repost of original tumblr posts about wolf! wicklow

[thatrcooper]

starrla89:

sweetfirebird:

quick bit of more Wolf! Wicklow and Rhoades from a PM with selenographics.

Wolf!Rhoades with Wicklow in a brothel. And he has never gotten to claim his mate. Not really. Not in a way that means anything to anyone but him. Wicklow finally getting it, maybe. Up against that wall, his throat bared, Rhoades splattered with the blood of the man who touched him, eyes glowing. “He scared you, and I couldn’t let him.” As if it’s everything. He knows Wicklow is dangerous. Rhoades knows him. Rhoades knows everything he is capable of, and his fear, and yet Rhoades “couldn’t” allow Wicklow to be even momentarily afraid. He could not. Rhoades, with all his control.

Control slipping in front of him.

And Wicklow hates that, hates seeing Rhoades so worried. Doesn’t like him covered in blood, even if he’s pleased that Rhoades was victorious and ridiculous. Tilting his head farther to the side when that lets Rhoades calm a fraction, and then Rhoades moving closer, sniffing the air around him, and whatever he scents makes him growl. And something in Wicklow makes him growl back, but it’s soft and questioning, worried, and he writhes internally at how weak that makes him, but then he breathes in and it’s pure Rhoades-scent, leather and lust and skin and now blood. Wicklow growls louder and then reaches out to grab Rhoades by his bloodied cravat. But it’s only to smell more of him. Maybe his scent was muted in his library, hidden by books and fire and liquor. Maybe Rhoades hasn’t been this close to him before–hasn’t let himself be–but he needs more and Rhoades lets him.

He’s breathing heavily, his heart is thundering, but he lets Wicklow slip closer and bring his mouth near his skin, and he says that word again, the one to drive Wicklow mad. “Mate.”

FUCKING HELL.

He wants to finally demand what Rhoades means when he says that, but it’s difficult to form words with Rhoades so close and smelling so good. Wicklow wants to tip his face to Rhoades’ throat, so he does, tugging the cravat loose to give himself access. He realizes what he’s done after, but feels a bare second of alarm before he’s distracted again by the heat of Rhoades’ body. He’s leaning closer, baring his neck for Wicklow as if that isn’t dangerous. Even Wicklow, with what little he knows of wolves, is aware of how easy it is to tear a man’s throat out.

But Rhoades swallows and allows Wicklow’s nose to graze his skin, lets his lips part above the throb of his pulse point. And when Wicklow takes a deep breath and releases it in a pained, pleased whine, Rhoades shudders and says the word again.

“Mate?” Wicklow repeats in a confused, muffled growl, as he finds that the skin behind Rhoades’ ear is soft. He thinks he’s shivering, and has been since Rhoades surrounded him and put his back to the wall, or maybe it was when Rhoades slid one hand, carefully, to the wall behind him. Wicklow’s chest is still bare. Rhoades could have touched him.

He frowns a bit as he tracks the scent of Rhoades, growing frustrated when clothing blocks his path. He grunts at Rhoades’ shirt collar and hen pulls on that too. Rhoades makes a high sound, frustrated, but uses words too. “Private, you will be the death of me.”

Private. Wicklow frowns harder for that, and struggles to think when Rhoades’ bare flesh is in sight. His clothing is stained with blood but his skin is clean and smooth, as it should be. No man has let marks there. No man should. Rhoades should never feel pain.

But he whines again when Wicklow’s mouth touches the skin–Wicklow hadn’t meant to, but the scent is a taste now so he does it again.

“Mate?” Wicklow asks again, covered in Rhoades-scent and Rhoades-heat, the sound of his strained breathing and the rush of his blood. His own heart is loud in his ears. He could run, but the rightness of it has him dizzy. Rhoades had not hurt him, not ever. Rhoades will not even touch him, not even with his wolf in his eyes and Wicklow half-dressed in front of him. He is strong and he is safe. He smells of blood and books and soap and when he says that word, Wicklow wants to do this with him, to close his eyes and tilt his head to let Rhoades see his throat.

He pulls back at the thought, despite the rough exhalation from Rhoades and the howling inside him. He pulls back and he thinks, like a man, until he can make the words.

“Am I to call you that too?” he wonders, and looks up.

Rhoades’ eyes are shining in dim light.  They are hungry though he is still.

This time Rhoades has no words but Wicklow can read them anyway. 

 Please.