#linked universe townhouse au

[st0rmyskies]

Emergency Commissions - Closed!!

Thank you everyone for the help! Commissions slots are all filled, tips are still always welcome. I will advise if any additional slots open up in the next few weeks.

So if you’ve been playing along at home, you may know that I returned from vacation this week to find that my central air conditioning unit died. Our house sustained some damage from the system overheating. Repairs/replacement are going to run in the five-figure range and they can’t wait, since July in my area of the world means brutal heat. 

So in the spirit of “well fuck me I guess,” I’ll be opening a limited number of emergency writing commissions slots, not to exceed eight depending on the scope of each work and the amount of interest I receive. 

Be advised that this is a one-time thing. I don’t intend to reopen commissions after this financial burden passes.

The Basics

I write for the LoZ and LU fandoms and will accept commissions for either in-universe writing or one of my own AUs (Townhouse AU, Count Darkula, the omegaverse series, etc.).

I will write crack, fluff, angst, spice, horror, murder, whatever. Choose your own adventure! 

If you’re interested in something sweet or spicy, I’ll write Linkshipping, Zelink, MidZel, GanLink, lesser-known characters, you name it I don’t care. I’m a multishipper at heart.

Characters can be cis, trans, unspecified, doesn’t matter to me.

I’m always happy to try on new spicy themes, even if it’s not something I’ve written before. This is a judgement-free zone, even if I end up saying “no thanks.” Seriously, just run it by me. I also have a handful of existing WIP options in the list below if you need any inspiration.

You get to choose whether this is a work to be published or if you’d rather keep it for your own private enjoyment. No price difference between the two options, I don’t care.

Not sure what you’d request? If you want, you can sponsor an active WIP. This is literally more bang for your buck, since I’m not going to charge you for the words I’ve already written. Once you snag a commission slot and leave your deposit, I can send you a sample of one or two works if you’re having a hard time choosing between options. Think of it like trying different flavors at an ice cream bar. An extensive list of my active WIPs appears in my pinned post. If sponsoring an active WIP for an ongoing series like HSH or LMTCOY, that work will be published.

Do you have an unfinished WIP of your own that you’d like to see finished but don’t have the time, energy, etc.? Throw it my way and we’ll see what we can do together! Once again, you are only charged for the words I put into the work in these cases, not the total word count. I will only be taking on up to two of these types of commissions.

The Nitty-Gritty

Pricing is 2 cents per word. I'm flexible with regards to word counts but I suggest the following tiers:

500 words - $10

1000 words - $20

2000 words - $40

2500 words - $50

A deposit will be required to lock in your commission slot on a first-come first-served basis. Deposits will vary based on the tier you select with any remaining balance due at delivery, if applicable. If I end up going over a bit and wrote 525 words for a 500-word slot, oh well, bank error in your favor.

Deadlines are TBD between myself and the commissioner depending on the scope of the work and the number of responses I get. Could be anywhere from a few weeks to a couple months. I don’t see myself letting commissions drag on past 3 months. 

Feel ready to take the plunge with me? You can send me a DM preferably via discord (st0rmyskies) but also through tumblr and we’ll get to work!

The Fine Print

You must be over the age of 18 to commission me.

Commissions are not to exceed 2500 words unless we negotiate otherwise. WIPs listed at larger word counts excluded from this rule.

If sponsoring an active WIP or work in an ongoing series, I may already have a plot and end goal for the story, so specific requests (e.g. “I want Twark to break up.”) may not be honored. I can do a one-shot of such scenarios, though, even if they’re outside canon plans.

I will not write for someone else’s series (e.g. “Can you continue this story from [author] that’s been abandoned?”).

No original characters.

I reserve the right to decline any request for any reason.

Can’t commission, but want to help?

You can leave me a tip via Venmo or PayPal, or signal boost on tumblr, discord, wherever. We need all the help we can get! 

Thanks so much for reading this far, friend. Any help with spreading the word is appreciated. 

- St0rmy

[withclawandvine]

GOT LOVESTRUCK, WENT STRAIGHT TO MY HEAD — the wrong place at the right time

summary: Elain was supposed to be in paradise with her fiancè, not alone at an airport bar, held hostage by a storm. Lucien was only supposed to be in Las Vegas for a few days on business, before flying back home on the Vanserra jet. They weren’t supposed to meet, but fate is funny like that.

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/59610724/chapters/152036788

author’s note: happy @elucienweekofficial !!! i had SO MUCH FUN writing this one. it’s all a modern au, obviously, but the other prompts are woven in! i had every intention of posting a chapter per day(ish) this week, but i went to the george r.r. martin school of writing, so…. that didn’t happen lmao but here’s the first of the planned five parts to get the ball rolling !!

The moment the wheels of the 757 traveling south from San Francisco to Las Vegas touched down, the sky split open, unleashing a seasonal monsoon with wind speeds and torrential rainfall surpassing any other that year.

Most people would consider it a stroke of good luck — a small miracle, even — that plane hadn’t been struck from the sky by a bolt of lightning.

Elain Archeron knew better.

She knew this storm was just one more incident in the chain of mishaps shackled to this vacation.

First, there was Graysen unceremoniously breaking their engagement two months ago, leaving Elain with a voluminous white gown taking up all the room in her closet, a box of unaddressed invitations collecting dust, and a nonrefundable booking for an all-inclusive luxe resort in St. Barts — the Christmas gift Gray had insisted she take for herself and a friend, all with that heavy dose of that new money condescension he was so versed in.

If she’d been smart, Elain would have given the tickets to the retired couple next door, but instead, she’d called Feyre.

Her little sister had suffered her own heartbreak earlier in the year, and although she pretended to be over it, Elain knew she was still reeling. Tamlin would have never let Feyre leave the country without him. Or, more accurately, Tamlin wouldn’t have let Feyre leave the backyard without him.

So it felt exceptionally cruel when Ferye called, voice weak and miserable, to tell Elain she had food poisoning and wouldn’t be able to make the trip. Hell, she’d lamented. I’ll be lucky if I make it out of the bathroom anytime soon.

With her plane departing in a few hours, Elain knew her only choice was to either call the whole thing off, or go it alone.

She enjoyed solitude; she liked gardening alone, and was a lunchtime regular at the little cafe down the street. But in the weeks since moving out of Graysen’s townhouse, she’d been spending most of her time confined to her new apartment, and if it went on for much longer, she’d evolve into a Gothic heroine.

She knew she needed a change of scenery, lest she start clawing at the wallpaper.

A man taking a sharp corner without looking up from his phone narrowly avoided a head-on collision with Elain; instead, he clipped her suitcase, wrenching it from her hand. It clung to the stranger’s carryon for a few paces, then dropped to the floor.

Before it could get swept up by the chaotic and restless crowd, Elain snatched the handle of her suitcase and righted it. The bag wobbled, then settled crookedly to the right. Within seconds of realizing he small, black wheel on the ground near it did in fact belong to her luggage, someone’s foot sent it skittering over the tile.

Elain watched it pinball out of sight, unable to contain her sharp, deranged laugh.

Just like that, the trip had gone from unfortunate to downright cursed — that little wheel was no mere inconvenience. It was an omen, just as powerful as any broken mirror or bolt of lightning. Clearly, the universe was trying to tell her that a hurricane was foredoomed to materialize on the first day of her stay, and wash her away by the third. Or that the long-inactive volcano would spontaneously erupt. Perhaps the plane would evanesce into the Bermuda Triangle.

She should have stayed home. She wanted to go home. Spend the next ten days of her hard-won PTO rewatching Bridgerton. Make a batch of her famous death-by-chocolate brownies and an espresso martini. Get petty satisfaction out of knowing how much of Graysen’s money was being wasted.

But as it was, Elain wasn’t on her way to an island or her Bay Area apartment; there was only one place she could go right now.

She all but stomped, her suitcase limping awkwardly behind her, in the direction of the nearest bar.

Elain collapsed onto a barstool and ordered something sweet, tropical, and strong. The bartender looked annoyed by her lack of specificity, but had the good grace not to say anything about it as he shook up then presented her with a mango mojito with an extra shot of rum.

Elain closed her eyes and took a sip, imagining she was basking in the sun as the tide lapped at her brightly-pedicured toes.

Her conjured serenity dissipated when she felt someone settle into the stool beside her.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit flagged the bartender. It was the kind of suit that spoke of money and importance — the kind of suit that ordered top-shelf whiskey, neat.

So Elain couldn’t help but look to him in surprise when he said, “I’ll have whatever she’s having.”

Sensing her attention, he turned his head to flash her an easy smile, shrugging as if to say What about it?

He was captivating; his sharp suit so at odds with his long hair, tied back in a way that was almost thoughtless. Artfully messy, with a few loose strands framing a face made up of pointed features that screamed mischief. A scar, now faint with age, was carved into the left side of his face from brow to jaw, pulling slightly at the corner of his mouth. That mouth — the only soft part of his face.

Elain watched him take a hearty drink of his cocktail.

“That’s fucking delightful.” He said this to Elain as if she’d been the one to make it for him, not just put the idea in his head by sipping on her own. To the bartender, he said, “We’ll need two more of these, please.”

She blinked at him. “We?”

“What?” His smile was a little lopsided and a lot teasing. “Do you have somewhere else to be?”

When Elain gave the waiting bartender a thumbs-up, the man’s smile grew.

God, he needed to keep that thing in check.

He extended a hand. “I’m Lucien.”

She took it, letting his fingers engulf hers. “Elain.”

He repeated her name to himself softly and fondly, like they do in the movies.

“Well, Elain, where are you supposed to be right now? Assuming a bar in the Las Vegas airport wasn’t your final destination.”

Maybe it was that second mojito, but telling Lucien the story about Graysen dumping her within weeks of their big, romantic getaway, and months of their wedding was surprisingly easy.

“So yeah,” she shrugged, stirring the melting ice and crushed mint around the glass with her straw. “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Lucien agreed, pushing a water she didn’t even notice him ordering at her.

“What about you? Were you in town for business or pleasure?”

“First it was business.” He flashed her a secretive smile, “Now it’s a pleasure.”

“Well, it must have been one nightmare of a business trip if this is your —”

Elain’s phone buzzed on the counter.

ATTN: Flight MAF608 LAS to MIA has been POSTPONED until 6:00 AM PST. For more information, reply HELP

Elain set her phone back down, then, without uttering a word, slid the water away, giving herself enough room to let her forehead fall to the countertop with a dull, defeated thud.

“Everything alright?”

She turned her head enough to look at Lucien with one eye. “I am going to die in this airport.”

He picked her phone up. “You’re going to die in the next…” he squinted at the screen, “ten hours?”

“If I’m lucky,” she grumbled, “it’ll be in the next two.”

Lucien’s laugh was rich and bright. Elain wanted to be annoyed at him for laughing at her misery, but the sound was so perfectly joyous, she could only manage a half-hearted pout.

“You’re laughing,” she said. “I’m going to spend the night on this barstool and you’re laughing.”

A prospect that still somehow seemed more dignified than calling Graysen to ask for money to cover a night in a hotel. The only reason she could go on this trip in the first place was because of his fancy tech job and guilty conscience.

“The business I was in town for,” Lucien said, making a show of snuffing out his laughter and becoming serious. “It was with a hotel on the Strip that my family does business with. I can make arrangements for you to stay there.”

Elain smiled, even as she shook her head. “I appreciate the offer, but —”

“Please,” he insisted, sweeping up her tab with his own, and placing a black Amex on top. “It would be no trouble at all.”

[the-au-collector]

I've got to ask, what is the unusual/unique (in a good way) au you've come across (or cooked up yourself)?

Thanks for the ask!

I realize now you asked for one fic but uh--I kinda compiled a list of some of my favorite AUs instead. I've read a lot of fics, but to save your sanity I'll stick with my 3 main fandoms: Linked Universe, Kingdom Hearts, and Tales of the Abyss. I'll tag authors where I can, but some I just couldn't find anywhere 😭

This definitely isn't all of them but if I tried to compile every single AU I've loved, we'll be here all day.

Kingdom Hearts:

Familiars by @kutikue @letoasai- all the characters are witches and/or familiars. I've just started reading it but it seems good so far! Definitely one of a kind!

Runaway Wind by Pred1059 - Ven wakes up early. It gets very off the rails very quickly.

Vulpes to Dandelions by YumeTakato (deviantart profile)- An Ava is Sora's Mom AU as well as a Master of Master's Arc speculation series. This one also goes into alternate universes and other things that make it unique.

Linked Universe:

Links Assemble by @vicmillen (Victor_Millen on AO3)- Marvel fusion AU featuring Warriors as Captain America. It's in-the-works so seriously, go over to Vic's blog and check it out!

Townhouse AU by st0rmy - a really fun AU where all the Links end up living in the same townhouse together. Chaos ensues. Time is tired.

Tales of Courage from Across the Galaxy by @wizard-finix (CubanCracker62 on AO3) - Star Wars fusion. I'm currently reading it, but it's good so far! There's also some art for it too!

Linked Nexus AU by @zarvasace- Space AU. I've just started reading it but I can't wait to see where it goes.

Wing Bois AU by @breannasfluff - probbaly one of the most unique AUs in the fandom. The Links have wings and bird traits. It's also very fluffy!

Hero's Aspect AU by @tashacee - Wild gets stuck in the Hero's Aspect outfit. I'm currently trying to catch up on all 45 parts, but it's definitely one of the biggest AUs for Linked Universe.

Opera House AU by @bokettochild (FlamingIdiot on AO3) - modern AU but all the Links work in an opera house. It a very different and interesting setting for a modern AU. I also can't reccomend Ketto's fics enough to be honest.

Fierce Hero 9 by @crazylittlejester (Can_Opener on AO3)- Big Hero 6 but it's Linked Universe. It loosely follows the plot of the movie, but there are some huge, interesting differences between this and the movie.

Tales of the Abyss:

Bladework by @starcrossed-sky - probably the best "Asch joins the group" series out there. Lots of political intrigue. The characters are so well-written and the 2nd person POV is so unique! Definitely made me obsessed with 2nd person POV lol. Follows the plot of the game initially

Reflections by @darkangelmya - an AU where Asch decides to return to the manor instead of running away with Van. Asch is an overprotective brother and it's awesome! Also follows the plot of the game, probably the most religiously of all my other fic recs for this game

Troth by @daily-rayless (Rayless_Night on AO3) - A post-game Asch comes back too AU focused on Asch and Natalia's relationship. Very beautiful, Rayless is an amazing author!

As for stuff I've written... I have to say the more unique ones boil down to [obscure media I read when I was 13] fused with either Linked Universe or Kingdom Hearts 😅 So like, my Lockwood and Co Fusion or the Stravaganza fusion I'm thinking of making lol. I also have a lot of unfinished Kingdom Hearts fics from years ago, like a "Eraqus gets brought back to life but he's 16 again and has amnesia" fic and a "Brain ends up in the time of Days and changes things" fic.

As for serious fics... I can't not plug my passion projects, the Reconnect the Chain AU and Relinked AU. They're both Linked Universe fics where the Links reunite (though I'm planning Relinked to be a comic). They're AUs of each other, with Reconnect the Chain being an AU that boils down to "what if Relinked happend 10 years earlier minus all the kidnapping?" (AKA, it's my fluff outlet lol).

I yet again managed to write an essay but uh--enjoy the fic recs!

[bbinkus11]

Here are a list of modern AU fics that I have in my bookmarks:

We Will Find You, Wherever You Are by Tessa_Reads (incomplete, superhero au)

Looking for Group by Tashilover (complete, coffeeshop au,  one of my fave fics)

Slipping through your fingers (like sand in an hourglass) by Mintyy_Fresh (incomplete—time travel AU)

Linked Universe Wing AU but It’s a Modern AU and the Wings Are an Angel Action. By Cutebutalsostabby (incomplete, queer empowerment fic) (incomplete)

Head becomes the hand becomes the knife becomes the mind by Dekuscrubb (zombie apocalypse au - incomplete)

Antiques by Silent17 (crackfic oneshot - complete)

LU in Healthcare by Skye_the_Lofty_Nutcase (series of fics – modern au where the chain works in a hospital -incomplete)

Family: Lost and Found Edition by Me_aGlorifiedPigeon (Cia stalks Wars - incomplete)

Linked Universe Townhouse AU series by St0rmy (of no relation to me) (9 out of 11 fics complete)

Level One by LightBlueScrubs (complete – intense medical fic about Wild motorcycle crash)

Skulltula and Thunder by me (UnexpectedStormy) (complete – oneshot Warriors + Hyrule modern military)

This list is not exhaustive, there are other modern or apocalypse aus out there, but these are the ones I have bookmarked.

OMG THANK YOU!!!!! This is so helpful I’ve been looking for these! Thank you stormy!

[poodle-anon]

Poodle Anon’s Fic Directory

Hey there! I’ve written a bunch of stuff that’s had to be on anon, and since to my knowledge you cannot add them to a series within Ao3, I thought it best to collect them all together here in one post with a semi-arbitrary order. Currently doing this all on mobile so things may be a bit off in formatting but they SHOULD all be under link/link on ao3.

Most of my things draw from the Townhouse AU created by the lovely @st0rmyskies, but I do NOT consider my own works to be related to Linked Universe, personally. We serve linkshipping here, sir.

Have fun!

Ceremony

Champion's upbringing was not as easy as some. Extension of lore from Home Sweet Home: The Brave, and the companion piece to HSH:Run, and I suggest you read that one first. Gen fic, Champion-only. HSH/DF compliant. Heavily features hallucinogens/bad trips, cults, and hazing. Oneshot, 3,008 words. Mature

Digital Footprint

Champion returns to his body and all of Wild’s leftover possessions and data. Like nudes. So many of his own nudes that he does not remember taking. Self loving (in many forms) ensues. Champion/Wild. Attempting to be HSH Compliant. Cis!Champion (started before trans!Wild was canonized). My smut magnum opus for some reason. Work in Progress. 5/? chapters, 16,484 words (so far). 18+ (with some sfw chapters)

Breathe Out, So I Can Breathe You In

This one's The Weed Fic (™) where Legend and Champion smoke some, have a heart to heart, and get handsy. Legend/Champion, background Legend/Hyrule. Digital Footprint compliant but not really canon. Semi-HSH compliant. Trans!Champion Oneshot, 4,632 words. PG-13

Once, and In a Fantasy

Champion finds an old video of a fling he had with his longest running crush (Sky) once. Jealousy and jacking off ensue. Wild gets to have all the fun, doesn't he? Sky/Wild, Sky/Champion (unrequited). Digital Footprint compliant but not really canon. Semi-HSH compliant. Cis!Champion. Oneshot, 1,750 words. 18+

What I Am

Champion has a bad time with some of Time’s old habits, and both are terrible at communicating. This is their get-along lakehouse. Followup/hypothetical addition to What We Are. Involves heavy discussion of dysphoria, discomfort, and failsex/sudden safewording. Champion/Time. Based on LMTCOY Oneshot, 2,000 words and counting. Unpublished wip you can ask me about. 18+

Unexpected Obstacles

Champion has some old trauma that dies pretty damn hard, sometimes getting in the way of his sex life. Or: champion accidentally pulls a knife on Twilight during sex and is then sad about it, but everything turns out fine because Twi is a goober. Champion/Twilight. Sorta HSH compliant. Oneshot, 998 words. 18+

Poodle Anon’s Speakeasy Kinktober Collection (2022)

Super secret server I’m in did a kinktober! Had a lot of fun with these, it’s all over the place but just oneshots. Many different ships (primarily HSH), but includes OC Link, and canon-inspired situations 7 chapters, 6,861 words, 18+

Playing With Your Food

Collab with our dear St0rmy! Wild and Dark as vampires, per Blood Lust, give gorey head to their boyfriends. Under-discussed kink, CW for dick squick, and blood/minor gore. There are Flesh Descriptions. Wild/Time (my bit), Twilight/Dark (Stormy’s bit). Blood Lust compliant. MIND THOSE TAGS. Oneshot, 3,016 words, VERY 18+

Broken Mirror

Time is goaded into fucking Dark over his desk, harkening back to the days of their misspent youth under control of various entities where they also fucked against a wall when they were supposed to be killing each other. Not really a hatefuck, more like an annoyed-fuck? Smangst. Dark/Time. LMTCOY/HSH compliant-ish. Kinda rough but Dark is into it. Mind the tags. Oneshot, 2,348 words. 18+

Practical Exam

Direct followup to Chapter 18 of Let Me Take Care of You Sky gets a final “test” before “graduating” his Dom training. The test? Time has wanted this flyboy's dick since the first day of their training, Sky sweetly obliges and Time gets turned into a puddle of mush (rare subspace). It’s very cute. Time/Sky. LMTCOY compliant. Mostly aftermath of their scene and some aftercare. It’s cute. Mind those tags!!! Oneshot, 3,538 words. 18+

Bunny Love

Legend and Hyrule mess around and get all cute and gross like the happy couple they are. They’re going to give me fucking cavities. Legend/Hyrule, established relationship. LMTCOY compliant. Short and sweet. Oneshot, 899 words. 18+

Bonus: Followup to @miniscrew-anon's febuwhump fill! Champion wakes up from his second bonkening that returned him to the world, and starts getting caught up on what he’s missed. Guard boys being friends. No ship (gasp). HSH: The Brave compliant. Oneshot, just under 500 words. PG-13

[wildsage00]

ask game

🍬👕🗞🗡(Wind)

🍬 Which Link deserves the most fluff? Every version of Champion (pre-calamity botw link, especially when distinct from botw link), notably in Bonus Links, Townhouse AU/Home Sweet Home: The Brave, and honorable mention to Klaus from Faction which is an au of Ageless Soul AU

👕 Choose two Links from different AU's who would be fun for a clothes swap! Hyrule from Linked Maze and Wind/Sailor from Heroes Spirit would look cute in each other's outfits I think :]

🗞 Those two Links from different AU's you want to put in a room and watch them fight? Time from Linked Universe and Koridai from Linked Maze. I think that would be fantastic. Also, a saturday morning cartoon style prank war would be great with Bonus Links Mage but i'm not sure who would be an appropriate competitor 🤔 suggestions welcome 🗡 Favorite version of [Wind]? This question feels illegal but I'm so heavily biased towards Shrimp from Link-Rejoin

[star-ocean-peahen]

Video tour of the basement in the Linked Universe Townhouse, from Home Sweet Home by @st0rmyskies!! I'm getting on with this build (It's still a WIP) but the basement is one of my favorite parts!

Motion sickness warning

Unfortunately there are no motorcycles in my version of the game, so Epona is absent :( But I do have Four's bedroom space (minus one curtain and the divider for some reason, of which i will post a complete video later), a workshop space, the garage (complete with a fake garage door), and Time's stash of old valuable items!! I sized down the money vault and placed it in the tapestry, to simulate Time's weapon safe. I wasn't able to track down the passage in the fic that described the basement so some details may be off, but I did my best to recreate it!

[givemeafuckingbreakorurgay]

Mocking Bird

(Inspired by St0rmy’s LU Townhouse AU)

“So, tell me, Champion,” he chauffeured conversely, a dazzling smile on his face as he poured himself a hearty glass of red wine, “do you even have a type?”

Despite Warriors’ unwarrantedly bold and charismatic presence, Champion didn’t even so much as bother to look up at him, picking up his medium glass of rum to stare hard into its flickering copper contents. His drink mirrored sweet caramel in the dim candlelight, yet its taste burned in his gut with a familiar ancient heat.

“Oh, I don’t know…probably someone who’d put me out of my misery,” Champion replied bluntly, a hand to his cheek as he took a minuscule sip from his drink.

Ah, so it was one of those nights.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43829158/chapters/110207041

[person-i-guess]

Time reading out loud: “I, Link Lon-Lon, legal guardian of Link Waker, consent to Link Waker collecting my order of two cases of Telma’s Classic Ale--” Wind what the hell is this and why did it mysteriously show up on my desk in the stack of papers to sign?

Wind *sweating*: Oh. Uhhh... You actually read those before signing them?

Time: This wouldn’t happen to be related to the mysterious charge on my credit card this morning, would it?

Wind: *sweats harder*

[wutheringmights]

Community Sourced LU/LOZ Fanfic Rec

Thank you for everyone who responded to my plead for LU and general Legend of Zelda fanfic. You guys really came through and dropped a lot of great recommendations.

I’m still working on reading all of the recommendations as well as hunting down fics to put on my own list. In the meantime, I want to put all of the recommendations everyone gave me all in one place.

This post is a compilation of replies to the original posts, asks, and DMs. I encourage you to check out the original responses for extra commentary.

Thank you @fluctuatingproductivity​, @thekorokcollective​, @inkorii​, @silverdragonms​, @x-mochasippi-x​, @meanlesbean​, @rabbitprincessthief, @mel--wn, and @midnavii

( * =recommended by multiple people)

Linked Universe Fics

The Linked Universe Townhouse AU series by Stormy

All of silvermistanimelover’s works (mix of LU and BOTW)

Degrees of Resurrection by Gintrinsic*

Their Melody by Nova16*

Mermaids Cenote by Salt000

Alone Together by Blueskullcandy

What Hyrule Hadn't Seen by sky_squido*

Down by RokettoMusashi

Stand Not at My Grave by Glau (Glaucus_Atlanticus)*

My Heart's Forsaken Me by sister_dear

Clearing the Air by Sinnatious*

Uncivilized by anthemXIX

All of htruona (circhester)‘s works

Greenhorn by HoneyHunny

Hey There Demons it’s Me, Your Boy by Ariandre

This World Was Not Made For You by sister_dear

Protector of the Golden Power by Sillus

Wars of the Mind by  LettersByTheLake

Ignorance is a Curse by Usagisama68

Equivalent Exchange by Blueskullcandy

General Legend of Zelda Fics

All of liketolaugh’s works (focuses on BOTW) 

Treacherous Intentions by littleredwritinghoodxx    

Time Like a River by twigcollins

Interim by starkraving

Rise by Meriandra

Facades by Sifl

I STOP TO SMELL THE BLOOD IN THE TREES AND FOR A MOMENT THE WORLD IS SO BEAUTIFUL IT BRINGS ME TO TEARS by perennials

What We Did Before by AndelynKinsey

The Every Flying Whale is the Wind Fish series by Kanthia

Colour Theory by the_Scrapwitch

FFS Series by DyraDoodles

Adopting the Enemy by Glau

Eulogy by icearrows1200

the word and legend go before you by jonphaedrus

Colour Theory by theScrap_Witch

Filling Graves With Ghosts by Tallyace

[st0rmyskies]

Finally got around to finishing up the design sheet for HSH Time. From left to right: body type, modern Royal Guard dress uniform, and his preferred attire for solo assignments.

[fallingintheforest]

Linked Universe Ski Patrol AU - Part 2

Only energy for two boys tonight..

Legend:

Ski Patrol Member

Skier - Speciality: Moguls & Backcountry

Former National Team member

He has been frequenting the mountain since he was a little kid. Once he started competing he very quickly dominated the scene. 

Currently, he is on a break from competition after feeling quite burnt out at the end of last season. 

As much as he loves the thrill and technical aspect of moguls he longs for days spent in the backcountry exploring with no civilization in sight and the calm stillness of the forest. 

Hyrule and Legend are backcountry skiing partners. 

Whenever there is a need for something, the patrol knows to radio Legend. They have yet to ask for something that Legend isn’t able to produce from his bag: trail mix, extra socks, flashlight, swiss army knife, hot packs, lip chap, tape, tweezers, sunscreen, gel packets, medicine... Man is a walking Pharmasave. 

Enjoys teaching pre-teen age groups the most as they tend to pick up new skills quickly and are comedic balls of happy energy. (They are also past the age of having to be carried off to the bathroom every 15 minutes).

Rents a townhouse with Hyrule and Wild. Their house is a constant disaster and Legend is 95% sure Wild has been stealing his favourite smartwool socks.

Wind:

Junior National Team Member (& VERY jealous he is not old enough to join Ski Patrol)

Skier — Seriously thinking about transitioning to snowboarding as a primary.

Billets with Time and Malon.

Got stuck headfirst in a tree well last season while skiing off piste and sent the entire patrol into a frantic frenzy trying to find him. Wars and Time simultaneously received their first grey hairs that day. Wind maintains he was cool as a cucumber, but boy was stressing.

He was introduced to skiing by his older cousin (Wars) on a family trip. Aryll didn’t take to it as much as Wind did. Eventually Wind stumbled upon old racing clips of Time and was completely enamoured. After that he threw himself into the sport and landed himself a spot on the Junior National Team. 

Time is Wind’s primary coach. 

Wars use to help out more with coaching Wind however, Wind has hit that prickly age which means he is less likely to be receptive of advice given by family. Lately, their interactions during practice tend to devolve into eye rolls and arguing when Wind gets frustrated. 

Has pilfered a spare key to the patrol office and raids the fridge on a daily basis (“Someone ate part of your sandwich Wars? Oh, what a shame...”)

[soybeantree]

pairing: kim junmyeon x reader

genre/warning: fluff, magic!au

word count: 5k+

description: apparently blowing off some steam - one too many times - leads to a one way ticket to servantdom. at least that’s how you viewed the newest link in the perverbial chain called ‘eventual obligations of being a familiar’. turns out it actually doesn’t matter how much you argue the rightness of your life choices to the higher ups. and turns out you don’t mind being attached to a certain kim junmyeon all that much either.

a/n: from the ‘rosemary by moonlight’ universe. not necessary to read that first, but some things may not make complete sense. we’ve been working on fleshing out this universe, so there will be more to come very soon!

The assignment sheet mocks you, promising the end of your freedom. You ball up the paper and throw it in the nearest trash bin. It doesn’t matter though, the damn sheet will show up on your bedside table tomorrow. Once signed a contract is unbreakable. It’s only six months though. You continue to remind yourself as irritation crawls across your skin.

Shoving your hands into your pocket, you head towards the exit but pause when you catch sight of a familiar figure. “Yuri!” You call. The healer turns. Her brows furrow when she sees your raised hand. She returns the wave and stops as you jog up to her. “What are you doing here?” 

“City Council business.” She gestures to the hall she came down. The doors at the end lead to the City Council Chambers.”

“But you’re not on the City Council.

“Only because it’s full of bigoted assholes.” She scoffs as she resumes walking. You fall into step beside her.

“Doesn’t your family head the City Council and make up about half of it?”

“Doesn’t mean their not bigoted assholes. Anyways, what are you doing here?” She reaches for the exit door and holds it open for you. 

The sun glares down at you, causing your eyes to transform. Cat eyes are easier to adjust to the bright light which outweighs the con of seeing everything in black and white. “I was picking up an assignment.”

“What?!” Your shoulders hunch, and you hiss. Yuri laughs and slaps you on the shoulder as she comes up beside you. “Don’t get your whiskers in a twist. I just never thought the day would come when Y/N would tie herself down to a sorcerer.”

“It’s not voluntary.” Your mumbling quirks Yuri’s brow. “I may have started a riot with my neighborhood cats,” you explain, quickly adding, “but I had good reason. This dick wad kid at the end of my street keeps shooting at strays with his pellet gun. I reported him to the neighborhood watch, but they did jack shit. So I took it upon myself to right the wrong.” Yuri nods along approvingly as you head down the steps in front of Town Hall, and you smile. If she or Uko were on the Board of Familiars, your hearing would have gone in your favor. 

“Long story short, the dick wad’s father brought charges against me, and the Board of Familiars thought my rebellious behavior is due to a lack of an authority figure in my life and that I have gone too long without a master. After all, what is a familiar without a master?” You roll your eyes and scoff.

“That’s ridiculous, so you had to sign your entire life away?”

You shake your head as you reach the sidewalk and head toward the nearby bus stop. “Familiar Law may be traditional, but it’s not barbaric. I signed a six month contract, and I’ll have an evaluation at the end. If I’m good, they’ll let me decide when and who my next master is.”

“They chose your master?” You nod. “Who?” She asks as the bus pulls up to the stop. The one question, you had hoped to avoid. You use the excuse of boarding the bus to delay your response, but all too soon, you two are sitting. She stares at you waiting for an answer. 

“Jun- Suho.” You correct yourself. “Why do sorcerers have to take a new name when they gain the title? It’s so stupid. He was Junmyeon all through school, and now that he has the fancy title of Sorcerer, I have to call him Suho.” You blabber on, avoiding her gaze. “It’s not like there are a lot of options in the area.” You huff.

“I know.” Yuri sighs, and you chance a glance at her. She’s staring out the window. You nudge her, but she waves you off. It’s not her fault that her family has only produced one sorcerer in the past two generations, but that argument has grown tiresome.

A mischievous grins tugs at your lips, and you settle into your seat. “Yep, so it was either Suho or Kyungsoo – whatever his sorcerer name is – and I didn’t think you’d like me being his familiar.”

Yuri whips around. “It’s D.O, and why would I care if you were his familiar?” You shrug but continue to grin. She glares, and you crack up. “Are you going to meet up with Suho now? He was at the Town Council meeting.”

“Fuck no. The contract doesn’t start till tomorrow, and I plan to enjoy my last night of freedom. Do you want to join me?” You cock a brow, but she shakes her head.

“Can’t. Chanyeol’s in town, and I promised him I would help him with something. Stop by my house in the morning though if you need a hangover remedy.” She offers as she presses the button for her stop.

“You’re the best.” After a quick grin, she is off, leaving you to your night of revelry.

The revelry should have stopped at 11:59. After all, come midnight, your six months of servitude began, but you had to push your boundaries, had to stay out till dawn drinking and dancing. 

Standing in front of Junmyeon’s townhouse after two hours of sleep and with a stomach threatening to unleash everything you imbibed during the last twelve hours, you question your life choices. With a shrug, you step forward and hammer the door. 

Nothing. No creak as the door swings open on rusty hinges and no smoke billowing from an empty corridor. No faint wail of departed spirits welcoming you to a place of death and despair. You definitely have suggestions for your sorcerer, and with Halloween around the corner, they are desperately needed.

Raising your fist again, you pound out the opening to Beethoven’s 5th symphony. Before you make it too far into the song, the door swings open soundlessly to reveal a sleep disheveled Junmyeon in purple silk pajamas with a matching silk robe. 

“I expected the robe. The pajamas not so much.” You comment as you lower your sunglasses to allow a full examination.

With a huff, Junmyeon jerks his robe closed. “What are you doing here, Kitty?”

Your lips pull back as you hiss at the nickname. Middle schoolers think they’re so clever. But the stupid nickname has stuck with you through high school and beyond. Shoving past Junmyeon, you enter the house. He blusters behind you, but you hear the door click shut soon after. 

“Didn’t you hear?” You ask as you glance around the impeccably groomed foyer. Every vase, frame, and piece of furniture glistens with a fresh coat of polish. “Do you clean all of this yourself or do you have a spell for that?” You turn back to face him, pulling your shades off and tucking them into the top you’d pulled out of your laundry basket that morning. It was the clean laundry basket, but it has been sitting on your bedroom floor for upwards of two weeks.

“Hear what?”

“I’m your Familiar.” You sweep your arms out and pop a hip as you dazzle him with your million-watt smile. 

He stares at you, mouth parted and chest still, for entirely too long. As a Familiar your magic extends beyond the ability to shift and a photographic memory, but not to immobilizing sorcerers. 

“Would you stop being a dick and say something? Listen, I’m not happy about this either. I’m even less happy that the stupid Board of Familiars didn’t give you a heads-up even though this was their brilliant idea. But here I am and here you are, and we’re stuck together for the next six months. We should just be happy that they didn’t insist that I live with you. 

“Now, do you have any ginger tea? My stomach is all kinds of upset, and I didn’t have time to stop by Yuri’s and get her hangover remedy.” You about-face and head towards where you think the kitchen is.

“Other way.”

You about-face again and head in the other direction. The kitchen is as disgusting as the foyer. He has everything in glass jars with labels, but none of them have ginger tea written on them.

“In the cabinet to the right of the microwave.” He directs you as he takes a seat at the counter. 

You swivel the Lazy Susan until you find the jar of ginger tea. “Mugs? Tea kettle?” 

He stands and stomps over to another cabinet to grab a mug. Filling it from the sink, he hands it to you, steam rising above the rim. You cock a brow. He returns the gesture, and you snort grabbing the mug and dropping a tea bag in it. “Look at you warming water without a spell. You really are a sorcerer, aren’t you?” You tease as you wait for your tea to steep.

“I didn’t ask for a Familiar, and I don’t need one.”

“And I didn’t ask for a sorcerer, and I don’t want one. But yet again, here we are?”

“Six months?” You nod. “And you signed a contract?” You nod again. “I didn’t sign.”

“Apparently a request was made by the head of your family. No signature needed when it’s stamped with the family crest.”

Junmyeon sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Why is my grandfather like this?”

“We’d all like to know that.” You blow on the tea before taking a tentative sip. The warmth slips through your body easing through your stomach and bringing it to rest. “Did Minseok make this tea blend?” You ask as you take another sip. 

He shakes his head, his cheeks tinging pink. “No, he only works with coffee.”

“You got this from Yuri, didn’t you? How did you swing that?”

“If we are going to be working together for the next six months, we need to set some ground rules.” He sneaks by your question, and you let him because you agree. “Let me shower and change, and then we can go over them.” You nod, sipping at your tea. He starts to walk off but stops and swivels back to face you. “Don’t touch anything.” You roll your eyes, and he narrows his.

“Calm down, Mr. Sensitive. Sorcerers aren’t the only ones who know about the delicate nature of magic.” His lips purse, but whatever retort he has remains unspoken. He walks off, and you shake your head. This is going to be a long six months. 

Strolling out of the kitchen, you follow the scent of magic up to the second story of the townhouse. The door to Junmyeon’s work room is locked, but what good of a Familiar would you be if that stopped you. The door pops open, and the scent of magic overwhelms you. Sneezing, you glance around. The large still at the end draws your attention. Witches simply brew their potions in a cauldron, but sorcerers have to be pretentious and make it seem like their work is more advanced and complicated. 

Passing in front of a mirror, you pause and raise a brow. Surely, Junmyeon knows the mirror is an open dimension portal. Why he would have an open dimension portal is beyond you, but he must have a reason. You stand in front of the mirror, chewing on the inside of your lip. He said not to touch anything, and you had given your word. However, you would be a shitty Familiar if you left the portal open. 

Eyes closed, you breathe in and out, feeling your magic hum through your hair and all the way to your toes. Your bones reform themselves, and your skin shrinks itself as fur sprouts across it. When you open your eyes, the world appears in shades of grey, except for the creatures on the other side of the mirror. They glow a sinister black. Raising a paw, you rest the pads against the cool glass. It ripples at your touch. The creatures stir, and you hiss at them to stay back. Your claws are good for more than catching mice. 

Magic surges through you, and you purr at the sensation. Releasing the magic, you watch as it coats the mirror’s glass. The rippling surface stills, and when you stare at it, only your reflection stares back.

“What are you doing?” Junmyeon’s scream grates on your ears, and you hiss at him. “I told you not to touch anything.”

And I wouldn’t if you weren’t stupid enough to leave an open portal in your work room. Who knows what shit those creatures would have caused in here. Your words are unspoken. They call upon your magic to reach him, and judging by his frown, they did.

“The portal wasn’t open.”

You cough, your throat unable to snort. Wow. Now I understand why your grandfather requested a Familiar for you. 

He bristles, his shoulders rolling back as he draws himself up to his full height which is considerable from where you sit on the floor. “I was doing quite well without one. I am close to a breakthrough on my research, and I will not have you causing me any delays.”

Delays? I’ve been here for less than an hour, and I’ve already saved your research. 

“Will you become human, please? We have a lot to discuss.”

You shrug, and by the time your shoulders settle into place, you are human again. “Better?”

With a nod, he heads to his work table and sits down on one of the stools, indicating you should take the other. 

Stretching, you ease the tightness which always comes from transformation and do as requested. Junmyeon starts talking, but the burbling beakers behind him capture your attention. One’s color shifts from bright blue to dark purple as you watch. Above it, a valve releases a droplet of water in ten seconds intervals. The liquid continues to darken with each drop. 

“I have a feeling that you don’t want that turning black.” You cut Junmyeon off as you point to the beaker. 

He glances over his shoulder and nearly falls off his stool as he rushes to remove the beaker from under the valve. He curses and mutters low to himself as he sloshes the liquid around. A light traces the surface of the glass before disappearing. Junmyeon sets the beaker on the table and scratches the back of his head. His eyes focus on a shaft of light coming through one of the work rooms' high windows. He continues to mutter, and you stand, moving closer to him to catch the vein of his thoughts. But, he senses your presence and steps back, glowering at you.

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m your Familiar. I’m supposed to help you with your magical problems, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what they are.”

“We have not established the rules of our relationship, and I don’t need your help.” He places his hand on the beakers top, muttering a spell. The liquid disappears, and he picks up the empty vessel, carrying it over to a previously unnoticed cauldron. You smile to yourself. Maybe, he’s not as pretentious as you thought. Returning with a bright green liquid circling the base of the beaker, he sets it under the valve and adjusts its speed, increasing the time between drips. 

“What are you working on?” You ask and quickly add. “I’m your Familiar. I should know.”

“We are setting up our ground rules.” He retakes his stool and you plop into yours, propping your head against your palm. The tea calmed your stomach, but using magic while hungover and exhausted is brewing a nasty headache. 

“Fine. Can we make it quick though? I need a nap.” 

“First, you are not to enter my home if I am not present.”

You nod. The movement sends a stab of pain through your head. “Going forward. If I don’t say anything, I agree. Also, even though my eyes are close, I am still listening.”

“Why did you go so hard last night?”

You grunt in response. “Consider it my ‘bachelorette party’. Gotta party hard before-“ You stop when you feel cool finger tips against your temple. Cracking an eye open, you still. Junmyeon’s face is a breath from yours. His eyes, warm as a sunrise, focus on you. His lips, soft and supple, part. His words are a whisper, but your mind fails to process anything he says. Magic flows from his fingertips. The ache in your head eases. 

He steps back, his eyes still upon you. “How does that feel?”

You stare at him, both eyes wide open, and your mouth silent. Your brain has forgotten what words are and how speaking works. 

“Y/N?”

“Better.” The response is a guttural growl. You clear your throat and repeat in your regular voice. 

“Given the current circumstance,” he says as he reclaims his seat. “The second rule is do not show up to my house drunk or hungover.” You nod. “Three, do not touch anything without my permission.” You roll your eyes but motion for him to continue. “Four, do not give advice unless I ask for it.”

“Yeah, that’s not possible.” You smirk at him. “I’m a Familiar. My job is to give unsolicited advice. Like you should try a different type of water to purify that potion.” You point back to the beaker which is once again on its way to black. 

Junmyeon’s head falls back as he groans. Your attention catches on the strong column of his throat. You shake the image out your head. Your close encounter has addled your brain. Junmyeon is an Essem, and you shouldn’t be staring at any part of him.

“I don’t understand.” He growls, and you refocus on the darkening potion. “This water was charged during the full moon and distilled by my cousin. It should work.” He grabs the beaker, vanishing the contents once again. This time though he does not refill it. Instead, he sets it down and pulls a leather journal from a shelf above his work bench. 

“Charged during one full moon or many?” He glances up from his notes, a question in his glance. You sigh. “Water charged during one full moon is fine for scrying, but if you’re trying to purify a potion and make it stronger that shit isn’t gonna work. You need stronger water. What’s the potion and what do you want to accomplish?”

His finger taps against the journal, and his whole face scrunches up. 

With a huff, you stand up and walk towards him. He pulls the book to his chest before you can catch a glimpse of anything. “Really? What do you think I’m going to do? Run off to the Stahns and tell them what you’re working on? They don’t use spies.” You pause, allowing the weighted silence to convey what you are leaving unsaid. “And even if they did. I wouldn’t spy for them. Despite how much I fucking hate the Familiar institution, I do uphold our value of loyalty.”

He lowers his arms. You snatch the journal from him. He makes a noise, but you ignore him as you flip through the pages allowing your magic to commit it all to memory. “Do you really think you can make an invisibility potion last longer?”

“Yes, I think that by purifying a potion, you can increase both potency and longevity. I’m trying to establish the process with an invisibility potion and then expand to other potions.” His shoulders go back and his chest puffs up as he speaks, but his voice quavers revealing a glimpse through the peacocks feathers.

You nod, turning a page. “Why potions? I always thought sorcerers were more interested in spells and rituals.”

“Spells and rituals are fun.” His chest deflates as he rearranges the equipment on his desk. “And you get a lot more prestige from accomplishments with them, but they aren’t that useful for everyday life and people.”

You pause on a page, the scribbles already committed to memory. Junmyeon has the fancy script of a sorcerer, but perhaps not the motivation. “But a long lasting invisibility potion is?” You smirk as you snap the journal closed and hold it out to him. “I feel like that’s only useful for pervy teens and maybe thieves. Which is your market?”

“Neither.” He snatches the book from your hand. “It’s a basic potion, an easy starting point. I don’t intend to hand it out to anybody who asks.”

You shrug but continue to smirk. “Any more rules?”

He shakes his head. “But I reserve the right to additional ones as I see fit.”

“I reserve the right to argue them. I accept the first three, but not the fourth.” You hold out your hand, allowing your magic to fill it. After a moment’s hesitation, he grasps it. His magic meets yours, sealing the agreement. “Alright, now that’s settled, I’ll let you get back to work while I try to figure out your water problem.” He sputters out a response which you ignore as you head out of the room. 

Three weeks in the Essem library leaves you more frustrated than the day you were forced to sign your damn contract. Getting access to the library had been bitch enough. Grandpa Essem had been adamant that no outsider should have access to their family’s knowledge and especially not someone with a photographic memory. When you pointed out to him that he was the one who had registered Junmyeon for a familiar, he had blustered insensible nonsense which you had tuned out. In the end, it took Junmyeon and Kyungsoo vouching for you and a gag spell before he allowed you access.

Not that the library has been any help. The Essem’s have plenty of books about enchantments, spells, rituals, charms, and all other forms of high magic, but something as simple as supercharging water no. Aside from spending the next three years charging the same water during each full moon, you are at a loss, and that would not be practical for Junmyeon’s purposes. 

“You wouldn’t happen to know any aquamentals would you?” You ask Yuri as you spin in her swivel chair. 

“No. You know how rare elemental magic is.” She glances between her notebook and the ritual she has set up on the table. A bowl sits in the middle. She said it was a salve for wounds which would help knit flesh back together if she could empower it properly.

“Yeah.” You sigh, giving yourself another push.

“You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m with a healer.” She ignores your comment. “You work with charged water don’t you.”

“I’m not offering any advice that will be used to help an Essem.”

You scowl. “Don’t think of it as helping an Essem. Think of it as helping one of your oldest friends.”

“Who is working with an Essem.”

“Don’t you owe Kyungsoo for something.”

Her hands ball into fists. “Junmyeon is not Kyungsoo.”

“What if I convince Kyungsoo that this counts?” 

“No.” She snaps her notebook closed, ending the conversation.  She closes her eyes and draws upon her magic. You can smell it in the air, a hint of herbs and growing things. Sweat breaks across her forehead, but even with all her effort, it is only a hum compared to the current of Junmyeon’s magic. She places her hands on the table. For a moment, the ritual hums. You hold your breath. The magic fizzles, sputters, and explodes. The contents of the bowl covering the table, Yuri, the ceiling. You manage to stay clear of the blast zone.

Yuri unleashes a string of curses and nearly flips the table before collapsing back in her chair and banging her head on the table. “This should not be so hard.” She moans.

 As you fumble for something to say, the workshop door opens. “Uko.” You breathe a sigh of relief. She has always been better at cheering Yuri up. She also believes that magical knowledge should be accessible by all. “Really quick before you help Yuri, what’s the best way to charge water? And don’t say moonlight because I’ve tried that and it’s not powerful enough.”

“Which crystals have you used?” She asks as the door closes behind her.

“Doesn’t matter. None of them could give the water a high enough charge.” You wheel towards her, grabbing onto her hand and peering up at her with the softest kitty eyes you can muster. “Please you’ve read so much.”

“You know you look creepy not cute when you only transform your eyes.” She taps your forehead before walking to Yuri. She brushes against you, swiveling you to face them both. Yuri is continuing to bang her head. 

“Stop it.” She commands. Yuri drops her head with a final thud.

“You still haven’t answered my question.” You whine.

Uko shakes her head as she glances between the two of you. “If crystal and moonlight isn’t enough then you would have to steep it with an object of pure magic.” 

“Where the fuc-” But your brain answers the question before you can finish. You’re an idiot. A straight idiot. “Thank you, Uko. You’re the best.” You jump out of the chair and wrap the girl in a quick hug. “Also, Yuri, I’m pretty certain Kyungsoo would help you with your ritual if you asked.” She lunges at you, but you dart out of her reach, laughing as you head for the door. 

A week later, you skip into Junmyeon’s workroom, positively purring. If your idea was successful which you know it will be, you will see the results today. As you cross the door’s threshold, your footsteps falter. Junmyeon stands at his work table with his back towards you. Red tinges his magic, leaving the taste of sulfur on your tongue. “Suho?”

“Kitten,” the word is a low growl. Not Kitty, Kitten. Anger or, perhaps, fear should explain the surge of blood through your system, but it takes second place. An unwanted and unwarranted emotion causes warmth to travel from cheeks to toes. You have been spending way too much time with Junmyeon. 

“I have a name.” You spit back, calling on your anger.

Junmyeon’s hands clench on his work table. “Where did you get the water?”

Fear rises and mingles with your anger. Neither produces an answer though. The words remain locked within your throat. 

As he turns to face you fear overwhelms every emotion. You had misinterpreted the red. Rather than anger; fear has mixed with his magic. Fear for you if the Council finds out? Fear for himself. Regardless, his fear frightens you. “From the Lake.” He knows which lake. He knew before he asked. 

“Why?” His voice breaks on the question and brings your head low.

“We were out of options.” You whisper. “There are no spells for charging water, we don’t know any aquamentals, and relying on the full moon would have taken too long. The Lake has been steeping for centuries.”

“Steeping dark magic.”

You scoff at that. “Magic is neither dark nor light. It’s magic. We are dark and light and use magic to suit our purposes.”

He presses his lips together until they are a thin line across his face. You swallow the rest of your argument. In the current conversation, it is irrelevant. Junmyeon knows it too.

“It is forbidden to go to the Lake or take its water.”

“Only because the Council is full of bigoted assholes.” You borrow Yuri’s description. “Just because they think they know everything doesn’t mean they do. The spells placed on the Lake are older and more powerful than anything the sorcerers of today can conjure. The Stahns may be diminished in power now, but they were at the height of their power when they sealed away the Paen’s sorceress. Taking a beaker of water isn’t going to do anything to those spells. Short of draining the lake of all its water, I don’t think there is anything we could do today to affect those spells.”

“Regardless, it is the law, and you broke it.” His fist pounds on the table behind him, shaking the still. The invisibility potion, clear with only a hint of green, ripples beside his fist.

“Are you-“ The question sticks in your throat like a hairball. You cough. “Then be a good little Essem and turn me in.” You call on the remnants of your anger and force the fear out.

“No.” Your eyes snap to his. You were ready for the Council to come storming in and bind your magic for the rest of your life.

“No?”

“No.” He leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest. “I should because that was stupid and reckless.” He sighs and shakes his head. “But you are my Familiar. You acted to help me. More importantly though.” He holds your gaze, offering a glimpse of the deepest depths of his soul. “You are my friend, and I trust you.” 

You run your tongue across your lips, suddenly parched. Friend? You have known Junmyeon since kindergarten. You have been his line buddy, his teammate, his lab partner, but he has always been an Essem. A bigoted asshole and the enemy. You nod. 

“Thank you, friend.” You smile at the odd taste of the word. He returns the smile. “Do we go back to work now?”

“I’m adding another rule.” Pushing himself off the bench, he comes to stand before you and extends a hand. “Please consult me before you break any laws.” With a chuckle, you reach for his hand, but pull back and cock a brow. His face furrows as you tuck your hand behind your back. 

“Before I agree I have a rule of my own.” He sighs and crosses his arms, nodding for you to continue. “Don’t call me Kitten again unless you mean it.”

“What do you mean ‘mean it’?”

“You’ll know what I mean if you mean it.” You purr. 

A flush creeps up his neck, but he clears his throat and shakes it off. “Fine.” He offers his hand again. This time, you take it and let your joined magic rush through you. 

[noona-clock]

Holiday Rumors

Genre: Office!AU/Fluff

Pairing: Junmyeon x You

By Admin B

Author’s Note: This takes place in the Rumors universe. See masterlist for links.

Usually, you were not the type to leave your Christmas shopping until the last minute. You liked to plan things out, and you also liked to get things done as quickly as possible - especially if there was a deadline.

But having a five-month-old tends to throw a wrench in your plans. A wonderful, adorable wrench, of course. But still a wrench. Not that you were comparing your daughter to a tool! You hadn’t planned on having her, that is true, but she was still the best thing which had ever happened to you.

...Well... Second best. Junmyeon still held that top spot. He was also partially responsible for your daughter’s existence, so he still had the right to take precedence.

But I digress! We were talking about Christmas shopping!

It was currently the weekend before the Big Day, and you’d realized you still had quite a few presents to buy. You hadn’t particularly wanted to leave your daughter because you left her all during the week when you went to work, but... if you didn’t get your shopping done now, you would most likely have to wait until after Christmas, and... well, what’s the point in that?

So Junmyeon had insisted you go, assuring you that he would be just fine being a single parent for an afternoon. He had ordered all of his gifts online and had been living a carefree life for a couple of weeks now. 

Lucky.

You knew you could also just online shop, but 1) it was too close to Christmas to risk it, and 2) there was just something about actually shopping in a store. Call you old-fashioned, but you liked to go out and shop. Just like you liked to read actual books instead of e-books.

You’d just spent the past few hours going from store to store, picking out gifts for Junmyeon and Simon and your family and your daughter (and maybe a couple for yourself, but not too many because you had refused your husband’s offer to take his credit card, and you still made far less money than he did which was fine because you loved your job, and you would much rather stay an editor but anyway). You had eaten lunch at one of your favorite cafes in the city, but by the time you were officially done, your stomach was starting to let you know it was getting empty again.

When you arrived back at your townhouse, you somehow managed to grab hold of all of the bags you’d accumulated before slowly making your way up the stairs and only slightly struggling to get the front door unlocked and open.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, let me help you.”

Of course, the first thing you heard was Junmyeon’s voice, tinged with panic when he saw how much you were carrying.

He had always been helpful and thoughtful and little overprotective. You’d learned this when you’d broken and dislocated many bones in your body after your bus accident very early on in your relationship. But he had reached a whole new level after you’d gotten pregnant, and apparently, he was still weaning himself off that - even after five months.

But you weren’t going to complain or insist you could do it yourself because -- well, you had at least ten shopping bags. You could certainly use some help.

Junmyeon took as many as he could, promising he wouldn’t peek inside as he took them upstairs to your bedroom. You set the remaining bags by the foot of the stairs, a smile lighting up your face as you headed into the living room where your daughter was lying on her playmat, kicking at the little toys hanging from the arch going from one side to the other.

“Hello, my angel,” you greeted, gently sliding her out toward you and helping her sit up. “Hello.”

Your daughter’s lips pulled into an adorable, gummy smile, and she gurgled with delight when she saw you. She reached out her chubby little arms, and you picked her up.

“Oh, I missed you,” you told her before blowing some soft raspberries on her cheeks. “Yes, mommy missed you so much.”

The soft thud of Junmyeon’s footsteps caused you to turn around, and your smile grew even brighter as he sauntered over to the two of you. He slid an arm across your back, leaning in and planting a long, playful kiss on your cheek.

“We missed you, too,” he murmured as you turned to give him a real kiss. “You got all of your shopping done?”

You hummed, pursing your lips for yet another kiss.

“Now all you gotta do is wrap them.”

“Oh, I will leave that for tomorrow,” you told him. “Future me can worry about wrapping. Right now, I just want to sit on the couch and watch a movie and relax.”

“How about some hot cocoa? Popcorn?” Junmyeon suggested, raising his eyebrows invitingly.

“Perfection.”

As your husband darted off to the kitchen to prepare your snacks for the movie, you carefully kicked your shoes off and perched on the couch. Your daughter was still babbling and smiling and grabbing your hair, trying to put it in her mouth. You kissed her and tickled her and teased her, your heart soaring with every shriek of laughter.

“You know she’s a total mommy’s girl, right?” Junmyeon asked from the kitchen, the smell of fresh popcorn beginning to waft through the air.

“What?” you chuckled. “No, she’s not.”

“She is,” he insisted. “She doesn’t smile or laugh quite like that with me.”

Your brow furrowed slightly, the corners of your lips turning down. “Well. Now that you can feed her, she’ll love you even more than she already does.”

To be honest, though, you’d been more than overjoyed when you’d found out you were having a girl. You’d always wanted a daughter, a chance to have a special bond and teach her all about being a girl - hopefully, that included makeup and fashion since those were fairly large hobbies of yours, but if not, you wouldn’t mind terribly.

Still, you wouldn’t say your daughter was a mommy’s girl.

“It’s all right,” Junmyeon assured you as he brought in two mugs of hot cocoa and set them on the coffee table. He then leaned over and kissed your ear before whispering, “I already have a daddy’s girl.”

“Oh my god,” you blushed. He was right, but did he have to say it out loud?! “You are lucky she has absolutely no idea what you’re saying.”

“I know,” he smirked. “I have to take advantage of it while I still can. Another year, and she’ll be starting to repeat everything we say.”

“I’ll have to start reading some books about George Washington to you, huh?” you cooed, nuzzling your daughter’s chipmunk cheeks. 

The one thing you’d desperately wanted your child to inherit from her dad was his cheeks, and you’d nearly cried with joy when you saw how plump they were.

Once the popcorn had finished, Junmyeon poured it into a bowl and carried it over, letting out a soft sigh as he plopped next to you on the couch.

“What shall we watch?” he asked, grabbing the remote while you stood to put your daughter back on her playmat.

“Hmm... how about... Elf?” You’d had an exhausting, somewhat stressful afternoon trying to find all the right presents, so you felt like watching something to help you escape. Take your mind off things by making you laugh.

Junmyeon immediately searched for the movie, finding it easily and selecting it. 

As the opening music started playing, you scurried back to the couch, cuddling up when he lifted his arm for you, and picking up some kernels of popcorn.

“I really did miss you,” your husband murmured as he rubbed your shoulder and pressed a kiss to your temple.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you frowned, leaning your head back just a bit to look up at him. “I hardly ever go this late without getting all my shopping done.”

“Hey, it’s okay. We’ve got a lot going on these days. Viola told me how busy you guys have been - more than you’ve let on.”

The eyebrow he raised at you forced a very innocent, angelic smile onto your lips.

“It’s fine! I’ve gotten all my projects done, I’ve never skipped a meal, your daughter has never skipped a meal. And now I have all of my presents, so it’s all good. I’ve got it.”

Junmyeon simply let out a little sigh before pressing a kiss to your forehead this time. “You know you didn’t even need to buy me anything, right? I don’t need any presents.”

“Yes, you do,” you chuckled.

“I do not,” he insisted. “Everything I need is --”

“Right here,” you finished for him.

“Well, it’s true! I have you, I have our baby, I have my job and this place... What more do I need?”

You thought about the super nice smartwatch you’d purchased for him, and a sly little grin tugged at your lips. “You’ll find out the answer to that when you open your presents in a few days.”

“Is it... another baby?” he asked hopefully.

“No,” you replied with some firmness. You were not ready to be pregnant again. The two of you had just started... well, you know. It had taken you this long to feel physically and emotionally ready for it again. You didn’t want to go back to square one again so soon! “Maybe next Christmas.”

“Okay, I can work with that.”

You simply let out a soft chuckle before cuddling back into him, reaching for your mug and sipping the rich, smooth hot chocolate. 

As you began to let yourself get lost in the world of Buddy the Elf, you couldn’t help but think... Junmyeon was right. You’d gotten to a point in your life where you didn’t really need any presents. You had everything you needed to make you truly happy; everything else was just icing on the gingerbread cookie.

Plus, this was probably the last Christmas you would have before the holiday shifted to be about Santa Claus and magic and hiding toys in the closet and leaving out milk and cookies. Everyone had told you your life would change after having a kid, and they’d been completely right.

It was the best change in the world, of course, and knowing you were going through it with Junmyeon? You wouldn’t have chosen anything different for the world.

Later that night -- much, much later -- you woke up suddenly, seemingly for no reason. 

You and Junmyeon had managed to get to bed at a decent time; your daughter had passed out after her bath around 9pm, a change to her usual schedule that you desperately hoped would continue.

And you had pretty much fallen asleep as soon as your head had hit your pillow.

(Another reason why you wanted to wait to have another baby? You didn’t really have a choice. You fell asleep way more easily than you ever had in your life, and the times you could actually spare the energy to try and make a baby were few and far between.)

But your body was so used to waking up a few times a night, apparently, that you still did - even if your daughter wasn’t crying.

You instinctively reached out to your husband’s side of the bed, planning to snuggle up and go back to bed. But your arm landed on the sheets with a soft thump.

You lifted your head, blinking the sleep from your eyes to make sure you weren’t making things up. But, no. Junmyeon wasn’t there. And, from the sound of it (or lack thereof), he wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

So you quietly rolled out of bed, stepping into your slippers and shuffling toward the door, grabbing your fuzzy robe on your way out.

The door to your closet/makeup room/the nursery (yeah, the two of you were already planning on finding a bigger space, as sad as it would be to leave this townhouse of your dreams) was wide open, and you heard no sounds coming from in there, either.

You tiptoed down the stairs, your confusion growing when it seemed like it was silent down here, too.

But when you reached the bottom, you saw... probably the sweetest, most heartwarming sight your eyes had ever beheld.

Junmyeon was standing in front of the Christmas tree, holding your baby girl and swaying and bouncing gently from side to side. Her tiny little hand was grasping one of his fingers as she stared at the lights. Junmyeon placed a few kisses on her cheek, murmuring softly against her skin.

“Isn’t it pretty?” he asked, his voice just barely above a whisper. “It’s a Christmas tree. You’ll probably be a little more excited next year, though.”

A smile pulled at your lips as you shuffled up behind your husband, sliding a hand around his waist and placing your chin on his shoulder once he stopped moving around.

“Hey,” he greeted quietly. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” you assured him. “Was she crying?”

“Just a little. You were completely out, so I brought her down here in case she got too loud.”

You simply let out a little sigh, pressing your face quickly into Junmyeon’s neck. “I love you,” you murmured.

“Because I wanted to let you sleep,” he chuckled.

“No,” you scolded gently. “I love you because you’re better than the best husband I could’ve ever asked for. Better than the best father to our girl I could’ve ever imagined.”

Apparently, seeing him standing in front of the Christmas tree with your daughter had brought out your sappy, sentimental side. And maybe the fact it was the middle of the night and you were extremely sleepy.

“See? This is why I don’t need any presents,” Junmyeon replied. “You love me. Our daughter loves me. I’m lucky enough with just that. My life isn’t missing one single thing.”

You let out a tired but very happy hum, squeezing your husband slightly and placing a kiss on his shoulder.

He was right. Christmas had never been about the presents, of course; it had always been about love and joy and being together. But now you honestly felt like you really did have all the gifts you needed. You didn’t need to unwrap anything come Christmas morning because everything you needed - everything you wanted - was right here.

(But you were still super excited to give Junmyeon his smartwatch. He was going to love it.)

[agapaic]

[fic] nothing’s gonna hurt you, baby [3/6]

he tian x mo guan shan

tags/notes: 1920′s au, new york au, reference to drugs and alcohol, gang violence.

links: read on ao3 | part one | part two

this fic was commissioned by @teanshan

part 3: patriotism

He Tian was sitting at the dining table when Guan Shan walked downstairs the next morning, his mouth dry and ashen from the liquor last night.

His pressed suit and concentrated gaze gave him the air of someone who’d been awake hours, and Guan Shan grew self-conscious in the teal silk nightshirt and trousers Jian Yi had given him, hair ruffled from sleep, sheet lines on his skin, eyes wandering blearily—sharp and alert as soon as he saw the man eating breakfast in Jian Yi’s dining room.

‘Good morning,’ He Tian said, blowing the heat from a spoonful of broth.

Guan Shan stood immobile in the doorway. ‘Why are you here?’

He Tian tutted. ‘Impolite,’ he said, and swallowed a mouthful.

Cigarette smoke mixed with salted soup, steamed buns, hot rice, and the tang of newly cut fruit, and Guan Shan’s stomach twisted with hunger. He’d spent too long snooping Jian Yi’s house the day before to use his kitchen, and his dinner at Zhengxi’s had been small and hurried between shifts. The last full meal had been in his mother’s kitchen, congee and fried tofu with greens and braised beef, swallowed down with his mother’s worry lines and the hand she wouldn’t stop holding.

He Tian said, ‘Did you forget? I said the attorney would be here with a contract.’

Guan Shan narrowed his eyes. ‘Yeah. I’m only lookin’ at you.’

He Tian smiled, all teeth. ‘Then you’re looking at my attorney. I don’t trust anyone else to carry out business I can do myself.’ He flicked his fingers across the table. ‘Sit. Eat. Jian Yi’s gone out, and you look wasting.’

The smell of food pulled him to the seat across the table, and Guan Shan cautiously picked up the sheaf of papers that rested beside the laid-out crockery. Stark paragraphs stared up at him, some terms Guan Shan knew and understood, and most he didn’t. He glanced up at He Tian, who was spearing a piece of melon with a fork.

‘What’s this?’ Guan Shan said.

‘What does it look like?’ He Tian said, chewing, helping himself to rice. ‘Your contract.’

The paper crinkled as Guan Shan’s fist closed around it. ‘I can’t understand this shit.’

He Tian said, ‘I know,’ and leaned back in the dining chair, as at home as if the house were his. Maybe it was. ‘It’s a farce,’ He Tian continued. ‘Just as you being my secretary will be a farce. Half of this is make-believe.’

‘You never asked if I could read or write.’

He Tian nodded. ‘Right.’ His head tilted. ‘Can you?’

‘Well enough,’ Guan Shan says sourly. He’d been educated in his village, taught to write mostly by his father from menus and pamphlets and newspapers. His mother would tell him stories as she worked in the house, Guan Shan acting as scribe, following her from room to room with a notebook and pencil. School had been too far from his village in Canton, and he’d never had the smarts or dedication to try for a university. There wasn’t much for his family to be prideful over.

‘I’ll take it,’ He Tian said. ‘Wouldn’t matter if you couldn’t. Eat.’

Guan Shan pushed down the desire to snap back at the command. Hunger won out, and he helped himself to broth and steam buns, peeled lychee and halved, sour-sweet pomelo.

He Tian watched him while he ate, tapped ash out into a cigarette tray, kept his gaze steady through the smoked haze, a lazed insouciance that left Guan Shan tense and nervous. He felt spiked with adrenaline, flashes of heat stabbing at the back of his neck and his thighs, and was grateful for the cracked-open window that let in New York’s cooling, damp autumn air, the chaotic acoustics of the city breaking stale silence.

One thing was abundantly clear to Guan Shan as he ate: dining with the enemy was as good as being in bed with them.

‘You’ve got better things to do than this,’ Guan Shan said eventually, sucking pomelo juice from his thumb, a thin sheen of spit layering his skin.

‘On the contrary,’ He Tian said, eyes on his. ‘I’ve got all day to do this if I choose.’

‘Must be real fucking nice,’ Guan Shan said. ‘That luxury.’

He Tian said, ‘On the contrary.’ He nodded to Guan Shan’s empty bowls, the abandoned fruit peel. ‘Go wash, if you’re finished. I have business I need your assistance with.’

‘Thought you could do this all day,’ Guan Shan said.

‘Thought you wanted a job,’ He Tian countered, smile polite enough to carry a threat.

Guan Shan left to shower.

He Tian drove them north-west through Manhattan in a black car called a Silver Ghost, which, as He Tian informed Guan Shan, was hand-built and one of only seven-thousand made in the world. Guan Shan told him he wasn’t much impressed by cars, sheltered beneath its collapsible fabric hood, eyeing the miniature winged woman made of silver that rose from the bonnet.

‘They’re an acquired taste,’ said He Tian, easing his way through the streets of Manhattan, away from Chinatown’s lower east side, where the bold, modernist buildings of Fifth Avenue and Greenwich Village and West Village rose higher, stretched wider, balconies bursting with flowers and a richness that was foreign and remote and western to Guan Shan, and billboards for cigarettes and Dodge and Ford motors clung to the building sides.

Jian Yi’s townhouse was a bungalow compared to some of the residences that filled the avenues of New York City’s Chelsea, Zhengxi’s restaurant a pale imitator of the glamour that lined the city streets up-town in Madison Square.

An acquired taste.

‘Yeah,’ Guan Shan muttered distractedly. ‘Acquired by people with money.’

He Tian shrugged. ‘Or people with determination,’ he said. ‘With fire.’ His glance towards Guan Shan was pointed, but his eyes didn’t stray from the streets long, pedestrians lining the pavements, decked in raincoats and hoisting umbrellas like rifles over their shoulders. The clouds were a rolling purple, eagerly gathering, and Guan Shan felt the air wait for its rainstorm.

‘Fire doesn’t do anyone much good here if they’re not white.’

He Tian said, ‘That’s what they’d like you to believe.’

Guan Shan went sullen as He Tian pulled the car to a stop. They were on a residential street on the outskirts of Chelsea. Guan Shan could see glimpses of the Hudson River through wide-spaced brownstones, the pier not too far in the distance, choked with ships and docked boats, and fumes from tobacco factories and steel mills soaked the air.

He helped He Tian pull a fitted tarpaulin over the Silver Phantom, and followed him up the few steps to the doorway of one of the residences. The door unlocked with He Tian’s palmed key, and the unremarkable exterior shifted as soon as it closed behind them.

He Tian’s penchant for disguises was becoming distinctly apparent to Guan Shan as he took in the space; normalcy on the outside, a dizzying parade on the inside, where men in suits and women in slim dresses hurried about the building like bees in a hive, spurred on by the smoke of cigarettes and hash, the ground floor open and absent of dividing rooms, like the stretched innards of a warehouse.

If there was music playing, Guan Shan couldn’t hear it over the shouting of back-and-forth voices, of wooden doors slamming and typewriter carriages pealing to a next line, of feet stomping up staircases and floorboards creaking with traffic above. Glasses of liquor and cordial sat like permanent fixtures on the rows of desks that filled the room, green desk lamps like pockets of jade that fit the main hall of the lower floor, and wooden boards stood sentry-like along the walls. They were decorated with profile photographs and typewritten posters stuck with drawing pins like some policing precinct, but there was nothing abiding in the building.

Almost, it had the illusion of a bank: high windows and suited employees and the nervous, commercial energy of professionalism. But it was too obviously apart from that legality. Guan Shan could almost smell the cordite from gunfire, could taste the white buzz of bloodshot eyes and cocaine breath, could feel the red-soaked paper of stolen hundred-dollar notes.

Men and women paused as He Tian pushed through the hall, nodding and letting him pass, glancing up from typewriters and thick stacks of documentation. Someone took his coat, another the key to the car. A stout woman muttered hurried sentences in He Tian’s ear as he nodded and moved ceaselessly towards the staircase, Guan Shan following, upwards and through another identical hall-like room packed with people, and then towards the closed door at the room. The power He Tian held in this building was palpable, energy shifting from harried to focussed as soon as they caught sight of his dark suit and the golden hilt of his cane, which clacked pointedly along the floorboards.

Most alarming to Guan Shan was that no one stopped him; no one questioned him or raised eyebrows at his red hair. He had arrived with He Tian, and that gave him an authority—an immunity—that was frightening.

Guan Shan had no idea who he was dealing with.

Like the bar beneath Zhengxi’s restaurant, the office at the back of the room was solitary and polished, and the sound of the rooms outside was muted as soon as Guan Shan and He Tian were inside, a blanket of cotton wool draped over them.

Guan Shan sat himself down before He Tian’s desk, its owner standing with his shoulder blades hunched back as he poured over an open manilla folder bursting with sheets of paper.

‘The bar under the restaurant isn’t where you work,’ Guan Shan said, running sweaty palms over the fabric of his trousers.

‘Correct,’ He Tian said, flipping through sheets, eyes scanning black and white text with a rabid kind of pace. ‘Farces, remember?’

Guan Shan remembered—substituted farce for disguise in his head.

‘What do you do here?’ he asked. ‘What were all those people doin’?’

‘This and that,’ He Tian replied.

Guan Shan bit the side of his cheek. ‘And d’you want me to do this or that?’

He Tian’s roaming gaze stilled, and with a careful steadiness, he looked up at Guan Shan. ‘What do you think, Guan Shan? What do you think someone like me does?’

‘Isn’t that why I’m fuckin’ asking?’

He Tian’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but then he collapsed into his desk chair with a cultured ease that seemed planned. He rubbed at his temple with the fingertips of his left hand. With his right, he dug into his desk drawers and threw a box of Turkish Murad cigarettes on the the surface, plucked one out, and lit it with the lighter in his breast pocket.

‘We run betting transactions here, Guan Shan. We handle liquor and opium imports. We ordain the gentlemen’s clubs and the whorehouses and fund the churches. We work with those dirty cop friends you happily condemned.’ He said, ‘We run the city here, Guan Shan.’

Guan Shan remembered the conversation he’d heard last night in the little Chinatown watering hole.

‘You’re a Tong.’

He Tian didn’t blink. ‘That’s a part of it. But that’s China. I’m talking New York.’ He took a drag. ‘Do you know two of the oaths a man takes to join a Tong?’

Guan Shan didn’t.

‘Loyalty, and righteousness,’ He Tian said, holding up forefinger and thumb. ‘Loyalty to one’s people, and a promise to protect those people from outsiders.’ He Tian spread his hands. ‘How’s that going to work in our people’s favour if we shut ourselves off from those outsiders—whose land we live on and work on and shit on?’

It was barely nine o’clock, but Guan Shan thought about the drink He Tian had offered him last night, and he thought he might accept it now.

‘You want our people to—assimilate?’ Guan Shan asked, trying to think of the word. It tasted dirty on his tongue like poorly made cigars and the ash of burnt ginger left too long over a flame.

‘In their eyes, we’re all delinquents. Thieving foreigners. We’re disorganised and lawless and we all want to follow different rules according to our heritage. How can we work with other people if we can’t work with ourselves? Then there’s the Russians, the Italians, the Irish. I want a common goal.’

Guan Shan stared at He Tian. ‘So you want Chinatown to be under your rule? Everyone according to your rules?’

He Tian arched a brow, and tapped his cigarette. ‘Is it not already?’

‘I heard there were wars.’ You can’t rule something when there’s civil war.

‘Old wars led by old people. I don’t belong to that.’

Guan Shan swallowed this. ‘You think—You know you have Chinatown,’ he said, quickly correcting himself. ‘So, what, you’re going for the whole of fucking Manhattan?’

He Tian smiled thinly. ‘Guan Shan. I’m going for the East Coast.’

Something ran down Guan Shan’s spine like a spider, spreading coldness through every web of muscle and capillary and bone fragment. He looked at He Tian, nine o’clock in the morning and running half of New York’s underground, and knew that He Tian believed in everything he was saying.

What scared Guan Shan, scared him in its arrogance, was that he believed in everything He Tian was saying too.

A thought popped into his head easily, unbidden, and it chilled him: How long do you have to run with this dream before they put you down? He Tian’s death seemed like the death of a god, something invincible and winged and too-powerful brought down by the humanness of a bullet or a knife. But Guan Shan knew that men were only men, and as much as he feared He Tian—fuck him and his mortal weaknesses—He Tian was only the same.

‘You’re fucking crazy,’ Guan Shan said.

He Tian chuckled. ‘My brother would be happy to hear that.’

‘Your brother?’

‘He runs the West,’ He Tian explained, a dismissive edge to his tone. ‘He always called the East an untamable beast. It’d be a fucking pleasure to prove him wrong.’

He runs the West.

Fuck, Guan Shan was beyond this.

If He Tian had his hand in every pocket of every citizen in a thousand-mile radius, Guan Shan was a pauper with empty pockets drinking rainwater off the streets. He couldn’t do this. His father was lost to the untamable beast that Guan Shan thought was He Tian before it was the coastline, and Guan Shan was dreaming if he thought he’d ever find his father again. He was going to die here.

‘And where do I fit in all this?’ he asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. ‘You saw me in a restaurant and took me as I was? No money and shitty education and a background you don’t really believe? You don’t seem like the kinda person who makes those kinda mistakes.’

‘Right,’ said He Tian. ‘So if I wanted you, what makes you think I’ve made a mistake?’

‘If you—’ The words shuddered to a stop. ‘Want me for what?’

He Tian shrugged. ‘Company. A second opinion. You interest me.’ He pressed out his cigarette. ‘You ask a fuck ton of questions for someone who just wants money, Mo Guan Shan.’

His full name on He Tian’s tongue was fearful; did He Tian remember Guan Shan’s father’s name? Had he made the connection? Was Guan Shan sitting here, waiting for a moment to strike, and all the while He Tian was waiting for him to do the same with some omniscient arrogance?

‘I don’t trust this,’ Guan Shan told him.

He Tian said, ‘That makes two of us, and I don’t care. You knew my name, where I was. What made you think you could?’ He held up a hand, fingers slender and exposed and silencing. ‘No more questions,’ he said, and tapped a finger on the desk. ‘Business.’

He threw the folder in front of him over to Guan Shan’s side of the desk, and Guan Shan picked it up the same way he approached anything offered to him by He Tian: tentative and cautious and waiting for it to bite. The same way he approached the man himself.

‘What d’you want with this guy?’ Guan Shan asked, leafing through the documented profile of some white politician, a black-and-white photo of the man staring up, his smile a stretch of white teeth that made Guan Shan’s skin crawl, light eyes leering and imposing through the paper.

‘We’re going to pay him a visit,’ He Tian said. ‘Mr Sauer’s parents fled to America in the eighteen-fifties after their pro-democracy politics threw them into government scrutiny. Sauer seems to be a fan of twisting his family’s beliefs to suit his own agenda.’

Guan Shan looked up, mouth twisting. ‘But you want to twist our country’s for your agenda? Fucking hypocrite.’

Wordlessly, immediately, He Tian leaned over and pressed his cigarette into the back of Guan Shan’s hand.

The searing burn was immediate, brief and gone within the second, but it was enough for Guan Shan to cry out and drop the folder into his lap, eyes watering with stinging, welting pain, the smell of burnt skin filling his nostrils.

‘You were saying?’ He Tian said, and relit the cigarette.

Guan Shan cradled his hand against his chest as his body trembled—and glared.

‘Don’t cross me, Guan Shan. Neither of us will like it.’ He reached over again, ignoring Guan Shan’s flinch, and grabbed the folder from Guan Shan’s lap. ‘I have most of Tammany, but I want more than that political machine. I need the right-wingers too if I’m getting this Exclusion Act out of my way.’

Mind reeling from the sudden act of violence, Guan Shan tried to piece himself back together and focus on the conversation. His skin had stopped searing, but it was sore and needed ice, the flesh already risen in a bubble the shape of a cigarette cherry. For some time, Guan Shan knew there would be a scar.

‘Sauer’s my answer to this problem,’ He Tian continued, ‘but if he won’t convert then he needs to get out of my way.’

‘Convert?’ Guan Shan asked, clearing his horse voice.

‘He’s an opioid addict, which is easy leverage. But he’s roughed up some of my girls a few times too many.’ He Tian ran a thumb along his jawline in thoughtful planning. ‘I’m half-hoping he won’t be easy to bait.’

‘It would justify you murdering him.’

He Tian’s smile is cold. ‘When one of my girls ends up in the hospital with her breasts cut open with a knife, we can talk about justification.’

Guan Shan felt his face twist at the starkness of He Tian’s words, undressed and barren. He spoke with a vulgar clarity that clashed with the low smoothness of his voice, an impression that was jarring and left Guan Shan feeling off-kilter. Really, he hadn’t felt balanced since the moment he’d set foot in New York, and He Tian’s character was threatening to throw him over.

‘Why bother with this Sauer guy at all?’ he asked. ‘If he’s such a piece of shit, why try and get him on your side? There’s other guys in government you could bait, right?’

Guan Shan couldn’t think about how easy the words were rolling off his tongue; how easy a concept belonging to He Tian’s world had suddenly become a standard part of his own.

He Tian nodded at him. ‘Many others, but this one’s already in someone else’s pocket, which means he must be worth something to the rest of the righters.’ His tone changed, went careful in a way Guan Shan hadn’t heard before, like he was testing waters. ‘You’ve heard of She Li?’

The name was unfamiliar. ‘Should I have?’

He Tian frowned and became pensive. Guan Shan couldn’t figure out what was puzzling him.

‘She Li wants his own Tong, and he wants to be sheriff.’

‘You’re worried about this guy?’

‘No. But I want to know what he’s selling people like Sauer that makes them want him more than me.’ He looked somewhere above Guan Shan’s head, seeing something Guan Shan couldn’t, eyes unfocused. ‘We’ve tapped his phones and cut through his telegrams, but there’s been nothing. None of my guys know anything, and if they did, I’d know. Whatever he’s doing, he’s hiding it really fucking well.’

‘What if it’s just the same as you? Buying Sauer with heroin and prostitutes?’

‘We’ve found his supplier and tracked it back,’ He Tian said. ‘It’s some big-timer from Chicago my brother knows, not She Li.’

‘And what if She Li’s giving him more than that? More than what he wants?’

He Tian shifted, looking at him blankly. ‘What’s your point?’

‘This—this Sauer fucker. He’s government, right? So what if She Li’s giving the government somethin’. Sauer’s just the in-between, and She Li’s not really giving Sauer anything.’

‘If that’s the case, then Sauer can be compromised. His duty to himself is more important than his patriotism.’

Guan Shan shrugged. ‘Guess you’ll have to meet the guy and find out.’

‘Guess I will,’ said He Tian. ‘And you’ll come with me.’ He rested a weighted gaze on Guan Shan, flipping his lighter in his hand. Guan Shan was growing used to the man’s stillness, his intense silences and dark staring. It made every motion, every rotation of the metal, captivating. ‘You know, you make everything sound easy,’ He Tian said quietly. ‘Simple.’

Guan Shan didn’t know what to make of that. Guan Shan made everything sound easy out of brutal honesty; He Tian was enigmatic and mercurial, except when he was cruel. It made him difficult to grasp, meant his mind must work on overtime, trying to make more sense of things than was needed.

A knock on the door interrupted their strange silence.

The senior woman who’d been muttering in He Tian’s ear when they arrived at the office poked her around the corner.

‘Your brother’s on the wire, sir.’

He Tian looked up, a clouded expression on his face. ‘It’s barely dawn there,’ he muttered to no one in particular, and then, resigned: ‘Give me a moment, Mei Fen.’

Mei Fen nodded, retreated. The door shut behind her, and He Tian had a finger pointed in Guan Shan’s direction as he stood.

‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘We’ll leave after I’m done.’ As he passed, he leaned down into Guan Shan’s ear, his voice kept to a murmur as if someone would hear him—as if it mattered who heard his threat. His breath was hot on Guan Shan’s neck, and Guan Shan caught a glimpse of He Tian’s leather shoulder holster, gun pressing forward on his jacket. ‘I’ll know if you try anything,’ he murmured, close as a lover, ‘and I will do worse than your hand.’

With He Tian gone, the pain from the burn Guan Shan had briefly forgotten now flared with a steady, stinging throb. He clenched his fist, unclenched it, skin shifting over his bones, the blistered flesh crying out with the movement, like pressing at a bruise, or twisting a loose tooth.

There wasn’t much of anything Guan Shan would be able to do while He Tian answered the call, but it didn’t stop him from wandering the perimeter of He Tian’s office barely seconds after the door closed.

Bottles of whisky and baiju and gin filled almost every cabinet, and cigar trays that He Tian didn’t seem to smoke were stacked in neat rows like the unread books. Boxes of documented reports filled the higher cabinets, sheets of paper that Guan Shan flipped through quickly, the listed figures a blur that Guan Shan couldn’t make sense of. Dates and names and locations were crammed into most of the reports, and Guan Shan skimmed them knowing he had no idea what he was looking for.

The drawers of He Tian’s desk were mostly locked, and there was no release switch that Guan Shan could find, fingers running over the smooth underside of the desk. Two pistols and a revolver sat neatly in one of the drawers, beside a box of gilded fountain pens and bottles of dark ink, and a serrated knife lay on a sheaf of starched vellum paper—the same He Tian had used to deliver the message last night.

I just need something, Guan Shan thought desperately, casting hasty glances at the closed door. Something that makes him culpable. Something that connects him.

But there wasn’t—locked cabinets and drawers barred him, and what was available to him—liquor bottles and expensive stationery and guns—gave him nothing. It told Guan Shan everything he already knew: that He Tian was rich, cultured, lawless, and violent. That, if he’d orchestrated his father’s arrival into New York, he wouldn’t leave a trail.

Guan Shan was thinking about the contract He Tian had given him that morning, head bowed over the open drawers of He Tian’s desk, when the door opened.

Guan Shan froze.

They stared at each other in silence, and He Tian shut the door without turning away.

He Tian stared at him. ‘Find what you’re looking for?’ he asked.

Guan Shan glanced down at the revolvers in the drawer, weighing, fuelled by the kind of chaotic, mad impulse his mother would warn him to watch. He’d never fired a gun in his life—didn’t know if they were even loaded. Carefully, Guan Shan pushed the drawer closed, no screeching of unoiled wood, just a smooth insertion, which He Tian watched from the doorway.

His watchful stillness could have told Guan Shan one of four things: none of the guns were loaded; He Tian knew he could pull a gun on Guan Shan faster than Guan Shan could on him; he didn’t believe Guan Shan would be capable of pulling the trigger; or he wasn’t afraid of death.

He would suffer a mortal wound with a smile on his face, and the knowledge that once a gunshot reverberated through the offices, Guan Shan would be dead within minutes.

‘No,’ Guan Shan told him, throat dry. His heart ached in his chest as it crashed against his ribcage. Maybe he’d be shot anyway, the cigarette burn on the back of his hand like a papercut. ‘I didn’t.’

You stupid fuck.

He Tian nodded, as if understanding. ‘Alright,’ he said, and Guan Shan waited for that quick strike of violence He Tian had employed in the office just before—a knife at his head, a pistol aimed at a kneecap.

But there was nothing.

He’s unpredictable, Guan Shan reminded himself. He’ll swipe one time and hunt for three days the next.

The thought did nothing to comfort him, made him only understand that if He Tian exacted no punishment now, then it would come later, when Guan Shan’s guard was down.

He Tian’s coat was draped over his arm, ready to go and find Sauer, and Guan Shan knew that He Tian was going to leave this office with him—or alone.

‘Grab one of those, would you?’ He Tian said, jerking his head towards the desk. ‘The Korovin would do. The blue one with the wooden side panels. Watch the blowback.’

It took a second for Guan Shan to catch up. ‘You want me to give you a fucking gun.’

He Tian smiled, propped himself against the doorframe. ‘I want you to give you a gun. I already have mine.’

Guan Shan had already called He Tian crazy. He was already bewildered by the man’s operations. Guan Shan had nothing to do but gape.

‘Something wrong?’ He Tian asked.

‘No,’ Guan Shan said. And then, as if experiencing some great, philosophical epiphany, ‘You don’t make mistakes.’

He Tian’s smile widened. ‘You’re learning, Guan Shan.’

One of He Tian’s men had been watching Sauer for weeks, trailing him from city hall to grocery store to whorehouse; it made finding his hotel suite at The Pierre easy, dressed in Turkish marble and Indian silks and overlooking the lazed movements of Central Park below, appropriately lavish for the bottles of champagne that rolled across Sauer’s marbled flooring and any sultan or rajah or English lady who wandered into the hotel’s ballroom or tea gardens or glistening lobby.

He Tian sat with his legs crossed in the alcove of an ornate window seat smoking a cigarette, while Sauer hurried to find his underpants and the two French women in his bed found a new residence in the bathroom and locked the door behind them.

Guan Shan stood at the suite’s front door, two of He Tian’s men standing watch in the hallway, and watched the scene play out before him, uncomfortably aware of the gun in his pocket. He Tian had given him a brief lesson on the drive uptown, his instructions matter-of-fact and trained, like teaching Guan Shan how to light a cigarette.

Guan Shan knew how to fight; he knew how to throw a punch. He’d bitten his lip enough times and broken enough teeth against his split knuckles to handle that—righteous kids from his village and thieves on the freight trains—but this was different. There was a detachment in pulling a trigger and ending someone with the sudden finality of a gunshot. It wouldn’t hurt Guan Shan to pull it. He wouldn’t risk bleeding.

‘You won’t even need to use it,’ He Tian told him, palming the keys of his car to a chauffeur with a five-dollar bill.

‘That’s a fucking comfort,’ Guan Shan had muttered in response, and followed He Tian, smirking, into the hotel.

Sauer was bigger than Guan Shan had thought from the photo, closer to He Tian’s height and broad in the shoulders, thick with muscle, but older too. His stomach was softening and the blond line of his hair was fading backwards, the leery glittering eyes in the photo He Tian’d kept now dull and watery. Guan Shan noted his sluggish movements and laboured breath, his light-haired moustache beaded with sweat. In part, Guan Shan could chalk it up to the champagne, to the sex, to He Tian’s casual entry—tell the girls to get the fuck out and get dressed—into his hotel suite. In part, Guan Shan recognised the signs of an addict.

Eventually, Sauer was clothed, shirt tails hanging untucked over the waistline of his trousers, his feet bare. He stood with a hand tight around the bronze rail of the suite bar, darting glances back at Guan Shan every so often, aware that he was sandwiched between the two men, window and door and bathroom barred, and drank deeply, shakily, from a glass of some clear liquid.

He Tian kicked his long legs out in front of him, and got to his feet.

‘Sauer,’ he said, finding the appropriate time for his introduction. ‘Mein Name ist He Tian.’

Sauer’s pallid complexion went translucent.

German, Guan Shan knew less than English, so the conversation that followed was a blur of guttural consonants and cutting exchanges that left Sauer stuttering and red-faced, and He Tian wearing a cool look of impassivity.

The sharper, more stressed Sauer’s responses grew, the lower He Tian’s voice dropped, the bass of each syllable rattling the base of Guan Shan’s throat. This was an interrogation of a hostage, and Guan Shan found himself shifting in discomfort with each question He Tian demanded, the gun growing heavier in his pocket with every panicked response Sauer threw out, arms flailing in defence of accusation. Questions were thrown back and forth, answers blunt and snappish, and Guan Shan only knew He Tian was getting nowhere.

He Tian never moved forward, didn’t shift his weight or make use of the cane in his right hand, a placid lake looked upon at night, movement mistaken for the shimmer of moonlight—so it must have been Sauer who moved first.

His glass smashed to the floor, shrill screaming echoed from the bathroom, and his nose was burst and bloodied before Guan Shan could make sense of any motion.

He stood frozen at the door to the suite as He Tian struck a fist into Sauer’s solar plexus, winding him and feigning to the right to miss Sauer’s strangled swing, and Guan Shan’s hands ached for a fight.

‘Don’t get involved,’ He Tian had told him. ‘Whatever happens.’

Guan Shan resented him for giving orders that were so hard to follow.

Sauer threw slow, heavy-handed punches like a boxer, glass crunching under his feet, his breath panting and shuddered. He managed to catch a fistful of He Tian’s jacket, the momentum causing them to stumble on unsteady feet towards the bar, and He Tian’s head caught on bottles as Sauer dragged him across its surface, hand scrabbling for a shard of broken glass to cut He Tian with.

He never found one, advantage not lasting long; He Tian brought a knee up between Sauer’s spread legs and the German was forced to release his hold on He Tian’s jacket, staggering backwards on impulse.

Guan Shan’s eyes widened as He Tian straightened himself. Blood from Sauer’s nose was soaking his white shirt, and more ran from a glass-made gouge in He Tian’s temple and down to his jaw line, which he wiped away with an impetuous swipe.

His movements towards Sauer were predatory, stalking, each click of his heels thudding with Guan Shan’s racing heartbeat, and he felt himself flinch as He Tian’s cane rose like an arm ready to throw a javelin—and swung.

The cane cracked across Sauer’s face, his shrill cry reverberating as he clutched at his collapsed jaw, and he collapsed backwards onto the marble floor with a thud.

Another swing caught Sauer’s raised hand across the knuckles, and Guan Shan swallowed at the nausea that was rolling in his stomach as the bones of Sauer’s fingers snapped.

He Tian wasn’t smiling as he stood over the man, showed no outward sign of pleasure at the slaughter, and Guan Shan didn’t know if that was better or worse—that he could do this, break a man, with such cold efficiency and feel nothing.

‘He Tian,’ he said quietly. ‘I think he gets the message.’

It would take weeks for Sauer’s jaw to work again, for a string of words to come out that didn’t make his eyes water, longer for him to be able to hold a pen or a gun or his cock. He Tian needed him damaged and warned and out-of-action. This wasn’t a necessity.

He Tian’s dark look could only be received as a glare. ‘I wasn’t here to threaten, Guan Shan,’ he said. ‘You knew that.’

Guan Shan knew. Convert or get out of He Tian’s way. Justifiable murder.

‘You could use him,’ Guan Shan said. ‘Use him as a mole.’

Sauer was left groaning on the floor while He Tian stalked towards the bar, found an unharmed bottle of gin swimming with dark berries, and took a swig. His chest rose even and strong, and his fingers tightened and untightened around the handle of his cane as he wiped his mouth into the arm of his jacket, spat blood on the floor, lit up a cigarette. Ineffective from where he stood in the doorway, Guan Shan caught a glimpse of He Tian’s split knuckles.

‘A mole,’ He Tian said bitterly. ‘He’s useless to me. Denies knowing anything about She Li. Either he’s telling the truth or She Li’s got him hooked tighter than I thought, and I don’t have the time to break him.’

Guan Shan glanced at Sauer, moaning over the warped shape of his right hand, clutching it to his chest.

‘You offered him opium?’

He Tian threw a disgusted look at the politician. ‘Offered him the fucking moon.’

He stubbed his cigarette out onto the bar and stretched his hands across his surface. Strands of slick-backed hair draped in front of his eyes like thin shadows. He was still standing, barely wounded, but he wore the heavy air of someone who’d suffered a defeat.

‘He’s the third one,’ He Tian admitted. And then, ‘Who knew these fuckers’ prejudices ran this deep.’

It felt strange to be having a conversation while a man agonised on the floor between them, but then maybe He Tian was right: all of this was about the Exclusion Acts. The Irish and the Russians and the Italians—where were the acts being placed against them? Where were their alliances for the Chinese when America had been birthed from foreigners and built on the back of its brown-skinned natives?

If the right-wing politicians wouldn’t budge while people back in Guan Shan’s village and neighbouring towns risked starvation and poverty weekly, risked travelling thousands of miles to feed their families, maybe this was the answer.

This rushed through his head in a few seconds, some burst of moral outrage that Guan Shan didn’t know what to do with—and then movement caught his eye.

He didn’t know where Sauer had gotten it from, how either He Tian or Guan Shan had missed the palm-sized pistol now held in Sauer’s left hand, but Guan Shan’s body burst into a cold-hot flame that was singular to fate-driven moments like these.

The gun was pointed at He Tian’s back.

Like the jerky, fast-paced movements of a movie star, there was a blurred sequence of events that Guan Shan would only recollect in agonising slowness later: Sauer lifting himself up from the floor with a strained groan, He Tian turning in response to Guan Shan’s silence, Guan Shan taking a step forward that seemed to take a lifetime, like trying to run from a monster in a nightmare, hand moving to the inside of his jacket, wondering who was the monster? Who was the victim? Who would get their throat torn out and their blood worn like a mask and—

Bang.

Guan Shan never knew how loud it would be, eardrums fractured from the sound so close and confined in a room made of marble and crystal and silk. He didn’t know how it would suck out everything until he was left with something deeper than silence, a vacuum emptiness that made his ears ring with shallow dissonance, how movement would blur and stumble in his vision, reason abandoning him.

But he learnt quickly.

He caught up with himself on the drive to Zhengxi’s, He Tian’s men leaning over their boss’ body with heavy-handed presses on his shoulder in the back of the car, He Tian’s face moon-white and sheened with sweat, brows drawn and lip curling in pain and irritation.

Sauer’s face swam in Guan Shan’s head as the driver took sharp turns that made He Tian groan, narrowly missing carriages and cyclists and other cars.

The German had worn a quiet look of surprise before he died. Oh, it said, red stain spilling across his back like the mistake of a clumsy waiter, pistol clattering to the tiles, head hitting the marble with a dull thud declaring lifelessness.

The hired girls screamed in the bathroom after the gunshot, and soon the suite doors had burst open, He Tian’s men cramming themselves into the room, piecing together the events—Sauer dead, He Tian wounded, Guan Shan holding a gun—in a belligerent rush.

‘He’s with me,’ He Tian had gritted out as they turned on Guan Shan, hunched over and clutching at his shoulder by the bar, and then it was a rush down the hotel’s back staircase, feet stomping against the metal, He Tian almost carried down the stairs, and into the car waiting among kitchen fumes and trash bags.

They were in Chinatown when Guan Shan refocused his eyes again. Zhengxi was already waiting outside the restaurant, which remained closed until the evening, and He Tian’s men were helping their boss to stagger inside before the car’s engine had even been cut.

There was a padded table laid out in front of Zhengxi’s desk that trembled as He Tian was lifted onto it, and beside it sat a metal tray of instruments and a bowl of water and rolls of bandages on what looked like a liquor cart.

‘No questions, just fix me up?’ Zhengxi asked impassively, already cutting away at He Tian’s clothing with a pair of scissors, his swift, steady actions and words like an echo of a previous time. Previous times.

‘I knew I’d hired you for a reason,’ He Tian managed to reply, humour ashen, drinking from a supplied bottle of vodka.

Zhengxi snorted. ‘Jian Yi hired me. Not you.’

He Tian tried to rise up onto his elbows. ‘And who hired Jian Yi?’

Zhengxi shoved He Tian back onto the table, unleashing a string of colourful curses from He Tian’s mouth, and peered pragmatically at He Tian’s bullet wound with a magnifying glass. He didn’t look at Guan Shan, but Guan Shan knew Zhengxi had seen him when they entered, marking Guan Shan’s presence with a soft frown that said, It didn’t take you long.

‘How close was it?’ Zhenxgi asked, picking up the necessary tools for extraction. He squinted. ‘At least it hasn’t fragmented.’

His remarks left He Tian lolling his head on the bench until his eyes met Guan Shan’s, who was standing before the closed office door, conscious of the weight of his limbs, the dryness of his throat, how quiet he felt—removed, and numb, stuck inside a goldfish bowl where the outside was misshapen and muted, head knocking dully against the glass, the skin of his hand still vibrating.

It hadn’t even hurt.

When Guan Shan blinked, he realised He Tian’s eyes weren’t glassy with pain, with the hazy clouding of the wounded, but startlingly clear, like pain was a crystalliser. It made him less murky, and Guan Shan could see the scars that littered his chest, some the neat lines of a knife swipe, others deep gouges that dimpled his torso, well-muscled and sweat-soaked, the mawling spread of a panther tattoo twisting across his skin, tail disappearing below his navel.

‘You saved my life,’ He Tian said, the last word marked with a wince while Zhengxi doused the wound and filled the office with the smell of ethanol.

Guan Shan had no honest answer. He could only think, I saved your life, and I don’t know why. Part of him argued that it was for his father, because if He Tian died then Guan Shan’s father died with him. But another part of him was clouded and voiceless, and Guan Shan had no reason to want to save the life of a man like him, whom he’d known barely a day. No reason at all.

‘Patriotism. Sauer was gonna kill you,’ was all he offered. You told me I wouldn’t need it.

He Tian sniffed at the lie. ‘He nearly did, if you hadn’t shot him first. Shame you couldn’t have done it before he pulled the trigger.’ He Tian gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, then said, ‘Felt some hesitation, did you?’

Guan Shan said, ‘What if I said yeah?’

Somehow, He Tian’s gaze was steady for a few moments as Zhengxi released the bullet, packing the wound with swabs of cotton. He hid drunkenness and agony well enough that it was frightening—and then he closed his eyes with a deep exhale.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he muttered. ‘You still did it.’

Right, Guan Shan thought, leaning back against the door, staring at the ceiling. The gun was a lead weight against his heart. I still did it.

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[saintaugustinerp]

Congratulations C! You have been accepted for the role of The Fallen Angel with the faceclaim Zoë Barnard.  Please be sure to check out the accepted applicants checklist! Also be sure send us a link to your blog within the next twenty-four hours. Welcome to St. Augustine!

OUT OF CHARACTER

Name/alias: C

Age (18+): over 21

Gender/Preferred pronouns: Cisfemale, she/hers pronouns please

Timezone: GMT/GMT+1

IN CHARACTER

Desired Skeleton: The Fallen Angel

Character Name:  Lady Alexandria Georgiana Fox

Age (18+): 7 June, 1997

Gender/Pronouns: Cisfemale, she/her

Hometown: Chelsea, London, England (via Somerset, England and Panjim, Goa, India)

Major: Art History (with a heavy emphasis on the Baroque period in Europe)

Desired Faceclaim: Zoë Barnard

Character blurb: She always used to wear the most pristine little miniskirts, even in the snow, with only diaphanous stockings to keep her warm, her jumpers tied at her waist. ‘Hot blooded,’ her boyfriend would call her, leaning in close and kissing her and then you could only stare longingly at those lips of hers. That thin, almost imperceptible white line that divides her top lip into a quarter and three of them was there before all the others, impossible to miss in a snarl and even more so in a smile, a wound that had stitched itself back together and left a mark. She cut it on a broken wineglass someone was running around with in first year, and everyone laughed at it bubbling over and bloody, bleeding profusely until it didn’t stop and she went to bed drowning in the stuff. Of course, that scar is of little consequence now, not with that fat, pink one encroaching on her left eye. I heard some people calling her Princess Die, but she was the one who crashed her convertible in Corsica. Not a driver outrunning rabid paparazzi. She has only herself to blame. Don’t look at her, misery would kill for some company at this school.

Developed Head Canons:

Note: The subtitles are stolen from Rosalía’s El Mal Querer (it translates to like, The Bad Love), a Spanish-language concept album released last month with this very cyclical, ancient narrative. You can listen to it here as you read if you so choose.

ALEXANDRIA Cap. 1: Augurio (Omen)

Her parents met when they were both on holiday in Egypt in the 90s, a spitfire and the not-quite reserved son of a Duke. She was the firstborn, but her brother, James, born two hours (and a few minutes no one ever bothered to calculate) after her, will inherit almost all — their father’s title, the estates, the townhouse. It’s not common knowledge at Augustine she has any siblings, let alone a twin who could be a mirror image of herself: he’s studying economics at the École normale supérieure in Paris, and Gia is far more likely to visit him than he her; in Switzerland they tend to meet to ski in Gstaad or Verbier. James, Jamie, is half her heart, and when they both chose to go to different universities she was some kind of agony. It was the first time she was ever alone, truly alone, since the moment she was conceived, but gradually, she blossomed in Switzerland, alone, magnetic in her own right and beloved even without her complement.

FRANKFURT Cap. 2: Boda (Wedding)

She was going to marry him, Gia swears, had they survived to his graduation, had they survived the weight of courtship outside of Augustine, had he not fucked her over. Her parents had met in Egypt when they were nineteen and twenty, and she was supposed to meet her husband then too. And Théo, he was their dream, he was hers, when she held her head close to his heart and listened to it beating she could have sworn it was hers, lovesick (sickening) and naïve. She held her head high, arms slung around Théo and Julien, her boys. The revelation that called herself Sylvianne (the slut) was magnificent in her cruelty, they shared classes and once, sat next to each other in a mixed-year lecture, but Théo was on fire. He reduced her to tears, shaking, dropping to her knees unable to breathe in his bedroom. She hadn’t loved him enough. That was the worst thing. She loved the way he made her feel, she loved his name and the way he spoke hers and she loved that he was hers but she didn’t love him enough. It would have been easy to liken their breakup to an imperial divorce between loveless royals if not for the humiliation, brutal and public and unbearable. Théo and Sylvianne made her something ferocious and wounded and yowling, begging after it was over in the silence not to die alone in the mountains.

ZÜRICH Cap. 3: Celos (Jealousy)

She was beautiful, and she knew it. Thick, long, glossy hair, wide doe eyes with thick lashes, full lips and freckles. Gia cared deeply about her appearance, how she presented herself to the world, and her mother brought her to spas across the continent in search of youth, to halt time in its tracks, placing an emphasis on beauty above all else. Her mother is more than Botox injections and collagen boosters, she knows, Astrid was top of her class at her boarding school, she speaks four languages and was an au pair for an aristocratic family in Spain, but all anyone ever refers to Gia’s mother as is beautiful. She epitomises aristocracy and post Chelsea mummies, married by twenty-three and pregnant by twenty-four, a celebrated hostess and the curator of the Somerset house’s beloved collection. Losing Théo was more than a betrayal, it was more than him cheating, it made Gia a failure, someone with a first love and not an only love like her mother has, it brought her beauty and charm into question: if she wasn’t enough for him, would she be enough for anyone?

BRUXELLES Cap. 4: Disputa (Argument)

The aftermath of the betrayal was as ancient as the idea bearing a cross on one’s back as punishment. A last supper. A resolution. Body and blood and disciples. When the semester came to a vicious end, well before her last class (and for that matter, before she sat any exams) James chartered a plane from Paris-Le Bourget to Zürich, and she boarded an empty train car and uncrossed her legs and pointed her toes at the seats opposite hers, the wetness that lingered on the soles of her calfskin boots in the Alpine spring making them damp and dark. She bought a triptych from her iPhone, texting the Sotheby’s dealer her parents kept on retainer her bids. It was easy to proclaim that the Reveller was a naughty, stupid little thing, stood across from them, but the Oxbridge students she had gone to primary school with in England beckoned her closer the second she stepped off the Gulfstream and wandered back into their territory. Before, it had always been so easy to justify her abuse as use, as necessity, never addiction, it was a line when she needed to focus, a drink or four so she looked like anyone else, she was never high, she was never drunk, never foolish enough to even so much as make herself look like she was either. An old friend called her, in June, in the middle of a fête at the Tory Whip’s daughter’s penthouse flat in Canary Wharf, and she answered, eyes shining and glassy and rimmed with red, a slur dogging the ends of her sentences. She wasn’t addicted. Not so fast. She was being reckless. He wouldn’t hear it. When Diana divorced Charles, she became a queen in her own right, despite severing herself from eligibility. When she died, she became a goddess. When Gia divorced Théo, she drowned herself in wine and white powder and didn’t die. She spent her sympathy long before she ever needed it, never kind enough to be anything but elite and untouchable and once she could be touched, she was unwanted.

CORSICA Cap. 5: Lamento (Lament)

The 5th Duke of Westminster had a villa in Corsica, Gia and James’ childhood palace that lay abandoned as they grew older and realised London was, as they had suspected all along, the centre of the universe, and also that they had a country estate in Somerset and sand was stupid. But their family decided, as Gia’s three-month-long implosion (that didn’t birth a new star, otherwise it would have been acceptable) continued, that she needed some sun, a wholly English cure. She was meant to be forced through some kind of rehabilitation, both for her heart and the whisky, her brother was meant to watch her around the liquor cabinet. The Duchess had not laboured so long to give birth to a daughter who had her heart broken once and became nothing. In the dark the morning of 8 July, sober and awake and alive, Gia left the villa with the keys to the convertible she’d learned to drive on the winding Corsican roads in her palm. The car roared to life and shot out of the garage before anyone could wake up and realise what had happened, its top down in the balmy island heat.

CHELSEA Cap. 6: Clausura (Cloister) Trigger warning: severe injury, car accidents.

Recovery was a bitter process. She was evacuated from the dingy (but needlessly expensive) hospital in mid-August, forced into hiding in Chelsea — it would have been Somerset if not for the necessity of her doctor’s appointments. She broke ribs, if the car had crashed into anything more solid than a grove of olive trees she would have broken vertebrae. But it was the glass that did the most exquisite damage, shattering into a thousand pieces and destroying the side of her face she turned to face it, the left side. She underwent reconstructive surgery and skin grafts, her leg fractured even as they took skin from her thigh, the evidence of what she had done visible. A plastic surgeon did his best to repair the scars, but some were too delicate to even begin to touch in the week before she was meant to return to school. The scars remain visible, almost a dividing line between the old and the new, her freckles shifted by pink and silver lines, her left eyebrow in two. She’s meant to have another appointment, over the summer, to finally repair the repairs and erase the worse of the scars, and ease the severity her headaches, an aftereffect from the concussion she received when her forehead slammed into the steering wheel, but a surgeon in Zürich warned her that her demand, to return to the way she looked before, was impossible to meet. She returned to Saint Augustine like something out of a Bond novel, a villain, and they shied away from her, all of them, hanging their heads as if they knew they had done it themselves (they had).

SOMERSET Cap. 7: Liturgia (Liturgy) Trigger warning: extremely brief and not graphic mention of suicide.

No one was ever blunt enough to tell her what she had done wrong, but she figured it out herself. She was hysterical. Hysterical women were unattractive, unwanted, they always had been, soothsayers or not, beautiful or not. She should have handled the end of her relationship with Théo Rothschild with grace, with her head held high, then they would have adored her, called her back to them, cried for her when she crashed whether she had done it to herself of not. There were whispers she had been in a relationship with the dead boy, something like that, maybe, that she had tried to kill herself when he had died. And the opposite, that she had hungered for attention so much so that she stole what should have been his, or tried to, anyway, vicious and starving. Gia walks with a limp and keeps her eyes on the ground, retreating, retreating, retreating. No rumour could be as cruel as someone telling her the truth, even just once.

TOKYO Cap. 8: Éxtasis (Ecstasy)

Before, she was defined by how dazzling she was. She learned how to fly planes in the summer before university, with James in the cockpit beside her so she wouldn’t dare crash. She loved ski weekends in Gstaad and summering at Lake Como, and she was a half-decent figure skater with a penchant for old noir films and gore and westerns. Gia loved art, it wasn’t just the acceptable degree chosen for her by the sort of people who expected her to be a wife and mother and party guest, she spent hours dissecting the evolution of Caravaggio’s technique as he gained students and imitators in first year and presenting a paper so exemplary the professor urged her to submit it to peer-reviewed journals (she didn’t). She drank, but not to excess, holding bottles of Château Cheval Blanc, her favourite, aloft and making promises of vacations in the Loire Valley. She fit perfectly into the hollow under her best friend’s arm, or her boyfriend’s, and she never made trouble. She was adored, however shallowly, and after, with her face wet and stinging, in the dark she prays that she is exalted, that she is adored again, for someone, anyone to love her the way she was once loved. She wants that even more than she wants suffering.

SAINT PETERSBURG Cap. 9: Concepción (Conception)

She was forged in her mother’s image the way James was moulded steady-on by their father, a rosy-cheeked maiden bred for slaughter-by-marriage and utterly excited for it. She attended a boarding school in Surrey for primary school, chased by a Swiss education for secondary, following in her parents’ footsteps. They were both Oxbridge students, dry and unencumbered by society’s ills. Her mother, despite being born to a nouveau riche half-Indian banker and his wife, an immigrant from Goa, caught her father’s eye and never left his gaze, settling in in his mind. They were lullabies, her parents, fairytales, their marriage impeccable and undeniable, a perfect union of two understated powers. And, her mother’s daughter, her accompaniment to the opera in Vienna and spas in Lucerne, she begged for the same, to be something, to marry someone who was something, because she was told, again, and again, but never so explicitly, that was all she could ever want and the only thing she had to live up to: James had the difficult task.

BERN Cap. 10: Cordura (Sanity) Trigger warning: car crashes, suicide (not graphic).

It weighs heavy over her, the second before the crash, when she made the decision to turn the steering wheel and pitch over the side of the road into the sea of trees below. She hadn’t set out to die, or be crushed by the vintage convertible she had coveted for five months before it became her birthday present, she had meant to inhale the salt and drive in the dark until she was exhausted enough, without a dram of whisky necessary, to collapse into her bed and finally sleep for the first time in months. It was assumed she had something in her system when she crashed. No one ever checked her blood alcohol, neither of her parents spoke enough French and James had sworn to protect her, telling the Corsican nurses instead that she was allergic to penicillin. They whisper that she wanted attention, and she did, if anyone would ever think to ask that she wouldn’t deny it. She just wanted attention, for someone to ask what was wrong, to ask why something not quite unexpected had nearly killed her, and her shame makes her eyes burn and one cheek striped white and the other pink and no one meets her eyes anymore but she never even tries to meet theirs. He’s a boy, for fuck’s sake. A boy. Not a man. Not a God. Not worth anything she did to herself in want of someone, in want of him, to ask, ‘what have I done to you?’

PARADIS Cap. 11: Poder (Power)

She has a plan, face half-scarred, teeth too white, skin stained with iodine under her school jumper, newly cruel in disposition herself when once she was, at the very least, civil. She should punish Théo, yes, and she will, but the slut knew who she was fucking — neither of them should go without blame. Georgiana watches Bas Décsey, her old boyfriend’s old friend, not reverently, but hungrily, flashes of something sharp in her smile, that wild, untamed thing once so easily caged. He’s better suited for her, anyway, no platinum-plated spoon between his lips (only a gold one, it’ll match hers), his interests align with hers. A simple, easily soft spoken question — ‘I need your help.’ The overlap of Theology and Art is undeniable and endless, their knowledge overlaps. Vengeance shines when sworn, she thinks constantly of the slut’s realisation that the poor creature she wrote off has taken everything from her: her own boyfriend, her dignity, her degree. An eye for an eye. Bas would know better than anyone, that’s what God would want. She relies on rumours of his grace and magnificence, and her own wretchedness — this is the time to prove he is a true prophet. (He won’t. He’ll never see her coming.)

(There’s another route, too, she could take: Théo slept with Sylvianne. Sylvianne sleeps with Bas now. Bas and Théo could so easily be torn apart by that fact, couldn’t they? Couldn’t she make Théo lose as much as she has? Could anyone even hate her if she did? It’s revenge. And they can claim piety all they like, but everyone hungers for it. Everyone.)

Writing Sample: Must be IC, should be at least two paragraphs

LATE JUNE 2018

She’s in a nasty mood, hovering on the edge of a violent strop, a wet, heavy feeling in the back of her throat, choking her.

These are wild lands, the mountains (are they mountains? they look nothing like the ones she knows so well) like rows of jagged teeth rising out of the sea, the cliffs cut black and white. An old Aznavour song in a language she doesn’t understand croaks through the radio, staticky from the distance. She leans forward, flicking it off, pressing back into the leather and tracing the steering wheel’s stitches. She’s alone. The girl and her car. James thinks it’s haunted, the car, the way the villa is, the way the island is. When they were little lights would flick on in the middle of the night, and something that sounded like dogs would bark and howl even though they had none. A Nouvelle Vague starlet had owned the villa next to their great-grandfather’s and drowned herself in the pool and she had German Shepard, according to Jamie, when he was older.

The car speaks for itself, top down, never playing the right songs, the leather always frigid even in the Mediterranean heat.

Gia inhales through her nose, the edge of her fingernail sliding under a loose look of stitching and pulling. Her nail breaks. She swears, bringing the split, ragged edge to her teeth to even it out. She’s ruined her manicure — that was her mum’s doing, a hundred pounds for an emergency appointment at DryBy, the soft pink shade easily mistaken for her own nails from a distance. Something whistles. The wind.

She turns the radio back on, taking her foot off the car’s acceleration but leaving the key turned just so. To her left, a brief walk and her door opens out onto the salt, a vivid, vibrant, aching blue in daylight; a churning black sea, the stuff of monsters, of Grecian legends and Napoléon, when the sun goes down. To her right, the dirt. This road ends here. It gets steeper and steeper until it’s too treacherous for a car, even a small one barely suited for two people, like hers, to drive without pitching backwards and succumbing to flames.

It’s dark. She needs a light. She’s never gone this far before.

Gia takes her phone with her, on silent, its brightness turned down, and raises it to take a picture.

An endless grove of olive trees stares back, illuminated by the sudden flash of light. She turns. Above, the road that leads back to the villa, haunted. This is why she came down here. That distance, the gap between the road above and the road below, if she was going 100 kilometres it would cease to exist and all there would be to catch her would be the yearning arms of the olive trees.

It’s a good thing she knew to drive slowly through uncharted territory.

Other: Anything else you want to show us or say you can put here, including any desired changes or questions you have for us.

One last note  — in terms of timelines, determining what the ‘fall’ was is difficult, but I tend to place it as a gradual process rather than all at once. It began, of course, with the revelation she had been cheated on, but she failed to act (as she desired) on the information for a good week. It was a slow descent (here’s where this blog’s title comes from, “An Angel who did not so much Fall as Saunter Vaguely Downwards”, Terry Pratchett, though sauntering is a nice word for it) from recklessness to Corsica and the crash. So while any of these things could be the fall, I tend to find that starting at the beginning is what I prefer, in terms of before and after. But the scars are a great visual marker of change, so I can hardly protest any other interpretation!