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alch3mic · 3 years

Text

in between. (drabble series)

chapter four (stitches.)

captain!sans x gender neutral reader. 3k+ word count.

please be advised for themes of anxiety, ideas of loss, depression, and self esteem.

* finally at the fourth chapter with our dear fellswap sans, captain! he also has no official fic yet but has his own tag here on my tumblr if you’d like to know more about him! thank you and i hope you enjoy!

A project.

That's all this was meant to be.

Something to keep him preoccupied in his free time, now that he seemed to have more time on his hands than he knew what to do with.

Somewhere to put his focus, instead of thinking about things.

Instead of stressing about things.

Instead of.. worrying about.. 'things'.

Like this.. 'thing'.. attached to him.

...

"ya can't just keep pacin' around bro."

Sure he could.

He could pace around as much as he wanted. It was his boat dammit, and he'd walk around it as he pleased, from the bow to the stern, topside and back.

"Shouldn't you be resting?"

No.

How could he? There was work to be done.

All his life he had filled himself with his work. It was all he knew.

Work.

Work

Work.

Work

From his time as a child, working to take care of his younger brother to ensure he was brought up properly to his time in the royal guard working hard every day to support them and make sure they both survived that horrid Underground. Even on the surface he worked and worked and worked, to regain his position as a monster worthy of fear and respect after the humans had stripped them of everything and leaving them to rot like strays on the street.

Every minute of every day he worked.

Most days he even dreamed of it.

Which is exactly why it was so difficult to sit still, even at your request.

"You really should just take it easy, Sans. Didn't Undyne say to not stress yourself out?"

She did, but it didn't matter.

He was in a constant state of being stressed.

Stressed was how he operated.

Stressed was all he knew.

His body could never give him the pleasure of just 'taking it easy', constantly buzzing, constantly wanting to be in motion. At times he envied his brother for being able to let things go and just kick back, but... that was exactly why he worked so hard wasn't it?

So that his brother could relax without a worry in that thick skull of his..?

Of course.. he knew Papyrus went through his own troubles.. it's just...

Gah.

This free time was now filling his head with unnecessary thoughts, even as he tried his best to busy himself by patrolling his own boat.

..Which was only adding to his stress...

"Lets try a hobby. What do you normally do for fun?"

Think of you.

Well..

He didn't have to now that you were here with him.

He could just spend time with you instead of daydreaming about it.

And he did.

You humored him by relaxing together topside with him and Papyrus, enjoying the salty breezes of the ocean and the warm summer rays. The two of you would chat in his bed for hours, laughing and telling stories of the past as you laid close. You'd help him, by offering an arm when he wore himself out or when he needed help doing something that required two hands. Everything from opening jars to preparing dinner or even tying his shoes.

It was..

Ah, dammit it was so humiliating.

..And also made him strangely happy?

He was.. happily humiliated?

..Humbled?

..Stars.

He never had anyone taken care of him before, so his pride was taking a major blow every time you offered to help. A part of him was glad you'd always ask first so he'd at least get to attempt at doing it by himself but.. it was also humiliating to give in. He was too stubborn for his own good, never having anyone extend a hand for him neither below ground or on the Surface.

Still you never seemed bothered.

You never batted an eye when he'd turn to you. Sometimes all it took was a look from him and you just knew, without having any words be spoke. Having that kind of connection was..

Incredible.

It had been something the both of you had obviously over the years, but only now it was showing itself in the mundane parts of your lives now that you were with him. Normally it had been when you locked eyes in a fight in the streets of Ebott, and he could see the whole encounter play out in his mind. How you'd swing, how he'd shoot. How you both would nearly hit each other both on purpose and on accident.

Like a dance with death only the two of you could perform.

And how beautifully you danced for him..

Now.. having that connection manifest positively, in quiet agreements and silent conversations that took only seconds to have, really drove home the fact that times have changed.

That he was no longer the skeleton he was before.

He had you now, which was different.

You were his.

And he was yours.

Though.. in truth you always had a part of soul with you even if you never realized it.

And he always had Papyrus by his side.

That could never change.

But now.. he also had..

That.

The 'thing'.

An arm.

That.. didn't belong to him.

It was attached, sure, but..

It was foreign.

Heavy.

A burden.

It was consequences of his actions taken form of something that use to be, but no longer was. Like a cruel symbol of mockery, forever attached to his own broken body. There was nothing but the tickling of a sensation of pain, like a phantom dancing across his bones, from a limb that was no longer there. The magic in his scapula hummed louder than the rest of his body, always catching his attention as it had been enhanced to support the weight of his new arm. It was irritating and constant, like a buzz he couldn't be rid of no matter how loud his thoughts were or tried to be.

Always there.

Always ringing in his skull.

It was driving him crazy, adding to the mounting stress.

"FOR FUN? EASY. TRAP MAKING. ANALYTICS. READING THE STOCKS AND NEWS."

"Well that's depressing."

"STAYING INFORMED IS IMPORTANT, DARLING."

"And so is your mental health, Sans. Ignoring this won't make it go away you know."

The metallic hand closed on a reflex when he felt your gaze upon it.

He didn't like it, despite how incredible Undyne's work was. She had studied him for weeks while he recovered in her intensive care, all so she could make an exact replica of his now missing arm. It looked just like the real thing only casted in asatollite, a type of metal found in the Underground that could conduct magic. No wires. No heavy plating. Just an arm, moved by his own magic.

An impressive feat really, but he felt no pride in this.

..Only shame.

As someone who had lived their life known for cutting it close time and time again, this was now all the proof someone needed that they could actually lay their hands on him. There was a chance that someone could hit and do some serious damage.

For some, that would be enough to push their determination over the edge.

The proof that he couldn't dodge forever.

And here it was, glinting under the soft afternoon sunlight that filtered into his quarters.

This... was his decline wasn't it?

..He could feel it in his bones.

Here marked the end of his reign of terror as Captain, the scarred skeleton who ruled the docks of Ebott City with an iron fist. Now that once unrelenting grip which strangled the life of rats out of the marine failed to even grasp a pen properly.

It stung in such a strange way that he almost didn't know how to describe it.

It was a unsightly fall from grace, paired with happiness and misery.

He was muddled with complicated feelings that really didn't have proper words, and so instead of spending his days thinking about it while lying in bed, he paced around his ship.

"Is there anything you've ever wanted to learn?"

He only learned what was necessary.

Languages to properly communicate with associates, skills like learning to shoot with a gun so that he could avoid having his magic traced back to him, and cooking so he could make sustainable meals when he and Papyrus had nothing..

They weren't things he did for fun, they were necessary.

What else could he learn that was necessary?

"HOW ABOUT TEACHING ME TO CUT A BULLET LIKE YOU DID BACK IN THE 'SISCO EXCHANGE."

"I'm not teaching you that."

"AND WHY'S THAT?"

"I don't need to make you any more dangerous than you already are you bonehead. I meant something fun! Like.. maybe a sport?"

"I THROW DARTS. I ALSO SHOOT."

"I.. Okay I guess that counts," you said, glancing to the wall of his quarters where the board was set up.

It's true it was a dart board hanging on the wall, but it was littered with photos of thugs and politicians, a dart neatly nailed through their head. It honestly looked like more of an omen of things to come rather than a hobby.

"Anything else?"

...

"I PLAYED THE VIOLIN FOR A SHORT WHILE."

"You did?"

"YES. BACK IN THE UNDERGROUND. I FOUND ONE IN THE DUMP AND TAUGHT MYSELF TO PLAY WHEN I DISCOVERED PAPYRUS LIKED THE WAY IT SOUNDED. IT WOULD HELP PUT HIM TO SLEEP ON SOME OF THE ROUGHER NIGHTS."

"Aww. Maybe you could think about picking it back up. I'd love to hear you play!"

He would, eventually.

For right now.. the task seemed so daunting now that he had..

...That.

"..But maybe not yet."

Another silent conversation, passed by only the glint in his eyesocket. Once again he was glad he didn't have to openly admit he might struggle with learning something like that again but.. a small pass of shame also washed over him. He'd love to play for you, to maybe even create his own music to reflect the feelings you gave him in his soul, but to move this metallic.. 'thing'.. to play would be..

He'd become frustrated, just like with everything else.

"AND WHAT DO YOU DO TO RELAX MY DEAR?"

"Me? I usually sew or knit."

Right. Costumes. That’s why you asked to have your own space in that free room on the ship. You had mentioned it once before, how you use to do costuming back in the day for plays and helped your father who worked as a tailor until...

Hm.

"YOU SELL YOUR PIECES DON'T YOU?"

"Just to a few people. I make dresses for Mr. Rose's granddaughter and Rumpelstiltskin still orders some pieces for his wife. I also send some more elaborate stuff the Prince's way every once in awhile and I even still get requests from Mama Bear even after they disappeared off into the forest. I think they might finally have a Baby Bear on the way because they asked about knitting a little blanket a few days ago."

...

He.. tried to not humor the thought of just sailing away from this city with you, like that lucky bastard did with his spouse when he took off into the woods. Of course he couldn't, he knew Papyrus would stay here with Happy and he'd never want to be far from his brother.

Still...

It was a tempting idea.

"I could always teach you. It's a pretty good skill to just learn how to hand stitch to mend clothing and it really isn't too complicated."

He relented ...of course.

Because he always did to you, with that smile on your face and the hum in your tone.

.....

Learning from you had been everything he hoped for, with you sitting close to him as you taught him how to thread a needle. You were patient with him as he struggled, his hand shaking as he did his best to will his magic to move. You were gentle as you taught him to stitch carefully and slowly, following along side as you guided him every step of the way.

...He'll never forget the way you laughed at his first pass though.

He had been so damn.. angry!

Really, you had the nerve to laugh even when he did his best!

You were the worst, which is why exactly he had to pin you down and tickle you until you couldn't breathe. At least he could use that wretched metal arm to press your hands above your head as you desperately tried to wrestle out of his hold until you were flushed and gasping for breath.

His next attempt was alone late at night, when even the stars on the deck above couldn't quell his thoughts. They ran wild in his head, stampeding and thrashing about.

At his failures.

At his mistakes.

At the humming in his shoulder and the arm that ached despite not being there. So he tried to not think about it as he quietly threaded the needle under the dim yellow lights in his quarters. The quiet creak and groan of the boat was his only accompaniment along your soft breathing from the bed as you peacefully slumbered away.

In and out.

He timed his stitches with your breaths, pushing the needle through the felt and then back again as he sewed the two pieces of scrap fabric together. It was strange how difficult this was, willing his fingers to move while simply pushing and pulling a needle. His jaw would tense as his hand shook at times and failed to grasp the needle, and then he'd hear you let out a sigh and he'd relax again.

In and out.

Until the stitch was done.

Until he hushed the wild thoughts in his head and put his stress to bed.

Until he could no longer deny himself your company and he'd fall back to your side, finally delving into the depths of sleep.

He spent many days and nights like this, a fire ignited in his soul to hear your praise the first time.

"Seems like your stitched are getting tighter. Nice work there, Cap."

That was all he needed.

Your words. Your smile. The exigent that reflected in your beautiful eyes. You were proud of him, and it made him work all the harder as he sat with you in the room you had taken for your sewing. This place had been your sanctuary, something he once avoided entering to at least give you a little room for yourself on the ship, but now he found reassurance in it as well.

The whir of your sewing machine had become a comfort, able to drown out the buzz in his head as he worked beside you. Soft colorful fabrics lined the shelves in the wall and a half finished dress would decorate a mannequin or two. The both of you would drink coffee and chit chat as he tried to get lost in the motions of hand stitching pieces of scrap fabric together.

He didn't want to constantly strain himself to move his arm.

He wanted it to be natural.

He wanted to use his hand without a second thought.

He wanted it to be like..

How it use to be.

But it could.. never really be like it use to be.

And he struggled and struggled and struggled.

In the weeks that had dragged by, both you and Papyrus had picked up small gigs to help patch the hole his injury was leaving.

Sans was... or had been.. the bread maker.

He always prided himself on providing by running the docks, able to keep his rather lavish lifestyle alive by delivering cargo from overseas to sellers like the Fell brothers and the other croons of this city, but the two of you had insisted on him resting, so his businesses and trades had all but halted.

You were still far off from ever putting a dent in his savings, but the two of you worked regardless to ease his stress.

..Because somehow, even having the back up funds prepared for events like this, didn't stop Sans from stressing.

The only part that annoyed him about it was that you had less time to teach him. You focused more on your commissions, so Sans would leave you in peace to your quiet room and stitch in his quarters.

He hadn't really decided what he wanted to work towards from stitching. It had simply become a tool to help train his fingers, so now that he could sew what was he suppose to do with the skill?

...

....

.....

It was a quiet afternoon in his quarters, the low hum of a forgotten radio on his desk as a deep voice rattled off the daily news mixed with a garble of static. Being so far out into the marine meant the reception wasn't good, but he could pick up key terms as the voice drawled on. Another murder on the west side, some more fights in the south and some re-election news. Not like it mattered who was in charge these days. The faces changed but at the end of the day these suits always lined their pockets with bloodied dollar bills. This city was rotted to it's core, just like it's people, and it'd stay that way until it was burned to the ground.

Sans' eyelights drifted down to the book in front of him.

'Stuffed Plushies For Beginners!'

The title almost felt condescending, just like the colorful pictures and simple wording that decorated each page. He still couldn't help but twist his frown deeper at the fact that you bought him a children's book of all things, paired with that sharp little grin of yours and that infectious laugher. It had been too much.. Which is why he snatched the damn thing out of your hands when you gave it to him.

"To help decide what you want to do with your new skill! Maybe you can finally make something instead of just stitching scraps together you dork."

He would never turn down a challenge, especially from you, and he was eager to have your approval again.

"AND WHAT EXATLY SHOULD I SEW?"

"Just pick something you're interested in and sew it. They have a lot of animals in there! You do at least like one kind of animal, don't you?"

Dogs, because they were loyal.

Cats, because they could fend for themselves.

Birds, because of their freedom.

But making something based of them didn't quite appeal to Sans.

'Basic Plushie Pattern.'

...

"hey bro, i wanted to ask- oh my stars."

"AH-!" Sans inhaled, squeezing the doll in his grasp and nearly tearing at it with his claws. "YOU-! WOULD YOU KNOCK!?"

"you actually made a plushie of them. wow," his brother hummed, "and here i thought your obsession couldn't get any wo-"

WHOOMPH.

The pillow made direct contact with Papyrus' face, earning a laugh from the taller skeleton. Sans barked out a few more insults as his brother continued to giggle, admiring what he had finished so far.

It.. looked like crap.

Some of the stitches were lopsided and others weren't uniform, but he wanted to see this through before his frustrations got the better of him. So with some encouragement from Papyrus he kept at it, finishing the body and then attaching the head.

"Pahahaha! Captain!"

"WHAT!?"

"You! Ehehe! You-! Of.. of me!"

"LOOK, JUST TELL ME IT'S TERRIBLE SO I CAN BE RID OF THE ACURSED THING ALRIGHT?"

"No! No. Absolutely not! I'm keeping this forever and you can never take it away from me!"

He gritted his teeth and attempted to wrestle the doll from your grasp but to no avail. You hugged it close and refused to relent, calling it precious and a testament to his efforts.

All of his hard work..

To a doll..

That looked like you.

"Are you going to make one of you?" you asked, letting out a few breaths as he finally gave up trying to grab the doll from your grasp.

"AND WHY WOULD I DO THAT?"

"Well I don't want them to be lonely."

...

How could he... ever argue with that.

So begrudgingly he sewed again, this time now more aware than ever of that 'thing' as it worked meticulously to create a replicate of itself. The doll's left arm, sewn together with a deep gray metallic fabric, now shared the same shame he did.

...

Strangely enough, it suited him.

...

"They look cute together."

"ONE ON THE RIGHT HAS SEEN BETTER DAYS."

"I still think he's pretty cute. He's trying his best, after all."

Well.. he certainly couldn't argue with that either.

#look at that!#we made it!#cap's is a lil' more fluffier than the others so i hope you guys enjoy it!#captain!sans #sans #undertale #fellswap #fellswap sans #undertale fic #yandere sans #long post #fic #fanfiction #drabble #anxiety tw #depression tw #alch!writes #inbetween!fic

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher Of The Night (Chapter 3)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 2

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: Y/N seem to have woken up with a panic attack and with questions inside her head about on how she would come back to her world. Geralt may have said a solution to it, but it was rather difficult to achieve. Furthermore, it seems as if there was another thing difficult to attain as well which leaves him upset and frustrated with everything. No matter how you were out of place in Geralt's family, you couldn't help but still feel that peculiar warmth you wanted to feel forever.

Warnings: No modern references in this one except for fried chicken. Story title insertion! *wink wink nudge nudge* A lot of Jaskier, Geralt and Ciri banters and a soft but kinda rough Geralt in this one because of certain circumstances. THERE'S TENSION IF Y'ALL BE FEELING IT. AHONHONHON. Mention of Yennefer of Vengerberg in this one. Also explanation of portals and mention of potions used in the game. A lot of talking, less action. You’ll get your action and ANGST on the next chapterSSSSS!

Words: 6,570+ (LONGGGGGGG AF! I WAS SHOOKTH!)

A/N: Reader is between 5'1 or 5'. You can imagine a 4'11 one if you want to! I JUST REALIZED...HOW...SHE'LL....THEY'LL....ALRIGHT, GET WRECKED, READER! 😅🤣🤣

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE!

Taglist: @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @vania-marie @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @missjenniferb (I couldn’t tag you bud! A different blog was popping out of the recommendation and it wasn’t your blog. Though, I’ll try again on the next update! Don’t worry!) @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-starfleet @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz

Disclaimer: PNG's used in edits are not mine even the GIF's too. However, the edits and oneshots are definitely from moi. Characters, places and said monsters aren't from moi as well. I’ve taken it from the games.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

The sun's rays cascaded on your face. Smell of burned out Oak wood whiffed through the air and filled your senses as faded voices suddenly become apparent for no reason, or probably a reason for you to wake up from your uncomfortable sleeping position.

Was it the TV? You thought to yourself, scrunching your nose from the sun that hit your face and merely from the dust that was flying all over the place. As much as you've remembered, cleaning has been your habit at home and having a dirty apartment was unfamiliar.

The rays of the sun was suddenly hidden from a body who had to lean down to take a good look at your face. You've hardly squinted your eye to blur out the television in the background, shifting your head around and leaning fully on your forehead instead to avoid your cat named Jafar from sniffing your face.

"Princess Cirilla," Geralt deeply groused, his grim seeming to be felt by how brooding he had to put up; inches away from Jaskier and Cirilla who were close to you and around the table, watching you sleep like a baby.

The light blonde princess who had bright ocean blue eyes demanded with a soft kick to the ground, "But, Geralt!" she bellowed with a huff, "I wanna be her friend! You lads aren't fun to be with!"

"She won't stay long, Cirilla. She isn't from our world," Geralt droned and felt the enervation of not having his sleep last night. You were weeping like a toddler all night and his heightened senses weren't helping himself when he could hear those snuffles echoing as he shifted and turned all over on his side of the bed.

It was beyond terrible and utmost irksome.

His initial thought was to help a screaming lady sprinting in the middle of the woods and shoo her off when he's done killing the creature hunting her down. He didn't expect for her to live with them after he did so' just like how Ciri eventually landed on his hands for him to take care of. Amazingly, the adoption he had consist of an explanation, a royal offer from the kingdom of Cintra that involves the Law Of Surprise unlike with you; there was none. Not even a justification as to why you were there with them.

Saving Y/N didn't mean another adoption was up to claim and for him to protect with all his life.

Jaskier sat on the wooden chair in front of you as he deliberated and tried to understand your situation in his own creative wits, "You mean a Teleporter?"

Geralt shook his head, eyes narrowing as he looked at you from the side; assessing your whole ordeal and trying to get a gist of magic in your veins, "No, Jaskier." Howbeit, he'd felt none and it was frustrating the Witcher, "---She doesn't possess magic, I can sense it."

The bard shrugged and disregarded his opinions, giving Geralt a once over before focusing on your hair; momentarily plucking out a small leaf out of your hair which erupted a cock of Geralt's head as he watched Jaskier having no fraught from touching you.

"You know that senses of yours aren't exactly a hundred percent accurate when you've got kicked by a Kikimore and bitten by Ghouls,"

His expression was stoic, glowering before them both and especially from Jaskier's comment. Cirilla had her delicate fingers clasp together and over the side of her face as she admired your sleeping face, "She's so adorable while she sleeps!" she continued to cajole, "---Even a little shorter than me! Maybe she's my age and we can play!"

"She isn't," Geralt ceased her admiration and shook his head, beautiful gold eyes staring at your face that shifted and was now face front as to where he stood from afar, "How certain are you about that? You've only met her last night!"

Jaskier had his fist on his chin, deliberately looking at Geralt with that knowing look.

The Witcher lowly hummed in ponder. Focal point on your sleeping face with a stoic expression, trying to distinguish your length of life from the moment you were born, "Y/N must be in between the age of twenty to twenty-five,"

Cirilla had her eyebrows in a twist as she moved around to take a closer look at you again, a frown from the information that has been said, "But, she looks younger than her age!"

"Not at least in between ninety? or exactly a hundred? Like you, Geralt?" Jaskier added to the dispute. His query making Geralt sigh because he has been repeating the idea like a slow idiot.

"She doesn't possess some sorts of magic nor is she mutated, Bard."

"Maybe she possesses the power of immortality!"

He glared at the bard who gave him a shrug, Jaskier's face still dead beat from how his nap has been ruined prior to the night, but he had more sleep than Geralt did considering he wasn't a Witcher and had senses that not any normal human may possess.

"So her name is Y/N?! Why didn't you wake me up to welcome our visitor?!" The girl in a mint green Kirtle exclaimed, their voices finally coming to your senses and realizing that it wasn't your television nor was it your cat's breath on your face. You whimpered in an attempt to wake yourself up; yawning in the process and languidly bringing your head up for it to be bent at an angle with your arm on the table and fist on your temple.

"You were sleeping," Geralt began, resolving her dismay at the situation at hand, "--and there was a beast, Princess. It was hunting her down,"

"Oh, poor Y/N," Cirilla frowned a tighter one, eyeing you down and peeking from under your arm as she noticed the bruises on your face. She took a second before straightening her back, the braid she'd fixed never turning higgley-piggledy because of how tight and proper it was. A look of interest sent to the Witcher by the princess of Cintra herself and now the future queen ahead, "But, did you kill it, Geralt?"

Their voices seem to be recognizable, the two men of some sort and the kid's voice completely unfamiliar for you. Repetitive blinks full of fatigue before having the energy to sleepily place your chin on your fist, a blurry image of a youthful, lean body and a pretty face of a man sitting in front you coming clearer as you blinked again.

"Isn't it such a sight to wake up to your bruising face early in the morning, small rat."

Your face turned into a tight frown at the image sitting before you. The pillow of your lip jutting out in a pout when you've scanned the whole place and saw Geralt standing with a stern expression on his face, behind a kid who looked taller than you and extremely pretty.

The house even looked more old and primitive in the morning like you're currently living in history which made you groan to yourself because you haven't teleported back to your home as Jaskier said last night.

Great. Just great. You thought in the back of your mind before grumbling, "Can you...stab me with your sword right now?"

The question was sent to the Witcher despite of staring fully on the table. You didn't hear an answer from him as per usual and felt your anxiety rising through your head in agitation like a lighter sparking the gas. It's travelling too fast that you haven't realized the panic shooting wildly.

"I'm still here," you bawled, "I'm still here," and repeated over and over like a dinosaur jumping on rocks whenever google doesn't have internet. The panic was beginning to boil, making your fingers tremble in apprehension as you've struggled to keep in place on your seat, your feet on the ground shaking from the worry. Both hands gripping on your roots as you began to bawl out because you couldn't scream out all your frustrations because that's not how you roll, "I've already slept, I thought I'll be waking up in my apartment already,"

Cirilla took a step back when you've started crying, looking over at Geralt to ask what was happening. Both men together were contemplating as to what was happening as the Bard reluctantly and very slowly stood up as his gaze was fixated on you who kept on mumbling in whispers. He ran behind Geralt like you were a possessed woman and actually thinking you were casting a spell because of how fast you were mumbling your feelings out loud, sounding incomprehensible to the ears of everyone except for Geralt.

Jaskier stood behind Geralt like a kitten shielding behind his mother, "Geralt! I told you! She's a sorceress! One like Yennefer! This is probably why you're fond of her!"

Cirilla examined your state and tried understanding what was happening, her nerves also unsettling about the fact that maybe you were possessed by black magic. Though, she doubt it because you should've attacked everyone already.

Hence, there you were in your own seat. Bawling your eyes out like a toddler who had been left by her parents.

"Geralt? Is she okay?" the pretty child questioned Geralt who stood behind her with a distant look on his face.

His eyes narrowed on you, continuing his perusal. He was trying to fathom what was running inside those mind of yours and when a tear fell and another sniff coming from your side of the cavern, he knew it. A slight turn of his head and his silent thoughts of understanding as he had seen you freaking out and crying like last night; he knew what was happening.

"She's...panicking. Utterly harmless, Jaskier. Just like how humans do unless you aren't actually one," Geralt nonchalantly informed the bard who was hiding behind his towering form. He watched you roughly wipe your tears with the back of your clothed hand; his sweater that was awfully big for you and continued to rant while he narrowed his eyes as your focus was now on the knife set on an empty soiled plate that Jaskier has left.

"I just wanna go home!"

His forehead creased to the extent of trying to figure you out. Shoulders slumping as he breathed out a ragged curse beneath his breath to further his dissatisfaction of your next move.

"Y/N!"

You were fast enough to grab onto the sharpened knife, aiming it to the sensitive portion of your neck. However, not fast enough for the Witcher to even let it happen.

The knife in your hand wasn't even lifted halfway for Geralt to know what you were going to do. He'd seen a lot of bloodshed and known enough people who wanted for their blood to drop out of their hands. It only took two steps for him to construct his onslaught before you've even tried to slit your throat before them.

Your choice of weapon has been sheathed away from you. The tall, brooding, brawny Witcher slightly bending you on the table as he pulled the knife away from your neck with just a grip that didn't even earned him a sweat. It was like taking candy from a baby. Yet, you were pretty much struggling a lot from his strength as you tried wrenching your wrist off his hold with Geralt hunching down before you and never letting go.

Those gold eyes were a charm against the rays of the sun cascading his face. Your faces close from each other and you can see the chagrin and fury swirling in his eyes rather than those plain, apathetic glimmer set in his eyes with a warmth you couldn't express. With that only being seen and stared at, you knew he was furious.

The scary witcher was losing his temper.

"Let me go, Geralt." you firmly stated, voice wavering and sounding small like you were being hunted by a cheetah. Geralt held his scowl better than he had to when he has seen you the first time and it wasn't faltering.

You tried wrenching your wrist away from the Witcher, but he pulled it back with no remorse. Keeping you in place as he seethed; Aurum eyes momentarily taking a glimpse of your dry, chapped lips that were inches apart before settling those peepers on yours again and he wanted to groan out loud for the unsettling emotion he was having, "I would like to see you try, Midget."

Geralt held your wrist tighter around his fingers because you were moving, though; the simple action was enough for you to stop and never even think about doing it again. The strength that he was using was not enough to inflict pain. "I don't need another person's blood on my hands,"

Some of his dirt-ivory colored hair fell on his face as he continued to fume. Expression thoroughly livid as he said those words like it was burnt till dust, a history that should've been left forgotten but was now relived because of your forsaken act.

His warm breath hit your face and you couldn't move at all, like you were powerless and utter putty in his hands. You've heard a grumble vibrated out of his chest before snatching the knife off your fingers and quickly retreating from his position with a frustrated hum, leaving you exhaling out a breath you didn't know you were holding since he has grabbed onto you.

"Wha-what if dying is the only way to bring me back," you've tried to keep yourself in tact despite of the fast beating of your heart and the anomalous heat travelling all over your body. You shook the feeling off with a shake of your head as you continued; looking at Jaskier and Cirilla, avoiding the presence of the man who has been playing with your mind and human heart, "---I've slept, tried everything and still woke up in your house,"

The declaration sounded weak; completely despairing as you've seen Geralt saunter back to where he has been standing before you even tried to slit yourself alive. A tight moue that twisted his features from the act that has happened; filling utter disappointment as the rough crease of his wrinkles wanted to say.

But, he chose to stay silent rather than let out those emotions he was battling with.

You were completely an unorthodox to him. A picture he couldn't see and never wanted to even touch but hoped to imagine.

"I can feel you, I can touch everyone, I can feel sadness, despair, happiness, pain and a lot more," he felt your eyes on him as the first word has been said before reluctantly sharing gazes at the other two who were breathing when you've continued your articulation.

Nevertheless, the act that has happened made Jaskier and Cirilla's breaths hitch because they couldn't believe that it just happened in front of them like it was nothing.

It looked like Geralt has handled the situation well and you were suddenly okay. Just like that. A peculiarity of an event that they couldn't understand.

You've straightened your back and held your hopes high, dubiously taking a trek till you were in front of the people who were nice enough to give you shelter despite of not knowing you from the start; with a goodwill to even save you from an Alghoul that appeared out of nowhere when you should've died already when Geralt wouldn't have jumped into the picture.

But, no. You were still alive and you didn't know if it was a good thing or a bad thing as the protection came with a fair trade to be living in the world that they were in. A world where you still believed was in earth because of how human they appeared and felt. The only fragment that could keep you in doubt was the monsters that emerges out of nowhere and the magic that these people have been saying. A magic that can't be seen with the naked eye because you haven't seen a supernatural phenomenon yet.

Geralt gave a gravelly hum once you've settled your short self before him, the height differences apparent to the perspective of people. Geralt had his Herculean body in an assertive stance, broad-shoulders poised as you peered up at him with forlorn, the upset frown etched upon your face and he couldn't help but breath through his nose to compose himself.

"I need to go back, I gotta go back. Aren't you a witcher? Can't you cast a spell and help me?"

Jaskier and Cirilla had their forehead creased as they stared at the two. The beautiful child completely unaware of where you originated. She was deep in thought, thinking you came from any of the kingdom or if you were mutated as well just like Geralt because as been said by the witcher, you didn't belong in their world.

The man with glowing Aurum eyes sighed, "Witchers..don't work that way," he claimed with a slant of his head, eyeing you with gall and a slight pacified demeanor after losing his patience a while ago, "---I slaughter beasts, not brew the Fillet of a fenny snake with an eye of a newt nor cast a spell while mixing tons of shit in a cauldron like you thought I was,"

His disclosure was enough to make your heart fail from having faith again. It seems like every darn time he opens those luscious damn lips of him leaves you in a crestfallen shape or he just seems like the type to not give you hope with positive things like this which is why he was failing no matter if he wanted to give comfort.

You've washed your face with your hands in frustration, the fear rising for the second time this day and felt Geralt's heated stare on you, eyes shining in baffling fascination no matter how phlegmatic he wanted to appear. You can just see it in his eyes and it was odd because you've remembered how you couldn't read him like a book the night before, yet here you were; understanding how he tries to interact with you.

"Then, who can help me? Is there a portal or some sort?"

His eyes looked away for a moment; deeply dwelling a thought inside his head. "Sorcerers create portals of natural phenomena and places that actually exist," the Witcher began roughly, voice utmost in the lowest timbre he could ever do and it almost made your body vibrate from his pitch, "---However, most sorcerers can only link portals to the world they're familiar with and that occurs in having the same witchcraft that a certain world creates," Geralt landed his bright eyes on you as he continued to ponder. An inevitable glower stamping his face as he went on with more information and a tight grimace, "---we aren't exactly certain about your world. But, the contingencies of casting a portal that should've been left untouched can cause upheaval or chaos not just to both worlds, but to the natural habitat and the future as well,"

Your frown was cut short, changing into an ample amount of confusion because of his explanation. Simply to say, the chances of creating a portal will jeopardize not just their world, but also earth as well. If you'll be wanting to cast a portal, there was a great amount of risk ahead.

Geralt continued his vouch, still engrossed at looking you in the eye like he wanted you to melt into a puddle. Your traitor of a heart skipping a beat as you've avoided his eyes and looked elsewhere, "---Which definitely leaves insignificance as to why you're lost in our world when there was no witchery encompassing that earth you call your kingdom,"

"So, there's no hope then?" you pointed out, sapless.

"It takes risks, Midget." Geralt lowly enunciated, the gravel in his voice seeming coherent as he mentioned the nickname he calls you. He looked to the ground, mind wandering off Wonderland as a scowl began to form again, like the next thing he wanted to say should've been kept and not mentioned ever again, "---And a very powerful sorcerer,"

Jaskier's ears perked at that, speculating and trying to involve himself with the topic at hand, his tongue waiting to be moved and for words to be told for reiteration, "Or sorceress," the bard boasted with a tone that made the witcher hiss back at him with contempt.

"Yennefer of Vengerberg could do the job well or some of her associates," the bard jested with a soft push of his elbow to Geralt's ribs, though it didn't even made him flinch. His nose flared back at him, giving him the stink eye before cussing him beneath his breath.

"Fuck off, Bard."

Cirilla ignored their laser eyes and tried to join in the conversation, "Who is Yennefer? I've been asking this since the last two last years!" she pondered, hesitantly raising her hand as if asking the teacher if it was time for her to spit out questions.

"Someone you shouldn't know, Cirilla,"

So, there was really hope. Even only a fourty-five percent of that aspiration you needed for your heart to be filled with faith. You nodded to yourself in understanding, leaving those other questions inside your head and asked straight to the point, "Who is Yennefer?"

Jaskier stepped a foot close, officially involving himself in the conversation with a smug grin on his face. His hands on his hips as he revealed with no shame, "Geralt's long lost love,"

Geralt had to close his eyes to calm himself down from the bard who kept on interjecting in the talk with you.

The princess of Cintra huffed, stomping a foot on the ground as she fixated her gaze at the huge trunk of a man who seemed to be having a moment of meditation, "You didn't tell me you had a lover!"

"Not anymore," Geralt grumbled more so to himself as the crowd asked questions after questions and served their opinions on a buffet plate; open for everyone to hear.

You innocently cast a look to his face. He could also feel your eyes on him and when he'd fluttered them open; it was completely pure for his irksome heart to fall in tranquil, "She's the one of the most powerful sorceress I know," he subtly breathed in your scent, masking himself with it as he tries to remember it in the back of his mind. Becoming familiar to the strong scent that makes his thoughts go in a haywire. A sharp, palpable and fresh scent that he ought and needed to ingurgitate straightaway. Lemon with a hint of peony; definitely different from the scent that Yennefer had, Lilac and Gooseberries. "---Maybe the only one who could create an enigma of a portal," the witcher more so than grumbled, face twisting in a way that made you look up at him in question because he seemed to be in pain, "Then? What are we waiting for? We should find her!"

The mere mention of a person who could help you leave their world quickly placed a warm beam lifting your lips, a sight that Geralt has been struggling to forget since last night. His eyes wandered off elsewhere, missing the catch of your bright filled ones as his nose scrunched from how overwhelming it was to be close to you.

"That's the problem," he gurgled before taking a step back, hissing beneath his breath because of how he was starting to become frustrated again, "---she's nowhere to be found," before turning his back away from you with a grumble.

You watched him walk away from you, embracing all his negativity and feeling your heart plummet because he was acting far from the welcoming man last night. It was like it has never been him that was offering to cover your wounds as he knelt in front of you, all the more; giving you a small smile despite of it not being his forte in doing so.

He was unconventional to you. A book you've definitely wanted to read, yet difficult to understand because the words were such a complex for the naked eye. Geralt was rare and a kind you've never encountered. Literally.

Nonetheless, his presence was intriguing and definitely inveigling.

"I have no hope then," you've thought to yourself, hearing Cirilla and Jaskier banter over something about the sorceress that ignited Geralt's change of heart.

"I'm hungry," Cirilla stressed towards the Bard who was now holding his Lute and plucking with the strings like he was forming another one of his epics inside his head. The bard ignored her and gave Geralt a once over who was on the other end of the cavern, opening wooden cabinets which had all different kinds of concoctions that certainly a normal human cannot take because of how toxic it was and how it was only forbidden and restricted for Witchers.

Cirilla threw a hissy fit, blowing out a breath of agitation and hunger because she was famished. You studied the child and noticed she was a little taller than you no matter how she should've been small. As you've tried to eye-ball her height, she seems to be in between five foot four or five foot three. "What's your name, kid?"

She narrowed her eyes on Jaskier who began to tread to where the Witcher is, "Cirilla," the princess honestly voiced out, palm on her stomach as it grumbled a sound that says she was starving so much.

Cirilla turned her heel to look at you, better than having Geralt stand before you because he was giving you stiff neck from being a tall, brooding man. She eyed you in question and you gave her a sincere smile, waggling your brows at the princess, "I can make food if you want?"

Princess Cirilla jumped on her feet like a child being given candy, clapping her hands in excitement, "Great! A mother figure other than a pair of boys! Geralt and Jaskier make the nastiest food they can ever cook," she jeered with a puff of her breath. Her eyes twinkled in felicity.

She gave you a big wide grin when you've pondered in thought as to what was easy to make in medieval age; questions numbered inside your head and asking no one in particular if their world had chicken? flour? or bread flour, if they didn't have one? Condiments or any kind of spices for taste. Their time had to have chickens and so, you wanted a modern kind of dish to help yourself as well despite of living like in the past, "I can make you fried chicken, if you want? That is, if you can get me chicken,"

"What is a fried chicken?" she'll definitely love it, you thought because she was a child. Seeing her smile go bright just from hearing it made you heart coo; or it was simply a new image rather than those scowls you have been seeing since the morning has started so the kid had a soft spot in your heart. "An unhealthy dish, but definitely scrumptious,"

You turned your head towards the men who were a little bit far from where you both stood, they were talking in silence and that was completely pristine than the banters you've heard non-stop last night, "---And also a healthy viand for these boys you have,"

Jaskier continued plucking on his Lute, strumming random notes as he hummed inside his head, he gave you and Cirilla a glimpse as the bard watched you both interact with each other like you were both long lost friends, like a natural bond slowly being created, "Maybe this cuckoo of a maiden isn't actually bad to have around," he decreed with a look of sympathy. Turning his head to look at Geralt who seemed to have a furious staring contest with his potions.

"---You should help her, Geralt."

The Witcher languidly blinked, partially shutting the wooden cabinet closed and noting that he was deficient of Cat elixir, a concoction to help him grant sight in total darkness, some Black Blood and Fiend concoction that helps him increases the amount of weight that he can carry without being overburdened. Geralt sighed at Jaskier's confession.

"Do I have a choice?" he gurgled back at the bard.

"Won't a djinn help?"

Geralt gave Jaskier a once over before taking a glimpse of you and Ciri who were now sitting on the table, chatting about certain things that can entertain the princess. Jaskier finally had the tune he wanted, a simple catchy tune but different from his song about Witchers. It just had the same style, "I've already took it down into consideration," the bard hummed, completely intrigued and gave him a look, "We can take risks,"

Jaskier ceased himself from humming, the voices of women giggling in the background coming along in their conversation. The ambiance changing into a lighter tone from the moment you came into their cavern. A thorough spin of the world like it was changing in the different kind of path; it was like seeing a new color for the rainbow that has been added to complete the beauty of it all.

You just had that specific effect that could create allurement to the world wherever you're in. Hence, that was probably your magic.

"But, are you willing to take it, Witcher?"

He was taken aback by the question, a question even asked as a question inside his head. Was he really willing to take the risk in helping this midget? another person on his hand to protect and help? Will it not slip apart due to unfortunate circumstances? Geralt calmly breathed through his nose, his facial features slackening when he'd seen Cirilla's eyes twinkling again despite of what she has been through. "I've been through hell and maybe even deeper than that. Probably already met the devil with it,"

Geralt slanted his head in a way to adore the image right in front of him; though with a face that seemed to be lackadaisical, "---This woman hasn't experienced what I have, not even the slightest and I don't want her to," he suddenly admitted, "---I have no thought as to what curse has this woman been cast upon,"

Jaskier nodded in comprehension and ruth for you; pretty blue eyes admiring the sight before him and Geralt, "Seems quite an unfortunate path,"

"Evil is evil," The Witcher added as a matter of fact, "---Lesser, greater or even stronger," a subtle pause to catch his breath as he eyed you beaming back at what Cirilla has said before he continued, "---She hasn't shielded herself from it, nor does she have an amulet with her; like she was sent here for a reason. She's bound for ill-fate because we're in a world full of animosity and mayhem," Geralt trailed off when you've rummaged for the things in the pocket of your short that was neatly folded on the side of the table.

You've shown Cirilla a small beautiful transparent ball that had rainbow color stars inside. It was a lucky charm for you and it has been given as a gift from your mother back in earth.

"Do you know Jacks and Stones, Cirilla?"

Cirilla's ears perk at that, a perplexed expression written on her face. "The game doesn't ring a bell, Y/N."

Once Cirilla has seen you grabbed onto the small stones on the space below their window and tried to play on your own, her forehead creasing seemed to relax and a look of elation and familiarity run through her face, "I think I actually know it! Isn't it Knucklebones?"

You've caught the ball and the small stone in one hand with no sweat. She eyed the ball and the stones scattered around the table, her eyes gleaming a lot more than she ever did. "I think so! But, here's the catch! Loser gets a slap on the forehead with a finger and the Winner gets two drumsticks of my special fried chicken,"

"---Oh, you're on, Y/N! I'm great at Knucklebones!" she challenged as she abruptly stood on the table, looking right back at Geralt and Jaskier who were already looking in fascination.

Cirilla demanded in blithe. A big, bright smile shining her face, "Geralt, we need chicken! Catch us one!"

At the mention of that, Geralt couldn't help but repeatedly blink at the wishes from the princess; catching him off-guard. Jaskier couldn't help but send a shit-eating grin to the Witcher who had his brows in another kind of twist, his face wanting to wince but he ceased to.

"I'm a Witcher, not a farmer," he deeply mumbled with a sigh. Cirilla blew a breath, her hands on her hips as she sassed, "Aren't you a butcher of Blaviken? Or do they just call you that?"

The Witcher's forehead creased at the mention of one of his monikers. He didn't want anymore retorts because the princess would drop down more comments for the argument that will last for hours till end just for her demands to be taken into account. Thus, which is why; Geralt was shrewd enough to end her pleading with submission.

"Fine,"

He thought that would be the end of everybody's demand when you've suddenly stood up on your seat and waved a hand to get his attention. Geralt gave you a look of query and with a little bit of tenderness in his eyes that you could undeniably feel no matter how stoic his expressions were. You cleared your throat, grinning back at him like a Cheshire cat.

"Can I come with you? Please?"

"No, midget." He strained, the lackadaisical tone lacing at the end of his tongue. His answer was fast and prudent, entirely against the idea.

You just wanted to be familiar with their world when you'll be staying in it for days, maybe even months or badly for years because of how you didn't know the portal they were saying. All you knew on how to transport was cars, airplanes, boats, bikes and even walking would do the job. But, not with magic and scientific luck.

You pouted back at The Witcher, heart falling from the rejection. Sending him the most pitiful look in your eyes and hoping you weren't looking like a waggling goose before them, "Pleaseee, Geralt? I wanna wander in the woods! Be familiar with the place especially that I've probably going to take time before I go back home," pause. "After Cirilla and I play and know who wins and loses,"

Geralt huffed to himself, an incoherent one as he deeply sighed. Jaskier could hear him from where he stood as he adjusted the leather hoop of his Loot across his shoulder, his witcher of a friend's jaw clenching like he was thinking about it deeply. Before granting permission in the end because of how you were giving him those Hirikka eyes; as said by his inner thoughts out in the back.

"Fine,"

The bard wanted anything but to cough out loud from that submission. Jaskier gave him a double-take. An evident look of surprise in his eyes as he turned his soles to point a finger at the Witcher. Geralt was quick enough to shake his head and slap his finger away with the back of his hand.

"Don't...even start, Bard."

"It's been a day and this small rat already has you wrapped around her finger!" he whisper-yelled at his friend, excitement and jest sparking his nerves which got him grinning like the devil.

Geralt glared at the mischievous bard grinning back at him with the knowing look that they can only both understand, "When will you bloody shut up?"

"When I don't have the voice to poetically sing my wonderful epics," Jaskier scoffed, crossing his arms on top of his Lute with that mocking glint in his eyes. The Witcher smirked back at Jaskier, spitting out a particular jest that could get him back-paddling, "Guess I'll need a travel companion in finding another Djinn,”

Jaskier blinked in surprise, taking a step back as he shook his head and had a hand on his hip while the other was wiggling in the air to express his negations, "Oh no no no, Witcher! Keep me out of your heroic attempts of gathering some kind of genie! I am done!" the bard ridiculed as he took hesitant steps back, slowly and slyly taking off before Geralt carries him on his shoulders to purposefully tag him along in finding another Djinn, "I figured playing this jacks and stones with Cirilla and Y/N will be much better instead,"

Jaskier halted from his silent, sneaky egress. Giving both women a glimpse who were playing behind him, "A BARD WISHES TO JOIN YOUR WONDERFUL ADVENTURE, LASSIES!"

He snapped his head back at Geralt who simple wore a crooked smile and a look of mockery filling his perfectly chiseled face, "Off you go, Witcher of the night," the rascal waved him off, a gloaty banter being thrown back to the smug witcher, "I have also yet to create another knightly epic for an intriguing love story that is bound to unfold in the far north of Kaedwan,"

Thusly, Geralt's crooked smile was rapid to fall. His face masking in condemnation when Jaskier began to strum his lute and with a tune that would probably haunt his friend as he tried to sleep through the night.

"Doeful eyes like a dear~ Seems like a Witcher who couldn't bear~,"

Jaskier's singing has made history through different places in the continent and he was never wrong with the epics he'd been orally singing out around which is why this new song he was forming to create would either be a complete disaster, a mere tell-tale or a myth that was bound to end up in the vast veracity of the epic told.

IT’S ALL FUN AND HAPPY NOW. BUT, Y’ALL WILL SEE THE WRATH OF ANGST WHEN THE CHAPTER GOES FURTHER!

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hecohansen31 · 4 years

Text

Not The Right Time

The Story Of How Everything Met The Family:

Ivar+Reader (Modern! AU)

(Masterlist) (Previous Chapter)

(A/N): Hello there, lovelies!

A few things before you start reading, SO PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU START READING THE CHAPTER!

This is a filler chapter again as the previous ones, mostly because this came out to have a lot more things to write than I originally thought and instead of writing a whole lot and leave it without a sense I prefered writing two parts (the next will be the angsty one!)

Pretty please, also: Tumblr has been penalizing me a lot, not making my tags work and not sharing my work, so please... if you do like the chapter and enjoy my writing consider sharing it and commenting it (please don’t simply share it, because I didn’t come here to be famous, I came here to gain feedback).

It takes a LOOOOT of courage to pubblish our own works, hence although you don’t see it, us writers go through A LOOT in our writing and such, dealing with insecurities and anxieties, most of the time not to have a gain from it, so please do consider supporting us through feedback.

Feedback makes my fingers write faster and my heart beat stronger!

With this being said, I do hope you’ll enjoy it!

Have a nice reading!

SUMMARY: Finally the Thanksgving Day has come and you have to endure a family lunch with your past lover, which might bring back more feelings and insecurities than you have ever thought.

WORDS: 12,6 K

WARNINGS: Pregnancy, Unexpected Pregnancy, Pregnancy at a Young Age, Mention of Abortion (and Being Harsh About it), Heartbreak and General Angst, Abandonement Issues and Being A Single Mom, Mention of Infertility, Use of the Word Cripple.

You set up the umpteenth outfit for the following morning, eventually choosing your more elegant pair of jeans, black and high-waisted, matched to a white sweater with a V-neck cleavage, elegant but not matronly.

Would it be enough to impress Aslaug, the ice queen?

You shook your head annoyed with yourself and with your overthinking.

From the start of this week you had told yourself that you wouldn’t have stressed yourself out for the Thanksgiving you had to pass at the Lothbrock house, although you had promised yourself to appear in your best shape.

And yet, the entire week you had done nothing more than set up things and ideas for it, getting your luggage ready on Tuesday, meanwhile you got Eric to be in his bed early tonight so that you could check it to make sure you had everything you needed.

It would have been one sole day, but you had still packed a small baggage mostly for Eric, with a few change of clothes (four, precisely) and a more elegant set of clothes, although Ivar had promised you it’d be extremely informal.

But you remembered perfectly that Aslaug’s idea of informal were elegant vintage dresses, giving her the look of a desperate housewife out of a ‘50s commercial, but with eyes of pure steel and a smirk that could petrify anybody on who it was set on.

When you weren’t busy being afraid of her judgement for your uncured clothes and dirty hair, when you were younger, you admired her dearly.

But you knew she didn’t like you very much.

She and Ivar always had a strong relationship and you were sure that one of the many reasons why she didn’t like you truly, as any girl that Ivar might have brought her home, was that you had stolen her smaller son for quite some time.

So, you shouldn’t have been worried, in the slightest, about it anymore.

Although you and Ivar had a child together, he undoubtedly had no intention of bringing you back home to him or of creating a relationship with you.

But you were still scared shitless of her judgement.

You were halfway through setting up another possible combination of clothes, when your phone thrilled awake under the pile of clothes on your bed, and you went to answer it, noticing it was Ivar.

You almost hoped he’d tell you that he was sorry but the entire Thanksgiving lunch had been postponed.

But you got another kind of ‘bad’ news:

‘… Freydis has had… an urgent appointment’ he explained, his voice clearly showing some kind of worry, but at the same time… it almost didn’t feel authentic.

His voice was mechanical, but you blamed it on the phone.

‘… she has started bleeding this afternoon. The doctor says it isn’t anything worrying, but he wants her to avoid travelling and to keep her relaxed during this time’.

You had your own experience of bleeding a bit during your own pregnancy, so you could understand the doctor’s worry and you hoped that she’d be fine, saying so to Ivar as you explained that it was totally fine.

And that it wouldn’t have been a problem for you to cancel your planed for Thanksgiving.

You’d just have to postpone the meeting with Aslaug to another day.

‘… actually, about that…’ the tip of his tongue seemed heavy, almost slurring his words ‘… I don’t want to… it won’t cange anything… Freydis won’t simply be with us’.

You were extremely surprised by that admission as you tried to understand, why would Ivar come with you to his mother, when his pregnant fiancée was troubled with her pregnancy.

Although you knew it wasn’t your place

And Ivar seemed to feel your question.

‘I have tried… to tell Freydis that I feel more comfortable staying, but she won’t… she says that I am a fretting animal whenever she is sick… so she told me that it’d be better for health if I visit my mom’ Ivar’s voice was calm, almost as if he thought that Freydis’ request was normal and he accepted it easily.

Which contrasted perfectly with the way you remembered Ivar.

Back when you had been nothing more than a couple of friends, Ivar was always worried whenever you got minimally sick, although he was extremely grumpy about it, since he could be quite difficult with his emotions.

Once you had needed a small daily check-up at the hospital, and Ivar had literally hounded your bed, although your mother had been right there with you, leaving you two alone, as soon as she had noticed Ivar and that he wouldn’t back it up.

So, it felt strange that Ivar, the big and tough alpha man he had been taught to be, didn’t even try to protest against Freydis’ choice, when she was much pregnant with his pup and when she was the love of his life.

… unless…

… unless she wasn’t truly the love of his life.

But this was your idiotic brain trying to ease the slight and irrational jealousy you had been feeling, which had started when you had met Freydis and your heart had started beating again for Ivar.

But you were aware that it wasn’t useful in the slightest.

It hadn’t worked the first time.

Why would it work this time?

‘… I know that I seem awful’ he read your mind ‘… but Freydis will have a friend coming over to check on her and I think that I’ll stay till lunch and then go back home, immediately. She’ll let me know if anything bad will happen’.

In the end Ivar’s tone seemed extremely honest and you didn’t feel like mingling in his own relationship’s issues, aware that although you shared a son, you certainly didn’t have any more right to share his life and to know his own private details.

‘I can come and pick you up, if you don’t want to travel alone’ you proposed, although you regretted the words the moment you voiced them, knowing that they broke the second rule you had given yourself that week.

‘Don’t come too close to Ivar’.

No matter what.

And not again.

‘… that’d be nice’ his own voice held surprise and for a moment you almost expected him to reject the idea, insisting on that awfully toxic idea that he was an independent man who needed nobody’s help.

But he surprised you.

‘… I would actually like it, if you aren’t bothered by driving. I can pay for gas’.

‘There is no need for it’ you muttered lightly ‘… you already paid the medical bill this week’.

Which had been great, since you had been able to arrive to another month without adding some further debt to your whole life, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but question yourself and your decision.

Had you been a good mother?

Could have Ivar given Eric more?

‘… well, we’ll see tomorrow’ he commented and you could already picture that small smirk he had on his face in that moment, sure that he’d win also this argument, but not without a fight ‘… in the meanwhile, I’ll go to sleep to wake up tomorrow at 7 a.m. and you can swing in here by 8… or I can come to you…’.

‘I’ll come to you’ you suggested since Ivar’s house was on the road for Aslaug’s house a two hour ride that you had studied alongside other details about how much you remembered of the house and whether it was proper or not to nominate Ragnar in front of the whole family.

Sigurd had helped with a few things, although he had told you he wouldn’t be there on, since he had better things to do, which meant he had small Thanksgiving gig in a bar in the city.

And free alcohol as a payment could be quite convincing.

After receiving all the news of that night, you also should have indulged yourself in a glass of wine.

But you wanted to wake up at a decent hour tomorrow.

With no hangover, again.

In the end you went to check on Eric, finding him effectively asleep, which surprised you since he could be reckless and wouldn’t go to sleep till all his energy was out of his body, and today he had been quite excited to meet his grandma.

He must have taken your suggestion about ‘going to sleep earlier, to make the morning come faster’ seriously, something that made you smirk a bit as you gently moved to collect his crutches left on the floor, gently caressing his dark hair, as you kissed his forehead.

In the end, although your heart was slowly breaking, it was all worth it.

Overthinking comprehended.

---

Ivar had been truly worried about leaving Freydis alone.

Although it seemed more something that he did to avoid others’ judgement than for his own worry.

Almost as if he knew he shouldn’t have left her, and deep down he felt bad about leaving her…

… but it wasn’t for the right motives.

It was guilt, not love, making him act like that.

And he was sure that that should tell him much about his relationship with Freydis.

Lately he had been questioning it, although he knew he was toying a dangerous line, even more when their wedding was so close, since Freydis had chosen to pull it closer since she would have soon been ‘heavy with his child’ and she didn’t want that to ruin the wedding.

He had suggested that they simply postponed to after her pregnancy, but Freydis had literally shot him a murderous glare and he hadn’t said much more than telling her that she wouldn’t have looked ugly even ‘heavy with his child’.

The entire expression had made him uneasy, not solely for the way she had expressed the pregnancy as a negative aspect.

Pregnancy could be difficult on women, since it changed their bodies.

But he was sure she’d look amazingly all full with his child, swollen up and gorgeous, glowing of the pregnancy brightness that would have made her solely pretty.

It had undoubtedly made you gorgeous, from the photos he had seen of your pregnancy.

And he was anxious of staying by her side for such a journey, as he hadn’t been able to do the same with you.

And also the way she pushed on the ‘his child’ part, almost as if she wanted to convince somebody and it had made him nervous, although he tried not to measure every word she had spoken, because it’d drive him mad.

Lately he had been feeling more and more like he had been picking out at every word from Freydis’ mouth.

And not for her own sake, but for his, something that was absolutely awful for an engaged couple and when Freydis’ scare had caught up to him that afternoon he had thought that although it might seem selfish, he needed some time away from her.

Simply to recharge himself and change the mentality he had been having, since he was bringing himself to insanity, judging Freydis in a way that on the long run would have been hurtful.

Even more when she had sacrificed so much to be with him, constantly showing him that she loved him, desperately.

And he thought he felt the same.

But he couldn’t deny that since you and Eric had come back, he had felt the flame of your relationship rekindle, and although at first he had thought it was simply the effect of seeing you again after all this year…

… now he seemed stuck in a limbo.

He had never truly closed the things with you.

Although he had pretended that day of not wanting you anymore, he hadn’t felt in the slightest what his words meant.

It was supposed to be just a stupid dare.

His brothers had been jealous of the close relationships that was forming between you and him, truly impressed by the fact that you two had had sex, and they had dared him, starting from Bjorn, to break up with you for a day.

‘… to see if she suffers, to see if you are… her true love…’ had joked his stepbrother, a lazy smirk on his face, and although Ivar shouldn’t have, at the time he considered his older brother cooler and although he wouldn’t have admitted it to his face, not then and not now…

… he did most of the time what he told him to.

Hvitserk had agreed on the plan, meanwhile both Ubbe and Sigurd had been skeptic, Ubbe eventually joining in, sure that it would have been ‘a fun joke’ and that you would have debunked it immediately, meanwhile Sigurd had just kept to himself, telling Ivar that he was ‘a fucking asshole’ for doing this to you.

And that he’d have suffered greatly for this idiocy.

And he had been right, for once.

After the ‘fake break up’ you had distanced yourself from him, pushing him away in a way that had made him almost self-conscious toward other relationships and when college had rolled around, with a broken heart he had moved away, hoping that the distance would have healed it.

But neither that nor time had brought some relief to him.

He had had his fair share of girls in college: he might have been a prick and a cripple, but money and status clearly brought all the girls to him, but it had never felt like with you.

And he had never felt truly attracted to them.

Something that on the long run had just made him lose his own virility and sex, unable to even simply get it up, no matter the fact that he thought that the girl in bed with him was hot as hell.

She might have been the prettiest woman in the world, but she wasn’t you.

Something that he had never told the sexual therapist he had been seeing for Freydis’ joy, because the doctor would have for sure told him to get back with you, if he wanted an healthy sexual life.

Which wouldn’t happen for sure.

Mostly because you had made it very clear that you would have preferred being thrown in a dumpster than sleep with him.

But he couldn’t deny the thought of not feeling truly comfortable with anybody else, other than him, having you the way he did long ago.

He was jealous of all the imaginary lovers you could have had.

But he justified as simple worry for Eric’s wellbeing.

But he was aware that you wouldn’t have done anything bad for him.

That was why the flame of the past burned bright in his chest.

He had seen you go from a beautiful girl to a gorgeous mother, a journey that echoed on your skin and although you weren’t comfortable in it, like Freydis, you didn’t hide it, showing Eric as your pride and glory.

And he felt the same towards the boy.

He was the sole thing good that he had done.

… alongside Freydis’ baby.

He laid a soft kiss on the slight bump at that thought, meanwhile Freydis gently turned to latch out on him half-awake and half-asleep, as she mumbled a small and chewy ‘… goodmorning’, and Ivar gently moved his nose up her figure, reaching her face, which he peppered in kisses.

It was more a mechanic gesture than a proper one.

But still Freydis didn’t seem to notice the difference, for which he was grateful.

He hoped that a few hours of freedom would make him realize what he had been missing and why Freydis was the one he was supposed to be with.

And not you.

“… I am going, if you think that you are feeling well enough” he mumbled, as he looked at the clock, a quarter past 8, her friend was supposed to be there in a few minutes and he wanted to check on who she was, but Freydis simply nodded her head almost eager to see him gone “… are you sure?”.

He seemed to be not the only that would have enjoyed his freedom.

“Yeah yeah, you overbearing bear” she muttered, almost annoyedly, hiding her face in the pillow, as her long hair spilled on her naked back “… just go, I wouldn’t want mama bear to be worried”.

He grimaced at the veiled insult that Freydis had muttered, but didn’t say anymore, instead gently caressed her hair away, checking her face and her temperature, both seeming healthy, although he was still a bit worried.

If not for Freydis fully, at least for the child she was carrying.

The doctor had assured them that it wasn’t anything wrong.

It was common to bleed through the pregnancy, mostly during stressful periods, which did match with Freydis’ current situation and her crazy wedding planning.

The doctor, himself, had suggested that she took it easy and maybe hired someone to help, and this plan had been explicitly encouraged by Ivar, but she had insisted on doing everything on her own, although she had reassured Ivar that she’d take it with much more calm.

“… isn’t your friend supposed to be here already?” he muttered softly, not wanting to leave her alone, but knowing that in a few minutes you’d be there, since your anxious personality always made you arrive a bit earlier.

Freydis shook lightly her head, and turned to him, again sleepy with her lids hazily closed as a hand came to her chest.

“… my mom is coming, just give her time!” she replied, stretching on the empty bed, but Ivar couldn’t help but hear intensified her words, surprised that Freydis had called her mother, truly, when she had said a ‘friend’.

“… your mom?” he asked, unsure if he had heard right “… I thought… you said a friend”.

Freydis bit her lip and Ivar immediately noticed the gesture, unable to feel like it was a gesture that his fiancée did whenever she was nervous.

And it was starting to happen more and more.

And he was starting to have his doubts.

“No no” she mumbled, slightly pushing herself to have her back against the plush headboard of their shared bed “… I must have been so tired that I mixed up the names… sorry… it is my mom”.

“I thought you didn’t like your family” he could feel the way she was starting to feel more and more nervous with his comment that hid questions, but at the same time she hadn’t been very talkative in the family department and he had just assumed she didn’t like them.

Again, that lip-biting and a little look at her phone, with shone with a number appearing on it, and under it the name ‘mom’.

… Gosh, he was low key losing it.

“I just… I just thought that I might want to be closer to them, at least for the baby” she explained softly, her voice thoughtful as she took a deep breath “… my mom wasn’t that bad, also, I just… grew distant after I went to college”.

Which made sense.

And maybe Ivar was becoming quite more suspicious for something that was completely harmless.

… he was just overthinking the entire situation.

Trying to find faults, when it wasn’t Freydis’ in the slightest.

“… still I’d like to know your mother” he knew better than to come between a child and a mother, but he would have preferred to know her before allowing her near his child, although Freydis trusted her “… invite her over for tonight, we’ll have a small dinner with together, to celebrate and to thank her for staying with you”.

He didn’t want to prod more and Freydis’ face rewarded him with a small smile as she brought him for a long, long goodbye kiss, that not even the notification of a message in his phone, probably from you, stopped her from ending.

He kissed her one last time, and then left her grabbing quickly his travel bag since he had a few things to bring to his mother, a few toys he had brought as a gift to Eric and even a small gift card for you, although he knew that there was no true occasion.

But he felt like it was a nice gesture.

He checked the message as he closed the door behind himself, realizing that it was indeed you, assuring that you were early and would be waiting for him outside, Eric having also stolen the phone from you to send him a photo of himself.

And Ivar snapped one of himself, as he grabbed onto the crutch he had for emergencies, although he didn’t use it too much, but his mother would have gotten an heart-attack if she hadn’t seen him with a crutch, at least.

No matter the fact that she stored a lot more in their house.

And at the start of the week she had even gone as far as to ask whether she had to get some for Eric, for you know… emergencies and such.

‘… Ivar, I am serious!’ she had protested once, when Ivar had started laughing at her worried tone on the phone ‘… I want that sweet boy to be at the most ease, in my house’.

‘Mom, (Y/N) will probably bring crutches if he needs it and you buying some would only make her even more nervous. And let me tell you: she is already terrified by you’ he had explained, because although his mother was important for him, he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable with her.

And neither he wanted Freydis to be.

Although, unlike with you, there wasn’t much that could be done with Freydis, since both the women had closed off the option of a possible relationship between each other, which made it difficult to even feel something for the other.

You, instead, had always wanted to be loved.

You cared too much for people’s opinion, no matter the fact that sometimes you just couldn’t be liked by everyone.

And he couldn’t help but to think that was probably how your friendship had started back then.

He made you wait just a few more minutes, moving in your car, although he noted to himself that had he ever had trouble choosing a Christmas gift for you, he should have definitely gone with a new vehicle, since the poor thing you drove looked ready to kill itself from any moment.

He sat behind with Eric, to have more space for his legs and be more comfortable, as you pushed forward the car seat to allow him more space, meanwhile Eric saluted him from the car booster seat, smiling as Ivar moved to kiss his forehead, as you checked from the front mirror.

“… do you have everything you need?” you asked, softly, meanwhile you tried to start up the car and for a moment Ivar thought of suggesting you took his car, although he knew that it might have been difficult to use since it was set up for his needs.

“Yeah, don’t worry” he replied, as he adjusted himself, pushing the safety belt to click in its place “… is everything alright with you, two?”.

“Oh yeah, Eric is literally the most excited about today” and although you maintained a cheerful tone, it was obvious that you were nervous, although your eyes were hidden by sunglasses “… he woke me up at 6 a.m.”.

And now he understood the need for the sunglasses.

Eric clapped his hands, unable to stop himself from giggling loudly, and Ivar couldn’t help but find it adorable gently mimicking him much to your grimace.

But a light smirk appeared on your face as you pushed yourself away from the parking lot, setting up the map on your phone.

“Can we put music on, mom?” asked Eric, who looked like he could have fought anybody off, in that same moment “… please, please, pleeeeaseee”.

“Ok ok” you mumbled, before shooting a look at Ivar “… if your dad doesn’t mind”.

It felt strange, the way you said it.

For once you hadn’t called him Ivar and neither ‘he’, but ‘your dad’ almost as if you had recognized his role in Eric’s life.

Which wasn’t an easy and quick feat.

And he appreciated it.

“I don’t think I have much choice” he muttered softly, as he shot you a quick look, seeing your reaction on the mirror of the car, again that soft smile, barely there, but it was there.

“… truly, when you are a parent, you have none”.

---

The trip had been quiet.

Although Eric had moved himself around at the beat of the music for a few minutes, he had eventually drifted off to sleep and neither you nor Ivar had had the heart to wake him up, instead drifting off in a mindless chatter between you two, meanwhile you driver to your destination.

You had also confessed him that you, yourself, had had some problematic bleeding during your time with Eric, telling him that it was natural and that rest in most cases was the best way to go.

And Ivar explained to you that she’d have her mother over, some kind of dubiousness in his words, but again you didn’t dare sticking your nose in his thoughts and problems, instead telling him that during pregnancy you had indeed grown closer to your mother.

A lump in your throat appeared as you thought about your father instead.

It seemed that the women of your family were cursed with men that wouldn’t simply stick.

But meanwhile Ivar was doing his best to be there for his son, your father had left once it had gotten hard, pushing you and Eric away, something that made you a bit sad, and you were almost glad for Ivar’s comfortable presence.

You might have felt uncomfortable for the crush you had been harboring for him, but some things had never changed and the complicity you had always shared had remained and you were thankful for it, now that both your souls had grown quieter and reconciled.

Ivar guided you to his past house, although you had memorized the road when you were ten and could have still reached it blindly.

But you let Ivar think that you had forgotten some things.

Once you were set up in the free parking lot, having arrived first, Ivar woke up softly Eric a gesture that made your heart clench a bit, because although Ivar wasn’t known for being the most emotional man you knew, he was just so gentle with his son.

And the sole thought of it, somehow, hurt you.

You got out of the car, asking Ivar if he could buckle up Eric back in his braces, as you got the few things out of the car to be able to lose as little of time as you could.

Ivar did it quickly, meanwhile Eric still clang on him, half asleep, making you smirk softly, steadying himself against your pants, as Ivar grabbed his travel bag and you your own trolley, spending a few extra minutes to lock the car.

Because you were extremely nervous.

Although you had no reason to be.

Aslaug didn’t need to examine you, as a girlfriend or as a mother.

But you still… felt uneasy at the thought of disappointing her.

And Ivar noticed it.

He gently pushed his hand onto your back, not too close to be truly intimate neither too strong to be possessive, but it was calming and you shot him back a slight thankful smile, as Eric, again shy, hid behind you both, leaning on your trolley.

And then Ivar rang the door.

And before you could say anything to comfort Eric and yourself, the door was opened.

It revealed a graceful woman, in an elegant set of comfortable clothes, a pair of pastel sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, something that you hadn’t thought you had ever seen the prim and proper woman wear.

But that wasn’t the sole surprise.

She obviously immediately focused her eyes on Ivar and you were glad of it, although it was almost awkward to stand there, but you endured it gladly, happy not to have the attention on you.

Which didn’t last.

Because once she got up from hugging Ivar, she moved her attention towards you and you were also enveloped in a tight hug, the entire gesture contrasting so much with her ice queen persona that you remembered that it sent you in sensory overload.

And you were glad that it finished pretty quickly, making you smile at the woman as she softly saluted you.

‘… oh gods, it has been so so long since I last saw you” she commented softly, shooting you a quick look “… and you look like not a single day has passed”.

“You also do look the same” you replied tightly, surprised by her warm personality, but soon Aslaug’s attention shifted away from you and onto Eric, hiding himself behind you both, as the older woman crunched down to be at eye-level with Eric.

“… and who is this handsome young man?” she asked with a soft smile, as Eric gained a bit of confidence with all those compliments, moving forward and holding out an hand for Aslaug, as you had told him to do.

The older woman, already on the verge of a crying attack, accepted it welcomingly, commenting how much he looked like his father as a baby.

‘… but you do seem much nicer’ she joked, as she gently lead him inside, checking with you if you were comfortable, to which you nodded, because although you had been unsure about all of this, you couldn’t help but be sweetened up by Aslaug’s soft gestures.

Ivar shot you an amused look as he moved inside, pushing the travel bag to sling over his shoulders, so that it wouldn’t annoy him with his braces, as you moved inside.

As soon as you were inside a storm of memories caught you, unable to truly ever forget the many things that had happened there, the many adventures that you had gone through thanks to the Lothbrocks.

And although there were many things you regretted…

… this wasn’t one of those.

“… it didn’t change in the slightest” you breathed out, as you took in the vintage furniture, matched with pastel fabrics that made it seem like a mixture between an haunted house and a magical castle.

“Mom wouldn’t agree” commented Ivar as you both reached the cloakroom to deposit your coats and to leave there your luggage “… she says that everything has changed since we have gone away”.

“Don’t make me think about it!” you muttered, shooting an ironic look at the roof, meanwhile Ivar giggled with overexaggerated annoyance.

“He is only five!” he reminded you, and you shot back a glare that told him ‘he just wouldn’t understand’ “… you, moms, are all the same: overthinking everything and everyone”.

“Don’t even try to talk ‘momma’s boy’ “you taunted him, and again you were right in between that friendship and that crush stadiums of your relationships that made moments like this irresistible and the most difficult for you.

“… my lips are sealed” muttered gingerly Ivar, although he moved to distance himself from you, clearly showing his uneasiness to this, something for which you were grateful.

And you both moved to the kitchen where Aslaug had brought Eric, making sure that he did a second breakfast in full fashion, completely spoiling his child and looking at him with a curiosity that made it seem like she was examining a strange animal.

You had had a small talk with Eric to explain him who Aslaug was and how to behave with her, promoting a more rigid behavior, that might have been not what was proper actually for the welcoming they had received.

“… I hope you didn’t mind that I gave him something” and with ‘something’ she probably meant half of the food in her kitchen “… I am used to my boys being quite hungry”.

You tried not to grimace at the ‘my boys’, but still chastised Eric a bit, not wanting to deny him the food he needed, but if he ate all those things not only he would have been on a sugar high by this afternoon, but he also might have not eaten anything at Thanksgiving lunch.

And yet you noticed the unsure look on Aslaug’s face, reminding you one of your own when you had been the young girl, waiting for her examination.

And although you knew it wasn’t proper, you almost snickered with yourself for it.

“… don’t worry” you simply commented, dabbing almost possessively Eric’s lips, trying to gain some control back, as you showed Aslaug that although you appreciated her concern and gentleness, you were Eric’s mother.

And she seemed to understand it as she distanced herself lightly, focusing her attention on her son.

And noticing solely now that Freydis was indeed missing.

‘Where is she?’ she asked, with a light scrunching of her eyebrows, which you recognized as ‘the look of disappointment’ otherwise known as the ‘I am judging you’ face.

And for a moment you didn’t want to be in Freydis’ place.

“She has had some problem with the pregnancy” immediately Aslaug’s eyes tightened on him, evidently worried “… she has been bleeding a bit, and although the doctor has told us that it isn’t anything worrying, he said to avoid stress”.

And facing a mother-in-law like Aslaug could be quite stressful.

So, you didn’t blame her.

“… and why aren’t you with her?” her voice was slightly lowered, not to be heard by a rather disinterested Eric, his gaze focused on trying to steal a few more handmade cookies, which you tried out for yourself, and you had to say that Aslaug certainly hadn’t lost her touch.

And you hoped they weren’t poisoned.

“Mom…” Ivar’s voice was indeed a bit annoyed “… she insisted about remaining home and I didn’t leave her alone, she is with her mom”.

This comforted you and Aslaug, honestly, as the woman moved her gaze onto Eric, who had finally shifted his focus on his grandma, suddenly having woken up fully from the food and tiredness nap he had been having.

“… so… you are my other grandma?”.

You were tempted to almost facepalm yourself, because if Eric had inherited one bad trait from Ivar it was his uneasy bluntness and you couldn’t help but blush a bit, almost worried of Aslaug’s reaction.

She had recognized your role as a mother, and she had even hugged you.

And then your child went like and literally called her ‘his other grandma’.

She was probably already questioning your parenting skills and…

… and she started laughing, loudly.

And you and Ivar soon joined, Ivar more truly than you, who croaked almost as a newborn bird, meanwhile Eric looked at you all, as if the inside joke you had said wasn’t funny and he wasn’t getting it, till Aslaug softly moved an hand towards his smaller one and muttered softly.

“Yes, sweetheart” she muttered softly, as she reached out to straighten up his hair, as he brought them away “… I am grandma, Aslaug”.

“Oh, that is a cool name!” Eric chanted, looking with bright eyes at your grandma “… like the name of the princess Ragnar marries!”

Not even the mention of Ragnar was enough to make a soft smile disappear from Aslaug’s face, as she did nod and confirm that ‘it was the same name indeed’, before she shot you a quick laugh, embarrassment written on her face.

And insecurities.

You encouraged her with a soft smile, and she asked you whether she could play a bit with Eric, outside.

‘It shouldn’t be too cold’ she explained ‘… and don’t worry… I have set up a small table and a few things for him…’.

You couldn’t help but be extremely warmed up by the way Aslaug seemed to already care for Eric, although your uneasiness was still there, constantly worried that these people might leave Eric’s life, leaving him heartbroken.

But you also knew that although Aslaug was an ice queen, she was truthful in every little gesture of her.

And when she swore, she meant it.

Ivar had definitely taken that after her.

‘Mom can I go?’ insisted Eric, shooting you a deep look, as you moved to lay a soft kiss on his forehead, before you allowed them both to go outside, sending him a light smirk as Aslaug smiled at you gratefully.

‘… just wear a jacket and an hat!’.

Ivar who had watched carefully the scene, laughed again at your worry, but you caught the way he attentively looked outside to make sure that everything was indeed Eric-proofed, although he shouldn’t have doubted his mother.

Since she had been through that with her own son.

You wondered whether she was so immediately attracted by Eric because of the similarity with Ivar.

But you didn’t have too much time to mind to these things, because suddenly there was a ring to the door and your small safe haven was becoming a crowded family function.

Shit, you were nervous again.

Ivar’s brothers now did know that you and Ivar had a child together.

He had told them after you had agreed to be there on Thanksgiving day, and he had taken it upon himself to contact them to give them the news, since you had both agreed that it would have been awkward to discover it in that moment.

Although you honestly hoped you could keep that secret for a bit more.

You weren’t ashamed of Eric or of having Ivar back in your life, although it was simply as a co-parent to your five-year-old, but you knew perfectly that Ivar’s brothers had always had a certain image of you.

An image that even after all this bullshit you felt like you had to upheld.

And you couldn’t, anymore.

And you hadn’t ever told this to Ivar, when you were together, but you hadn’t ever felt truly comfortable with his brothers.

Hvitserk was okay, although he was a bit too flirty for you, but he had taken the hint once you had threatened him of cutting his ‘beloved friends’ off and Sigurd was nice, although he could be twice as childish as Ivar, sending you the demo of many of his songs, expecting you to listen to them in a few minutes.

But they were ok.

You did dislike Ubbe, since you couldn’t help but feel at unease with him, although he was the calmer of the brothers, but you couldn’t help but think about the infamous ‘look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it’ phrase.

Although you didn’t personally know much, since you had moved away, you had heard many rumors about him, and his numerous affairs, ending up his marriage with Margrethe, ruining the poor girl, and ending up marrying his brother’s wife.

If this wasn’t a scandal straight from a telenovela, you didn’t know what to call it.

But who you truly disliked was Bjorn.

He was the older son and thankfully he was their stepbrother, so he wasn’t around much time.

He had quite some toxic behaviors, starting from being a serial cheater and not a believer in monogamy, going on with the fact that he left whenever it got too hard, and although he wouldn’t be there for that lunch (which was a relief) you still didn’t like his presence.

And you secretly, not so much, hoped not to meet him.

He had been the most against your relationship with Ivar.

He had been constantly telling Ivar that he was losing out on being in a relationship at his age, but Ivar hadn’t cared much for his words, although you knew that he looked up at Bjorn almost like an hawk as if in that way he could steal his place as Ragnar’s heir.

But back in the time you hadn’t said much.

Ivar’s relationship with his brothers was already broken up by jealousy and the typical emotional angst, so you hadn’t wanted to add much more.

But now… having to face both Hvitserk and Ubbe, who brought Torvi with himself, they made you bit your tongue both for anxiety…

… and both to keep inside your words.

You felt a stranger left in the kitchen as Ivar opened the door, welcomed them inside with snarky remarks and sarcastic comebacks, but you could almost smell their interest and curiosity for you.

Ivar had told you they had taken the news well, but Sigurd had told you that both Ubbe and Bjorn had freaked out terribly in the chat, muttering things about your child and about the fact that Ivar was ‘stupid’ for taking it in so easily, without testing yourds.

Hvitserk had been the only one welcoming it, already muttering all the things he’d teach your child as his ‘favorite uncle’.

If Ubbe and Bjorn kept on acting like that, he and Sigurd would have soon been Eric’s sole uncles.

You wouldn’t have let your child grow up in such a disrespect.

You understood their uneasiness at your revelation, but you had expected some more confidence, because although you hadn’t been friends, truly, you had grown up together.

And Ubbe, himself, shouldn’t have muttered much after he had adopted the sons of another man, after he had ‘stolen’ away his bride.

Was there something truly different in what he had done and in what Ivar was doing with Eric?

But you reigned in your sourness, welcoming them inside the kitchen with a smile.

And for the first time in his life, Hvitserk moved to you immediately, ignoring completely the sweet treats on the table, laid out solely for his enjoyment, since Eric and Aslaug, the only one who would have dared to stop him, were outside, overlooked from the windows of the kitchen by Ivar.

He hugged you so tightly that he swung you off the chair you were comfortably sat on, making you giggle at his affectionate antics, before he hounded you to know where ‘his little nephew was’.

“… Gosh, I still can’t believe that Ivar was the one to forget about the condom rule, among all of us” now you were definitely embarrassed and Ivar shot an annoyed look at him, telling him to back off “… but I am glad that you are back here!”.

“Apparently I couldn’t run away that far” you commented, meaning for it to be ironical, but there was some truth behind it, and Ivar noticed it, his eyes growing a bit darker, as Hvitserk’s attention finally caught the cookies on the table.

And you were left dealing with Torvi and Ubbe.

The woman presented herself to you, since you didn’t know her if not from what you had heard from Ivar and Sigurd.

She was quite nice with you, at least being polite and gentle, and Ubbe was simply nice, something in his straight and tight pose making it difficult for you to feel relaxed and not awkward.

But still… you survived it.

And were glad to simply settle back in the background noise, meanwhile the brotherly chatter began, and you moved to Ivar’s side by the windows, noticing that Aslaug was trying to teach Eric some gardening.

‘She will get along quickly with my mom’ you muttered ‘… she works with a florist these days’.

“She has taken to gardening after we all went away…” there was something almost nostalgic in his voice “… as with yoga, pilates and a few hundred other hobbies… she always wonder why we are so restless and she blames it onto Ragnar, but the truth is…”

Now a proud smile lighted up Ivar’s gorgeous face, showing you the growth that he had gone through in those years where you hadn’t seen each other.

“… the truth is that she has a wild streak in herself”.

You were surprised by the door opening one more time, signaling that another guest had been welcomed, a guest you hadn’t expected as everyone else in the room.

The awkward silence intensifying in the room, as Ragnar walked in.

A grimace on his face as if he hadn’t expected everyone to look at him like an annoying mosquito, something that was quite evident in both his eldest and his youngest, meanwhile Hvitserk was still focused on the cookies.

Which you did also.

You were definitely much more uncomfortable now, but at the same time you felt a bit unrelated to all this family drama, glad when Aslaug walked in, to make Eric wash his hands, evidently having noticed that quite some time had already passed.

She noticed Ragnar and concealed quite well the surprise in her eyes, simply muttering a few orders at her children, meanwhile Eric ran to you, and you tried to isolate yourself asking him what he had been doing and what Aslaug had taught him.

Ivar also came closer, crouching down at his side, and that was what caught Ragnar’s eyes as he noticed the small family that had formed before his eyes, after he had exchanged a few unpleasant and rigid comments with his sons.

“… I thought you were with blondie” the comment was insensitive on so many aspects.

But when had Ragnar ever been attentive with Ivar?

Aslaug had smothered him, and Ragnar had tried, the few time he was in his life, to reverse the whole project with a steely discipline and a barely concealed disdain for Ivar’s disability.

“… none of your business, dad” Ivar muttered, pointing out each word, as you gently tried to lead Eric away from the confrontation that was soon to erupt, Aslaug noticing it and taking you with her, to find a vase for the flowers she and Eric had picked.

And you exchanged a soft smile with her, thankful for the distraction.

And as Eric roamed for the storage room, under your watchful eyes, choosing a proper vase, you muttered a gentle ‘thank you’.

‘… I…’ the words burned on Aslaug’s tongue, and you definitely felt like that was another thing Ivar had for sure inherited by her “… think I am the one who should say ‘thank you’ this time, this time, actually… and sorry”.

You were surprised but didn’t try to stop that discourse.

“… I didn’t mean to be horrid to you” she explained “… I never… thought you were, I actually was just worried about Ivar’s heart… although it wasn’t… my business”.

“I…” you knew that you should have said something like ‘don’t worry’ or ‘it isn’t a problem’, but you just felt like hiding behind pretty words wouldn’t have helped you, even more in this situation with Aslaug “… apologies accepted”.

She smiled brightly at you.

“… I know… that this isn’t a proper situation and Ivar and you have much more to discuss, but…” her mutter was almost the one of a scared child “… I’d like to be present in Eric’s life, if you ever need an help… I do know of your mother…”.

“I hope not to sound rude, but…” your tone was light and at the same time heavy “… it is just… I need a bit of time. I handled this alone, with only my mom on my side for so long, and now it is just strange to have all these people around you…”.

Aslaug nodded, although she wasn’t able to shed the sadness from her face.

But then you reached out for her hand.

“… but with time, I do hope to let you in” you softened your tone “… Eric needs his family with him”.

And she smiled the absolute brightest, right as Eric came back with the biggest vase.

“Can we use this?!”.

---

Ivar had always loved Ragnar, as a child.

He had seen him as his own hero, the sole he could relate to and the sole he could trust, but moving on with years and Ragnar’s numerous disappearances, the love and admiration had become distrust and hate.

For a father that had never wanted him.

But Ragnar still had his own influence on him.

Starting from the fact that for a long time children had been a very touchy subject for him and one more reason why he had chosen the fertilization in vitro.

To avoid his children developing any pathologies, like him.

Ragnar had wanted Aslaug to abort him.

It was a truth that Ivar had learned when he was fourteen, hormones full blown and annoyed at everything, once overhearing one of the many fights going on between Ragnar and Aslaug.

Since he was ten year old, Ragnar used his mother’s house as an hotel, constantly checking in and out, maybe playing with his sons for a little time, but many other times he’d tell them his magical journeys and stories.

And most of the time, it’d end up with Ragnar screaming at Aslaug.

And her screaming back at him.

Once, when they had gotten quite heated, mostly because Aslaug had told him that she was tired of taking care of his child with no help form him whatsoever, Ragnar had shot back that maybe she should have aborted Ivar when she had the time.

And Ivar, ‘Ivar The Boneless’, as his brothers always nicknamed him, had cried for an entire afternoon, after hearing that.

But this hadn’t shattered Ivar’s heart, not yet.

He had followed his father as a puppy, and he remembered the way many fights had erupted between you two for that, because of Ivar’s faithful behavior to somebody who didn’t deserve it.

Going to college and distancing himself from both his parents, he had learned that what you had complained about had been true, and his relationship with his father had been much more distanced, although he worked in the family business.

But he was trying to form his own legacy.

Hence Ragnar’s presence just brought him back in the past.

And he hated the feeling of being inferior that he felt.

He had been feeling so well, with the knowledge of yours and Aslaug’s relationship, mending as he noticed the desperate happiness in his mother’s eyes at finally meeting her first grandchild.

… he was indeed having a good time, without overthinking the whole ‘Freydis-You-Eric’ situation but now another thing was added to that dangerous math.

“Isn’t she…” Ragnar scratched the back of his head, as if it helped with remembering “… your old best friend? And how old is the child? Did you seriously hide a child for so long?”.

His tone was joking, but strangely arrogant and Ivar wondered if Heahmund felt that way when Ivar spoke to him.

… maybe he should have apologized.

Because he was extremely annoyed by Ragnar’s behavior.

“Which part of ‘none of your business’ don’t you understand?” he shot back, and Ragnar seemed seriously hit, his movements a bit slowed down probably from the few shots of tequila he had taken before coming here.

“I am just… I am…” the words weren’t slurred, but he was fully drunk, although his chain of reason seemed quite clouded by whatever he had taken “… you are my children you are my business”.

He shot a small look at all ‘his children’ in the room, trying to regain some sympathy but it wasn’t much useful, since they all were on Ivar’s side for once.

Both Hvitserk and Ubbe were neutral to his father, but this didn’t mean that they would have ever taken his side, even more as grown-ups.

“… we stopped being your business, after we were five and I got chicken pox and you were on the other part of the world, screwing somebody, meanwhile mom took care of four children all by herself” commented Hvitserk, something that definitely put Ragnar in great unease, not knowing how to react at that.

Not that he had to, since his son returned to eating, but it was clear that there was a quite some distance between him and his sons.

And Ivar didn’t like his presence even more, because he didn’t want Ragnar around Eric and neither did you, since you hadn’t known about it, having been assured that he wouldn’t be there.

But his father always found ways back to them.

His mother had never been able to fully delete him from their life and neither she had tried to delete him fully, at least for the sake of their children, and he couldn’t make it a fault to her, but he hoped his father would just take a hint.

“… I just… I just wanted a nice Thanksgiving” commented Ragnar, raising his hands as if to surrender anything he might have wanted “… with my family”.

And nobody could deny it.

Although they could make it true hell for him.

In the end the brothers decided to keep to themselves as Ragnar stood in the middle of the room rather awkwardly, meanwhile you and Aslaug returned in that moment with a vase that was bigger than Eric, the small boy trumping happily between the two women, as Aslaug and you shared a few interesting botanical facts.

He wished he could see the same happening with Freydis.

But he tried to make his thoughts quiet, not truly knowing how to deal with Eric and Ragnar, so for now he just tried to act the best way possible, meanwhile he helped ‘his little man’ with the vase.

“… no no, Dad! I am strong like Thor!” protested loudly Eric, but you did send Ivar a look as if to say ‘do check on him’, meanwhile Aslaug adjusted the flowers, the other brothers quickly finding excuses to disperse from the kitchen: Hvitserk going to the bathroom and Ubbe and Torvi going to his old room, so that they could do a few calls.

He had hoped Ragnar would get a hint too, but he didn’t.

And he came close to Eric, as the child sat down to help his grandma and you, your eyes immediately trained on Ragnar, who sent you a small smile, probably not recognizing you fully, although he had indeed recognized you as Ivar’s ‘best friend’.

You didn’t look definitely happy to see Ragnar, but you didn’t let it be seen on your face, although you were attentive with the way Ragnar moved closer to your son.

Because he wasn’t certainly an idiot, and he must have done the math to realize that the child was Ivar’s, no matter the amount of alcohol and drugs that he had put in his system to numb it.

“… hi” he muttered, as he came to Eric’s side, the boy’s eyes suddenly moving onto him, as he shot you a surprised look, again shyness in his eyes and Aslaug chastised Ragnar with a warning smile.

“Hi” replied Eric, as he turned to him, after you had lightly nodded, but still putting an hand on the back of your child, as Ivar came to your side, something that made you send him a soft thankful smile.

He couldn’t help but feel something deep inside him fall in love again with that smile.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, as Eric shook his head, and Ragnar sent a look at Ivar, who sent one to you.

He hadn’t meant to make you live this situation, knowing perfectly well how much this would have made you nervous, because for sure you hadn’t expected to be surrounded by so many people and not only because he did remember that you were an introvert…

… but it must have been a big change to go from nobody knowing anything to everybody knowing about ‘your dirty little secret’.

But you decided to do your best to make something good out of an awful situation.

And you invited Ragnar to explain it to him, with a small look, that spoke the words ‘don’t fuck it up’.

“… I am your grandpa” commented the man, as Eric’s eyes became bright like stars, as he clapped his hands, strongly.

“Grandpa!” he called him excitedly “… do you want to come with me to my soccer games?”.

The question was so innocent and adorable that even Ragnar cracked up a tender smile as he nodded your hand, although he could totally feel you grimace at that, but you gave Eric your best smile, as Aslaug suggested that she got the vase set up, and you helped Eric washed his hands properly.

Effectively leaving Ivar and Ragnar alone.

You shot him a small look to check with him, before joining after Eric, and he wasn’t able to stop himself from thinking about the past and about how your constant support had meant so much for you.

And he had been stupid enough to take it for granted.

“Where did that one plop off?” commented loudly Ragnar, once you all were out of earshot, making Ivar grimace and for a minute he thought that he could have just ignored him and hoped he’d just ‘magically’ disappear.

Since he was so good at that.

But if Ivar had inherited something from him was that shit-eating attitude that would have stopped him from backing off and relenting, even when it was clear he had lost.

“… I discovered about him a few months ago” explained Ivar, trusting the fact that Ragnar wasn’t truly listening.

That he wasn’t truly interested in what he had to say.

Ragnar was only interested in what he, himself, had to say.

“… (Y/N), his mother, didn’t let me know about his existence till I found out, because she was sure I didn’t want him in my life…” which was strangely what had been happening with him in his family, so he couldn’t blame you truly for having had that thought “… turns out she was wrong”.

“So, you took him in” he spoke of Eric almost as if it was a charity case and Ivar had to hold back the rage in him “… that’s a good action, son”.

“I am trying to avoid becoming like you” he commented, a sneak attack at Ragnar who showed the sufferance of it but stabilized quickly “… abandoning the children that I fathered as if they were simple trash”.

“… but is this true?” he shot back, letting out an amused breath “… because I do think that you are following in my footsteps perfectly”.

“No, I am not” he ground out his teeth as he growled out the words.

“Then where is the pretty blonde I saw the last time?” Ragnar asked loudly “… and I don’t think that you are married with the mother of your child… so, I do think that you are handling them both… unsure of what to do”.

And this was damnably true.

“You know nothing” it was stupid, but he hoped it’d shut up the entire situation, because it was making him feel just worse.

Would he seriously end up like his father?

Old and with a myriad of problems?

He hoped not to.

He had wanted to become bigger than him, in his job, but he had also wanted to become better than him, family-wise, that was the reason behind his choice of Freydis.

Why he had let himself be convinced so easily in what sounded like the fairytale life.

But was it truly?

Even more when he felt so perfectly with you and Eric.

“… but I do” it was barely a whisper.

But Ivar didn’t have a good enough reply for that.

---

Ragnar’s appearance at the Thanksgiving lunch had undoubtedly put a bit of a damper on your mood, but you tried your best to take care of Eric, letting the baby interact with his grandpa.

Eric missed greatly your father and his grandfather.

Your grandfather had been extremely attached to Eric, and his disappearance had been so sudden that Eric had simply thought, for a whole week after he had run away, that he’d be back soon.

He had just gone on a trip.

And when the knowledge he wouldn’t have come back had settled in, Eric had grown much more silent, and he had kept this behavior till he had met again Ivar, developing again his cheery personality, for which you were thankful.

But at the same time, it made you worried.

And although Ragnar had been gentle with Eric, you didn’t exactly want him around your child, had his tendency to disappear kept on being present in his tumultuous soul.

Eric had had enough instability in his life, and you didn’t want to add much more.

But you had bigger problems at hand.

Hvitserk had been introduced to Eric and he kept on trying to teach him some dirty limericks, much to your, Aslaug’s and Ivar’s annoyance, who all shot him an annoyed glare.

But you were glad that Eric was having fun with his uncle and you were even gladder by the soft-spoken approach Hvitserk had been having about it, completely treating the situation as if it was completely normal.

Unlike Ubbe who kept on shooting attentive glances at the child.

But you ignored it, in favor of having a few chats with Aslaug and Torvi.

In the end, by the time the lunch was ready, you were definitely much more comfortable and although you tried to keep your bigger emotions at bay, you almost felt… involved in the family.

And you were unsure if it was a good thing or not.

You were glad for that environment for Eric, who was definitely at ease and happy.

You hoped you could keep the same thing up after Freydis had her own child, something that put you a bit at unease, not wanting to push yourself in a situation where you didn’t belong, knowing perfectly well how much care a newborn baby required from both parents…

… and although Ivar was handling quite well the situation…

… you hoped the new baby wouldn’t have been leading Ivar away from Eric, when they were both that close.

Although it was a selfish thought.

But for now, you tried to push away those awful thoughts.

And enjoyed the moment.

By lunchtime Eric had already gotten a few new toys by Ivar, something that had made you quirk a brow at the man himself, but he had just smirked slightly as if to say ‘what can I do about it’.

Well, if Eric was going to grow up as a spoiled brat, he’d have had to do something.

But for now, you enjoyed seeing your beloved Eric all happy and playful.

Aslaug was nice also, certainly having grown quite close to the child, although not much time had passed, but you had smiled with pride, as she had complimented you for the amazing education he had received…

‘… unlike somebody else’ she had muttered looking at her children: Ubbe on his phone, Hvitserk with something stuck in his mouth and Ivar trying to figure out a lego castle for his son ‘… I swear I tried my best’.

‘I do believe it’ you shot back, with a small smile.

Also Aslaug tried her best to avoid talking about Ragnar or with him, and he on his part did his best to avoid both her and Ivar, moving onto the sofa, as he watched a game, soon joined by Hvitserk.

Eric instead helped Aslaug out after the lunch, bringing her dishes from the table to the kitchen sink, although he barely reached the table, helped by you and Ivar.

‘The portrait of a family’ commented tightly Ragnar, something that put you and Ivar through a lot of uneasy embarrass, but you handled it at your best for the wellness of your mental health.

As you all settled down for a small and calm after lunch coffee, the food having lessened the differences among each other soon you found yourself dozing off, happily, on the sofa.

Lately you had been doing a lot of night shifts at the art gallery, because they were better paid and you felt more comfortable being able to take care of Eric in the afternoon, so you could help him with homework and bring him to soccer practice and doctor appointments.

You must have simply closed your eyes for moment just to wake up when you felt tiny fists hitting lightly your stomach and opened your eyes to find a rather happy Eric, blowing in your face to push your hair away.

And outside it was utter and fully dark.

Shit.

You looked all around yourself immediately seeing that you weren’t on the sofa anymore, and you had been tucked in what you remembered being Ivar’s old bedroom.

You couldn’t help but be worried sick, immediately checking your watch and discovering it was already 7 p.m.

You had slept for four hours.

Which would have been reasonable, hadn’t you basically fallen asleep at your ex’ house, when you had promised to bring him back to his pretty wife right after lunch.

You couldn’t help but have this feeling of having basically fucked up everything.

And Eric kept on jumping on the bed.

“… sweetie” you called out to him, realizing that if you had been napping all this time he had had the time to replenish himself of sugar and would end up probably breaking his brakes if he kept on jumping in that way “… where is your father?”.

“Dad is downstairs” explained Eric, as you gently grabbed him on his waist to calm him down and bring him an hug, indulging a moment more enjoying the warmth of that soft body and the smell of light sweat and cuddles that Eric always had on his clothes.

Before his words truly registered.

And you realized Ivar hadn’t gone back.

To his very pregnant wife.

Because of you.

As soon as you managed to settle down Eric and make him move after you, you descended downstairs, to catch he Lothbrocks in what looked like a challenge of GTA.

All the brothers were playing, cursing lightly at each other, meanwhile Aslaug glared at them for those curses and Ragnar cheered them on, with a beer in his hand.

It almost seemed a normal family.

And then immediately their attention was onto you, as Eric loudly chased after you, his brakes stumping against the soft moquette of the house, as you noticed he wasn’t wearing shoes, Aslaug catching your gaze and explaining to you:

‘He seemed uncomfortable and I thought he’d feel better without shoes…’ she set you a small look ‘… I hope you didn’t mind it’.

‘No no, if you don’t’ you spoke back, before you sent Ivar a pleading look, and he abandoned the newest round of the game, among brotherly insults, as Hvitserk slapped his ass, and Eric had a quite gleaming look at that gesture, making you send him a glare.

You expected Ivar to be angry.

He was always angry when things didn’t go the way he wanted.

He was a perfectionist in each thing, even more in his own plans.

But Ivar simply looked at you softly, as you hurriedly moved to explain that you could still make it time for you to arrive at 9 p.m. back in the city and to please apologize to Freydis for your accidental…

‘Hey… don’t worry’ because as much as he hadn’t changed from the perfectionist he was, you continued on stumbling on your own words whenever you were nervous, as you did back in the time ‘… I have actually asked mom if you could stay here in the guest room with Eric. I don’t want you to drive with this tiredness’.

‘I slept, I am completely energized’ you replied loudly and then yawned ruining completely the effect of your words, and earning a soft raised eyebrow from Ivar ‘… and I wouldn’t want to bother… Aslaug was already nice enough to have me for lunch…’.

‘… she doesn’t mind, and she prefer to have me safe on the road’ he explained ‘… Freydis also said the same’.

‘Gosh I just feel so awfully for having fallen asleep!’ you commented breathing loudly ‘… I swear that I totally understand if Freydis is angry with me’.

‘I actually…’ he started with a smile that wasn’t truly a smile, but something to hide his uneasiness ‘… actually I think that she is grateful for that. I can be pretty annoying…’.

Which you didn’t certainly deny.

But at the same time, you would have been eager to have him back at home, had you been pregnant as Freydis, although you didn’t regret your pregnancy and certainly didn’t need a man by your side, but…

… having him back home with you would have made you feel better.

Although Ivar could be indeed quite suffocating when he was trying to be ‘overprotective’.

But again, it wasn’t any of your business.

‘… are you sure?’ you simply mumbled, feeling like you could have survived a bit more with Aslaug’s food and a bit of relax, although you had to get to your phone, probably, before your mother came to search you, here, herself.

The brothers all left before dinner and in the end, it was simply you and Eric, Aslaug and Ragnar, the latter basically falling asleep on the sofa, right after the meal.

Aslaug stayed up just in time for supper, before retiring to her chambers, probably a bit tired by the fact that she had had to handle an ex-husband, one child and three grown-ups who were like children, mentally.

You and Eric also left soon, as Ivar took care of switching off the lights and setting the alarm, but you knew that he also needed a bit of private time to talk with Freydis.

And you had to set a five-year-old with too much sugar in bed, washing him up and changing him in comfortable clothes, making sure he got his meds.

As you were changing him, Ivar knocked on your door, to wish you goodnight and offer you a set of pajama, which you immediately recognized as an old pair you had left at his house when you were fifteen and used to sleep over there, enough that you had started leaving pajamas as clues in Ivar’s wardrobe.

But you couldn’t deny still the surprise you felt when you had it in your hands, laughing lightly as you wondered whether you’d be able to fit in them.

“… I can’t believe that you still have it” you mumbled, stretching it out in front of you to take in the awful sloth decoration on it, and the obnoxious white color that had become a dirtied yellow for too many wash-ups.

“Mom must have noticed it and washed it” he commented dryly, and you could detect the lies in his words, but were grateful to sleep into something familiar and not your uncomfortable clothes.

And it smelled like Ivar.

As if you were back at the times when you had just been invited to sleep over at his house, once your parents’ fighting had become too intense for you, and you had just snuggled closer to him, his smell immediately comforting you.

And it still comforted you to this day.

“Thank you” you muttered, as Eric moved forward to receive his ‘goodnight kiss’ and his ‘goodnight story’, something that effectively seemed to ease him up, meanwhile he settled in the big bed next to you and you changed in the bathroom, noticing that you had grown a few inches since the last time you had worn the pajama.

It had grown also tight in some other places, and you were almost ashamed of moving yourself outside of the bathroom, eventually bringing yourself to when Eric called out for you, and you tried to keep your eyes down, as you sat beside him in bed, his eyes still shining with some kind of interested ‘curiosity’.

Almost a gleaming mischievousness.

So, you got ready for whatever he was going to ask for.

“Mom!” he chanted out loudly and you shushed him telling him ‘to be mindful of the people sleeping in other rooms’ “… how did you and dad meet?”.

Gosh, didn’t this bring out horrible memories?

And some sweet ones.

Ivar looked as confused as you for the question, but not half-displeased.

“Sweetie, it is a long story…” you started, but Eric looked like he might have not slept for months if he hadn’t heard it, as he pleaded for more.

‘Just another minute!’ he chanted loudly ‘… just another story’.

And eventually both you and Ivar relented, the man’s eyes sparkling brightly, as he started.

“Actually I knew your mother for a long time, since we were tiny like you…” and he went to boop softly his son’s face, making him giggle “… we were best friends for a long time”.

“And then what changed?” asked curiously Eric.

‘Ivar started to look me as a woman, not as simply his best friend’ you wanted to say, but you knew that this wouldn’t have been very PG-13, so you simply opted for a more ‘fairytale-like’ explanation.

“… your dad and I both grew up and so did our deelings, and our friendship became more love” you explained, as you kissed softly his forehead, Ivar’s eyes slowly settling up to you meanwhile you said those words.

And you tried not to let it affect you.

… too much.

Since it was truly impossible not to feel the pressure of those beautiful eyes.

“But if you loved each other why did you…” his brain seemed to settle up links and you honestly were as confused as him to that situation, because in the end although Ivar had told you that he didn’t love you anymore, he hadn’t ever said the reasons behind it “… why are you not together anymore?”.

And you let also this be handled by Ivar.

His eyes shifting on the floor as you, yourself, felt too uncomfortable at that question.

“… we just…” they were blabbers the ones in Ivar’s voice “… I broke your mom’s heart sadly, a lot time ago, and I wasn’t able to do much to repair it in the meanwhile, but…”.

He brought you closer to him, with a loose arm, which made you both seem the picture of awkwardness, but it was enough convincing for Eric.

“… but we are together, now…”.

“… in a way” you added, before moving closer to Eric with a serious look “… and somebody is way past his bath time!”.

And Eric tried to protest a bit more, but eventually he let go, and you switched off the main light, leaving only the one on the bedside table, as Ivar continued on softly combing his hair, something that eventually got Eric to breath out softly, signaling he was asleep.

And Ivar had to leave.

Although you could see he didn’t want to.

And you couldn’t deny him, truly.

“… would you like to lay down for a bit with us?” you asked softly, as you settled on the opposite side of him “… he seems happier and calmer when you are beside him”.

“I never thought somebody would have said that” he commented with a light twinkle in his eyes “… you won’t mind if I stay?”.

You shook your head, telling yourself that it was just for tonight.

It was just for one night.

And then you’d go back to normality.

Sadly.

---

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#Ivar #Ivar The Boneless #Ivar Reader #Ivar The Boneless Reader #Ivar x Reader #Ivar The Boneless x Reader #Ivar Imagine #Ivar The Boneless Imagine #Ivar Fic #Ivar The Boneless Fic #Ivar Fluff #Ivar Angst #Modern! Ivar #Vikings #History Vikings #Vikings Imagine

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purity-town · 3 years

Text

Little late getting to these -- that's fully the fault of a class project I spent all of Monday/Tuesday and most of Wednesday working on -- but I finished my project and wrote up some long replies to these!

(Apologies for any funny formatting -- I'm trying out the beta for the new post editor!)

Absolutely not.

Nope! There are a few people who do know (other guides Andrew's met before, the Dryad, and I'd imagine the Witch Doctor knows something's up even if he doesn't know why), but none of them live in Purity Town proper, and the Dryad and Witch Doctor aren't the kind to participate in rumors or spread what isn't theirs to share. The old man is also aware just because he and Andrew have talked about their curses, but he's 1) not currently in town and 2) not going to share even if he were.

Most folks don't know much about Andrew in general; Becca probably knows the most out of the townsfolk, knowing a little bit about his family and where he's from (he has some pretty specific skills as a hunter that betray this, but he doesn't talk about his exact town of birth), but no specifics and certainly not time periods.

Andrew is good at keeping things quiet; he has to be.

I would actually appreciate if you didn't post to Pinterest -- usually I'm fine with people reposting with credit (several of the things I've posted to my DeviantArt have found their way to Instagram, for example) but Pinterest has something of a reputation for stolen art (things being reposted from another Pinterest post without credit this time, or credit being hard to view for users not logged in or just viewing through Google). So reposting elsewhere is fine (though if you repost to Reddit or Instagram, tag me at u/Ariibees or @Ariibees)! I'd just prefer my works stay off of Pinterest.

The terminology related to The Guide/Andrew/The Guardian/The World’s Core/The WoF is all confusing because on some level, they’re all the same being. Kind of like trying to talk about Jekyll and Hyde -- same guy, different looks/actions, haha.

For all intents and purposes, references to the WoF being the barrier/core/whatever behind or within which the spirits of light and dark are contained is equivalent to saying “these spirits are held trapped by the magic of the Guardian, who when summoned appears as the WoF.” I do break slightly from the official lore in how the WoF/Guardian/thing holding back these spirits works (mostly because I don’t really like the idea that the Hallow is a “temporary guardian” or whatever), but the basic concept of “these are trapped by [thing that makes up the WoF]” remains unchanged.

If “loony cultist” is a reference to something, I’m so sorry, but I’m lost on it. If you’re just talking about the lunatic cultist in a funny way, then yes, they’re in here as a very plot-significant character!

I had to google what meme you were talking about, but it did make me laugh.

Andrew’s most annoyed by the nickname because people do like to call him Guide, and for someone who’s dedicated his whole life to his role, it can get tiring. He doesn’t really *mind* being called Guide -- it’s fine, that’s what he is and as long as people are respectful of his job he’ll take what he can get -- but at the same time, he’d like for people to stop thinking “Aah! Monster!” or “Weird academic know-it-all” and just...treat him like a normal person sometimes. So he fights to be called Andrew. And...Malik comes along and gives him a nickname that he doesn’t like and doesn’t allow others to use, save for maybe a small group of people of which Malik is not a part. So, not cool, man!

People love to overcomplicate explaining shading/lighting, and if you wanted to you could certainly go on and on about reflections of light off the ground and shading colors and all sorts of things, but as I’m writing this at 1 AM I don’t really care to.

If you really want to get into shading, I see nice ones on DeviantArt or Tumblr from time to time, or you can always watch a YouTube video on it. Really, though, just keep at it, think about how the shadows should look and work, and you'll get better at it eventually and pick up new ideas on how it all works. (And this is coming from someone who is new to making comics and actually started as a painter.)

Purity Town’s shading comes down to this: simplicity. As much as I’d love to spend hours and hours redrawing the panels I don’t like and carefully shading every fold of fabric and painting detailed backgrounds, I’m a full-time college student and will be working full-time over the summer -- I don’t have the time. So, I cut corners: I reuse backgrounds or use brushes (see: bricks, trees, clouds) that make certain details easier, and I try not to obsess too much over panels I’m not fully happy with. Shadows go where they feel right, and light on the opposite side.

For shading, this comes down to making things quick and easy. For these last few pages, character shading/lighting has only been five layers. One hard light layer for the bluer soft shadows, one overlay layer for darker soft shadows, one linear burn layer for hard shadows, one soft light layer for soft lighting, and one overlay layer for hard lighting. I’ll often also make use of glow dodge layers for lighting, or change the color balance or add more hard/soft light layers if there’s a very heavy color filter on the scene (such as a celestial event, blood moon, or outdoors at night).

Using all the different layer types is essentially a cheat code to fancier lighting -- don’t want to use flat black? Boom, hard light or overlay or burn will give you colored shadows. Want to make your light brighter? Glow dodge will make it burn your retinas.

Sorry that this isn’t a very comprehensive guide, but in my mind, shading and lighting is really something that you pick up over time and it’s hard to sit down and write a guide for it without making it into a massive essay on art theory that I don't even know proper terminology for because I'm not an art student. Of course with some googling you’ll find *proper* guides for this sort of thing from art majors and the likes, and those can be super helpful and technical! But for Purity Town, I just sort of go with what feels right and what's easy to replicate.

Firstly, I’m happy to hear you’re liking the comic!

Secondly, those buttons are actually there due to the theme! (For those on mobile who can’t see it, I have the theme set to only display on desktop as I prefer the current mobile layout on phone.) I’m using the simple webcomic theme (a quick Google should tell you how to install it for yourself) -- except I’m not actually using it for the webcomic features; rather, it’s a case of “this is the most simple, nice-looking non-default theme I could find.”

The previous/next buttons are added by the theme with the intent that the blog is being used as a typical webcomic website, with nothing but comic pages being posted. However, I post asks and other art here too, and I do so with the intent that people looking at #Terraria or their dashboards in general will see it. So...I use html formatting to make the first/previous/next/last links, along with an index and chapter-by-chapter viewing (using /tagged/chapter##/chrono) so that no matter where you’re coming from, you can still navigate just the pages!

If you want to add just the previous/next buttons, I can’t really help you -- web development is not my area of study in the slightest. But you can check out the theme that they come from and if you want to install only them, you can surely find a tutorial on it somewhere!

(As a side note, the comments section is not from the theme, it’s from a site called Disqus. I don’t expect many people, if anyone, to leave comments, but since I link back to this site a lot and many folks don’t have Tumblr accounts, it’s an option I like to make available.)

Hiya! My hike was pretty nice; it was a short and easy one, but that was quite appreciated as the trail is unmaintained from November to April, and the trail was covered in fallen trees and quite rocky. Still had fun, though!

And for backgrounds, it depends! For indoors scenes (or outdoors scenes with buildings) I don’t tend to use references, outside of looking up things like “which side of a door is the handle on.” I will, however, integrate real-life textures (see: the quilt and rug in Guide’s house, the wood walls on the building in the background of this week’s page), and paint over paintings from the Terraria wiki.

For outdoors scenes, for simple backgrounds (such as foliage-heavy) ones, I typically don’t need references. I like the difference between detailed, lined indoor/man-made object scenes vs. painted, messy outdoor scenes. But for things like mountains, I do sometimes look up references to help with color choices and the likes.

The town’s layout is a bit strange in that depending on the scene, the background could be drastically different. One side of town faces more mountainside, one side faces the orchards/open hillside, and the other two sides face various degrees of open space and more mountainside/forest. References taken on top of mountains are helpful to get an idea of what degree of foliage I should include between the characters and the sky.

Though this is very specific to the town of Purity -- other towns/villages will have significantly different-looking backgrounds, even the foliage-heavy ones.

That said, what's even more helpful than looking at photos is looking at paintings. Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron is really good for getting an idea of how to draw grasslands and distant mountains, plus Studio Ghibli movies in general!

#purity town #pt asks #terraria #not an update

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shireness-says · 4 years

Text

A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink (1/4)

Summary: Two people are trained from childhood for a magical competition they don't fully understand, whose stakes are higher than they imagine, all to be played out in a magical traveling circus. Falling in love complicates things. A CS AU of the book “The Night Circus”.

Rated M. ~15.2K. Also on AO3.

A/N: Presenting my contribution to the @cssns! “The Night Circus” by Erin Morgenstern is a favorite book of mine that I have long thought would make for an excellent CS AU. And so, I’m finally doing it. At length.

I was incredibly lucky to be paired with @eirabach for this event, who created the beautiful art attached above. She has such amazing ideas for bringing this fic to life in all its atmospheric glory that I never would have thought of. Her art is also posted on her tumblr; go give it all the love it deserves!

Thanks also go to @snidgetsafan, my ever-phenomenal beta, and @ohmightydevviepuu, who read the book at my urging and then agreed to read my monster to make sure nothing important was left out. This fic is better for both their efforts.

Tagging the usual suspects for now. If you want to be added to (or removed from!) this list, just shoot me a message: @welllpthisishappening, @profdanglaisstuff, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells

Enjoy - and let me know what you think! Next chapter will be posted whenever I get it done.

~~~~~

The circus arrives at night.

There is never any warning of its arrival; no handbills stuck to the lampposts or announcement from some other lucky town that yours will be next. It is simply there one morning, all the black and white tents taking on a particularly mystical quality in the light of the sunrise. At the front gate is a sign:

Le Cirque des Rêves

Open sunset until sunrise

(And what a curious idea, that; a circus that is only open at night.)

The circus is a place where anything can happen, and routinely does. Those who visit leave with an awareness that no street-side carnival or traveling minstrel will ever induce such enjoyment again; everything must naturally pale in comparison. The illusionist is somehow more magical, the fortune-teller more wise, the contortionists and acrobats more daring. The world of the circus, created all in black and white and silver and lit by delicate lanterns and a great bonfire at its center, feels otherworldly - and you somehow feel that it just might be.

In a word, the circus is magic, brought to life right in front of your eyes, and you know you will never be the same for having witnessed it.

Our story does not begin at the circus, however; it only ends there.

———

Our story begins in the back corner of a smoky tavern, or a grimy alley, or a dimly lit dressing room of a theater, or any number of other places that exist in-between the rest of humanity, overlooked, utterly invisible in their mundanity.

(In truth, it does not matter where our story begins - only that it does.)

A woman sits in a darkened corner. More attentive observers might recognize her as the famed stage magician, Circe the Enchantress, capable of tricks beyond their wildest imagination.

(Even the most observant wouldn’t realize that all of Circe’s “tricks” are gloriously real; the human mind is excellent at not seeing things that it doesn’t want to acknowledge.)

(The most observant won’t notice the way she purposefully draws the shadows further around herself, either, just to ensure that the rest of humanity around her can’t penetrate the curtain of dark.)

Circe isn’t her real name, of course; it just sounds good on a playbill, capable of attracting people from far and wide. These days, she goes by Regina Mills, though there’s been other names before that: Corwin and King and Bowen and Smith. Names aren’t much of a concern for those as old as she, just another passing distraction when you’ve witnessed hundreds of years.

Hundreds of years don’t make the waiting any easier when the person you’re expecting can’t bother to arrive on time.

“You’re late,” she comments drily when her companion finally arrives, a slight man with a slighter limp. They may as well be a study in opposites; where Regina plays with shadow to avoid notice, he’s draped himself in a spell that causes an observer’s eyes to glance away without seeing; while Regina tries on names like hats over the decades and centuries, changing with every whim, her companion has allowed his own moniker to become lost to time, known only now to very few and only as Mr. Gold.

“Au contraire, dearie,” he replies mildly, though the irritated glint in his eye would terrify anyone else. “I arrived exactly when I needed to. What is time to those like us, anyhow?”

“A convenient construct that keeps those you have appointments with from waiting around for any longer than they have to.”

Mr. Gold studiously ignores the quip. “Why did you ask me here tonight, Regina?”

“I’m in the mood for a game,” she says, faux-casually. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper competition.”

“Ah yes,” her companion smirks. “If I remember right, my contestant defeated yours last time.”

“On a technicality,” Regina corrects through gritted teeth.

“In this world of absolutes, I often find a technicality is all it takes to shift the balance. And magic, true power… that’s the greatest technicality of them all.”

“I’m rather less inclined to deal in technicalities, at least where the matter of starting a new game is involved,” Regina snaps. Any minute shred of patience or humor she might have possessed is long since gone, even if her companion remains unruffled. “It really boils down to: do you want to, or not?”

“Never let it be said I turn down a challenge, dearie.” This time, it’s impossible to miss the menace behind the supposed endearment. “In fact, I’d say you were the one being… shall we say, vague about the details of this all. Do you have a venue in mind? Or are you leaving that particular bit up to me?”

Regina waves a dismissive hand. “Do as you will. You know I’m not much interested in that, anyways.”

“You never did understand the importance of setting.”

“Perhaps I simply have faith that my contestant will prevail regardless.”

That piques Gold’s interest. “You already have a candidate in mind, then?”

“And fully anticipate taking them as a student, yes. I suppose you’ll want to be there to bind them to the competition?”

“You know me well.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” Regina mutters under her breath. They both know, however, that Mr. Gold hears the words regardless.

Carefully, the man in question stands from the table, supporting himself on a gilt-ended cane. Any limp that might necessitate such an accessory has long since been corrected; some things are more about the effect, anyways. “If there’s nothing else, Regina, I have other matters to attend to.”

“I expect you do,” Regina smirks. “After all, I’ve already spotted my player, and you’ve yet to find yours.”

“That is true,” Gold concedes with a deceptive mildness. “But remember, dearie: it isn’t about how the game starts, or when, or where. It’s about where it ends. And I have full confidence my acolyte will be able to last the distance.”

With their business concluded, both magicians fade back into the night. Pedestrians continue along the streets, occasionally interrupted by a horse and carriage, all unaware of the true nature of the beings weaving through their midst.

(Dozens of lives have been altered with this ten minute conversation, but the world at large will never know that either.)

———

Emma Swan spends a lot of time by herself.

That’s to be expected, in some ways; she’s an orphan, after all, having spent all 6 years of her life bouncing between begging in the children’s homes and begging on the streets, desperate for the help of others and receiving very little of it.

But Emma is different, in a way that scares others and has left her to bounce around for years. Emma can do things that others can’t do, like the sparks that dance between her fingers and all the little things that sometimes move, falling off shelves and tables and everything else, whenever she’s upset. She can’t control it, not really, and in a life like hers, there are far too many opportunities to be upset.

A lady had seen her the other day - one of the fancy ladies by the theaters, the kind that usually pretend they don’t see Emma, like her very existence might dirty their skirts. Emma hadn’t meant to - she never means for these things to happen. But the days are getting colder, and when she really starts to shiver, even with her arms curled around herself to conserve heat, sometimes the little sparks just happen. It’s like whatever this thing is is just trying to keep her warm too.

And no one should have seen her, tucked away in that corner, but the lady is already looking around with a frown on her face like she’s searching for something, and when she turns Emma’s way, it just happens. The lady’s eyes focus on Emma, drawn by those little shoots of light, even as she shoves her hands into her armpits. Emma expects gasping, or screaming, or maybe even a panicked shout for the police - it wouldn’t be the first time - but instead, the lady just tilts her head and narrows her eyes, as if she’s seen something interesting. Then she nods abruptly and leaves.

Emma doesn’t expect to see the lady again - indeed, she rather thinks she’s dodged a bullet. But a week later, she rounds the corner with a filched apple and runs straight into the lady.

“Sorry, Ma’am,” Emma mumbles, ducking her head and trying to scoot around the older woman. When the lady darts out an elegant hand to grab Emma’s arm and hold her in place, panic courses through her veins. “Please, Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear —”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” the lady snaps, tugging Emma into the mouth of an unnaturally quiet alley. “I don’t care about whatever you ‘didn’t do’. I want to talk about what you did the other day.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Emma mumbles, staring studiously at her feet.

“Of course you do - the lights, in your hands. Don’t lie to me. That’s a gift, don’t you know that?”

Emma shakes her head no.

“Your gift - it can do wonderful things. It makes you special.”

“I’m not special.”

The lady considers that for a moment before answering. “No. But you could be. I could teach you.”

Now that catches Emma’s attention. “You can? How?”

“I can do things like that too,” the lady explains with a smile that seems more smug than pleased. Sure enough, when the lady turns her hand upright, a small ball of flame burns there. Emma’s eyes practically bulge out of her head as she watches that little lick of fire - like her own, in so many ways.

“If you come with me, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” the lady says. It sounds like an order, not an offer; Emma knows how to recognize those. Still, maybe…

“Like a mother?” she asks hopefully, even if she knows that’s unlikely.

The lady scrunches her nose in a kind of instinctual disgust. It’s about as much as Emma expected. “Heavens, no. Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds. “No, more like… you’d be my apprentice, and I’d teach you our trade.”

That seems odd to Emma; this lady, with her fancy dress and her fancy hat and her posh accent, doesn’t seem like the type who should have to work. “What’s your work?”

For the first time this whole conversation, the lady bends down to properly meet Emma’s eyes. Emma straightens a bit at the gesture, already able to tell she’s about to impart something important. “Magic,” the woman tells her with a smug, adult kind of smile.

“Magic isn’t real,” Emma says back, almost automatically. Six years in orphanages and left to her own devices have long since proved there are no fairy godmothers in this world, not for little girls like her.

The woman straightens. “The bits of it you have dancing around your fingers right now say otherwise.”

Emma looks down in horror to see it again - the sparks that she tries so hard to hide, that give her so much trouble. For all the mad things this lady says, she’s the first to not look at the display in alarm or even fear.

“You can make it go away?”

“I can teach you to control it,” the lady corrects, “and so much more. I’m offering you the chance of a lifetime, Emma. Don’t be such a fool as to reject that.”

And even at six, Emma is not a fool.

Emma goes with the lady, who she learns is called Regina. She never learns how Regina knew her name, but writes it off as magic.

(There are far worse fates for lost girls like her.)

———

Emma has been with Regina for a week when the strange man shows up backstage at the theater where Regina is performing.

One week isn’t a lot of time in the grand scheme of an apprenticeship, but her teacher is guiding Emma to recognize magic in the world - the way it pulls toward Emma like an odd kind of magnet and traces linger in the air for hours. Emma has learned to see the faint, radiating glow of magic around her own mentor; this man doesn’t quite have the same glow, but there’s a hum that emanates from him that she thinks might be the same thing.

Regina introduces the man as a friend, but Emma doesn’t think that’s quite right. She’s always had a knack for recognizing lies - maybe that’s a kind of magic, she wonders now - and her benefactor isn’t quite telling the truth. Maybe that’s one of the half-lies that adults tell, when they think the truth is too difficult for a child to comprehend.

Regardless of what the man might be - friend, foe, acquaintance, something else altogether - Emma can’t help but feel uncomfortable under his piercing gaze. The sparks burst and dance around her fingertips again, entirely without her say-so - something the man quickly notices.

“You’ve found a natural talent, then?” The words are addressed at Regina, but his eyes never leave Emma.

“I told you I had someone in mind,” Regina bites back, just barely on the right side of civility. “Now, if you don’t mind, I don’t have all day.”

“Patience was never your strong suit, was it, Regina?” The man’s tone is mild, but his eyes flash with displeasure. Still, he crouches in front of Emma, granting her his full attention. Though he carries a cane, the movement doesn’t appear to pain him in the way she expects. “What do they call you, young miss?”

She doesn’t particularly want to answer, but Regina has a particular look in her eye that says that she doesn’t really have a choice. “Emma,” she finally mumbles, avoiding the man’s eyes.

“Emma,” he parrots back. “What a lovely name. May I see your hand, Emma?”

Silently, she offers it, palm facing up. Once she does so, the man slips a plain gold ring off his pinky finger, sliding it onto Emma’s own ring finger instead. Curiously, Emma looks at the bauble; it is far too loose on her small finger at first, but as she watches, the band shrinks to fit until it’s a perfect fit. It doesn’t stop though, continuing to tighten and tighten until the metal sears into her skin, burning the flesh until she cries out in pain and tears spring to her eyes.

And then it’s over. The mysterious man lifts her hand with deceptively soft and delicate fingers, removing that awful ring from her digit to slip it back onto his own.

“You’ll do well, Emma.” The name almost sounds like an insult in his cold voice. “I wish you good fortune.”

(Emma doesn’t notice the item wrapped in a handkerchief Regina passes to the odd man, never realizes that it contains a silver ring to match the one he just used on her, too focused on rubbing at the smooth, scarred skin on her finger where the odd man’s ring just branded her and trying to chase the memory of pain away. One day, she will understand the way that this moment and that ring bound her to a future she didn’t fully understand.

But today, Emma is six, and all she knows is that her finger hurts.)

“You don’t want to do this yourself?” Mr. Gold asks, tucking the handkerchief and ring into his inner breast pocket.

“Obviously not. I’m not nearly as mistrusting as you are,” Regina replies.

(One day soon, Mr. Gold knows he will have cause to execute this binding on a student of his own. It does not matter much to him whether Regina is present for such a binding, though he thinks her a fool for her own sake. After all, knowledge is power - and there is no power greater than knowing your opponent.)

———

A strange man comes to Killian’s school on a Wednesday when he is eight, the kind of day where everything is shifting and changing.

(School is a generous word for this place, as none of the children ever leave, no homes or families to return to at the end of the day. Killian has a brother, three years older, but their mother is long dead. As for their father… as Liam says, the less said about the bastard, the better. There is a reason the two boys have found themselves in this children’s home by any other name.)

The man doesn’t say much, and explains even less. A selection of children, three boys and two girls - including Killian and Liam - are pulled from their regular classes and made to sit for an exam, only instructed to read all the instructions before beginning. The man must have money; the test is printed, each letter pressed in black ink onto the crisp page. It feels like a silly use of money, at least to Killian - he’d much rather use it at one of the concession vendors down by the river - but it’s impressive all the same. The test itself is not fully any one subject; there are translations of languages he doesn’t understand and number puzzles and a curious instruction at the end to only answer questions numbered in multiples of three. At the very end - question 57 - is a short answer question: Why do you think you are here today, and why are you taking this test?

Killian looks around the room at the other children, all diligently working on their own exams. There’s no obvious connector between the five children in the room; Liam has always been brilliant, but Killian is a middling student, and the other boy even lower than that. Some of them are known as quiet and well behaved, but some are not. Some are leaders, some are followers. There’s no obvious pattern.

As to why he’s taking this test… it’s obvious that the man must want to evaluate something, but Killian can’t begin to understand what. As far as his young brain can discern, the exam is about recognizing patterns and following directions. He couldn’t even begin to figure out why.

Killian stares at the space for his answer for what feels like hours. Even after nearly three years in this home, or perhaps because of it, he still has a strong desire to please, to give adults the answers they want to hear; in this case, he just doesn’t know what that is. Finally, as the other children start to put down their pencils, he hurriedly scrawls an answer.

Does it really matter?

After the exams are collected, the children are called in to speak with the man, one by one. None of the conversations are very long, and each trails out with a look of confusion on their face afterwards. Killian tries to catch Liam’s eye as his brother leaves the headmistress’ office, but Liam just furrows his brow and shrugs his shoulders in confusion.

The man holds Killian’s test in his hands when he finally enters the office, appearing to examine his answers. The man is perfectly ordinary in every way; neither short nor tall, thin nor fat, with hair that is not quite brown or blond or grey. The only thing that sets him apart is his clothing - the expensive suit, the perfectly shined shoes, the gold-tipped cane.

“Does it really matter?” the man quips, diving straight in and obviously quoting Killian’s own response.

Killian swallows heavily; he wouldn’t have written that in the first place if he knew this was coming. “Sir?”

“Your answer,” he expands, as if that needs clarifying. “I’d be curious to hear why you gave that particular answer.”

Killian flushes and looks at his shoes, but the man just waits until he finally answers. “It was obvious you had a reason for having us sit that exam,” he finally explains, “and I had no idea why that was. I didn’t want to guess.”

“You could have left it blank,” the man points out. “Several of the others did. Why the question?”

Killian shrugs. “I wanted to know.” Then, when the silence stretches out between them: “Was that wrong?”

The man stares in silence for a moment longer, before shaking his head. “I would like to take you on as my student,” he declares. When Killian hesitates, his tone turns sharp. “Are you opposed to that?”

“What about my brother?” Killian asks, meeker than he’d like.

“I am only interested in taking one student.” His words are dismissive, bordering on uncaring, and Killian’s stomach plummets.

“But what will happen to him? He’s the only thing I have left.”

“I’m more interested in what happens to you, particularly in relation to my offer, than in your brother.”

In a burst of courage (or, he’ll think in later years, foolishness), Killian pulls himself together to make a fateful declaration. “I’ll go with you… but only if you send Liam - send my brother to school.”

“This is a school.”

“A good school,” Killian clarifies. “The best one. One that will let him do anything he wants when he’s grown up.”

There’s a pause as the mystery man seems to study Killian, though his face gives nothing away. Killian’s heart climbs into his throat as he waits, but he holds his ground. That seems important, somehow - like he’s engaging in some kind of unknown battle. Finally, after what seems an eternity, the odd man tilts his head in a half shrug, as if such a concession is nothing to him. Who knows; with the kind of money he obviously has, maybe it really is nothing. “We have a deal. Go get your things - we leave today.”

(Months later, after many lessons that Killian doesn’t yet understand, the man - Mr. Gold - has Killian place a ring on his finger, a loop of silver that burns a band of flesh on his thumb. A binding, Mr. Gold calls it, tying Killian to a contest that he does not yet understand.

However, it is this transaction - Liam’s education for Killian’s own - that binds him far sooner and better than magic ever could.)

———

Magic, Emma finds, is a thread upon the breeze - swirling around them all, lighting upon branches and settling into corners, just waiting to be noticed and harnessed. And Emma does - she feels it, and knows it, and asks it for favors. Dye the dress. Fold the sheet. Heal the dove. The magic deigns to come and wind through her fingers, grip a thread and pull and alter the world to her liking.

Magic, she finds, is whimsy and wildness all in one, there for her to use and set free once again. Magic is power, more than she will ever wield; her role is but to borrow and return, like a toy set neatly back on a shelf.

Magic, she finds, is a living thing all its own, and if she works very hard, she just might earn its trust.

Emma grows to enjoy a better childhood than she ever expected before Regina took her off the streets, though it is far from gentle. It is a childhood spent moving from place to place, hopping all over Europe and even to the Americas as Regina performs in theaters around the world. Regina demands nothing less than perfection in their lessons, and Emma grows used to performing the same tasks over and over until her mentor is satisfied - turning tea cups into mice and materializing all manner of objects from unseen rooms and healing her fingertips from where Regina slices the skin with a knife, each scar a supposed indication that she’s not trying hard enough.

But in time, Emma learns and she grows. At 18, Regina deems her skills honed enough to rent her out as a medium, calling upon Emma’s skills to rattle dishes and peer into people’s deepest, saddest thoughts to echo back just what they want to hear. Emma hates every moment of it - lying to people already wracked with grief, taking their money and offering them little satisfaction. She tries to comfort the bereaved as best she can in these sessions, but it’s often of little use. Emma may dread these hollow performances, but what choice does she have? As long as she’s under Regina’s tutelage and protection, Emma’s choices are not her own.

(She may not know nearly as much about this competition as she should, but Emma longs for the beginning of the contest all the same, if only to finally crawl out from underneath Regina’s thumb.)

———

Magic, Killian finds, is a well of ink, the feeling of satisfaction deep within him when pen births onto page the perfect word, a descriptor for all the things he knew but could never say. It takes hours and years of study, but Killian learns all the ways to channel that pool - each spell, each rune, each intricate bit of charmwork. Magic is hard, but Mr. Gold says all power worth having is; besides, Killian has always been diligent.

(The lessons are much more interesting than his regular schoolwork, anyways.)

Magic, he learns, is there, if one just knows how to look for it. Most people will go their entire lives without being aware of that; he’s special to have learned. Knowing opens a whole universe of possibility; after that, it’s all down to technique, and finding the right language to channel it.

Magic, he finds, is a tool, and if he works very hard, he just might be able to harness it to his will.

Killian’s childhood is a regimented one, filled with books and careful note taking, mastering the theory and principle of every bit of magic he encounters before being allowed to put it to use. As the years stack up, his head fills with runes and symbols and all manner of magical words, like another language he’s slowly become fluent in. In time, Killian learns to piece all of it together into a powerful language only known to a select few - words that can make things happen, that can alter the very world around them. The language of magic, at its very core.

Mr. Gold may be a distant mentor, not prone to affection and rarely even telling Killian he’s proud or pleased, but he keeps his word. Liam attends the best boys’ school that money can secure, impressing his teachers with his innate curiosity and intelligence and making a whole host of friends who are happy to host him on school holidays. Once a month, Mr. Gold takes Killian to see Liam, or brings Liam to see Killian, all with a transport more efficient than any train or carriage. In between, the brothers gladly fill the weeks with exchanged letters, keeping one another apprised of their lives. Killian had told Liam about this arrangement from the beginning - the magic, the competition he’ll one day engage in - and his older brother offers all the pride that Killian doesn’t receive from his mentor. It’s not the path that either anticipated following as children, but it’s a much better life than either expected. There’s a lot to be grateful for.

As Killian grows into a man and learns how to study independently, his enigmatic teacher leaves him to his own devices. Killian prefers it that way, really; though he’s always been grateful for the mysterious, once in a lifetime opportunity he’s been offered, Killian has never been close to his benefactor, not by a long shot. There’s a feeling that hangs over every interaction that he’s never been able to shake, that he owes Mr. Gold in ways he’ll never fully understand. It’s never made for an easy relationship.

Besides, he likes his independence. He is granted a little flat in a quiet and respectable part of the city, with room for a library and a pretty view of a nearby park. It’s more than an orphan like him ever imagined he could have before this opportunity fell in his lap. There are moments of loneliness, but no more than he’s grown used to in youth; besides, as adults, Liam drops by for conversation and a nightcap far more frequently. It’s a little life he’s carved out for himself, with his notebooks and spellbooks and everything in its place, even as he continues the interminable wait for a contest he still barely knows anything about.

It’s all the more surprising, then, when one day the knock at his front door reveals none other but his teacher, as neatly turned out as ever and utterly unexpected.

“Won’t you come in?” Killian asks, stepping aside in welcome. He doesn’t much expect the invitation to be accepted, but he asks all the same; he’s used to interactions with his teacher being strictly business.

Sure enough: “That won’t be necessary. This will only be a moment.” Gold’s tone might generously be described as brusque, if Killian was in a mood to be so generous. He’s not, particularly.

“What can I do for you, then?”

“A Mr. Jefferson Madigan will be seeking a secretary and assistant,” Gold tells him, handing over someone else’s calling card. “You will apply for that position.”

It’s an odd command; Killian’s benefactor has never cultivated much of an opinion about his life of study and leisure up to this point. But suddenly, it clicks. “Is this about the challenge?”

“Mr. Madigan and his companions will be creating a venue.” Technically, it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial, but over the years, Killian has learned to read those answers as well as any book. It’s an affirmative. “It will be to your advantage to become part of that circle.”

“I understand,” Killian nods gravely.

“Make sure that you do.”

Killian looks down to examine the address on the calling card, and by the time he looks up again, Gold is gone. His teacher does that, he’s learned - found a way to move through the world while barely leaving a mark upon it. With the conversation clearly over, Killian closes his flat door.

(All the while, a metaphorical door of possibility has been thrown wide open.)

———

Mr. Jefferson Madigan may be the man for whom the word eccentric was crafted.

The townhouse is only a townhouse in the aristocratic sense of the word, more an elaborate and enormous monolith situated in town than just a normal dwelling. The door knocker is cast in the shape of two dragons, and curtains in a variety of different and garish colors peek through the window. At the bottom of what are otherwise staid, conventional stone steps are marble statues of a rabbit and a dormouse where regal lions might usually be.

It all makes sense when the man himself opens the door. While Killian has taken care to dress neatly in a trim, dark colored suit and tie, making his best attempt at the appearance of professionalism, Madigan is a riot of colors and patterns that Killian isn’t entirely certain match, but seem fitting all the same. Behind him, the entry hall is decorated in a jewel-tone blue with golden patterns and baseboards, but that makes a little more sense now that Killian has seen the man himself.

“Are you here about the vaudeville acts? Because I’m afraid that we’re rather moved on from that idea,” he says without introduction, words tumbling one right over the other in a jumble.

“I… No,” Killian manages to stutter out. A question like that has a way of putting a man off-guard. “I was led to believe you were in need of a secretary or assistant?”

“Ah. That makes more sense.” Mr. Madigan nods as if to cement it in his head. “Have you done that kind of work before?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, that’s fine, I’ve never had a secretary before either.” By the look on his face, Madigan would be much more comfortable conducting an interview for a vaudeville actor than a secretary. “Then can you… I don’t know. Read and write and do sums? File things? I don’t think I’ve ever filed something in my life,” he mutters to himself.

“Yes, Sir. To all of it.”

“Well then good, you’re hired. Do you think I need to be filing things? It’s something I’ve never really thought about before.”

Jefferson, as he prefers to be called (“Don’t even try that Mr. Madigan nonsense, I won’t answer to it.”), is planning a circus - what Killian imagines is the venue he’s heard about for a decade and a half. And it sounds magnificent the way Jefferson describes it - something otherworldly. More an entire sensory experience than just a show, spanning dozens of tents and food stands and performers scattered across the grounds. The way he envisions it, the endeavor is more experience than anything else - simultaneously a performance space and a theater and a zoo and a venue for all kinds of edible delicacies. Perhaps carnival would be the better word, but Jefferson insists on circus.

“There’s a sense of mystery to the word, Killian,” he decrees while jotting down what is doubtless another half-baked idea on the back of a receipt. “Anyone can hold a carnival, but a circus… marvelous, magical things happen at the circus. It will look better in the papers anyways.”

(Killian will need to do so much filing to keep all this in order.)

It quickly becomes obvious that Jefferson is primarily an ideas man - and while his ideas are spectacular in so many ways, he needs assistance in bringing those ideas to life. It’s immediately obvious why he needs an assistant; for a man who spends so much of his time with his head in the clouds, lost in ideals and fanciful imagining, it’s hard to manage the practicalities of the day-to-day implementation.

There are investors of course, men who flit in and out of the planning at will as if just to make sure that their money is actually being used properly. Killian isn’t fully surprised to see his mentor is one of them; doubtless, that’s how he knew to direct Killian to Jefferson’s door in the first place. He doubts that anyone else truly remembers the man, however; Killian has long since learned to recognize the cloak of forgetability his teacher likes to draw around himself.

(There are different kinds of power, Killian has learned over the years - the kind that comes from everyone knowing what you can do, and the kind that comes from no one knowing what you can do.)

Killian learns that he is a late addition, comparatively speaking; a small collection of people have already been met on the matter, creating a small stack of roughly sketched plans that he’s sure will inevitably grow by the day. Jefferson holds a reputation, Killian has learned, for a series of elaborate late-night soirées known only as Midnight Dinners, famously exclusive events with over a dozen exotic courses and unmatched entertainments. Jefferson is a producer by trade, an entertainer in every bit of his being, and these private entertainments may be the pinnacle of his accomplishments.

(Or may have been, at least; Killian has a feeling that this circus he envisions may surpass anything else.)

The circus is born at one of these dinners - an intimate one, with only five attendees, handpicked by Jefferson as the men and women necessary to bring his vision to life. The vaguest outline was sketched that first night, tacked to the walls in the emerald green study Jefferson has set aside especially for the circus and its plans. Already, there is a stack of opened envelopes on a side table, filled with ideas the other attendees simply couldn’t hold onto until the next meeting.

They’re an interesting collection, certainly. Madame Constance Blue is a former opera singer who’s found a second career in fashion. Her eye for color and aesthetic is fabled as being unmatched - a talent she brings to this endeavor to create a cohesive environment that looks like another world on the outskirts of the city. Elsa and Anna Frost are a pair of sisters, socialites who have tried a little bit of everything, from a stint in the ballet and art school to a time as librarians they will only speak about after great persuasion. Where Madame Blue may create a visual environment for the circus, the Misses Frost are experts on the feel - all of the rest of those details from the positioning of signage to the very scents in the air, those details that so few consider but still manage to sell or doom an experience. Their little group, most meetings, is rounded out by Mr. August Booth, an architect and engineer by trade, who draws up marvelous plans for each tent and attraction. All of it embodies an elegant simplicity centered around a series of circles, one curve bleeding into another in a way that feels organic, nearly living. It makes the straight black and white stripes of the tents all the more striking in contrast to this world of elegant curves. One contributor’s work bleeds into the other, all with Jefferson at the helm to lend his ideas of what kinds of things should be presented, creating a venue that feels like a realization of all their dreams.

(The last attendee, Mr. Gold - who betrays no indication that he and Killian are even remotely acquainted - has no particular, obvious specialty that he lends to the endeavor. In fact, he barely seems to speak and is nearly forgotten in the rest of the bustle of the Circus Dinners. Somehow, though, even if no one can put their finger on what exactly Mr. Gold does, it is agreed that his contributions are essential, and that everything runs smoother and more productively at those few dinners he does attend.)

(He is always referred to by surname; though the other attendees are certain they were told his first name upon first introduction, they have no memory of what that moniker might be, and decide it would be rude to ask. )

With each dinner, the Circus fleshes out a little bit more, each piece carefully filed away so it can all fit together later. There are designs for the gates and August’s wonderful blueprints for the butterfly tents and lists of confections that must be offered. As time keeps churning forward, the members of their little dinner group increasingly start to travel, seeking out the perfect craftsmen and performers and creators to bring this endeavor to life. There are acrobats training in France and an intricate clock being crafted in Germany and Jefferson and Killian will be travelling to Scotland next week to see about a pair of big cat trainers as August travels to Austria to see about some trained horses.

But tonight, they’re all here for dinner, and there’s an unexpected guest at the door. A tall, slender woman, who claims to be a sword swallower.

“What’s the harm?” Jefferson asks when Killian informs him cautiously, sweeping his arm in a grand motion. The Circus Dinners are exclusive, and nearly sacred, but she’s here about the circus. And Jefferson has always been generous by nature. “Show her in, Jones, we’ll set another plate at the table.”

The woman introduces herself as Mulan - no second name, and no indication whether that’s her given name or surname. As the clock strikes midnight and the first plates are brought out, she climbs the low dais usually reserved for a pianist and begins her demonstration.

And it is so much more than just a sword swallowing act. Mulan moves with an almost supernatural grace, whirling her blades in an intricate and deadly dance. She tosses her swords and balances them on the tips of fingers and the ridge of her chin. And she does send the swords down her gullet, in ways that make Anna and Elsa and even composed August gasp. Each move blends one into another into another, beautiful in a savage way that leaves them all on the edge of their seats as she twirls and even flips. It mesmerizes their little audience, as delicate appetizers sit untouched on their plates.

At the conclusion of her display, Mulan resheathes her swords with a satisfying hiss of metal against metal before executing a dramatic bow, nearly bending in half in the process. Their audience erupts into applause; across from Killian, Jefferson springs to his feet in a standing ovation.

“Brilliant! Simply brilliant!” Jefferson darts up to the platform to shake Mulan’s hand vigorously, much to her apparent amusement. “We simply must have you for the circus. A platform out in the open in the crowds, right near the center, don’t you think, Elsa?”

“It certainly would be a shame to hide her away in a tent,” the blonde agrees. “I don’t think we’ll find anyone else to match her talent, either. Would you be comfortable with that? Performing to a passing crowd?” she addresses Mulan to finish.

Mulan nods solemnly, though a slight smile dances in her eyes and on her lips. “My skills are not limited by venue, you’ll find.”

“Excellent!” Jefferson crows. “You know, this is exactly what the Circus should be. More than expected. Anything but mundane. Up close and pressing past anything seen before and - oh! It’s just perfect. Welcome to the Circus, Madame.”

Jefferson’s words become a mantra as they move forward - to push boundaries, to seek people and things that are more than anyone would ever imagine.

It is what may become the making of the circus.

———

Looking back, once they come to know one another better, Killian will find it fitting that he meets Belle in a used book store.

He’s taken to wandering these stores on his rare days off with a pair of notebooks in his jacket pocket - one for little bits of magical research, and the other for chronicling any ideas he might stumble across for the Circus. Over time, Killian has discovered that odd, unusual, and even historic tomes have a way of accumulating in used bookshops, overlooked and nearly lost to time. On shelves such as these, Killian has located alchemical treatises and books of magical theory and even a potions compendium that appeared to the untrained eye to be a simple accounting of folk remedies. In a way, he supposes that’s right; it just overlooks the dash of magic that’s an extra, if necessary ingredient. These old bookstores are a good source, too, of unusual and exotic attractions and obscure ideas for confections. Whenever Killian stumbles across something he hasn’t seen before that he thinks will be of use, he records it carefully in the pertinent notebook, one tucked into each of his coat pockets, before purchasing the volume or returning it to its place on the so-often messy and cluttered shelves.

This particular day had been less than fruitful, though Killian would never call it wasted. Even if he doesn’t manage to excavate any scrap of information, the whole environment is calming - something Killian sorely needs, more often than not. He walks back to his flat at a leisurely pace, just enjoying the crisp fall day, when he suddenly realizes -

One of his pockets is lighter than it ought to be.

Quickly, Killian doubles back to the bookshop. This isn’t the first time this has happened - it’s all too easy to accidentally leave a little leather-bound notebook on a shelf in an environment full of other leather-bound books, and Killian does remember pulling out the notebook to record a particular line of a spell he’d remembered he had already recorded just as soon as his pencil had lifted off the page. A quick check of the notebook in his other pocket reveals that it is, indeed, his magic notes that are missing. It’s a mild irritant, but nothing unusual for a man with a million other things on his mind.

What is more unusual, however, is to turn the corner only to see a young woman outside the shop, paging through what appears to be his own notes with a look of marked interest on her face.

She’s pretty, Killian notes, with prim brunette curls that frame her face below a beribboned, feathered hat and a petite frame that seems dwarfed by the yellow dress beneath a neat burgundy jacket. He only spares a moment to look, however, before he intervenes for the sake of his book. If she’s half as clever as that intent crinkle in her brow suggests, it may be too late.

The young lady jerks her head to attention as Killian clears his throat, a becoming blush staining her cheeks. “I believe you have something of mine,” he comments, nodding towards the book in her hand.

“Ah, yes.” She carefully closes the pages, handing the little notebook back to him. “You’ll be Mr. Jones, then?” Killian nods an affirmative as he takes the book back - not that it stops her string of thoughts. “I do promise that I was trying to bring it back, sir - I saw you leave it down that one aisle where the cat particularly likes to sleep - but you had already left and, I see now, most likely had turned a corner and, well, I’ve already been a little curious and I just couldn’t resist flipping through the pages and —”

“Miss, it’s fine” he smiles. “I’m just relieved to have it back. That little notebook is indispensable to me.”

“I recognize some of the symbols in there,” his companion blurts out. Killian is discovering she has a tendency to do that while nervous. “Alchemical symbols, and astrological ones. Not the rest, but… well, those are all over the pages.”

“And what would you know about alchemical and astrological symbols? Seems an unusual hobby for a proper young lady, Miss…”

“Belle French. I read a lot of books.”

“Books on alchemy and astrology?”

“Yes.” She blushes again. “I came into possession of a deck of tarot cards a few years ago. It seemed worth doing my research. The alchemical bits were an accident that expanded into a separate research project.”

“You read the tarot then? I wouldn’t have expected that of a dignified lady like yourself.”

“Only for myself,” she admits. “It’s not precisely something you can practice at the average tea party. I find myself more curious what a proper young man like yourself,” she mocks his own tone, “is doing with a notebook full of such symbols.”

“Perhaps I, too, accidentally conducted extensive research into alchemy.”

Miss French fixes him with a skeptical look. “I don’t believe that for a moment. What’s the real reason?”

Killian sighs. “That’s… rather a longer story. Best settled somewhere else, if it must be told. Would you care to join me at a bistro I know?”

That should be the end of the matter. No proper young woman would agree to such a thing.

But Miss Belle French seems to be no such proper young woman, and she says yes.

It takes a hearty sip of wine once they’re settled in Killian’s favorite Parisian-style bistro for him to muster the words to speak. “I am… a student. Of sorts.”

“A student of what?” Miss French asks around her own, more delicate sip.

Now is the moment of truth, where she believes him or she doesn’t. “Of magic.”

Miss French’s brow furrows for just a confusion. “Magic? Like the illusion acts you see at the theaters?”

“A little more than that,” he tries to explain. “It’s… well. When you read your cards, does it feel like some rote interpretation? Or like you’re channeling something, the mere conduit for the cards?”

“The latter, I suppose.”

“That’s a form of magic. A very special one, actually, one that not everyone can find. I can’t.”

“So your… magic isn’t like that then?”

“It’s more like… a secret language,” Killian tries to explain. “It’s something I can find deep within me, and speak into existence.”

His lovely companion still looks unconvinced - not that he can blame her. It’s a lot to wrap one’s head around. “You don’t believe me.”

“I don’t disbelieve you,” she’s careful to say. “But you must admit, Mr. Jones, that it’s an awful lot to take in.”

Killian thinks for a moment, before settling in his mind on a way to prove it. “Is there anywhere you’ve ever wanted to go? Someplace you’ve never seen, but always wanted to?”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the beach, and see the ocean,” she replies wistfully.

“I can make that happen.”

“With your magic, I suppose?”

“Yes. Do you trust me?”

Miss French hesitates for just a moment before nodding.

“Then take my hands, and close your eyes.”

With her soft hands in his own, Killian draws upon the words, murmuring them into the back corner of the cafe where they sit. Slowly, the dim lighting and faint smell of smoke dissipates, replaced by warm sunlight and the faint rush of the tide coming in.

Miss French opens her eyes without his asking, gasping as she takes in the illusion of an environment he’s created. Gulls circle overhead; were she to remove her shoes, she’d feel soft sand beneath her toes, stretching as far as the eye can see.

“It’s marvelous,” she breathes. “And you did all this?”

“Aye. And I can do much more.”

It’s evident that in this moment, at least, she doesn’t care about much more; she’s too enthralled with the ocean in front of her.

“You know, Mr. Jones, I think we were meant to meet today,” she murmurs. “And I don’t even need the cards to say it.”

She becomes a friend, over time, over cups of tea and discussions of his studies and her practice with her tarot cards; the first real friend he’s ever had. Mr. Gold doesn’t approve, claiming that she’s a distraction, but Killian doesn’t much care. She makes his life better, in those hours he isn’t called away by the circus. And as the planning rolls on, turning into reality, she lends a listening ear every step of the way.

Neither of them can predict how much will change with the hiring of the illusionist.

———

It’s been years of this - the constant preparing for something she doesn’t fully understand, of being tested, being pushed to what Emma believes are her very limits before discovering that she still has more to give, to bleed, to learn. A sense of anticipation hangs over her entire life, such as it is, and she doesn’t even know what she’s waiting for, or how long it will take to get here. Regina has told her time and again to be patient, that things will become clearer in time, that this isn’t something frivolous, you foolish girl, you can’t rush it, but Emma has never been one for patience. She is 24, and it has been 18 years, and there is still no sign of whatever this competition is, or will be.

Until one day, a neat envelope appears on the dressing table in Emma’s room in the ostentatious flat she has shared with Regina since the very beginning whenever they’re in London.

It would be in your best interest to present yourself at the below address on June the 19th.

The missive isn’t signed, but Emma doesn’t need a signature anyways; it’s evident in the neat gilt letters on the crisp cream-colored parchment that this message is from the man with the cane. Mr. Gold, half a memory whispers, though he’s done his very best to remove himself from memory. There is no postmark, and no messenger; it is clear to Emma that this card has appeared without the intervention of a human hand. Not that the man she suspects would need such mundane means to deliver a message. Emma has grown up surrounded by and steeped in magic, and she has long since learned to recognize true power - and even though she was only a child the single time she met the man with the gold-tipped cane, she’d felt even then the magic clustered all around him like metal filings to a magnet. To a man like that, delivery of this message would be the easiest thing in the world.

There’s a newspaper clipping too, Emma realizes as she slowly moves to find and show her teacher. It’s an advertisement, seeking an illusionist, with the address of a modest theater at which she should apply.

Seeking an extraordinary individual to marvel and amaze, the cramped newsprint proclaims. An unmatched opportunity to become part of an unprecedented entertainment spectacle.

“What have you got there?” Regina asks when Emma enters their parlor, examining every inch of the message and its attached advertisement. The words are closer to a demand than an inquiry, but Emma isn’t particularly surprised; these kinds of interactions have always been her teacher’s modus operandi.

“A note. I found it on my dressing table.” Carefully, Emma passes the documents to Regina for the other woman’s examination. As Regina reads the words, a devious kind of smile inches its way across her face.

“You know what this means, don’t you?” she asks Emma with that same odd smile. It only widens when Emma shakes her head in the negative. “It means we’ve reached the beginning.”

And with those six words, the next phase of Emma’s life begins.

———

Killian thought he knew what to expect - but he never expected her.

They’d placed advertisements in all the major papers, seeking an illusionist for the circus - a magician. Jefferson, for all his endless inspiration and imagination, has never realized that the most fitting candidate for this particular job has been silently at his side for the past two years, through every bit of planning. Jefferson never realizes that there’s a reason that this has all come together unnaturally smoothly, as if aided by unseen forces.

Jefferson, for all his endless imagination, will never believe that humans are capable of anything more than illusion, will never believe that true magic is possible.

(That’s for the best, really; Mr. Gold just needs a pawn to create a venue, and Killian… well, Killian just wants, nay, needs to limit the collateral lives disrupted for the purposes of this competition.)

Attending the auditions as Jefferson’s personal secretary to record any decisions ultimately made, Killian expects a long parade of conmen, of charlatans and fakers and all the normal cast of characters that pass for magicians in a world that refuses to see the truth. And he gets them in spades, with card tricks and pretty assistants and poorly behaved rabbits who are more interested in exploring the legs of the mezzanine chairs than disappearing into hats. Maybe those kinds of displays would be good enough for most undertakings; the public will be expecting the normal sort of “magic” displays, after all.

But this is for the circus - and the circus must be more than that.

(It’s for exactly that reason that Killian draws a tricky bit of magic about himself that he picked up from his mentor years ago - a charm to smother any traces of magic about him, to make him seem so ordinary that strangers’ eyes don’t bother to linger. He may expect a long line of fakes, but on the off chance this attracts someone of more genuine talent… Killian isn’t taking any chances.)

Killian never even sees her coming. It’s their last appointment of the day after a chain of disappointments, and frankly, he’s ready for a cup of tea, or perhaps a glass of something stronger. But then the young man who works at the theater is clearing his throat to announce the next applicant, and Killian looks up —

And it’s her.

The woman before him is beautiful - collected, quiet, but with a confidence that shows in her bearing, in the straightness of her spine and the sure look on her face. She wears an emerald green dress with a black velvet jacket with trailing sleeves, and she looks a picture - possibly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. She looks more suited to fashionable tea rooms, or strolling along the street to perhaps visit an acquaintance, or any of those other ordinary things women of means and unnatural beauty do with their days. It’s obvious, though, that ordinary is the last word that could be used to describe her. Even from across the room, he can sense the magic that clings to her skin like traces of ink - true magic, not the facsimiles he’s suffered through all day.

He knows immediately that this woman - whoever she may be - is the opponent he’s been anticipating for 18 years, since he was only 8 years old, and the knowledge simultaneously exhilarates and terrifies him.

(Even if he’s been working for two years to help bring this competition, this circus to life, it suddenly feels real to see his competitor across from him, flesh and blood and blond curls.)

(He has no business forming an attachment, but she already fascinates him on a level far more personal than professional.)

“Your name?” Killian hears Jefferson ask, as if from a distance. That’s not the reality of this situation, really; his employer sits in the seat right in front of Killian’s own, barely two feet apart. It’s hard to focus on anything else, though, with an angel standing in front of them all.

“Emma Swan,” she answers. Her voice isn’t loud, but it’s sure, and with its own particular melody. “I understand you’re looking for an illusionist.”

“We are indeed, Miss Swan. And do you believe you’re the man - my pardon, woman for the job?” Jefferson wears what Killian has learned is his most charming smile, and Killian feels an unwarranted flash of irritation. Can’t he see this creature isn’t for him? Isn’t some simpering young girl to melt at his attentions?

(It’s a relief to see that, while Miss Swan does smile back, it’s only a smirk of seeming amusement. She’s here for other things, they both know, even if Jefferson doesn’t.)

“That’s for your judgement, isn’t it?” As Emma poses the question, she carefully strips out of her jacket, only to toss it carelessly towards a chair. As the fabric sails through the air, however, it miraculously turns into a raven, circling the room before landing back in one of the investors’ laps, abruptly a stack of folded velvet once more. Miss Swan may make it look easy, nearly thoughtless, but it’s evident to Killian that she’s performed a very impressive piece of magic - and evident to all those less observant as well. The amused little smirk returns as Miss Swan calmly folds her hands atop the green satin of her dress. “But I believe so, yes.”

What follows is exactly the impressive spectacle of magic they’d hoped to find, but Killian never believed they would.

The gentlemen’s handkerchiefs turn into doves, which fly to perch at the edge of the stage. The delicate flowers of the wallpaper peel from the walls to beautiful, fragrant life. At one point, their chairs all lift to hover a foot above the ground. One trick flows into the next, and into the next again, all conducted by the extraordinary Miss Swan with graceful hands and barely any appearance of effort. It feels like the entire audience, small though it might be, holds its breath as the magician completes her display, conjuring her crisply folded jacket back into a raven. In a flurry of feathers, the bird dives towards its mistress as the audience watches anxiously, only to reappear as a drapery once again on the pale, delicate arms of the enchanting Miss Swan.

Ahead of Killian, Jefferson and the other producers explode into a flurry of applause - a well earned ovation, in his not-so-humble opinion. That was… spectacular. Amazing. Magical.

“Bravo, Miss Swan!” Jefferson calls, jumping nimbly up the stairs at the front of the stage to shake her hand. “I think you’re just the thing we’ve been looking for. Won’t she look lovely, Constance?”

“She’ll make a statement, certainly,” Madame Blue replies. This might be the closest Killian has seen the formidable woman to satisfaction. “We’ll have to plan the wardrobe carefully, of course. Something… striking. A bit out of the ordinary, with outer layers to remove. That trick with the jacket was extraordinary,” she finally addresses the subject of their discussion. “I imagine you’ll want to incorporate it.”

“I had planned to in some form, yes,” Miss Swan confirms. “Is there a particular… concern you have about my clothing?”

“Please don’t mistake us, Miss Swan,” Jefferson hurries to assure her. “You look absolutely lovely. We’re trying to create an entire atmosphere in this endeavor, you see. An entire circus, all in black and white and silver. Including its members. Madame Blue, here, is an invaluable help in creating that.”

“I see,” Miss Swan nods. “So I suppose you’re thinking something more like this?”

As she speaks, they’re treated to one final trick, as the green of her skirts flees at the touch of a finger, changing to pearly skirts that slowly give way to an ink black hem. As with every display of her magic, it’s graceful, effortless; more than that, as her dress completes its transformation, skirts widening to a dramatic sweep in the process, she looks like the very essence of everything they want the circus to be.

Killian gapes. Madame Blue nods approvingly. Jefferson beams.

“Splendid! Oh, absolutely marvelous. Never tell me how you do that. Yes, that will do very nicely indeed, Miss Swan. You’re hired.”

As if anyone else would ever do.

———

Killian shows up at Liam’s door that night, to the small but comfortable apartment a junior banker shouldn’t yet be able to afford on his salary.

(He’s always been sure to care for his brother, the same way his brother always cared for him.)

He must look a wreck when Liam opens the door, as his brother moves to pour them both a measure of rum without even being asked. His neat necktie has been loosened in the past hour and his hair is doubtless a riot from running his hand up the back, but Killian thinks it’s more whatever look he wears on his face that spurs Liam into action.

“I met them today. Her,” Killian finally confides once they’re both settled into the plush, if hideous armchairs in front of the fire.

“Who’s this, now?”

“My competitor.” Killian attempts a chuckle, but can’t quite manage it. “This game I’ve been prepared for for so long… the other person was always just some amorphous concept. Of course there’d be a competitor, it’s a game. But… I met her today, Liam.”

Liam takes another sip from his tumbler. “I take it that’s a bad thing?”

Killian fiddles with the scar on his thumb as he thinks, the seared band of skin the contract tying him to this competition. It doesn’t bother him, never has, really; most days, he wears a silver ring to conceal the mark from the many curious eyes in Jefferson’s winding townhome, but he’s taken the piece of jewelry off tonight. Tonight is a night for confession, for laying his myriad of confused feelings on the table, not for concealment.

“I don’t know that it’s bad, per se,” he finally replies. “It’s just… she was never a person until today. I know I’ve been working with Jefferson and his colleagues for two years to bring the venue for this competition to life, but meeting a real, live person is something else. It made it real, in a way.”

“And you’d rather it wasn’t,” Liam infers.

Killian says nothing, ready to neither confirm nor deny that. It’s been an unexpected day, and he’s still trying to process the novelty of having a name and a face. This has been years of his life - 18 years of them - and it finally feels like the waiting is done.

Liam tries again. “What’s she like, then?”

“Composed.” It’s too stiff a word for the vibrant creature he witnessed today, but it’s the first that comes to mind. She’d seemed perfectly composed, fully in control of everything around her. There’s more than that, though. “She was confident, mostly, in that kind of understated way where you could tell she knew exactly what she was doing without ever having to brag about it. She seemed bloody brilliant, honestly,” Killian admits.

“That sounds like an awful lot of admiration for a woman you’re supposed to view as your foe,” Liam comments with that lift of the brow Killian adopted himself years and years ago.

“She’s beautiful,” Killian says simply. “She’s perfectly lovely, and honestly? I don’t really want to battle her.”

“So what will you do?”

“I don’t know,” Killian replies truthfully.

He never expected this knowledge to create more questions than answers.

(Killian is beginning to think that just may be the way of this competition; frustration and confusion at every turn.)

(As his mentor has so often says: magic comes with a price.)

———

Now that he knows his competition, it becomes obvious that Miss Swan has an advantage over Killian: while he may exist outside the Circus, maneuvering the board from afar, she’ll live right in the heart of it, manipulating things from within. After all these years, Killian still only knows that the Circus is meant to be a venue for him to test and stretch his abilities beyond anything he ever imagined until, inexplicably, one of them is crowned the winner. From his standpoint, Miss Swan will find that much easier, as she doesn’t have a distance to reckon with. Hell, he won’t even know when she makes a move, so to speak.

Unexpectedly, it is Belle who finds a solution to that.

“I could be your spy, you know,” she proposes. They’ve long since abandoned formal last names and proper tea shops for lounging in his flat, her with a book and he with one of his notebooks or some circus plans he’s perfecting. So, too, has Belle long since been apprised of all the misty particulars of this competition.

Killian frowns. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you need a way to hear the news of the circus, right? Everything this Miss Swan does, at least in regards to the Circus. All the little changes she might make.”

“That’s right.”

“And it’s true, too, that the Circus still needs a fortune teller.”

Realization slowly dawns. “Belle, I couldn’t ask you to —”

“You’re not asking; I’m offering,” she interrupts. “I can read my cards for visitors. You’ll be so busy with the Circus, anyways, and making your own moves in this competition, that we’ll barely see each other anymore. You can arrange that, right? To hire me as the fortune teller?”

“Of course - but Belle, are you certain?”

“Nothing is ever certain, Killian,” she scolds affectionately, good-naturedly. “But I want to help. And besides, I’ve always wanted to see the world. What better opportunity will I find, or make?”

When Killian personally vouches for Belle to Jefferson, her hiring is arranged as quickly as promised. He can’t help but feel like this is a mistake, somehow, but the benefits are undeniable. Belle packs her bags and promises to be a faithful correspondent - a promise he knows she’ll admirably fulfill.

(He tries not to think about how she’s one more life he’s tied to the Circus, one more article of collateral damage if and when this all ends.)

———

After so long in her contained world, constantly under Regina’s critical eye, Emma finds she loves the communal atmosphere of the circus. Emma’s little compartment is so much more compact than the rooms she’s grown used to over the years, but there’s a particular coziness that feels more comfortable than anything she’s known before. Maybe it’s the knowledge that this space is truly hers, without monitoring or judgement. She lines the walls with spell books and herbal manuals and silly novels, hangs cages for her doves from the ceiling, shoves a small desk in one corner and a well padded armchair in the other, and spreads a brightly pieced quilt over the bunk’s mattress. She makes it home, in a way she’d never thought she’d achieve.

(She’s wanted a home since she was a child, went with Regina in partial hope that she’d find one, but it’s only now at the age of 24 that she’s made it with her own two hands and a good bit of magic.)

She watches the circus come together too, in staging grounds just outside of London. Each tent is carefully constructed in black and white stripes, though their height and circumference vary. The acrobats’ tents soar the highest, starting to fade into the starry skies to accommodate the trapezes and tightropes beneath the cloth surface. On the other end of the spectrum the fortune teller’s tent is barely large enough for two people and a table.

Emma’s tent is somewhere in between. It’s not large, by any means, but there’s enough space for a clearing at the center and two rows of chairs circling all the way around the edges. It’s interactive, in a way Emma never imagined a theater could be when she was a child under Regina’s care. Then again, it’s not really a theater, is it? It’s more a… space. An arena. Truthfully, Emma isn’t sure there’s a word for the intimate feel of this arrangement. Her audience will be right there, enhancing the display in a way Emma hadn’t imagined. Then again, when you’re practicing true magic instead of illusion, you don’t need that extra separation.

Once it’s time to eventually move on, the whole venue has been carefully constructed to fold and stow away into a series of boxcars and containers for transport. It’s all a little unbelievable, really, the ease with which something so sprawling can stow so neatly away. There’s an atmosphere at the circus, however, even amongst its members, that anything might happen, and the logistics are never questioned as the specially hired crew of workers scurry about, practicing folding and unfolding each tent into their respective boxcars. Maybe they already know that something supernatural is at work; the longer Emma spends at the circus, the more she wonders if this is the one place on Earth where magic can exist in plain sight without question.

(There’s something about the traces of magic at the folds and joints of each structure that feels familiar in a way Emma can’t quite put her finger on - like she’s encountered it before. It’s a rare trace of her competitor in an environment where she still doesn’t know their identity.)

If the circus is the first real home Emma’s ever found, then its members may be her first real family. She’s always felt… different, all too aware of how her abilities have set her apart from other people since she was a little girl. The wonderful thing that she’s discovered is that everyone is a little odd at the circus, even without magic. There are contortionists and animal tamers and acrobats and all manner of other performers, all good people who don’t fit within the bounds of conventional society. Even the vendors, the souvenir sellers and the concession dealers, are the kind of people more willing to believe in the unusual without question. It’s a welcoming, accepting, happy environment that Emma revels in.

There are individuals that Emma makes particular friends with. Ruby, who, along with her husband Graham, works with wolves , is an absolute spitfire who keeps them all entertained with her wit and predictions for the circus. Mary Margaret, who performs tricks with a flock of trained birds, and her husband David, one of the stagehands, are as sweet a couple as Emma’s ever seen and determined to spread that love to everyone else around them as well. It feels a little like they’ve adopted her as an adult child, set upon caring for her in any way they can, and Emma finds she kind of likes it.

(There’s the fortune teller, too - Belle, a kind and quiet woman that Emma is friendly with, if not close. Somehow, Emma gets the feeling that Belle knows more about this whole thing than anyone else, but can’t put her finger on why. She’d know if the petite little brunette was her opponent, she’s sure; surely she’d sense her opponent’s own magic, the way she can always see the way her own gathers like dozens of little stray hairs about her person.)

There’s a feeling of comradery amongst the group of them, of family. They’re a stability that Emma craves in the midst of all this uncertainty, a support system even if she can’t reveal the stakes she’s facing. As simple a word as it is, they’re friends, and that’s a thing that’s been sorely lacking Emma’s entire life.

Mulan, however, is a different story. It’s not that they’re not friends - Emma would say that they’re consistently friendly. Emma had immediately noticed the way magic had clung to the other woman in the same way that it does to herself. Here, Mulan may be a sword swallower, but she’s undeniably a powerful magician too.

“This isn’t the first time that such a competition has been staged,” Mulan tells her over tea as her spoon stirs in sugar without apparent human hand, a thread of magic spooling and unspooling about the metal over and over again.

“So how do I win, then?” If Mulan has been in her shoes before - and indeed, the other woman’s particular brand of magic suggests she trained under Emma’s own mentor, Regina - then this could be a critical advantage for Emma.

But Mulan shakes her head. “That’s something you have to discover in your own time. I’m here merely as… an observer. Support, perhaps. But not to interfere.”

(Even as she says the words, Emma can see a sadness in Mulan’s eyes that sends a stab of foreboding through Emma’s heart.)

There’s an entire universe of possibilities contained within the wrought iron gates, different ways this all could play out. Emma feels within her heart that even if the circus hasn’t opened, the competition has already begun; after all, she’s already tied her own magic to its construction, the way it expands and contracts and travels, lending her own abilities to those enchantments someone else already set.

There will be a chance to test that tomorrow, as all of this is folded up and moved to where the circus will celebrate its opening night in barely 72 hours’ time. It’s a delicate business, but will be worth it when the effect is finally unveiled - or at least Emma hopes it will be. It’s hard to imagine anyone not loving the circus, in all its wonder, just as much as they do, but dozens of lives are tied to the circus - now dozens of homes and salaries and futures. It’s hard not to feel a little nervous about all that is to come, for their sakes if not her own.

Above the ticketing booths at the front gates of the circus sits an enormous cuckoo clock, with figures and designs constantly shifting, changing from black to white and back again. Emma likes to come and watch the clock in the moments she takes for herself; there’s something about the simple, elegant mechanics that calms her, shows her the beauty that can exist without magic. Her entire world will change once again once the circus opens its gates for the first time, but the clock is a reminder that change is more than inevitable - it is natural, and sometimes even good.

As the clock ticks the minutes away overhead, Emma closes her eyes and centers herself. All around her, she can feel the energies of all the people who bring the circus to life - happy and excited and good, in a way she hadn’t known existed. All these lives in her hands, caught up in this competition without even knowing it.

And Emma will do her damndest to protect every one.

———

There’s a party, the night before the circus opens its gates for the first time, at the lavish townhouse of the circus’ proprietor. It’s perfectly in keeping with what Emma knows of the man; Jefferson - as he insists on being called, damn the proprieties - is generous by nature, despite (or perhaps because of) his eccentricities. Where anyone else would balk at the collected mass of the Circus’ players and crew showing up on their doorstep and traipsing through their halls, Jefferson welcomes them with open arms, seeming to delight in the chaos they might bring with them.

At the Circus, they might be clad in black and white and every shade in between, but Jefferson’s halls are a riot of color tonight - and not just due to his bold decorating preferences. The circus members have truly let loose for the occasion, in a wide array of colors and patterns - green stripes and purple layered on blue and polka-dotted waistcoats, all melding together into a unique symphony of hues never seen before or since. Emma herself wears a red gown that makes her feel like a princess, with long sleeves and a scooped neckline and beading along the bust. Technically, the dress has looked far different when she started with it - a dark navy blue and rather more demure than this end result, though the cloth itself was of good quality - but she’s always had a deft hand with fabrics. It comes in handy in her small train car room, where she really only has room for a single trunk unless she gets magically creative with her storage space.

The party is, by all appearances, a roaring success. Dinner features the widest variety of options imaginable, featuring dishes seemingly from every corner of the globe. There are fountains of chocolate and tiny little bites of meat and vegetables and the most delicate pastries Emma has ever eaten in her life. After dinner, there’s music and dancing and gaming tables in the parlor. The hired band keeps playing a series of merry dance numbers, reels and jigs and the occasional waltz. It’s joyful, happiness permeating every inch of Jefferson’s brightly colored mansion that makes the whole place shine in a way that has nothing to do with any candles or oil lamps.

Personally, Emma is happier along the edges of rooms, observing everything else that goes on around her. It’s not that she’s somehow opposed to the festivities; far from it, at fact. She easily allows herself to be talked into taking turns on the dance floor with David and Ruby even a delighted Jefferson when they ask her with a smile and, in Ruby’s case, a rather insistent and intoxicated tug towards the dance floor. She knows the steps; she knows the rules. But it is hard, sometimes, after a childhood spent largely alone, to throw herself willingly into the heart of it all. It’s intimidating, in a way. At the heart of things, it’s less overwhelming to observe, a wallflower by choice.

From her own vantage point, however, it’s impossible not to notice another soul doing the same thing - sticking to the walls and to the shadows, absorbing everything while engaging with none of it. The person in question is a man - strikingly handsome, with dark hair and sharp cheekbones that make him look a little dangerous. He’s the kind of man who should have no problem finding a dance partner, if he so desired, but he waits along the edges, the same as her. What’s even more curious is that Emma has no idea who he is. Emma isn’t fool enough to claim that she’s intimate friends with each and every person in the Circus - there’s far too many for that - but she does recognize them by sight, at least. It’s an inevitable result of living and working with people in such a tight-knit environment as the Circus. This man isn’t one of them. Curiously, she still has the feeling that he’s familiar, somehow. She can’t quite put a finger on why; it’s like a whisper in her ear, that she knows him in a way she doesn’t yet understand.

(She sees him looking, too, when he thinks she hasn’t noticed. Maybe he feels this curious deja vu as well.)

At one point, she notices Mulan speaking briefly with the mystery man - nothing more than a few words, but enough to catch her attention.

“Who is that?” Emma asks the next time Mulan passes her by, dressed in regalia that looks more like armor than a dress. It suits her, in a way something more traditional wouldn’t have. “That man in the corner?”

“By that particularly ugly bronze bust?” Emma nods. “That’s Jefferson’s personal secretary. Killian Jones. I’m surprised you haven’t met him before - he follows Jefferson everywhere, records everything. Jefferson won’t on his own.”

Maybe that’s where Emma recognizes him from; it would make sense that he’d have been at her audition, just another face in the crowd. That must account for this odd sense of familiarity.

Mulan waits patiently as Emma turns the information over in her head, as if waiting for her to ask another question. For the life of her, she can’t imagine what that might be.

“I didn’t know that,” she finally replies. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mulan nods. “Try and have a little fun tonight. It’s not like we’ll have another chance for this for a long while.”

“I promise I am. Even without the dancing.”

“Good.”

(There’s a little tickle at the back of her neck that says Mulan isn’t sharing the whole story, but Emma doesn’t pry further. The other woman plays her cards very close to her proverbial vest; she won’t reveal anything except exactly what she deems it necessary for Emma to know.)

As Mulan slides silently back into the crush, Emma steals another glance at the corner, but the man - Killian Jones - is gone.

Not that it matters to her. After all, they’ll likely never meet again.

(It is easy to ignore the little voice that whispers Oh, but you will.)

———

The circus opens on a warm June night under a new moon, and it feels like anything might happen. The tents are all set, the costumes sewn, the performers placed along each neatly lined path. All that’s missing is the audience.

At the very center of the circus is an ornately crafted fire pit, with shoots of burnished metal curling towards the sky in imitation of the flame contained within. Over time, the heat of the fire will heat and scar the metal in its own unique way, creating an ever changing statue. Tonight, in recognition of the circus’ opening night, the bonfire will be lit for the first time at precisely midnight in a ceremony for all to see.

Tucked into the grate beneath the fire pit, carefully warded against the flame with a series of runes, is a leather-bound book that no one but Killian knows about. The volume is the circus, in a way that he’s proud to have accomplished. Between the covers are pages and pages of plans for each and every tent, ride, and attraction, with magic carved into every line. This is the way that the circus is brought to life - the way it’s assembled and disassembled, the way it operates, the way it exists. At the back is a list of everyone employed by the circus, from Mrs. Lucas who runs the dining car of the train to the day-old twins of one of their vendors, a craftsman and his wife who sell intricate animals carved out of wood so delicately and with such life that they look as if they might begin to cavort across your palm. Each name is accompanied by a single drop of their blood - something so simple, but powerful. It binds them to the circus, protects them; it’s a safeguard, in case something should ever happen.

(Killian hates to think that there might be collateral damage in all this, but it seems inevitable. Mr. Gold and Madame Mills aren’t the types to worry about the chaos they create, as long as they get what they want. This will protect the circus and all the many lives that depend upon it.)

Most significantly, Killian creates a tricky little bit of magic to link the volume under the bonfire, right in the heart of the circus, to another in his own possession. It’s still unclear, in so many ways, exactly what this so-called competition will entail, let alone how long it will last. It seems inevitable that in order for the competition to move forward, additions and changes will need to be made, ways to demonstrate each of their respective powers. A second volume, directly mirroring the first, will allow him to add attractions as the opportunity arises.

Killian feels somehow in-between as he wanders the grounds of the circus - not one of the performers, but not quite a normal visitor ever. He’s done more to bring this to life than anyone present knows, but it doesn’t feel like a part of him in a way he might have expected. He strolls the paths, cloaked in spells that turn everyone’s attention away from his person so he can place the tome without questioning. That’s fitting, he thinks; he’s not part of the circus in any visual way, now or previously, yet he’s made more of a mark than they’ll ever know. He’s shaped this entire spectacle from the shadows, and his work is only beginning.

It feels like something settles into place as Killian slides the book into its nook. It’s like the whole circus was just waiting for that final piece, as if a breath has been released and this can all finally begin. Something cements in that moment; some piece of ancient magic more powerful than any rune. All that’s left to do is activate that magic with the lighting of the bonfire.

(There are already firecrackers in place to set off with each tick of the clock leading to midnight, but Killian can sense the traces of someone else’s magic lingering on each charge. It seems Miss Swan has left her mark on the fire in her own way, one that will make this a night to remember for all involved. Their work has long since begun, but they both usher in a new phase with their own mark.)

Killian stays to watch the lighting of the bonfire, still cloaked in the shadows even amongst the crowds of life around him. At a few minutes to midnight, they all assemble around the pit - every performer, every visitor, every vendor. Each and every soul. It’s easy to pick out the audience from the circus members; true to their vision, those who are part of the circus are clad in black and white and silver, alternately blending into the night and reflecting like the brightest stars. They stand stark against everyone else and the usual medley of colors, like elegant wraiths.

Killian spots, too, Jefferson across the way, and the Frost sisters, and Madame Blue and Mr. Booth, all here to mark the occasion. They’ve participated in the dress code as well, Killian is amused to see - Jefferson in a white suit decked with tiny black stars, and the ladies in varying shades of white and silver and grey. Mr. Booth’s black suit may just be his usual wear, but the silver necktie adds a certain celebratory vibe. Killian’s lips twitch in a smile to see their little group, looking with varying levels of satisfaction (or outright bouncing glee, in Jefferson’s case) on the experience they dreamed and brought to life. It’s not necessary, really, that Killian disguise himself anymore; as Jefferson’s personal secretary, it would seem natural for him to be here to witness this. Killian has ulterior motives for maintaining the cloak, however - namely, watching his opponent, the lovely Miss Swan.

He’s a little enthralled by her, he’ll admit. Miss Emma Swan is… not what he expected in a competitor. If pressed, Killian will admit that he expected his opposing counterpart to be someone rather like himself - some young man around his age, similarly focused, similarly discreet. Miss Swan - besides being, most obviously, a young woman instead of a young man - wields her magic with an open confidence that he hadn’t expected, at least if her audition and the few times they’ve crossed paths since on circus business are any indication. Then again, it’s not like there’s as much need to hide her magic as Killian always believed; to the public, magic isn’t real after all, and she’s just a circus illusionist.

(She’s a born performer, is what she is, and Killian looks forward to surreptitiously attending one of her shows tonight to relive the particular thrill of watching Miss Swan in action.)

(As much as Killian tells himself they’re different, there’s something in her eyes that says that’s not quite true - the look of someone who’s been left alone for too long. Maybe they are cut from the same cloth, after all. Not that it matters in situations such as these.)

Ten seconds before midnight, the firecrackers begin setting off in bright bursts of color and pattern, causing an audible gasp of awe from the assembled audience. There are swirls of blue, shoots of red, bursts of gold, all perfectly timed to the second hand of his watch. It’s the purest expression of magic made real, and even though Killian knows to watch for the way Miss Swan’s fingers twist at her side to release each round, it still leaves him in a little bit of awe and wonder. It’s displays like these that first enthralled him to the idea of magic, all those years ago when he was still just a boy; it’s nice to reclaim that even just for a moment.

At the crescendo, a previously unnoticed archer - a trick-shot they’d hired, who can hit the smallest targets from the greatest distance - releases a single flaming arrow. It lands dead center in the bonfire pit, just above where Killian alone knows the volume containing the circus rests, and ignites it in a chasing line of flame. It roars to beautiful life, illuminating the beautiful joy and wonder on each and every face.

And just like that - the circus is alive.

———

The circus is a wonder, unmatched by any other.

There’s something otherworldly about it, you think as you take in the sights. There’s a stark elegance and mysticism about the venue and all its players that feels unnatural, in the best way - as if you’ve stumbled out of the real world and into a fairy court, where the very air is laced with magic and anything might happen.

Each tent is somehow better than the last, and you wander without real purpose between each, trusting fate and your heart to lead the way. Even the winding paths, paved in silvery grey pebbles, hold their own surprises, twisting and curving past all manner of performers on pedestals in the night air. There are contortionists in silver and jugglers with patterned balls and clubs, fire swallowers and concession vendors who smile at you and living statues who move so gradually as to be barely discernible to the naked eye.

It is more than an attraction, you realize as the first rays of light peak over the horizon, illuminating the intricate metalwork of the front gate clock; it’s an experience, a wonder, something that sinks into your very soul and changes you in ways you’re not yet equipped to describe.

The circus lingers in your mind and heart, and you will never be the same again.

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #cssns #A Fate Woven in Thread and Ink #my writing #magicians!cs #The Night Circus

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little-red-toyota · 3 years

Text

Final good bye to the fandom

TW//Trauma, triggers, nsfw, sexual themes, rape, domestic abuse e.g.

This is gonna be a long ass post…

It has taken me a while to get emotionally strong enough to do this, as I will have to think back at some traumatic events from my past to address some of these things. That's why I waited until I got home from vacation with my family, as it will seriously affect my mood and mental health, and I want to be near my doctor and therapist, just in case.

And also, I know that the majority of those reading this will invalidate me and tell me I am making things up to clear my name. So, I literally have to torment myself to write a blog post people will just brush off as bogus anyway. But I will do it now that I am in safe surroundings. Then it will be off my chest, and I can finally move on. If people will continue stirring up the past, it will be their problem, not mine.

I think I should write one last blog post where I address everything. I have left the TTTE-fandom, but I will write that one as my final goodbye to the fandom. I just have to find out everything I've been accused of so I can properly address them all in order. I might leave out details of my life that is too hard for me to open up about. I know most of you will just invalidate me anyway.

1. The Stepney fic and glorifying rape.

2. My mafia-AU.

3. The Darin incident.

4. Being a pedophile. (Where do they get this from anyway??)

5. Running the NSFW-blog.

6. Drawing penises/boobs on trains. Drawing age-regression art.

Is there more?

Ah... yes! Faking my own suicide, of course!

7. "Faking" being suicidal.

8. Having the audacity to survive and go on living.

9. "Making up" my past trauma to justify writing fics to cope with it.

10. Being a nazi for being interested in WW2 history and for being Norwegian and having so-called nazi-letters in my last name (actual letters of the Norwegian alphabet).

11. Putting a white-supremacist flag (the actual flag of Norway) on my porch on family birthdays and our national day.

12. Being a danger to my daughter.

Anything else that needs to be addressed? What else am I being accused of? Send me a dm and I will add it to the post.

Okay, I will bump the Stepney fic down a bit as it is the most traumatic thing for me to address, I will save that one for last.

2 and 3. The dark au/mafia au where I gave some TTTE characters some rather dark and unpleasant character traits, and the whole incident with Darin and the pedo-Salty was addressed in this blog post written by my husband last year, so I am not opening that can of worms again: https://little-red-toyota.tumblr.com/post/623743183795470336/in-light-of-recent-events

Even the thing about Toby cheating on Henrietta is addressed there.

As for the au, I never fully explored it as I started losing interest in TTTE around the same time. I found other things to enjoy and TTTE faded into the background and the au was dropped before I even wrote any stories, apart from the one about Toby and Henrietta.

Some people claim, like this lovely individual, that most of the characters were rapists and pedos. No, not most. Only one of each. And I did not write more than one story about rape and suicide. Where does this person even get that from? Someone who told someone who had heard from someone who might have heard….?

Don't spread rumors unless you are sure that they are true.

Anyway, it's all addressed in that blog post in that link. I don't see how this mafia au is any worse than other dark post-apocalyptic or violent aus. It mostly was about the diesel mafia and their illegal businesses, not about sex, even if it did occur now and then. I find the substance abuse in it to be more problematic tbh…

4. Being a pedophile.

I don't even know how to defend myself against this one, as I don't even know why people think I am pedophile. They only throw the accusation out with no backing evidence, so I have no idea where it comes from or what it is that makes people think I am one.

Apart from one claim that I had faved "porn" alongside "strangers'" baby photos on DA. I addressed that earlier though. As DeviantArt doesn't sort what you click "like" on, it all ends up in the same folder unless you actively go through it and sort it into categories, which I don't bother most of the time. It also doesn't say WHEN it was added to your faves. So, I can have faved an artistic nude on Saturday, and then faved my friend's family photo on Thursday. It's not like I actively search for porn, get all steamed up and then look at pictures of children. WTF.

The few children I have faved are not from complete strangers, but long-term friends of mine. Yes, it is possible to have friends on the same website. I have actually met a lot of my RL friends through DeviantArt. I posted photos of my daughter when she was a baby, they would fave it and congratulate me. So, I did the same when they had a baby. As simple as that. Nothing weird or perverted about it. Due to people doxxing me last year however, I deleted the photos of me, my husband and my daughter from DeviantArt, so it's no longer there.

Porn isn't allowed on DeviantArt anyway. The nudes there are so-called artistic nudes, and for the most part I use them as pose-references when I draw as it is easier to draw a pose using a nude base and then dress them up once you got the pose right.

"The very naked" centaurs I have faved. Well, I like the mythological creature Centaur. And as far as I know… they do not wear clothes, so how are they NOT nude? Look it up, it's a horse body with a human torso instead of horse head. I don't see them as sexual, but what do I know? Maybe YOU do?

I have no sexual interest in children whatsoever.

5. Running the NSFW-blog on Tumblr and Twitter.

Yes. I was one of six people modding that blog. ONE of six, so I refuse to take the full blame here.

MerciResolution has openly admitted to being the founder, and she recruited me and some others to modify as the confession load became too heavy for one person to handle alone.

The original blog on Tumblr worked as follows: People would anonymously send a confession to our askbox, we would add a picture (sometimes photoshopped) to the text and post it on the blog. Always tagged as NSFW and with proper trigger warnings if necessary! The blog itself was also marked as explicit, so it didn't appear in searches and such.

For us, this blog was nothing but a joke. We did it for shits and giggles. If anyone took it seriously and thought we got off to the stuff that was posted, we apologize for that, but to us it was just for laughs. And we DID laugh a lot, you guys should have seen the weird shit people sent us sometimes!

We had fun and we never thought anyone would take it seriously, so we never thought of writing "joke" in the description or anything. It never occurred to us that it could be anything but a joke.

We also made a Twitter account for it, also locked for minors. But it was quickly hacked, and someone changed the password so we could no longer access it. We made another account and forgot about the old one…

After a while, the original mods started losing interest and the blog (both on Tumblr and Twitter) became less active. That's when a person I had known for years, and wrongfully trusted, came forward and wanted to take over ownership. So, the ownership was handed over to Russalita/Charlie.

That turned out to be huge mistake!

Me and the other mods had more or less forgotten that the blogs existed, when suddenly someone started bashing me and getting up in my arms over it. I got seriously confused as I hadn't been active on it in almost a year. But as it turned out, Russalita had removed the mature filters and made the accounts open for all the see. Even minors.

And as people knew I was one of the mods, they fired their guns at me. I can see why though, so I'm not pointing any fingers here.

I tried contacting her by phone, asking her to lock the accounts again, but she gave me a less than polite response, hung up and then blocked my number…

So, I decided to try to shut the blogs down on my own, trying the old passwords. It worked on the Tumblr-account, and I managed to password protect it, for some reason it couldn't be fully deleted. But the Twitter account had gotten its password changed by Russalita. I was however able to get a new password by logging into the e-mail we had used to create it. I deleted the Twitter blog fully. It can't be re-activated even if we wanted to. It's gone.

But it turns out the old, hacked one is still up and now open for everyone. And this one poses a huge problem as we have no way of getting into it to delete it. Only thing we have been able to do so far is reporting it and hope it will be removed by Twitter. So I only have one thing to say about it: report it.

I am no longer running any NSFW TTTE blog anywhere, nor do I have interest in doing so. So, if you come across one, claiming to be me or any of the other mods, it is false.

6. Drawing penises/boobs on trains. Drawing age-regression art.

People seem to believe I have drawn genitals on trains. I have never done such. Any art on the NSFW-blog with genitalia on the trains were sent in by confessors and was not drawn by me. Most of them seems to have been drawn by someone who goes by the name "The Lance".

I HAVE drawn things for the NSFW blog, but there were no genitalia in those drawings. I drew Frank of Arlesdale looking grossed out by (I don't know what the part is named in English, but it is connected to the brakes of the engine) that stick-like thing on his bufferbeam being wet from whatever the confessor did to him. I drew an over-exaggerated comical pic of a horrified Peter Sam getting his face licked by his driver, who had an enormous tongue. I also did a couple of manips. Mostly maniping engine faces on humans, like the one where Gordon's face is on a less than fit guy flailing his shirt around, and the Arlesdale smallies' faces on a movie poster from Magic Mike. One with Mr.Conductor in a giant bun while Pinchy is applying ketchup on him, for a confession about eating him, I think? I've done some more, but I forgot what it was, I only know I loved making them comical rather than erotic, as I saw the blog as a joke overall.

I HAVE also drawn aheago faces on engines because it looks hilarious. Though I have only drawn them on my OCs and the NRS engines, not TTTE characters.

Point is I have never drawn genitalia on trains. Ever. And I likely never will. It's not THAT much fun drawing NSFW stuff.

I see from this screenshot that a certain MK-Instrumentalist claim that all my personal art is age-regression art and infantilism…

Whose art have you been looking at? Because it's definitely not mine. I have drawn a couple of baby/chibi diesels… But claiming that all of my 700 or so artworks are depicting infantilism and age-regression stuff? I suggest people go have a look for themselves. I haven't drawn that. That MK-guy has been desperately trying to cancel me for ages for reasons only himself know. I don't even know the guy, and he doesn't know me, yet he wants to see me beheaded. Go figure.

I was for a long time bothered by some age-regressor on Tumblr who just wouldn't leave me alone with their weird asks, who tried to force themselves on me and some other artists here. They claim age-regression isn't a fetish, but the shit they sent to my askbox certainly looked like a fetish to me.

I don't want anything to do with that stuff. It weirds me out.

And no. I have never drawn pedophilia or rape art either. This guy can't even make up his mind on which one to accuse me of.

7 and 8. Faking suicide and having the audacity to survive and go on living.

As many know, after the intense shitstorm against me last summer, thanks to Darin, I attempted suicide. I didn't succeed as my husband came home early. I was gone for a few days but returned when a young boy reached out to me for help as he was being groomed and didn't know who else to turn to.

Recently I saw a screenshot where someone claimed me to have faked suicide, and that I just came back after a few days when everything had died down.

Wow.

I am truly sorry I survived.

I don't remember much from those days to be honest, but as the load became too heavy and the bullying too intense, piling up on 30 years of old trauma… I decided to end it. I must warn you guys who might get triggered now; there are detailed descriptions of a suicide attempt. Proceed with caution. People told me I was a bad mother among other things, having had those same thoughts myself (according to my husband, I am a good mom) and people just confirming them, I thought that my daughter would be better off growing up without me. I could have chosen a more effective suicide method, but I was afraid my daughter would be the first to find me, so I wanted it to be clean and look like I was just sleeping. That way it could be explained as natural causes.

So, I decided to overdose on pills. I downed all pills I could find in the house that had a warning triangle on it (strong pain meds etc.) and then went to my computer to delete my online existence, especially the personal data.

As a former paramedic, I should have known better. Because after half an hour, my body started reacting. But not the way I had hoped and wanted. I started retching and almost vomiting. That's when my husband came home from work and found me. He immediately saw the empty packages and knowing my past suicidal tendencies, he reacted instinctively. He put his fingers down my throat and had me puke everything up, then he called an ambulance and had me admitted to the hospital.

I don't remember anything from the days I spent there. But I have been told they emptied my stomach and gave me lots of fluids. I was then assigned a psychiatrist which I am still seeing today.

I was gone for those days because I was in hospital, not because I was pulling some kind of trick and pretending to have ended myself.

So… I am sorry I "faked" my suicide.

I'm sorry my husband saved me. I am sorry the medics and doctors succeeded in saving my life.

I am sorry I survived and proceeded to live on. If I ever make another attempt, I promise to do better.

Why are you guys so persistent in trying to push people to suicide anyway? Do you get a kick out of it? Why do people have to be pushed to that point before you care?

What did we tell our daughter? Simply that I got sick and had to go to the hospital. She took that well.

I've seen a lot of people wonder why I am still around. Why shouldn't I? Does my daughter deserve to lose her mother over some online crap she doesn't even know about? I owe her to live and watch her grow up, to help her with her homework and whatever else a parent needs to do. I also owe my husband to stay by his side, like I promised him the day we got married. Even if I do not wish to live.

I'm sorry I survived, guys. Really, I am.

9. "Making up" my past trauma to justify writing fics to cope with it. And 1. The Stepney fic and glorifying rape.

First… why would anyone make up trauma? It's not like it's a competition to have the worst life, is it?

Sadly, I don't have to make up anything. My life HAS been rocky up until the birth of my daughter. I have been through so much trauma I couldn't even fathom it myself before my therapist listed it all up to me. Until then, I had just been casually talking to her about it, like I would talk about the weather. I didn't cry or get in touch with my emotions even once while telling everything, because I was taught from an early age to never complain, to suck it up and go on. So, no matter what people did to me, I would just smile and go on, even if it killed me inside. I did not want to show any sign of weakness, because then they would attack me. A habit I developed through years of being bullied in school. Never show feelings, just pretend nothing could hurt you, then they would eventually grow tired of it and stop.

Except they never did. They kept going through all my years at school. To such an extent, my boyfriend didn't dare to show himself hanging out with me out of fear of being bullied himself… And as we grew older, he would start cheating on me too. And I kept smiling…

My next boyfriend was a bit older than me, and while that didn't bother me, as we were both well over legal age, it bothered him. We only lasted one year before he bailed out and ditched me out of the blue via an sms.

The next guy… was the one who scarred me for life. Both physically and mentally. A charmer at first of course, until I was trapped. He was unemployed, so he moved in with me, and I paid for everything from food to phone bills. All while he was dating several women behind my back, calling various pay-phone services and in general acted like a manwhore. As I worked as an electrician (also being subject to massive bullying and sexual harassment at work), he would be jealous of all my co-workers and if I ever came home late or worked overtime, he accused me of cheating and was extremely violent about it. He would also isolate me from my friends and family, making me think I couldn't get any other than him. If any of my male friends (almost all my friends are male…) came over, he would give me such hell afterwards, it was easier just to tell them it was a bad time to visit. And after a while, they stopped asking. This guy also demanded sex. Every single day. If I refused, he would punish me, mostly by flogging me with lampcords, belts or whatever else he had at hand. My back is a criss cross map of old, faded scars even now nearly 20 years later. I would have shown you a photo, but I am so self-concious about my body after all the bullying, I hardly even show my face in photos. Maybe one day… but I certainly need more therapy before being able to show naked skin to strangers, even if it's just my back. So I had non-consensual sex with him more often than consensual. It has taken me hours in therapy to even take the word in my mouth and call it by its proper name: rape. I was raped, almost every single day for little over a year, before I found the strength to break out of the relationship and finally throw him out of my house. It all ended when I found some revealing texts on his cellphone, which he was extremely protective of… Texts that revealed that he had engaged in a relationship with a 12 year old girl, and it had been going on for a while. Not only was he cheating on me, but he was a pedophile too. Needless to say, I didn't even let him pack his stuff before I fetched my shotgun and chased him out of the house. I don't know where I got the courage and strength from… but I was furious.

I thought I had gotten rid of him, but no. He started stalking me in public. Hiding behind shelves when I was shopping, his car following mine everywhere I went. I received weird letters in the mail with cut-out letters from newspapers, glued together. On top of all, his creepy, old uncle called me with some rather disgusting suggestions and tried to come on to me really hard. I had to change my phone number, and after coming home to my house and finding out someone had entered my home using a key, only to empty the drawer of my night table, I also had to change the locks of my doors as he had clearly copied the key.

He didn't stop until I got the police involved.

So, when I finally met the guy who would become my husband (or rather, we found out we were made for each other, we had known each other since we were 11 years old), I had major trust issues towards men especially and it took him endless patience and love to break me out of that shell.

But the trauma doesn't stop… or start there.

In the year 2000, on January 4th, I would experience something that made me unable to even look at a train for over 10 years. The Åsta accident (google it). I was a volunteer in the Norwegian Red Cross then, and a paramedic in training. Back then, you were allowed to start training the year you would turn 16. So, I was still 15 when I witnessed the most traumatic event of my life. The day started out calm, we were stocking up the ambulance after delivering a patient to the hospital when we got a call with the code "500", which means "catastrophe". Normally when we get that code it is a rehearsal… so we drove towards the coordinates with the thoughts that this was just an exercise, nothing real… we didn't prepare ourselves mentally… And we ended up in the closest thing to hell I have ever been… The sight of the burning trains, the smells, the sounds, the screaming… I still wake up by nightmares to this day. Though the moment that haunts me the most is when the screaming stopped… because we all knew why… I don't want to go into details, but 19 people died that day. But we also saved 67 people. I try to hold on to that thought. The age limit for starting paramedic training was raised after this, as I wasn't the only one who was too young for an accident of that scale. Today it is 18. A memorial stone has been placed on the site, but I still haven't been able to bring myself to visit it, even if we drive past the site every year on our way to visit family further north in the country. I needed hours of therapy to even be able to ride a train after this. To have gotten to the point where I now volunteer at a heritage railway and is in training to become a driver, is a HUGE step for me. My next goal is to visit the site of the accident.

On to next trauma… A previous employer, a rather large electric company in Norway, whom I worked for 8 years. The first five years were great, we were a close-knit bunch of electricians, and we had a great relationship with the bosses and higher-ups. Our labor union was strong.

It all started changing in 2009 when we got new leaders… and those decided to get rid of everyone who were a member of the union. One by one, they started harassing workers in various ways, trying to get them to quit. In Norway, they need a legal reason to fire you, it's not enough to not like someone. There has to be a good reason to fire someone e.g. theft, neglecting work… Since they didn't have any reasons to fire us, they started making our work lives gradually harder and harder until we would break and find another job. Sadly, one of my co-workers couldn't stand the pressure… He bid us all farewell as normal one Friday and hung himself the following day.. But as I was a girl in a male-dominated profession, I had been taught at an early stage to ignore anything that would hurt me emotionally, just arch my neck and plow through. I kept doing that, despite starting to feel more and more mental and physical pains… even my co-workers pointed out how I was being mistreated before I acknowledged it myself. I tried to tell my boss, but he reacted by treating me worse. So, I went to his boss… and that's when things went to hell. Instead of doing his job and listen, he started harassing me too. He deemed my over-weight a problem, and he started demanding I gave him detailed lists of what I ate and how much I worked out… Completely illegal of course, but by this point I was broken down to the point I thought I was useless and couldn't get another job… so I accepted. He started accusing me of lying about my exercise, so I started training at the gym in the basement at work instead. One day, while I was there, he locked the doors and turned the lights off. There were no windows, no cellphone reception and hardly anyone walking by in that part of the building… I sat there in the pitch dark for 3 hours before I was let back out. I still get badly triggered by narrow, dark rooms and rooms with no windows. To such an extent, I jumped out of a small window on the second floor of a gym when I was in boot camp. I was allowed to train downstairs in the bigger gym with windows on all walls after that incident…

The harassment at work went on for years until I finally snapped, ended up at the hospital and got into therapy for the first time. I don't want to go into depth about what more happened, I just can't… I can't bring myself to write it all. Luckily, I had gotten more education while working, so when I graduated, another company called and gave me an offer I just couldn't refuse. So, I quit my job and never looked back, even if the traumas I suffered there still haunts me to this day.

Sadly, even after switching jobs, now getting a safe job with sane leaders… I started to relax, and that's when all my past trauma came washing over me. And one day, on while driving to work, I had my first serious panic attack. It started as this feeling I used to have at the old company; getting sick to my stomach and having the sense of someone being out to get me… then it developed to breathing problems… and I had to pull the car over. I broke into tears, struggling to breathe, stumbling out of the car to read the logo on its side just to reassure my body and brain that I worked for a different company now and there was no reason for panic. I called my boss and let him know, because he also was a "refugee" from that other company, so he knew what me and several others had gone through. He managed to talk me down enough for me to come to the office to talk to him. That helped.

I got back into therapy. A better therapist this time. But sadly, it got apparent that I could no longer work as an electrician as there was too many triggers. I was diagnosed with PTSD, severe depression, and social anxiety. I'm still working on these and get better slowly.

I have been in therapy for a long time now, and it was my therapist that suggested I wrote fics to cope and "write it out". I tried to make up my own characters for this, but never felt any connection. I was by this time in the TTTE fandom and had met people with similar trauma and pasts like myself, and I started roleplaying with some of them. Me and a girl from UK then agreed to try to rp/co-write a fic to cope with our trauma. We both found it easier to write about pre-established characters we had a connection to, even if it was an au that made it barely recognizable from the original source material. Only the names and some minor things were similar.

That fic was Stepney's Virginity Gets Lost.

Do we regret writing it? No. It helped us write out our traumas and helped us overcome some mental obstacles in out therapy process. Our therapists cheering us on, because we finally managed to break through the hard shell surrounding us. We both cried for the first time in years while writing it, some of it through roleplay, because some parts were extremely graphic and brutal and very mentally exhausting. We had to take long breaks between each writing session, so the fic wasn't written in just a weekend. But we got a lot of darkness out of our minds by writing all this. And we were definitely NOT aroused by it, like this pervert here claims.

It's when you dare to touch and feel the difficult and dark emotions, you can finally move along in the grieving process.

Should it have been posted online?

In retrospect, no. But at the time, we thought it might help other trauma victims, as we also found reading about other people's experiences and fictions touching painful subjects helpful to ourselves. So, we posted it, never expecting it to cause such a controversy 3 years later. In fact, we had more or less forgotten about it until it came back to bit us in the ass. Or rather, bite ME in the ass, as I am getting the full blame alone.

Also, despite what people claim, it was not posted openly for children to read. It was tagged properly and hidden behind mature content walls. If a minor chooses to break that wall, that's not the author's fault. It's the same as watching a movie with an age restriction way above your age, not the filmmaker's fault.

I think MerciResolution puts it nicely here:

"If your problem lies with you KNOWINGLY entering adult spaces when you’re a minor, ignoring all mature warnings that are literally SCREAMING at you “hey, this is what you’re getting into. Are you sure you want to proceed?”

That’s ENTIRELY on you. YOU are the fucking problem.

We’re marking mature things as best as we properly can. If you decide to ignore them, that’s your own damn fault. We’re not your fucking babysitters."

Also, I never posted the story on Wattpad, so if anyone has done that, it's not me. I posted the story on Fanfiction.net, DeviantArt and AO3, that's all. If it's posted anywhere else, it's not done by me.

I had honestly moved on from it when people pulled me back into it.

Other people who have done questionable shit in that fandom are easily forgiven because "they have moved on" or "changed". Yet, nobody believes I can move on or change…?

I had moved on; my interests had changed. But people won't let me, so here I am… Having to defend some crap I did years ago. A fic I no longer have any interest in.

I'm not even interested in TTTE anymore. I have moved on with my own book project now and I would like to focus on that.

So, deleting my TTTE content, whether it was the SFW or NSFW stuff, didn't cost me a penny. It actually felt like a relief. The only downside with it is that people now can't read it and make up their own opinion about it, but will solely believe in what others say, and those things are often seriously bent out of shape and blown out of proportions to such an extent it's barely recognizable.

If people claim that Arry and Bert rape Stepney in the fic, they have never seen it or read it. That's not what happens. That's just an assumption made by looking at the title and knowing there is a rape/torture scene in it. But I'm not gonna tell who the victim is or who performed it, because this is the only way I am able to tell who has actually read the fic or not, who is just trying to spread bullshit and who is actually telling the truth. The person in that screenshot, has no idea what he's talking about.

Does SVGL romanticize rape and abuse?

No, not in the least. It's described as the horrible, heinous acts it is and is in no way meant to be cute or romantic and definitely NOT something anyone should get off to. If anyone finds it sexy, that's their problem, not the authors'. If anything, SVGL might romanticize suicide, because one of the characters isn't able to cope with his trauma and chooses to end their life. Which is something I considered doing myself when I was in the darkest pit of depression. So, I apologize for maybe romanticizing suicide. The following chapters describe how friends and family handle the loss and grief.

It also describes a toxic relationship, where one of the parts struggles to get out of it. They eventually manage to break free, but it is not easy. This can easily be translated to my previously mentioned relationship, as it was my way of writing out my experience about how hard it is to break out of a relation when your partner has broken you down to the point where you no longer believe in yourself and your self-worth.

The last chapters start to gradually become brighter, as both our lives started getting better too. But we never really wrote the end because we both lost interest in writing TTTE content by that time and just left it hanging.

I'm not the only one who has written NSFW TTTE fanfics out there. But it seems like violence and murder is more acceptable than sexual things? I do wonder how brutally mutilating children's show characters are more tolerable than sexually abusing them. Neither should be okay.

Some content creators hide behind "it was a joke". I have been told that such topics that SVGL touches upon shouldn't be joked about… so I didn't do that, and yet it was wrong? So how should such topics be treated? Be hidden like it's a shame, like in the old days when rape victims were told to suck things up and keep it to themselves? When those subject to abuse didn't dare to speak up because people would judge them?

I think it is important to talk about these subjects and why they are so problematic. Victims shouldn't have to hide their trauma; they should be allowed to talk openly about it without fearing judgement.

Some of you claim that writing isn't a good way to cope… You're trying to dictate how trauma victims deal with their trauma, and that's a dangerous path to walk down. Nobody handles trauma the same way. You might have your thoughts on how you would react, but you'll never know until trauma hits you… and you might not react the way you had expected or planned. Trauma messes with your head and you won't be able to think clearly. It makes you do thinks you normally wouldn't have done and can make you act out of character. So, do not judge people without having been in the same situation yourself. Ever.

Someone wrote that I have "more problems that just a rape".

Read that again.

Just a rape.

This person does not know how damaging a rape can be. And if you made it this far in this post, you know I didn't only go through one, but several. Not just by my ex, but also being ambushed while I was walking home from a party, and later; a co-worker forcing himself onto me at a building site. I can't go into depth about them all, I just can't.

Just a rape…

"Just" the feeling of not being in control of your own body and your own decisions. "Just" being robbed off your dignity and self-worth. "Just" having someone intrude into your private zone, tear your clothes off and claim your body against your will. "Just" feeling how your life force leave you as you realize that fighting against it won't help you, and you silently give up and just lay down waiting for it all to be over. "Just" spending hours in the shower, scrubbing your skin until you bleed because you can't wash the filth away and you keep feeling dirty no matter how much you clean yourself. "Just" waking up at night, after having relived the scene again in a nightmare. "Just" looking over your shoulder wherever you walk because you heard something or thought you saw something or simply because someone is walking behind you. "Just" the fact that you'll never feel comfortable walking alone at night again or have someone walk behind you. "Just" never being able to relax because your body constantly think you're in grave danger. "Just" a rape…

That's such a neck-beard thing to say. Someone who clearly think of other people's bodies as property or things. Not taking into consideration that we are living, breathing individuals with feelings. And that having another person violate us isn't something we like or that we'll easily get over. We want to choose who we give ourselves to, nobody should be forced. We didn't ask to be raped. We didn't want it. We didn't like it.

Rape is trauma.

Yes, we should have chosen other characters for the story, but we did what we did, and it cannot be undone now. So, if the only thing I will be remembered for in the fandom is that ONE fic, instead of all my other content, that's what it will be. That's what people chose to. I'm moving on.

10. Being a nazi for being interested in WW2 history and for being Norwegian and having so-called nazi-letters in my last name (actual letters of the Norwegian alphabet).

*sigh*

This is something that could only happen in America, isn't it?

Some people don't bother educating themselves. The "nazi-letters" you guys are talking about is actually part of the Norwegian alphabet and has nothing to do with Nazism or white-supremacy to do at all. The Norwegian alphabet has 29 letters, the three extra is æ,ø,å or in capital letters: Æ,Ø,Å.

We can't help it if some morons over in the US abuse these letters as symbol of their twisted mindset.

Yes, my name contains one of those letters. It is my name… and I didn't choose it. It is a common Norwegian name.

As for me being a Nazi?

Those who knows me knows that I am as far from a Nazi as one can get. I despise Nazism with all my heart.

But the reason some people choose to believe so… was that some guy who has no hobbies or life went through every single fave I've made on DeviantArt since I joined the site in 2006, which is well over 20000 faves. And he found a few Nazi-characters from a web series I was following about ten years ago. I am very interested in history and especially WW2-history, so I found that particular web-series interesting and faved some artwork related to it. What this guy failed to notice is that I also faved the Allied characters… That's ALL there is to that story.

I has also faved a pic someone made of Joseph Goebbels (I think it was?) as a Pixar Car. That's not because I have any nazi-sympathies, but I simply found the concept of turning historical persons, both good and bad, into Cars as an interesting project. I would have faved any other historical Carsified person as well.

As for me being a Norwegian and have a natural pale complexion, that's not something I can help. That's nothing I choose. And it doesn't make me racist or Nazi. Period.

11. Putting a white-supremacist flag (the actual flag of Norway) on my porch on family birthdays and our national day.

Again. Get educated.

This flag… is the actual flag of my country. The Kingdom of Norway.

There is nothing Nazi about it. It is not a symbol of white-supremacy. IT IS THE FLAG OF NORWAY.

During WW2 it was even illegal, so people would paint it everywhere in a protest against the Nazi-occpation and the SS. We even decorated our Christmas trees with it, and that is a tradition that has followed us into the modern day.

Again, if some idiots in the US choose to use it as a symbol for their disgusting logic, it is not Norway or the Norwegians' fault.

12. Being a danger to my daughter.

I need people to elaborate here.

What exactly do you think I do to my daughter? What is the cause of your concern here?

The fact that I have made NSFW content? How is that harmful to her as long as I keep it away from her? You DO realize that even authors, pornstars and moviemakers have children and that they can be good parents, right?

Do you think I read pornographic content for her as bedtime stories? Or show her porn instead of kids TV? How sick are you guys, really…?

Some people even wanted CPS to take my child away from me… Have a look at these screenshots…

You want a happy, healthy, innocent child to be taken away from a stable, safe home with loving parents just because you don't like the content the mother made? You want her to be placed in foster care, where there is no guarantee that she will have a happy upbringing rather than have her stay with her parents who love her and care for her, for reasons she'll never understand and wasn't even aware of?

"Think of the children!" a lot of you say when it comes to my content. May I ask why this doesn't apply to my daughter?

Why do some of you go as far as to wishing her dead or wanting her to be removed from the home she feels safe and loved in? How is that thinking of the children?

As for the douchebag in that screenshot. You claim that if your mother did something like that you would want nothing to do with her… I have a question: Do you know EVERYTHING your mother do? Does she include you in each aspect of her life? Even her sexual life? No?

How do you know she doesn't do thing you don't approve of when you're not around? She could be a rabid pornmag reader for all you know. But stuff like that is something adults hide from their kids. So, you wouldn't know, unless you go snooping around in her business.

Everyone is entitled to privacy. What I and my husband do when our kid is not around is our business, not hers, and certainly not yours.

Porn and parenting are to be kept separate from each other. Period.

And we do.

There is absolutely no reason to be worried about my daughter. She is a happy, healthy child in a safe, stable home with family that loves her and cares for her. Not just me and my husband, but also grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.

If you want to remove her from that over a stupid fanfic behind a mature content wall, you're the deranged person, not me.

This is all I have to say about all this and my time in the TTTE fandom. I have left by my own, free will. Yes, I am aware that many people don't want me there. That's fine. I don't want to be there.

I am a bit disappointed in those people who just blindly unfollowed me and unfriended me without any questions asked, just followed the leader. Big users tend to dictate who and what is worth following in that fandom. They will even protect real predators, but I'm not going to open that can of worms now. I'm done with the fandom.

Some of those people, I have been talking to regularly, even supported when they faced hardships in the fandom themselves. But when I got in trouble, they ditched me without a word…

If anything, this whole ordeal showed me who to trust and not, and who were true to their word when it came to how deep our friendship was. True friends at least give you the chance to explain before they drop you. I hold no ill feelings to those who did, at least they asked me before judging.

And those who still stayed with me, are the ones who truly know me and who I really am.

Some of the worst libels posted about me might be reported to the police, but I haven't made up my mind yet. I am not mentally strong at the moment, so I don't know if I have the strength to legally follow it all up. I will ask the cops at work for advice on the matter.

All I ask for now is some peace.

You don't have to like me. You don't have to follow me. You don't have to like my content. Feel free to invalidate me, I know a lot of you will.

But please, stop bullying me and my family.

Please stop sending me horrid messages and death threats.

Please stop doxxing me and calling me.

Please leave my family alone. If you don't care about me, at least care about them.

Please just ignore me. I have already left the fandom, there is no reason to keep hunting me.

I just want to move on and go on with my life and the content I am currently working on. After years in therapy, my life has gotten better, and I want to move on.

Please let me.

#good bye to ttte #tw//suicide #tw//rape #tw// bullying #tw//depression #tw//ptsd #tw//ttte #tw//sex #tw//abuse #tw//domestic abuse #I'm done

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