Chapter Text
Shane taps his foot so fast that he rattles the table each time his knee punches up. He glances around the small cafe, a discreet location two towns over that apparently had a Russian twist to the menu, looking for his date.
When his phone buzzes, he scrambles for it.
Tyler
I’m sorry
Shane lets out a frustrated sigh. He runs his fingers through his hair, gripping at the roots to relieve some of the disappointment before he messages back.
Shane
I’m already here
Is it nerves?
Tyler
I just don’t think this is for me
Sorry
Talk later?
He tosses the phone on the table then quickly grabs it before it rolls off the other side. The table next to him glances over briefly before continuing their chitchat.
Fuck, another no.
Being an exhibitionist in practice is pretty fucking annoying. Mostly because so many people think they are down until it actually happens. Unfortunately for Shane, he doesn’t half ass anything. Double unfortunately, the taste of adrenaline from public sex doesn’t match anything else, and he needs more every time.
And the worst part, no one else seems interested. At least, no one who is interested in him.
He thought this guy was the one. They’d talked, gone over fantasies, even fucked in a park (late at night and in the cold to be sure no one was around) for practice. Shane really considered this the next step. A crowded café with plenty of booths to be discreet and no chance someone would know them here. In fact, Shane may have picked somewhere too different from where he’d usually go because he stood out from the clientele of mostly Russian grandmas.
But alas, it didn’t work out.
And Shane is already here, worked up.
He slouches down in his chair with a groan. Glancing around, he wonders what to do now. He catches the eye of the tall, handsome man behind the counter who sends him a questioning glance but a polite smile. Shane gives a brief smile back, trying to compose his disappointment, and straightens up. He doesn’t want to seem like he hates it here and insult the staff or something.
It started when Shane was in college. The campus wide zombies versus humans game had started, and Shane’s hockey team joined as a unit. Shane lived for competition, or more so for winning. He’d practiced his nerf gun shots for a month beforehand and memorized blocks of campus to make sure he outlived everyone else.
But as the game went on, of course, more zombies appeared. Shane’s own friends became zombies. Eventually, out of their friend group, only Shane and his secret boyfriend remained (mostly because the guy just followed his lead but still).
Shane wasn’t going to take a loss. When a pack of zombies spotted them, his heart accelerated from the chase, trying to muffle his giddy laughter at the thought of getting away. His boyfriend was so turned on by Shane’s display of skill and how into it he was that he’d risked fooling around night after night as they stayed hyped up and horny.
Then it happened. The first experience. It left a lasting mark that created an itch, which needed to be scratched.
Sliding behind one of the mascot statues on west campus, Shane’s boyfriend pulled him into a kiss. He’d been distracted at first, trying to push him off before his adrenaline blended with the pleasure in his veins. They’d kept quiet, both hushed voices and sloppy hands that refused to release their weapons. Nervously, they looked over their shoulders as they plunged down each other’s pants to fist at their cocks, hard from the chase, the possibility of being caught, and the rush of it all.
Shane had never been so turned on in his life. It became about more than getting caught by the zombies. The thought of anyone catching them had his head spinning, his eyes darting about, his heart racing for so many reasons that it left him pleasantly dizzy, like spinning underwater as the air was held tightly in his lungs. The release akin to surfacing, feeling fresh, accomplished.
And he craved that feeling. Hungered for it. Loved it.
He’d been on WebMD for weeks after that to make sure something wasn’t wrong with him. And once he finally embraced it as a possibility, he had to act on it to be sure. And once he was sure…
He wouldn’t say it’s central to his relationships, but it’s a part of him. It’s a kink he acknowledges and enjoys, and that seems to hold him back now.
He was really excited this time. Tyler seemed really into it. But now, Shane finds himself stood up after a few fucks again, dick now hard from his wandering mind, thinking about the subtle glances of customers and how they might or might not catch him if he tried something right now. What it would feel like to get away with it. To even have all of them watch him, eyes intent, as he fucked his fist just for them.
Granted, he’d never actually do that. He couldn’t. He’d be mortified. And maybe there is some safety there, in the fact that he is hidden in plain site when fucking in a bathroom or under the cover of a booth table. He likes the fear of getting caught more than the idea of being watched, he is pretty sure. He is too polite to actually do something that crazy.
Probably was too polite at one point to risk the chance of getting caught in public, too. But here he is.
Shane can’t stand it. The ache, the need, the itch under his skin grows. That nagging in the back of his skull, twisting down his spine, causing his thighs to twist and flex. He closes his eyes, pockets his phone, then makes a beeline for the bathroom at the back of the café.
The swinging door takes Shane by surprise, his heart leaping into his throat. Public, anyone could enter. The thrill has his breath quickening as he searches the stalls, finding no one inside. A little bit of a safety net that he needs. His fingers are shaking as he ducks into one stall and turns the latch. He leans against the stall wall and can’t help but smile with giddiness.
He fumbles with his jacket, pulling his shirt out of his pants. He’s quickly unlatching the button and tugging his jeans just far enough down for air. Fuck, he’s so hard. He cups his dick, feeling how thick he is in his briefs, knowing anyone could walk in and hear his sighs. Damn, someone could even walk to the ladies restroom and hear him outside if he got loud enough.
The thought has him squeezing his dick, massaging as his other hand wrestles the elastic of his briefs over his ass. The stall feels cold, and he shivers at the thought of how many hands had pressed against it, when the last time it had been clean.
Shane liked to be clean. Actually, his routines for hygiene were quite important for this. But there was something about embracing the dirtiness of sex that called to him. Maybe it’s that the very idea of homosexuality seemed dirty to those around him growing up, that he felt the need to hurdle all the way forward into the dirt and roll around in the mud.
He stares down at his dick, so hard it curves toward him, precum at the tip from his earlier reminiscing. He feels dirty, filthy, and it just has his legs spreading wider, easing to lay his back flat against the stall for stability.
The backdrop is the floor, clean tiles lined with darkened grout from years of use, the toilet paper dispenser covered in multiple people’s “was here” declarations. Any of them could come back, could find him in here.
Nervously, he checks the lock on the stall again. Locked. He stills his breathing as best he can, breathing heavy through his nose, and only hears the clatter of dishes being brought to a bus station somewhere outside.
He gives a tentative stroke, and god, does it feel just right. He looks up again, imagining his date is here, on his knees, both of them so desperate that they couldn’t wait. He’s fisting his cock, letting his eyes wander over the open, foreign space. He feels displaced, out of sorts, unfamiliar with everything except his pleasure. The familiar touch grounds him in the chaos, and that comforting yet anxious bliss overtakes him as he starts to pump faster, knocking his head on the stall again, hearing it rattle, even squeak. God, he could probably be as loud as he wanted in here, no one would hear over the noise outside.
And if they did, what would they do? They’d be disgusted. Shane can’t help but whimper at that, blushing at his own reprimanding. The thought of someone overhearing him, stunned. Unable to fathom someone as clean cut as Shane would be filthy enough to fuck in a bathroom stall by themselves.
He is. God, he’d fuck anywhere. He loves it. He wants to--
“Uh, hello?”
The blood drains from Shane’s face. His heart leaps into his throat as the sound of silence fills the space where the rustling of his jeans and quick hand had been before.
Apparently all the blood rushed south because his dick pulses in his hand, desperate for friction, lubed by the tension of the moment. His body is at war– his dick thrilled by the actualization of the fantasy, the rest of Shane absolutely mortified at the possible reality of what he’s done.
Shane continues to hold his breath. Only to realize it’s now blowing heavily from his nose. Fuck.
A few steps. No sound. Shane looks around the edge of the stall, but he sees no feet.
It had happened. Shane sinks his teeth into his lip hard to hold back his desperate whine. Someone really came in and left. They heard him. They knew how fucking filthy he was and left. Left him to feel embarrassed and cum so fucking hard that he--
“Are you for real?”
Shane actually yelps, both hands cupping his dick as he looks up and around.
There’s two soft footsteps and the inquiring question that makes Shane’s heart stop, his throat close up, the blood rush back into his skull so fast that he hears it wooshing through his ears, “is someone gooning in my bathroom?”
Oh dear fucking god. Shane starts to move, but realizes that makes sound. He stands perfectly still, cock and hands half-stuffed in his boxers, pants at his thighs, wide eyes now craning to look through the slit between the stall and the door.
A shock of black uniform and muscled arms, chest, and throat. The waiter out front. Oh fuck, my? He’s the manager. Shane is so fucked. His eyes start to well with tears, the pressure, the delicious peril of almost being caught now takes a swift turn into actual, tangible fear in his drying mouth.
But it gets worse.
Their eyes meet. Shane gasps, frozen, as the man steps closer, one hazel eye and the corner of his pursed lips visible through the slit as he stands right before the door. Shane cranes upward, feeling the man’s towering stance through the door.
“Yes, I hear you.”
Shane’s jaw opens uselessly, no words spilling out. His vocal chords are tied up with his lungs and both are malfunctioning from the panic in his brain.
“Open.”
That gets him in motion. Quickly, Shane pulls at the edge of his jeans, trying to stuff his leaking, quickly-blue-balling cock into his briefs--
“Open the fucking door or I will break it down, fucker.”
The tears are coming now, Shane barely managing to breathe through his stuffy nose as he debates between having the stall kicked in or his ass hanging out and he picks the door.
The second the latch clicks, the man flings it open. Shane startles, trips, and lands on the toilet seat. Technically, it’s the most plausible position for a bathroom stall. However, he’s flushed, crying, and has a rock hard cock in between his legs.
The man leans into the stall and eliminates the possibility of escape. His jawline sharpens with the clench of his teeth, moody hazel eyes scornful beneath sharp eyebrows. Oh god, it’s doing nothing to help Shane’s dicktuation. A few more tears spill over his burning cheeks as he’s torn between the turn on and the deep, deep humiliation. This is very real, with very real consequences, but he’s so fucking hard he can’t think straight.
So he thinks he’s imagining it when the man’s full lips turn into the slightest ghost of a smirk.
“You were masturbating in my cafe?” he asks, crossing his arms and cocking his hip. Wow, those are some arms. And a waist. And some legs. Oh no.
Shane blinks the tears, sniffing hard. He ducks his head only to see that he’s pathetically covering his dick. The cruelly hot stranger can see everything. All of him.
He nods, slow and weak.
“What? You can speak, yes?” the man snaps at him.
Shane quickly lifts his head, blinking a few times to right himself. A nametag catches his attention. Ilya. He’ll probably see that name a few more times on lawsuits, settlements…
“Yes,” Shane croaks, clearing his throat only for it to constrict tighter when the man crinkles his nose in disgust.
“Filthy fucking slut.”
The lump in Shane’s throat shifts from fear to… he’s not sure yet. His hopes are rushing ahead of his brain, steering him toward any possibility that he might get off. His eyes grow large as Ilya takes a step forward, looking around his stall.
“Do you get off on fucking in bathrooms like pervert?” Ilya asks, wiping his finger down the stall wall. “You think my bathroom is dirty or some shit, like you?”
Shane cringes when his dick twitches at the insult. “No.”
“No?” Ilya replies in a high-pitched mockery of Shane’s strangled voice. “No what? Bathroom fucking? Dirty Bathrooms? Dirty guy?”
Shane blinks a few times because he already can’t remember. He’s too entranced by the way Ilya seems to be feigning disinterest. Maybe he’s going crazy.
Ilya turns to face him again, rubbing his fingers together as if to check the cleanliness of the stall. “What, can’t speak? Wanted to hide away and fuck around and run away?”
Shane takes a deep breath, feeling the tears well up for another reason now. This wasn’t really happening.
“Bet you wanted to get caught, huh?” Ilya asks. Shane shifts his legs, feeling impossibly desperate on the seat from the humiliation.
A cheshire grin spreads across Ilya’s face. It would be angelic to match the halo of golden curls, the cupid’s bow of his upper lip, but it is devilish with the words that come out of his mouth. “Go on then.”
Shane’s mind finally works at that. “What?”
Ilya huffs, leaning in. He curls his lip in clear annoyance.
Shane practically squeaks when Ilya’s shoe lands on his thigh, balancing his weight on him to lean in close. He rests his arms on his raised knee, looking down at Shane. “I said, go on. Show me how desperate you were to cum that you had to jerk off here.”
Holy shit.
New kink unlocked.
Oh god.
A whimper catches in Shane’s throat, his hand moving involuntarily at the command. His body feels electric, the dull pain from the press of Ilya’s shoe into his thigh mixing with the electrifying whirl of sharp eyes focused on Shane’s expression. He can’t look away.
He’s been caught, but now, he feels caught in Ilya. This stranger, the owner of this establishment, commanding him to finish what he started. Still in the public eye, anyone able to walk in, with someone watching him so closely.
“Fuck,” Shane gulps as he feels his thighs tighten, the heat in his gut building.
“Yeah, feel good?” Ilya asks with a tilt to his head. It sounds so mundane, such a simple question, Shane quickens the pace of his hand. “Gospodi, look at you fuck yourself on toilet seat. This gets you going?”
Shane has a mind to explain himself, but he’s a bit distracted as Ilya shifts his gaze to his dick, face burning from the attention drawn to his sinful deed.
“Or is it the sneakiness? You are not very sneaky,” Ilya probes further. Shane whines, lip tucked into his teeth, trying to hold back a bit longer just to hear what he’ll say next.
“What? You are quiet now?” Ilya chuckles, and the sound is so sweet that Shane can’t fathom it’s the same person. “Was not problem a few minutes ago.”
“I- sorry,” Shane fumbles out breathlessly, feeling his eyes close as the pressure mounts.
Fingers grip his chin, strong and deft. The same fingers that had been wiping down the wall, now smearing on his face, tugging his bottom lip down to make sure his whimpers are loud and clear. “Let them hear. How good it feels to fuck yourself in my cafe, me watching. What nasty shit you do.”
Shane can’t take it. That’s the last straw, the idea that Ilya likes this as much as him, that he’s somehow not in trouble, or could be, that his interests are being taunted. He spills all over his hand. Ilya’s thumb holding his chin down so some spills into his mouth as he doubles over, abs clenching against the thrusts of his hips into his hand. His thumb rolls over his tongue and presses hard and Shane moans, loud and unabashed as he strokes himself through the remainder of his high.
He takes deep breaths, realizing his breathing never evened out from the second Ilya walked in. His eyes squeeze shut as he takes a few more strokes, relishing the last tendrils of pleasure. And oh god, as some point, he’d closed around Ilya’s thumb, sucking the salty taste of grime and a day’s work.
But when Ilya’s thumb slides out of his mouth, reality slides back in.
He is so fucked.
He quickly starts wiping his hand on his jeans, refusing to look up as he tries to stand.
But Ilya still holds him down by his foot. Honestly, Shane’s leg is falling asleep, and the tingling hurts. Not a good hurt, now that his high is subsiding into a low, very low low.
“Hey,” Ilya says, and it sounds like an instruction. Shane looks up slowly, teeth clenched against the nerves now rising in the aftermath.
Ilya’s watching him closely, eyes lazy. He brings his thumb to his lips, rubbing Shane’s spit over his plush, bottom lip. His tongue laps out, and his eyes close as he hums low in delight.
Shane might not be as fucked as he thought.
Shane may have died and gone to heaven at some point.
Ilya reaches forward and gently pats his cheek, smile still mischievous. “Get yourself cleaned up and get the fuck out of my cafe. Now.”
Shane is plummeting to hell.
Ilya is at the exit, unlocking a bolt Shane hadn’t seen before. “And next time you visit, let me join from the start.”
And Ilya is coming with him.