#no effort was given here to draw his hair canon accurately

[strqyr]

and to make it four, it's adam's turn + the whole team neatly in one pic, with few edits here and there ✌

[limerental]

Second fill for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo, yeehaw. For the prompt Role Swap

Relationships: Regis/Geralt/Yennefer

Rating: M

Content Warnings: references to murder, blood, stab wounds, and corpses of the canon-typical violence flavor, sexually suggestive dialogue, fade to black sex

Summary: Witcher Regis tracks an injured rogue vampire to druid Geralt's cottage.

“And what do we have here?” asked Regis, lacing his long fingers behind his back so that the cottage’s occupants could not see how they twitched to reach for his silver sword.

The woman at the table stretched her long legs and tossed her dark curls over one shoulder and smiled just enough for her slender fangs to catch the light. An ordinary man may have been distracted by her sensual lean in the rough-hewn chair, her fluttering eyelids dark with kohl, the fullness of her red lips, and even Regis, whose body had been mutated and reformed expressly for the purpose of resisting such a distraction, felt his slow heartbeat lurch in his chest at the sight of the strange and beautiful woman.

Or, more accurately, the sight of the woman’s dark fingernails tapping against the pulsepoint of Geralt’s wrist. 

Poor Geralt, who was only human, who in the decades that Regis had known him had never once avoided any trouble that came along, who refused to pack up his mama’s cottage and move into town where things were quieter and safer, who perhaps had not noticed the glint of the vampire’s fangs but very likely had and not been as afraid as he should have.

“Must I repeat myself?” asked Regis, doing his very best to remain civil until civility no longer benefited the human held in the creature’s grasp. 

Ordinarily, he would not fret so much over a single higher vampire, given that in all his years as a Witcher he had never known one to be any more dangerous to a man’s health than any other stranger, but he had been following rumors of a rogue, separated from her order and rejecting all principles of moral decency. 

Through the town of Rinde, Regis had followed a trail of fresh corpses, drained pale. All men, all of a certain social standing, and all unlikely to be missed overly much, but it was the principle of the thing. Namely, the most important principle being that Regis would be paid a very large sum by the mayor of Rinde if he brought back the vampire’s head.

At the site of the most recent killing, he had found a knife black with vampiric ichor held fast in the rigor mortis grip of a dead tax collector and knew at once where any creature of the night who knew anything would seek medical attention around here.

Regis sighed. Poor Geralt. He did not seem to be aware of his uncanny ability to summon danger to his little cottage at the edge of the wood, and he never turned away any of his wounded strays, not even the ones with viscera in their mouths and blood black as night and limbs cold and smooth as marble.

“My apologies, but I must ask one more--”

“What does it look like to you, Witcher?” asked the strange woman. An ordinary man would have been too distracted by the tap of her fingers against Geralt’s pulse to notice the pained wince as she shifted in the chair.

“Well, I can’t confirm such a thing without examination, but it looks to me that that freshly-bandaged wound to your gut will match the dagger I found on a murdered man this morning,“ said Regis, watching Geralt’s reaction as he spoke. No shock or horror showed on the man’s face. Under Regis’ scrutiny, he had the good sense to look sheepish, tucking an errant lock of auburn hair behind his ears and looking somewhere past the Witcher’s head rather than his eyes. “Geralt, my boy, you didn’t notice anything odd about the nature of this woman’s anatomy?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “Don’t know as much as you about higher vampires, but I figured gaping abdominal wounds aren’t standard.”

“Very astute,” said Regis. “Yes, most higher vampires only acquire those when their prey does not go down easily.”

“Prey?” The woman’s fingernails tapped against Geralt’s pale wrist. “I’m no predator, Witcher.”

“Your actions have been predatory. Three dead men is as many days.”

“Three men who have been more hostile to the people of this town than I could be if I stayed a year. I’ve killed the predators that you won’t, Witcher. Be grateful.”

“She’s not dangerous, Regis,” said Geralt. “She could have killed me by now.”

Regis pursed his lips while Geralt continued to make a dedicated effort not to look him in the eye. Regis had known the boy since he was a lanky teenager apprenticing with his mama, and so knew exactly what scene he would have walked in on if he had waited another hour.

Geralt very much had a type.

If Regis didn’t know the boy so well, he would almost believe the demure act. As if Geralt did not so frequently think with his cock when it came to dangerous and bloodthirsty creatures of the night. 

“You are very lucky that I love you, Geralt,” said Regis and watched a pink blush rise to the very tips of Geralt’s ears. 

He looked to the vampire. “May I ask your name?”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg. And you are?”

“Call me Regis,” he said, having long learned that trotting out his full name in situations like this was usually a waste of breath.

“Regis,” repeated the vampire, seeming to be tasting the name on her lips.

“Yennefer,” said Regis carefully as he made a show of relaxing his hands from behind his back, aware that he may next say the name while reading her last rites. “What are your intentions toward this innocent druid boy?”

“Regis, I’m half a century old.”

“Not now, dear one, this is an important conversation.”

“Mmmm,” hummed Yennefer, her violet eyes bright with amusement, the pull of her smirk doing nothing to hide the length of her fangs. “You’re an intelligent man, Regis. What would you deduce about my intentions?”

Taking in the scene before him, there were several things that Regis could deduce. He knew with the accelerated pace of higher vampire healing and Geralt's medicinal skills, her wound would be approaching a trifling scratch by now. 

He knew that said vampires only killed their victims in exceptional circumstances, that bloodlust did not compel or blind them, that bloodletting was more of an extracurricular activity than a requirement for sustenance, and that a vampire that broke from her coven would have no access to the resources and safety that such a group provided, leaving her to fight for scraps on the edges of society, endlessly targeted by human ignorance, forced to flee from execution over and over until she no longer could.

Her voice billowed like smoke. Dark fingernails, the black lacquer hiding the deadly sharpness, trailed along the blue veins of Geralt’s wrist. Her other hand traced the grain of the table, drawing closer to Regis with each sweep. 

At last, Geralt met his eyes, speaking without words in that endearing way he had perfected over their decades together. Sighing, Regis tugged at the buckle holding his swords to his back and set them aside. He stripped off his bracers and leather overcoat, watching Geralt swallow hard as he did so.

“I must confess that as I am incapable of reading thoughts, I know very little of your intentions, Yennefer,” said Regis. He toed off his travelling boots and set them neatly by the door, then stood with his hands on his hips in stocking feet before them. “On the other hand, I have been intimately involved with Geralt for most of his life, and I have no need of mind reading to be certain that his intentions include tempting the both of us into engaging in a number of truly debauched acts in the back room of this cottage until he no longer remembers his own name. Am I wrong, dear?”

“Rarely are,” said Geralt, a touch breathless.

As Yennefer’s clawed fingers curled to tug at his arm until he settled himself neatly in her lap, the human's smile was anything but sheepish.

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break, ch. 8

Relationships: L��n Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wēn Qíng, Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Wēn Qíng, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín, Granny Wēn, Lán Yuàn | Lán Sīzhuī, Wēn Remnants, Wen Meilin (OC), Fourth Uncle

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth, Self-Esteem Issues, Regret, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Fix-It, Eventual Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, wwx needs a hug, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Filial Piety, Handfasting, Phobias, Sleeping Together, Fear, Panic Attacks, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing, Boys Kissing, Family, and they were married, Bathing/Washing, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Feels, Sex Education, Implied Sexual Content, First Time, Aftercare, Morning After, Afterglow

Summary: The afterglow.

Notes: This could have been longer, but it would have broken the mood of the chapter. Kind of a soft interlude.

AO3 link

Chapters:  1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

---------------

Mature content so chapter is under cut.

Sex is awkward and messy and quite enjoyable. Lan WangJi can’t find it in himself to mind the inelegance of their joining, as their missteps leave Wei Ying breathlessly laughing, their bodies tangled in ways that are sometimes accidentally erotic.

He’s quite certain, with practice, they will become more proficient in time. He rather looks forward to the process.

Wei Ying falls into a sort of half-asleep daze, worn out, but he stirs the moment Lan WangJi touches him with the wet rag to wipe at the mess they made, murmuring about the chill and squirming a bit. With a bit of qi, he warms the water in the basin and resumes his ministrations, adhering to Wen Qing’s suggestions on sexual hygiene.

His zhiji is vocally displeased with the need to vacate the sleep mat, which also has a bit of a mess on it, but he cooperates enough. Both of them, he knows, will need to bathe properly in the morning.

When Lan WangJi finishes, he folds the old, ratty blanket and spreads it over the freshly-cleaned and slightly damp mat, then pulls two soft white inner robes from his qiankun pouch. He knows better than to try to wrestle Wei Ying into zhong yi—their activities have worn him out—but he bundles him into the garment, tying the ribbons before donning his own. He leaves his forehead ribbon wrapped around Wei Ying’s wrist, where he had tied it when he released his hair from the braid.

He makes Wei Ying drink water and has some himself before he pulls him back to the nest they have made of his travel mat and blankets.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying murmurs as he lays him on the pallet again and pulls him close. “So good. How is it we didn’t do that years ago.”

Lan WangJi can feel the tips of his ears heat, though not as they might have those years ago. And not now with mortification, but with arousal. Fortunately, his body is not quite ready for more activity, though he isn’t sure Wei Ying will be awake for it much longer anyway. He tucks the blanket around them snugly. 

“Clearly a mistake,” he murmurs instead, and gets a breathy giggle against his collarbone in response.

“Mm, clearly. We could have been doing that every day.”

“Every day,” he agrees, combing his fingers through Wei Ying’s loose hair. “Mark your words, Wei Ying.”

“Every day. But try not to wear your poor husband out too much,” is the softly slurred response.

He expects Wei Ying to fall asleep almost immediately, but suddenly he’s giggling again.

“Wei Ying?”

“Ah, just thinking of a-Yuan’s question.”

Lan WangJi can’t help his huff of amusement. The child, far too young to understand the matter, had innocently asked them during the little banquet the remnants held for them if they would be giving him brothers and sisters. 

As it turned out, a-Yuan was of the belief that all married couples had babies, and since Lan WangJi and Wei Ying were now married, it logically followed that they would as well.

They left Wen Qing to field that particular question. From the look on her face, she did not appreciate it.

“Ah, we can make a good faith effort,” Wei Ying chortles. “Every day.”

Lan WangJi is again reminded of Wei Ying’s claim of birthing a-Yuan. He had not, then, expected to find himself here, now. But seeing Wei Ying walk toward him in the market had been like watching the sun emerge from behind a cloud.

Wei Ying’s breath evens as he falls asleep, but despite hai shi having passed, Lan WangJi allows himself time to enjoy the feel of his body against his own, separated now by thin fabric.

He had mapped each of Wei Ying’s scars when they had disrobed, touching each and remembering the words he had spoken in the cave, of scars being proof one once protected someone. 

The surgical incision down his abdomen, the Wen brand… those Lan WangJi knew about. Faint lash marks on his back, not completely healed when he had gifted his golden core, he learned were an attempt to protect Lotus Pier, freely taken from zidian to try to appease the Wens. The scar on his waist, a stab wound from his staged fight with Jiang Cheng when he seceded from the clan, another attempt to protect YunMengJiang.

Not all of them are from protecting others. A scar on his arm from falling from a tree before he formed his golden core. The scars from the dogs on his legs. Even one that he just doesn’t remember, one he’s had so long he must have gotten it before the death of his parents.

The touching of his scars had morphed to mapping the contours of his body at some point, just to hear the involuntary sounds that spilled from his lips, sounds Lan WangJi enjoyed wringing from him. He had reveled in watching Wei Ying fall apart beneath him, his body spasming, his eyes blown out, his face contorted in bliss.

He wanted to hear those noises, see his face, feel his body like that every day.

Now, Wei Ying asleep in his arms, flush against him, Lan WangJi never wants to let him go. This possessiveness is dangerous, is the sin of his father. But where his father had taken his mother to Cloud Recesses and hidden her away, he would follow Wei Ying wherever he wished to go, would never cage him.

He leans his head against Wei Ying’s and breathes his scent in, musky sweat and spice and sex, then lets his breathing match his zhiji’s until he, too, fades into sleep.

Lan WangJi wakes, shockingly, after mao shi. Perhaps it should not shock him, given the strenuous activity of the previous night and his time thinking after hai shi, but it is the first time he can recall waking late in quite some time.

He is not in Cloud Recesses, he tells himself, but Burial Mounds, and the sun has not yet started to spill into the cave.

Wei Ying is sprawled half-atop him, his thigh brushing Lan WangJi’s groin in a way that is arousing, and he works to gently extricate himself. His move to rise is aborted when Wei Ying groans softly at the movement, the sound carrying a note of pain.

“Wei Ying?”

“Mmm, I’m okay. Little sore.”

Wen Qing warned them of that—not simply that the novelty of penetration might hurt, but that they would use muscles in different ways. Although Lan WangJi had concerns about causing Wei Ying pain, he had insisted, so he had been particularly careful with the preparation.

Wei Ying had not complained at the time, but he often kept his own pain silent, and they had been in the midst of rather pleasurable activities that could have inspired him to ignore it.

“Where?” Lan WangJi asks, his voice insistent, as he leans over him.

“Lower back. Muscles.” Then Wei Ying flashes a grin. “I’m definitely feeling last night, but that’s pleasant.”

Lan WangJi tries and fails not to remember Wei Ying’s comment about his size the previous night; he had never had occasion to do something as crass as compare to others in that manner, and he hadn’t particularly thought his zhiji was deficient in that area himself.

Instead he uses his qi to warm his hands, shifting around to urge Wei Ying to lie on his stomach, and places them at the dip above his buttocks. The pleased moan the warmth draws from Wei Ying sounds filthy and beautiful, and Lan WangJi silently recites the Lan principles in an effort not to respond with action.

Wei Ying murmurs sleepily and ultimately falls back to sleep. He covers him with the blanket, settling in the lotus position beside his sleeping husband.

His husband. He will never tire of that fact. 

Lan WangJi should meditate, but instead he watches Wei Ying sleep, maps the contours of his face with his gaze. Wei Ying is objectively beautiful. In sleep his expression is slack, lacking the smile that had enamored him at the gate of Cloud Recesses, even before their duel. 

He may not have spared him a glance back then, if not for the accurate diagnosis he had whispered to his brother, that the afflicted Lan disciple was not dead, but under a spell, a diagnosis he gave with barely a glance. 

Genius barely begins to describe Wei Ying, for so often those who have genius fail to possess the creativity to do anything with it. Wei Ying possesses that, and has experienced the sorts of tragedies that required use of both.

What he does not have, Lan WangJi has come to understand, is a sense of self-preservation, something he must have enough of for both of them if he is to keep his husband safe. 

He manages to meditate for about a quarter shichen before Wen Qing loudly announces that breakfast is ready from the mouth of the cave, clearly deciding discretion is the better part of valor in case they are naked or otherwise occupied. 

Lan WangJi wakes Wei Ying gently, with soft kisses, and they prepare for the day, dressing and braiding each other’s hair. He braids his forehead ribbon into Wei Ying’s, and thinks perhaps that is where it now belongs.

[constantindorsay]

when the kingdom falls (1/???)

fandom: greedfall characters: constantin d’orsay, de sardet, monsieur de courcillon pairings: eventual constantin/de sardet chapter warnings: light mention of blood/violence notes: reader-insert, slow burn, eventual post-canon fix-it; tags, warnings and characters to be added as needed ao3 link: here

i.

   You are twelve years old when you taste the sting of copper on your tongue for the first time. The source, as you discover with a wince, is the deep gash along the inside of your mouth; your flesh had been rent, caught between your teeth and the bony knuckles of the young lordling who had struck you.

   Still in a daze, you begin to pick yourself up off the cobblestones of your uncle’s courtyard, and think to yourself that it isn’t this Guillaume’s fault. He’s young and afraid, as so many are⎼as you are⎼the Malichor runs rampant through the court, the country, the continent, as far as monsieur de Courcillon’s lessons indicate. The mark on your cheek, while wholly different from the terrifying black taint of the deadly disease, is still something unknown.

   He is older than you, though not by much, yet he hasn’t mastered his fear in the way the rest of the court had. He hasn’t yet learned to bow and plaster polite smiles over that fear or pity or distaste, to speak in hushed whispers when you were supposedly out of earshot. Your tongue soon finds that your lip, too, has split. It explores the damage that was done, feels the swelling that matches the dull throbbing through your jaw. Your mother will need to make excuses for your absence at court while the bruise fades, and your stomach drops with dread at the trouble it will cause her.

   By now you’ve managed to sit upright, and the world snaps back into focus with alarming clarity. You become aware of screaming⎼no, pleading is more accurate, punctuated by breathless grunts and the occasional whimper. Your eyes snap upwards, searching frantically for the source (as you realise your altercation has begun to draw a crowd), only for your gaze to fall again on the cobbles not ten feet from where you’d fallen, where a second scuffle has erupted.

   Your eyes widen.

   “Constantin!” You shout, scrambling finally to your feet, but Constantin d’Orsay doesn’t answer you. He’s even smaller than you are, at this age; sheltered and fragile. His pale complexion, flaxen hair, and expressive green-gold eyes have always left you with the impression of a doll.

   There is nothing doll-like about him, now.

   Crouched atop your earlier assailant, Constantin’s arms are a frenetic blur. Wild and ineffectual though they might be for the most part, the boy beneath him has been given little recourse under the assault but to endure. His arms are raised up to protect his face, though you think you see a thick smear of blood trailing from his nose.

   “Constantin⎼!” Again you call him, and again he ignores you. By now you’ve got your feet beneath you well enough to close the distance between you.

   “If you so much as look at⎼!” Constantin warns, his voice cracking with the ferocity of the words that he rips from his throat, but you set a firm hand on his shoulder and he can no longer dismiss your call.

   “Cousin!” You insist, and your grip is firm on him as you loop your arm through his, tugging him to stand on shaking knees. His enraged expression faulters immediately as he meets your eyes with his, seeing the way your own features have twisted with concern. For more reasons than one.

   “I don’t know what came over me, I⎼” He stammers, colour draining from his face as realisation begins to dawn. You can see the way his gaze grows distant, his mind doubtlessly turning to thoughts of his father. You release him gently, though he protests at first, trying to cling to your ruffled doublet. A reassuring squeeze of his shoulder serves to placate him well enough to let you go.

   You turn and approach the boy who’s now been laid out. He seems to be recovering his wits much as you had earlier, and despite Constantin’s enthusiasm, his injuries are not severe. You’ve little experience in assessing these matters, but to your eyes it seems his nose might be rather more crooked than it had been when the day began, explaining the thick trail of blood leaking from his nostrils. Otherwise, you think perhaps blows may have clipped his cheek and chin, but they seemed superficial and would likely not even bruise.

   Withdrawing a handkerchief from your pocket, you extend it towards him.

   “My lord,” you say cautiously, as he flinches away from the motion, “if you would permit me⎼”

   “Stay away from me!” There it is again; fear. Bright and obvious in his eyes as much as it is in his voice, and you lower your arm, resigned. You weigh your options. With your white flag rebuffed, much as you would have preferred a peaceable solution sooner rather than later, given hard feelings like these left to stew, you already know you’re left with only the option to withdraw. You’re keenly aware of the eyes on you⎼and on Constantin, in particular⎼so let it be said that it was not you who departed with hostility.

   “As you wish,” you say gently, and you turn to Constantin with all the poise you can muster. It almost fails you when you see the look on his face. He’s afraid, and while you know he isn’t of you, to see it mirrored in his expression nevertheless makes you pause. He must have seen something reflected in your own features (you haven’t mastered the art of a courtly mask yet, either, as much as you would like to think you have) because he all but bounds back to your side, an eager smile swallowing all his doubts.

   “Let us away, my dear cousin,” his eyes flick to your lips, and your tongue laps reflexively at the gash within, “it seems we’ve all wounds to lick.” His hand closes around yours as he hurries the pair of you away from the courtyard, away from the prying eyes of the court, and away from the young man they’d left sitting on the cobbles.

***

   You run hand in hand through corridors, past startled staff, and down too many flights of stairs to count until all that lights your way down the dark, cramped hallways are candlelit sconces. Constantin takes a sharp turn and drags you with him, throwing open the heavy door that had been nestled around the corner. It startles the singular clerk who had been sifting through the archives, her strangled yelp causing both you and Constantin to break into brittle, nervous laughter.

   “Leave us, if you would, good madame,” He declares, the pompous affectation in his voice completely ruined by the way his chest heaves with his effort to catch his breath. He sweeps you behind him and out of the way with the same arm he uses to gesture the clerk out the door.

    “Your excellencies--” She sputters, and it’s easy to see she’s flustered and confused at the sight of the pair of noble children clearly having been up to some troublemaking given their mutual state of dishevelment, and the small matter of blood on your chin. You offer her your most charming smile, though your lip twinges in protest, from over Constantin’s shoulder.

  “We are but playing a game, madame. Tell no one you have seen us, lest you cause us to forfeit the sweets we were promised for winning!”

   You watch as her hesitation gives way to resignation; she could no more deny the children of d’Orsay and de Sardet than she could deny their parents. Let those who should have been minding them take responsibility for their mischief; she would not.

   “As you say, your excellencies. I wish you the best of luck with your game,” she dips her head politely, collects the ledgers she had been perusing, and sees herself out of the room. You wait until you can no longer hear the shuffle of her footsteps before closing the door, and you let out your breath in a sudden rush; you didn’t realise you’d been holding it in.

    Echoing your heavy sigh of relief, Constantin sinks into the chair the clerk had vacated, and he meets your gaze as you turn around and lean weightily against the door. A grin tugs on his lips, eventually lighting up his youthful face as a laugh escapes him, and you feel one of your own bubbling uncontrollably out of your chest. In an instant you’re laughing along uproariously, dispelling the anxious tension that had threatened to grow between you.

    Yours ends abruptly with another wince as your teeth catch the gash they had opened in your flesh, and your split lip pulses in the wake of a grin that had pulled it too wide. Your fingers touch gingerly to the sore, flakes of blood that had already dried coming away with a fresh splotch of crimson on your fingertips. In the time it’s taken you to investigate your wound, you’re aware that Constantin has risen from his seat and made his way to you.

    “My dear cousin,” he says, his hand extending almost as if to reach for your face, but you turn your head to shy away, briefly mortified at the idea of having your blood on his hands.

    “Whatever am I to do with you?” His hand still hovers between you, and it’s then that you realise his knuckles are reddened and abraised, though thankfully only one had split. The one that had broken the young Guillaume’s nose, no doubt. Your concern softens your affront at his words.

   “With me?” You repeat, incredulous nevertheless. Your unsullied hand snatches at his wrist and waves it gently before his eyes, “Constantin, he was near to double the size of you!”

   Constantin scoffs dismissively. “My father would have had his head had he dared lay a hand on me.” You can see straight through his feigned indifference as his voice warbles gently at the slightest mention of the Prince d’Orsay; you both know there will be consequences for these events as much as your cousin seems determined to deny it, “And he impugned your honour, I could hardly let it stand!”

   “My honour,” you start, but the rest of the words catch in your throat as your eyes meet. His is an intense look for all his youthful features, and you realise, suddenly, you’re treading on precarious ground. He’s waiting, you realise, for something specific, and for once his expressive face gives nothing away. The feeling of teetering on a precipice from which there was no return sends you scrambling back for a common ground between you.

   “Oh, Constantin,” you sigh, your affection⎼albeit exasperated in the moment⎼plain in your voice, “whatever am I to do with you?” He searches your gaze, and whatever storm had been brewing behind his greenish gaze subsides. 

   “First, we must make a merry plan! Raid the pantries, the closets, the barracks! We must make ready to abscond into the night ahead of my father catching wind, you see.” He dances away from you to gesture theatrically with his words, mischief creeping back into his expression;  you can still see the shadows of dread that remain in his eyes. You open your mouth to jokingly suggest you make for Thélème⎼perhaps the father that frequents court, Petrus, you think, can be convinced to smuggle the pair of you from the city⎼but the door rattles behind you and sweeps inward, forcing both you and Constantin to step out of the way before you’re caught by it.

   “...Monsieur de Courcillon!” You exclaim, your eyes going wide. Instinctively, almost, your steps have placed you protectively between your professor and Constantin.

   “I do hope I misheard you, Excellency.” His voice carries a tired note of inevitability.

   “I take full responsibility for this, professor,” the words are spilling from your lips without you missing a beat. Your head lowers as your gaze falls to the floor, but Sir de Courcillon’s hand rises to grip your chin lightly, turning your face that he might examine your injury. You see what might be a flicker of pity in his gaze, and your cheeks warm with shame, your eyes sliding from his.

   “Your mother worries for you, my young student. Please, go to her posthaste and relieve that burden on her heart.” De Courcillon’s gaze shifts to Constantin, and you don’t need to be looking at him to know he shrinks beneath it.

   “Your father has likewise requested your presence, your excellency.”

   “Of course, monsieur.” To his credit, Constantin masters his anxiety and steps past you, though he turns to glance your way once he’s through the door.

    “Until tomorrow, dear cousin!”

    “Until then,” you say, mustering an encouraging smile that you can only hope reaches your eyes. Your professor gives you a nod of seeming approval and turns to escort Constantin to the Prince, leaving you in the silence of the archives.

   Once you can no longer hear their footsteps, you gather yourself along with your wavering resolve, and make your way to your mother’s lodgings.

[pilferingapples]

Episode 5a: Green Finch and Cosette Bird

Not gonna try to Chronology this bc despite my best efforts I have NO idea what time span this is all supposed to be covering, like if it’s weeks or months or, as it appears to be, all happening in one Really Busy Week 

Before I get into it: As always , major props for the Props people, and the set design team on this show. Whatever my other issues about the series, I’ve loved the look of the places, and there’s some real nice touches in every scene. They make rewatching it all worth it just for the visuals. 

...More mixed feelings under the cut, but I did enjoy some things besides the setting!:

HELLO HELLFONT MY OLD FRIEND , what can I say,  it’s becoming a familiar (type)face , any friend in a storm

-I really enjoy this opening-- setting up that the people in Paris really ARE at about ready to riot and everyone really is angry, it’s not just Those Kids in A Bar Somewhere. It feels very A Few Pages of History, (4.1 , for those wondering!) and I’m glad it’s being given some time. 

-I am ALSO Highly Entertained that all this deep rooted and widespread social unrest is juxtaposed with flyers of THAT DASTARDLY VALJEAN. I’m sure to this Javert they’re exactly the same thing-- and I mean I am SURE because Javert tells us so directly: 

Rivet or Rivette or whatever: Uh boss we have intel on an attempt at overthrowing the government and I mean Parisians actually do that not infrequently of late so IDK  but I think we have bigger issues than your Nemeship 

Javert, Verbatim:  THERE IS NO. LARGER. ISSUE. MAN, Mark My Words, Where Ever You Find Unrest, HE Will Be At The Very Heart Of It 

THIS IS THE BEST THING THIS JAVERT HAS EVER SAID but it’s just gonna get better and I am SO here for Hilariously Overinvested In One Rando Thief Javert, he’s got basically nothing to do with Javerts Past and I do not CARE, this is hilarious

- Cutting over to Valjean and Cosette, with Cosette nursing his really oozy arm wound! I am NOT satisfied with Valjean’s “well I had to go back to the Thenardiers for  Reasons” line at ALL, especially not when Cosette was so clearly retraumatized.  I would accept a Scheme on his end, a moral argument, ANYTHING, but she’s just like “so this is awful” and he’s all “but Cosette, REASONS” . Also not satisfied with Cosette denouncing people as Evil! or Valjean signing off on it! I understand why she’s saying it from a Watsonian perspective but the show has chosen to set this up, to have the characters most associated  with redemption and recovery ready to directly condemn. This Cosette is infinitely more judgemental, and I can see why, because holy smokes this Valjean. And this is a fairly brief moment in the show but it’s just off for what this story and these characters represent.

- Meanwhile, in Some Cafe I Guess, Enjolras has some terrible lines about the upcoming revolution that make it seem like this has been a pickup game planned since all of last week and I have horrible foreshadowing of Fandom Arguments to Come. 

Also: this is not the fandom I think we are if we can’t just Nominate some Remaining Amis out of this mess of extras! I’ll go first; I nominate the bearded guy in the corner during Enjolras’ speech about Lamarque (at ~~4:43) for Bahorel, and the dark-haired guy in front of him for Joly.

-I love how grim the women’s prison is; also, Mme T trying to be as good a mother as she knows how to be even here.  (Also I know they probably should NOT be in the same prison together, but this is one of those condensations that I Get)

- I’m sure a lot of people are gonna hate it, but I actually really appreciate that this Marius is rather cold and unpleasant to Eponine post-Gorbeau, when she’s taking him to see Cosette. That is  canon!  He’s quite rude and even physically rough with her when he sees her again!  It’s an important aspect of his character; he gets caught up with his current Only Thing In The World and treats other people around him badly, it’s a running thing! Heck, this Marius is still  kinder to Eponine post-Gorbeau than his book counterpart.  I feel awful for Eponine, of course, but then I absolutely should. This is a Good Bit.  

-Thenardier escapes from prison by pretending to have Died of Dysentery--er, cholera! If they’re not gonna have Gav and the whole Escape By Night scene, this is actually a pretty clever, quick way to get Thenardier out, and build in the info about the cholera epidemic. I can never be exactly glad to lose Gavroche Scenes, but this was a pretty good way to abridge that! 

- Valjean’s arm  is better! So it’s been Some Vague Time! So he’s leaving for Mysterious Valjean Purposes (money), with a blithe “Cosette stay here, it’s safe but also don’t leave the house until I get back, also you can’t come with me because it’s dangerous, but don’t worry it’s TOTALLY safe.” If this Valjean were more the warm, loving character he should be, this might just seem awkward and badly phrased; with all that’s happened between them already and all that comes next, this just seems manipulative and cruel.

-Vajlean goes out into the streets and sees ...a drawing that doesn’t really look like him! On a wanted poster! So he tears it down. Javert’s Valjeany Sense Activates and his eyes open in his office when Valjean tears down the poster Who Knows Where. This delights me. DELIGHTS. This Javert is a hilarious parody of all Javerts and I officially love it.

-I also like Thenardier and...Montparnasse?-- and someone else..?why is this scene so dark --  in the sewers, and the cut from that to Cosette. Nice way to stress the actual real danger that Valjean’s left her in, also: good Cat Scare before Marius happens. (yeah and also Thenardier seems to be Leader of the Patron Minette, which is never my Fave Choice for an adaptation to make, but it makes sense, especially as breakneck as things are moving 

-Toussaint’s Cheerful Doomy Dooms of Doom while Valjean leaves her and Cosette to do his Secret Valjean Thing; since Enjolras has banned romantics from the barricade, guess we gotta take our cheerful death talk where we can! (also, totally canon!)

-okay, you know what, I really like Cosette’s scenes in the garden. This Cosette is doing a great job of selling me on her Extremely Young-ness. She seems young enough and unworldly enough that a Magic Boyfriend sneaking in without her noticing is Cool and Exciting and Magical instead of super unnerving.  She’s adorable. And there is really excellent framing here with the flowers and the lighting and all. It does  feel like a fairy tale, which, it really should; this is Cosette’s fairy tale romance and I’m happy for her.

...Unfortunately this Valjean is rather too much the part of the Ogre Parent and I wish Marius would just take her away.  Uhg. (also I haaaate this bgm. HAAAATE. I am not talking about it much and I know it’s probably just me but it is so obtrusive to me!) 

- Gavroche shows up, robbin’ all the randos and giving bread to a couple of genuinely unrelated street kids! I...am having such mixed feelings! I love this actor; this actor has Gavroche absolutely DOWN and I am accepting him into my heart entirely but...like...why is  this  part of the story�� here,  why is there so much emphasis on him being a thief, why does he just leave the momes instead of trying to take them in, why is this show trying to make it visually clear that these aren’t his brothers? this is just..it’s the thing that keeps happening where there are a bunch of changes for no apparent reason and they don’t add up to anything new but they also aren’t the Original Thing and I can’t figure out what the point of those alterations really are (though this scene, with the extra thieving and reduced generosity, grand-total steals some of Gavroche’s heroism).  The actor is amazing but GIVE HIM HIS FULL BIT. 

- back to Definitely Some Cafe (it’s really well done, I just have no idea what cafe it is ? It’s full of workers, maybe this is supposed to be the Corinth?)  and a brief, foolish moment on my part of hoping there’ll be more discussion of why the rebellion is happening is Destroyed and turned to  “you rich students can go back to your families in the country but--”  THIS IS THE GHOST OF MY ASKBOX FUTURE AND I HATE IT , OH SPIRITS;  WHAT MAY I DO TO TURN THIS NIGHTMARE ASIDE

-...why isn’t this worker just...Feuilly...why are none of the workers Feuilly...

-P.sure my Joly HC is here 

either that or he’s BBC’s Merlin which might explain some things

- Awkwardness of Lost Historical Context aside, this Enjolras is growing on me (like a scruffy beard!) . He’s intense and physically affectionate and I like that in an Enjolras; I just think it’s weird that he’s hanging out with what are apparently random students who haven’t committed to the revolution frigging yet , but you know! Whatever!  

- ...I am currently kind of on the fence about this but...if they’re not gonna give the whole arc with Grantaire As Symbol of the Apathetic Bourgeois being Converted the time it needs, I ...think?  ..what they’re doing here might be a serviceable substitute?  He’s very obviously Not Got The Revolution Fever and is Doing It For His Friends, and he’s obviously super uncomfortable about it.  I like this take on that so far better than some versions I’ve seen. 

ATM, gotta say, the Amis Scene is bugging me the least. If it weren’t for the absolutely bizarre nonsense last week, I would be Pretty Okay with the Amis stuff?? WEIRD BUT TRUE.  Or maybe just a sign of how some adaptations have totally destroyed my expectations here to the point where “Enjolras isn’t actually Dracula” is Okay With Me. ANYWAY I’LL TAKE IT, A MOMENT OF LIKABLE CHARACTERIZATION. 

-The Revolutionary conversation segues with a cut to the Royalist Salon and Gillenormand, who  is NOT likeable and I’m not sure why we get this scene Here In Particular?  A contrast to the revolutionaries, I guess? But this Gillenormand continues to be very very  accurate. 

- At The House In The Garden, Valjean is back! Cosette comes to hug him! He apparently WAS worried that she wouldn’t be safe so what was with the reassurances earlier like she was being a stupid child! And most important

WHY DOES VALJEAN HAVE A BACK LACING WAISTCOAT  WHY DID HE WEAR THAT ON HIS TRIP AWAY  WHO LACED HIM UP WHILE HE WAS GONE  AAAAAAAAH 

okay I’m okay

- wait NO I’m NOT because now it’s time for the Patron Minette to come in and not-rob this place and the show completely destroys Eponine’s moment as the guardian of Marius and Cosette’s happiness!  Instead of her getting to intimidate a bunch of grown armed men into retreat, she’s attacked, threatened, and ultimately rendered  passive, her moment of heroism rendered null when no one comes to her scream, and her role in saving the Valjean house and all in the garden replaced by an actual dog.  I am really pretty furious about this! But the Character Destruction Of Eponine deserves its own post so Moving On FOR NOW...

- ...also are you telling me THIS hyper paranoid, aggressive JVJ doesn’t notice or react to screams and barking dogs 

- holy moly even kneeling Marius is almost as tall as Cosette, that’s not relevant to anything but it’s entertaining to me; it’s also Very Cute to have him comforting her by making himself smaller than her, when they’re both freaking out about her imminent maybe-move. 

- Valjean having a conversation with Eponine instead of just getting her note to move is not inherently The Worst! But the way he treats her just reinforces how cold and uncaring he is. There’s no compassion in him for a poor abused girl who could almost have been his daughter, no concern for how she might be faring, not even an awkward “hey be careful”.  Is it understandable? Yeah, sure. A lot of selfish focus is Understandable and human. But it’s not admirable, it’s not kind, it’s not the actions or attitude of a man who’s learned kindness towards the world through love, or who tries to put others first to the point that it would kill him. It makes sense, for some characters-- but it’s just not Valjean. 

-NICOLETTE IS THE HERO THIS ADAPTATION NEEDS and she’s SO happy to announce that Marius is back to talk to his awful awful Grandpa!

- The whole scene with Marius asking Gillenormand  for permission to marry is very satisfyingly awful and I have no complaints. It’s a bit abbreviated, and I wonder if people who don’t know the era will totally get that this is a question of needing adult legal approval?  but it’s not shortened beyond the amount that Adaptational Space might suggest. I’d take this little scene as a good illustration of the Gillenormand/Marius dynamic for anyone. Also: is that the Yellow Prisoner-Crafted Wallpaper???  BBC Set Design People, you’re the BEST

- I know I’ve already given kudos to the props and set people but I LOVE this little bachelor apartment that Marius and Courfeyrac are sharing, this is so great?? I’ve seen sketches from the era that look so much like this!  Give me a  moment to squeak happily about this place-- the low roof! The clothesline! The clutter! I love it! (@ about 30:00) 

- I HATE EVERYTHING ENJOLRAS  SAYS HERE THOUGH, even if I intend to meme out No Romantic Daydreamers to the FULLEST 

-Cutting back to Valjean and Cosette’s house, I also hate that Cosette defense-flinches when she wakes up! It’s been eight years! That should not still be her auto-reflex if she’s come to feel safe and loved!  My heart! 

Valjean tells her they have to move today. Valjean does NOT tell her where they’re going. Valjean gives her an hour to pack--and Cosette has to run out and ask Toussaint what the address will be and has to LIE TO TOUSSAINT about why she needs it. Valjean, there are secrets you might feel a need to keep from your daughter. WHERE SHE LIVES should not be one of them. “I’m taking you to an address no one knows and also you can’t have it ahead of time” is what kidnappers do! Watching Cosette write her note and move (terrible bgm and all) is breaking my heart--she is so alone in this house--no one is on her side, no one is there to listen to her, no one is really considering her feelings or giving her any explanations, she’s being moved around like a pet. The abuse is less florid than with the Thenardiers, but it’s still there, and I want to cry. 

The scene goes from soldiers marching outside the window of the new apartment to the funeral. Aaaand that seems like a good place to break this giant review in two. 

Randoming Fandoming:

-I’m pretty sure that at around 6:14 a woman and kid in modern clothes just wander in the background behind Marius! This is not a Complaint, these things happen to any production, but it’s fun to have spotted? 

[bellarkepromptfills]

this is a place where i don’t feel alone

@bellamythology: here, have some post-canon family feels ;)

for 2 Anons: “clarke is upset that their daughter said bellamy is better at braiding hair” + “clarke feeling inept bellamy makes parenting look easy? like, he raised o, right? he has experience! and since their kid left her womb he has no problem bathing, feeding, burping, putting them to sleep and all.”

rated: general audiences [ read on ao3 ]

Raven’s eyes widened in sympathy as Clarke stumbled into the dining hall, dark bags under her eyes and limp hair falling out of her braid. “I thought he was sleeping through the night already?”

“He does,” Clarke said through a wide yawn. “But apparently he thinks the morning starts as soon as the sun comes up.”

“Well, technically he’s not wrong.”

“Et tu, Brute?” Looking significantly more awake than he should given, that he’d been the one to get up with their son, Bellamy set a plate of early strawberries in front of Clarke as he sat down beside her. “That’s exactly what Grandpa Marcus said when I dropped our Crispus off this morning.”

“If you keep calling him that, he might think it’s his actual name.” Raven cocked her head, bemused.

Clarke sighed. “Shockingly, Horatio doesn’t really lend itself to any nicknames, so we’re trying out a few to see which stick. That one’s not going back into the rotation, obviously.”

“Why not? It’s an actual Roman cognomen and it means curly-haired.” Bellamy smiled charmingly, the very picture of an (unfairly hot) history nerd in his element, and Clarke was almost tired enough to just let him win yet another argument on the appeal of that  look alone. Almost. “Is it my fault it’s accurate?”

“Is it your fault our son’s head is covered in adorable but untamable curls? Genetically speaking, absolutely.” Clarke reached over to ruffle Bellamy’s hair, already mussed from sleep. (Sometimes she would look over and think that her son looked just like Bellamy, before remembering all over again that yes, she actually had a child — an adorable, impossibly stubborn, alarmingly adventurous little boy with dark curly hair and improbable blue eyes — with this man. Her partner, her best friend. Her man.)

“Hey, you like my hair.”

“Eh, it’s okay.”

He leaned in closer to whisper in her ear, making her shiver. “Liar. You didn’t seem to think it was just okay this morning when you —”

“Ew, get a room,” Raven interjected from across the table, though she was grinning. “Is this what you guys do all day after you foist the kids off on your unsuspecting extended family?”

“I wouldn’t call them unsuspecting. Most of them are pretty eager to do it, and they knew what they were signing up for when they came begging us to let them babysit. And after all the trouble we went through for them, I think the delinquents owe us more than a few hours of childcare.”

Being one of said delinquents, Raven just smirked. “I’ve got Madi this afternoon, right? I’ll see you guys then. And try to keep it in your respective pants; your own kids are running around this camp.”

“Not if Grandma and Grandpa do their job!” Clarke called after her, but she was smiling too.

Every so often, Clarke was reminded how lucky it was that Madi had already been well out of babyhood by the time she’d found her. She honestly wasn’t sure if she’d survive parenthood without Bellamy, so she was beyond glad that she would never have to find out.

Even before he was named, Horatio had taken up nearly all his parents’ combined attention and worry, which was saying quite a lot considering theirs was a partnership that had averted wars and survived the literal apocalypse.

Bellamy had pretended to be disappointed, claiming that all his “best” names were for girls before adding thoughtfully, “But then again, a lot of them have masculine forms, which would work for a boy.”

“I just spent nine hours pushing out your son,” Clarke had huffed. “Could you wait ten minutes before you try to talk me into anything questionable?”

That had gotten a laugh out of Abby as she handed back the bundle of blankets that was her newborn grandson. “I’ll leave you two to argue over his name while I break the news to Madi that she’s officially a big sister now. Any chance you’ll have reached an agreement by the time we get back?”

“Probably not,” Bellamy said softly. His gaze had yet to leave the baby, now back in Clarke’s arms; there was a tenderness in his eyes that Clarke had never seen before, and she felt herself tearing up at the thought of her expanding family.

“He’s so small,” Clarke remarked in awe, gently tracing the outlines of the baby’s tiny face. “And so perfect.”

“Just like his mom.”

She made a face in lieu of answering that, wrinkling up her nose so adorably that Bellamy couldn’t resist leaning over to drop a kiss on it. Of course, that woke their son up, and he immediately began to make his displeasure known. Loudly. Her efforts to quiet him fruitless, Clarke was all too happy to let Bellamy try when he offered.

As he paced calmly up and down the room with the baby, she asked wryly, “You wouldn’t happen to know a Latin name that means ‘noisy,’ would you? Or ‘disruptive’?”

“Who’s coming up with questionable names now?”

Before long, though, the baby had quieted again, his eyes — the same light shade as his mother’s, though Abby had pointed out they were likely to get darker as he got older — wide and alert. Paired with his tiny frown, he looked surprisingly contemplative: a smaller version of Bellamy in one of his pensive moods.

“He looks like he’s seen some sh — stuff.” She knew it would be a while before the baby started learning to parrot words, but it would probably take that whole time to break the habit.

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Bellamy smiled a little, self-conscious.

“Horatio. That’s not a bad name.”

Their son blinked, then settled into sleep.

“I guess that’s a yes, then.”

Bellamy leaned over and kissed her forehead. “You did good, Mom.”

“We did good. He’s half you; don’t think you’re getting out of this so easily.”

That got a soft laugh out of him. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As the days passed, though, it quickly became clear that first burst of noise would be more indicative of Horatio’s usual pattern of behavior than his later tranquility — at least, when he wasn’t being cared for by his father.

To Clarke, all his cries sounded the same: earsplitting and incomprehensible. Yet Bellamy seemed to effortlessly make sense of them, instantly knowing whether the baby wanted food or a nap or a change or just to be picked up. At first she was relieved that this shifted the main responsibility to her partner, who was more than happy to shoulder it, but after watching some of the other mothers in camp she started to feel like she should be better at this.

“People talk about maternal instincts all the time, and my mom kept telling me that once he was born I’d just know exactly what to do,” she confided to Raven. “I keep waiting for it to kick in, and it just never does. He won’t eat, he won’t sleep, he won’t even hold still for me. But Bellamy just never seems to have any problems with him, and for once it feels like I’m not pulling my weight in this relationship. So to speak.”

“He had more than twenty years’ head start on you,” Raven pointed out. “Have you talked to him about it? Or better yet, talk to Octavia. I’m sure it wasn’t all smooth sailing for them.”

Clarke made a face. “I keep meaning to, and then I see my boys together and I can’t think of anything except how cute they are, and how glad I am to have them.”

“When did you become such a sap?” Raven teased. “Seriously, talk to your other half.”

But it never seemed to be a good time.

One year later

To Clarke’s dismay, Madi actually darted out of her reach as she picked up the brush. “Where’s Bellamy?”

“Dropping off your brother with Harper and Monroe,” Clarke replied, bemused. “Why?”

“No reason! Just, um, I can wait for him to get back.”

“Madi.” (The others called this her “mom voice,” but it was far less effective on her adopted daughter than it had been on the delinquents.) “You can’t go about the day with all that hair in your face. Come here and let’s get this over and done with.”

The girl mumbled something that Clarke couldn’t make out.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing!”

“Madi —”

“Bellamy’s better at braiding hair,” the girl blurted.

“Okay.” Clarke barely managed not to react too visibly. “Well, Bellamy will be back soon, if you insist on waiting for him. I’ve got to drop in on the medbay, see how they’re doing.”

Heart sinking, Clarke was about to start another search of Horatio’s favorite places when Bellamy’s voice came from behind her.

“Look what I found at the edge of camp.” With an eyebrow cocked in amusement, he took a sideways step to reveal the toddler clinging to his jacket, who just grinned and tried to put his other fist in his mouth, grunting in displeasure when Bellamy caught him by the arm. “Hey, buddy, we talked about this. If you’re going to play in the dirt, you’re gonna be touching lots of yucky stuff that I promise you don’t want in your mouth. You gotta wash your hands first, or you’ll get sick.”

Waving his pudgy arms insistently, Horatio babbled an incomprehensible reply, then turned those innocent big blue eyes on Clarke, who couldn’t resist a smile even as her heart rate had yet to return to normal. Intellectually she always knew that he couldn’t have gone far, that someone in camp would find him before he could get into too much mischief, but that didn’t stop her adrenaline from spiking every time she lost sight of him.

“I swear, I only looked away for a second.”

“He really doesn't make it easy. Just like your mom, huh?” Bellamy scooped their son up into his arms with an unconcerned ease that Clarke had never seemed able to achieve. The abrupt change in altitude elicited a squeal of pure delight, drawing smiles from everyone in the vicinity.

She sighed, glancing back towards the medbay. She’d already taken so much time off, at everyone’s insistence, but she just couldn’t seem to care for her patients and Horatio at the same time.

“I can take him for the rest of the day, if you’re busy,” Bellamy offered. “Miller can lead the hunting expedition, and Harper’s been wanting to get out of camp for a while. I don’t have to go.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s not exactly a hardship to spend extra time with my mini-me, Clarke. Seriously, it’s no problem.”

“Okay, if you really don’t mind.”

“We’ll manage. Right, Hamlet?”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “You can’t just substitute another name for his, even if they’re related! I’m seriously starting to think you don’t know how nicknames work.”

“Said the princess to the former rebel king.”

“Touche. I’ll see you back at the cabin, then.”

When she returned that evening, Bellamy took one look at Clarke and seemed to realize immediately. “Did something happen with Madi earlier?”

“No. Why?”

“She said you’ve been acting weird. And some of the others noticed that you’ve seemed distracted today. Plus, you told me you’d try to stop missing dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“Clarke.” His expression was fond but exasperated. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s not a big deal, Bellamy. Just let it go.”

Of course, he couldn’t just leave it at that; it was exactly why their relationship worked. “Talk to me, princess,” he said softly, sitting down beside her on their bed.

She sighed. “Madi said you’re better at braiding hair. She actually ran away from me.”

“Well, she’s at that age,” Bellamy tried. “Just look at little Maya; she won’t let Miller or Monty touch her hair.”

“It’s not just that.” Another sigh, but since this conversation was long overdue she kept going. “You’re better at all of this. Ever since Horatio was born. Bathing him, feeding him, putting him to bed, soothing him when he cries — you just make it all look so easy. I mean, I know you have experience and all, but …”

“Clarke, hey. Listen. The first time I picked up Horatio, I was honestly terrified.”

“You were?” Her gaze snapped to his, earnest and vulnerable.

“Oh yeah. Some of the guys were teasing me that it’d be different with our own child, but I hadn’t realized it was so true. I mean, of course I love all our godkids, but … with Horatio it just feels like the stakes are higher, you know?”

“Yeah.” She curled into his side, and he put an arm around her. “What was — How did you get over it?”

“Tell you a secret?” Feeling her nod against his shoulder, Bellamy half-smiled. “I never did. Every day I get up in the morning, and I just figure, our best is all we can really do. No parent ever really knows what they’re doing, and most people turn out okay. The important thing is that the kids know we’ll love and support them no matter what, and you’re doing just fine on that front.”

Suddenly Clarke laughed softly.

“What?”

“It’s been years since we’ve heard a real Bellamy Blake speech. I never thought I’d miss them so much.”

He laughed too, and kissed her forehead before standing up slowly. “Grandma and Grandpa are probably getting worn out about now; we should bring the kids home soon.”

Clarke nodded. “Ready when you are.”

[sassyhazelowl]

Option B has been launched. I’d like to give a shout out to both @everybodys-chains & @lucylaneeffect for being terrible and supportive influences about things I really have no business writing. And also @the-archangel-of-zeref for pointing out the fact I have no idea what the fuck is actually going on in canon and all the bits I got wrong. All the bits that are still wrong are now me purposefully sticking my middle finger up at canon and choosing to ignore my education.

Disclaimer: Lots of middle fingers towards canon. Some shade may be thrown at certain popular characters. In the process of attempting to make them likable protagonists instead of walking plot devices, great liberties have been taken with cardboard characters with no consistent canon characterization. I might fuck this up but you’ll live. It has yet to be beta’d but I’m going to cram it down my friend’s throat because if she’s forcing me to beta her SessKag drivel, she owes me.

Also, yes, this is divergent canon where The Christina arrives 10 minutes early and ruins part of the canon timeline and the plot, hurrah! Blame Blue Pegasus for being awesome.

Prologue

“It’s got quite the view.”

She swept by without any acknowledgement of the view or the speaker, tilting her head down towards the wizen old man tottering along a half pace ahead with a spriness that belied his age. If she stared hard enough, she could just make out the outline of Ursa Major on that liver spotted pate. Casting a glance up at her because he felt her heavy gaze, he spoke with enthusiasm, quick to monopolize on the good point, “Yes, yes! You have very good taste indeed. When the harbor is clear you can see all the way across the bay to our sister town!”

“Hmm,” was the moody response as she realized she was one skin discoloration away from completing the bear’s face.

“Our town is known for its fresh air and fresh seafood,” he babbled on nervously, picking up on her discontent but not sure why. Did she know about the foundation problems? The sandfleas that invaded in the peak of summer for those few miserable weeks? Or had to come on too strong while she was enjoying said view, even though her mahogany eyes had been train elsewhere? “Very relaxed for those who wish to retire…”

Now that was entirely the wrong thing to say, and he froze, gray, watery eyes comically wide below peppered brows and mouth falling open in a hasty apology. He was too slow, far too slow, because the woman’s younger companion, who had been leaning against the rail burst into laughter.

“Your age is showing!”

The sigh she’d been holding in, so polite and proper it was smothering, burst out then, startling them both, and she mustered a bland smile for the man trying to sell her the property.

“Thank you, sir. I will certainly consider the… view. It is a lovely town but I am not sure it’s quite--” her eyes cut to the left sharply and the smile wavered at the edges as she took in the view for the first time; it was really was magnificent and she finished her decline regretfully, “What I am searching for.”

The man’s face fell into a mass of disappointed wrinkles at her gentle rebuff but he didn’t spring along or follow when she turned to leave. Unfortunately, the other woman did. And that, right there, was the problem. Sadly, changing location wouldn’t solve it.

The footfalls behind her weren’t a skip but they held a childish quality to them nonetheless. If she didn’t know better, she’d expect someone much different. It was that hesitant patter-pattering that had grown so familiar she didn’t know if she could remember a time recently she hadn’t heard it, even before the outcome of the trial. After all, since that fateful moment their eyes met across the battlefield, she felt a string being tied tight, very much like a noose actually when she paused to think about it.

“Again Anna?” It was less of a complaint and more of a curious question. Surprisingly, the other woman seemed wholly content simply to have the Celestial Wizard within sight. It was a fit of mild hilarity waiting to happen the moment someone from the Council came to check up on her ward only to find that Anna could barely slip away to the bathroom alone. Just who was the prison warden here again?

“It’s not right,” she mumbled, more to herself than her shadow. The footsteps skittered and stumbled a bit, this being the first time Anna had ever bothered to respond to the stream of comments, complaints and observations since the two had left Magnolia.

“I suppose,” was the hummed reply, much too thoughtful to be a child, but said with the same sort of flippant innocence, “The salt in the air would utterly ruin my hair in any case.”

Anna grunted at the assumption the sea wind was an inconvenience the woman and nearly whirled on her heel to take the blasted property; the grunt was a crass and unladylike sound, entirely inappropriate for civilized company. Fortunately, the only company she’d been keeping for the past few weeks was the current one, and Irene was far from civilized, Anna had found out.

“No one asked you to come along,” the Celestial Wizard pointed out, proud of the fact it was level and fair not snippy and petty. She was supposed to be locked up in the hotel room after all but making her stay put was impossible, and Anna had realized it was easier just to keep a personal eye on her.

But it was seriously getting on her nerves, and it seemed silly to keep up the charade of a noblewoman, of a learned woman, of one who was beyond reproach, but she’d been doing it for so long, she wasn’t sure how to stop. She wasn’t even sure if she could stop. Maybe that persona was all there was left to Anna -- proper manners, empty airs and graying blonde hair befitting a proper matriarch. The title she should have and would have held over her grand and sprawling estate four hundred years in the past.

Of course, there was dear Lucy now, she supposed. And her beloved Dragon Slayers as well.

But neither made up for what she’d chosen to sacrifice. The life and children and husband and sprawling clan she’d forsaken to save the future. It weighed on her. Those memories, that forfeited life she’d been born to have.

“I have to,” Irene replied immediately, seriously, “I promised.”

Well, she’s already broken her own rule about not speaking, so she might as well indulge her curiosity a bit, “To whom?”

“You.”

Regret was the feeling that came to mind when Anna considered it. Not regret for saving Irene’s life, never that. Nor regret for bring her aboard The Christina while rescuing young Wendy from Acnologia’s wrath… if they had been just five or ten minutes later, there wouldn’t have been anything left of the young Dragon Slayer to rescue. Nor Irene either for that matter, given what Miss Scarlet had said later, a cold look to her and not a shred of sympathy.

Anna was not surprised to learn about their blood relations; after all, family fostered the deepest bonds of love, and therefore, too, the deepest bonds of loathing as well.

But she was definitely regretting not slipping out of town in the middle of the night. And the permanent limp from her shattered and magically regenerated hip that made her slow enough that the recovering witch could keep pace. Most noteworthy, she regretted breaking her self-imposed vow of silence, and she promised this would be the first and last time she’d slip. If she were patient and mature, she could weather the next few months as mandated by the court with little stress or effort, and then she would be entirely free.

In the meantime, Anna mustn't encourage her.

She wanted to know as little as possible about the other woman. Truly, after all she’d done, was a little peace and solitude too much to ask for? Let her spend her last years alone with a cat and a garden and copious amounts of high quality tea.

Somewhere with an unaltered view of the stars.

“Perhaps you should try the mountains.”

Perhaps you should mind your own business, Anna’s snotty inner-voice snapped back irritable but she kept mum.

A wistful tone entered the other woman’s voice as she added uncharastically poetic and somber, “With thick pines all around and the mountain side filled with moonlight. So bright, so beautiful.”

A memory misty with age, tugged on Anna then, of a similar scene up in much younger mountains full of newly matured evergreens untouched by man’s saw and a cliffside no mere human could reach easily. How the crisp night’s air was more a biting chill on her exposed legs as they dangled carelessly over the edge, confident she was safe despite the lethal drop. Snug in a cocoon of heavy fur blankets, her back slumped comfortably against a firm surface. The heat being radiated was warm enough to tempt her to peel back the blankets, and the gentle lull of the motion behind her was rocking her to sleep, eyelids fighting the inevitable. She was up here to observe the stars without interference but it’d been a mere half hour and she was already losing the fight with slumber, all the stress and worries of the project having worn her down into a shell. It was so… quiet here… so safe and peaceful… so unspoilt by war. It was hard not to flinch when the tail flew up, swift and accurate, but it merely landed beneath Anna’s legs, drawing them up off the ledge and curling around her. A snout nudged her in apology from behind, knocking into her shoulder so hard she jolted and laughed ruefully. Crimson entered her vision as the a large horned head curled around, tucking her in, large bioluminescent eye already closed and breath deepening, and Anna smiled, settling back to look up at the stars, safe in the dragon’s claws…

Jolting back into the present, she took a long moment to smell the bay and listen to the screams of the circling gulls and stare across the sapphire blue waves dotted with cheerful fishing boats. It was lovely, anyone’s dream.

But it was just not… right.

Instead she pulled out a map, peering over it with intense scrutiny, before sighing and crumpling it up violently. In her annoyance, she forgot herself. Again.

“Your Universe One is a menace.”

If she was expecting an apology, which she wasn’t, she would have been disappointed. Irene shrugged her shoulders then, lip jutted out in a tiny bit of a pout, and replied as she sagged against the rail a bit to stand up straight, “I was planning to return it as it was… but Erza broke my magical container. Such a horrible little child, that one. I didn’t have enough magic to put it all back. Anna? Anna, surely you understand! I did give it a good try… most of it went back… all the important places in any case.”

Anna mentally questioned what she considered important but kept her mouth pressed firmly shut. Her lips were starting to burn from the pressure and her throat tickled. She’d spent decades shutting up and it was becoming a difficult and impossible thing to do, she was finding out, now that she was free to speak with nothing but her own sensibilities to hold her tongue.

Whatever. What was the point in silence now? If she was stuck with this other woman, she may as well use it to her own advantage and speak her mind fully. It’d be cathartic. 

Puffing up, she got ready to give Irene a piece of her mind about using magic irresponsibly, which was completely useless now but relevant and probably counted towards her community service of rehabilitation if she gave a lecture about magical mindfulness, when Irene cut her off with a careless motion.

“Besides, my magic is all gone now. All of it.” A hint of remorse had crept into her tone, although Anna suspected she just felt sorry for herself more than anything for having her wicked deed punished. The look on her face didn’t look particularly repentant nor sorry though, eyes hard with thinly concealed fury and mouth set in a wobbly smirk that refused to settle. Bitterness. Resentment. “After all, they made sure to render their conquered helpless and then claim compassion and mercy while releasing them to the wolves.” The smirk curled into a bit of a snarl thing, flashing an actual sharp canine fang that was most certainly not that of a full human, and her pupils turned to cat-like slits, “But magic does not a dragon make, and I await the day they learn this lesson the hard way.”

Paling a bit, all annoyance flushed away, all of Erza’s warning echoing in her head, Anna cleared her throat then, skin still prickling and crawling at the snap of dangerous crackling fury. Swallowing a bit, refusing to look ruffled, it was a rough reminder that this woman was not simply a childish shadow but an ex-Spriggan as well.

“Why don’t we try the mountains then?” she offered once she could get the words past her tight throat and Irene’s countenance cleared immediately as she clapped her hands a bit with delight, “You said ‘we’ Anna!”

“Yes, yes I did. Now come along. If we hurry, I am sure we can catch the next train before nightfall.” 

As expected, the patter-pattering started up immediately, but somehow with a bit more... pep? Anna felt a certain kind of doom settling but fought it off.

What was the worse that could happen anyway?