[He’d known that paying attention to Ivan’s most sensitive place would eventually reward him with what he sought, yet the difference between the past and now still takes him by surprise. Like the rest of Ivan, this new anatomy is… impressive—startlingly so. The color of it is foreign, too, though Till had expected as much, given the rest of his transformed body.
He really is unfair. It’s not as if he hadn’t already been well-endowed before. Now, though, his girth and length have tipped into something inhuman. Subtle ribs spiral along his shaft, and the pearly proof of his arousal beads at the crown of his head.
If he’s allowed to be curious, then he’s allowed to stare for a moment, too, to really take it in. Ivan’s length is hot beneath his palm, twitching as Till’s fingers skim over him in tentative exploration. Heat climbs into Till’s face at how quickly his own cock swells, the bulge in his pants straining with anticipatory excitement. He’s been thinking about their time beneath the banquet table for so long now—through restless sleep and quiet seclusion alike, replaying every second until it blurred at the edges. He’s lost count of how many times he’s relived those moments, wanting more, yet too nervous to reach for a follow-up until now.
Fingers trace along the unfamiliar ridges, lingering to map each strange curve before his thumb drags through the slick at the tip, smearing it in slow circles around the milky head. He lifts his gaze to Ivan’s face again.]
Then tell me what it is that you eat.
[His touch remains unhurried and deliberate as he studies him, the question heavy with genuine curiosity rather than accusation.]
You never eat the meals we make. And when you do, it's just a bite or two, like you're only trying to appease me.
[ Ivan's fingers dig deep into the bedspread, clamping down desperately on handfuls of the soft cotton, anything to anchor himself against the rising urge to writhe.
It's a completely useless, silly instinct, for how little it helps. His hips still rise half an inch into the air. His entire cock still arches flexibly, as if for a split second it's alive and stretching itself out after being so confined. Throughout the spasm, Ivan's eyes remain the only stationary part of his body, fixed upon on his friend with now-undisguised lust. The way they glisten, they also look like they could weep.
Till made himself hard by touching him. The evidence is starkly outlined between the legs straddling his segments. Want explodes within his own mind, straight through any thoughts of whether or not he deserves this, evicting them. A small gush of fluids comes with it, spilling over Till's busy hand. Yet it's only the beginning, the singular desire to mate squeezing through his insides like something eager to be birthed out.
It almost means he can't comprehend the question, and it's a struggle at best. He doesn't think for a second about lying, he just cries out, ]
Blood.
[ It's morbid, so he's never mentioned it. ]
I drink from the animals before I bring them here. It's what my body wants me to do, I think. I feel full enough—after, and it's hard to swallow much of the meat, anyway. [ Soft little breaths intermix with his attempt to pace out his words, to answer fully in spite of the distractions present. ] Is that... okay?
[ ...or will that sour things, the image of him with his teeth latched into a living thing that can feel every second of it? Each contraction of his throat bringing it closer to death?
Nervous, raw fingers fiddle at the hems of Till's cloths, pleading for his paradise to be naked with him again. He worries that he's moving too fast, but he can't wait to be in a world of just Till's body, separated from his by nothing but a thin veil of their sweat. ]
[Till rises with the arch of Ivan’s serpentine hips, his thighs cinching more tightly around Ivan’s segments as he squirms beneath him. Heat floods Till’s skull and groin alike as his partner’s arousal coils tightly around him through the tether. He watches, hypnotized, as Ivan’s cock twitches in his hand; the sight and the sensation fold into one another, an erotic, dizzying loop of touch and appetite that leaves him breathless. He can't tell where Ivan's lust ends, and his own begins.
That intense, heated gaze is impossible to look away from. Till’s hand is slick with the milky evidence of Ivan’s desire, coating his fingers. An intrusive thought surfaces through the ocean of want, wondering at his taste. Never, in all his life, has he imagined such a thing before, and he dimly wonders if Ivan is rubbing off on him in the strangest of ways.
His friend confesses, of all things, that he drinks blood. Amid the carnal urge to mate, Till can still feel and see the flicker of Ivan’s nervous trepidation as he asks if his feeding habits are… acceptable. Till’s hand stills only briefly on his erection as their gazes meet. Then, with a small, unthinking gesture, he tucks one side of his long bangs behind his ear and lowers his head, dragging his tongue in a slow, unbroken line up the length of him.
Salty. A faint bitterness, threaded with something strangely, unexpectedly sweet. The flavor defies easy description. He doesn't know how to describe his actions, either. His eyes lift back to Ivan’s, his cheeks burning, his stare a muted challenge—as if he’s daring Ivan to say something.
If drinking blood is strange, then what does that make him, who just tasted Ivan's own bodily fluids? His eyes seem to suggest something like that.
Why are you worrying about something stupid right now?
He draws back and straightens, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. Fabric whispers over skin as he strips it up and over his head, baring the pale, faintly luminescent flesh beneath.
[ Another sharp laceration of pleasure opens across his skin. His legs kick in surprise, though Till is safe where he's seated. The two closest to him direct their almost-dainty stiletto points up and away, shaking and splaying outward. He can't believe what he's just seen—felt—but he can't exactly deny that it happened.
The subtle knowledge that Till didn't mind the taste of him at all sits in the back of Ivan's mind, already, without him needing to say it.
He's scolded by the stillness and the staring that comes immediately after. It works to silence him, mostly. Just a syllable of speech escapes, the one he'd still be thinking of even if his vocabulary were reduced to only one word. ]
Till...
[ Giddy.
He pushes himself up forty-five degrees from his dumbfounded recline, hands flying to help him snatch the shirt off. Others start to grope at what's underneath, easily tempted by the softly glowing skin unveiled before him, pawing, raking fingers over the other idol's slender little tummy that only has a tiny bit of definition. He remembers it peeking out sometimes whenever they flopped onto their backs in the garden grass, always paired with the impulse to stick his face right where his belly-button is. Ivan didn't do it then, but he does it now—or well, tries, doubling over to get every bit closer he can with Till still on top.
Childish urges like that aren't enough to totally distract him from that other thing, however. Till's last act replays in his head again, and probably will forever, such a mind-boggling moment that likewise makes Ivan wonder if he was trying to imitate him, too. Where Till's tongue ran before, the cold stings him now, because the air left behind can't compare to that all-too-perfect warmth.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He really is unfair. It’s not as if he hadn’t already been well-endowed before. Now, though, his girth and length have tipped into something inhuman. Subtle ribs spiral along his shaft, and the pearly proof of his arousal beads at the crown of his head.
If he’s allowed to be curious, then he’s allowed to stare for a moment, too, to really take it in. Ivan’s length is hot beneath his palm, twitching as Till’s fingers skim over him in tentative exploration. Heat climbs into Till’s face at how quickly his own cock swells, the bulge in his pants straining with anticipatory excitement. He’s been thinking about their time beneath the banquet table for so long now—through restless sleep and quiet seclusion alike, replaying every second until it blurred at the edges. He’s lost count of how many times he’s relived those moments, wanting more, yet too nervous to reach for a follow-up until now.
Fingers trace along the unfamiliar ridges, lingering to map each strange curve before his thumb drags through the slick at the tip, smearing it in slow circles around the milky head. He lifts his gaze to Ivan’s face again.]
Then tell me what it is that you eat.
[His touch remains unhurried and deliberate as he studies him, the question heavy with genuine curiosity rather than accusation.]
You never eat the meals we make. And when you do, it's just a bite or two, like you're only trying to appease me.
no subject
It's a completely useless, silly instinct, for how little it helps. His hips still rise half an inch into the air. His entire cock still arches flexibly, as if for a split second it's alive and stretching itself out after being so confined. Throughout the spasm, Ivan's eyes remain the only stationary part of his body, fixed upon on his friend with now-undisguised lust. The way they glisten, they also look like they could weep.
Till made himself hard by touching him. The evidence is starkly outlined between the legs straddling his segments. Want explodes within his own mind, straight through any thoughts of whether or not he deserves this, evicting them. A small gush of fluids comes with it, spilling over Till's busy hand. Yet it's only the beginning, the singular desire to mate squeezing through his insides like something eager to be birthed out.
It almost means he can't comprehend the question, and it's a struggle at best. He doesn't think for a second about lying, he just cries out, ]
Blood.
[ It's morbid, so he's never mentioned it. ]
I drink from the animals before I bring them here. It's what my body wants me to do, I think. I feel full enough—after, and it's hard to swallow much of the meat, anyway. [ Soft little breaths intermix with his attempt to pace out his words, to answer fully in spite of the distractions present. ] Is that... okay?
[ ...or will that sour things, the image of him with his teeth latched into a living thing that can feel every second of it? Each contraction of his throat bringing it closer to death?
Nervous, raw fingers fiddle at the hems of Till's cloths, pleading for his paradise to be naked with him again. He worries that he's moving too fast, but he can't wait to be in a world of just Till's body, separated from his by nothing but a thin veil of their sweat. ]
no subject
That intense, heated gaze is impossible to look away from. Till’s hand is slick with the milky evidence of Ivan’s desire, coating his fingers. An intrusive thought surfaces through the ocean of want, wondering at his taste. Never, in all his life, has he imagined such a thing before, and he dimly wonders if Ivan is rubbing off on him in the strangest of ways.
His friend confesses, of all things, that he drinks blood. Amid the carnal urge to mate, Till can still feel and see the flicker of Ivan’s nervous trepidation as he asks if his feeding habits are… acceptable. Till’s hand stills only briefly on his erection as their gazes meet. Then, with a small, unthinking gesture, he tucks one side of his long bangs behind his ear and lowers his head, dragging his tongue in a slow, unbroken line up the length of him.
Salty. A faint bitterness, threaded with something strangely, unexpectedly sweet. The flavor defies easy description. He doesn't know how to describe his actions, either. His eyes lift back to Ivan’s, his cheeks burning, his stare a muted challenge—as if he’s daring Ivan to say something.
If drinking blood is strange, then what does that make him, who just tasted Ivan's own bodily fluids? His eyes seem to suggest something like that.
Why are you worrying about something stupid right now?
He draws back and straightens, fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt. Fabric whispers over skin as he strips it up and over his head, baring the pale, faintly luminescent flesh beneath.
Of course it's fine. I was just curious.]
more 0/10 dirty talk
The subtle knowledge that Till didn't mind the taste of him at all sits in the back of Ivan's mind, already, without him needing to say it.
He's scolded by the stillness and the staring that comes immediately after. It works to silence him, mostly. Just a syllable of speech escapes, the one he'd still be thinking of even if his vocabulary were reduced to only one word. ]
Till...
[ Giddy.
He pushes himself up forty-five degrees from his dumbfounded recline, hands flying to help him snatch the shirt off. Others start to grope at what's underneath, easily tempted by the softly glowing skin unveiled before him, pawing, raking fingers over the other idol's slender little tummy that only has a tiny bit of definition. He remembers it peeking out sometimes whenever they flopped onto their backs in the garden grass, always paired with the impulse to stick his face right where his belly-button is. Ivan didn't do it then, but he does it now—or well, tries, doubling over to get every bit closer he can with Till still on top.
Childish urges like that aren't enough to totally distract him from that other thing, however. Till's last act replays in his head again, and probably will forever, such a mind-boggling moment that likewise makes Ivan wonder if he was trying to imitate him, too. Where Till's tongue ran before, the cold stings him now, because the air left behind can't compare to that all-too-perfect warmth.
It's given him ideas that can't be ungiven. ]
You should let me touch my tongue to yours next!