Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Summary: Alayne Stone dies one rainy night after getting her maidenhead assessed and proven. In her place, Sansa Stark is reborn. It's unnatural, she thinks, cheating death. But she does it anyway. AU after…well after the books.

A/N: For Jillypups. Because she's awesome. I love you all. You guys are awesome and amazeballs. Hope you all enjoy and reviews are always appreciated. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone and I apologize if they offend anyone.

Oh hey. There's smut in this one. Smutty smut smut. Just you know, warning you.

Warnings: Masturbation. Sex. Coarse language. Thoughts of killing. You know, it's a Sandor chappie. It's very…sandorish? Hope you enjoy! Please heed the warnings.


Gravedigger (won't you dig my grave?)

Part 2

That little kiss you stole

It held my heart and soul

And like a deer in the headlights I meet my fate

Don't try to fight the storm

You'll tumble overboard

Tides will bring me back to you

Deathbeds – Bring Me the Horizon


When they land in Braavos, it's night and cold enough that they can see little puffs of white emit from their mouths when they breathe. She shivers, wrapping her cloak tighter around her body and leans into him. It's a small gesture, almost unnoticeable, but Sandor notices it. He notices everything about her. It's all he does, it's all he can think to do, eyes darting towards her face, her eyes, her body; ears straining to hear her voice, melodious and smooth.

(Sometimes, he thinks she's a witch with enough power to render him hopeless with a mere stare. He gets angry and snaps at her when she bites her lip and bats her eyes, voice snarling that she's better than a whore, or is that what Littlefucker taught you? She slapped him that night, across the face and for once he's shocked and she looks horrified but refuses to cower away like the craven he knows he is. There's a wolf in you after all, he says a tiny hint of amusement in his tone. She narrows her eyes and twirls away, her skirts swishing and she storms out of the door, slamming it hard enough that the walls shake.

He hears her cry that night through the thin walls and his chest twists and he drinks until he makes himself sick. It doesn't help. All he hears are her cries. All he sees are her tearstained blue eyes.)

"What are we to do?" She asks him quietly, eyes searching into the darkness, seeing the shadows that lurk in the corners.

Out of instinct, one of his hands goes to the hilt of his sword and the other grips the back of her cloak, pressing her harder against him. "We'll find an inn for the night." He replies.

"And then what?"

They don't have a lot with them, but enough to last at least a week in a cheap inn if they don't find lodging and soon. He'll have to find a job, not that it would be hard with his build and the seven know she will have to do something other than chirp. "You wanted to come to this blasted land." He snaps, his eyes flitting towards the shadows that move faster than he would have liked. The fucking Braavosi, good to know I still can't fucking stand them. "No one said starting over would be easy, girl."

"I know it's not going to be easy." She says through gritted teeth, her blue eyes blazing as turns her head to look at him and they follow the path into the center of town. "I never said it would be." She pauses and after a beat of silence, she adds quietly, "and my name isn't girl. It's Sansa."

Of all the stupid fucking things she could possibly say. He shakes his head and feels laughter bubble in his chest. When he finally does laugh, it's empty and hollow, "No." He tells her. "No, you aren't. You're no more Sansa than you are Littlefucker's bastard daughter. They're dead. Remember?"

Remember how you asked me to watch you die, not knowing if the fucking Maester was right that you would wake up? Do you remember fucking asking me to dig your grave? Do you remember, little bird?

He feels her breath catch and he can feel her trembling and he wants to curse, but he doesn't. Instead, he leads her out of the shadows that haunt the night and into the first inn they see.

("I will always be Sansa." He hears her murmur before he opens the door and ushers her in, softly and quietly, the words only meant for his ears.

Yes, he thinks, yes. You will always be Sansa to me.)


"Would you turn around?" She asks, her cheeks flaming as she already turns her back to him.

He rolls his eyes when he knows she can't see him but turns around to allow her some semblance of decency. Fuck, sometimes he thinks highborn ladies are a waste of fucking space with their courtesies and false words, venom and hidden meanings behind everything they do and say.

But not her, never her, a voice in the back of his mind whispers, never Sansa.

No, he sighs, never Sansa.

Sansa, who looks in his eyes; Sansa, who leans into him for warmth; Sansa, who trusts him; Sansa, who asked him to dig her grave and bury her; Sansa, who died and came alive again in front of his very eyes.

(She is both his curse and blessing.)

When something shifts in his peripheral vision, his head snaps towards it and he frowns when he sees a mirror hanging lopsidedly, on the verge of falling down and cracking to a million pieces. It's not the half-assed job of hanging mirror that makes his jaw drop and makes his heart race. It's more like what he's seeing.

Her back is still turned towards him, blissfully unaware that he is peeping at her through the mirror. Her back is smooth and unblemished, his breath catching as she expertly unlaces her dress and shrugs it off her shoulders, down her arms and lets it drop, pooling on the ground around her ankles. He bites his lip to keep from groaning when his cock hardens as he watches her smallclothes follow her dress and his eyes are drawn to the globes of her arse, smooth and supple and he can almost picture how they would feel in his hands, kneading them, gripping them tightly, pressing his engorged cock between them and hearing her gasp and moan, back arching towards him and fucking begging him for more.

Dog, the voice in his mind taunts him, you're nothing but a filthy dog.

His head snaps back to the wall as she pulls her nightshift over her head, the fabric rustling as it encompasses her body.

"You can look now." She says.

Oh, I have, he thinks, his back still turned to her, I have had my look and I know that won't be enough. He lurches towards the door, hand finding the doorknob and almost rips it off its hinges.

"Where are you going?" She asks, her voice filled with worry.

"Food." He growls at her and then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

(He makes his way outside, next to the stables and with one hand braced against the wall, his other finding its way into his breeches, loosening the laces and gripping his cock in hand, pulling and working himself into a frenzy. He spills into his hands with the image of her naked body sprawled beneath him, little moans and hitches of her breath echoing in his perverse mind.

She trusts you and here you are, wanking to the thought of her. You really are a dog.)

When he gets back to the room, he has two plates of food in his hands and she eats it eagerly, smiling at him, oblivious to his thoughts and actions.


"We need to choose different names." He tells her deep into the night.

She's breathing steadily but he knows she's not sleeping. They're both lying in the bed. It's big enough to fit the both of them, but small enough that if one of them moves, they'll be on top of each other (and all he can see, all he can think about is the fact that Sansa Stark, his little bird, goes to bed without smallclothes.)

"I know." There is a silence that descends between them and he thinks that maybe she really has drifted off to sleep, but then he feels the bed shift and feels a gust of hot air hit his shoulder and his neck and he feels the hairs on his body stand on edge as she continues to breathe on him.

(She smells like lemons and he idly wonders how that can be since he knows for a fucking fact that lemons don't grow in Braavos.)

"Summer." She finally says. "My name. I want it to be Summer." There is a vaguely familiar feeling tugging at his stomach at the name but he doesn't dwell on it. "My…my brother Bran…his direwolf was named Summer. I want…" She pauses and lets out a deep breath, her head falling forward and his body tenses when her forehead lands on his shoulder. "I'll be Summer…and you?"

He should go for something generic like Jon, or Robert, but he doesn't. Instead, he blurts out, "Tristan." He takes a deep breath and hears her unasked question as she shifts. "My father," he starts, "his name was Tristan."

"Tristan." She says, testing the name on her tongue. "Tristan." She props herself on an elbow, staring down at him in the darkness of the room. "Sandor." His given name rolling from her lips softly and he bites back a curse, feeling an intense need for her in his body, starting in his blood. "Will you still call me Sansa when we are alone?"

"Yes." He says without hesitation.

She nods, licking her lips. "Good. And I shall still call you Sandor."

"That's enough chirping, little bird. Get some sleep."

She sinks back down onto the bed and curls into the blankets. "and little bird," she adds, "you mustn't stop calling me little bird."

(Seven hells, doesn't she know by now that she will always be his little bird? His Sansa Stark and that nothing, not even death will take her away from him?)


They find jobs easily enough.

He builds and fixes houses with other men and it pays well enough. The Braavosi men are irritating as fuck, but they're loyal and they don't give a rat's ass about where he came from or ask about his scars, instead, they point him to the tools and ask him if he's as strong as he looks.

Sansa finds a job in the inn they stayed at. She's a maid, helping out the innkeeper in the kitchens and with the rooms and sometimes serving. He doesn't tell her he worries about the men, about how most of them would be like him, well into their cups and eager to put their hands on a pretty young thing with blue eyes and an enchanting smile.

(He finds he doesn't have to worry too much, because the innkeeper slaps them over the head if any of them get too crude and Sandor has never liked a Braavosi so much as he likes the innkeeper.)


He sometimes finds her staring out the window, the cool breeze floating through her room and chilling it. She's usually still in her dress, blanket wrapped around her shoulder and encompassing her lithe frame.

One night, he finds her like this, walking by her room, peaking in when he sees candles burning, the moon shining brightly and illuminating her like she's a haunting painting come to life. Like most nights, she has something draped across her shoulders, wrapping her body in extra warmth and he thinks nothing of it, until the candles flicker and he catches sight of it. It's a raggedy old thing, one he knows very well. It used to be white. By all rights, it should have been white but it's been years since he last saw it. Years since he left it in her room, during a night when the world burst into green flames.

It's got blood and mud and a hundred other things that should not be on her body, but he finds something seize in his chest when he sees her wrapped in it, pressed tightly to her body as If it's shielding her from harm.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, but he's shaken out of his thoughts by a soft voice, "are you going to come in?"

No. No. If he does walk in, seven only knows that he will not walk out.

"Go to sleep, little bird."

She turns her head and stares at him, partly pleading, partly confused and he curses himself as he tears himself away from her gaze and walks down the hall into his room, slamming the door behind him.

(When he takes himself in hand that night, he thinks of her, legs wrapped around his waist, voice hitching, chest heaving, breasts heavy and pressed against his chest and her sweet inevitable tightness, clinging to him like he was made for her. When he's spent, stifling a groan that rips through his throat, he breathes heavily, images flashing through his mind and then he laughs. It's a low laugh, almost unheard but the more he thinks about her, the more he thinks he yearns for her, the louder his laughter becomes until its bitter in his mouth.

Sansa Stark, may be a supposedly dead highborn lady, she's still a highborn lady and he's still nothing but a dog, nipping the heels of its oblivious master.)


She's been acting strangely, looking at him more often, worrying about him more often, waiting up for him more often. She's hiding something from him, something that makes his skin crawl and unrest settle in the pit of his stomach.

"What is it?" He hisses at her, his temper flaring into a familiar ugly thing, as he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her to him, her breasts pressing against his chest and they're close enough that he can feel her heartbeat. "What are you hiding?"

She hesitates in her answer, which tells him that she is indeed lying, or keeping something away from him and he's surprised by how much it hurts. He's kept her safe, hasn't he? He's given her attention. He's shared things about himself that no one, no one, knows about him and this is what he gets? Lies. More fucking lies from highborn ladies and courtesies and he feels so fucking foolish, like a green boy, for believing any different. And suddenly, the rage and humiliation that he feels is tenfold. "Do you know what I hate more than highborn cunts and their fucking games?" He hisses, heedless of the widening of her eyes and the tears that pool in them, "liars. I hate liars." Because a hound will die for you, but never lie to you and he was stupid enough to think a wolf would be the same. He lets go of her wrist and she stumbles backwards, gripping the edge of the table and staring up at him through fluttering lashes. "Don't be up when I come back."

Because the first thing he's going to do is go into the whorehouse and find himself a whore who looks nothing like her and the last thing he wants is to come home and see her, because he can already feel the guilt gnawing at him and he has no reason to feel guilty over anything.

"You'll be careful, won't you?" She asks, when his hand is at the doorknob and his chest twists painfully at the sound of her cracking voice. "There are…you'll be careful." It's not a question this time, more like a statement.

He doesn't dignify her with a response.

(Though in retrospect, he probably should have.)


It starts when he leaves the house.

It's a niggling feeling in the back of his head that makes the hair on his body stand on end.

His body tenses, hand going to the hilt of his sword and he turns his head, eyes roving over the night and it's shadows.

He's being watched and the feeling stays with him throughout the night, until he stumbles back into the house, still reeking of the whorehouse and wine. He stumbles through the door, slamming it shut behind him and he stops short when he sees her, sitting in the chair facing the door, wrapped in the raggedy cloak that she should have burned years ago.

"Didn't I tell you not wait, girl?" He says, through gritted teeth.

She takes a deep breath and her eyes rake over his body, shoulders slumping, eyes beseeching his. "My name," she replies softly, her eyes reaching his and she refuses to look away, "is Summer."

He lets out a laugh and it's dry and humorless, because nothing is funny these days. "No." He tells her, "your name is Sansa Stark and don't ever fucking forget it." He makes his way past her, "seven fucking hells know I can't."

He falls into his bed, face down and before sleep finally overtakes him, he hears his door creak open and the smell of lemons wafts through his room and he really does need to ask her where she gets lemons from since they don't grow in Braavos. He feels something heavy being draped over him and out of the corner of his eyes he sees a cloak that used to be white, once upon a time.

"Summer, Sansa, they don't matter. Not really. I'll always be your little bird, won't I?" She sounds so fucking vulnerable, so hurt and he wants to groan, he wants to reach out and touch her, to smooth the worry lines over her youthful face, to hold her body against his. But his limbs are heavy and his eyes close on their own.

You'll always be my little bird, he thinks before sleep finally takes him.

(He falls asleep to the smell of lemons surrounding him.)


She confesses things to him when he's either too tired to respond properly or too into his wine to comprehend what she's saying.

"She doesn't understand." She whispers, her breath hot against his face and he's confused as to who she's talking about. His head is pounding; his vision blurry but he can see her. She's his beacon of light, of hope. He feels her fingertips, soft as feathers across his face, smoothing over his burns. "Braavos called to me and for so long I wondered why…I know why. The shadows are everywhere, faceless men are everywhere. She's different. I'm different but we're still the same." She lets out a deep breath and the gust makes him shiver and he feels the bed shift and feels a lithe body press against his, her hands making a home on his chest, over his thunderously beating heart. "Valar morghulis…but not you. I made her promise. Not you…and a Stark always keeps their word."

He feels his heart stop all together and suddenly everything makes sense.


He feels the tip of the blade right at his heart the moment he turns around.

She's gotten taller, not by much, certainly not as tall as her sister. Her hair is still cut short, eyes still dark and just as murderous as when she left him to die. "Well," he rasps, "if it isn't the wolf-bitch."

"I know where the heart is." She tells him, her voice like Valyarian steel and her eyes cold, lifeless. He recognizes the look in her eyes. It's the look of someone who has killed before, who has killed again, who will always kill and who will always enjoy it.

Killing is the sweetest thing there is, he once told the little bird.

"Then what are you waiting for?"

She makes a face, her mouth twisting in a grim line. "I made a promise to my sister. I would spare your life."

"And what did you ask for in return?" He asks, his eyes never straying from hers. He gives her credit, she doesn't look away, nor does she blink. She does lower the sword and he scoffs when he looks at it. It's the same one she had all those years ago.

She gives him a smirk and it's full of secrets with a hint of cruelty that he always knew to exist in the youngest female Stark. "Home. I asked for Sansa and myself to return home. To Winterfell. To reunite with our younger brothers."

"Your brothers are dead, wolf-bitch." He snaps. "You're entire family is dead. Winterfell sacked." Fucking Starks. A more tragic and doomed family, he hasn't known.

"Haven't you heard?" She asks, her voice going eerily soft, eyes straying into the darkness. "When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Winter is coming and there will always be a Stark in Winterfell."

He laughs and it's loud. "How do you expect to reclaim Winterfell?"

"By drenching the snow with the blood of everyone who tried to destroy us."

She gives him a half smirk before she slips back into the shadows and he's left alone, wondering if he imagined the entire conversation.


He doesn't drink that night and when Sansa slips into his room, wrapped in his old cloak, he swings over the bed and sits on the edge, widening his legs. Without saying anything, Sansa comes to stand between his legs, her cheeks flushing. She keeps her hands tightly grasped in the material of the cloak. "If I asked you something, would you do it for me?"

"Little bird," he says heavily, the wolf-bitch's words echoing in his mind, "have I denied you anything?"

She shakes her head. "No." She says, "you haven't." She takes a deep breath and steadies herself. "Come with me to Winterfell. My younger brothers, Arya…they're not dead. They're alive and winter is coming-"

"Aye." He agrees, feeling the cold in his bones. Winter is coming, he thinks as he looks at Sansa, with her brown hair, the old redness starting to creep in at the crown of her head, and with the reclaiming of Winterfell, Sansa will be expected to marry a lord to keep the peace and he will lose the one thing he had the will to live for. "I'll take you. I'll keep you safe."

"And Arya too."

He snorts. "She can take care of herself. She's a wolf, little bird, she'd likely slit the throat of the poor bastard who tries to cross her."

Her eyes flash, "I am a wolf as well."

He doesn't say anything, and instead, cocks an eyebrow.

A beat goes by and she takes in a deep breath, her hand loosening and the cloak falling from her shoulders, pooling at her feet and unveiling her bare body.

He feels his body seize and the air get sucked from his lungs. "Sansa." He warns, "don't tempt a dog."

He can see her trembling, see the blush that starts from her cheeks expand to her neck and chest, turning her pale body in a glory of pink. Her nipples tighten in the cold draft that breezes through the room and she places her hands on his shoulders and steps closer to him. She takes a breath and then another and her hands graze across his shoulders, up his neck, until she reaches his face, hands cupping both cheeks, eyes never leaving his, her fingertips grazing the burns and mangled flesh without any reservation.

"Sansa." He chokes, his voice hitching, unable to restrain the emotion he's tried so fucking hard to hide.

"I'm older now. More of a woman. I…" she hesitates, "I may not know how to please you, but I will try and I may not-"

He grabs her by the waist, hard enough to likely leave a bruise, and hauls her into his lap, sealing her lips with his. She gasps at the suddenness of it and he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, eager to taste her, eager to learn every contour of her body. He feels her whimper, feels her shift and feels her press her naked body closer to his. His hands span across her back, fingertips pressing into her skin enough to make her hiss.

He wants to go carefully, he wants to go softly, gently, everything she deserves, but looking at her, lips swollen, eyes darkening with desire, body flush with arousal and he knows that he won't be any of that. He's wanted her, he's fucking loved her, for far too long.

"I'm not one of your bloody knights, girl." He rasps.

She presses a kiss against his lips, gently, softly, and everything he knows he won't be, "my name is Sansa."

"It is." He agrees, reaches up to run his hands through her hair, gripping the back of her head and pulling her forward towards him and he kisses her until everything in his head goes blank except for her name.

Sansa. Sansa. Sansa.


She fists the bed sheets in her hands, pulling and clawing, whimpers escaping her throat, thighs clenching the sides of his head as he licks and sucks her, drowning in her sweet scent. When she reaches her peak, she chokes out his name and he hardens even more, his name never sounding so much like prayer than in this moment. He takes her down slowly, licking her and kissing her thighs until she lightly pushes at his head, scratching his arm and attempting to pull him up to her. He follows greedily, lying atop her, his hands taking most of his weight.

She shifts and moves her legs, until she's cradling him between her thighs and suddenly, he's right there, his cock pressed and lined up against her. She bends her head closer to his and kisses him; tongue hesitantly parting his lips and tasting herself on him. He unintentionally thrusts against her, the tip of his cock parting her and she whimpers, pulling away from him and licking her lips.

"I taste weird." She says quietly.

He groans her kisses her harder, desperately taking the breath from her body. "You taste perfect." He looks down at her, looks at her hands that leave his shoulders, trailing down his chest, fingers entangling in the hair there and lower still until she wraps her dainty hands around him and he thrusts wildly into her hands, her eyes widening, lips parting and panting. "You are fucking perfect."

He grabs her hands and intertwines them with his, placing them by the sides of her head. "This will hurt." He tells her.

She nods, "I know."

She's a brave girl, eyes never leaving his, her cunt clenching around him tightly and he struggles to enter her, cries leaving her lips. He places soft kisses on her cheeks, eyes, chin, nose, everywhere he can reach. He can feel her legs widening and he slides in, her sharp gasp making him look down at her. He stills, counting to ten, trying not to explode in her right then and there. It's a minute (it feels like forever) but he feels her squeeze his hands that are still holding hers, nodding at him. "Please." She says, her eyes hazy with unshed tears and desire.

He thrusts into her, one hand leaving hers and gripping her waist, her legs wrapping around him as she her hips lift to meet his. She doesn't know what to do with herself, he thinks, as he watches her head thrash and listens to her moans and gasps, "Sandor, oh, ohGods, Sandor."

Her can feel her fluttering around his cock and he clenches his eyes shut, knowing he's going to release and release soon. His hand drifts down and fingers her, her moans and gasps suddenly becoming cries. She clenches around him tightly and she shrieks, back arching, breasts against his chest and he feels her peak around him.

He groans, throwing his head back and all but roars her name when he pulls out and spills onto her stomach.

He falls against her, head in the crook of her neck, sucking kisses and leaving his mark on her, branding her. He's heavy against her; he knows he is but when he tries to move, she protests, pulling him closer, chest still heaving and thighs still twitching.

Gods, he never, in his life, expected this. He dreamt about it, thought about it far too often, but never once, did he think that she would come to him, naked and asking him to take her maidenhead. There will undoubtedly be consequences, there always are where he's concerned, but he finds himself unwilling and unable to give a flying fuck, because Sansa fucking Stark is beneath him, clutching at him like he's her lifeline.

(And maybe, just maybe, he is.)


An hour later, she clambers atop him and smiles, bending to his good ear and tells him that she wants, needs, him again.

He watches, entranced, as she moves above him, hands on his shoulders, cries clawing from her throat, head thrown back, her spine arching gracefully. She looks every bit like a goddess here and while he doesn't believe in any Gods and doesn't give a flying fuck about them, he believes in Sansa Stark.

(And he thinks that may be enough to save his wretched soul.)


The next day, they leave Braavos, with the wolf-bitch in tow.

It takes them a while, but they do reach Winterfell and find her younger brothers already there, with the Reed siblings, a wilding woman, a giant man who only says Hodor and two larger than life direwolves standing guard.

The Stark siblings fall into each other, the two direwolves circling them, daring anyone to interrupt the reunion of the Stark siblings, crying and talking over one another and Sandor looks around at the faces of the others and sees that he's not the only one feeling as if they're intruding on what should be a private moment between the siblings.

He catches Sansa's voice as she kisses her sister and brothers, tells them she loves them, tells them she's missed them so so much.

"We'd heard you died." The crippled one says.

"I've heard that we've all died at one point or another." The wolf-bitch says.

"But we're not dead." Sansa says, her eyes finding Sandor's from over their heads, "we're not dead. Not anymore."

They don't say anything else; just stay wrapped in each other's embraces.

No, little bird, he thinks, we're not dead. Not anymore.

(That doesn't stop him from wishing they were.)


That night, he hears the Stark's siblings' voices through the walls and sometimes he hears them cry, sometimes he hears them laugh, sometimes he hears them rage and a little while later, he doesn't hear them at all, realizing that they've all fallen asleep.

He lies down in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin and shivering despite the crappy excuse of a fire in his room.

A little while later, he hears his door creak open and he feels his bed shift and he feels a lithe body press against him, cold hands chilling him as they reach under his tunic. "An eager little bird." He mutters, shaking the sleep from his body.

She kisses him and she still fucking smells and tastes like lemons as he looms over her, hands grasping the hem of her nightdress and inching it upwards, revealing tantalizing bare pale skin. "I missed you. I want you." She takes a deep breath and presses her mouth to his good ear, "Sandor, I need you."

He takes her in her old house, undoubtedly with a thousand ghosts of the past frowning at them, with the sounds of wolves howling through the night. They're mindful of being quiet and he thinks that he's addicted to her. That he'll never give her up.

"I love you." She whispers as she shatters around him, clenching him to her tightly.

His hips stutter and before he knows it, before he can pull out, he spills into her, burying his face in her hair, muffling his gasp. His heart is beating thunderously and he presses himself closer to her, trying to bury himself deeper in her, trying to get lost and disappear inside of her.

It's only when he pulls out of her and wraps himself around her, encompassing her in his warmth, that he lets himself say the words back. "I love you, little bird." She shifts closer to him, as if hearing his words and the wolves outside howl louder.

(There will undoubtedly be consequences, there always are where he's concerned, but for now, he sleeps, his little bird wrapped around him as the air shifts and before he closes his eyes, he sees snow starting to fall. Winter, finally deciding to encase them in its sudden and unyielding fury.)


Well, this took longer than I thought it would. Hopefully, the third part won't take as long. And there will be a third part, because you know, I've got shit planned for these two. LOL. But the next part will be the final part of this.

I HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYED!

HUGE SHOUTOUT TO: Katya Jade, delikizzz, magnus374, maglin, Teresa Trav and Lady TP. Also, HUGE SHOUTOUT to EVERYONE over at AO3. I think I responded to everyone, but if I didn't, please please let me know! THANK YOU SO SO MUCH TO YOU ALL! OH MY GOODNESS I LOVE YOU! And I apologize profusely if I've missed anyone!

MAD LOVE AND RESPECT,

BB