Chapter Text
The hotel hallway is dead silent except for the low hum of the ice machine two doors down. Ilya has Shane pinned against the inside of the equipment room door, one hand clamped over Shane’s mouth, the other already shoved down the front of Shane’s sweatpants. They’ve got maybe eight minutes before the bus leaves for the airport, and Ilya is using every single one like a weapon.
“Shh, baby,” Ilya whispers, voice low and cruel right against Shane’s ear. “You make one loud sound and the whole team hears what a desperate little slut you are for me.”
Shane’s thighs are already shaking. Ilya’s fingers slide through slick, swollen folds, so wet the sound is obscene, wet little clicks every time Ilya drags two fingers up to circle Shane’s clit and back down again. Shane’s pussy is puffy, flushed dark pink, lips parted and glistening like it’s begging on its own.
“Listen to you,” Ilya breathes, pressing harder just to make the slick noise louder. “So fucking sloppy already. You’ve been dripping down your thighs all game, haven’t you? Thinking about me shoving my cock in this greedy cunt the second we’re alone.”
Shane whines behind Ilya’s palm, hips jerking forward. His eyes are glassy, lashes wet. He tries to nod.
Ilya pulls his hand away just long enough to growl, “Say it.”
“I–fuck– I was wet the whole time,” Shane hisses, voice cracking. “Every time you checked me I felt it, Ilya, I swear–”
Ilya shoves three fingers in without warning. Shane’s back arches hard, a choked cry muffled against Ilya’s shoulder as those fingers curl, dragging over that spot that makes Shane’s knees buckle. It’s too much too fast, the stretch burning sweet, and the wet squelch when Ilya starts fucking him with his hand is loud enough Shane panics.
“Sh-shut up, they’ll hear–” Shane slurs, but his cunt clamps down like it wants more noise.
“Who?” Ilya taunts, pumping faster, thumb grinding over Shane’s clit in tight mean circles. “Your teammates? Coach? You want them to open this door and see Shane Hollander fucked out and leaking on my fingers like a desperate whore?”
Shane sobs, shaking his head no even as his hips roll shamelessly into every thrust.
“Then beg me to stop,” Ilya says, slowing down to a torturous drag, barely moving, letting Shane feel how stupidly empty he is with just the tips inside. “Beg me nice and quiet, Hollander.”
“No, please–please don’t stop, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be quiet, just–harder–”
Ilya gives it to him brutal and sudden, stretching Shane open with a wet schlick-schlick-schlick that echoes off the walls. Shane’s pussy flutters, gushing around the intrusion, clit so swollen every brush of Ilya’s thumb sends sparks up his spine. He’s close, humiliatingly close already.
“You gonna come just from my fingers?” Ilya hisses, biting Shane’s earlobe hard enough to bruise. “Gonna squirt all over the floor like a needy little girl? Do it. Show me how fucking pathetic this cunt is for me.”
Shane’s whole body locks up. He comes with a strangled whimper, pussy spasming so hard Ilya has to pin him to the door to keep him upright. Clear fluid drips down Ilya’s wrist, pattering onto the rubber mat beneath them.
But Ilya doesn’t stop.
He keeps fucking Shane through it, fingers relentless, thumb flicking that oversensitive clit until Shane’s legs give out and he’s only held up by Ilya’s grip and the door. Tears streak Shane’s cheeks, mouth open in a silent scream.
“Too much–” Shane sobs, voice shredded. “Ilya, I can’t–please–”
“You can,” Ilya snarls, shoving his soaked fingers into Shane’s mouth to shut him up. Shane sucks them desperately, tasting himself, hips still twitching. “You’ll come again. And again. Until you’re so fucked-out you can’t remember your own name. Then maybe I’ll let you have my cock.”
Distantly, they hear voices in the hallway, teammates laughing, getting closer. Shane’s eyes go wide, panic and lust twisted together. His pussy clenches around nothing now, aching, puffy, wrecked. Ilya leans in, licks a tear off Shane’s cheek, and whispers, “Better be very, very quiet for me, baby.”
And he drops to his knees.
Ilya’s mouth is on him before Shane can even suck in a breath. Hot, wet, merciless. Tongue flattening against Shane’s swollen clit in one long, filthy lick that collects every drop of mess he’s made. Shane’s hands fly to Ilya’s hair, yanking hard, but it’s useless; Ilya just growls into him, the vibration making Shane’s thighs spasm.
“Fuck–fuck– Ilya–” It’s barely air, a broken whisper that dissolves into a sob when Ilya sucks his clit into his mouth like he’s trying to bruise it.
The hallway is alive now. Voices right outside the door. Someone’s complaining about lost tape, another laughing about the overtime goal. Shane can hear the metallic clink of sticks being loaded onto the bus. Any second someone could jiggle this handle.
Ilya knows. Of course he knows.
He pulls back just enough to speak, lips shiny, chin dripping. “You taste like you’ve been saving this pussy for me all season,” he murmurs, voice black velvet. “So fucking sweet when you’re scared.”
Then he dives back in, tongue spearing inside Shane’s fluttering hole, nose grinding against his clit. The sounds are disgusting: wet, rhythmic smacks of Ilya eating him out like he’s starving, slurping up every gush like it’s his reward. Shane’s knees buckle completely; only Ilya’s hands under his ass keep him pinned to the door.
“Please,” Shane whimpers, barely audible, tears rolling sideways into his hair. “I can’t come again, I can’t–”
Ilya just hums, slides two fingers back in alongside his tongue, and crooks them hard. Shane comes instantly, violently, a full-body seizure that would’ve sent him crashing to the floor if Ilya wasn’t holding him. His pussy clamps down so tight Ilya groans into him, feels the rhythmic pulse milking his fingers. More wetness floods out, slicking Ilya’s wrist, dripping off his elbow in thick strings.
The voices outside pause. Someone says, “You hear something?”
Shane’s heart stops.
Ilya doesn’t. He keeps licking softly, lazily, like he’s savoring the aftershocks, drawing tiny tortured jerks from Shane’s hips with every pass of his tongue. Shane’s crying silently now, mouth open against his own forearm to stay quiet, every muscle trembling from overstimulation.
Footsteps move away. A door down the hall slams.
Ilya finally pulls off with a wet pop, stands up slow, and crowds Shane against the door again. His face is a wreck: flushed, soaked, pupils blown wide. He grabs Shane’s chin, forces him to look.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, almost tender, then ruins it: “Because you know I’m not done.”
Shane whimpers in response. "Fuck you, asshole. Hurry up already."
Ilya just grins, unzipping his pants.