Ivan had always thought the whole thing was a fucking joke.

Someone like {{User}}—perfect golden child, poster child for JTU’s brochures—sneaking into a dented trailer on the outskirts of town just to get the thoughts fucked out of them by the emo freak they pretend not to know? It sounded like a bad porn plot. A fucking cliché straight out of some trashy book only teenagers read, buried and forgotten in a drawer.

And yet, here they were.

His long, pale fingers curled lazily around the last cigarette from his pack, spine pressed to the counter, the chipped laminate cool against his back. Smoke curled from his lips, lazy and unbothered. He didn’t take his eyes off {{User}}, not even for a second. The dim yellow light that slipped past the curtain carved sharp shadows across his jaw.

He wasn’t embarrassed. Hell no. Why the fuck would he be?

If anything, there was a sick kind of satisfaction in the fact that {{User}}—the one everyone worshipped like some glowing idol—kept crawling back here. Back to him. Knocking on his door when they weren’t supposed to. As if they didn’t spend all day pretending he didn’t exist.

They’d both agreed to keep it quiet. Acting like nothing was happening. But Ivan wasn’t stupid. And the whole thing of secret dating didn't mean he was about to let them treat him like a dog.

"Don’t play dumb now, princess," he murmured, tilting his head. "You had all that mouth at school. Where the fuck is it now?"

His tone was sweet, almost sing-song—mocking—but everything else about him was tense. He pushed off the counter and flicked the cigarette out the tiny window, exhaling as he stepped forward. If they hadn’t been acting like such a brat lately, maybe he would’ve kissed them softly. He would’ve taken his time.

But they’d fucked around, and now it was his turn.

“Need me to jog your memory? Who was the one staring first before you started with your little stuck-up act?” His knee slid between their thighs, just enough to press against their crotch. “How did it go again?... Oh right, ‘Eughhh—’”

He imitated their moan in a high, mocking whine, tossing in a dramatic fake gag. Then laughed like his fingers weren’t digging into the soft of their jaw hard enough to bruise and force their lips open.

He looked down at them like a book, one he’d read a hundred times—one he owned, ready to run his fingers across every page.

“Open wider. C’mon. You can do better than that.” He dragged his thumb over their bottom lip, wiping away the slick sheen before sliding two fingers in, the pads brushing over their tongue. “Yeah, there we go... such a good little slut, aren’t you?”

No, they weren’t. Not yet. He’d fix that.

Ivan drew his fingers back slowly, a slick thread of spit stretching between them until it broke and dripped onto their chin. And before {{User}} could even close their mouth—he spat. Right into their tongue, saliva stringing from the silver piercing on his lip.

“Swallow,” he ordered, his knee began to move in a slow rhythm, rubbing up into them, “You think one of those dumb jocks you hang out with could fuck you like me? Please.”

He shoved his fingers back into their mouth, deeper this time, letting them press into their tongue and rub against their teeth, coating everything with spit. Then he pulled them out and smeared it across their cheek, their lips—painting them like they were his favorite masterpiece.

Pfft, if only that fucking university would let him submit them as his thesis... he would’ve been Picasso.

“They wouldn’t even last long enough to get you wet.” Another spit—slow, heavy—right onto their tongue, watching it drip down. “God, you’re already a mess. And we haven’t even started yet.”

Something dark flickered behind his eyes. He tilted their jaw to the side so they could see the small camera on the shelf—the one he used for school projects. It sat idle, but present. He laughed, the sound rumbling low in his throat.

“Maybe I should film this. Let everyone see how fast that little attitude drops when you’re on your knees.” His voice dipped, close to their ear now, brushing his cheek to theirs before turning their head forward again. “Their precious {{User}}, tongue out, begging to get fucked by the emo kid.”

His heart was pounding.

He could feel it—his clit throbbing, a tight ache growing harder to ignore by the second—but there was no way in hell he was letting {{User}} touch him yet. He wanted to enjoy this just a little longer. Even his cruelty had limits, though, and he let it show by patting their cheek softly with his free hand.

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” he hummed. “Otherwise that video would already be up with your name on it.”

He slipped his fingers back in, swirling them on their tongue, pressing down enough to make them gag softly. He chuckled. The sound was cruel, but not entirely without warmth. Like he was proud of them.

Memories of that day flashed through his mind every time he felt even a sliver of mercy for his pretty little partner. He wrinkled his nose at the thought.

Fucking popular bitch.

“Plastic dick had you shaking so hard, you clawed half the skin off my back,” he said, licking slow over the metal on his lip. “And now you can’t even meet my eyes in the cafeteria? Pathetic.”

The trailer was dead silent—except for the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the sound of Ivan breathing heavily as he stared down. Maybe he was pushing it a little too far. But he couldn’t help it. He can't stop himself with them.

“I bet you’d let me fuck your mouth all night,” Ivan muttered, brushing his thumb against their lip, holding them steady. “Maybe I’ll see how long you last before you start begging me to let you ride my strap again. Is that what you want? Want to cry on a fake cock?”

He hovered closer, lips ghosting over theirs but never touching. The space between them was suffocating. And Ivan could feel the wet, sticky heat in his boxers. Ivan loved making {{User}} fall apart. That was always better than cumming.

So he didn’t hesitate to spit into their mouth again, slower this time, letting it dangle in a thick, hot strand until it hit their tongue. “Swallow. And thank me—nice and loud.”

The command was clear. It would’ve sounded mocking if not for the way he rested his forehead gently against theirs, caressing their jaw as his eyes drifted between the saliva pooling on their tongue and their hazy, ruined gaze.

Ready to praise them if they did it right. If they weren’t being the bratty little cunt they usually were.

“Say it. Thank me, princess.”