As the description says, I've been writing fanfic for 14 years, finally decided it was no use taking up brain and hard drive space. I'm a multi-fandom, multi-shipper at heart, so expect nothing but chaos! (and some decent writing, if all goes to plan)
Anything marked as smut is NOT appropriate for minors.
None of my work is AI generated. I do not give my permission for anything I write to be used for AI. I painstakingly write every word.
If someone knows how to set up an aesthetic looking blog, my DMs are open! I don't wanna learn Tumblr HTML code if I don't have to!
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i probably won't end up writing this so... hollanov mommy kink on main
At some point pre tuna melt, Boston adds "Jane" to a group chat to know more about the woman that Roz is obsessed with and he almost leaves but the chat is nothing but memes and hockey and this is Shane so he stays and finds that when they're not on the ice, he really likes hanging out with Boston. This leads to a drunken night where someone (my boy Connor Connors) makes a joke about how, as captain and known party animal, Ilya is like the team "fun dad" and wouldn't that make Jane the "team mom"? And Shane laughs along, thinking the joke won't go any further than a dumb drunk moment, but it catches like wildfire.
Suddenly Shane has all of the Boston Raiders calling him "mom" or more frequently "mommy" and making jokes but also asking him all the questions they feel too grown up to ask their own mothers i.e. "does this shirt go in the dark wash or light?" (Marleau) or "I’m watching my sister's kid for the night, when will she stop crying?" (St. Simon - Shane had to call Hayden for that one) or Shane's favorite "do I need my passport to fly to Alaska?" (an American rookie) and the chat kinda fades into his routine. Post tuna melt, the chat is full of hockey players begging "Jane" to get back together with Roz and complaining about how they’re children of divorce (Shane mutes the chat but can’t bring himself to leave).
Shane tries to leave when Ilya becomes a Cen but they will NOT let him and it only gets worse cause someone (Carmichael or Marleau) lets it slip to the Centaurs after a Boston game about how funny Jane is and if they've met "mommy" yet and the Cens get jealous so now Shane is a part of two different group chats with his bf's teams but not his bf, and they all insist on calling him "mommy", and Shane gets so used to calling himself mommy that he has to stop himself during texts/calls with Ilya. (He has yet to tell Ilya about this whole thing)
(NSFW below the cut)
SO the first night of the off-season, Shane and Ilya are no longer in a superstitious sex ban & Ilya decides to take his time with Shane, now that they can finally relax and spend time together. And Shane is in agony. It's been hours of constant teasing. He's lost all sense of time, and the only thing holding him up is Ilya's hands on his hips. The only thing he can think about is Ilya between his legs and the spit running down his balls. He's long since stopped caring about his own spit that's puddling beneath his cheek. His body is aflame, he’s come untouched twice at this point and Shane feels so empty it's like an ache. Ilya only makes it worse, cause every time he stops for air he prods a finger or two into Shane's hole. Lightly tracing around the rim and altogether showing no signs of stopping this madness anytime soon. Shane is a mess of long, drawn-out moans and almost pained whimpers.
Ilya isn’t doing much better. He’s almost acting as a man possessed, a robot who’s only directive is to eat Shane out until he’s crying. Ilya is moaning into Shane’s slick, puffy hole as he grinds his dick against the sheets. His sweatpants are a mess as precum leaks from him, allowing the sensitive head to catch against the soft, wet fabric as he humps the bed like a dog. And anytime his tongue isn’t in Shane’s ass, its singing his praises. Just “so pretty for me” as his thumb tugs at Shane’s hole or “tastes so good, Moy Lyubov’” or “so desperate for my cock, all puffy and red for me” and each word tugs Shane deeper, til his head is full of static and empty of anything that isn’t Ilya. So when Ilya’s need starts catching up with him and he starts humping and grinding his leaking swollen cock against the mattress. Two fingers plunging inside Shane and massages Shane’s prostate, his tongue laving against the rim. They end up basically prone as Ilya uses his other hand to jerk Shane off, thumb and pointer finger focusing solely on the messy head of Shane’s dick. Shane’s moaning and babbling “so good Ilya, so good”, “please, lemme cum Ilya please”.
The fever of pleasure is catching up to the both of them, and Shane, not thinking of anything but Ilya’s tongue plunging in past his fingers, says “oh god Ilya, so good, so good at eating Mommy out”, and the second that word comes out of Shane’s mouth, Ilya comes so hard he blacks out. Shane follows close behind at the sound of utter desperation that falls from his boyfriend’s lips.
Once they’re all conscious and cleaned up, Shane fesses up about where the “mommy” came from and just how long he’s been in groupchats with all of Ilya’s friends without Ilya. Ilya is outraged because he knew Pike and JJ couldn’t be that funny, when in fact Shane has been pinning all his laughter and inside jokes on them instead of simply telling Ilya
(Both Luca and Troy have a mental breakdown when the dust settles on Shane and Ilya being outed and they realize they’ve spent the better part of a few years calling THE Shane Hollander “mommy”… however, they don’t stop)
Dream of the Endless | Morpheus/Hob Gadling, rating G, one-shot, season 2 spoilers, faking your own death, grief
It had only been three days since Hob woke from that wretched dream. Three days of some of the worst sleep of his life. Hob had lost friends before, lost family. This was different. Not just the death of his oldest friend, but the one constant in his life. His friend was still there, if in name alone. But some foundation had shaken loose with the funeral. Something Hob would never get back.
The bell above the door to the New Inn jingled. The autumn chill swept through the open door, bringing with it the smell of dead leaves and wet wood.
Hob dried his hands on the dish towel slung over his shoulder. “Sorry mate, we’re closed.”
“Hello Hob.”
His breath caught in his throat. His heart stopped beating. Or perhaps it was beating so fast he was in threat of a heart attack. Hob didn’t drop the glass in his hand, but it was a close thing. That voice.
Hob turned towards the door so quickly he feared he may have given himself whiplash. This was a fever dream. He was sick, feverish and hallucinating. That was the only explanation. Or he was crazy. Perhaps the death of his oldest friend finally drove him crazy. Had driven him to the brink of insanity. Because his Stranger – Dream of the Endless, Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams and Nightmares – was standing in front of him, at the edge of the bar. He was but a few feet from the entrance to the New Inn. Hob’s tongue had turned to lead in his mouth, leaving no room for any words.
“Bloody hell. Dream?” he finally managed to choke out. The words stuttering off his tongue. His throat full of sand. Appropriate perhaps.
“No. Not anymore.” came the reply.
“I- what? How? You died. I know you died, I was at your funeral!”
Dream’s – Morpheus’? – his Stranger’s attitude turned stormy. If that was possible. Hob wouldn’t go so far as say he pouted, but it was a close thing.
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