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A summer night in Manitoba. Shane fighting sleep from the driver’s seat of his patrol car, four hours left on his shift. 

Nights like this are dangerous because they allow his mind to wander back to a time when he wasn’t 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. 

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. 

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. 

He gets out of his car, flashlight in one hand, wanders over to the driver’s side door prepared to see a stoned teenager or a night shift construction worker woozy from lack of sleep. 

Instead, Shane freezes, his fingers going so limp he nearly drops his flashlight. 

The man sitting in the driver’s 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. 

And Shane should not be here with him, because as far as Ilya Rozanov knows, Shane Hollander’s body burned up in a car fire four years ago.

@is-the-owl-video-cute

some vampire/goth icons part 6

-

Dr. Z. was, easily, the best and most competent doctor or dentist I’ve ever encountered – and after that accident, I encountered quite a number. He came stunningly highly recommended, had an excellent record, and the most calming bedside manner I’ve ever seen.

That last wasn’t the sweet gentle caretaking sort of manner, which some nurses have but you wouldn’t 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, “But – I am very good.”

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, it’s just a little easier to floss on that side.)

But Dr. Z.’s insane competence wasn’t just limited to oral surgery.

When I met Dr. Z., he, like most doctors I’ve had, asked me if I was in college, and where, and what I was studying. When I say “math,” most doctors respond with “oh, wow, good for you” or possibly “what do you want to do with that after college?”

Dr. Z. wanted to know what kind of math.

I gave him the thirty-second layman’s summary that I give people who are foolish enough to ask that. He responded with “oh, you mean–” and the correct technical terms. I confirmed that was indeed what I meant (and keep in mind, this was upper-division college math, you don’t take this unless you’re a math major). He asked cogent follow-up questions, and there ensued ten or so minutes of what I’d call “small talk” except for how it was an intensely technical mathematical discussion.

He didn’t, 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 I’d be okay to fence while I had my jaw wired shut, or if it would interfere with breathing.

“Fencing?” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “like swordfighting,” because this is another conversation I got to have a lot. (People assume they’ve misheard you, or occasionally they think you mean building fences.)

“Which weapon?”

“Uh. Foil.”

“No, it won’t be safe,” and he went off into an explanation of why.

Turns out, he was also a serious fencer – 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 wasn’t the weird thing.

The weird thing was that the reviews were full of people – professionals in lots of different fields – 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, it’s not that I just happened to be pursuing the two fields he had a serious amateur interest in – he just seemed to be extremely good at literally everything.

I have no explanation for this. Possibly he sold his soul to the devil.

My therapist asked me to create something “motivating” so I made these.

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 can’t cast a Patronus. Well, no. He can’t 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, réservations non requises: ‘no reservations required.’

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 wouldn’t 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 doesn’t 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. They’re friends, so it doesn’t mean anything.

Two Zinnias and the Scent of Lemon by @the-starryknight (16,666 words, rated M)

The Ministry didn’t turn bad overnight. Harry didn’t 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 isn’t a person. If there’s an art to fighting back, then they’ll 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. They’re 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 can’t 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!

❤️ As always, if you find a fic you enjoy, please remember to leave the author a kudos or a comment! ❤️

Authorship: Barthes, Death of the Author; Foucault, What is an Author?

Formalism: Eichenbaum, The Theory of the “Formal Method”;  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  

Lost the run of myself entirely with this “microfic” which is just a fic, I’m sorry @drarrymicrofic. The prompt was “Burn It”. 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 didn’t 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 door—All clear, he said gravely, as though there might have been something brutal and awful lurking among the pansies—and Hermione, who bore a long grudge, said unsympathetically, “Oh, do shut up” 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 wasn’t 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.

“Don’t you dare come in here,” she said, pointing at Harry, hand upraised, and he couldn’t 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 Harry’s spine.

“Move,” Draco said to Petunia, “or I’ll make you regret it.”

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. Petunia’s 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.

“You’d better not have eaten all the good ones, you rotter,” 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 Draco’s 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.

“You can have this one, if you like,” 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.

“You have it,” Draco said, stuffing half the shortbread into his mouth. “This one is fine.” His voice was muffled by biscuit, but his eyes were still sharp when he looked at Harry. He swallowed hard, and then said, “You’re allowed to have it, Harry.”

So you just finished a chapter of your work in progress. Congrats! Seems like a good place to stop, right? 

But wait! Before you go take that much-needed break, do this: Write three sentences of the next chapter. That’s it. Three sentences. Now you’re done.

It will be much, much easier for you to come back to it when you feel like you’re 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.

pretty much everything!

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 “i want this on a tshirt” knowing how ravenous disney is being with copyright in hopes to get the stores taken down altogether

Me, parenting my tired toddler brain: Take a deep breath, it’s going to be ok. We don’t have to do everything today that’s overwhelming you. Let’s pick the most important thing to work on, ok? What’s the smallest step we can do to work towards that?

My toddler brain, wiping away tears: Um, I think we should…open up the important spreadsheet and look at the first row.

Me, parenting my tired toddler brain: Great! Let’s do that, and then we can have a popsicle, ok?