the journal of r. cooper

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.

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. 

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–”