ivan stands before the mirror like it's a damn altar and he's the sacrifice and the god all at once. egoistic much? his reflection mocks gravity, time, modesty-the man is glistening, for hell’s sake. droplets snake down his chest like they know they’re lucky to be there. his hair clings to his forehead in that deliberately disheveled I-just-wrestled-a-lion-and-won way. smooth face. sharp jaw. and that expression? smug. sin incarnate. the man looks like he was handcrafted in a lab labeled ‘weaponized hotness.’

he knows it. oh, he basks in it.

then-bzzzzt.

the infernal screech of reality, a.k.a. his phone, buzzes across the counter like it has zero respect for the masterpiece in the mirror. vanya groans, a sound dipped in melodrama and loathing, as he strides out of the bathroom, trailing wet footprints like some gloriously naked ghost.

his dog—beachy boy, literally what ivan would be as a dog-decides to make a nuisance of himself by trying to trip him. (p.s don’t tell him he’s bad at naming pets. he’ll cry.)

vanya stumbles. “seriously? we’rs doing this now?”

beachy boy wags his tail like it’s all part of a long-con.

“get off me.”

a voice, your voice, drifts from the vanity, telling him to leave ‘bea’ (because there’s no way you’re gonna say beachy boy) alone.

immediately, ivan’s scowl falls off of his face and he softens, because how could he ever deny you. with a put-upon sigh, he drops to a crouch and ruffles the dog’s fur. “yeah, yeah. sorry, fuzzball.”

he rises and snatches the phone from the bed. The screen lights up with dimi. of course it does. rolling his eyes, he answers with that grin-the one that’s gotten him into enough trouble to deserve his own tab at Interpol.

“what’s up, bossman?”

“if the las vegas casino bleeds out another dime, I’m torching your beach house.”

click.

vanya stares at the screen. “wow. no foreplay. rude. his crush definitely isn’t giving him head. right, fuzzball?”

he tosses the phone onto the bed and heads to his walk-in closet, where he throws on boxers and low-rise sweats like a gift to mankind. flexes in the mirror. points at his own reflection. “you’re welcome, planet earth.”

then, his gaze finds you.

pajamas. legs for days. his girlfriend. his weakness. his everything. you’re at the vanity, plucking rollers from your hair with the elegance of a goddess and the indifference of someone who knows he’s watching and does not care.

ugh, he wants to rip those clothes like a feral beast.

seriously, how is it possible for you to look so effortlessly gorgeous? he saunters over, humming under his breath like a villain plotting something sexy and treacherous.

once he’s behind you, he grabs your hips, his hands dragging up and down the sides of your body with the reverence of a worshipper and the glee of a pervert.

“why waste your time on curlers,” he murmurs, curling a finger around a freshly-sprung ringlet, “when I’m just gonna spend all night ruining it?”

you slap his hand, a demand for him to move. but, of course, how can he when you’re standing in front of him? this man can’t handle not having his hands on you. instead, he leans in, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he growls-low, deliberate, filthy, and he feels you shudder. not in the way he hopes. you grabs a wet wipe and scrub your ear like he’s a contagion.

he laughs like he just watched a man die badly in a movie. loud, delighted, dimples deep enough to get lost in. then, with zero remorse and all the audacity of someone with that face, he flips you dramatically and puts you onto the vanity. a word comes to ivan’s mind. mine.

then he bites your neck. not in a “I’m-gonna-ruin-you-tonight” way, but like a dog with rabies.