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First year together on the same team and somehow the boys didn’t clue in that there was anything noteworthy about having everyone dress in drag for Halloween. Drag. Costumes mandatory, attendance mandatory. The party at Ilya’s house since he was captain. Ilya’s house was Shane’s house too now, though they’d been talking about buying somewhere new, maybe a teardown on a good piece of land where they could build custom, enough space for one of those mini rinks in the basement.
Their costumes had arrived a week early and thank the universe for that one because Svetlana (“She’ll get for us,” Ilya said, “will be good.”) was clearly trolling the fuck out of them. They couldn’t wear those … outfits was generous. They couldn’t wear the scraps of lingerie out of the house, let alone in front of the team.
“Not lingerie,” Ilya said, holding the skirt up in front of Shane’s hips. “Not any panties.”
“I’m not wearing panties,” Shane said, slapping the garment out of Ilya’s hands where it flopped in a condemningly small pile of pink sheen on the floor.
The point was to be funny. Shane was already pretty sure, but he’d checked with Hayden, who’d said, “Yeah, dude, it’s just like a joke or whatever,” which was exactly what Shane thought.
This much lace wasn’t funny. Or it was funny on someone like Ryan Price, who was so big and hairy that lace couldn’t be anything but a joke. But it wouldn’t be funny with him and Ilya. Shane knew that was true, no matter how much Ilya said the team was cool, they weren’t going to be dicks, everyone was fine about them, and tried to pet Shane into believing him.
It was less effective now that they lived together, and Shane’s skin wasn’t constantly starving for Ilya’s touch.
“I’m not wearing any of this,” Shane said, slashing his hand toward the offending pile of nonsense.
“You can still wear,” Ilya said, his voice coaxing now. “For me,” he preempted, when Shane opened his mouth. “We both wear.”
Ilya couldn’t remember the word for sorority and he’d pulled up a Playboy photo, like actual Playboy, that kind of hazy endless foreplay video that the guys were always running as background noise at parties because it wasn’t even really porn, it was just a lot of pink being gently rubbed. Shane had said, “Gross,” and Ilya had said, “You like gross,” and then he said they were going to have a sleepover and wiggled his eyebrows a lot.
“I don’t even like women,” Shane complained, but Ilya said, “You will like,” and he seemed very certain and now Shane’s shoulders were being rubbed raw from the sharpest spaghetti strap in existence.
It did not feel sexy to dress like this. Tight elastic dug into his skin, burning lines around his outer pecs and traps and abs. The fabric was synthetic and made noises every time Shane moved. It covered nothing. Shane’s thighs looked hairy and pale. Even in shorts, this part of his legs never saw the sun.
“Movie is boring,” Ilya said, standing. He walked between Shane and the television, stepping on Shane’s toes until Shane made room for him in the tight space, an unopened bag of protein gummies sliding off the coffee table.
Ilya stood between Shane’s legs and slowly turned around. He looked over his shoulder, his fingers tickling the hem, and said, “You like skirt?”
It was short. It was so fucking short. It fit around Ilya’s waist, but then even though it flared out, the fabric barely covered the bottom curve of his fat ass. A sheen to the material, so the lilac had a shimmer. A wiggle to Ilya’s hips. A flash of skin.
“Yeah,” Shane said, throat tight, voice flat. “You look, like, um. Very pretty?”
“Hmm,” Ilya said, not sounding impressed. He rotated. The flimsy fabric swishing, highlighting the breadth of his body. He faced Shane pushed his hands to Shane’s shoulders, shoving him back against the couch.
Shane looked up, his hands flattened to his thighs, holding his own pink skirt in place.
“You like top?” Ilya asked.
From this angle, it looked like he has an actual rack, his fucking tits filling up the thin lace of the crop top. There were thick seams, two half circles to make it look like a bra, but Ilya’s pecs were wider than that, the curve of muscle stretching all the way to the far sides of his chest. Shane could see his nipples.
“Mh?” Ilya prompted. He used his upper arms, the bulge of his biceps, to push his pecs together, wiggling his chest in Shane’s face. “I’m not wearing a bra,” he said.
“It looks good,” Shane rasped. Women were always complimenting each other. He was supposed to say — well, he didn’t know what, no actual words came to mind, but some long paragraph about how gorgeous Ilya was and how every fashion decision he’d ever made was the correct one, but it also was supposed to sound genuine.
Ilya stood. His hands stroked the flat of his torso, finger coming to circle his bellybutton.
“I’m thinking of getting pierced,” he said.
“If — umm, yeah, if you want.”
“Or maybe tongue,” Ilya said, sticking his freakishly long tongue all the way out. It went down to his chin, especially when he flicked it, the end going pointed.
A voice in Shane’s head pointed out that a tongue piercing was likely to chip his teeth. He’d heard that once, and now every time he’d seen someone flash one at the bar, it was all he could think. But that was not the kind of information he was supposed to provide.
“I’ve seen you looking,” Ilya said, settling beside Shane on the couch. He pressed his lips together and then pursed them.
“No,” Shane said. “I mean, just like —”
“No? You don’t think I have pretty mouth?”
“I think you’re pretty,” Shane said. He was supposed to be pretending Ilya was a girl and that was always the right answer.
“How pretty?”
“Pretty.” Shane lifted his shoulder and winced when it made the strap dig in even deeper. “But just like normal, in the normal way.”
“You have boyfriend?”
“No,” Shane said. He could feel his cheeks heating. “I did, but I, um—” proposed “—dumped him.”
“Hmm.” Ilya’s mouth curved in a half circle, the exaggerated shape of his frown. “Not good in bed?”
Shane shook his head. “No, that’s not — I don’t do that.” He arranged the slippery fabric of his skirt across his thighs.
“No?”
Shane looked up and found Ilya staring him dead in the eye. He shook his head again.
“You’re a good girl,” Ilya said, and Shane was so focused on maintaining eye contact that he jolted at the feel of Ilya’s hands on his knees.
“Yeah, I just —” What were sorority girls even supposed to get up to? There had to be something in between the pillow fights. “—study a lot.”
“Study,” Ilya repeated. “Work hard.” His thumbs stroked circles around Shane’s knees. “Try hard. Always trying.”
Shane nodded. His toes curled against the ground, calves clenching.
“Dump your boyfriend,” Ilya continued. “Lonely. Need a friend.”
“Yeah.” Shane swallowed. “Friends are, ah. Friends are important.”
“Good friend,” Ilya said.
And then he pushed forward, the quickflash heat of his mouth, the sensation registering before Shane realized it was a kiss.
“Reall good friend,” Ilya whispered. Another press of heat. He cupped Shane’s jaw. “Just a little. Need to relax sometimes.”
“A little,” Shane echoed, looking down at Ilya’s mouth and then blinking his eyes away. There was nowhere safe for them to rest. When he looked down he was confronted by Ilya’s tits.
Ilya’s coaxing touch. He had soft hands. On and off the ice. He had a nasty dangle, and he could gentle his fingers over Shane’s so carefully that it felt like their skin was melting together.
Another kiss. Longer this time. He stayed close when their lips parted, breathing against Shane’s mouth.
“Feels good?” Ilya asked. “Better than boyfriend.”
Shane’s eyes were closed. He leaned his head back in the cradle of Ilya’s hand. “Yeah. He didn’t know how to kiss.”
“It’s better,” Ilya agreed.
One hand holding Shane’s head, the other, oh, fuck, dipping under his skirt, sliding right up. The flex of Ilya’s fingers over the hard line of his cock. He wasn’t wearing underwear. The contact was immediately skin on skin.
“What else he didn’t know?”
“I didn’t do that.” Shane could hear his own voice going whiney, but Ilya kept rubbing circles over the head of his cock and he was just on the cusp of overstimulation. “He didn’t —”
“You didn’t let him touch you here?” A longer stroke, the ring of Ilya’s fingers. “Liar. I think yes.”
Shane was starting to leak, the friction of Ilya’s touch easing as somehow the intensity continued to increase.
“Look how fast you get wet,” Ilya said.
His hand left Shane’s head, meandering down his chest. A squeeze to Shane’s pec, pinch to his nipple.
“You need it so bad,” Ilya said.
Shane nodded. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“No?” Ilya made an exaggerated frown. “But you need it so bad.”
He reached for something — oh, thank fuck, he’d brought lube. The sputtery squirt and then the thick press of his fingers digging between Shane’s legs.
He spread wider, tilting his hips, helping Ilya’s fingers find his hole.
Two fingers, right away. Shane leaned back on the sectional, resting one foot on the coffee table. He exhaled loudly.
“You’ve got a slutty cunt,” Ilya said.
Shane rolled his head back and forth, Ilya’s fingers pushing in deeper, the stretch sharp but welcome, and then, “F-fu-ck,” Shane moaned as Ilya pressed against his prostate.
He pulled out, slathered on more lube. Back in. He fucked Shane with his fingers this time, the wet slap of his hand.
“You need it so bad.”
Shane nodded, arching, trying to spread his legs wider.
“I thought you said you don’t do this.”
“I don’t — I didn’t,” Shane tilted his chin up and swallowed a moan. “It never felt like this before.”
“You need me to show you.”
“Yeah, yeah, I need you to — I need you, Ilya.”
Ilya grabbed his cock, just holding with steady pressure while he fucked his fingers in Shane’s hole, but it was enough. Shane slapped the cushion and made low desperate sounds as he pulsed through orgasm.
“God.” Shane cracked his eyes open. There, Ilya, staring at him, that way he had of looking at Shane, eye contact only intensifying when Shane stared back. Ilya’s red mouth, the tip of his tongue resting on his lower lip. He curled his fingers and Shane cried out, riding the aftershock.
“Pretty,” Ilya said, crawling forward. He kissed Shane as he eased his fingers out, leaving his hand between Shane’s thighs, rubbing at the outside of Shane’s hole.
There was spit stretching between their lips when Ilya pulled away, and said: “Eat me out.”
Shane dropped to the floor, shuffling beneath Ilya’s skirt. The fabric trapped the scent of Ilya, blocked out the light, and Shane rubbed his face against bare skin, nuzzling his way up between Ilya’s thighs.
Ilya lay back, making more room so Shane could get between the split of him, tongue out, seeking, until he made contact with skin. The soft curve of Ilya’s sac, and then down, the bulge of the root of his cock hidden inside his body, the crease of skin leading along his perineum. The swell of his asscheeks. Shane had to use his hands to pull him open before he could get to his hole.
He licked up and down between Ilya’s hole and his balls, and everything got so soaked with spit that it did feel like he was going down on a woman. The dark wet space between his legs. The scent of him, soap and sweat and the annoying chemical overlay of the polyester skirt. Shane pushed the tip of his tongue against the clench of Ilya’s hole and pulsed.
Ilya reached for his cock, pulling the skirt out of the way. Shane could feel the rhythm of his hand, the rolling waves of his body as he rocked against Shane’s mouth.
“Ah, fuck —” The hard whap of Ilya working himself furiously. “Good girl, good, ah—”
His body jerked as he came. His hand flew to Shane’s head, holding him down, keeping him close. Shane kept his mouth wet and open.
—
After, when they were both in their real clothes, showered, lying together in bed, phones charging on each of their bedside tables:
“Did you ever wish I was a girl?” Shane asked.
“No.” Ilya rolled over, the ring on his finger catching the light as he held Shane's thigh. “I wished everyone else was you.”