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The front door slammed open hard enough that Anya launched into a frenzy, barking like an intruder had just broken in.
Then Shane stormed inside, tossing his coat onto the hook without even looking.
Ilya watched from the couch, where he’d been half-paying attention to an F1 race. The volume was low, the cars a blur of colour and sound, but all of that faded the second he saw Shane’s face.
Flustered didn’t even begin to cover it.
His hair was wrecked, his hands still shaking slightly, and his cheeks were flushed a deep, angry red.
Shane didn’t say hello.
Didn’t even look at him at first.
He just stood there in the doorway to the living room, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths like the air wouldn’t go in properly.
“Rough?” Ilya asked softly, eyes tracing over him, taking in every detail.
“Bastards,” Shane spat.
He crossed the room in quick, restless strides before stopping right in front of him.
“They said I wasn’t their vision. That I was too much.”
The words came out jagged. Like they’d been clawing at his throat all the way home.
Ilya sighed quietly.
He’d known this was coming. Shane hadn’t even wanted the campaign in the first place — not really. But the rejection wasn’t what cut deepest.
It was the way it came, wrapped in polite smiles and coded cruelty. The racism. The homophobia. The way people tried to make Shane smaller and called it professionalism.
“Come here,” Ilya murmured.
But Shane didn’t move.
His fingers twitched at his sides, like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Like he was still stuck in that room, still being judged, still being measured and found wrong.
So Ilya reached out.
Caught his wrist.
Pulled gently but firmly until Shane stumbled forward and all but collapsed into his lap.
The impact knocked a quiet breath out of him, and for a second, Shane just sat there, rigid and overwhelmed.
Ilya’s arms came around him automatically.
One hand was warm at the back of his neck.
The other steady against his spine.
“What do you need, moya lyubov’?” he asked softly.
"Ilya," Shane whispered, the sound so faint Ilya almost missed it, despite the weight of the man in his lap. He watched Shane swallow hard, a visible battle against the anxieties clawing at him.
"I can’t... I can’t get my head to stop," Shane
whimpered, his voice cracking. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against Ilya’s in a desperate plea for proximity. "Ilya. Please."
"Please, what, moy krasivyy?" Ilya murmured, his voice a low, steady anchor.
Shane closed his eyes. His hands finally climbed up to Ilya’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. "Can I... can I just sit on you? I think I need to just feel you inside me. Without, you know..."
Ilya smiled softly. Shane still struggled to voice his desires, especially in the bedroom, and seeing him reach for what he needed was a victory in itself.
It wasn’t the first time the idea of "cock warming" had hovered between them. Now that they finally had all the time in the world, Ilya had been gently suggesting intimacy without the expectation of sex. While Shane hadn't been entirely against the idea, he hadn't fully embraced it either—until now.
In this moment, the hesitation was gone. Shane didn't just want it; he needed it. He needed Ilya’s presence to drown out the roar in his own head.
Ilya didn’t hesitate. He leaned back, gently rolling Shane off his lap to give himself room. His eyes never left Shane’s as he reached for the button of his jeans, his movements deliberate and calm. He stroked himself a few times until he was half-hard, the friction a low heat in the quiet room.
"C’mon," he murmured, shifting the cushions behind him to lean further back against the headboard. "This what you want?"
Shane’s fingers were trembling, fumbling uselessly with his own belt until the leather seemed to fight back. Without a word, Ilya reached out and took over, his steady hands a sharp contrast to Shane’s frazzled nerves.
Ilya didn’t rush him. They sat in a heavy silence for a moment, and for a heartbeat, Ilya worried that Shane had managed to talk himself out of it. But then, Shane moved. He swung a leg over Ilya, straddling him with a shaky breath, and reached behind to guide two fingers into himself.
It couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, but in the stillness of the room, it felt like hours. Ilya watched the concentration on Shane’s face until, finally, he was open enough. Shane gripped Ilya's shoulders and slowly began to sink down.
Ilya hissed as the heat of Shane took him in, the sensation tight and grounding. "Just let it go, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that Shane could feel as much as hear.
He reached up, running a hand through Shane’s hair and gently pulling his head down. "Get out of your head and just stay right here with me."
The moment they were flush, Shane’s entire spine seemed to liquefy. He all but collapsed forward, burying his face into the crook of his husband’s neck, his breath hitching as the last of his resistance vanished.
"Fuck," Shane whimpered. He didn’t move—couldn’t move—he just let himself be held, the physical reality
of Ilya filling the space where his anxiety had been.
Ilya shifted his weight, his large hands flat against
Shane’s back, rubbing slow, heavy circles that seemed to iron out the tension in his muscles. "There," Ilya whispered, the vibration of his voice humming against Shane’s chest. "Better?"
"Yeah," Shane breathed, the word muffled and damp against Ilya’s skin.
Shane pulled back just enough to find Ilya’s lips, pressing a soft, lingering peck against them. The physical weight of Ilya’s length inside him made it impossible to think about anything else; it was a constant, blunt reminder of the present. Every one of his senses was saturated in Ilya—his scent, his heat, the steady rhythm of his heart.
For several long minutes, they just sat in the quiet. Ilya held him through the tremors of his fading adrenaline.
"They were so loud, Ilya," Shane said, finally lifting his head to meet Ilya’s gaze. His voice was small, stripped of the professional armour he wore all day. Ilya felt a surge of protective heat—a sudden urge to head to the office and give those men a piece of his mind.
"Everyone was just talking over each other. Trying so hard to make sure they didn’t sound homophobic or racist, and I... I couldn’t even hear myself think."
"You don't have to think now," Ilya replied. He tightened his grip just a fraction, a steady reminder of the physical space they occupied together. "I've got you. Just feel me. That's the only thing you need to focus on right now."
Shane shifted, his nose brushing against Ilya’s jaw as he inhaled his scent. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so cared for, so fundamentally safe. His heart rate was finally dropping, his breathing levelling out into soft, rhythmic sighs that vibrated against Ilya’s skin.
"Okay. I’m okay," he hummed, letting out a small, self-deprecating laugh as he surrendered all his weight to Ilya. "Don’t move," he added, his hand gripping Ilya’s thigh. "Just let me..."
"Of course," Ilya murmured, his fingers sliding back into Shane’s hair. The touch coaxed a small, contented sound from Shane’s throat—almost a purr.
"I don’t know why this worked so well," Shane said, his thumb tracing the line of Ilya’s jaw. "It’s like... I can’t be in two places at once. I can’t think of that meeting while I’m feeling you."
Ilya offered a small, teasing smirk. "It’s hard to worry about sponsors when you’re so full, da?"
Shane hummed in agreement, his eyes fluttering shut. "Feels so good."
The "one more minute" stretched into five, then ten, as the frantic energy of the day finally drained out of Shane’s fingertips. The heavy, grounding heat of Ilya acted like a weighted blanket for his nervous system. For the first time since he'd stepped into that boardroom, Shane's shoulders weren't hiked up around his ears.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were glassy but clear of the manic "buzz" that usually followed a bad meeting. He looked at Ilya—really looked at him—without the filter of a dozen different anxieties. For the first time all day, he was just Shane, and he was home
"I’m back," Shane said, his voice finally regaining its natural, steady resonance. The distance in his eyes had vanished, replaced by a focus that was entirely on the man beneath him.
"I can see that," Ilya replied. His hands slid down to the curve of Shane’s ass, squeezing tightly, grounding him in a different way now. "You feel better?"
Shane let out a breathy, genuine laugh. "Yeah. So much. I don’t feel like I’m about to vibrate out of my skin anymore." He leaned up to kiss Ilya, this time adding a flicker of heat that hadn't been there before—a silent "thank you" that quickly turned into a "more."
"I love you," he whispered against Ilya’s lips, shifting his hips just enough to let Ilya know the "warming" had served its purpose.
The quiet stillness of the room was gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp spark of desire. Now that the static in his head was silenced, Shane finally wanted to feel—not just for safety, but for pleasure.
Ilya caught the hint instantly. He let out a low, rough sound and thrust his hips upward, filling Shane more completely. "You want to do it like this?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave as his hands moved to Shane's hips to guide the rhythm.
Shane’s breath hitched, his head falling back as he took Ilya in. "Yes," he gasped, his fingers digging into Ilya's shoulders. "Please. Right like this."
Ilya didn’t need to be told twice. He gripped Shane’s hips, his large hands anchoring him as he thrust upward with a slow, deliberate strength. The friction was searing, made more intense by the fact that they were already so close, skin-to-skin and heart-to-heart.
"Look at me," Ilya commanded, his voice a rough growl.
Shane forced his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred by the sheer sensation of it. He looked down at Ilya, seeing the raw devotion and hunger in his husband’s gaze. The corporate office, the homophobic slurs, the suffocating noise of the boardroom—it all felt like a lifetime ago. Right now, the only reality was the way Ilya’s body filled his, the way Ilya’s thumbs stroked his hip bones, and the way the air in the room seemed to vibrate with their shared heat.
Shane began to move, find his own rhythm on top of Ilya. It wasn't the frantic, desperate movement of someone trying to escape their mind; it was confident and steady. He arched his back, a long, shaky moan escaping him as Ilya met every downward press with a firm, punishing tilt of his pelvis.
"That's it, moy krasivyy," Ilya groaned, his head falling back against the cushions. "Take it all."
The connection was overwhelming. Because the "warming" had primed him so thoroughly, every nerve ending in Shane’s body was screaming. He reached down, his fingers tangling with Ilya’s as they locked hands, squeezing tight as the tension began to coil in his gut. He wasn't just feeling Ilya inside him; he was feeling the safety Ilya provided, the way he was being held up and cherished even in the middle of such primal intensity.
The pace quickened, the soft sounds of shifting skin and laboured breathing filling the quiet room. Shane’s movements became more urgent, his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He leaned down, his lips seeking Ilya’s in a messy, deep kiss that tasted of salt and longing.
"Ilya... Ilya," he gasped into the kiss.
"I've got you," Ilya promised, his voice strained as he reached his own limit. He surged up one last time, pinning Shane’s hips down to ensure he felt every inch of the friction.
Shane’s world shattered into white light. He cried out, his body convulsing as he came, the waves of pleasure finally washing away the last lingering traces of the day’s exhaustion. Moments later, Ilya followed him with a low, guttural shout, his body tensing beneath Shane’s before finally going limp.
For a long time, neither of them moved. Shane stayed draped over Ilya, his forehead resting on Ilya’s shoulder, their hearts beating in a frantic, synchronised thrum that slowly began to settle.
Ilya’s hands never stopped moving, tracing soothing patterns along Shane’s spine. The silence wasn't "loud" anymore. It was heavy, warm, and perfect.
"You still here?" Ilya whispered into the crown of Shane's head.
Shane shifted, pressing a tired, content kiss to Ilya's collarbone. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. "I'm right here. I'm home."