#this has been pulling out my brain worms since i read my first suits fic

[m4rveys]

okay

i’m not tryna be pugnacious rn but… if someone could show me a picture of this supposed blonde hair that would be nice because…

ok to start off i didn’t cherry pick images just to prove my point…

i have a lot of images of mike/pja on my phone.. sorry not sorry

example no. 1

i tried to find a picture of him in direct sunlight… doesn’t look blonde to me

example no. 2

this is not even a picture of mike but ill include anyway… still doesn’t look blonde but idk

example no. 3 and 4

okay, as to not be accused of cherry picking (again), i included pictures that don’t exactly prove my point. mind you, these are the ONLY pictures i could find out of the… admittedly too many that i have saved where he even somewhat looks blonde. but even then, he just has blonde HIGHLIGHTS! it’s not even his full head LOL!

examples no. 5 and 6

so like…

do you guys think mike ross is blond? this has been eating me since the first time i saw it in a fic

[the-writerwoman]

Wow, look at me, not having 4am brain rot 😂 this has been a brain worm since I first posted about Tides of the heart though and someone mentioned about Siren Wade and Logan. And I’ve been thinking about it and as I was cooking dinner earlier I was thinking about it and I went to go talk to my partner about it and I saw he was watching Pirates of the Caribbean, the one with the mermaids. I know they’re not exactly the same thing but it was close enough for me to be like “Yup, this is a sign.” So here we go. Also I’m making up some of my own lore mixed with stuff I’ve read on them 😂

This is after Wade saves Logan from the water after he went overboard during a storm. Might tweak it if I write a full fic.

———————

The storm had passed, leaving the beach quiet under the pale glow of the moon. Waves gently lapped at the shore, the sound a soothing contrast to the chaos that had nearly swallowed Logan earlier. He sat on the damp sand, his muscles aching and his mind spinning as he stared at the figure before him.

Half-submerged in the shallows was a man, or something like one. His upper body could almost pass for human if not for the faint shimmer of his skin in the moonlight and the too-sharp angles of his grin. Below the waist, however, a long, glistening tail shimmered red and black, curling lazily in the water as if mocking the impossible.

“You’ve been watching us,” Logan said slowly, his voice hoarse from seawater and disbelief. It wasn’t a question. It was a fact he was still struggling to process.

“For days,” the man replied casually, his melodic voice carrying over the quiet waves. “Your boat’s noisy, your crew’s noisier than a pod of dolphins chasing fish.”

Logan frowned, his muscles tensing as unease prickled up his spine. “Why did you save me?”

Wade’s grin widened, revealing sharp teeth that glinted in the moonlight. “You’re… different. Interesting.”

Logan shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to feel flattered or unnerved. “Different how?”

Wade’s eyes gleamed with mischief as he tilted his head. “Oh, lots of ways. But let’s start with your name. What do they call you, sailor?”

Logan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to stay silent. But something about Wade’s piercing gaze, and the fact that he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not, pushed him to answer. “Logan.”

“Logan,” Wade repeated, as if tasting the name on his tongue. “Strong. Simple. Suits you.”

Logan glanced at him warily. “And you? What do I call you?”

Wade smirked, leaning forward slightly. “You could try pronouncing it, but… well, you’d have to cut out your tongue first.”

Logan stiffened, instinctively shifting back on the sand. Wade held his gaze for a long, tense moment before his grin broke into a laugh, bright and carefree.

“Relax,” Wade said, waving a webbed hand dismissively. “I’m joking. You can call me Wade.”

Logan grunted, still not entirely reassured. “Real funny.”

“I thought so,” Wade said, flashing another grin before leaning forward on his arms, his tail stirring the water behind him.

Logan was trying to process what was going on right now when his mind froze. His stomach dropped as he remembered his father’s lighter. His most prized possession. His hand shot into his pocket, fumbling until he felt the familiar shape. Pulling it out, he turned it over in his hands, relief flooding him when he saw it was intact.

“What is that?” Wade asked, inching closer, his curiosity palpable.

“It’s a lighter,” Logan said, flicking it open. A tiny flame flared to life, its warm glow dancing in the cool night air.

Wade’s eyes widened, his expression transforming into pure wonder. “What’s it for?”

“Fire,” Logan said, holding it up but keeping it at a distance. “You use it to start fires.”

“Fire? Like those orange and yellow ships when lightening hits them?” Wade asked, his voice soft with awe. He inched closer, his gaze fixed on the flickering flame. “It’s… beautiful.”

“Don’t touch it,” Logan warned. “It burns.”

But before Logan could stop him, Wade reached out, his finger brushing the flame. A sharp hiss escaped him, and he yanked his hand back, plunging it into the water with a splash. “Ow! What the hell?”

Logan barked out a laugh, shaking his head as he clicked the lighter shut. “I told you. Fire burns.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Wade shot back, glaring at the lighter like it had personally wronged him. “I live underwater. We don’t exactly have a lot of that down there .”

Logan chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

Wade huffed, inspecting his finger with an exaggerated pout. “You’re lucky you’re pretty. Otherwise, I would’ve left you to the sharks.”

Logan stilled, his amusement fading as Wade’s words hung in the air. Logan couldn’t tell if he was joking again but the siren’s the predatory glint in his eyes as he watched Logan squirm didn’t help.

Logan cleared his throat, ready to say something, when a distant shout broke the silence. His head snapped toward the sound, and he spotted the dim glow of lanterns further up the beach. His crew.

“Logan! You out there?” one voice called.

Logan turned back toward Wade, but his breath caught in his throat. All he saw was the shimmering tail dipping back into the waves, vanishing beneath the surface. The water stilled as if he’d never been there at all.

“Logan!” Another shout grew louder as the crew came running down the beach. Within moments, two of them were at his side, helping him to his feet.

“Are you alright?” Scott asked, his lantern swinging wildly as he scanned Logan for injuries. “What happened? We thought you were lost.”

Logan hesitated, his gaze flicking back to the now-empty water. “I… I must’ve swam to shore. Can’t remember much. Maybe I hit my head.”

“You’re lucky you made it, some of the lads weren’t so lucky,” Scott said gravely, slinging Logan’s arm over his shoulder. “Come on, we’re going to find shelter.”

Logan let himself be guided away, his body still aching and his mind reeling. As they trudged up the beach, he glanced over his shoulder one last time, his eyes scanning the dark waves. For a moment, he thought he saw something, a head poking out of the water, watching them.

The figure disappeared before Logan could be sure.

——————

I hope you liked it! I’m thinking of doing a new fic now, to add on to all my WIP’s since I’ve finished This life chose us, and Tides of the heart is almost finished. I’ve got 3 ideas brewing from bits and pieces I’ve put up on tumblr from my 4am brain rot (feel free to read them on my blog to help pick which one you like the idea of.

[self-preservation-fic]

hello. i just miss these two. any ideas what they're up to? <3

I sure do! I’m pretty busy with the other fandom I’m in at the moment, but I keep going back and working on the second part of this fic because it’s been my baby for forever and I’m not about to let it go :’) 

Where the sequel begins, the guys are on Christmas break, Marcus is with his parents + sister, Oliver is off with his own family. The second fic is going to have a darker tone with some family drama. (And some Oliver POV  👀) The main plot will centre around Marcus making his decision on what to do after her graduates and whether he wants to help the Order of the Phoenix out or not have any part in the conflict to come. 

Here’s a snippet from the beginning of the fic, I’m rating it M for some not-explicit sexual content. Please forgive any grammar/spelling errors, it’s still rough! 

+++

Marcus let his door swing open on silent hinges. His room was way cleaner than Marcus had ever kept it. All of his personal belongings tucked neatly away and the covers pulled taut across so taut across the bed he wondered if they were meant to pin him there. He felt like an adult stuck in a dollhouse and this room wasn’t his anymore. Everything of value he’d brought with him to Hogwarts, he didn’t trust it here alone.

Marcus was careful to hang up his suit before pulling on sweats and rifling through his drawers for a shirt. All of his pent up worrying from the train ride here had manifested itself in a nearly compulsive need to run. He had to dig into the bowels of his drawers to find an appropriately ratty t-shirt.

As he searched, he could pick out the careful tread of his mother’s footsteps down the hall. Drafty old houses with minimal insulation were perfect for eavesdropping and terrible for keeping secrets.

“Come in,” he called, snagging a t-shirt when he heard the wrap of her knuckles against the door. He made sure to raise his voice just loud enough for her to hear, not more.

The door creaked on its hinges. “I just want to know--” her voice was cut off by a sharp intake of breath. Marcus froze, shirt halfway on, he was about to hall it over his head when his mother’s voice stopped him.

“Marcus, honey, what happened?”

Shit, he knew what she saw and couldn’t blame her. It wasn’t pretty, the round pink scar on his right shoulder, the skin raised and puckered like a muggle bullet wound. Magic always leaves a mark, Marcus thought ruefully.

“What did you do?” she asked and Marcus could feel the prickle of heat creeping down his back.

“It’s nothing Mom, it was stupid.” He assured, tugging his shirt the rest of the way down and turning to meet her gaze.

Her eyes stuck to his shoulder as if she could see right through him. “That doesn’t look like nothing to me.”

“I was protecting a friend,” he settled, knowing she wouldn’t drop it until he gave her something.

That pricked her interests. “Do I know this friend?”

“No--I don’t know--maybe.” He turned back around and busied himself with grabbing random items of clothing from his luggage for her to give the house elf to wash. No matter where you lived and who you descended from, everyone knew everyone else's business at Hogwarts. He wondered if he told her Oliver’s name if she’d remember going to school with his mother. He wondered how long she’d try to pretend it was okay that they talked.

“Okay,” she acquiesced, quietly, and he let out a nearly restrained sigh of quiet relief.

He handed her the messy bundle he’d collected, and when she took it from him her hands trapped his, holding him tight and forcing him to look her in the eyes for the first time since he’d arrived. Their warm hazel had turned watery. “You know you can always talk to me, I love you so much.” Her bottom lip wobbled slightly and Marcus sighed.

“Mom--” Detaching her hands gently from where they gripped him, he pulled her in over the laundry. She was a tall woman, but even with the bundle pressed between them she still felt small. “Of course I know,” he said, trying his best not to ruffle her perfectly waved hair.

“I just wish you’d write more,” She whispered and he swallowed, sometimes he forgot how long it must be for her in between visits. Time always flew by at Hogwarts and Marcus had always been shit at writing, like he was shit at reading, and it was just easier not to do it most of the time even if he did have something to say. He was blanking now. Lips glued shut.

“I know, I’m sorry.” was all that he could say. It felt lame out in the air between him. All that worry had transformed into leaden guilty in his stomach. There had hardly been any room left to breathe this year between school quidditch, his father--Oliver-- somehow between all of that part of him had forgotten about his mom. “Sorry,” he repeated, and it still doesn't feel like enough.

When she pulled away she waved her hand as if she could dispel her own emotion. Her voice was still thin when she spoke. “Don’t worry about me, I’m just being silly.”

He gripped her shoulders, giving them a squeeze as if he could instill in her the confidence he himself didn’t feel. “Mom, you're not being silly. I should have written, I’m sorry. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said with a nod and he let her shoulders go. The hand not clutching the bundle drifted up to brush his hair back and down the side of his face. “Oh, sweetheart wish you’d talk to me.”

Marcus clenched his eyes shut. He was really not prepared to do this now.  “Mom--”

“Estelle!” Marcus felt her fingers reflexively tense against his cheek at his father’s voice calling from bellow-stairs. He opened his eyes, standing up straighter, not realizing that he’d sagged into her palm.

Stepping back her lip caught between her teeth and he gave her a smile, saying in the most reassuring voice he could muster. “It's alright, I’m okay.”

With a hesitant nod, she turned, stepping from the room and closing the door softly between them. He waited until he heard her heels clicking back down the hall.

Sagging against the door, Marcus let his head thump back against the door. Pinching his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his now, he suppressed the quelling frustration and anger under his skin, picturing instead a pair of deft arms holding him up. He let out a shuddering breath. He couldn’t leave, he couldn’t and it made him nauseous.

Fishing a flimsy chain out of the pocket of his sweats, Marcus inspected the transfigured metal chain with a small lion gangling from it once again as if he hadn't spent the entire train ride doing so when he thought nobody was watching. It had meant to be a joke, Oliver had produced it from seemingly nowhere and presented it to him with a wry smile. It was the sort of trinket you’d find in Hogsmead shops selling quidditch memorabilia.

“So you don’t forget me,” Oliver had said with an undercurrent of hopeful honesty. He was laid out on Marcus’ bed in his dormitory, looking very at home there, Marcus sat cross-legged on the mattress beside him.

“You shouldn't have,” Marcus had said drily, eyeing the lion as it gave a soundless roar. He put it on anyways, because it made Oliver smile. “And I didn’t get you anything?” Marcus had said, bending over to crowd him against the mattress to press a quick succession of messy kisses to Oliver's face as he had half-heartedly tried to escape.

Eventually, he had stopped the assault, keeping close so that he could more easily study Oliver’s face. It was only Christmas, but he didn’t want to forget a single thing about it. Slowly the smile Marcus had put there slipped from Olver’s face. A warm, square hand reached up to smooth the hair from his face. Marcus allowed himself to melt into the touch, knowing that soon it wouldn’t be there at all. “No, really, you shouldn’t have,” he had said, whispering even though no one was around. He wanted Oliver to know the words were only for him. “Could never forget you.”

The hand in his hair brought him down until his face was pressed to the hinge of Oliver’s jaw, breathing in the comforting scent of his body and trying to pretend he wasn’t about to fall apart.

Fingers carded through his hair as his breath caught and held in his throat. Wrapping one hand around Oliver’s waist the other wormed up under his sweater to feel the warm skin and smooth planes of muscle that hid there. He knew he wasn’t making any noises--he was barely breathing as it was--and yet Oliver was still murmuring shhh noises into his hair.

“Marc, hey, look at me.” Marcuse reluctantly pulled back, just enough to do so while still keeping Oliver close as they lay on their sides. Oliver worried at his lip, his fingers continuing their trail from his brow, down the uneven line of his nose, to the thin set of his lips and the dip in his chin before Marcus caught it and tangled it in his own.

“Hey,” Oliver repeated, looking hesitant and apprehension welled up in Marcus’ chest before he finally stopped worrying at his lip and squeezed Marcus’ hand hard enough to almost be painful. “I love you.”

The rushing sound in his head was so loud he barely heard the pained noise that ripped from his chest. Bending down to press his mouth firmly against Oliver’s own, his brain hazy with want, he repeated I love you, I love you, I love you--over and over in his head. Oliver opened for him willingly, making soft noises against his mouth, his fingers tightening and tugging lightly in Marcus’ hair. Tilted his head, he let himself sink into the soft warmth of his mouth, pushing his hands up further to feel Oliver’s ribs expand and contract tightly under his fingers.

Pulling back he gasped. “I--I--” the words getting trapped in his throat.

“Shhh,” Oliver said, sweeping his thumb over the swell of his bottom lip, then up over the arch of his cheeks. “It’s okay I know.”

Kissing wetly over his jaw and down his neck in apology. He has so many things to apologize for. Rucking his hands up to brush a thumb over his nipple, Oliver’s breath hitched and he full body tensed before relaxing boneless into the bed with a sigh. Pressing a line of kisses down his breast bone, Oliver arched into his touch as he reached the soft dip of his stomach nosing at the fine line of hair there.

Marcus wished it didn’t have to be like this, he wondered how long Oliver would put up with it, how far his patience would stretch. Tugging on his hair, Marcus looked up and this time Oliver’s eyes weren't hesitant, but fierce. “I love you,” Oliver said and Marcus felt it burn hot and quick in his chest. Overwhelmed, he gripped Oliver’s hand tighter before pulling it away to make quick work of his belt.

Mouthing a wet spot into the fabric of his boxers, Marcus lingered there before hooking his fingers in and tugging it down. He sucked a possessive bruise into the soft skin of Oliver’s abdomen as he panted wetly above him. Marcus comes with Oliver’s hands wound in his hair, his body curled taught over him and a hand down the front of his pants. He let Oliver come in his mouth, breathing “I love you’s” in a mantra around shaky moans. Marcus squeezed his eyes through the wetness prickling at the corners and moaned in turn.

Marcus blinked back to the present, thumbing the lion in consideration. Everything about it was just so achingly Oliver. Moving over to the mirror over his dresser, he fastened it around his neck. The chain was short but just long enough to tuck under the collar of his shit, hidden away and safe. The metal was cold against his skin, pressing his palm over it, he felt the indentation through the fabric as it slowly grew skin-warm, a heavy comfort against the hollow of his throat.

[queerhargreeves]

Makes sense

nb Klaus and trans Diego are the only acceptable headcanons

here’s a lil self indulgent fic i wrote :’))

—————————————————————————-

It had been a few months since the Hargreeves had avoided the end of the world. At first they were all sort of shocked. Nothing felt quite real - nothing felt the same. They didn’t feel the same. They’ve been working together to regain some sort of normalcy in their lives. All seven of the siblings had their own unique “quirks”.

Luther was learning how to be an actual person without a mission. He spent 30 years aimlessly following orders and now that he has this newfound freedom, he’s working on trying to find his “thing”. Right now he’s experimenting with painting. He had spent about $1,500 of their fathers money on art supplies and his siblings fully supported that use of his money. Often times he’d end up painting the moon and the sights he saw while up there.

As time progressed Diego’s stutter started to reappear and not just when he was emotional. He would wake up every morning and say the same line to the reflection.

“My name is Diego Hargreeves and I am here.” That line became his new mantra. He affirmed his existence every morning while seeing where his brain and his body lined up that day. Sometimes it wouldn’t come out of his mouth as clean as he’d want. Sometimes it wouldn’t come out at all. During those times he signed for the day. Klaus and Diego had learned the basics as kids. They would sneak in the library and find the ASL books and cram as much information as they could in their heads before they got kicked out of the room. Klaus wanted Diego to know there was more than one way to communicate; he wanted him to know that he could express himself without words. Diego had been busying himself in boxing once more. Him and Luther turned one of the rooms downstairs into their own personal gym. He found it to be a good stress release even if he wasn’t living at the boxing rink anymore. He was still competing and his family came to every event to cheer him on.

Allison may have lost her voice but she didn’t lose her passion for acting. She’s been interpreting for shows and musicals. She even auditioned for Deaf West Sprint Awakening with the encouragement of the other six Hargreeves of course. Vanya was not the most fluent in ASL. She wanted to help her sister with rehearsing and also wanted become more fluent herself. She felt like Allison deserved at least that much. The two sisters spent many nights together rehearsing the lines, making sure she was as good as she could be. She got the role. And Vanya is playing in the pit with her. Allisons siblings made sure she didn’t lose that part of herself.

Klaus, newly sober and doing well, painted his nails weekly and has started experimenting with makeup. He had bought just about every palette he could get his hands on and everyday he would look like a different person. The siblings always made sure to comment on the look of the day. Even Luther was able to tell he was improving. They spent too long not taking Klaus seriously that the least they could do was give him the affirmations he deserves. And every week he’d have a new nail color; this weeks being hot pink. He had his “weekly appointments” with Allison that involved gummy worms, soap operas, and nail polish.

Five made sure to make a marshmallow and peanut butter sandwich every morning for breakfast with a hot cup of coffee. He often read the newspaper and usually Ben was the only one up early enough to join him. The 13 year old body had been touch deprived for 45 years and the 20 year old had been unable to get in contact with anyone for 10 years. Ben and Five always made sure they had company within each other in the mornings.

Ben was able to be physically present for about 12 hours of the day. Klaus and Ben has been training hard so they could have their brother in their life again. All Ben wanted to do was spend time with his family. He helped Luther pick out the brands of paints he should from his research of art. He also made sure to research the best, non problematic makeup brands for Klaus to buy from. He even accompanied Vanya’s students on piano as he was an avid player until the day he died. If he wasn’t physically doing things with his family, he would be reading with them.

Even after all that happened Vanya is still playing violin. She’s not currently in school as she’s already a grad student. She doesn’t have any intentions on getting her masters in violin performance. She’s content teaching kids at home. Her family has made it a big thing: Grace always made sure the children had plenty of “brain food”. Allison helped turn one of the many bedrooms into a studio with creative design rightfully going to Klaus (or more so he insisted).

However one thing that Klaus didn’t expect to happen was the euphoria he started to feel. Not only was his family actually acting like a family, but he was able to actually discover who he is. His brain has finally been given a break. He’s able to have clear, cognitive thoughts that were entirely his own without the cloudiness or influence of any substance. This was the first time he was able to do so in 17 years.

Since he started playing with makeup he realized something. He wasn’t sure if he was really a “he” at all. Klaus knew he wasn’t a girl like Allison or Vanya are. But he knew he wasn’t a man like Diego or Luther.

Klaus learned about the difference between gender and sex after a long talk with Ben. Ben had found his sibling staring at their reflection in front of the, noticing the way they eyed every centimeter of their body with confusion one night. They had on black overalls with a black and white crop top underneath and their buckled booties on. They had a simple makeup look: just winged eyeliner and a red lip. They had grown out their curls long enough to where it touched their shoulders however they had it tied up in a bun.

“I just...i don’t feel like a guy.” Klaus finally let out after he noticed Ben’s gentle presence.

“That’s okay.”

“But I don’t feel like a girl.” They shifted, looking away from their reflection and staring at Ben’s. They weren’t sure what they were saying this out loud for but Ben has been their clarity filter for quite a few years now. He always knew what to say.

Ben came up right behind Klaus and peaked his head over his shoulder. Although they were taller than Ben, Klaus had never felt so small.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. What are you seeing?” Ben asked softly, putting his hand on the small of Klaus’ back for support.

They blinked at the question. They weren’t too sure how to answer that.

“I uh,” they paused and tugged at one of their sleeves and pulled it down, “I see a lanky person who doesn’t look like anything.”

Ben nodded and waved his hand as a sign to make them elaborate.

“I think I’m...I’m not anything? I’m just Klaus.”

“And just Klaus is good enough for me. Good enough for all of us. Have you considered that you may be nonbinary?” Ben spun their sibling around so they were now facing each other.

“Non-binary...?” Klaus’ voice tapered at the end. They had never heard of such a thing.

“From what I’ve read, nonbinary people are individuals who don’t identify as male or female. They don’t fit within either binary. They simply exist as a person regardless of the binary genders assumed of people. Some go by they/them pronouns,” Ben explained, “so like ‘oh that’s Jay’s jacket. They must have left it here when they went home’. It’s completely grammatically correct. Others are comfortable with he/she pronouns. Or all of the above! It all depends on the person. This identity fits under the trans umbrella which a lot of people don’t realize.” Ben found himself rambling which he usually did when educating someone about a subject. Even if he didn’t know the most about a topic he always appreciated when anyone would listen to him.

“You can do that? You can...you can actually live like that?” They were in shock. Everything Ben had just said felt like it came right from their brain as if he had peaked inside their head at their most intimate inner thoughts about themself.

“Absolutely.” Ben put his hand on their shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Klaus’ eyes started to sting as they started to tear up. They immediately wrapped the shorter man into a hug, careful not to get makeup on his hoodie.

“Thank you. I think...I think that’s it. I’m nonbinary.” Klaus took a step back and wiped a tear from their eyes, looking up as they did so to not mess up their eyeliner.

“What pronouns are you comfortable with?” Ben inquired with a grin on his face. He loved seeing his sibling this happy.

“I...want to try they/them.” They stated, “if...if that’s okay.” Their head always made them feel like they were asking too much of people. They didn’t want to add any unnecessary stress to their siblings lives, not anymore.

“Of course it is, Klaus. Should we tell the others?” Ben nodded towards the door. “There’s absolutely no rush though.” He added, not wanting to make them feel like they had to announce their identity to the world.

“No yeah, I’d like to. I want to be 100% me to everyone.” Klaus agreed, a grin forming on their face.

“Alrighty then, family meeting time!” Ben marched to the door like a soldier which caused Klaus to bark out a laugh.

“Yeah okay buddy.” They rolled their eyes and followed suit.

They didn’t think they’d ever have to come out again. To say they weren’t scared would be a lie but they knew the could do this. Ben was on their side after all.

Ben grabbed Klaus’ bell on the way out and rang it through the halls.

“Non emergency family meeting people! Let’s go let’s go let’s goooo~” Ben chanted as each of their respective doors opened.

“Okay c-cool it with the bell, Ben. We heard it the first th-th-thousand rings.” Diego yanked the bell from his hand and ruffled his brothers hair.

“Fair enough. But you know I always need to make an entrance now.” Ben laughed as they seven of them seated themselves in the living room.

Ben walked up to the front with Klaus basically attached at his hip. It wasn’t unusual to find the two of them this close but they way Klaus was closing in on themself worried the family.

“What’s this about? I know you said nonemergency but,” Luther gestured to Klaus, “is this about-“

“Did you relapse, Klaus?” Five interrupted. He didn’t sound mad or accusatory, just concerned. His brows were furrowed and he was twirling his fingers in his lap.

“What, no? God no, don’t worry. I’m okay.” Klaus reassured their family as they waved their hands in front of them.

The rest of them immediately relaxed and all shared glances.

“What is this about then?” Allison signed carefully.

“I wanted to tell you guys I’m. Uh,” Ben gave them a nudge and a nod, reassuring them they can do this.

“I’m nonbinary.” They blurted in one breath. Their eyes were wide and he was frantically looking at each of them awaiting their reaction.

“I’m not familiar? What is this term. Nonbinary?” Five asked and leaned forward, ready to listen.

“It’s um, well, Ben knows more about this then I do but basically I don’t identify as a man. Or woman. I’ve never felt like either so...” Klaus trailed off

“Well I can’t really say that’s a far fetched concept to wrap my head around. You’ve always just been Klaus so this makes sense.” Luther pondered aloud almost like he was talking to himself.

Allison nodded. “I love you no matter what Klaus.” She signed and gave him a big smile.

Klaus signed thank you, feeling themself already getting emotional again.

“I could’ve told you that, K-Klaus. Is that name ok-okay still?” Diego asked and signed.

“Mmhmm! And I don’t think I really like he/him pronouns. They make me all,” they waved their hands in a dramatic motion and made a “ufjsjfjs” sound

“Dysphoric?” Diego finger spelled, knowing all too well what that felt like.

Klaus took a sharp inhale and snapped their fingers.

“Yes! Yes that’s it. It makes me uncomfy.”

“Now there’s two trans people in the family, one ace, five queer, and only one cis straight.” Vanya giggled and pointed at Luther at the last bit which earned the roll of his eyes.

“I’m the minority now.” He retorted in a fake ‘hurt’ voice and pointed at himself.

“It gets better.” Allison signed next to him and pat his shoulder.

The entire family bust out laughing, the quiet house filled being filled with their joy.

“Thank you for trusting us with this, Klaus.” Five stood up and walked over to his sibling and stopped right in front of them and turned around expectantly.

“Family hug time!” Vanya exclaimed and jumped right up. She attacked her sibling with a hug and the rest got up to do the same.

“Who ever would’ve thought it would take the end of the world for the Hargreeves to finally develop communication skills.” Ben’s voice was muffled in the middle of the 7 bodies but everyone heard him clearly.

“Let’s go shopping, yeah? I want to blow more of father dearests money on some new dresses. The ones I have are a bit dated.” Klaus suggested as they tried to wrangle themself out of the hug to go fix their makeup.

Everyone broke apart and watched their sibling dash up the stairs before giving anyone a chance to respond. Guess they were going to the mall.

But they would be going together. Even if that meant spending an hour in and out of the changing rooms as Klaus put on their own fashion show. They all enjoyed their time together nonetheless.

[aivaehdaevis]

The More Things Change: Ch 1

The More Things Change

by Aivaeh

Disclaimer: Familiar characters, plot elements, and settings belong to L.J. Smith, Julie Plec, and the CW. The author of this work of fanfiction has made no money from it. Summary: I have no idea how it happened, but one morning I woke up in the world of The Vampire Diaries. Which, aside from the insanity of waking up inside a television show made real, might not be so bad—if I weren't stuck in the body of vampire magnet and doppelgänger herself, Elena Gilbert. Pairing(s): OFC x Damon, OFC x Stefan, OFC x Elijah, OFC x Klaus Rating: M Word Count: 5,549 Warning(s): Graphic descriptions of violence on par with the show itself. References to sex and drug use. Mind control and all the issues of consent that go along with it. Character death. Author's Note: I know there are a ton of these fics out there. Still I recently got into the show, and I can't get enough of these types of stories. The urge to write my own wouldn't leave me alone so here it is. Hopefully someone enjoys reading it as much as I enjoy writing it. Master List Next Chapter External Links: AO3 | FF.Net | Wattpad

Chapter One

The color of my arm as I slapped the top of the alarm clock was the first clue something was wrong. Confused by the sudden shift in skin tone, I stilled. Stared down my shoulder to the tips of my fingers. Sitting up, I stretched out my other arm. A quick flip revealed that they were the same shade. Perfect mirrors of each other.

It wasn't until my sights drifted from my mysterious overnight tanning that I realized I wasn't in my room, either. From the steep slanted ceiling to the built-in bookshelf, nothing was familiar except the white walls. The bed wasn't my bed. The cream bedspread and wooden headboard were a different style from my purple comforter and modern piping headboard. Now that I was paying attention, I realized the mattress felt firmer, too.

Where was I? How did I get here? My memory came up blank.

I shuddered and closed my eyes. But no matter how many times I squeezed them shut and reopened them, the room was the same. Wondering if I were trapped in a freakishly realistic dream, I tried to pinch my arm. The sharp pain pulled in an equally sharp a breath, but it didn't jolt me back into my own bed. Not that I'd had much hope it would. I wasn't a lucid dreamer, but I knew when I was awake. And I was awake.

I rubbed my arm, encouraging the pale patch of skin to fade back into the darker golden olive I was now sporting. Waiting for the bruising pulse to fade, a few strands of hair fell across my face. I pinched the lock and brought it up to eye level. It was straight, not the crinkled mess I usually woke with. The shade was a darker brown, too. Nearly black out of the sunlight.

I caught sight of a full-length mirror. If my arms and hair were different… But the angle made it impossible to see myself from the bed. Swallowing, I swung my legs out from beneath the blanket and was both surprised and not to find the same golden coloring so different from my typical pale. My thighs were softer, lacking the sharp definition of muscle. Another twist from my stomach warned me I was starting to freak out again, but I couldn't help it. I took in the hips that flared, and then a chest more generous than mine.

I rose up onto quivering legs, dread deepening with every careful step towards the mirror. When I stepped in front of it, lips parted but with nothing to say. A hand flew over the mouth that wasn't mine. Wide open eyes a deeper shade of brown stared back at me in horror. The head shook side to side, denial in the steep pinch of sculpted brows.

Nina Dobrev's horrified reflection stared back at me.

The face finally lost a shade, and if it went any lighter, it might end up closer to my own. Her hands curled into the straight strands of shining hair, ran across the crown of the skull, tightening into a grip that pulled. I sucked down each breath, watching as the actress in the mirror mimicked every move. The reflection blurred, colors smearing. I shut my eyes before the burn in my eyes manifested into tears.

This was insane. It couldn't be real. I had to be dreaming.

Eyes open again, I looked around. Like a shift in perspective had shown me the full picture, this new understanding painted my surroundings in a very different light. I'd seen this room before. On a television show. Elena's room. The bed where Damon would lounge and wave at Elena with her teddy bear—that was on the floor next to her bed. The window seat Elijah would lean against as he bargained for Elena's friends and family's lives at the price of her own life.

Wrapping my arms around my stomach, as if I could physically hold back the wave of nausea threatening to spill over, I gazed around and shivered. I tentatively moved back to the mirror and pressed the tip of a finger against it. Cold. Smooth and solid. Real. I pressed against the wooden frame. Slightly less cold, but still chilled. Slightly less hard but still solid, small imperfections beneath my skin from the grain, even smoothed with varnish. Real.

I moved faster, as if trying to outrace the truth to the other side of the room, to a desk pressed against the wall. There were candles that gave under my fingertips when pressed hard enough. Real. Notebooks that my fingers slid across until my nails caught the metal spiral. Real. My toes curled into the cold hardwood floor smoothed with a coat or two of lacquer. Real. I picked up a framed picture of Elena smooshed between two adults I'd never seen before. My finger squeaked across the glass as I slid my thumb over their smiles. Real. Brought it up to stare at a younger Elena. This wasn't some prop for a television show, with carefully set lighting and a professional eye. It was the naturally lit and awkwardly shot photograph of an amateur. The faint smell of vanilla lingered in the air. Real.

The picture clattered back onto the desktop. My free hand curled back into a fist that pressed into my stomach. I turned and stared at the frightened girl in the mirror.

Shuffling back to the bed, I settled onto a bottom corner. I stared at the alarm clock. Six thirty in the morning. Early? Or was Elena Gilbert a pre-dawn riser? An insomniac?

Like a song set to repeat, my mind circled back around to the unbelievable situation I was in. Wondering, over and over, how this was possible. What had happened after I'd gone to bed? How did I wake up as a character in a television show? Was this some kind of nervous break? Had I gone mad? Was I dead? In a coma? How real was real? Really real? What'd happen to me if something happened to her?

Rubbing a hand down my face, I struggled with all the questions I couldn't answer. What I did know was that I liked the show well enough to watch it, but I'd never want to live it. Let alone as Elena. Not that I had an issue with her, she served the purpose she was written for. She just wasn't my favorite. Not like Caroline, who'd shown amazing growth. She didn't have any powers like Bonnie. Unless you counted attracting danger.

Since I wasn't craving blood—at least, I didn't think I was—I guessed she was still human. Realizing vampirism was a possibility I had to seriously consider, a snort of laughter bubbled up and escaped before I could stop it. As if a dam broke, I let loose more laughter, this time sounding frantic and half-crazed. What absurd turn into insanity had my life taken?

A door opened somewhere beyond the closed one separating Elena's room from the rest of the house. The sound choked my laughter abruptly short as my heart shot up and got stuck in my throat. The floor creaked outside. Footsteps grew closer. Came all the way up to the room's door. The rap of knuckles set my heart pounding. "Elena?" I knew that voice. Jenna, Elena's aunt. "Better get in the shower if you don't want to be late."

I swallowed back a scream. "Okay." Oh god. I even sounded like Nina Dobrev. Elena. Whoever.

I took a steadying breath before adding a tentative, "Thanks."

"Sure." The footsteps moved back and away as she walked down what I was guessing was a hallway.

Well. Still somewhat dazed, but a little steadier after my bout of mad laughter, I found clothes laid out on a dresser after a moment of unfocused gazing while my brain rebooted. Getting up and going over, I picked them up and turned towards the built-in bookshelf, beside which was another door. One Jenna hadn't knocked on. I had vague memories of a bathroom—one the ghost of Bonnie's ancestor trapped her inside.

Sidling up to it, I hesitated for a second before pushing it open. A connecting bathroom, and not just to Elena's bedroom. The opposite door must've led to Jeremy's. It wasn't large, but it had enough room for two sinks, a toilet, and a shower tucked behind the inward swinging door.

Discomfort had my hands gripping the clothes tighter at thought of washing somebody else. Did she have a bathing suit? No, I'd still have to undress. But that was better than scrubbing.

I chewed on my inner cheek before sighing. This whole situation was a can of worms. What were the ethics of a fictional character's bodily autonomy, if they weren't so fictional anymore? At first it seemed cut and dry—treat it with the respect you'd give any other body—except for the fact I was the one currently occupying it. Which made me wonder what had happened to the real Elena. Or was she real? Had someone's consciousness been in this body before? Was she still in here, somewhere? What about Jenna? Was she real? She'd sounded real. Would she parrot lines from the show, like some sort of scripted character? Was I? Had I already been doing that all my life? Was I doing it now?

Already overwhelmed, I wasn't up to parsing through all the metaphysical questions that went along with finding myself in a fictional universe populated by fictional characters. Nevermind all the implications and ramifications. Knowing jack shit about what had happened to me, I couldn't even venture towards any sort of guess, educated or otherwise.

I turned to the more concrete and immediate issue instead. Could I get away with not washing? I raised my arm and sniffed. Nothing funky but—ugh. Going a day without showering had my nose wrinkling as if I'd caught a whiff of body odor. Besides, at some point, I was going to have to use the toilet.

I compromised with myself by making it quick and not looking at anything.

I kept hurrying as I wrapped myself up in towel before daring to go in front of the mirror. Elena, hair plastered against her head and neck, looked freaked out. I frowned. So did she. Eager to banish the surreal sight away, my gaze dropped like a stone to the sinks. A separate toothbrush holder for both, one tube of toothpaste between them. I took hold of the purple toothbrush, hoping I'd picked the right one. I concentrated on finishing up the morning's ablutions.

Back in the bedroom, I shut the door behind me. I was about to unwind the towel and dry off before wrapping up Elena's longer hair when a sound broke the morning quiet and sent a chill through my blood.

"Caw!"

My arms and neck prickled from all the hairs now standing straight. My head turned, slow and reluctant. A light cotton curtain shifted in a breeze from an open window. A window I knew had been shut earlier when I'd examined the bedroom. On the thick boughs of an old tree standing beyond perched a great black crow, watching.

Head tilting, its small black eye remained fixed. On me. After a minute where we stared at one another and it—he?—stayed still, I took a few careful steps to the window. Its head straightened and a wing shook. I paused, but it didn't hop away or take off, so I finished crossing the final bit of space between me and the window. I ignored the curtain as its edge brushed along my bare arm. I stared into that black gaze, searching for something more than animal in its eye. Something intelligent. The very idea was crazy, but at this point, it was a drop in an ocean of madness.

"Caw!"

Sucking down a breath, I gripped the windowpane and pushed it shut. The crow stretched its neck and dipped its head. Standing back up, it launched itself into the sky with a powerful flapping of its shining black wings.

The air rushed out of me, taking the worst of my anxiety with it. "Perv." Forehead falling to the glass, I shut my eyes to shut out this fake world and let my skin soak up the cold. The sun's light glowed red behind my eyelids. I stared into it for as long as I could stand before opening them back up and shutting the curtains. Not that they'd do much good, white and thin as they were.

Hurrying to dress, my sights darted around to all the windows. On the plus side, I was so preoccupied with avoiding any peeping crows I didn't have time to worry out about dressing a body that wasn't mine. Since I hadn't wrapped my hair, the back of Elena's red shirt dampened. Swearing, I snatched the towel I'd discarded from the bed. I tried massaging the worst of the wetness out of it before wrapping it up.

With Jenna still alive, Elena was a seventeen-year-old Junior. She had to have a hair dryer somewhere.

Not hearing anyone or anything stirring out of the bathroom, I went back in. I found one in cupboards beneath the sink, along with a set of curling irons and various other beauty paraphernalia. A power strip laid nearby for the plug. Rummaging through the rest of the drawers, I found Elena's makeup.

With an unfamiliar face, it took me longer than normal to apply it.

As soon as I was ready, I ventured beyond the bedroom door and into the hallway. It looked fairly normal. A generic pastoral painting hung on the wall above a low side table. More doors, one that must have led to the bathroom. Jeremy's had to be beyond it. I supposed that meant Elena's parents had the room across. Jenna must be sleeping there now.

The stairs were at the end of the hall. I paused at the top, listening for any sounds of life down below. Sure enough there was a slight clatter and the running of a faucet. Kitchen?

Only one way to find out.

The stairs were well made. They didn't creak as I descended. Pictures were arranged on the wall. Family portraits. The two adults from the framed photograph in my room featured in these, too. Elena's parents, maybe. I don't remember the series ever featuring either of them.

The faucet was shut off before I reached the landing. Drawers were rolling open and closed, though, punctuated by the creak of a cabinet door. The controlled orchestra of domesticity led me to the right and down a narrow hall that led into a wide-open archway. The smell of freshly brewed coffee grew stronger with each step. Beyond the arch sat a full-size dining table. Scooting around, I approach an island counter separating the kitchen proper from the dining area.

Jenna was moving back and forth between the cabinets and island, various breakfast paraphernalia spread out on the other counter lining the wall. Boxes of cereal and pop tarts, bowels of fruit, a loaf of bread beside a plate of butter. She was muttering, but it was too low to make out.

I stopped at the outside of the island, next to the stools, and leaned on its marble top. "Jenna?"

If she noticed my hesitation she didn't seem to think it was a big deal. "Elena! Morning." Her smile was almost manic, stretched way too wide and revealing way too many teeth. "I made breakfast!" She paused before adding, "Well, I pulled it out of the fridge and cabinets. But. Breakfast!"

I swept my sights along the strange horde of food.

Jenna followed my lead, twisting at the waist to take in her work. "Too much?"

"Little bit." I squeezed my hands together. Somewhere up above, a toilet flushed. Surprised, I looked up. That's something I never heard on the show.

"Oh, good. Jeremy's up." Jenna shook her head. "Was not looking forward to dragging him out of bed."

It was a guess, but, "First day of school."

Jenna looked over and must have seen the trepidation in my face and interpreted it as nerves. "You'll do great, Elena. No one expected you to keep up your grades last year after—" she trailed off into an awkward silence before shrugging. "Anyway. It'll be better. You'll do better." Before I could think of a reply, that slightly panicked glaze came back over her eyes. She held up her hands, "Not to place undue expectations on you. Fine is good. You'll do fine."

Wow. The woman was a bigger wreck than I was. And I was an unwitting body snatcher plopped into the start of the Vampire Diaries' pilot episode. I managed a careful smile. "Right."

Jenna brightened. "Right!" She turned and thrust a hand towards a box of frozen Eggos. "Waffles?"

The thought of food threatened to churn my still sour stomach. "Oh. I'm… not really hungry this morning."

Jenna looked as if I'd shot a dog. "Nerves. Should've thought of that," she fretted. Before I could assure her it was a nice gesture, she burst into motion. Sweeping the food back into her arms before carrying it back towards the fridge. "How about coffee?" she asked over the tower of boxes and plastic containers. "Just brewed a pot."

I wasn't really feeling up to that, either, but didn't want to make things any worse. I wasn't entirely certain she wouldn't disassemble the keurig. "Sure." The shiny coffeemaker sat beside a sterling silver sink. I pushed myself off the counter and carefully sidestepped Jenna to the percolating pot.

Then I realized I had no idea where the mugs were.

Casting an eye to Jenna, who kept shoving the food back into the fridge, I wondered if she'd notice me searching the cabinets when a loud stomping moving swiftly down the stairs signaled Jeremy's impending arrival. The boy himself appeared a moment later, bangs swept across his drooping eyes. He slouched past the table and the island, coming to a stand beside me. The smell of teenage boy was very strong—the hoodie must have come off the floor, and I hadn't heard the shower—when he reached over my head to the end cabinet.

"Breakfast?" Jenna asked, voice hopeful as she half-straightened from the fridge.

"Coffee," Jeremy grunted, plucking a mug from the cabinet.

Jenna sighed and went back to putting away the food.

Jeremy took a glance at the remaining debris from Jenna's impromptu buffet and arched a brow before dismissing it with a shrug. Apparently, the coffee pot was more interesting.

I took a moment to soak in the presence of two fictional characters. From Jenna's frenetic movements to the languid shuffling of Jeremy Gilbert as he moved back towards the island and one of the stools.

Surreal didn't begin to cover it.

I reached up into the same cabinet I'd seen Jeremy take a mug from to get my own. The coffee smelled good as it flowed into the cup, releasing an especially strong aroma. I took a moment to just let the scent wash over me, ground me. How could this be a dream? How could it be real?

Noticing my hands were beginning to shake again, I forced the questions back and wondered which one of the ceramic chicken-shaped jars standing alongside the backsplash were filled with sugar. Tentatively I checked the rooster. The contents were white and powdery but looked too fine. Probably flour. I checked the next, a brown hen. Bingo.

Shit. Where were the spoons?

"You both have rides?" Jenna asked as I surreptitiously tried to pull open a drawer to peek for silverware.

"Yep." Slurping resumed from Jeremy's place at the counter.

"Bonnie's picking me up?" I didn't mean to make it sound like a question, but it's not like I knew what Elena's plans had been prior to possessing her body. I had no idea how close to the show things were. If I was even in the 'show' or some alternative universe. Or if I was going insane. Maybe I was trapped in a hallucination. Maybe it was about to go bad, and killer clowns were going to jump out of the next drawer.

I opened it very carefully. Turned out it was where the big utensils like the bar-b-que fork went.

Where the hell did these people put their spoons?

"Okay. What else? Lunch money?"

I had given up the search for the spoon and decided to drink the coffee black when Jeremy's free hand lifted.

Jenna grabbed a purse off the end of the counter and fished inside until she emerged with a few bills. Jeremy plucked them from her hand and had them shoved into his pocket before Jenna had the chance to hand them over. Swiveling around in the chair, he got up and wandered back out of the kitchen, mug traveling with him.

Did he actually have a ride?

Trying to remember, I started to take a sip. Soon as the edge of the mug touched my lip, it became clear it was too hot to drink. How'd Jeremy manage? Hoping to cool it some, I blew out a breath.

"Elena?"

I froze, eyes wide as I looked over.

Jenna had another ten in her hand.

"Oh, I'm… I'm good." I had no idea if that was true, but I wasn't about to emulate Jeremy's grabby hands. That was just rude.

"Okay." Jenna folded the cash back into her wallet before plopping it back into her handbag. The purse-o-phile in me admired the supple white leather in a quilted pattern. "That's it? Don't need anything else?" She ran her eyes over me. "Backpack?"

"Upstairs?" Probably.

"Don't forget it." Jenna squinted. "What am I missing?"

I stared back, face blank, heart racing.

Her eyes widened. "Crap! My thesis adviser." She snatched the handbag off the counter and hurried out another door that must've led outside. "Good luck!"

As soon as she was gone, I collapsed on top of the counter. The mug clattered against the marble top, and a splash of coffee hit my hand. I hissed, snatching it away and lifting it to my face for inspection. Well, no third-degree burns. Just stung like a bitch. I blew on it, stomach again dropping like a stone as I realized there was no way I'd sleep through a burn, even a minor one.

With the rest of the house's occupants elsewhere, I conducted a proper search of the kitchen. Having no idea how long I'd be stuck in this… situation… I tried to remember where everything was. Or, at least, the important stuff.

Turned out the spoons were in a drawer on the other side of the island.

The coffee had cooled by the time I got sugar into it. A digital clock on the fridge read the time as twenty minutes after seven. If Bonnie was picking Elena up, it probably wouldn't be much longer before she was here. I was pretty sure most schools started at eight. Give the girls fifteen to twenty to get there and find their home rooms—Bonnie was probably on her way right now.

High school. Again.

I grimaced into the mug before taking a longer drink. Did I have to go? I could claim I'd gotten sick. Then I remembered Jenna's frantic need to be helpful, to get her two charges sent off fed and ready for the day. Even if she wasn't real, she'd seemed real enough. I didn't like disappointing people in general. I really hated the idea of disappointing someone working so hard to make sure things went well for—well, Elena, technically. Which was me. For now.

Besides, this might not last. Elena would have an easier time adjusting if her attendance didn't take a nosedive.

Or maybe this was a lucid hallucination and I was wasting my time.

I set the mug down and rubbed a hand down my face. Well, what else would I do? Watch television? Play games? Might as well play along. I didn't know what was happening. Seemed safest to go along with what I knew. Disrupt as little as possible.

But man. High school.

With as much excitement as a sewage treatment tech headed off to work, I trumped up the stairs and back towards Elena's room. I remembered which one it was. Granted, mostly because I'd left the door open and rock music was emanating from the other closed door. Yeah. That was definitely Jeremy's room.

Back in Elena's domain, I hunted around for a backpack. If the girl had her outfit laid out, I was willing to bet she'd had her school supplies ready to go to.

Sure enough, I found it leaning against the chair tucked under the desk. It was one of those bags that looked like a giant purse or laptop case, but in leather. Really nice. I swung it onto my shoulder and squeezed the straps. They gave a comforting little creak.

I paused to look around for anything else I might need. Catching my reflection in the mirror, I paused to stare. God. This was Elena Gilbert. I mean, I was Elena Gilbert. Headed off to her first day of Junior year.

She'd meet Stefan Salvatore today.

I didn't know how to feel about that. On one hand, I thought Stefan—or Paul Wesley—was ridiculously handsome. On the other, he was a vampire. He was a vampire that tore off people's heads when he got in a feeding frenzy.

It was a great relationship to stream from the comfort of my couch. But living it? Um, no. I didn't like the idea of being the doppelgänger with the magical blood that every male vampire seemed to want for one reason or another.

I was still staring at Elena in the mirror when a chime went off downstairs. Doorbell. Probably Bonnie.

I squeezed the handles of Elena's bag again and just stuffed all the questions and worries back down. I mean, vampires? Doppelgängers? Witches? Werewolves? Curses? I couldn't function if I thought about all this craziness. Who could? What I needed to do was take my dad's most often given advice: Go with the flow.

I retraced my steps back downstairs, but this time didn't turn back towards the kitchen but hurried for the door. A glance through the peephole showed Bonnie freaking Bennett waiting patiently on the other side of the door. A weird sensation of being slightly out of it came over me as I pulled the door open and was greeted with a bright smile.

"Hey!"

"Hi." I tried to return her blinding smile with one of my own.

It must not have gone very well. Bonnie's immediately slipped into a slight frown and furrowed brows of concern. "Nervous?"

I laughed. To my credit, I sounded only a little crazy. "You have no idea." Bonnie Bennett. I was talking to Bonnie Freaking Bennett!

Bonnie fixed another smile on her face, this one far more empathetic. "Ready or not, we'd better get going."

"Okay." My stomach was still flipping. Good thing I hadn't taken Jenna up on her offer of food. I wondered if I should let Jeremy know I was leaving, then figured he wouldn't hear over the music. He probably wouldn't care even if he could.

Stepping out, I shut the door behind me. Jeremy would lock up, wouldn't he? When Bonnie didn't say anything about walking away without locking up myself, I felt my shoulders loosen slightly. I followed dutifully behind her.

The Gilbert's maintained a nice front lawn, and I didn't doubt that the back was as meticulously well kept. The bushes were all evenly trimmed, and the grass had been cut recently. I wondered if it was all Jeremy, or if I shared in the outdoor chores.

We followed the sidewalk to the driveway where Bonnie had parked her blue Prius. We settled in, buckled our belts, and were off with a turn of the engine. Imogen Heap's electronically altered voice filled the car with the chorus of Watcha Say.

Bonnie leaned over and turned down the stereo before straightening back up and shifting the car into drive. I turned my sights to the front windshield, watching as she turned left and headed down the street. I tried to make note of every sign we passed and subsequent turn she made. But I started losing track before we hit what I guessed was Mystic Fall's main street.

The two-story homes turned into brick buildings sporting various signs proclaiming one type of business after another. The street itself was lined with old fashioned black streetlamps rather than the newer curved sort that had dotted the neighborhood. I didn't doubt they were electric, but it was a nice touch. Hanging from the occasional stop light were banners announcing an upcoming festival.

"Night of the Comet," I muttered as we passed beneath another gently rippling advertisement.

"This Thursday. Can you believe it's already here?" Bonnie kept her eyes on the road.

"Nope," I answered in complete honesty. "I cannot."

"Grams says it's a bad omen." Bonnie huffed a scoffing laugh. "She says a lot of things nowadays."

Giving up on following the route to the high school, I turned to look at Bonnie instead. A distinct sensation of déjà vu washed over me. I swallowed before trying for a casual, "Like what?"

I must have succeeded, because Bonnie launched into the topic with gusto. Clearly she'd been waiting to get this off her chest. "All sorts of crazy stuff. Like, apparently, I can see into the future." Her mocking tone left no doubt as to what she thought of that. "Woman's finally lost it, Elena."

"Can you?"

"What?"

I tugged at the seat belt. "See into the future?"

Bonnie glanced at me, brow raised. "If I could, don't you think I'd have a winning lottery ticket in my hand right now?"

"Maybe it doesn't work that way."

"Right." Skepticism dripped off the word. "Not very useful then, is it?"

"I don't know about that."

Bonnie shrugged. "Well, I did predict Heath Ledger. And Obama."

Oh, god. I remembered that line from the show. My mouth went dry and I wiped my hands down my jeans. I cast about for something to say. "How about Trump?"

"Huh?" Bonnie asked, glancing my way before the traffic light turned green.

"Never mind," I muttered before sinking further into the seat. Something about this… why did I remember this so well?

"O-kay." Bonnie shrugged the comment off. "Anyway, Grams says were descended from the Salem witches."

"There weren't any witches in Salem," I muttered.

"Right? That's what I told her. She just gave me this look and says, 'Not that they caught.'" Bonnie huffed. "Convenient, huh?"

"I guess." I glanced at her. "If there were really witches there, though, they probably would've used magic to escape."

"I guess." Bonnie frowned. "Don't tell me you believe Grams' cra—"

A black shape flew straight at the glass, thumping into the windshield. Bonnie and I let out startled shrieks as the thing suddenly disappeared over the roof of the car. Bonnie gave the wheel a sharp turn and slammed on the breaks. We hit our belts as the car came to an abrupt stop.

I didn't realize I was breathing so hard and fast until Bonnie's hand on my shoulder startled the ringing from my ears. "Elena? Oh my god. Are you alright?"

I took a slower, deeper breath. Ignoring the sudden sweat that had broken out over my forehead, I turned with a forced grin. "Yeah," I breathed. I cleared my throat and tried again. "Yeah." My voice was stronger that time. "Just startled."

Bonnie collapsed into her seat. "I know!" She leaned forward and looked up at the windshield where a slight smear was the only evidence something had hit the glass. "I swear, it was a huge bird or something." She turned to me, eyes big and pleading. "I didn't see it."

I managed another shaky smile, rubbing a hand across my clavicle, where the belt had caught me. "It's fine. We're fine."

Bonnie frowned. "I know. I just—I figured—" She waved a hand, as if to encompass the whole of the car.

Right. The accident that killed Elena's parents. What had she said? "I, uh. I can't be afraid of cars forever."

I must have gotten it right, because Bonnie's answering grin was far more relaxed. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it tightly. "I predict that this year is going to kick ass. And I predict that all the sad and dark times are over and you are going to be beyond happy."

I remembered that line. It was—so wrong it wasn't even funny. I summoned a smile for her anyway. It was a nice gesture, after all. "I hope so."

But a shiver traveled down my spine. It was real. Somehow, impossibly, it was real.

All of it.

I turned my head towards the passenger window and looked up to one of the signs lining the street.

A black crow looked back and cawed.

[themagiciansreccenter]

Five @ Five @shmazarov

As a part of our author spotlight, we’ve asked each writer to highlight 5 fics and tell us a little about their experience writing (or reading) them.

If It Makes You Feel Better by lazarov

"Jesus Christ," Quentin moaned. "I am such a fucking asshole! All I remember is that Margo started kissing me, and I was all emotionally jumbled up and she was crying and you were there, passed out -- and this was a huge, horrible mistake.” He paused. “Uh, no offense.”

“Mhmm.” Eliot rolled his eyes and pulled out a bottle of Cuervo, pouring two sloppy fingers into a tumbler and topping it up with what could generously be called a splash of OJ. He slid it towards Quentin. “Tequila sunrise pour vous? ”

“Please no.”

“Suit yourself.” He slid the glass back towards himself and took a sip, before furrowing his brow and examining Quentin’s face. “Did you say Margo was crying?”

Twitchily, Quentin shifted under his gaze and shrugged. “It was just leftover bottled-up emotion brain-junk. No biggie.”

“Alright,” he said slowly, and Quentin suspected he wasn’t quite off the hook. But Eliot’s forehead relaxed and he changed the subject, pacing in a circle and waving his drink around, explaining: "Look, you were extremely drunk and hopped up on bootleg magic. The cheap, street stuff is like bottom-shelf tequila: nobody can be blamed for their actions after a few shots, worm and all." Eliot paused, quirking an eyebrow and leaning his elbows on the counter. His robe slid an down his shoulders, revealing a fucking bite mark under his left clavicle, and Quentin dragged his eyes away, doing his best to convince himself that the reddish-bruised imprint was way too small to have come from him. "To be honest, boo, I didn't think you had it in you."

This was my very first fic for the Magicians fandom, and my first attempt at developing an ear for Quentin and Eliot's voices. I didn't quite hit the mark, but I think it was a decent early start. It's satisfying to see how much further I've come in developing a feel for these characters.

Caught You by lazarov

"I thought that after all this turned out to be real, that I wouldn't..." Quentin sighs and thumps his head backwards against the wall, frustrated. "I shouldn't still be doing this. I shouldn't want to..." He trails off.

"Why?" Eliot says. "Because of magic?" He spits the word out like it's vinegar in his mouth, then sighs. "The fact that magic didn't fix all your problems doesn't make you ungrateful. And you're not stupid."

Quentin quirks the corner of his mouth, a doubtful sort of 'maybe.'

Eliot's hand have finally stopped shaking enough that he can let go of Quentin's arm ("You take over," he murmurs) and start to form a spell. There are probably better ones, stronger ones, but his brain feels scrambled and it's the only one he can bring forth with reasonable certainty.

His hands work methodically but cautiously as he moves through the procession: slow, carefully-drawn arcs and deliberate patterns. He nearly stumbles on the third movement, a transition from bhramara to Flamel's Interlock, but he manages to keep going, the energy building in his hands like glowing coals. Quentin watches him with tired eyes, tracking the movements with clear interest; it's not a spell he'd've learned yet, second-year Fundamentals of Wellness spellcasting stuff, and something twits in his stomach as he realizes Quentin is committing it to memory.

I love Caught You, the whole series is so important to me. Not just because I feel it was vital to explore what could've-been with Quentin's depression after Dean Fogg suggested he go off his meds, but also because I think this fic is the one where I found my voices for Eliot and Q as well as my personal style for writing hand-spellcasting.

Stories We Tell by lazarov

They stayed wrapped in each others arms for a long while: warm, slippery skin pressed together in cold water, the immediacy of their thoughts drowned out by the constant, soothing white noise of the falls, only occasionally pierced by the sound of songbirds sweetly singing to each other across the clearing.

"Will you tell me what you thought when you first saw me?" Quentin asked, his breath hot on Eliot's shoulder. He dragged his teeth against Eliot's trapezius, eliciting a shiver.

"At Brakebills?"

Eliot felt Quentin nod. He nosed against Quentin's temple: "I thought you were beautiful" - he pressed a kiss to Quentin's cool skin, over his eyebrow - "and intriguing" - another kiss, between Quentin's eyes - "and I immediately began plotting an intricate plan to make you fall head-over-hells in lust with me."

"You're supposed to tell the truth," Quentin said quietly, giving Eliot a gentle, admonishing bite.

"I know," said Eliot. "I am."

He was.

I generally have an extremely hard time writing romance but this? I was proud of this. There's something about setting a mood and teasing out exactly the moment you want from the setting you've created that is satisfying as fuck. This fic is an off-shoot of Caught You, but stands on its own as well: Quentin and Eliot trying to figure out how to be alone with each other - and take care of each other, despite their respective hang-ups about feeling loved - in Fillory.

One and the Same by lazarov

“Well, I hope that jackrabbit got eaten! Mashed up and squished right between a killer turtle’s teeth so he can’t call me names ever again.” Still draped over Quentin’s shoulder, Rupert did his turtle impression again. He poked Quentin in the back. “Turn me so I can look at dad.” Dutifully, Quentin spun so that Rupert was level with Eliot’s eyes. “What do you think? About him getting eaten?”

“Well.” Eliot tapped his chin with one finger. “First of all, I don’t think turtles have teeth. Second, I guess whether or not I wish a horrible death upon him depends on exactly what name that rabbit called you, buddy.”

“He called me a…” Rupert frowned, reconsidering, and waved Eliot closer. Eliot dutifully leaned forward so that Rupert could whisper with one hand cupped around his ear: “A two-legged idiot.”

“Well,” Eliot said gravely, rocking back on his heels. Quentin’s shoulders were bobbing with silent laughter and Rupert bounced gently along with them. “That is particularly rude. And I’m glad you chose not to repeat it in front of your dad. We both know he’s very sensitive”—

“Hey!” Quentin protested.

“But, if we’re talking eaten-by-turtles bad? I think I could find it in my heart to let that rabbit go. Mercy is a virtue, no?”

Rupert nodded, pleased with the answer, and Eliot stepped towards them. He pressed his lips against the sun-warmed top of Rupert’s head, before nosing at the soft, stubbled spot below Quentin’s ear. Gently, Quentin leaned into his touch

—

“Jesus fuck.” Eliot slammed one angry fist on the table and then buried his face in his hands. The sharp pain in his wrist helped to draw him out of the memory, but he was still stuck half-in and half-out: he could still smell Quentin’s hair and the damp of his skin after working on the mosaic in the afternoon heat. He could still feel a tiny hand tugging at his linen shirt. Eliot suppressed the urge to throw his chair backwards and rip himself away from it. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said again, wounded, his lips muffled against his palms.

“Hey,” Quentin said quickly, shooting one hand out to gently grab Eliot’s wrist. “El? You okay?”

He couldn’t answer – paralyzed by the memory, he opened his eyes and slowly blinked before taking stock of himself: they were in a shitty diner in midtown. In front of him, there was a scuffed white plate with a bagel on it. There was lox on the bagel. Quentin was sitting across from him. Quentin was wearing a grey sweater. He could feel Quentin’s foot touching his foot. Quentin’s warm hand was on his wrist.

This is an in-progress series about Eliot and Quentin dealing with their memories of the mosaic timeline. I tend to write what I want to read and, if I could read nothing except fic about Quentin and Eliot emotionally processing flashbacks of that timeline for the rest of my days in this fandom? I would be very lucky indeed.

spring sooner than the lark by greywash

"I love you," Eliot says, very quietly; and Quentin says, "I know."

"I'm in love with you," Eliot says; and Quentin says, "I know," and then lifts up his head.

Straightens. Quentin reaches up. Rubbing a thumb against Eliot's burning cheek: Eliot can't stop looking at him. His lovely serious sweet face.

"I think I've always been in love with you," Eliot says, barely breathing; and Quentin nods, cupping his cheek.

"I know, sweetheart," he says, really gently. "But that's not what I asked."

His big dark, sad eyes.

Eliot swallows. There is an odd, unstable sort of a wobble, buried somewhere under his sternum. "If I said no," he says; and then takes a breath, and corrects: "if. If it doesn't work out."

Quentin closes his eyes, and then touches their foreheads together.

"Then we'll figure it out," he says, very quietly, "that's not what I'm asking."

Eliot closes his eyes; and Quentin takes a breath.

"This is your home," Quentin says, very quietly. "I'm—yours, whatever happens, we're yours, I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to—to take Teddy away from you, or something"; and Eliot—Eliot can't— "Oh, Christ, El": Quentin slides his arm around Eliot's middle.

Pulling him. Close.

Eliot curls up. Tucking his face into Quentin's throat.

"You know you gave him to me, right?" Quentin says, very quietly. "You're as much his father as I am"; and Eliot presses his eyes to Quentin's warm rough sweat-smelling skin.

Get the FUCK out of here with that intensely gorgeous prose. Talk about setting a mood. Ever since I read it, this gorgeous fic has spurred on my desire to write for the Magicians and my desire to WRITE BETTER.

[dhampir72]

Because people seemed interested in the self-indulgent now 25+ pages of 00Q whump I wrote today for no reason at all except to avoid my responsibilities... here is a sample. ngl inspired by @beginte‘s amazing fic Choice of Poison which is fantastic and something everyone should read

Full chapter now available on Ao3 here.

The day started as ordinary as Tuesdays in February tended to be: cold, wet, and a little dreary. Many people might have been tempted to sleep in, to avoid the morning chill and damp, but James Bond was not one of those people. He had just returned two days prior from an assignment in South America and the chilly temperature of London was just what he wanted after three weeks of blistering summer heat.

He managed to wake early enough to avoid the morning rush, not having to sit at too many lights on his way to Six. A good thing, too, because the car he had let was a new model Jaguar F-Type that didn’t deserve to idle at stop lights. It was a joy to be back on home soil after enduring inhospitable conditions in Paraguay, but even more so to drive the streets he had missed in a beautiful car with plates that told police to not bother pursuing him if he happened to be going too fast.

He pulled into the underground garage around half-past six, sliding the red sports car into a spot next to a rather plain Corsa with a banged up bumper. There weren’t many other cars in the lot due to the early hour.

Bond exited the car and locked it, shoving the fob into his pocket as he made for the northwest lift. The subterranean garage was new, acquired after some merger that Bond hadn’t given a care about when the memo had gone round. All he knew was that it was convenient to not have to find street parking.

Since Six had acquired the property, Bond had discovered quickly that he preferred the lift from the garage because not many people used it. Most everyone came in through the front door, as the Tube station was just a block or so away. That meant the entrance was always clogged with people, all the ordinary 9-5 personnel that had never seen a Double-Oh in their life (and probably never would). It wasn’t that Bond thought himself better than them, he just didn’t want to end up in those awkward conversations while waiting for the lift. Oh, you work in Finance? That’s interesting. I kill people for a living. Have a nice day. It never tended to go over well. And really, all Bond wanted was to get in and run the track for a few hours before the gym got too busy.

That was the boring thing about being in-between missions: not much to do but try to keep himself busy until the next assignment.

He rounded the corner and heard the ding of the doors opening.

There was just one person waiting and Bond thought maybe he’d just wait until they’d gone ahead, just so he could ride alone without forcing an awkward conversation. But then the person turned round as they entered the lift, tugging back their hood, and their eyes met.

It was Q, looking a little sleep-rumpled and damp from the rain, his keys in one hand, a thermos in the other. He wore that awful anorak--the one Bond swore he would one day put out of its misery--but as Bond came closer to the lifts, he saw that underneath, Q had dressed in a tasteful hunter green cardigan over a white button down. The top few buttons were undone, exposing his throat. It was strange to see him without a tie, but Bond rather liked the look on him, and had to fight to keep his eyes on Q’s face instead of that stretch of skin he’d never seen before.

Q held out his arm to keep the doors from closing, but Bond didn’t even bother picking up his pace, taking his time as he made his way closer. Oh, yes, he definitely liked the sleepy, not-yet-done-up button business Q had going on this morning. Bond wondered why he was just seeing it now after two years of working with the other man.

“Surprised to see you in so early,” Q said, once Bond was within earshot.

“You know me. Early bird gets the worm.”

“That is nothing at all like you, Bond,” Q said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously as Bond entered the lift. “What did you do?”

“Didn’t know you drove,” Bond said, changing the subject in hopes that Q would be irked all day, wondering what he had done. The truth was that he had done nothing at all, but it was fun to tease Q into thinking he had done something troublesome.

“Another quip about my age? That they shouldn’t assign driver’s licenses to people under the age of thirteen?”

“You said it, not me. Corsa?”

The look Q gave him told Bond that he was right.

“Cute. Bit of a bump on the back end. Maybe you need a booster seat?”

Q rolled his eyes, and then held out his arm to keep the doors from closing again. Bond glanced out into the parking garage to see who he had stopped the lift for and saw a white man in a grey suit. He looked like an ordinary office-worker, but he wasn’t carrying a bag or briefcase and didn’t have a badge anywhere in sight. 

The hairs on the back of Bond’s neck stood up. 

“You know him?” Bond asked.

“Isn’t that whatshisname from Accounting?” Q asked, adjusting his glasses with a frown. “Hm, no...it’s not. I must need a new prescription…”

Bond moved himself in front of Q, blocking him from the stranger’s view.

“Everyone that has access to this level has to be vetted. I’m sure it’s fine--”

But Bond was already reaching for the Walther under his arm, just as the man raised something to his mouth. At first, Bond thought it was a cigarette, but then he realised it was longer, like a reed. Bond’s body knew what it was before his brain, allowing him to side-step the thin projectile that came whizzing by his left ear. Thinner than a sewing needle, it wedged right into the cushioned wall of the lift behind him.

“What the hell…?” Q began, just as the man lifted the blow dart gun to his mouth again.

Bond shoved Q to one side of the lift before diving for the control panel on his side, jamming the door closed button with this thumb, urging the doors shut and the lift down before the man could get closer. Any other time, Bond would have confronted the man, using the unauthorised weapon under his arm, but he couldn’t take the risk when MI6’s Quartermaster was with him. Who was to say there wasn’t an accomplice?

The doors closed with a too-cheerful ding! and Bond immediately turned to Q, assessing him for injury. He seemed fine, just a little rumpled from Bond’s rough shove. His keys and thermos were on the floor at their feet, the cup’s contents thankfully unspilled, but their placement a testament to how the event had shaken them both. Bond was just counting them both as exceedingly lucky, but then a queer look came to Q’s face, somewhere between concerned and shocked. At first, Bond thought it must have been the realisation of the encounter--an attempt on one or both of their lives or a kidnapping job gone wrong--but then he saw the needle-like dart in Q’s throat.

“Shit,” Bond said, and went to Q before his knees could give way.

“I’m okay...” Q said, as Bond eased him down onto the floor.

He was nothing but bird-like bones under his oversized coat, under Bond’s hands, his weight barely anything at all in the crook of Bond’s arm. All of this and the way his knees folded beneath him like paper and the rapidly-paling pallor to his skin, told Bond Q was anything but okay.

He was just about to say this--witty, smart, maybe even a bit sarcastic--when the lift shuddered to a halt somewhere between B2 and B3 and the lights went out.