#the worst kept secret in the Unseelie

[thewolfisawake]

"Where has Bal gotten off to?"

"No prizes for guessing," Solanine quipped before nudging the one beside her, "Shouldn't you be dragging him back?"

"And risk the rabid dog in the throes of passion?" Risteard swirled his glass idly, "I much rather enjoy my evening, thank you. Besides, it is busy enough that no one will suspect for a moment. With that doppelganger around, may lead to some distraction in regards to Balmoral's disappearance."

Morgan chuckled, "He could be a deadringer for Mhoirbheinn, couldn't he?"

"Unfortunately, he has charm so it is quite easy to distinguish."

"Mhoirbheinn just has it out for you, Risteard. Sorry for you but wouldn't want to be you," Solanine said.

He sighed before he sipped his wine, "Some days I wish I were not either. But so long as Balmoral can make a reputation with his capability rather than his...impulsiveness, I have little to truly complain about."

"You should complain more, it's so funny--" Morgan recalled the few times the Vizier well and truly was drunk. Also recalling such an incident, there was a faint tinge of silver.

"I will keep to myself, thank you."

[instantdinosaurtidalwave]

THIS IS NOT WHOLLY MINE!!!!! I was inspired by a couple posts and a set of tags I found but I can’t find the OP anymore. Credit to them for the original idea(s). My apologies, if someone recognizes it, please tell me so I can give proper credit to them!!!!!! [My additions look like this]

Magical Leverage AU, but in the vein of ‘magic was real long ago and has mostly faded into oblivion… except now it’s waking up here and there.

Eliot would have died years ago but some unkind spirit liked his anger and blessed him and now he’s this sort of proto-god of soldiers whose countries used them up and betrayed their ideals. He just doesn’t know it yet. [Doesn’t know he could wipe away the bad eyesight, the aches, the stiffness, if only he chose. But he doesn’t choose. He thinks he deserves the pain, the scars, the reminder of his darkest days. For now, at least. The Team’s young yet, the foundations stabilizing, but even now, their light calls to his. He’ll be more one day. God of the forgotten, of the abandoned, of the lost. Sanctuary for those used and abused by the world, who get tossed into ditches and alleys and left to die.]

Hardison is something new. There is no word for him. He’s making a new world in which he will rule, and he has no need at this time for a name or title. [He knows. He’s more than a little scared of it, except when it gets him the information he needs or helps him save his teammates just in time. And even sometimes then. He knows he’s something new. Something powerful. ‘Age of the geek,’ he says, but he knows. He’s no geek. He’s more. So, so much more than that.]

Sophie is some sort of Unseelie. She follows her rules, appreciates manners, and dispenses her kindnesses as she sees fit. Do not test yourself against her. You will not win. [She does not know this. The Unseelie blood that is her heritage was kept a secret and carefully continued over the generations, until Sophie’s parents met, and made a daughter. What they don’t know is the Moon saw Sophie and gave her a blessing. Sophie may change faces, change names over and over again, but she’ll always come back to who she is.]

Parker is a changeling, maybe. Or Seelie. Or maybe she’s just Parker, the only one of her kind. She hasn’t decided yet. [Parker is Parker. Something new. Wholly unique, irreplaceable, and nothing like anything that’s ever been. Anything that ever will be. Magic likes Parker, and Parker likes Magic.]

Nate is Human. An almost priest who hates himself and all his flaws and weaknesses while at the same time completely convinced of his own superiority. In the beginning anyway. The others are all used to pain and fear and disappointment. They know how bad the world is and they’re trying to survive in it the best way they can. Nate didn’t grow up knowing that, he had his entire world and reason for existing torn away by greed and selfishness and it broke something in him. The others are cracked and chipped and faded. Nathan Ford was broken into jagged pieces, and he picked them up and fashioned them into weapons, forged from the howling chasm in his heart, and as much as Leverage has helped and is helping to put some of those pieces together again… Some of them were too lost or too sharp to ever go back to who he was. The others you can see are competent and scary at times. Nate is fearsome at his worst. He may not have the skills the others do but he is absolutely the one you should fear.

He’s not a good man really, though by some terrifying metrics he is indeed a Good Man, but he has aligned himself with good and he will get there come hell or high water. The thing is, he is the hell, and he is the high water. He is the monster that hunts monsters. The abyss consumed him long ago and that’s just. How it is. He just lives here now because that’s the thing: the abyss consumes you and everything… doesn’t end. You keep living. You keep living even though you are nothing but howling rage in the shell of a man. But then you turn that rage and that abyss upon the monsters that made you and you bring the abyss to them. There are moments when Nate goes completely cold and he is way scarier than any of the others, or all the rest of them combined, like a reminder of what is sitting there under the surface - an incomparably brilliant mind with no heart to anchor it and nothing to believe in. Nate may be Human… but he’s becoming an Archetype.

[Valletta is a seer. Magic, power, potential, she sees it all. She knows Magic is waking because she’s seeing more, stronger, and longer, now. Magic decides Team Leverage needs a little assistance, so it sends Valletta to them. Parker knows the moment she meets Valletta that she’s going to stay. She must stay. They need her to stay.

They do need her. Because the ones who don’t know are starting to figure it out, and the ones that do are getting glimpses of the bigger picture.

Eliot heard a whisper the other day, a voice begging for help, and instinctively reached back, leaping miles and states and half a country to help the kid who fought a war and came home to a different kind of war, before he realized what he was doing and ran himself. Eliot doesn’t think he’s good. Eliot knows he’s done terrible things and is ashamed of them, thinks he doesn’t deserve forgiveness. This… this is not anything he expected. Certainly nothing he deserves.

Sophie, getting into the role for a grift, caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and almost looked past it, because she didn’t have auburn hair. The Moon changes its phase, and so Sophie changes her face, her hair, her body, but will always return to herself.

Nate… well. Nate’s been aware of something wrong for a while now, but he’s also been in denial and just refusing to see it. Until he’s put in a situation where he can’t deny the fact that he, realistically speaking, should not have been able to walk away from that. Where he gives what’s meant to be a metaphorical threat that ends up coming literally true. Nate broke a long time ago, the day Sam died. His metamorphosis started on that day, much longer than the others, giving him more time to see the signs. Granted, he’s ignored the signs so far, but the signs are getting harder and harder to ignore.

Eliot clings to his humanity, clings to the reminders and the good memories Valletta helps him remember; to Valletta herself, as someone who makes him strive to be better than before. The others do, too, but it’s Eliot who clings the hardest.

It leaves marks. They’re all Archetypes, in addition to what they are. Hitter. Hacker. Grifter. Thief. Mastermind. But Nate was supposed to be the honest man who kept them in line and on target, only, Nate can get just as caught up and obsessed as any of the Team. Nate’s their brain. Valletta becomes their center, their Heart of Mercy.

In more ways than one.

Valletta doesn’t tell the Team. It would kill them, to know how deeply, how intrinsically, they’re affecting her. Changing her. Transforming her into one of them.

She’s becoming so much more Other than she was. She had that potential. It’s unlocked to its fullest extent under the affection and friendship of four Archetypes, one Human, one Unseelie, one Parker, and one Hardison, as well as the love of an Archetype and god who adores her.

They know what they’re doing. They must, on some subconscious level, because everyone starts apologizing to her in little ways. Nate dials back on the alcohol and the orders, Parker starts trying to remember to ask before showing up, Sophie asks her about her interests and hobbies and listens to her ramble, Hardison gets her favorite music and movies on hard drives for her, Eliot makes her favorite dishes more often.

It comes to a head, of all times, when Damien Moreau shows up to try and break Eliot, one final revenge for walking away. He kidnaps Valletta, threatens to torture her. The team shows up spitting fire. Eliot shows up, eyes dead, completely willing to become the weapon he once was to end this once and for all.

Valletta breaks through the rage, the darkness, with whispers of Mercy. And transforms. Breaks out of her cocoon like a butterfly. Fitting. The butterfly is a symbol of rebirth and new life. She even has the wings. Agathina Emperor wings. As purple as her eyes are now.

Valletta. Seer, The Heart Archetype. Goddess of Mercy, and Forgiveness. Valletta is merciful. Damien Moreau will wish she hadn’t been, when her family’s done with him, but it isn’t his choice. His life is no longer his own. It belongs to Mercy.]

Again, NOT ORIGINALLY MINE!!! I only added what’s in the italics.

[songofthesibyl]

It’s because of his ancestors. Rhys in ACOMAF:

“There was a time when the Night Court was a Court of Nightmares and was ruled from the Hewn City. Long ago. But an ancient High Lord had a different vision, and rather than allowing the world to see his Court vulnerable at a time of change, he sealed the borders and staged a coup, eliminating the worst of the courtiers and predators, building Velaris for the dreamers, establishing trade and peace[…..]To preserve it[…..]he kept it a secret, and so did his offspring, and their offspring.”

He goes on:

But along the way, despite his best intentions, darkness grew again—not as bad as it had once been…But bad enough that there is a permanent divide within my court. We allow the world to see the other half, to fear them—so that they might never guess this place thrives here. And we allow the Court of Nightmares to continue, blind to Velaris’s existence, because we know without them, there are some courts and kingdoms that might strike us. And invade our borders to discover the many, many secrets we’ve kept from the other High Lords and courts these millennia.”

Feyre to Rhys, earlier in ACOMAF:

“You let Amarantha and the entire world think you rule and delight in a Court of Nightmares. It’s all a front—to keep what matters most safe.”

And his response:

“I love my people, and my family. Do not think I wouldn’t become a monster to keep them protected.”

A few things there. Wearing a mask of evil is what Feyre says he’s doing—but Rhys replies that he is willing to become a monster. That’s what he does UTM—he wants Feyre to hate him, but he has to do the things to make her hate him. But the CoN did not consent to being a part of a “mask.” They are not a front of Unseelie fae that might look scary, but are harmless; or harmless, but like Rhys unfriendly to outsiders, willing to be monsters to protect their own. They’re not either of these things. They’re just bad. All of them? Mor, in ACOMAF;

“In the court of nightmares, females are…prized. Our virginity is guarded, then sold off to the highest bidder—whatever male will be of the most advantage to our families.”

So the assumption would have to be that little to no people fall through the cracks—other than Mor, they are fine with their situation, and Rhys is merely exploiting their awfulness for his, and Velaris’ gain. But that is not a mask—everyone is actually doing these things. Velaris could have been secret without a mask, without tolerance of the CoN, or certain aspects of Illyrian culture. But he only says he wants to change “perceptions” of the Illyrians; not their actual culture. And he needs their armies.

But Rhys also undermines his mask—he openly helps Feyre at Calan Mai, and at the second trial. He helps Tarquin, who later gives him a chance because if it. Tarquin acknowledges this to Feyre, but also says:

“…He is notoriously difficult to deal with. He gets what he wants, has plans he does not tell anyone about until after he’s completed them, and does not apologize for any of it.”

That isn’t a mask. That is a correct analysis of his character—we’ve seen this get proven in the text again and again. It’s true he wants to be different after UTM—that’s part of his character arc—but before Velaris is known, the “mask” doesn’t really work as a mask; his actual strength and power keeps people away, not the illusion of it. And after, he doesn’t really do anything different—Velaris is known, but Illyria and the CoN remain the same. He feels the need to play a role there, even though Keir and the others are there precisely because they aren’t stupid enough to try to kill him—they are no real threat to him.

Unless they refuse to fight, in which case his only option is to kill them for disobeying him. He still needs the armies of Illyria and the CoN, so he avoids pushing things to where there might be civil war. And it’s an understandable position, but it is a choice—not a mask. It’s right out in the open.

Underrated hilarious aspect of Rhysand’s “mask” being that no other High Lord needs to do all that.

He’s acting like he has to act like a villain and mistreat 2/3 of his court to rule it when that doesn’t seem to be true anywhere else? Why are we acting like Velaris is so great when I’d honestly rather be one of Thesan or Helion’s subjects.

The only High Lord who might be worse than him is Beron who is actually evil. Which says… something about Rhys I fear.

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

The London Shadow Market - Centurions on a mission (Fan Fic)

This is a one-shot Tynush fan fic.

London Shadow Market. Centurions Tiberius Blackthorn and Anush Joshi are on mission for the Scholomance, tied to the First Heir, and Ty gets a bit overprotective.

It's a bit angsty and though there is mention of sex, there is no sex scene/smut.

Big thanks to @amchara who beta-read the fic (and notably helped with her thorough knowledge of London) and who also sparked the idea, since we discussed how there could never be enough of overprotective Blackthorns fic.

****

It was long past midnight and the London Shadow Market’s lights were fading one after the other. Fenwick was wrapping up for the night, muttering about what an awful evening it had been. Only a dozen customers buying baubles. Overpriced, but still. Long gone were the days where he could earn in an evening what now took him a month to scrounge. The new Inquisitor, Diego Rosales, was knowledgeable, relentless, and incorruptible. It didn’t help that the new Unseelie King also frowned on his barely-to-not-legal-at-all side businesses. The most profitable ones, as it happened. He still had the favour of the Seelie Queen, but even she, in her eagerness to make peace with King Kieran, was not as frequent a client as she used to be.

So, when he heard the bell ring announcing that a customer had just crossed the threshold of his magically enhanced oversized tent, Fenwick immediately perked up. His cheerful mood was of short duration.

Two dark-haired figures had stepped into his dimly lit tent, one at least a head taller than the other, but both with a graceful warrior stance that betrayed what they were despite the obscurity.

Shadowhunters. And not any kind. The worst kind if you asked him. Those who knew much more about the Fair Folk than the fey had ever cared to reveal. They even kept secrets from the other Nephilim. That’s how world-altering their knowledge was. Centurions. And they were in their black uniforms, their silvery pins gleaming in the light of the candles scattered around the tent, not even bothering to conceal their identity.

Fenwick was torn between bolting out – on the off chance that he managed to outrun them – to lay low in one of his numerous hideouts (for a few decades at least) and standing his ground, trying to weasel his way out of this uncomfortable situation. What made up his decision was the weariness that gripped him at the mere idea of running. The centuries he had strolled around the Earth made him feel like an overstretched rubber band.

“Well met, Sons of the Angel!” He said, forcing a cheerful tone.

“Well, met,” the smaller, wheatish-skinned one answered. He had a warm, lyrical voice. As he took a few steps forward inside the tent, Fenwick tried very hard not to flinch. Up close, he had a very handsome face, high cheekbones framing his narrow and delicate nose. Strong thick eyebrows made a perfect arc over his big almond-shaped brown eyes. His bright yet calm demeanour compelled you to trust him. But Fenwick knew better.

The taller one didn’t greet him. He was already strolling lazily around the tent, scanning the shelves. He was standing with his back to Fenwick, so that all that Fenwick could see of him was black hair and a dark uniform, a circle of thorns etched across the back of his jacket.

“What brings you to my humble shop?”

The question had been directed at the politest of the two, but he didn’t seem to hear, entirely focused on stealing covert glances at his fellow Centurion. His expression was wistful, almost reverent.

Fenwick considered it. He knew how lonely they got sometimes, hidden between harsh grounds and cold stones in the Carpathian Mountains. Some were known to suffer depression, if not mental illness. He used to interact frequently with them, in the past, until the Scholomance was closed in 1872, with the signing of the First Accords. He sold them information, and sometimes a good time.

“You are in luck, Centurions. I have several pretty mermaids who have just joined Fenwick’s lair. At least two of them have a kink for strong Nephilim such as yourselves.” After all, King Kieran had started a trend… “We also have the usual nixies, pixies, goblins, hobgoblins, brownies, and even a djinn for those who have more… particular tastes. Everything happens on Seelie territory and is strictly legal of course. I have the paperwork.”

The light brown skinned Centurion looked like he was trying very hard not to burst out laughing. He coughed a little to hide it before swiftly saying, “Nothing of the sort.”

“We heard you were selling. We are buying.” The taller one spoke for the first time. He had a deep voice, with a rich timber to it. As he glanced over his shoulder, the candles’ light played along his face, revealing his striking features. Fenwick stifled a gasp. His merchant’s mind was already calculating what he could earn with such a possession. Faerie lords – even princes – would pay handsomely – a fortune – to enjoy the boy’s company.

“What is it that you care to acquire from old Fenwick?” he said in a honey voice. “Certainly not a love potion. Someone who looks like you must never be in need of it.” The Centurion’s expression remained impassive, yet Fenwick thought he saw a shadow flicker across his eyes. “Your pretty face is so much like a faerie’s. I almost took you for one of our kind.”

The other Centurion cleared his throat loudly, and when he had caught Fenwick’s attention, shot him a glare, his deep brown eyes cold as ice. A warning. Fenwick knew in that instant that if he ever wanted to get his hands on the pretty Nephilim, he would have to go through his companion first.

“What we want…” he said in a clipped tone, “cannot be touched, tasted, or inhaled.”

“Information, then,” Fenwick replied automatically upon hearing the code. A chill went up his spine. Did they know? Only one way to find out. “And what type of information do you seek?”

“You know exactly which one. Please do not waste any more precious minutes of our mortal lives. Name your price.”

Fenwick told him. The Centurion approached Fenwick’s counter and, without a word, retrieved a pouch from inside his jacket - Fenwick recognized it as fey craftsmanship of the finest sort and, though it did not bear the Unseelie Court’s sigil, had most certainly come from it - and started counting bills. His curiosity got the better of him.

“What do you want with the First Heir?” He blurted. “I didn’t know it was the Scholomance’s job to look for him. Other Nephilim – if not as skilled – have already been assigned to the task.”

“We have the money. Our business with him is our own,” he replied dismissively.

Fenwick glanced at the other tall Centurion, who had remained silent during the exchange. He had retrieved a crystal orb from one of the shelves and was turning it over in his long pale fingers.

“Careful with that! It’s fragile! And expensive. If you break it, you pay it.”

“Twenty-one,” he replied.

“Pray tell?”

“The number of laws you have broken with the content of these shelves. I am not talking about the items you keep in your back store.”

“Tiberius,” his companion warned, before forcing a smile to Fenwick’s benefit. “Here’s the money. Give us the information and we’ll be on our way.”

Fenwick’s gaze zeroed on the bills spread over his counter. He did the usual checks, doing as best as he could to hide his excitement.

“Okay,” he drawled, when they had come out to be the real deal. He gave them the First Heir’s address. The Centurion’s lips twitched but his face remained otherwise blank. He acknowledged with a stiff nod and whirled around.

“I can give you one more information. Free of charge.”

The Centurion paused and glanced over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised in question.

“The First Heir. He has power beyond your wildest imagination. Even mighty warriors such as yourselves will have a hard time capturing him. But he has a family that he loves dearly and would be willing to die for. If you take his little sister hostage, you can obtain whatever you want from him.”

Fenwick startled at the sound of glass shattering. He glanced over to find that the tall, silent, Nephilim – Tiberius, his companion had called him – had closed his long fingers on the orb, with apparently enough pressure and force that it had broken into multiple shards. He was now watching with remote interest as blood escaped from his clenched fist and started running like crimson strings over his knuckles and wrist. He didn’t look the least bit concerned by the sight.

“Hey! You will pay for this!” Fenwick said, taking consolation in the fact that, as expensive as the item was, they probably had the money.

“That’s funny,” Tiberius said in a tone that suggested it wasn’t at all. “I was about to say the exact same thing.”

He hadn’t seen him coming, but from one moment to the next, the Nephilim was in Fenwick’s face, a dagger pressed against the fey’s throat.

Fenwick thought he looked more animal than human as he cocked his head, his gray eyes feral. “Earlier you said that I look like a fey. Well, there is at least one trait that I share with the Fair Folk. I. Don’t. Lie. So, trust me when I tell you this. If you so much as harm a hair on that little girl’s head, my pretty face will be the last thing you’ll ever see. The same goes for any other member of her family. I will hunt you down, scour each one of your rabbit holes and I don’t care if it takes every single second I have left of my mortal life.”

“Tiberius,” the other Centurion crooned. “Tiberius. We are done here. Let’s go home.” Fenwick realized with a jolt of surprise that he had moved soundlessly to rest his hand on Tiberius’ shoulder and was rubbing it, tracing small circles around the joint. It was such an intimate gesture that Fenwick wondered if he had misread earlier when he had thought to witness unrequited love.

Tiberius blinked a few times, then started whispering urgently under his breath. Fenwick couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. It sounded like random words. The Centurion finally narrowed his gaze at Fenwick and mouthed “I don’t lie” one last time before he whirled and both Nephilim disappeared in a blur of dark fabric, out of the tent and into the night, as swiftly as they had come. Fenwick, frozen in terror, hoped with all his immortal’s heart that all of it had only been a bad dream.

***

Anush exhaled the cold and moist London air, his breath coming in frosty white puffs, as he drew an Iratze on the back of Ty’s hand. It had become so frequent lately that he sometimes caught himself wishing Centurions were allowed to be parabatai so that his runes were more effective, but discarded the idea as soon as it crossed his mind. He would not have been allowed to feel the way he did about Ty. And parabatai definitely did not do the things they did.

“I can’t believe he lived during the time of Berlioz. Do you think he met him? If so, I would have a thousand more questions to ask him.”

Ty didn’t answer. He was lost in thought, stroking his heron-shaped pendant with his free hand, his face pale as the moon tilted upwards toward the night sky as if he was counting the stars.

“Hey,’ Anush said softly. “It was the wrong address. So that’s one more snitch to strike off our list.”

“He had the right country, though. That’s a first. They’re closing in.”

“That’s okay, Ty. We will be one step ahead, as always.”

Anush had probably not been convincing enough, as Ty suddenly tensed, his breathing coming in short, shallow gasps, and his hand, still resting in Anush’s palm, started shaking. Anush closed his fingers around Ty’s and murmured soothing words that he knew his fellow Centurion liked, as he gently rubbed his shoulder with his free hand. “Whisper, glass, twin, secret, stars, cloud, castle, crystal, Christopher…”

Ty’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He closed his eyes and took a deep shuddering breath.

“Hey,” Anush whispered. “It’s going to be fine. We will do double shifts. Starting tomorrow. Who needs sleep anyway?”

Ty sighed, relief plain on his marble face. His eyelashes fanned out over his sharp cheekbones and Anush resisted the urge to kiss them. “Thank you. For sticking with me through all this. I know it’s not easy.”

“I didn’t have better plans anyway,” Anush shrugged it off.

Ty opened his eyes and turned his sharp gaze on Anush, still not looking him in the eye but somewhere around his chin. Close enough.

“You know what I mean.”

He knew exactly what Ty meant. The reasons for Ty’s obsession with the First Heir was a subject they never broached. But it was there, like a third presence in their relationship. If you could call what they had a relationship. It was, for Anush at least. He would go to hell and back for Ty, and so would Ty for him. But that didn’t mean he loved him. That’s just how loyal and selfless Ty was.

Anush would always remember the day Ty and him had volunteered to handle the top secret missions tied to the First Heir. Ty had adamantly refused Anush’s involvement, but of course, it was not entirely up to him. Anush was very stubborn. They had both sat in Jia Penhallow’s office and she had asked Ty to leave them alone afterwards. She had looked into Anush’s eyes and had spoken to him earnestly. “These are very dangerous missions, Anush. The most dangerous missions we currently have at the Scholomance. You are a brilliant Centurion, but are you sure you want to do this? I know Tiberius has… personal reasons for volunteering, but what about you?” He had swallowed hard. “Anywhere Tiberius goes, I go.” Her dark eyes had softened. “Anush. Have you really thought this through? I know how much you care about Tiberius but… has he told you why he has chosen to do this?” “I am not Tiberius-smart, but I am not stupid,” he had replied. “The First Heir. He’s in love with him.” The deep sadness and understanding in her eyes had almost made him cry and he had dug his nails into his palms, his jaw working as he withheld tears. “It doesn’t matter,’ he had said through clenched teeth. “Whatever happens, I will be there for him. In any capacity I can.” And it was plain from her expression that she knew he was not only talking about their missions for the Scholomance.

As he now looked into Tiberius’ gray eyes, at his beautiful features that were nothing compared to his gentle and unique heart, Anush felt a deep rush of love mixed with longing. Ty would never be his. He already belonged to someone else. But Anush would give Tiberius any part of him that he wanted.

He took a deep breath before he answered.

“I do. I am not giving you a choice anyway. You’re stuck with me.” Always.

Ty looked down, as if he couldn’t bear the weight of Anush’s gaze on him.

“I didn’t thank you for… earlier. I almost lost it back there.”

“Don’t mention it,” Anush replied. “That’s what I am here for. At least he took your threat seriously.”

“As he should.”

Ty was still playing with the pendant tied around his neck. Anush brought his free hand on top of Ty’s, intertwining their fingers.

“I love your hands,” he whispered to Ty. “I wouldn’t want them to get soiled.” He tiptoed to bring his lips closer to Ty’s ear, almost brushing. “Especially now that I have experienced their full potential.”

Ty turned his face away but not before Anush saw his cheeks flush and the corner of his mouth quirk. Anush loved how he was still shy about these things.

He looked at the dark cobbled street before them.

“Fenwick’s minions must already be on their way.”

Ty cocked his head. “Coming from the west. They’re a mile or two ahead of us. Judging by their pace, they should be upon us in about five minutes.”

Anush nodded. Ty sometimes knew things – as if he had an invisible spy everywhere they went – and Anush had stopped questioning it. If Ty had wanted to share, he would have. Anush would not press him.

“Tactic?”

“Split. Confuse. Divide and conquer.”

“Good. I need the exercise. You take north by the river, I take south and we meet up west?”

Ty nodded, already veering in the opposite direction, two swords drawn.

“Meet you at Blackthorn Hall,” Anush cried out to him, as he started walking backwards. “First one there gets the biggest room.”

“Dream on,” he thought he heard Ty reply. He tried to catch one last glimpse of him for good luck but he had already been swallowed by the night.

***

Tiberius got there first. But he let Anush pick his favourite bedroom. All bedrooms in Blackthorn Hall were decorated with different themes, that one had a landscape - the view from the LA Institute’s rooftop, Ty had explained - painted over an entire wall, opposite the huge canopy bed. Anush found it quite soothing.

“Fenwick sent an army,” he said as he drew several Iratzes on Ty’s back. He whistled. “You must have scared the shit out of him.” They had managed to get rid of the last of Fenwick’s minions by drowning them in the Thames. Ty had a few fey allies lurking underneath the surface. Creatures he had helped escape from captivity.

When he was finished, Tiberius rose from the bed and Anush watched as he stored the bandages and gauze in a small cabinet in a corner of the room. He was naked from the waist up and Anush’s gaze lingered on his fellow Centurion’s lean and muscular back, a canvas way too beautiful for black Runes and faded scars that were now so familiar he could draw them from memory. His dark curls were still wet from the dive into the river.

Anush crossed his arms behind his head and settled comfortably against the headboard.

“Ty?”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck me.”

Tiberius stilled, his bare shoulders hunched.

“What, now?”

“Yes now. I want you.”

Ty slowly closed the cabinet’s door and turned to look at Anush, his gray eyes unreadable.

“Anush… My brother Julian is here. His bedroom is a few meters down the corridor.“

“So? It’s not as if he doesn’t know what we are up to. You're so lucky he’s smart and open-minded. The coolest. I wish my parents were the same. If they knew the things we did, they would probably drag me to Naraka themselves.”

“Anush…” Ty said softly. “You know it wouldn’t make any difference if you were a girl… I would say the same thing.”

“We won’t make any noise!”

Tiberius raised a dark eyebrow. Anush let out a deep sigh.

“Yeah, I know. It’s not my fault if you turn into this beast I barely recognize under the bed sheets.”

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

“Oh the noises I make are definitely not me complaining. Mister Hyde can have a ride anytime.”

Ty gave him one of his rare wicked smiles… The ones that always got Anush’s heart rate into high gear. He put his shirt back on and moved soundlessly to the door.

“Ty,” Anush called.

Tiberius paused, his hand on the doorknob.

“Yeah?”

“Stay for the night. No noisy and sweaty sex. Just…lie down next to me.”

“Anush,” Ty breathed, his look apologetic. And Anush braced himself for what would come next. The blow to his chest. Because he already knew what Ty would say. “Anush. You know I can’t sleep that way.”

“Yeah, no problem, I understand. Raziel knows we definitely need the rest.” Anush tried to reply in a light tone but the pitch of his voice rose awkwardly at the end. “It’s okay. Good night Ty.”

“Good night, Anush.”

[faejilly]

Let’s Go Steal Some... Magic?

This is entirely the fault of a prompt from the Hunter's Moon Discord: “A Leverage Shadowhunter crossover where Alec gets desperate enough to hire a band of good thieves who’re known for being able to steal back ANYTHING to steal back Magnus’ magic.” 

I take no responsibility whatsoever for any of this, but man, I had a great time writing it, so I hope you enjoyed reading it, too 😅 (With an extra thanks to @greentealycheejelly for double-checking it at least sort of made sense.) 

Alec knows more about the mundane world than most people realize. He may, in fact, have helped encourage the impression that he's ignorant; it's not like he's been impressed by most of what he knows, so it's easier to just... not deal with it when he doesn't have to.

But there's nothing anyone in the Shadow World can do about this, so maybe... maybe it's time to try something else.

Only he's not sure where to start. He's going to have to ask for help.

Not his favorite thing, but. This is for Magnus. He'd do worse for Magnus.

Lindsay's probably his best bet, she's the one who tracks the bots and AIs that the Clave has keeping as much of an eye on the internet as anyone can manage, hoping to catch those mundanes who might cross the line from figuring out that what they're seeing is because of the Sight, into trying to do something like summoning demons or playing with dark magic.

Her reports on some of the conclusions their machine learning algorithms come up with are sometimes the highlight of his week. He liked the one that tried to figure out which folk songs were based on real adventures with the Seelie and Unseelie Courts versus the ones written by people who'd drank too much or gotten stuck in a cabin in the middle of nowhere for a longer than usual winter.

So he asks her to come see him. She looks, unsurprisingly, deeply nervous when he closes his office door behind her, and he sighs as he sits down in one of the armchairs rather than behind his desk. "I need your help, please."

She doesn't look any comforted by that comment, but she sits across from him, and refrains from either glaring or babbling, so that's something.

"I need." He stops. He's not sure what he needs. "I need to think outside the box, and as the current box is Edom and the entire Shadow World is pretty convinced that that's an impossible box to open—" Alec stops, realizing his metaphors got slightly more tangled than he'd intended. "I think I need someone who is in the know but still mostly mundane, so they're not stuck on the same preconceptions the rest of us are?"

Linday blinks at him. She clearly didn't follow that.

He frowns, but she doesn't get more tense, so at least she figured out he's frowning at himself rather than her.

Clary might have given him multiple migraines and almost as many heart attacks, but she'd barrelled through things he'd thought inviolable just because she didn't know any better, and he could use some of that, right about now.

"Magnus traded his magic to a Greater Demon in order to banish Lilith's demon, and..." He trails off again. And I have to do something about it, but the only thing I can think of is trying to negotiate with said Greater Demon myself and that's a clusterfuck of epic proportions just waiting to happen.

He'll do it, if he has to, he knows this, but that should probably be a last resort, not the first attempt.

"You want to steal it back?" Lindsay's voice cracks half way through the words, and he doesn't blame her, that sounds more insane than anything even Clary would attempt, but...

He hadn't actually framed it that way himself, and he should have. She's probably right, and that is exactly the sort of thinking he needs.

"Do you think that's possible?" He tilts his head, spreads his hands in something that's almost a shrug. "I know there are Sighted thieves, and there's a thriving grey area of mundane and Downworlder interactions with magic that don't usually end up with dead bodies or demons so we don't do anything about them."

Lindsay frowns back at him, but she looks like she's thinking, so he waits.

"Well." She starts, stops again. "There is this hacker..."

Alec blinks. "I don't think the Prince of Edom keeps his stolen magic in a server."

Lindsay snorts, and rolls her eyes at him. "Ha, ha. Sir."

Alec shrugs, and waits.

"There's a warlock, Edda White. She fosters mundane children, usually ones that lost their parents to the Shadow World, or who have the Sight."

"And she's a hacker?" That's an odd combination of jobs, but he supposes it's something one could do from home while keeping an eye on a bunch of presumably traumatized children.

He wonders if there's anything they could do to help her out. Unofficially. Or officially? The Clave really should stop pretending the Shadow World's completely separate from the mundane world, no one believes that.

"No." Lindsay shakes her head. Pauses. "Well, yes, but she's not the hacker I was thinking of, I meant one of her kids."

"If said kid's already in the Shadow World, that's defeating my outside of the box request." He's not really trying to argue with her, he's just not sure where she's going.

"Sir." Lindsay levels a stare at him. It's not as good as the ones his mother or sister can pull off, but it's not half bad.

"Sorry."

Lindsay nods, and adjusts her glasses. "He's Sighted, and he's active on some of the forums the Clave tracks, helps people find resources or contacts, which is how I know about him, but he works in the mundane world. With a team of thieves who have pulled off some really impossible jobs."

"Edom impossible?"

"No, but you said you needed some creative thieves, and they're arguably the best in this world." That is something the Clave would know, just because the few truly occult artifacts the mundane world knows about tend to be expensive, so they attract the attention of the worst sorts of people and the best sorts of thieves... who then attract the attention of the Clave, to make sure no one actually tries to use the things they've stolen. "It's a place to start."

Alec nods. It is, and that's all he asked for; he hopes it's enough. "What's his name?"

Lindsay shrugs. "No idea, but I do know how to get a message to his team. They've an open call out for people who need help and don't have anywhere else to turn."

Alec feels his lips twitch with reluctant amusement. "That certainly fits this situation, doesn't it."

Lindsay concedes with a small nod. "I'll reach out, and let you know what they say."

"Thank you."

She nods again, slightly less smoothly, as if she's not sure what to do with gratitude, though he's not sure if it's because it's him personally or the Head of her Institute in general, and slips away to get to work.

Alec closes his eyes, and lets out a sigh, and tries to hold onto the flicker of hope in his chest.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe this is what he needs; maybe this is what Magnus needs.

Please.

***

Hardison blinks at the email he just opened.

He double checks the sender's address, and IP, and everything else he can think of to confirm it's not somehow a joke or a scam or something, but as far as he can tell by every test he can think up, it's genuine.

Leverage just got a fucking email from a Nephilim. On behalf of the goddamned Head of the New York Institute.

He pokes his computer screen, as if that'll make it disappear or something.

It doesn't.

Which is probably good, he's Sighted, not a warlock, if he started making the world change outside of a computer, he'd be in deep shit.

The email's surprisingly straightforward, in contrast to their usual potential clients, the Shadow World in general, and everything he's ever heard about Shadowhunters in particular. Shadow Hunters? Shadowhunters? He's not sure he's ever had to write that word out, he wonders which is considered proper grammar.

Holy shit, he's distracting himself with grammar.

He calls his Nana.

"I got an email about Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane."

"Fuck."

Hardison pulls his phone away from his head and stares at it for a moment before he can handle that. "Did you just swear at me?"

"Not at you, baby." He can practically hear her roll her eyes at him. "I was old enough to swear before your grandma was a gleam in her daddy's eyes, and you know it."

Yes, but you don't, Hardison almost says out loud, not around your babies, you don't, but he swallows it down. "Some Nephilim is asking for help from us, from my team. Do you think it's legit?"

She hums, some melody he's never been able to track down or place, never heard from anywhere or anyone else, and he's glad that that's normal at least. Nana's thinking noise is exactly what he hears in his head whenever he's trying to crack a particularly tough system.

"I do. New York's gone through some shit, and I've heard some rumours about Magnus..." She trails off. "Lightwood's reputation is pretty solid, I think he'd stretch those Nephilim Laws as far as he could, if he thought it was worth it."

"Should I take the meeting then?"

Nana pauses, but she doesn't hum this time. She's not thinking, she wants to make sure he is. "You'd have to tell your team what sort of meeting it really is."

Hardison's whole body tenses up along with his face as he scrunches his eyes as closed as he can get them. He wonders if Parker and Eliot really are part-fae, like he's always thought. They've both got more than a touch of the other when he looks at them out of the corner of his eyes, and it would certainly explain how hard they are to injure, how easily they lean into each other's space, as if they've never before found someone that makes some weird sixth sense relax.

Then again, he loves them enough it might just be his own aura sparking in the way.

He wonders, if they are just a little magic, if either of them know, and just don't think they can tell him.

He wonders if they'll be mad to realize he's kept a secret from them all these years, or if they'll be hurt.

"Yeah," he sighs, and opens his eyes back up. "Don't suppose I could get a family dinner to help uh... illustrate my point?"

Nana laughs, but it's sharper sounding than usual. "If New York's as messed up as I've heard you don't have much time. Tonight good?"

Damn.

This is clearly more serious than he'd thought, and he wonders what he's missed, busy focusing on his mundane life rather than the Shadow World.

"I guess it has to be. Thanks."

Nana doesn't bother to say anything else before she hangs up on him.

He turns around, and no he does not scream, that was just a gasp, and Parker and Eliot are in the doorway, both of them staring at him.

Check mark in the supernatural column.

He smiles at them.

They don't smile back.

Hey guys, want to meet my Nana, the centuries old warlock who taught me how to see demons so they wouldn't eat me?

Yeah. That's gonna go over well.

"Don't suppose either of you believe in magic?"

Eliot does that thing where he's not frowning but is really obvious about how he's refraining from frowning so it actually feels worse than if he'd just scowled at you. "You mean science we can't explain yet, or actual magic?"

Hardison tilts his head and hands with an eh maneuver. "Vampires and werewolves and fairies, oh my?"

Parker shrugs. "Archie always said he thought I was a changeling, does that count?"

Hardison shakes his head, and sees Eliot frown for real, and knows they both wish they'd been harder on Archie when they had him in their sights. "Yes, but that's a terrible thing for him to have said."

"Why?" Parker comes into the room proper to perch on the edge of the table extending out from his desk. "If it's the truth?"

"Because he didn't think it was true," Eliot answers, his voice low and rough. "He was using it to pretend it was okay for him not to take care of you."

Parker rolls her eyes; they've had this argument before. "But if he'd tried, I wouldn't have realized how much better at it you are."

Eliot jerks, like his whole body just tried to shut-down. Hardison can't even appreciate how remarkable that is, because he's too busy feeling his brain stutter right in sync.

"What?" Parker did that are you being stupid or did I make less sense than usual? face of hers, eyes a little squinty and shoulders just starting to hunch.

"Thank you, baby girl." Hardison manages, before she thinks it's the second. "I'm still gonna be mad at him for not trying though."

She frowns, as if she thinks that's dumb, but shrugs, clearly having decided that that's just the way it is. "So does that mean you think he was right, even though he didn't know it?"

"Uh." Hardison does a whole body shrug, because he's not sure why he ever thinks his conversations with these two are gonna go the way he intends. "I have no idea, but it wouldn't surprise me? You're uh. Better at things than most humans. You both are."

"Huh." Eliot says, but not like he disagrees. "But neither of us have a problem with steel or cold iron or whatever it is."

Hardison stares at him.

"What." Eliot stares back, and Hardison can't tell if he's fucking with him on purpose or not. Damn Eliot and his poker face.

"Did you say that because you know things, or because you read fairy tales when you can't sleep?"

Eliot's face looks like he wants to say damnit Hardison but doesn't want to give Hardison the satisfaction.

"Second one, got it."

"Kindaalwaysthoughtitwasaliensanyways." Eliot mutters.*

Hardison is pleased to note that Parker joins him in giving Eliot the look.

Eliot crosses his arms in front of his chest, and looks back, and Hardison sighs. He's right, they don't have time for that right now. "We are revisiting this," Hardison says, pointing at Eliot. "But first we're going to Nana's for dinner."

Parker actually literally squeaks, and he can't tell if she's excited or nervous. "Is she a fairy too?"

"No, and they prefer Seelie or Unseelie, depending on which Court they were born into, but you know, that's a whole separate thing we also don't have time for right now. Nana is a warlock which means she can do magic and she's immortal which I know sounds like more fairy things because they are practically immortal and also do magic, but I swear it's not."

It's his turn to be getting the look from both of them, and he stops. Starts again. "So. Uh. Demons? Totally a thing?"

Eliot sighs, and finally stops lurking as his shoulders relax into something more like at-home-Eliot rather than working-Eliot. "You made a multi-media presentation, didn't you?"

Hardison opens his mouth, and shuts it again. He did, like three different times, and he keeps deleting it and starting over, but he supposes that might be one way to go in order without thinking about Nana swearing and the email and trying to jump to angels are real and angel-blooded people kill demons and the Head of the New York Institute wants our help! before that means anything to anyone.

"Ooh." Parker sits up straighter. "Should I go get some popcorn?"

"Why not." Hardison can't help the smile, doesn't even try. "We'll have a proper briefing in five."

***

Magnus is not entirely sure why Alec invited him to his office, it's not like I can help with missions anymore, and seeing Alec sitting on the edge of his desk wringing his hands when he walks in the door doesn't calm his nerves any.

"Magnus!" Alec looks up, and his smile's not any more comforting than the wringing hands were.

"You're here."

"You asked me to be here." Magnus offers, and makes himself walk further into the office. He's not sure what else to say, and just lifts an eyebrow in Alec's general direction.

Alec shrugs, and bites his lip as he shifts his weight, and then suddenly his tension melts away and he's standing at parade rest and oh, whatever this is, it's clearly important. "I did."

Magnus holds up one finger, turns around to close and lock the door behind him, and faces Alec again.

Alec offers him a crooked almost smile, much more sincere than the last one, and the tension between Magnus' shoulder-blades eases a little, though it definitely doesn't go away. "I have a potentially terrible idea, but it's for you, so it's your choice to make, not mine."

Oh.

Magnus considers that, nods to himself, and goes to sit on the couch. He lifts his head, and makes himself meet Alec's eyes. "All right."

"I want to hire some... consultants, to see if there's a way to get your magic back without having to try and make another deal with Asmodeus."

Magnus doesn't move. He doesn't even blink. If he had his magic he'd probably blow up the chair next to him. "No."

Alec's shoulders slump. "Magnus."

"No." Magnus stands up, his hands clenched and his jaw too tight and he wants to scream, but he doesn't. "Asmodeus is too dangerous."

"And he's going to be less dangerous later if with your magic he can overthrow Lilith while she's still weak from the Mark of Cain?" Alec's voice is quiet, but even so Magnus can barely hold in the wince. "Do you really think he'll be more inclined to stay quietly in his own Realm without interfering with the rest of us if she's no longer there to keep him in check?"

Magnus swallows, refuses to think about the things he did at his father's side the last time Asmodeus freely wandered around Earth. "You said this was for me."

"It is!" Alec's voice and hands lift, and then he stops, his arms drop. He's holding himself so tightly it looks like he's a breath away from shattering. "I would sacrifice anything to help you Magnus, just like you did to stop Lilith, to save Jace, but that doesn't mean helping you isn't also doing my job."

Magnus can't move, can barely breathe.

He exhales, long and slow, and closes his eyes.

He can't argue that, because if he did, it would make everything he'd done to save Jace, to stop Lilith, all of it, for nothing. They can't let either Lilith or Asmodeus take over Edom without the other, can't afford the risk of that much power being concentrated in one person. Demon.

Monster.

Magnus opens his eyes again, and somehow Alec can tell, Alec can always tell, and he's right there, reaching out to cup Magnus' jaw in his warm hands before kissing him, soft and sweet. "Thank you."

Magnus huffs out a breath, and leans in to rest against the warmth of Alec's chest. "Thank you. So who are these... consultants then?"

"Um." Magnus tilts his head enough to look at Alec, who's looking at the ceiling as if too embarrassed to meet Magnus' gaze. He rolls his lips in tight, then pops his mouth open and sighs. "Thieves?"

"What." Magnus steps back, so he can glare properly. And also enjoy the way Alec's squirming, because it's not often Alexander gets tongue-tied around him anymore, and if he's going to go through with this insanity, he might as well try and get some enjoyment out of it. "You. Want to steal my magic back?"

"I mean, that seems slightly more likely than negotiating it out of a Greater Demon?" Alec shrugs, and rubs the back of his neck, and his mouth twists before his whole body sags with a sigh. "I don't know, but I certainly don't know how to get it back without risking Asmodeus pulling one over on us, do you?"

"But you think your thieves might?" Magnus can't help it, his voice cracks.

"Not my thieves." Alec shrugs again. "Lindsay found them, and Edda White said she could portal them to us whenever we come to an agreement on a meeting time and place."

"Edda?" He stops again. Edda, who fosters mundane children and likes to play with computers and has the weirdest running bet with Catarina about the stupid excuses they've used to convince mundanes that the magic they just saw wasn't really magic... "Mundane thieves?"

"Well, anyone in the Shadow World would start already convinced that it was impossible, wouldn't they?"

Magnus can't argue with that, either, and this is the weirdest conversation he's possibly ever had, and that's saying something, considering the number of times he's been high or drunk and determined to not let it stop him from doing... well. Anything. "Huh," is all he manages. "That. Almost makes sense."

Alec grins. "I know, weird, huh."

Magnus' chest aches, because oh, he hasn't seen that sort of look on Alec's face since they found out about Jace, before Magnus went to Edom, before he lost...

Before they lost so much.

Magnus laughs, and Alec's grin widens, a glint in his eyes as if he's as delighted and surprised as Magnus is to realize they're both actually looking forward to this. "Let's go meet some thieves."

[teliangel]

As If It Meant Something

Author’s note: I’m back, here to make everyone feel terrible things once again. This time we’re buckling down and experiencing the events of the terrible Princeit relationship from Remus’ perspective cause Reflections wrecked me, so if I have to suffer, you do too :)

@tulipscomeinallsortsofcolors thank you for making this monstrosity a possibility, ily so come scream with me.

PLEASE NOTE, if you haven’t read LAOFT this isn’t gonna make a lick of sense, so go read that, get emotionally steamrolled, then come back to be emotionally sucker punched by this slugger. 

TWs: Remus typical violence, abusive relationships, thinking fondly of an abuser, contemplation of murder, grief handled poorly, jealously handled equally poorly, hurt with no comfort (again)

Parings: Remus/Deceit, Roman/Deceit, brief LAMP mention  

Remus was in love.

It had been love at first sight, instantaneous and intense, like most things were for him. But from the first revel he had attended, left to his own devices but not the least bit shy for it, his eyes had unavoidably landed on the king, and in the span of a second he was completely smitten. But the king was the king, and he was an unremarkable Summer aside from being remarkably annoying to most, so getting close enough to share what he felt was a vital declaration of devotion was nigh on impossible. So he watched. He had thought he might like to dance at his first revel, or pester some pixies, or get into whatever the clusters of unseelie were involved in, but he found he'd rather gouge his eyes out than look away from the king. He was polished and regal and perfect, and Remus wanted to look at him for forever.

But the revel had to end at some point, and then he was flocked by simpering fae paying their dues. Remus was terrible at being patient, and the impulse to tear through the bodies between him and the king was nearly unbearable, but if he made too much of scene then he'd be done away with before he could even get close, and while being offed while looking at that beautiful, beautiful face sounded blissful, he really would like to talk to the other boy first. Eventually the king stepped down from the dais and off into the shadows, devoured by them like he was made of the same stuff,  and Remus followed him in what was probably a complete breach of protocol. He never was good at remembering the rules, and he cared even less about the ones he did remember. And then he was crowded up in the king's space, the other boy's brow pinched in all too familiar irritation, a confession spilling from his lips like blood from a fresh stab wound. He started and he couldn't stop, words running into each other until he was completely uncertain if he was making any sense whatsoever, and the king's expression slowly shifted from frustration to shock to amusement. And then he was laughing, so hard and bright that Remus stopped speaking immediately just to listen to the sound in dumbfounded pleasure. Surely no one has heard such a genuine laugh from the king before because he couldn't imagine anyone being able to be afraid of him if they had. The thought made him feel like he had swallowed the whole damn sun and it was burning bright in his belly. Then the king had asked for his name and he had given it, because there wasn't a single part of himself he wouldn't offer up if only the king would laugh like that again.

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Remus had never hated anyone with the intensity that he hated Roman. Honestly, he hadn't known he had it in him to hang onto any one feeling aside from his love for Dee for longer than a breath, but here he was, broiling in his own rage. By the sun and stream and all things rotting, who did that human think he was? Riding into the revel on the king's horse like he had any right to be there, and staying plastered to the boy's side all night like some unfairly pretty leech. It made Remus want to break something or set something on fire or gut the human and strew his entrails from one end of the woods to the other and- Well. It upset him. Which was why he was out pacing instead of at the court, because if he saw the bastard's face, if Dee so much as smiled at him, he was liable to do something drastic and Dee would get angry. And it didn't help they looked so alike, slight distortions of each other, like brothers with different fathers. Was this how humans felt about changelings? The invasive same but not the same, the feeling of something replaced, an unfair exchange? If it was he could understand why the sensation would drive a mother to stab a fae child with a hot iron poker. The worst part, though, was how betrayed he felt. There was no doubt in his mind that Dee loved him, even if he never said as much. Remus was the one who was so effusive with the word love that he got stuck on it sometimes, repeating himself over and over, increasingly frantic with the thought that it might not come across right, that Dee might not believe him, until the king would laugh and shut him up. But he knew. He knew Dee loved him. Who else would he tell his secrets to, who else would he be calm and relaxed with? No one but Remus. And Remus knew he was a lot to handle, that everyone thought he was awful and disgusting, but that made him all the more sure Dee loved him because why would he put up with him otherwise?

But if Dee had brought this human back with him then that meant- that might mean-

No. He didn't believe it.

It had to be the witch's fault (for he knew the other boy was a witch, he could smell it on him like burning hair and bonfires), he had some sort of spell or charm placed on Remus' love. Well, he wouldn't be fooled. He saw the witch for what he was - an usurper, a substitute, a sham - and he wasn't having it. Roman had to be done away with. He'd have to be subtle, or Dee might get upset. He wasn't great at being subtle, though. The exact opposite, really. But everyone in court knew his brand of 'play', and if he accidentally loped off Roman's head, well whoopsie, things went like that sometimes! And that was if Dee didn't get bored first, which surely he would. Roman was just a boring old human who'd age and break with use. Remus was obviously better. He just had to wait for his love to come to the same conclusion. He wasn't a patient man by any means, but if it was for Dee, he could wait.

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Remus was feeling . . . Something. 

The feeling, whatever it was, didn't show up often, and he didn't pay much mind to it when it did. He liked straightforward things, easily defined and acted on, not feelings he couldn't articulate. But he couldn't sleep tonight, and was feeling unusually pensive, so he was rolling the something over in his mind like a worry stone. The crux of the feeling, the root of the strange thing, was that he didn't exactly hate Roman anymore. He wasn't sure when the change had taken place, when his not-so-subtle attempts to murder the witch turned to more playful pranks, when the mere sight of him stopped making Remus want to remove his eyes. Granted, they weren't lovers like he and Dee were (the mere thought of that caused a sense of revulsion that Remus rarely ever experienced), and they weren't friends either. And every time the king kissed Roman he still wanted to stab him in the neck or maybe strangle him- and not in the fun way. But . . . But on nights like tonight, when he and the human had sat on either side of Dee at the revel, wine and conversation flowing easily between them and the king's mood high . . . well. He felt . . . fond? Happy? He didn't know! But he didn't hate Roman anymore, and he hadn't even noticed it until after a long day the human had woken him up coming in far sooner than he had wanted to wake that night, and instead of throwing a rock or a knife at him like he would have in the past he simply twisted his hand and left the witch's hair in knots, the other boy squawking indignantly. And it kept happening. Sure, he still injured Roman from time to time (he was a biter, he could not help this), but the tone of their relationship had shifted, somehow. And he felt strange. He didn't think he'd be any more sad if Roman died now than when they'd first met. But it would make things odd. They were sort of balanced, like this. As bitter a taste as it left in Remus' mouth, Dee needed things from Roman that the Summer simply couldn't give. He'd never be so polished and charming and civil. But the things that scared Roman about Dee where the things that Remus loved most. And if Dee didn't have the two of them, who did he have? Remus was of the humble opinion that every living creature should worship the ground the king walked on, but they were all too chicken-shit to even look at him properly most of the time. So who would love Dee if not them? That made the something-feeling even more complicated. Remus hated overthinking things and waxing poetic about his feelings (he wasn't Roman) but lying here in the dark, listening to his king and the human breathing soft and deep, he seemed unable to stop. The worst thing about this sort of mood and the something-feeling was that it made him feel something spongy and oddly vulnerable in his chest, because it made him realize that Roman wasn't actually all that awful. Maybe- maybe if he had met him before Dee had taken the human on, or maybe if they had met in literally any way that wasn't him trying to steal his lover, or-or- He shook his head viciously to dispel the thought, freezing when Dee snuffled in his sleep before hunkering back down. Hypotheticals were the worst for making the feeling stronger. Because maybe, under other circumstances, they would have been friends. And maybe he'd prefer those hypotheticals, and that was worse. Because what did that mean? What did that say about them, and what they had, and Dee? What did it say about him? Nope, he didn't want to think about it, or the something-feeling. He flopped over with a frustrated grunt, burying his face in the king's shoulder and rubbing his nose along the scales that peppered it. He wanted things to be simpler, and the resentment towards Roman for complicating things was almost always simmering right beneath his skin.

But.

But maybe one day it wouldn't be like that? Maybe things would get simple again, and Roman wouldn't have to die for it to happen, either.

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Remus was ecstatic.

He had been given a quest and it was going to fix everything. Finally he could prove himself to Dee, prove his dedication, and take back his rightful spot as the favored lover. He was nearly dizzy with the heady combination of delight and relief. The quest had settled on him with the reassuring weight of a down comforter, heavy and sweet. He nearly wept from it, as disgustingly sentimental as that was. This proved that Dee still had faith in him. That he trusted him to earn his place back. They both had an out now, one that didn't involve hurting Roman more than a little bit of heartbreak would. And, well, Remus wouldn't gloat too much when he succeeded. He knew how unpleasant it was to be unseated, to feel like you were loosing a lover. Maybe Dee could even be convinced to keep him as a knight! He was useful enough. The entirety of his life didn't  have to be uprooted. And then they'd all live happily ever after and all that sappy shit.

Yes, this was perfect.

Everything was going to be okay.

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Nothing was okay.

Nothing was going to be okay ever again either. Remus' life was as good as over, dead and decomposing, without even a grave to mark its passing and- and-

And Dee was dead.

It couldn't be real. It didn't feel real. He couldn't have been gone for that long, not long enough for things to get that out of hand, and what was he going to do? Everything he'd ever done was pointless. It amounted to absolutely nothing now, and he shrieked into the night air with a lack of anything else to release the bubbling agonized thing burning in the back of his throat like bile. Roman was supposed to take care of their king while he was gone. Sure he wasn't as good as Remus, but he was competent enough, and loyal to a fault. Except he wasn't. He wasn't the man Remus thought he was at all, and he had spun back around to hating the witch more than anything on this earth. How could he? Dee had no one but them. No one who loved him, no one he could trust. There was Remus, and Roman, and that was it. And the second he was away the witch had pranced off to the next shiny thing. Hadn't he loved Dee at all? Remus had. Did. He thought the sun rose and set at the king's feet, thought all the flowers bloomed just to bask in his light, and Remus was built up around his every desire and would gladly rip himself apart tooth and nail for him and- And there was nothing. He had come back to nothing. His room in the court taken by another, his seat at the throne replaced by three for a witch a human and another seelie, his treasures meant for Dee -as proof of his love- taken by his replacement. All he had now was a bird singing at his shoulder and chest so full of unnameable feeling that he wasn't sure how it wasn't bursting through his bones and flesh, rending him open in a bloody mess. Because oh, he was bleeding. But there was no wound. Nothing to stitch together or slap a poultice on. Just carnage that had no exit mark. Remus crumpled over on the dew soaked grass beneath him. He didn't know where he was, nor did he much care at the moment. Maybe he'd get up soon and do something useful like set something on fire or pull the wings off a pixie. But for now he curled up on the ground and wept for everything that could never be fixed. And as his feathery companion settled on his head, her beak ruffling and preening his disheveled hair, he could almost imagine it was fingers tugging knots free as soft words were exchanged above his head. He could pretend he was in his old room, the revel just outside whenever he was ready to go back.

He could afford to pretend for just a little while longer. After all, no one was looking for him now.

[glorifiedscapegoat]

So since things have been a bit difficult this weekend at work, I haven’t been able to get all of my first chapter for my fic finished just yet. It’s in the works, and I am busting my butt on it with my housemate as my editor.

However, I did want to have something to share with everyone who’s been patient with her here, on Ao3, and on the No.6 Discord.

And so, I’ve attached a small snippet of the first chapter for all of you to enjoy while I’m finishing up work on the first chapter.

The whole first chapter is going to be about 10,000 words long, so I hope you’ll all enjoy it when it’s done.

For now, however, here’s a small taste of chapter one. :3

Chapter One Ficlet

The early-evening streets of Kronos weren’t vacant. People stepped in and out of shops, or lingered on their porches. None of them saw the silver wolf slinking through the shadows, visible one moment and then camouflaged the next. The old woman carrying grocery bags into her house didn’t spot the gargoyle napping on the hood of her car.

Shion envied all of them. The Fair Folk might have been beautiful, but there was a cruelty behind it. The Folk were not kind. Shion had seen it first-hand.

Turning away from the creatures, Shion focused on getting to Safu’s house. He tucked away from a tall man who nearly crashed into him. Shion murmured an apology that went ignored.

Sometimes he wished he could tell the Fair Folk to leave him alone. Sometimes he wished there was a way to take the Sight from his eyes and toss it into the ocean.

He knew it was an impossible dream. The Folk might have been able to take his Sight from him, if Shion were to ask—but Shion also knew that the faeries might take his eyes, too.

Ever since he was a child, Shion had been taught of the cruelty of the Fair Folk. Safu’s grandmother had picked up on his gifts at an early age. She’d been kind enough to pull him into her world, filling him with the same knowledge and warnings she’d given her own granddaughter. Never let the Folk know you have the power to see them, she’d instructed. No matter what horrible things you’ve seen them do, remember that they will do worse to you, should they discover your secret.

And so Shion had averted his eyes and pretended to see nothing. He’d forced a smile on his face when a skeletal woman took a bird’s head in her bony fingers and crushed its skull. Living with the Sight was a game of eternal acting—but Shion wasn’t certain how much longer he could keep up the pretense.

He’d just rounded the corner that would take him by the metro, when a low murmur washed through the small cluster of Folk lingering in the streets.

Shion couldn’t help it. He turned his head, pretending to be drawn by an odd scent or the flash of a coin in the dirt. His gaze drifted briefly to the mouth of an alley—and then Shion spotted him stepping out from the darkness.

The one faerie he saw again and again, in various spots around Kronos.

He was devastating. He was only a bit taller than Shion, but he carried himself as if he towered above even the tallest of the fae. His long hair was dark as the midnight sky, but Shion had never seen it down. He usually kept it in a messy ponytail that would have looked good on a regular human. On him, it was striking—but not nearly as much as his eyes.

Silver. Not a human shade, faded green or blue or a hodgepodge of the two, but the color of a thunderstorm. Clouds reflected in a sharpened blade. Shion had never seen eyes like this on any of the fae creatures that lurked around Kronos. He felt like those eyes would cut him if he were to catch their gaze.

If the boy had been human, Shion would have been drawn to him. He might have even tried to talk to him. The boy wasn't Shion's usual type—cold and distant in a way that made him untouchable, someone who reeked of trouble and held the entire world in the palm of his hand.

The boy moved as if he were someone important. In the rare moments when Shion spotted him in the presence of other fae, they had given the boy a wide berth. Even the creatures that looked menacing treated the boy as if he was someone to fear.

That terrified Shion, too. He might have thought the boy was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, but he didn't know if he wanted to know him. If it would be safe to know him.

Whenever Shion saw the boy, he was bombarded with the scent of jasmine flowers and winter wind. He could hear the wind rustling through tree branches. If he closed his eyes, he could picture himself wandering through the woods in the dead of winter. Crisp white snow would fall all around him, and he would walk into the depths and never be seen or heard from again. It was so easy to imagine. A beautiful dream that blurred the line and threatened to become a reality.

Shion walked a little faster, not exactly running. He never ran around the Folk. If he did, they would give chase. The Fair Folk enjoyed a good chase. It pleased them when their prey ran.

A couple blocks down, Shion ducked into one of the small cafés tucked in the corner. He felt safer among the scents of coffee beans and vanilla sweet cream. Every time the streets were overrun with fae, Shion would hide in the café or in the supermarket, intermingling with other humans until the worst of the creatures had passed.

There was a girl sitting in the back of the lobby. She was invisible to all the others, and Shion could tell in an instant that she wasn't human. Her ears formed into little furry points at the tips, and her long hair seemed to be made of ruby filaments. The dim overhead lamps caught in the jagged strands as she turned her head toward him.

Shion stepped away from the girl and ducked into the line. He wasn't much of a coffee drinker, but he figured it would look suspicious if he didn't order something. Suspicious was never good when it came to the Folk. It attracted their attention, and that was exactly what Shion wanted to avoid. He scanned the menu for something he might enjoy.

And then the silver-eyed boy walked into the café—still glamoured, still invisible to all the humans aside from Shion—and headed straight toward the fae girl.

Shion swallowed a lump in his throat. The Folk walked past him on a daily basis, invisible and impossible to hear unless they willed it. The particularly strong ones could weave glamours to hide in plain sight. Shion had never seen a member of the Folk create a human glamour. He didn't ever want to. The idea that any of the people surrounding him could be fae was almost as frightening as what could happen if one of them discovered that Shion could see them without their glamours.

The boy marched to the table. The girl lifted her head, spotted him, and her eyes went wide. She bared her teeth��sharp and serrated, like a Great White shark's—and whispered, "Nezumi."

Her voice was as jagged as her teeth, and the name stumbled over her tongue. Shion's heart caught in his throat. Nezumi. The name flowed through his head like dandelion fluff on the wind, and Shion imagined it would taste strange on his lips. Nezumi.

The boy pulled back the chair opposite her and dropped into it. Shion looked around to see if any of the other human patrons had noticed that the chair had been yanked back by invisible hands.

No one seemed to notice much of anything. Not the couple closest to the window who seemed on the verge on an obvious breakup. Not the barista watching Shion with a disinterested smile, waiting for him to hurry up and order. Not the young mother desperately trying to corral her unruly toddlers. No one noticed the two creatures sitting in their midst.

Shion found himself wondering, not for the first time, what the silver-eyed boy would look like as a human. His hair would darken to a dull black, or perhaps a steely blue that appeared gray in the sunlight. His eyes would be more difficult to hide. Shion couldn’t think of a color that would suit him better than his own sharp silver, but silver was not a normal color. Shion tried to picture him with dark blue or brown irises, but he didn’t like the thought.

“He sent you, didn’t he?” The girl’s gravely little voice pierced through the low hum of conversation in the café. “The King?”

Shion’s stomach hit the floor. The silver-eyed boy served a king. That’s not good. Safu’s grandmother had told him countless stories of faerie courts. Reigning over them all were two large kingdoms: Seelie and Unseelie. Light and Dark. Day and Night. There were so many stories, Shion didn’t know which of them were true—and he didn’t have a means, or a desire, to find out.

Only a court as large as the Seelie or Unseelie would have a king. Shion didn’t want to think what it meant that court fae were wandering through Kronos. He needed to put distance between himself and the two creatures sitting in the café with him.

“He’s pretty pissed at you,” Nezumi replied, and Shion’s heart fluttered. His melodic voice pierced through the air like shattered glass. Shion could easily imagine falling asleep to that voice. Could imagine listening to it for centuries. Dangerous, he thought, forcing his gaze to drift around the café, as if he were looking at the decorations rather than eavesdropping on the nearby conversation.

“It’s not a crime to abandon a court,” the girl replied. Her voice trembled at the edges. “We do it all the time, you know.”

“Your intentions were to leave for the Seelie Court,” Nezumi said. “That’s rather suspicious.”

The little bell above the door jangled as a woman in a black jacket stepped inside. Shion stepped aside and let her take his place in line, pretending to still be mulling over the menu.

“The King doesn’t need to worry,” the girl assured. Shion watched her from the corner of his eye. The edges of her red hair glinted in the dim light. She was smaller than Nezumi—smaller and more colorful. She wore a faded copper dress that looked as if it belonged in the past. “My intentions to leave were—or rather, there’s no harm in letting me go. I’m not a threat, Nezumi. You have my word.”

The Fair Folk were incapable of lying. Shion wasn’t foolish enough to think that meant he was safe. Safu’s grandmother had warned him that faeries could manipulate the truth. Bend it until it snapped on its own.

Even so, Shion thought a faerie’s word might be as good as any promise. He didn’t know what harm it could do to let the girl switch courts—didn’t see how she could be a threat to a faerie king—but from the look that crossed Nezumi’s face, Shion had a sinking feeling that the girl’s word wasn’t enough.

The girl seemed to have the same opinion. “Please.” Her big eyes filled with tears. They were filthy and gray, dripping down her cheeks and leaving tracks of silt in their wake. “Just let me go. You know—you know better than anyone what a monster he is, Nezumi.”

“I do,” Nezumi replied.

The faerie girl’s shoulders relaxed. At one of the tables, the woman with her two toddlers dropped her purse on the ground. The contents spilled out on the ground. A blue compact mirror rolled out and struck the edge of Nezumi’s black boot. “Shit,” the woman muttered to herself. She rose from the table, stomped over, and snatched her compact from the floor. She didn’t notice Nezumi sitting there. Nezumi didn’t look up at her as she walked away.

“I do know what a monster the Unseelie King is,” Nezumi echoed. His silver eyes flickered to the window. Shion followed his gaze outside. He spotted a few faeries in the streets. More than half of them seemed to linger by the café door, never venturing inside. “But they’re watching us.”

The chair screeched across the tile as the faerie girl jumped from the table. She turned—but Nezumi was faster.

Something silver glinted from his side. Shion watched in abstract horror as Nezumi drove his arm forward, his fist connecting between the girl’s exposed shoulder blades.

Blood sprayed from her open mouth. Splattered in an arch across the glass. She tripped over one of the empty tables and crashed to the ground. Her skull bounced against the leg of a nearby chair. The human occupant glanced over at the sensation of his seat being jostled, but, seeing nothing, turned back to chatting with his companion.

Nezumi flicked his wrist. Blood whipped through the air, sliding from the edge of a silver blade. He slid the knife into a small sheath at his side.

Shion didn’t watch. He stared dead ahead. Stared at the wall as Nezumi shoved his chair back, rose to his feet, and stalked out of the café without looking back.

The smell of jasmine went with him. There was nothing but the overpowering stench of copper. The smell of death.

Shion exhaled, his breath shuddering out of him.

“Sir?” The barista tapped her index finger against the counter. She had a smile on her face. “Sir, are you ready to order?”

“No,” Shion said. His voice sounded thousands of miles away. His body had gone cold, all the warmth bleeding out on the floor alongside the faerie girl’s pale blood. “No, I—I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m going to order.”

To Be Continued in Chapter One

Hope you enjoyed that little snippet, guys! I’m excited to share the first chapter with you all when it’s completed. I’ll be posting the first chapter here and linking the Ao3 version here, too.