luserstappen

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    “You didn’t like it the last time we tried it,” Shane said.

    Ilya gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Was years ago. Maybe it is an acquired taste, like licorice.”

    “You also don’t like licorice,” Shane pointed out.

    “Yes, but I keep trying it because Luca likes it so much.”

    “And then you make a face and tell him how awful it is.”

    “When have I ever told you your dick is awful?” Ilya said, looking mildly offended. “I am its number one fan.”

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    11 Mar 2026

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    “Do you want to know how it feels?”

    Shane let his hand fall back to the couch. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and lifted a brow at Rozanov. “What – holding the Cup? You’ve already made that joke once.”

    “No.” Rozanov’s fingers encircled Shane’s wrist and then he was pulling Shane’s hand between his legs.

     

    Or: Shane tops.

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    11 Mar 2026

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    “...Hollander,” He hears Rozanov say, urgent like it’s not the first time he’s said it. “Shane,” he follows it up with, and that snaps him out of it. He’s never called him that. Shane, reluctantly, lifts his face a little, eyes glazed over as he meets Rozanov’s eyes.

    “What?”

    “You stink,” Rozanov says, concern dripping. “No, you—fuck. You reek. What is—” Ilya’s fingers lift up, tugging at the scent patch, revealing more of the spot beneath it. Even Shane can smell himself at that point. He does reek. Reeks of heat, of Omega, of honey and sweetness, of something that would melt on your tongue.

    Shane reefs himself back. The Omega inside him aches, mourns, whimpers at the loss of contact. It’s needed, though. He scrambles back, hand slapping at his neck to force the peeled patch back down over his scent gland. He backs up till his spine knocks against the bathroom stall.

    “You are in heat at award show? Why would you hide this? Why would you not call out sick? Are you—are you insane? You care this much about trophy?”

    OR Shane goes into heat in Vegas

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    10 Mar 2026

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    St-Simon: roz was so close to killing himself or killing us everytime they’d break up

    St-Simon: the last one was so bad

    St-Simon: put us through so much SHIT

    St-Simon: he probably ended up proposing when they got back together

    Connors: The fact that Roz transferred before we even met Jane.

    Connors: She’ll never be in the WAG GC.

    Sebbin: its still reasonable to think we just made her up

    Sebbin: maybe we all fucking died in 2016 and this is just a hallucination

    St-Simon: man you really got hit hard in the head

    [Or--after the wedding, after everything--how the Raiders, especially Cliff, eventually figured Montreal Jane out]

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    28 Feb 2026

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    And they have a healthy sex life. They have a great sex life, based on the way their friends judge them for being unable to keep their hands off each other, or the times they’ve been walked in on, or the way Max had to put a firm ban on sex during race weekends when Charles had been uncomfortable in the car one too many times.

    He just wants more. He wants so much more, all the time, he wants to sleep with Max’s dick inside him and he wants to have dinner while Max is kneeling and slowly sucking his cock, he wants to have a plug left in his ass so he’s ready for Max at any time and he wants to fill Max with so much cum it leaks out of him.

    He’s ravenous, hungry, a black hole of want, and he knows none of that is reasonable but he wants it anyway.

    Begrudgingly, he settles for sex when they can manage it, but right now they could manage it a whole lot more.

    If Max would stop fucking streaming.

    OR: Max streams too much. Charles (attempts to) seduce Max into getting his way.

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    22 Feb 2026

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