R. Cooper's Blog, page 8

Rhoades is a silly man. I adore him anyway.

So I was killing time yesterday in between cleaning and food prep, and asked if anyone on Tumblr would donate to a foodbank in exchange for a snippet with a prompt of their choosing, and Starrla89 kindly donated. She then requested Wicklow/Rhoades, with Wicklow initiating a kiss.

(It might be a little strange. I am sick and was sick when I wrote it. Ah well.)

Spoilers for Wicklow's Odyssey. (duh)

Love, if that was the word for it, was a terrible thing.

Wicklow wasn’t overly fond of the word itself, love. It didn’t say nearly everything it should. It was too small to contain the vast, ocean-like ache that he was only now beginning to be fully conscious of, and it was too simple to explain his need to sometimes come and see Rhoades when he had no reason and no plans to.

He supposed that was why the Greeks, the ancient, dead ones Rhoades was so fond of, had different words for it. Words Rhoades whispered to him in his bed and out of it. Words that tickled the back of Wicklow’s neck in the morning and that echoed unsaid over the radio. Names for the warmth in him when Rhoades remained safe in his library and the strange heat that had Wicklow shivering in Rhoades’ arms.

But none of those words felt right when Wicklow looked at Rhoades and saw him as he was, the way others saw him, and had seen him. Rhoades was a light, a dark, wicked, dancing fire, there to illuminate the way or burn Washington itself to the ground. That was a fool’s way to describe him, but that was how Wicklow felt, at times, when Rhoades was working and seemed to have forgotten him.

Alexander Rhoades did not forget, not anything, not a slight, and certainly not Wicklow. Wicklow felt Rhoades’ regard for him in his bones—another sensation he had grown so used to he had not even realized it was there until Rhoades himself had drawn his attention to it.

“You come back to me, and I can breathe again,” Rhoades had told him, voice and hands shaking. He’d been panting despite his words. The smashed radio at the side of Rhoades’ desk had distracted Wicklow when he’d first entered the library. The dozens of pieces had spoken of anger, and a loss of control that had left Wicklow puzzled and silent.

“You came back, beloved,” Rhoades had breathed against Wicklow’s neck and rested his hands on Wicklow’s sides without pulling him closer, as though Wicklow were not ready to drop into his arms. Wicklow had approached him, making a sound to bring Rhoades’ gaze up, and then Rhoades had said those first words and Wicklow had pushed himself into Rhoades’ lap.

Rhoades had been surprised. Wicklow would not forget that, whatever the length of his life. Rhoades had been surprised that Wicklow had returned to him, and devastated to think he might not have. Wicklow had thought only that Alexander Rhoades should not tremble because one thief and spy had left him.

Wicklow had yet to ask why Rhoades would have thought Wicklow would leave him. Then, he had whispered, “Alexander,” and Rhoades had kissed him, placing hot, pleading kisses to his mouth and his cheek, before pressing Wicklow to his desk there with the door wide open and sucking his cock. And when Wicklow was empty and weak, Rhoades had kissed him again and called him, “Beloved,” and led him up to bed. He’d pressed his fingers inside Wicklow in the way that was making Wicklow burn to ask for more, although he’d again bitten back the urge and cried out instead when Alexander had drawn seed from him with little more than his fingers.

The release had felt as though it had been drawn from the depths of his soul, strong and blinding as good drink. Wicklow had been shaking too, by the end.

“I won’t push you,” Rhoades had murmured, kissing at Wicklow’s hip as though his own cock wasn’t hard and no doubt aching. “I forgot myself. I’m sorry.” He seemed to think Wicklow angry with him, and Wicklow had been too close to sleep to argue.

In the light of day, with Wicklow the kind of fool in love who would visit Rhoades’ office while he was working and better left alone, the things Rhoades had worried over made Wicklow hurt.

They brought him low, like a punch to the belly. But that pain was nothing to seeing Rhoades with his own kind. Washington had stupid men aplenty, but it was a town of clever, ambitious, ruthless men too. Men like Rhoades, as much as any man could be said to be like Alexander Rhoades, well-bred and moneyed and full of knowledge. Some of them were even the sort to enjoy other men, and, in the past, many of them had certainly known Rhoades’ bedroom as thoroughly as Wicklow did.

Wicklow stopped in Rhoades’ doorway and watched him in conversation with a nicely dressed gentleman, not as dandyish as Rhoades, this fellow, but with eyes nearly as sharp. His eyes saw Wicklow before Rhoades did. The man pulled his hand down from where it had hovered near Rhoades’ back as Rhoades reached for something on his shelf, and then he stepped away.

Rhoades was smiling faintly as he turned around. He had soft smiles when with people he liked. He was a soft man in certain respects, fine clothes, delicate foods, silk in his bed, gentle words.

Wicklow was none of those things. Wicklow had not known or wanted softness, before. When Rhoades whispered, “Beloved,” at him, the best Wicklow could offer in return was, “Alexander.”

What was that but the man’s name? Nothing. Rhoades needed softness and he’d foregone it for Wicklow, as though Wicklow’s wellbeing were paramount when the man himself was starving.

When he noticed Wicklow in his doorway, his smiled changed, widening and flaring bright. He turned the rest of the way to greet him and Wicklow clenched his fists to stay where he was. He looked away from Rhoades to study the stranger, the man of Rhoades’ kind. He wore velvet, and a waistcoat of ivory. He had no pomade in his hair and his eyes were light. Blue, Wicklow thought they were, though nowhere as dark as his own.

Rhoades liked Wicklow’s eyes, liked to look into them as he caressed Wicklow’s body. Wicklow had thought that had been enough. Rhoades had said so, with all his deeds and distractions and late suppers by the fire. But Rhoades was a liar.

A liar in love.

Wicklow barely noticed the other fellow excusing himself, though he did not think any of his displeasure showed in his face. Wicklow was not jealous; he was no outraged husband. But he swallowed and lowered his head to study his hands. Fists were about the same size as the heart. The heart was naught but blood and toughened flesh. It made no sense for love to be contained there, any more than it made sense for love to be a small, harmless word.

“Private?” Rhoades spoke carefully. He had to take care, since he had chosen Wicklow for his beloved, the madman. “You needed to see me?” Rhoades tread lightly but despite that Wicklow could hear the vein of hope in his voice. “You forgot something when you left this morning?”

“Please.” That was what Rhoades had said, his voice breaking for one small touch of Wicklow’s mouth to his shoulder. “Beloved, please.” Like a dying man in need of water.

Wicklow would give Rhoades anything, and he had not known the truth of that until he realized what one thing Rhoades had not asked for. He would die for Rhoades in an instant, which they both knew full well. Perhaps that was why Rhoades held back from requesting this small thing that was not small at all; he wanted Wicklow to give it. Although, knowing Rhoades, he had made plans to never receive it. Knowing Rhoades, he’d thought himself safe from admitting to the need.

Then Wicklow had kissed his shoulder, and Rhoades had begged for more.

“You thought I would leave you for that?” Wicklow could not seem to feel any rage over the matter. He raised his head. “Alexander,” he began again when Rhoades opened his mouth to debate or talk something Greek. Wicklow’s face was hot but he repeated himself. He would rather have emptied his heart. “Alexander, I--”

“Private.” Rhoades would not stop speaking. Every word in existence would cross his lips before he would give in again. But Wicklow knew how to make him weak. He stormed forward and slid his hands over soft, soft lapels, inky blue silk, and one large, smooth pearl, in order to draw Rhoades down. He placed a kiss on Rhoades’ parted, pink mouth before he pulled away. Then he ducked his head and exhaled against Rhoades’ shoulder.

He had no grace, and the blood remained in his pounding heart. Rhoades’ thundered equally as strong beneath his ear. Wicklow frowned. “I repaired your radio.”

Rhoades, as great a fool as Wicklow himself, ran his thumb along Wicklow’s jaw and seemed both amused and frustrated. “And I love you too, Private. You don’t need…” There, Rhoades trailed off, startling Wicklow for one hushed moment until he used his thumb to tilt Wicklow’s head up. He traced Wicklow’s mouth. “You don’t need to be soft for me in the way I am to you. It is only….” Again, Rhoades fell silent, as if considering how best to temper his response.

He had forgotten Wicklow was not a scared boy. Wicklow let Rhoades’ thumb between his lips, then pulled back in order to place another kiss on the tip, a kiss like velvet. “Show me,” he ordered, as serious as he had ever been. “Show me, and I’ll be soft in my way, for you.”

From the sound Rhoades made, he also thought love was a terrible thing, too large for his ribs to hold and too fierce to be denied. But his kiss was gentle, and for all that his hands grasped at Wicklow there with the doors open for anyone to see them, it stayed so, until Wicklow was brave enough to push upward, and give him his own gentle kiss in return.

Tumblr information update!

For various reasons, I have changed tumblrs. I am phasing out the old one, and my new one is now http://sweetfirebird.tumblr.com/


(Firebird for Kazimir!! Which... would make sense if you all had read Kazimir's stories yet. Sorry.)

I tried to let people know in secret but I think Tumblr thought all those emails were spam. Hopefully everyone who is interested finds this notice. I will try to remember to post it again later.



Kazimir! Golden bird!

in which there is a marathon of Shelley Long movies, and pie

Ah! Back! Where have I been? Exhausted. I work retail as a day job. This means this is my busy time of year.

However, I did manage to do a little something. A wee little Thanksgiving story, for those interested. It's up on Amazon.

Vincent's Thanksgiving Date

Socially anxious Vincent has resigned himself to spending Thanksgiving alone this year, just him, the parade, and some pie. The last thing he expects is Cory, the handsome neighbor he's been daydreaming about, to knock on his door with a holiday crisis of his own. Vincent would love to help him, but he's afraid that the more time Cory spends with him, the sooner Vincent's anxiety will drive him away.

What he doesn't realize is that Cory finds Vincent's gentle ways adorable and has been waiting for a chance to talk with him. Cory also firmly believes that a day like Thanksgiving should be spent with the people you want to be around--and he wants to be around Vincent. If that means pretending to need help in order to coax Vincent from his apartment, then Cory is willing to do it. The only potential hitch in the plan is Vincent himself. Can Vincent gather the courage to go after what he wants? Or will he spend his Thanksgiving exactly as he planned, with only a pumpkin pie for company?

(Ugh. The cheese in that description! Shameless cheese!)

For those who don't follow me on Tumblr, you might not know that Dreamspinner has accepted both A Beginner's Guide to Wooing Your Mate *and* Little Wolf. Those are both Beings stories and they will be out next year. A Beginner's Guide first, for reasons that will be obvious when you read it.

This is yaaaay! news, I hope. Although it means I will basically be spending December editing two books. WOE. I have also been trying to finish a collection of Beings short stories... why I don't know but I wrote a few and then kept going. One more (I think) should finish the set. Then... idk. Something.

I still fully intend to do something for charity, but between the lifting at work and the typing, I am also trying to avoid carpal tunnel. (No word yet on the renewed date for the auction, but Carly Rose is still having health issues, so I'm hardly going to pressure her.)

Aaaaand, now I am going to reward myself for posting that story with some wine and pie.

That story is so self-indulgent and I don't even care. lalalalala

(But who wouldn't marathon Shelley Long movies?)

auction update!

auction update!

Bad news, everyone!

Well, ish. Carly Rose, who was supposed to host the auction today, won’t be able to because of health issues (really, really understandable and serious health issues). She isn’t cancelling the auction, but she’s postponing it until she feels stronger.

So… that sucks for her. And it sucks for anyone who wanted to bid on anything. And I’m kind of at a loss now. Maybe I will do something else on my own as well for anyone disappointed.

Reminder, and the last Will and Charlie prompt

Look! I remembered to post a reminder!

I still haven't heard back from the auction people (??) but I'm going to assume it's all going as planned.


October 11, there will be a silent auction with all sorts of things from various authors, with all benefits going to the

Here is a link to the auction's Facebook page. Authors, Bloggers, and Readers Raise Awareness


I am will be offering to either a) write a series of letters or emails (at least two) between any two of my characters (your choice) OR you can get another short story set in the alternate universe version of Play It Again, Charlie in which Charlie is the reluctant host of an online cooking show and Will is a fan. (You can find that here). (and um, okay so a friend and I have a whole thing about the first time Charlie mentions Will on the show... and also a show Will hosts with Jeanine, in which he imbibes a bit and maaaybe says things he shouldn't, and then worries about what Charlie will think when he sees it. Ahem.)

Hopefully it all goes well and everything gets bid on and donations are huge.

In the meantime, here is the last prompt fill I promised to post. The *other* Will/Charlie AU, in which the prompt was "meet at a masquerade ball"






“You seem lost.”

That was an understatement. Charlie had no idea what he was doing in this place. He knew how he’d gotten here, the way he usually ended up in strange and uncomfortable situations—his family. Katia’s current boyfriend had money. Not just money, but Money. Yesterday Charlie wouldn’t have gone so far as to say Old Money, but looking around this house had him changing his mind. Charlie hadn’t met the man yet, but so far he was outside of Katia’s usual type, and she seemed to know it, which was why she’d begged Charlie to attend the party the boyfriend’s family was throwing.

Not a party, a ball. At a house in Seacliff, although calling it a house was a bit of a misnomer as well. Charlie had grown up very comfortable financially, and he had to admit to feeling self-conscious around this much discreet wealth.

It had also been a while since he’d been among this many people, and all of them strangers. Katia had left him in the foyer to find her boyfriend after they’d arrived, and Charlie hadn’t seen her in the time since. She’d probably gotten lost in the house. He couldn’t blame her. He’d tried to disappear to a lounge or even the kitchen, but where there hadn’t been guests, there had been caterers and serving staff, so he’d climbed the stairs and come out here.

As hiding places went, it at least had a beautiful view, and Charlie wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The man leaning against the balcony didn’t look like the type who needed time away from a good party. The point of costumes was to be someone other than yourself and this costume party, this masquerade ball as they insisted on calling it, was no different. Charlie knew that. So perhaps this partygoer wasn’t anything like his costume, which was… some sort of cowboy.

Realism hadn’t been the point of the costume, clearly. The man had chosen bright blue pants and a white shirt, with a flashy red kerchief tied around his neck. He had on a belt and holster, with a silver and orange plastic gun strapped to one leg. His black mask could have been a reference to the Lone Ranger, but since it didn’t match the rest of the outfit, Charlie assumed it was there to fit in with the masked theme of the party.

“Kind of butch, I know. But then, I was trying to be Joan Crawford in Johnny Guitar. She was a butch ass bitch,” the cowboy observed, as if guessing how confused Charlie was. He couldn’t see it on Charlie’s face; that was hidden by the mask Katia had chosen for him.

Charlie adjusted the mask nervously anyway. “Sorry,” he apologized immediately, then frowned. “Johnny Guitar?”
“Part of old Hollywood’s tradition of hiding queers in plain sight,” the cowboy explained, without actually explaining much. “My friend wants to impress someone here, so he wouldn’t let me wear something more flamboyant. Which made me think of hiding things in plain sight, like they had to do under the Hays Code in… Nevermind.” The cowboy sighed.

“I know what the Hays Office was. I just haven’t seen that movie.” Charlie heard the belligerent note in his voice and couldn’t explain it, except for the anxiety leaving him stressed. He hadn’t even touched a drink. “Sorry,” he said for the second time in a few minutes. “I thought I’d be alone out here.” He should probably go find some place unoccupied and wait for Katia to remember him.

“You know the Hays Code?” Instead of being offended, the cowboy perked up. He stood up from the balcony. Even at his full height, he’d have to look up to Charlie if they were standing face to face, which shouldn’t matter, except for how it somehow did. “Do you like old movies?”

Charlie adjusted his mask again. “I like them fine, but I read mostly,” he answered cautiously, wondering why Mr. Joan Crawford was asking. The cowboy had pale white skin, with honey-blond hair sticking out from under his cowboy hat. He moved with enough confidence to make Charlie wonder what costume he would have chosen without restrictions, but he didn’t ask. He was suddenly afraid to move away from the door. He’d walked up a lot of stairs to get here and he didn’t trust himself to move smoothly.

“I love them, as you may have guessed.” A pleased, proud smile curved the cowboy’s mouth, which was pink and full. Charlie hadn’t noticed before and felt stupid for not noticing, although he didn’t know what good it would do him. He wasn’t here to date, and even if he was, he had a feeling that this cowboy would have been out of his league. He was hardly shy. “In fact, I talk about them so much, my friends have learned to tune me out. It’s best not to get me started.”

“Your friends tune you out?” Charlie really didn’t mean for his voice get sharp, but when it did, the cowboy tipped his head up, as if he was trying to squint and see through Charlie’s mask. Charlie shook his head. “That’s none of my business.” He tightened his mouth. He tried. But stress from a drive into the city to deal with a crowd of people and a flight of steep stairs, and he was in no mood to be nice. “But if you want to go on about old movies, what’s wrong with that? And why not let you dress how you want? They didn’t have to ask you to this party. Your friends sound like assholes.”
The cowboy’s mouth dropped open. Charlie closed his eyes and let out a breath. “Sorry.” His family would have been shocked. He wasn’t sure what had come over him.

The soft laugh from across the balcony made him reopen his eyes. The cowboy had his head to one side. “Your costume is more appropriate than I thought at first, you big, snarly beast.”

Charlie put a hand to the wolf mask covering the top half of his face. Katia had chosen it, he’d thought to match her outfit. She’d wanted to be a princess, in a big, golden gown, and Charlie had watched the cartoon enough with Alicia to recognize that he was supposed to be the Beast to match.

The thing was, he didn’t match. Katia had picked out an old-fashioned dress suit for him, and a wolf mask, but the fur on the mask was gray, and the suit, although it fit him, was black, not blue like the one in the movie. He’d been grateful for that earlier, but now it seemed like one more odd thing to explain, like why the costume had come with a dented, tarnished crown, which Katia had also insisted he wear. The crown was crooked, and rest just over one of his fake pointed ears. The whole costume had probably been recycled from a different set.

Charlie stopped himself from self-consciously straightening the crown. “I’m not really like this,” he said at last, because he wasn’t. He didn’t snap and he didn’t snarl and he didn’t lose his temper over trivial things.

“I suppose not,” the cowboy sighed. “If you were the Beast in this situation, then I’d have to be the Beauty, wouldn’t I?”
“Well, aren’t you?” Charlie responded without thinking, and had never been so grateful to be wearing a mask.

The cowboy stopped, just, stopped in place. His breathing ceased for a moment with an audible catching sound. He pulled his hat off to let it hang from the back of his neck, and the setting sun seemed to set his hair on fire.

“Are you… one of those people?” He waved at the rest of the world, or the rest of the house, and all the attendees of the ball. Charlie shook his head but the cowboy barely paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Charlie said dryly. He already knew the cowboy wasn’t. The rich and powerful could wear whatever they wanted, but those people downstairs weren’t the kind who wanted flamboyant at their parties unless it was the entertainment.

“The crown suits you, anyway,” the cowboy murmured, sounding very young for a few moments. Then his smile returned. “Even if you are hiding out here.” He patted the top of the bench barely within his reach. “You can sit, if you like. You don’t need to find somewhere else... unless you have to get back to someone.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes, though he doubted the cowboy could see it. “She’ll call when she needs me,” he answered after a while, and wondered how it was that even with a mask on, he could still see how the cowboy’s face fell. “My sister,” he added, although he had no need to, and got hot under his starched, rented collar when that got such a radiant reaction. “How about you?”

“Me?” The cowboy took a single step in Charlie’s direction then abruptly turned to face the ocean. “Just my friend downstairs.”

“Trying to impress someone,” Charlie remembered. “But not you.”

He got a dismissive wave. “Not that all this luxury isn’t grand, or that I wouldn’t say no to a palace, but, um, no. Not me. Anyway.”

“Anyway?” It could have been prying to ask, but masks made things easier, Charlie was discovering. This was the strangest conversation he’d had in a while, but it was also the only conversation he’d had outside of work that he could remember. Which was so sad he didn’t want to think about it.

“Anyway, a guy who can’t get his friends to watch his favorite movies with him is hardly the type to net a prince.” The cowboy made a little sound. “Like who am I? Claudette Colbert? Norma Shearer as Marie Antoinette? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe Barbara Stanwyck?” Charlie suggested, his face burning beneath the mask. He vaguely recalled reading Stanwyck was from Brooklyn, which made her feel a little more accessible than someone like Claudette Colbert.

Again, the cowboy went still. This time the sound he made as his breathing hitched seemed almost painful. He turned around very slowly. “Who are you?” It was barely a whisper. His voice was strained, and for the first time Charlie wondered if something particular had driven the cowboy to hide out here, or if he had simply needed a moment alone too.

Charlie opened his hands, not certain how to answer the question. It wasn’t like his name was famous. He wasn’t even on the guest list, he was a plus one. “Do you want me to get you some champagne or something?”

“Are you sure you aren’t a prince?” The cowboy demanded again. Charlie couldn’t tell if he was teasing, but he shook his head one more time. “No, I don’t need a drink. But thank you. You should get one, if you want. That’s the good stuff down there.”

“I’d prefer a beer, to be honest.” Charlie scowled despite himself. So the cowboy had been partying downstairs and something had sent him up here. “Are you all right?”

“Me?” Another dismissive wave. It was less convincing this time. “I’m here for the view.” He wasn’t looking out at the ocean. “You still seem lost.”

“I don’t feel lost.” It was as though Charlie could no longer stop to think before he spoke. He sucked in a breath, but whatever he could possibly say to explain how he was talking was forgotten when the cowboy curled his hands against the balcony behind him and tilted his head back.

“The view’s better from here,” he offered, and Charlie had no doubt that it was. He wasn’t sure what was happening. Maybe the cowboy was drunk. Maybe Charlie was, somehow, intoxicated by the sea air and the sunset. Or it was the mask and the suit that made him seem like someone a man like that would want near him. Charlie had never been to a masquerade ball, hadn’t even worn a mask for Halloween past the sage of seven; he didn’t know the rules. But he stepped forward again anyway.

He forgot about his hip and his limp until a moment too late to keep it from being noticed, but if he saw, the other man didn’t comment. Up close, even with the mask, Charlie could see wide green eyes with thick, dark eyelashes. “I was right. You are Beauty.” He had never said anything like that in his life, not even when he had wanted to. But when the whisper made him stop in confused embarrassment, the cowboy reached out and dragged him closer. He very, very carefully placed both hands on either side of Charlie’s face but didn’t make any move to pull away the mask.

“You like men?” He seemed to need to confirm this, and Charlie didn’t have time to wonder why before he went on. “You aren’t here with anyone? No one but your sister? And you don’t have anyone?” He let out a small sigh of happiness when Charlie shook his head.

“You don’t mind that I limp?” Charlie stared at the line of the man’s throat, the hint of a curve at his mouth. There was only a faint trace of champagne on the cowboy’s breath, and his gaze was steady.

“Are you in pain?” Those green eyes went wide, and that voice, not so strained anymore, was beginning to sound as honeyed as the man’s hair.

“Not right now,” Charlie answered honestly, and had no idea why that would make such a wide smile bloom on the cowboy’s face, but it made him smile in return.

“Then I don’t mind,” he was told. The cowboy was breathless. “I’m Will.”

“Will,” Charlie repeated firmly, cementing the name in his mind. “I’m Charlie.” He rested his palm against Will’s cheek, the ever so faint stubble, then dragged his thumb lightly across the corner of Will’s mouth. It twitched up into another smile.

“Charlie,” Will gave his name back to him. He ran his fingertips over the edge of Charlie’s mask.

“I’m not normally like this.” Charlie stressed, as though he wasn’t curving his hand to the back of Will’s head and drawing him closer.

“Maybe,” Will agreed, and made a sweet, soft sound when Charlie kissed him, the barest, briefest kiss he dared. “Or maybe,” Will added, licking his mouth before leaning up to kiss Charlie in return, just as lightly. “Or maybe you could be, if you wanted.”

The words made no sense. Charlie was hardly a fairy tale prince, and even if he was, Will wasn’t a princess, he was cowboy who was supposed to be Joan Crawford. But Will slid his hands to Charlie’s rented costume and let himself be kissed, and pressed to the balcony, and unmasked, as if Charlie had every right. He pulled Charlie’s mask away as if he had that right too, but kept the crown where it was, and he kissed Charlie back until his voice was hoarse and the sun had finished setting. And it was exactly where they were meant to be.

story thing and a charity thing--yes these two things are related

Well, maybe.

There is going to be a silent auction for the Depression and Bipolar Support Alliance on October 11. The event (which once again will be happening on October 11 from 11am to 11pm CDT) will feature many donations from m/m authors for everyone to bid on.

Totally for a good cause, and you get stuff out of it too. Yay!

I, maybe, perhaps, will be auctioning off something as well. Though it's kind of a weird thing (because hey, I would just sign a book and donate that to auction, but who would bid on that and also international shipping is ouch to my budget). I just signed up so I don't know if my auction offer will be okay.

But if you're interested, I offered to either a) write a series of letters or emails (at least two) between any two of my characters (your choice) OR you can get another short story set in the alternate universe version of Play It Again, Charlie in which Charlie is the reluctant host of an online cooking show and Will is a fan.

Ah, but Rispa, you say, frowning in confusion, what universe is this? We've never seen this universe.

To which, I say, right. Well, here it is. Part of a Tumblr prompt I did a while ago in an attempt to wake up my brain. So read, enjoy, and hopefully, maybe, give a little to a good cause to get more of it.


.....




Will juggled the six pricey chocolate bars in his hands and the bottle of wine he was still debating, and stared down at the barrels of cheese in dismay. He’d promised Dani he’d bring something good to the surprise birthday party-slash-potluck tonight, but between work and life he’d forgotten to even try to plan until today. The expensive grocery store probably wasn’t the best place to get ideas either. He had no idea what half this stuff was for, or best paired with, or what nutritional yeast even was.

He was going to end up bringing a pizza, like always. It felt especially wrong since he had genuinely tried this time. He had scoured through episodes of Less with Bread, searching for something that wouldn’t be too difficult, and hadn’t come up with anything that he thought he could make with confidence.

There was nothing he could make, period. He knew that. Yet something about Charlie Howard’s measured, calm voice tricked Will into thinking he would succeed, just this once. And then Will wound up with burnt cakes and separated sauces and undercooked potatoes. Will’s inability to cook even the most basic food was almost legendary. Why his sister had ever thought an internet cooking show would help him was a mystery, unless of course, she’d sent Will the link to the first episode because of the host.

Charlie Howard had certainly set Will’s bells to ringing. Handsome didn’t begin to describe him, with his square jaw and dark eyes and serious expression. He was handsome, with strong shoulders and height and strands of gray in his black hair, but his appeal went deeper than that. Will wouldn’t have sat through a cooking show just for a good-looking host; he knew that for a fact because he’d tried. Charlie was different. For one thing, he shot the smaller videos in a tiny apartment and the longer ones in this huge, gleaming kitchen in his grandmother’s house. For another, his family was often in the videos with him, and when he cooked for them his whole demeanor changed. He was never rude, or angry, or loud, like some other chefs Will had seen, but the line of concentration between his eyes vanished when his family was near. And though he never let them help him, keeping them always at a safe distance from the knives and flames and boiling water, he asked what they preferred and smiled when they answered, and his smile… his smile was, well, there were entire chats on his website devoted to that warm, careful smile.

Will had been sprung after episode one and by the second video—because of course he’d watched them all, his stomach growling and his heart pounding—he’d been cruising the show’s website for information on the host. He wanted to know why Charlie limped, bad enough sometimes to require a cane or for Charlie to sit down for the entire show. He wanted to know why Charlie had a last name like Howard and spoke English, but then fell into fluent Spanish whenever he cooked with certain members of his family. And, yes, okay he’d wanted to know if Charlie was queer, if he was single, if he wouldn’t freak out if Will messaged him through the website, or if he would think Will was going to stalk him like Kathy Bates.

All Sorrows Are Less With Bread, which was the inspiration for the show’s title, was also the name of the website, where they explained that Charlie had started out making the videos at a friend’s request, to give him something to do when he’d been recovering from an injury. That’s why the show tended to focus on simple, filling meals that could be reheated or frozen, but also on the kind of guilty pleasure, fattening foods designed to tempt someone with no interest in food into eating. The show, and Charlie, were pretty honest on that subject, although Charlie never referred to his own injury beyond the blurb on the site.

This being the SF Bay Area, the show also tended to blur all sorts of cuisines together. Will thought that was called fusion, in foodie circles. Occasionally a local chef came on to make something new. Once, notably, a therapist had come on with Charlie and talked about self-care while Charlie had made quiche and kept his gaze on his hands as he worked. Other than that, only members of the Howard family had guest-starred. Never a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or anyone else. Not even for Valentine’s Day, which was when Charlie had talked about cheese and let his sister talk about wine.

Will tried to recall the names of any of those cheeses and then gave a dejected sigh and took a step toward the next display. He bumped into something that he realized was a person a second too late and turned quickly, which made his basket swing around and hit the person again. This time of day the place was packed with stressed soccer moms, all yoga pants and loud cell phone conversations, giving Will side-eyes for his hair and tight shirt, the hint of glitter. But he spun around to apologize anyway since it was his fault, then stopped dead.

He blinked.

Very slowly, he tilted his head back and then licked his lips. Not to be sexy, but because his mouth legitimately went dry at one glimpse of the man in front of him. His stomach seemed to tighten and then flip, all while going cool, which he didn’t understand, because his everything else was burning up.

“I was just thinking about you,” he exhaled in amazement and then immediately froze to stare up in embarrassment. Charlie Howard stared back, mouth open before that familiar line began to form between his eyes.

His eyes, which were a deep brown in person and close up, were focused on Will as if he was as surprised to see Will in this store at the moment as all the moms were. He was wearing a white, button down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the top few buttons open, just like he wore on the show. His skin was darker than it seemed on the videos, like he’d gotten some sun, and Will could see the chest hair he’d only glimpsed before.

He took a long, deep breath, inhaling cheese and cologne and garlic.

“Oh my god,” Will said after countless seconds of internal squirming and getting lost in Charlie Howard’s eyes. He recalled what he had just said. “Oh my god. I meant, I watch your shows. And I was wondering what you would do in my situation. Not that I don’t also think about you in the way you are probably thinking.”

Will closed his mouth, very deliberately, when Charlie Howard’s stunning brown eyes went wide.


“I really never intended to be that kind of fan,” Will explained himself, hoping his soft tone would keep things calm. Instead, Charlie blinked and then his expression went as stern as it did on the show when his little niece had started to reach for a hot pan. Will’s palms went damp. It was the first time in his life his palms had ever gone damp for someone. He didn’t think Charlie would be interested in hearing that, however, even if Will was kind of fascinated. “It’s just, in person you are even hotter than you are in the videos.”

He had no idea what was wrong with him. Will was a talker, but his talking was usually a lot smoother than this. In fact, most of the time it didn’t matter what he said. Men took one look at him and wanted him. They never listened to what he was saying. But Charlie Howard wasn’t saying a word and maybe that was why Will was suddenly panicking. His online crush wasn’t only in front of him; he was listening.

“You know that scene in Singing in the Rain where Debbie Reynolds is totally cool with Gene Kelly until she recognizes him as her screen idol, and then she doesn’t really know what to do at first? Yeah. I kind of feel like that right now.” Will made himself breathe again. While he did, Charlie’s frown didn’t lesson, although he did skip a glance down to Will’s sleeveless t-shirt with the faded Debbie Harry picture on it. “I wasn’t expecting it would be this bad. Not that I was expecting to meet you ever. I’m not a stalker—except in the normal way that everyone follows everyone on Facebook. But I’ve seen all your videos. I’m… well, clearly, I’m a big fan.”

“But you don’t know what to buy?” Charlie spoke at last. His voice was gravely and hesitant, not like what it was on the videos. But then, on the videos he knew what he was doing, and he didn’t have Will acting like a psycho. Still, of all the things he could have said, or done, like tell Will to get lost, or flee in the opposite direction, he’d asked a question.

Will shrugged, although his shame was completely obvious. “I can’t actually cook. Like, at all. It’s the one part of adulting that continues to escape me.” He saw Charlie mouth the word, “Adulting?” but he didn’t interrupt. Will felt a fraction calmer. “My sister sent me links to your videos in the vain hope I could learn to make toast. I’ve watched them all, some of them more than once, and well, those chocolate pancakes you made for your niece? Those almost came out okay, except for how they didn’t look like yours and the first five were crisp at the edges. I ended up just licking the batter and eating the bananas later.”

Charlie’s scowl grew more intense. “There’s raw egg in that batter.” The gravel left his voice but it was no less serious. Will swallowed, although his mouth and throat were still dry. Charlie studied him and then continued in the same stern daddy tone that had earned him a legion of gay fans. “You shouldn’t eat raw egg. You could get sick.”

He appeared to be genuinely concerned that Will had once eaten raw batter. Will wanted to blow him more than he’d ever wanted to blow anyone in his life. He made a noise, a frustrated little squeak that would have had his friends laughing at him, and then shook his head. “The risk of salmonella is slight. I looked it up.” He nearly lost his voice in the face of that unwavering disapproval. “But, uh, it tasted good, anyway. So thanks.”

No one, not one of the men who had ever pursued Will, would have even noticed that Will had eaten raw egg. Of course, Will would never have cooked for any of them. None of them had been worth it.

Charlie Howard inclined his head as though there were no more serious topic to discuss than Will’s cooking habits and safety. “Tell me you haven’t been doing the same with uncooked chicken.”

“Gross.” Will wrinkled his nose. “I haven’t gotten brave enough yet to attempt anything with meat. But, yes, of course I wash my hands. I am pretty strict about disinfectant in general, you have no idea. Should see my work kit—I do hair—and my tools are disinfected on the regular, trust me.”

He didn’t think he imagined Charlie’s relieved sigh, and though he waited, Charlie didn’t have anything to say about Will doing hair for a living. Will perked up. It occurred to him that this was hardly the usual conversation Charlie probably had with his fans, but whatever. Will was going to think about these few minutes for months. He was going to make the most of them.

“All right, no more eating the batter,” he promised, although Charlie hadn’t asked him to. A strange look crossed Charlie’s face. Will watched the flush darken the skin of his face and his neck.

Charlie cleared his throat. “Are you using fresh herbs or dried?” The moment the question was out of his mouth, he froze, then coughed and stared down at the cheese as if the cheese had misplaced his potato peeler.

Will angled his head to the side. “You said dried herbs were perfectly acceptable for someone on a budget, or for someone too emotionally or physically exhausted to seek out the fresh version. You just have to adjust the amounts because the flavor is different.”

Charlie’s gaze met his. His frown slowly eased away. “Yes, I did,” he agreed, so low and approving that a shiver went down Will’s spine, as if Will had been a very good boy.

But that couldn’t have been how Charlie meant it, before he tossed his head and asked a different question. “If your friends know you can’t cook, why ask you to?”

“I volunteered.” Will sighed for what couldn’t be, but explained further. “Sometimes watching you makes me ambitious.” He offered Charlie a playful grin, then realized they were blocking this part of the cheese section. He shifted to the side but Charlie stayed where he was. He was leaning against one of the cheese barrels and Will wondered guiltily if Charlie was in pain.

“No cane today?” he blurted. Charlie usually had the cane on the bad days, but maybe he’d only run into the store to get a few things and Will was making everything worse. Then he thought he probably wasn’t supposed to mention the cane, because Charlie stopped moving and glanced away. “I hope I’m not making things worse, if you are having a bad day. I wouldn’t want that,” Will added quickly.

“You really have watched every episode.” Charlie looked back at him after what felt like far too long.
Will smiled in relief. “Of course. Don’t all your fans?”

“Yes. But.” Charlie took a hand from his own shopping basket, and Will belatedly noticed that he had a white-knuckled grip on the handle, and that there was nothing inside but bread and two apples. “I don’t know.” Charlie waved a hand in a confused gesture. “My friend handles all the comments and things, unless it’s a chat. I don’t… I wasn’t meant to do all this, so I don’t understand a lot of things.”

That was likely true enough. Charlie had never attended any cooking school or worked in a restaurant. He’d been a cop of all things, and then suffered the injury that had forced him to retire. According to the site, he’d always cooked for and with his family, and his friend had recorded him cooking and posted it as a way to distract him during a low point.

“What don’t you understand? Having fans?” It was Will’s turn to frown. “Of course you do. You’re hot, and you make good food, and the way you teach is…” Will blushed like he hadn’t in years. Charlie probably wasn’t interested in being anyone’s daddy, but even if he was, it wasn’t something to discuss in the cheese aisle.

“Hot?” Charlie stared at him with an adorably surprised expression. Then he scowled and shook his head. “Having fans at all takes me by surprise. And you don’t… seem like you would find my show interesting.”

“Oh.” That hurt. It hurt a lot more than it should have. Will ran a hand through his artfully messy hair and lowered his head.

“I don’t meet most of the followers face to face, and I’ve never pictured them like you,” Charlie went on.

Just what Will needed, someone else refusing to take him seriously because he dressed like this, or talked old movies like some clichéd queen, or was unashamedly proud of being the bottom that he was. He made himself look up. “What’s wrong with me?” he demanded, still more hurt than furious, though the anger would come later.

“Nothing.” Charlie regarded Will without blinking, as utterly serious as he was about homemade tortillas and mole and stirring the melted butter and sugar for fudge so it wouldn’t burn. He seemed confused that Will would even ask that question. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Will bumped into a display then spun around to fix it, all the while on fire with a blush. His hands were shaking. This was also new. He didn’t think it was nerves and it was clearly stronger than a mere crush. “Oh,” he repeated himself, although in a much warmer, softer tone than before. In any other situation he would have been looking up coyly, but he couldn’t manage it now. “Well,” he mumbled in the direction of Charlie’s shoulder. “Well, you have quite the gay following, just so you know. Lots of guys I know have crushes on you. If ever want to get to know your fans, they would eat you up, and your dishes too.” He risked a glance up in time to catch the blank shock on Charlie’s face. The smile just took over Will’s face. This man was real. “Your friend didn’t pass on those messages?”

“She did.” Charlie spoke faintly. “I thought she was kidding.”

“Don’t worry.” Will almost patted him. “I don’t think any of them have any immediate plans to make you their daddy.” Well, aside from Will, but there was no need to say that at the moment. Anyway, at the word ‘daddy’, Charlie looked right at Will, and Will was aware that his feelings were probably all over his face.

“You aren’t kidding,” Charlie declared, with certainty. Because right, he used to be a cop and was probably good at spotting lies.

Will gave him a helpless shrug. Charlie went even more still, except for his gaze, which traveled slowly over Will from head to toe. Then, unbelievably, Charlie looked down at himself with an expression of deep confusion, as if he could not comprehend this development. His free hand passed over his hip, on his bad side, and then Will understood.

“I am absolutely not kidding,” Will told him, voice unaccountably husky. Even if he didn’t have a chance here, there was no way he could leave without letting Charlie know exactly how attractive he was. “It isn’t just that you’re hot. It’s how you are with the food, with your family. God, you care for them and you feed them and you barely remember to feed yourself, and they don’t even notice. I just want to make you sit down. I’d feed you myself.” Will wanted to press himself to Charlie Howard’s every stunned inch. “And then how you praise people. The way you gently walk us through everything. Who wouldn’t--” Will abruptly recalled the way Charlie had frozen when one of his sisters mentioned his ex during a video. “Trust me,” he said instead. “There’s a legion of men out there ready to bring you home.”

A soccer mom gave Will the most arch look he had ever received in his life as she passed them, as if she didn’t care about if they rubbed their dicks together, but could they do it somewhere else out of her way? He heard her complaining to someone on her phone about people standing in front of the Pecorino.

He focused on Charlie, thinking that he’d probably said too much. He was going to blame it on being starstruck, even if that wasn’t the case. “I am one of them. Clearly,” Will added after too long of a pause. “This is probably time for a graceful exit.”

“You haven’t picked out anything,” Charlie observed, then cleared his throat again. “You should make something easy. Something you can take there with minimal fuss, and then prep in someone’s home. What kind of gathering is it? I could… I could shop with you.”

Will put a chocolate-filled hand to his chest. “Be still my beating heart,” he murmured in disbelief. “You want to help me? Even after I went all crazy fan on you?”

“You didn’t--” Charlie shut his mouth and took a breath before he met Will’s amazed stare. “Just because you promise to avoid batter doesn’t mean you’re safe with anything else. Have you sharpened your knives recently? Dull knives are how accidents happen.”

It was a lot to take in, until it wasn’t, and Will got it. He bit his bottom lip to keep from purring out an appreciative, “Oh, daddy.” He let himself grin, his forgotten flirting skills returning with a vengeance. He leaned in closer and smiled even wider when Charlie let him do it. “You’ll take care of me?”

Even embarrassed, Charlie managed to give Will’s wine and chocolates a significant look. “Someone should.”

Will nearly dropped everything to the floor. “Will.” He blanked on everything else for a moment. Charlie’s gaze was hot, hotter than it had ever seemed in the videos, before he hid it all away again. But it was too late now. Will had seen it in that one shy, careful glance. He finished introducing himself. “My name is Will. Will Stewart.”

Charlie raised a hand, as though for half a moment he’d thought about touching Will’s face. Then he blinked and frowned and appeared as stern as a blushing man could. “Charlie Howard,” he said gruffly, as if Will didn’t already know. He was wonderful. “How about enchiladas?” Charlie asked seriously. Of course he was serious. Will had forgotten about food, and Dani, and the rest of the world, and still, Charlie was serious about helping him. Will was going to marry him. “Would enchiladas be okay?” Charlie continued, oblivious to this for the moment. “We could make vegetarian, if you prefer that?”

“Charlie Howard, I am almost swooning at the thought of you in my apartment,” Will told him, using the same earnest, matter-of-fact tone that Charlie had. “But I don’t think I can make those.”

“I can.” Charlie seemed to surprise himself with the speed of the offer. “I mean, I can show you. If you’d like.”

This time, Will did purr. “Yes, Charlie. I’d like that a lot.”




And I will let you know if my auction offer is accepted. :)

ordinary, wonderful blue

Back to that official news I promised.

Dreamspinner accepted "A Beginner's Guide to Wooing Your Mate" --shocking me more than anyone. Now, of course, I have even more doubt about it. Should I have made it longer? (It's only about a hundred pages.) Should I have given it an epilogue?

Sigh.

This is good news though. It also means that I had to submit the story that follows it, the story that wouldn't go away, "Little Wolf." (Which is over 300 pages somehow). I made myself submit it this evening. Now I have even more doubt, and eight weeks in which to feel it.

But that's okay. Feelings are good.

Speaking of which. I want all of you awesome people to know I'm okay. A little slow, at the moment. Some anxiety issues and some crying but okay. Good even. Better than I was. As I was just telling a kind anon, my mood swings usually aren't so sudden or dramatic and there was a lot of personal drama that made it worse. (It's still happening, in fact, but I finally remembered the ways I've learned to deal with things, and I feel better about starting to face all of it. Someday. For today it was enough to submit "Little Wolf" and make myself work out a little.) Anyway, I wanted to say again that you all have been amazing. To show my love, I thought I'd post this.

So on Tumblr last week, I tried to kick start my brain into active/writing mode again (it didn't really work. Everything was painstaking and slow and focusing sucked) but I did manage to answer three of the writing prompts people gave me.

Here is one. I will edit the other two and post them at a later date. (They were Will/Charlie prompts.)

The prompt was amnesia, and I chose Ray and Cal from "Some Kind of Magic" because lately, the Beings stories I've done have involved werewolves dealing with their instincts, and how they might trust their instincts, but they don't really understand them. Also there is a very, very vague "Little Wolf" reference in there, but it isn't a spoiler or anything.

~~



Cal flew into the room and crouched over Ray’s body. He heard Benny run in behind him, still yelling for Cal to slow down so Benny could check for any lingering magic. Cal already knew there wasn’t. He could feel the lingering energy from whatever had happened before they’d arrived, whatever had knocked Ray out like this, but there wasn’t anything else. The wizard Ray had been hunting was nowhere around. She’d probably exhausted herself doing whatever it was she’d done to his Ray.

He felt along Ray’s chest for injuries, burns, a heartbeat, all the while trying to control his own panic at how slowly Ray was responding. Cal had to stay calm. That was a lesson he’d learned the hard way. Ray reacted to Cal’s emotions, even the ones Cal thought he was hiding. You can’t hide things like that from a werewolf. A racing pulse, the shiver of fear, the damp chill of anxiety, a were noticed all of it, and noticed it more when his mate was involved. It made for fun in bed, but not out of it. Not like this. Cal had to stay calm. Ray was breathing, Ray had a heartbeat, he was opening his eyes. Cal had to be calm.

“Ray?” he questioned as softly as he could. His voice wasn’t even, but it was the best he could do. Benny crept around the corners of the room, doing something about the human magic there, maybe, Cal wasn’t really sure. There was no sign of Penn, which made Cal swallow a lot of harsh words. He put his hands to the side of Ray’s face and swept Ray’s hair back. He didn’t recall that much silver in Ray’s hair. Whatever magic had been worked in here, it had been strong. It had taken something from Ray, enough to manifest physically. Cal barely kept from screaming. “Ray!”

Ray opened his eyes. They were glowing, alive and animal and frightening for the moment before Cal got a hold of himself. No matter what magic had been done to him, Ray would never harm Cal. But the wolf was ascendant in him and that wasn’t good, not if Cal didn’t know what else was going on. “Ray,” he said again, leaning down to let his scent wash over Ray. That was what Ray had told him to do, if he ever lost control for any reason. Ray never lost control, so Cal had taken the warning very, very seriously.

He leaned down and Ray took a breath. His eyes, impossibly, seemed to reflect all the light in the room. He shivered as though he could feel Cal’s sparkle where it popped out of existence against his skin.

“You.” Ray growled the word. Cal felt it in his chest, humming through him to zip along his spine. It traveled through his blood like sugar after hours of hunger, which was like days to a fairy.

Cal’s mouth went dry. “Ray, are you alright? What happened?”

“You,” Ray murmured—growled—again, before dragging himself up to lean against the wall. He never took his eyes off Cal except for a quick, wary glance in Benny’s direction. Benny, wisely, froze. Something was wrong, and it wasn’t smart to make sudden moves around an uncertain werewolf.

“Me?” Cal tried, hoping Ray could explain something before the wizard returned or some latent spell sprang into action.
Ray drew in a long, satisfied breath and then stunned Cal into silence with his wide, soft smile. “You. You’re my mate. What’s your name?”

There was no possible way to answer. Cal let out a small squeak that was nothing to the worried, “uh oh” from Benny behind him.

“My mate.” Ray didn’t seem to find it odd that Cal hadn’t responded. He reached up as if he wanted to rest his palm against Cal’s face but then thought better of it. He studied Cal’s wings and the top of his head and his bare chest and then rumbled before straightening up a little more. “You smell good, and you’re so pretty. May I come closer? I’d like to touch you, if you wouldn’t mind, mate. Mine?”

“I…?” Cal lost his breath. Ray had stolen it with a few words and a wide-eyed, wonder-filled stare. “You can touch me, Ray Ray. Always.” In the back of his mind the facts were creeping up: the residue of magical energy, the wizard’s last, puzzling words about making Cal suffer a loss, Ray’s confusion. But at the forefront there was only Ray, who was looking at Cal like he was made of star-stuff and gold. “Mate,” Cal repeated back to him when Ray carefully, lightly caressed his jaw. Cal closed his eyes for a moment. “Mate,” Cal told him, and Ray made a sound as if savoring the word.

“Never heard of a fairy mated to a were,” Ray observed, then lifted his head in sudden alarm. Cal jerked away, glancing around for a threat, but Ray’s attention was fixed to him. “You… do you feel it yet? I remember…” Ray paused to frown, as if his lack of memory was just now becoming a problem. “I remember hearing that others don’t know at first, that humans take longer to know what we know. But you aren’t human, not completely?” Cal’s smaller wings were the most obvious sign of his mixed human-fairy blood. Ray seemed to recognize that, so his memory wasn’t completely gone.

He just… he just didn’t remember Cal.

Benny made a noise. Cal didn’t think he did anything, but he must have, because Ray blinked and leaned in to pet a hand over his hair. “I will protect you, mate.”

It was the worst thing he could have said. Cal felt like someone was crushing his heart. He fell forward so he could put his face to Ray’s throat. He could feel Ray’s tension and knew he shouldn’t have done it; weres regarded that as a threat. But Ray let him. He was wary and confused and had no idea who Cal was, but he trusted his instincts. His instincts said Cal was safe, was his mate, and so Ray let him cuddle close.

Cal sniffled and was not proud of himself. “Ray Ray, what did she do to you?”

“Who?” Ray was definitely alarmed, no matter how warm and familiar he felt, or how he was stroking a hand over the back of Cal’s head as if Cal were the one who needed soothing. Cal could feel Ray’s heartbeat now, how his breath was coming just a little too fast. Ray pushed his nose into Cal’s hair and inhaled. Cal had no doubt he reeked of fear and worry. “What happened?” Ray curled his hands around Cal’s hips and held him tight. “I’m on the floor and I’m… tired. Weres don’t get tired. I don’t get tired. Tell me what’s wrong. You… what did you call me?”

“Ray Ray.” Cal ought to stop. He should pull away and let Ray catch his breath. Then they could figure this out calmly. But he wasn’t moving. He rubbed his face all over Ray and wished he could purr when Ray did the same to him. “That’s what I call you, sometimes. Your name is Ray. Ray Branigan. Do you remember that?” His heart sank when Ray nodded. So the memory loss really was restricted to Cal himself. Cal slid into Ray’s lap. “I pissed off a wizard you were investigating. So she… she punished me with this. Because we’re… you’re mine. My Ray Ray.”

“Do I like it when you call me that?” Ray pushed his big hands up Cal’s back, mindful of Cal’s wings as if his hands remembered what his mind couldn’t. Cal mumbled, “Pretty sure you tolerate it, but I wouldn’t say you like it,” without lifting his head, but finally looked up when Ray’s growl rumbled through him again. “I have a mate. I never thought I would.” Ray’s every word was heartbreaking. “I have a mate.” He squeezed Cal against him. “I will do my best to make you happy and protect you. I will protect you above all else.”

Cal gave a start. He knew Ray loved him—had loved him. He knew Ray would die trying to save him, and almost had, once. But Ray had never said that before, not in that certain, wolfy tone. Cal turned to shoot Benny a look. Benny had his eyebrows up. He shrugged. Cal turned back to his wolf.

“Is that… is that what mate means to weres, Ray? Is that what you mean?”

Ray frowned, but inclined his head. “I will provide for you and protect you.”

“That explains a lot,” Benny remarked, briefly drawing Ray’s attention. Cal silently agreed.

Ray continued to frown. “You’re fairy.” He seemed to notice all over again. “If you’re fairy you might… you might not want me, later. You might forget me. Don’t feel bad. I don’t want you to feel bad. You can’t help it if you leave me.” His voice cracked in a way Cal had never heard before.

“Raymond Branigan, the things you choose not to tell me,” Cal whispered under his breath, although of course Ray would hear. He had often wondered why Ray hadn’t declared himself as his mate immediately after meeting him. Weres supposedly did that, in every book, in the stories Cal had heard from visitors to places like Wolf’s Paw. But Ray hadn’t. Ray had fought it for years, and when Cal had finally gotten him to explain, he’d said Cal had scared him. That he’d thought Cal would leave. He’d hinted he hadn’t wanted to put Cal through that, as if that made sense.

It was making more sense now. Cal raised a hand so Ray could sniff his palm and press it to his mouth. “Was this why you waited so long to tell me what we both already knew?”

“Fairies don’t like sadness,” Ray explained mournfully. He was devouring Cal’s scent, breathing it in despite not having a single memory of Cal until this moment. “Fairy hate ugly things. Everyone knows that. If you leave me, don’t stay around. You won’t like me. You won’t like what I will become.”

Cal tugged his hand free in order to slap it over Ray’s mouth. “Ray, I won’t ever leave you. You’re mine. You don’t know me right now, but this, us, remains constant. It’s why she chose this to hurt me, because I can’t imagine life without you. Okay? Nod your head to say, ‘Yes, Callalily, I understand.’” Ray nodded. Cal let out a relieved breath and felt his wings flutter in agitation. “But later, oh, Raymond. Later we are going to have a talk again about the things werewolves forget to mention to people who are not werewolves.”

“That’s a long list,” Benny commented.

Cal tended to agree, but he stuck up for Ray and weres anyway. “They always forget others don’t communicate the way they do. Ray assumes I know things. He forgets I can’t smell, see, hear, like he can. That’s all. He has to be reminded to vocalize.”
Ray’s gaze, although still yellow, were growing more and more focused. For the moment, Cal was the center of the world, the only thing he understood.

Cal kept his eyes on him while he addressed Benny. “Now hurry up and call whoever you have to call to figure out how to break this spell.”

Ray pulled Cal’s hand from his mouth and held it in his lap. His grip was tight. “You claimed me? But you’re a fairy--”

Cal stopped him there. “Ray, I knew you’d be special to me the moment I saw you—no, before then, when I first heard about you. Maybe fairies and humans don’t know things the way weres do, but we know enough. Besides, I live with you, and have for a few years now. We went through all of this years ago.” Cal made his voice gruff to imitate Ray. “‘But, Snapdragon, you’re a fairy. Fairies don’t mate.’ ‘Gardenia, I’m going to push you away for years despite wanting you so much I’m physically weakened and a psychotic asshole nearly kills me.’ ‘Daisy, I can’t resist, please don’t leave me.’” Cal cleared his throat and returned to his normal voice. “Trust me, Ray, we have gone over this and it’s been settled. But I will admit it’s nice to know how it felt for you when you met me. You never said.”

Ray had known. Ray must have known, from the second he met Cal, probably. His denial had been epic, yet even with no memory, he’d known and admitted the truth about Cal. And Cal… “You, Ray, are the shiniest creature I have ever met in my life, and more than that, you make me happy. Once you make a fairy happy, there is no getting of them, no matter how much you try. And boy did you try.”

“I did?” Ray considered him sternly. “Because you’re fairy?” Cal didn’t even have to nod. Ray plucked the answer from the air, or, more likely, from Cal’s scent. “I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.” Cal didn’t hesitate. “You were scared, and I don’t mind being the only thing in the world capable of scaring Ray Branigan.” However, he had assumed Ray had been running from imaginary heartbreak. Ray was speaking as if the consequences to his mate leaving him would have been far greater than a broken heart. Cal pressed forward, shaking with too many emotions to name. “What would you have become if I’d left you?”

Cal had a vague memory of someone recently discussing a soap opera with a werewolf character, a werewolf who’d lost his mate and then lost his mind. He sucked in a breath. He should have known it was bad if it had scared Ray, if Ray hadn’t even wanted to mention it.

Ray shuddered and could no longer meet Cal’s gaze. “Alone,” he murmured with his head to the side. Alone, as if that meant something truly awful, and to a werewolf used to families and packs, it just might be. Cal wasn’t sure whether to keep pressing or not. He angled a glance at Benny.

Benny was on the phone, Cal noticed belatedly. It sounded like he was trying to reach Cassandra. She was the most powerful magical practitioner they knew, well, who wasn’t a criminal.

Since that problem was being handled as best as it could be by Benny, Cal focused on the werewolf in his arms, the werewolf doing a pretty good job of pretending he wasn’t terrified. Nothing scared Ray but Cal, even when Ray didn’t know him yet, he was already afraid of losing him.

Cal went for broke and wrapped himself around Ray. He buried his face in Ray’s throat and was extremely gratified when Ray lifted his head to allow it. “Well,” Cal mumbled against him, his wings announcing his state of excitement and nerves, “I’m not going to leave you, Ray. We’ve discussed it. You’re stuck with me forever, so you put that right out of your mind. Even now. Even with no memory. Even if you have to meet my dad all over again, or my mother all over again, we’re still mates. Right?” He honestly treasured the little whuffy growl sound Ray made. He had to pet him. “We’ll fix this. And if we can’t, so what? You get to first kiss me again. First everything again, Ray.” The second growl sent delighted shivers down Cal’s spine. “So, you see, Ray, you aren’t ever getting rid of me.”

They both jerked and turned to the door as it burst open. Penn stood there, her gun drawn, her glance as sharp as her teeth. She looked over all of them before narrowing her eyes to the two of them on the floor. “Oh, what the hell? I’ve been freaking out and you two have been canoodling this whole time?”

“Canoodling!” Cal repeated in outrage, holding Ray still with one hand on his chest.

“Amnesia spell,” Benny filled her in, ever the diplomat. Penn’s hard expression flickered before she reconsidered Ray. “We think she did it to punish Cal. We don’t know how she got him here or how long it will last. I left a message with Cassandra, but we should probably get him out of here.”

Cal could not have said what Penn was thinking as she stared at her partner, as Ray stared back at her, but then she nodded. “You two finish up. I’m going to watch the entrance and warn you if she returns. But hurry up. Just… hurry up.” Then she was gone.

“Your partner,” Cal explained to Ray before Ray could ask, in case the memories linking Cal and Penn had somehow erased her too.

“She smells like sea air. But good. Like pack. Him too. And you.” Ray managed to seem young despite the new silver in his hair.

Cal petted that again. “Oh, Ray.”

“A witch did this to me, to hurt you?” Ray moved, just like that, climbing to his feet and somehow taking Cal with him. Cal clung to his shoulders and flapped his wings madly. Ray responded by wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him up. “Then you shouldn’t be here. It’s not safe.” For someone running entirely on instinct, Ray wasn’t much different from his usual self. Cal simply hadn’t understood before that the one thing driving Ray more than anything else was Cal, and Cal’s safety.

“Oh,” Cal said, so stupidly Benny was going to mock him for it later. “Mate,” he agreed, as though Ray had said it out loud again. The word echoed with new meanings. Ray should have told him. Ray had assumed he’d known. Ray was an idiot. “Callalily,” Cal introduced himself quietly, gazing up into eyes that still had not lost their glow. Ray was alarmed and he had only Cal to guide him until they fixed this. Cal would be calm. He could do this. “I’m Cal. Your mate. I will not leave you. Nod, or say ‘yes, Peach Blossom.’ And then we can leave, and you can keep me safe. All right, Ray? I’m not a were. You haven’t learned that yet, it seems, but that’s okay. Just nod, or say the words and everything will be okay.”

Ray pulled in a deep breath, full of Cal’s scent. Cal was sparkling but still in his arms. Cal didn’t even attempt to stand on his own. Ray’s eyes began to fade, shifting to ordinary, wonderful blue.

He nodded.

Serious business. Sorry.

So... you guys are pretty great. Just so you know. :) Depression sucks, and sometimes it hits with no warning and drains you, and it makes trying to fight your way out of the hole so much more difficult. Then, you know, everything in the news. (My Tumblr right now is sadness and outrage, and I understand if people unfollow me or avoid me for a while. You have to do what's right for you.) I didn't intend to talk about any of that, by the way, or my life at the moment, but not acknowledging it felt weird. You can't be struggling not to fall deeper into depression and despair, and then learn that someone lost that fight, and not be upset about it, even if you didn't know that person.

I'm not going to go into details. I am just going to repost something I've posted around before.

7 Cups of Tea for online support and help, or just someone to listen

Most countries have their own suicide prevention groups. Look them up, bookmark their websites, program their numbers into your cell phone. Maybe you don't need them now, but you might someday, and I want to know people have them available. Okay?

Anyway. I'm making myself cry now, so I'll stop. (Believe it or not, it's a good thing I'm crying.)


Uh, I originally started this to share "official" things with you all. It seems kind of stupid to talk about right now though. Maybe I will do another post over the weekend. I did some shorts in an effort to claw my way back to the surface. I'll probably share those too. :) Thank you all again for your kindness, and I hope you're all well.

a little bit of me, a little bit of Wicklow

Sometimes I wonder how much I ought to talk about, what sort of writer-blogger should I be? Share everything personal? Share nothing personal? Something in the middle? Only positive things? Then I think, meh, girl, focus on the stories. But that does leave weirdness that still has to be addressed.

Like right now I'm in a weird in between place with my stories. Normally I am down for in between and undefined, but other times a definition is useful. Am I a writer? (Or at least, a paid one?) Am I better off as someone with a real life, outside of my head, job who only writes when she can, as a hobby? I know some people like my stories, but most people hate or are indifferent to them, from what I can tell. I am, and always have been, a weirdo outsider. So really not being hugely successful or popular isn't a new thing for me. (Always the weird bridesmaid, never the weird bride). But I've reached a point where I have to do the math (ugh) and figure out what's best for me, financially and mentally. So I'm kind of in a strange headspace right now. It doesn't mean I'm not writing or doing anything, just that my mood has once again swung down and I'm not in condition for a lot of things at the moment. Real life can wear a person down, sometimes.

For something less melancholy to talk about, we could discuss buttsex in m/m romance fiction. The expectations for it and the ways it's used and written. But uuuggghhhh that sounds like a deep discussion (no pun intended) and I don't think I can handle it yet. I only mention it at all because of Wicklow and his touch/trust issues.

Speaking of Wicklow. Did I ever tell you guys how Lucy and I like to discuss an event that happened before the book, when all of D.C. was convinced Rhoades was already sleeping with Wicklow (even if they didn't know their exact relationship or what Wicklow does for a living)? And some political rival of Rhoades' attempts to go after Wicklow to get at Rhoades, and Rhoades finds out and slowly, thoroughly, ruthlessly, destroys that person to make it clear to everyone the consequences of trying to go after his people/his Wicklow? And he never mentions a thing to Wicklow? He simply continues to invite him over in the evenings, and feed him and care for him and watch him when he thinks Wicklow won't see?

Only Wicklow always sees more than he lets on, and he hears the rumors. He doesn't think Rhoades did it for him, exactly. He thinks Rhoades was protecting the team, but this is Wicklow and he doesn't like debt. And secretly he is pleased Rhoades did this merciless thing for them. He's proud of him, fond in a way Wicklow doesn't have words for. So he decides to reward Rhoades, in his way, and holds still when Rhoades watches him and lets him look. Until he's shivering and unduly warm and confused because he thought he was doing Rhoades a favor but he is the one who feels better with this unspoken thing shimmering between them. Rhoades is looking and for the first time, although Wicklow doesn't say it or even think it directly, Wicklow is considering what Rhoades wants from him. And he is warm, and he is not scared. Perhaps he ought to be. He knows what Rhoades is capable of. But he is safe there in Rhoades' library. Rhoades will never hurt him.



And by the way, thank you, anyone who reads my stuff, and especially those who send me comments. It's honestly one of the greatest feelings to hear about how someone stayed up late to finish your story, or how it made them cry. Sure, I respond awkwardly and probably always will. But it's genuinely moving to know somebody liked something I did that much. You guys are great. :)

A Very Rhoades Christmas--snippet after Wicklow's Odyssey

A Very Rhoades Christmas

In which I was going to write a snippet after the events of Wicklow's Odyssey with all kinds of smut in it, and wound up distracted by a jealous Rhoades. But he's so adorable when he's pouting.


(Some slight spoilers for the novel, but nothing too bad I don't think. Also, unedited because this was for Tumblr)

Thank you to everyone who turned up to my Meet The Author chat. You were wonderful! *mwah*




For Lucy

“Alexander.”

Alexander stopped the scratch of his pen at the sound of his name, so rarely voiced outside of the bedroom. Wicklow called him Rhoades the rest of the time yet Alexander could not make himself mind. It added weight and meaning to something simple. He was Rhoades until Wicklow was trembling beneath him. Then he was Alexander, and his vicious warrior became soft and needy and sweetly unsure. Wicklow had a way of separating parts of himself, a strange system of division he barely seemed conscious of but which allowed to do what must be done without regard for his personal well-being. It served his work well, even if it had given Alexander more than one sleepless night. He had asked Wicklow once to call him Alexander whenever he wished, not just when they were alone for the night, but now he understood. Wicklow wanted to protect himself and Alexander would allow him to, though it knifed through him each and every time he thought of it.

He glanced up to the doorway to his library where Wicklow had appeared with no warning, long hours after the time he would usually have made an appearance. Wicklow never showed up when dinner was being served. Alexander suspected it was pride, some misguided and incorrect worry that he’d be viewed as expecting a handout, though he knew better than to address the issue directly. There was a silver serving cart by the settee bearing plates of trifle and tarts as well as a pot of coffee, now long since cold.

The cart was there every night if Wicklow and the team were in Washington and Wicklow undoubtedly knew it was just for him. Yet he would not speak of that any more than Alexander would. His beloved was a complicated man. Luckily Alexander enjoyed being kept on his toes.

He swept a quick gaze over Wicklow, searching for a reason for his late arrival or any troubles on the horizon, and found nothing except a sweep of color in Wicklow’s pale cheeks that might have been from the frosty air outside if not for the accompanying shine in his deep blue eyes.

Those eyes were fixed on Alexander with that remarkable intensity that had struck Alexander the first time he’d seen them. Wicklow’s hair was growing overlong once more, sending waves of black over his forehead, and there was a mark from his magnifying goggles that meant he’d been working that day. But his hands were clean, if bare to the elements, and someone, no doubt Agent Sancho, had gifted him with a long scarf of white and blue dyed wool.

Alexander instantly conceived of a thousand different ways of removing the scarf, ensuring its destruction, and replacing it with a scarf of his choosing. He would act on none of the plans but they were a comfort in what had otherwise been a long, lonely Christmas Eve.

The coat was Wicklow’s, black and thick and fine, his one grand purchase, as he called it, with the money from his work. It was entirely practical in the wet chill of winter in the capital. His shirt and collar were also his, plain white. There was no touch of Alexander about him and Alexander tried not to frown. At least Louis was not there to call him a petulant child for being jealous of a scarf. His friend was too observant by far.

He did not need to dress Wicklow. It was almost enough to fed him and care for him, bathe him when Wicklow allowed it, loan him books and sit with him as he read them. It had been an unpleasant week and though Alexander was not a religious man, he had hoped for another quiet, contented evening in his library for his night before Christmas. He would have enjoyed feeding Wicklow sweets and brandy and basking in his pleasure before finally taking him up to bed.

Now the hour was late and from the scarf, Alexander could guess as to why. Wicklow had been spending the evening with his teammates.

By all rights Alexander should not be begrudge him that. By all rights Wicklow should have been warmed by the fire and brandy and sinking into the cushions on the settee by now, and Alexander would have come out from behind his desk to sit next to him.

Alexander realized he had been staring and cleared his throat to belatedly answer. “Private?”

“Private? Am I Private Doyle tonight?” Wicklow furrowed his brow, appearing older than his years for a moment, if just as serious as ever.

Alexander was not a nice man. He had ideals, as Wicklow liked to remind him, but he was a man who did not forget slights, who bided his time and sought vengeance even after years had gone by. But at the uncertain frown he instantly forgave Wicklow for the unknowing sin of accepting the scarf from the one woman capable of making Alexander feel as foolish as a boy.

She was as a sister to Wicklow and had shown no interest in him, but still Alexander’s stomach tightened to think of her anywhere near his beloved.

“You are always Private Doyle, you know that.” Alexander stayed in his seat and swept another glance over Wicklow, trying to determine the cause of his mood. “The infamous Wicklow Doyle.” Wicklow’s lips were ever so slightly blue. Alexander was out of his seat and across the room in moments. “Won’t you come closer to the fire? Allow me to take your coat and scarf since you will not let the servants do it.”

Alexander exhaled with delight when Wicklow held still and permitted himself to be partially undressed. He took the coat, as well as the scarf, to an empty chair, though the melting snow would create damp patches and stain the wood.

Wicklow looked over the room. “You were alone?”

Alexander kept back his questions just in time and smoothed the consternation from his expression. In his mind, in his body just behind his heart, was a sensation not unlike the first spark of a roaring fire.

Wicklow had thought Alexander would have company and had kept himself away. As always, his concern and discretion were both misguided and exquisite. The entire town knew they were lovers. They had thought it long before it had actually happened. Indeed, Washington had known Alexander’s feelings long before Wicklow had accepted them. Some had even thought to use Wicklow against him in those days. Alexander’s retribution had been swift and public, as well as merciless enough to make Louis proud. He doubted anyone would try again.

But those were things Wicklow did not know. At least, those were things Wicklow had never directly acknowledged as he continued to rent his lonely single room at a boarding house and pretend in public that he was just another member of Alexander’s Sacred Band of spies. He protected Alexander and Alexander protected him, and Louis might call it foolish, but Louis would do the same for his precious girl-soldier though he would deny it to his death bed.

Alexander straightened and smiled. “Private, I was alone but I am alone no longer.” Unlike Wicklow he was sober, but he spoke as a drunk man. Wicklow ducked his head for a moment then glared up at him.

“You were waiting on me. I didn’t know.” Wicklow reached out as Alexander came back over to him, then paused, then shook himself and pressed himself against him as he did when they had been apart for much longer than a day. “I would have been here if you’d told me. It’s cold.” His complaint was muttered against Alexander’s cravat. It was his favorite cravat, a deep blue silk the exact shade of Wicklow’s eyes. Wicklow never noticed. It only endeared him to Alexander more. Alexander was a fool just as Louis said he was.

“How much did you have to drink, Private?” Alexander turned so his nose was at the chilled skin of Wicklow’s ear. Wicklow shivered and Alexander thought of him standing outside for far too long, studying the house and wondering if he ought to come in. Alexander tightened his hold on Wicklow. “Do not wait.” He gave Wicklow no chance to answer his first question and buried his face in Wicklow’s neck, which was at least somewhat warm thanks to Agent Sancho’s scarf. He curled his fingers into Wicklow’s hair and Wicklow shivered again. “Take my welcome for granted and do not wait again.”

“She said if I was going to wait, I should be warmer,” Wicklow murmured, curling his icy fingers into Alexander’s waistcoat, “You’ve no cause to scowl at a bit of wool, Rhoades.”

His warrior was no less sharp for the cold and a few glasses of whiskey. Alexander let out a breath. “Alexander,” he corrected, for the library could serve as well as the bedroom, and they had hours of night left.

Wicklow’s hands slid up to tangle in inky blue silk. “Alexander.”