Portgasdava



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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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    15 Jan 2026

  2. Public Bookmark 59

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    It’s the money.

    Surely that’s why Lando is agreeing to the arrangement. Why else? An alpha rando Lando’s picked up from the dumpsters is going to spend his rut in Lando’s small and increasingly-claustrophobic studio apartment while Lando is prepping to compete in a sorta-important geoguessr prize tournament hosted by none other than Sunbolt on Twitch.

    It’s the money, it’s gotta be. If Lando wasn’t miserably poor he would have turned Dots away. Dots could be a wanted criminal after all. He paints walls for fuck’s sake, and his family name is Italian.

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    06 Jan 2026

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    Shane pulls back, carefully cradling Ilya’s face. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

    “You don’t want to?” Ilya’s eyes are bottomless; swimming with grief. He says it like he really means, You don’t want me?

    “That isn’t what I mean,” Shane says gently, brushing his thumb over Ilya’s cheekbone. Ilya’s eyes flutter shut, as if being treated so tenderly causes him physical pain. Like he isn’t used to it. “You’re hurting. I don’t want you to regret it in the morning.” 

    Ilya’s eyes open. “I have never regretted a moment with you.”

    *

    Or: the missing hotel room scene in Florida after Shane comforts Ilya.

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    01 Jan 2026

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    Ilya’s hand wraps around his bare wrist and squeezes. Shane barely stops himself from collapsing to his knees.

    The pressure lights up every receptor of his touch-starved nervous system, wrenching a small, pained noise from the back of his throat. Every muted sensation comes flooding back so intensely that it almost hurts. He needs Ilya to hold him down until there’s nothing inside him but quiet. He wants to sink into him and disappear.

    It takes Shane an entire beat to remember where they are. Fighting against the fog in his mind, he manages to drag his gaze up to meet Ilya’s.

    There’s a slow-dawning horror and understanding on Ilya’s face.

    *

    Or: Shane is in subdrop after their encounter in Vegas. Ilya fixes it.

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    01 Jan 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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    30 Nov 2025