#Answered by Alec

[rodolfoparras]

young sergeant!price would be a fucking tease, always making lewd comments and bending over whenever you're around other soldiers, knowing you won't do anything with others around.

he'd be such a perv, too, and a borderline stalker. always sending you texts along the lines of "you look so hot ordering those recruits around, wish you could" or sending you a photo of yourself at the shooting range or something with those horny emojis and an eggplant. and you're always so exasperated and bemused whenever you receive them.

he's so freaky he sneaks into your private office and probably fingerfucks his pussy whilst sitting on your chair, having to bite down on his fist or uniform to muffle his squeals when he squirts all over your chair, desk, and floors.

hgnghg I NEED HIM RIGH TNEOW

Young sergeant!Price sneaking into your office, stripping out of his clothes and putting on your tunic, the one decked out in different types of medals and acknowledgments before taking a seat in your chair, fucking himself with the dildo he’d snuck with him, a thrilling feeling rushing down his spine as he hears the soft clinking sounds mixing with obscene squelching sounds, almost cumming when he hears steps approaching the office, and when you open the door you’re met with sight of price looking all fucked out, eyes half lidded cheeks dusted in pink, tunic doing little to cover the dildo that’s still buried deep inside him

Young sergeant! Price riling you up enough throughout the day so that you’re pulling him into your office and bending him over your desk, taking him during office hours - something he knows you absolutely hate, purposely refusing to be quiet when he hears another set of footsteps approaching, whining and whimpering even muttering the words sir just so the other person knows you aren’t alone, and watching in amusement as you scramble to explain yourself to the person on the other side all while continuously thrusting your cock into his soaping wet cunt

Or refusing to fuck Young Sergeant! Price during office hours no matter what he does, so he sneaks into your office and takes matter into his own hands, sinks down onto your cock while you’re doing paper work

Without even looking at him, you know he’s got a pout on his face and tears prickling his eyes because you don’t pay him any attention even when he’s practically bouncing on your cock, but you can also hears the whines and whimpers escaping his lips because even though you’re ignoring him he’s determined to make himself finish.

[unloneliest]

in the lonely hearts club job leverage asks the question "does romantic love exist?" and answers it by having eliot buy parker a venus fly trap on hardison's behalf, expecting no recognition and revealing eliot remembers a throwaway comment parker made on their second job together.

we all know this.

but was anybody going to tell me hardison already had a browser window open looking for restaurants to buy eliot in portland in response at the start of the episode immediately after that? or was i supposed to figure it out on a rewatch all by myself?!

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

what makes David tennant’s voice so hot (asking for science)

[aardvaark]

i was thinking about how i wished leverage had a birthday episode for some of the characters cause that would be sweet, but then i realised something and basically…. okay here’s my thoughts in quotes form, just for fun

hardison: so when’s your birthday? i could plan something for us and the team to do and-

parker: i dont know

hardison: you don’t know… your own birthday?

parker: no, how would i know? pshh, cmon, you’re telling me you remember EXACTLY when you were born? watch this - hey, eliot, do you know your exact birth date?

eliot, innocently passing by, who was canonically anonymously dropped off at a hospital as an infant: no, how would i know?

parker: that’s what i said!

hardison: excuse me?? what is going on right now

sophie, walking into the apartment: whats wrong?

hardison: parker and eliot- well, okay, when’s your birthday? i just have to prove something.

sophie: …….july 12th

hardison: why did you pause? wait, is that your birthday or sophie devereaux’s birthday?

sophie: ………… (guilty silence)

parker: see, no one knows their real birthday! haha you’re so weird sometimes, hardison

hardison:

hardison: what the fuck guys

[leverage-ot3]

Is leverage redemption worth watching? I love Leverage but idk if i could enjoy the show if hardison isn't in most episodes or if the reboot sells out in some way.

okay so I showed up to this ask like four months late with a smoothie so I'm sorry about that BUT

does redemption have it's flaws? yes, I will be the first to admit that!

however, as someone who deeply loves leverage, the characters and what the show stands for, I still can find myself enjoying redemption.

there's one post that's in my drafts talking about the differences between the og and redemption and the so-called universe physics (how logic works in both shows and how they are the same/differ) and there are definitely some differences. there are some really good posts comparing them in the tags and I'll try to tag them as watch redemption when they come up!

I'm going to be really honest right now and say that (no shade) I feel like redemption s1-2 were lacking because john rogers was not a main writer for them. devlin and the others are great and know their stuff, but redemption was missing some of the grit (balanced with everything else) that the original run had. redemption is more fun and lighthearted (where the og was still fun and had comedic elements but also had a more jaded perspective). I think part of that change is the absence of nate as a character and what he brought to the table, but the other part of that is very much the way the show is written overall

I have seen some criticism about parker being a caricature of what she was in the original run (ex: how she goes to a child's psychologist and uses puppets sometimes, is overtly weird, more loud about stuff, etc) BUT I will say that I think there's some nuance to that

I don't think the child psychiatrist thing is infantalizing- some methods of therapy work for people more than others and that is me speaking as someone who works in mental health. if play therapy and stuff like that work for you as an adult, good for you! whatever works for you is more than enough the overtly and loudly being weird thing I really do think can be taken either way. in the original run part of parker's character progression was that she was learning how to interact with people normally (or at least more efficiently), but her being more out about that now can be taken as she is more comfortable in her skin and acting like she wants because she is surrounded by people who love and support her. maybe she doesn't want to (or have to!) mask all the time and I don't see a problem with that

HOWEVER! there are certain criticisms that are related to her characterizations and overlaps with her autism and I don't want to speak over the autism community about those aspects and how they have manifested in her character in redemption so I'm leaving it there

as for the hardison being absent aspect- I was REALLY afraid of that at first BUT the loss isn't so deeply impactful when you have characters like breanna and harry added to the mix. I went in ambivalent about harry and excited to have breanna (a canon queer) joining the team, but I have come to love and cherish both of them dearly and wouldn't want to replace them or lose them as characters in this found family ensemble. I think the writers handled aldis' packed schedule really well and even though he isn't there in most episodes, his presence is still very much around. parker and eliot talk about him and reference him when he's gone. so do sophie and breanna, even harry. he isn't on the screen but the relationships he's formed with the other characters and the impact he's had on them is very evident.

there are some takes from users about whether or not the ot3 was queerbait, un-canoned, etc in redemption. I have a lot of thoughts about it and a lot of them are incomprehensible but what I can say is that I have renewed hopes for the progression and canon development of their relationship now that john rogers is back as the main writer for s3

[david-tennant-addict]

Alec hardy x fem reader (smut if u r comfortable) let’s say where reader always annoys alec (she has a massive crush on him cause duh) and Alec is always annoyed by her and maybe she gets sick or something like goes out for a work trip idk and he realizes how much he miss her annoying voice lol soo yaa rest to your imagination

💜

One day

OMG YES I love that idea! This idea actually fits with my OC so I can easily write about this!

Since this is my first fic in a while I’m just going to keep it a Drabble. I might make more in the future.

Alec Hardy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: none

Type: Drabble

Summary: Y/N annoys Alec daily but when she doesn’t show up and Alec wonders why he feels the way he does about it.

Y/n………she was always such an annoying lass. always talking about things that didn’t matter like concerts, songs, shows, anything that didn’t involve work. This annoyed Alec. He would be sitting at his desk trying to work on the case they were working on and she would be sitting on his desk which he hated and talk and talk. She never seemed to shut up.

Then one day she did. Well she didn’t show up to work……weird.

She always shows up for work. She would show up late a lot but still shows. But for once Alec had peace. And he didn’t like it.

He was sitting at his desk looking at evidence and papers about the case….As he read the paper all he could hear was that damned clock ticking. The silence was killing him. He stopped what he was working on and ran his fingers through his hair. He can’t work without her. Her chatter seemed to help him focus but he never saw that at first. “Y/n” He mumbled out into his hands.

After some time he removed his hands from his face and stood up and grabbed his coat angrily and walked out of his office.

Ellie saw him start to leave and she started to question him. “Where are you going? Did you find them? What’s wrong” She continued to question.

“Y/N-“ He snapped at Ellie. He sighed “ She didn’t show up. I’m going to check on her you stay and work on the case.” She agreed and he was on his way.

Meanwhile Y/n was in bed, curled up, every blanket in her apartment on her, shivering from the cold shivers of her fever that had sadly strucken her. She laid there coughing and hacking. And the fact that she was dehydrated wasn’t helping much, all she wanted to do was curl up and die in that bed, she was so dry and tired. She didn’t even want to get up for a glass of water which she needed badly.

The fever was so bad she didn’t even notice someone was banging on her door and it wasn’t just knocking. It was full on “FBI open up” banging. At some point Alec freaked out and bust open the door not enough to break it but enough to get it open. he searched all around her apartment until he finally found y/n laying in her bed in such a daze she didn’t even notice him walk in. He touched her face and felt how hot you were. (not talkin looks here but you look good girly)

He can tell how bad she were from his experience, being a father, and knowing what it’s like to be sick. He took some of her pillows and propped her up. he fetched her a glass of water and made her drink it when she took the drink of water it awoken her. She finally realized somehow Alec got into her apartment. “Wha? Huh? How did you even-“

“Don’t ask love. You were almost dead!”

“What? No- I’m just a little thirsty-“

“Lass you were dehydrated we need to get some food in your stomach.” He stated

“Why?” She asked

“Why? Well if you don’t you’ll go hungry and I-“

“No. Why are you doing this?” She said

Alec looked at y/n puzzled

“Why are you doing this? I thought you hated me or just didn’t care enough”

“Well………I thought I didn’t like your chatter. Then when I noticed you not come in I worried something happened to you”

“You worry about people?” she smiled childishly at him

“I do have a heart you know”

“One that you need to give a break”

“What?”

“Nothing”

Silence fell on the room as Alec went to go get y/n some food. After a bit he came back with a tray for the bed and some soup.

“Ok now careful it’s hot so let it cool down and then eat”

“Ok dad”

“Don’t call me dad”

“Ok……but thank you”

“For what?”

“Helping me”

“Well you needed it”

He grabbed a chair and sat by her bed

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting”

Well I know that but…. Why are you saying?”

“You need the help clearly.”

“I’m a grown adult I can handle myself”

“Yeah says the one that was laying here dehydrated”

“…”

“Exactly”

“Why did you come to help me? Aren’t I annoying to you?”

“A little but….it got to quiet”

“I thought you hated my rambling?”

“I did”

“Did?”

“Maybe….I liked it a little”

“Really?”

“I said a little”

The room got silent and Y/n thoughts got the best of her.

“Fuck it I’m going to be an adult and tell you since we’re alone and usually Ellie is here too-“

“You’re rambling”

“Yeah…..I like you” she flinched scared what he was going to say

“Hm”

“So?” She said

“Maybe I do too”

“REALLY?! OH MY GOD I could kiss you!”

“I said maybe and you’re sick so no way”

“Oh….yeah”

“But maybe one day…..”

“Yeah…..one day”

I hope you liked this ! Sorry if it’s not that good I haven’t written in awhile! 💜💜💜

[oddsconvert]

Joshy playing Mario kart with his boyfriend and him always choosing yoshi because it sounds like his name

Anon. ANON! I love you SO MUCH for this!!! This is such a cute prompt, giggling and kicking my feeties!

This is post-captivity Josh and his boyfriend, Alec! <3

- “UNSELECT YOSHI RIGHT NOW!” Alec’s voice booms loud enough to trigger a magnitude seven earthquake. With lightning speed, Alec's red controller flies across the room, landing with a clatter as he lunges for Josh's blue one. He pounces on Josh’s lap, straddling him, their bodies intertwining in a tangle of wriggling limbs. 

“Nuh-uh!” Josh giggles infectiously until he’s red in the face. He holds his switch controller high in the air, out of reach, and wrestles Alec with his free hand. “Snooze you lose! I got to him first!”

“But I’m Yoshi!” Alec exclaims, his arms shooting up and swatting at the controller like a playful cat.

“Since when were you Yoshi?” Josh challenges.

“Uhm, I don’t know… since like - FOREVER-” 

Josh's laughter explodes into a full-blown cackle as Alec's attempts to steal the controller grow increasingly desperate. His legs kick wildly, trying to gain leverage, while his hands flail like a windmill.  

“Can’t you just be dry bones or something?!” Josh huffs, with a cheeky roll of his eyes. 

Alec freezes, his eyes widening in mock horror. He holds his palm flat against his chest, like an old lady clutching her pearls. “...You did not just suggest dry bones to me, Joshua!” he gasps, “Never have I ever been so offended in my life!”

“Why the hell do you want to be Yoshi so bad?!”

"He's my good luck charm, I always win when I play as him," Alec boasts, a smug grin spreading across his face. His eyes narrow. "Why do YOU want to be Yoshi so bad?" he demands, crossing his arms.

Josh’s face flushes a deep red as he ducks his head, trying to hide his embarrassment. “He…His name sounds like my name… Yoshi… Joshy -”

Alec's stern expression melts into a tender smile. His heart skips a beat. A small, involuntary and smitten smile creeps in. “...Aww -  dammit … that’s… kind of adorable,” he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I’ll guess I’ll let you have your way, my love. Just this once!”

“You say that,” Josh teases, his arms wrapping around Alec’s waist, “but you know I always get my way.”

Alec's lips curve into a knowing smile. Leaning in, he captures Josh's gaze but nearly gets lost in those eyes. He shakes free of Josh’s alluring spell. "Oh, do you?" His voice a low, husky promise. Before Josh could respond, Alec gently closes the distance between them, their lips meeting in a soft, sweet kiss. 

Josh's breath caught in his throat as Alec's lips touches his. His eyelashes flutter closed as he surrenders to the moment. It’s a sensation Josh fears may always feel foreign to him. The freedom of choice, the safety of another’s embrace, the tenderness. For so long, touch had been a weapon, a tool of coercion. The idea of touch would make Josh break out in hives. Now, it was his language of love - a silent declaration of trust and affection. 

With Alec, there’s never fear, or dread. Only peace. 

When they finally pull apart, eternities later, his heart was racing and Alec’s eyes were sparkling. 

"Didn't say I'd let you win though, did I?" Alec purrs.

Josh chuckles softly. "You're so mean to me," he replies, feigning hurt, before pulling Alec back in for another kiss.

[lurafita]

Going Commando

Izzy: "Ugh! This is so frustrating!"

Alec: "What?"

Izzy: "I'm want to know why not wearing underwear is called 'going commando', but the internet has about 8 different origins for it and none of them have a definitive verification."

Clary: "… Maybe it's more comfortable? For soldiers? I mean, it does stem from military usage, right?"

Izzy, turning to the guys: "So? Is it more comfortable, or does it just swing around down there and chafe more?"

Alec, Jace and Simon, red in the face and stuttering: "Y-y-you can't just ask stuff like that!"

Magnus: "Barring any strenuous activity, you don't really notice the swinging. It depends on what you are wearing, mostly. Tracksuits and other softer material pants are fine. Jeans can get a little chafy. And then there are some pants where you just don't want to have any underwear lines showing through. Like silk pants."

Alec: "… You are wearing silk pants right now."

Magnus, smirking: "I am."

[lorata]

Wait I just did the maths and Alec was 12 in Claudius’ arena. What was that like watching with his parents? Did Joseph use it as a teaching moment ‘this is what happens when you break the rules’ sort of deal

Anonymous asked: Just realised Alec would’ve been 12 and watching Claudius’ arena with Joseph and Adora, did they say anything? Did they comment? What did the trainers say?

OKAY WELL SIX MONTHS / 6,000 WORDS LATER HERE WE ARE

warnings for uhhhhh generational trauma and child abuse and the cycle of trauma / abuse / fear / fascism / all that good Seward soup

FIC BELOW:

-----

Creed left for Residential a week before the Reaping, and his absence stretched long and thin as the Games played out. One of their tributes died quick, a heavy blow to the head that took him out before he hit the ground. The other managed to drag herself into a tree with a seeping gut wound, blood oozing between her fingers and dripping down the branches, face upturned at the camera for a sponsor parachute that never came. No signs of life but the flutter of her lashes and the steady drip-drip-drip of blood until both stilled and the cannon fired.

“Bedtime,” Dad said, then almost as an afterthought, “You too, Selene.”

Alec dragged himself off the sofa, limbs heavy. Selene kept sitting, eyes fixed on the television with a now familiar glint. “Lene,” Alec said, sharper than he meant to.

Her gaze snapped to him, sharp with irritation, and he saw the Centre-reflex in the coil of muscle at her shoulder. Saw her wind up to hit him before the moment cleared and she was back in his living room, both their parents watching. “Whatever,” she said with sarcasm-shaded casualness. No points for subtlety, trainee, said the trainer in back of Alec’s head, but at least she followed.

No jockeying for space at the bathroom mirror now that Creed had gone. Alec missed it with a desperate ache, but elbowing Selene now wouldn’t bring back the easy playfulness of the early years. She brushed her teeth, spat, and marched into the bedroom without a word, leaving Alec to stand there with his mouth full of foam and his chest a gaping hole.

By the time Alec ventured into his room Selene had already vanished into the top bunk (Creed’s bunk). Alec stared at the lump of blankets in the reflected hallway light before giving up and crawling under the covers.

“I wouldn’t have tripped,” Selene said. The blankets rustled — the mattress creaked as she rolled over to face the wall — and soon her breathing evened out into sleep.

Alec tried, really he did. Except that eyes closed or open, squeezed tightly shut or held wide until they burned he still saw it: the red-black splatter of arterial blood onto wide jungle leaves.

-----

December: icy winds whistling from the mountains, blowing snow that stung his cheeks, endless promotions for the upcoming Victory Tour. Selene’s thirteenth birthday.

No party, like she predicted. Instead, Alec’s window slid open as he hunched over his desk, struggling with an essay about the Solstice, and Selene dropped through. Snowflakes scattered on her dark hair, slowly melting. “Yo,” she said. “Got the signature.”

Alec swallowed hard. “You going tonight?”

“Yeah. Uncle Joe’s going to drive me.” Not Uncle Paul. Not Aunt Julia. Selene rubbed one cheek with her shoulder, a short, jerky movement, avoiding Alec’s eyes as he gaped at her.

Selene barely spoke to her parents anymore, tension filling their house until it choked. But they weren’t the only ones; shared family dinners had stalled out since the fall. Selene’s parents didn’t want her going to Residential, everyone knew that. He didn’t know his parents had gone behind their backs.

“Oh,” he said. “Well — knock ‘em dead?”

“You know it.” She punched his arm. “Don’t wuss out without me.”

“Yeah, right. Like I’d stay here by myself where it’s sad and boring.” Alec shoved her back, and for a moment they could have been horsing around like old times, if not for the damp-edged sheaf of folded paper clutched to Selene’s chest. “Don’t break all the records before I get there.”

Selene didn’t wave as the car backed away down the narrow lane, but Alec watched the headlights bob through the trees anyway. “Are they mad?” he asked. The thought twisted his insides.

Mom held onto the question before she answered. He liked that she took him seriously, but hated that she had to think. “She would have walked,” she said at last. “Liking and accepting are different things.”

Not a no, Alec thought, but not ‘we are banned from the Valents’ house forever’ either. He didn’t like it, but he could accept it. One kill for Mom.

-----

Aunt Julia handed him his favourite mug, steaming and filling the kitchen with mint. Alec took it without paying attention, curling his palms around the sides instead of grasping the handle. He jerked back with a hiss, liquid sloshing over the rim onto his fingers. Only Centre-training kept him from flinging the mug away.

“Alec!” Julia darted forward. “Did I burn you?”

“No,” he said quickly, and hid his arms behind his back. His throat clenched. “No, I’m okay. Sorry. It’s fine.”

Julia studied him for several endless seconds. At the Centre Alec learned to take a punch to the face without flinching, but under Julia’s direct scrutiny he buckled and held out his hands. She curled her fingers around his wrists, turning him to face her so she could examine the angry weals slashed across both palms.

“I fell,” Alec said in a low voice. Julia caught his gaze and held it, but this time he squared his shoulders and stared back, steady. “I fell,” he repeated. “It was my fault.”

(Spring meant young, green branches, and Dad had been distracted. Usually he was precise: two short strokes each, but this time Mom had darted in to stop him. She’d ordered Alec to the Valents’ and pulled Dad aside, and as he edged out the door he’d caught the the sharp snap of her tone.)

Julia sighed, but only stood up to fetch the medicine kit. Alec watched her smear cream over the parallel cuts and tape his hands, and took a deep breath as she finished. “Is something … happening? Outside. Dad is really tense.”

Like Mom, Julia considered her words before answering. “I’m almost twelve,” Alec insisted. “I’m not a kid anymore, you can tell me.”

“You know Paul and your father can’t talk about work at home,” Julia warned. “But I do think the country is … uneasy. Seven had an unconventional win, and those are always unpredictable. I think everyone will be on edge until the Reaping.”

“We learned about that in Civics,” Alec said slowly. “Unrest happens in cycles. The districts get restless after the Tour but quiet down when the next Games start.”

She favoured him with a tight smile. “Exactly. A few more months and things should go back to normal.”

-----

“Elias Linden!”

Alec inhaled sharply through his nose. Reaching into his mind he yanked out half a dozen memories of the switch stinging his palm, Dad’s hand knocking his face to the side, the burn of his thighs as he counted down the minutes of his nightly wall-sits, so that when the camera drones swung past his row the image of his face that flickered across the enormous screens stared out calm and impassive.

(Alec, seven years old, desperate and terrified to start a fight so the Program will notice him.)

(A group of kids with Centre bracelets, tossing a ball back and forth in a circle.)

(A kid in the middle, wrist bare, face screwed up tight and lower lip wobbling.)

(“You’ve had your turn. Let someone else play.” “Last chance, kid. Go away.”)

(Alec in the office with a broken nose, split lip, a bag of frozen peas held to his face. Kid in the middle vanished as soon as the fists started flying.)

Elias Linden.

Out of all the twelve-year-olds in District 2. Alec must have fought the bullies over him a dozen times those next few months. Elias never said thank you — never looked him in the eye — and once the Centre called Alec stopped picking fights, too exhausted to think about the merchant boy with the hunched shoulders and hunted expression.

Elias didn’t look like a kid who’d learned to fight once his recess saviour forgot about him. The drones zoomed in on those same hunched shoulders, same clenched jaw, same stupid fancy clothes that made him a target for every pre-Residential tyrant in the central quarter. 

And now —

“I volunteer!”

Alec pressed his knees together against the automatic urge to buckle. He had actually forgotten. Year after year of summers in this square — Creed’s lifelong obsession — and still, for those 30 seconds it was real. The Arena had swooped down and curled its claws around Elias, around all of them, like everyone else in Panem.

But they weren’t the rest of Panem. They were Two, and Alec couldn’t breathe. For a handful of seconds he got it, got why Dad always used that reverent voice when he spoke about the Games, why Creed puffed himself up so big and important. Alec knew Elias and they’d called his name; it could have been Alec. But it wouldn’t be Elias, and it wouldn’t be Alec, not this year, not any year.

Because of the tall, blond teenager with long limbs and steely eyes who strode down the central aisle, mouth curved in a hard sneer. And one day, because of Creed.

Alec bit his tongue until he swallowed blood and cheered with the rest of the crowd, a hollow in the pit of his stomach.

-----

Without Creed, now without Selene, the afternoon yawned. A whole summer with no one else for company; even Alec’s usual trick of calling up an imaginary Selene to devise likely activities wouldn’t save him now. Maybe he could dam the creek and teach himself to swim in the shallows? That would take time, if nothing else.

“Alec.”

He never jumped on the outside anymore, even when all his insides clenched into knots. But Dad’s serious voice made Alec’s heart start running laps, and he turned around slowly, brain doing somersaults trying to figure out what he’d done wrong. Forgot to make his bed? Left his breakfast dishes on the table? Splashed water on the sink and didn’t wipe it?

“Come inside and see this,” Dad said. “It’s important.”

Most kids at school didn’t start watching until the Reaping, maybe the year before so they knew what standing in the square their first year meant, but even Alec only sat down with his parents for the evening recap. A low chord of foreboding plucked in his chest. Quicksand dragged his limbs but he forced himself into a Peacekeeper’s march to join his parents in the living room.

Tucked into a corner of the sofa, under cover of his knees, Alec twisted anxious fingers in the crocheted afghan as one after another, district after district, kids his age walked shakily to the stage. This year the Games would have a whole stage of Elias Lindens — or Alec’s entire class at school.

“What happened?” he asked, once the footage switched to commentary. The Games correspondents didn’t have any theories, or if they did, they weren’t telling. Dad pressed mute on a discussion over the ongoing trend of seersucker in the outer tributes’ Reaping shirts.

‘This,” Dad said, slow and heavy, and Alec’s brain filled in the rest of the sentence along with him as he had done thousands of times — only without the ghost of Selene’s imitation trying to make him giggle —

This is what happens when we break the rules.

“Aunt Julia said,” Alec said, needing to show he understood, needing desperately to be a grownup. “She said there was unrest in the districts. Like how we learned in school.” Dad said nothing, which meant he wasn’t wrong, and so he continued, one foot in front of the other. “So this is — a reminder? That the Games are not a joke. That — that obedience is not a joke. That … they think they’re smart enough to find a way around the rules, if they’re tricky, but they’re not. The Capitol is the boss no matter what.”

Mom nodded. “Yes.” Now the Reaping footage returned in split screen, the only Volunteers (One, Two, Four) waving at the roaring crowds. Her face pinched, eyebrows drawing close, one corner of her mouth turned down. “Their job will be to carry out the punishment.”

“Because we’re the sword,” Alec said, on surer ground now. Anyone who made it to Transition knew this one. District 2, the tool, the weapon, acting as the Capitol willed. Creed had that speech memorized since he was five years old. “We don’t write the message, but we send it.”

They sent him back outside after that, and Alec hauled himself up the willow tree in the hopes that wind in the branches and the solid bark beneath his back would settle the uneasy churning in his stomach. All those weeks of Dad working overtime, the growing tension, a whole nation under the thumb for disobeying. Alec squirmed when Selene sneaked an extra cookie in front of him, never mind widespread treason. And now, six tributes in charge of delivering the Capitol’s retribution. Alec didn’t envy them that task. What did you do with tools, after all, once they’d outlived their use? There would only be one Victor this year, same as any other.

He clenched his eyes shut and focused on the rustle of leaves overhead, the drone of insects and scream of a distant hawk.

-----

Nothing surprising about their girl this year. Strong, beautiful, definitely deadly, stalking the training room in ‘unreleased’ footage that fools nobody but they still do it every year. Dad liked her; Mom said she should smile more. Then they had a brief argument about double standards in tribute sponsorship — Dad: “No one ever asked Nero to smile” Mom: “I am well aware” — while Alec wedged himself in the sofa corner as usual, hoping they forgot about him.

The boy, though —

Right from the start Alec could tell that the male tribute from Two would be unconventional, a thought that chilled his spine. Alec watched, chest squeezed so tight his ribs creaked, as the rangy boy chatted up outlier tributes, postured with the other Careers, and looked up at his mentor with such raw need that Alec looked away, burning with second-hand humiliation. Not exactly the ruthless murder machine that the Reaping set up for him to be.

Once footage ‘leaked’ of a Two v. Four showdown in the training room, both boys bristling for a fight, bodies tense and pushed up in each other’s space, eyes locked, faces so close they breathed the same air. Alec’s face burned, his whole body flashing hot, and he had to fight the urge to fling the blanket over himself, horrified to be in the same room as his parents, even though nothing about that made sense.

“What is he playing at,” Dad groused. “Actually, no, what is his mentor playing at. That boy’s only doing what he’s told. She knows better. Our job — and the stakes — could not be more clear. This is not the year to get clever.”

Alec didn’t bother answering, having long learned to differentiate between Dad’s ‘vent’ and ‘require response’ modes, and so he tensed when Mom ignored the signs. “She wants her kid to survive. There’s no shame in that.”

“That is not what the Games are for,” Dad said sharply. “Not this year. Not any year. They’re bigger than the life of one tribute, one mentor. Lyme knows that — or at least, she should. If she’s forgotten, then that’s one more piece in why this year is necessary.”

Mom’s face tightened, and Alec expected the silence to stretch the way it sometimes did at the dinner table, awkward and awful, but she fired right back, fast enough he nearly flinched. “Of course they’re more than a single life, but that doesn’t make that life irrelevant. It doesn’t mean she shouldn’t try everything she can to bring him home. Or should she dig a grave as soon as the paperwork is signed?”

“Alec,” Dad said, without looking at him, “Outside.”

Alec scrambled off the couch and out the door so fast he bashed his knee, hip and shoulder against various corners on the way out. He did not slow down until he hit the woods. 

-----

Next morning, creeping downstairs to grab breakfast and duck outside before his parents woke, Alec ran into his father on the way up, squarely-folded blanket and pillow tucked under his arm. “Um,” Alec said, burning with a sense of shared embarrassment he couldn’t articulate.

“Alec,” Dad said, like any morning, except he fixed his gaze to the left of Alec’s head. Alec scrambled to the side, pressing his back against the wall to let him pass.

-----

“And with that, we’ll be right back to hear from our electrifying tributes from District 3!”

The camera wiped from Caesar Flickerman’s glinting smile to a panel of forecasters as Mom soundlessly muted the television. Alec’s knees dug into his chin and he held himself small, willing himself to shrink, dissolve back into the fabric of the couch, disappear entirely. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t even blink. Don’t do anything to draw attention. A mouse in the shadow of a hawk, waiting.

Dad’s moods had always filled the house — Creed never believed him but Alec could sense them with his eyes closed — and now it seeped into the living room, thick and unstoppable, like the low roll of thunder before a storm or gush of oil from an overflowing bucket. “Joseph,” Mom said, warningly, but then she stopped, looked at him, and her tone shifted, turning almost gentle. “Joe. It’s all right.”

“What about that is all right,” Dad gritted out. “The instructions this year could not have been more clear. One knows. Our girl knows. They’re playing along, they’re following the rules. The boy is not following the rules. He’s not following the rules, Dora —”

“I know,” Mom said, soothing. Alec had to breathe, finally, and drew air in through his nose as slowly as he could stand. “I know. But they know this as well as you do, they know the cost. They wouldn’t play this game for no reason. There must be a plan.”

“Oh?” Dad spun to glare at her, eyes wild. Don’t move, hissed Alec’s brain, don’t move. “What about all that about mentors and tributes and digging graves and lives not being irrelevant? Throwing our son in my face? Maybe she’s done the math and decided that it’s worth it, like you said. Maybe she doesn’t care who pays the price as long as one boy comes home. They don’t know.” His breath came ragged now. “They don’t know. They don’t know what happens when you break —”

Mom crossed the room in two sharp strides and knelt in front of Dad’s chair, holding his wrists. “Alec,” she said without looking away from Dad, “Go find Paul and Julia. Fast as you can.”

Frozen, Alec couldn’t move until Mom’s slap-sharp “Now, Alec!” tore him from his spot.

-----

Aunt Julia and Uncle Paul were washing the dinner dishes, television on mute in the other room, when Alec slammed his way in the front door. Julia jumped and dropped a drinking glass, which dropped into the sink with a wet plorp. “It’s Dad,” Alec said, chest squeezing. “The District 2 boy said something in the interviews and I don’t get it but it made him — he’s not — Mom said I should come get you —”

Julia and Paul exchanged a look. “Should I,” Julia murmured, and Paul shook his head. “I’ve got it,” he said, and he kissed the top of her head, folded the dish towel on the counter, and headed out. He squeezed Alec’s shoulder on the way past, his hand warm and solid.

“I don’t know what happened,” Alec said. He felt very small and very stupid and he missed Selene so much it hurt.

Julia sighed. “Let’s finish up the dishes first.”

Alec opened his mouth to protest, but Julia held out the towel and he stepped forward to take it from her automatically. And once he had the towel she handed him a glass and the rest sort of followed, and the rhythmic motions of drying the dishes didn’t make the earlier events disappear but they did help quiet the jangling in his brain, at least a little. Finally, Alec placed the last plate on the shelf and hung the towel up to dry, and Julia gestured him over to the table.

“I don’t know what happened either,” Aunt Julia began, and fair enough, they didn’t even watch the interviews. Until Alec came bolting in they wouldn’t have known there was anything to worry about. “But Paul and your mother will sort him out. Peacekeepers, you know. They understand things we can’t, sometimes.”

The urge to tear at the skin by his nails, to pick and pull until his fingers bled, bubbled up strong, and Alec exhaled hard and pressed his hands flat to the tabletop. Pushed down hard until his knuckles ached and his joints shook. “Do you think he’ll ever tell me?”

Aunt Julia frowned. “About tonight? Or something else?”

How even to explain the spectre that stalked his house, haunting the hallways and hanging over Alec’s shoulder any time he considered the kind of playful rule-bending that Selene took for granted as a childhood rite of passage. Alec stared at the table, following a grain of wood from the edge until it disappeared from view. “I don’t know how to — I feel like there’s something big I don’t know. Like he’s always not telling me something.”

Julia laughed.

A snort, not a fully belly laugh, and stifled by her hand once the sound caught up with her, but even so Alec bristled. “It’s not like that,” Julia said. “I only mean, Joseph always has something on his mind. But it has nothing to do with you — or anyone else, really.”

“But —” Alec clicked his tongue in frustration. “Shouldn’t I know? It seems like if I just, if I knew, I’d understand and it would all — make sense. Him. Me. All of it.”

She studied him, eyes dark and serious. “Alec,” Julia said finally. “It’s not your job to manage your father.”

Several summers ago, Selene pushed him out of the willow tree in the backyard. He’d landed on his side, shocked and winded, the breath driven from his lungs, one arm caught under him, wrist bone snapped in two. It came back to him now — not the blow or the pain or the fear, but that moment when he slipped from the branch before he hit the ground, when time elongated and he’d been weightless, floating.

“What,” he said finally, stupidly. “I’m not.”

“Hm,” Julia said. “I’ll make cocoa.”

-----

After the cocoa, Julia sent Alec upstairs to get ready for bed. “You’re welcome to stay here until things settle down,” she said. “I’ll make up the room for you.”

Despite absolutely nothing being different — Selene hadn’t even taken any belongings with her — the yawning cavern of her absence echoed so loudly that Alec actually stole one of her favourite shirts to sleep in out of spite, in the hopes that she would appear in the window to fight him for it, or something. Obviously she didn’t, because that was stupid, which meant that when Julia came back in to say goodnight she found Alec with ‘CAREFUL, I BITE’ emblazoned across his chest.

“Do you think we’ll get punished for what the Twos are doing?” Alec asked. “Dad’s worried, I know that much.”

Julia sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his curls back. “Your dad’s worried because his job takes him closer to things than most. I think if anyone knows their duty, it’s Two. Any mentor worth two stones knows how to keep their tribute and the district safe. Now sleep.”

She poked a finger between his eyebrows, then bent to kiss his forehead. Alec closed his eyes and let himself believe her.

-----

Tree shadows criss-crossed the ceiling as Alec tried to will himself to sleep. Two Boy had aimed the target back at the districts, blaming the families of the tributes for not volunteering. Except that — the outer tributes were usually scrawny, and starving, and had never seen a weapon in their lives. They hadn’t trained in a secret academy for years, had they? Mom and Dad and the trainers always said the Centre was a privilege. It wouldn’t be a privilege if everybody was allowed.

So what, then.

He could hear Selene’s dismissal already: not our problem. Even Creed would argue that training or no, it was the older sibling’s duty to protect the younger, and they would have to live with the guilt of that failure. But Alec had stood in that Reaping square, had watched Elias Linden take that first shaky step forward, and if no one else had taken his place? What if Alec had been thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, and never held a sword? Would he have done it? 

Alec didn’t even want to go to Residential. He’d never volunteer to die.

Okay. If it wasn’t the Careers, and it wasn’t the districts, then whose fault was it?

Alec jumped out of bed, sheets tangled around his feet so he nearly tripped and slammed into the floor face-first. He pushed Selene’s desk chair out of the way into the middle of the room, pressed his back against the wall and bent his legs until his thighs burned and his brain gasped in relief.

He counted to five hundred, then dragged himself, twitching and trembling, back to bed.

-----

Normality attempted to reassert itself with breakfast: scrambled egg and toast with a generous tablespoon of homemade rhubarb jam from the neighbours down the road. As always Alec hesitated at the jam — a definite indulgence, and he hadn’t done push-ups or anything this morning — but Julia had already spread it on the bread and asking for a plain slice would be rude. Julia and Paul shared another glance as he sat down, and Alec tensed.

“Your dad and Uncle Paul are going back to the office today,” Aunt Julia said, carefully. “We’ll all watch the recaps in the evening.”

Alec let out a breath. Aunt Julia was on-call for emergencies at the hospital and Mom’s school was out for summer vacation. Senior staff at Eagle Pass, meanwhile, had a work-from-home rotation for Games month, and it wasn’t Dad or Uncle Paul’s turn to be on site. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s an unconventional year already,” said Uncle Paul. “Safe to say the Arena will be a stressful one. We agreed it’s better if we’re not glued to the screen all day.”

Not exactly a lie — Paul and Julia only ever watched the recaps — but Alec knew the sound of an intervention when he heard one. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I guess I’ll … go hang out in the woods?”

Julia poured him a glass of juice. “You can take the fishing gear if you like. I’ll pack you a lunch.”  

-----

He left the fishing gear at home, haunted by the memory of gulping mouths and pleading eyes on the last trip Dad tried to take him on, which left his original dam-the-river plan as the only option that sprang to mind. Alec trudged home at dinner time soaking wet, covered in mud, having heard absolutely no stupid jokes or threats or feats of illogic all day. The only time he fell into the creek, he’d tripped on his own.

Hanging out by himself sucked.

-----

Twelve-year-olds died every year. Alec had even seen them. But even compared to the hulking gods of the Careers they’d still been older than Alec and somehow more mature, even if they sobbed their way from Reaping to unceremonious death.

Now they were his age. His classmates.

The recap didn’t linger too long on their deaths, screaming and running and fighting to scale the forcefield walls. Two Boy took out one in the first few seconds — first kill of the game — without even looking. Dad grunted under his breath, a noise Alec recognized as now you’re playing ball. Unfortunately they saved most of the bloodbath time for the Career drama, Two versus Four and the shouts of betrayal between them. Dad was bracketed on the couch between Mom and Uncle Paul, and Alec tried not to look at him.

Two Girl gave it her best shot, but even she couldn’t take down four Careers on her own. “He left her there,” Alec said in a small voice. Sure, it was the Games, and alliances were only temporary, but — still.

“He made his choice,” Dad said, flat and grim.

He’d made everyone else’s choices for them too, apparently. After killing Two Girl the Pack stared at each other, then split. Everyone for themselves from day one. Alec swallowed the sour taste in his mouth. At least his parents paid for the raw feed so he didn’t have to listen to a commentary track on top of everything else.

And so it went, day after day. An ugly Arena for an ugly year, full of traps and tricks to create excitement before a bunch of kids Alec’s age could die slowly on their own. “It is a punishment for the districts,” Alec said once, watching the girl from Twelve dissolve in acid rain, screaming until her lungs filled with blood. “But not —” Not one carried out by the Careers, he’d begun to say — not with their tributes struggling to survive alongside the outliers, hardly the glorious tools of the Capitol’s vengeance the Reaping promised them to be. The sense of exception granted by the Volunteers had levelled.

He froze as soon as he registered he’d spoken aloud, but Dad only sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We have a narrative,” he said, reluctant. “We’ll see how it plays out.”

Two Boy started this, and so almost against his will Alec started to pay attention. While the Ones and Fours faced mutts, Two alone dragged himself out of the collapsing ground for hours and hours. Alec imagined the trainers asking, why? Why perseverance rather than combat? Humility over glory? Perhaps humiliation for the one who’d broken the rules? Bringing him low while the ones who’d played along got to earn their survival with honour and prestige.

Boring, Selene would say, for sure. Who wants to watch this dude crawl out of a hole for eight hours. Let’s go back to the fights.

-----

Two killed Seven after sharing a meal and talking about home, and Alec swallowed nausea. How could he do that, how could he — chat about family and little sisters and share chocolate and names and then slit his throat like that, like it didn’t even matter, pick up the dead boy’s token and take his snacks like it didn’t bother him. Alec thought of Selene sitting in Residential with the thirteens, watching, taking notes, of Creed, and the air around him had gone thin and thick all at once, pressing close around him and squeezing, squeezing, but none of it sliding into his lungs no matter how he gasped —

“Bed,” Mom said firmly, her hands on either side of his face. She snapped her fingertips against his cheek and he could breathe again. “Come on, Alec.”

He let her drag him into bed and tuck him in as she hadn’t done in years, physically lifting his legs over the edge of the bed and rearranging him bodily like a toddler. “I don’t want it,” Alec whispered, choked. “I don’t want Creed in there.”

“Creed,” Mom said firmly, “will not be like that.”

Alec pressed his arm over his eyes, breath shuddering. “He’ll still have to kill them. The ones my age.”

“He won’t have picnics with them,” Mom said. “He won’t make a game of it. And he won’t antagonize the President and the Gamemakers, either. You know that.”

He didn’t look at her. Pushed his arm down harder until coloured lights spun behind his lids. “Do you want him in there? Really?”

The bed creaked as Mom drew back, mattress bouncing with the sudden removal of her weight. “Good night, Alec,” she said, sharp and repressive, and it wasn’t fair and he shouldn’t have asked when she couldn’t possibly give an answer that would make him happy but her tone left no room for an apology.

Jeremy, Two Boy had said. Like my old man. He’d actually named his father on television. A father who — according to his interview — turned him out into the streets and left him homeless. Alec curled into a ball and tried to ignore the churning deep within.

-----

I hope the popcorn tastes good, said Two Boy, saluting over Nine Boy’s corpse with his blood-stained dagger. Try using thyme.

Dad stiffened. And there it was again, that little jolt in Alec’s spine, that sense of wrongness, the turn of his ankle on the stairs, the give beneath his foot that spoke of a sinkhole in the yard.

Two Boy hadn’t mentioned brothers. Maybe he didn’t know. Maybe he really did mean it to shame the district families, except. Except. If it were Creed he’d be sick with anger and guilt and fury, no one in the districts was eating popcorn — even in Two that was gauche, as Dad would say, so where — then who —

Alec met Dad’s eyes without meaning to, both of them fingers clenched on knees, breathing through their noses. This is what happens, Dad always said, when he ordered Alec to the wall, or sent him to his room without dinner, or cut a switch from the dogwood coppice in the backyard. This, and this, and this.

I get it, Alec wanted to say, desperate and terrified, but his voice died in his throat. I get it. He’s going to get us all in trouble.

Dad’s mouth thinned. He nodded, once, and turned back to the television without a word.

-----

Two Boy dragged himself across the frozen grass to the hovercraft as his vitals plunged downward at the bottom of the screen, but at the last possible moment he made it. The Gamemakers bestowed their favour, bringing out the sun to grant him that last burst of strength to get him to the ramp.

The Capitol assented. He had struggled enough, been humbled enough. A satisfactory narrative could be fashioned. District 2’s little traitor could come home.

Alec glanced at Dad, but phones were ringing off the hook all over the neighbourhood as soon as the trumpets blared. They all watched the recap knowing who would win. “Well,” Dad said finally, “this will be a fun cleanup.”

-----

No more of the districts-at-fault in the post-interview. No more inflammatory political commentary. They dressed Two in a too-big suit like a little boy wearing daddy’s clothes, had him blubber all over his mentor and cry about only ever wanting a family. Alec would never have believed it as a Two interview if he hadn’t watched the Games from start to finish.

Boring, said the Selene in his head again, absolutely disgusted, but the iron grip of terror around Alec’s chest loosened, maybe, a little. Obvious, sure, but maybe that was the point. Maybe playing poor-little-helpless-boy would be enough to forget this was one of the most dangerous Victors Alec had ever seen.

-----

After the closing ceremony, Dad called Alec outside. They stood together on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, looking out over the front walk as fireflies flitted in and out over the lawn. “Alec,” Dad said slowly. “These past — I’ve — I wanted to —”

Alec’s palms itched. The cuts from the switch had healed, pale pink stripes along his life line, nearly invisible. “It’s okay,” he blurted out. After everything that happened, everything he’d seen and heard, an apology from his father for showing emotion might actually explode his brain. “I get it. Now things can be normal again. Right?”

“I hope so,” Dad said, with feeling. He paused, and for a long moment no sound but the wind rustling the leaves and the call of two horned owls in adjacent trees. At last he let out a long breath and rested a hand on Alec’s shoulder. “I know it isn’t easy, but you’ve always tried to do what I ask of you. I know that.”

The sun had long set, only a thin, bright strip of light at the very base of the horizon above the buildings of town. Alec blinked away the stinging in his eyes. “Thanks, Dad.”

They stood there a moment longer, then Dad clapped his shoulder and stepped back. “Come on, then, let’s head in before the mosquitoes eat us alive.”

[ofknowlcdge]

( Alec & Ellie ) @xchxsingcxrsx “Stop fussing over me! I’m not a baby!”

Alec in fact did stop, he usually did when she told him to. Not having a clue what to do with the hand he shoved it into his pocket. He knows he worries maybe a bit much? Maybe. "Okay."

[rodolfoparras]

Ok ok maybe in on a stretch here but just hear me out please‼️

Big Dick! Price x Mid/Little Dick! Reader

Like old man price having a dick too big for anyone to take to he comes across you and wants nothing more than to ride your dick dry. That big old man that’s twice your age with a dick too big that’s basically useless and him being teary-eyed and stupid from how dickmatized he is. Who would have thought that a mid sized dick would made that big man fall apart so easily. Him riding you and his large cock hard, leaky, and flopping up and down slapping on your stomach.

I got a lot more to say about this…

Thinking about Price who’s been a top all of his life mostly because of his size, until he meets you and gets to bottom for the first time.

Prep is a breeze with him, years of fucking his own toys and fantasizing about this very moment has made him able to easily take your fingers, greedy hole practically swallowing your four digits, even huffing and puffing when you insist on dragging things out because you’re afraid of hurting the man. But he assures you that he’ll be okay, sighs in relief when he finally feels you line your cockhead up with his entrance, easily sliding into him without much resistance.

It’e when you set a steady pace that he loses his head, violent sobs escaping his lips and erratically bucking his hips, his fat ass practically swallowing your dick, telling you he wants more and more and more even though you’re balls deep and fucking him so hard you’re rocking the bed beneath him.

It doesn’t take much for Price to flip the two of you around or rather demand to be flipped around and start bouncing on your cock, because he just can’t seem to get satisfied until he takes matters into his own hands. You can see the way his eyes roll into the back of his head, can hear the strangled noises slipping past his lips, can feel him grab your hand and putting it on his ass cheeks, looking content as ever as he sets a steady pace on your dick. panting harder faster deeper, please into your ear even though he’s the one riding you, making a whole mess out of himself in a matter of minutes.

And when he tips over the edge it’s like he’s a bottomless pit, his cum pooling on your stomach and staining your sheets, cock still weeping as you chase your own release. Price can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed because just as you’ve caught your breath he’s sinking down onto your dick again.

[werewolfsmile]

tysm for answering my qs about werewolf!eliot !! not to keep bugging you lol but i remember you mentioned in the tags of a post one time about a hc/au of parker being some sort of fae or otherworldly being who’s just kinda found herself here in the non-magical world - could you elaborate on that? like how come she’s in the non-fantasy part of the leverage universe, or whether the other characters know, etc? only if you want to of course, no pressure :) i’m really enjoying reading your posts about all these ideas!

You're welcome! And you're definitely not bugging me, I love getting the chance to ramble about my thought lol (werewolf!eliot post here) (link to the post and my tags that started this)

Honestly I don't have as clear ideas for Parker as I did for Eliot, but I imagine her being some kind of changeling or air/wind sprite that was left with humans for whatever reason.

(ooh i'm getting more ideas for this the more i think about it..)

okay, Parker is actually half-fey, half-human

no one really knows who her parents were or how she came to be on her own (me included lol), she was just found on a doorstep as a baby

the people who took her in had their own issues and the state eventually intervened and sent Parker into foster care

she found out at a very early age that she was different to other kids - she could move around without making a sound, she could fit into tiny spaces - all very helpful for a young girl in a foster system that was chewing her up and spitting her out

she also discovered that she could ... not turn invisible exactly, but she could be less visible if she wanted to be; all she has to do is think about not being seen and people's eyes just drift over her

Archie had absolutely no idea what she was when he got his hands on her, but even he knew that she was beyond just a gifted child

he only realised there was something magical about her after she fell off the roof of the warehouse he'd been training her in - then walked it off like it was no biggie

fey creatures love puzzles and riddles, so of course Parker has always had a natural affinity for puzzles (aka locks)

her super artistic talent is a trait that is Entirely Parker and, given that she entered a life of crime early and was surrounded by artistic masterpieces all the time, she never even considered that other people would draw/paint/whatever with any lower skill level

this contributes to her not understanding what the fuss is over art

she gave herself the name Parker when Archie met her and asked her name; it was the first thing that came to mind

she doesn't remember her birth name and isn't bothered by that in the slightest

Eliot was the first of the team to figure out she was fey - being a werewolf, he can smell and/or sense that kind of thing on others

Hardison suspected something was up with her, but then felt bad for thinking that, but then strange things kept happening around her so he started to keep a list ...

pretty much Hardison has a red-string conspiracy theory-style board of Parker Things. He's too terrified of offending her to ask her outright, but he's more convinced every day

(he's also more in love with her and just thinks her fey-ness is another thing to celebrate)

Parker finds Hardison's board of Parker Things and is utterly fascinated. It's like he understands her better than she understands herself. He's super flustered when he finds her poring over the board and tries to make excuses, but Parker's quick to steamroll over that and demands if he knows what she is

Eliot finds them 15 mins later, stuck in an endless loop of confusion over which of them actually knows what Parker is

he just rolls his eyes, says she's half-fey, it's obvious, like, "what? it's a very distinctive smell!"

which leads to how the hell would he know what the fey are and Eliot's like, oh crap, right, they still don't know I'm a werewolf whoops

Hardison and Parker stage a coming-out for her to Nate and Sophie

(Eliot refuses to be involved but still gets roped into carrying the banner. He's still finding glitter in his hair weeks later)

Sophie is thrilled about the reveal and confesses to being a siren (or some other supernatural/magical creature that can manipulate people, idk i have less thoughts about her than i do about parker)

Nate is all like are you kidding me right now what the hell is my life

after a lot of badgering, he confesses he didn't know about Parker, although he has been ... aware of magical beings for some time

no he will not be discussing this any further, can we just get back to the con now??

Parker finds that, now she's aware of her fey-ness, her magical abilities develop further

she doesn't quite gain the ability to fly but ... yeah okay, she can pretty much fly

she wants to test how far this flying ability goes - by, of course, jumping off tall buildings with Hardison in her arms (and no harness for either of them)

Hardison flat out refuses this, so Eliot somehow finds himself the unwilling victim

of course, Parker masters flying while carrying people in no time and proves it to Hardison by just grabbing him and jumping off a building one day

(he's still in therapy for it)

Parker also discovers she can make herself kind of ... misty

this skill is harder to learn but she's already been able to make her hand go misty and whoosh inside a lock

picking the lock is harder in this incorporeal state but Parker's instincts say there's a way to do this, so she keeps practising until she can pretty much disintegrate herself and float through locked doors to rematerialise on the other side

it's a nightmare for the whole team because, sure, it's not like locked doors stopped her in the past. But now she's so excited about it all the time that any concept of privacy completely leaves her brain and she jumps in and out of rooms and safes etc any time of day or night

Wow. This ended up longer than expected! Guess I did have some ideas about fey!Parker after all..

[dayque]

Simon killing Thule Sebastian for save Jace and build a "new world" together live rent free in my head

[teenwolfpackincorrectcaptions]

Pack, who would win in an all out nerf war?

(I do not speak for Teen Wolf or Paramount+. This is for fun.)

[faejilly]

it can be a fic or meta, but if you're feeling inclined i would love to know more about your opinions for how alec's family gifts in your headcanon would present with even more eldritch elements to it?

oh, I have so many feelings, thank you lovely. Pls enjoy my version of bb!Alec (who is still much too old for his age because he's Alec)

Alec hasn’t even been Marked, still technically a fledgling rather than a Shadowhunter, when he learns that most nephilim can’t hear their weapons sing.

There’s a man come to see his parents, an important man, a dangerous man. But not just in the way nephilim are supposed to be dangerous, though the rhythm of his steps make it clear he can fight as well as any other Shadowhunter Alec knows. There’s something else though, something beyond his skill, something that’s not explained away by the way everyone in the Institute all bow their heads to his titles, Consul and Warrior and Sir.

Alec can hear him, something humming under the man's skin almost like a seraph blade dreaming in its hilt but off-key, a discordant whine that makes Alec want to cover his ears but he knows that wouldn't help; the noise isn’t really a noise, he can feel it in his blood, between his bones, not in his ears at all.

He doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t know what he should say, or to who, but he can’t let it go, it pushes in the back of his throat and it has to be let out.

He thinks if he tries to speak and it doesn’t work, the pushing will get worse, will hurt, will perhaps not let him stop, not ever again.

If that’s true, (it is true, he doesn’t know why or how, but it is, he knows, knowledge deeper even than the laws and runes he’s memorized from the Grey Book, the ones that make the power under his skin flicker and flare, waiting for the first Mark to settle it), he can’t do what his father would prefer, and tell his parents in private. He can't risk them choosing not to listen.

If he can’t be discreet, he has to go far enough the other way that he’s inevitable.

Luckily, the hum from the man is just enough that his seraph blade doesn’t like it either, hissing to itself in the hilt when it ought to be asleep, and Alec knows he can tell them about that. He’s worked with the Weapons Master, with his father, his favorite chore is tending to the adamas in the Institute's care.

So he waits outside the armory, plants himself in the middle of the hall when the man and his parents approach, makes sure the door to the armory is cracked so Master Amira will hear him too, might even come out and back Alec up, if he’s lucky.

He waits, and he doesn’t step back against the wall, and his mother is lifting a brow and his father’s mouth is too tight, neither of them impressed that he’s just there in the way like a mundane too stupid to move.

Before either of them can do anything, Alec falls forward, prostrating himself before the man, arms spread and forehead pressed to the tile, because there’s no way to say what he’s going to say without it being an insult, and this is the only way he’ll get the whole thing out before he’s in too much trouble to be allowed to continue.

The man’s footsteps don’t slow, and Alec realizes he’s going to just walk right past him, and he’s offended enough his chest burns, and he almost can’t feel the pressure in his throat anymore.

How dare he ignore a sign of supplication like that? He’s got worse manners than Izzy and no excuse for them at all.

“Consul.” He hears his mother’s voice, low but steady, and the footsteps stop.

She’s as offended as he is, Alec can tell, he can taste it in her voice, but no one else can ever taste her moods like he can, so he’s sure no one else knows. Yet.

But he does, and it’s enough. If she knew what he knew, she’d speak, and they’d listen, they’d have to.

So he’ll have to do as well as she would.

“Begging your forgiveness, sir.” Alec projects his voice as well as he can, for all he’s talking to the floor. He can’t raise his head, not even an inch.

The Consul doesn’t say anything, but neither does he move.

“Why do you not care for your blade, sir?”

There’s a shocked silence, and Alec can hear the weapons in the armory startle awake as his father reaches, and he can feel Master Amira’s axe-blades as she joins them in the hallway.

“What seems to be the trouble, sirs?” Master Amira’s voice is smooth and clean and Alec reminds himself to breathe.

“The Lightwoods are about to lose their heir,” the Consul answers, his voice tight and the hum beneath his skin twisting down a half a pitch, sharp and unpleasant, “unless they explain his behavior very quickly, and very well.”

“I do not think so.” His mother’s voice rises, as pure a tone as any Alec has ever heard from adamas and he realizes he has lifted his head to look at her, that everyone is looking at her, the pair of clerks who follow the Consul everywhere, someone in every doorway down the hall, a silhouette behind Master Amira he can’t quite identify; even in the glimpse he can get of the corner of Ops behind his parents, everyone has turned toward the sound of her voice. “You should answer him, Consul.”

The Consul’s eyes widen, and his shoulders go back, and that feeling of danger rises, rises, and then it’s cut off, a sharp clean silence as Alec’s father takes one, single, step, letting the heel of his boot hit the tile just so. “My son is a Lightwood.”

“Recognized and sworn before an Iron Sister, sir.” Amira adds, and Alec blinks, aware now of what the odd visit last year had meant, the woman in white who had laughed as if she wasn’t dressed for mourning, who had shown him her throwing daggers and grinned when he’d hit the target with them, and given him two pure slivers of adamas to keep, one for each boot.

The Consul has gone still, and his expression is unimpressed, but the hum changes pitch again, and his clerks look nervous, eyes moving too quickly for all they’ve kept their bodies still.

“Sir.” Robert speaks into the silence, and his voice is like nothing Alec has heard from him before. He’s still quiet, still deferential and polite in tone, but it’s sharp somehow, the glint of a knife as it is slowly pulled from a sheath, the light of a seraph blade the instant before it materializes. He’s not really asking a question. “Your answer.”

“My blade has been cared for by four generations of the Dieudonné line, his question is an insult to my bloodline that has earned no answer beyond contempt.”

“Then why is it crying?” Alec doesn’t lower his head this time, for all his neck aches from the angle required to look up at the adults surrounding him. “It is awake, sir, and in pain, and you are not soothing it.”

Master Amira makes an odd choked-off noise he’s never heard before, but the rest of the hall is silent, and the silence grows, deeper and thicker, until Alec realizes he’s looking at his mother again, that they’re all looking at his mother again.

“His words are True.” Maryse’s voice is a hiss, barely louder than the blade, yet it carries. Her voice fills the hallway, perhaps through to Ops as well, perhaps beyond; it feels to Alec like the whole Institute can hear it, this one soft note of revelation whispering between them all. Her voice still rings like a bell against something inside him, something he has no name for but recognizes as the weight behind that pressure in his throat, the balance in his blood that hears better than his ears. “You will answer, or you will be foresworn.”

“You cannot-” one of the clerks attempts to speak, but Master Amira snorts and they give up.

“My parents were very traditional.” His mother’s voice sounds normal now, calm and conversational. But it still tastes like copper to Alec, like blood, and the tension in the hallway doesn’t ease. He eases himself back and up until he’s kneeling. Until he’s ready. “When my brother was forsaken, they dedicated me to the Mortal Sword as the new Trueblood heir.” Maryse smiles, and Alec can feel everyone except his father move back, trying to get away from it. “I absolutely can.”

The Consul looks contrite, bows his head in apology, enough that Alec can feel the other adults relax, just a little.

But the hum beneath Dieudonné’s skin has turned into a scream, his seraph blade wails in grief and fury, and Alec is moving before he realizes it, one hand in each boot, a flick of each wrist, and two slivers of adamas go through the Consul’s throat before he can speak.

Shock holds them all still, the scream rises into a shriek, twists and throbs and fades, at last, though Alec can’t hold in the shudder while it lingers. The Consul’s eyes are still open, but darker than they were, than they should be, and blood is dripping from them as well as his throat, and his ears, and his nose.

He stays standing for too long, still and stiff, and then a drop of blood hits the floor, one, then another, and finally he sways, and falls. His mouth opens as he hits the ground, and a dark cloud rises from it, smelling of sulfur and steel and something green that Alec will recognize five years later the first time he handles angelbane.

The former Consul jerks, his joints moving wrong in his death-throws, something too sharp to each convulsion, something other.

“Fuck,” someone Alec doesn’t know breaks the silence two long heartbeats after the body stops moving. It’s only then that he sees the rune that has now appeared, a Circle just like Hodge’s, broken by twin spears of adamas piercing through it, one on each side.

No one moves for yet another heartbeat, and Alec can’t look away from the man on the ground, the man who clearly wasn’t just a nephilim, not anymore, not like the rest of them. The man he’d killed. He’d killed the Consul of the Clave, in front of witnesses, in the middle of the Institute, before his parents…

He can feel a shared look over his head more than he can see it, and then his mother’s hand is on his shoulder and his father is calling out orders and she’s leading him away and his footsteps are running to Ops and an alert alarm is sounding, one Alec can’t hear properly through the blood rushing through his ears, and he’s relieved when his mother takes them both to his room, and tucks him into bed, and shields his door with her personal rune as well as every warding rune he’s ever seen. He smiles at her in thanks, and lets himself go.

She’s there again when he wakes, and at first he can’t remember anything. He starts to move, and feels the tug of an IV, the rattle of the stand next to his bed shifting with his movement. He blinks, and his mother sighs. It sounds like relief, and he blinks again even as she moves close, reaches out and brushes his hair off his forehead.

“It’s been a long time since an heir manifested two blood gifts at once, especially before receiving his first Mark.”

Alec had opened his mouth to… he wasn’t sure, probably apologize for being lazy after committing murder and then not even cleaning the ensuing mess up himself, but that stops him. He shuts his mouth, swallows, blinks for a third time, trying to get his thoughts to line up into something more coherent than what?

“Is that what I did?”

His mother smiles, and it’s as far as possible from her expression in the hallway, warm and soothing and grateful. “That’s what you did.”

“Oh.”

He lets that sink in, lets the implications and conclusions and possibilities trickle their way through his thoughts. “Does that mean I’m not gonna be buried at a crossroads for killing the Consul?”

His mother winces, leans forward until her forehead rests against his, and he feels dizzy and lightheaded with something almost like joy as he recognizes what she’s doing as comforting, for both of them. “Oh baby, no.”

He closes his eyes and lets himself feel the weight of his mother being his mother before anything and everything else, and doesn’t even fight it when he feels his eyes getting wet and his skin flushing with relief and confusion and love and who knows what else.

“You will never be in trouble for what you did to Malachi.” That chime was back in his mother’s voice as she whispered against his skin, and it soothed him in a way nothing else could, resonating against his worries until they faded. “You saved the entire Clave from whatever he would have done in the Circle’s name, whatever he could have done to our Institute with the Curse Valentine had put in him when he was discovered. The Inquisitor is going through the entire Council, soul by soul, to make sure she finds them all, and it’s only because of you that she has the power to do it.”

Oh.

Eventually she lifts her head, and her eyes are damp too, he can see it when she blinks. “But you will have to go to the City of Bones and meet a Silent Brother and the Soul-Sword.” Her smile quirks, and he realizes there’s pride there in her expression, on top of a complex mix of emotions that don’t make any more sense than his own. “Though that might be less scary for you than it was for me at your age, if you can hear the Soul-Sword as well as you hear seraph blades.”

“I can hear all the weapons in the armory.” Alec corrects before he can think about it. “You can’t?”

His mother laughs, short and damp and beautiful. “Even your father can’t, and he’s the only Lightwood left who can call his weapons to him. You’ve got a stronger Blood-Gift than he does.”

“I do?”

His mother nods. “Your father asked me to tell you he’s sorry he didn’t tell you so earlier. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, either.”

What.

This entire conversation is so far outside of anything he’s ever felt before, and his bones feel too light-weight under his skin and he doesn’t understand. “Why?”

“Did you consider telling me or your father about what you heard from Malachi’s blade?”

Alec frowns, and his mother lifts a hand, palm facing him, stopping him before he can protest the change of topic. “I promise I’m answering your question, please.”

His parents apologized, and his mother said please to him, like she meant it.

He shook his head from side-to-side. “I knew you’d want me to, but.” He stops. He doesn’t know how to explain that feeling, that pressure that he still suspected would have broken him if he’d tried to speak the truth and been told to keep quiet. His mother’s fingers brush against the line of his throat, and his eyes widen as he stares up at her, as he sees a tear overflow and slowly slide down her cheek as she nods, just a little, and he realizes she knows exactly what he’s not saying.

“We taught you we couldn’t be trusted, so you had to act alone.” There’s that chime again, and another tear falling. “But that’s all going to change now.”

It’s a promise, he knows, he can feel it. “What is that?”

“That is the Trueblood gift. My father could make any vow magically binding just by witnessing it, and his father could tell when someone stated something untrue, even if they believed it themselves.” Her mouth quirked. “He called it tasting lies.”

“Can you do that?”

“No.” She closes her eyes, too slowly to be just a blink, and this time when she sighs he can feel the weight behind it. “I can hear Truth sometimes, ride it, verify it, make sure everyone else believes it.”

She opens her eyes, and there’s guilt now, and grief, dark and deep and endless. “Valentine recruited your father and I personally, and I believed everything he told me about what he was doing, and why, and because I believed him, because there was a Trueblood supporting him, a lot of people who wouldn’t otherwise have let him be… let him get away with, well. Everything.”

Alec goes still. He can tell she’s telling the Truth still, and he doesn’t want to know that, doesn’t want to feel it, but he can, he does, and he’s never ever going to be able to forget what this feels like, this truth that turned his whole life into a lie that he’d never known he was telling.

He swallows down the nausea, the outrage, and waits.

“But when your father told me what he learned about what Valentine was really like, I couldn’t believe the lies any more. We turned ourselves into the Clave, and they only let us back because I rode the Truth when I vowed that we would be loyal to the Council, when I vowed on my bloodline, back to my parents and.” Her voice drops, lower and softer. “And down to my son, who is a Trueblood too.”

“And then you lied to me about it.”

“The Council forbid anyone from talking about the Circle.”

He gives her the look that line deserves.

She’s almost trembling, her hands held too tightly by her sides. “We didn’t want you to have to bear the weight of our mistakes.”

“But I do.” He looks at her, really looks at her, in the same way he looks at the weapons in the armory, and the hilts strapped to the side of visiting nephilim, and the way he’d listened to Malachi and heard Valentine’s Curse in his blood.

Alec can almost see the pattern of the fragile scaffolding of his mother’s emotions, suppressed down under her skin, forced to only exist between the fine lines of her plans, of her will and desire and ambition and pain, all constraining her gift into something so much smaller than it could have been. The foundation of that scaffolding seems shaken, it feels fragile. But it hasn’t moved, hasn’t fallen. She regrets how he feels, sincerely means to change, but she hasn’t, not yet. It’s all still there.

“Every single one of them has been put on my shoulders, and because you hid them from me I thought all that weight was mine, was me, that I deserved every harsh word and mistrustful look, and every single one of them was about you.”

Maryse rears back, but they both hear the Truth in his voice, the sound that resonates between his bones, that builds and forces its way out, that refuses to be silenced. That he is never ever going to try and silence. “You can go.”

She opens her mouth. He lifts his chin, and she concedes. “Amira will take my place with you until the next medic visit.”

He almost frowns, wondering what she means. “You burned through almost all your angelic energy.” She tilts her chin and he glances sideways at the IV bag, half full of something that isn’t just saline, judging by the color of the label. “And you’ve been asleep for almost three days.”

Three? he mouths, more to himself than her, but she sees it, understands it, nods.

There are circles under her eyes, and he can hear the exhaustion she'd been trying to hide when she speaks again. “Let us try and take care of you this time.”

He nods, accepting her peace offering for what it is, and she leaves.

He settles, waits until the door opens again to let Master Amira in.

Only then does he close his eyes, knowing he’s safe, knowing she’s there for him. He knows he’ll forgive his parents when they come back, knows that if they try at all he’ll let them be his parents again. But he’s not sure if they’ll ever earn back his trust.

But he can trust Master Amira, and he’ll make sure to tell Izzy the truth, make sure she knows exactly which consequences are hers, and which are not. He’ll do the same for Max once he’s old enough to talk, and they’ll never have to bear the weight of their parents’ mistakes the way he did, never be expected to fix everything the Clave and Circle broke just because they were offered the mercy of living.

He smiles to himself, pleased with that decision. He can hear Master Amira settling down into the chair next to his desk as he lets himself relax, can hear the soft sweet chime of his adamas slivers being returned, can feel the familiar low rhythm of her axes. He’s always thought they seem like contented cats, purring as they rest against their chosen partner, but today it’s like they’re purring for him, too, soothing him back to sleep.

[blueskittlesart]

profs will set the due date for the final as april 24 and then STILL NOT HAVE THE FUCKING ASSIGNMENT UP TO SUBMIT THE PAPER BY 11PM ON APRIL TWENTY FUCKING THIRD