thatrcooper: (majesty)
"wolfatworldsend said: Pilar, if you please! They’re all great, but I’ve missed her."

PILAARRRR. Watching the boys be silly and ridiculous and thinking she is above that, because at least she *knows* what she wants. (Wicklow is her little brother, and she has killed and would die for him, but he has no idea of anything that isn’t his electronic toys or killing people.)  So she knits sometimes, or cleans her guns, and watches them. She watches from a distance, up on rooftops, after Amelia is brought in to their team officially. Learns how she fights, and the way she moves. Notices again her confusion about herself, and those who notice her.

Pilar isn’t like Rhoades, but maybe is just a *little* bit like Rhoades, and maybe she makes a ladyfriend or two along the way, and she’s not as obvious as Rhoades about it. But she leaves hints, enough for Amelia to see and guess and know. And blush. And wonder. And glare.

Aaaahhhh imagine a universe where Amelia is all spiky with jealousy and doesn’t even get it, and you could do like, any, version of her getting snarly with everyone, only to avoid Pilar, which will not do. So Pilar might have to hunt her down a little, just to keep her in sight.

And Pilar confuses the ever loving shit out of her with gifts. Leaving scarves on her pillow (oh god like, when she was asleep even? because Amelia is good but Pilar is the best at sneaking up on people.)

Amelia kissing her for the first time maybe? Hesitant and then embarrassed when Pilar smiles. Like it’s a joke. Like *she’s* a joke. And then they have a mission or something, and Pilar is happy but also frustrated, because Amelia won’t come near her.

And then someone should be in danger! Aaaah Pilar could get trapped by herself saving the others, or maybe injured enough that she can’t join them right away, and Amelia (and Wicklow, I’m sure, but maybe he doesn’t find her first) comes to get her, and she is so spiky! and pissed! and dangerous! Pilar is so! smitten! and proud of her!
thatrcooper: (Default)
AU of Play It Again Charlie, in which Charlie is an actual prince.

AU where Charlie is an actual prince, and Will is some low level noble he keeps running into the gardens when he is trying to find a moment to himself, and Will doesn’t know who he is, and says all these outrageous things to make him laugh. And then Will gets an invite to something through a friend, and he sees Charlie and he’s heartbroken because Prince Charlie is never going to be interested in him, not seriously. And he knows he should say something, but the next time he meets him in the garden, he can’t because Charlie doesn’t frown around him, he’s happy around Will, and Will can’t deny him that. So he gets contrary and flighty and Charlie gets frustrated, and they argue for the first time, and Will snaps at him to go back to court and find someone royal to marry instead of torturing him like this, and Charlie realizes Will knows. But before he can think of what to say, Will leaves.

And weeks go by, and he’s not there, and the Prince never smiles anymore.Not real ones. Everyone notices and gossips about it. The Queen Regent (Nana, obviously) insists that he continue to do his duty, while she and Charlie’s sisters search the crowds for the source of Charlie’s unhappiness. And it’s Princess Ann, of course it’s Ann, who finds Will in Charlie’s old favorite spot in the garden, being a mopey Will, and Ann who finds out who Will is and basically forces him to attend some function.

But it’s Charlie who sees Will from across the room and walks up to him and kisses him aaaand anyway. I’ve been writing all day and I’m being an idiot. 

Charlie locks eyes with Will and he’s had all these things to say to Will that he never got to say. He loved Will before he ever thought Will knew who he was. That Will telling him to do his duty and go find some proper and stop torturing him has haunted him for weeks. He’d never hurt Will ever. He thinks Will would be amazing with the people of his kingdom in a way Charlie can’t be. Will’s so open and warm (and pretty) everyone will love him. True, Charlie hadn’t thought anything was possible between them, he hadn’t let himself hope, but once he knew Will’s feelings, he wanted to move heaven and earth to make it happen. And he would have. But Will was gone, and must have lied about his last name, because Charlie couldn’t find him.

And then there he is, in the same room with him, and it’s like no one else is there. They move out of Charlie’s way, they always do, but now it’s with an eye toward the nervous honey-haired figure at the entrance, who starts to speak when Charlie gets closer.

“Charlie, don’t be angry. They made me–Oh God, oh fuck, I mean, Your Highness. Because you’re the prince, of course you are. I knew it and I never meant to be stupid or lie to you, I was just fooling myself. Seeing you everyday was–”

And then Charlie puts hands gently to Will’s jaw and tips his head up and kisses him softly on the mouth. And Will gasps a little and grabs his wrists, but just to hold on, So Charlie slides one hand into Will’s hair and kisses him deeper, and Will has no idea what’s happening, but he’s not about to protest.

Will’s eyes slide shut, and his soft little exhale becomes a moan when Charlie pulls him closer. A small moan, but it still makes his eyes fly open, and his cheeks go red as he pulls away. He’s no innocent flower, but he’s never been kissed by the Prince in front of the entire court before either.

Charlie is frowning now. Staring down at him sadly and sternly now that Will is out of his arms, and Will can’t take it, blush or no blush. “Don’t be like that,” he whispers, with a glance around. “If you want me, of course I’ll say yes.”

But Charlie frowns deeper. “Because I’m the prince? I’d never demand that, Will.”

“Of course you wouldn’t!” Will gasps, audience momentarily forgotten. “Not my Charlie–ah. You can forget I said that, if you want. Just. Yes. I’ll be yours, for however long you want me. Please.” His voice gets a little husky just thinking about being with Charlie. His family is nobility, but barely. There’s no shame in being the king’s bedwarmer for him. It might even raise their status. It’s more than he ever hoped for, to be honest.

“For however long?” Charlie has a rough voice Will has never heard before, but it makes him shiver.

“Yes, Charlie,” Will agrees, impatient for more kissing and eventual fucking in the prince’s own bed.

Charlie straightens up, every inch a prince. There’s no sign of his war injury as he takes Will’s hands and leads him across the room, through a parted sea of shocked, startled courtiers, to the dais where the Queen Regent herself sits.

Will hears himself make an embarrassingly squawky sound, before he remembers himself enough to bow, and when he looks up, an old woman is studying him intently.

“This is Will,” Charlie–Prince Charles, first of the House of Howard, introduces him in a voice that nearly gets Will hard, it’s so determined and final. “This is my Will,” he adds a moment later, softer. “If he’ll have me.”

As if a pledge like that in front of the queen isn’t as good as a marriage promise.

Will feel a little faint. But Charlie’s grip is firm and the Queen Regent is  amused now, so Will looks up at the fool who has been driving him mad for months, handsome and honorable and worried Will is going to say no.

“You could have had me without all the fuss.”

Charlie doesn’t seem pleased with that, but he does incline his head. “If you truly wanted that, Will, you would have kissed me in the garden.”

He has a point. So Will sucks in a breath and stares at the Regent again. Her eyes are twinkly, just like Charlie’s when he’s about to laugh at something Will’s said. Charlie should laugh more, smile more, and kiss more because fuck, Will was still weak in the knees. But Will had to be sure.

“But you’re the prince. You could–”

“Will,” Charlie cuts him off in that voice, and this time Will flushes all over. He can’t look away.

“You;’re really mad at me for running away, aren’t you?” Will wonders, without really expecting an answer, and then bobs his head once in agreement before he change his mind. “Yes. I’ll marry you, you idiot.”

“Idiot?” One of the Royal Princesses echoes, her tone shocked, as the court gasps, but Will is being drawn forward for another kiss, so he doesn’t much care.



thatrcooper: (howl and sophie)

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.
thatrcooper: (howl and sophie)
Q: Can I take this opportunity to ask for Nathaniel and Tim's meeting from Nathaniel's point of view? Or possibly, to keep with the theme, Valentine's day from his POV?
Asked by: orrla-fairygirl

You know, on my old computer that died, I had a version of their meeting from Nathaniel’s pov. Sadness. Basically, Nathaniel is sort of checking out the arriving bus in town because Ray (Ray Ray!) called him and told him to expect trouble in a small package. And Nathaniel, being Nathaniel, was intrigued and protective before he ever met Tim or learned anything about him.

And he was too late to see people getting off the bus, but there is a smell that catches his attention. He’s not really sure why. But he follows it anyway. It’s not like anything else he knows. Not quite ozone and not quite gunpowder, with this residual heat.

He ends up in Robin’s Egg’s cafe, and thinks his empty stomach misled him into thinking it was time to eat, but then he inhales again and that spiky, cordite and sparklers scent hits him again, followed by this heat that isn’t even warm, it more like awareness. His skin is tingling and hot, and he steps forward, vaguely aware that Egg is asking him something, but he can’t hear a word.

There is sugar too, surrounding the new scent. And the residual savory scents of a quick meal. And it’s as he takes another step closer that a figure at the counter turns around and sees him.

Wolf’s eyes, ferocious, starving blue, focus on him. Nathaniel hears a sound, like thunder, but it’s in his ears. Then the wolf, this tiny, starved wolf flings himself from his stool and stands in front of him. He’s breathing hard, panting from his sweet, soft mouth, and he has wide, terrified eyes, and Nathaniel wants to make his fear go away so much it actually hurts.

The wolf is still breathing so hard, and Nathaniel realizes he is too, that he can’t take in enough air because that scent is too much for him. It’s layers of explosions and sparks and terror and wanting, and

–the lust makes his knees weaken. Want-scent curls around him like hands, like that wolf’s pale, slender hands, and Nathaniel needs to bite him, needs to see his bite to know the wolf is okay, that he’s home, that he is safe and Nathaniel will protect him.

He drags in a long breath full of all that temper and fear and fire and hears himself growl, “You.” And realizes he is in the presence of his mate. This little wolf is his mate.

And then of course, on the heels of that (and all his sweetly awed thrilling delight at the idea of meeting his mate, because Nathaniel is a precious baby sometimes) his little wolf mate suddenly cringes away from him and shouts alarming, horrible things at him, and all that lust turns to pure unadulterated terror, and Nathaniel is sick and worried and half a second away from panicking that his mate will leave. He is unprotected and unafraid and he will LEAVE

I really do love Nathaniel. He deserves all that time Tm spends learning how to be gentle and loving. He would bask in it. Every single shy but sincere gesture when no one is looking. (Until that point when Tim forgets to care if people are looking and can see him being soft and vulnerable with his mate. Ah those are the best. Letting Nathaniel take his hand. Or smushing his face into Nathaniel’s arm and sighing dramatically when Nathaniel is taking too long to finish his paperwork and go home.)
thatrcooper: (charlie loves me)

vashti-lives:

@sweetfirebird This isn’t actually on topic for Valentine’s Day but Arthur, accidental king of the PTA is one of my all time favorite things to think about. He wouldn’t mean to, naturally, but there are all these awful snooty moms who look down on everybody who isn’t just like them and it’s just not right– stop laughing Bertie. 

(Although thinking about Arthur and Bertie as dads makes me think about their current baby and that makes me think about Miki and Diego, who I’m sure have such cute Valentine’s Day stuff going on.) 

Honestly, you’re an older, experienced werewolf who is overjoyed to have found this miracle, this *Miki* in your life. Miki who is wonderful and tastes like heaven and blushes for him and hides his face when he moans in bed. Miki, who is embarrassed to feel Diego’s arm slide around his waist while he works, but also pleased. He smells of dirt and a hundred flowers and a hint of blood from contact with a thorn, and he does not think about a day like Valentine’s Day because he is *Miki*.

But Diego knows. His querido needs attention and care as much any delicate carnivorous plant. He needs gifts and adoration and though he does not know this, those around him do. If Kazimir were here, he would know it too, and silently insist that Diego do his duty.

So he does. He wakes before Miki and nuzzles into his throat to Miki’s startled pleasure. He leads him into the shower, although Miki protests that he’s only going to get dirty. He gets suspicious too, when Diego only washes his soft curls and dries them by hand with a towel.

The suspicion returns to surprise when he is fixed toast, and marmalade, with butter and tea, served on Kazimir’s antique tea things. The sky has barely begun to lighten outside, and Miki is regarding Diego with confusion but is strangely silent.

Diego only nuzzles his throat again, against the door, marking him with his scent and inhaling his sweetness. He runs his hands through his hair until it is thoroughly tousled, and then when he finally makes himself pull away, Miki stops him with a tug at his shirt.

There are stars in his eyes, and his lips are parted, but his tone is so serious.

“I don’t understand,” he says, quietly pleading. Diego *must* kiss him, just there, softly on his mouth.

“I am a husband doing my duty,” he explains, “Because I love you, but my love is not the type to be wooed with cut flowers. Not even on Valentine’s Day.”

The smile is slow to appear, but then it blooms across Miki’s face and makes his eyes crinkle. His hand slides up Diego’s chest to his shoulder, and around his neck. Diego steps closer without another thought.

“Okay,” Miki agrees,breathless and remarkable. “How do I woo you?” But he already knows, as his clever fingers curl into Diego’s hair, and he arches his neck to bare his throat, and Diego’s teeth press, faintly, scarcely there, into his hot, bared skin.
thatrcooper: (colorful)
Q: Is there a V Day in Godric's world? Or something similar? If not, what would he and Bertie do in the bodyguard AU?
Asked by: orbisonblue

Well they have festivals devoted to spring (and marriage and fucking) so I don’t think a festival celebrating love is much of a stretch. I do like the idea of Godric walking around decked in flowers though, and strips of fabric from Bertie’s dresses tied around his arms and legs. And possibly no one expects a man of his age or reputation to participate in a festival for young lovers, but clearly, those people don’t know Bertie. Or Godric, and how patiently he would sigh and allow Bertie to *cover* him in his favors.

“Until sundown,” Bertie would have reminded him sweetly, after waking him up at dawn with kisses that had sadly led nowhere. “Until sundown for the world to see you are mine, and then you return to me when the sun goes down… unless, of course, you choose not to.”

Bertie had undoubtedly meant this display to be a teasing joke. He possibly hadn’t expected Godric to allow it in the first place. But the fear in his voice for that part stayed with Godric longer than the burn beneath his skin for the passion Bertie had started in his bed that morning.

It was a silly holiday for the young. A sort of test, public declarations and a day of frustrated yearning. A Northern thing Godric had only ever observed before.

He was older. Waiting a few hours should not have bothered him. But the strips of torn fabric reminded him of Bertie, and his fondness for tying Godric up loosely by his wrists when he was being stubborn. The flowers made him think of spring fields, and the secret bower belonging to the king’s bastard brother, and what Bertie had done to him there. Bertie had woken him up with the touch of his mouth to his flesh, the grind of his lithe body, and then he’d pulled away.

A few hours weighed heavily. Moreso when he entered the throne room and saw Bertie, He hadn’t been allowed to touch Bertie that morning. Hadn;t realized that once he was shooed from the room wearing all this finery and foolishness, Bertie would tie pieces of Godric’s colors around his wrists to fall gracefully to the floor. He hadn’t thought Bertie would wear a chain of Southern daisies around his neck.

And after that first second where their eyes meet, when he can see Bertie’s surprise to find him still wearing his favors, and the relief, he feels a yearning a man his age shouldn’t feel.

They have hours to go until they can touch one another, if they choose to play this game. And they are. He stays on his side of the room, and Bertie stays on his, and no one is oblivious to their stares, and Godric would burn with shame and embarrassment, but his body is too busy being on fire for what Bertie began that morning.

Until sundown. He doesn’t think he can wait.

thatrcooper: (golightly)
Q: Prompt: You can ask me a millions times, I will NOT wear tights with a back seam again. I do not care if my clothes don't match the christmas tree. *Legit conversation I heard when my cousin phoned his boyfriend, but he wouldn't explain, although he blushed a red so deep we thought he'd die of embarrassment for real. Care to do it for him?*
Asked by: Anonymous

“No. Nope. Nao,” Chico hissed into the phone, desperate enough to use one of the twenty Portuguese words he knew. Raf, of course, only sighed dramatically in his ear.

“But they’ll match the tree. It’s for charity, Chico, and you have such pretty legs.”

“I DO NOT HAVE PRETTY LEGS!” Chico snapped back immediately, in order to avoid all the warm, happy feelings in his middle at the compliment. He glanced down at his legs, though, currently encased in jeans, and then up, into the faces of his sister and mother. Camille had wide eyes.

Chico turned around toward the corner and held his phone closer to his face.

“Chico…” Raf whined. Which was dangerous, because he never actually meant it when he whined. It was more like a funny voice he did to make Chico smile, and it was not working, dammit. It would not work.

“No. I don’t mind dressing as an elf. And I don’t mind the burlesque look–” he stopped at the scoffing sound Raf made, because Chico had spent days lovingly adding details to the corsets and bustiers of the drag queens of the Boozy Cherries for their charity Christmas review, and yes, Raf knew that. He also knew Chico had made himself a pretty holly green and crimson elf jacket for the occasion.

And a jaunty hat. But that didn’t mean anything.

“But I draw the line at burlesque elf!”“ He finished his thought in a furious whisper.

“They’re short ticket takers. Come on, Chico. It’s for a good cause and you know it.” Raf was using his coaxing voice now. It wasn’t fair. “I’ll do it if you do it.”

“Ha!”Chico tried to laugh, but his throat was suddenly dry at the thought of Raf’s dancer’s body in black silk stockings with a back seam. “Oh God,” he said aloud. “Thats not the same. You were in ballet. You’re used to tights. Your ass is–”

His sister coughed–loudly–behind him.

Chico made a strangled sound and was not amused when Raf laughed, warm and pleased. “My ass is yours, if you do this”

“It’s mine anyway,” Chico grumbled at him, okay yes, a little warm and pleased himself. But he was standing firm on this. “The stockings are pretty, okay, but I have twig legs and do you know how hard it is to keep a back seam straight?”

“If you’re asking me to keep an eye on your backside for you, I’ll happily obey,” Raf offered softly, setting Chico’s face on fire. He tried to squeeze more of his body into the corner. “And I don’t think your legs are twigs at all. I mean, just last night you had them wrapped around my waist and I thought–”

“YES OKAY. JUST SHUT UP NOW!” Chico shouted at him, wanting to hear more and absolutely mortified at the same time.

Raf, evil, beautiful man, just chuckled.
thatrcooper: (Default)
Q: Prompt: I will vanquish your foes and then help you file your taxes.
Asked by: vashti-lives

I can absolutely Winter Prince for this one.

(Reposted from my tumblr)
 

 

“You realize the press is imagining you engaged to some princess or other right now?” Razin’s tone was close to frosty, although he kept his gaze on his tablet. He swiped the glass a few times in short, furious gestures that still managed to be graceful.

Kisin did not think Razin was actually reading anything at the moment, although Razin was clever enough to hold a conversation and look over spreadsheets at the same time.

more spiky Razin behind the cut )


 

No, making fun of Kisin’s embarrassing popularity with the paparazzi and his complete failure of a romantic life, while also pretending he didn’t care about it was one of his best friend’s favorite pastimes. He also liked Games of Thrones–the books–and comic books. He had quite the collection now. Kisin’s family paid him well to manage their fortune.

He should have been happy, not scowling at his tablet and sitting in icy silence while Kisin stared at him. Kisin had been going to ask if Razin wanted to go to lunch. Kisin avoided the city as much as he could, mostly because of the presence of the press, but also in a somewhat stupid attempt to give Razin space.

To give himself space as well. It was an awkward and painful thing, to be in love with your best friend. It was worse when they didn’t love you, and you showed up to their apartment unannounced and found they had a guest.

A very naked guest, who felt comfortable enough to answer the door.

So these days, Kisin stayed either in the family’s cabin in Vermont or at the place in Connecticut, where he could at least see to the horses. And when he got bored, or lonely, or simply couldn’t stand only talking with Razin through email, he came down.

Obviously he shouldn’t have.

“Yes, I know,” he admitted on a sigh. “I went to Paris last month for some event with Ceren, and Princess Lana and I happened to get along. She likes the same books I do, and she loves horses.” He stopped briefly to frown when Razin muttered something and reached over to grab his coffee and down it in one swallow. “She’s nice, Razin. You’d like her. ”

Razin was not in a good mood. His fingers were drumming against the tablet now. “I thought His Highness didn’t like media attention.” His Highness was Razin’s teasing pet name for Kisin since they were boys, and Razin had come to the country estate when his mother had been hired as a cook. Kisin was His Highness to him. And then at some point when Kisin had been in college, the nickname had been overheard by a reporter and the public had gone crazy with it. Pictures of Kisin riding his favorite horse, chopping wood at the cabin while sporting a beard, in a tux while attending a charity gala with his mother, had appeared in tabloids overnight, all with HIS HIGHNESS splashed across them.

Once he’d been in the Sexiest Man Alive issue, Razin had been merciless.

“Who is His Highness dating this week?” was almost inevitably Razin’s first question at seeing him. Or, “Whose heart will His Highness be breaking today?”

“Razin. You know I don’t like the attention. I never asked for it. I only came to the city because I hadn’t seen you in two months.” Kisin didn’t try to have a witty comeback. He wasn’t as clever as Razin. But usually his quiet remarks  would shut Razin up, make him take a breath and then turn agreeable again.

Sure enough, Razin gave a sigh and finally looked up from whatever he had been pretending to do. He stared at Kisin for a long moment, sweeping his gaze from his shoulders to his feet and then up to Kisin’s face. He swallowed and then glanced away.

“I don’t know if I can been seen out in public with you,” he declared, loftily, if breathlessly. “People like the idea of you in love with an actual princess. If they see you with me, they might get the wrong idea. What does your princess think of your beard?” Razin’s breathlessness became more pronounced. “I didn’t realize you’d been up at the cabin, doing your manly man lumberjack routine.”

My princess,” Kisin began, with as much sarcasm as he could muster, “was trying to make time with my sister for most of fashion week before she abandoned the chase to bed some models. And I came straight down. Should I have shaved first?” He scratched at his jaw.

Razin shook his head no, quite firmly, then seemed to stop himself. He heaved a breath, then muttered to himself as he put his tablet away and straightened his desk. “His Highness thinks I will drop everything to have lunch with him, simply because he tells me he came down just to see me.”

The muttering didn’t fool Kisin this time. He rolled his eyes. “If you can stand to be seen with me, Razin. The paparazzi always seem to find me. They know damn well Lana and I aren’t dating, but it makes a good story I guess.”

“Of course it does,” Razin spoke softly, while turning away to put on his scarf. “The prince and the princess in Paris. It will hardly compare to the prince and his accountant at lunch.”

“I could take you somewhere romantic?” Kisin offered, meaning to tease, and then heard himself, and what an idiot he was. “The nicest falafel truck in Wall Street,” he added quickly, hoping Razin wouldn’t notice.

Razin had fancier taste than any falafel truck anyway.

But Razin froze.

Kisin’s heart kicked with terror, terror that did not lesson when Razin turned to him with a strange, sad smile on his face.

“I might have a solution to His Highness’ current romantic predicament.” Razin studied Kisin again, from his sweater and thick coat to his dark beard. He gave one final sigh, and then straightened his shoulders as he approached Kisin.

He linked their hands together, entwining his fingers gracefully with Kisin’s, and then made a small sound before he continued walking, dragging Kisin along with him, out of his office, past curious secretaries and startled interns.

“Razin.” At the express elevator, Kisin balked, no matter how smart and cunning Razin could be. “Razin, they’ll think you’re the other woman. They’ll demonize you. They’ll–” He stopped dead. “They’ll think you’re in love with me.”

“That’s the plan, Your Highness.” Razin’s tone was too nervous to be mocking, although he might have intended it to be. “And you would be in love with me, unless you think they won’t buy it, since you can barely bring yourself to visit me anymore. Too busy chopping wood and breaking hearts.”

“I’m not–” Kisin realized he was being goaded into a fight, which was one of Razin’s other favorite pastimes when he was upset. He shook his head. “The press will hate you. I won’t allow it. I can take them thinking I’m engaged again, or that I dumped her and broke her heart, or whatever it will be next week, but I can’t take them attacking you.”

“You–” Razin raised his head to stare at Kisin with wide eyes. A frown came and went in his expression. Then the elevator door’s dinged as they opened, and he stepped inside. He was still leading Kisin and Kisin was still letting himself be led.

“And His Highness says he doesn’t break hearts,” Razin complained lightly once the doors were closed and they were alone again. He kept his gaze down, on the floor, Kisin thought, until he realized they were still holding hands. “Maybe if you finally settled down, and really dated someone, the press would get bored and leave you alone.”

He was quiet.

So was Kisin, although he couldn’t have said why. “Who do you suggest?”

Razin lifted his chin, but kept his eyes away. “Someone you actually care for and want to spend time with, obviously.”

Kisin swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat, then quickly directed his attention to the elevators doors as well, and not their joined hands. The moment the doors opened to the lobby, people would see them together. They would assume. There would be rumors and then pictures.

“I’m not going to pretend to date you, Razin,” Kisin insisted, with his palms damp and his heart rate skyrocketing. “But I will go to lunch with you. I came here to have lunch with you.”

Razin whipped his head around to stare at him, although Kisin kept his attention on the doors.

“Yes, you did,” Razin agreed, after far too long a pause, while his mind had reasoned and considered everything there was to reason and consider about Kisin. “You–”

“You never did say where you wanted to go for lunch,” Kisin interrupted, and released Razin’s hand as the doors opened to reveal the marble walls of the lobby.
thatrcooper: (howl and sophie)
C&P from my tumblr. Brief AU of Wicklow's Odyssey. Wicklow/Rhoades as werewolves.


Read more... )


Rhoades has called him ‘mate’ from the moment they met. “Mate” with shocked awe when his eyes found Wicklow in the dark of his prison cage, in the dark like humans weren’t supposed to do. Wicklow’s mother had lived just long enough to hint to him that there were others like them, and to remind him to hide it, but he’d never met another until then.

“Mate.” In a smooth, rich man’s voice and then again, but lower, in something like a cat’s purr, although Wicklow did not think a wolf made such a sound.

He didn’t trust rich men and he didn’t know wolves, wild or wealthy or purring, so he put his back to wall and lowered his head and snarled.

The other wolf only came closer, glowing eyes steady, not a hint of fangs to be seen. “Mate,” he’d said, a third time, and added another word, one to set Wicklow to growling and make him forget his mother’s every word about caution.

“Mine.”


He doesn’t say that word again, but the other remains, as foreign as any of the Greek words he insists upon using, and the two dollar words from his books as well. Wicklow doesn’t pay it much mind. There are other wolves that run behind Alexander Rhoades, wolves as confused as Wicklow. Wicklow has to dodge them, sniff them out, keep them away. He has devices to learn, and other ways of killing besides going for the throat.

He is curious, although he keeps his questions to himself. The woman carries a rifle but shifts into a nimble brown creature. She shows her fangs when Rhoades approaches, when he looks at Wicklow and uses that word, but she frowns and follows him all the same.

The younger wolf is rangy and big and loud until he isn’t. He moves quieter than anything Wicklow’s ever seen. He smells of secrets and gunpowder and walks apart from the others when they train, but he stills when Rhoades speaks.

The grey wolf, the one-armed, three-legged Colonel feeds them, nips to keep them in line. His eyes glow so much Wicklow thinks it’s only the fact that he, too, is a rich man that has kept the world from guessing what he is.

Rhoades is a wolf who never changes, never in front of them. He does not snarl. He has soft hands and wears silk. But he speaks and even Pilar cocks her head to listen.

He stares at Wicklow, and pauses, as if waiting, and calls him Private Doyle when he is a man, and mate when the small black wolf shows up at his door.



Rhoades wears fine leather shoes. Wicklow thinks they would be equally fine to sleep on.


Rhoades does not touch him, although after a few months he touches the others. On their shoulders, once, at the back of Anthony’s neck, when he’d returned wounded and whimpering. He buys Pilar clothes. Serves hunks of meat to Anthony. Leaves cigars out for the Colonel.

For Wicklow there are plates of food Wicklow will not touch, coats he shies away from, and books.

The books Wicklow borrows, although only within the library. He will not take them from Rhoades’ home.

Rhoades makes no comment on this, although he is more man than wolf, Wicklow thinks, and is overly fond of words. He says nothing, but when he looks at Wicklow, Wicklow wants to tilt his head back and howl.


He does that, howls, for the first time on the date he chooses to be his nineteenth birthday, all alone in the acres of woods outside Rhoades’ family home in Philadelphia. He howls and jumps in surprise at the chorus of responses, and the sudden slurry of motion as Anthony and Pilar rush past him into the trees. They yip for him to follow, so he does, and they return in the morning, muddied, cold, wet, to a hot breakfast and a gaze from Rhoades so fondly amused that Wicklow can hardly meet it.

He doesn’t ask why Rhoades didn’t join them.


“Mate,” Rhoades tells him, before he leaves for another mission. They are all leaving, for weeks this time, but it is Wicklow alone in Rhoades’ library. “Be careful.”

Wicklow is always careful, but Rhoades stares him down and smells of cologne and leather and worry over the skin-scent, warm-scent, home-scent of him, so Wicklow nods. Rhoades smells good, very good, clean and whole. Rhoades smells like the others, but also himself. If he dares to come closer, Wicklow can find the salt of his sweat, the metallic hint of his blood, and the powerful center of him beneath even that. He thinks it’s like honey, or velvet, or gold, although gold itself does not smell like Rhoades at all.

If the others are pack-scent, “Pack,” Pilar tells him, “You are my pack brother. Little Brother Wolf. Little Fierce Eyes.’ then Rhoades’ scent is something else. Leader-scent. “Boss,” Anthony says. “Don Alessandro” “Alexander,” the Colonel grumbles, but with his head angled down. “Fool,” Pilar will add, but then shake her head and admit the rest in a softer voice, “The wolf among the wolves.”

Rhoades’ scent is strong. It creeps through the streets of Washington and finds Wicklow in his lab, and when he is alone in his room. It lingers in Wicklow’s clothes and makes him bite at his pillows when he cannot sleep. Wicklow flushes when he enters the library–the place where the scent is everywhere, and gets on his lips so that when he licks them he seem to taste Rhoades.

He doesn’t understand why the others don’t react to it. Even Anthony will preen for a bit of praise from Rhoades, even the Colonel will flash his eyes when Rhoades speaks, but Wicklow’s heart pounds before he even sees Rhoades, and he knows Rhoades can hear it.

But he does nothing, only continues to offer meals and clothing and a world of knowledge. He comes downstairs to see Wicklow while reeking of men and seed, and the humans he has just fucked slink out the door with bruises on their skin. He says those things, “Mate. Be careful” before sending Wicklow out to spy and lie and kill.


Wicklow wants to bite him.


Rhoades is rich and soft, but Wicklow thinks if he tried to sink his teeth in Rhoades’ throat, he would be the one to end up hurt.



In Chattanooga, they find a Reb wolf, or she finds them. Wicklow finally guts her, but it takes him too long to heal. Her fangs sank in deep, and when he returns, more worn than he’s ever been, Rhoades snarls before Wicklow can manage one word of his report, and in the next moment has Wicklow against the wall and his face to his shoulder.

The wound isn’t serious. Wicklow tells him that, shuddering when he ought to push Rhoades way. He ignores how slow he was to heal, how Pilar had been desperate enough to use their radios to try to reach Rhoades, as if the sound of Rhoades’ voice alone would have been enough to make Wicklow to heal faster.

There is a scar in the shape of her teeth. Wicklow has many scars. This one turns Rhoades’ eyes to gold, and Wicklow is too momentarily taken aback to see a glimpse of this wolf again to notice the hot breath on his neck, the teeth so near his throat.

“Mate,” Rhoades says quietly, distressed or angry, Wicklow can’t tell. The scent of him is everywhere. Wicklow licks his lips and inhales and wonders where the others went, and if they know why he cannot move until Rhoades’ stops shaking.


He stays in the library, that night, and most nights after when he isn’t working.

He eats the food, and accepts one coat.

He takes the books to his single room, and burns when the scent of Rhoades fills the small space.



“Private Doyle,” Rhoades says, over the radio, before fading into crackling silence. It’s the last Wicklow hears from him for three weeks. It’s been a month altogether he’s been away from pack leader, from Rhoades, from good-scent, home-scent, library and hot blood and Rhoades. Wicklow hasn’t been sleeping. It took all his energy to get to Rhoades’ door without shifting.

Rhoades stands in front of him with glowing eyes and smells of another man, and Wicklow is dripping with rainwater and shakes his head like a dog in the street.

Wicklow is on two legs, but he feels animal, uncertain. He doesn’t know why Rhoades would call him by his human name when Wicklow can only swallow his whimpers of confusion.

Rhoades smells of another man, human, weak, not-Wicklow, and he knows Wicklow knows this. Wicklow thinks he wants him to know, and for a moment he bares his teeth.

The surprise and hope that weave their way into Rhoades’ scent throw him enough that he backs down, lowers his head, but his glare remains, even as his heart is racing.

Rhoades should rip his throat out, hurt him, as the Colonel has suggested some older packs used to do to upstarts who challenged the pack leaders. But he thinks of Rhoades’ mouth at his throat and trembles. It is not with fear.

Rhoades will know that too. As the others must know. If it bothers him, there is no sign. His voice gentles as he asks for Wicklow’s report, and he puts one hand, one careful hand, to Wicklow’s shoulder as he urges him to sit down and rest, rest at last, mate, put these lonely weeks behind you and rest here, where you belong, and I will keep you safe.

The words are strange, moreso because Wicklow is not sure they are said out loud. He reads them in the tilt of Rhoades’ head, the warm curl of his scent, the shine in his eyes.

If Wicklow turned, even a fraction, that hand would curve over the back of his neck. Strange then, that he finds he can rest despite that.

He thinks it might even be because of it.
thatrcooper: (brokeback)
Another free short story, because I thought it was here, but it was only on my tumblr. (So many snippets are only on tumblr, but I'm not sure how many are worth bringing over, or would officially be "canon")



This is set sometime after the events of Little Wolf and a Mate of One's Own.


Strange Medicine

God, he hated therapy )
thatrcooper: (howl and sophie)
Free Short for the Being(s) in Love universe.

(Yes, I know. When I imported all the free reads from my old LJ to here for temporary safekeeping, the tags got messed up. I will fix it when I can.)


Chronologically, this would take place sometime after a Boy and His Dragon, but closer to the events of His Mossy Boy and Treasure for Treasure. As you will see when a certain graphic novel series is mentioned.

All the Futures That Could Be

because writers are seers, darling )
thatrcooper: (perv by kittie)
Yes, yes, it's been difficult for me to focus on writing lately (for my usual reasons and also US political reasons) but I have been *trying*. So for now, there is just this short, but I am working on stuff, I promise. (The story after Treasure for Treasure is still under review/submission at Dreamspinner. And I am making notes for a new weird thing.)


Meanwhile, I did this. The purest fluffest fluff to ever fluff. No, really. I know I say "fluff" and still my work will be super angsty, but this is not angsty. This is sugar and roses and lounging in the sun on a comfy couch while your S.O. pets your hair, fluff.



Sami is twenty-seven and happy to live at home with his family, even if he is a little lonely and dissatisfied with his job at a nursing home. Caring for people is what Sami does. Unfortunately, putting his loved ones first is also part of the reason Sami is single. As accepting as his parents are, he isn’t sure how they’d react if he brought home a boyfriend. So he spends more time than he should dreaming of what might be, and fighting with his younger sister over the perfect sunny spot on the couch. Which is probably why the perfect potential boyfriend chooses that moment to move in across the street.

There’s just one problem—his new neighbor isn’t really new. He’s the son of the woman Sami’s mother has had a feud with for years. Toby and Sami grew up together but were never allowed to say more than a few words to each other despite Sami’s repeated efforts. Quiet, serious Toby was Sami’s first and biggest crush, and everyone knew it—a big part of their reason their mothers didn’t get along. Toby’s mother went as far as planting dozens of thorny rose bushes around her house to ensure Sami couldn’t even see Toby anymore.

But Toby’s mother is long gone, and Toby has no interest in reviving the feud. If anything, he seems determined to end it. Finding out why, and if it has anything to do with the way he looks at Sami, means Sami will have to raise the issue with his family—and dare to step beyond the wall of roses that kept him out all those years ago.


You can buy it on Amazon.

Or on Smashwords. And as a bonus, all the proceeds from the sales on Smashwords this week are going to CAIR. Woo! Good deeds and fluffy fluff! What a good, as the kids say. What a good.


<3<3<3Happy Valentine's Day!! <3<3<3
thatrcooper: (geoffrey fuck you by iconsftw)
In response to recent events, and my political posts all over the place:

There are a lot of people who feel that writers, like artists and actors, should stay out of politics. Usually, people worry about them driving away fans, I think, That is a real possibility. Fans have plenty of other options if you displease them.

But I don't like that argument. For one, art is always political. It doesn't exist in a vacuum. It's a product of its time and place, and the experiences and worldview of the person who created it. Just as how it's interpreted by fans is also political and based on their experiences and worldviews. And I know, this is genre fiction--romance--so calling it "art" feels a little silly, but each m/m romance story is still a written document. It's still a creation. It's something that could survive to another time and be examined by people wanting to discover more about our time. So I'm just gonna go ahead and call it art. :)

It's art, and it has meaning to the people who write it, and to the people who read it. You can't pretend otherwise. You can't, for example, have women claiming m/m helps them explore their sexuality but then also claim m/m is meaningless. It's art, and every choice made by the author of an m/m story is political whether they realize it or not. The age of your protags, their body types, their races, their choice of how to label themselves, their economic class, their freedom (or lack of freedom) to express their desires, their state of being Out or not to their families, even if they are a goddamn werewolf--it's political. Writers are making a political statement, even with the smuttiest smut, or the fluffiest fluff piece set in a coffee shop. Readers are making political choices when they choose certain books over others.That's just the way it is.

Beyond that, although certain people like pretend otherwise, m/m romance is a genre about an actual real life community of actual people who are in actual danger of having their rights stripped away. M/m books have readers (and writers), male and female, who are a part of that community and are in terror right now. And a part of me feels like, if you write those books, but you aren't standing up for those people now, then you cannot be writing books I want to read.

So yeah, if you follow me on Facebook or Tumblr or on my fledgling Twitter, I am probably annoying the shit out of you with all my political posts. (Especially if you live in another country.) You might decide not to follow me anymore because of that. Or you might decide my views are too much for you, so you never want to buy my work again. That sucks for me, but it's your right.

But I can't shut up right now. I'm a nervous wreck, and swinging wildly between anger and despair as I read every day about new horrendous injustices being ordered by Evil Orange Tiny Hands and his friends, and I'd love to just ignore everything, or keep my opinions to myself. But I can't. It's not in my nature. And frankly, if you've been reading my stories, that should be pretty clear by now. :)

I'm not saying people in this community have to start shouting about Cheeto Voldemort the way I am and others are, but I am thinking that sometimes, for what I said above? The reverse is true. Sometimes not voicing your opinions or offering support in a time of crisis can cost you fans too.

So anyway. tl;dr. Sorry not sorry for all the political posts, but thank you to the people who donated and participated in both of my anti-Tiny Hands and the Axis of Evil charity drives. You guys are awesome! Also in a little bit, I should have a new story out, and part of the profits are going to go to charity again. Stay tuned!

quick note

Dec. 9th, 2016 07:00 pm
thatrcooper: (charlie and will)
Treasure for Treasure comes out this Monday (December 12), but I will be doing my day job hell week before Christmas then, so my promotion efforts will be limited. However, if anyone wants to ask questions or talk about it (draaagons!) I'm going to leave my Goodreads question box thingee open, and of course, there's also my Tumblr as well.

Speaking of, if you were on my Tumblr today, you might have gotten to see a snippet about the baby. Yes, THAT baby. Well, a few years in the future, so she's not a baby-baby. But... you get the picture. :) (If you honestly cannot figure out Tumblr, eventually I might post it here.)

Meanwhile, I am ready to submit the next book after Treasure for Treasure, I just have to adjust everything for Dreamspinner's new submission guidelines. But soon. Sooooon.
thatrcooper: (Default)
Where have I been?

Writing a story that WOULD NOT END. I love the characters and all, but for whatever reason, the story took me forever to write. (It was probably my emotions in the way. I'm not one of those people who are super in touch with their emotions. Then these issues and feelings just sort of appear in my stories, and I'm like... how did that get there? aaaah.) Anyway, I would adore talking about this book with everyone, but since it contains stuff about my newest book, I suppose I will wait until you all have at least read that. (Yes, this is a tease.)

Newest book? you say. Oh right. TREASURE FOR TREASURE FINALLY HAS A RELEASE DATE! December 12, you can get it and softly murmur mine mine mine as you stow it in your pocket.


In the nineteenth century, the dragon Dìzhèn put the small coastal town of Everlasting under her protection. Her family was supposed to carry on the tradition, but all of Dìzhèn the Great’s heirs eventually left rather than live in the shadow of such a powerful dragon.

Only the youngest dragon of the current generation remains: Zarrin, the softhearted disgrace of his family. He might be weak, small, and afraid, but he is determined to show the humans they have not been forgotten… one human in particular. The problem is, Zarrin can barely get that human to talk to him.

It should be a dream come true to have a dragon trying to get his attention. But Joe refuses to bow to Zarrin like everyone else. Yes, Zarrin is sexy, oddly gentle for a dragon, and stares at Joe with a gaze so hot it makes him shiver. But hurt, mistrustful Joe can’t believe Zarrin’s promises that he’s here to stay. Joe doesn’t realize he is the treasure Zarrin has been looking for his whole life, a treasure he once let slip through his fingers out of fear. Now, to win Joe’s trust, Zarrin has to be brave and become as strong as Dìzhèn herself.



Look at that!!!!

Also, for those who like audiobooks, The Firebird and Other Stories and A Beginner's Guide to Wooing Your Mate are now available on Audible.


And now, pimping done, I'd like to take a moment to thank everyone who participated in my little fundraiser, and gave money to worthy causes in exchange for sinppets of their choosing. You guys were awesome, and the snippets were fun to do. The charities thank you. <3<3<3<3
thatrcooper: (Default)
Someone on Tumblr asked me about dragons who hoard stories.

And because I have been editing and working on difficult story (it's so painful but good but painful, you guys) for weeks and weeks now, my brain glomped onto this idea like nobody's business. So. Everyone gets a story, which is fun at least.

(And before I forget, no release date on Treasure for Treasure yet. But there will be a sale on a set of Beings stories in October at Dreamspinner. And yes, I am still working on the book after Treasure for Treasure. (It hurts, but it's also soft and gentle, I swear.)

Anyway. Back to dragons who hoard stories.

This story references some ideas and things from books that haven't been released yet, so sorry if that is confusing. Just know that Redwolf and Rum is a graphc novel series about a werewolf, written by an actual werewolf, and that modern dragon families are little... weird. (Plus, like, doesn't the world need more gay dragon regency romances????)


All the Futures That Could Be

Too many stories and not enough stories, thousands upon thousands of them in the room as they were in Edgar’s mind. But to others it was hushed, and the crackle of the fire was peaceful, so they would often come to sit on the couch and listen to him talk about stories as if they believed what humans did—that storytellers were Seers. That was why Edgar was shown respect although he was a dragon with no treasure of his own.

But he certainly didn’t feel wise or all-seeing. He felt slow and foolish, half-lost in a graphic novel about love and unable to pull himself completely free.

thatrcooper: (perv by kittie)
I said I was going to talk Hottie Scotty, so here it is.


(It's a bit late. I had a bunch of stuff going on at once, and I apologize.)


In between Treasure for Treasure getting accepted, and A Dandelion for Tulip coming out, and audiobooks and blog tours (never again with the blog tour. I don't think it's a format suited to someone who takes things too seriously and makes terrible first impressions), and real life, I released a short little story onto Amazon. It's called Hottie Scotty and Mr. Porter.

I'm not going to pretend it's deep, because it isn't. What it is (to me) is a soft tribute to the books of short romantic stories Lucy Maud Montgomery used to write. But, you know, gay. And set now. (I grew up with her books, and some of those shorts in her collections have influenced me so much. Seriously. I always tell people, A Dinner of Herbs explains so much about my writing style. And someday, just imagine a collection of sometimes funny, sometimes sad, gentle, kind queer love stories in that style. SIGH.)

Anyway. Obviously LMM didn't write a slightly kinky relationship between a small town firefighter and a librarian, but she did like to show bullies in all their pettiness, and that is an inspiration here, too.

Yeah, yeah, I know, I should just link to the book and post the blurb, and I will. But I wanted to talk about it a little first, because I ignored it for so long. My quiet story about the scent of jasmine, and two very lonely people who are in fact quite similiar, even though on the surface no one would ever think that. They are so good and brave with each other, but (hopefully) realistically brave. Because everyone has fears and nerves, and some have them for really good reasons, and it's so wonderful to me when people who are struggling try and then find that someone loves them. I just... smiles, you guys. It gives me such smiles. So that's what I wanted, and that's what I wrote. A gentle story about two dorks who might seem to be put together, or unobtainable levels of hot, but who are, in fact, just nervous dorks who really, really like being around each other.

Of course, we don't live in an LMM world, so small town bullies are a little less petty or thoughtless, and a little more outright unfeeling and terrible, but this is R. Cooper's world, so our dorks get a happy ending anyway, and the bullies get to see themselves portrayed in a story, being as horrible as the rest of us know they are.

<3

To help out his sister, Scott moved to the small town of Montgomery, where there isn’t much to do and no one for him to date. Well, there’s one other openly gay man in town—Henry ‘Cole’ Porter, a widower who runs the school library, but after one drunken night together, Cole has kept his distance. Scott is used to that. He spends a lot of time working out to look good, and from the slow way he talks and the frat house atmosphere at the fire station where he works, it’s easy to assume he’s stupid. Most people are happy to admire his body and assume that’s all he wants from them, and deep down, Scott is too afraid to try asking for more.

Which is why sweet, romantic Scott has been secretly pining after Cole for months when some of the town’s nosier residents decide Cole has been single long enough. They have a plan to throw every successful, smart, professional gay man in a thirty-mile radius Cole’s way, whether he likes it or not. Their list of candidates doesn’t include Scott, and Scott’s insecurities prevent him from stepping forward—even when it seems as though Cole is asking him to.

Cole is everything Scott isn’t; highly educated, stylish, with refined tastes. He’s also stubborn and sarcastic, and not nearly as smart about the workings of his own heart as people might think. It might take a lot of the wrong men for him to realize the right one has been in front of him all along.

Hottie Scotty and Mr. Porter
thatrcooper: (pye pye pyewacket by rani)
I've noticed some people reading Beings books lately, along with some comments that lead me to think some people are confused. Or maybe just not the sort of people to dig around in my old posts to find information. Which is fair. I mean, I probably should build a website, but then I'm like, I'm not the sort of big name author who needs one. (Also, I'd rather be writing then doing building things or promoting things. It's true.) I do have my livejournal/goodreads reposts, and my tumblr, where things are (mostly) tagged. But yeah, I do need to set something up for that. SIGH. In the meantime...

THE BEINGS  'VERSE  EXPLANATION POST!!


Q: What is the Beings 'Verse?

A: Imagine a world just like ours, but where the magical creatures of legend (like fairies and elves and werewolves) are real, and they live openly (for the most part) with humans. But, they haven't always done so. The creatures, referred to by humans as beings, only came out of hiding when they were forced to. This happened in Europe during World War I, and panicked humans were not very accepting, so most beings live on the fringes of mainstream human society. They are idolized for their beauty and power, but also feared and mocked. Humans also do not distinguish much between the legends around these creatures and the reality of them. Over time, even the beings aren't sure about themselves.

All cultures have these creatures, and different histories with them. Some clearly worshiped their beings as gods or something godlike. Others revered them. Others told stories about encounters with them, where the beings could be benevolent or cruel or loving or petty--you know, just like humans. This is where fairy tales come from.

But then, as humans grew in strength and numbers, they stopped taking such care with these beings. They destroyed the forests where they lived, or drove the werewolves from their lands. Many of these humans, especially in Europe, when Christianity/the Church became a dominant political force, and then through colonization and imperialism, became a dominant force in most other countries, outright rejected the beings. Because the beings are different. They love indiscriminately. Some of them are naked. Their morality has its own rules. They view things like gender, and sexuality, in ways that these humans did not want to understand. So the humans called them evil, or banned the stories of them, and they did the same to humans who were similar to the beings.

But, when those cruel, powerful humans brought war to the entire globe, the beings had no place left to hide. Of course, some had never hidden in the first place, or had continued on as they were under the noses of European occupiers, but that is a story for another time.*cough*

Some of the beings remember their history, and others do not. Because they aren't represented accurately (or sometimes at all) in human media, many of them now believe the horrible things said about them. Others are fighting to prove what they really are. Alongside these beings, you have the humans who are like, or who love them.

Q: Are you some kind of nerd?

A: Yes. Obviously.


The Books:

Q: How many books are there?

A: 6 as of now. 7 is on its way. I am working on 8. (I started it this week! Aaaah!)

Q: Do the books need to be read in order?

A: No. They are written as standalones. HOWEVER, I do think people will understand certain references better if at least some of the books are read in the order they were published. AND, there are moments with recurring characters and themes that will make more sense if you've read everything. But no, it's not necessary to have read, say, Some of Kind of Magic before you read A Boy and His Dragon or Little Wolf. (In fact, I don't think most people do.)

Book 1:  Some Kind of Magic

A novella set in Los Cerros, a town with a significant being population, and which is considered a liberal town for that reason. A werewolf protects the things he loves, even from himself, if necessary. Features Ray Branigan, who is only the second being to ever make detective in Los Cerros. It also features lots of prejudice against beings, especially werewolves and fairies. Prejudices so strong even the beings have started to believe them. (Bad, Ray! Very bad! That is no way to treat your mate!)

Book 2:  A Boy and His Dragon

Set in Madera, about an hour away from Los Cerros. About a human boy with a noble heart, and the nerdy dragon history lecturer who adores him. Humans have lost the language to communcate with beings, so it takes our human boy, the lovely Arthur, some time to realize what a dragon might mean by calling him treasure.

Book 3:  A Beginner's Guide to Wooing Your Mate

Wolf's Paw, a town several hours from Los Cerros, is a town run by, and for, werewolves. If you're a human wizard, you might not feel very comfortable there. If you're a shy werewolf, you might feel like a bit of a failure for not getting your mate to love you. This story really starts to explain the idea of mating as werewolves view it. (Ray isn't really the explaining things type.) This is important because of

Book 4: Little Wolf

In which the toxic ideals about how werewolves ought to act have traumatized a young were to the point where he cannot recognize the mate in front of him. I cannot with this story. The real concept of mating (and treasure, and shine, and true love) finally starts to become more clear. It helps when you have a werewolf who acts more human than wolf.

(Book 4.5: A Mate of One's Own. A short story about Zoe, Little Wolf's friend, and her discovery of her mate.)

(Little Prince--a silly short version of Little Wolf I did, in which they are not werewolves. Very silly.)

Book 5: The Firebird and Other Stories

HOLY SHIT. Okay. This book... this book is readable without the other ones, but I personally would advise reading it after you have at least read one or two of the others. (I know some people didn't do that and still enjoyed it. But I'm just saying, it was written as I was writing the other stories and there are some tie ins.)

Basically, this book of short stories is about the beings shortly after they emerged from hiding, to the present day. Has lots of cameos, and except for two of the stories, is set in Los Cerros. LOTS of ideas about love and mating and hope in this story, which is good because there are a lot of horrible things humans have done to each other (and to the beings) throughout history. That hope is so, so necessary.

(Book 5.5: Frangipani and the Very Shiny Boy. A short story about a fairy desperately trying to get a boy's affection.)

Book 6:  A Dandelion for Tulip

Back in Madera, with a human who is finally attempting to discover the real history between humans and beings, and the fairy who loves him. Further explores the idea of shine. Features a lot of callbacks to the ideas from the previous stories. And some cameos. Were you curious about fairies? Well this is the book for you, then. :)

Book 7:  Treasure for Treasure

In which there is a small town that belongs to dragons--even though the dragons seems to have forgotten about it. One small, very determined dragon is going to have to prove to everyone that he will properly care for this treasure.

Book 8: (Well, wouldn't you like to know?)




And that is it for now. I do actually have a Beings 'Verse timeline in my notes, but it's incomplete, so in the future, I might repost all this and add it. I was also going to talk about Hottie Scotty and Mr Porter, but they are not beings, so I won't for now. Maybe this weekend.)

As always, people are free to ask me questions.<3

update

Jun. 15th, 2016 10:33 pm
thatrcooper: (charlie and will)
Look, I, uh, am supposed to be doing this promotion stuff right now. There's a lot to promote. However, to be perfectly honest, with all the crying/raging/feeling sick to my stomach I've been doing all week, I don't have the energy to do it well or without feeling tacky as shit.

But, at the same time, what I've been doing for the past few days is talk about stories and discuss online comics and analyze every single moment of books/pairings/series I love with other people, and... the distraction helps. Or maybe that's how some writers and book nerds and daydreamers deal with horrible things.

I mean, I was shouting at and then blocking assholes online for a while there. And then crying with friends, and just... yeah. But for some of us, fantasy is a weird coping mechanism. Making up headcanons about characters who aren't mine, and being silly stupid in love with all of them, and imagining how their stories might play out is just... so oddly comforting.

So to make my publisher happy, and also maybe for anyone who wants to know, or just likes fantasy romance as a distraction, I'm just going to list some promotional stuff today. Not-quite Arthur style.


This weekend (June 17-19) Dreamspinner is offering three of my titles (Dancing Lessons, Play It Again Charlie, and Wicklow's Odyssey) for 99 cents (each? I think?) on the new Dreamspinner website. (Of those, Wicklow's Odyssey is the one I like to make up headcanons about the most. Idk why. But Charlie and Will have so many AU versions of them)

Next week, A Dandelion for Tulip comes out. I got my paperbacks in the mail today. I'd completely forgotten about them. So, June 24th, all the fluffy, yearning boy-meets-fairy you can stand. Book Six in the Being(s) in Love series.

Speaking of, Dreamspinner just today accepted what will be Book Seven. Treasure for Treasure. Yes. That is the one involving the sugarbaby dragon. :)

I wrote a short story/novella and will self publish it soon. I'm just waiting on a cover, and then a bit more free time so I can format it. Hottie Scotty and Mr. Porter will probably go on sale on Smashwords and Amazon for a short amount of time, and then just Amazon for a while.

What else? (All this stuff happens at once) Oh, the Beings series is going to be translated into French, apparently. That's cool.

I will be messing about on my Tumblr for the weekend after Tulip comes out, as usual, if people want to join/bug me. :)

And oh. I am doing a blog tour (Which, now that I've done it, I'm not sure I would do it again. It's like speed dating in author bio form, and I am much too awkward for things like that.) But, here are the dates for my posts. Some of the sites might do reviews as well? I'm not really sure how it all works.

June 17 - MM Good Book Reviews
June 23 - Alpha Book Reviews
June 24 - Divine Magazine
June 26 - Love Bytes
June 28 - The Novel Approach
June 30 - Long and Short Reviews


Yes, I did a different post for each one. And no, they probably don't make much sense. Especially toward the end. But there are some excerpts and me musing about fairies and shine and why I write the Beings, and things like that.


So I hope everyone is safe, and can find something somewhere to give them comfort. if it's my cheese, that's awesome, but if it isn't, I get that too.

And now I leave you with the cover, because these sweet, romantic fools are so not my usual dorks at all.

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