#just slapped some color on the sketch I’m too tired to actually clean it up and do a background

[candyheartedchy]

Cooking Lessons 🍔

[lady-divine-writes]

Husband, Guardian, Muse (Rated NC17) Chapter 2/3

Summary: After the untimely death of his husband and muse, Crowley tries to find the simplest, most foolproof way to join him. But in the days that follow, he discovers that sometimes what looks like an ending can turn out to be a beginning, and that no one is ever really gone if we find a way to remember them.

Human au. Warning for death, alcohol abuse, thoughts of suicide, but with a happy ending :)

Read on AO3.

Crowley spent five days fighting his fever, barely able to move, completely unable to keep anything down, and he was grateful for every excruciating second. It gave him something to think about besides the inevitable. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t get better, that the illness would do his job for him. He slept so deeply during that time, he thought he was dead, but instead of a peaceful eternity spent with Aziraphale, there was nothing – endless darkness until he woke again.

And that scared him most.

Because if there was nothing to go to after death, Aziraphale wasn’t only gone in the physical sense. It meant he no longer existed. And after their relatively short life together, Crowley would never see his beloved husband again.

On the sixth day, he had enough. His legs trembled and his stomach threatened to turn him inside out with every step he took, but he didn’t care.

It was time to get started.

Crowley refused to look at his phone. He wasn’t going to check his messages or his emails. He didn’t want to see pleas from their friends begging him to call them back, wondering how he was doing, asking how they could help. He got a taste of that at Aziraphale’s funeral, and each idea they had was the same. From short vacations to year-long trips around the world, they all wanted to take him away from his life, from his troubles … from everything that reminded him of his husband. Crowley knew that they meant well but he couldn’t. He had a connection to this cottage, not because it felt like a home, but because it felt like a mausoleum.

He couldn’t leave.

He did feel like a heel for not letting anyone know that he was alive … for the time being. Especially Tracy Shadwell. But if he texted Tracy or called her, Crowley would probably spill the beans, then everyone Crowley knew would be on his doorstep, ready to spend 24/7 sitting vigil by his bedside to make sure he didn’t down a bottle of pills.

It had occurred to Crowley that planning on killing himself was the worst way he could repay their friends, all of them, for their kindness, their love, and their never-ending support.

In that vein, what Crowley was doing could be considered unforgivable.

But he couldn’t concern himself with that, so he switched gears to something that aggravated the heck out of him, something he wouldn’t be sorry to leave behind.

Crowley knew he’d probably accrued over a dozen messages from village hall, calling with ideas for his painting, and he couldn’t care less. They had paid him in advance. They would get what he chose to paint for them and like it.

So what if they threatened to sue him?

He’d like to see them try.

This first painting, the one Aziraphale had chided him for putting off, was supposed to be a dramatic landscape view from a hilltop east of the county where they lived. He had planned to drive up there and map out the area, do some preliminary sketches, gauge his perspective. But those plans had also included a picnic lunch with Aziraphale, and then outdoor sex on their favorite blanket. Considering that that was no longer an option, Screw it, he thought. I’m gonna wing it.

It wouldn’t be a stretch. Crowley had this particular location set to memory. He and Aziraphale had driven all over it in Crowley’s Bentley. They knew the place by heart - where the roads led, the dips and curves that passed beneath the tall trees, where the creek crossed the old cow road, and the man-made trails that carved their lazy ways up and up.

He and Aziraphale had made love along most of those: in the back seat of his car parked hidden from view, even lying out on the grass under the sun on one or two more adventurous occasions.

One time in the rain.

Crowley sighed.

He was torturing himself now.

He needed it to hurt, or he might find himself content to live with the memories.

He chose a blank canvas from a pile of prepped ones on the floor and dropped it unceremoniously onto his easel.

This wasn’t going to be his best work. Far from it, as a matter of fact.

Why put one hundred percent into it? If you’ve seen one stinking landscape, you’ve seen them all. As long as it was a step up from something he’d find hanging in a Marriott, it’d be fine.

Crowley barely regarded the canvas before he started dropping paint on it, not giving a single fuck when the grass bled into the sky too far on one side, or how the hill looked more like a humpbacked snake than a majestically sweeping expanse of green. In his head, he could hear Aziraphale chuckling, high-pitched and giddy. Crowley grinned at the thought of Aziraphale standing beside him, teasing him over how lopsided his painting was, how it looked like someone taking hallucinogenic mushrooms had created it.

Crowley would shut him up by reaching out a stained hand and threatening his favorite coat.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale would screech. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me,” Crowley would reply. The painting abandoned, Crowley would chase Aziraphale throughout the cottage, skidding past furniture and dodging drying canvases along the way. Aziraphale would head outside in the hopes of saving his precious books, stacked on every flat surface, from being knocked to the ground. Crowley would follow, purposefully keeping several paces behind.

Because Aziraphale running was adorable to watch!

But not far from the patio, Aziraphale would grow tired and slow up, an old service injury in his knee flaring and causing it to ache. He’d call out breathlessly, “All right, you wily serpent, you! You win! I give! Just … stain it somewhere it won’t show!”

But Crowley wouldn’t ruin Aziraphale’s favorite coat. Not for the world.

Somewhere along the route he’d have grabbed a rag to start cleaning himself up.

He’d still win, of course - overtake Aziraphale in the end.

But only because it was fun.

Which meant he deserved a prize.

He’d grab Aziraphale round the waist and drag his body against him, panting and flushed and simply perfect in every way. The coat would be safe, but bits of paint would end up stuck to Aziraphale’s hair by the time they finished making love, clinging where Crowley ran his fingers through it, streaking the pale strands shades of rainbow. Aziraphale would catch it in a reflection somewhere and frown, but then he’d laugh, his eyes lighting up, the love radiating from them too magnanimous to contain.

Crowley stopped daydreaming when he felt tears leave his eyes. He wiped his cheeks on the sleeve of his work shirt, shoving away memories of an afternoon spent a colorful mess.

Crowley looked at his painting, prepared to mock the disaster he had wrought as a way of leaving that memory behind. He pictured the travesty of having this worthless piece of shit hanging at village hall with his name emblazoned on a brass plaque underneath and felt wryly satisfied. But then he stopped. He stared. His pallet slipped from his hands and crashed to the floor, spattering his shoes and marking the wood.

Gone were the globs of paint and the humpback snake.

During his fantasizing, he had fixed the painting, changed it from monstrosity to memory (and a vivid one at that) of the hillside in spring: wildflowers dotting the grass, the sun a suggestion in the quality of the light and the shadows it threw. If he had been aiming for perfection, consciously attempting to convey beauty and the promise of new life, he could never have been able to come close to this.

But recognition of his own exceptional technique wasn’t what drew his eye.

It was the stretch of road in the distance.

On it, a Bentley drove along with two passengers inside. Crowley assumed he was the one behind the wheel, but the man in the driver’s seat was most definitely Aziraphale, turning to gaze over his shoulder, sublime smile on his face.

He looked so happy, so carefree.

He looked so real.

Crowley reached out a hand, fingertips hovering over the place where Aziraphale’s face looked up at him.

“What the---?”

Honk, honk!

Crowley jumped at the wail of a car horn coming from his driveway. But once surprise subsided, it swiftly turned to annoyance. The idea that someone who couldn’t get him by phone had driven out to his cottage infuriated him!

Crowley considered not answering out of spite, but the urge to throw open his door and hurl insults at this intruder was too overwhelming to resist. He left the painting on its easel and stomped through the cottage to the front door.

Honk, honk!

“Yeah, yeah, I get it!” Crowley growled. “You’re so important, you can’t even get out of your car and ring the damn bell!”

Honk, honk!

“Come on, Crowley! Hurry up! We’re going to be late!”

Crowley stopped cold in his tracks.

He stood paralyzed, gaping like a dying fish, choking on the million words rushing to come out but couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything - couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. For what seemed like forever, he couldn’t make himself do anything.

Honk, honk!

“Crowley! You promised me a picnic! I have the blanket!”

“A-Aziraphale?” Crowley ran for the door. “Aziraphale? Angel?” He couldn’t believe he was saying it, as if Aziraphale would actually be there. He wanted to slap himself for even thinking it was a possibility. But there he was, reaching for the knob, hoping against hope for what he would see once he opened it.

Honk, ho -- -

The sound cut off when the door flew open, and for a second, Crowley heard a laugh and saw a flash of blue eyes in the passenger seat of his Bentley.

A Bentley that had been kept covered since the funeral.

He didn’t drive it home from the cemetery. Generous associates had it delivered when they heard it had been towed.

Crowley had been indifferent.

He didn’t think he’d actually drive it again.

Crowley stood in the doorway, his brain trying to reconcile what he was looking at.

A car.

It was just a car.

Nothing supernatural about it.

Crowley stepped outside and looked closer, examining it to find out why it had been honking on its own.

How a cover that fit snuggly had suddenly blown off.

Especially when there was no wind at present.

Crowley searched the driveway, the cottage, and the field beyond for some sign that someone, probably some stupid neighbor’s kid, had been pulling pranks. He covered the Bentley again, concentrating on it other than Aziraphale standing in the driveway honking the horn.

Praying it would stop his hands from shaking.

Crowley took one final look around before retreating back to the cottage. He double-locked the door behind him, feeling ridiculous when he did. He returned to the painting, to the peaceful hillside and the happy couple in the car driving off into the sunset.

A revulsion filled him.

It was too much.

It was all too much.

He couldn’t let village hall have this memory, and he couldn’t put on public display something that would never be again.

He grabbed a bottle of paint thinner and doused the painting, watching the colors run, the couple in their little car smearing down the canvas and dripping over the edge. He watched until the picturesque hillside was reduced to nothing more than slop. Then he turned his back on his memories and went to bed.

***

“Crowley! Are you going to wash my back or not?”

“Hold up, angel! I’m … uh … doing something”

“What are you …? Oh, God! Tell me you’re not masturbating … or something equally vulgar!”

“Ha! What if I am?”

“You know, my love, I’m pretty sure you’re going to wear that thing out with over use!”

“Never!”

“Wait … are you … sketching me!? I’m in the shower!”

“I know. That’s why I’m sketching you.”

“But I’m naked! And I … wait a minute … it … it can’t be that big, can it?”

“Yup.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Are you …?”

“Aziraphale, I just spent half-an-hour with your cock in my mouth. I think I know how big it is.”

“Oh. Well, continue on, then.”

Crowley woke to the sound of his own laughter. He felt so light, so happy. He laughed so hard, tears leaked from his eyes. It shook his head, which caused him to wake. The more conscious of his surroundings he became, the more aware he was of two things: a grainy texture on his fingertips, and the muted sound of falling water.

It was raining again.

Crowley opened his eyes. He didn’t want to, but he was curious about the substance on his skin. Eyes adjusting to the low light, a sketch pad and charcoal pencil came into view, lying beside him on the bed.

He’d been drawing in his sleep.

Unusual, but it had happened before.

He lifted up on his elbows to get a better look at the drawing. It was crude, but amazingly, one of his best. He blinked away more sleep in order to identify the subject.

Realization shot like an arrow through his chest, but he wasn’t surprised.

He had drawn Aziraphale taking a shower, hands tangled in his hair, steam rising around his body, a sly smile on his lips at being watched.

Crowley loved that smile.

He could get lost in that smile.

He got lost in it now, so lost, he barely remembered the rain. But not rain, he realized as the memory dissolved and Crowley’s mind began to wake.

The shower.

And above the sound of falling water, he heard another, more magnificent sound.

Someone humming.

Crowley bolted from his bed. It had to be real this time! There couldn’t be any doubt! The shower was only a few feet from where he lay. He heard the water and the humming as clear as day. Crowley raced into the bathroom, air thick with steam, mirrors covered in condensation. His heart leapt as the sounds became louder.

“Crowley! Is that you? I …”

Crowley threw the curtains open, ready to embrace his wet husband with open arms.

Everything stopped.

No water.

Steam gone.

The mirrors dry.

He stood in shock, staring at an empty shower of cream-colored tile.

Crowley found himself caught between emotions - a desire to howl in anger along with the beginnings of a complete nervous breakdown.

He chose anger, feeling it best if he stayed sane a little longer.

He tore down the shower curtain. He stormed through the bathroom and pulled the mirrors off the walls, tossed bottles left and right. He punched the tile, cracking the porcelain and cutting his hand. The stab of pain pulled his focus. He stared at his bleeding hand, his chest burning as his heart pounded to break through his ribcage. He stood among the wreckage of the master bath and sighed.

So much rage.

So much sadness.

So much useless destruction.

None of it was going to bring Aziraphale back.

Crowley made his way to the kitchen, past the wasted pallet on the floor, past the painting still dripping acrylic, and headed for the sink. He turned on the cold water and stuck his hand underneath. Head bowed over the basin, he watched the blood from his cuts rinse away. His eyes drifted closed as the water soothed his stinging hand. He imagined Aziraphale draping an arm around him, fussing over him, kissing his temples, massaging his neck, telling him everything would be alright.

When his hand went from stinging to numb, Crowley fumbled for the faucet with eyes closed and shut the water off.

In the silence, Crowley heard a sigh that wasn’t his own.

He didn’t open his eyes.

He wanted Aziraphale back.

But he was done seeing ghosts.

He wanted it all to end.

“Paint it,” Crowley heard a quiet voice say. “Paint what you want.”

When Crowley opened his eyes, the blue eyes he knew had been there were gone.

[otterthewasted]

A Portrait of Love

Rhysand's birthday is coming up and Feyre wants to give him a unique, and extremely personal gift. She needs help from their family to accomplish it.

A short story containing all of the Night Court's inner circle; Feyre, Rhysand, Amren, Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel. Loosely set some time after A Court of Frost and Starlight. Contains unique memories of Rhysand's mother and sister.

I had the idea for this story will working on my other ACOTAR project, and decided to take a break from the chapter I was working on to write this.

Fairly gooey, but also some substance to it. There isn't a full fledged, detailed sex scene, but there is mention of it so I slapped a mature rating on this.

You can also read this on AO3 HERE.

I hope you all enjoy!

*Disclaimer - I do not take credit for the any of the characters or the world created by Sarah J. Maas.

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

To say I was nervous was a bit of an understatement.

I had come up with this idea weeks ago and then promptly agonized over it until I was almost out of time. Rhys’s birthday was only a few days away, and I wanted to give him something special, something unique, something he did not already have.

This idea would most definitely qualify – and it might also be painful.

However, when I explained what I wanted to do, to my family, they had whole heartedly agreed to help, and conspired with me to make it happen.

So now I was ensconced in the cabin, far in the mountains, it’s walls bedecked with colors and images of life and love, and our amazing family that I had painted years ago. The plan, or perhaps to put it better, plot, was that Mor and I were coming to the cabin for a short just-us-girls retreat. However, over the course of the next few days Azriel, Cassian and Amren would be joining us, one at a time while the other two made sure Rhys was distracted and did not notice their absence.

Right now though, it was Cassian sitting across from me at the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair, one elbow on the table, his head propped on his hand.

His eyes were closed, and his brows were furrowed, a look of deep concentration on his face.

Had there been a mirror in front of me I’m sure my look would have mirrored his.

In front of me on the table was a medium sized sketch book, and several sticks of charcoal. I was leaning over it and sketching, never once looking up at Cassian, too focused on what I was doing. Because right now, my mind was resting over his, like a fisherman in a boat over calm seas, and he was throwing me fish – or memories rather, for me to catch.

Memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister.

One by one, he would throw me a memory, and I would catch it and sketch it out, and he would wait for me to nudge him, and then he would throw me another.

Like the memory of the first time he met Rhysand’s mother, when he had been dirty and freezing, and she had ordered him into a bath and then sent him to sleep for the first time ever in an actual bed, promising him that she understood and that he would have a bed here for as long as he wanted. It had been the first kindness he ever remembered receiving.

He showed me the time he had fallen sick with fever, and she had sat beside his bed for days, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, feeding him broth and tea, and reading to him while he recovered.

Or the time he caught her dancing in the kitchen to music only she could hear, twirling with happiness – until she saw him, and with a mischievous grin, had pulled him forward and taught him how to dance while he blushed furiously.

And of Rhysand’s sister, beautiful and wild, like her mother, laughing as she ran through the camp with the other younger children, her hair flying out behind her on the cold mountain wind.

The time he had taught her how to make soup in the kitchen at their old house in the Illyrian camp, laughing when she suggested putting honey in the soup, because she loved it so much. The soup had been terrible, and they had all eaten several bowls of it that night, just to see her smile.

He showed me a memory of her sitting on his lap at night by the light of the fire, while he had helped her learn how to read, the same way Rhysand’s mother had taught him, and the feeling of pride and quiet joy in the memory at something so simple was radiant.

I sketched for hours, filling the pages with his memories, until my fingers were tired, and he looked as though he had a headache.

Then there was a knock on the door and the memory Cassian had been showing me faded as we both looked up, startled. Mor walked over to the door and opened it and Azriel stepped inside, nodding to Mor then looking over at us. “He wants to see you, he was going to winnow to the camp, but Amren distracted him. We need to go now.”

Cassian glanced at me and I smiled at him, “Go, and thank you Cassian.”

He winked at me and stood up, “Any time.”

I looked back at Azriel and asked, “Are you or Amren coming tomorrow?”

“Most likely Amren, she has mentioned to Rhysand about visiting Varian for a few days.” A corner of his mouth quirked up and Mor snickered.

The romance between Varian and Amren was something that still continued to shock and amuse all of us even all these years later.

“Well that’s good, save’s the best for last then!” I grinned at Azriel, who I would have sworn blushed, but then he just bowed his head at me before the two of them headed out in order to winnow to the camp.

Mor walked over to my side then, leaning over my shoulder to look at my work. I glanced up at her, a little nervous, but she smiled and said, “They look incredible Feyre. Stop doubting yourself, he is going to love it.”

I blushed and let out a sigh, flexing my fingers a little, they were stiff from hours of clutching the charcoal.

She caught the movement and grinned, “Too tired for my turn? Or would you like to eat first?”

I groaned pitifully, “Food please. And wine. I can feel my stomach wrapping around my back.”

She laughed and walked into the kitchen, pulling out a pot and the jars of soup we had brought with us – neither of us could cook.

“We should have made Cassian cook for us before he had to leave,” I commented, getting up to wash charcoal dust off my hands.

Mor chuckled, “Yea, let’s remember that next time. Oh well, at least we won’t have to share the wine with him.”

We both laughed, and I helped set the table and before long we were both stuffing ourselves with rich soup and crusty bread and working through a bottle of wine.

After finishing our meal and cleaning up, Mor took the seat Cassian had perched in, and I started to sketch her memories – she had more memories of Rhysand’s sister than anyone else, it seemed that they had spent a lot of time together. Though she had a plethora of memories of his mother as well, it felt as though she considered Rhysand’s mother more like her own, than her birth mother ever had been.

My favorite memory that Mor shared with me was one she had of Rhysand’s sister. They had all taken a small vacation here at the cabin during the spring sometime before the War. Mor and his sister had found a field of wild flowers and sat in the middle of them, braiding the flowers into their hair – the memory was so sweet and innocent and colorful… I knew someday I would have to paint it.

When it became too dark, we had to call it quits – though I wasn’t concerned, we had the next few afternoons to work through her memories to fill the book with, while I was only getting a couple of hours with everyone else during the morning.

That night, after sitting up chatting for what felt like hours, we had gone to bed. I curled up under the sheets of the bed we had shared the first time we had made love after we had accepted the Mating bond, reaching up to curl my fingers over his pillow.

Busy day? I sent down the bond – careful to keep my thoughts of what I had done all day shielded. It might have been safer to not talk to him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of blocking him out.

Very. He responded a moment later. I miss you. The coloring of that thought was full of longing and desire, and it made my toes curl and I grinned into the dark room.

Just a few more days… I teased back, and I swore I could hear him groan.

I laughed and decided to tease him further, sending him a memory of my own of him on his back in this very bed, and me sliding on top of him, the feel of him inside of me, his hands sliding up over my hips, cupping my breasts…

Another groan, tinged with a seductive growl, You cruel wicked thing… Anymore and I will be joining you there tonight.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I was so, so tempted to invite him… but I didn’t want him to catch on to my little project, so instead I deflected gently, Save it for when I’m back…

Make it soon, he purred.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

- - - ~*~ - - -

Amren’s memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister were… different. Amren didn’t seem to see the world quite the way anyone else did, she failed to catch many of the nuances the rest of us would have noticed; not details in environment but in behavior. She also didn’t have all that many personal memories with them, but she did however recall their faces very clearly – more so than any of the rest of them. As though she had been able to map their faces in her own drawings, inside of her mind – ready to be displayed just for me. It was interesting, and a little unsettling, but I sketched them out just the same.

She was finished faster than Cassian had been, the lack of memories being the only reason, and though she had been happy to help she did not seem displeased to leave earlier – more time spent in the Summer Court with Varian.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working with Mor, and when she had a headache, I used the memories she had already shared with me to flesh out some of the details in both Cassian’s and Amren’s, giving each sketch as many details as I could. Some were rougher, the older the memory – and these were all old memories, the less defined they were, but they were still clear enough to sketch.

Later in the evening, after we had finished dinner and just finished doing the dishes. Mor sat the towel she had used to dry them on the counter and turned to look at me, her eyes dark and her brows furrowed.

I dried my hands off with another towel and looked up at her, frowning a little, “What’s wrong Mor?”

“I… have a memory, of Rhysand’s mother that…” She hesitated, and crossed her arms, obviously uncomfortable, but went on, “That I want you to sketch. It isn’t… it isn’t a happy memory exactly. But… it meant a lot to me, and I want him to have it too.”

I studied her face, then nodded, “Of course, come sit down.”

We sat at the table and I pulled out the charcoal, flipping to a new page, and reached out to Mor’s mind. It seemed to take her a few minutes to relax, but finally she sent the memory to me and for a moment, my hands froze. Then I began dragging the charcoal across the page as though those dark marks could draw out the roiling emotions that colored this memory for Mor, like leeching poison out of a wound. It was not a happy memory, she was right, but it was… beautiful in its kindness.

Her father had promised her in marriage to Eris, the heir presumptive of Autumn Court, and she had been devastated, nearly inconsolable with rage and frustration and terror… and Rhysand’s mother, who had heard the news, went looking for her and found her tucked away in a tiny room in the castle in Hewn City. Found her and held her for hours in a way that no one ever had before. This wild woman, who had starved herself to stop her own bleeding in order to keep her wings, who understood what it felt to be powerless and overlooked as she had once been in an Illyrian camp, shared with Mor her strength and understanding, and her love without saying a single word.

The gratitude Mor felt towards Rhysand’s mother was overwhelming, and I spent far longer drawing this memory than I had any other. When I finished it, and Mor let the memory slide back into the ocean of her mind with the others, I looked up at her and asked quietly, “Do you want to see?”

Mor’s face was pinched and pale, and she shook her head, “No. Thank you for sketching it though.” She smiled at me vaguely, “I’m going to head to bed. Don’t stay up too late, ok?”

I nodded and watched her leave. The Morrigan. A woman with such depths of strength and kindness, she never ceased to amaze me.

- - - ~*~ - - -

Azriel arrived a little later in morning than the others the next day, and after accepting a cup of tea from Mor with a brief smile, sat down across from me at the table. He looked… oddly nervous. I don’t think I had ever seen Azriel look nervous in all the time I had known him.

Fiddling with a stick of charcoal I leaned forward a little, “Azriel, if you aren’t comfortable…”

He shook his head, “I don’t mind you looking inside my mind Feyre, though it’s hardly a pleasant place to be.” A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “It’s that I think you might find it… disturbing. It is difficult to explain however – but please know that I will understand if you aren’t comfortable with using my memories.”

I frowned a little with confusion but said simply, “Alright. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

He nodded once, took a sip of his tea, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The shadows that always hovered around him, turned thick and dark around him, almost like armor as though to protect him while his attention was turned inwards.

I watched him like this, and for a moment my mind turned from thoughts of working on the gift for Rhysand, to painting this – Azriel, the shadowsinger, swallowed by shadow and yet not an ounce of menace or evil leaked from him. No, everything about him spoke of peace and calm, even possibly, contentment. As though the memories he was summoning up were bastions of happiness for him.

I knew that I was what I would call it, A Bastion of Shadow.

I smiled briefly before looking down at the journal and the fresh blank page, then opened my mind and reached out, brushing against Azriel’s and… and I understood then what he had meant. The shadows that clung to him, danced around him – they were not just outside of his body, but inside of his mind. Tendrils of shadow that twisted and reached for me, like the legs of an octopus, wrapping over me, around me… And for a moment I panicked, and tried to pull away, when I realized – they were not holding me.

I stayed still and watched them caress my mind, gentle and inquisitive, but not invasive or restraining. They reminded me of a woman I knew once, when I had been mortal, who had lost her sight as a child from fever, and how she explored the world with her hands instead of her eyes. These tendrils of shadow were learning about me, learning the touch of my mind, and I had no doubt they were whispering to Azriel what they discovered in that language only he could translate. I relaxed and settled back in place, and as though the shadows told him I was ready, he offered me his first memory.

Like Cassian, Azriel shared with me the memory of the first time he had met Rhysand’s mother, on his very first day in camp. And like Mor, this was not a happy memory, except for the kindness that she had given him without question or hesitation. She had taken in the sight of him, thin and pale, and how the sunlight hurt him – and it was the first memory I had seen where she looked angry. He showed me how she had hovered over him, worried about him not eating enough, and helped him adjust to the sun with such simple kindness.

Next he shared with me the memory of his first winter solstice that he celebrated at the camp, the dinner that had been a feast, and the first gift he had ever been given – a sweater that Rhysand’s mother had made for him out of such rich, luxuriously soft wool that it had been a pleasure to touch.

He showed me the memory of the day that he, Cassian and Rhysand had returned from the Blood Rite, bruised and bloody, and victorious. How he had looked out at the crowd of waiting families – of which there were none for him – until he had seen her right at the front of the crowd, with tears in her eyes and a look of such relief on her face – not just for Rhysand, but for him and Cassian as well. How that night, in their small home, she had hugged him fiercely, and hadn’t let him go for what had felt like hours.

The memories he had of Rhysand’s sister held not an ounce of darkness in them, despite the shadows that swirled around them. His feelings towards her were achingly sweet, he had seen her like his little sister and doted on her.

The first memory he showed me was the first time he had held her when she was a baby – he had been terrified, she was so small and he was certain he would hold her too tight, or drop her, even frightened that the scarring of his hands would be too rough on her petal soft skin. But he remembered how she had looked up at him with her vibrant blue eyes, without fear, and smiled.

He shared with me the time he had found her near the edges of the forest by the Illyrian camp as a small child, crying over an injured bird. He had helped her carry it home and bandage it and they had cared for it together – and the day they had released it and it had flown into the sky and she had laughed with joy.

He shared with me the memory of her waiting for him, outside of her father’s war room for hours during the War. She had paced, waiting to see him because he had only just returned after being gone for weeks on a dangerous mission. She had thrown herself into his arms and cried when he had finally been dismissed by her father. He had held her tight, and had felt how afraid she was, for him, for all of them.

After hours of working, it was Azriel himself who broke both our concentration this time, drawing back his memories and sitting up straighter, making me look up. His eyes narrowed a little, head cocked to the side and listening… then chuckled, “And that’s my cue, Cassian tipped off Nuala who just reached out to me. Rhys needs some information I collected for him earlier this morning. Do you need me to come back later, or was that enough?”

I looked down at the journal, flipping through the pages, and realized… it was full. All except for the last page – which I had been saving.

Looking back at him I smiled brilliantly, “You finished it for me Az, thank you, so much.” Then suddenly I reached out, brushing the fingers of one charcoal covered hand over his and said, “There is nothing disturbing about your mind Azriel, thank you, for sharing with me.”

He froze, staring at me for a moment, then smiled faintly, “Thank you.” He stood, spotting Mor looking at us, and nodded to her before quickly heading out of the cabin so Rhys wouldn’t grow suspicious.

After the door shut, Mor joined me at the table, peering over my shoulder as she had done when I had finished with Cassian, admiring the memories.

“What are you going to put on the last page?” She asked me, stepping around to sit in the chair Azriel had just vacated.

I looked up at her and smiled, my stomach flipping a little with nervous excitement, “I’m going to paint a family portrait.”

She smiled widely, “That is going to be perfect. I’ll leave you alone, while the light is good.”

I smiled at her gratefully, then went and collected my box of paints. The next few hours were spent painting a brand-new memory, the pieces of it drawn together from the collective memories of everyone who had loved Rhysand’s mother and sister best.

I finished by late afternoon, and left the book pinned open so the paint could dry. The rest of the day was spent with Mor, enjoying what was left of the girls-only-vacation we had only been playing at until now. The hours were filled with laughter and stories, and quite a few bottles of wine, and that night I went to bed with my soul feeling light and my body jittery with anticipation.

- - - ~*~ - - -

The next day dawned bright and beautiful, and despite having slept soundly my body was still thrumming with excitement.

At the sight of me fidgeting, Mor paused at pouring me a cup of tea, “I’m not sure you need this, you look hyped up enough.”

I snarled at her playfully and she laughed, then poured my tea.

I checked the painting throughout the day, likely giving it longer to dry than it honestly needed, but by late afternoon, it was done. My chest tightened and I found my breathing hitching, anxiety suddenly hitting me hard.

“Feyre,” Mor said as she looked at me from the couch, “calm down. He is going to love it. Trust me, ok?”

I swallowed hard, then nodded. Checking one more time that it was dry, I unpinned the book and closed it.

Resting a hand on top of it, I looked up at her and smiled, still anxious, but holding it at bay. “How soon can you be packed?”

She laughed and stood up, “Already packed sister-mine, just give the word and I’m out the door.”

I walked over to her and hugged her fiercely, and she hugged me back just as tightly.

“Thank you so much Mor, for all of it.”

She pulled back, grinning at me, “Of course. Do you want me to send him, or…?”

I shook my head, “No, I’ll call for him, can you avoid him in Velaris for an hour or so?”

She nodded, “I might just go visit my estate for a few hours, that way we don’t have to worry about him sensing my return.”

My shoulders relaxed and I smiled at her gratefully, “Thank you again.”

She waved a hand, dismissing my thanks and made her way to the door of the cabin, pausing to glance back at me. “You two will be back tomorrow for the family party?”

I snorted playfully, “Yes, don’t think I am letting him get out of a party when he makes me have one each year.”

She laughed and opened the front door, “See you tomorrow then.” With a wave she headed outside, then winnowed away.

The panic bubbled up inside of me again and I had to take several deep breaths to work it back down.

Retrieving the book, I reached my power into the pocket realm that we could store things in, and withdrew from it a simple wooden box, carved of walnut and dyed a rich brown. On the front of it, etched into the wood and dyed black was the emblem of the Night Court – a mountain, with three stars.

I opened the box, and it was lined with fine dark blue velvet, so dark it was almost black. Lifting the sketch book up I placed it inside the box and closed the lid, then carried it over to the low table in front of the couch, setting it in place.

Heading to my bedroom I stripped out of my simple pants and shirt – and pulled on a dress of midnight blue, lighter in color than the velvet in the box down stairs, but still dark, reminiscent of the night sky. The hem of the dress fell to just below my knees, a loose flowing skirt that swished around my legs when I moved. The back and sides of the dress were sheer black lace and the top wrapped around the back of my neck halter style, leaving the upper half of my back bare and exposing part of the moon phase tattoo that ran down the line of my spine – the mark from the bargain I had made with Bryaxis.

I pulled on a pair of black satin slippers, and then went to the bathroom to finish. Gathering my hair up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, allowing a few tendrils free to frame my face, and held in place with a pair of silver sticks that were topped with a falling star. I didn’t bother with make-up often, but I took the time tonight, darkening my lashes and lining my lids with kohl, then painting my lips with a dark red. Leaning back from the mirror I studied my visage, and blushed a little, the color highlighting my cheeks.

I was ready. It was time.

I walked back out into the main room of the cabin, took a deep breath, and then sent a thought down the bond.

Are you busy?

A second passed, then, Surprisingly no, are you ok?

I smiled, bless my friends, they had likely made sure his schedule was light today.

Yes, I sent and said, join me, please? At the cabin.

Not even a full minute passed, and then he was there, the darkness ebbing from him as he arrived and turned to see me and… froze.

His violet eyes drank me in, every inch of me. Traveling from my feet, along my bare legs, touching on my hips and waist, my breasts and shoulders, along my neck, tracing the curve of my lips… then he met my eyes. And I could see the delight, and the hunger and the love – the love that shone so brilliantly out of his eyes, it dazzled me.

“Feyre…” he whispered my name… and then he was across the room in two long strides, and had me in his arms, pulling me tight against him, and kissed me long and hard and so unfathomably deep.

I fell into him, into his body, into his soul, kissing him back with all the burning intensity of my love for him. I felt his hands sliding over my back, his fingers tracing over the lace and then gliding along the length of my spine, and I shivered with pleasure.

Days. It had only been a matter of a few days since I had seen him last and yet… until he was here, holding me, kissing me, I hadn’t realized quite how painful the ache had been without him, until his presence banished the pain inside of me and I was filled with a relief so sweet, it was almost its own form of pain.

After what felt like eternity, he drew back from me with an effort, and we were both breathing hard. He slid one hand up, cupping the side of my neck lightly, his thumb brushing over my jaw and leaned forward to press his forehead against mine.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered to me, “I carry the image of you in my head each day, all day, and yet when I see you again I realize it was a pale comparison to how breathtakingly radiant you are.”

I blushed and felt the heat of that blush trace a path down my neck, and over the top of my breasts. I reached up and brushed my fingers over his cheek lightly, and then teased him playfully, “You’re not so bad looking yourself.”

He laughed, rich and deep, completely unfettered. Leaning back he took in the sight of me again and then smirked a little, “Girls-only-retreat hmm?”

I laughed and titled my head, “Well… Mor was here. So were Cassian, Azriel and Amren.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, “Have you been playing with illusions again Feyre darling?”

Smiling, I shook my head, “No, they weren’t here the whole time, only a few hours each day.”

I took a step back from him, but reached down to take his hand, squeezing gently. “I have a gift for you… but it’s from all of us.”

He arched a brow, but followed me willingly enough to the couch, where I bade him sit. I picked the box up and handed it to him, then slid onto the couch beside him, leaning into his side and tucking my feet up beneath me.

He held the box, brushing his fingers over the smooth wood, then glanced up at me. “What’s the occasion?”

I rolled my eyes at him, “It’s your birthday tomorrow, but… I wanted to give this to you, alone.”

My stomach fluttered with nervousness, and he seemed to read a touch of it on my face, his brows drawn together again as he tried to understand why.

I nudged him, “Go ahead… open it.”

He studied me a moment longer, then opened the box and eyed the sketch book curiously. “If this is filled with Mor’s stick figures, then you must be a mind reader.” He teased, glancing at me, “I’ve been dying for an entire book of those.

I huffed a laugh and smacked his leg lightly, “I’ll get you that next year.”

He grinned, then lifted the book up, and I took the box from him, leaning over to place it on the table before sitting back to watch him.

He opened the book, and his entire body went rigid.

The first page was one of Cassian’s memories, his first memory, meeting Rhysand’s mother that night she had welcomed him into their home. Her face was soft and sweet, her lips curved in a kind smile, and her eyes were knowing and full of welcome. Home her eyes seemed to say, you are home.

My hands were fisted in my skirts, and my eyes never left his face – which was blank, in shock or anger, or a grief too consuming to be expressed, I wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed before he moved again, reaching up to turn the page.

The next page was a memory of Mor’s, walking through the streets of Velaris with his sister, her eyes bright and alive and fiercely happy.

Another minute, another page, another memory.

Amren’s this time, a stunning profile of his mother as she looked out over the city of Velaris from the House of Wind.

Then Azriel’s, holding his sister during the war as she cried with fear and relief.

He didn’t speak, and his body remained rigid, but over time the look on his face changed from blank nothingness to… relief. I didn’t know of another word to express how else he looked. Like a man gone blind from injury, having only the memory of the sun to comfort him, and then miraculously opening his eyes one day to see the radiance of the sun again anew.

I stayed by his side, still and patient, refusing to even touch him lest I distract him from the memories he now walked through.

A few of the sketches he lingered on, I would glance down to see what caught his eye, and sometimes it was a memory I knew he shared with one of the others, but sometimes it was one I knew he had never seen.

The memory Mor had shared, of his mother holding her as she wept, he lingered over for several long minutes.

But it was the memory Cassian shared that almost brought the hint of a smile to his lips, of his mother dancing in the kitchen, of teaching Cassian to dance.

As he flipped to the last page of the book, I stopped breathing entirely.

I told Mor I was going to paint a family portrait. A new memory, born of all the combined memories they had shared, and my knowledge, and love of him.

It was his mother, her face lit with kindness and freedom, his sister with her hair wreathed in flowers and laughter dancing in her eyes, and him beside them, his true face and not a mask, warm and compassionate, and happy.

He stared and stared… and then closed his eyes and I saw tears roll down his face.

“Oh Feyre…” he whispered to me, then turned, holding the book in one hand and his other wrapping around me, pulling me tightly against him as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, and I could feel the wet warmth of his tears trace a path across my skin.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly within the shelter of my arms, stroking my hands over his back and through his silky hair. I felt his body trembling against mine and swallowed back tears of my own.

And then I felt his mind brush against mine, light and loving as he whispered to me, You gave them back to me, Feyre. You, all of you, gave them back… I… I don’t even have words…

His mind fell silent though he didn't retreat from me, and I reached out, brushing my mind against his, twirling myself around him, holding him even here.

They were never gone, I whispered to him, but now you can see them as others have loved them and were loved by them.

And I felt him shudder with a low sob and I held him tighter.

- - - ~*~ - - -

It was hours later, and we were still curled up on the couch together, his arm still tight around me, refusing to let me go, and he was going through the book, over and over. He told me about the memories he knew, that he had shared or been told about, and listened as I told him about the memories that were new to him – sometimes even showing him in his mind what had been shared with me while I sketched them.

And it seemed with each memory the old sorrow inside of him eased, the pain of their loss would never fade, but the sorrow of it which had weighed so heavily on his shoulders all of these many years began to lessen.

And it was hours after that, when he had finally sat the book aside and carried me into our room where we made love, slow and sweet, and so tender I nearly wept. Curled around each other, skin to skin, our bodies warm and damp with sweat, that he whispered in my ear, “I have a birthday request…”

I tilted my head up to look at him and smiled, “Anything.”

He looked down to meet my gaze, filled with such radiant love, and smiled, “I want another book of memories…” he leaned down, brushing his lips across mine as he whispered, “our memories together, our life… I want a book of those memories, so we can share it with our children someday.”

And the tears I had not shed earlier, that I had held in check, they came now, hot and sweet, trailing down my cheeks.

He kissed them away, brushing his lips over my skin, tasting the tears with his tongue light and teasing, then whispered, “My darling Feyre… I love you.”

[monotonemanday]

Star Crossed Entertainers - Part 4

Y’all ready for some back story? Also ANGSTFEST. I wrote this part several different times, several different ways and hooooo boy, it was a trip. In order to set everything in place so we can get back to some gorgeous musical actors and hot ass business men, this part is pretty damn lengthy. Also Surprise. Someone else is joining this series. :)

TRIGGER WARNING: It honestly isn’t a whole lot but there is abusive language and mention of sexual assault and attempted rape. 

Soft sunlight was peaking into the lounge through the sheer black curtains as Samantha made her way to the entry way of the apartment where her and Kaeli piled their shoes that they wore the most. She was already showered and dressed. She was wearing full length black leggings that had a leather panel on the outer sides from the waist band to the ankle, a blush colored tank top and a black bomber jacket that had a salmon and cream colored floral pattern. She grabbed her boots and sat on the step that connected the entryway to the lounge. First the left, then the right. She slipped the black boots up to her knees and began to lace them up. A long process. Once she had the bows double knotted she stood up and decided she would open the curtains at the far window. On her way to the window she noticed that Kaeli had fallen asleep on the couch. She must have been worried last night and fell asleep without putting herself to bed. Samantha grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch and went to lay it on Kaeli when she stopped and let out a sigh. Kaeli was using one of her t-shirts as a nightgown again. Butt head. Laying the blanket down on the sleeping beauty, Sam made her way to the kitchen where she sat on the cushions in the bay window. Her favorite spot. Her legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, she stared looking out the window, watching the sunrise out over the city, then looking back at her roommate. No. Her best friend. And she thought about everything that had led up to this very morning.

They had been friends since they were 5 years old. Best friends. On the very first day of school they were drawn to each other. None of the other kids were too keen on being with them because one was the size of a toddler and the other was the size of a 5th grader. There difference in size brought them together but it turns out they had the same sense of humor and outgoing personalities. Kismet. All of the other jerks kids hadn’t wanted to be their friends but once the two were together they became a dynamic duo. The two were the same but also couldn’t be more of polar opposites. They were both outgoing and well liked. They weren’t popular or wealthy but they knew everyone and everyone knew them. Kaeli wasn’t very studious but she was very active in the student body. Events, festivals, dances, she was apart of it all. Samantha was in every performing arts class there was. Marching band, jazz band. wind ensemble. She was involved in choir, musical theatre, and  drama with Kaeli as well. She played 5 different instruments. She never thought she would spend her school days like that but it was just so natural to her once she started. She was like an entertainment machine and also held perfect grades.

Kaeli reached her maximum height of 4 feet 11 inches her freshman year of high school. She was adorable and no one could resist her colorful laugh and big dimples when she smiled. Despite her being as cute as a button she was a huge flirt. It radiated from within her. It was like a disease. Usually she was unaware she was even flirting and it got her into trouble. By senior year she had won the titles of Homecoming Queen, Winterfest Queen, and Prom Queen. She didn’t necessarily dress overly feminine but she was always in pink, pastels, and soft patterns. Her family wasn’t necessarily wealthy but she lived very comfortably. It was just her parents, herself and a couple of dogs. She didn’t have any extended family. Her mother came from a family of wealth and power but her father did not. Neither sides of the two families were accepting of the other and disowned the couple, therefore denying Kaeli’s existence entirely when she was born. That’s why when her parents died in a plane crash senior year she was taken in by Samantha who had been on her own for awhile. Kaeli had a huge heart and she used it far more often than her brain. She was too trusting and opened up too easily. This led to her often being taken advantage of in friendships and even to some abusive relationships. But she always had Sammy.

Samantha was 6 feet tall by her junior year of high school and she still had growing pains. Slow down Shaq. She was intimidating but she had beautiful eyes and she was so expressive and goofy, people were drawn to her. Everyone knew her as outspoken and sarcastic but she also had an undeniable warmth that made people feel like they could open up to her about anything and everything. Gross. By senior year she had directed 4 plays, starred in 6 musicals and even put together a sketch comedy show that the school made apart of their homecoming celebration each year. She dressed in lots of muted colors. Olive, tan, navy, maroon, mustard. She had developed a very fashion forward style her sophomore year. Up until then she had dressed like an absolute tomboy. Usually skinny jeans, converse and a t-shirt, or overalls and baseball hats. She didn’t have much money and she worked at a bakery for income. Samantha didn’t have a family. She never knew her parents and she only had a sister who was 20 years older than her. When she was about 8 her sister had started a family and Sam felt like a burden so she had runaway. She was fending for herself until someone had taken her in. Someone not much older than her, but who had already mastered the art of living without a family. At 17 when she started working at the bakery the elderly couple who owned the business let her rent out an apartment upstairs and when Kaeli lost her parents the elderly couple gladly accommodated Sam getting a roommate. Samantha was loved by many and although she was never cold, she didn’t like people. She did not trust others and never let anyone in. That’s how she was raised. No one knew that she didn’t want people too close and she never held a relationship. She was constantly dumping guys for trying to get too close to her. The only person she ever let in was Kaeli.

Kaeli begin to stir in her sleep and Samantha looked her way. 

“Kay?” The small blonde shot up.

“...damn. My neck hurts. You’re up already? And you’re dressed?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go visit my old babysitter.” Both girls chuckle.

“You shouldn’t call him that Sammy. He basically made you who you are today. Plus, he actually is a babysitter now.” The blonde laughed even harder.

Samantha shot off a text message and stood up from her seat at the window. grabbing her keys off the kitchen island counter she glides over to the closet by the entry way and pulls out a sparkly silver helmet.

“Hey, no way! You’re not taking your bike! If I can’t ride one, you can’t drive one.”

Sam tucked the helmet under her left armpit and reached for the doorknob, looking behind her she met Kaeli’s yelling with a steady tone. “And you did ride one. So after this we’ll be even.”

“HOW DID YOU KNOW?!”

“Lee texted me when you left the theatre.” And with that she was out the door.

BBBZZZZTTT BBZZZZZTTT ~ 2 texts and now someone was calling but he couldn’t hear the phone over the vacuum. His ponytail rapidly swinging back and forth trying to keep up with how fast he was moving. Suddenly there was extremely loud banging on the door. He turned off the hoover and reached around to his back where his taser was tucked into his pants.

“OPEN THE DOOR DICKHEAD!”

The man looked through the doors peep hole and swung it open rapidly. 

“I swear one day I’m actually going to tase your obnoxious ass. Get in here. Geez...who raised you?”

“Uhhhmmm, that would be you.” The tall brass haired brat walked into the house and flopped down on the couch propping her feet up on the coffee table.

The man knocked her feet off with a swift slap.

“Get your dirty boots off my clean surfaces.”

“Easy Vanhelsing. There isn’t a spec of dust in this place.”

You could see the man growing more irritable. “I’m not a vampire. That’s not my name. And it’s not about mess, it’s about manners.”

Vanderwood. The man was a grade A bad ass with a passion for Fabreeze and Lysol wipes.

“If you came here just to be a brat, you could have waited until Christmas.”

Vanderwood waited for a snarky response from the woman but he was met with her looking defeated.

“Samantha, what is it.” His tone turned exponentially serious.

“I just came to ask you one thing. If Kaeli and I need to get out of here in the near future...would you be able to help me with that?”

Vanderwood. He joined the agency when he was 16. Tired of dealing with his family and no one recognizing he was superior to them in everyway, he signed a contract of employment with them. He was 2 years in. Now about 18 and progressing fast within the ranks of the agency. One day he was doing some recon on some local thugs when he heard a commotion in a near by alleyway. He saw 3 adult men, cornering a girl. The girl wasn’t small but she could only have been in elementary school. He figured he should intervene when he started to hear smacks, and punches. Cries of pain, but what the bloody hell? The screams were coming from the dudes. Who is this 8 year old and how is she kicking the asses of these GROWN men! With the dumbasses subdued he spoke to the girl. He learned that she was on her own and she was actually the one that picked a fight with them. He didn’t know why he did it and to this day he still doesn’t know what compelled him but he offered to take her under his wing. And for whatever reason, which he also didn’t understand, this little girl trusted him, and accepted. He became her guardian and he was honestly excited to have a "mini me”. He had bought her clothes and taught her the basics of living. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, cleaning, fighting, cleaning, manners, cleaning, studying, CLEANING. He didn’t know how a little girl was supposed to dress, he had never been one. So she usually went to school in overalls, sneakers, and a backwards baseball cap with her hair in two loose braids. She usually was covered in band aids and 90% of the time one was on her face. This girl was a fighter but she was clumsy as hell. She was constantly getting cuts and bruises due to her own carelessness but according to Vanderwood, pain didn’t exist. He was constantly telling her to ignore others because hurt feelings didn’t really matter, and not to trust anyone because you never know who could be after you. Falling down and being clumsy or getting hurt were no excuse to show weakness. Every time he helped her put a band aid on he would say things like “Never let boys see you bleed.” or “Never show someone how deep a cut is!” He didn’t know that all this strength and fight he was trying to implant in her was going to lead her into brandishing her own vigilante justice. She was constantly getting in fights outside of school. Trying to beat up bullies or even trying to go after muggers. He had to have a stern talk with her about what was morally right and wrong for a little girl and why her rules were different than his, being a trained assassin, big boy. He was glad she had Kaeli to balance her out and calm her down.

By the time the smart ass brat Samantha was a senior in high school she had gone from constantly trying to kick everyone’s ass on the streets, to simply just knowing how to defend herself and Vanderwood was actually glad that she was leading a pretty normal life. When she was 17 he let her fly away from his mama bird nest and get her own job and apartment. Good. It would keep her away from his line of work. That was until after she graduated. Kaeli was planning on moving away for a performing college program and Samantha came to Vanderwood with a request. She was planning on cutting all ties with Kaeli while she was gone and asked Vanderwood to get her training with the agency. No. He didn’t want that kind of life for this girl he had known to be so bright, and talented. Fun loving and carefree. Sure he had accidentally made it so that she didn’t trust people and didn’t form close relationships out of concern for others safety. And she was incredibly skilled and intelligent. The agency could really use someone like her but he just didn’t want that for her. A life of solitude. She was stubborn and determined so he agreed to get her training, but with two conditions. It would only be for a year and she would only take the training courses that he picked and she had to keep in contact with Kaeli. Her best friend.

Samantha had started her year of training before the official application process to get into the same agency that Vandy had joined when he was 16. Due to Vanderwoods terms of her training she was in contact with Kaeli while she was away for her college program. But Samantha still intended to disappear with the agency once the year was over. It’s not that she didn’t want to be around Kaeli anymore, it’s that she didn’t want Kaeli being around her. She believed that she was destined to be alone and not deserving of having normal relationships. Her parents never wanted her, her sister didn’t want her, and until she had met Kaeli and Vanderwood, people had only ever seen her as a threat. She was dangerous. But she didn’t realize it until a week before they graduated high school.

Reagan. He was popular, good looking, wealthy, obnoxious, a real douche. Samantha didn’t like his attitude or how he treated people. So she was extra irritated when Kaeli started dating him. It wasn’t long into their relationship that Samantha knew he wasn't a good person. He quickly became obsessed, possessive and controlling. Kaeli brushed it off. Classic Kaeli. She had let herself be treated like this before and it always took Samantha to snap her out of it, but this time she couldn’t be snapped. Samantha didn’t know it but Kaeli was afraid of Reagan. He had became abusive but she tried her hardest to hide it from Sam. She didn’t want to admit she was in over her head and she was afraid of what Sam might do. One day Kaeli was taking off her sweater and her shirt had lifted up. That’s when Samantha saw bruising all over her torso.

“He’s fucking dead.”

“Sammy please, no. Don’t do anything rash and get yourself in trouble. He’s coming over tonight and I’m going to break it off with him. That way I’ll have a clean break after we graduate and I can move with no strings attached.”

Samantha was seeing red, she didn’t have any words and knew that she wasn’t going to be able to have a rational conversation so she went downstairs to the bakery and started her shift. A couple hours past and as she was closing up the bakery Sam was greeted by Reagan. He looked at her and made no attempt to say hello. He went right upstairs to the apartment. Samantha went back to locking up. 5 minutes later she heard shouting and something had slammed onto the floor. Her mind went blank and her eyes dazed over, it was like she blacked out. Her body was possessed. She ran upstairs as fast as her legs would take her and threw open every door with excessive force. The shouting had stopped and she couldn’t see anyone in the immediate area. That’s when she heard crying. Soft sobbing from Kaelis room and then...grunting. She ran to the bedroom door and tried the handle but it was locked. Rapidly jiggling the handle she slapped the door with an open palm again and again.

“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR!”

“FUCK YOU!”

“SAM HELP ME!”

Smack. “Shut the fuck up.” The slap echoed throughout the entire apartment.

The adrenaline took over her whole body and Samantha stepped back and then lunged her right shoulder at the door, breaking the lock and pushing it open. Reagan was on top of Kaeli and his pants were around his ankles. Samantha grabbed him by his hair and threw him against the wall. His skull made a loud smacking noise and his eyes glazed over. He slid down the wall, and she grabbed his shirt in her fist and began beating his face with the outer part of her closed fist. Kaeli was crying and screaming. Sam didn’t stop until she realized blood was being splattered across her face. She would have could have killed him. She wiped her forehead, unintentionally smearing blood across it. She turned around. The fear in Kaeli’s eyes. It was because of Reagan but Samantha thought it was because of her. She wrapped a blanket around Kaeli and walked her downstairs. She called Vanderwood who came and cleaned up the mess and got medical attention for the boy. The next day they all acted like it never happened. And that is why she wanted away from Kaeli. What kind of a life was that? She was dangerous.

The year of training went by fast. Samantha had gone through all the courses Vanderwood specified she had to take. Tactical, physical training, espionage, seduction, driving, stealth, and combat. Part of training was doing recon and infiltration of low level crime rings. All candidates were informed that not only the agency but other employers would also be keeping an eye on them. She had made her way into several small mafia branches and mob conglomerates. They mainly used her for shake downs and collections. A lady thug for hire. Beating money and secrets out of desperate scumbags. It was also easy enough making deals without having to beat them to a pulp since a lot of the time the goons were too busy looking her up and down, licking there lips like they were about to scarf down a 3 course meal. At the end of her year she had gone back home and was planning on saying her goodbyes to Kaeli.

The night she planned to say goodbye to Kaeli and submit her official application to the agency they had gone to karaoke. It had been forever since they performed together. They ended up taking over the whole bar, it was no longer karaoke it was a two woman variety show and people were loving it. She was having a blast with her best friend but the entire time she couldn’t help but feel like eyes were on them. Eyes that she couldn’t see. Vanderwood? No these eyes were definitely menacing.

They left the bar and started walking. Trying to sober up a bit. They were laughing and it was just like their carefree days of high school. The sound of metal hit Samantha’s ears and before she could react someone had grabbed her pinning her arms to her back.

“KAELI RUN!”

“GRAB HER, ASSHOLES!”

That voice. It was fucking Reagan.

Samantha whipped her head back as fast as she could and made contact. Her arms were released and she quickly made her way to the two men that were holding on to Kaeli, ripping at her clothes. Sam’s fist flew through the air. Shit. Something had cracked. Her hand or his jaw, one of them was broken. Kaeli shook herself loose and began running to get help when a limo had pulled up and blocked them in. Samantha was throwing punches and dodging them at an incredible rate, she was roundhousing their asses and Kaeli couldn’t believe what she was witnessing. The limo door opened and Sam lost her focused and turned to see who was stepping out of it. That’s when Reagan landed a sold punch right into her stomach. Her body jolted and blood came out of her mouth, then a hand connected with her face. “Fucking freak. Stupid Bitch always in my FUCKING way.” Samantha was on her knees, blood pouring out of a cut above her brow. 

“That’s enough Reagan!” A round stocky woman had stepped out of the limo. “I asked you to retrieve the girls but you decided you were going to do whatever you wanted. I’m sure the boss would love hearing that you damaged his new merchandise” the air was silent and extremely bitter tasting. “Now, ladies, if you would.” The woman gestured to inside of the limo.

“NO WAY!” Kaeli screamed, incredibly defiant. “Do it, Kaeli.” Samantha’s voice was soft but it was firm. The two girls climbed in the limo. Sam knew who this woman was and who she was employed by. Stuff she had learned doing the undercover work for training.

The girls rode in silence and they were let out at a night club. The lights were blinding outside. They were following the round woman with her huge bodyguards on the outside of them. No words were being exchanged. 

“If you'll excuse me for a moment.” The woman broke the silence and walked away. One of the guards gestured for Kaeli to take a seat and the other gestured towards a door off to their left, a bathroom for Sam to clean up in. Splashing water onto her face and trying to scrub the blood off her hands she heard a bit of shouting outside. She turned off the water and wiped her hands with paper towels and opened the door. She looked around. They weren’t in the regular part of the club. They were in a members only VIP area. She didn’t see Kaeli. She panicked. She was running up to everyone asking them if they had seen a tiny blonde woman when finally one man pointed into a room in the back and told her that a couple of men had gone in the room with her. She pounced at the door like a cheetah and kicked it open. She didn’t care what was happening, She just started swinging. There was crashing and yelling, and guests were starting to get concerned. The round woman appeared in the doorway and cleared her throat. The body guards she was with pulled Sam off of the men in the room. “The employer would like to speak to you privately.” Kaeli and Sam both began to follow the woman when she raised her hand. “Just the amazon.” Rude.

“Fine, but she stays with your guards. And Reagan and his ugly ass two bit thugs leave. Now. Or I will kill them.” Her eyes were like hot coals. Sam was serious.

Samantha sat in the lush leather chair and stared at the rich cherry wood desk in front of her. the man sitting at the desk had his tall chair turned around and didn’t even attempt to face her. Sam had her guard up and was on high alert but the man started speaking and got right to brass tax.

“Vanderwood raised a firecracker I see. Intelligent, talented, strong, and a body. All those curves and me with no brakes.” Are you serious right now? “I’ve gone ahead and submitted an application to the agency on your behalf. I also put in a submission for denial to the agency and a request that the application for consideration of employment go to me. So don’t think running to the agency will get you out of this. I was going to make you both my very special VIP package for our best clients. However you have come in here and caused a disturbance. Vandwerwood raised a fighter but he didn’t raise a lady. If you want to act like a brute than you will be one. You will now be my hired gun and your little pixie out there will be my most esteemed call girl. You will be rewarded with very sizable salaries and club privileges. Now get out.”

“No.” Samantha’s voice didn’t waver. Not even for a split second.

“No is not an option, you are now my employee and due to how close you are with that girl she will and already does know too much. So you both are indebted to me. You by contractual obligation and her by threat. If you try to leave , you will both be killed.”

“I’ll do both.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll be your hired gun and a call girl. She stays away from any part of what goes on with the clients in this club.”

The man was silent. Still facing away from Sam. “Madam, bring her something to type up her terms with.”

20 minutes later and Sam had signed a contract. And all her terms and stipulations were met.

Samantha and Kaeli would be trained in high society, upper class, and etiquette. They would both be available for dates , dinners, and events with the top tier of the elites. Sam would  be awarded business classes and Kaeli would learn Public relations. After a certain amount of time was put in with Kaeli working events and handling all PR and media for the club or scandles for the club and the employer, she wouldn’t have to go on dates anymore. Sam would be a lady goon, and a jazz singer/performer for the club and she would spend nights with clients. Normally most girls would have the choice on whether or not they wanted to sleep with clients but he had told Sam that there would be no exceptions with her. She would bring in top clients and top dollar. She would have opportunity to progress and climb up the ranks.

The madam was impressed with Sam’s sense of business and her courage to try and sacrifice all of her freedom for Kaeli to get away. The madam agreed to help Sam lie to the employer about her sleeping with clients.

Kaeli had worked off her debt and now only had to work PR and media for the club, and Sam had worked her way from all thug duties and had become the clubs “Sparkling Diamond” and a business partner. They made incredibly good money but they kept it to themselves. As far as everyone else was concerned, Kaeli and Samantha were just two strugglers. A struggling actor and a struggling screenwriter/stage manager. The only little slice of a normal life that they had.

“Sam, SAM!”

Vanderwood’s booming voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

“Sorry. Look, it’s nothing too serious right now I just, I got reckless and I may have messed up with he boss.”

“Don’t piss off your employer is one of the first rules I had ever taught you. What on earth would make you jeopardize what you have?”

“I don’t know Van! I was with the C&R director working a party being held in his honor and he is nothing like the chairman and I just thought maybe I could do things my own way. A way that works better and runs smoother and I just...”

“Oh, Sam...don’t tell me. You like the walking ATM.”

“No. I don’t.” She was extremely annoyed by Vanderwoods assumption. She knew better than that.

“No. I respect him as a business man and he has a very kind and insightful soul.”

Sam smirked she knew exactly how to mess with Van.

“And I mean I don’t know...I guess he’s just so...damn...seeexxxxyyy.”

“Stop.”

“I swear he makes my knees weak.”

“Gross.”

“He touched me and I swear my legs started to tremble, What I wouldn't’ give to see his big throb-”

“YOU DON’T TALK LIKE THAT IN FRONT OF ME.”

“Easy, Van. Holster your taser. Listen I just came over to make sure that if something does happen, you have my back.”

“Always.”

The two shared a quick side hug and Samantha made her leave. She had a lot to think about. Good think she took her bike. She was going to zip through the freeways at high speeds to clear her mind.