Work Text:
It begins, as most disasters do, with fanfiction. Ivan. And a train that’s already pulling out of the station.
Why a train?
Excellent question.
Why not a private jet? Too ostentatious. Too disconnected from reality. Till may be famous, recognisably, internationally, memorably famous, but he’s the kind of celebrity who promotes composting. The kind who still uses the same reusable grocery bags he got for free at the supermarket in 2014. The kind who brings the same chipped ceramic mug to every single shoot no matter the budget, no matter the country. It has a faded cartoon tiger on the front and a hairline crack along the handle that he pretends not to notice. It’s absurdly sentimental. He’s absurdly sentimental.
Why not a car? Well “Too many pedals,” Ivan had explained once, like he were a sheltered medieval prince. And Till’s manager? Sunghoon… Sunghoon had drove him exactly once. A three-hour ordeal that ended with a paparazzo collapsing in the middle of an intersection, overwhelmed by his insane swerving and borderline maniacal speed. After that, Till made it clear, no more long rides with Sunghoon. Better to take the train, predictable, steady, and mercifully free of any near-death experiences.
The train just makes sense. Trains have order. They move forward with conviction. They have a spine, a beginning, a middle, and an end. Compartments with sliding doors, clean lines, soft lighting. A rhythmic hum that settles into your bones, steady and soothing, like a heartbeat just beneath the floorboards. Trains offer the illusion of isolation. The comfort of scheduled departure, finite destination, and just enough time in between to pretend nothing else exists.
Trains offer privacy.
Trains offer peace.
And peace is exactly what Till needs.
He’s tucked into a private booth near the end of his car, there are a couple of other booths but they’re notably empty today. Nestled in his carefully curated pod of anonymity, with the curtains drawn, an oversized hoodie and a travel blanket wrapped around him like a protective spell. Till is at the peak of comfort.
His headphones are in, even though he isn’t playing anything. His phone is cradled in one hand, angled with practiced precision, again even though he’s in a private booth he tilts the screen away from imaginary strangers.
He’s not answering emails today. He isn’t reviewing lines either. Not meditating, though that would probably be the mentally healthier choice.
He’s doom-scrolling the Ivantill AO3 tag like it’s the last thing tethering him to this planet.
He tells himself it’s a joke. A harmless indulgence. Just a weird, semi-pathetic coping mechanism, like stress-baking or his recent chess obsession.
But really, it’s his attachment to a fic that’s dropped three days ago.
The author is observant, it almost feels as if they’ve been spying on him through the cracks of his walls. They write him with a childish tone that Till finds hard to apply to himself but has accepted now that he’s read his fair share of Ivantill fics. But beyond that this person seems to perfectly write Ivan’s laugh - unpredictable, bright, suddenly everywhere. Somehow capturing the way his joy always seems like a pleasant surprise.
Till hadn’t opened the fic right away. He’d saved it. Held onto it like a bottle of fine wine, like the last chocolate in a luxury box. Work on set had been brutal this week, long days, bad lighting, a director who thought “organic chemistry” meant throwing two pretty people at each other and hoping they didn’t flinch. Till had felt like a puppet made of thin thread by the end of it. He’s sure Rotten Tomatoes are about to hand him his ass on a platter, but he can’t make himself care.
Because right now?
Right now the train rocks gently beneath him. The world outside is a watercolor blur of trees and pale evening light. His limbs are loose, heavy with exhaustion. His chest, that’s been tight for days, finally feels like it’s slowly beginning to exhale.
Right now everything feels perfect.
He’s been reading the fic for a while and has been fighting the urge to cry.
Fake-dating. Exes. A small seaside town. Ivan is a dentist. Till owns a cursed lighthouse. The premise should be absurd, but it works, painfully so. The banter is sharp and alive. The pacing is both slow and fast enough to be engaging. And the line Till’s stopped at is so moving he has to look for a distraction. He stares out the window for a full minute just to process his emotions.
He blinks hard. Swallows. Re-reads it and quickly switches tabs. He’ll treat himself to some smut to stop his tears from escaping. Then he’ll go right back to the beautiful seaside backdrop.
And that’s when it happens.
The door to the compartment hisses open.
He doesn’t look up. Not at first. It’s probably nothing. An attendant with overpriced coffee and complimentary snacks. Maybe a lost child or an old woman.
Instead all Till hears is heavy, uneven breathing. The kind of sound you only recognise if you’ve heard it a hundred times in dressing rooms, green rooms, hallways… dreams.
Footsteps follow, someone trying not to sound impatient, which only makes them sound more so.
A soft, awkward thud, a suitcase wheel snagging on the threshold.
Till stills. Every muscle of his held in a delicate stasis.
No.
No, no, no. Absolutely not.
And then a familiar deep voice hits him.
Muffled beneath a mask. Familiar and smiling.
“Sunbae?”
Till’s head snaps up.
Ivan stands in the doorway, framed in the soft corridor light like something out of a fever dream. He’s wearing a black surgical mask and a jacket, one Till recognises immediately. He’d borrowed it during a brutally cold night shoot when the director was running two hours late, and no one had dared to speak above a whisper. That jacket, still has the same old loose thread dangling from its right cuff.
Ivan’s hair is a mess, damp and windblown, as if he’s sprinted through half the station and lost a fight with the weather on his way. His suitcase sags against his leg at an awkward angle, leaning to one side.
Behind the mask, Ivan’s eyes crinkle with unmistakable delight.
He’s grinning.
Till’s phone nearly slides from his fingers.
“Ivan,” he says, voice flat with disbelief, breath caught in his throat. “What the actual fuck.”
Ivan pauses mid-step, gaze flicking with casual concern. “Your manager didn’t tell you?”
Till’s jaw clenches. A thousand unread texts from said manager flash behind his eyes. He pinches himself, once, twice, and again, as if that might undo this entire moment.
“I… I can leave, if it’s weird. I’m sorry Sunbae.” Ivan offers, already backing toward the door. “He just said we were going the same way and–”
“No,” Till snaps, sharper than intended. Then he softens, forcefully. “No. Stay.”
Because logic, or some mangled version of it, reminds him that Ivan sitting out in the public rows would be a disaster. Mobbed in minutes. Chaos. He can’t have that on his conscience, or worse, in the tabloids.
Till shakes his head, brushing away that dangerously vivid thought like it’s some sort of filthy bug clinging to his skin. “No, no. Come sit. I was just confused. How could I possibly send you to the public section? You’d be swarmed by fans. Stay here.”
Ivan regards him with an unsettling calm, like he’s measuring something invisible, peeling back layers of Till’s skin with those dark, penetrating eyes of his. They seem to bore straight into Till’s hyperactive, restless heart. What exactly is he searching for? Till’s not sure if it’s basic analysis or simple amusement. All Till wants is for him to sit down.
But the second Ivan takes a step forward, something inside Till seizes, tightens like a snare yanked deliberately. He goes rigid, caught. Unarmed. Exposed.
His breath hiccups.
Because there’s a tiny, ridiculous, completely unhinged voice in his head whispering - He knows.
He knows about the fanfiction. About the obsessive scrolling through the Ivantill tag. What if he knows about the account with the stupid, punny username Till created at 3 a.m. midway through a depressive spiral?
The idea is laughable.
And yet Till’s skin prickles with the sharp, absurd panic that Ivan has somehow read his AO3 bookmarks. That he’s memorised every single longing glance Till has ever sent his way.
Till swallows hard, embarrassed and exposed. The story Ivan’s given him about his manager? Thin at best. More like a feeble distraction. Yet, oddly, there’s a part of him that doesn’t entirely mind the idea of Ivan perhaps stalking him. Hell, once he’d read a fic where Ivan did exactly that, three years of slow, obsessive following, and parts of it had felt almost... tender. But that was fiction. This is terrifyingly real.
The door clicks shut behind Ivan, locking away the noise of the corridor and the world beyond their booth. He slides in beside Till, close enough that their arms brush, an electric spark igniting where they meet.
And then, inevitably, Ivan leans in, curiosity leading him towards the harsh blue glow of Till’s phone screen.
The still-open AO3 tab stares back at the both of them.
For a single, infinite second, Till’s soul ejects from his body and ascends somewhere above the train car, hovering in sheer, mortified disbelief. It’s too late. It’s far too late. His life is over. His career, his livelihood, everything. Hiding the screen is pointless by now. It’ll look even worse. Maybe he can just play this off as plain nosiness. He can still save himself, yes he can.
Ivan squints slightly at the screen, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “Oh? Reading again?” he says, voice light, but laced with a playful spark. “You know I saw your Vanity Fair interview the other day. Didn’t realise Sunbae was such a bookworm. How cool.”
Till wants the Earth to split open beneath the train tracks. He can hear it in Ivan’s voice. He won’t believe any other explanation now. In his head Till wants to be bent over a table and– Well that is Till’s imagination but that’s not the point. Holy fuck Till has never prayed so hard for a train to spontaneously combust. Or to be abducted by aliens. Anything, anything, to not be here right now, pinned under Ivan’s amused gaze whilst explicit Ivantill fanfiction glares up at the both of them.
Now Till knows the truth. He exists with the distinct knowledge that God has abandoned him and left him for dead.
Ivan hums, low, amused, and far too pleased for someone who’s just caught his Sunbae reading smut about the two of them.
Ivan quietly tilts his head, gaze still fixed on the screen with a kind of casual curiosity that feels criminally suggestive. He should be flustered. Horrified. At the very least, a little pink in the face. But no, instead he’s the picture of cool detachment, as if stumbling across explicit fanfiction featuring the two of them is yet another regular Tuesday.
Till fumbles. His thumb spasms against the screen in a last-ditch effort to shut the tab, delete the evidence, burn the entire internet. But it’s hopeless. AO3 remains open, glowing bright and damning. And Ivan, damn him, doesn’t retreat. If anything, he shifts even closer. Their shoulders press, and it feels so much like a test. As if he’s watching to see exactly how much pressure it’ll take before Till combusts.
“You always read with the brightness this high?” Ivan asks, voice light and teasing. “Or is this just a special occasion?”
Till wants to respond. He really does. But his throat is locked. The words can’t make it past the sheer, suffocating embarrassment congealing in his chest.
Ivan turns to him fully now, eyes bright and dark, curiosity painting every corner of his sparkling face.
“Was it good?” Ivan asks softly.
That’s it. That’s the final nail in the already very dead coffin. Till feels his entire body seize up.
“I– what?”
Ivan leans in some more as if it’s even possible at this point. It’s just enough for his breath to hover right over Till’s cheek, warm and intimate.
“The fanfic,” he says. “The one you were reading. Don’t pretend you weren’t. Was it good? Was I good Sunbae?”
Was I good, Sunbae?
The question loops, merciless and unkind, bouncing between the charred walls of Till’s skull. His neurons are a pinball machine of humiliation. Was I good, Sunbae? Was I good, Sunbae? It won’t stop. He wants to evaporate, truly, just dissipate into steam and float out of the train booth through some goddamn ventilation shaft. Or, at the very least, flatten into something simple and ignorable, like a receipt, or a crumpled up bus ticket. Something Ivan would step on without noticing.
But no, he has to be flesh. He has to be warm and breathing and red-cheeked and extremely, disastrously alive, with Ivan looking at him like this.
Till coughs. A desperate, dying noise, trying to reroute the nuclear fallout going off in his chest. His hand fumbles upward, half-hearted, he presses against Ivan’s shoulder in a way that is meant to be dismissive. It’s not. Ivan, however, the obedient junior, draws back immediately, but not without consequence. His gaze lingers, intense, far too composed. Those stupidly dark eyes of his are doing that thing again. Where they swear they see everything, a pair of CCTV cameras.
“I didn’t–” Till begins, words tripping over each other. “I didn’t read it, it was for a role. Research. I’m an actor, we’re actors, you know, method acting. You’re just–” His throat tightens. “You’re my biggest ship on AO3.”
Ivan’s face remains unreadable. Not blank. Studious. He’s thinking. God forbid.
One beat. Then another. Ivan’s brows lift ever so slightly, he seems to enjoy the idea of being on the top of the rankings.
“Then we should read it together.”
Till stares. There really is no God.
“We’re in a private booth,” Ivan continues, serene. “It’s soundproof. Good for practice.”
“Practice?” Till’s voice cracks like a kicked dog’s. Somewhere deep inside, his dignity lights itself on fire and jumps out of a window.
Ivan nods. “Tone, dialogue. I want to learn from you Sunbae. Well, unless…” His head tilts. “Did you have a different kind of practice in mind?”
His smile is gentle. The implications are anything but.
Till sputters. Flails. His body is practically vibrating from the sheer secondhand embarrassment. “I haven’t slept. I mean– I’ve been sleep-deprived, that’s why I was looking. For– For inspiration. Not like that. God. Maybe we should nap. Or not nap. Or sleep. Or pretend none of this happened. Are you tired? I’m tired. We should–”
Ivan calmly, deliberately, picks up Till’s phone from where it has been tragically left unlocked. (Till makes a mental note to write a cease and desist letter to Apple.)
The silence as Ivan scrolls is somehow louder than a plane crash.
“Breeding kink?” Ivan reads aloud, expression unreadable. “Size difference. Belly bulge. There really is some range here.”
Till turns away, his blanket pulled over his head like he’s performing a seance to summon the version of himself that still has dignity and self-respect. However, that Till is long dead.
“I’m not judging,” Ivan says softly. “I’m just excited.”
It’s the worst possible thing he could have said. Because it sounds so incredibly sincere.
Till hears the words through the cottony barrier of his blanket, the insulation muffling the sound but not his curiosity. Excited - that’s what Ivan’s said. It’s ridiculous. So ridiculous it pulls a twitch out of Till’s brow, his head turns despite himself. Because why on Earth would Ivan be excited? Disgusted, maybe. Horrified, probably. Excited however, is so ludicrously out of place it’s practically criminal.
And yet.
When Till peeks over his shoulder, he’s met with the color of blood and bad intentions. Ivan’s eyes are their typical red, absurdly so, like twin warning signs dressed up in his pretty-boy gloss. He’s always looked strange to Till, handsome, yes, but in that uncanny way where his good looks just make everything feel worse. As if being attractive gives Ivan a special license to be a secret freak.
“Ivan, you’re not excited,” Till spits out, wriggling out the blanket like a panic-stricken animal. “You’re lying. You’re going to rat me out to Dispatch and ruin my whole life and I’m going to be jobless and publicly humiliated, and probably live in a ditch, and–”
His voice breaks. He doesn’t even feel the tears until his vision begins to blur. His hands flap wildly. “I’m a shitty person. And I’m an even worse senior. I deserve terrible things to come my way!”
Ivan stares, unnervingly still. It’s not the look of someone trying to reassure Till. It’s not pity either. Rather a hungry, sharpened emotion. A quiet sort of delight blooms behind his lashes, it’s as if he’s just stumbled across a rare butterfly that he plans to trap in a jar.
The Till he remembered from the Alien Stage set had been nothing like this. That Sunbae had been composed, competent, frustratingly cool-headed. Ivan had spent an ungodly amount of time trying to earn scraps of praise from him, sometimes just to see if the man could smile. He hadn’t dared hope his fantasy could be remotely real. But now– Oh, now, the real thing sobs right by him and it’s so much better than his imagination ever could have conjured it up to be.
Ivan moves slowly, deliberately. One hand landing on the nape of Till’s neck, coaxing. The other tugs his blanket aside with the care of a man unwrapping something so fragile it might break. He guides Till forward until he’s straddling him, knees bracketing Ivan’s thighs, their chests pressed so close it’s almost like their hearts fight through the bone to meet.
“Sunbae,” Ivan murmurs against his cheek, “you’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be.” Then, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, he continues “I fantasise about you all the time, you know. Crying. Wearing cute underwear. On your knees… Also, I really like knotting.”
Till goes rigid.
Not just with confusion, but in a full-body What the actual fuck did you just say to me kind of paralysis. His head jerks back just enough to see Ivan’s face, and the bastard is calm. So calm it’s obscene.
“…What?” Till croaks, barely a whisper, his face already burning with humiliation. Which is great. Fantastic. Just what he needs.
Ivan hums. Thumb brushing under Till’s tear filled eyes, slow and warm, as if it’ll erase any of the damage. “My fic preferences,” he replies, utterly shameless. “Keep up, Sunbae. What do you like?”
Till pounds at his chest with both fists, ineffectual, childish, but Ivan doesn’t even flinch. The bastard probably finds it cute. “Let me go! I’ll report you. I’ll end your career first before you ruin mine! You’ll never work again!”
Ivan, ever so obliging, tries to lift Till away from him. Key word - tries - because the second he does, Till’s fingers claw into the back of his sweater like he’s ready to tear holes through it. His thighs tense around Ivan’s waist, refusing to budge.
“Sunbae,” Ivan whispers, lips ghosting against the shell of his ear. “You have to let go.”
But Till’s still shaking. Still crying. Still mortified beyond belief. Especially at the slow, traitorous heat forming between his legs. The stickiness gathering there, the way his body responds even as his brain screams no. This is Ivan’s fault. All of this is his fault.
Ivan’s hand glides down, a teasing weight across Till’s thigh. He stops just short of the obvious tension beneath his jeans. “Oh… Sunbae,” he murmurs with faux concern, “this is a bit of a problem.”
“A big problem,” Till whimpers, clutching tighter, pressing himself impossibly close as if Ivan’s scent, cool like snow, sharp like citrus, anchors him.
“I tried to be good. Professional. I–”
Ivan laughs softly, palming him through the denim of his jeans with casual cruelty. “Mmhm, More like a small problem, don’t you think?”
Till lets out a strangled cry and swats him in retaliation, but it’s all bark and no bite. “Asshole. You’re an impolite asshole.”
“You know… I locked the door on my way in,” Ivan says sweetly, kissing the words into the corner of Till’s mouth. “Didn’t want anyone to bother us.”
Till makes a wounded sound in response, something that curls up in Ivan’s chest and glows. It’s too much. Far too much.
“…Is it really small?” Till mumbles after a long beat, voice barely audible but laced with such raw insecurity that Ivan stills. Not from guilt, he doesn’t believe in guilt, not with Till in his lap practically begging for it. Rather what hits him instead is the sheer, aching absurdity of the situation. Of course Till would worry about this. Of course he’d twist a teasing remark into a failing of his own.
Ivan’s grin returns, lazy and wolfish. “Good things come in small packages,” he says, pushing down harder, watching Till squirm. “And not to be impolite, Sunbae, but I don’t think you’ll be using it much anyway.”
Till lifts his head just to glare, all puffy-eyed and indignant. “Who says I can’t try?”
Ivan watches him, this beautiful mess of a man who thinks he’s in control of anything right now. Who honestly believes he’s capable of topping when he can’t even sit still without sobbing into Ivan’s neck.
“I guess,” Ivan says gently, voice dropping low as his hand moves back to the fly of Till’s jeans. He doesn’t want to push too hard, especially not when Till’s already sleep-deprived and unraveling in his lap. He pops a button and unzips smoothly. “But I don’t like the idea of bottoming.”
Till’s face goes through a whole cycle of emotions in a matter of seconds, surprise, confusion, then a kind of crushed disappointment that morphs weirdly into relief. The offer had indeed been a sacrificial duty he’d prepared himself for, and now that he knows he doesn’t have to go through with it, he obediently folds into Ivan like a content, slightly embarrassed cat.
Still his cheeks are glowing now, practically radioactive. “But– but I’m older than you!” he continues to insist, as if that explains anything.
Ivan blinks at him. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He has no words, because of course Till’s reasoning would be this absurd. Of course he thinks it’s his job to take care of things just because he’s the elder, as if sexual dynamics follow the same rules as an office hierarchy.
Sometimes Ivan wishes - desperately - that Till would just get it. That he’d stop trying to carry the whole world on his shoulders and simply realise the best way to take care of at least Ivan, is to stop thinking he has to do everything for him. To stop making ridiculous offers out of guilt or obligation. It would be better if he just bent over the nearest table, and let Ivan wreck him completely.
Kindly. Lovingly. Repeatedly.
Ivan sighs again, more amused than exasperated. He curls his fingers deeper into Till’s waistband.
“You’re cute when you try to be responsible,” he murmurs. He dips further to squeeze.
The effect is instant. Till’s back arches, his whole body goes taut with shock, and then, because he has no pride left to defend, he squeaks, “Ivan– I’m your Sunbae.”
Ivan almost laughs. He doesn’t, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “And?”
“I have to take– take care of–” His voice breaks off into something breathless and high-pitched. He clamps down on the sleeve of his shirt like it’ll help staunch his moans.
Ivan starts stroking him properly now, no gentleness in the way he moves. It’s almost cruel, the way he draws these noises out of Till with such precision. “Don’t worry, I’ll be taken care of once I’m inside you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of Till’s ear. “The most thoughtful thing you could do, Sunbae, is open yourself up for me. That’s care. That’s love. Isn’t it so simple?”
Till jolts, his whole body curling inwards, too sensitive to respond properly. His breath hiccups in little sobs, gasps catching in his throat like a sea of birds caught in a cage. One of his trembling hand fists in Ivan’s hair and yanks, hard, but it barely fazes him. If anything, it spurs Ivan on.
“Shut up,” Till breathes, as if it’ll stop the flood. “Shut up, shut up, shut up–”
But he keeps grinding down against Ivan’s hand, helpless and soaking, the slick mess of it coating Ivan’s palm, his own thighs, even the rough seam of his jeans.
There’s drool dripping from his chin now, catching in the dip of his collarbone. He looks wrecked, eyes glassy, mouth permanently lodged open by an invisible force, probably the same force wrenching all these sounds out of him. His brow is all scrunched up with that stupid little crease Ivan obsesses over. A masterpiece, honestly. A masterpiece that Ivan looks down upon. His fantasies are nothing compared to this Till.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper, reverent. Then he grabs Till’s wrist and presses it down against the tent in his own sweats. “See what you’ve done to me?”
Till’s pupils blow wide at the heat he finds there, his fingers twitch like they don’t know if they should hold or flee. Ivan let him choose knowing full well he’ll stay. “And I haven’t even prepped you yet,” he breathes. “So good for me, Sunbae. So generous. So caring.”
Till chokes. Gapes. Tries to roll his hips again but it’s all clumsy now, the rhythm’s been shattered, his body twitches with little aftershocks of need. “I can’t–” he gasps, eyes flitting from Ivan’s mouth to his lap and back again. “I can’t possibly take that–”
Ivan huffs out a laugh, low and filthy. “Already thinking ahead? That’s what I like best about you,” he says, and then he leans close enough to bite the words against the shell of Till’s ear. “Always planning.”
And then Till breaks. Or maybe he finishes. His words dissolve into a slurry of nonsense, body locking up around the core of his own pleasure. “Fuck you– Hnghh- Haaah.”
He clings to Ivan like he’s afraid of floating off the train entirely. With a simmering rage he bites down on the collar of Ivan’s shirt, teeth digging into the cotton. He imagines it’s Ivan’s flesh, because he’s being mean and soft all in one breath, and also because he deserves it.
Ivan rears Till’s head away a second later, choosing to pull him in for a kiss whilst he rides out the final seconds of his high.
It’s a sloppy thing. All tongue and no coordination. If taking the lead helps Till feel in control, Ivan will give it to him. If Till gets his feed of thinking he’s taken enough initiative. If he feels he’s been caring enough he’ll cool down, and so Ivan allows Till to desperately lick into his mouth like he’s been starved.
Till falls apart seconds later, convulsing in Ivan’s arms, hips twitching with the last few spasms of his pleasure. He moans into Ivan’s mouth, filthy and raw, too worn out to even be embarrassed with himself.
Then he sags, trembling in Ivan’s lap, face buried in his chest. There’s a little sob in there somewhere. Not sadness, exactly, just the dazed confusion of someone who’s been thoroughly put through the wringer.
He’s barely coherent, draped like a sack of wet laundry, short hair stuck to his forehead from the heat of it all, and Ivan, unrelentingly, is half-laughing, half-panting, doting on him like a fool with hands that don’t know where to rest. One’s patting his back, the other is digging for tissues from a nearby box, as if he’s about to clean up a war zone.
“You sleepy, Sunbae?” comes his voice, too breathless to be smug but trying anyway. Ivan never knows when to shut up.
Till hums in response, a low, syrupy sound, mouth barely moving. “Mmmh. No. Not yet.”
Till’s hand shifts, slowly, even his fingers are sleepy. He should stop. He knows he should stop. His entire body feels like it’s been wrung out and left in the sun to dry, but still, his palm presses down over Ivan’s cock like a reflex. Thoughtless. Lazy. Curious.
Ivan throbs up against him through soft cotton, the shape of heat and want. This raging boner, it’s been waiting for Till to remember its existence because Ivan sure as hell hasn’t been planning to do anything about it despite all his big talk. Surprisingly, he’s as selfless as he’s characterised to be in fan fiction. All he wants is for Till to sleep now.
A little breath leaves Till before he even means to let it out. “‘S not fair if I don’t,” he mutters. The words come out half-melted, a drawl with no bite, and right before he can even angle for sexy, a yawn claws out of his throat and kills the mood entirely. Sexy. Sure.
Ivan groans, exasperated and fond in equal measure. “As much as I’d love that, you’re ten seconds away from passing out.”
Till peels one eye open. “I’ve done crazier things with less energy.”
He can’t see Ivan’s face from where he’s collapsed, half on top of him like he’s heat-struck, but he still feels the change. Ivan’s most probably displeased that Till hasn’t felt fulfilled enough from controlling most of their obscene kissing.
There’s a little hitch in Ivan’s breath. Classic. He’s about to wax poetry about his immeasurable gratitude and puppy love and whatever other nonsense he holds close to his Till Sunbae shaped heart.
Sure enough he begins, “Stop assuming how I feel. You could tell me to die right now and I’d find it fair. You’ve given me so much today, this is worth my everything, my–”
Till cuts him off the only way he’s learnt how today, by shoving his mouth against his, and kissing him like he’s trying to drown them both in his spit.
It’s a mess of a kiss. Sloppy, slow and all tongue, they’re both trying to win a competition of neediness but neither of them knows the rules.
Ivan groans into it, quiet, reverent, like Till’s ruined mouth is holy ground itself.
Eventually, somehow, Till peels himself off Ivan. He rolls to his side like a corpse reanimating. He manages to kneel, sort of. His legs are useless, his balance nonexistent, and the train jolts like it’s trying to throw him into a wall. He breathes through it.
Then, with a kind of quiet stubbornness only exhaustion can give birth to, he bows his head and drags his mouth along the front of Ivan’s boxers.
Wet kisses. Slow, heavy. Too messy to be graceful, too reverent to be obscene. He’s not even sucking yet, not really, just mouthing at the heat there, letting his spit seep into the fabric in damp little patches, marking Ivan like he wants everyone on this damn train to know he’s his.
Ivan breathes like he’s seconds from coming untouched.
And Till, sloppy and stubborn and half-asleep, smiles against the wet cotton and does it again.
“Gonna blow you,” he rasps, slack-jawed and shameless. “Then I’ll sleep.”
Ivan lets out something between a sigh and a whimper. “Sunbae. Seriously–”
“I won’t film next season if you don’t shut up.”
It’s cruel, even for him, and Ivan goes quiet like he’s just been stabbed. Then, with no further protest, a large hand settles in Till’s hair. Till lets himself go limp in that hold. His head tips forward until his cheek rests against Ivan’s strong thigh. Warm, solid, alive. For all of the fictional Ivan’s Till has consumed, this Ivan is so breathtakingly real. It’s maddening.
He mouths along the shape beneath the fabric again, this time with a little more purpose. A rosebud of a mouth, Ivan had once said that about his lips at a cast after party. Till had rolled his eyes so hard they’d nearly fallen out. But maybe, now, he gets it. Maybe, now, he doesn’t care because Ivan clearly likes thinking of Roses with every single press of his lips.
Eventually, Till yanks Ivan’s boxers down and the thing slaps against his stomach like it’s got a life of its own. It's a flushed, angry sort of red, as if it’s personally offended by Till’s inexperience. Till stares. Dumbly. Tries to calculate whether it’ll even fit.
Ivan’s cock is ridiculous.
“Oh,” he says, vaguely mortified. He reaches forward, then pulls back, like the damn thing might bite. “I… haven’t done this before.”
Ivan stiffens.
“Never?”
A pause. Then a calloused thumb and forefinger stretch Till’s jaw, tipping it open with quiet intent. “Open up. I’ll guide you.”
Till nods, barely, and murmurs, “Okay… be nice.”
And Ivan, surprisingly, is. At first. He coaxes himself in with slow, steady motions, lets Till adjust to the stretch. The burn. The slick pressure against the back of his throat. It’s obscene, honestly how much he fills him, how his cock feels like it’s rooted deep in Till’s chest.
Till gags once. Then again. And when Ivan cups his cheeks, fingers splayed along the hinge of his jaw, he finds himself choking around the weight of him and still trying to impress, still trying to inch forward. His own fingers curl tight around Ivan’s thigh, blunt nails digging in like he’s bracing for impact.
Ivan groans. Deep and throaty. “Not nice enough?”
Till shakes his head. Tries again. He needs to do better.
That earns him a low chuckle. It’s Ivan’s typical bastard hybrid of fondness and ridicule, the kind always found in Ivantill fics. Till’s still adjusting to handling it in real life.
“I should praise you,” Ivan drawls, voice sticky with heat. “Didn’t you like that when we were filming? I could tell. You lit up every time the Director said your lines were good.” A pause, deliberate. “Want me to tell you how desperate you look? How hot your mouth feels?”
He reaches up, runs a thumb beneath Till’s eye, gently tugging at the skin. “You look like you might pass out, baby. Let’s stop.”
That gets an immediate reaction, a muffled groan and a hard suck, like Till’s punishing him for the suggestion. Ivan hisses and his fingers squish down harder against Till’s burning cheeks.
“You’re being a brat.” Ivan says, half-laughing.
Till flutters his lashes in agreement. He’d be anything Ivan wants so long as he asks. His brat, his sunbae, maybe both. Till whimpers. His jaw aches, his throat’s gone all raw, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to. Maybe because this is the first time in weeks he hasn’t been alone with his thoughts. Maybe because the exhaustion makes every brush of Ivan’s skin feel like salvation itself. Maybe because he just wants someone to hold his face like this, like he’s the center of the world or maybe even the world itself.
Ivan leans forward, voice gravel-rough. “Keep your pretty eyes open. Keep looking at me.”
Till does. Tearful. Humiliated but driven to succeed. Glowing in the low train lights like a fever dream.
He keeps going, not gracefully, not well, but with a kind of reckless devotion that makes up for everything he lacks. His rhythm is off, and it’s all far too wet. Honestly it doesn’t look comfortable for either of them, but Ivan can't stop watching him. There’s something captivating in the way Till throws himself into it, like if he just tries hard enough, he can pretend he’s done this before. Like he can outpace the shame of his inexperience, through the sheer force of his will.
The train rattles beneath them, muted in their locked compartment. The curtains are still drawn thick velvet shut tight around the little brass railings, and the door's bolted. No one can see a thing. No one can hear a thing. It’s just them and the small overhead light and the heavy smell of sweat and sex between them.
Ivan sits slouched against the booth’s cushions, legs parted, one arm slung across the backrest. His breath stutters.
“All the rumours about you sleeping your way to the top… Well, those were lies weren’t they.” Ivan mutters hoarsely.
Till hums around him, a little muffled noise. He’s annoyed at the patronising tone but too full to talk back. He gags again, just slightly, not enough to stop, and Ivan lets out a strained laugh. “It’s okay, you’re still pretty.”
As Ivan finishes his thousandth compliment of the day, the train suddenly jerks.
A full-bodied halt. A violent lurch as the brakes scream somewhere up front. A woman over the intercom says something about a false alarm and thinking an animal had slipped onto the tracks. Her warm voice however, isn’t enough to stop Till from slipping forward on instinct, too slow to brace himself. He chokes, wet and awful, mouth too full with Ivan, eyes brimming with tears.
And that, somehow, is what sends Ivan over the edge.
His whole body snaps tight. He groans through his teeth, sharp and guttural, and one hand flies back to Till’s hair, not to force him even deeper but to make sure he doesn’t choke himself with that insane stubbornness of his. Ivan’s hips twitch once, uncontrolled, and Till whimpers.
It’s a mess. His cum gets everywhere. Till pulls back coughing, the taste obvious on his tongue. His nose is scrunched up, a glossy trail catching on his bottom lip.
Ivan exhales like he’s been put through a fucking meat grinder. His eyes are glazed over, but he still reaches forward, lazy, fond, and kisses Till.
Till jerks back instantly.
“What the fuck–” he coughs again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did you seriously just– You’re gross.”
Ivan blinks. “You’re the one who–”
“I didn’t say you could kiss it off,” Till snaps, half breathless, half horrified. Honestly it more so seems like he’s the possessive type. The type who refuses to share. “You need to remember I’m older.”
Ivan’s mouth twitches, not quite a smirk. More like a wince in disguise. There he goes rattling on about being older and his responsibilities and his dignity, as if he hasn’t just lost it all. Whatever, Ivan will slowly work to dismantle all of that soon.
“Sorry,” Ivan says, not sounding sorry at all. “Couldn’t help it. You looked cute.”
Till groans and buries his face in his hands, trying not to gag again.
Ivan watches him, quietly amused, if still a little dazed from the high. The train rumbles back to life beneath them, smooth and slow now, and Ivan stands, tucking himself away with lazy fingers. He scoops Till up off the floor with ease, arms under his thighs, one hand splayed across his lower back.
“Don’t you dare kiss me again,” Till mutters weakly.
Ivan grins into his hair. “No promises.”
The compartment’s bed is narrow, barely enough space for one. Still, Ivan manages it, curling Till over him with the sort of practiced ease that makes it clear he’s been thinking of this part - the aftermath - from the very beginning.
Till glares at him through his lashes, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and parted, like he’s angry, or embarrassed, or seconds away from biting his head off. Ivan wraps an arm around his waist anyway. Settles him there like it’s his right.
“You did good,” Ivan murmurs, lips brushing against the nape of Till’s neck. “For a first try.”
Till pounds at his chest, light and exhausted. “Go to sleep,” He mutters, voice muffled as he buries himself into the muscle of Ivan’s chest.
---
Till’s shoot the next day runs long.
Long enough for his spine to consider early retirement. Long enough that the fake rain starts to feel personal, like someone up there’s trying to baptise him for sins he doesn’t remember committing. He’s gone through five layers of itchy period-piece wool, three torrential downpours courtesy of a sadistic effects team, and one corset so tight it feels like it’s rearranged his organs. The lavender oil slathered on his skin makes him smell like a dead duchess. His legs have the structural integrity of soup. He blames Ivan for that, too - out of principle, if nothing else.
All he wants now is darkness. Silence. A bath hot enough to render him boneless.
He slumps into the back of the company car, ready to dissolve, only to find a text waiting for him. Sunghoon, of course.
Sunghoon – Manager [9:44 PM]:
hey btw don’t kill me but I might’ve told ivan you read fanfiction lol. He’s a good kid though. Sorry if he teases you over it, looked like I’d just handed him the keys to heaven or something
The words take a second to process. They don't compute at first, something about fanfiction, keys, heaven...
And then they finally click together.
Till stares.
Then stares harder.
Then he reads the message again, slower this time, like maybe a second read will reveal it was all a hallucination brought on by blood loss and too much fake rain.
But no. Sunghoon, had indeed opened his big mouth and handed Ivan the code to Till’s personal nuclear reactor. And that bastard, that gorgeous, nosy, obnoxiously curious bastard, had known the second he’d walked through that door yesterday. The second Ivan had looked Till dead in the eye with that smirking, sugar-sweet “I’m innocent” expression.
A sound escapes Till. Something thin and inhuman. The kind of noise one might expect from a banshee or a freshly exorcised spirit. His exhaustion burns away and he sits upright.
Till [Now]:
YOU WHAT????
He can already sense it, the way Ivan will look at him next time, like a cat that's found a particularly humiliating weakness in its favorite mouse. That smug little glint in his eyes. The teasing. The horrific jokes.
God. Till is going to kill Sunghoon. Then Ivan. Then himself.
In that order.
Maybe twice.