LilMa



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    [Whoever said that older men have less stamina is a fucking liar.]

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    27 Jan 2026

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    Jungwon feels the base of his cock grow bigger, stretching him full. He gasps at the feeling. “W-Wait, Jay! Are you–?”

    Fuck.” Jay cries brokenly and pushes as deep inside as he can, making Jungwon cry out from sensitivity and pain. That’s– That’s a knot. Without a doubt.

    Jay just knotted him. In a fucking public restroom.

    Basically — Jay and Jungwon act like they hate each other but are secretly hooking up. During a night out, Jay fingers him under the table then fucks him in the bathroom and accidentally pops a knot in him.

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    27 Jan 2026

  3. Public Bookmark *

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    “You broke up with her,” Ilya says, arms loosening against his chest.

    “No, she, uh—” Shane ducks his head, avoiding Ilya’s eyes. “We slept together. And she kind of … she didn’t confront me, I guess. But she talked to me. Kind of hinted that she thought I might not be…”

    “Into girls?” Ilya finishes for him.

    “Something like that.”

    “You denied it?” 

    “No, I— I told her. About me. About—us,” Shane’s head snaps up, a hand lifted in Ilya’s direction. “Not about us, us. That I’d been sleeping with someone. Another player. I didn’t tell her about you.”

    OR: Shane comes out to Rose and runs toward the safest pair of arms he knows: Ilya’s. 

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    13 Jan 2026

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    Caught between the roar of the rink and the hush of a locked door, Shane insists he can’t stand Ilya, but everything changes once he’s pinned, moaning “Daddy,” and Ilya starts calling him “baby” like a promise he intends to keep.

    Translated in Russian

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    09 Jan 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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    02 Jan 2026