Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Ivan, your girlfriend left you another love note!”

Ivan grimaces as chatter surrounding him turns into oohs. He shoves past his wolf-whistling teammates and walks into the locker room, one hand yanking his jersey over his head. “Shut up,” he scoffs, whipping his sweat-soaked shirt at Marty leaning against the wall. 

“Careful, she’s probably sniffin’ your panties too.” Marty snorts, dodging both the jersey and Ivan’s ensuing fist. “Sucking the sweat out of your towels! Licking your water bottle!”

Ivan finally snatches the letter from Marty’s grip, carefully folding it into his duffel bag. “Not taking advice from the guy whose girlfriend cheated on him with her TA, thanks,” he says, earning a slap on the back of the head that almost sends him face-first into his locker.

“C’mon man, don’t be a bitch. What’s the point of being creeped on if you don’t brag about it?” Acorn, undressing beside him, shouts over Marty’s cursing.

Ivan bends down to pull off his cleats, rolling his eyes. “Bragging to you all just makes me feel pathetic.”

Their teasing is a weathered routine. Ivan can play it off easy enough by now, but it still puts him on edge. His patience clings to the square of paper resting quietly in his bag— the sixth since he had joined the team at the start of the school year.

As an eighteen-year-old with height, muscle, and experience, Ivan had no problem getting on the college football team. He’d played all through elementary, middle, and high school, since his parents had forced him to choose a sport at age nine. Little Ivan chose at random, and when he turned out to be good at tackling and taking blows to the head, he stuck with it.

He saw no reason to quit as he went into college. Anakt University offered a good sports scholarship, and Ivan’s parents were excited for the attention college footballer son would bring them, so they eagerly handed him off. Anakt was a top-ten school with a reputation, so unlike the fumbling pubescent teammates Ivan grew up with, he was thrown in with almost a hundred capable— albeit dumb as rocks— teammates.

First game of the year, they’d won by a landslide, and Ivan bagged two touchdowns, bathed in cheers. As they retreated to the locker room, he was enveloped by his ecstatic team, happily smacking him everywhere they could reach.

He’d idly laughed along to their post-win chattering as he pulled his sweat-soaked jersey off. Tossing his damp fringe out of his face, he made to grab his towel to hit the showers.

As he pulled the locker door open, a folded square of paper fluttered from its hinges. Ivan caught it midair, wrinkling the edges with his shocked grip.

Written in dark red, swooping cursive, was: For Ivan.

He frowned and cast a glance over his shoulder. His teammates were barely able to spell his name right, let alone in more than chicken scratch, but they and his coach were the only ones who knew which locker was his. No one met his eyes, too busy wrestling out of their jerseys and betting on how many shots they’d manage that night before passing out.

Still expecting a shitty stick figure with getting its cock sucked, Ivan unfolded the paper unenthusiastically.

His pupils shook, mouth falling open as he stared.

Ivan’s perfect reflection lay in delicate lines. Captured in motion, wearing a smirk as his arm wound up for a throw. Charcoal formed vignettes of cheeks and eyelashes, each smooth and careful. Scribbled behind him were blades of grass and faint lines of the bleachers, an afterthought to the figure so detailed it seemed to breathe.

He turned the paper over, but there was no signature; the only thing written was his name. He didn’t know anybody who could draw like this. Who could’ve possibly…?

Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder. Isaac leaned over him to peep at what he was holding and coughed out, “Holy shit.”

All eyes turned their way, and Ivan frowned, trying to hide the gift in his bag. Isaac grabbed his wrist and wrestled it away. “Dude! You got a girlfriend now?”

Isaac waved the drawing for all the room to see, raising a chorus of woahs and damns.

“I thought you were into cheerleaders, not artsy chicks,” Dewey raised his eyebrows, coming forward to sling an arm around Isaac. Ivan took the chance to grab the portrait, carefully refolding it. “She made you look real cool and broody!”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, I don’t know who left it here. Lay off it.”

“How’d it get in here, then?” Acorn squinted at him. It wasn't accusatory, but the back of Ivan's neck burned hot.

“No idea,” he said simply. He finally zipped his duffle shut, picking up his towel with trembling hands. “Leave my stuff alone, or I’ll kill you.”

“Ooh, scawy,” someone whined as he turned, raising laughter.

His fingers tingled, phantom thrills crawling up his skin. Ivan wrenched the shower dial around, submerging himself in an ice-cold torrent. His stomach churned.

There was nothing to worry about, and he had no reason to feel guilty. This was a one-time thing, and in a few weeks, they’d all forget it ever happened. No need for dramatics.

Still, when he got back to his dorm, the paper found a home in his desk drawer.

Against his expectations, the drawings didn’t stop coming. By their next game, when Ivan had barely managed to push the memory to the back of his mind, another waited for him in his locker.

He was stunned, a second time, by the skill of it. Even more lovingly than the first, it labored over his straining arms and his eyes aimed downfield. The same red ink used to write his name swam in his irises.

He kept this one away from his teammates, even as they clamored for him to fess up to who left it. As they got louder, Ivan's discontent grew. Why didn’t he know who the drawings came from? What kind of person snuck into a locker room, managed to find one out of dozens of lockers, just to leave an anonymous love letter?

It was concerning. A security risk. He should at least tell Coach, so they could check the security cameras outside.

These rational thoughts, among many others, swirled in Ivan’s head. He ignored them all.

Then, after the first few games and their concurrent drawings, a sketch began to come after every practice, too.

Ivan didn’t think much of it at first, but he soon realized that no one should be watching the team practice, not like at their games. Ivan began to scan the stands at every practice, but they were always empty.

Whether this person was watching from a distance or just dropping off a pre-made sketch while they practiced, it finally itched Ivan enough to make him do something about it.

He decides to talk to Mizi. Football players’ emotional intelligence gets lost after their third concussion; he’s better off seeking advice from his childhood friend than his teammates, embarrassing as it is.

He’s known Mizi since kindergarten. Her parents are almost as wealthy as Ivan’s, and they run in the same circles, where they drag their kids along to every gathering to show them off. Ivan, stuffed in a hand-tailored tuxedo, and Mizi, in a tiny ball gown, commiserated immediately and clung to each other for the next thirteen years.

“That sounds really serious,” she frowns as he finishes stumbling through the story of the anonymous drawings. Her sharp leopard print nails anxiously fiddle with the gold ‘M’ dangling from her neck. “How haven’t you caught them yet? Don’t you guys have, like, cameras outside or something?”

“… I haven’t told Coach,” Ivan sighs. At Mizi’s raised eyebrows, he rakes a hand through his hair. “I know. But they’re just drawings, it feels stupid to make a big deal about it. The guys make fun of me for it enough already.”

“Drawings left in your unlabeled locker, where your phone, wallet, keys, and clothes are?” Mizi pouts at him, her bright pink lip gloss puckering softly. “Ive, that’s stalking! I don’t want you getting hurt!”

Ivan laughs and dodges her frustrated swat. “I’m one of the biggest guys on the team. You think I’m kidnap-able?”

“But what if they have, like, drugs or something? Don’t laugh, I’m serious! You’ll get roofied!” She swings at him again, cheeks flushed.

With a fond eye roll, Ivan grabs her hand and pulls her into a hug. “Miz, I’m fine. They’re too shy to even write anything besides my name, I doubt they’d try to roofie me.”

“I’m just worried,” she mutters into his shoulder. “You’re like a creep magnet. Remember when your ex tried to make a mold of your dick while you slept?”

“Don’t bring that up,” Ivan shudders, pushing her away and ruffling her hair. “Seriously, though. That shows I’m used to it, right? I can live with a few love notes in my locker.”

“I guess,” Mizi lowers, touching the top of her head. “Ugh, Ivan, you messed up my hair! Sua can’t see me all frizzy!”

Ivan smiles as she lectures him some more, deflecting her concern. The more he imagines the shy, devoted artist leaving a present for him every week, the more he thinks:

Is it really so bad, for someone to love him this much?

Over his eighteen years of life, Ivan’s had a few girlfriends. He’s smart, attractive, tall, and good at sports; in a small-town high school, he was prime boyfriend material. He liked girls well enough, and when a classmate asked him out, he rarely saw a reason to say no.

He was not, as the other boys gossiped, a fuckboy. Sex was fun, but he was satisfied with taking it slow with his girlfriends.

Fucking wasn’t even his favorite part of being in a relationship— it was knowing that somebody liked him. Orphaned, adopted, neglected, then suddenly idolized, his broken brain latched onto the attention. It never satisfied him.

Ivan needed more than good morning texts, weekly sex, occasional dates, and daily kisses. He needed someone to take over his life. To own him.

It wasn’t hard to push those feelings down and repress them with a healthy juvenile life then…

But now he has something different.

The art in his locker spells out adoration with every perfect line. His name is written with exaltation. Ivan wants to hear them say it, smooth and soft on their lips, every day.

He’s sometimes tempted to report them like Mizi wants. It’d get rid of the disgusting feelings infecting him and even let them meet each other face-to-face. But afterward, his life would go back to normal. His one chance at the sick love he needs would be gone.

Someone worships him, and he wants to let them.

Ivan trudges back to his dorm after a long practice. His locker had been empty for the first time in weeks, and it confused him. Worse, his team noticed and made fun of him for “getting dumped” until he stormed off.

The subzero winds tousling his hair agitate his bad mood even more, and as he finally shoves his key into the lock and shoves the door open, he’s too sour to acknowledge his roommate.

Still, Luka looks up at him from his desk. “Letter with your name on it was slipped under the door, I left it on your dresser. Probably a noise complaint again— can you please stop being so loud when you come back drunk at two in the morning?”

Ivan grits his teeth and snatches the envelope. “Can’t they just tell the RA? Christ, I’m tired...”

He freezes. Familiarly delicate handwriting, dark ink kissing his name. His heart thunders, thoughts slowing to a flow of sweet molasses. He eagerly pulls the flap of the envelope open.

Two sheets fall into his hands, one stapled to the other.

First, printed in monochrome is a small photograph of him and Mizi embracing, her face in his neck, his arms around her waist. On the underlying paper, written in eerily neat letters, is:

“Am I a joke to you?”

Ivan shudders, wrinkling the paper with clenched fists. This person knows where he lives. They’re following him, taking pictures of him, watching him. His skin crawls with heat and cold, dread and excitement.

“That bad?” Luka rolls his eyes, turning back to his laptop. “Just lay off the White Claws. You’re not a frat boy.”

“Shut up,” he mutters half-heartedly. “Do you know when this got dropped off?”

“About an hour ago,” Luka says, pulling his headphones back down. “They knocked, dropped it, and ran.”

Ivan got out of practice an hour ago. This person stalked him for hours, and as soon as he was on his way back, immediately ran to his room to leave their warning— how do they know where he lives? Had he been followed into his dorm before, trailed by a stranger for hours?

He didn’t mean for Mizi to get wrapped up in this. It’s terrifying that she could be in danger because of Ivan’s selfishness, but.

They finally wrote to him. They’re watching him, even outside of football.

Holding the letter more gently, Ivan collapses into bed, the mattress squeaking and the headboard bouncing against the wall. His stomach flashes with heat at the sounds, suddenly overcome with images of a faceless form pounding him into the bed.

If his admirer has a pussy, Ivan would have his wrists tied to the headboard. He’d pull against the ropes, try to grope their tits, but they’d just laugh and sit on his face, force him to get them wetter. His face soaked and flushed, helplessly watching them move down to sit on his cock…

Or maybe they have a cock, too. Ivan’s never been fucked in the ass, so they’d have to show him how. Stretch him out slow— or hard, if they really want to punish him, push him through the pain until it feels too good. They’d spit on his hole, pull it open, and make him beg for it.

Ivan bites his tongue. His eyes tremble as the heat in his stomach flares and pulses down to his cock. He glances at Luka, grimacing at his laptop screen, headphones firmly over his ears.

Slowly, Ivan snakes his hand into his sweatpants, beneath the waistband of his boxers. He rolls over, facing the wall as he presses down on his cock. He breathes heavily into his pillow.

The letter crumples in his grip, and he moves it safely beside his head. His skin prickles as he imagines sharp eyes watching him, eager to copy his pleasure to paper.

Show me, they’d say. Ivan would roll over, spreading his legs to offer himself up. They’d reward him by climbing onto the bed and licking up his cock, open-mouth kissing his trembling tip.

Ivan clenches his eyes shut and wraps a hand around himself. He pushes up and down once. The phantom wetness of a throat sinking down on him has his hips jolting forward as he bites his drool-soaked pillowcase.

Look at me, Ivan begs in return. Want me, own me. 

They laugh, spitting on his dick and following it with their lips. Teeth graze his skin, a predator’s warning. You're mine. No one else can touch you, they can't even look at you. I'll tie you up, keep you here like this until the only face you know is mine. 

Mine.

It’s too much. Ivan’s eyes roll back, frantically cupping his fingers over his tip as thick bursts of cum fill his grip. He doesn’t make a sound, but a loud revelation fills his body, following the beating of his heart.

From then on, every drawing has a message attached. Ivan not reporting the threat left at his door must have made them more confident, because the contents are just as demanding.

With a sketch of Ivan in a sweater, smiling: You look good in white, wear it more often. Beside the silhouette of Ivan with his head tilted back, straw to his lips: Stop sharing your water bottle.

So Ivan wears lighter colors, and he keeps his water bottle to himself. The next notes have hearts on the borders, as if to reward him.

Ivan knows he’s enabling dangerous behavior. He’s strong, but like Mizi said, he can still get hurt. Everyone around him is being watched and kept in check, held to this stranger's unreasonable standards.

But it feels too good to worry about. Since having the best orgasm of his life, Ivan has been jerking off to thoughts of his stalker almost every night. He can’t even get off to porn anymore, not without closing his eyes and imagining the sounds coming from his own room, from a faceless figure dominating him.

Walking to class, going home, getting lunch, he can always feel their stare on him. He’s quickly forming an obsession of his own.

Still, nothing too concerning happens for a couple of weeks, and he almost relaxes. His routine goes on.

Ivan does his laundry every Thursday, after getting back from the gym. His clothes and sheets go in one washer, his towels in the one beside. Usually, he’s quick about switching them to the dryer so they don’t end up thrown on the floor by someone impatient for their turn.

Today, though, he gets back late. It was leg day, and he’s so exhausted that after bringing the empty laundry hamper back up to his room, he collapses into bed and falls asleep. When he wakes up two hours later, he stumbles up and out the door, half-dozing and dreading having to wash everything again. His shoulder bangs against the doorframe as he stumbles through, grumbling.

On the three flights of stairs down, he nearly trips twice, having to hold his hamper in one hand and grab the railing with the other. His head is swimming with a strange lethargy, making him loose-limbed and dizzy. His pounding headache makes it difficult to think about it any longer, and he reaches the laundry room on autopilot.

It's pin-drop silent. No rattling of machines or people leaning against them, buried in their phones. Ivan looks around and relaxes when he sees there aren’t any wet mounds of clothes dumped on the floor. He lucked out; everyone must be too busy studying for finals.

He opens the washer he used, blindly reaching a hand in. The cold back wall greets his fingers. He frowns and squats down, peering inside.

Empty.

He frowns and opens the next one— nothing. Did someone steal his laundry?

No, not “someone.” There’s only one person who would do this.

“What the hell,” Ivan groans, burying his head in his hands. He liked the following, threatening, and occasional theft, but all of his laundry?

Of the few moments of clarity he’s had since this all started, now is the sharpest. He has a migraine, is sore from working out, and is on edge from his nap being cut off. The thought of having to explain to his parents why he needs a whole new wardrobe makes his eyes sting, and he takes a deep breath.

Ivan's stalker is probably jerking off on his socks as he stands here like a dumbass, so love-starved he let a psychopath follow him around for months. He rests his elbows on the washer and bows his head, the throbbing in his temples swelling. So stupid! He should've reported this from the beginning.

Once he feels less like crying, he'll call Coach. He'll tell him that someone's been breaking into their locker room, and that they should check the cameras. They'll call the police, and everything will be over. Ivan's life will go back to normal.

Ding!

Ivan nearly jumps out of his skin, banging his arm on the corner of the machine and hissing, "Fuck!" With the buzzing in his ears, he hadn't noticed that one of the dryers was running.

He turns to bend over and open it, carefully tugging out a shirt. A faded acidwash logo unravels, and he lets out a long, relieved breath. It’s the band tee Mizi had forced him to buy at the concert they went to last summer.

Ivan folds it and drops it in the hamper, slowly unloading the machine. He checks everything off, his varsity jacket and jersey sending the last of the tension out of his spine. Everything is accounted for, aside from one pair of boxers.

“Just this once,” he announces to the empty room, propping the hamper up on his hip. They deserve a reward for their restraint.

He heads back down the hallway, a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

When one has their first stalker, it’s easy to forget that college is actually mostly about school. School, including classes and exams, including finals.

Ivan’s head thumps down onto the desk.

He hopes to fall asleep for a few months, maybe even erase his memory if he’s lucky. Unfortunately, when he lifts his head back up, his life remains the same.

He lets out a long, deep breath, looking out on campus from the library’s tall windows. The sidewalk is wide and empty; everyone is either asleep or holed up inside, studying. Moonlight sticks its fingers between the unmoving tree branches, piercing the pitch-black sky.

It’s silent.

Tap, tap, tap. The tip of his pencil flicks off his keyboard again and again, held between his restless fingers. Ivan frowns, his eyes taking a lap around the room.

Hidden between tall bookshelves, a girl crouches with her head in her hands, occasionally coming back to life to read another page of her book. At a neighboring table, a boy frowns at his laptop, slowly scrolling down a page of text. Across from him, someone with their head bent over a sketchpad mumbles under their breath.

Unremarkably normal. There aren’t any eyes peeping between the shelves, or hidden cameras aimed at him. The feeling of being watched that remains draped over his shoulders is nonsensical. Ivan's daydreaming (daymasturbating) has him too hopeful.

He tightly grips his notes, forcing his tired mind to soak up the words. Geology. Alluvial fans, estuaries, ablation... he gets through two paragraphs before his eyelids droop shut.

A sudden ding! jolts him awake. He winces and fumbles through his things, finding his phone and clicking the ringer off. When he swipes his lockscreen away, Dewey’s messages flood in.

Last postgame party of the sem this sat at sig alpha dude

Venmo me??

Ivan frowns.

My parents will kill me if I use my allowance on drinks again

Just a little!! Just a few buzzballs for your bros

Isaac got fired :(

Fine. Just $50

He flips his phone face-down, ignoring whatever frantic begging Dewey is blowing him up with. He drums his fingers on the table, deep in thought.

Parties, like sex, are a vice Ivan indulges because it’s expected of him. Every time it feels like a performance. He hasn’t even done anything beyond drinking and dancing since the year started— unlike his teammates, who’ll fuck any girl who allows it.

A few months ago, he might’ve gone into a relationship out of boredom, but now it feels like it’d be cheating. He feels dirty, thinking of spreading his legs for anyone other than that faceless figure.

They don’t know each other. They’ve never spoken; they probably haven’t been within ten feet of each other, and somehow, they’re monogamous?

Ivan slumps forward, finding that his clenched fists have bit nail marks into his forearms. Idly digging into the arcs, pain as an anchor, he thinks: Fine, I’ll do the chasing this time.

Saturday night finds Ivan glowering into his closet, chewing his lip. He fiddles with the buttons of his shirt, alternating between three-undone and two-undone.

Three might be too slutty, but two isn’t slutty enough… and are his nipples poking out? Should he just stay home at this point? He should probably stay home.

Ivan runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. He’s overthinking, obviously. He's just never been this self-conscious.

He can do a bit of flirting, even reciprocating, but he’s never planned out a dramatic confession like this— though “confess” might be too sweet a word for this.

But if he doesn’t at least try, he’ll be stuck in a long-distance pseudo-relationship until he graduates. So, he takes a breath, ruffles his hair, and decides to go with two buttons down.

“Wow,” Luka judges unsubtly from his desk, pale eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

“Don’t say anything,” Ivan warns, an inch away from the mirror. He fiddles with a strand of his hair, frowning. “Is it too much?”

“You told me not to say anything,” Luka scoffs. He scans Ivan up and down once, then waves his hand dismissively. “Looks fine. Not enough to get you arrested for soliciting, maybe enough for a pat down.”

“That’s the goal,” Ivan bends over to put his shoes on, ignoring Luka’s disgusted eugh. “I probably won’t be back tonight.”

“Got it, say no more. Please,” Luka puts his headphones on and turns back to his laptop. “And don’t get kidnapped.”

“Thanks for the concern,” Ivan says to himself, grabbing his phone from his desk. He checks the time, 7:30, and sees a notification from Mizi. Tell me when you’re otw!

These parties wouldn’t usually be Mizi’s scene, but finals week has been enough to break her oath of staying ten feet away from frat boys at all times. A coincidence, but good news for Ivan’s plans tonight.

He texts her: Heading out now, and picks up his keys.

On the drive to Mizi’s dorm, he clutches the steering wheel tight until his fingers pale. He pulls into a parking spot and slumps back into the seat, sighing deeply. He only straightens up when the passenger door swings open, and Mizi peeks her head in.

“Thanks for picking me up,” she smiles, sliding into the passenger seat. She tugs the skirt of her pink dress down her thighs and clicks her seatbelt into place. “If I’m sober enough to think about grades any longer, I’m gonna strangle myself.”

Ivan pulls out of the parking lot, passing her the aux cord. “You’ve been practicing your leg lifts, right? Any jackass bothers you, you can give him a heel in the eye.”

“I might have to stab myself in the eye after a few hours of watching them dance,” she rolls her eyes, plugging her phone in and queuing her playlist.  “Your friends got drinks, right?”

“With my money, yeah,” he clicks his tongue.

“Your parents’ money, you mean! Don’t get cocky!” She slaps his bicep as she laughs. The first song starts up, and she bops her head along,

Ivan’s finger taps on the steering wheel, out of sync with the peppy drumbeat.  

He’d put the party invite on his Instagram story, and he’s almost certain his admirer stalks his socials, but would they even come? They’re too afraid to even talk to him. Frat parties are the minefields of social anxiety, the hurricanes of unwanted touching.

“Hey,” he blurts, as the idea hits him, “let’s take something to post on your story.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Really? You hate pictures!” She whips her phone out from her purse and immediately tilts it up, twisting to get him in frame. “Smile!”

They halt in front of a stop sign as he slings an arm around her, leaning close to grin over her shoulder as she snaps the shot. Mizi nods approvingly and adds text over their heads, “night out with this guy <3 @Ivan.”

“You better like it this time,” she says faux-sternly, and he rolls his eyes. “Ah, someone viewed it already?”

His hands clench around the wheel. “Who? Sua?”

“If it was, don't you think I’d be crashing out? Just a bot,” she sighs, flashing him her screen. A blank-faced profile with a username of random numbers and letters— not even a bio. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, Ivan looks back to the road with a thrilled shudder.

They pull up to the party thirty minutes after it’s started, early enough that the yard isn’t yet full of puking, piss-drunk college kids.

“Ivan!” The ‘bouncer’ at the door— the skinny, blond kid who plays Balatro during their shared history class— waves him over. “Hey, man, what’s up?”

“Hey,” Ivan daps him up, feeling Mizi’s judgment piercing the back of his head. “Nothing much. You aren’t gonna charge me to get in, are you?”

“Nah, you’re good, I hear you bought drinks for the guys. And you brought her with you,” he smirks at Mizi, who steamrolls right over him, opening the door. “Oh, uh, see you!” 

Ivan waves over his shoulder, following a step behind Mizi. She side-eyes him, asking, “You don’t even remember his name, do you?” When he stays quiet, she punches him in the arm, laughing.

The second they’re inside, Mizi grabs Ivan’s hand, hauling him over to where Dewey and Isaac stand in the corner, beside too many cases of drinks. She asks for a can of whatever poison they’ve used Ivan’s money to buy, while he shifts uncertainly. Every inch of the room is covered by swaying, grinding bodies, and the dim lights hide any wandering hands.

The music is already giving him a headache, and he’s never liked crowds.

Mizi sidles up beside him and shoves a can into his chest, jolting him awake. “You look like you need a drink!”

He grabs it, looks down, and frowns. “I have to drive us back.”

“It’s fine! If that kicked puppy look stays on your face, I can’t focus on getting blackout,” she sighs, tipping her drink back quickly. “Besides, we can call an Uber, and one of your boys can get your car, right?”

“Don’t call them that, but sure,” Ivan rolls his eyes and takes a sip.

“Great! Now, at least do a little dancing with me, kay?” She pulls him closer, and when Ivan chugs the rest of his drink, she cackles.

The loud, unbearable house music becomes slowly more tolerable with every “shot o’ clock” Mizi drags him along to. The overstimulating bodies shoving against them fade to the background, and Ivan’s thoughts finally settle.

Mizi makes him dance— “dance” meaning swaying, jumping when a better song comes on, and dipping her when she asks— for at least half an hour. 

By now, the alcohol has raised a blush to Mizi’s cheeks, and she trips over her feet. Together like this, they really look like a couple. Ivan’s eyes stray again, and Mizi pushes up on her tiptoes to follow him, slurring, “What’re we looking at?”

Suddenly, she gasps, nearly tipping them both over. “Ah, Sua is here, why is she here?! Do I look okay?” She clumsily straightens her dress and, long-suffering, Ivan leans down to sort out her hair.

“You look good. Just don’t puke on her and you’ll be fine,” he peers across the room to where Sua is edging toward the door with a grimace. Her tidy clothes are out of place in the messy party, and the opposite of Mizi’s. Opposites attract, though, Ivan figures, and it’s not like he can judge.

“Don’t jinx it! Crap, she’s about to leave, watch my drink!” She shoves her cup into his chest, and he obediently covers it with his hand. “If I don’t come back, I’m getting laid! I’ll text you!”

She shoves through the crowd, stumbling in her heels, and grabs Sua’s arm, giving her a pretty grin. Ivan keeps an eye on them as he sips from Mizi’s drink. He drifts away from the center of the room until his back is pressed to the wall, away from grinding couples and chattering clusters of friends.

He closes his eyes, sinking into the music and drunken clamor. His head is swimming, and his limbs are light. This is why he comes to parties; he feels relaxed, forgetting all the paranoia that’s been haunting him the last few weeks. 

Then, he blinks awake to find a face bent close, right in front of his.

Ivan flinches. He fumbles with one hand on the wall to push himself upright. “Uh, yeah?” He asks dumbly. His tongue is heavy, and the world is a blur of color and movement.

Blinking his vertigo away reveals a pale, lanky, pretty boy staring back at him. His eyes are dark with liner and shadow, his silver fringe laying over sharp eyebrows.  “Hey,” he says, “Ivan, right?”

“Yeah,” Ivan repeats, dumbfounded. The guy’s voice is just loud enough to hear over the music, gentle yet raspy. When he speaks, the piercings under his lip glint in the light, and Ivan’s eyes follow them helplessly. “Your name.”

They stare blankly at each other until Ivan clears his throat. “I meant, um, your name. What is it?”

“Till,” Till smiles, and Ivan nods awkwardly. Is this flirting? Flirting has never been this hard for him before. “You gonna drink that?” Till points to the cup in his hand.

“This is my friend’s, so I shouldn’t,” Ivan laughs, and takes another sip. “But she already ditched me.” He checks over Till’s shoulder just to be sure, and yup, that’s Mizi giving him a thumbs up and heading out the door with her arm around Sua’s shoulders.

Till’s teeth flash as he bites his cheek. “’Ditched you?’ You were on a date?”

“No, just friends,” he watches the piercings twist, pulling at Till’s pale pink mouth. “Just...”

A chill settles in his stomach, creeping up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. A sense of unease, prey sensing a predator. Suddenly, Till’s eyes are dark, pupils dilated as they never leave Ivan’s face.

"Just?” Till repeats, tilting his head. His fringe falls in front of his face, and he absently swipes it away. His fingers are long, pale, and knobby. Tidy nails. Artist’s hands.

“Just looking out for a friend. Totally single,” Ivan says, suddenly feeling feverish. “Are you here with someone?”

“No,” Till answers quickly, almost frantically. His pale face flushes to the tips of his fringe, swaying in front of his dark eyes. “I’m here alone. I’m actually, um… I came here for you.”

The words on Ivan’s tongue dry out. He manages to rasp, “What?”

“I think you know.” Till crowds in closer, pushing him against the wall. He slams one hand down beside Ivan’s head, trembling against his ear. “I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”

His voice quivers as he ducks his head to expose his flushed ears and nape. “Y-you liked the drawings, right? I know you kept them, and—”

Ivan trails his fingers down the back of Till’s neck and watches him shiver, then jolt upright to stare at him, flummoxed. Ivan takes him in, deranged and beautiful, dipping collar revealing a pale chest, and smiles.  

“I love them,” Ivan murmurs, leaning in. “You worked so hard on them just for me, how could I not?”

It feels like a dream, and only partly because of the drinks. Ivan’s in a haze, barely believing what’s happening. The words falling from his mouth are beyond his control.

Till gasps. His gaze flits back and forth, rapid as the rise and fall of his chest. “I love you,” he declares suddenly, fervently. He latches onto Ivan’s arms, thin fingers digging into his biceps. “Please. Please love me, too.”

This close, Ivan can see each of Till’s eyelashes, clumpy with mascara and welling tears. His heart thuds harder, making him lightheaded. “We just met.”

“No, we didn’t! I already know you better than anyone! You were made for me,” Till insists, increasingly desperate. He strokes Ivan’s arms up and down, innocent at first, slowly devolving into groping his biceps.

He’s insane.

Ivan sighs, closes his eyes, and kisses him. Till gasps into it like he’s drowning, mouth opening uselessly into the press of Ivan’s lips. Their tongues flutter against each other, and a moan echoes between their breaths.

Till doesn’t seem to know what to do. His tongue writhes clumsily, licking all over Ivan’s mouth. Lapping up Ivan’s spit seems to be the only thing he can focus on. He sucks whatever he can reach, moaning nonstop. Like an animal in heat.

It’s a tangle of swapping spit with no technique, just whimpers and groans traded between them. Somehow, it’s still the best kiss Ivan’s ever had. He pulls away, putting both hands on Till’s cheeks to keep him from chasing his mouth. “If we keep going,” he breathes, “we have to go somewhere private. Unless you want everyone here to see me cum in my pants.”

“No,” Till says, hooded eyes flashing dangerously, “only me. No one else.”

He looks drunker than Ivan, with a red blush blossoming deeper over his face, neck, chest… probably everywhere, only covered by his thin black shirt. If Ivan were to stick his hand down the front of it, the skin there would be warm and tender, and Till would whimper, beg for more—

Ivan’s stomach throbs with a heat that eases down toward his cock. “Then take me upstairs,” he grabs Till’s hand, watching his thick, tan fingers cover narrow, white ones. “The bathroom up there will have less puke.”

Immediately, Till drags him through the crowd, his grip achingly tight. Blaring house music and echoing chatter fade back into focus as Ivan’s heartbeat slowly calms. He’s still drunk enough to stagger with every step they take, his shoulders clipping people on both sides, and Till casts a glance back at him.

Then, Till pulls Ivan up next to him and wraps an arm snug around his waist to keep him steady. It makes Ivan feel a little ridiculous; he’s twice as wide as this guy and several inches taller, while being pulled around like he’s his girlfriend. Unfortunately, he’s also very into it. 

His knees go weak. He lets Till drag them both up the stairs and points him toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. As they leave the party behind them, the music and laughter grow muffled, leaving a tense silence. 

Ivan’s fantasies flash through his dazed mind: tied up, blindfolded, gagged, rough and hard… his mouth waters. Till’s hand on his waist feels like a fire-hot brand soaking through his shirt. 

Finally, they reach the end of the hallway. Ivan leans close to Till’s ear and whispers, “Are you gonna fuck me now?”

Till swings the door open and yanks Ivan inside, slamming his back against the wall. “Is that what you want?” He asks, low and deep. He leans in to slide his lips along Ivan’s neck, his cold piercings sowing a trail of goosebumps.

Ivan swallows the heat on his tongue and rasps, “What I want doesn’t matter.” He smirks down at Till, watching his pupils quiver. “Do everything you want to. Make me take it.”