwards. There’s a permanent crook now, near the tip. Ivan likes putting his fingers on it. Or his mouth. Or his cum, apparently. “Can you lick it off when you do your cat-pretzel grooming thing?”
“Go to hell!” Till yelps. He squirms, trying to wipe Ivan’s cum off his fur before it dries and becomes crusty and nasty and stirs Ivan into another horny frenzy. “Ugh, you’re fucking disgusting.” Till swipes his fingers through Ivan’s cum on his fur and then—force of habit, he reaches his hand up to his mouth. Ivan stares, some kind of contemplative euphoria scrawled all over his face.
Then he pounces.
Till hits the mattress head first. He’s still recovering from the abrupt shift in perspective when Ivan flattens himself against Till’s entire body, panting with his tongue hanging out. He’s slobbering, Till realizes, drool dripping onto Till’s skin. There’s something about peering at Ivan’s fangs from this angle that makes them look very large and seemingly very good at shearing flesh, which Till knows as fact, because he’s been the unfortunate witness of how Ivan tears into his steaks in the privacy of their home. In public, Ivan is neat and well-groomed, knife and fork balanced elegantly in his long fingers. It’s only when he’s alone with Till that he’ll forgo the utensils and the pretense that he doesn’t still eat like he’s ten years old and starving, digging out of someone’s trash. Till rubs his thumb against the edge of Ivan’s canine, enamel digging into the pad of his finger. Ivan lights up at the touch, a low whine building at the back of his throat, and he obediently lets Till run his fingers along his teeth, his gums, his tongue.
Ivan drools a lot. Thick, sticky on Till’s skin. Dogs, Till thinks, and then Ivan slots himself between Till’s legs, his dick hard and heavy against Till’s stomach. Ivan pleads wordlessly with the twitching of his hips, sweat beading on his temples. He digs his nails into the mattress by Till’s head, leaving furrows. Till looks at Ivan’s dilated pupils and feels the heat of his ragged breathing, ghosting along Till’s throat, the side of his jaw, and Ivan says, choked: “Till, please, let me put it in.”
Till likes it when Ivan begs. It tickles some strange cat-instinct in his gut, something that Ivan will bring up when Till’s too worn out to fuck and Ivan’s trying to rub one out against Till’s skin, or on his shirt, or on one occasion when Till was feeling particularly generous—in Till’s underwear. Ivan solicits sex with boiling enthusiasm metered out in even doses: the grind of his hips; his mouth against Till’s pulse; the whispered pleas. Ivan is halfway into his thesis on why Till should let him put his dick in Till’s hole with vivid, raving detail when Till starts getting tired of his yapping, so he says: “Fine, okay, just shut up and put it in already,” and Ivan perks up, eyes shining with gratifying gratitude.
“Thank you, honey,” Ivan croons. Then he licks a fat wet stripe across Till’s mouth, his tongue hot like a brand.
Till kicks Ivan’s hip with a foot, spread apart under Ivan’s knife-sharp gaze. “Whatever,” Till grouses. “Just don’t shove it in all at—onnnce?!”
Till can feel himself convulsing, just a little. A stupid choked noise worms itself out of his throat. Ivan laughs, gleeful, their bedroom lights glinting off his fangs. “Sorry, Till,” Ivan says, not sounding sorry at all. He always, always does this—utilizing the combination of his own frenzied begging and methodical foreplay against Till’s limited patience and stamina—the end result is Till giving in to whatever Ivan wants because he’s just so damn annoying about it. Till bites Ivan’s jaw, aggrieved, his ear flicking against Ivan’s face. Ivan laughs and tilts his face away, and then he leans back in for a kiss, a slow brush of his lips followed with chaste pecks over the bridge of Till’s nose. Ivan’s lashes brush against Till’s cheek. He’s probably staring at Till’s pores again. His hips grind against the inside of Till’s thighs in slow, insistent circles.
“F-ffuck—” Till shudders, feeling himself clench tight on Ivan’s dick. Above him, Ivan is still with tension, staring, staring—now that he’s done with annoying Till into putting out, he's gone back to his usual composure. The only consolation is that Ivan’s as flushed and sweaty as Till feels, his skin hot against Till’s. Through the hazy film of tears, Till can see the wondrous gleam in Ivan’s eyes, the rabid edge to his grin. “Ivan, fuck—Ivan—”
Ivan kisses the side of Till’s temple. He fucks into Till slow-fast-slow, timing each thrust in with Till’s exhales. Everything is hot and sticky and Till can hear in ultra-detail the wet slap of skin on skin. Ivan pats Till’s cheek, balancing himself on one forearm and his knees, and he says: “I replaced your birth control with sugar pills,” and then, a delighted trill in his voice: “you just tightened up.”
“No you didn’t,” Till says, immediate, but he’s thinking about the easy way he swallowed his pills this morning, pushed into his mouth by Ivan’s fingers. “You—you didn’t.”
“Who knows?” Ivan sighs, sounding incredibly elated, tail wagging, ears perked up to attention. “We’ll find out after I cum inside. Our little experiment, right, Till?”
“Stop,” Till gasps, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. It’s terrible. Ivan’s terrible—but there’s nothing but white-hot pleasure, the head of Ivan’s dick grinding close to the mouth of his cervix. “Nnnh, Ivan, don’t—ah, don’t cum inside—“
Ivan’s eyes narrow with his smile. “Okay,” he agrees, easy as anything. He licks drool from the corner of Till’s lips, reaching down to pinch Till’s nipple. “If that’s what you want, Till.”
Till sobs. Ivan’s hand wriggles between their bodies, splaying across Till’s belly. “Nno, don’t touch there, I-I’ll—“
Ivan pushes down. “You’ll what, Till?” It’s hot, it’s hot, it’s hot. Ivan is searingly warm, his palm on Till’s stomach, his dick in Till’s pussy. Ivan shoves forward, bears down, and Till’s eyes roll backwards, toes curling in the sheets, claws digging into Ivan’s back, an incomprehensible string of words falling out of Till’s open mouth. Till cums like that, with Ivan pressing down on his womb from the outside, feeling for his own dick inside Till.
“So tight,” Ivan murmurs, sounding pleased. He threads their fingers together, dragging Till’s hand down to where he’s fondling Till’s belly. “Our baby will be here, Till. Cat or dog, what do you think?”
Till’s ears are ringing. He’s shaking all over, hips twitching. Ivan’s thighs are wet from Till’s orgasm, shiny with fluid. “Ivaaaann,” Till sobs, keening when Ivan starts moving again, starts fucking Till again. This time he tilts Till’s hips up, trying to get the head of his dick deeper inside. Till’s panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Ivan moves slow this time, his grip tight on Till’s wrists, grinding deeper and deeper with each thrust.
“Your tail,” Ivan says. “You’re so cute, Till, so cute—“
Till knows his tail is probably curling around Ivan’s thigh again. Or stroking the base of Ivan’s wagging tail. He doesn’t really care anymore, at this stage—too busy chasing Ivan’s slow rhythm with his stuttering hips. “Faster, Ivan, go faster—“
Ivan makes a kind of growl, rumbling in the back of his throat. “Say you want to get pregnant.”
“I—“ Till hesitates, but then Ivan’s thrusting grinds to a halt, and then desperation wells over and up. “I want to get pregnant! I want to get pregnant—Ivan, please, cum inside—“
“Okay,” Ivan sings, and Till’s fallen for Ivan’s ploy again, hasn’t he, but Ivan’s on top of him and around him and inside of him and it doesn’t really matter anymore, because Till can hardly hear a word Ivan is saying, the feverish muttering in his ear a barely there blur. It feels so good. It feels so good. Till’s thighs fall open, wider, and Ivan laughs, fucks him harder, harder, harder—
Till’s pretty sure he blacks out for a bit. When he comes to his senses Ivan’s already popped his knot, brows furrowed, teeth grinding, chasing his own orgasm with Till’s pliant body. Till arches his tail to brush at Ivan’s balls. Ivan yelps, loud and pathetic, and then he starts cumming. Ivan nudges against Till’s mouth, cycling back to pleading again, and Till sucks Ivan’s tongue into his mouth.
It’s a whole thing, with Ivan’s knot. It takes an average of fifteen minutes for it to deflate completely, and by the time Ivan goes soft Till’s been coaxed through another orgasm by Ivan’s wandering fingers. Till’s exhausted, and it’s Ivan’s fault, as always.
Nothing really ever changes between them. Ivan beams at Till, tail wagging up a frenzy, listening to Till's quiet purring. It’s too bright, so Till knees him in the gut.