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Till is Ivan’s number one fan. He has been for years. He’s gotten blocked over it, lost friends over it, even gotten into physical fights over it. But he’s upheld his position without so much as a stuttering hiccup.
He is Ivan’s number one fan.
No one loves Ivan more than he does.
Till is in the middle of an argument on Stage—some fucker decided to insult Ivan in his replies—when he gets the email notification. Normally, he wouldn’t be too antsy about reading and responding to his emails (especially when Ivan’s valor is on the line), but it has Ivan’s name in the subject line.
He clicks on the banner.
It was forwarded to him by his own manager, and it’s from…
Holy shit.
It’s from Ivan.
Well, it looks like Ivan. It’s Ivan’s professional email address—the one listed in his contact information on Stage.
Till sits up in his bed. This isn’t something he can just read while wrapped up in his blankets, like he does for all his stupid Stage conversations.
He reads the email.
And then reads it again.
And again.
Ivan is interested in him. In Till.
It seems too good to be true, so Till reads it again. But the words are still there, still saying the same thing: Ivan wants Till to produce his next album. It’s a formal collaboration offer letter. It even has Ivan’s full digital signature.
That beautiful cursive, his—his phone number?
His address?
Surely it can’t be Ivan’s real address, but it doesn’t match the address of his office, nor any of the branch locations that Till knows of. And he’s Ivan’s number one fan—he knows all of them. The only reason he doesn’t know Ivan’s home address is because it’s kept more secure than confidential government documents.
Except, now he’s knows.
It was given to him.
Well, if this is real. Till slaps himself to make sure this isn’t all just a crazy dream. But when the stars stop clouding his vision, his phone is still in his hand, and the email is still on his screen. This is real.
He responds to his manager with something along the lines of yes sign me up, but he doesn’t really pay attention to what he says exactly, because he’s too fixated on the fact that he has Ivan’s phone number and home address.
Not even the most diehard fans have this information.
The address is in his city.
He could—
No.
He shouldn’t.
He really shouldn’t, but he… he could. He can. It’s an unprecedented opportunity.
He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t go, shouldn’t get dressed for the first time in weeks, shouldn’t put his hood up to hide unwashed face and hair, shouldn’t put on his shoes, shouldn’t go out the door and to the station, shouldn’t take the train to the nearest station, shouldn’t walk to the front of the building, shouldn’t try the door handle—
But it swings open.
It just… swings open, no lock, nothing. It opens silently, as if the hinges are perfectly oiled, almost floating, unlike the door to Till’s dingy, creaky apartment.
The front door leads into a small genkan. Till is respectful, of course, so he takes off his shoes before continuing into the house.
There’s a large kitchen, which is relatively boring, and then attached dining room and a living room, which are also pretty tame. There’s some Ivan merch on display on the couch coffee table, on the shelves. It’s all product that Till has seen before. Most of it, he even has; bought with his own money, or—how should he say—creatively acquired. He flips through the photobooks anyways; he can never see too much Ivan. (Plus, it might be the same merch, but this is merch that Ivan has touched. He’s practically touching Ivan himself, albeit indirectly.)
Past the couch is a hallway, decorated with memorabilia and more merch. There’s framed posters from some of Ivan’s earliest concerts (Till only stops for a little while to stare), trophies from singing competitions, a signed bat from the baseball game where Ivan threw the opening pitch, a shelf of plushie Ibannies—Ivan’s cutesy mascot character. Till is very tempted to snatch one or two of them, but he refrains. He can’t leave behind any trace that he was here.
There’s a bathroom—boring, infuriatingly sanitized—and a laundry room. The latter piques Till’s interest. There’s a pile of dirty laundry, and, well, Till might be respectful but he also knows that this is a chance he’ll probably never get again. Surely, Ivan won’t remember how his heap of unwashed clothes was arranged—so, surely, it’ll be fine if Till digs around a bit.
So he snoops through Ivan’s dirty laundry, basking in the acrid musk. He wishes he could bottle the scent; he’d wear it every day. Make a candle out of it and burn it. Make a bath bomb out of it and—
Hm.
Truly, it’s unfortunate that he can’t.
He leaves the laundry room and walks to the end of the hallway. Like all the doors in the house, they open eerily silently. This one is a bedroom. Ivan’s bedroom, it seems. As Till scans the room—ingraining every atom into his memory—he notices the desk in the corner.
On top of the desk is a photobook, but Till doesn’t recognize it. It’s open to a page somewhere in the middle, with pictures of Ivan and his beauty. Till starts to flip through it, and quickly realizes that this is a new photobook. He saw the promo about it; it’s supposed to be released sometime later in the year. (There’s no specific date yet.)
That means Till is bearing witness to never-seen-before Ivan merchandise.
He’s gorgeous. Not a surprise, of course, but still.
Till turns the pages slowly, examining each, one-by-one. He takes out his phone and starts recording. The photobook’s theme is a little more raunchy than previous editions: sandy beaches, swim shorts, and—
Fuck.
No swim shirt.
The closest thing anyone’s ever gotten to seeing Ivan shirtless was when unexpected rain slicked Ivan’s loose black shirt to his skin at an outdoor concert. Till was there—he has his own pictures documenting it. The photos from that performance were the first and only proof of Ivan’s musculature—proving Till right. He had been constantly defending Ivan’s physique to the haters. Some particular stubborn deviants still deny Ivan’s glory, but this photobook? He can’t wait to post about the new photobook. Obviously, the video he’s recording is just for him; he would never spoil Ivan’s surprise, so he’ll wait. Regardless, the book is hard proof.
Very hard.
The seawater and sweat dripping down Ivan’s pecs, along the crevices of his abs… even if it’s fake—which it more than likely is—it sends Till’s blood rushing south.
Almost in a daze, Till picks up the book and stumbles to the bed, palming himself through his pants. He tosses his phone onto the pillow as he crawls onto the sheets. The bedding smells so much like Ivan. It floods Till senses. He does everything he can from passing out due to lack of blood flow to his brain.
He unzips his pants and tugs them down to his thighs. The first touch to his dick is almost too much. He’s overwhelmed: Ivan’s rippling muscles, Ivan’s scent, being in Ivan’s house. He starts jerking off slowly. He wishes he had brought his fleshlight, his hand isn’t big enough. Ivan’s hand would be so much larger, probably so much warmer.
And his cock—shit, Till’s hips thrust involuntarily, and he tries to stifle his moan.
He curls onto his side, still trying to get a good look at the photobook as he uses his other hand to finger his ass. If he looks closely enough, he can almost make out the shape of Ivan’s cock through the swim shorts.
“Like what you see?”
It nearly scares Till out of his skin. He turns around and—
Everything goes dark.
—
Upon entering his home, Ivan notices a certain… disarray, say, to his belongings. He is very particular about organization; everything has a place. The lights are off, so the limited visibility comes only from the late-afternoon sunlight filtering through the windows. But even then, Ivan can tell something is off.
He sets his bag down quietly and listens closely to the disconcerting quiet. And then he hears it: a faint, short cry.
And then another.
He steps silently toward the source of the noises. They’re coming from his bedroom.
The hallway (and its unfortunate lack of windows) is dim. Ivan grabs his Debut Tenth Anniversary signed baseball bat off the wall. As he approaches his bedroom, he notices that his bedroom door is open—which is probably why he could hear the sound in the first place.
It’s also another red flag, because Ivan always keeps his doors closed.
But, suddenly grateful to be sheathed in shadows, Ivan tentatively peers around the doorway.
There’s a man in his bed.
He’s wearing disheveled, ill-fitting clothes, curled up facing the wall, and the back of his head is lit by the bright screen of a phone lying on the bed next to him. The man makes another shriveled sound. Either the man is dying in his bed, or…
Everything clicks.
The noises? They were moans. The man has one hand in his ass and one hand—presumably—flying over his cock. As Ivan moves closer, he confirms his suspicions. The man is even looking at Ivan’s photobook as he jerks off.
Ivan can’t help but smile.
“Like what you see?” he asks.
The man startles.
Ivan doesn’t give him time to react more than that. He aims, swings, and knocks the man out.
He drops the bat, picks up the phone, and grabs the man by the collar of his shirt, dragging him out of the bed. It ends up pulling the man’s pants completely off, but Ivan doesn’t care. He has to figure out what to do.
He doesn’t really have a plan—but he also doesn’t really have time, either, so he decides to bring the man into the spare room that he mostly just uses as storage. There’s a table, and a lot of boxes, some tools, a few piles of books scattered around the floor.
He dumps the man’s body on the table. It used to be his main dining room table, so it’s quite large, but his father had criticized him enough on it (apparently it wasn’t grand and luxurious enough) that Ivan bought a new one. He’d meant to do something with this one—give it away, maybe—but he never got around to it.
Maybe now it’ll actually serve a purpose.
He has rope around here somewhere; he digs through a few boxes before finding the spool, a pair of dull shears, and a roll of duct tape. He loops and knots the rope around one of the man’s wrists, and then cuts the rope and ties the end around the table leg. He roughly rolls the man onto his back, and repeats the process with the other wrist.
It’s then that he realizes that maybe his father was right. The table is not large enough to accommodate a full spread-eagle. The man’s arms span the longer side, whereas the shorter length reaches from just above the man’s head to maybe halfway down the man’s thighs. Because of the awkward length, Ivan opts to tape the man’s ankles to his thighs instead of to the table. For peace of mind, he covers most of the man’s leg in the silver tape. If the man manages to wriggle his arms free, it’s enough to make walking difficult—slow enough to be easily caught.
He finishes with a piece of tape securely over the man’s mouth.
Ivan can’t afford to be caught, now, can he?
He pulls a dusty, plastic chair out of the corner of the room and sets it next to the table before sitting down.
He takes the phone out of his pocket and finds that, surprisingly, it hasn’t gone to sleep yet. Upon closer inspection, it’s actually recording a video. The creep must’ve been recording his house before getting distracted.
Ivan ends the video and deletes it. He goes to the Recently Deleted folder in the photo app, and deletes it there, too. (He knows that nothing can really be deleted forever from the cloud, but he can’t really be bothered to do more than that.)
Then, he starts scrolling through the rest of the photos. There are almost no actual photos, taken from the camera—it’s all screenshots and saved pictures of Ivan. There are so many pictures of Ivan: from what Ivan can tell, every single official picture of him that’s ever existed is in this phone, along with many, many paparazzi and fan sightings.
Ivan busies himself with the rest of the phone. Going through the man’s messages, notes app, email, social media. There’s minimal information about the man himself—the settings app says his name is Till—and it seems like that is because he essentially has no life. Almost everything has to do with Ivan.
It’s kind of pathetic.
The man, Till, suddenly jerks to life. (Ivan almost sighs in relief. For a second there, he was slightly concerned that he’d killed him.) He tugs against his bonds. His head raises off the table, eyes confused and searching, and when he looks down between his taped legs, they lock eyes.
“Till Urakio,” Ivan says. “Age, 27. You do contract production work, but are currently unemployed. You live alone, no father, dead mother.” Ivan pauses. “Will anyone notice you’re missing?”
Till’s eyes go wide.
“No need to answer.” Ivan chuckles to himself. “Not that you can, anyway. What were you doing in my house? Besides jerking off. I saw that part.”
Till doesn’t say anything. It’s almost like his brain has blue-screened.
Ivan’s gaze drops from Till’s face to his dick. Till had gone a little soft while unconscious, but his cock is beginning to stir again. By the time Ivan looks back up at Till’s face, it seems that Till has noticed, too.
“Really? Is your dick the only thing you can think about when you’re tied up in a stranger’s house, with no way to get out?”
With some amount of cosmic irony, the demeaning tone of Ivan’s voice does the trick. Till’s cock is hard, kicking in the air above his stomach. It’s a pretty shade of pink, and the tip is shiny with pre.
“Fucking pathetic. Your hard and I haven’t even done anything.”
Ivan stands up and unzips his pants. He grabs Till’s thighs and tugs him down so his ass is almost at the end of the table. He runs tantalizing fingers over the soft skin of Till’s stomach.
“But lucky for you, you’re a pretty little fucktoy, so be good while I use you, yeah?” Ivan says.
He lines his cock up with Till’s hole and tries to push in. Till is tight—too tight.
“Shit, Tillie, relax.”
Still no luck. Ivan, irked and impatient, slaps Till’s cock hard. Till jerks, his legs snapping together. Ivan pushes them back apart.
“I said relax, whore,” Ivan grits. “Fuck, haven’t you done this before?”
He gives up on getting his cock in and instead uses a finger. That goes in with less resistance, and he roughly fucks in and out of Till’s ass. Till starts moaning again, squeezing. Ivan adds another finger and curls it. His fingernails probably scratch along Till’s insides. With a muffled shout, Till arches sharply off the table, and his cock shoots thick strings of cum onto his stomach.
Ivan takes his hand out.
“Well. Aren’t you easy.”
He scoops the cum into one hand, then fists the other over Till’s cock to get the cum that dripped down his shaft. He shoves it all into Till’s hole, smears it over his own cock.
Then, he pushes in—and this time, it works. Once he gets the head in, it’s easy. No matter how much Till squeezes, trying to get him out, it’s no use. Ivan is simply stronger than he is.
“Shit, you’re so tight,” Ivan says. “You feel me inside you? I’ll fuck you until your hole remembers my cock.”
Till’s lewd noises just get louder. Ivan fucks them out of him.
He gets into a steady rhythm, hands settling over Till’s taped legs to hold him in place as he rams into Till. Till’s cock is still hard, twitching, bouncing against his stomach, and his hands clench into fists, unclench, clench. Ivan can see the irritated, red beginnings of rope burn around his wrists.
“You know, Till,” Ivan says, “I remember you from the fan meets. Stammering and blushing, asking me to sign your merch, your clothes, your books. From the very beginning.”
Ivan grabs the shears off the table. He’d left them there, distracted by the phone.
“Trying to get my signature on everything. My little fucking fanboy.”
He digs one of the blades into the tender flesh of Till’s pelvis, right above his cock. He rips deep enough to draw blood, scraping a horizontal line across Till’s skin. Till clamps down around Ivan’s cock, tight enough that it rips a low groan from Ivan’s throat. Ivan keeps going—a vertical line next. Tears start to drip down Till’s cheeks; his wretched sobs are stifled by the tape over his mouth.
And yet—Till is still hard. Maybe even harder than before.
Ivan is almost done with his work of art. His fingertips are slick with red. “Everyone will know who you belong to. Your god, carved into you.” As he draws the final line, he says, “Mine.”
Till screams and convulses, and his untouched cock spurts onto his stomach. Till’s back arches, and gravity sends the milky cum dripping down into the wound and Till wails. Ivan smears the white and scarlet together, pushing into Till’s flesh. It conceals the cuts for a brief second, but then fresh blood seeps out and they’re clear again.
Ivan keeps smudging and watching, again, again, again. Till gets so fucking tight every time, nerves strangled and muscles tense from the sheer pain of it. Ivan rams into him deep. The pinkish blood-cum mess drips into the crack of Till’s ass, onto Ivan’s cock, onto the table. It’s disgusting. Ivan is getting close, and then Till—
Till goes limp.
Till goes limp, and that means the glorious squeeze suddenly goes lax.
“Fuck, you stupid pain slut,” Ivan grits out. “Come on, Tillie, taking the easy way out, hm? Fucking useless.”
Ivan pulls out and walks over to the opposite side of the table. His cock is level with Till’s face. Ivan rips the tape off of Till’s mouth and shoves his cock in. Till’s throat, even while he’s unconscious, is deliciously tight.
Ivan resumes his rough pace.
He notices when Till wakes up because he starts coughing—or, as much as he can. His wrists pull the rope taught over the table.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Ivan says. “Relax, or you’ll pass out again.”
Till makes panicky, gargled noises around Ivan’s cock. His throat spasms.
“Fuck, just like that,” Ivan groans. “Has anyone done this to you? No—you probably saved yourself for me, didn’t you? That’s why you’re so tight.”
In front of Ivan, Till’s legs shake and his back arches. His little cock is hard again, slapping against the bloody scratches with the sliding momentum of Ivan’s thrusts. The alluring sight is a momentary distraction for Ivan, but he quickly focuses back on fucking Till’s mouth. Unfortunately, much too soon, Till somehow adjusts, relaxing his throat. It’s not enough for Ivan.
“You stupid whore,” Ivan says. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.”
Ivan places a hand over Till’s neck and squeezes. He can feel himself as he thrusts, feel how Till convulses and gags under him, around him.
“My personal cocksleeve,” he breathes. “Fuck, gonna cum.”
He shoves his cock in completely and empties himself into Till’s throat, groaning through the euphoric high as his cock pulses, Till’s spasming milking his cum out. Till jerks under him, his pathetic cock twitching violently. His legs snap closed around his dick as he curls in on himself.
Once Ivan’s orgasm begins to fade, he pulls out.
“Ivan—” Till’s voice is absolutely raw, barely more than a raspy breath. But there’s still that damn worshiping air to it, that fucking idolization—
“Shut up. Don’t even try it. You don’t even deserve to cum for what you’ve done,” Ivan cuts in. “Stupid enough to fall for my trap, weren’t you?”
Till blinks up at him in near-delirious confusion.
Ivan laughs. “You really think I send my address to all my producers? That I leave my front door unlocked? Did it ever cross your mind that something was wrong?”
He walks back around the table, coming to a stop near Till’s ass.
“Or,” Ivan continues, wiping bright drops of blood over pale skin, “you wanted this. Dirty little obsessive slut, you walked right into my trap without a worry in the world. Because you liked the idea that I could find you. Take you. You basically asked—no, begged—me for it. Well, now you’re never getting out.”
Ivan digs his nails into the cuts. Till gasps.
“You are my slave, Till. Until the day I die.”
Ivan watches with a smile as Till’s cock kicks and dribbles more cum onto the seeping-red letters:
IVAN