I think sometimes Shane wears briefs.
Day to day he's got the socially acceptable boxer briefs, dark and sleek, the kind with no digging, pinching band. But even still they grip his thighs too tight sometimes and he just doesn't always want all that fabric. So he has a couple pairs of briefs he'll slide into at home, maybe after a shower when he's tired and his head is buzzy from a long day or a tough game and he wants to feel extra comfy. They're high cut and tiny, they curve around his hips almost like jock strap; the hold is familiar, safe, comfortable. He throws on his softest tee shirt and he makes his tea and he settles in bed with a book, the cool sheets soft against his bare legs. And if he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror -- long, thick legs and the fabric of his tee shirt pooled at his hips, just a sliver of the band of his underwear visible -- and he preens, well, that's no one's business but his own.
Ilya obviously doesn't know about the briefs. Shane never wore them when they met up, Ilya never stayed long enough to witness Shane's nighttime soothing -- he didn't needed it when he was getting fucking into blissful oblivion. He didn't bring any to the cottage, it felt like stacked vulnerability; here's my heart and also my compulsion. And after, there was so much to share, to indulge in, to lay bare that a pair of comfort panties just didn't make the cut. So instead one night Ilya is over at Shane's and it's late and Shane wants to clean up after, of course he does, and Ilya is in the kitchen making his boyfriend's tea when Shane pads downstairs barefoot, shower pink and hair damp, in tiny fucking underwear and Ilya's own tee shirt, a little longer than Shane's, the hem kissing the tops of his thighs. And Shane wanders towards the living room like it's nothing, but he doesn't make it far, Ilya is in front of him, fingers on Shane's hips, sliding under the band of his underwear.
And Shane's a little nervous, a little embarrassed.
"I just like 'em sometimes..."
"Like girl, eh?" Ilya teases, because almost nothing gets Shane out of his head and into his rage faster than a chirp.
"Fuck you," he says, "it's basically a jock."
And Ilya can't anymore, his sinks to his knees in front of Shane and he tucks his nose into the crease of Shane's thigh and he trails soft fingers up and down the endless expanse of Shane's legs. Shane's breathing goes stuttery and he's staring down at Ilya half hopeful, half caged, his fingers in Ilya's hair as Ilya begins to mouth at his thickening cock through the cotton.
"I just showered," Shane says, but it's a weak, useless thing between them when Ilya is already dragging Shane's briefs down by the band and Shane is spreading his legs, a sturdier stance to keep him standing when Ilya really gets going, the briefs pulled taut and tucked just under his balls.
"Don't worry," Ilya says, "I will clean up your mess."
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