oooh I’m so glad you asked my love, there’s a few that I’ve read …
(E) = explicit
✅= complete
🧚♀️ Night Shift by The_green_fairy (E)
mafia ilya comes into the convenience store where shane, a struggling college student, works on the night shift and their relationship develops from there
🧚♀️ Let me ruin you. by ljlwriter (E)
mafia Ilya becomes obsessed with trauma surgeon Shane when he comes into the ER following an injury
🧚♀️ The Wakagashira’s Vow by maisag87 (E)
bratva ilya is obsessed with yakuza shane and decides the little Japanese murder machine must be his in a possessive, sexual way.
🧚♀️ we were together (i forgot the rest) by @warrenmike ✅ (E)
russian mafia Ilya conducts his business in the neutral bar run by Shane’s family and Shane becomes intrigued. Spoiler alert: the bar doesn’t stay neutral for long.
✨this one is a particular fave of mine✨
🧚♀️ In You, I Find Me by loveleclerc (E)
russian mafia ilya kidnaps shane, the son of montreal mafia heads Yuna and David to get information. What ilya doesn’t expect is that shane has exactly no clue what his parents do for a living.
🧚♀️ illicit affairs by safeandsound13 ✅ (E)
Hockey player shane meets ilya who unbeknownst to him is the head of the russian mafia in Boston and also has a vested interest in hockey.
🧚♀️✨please note all of these fics have some form of sexual content and/or violence described in them, make sure to read the tags before reading.✨🧚♀️
lots of love,
your fairy ficmother 🧚♀️
🧚♀️ find more heated rivalry fics here 🧚♀️
✨if any of these authors have tumblr, please let me know so I can tag their blog(s)✨
Okay because everyone was so chill about my previous hollanov mafia/bratva posting, I'm gonna need y'all to be nice about my plot bunny:
I want a fic that starts in medias res with Shane returning home to his apartment after a gruelling game on home ice. The Metros managed to wrestle a victory away from their opponents (with Shane doing most of the heavy lifting, of course), so Shane's exhausted and he's absently turning on his hallway lights as he makes his way to his kitchen to down a glass of water and start heating up his premade dinner from his approved meal plan when he hears a richly accented voice floating out from the dark of his sitting room:
"Pity you won. Would have offered shoulder to cry on."
And Shane almost hits the damn ceiling he startles so bad, choking on his glass of water, face already flushing because he knows who's sitting sprawled out on his leather sectional, the cherry of his lit cigarette glowing in the dark, and goddamn it "I TOLD you not to smoke inside, Ilya!" and also "Why do you always have to sneak up on me? Fuck"
And Ilya laughs, his face all sharp angles in the orange glow of the lamplight spilling into the sitting room: "Is fun. I like making you jump."
And Shane is rolling his eyes even as he's crawling into Ilya's lap and he doesn't ask Ilya how he got here just like he doesn't ask Ilya how he got his scars or why his number is always changing or what he does for work all those hours away in Moscow, the kind of work that lets him afford all the expensive gifts he sends straight to Shane's doorstep - watches and suits and furs and humiliatingly (thrillingly) jewelry - the kind of work that makes him get up from lying naked in bed tangled up in Shane's sheets to answer a phonecall in sharp, harsh Russian before he gets on a jet and disappears for three months until he randomly reappears in Shane's apartment.
Shane's learned not to ask questions about Ilya, Schrödinger's boyfriend. He's starting to think he doesn't really want answers.
read this mafia au post from @delsicle and it wouldn't leave me alone, and well.
* * *
The road ahead, beyond the illumination of the car’s headlights, is a black hole. Shane should probably be scared. Terrified. Maybe he is. Maybe he’s frozen in shock and can’t feel anything beyond the pounding of his pulse in his temples. Maybe the black hole ahead will eventually swallow him.
Maybe it already has.
Ilya’s fingers are drumming a lazy rhythm against the steering wheel, elbow braced against the edge of the window. He’s been unbearably quiet, and Shane doesn’t know what to do with that. They’d gone long stretches without speaking before, sharing a comfortable silence that felt peaceful, really.
Now it’s eerie.
Shane realizes he’s been staring at him when Ilya glances over and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He reaches out with his right hand, cups the back of Shane’s head, fingers sinking into his hair and stroking down to his neck with a firm but gentle squeeze. Shane fights the way his body nearly goes limp.
His eyes flick down to Ilya’s thigh. There, balanced on the right, is his gun. In the dark between them it’s nearly just a dark shape. The gun he’s kept pressed to Shane’s ribs as he guided him to his car with a hand at the small of his back, that touch so incongruously gentle next to the weapon poised to tear his insides to shreds. It sits there now, like taunt, almost like a dare, and Shane stares at it for a bit too long because he hears Ilya’s quiet snort of laughter when he looks at Shane again, and his hand is still carding through Shane’s hair.
“I am happy to see you, золотой,” he says, his accented voice and the once familiar petname curl around Shane with the weight of comfort he shouldn’t be enjoying. “But it is a gun.”
Shane feels a faint heat in his cheeks and is grateful for the darkness. Ilya’s thumb strokes firmly over his pulse point, drawing an involuntary shudder out of him, a gasp that’s too revealing, or maybe not revealing at all.
“I know,” he mutters defensively, and Ilya chuckles again. The faint light from the dashboard illuminates his face enough for Shane to see how the smile transforms his whole face: his features soft and open in a way he’d rarely show, and only when it was the two of them, and even then this particular expression had always been special, a rare treat.
It makes Shane want to reach out and trace it with his fingers. A cherished memory come back to life, and it was both a nightmare and a dream, and a part of Shane is terrified how happy it makes him to see it again. How much the dream outweighs the nightmare.
A little nonsensically, Shane says, “They’ll look for me.” And then he almost laughs at himself. He’s not a big deal here, not the way he used to be, a promising detective with a bright future ahead of him. He’s built himself a small network of people here but it’s all superficial connections at best; nobody is going to miss him. Sure, they’ll do some sort of sweep, but there will be no effort put into finding him. His value has long since decreased. There’s nothing to gain from finding him.
Ilya cuts through his thoughts, his fingers are so gentle in Shane’s hair. “Your parents?” His voice is even, free of inflection, and Shane freezes. “Yuna and David Hollander, yes?”
The way Ilya’s accent wraps around his name, Hollander, makes Shane feel like someone put a branding iron to his skin.
No, Shane wants to say. Nothing comes out, voice lost and a vacuum in his lungs.
Ilya leans his head against the headrest and turns to look at Shane. Maybe they’ll hit a moose in a freak accident because Ilya wasn’t paying attention to the road, a tiny, panicked voice in Shane’s head says. Maybe then this will be over.
“They will not find you.” Ilya’s voice is still so eerily void of anything, smooth and slippery like a body drenched in blood.
Ilya’s thumb presses against his pulse point. Shane can feel his blood beat against his finger wildly. He’s found Shane out. Of course he knows about his parents. This is not a surprise. Shane knows what it is, he’s heard this voice often enough; it’s like another language he’s learned to speak and even though he’s not used it for years, he’s still fluent.
“What do you think is worse?” Ilya asks, and Shane feels himself brace for the question. “If they found out you are dead? Or all the horrible things you did that police did not ask you to do for me? That I asked you to do for me? That not even I asked you to do but that you did all yourself?”
Shane stares at the black hole in front of him.
Strong fingers curl around his chin. He doesn’t fight it when Ilya turns his head to face him, and he goes when Ilya pulls. The kiss is hard, a promise and a threat, and when Ilya pulls back, Shane’s lips tingle, his cupid’s bow wet and cool.
Ilya leans back against his seat and looks at the road. His hand goes back to Shane’s hair, gentling along the nape of his neck.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Ilya says without looking at him. “They will never know.”
jane austen pride and prejudice / julio cortázar hopscotch / sylvia plath the unabridged journals / unknown / madeline miller the song of achilles / jack kerouac the dharma bums / richard siken "crush" / walt whitman "when i heard at the close of the day" / james baldwin giovanni's room / hermann hesse narziss and goldmund
so many popular examples of fandom racism are barely actual fandom brand racism bcs white ppl (and honestly too many non black ppl) need outright in your face blatant stuff as proof to shocked and appalled by. most of it is the classic "I'm not touching you style" that's easier to gaslight around which is what a majority of racism is, gaslighting. slave fics a tortureporn of characters of color are awful but that's like individual weirdos who it's easy to mark off as obviously racist. The attention and outrage surrounding these little incidents allows everyone to feel better because of how exaggerated and one off they are, bad eggs in a good batch etc.
Real fandom racism is watching the darkest characters get boxed into the specific outsider pov trope over and over despite them being a core member of the cast. it's watching everyone have in depth headcanons for every character but them, denying them the complexity their counterparts get. It's them getting written out of their own plots, receiving little to no audience sympathy when they ARE complex, and, most importantly, watching them get cast in the same exact role when shipping comes in
but all this isn't loud, it's quiet and unnoticeable unless you've had to watch it play out with every favorite character you've had ever since you were ten and started engaging with fandom. it's repetitive, uncreative, infuriating and worst of all NOBODY WILL LISTEN WHEN YOU POINT IT OUT because you're just imagining it and they're not touching you. I've been making my own content and I've seen how people will go out of their way NOT to engage or engage specifically only to discredit a character of color.
it's not a one off thing or even a small pattern, it is what fandom culture is BUILT on, picking the palest skinniest most pathetic looking man in the cast, projecting onto him and ignoring literally everyone and everything else whether that be fanon over plot or the interesting female or darker skinned characters and masking racism behind fanon tropes
There is something so incredibly tender about walking through a bookstore or a museum and stopping in a section you usually breeze past, just because the person you love loves it. Suddenly, a specific genre of sci-fi or a niche era of art history isn't just "a thing"—it’s a map of their mind. You’re standing there looking at a shelf, thinking, oh, they would lose their mind over this. Your brain permanently reserves a little room for their joy, and I think that’s so beautiful.
"Will you marry me?"
"I don't think now's the best time!?"
"Now may be the only time!"
Is there a fictional wedding better than Elizabeth and Will's? I don't believe so... And you know my thing for pirates so, here's my piece for the 2026 edition of @rwrbzines, "Love on purpose: a Red, White & Royal Wedding zine". Check out all the other artworks, everyone worked so hard 🩵
prguitarman
vaporwave
titsay
blakekathryn
annaxmalina
