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Maybe if Shane had stopped after his third drink, this wouldn’t be happening.
It’s really not his fault, though. It’s not his fault that his husband took him out to a nice dinner for their anniversary and treated him to a very expensive drink menu. Ilya wanted to be nice. Wanted to make his husband feel loved and cared for.
Which ended up with Shane flushed and smiley with his eyes glassy in the passenger seat of his orange Porsche 718 Cayman. Not drunk, but tipsy. A happy tipsy where everything has started to feel easier, where you aren’t hyperaware of your surroundings; you feel happy-go-lucky and almost top of the world.
Ilya had drinks of his own, of course, but with the Russian blood flowing through his veins and coating his DNA, it’s almost as if he’d hadn’t had a sip of anything. Though his brain is swimming and he feels lighter than usual.
Ilya’s playlist fills the sports car, Bad Bunny’s EoO flows through the speakers gently. He sneaks glances of his husband every few minutes and Ilya swears he gets more beautiful each time he looks over at him. He reaches his right hand over to Shane’s lap and plants it on his upper thigh, squeezing it before resting it there and gives a few rubs.
Shane lets out a surprised gasp at the action and tries to cover it up with a yawn that turns into a choked cough. He squeezes his legs together at the same time, almost as if it scared him. Ilya chuckles and removes his hand, placing it back on the steering wheel.
“Ok, malysh?” Ilya condescends. He gives a smirk and gives a quick look to his husband. Shane has his bottom lip pulled between his teeth and his thighs are still pressed together. Hmm.
Shane swallows audibly and narrows his eyes, keeping his gaze out the windshield. He wants to play? Hmm.
Shane lifts his right hand and moves it to his chest slowly, his fingers brushing over his right pec before fondling his nipple through his nice button up shirt. He lets out a very small sound, his fingers lightly brushing over the pebbling nipple. He pinches it with his nails and lets out a louder whine, then soothes the pain with his fingers.
He brings his left hand up and does the same to his other pec, his hands bringing him the most amazing sensation of pain-pleasure that he craves. Every pinch to his nipples sends a rush of blood to his groin and a shiver down his spine. It fucks him up so good. He’s surprised he hasn’t started sobbing with the alcohol flowing through his bloodstream; drunk off of the feeling of pleasure.
Shane can feel his face flushing. It was flushed a bit before because of the alcohol, but now that he’s turned on and in front of his husband privately, he can feel the heat coming off of his skin.
Shane twitches in his seat, his hands still assaulting his pecs. Pinching, rubbing, groping. His mouth is open slightly, drool has just barely started collecting in the sides of his mouth.
And Ilya?
Shane spares a look at his husband in the driver’s seat and he seems livid. His left hand is white-knuckling the steering wheel, right hand in a fist in his lap, jaw clenched as if he’s trying to break his fucking teeth.
Shane smirks. The power is in his hands and he can’t wait for Ilya to melt between his fingers.
He ups the ante. He drops his mouth open a bit, breathing heavily and moves one hand slowly down his torso. His fingers meet the waistband of his slacks and bypasses it before settling on the half-chub in his lap. He outwardly moans at the feeling of his hand cupping himself through his pants. It’s so good.
“Mmm,” Shane whines softly. “Fuck.” His fingers have slowed on his nipple, now just grazing it softly while his other hand is feeling himself through the pants. He grips his cock, then uses his palm and rubs a bit as his hips grind up softly into his hand.
“So good. Feels so good, Ilya.” Shane groans. The street lights bathe him in seas of white, blue, red, and yellow. It’s almost ten-forty-five at night and they’re cruising on the road while Ilya is two seconds away from crashing into a building and begging Shane to let him use him.
He can’t take not being able to focus on his lover in intimate scenarios, in any scenario really. It’s driving him crazy not being able to have his undivided attention on Shane pleasuring himself. He swears he feels tears in his waterline from the scenario unfolding around him. All he can do is sneak glances and try not to kill them both on the road. Please, Ilya pleads. Stop before I inevitably kill us both trying to please you.
“Shane,” Ilya says firmly. He swallows audibly, throat clicking and a sharp exhale coming from his nose. “Stop it. We are almost home.” A lie. They have maybe forty-five minutes to go because the restaurant they went to is almost an hour and a half away from their home. A place Shane has loved since childhood, but never got to go much because of the distance.
Shane ignores him, mind swimming with pleasure. He brings a hand to his pants and unbuttons them before pulling down the zipper and shimmying the waistband of his boxers just under his balls. His cock pops out and lays against the button up he’s wearing, leaving a sticky stain of precum by his bellybutton.
He wraps a hand around himself and squeezes. His mouth drops open to an openmouthed smile and his eyes close. “Fuuuck.” He says.
“Shane. Shane, please.” Ilya says. He’s not begging. Not yet. But he’s almost there.
“Looked so good. At dinner. Thought about — nngh — going to the bathroom to blow you after we got our drinks.” Shane whimpers. His hand is jerking himself at a steady pace. His wrist twists right at the head and squeezes before stroking back down to the base, grinding into his own hand. He pushes his head back against the headrest and looks at Ilya.
He looks rough. Like he looks like he might actually start sobbing. Frustrated and so turned on, but having to focus solely on the road and the vehicle he’s operating.
“You’d love it, wouldn’t you?” Shane asks in between his pants. “Burying into my throat? In t-the bathroom? You’d have to be — mmm — quiet.”
Ilya’s mind makes fantasies. Shane’s right, I would have to be quiet. He thinks of sneaking off to the multimillion dollar bathroom and hiding in the biggest … stall? More of a smaller bathroom in the actual bathroom. Either way, he imagines waiting there like he was told. Like a good boy, yes? Shane would have asked him mere seconds ago. Imagines Shane stalling as much as he wanted, forcing Ilya to hold back touching himself while waiting for his lover in the grand bathroom. Imagines Shane finally showing up after what seems like forever and slinking to his knees, teasing Ilya and forcing him to be good. Imagines keeping his hands at his sides or even covering his mouth with his hands to quiet himself because Shane had told him to be good, to be quiet.
The sound of Shane’s hand making wet sounds drags his mind back to the present. Plap! Plap! Plap! Ilya’s about to lose it.
“Shane.” Ilya says. It’s more of a whine. It’s rough and hoarse, but then breaks off at the end, almost as if it hurts him to speak. He’s hanging on by a thread and is almost thinking of pulling off to the side of the road and getting his hands all over Shane.
Shane ignores him yet again and truly starts fucking his fist. His hand flies over his cock, his other hand back on his chest and tweaking his nipples. His hips fuck up from the seat and chase his fist, precum coating his hand and shaft, glistening from the streetlights.
“Haaah — yes, yes, yes,” Shane whimpers. “My good boy. Quiet when he’s told. Love it when you listen to me, mmm — Ilya.” Shane’s overheating. He feels sweat beading at his temples and under his arms, feels his skin start to get slick and damp. His brain is still a bit foggy from the alcohol, but is mostly now fucked with how turned on he is.
Both of Ilya’s hands are gripping the steering wheel at ten-and-two. He steals one more look over at his husband and his eyes roll before looking back at the road, letting out a moan that sounds painful.
“Malysh, please.” He says. His body is vibrating with uncontrollable need. He’s shaking. He needs to touch him. He needs to feel him. He needs Shane.
But Shane has yet to say anything, has yet to approve. So he’s forced to just sit and watch and wait.
“Anything. I will do anything, Shane. If you want me to crash the car, I will. If you want me t-…,” He swallows thickly. “If you want me to sit here and do nothing, I will. But you have to tell me. Something. Anything.” Ilya begs. He’s not above begging at this point. He has broken and the waterworks are falling at full speed.
“Pull over.” Shane says. He doesn’t remove his hands from himself, but gives Ilya a look that makes Ilya’s skin prickle. He can feel him looking and it makes his skin erupt in goosebumps.
Ilya bites the inside of his cheek to keep the moan in his mouth, doesn’t want to humiliate himself too early because the approval makes him keen.
He pulls over onto the shoulder of the highway, parks the car, and puts the hazard lights on. But he doesn’t move. Ilya sits prettily with his hands in his lap, and looks at his beautiful human of a husband and waits.
He waits even though Shane is staring at him with blown pupils and a red flush to his skin. He waits even though Shane is fucking his fist and fondling his balls, eyes rolling back into his skull. He waits even though Shane is making music of pleasurable sobs and moans as he fucks himself silly in the passenger seat.
“So good for me,” Shane says. “Listening and being patient… such a good boy for me. Trained you so well, shchenok.” He praises. Shane’s cock is leaking by this point. It blurts out another glob of precum and makes a mess of his closed fist, strings of fluid connecting his fingers to his cock.
The word echos in Ilya’s brain, rattles against the emptiness in there. His thoughts are just ShaneShaneShanegoodboygoodboypuppypuppypuppyMamochkaShaneShanepuppygoodboypuppypuppy.
He keens at the word. Ilya nods his head and whimpers aloud. His cock is a fucking boulder. He’s surprised his pants haven’t fucking ripped at the inseam, the stain of precum so drenched he’s also surprised droplets haven’t formed and ran down his thighs. But he’s good. He’s so good. He hasn’t touched or anything. That’s all that’s keeping him afloat.
Ilya feels like he’s the one who had five cocktails at dinner with the way his body is failing him.
“Strip.” Shane commands. He takes his hands away from himself, but they don’t go far. He places one of them on his thigh and the other deathly close to Ilya’s forearm on the center console.
Ilya listens. He scrambles to unbutton his dress shirt and throws it behind him to the small empty space in the back. He moves quickly to his pants, practically ripping them in half to get them down as best as he can. He goes to take the waistband of his boxers down with his pants, but Shane puts his hand on his wrist to stop him. Ilya looks at him with a puzzled look because huh?
Shane shakes his head. “Boxers on.”
And Ilya doesn’t argue. He moves his pants down quickly, shoving them down his ankles and throws them in the back space along with his shirt. And now he’s so vulnerable and hard and fucking leaking. He doesn’t realize he’s panting until he focuses back on Shane, chest heaving.
“Well, look at that,” Shane notes. “Hard and leaking.” He giggles, and then before Ilya realizes, Shane is moving from the passenger seat and clambers over the center console and into Ilya’s lap. It’s a tight squeeze, so Shane reaches down quickly and slides the seat as far back as it will go.
Ilya’s hands are hovering because Shane didn’t say he could touch. Not yet. He’s pleading silently, though. His gaze is locked on Shane’s face, eyes glassy and face flush. He swallows his words before they make it out of his mouth. And his hands stay where they are in the air.
Until Shane takes Ilya’s wrists in his hands and places his hands on his waist. Ilya sobs with the feeling of Shane finally in his grasp. His hips buck up into Shane’s ass involuntarily and he curses himself in the back of his mind because no, that’s not supposed to happen.
Before Ilya can say thankyouthankyouthankyou, Shane cups Ilya’s face in his hands and kisses him deeply. They both moan into each other’s mouths, bodies fusing into one. Ilya’s tongue delves into Shane’s mouth immediately, drunk off the need to taste. His hands grip Shane’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer which causes his ass to drag over his hard cock. He moans and continues to swallow Shane whole.
It’s messy. Spit is everywhere on their lips, chins, and cheeks. They’re panting and whining, swallowing each other’s sounds.
Shane pulls away and leans back to look at his husband. His lips are spit slick and swollen, a pretty pink in contrast to his pale skin. He looks so fucked out and he tries to follow Shane’s lips, leaning forward to kiss him again, but Shane places his palm on Ilya’s chest and pushes him back against the seat.
“Calm down, puppy. Patience.” Shane chastizes. He reaches down between them and slides his hand into Ilya’s boxers, cupping him firmly and closing his eyes at the sound of Ilya crying out in pleasure of Shane’s hands on his cock.
“Does it hurt?” Shane whispers into his ear. He cups his free hand on the other side of Ilya’s face, making Ilya look over Shane’s shoulder and through the windshield. He slowly runs his fingers through the curls framing his forehead and grabs a hold of them firmly.
“Does it hurt so bad, puppy? Your dick is just so heavy, right? Leaking and so hard… Need to fix it?” Shane whispers.
Ilya nods his head and humps into Shane’s hand, the grip on his waist sure to leave bruises tomorrow. He whines into the quiet car.
“Answer me, puppy. Use your words.” He says.
“Yes. Yes. Hurts. Hurts so much, Shane. Need you. Anything.” He sobs. An honest to god tear runs down his hot face, and he couldn’t give less of a damn.
Shane hums. He grasps Ilya’s cock that’s still in his boxers and squeezes before removing his hand completely. He leans back a bit and cups Ilya’s face, looking him in the eye.
“Get off, then. Hump me. Grind against me to come.” Shane says.
And Ilya’s eyes roll and close, and he humps up into Shane’s ass unabashedly. Completely letting go and doing as he’s told.
“Nuh-uh,” Shane says, patting one of his cheeks. “Eyes on me, shchenok. Look at me while you make yourself feel good.” The word rolls off of Shane’s tongue perfectly.
Humiliation settles over Ilya, the thought of Shane looking at him and vice versa while he gets off makes his cock twitch in his drenched boxers. His head is held in place by his husband, his hands locked on Shane’s waist, and his hips are fucking up and grinding into his plush ass. He’s not going to last long, he knows it.
“Mmm. So good, Shane. Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Ilya mumbles. His hips don’t stop moving. He wishes Shane would jerk him off or have more friction on his cock. It’s almost not enough at this angle and Shane knows that. But it’s also just good enough where he’s sobbing out in pleasure.
Shane helps by pressing his ass down onto Ilya’s lap, grinding down to give him more pressure and friction. He giggles at how fucked out Ilya looks, how he’s completely melting beneath Shane. He loves him like this, truly.
It always hasn’t been this way. Ilya being the one in charge and calling the shots, Shane being the one crying out and lost in pleasure. Sure, it happens more often than not, but the switch in their relationship happened a little while ago when Shane got mildly jealous of a girl trying to flirt with Ilya while they were out with the Centaurs celebrating their fourth cup win.
Shane saw a side of Ilya that he’s pretty sure no one else had ever seen. And it was beautiful. He was sure to make it happen again and again.
“Fuuuck.” A string of spit drops from Ilya’s lips in a slow motion and Shane leans forward and catches it with his tongue before making contact with his chin and licking a broad, wet stripe over his lips and trailing his jaw up to his earlobe and suckling on it.
Ilya’s hips buck wildly at the motion and his fingers white-knuckle his waist. He’s gonna come.
“Gonna come. Pozhaluysta. Lemme come, Shane.” Ilya sobs. His pants have picked back up, chest heaving, hips grinding aggressively against Shane. He feels sweat trailing his hairline, under his arms, down his chest. He needs it. He needs to come so badly.
“Shane, huh?” Shane smiles. He narrows his eyes and just looks at Ilya. Shane tenses his thighs, causing ilya’s erratic hips to stop. “Try again, puppy.”
Ilya groans in frustration, closing his eyes and trying to tear himself away from Shane’s touch, but to also wind his way into the touch more. He doesn’t want to stop. He wants to keep going. Just thirty more seconds and he will spill into his boxers, cum splattering all over them both.
“Oh, okay.” Shane shrugs his shoulders and starts to make his way off of Ilya, crouching back over the center console and almost into the passenger seat.
“No! No, no. I am sorry. No. Please.” Ilya begs. He wraps his arms around Shane and places him back on his lap.
Shane gives him a pointed look with his own glassy eyes and flushed face. His cock is still out of his pants, leaking steadily against his shirt and Ilya’s torso. His torso has a puddle of precum shining on it as well as strings of the fluid stick from Shane’s shirt to the tip of his cock.
Ilya closes his eyes, then opens them and whines the word painfully.
“Mamochka.”
Shane moans in his throat and surges forward to kiss the man below him. It’s just as messy the first time. Spit and tongues and teeth and lips. Ilya grinds against Shane as Shane grinds down onto him. It’s fast, sloppy, and so good.
“You think people have seen you? Seen a desperate puppy humping to come? Whining for his Mommy to let him?” Shane whispers, nose-to-nose with Ilya.
Ilya doesn’t speak. He can’t. Desperate small whines fall out of his mouth as Shane speaks about him. He’s so fucking close. His words flow into his brain and make a soupy mush.
“Mmm. Mommy’s little puppy, trained so well and listens as he’s told. Wants to come so badly, he wouldn’t care who saw.” Shane continues.
“Mamochka, pozhaluysta. So close, mamochka. Lemme come.” Ilya sobs. Tears flow down his cheeks and he’s so gone. Nothing will stop him now.
“Go ahead, shchenok. Be a good boy and come for me.” Shane says.
Ilya’s hips stutter before letting out a guttural moan. Shane feels the warmth below his ass grow and grow, wetting the fabric of his pants. Ilya continues to cry as he humps through his orgasm, cum sticking to his ruined boxers and slathering all over his length.
Shane reaches down below them and over the crotch of Ilya’s boxers, a pearlescent thick liquid coating his palm and fingers, warm and shiny. He holds it up in front of Ilya’s mouth and says, “Lick.”
Ilya’s tongue falls out of his mouth and he licks. Sucks every finger into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks. He moans at the taste of himself and cleans Shane’s palm until there’s nothing left but his spit in his hand.
“Such a good boy.” Shane praises and honest to god ruffles Ilya’s hair as if he’s an actual fucking dog.
Shane moves his hands from Ilya, removing himself completely from his grasp and settling back into the passenger seat. Cock still hard and leaking, dark red and laid flat against his stomach.
Ilya feels light. It takes a moment for his body to catch up to his brain, wanting to reach out to Shane but it takes a second longer than he wanted.
“Come. I want you to come, mamochka. Please.” His hands go straight to Shane’s cock, his body bending at the waist over the center console. He wants him in his mouth. Needs to feel the heavy weight of him all down his throat, wants his cock to mold to the muscles of his trachea and esophagus. Need, need, need.
Shane gasps, letting out a moan at the feeling of Ilya kissing his cock and dragging his tongue all over him. He listens as his puppy whines and keens into his lap, still so good and obedient. He loves Ilya so fucking much. He would do anything for him.
Shane digs his hands into Ilya’s curls, gripping firmly and pulling on the strands so there’s a pressure when he pulls. Ilya moans with an open mouth, spit dripping all over his cock.
Shane feeds his cock into Ilya’s mouth slowly, groaning at the feeling of his tongue lapping at him. It’s so wet and hot and tight and fuck his tongue feels so good all over him. Ilya’s tongue runs over the underside of his cock, tracing the veins that run along the shaft. Shane’s head falls back onto the headrest and his hands press down on Ilya’s head, his nose pressing flush to Shane’s pubes.
“Fuck, puppy. Your mouth is so good. My favorite place to be.” Shane whines. He picks his head back up and looks down at the man in his lap. He looks so good. Shane’s speechless.
Ilya moans around his cock and hollows his cheeks, his head stopping in place. Shane takes that moment to drag his head up and down his cock, fucking his face and burying himself in Ilya’s throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Shane whimpers into the car, each word accentuated by pulling Ilya’s face down onto his dick. He feels his spit dripping down his base and all over his balls, eyes rolling back when a rivulet makes its way to his hole.
Ilya moves one of his hands to Shane’s sack, fondling his balls, squeezing gently at the balls in his hands. Ilya forces his head up, pushing back against Shane’s hands in his hair and makes a show of pulling off of his cock.
He looks up at Shane, and he’s actually fucking gone. If he looked fucked out before, Shane is truly speechless at how he looks now. He’s so gone. He’s fucking high. He’s so sloppy, fucking messy. Ilya’s eyes are hooded, and he looks like he’s sucking a popsicle. Lips pursed, cheeks hollowed. He moves up so slowly and when he gets to the tip, he suckles. He licks a broad stripe over it, and starts almost making out with the head of Shane’s dick.
Holy shit.
Shane’s cock leaks at the sight of his husband. His brain is scrambled.
“Holy shit. Holy shit. You’re so fucking…” Shane shakes his head. “You’re so fucking hot.”
Ilya smiles at the praise. He trails kisses down Shane’s shaft in appreciation before sinking back down to the base of Shane’s dick, nose nestling in his pubes.
“I’m gonna come. Where do you want it, puppy?” Shane asks. He lifts Ilya’s head again to have him answer.
“Face. On my face, mamochka. Please.” Ilya says softly. And he does this thing with his eyes that Shane falls for every fucking time. He looks at him like a kicked puppy, eyes glistening and full of want.
Shane nods and takes one of his hands to jerk himself off in front of Ilya’s face. Ilya opens his mouth wide, sticking his tongue out sensually, looking like a fucking pornstar.
Shane lets out a deep mmmm sound as cum spurts from his cock, splattering Ilya’s face. His lips, eyelashes, nose, and cheeks are covered in cum; Ilya's eyes are blown and glossy, his eyelids drooping, cheeks flushed, and sweat matting the few front pieces of his hair to his forehead.Shane wishes he was in his mind enough to reach for his phone and take a picture because this is ethereal.
Shane exhales through his nose harshly, sated and warm. His body tingles with the aftermath of his orgasm and he doesn’t wish he was anywhere else.
Shane lets go of Ilya’s hair and pats his messy cheek affectionately and kisses his forehead. “You’re so amazing. I love you.”
Ilya smiles and sits back up straight, shuffling away from Shane awkwardly. Shane furrows his eyebrows at the action.
“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” He asks. Ilya shakes his head and reaches towards the small glovebox for a napkin to wipe his face off. He doesn’t answer, still not looking at Shane.
He grabs a napkin and looks in the rearview mirror, cleaning off his face. Still silent. Shane looks over his body quickly as he tucks himself away, body on high alert for anything that he might have done that hurt him.
Until he clocks Ilya’s lap that he’s trying to shield away from Shane. He’s hard. Again. Shane giggles outwardly.
“Ah. I see.”
Ilya freezes for a second before placing the dirty napkin in the cupholder. He swallows, ignoring Shane.
“Sucking my dick turned you on again? Your balls didn’t empty enough before?” Shane teases. Ilya shys away, turning towards the small back space behind the seats for his shirt. He still says nothing.
Ilya puts the shirt back on and buttons up half of the shirt, his chest and collarbones on display. They’re truly just going straight home, so he doesn’t bother with the pants. Especially not with how heavy and sticky his boxers feel.
But Ilya doesn’t move to drive away. He sits in his seat and just sits there, his cock hard in his gross boxers. He feels shame, humiliated because this has to be the most vulnerable he has ever been in front of anybody.
Shane reaches over to Ilya’s lap and slides his hand into the ruined boxers and pulls his cock out. Ilya curses, fucking up into Shane’s fist.
“Fuck.” Ilya swears. He loves Shane’s hands on his body. Everywhere. All the time. All at once.
Shane jerks him off lazily. He strokes up and down, his wrist twisting up at the head, his thumb swiping over the slit in the tip of his cock. Precum coats the digit and he thumbs the frenulum before stroking him back down to the base.
Ilya whimpers. He’s so tired. He’s exhausted. His body is wrung out and his mind is hazy. He might ask Shane to drive home after this. But he’s so… he’s so fucking turned on still. His body just wants. Wants, wants, wants. Fucking needs to come.
“Love your hands on me. Always feels so good. Take such good care of me, mamochka.” Ilya slurs. He can’t speak right, can’t stop words from falling from his mouth. He's drunk off the pleasure and of his husband.
“Thank you, thank you. Do not say it enough. So good to me. All for you. So good for you always. Try my best for you, mamochka. I love you, I love you.” He’s crying now, tears flowing, words wet as they come up his throat and out of his mouth, fucking up into Shane’s fist. Uh, uh, uh’s fall from his mouth with every hump into the fist around his cock. Truly pathetic.
Shane looks at his husband and his heart swells. The dynamic has shifted at this point, he can tell. It’s more emotional than sensual, and Shane will be here to catch him in the end. He’ll always take care of him no matter what.
Plap! Plap! Plap! noises start ringing through the car. Ilya’s precum and his previous load mix together, the suction from Shane’s hand and the fluid causing a sickening sound to be heard. It’s fucking filthy.
“I got you, Ilya. Always, malysh. So good for me. Perfect.” Shane praises. He moves his free hand to the side of Ilya’s face and coddles it, Ilya leaning into the touch before his face screws up in pleasure, mouth open, eyes threatening to close all together.
“Oh, fuck. Gonna come. Please, can I? Been so good for you, mamochka. Wanna come, Shane.” His voice is wrecked, tired. His hips don’t stop fucking up into Shane’s hand, chasing that undeniable pleasure.
Shane nods. “Go ahead, puppy. Come for me.”
Ilya lasts maybe four strokes of Shane’s hand before splattering all over his hand and the bottom of his half-buttoned shirt. He lets out a moan that sounds pained. He almost falls forward at the feeling.
They sit there for a while. No one moves, except for the motion of their chests rising and falling. Shane soothes Ilya as he comes down, rubbing his hand gently through his hair, the dirty hand up and down his clothed back. That's the least of their worries right now. I
lya lets out whimpers as he comes down, his head pressed just under Shane's chin, cheek plastered to his collarbone, hands wrapped tightly around his stomach. Shane whispers soft praises into his ear.
"You did amazing."
"You're perfect."
"I love you so much."
"You were so good; did so good."
"My Ilyusha, I love you."
Shane removes his dirty hand from Ilya after a while and licks up whatever spend is left and not dried. He rubs the back of Ilya’s neck with his clean hand and motions him to look at him.
“Let me drive.” He gives Ilya a small smile and gives him a gentle kiss on the nose. Ilya gives a small ‘okie’ and gets out of the driver's side, dick swinging and all.
Shane chuckles and shakes his head before doing the same. They get into the opposite sides of the car and Ilya immediately buckles himself in, tucks himself in his gross boxers, and lays his head against the window. He closes his eyes and reaches his hand across to grab one of Shane’s before placing it in his lap.
Shane’s eyes water at the affection and squeezes Ilya’s hand, never letting go the entire rest of the car ride home.
Shane pulls their joined hands to his mouth and peppers kisses on the back of Ilya’s hand muttering a repeating phrase aloud.
"Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime. Je t’aime."