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The crowd roared inside the Bell Centre, a bruising anthem of rival chants and thunderous clapping, and Shane bent over the faceoff dot, jaw tight, stick bouncing impatiently. His breath ghosted out in a furious fog, half-hidden behind his visor, and across from him Ilya shifted his weight, blade already poised. Their eyes met through plexiglass shields, a split-second electric charge in the din. Ilya’s smirk glinted beneath his helmet—sleep-lashed confidence, wicked mischief twisting the planes of his mouth—and the linesman’s whistle barely hit his ears before Ilya leaned in, voice a razor-soft purr in Shane’s ear.
“Ready, princess?”
Shane’s pupils blew wide. His jaw clicked shut, a sharp swallow following, and he snapped his head back as if the word burned. But in that microsecond before the puck dropped, Ilya’s gaze tracked the flush crawling over Shane’s neck, the faint tremor in his glove tightening around his stick. And then Shane jumped, far too fast, losing the draw clean while a ripple of disbelief pumped through the crowd.
Shane kept his head down skating away, but Ilya saw everything. Saw the storm in those brown eyes, saw the way Shane’s breathing shifted, saw how he took another beat longer than usual to catch his focus. It was one tiny word, tossed like a joke in the middle of the chaos, yet Ilya felt the hook catch as surely as a skate blade biting into ice. Something tightened low in his gut, half predatory hunger, half furious curiosity. They played another four shifts before Ilya got his confirmation—Shane barreled into him on a forecheck, they hammered each other along the boards, and Ilya spat the name again, almost lazily against Shane’s ear as they grappled in the corner.
“Push harder, princess.”
Shane actually keened, a helpless little gasp muffled by his mouthguard, and his balance failed. He separated, skated away too quickly. Ilya caught a glimpse of his profile, saw how bright his eyes were, how his shoulders tighten as if bracing for another blow.
The rest of the game burned with adrenaline, their rivalry as electric as ever, and when it ended in a shootout loss for Montreal, Shane skated past Ilya without a glance. It would’ve ended there in the locker-room steam and restless flights and endless interviews. Except Ilya wasn’t built to let anything interesting slip away. Not when it came to Shane.
Later that night, in the quiet hush of his condo overlooking the St. Lawrence, he replayed those moments in glorious high-definition: Shane’s shiver when that single soft, ridiculous word left his lips, the way their bodies coiled when he pressed in close. Ilya had his phone in hand before he even thought about it, fingers tapping over the message as a coil of heat wound inside him.
Ilya: You’re flying back tomorrow, princess?
He waited. One minute. Two. He set the phone down on a stack of scouting reports, went to pour himself vodka and soda, and the buzz hit just as he lifted the glass.
Shane: Fuck off.
But Ilya saw beyond the words. He always did when it came to Shane. The text came too fast, too defensive. He hummed low in his throat, smirked, and sent another.
Ilya: Or you can swing by. Since you like it when I say it.
There was a longer pause this time, just enough to tug at Ilya’s patience, before the three dots appeared.
Shane: You’re so fucking annoying.
Shane still blinked into his phone for another half minute, teeth sinking into his lower lip. He could picture Ilya sprawled somewhere, loose and smug, always so sure of himself. Ilya’s brain was a chessboard of delightfully dirty tricks, always five moves ahead, and whenever it came to Shane he seemed to find new ammunition. Shane’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, the flight schedule highlighter-bright in his mind, the team bus waiting in the morning, a hundred reasons why he should let it go. Yet the word kept replaying, that perfectly infuriating whisper, the tiny pleasure burst behind his ribs. He felt the grip of it, the possibility that Ilya had seen straight through him. And his body answered before his brain could mount a decent defense.
Shane: I’ll be there in twenty.
When the elevator door eased open onto Ilya’s sixth-floor condo, Shane stepped out with his duffel slung over one shoulder, still in the same black Henley he’d worn to the arena, hair damp from a quick shower. He smelled like expensive shampoo and adrenaline. Ilya leaned in the doorway of his open-concept living room, wearing joggers and nothing else, toned chest gleaming under the sidelight from the windows. He smiled, slow and hungry, blood humming the second Shane stepped in.
“Thought maybe you’d get lost,” Ilya said, voice rolling like heartbeat bass.
Shane dropped his duffel by the door, face tilted down to hide the truth from his eyes. “You wish,” he murmured, stepping into his space with that familiar wary confidence. “You gonna explain what the hell that was tonight?”
“Which part? The win? The highlight real goal?”Ilya reached over and pushed his fingers into Shane’s hair, gripping just enough to hold him still. Shane’s breath faltered. Ilya leaned in, nose brushing along his jaw, drinking in the clean sweat and aftershave, the familiar warmth. He murmured against Shane’s mouth. “Or the part where my favorite rival practically melted when I called him princess?”
“I didn’t—” Shane’s voice broke, thin as a cracked stick blade, and he shut his mouth fast when Ilya leaned in.
“Don’t start lying now.” Ilya slid a hand behind his neck and pulled him in, their mouths colliding with a long hiss of breath. The kiss was rough, messy, teeth flashing, the familiar battle played with tongues instead of sticks, and within seconds Shane was gripping the front of Ilya’s joggers to steady himself. He was always the one who needed a second to catch up after the game-day chaos, always the one who had to wrap his head around the fact that this—this secret, this thing between them—was still burning hotter than the fresh bruises. Ilya kissed him till the tremor eased, till Shane’s chest pressed firmly into his and he moaned low in his throat.
When Ilya finally broke away he had a smug grin in place, eyes gleaming almost silver in the lamplight. “I saw you,” he breathed against the corner of Shane’s mouth. “You went soft in the knees the second I said it.”
Shane swallowed, chest heaving, lips red and wet. He didn’t know whether he wanted to punch Ilya or push him down and ride him till dawn. The urge to fight and the urge to give in tangled so brutally inside him that he could only shake his head. “You were being an asshole,” he muttered.
“I know.” Ilya tucked a strand of Shane’s hair behind his ear, a gesture so gentle it twisted Shane’s gut. “But I want to know why that word made you nervous.”
Shane’s breath hitched. His cheeks flushed under the scrutiny, under the reminder that Ilya didn’t miss anything, especially not the little details that betrayed Shane’s secret desires. His throat worked, tongue darting out to wet his lips, and Ilya’s gaze dropped to the motion.
“Because it’s fucking stupid,” Shane managed, the words thin.
“And yet.” Ilya leaned in, lips brushing Shane’s ear, voice feathered in velvet. “You like it.”
Shane shuddered. Christ, he’d never told anyone about that craving. He barely told himself. The idea of being seen as soft, as delicate, as anything less than the hypercompetitive pro everyone knew him to be terrified him. Yet something about Ilya’s deep voice and that word had triggered a flush that felt like lightning. He wanted to argue. He wanted to tell him to shut up. Instead, Shane found himself whispering, “Why do you care?”
Ilya laughed softly, a thumb stroking Shane’s cheekbone. “Because you’re fucking beautiful when you crack.” His palm slid down Shane’s torso, squeezing his hip. “So pretty for me.”
Shane actually whimpers. Quiet, soft, more exhale than sound, but it breaks right through Ilya’s restraint. It’s unguarded, cracked open—like Shane is full of fissures that glow molten under his touch. His eyes flutter down without his consent, lashes low and trembling. He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t shove Ilya away. His lips part and his breath hitches like he’s standing on a ledge.
Then he swallows hard, face flushing, and tries to gather himself. “Shut up,” he says, weakly, the words forming a breathless laugh that doesn’t hold up.
Ilya laughs low and hungry, biting at Shane’s lip with soft teeth. “Fuck, you really like that.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question. Because there’s no doubt—not with the way Shane’s pupils dilate, not with the way his throat works when he tries to find words. Ilya can feel the tremble in his jaw.
Shane’s returning kiss is messy and impatient. He shoves Ilya back against the couch, clambers onto his lap, and it’s almost too easy to let him. Ilya lets him feel like he’s taking control. Lets him climb, straddle, grind down on Ilya’s thigh like he’s starving. Lets him reach down, frantic fingers fumbling with Ilya’s belt as his breath grows jagged.
Ilya reaches up and grabs his chin, forcing him to look. “The next time you get that wet over being called a princess,” he says, voice sliding into a velvet purr, “I want you to admit it.”
Shane’s eyes go wide. He swallows, his voice nothing but a broken murmur. “Fuck you.”
“You already are,” Ilya whispers, grinning.
He has him fully undressed in minutes, the air cool against the sheen of sweat on Shane’s skin. Shane’s thighs are spread, knees planted on either side of Ilya’s hips, his cock flushed and leaking, and his hands braced on Ilya’s shoulders as he catches his breath. Ilya slides his hands up Shane’s thighs, thumbs pressing into the muscle as he drags them higher, closer to the heat waiting for him.
The discovery is complete when Ilya spits in his palm, fists Shane’s cock lazily, and says, “Get on, princess. Show me how pretty you can ride.”
Shane moans—a hoarse, desperate “Ah—ahh,” broken off by his own bitten lip. “I hate you,” he whispers, but he’s already reaching behind to line Ilya up, already sinking down slow as he lets Ilya’s thick cock stretch him open, inch by inch. His head drops, hair falling forward, cheeks flushed, lips parted around a helpless sound.
Ilya watches, eyes dark, hand gripping Shane’s waist. “No you don’t,” he breathes. “You love me. You love how I fill you up. You love that I call you my princess.”
Shane’s entire body jolts, the word hitting him like a slap. “Ilya—”
“What?” Ilya’s voice goes softer, more intense. “You want me to stop? You want me to call you something else while you take every inch of my cock?”
Shane shudders, fingers digging into Ilya’s shoulders hard enough to leave crescents. “N-no,” he stammers, voice breaking. “No, don’t—ahh—don’t stop.”
Ilya grins slow and wicked. “That’s my girl.”
Shane’s breath hitches, eyes rolling slightly. “Yes—oh fuck—yes, Daddy.”
Ilya chuckles darkly, ignoring the semantics because Shane responded to the gendered praise with a shattered whine. “Is this what you wanted? To be stuffed full of me until you can’t think?”
Shane’s reply fragments into a series of high, breathy noises, “ahh—hah—mmngh,” hips stuttering as he tried to keep bouncing even though his legs shook with exhaustion.
“You’re doing so well.” Ilya tightens his arm around Shane’s waist, supporting him while the other hand slid down to Shane’s cock, stroking in time with their thrusts. “Take it. Take all of Daddy’s cock.”
Shane tightens around him with every word, every teasing murmur, the boy’s spine arching gracefully. His body clenches, trembles in tiny waves of pleasure, a storm rolling through him. His head tips back, throat bared, lips parted on soft, breathy sobs. Ilya can’t look away.
He leans forward and drags his mouth along Shane’s neck, kissing the ridge of his throat, whispering all the filthy things he knows Shane wants and hates to hear. “You like squeezing my cock so much? Like sitting so sweet in my lap, milking me with that perfect hole?”
Shane’s answer is a garbled whimper, a broken, “Y-yes—ahh—Ilya—fuck—” He tries to bounce faster, hips stuttering, thighs burning as he rides. Every time he sinks down, a softer sob slips out, like he can’t hold any of it in. The sound makes Ilya’s head throb with lust.
Ilya leans back, slides his hands down to Shane’s ass, gripping the curve and dragging him down hard, forcing him deeper. Their bodies slap together wetly, the lewd sound filling the room, mingling with Shane’s small, desperate noises.
“Look at you,” Ilya murmurs, voice a controlled rasp.“Taking it so well. You’re gonna be good for me? Let Daddy breed you so deep you feel me leaking out of you tomorrow?”
Shane nods frantically—tiny, jerky nods as he rides and rides, thighs shaking. “Yes—yes—Ilya, I—f-fuck—” He tries to cover his face, embarrassed, but Ilya is quicker. He grabs Shane’s wrist, drags it away and holds it, forcing him to stay exposed.
“No hiding,” Ilya growls. “If you’re going to be my princess, you’re going to let me see you come apart like one.”
Shane whines, helpless, hips bouncing, body arching. His cock smears precome across Ilya’s stomach, slick and hot. Every bounce drags a deeper sound from his throat, little “mmh—hah—ahh—” moans, each one pitched higher than the last.
Ilya rests his forehead against Shane’s, breath hot as he whispers, “You’re going to milk my cock dry, aren’t you? Greedy little princess.”
Shane spasms, hole clenching down tight, tighter, impossibly tight, and Ilya groans loud. “Fuck,” he snarls, hips thrusting upward to meet every drop, every desperate bounce. “You’re squeezing me so tight, baby—gonna come just from feeling you strangle me.”
Shane’s breath comes in ragged sobs. “I can’t—ahh—I’m—god—”
Ilya takes pity only for a second. He leans back, grabs Shane’s chin again, this time forcing his head toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror that takes up the far wall of the room. Their reflection is decadent and obscene. Shane perched on him, sweat-slick and flushed, body trembling as Ilya fucks up into him.
“Look at yourself,” Ilya orders, voice deep and commanding. “Come on, baby, look at yourself. So pretty. Look at how pretty you are fucking yourself on my cock.”
Shane tries to resist, tries to keep his eyes closed, but Ilya keeps his grip firm. Finally he looks, and the sight destroys whatever composure he still has. He sees his own face—pink cheeks, swollen lips, eyes glazed and dark. Sees the way Ilya’s hands grip his waist. Sees the thick cock disappearing into him, reappearing slick and shining before diving back in.
He flushes even redder, mouth falling open. “I—Ilya—no—fuck—it’s—God—”
“You like watching, don’t you?” Ilya taunts, lips curling. “You like seeing how my cock ruins you. Look at that, baby, every bounce, you take me deeper. You’re so hungry for it.”
Shane whimpers, “Mmh—ahh—” pressing his thighs in tighter, his body trembling visibly. He can’t look away now, his own reflection captivating him, the way his nipples harden, the way sweat runs in rivulets down his chest. He looks helpless, slick, ruined. Perfect.
Ilya shoves him down with a firmer grip, forcing him to take the next stroke harder, deeper. “You’re gonna milk my cock, aren’t you? Gonna take every drop I give you?”
Shane doesn’t even try to answer. He can only nod, frantic, eyes wide. He just keeps bouncing, hips rolling faster, harder, like an animal caught between surrender and climax, shaking with the effort.
Ilya’s gaze is ravenous. He watches the spot where they’re joined, the way Shane’s hole stretches around him, clings to him, pulls him in. Watches the way each thrust forces a new sound from Shane’s lips, the music of it making his chest ache.
“Fucking hell,” he groans, thrusting up, matching those frantic bounces. “You’re clenching so tight—fuck—you’re gonna take it all and you’re gonna thank me.”
Shane’s entire body explodes white-hot, and he gasps, half-crying it out. “I—ahh—Ilya—” His lashes flutter, mouth falling open on a ragged “oh.” His head tips back, the pleasure smothering him until words spill loose and unguarded. “W-want—babies—“ he moans, voice fracturing. “Want… y-your babies.”The words slip out raw, unplanned, and it hits them both like lightning.
Ilya freezes for a heartbeat. Then he swears, grip tightening. “Fuck—say that again.”
Shane shudders, his hips faltering for a second, but he can’t stop. He grinds down, fast and messy, moaning as his insides clench even tighter. “B-Babies—Daddy—fuck me,” he gasps. “Please—please—I can’t—”
Ilya snarls, grabbing Shane’s waist and pounding up into him, each thrust vicious, punishing, fucking him through the cusp. “Daddy will fuck you stupid, princess,” he growls against Shane’s ear, biting down. “Knock you up so full everyone knows you’re mine.”
Shane screams, raw and wrecked and gorgeous, his entire body tensing. The word shatters in his throat, coming out as a broken “D-Daddy—ahh—” before his cock erupts between them, streaking Ilya’s stomach and chest, the hot spill painting them. He doesn’t even touch himself—just comes from the relentless pounding and the word and the mirror and the way Ilya owns him.
His hole clenches so violently that Ilya almost blacks out. “Shit,” Ilya choked out, the tightness around his cock overwhelming. “You’re gonna make me—”
“Please,” Shane whimpered, still shaking, tears on his lashes. “Please fill me up, Daddy?”
Ilya lost it, thrusting hard, burying himself as deep as possible. “Fucking perfect,” he growled, and his orgasm crashed over him, hot and unstoppable. He pumped Shane full, each pulse driving a guttural moan from his own chest. “Take it. Take all of Daddy’s cum.”He thrusts deep, stays there, buried to the hilt as Shane rides out the orgasm, tremors rippling through him.
Ilya keeps him there, cock thick and throbbing deep inside, refusing to let him up. He waits until Shane’s twitching slows, until he collapses against Ilya’s chest, breathing ragged. Then he rolls his hips in slow, steady circles, forcing a fresh wave of aftershocks through Shane’s oversensitive body.
Shane whimpers into his neck, voice wrecked. “Ahh—n-no more—ahh—please—too much—”
Ilya shushes him, one hand smoothing down his spine. “You take what Daddy gives you,” he murmurs, gentle in tone, brutal in action. He keeps rolling, keeps dragging those drawn-out moans from Shane’s throat. “You wanted to be stuffed full until you can’t think, remember? Until you go dumb for me? That’s what you get.”
Shane sobs, face pressed into Ilya’s skin, his body clenching involuntarily. “I can’t—nngh—oh God—” But he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t try to lift off the cock that’s still filling him, anchoring him. He just clings to Ilya like a drowning man and melts.
Ilya waits, patient and relentless. When he feels Shane relax, slack and pliant, he reaches between them and swipes two fingers through the mess on Ilya’s stomach, collecting Shane’s cum. He lifts the slick fingers to Shane’s mouth.
“Open,” he commands softly.
Shane’s too wrecked to argue. His lips part automatically, eyes hazy. Ilya slides his fingers in, deep enough to brush Shane’s tongue, and he can feel the way Shane shivers. The taste hits him, and he moans, cheeks flushing anew. His mouth closes around Ilya’s fingers, sucking obediently, eyes fluttering.
“Good boy,” Ilya purrs, thumb brushing over Shane’s cheekbone. “You look so pretty sucking on my fingers like that. Look at yourself.”
Shane’s gaze drifts to the mirror again, and his body trembles at the sight. He sees himself limp and destroyed, perched on Ilya’s lap, cock still buried inside him. His own cum smeared over Ilya’s chest. His lips stretched around two thick fingers as he suckles like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His ass clenches reflexively, unable to stop.
Ilya feels it. He groans low, thrusting up shallowly, lazily, keeping the contact. “Fuck—you’re clenching again. You like that, watching yourself swallow my fingers while I stay inside you?”
Shane nods, tears beading in the corners of his eyes, overwhelmed. He suckles harder, tongue curling around Ilya’s knuckles, throat working. Every little motion makes his body tighten, his hole squeezing around Ilya’s cock like a fist. Ilya can’t stop the guttural sound that drags out of him.
“Are you gonna milk my cock again?” he whispers, voice shaking with held-back release. “Gonna make every inch of me yours while you watch yourself fall apart?”
Shane whines around Ilya’s fingers, eyes glazing darker, his body responding before his mind catches up. He rocks, weak and slow, playful thrusts that make both of them gasp. His inner muscles flutter, milking without conscious effort, overstimulated but desperate for more.
Ilya slides his fingers out of Shane’s mouth, slick with saliva. He drags them down, circled around Shane’s lips, then pushes them back in, wet with heat. “That’s it,” he snarls. “Suck Daddy’s fingers. Show the mirror how good you are, princess.”
Shane moans, eyes locked on his reflection now, hypnotized by the vision. He sucks and sucks, cheeks hollowing, tongue swirling around the digits. His hole spasms violently, and Ilya feels the aftershocks inside him like waves.
Ilya curls his fingers in Shane’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue, forcing his jaw open wider. He thrusts again, this time deeper, faster, punishing, because he can’t hold back any longer.
“Fuck, you’re making me crazy,” he snarls, eyes blazing. “You’re so tight even after cumming, you’re choking me. You gonna milk me dry, baby? Gonna make me fill you up all over again?”
Shane nods, the motion tiny and desperate. “Mmh—” he moans around the fingers, voice muffled. His entire body tightens, like he’s ready to shatter again.
Ilya’s thrusts grow brutal, unstoppable. He grips Shane’s hips, fingers digging into soft skin, dragging him down onto every stroke. The room echoes with the wet slap of flesh, with Shane’s choked moans and breathless “mmmh—ahh—” sounds.
He can feel the orgasm ripping through him before it hits. His spine bows, his jaw clenches, and he snarls, “Take it—take it, you pretty thing—” before he explodes deep inside Shane, hot pulses flooding him. He keeps thrusting, shallow now, riding out the high, body shuddering with each wave.
Shane moans around his fingers, swallowing, his entire body clinging tight. He can feel the heat filling him, the warmth spreading, and it pushes him to the edge again. His own cock gives weak, painful throbs, another spurt of cum leaking out despite already being emptied. He shakes, trembling uncontrollably, and his ass clenches, milking Ilya’s cock even as it twitches inside him.
Ilya keeps him close even after his release fades, one arm looped around Shane’s waist while the other smooths damp hair from his eyes. The mirror holds the reflection of them tangled together, slick and flushed, but the frenzy has drained away. Shane looks utterly wrung out, lips puffy from kissing, cheeks pink, lashes clumped with tears he never even noticed shedding. He’s still sitting on Ilya’s lap, cock soft, hole full, body lax and trusting.
Shane melts against him, boneless and limp, his head tucked into the curve of Ilya’s shoulder. Their bodies are slick with sweat and the heavy perfume of sex, the room warm and hazy. Ilya smooths a hand down Shane’s trembling spine, feeling every shiver that runs through him as though those tremors are how the universe communicates.
He tips Shane’s chin up just enough to study his face. Shane’s cheeks are flushed, his lashes heavy, his lips swollen from being kissed, bitten, and fucked. Sated like a kitten lounging in the sun, still glowing in the aftermath. Ilya can’t look away.
“Look at you,” he murmurs with that lazy drawl, the edge softened into fondness. “All rosy and ruined.”
Shane manages a sleepy scowl that dissolves into a shy, satisfied smile. He mumbles, voice rasped. “You talking about me or yourself?”
Ilya chuckles, dragging his thumb along Shane’s lower lip. “You, obviously. I only glow when my princess is properly fucked.”
Shane huffs and tries to hide his face in Ilya’s neck, but Ilya hooks a finger under his chin, forcing those hazy eyes up to meet his. The mirror still reflects them—Shane draped over Ilya’s chest, flushed and blissed-out, Ilya looking smug and entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re irritating,” Shane mutters, yet he doesn’t move away.
“You love it.” Ilya presses a kiss against his sweat-damp hair. “And you love when I call you pretty names, don’t you?”
Shane’s fingers curl around Ilya’s shoulder, squeezing weakly. “Don’t push it.”
Ilya’s grin sharpens. “That sounded suspiciously like a yes, princess.”
Shane sighs, resigned, throat blowing out a breath that brushes hot against Ilya’s neck. “Fine. Whatever. Just…shut up and hold me.”
Ilya adjusts his grip, settling Shane more comfortably in his lap, one arm wrapped tight, the other splayed across Shane’s lower back. He watches the mirror, keeps his eyes on the picture they make—Shane flushed and satisfied, a small smile ghosting over his lips despite himself. Ilya’s chest swells with the sight.
“See?” he murmurs, indulging himself with one last teasing bite to Shane’s earlobe. “Told you. Prettiest princess on the ice. And off.”
Shane gives him a weak smack to the chest, then snuggles closer, letting out a contented noise that sounds dangerously close to a purr. “God, you’re obnoxious.”
“And yet here you are,” Ilya whispers, smug and tender in equal measure, “still sitting in my lap, all warm and sweet, letting me admire how perfect you look when you’re fucked.”
Shane doesn’t dignify that with a reply. His breathing evens out, his muscles finally relaxing into true rest. Ilya watches him the whole time, eyes soft, and when Shane’s lashes flutter shut, the faintest smile curves Ilya’s mouth.
He knows he’ll bring it up again. Knows he won’t resist the chance to whisper “princess” in the most inappropriate situations just to see Shane’s eyes go dark and his body go liquid. For now, he strokes the nape of Shane’s neck, cradles him, and keeps staring at their reflection like this is the only thing worth remembering.
“Sleep, baby,” he murmurs into the quiet, voice gentle and teasing all at once. “Or do you need me to call you princess one more time?”
Shane glares, cheeks pinking in spite of himself, and huffs, “Say it again and I’m kneeing you in the balls.”