Many A Hungry Wish

To put this in perspective, the last time an American subgroup migrated at these rates was the Great Migration, in which roughly 6 million Southern Black people fled Jim Crow violence and repression. This occurred over a period of decades, in the face of political repression, systematic violence, and legal apartheid.

In its fastest decade, the 1940s, 1.5 million left the South—against a Southern Black population of roughly 10 million. Black America fled Jim Crow at about 1.5% a year, at a time when baseline inter-state mobility was higher than it was today.

As if Joanne couldn't get any shittier, she misgendered and insulted a woman who called for support, all because the woman had PCOS/PMOS and "didn't sound feminine enough."

Fuck her.

Hi wait no I’m going to throw up actually. This made my tummy HURt.

Oh my GOD. I die I die I die. Post tuna melt rut hits Ilya like a fucking bus, he’s miserable and angry and watching his omega be shown off by another alpha, a gorgeous pretty perfect alpha but Ilya knows- with certainty that shane Hollander who fits so perfect on his knot- he can’t be satisfied with her, can’t be. He hates it and he doesn’t let himself be sad not really so he’s usually just grouchy and bitchy and exhausted. The hurt all pushed down down down.

He feels his rut coming on and he’s so desperately angry, the hormones make it worse. He’s going on long runs, spending hours in the gym being semi deranged on the ice. He wants to fight and he gets them, knows how to provoke them out of other players, gets a split lip and black eye and busted knuckles from the punches he threw but it doesn’t settle it down, the rage.

He goes into rut and the rage melts away, as he goes into the second day of it. He just feels desperately cold and sad, alone. He refuses to be in the bed he was last in with Shane, and locks himself away in a guest room, survives on a couple bottles of water and protein drinks he’d had the thought to toss on the nightstand before the worst of it hit. He gets lost in the waves of desperation, despite the cold stone his heart is and he’s completely out of his mind- peak of his rut when his hand finds his phone and he calls Shane. He’s pushing his knot into the stupid handheld toy made of silicone, that smells nothing like Shane, his ocean salt sweet smell.

It aches and it isn’t warm, it isn’t the heat of Shane, the snark of Shane. It isn’t his omega. And his chest aches, hazy mind yearns, his omega, his omega could fix this, his omega could make it feel better, his omega always took his knot so nice, it would every better when Ilya was in rut, they’d stay stuck together longer that way, Ilya could breed him that way. Ilya growls and he’s not even cognisant of his phone shoved by his face on the pillow, the way his phone rings out to Jane, clicks through to voicemail. All the alpha registers is the sound of Shane’s voice (his voicemail box message) and his chest fucking caves in.

He whines, whines, whines, desperate needy sounds, and his breath catches and hitches as he’s begging, words a mix of Russian and English.

The fucks of his hips are short, angry, frustrated into the toy, his fist around it tight, tight. It’s not enough.

“Why, why omega. Please” he pants.

“Whatever I did, I’m sorry- I’ll be better”

“Please. I’ll be- I’ll be good I’ll be a good alpha. Please puppy” he’s still whining, it’s rattling in his chest and lets out another desperate noise, body trembling. If he’s good if he’s good his omega will come back his omega will need his knot, he’ll knot him so well.

“I. I need, need to be inside you. Knot you. My puppy please please come back and I’ll give you it I’ll give you my knot just stay. Stay this time and alpha will look after you” he sounds possessed, voice shaky and horrible, half sobbing and he’s still just whining as he cums, purely from biological need. It doesn’t feel like release. He’s mumbling sorry into the pillow as he comes down, head pounding and he drags a pillow to his chest, shoves his face into it and lets out a small sob as he spins down, pumping cum into stupid plastic as he aches for his omega.

Sous La Glace, Georges Leonnec for La Vie Parisienne, 1926