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Everyone has their corny fic trope they will never not love, and for me itâs mafia/organized crime AUs. So, consider.Â
A summer night in Manitoba. Shane fighting sleep from the driverâs seat of his patrol car, four hours left on his shift.Â
Nights like this are dangerous because they allow his mind to wander back to a time when he wasnât always a small-town cop, writing parking tickets and getting the short end of the stick with his patrol times. In another lifetime he was one of the youngest members of the RCMP, back before the lifetime blacklist and demotion down to the lowest possible rung of police work with no hope of ever rising up again.Â
A car zips by, the first in hours. Barely anyone drives on this back-end, one-way road this late, not even teenagers looking for trouble. Shane ignores half the cars that pass through, but this one has a trifecta of infractions: no plates, double the speed limit, dead right tail light.Â
Shane sighs and turns on the flashing lights, pulling away from his patrol spot on the shoulder. The car pulls over immediately, obediently. Shane is relieved; the last thing he wants to do at 3 in the morning is start a pursuit.Â
He gets out of his car, flashlight in one hand, wanders over to the driverâs side door prepared to see a stoned teenager or a night shift construction worker woozy from lack of sleep.Â
Instead, Shane freezes, his fingers going so limp he nearly drops his flashlight.Â
The man sitting in the driverâs seat should not be here. He should be miles away, at his home base in Montreal, not driving a piece of shit beater in the middle of nowhere.Â
And Shane should not be here with him, because as far as Ilya Rozanov knows, Shane Hollanderâs body burned up in a car fire four years ago.
Ilya blinks at Shane, narrowing his eyes. Itâs dark, even with the flashing light spilling behind them and the tiny light in Shaneâs hand. If he gets through this quickly, maybe Ilya wonât even get a good look at his face.
âCan I help you, Officer?â Ilya asks, tapping the steering wheel once, twice, with his pointer finger. Hearing his voice sends twin lines of heat and ice down Shaneâs spine.Â
âSorry, ah,â Shane clears his throat. âYou haveâŚyou were going a little fast.âÂ
âI am not from around here.â
âRight, well, just donât do it again,â Shane says. âUm, and get that tail light fixed. Have a good night.âÂ
He turns on his heel, forcing his legs to move fast despite the fact they feel wobbly. He just needs to get to his car and itâll be fine.Â
He hears the door of the other car open behind him, heavy boots settling on the ground. Â
âOfficer,â Ilya calls behind him.Â
He keeps walking, but the feet behind him are walking, too, faster.Â
Shane makes it to the squad car, grabs the door handle like a lifeline, but before he can get it open, a heavy body is pinning him down.
âToo slow,â Ilya says behind him, pulling his hand away from the door handle so he could hold Shaneâs arms behind his back.
âSir,â Shane whispers. Tears prick at his eyes, the animal fear rising in his body. âPlease justâŚgo back to your car.â
âBut I wanted to tell you something, Officer,â Ilya says. âItâs very funny. Do you want to hear it?âÂ
Shane hears Ilya unclip something from his belt, feels cool metal press into his side. Ilya leans in so close he can feel his breath along the shell of his ear.Â
 âYou look just like my dead husband.âÂ
Shaneâs body goes limp, the memories rushing back to him at once.Â
He used to be very, very good at his job. So good he was once entrusted to lead an undercover sting of one of the countryâs most deeply rooted bratva families. He was meant to find all he could on the familyâs young and newly minted pakhan, find a weakness in the newly shaken power structure. He had succeeded more than anyone could imagine, including himself.Â
But he was not meant to get attached. And in that aspect he had failed horribly.
Ilyaâs lips press to his neck, over his jumping pulse point.Â
âDid you think I would not find you, ĐаКŃик?âÂ
Shane has not heard that name in four years, and it undoes him.Â
âIlya,â he whispers, the less scrap of self preservation leaving his body. âPlease.âÂ
He doesnât know what heâs even asking for. To not die? To die quickly and painlessly?Â
Ilya tugs on his arm. Itâs pathetic, really, the way Shane peels away easily from the car and collapses into Ilyaâs waiting body. The barrel of the gun is still stuck between his ribs, but he knows he would move even without it.
âCome on,â Ilya says, nodding towards the beater. Shane can see now how obvious this whole thing was, a series of petty traffic infractions laid out of him like heâs a rat in a trap. A bunny hopping blindly to the wolves.Â
âAt least tell me where youâre taking me,â Shane says. He doesnât know where he finds the strength to say it, to make any request at all. Ilya looks at him like Shane has asked the color of the sky.Â
âYou do not know?â he asks. âI am taking you home.â
iâve been inspired by the person who said if they got 666k notes they would practice self care. so ya know what? iâve been in a spiral of depression for months so if this post gets 1 MILLION notes by the end of 2023, i will start taking care of myself and actually try to battle my depression and live my life. (this is never going to get 1m notes yall HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA)
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One of the most bizarrely cool people Iâve ever met was an oral surgeon who treated me after a ridiculous accident (thatâs another story), Dr. Z.
Dr. Z. was, easily, the best and most competent doctor or dentist Iâve ever encountered â and after that accident, I encountered quite a number. He came stunningly highly recommended, had an excellent record, and the most calming bedside manner Iâve ever seen.
That last wasnât the sweet gentle caretaking sort of manner, which some nurses have but you wouldnât expect to see in a surgeon. No; when Dr. Z. told me that one of my broken molars was too badly damaged to save, and I (being seventeen and still moderately in shock) broke down crying, he stared at me incredulously and said, in a tone of utter bemusement, âBut â I am very good.â
I stopped crying on the spot. In the last twenty-four hours or so of one doctor after another, no one had said anything that reassuring to me. He clearly just knew his own competence so well that the idea of someone being scared anyway was literally incomprehensible to him. What more could I possibly ask for?
(He was right. The procedure was very extended, because the tooth that needed to be removed was in bits, but there was zero pain at any point. And, as he promised, my teeth were so close together that they shifted to fill the gap to where there genuinely is none anymore, itâs just a little easier to floss on that side.)
But Dr. Z.âs insane competence wasnât just limited to oral surgery.
When I met Dr. Z., he, like most doctors Iâve had, asked me if I was in college, and where, and what I was studying. When I say âmath,â most doctors respond with âoh, wow, good for youâ or possibly âwhat do you want to do with that after college?â
Dr. Z. wanted to know what kind of math.
I gave him the thirty-second laymanâs summary that I give people who are foolish enough to ask that. He responded with âoh, you meanââ and the correct technical terms. I confirmed that was indeed what I meant (and keep in mind, this was upper-division college math, you donât take this unless youâre a math major). He asked cogent follow-up questions, and there ensued ten or so minutes of what Iâd call âsmall talkâ except for how it was an intensely technical mathematical discussion.
He didnât, as far as I can tell, have any kind of formal math background. He just ⌠knew stuff.
I was a competitive fencer at this point in time, so when he asked if I had any questions about the surgery that would be necessary, I asked him if Iâd be okay to fence while I had my jaw wired shut, or if it would interfere with breathing.
âFencing?â he said.
âYes,â I said, âlike swordfighting,â because this is another conversation I got to have a lot. (People assume theyâve misheard you, or occasionally they think you mean building fences.)
âWhich weapon?â
âUh. Foil.â
âNo, it wonât be safe,â and he went off into an explanation of why.
Turns out, he was also a serious fencer â and, when I mentioned my fencing coach, an old friend of his. (I asked my fencing coach later, and, oh yes, Dr. Z., a good friend of mine, excellent fencer.) (My coach was French. Dr. Z. was Israeli. I never saw Dr. Z. around the club or anything. I have no idea how they knew each other.)
So this was weird enough that later, when I was home, I looked Dr. Z. up on Yelp. His reviews were stellar, of course, but that wasnât the weird thing.
The weird thing was that the reviews were full of people â professionals in lots of different fields â saying the same thing: I went to Dr. Z. for oral surgery, and he asked me about what I did, and it turned out he knew all about my field and had a competent and educated discussion with me about the obscure technical details of such-and-such.
All sorts of different fields, saying this. Lawyers. Businessmen. Musicians.
As far as I can tell, itâs not that I just happened to be pursuing the two fields he had a serious amateur interest in â he just seemed to be extremely good at literally everything.
I have no explanation for this. Possibly he sold his soul to the devil.
I really love these, and I reblog them every single time. Some of you donât realize how easy itâs to forget to do some of those stuff or how hard they can be some days.
Hey dear <3 I'm back for yet another favour from you. Could you please suggest some fics (less than 25K) that you think are worth reading? I can't make much time for long fics and I can't handle slow burns so :P
Thank you!
P.S. Your blog is amazing and you suggest some brilliant fics! You are one of the favourite drarry shippers of mine :)
Aww! You're so sweet! I am HAPPY to recommend some shorter fics. I love long fics, but I love short fics just as much. It takes so much talent to do excellent storytelling concisely and sometimes I just don't have the time to dedicate to a 80k fic. I went through my "read, but unrecced" list and here are the results!
Short Fics 2
Borrowed by @shealwaysreads (6,199 words, rated E)
Draco Malfoy canât cast a Patronus. Well, no. He canât cast his own.
The Dinner by brightowl (7,908 words, rated E)
Draco had been trying to beat the sunset, walking along the cobblestone road to the Chateau where he would be staying that night, when he saw the door. Le Billet Doux, said a painted red sign. Below it, rĂŠservations non requises: âno reservations required.â
Like Diamonds We Are Cut With Our Own Dust by @raitala (10,914 words, rated T)
Draco has borne the mark of the Dark Lord for over ten years. It is familiar to him, but he pays the price for it every day, and Harry has noticed.
Interpreting Draconis by Dacro (11,015 words, rated M)
Draco, the Deaf son of a wealthy businessman, has always had the best of everything, including a habit for rapid signing and a reputation for having a short fuse. When his father disappears, the interpreters who have been on the receiving end of Draco's attitude and temper refuse to work for him. Enter Harry, our 'new on the block' interpreter with a heart of gold, exemplary skills, and a few secrets in his pocket.
Said and Unsaid (or, The Value of Knowing When to Stop Talking) by
@bryoneybrynn (14,814 words, rated T)
When the Interrogator asked if he had anything to say on his own behalf, Draco shook his head, his lips pressed tight in a thin line. There was nothing to say that wouldnât sound like an excuse.
Truth and Tradition by @malenkayacherepakha (16,203 words, rated M)
Pure-blood tradition dictates that every child learns about pure-blood culture and history when they first start to show signs of magic. When a reluctant Draco is told he has to teach Teddy, he doesnât expect to learn new things about magic, the world beyond Diagon Alley, and an old schoolmate.
Mixed Drinks and Crossed Wires by @korlaena (16,470 words, rated E)
Draco is a handsy drunk. Harry is okay with it, really. Theyâre friends, so it doesnât mean anything.
Two Zinnias and the Scent of Lemon by @the-starryknight (16,666 words, rated M)
The Ministry didnât turn bad overnight. Harry didnât suddenly turn rogue either. Between covert Legilimency links and Polyjuice disguises and running and running and running, Draco has forgotten what it is like to have a safe harbor that isnât a person. If thereâs an art to fighting back, then theyâll find it hand in hand.
freely, as men strive for right by @bixgirl1 (17,126 words, rated E)
How can Harry love a man like Draco Malfoy? If only Draco would let him count the ways. (Sometimes, a happily-ever-after takes a bit longer than you expect.)
The Isle of Discussion by @shealwaysreads (21,818 words, rated E)
Harry and Draco arrive at the shores of Loch Leven to record the magical history of the land. Theyâre friends now, but up there in the Highlands, amidst the trees and sky and that wild expanse of water their own past is more present than ever; a gap they still canât bridge. Magic illuminates the truth, but it is Harry and Draco who have to speak it. Happily, it turns out that honesty is, in fact, the best policy.
Offer Up Our Hearts by @tackytigerfic (23,757 words, rated M)
Harry Potter has a very nice life, thank you very much. He's a top Curse-Breaker with a lucrative Ministry contract, and exciting prospects ahead. Sometimes he does wish that he had time to pursue something official with Draco Malfoy - they're half in love with each other, after all, and a great team (in and out of bed), though Draco is still one of the most infuriating people he knows. And when Draco asks Harry to accompany him on a diplomatic mission to the mysterious Sidhe fairies in Ireland, Harry agrees to lend his expertise. Especially since the Sidhe diplomat is a handsome fairy prince who's also in love with Draco. Join Malfoy and Potter in a daring tale of espionage, politics, intrigue, and frog-hunting!
In addition to these fics, I recommend you check out previous lists and check to see which fics are under 25k!
Short Fics or find it in my AO3 Collection!
â¤ď¸ As always, if you find a fic you enjoy, please remember to leave the author a kudos or a comment! â¤ď¸
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Authorship: Barthes, Death of the Author; Foucault, What is an Author?
Formalism: Eichenbaum, The Theory of the âFormal Methodâ;Â Brooks, from The Well Wrought Urn: Studies in the Structure of Poetry
Structuralism: Saussure, Course in General Linguistics ; Barthes, from Mythologies
Psychoanalysis: Freud, The Interpretation of Dreams; Lacan, The Mirror Stage & The Significance of the Phallus
Ideology: Althusser, Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses; Foucault, Truth and Power
Feminism & Queer: Sedgwick, from Between Men; Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa; Wittig, One Is Not Born a Woman; Butler, Gender Trouble
Deconstruction: Derrida, from Of Grammatology;
Postcolonial: Fanon, from The Wretched of the Earth; Spivak, Can the Subaltern Speak?
Cultural Materialism: Adorno & Horkheimer, The Culture Industry: Enlightenment as Mass Deception; Williams, Base and Superstructure in Marxist Cultural Theory Â
these are about 2/3 of the readings for my intro to lit theory course, if youâve ever wondered what one studies on such courses, the links lead to free pdfs Â
Lost the run of myself entirely with this âmicroficâ which is just a fic, Iâm sorry @drarrymicrofic. The prompt was âBurn Itâ. This fic is a recreation of a scene that I remember reading in a fic years ago but have never been able to track down. All I know is that Harry and his friends return to Privet Drive and Dudley is working out in front of the television. So I made all the rest up just to get that in! If anyone remembers the fic itself, please let me know! Title is based on a line from The Consignment by Hannah Flagg Gould.
When they arrived at Privet Drive, they all stood at the door for a few moments, momentum lost, before Harry shrugged and stepped forward to ring the doorbell.
As soon as Petunia saw them through the peephole, she backed away, but they could follow her shadow through the frosted glass panels beside the door, and anyway Hermione was out of patience by then, and didnât even look around to check if the coast was clear before whipping out her wand and performing a brisk Alohomora.
Petunia did try to stop them, drawing herself up to her full height and summoning as much poison into her voice as she could, but Ginny just laughed and elbowed past her, Luna dancing behind, and Neville had his fingers in the hanging basket beside the doorâAll clear, he said gravely, as though there might have been something brutal and awful lurking among the pansiesâand Hermione, who bore a long grudge, said unsympathetically, âOh, do shut upâ to Petunia as she ran some diagnostic charms over the lintel of the front door. Ron hovered behind her, glaring, wand out.
Dean and Seamus were just there to bump the numbers up, really, and they were already preoccupied by the little yappy dog that was running around in the side passage, behind an unnecessarily fussy metal gate, so it was only Draco who noticed that Harry wasnât moving.
It was just that Petunia was still there, that was all, standing in the doorway, ribs straining with her rage, the rattle of her outraged breaths keeping Harry at a distance. He remembered how angry she could get.
âDonât you dare come in here,â she said, pointing at Harry, hand upraised, and he couldnât help it; he flinched. Draco was behind him suddenly, a solid heat at his back, and then Harry felt his steadying hand at the base of Harryâs spine.
âMove,â Draco said to Petunia, âor Iâll make you regret it.â
He was still good at that, being impossibly posh and commanding, Harry thought dimly, looking up at Petunia from the front step. She was so tall. And then she stepped to the side, leaning back against the wall as though she was very tired, and Draco steered Harry past her so fast that it was over before he even had to think about it, and he could breathe again.
Ginny was sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging her legs and eating some of the good biscuits out of the biscuit barrel. With every beat of her heels against the cereal cabinet, she left a dusty smear. Petuniaâs not going to like that, Harry thought. Through the window he could see Dean and Seamus in the back garden. The dog was on its back on the grass, four legs in the air, wriggling with delight as they rubbed its fluffy tummy. Through the open window, Harry could hear the distant hum of a lawnmower. The air felt heavy with summer.
âYouâd better not have eaten all the good ones, you rotter,â Draco told Ginny, and stalked across the kitchen to her. She hugged the biscuit barrel to her chest, and before Draco managed to wrestle it away from her, she dug out a green-wrapped Viscount and chucked it to Harry over Dracoâs head. He muttered something to her and she laughed out a spray of crumbs, and then Draco picked out a piece of shortbread and came back to stand with Harry.
âYou can have this one, if you like,â Harry told him, holding out the Viscount. The foil was stretched out and shiny from his smoothing thumb. He could feel the chocolate inside softening under his touch.
âYou have it,â Draco said, stuffing half the shortbread into his mouth. âThis one is fine.â His voice was muffled by biscuit, but his eyes were still sharp when he looked at Harry. He swallowed hard, and then said, âYouâre allowed to have it, Harry.â
So you just finished a chapter of your work in progress. Congrats! Seems like a good place to stop, right?Â
But wait! Before you go take that much-needed break, do this: Write three sentences of the next chapter. Thatâs it. Three sentences. Now youâre done.
It will be much, much easier for you to come back to it when you feel like youâre already in the middle. You just got rid of the most difficult part of doing anything: Starting.
This also works for:
crafts! go sew a few stitches of that next seam before taking a break.
art! go shade in a bit of that next section before you stop.
homework! go do five minutes of that next subject first.
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we are already living in the cyberpunk future and i know this because within a span of 3 days we went from this tweet:
to thousands of people making phony images and replying to them with their passionate desire to have them as a tshirt to overload the bots with nonsense and junk and send out warnings to shoppers like this:
and now we even have people replying to pictures of baby yoda with âi want this on a tshirtâ knowing how ravenous disney is being with copyright in hopes to get the stores taken down altogether
i dont know what it is about stuff like this and the whole turn mei into a symbol of hk protesters thing but, its really reassuring for some reason
My brain, having a meltdown like a toddler: I just canât do it! I donât want to !! I canât!!
Me, parenting my tired toddler brain: Take a deep breath, itâs going to be ok. We donât have to do everything today thatâs overwhelming you. Letâs pick the most important thing to work on, ok? Whatâs the smallest step we can do to work towards that?
My toddler brain, wiping away tears: Um, I think we shouldâŚopen up the important spreadsheet and look at the first row.
Me, parenting my tired toddler brain: Great! Letâs do that, and then we can have a popsicle, ok?
My toddler brain: *nods through drying tears, upset, but cooperative*
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