#but oh how i wish she could come back without mass chaos ensuing

[stillgotscars]

@taylorswift please come back. we miss you terribly.

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “A Violence Done Most Kindly”, Part 1

Alright, it’s here.  I’m fucking doing it.  This is my Jonsa tour de force, my magnum opus.  My ultimate fix-it fic.

This is going to be a Season 7/8 AU. To summarize the major plot points up until now, this 'verse branches out roughly post Battle of the Bastards in canon, the mass murder of the Freys by Arya still stands, Cersei has been killed but her murderer hasn't been determined yet, Daenerys has only just landed in Westeros, the occupation/battle over Riverrun never happened as the Freys were slaughtered beforehand, and both Edmure and Brynden Tully are still alive, Bran found his way to Winterfell while Jon and Sansa dealt with ruling the North and preparing for a war with the dead, as well as the shifting power dynamics in Westeros now that Cersei has died. This story also assumes established Jonsa. Soft E. Dark. Politics and magic and murder and sex. That's essentially the gist of it.

I HIGHLY recommend that you read 'Bruises' before getting into this. It serves as a prequel of sorts, and it's only a one-shot so it reads pretty quickly. 'Bruises' really helps to set up the tone of where Jonsa is at the start of this fic.

“A Violence Done Most Kindly”

Chapter One: Hunger

"There is an old sort of magic to sacrifice, after all." - Jon and Sansa. Stark is a house of many winters.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 fin

* * *

It would be a lie to say that Sansa understands Cersei now – here at the end.

           Here where she warms her brother’s bed.

           Sansa imagines Cersei looked at Ser Jamie like this once, watching him in his sleep beside her.  Or perhaps not.  Perhaps theirs was always a quick, furtive fuck.  A blinding instant of lust and need, smothered in dark alcoves and behind garish tapestries, a secret, silent thing – clawing at them from the inside.

           Perhaps they’ve never slept the night through beside each other.

           Perhaps she regretted it – gurgling out his name while she choked on her own blood.

           Sansa reaches up to trace a hand down the side of Jon’s face, trailing past his jaw, along the cords of muscle flexing in his throat beneath her touch, whispering down his chest as he groans to wakefulness.  She slips her hand to his growing hardness with a surety that might have been foreign to the little dove Cersei once knew.

           But then, maybe that is also a lie.

           “Sansa,” he groans, head thrown back along the pillow, voice rough with sleep and desire.

           She braces her lips to his neck, imagines the rush of blood just beneath her mouth – pulls him from slumber with a selfish, desperate yearning she does not regret.  “I need you,” she breathes into his skin, teeth sinking down.

           Jon growls his answer, grabbing her by the hair, yanking her head back and kissing her hungrily.  He turns her easily, bracing her back along the bed as he covers her with his weight, already hard and ready in her hand.

           Some small part of her wishes Cersei had been her kill.  A different, equally intense part of her, is relieved beyond words that she isn’t – that she would never be, now.

           But more than that – more than a vengeful wrath she’s spent too long feeding to ever be free of hunger, to ever be satisfied with a mere raven scroll and the somber, even way Bran announces the news – more than that –

           She just needs Jon.

           “Come back to me,” she whispers against his mouth, moving with him in the dark.

           No, she doesn’t think she’ll ever understand Cersei.

           But as she feels Jon slip inside her, as she cradles his groan in the hollow of her throat, as she catches her lips at his temple – she thinks she doesn’t need to.

           It’s a different hunger she feeds now, after all.

* * *

           Sansa recognizes the sound of Baelish’s footsteps well before he’s made it to her side.  He slinks like shadow easily enough across stone and wood and dirt, but here in the godswood, trudging through snow in the womb of winter, his steps are almost awkward, clunky.

           He does not belong here.  She knows this now with a certainty she hasn’t felt in years.

           “My lady, I had hoped to find you here.”

           Sansa only sighs, glancing away from the red weirwood leaves to meet his gaze over her shoulder.  She offers a silent nod in greeting.

           Baelish makes his way toward her, smoothing his hands over his robe when he settles beside her.  “You have not forgotten what we spoke of when last I found you here, I should hope.”

           Sansa tugs her furs tighter around her shoulders, eyes drifting back to the weirwood branches.  “How could one forget?”

           “Yes,” he murmurs, eyes drifting down her face and trailing the length of her throat.

           She tries not to swallow, not to give notice of her discomfort.  He takes a step closer.  She resolutely does not take one back.

           “This is a very crucial time for us, Sansa, you must know that.”

             “Cersei is dead,” she says in answer, and she thinks maybe it should feel different along her tongue.  Lighter, perhaps.  Sweeter. Instead, it’s nothing but a stringent tartness.

           “Yes, and by whose hand?  None of my people seem to know the answer to that, except for whispers of faceless girls. Dead end gossip.”  He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, appraising.

           Sansa gives him nothing to appraise.  “Is that what matters right now?”

           He stays quiet a moment, and then, “It is, until we can ascertain whose side her murderer is on.”

           Another silence.  Sansa stretches a gloved hand out to catch the faint flecks of snow falling from the branches.

           “We can’t let this opportunity pass us by.  Cersei’s death has lead to infighting amongst the houses.  King’s Landing is in near shambles with no discernible sovereign.  Qyburn has fled without the support of his queen.  The Mountain hasn’t been seen since reports of Cersei’s death. Citizens are fleeing to the other kingdoms as we speak, and even Daenerys Targaryen has seen the uselessness in conquering King’s Landing at this point.”

           She knows this.  She knows this already and she’s tired of hearing it.  It only ever ends one way.

           Baelish reaches for her, grasping her arms and turning her to face him, his gentleness forced and rushed – a falsity.  Sansa blinks up at him.

           “We have to consolidate power.  If we wait too long, this chaos will be of no help to us.”

           “Then go.”

           Baelish furrows his brow at her answer, his fingers flexing along her elbows.

           She swallows tightly, face a blank visage.  “Go to King’s Landing then.  Consolidate.”  She lifts her chin.  “Go.”

           His throat flexes, poison tongue pressing back behind pursed lips.

           “You can’t, can you?” she asks, not unkindly.  “Because your power lies here.  With me.  And with the Vale.  You can’t abandon either of us without giving yourself a disadvantage.”

           “Sansa.”  It’s almost a warning.  As much a warning as Baelish ever gives – all smooth tones and invaded intimacy.  His head inclines toward hers.

           “Jon won’t go South.  Not for that.”  She extracts herself from his hold slowly, gently, without offense.

           Baelish smacks his lips, a minute flicker of irritation crossing his eyes, but it’s all he will allow her to see of his disturbance.  “The King can be persuaded.”

           “Not in this.  The dead occupy him on all sides.  He won’t play the game.”

           “Not even for you?”

           Sansa doesn’t think too long on the way his eyes flick to her lips for a fraction of a second.  “You overestimate my influence.”

           “Oh, I think not,” he says lowly, a curl to his lip that reminds her of purple-faced boy-kings and hound-fed bastards.

           No, he does not belong here.  Not in the white and cold and wind of home.  Not here where her mother used to brush her hair and her father used to beg her hand to dance and her brothers played their knightly parts in her tales dutifully.  Not here where she had wanted to bury Lady those many years ago.

           Wanted, and never could.

           Sansa realizes suddenly, that Winterfell is not yet free.

           And neither is she.

* * *

           In the wake of Cersei’s death, the ensuing vacuum of power nearly cripples the kingdoms, with the remainder of the Lannister forces rallying behind a mourning, vengeful Ser Jaime, intent on securing the Reach and the Stormlands. Dorne wastes no time to declare its independence from the Seven Kingdoms entirely, and shortly after the suspicious slaughter of the Freys by unseen Northern hands both the Riverlands and the Vale swear to the North under the threat of a coming dragon queen.

           Jon has no time for such politics.

           Sansa rails against him openly in the Hall of Lords, demanding his attention to the ensuing fight for the crown, but the dead take precedence in everything he brings to court, and it’s not long before ravens are sent to all corners of Westeros begging aid in the coming fight.

           Bran watches placidly, neither arguing for or against either of them. Sansa would call him not unlike a piece of furniture if she hadn’t better manners, and most days her pleads for his council lands on deaf ears.  She ends most gatherings of the lords rife with frustration and nearly frothing at the mouth.

           She doesn’t need to glance at Baelish to know the look he gives her.

           “You think just because Cersei is dead that we are free from the South? That they will not land their hooks into every inch of the North until we are chained to them once more?” Sansa seethes, shutting her door once Jon is through it.

           Jon heaves an unsteady breath, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not what I think, and you know it,” he grits out, sending a dark look her way.  “Stop twisting my words.”

           “Then stop ignoring mine.”

           “I’m not!”  He stalks toward her, stops before he can do anything else.  His hands itch at his sides.  “Sansa, we can’t keep this up – this back-and-forth.  We can’t afford such a divide, not now.”

           Sansa takes a purposeful breath, hands folding before her.  “I’m with you, Jon, I am but – ”

           “Are you?  Sometimes I wonder.”  He can’t help the scoff that leaves him.  He stares at her, keeps her gaze a moment longer, and then he’s turning to the far window, a hand raking over his face.  He’s just so tired, suddenly.

           Sansa is deadly still.  So still he can’t even hear the rustle of her skirts on the cold stone at their feet – can’t pick up the scrape of air she pulls through anger-fused lungs.

           “And how is your show of the dead going with the other kingdoms, hmm?” she bites out.

           Jon snaps his head to her, his eyes narrowing so quickly she might have missed it.

           Sansa takes a step toward him.  “Are they simply jumping to aid us?  Are they gathering the entire might of their forces, marching the sum of their armies North, all on your word?”  Something sharp glints in her gaze and Jon swallows his reply back instantly. She scoffs, head thrown back.  And then her eyes are eerily blue on his – instantly staggering him.  “And have I ever demanded evidence?  Have I ever once denounced your claims of the rising dead before the lords?”

           Jon has no answer.  None that would satisfy, at least.

           Something in her softens at his silence, another step taken toward him. “I’ve never asked you to prove anything to me, Jon.”

           Jon, she calls him – always.

           (There was never anything to prove between them, after all.)

           Jon closes his eyes, takes a long, deep breath, exhales just as evenly. When he opens his eyes, she’s still there.  Still copper-crowned and winter-poised.  Still every inch his sister.

           And every inch not.

           He thinks maybe it’s a sickness – this craving of his.

           Jon steps into her, the stiff silence descending upon them like a cloak. He’s so close.  He’s so unbearably close, and even though he has yet to touch her, the heat suffuses him – a stifled winter, a burrowing need.

           He can see the way her chest heaves at the sudden proximity.

           (She’s always been his, even when she won’t admit to it.)

           Jon thrums a tentative hand along her side, fingers grazing the line of her hip.

           Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.

           It’s a lost cause, he knows.  Since the moment she opened her door to him, this was only ever going to end one way.

           “I know you’re with me,” he tells her on an exhale, roiled in heat.

           She arches a single, fine brow.  “Do you? Sometimes I wonder.”  She almost smacks her lips with self-satisfaction.

           A low snarl eases from his lips, his hand bunching in her dress, dragging her to him.  She lets him, hands alighting on his chest.  He leans into her, nuzzling his temple to hers, breath ragged already.

           She makes it so easy.

           He’s already panting for her.

           (She makes it so hard.)

           “Sansa,” he groans out, fingers trembling as they reach for her laces.

           She takes his face in her hands, pulls him back until his eyes are locked with hers.  He doesn’t still his unlacing of her.  He couldn’t even if he tried.

           So unbearably close.

           (He just needs to touch her.)

           “You lose one war, you lose them all,” she tells him, arching against him.

           She’s right, he knows.  She’s right, and yet –

           She comes undone so easily in his hands – they need to stop ending their arguments this way.

           Because this – the splendid way she hisses beneath his tongue and the subtle way she arches into his hands and the ragged pant of his name (his name) along her bruising lips – is a war they can’t afford to lose.

           (This is a war they haven’t even begun to fight, not truly – not by the light of day.)

           “I’m with you,” she whispers against his mouth, and he knows.

           He knows, he knows, he knows.

           And even still –

           Some wars aren’t about who’s right.  They’re only about who’s left.

* * *

           Arya returns to Winterfell in the dead of night.  Ghost clambers to wakefulness at the foot of Jon’s bed, the sharp rap on his door jolting him from sleep.

           It’s Davos at his door.  “In the hall, Your Grace,” he says, and nothing more.

           Jon rushes from the room, following his Hand and the faint shadows Davos’ torch casts along the walls.  When he turns the next corridor, he sees Sansa emerging from her own chambers, Brienne at her side.  Her sworn shield tugs the fallen slip of Sansa’s robe over her lady’s bared shoulder at Jon’s presence, and the motion does not go unnoticed.

           “What is it?” Sansa hisses in the night.

           He shakes his head, throat parched.

           It happens moments later.

           It happens when they breach the shadowed hall.  It happens when Arya turns from her appraisal of the room, eyes a slate grey that should be comforting, familiar – but are only haunting.  She is perfectly still in the filtering moonlight through the tall windows.  She is perfectly winter-poised (an eerie reflection of the sister beside him, and distantly, he wonders if either of them knew they’d ever grow to be thus).

           It’s a crack, a fissure – a lung-scraping quake that sunders through the silent hall.  

Ghost is the first to break the stillness, trotting up to Arya with an ease that staggers Jon’s heart in his chest.  But Arya smiles – smiles – and it’s a faint curl of her lips, before she’s bending like reeds in the wind, reaching for the direwolf’s great maw and threading her fingers through his thick fur, hands gliding over Ghost’s face and ears and neck.  Something of sorrow and fondness sweeps over her face then. “Hey, boy.  You’ve been keeping watch for me?”

           Jon is breaking toward her then, something splintering inside him he hasn’t a name for, and then she’s in his arms, and he’s lifting her up, up, and up, her feet off the ground, her arms around his neck, his broken gasp of her name smothered in her hair, and he’s trembling, absolutely shaking against her, absolutely shattered – here, to be here – with his little sister in his arms.  He holds her for an immeasurable amount of time, for eons and epochs and yet he’d hold her still, if only he could.  It never seems enough.

           Jon dips her back to the floor, breathless, glancing back at Sansa, and he stills suddenly at the way she stares at them.

           Arya keeps a hand at Jon’s elbow, her smile receding.  A soft, keen quiet overtakes her.  Her eyes shine with tears.  “Hello, Sansa.”

           Sansa takes a step, hand outreaching, and then stops herself.  She takes a sudden breath, and Jon is too overcome to think much of it, so he braces a hand at the small of Sansa’s back, urging her toward their sister.

           He doesn’t catch the way Arya’s eyes trail the intimate motion of his hand.

           “Arya.”  Sansa’s voice catches, and then she’s stumbling into her, arms wide, drawing her little sister to her chest.

           Arya’s eyes shutter closed for a moment, breathing something of relief against Sansa’s breast, her hands fisting in her robe at her back, but then she’s blinking those grey, haunting eyes open to Jon.

           He feels cracked open.  Bloody and bare.  Jon swallows the trepidation back.

           Their sister is returned.

           His hand burns beneath the memory of Sansa’s heat at his fingertips.

* * *

           Arya knows.

           She knows, Sansa thinks when she catches the derision in her little sister’s eyes from across the courtyard.  Somehow, she knows.

           Sansa steps purposely away from Jon as they walk together below the ramparts.

           He furrows his brows at the motion, a hand going to her elbow.  “Sansa,” he begins.

           She huffs her frustration, staying his hand.

           He’s always been terrible at pretenses.

           “Our sister is watching,” she mutters beneath her breath pointedly, and she can see the way his spine straightens, the way his shoulders stiffen.

           She is Sansa Stark.  And he is Jon Snow.  And not for the first time has she lamented this – though perhaps not so much as now.

           Now when he is close enough to touch and yet the chasm widens ever farther.

           This chasm called honor.

           (But there is nothing honorable about the ways in which he touches her in the dark of night.)

           Jon is silent for long moments, before he comes to an abrupt halt at the edge of the courtyard.  Sansa turns to find him staring at his boots, brows furrowed.  He heaves a sigh, a calloused hand wiping down his face, and then he’s turning swiftly, walking back the way they came.  Sansa watches him go, something constricting in her chest not unlike grief.  She looks back across the courtyard to see Arya still watching her.  Her jaw locks, her barred teeth caught behind perfectly poised lips.

           There are some things Arya will never know, she reminds herself.

           She will never know the way Jon’s eyes grow dark by candlelight, or the way his throat flexes beneath the press of her tongue, or the tremble that racks through him when she slips to her knees at the edge of his bed, bracketed by his thighs.

           And perhaps there is something secret and selfish still living in her. Perhaps there is a part of her that revels in the knowledge that while she may not be the favorite sister, she is the only sister who can drag such whines from his throat, who can reduce him to pleading, who can have him panting and desperate as he throws his head back, hand curling in her copper tresses as he pushes her mouth down on his length, hips thrusting shallowing up to meet her.

           No, Sansa reminds herself.  Arya will never know the dark visage of Jon when the last of his control snaps, when he’s pouring filth from his mouth too base even for brothels, when he’s rutting into her mouth like something feral, spilling hot and frenzied down her throat as he growls her name through clenched teeth, over and over and over again.

           No. Arya will never know the way he looks at her in the aftermath, the way he curls a quaking hand along the curve of her jaw, thumb brushing over her mouth in something perhaps too feverish to be called tender, but just as searing.

           She thinks this when she departs from the courtyard.

           She thinks this when she feels Arya’s gaze following along her back.

           She thinks this when she closes the latch behind her to Jon’s door that night.

* * *

           “You’re our brother,” Arya says like a demand.  “You’re her brother.”  It comes out slightly searing this time.

           Jon grips at the mantle over the hearth, his back to her.  “I still am.”

           “How could you be?”  Her scoff is lined with something faintly like disgust.

           Jon closes his eyes at the sound.  He draws a deep breath in, lets it to air.

           Arya shifts somewhere behind him.  “Robb would never have touched her so.”

           “Aye, and Robb isn’t the brother she begs for at night, is he?” he spits just as harshly, whirling on her.  He realizes what he says a moment before he catches the look that passes over her face.

           It’s not a look she’s ever directed at him before.

           Jon swallows thickly, the words dying in his throat.

           Arya looks away, lips pursed tight.  She’s so utterly still.  This whole while, her entire time at Winterfell, she’s been nothing but stillness.

           Jon wants to shake her suddenly, just to know she’s still there.  Just to know he isn’t the only one missing what they used to be.

           He has to tear his gaze from her – has to focus on the lick of flames in the hearth, the flare of copper too familiar to cool this rancid heat in him. “But I’m not Robb, am I?” he whispers, almost like regret, almost like penitence.

           (Almost, but not quite.)

           “No,” Arya answers, so low he might have imagined it.  “No, you’re not.”

           He isn’t sure what it is he hears in her voice, and he doesn’t have the heart to turn to her then, to see for himself, to know the damning censure of her gaze, even when her voice is indiscernible.  

           She leaves him then, the heavy door of his solar sliding shut with a nauseating finality.

           She doesn’t even leave a shadow.

           (But he thinks he should have expected this.  He thinks he should have expected a lot of things.)

* * *

           Jon has known the permanence of betrayal, the way it sinks into your marrow until you are rife with it, until the sharp tang of it has festered long and sour beneath your tongue, until it is behind every look over the shoulder and every false greeting.

           Jon sneaks a glance at Sansa beside him, catches the upturn of her chin while she listens to Lord Glover in the Hall of Lords, the resolute crispness of her blue gaze as she sits regally at the head table.

           His hand strays to the ends of her furs hanging over the arm rest.  He catches the material between his thumb and forefinger, a small comfort.  An anchor in the storm.

           He glances back out across the hall.  All eyes are on Sansa.  All but a lone, accusing pair.

           Jon catches Arya’s glare from across the hall, nearly missing her lithe frame amidst the shrouding shadows of the Stark banners.  The flicker of torchlight is not enough to obscure her frown.

           His hand slips from the edge of Sansa’s furs beneath the table, his throat dry with an apprehension he’s never felt before.

           They sit staring at each other for long moments – everything and nothing passing between them – the lords airing their complaints and their needs like a fog around him.

           “Do you agree, Your Grace?”

           Sansa’s voice comes to him like a gale.

           Jon snaps his gaze to her, blinking rapidly.

           He suddenly remembers.

           He remembers that Sansa has seen the evidence of betrayal marring his skin. She’s seen the gashes along his chest and not withheld her touch.  She’s smothered his sobs of recollection to her breast when he’s recounted the nooses – the way their feet swayed in the wind like a condemnation.

           Sansa has never been party to his betrayal.

           Sansa will never be his betrayal.

           His fingers search for the ends of her furs once more, gripping tightly beneath the cover of the table – no longer an anchor, but the thing that drowns him.

           “Aye,” he agrees, never needing to know what he agrees to.

           Sansa eyes him with something of sharpness.

           Jon looks back across the hall.  Arya is gone.

           He does not relinquish his hold.

* * *

{“Why did you bring her here?”

           Bran looks up at Sansa’s question.  It is a face she used to know once – but not anymore. She holds tight to this image of her brother like sand sifting through her fingers. She wonders if it is not perhaps easier to simply let him fall.

           She looks away finally, her hands gripping at her skirts.

           The hearth spits another log to cinders before them, and she thinks he means to keep this damn silence always, until, “Because she is needed.”}

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Silver In The Sea (Julian Devorak! Pirate x Mermaid! Reader)

Summary: A year into his travels at sea, Julian Devorak is faced with the highs and lows of sailing across the southern sea; facing the dangers that come with it. As a physician, he is given many opportunities to live out the days in surviving for himself - especially against many things that want him dead.

Notes: I will try to get the character of Julian as best as I can. Mentions of blood, injury, near-drowning experiences. Julian likes to talk his way out of everything, nearly costing him to lose his tongue.

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1  -  2  -  3  -  4

Silver In The Sea Prologue (Storms Swell)

The winds howled and blew with defiance, the chaos that swirled and twisted the world around it into its grasp; on set for destruction. 

A storm bigger than the ones ever seen across the southern sea had set its course for havoc, creating an off-balance for all those that were in its way.

Screams and shouts for lack of order could barely be heard through the commotion and screams of the sea's revenge, and Julian's ears rang like bells playing its heavy toll in his mind. 

He had heard those bells before, setting off the unknown memories of hearing the mark for dread: a dead monarch, a city under siege, he had been there for many.

Through the eye of the storm, the rain slashed and cut through men like they were fishes ready for gutting, and Julian had never seen such a storm so bad in the time he had been sailing for new adventures. 

Eliana's Song - named after one of the old King's daughters aeons ago- was a highly treasured and hefty vessel; with high sails and large a hull wider than any of the other spice ships he had seen. 

She was a mighty vessel, able to block off attacks and last through years without being destroyed from the weather, but Julian thought that the Gods must've been joking and acting cruelly for this day to finally see to both to bring it down. They were being under attack by both weather and men from another ship; looking to steal and kill and sink her to a watery grave.

How shameful. Julian thought, ducking as a collision from the pirate's cannon caved into the right side of the ship. I was wanting to see this beauty come back into port in the near summer.

"Devorak, you're needed." The quartermaster spoke over the screams that definitely told him that someone was injured: a man screaming more than just bloody murder. Julian didn't need to reply, stepping out with one weary look into the open as he ran with his supplies into the firing range. 

The rain poured and nearly sent him flying to the ground, but he managed to plant himself in time to miss a rumble from the bowels of the vessel, sending over men to the floor.

"Hold on, old friend, stay with us." Julian's voice was borderline on calm for the entire situation, kneeled before the man as the rain-soaked and washed the injurer's blood away. 

He didn't know why he was all so positive in this situation, he was risking his life for a man who already had his right foot blown off, laying in his own blood and those of his crew.

He had seen many deaths before, many during a crisis like this: failing to save another's life when he thought so little of his own. It made him wonder why he was so selfless, for being an unlicensed doctor was there to help others.

Following procedures like clockwork, Julian shut the man up with some cloth that he had ripped from his shirt, stuffing it in his mouth as he tried to concentrate over the sounds of other dying men and cannons flying in all directions. 

He assessed his wound, using as much cloth to stop the bleeding, blood already seeping in through it and staining his gloved hands.

The smell of ash was strong in the air, and Julian had grown used to the smell of bodies around him but never was a smell so foul as a body caught on fire. 

He looked over, the shouts of his name being called around him-- no- screaming at him to get on with helping another with lesser injuries. "He's a dead man." He had heard so often, he could know when it would be said.

Julian looked to the man as he was slowly succumbing to blood loss, and he moved on, sending a silent prayer to him as he crawled hands and knees through blood, guts and corpses. There was no time to pray for the dead, not like this. He thought.

"Sir, there are men needing help down in the gallery, shall I attend to them?" Julian leaned into a fallen piece of the mass, leant with the First Mate. 

"They'll be dead before the sun even rises Devorak. Stay on deck and above. I'm not going to lose an idiot of a doctor like you. The Gods may be cruel, but they will be crueller if they take you with them."

Julian would've laughed at the comment, or perhaps compliment, laughter yet mirthless in the situation. "When this is over, I'll buy you a drink, how does that sound Doctor? Just to laugh and say we survived a shipwreck and pirate onslaught."

"A pint of salty bitters will suffice me, Sir." Julian had missed the taste of it, trying to remember when he had had it last. At 2 am in a pub during his time training. All there was on board was salty crackers and warmed rum lying in the sun, and that didn't serve him to satisfaction at all. 

"Gods you may outrun your damn mouth, but one would have to be a half-wit to know of your skills." Praised the quartermaster, an unknown conviction and feeling to know what to mean of it.

A crash from the far end of the ship caught their attention, smoke rising as Julian thought the deck was beginning to feel unbelievably hot. 

"Water is coming in from the hull Sir!" The physician heard from who knew where, as the vessel groaned with the knowledge of its end. 

"Then let's give the fuckers a fight then! Do not cease fire!"

The sky cracked with a fire above and Julian saw how much it lit up the entire dark sky. A flash of the neighbouring vessel attacking them, smoke filling his lungs as well as sea salt. 

He wasn't believing he was dying today, oh no-- Eliana's Song was a strong one, and she wouldn't go down without a fight. Another crash and a churn of something came from both ends, and Julian groaned with it. "Sir, most of our cannons have been destroyed or sunken!"

"Prepare to evacuate ship! She's a goner, gentlemen. Prepare the dinghy."

Rain and sea salt scratched at the side of Julian's face, as he blinked back the saltiness from his grey eye. He wasn't crying - the last time he believed he cried was when he was saying farewell to Pasha, and she had cried an ocean for him that day. So much so that he had cried with her in their embrace goodbye as she begged him not to leave:

"Don't leave me Ilya, please."

Only the Gods knew how long ago he had seen her last: way when he was setting off to begin a career as a doctor in Prakra when he was saying goodbye to his humble town of Nevivon. 

They had both been young, too young to know of the consequences to life and what trauma would be followed. She had been young but would she recognised him now? Smiling brightly as he made his way back to port and hug and cry when they saw each other? 

He had forgotten of the past life he once lived, where he lived with Pasha and they were both happy. But Julian wanted more to life and he wished to not look back, or else he would become lost. 

A smiling younger sister is who I want to see again. He thought glumly, as the carnage continued to ensue around him. I'm not going to die today, not until I see her, or else I've failed her and me.

He toppled over abruptly when another cannonball hit the middle, a spray of bodies flying from the drastic hit as more things caught on fire. 

Men were evacuating, some hoping that the sea would save them as they jumped overboard. There was a deafening cry from all around him, and Julian wished he had been smarter than to risk his life jumping overboard too.

He could hear his name being shouted at from those around him, those calling him for his aid, others screeching for him to get his dramatic hind off the now-sinking ship. He was useless to both he thought, standing to his height as he looked around with one of his good eyes.

The final strike from either the lightning or from the ramming ship was enough to cease the vessel's journey to beneath the waves, as she cracked merely in two if those could witness it from afar. 

Her entire vessel shook, sending men over the rails as they were trying to get as many on the dinghy as possible. If Julian was to survive this, he was not thinking in Hell he would be surrounded by other men on a small crowded boat.

Even looking down, the waters were blackened, as if Hell was awaiting for every crew member and himself. He hesitated for a second before the ground split just below his feet.  

An opening of an opportunity arose and Julian took it, leaping down as the gap grew larger and larger, water swelling into the cracks as men fell and burned. The fall was long and Julian could hear those of the crashing waves waiting to meet him as he landed, the cold taking over his body when it hit him.

He crashed beneath the waves in a frantic crawl, kicking and pushing as all he could see beneath the waves was darkness and sinking bodies. 

There was debris falling in, large pieces of wood that he had to be careful of as he finally breached the surface, gasping as if it had been his first intake of breath in a long time.

Men are dying up there, and here I am, being a coward, not dying beside them. He thought, trying to attempt to swim as he watched in horror, the dingy that was coming down with the ropes caught fire, toppling those inside backwards as they fell into the water, crashing and not resurfacing. 

He gulped wiping at his brow as he looked around him. A sea for a group of innocent men, not ready to die in the graveyard of water below.

"Oh gods, the mast! Watch out!" Julian gaped in horror as he stared up into the sky, the largest mast was caught alit with everything else, titling so closed off as the flames caught it to tilt. 

The dread was something that made Julian Devorak's body kick into overdrive, scrambling to kick at all his long limbs as the mast grew exponentially closer and closer as it fell like a lead weight.

The doctor made a descent under, trying to pull his long body down and down as far as he could get himself to go, his head looking up to see just in time the massive piece to come crashing with a roar in the sea, sinking quicker than Julian could expect.

A piece snagged onto the corner of his shirt, and Julian would've groaned in the discomfort and pain when a long slash came to the back his lower back, his shirt ripping as he struggled to release himself. 

No, I will not die. His mind was in two parts, tugging at his conscious as he was growing desperately short of breath the longer he was down there. His mind always went back to a smiling Pasha, awaiting him to see him, but her smile dropping quicker when there was no sign of him getting off.

He finally released himself from the piece of broken wood, his lungs feeling as if they had caught fire as he tiredly carried his body to the surface. His eye stung with salt, his throat burning as he spluttered and coughed. 

"Anyone alive! Help me! Can anyone hear me?" His voice called over the water as the dying sounds of men quietened. Eliana's Song cried a final woeful tune as she began to sink beneath the black waves.

Julian gritted his teeth, kicking as he grabbed a piece of debris to use as a float, his hand going back and past the open skin, grunting in surprise as to what when he pulled back was blood stained on his fingers. 

Oh, Gods. He barely panicked, but seeing himself injured gravely was one that made him think to what could be in the water awaiting him with an empty tomb for himself.

The sea was known for sharks and sometimes krakens- men were always creative in thinking of tales of the large creatures that could pull ships over and under. Sea dragons that belonged more in the northern sea, with breath colder than hot, able to freeze over a vessel on the spot. 

It wasn't the krakens or the sea dragons that worried him- he had heard story after story told to him and he grew almost bored from them.

He looked down and surrounding him, and the black water had a reddish tint to it, staining his open and cut shirt as he tried to stay awake even when he knew he wasn't tried in that way. 

He eventually decided it was better to try and see how far possibly he could've been from land, but there was no islands nor anything but open dark water surrounding him, the sky with litters of stars pouring in in his sight. 

He blinked slowly, just staring up into the night sky with no thoughts coming to mind than to just make it out alive. Julian was desperately floating, his head pounding with an unknown headache that was appearing. He blamed it on the rum that night before the attack.

His head bobbing up and down in the water, as he thought maybe it was better to see whether he should let go. He was leagues away from land, with possible injuries that could get infected without proper treatment. He smiled a pained smile, chuckling at how worthless he felt in this moment. 

Pasha... I'm sorry. He succumbed, his head falling beneath the waves as he sunk and sunk and sunk.

He waited for his death, blinking with red eyes in the water as he thought of how his sister would find out of the news, her reaction and whether she would mourn like how he would believe or not she would for him.

Movement caught him to turn, through the shadowy and onyx abyss, something silver flashed in his peripheral vision. So sharks did exist, excellent. He would've laughed at that moment as he was finding it harder and harder to breathe. Be gentle to me, and don't ruin my face to recognition, so they can at least bury me in a marked grave.

He shut his eye, blinking in and out of consciousness, and that night, Julian Devorak thought he had died. What awaited him in a dream-like euphoric state was a hangman that awaited with a noose in its grip. 

"Traitor, murderer, and you call yourself a doctor. You practise and play roulette with other's lives instead of helping them."

He was swallowed into death's gullet, ravens and crows with humanoid features awaiting him, like the clawed and scratched at his flesh, screaming for him to die. "Awaits your truth worthy doctor. A special place in Hell for you."

He was burned, cut apart and eaten limb by limb as he watched, but he thought of it all as a worthy punishment. All for the crimes and tests that he failed in succeeding. All those lives, men who deserved a better chance at surviving. He was given chance after chance to help someone, and only did he get one out of a thousand casualties that lived.

When he had awoken, he wasn't in some seventh Hell, nor some version of it as punishment. He wasn't even in the sea anyone, drowning slowly as he waited to be feasted on by sharks. 

He had awoken to a blinding light in his eye, causing him to grow in confusion and pain; a headache worse than any of the hangovers he had experienced before. He adjusted to the pain, questions tumbling through his head to make him question how the hell he ended up out of the water and was not in fact dead.

Was this some afterlife or reality he knew of already? He couldn't decide, even when everything he touched felt so real. There was warm sand beneath him, burning his flesh pink and stinging his back, almost forgetting about the wound that seemed so real. 

There was pain everywhere in his body, and when he stretched to prop himself up, he found himself surrounded by a white beach, water and tropic trees surrounding in the middle.

He had found himself onto an island, but wait? It had seemed that he was miles out from land, and unless he was loopy from blood loss or he had managed to swim unconscious, there was no believing he had managed to do this whilst badly injured.

They won't believe this story when I tell them this in pubs. He groaned silently, the clear blue water stretched and never-ending, nothing there for him to see. If I manage to make it back.

Standing up took longer than he expected, his legs were congealed like jelly, replacing his bones with paper as he crashed into the sand below on his first step. His entire body feels like it was on fire; drenched in flames that he couldn't get out from. 

Tired grunts and moans came the back of Julian's throat, a moment to press his hand to the wound on his back. From the feel of it, it didn't seem too deep, but it was longer than he expected, managing to get him from all the way around just to the beginning of the band of his trousers.

When he pulled his hand back, his fingers were slick with fresh blood.

I've survived sieges and attacks, seen more dead than those alive. I've lived with pirates who threatened me with my own life and head. He told himself. A little blood will not kill me. 

But he had to begin healing said wound, or else it could worsen and bring his health to something more life-threatening. Staggering halfway as best as he could on his feet then crawling, Julian dragged himself through the sand towards the edge of the water, clear and cold it felt as if it was cleansing his soul.

Step by step, he took it slow, knowing already of the even further pain he would feel once the water got to waist depth. But he thought of the outcome if he didn't as he lowered himself as the saltwater met the wound.

No amount of pain could amount to what he was experiencing, and now he understood what his patients felt when they were in pain. He barked out a laugh, airy as he hissed through his teeth. 

For some reason, the pain made him think to Asra; the magician he knew from the years working in medicine before going off to explore. He would call me some sadistic bastard for liking the pain so much. He huffed, trying to shake his head away from the thought.

A splash came from behind him, as Julian wadded through the water to turn, looking outward towards the deep end. The water grew murkier from what he could see, and he didn't know what was possible out there watching. 

Another splash came, and he squinted, a flash of clear silver slithered like a snake through the abyss of the water, not even that far from him.

He never got out of the sea as quick as that ever before. 

For his wound, he tried to find simple things, for there were no balms to put into the wounds, but the saltwater had helped in cleaning it out thoroughly. He ended up gathering wet seaweed and wrapping it heavily around his entire waist.

By the time Julian walked back to the shore, his clothes were soaked, heavy and clung to him and the sun was setting low on the horizon. He would have to make a fire quickly before he caught a chill. 

Looking for sticks and materials to start a fire was harder than he realised, and he rethought his career ideas in becoming a survivalist rather than a doctor. Stripping out of his cold clothes, he set up camp not too far from the water, starved from food and lack of water, he sat by the fire, rethinking his choices.

He would think there would be barely a few ships that would be passing through, but he could only hope there would be another spice ship that could pick him up and take him somewhere. And anywhere for it didn't matter where he went.

The cold had settled into his bone, a primal hunger for food had made him think he was going to begin to lose his mind, so he decided to try and calm himself, thinking of a nice cup of black coffee and a plate lobster claws.... hmmm. How his stomach rumbled for that luxury.

He laid outstretched like he had gotten shot, lying on his side as he stared idly into the dying flames. The same sound of something popping its head out of breaching the water came from not too far from him, making him shoot up more abruptly when he remembered the pain in his back. 

A gurgle came from the water plopping and swishing, and he caught the same coloured silver fish's (?) tail turning over in the shallow sand bed to return to the depths of the water. It could've been a shark for all he knew, circling for him and waiting.

Whatever that thing was, it looked big, and Julian's mouth watered at the thought of eating a large silver shark or swordfish to feast on. Next time, you'll get it, and you'll regret dealing with Julian Devorak. He promised himself.

He went to sleep that evening sprawled on his side, blinking in and out of sleep as he finally came to stare out just into the shore, before he heavily shut his eye, missing the creature's head bob up and dive back out of sight, its tail silver and long, flickering out and disappearing.

-

Hope you liked this new project. I only just got really into The Arcana game on apps and I LOVE IT so much! Especially Julian. 

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Jealousy’s a Sickness, Ch. 1

GUESS WHO FINALLY GOT OFF HER ASS AND STARTED WRITING THIS STORY?!?! Oh my god I cannot even TELL you how long I’ve been wanting to write this. Ever since the end of last semester. But I NEVER GOT AROUND TO IT. UNTIL NOW! 

Anyway, this’ll hopefully be an interesting story, for you all to read and for me to write. Hope you guys enjoy it! Also kudos to whoever knows where the title comes from ;) Tagging @cosmicrealmofkissteria as a thank-you for letting me ramble about this idea to her and for letting me bombard her with context questions lol. Thanks, Shandi! 

Summary: Demon returns to Sphynxia during a break in a tour to be with Vinneketh and Ayesha. But all too soon, their happiness is disturbed by the arrival of Blackie, Demon’s mentor and Brother from the Underworld. Chaos and misunderstandings ensue. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where is he, Aiutu?”

Vinneketh looked down at Ayesha. She looked back up at him with confused and impatient eyes. “Be patient, darling,” he replied. “He will be here soon.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure,”

Ayesha sighed and looked down at the ground, swinging her feet as they sat on a bench in the Oasis and waited.

The past few years had been incredibly tumultuous—Vinneketh leaving for Earth with the Troupe and returning home again, but he was happy to be home. He could tell his brothers were happy to be home again as well. His daughter was growing up too, growing up a bit too fast for his liking. She was seven now, still a little girl, but still. She was growing up so fast.

His only wish was that his husband could see her more often than he did. Their connection had been renewed when Demon found him again on Earth, but they still had to be realms apart from each other. Demon did try to come home whenever he could, like now. There was a break in KISS’s latest tour, so he was using the break he had to come home and stay with them.

It seemed like they had been sitting and waiting for hours when, finally, a burst of flames appeared in the Oasis. Ayesha’s eyes brightened and she shot to her feet, bouncing excitedly and clapping her hands. Vinneketh smiled at her and got up to stand, his heart pounding as he watched a figure form in the flames.

When the fire died away, there he was, standing before them with a smile. He was clad all in black leather, and his hair was cut down to his shoulders, but the mark on his face was still the same. Those dark eyes were still the same. The smile he had was still the same.

“Baba!” Ayesha flew towards him and launched herself into his arms.

Demon laughed and picked her up as he hugged her tightly. “Hello, my little devil.”

“Did you miss us? I missed you, Baba!”

Chuckling, Demon kissed her cheek. “I missed you very much,”

He looked up, and his and Vinneketh’s eyes met. Demon put down their daughter and smiled at him, that smile he saved only for him. Smiling, Vinneketh went to Demon and hugged him. “Welcome home, my beloved,” he said, savoring how wonderful it felt to be in his husband’s arms again.

Demon purred softly. “Treasure… I’m happy to be home.”

He took his face in his hands and kissed him deeply. Vinneketh smiled against his mouth and wrapped his arms around his husband’s neck, leaning into the kiss.

“Ew…” came a mumbled voice from down beside them.

Smiling, the two broke away from each other and looked down at Ayesha. She was holding onto Demon’s jacket with one hand and covering her eyes in disgust with the other. “Gross,” she muttered.

They both chuckled at her, and Vinneketh ruffled her hair. “Darling, shall we go show Baba your flowers?’

Ayesha immediately brightened at that. “Yes!” She grabbed Demon’s hand and pulled it. “C’mon, Baba!”

-SPHYNXIA-

That night, after putting Ayesha to bed, Vinneketh practically tackled his husband and kissed him furiously. They quickly shut themselves in their bedroom and shed their clothes, and Vinneketh was finally able to properly welcome his husband back home.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Vinneketh arched his back and moaned. “Demon… I’m…”

Demon growled into his neck and pulled one of his legs tighter around his waist. Vinneketh’s nails dug into his back. Then they both threw back their heads and groaned as they climaxed together.

Demon pulled out of him and collapsed next to him in bed with a sated sigh. Vinneketh kept his arms and legs wrapped around him, not wanting to let go just yet. He softly brushed his lips against his husband’s, stealing kisses as he caught his breath.

They got up after a few moments to clean themselves off, then got back into bed and faced each other. Vinneketh smiled and laced their fingers together under the blankets. “I missed you,” he sighed, still a bit breathless from their lovemaking.

Demon took hold of his other hand and pressed a kiss to it. “I missed you too, my Treasure,”

Vinneketh smiled a bit wider at the nickname and snuggled closer. “Mmm… our daughter missed you terribly.”

Demon smiled at the mention of Ayesha. “Did she? I missed her as well.”

“I expect she’ll want to spend time with you while you are home. If you do not mind, of course.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I’ll spend all the time she wants with her.”

Vinneketh turned his head and pouted at him teasingly. “But if you are spending all your time with our daughter… when will you have time for me?”

Demon smirked down at him. “When Ayesha is asleep, of course.”

“Like now?” his husband asked innocently.

“Exactly like now.” And without another word, Demon leaned down and kissed him, rolling on top of him. Vinneketh laughed against his mouth and wove his fingers through his hair as they kissed deeply.

Suddenly, Demon froze. Something had shifted in the air. He slowly pulled away to look over his shoulder at the balcony. The gold curtains were blowing into the room. Vinneketh looked over at the balcony. “What is it?”

Without replying, Demon got up and grabbed his trousers off the floor. He put them on as Vinneketh sat up, staring at him in confusion. “Beloved?” he asked. “What is it?” Demon once again gave no response, instead going over to the balcony. Vinneketh quickly got out of bed and grabbed his robe, slipping it on and tying the sash as he followed. “Demon?”

Demon drew back the curtains and entered the balcony, just in time for them to see blood flooding the balcony floor. Vinneketh’s eyes widened at the blood, as did Demon’s, but his widened eyes were for a different reason. “It can’t be…”

Vinneketh tensed, and when Demon glanced over at him, he saw in his body that his warrior instincts were kicking in. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “Treasure, wait.”

Then a voice came out of the blood. “At last… I have found you, Brother…”

The blood began to come together to form a shapeless mass, that slowly smoothed out into a figure. Both husbands watched as the blood covering the balcony was sucked up into the figure, forming details and clothes as it left behind a clean floor, as if it had never been there at all.

When all the blood had disappeared, left behind was a demon. But he looked nothing like Vinneketh’s husband. Instead, he had long black hair that went past his shoulders with grey streaks, and a seemingly-permanent demented look in his eye. At the sight of Demon, he grinned, in a predatorial sort of way. “Demon… we finally meet again, Brother.”

Demon couldn’t stop staring. “Blackie…”

[fantasticnewtimagines]

*All My Fault* Newt x reader

◘ Anonymous asked:

Do you think you could possibly do an imagine where the reader and Newt are best friends but when Newt meets Tina he starts to ignore the reader. During the battle with Graves Newt gets really hurt while protecting the reader and Tina tells the reader to back off because it's her fault. Can the reader act like everything's fine but slowly stop eating and sleeping because of guilt until Newt notices. Lots of angst but a happy ending please. I hope this isn't any trouble. Thank you!

◘ This does include a salty, mean Tina. So beware. Take note I am not a Tina hater! But if you don’t like Tina written in a negative light, then this probably isn't for you >.< That’s all! Carry on ^_^

Your stop in New York City alongside your best friend, Newt Scamander, had become a bit more adventurous than you two had initially planned. Unfortunately, some of Newt’s creatures had escaped his magical case and were scattered throughout the city. With the help of the new ‘friends’ you had made, you tried to work together to recapture them.

You didn’t dislike the new people you had met. In fact, Queenie was perhaps your favorite. Her constant smile and bubbly personality were welcoming and you warmed up to her rather quickly. Jacob, the no maj, was friendly and caring; someone you definitely enjoyed being around. Tina, however, seemed to capture Newt’s attention quite quickly and ever since he had spend nearly most of his time with her. Besides the fact that she had tried to turn you both in to MACUSA, Newt seemed to fancy her and seemed to pay less attention to you which honestly made you feel pretty awful. Newt had been by your side for years and you couldn’t imagine your life without him. He was like the sun in the sky and the stars at night for you. 

You were currently in search of one of Newt’s creatures, the Demiguise also known to you and Newt as Dougal. You were inside a Department store that was adorned in Christmas decorations and you were all huddled behind a giant mass of decorative wrapped gifts. 

“Try not to be predictable...” Newt whispered. You noticed Queenie, Jacob and Tina eye each other in confusion. You smiled to yourself knowing exactly why Newt had said that. 

“Y/N, go with Queenie and Jacob.” Newt motioned for you to follow the two as they were making their way in the other direction. Giving him a look of anger, you frowned and noticed how he didn’t tell Tina to move. Opening your mouth to object, Newt scurried away, Tina close behind him. 

“Fine... I’ll go go with them.” You mumbled angrily to yourself. Quickly, you pushed yourself up and quietly made your way in the direction Queenie and Jacob had gone. Catching up to them, you watched as Dougal appeared and in a moment of bravery, Jacob grabbed the Demiguise and instantly became dragged through the store. A loud crash echoed as he was knocked in to a display toppling it over.

“Jacob!” Watching as Queenie ran to his side, you stayed over in the corner watching as Newt and Tina ran by.

“Excellent work, Jacob!” Newt hurried past him and ran up a flight of stairs. No one seemed to notice your absence and honestly, you wished you could just disappear and blend in with you surroundings like Dougal could. 

After a few moments, Tina and Jacob followed behind the others and you decided you’d better too. Rushing up the stairs, you watched Newt slowly creep up behind Dougal. Without even a moments notice though, chaos erupted and everyone went in to a panic as the Occamy they had finally found went in to a state of panic. 

“Roach in teapot!” Newt shouted. Hiding behind shelving, you watched as the rest fought to catch the cockroach. Luckily, within moments the roach was caught, thrown in to the tea pot and the Occamy was placed back in to Newt’s case. You watched as Tina looks up at Newt asking him if that was everything.

“That’s everything.... and that’s the truth.” Newt waited a moment and you watched as Tina smiled at him and Newt smiled back. Your heart literally broke as you realized how Tina had replaced you. She was the one who made Newt smile now. She was the one Newt probably spent his time thinking about and wanting to be with. The pit of your stomach began to ache and you fought the tears that tried to escape your E/C eyes.

Newt had found a new best friend.

Moments before you were all inside Newt’s case when suddenly Frank, Newt’s Thunderbird alerted you all he sensed danger. Now on the rooftop of Squire’s, you all looked down at the mass chaos ensuing down below. The obscurial was destroying everything in it’s path. 

Everyone seemed to was for Newt to speak and when he did, your heart shattered.  “Tina, Y/N.” He turned to face you both. He threw his case in to your hands and reached in to his pocket. Pulling out his notebook he knew he kept all his information about his creatures in, he handed it to Tina. “If I don’t come back, look after my creatures for me. Everything that you need to know is in here.” 

“No!” Handing the case over to Jacob, you stomped over to Newt. “You’re going down there alone!” You were shouting at him and it not only startled him, but yourself too. Hardly did you ever raise your voice at the kind Magizoologist, but right now, you needed to grab his attention that for days now seemed impossible to get. Looking angrily in to his eyes, not only were you mad about his decision to go down there, but also that he had so easily entrusted Tina and you to care for his creatures. What was Tina going to do? If anyone here were capable of taking care of them, it would be you! How could he even think Tina was the right person. 

“Newt, you know this like no Obscurial you've ever seen. It’s too dangerous!” Grabbing a hold of his arm, you tried to keep your grip. Newt looked at you, then Tina, before pushing his arm away and apparating away.

“NO!” Tina and you seemed to shout in unison. Quickly, Tina thrust the notebook to Queenie before apparating as well. Angrily, you took your wand out of your coat pocket and instantly did the same.

You watched helplessly as Newt and Graves battled in the subway station. Spell after spell was being thrown. Unsure of what to do, you looked over at Credence watching as the tears and the fear in his eyes grew. It was only moments now before he would explode again. Your attention was turned back to Newt as you watched Graves throw his arm up in the air and point his wand at Newt. Fear was growing inside you and lifted your wand ready to cast at Graves.

“CONFRINGO!” You watched as the spell was cast from your wand. Graves turned to you and quickly moved. Your spell hit behind him causing the wall to explode and cast rubble flying everywhere. 

“NEWT!” Tina, on the other end of the subway station, ran over to where Newt was now lying. To your horror, you looked over and saw him on the ground, lying motionless. What had you done?

Graves lifted his wand one last time, ready to aim, when Aurors came spilling in alongside Madame Picquery. The battle continued and you watched helplessly as they Aurors destroyed Credence and then battled Graves. Once he was relieved of his wand, you quickly ran over to where Tina was now cradling Newt in her arms. 

“N-newt?!” Falling to the ground beside them, you instantly noticed the blood on his vest and jacket. “Oh my-”

“Newt, it’s okay..... It’s gonna be okay...” Tina had tears streaming down her face as she watched Newt struggle to keep his eyes open. 

“I didn’t mean to- I had no idea- I was trying-” Your throat felt as though it were closing and the pain in your chest was almost unbearable. Lifting your wand, you put it over his wound ready to cast a healing spell when Tina angrily swatted it away.

“You don’t think I tried that!? He needs more!”

Unable to speak, you looked at Tina who angrily looked away and back at Newt. He was seriously injured and it was all your fault. You were careless. Now, all you could do was sit there and look at your best friend who was in so much pain and suffering and there was nothing you could do.

Sitting inside Newt’s case, you were hunched over on a stool inside his hut staring at the ground. It had been almost two days since the incident and Newt had been doing fairly better. The rubble that hit him caused a pretty nasty gash, but overall, he would be fine in good time. 

Tina, however, hadn't left his side at the bed they set up for him at the apartment and spent nearly every waking moment sitting beside him and watching as he rested. You had emerged a few times to try and see him, but Tina would insist it wasn't a good time or you should try later. Queenie was around, but was rather sad due to her recent forced good bye to Jacob. You felt alone and all you wanted to do was hold Newt in your arms and apologize.

It was late evening and you decided you would try again to see Newt. Pushing the case lid up, you stepped out and noticed Tina wasn’t in the room. Feeling a rush of relief, you quietly made your way over to Newt’s bed. Gazing down at his freckled face, you watched him sleep. Sitting down in the chair beside the bed, you gently moved his cinnamon hair from his eyes and paused when he stirred just a bit. It brought you comfort to see him resting and not being in agonizing pain anymore. You searched for his hand, wanting to hold it, when Tina reappeared in the room.

“He needs rest.” Setting down a bowl of warm soup, Tina looked at you with cold dead eyes. 

“I just... he’s sleeping and so I wanted to... I was just making sure he was-”

“Honestly, what were you thinking?” Tina interrupted. 

“What?”

“The whole situation was unpredictable. You should have waited for MACUSA to show up and handle the situation!”

“I didn’t know they would show up or when they wou-”

“You didn’t think at all!” Tina spat. 

Tears began to sting your eyes and you felt yourself crumbling under Tina’s harsh words. Standing up, you brushed past her and made your way out of the room. You had hoped to find Queenie but assumed she was either in her room or out. Besides, she was dealing with her own heartbreak and you didn’t want to bother her with yours. 

Letting the tears fall, you sank to the floor and hugged your knees close. You don't know how long you cried for, but your eyes and body ached.

“Mummy will be back soon....” You were trying your best to take care of Newt’s creatures in his absence. It had been days since you last left the case. You had hardly slept or ate. Your eyes were in a constant state of pain from crying and you felt absolutely horrible. You struggled to keep your balance as you lifted the bucket of feed to take to the mooncalves. Your eyes were heavy and your legs felt like jello. Setting it down, you fell to the floor. Your hands hit the ground harshly and you felt the rocks scrape your palms. 

You pushed yourself up and noticed you had ripped your skirt. You didn’t care though. Lifting your hands up, you examined the cuts but your vision was so blurry. Dropping them, you fought to stand up. A gentle hand startled you as you looked over to see Dougal appear beside you and help guide you to the hut. Thanking him, you plopped down on the cot and stared at the ceiling. It was so quiet, given the sounds of the various creatures beyond the hut door. You missed the sound of Newt mumbling as he worked at his table or how he would shuffle about and sometimes bump in to think because he was so preoccupied and not paying attention.

Closing your eyes, you attempted to sleep full failed once again. Just like all the nights before, each time you closed them all you saw was the replay of Newt getting hit by the explosion and the blood that stained his clothes. Tina’s words played over in your mind like a broken record and you fought to turn it off. You knew it was all your fault. She was right. Why didn’t you just wait? 

Rolling over on to your side, you let the warm tears roll down your cheeks as you stared off in to the distance. You wondered how Newt was recovering and if he was mad at you. Surely Tina told him it was your fault. The fear of him being angry with you only made your tears worse. Struggling to breathe, you cried as you held yourself. 

Another sleepless night.

Newt had finally gained the strength to stand and walk. Tina had left the room to prepare some food for him when he decided to go looking for you inside his case. Tina had mentioned you'd been down there and he decided to check on you and his creatures.

Clutching his wound with one hand, Newt gently and slowly descended down the stairs in to his case. Landing gently, he walked through the hut and out in the habitats. Looking both ways, he searched for you but didn't seem to spot you. He figured maybe you had gone out and decided he would then go visit his creatures. 

Hobbling over to Frank he didn't realize you were near his habitat hunched over and fixing something.

“Y/N?”

Jumping, you turned around and came eye to eye with Newt. Seeing him clutching his bandaged wound along the side of his body, you winced at the slight sight of blood seeping through. 

“Newt!” Backing away, you hung your head down trying to avoid looking at him. 

“I- I was coming to see you... I haven't seen you and wanted to be sure you were okay.” His gentle eyes looked at you but you kept your gaze down.

“I’m- I’m fine.” You lied. 

You sensed Newt scanning you with his eyes. He knew you too well and knew you weren't okay. “Are you hurt at all?” He asked, reaching out to you.

Backing away with your arms hugging your waist, you answered quickly, “I’m fine.”

Staring at your feet, you suddenly saw Newt’s hand rest under your chin and gently raise your head up. 

“Merlin...” 

Looking up in to his eye, you saw the sadness that swept over him. 

“You look as though you haven't slept or eaten in days...” His voice was almost a whisper. You pushed away from him turning around quickly. “Y/N, please look at me...” 

“No.”

“Why?” Newt stood there, waiting for your response. You closed your eyes trying to fight the tears that were fighting to fall down your face. You finally answered him.

“I can't because.... because it’s all my fault....” It was as though your body had finally broke free and you burst in to uncontrollable tears. Your breathing was labored and your whole body was shaking. You felt so weak and you suddenly fell to the ground. A pain seared through your chest and your head felt as though it were hit by a ton of bricks. 

Falling beside you, Newt ignored the pain in his side and instantly wrapped you in his arms. It broke his heart to watch as you tried to break free, pushing him off, but your weak body was no match. The pain in his side only grew, but he didn’t care. He would hold you for however long it took for you to be okay, regardless of how much pain he would have to endure. 

He rested his head on top of yours and let you cry. Your shaking body and labored breaths seemed to only grow and he closed his eyes to fight back his own tears. Your cries stabbed him like knives in his heart and the feeling of you trying to resist him made his chest feel as though it were full of needles. 

He only hugged you tighter.

Neither one of you knew how much time had eventually passed until you had finally calmed down. Newt felt your body go limp in his embrace and he looked down at you. Your eyes were closed and your pale face was stained in tears. Dark circles were under your eyes and he noticed the scrapes on your hands. 

“Y/N...” He said your name in such a way of sadness. Holding you in his arm, he used the other to wipe the tears from your eyes. Finally, you opened them and looked up at him. 

“I’m so- so sorry, Newt” You choked. He looked down at you in confusion and tried to understand why you could be sorry. 

“For what?” He asked.

“I did this to you. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have tried to help. I should have waited for MACUSA like Tina said and then all of this could have been avoided.”

“No.” The words left his lips without even a second thought. Your eyes shot up at him in confusion and you tried to understand. How was he not mad? “This is NOT your fault, Y/N. You did what anyone else would have done. You tried to help me and I’m grateful for that. You’re my best friend and I love you.” His lips curled in to his signature lopsided smile as he looked down at you. You fought for a moment trying to convince yourself he was telling the truth and not just trying to make you feel better. You knew Newt all too well and knew he wasn't one to say things he didn't mean. 

“I love you too” You replied. He kept his eyes locked with yours and after a few moments he finally began to stand, taking you with him. “You need to eat.... and you need to sleep.” Brushing your H/C hair from your face, he cupped your face in his hands. Your weak eyes looked back in to his and you nodded. Newt gently took a hold of your hand and kissed it. Smiling back up at you, he looked in to your E/C eyes and whispered, “I’m the luckiest man to have you in my life”. 

Smiling at him, you walked behind him as he made his way back to the hut and out of the case. Following behind, you emerged and found Tina standing there. She looked unamused and was about to speak when Newt looked back at you and said, “You can sleep next to me.” 

Without looking up at Tina to see her face, you walked over to the bed and got under the covers. Newt followed after and smiled down at you. He looked up at Tina and with a stern look asked, “Could you bring us another bowl of soup?”

OOOKKAAAAYYYYY. I really enjoyed writing this one. I hope you guys like it ^_^

[fanoftheages]

Hope Is a Bright, Beautiful Thing

relationship: Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker (Star Wars)

words: 1,926

summary: The Rebellion has achieved their first victory in defeating the Death Star. Hasty celebration ensues. But what can be said about our heroes, Luke and Leia, who suffered the worst tragedies on the way to this victory? Can they feel truly victorious in light of their unresolved grief?

(Chronology: between the end of A New Hope and the events of the Princess Leia comic, including only Leia's speech)

AO3

After their victory over the death Star, the Rebellion returned to their base on Yavin. They could not stay long, now that the Empire knew of their location. But the Empirial army would have to muddle through the aftermath, so the Rebellion took some time to savor their first real victory. Leia gave a speech, followed by a moment of silence to memorialize the sacrifices of the pilots Luke had flown with, as well as the loss of Alderaan. Following that, senior officers broke out, what Luke thought, a suspicious amount of alcohol. The entire Rebel force fell into raucous celebration and never looked back.

Luke had never been around so many people before—and had certainly never participated in such reckless partying. His home village on Tatooine was small and dry. Alcohol was found only in the bigger cities, or by those wealthy enough to afford it. The farmers and craftsmen of the village lived simple, modest lives. His aunt and uncle certainly never would have approved of him joining in the festivities playing out before him. It was part of why Luke had wanted to leave for the Empirial Academy—quiet farm life had never quite satisfied him.

A pang of grief shook him. He’d not had a moment to spare a thought for his uncle and aunt. Everything had happened so quickly—meeting Ben, learning of his lineage, being whisked away to the Rebellion, rescuing the princess, taking on the Death Star. He’d refused Ben at first, but after finding his home burned to ash, he’d demanded to be taken along. He’d been enraged and desperate, and Luke could see now that running off with Ben to join the Rebellion had been a wild grab for vengeance.

Well, he’d gotten his revenge, in a sense, but it rang hollow. He’d finally had the adventure beyond his wildest dreams, but at the cost of everything dear to him. Luke hadn’t wanted to live and die as a farmer—still didn’t—despite his uncle’s many lectures of how it was a safe profession, noble in its necessity. But now, surrounded by the cheers and drunken singing, Luke wished he’d appreciated the dependability and familial comfort of his former life, instead of being so eager to run from it.

Luke knew he’d found a new family of sorts in the members of the Rebellion, with Han and Chewie and Wedge. He just wished he hadn’t had to lose his old one to find it. The saber strapped to his leg, weighted with his father’s legacy, had not felt heavier than in that moment.

He sighed, staring down at his mostly untouched drink. He looked to where Wedge was currently being drunk under the table by Han, and a few younger members swinging from Chewie’s arms. Luke smiled in spite of his melancholy, then sighed again and decided it would be best to find some quiet.

He wandered from the main hall of the bunker, the celebration becoming faint echoes the farther he traveled. Luke had not been given an official tour, and the halls were narrow and winding. Soon, he realized he was completely lost, without even the sounds of the party to give him some idea of his location. Trying not to panic���the bunker wasn’t that big, he couldn’t be lost forever—he made a few more experimental turns before stumbling upon what appeared to be a storeroom.

Luke sagged in relief, then straightened, realizing he was not alone. Sitting on a crate, slumped over a table, was Princess Lei Organa herself. Her braid fell carelessly over her shoulder, face hidden in her crossed arms. She still wore the formal white dress Luke had seen her in when she’d stood before the masses and given her speech. When the celebration had fallen to cheerful chaos, he'd lost track of her. As tough as she’d been during their escape from the Empirial jet, Luke supposed it made sense that a princess wouldn’t join in with the drinking and revelry.

Taking in her slumped form, looking oddly frail, Luke hated to leave her. Still, she clearly sought to be alone and, in spite of fighting at her side, she was his commander, and Luke wasn’t sure it was his place. In his indecision, he backed into a stray box, tripping and cursing, before he could slap a hand over his mouth.

Well. That got him some attention.

Leia lifted her head. Luke was half-worried she’d been crying, but her eyes were dry. Dry and dull, shadows of weariness smudged under them. A few strands of hair had fallen loose from her braid.

“Luke?” she asked.

“Uh, Princess, sorry—”

She raised a hand, cutting him off. “Leia, please.”

“Leia. Um, sorry, I got a bit turned around. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You aren’t,” she said, smiling gently. “Not enjoying the festivities?”

“Oh, no, it’s—great. Just, you know, a bit loud. Needed a break.”

Leia chuckled, and Luke was glad to see some light return to her eyes. “Yes, I know what you mean.” She gestured for him to join her; Luke grabbed a crate and took a place across the table.

She continued, “I’m sorry we weren’t able to give you a proper celebration. If Alderaan had—” A stricken look crossed her features, with a sharp intake of breath. She closed her eyes, hands curling to fists on the table. Luke resisted the urge to reach out to her.

“Well,” she said carefully, “if things had been different, normally I like to give medals to those who prove their valor in battle.” She looked at him again, the gentle smile returning.

Luke ducked his head, blushing. “Ah, that’s fine, really. I’m just a farm boy from Tatooine. Medals and things aren’t really my… thing.” He coughed. “Although I’m sure Han would have appreciated it.”

Her smile turned wry. “Yes, I’m sure. Speaking of, I noticed your clothing…”

He looked down at his borrowed vest. “Oh, yeah, Han loaned me some stuff. I figured I ought to dress up a little nicer for the whole… service… thing.”

“Mm.” she looked at him a moment more, then turned away, shaking her head as if berating herself. With a deep breath, her shoulders straightened from their wilted slump. The gentle smile faded, brows uncreased, her eyes distant and serene. She reached up to tuck back the loose hair.

“Don’t do that,” Luke pleaded.

She blinked at him, hands falling. “Do what?”

“That… princess thing.”

She gave him a raised eyebrow, lips quirked. “Princess thing?”

“You know, when—when you get all, uh, solemn and poised. I mean, the speech you gave was nice, and I—I get that you have to be a leader but…” He hesitated a moment, then dared to take her hand. “It’s just us, Leia. You don’t have to hide.”

Leia looked at him for a long moment, then her eyes softened, the gentle smile returned. “Oh, Luke.” Her lip trembled, and she turned her head away, but Luke saw the stray tear fall.

“You let me lean on you when Ben died,” he said. “And that meant—so much to me. It was horrible to see him die; I really depended on him. But, honestly, I didn’t know him that well.

“My aunt and uncle, who raised me, they…” He had to stop, take a breath. “They were killed, by Vader’s people. Their house—the only home I ever knew—was burnt to nothing. It was what got me to come with Ben in the first place. I know it doesn’t really… compare to having your entire planet destroyed, but I am… here. For you.”

He could only watch as more of Leia’s tears fell. “Luke, I just can’t believe—I saw it. I saw it. And I still can’t believe it’s really gone. All those people, my people…” Her hand tightened around his; she still would not look at him. “My parents would have gladly given their lives for the Rebellion. But the people, they were peaceful, innocent. They depended on me, and yet…” She choked on a sob, hand covering her mouth.

“There was nothing you could have done,” Luke tried to assure her. “You joined the Rebellion for good reasons.”

She shook her head. “All those people, the culture, the history. Alderaan is a loss that will be felt by the entire galaxy. I don’t—” She took a deep, shuddering breath, her words colored by a darker tone. “I don’t know that I will ever forgive them.” She looked, finally, at Luke, and he was stunned by the determined fire in her eyes.

She pulled her hand from his loosened grasp, wiping away her tears. “Alderaan was a terrible loss. But I know my mother and father would be proud of what we accomplished. Now, no other planet will suffer the same horrible fate. We’ve finally had a victory against the Empire. Our fight is not over.” She smiled. “And you’re right, Luke; I do have to be a leader. But it is not something I think of as a burden. My people, the people I lead, give me strength.”

Carefully, she took Luke’s hands in her own. “I am sorry, though, for your loss. I wish I could promise that the pain gets easier to bear.”

Luke allowed his tears to fall, squeezing her hands. “Thank you,” he managed. “I’ll be, well, fine. Somehow. Eventually. You’re right, though, the fight isn’t over. I’m not just fighting the Emperor to free the galaxy; I’m fighting to honor their memory. I’ll carry them with me, always.”

Leia nodded, solemn. “I don’t mind, if you lean on me.”

He smiled. “Only if you promise to lean on me, when you need to.”

She laughed. “Deal.” She stood, pulling him to his feet. “Now, enough sad thoughts. There is a celebration to be had.”

“Ah, yes.” He couldn’t hold back his blush. “Actually, I got a bit, umm, lost. So, if you wouldn’t mind helping me get back…? You did say I could lean on you.”

Leia’s laugh was a bright, beautiful thing. Luke was so gladdened by her lively glow, he didn’t even mind that she was laughing at him.

“Come,” she said. “I’ll show you the way.” She winked at him. “That is what a princess is for, after all.” As they walked, she told him, “Luckily, we won’t be here long enough that you’ll have to learn the layout.”

He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Thank goodness.” The theatrics were enough to pull another laugh from the princess-now-renegade-commander. The delicate sleeves of her dress fluttered, the white like a beacon—strong and unwavering.

Soon, they returned to the main hall. The celebration seemed to not have abated at all, though several Rebellion members were now passed out haphazardly around the room. Luke wasn’t sure how they hadn’t run out of alcohol yet. Suspicious, really.

“ ‘Eyyyy, yer Worshipfulness! Skywalker! Where ya been?”

Luke looked up to see Han waving excitedly at them, face flushed red. Wedge was sprawled on the table, unconscious; Chewie had acquired several fancy braids.

Leia wrinkled her nose. “Your mercenary calls for you.” She patted his shoulder, wearing a sardonic smile. “Best attend to him.”

“Leia,” he said, stopping her as she turned away. He held his hand out. “May the Force be with you.”

She smiled and clasped his hand in a firm shake; he felt a spark, some flux of energy in the meeting of their hands. “May the Force be with you, Luke Skywalker.”

[get-a-new-lease-on-life]

A New Lease on Life - 6: Cohabitation Chaos

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6: Cohabitation Chaos

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

Hey, Folks! So far this story has been primarily doom and gloom - and the doom and gloom is far from over - so I figured it was time for some fluff - a little breather from the drama, if you will. After all, when people move in together madness ensues and Amber hasn't been living with the guys very long at all. Hope this light-hearted chapter doesn't disappoint! Dedicated to all us short chicks livin' in a tall man's world.

Trigger warnings: The usual plus a very mild lime—nothing too descriptive, it's very brief and practically pointless to skip.

Suggested Listening: Simon and Garfunkel, "Bridge Over Troubled Water"

February 10th

Not one step out the bathroom door, Amber's ears picked up the sound of scrambling and frantic words in the kitchen. "Not even five minutes, an' there's already more work to be done," she sighed tiredly. "I'm gettin' too old for this."

In the kitchen doorway, she was greeted by the sight of Mikey scrubbing frantically at a grimy blackened pile of something on the countertop—the countertop Amber scrubbed clean after lunch. "What happened?" she deadpanned. Mikey whipped about with a girly shriek and the grubby sponge went flying across the room to land in the corner with a splat.

"I didn't do it!" he exclaimed, waving his hands defensively. "It's not my fault!"

"Yeah, you did, and it is," Leo contradicted sternly, leaning back against the opposite wall. "You took the crumb tray off the toaster so the leftover pizza would fit. Everything melted off the pizza and burned onto the countertop...and you probably murdered the toaster." Mikey grinned sheepishly, rubbing his neck.

"Heheh," he laughed nervously. "Well, at least you didn't break it, this time, right Bruh?" Leo stared back without a word, clearly unimpressed; sure, the toaster hated him, but was that really his fault?

With a long-suffering sigh, Amber approached the scorched cheese, sauce, and toppings. "Lemme get this straight." She grabbed the dripping sponge from the floor and wrung it out over the sink. "You packed the toaster full of pizza, left the crumb tray pushed aside and nothing underneath, then tried scrubbing the mess off with cold water and a half-dead sponge."

"The water was warm," he protested weakly. "And—" She cut him off, flinging her arms wide.

"Water, Mikey, water!" Sometimes Mikey reminded her of a less socially awkward Aaron; she forced the thought away as she chucked the sponge in the sink and started digging through a low cabinet. "You tried cleanin' up a hot, greasy, burned-on mess with water! Water alone will never clean up grease, especially burned grease!"

Armed with a box of baking soda, a spray bottle of white vinegar, and a plastic chisel, she tackled the mess. Once she'd chipped and scraped off as much as she could, she piled baking soda on the remainder. "Towels, Mikey?" she asked, startling him into action. With a couple old towels laid around the mess as a barrier, she started spraying the baking soda with vinegar.

"Whoa!" Mikey uttered as the mixture foamed violently with every spray. "What happened?" Amber shrugged noncommittally.

"It's just a chemical reaction, Mike," she answered, never noticing Donatello slip into the kitchen for coffee. "Vinegar's an acid, an' bakin' soda's a base; when they're combined, vinegar steals a hydrogen atom from the soda. The reaction produces water an' carbon dioxide, hence the fo—" Mid-spray she turned to look at Mikey; he was staring at her, bewildered. "Bakin' soda an' vinegar make a foamy mess that's great for burnin' off stubborn grease," she simplified gruffly.

"Oh!" he exclaimed with a wide grin. "So, you got this?" A dirty look from both Donnie and Leo made him cringe. "Eh…I mean, ya need a hand?" With a humoring smile, she passed him the spray bottle.

"Keep sprayin' 'til it stops foamin', then scrub off the rest an' rinse it off. Call me if ya need help, 'kay?" He pouted, but nodded in agreement and took over spraying the still foaming mass. With a grin at Leo and Donnie, Amber returned to dusting the dojo.

"'Just a chemical reaction,' huh?" Donatello smirked at her from the doorway. "You realize he probably has no idea what a 'base' is, right?"

"Meh," she shrugged, hopping up on her toes to reach part of the weapons rack. "Not my fault—I ain't his Mama. Joke's on him, anyway - he kin spray it 'til the pigs come home,- it's gonna keep foamin' up."

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" The unexpected comment caught her off guard, and though she knew he meant no harm, it rubbed her wrong. "I'd never have expected—"

"What?" she retorted sharply, stretching as high as possible. "My native language is Hick, so I must be a moron?"

"No!" he protested loudly. Her tenuous balance failed and she fell into his outstretched arms. "I just didn't—I mean—Ah, shell, I messed up again." Right above hers, shielded hazel eyes winced. "Do-over?" he proposed as he helped her back to her feet. Amber sighed in frustration, but plopped down on the dojo floor cross-legged; he followed suit, stretching out beside her.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, avoiding his eyes. "I dunno why I've been so—so cranky lately…I'm usually not the sort to get mad without damn good reason, but here I've been blowing up all over everyone for no reason. I dunno what's wrong with me…My Mama whupped my hide- fer far less'n- this."

"You've been through a lot, Amber," Donatello argued. "Your life is—"

"Yeah, yeah, I died an' all that," she interrupted. "None'a that's any excuse for bein' a total bitch to y'all over nothin'. I just wish I knew what was wrong with me."

Decade old rosebushes buried under a ton of shingles. Trees shaved bare of bark and twigs.

He watched her silently a moment; her head was bowed and her trembling shoulders drawn tight, a sure sign that she was again fighting memories she couldn't shut off. If only he could help...He knew it wasn't much, but he gripped her shoulder supportively. Not surprisingly, she leaned into his side, shivering.

"I jus' wish I could shut off these thoughts—these memories—" She shook her head viciously, haunted eyes staring through the gleaming floorboards.

Fiberglass tumbleweeds drift across a vacant parking lot.

"It's crazy, but it's almost like someone else is in control of my thoughts, my memories, an' they're trying to break me with them! I just…" she trailed off, turning to timidly meet his eyes. "Donnie…what if April's right? What if I am…broken?"

"No one said anything about being broken," he answered sternly, hoping she hadn't heard April suggest just such a thing. "I was hoping you hadn't heard that conversation." She slumped further.

"I came to apologize. It's not your fault I feel too sick to eat, yer just tryin' to help me."

Outstretched hands holding a mug of cloudy soup. A familiar voice begging her to eat.

"I…" Her voice cracked. "I shouldn't be here…I shouldn't e'en be alive. If I stayed dead, this wouldn't be happening!"

The bottom fell out of Donatello's stomach. "You don't…you're not wishing you were dead, are you?" he asked softly. "Amber, you got a second chance…if you hadn't, if you'd stayed dead," He swallowed noisily, avoiding her eyes. "W-We'd never have met…and without the repeated alarms, we'd never have found Kimber's body…she'd have been unable to rest, forgotten in the underground."

She blushed, distractedly hitching her tee shirt up higher. The neckline didn't bare the hated tattoo she now bore, but it still made her uncomfortable knowing it was there. She still felt sorry for the death of the body's previous occupant, but she had yet to feel anything but annoyance for the woman herself. Damned Purple Dragon punks, she thought darkly.

"Do you regret it?" Donnie asked hesitantly. "—regret meeting us?"

"Of course not," she answered with a tired smile. "How could I regret meeting you—all of you?" she added hastily. She didn't want to come across as creepy, after all. She didn't notice the mild disappointment in her companion's eyes. "I guess…I guess I just don't know what to feel, really. Of all the people who didn't make it out of that storm, why'd I get a second chance? I never use this word out of principle," she almost spat, her tone harsh. "But it just doesn't seem fair that I lived and they didn't! Whole families died—mothers, fathers, children, elderly, no one was excluded! Half my town's first-responders were killed or injured! Why'd I get a second chance when so many who're more worthy weren't spared?!"

Donatello wasn't at all surprised when she practically fell into his open arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He was a little disappointed, though. It had been thirteen days since Amber first dove into his arms in the throes of a panic attack and twelve since he admitted to her that he didn't mind it. He was her bridge over troubled water, her port in the storm, and he would never turn away someone who really needed him.

Ever since getting the okay, she sought comfort in his arms when she felt her world crashing down. When she found herself unable to fight off the demons on her own, she invaded his personal space until she could breathe again.

Not that he minded, he reminded himself silently, awkwardly petting her hair. He was only too glad to help whenever he could…and if he was honest with himself, he enjoyed the contact. Therein lay the rub…she only sought his arms when she needed comfort. She needed comfort, consolation, not affection and the like. For all he knew, she left a lover behind in her old life. The very idea stung; twice now, a woman had been practically dropped into his family's laps, and both times, that woman hadn't considered them human enough for a relationship. Though he'd never agree with any of Raphael's outbursts aloud, it was apparent to him as well…Love wasn't in their cards.

"PSST!" A sudden hiss from the open doorway drew his attention away from the crying redhead. Mikey stood just outside pantomiming an embrace and 'talking' with his hands.

"SHOO," Donatello mouthed back at him. The other threw his hands up in disbelief and stalked away only to return with a whiteboard from the lab. After a moment of scribbling, the board was raised and the words became clear. Quit huggin her & talk—she needs a distraction! The moment Mikey's point became clear, Donnie met his eyes with a wide-eyed halfway panicked stare, shaking his head frantically. Mikey scrubbed the board clean with the sleeve of the hoodie tied around his waist, scrawled another message, then shoved it at Donnie with a pout. Don't make me 'axidently'- break something. TALK or Mr. Coffee gets it!

'You drive a hard bargain, Mikey,' Donatello thought at his younger brother with a scowl. 'And your spelling is terrible.' Somehow he managed to throw an 'I'm watching you' gesture at his younger brother without disturbing the still sniffling woman buried face-first in his other side. Clearly content that his advice was taken, Mikey swaggered off with a smug grin.

As his footsteps faded, Donatello rubbed Amber's back. "Come on," he murmured teasingly. "I know life's a pain right now, but you don't have to suffocate yourself in my armpit." She responded with a snort, burrowing even deeper into his side. "Or not. Your choice, really."

"You don't stink," she grumbled into his plastron. "Turkeys stink—Compared to those, you're a bed'a roses, even after training." Sure she was through crying, she slumped at his side, leaning back against his shoulder. "Thanks…an' sorry for cryin' on ya…again."

"Don't worry about it, Braids," he grinned, chucking her chin. "I'm happy to oblige." They sat in silence a moment, one fighting to contain an excited girly squeal at the nickname and the other searching for ways to distract her.

"I' gotta keep busy, Dunnie," she admitted softly, staring through the weapons rack. She loved his new nickname for her - loved that he cared for her enough to give her a nickname - but it didn't change the facts. She was a mess...a mess he shouldn't have to deal with. "The moment I stop workin' is the moment I start thinkin'…and whenever I think, I remember." She swiped at her cheek to dash away the last of her tears, feeling angry and weak. "What if April's right? What if I do have PTSD?" He stood and brushed his trousers off, then held out his hand to her.

"We'll cross that bridge if and when we get there," he answered confidently. "Until then, there's no use in worrying about it, right?" She accepted the hand up with a bright blush but smiled regardless. Without hesitation, she threw herself back into her dusting.

"Sorry I took your head off…again. It's not your fault you didn't know about that button."

"Button?" he echoed back, watching her closely. She was, after all, pretty clumsy...too clumsy to be left alone with the weapons, even if he actually wanted to leave her alone.

She shrugged. "Yeah, everyone's got buttons, you know," she reminded as though he understood completely. "Big red mental buttons that should never be pushed an' usually result in nuclear fallout when they are. Some people can't handle being called a certain name, some can't handle being reminded'a certain things..." She snorted, grinning at a fond memory. "Heck, my best friend, Mercy - one of her worst buttons was hearing people using words like bipolar, gay, and the like as insults. She wasn't really violence prone, but the one time Aaron called her a 'bipolar bitch,' she 'bout knocked one'a his teeth out." Her face fell the moment she realized it - she wasn't going to see Mercy or Aaron again and the knowledge, though logical, hurt. "I don't really get too bent out'a shape over being called names or reminded of things," she finished instead of admitting her upset. "but whenever someone implies that I'm stupid, they're cruisin' fer a bruisin'."

"You thought I was calling you stupid?" Donnie shook his head. "I simply meant that you've shown little interest in anything but cleaning and cooking in all this time—I know practically nothing about you, but it's blatantly obvious that despite your rough speech, you're not an idiot."

Amber winced avoiding his eyes. "Sammy remembered a lesson the shepherd had given her," she recited softly without much of her usual twang; the author, after all, didn't write with that twang. "…gentle spirit may express itself in the rude words of illiteracy; it is not therefore rude. Ruffianism may speak the language of learning or religion; it is ruffianism still. Strength may wear the garb of weakness, an' still be strong; an' a weakling may carry the weapons of strength but fight with a weak heart." She finally met his eyes. "Harold Bell Wright wrote that in his book Shepherd of the Hills, an' it's entirely true. I walk like a hick, talk like a hick, an' live like a hick, but I'm not an IGNORANT hick." She was more than a hick, she reminded herself tackling the rack of staves, but the hick was what people saw most - it was more acceptable than the side of her she'd suppressed, after all, especially where she came from.

"I couldn't keep my grades up during school," she admitted instead of admitting the thoughts on her mind. "My classmates were absolute terrors, an' livin' in fear of getting the shit kicked out'a ya tends to make schoolin' less of a priority. Soon as I got out'a high school an' into college, though," she grinned almost smugly, "I blew their arses out'a the water—set the curves, aced everything but mathematics an' government, wound up on the Dean's list—well, you get the point."

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked with a low laugh. "You always struck me as too smart for your own good. So you graduated, then?" Her smile cracked; it was a sore subject, but he couldn't know that.

"I was only a few credits away from graduatin' with honors when some moron decided to park a van on my ass mid-crosswalk," she admitted. "It's a miracle I wasn't paralyzed from the waist down. Between physical therapy, corrective surgeries, re-learnin how to walk, an' mountains of legal bullshite, I dropped out; by the time I could walk without a cane, my credits weren't valid anymore an' I was too tired to start over…" ...and too apathetic, she added silently, but he didn't need to know that. She stretched up to reach the top rack again, avoiding his eyes. "I've been very blessed, though - I survived, I met some wonderful people, an' despite my occasional whining, I was happy. I spent the rest of my life workin' as a janitor, but by God, I proved without a shadow of a doubt that I'm not an idiot…and last I knew, my university still hadn't seen anyone beat my cumulative GPA."

"It must have been amazing," Donatello said quietly, his thoughts far from the dojo. "What I'd give for a chance to get a proper education…"

'Dammit, O'Brien,' she thought angrily. 'Ya just had to rub it in his face—quit bein' such a smug braggart!' "For what it's worth," she said brightly. "People go to school to learn; y'already know most of what the curriculum requires. Plus, what with all the other smarts you have piled up in yer brain, if ya crammed a whole major's worth more in there, it'd probably crash from overload—major 'blue screen'a death' stuff, really." He retorted with a sly grin.

"You're just scared I'll beat your records," he teased. "Couldn't handle havin' a turtle beat you at, say, algebra."

"No contest there," she grinned in response, surveying the impressive cobwebs in the rafters of the room; she could never reach them, and it was driving her bonkers. "A rock could beat me at algebra." Without warning, he swept her off her feet and onto his shoulders; between shrieks and threats, he chuckled,

"Get those cobwebs—they said 'yer mama wears army boots.'"

"Yeah?" she squawked, smacking him with the dust-rag. "Well, yer mama couldn't outrun a snail!" As the two traded quips and tackled the dusty rafters, Mikey darted back to the TV, satisfied in a hard day's meddling.

"Amber?" She bolted upright in bed, scanning the dark bedroom. "Amber, are you up?"

"Yeah," she answered softly as her eyes registered Donatello seated on the edge of her lumpy bed, unmasked and wearing only his trousers. He made the dark, cluttered room seem small - granted, her little 'shotgun shack' wasn't that big to begin with, but the presence of the tall, gangly mutant seemed to make it seem much smaller. "I am now. What's going on?" He shrugged, his lips tilted in an easy smile.

"I just couldn't stop thinking about you, really." He brushed a lock of dark brown hair from her cheek behind her ear, triggering a deep blush. "You wouldn't stay out of my dreams…so I came to invade yours. You don't mind, do you?" Warmth bloomed in her core at his confident, playful smile.

"Uh…" she stammered as his knuckles traced her cheekbone and jaw. Even without her glasses, she could plainly see the heat in his eyes - AND where this was going. "O-Of course not—you're always welcome here." Her pulse raced as his fingertips trailed over to her pulse point, hovering there long enough to sense the rapid beat.

"There's no need to be afraid, Braids," he murmured leaning in to bury his snout in her loose hair. "I'm here…I'll protect you." The words were stolen right from her lungs by a slow, sensual brush of lips on hers; as though gaining confidence from her suddenly gelatinous bones, he repeated the gesture several times more, then rubbed his snout against her nose. She whimpered and clung to him as he drew away the blanket and blazed a burning trail down her body. "Let me take care of you?" Before she could argue, her clothing was gone and his head was buried between her quaking thighs.

"DONNIE" she cried aloud as he sucked and lapped at her hot, naked flesh. "Oh Lawd —Oh God, DONNIE!"

"That's it, Amber," he murmured, his voice husky from heat and want. "Don't hold back—let go, I'm here." His words sent twinges down her spine—twinges that distracted her from how unexpected they were. "Amber…Brilliant, beautiful, precious Amber…" Only a little more—just a little longer, and she'd—

"Mikey!" A deafening roar startled Amber from her sleep and onto the floor in a sweaty pile. "I said LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!" As Raph and Mike tussled in the living room, Amber realized what had occurred.

"Goddammit!" she snarled as she hoisted herself up onto the cot again, swatting her punch red hair back over her shoulders. 'If it ain't fuckin' nightmares, it's wet dreams,' she thought darkly, beating the lumpy pillow into submission. Finally, she had a good dream...and Raph murdered it! 'April's draggin' me out tomorrow—I gotta get some sleep.'

Unseen by the irate female, Donatello rolled his eyes and returned to fixing the toaster. The lab had been stifling with her pheromones, but the air was finally clearing.

Hours later as the sun rose over Manhattan, a badly off-key voice belted out "Poison Ivy" in the lair's bathroom. One half-asleep ninja staggered to the kitchen for coffee while two more slept soundly. Two rooms away, the remaining two snored to beat the band, both tied to their beds spread-eagled and one gagged with a dirty sock.

Revenge, Amber thought later as she texted pictures to April's phone, is sweet.

WORDS (Midwestern twang unless otherwise noted)

-Axidently - Mikey's spelling is atrocious. "Accidentally." - Lawd - Lord. This is actually a more Southern pronunciation than Midwestern, but it sometimes makes its way over the Arkansas-Missouri state line to southern Missouri, where Amber is from. - Less'n - This one has two possible meanings depending on its use. First meaning is simply less than. Second meaning, also sometimes written out as Unless'n or 'n'less'n is just an elaborated version of unless. The first meaning is much more commonly used unless the speaker is being a smartass. - None'a - None of - Schoolin' - This isn't typical Midwestern Twang, but rather an odd term Amber picked up from her Gran'Da. Simply means "Schooling," or rather, 'going to school and taking classes.' - Y'already - You already - "Whupped my hide" / A whuppin' - Whuppin' refers to punishment of a child by way of spanking or noisy blows to the rear, usually with a yard stick, paddle, or belt, or in more extreme cases, 'a whuppin' stick' or switch. It's not really considered abuse except among folks who consider spanking abuse, and a child is more likely to become a heathen from never having it than from having it. As recently as Cold's childhood, it was still considered acceptable to send your kid out back, make them 'pick a switch,' then use it to smack their asses instead of spanking them. The whole point behind whuppin' a kid is not to cause injury, but to punish them by way of emotional distress over the noise. Conversely, when someone tells an adult "I'll whup yer ass," "I'll give you a whuppin'," or something similar, they're referring to laying a beat-down on them by way of fisticuffs instead of spanking them. - "He kin spray it 'til the pigs come home" - 'He can spray it until the pigs come home.' NORMALLY people say 'til the COWS come home but my research into Scottish slang indicates that cow is regarded as a serious insult, one of the worst you can aim at a woman. Because of that, Amber replaces cows with pigs. Regarding Vinegar and Baking Soda: After the two have been mixed and the bubbling’s stopped, they don’t really do a damn thing. If you mix them on the surface you’re cleaning, some messes will loosen or ‘burn off’ from the bubbling. And yes, it WILL keep foaming up as long as you keep adding vinegar or baking soda, no matter how diluted it gets. Consider that Amber’s way of getting back at Mikey for neglecting common sense. - Adding 'a to the end of a word - This can have two different meanings, depending on how the rest of the sentence is put together. Sometimes it means 'to,' like tryin'a means 'trying to;' other times, it means 'of,' as in out'a which means 'out of.' Generally you can determine the meaning of the 'a by the preceding word - preceded by a verb usually means 'to' while 'of' can be preceded by a verb OR a non-verb, generally any word you're likely to use 'of' after.

One more note: "Poison Ivy" is a song originally recorded by The Coasters, and it's a real crackup! Seriously, the first time I heard it, after years of breaking out in hives just from walking past poison ivy, I laughed so hard I stopped breathing. Give it a listen sometime if you need a laugh.

Hope you enjoyed the fluffy reprieve, because it's time to torture Amber again.

Up Next: Best Laid Plans

Chapter List

[chocobroobsession]

The Red String - Chapter 17

Author’s Note: Soulmate AU based on the red string of fate story. Ignis x fem!OC. Just building up to the smut in the next chapter. I wasn’t sure if I was going to go there or not, but I couldn’t help myself. Word count: 2061

Chapter Masterlist

Over the course of the next few months, many things took place. Chandra worked up the courage to speak to the human resources department at the large hospital at Lestallum. With all of Eos being plunged in darkness, chaos naturally ensued. With daemon attacks occurring more and more frequently, widespread devastation caused the population to abandon whole towns and small cities. Large masses were moving into well-populated areas, such as Lestallum. As a result, the hospital there found itself very busy but rather short-staffed. Through on the job training and additional classes, Chandra would be on her way to becoming a nurse in a short amount of time. It wasn’t a doctor, but it was a pretty good start. Her background in science put her at an advantage, and working in the hospital helped her save up some gil. With it, she was able to rent a tiny studio apartment in a building close to the hospital where many other medical workers lived.

Ignis threw himself back into a vigorous training regimen. Prompto and Gladio took turns sparring with him, trying to get him back to his former glory as a fighter. Many hunters continued with their usual hunts, but many switched to daemon hunting. Since daemon hunters were in high demand, the trio joined them, raking in the gil. Gladio and Prompto sometimes took on solo hunts, but Ignis didn’t quite feel ready to venture out on his own. Chandra would watch him spar with the guys sometimes. Though the thought of Ignis hunting solo scared her to death, she was confident that he would be ready with a few more months of training. He was already able to navigate the city without relying completely on his cane. It amazed everyone how easily he was adapting to living without his sight. He explained to Chandra that he had accepted the fact that his vision wasn’t going to return, so rather than wallow in his own pity, he would work that much harder to overcome his condition and live as normal of a life as he could.

Ignis shared a small flat with Prompto and Gladio in Lestallum. They split their time between there and the Hunter’s HQ in Meldacio. Though this meant that Ignis didn’t get to spend time with Chandra for weeks at a time, she didn’t mind. They all had work to do and gil to earn. She relished any time they did get to spend together, no matter what they did. Soon, Ignis began teaching her how to cook. Though he didn’t quite feel ready to throw himself back into the kitchen, he was an excellent teacher and was able to help her with recipes based on smell and taste. She had never been much of a cook growing up, mostly relying on the microwave, but with Ignis’s help, she was finally able to eat healthier.

Chandra had toyed with the idea of becoming a daemon hunter on her days off from the hospital. Ignis offered to help her train by sparring with her. He managed to obtain some wooden daggers for them to practice with at first since she didn’t trust herself with her old daggers. In the beginning, he easily took her out in a matter of seconds, but thanks to hard work and muscle memory, she reached a point where she could hold her own against him. He still beat her every time, of course, but she wasn’t so easily conquered.

Throughout the months, Ignis found himself completely and utterly in love with Chandra. When they weren’t out earning gil, they were together. Even if all they did was sit next to each other, not speaking, just sitting in comfortable silence while he unwound with music from a headset and she read to herself, they were perfectly content and in love. Neither of them had worked up the courage yet to say those three little words, but it was understood. They were soulmates, after all.

The pair had yet to go all the way in their relationship. Many times they had spent the night at each other’s places, but nothing ever transpired. Given Chandra’s past traumas, Ignis’s lack of sight, and both of their inexperience, they were reluctant to take the plunge. Both parties still suffered from frequent nightmares, so spending the night with each other was more about finding comfort and someone to confide in. Still, spending the night in each other’s arms began to keep the nightmares at bay, and so they relished finally being able to get a good night’s sleep. Awkwardness aside, the sexual tension between them was practically tangible, and the two did long to be intimate with each other, but the opportune moment just hadn’t come up yet.

One afternoon, Ignis found himself sparring with Chandra in a small field near her apartment complex. She had improved exponentially since they first started. As they came at each other with their daggers, he teased her by trying to distract her with conversation.

“Tell me again, why did a small, geeky thing such as yourself take up combat training? I thought Tenebrae didn’t have a strong military presence nor did it encourage it?”

Chandra grunted as she barely missed Ignis’s attack as he lunged at her. It was hard to strategize and talk at the same time and he knew she couldn’t multi-task the way he could, sight or no sight. “Ugh. They didn’t. The headmaster at my school encouraged a well-rounded education.” She lunged at Ignis only to have him block her move. “Dammit!”

He chuckled and retreated, allowing her to crouch down and catch her breath for a moment. “We were told that we could pick additional subjects, either in the arts, or athletics, or both. I tried to take as many science and math classes as possible, so I could only pick one. My dad thought I should try to play an instrument, and many of them intrigued me, but I didn’t want to grow up to be a shrimpy little nerd who couldn’t defend herself. That’s where combat training would come in. No one would expect it from me. I could be smart and a badass. We learned basic self-defense first, followed by various attack methods. We were told to pick a weapon to specialize in, so I picked daggers. I was little and I became fast, and so no one saw me coming. I can’t say the same for now. I’m still short, but nowhere near as quick.” She huffed as she stood up. “Why? What does it matter?”

“I was only curious,” Ignis answered. “You’re right. No one would expect this from you. I certainly didn’t. Are you sure you want to try your hand at daemon hunting though? You don’t want to injure yourself and wind up in the very hospital you’re supposed to be working in.”

“Do you not believe in me, Ignis?” Chandra’s temper flared a little.

“No, of course I believe in you, darling! I’m just merely worried about you; that’s all. You spend so much time with work already. I don’t want you to wear yourself too thin,” he explained.

“Oh,” she said, temper dying out. “And here I thought you were afraid of some competition. I thought maybe you were afraid of being such a good teacher that your student would surpass you and be a better daemon hunter.”

Ignis smirked. “You wish, love. You wish.”

With that, Chandra charged straight towards him, daggers at the ready. She swiped, only to be immediately blocked and rebuffed. She huffed and backed off, thinking of a better way to strike. As she ran at him again, he back-flipped out of the way. He somehow managed to quickly land on both feet and then strike back. She was barely able to block him in time. “Show off.”

“Well if you weren’t so predictable, darling, I wouldn’t have time to add in some extra flair,” he laughed.

They broke apart and she struck at him again, only to be blocked yet again. “Argh, how do you do that?! You fight better than my trainer at school did, and he had 20/20 vision!” She groaned.

“Well, for one thing, you aren’t exactly stealthy. Secondly, I’ve been doing this for most of my life, whereas you have not. Thirdly, you forget that I am training each and every day, with or without you, to be able to fight better without the use of sight, so I am already in much better shape than you think.”

“Still, I swear you’re unnaturally good at this,” she muttered.

“Why thank you. I hope that soon I can put my practice to good use and actually be able to bring in some bounty on my own. I’m sure Prompto and Gladio are sick of having to tag along with me.”

“You know they don’t mind,” Chandra reminded him. “They’re just looking out for you.”

“Still, all the same, I’d prefer to not have to rely on my cane so much and be able to fight on my own.”

“Well, at the rate you’re going, I don’t see why you can’t be where you want at the end of the year,” she admitted.

Chandra pushed all of her remaining strength into one final attack. She charged at Ignis and then feigned at the last second. She whipped around him and came up from behind with her dagger to hold it to his throat. She grinned, tasting victory, only watch in horror as Ignis turned around and knocked her off her feet with the sweep of his leg. She found herself suddenly pinned to the ground with him straddling her and his dagger pressed against her throat.

“Gotcha,” he mused.

She started to spew out a sarcastic response about fighting fair, but instead found the compromising position she was in rather interesting. Adrenaline was pumping through her body and her heart was racing. Rather than being upset about being beaten yet again, she was turned on by the way his body was pressed up against hers. The feeling was mutual because he threw his dagger aside and leaned down to press a kiss against her lips. His tongue ran against her bottom lip, and she sighed into his mouth as she parted her lips, allowing his tongue entry. She looped her arms around his neck as he ran his hands down her sides. The kiss went on for some time before Ignis broke away, scarlet beginning to spread across his cheeks.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize. I don’t know what came over me.” He scrambled off of her and held out his hand to help her get up.

Chandra sighed. She wasn’t ready for that kiss to end. “It’s okay, Iggy.” She reached for his hand and he helped her to her feet. She stared at him, heat in her belly and want in her eyes. This wasn’t the first time they had found themselves in such a position. Each time, one of them would end it prematurely and try to change the subject, neither of them ready to cross that line. She craved him immensely at that moment, but then she was hyper aware of just how sweaty and grimy she was and decided now wasn’t the best time, despite the urge being at its strongest yet.

“Ignis?”

“Yes, Chandra?” Ignis was well aware of the growing erection in his pants, but he wasn’t sure if now was the time to proceed with anything. They had just finished sparring and truthfully, he didn’t like the idea of his first time with her being tainted by sweat and dirt.

“Why…why don’t we call it a day with training? We can go home and clean up, and then, how about you come over for supper? I want to try out a new recipe.” She hoped he didn’t get the wrong idea. She wanted him, but not under the present circumstances. Maybe once they were cleaned up and more relaxed, something could finally happen between them.

“Of course, I would be delighted. I cannot wait to see what’s on the menu for tonight.” He wasn’t sure if he meant to say that like he had ulterior motives, but the phrase came out that way. He really hoped Chandra hadn’t picked up on that. But she did. And she definitely didn’t object.