Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov

Additional Tags:

Shane Wears a Skirt, Boys in Skirts, Blow Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, Ilya Rozanov is Obsessed With Shane Hollander, Pretty Shane Hollander

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-05-01 Words: 5,673 Chapters: 1/1

A Long, Flowy, Butter-Yellow Skirt

Summary

Shane, occasionally, likes to wear skirts around the house. This is mostly fine with him, but it's also a huge secret.

During their first summer together at the cottage, Ilya goes rummaging around in the wrong drawer.

When Shane was twenty-one, he was scrolling absently through an online store, looking for pants and hoping for some inspiration. 

He was getting none.

All of the pants were the same to him, they were all blue jeans or slacks ranging in colors from black to charcoal grey. Pants were pants; they were boring, they made him feel boring, and he hated shopping for them.

Shane hated clothes shopping in general, it was a fucking hassle, and the enormous job of it was stifling. The entire process made him feel alien. When he was a teenager, he wore whatever his parents bought him. As an adult, he's purchased the same things that he's used to while beating himself up for having no personal style.

He didn't particularly care about clothes. He wanted to feel comfortable. He liked when his shirts had a little extra room in them. He despised belts, and wasn't a huge fan of the roughness of jeans, either. He only wore socks from one specific brand because it was the only brand that didn't feel weird on his toes. 

No one had remarked on his lack of a personal style. He was only upsetting himself, really. He was good at that.

Shane sighed as he clicked onto the fourth page of results, just wanting something, anything to catch his eye. 

The page crashed. Shane stared at the white screen, taking it as a sign. He refreshed the page, and the refresh took him back to the main page of the website.

Okay, he was done, officially. He had enough comfortable sweatpants to last him until he was twenty-five, at least. Maybe longer if he didn't mind a few holes. (He didn't, if he was lounging around the house). 

Shane sighed and moved to close the tab when the crawl screen caught his attention. It's a unisex clothing brand, one he knew people he went to high school with used to shop at. He could afford something a little more high-end these days, but old habits die hard. 

The crawl screen showed mostly men's clothes, a product of the algorithm. It displayed him an ugly pair of ripped jeans he clicked on for half a second before shaking his head. He thought ripped jeans were idiotic. His knees would be freezing!

The next image revealed wasn't men's clothes, though. The algorithm had failed him, he was looking at the image of a pretty, delicate, lilac purple skirt. It was plain, except for the embroidery of a long green stem and white flower petals on the left side. It seemed a bit childish for an adult woman, that was Shane's first thought. His second was that he didn't know a damn thing about women's fashion.

Shane found himself watching as the skirt moved across the page and out of view. Jeans, jeans, slacks, a short, deep red skirt with two long, tan legs coming out of the bottom-

Shane clicked the little left arrow to display the previous results. The purple skirt was back, bright and lovely while surrounded by boring men's pants.

Shane clicked on it.

He shook his head and clicked out, what am I doing?

He stared at the screen for another moment, something odd and tangly sitting in his chest. He sighed, it was late, he was tired. He closed the tab and got ready for bed.

Three days later, he was combing through his browsing history at one in the morning. 

The skirt was still available. Sizes small and large were sold out. They had medium, extra-large, and 2X. 

He stared at the sizes, barely knowing his own pants size. It tended to fluctuate, especially around playoff season, which they were approaching quickly.

It had an elastic waist, so he could make an educated guess...

"What are you doing, dude?"

Shane shook his head. He was hunched over his laptop in his bed, his blanket pulled over his head, blocking him from the rest of his empty bedroom in his empty apartment. No one was here to see what he was doing. No one could read his thoughts, the inside of his head was his own. 

But, Shane felt shame like a thousand sets of eyes were on him, pointing at him, accusing him of wanting this. 

He couldn't understand why he was feeling drawn to the skirt. All he knew was, his pants had started to feel itchy and weird on his legs, and when he's home, sometimes, he feels like he needs to crawl out of his skin. 

His wallet materialized on the bed beside him. It was as if the purchasing process was out of his hands.

The package arrived while he was away. He was busy losing a game in the American south, it was a long plane ride home, and a small, grey package was waiting for him at the front desk of his apartment building.

Shane felt hot in the face as he took the package from the doorman. He imagined his plane going down somewhere between Florida and Montreal, his parents coming and collecting his things, opening the package and seeing what was inside-

He slammed the door to his apartment shut and threw the package under his bed.

He ignored it for a week.

"You're being a drama queen," Shane said, aloud, to himself, in his empty apartment. He was standing at the foot of his bed, where he knew the soft, grey package was hiding.

He bought a dildo, for christsake. He had gay (bi?) sex with Ilya Rozanov. The same Ilya Rozanov that seemed to just love sending Shane inappropriate texts nearly every day, always just in time for Shane to start blushing in front of his teammates.

A scrap of fabric wasn't gonna fucking kill him.

"Man up, Shane."

Shane stared at the floor for two more minutes and fled his bedroom. 

It all came to a head when they lost to North Carolina six days later. They would not be advancing in the playoffs, Montreal's season was over.

Shane was deeply disappointed, he wanted a cup win more than he wanted to live to old age.

A few guys were going out to drown their sorrows, but more were just going home with their tails between their legs. Shane was the latter.

The next day, with fuck-all to do outside his normal routine besides decide when he would leave for Ottawa for the summer and dodging nasty come-on's from Rozanov (who really should be focusing on his own playoff run, come on, man), he pulled the soft grey package out from under his bed.

He brought his kitchen scissors to the bedroom and gingerly snipped along the edges. A rush of purple cotton spilled out of the opening.

Shane tossed the scissors and ripped the package open the rest of the way, until the fabric was bunched in his lap, and the pretty white flower was looking up at him.

He fisted the light material in his hands. It was thin, good for summer. Or spring, if he lived somewhere where spring was warm.

Shane stood and held the skirt in front of him by the waist. It was wrinkly. 

It cost him nothing to plug the iron in, but then he realized it smelled like wherever warehouse it came from. He unplugged the iron and started laundry instead.

Shane sat on the floor in front of his washing machine watching suds splash against the glass. His phone buzzed beside him. It was late afternoon, he had worked out this morning, but he was considering a second go on the bike, at least. 

Lily: Licking your wounds?

Shane thought about responding when another message came through. 

Lily: You could be licking something else ;)

Shane snorted. It was three in the afternoon. Boston had a game in Pittsburgh tonight, he wasn't actually sexting, just being a pest.

Shane: You should probably focus your energy on the game tonight. Pittsburgh is playing well.

Lily: Some of us are good at hockey, we can multitask

Shane wondered where Ilya learned the term multitask, but blushed when he realized it was probably from him.

Shane ignored him and switched the laundry when it was time. He waited for the dryer by pacing his apartment. He half considered, while slightly hysterical, telling Ilya what he was doing, but that would be absolutely fucking mortifying. He would never live it down if someone else found out about his little experiment, just like he wouldn't live it down if anyone found out about Ilya. 

Shane took his time folding his warm laundry and tucking it all away in its appropriate location. A place for everything, and everything in its place.

Everything in his apartment was sleek, clean, and respectable. 

The skirt was laid out on his bed. It was supposed to fall at a woman's ankles, but he suspected it would be a little shorter on him.

"Am I actually doing this?"

Shane had the TV on earlier as newscasters discussed Montreal's loss that night. They said the teamwork just wasn't there, Montreal wasn't playing their best. They were right, and Shane's been upset about it all day.

Last night, his parents tried to talk him down, not that he was really on a ledge about it. He just wanted it, and he didn't want to wait for it. Shane was so good, all the time, constantly. He did everything right, he earned the win. Why the hell couldn't they bring it home? How long would he have to wait for his reward?

"We'll always be proud of you, Shane," his father said after he and his mother finished breaking down what went wrong in the third period. Shane exhaled shakily, he knew that, but he was still ashamed. 

Pride and admiration were earned, not guaranteed. 

Shane slid his sweats off and let them pool on his hardwood floors. 

This is stupid Shane thought as he held the piece of clothing, now clean, smelling like the rest of his laundry. 

He was on that website that fateful night to find new pants to appear a little more stylish. He could never wear this in public. If anyone found out it was in his home, he would be called all sorts of terrible things. Things that weren't true, and things that were true. He couldn't handle either.

He sat on the bed and awkwardly slid his legs through the hole, noting the odd absence of the divide between legs. Goosebumps erupted over his flesh as his legs brushed together.

He was hot in the face, likely red as a tomato. 

"I'm alone in my apartment. It's okay. I'm alone," he muttered to himself, embarrassed. He had to repeat the same mantra the first time he used his dildo too. 

He stood and let the band snap at his waist, and that was it.

He stared down at the pretty purple fabric. He never much considered the color before, but he couldn't deny he was drawn to it the other day while shopping, and it was just as delicate and lovely in person. 

"I'm wearing a dress. A skirt. I'm wearing a skirt."

Yeah, Shane Hollander was wearing a skirt all alone in his apartment.

"I'm alone, it's okay. No one is here, no one can see me. No one will know."

He breathed, shaking slightly. 

He grabbed the edge of the skirt and lifted it. The skirt was almost long enough to fall to his ankles, like it did on the model. It ended at the bottom of his calves instead. 

He ran his index finger along the flower, it felt differently than the rest of the skirt, like actual embroidery, but there was nothing itchy or scratchy on the inside, which he appreciated.

The entire thing was pretty comfortable, actually.

He took a few steps in it, until he got to the doorway of his bedroom. The skirt swished gently around his legs, inoffensive, breezy. 

Because he was alone in his apartment and he could, he spun. Slowly and reluctantly, because he wasn't enjoying this. That would be wrong, gross, weird.

The skirt spread out around his legs. When it settled against him again, he found himself smiling.

He felt comfortable in it, he felt free; there was no doubt that it was less constricting than pants. He felt comfy while also feeling covered and secure. He didn't like to move around his apartment while naked, but he had a few times when his clothes felt like a bit much. 

This didn't feel like too much.

He wore it into his kitchen where he poured a glass of water. He was hyper-aware of how it fanned out around him while he walked. He felt something else, too, other than comfort and relief. Something like...something like how Ilya made him feel, when he held him down and kissed his face and called him pretty. 

It was a feeling he knew he wasn't supposed to enjoy, not as he was. He was a man, he wasn't supposed to be pretty. But he wasn't that offended when Ilya complimented him. He was kind of sad he wouldn't get a prettyboy until next season, now that Montreal was out. 

Shane walked around his home just to do it. 

He stood at his front door and ran in a straight line until there was a wall in his way, laughing a bit as it flapped around him.

He was behaving childishly, maybe a little hysterically. He went to his home gym next, took off his shirt, and flexed in the mirror just to prove something to himself. His muscles greeted him, as they usually did. The man in the reflection was a walking contradiction, existing somewhere between masculinity and femininity that made absolutely no sense to Shane.

He lounged around the house the rest of the day in the skirt. Then, he found himself putting it on again the next day, even though he didn't like to wear re-wear clothes without washing them first.

He took a few days off, because he googled 'men wearing skirts meaning' and got a little scared about the results. They were incomprehensible to him. He was a man, he knew that. And the porn was all a bit much, he didn't like the language surrounding any of it. It all made him nervous.

So he cleared his search history, washed the skirt, and tucked it in a ball in the back of his sock drawer. 

A few days before he was set to leave for his parent's house, Ilya was photographed in New York leaving a club with his hand on the lower back of a model. 

She was famous, he guessed. Paparazzi didn't make a habit of following around hockey players, even during playoffs. TMZ also didn't care to post fluff articles about athletes unless they were spotted with someone actually famous.

The model had a wide, gorgeous smile. She was tall, as tall as Ilya, slim and sexy in a tight black dress. She and Ilya were both laughing in the second photo. Ilya was caught mid-speaking in the first, so Shane figured she was giggling due to some of Ilya's classic charming chaotic nonsense.

Shane breathed in through nose, out through his mouth. 

The article was bare-bones, mostly it was about them leaving the club together. Her name was in the article, Shane couldn't care less about who she was. She was apparently, a model who was turning to acting. Good for her. Good for Ilya. 

Shane knew Ilya fucked around. Shane knew that. Ilya was seen with models and actresses almost weekly since their NHL careers began. There was no denying that Ilya got around. 

Shane wasn't upset, because Ilya wasn't his. Shane didn't want Ilya to be his. Shane wasn't gay, probably, he was like Ilya, he just wasn't as social as he was. That was their only difference, really.

Shane was still seething an hour later. His sweatshirt felt too warm. He shucked it off. He ran his sweaty palms along his pants. These were his favorite lounge pants, but the inside was fuzzy, and they were touching him in a way that felt like a million weird tongues on his skin-

Shane stood, shoulders to his ears. He paced for a moment before stalking to his bedroom, ripping open his sock drawer, and pulling out the purple skirt. It was wonderfully bright and pretty among his drab wardrobe. God, everything was black, grey, and navy blue.

This was...this was so refreshing. He tossed his pants in his hamper. Shane changed out of his black boxers into a white pair, because he knew the black would show through the material. 

He sat back on his couch and breathed. His heart rate slowed. 

"Fuck," Shane mumbled.

That's how it began.

Shane finished his summer in Ottawa at his parent's barely alive, and with a package waiting for him at the front desk. 

This skirt was a lovely orange color. It was also long. He flirted with the idea of a shorter skirt, imagining the way his thighs would look squished together in a mini, but decided against it. This was for comfort. His purple skirt was the most comfortable article of clothing he owned. He wanted another just in case that one was dirty. A back-up, that was it.

He had not brought it to Ottawa, of course. That would be ridiculous.

He had only owned the damned thing for about a month when he left, but he missed it like a limb all goddamn summer. He kept thinking about how nice it would feel while sitting on his parents deck at their cottage, a soft breeze coming across the lake. 

Not that he ever could wear it there, of course. But the fantasy was something.

So, Shane had two skirts, a sweet lilac, and a bright tangerine, both vaguely the same cut and length, from the same online retailer. 

He limited himself to only wearing them during emergencies: when his clothes got to be too much, when he was overwhelmed, sad, or when he couldn't sleep because his mind wouldn't cool down and nothing else helped. 

He told himself, for about a year, that it was because they distracted them. Yes, they were comfortable, with less material touching him, but it was so confusing and odd of Shane, not just a man, but also a professional hockey player, to wear a skirt, that his brain had to calm down to work it all out. 

After two years, he accepted it was the comfort thing.

After three years, when a rip appeared in the purple skirt almost made him cry, he accepted that sometimes he liked to wear pretty things. As he stitched up the imperfection, he decided that, once in a great, great while, Shane Hollander liked to feel pretty.

He felt pretty, comfortable, and safe. He rarely felt embarrassed anymore. He only wore them when lounging around his house. They were tucked away from prying eyes when ever anyone was visiting him. His secret was protected. He was okay. 

When the orange one got too stretched out, he bought a green gingham skirt to replace it. He loved that one too. Through his journey with experimenting, he learned that he really, really, appreciates colors. Overwhelmingly, he is drawn to pastels, which is a shame, because he can't really wear them out and about, but brighter colors are nice too.

He buys a vibrant grass-green button-up and wears it to a team party at Hayden's and receives compliments from three wives. 

Hayden posts a picture of Shane wearing a salmon pink shirt, fully unbuttoned, grilling at his cottage while one of his twins hovers nearby on his Instagram. Ilya sends a screenshot of it with the tongue emoji. 

He visited Ilya in his Boston home in a royal purple sweater. Ilya pulled at the sleeves, rolling the cashmere between his fingers.

"Soft," he said instead of 'hello.' He had been too busy kissing Shane against his front door to greet him initially. 

"It's cashmere."

"Pretty," Ilya breathed against him before nibbling on his lip.

He grew so comfortable with his secret that he stopped worrying almost completely. He was so sure no one would ever find out that when Ilya called his name from his bedroom at the cottage, Shane went without concern.

Ilya was leaving in four days, and Shane was trying not to count them down, but it was hard. Now that he and Ilya were together, were in love with each other, he did not want to let the man out of his sight. That was his man, dammit. Ilya Rozanov shouldn't be anywhere except on top of Shane in their bedroom. Boston could go to hell.

Ilya was squatting in front of the little dresser under the TV. Shane saw the bright color collected in Ilya's hands. His stomach dropped into hell. He knew it was over.

He hadn't forgotten that he stashed that in there, of course. The yellow skirt was his second favorite that he ever owned. It was butter yellow, breathable. He brought it to the cottage three summers ago. When he was certain he was safe, he would wear it outside and feel it tickle his leg hair as the winds blew the fabric.

He just...he didn't think about it. At all, these last few weeks. With Ilya there, he hadn't felt particularly drawn to his habit. He wasn't overwhelmed or unhappy or itching out of his skin. 

All of their clothes were in the walk-in closet, including Shane's main wardrobe. Why was Ilya going through that damn drawer?

"I was looking for batteries, for the remote."

Right. The TV remote was dead, Shane forgot. He and Ilya had been lounging on the couch. It was a cool, rainy day at the cottage. Shane was reading, Ilya was playing a video game. 

"They're in the kitchen," Shane said stupidly. Ilya stood up and let the whole length of the skirt unravel, hanging between them.

Shane was going to vomit. 

Because Ilya...Ilya was going to take it all back.

Shane hadn't done much research after his initial google search. He remembered the sickening language around men who wore women's clothes. He remembered the degradation, the shame and horror he felt. 

How could Ilya love him after finding out a secret like this? He was already strange, Ilya was already forgiving a lot of odd behavior, but this? 

Shane was gay. He knew that now, he accepted it months ago. But was he...this type of gay? He didn't think so, but it was true, and oh god, he was going to cry about it. Now Ilya knew. 

"Is it Rose's?" Ilya asked. Shane stared at the large waistband. It was obviously not Rose's skirt, and Shane could tell Ilya knew. 

"Shane," Ilya said his name so gently. Shane tried not to let the tears fall. He looked away from the man who might not want to be his boyfriend anymore.

The living room TV remote was on the dresser, he grabbed it and walked out.

Ilya found him crouched on the kitchen floor digging through a drawer.

"Shane," Shane ignored him. He found the pack of AA batteries.

Shane stood and tried not to sniffle, he sniffled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the skirt was thrown over Ilya's forearm.

His hands shook, batteries spilled out of the packaging. Shane scrambled to catch them. Ilya watched him slide the back off the remote, pound the old batteries out, replace them, and throw away the dead ones.

Shane put the package of batteries back where it was supposed to go, and that was it, the task was over, there was nothing else to hide behind.

"Shane, you are worrying me. What is this? Do you...is there a woman-"

"No!" Shane said, scoffing. "How many times do I have to say it? I'm gay."

"Then..." Ilya gestured towards the skirt in his arms. Shane stared at it. He really did love that one. The color seemed to especially suit Ilya. His mind provided him unhelpful images of Ilya wearing it instead of Shane. 

"You're going to hate me."

"I don't think I am," Ilya replied.

"You're going to think of me differently." 

"Shane," Ilya breathed, "I love you. Please talk to me."

Shane walked by him, taking the skirt as he passed. Ilya let him. Shane folded it and set it on the coffee table. He took the chair, Ilya took the couch.

"It is yours?" Ilya asked after they sat in silence for a bit.

"Yes," Shane said. "It's mine."

Ilya's face was unreadable. Shane thought he might explode. This was his worst fucking nightmare. He got complacent, all these years. No one had found out his secret, so he thought it was safe. Obviously, he was wrong, he was deeply, deeply wrong. How stupid was he? Keeping women's clothes tucked away in his things, at home AND at the cottage. Jesus Christ. 

"I used to hook up with this woman, Ella. She was transgender."

"I'm not-" Shane sighed, "I'm not trans, Ilya."

"Okay," Ilya replied. "It would be okay if you were."

"I'm really not, that's not what this is."

"Okay, what is it, then?"

"It's really not that...It's not that big of a deal. It's just...it's weird. I'm so fucking weird, Ilya."

"Shane, whatever you have to say, I promise you, it is not as bad as you think."

Ilya didn't say anything as Shane buried his hot face in his hands.

"Is it a sex thing?" Ilya asked, tone different, conveying interest, because of course he would go there.

"No, it's so dumb. I just like to wear them."

"Them?"

"Skirts. I like to wear skirts, sometimes. When I'm feeling a bit...bad. Overwhelmed, or upset. They're comfortable. That's it."

Ilya held his gaze.

"That is it?"

"That's really it. But, obviously, it's a secret. No one can know."

Ilya sat back and breathed.

"That's it? Shane, I was so worried. Your reaction freaked me out."

"Well it's embarrassing. I'm not supposed to...it's women's clothes. I'm not supposed to wear them."

"Who cares?"

Shane stared at him.

"What?"

"Women's clothes, men's clothes, who cares? Yes, people are stupid and would say things. But you wear them at home, to be comfortable. So, who cares."

"I mean, I care. Fuck. I'm already gay, and now I'm...this?"

"What? You're what?"

"This!" Shane exclaimed, chest tight, unsure of what he's trying to say. "It's weird, and wrong."

"Shane, come here."

Shane tried to ignore him, hiding his face again, but when Ilya asked a second time, Shane rose only to collapse a second later beside Ilya. 

Ilya put his arm around Shane, and Shane burrowed into Ilya easily, hiding from his own fears.

"You are weird, yes, because of so many things. Like only wearing one brand of socks, and doing evil bird calls. Not because of this, moya lyubov. The skirt is just clothing. It is not wrong or weird or any of those terrible things in your pretty little head, okay?"

Shane pushed a bit closer, wrapping his arms around Ilya, hugging him. Ilya's hand found his hair, soothing him.

"You're really not mad?"

"Why would I be mad? Because my pretty boyfriend likes to wear pretty things?"

Shane didn't reply.

"No, Hollander, I am not mad. I am happy."

Shane pulled back to meet Ilya's loving gaze.

"Happy?"

"Mm, horny," Ilya corrected, smirking.

Shane scoffed and hid his face back in Ilya's neck.

"Pervert."

"Mm, yes, for my beautiful boyfriend who I love." 

"I love you too."

"Good, does that mean you're done being upset, and you will wear the skirt?"

"No."

Shane did wear the skirt, eventually.

Two days later, he woke up with Ilya. They had slow, romantic, endless morning sex, followed by breakfast and a quick workout. Then, round two in the shower where Shane went down on Ilya for so long, he was pretty sure he died and went to heaven. 

After, when they got dressed, Shane was alone in their bedroom, staring at the plain blue gym shorts he was supposed to put on.

The skirt was folded and back in the drawer where it belonged.

His heart pounded as he retrieved it from the corner of the bottom drawer. He unfolded it, attempted to smooth the wrinkles, thought fuck it and put it on.

Shane only hesitated at the bedroom door a second before leaving to join Ilya in the lounge.

He was wearing one of Ilya's tank tops with it, it was a dusty pink, it didn't match the buttery color all that much, but it didn't really matter. He wanted to wear his boyfriend's clothes.

Ilya was on the phone when Shane found him. He was curled on the couch, speaking Russian, which likely meant he was talking to Svetlana. Shane's brief moment of immense jealousy was squashed when Ilya's eyes fell on him. 

His intense blue gaze raked up his body, eyes darkening. Shane felt his pulse kick up. He sat at the other end of the couch, pulled his knees up to his chest, and began scrolling on his phone. The skirt was blanketed over his legs so he was properly covered. He could hardly see Ilya over his knees.

"Sveta, I have to go. Yes, now."

"What do you want for dinner?" Shane asked when Ilya threw the phone on the coffee table. "I have some salmon I can grill-"

"You put it on for me," Ilya was suddenly a lot closer to Shane. His hand was on Shane's knee. Shane's eyes flicked up to Ilya's as his palm slid down Shane's leg. His fingers caught the intentionally sewn gaps just above the hem, which outlined flowers.

"It's comfortable, I told you. That's why I like to wear them."

"Comfortable, and pretty."

Shane smiled slightly, shuffling in place. 

"You like to feel pretty, Shane. Say it."

Ilya's hand was gripping his ankle, his pupils blown wide.

"I like to feel pretty. I like when you call me pretty."

Ilya smiled, his hand crept up the inside of his skirt, slowly, sliding home.

"Fuck," Shane breathed quietly as his fingertips ghosted over Shane's inner thigh. His legs fell open like he was some kind of desperate slut.

"You're really okay with this?" Shane asked.

"What do you think?" Ilya asked. He opened his legs as his hand gripped Shane over his underwear, showing off the tent in his shorts.

"Just because of the skirt?"

"Because of you, moya lyubov."

Ilya's lips pressed to his, insistent and needy. Shane met him and matched his energy easily, feeling slightly frenzied by Ilya's excitement, and his acceptance. 

Ilya's hand was still touching him over his underwear. Shane would be embarrassed about already being fully hard if Ilya weren't also in the same boat. 

Ilya pulled back and grabbed Shane's skirt by the hem. Shane groped for the waistband, ready to pull it down, when Ilya disappeared under it.

"Ilya," Shane gasped as Ilya's tongue slid over the tip of his cock, which was still tucked in his boxers.

"So wet," Ilya moaned, licking him over his underwear again. 

"Aw fuck, Ilya, wait. Let me-let me take it off. I don't want to get it dirty."

"No," Ilya said, gripping Shane's thighs. "I need to suck you off under here."

He yanked at the band of Shane's underwear, pulling them down just enough to free his cock.

Ilya gripped him immediately to stop the leaking head from touching Shane's skirt. Shane really didn't want to get it dirty, but he couldn't help but wonder what the softness of the skirt would feel like rubbing against him.

"You will come in my mouth, pretty skirt will stay clean. Then you wear it all day long. No panties on underneath, okay?"

Shane was embarrassed at the roll of pleasure that he felt when Ilya referred to his boxers as his "panties." He ignored it for now and pressed on.

"Okay, okay, whatever you want."

Shane's hand came down on Ilya's head over the skirt. He wanted to pull it up so he could grip his curls, but Ilya said he wanted to be under the skirt, and, well, that was doing something for Shane.

"Ah fuck, Jesus," Shane groaned as Ilya bobbed on his cock, head rising, tenting the skirt, before sinking further, letting the material go slack. It was quite the sight. Shane was going fucking insane. 

Ilya's tongue felt incredible, flat along the length of him, but when Ilya pulled up to lap and suck at the tip, Shane was done for.

"Fuck, Ilya, I'm gonna come."

Ilya, a man who keeps his promises, closed his lips around Shane and sank low again.

Shane's orgasm broke something in his brain. He threw himself back against the couch, one hand fisted in the skirt, the other arm thrown over his head. Ilya held on for the ride, hands gripping Shane's thighs roughly as he swallowed around him.

Ilya stayed under the skirt until Shane started to pull it up, revealing him. Shane's cock had gone soft in Ilya's mouth before slipping out.

When Ilya's face was finally revealed, his cheek resting on Shane's thigh, his eyes were glazed over and his lips were shiny. 

"Hey, you..." Shane didn't even know what to say, Ilya looked wrecked.

"You will do it? Wear it all day?"

"Um, yeah, if you want."

Ilya nodded, barely breathing, he pressed a kiss to Shane's thigh before sitting up.

He ripped Shane's boxers the rest of the way down his legs and tossed them over the back of the couch.

"No panties," Ilya repeated, pulling Shane's skirt down to conserve his modesty. 

Shane swallowed hard and blushed pink. He smoothed his hands over his skirt and nodded, gazing at his boyfriend, comfortable, safe, and adored.