Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Heated Rivalry (TV), Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander

Additional Tags:

Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers), POV Ilya Rozanov, Married Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Future Fic, Slice of Life, Domestic Bliss, No Angst, Possessive Ilya Rozanov, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Fluff and Humor, Mild Sexual Content, Basically none at all, mostly just mentioned, Autistic Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-02-13 Words: 5,050 Chapters: 1/1

my love is mine, all mine

Summary

“I want to eat you,” Ilya tells him.

Shane laughs, loud and bright and carefree, and Ilya feels it blooming inside of his chest like a sunflower. It only makes the desire to consume him grow even stronger. Not in a crazy way (probably), but because he feels like he can never get enough of this man. His Shane. His husband. No amount of time, no amount of closeness, ever feels like it could be enough.

He wants them both to be eternal, wants to live with their ribcages locked together and their hearts thumping against each other.

Notes

Title from My Love Mine All Mine by Mitski.

As they slip inside the house and the door clicks shut behind them, Ilya hears the familiar sound of nails clacking against hardwood floor. It brings an instant smile to his face. Just like every time they return home, it takes less than ten seconds for Anya to appear in the entryway.

“My sweet girl,” Ilya murmurs to her in Russian.

His body is weary in that satisfying, accomplished way that it often is after a fast, hard, well-played game. Aching with a job well done. His knees crack in the echoing silence of the house as he bends to give Anya some love. The sound is so loud, in fact, that he hears a burst of laughter coming from behind him, and he turns around to playfully glare at his husband.

Shane appears out of the coat closet, an affectionate grin on his face as his eyes search for Ilya. They lower to the ground, where he is crouching down while scratching Anya’s tummy, and he shakes his head fondly.

“You’re getting old, Rozanov.”

“I can still beat you in a race, Hollander.”

“Yeah, yeah. If your knees don’t give out on you first,” Shane retorts with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Maybe I shouldn’t spend so much time on them, then…” Ilya suggests, wiggling his eyebrows up and down as he glances at Shane’s crotch.

His husband laughs again, ruffling his hand through Ilya’s hair as he says, “Down boy.”

Ilya lifts his hands up like a dog begging for scraps, and lets his tongue loll out of his mouth in a ridiculous, overly exaggerated pant. Shane grins, then tightens his hand in Ilya’s hair just enough to pull his head backwards. And Ilya knows exactly what he wants so he goes easily, letting Shane move him into place so he can dip down for a kiss.

“You’re an idiot,” he says fondly. “I’m gonna shower. Are you good to sort Anya out?”

Ilya hums in acknowledgment, pulling Shane down for another kiss before he says, “Yes. I’ll be up soon.”

Shane kisses him a third, fourth time - just brief, chaste little pecks - then he straightens up and heads for the staircase. Ilya doesn’t look away for a single second, watching as his husband’s thighs and ass sway from side to side as he ascends the stairs. He bites down on his knuckle to stifle a groan that he knows Shane will only tease him for if he hears.

“I hate to see you go…” Ilya calls out.

The ’but I love to watch you leave’ is most definitely implied, and he hears Shane laugh in response.

Just as he disappears at the top of the stairs, Shane replies with, “Stop flirting with me!”

“Never!” Ilya insists, and he can hear Shane’s answering chortle even though he’s vanished from view by now.

He’ll never stop flirting with his husband. He’s obsessed with him. And no one can even blame Ilya for it, because Shane Hollander-Rozanov is the most attractive person on the entire planet.

He’s beautiful when he’s sleep-soft in the early morning sunlight, and when he’s writhing beneath Ilya, and when he’s in beast-mode on the ice. He’s gorgeous when he goes non-verbal after a particularly rough week, and he just lays his head in Ilya’s lap and lets himself go fuzzy with Ilya’s hand in his hair. He’s hot as fuck when he gets all neurotic, folding his clothes before sex, and reorganising the pantry, and showering again right after they just showered at the arena because, ”I can’t take my good shampoo and conditioner to work because Wyatt always fucking steals it!”

Ilya knows who the fuck is husband is, even if Shane sometimes forgets, so he’s gonna flirt with him until Ilya is nothing more than ashes in a pendant around Shane’s neck.

It’s his civic duty to remind Canada’s sweetheart just how perfect he is.

Anya reminds Ilya of her existence with a cold, wet nose pressing into his cheek. He laughs, scratches her head, and then stands and follows her to the back door so he can let her out.

He murmurs quietly to her in Russian as he slides open the back door so she can go to the bathroom before bed. She ate before they left for the game earlier, so he just refills her water and adds a handful of dry food to her bowl in case she needs a midnight snack. Shane always tells him off for it because Anya’s tummy is getting a little round with all the treats Ilya and their friends sneak to her, but Ilya thinks she’s perfect. And what Shane doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.

She doesn’t spend long outside - the neighbours kids had run her ragged earlier in the day - and when she makes her way back in Ilya spends a couple minutes snuggling his sweet girl on the floor. Her tongue swipes out to lick Ilya’s cheek and he giggles.

“Okay my girl, time for sleep now.”

Like the perfect girl she is, Anya twirls around on her bed a few times before sinking down and settling instantly. Ilya gives her head one more pat, and then he moves through the house quietly checking the doors and windows are all shut and locked, and the alarm is set.

Finally, he grabs his and Shane’s Centaurs-branded metal water bottles from the refrigerator - ”The planet is dying, Ilya!” - and makes his way upstairs.

Ilya was never messy, even as a nineteen year old kid with too much money and a place to himself for the very first time, but loving Shane - and living with him - has made Ilya pretty meticulous.

Not instinctively, maybe, but because he knows how Shane likes things and he always wants Shane to be happy.

So he strips his game day suit off, the one with both of their jersey numbers stitched onto the lapel, and he hangs it up neatly beside Shane’s in their closet. (Ilya will be taking both of them to the dry cleaners tomorrow anyway).

Then he takes an almost threadbare pair of sweats out of their drawer that’s specifically designated for sleep and loungewear, and tugs them on. He tosses his socks in the laundry basket in the corner of their room, making sure both of them go fully inside so Shane doesn’t throw a hissy fit because one of them is draped over the sides. (Again).

And then, only once their bedroom is pristine, does Ilya plop down on his side of the bed. Well. His side is generous, given that half the time Shane just sleeps on top of him, but. It’s technically his.

He scrolls on his phone for a while, ignoring all of his messages - except for the great game, sweetie he gets from Yuna - in favour of scrolling twitter aimlessly. He likes a couple of fan tweets about Shane, retweets the Centaur’s post about him getting first star, then replies to a jealous Montréal fan who called them washed with: Hayden Pike is your best player btw.

He grins, proud of his exceptional show of restraint.

When he hears the shower in their en-suite finally click off, Ilya sighs in relief. He misses his husband; he’s gone far too long without him.

He listens as Shane shuffles about in the bathroom, no doubt drying himself and putting on his body lotion that smells of vanilla. He used to do that part in the bedroom, but Ilya couldn’t keep his hands to himself long enough for Shane to finish up, so now he punishes Ilya by doing it in the bathroom. His husband hates him, clearly.

When movement in the corner of his eye catches Ilya’s attention, he looks towards the half-open bathroom door.

He finds Shane standing in front of the sink, leaning close to the mirror so he can do his six-step skincare routine. It seems a little excessive to Ilya, who only uses face wash and moisturiser now because of Shane, instead of using bar soap and calling it a day. But. Shane’s skin is always smooth and glowy and perfect, so. Clearly it’s worth the effort.

Ilya watches him quietly for a little while, just admiring his husband.

Shane played 29 minutes tonight, got two goals and an assist, and threw a hit that sent a player to the locker room for the rest of the period. He’s fucking ferocious on the ice - an absolute force to be reckoned with - and yet here, in their home, his mask is allowed to slip away.

Sometimes it still catches Ilya off guard, even after all these years. The way that home Shane and work Shane are so vastly different. It’s one of his favourite things in the world - the fact that the Shane the rest of the world sees isn’t the version of him that Ilya gets in their home.

Both sides of him are the real Shane, of course - two sides of the same coin - but Ilya revels in the fact that one of them is just for him.

Deciding that he’s waited far too long, Ilya stands up and stalks towards the en-suite. He pushes the door the rest of the way open and slips inside.

Ilya sidles up behind Shane, winding his arms around his waist and smirking proudly to himself when he feels the way Shane instantly melts back against him. Soft, pliant, perfect.

“Hey, baby,” Shane greets him softly.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Ilya responds. “I missed you.”

Shane doesn’t tease Ilya about being clingy, he just smiles at him through the mirror. Ilya simply can’t stop himself from leaning down to press a kiss to Shane’s bare shoulder, then the side of his neck, then his flickering pulse point. He keeps his eyes on the mirror the whole time, watching as his husband’s chocolate eyes turn obsidian, before delicately fluttering closed.

Ilya lands another kiss on Shane’s jaw, and then he’s taking a step back - not far, just enough to spin his husband around in his arms so they’re face to face. Bare chest to bare chest.

Shane smiles at him again, opens his mouth to say something, but Ilya doesn’t give him the chance. Instead he surges forward, planting smacking, wet kisses all over his husband’s face. He makes loud, obnoxious little mwah sounds as he kisses Shane’s freckles, his nose, the curve of his smile, the high point of his cheekbones.

Shane is laughing gleefully, his hands reaching out not to push Ilya away, but to pull him in even closer.

“Mine, mine, mine,” Ilya mumbles between every kiss he places.

“What’s gotten into you?” Shane asks as he tips his head backwards to give Ilya more real estate to love on.

“You played so good tonight.”

Shane snorts out a laugh as Ilya finally halts his affectionate assault. Ilya tightens his arms around Shane’s waist, and takes in the delightful blush that is turning his cheeks the prettiest shade of pink.

“Oh, my hockey got you all hot and bothered, did it?” Shane asks, a smirk teasing the corners of his mouth up into one of Ilya’s favourite Shane smiles.

“Everything you do gets me hot and bothered,” Ilya admits, though it’s not much of a confession nowadays.

They’ve been married so long they have permanent tan lines beneath their wedding rings.

“You’re so fucking big, and strong, and powerful,” Ilya says.

He uses his hips to press Shane back against the bathroom counter - manhandling him only because Shane allows it - then Ilya lets his hands trail over his husband’s shoulders, and his pecs, and abs.

Like Ilya, he’s toned and muscled in a way that’s fit for purpose; their bodies aren’t for vanity - though Shane has a hell of a lot to be proud of - they’re for work. And getting to watch up close as Shane uses this beautiful body to absolutely obliterate their opponents on the ice…yeah. It’s fucking hot. Of course it is.

“It is very sexy knowing that the best player in the league - who is so dominant and commanding on the ice - can be so sweet for me.”

“Fuck off, Rozanov,” Shane huffs with an eye roll, but the twitch of his lips and the flush travelling down his throat gives him away.

“And such a potty mouth, too,” Ilya taunts. “So mean on the ice, always chirping, and then I get my hands on you-“

“-you can get your hands off me-“

“-and you become such a good boy. Please, Ilya. More, Ilya…”

“…I’m gonna kick your ass, Ilya,” Shane finishes for him, a wide grin on his face and a defiant sparkle in his eyes.

Ilya can’t help but tip his head back and laugh. He loves it when Shane gets smart with him - when he’s feisty and playful and himself. When he’s relaxed in a way that he so rarely is anywhere else, except for their home.

God, his husband is pure magic.

It feels like he’s holding the whole world in his hands, staring into the eyes of a goddamn miracle. Ilya is so utterly obsessed, so ridiculously in love, that it might be embarrassing if Shane wasn’t equally as insane about Ilya.

Ilya is clutching Shane’s waist and Shane’s hands are locked around Ilya’s forearms, but he slowly starts to move them towards Ilya’s shoulders, then up the sides of his neck, until he is cradling Ilya’s face between his hockey-calloused hands. Ilya tilts his face just enough to kiss Shane’s palm, then turns back to look his husband in the eyes.

Shane stares back, and the eye contact lasts for so long that it kind of makes Ilya want to weep tears of joy.

He remembers those messy years all too well, when they both wanted more than they thought they were allowed to have; Shane’s eyes on his had felt like a luxury instead of a given. But now Ilya gets to look into them whenever he wants, and always - without fail - he sees so much love in them. Love that Ilya spends every single day making sure he is worthy of.

Eventually Shane looks away. To Ilya’s lips, first, then his bare chest, and the trail of hairs beneath his belly button that lead down past his waist line, before finally meeting his eyes again. Shane lets out a content hum.

“You’re mine, too,” he announces. “And you better not forget it.”

Ilya gasps, releasing one hand from Shane’s waist to grasp his chest in offence. “Forget? Forget? As if I could ever forget who has my dick on a leash.”

Shane snorts, letting go of Ilya’s face so he can shove playfully at his chest. “Fuck off. You were running your mouth off so much tonight that it sounded like you were flirting with Åkerlund.”

“Oh, my angel,” Ilya says, because he knows that endearment makes Shane weak in the knees. “Do not be jealous. I only ever flirt with you like that.”

It used to be their favourite way to flirt, in fact.

Surrounded by their respective teammates, a dozen cameras focused on their every move, and Shane and Ilya chirping each other to hell and back every single time they got close enough to hear each other. It fuelled the rivalry narrative for upwards of a decade, but it was the best kind of foreplay for them.

Especially because they meant the shit they said. They lived to taunt each other, battle each other, beat each other. They still do, really - in practices and training drills, and points and goals and trophies. Hell, they compete over whose food gets eaten the quickest at team barbecues, or whose Question of the Day gets the most likes on the Centaurs’ social media accounts.

It’s just even better now, because they get to do it all together. They get to do it without hiding.

Shane rolls his eyes again, and Ilya briefly thinks of Harris telling Shane they’ll get stuck like that if he carries on with his attitude. But then the blush that has spread from his husband’s freckled cheeks, to his throat, to his chest, captures Ilya’s full attention once again.

He devours Shane with his gaze, thinking wild, insane, probably illegal things.

“I want to eat you,” Ilya tells him.

Shane laughs, loud and bright and carefree, and Ilya feels it blooming inside of his chest like a sunflower. It only makes the desire to consume him grow even stronger. Not in a crazy way (probably), but because he feels like he can never get enough of this man. His Shane. His husband. No amount of time, no amount of closeness, ever feels like it could be enough.

He wants them both to be eternal, wants to live with their ribcages locked together and their hearts thumping against each other.

And Shane knows it, too.

Ilya had tried to explain it to him once - how big and consuming and all-encompassing his love was for him - and Shane had listened, and nodded, and then leant forward and sunk his teeth into Ilya’s chest, right above his heart. He bit down so hard that he left teeth marks, and a bruise that didn’t fade for a week. So. Shane gets it, too.

If Ilya has lost his fucking mind, then at least his husband is right there with him.

“Shut up, you loon,” Shane giggles, winding his hand around Ilya’s neck so he can pull their faces close.

Ilya thinks he’s going to get a chance to taste his husband, but at the last second Shane rolls up onto his tiptoes so he can press his lips to the centre of Ilya’s forehead. He makes the mwah sound that Ilya had been making earlier, and he can’t stop himself from smiling.

He loves him, loves him, loves him. So fucking much.

“I love you.”

“Yeah?”

Ilya nods. “Yes.”

“So prove it,” Shane challenges him, smirking as he loops his arms around Ilya’s neck. “Carry me to bed. I’m exhausted after scoring all those goals tonight.”

Ilya scoffs at him. “Two. You had two, Hollander. I assisted on both of them, and I scored-“

“-which I also assisted on, Rozanov!”

Ilya looks into his husband’s big, brown, doe eyes, and sees the competitive glint that he loves so very much. He lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Fine.”

Ilya pretends to concede, acting like Shane has won him over even though they both know he’d do anything for Shane without him even asking for it. He’d pluck out his beating heart and hand it over to him; he’d capture sunlight; he’d bottle stardust. It’s not like carrying his husband around is a hardship.

“Come on, your majesty,” Ilya says, as he winds his hands around the back of Shane’s thighs. “Hop up, zajchik.”

Shane giggles again, correctly translating the Russian pet name into: “Bunny.”

Then he does exactly as Ilya instructed, and hops up into his arms.

He’s heavy, of course. Almost 200lbs of solid muscle, with broad shoulders, and thick thighs, and a hockey ass that stars in every single one of Ilya’s dreams. Shane is a fucking powerhouse, built to be as fast and physical as a person can be. A perfect human specimen.

And his weight - in Ilya’s arms, splayed out on top of him, sitting on his fucking face - is Ilya’s favourite thing in the world. He loves how big, and solid, and robust he is. Loves that he gets to throw him around, bully him a little, make it rough in the best kind of way, because he knows that Shane can take it. Knows that Shane absolutely loves it.

Ilya carries his husband out of the en-suite and into their bedroom, relishing in the way his legs wrap around Ilya’s waist and the way his ass feels cradled in his hands.

Shane nuzzles at Ilya’s neck, running his nose up and down and then kissing along the exact same path. Ilya feels breathless with desire, but not necessarily for sex. Just for closeness. Just to touch and touch and touch.

When he feels his knees bump into the edge of their bed he leans down, carefully laying Shane out on top of the covers. Shane instantly props himself up on his elbows and shuffles backwards, only stopping when he reaches the pillows. Ilya takes a moment to just look at him - his flushed skin, and hooded eyes, and toned body - then he places his knee on the bed and crawls in between his husband’s legs.

The towel is still knotted at Shane’s waist, and Ilya thinks about removing it but decides against it.

Instead he bypasses it, leaning down to press his lips to the soft skin of Shane’s stomach, just above where his half-hard dick is hiding. He delivers a series of kisses all along his stomach, just above where the towel rests, before slowly making his way further up Shane’s body.

Ilya nips at Shane’s hipbone, kisses the divot between his abs, the curve of his ribs, the spot above his thrumming heartbeat.

He closes his mouth around each of Shane’s nipples in an open-mouthed kiss, but doesn’t bite or suck like Shane usually enjoys. He moves on quickly, to his collarbones first - running his tongue over the thin white scar where he once had surgery - then the delicate hollow of Shane’s throat.

Shane shifts slightly under Ilya’s weight, breathes heavily, whimpers quietly as Ilya takes his time worshipping every inch of Shane’s body - so big and strong, yet submissive just for Ilya. So lovely.

As he’s nibbling gently at the hinge of Shane’s jaw, Shane’s fingers tangle in Ilya’s hair and pull on it enough to make him pause.

“Ilya.”

“Yes, Shane?”

There’s nothing for a moment, just the quiet thrum of their beating hearts, then, “I’m way too tired to fuck.”

He sounds so dejected - so utterly devastated - that Ilya laughs far too loudly. He burrows his face in Shane’s neck and kisses him again.

“That’s okay, sweetheart. Just let me love on you for a bit, okay?”

Because Ilya loves spoiling his husband. He loves making sure that Shane feels as adored by Ilya as he makes Ilya feel.

It feels like a gift, getting to love Shane. They’d spent so many years never believing they would get to have this, and even though it’s been so long now - as many years loving each other as they spent being too scared to - it still never gets old. Ilya still never tires of this: his husband and their life together.

After they were outed, when Shane first moved in with Ilya, he had briefly worried that they wouldn’t work out. That, after so many years of hiding, they wouldn’t know how to exist together in the daylight. Shane had been scared that the secrecy - and the time and distance between their reunions - was what kept things exciting between them, and that Ilya would get bored of always being around him.

Ilya had laughed at him, until he realised that Shane was being serious.

It had seemed unfathomable to him - so absolutely impossible - that he could ever get bored of Shane. Everything he did drove Ilya wild. From dropping to his knees, to wandering around the house in just his underwear, to organising their fucking towels by colour. Every single thing was sexy as hell.

And with time, Ilya had proved it.

Not only did he not get bored, but he became even more obsessed.

Ilya can’t bear to be away from Shane for longer than a few hours at a time, and even that is a big ask. He’d live inside Shane’s skin if he could. He would shrink Shane down and carry him around in his pocket so they never had to be apart.

The Centaurs find them insufferable (in a loving way, of course) because they’re attached at the hip.

Their stalls are beside each other in the locker room. They sit together during game tape reviews…and on the plane, and the bench during their games, and at team events. Ilya pulls Shane onto his lap so often while they’re hanging out with the team, that Shane just sits on him automatically by now. He doesn’t even bother searching for an empty seat.

Shane will follow Ilya to the bar, and Ilya will follow Shane to the bathroom, and they wander around with their fingers linked together at all times.

One of the most liked posts on the Centaurs’ instagram page (other than their two Stanley Cup posts) is a photograph of Ilya walking behind Shane at a charity event; his index finger is hooked through Shane’s belt loop as he leads Ilya around the room like a dog on a leash. Ilya was on cloud nine.

He can’t get enough of this man. Not since the moment they first met. Not now. Not ever.

Ilya is kissing Shane’s jaw, mouthing down his neck, suckling at the spot beneath his ear that makes him whine.

“You’re gonna leave a mark,” Shane mumbles.

“Good. We can show everyone who you belong to.”

“They already know,” Shane insists. “I’ll have to walk into the locker room with hickeys on me.”

He says it as if they haven’t done it a hundred times before. He also says it without making any move to pull away.

“Oh no, whatever shall we do? Our team might find out we secretly like each other.”

“Oh fuck off, I’m just saying-“

“Bood caught us with my dick in your mouth last Halloween,” Ilya reminds Shane, who groans like the memory is actually, physically painful.

“Yes, and it was just about the worst moment of my life. Thanks for that reminder, Ilya.”

“That was the worst moment of your life?”

“Well no, but-“

“Shane. Husband. Light of my life. Please stop talking so I can kiss you.”

Shane tries to look angry for about 0.3 seconds, and then he’s huffing in mild annoyance - like he’s mad he’s so obsessed with his husband - and pulling Ilya down to kiss him square on the mouth.

“I love you too much,” he mumbles against Ilya’s lips. “It’s not fair.”

“I love you more,” Ilya argues.

It’s the only argument they’ve never resolved. The only thing they’ll never come to an agreement on.

Eventually they both always concede, agreeing that they love each other equally, but. Ilya will always think he loves Shane more, and Shane will always think he loves Ilya more, and that’s probably why they never take each other for granted. Why they never forget how fucking lucky they are to be here, to have this.

The kiss is hot and deep, something Ilya feels all the way down to his aching bones.

Ilya sucks on Shane’s tongue while he is compliant and malleable, letting Ilya tilt his head and squeeze his chest. Letting his husband devour him.

Ilya is hungry for more - always ravenous for his husband. But, much like Shane, he is absolutely exhausted. He just played 27 minutes in the second half of a back to back, took a hit in the third that rattled his teeth, and this morning he fucked Shane for so long that he was crying by the time Ilya let him come. So.

Instead of getting more heated, the kiss gradually transitions into something slower. Something lazy, almost, as their tongues roll together languidly and their hands roam each other’s bodies in gentle caresses.

“Tired,” Shane whispers eventually.

Ilya hums in acknowledgment. He pulls far enough away to take in the sleepy expression on his husband’s face, his swollen, spit-slick lips, and the blush that highlights his freckles perfectly. Ilya can’t resist kissing him again, just once on the mouth, before kissing his nose and forehead, too.

“Let’s get some sleep, sweetheart,” Ilya gently suggests.

Shane grunts, nuzzling in closer to Ilya and mouthing at his chest. Ilya, never one to deny his husband anything, scratches his fingers through Shane’s hair and lets him steal another minute. Eventually, though, Shane rolls away from him with a grunt.

He tugs at the knot in his towel, already loose from their bodies tangling together, and tosses it in the general direction of the laundry basket. He whines when he hears it hit the floor, and Ilya laughs at him.

“I’ll get it,” he says, with a kiss to Shane’s shoulders.

He stands with a groan, his knees thankfully not clicking this time, and makes his way across the room. He picks up the towel lying on the floor and shoves it into the basket.

“Pass me something to sleep in, too. Please?” Shane asks.

“Anything for you, your majesty,” Ilya teases him.

He takes great pleasure in handing Shane a pair of his own boxers, sweatpants they share so often that neither of them can remember who they first belonged to, and an Ottawa Centaurs t-shirt with Rozanov 81 on the back. Shane scoffs; he thinks he’s hiding his pleased smile as he pulls the sleepwear on, but Ilya can see it from a mile away.

That smile is like the sun to him.

Shane burrows under the covers and then pats the empty side of the bed. “Come on, baby,” he says. “Bed time.”

Ilya crawls in beside him, lying on his back and holding his arm out so - like always - Shane can curl up half on top of him. He rests his hand on Ilya’s bare chest, fingers tangling in the chain he wears around his neck. Ilya pulls Shane in closer to him, resting one hand on his back and the other on the thigh he has slung over Ilya’s waist. Then he leans down to kiss the top of his husband’s head.

“I’ll suck your dick in the morning,” Ilya offers through a yawn.

“No,” Shane says. “You’ll distract us both and forget to take the suits to get dry-cleaned. Again.”

“Are you refusing my mouth?” Ilya gasps, squeezing Shane’s thigh.

Shane wiggles, pressing in closer. “…okay, fine. But I’m setting a time limit.”

Ilya snorts out a laugh. He honestly wouldn’t even put it past Shane to do such a thing. It’s one of the many, many reasons he loves him so fucking much.

“Okay, my love. Whatever you want.”