Work Text:
The sound of Castilian follows him into the hotel along with the humid air, and he lets his shoulders loosen at the feel of air conditioning hitting his skin. The lobby is all white marble and bronze molding, dark wooden accents on the baroque furniture and frames of oil paintings. It’s a nice change from all the hideous North American hotels he has to cycle through throughout the year, with their geometric-patterned low-pile carpeting and offensive mass-produced wall art.
He hands over his credit card at check-in and enjoys the lack of recognition on the associate’s face as she types his name into the computer. Maybe he’ll actually get to enjoy the beach uninterrupted here.
The last time he was on a beach was in Galveston after the All-Star Game last year, and he’d thought that maybe Houston’s team being shit would mean that the hockey crowd down there isn’t particularly large. He was wrong.
Hopefully, he thinks as he rolls his suitcase over toward the elevators, the good citizens of Ibiza are more into summer sports.
“Señor!”
Ilya turns. A young man walks briskly down the hallway toward him with a hand out.
“Permítame—”
“I don’t speak Spanish,” Ilya says baldly.
“Oh,” the man says, and the North American accent hits Ilya’s ears with a familiar slant. “I just— let me take your bags for you. If you’d like.” He smiles at Ilya awkwardly, and Ilya feels an amused warmth spread through his chest. He glides the suitcase over to the young man, whose golden name tag says SHANE, and nods toward the elevator without breaking eye contact. Shane nods and takes an odd, choppy breath in.
“You can let the front desk know if you need anything else,” Shane says politely as he lifts Ilya’s carryon onto the luggage rack in the closet of his hotel suite, and Ilya drags a tongue along the back of his teeth as he watches Shane’s dense biceps flex with the movement.
“And if I need anything from you?”
Shane backs away from the closet, a hesitant look on his face. “I’m sorry?”
Ilya takes a step forward. “If I need you? Who do I call?”
“Sir, I—”
“Sir?” Ilya purses his lips and makes a considering face, tips his head back and forth as he tosses it around in his mind. “Usually Ilya is fine, but I think I like this. Sir, yes. I will be sir.”
“I’m just a bellboy, I’m not—”
Ilya places two fingers beneath his chin, tips his face up to make eye contact. “‘I’m just a bellboy,’ what?”
Shane swallows hard, mouth turning downward into a cute, cartoonish frown. Ilya can see him fighting with himself and a smile ghosts across his face.
“I’m just a bellboy, sir.”
Warmth ripples down Ilya’s spine, pooling in his gut at the stiff, grudging obedience. Unwilling compliance is sweeter still. His cock begins to throb.
“Good boy. Bellboy. Good bellboy.”
Ilya doesn’t miss the way Shane’s eyelids flutter, his mouth opening a bit to reveal the smooth pink skin on the inside of his bottom lip. His thumb is there before he can consciously think about it, pressing a callous to the wet curve as a soft noise slips out of Shane’s mouth onto Ilya’s fingerprint.
“I think maybe you are not honest about what you want, Shane,” Ilya says as his thumb is engulfed in warm suction immediately, as if by long-learned reflex. He watches, smiling, as Shane’s eyes drift shut and pushes deeper, grabbing at the underside of Shane’s jaw with the rest of his fingers, hard enough to bruise. It pleases him, the thought of this pretty face having to return to work with Ilya’s brand on his skin, a glaring, garish flag of ownership on an otherwise pristine canvas.
“What do you think, pretty? Are you going to be honest with me? Hm? Tell me you want it?”
“Ah d—” Shane tries around Ilya’s thumb, and Ilya generously retracts it from the depths of his mouth, petting across the full curve of Shane’s lower lip to leave it shiny with spit.
“Try again for me.”
Shane swallows, nervousness mingling with the defiance in his eyes, and touches his tongue to the backs of his teeth before he says “I don’t want it.”
A full grin breaks over Ilya’s face, laughter following it, and he tightens his grip on Shane’s chin enough to use it as a leash to direct him over toward the king size bed in the middle of the room.
“Sit,” Ilya tells him, pushing him down to ensure he knows it isn’t a suggestion. His skin is warm under Ilya’s fingers, starting to slicken with sweat.
“Sir, this isn’t appropriate. I’m not supposed to be alone with the guests—”
“This is stupid,” Ilya says, frowning, “how are you supposed to help with luggage if you cannot be alone with guests? This is a very stupid rule.”
“Well, I didn’t make it— wait, don’t—” he puts his hands on Ilya’s shoulders, thumbs digging into the meat of his trapezius muscles, when Ilya kneels in front of him and briskly unbuttons his snug khaki shorts.
“These are cute,” Ilya tells him absently.
“Thanks,” Shane says, then, “wait—”
The syllable swallows itself clumsily when Ilya gets his hand around the rapidly-filling girth of Shane’s cock and tugs with a firm grip.
“You can’t do thi— oh, God.” The protestation melts into a wet moan as Ilya works his tongue over the head, tasting the clean salt of his skin and the ghost of a burgeoning arousal. He sucks hard, clamping a hand around Shane’s hip to keep him still as he works further down his erection toward the neat patch of hair at the base.
“You’re— ohh, Jesus— this is assault,” Shane says, strangled. Ilya looks up as he pulls off, finding a pair of flushed cheeks burning red in the melting afternoon sunshine, freckles settled comfortably against a backdrop of crimson. He reaches up to drag a thumb across them, uneven flecks like constellations, and only dips in briefly to touch the white of Shane’s lower teeth with a fingernail. His tongue is warm and slick, throbbing with the choppy beat of Shane’s breath.
“This is assault, sir,” Ilya corrects patiently.
Shane flops backward onto the bed as Ilya swallows his cock again, dropping an arm over his face to moan into his own elbow ditch.
Irrationally, Ilya feels a needling of envy. That should be his mouth Shane is moaning into.
He dips his tongue into the slit of Shane’s cock, tastes the salt of a really insane amount of pre-come, genuinely more than Ilya’s ever seen anyone else produce, does Shane have any idea he gets wet like a girl? His fingers, circling the base, are shining with his own spit and what surely must be a not-insignificant amount of the clear slick that is positively leaking from Shane’s cockhead.
“Shane, do you know that you get wet like a girl?” Ilya says, licking a thick stripe up the underside of Shane’s dick.
“I— what? No, I don’t.”
“Surely you have heard this before.” He works his hand up and down, squeezing toward the tip like he’s trying to milk the pre-come right out of the slit. It kind of works.
“Are you insane?” Shane’s voice is growing increasingly strained, tight and frayed at the edge as Ilya pumps his fist.
“Could almost use it as lube,” Ilya muses, quiet, like he’s talking to himself, and feels a smile bloom first at his temples when Shane’s hips give an answering kick into his palm. “You like this? Want me to fuck you like a girl, just using all this pretty wet you have made me?”
And Shane whines, whimpers a pitiful no, but his dick twitches violently in Ilya’s grasp, and there’s nothing for it after that.
He stands, manhandling Shane’s flushed, limp body facedown on the bed with only a little strain on his back, and thinks about being twenty-two, all the ways he could push Shane around if he was a younger man.
Shane’s ass is an obscenely perky thing, round and taut, bouncing beautifully under Ilya’s hand when he lays a ringing smack to the fullest part of it.
“Oh, fuck,” Shane cries, body arching into the sting, and Ilya finds he’s still smiling as he leans forward and tucks a couple of fingers into Shane’s panting mouth, gathering all the pooling want there, and works one of them past the tight ring of Shane’s asshole.
As Ilya finger fucks him, he slides further and further down, body curved into a pornographic slope, the pale tropical print of his uniform shirt slipping down the smooth line of his torso. Ilya places a hand between his shoulder blades to feel the depth of his automatic submission, presses until they’re both gasping. He bites his tongue.
“Shane, I must tell you,” he says conversationally, “I think your ass was made to be fucked.”
Shane doesn’t have much of a response to this besides a gentle tightening of his body and a sweet, helpless humping motion, so Ilya continues.
“Never have I seen someone so greedy for it. Just my fingers, even, and you are speechless. Imagine how much of a cockslut you must be.”
“No,” Shane tries, his brows drawn in a pitiful expression over his eyes. Ilya almost feels sorry for him.
“No?”
“No, sir.”
And Ilya goes warm from his scalp all the way down to the soles of his feet. “Hmm.” He works another finger into Shane’s hole, delighted with the way it opens for him, and rewards him with a collection of spit on his own tongue, a slowly descending drop that falls right between his two fingers.
“Did you just—”
Ilya smacks his ass with his free hand.
“Sir, did you just s-spit on my asshole?”
Ilya just hums and works his fingers deeper, curling forward to drag along Shane’s prostate, gratified with the low, keening note that it pulls from his lungs.
“You don’t need to worry about that right now.”
Something like a sigh seems to work its way out of Shane’s lungs, wispy and barely audible. Ilya brushes a hand tenderly over his lower back as he carefully withdraws his fingers.
“Come,” he says gently, bodily lifts Shane’s torso, pulls the wrinkled uniform shirt over his head, and tosses it behind him somewhere into the room, noting a rabbitish little twitch of irritation at the end of Shane’s nose as he watches the linen fly. Odd thing. Ilya wants to eat him.
The weight of Shane’s upper body in his arms is so deliciously heavy Ilya’s loath to let him go, but with a few open, wet kisses to the side of his neck, ones that Shane receives with a choppy string of aborted gasps, he presses him back down to the mattress.
After finding the sachet of lube tucked into his front pocket, Ilya’s own clothes follow Shane’s. His flushed face is pressed back into the pillows now, Ilya’s thumb stroking fondly over the slope of his neck.
It wouldn’t be accurate to say that he’s quiet while Ilya works his fingers back into Shane’s ass, but he’s markedly less chatty. All his indignation, scandalized protests, whiny little complaints dissolve into an unfurling of breathlessness— he twitches under Ilya’s hands, fucking himself onto Ilya’s fingers and gasping at every increase of pressure. Ilya wonders for the first time in a while if perhaps there really is a god.
When his cock presses at the sensitive pucker of Shane’s asshole, he can’t help wishing he had the time to taste it, and resolves to get his mouth on him first next time. Shane arches so beautifully and Ilya forces himself to focus.
“Open up for me, baby, make it a little easier on yourself.” He pushes in, the broad head creating an endless, aching breach of Shane’s overstimulated body.
“I’m— I’m not gonna participate in this, you’re viola— oh my god,” his voice, weak as it is, cracks and breaks and falls away when Ilya strokes heavily along his prostate, pushing forward and fucking down firmly enough that Shane’s hips stutter and his ribs quiver. “S’fucking big,” he slurs into the pillows.
Gorgeous, Ilya thinks, perfect creature.
Of all the people Ilya has fucked in his life— and he’s neither proud nor ashamed to say that the number is significant— Shane is, as he suspected, the most natural cockslut he’s ever come across.
Every thrust forward has him moaning into the bed, the gleaming flush of his body taking the punishing beat of Ilya’s cock like he was made for it. His ass bounces, thick and full under Ilya’s grasping hands. His hole is slick and tight and so greedy Ilya almost can’t believe it, pulsing around him like Shane needs it to live, needs the fullness and weight of a cock inside him like oxygen.
Without thinking about it, Ilya slides into Russian, leaning forward with a hand on Shane’s shoulder to pull him back harder onto his cock. “I knew it,” he says between kisses to the back of his neck, “I knew you would be the perfect little cockslut the second I saw you. You came running right up to me like a puppy to its owner practically begging me to take advantage of you. Fucking heaven.”
There’s no way Shane understands him, surely, but maybe it’s just another sign that he was meant to be Ilya’s, because he whimpers and shudders in all the right places, grinding his body back into Ilya as he calls him a slut, moaning wetly when Ilya tells him he was asking for it. He’s falling apart right under Ilya’s hands exactly the way Ilya knew he would.
It’s only another minute or so before Ilya can tell he’s starting to reach critical mass. He’s glistening with sweat and his voice is starting to go hoarse, wordless gasps turning to fuck, please, yes with every meeting of their bodies, and Ilya watches him go stupid with it.
Glassy-eyed, limp and flushed; he’s a vision. Saliva is dripping and pooling on the throw pillow beneath Shane’s face, shine tilting with every thrust of Ilya’s cock.
“Are you going to come?” Ilya can feel a thick droplet of sweat rolling down his spine as his hips work faster and faster, driving his cock into the slick furl of Shane’s hole at a blistering pace. “Are you going to come for me, just like that?”
“Oh, fuck— I— yes, sir.” It’s true. His body is pulsing around Ilya, a frantic, arrhythmic beat that flutters wildly out of control even as it starts.
“Fucking perfect, coming on my cock all wet like a pretty girl. Is all you need, yes? Not even a hand, just a big cock inside you.”
“I need it,” Shane shudders. Tears are shining and smearing on his face; Ilya can practically taste them on his tongue.
“Fuck,” Ilya hisses, “let me feel it. You will make me come, fucking tight—”
“Wait, don’t come inside me—”
The pressure on Ilya’s cock constricts as Shane’s hips kick back into him, a truly pathetic noise leaving his mouth as he comes untouched onto the bedspread below him.
“So good,” Ilya’s voice is little more than a burnt-out rasp, guttering and serrated as he tells Shane again: so good, you’re so good for me, pretty boy. The fever pitch punching higher and higher in his gut crests with a sharp lurch, and he screws his hips deeper, fucking his come into Shane’s lax body.
He rests all his weight on one hand as he comes down, dragging the other down the smooth, perfect curve of Shane’s spine with a gentle touch. His thumb finds the dimples above his ass, pressing in with a half dazed smile on his face.
Suddenly the limp, relaxed limbs below him stiffen.
“You came in me.”
Ilya sniffs. “Yes.” He grabs at Shane’s reddened ass cheeks and pulls them apart a bit so he can see the shine of his own come on his hole while he pulls out.
“I told you not to come in me, why did you—” he cuts himself off with a choking sound at the feel of Ilya’s cock dragging out of him.
“Relax, you wanted me to. How are you so tense still, I just fucked you. Incredible.” He sprawls out on the mattress and presses a kiss to the closest body part, smacking his mouth loudly against Shane’s side once, twice.
“You are very good bellboy,” Ilya says, and leans down a bit to sink his teeth into Shane’s right ass cheek. He yelps a bit and kicks one of his feet up into the air but makes no move to dislodge his husband.
“Thank you, it’s my first day.”
“You will be manager by tomorrow.”
Shane rolls onto his back and stretches, grimacing at the come smeared across his stomach. “I sure fucking hope not.”
Ilya turns so he can shove himself up against Shane’s side, a long, warm blanket of excessive weight, fuckdrunk and in love as he presses his face into the curve of his husband’s neck. Shane, just as needy, indulges him with a hand curling in his hair, several lingering, soft kisses to his forehead.
For some long minutes they lay entangled in each other, hands wandering lazily as the air conditioner whirs in the background. I called ahead, Shane had told Ilya on the ride from the airport when the fear of endless nights of unaltered Ibiza summer struck Ilya like a prophetic vision. There’s a unit in our suite, don’t worry. I wasn’t about to spend two weeks listening to a two hundred and twenty pound Russian baby whine about the heat nonstop.
But the cant of his voice had been so rich with affection Ilya had just taken his hand and kissed his knuckles until they were both smiling into the sunshine.
“No, baby, stay,” Ilya whines when he stands, reaching for Shane’s forearm, managing to suck the tip of one of his fingers into his mouth as Shane wanders into the en suite to wipe himself down.
“I can’t, I need to go get my other bag, it’s still in the rental,” he says as he comes back out.
“I will go get it for you, stay here,” Ilya says around a yawn. Shane gives his limp, naked body an unimpressed look and hitches his shorts over his hips, face screwing up a little bit into his there’s-still-come-inside-me face. Ilya purses his lips and runs his fingernails through the hair below his navel absently, wondering how soon he’ll be able to talk him into round two.
Shane is tugging his tropical-print uniform over his head when Ilya hears him murmur wait, and pull it back off, chucking it onto the dresser before reaching for the white button down Ilya shed earlier.
Even now, even after a decade and a half of loving him, it’s impossible to suppress the catlike grin that spreads across his face at the sight of Shane in his clothes. The shoulders are just the slightest bit loose, he notes, trailing a possessive hand along the sloping line it creates over the curve of his ass.
“Very presumptuous bellboy,” Ilya tuts, “we have not even exchanged numbers.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t want a repeat of Mykonos.”
Ilya tips his head back and laughs loudly. Shane rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling.
“Get your bathing suit out, I want to go swim,” he says as he heads for the door, and Ilya sits up suddenly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and diving for the crumpled heap of his linen slacks on the floor.
“Wait—”
“Ilya.”
“No, hang on, is important—” he shoves his hand in the pocket and emerges with his wallet. “Come here.”
Shane frowns at him but walks back over toward the bed.
“For you,” Ilya says magnanimously, and holds up a couple of bills between his fingers.
“No—” Shane rolls his eyes and throws his hands up so Ilya takes the opportunity to stuff the money into his back pocket, copping a nice hefty handful of his ass while he’s at it.
“Don’t tip me, Ilya—”
“Tip? You already had tip, you had more than tip, this is gratuity.”
“Oh, my god.”