- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Writing Levels
- Adept
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Primarily Prefer Male
- No Preferences
- Genres
- I love vampire role-plays. I like sci-fi with a distopian plot. I like yaoi quite well, but I do het pairings just as often. A touch of romance is good but I prefer romantic comedy to straight romance.
"August? August! Where is that boy?"
Charlotte Morgan, née McColl, had been born to a family of the upper middle class—not quite rich enough to be truly bourgeois but rich enough to emulate the style. She'd been warned that she'd be ruined if she married George Morgan. He'd had a certain way about him, though, a charisma strong enough to charm her father into giving away his only daughter. It had been hard at first, learning the live in the stringent frugality that had saved his family's fortune, but now… Now, looking around the grandeur of her new home, Lottie Morgan would have liked to see the faces of those who had told her that she would be ruined.
"No, no," she said, catching sight of some movers who had gone astray. "That goes over there. AUGUST!"
Charlotte was a small woman, pretty and stylish even as she entered her forties, but she had a voice strong enough to reach every corner of their new mansion home. She batted her pretty hazel eyes as she counted the seconds, waiting for a response. After a few moments and no reply, she repeated, "Where is that boy?"
Just as Charlotte was drawing breath to call for her son again, he appeared at the top of the stairs. Doing his best to act distracted, he descended the stairs slowly as he unrolled his sleeves. His mother approached him and they met at the bottom of the stairs.
"You called, Mother?"
"I did," she said. "I thought you went into the city with your father for business."
"Then why were you calling?"
"Because I was afraid you hadn't."
Charlotte liked to pretend that the past five years had not happened. She liked the idea of her son still being almost grown but not quite. When August was going through his more rebellious stage, Lottie had often wished that her son would grow up just a little bit faster. Two years in Europe had done just that for him. He'd left a mischievous boy of eighteen and returned a pensive man of twenty. Every so often, she caught a glimpse of the boy she remembered in him, a spark, a flash of light. Now August had just passed his twenty-third birthday and she had to accept that her little boy was not coming back.
Since August was no longer a boy, he should have begun taking interest in his father's business (an occupation he really ought to have started years ago but he'd been coddled in his youth by his doting mother). He was good at whatever he tried his hand at, as talented as his father in business, but he was disinterested. This wasn't a sort of rebellion that he was not going to do as he was told, he was far too old for antics like that anyway; it was simply honest disinterest.
August did what was expected of him and he did it well, with the careful attention of a perfectionist, but he did no more than what was absolutely required of him. Charlotte almost wished he slacked in some area so that she could reprimand him with motherly justice and trick him into becoming a top-notch businessman with her motherly wiles. As it was, she could only watch on in faint disappointment because there was nothing out of line.
"I'm sorry, Mother," August said, almost sounding repentant but there was a hollowness there that smacked of dishonesty. "I was helping upstairs and I lost track of the time. Father said he didn't need me to be present for the business deal, so he went to the city by himself."
Charlotte wondered what her husband thought about the change in their son. It had taken her so long to pin down the exact change that, by the time she realized she ought to discuss it with George, she was too busy with the plans for the move to do anything about it. George hadn't mentioned anything, either, but he was a busy man himself.
"You're…helping…?" Charlotte asked. In their old home, the Morgans had lived a quiet life with only a housekeeper as a servant so many things had to be done themselves. Now, with their new home, they had dozens of people and yet August insisted on helping?
"Only with my rooms," August assured her. "I want to be sure it's done right."
Charlotte bit her lip lightly and nodded. She was finding it more and more difficult to deal with her son. She couldn't read him, anymore, like she had in the past and it was disconcerting. She had a feeling that it had something to do with the war, but August wouldn't talk about the war. She supposed that she should be grateful; her son wasn't dead or disfigured or reduced to a sobbing mess every time a car backfired. Still, she felt like she'd lost August somehow and that was one of the biggest driving forces behind her determination to move the family to New York. She covered her reasons with the veneer of family prestige but her real goal was to pull August out of whatever had taken hold of him during the war and bring him to the present. The war was nearly four years done, it had been a good three since she'd welcomed her son home, and they lived in a grand, peaceful world.
"Mother? Is something the matter?" August asked, breaking her pensive silence.
"Oh, no," Charlotte answered, "I was just…considering if the furniture in this room should be rearranged to catch the cross breeze better."
"I like it the way it is," August told her after a thoughtful glance around the room.
"Yes?"
"Yes. But… If you'll excuse me, Mother, I would like to get some fresh air. It was rather close upstairs and that's what I came down for to begin with."
"Go on, then," Charlotte said, shooing her son outside. "Go for your walk, get your fresh air. Oh, but don't forget that we've been invited to that party by…oh, I don't remember who. Lord knows I have nothing to wear but we can't disappoint."
"All right, Mother," August said, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "I'll remember."
"Good." Charlotte turned her back on her son as he went outside and returned her attention to the movers. "No, no, no. Not there. There!"
Charlotte Morgan, née McColl, had been born to a family of the upper middle class—not quite rich enough to be truly bourgeois but rich enough to emulate the style. She'd been warned that she'd be ruined if she married George Morgan. He'd had a certain way about him, though, a charisma strong enough to charm her father into giving away his only daughter. It had been hard at first, learning the live in the stringent frugality that had saved his family's fortune, but now… Now, looking around the grandeur of her new home, Lottie Morgan would have liked to see the faces of those who had told her that she would be ruined.
"No, no," she said, catching sight of some movers who had gone astray. "That goes over there. AUGUST!"
Charlotte was a small woman, pretty and stylish even as she entered her forties, but she had a voice strong enough to reach every corner of their new mansion home. She batted her pretty hazel eyes as she counted the seconds, waiting for a response. After a few moments and no reply, she repeated, "Where is that boy?"
Just as Charlotte was drawing breath to call for her son again, he appeared at the top of the stairs. Doing his best to act distracted, he descended the stairs slowly as he unrolled his sleeves. His mother approached him and they met at the bottom of the stairs.
"You called, Mother?"
"I did," she said. "I thought you went into the city with your father for business."
"Then why were you calling?"
"Because I was afraid you hadn't."
Charlotte liked to pretend that the past five years had not happened. She liked the idea of her son still being almost grown but not quite. When August was going through his more rebellious stage, Lottie had often wished that her son would grow up just a little bit faster. Two years in Europe had done just that for him. He'd left a mischievous boy of eighteen and returned a pensive man of twenty. Every so often, she caught a glimpse of the boy she remembered in him, a spark, a flash of light. Now August had just passed his twenty-third birthday and she had to accept that her little boy was not coming back.
Since August was no longer a boy, he should have begun taking interest in his father's business (an occupation he really ought to have started years ago but he'd been coddled in his youth by his doting mother). He was good at whatever he tried his hand at, as talented as his father in business, but he was disinterested. This wasn't a sort of rebellion that he was not going to do as he was told, he was far too old for antics like that anyway; it was simply honest disinterest.
August did what was expected of him and he did it well, with the careful attention of a perfectionist, but he did no more than what was absolutely required of him. Charlotte almost wished he slacked in some area so that she could reprimand him with motherly justice and trick him into becoming a top-notch businessman with her motherly wiles. As it was, she could only watch on in faint disappointment because there was nothing out of line.
"I'm sorry, Mother," August said, almost sounding repentant but there was a hollowness there that smacked of dishonesty. "I was helping upstairs and I lost track of the time. Father said he didn't need me to be present for the business deal, so he went to the city by himself."
Charlotte wondered what her husband thought about the change in their son. It had taken her so long to pin down the exact change that, by the time she realized she ought to discuss it with George, she was too busy with the plans for the move to do anything about it. George hadn't mentioned anything, either, but he was a busy man himself.
"You're…helping…?" Charlotte asked. In their old home, the Morgans had lived a quiet life with only a housekeeper as a servant so many things had to be done themselves. Now, with their new home, they had dozens of people and yet August insisted on helping?
"Only with my rooms," August assured her. "I want to be sure it's done right."
Charlotte bit her lip lightly and nodded. She was finding it more and more difficult to deal with her son. She couldn't read him, anymore, like she had in the past and it was disconcerting. She had a feeling that it had something to do with the war, but August wouldn't talk about the war. She supposed that she should be grateful; her son wasn't dead or disfigured or reduced to a sobbing mess every time a car backfired. Still, she felt like she'd lost August somehow and that was one of the biggest driving forces behind her determination to move the family to New York. She covered her reasons with the veneer of family prestige but her real goal was to pull August out of whatever had taken hold of him during the war and bring him to the present. The war was nearly four years done, it had been a good three since she'd welcomed her son home, and they lived in a grand, peaceful world.
"Mother? Is something the matter?" August asked, breaking her pensive silence.
"Oh, no," Charlotte answered, "I was just…considering if the furniture in this room should be rearranged to catch the cross breeze better."
"I like it the way it is," August told her after a thoughtful glance around the room.
"Yes?"
"Yes. But… If you'll excuse me, Mother, I would like to get some fresh air. It was rather close upstairs and that's what I came down for to begin with."
"Go on, then," Charlotte said, shooing her son outside. "Go for your walk, get your fresh air. Oh, but don't forget that we've been invited to that party by…oh, I don't remember who. Lord knows I have nothing to wear but we can't disappoint."
"All right, Mother," August said, the shadow of a smile on his lips. "I'll remember."
"Good." Charlotte turned her back on her son as he went outside and returned her attention to the movers. "No, no, no. Not there. There!"