#I usually do the stars for Cas’ halo but when making it for the coloring book

[wigglebox]

Starry Eyed Surprise 💖💫

[lineart included in Destiel Doodles coloring book]

[banshee1013]

Fic - Sticky Sweet

Yesterday was the #DeanCasWedding, which of course means today must be - the #DeanCasHoneymoon! Written for the SPN Family Discord Valentine’s Exchange, this was not necessarily written as a honeymoon fic, but it works! Enjoy! 

Title: Sticky Sweet Rating: Teen Tags: Castiel/Dean, Camping, Tooth-rotting Fluff (literally) Word Count: 1768 Summary:  Dean has been introducing a newly-human Cas to human things - the latest: camping under the stars, complete with tent, campfire, and s'mores -- but Castiel has a surprise for Dean as well. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29422437

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Dean holds on to the thin thread of his patience as he threads the tent pole through the seemingly unending number of loops running over the top side of the tent, grumbling to himself as he has to back the pole out due to missing a loop. Finally, the tent poles are in place and he uses the ties at the pinnacle of the tent to anchor where the tent poles meet and then stands, dusting off his knees. Starting at one corner, he pops the pole end into the tent foot, making his way around to all four corners until the tent is finally upright. He stands back and crosses his arms to admire his work, then looks around for Cas and smiles fondly when he sees him.

While he was pitching the tent (the thought makes him grin, of course), he had sent Cas out to find some firewood and to build the fire pit, handing him a small evac tool (basically a mini-shovel) to clear the ground where the pit would go and instructing him to find some nice round river rock from the small creek nearby to line it with. Cas had done spectacularly, a substantial stack of various sizes of tree branches and a three-ish foot circle of ground cleared nearby. Currently, the former angel was crouched on the ground next to a small pile of oval-shaped stones and was placing them in a ring around the cleared space with the precision one usually associates with engineering a spacecraft.

“Hey, Cas, that looks great! Can you come help me with the tent cover please?”

Cas looks up from his ring of stones, smiles and rises to his feet; but his brows pinch together as he looks past Dean and at the tent. “That does not look very secure, Dean. Are you sure it will remain stationary?”

Dean laughs and pulls Cas in for a hug as he approaches, then turns him around to face the tent, keeping an arm over his shoulder. “When we put the top cover on — that keeps moisture from rain and morning dew from getting inside — we’ll anchor it with those tent spikes,” he motions toward the four silver rods lying at each corner of the tent. “But I need help getting the cover on evenly.” Cas nods and heads toward the tent, Dean following and he can’t help but admire the view.

Dean has finally managed to rid him of the ubiquitous trench coat, suit, and tie, replacing it with a royal blue hoodie the color of his eyes and dark grey Henley, the sleeves pulled up to expose muscular forearms; and dark blue jeans that hug his surprisingly slender form — and does wonders for Dean’s libido. The fact that the trench coat and ill-fitting suit hid his drool-worthy body all this time is a travesty that Dean continually laments — but is glad to have rectified, especially as the jeans draw tight around those remarkably muscular thighs when Cas crouches down to inspect the tent spikes.

The sun is just starting to dip behind the trees and just then a shaft of light streaks through the branches, backlighting Cas in yellow-orange light and setting his dark brown head glowing like a halo, and Dean gasps at the sight. He’s absolutely gorgeous, how have I been so blind? Cas glances over his shoulder, head tilted and a puzzled look in his eye, the same shaft of light striking and turning them into blue fire.

Dean suddenly realizes he’s the luckiest sonuvabitch alive.

“Dean? Are you alright?”

Blinking, Dean shakes his head and smiles, moving toward the tent. “Yeah… I’m great, Cas.” Kneeling down next to him, he takes Cas’ face in both hands and kisses him, soft and chaste… but the next thing Dean knows, he’s on his back with Cas over him, groaning against his lips as he deepens the kiss.

Cas finally breaks the kiss to gasp for air, and even though it’s literally the last thing he wants to do, Dean gently pushes him back. “We’re losing the light, sweetheart, and we gotta finish putting this tent together,” he gasps. Cas sighs and rises to his feet, offering a hand down to pull Dean up. They quickly get to work and in no time, the tent cover is pulled over the top and the tent staked down securely.

“Cas, can you finish with the campfire? I’m gonna get the rest of our camping stuff.” Dean rushes to the car to grab their sleeping bags, cooler, and Coleman grill — no way was he going to attempt to cook an actual meal over a campfire — while Cas finishes placing the stones around the cleared area and setting some of the firewood he’d gathered inside; smaller sticks on the bottom and tenting some of the larger pieces over the top. By the time Dean has returned and placed their sleeping bags inside the tent, Cas already has a nice fire going. Dean smiles as he sees Cas perched on the smooth log he’d managed to find, placed in front of the fire for them to sit on, and digs into the bag next to the cooler for the surprise he brought.

He joins Cas at the fire with his treasures in hand — two long metal sticks with handles, a bag of jumbo marshmallows, a box of graham crackers, and several fun-sized Hersey chocolates. “Ever had s’mores, Cas?” he asks, setting the items down by the log before taking a seat next to him.

Cas leans over and glances at the items by Dean’s feet with that adorable head-tilt Dean loves. “I don’t believe I have.”

Dean smiles and leans over to kiss him quickly. “Well, then, you’re in for a treat.” He tears open the bag of marshmallows and plucks one out, spearing it on the stick and holding it over the fire. “The trick is to get it close enough to the fire for it to melt and char a little. Don’t let it stay still or it’ll burn and that’s no good.” He demonstrates, twirling the marshmallow over the fire until it’s golden brown.

“Now, grab one of the graham crackers, snap it in half, and unwrap the chocolate.” Cas follows his instructions as Dean pulls the marshmallow from the fire. “Okay, place the chocolate on one half of the graham cracker…” Cas does and Dean maneuvers the marshmallow over the chocolate and cracker, “... now pinch it with the other half of the graham cracker.” With his free hand, Dean reaches over to cover Cas’ hand with his own to show him how to squish the marshmallow between the graham crackers and chocolate and pulls the stick free.

Cas looks at the s’more in his hand, turning it this way and that as chocolate melted by the hot marshmallow begins to drip. “Quick! Eat it!” Dean nudges his hand toward his mouth and Cas takes a big bite, the gooey marshmallow and melted chocolate squirting out from the other side and onto his hand.

Cas finishes the bite, but then frowns. “It’s very good,” he comments, the frown intensifying as the chocolate and marshmallow start to slide down his arm, “but it’s also very messy.”

Dean is not about to miss this opportunity, grabbing Cas’ arm and running his tongue up it, lapping up the melted marshmallow and chocolate, his eyes never leaving Cas’ face and feeling the flush crawl up his neck at the heat reflected there — and not just from the proximity of the fire. Taking the remaining portion of the s’more into his mouth, he sucks the remaining marshmallow and chocolate from Cas’ fingers, running his tongue in and around them and taking immense pleasure in the way Cas’ breath hitches.

No sooner has he finished swallowing the bite than Cas has him on his back in front of the log, mouth on his and licking the sweetness from it; his body warm and firm against his, and Dean can’t stifle the moan that follows.

Cas finally pulls back, his cheeks flushed and breath harsh. “I would like another, please.”

Awhile later, sated on s’mores and kisses, Dean leans against the log between Cas’ knees, head resting on a thick thigh as Cas runs a (thankfully clean due to the wet wipes Dean had the foresight to pack) hand through his hair. His eyes are getting heavy and the last thing he wants to do right now is move.

Cas has other ideas.

“Dean, I need to get up.” Dean groans and grips his thigh in protest, but Cas is insistent. “I won’t be long, I promise.” With an exaggerated sigh, Dean releases his grip on Cas’ thigh and lifts his head, and Cas rises from the log and disappears into the darkness behind them. He hears the trunk of the Impala open, a rustling of fabric, and the trunk shutting again; then Cas is back. Dean watches as he lays a blanket on the ground on the other side of the fire opposite the log. Sitting on the blanket with his legs spread, he pats the area in between.

Dean gets the message. He crawls around the fire to where Cas sits and nestles himself in the proffered area on the blanket, his back to Cas’ broad chest, and leans back, closing his eyes. From behind them, he feels Cas’ arms reach behind on either side, pulling something up over his shoulders.

“The thing I miss the most since losing my Grace,” he says quietly, haltingly, “is holding you with my wings.” He sighs, and Dean hears more rustling, this time sounding like… feathers? The rustling pulls around them, followed by encompassing warmth; and Dean opens his eyes gasping at the sight of black feathers wrapped around him, brilliant blues and greens and scattered flecks of gold shining in the firelight.

“Even though they were not corporeal, and not technically consisting of cormorant feathers, I knew you could still feel them — and this was the best representation I could find,” he said as he spreads the blanket of feathers fully around them, pulling Dean close and laying his cheek against the crown of his head.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat as he’s suffused in the warmth of the feathers and Cas’ body. His hands grasp Cas’ wrists and pulls him tighter.

“This is amazing,” he says, his voice barely audible above the crackling of the fire. “I love you so much, Cas.”

He feels Cas’ smile against the top of his head, then lips pressed against his temple. “And I, you, Dean.”

[corruptedinnocentblood]

(ask game A) all for heir, hathor, eos, nerezza, sea bun, juliet and glitch

huh

heir

1: List five basic facts about your OC. used to have a relatively normal life, nice family, always had long hair, used to be close to her friends, knows plant language

2: Post a line of dialogue from your OC.“No….no,no,no… What did you do to them..”

3: Post a snippet from your writing that describes your OC.non existent d:

4: Post a snippet from your writing in which another OC describes your OC.also non existent

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.pale, looks tired and exhausted, slightly glowing swirls in hair and pupils, long brown hair, not very tall, somewhat slim

6: Describe your OC’s love life.never had the chance to have one, doesn’t fall in love so easily

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.simple and comfortable

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.blames herself for the death of others if she wasn’t able to prevent it

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?watching as her friends get killed by the town, unable to help

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?flowers, a black scarf, a blue marble, a black and white photograph of a town, a picture of her friends and herself

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?nothing, used to like blue marbles

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?a self made scarf perhaps

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.stuck as heir inside of the town, creating her surroundings as she wants them to look like, kind of dying a little bit daily since the town feeds on her life energy/health

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?used to hide a blue marble in friends pockets and whatnot as goodluck charm when they needed it

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?prevents herself and her friends from ever going to the town in order to save their lifes and keep her own normal life

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?go back in time for above reasons

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?try to hide with friends and plan on what to do nextif already heir, nothing, she won’t be in danger

18: What is your OC’s dream job?has none anymore

19: Your OC’s life is a musical. What’s the title of their big show-stopping song?idk tbh

20: Post a picture or gif that describes your OC.

hathor

1: List five basic facts about your OC.loves pastel, very happy and positive, never seems to be out of energy, very social, based on Hathor Egyptian Goddess of Joy and Fertility : “She was known as “the mistress of life” and was seen as the embodiment of joy, love, romance, dance, music and alcohol. She was sort of the Goddess of A Good Time. “

2: Post a line of dialogue from your OC.“I love the nightsky. I love to be alive. I love that you are alive with me. We can count the stars together.”

3: Post a snippet from your writing that describes your OC.non existent d:

4: Post a snippet from your writing in which another OC describes your OC.srsly im gonna have to skip all of these

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.pink-brown short-ish hair, soft skin, green eyes, usually in pastel clothes, 1 pair of wings , some golden accessories and a golden-ish halo in a shape i cant describe well (orb and halfmoon perhaps)

6: Describe your OC’s love life.intense, joyfull, fulfilling, open

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.pastel, soft, comfortable

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.tends to not be very strict even if necessary

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?eos

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?a pastel piece of cloth, a white feather, a pill (..yes..), a candle, a pillow

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?a fun time, people to be happy

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?something she knows will make them smile

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.doesn’t stay in one place very long, usually travels and meets people, has fun and lots of sleepovers

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?she remembers what she is and who she was before Eos

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?she goes back when nephtys, eos and her were younger and tries to find out if she can prevent what happened

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?fix reality in a way everyone can be happy

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?try to find a cure and help people stay positive

18: What is your OC’s dream job?none, she doesn’t like work that much

19: Your OC’s life is a musical. What’s the title of their big show-stopping song?the big party???

20: Post a picture or gif that describes your OC.j..just go in her tag for these

Eos

1: List five basic facts about your OC.probably no moral sense, manipulative, powerful, big influence,changed everything

2: Post a line of dialogue from your OC.“Aren’t you glad to meet me? I think you should. I would be glad to meet me if i was you. “

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.wings that remind you of flowers and flower petals, tan skin, a lot of flowers decorating her hair , warm colors, featherears, somewhat tall, hair usually in a braid to the side, halo in triangle forms and 3 circles and one half moon

6: Describe your OC’s love life.non existent. left behind

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.doesn’t care so much but usually somewhat elegant or ancient goddess alike looking

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.everything she does is bad but not a habit so?

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?she doesn’t dream

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?yellow flowers, flower petals in the color of her wings, a golden wristband, magic similar to hers/her magic contained in a small bottle perhaps, blood

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?i don’t think they celebrate

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?..they dont

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.noone knows, lets just say she has it comfortable and a lot of information about a lot of things

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?Cecyle

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?they have nothing they want to fix or further adjust

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?they have all they want concerning that

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?she’s fine

18: What is your OC’s dream job?hmmm she has it if it could be considered a job

nerezza

1: List five basic facts about your OC.skilled fighter with all sorts of weapons, hates guns, can see ghosts and the alike, grim reaper, no memory of Eos

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.long hair (brown or black depending on certain circumstances, usually brown though), red eyes, a little pale, ca. 165 cm tall, 1 pair of black wings, black halo

6: Describe your OC’s love life.huhgay probably for the most part

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.comfortable, useful

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.carries a knife pretty much everywhere

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?something happening to her family

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?a knife, a black feather, blood, something soft, a plushie

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?a plushie and chocolate cake

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?whatever they cannot afford buying but really want

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.no money issues, somewhat careless, soft big beds are best, kind of tends to leave after staying somewhere a while

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?Error

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?wow uh..idk tbh depends on the AU

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?healing because its convenient considering everything

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?she gets by fine

18: What is your OC’s dream job?artist perhaps, she doesn’t have the need for a job (or the mental commitment)

sea bun

1: List five basic facts about your OC.very kind, very afraid, eats toxic food because it makes him toxic, has a crush easily if you are his type, don’t fucking bite

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.soft, small, sea bun “ears” (feelers), sea bun-ish hair (white with black lil thingies)

6: Describe your OC’s love life.oh boy

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.comfortable and soft! sweaters are big love

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.feels guilty very easily and blames himself easily

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?depends on au, usually something dangerous trying to kill or eat him

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?picture of a sea bunny, sweather, self made clothes of some sort, a bit of ocean water, toxic sponge

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?cake and affection from someone he likes

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?self made clothes most likely

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.uh

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?kisses on the neck are his big weakness

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?depends on au

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?feeling no pain whenever they want!

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?..d..dead..maybe, would feel very bad abt everything going on

18: What is your OC’s dream job?something safe where he possibly could help others

juliet

1: List five basic facts about your OC.scientist of sorts, “black smith” (fire element based, can create all sorts of things /mostly weapons/ in seconds ) , creates humanoids that seem to be their own beings (”the creator”), workaholic of sorts, moral isn’t ..really..a thing..a little bit maybe

2: Post a line of dialogue from your OC.“Tb. No.”

5: Describe your OC’s physical appearance.shoulder length hair with one small braid, orange-ish, warm colors, gold-ish pair of wings, golden eyes, warm, looks kind of tired at times

6: Describe your OC’s love life.song

7: Describe your OC’s fashion sense.doesn’t really care, just, pants, pants are more convenient

8: Describe one of your OC’s bad habits.overworking herself, letting curiousety get the best of her

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?phee

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?fire, high quality weapon, golden feather, machinery of some sort, a book

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?doesn’t really care, maybe a potato snack

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?depends who it is

13: Describe your OC’s living situation.possibly under eos, experiments a lot, still creates humanoids , usually lives in very cold areas with lots of snow

14: What is one of your OC’s secrets?the factory

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?they stop phee in time and prevent her from creating “that”

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?going back in time ^

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?might have caused it, is probably fine, see’s what data she gets out if it while she still cares

18: What is your OC’s dream job?whatever she is currently doing

glitch

1: List five basic facts about your OC.used to be a human, kind of misses their parents and old life, barely ever takes a physical form anymore, still visits arcades at times, very good with everything technological

5: Describe your OC's physical appearance.pink almost shoulder length hair, a little glitchy at times,a little bit pale, green eyes with red in the middle, flowers in their hair sometimes

6: Describe your OC's love life.nope

7: Describe your OC's fashion sense.1980-1990 clothes sometimes

8: Describe one of your OC's bad habits.hacking things just to see if they can

9: Your OC is having a nightmare. What is it?that one arcade machine, loosing their humanity

10: You are conducting a ritual. What 5 items would you need to summon your OC?an arcade machine, clothes from 1980s/1990s , a gameboy, a computer, toolbox

11: What does your OC want for their birthday?used to want games

12: What does your OC give another OC for their birthday?g..games? maybe?

13: Describe your OC's living situation.inside some machine most likely, collecting data

14: What is one of your OC's secrets?their human name perhaps

15: Your OC is given the chance to go back in time. Where do they go and what do they do?they try to escabe eos

16: If your OC could have any superpower, which would it be and why?erasing knowledge of your existence from someones mind

17: How does your OC do during the zombie apocalypse?in their current state won’t be in trouble

18: What is your OC's dream job?used to want to work at their parents arcade

[tjroewrites]

The Spider’s Web

Pairings: filmnoir!Castiel x Reader

A/N: This oneshot actually fills two prompts. One for @sparklingcas‘s “Pick-Up Line Challenge” and another to fill a square for @spnangstbingo. The square I filled for this one was ‘Black Widow,’ and the pick-up line was ‘Do you know it’s unlucky to be so good looking and not have anyone to kiss at midnight?’ I didn’t want to write about spiders. Bo-ring. So, naturally, I came up with a film noir alternate universe. That’s a normal reaction, right? 

Warnings: Angst. Blood. Death. Angst. Non-explicit sex. It ain’t happy hour over here. Did I already say angst? 

Summary: Detective Cas Novak knows he’s one the best. He’s quick. Clever. Good with his words and plays well with guns. But when upper-class suits start dropping in Chicago beneath the barrel of a mysterious hired gun, Cas finds himself in something bigger than drug dealers and bank robbers. Are his wits and ego enough to bring down the killer? 

Word Count: 5k

           There were a few known facts about the Black Widow case. Worked for a price. Only moved at night.

            And there were ten bloody bodies on his hands.

            He had all of Chicago PD on their toes. The town on edge. Heads on the swivel. Mothers changing curfew from sundown to noon. Chicago was already something fierce. A bombshell blonde with looks to kill and the means to do it. But with Red Belly on the rise, no one was safe. They’d run the well dry. It was time to call in the cavalry.

            Cas Novak knew he was one of the best. When your stomping grounds was nothing but hop-heads and grifter’s prowling the Bronx district, you had to be. He could sniff a deal gone bad from a mile away. Dicks that didn’t have the touch had a bad habit of winding up face down in a ditch with lead poisoning. Lucky for him, he knew the tricks of the trade.

            The Chicago precinct was heavy. Dense, even. One step through the door and he had half a mind to check his coat pockets for dead weight. Desks were strewn around. Papers like carpet on the tile floor. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the place was ransacked. With the way one of the cops looked at him he might as well have been the robber.

            “Detective Novak?”

            “That’s what’s carved in my tin.”

            “Boss is waiting for you in his office.” He had more bags under his eyes than a housewife at the supermarket. His fingers drummed nonsense rhythms against his desk. “Office behind the wood door in the back. Can’t miss it.”

            “Much obliged.” Cas tipped his hat. He may as well have been see-through.

            Captain Smalls was anything but. Half the room was lit from the bulb reflecting from his head. Cas wasn’t even sure he’d heard him come in. A gasper dangled from his lips like he’d forgotten it was there.

            “You who they sent from the Bronx?” He didn’t even chance a glance in his direction. The file in front of him had earned every second of his time.

            “Cas Novak.” He set his briefcase in an empty chair and leaned over the back. “Glad to be of service.”

            “I’ll be more grateful when you pinch this bastard.” He handed him a file. It was meaty. “I’ve got a room full of chumps and a city scared shitless to leave their homes. No one’s getting home to their wives until I’ve got the up on this dropper.”

            “Good thing I live alone.”

            Smalls looked at him for the first time. Sized him up with a pair of eyes that were sunk to the back of his head. “They tell you anything over in New York?”

            “A bit. Ten guys layin’ stiff in Chicago overcoats and a couple of by-standers.”

            “You’ve heard it all.” He sighed. “That file there’s got the wire on the vics. Hardly a damn thing on the perp.”

            “The witnesses have anything to say?”

            “Same story, different street. Red gloves. Black duds. A one-slug-and-done kinda guy.”

            “Anything on the slugs?”

“10mm. Pistol’s a popular toy under these streetlights.”

            “Likes to play it quiet.” Cas flipped through the stills. All wide-eyed and pale white. Didn’t even know what was coming. Poor saps. “What’s the connection between them?”

            “All upper-stands type of fellas. Big pockets and plenty to show for it.” He took a long drag from his butt and let the smoke drift out nice and slow. “We gotta hit it hard if we wanna find him ‘fore his next drop. I’ve got you working with Hartley on this. He’s been handling intel on the Black Widow for months, now.”

            “I can handle my own.” Cas shut the file and grabbed his suitcase. “But I’ll play ball if you’re pitchin’.”

            “Your head dick mentioned you might say that.” Smalls snuffed out his butt in the ash tray. There was hardly any room left. “This ain’t another episode of Big Town, son. You’re hittin’ the major league over here. Trigger men don’t play a fool in these parts. You go in this alone, you’ll end up getting burned.”

            “I’ll remember that when I’m toastin’ mellows over this goon’s gourd.” He didn’t let the door hit him on the way out.

            Cas Novak was a lot of things. Hard-boiled. Persistent. More apt to reach for his holster before opening his mouth. But if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a rookie. He was a damn good detective. The best.

            And he’d do anything to prove it.

            Snow was a good look over the Chicago city scape. Really made her curves and edges stand out underneath the early-December moon. He was making his usual walk back to his motel from the precinct. Nobody around but him and his shadow. Not a single porch light flickered along the street. Every window sealed up tight with a set of shutters. He’d been here two god damn weeks with not a damn thing to show for it. Nothing but a full ash tray and a worn case file. The gloss finish on the stills had impressions from his thumbprint.

           Cas had to hand it to him: the Black Widow was one slick son of a bitch. Had no enemies ‘cause all of them were dead. Slipped through the cracks like a shot of scotch on the rocks. Smooth. Graceful. Made quick and clean work of his victims. Most grifter’s back in the Apple hid in plain sight. Ran gambling rings under the laundromat. More aliases than a theatre troop. But the Black Widow… he’d spun his web in the shadows. Strung it deep in hard to reach places. The only way to cuff this bastard was to find him, first.

           He walked past the same corner pub every night on his way back. The neon ‘open’ sign was like its own star on the Broadway city walk. If it didn’t have it, Cas would’ve assumed it to be shut up tight. He’d never seen a single drunk walk in or out of the front door. But that neon star wasn’t the only thing lighting up the sky tonight.

           She was all gentle curves and gams for days. That red dress of hers hugged all the right places, tight at the waist and pooled at her kitten heels. Ten pounds of sugar in a five-pound sack, all right. That ‘open’ sign was like a halo over her Y/H/C locks of love. Red stained lips wrapped around her cigarette like it was an old friend as she eyed him under her lashes.

           “You’re the first soul I’ve seen since the dinner bell.” The woman smiled behind a cloud of smoke. He slowed his roll but didn’t stop. “Must be something important to be braving these streets at this time of night.”

           “Just passing through.” He stepped under the overhang. “I’ve got a room over on Walton.”

           “Knickers?”

           “That’s the one.”

           She said nothing. Put every ounce of effort into another long, slow drag. She left a red stain on the butt when she pulled it away. “You ever been inside? A lot warmer than it is out here.”

           “Not much of the drinking type.”

           “Shame. My songs sound a bit smoother when it’s paired with a shot of bourbon.”

           “You the songbird around here?”

           “One of my many hobbies.”

           “I bet you’ve got all sorts of talents you ain’t sharin’.”

           He got a smile for that one. Her head tapped the glass behind her as a small chuckle shook her chest. “Well, Mr.- “

           “-Novak. Cas Novak.”

           “Mr. Novak.” She took one last puff before crushing the light under the toe of her shoe. “Ronnie’ll have my pretty little head if I’m late from break again.” She pushed off from the window and flipped that mane of hers over her shoulder. She paused a moment before heading inside. “You sure you can’t stop in for a few songs? A little birdy told me the next set won’t disappoint.”

           Cas chuckled. “Maybe tomorrow. Can’t remember the last time I slept a full four hours.”

           “Alright.” She gave him a good up-and-down before the door hinges started screaming. Her red skirt blew from the bar draft and let the ankle bit of her stocking peak out from underneath. Lord only knew where that deep seam along her calf lead to.

           “Wait, doll.” She stopped between the threshold. “I never caught your name.”

           Her smile was good enough to kill. “Y/N.” She slipped in a bit further. “See you tomorrow night, Mr. Novak.”

           And she did. He found his way back the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until he was following his own footprints left in the snow along that city sidewalk. Until that shade of crimson red was his favorite color. Y/N was anything but ordinary in that red gown.

           But Cas preferred it on his motel floor.

           “Novak.” His head snapped up from his desk, lost between the lines of an eye witness log. He spared a glance at the desk next to him. Hartley was snoring into his hand. Smalls waved him over with those sausages sewed to his wrist. A cigarette burned between two of them. The brute probably had Pall Mall’s brand pressed into the skin.

           “You found some kind of lead?” Cas asked the moment his door clicked shut. Smalls was wagging his finger like he was scolding his brat.

           “Even better.” He jabbed a sausage into a piece of paper on his desk. He let his gasper sit between his barely-there lips. “I know the Widow’s next move.”

           “How in God’s name you figure that? We don’t even know what tone of hair he’s got.”

           “Anonymous tip called in. Someone snitched.” Cas picked up the paper and made out the writing. ‘Masquerade Ball, Arlen Glass.’ “Black Widow’s plannin’ a drop at the New Year’s ball.”

           “Arlen Glass’ gig? The goose that plays high pillow of Glass Factories?”

           Smalls hummed a toneless note. His smug grin showed no bounds.

           “Guess he’s high-stakes enough.” In the last three years alone, Glass Factories had staked claims nationwide in nearly every worth-knowing city on the map. Mostly centered around kids toys. Train sets. Tea sets and the dolls to go with it. You name it, he’s made it. The chap probably had a home between every ocean but mostly operated out of Chicago. Money wasn’t an issue. And he wasn’t afraid to make it known. This New Year’s Masquerade ball was his latest attempt to spread his sugar. Only problem was, you needed a golden ticket to get in. And Cas didn’t have many friends around here. “Don’t suppose you’re up close and personal with Glass Factory himself.”

           “You let me handle that.” Smalls breathed in that smoke like it was a lifeline. “You and Hartley worry about gettin’ your suit’s tailored. Ball’s in three days and you’re both goin’ in.”

           Small’s request played through his head like a mantra the rest of the day. This was his big break. The case of all cases. Black Widow was the most notorious hired gun on this side of the states. He cuffed this guy, he could cuff any prick that looked twice in his direction. Smalls was right: this was the big leagues. And Cas was pining to be MVP.

           “Something’s got you bugged.” The hotel bedroom was thick with smoke from the stove and the bit of Y/N’s Lucky Strike between her fingers. She twirled those same fingers in meaningless patterns across his bare chest. “You’re different tonight.”

           “How do ya figure?” He stole her cigarette and took a drag.

           “Your body’s here with me but your brain’s halfway to Mars.”

           “Noodle’s probably pretty jealous right now.”

           She untucked her head from his shoulder and gave him that half-lidded stare. She could give a man a heart attack with those Y/E/C eyes. They held something fierce. Something bold. Like she could read the ribbons of his DNA with a mere flick of her gaze. “You gonna waltz around the issue all night or are you gonna cut to the two step?”

           “I’ve never been much of a dancer.”

           “Then open those talented lips of yours and start singing.”

           Cas sighed. He hadn’t told Y/N much about the case. She knew he was a cop, sure. He made damn certain she knew that. But he’d kept the details brief about the Black Widow case. Hardly scratched the surface. Cas had seen what happened to dames that knew too much about their copper’s line of work. They always drowned. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

           “Care to elaborate?”  

           She turned under his arm and propped herself up on an elbow, letting her head rest in her palm as she waited oh-so-patiently. Her eyes said something different.

“With this case…” He began.

           “The Black Widow.” She said. He reached for her cigarette again. “Go on.”

           “Smalls thinks he’s got something. Something big. Something that could land this goon behind bars and land me at the top.” The nicotine went smooth through his lungs. Like silk. “It just all seems too good to be true. Too many questions, not enough answers.”  

           “You think it’s a set-up?”

           “I don’t know what I think.” Cas stared out the open window. It’d been snowing all week, non-stop sleet tearing through the city, but tonight a few stars had started peeking through the thick blankets overhead. He hated winter. Made him feel slower than molasses when he was strolling on foot. He’d make it to California one day. “Don’t matter in the end. Whatever his angle I’m takin’ him down. Either him or me. And I’ll be damned if I don’t go down as one of the best.”

           “There you go saying that again. ‘One of the best.’” She got one more puff from that gasper before shoving it into the ash tray on the end table. “You’re always on about that. There a reason or you just the power-hungry type?”

           Cas was good. Hated by few. Loved by most. Feared by all. He fought tooth and nail and had a silver tongue when he needed it. Detective work was like riding a bike. It only gets easier every time you hop on that seat. But it hadn’t always been that way. No one’s born with God-given knowledge on how to work the pedals. He started out in the rookie league just like everyone else. Only for him, he got a bit more than a shot to the knee or a diamond-eye shiner from his first time in the field.

           They’d killed his girl.

           Abigail. Abigail Brooks. A gorgeous dame paired with hips as sweet as honey. Every head in the Bronx district turned when they heard those red heels clip against the sidewalk. Those same eyes would roll when they peaked at the arm pulling her close. Those three years had felt like ten thousand lifetimes. There were plenty of bombshells strutting along the curb but nothing came close to Abby. He was nothing but a rookie dick in the slums. She was a red-head beauty that made her own way. He never deserved her for a second. And when ol’ Red Summer’s had her offed over on Eighth Street he’d never felt more beat in his entire life. He hadn’t been in the force more than six months and Summers’ had everything yanked from under him. His love. His life. His pride.

           He’d never get caught slipping ever again.

           Cas could tell Y/N. Could tell her the real reason he pins to be the best fucking cop this entire world has ever seen. Lay it all out like cards on a table and show her a royal flush. Might make it all easier for her to understand instead of giving her the run-around. But he didn’t have a good hand tonight. Nothing worth showing to the dealer. “Wouldn’t call me a power-shark.”

           “Then what are you?”

           Her hair was like leaves in the fall. Scattered. No rhyme or reason. He tucked a few pieces behind her ear and smiled when she shivered. “Just a man.”

           When she rolled on top of him it felt like a dream. Like she wasn’t real. Perfectly sculpted, a blush dusting her cheeks like the snow outside. Picasso himself couldn’t come up with a more beautiful sight. She wasn’t doing anything but his body was reacting like a damn machine. “Just a man?” Music to his ears. Like an orchestra of winds and strings molding together in perfect harmony. She let her fingers dance down his chest until the conductor found her bouton. “You’re anything but.”

           She crashed over him like a gentle wave. With purpose. Rhythm. The passion of a thousand women but the touch of a silk ribbon. They came together like two broken pieces of glass. Sharp, jagged, a bit painful but somehow right. She was so warm in his arms. So soft. A beacon in this dark world he’d been living in. He’d been sitting on the edge for so long, but beside her there wasn’t anything to fear from it. When she pushed him from the cliff he fell with a cry but was enveloped by a force so much more than the abyss he’d stared at for so long. He didn’t see Abigail. The Black Widow. His old neighborhood. All of those faces he’d grown up with staring back at him with glazed eyes from a pool of red. There was only Y/N; her fingernails grazing his jaw and the ends of her hair tickling his chest. Words couldn’t do his feelings any sort of justice under those cheap motel sheets.

           So he rolled her under him instead.

           Glass’ digs were shut up tighter than Fort Knox.

           Big fists at every door. Packing heat under their overcoats. He’d seen some paranoid big-wigs in his day, but nothing quite like this. If Capone wasn’t serving time on the Rock he’d think the legend himself had stashed himself away inside.

           Cas’d had his doubts. Smalls didn’t seem like the type of man to have any kind of friends, women or men alike. Let alone a card shark like Glass. But that was part of the mystery of Captain Benny Smalls. The man could pull miracles out of a pile of ash. And boy, did those two masquerade invitations glitter like diamonds in the rough. ‘Remember what I says about goin’ alone,’ the egg had said. ‘Don’t make you any braver shootin’ a rifle one-handed.’  

           He’d always preferred a pistol, anyway.

           Nothing but rows of Lincoln’s and Plymouth armor’s blinked back at him when he hit the scene, his suit freshly pressed and his masquerade mask sitting pretty over his nose. Central Park served as his front yard while the mansion yelled a combination of a hundred loud, rich voices. Women dripping with diamonds and gold hung on their wallet’s arms, giggling into their snow white gloves between sips of champagne. It was the kind of party you’d hear about on the Sunday evening radio program; some well-off Wall Street type with the reputation to match. Cas stood on the brick walk leading to the entry and thought about how perfect Y/N would fit in with this crowd. One glimpse of that red gown under these lights and the entire room would hit their knees. But he wouldn’t drag another dame back into the fire. He couldn’t. He’d call her tomorrow, he’d said. Her face had screwed up a bit at first but eventually fell into that sultry smirk that always made him dizzy. She had a few things to take care of, anyway. Yeah, he’d call her tomorrow.

           Every head-honcho on this side of the states was packed in the main ballroom. Diamond heels clicked against the marble floor. Husbands sported a Cuban cigar between rows of gold rings. A sea of black dresses and dark suits. Cas reached up to straighten his own black tie and adjust his jacket. Red gloves should be easy enough to spot at a black and white ball.

           He made his way around the room three times before giving up on the main crowd. Glass wasn’t anywhere to be found. He’d bet his money he was stashing himself on the second floor. Guess Glass thought the Black Widow might have the same idea.

           “You lost?” Two peaks of the Himalayas stepped in front of him, completely blocking the spiral staircase from view. “Party’s down here.”

           “Oh, c’mon fellas, guy’s gotta take a leak.”

           “Bathroom’s on the other end of the ballroom. Can’t miss it.”

           “Some drunk’s locked himself in there for the past twenty minutes. And that champagne you got flowin’ is snakin’ right through me.” He thanked whatever God was up above they couldn’t see through his jacket. A thin line of sweat was finding its way on his skin. It was the middle of July in the Sahara Desert under his mask.

           The mountains looked at each other. A silent language among hired hands. The first one sighed. “You got five minutes.” He nodded at Mount Everest and he started making his way through the crowd. Probably to check on the make-believe drunk in the other bathroom. He would be in a world full of hurt if that brute came back empty handed. He’d have to work fast.

           “Woah, slow your roll there.” A bundle of calluses planted firm against his chest when he tried to pass. “Can’t take any chances these days.”

           Being pat down by a woman in the bedroom was one thing. Getting one from a bodyguard at a big-wigs ball party was something different entirely. It was like getting punched by a boxer on every square inch of your person. At the top of the stairs Cas did a quick once-over on the hall and reached under the waistband of his trousers. His pistol glistened under the chandelier above the stairs.

           “Sorry, Maria,” he tucked it away in his suit jacket pocket. “Only spot those thugs won’t go.”

           He moved quick. Checked every room on the second floor. Not a soul in sight. He had been keeping a mental check of how long he’d been up there but it was starting to get fuzzy. Two minutes? Three minutes? Four? Whatever the case, he had no time. He was a fish out of water. Gasping for air. The clock was ticking and Father Time wasn’t waiting for no one.

           They appeared like God himself had put them there. Two French doors, taking up the entire end of the hallway. The trim was caked with gold flakes, swirling in patterns fit for a King of Persia. One of them was open. His heart pounded just a bit harder under the buttons of his shirt.

           Jackpot.

           Maria trembled in his palm, her butt a bit slick in his grip. He flipped the safety as he nudged open the door, playing cat and mouse with the heel of his dress shoes. Everything in the room was white. White carpet. White bedding. White headboard. White walls. A bright white that made your eyes burn out when you looked a bit too long. For a foolish moment he was convinced he’d died and stepped into heaven. The sharp blow to the back of his head proved otherwise.

           That white room faded to black in a blink.

           When he came to he was sprawled out like a broken vase on the white carpet with his head pounding in all directions. Speckles of crimson blood were scattered around his head. His own blood. He touched the back of his head and hissed. Pretty nasty spot. Probably from the butt of a gun. A pistol, maybe. As if on cue, said pistol’s safety clicked somewhere behind him.

           “Guess I shouldn’t be expecting that call tomorrow, huh?”

           Every working muscle and fiber inside of Cas shut down at the same time. Like a factory’s inner workings when the generator blows. Like a Chevy when the battery’s cut. He didn’t want to see it with his own two eyes. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was coincidence. He was drugged on the ballroom floor and was having some kind of induced nightmare. But there was nothing coincidental about those thick hips and the red gloves pulled over her fingers.

           Y/N.

           “Should’ve left it alone, Mr. Novak.” Gone was that red dress that caught his eye so many weeks ago. Deep black fabric stretched tight around her curves, following every line of those elegant pins that felt sinful under his hands. Her painted lips pulled into her killer smirk. “Now look where it’s got ya.”

           Sense had drained from his head a long time ago. A thousand questions ran through his mind. Why did she do it? Had this been the plan all along? Was he always the chump? “Where’s Glass?” He asked instead.

           “He’s taking a little nap in the bathroom before his big entrance.” Her gaze roamed toward the open threshold on the other side of the room to make her point. The bathroom mirror was split down the middle but still did its job. Could barely see half of the bathtub through the pieces. But the red stains on the porcelain white was plain as day. “I’m sure no one will mind.”

           “The guards at the stairs. How did you- “

           “How did I slip on through?” She chuckled. A dark, deep sound. “Let’s just say those lumbering brutes have… invested interests.”

           “They work for you.”

           “Glass was a lot of things. Slimy. Worthless. A cheapskate.” Cas searched the floor for any sign of Maria. Not a trace. “But the one thing he wasn’t was paranoid. Thought the entire world was rooting for him. I’s just here to give him a teeny tiny wakeup call.”

           “And, what, they watch your back while you take ‘em out?”

           “My clients pay top dollar for excellent work. They’re there to make sure I get off without a hitch.”

           “Guess they didn’t count on me showing up.”

           Y/N smiled. Not like she did behind a Lucky Strike wrapped in downy sheets. No, not like that. This was something evil. The type of grin grifter’s would flash when they managed to fix another angle. The same one he’d wiped clean off of Summers’ fat face when he’d put him down for good. “Actually, Mr. Novak, we’ve been expecting you.”

           His lips moved but nothing came out. No words. No sounds. This whole scene was one big joke and he’d missed the punch line. Hell, he was the tail-end of it all. Her teeth matched the white doors behind her.

           “You see; Mr. Glass was the original job. A past employee was a bit miffed that his former employer had screwed his pooch. So, a couple flour sacks of Franklins and a few meet-ups later, and the deal was arranged. But you-” She bent down until she was nearly eye level with him. He didn’t know whether to look at that matte black suppressor or her pitch black stare. “You were the grand prize.”

           Cas took a shaky breath. He tried to sit up but his head had other ideas. He fell back onto his elbows. “Why me?”

           “You killed my husband.” She spat the venom at him. A snake confronting its prey. “I had a good life ‘fore you came along. You took him from me. It’s time to settle the score.”

           “Your husband?” Cas had only killed a few men in his time on the force. A deranged snow bunny during a deal gone bad. An escapee from the big house that had been using some poor broad as a human shield. Then, of course, there was the icing on the cake…

           Cas might has well have been shot in the chest. “Summers.” He whispered. He’d been sleeping with the devil’s dame this whole time. He thought he’d been getting dizzy from her sweet lips when all he was getting was a buzz from the bullshit. She’d been playing him like a finely-tuned fiddle.

           Y/N rose from the floor and lifted up her skirt. A holster sat firm around her thigh with the pocket facing in. Maria was nice and snug where he had been only a day before. “Times are tough, Mr. Novak.” The skirt fell like rain during a hurricane. “The world’s a cruel place. If you’re caught slipping, there’s nowhere left to go but six feet under.”

           Smalls’ warning was like a broken record in his throbbing head. ‘You go in this alone, you’ll end up getting burned.’ He might have been able to walk out of there if he’d listened. Let Hartley take that second invite and bring up the rear. But he’d let that bridge burn hours ago. The Black Widow had spun a web and he’d flown right into it. He was nothing but dinner. “Do you know it’s unlucky to be so good lookin’ and not have anyone to kiss at midnight?”

“I’ve never been superstitious.” She checked the clip and pulled the safety.

“So, this isn’t the part where I slip the glass slipper on and a carriage whisks us away?”

           “Not quite.” He looked deep into the middle of that suppressor when she pointed it between his eyes. “This ain’t a fairytale and I’m no Cinderella. This story only has one ending.” Somewhere behind him, a grandfather clock chimed midnight. He’d always known that smirk of hers could kill. Just not like this.

           There were a few known facts about the Black Widow case. Worked for a price. Only moved at night.

           And there were twelve bloody bodies on her hands.

Castiel tags: 

@kristendanwayne @pixiedusts 

[lady-divine-writes]

Klaine fic - “All the Beautiful Pieces” (Rated NC17)

Blaine Anderson is spending the summer after graduation flipping houses with his brother for Cooper’s total home renovation show. The show features the worst houses Cooper can buy, with Blaine playing the role of lackey so that Cooper can torture him in front of his viewers. The last house Blaine has to renovate is an original Victorian House in San Diego, CA, which is in terrible condition. But this house turns out to be more than just another job. It was once owned by a famous Vaudeville ventriloquist by the name of Andrew Smythe. It houses a very interesting collection of items - among them, two life-sized puppets. Blaine isn’t sure exactly why, but he’s drawn to them - especially to the one with the beautiful blue eyes. He convinces Cooper to give him the puppets, and Blaine starts to restore them. In the course of the restoration, Blaine finds out that neither puppet is simply a run-of-the-mill puppet, and Andrew Smythe was hiding a secret that will be the key to saving two lives.

Chapter 2 (5904 words)

Cooper’s frantic screaming in Blaine’s ear scares the dickens out of him more than anything else. Cooper has a surprisingly shrill voice for a grown man. It falls somewhere between the sharp cry of a toddler who has skinned his knee and the wail of a damsel from a black-and-white monster movie. Blaine scrabbles to grab the Bluetooth, yanking the device out of his ear in an attempt to salvage what little hearing he has left.

Yes, the head lying on the floor, staring blankly up at him with one pale blue eye might look like a real human head, but Blaine knows right away that it isn’t from the way the light reflects off of its surface, and from the missing eye socket, the area surrounding it shattered in an unnatural star pattern. No, the head isn’t human. It’s porcelain - bisque masterfully tinted to look like human skin. It absorbs the ambient light around it and glows with an ethereal quality, giving off a halo of pinkish-white.

Blaine waits for the ringing in his ears to die down before he puts the Bluetooth back in his ear, catching Cooper mid-ramble.

“…and did you see, I mean, oh my God! That’s…just…creepy as hell!” Cooper’s excitement when he makes that statement startles Blaine. It shouldn’t, seeing as Cooper has crossed the line into the macabre more than once on this walkthrough alone, not to mention other times in other houses when Cooper had said that he hoped Blaine would uncover something gruesome beneath the piles of trash, like mummified cats or cockroach swarms.

As a joke, Cooper had emphasized. But still…

Luckily, Blaine had yet to stumble on either one of those.

Would Cooper honestly have been thrilled if Blaine had found an actual dead human body? Sometimes Blaine wonders exactly how far Cooper is willing to go for the sake of ratings.

At this precarious moment, Blaine feels it’s safer not to ask.

Blaine raises the webcam up along the shaft of light and sees scattered remains, each appearing remarkably human at first blush, but upon closer inspection, just as manufactured as the first.

“Let’s see more of the room, Blaine,” Cooper commands. “Get it all. Pan around.”

Blaine feels around the walls inside the doorway, trying to find a light switch, but there doesn’t seem to be one. He opens the door behind him wider to let more light from the workshop fill the room. With more than a single shaft of light to work with, he can see from wall to wall of this small room with ease. There are more body parts on the floor, including a second human-sized head, this one with piercing green eyes instead of blue. Blaine takes a step through the door, focusing his webcam on the pieces individually, and notices that all of these parts are exclusively life-size. The body parts are jointed, meticulously painted, made to look real and human, but they’re puppets – life-size puppets.

Human-looking puppets.

Blaine steps carefully over the broken limbs and shattered bits of porcelain to give Cooper and his viewers the full effect of this bizarre spectacle. Then he peels his eyes away from the floor to scan the rest of the space. On opposite sides of the room, there are beds, no more than army-issue metal cots by the looks of them, one on each end, pushed up against the wall.

Blaine approaches the bed to the left. It’s made up to be slept in, covered in stiff white sheets and a thin, olive-colored wool blanket, with a pillow at the head. Blaine glances over to the matching bed across the way and sees that it, too, is made. On both beds, the covers are thrown back and the mattress indented, indicating that they must have been slept in at one point.

Blaine turns back to the bed he’s standing beside, keeping the webcam trained on it as he examines the damp, grey stone wall. He sees marks cut diagonally into the stone, filled with shimmery pink porcelain dust.

Marks that look suspiciously like fingernail scratches.

Blaine’s entire body fills with a sudden chill. It starts where his hair stands on end and washes down to his feet. He swallows hard when it begins to fill his throat, knotting into a hard lump, choking him.

This room isn’t a closet or an extension of the workshop.

This is a cell.

Blaine doesn’t want to be an alarmist. He usually saves the drama for Cooper, and if it hadn’t been for the genuine note of nervousness in Cooper’s voice when he warned Blaine about the room not showing up on the blueprints, Blaine might consider this all an elaborate set-up. It wouldn’t be beyond Cooper’s scope to contrive some kind of haunted house inspired mayhem to freak Blaine out on-air, but Cooper Anderson isn’t that good an actor.

Blaine considers the bigger picture.

If this was a cell, who was kept in here with these puppet parts scattered all over the floor and why? Was this some kind of weird sweatshop, with the original owner of the house keeping a couple of poor slaves locked down here to create puppets in order to feed his demented doll fetish?

Besides the beds and the broken puppets, there’s not all that much to look at in this room, and Blaine can’t help but feel sorry for whoever might have been locked in here. Of course, he could be jumping to conclusions, letting the ghastly atmosphere of this house get on his nerves. Whoever owned this house was obviously a toy fanatic, who happened to have a healthy (for lack of a better term) puppet obsession. From the look of the workshop – the order, the organization, the wealth of materials, the half-finished projects – this space is the heart of the house. The owner most likely spent the majority of their time here. Maybe this room was a bedroom built to be as close to the workshop as possible. If the bedrooms upstairs look anything like the living room, the hallway, and the dining room, maybe this was the only place available to sleep.

Blaine sure hopes that’s the case.

He pans the camera one last time so that Cooper can get the footage he needs, but without realizing it, his eyes keep returning to the puppet head on the floor – the one with the sorrowful blue eyes. He shifts his gaze over to the green-eyed puppet, but he doesn’t stare at it as long as he stares at the first. There’s something in those eyes, which change subtly from blue to grey in the artificial light, that haunts him, and he can’t shake the feeling, even though reason and logic argue to the contrary, that this beautifully morose puppet is begging for his help.

Cooper’s voice pops back through the Bluetooth. “It’s like…night of the living dead…creepy…creepy ass dolls…”

Blaine rolls his eyes at his brother’s unoriginality.

My brother, the actor, ladies and gentlemen.

Of course, Cooper was always better at reciting other people’s lines, not so much with the coming up of his own.

“Well, let’s get out of the Valley of the Dolls and head upstairs to the bedrooms. What do you say, Blainey-wainey?”

Blaine nods, even though Cooper can’t see him. But Blaine is convinced that the puppet did; that the blue-eyed puppet with the glass eyes is watching Blaine pick his way through the debris to get to the door.

The puppet is watching him leave…and Blaine can’t do it.

He doesn’t understand why, but he can’t leave it. He can’t condemn it to a sentence of loneliness in the dark, or to the trash heap when the cleaning crew comes to the house tomorrow.

“Come on, little bro. This is giving me the super heebie-jeebies!”

“I want them, Coop,” Blaine says without really thinking about the consequences, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that tons of Internet viewers heard him. It doesn’t matter that Cooper will use this to his advantage. Blaine has a pressing need to rescue this puppet from this horrible house, and not abandon it the way it had been before.

“What?” Cooper asks, the delight in his voice evident.

“You heard me, Cooper,” Blaine says. “I want these puppets.”

“Turn the webcam around so we can see you,” Cooper sings. Blaine drops on to the bed - the springs creaking with his added weight.

Here we go.

Blaine turns the webcam on himself and adopts his most frustrated, put-off face, complete with pouty mouth.

This is another part of the game. If he plays it Cooper’s way, he gets what he wants, and Blaine wants those puppets.

“But, Blaine,” Cooper says in a condescending voice, “these disturbing puppet-things could be worth a lot of money, like the ones upstairs. We can fix them up and voila!”

“I don’t think they are,” Blaine negotiates, hoping that instead of doing something to make Blaine look like an ass that maybe, for once, Cooper will simply listen to reason. “I think these puppets were made more recently than those other puppets. And look here…” Blaine gets up off the bed and walks over to the green-eyed puppet, focusing the webcam on its smug face. “Look at the varnish work on this puppet head. It’s mismatched. I’m not sure that can be fixed. No collector in their right mind would buy it. There doesn’t look like there are enough salvageable pieces in here to make one complete puppet, not to mention two. So, my taking these off your hands won’t eat into your profits at all.”

He turns the webcam back on his face and waits for Cooper’s response.

A long silence meets his well thought-out argument, then the recorded sound of crickets chirping, and Blaine sighs.

He knows it didn’t fly.

“What do you want, Coop?” Blaine asks, running a hand through his sweaty curls.

“You know what I want, Blaine,” Cooper replies, and Blaine sighs again. “You know how this works. Make me a deal.”

This is part of a newer segment in Cooper’s show called Blaine Makes a Deal. In his mind, Blaine can see the graphic that Cooper already has cued up flashing across his face on Cooper’s screen.

Cooper devised this new form of torture a few weeks ago when Blaine had asked to buy a vintage upright piano from one of the other San Diego project houses. Blaine comes up with a compelling argument for what he wants. Cooper retaliates with a reason for why he needs to sell said item (to recoup costs because they are way over budget, because it’s worth more to the renovation than to Blaine, because Cooper is considering keeping it for himself, yadda-yadda-yadda). After some bickering and banter back and forth, Blaine gets his keepsake, but in return Blaine does something for Cooper – something embarrassing.

In the case of the piano, Blaine had to complete the rest of the renovation for the house wearing a chicken costume, which sucked because San Diego had been experiencing an unseasonal heat wave his first week there. But the torment was fortunately short lived and now Blaine has a piano.

After that episode, Cooper begged Blaine to find something in the next house that he wanted. Anything. It didn’t matter if he really wanted it or not. Apparently viewer response to the segment was so overwhelming that Cooper was desperate to repeat that accidental success.

At the next house, Blaine obliged, asking for a Wedgewood Jasperware music box. He had spotted it amidst a mass of cheesy faux Hummel statuettes and broken Happy Meal toys.

The music box, with its delicate pink coloring and the stark white figure of a woman carved on the lid, reminded him of his mother. She had collected music boxes as a young girl, but between going away to college, changing states, and then getting married, they had all been lost or broken.

Blaine thought that he could give this one to her if she ever spoke to him again.

He paid for it by having to dress as Shirley Temple, complete with a rainbow swirl-lollipop prop, red patent leather Mary Janes, and a curly blonde wig.

“Fine, Cooper,” Blaine says, “but here’s the deal - I want all of the pieces in this room, and anything I think I might need to repair them.”

“That’s a hefty haul,” Cooper says. “I’m not sure I can come up with a costume ridiculous enough to cover all that…unless you’re willing to do the rest of the remodel in only a diaper…”

“Nope,” Blaine says, “I have something better. Something you’d be stupid to refuse.”

“Oooo,” Cooper coos. “Better than my little brother running around in a diaper with a pacifier in his mouth?”

Blaine pauses and makes a face. “Oh my God, Cooper.” Blaine pulls back, shaking his head. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

Cooper clears his throat. “You…uh…you said you had something better…”

Blaine keeps an eyebrow raised in disbelief as he continues.

“In return, I…” Blaine’s eyes drift back to the puppet’s face, which he thinks, insanely enough, has started to look hopeful. Can that really be it, or is something in the air he’s breathing getting to him? “I’ll give you my salary from the renovation, plus my commission.”

Another silence.

“Wh-what?” Cooper sounds stunned, and this time he isn’t joking.

“That’s right,” Blaine says, feeling the tables turn in his favor. “Everything that I was set to make on this renovation.”

Blaine can hear Cooper breathe but nothing else – no clicking of the computer keys, no scribbling notes, no recorded sound effects.

Cooper is rarely ever speechless, and Blaine wishes he could be there in L.A. with him to see the look on his brother’s face.

Blaine realizes that what he’s doing is ludicrous. There is no way these broken puppets are worth what his brother is paying him. And what about NYADA? Why is he willing to put his future in jeopardy for this? Blaine can’t answer that. If he were to voice all of that out loud, he might actually see how asinine his decision is.

But where intelligent arguments in every form should prevail, they are snuffed out by the feeling that this is what’s right.

“Blaine,” Cooper says, sounding more like his older brother than the conceited actor Blaine is used to dealing with, “I can’t…”

“Cooper,” Blaine interrupts, worried that Cooper is about to mature without warning and put a kibosh on the whole deal, “I want them. This is important to me.”

Cooper sighs. It’s heavy and unamused, but Cooper recovers quickly the way he usually does, and the mega ego he’s so famous for returns.

“Well, congratulations, Blaine!” Cooper says in his best game show announcer voice, which sounds a tad forced. “You have just bought yourself a bunch of broken doll parts and a stigma that will follow you around for the rest of your life!”

“Thank you, Coop.” Blaine flips the webcam back around. “As always, you are far too generous.”

“You’re welcome. Now that that’s settled, would you mind doing your benevolent brother one teensy little favor?”

“Name it,” Blaine says, too overjoyed to be worried about what Cooper might have in mind.

“Can you get the fuckity-fuck-fuck out of that basement?”

Blaine laughs. It ricochets off the walls with a hollow echo. “Sure.”

Blaine is relieved that Cooper agreed to let him have the puppet pieces. Though what would Cooper have actually been able to do to stop him, with him in Los Angeles and Blaine in San Diego? He might drive down, but knowing Cooper that was highly unlikely. Now that the puppets are his, Blaine feels reluctant to leave them. He wants to take them back to the beach house and work on them right away, but he still has the rest of this house to deal with.

He hopes there’s nothing upstairs that wants him to take it home. He doesn’t have much more to bargain with, and Cooper isn’t going to let him get away with not being embarrassed twice.

The next time, Blaine will be wearing a diaper.

Blaine doesn’t feel quite as guilty when he leaves the basement room this time, looking over his shoulder once to lock eyes with the blue-eyed puppet, silently reassuring it that he’ll be back.

It’s much easier to negotiate the house now that the electricity is switched on. Bulbs have sprung on everywhere, and whatever specters had been hiding in the shadows are banished by the light. Blaine comes out of the basement staircase and through the door to the dining room. He peeks down the hallway into the living room and sees the menacing shapes and silhouettes for what they are – toys and puppets and stuffed animals and junk.

With the flip of one switch, Blaine has brought the house to life and exorcised the demons.

“Okay,” he says, an added spring in his step as he heads to the upper level of the house, “I am going up the staircase. I believe you said the bedrooms are up here?” Blaine slips back into TV personality mode, more comfortable with his surroundings since he can see where he’s going.

“That would be correct,” Cooper answers. “There should be three bedrooms, a bathroom, and a door that leads to the attic.”

“I take it I’m going to the attic?”

“Exactly.”

There’s a distracted catch to Cooper’s voice. It’s not as teasing as before. Blaine tries to imagine what might be bothering him. This remodel is going to be Blaine’s last house for a while, and on top of that, it’s their most ambitious project house to date. If Blaine can help Cooper pull this off, it puts Cooper in line to make a worthwhile profit for his investment.

Blaine sees how that might be daunting, but his brother doesn’t buckle easily under pressure. It seems kind of odd for him to mellow out now.

Blaine reaches the top of the staircase and comes face-to-face with atrocious avocado-green carpet on the floor and faded pale-gold paint on the walls, but Cooper doesn’t rise to the challenge, and for the first time ever, Blaine fills in with the crude humor.

“My God, Coop. It looks like they hired the last guy who decorated your condo to do the upper level here,” Blaine jokes. “What was his name?”

“Hey, no hatin’ on Carlos,” Cooper says. “It was either let him decorate my condo or marry his sister.”

“Coop, Coop, Coop,” Blaine scolds with a tsk, “you need to learn when to keep it in your pants.” Blaine makes his way to the last door at the end of the hall – the door he assumes will lead to the attic. In a house this old, maybe there are possums nesting up there…or bats. That would bring the old Cooper back.

Blaine stops short. This house is seriously messing with his mind. What the hell is he thinking? He’s not going to contract rabies to cheer his brother up!

The attic turns out to be uneventful. It’s a smaller space than it appears from the outside. The door opens to a staircase that leads up to a tiny room, perfectly square, with neatly stacked boxes and a few older furnishings in storage. Cooper mentions nothing about selling them, nor does he do any Internet searches, which is a good thing. Blaine plans to bring this place back to its original splendor, and as many of the furnishings unique to the house that he can use, the better.

“Did you want me to check out these boxes, Coop?” Blaine asks, hanging around on the top stair and glancing them over, trying to find any writing that might indicate what’s inside. He sees some indecipherable scrawling (symbols, or maybe shorthand), but nothing he can decipher.

“Nah,” Cooper says. “This looks a little too normal for my taste. Let’s get to the bedrooms.”

“Still hoping for some mummified cats?” Blaine asks, bounding down the stairs.

“Aren’t I always?”

Blaine leaves the attic staircase and walks out into the hallway. He stops in front of the first door. He reaches for the doorknob, letting his fingers linger on the polished brass.

It winks up at him, gleaming, out of place in this house where every surface is covered in a thick layer of grunge.

“Are you getting any ideas for how we’re going to remake this disaster?” Cooper asks. “Or are you going to hire a decorator so you can have more quality time to spend with your creepy puppets?”

“I would like to bring it back to its original design scheme,” Blaine explains, brushing off Cooper’s creepy puppet comment. “I figure that I’ll do some research, Google pictures of the house in its heyday, maybe hit up the historical society for advice. We have to clear out all the stuff first. That’s going to be the bulk of the work, but I won’t know for sure how labor intensive that’s going to be until I get a look at these bedrooms.”

“And why’s that, Blainers?” Cooper asks with a yawn. This instructive chitchat, necessary if the show has a prayer of being taken seriously, bores the hell out of Cooper, and he has no qualms about showing it.

“Because it’s my experience, Coop, that the majority of the mess in a hoarder’s house can usually be found in the bed…rooms…”

Blaine turns the knob and pushes the door open, shoving it harder than he needs to, expecting to encounter a large mound of stuff blocking the entrance. The door flies open and Blaine falls forward, fumbling the webcam one-handed, but catching it before it hits the ground.

“Blaine?” Cooper calls through the earpiece. “Are you alright, squirt?”

“Yeah,” Blaine answers, righting the webcam so Cooper can see. “I kind of expected that door to be harder to open, but…”

His sentence cuts off again as he surveys the room.

“It’s…clean…” Cooper says, watching the view from Blaine’s webcam, staring at a room that has been surprisingly well kept.

Though preserved seems like a more accurate term.

The room is decorated simply by modern standards, but it was probably considered stylish in its time. The bed in the far corner consists of a full-size mattress in a mahogany frame, a matching dresser and wardrobe standing against the wall by its side. Above the dresser hang pennants representing baseball teams in the American League – the Chicago White Sox, the Detroit Tigers, and the New York Giants. Alongside those pennants hangs a framed jersey that Blaine doesn’t recognize. It’s a cream-colored baseball jersey that, miraculously, doesn’t appear to have faded with age. Maroon pinstripes run vertically from shoulder to hem, the name Smythe sewn across the back.

The jersey doesn’t look like a professional jersey.

It looks like it was made for a child.

Above the pennants sits a baseball bat sealed in a wood-and-glass shadowbox.

“Look up there, Blaine,” Cooper says with a touch of awe. “Is that a genuine…”

“Louisville Slugger? It looks like it.” The bat is mounted high above Blaine’s head, too high for him to see it closely. He doesn’t want to step on any of the furniture, so he raises the webcam over his head for Cooper to get a better look.

Cooper gasps.

“It’s signed, Blainey! That might be Mel Ott’s signature.”

“That would make sense,” Blaine says. “He played for the New York Giants, and there’s a New York Giants pennant on the wall.”

Blaine hears Cooper typing on his computer again. “Let’s move along to the next room, Blaine. We may have struck out in here, but I bet the real catastrophe is next door.”

Struck out, Blaine thinks. A baseball pun. Sigh…

Blaine takes one final sweep of the bedroom with his webcam before he heads for the next room. Blaine sees another polished doorknob, and that confuses him. With all the clutter downstairs making it difficult to walk around, who would bother to come up here to clean the doorknobs? Or to keep that one room spotless?

Blaine doesn’t push as hard on this door when he opens it, and it, too, swings in effortlessly.

This bedroom is as clean as the one before. It has a similar mahogany bed, along with a matching dresser and wardrobe, but with a few additional touches. There’s a wicker dress form in the corner of the room, and a cherry wood sewing table next to it, an antique Singer sewing machine set into the top. There is no sports memorabilia on these walls. The walls in this room are covered in posters, framed like the ones downstairs, but the glass on these is spotless.

Blaine goes down the line of posters, reading off the names.

“Porgy and Bess…Arabella…The Eternal Road…these are old operas from the thirties,” Blaine remarks. He walks to the dresser, where a leather box covered in deep purple velvet sits. Using only his fingertips on the metal latch, he opens the lid and aims the webcam inside.

“So, a sewing box, a sewing machine, a mannequin…thingie, theater posters…are we thinking a son and a daughter?”

“That’s a sexist assumption.” Blaine turns away from the dresser and walks toward the wardrobe, to root through the clothes and see if his brother might be right.

“True, but think about context, Blainey,” Cooper points out. “This stuff is from the thirties. If there was ever a time to be sexist…”

“You make a valid point,” Blaine interrupts, pulling a suit from the closet and carrying it to the bed to lay it out, “but I believe this room might have belonged to a boy.”

“A boy into sewing and musical theater.” Cooper chuckles. “You two could have been friends.”

“Yeah,” Blaine agrees, running his hand lightly over the expertly tailored suit – a suit that looks as if it has never been worn. “Maybe we could have.”

Blaine takes a moment longer gazing at it – the fine details, the even stitches, the amazing craftsmanship. This is a garment that was lovingly made, and has definitely withstood the test of time. It’s a shame it didn’t get any use.

“Okay,” Cooper says, clapping his hands hard, the sharp noise making Blaine wince, “you know what that means. The mess that we’re searching for is behind lucky door number three.”

Blaine grimaces. That’s Cooper for you. Always hoping for those mummified cats.

Blaine backs away from the bed, filming the handsome suit laying on it. A haze passes in front of his vision, and he suddenly sees an image of a young man standing before him – a man about his age - wearing that suit.

A man with fair skin, as fine as porcelain, and eyes bluer than the ocean - eyes holding such a depth of sadness that Blaine feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“Blaine?” Cooper’s voice cuts through, clearing the image from Blaine’s head like blowing away a wisp of smoke. “What’s wrong there, little bro?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Blaine asks, turning his head left and right, trying to find the heartbroken man in the suit. The suit is there on the bed, but the man is nowhere to be seen.

Why did he look so familiar?

“I mean, you made a sound like someone punched you in the gut. Are you okay? Did you run into something off camera? Because we talked about that…”

Cooper requires that all accidents be filmed - not for insurance purposes, but because it’s funny.

“N-no,” Blaine stammers, doing a full 360 to get one last look around. “No, I think I’ve been here a little too long, that’s all.”

“Well, we only have a few more rooms to go, and then you can go home and do the rest of the menial work. I’m not paying you for nothing, you know.”

Blaine scoffs. “In this case, you’re not paying me at all.”

“Exactly,” Cooper says, and Blaine can hear his brother’s irritating grin. “So get your tuchus moving.”

Blaine approaches the last bedroom, sure that Cooper is right. He’ll turn the knob, open the door, and something horrible will fall on him.

He doesn’t even want to consider what that horrible thing is likely to be.

Blaine wraps his fingers around the doorknob. This one’s polished too, but he’s concentrating so hard on formulating evasive maneuvers that he doesn’t notice. He turns the knob and pushes the door in, letting go so it can swing freely the rest of the way while he takes a huge step back.

But no avalanche follows him out into the hallway.

Blaine steps through the door to another pristine room. It, too, has a mahogany bed with matching dresser and wardrobe.

“Three children?” Cooper asks, but Blaine is already shaking his head.

“No,” Blaine replies, walking toward the dresser and a pile of overturned picture frames, shards of glass crunching underfoot. Blaine cautiously picks up one metal frame between his thumb and index finger. “Parent.” Blaine turns the frame over. The damage is extensive, so much so that the broken glass has torn straight through the photograph underneath.

All Blaine can tell is that the picture is black and white, and there are three people in it, but he can’t see their faces.

“Definitely a parent,” he repeats.

He turns over the frames, each one decimated, the glass smashed, the photographs desecrated beyond recognition. The trail of broken frames leads Blaine to a dark spot in the carpet, and a spattering of thicker, amber-colored glass pieces. Blaine crouches low to get a better look at it. The liquid has soaked through the carpet, all the way to the padding underneath.

No one even tried to clean it up.

A foot or so away from the stain, Blaine finds the neck of a liquor bottle.

“It seems like someone went on a bit of bender and did some damage,” Coopers says.

Blaine stands, his eyes fixed on the picture frames, the bottle neck, and all that glass. It reminds him of the scene in the basement room – the body parts, the fragments of porcelain everywhere, and the blue-eyed puppet staring up at him with longing.

Like the man in the suit.

Could this have happened the same night those puppets were destroyed?

Blaine walks away slowly, but he can’t stop staring at the glass, because the reality of it is all so horrible. These photographs, violated so senselessly, are horrible. The violence of this damage is horrible. This wasn’t an accident. Someone didn’t trip and fall into the dresser and knock these over. They were demolished out of anger.

“All of these bedrooms are…”

“Immaculate,” Blaine finishes.

“Yeah,” Cooper agrees with a disappointed sigh. “That bites. I was really hoping for a pizza box landslide at the very least.”

Blaine sucks in a shuddering breath as he sweeps the camera around, taking one last panoramic shot. He thinks about what it would take to push someone to do this. How much would a child have to disappoint their parents to make them want to obliterate the memory of their face?

Would going to the wrong college be enough?

“Let’s finish up downstairs so we can get you out of there,” Cooper suggests, mirroring Blaine’s thoughts from the past few hours.

Blaine backs out of the room, leaving the gut-wrenching scene behind him, and unlike the other two rooms, he shuts the door.

Blaine wants this to be over. He’s had enough.

He bypasses the upstairs bathroom, with surprisingly no complaints from Cooper, and hurries down the stairs to the dining room. He walks swiftly down the hallway and across the living room. He ignores the piles of toys and debris, not even thinking to put the mask back on his face as he breathes the foul air. He reaches the far end of the house – a section he overlooked earlier since he was so focused on not dying. This part of the house includes the kitchen, the downstairs bathroom, and a guest/servant bedroom, but all three rooms are nothing but floor to ceiling toys without an inch of space to spare.

“Well, I think that’s it for your house,” Blaine says, his heart racing at the thought of gathering up his puppets and heading out of there as soon as possible. “Was there anything else you wanted to see?”

Cooper seems to wait a breath on purpose before he answers.

“You seem kind of anxious, Blaine. Do you have a hot date or something?”

“Nope.” Blaine starts taking obligatory background shots of the rooms on the lower level, working his way to the dining room. “Just eager to get started on your remodel. I have a lot of phone calls to make, emails to send out, plans to sketch…you know the drill.”

“Yeah, but you’ve never been so Johnny-on-the-Spot before. I would have stopped paying you sooner if I knew that was the way to get you to bust your ass.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, big brother.” Blaine stops at the dining room table, leaning his hip against it. “I want to hit the beach. Go work on my tan.”

“Well, you do that, Blainey-boy. Just make sure you’re back there bright and early in the morning.”

“Will, do, Coop.”

“And all of you out there in computer-landia, be sure to tune in…”

Blaine turns off the webcam. He disconnects the call in the middle of Cooper’s PSA, and pulls the Bluetooth out of his ear. With his index finger, he massages his sore ear canal, glad to be rid of the stupid thing. Blaine breathes in deep and exhales long, trying to will his aching muscles to relax.

When Blaine started helping Cooper film these walkthroughs, he was amazed at how exhausting wandering through a house could be. Add to that the anxiety of not knowing what God-awful thing you might find, along with constantly trying to be entertaining and informative, and sometimes Blaine thinks that Cooper isn’t paying him nearly enough.

Most of the time, when Blaine does a walkthrough of a project house, someone accompanies him – a relative of the past homeowner, a member of the fire department, one of Cooper’s contractors, the realtor – even if that person doesn’t show themselves on camera. This time around, Cooper didn’t want to consult the fire department just in case they declared the house unsafe (the bastard), none of the contractors were available, there were no relatives to consult, and the realtor outright refused to come.

Blaine goes over the schedule for the rest of his day in his head. He still has so much work to do here. He has to move the puppets and some of the tools out to his minivan. He has about a dozen or more phone calls he has to make. He has to write up an itinerary and throw together some preliminary sketches.

Blaine can feel the aftermath of this walkthrough start to weigh heavily on his shoulders. So many of the houses he’s visited previously have had their fair share of ghosts, but this house seems to have them in spades. He shakes his head to clear his mind, letting the silence surrounding him bleed into his brain, and comes to an unnerving realization.

Without his brother’s voice in his ear, Blaine is completely and utterly alone.

[joyffree]

RELEASE BLITZ Title: The Billionaire’s Claim: Obsession Series: The Billionaire’s Claim #1 Author: Nadia Lee Genre: Contemporary Romance Release Date: April 26, 2018

BLURB

DOMINIC

Elizabeth Pryce-Reed.

An angel. A virgin. My first love.

I fell for her hard and fast ten years ago...and paid the price on a night of shattering betrayal.

So I built a billion-dollar empire out of vengeance...

And now I'm coming for her.

ELIZABETH

Dominic King.

A maverick. A self-made billionaire. My soul mate.

Ten years ago, he shredded my heart, even as he vowed he'd take what matters most to me.

I know he's coming, and I welcome it. I need closure for what happened that night.

But the more time I spend with him, the more I wonder...

Can I ever move on...?

Note: This is the first book in The Billionaire's Claim duet.

GOODREADS LINK: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/38733446-the-billionaire-s-claim

PURCHASE LINKS

US: https://amzn.to/2qUMLE9 UK: https://amzn.to/2HXZka8 CA: https://amzn.to/2Ka50yg AU: https://amzn.to/2HXZpdW B&N: http://bit.ly/2JiKslV Kobo: http://bit.ly/2vBeC24 iBooks: https://apple.co/2Hmy8At Google Play: http://bit.ly/2JlkXjQ

EXCERPTS

#1

"Do you really go by Elizabeth with everyone?" I ask, enjoying the smooth taste of the vodka. "No nickname?"

"Yeah. Everyone calls me that, except this one cousin who calls me Eliza. I think he felt rebellious when he was younger, you know? And it stuck. With him, anyway."

She's probably wrong about her cousin. Elizabeth is too formal a name for this woman. She's too vivacious, too open and too sexy. She needs a shorter, snappier name.

"But..." She knocks back the second shot of vodka. "You can call me Liza. Nobody calls me that, and I think it suits me better than Elizabeth or Eliza, don't you?"

I nod, ridiculously pleased I'm going to get my own name for her.

"So what's your name?" she asks.

"Dominic."

"Nice. I like it." She smiles and runs a fingertip along my lips as she leans forward. "Can I call you something else, though?"

I feel the touch like an electric shock. My heart thuds. "Like what?"

"Mine."

#2

I lose the track of my friends' conversation as the fine hair at my nape bristles -- not unpleasantly -- and my gaze lands on the sole bartender on the other side of the counter.

Everything fades away except him.

I've met handsome men, hot men, aristocratic men, charming men on both sides of the Atlantic. My family alone has four brothers and four cousins who make women stupid with their looks. Having grown up around such male beauty, I've always considered myself immune -- able to appreciate it without turning into some kind of infatuated drooler.

But the bartender...

Everything about him is absurd.

The absurd perfection of his bone structure. The absurd blue of his eyes. The absurd firmness of his lips. The absurd muscularity of his big, strong body.

When our gazes collide, I feel like every cell in my body is waking up after a lifetime of slumber. My heart beats a little bit faster, a little bit harder. Blood flows a little quicker, a little hotter.

Is this sexual attraction?

I shake my head inwardly. I've felt attraction to guys before. But nothing like this. This man shines like a brilliant gemstone, like the heavens opened up and a halo appeared around him.

Then I remember what Grandpa used to say.

"When I first met your grandmother, I knew she was the one."

"How?" I asked. An exceptional artist, Grandpa has a propensity for exaggeration and dramatic flair.

"Because she made me forget where I was. Every time I laid eyes on her, nothing else mattered. Colors were brighter, food tasted better, and the air felt cleaner. All because I met her."

I laughed. "That's just infatuation, Grandpa."

He shook his head. "No, no, my little angel. It's called love. My soul recognized hers."

I tried not to laugh at such a ridiculous story. On the other hand, Grandpa's first marriage lasted until the death of his wife in a sailing accident. And by all accounts, they adored each other.

Suddenly Vanessa taps my elbow. "Earth to Elizabeth. Come on." She tilts her shiny red head toward the bar. "We're sitting at the counter."

Apparently the decision has been made. "Okay." I park my butt across from the bartender, Grandpa's words about soul mates circling in my head.

Because if this bartender's mine, he's popped up at the most inconvenient time and the most inconvenient location.

#3

I cut and toast the bagels, Liza's first. After spreading a generous amount of cream cheese, Liza takes a big bite, then moans around the food.

The satisfied sound causes my dick to swell as though we didn't roll around in bed for hours last night.

Five orgasms -- a new record.

Right now, my half-hard cock says we should go for six.

She swallows. "I haven't had a good bagel since I came home."

"How come?" I want her fed before seducing her again.

"Mom's not a fan of carbs." Exasperation crosses her face. "She thinks they'll make me blow up."

"Pssh." Liza is model slim with curves in all the right places. Her mother's gotta be crazy to think she needs to watch her diet. "Eat what you like."

Liza polishes off the last bite. "Seriously? You aren't going to scream and run the other way if I blow up like..." She spreads her arms, elbows straight.

"More of you to kiss and lick."

Her eyes sparkle. "That's nice. And such a smooth line."

"It's not a line."

And it's actually not. I mean it. I've had beautiful girls, awkward girls, confident girls, bratty girls, sweet girls, but none of them measure up to Liza. She has the power to make all other women fade away, and it has nothing to do with her weight or appearance. It's something as fundamental and innate as the air we share.

If I were the woo-woo type, I would say it's her soul.

Liza looks away for a moment, biting into her lip. There's a fleeting sadness in her that comes and goes, and I don't like it. I raise a hand, trace the curve of her cheekbone with my thumb and then, very carefully, cradle her face. She places a hand over mine, her eyes fluttering closed. She looks so vulnerable, so lovely.

Before I can pull her in for a kiss, she takes a deep breath and gives me a smile brilliant enough to make the gears my head stutter. "I'll hold you to that."

#4

Elizabeth reaches over and runs her fingers along my thigh. Her scent -- vanilla and lavender -- tickles my nose. An electric charge sizzles at the base of my spine, and heated blood pumps hard through my veins. "You going to start the car or what?" She smiles, her cheeks flushed.

Logic and good intentions grow fuzzy. I don't hook up with women I meet at the bar. I want to set a good example for my baby sister so she knows to look for a guy who'll take her seriously and treat her well. And I'm usually just too busy with life -- college courses, taking care of my sister and working two jobs.

But with Elizabeth, none of that matters. The only thing is her being with me...and the undercurrent of instinctive knowledge that if I end this now, she's going to slip away, never to be seen again.

My mouth dry, I speed toward my place, half an hour from the bar. I don't run any red lights, but it's pretty close a couple of times.

She laughs softly. "Love it that you're impatient."

"Do you?"

"You want me."

"What man wouldn't?"

She grows wistful. "Not everyone wants me."

"You've been with the wrong men."

She opens her mouth, then instead of saying anything, drags her teeth along her lower lip.

#5

"Don't cry." Dominic's thumb brushes away tears I didn't realize I'd shed, and I look at him. My heart is breaking again. I miss this touch... The tenderness, the caring.

I close my eyes, overwhelmed by old grief and the need for any scrap of affection. Nobody knows me the way Dominic does. Nobody ever had my love like he did.

He used to be the center of my universe. The whole celestial vault -- it was all him. I should've kidnapped him, just dragged him away by his hair, using whatever means necessary. Then I'd still have the sun, the moon and the stars.

Except I know it was the right thing for him to stay. Running away with me wouldn't have given him what he needed to fulfill his dream, give him the life he imagined.

Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My heart beats, the throb so hard and painful I can feel it all the way to my fingertips. My eyelids lower. That way I don't have to see the hate and disgust in his eyes...but can still bask in the heat from his body, smell the malt, spices and soap on him.

Then I feel it -- his lips on mine. My mind is so sluggish I don't even know who started the kiss, but I don't care.

The touch is tentative at first, more of a stolen breath...barely there. I hold myself as still as possible, afraid he's going to pull away.

His lips continue to move over mine, feather soft and sweet -- like he's afraid to spook me. The heat from his mouth slowly warms my lips, and I tremble as the rest of my body starts to thaw, my senses spinning.

"Breathe, Elizabeth," he whispers against a corner of my mouth, still using only his lips to tease me.

Only then do I realize I've been holding my breath. I inhale shakily, and he runs his tongue along my lower lip.

A tide of longing spreads through me. My fingers fist around his shirt, pulling him closer. I part my lips, stroke his tongue with mine. He boldly slides his tongue in, and a hot bolt of lust crackles through me, chasing away the chill and ugly memories. I suck on his tongue, desperately wanting to cling to the hot need and sense of safety.

This is probably just temporary, and might just be sex, but I want it. My starving body wants it.

#6

Dominic lavishes the same tender care to my other breast, as though he wants to make all my hurt go away. A cold sliver of guilt pierces the haze of pleasure.

You don't deserve this.

And I don't. I don't deserve to have him worship my body like he used to. I don't deserve any of this comfort, this warmth, this tenderness. I'm being selfish, using him to salve my old wound.

His lips leave a hot trail, tickling my navel and kissing my belly. Slowly he pulls my bikini bottom down my legs...and off. I feel his heated breath over my inner thighs, his lips traveling from my knee to my slick core.

And I know what he's about to do. He always loved to drive me crazy with his mouth between my legs. And suddenly, I don't want that -- I can't have that.

"Make it hurt," I say, my voice breaking.

He pauses, raising his head. "What?"

"Make me hurt. Please."

His thumb brushing over the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, he looks into my eyes. His pupils are so dark and intense, I feel like I'm being stripped layer by layer, revealing how little I have now. Because I have nothing -- no heart, no soul.

What I have is a mask that I've perfected over the years. I know I look like a woman with a big heart and gentle soul when I put it on, even though it doesn't fool Dominic. He can see what's underneath.

AUTHOR BIO

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Nadia Lee writes sexy, emotional contemporary romance. Born with a love for excellent food, travel and adventure, she has lived in four different countries, kissed stingrays, been bitten by a shark, ridden an elephant and petted tigers.

Currently, she shares a condo overlooking a small river and sakura trees in Japan with her husband and son. When she’s not writing, she can be found reading books by her favorite authors or planning another trip.

Stay in touch with her via her website, http://www.nadialee.net, or her blog http://www.nadialee.net/blog

AUTHOR LINKS

Website: http://www.nadialee.net Newsletter: http://www.nadialee.net/vip Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/nadialeewrites Facebook Group: http://www.facebook.com/groups/nadialee Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/nadialee Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/nadialee Bookbub: http://www.bookbub.com/authors/nadia-lee Amazon: http://amazon.com/author/nadialee

[lifebooksloves]

RELEASE BOOST- Peep Show by Isabella Starling

Title: Peep Show

Author: Isabella Starling

Genre: Romantic Suspense/Dark Romance Release Date: January 25, 2018

Blurb

She’s stripping. I’m watching. She’s playing. I’m watching. She’s mine, I’m coming… Bebe Hall is a heartbreaker. She’s the it girl of the moment, a partygirl nobody can stop in her path of self destruction. Bebe Hall isn’t the star of her own story. She’s the star of mine. My name is Miles O’Reilly. I’m a photographer. An agoraphobic. A millionaire. A womanizer. I’m confined to my apartment. I don’t leave. Ever. But when she sees me with my latest online conquest in the window of my apartment, my attention shifts to Bebe. And once I see something I want, I don’t give up until it’s mine. Forever.Peep Show is a 90,000 word novel with themes of voyeurism and dark scenes that may be upsetting to readers. If you are brave enough, come meet Miles. He’s been waiting for you.

ADD TO GOODREADS

  Purchase Links

AMAZON US / UK / CA / AU

Free in Kindle Unlimited

    Excerpt

Chapter One

I stumbled into my bedroom, giggling to myself and shaking on too-high heels and too much vodka.

A glance in the huge mirror on my wall reminded me of what I mess I was when I had too much to drink. My silver sequined dress was riding up, revealing a hint of my ass under the shiny fabric. My hair was wild, the dark brown locks a halo around my head, and my brown eyes glowed with excitement. At least my makeup was still in place, the perfect smoky cat-eye enhancing my looks, making me appear demure yet sexy. I’d perfected the art of it, making sure I always had someone eager to buy me a drink.

I sank down on my bed and pulled off the murderous black heels that had been torturing me all night. But it was okay – I’d learned to handle the pain, and when I was dancing, it never mattered anyway.

I lay back and I stared at my ceiling, letting myself think about what my life had become, but only for a short minute.

The key was never to focus on it for too long. I had to forget, and drinking, dancing and partying, was the only way I could do it. If I stopped twirling, stopped tipping back glass after glass, I risked stopping long enough to think about what I was doing. And that was the last thing I wanted to do.

I needed to forget about Posy. She was long gone, and there was no bringing her back.

I pushed myself off the bed shakily, and walked over to my window to let some fresh air in. There was nothing quite like a nice fall breeze to clear my head, and God, I needed some fucking clarity.

I opened the blinds and looked outside, the street below me illuminated with streetlights. It was gone four a.m., and most of the lights in the apartment building next door were off. I lived in a nice neighborhood of townhouses, about three apartments per floor and three floors total. It was a nice place to live, and, of course, I wouldn’t have been able to afford it if it hadn’t been for my parents’ stack of cash in my bank account.

Being a trust-fund baby definitely had its benefits.

My eyes traveled upwards and focused on the only illuminated apartment across the street from me. I could see right into their home, but the minimalistic apartment seemed to be empty, even though it was lit up.

I wobbled on my feet and opened the window wide, enjoying the breeze on my face, slowly bringing me to my senses once again.

A thumping noise interrupted my reverie, and I looked up again, right into the apartment opposite mine. Except now, it wasn’t empty anymore.

Now, there was a dark, impossibly tall figure pressing a naked woman against the window, fucking her savagely, mashing her tits against the window, her mouth opened in an endless gasp as he took her from behind.

My mouth gaped in surprise, and I moved a little to the side, hiding in the darkness and watching the show they were putting on with a smirk on my face.

The woman had small but perky tits. Her skin was dark, almost ebony, a sharp contrast to the pale man standing behind her, towering over her. She was tiny and curvy, and he was fucking enormous.

He was all toned muscle and dark, slicked back hair. His strong, muscular arm was wrapped around her neck in a chokehold, strangling the screams right out of her. And his skin was covered in dark, menacing ink, the black color stark against his light skin.

I wanted more.

I wanted to keep watching.

I shifted on my feet to get a better view of what was going on before me.

He fucked her like an animal. I could see his hips working, pushing, thrusting inside her from behind, claiming her petite body and making her mouth open in a silent scream. He fucked like a beast, and he looked like a monster. I fell in love with him right then and there.

My fingers shook as I reached for my purse, scrambling to find it on the bed and trying not to look away from the scene in front of me at the same time. I wanted to watch. I wanted to see his face when he filled her up. I wanted to see if he’d pull her hair back like I imagined he would.

I managed to get my phone out of my handbag, bringing it in front of my face and quickly snapping a picture of them. It was blurry as fuck, but it would have to do. Suddenly, I felt awake and sober, staring into the cold night outside and wishing I could swap places with the wild-haired beauty. I wanted him inside me.

A burst of inexplicable jealousy bubbled lazily in the pit of my stomach, but I did my best to ignore it. Instead, I kept snapping pictures of them. Of him.

Wishing I could see him better, I moved from behind the curtain a little bit closer to the window. My breath made foggy circles on the glass and my hands shook as I dropped my phone and reached under the hem of my dress.

The silver sequins felt cold and exciting on my fingertips, and I touched them gently before spreading my own trembling legs apart, slowly outlining the wet, dripping shape of my pussy lips between my thighs.

I was so wet.

In fact, I was fucking leaking all over my panties, the image across the street making my pussy drool so much I flushed in embarrassment.

But I couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t resist slipping my fingers under the sodden satin fabric of my panties, outlining my perfectly waxed pussy as I shivered under my own touch. It felt so strange, voyeuristic, to be watching them do this only on the other side of the street. And it was horny as hell.

My fingers worked their magic between my legs, slowly teasing my cunt open and finding my clit. I’d let someone kiss me at the club that night, but I didn’t bring anyone back with me, which was strange for me. I liked having someone to go home with. It made me feel wanted.

I remembered his hot, needy lips. He was a nice guy, not one I’d usually go for, which was probably the reason I hadn’t brought him back home with me. He had a buzzcut, and his face was clean-shaven too, and I loved the prickly feeling of his features under my fingertips, and the push of his bulge against my tummy. But I didn’t let myself have it. I really didn’t do nice guys, because I wasn’t a very nice girl.

Lips parting in a gasp, I braced myself against the windowsill as my fingers stroked me towards an orgasm. His hand was squeezing her throat so tightly she looked like she was out of breath, her chest heaving and her mouth open so wide.

She was crying.

He was fucking her so hard, so savagely, with so little mercy, that the poor girl was crying her eyes out, all the while coming all over his dick.

Fuck!

I gasped, my fingers working in fast, messy circles to get myself off. I came with a desperate cry, my pussy making a mess all over my fingers. I’d always been such an easy comer, ever since I learned how to get off by myself.

My eyes felt strained as I looked back up, and then opened as wide as they possibly could as I stared at them. He was still choking the girl, her eyes closed and her breathing ragged, but his own gaze was firmly fixed on me.

I panicked. Surely he couldn’t see me – my room was barely illuminated. But I saw them both so fucking well.

He grinned at me. Two rows of perfectly straight, impossibly white teeth glaring in the darkness of the night. He ran his free hand through his dark, slicked back hair, and carelessly scratched at the stubble growing on his chin. Then, he reached in front and pinched the girl’s nipple so hard she threw her head back in a scream I couldn’t hear.

He kept staring, and I couldn’t look away and my heart leapt when he knocked on the window. Two sharp raps, whispering something in his girl’s ear, making her eyes fly open in panic, glance across the street, and she saw me.

I stared at her. I stared at them both, unable to move, my pussy juices dribbling down my thighs.

He raised a hand and waved at me, an easy smirk playing on his lips. The devil waved and nudged the girl he was fucking, motioning for her to do the same thing. When she shook her head, his hand wrapped tighter around her throat.

And she looked at me sheepishly, and waved, just like he had.

I’d never wanted to be someone else until that moment, when I wished with absolute desperation that I was the beautiful petite girl next door getting her pussy slammed by a stranger.

He thrust inside her one last time and my own fingers repeated his motion. His eyes remained locked on me as he came, the girl crumpling in his arms, only him holding her up as he spurted inside her. My fingers fell away from my body, my poor cunt spasming by itself, leaking down my thighs, ruining the sequins of my dress and covering them in my own pussy juice.

My legs shook and my cunt spasmed as I came again.

I watched him let go of the girl, gently laying her down on the floor. I could only see her naked back against the glass, her shoulders hunched as she cried her release out, her whole body shaking with pent-up orgasms.

And then he stepped up to the window, in all his glory. He must’ve been over 6 feet 5. He was fucking enormous, so tall she looked like a child at his feet.

And he was completely naked, save for the condom on his dick.

His fucking cock matched his height, making my mouth water at the sight of it. He was ripped, muscles everywhere, looking not just like he worked out regularly but like he made it his mission to keep his body in perfect shape.

His cock was still hard as he took the condom off, discarded it on the floor and stroked slowly.

He grinned at me, and stroked his cock lazily with one hand as he wrote on the steamed-up window with the other.

My eyes danced across the words and I stepped forward, letting the light of the streetlights outside illuminate me. I knew he saw me now, because he jerked his dick faster, and it made me fucking ecstatic. He liked what he saw. And how couldn’t he? I was always sure to be groomed to 5 feet and 10 inches of polished, manicured and slutty perfection.

I followed his fingers writing in the window and lifted my dress up, showing him my ruined panties.

His eyebrows shot up and he smirked at me, licking his fingers and palming his shaft with fast, needy motions.

I stared at his words in the window, written clumsily, some of them fucked up because he’d tried to write their mirror reflection so I could read it.

My pussy tingled at his crudeness.

My heart thumped in anticipation.

And my mind reeled with the possibilities.

I DARE YOU TO GO NEXT.

Author Bio

  Dark, dirty and taboo is what Isabella Starling is known for. 

An Amazon top 25 bestselling Author, Isabella has 10 books under her belt in under a year. She is a self-proclaimed Tumblr gif addict and always looking for her next forbidden story. 

If you pick up a Starling book, you can count on a bad-mouthed, bossy man who will dominate his woman with a rough hand. 

Add just a sprinkle of taboo, a touch of BDSM and a pinch of suspense, and you’re all set for a story you won’t forget.

Author Links

FACEBOOK PAGE / PROFILE / GROUP

TWITTER / INSTAGRAM / BOOKBUB

AMAZON / BOOK+MAIN

GOODREADS / NEWSLETTER

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