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“God, Rozanov.” Shane picked up the bra off the back of Ilya’s desk chair and dangled it by the strap, screwing up his face like he was holding something disgusting. “You couldn’t even bother to clean up after your…your, uh, lady visitors?”
Ilya glanced over his shoulder, then turned back to the bed. “Ah, no.” He gave a half smile, straightening the sheets. “Is mine, actually.”
“Fuck off,” Shane said automatically, waiting for Ilya’s brows to waggle in that way they always did when he was joking, but Ilya kept fussing with the bed, eyes trained down. Which, now that Shane was thinking about it, was pretty weird in itself. Since when did Ilya put that much effort into making anything in his house look presentable?
“Wait,” Shane said. “Are you for real?”
Ilya shrugged. His tone was casual, breezy. “You never play dress up, Hollander?”
“No,” Shane said too quickly. Ilya raised an eyebrow. “I mean—Halloween and stuff, but not, uh—”
“Well,” Ilya said. “I like to. Sometimes.”
“Oh.” Shane’s voice went a little blank as he tried to process. Then he was worried he sounded transphobic or something, and he added, “That’s cool. Totally cool, of course. And you’re, uh, valid, and everything.”
Ilya was looking at him like he’d sprouted three heads. “What’s this mean, I’m valid.”
“Nothing.” Shane’s face burned. “Forget I said anything.”
“Okay.” Ilya shrugged again.
Shane kept staring at the bra. The cups were shallow and trimmed with sultry red lace. He should put it down, he told himself, and then for some reason he found himself gripping the thing tighter.
“You want to put it on?” A touch at his waist startled him from his thoughts, and then Ilya was smirking at him from just a breath away.
“I—no.” Shane said, and he was telling the truth, he was, even if a perverse part of him couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Buried images flashed through his mind. Skimming through dresses in his mother’s closet, babysitter dozing on the sofa downstairs. Royal blue fabric slipping like water through his fingers. He’d loved the silky texture, so much nicer against his skin than his scratchy polyester pajamas. He’d loved the way it draped over his legs, pooling on the floor until he’d wobbled into his mother’s heels and strode before the mirror. Someone new had looked back at him from the dusty glass. Someone who wasn’t that awkward boy in the schoolyard, the boy always a little bit separate for reasons he couldn’t fully understand, always laughing at the joke a beat too late. No, in the mirror stood someone who was—elegant. Poised. Beautiful.
Someone who was that boy in the yard, but so much more.
And then the babysitter had called out for him, and Shane had torn off the dress in a rush of stomach-churning shame, skittering back down the stairs in his footie pajamas and making up some excuse about building Legos in his room. Then his mother the next day, grumbling that the babysitter had been digging through her closet again, telling his father that they wouldn’t be calling that one back. Shane had never corrected her.
He couldn’t say any of that to Ilya. But he was still holding the bra.
“You want me to put it on?” Ilya asked, voice dropping lower. He tugged the bra from Shane’s grip and held it up to his own chest.
Shane’s breath caught. The black and red contrasted starkly against Ilya’s pale skin. Desire washed through Shane’s blood, feverish and overwhelming, outpacing even his residual shame. “I—yeah. Yeah, if you want.”
“Then help me with the clasp, Hollander. I thought you were gentleman.” Ilya snapped his fingers in a show of mock impatience, and Shane snorted, but dutifully stepped behind Ilya’s back to take the two thin strips of fabric in his fingers.
It was harder than it looked. His fingers felt huge, clumsy as an oaf’s. Whenever Shane had hooked up with girls, they’d usually done all this part by themselves, and now Shane was regretting never taking more of an interest in the proceedings because he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. How was it possible for hooks to be so tiny? Conspiracy. Maybe Ilya had bought a defective garment with the sole intention of humiliating Shane, and now the asshole was getting off on this. Bastard. His thumbs kept jabbing into Ilya’s back, and every brush of bare skin sent electricity jolting through Shane’s nerves, which really wasn’t doing much to help his dexterity.
“Getting lost back there, Hollander?”
“Shut up.” Shane finally managed to clasp the hooks together and grabbed Ilya by the hips to spin him back around. “I’d like to see you try, it’s harder than you th—”
Shane broke off when Ilya was facing him again. A noise left his mouth like he’d been sucker punched.
Look, Shane was no stranger to the sight of breasts in lingerie. He’d gone out with Victoria’s Secret models and actresses and fashion youtubers; enough gorgeous young women to know thoroughly well what boobs looked like in a bra. And they looked nice, generally speaking, in that vague way you can acknowledge the technical mastery of an artwork while not feeling moved by any sort of personal appreciation.
But Ilya in lingerie was something else entirely.
The thin straps cut into his broad, muscular shoulders, emphasizing the sloping angles of his traps and delts. The cups cradled his pectorals with just enough padding to push the muscle together into a slight cleavage, the delicate crimson of the lace accentuating the chapped red of Ilya's lips.
“Fuck,” Shane said, planting his hands on top of his head and taking an involuntary step backwards.
“You like?” Ilya’s hand was on his chest, massaging into the swell of flesh that squeezed over the top of the cups. His head fell back a little as he moaned, the sound exaggerated and showy.
Shane looked everywhere in the room except at Ilya. He was already hard as a rock and he was sure as hell not going to give Ilya the satisfaction of making him come untouched again. But god, he was fucking impatient and Ilya kept making those wanton little sounds, and finally Shane had to inhale as much air as he could and turn back to him. “Jesus, Rozanov.”
“Not my name.”
“What?”
Ilya’s crooked teeth showed behind his lips. “I am Lily, remember?”
Shane huffed a laugh. “Sure,” he said, and looked away again to hide the warmth flushing through him. It was nice, having shared things like their code names, little tokens from this pieced-together arrangement that only the two of them could understand. Almost like being part of an inside joke. Shane had waited his whole life to feel a closeness like that.
Some of the tension Shane had been carrying since he’d arrived finally started to ease. “Well, you look great, Lily.”
“Yes,” Ilya agreed, and danced backwards a step when Shane swayed closer. “Ah ah ah,” he wagged a finger, “Lily is not done dressing.”
“Not done?” Shane’s eyes dipped unthinkingly to Ilya’s crotch, where his cock was tenting his dark boxers.
Ilya’s grin grew even wider. “You are wondering if I have matching panties, yes?”
“Uh—”
“Because I do,” Ilya said, and Shane’s dick throbbed so hard he had to rub it with the heel of his hand just to take the edge off. “They are on bottom of closet, I think.”
As if a man in a dream, Shane’s feet steered him toward the closet door. His fingers were just closing around the handle when Ilya added, “Wore them last night while watching your game.”
“Yeah?”
“Mmm. Was pretty exciting. Watching you get, ah, how do you say…pounded? Yes. Very pleasurable.”
Shane gritted his teeth. They’d had their worst loss of the season and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to reminisce. “Your point?”
“My point, maybe the panties are still wet. You can check.”
Shane immediately slammed the closet shut again. “You’re fucking gross, Rozanov.”
“Lily,” Ilya corrected.
“Okay, Lily.”
“What is the problem? You should be happy to know you make me so wet, yes?”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Ilya clucked, grabbing Shane’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and forcing Shane to look him in the eyes. His voice dropped to a near-velvety whisper. “That is no way to speak to a lady.”
Shane swallowed audibly. Ilya’s thumb crept upward, brushing just barely over the bottom edge of Shane’s lip. When Shane’s mouth parted, a stupid moment of involuntary eagerness, Ilya laughed and pushed his head away with a light smack to his cheek.
“Hey,” Shane complained, but Ilya wasn’t looking at him. He was crouching on the floor and rooting through a messy pile of clothes, making tutting noises as he tossed aside t-shirts and jerseys. “Maybe if you actually folded your laundry for once—”
“Ah-ha,” Ilya said, giving a small pleased smile as he finally held up a dark—something. Shimmery blue fabric, long like a tube. Curved neckline.
A dress, Shane’s mind finally supplied. A tiny, strapless, slutty little dress. That Ilya was holding in his outstretched hand.
“Ummmm,” Shane said stupidly. Blue silk coursed through his fingers in the recesses of his mind. How had Ilya known?
Ilya sighed. “Is chivalry dead, Hollander? Help me into this.”
Oh. “Right,” Shane said, and accepted the dress from Ilya, fingers trembling only slightly. “So does this thing have a zipper, or—”
“No. Is stretchy. Get on your knees.”
A wave of pleasure and annoyance flooded through Shane, the same way it always did when Ilya bossed him around. He wanted to argue and snap back, get in Ilya’s face and spit at him. And then he wanted Ilya to make him lay down at his feet and tell Shane to lick the soles, and he wanted to bitch at Ilya while he did it.
Shane lowered himself to his knees.
Ilya’s bare legs were hairy, muscles glinting in the low lamplight. Thick woolen socks covered his feet and stopped at his mid-calf.
Shane lifted a brow, tugging at the hem of one of the socks.
“You can leave those there.” Ilya rolled his shoulders. “Lily’s feet are cold.”
“Very sexy,” Shane deadpanned, and Ilya brushed at the skin of Shane’s neck with the back of his hand. It was a simple gesture, seemingly instinctive, but it sent shivers of pleasure down Shane’s spine in a way that he hoped wasn’t so pathetically obvious. He shook his head and fumbled with the dress to stretch the opening as wide as it could go, and Ilya lifted a socked foot to step into it.
The dress passed easily enough until they reached Ilya’s knees. Then Shane had to inch it slowly up Ilya’s thick, muscular thighs, his fingers trapped between warm skin and cool spandex.
“Careful.” Ilya’s hand threaded through Shane’s hair. “I like this dress. Do not rip it.”
“I’m being fucking careful,” Shane grunted, and he scrunched the dress up to Ilya’s hips, Ilya’s dick standing out in an obvious bulge through the tight fabric. “You be careful. This thing is too pretty to get ruined by your cum.”
“You do not think my cum is pretty? That is weird. You always seem so happy whenever I paint it down your body—”
“There,” Shane said, snapping the dress up Ilya’s chest in a final tug and stepping back.
He burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it.
Ilya’s skin-tight, painted-on dress hugged every sensual curve of his waist and butt, lacy bra peeking out over the neckline, the hem short enough to expose his massive thighs. He looked like the very picture of debauchery, the very essence of sex—except for the lower quarter of the scene, where his long woolly socks were floppy on his huge flat feet, so goofy and out-of-place that Ilya’s refusal to take them off had surely been intended to provoke this exact reaction.
“Something funny?” Ilya asked, straight-faced but lips twitching dangerously, and then he was scooping Shane up and tossing him onto the bed.
Shane barely had time to protest before Ilya was on top of him, heavy thighs locking around his waist, stomach muscles flexing behind a thin layer of blue spandex. Ilya’s red mouth dipping low to drag across Shane’s lips.
“See?” Ilya said. His hand found Shane’s chest, massaging and squeezing the flesh of his pectorals, thumb rubbing into the nipple until Shane arched and moaned into him. “Dressing up is not big deal. Is not scary. Can just be fun.”
Maybe for you, Shane wanted to say, but he stopped himself. Ilya didn’t have to be told the risks. He probably knew them better than anyone, and certainly more than Shane.
But Ilya had always been the braver of the two of them. Shane couldn’t deny it.
Shane waited, but Ilya didn’t push further. He drew back a little, lifted Shane’s hand and placed it on his inner thigh, and his voice switched back to honeyed sensuality. “Feel how wet you make your Lily.”
Ilya guided Shane’s wrist under his dress and up to his boxers, where the head of his dick was damp through the fabric. “Uh, yep,” Shane affirmed. “That’s pretty wet.”
Ilya rolled his eyes. “And what are you going to do about it?”
Right now Shane wouldn’t mind just hanging out here, his hand up Ilya’s dress, tugging Ilya’s underwear down his thighs and memorizing the contours of his foreskin, but then Shane’s dick gave a jerk against his stomach and it was suddenly very imperative that he get a move on.
He gave Ilya’s tip one more rub, taking a private satisfaction in the way Ilya’s thighs twitched and tightened, and then brought his hands back to his own boxers to push them out of the way.
“I think my Jane is more wet than me,” Ilya said, looking down at Shane’s embarrassingly weepy tip.
“Shut up,” Shane said, his entire body flaring red at the name, and in a surge of annoyance he grabbed Ilya’s hips and ground him down against his cock.
Fuck. It was sloppy, at first, Shane’s shaft ramming against Ilya’s balls. But Ilya always seemed to know what Shane wanted like he could read his damn mind, and tonight was no exception. Ilya shifted and adjusted until he pressed his hips down at the perfect angle to make their cocks rub against each other, pre-cum easing the friction until all Shane could feel was a desperate mind-numbing pleasure.
“Fuck, Lily,” he groaned. “I need—can you—”
Ilya rocked into him harder, faster. It felt like the nerves on his cock were lighting up Shane’s entire body, and everywhere else that Ilya touched him exploded with starbursts of pleasure. Ilya’s hands on Shane’s chest, palms wide enough to grip his entire breast. The rough scrape of Ilya’s lips down Shane’s jaw. Ilya’s overgrown curls brushing Shane’s face, sweat damp and soft. Shane needed him so bad he was going to explode. “Lily—yes, that’s—come on, Lilya—oh god, please, Ilya—”
And then he was coming so hard he felt like the super-soaker squirt gun he’d gotten for his tenth birthday. Ilya’s lips were in his hair, kissing down his cheeks before landing on Shane’s mouth. He felt the hiss of breath, the groan that Ilya made when he found his own release, but Shane wasn’t going to give him a moment to relax, sucking Ilya’s tongue into his mouth and kissing him as deep as he could.
It wasn’t enough. Shane wanted to swallow him whole.
They kissed until they were mostly just breathing each other, the musk of Ilya’s body permeating so thoroughly in Shane’s airways that he hoped it would never fully go away. Finally Ilya rolled off of him and flopped over on his back. He left a hand on Shane’s stomach.
Shane put his own hand on top of it, dragging his fingertips across the dry patches on Ilya’s knuckles, the awkward jut of his ring finger from what felt like a healed-over fracture. Shane had a few of those, too. So many of their scars were mirrored.
He withdrew his hand and propped himself up on an elbow to look over at Ilya, then frowned. “You ruined your dress, Rozanov.”
“Hmm. No.” Ilya looked thoughtfully down at his stomach and chest, the blue fabric nearly tie-dyed from the amount of cum splattered into it. “I think we ruined my dress, yes?”
Shane laughed and sagged back down into the pillows. True enough.
“Don’t worry.” Ilya turned his head to watch Shane slyly. “We will buy prettier one when it’s your turn.”
Shane’s fingers twitched, his stomach tightening. The instinct to snap out a fuck off rose and fell. He thought again of blue silk. Of feeling like yourself, but something beyond the self you’d always thought you had to be; feeling like something more, something beautiful and something true. How similar that feeling was to how he always felt when he was with Ilya.
Shane rolled over onto Ilya’s chest. “Okay,” he said. “But you’re buying.”