Summary:

Shane and Ilya are still learning parts of each other. Shane drops for the first time. With a timid knock on the door, Shane barely had time to regret it before it swung open. He was greeted by an already shirtless Ilya, eyes dark and intent, hands already on him, tugging him over the threshold like Shane might vanish if he hesitated. The door shut behind them with a solid click, sealing them off from the hallway, the sound sharp enough to make Shane suck in a breath. Their lips crashed together immediately. Messy, desperate, all teeth and breath. Shane made a small, broken noise into Ilya’s mouth as he was pushed back against the door, palms flattening uselessly against Ilya’s chest as if he could slow this down. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t. Ilya’s grip was unyielding at his hips, grounding him even as Shane’s pulse skittered wildly. The door was cool against his spine, a brief shock before heat swallowed him again. Clothes were handled poorly, fingers fumbling, tugging, snagging fabric in growing impatience. Shane whined when Ilya pulled away just long enough to drag his shirt over his head, chasing his mouth like he was starving. They stumbled toward the bed, half-falling, half-laughing, refusing to fully separate even as barriers were peeled away and dropped to the floor. Shane’s hands shook as he reached for Ilya, breath already coming too fast, chest tight with need. “Rozanov—” Shane begged when Ilya finally pulled back, the loss of contact making his head spin. Ilya quickly shushed him, thumb pressing firmly under Shane’s chin, forcing him to look up. His expression softened just a fraction before he kissed him again, slower, deeper, like he was claiming him. Shane melted instantly, knees threatening to give out. The bed hit the backs of Shane’s legs and Ilya didn’t hesitate, guiding him down with a steady hand between his shoulder blades. Before the hit the bed Ilya flipped him, Shane landing on his hands and knees. Ilya pushed him down, hand smoothing down his back as Shane practically collapsed onto the mattress, chest pressing into the pillows. Shane shifted restlessly, hips rocking without thinking, already chasing friction. The sheets bunched under his fists as he let out a shaky breath he couldn’t seem to control. “Good, Hollander.” The words hit him like a switch. Shane went pliant, then restless again, caught between melting and writhing. Ilya muttered something low in Russian, the sound curling around Shane’s nerves as he kissed his shoulder, then along his spine. When Ilya blanketed over him briefly, the weight made Shane groan, back arching instinctively. “Please,” Shane breathed, barely audible, not even sure what he was asking for anymore. Ilya shifted back, hands firm on Shane’s thighs, kneading into muscle with deliberate pressure. Shane shuddered at the touch, breath breaking when Ilya leaned forward. A helpless whine tore from his throat, loud and unfiltered, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself. “Shane,” Ilya warned quietly, but there was amusement threaded through it. “I can’t—” Shane gasped, words tangling as Ilya worked with maddening patience. His fingers clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, every nerve screaming for more. “Rozanov, please, please—” “Relax, Hollander. I’ve got you.” Ilya’s voice was calm, grounding, infuriatingly steady. Shane’s nerves were already sprinting ahead of him, frantic and oversensitive, his body trembling under Ilya’s hands. The soft click of a cap made Shane jolt despite himself, a sharp inhale tearing out of him. “So jumpy today,” Ilya mused, spreading warmth over his fingers. Shane swallowed hard, hips rocking again, unable to stay still. “I need you,” he said, voice breaking. “Rozanov please, I need you inside me.” “We prep first.” Ilya kissed the base of Shane’s spine, lingering there just long enough to make Shane whine before pulling away. When the pressure finally came, Shane gasped, forehead pressing into the pillow. “That’s good,” Ilya murmured. “Relax.” Shane tried. He really did. His hands fisted tighter in the sheets, breath stuttering, every inch of him buzzing with sensation. Heat crawled up his spine, pooling low and sharp, his body betraying him as he pushed back instinctively, desperate and uncoordinated. This angle was too much. Everything felt sharper, deeper, overwhelming in the best and worst way. His eyes glazed over before squeezing shut, mouth falling open as a broken sound slipped free. “Rozanov—” Shane cut himself off with a whine, the name dissolving into noise as Ilya murmured something approving above him, hands steady, presence firm, letting Shane unravel at his own frantic pace. ———————- Ilya shushed him again, voice firm this time, cutting through the static in Shane’s head. “You’re okay. Let me in, Hollander.” Shane nodded, or thought he did. Everything felt disconnected, like his body was several seconds behind his thoughts. The pressure built and shifted until it tipped him clean out of himself, sensation blurring into something too big to hold all at once. “Are you ready?” “Please.” The word fell out of him raw and automatic, stripped of meaning except want.