Many A Hungry Wish

situationship era:

how magnetic it draws by Anonymous

Lay Long Bites upon the Tender Parts by chaentics

to live without lips by twnkwlf

liminal boyfriends:

future tense by radialarch

The Long Game and beyond:

three's a crowd by nettlepixie

Proper Among Saints by LavenderProse

the suicidal duckling by Anonymous

AUs (one or both not a hockey player):

i'm crawling on your shores by walkingthroughwindows

decadent stress chamber by garagepaperback

Quarter-End Close by jtimu

AUs (both still hockey players):

Dawn in the Altered World by idiopathicsmile

It's Kind of a Funny Story by flawlessassholes

your famous golden touch by Anonymous

omegaverse:

Pencil in the Rest by lynadyndyn

wildcards:

Star Pupil by chaentics

too little, too late by garagepaperback

lotophage by citrusses

toast your dilemma, baby by embodied

higher than high, lower than deep by idiopathicsmile

a pox on all your houses by apocryphal

the body as evidence by servetas

liminal boyfriends:

Oh, the Lips That Tell Me Lies and I Can't Wait to Kiss by jewelledfoxes

skipped practice by schittyfic

summer days (driftin' away) by schittyfic

a winner at heart by pressuretoparty

The Long Game and beyond:

here is a strike beneath your knees by SNAKEHABITATTURNAROUND

fledgling by SNAKEHABITATTURNAROUND

a place to swim in the storm by floormusic

get gone by geniflux

AUs (one or both not a hockey player):

neophyte by twnkwlf

anytime, anywhere (ring-a-ring-a-ring) by servetas (sequel to ring my bell)

AUs (both still hockey players):

Closer to where you are (is where I must be) by sistercacao

No smoke without you by Anna__S

wildcards:

lay back, eyes open wide by shakebabyshake

that'll leave a mark by subcorax

does it make me better by smallestchurch

with an apple in its mouth by Anna__S

Ilya's phone dings loudly - he accidentally bumped it off silent a few days ago and hasn't bothered to change it back thanks to the incidental boon of Shane's irritation at the sound combined with the resulting experiment of, like, what can he get Shane to do while he's pissed that Ilya isn't checking his phone, turns out: a lot - as Shane's brushing his teeth and Ilya's watching his bathroom choreography from their bed. Shane knows he's being ogled but he isn't doing anything about it, so Ilya rolls his eyes and rolls over to see who the fuck wants something -- there's a text from Sveta.

you're gonna shit is all it says. There's a video attachment. He starts playing it and pauses ten seconds in.

"Shanya," he calls out at an unnecessary volume, scrambling for an iPad, any iPad. They're going to need a bigger screen.

"What," says Shane, who's waterpiking.

"Come see this," he says, airdropping the video to himself.

Shane spits - Ilya would know that sound at a hundred decibel construction site, at a rave, at the Indy 500 - and comes to perch next to Ilya on the bed, frowning. Ilya starts the video up again.

It's terrible quality because it's from he would guess maybe twenty? years ago, and it must have been shot on the silver digital camera Sveta was toting everywhere in those days, which he hasn't thought about in decades. Everyone at boarding school had them, she had claimed. It was full of debauched flash photos that could have gotten her grounded for life, and worse. Anyway it's her high-pitched teenage voice at his old rink in Moscow, a deadpan narrator following a blurry figure on the ice who is nevertheless very clearly, even through the grain and sands of time, extremely skilled.

"There he goes," she says, all the way from 2007, "the great hope of Russia."

The figure - Ilya, obviously - executes a flashy maneuver to come to a sudden stop in front of his documentarian.

Shane had been four Modelos in up at the lake when he told Ilya he would consent to a matching tattoo for Ilya's birthday if he could beat Shane around the trail. The loop is just shy of six ks and every single morning without fail Shane laps it in about twenty-two minutes, Ilya hot on his heels. When Ilya pushed past him the following morning to get a foot over by the trailhead marker he let out an ear-splitting yawp that Shane found very unnecessary.

Yes, he should have factored in the Modelos. Yes, he suspects sabotage. Yes, he is shitting himself.

Now they have back-to-back appointments with an artist in Hintonburg who Bood likes, because Ilya's preferred guy returned to Denver after some visa trouble. Evidently paperwork was not his forte.

Meanwhile, Ilya keeps airdropping Shane screenshots from the studio's Instagram - arrow-pierced hearts that read MOM and ugly sprawling scorpions and busty pinups in black and white. Cliché bullshit.

"This style is called American traditional, very classic," Ilya says, "but I don't know, maybe we like fine line better?"

"Stop fucking sending me these," Shane snaps. "You can literally just pass me your phone."

Shane obviously has no problem with pain. That part actually - well, he had Ilya jab a fingernail into his forearm with his best approximation of force, and it was a non-issue.

"But it really doesn't feel like that at all," Ilya told Shane when he said this.

"Then do it the way it feels," Shane had said.

Ilya shrugged. "Don't think I can. It's like. Buzzing. Moves around, but it stays with you."

"Yeah?" said Shane, shifting on the couch.

"Like if sunburn is made of bunches of needles, and they're all pressing down into you."

"Yeah," said Shane again, suddenly unable to feel his feet. "Can you, um. Can you do that nail thing again."

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