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The dorm room was a mess, split right down the middle. Shane’s side was neat, books stacked, bed made. Ilya’s side looked like a bomb went off in a laundry basket and a club bathroom had a baby. Clothes everywhere, empty energy drink cans, the whole deal.
Shane hated it. He hated Ilya’s stupid face, his stupid laugh, the way he’d just stroll in at 3 AM with some random person, giggling and shushing like anyone was fooled. He hated how Ilya would fuck them so loud the walls practically vibrated, how Shane’s noise-cancelling headphones were useless against the moans and the headboard banging. Most of all, he hated the next morning, when Ilya would emerge from the shower, a towel slung low on his hips, water dripping down his chest, and give Shane this amused little smirk like Shane’s pissed-off, sleep-deprived glare was the cutest thing he’d seen all week.
It was that smirk, that casual confidence, that had gotten Shane into this particular, humiliating hell.
Shane’s face was mashed into his pillow, the cotton soaked with a disgusting cocktail of tears, snot and drool. His whole body was a live wire of overstimulation. His dick was a raw, chafed ache against his stomach. But that was nothing compared to the deep, internal thrumming.
The vibrator was stuck. Not just stuck, but lodged deep, its broken remote leaving it buzzing on a high, relentless setting directly against his prostate. He’d come three times already–forced, painful spurts that left him trembling and hollow but somehow even more desperate. The pleasure had tipped over into a sharp, constant agony, a need so deep it felt like his bones were vibrating.
It’s all Rozanov’s fault. Like always.
His fault Shane couldn’t be satisfied with his own fingers anymore, not after hearing the choked-off moans and filthy praise Ilya would whisper to his conquests. His fault Shane had bought the stupid black toy in a panic of jealousy. His fault Shane was now sobbing, trying to claw the thing out with slippery fingers, his hole stretched and fluttering around the vibrating thing.
He was crying in earnest, ugly, hiccupping sobs. He didn’t hear the main door. Didn’t hear the footsteps. Didn’t hear Ilya’s voice call out, “Hollander? You crying in there?”
He only heard the creak of his door swinging open.
Shane froze, a bolt of pure terror locking his muscles. He tried to scramble, to cover himself, but the movement made his oversensitive cock drag across the sheet and he yelped, a high, pathetic sound.
Silence. Then a low, drawn-out, “Oh.”
Ilya’s voice. Right in the doorway.
“Get out,” Shane choked, his voice thick and broken. “Just fucking leave me alone.”
Ilya didn’t move. Shane could feel his gaze like a physical weight on his naked, trembling back. “Shane,” he said, and his voice had lost all its usual mocking edge. It was quiet. Serious. “What happened?”
“Out!” Shane screamed, humiliation giving him a burst of strength. “This is your fault! Everything is your fault!”
The bed dipped heavily near his hip. A large, warm hand settled on the crown of his head, not patting, just resting. The heat of it was shocking. “Turn around,” Ilya said, his voice a low command that vibrated through Shane’s skull.
“No.”
The hand in his hair fisted gently, just enough to pull. “Turn. Around.”
Shane’s resistance crumbled. He was too tired, too scared, too turned on in the worst way. He slowly, miserably, rolled onto his back, dragging the sheet with him in a futile attempt at modesty.
Ilya was kneeling beside the bed. His blue eyes swept over Shane’s face–the tear tracks, the flushed cheeks, the freckles standing out stark, the bitten-swollen lips, the drool making his chin gleam in the low light. Ilya’s own lips parted slightly. He let out a soft, reverent curse in Russian.
His thumb came up and swiped through the wetness on Shane’s chin, then pressed against his bottom lip, pushing down until Shane’s mouth opened on a silent gasp. “What a mess,” Ilya murmured, his eyes darkening. “What happened?”
Shane sniffled, shame burning through him. “It’s stuck,” he whispered.
Ilya’s brow furrowed. “What’s stuck?”
“It,” Shane whined, squeezing his eyes shut again.
Ilya’s thumb pressed harder. “Use your words, zaychik. What’s stuck?”
The foreign word that he couldn’t even understand made Shane shudder. He was so exposed, so utterly helpless. “My… the vibrator. It’s stuck inside. And the remote’s broken. It won’t stop.” A fresh sob broke out of him. “I can’t… I can’t come anymore, it just hurts.”
Ilya stared at him for a long moment. Then, a slow, mean smile spread across his face.
“Oh, malysh. You got yourself a toy stuck? All alone in here, trying to play?” He cooed the words, his voice dropping into a purr that went straight to Shane’s ruined dick. “You are so fucking helpless.”
“Stop,” Shane whined, humiliation burning hot in his veins.
“Is that what you want?” Ilya asked, his hand moving from Shane’s lip to stroke his hot cheek. “Or do you want me to help the poor little princess who can’t even fuck himself right?”
Shane whined, turning his face into Ilya’s touch despite himself. He hated him. He loved his hands on him.
“I d-don’t need your help,” Shane hiccuped, glaring up at his annoying roommate. On a normal day Ilya found his glare utterly adorable. Today, with fat tears in his eyes and cheeks flushed red and lips bitten until they were swollen, all Ilya felt was his cock leaking in his underwear.
“Yes you do,” Ilya smiled, so mean and so adoring. “Now show me.”
“No!” Shane tried to shift back only to choke when it made the vibrator shift and stab at his prostate. Ilya licked his lip, eyes tracing the sweat beading down his roommate’s temple.
“Come on, be good,” He leaned in closer. His scent– sweat, fabric softener, something uniquely Ilya–wrapped around Shane. “Let me see.”
Shane shook his head, fresh tears spilling over.
Ilya’s patience seemed to fray. He hooked a finger in the sheet Shane was clinging to and pulled it down in one smooth, ruthless motion.
The cool air hit Shane’s overheated skin. He was fully exposed: his red, spent cock lying against his thigh, his balls drawn up tight. His hole was puffy and wet, clenching weakly around the stupid broken toy which they could both hear faintly vibrating inside Shane.
Ilya’s breath caught. For a long moment, he just stared. His gaze was hungry, taking in every detail–the tremble in Shane’s thighs, the sheen of sweat on his stomach, the way his rim fluttered desperately.
“Bozhe moi,” Ilya breathed. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. It wasn’t friendly. It was mean. It was possessive. It made Shane’s stomach flip. “My sweet innocent Hollander. You’ve been naughty.”
“Please,” Shane whimpered, not knowing what he was asking for.
“Are you finally asking for my help, malysh?” Ilya’s hand left his face and trailed down his chest, over his stomach. His fingertips were calloused. They skirted his cock, making Shane jerk, and went lower, to where his inner thigh met his groin. His fingers danced closer to his hole, not touching it, just ghosting over the sensitive skin. “You’re so wet. You’ve been stuck like this for a while, right?”
Shane could only nod, choking on a sob.
“Such a slut,” Ilya whispered but the word didn’t feel like an insult. Finally, he touched him. A single fingertip pressed against his swollen rim.
Shane cried out, his back arching off the bed. The touch was electric, a direct line to his fried nervous system.
“So sensitive,” Ilya cooed, watching his face with rapt attention. He pressed the finger in, just past the first knuckle. The stretch was minimal but the sensation was overwhelming–the solidity of Ilya’s finger alongside the relentless vibration. “So hot inside, fuck, Hollander.” He worked the finger in deeper, slowly, until it was buried to the hilt. He curled it, searching.
He found the smooth surface of the bullet vibrator almost immediately. And he found Shane’s prostate, swollen and abused right behind it.
Ilya pressed down.
Shane screamed. It was a raw, shattered sound. His body bowed off the mattress, every muscle locking. “No! Stop! Please, Ilya, it’s too much!”
“Is it?” Ilya murmured, his voice thick with fascination. He didn’t stop. He began to rub in a slow, firm circle, using the vibrator as an anchor point. The pressure was torture. Beautiful, mind-breaking torture. Shane thrashed, his hands fisting in the sheets, tears streaming down his temples into his hair.
“Look at you,” Ilya said, his own breathing starting to quicken. He added a second finger, stretching him wider. The burn was exquisite. Shane’s cries turned into a continuous, high-pitched whine. “You’re taking it so well. Greedy little hole, sucking my fingers in.” He scissored them, opening him up. The vibrator shifted minutely inside and Shane sobbed.
Ilya leaned down, his lips brushing Shane’s ear. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Hearing me fuck others. You wanted to know what it felt like.” He crooked his fingers hard, milking his prostate with a ruthless rhythm. “This what you wanted, zaychik? To be fucked stupid?”
“I… yes!” Shane wailed, the confession torn from him. “God, yes!”
“Then take it.” Ilya’s voice was a guttural command. He sped up his fingers, fucking them in and out now, the wet, filthy sounds loud in the quiet room. Shane’s cock, which had been soft and sore, began to fill again, a thick, painful ache. Pre-come beaded at the tip and dripped onto his stomach.
The stimulation was everywhere, unending. Shane felt like he was dissolving into pure sensation. He was babbling, begging, praising Ilya’s name.
Then a different pressure made itself known. A deep, urgent fullness in his bladder.
“I… I need to pee,” Shane gasped, the biological imperative cutting through the sexual haze.
Ilya stilled his fingers. He looked down at Shane’s wrecked face, his eyes gleaming with a new kind of intensity. “Yeah?” he asked softly. “You gonna piss all over yourself? On your nice bed?”
“I can’t hold it,” Shane wept, humiliated anew.
Ilya’s smile was wicked. He resumed fingering him, slower now, almost tenderly. “Then don’t. Let me see it. Let go for me.”
The command, wrapped in that dark, gentle tone, was impossible to resist. Shane shook his head weakly even as his body betrayed him.
“Do it,” Ilya whispered, his lips against Shane’s jaw. “Or I walk away right now. And that’ll be a shame, to leave a pretty boy all wet and needy.”
The threat broke the last of his control. With a broken moan of utter shame, Shane let go. A hot flood rushed out of him, soaking the sheets beneath his ass in a spreading pool of warmth. He cried harder, great heaving sobs, trying to turn his face away from Ilya’s gaze.
A strong hand caught his chin, forcing him to look back. Ilya’s expression had softened. The mean glint was gone, replaced by something awed and fiercely possessive.
“Moy prekrasnyy mal'chik,” he murmured. My beautiful boy. “You did so perfect. So good for me.” He swiped his thumb through the fresh tears on Shane’s cheek. “Look at this perfect mess you are.”
Shane whimpered but the praise soothed something in him, making his mouth fall open in a soft gasp. “Please,” he whispered, nuzzling into Ilya’s palm like a cat. “Please take it out now. I need it out. I need you.”
Ilya kissed him then. It was deep and claiming, swallowing Shane’s whimpers. “Okay,” he breathed against his lips. “Okay, baby.”
He pulled his fingers out slowly, making Shane feel every ridge. He reached for the lube on the nightstand, the bottle cold against Shane’s hip. He coated his right hand thoroughly, working the slick gel between his fingers, over his knuckles, up to his wrist. The sight of Ilya preparing his fist, tucking his thumb in, making a smooth, formidable shape, made Shane’s breath hitch in fear and anticipation.
“This will hurt,” Ilya said, his eyes locked on Shane’s. “You have to relax for me. Can you do that?”
Shane nodded, mesmerized.
Ilya started with three fingers again, pushing in easily through the slick mess of lube and come. He stretched him carefully, methodically, taking his time. He pressed in with four fingers, and the stretch was immense, burning in the best way. Shane panted through it, his eyes rolling back.
“You’re so open,” Ilya groaned, watching his hole swallow the digits. “So fucking perfect.” He curled his fingers into the beginnings of a fist, the widest part of his knuckles pressing against Shane’s entrance.
Shane cried out, a sharp sound of protest and need.
“Shhh,” Ilya soothed, but he didn’t stop pushing. He applied steady, inexorable pressure. Shane felt himself stretching beyond what he thought was possible. The burn was intense, a white-hot ring of fire that slowly gave way to a feeling of incredible, mind-altering fullness as knuckle by knuckle, Ilya’s hand breached him.
Ilya cursed filthily in Russian, sweat beading on his own forehead. He pushed deeper, his wrist now pressing against Shane’s rim. With one last, firm thrust, his entire hand slid inside, up to the wrist.
The feeling was incomprehensible. Shane couldn’t breathe. He was stuffed fuller than he’d ever been in his life. He could feel the solid shape of Ilya’s fist inside him, a heavy, occupying presence that seemed to reach into his very core. A silent, violent dry orgasm seized him, wracking his body with tremors so intense he saw stars.
“Fuck,” Ilya breathed, staring down at where they were joined. He was breathing hard. “Look at you. Taking my whole hand.” He flexed his fingers slowly inside the incredible heat.
Shane whimpered, overwhelmed. He looked down at his own stomach. There, beneath the pale skin, was a subtle but unmistakable bulge. The outline of Ilya’s fist inside him.
Ilya followed his gaze. A look of raw hunger crossed his face. “You see that?” he whispered, voice ragged. “That’s me. I’m inside you so deep.” He pressed upward gently with his hand, and the bulge in Shane’s stomach became more pronounced.
Shane moaned, half in pain, half in ecstasy. He felt owned in a way he never had before.
Ilya held still for a long moment, letting Shane adjust to the incredible intrusion. Then he began to move his hand in tiny increments–not pulling out, just shifting internally, massaging him from the inside out. The sensations were dizzying, profound. Shane felt like he was being remade around Ilya’s hand.
After what felt like an eternity of this slow, internal possession, Ilya shifted his focus. He moved his hand carefully, fingers exploring the tight, slick confines of Shane’s body. He grunted in satisfaction when he closed his fingers around the smooth plastic of the vibrator.
“Got it,” he murmured. “Ready?”
Shane nodded frantically.
“On three.” Ilya’s voice was strained with effort. “One… two…”
He pulled on two.
The drag of the vibrator out of his overstimulated channel was one thing. The following drag of Ilya’s large, thick fist back through his stretched rim was another entirely. It was a sensation of monumental emptiness and overwhelming friction all at once.
Shane’s vision whited out. A soundless scream tore from his throat as another brutal, dry climax ripped through him, sharper than any before. Then everything went dark and soft as he finally, mercifully, passed out.
—
Consciousness returned in waves. He was warm. Wet. Clean.
He was in the bathtub, hot water up to his chest. Ilya was behind him, Shane’s back cradled against his solid chest. Ilya was washing him with a soft cloth, running it over his shoulders, down his arms, over his stomach with a tenderness that made Shane’s throat tighten.
“There you are,” Ilya murmured into his damp hair. His voice was soft, almost sleepy.
Shane made a small noise and leaned back into him.
Ilya rinsed him off carefully, then lifted him from the water as if he weighed nothing. He wrapped him in a huge towel and carried him not to Shane’s bed but to his own. The sheets were clean and smelled like Ilya.
He laid Shane down and produced a bottle of lotion. His hands were magic as they worked the soreness from Shane’s muscles–kneading the tension from his thighs, which still trembled occasionally; rubbing deep circles into his lower back; soothing his shoulders.
Shane drifted under the attention. He felt safe. Cherished.
He also felt Ilya’s hard cock pressing insistently against his thigh through Ilya’s sweatpants. A weak noise of concern escaped him.
“Don’t worry about it,” Ilya soothed, not stopping his massage.
But a moment later, Shane heard a soft groan near his ear. He cracked an eye open. Ilya had one arm braced beside Shane’s head, his forehead resting on his bicep. His other hand was down his pants, moving in quick, rough strokes. His jaw was tight, eyes squeezed shut. Watching him–seeing the powerful lines of his back tense, hearing his ragged breathing–was more erotic than anything Shane had ever seen.
Ilya came with a low, guttural sound, spilling over his own fist. He stayed like that for a second, breathing hard, before pulling his hand out and wiping it carelessly on some tissues. He then went right back to massaging Shane’s calf as if nothing had happened.
“Why…” Shane rasped, his voice destroyed.
“Why didn’t I fuck you?” Ilya finished quietly. He smoothed a hand over Shane’s hipbone. “Because you passed out on my fist. A very beautiful sight, yes, but not for fucking.” He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of Shane’s ear, his voice dropping to a hot, promising whisper. “And when I finally fuck you, I want you to feel every fucking inch. I want you to beg for it. I want you to remember who it is that’s splitting you open.”
A full-body shudder wracked Shane at the words. He reluctantly fell asleep with that promise echoing in his mind.
He woke in the deep night. The room was dark except for the glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. He was still in Ilya’s bed. And Ilya was awake beside him, propped on an elbow, just watching him.
Immediate heat flooded Shane’s face. He pulled the blanket up to his nose, hiding.
A slow, familiar smirk touched Ilya’s lips. “Hey,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hey,” Shane mumbled into the fabric.
Ilya reached out and tugged the blanket down just enough to expose Shane’s eyes. “You know,” he said casually, tracing the line of Shane’s eyebrow with a fingertip. “If you were that desperate for something inside you, you could have just asked.” He leaned closer, his breath warm on Shane’s skin. “Especially if you were going to look so pretty and ruined afterward.”
Shane’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was the moment it would all be laughed off as a crazy night. The rejection loomed, cold and heavy. But he had to know.
He swallowed hard. “What if…” he started, forcing the words past his dry throat. “What if I ask for more? What if I want us to mean something?”
The teasing light in Ilya’s blue eyes flickered and died. He looked away, out the window at the dark campus. The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
“I’m not good at that,” Ilya said finally, the words flat and quiet. “The relationship shit. I don’t know how to do it without fucking it up.”
The confirmation fell like a physical pain in Shane’s chest. He nodded stiffly, looking down at the space between them on the bed.
Then fingers were under his chin again, tilting his face up with surprising gentleness. Ilya was looking at him with an expression Shane had never seen before–vulnerable, uncertain, but fiercely intent.
“But,” Ilya said slowly, each word deliberate, “for you… I want to try.”
He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Shane’s forehead that felt like a brand and a blessing all at once.
“But that’s a discussion for another time. Now sleep,” Ilya murmured, pulling Shane firmly against him so Shane’s back was flush with his chest. He wrapped a strong arm around Shane’s waist and buried his face in the nape of Shane’s neck with a contented sigh.
Shane lay there in the dark, held securely in the arms of the man who had just taken him apart and put him back together again. The deep ache between his legs was a sweet, persistent reminder. The memory of Ilya’s hand inside him, his voice in his ear, the terrifyingly tender promise of more… it should have been overwhelming.
Instead, for the first time since he’d met Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander felt perfectly, completely at peace. He closed his eyes and let sleep pull him under.