#'ah yes I hate crown molding'

[rippedstitch-s]

[strayficks]

Can I request a Mark Lee smut? It can be anything so long as there’s lots of cum play. Spit play too if that’s possible. Thank you in advance

SHAWTY GIMME WHIP- WHIPLASH, please tell me what you think cus it took me 4 days to finish :0, also! I didnt include spit play, i tried writing it but it didnt come out the way i wanted it to.. sorry 🥴

"Mark.. come on, pay attention to me!" You huffed in frustration as you rested your chin on top of his knee. His gaze was focused on the tv screen, fingers vigourously tapping on his controller as he bit his lip, looking down at you for a split second before bringing his eyes back to where it was.

"One more round. One more round and i'm all yours, baby." He said, getting more and more engrossed in his game. A pout ghosted your lips as you whined. An idea came to mind as you danced your fingers on his thigh, crawling up to his groin as you palmed him. A satisfied smile came upon your lips as he squirmed on his seat, his cock only separated by a thin layer of sweatpants. You kneaded his cock with slow strokes, Mark still hasnt budged aside from the occasional stirring in his seat.

"Feels good doesn't it, mark?" You asked him, a hint of taunt as you looked up to him from behind your lashes. He quickly gets rid of your hand and rested it on the armchair. You huffed. Time for a plan B.

You lifted up your- well, Mark's shirt over your head. Revealing your flimsy champagne colored lace bra. You felt a breeze as the air hits your skin, creeping onto your bare legs only clad in your comfy shorts. Who can blame you? This was supposed to be a day off where you both can spend time with eachother, instead, mark chose his precious game console over you. You quickly took off your shorts, leaving you in only your matching lace set. Mark quickly noticed and gave you a stern look.

"Be patient baby. Dont tempt me." You had nothing better to do that twiddle your thumbs, so why not twiddle something else instead? You would technically still be using your fingers if you thought about it. You looked up at mark, still focused more than ever. His loss right? Not even a second later, you were practically whimpering in frustration. It wasn't working again. You pumped your fingers in and out of yourself,

"Mark.. please." You tried to lean back on the floor, propping one hand behind you for stability as you imagine... imagine that it wasn't your own fingers, but somebody else's. A certain some else's.

Mark looked down at you, his eyes widened a little as he saw you, legs spread and touching yourself while calling his name. He moved so quickly, you didn't even get a chance to register what he actually did. He had you pinned against the floor in a flash, one leg pushed between yours, chest pressed against your breasts. Your breath shot out as his hand locked around your throat, but not in a hard way, more in a dominant way that told you not to even fucking dare defy him right now.

"Youre so fucking desperate, aren't you?"

He hissed into your face, his eyes like thunderbolts "You are sopping wet, but you're too damn proud to admit it."

"I am proud," you barked back, but you couldn't focus, not with his thundering eyes and his body pressed up against yours like that. His thumb was stroking my jawline, jerking my head up to meet his

"The hell you are," He said, stepping closer. "You are so wet, your pussy is soaking my pants, not even hiding the fact that you want me to fuck you docile."

Mark mashed his lips roughly against yours in the manner of which you had fantasied about. The pure act of that fantasy coming true had you letting out a docile moan as he molded himself against you. Gripping onto his strong shoulders, you begun tugging back at his shirt, yanking at it as you felt him lift you up, clinging onto him as you both reached the bedroom. In the meantime your lower half was shamelessly rubbing itself against his lower stomach, craving that friction you had needed since he last fucked you. But to your displeasure, Mark harshly pulled back and grasped your hands so you couldn't touch him.

"No."

Letting out a sound of frustration, you met his chilly eyes. "What?!" His jaw squared and you saw a note of ice flash through his eyes.

"I want you to beg me for it, Unless you beg me, I'm not fucking you." You let out an exasperated sigh as you sat in the foot of the bed. Mark just casually standing over you, waiting with his arms crossed.

"Please, i want you. Fuck me right this goddamm second or i'll kick your ass back to Canada."

His lips twitched into a smirk, the cheeky, cocky one you remembered.

"There's the good girl I know."

"Oh, go to-Jesus!" You nearly screamed when he pounded you up against the bed, setting You on the edge. His hands found your sopping wet pussy.

"Oh God, Mark!" He pushed two long fingers inside you and had almost crossing your eyes from the instant pain and the pleasure all at once. You moaned at the tightening sensation, that sweet, blissful feeling of pleasure ripping through your body.

You gripped on to his shoulders as he pumped his fingers in and out of your weeping pussy, all the while his lips found your throat and started leaving hot trails up and down your jugular. Your fingernails dug into his shirt, and he pumped faster; teased your pussy and stretched it until You were shaking and barely breathing.

You were on the edge of exploding when he then pulled his fingers out and left you on the edge again. Precisely like you had predicted. But not seconds later, he had removed his shirt and unbuckled his pants and gripped his rigid cock, aligning it with your throbbing entrance. You didn't get a chance to prepare yourself before he slammed into you in one thrust and drew a scream from your lips. He filled you up completely and hit you so deep as he had reminded you that he bruised your cervix.

"Oh, fuck!" Your legs were numb but they couldn't stop shaking.

"Hang on to me," Mark told you as he grabbed the back of your knees and then pushed them up to your chest, throwing your calves over his shoulders. Next moment, he was gripping your ass again, just as you curled your hands behind his neck in collision with his second thrust

"Ah, Mark!" You cried as he plowed inside you again, your pussy taking him to the hilt. You clenched around him with your inner walls as mindblowing pleasure roared through you. "Oooh, Mark, God..."

He was rough. It was your style. He took you with brutal force and you liked it. No, you loved it.

"Ah!" You cried and threw your head back when Mark rammed inside you, releasing a groan. His fingers were digging into your ass which he pushed to meet his violent thrusts, each time so that he empaled you and made you see double from the pleasure. "Oh, fuck me, Mark...!"

"Look at this," He suddenly said and dropped the tempo until it came to a complete halt. You had been on the border of another orgasm, so with swimming eyes, you followed where he was looking.

That place turned out to be where the shining head of his dick was pressed just against your dripping wet pussylips. A low moan ripped from you as he then slowly pushed his head inside you, both of you watching as your pussy expanded to accommodate his girth and then swallowed him inch by inch as he pushed deeper

"See that?" He said and squeezed your ass even more. "Do you like it?"

"Yes.." you moaned, shaking out again, nudged your clit with his crown. He pushed back inside.

"It's good... fuck, it's so good..."

"Say it louder," He growled in your ear. "Say it so I can hear it. Say it so our neighbor can hear it."

"Fuck, it's good!" You cried as he shoved himself brutally into you again, now bringing back the force and the heat. "Fuck, it's good, it's good!

"Aaah, Mark!" He repeatedly slammed inside you, going balls deep so he entered your womb. Clamping down around him with your inner muscles, you felt myself begin to convulse with the orgasm that was combusting deep within you.

"Scream, baby" He huskily whispered in your ear, and that did it for you.

You screamed and threw your head back,squeezing your eyelids shut as your orgasm roared through you like a starved lioness going for the slay. Your nails clawed down his back and nearly ripping through his skin as he pounded into you, fucking you through your ogasm until you had no more left to give. Your juices coated his thick length, and he leisurely sank into you, drew back, then rammed into You again. You were completely liquified in his arms, almost slipping off the bed if it hadn't been for his arms holding you up.

"On your knees, look at me." Came his order. You did as he told, legs still weak from your orgasm, but you managed to settle yourself in front of him, looking at him trough your lashes as you put both your hands on top of your thighs, sitting like an obedient school girl.

"Open your pretty mouth for me." You opened your mouth as you watched him pump his cock, his tip right in front of your mouth as it splurts hot cum, landing on your tounge as Mark's rythym slowed. He took you by your chin, admiring his masterpiece as his cum decorated your face.

Your mouth was still open, giving him the full view of his seeds dripping down your chin and landing on your chest, you spread it around as you brought your fingers to your mouth, licking it clean as you swallowed the warm liquid. Mark watched the way your throat moves as you swallowed, a smile etched on his face as he swiped a finger across your chin.

"So pretty."

Author's note: dont hate me for that Canada joke, i was in the moment. Also, confess or request whenever u like! 💥✌✊

[frogocado]

A Golden Labyrinth of Noise Part I (Damien Haas au)

Hello my friends. Here we are with the first official chapter of my newest story, A Golden Labyrinth of Noise, aka the prince!damien au. The word count is around 2.2k. I’d love to know your feedback!

1. Escape

Damien paced his chambers, counting the hours until nightfall. He couldn’t take it anymore. Tonight was the night he was going to finally get out into the city. He had been concocting a foolproof plan for nearly a week, finding time in between council meetings with his father to scribble notes before catching up again. His parents had been insisting that his escalation in clumsiness was simply pre-court jitters—tripping over discarded cups in the kitchen and getting bruises that smelled suspiciously of blackberries, falling asleep during lessons, getting lost in the garden. The more doubt the prince could stir, the more likely his parents were to leave him alone on bedrest. He had even figured out a way to ditch the new boy the guard had given the royal family.

Hearing his father’s wooden heel approaching across the marble floors, Damien sprang into action. There wasn’t a moment to waste, especially as he heard the flittering footsteps of someone else following behind his father’s pace. Two voices, one unfamiliar. Perfect. As he tracked both pairs of steps, he approached to the door, leaning his ear against the keyhole. He shimmied the door handle so it was partially opened and waited, going over his list in his head. The rope of sheets pushed to the foot of the bed, his overcoat covering his bag cast on the chair.

Then Damien flicked his wrist just perfectly as he leaned his shoulder against the oak door. “Oh!” He gasped maybe a bit too dramatically as he tumbled through the opening and into the foyer. Having practiced his summersaults all summer since his last escape attempt, the prince sees the waist crown molding along the walls and knows when to dip his head. Whiplash safely avoided, he then feigns unconsciousness, a forearm draped elegantly across his forehead.

“Ah, your first task,” the king said. “Bring my clumsy son to bed and fetch him something for his eventual bruising. I shall check to see how you are getting on in about an hour.”

“Y-yes, Sire,” the second voice answered as Damien listened as his father’s footsteps proceeded down the hallway. Damien desperately wanted to open his eyes to see this fool officer debate how to best bring the prince to bed. He wondered if he would be dragged by his ankles like in the stories his nurse used to tell him about capturers.

After a few minutes of hearing the poor sod shift back and forth on his feet, Damien sat up. He was growing impatient—he had a schedule to keep, after all. The officer gasped so loudly his chain jacket rattled. “M-my Lord, you are well!”

Damien waved a hand to dismiss the man’s panic. “Keep your voice down, please…?” He glanced at the officer, who was now taking a knee with his eyes cast to the floor. Damien rolled his eyes and tapped the man’s shoulder, causing a second jolt. “Come now, that’s enough of that. How were you going to bring me to my chambers if you cannot even look me in the eyes? Some knight you are.” He scoffed as he dusted off his tunic, heading back into his chambers. He kept the door open, hoping the officer’s pride would convince him to ditch regulations and follow the bait.

It took the officer a bit longer than Damien had expected and he was about to move on to pillow fluffing when he heard the clamoring of chainmail. Peeking out of the curtain from his bed chamber, Damien was surprised that the officer had taken off his helmet, holding it beneath his arm. He was still standing as straight as his father’s tightest arrow, but it was a start. Damien hummed with curiosity at the display and approached him, leaning against the archway before the stairs. “Sir Knight?”

“Your Highness—“ the officer started.

Damien made a noise of disapproval and the man instantly stopped, blue eyes finally turning to land on the prince. “That’s my father. Try again, please.” Damien turned away, stuffing his pillows under the sheets. He dug underneath the heap, pulling out the rope he had fashioned earlier.

After a deep breath, there was a second attempt. “M-my Lord?”

Damien’s nose crinkled and he scoffed, turning around with the bundle in his arms. “Do you have anything better?”

Blonde hair fell into the officer’s eyes and Damien realized as he watched the man think that he wasn’t a man at all. Behind a helmet, all of the guard looked the same to the prince, but this one couldn’t have been much older than he was. When he shook his head, Damien sighed, dropping the rope close to the window. “Just call me Prince Damien or something, please? I hate all this politicking garbage.”

“I… shall try, prince Damien.”

“And your name, then, sir—“

The officer stood a bit taller, his chin pointed forward. Damien arched an eyebrow at the show. “I am Knight Topp, second commanding officer for the Haas Royal Guard. I am the second son in my family and the first to be an officer.”

Damien pulled his overcoat off of his chair, adjusting the collar. “Grand, grand. Listen, forget what my father said. Your task from the guard is to watch me and keep me safe, yeah?” He looked up at Knight Topp, who nodded dully as his eyebrows knit together in thought. Damien stepped in front of his mirror to observe himself. He had gotten away with skipping the barber that day with a bruised lip that mysteriously went away when he licked his lips. He took in his jacket, dark blue velvet lined with intricate silver stitching. He turned the collar up and moved to examine his profile, smiling at the reflection in the mirror. “So you’re going to help me escape the castle tonight, Sir Knight.” He stepped closer before clapping both hands onto Knight Topp’s chainmail. “Your family will be so proud of the officer you’ve become.”

Knight Topp stood still as Damien slid his pack onto his shoulder. “Y-you can’t be serious, your Highness,” he whispered.

“Unfortunately for you, I must insist that I am gravely serious about my escape.” He flashed his most princely grin, moving to unlatch the window. Knight Topp was there almost instantly, blocking his way. He hadn’t anticipated that. He certainly was less official than the other guards who were assigned to Damien when he was young. He wasn’t expecting resistance. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it has to be, Sir Knight. And stop calling me that. Both of those were orders, by the way.”

“I cannot let you leave, my prince.” Damien attempted to slip around him, but Knight Topp stood tall, his chin pointing back out again. “I have been assigned to keep you safe and I have strict orders from the King.”

Damien was pushing the Knight’s shoulders now. He was so sure it was going to go off without a hitch and this stammering muscle monkey was going to keep him from his own city. “I order you to move!”

Knight Topp, obviously torn, closed his eyes tightly. “If you leave the palace looking like that, you’re sure to be found out instantly!”

This gave the prince immediate pause. He hadn’t even thought about what people outside in the city would wear. “Is this too formal, you think?” He stepped back in front of the mirror again. He glanced at the paling knight in the reflection. “Theoretically, of course.”

The knight gave a heavy exhale. “Theoretically, if I were a civilian and saw the royal colors, I would pay quite a bit more attention.”

Damien glanced at himself again. He looked awesome, but certainly too… royal. He could see Knight Topp’s point. He pulled the coat back off in one fluid motion, ducked under his bag, and saw his opportunity to approach the window. “Thanks for the information. You’re not so bad, Sir Knight. I’ll give my father a good recommendation.” Not wanting to miss his moment, Damien ducked under the Knight’s arm and flicked the window open, pushing himself through and onto the roof.

He could hear Knight Topp murmuring to himself as he shimmied his way to the edge of the roof. Right as he was about to toss the rope, Knight Topp’s blonde mop of hair appeared. “My prince, if I may present a counter offer to throwing yourself off the roof?” Damien turned back towards him and waited. “Might I suggest we exit through the wine cellar under the kitchen?”

Damien rolled his eyes. “If there was a secret way out of the castle, I insist that I would know about—“ And then, in a flash of a memory, he remembered the door that was always blocked off behind casks of wine. He had always figured it was a storage cellar. Shimmying his shoulders so he was standing just a bit taller, Damien bowed his head. “Thank you for the suggestion, Sir Knight.”

He managed to land on his feet as he retreated back into his chambers. Happy to drop the heavy rope of sheets and blankets, the prince sighed with relief. When he turned to leave, he noticed Knight Topp slipping a rolled piece of parchment under the comforter of his trap. “What are you doing?” He asked.

Knight Topp faced the prince, his cheeks a soft pink and his eyes wide. “Well, I’m sure I… won’t be a commanding officer for much longer after tonight.” He glanced away. “You should leave before the King returns, my prince.”

Damien smiled for half a second before darting for the door.  He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about an alternative way out of the castle. He closed the door to his chambers behind him as he entered the hallway, listening hard for any approaching footsteps. Hearing a clatter behind his own door, he took off down the first set of stairs before Knight Topp could catch up.

Damien only passed a few attendants on his way to the kitchen, all of whom dipped their heads and cast their eyes to the floor. Damien wondered if they would notice if he changed his hair color or if they’d notice if he was bloody and bruised. He wasn’t quite sure.

He slipped into the kitchen and closed the heavy door behind him. He could hear clinking footsteps from in the hallway so he hurriedly moved the barrels away from a smaller door. All of the barrels were empty, he realized as they all toppled together in the corner. Damien made a small disapproving noise, remembering the way the cooking staff would always tell him to be careful when he was a child. “If those casks fall on you, Your Highness, you’ll be grape jam,” he could still hear one of the cooks telling him.

Right as Damien was retching the door of the crawlspace open, the door of the kitchen flew open, banging into the bench nestled behind it. “Your Highness,” Knight Topp gasped. “I thought this was all theoretical.”

“All theories require experimentation. Have you not ever met an alchemist?” Damien rolled his eyes as he dipped into the small area, feet crushing dirt as he turned to the young man. “Didn’t I give you a strict order, Sir Knight, not to call me by my father’s title?”

Knight Topp stood up straight, his chin pointing forward and his blue eyes bore into Damien’s own. He couldn’t remember the last time someone outside of the family had looked him in the eyes. “It is my duty, my prince, to keep you protected and safe. Your father told me to bring you to your chambers and—“

“And you can do that once my adventure is done.” Damien waved a dismissive hand in the knight’s direction before turning away again. “I admire your promise of duty, even if it is misplaced.”

Before the prince could close the door behind him, a gloved hand stopped it. Knight Topp, not fully looking in the prince’s direction, was handing him a dirty, brown, torn piece of canvas. “For your disguise, Sire,” the guard said in a defeated voice.

Damien held it up, his face crinkled in confusion. “A potato sack?”

Knight Topp gave him a look as if he were unimpressed, one of his eyebrows raising. “You expect to sneak into the city without a disguise?”

“Ah, I see.” Damien awkwardly placed the sack over his head, holding up his arms like he suddenly had no idea how his body could function while wearing something that wasn’t etched from silk or velvet. When the guard gave him an approving nod, Damien nearly smiled. “You aren’t going to try to stop me?” He asked.

“Have you already forgotten? I already tried. “

Under the hood of the sack, Damien’s eyebrows were pressed into the crease of his forehead, rising so high they threatened to leap from his head. “So you’ve given up, then?”

Knight Topp clacked his boots together before saluting the prince. “I will not try to stop you, my prince.”

With this approval, Damien broke into a wide, wolf like grin before he pulled the crawl space door closed and darted down the muddy tunnel.

[strickland527]

“A Wolf Apart” Chapter 6 Preview

Since I feel so bad about how long I kept everyone waiting, here’s a really unbeta’d sneak peek at chapter 6:

The first thing he’s aware of is a whooshing in his ears and a bright white light that fills his eyes. It doesn’t hurt, he feels no pain, but it is a nuisance. He blinks the light away, hoping his eyes will adjust, and slowly his vision returns and the sound dissipates. 

He can feel the clothes he’s wearing, light and comfortable. When he glances down, he sees a black velvet doublet, with matching pants. On his breast is a red dragon, with three heads. It seems familiar to him. Familiar and forbidden. 

Lifting his head from the ground, he can see his surroundings coming into view. It’s a great hall of some place he’s never been. A grand and beautiful palace, adorned with riches Jon has never known. One thing stands out amongst the glass and vases and stone and gold: 

<I> Dragons</i>

They’re all around him; carved into the stone, molded into metal, staining the glass. Dragons, everywhere. Black and green and cream and red, so many differently colored dragons. 

After a moment he realizes that he’s not alone in the Great Hall. At the far end of the Hall is a man, clad in black armor, with white hair. 

Jon Snow walks to greet him. 

As he does, Jon can swear he sees ghosts as he passes each window. Some smile when seeing him, some ignore him and some look at him with hatred. 

An older woman, pretty and wearing a crown, with blue eyes smiles and reaches out to him, but her hands are nothing and they pass through his. Past her some is another woman, a colder look with a much fuller face, who regards him within doubt in her violet eyes. 

Jon walks past them all and starts to reach the end of the hall. 

One old man with long and ragged hair and nails glares at him with wild purple eyes, a wound in his gut bleeding. Next to him another man, younger but with a similar look, meets his eyes with hatred as flames dance and lick around him. 

But Jon can’t take long to dwell on them because he’s standing in front of the man in black. The man’s hair isn’t white, it’s more a silver-gold. Like many of the ghosts, this man has purple eyes, only his are indigo. They’re also full of a melancholy so overwhelming that Jon has to look away from them. Red rubies cover the chest of the black plate armor this man is wearing, but in the middle is a gaping wound, which has knocked lots of the rubies off. 

“Do you know where we are,” Jon asks shyly. 

It seems as if Jon has shaken the man from his reverie. He looks at Jon as if he’s noticing him for the first time. 

“Hmm?” he asks, distractedly.

Jon sighs in annoyance at the man and asks again, “Do you know where we are?”

“I do,” he says, looking around the hall, “I’ve never seen the palace so...complete, though. When I saw it last, it was a ruin.”

It wasn’t much of an answer, but Jon thinks it will have to suffice.

“Who are you, lad?” the man asks.

“I’m Jon Snow, the natural son of Lord Eddard Stark.”

Confusion lined the face of the man in front of him. 

“If you’re not a dragon, then why are you here?”

Jon isn’t sure, either. The last thing he remembered was the fight in the godswood.  

“Am I dead?” he asks and when he looks down, he sees an arrow sticking out of his shoulder and one out of his thigh. But still, no pain.

“You must be dead. I am, too. I haven’t been here that long. I remember saying her name as I collapsed into the river and now I’m here. Maybe it’s one of the seven hells? I deserve it. I failed and now the world is doomed, son.”

Anger flares in him, for reasons he’s not exactly sure. 

“I’m not your son!” he seethes. 

The man looks sadder than he has so far and nods gently. “As you say.”

There was something familiar about this man. His identity is something Jon should know. 

“Who are you?”

He smiles shyly at that. “Do you truly not know? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who has.”

Before he can answer, Jon hears a door opening behind him. When he turns to find the sound, there’s a man standing in front of him, a deep and angry scowl on his face. 

“I swear, boy, by the old gods and the new, I turn from the wolves to deal with that kraken for a few days and you’re half dead... ” 

This man is unlike any Jon has ever seen in his life. His skin is pale white as bone and his long hair is even paler. A deep red blotch runs up from his neck to his cheek just short of his eye. 

<I>God’s, his eye.</i> 

It’s an even deeper red than his birthmark. But there’s only one, as his other eye is gone, with only a hole where it should have been. Staring at his eye seems to have made him angrier as his scowl increases. 

“Yes, my eye, a terrible thing, now follow me, boy.”

When he turns back to the first man, he sees confusion in his purple eyes. Jon is torn between these two strange men. He knows he should go with the one eyed man, but the other one looks so sad and confused that Jon doesn’t wanna leave him. 

“He’s not going anywhere. Besides, he can’t help you. He had his chance. And now he’s here.”

The snide way this man is speaking is too much for Jon. 

“No. I’m not leaving him until I know what’s going on. Who he is. Who you are. Tell me. Now.” 

The anger is coursing through him, he feels...he <I>feels</i> for the first time since he woke here. 

The one eyed man just laughs. “Ah, maybe there is some dragon in you, boy. You try so hard to be a wolf, I thought maybe you snuffed your fire out.”

“Dragon?” He’s more confused than angry, now. 

The one eyed man sighs, “this isn’t your place, lad anymore than it’s mine,” he says before turning and walking away, back towards the entrance. Jon glances at the purple eyed man one more time, he lifts a black gauntlet in farewell, before following the albino man. 

They don’t make it very far before a ghost in yellow enameled armor, with a red winged horse, accosts them. “Where is she, bastard?!” He bellows, his purple eyes alight with anger as his long black flaps behind him. “You took her from me!”

“He still thinks she’s dead!” is the one eyes man’s mirthful response. His whole body is shaking with laughter. After a moment he looks at the ghost and says, “not yet, brother.” 

They’re then alone in the hall again. “Why did that man hate you, Ser?” Jon asks. 

“He’s not the only one in here to hate me. I’ve sent more than my fair share to this place. But it’s not my place yet. Anymore than it’s yours, boy.”

They make it to the end of the hall. There stands a tall, handsome man wearing a dark iron crown, ringed in rubies. Next to him are two beautiful women; one harsh and one soft, also wearing crowns. Three sets of purple eyes stare into his. 

“This is him?” the king asks the one eyed man. 

“A possibility,” he responds, turning his one red eye towards Jon. “A strong one.”

All four people regard him for a moment. “He’ll do, won’t he sister?” asks the soft one. “Mayhaps,” the harsh one responds, never breaking eye contact with Jon. 

Then they’re gone, as well. Mists in the breeze. 

“You’ve never told me where I am. Or who you are. Or who all these other people are.” Jon notes to the red eyed man. 

“What’s the point? There’s not much of this you’re gonna remember, anyway. All I’ll tell you is to tell your stubborn brother to let me into his dreams. It’s been almost a decade and he still keeps pushing me out.”

“Robb?”

The man sighs sadly in resignation. “Seven hells, you’re almost not worth the trouble are you?” A moment of silence stretches between them before he adds, “almost.”

He steps towards Jon and places a hand near his chest. “Try to go more than a few years without almost getting yourself killed, hmm?” Something like a smile graces his features. For a moment, Jon almost thinks him handsome. “And now, you wake.”

The man touches Jon’s chest and the noise in his ears and light in his eyes increase until they overwhelm him and he’s lost.

[captainkurosolaire]

Royal Roast

 A regal touch captivated notes on a strung sharp violin as it played a classical melody throughout a Noble Estate held in Ishgard, each solitary note was played with impeccable accuracy a single beat wasn’t missed or left unjustified as the pace picked up and raced, it was majestically powerful the type that entranced scholars of the craft that split the conveyed emotions of man in control.

Though shortly it paused out of turn for only one, individual could prevent him from playing phenomenally, only one cretin could ruin his excellence rhythm. A being he reluctant on calling a Rival, but he held no other equal to counter-measure him. None were as stubborn to the task or drew out eye-roll inducing entertainment, not quite like the polar opposite face of the coin as him. He was everything the Noble hated, and this was the same for the Pirate as well, each of them brilliantly brought out simultaneously the worst and best out of one another. “It ceases to amaze me how you find ways-in pirate, I thought I held all the bases covered but still you exploit craftiness, why do you burden me?” The pure white-outfitted and cleanly tailored individual orderly set his instrument down and took over a stare, wishing to draw out the reason for the interruption. Studded boots landed behind and a flashing amber-hue in spectacle began looking over all the valuables and gave out a soundly loud whistle carrying a colored impressiveness. “Ahoy, mate. I came because I could use some help thought might interest you, something in relation with the Void, seems down your alley way and fits the hocus-pocus magic thing that I don’t really excel in. Kind of a bad dilemma, take it you got no clue on how to break a high-powered possession? As for how, I got in... Well, let’s just say you’ve got some quality maids who don’t get enough pay or pleasure in this overworked and clocked-place.” He swung around in his fingertips a chained key no doubt taken out of seduction.

The Keeper intelligently ignored the mention of the Void or his skills that far exceeded what was asked for his skills to assist in, this was a common theme that ran so he had little meaning to humor acceptance towards the pleader. "My aid, huh? Why should you require such? How about going to employ some pretenders at that atrocious hub called, what was it again? Quicksands, ah yes memory regains me. Perhaps you'll find a savior of Eorzea or better yet a Deity randomly leisuring in the cesspool for whatever minuscule reasoning they hold, I often hear several laughable claims each adventurer speaking foul of the fool. Then again, that explains your crew in sum..." A breathless Elezen who was recently informed of a spotted intrusion came running to his sire’s presence. Sir. Nathaelon rushed and gave an apologetic bow about to speak but the Lord gave a hand up to hold his breathe for how it was possible he snuck through, instead opting to play in the amusement of this known intruder.

The retorting turned Pirate Captain of the Seas now took his turn at the verbal showdown, "Correct me if I'm wrong matey, but... I do believe, I- my crew saved yer royal ass. Leviathan, we practically cleaned up your mess that would have never happened if you didn't thirst for power and simply called for help sooner. Instead you took the easy path, you went to murder all the competition and bark to orders, fitting seeing how, one thing you've always been is a spoiled bitc-."

"RE-FRAME FROM TONGUE, SWINE!" The highly esteemed Butler of Knighthood shouted in lit anger and drew forward.

"How about you shut yer, fluff-girl up would you so kindly fer me yer, Grace?" Turning a tilted head over directly with a verbal burn to the crowned retainer Nathaelon who was mere-moments close to drawing a blade in protection of his Excellency a snap blood-vessel popped for a devotee could not simply stand for heresy.

Responding in the first act to halt an unsavory act by allowing a sudden unrelenting cold to take in room to deliver silence to his underling as his faith was blinding and unwarranted. Shiro held a handle over the situation. Turning back to face the Captain directly, "You don't get it, every-time anything happens, YOU! Are the factor. You're a walking death bomb waiting to explode, I pity any of those who sail under your flag. We should go back through the list and see how many of your crew-mates are now seafood. How many turned their own coats and caused battles that didn't need to happen? I joined forces with your band and they destroyed our means of evidence. During the War of the Depths, your leading-engineer was in battle with one of your own... I played my part with perfection."

Searching back and drawing back his own quip, "Eh? I don't remember that cause if I recall... It was I, who picked and hauled your depleted carcass from being among tides, aye... ~ See, problem, ye got mate. Is that you've allowed the Ishgardian and prancy-fancy lifestyle mold you into a ABSOLUTE, prick. Constantly you thrive to prove to others to be an 'Elite' and you’re among this artificial ranking, Seven Hells, last I checked you had no fancy Knight accolades in yer reservoir. Rumor around is ye flunked out of the academy!” 

Talking slow and methodically his jawbones clenching up drawing in aggravation... "Listen here... Mongrel, I have no reason to explain my origins to you... Though let's unravel the point, you want my assistance. Well, let's play by the ol' pirate way. A parley... Except, you don't fight me the Cap'n, you'll fight..." His white gloved hand's would drift over pointing to the fuming Sir Nathaelon brooding between the two bitter rivals from the previous scoundrel's comment. "Beat him and you got it, I wouldn't want to make a mockery over you on such a dire request of time, not before our showdown already scheduled at the Budokai Tournament, though if you bite the dust or can't beat Nathaelon, well then you're a useless combatant for me."

Radiation of the prospect fueled the pirate and let out a joyous smirk as competition was never to be underappreciated it was a finer relish enjoyment, aside ~ From a woman strapped closely between heated flesh at bedside."Hope you can handle bigger packages lad, cause I'm a put yer Lord to shame when comes to fluffing me up... Whole-lot of man." Sizing up the suited Elezen who glowered in a fused of anger back down at the ruffian who held an ever sense of boldness, his taunt succeeding already in setting up nerves. A trick that swashbucklers attempted to win a fight before it even begun. Doesn’t take a whole lot to rile up a royal stuck-up who were fed special snowflakes as cereal .

"Then starting at dawn's new rise, we'll conclude this in a glorious duel. If you win, Solaire... I'll give you the help you desire, if you lose, never enter this Estate again uninvited or involve me in your chaotic affairs." The Noble Lord gave in his baritone addressment.

"Aye, we ave’’ a deal." The pirate signaled his agreement and took his tipped tricorne hat and delivered a bow more out of cockiness for the formality then shut audibly the door alongside his exit.

To be continued... Feat. @lordshiroelune Previous Chapters : Forever Destined Noble Trouble Steal the Moon, Pirate!

[crowkingwrites]

The Godchild (Ch.12)

Pairing: Loki X Reader

Summary:  You are excited when your best friend, Laura Barton, names you as little Natasha’s godmother. You are more than ready to take care of her. Little do you know, Clint has also picked out a godfather for his new daughter…Loki. A series inspired by my previous work “The Polar Express” where Loki and you meet and take on your roles as godparents to Natasha Barton during a time where the Barton family and other members of SHIELD are threatened. How far would you go to protect your goddaughter? How far would Loki go?

Words: 1819 (Ao3 Link) MCU Masterlist

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four , Chapter Five, Chapter Six , Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven

You watched Natasha play in her room for a while. She was speaking with people around her as if she were a queen. She wore a lovely plastic crown and had her blanket wrapped around her shoulders. When she turned your way, you saw her eyes. Natasha’s brown eyes were gone. A milky white fog had taken over them.

Before you could step towards her, Loki held you back.

“An illusion, that’s all,” Loki assured you. His hand rubbed your shoulder.

“You let her play inside her mind like that?” you questioned him.

“Of course,” Loki narrowed his eyes. “The Bartons have allowed it. She’s an imaginative child.”

“She’ll learn more of the pretend world in her head instead of the real one.”

“She’s five,” Loki said. His brow furrowed. “Let her be a child. Her parents were missing, possibly not even alive. She’s away from her siblings. This is a whole new world for her.”

“So, you let her cope by having her live inside her pretend world?”

“Where she’s happy. Last night when I tucked her in, she asked where her parents are.”

“What did you say?”

“I lied. I told her they’re on a very important adult vacation. And that they’ll be back soon. Are you going to disagree with how I handled that too?”

“No,” you backed down. “I don’t want her to grow up between two worlds. Sometimes, I still can’t tell what’s real and what’s been in my head.”

“Don’t worry. This isn’t a normal thing. Have you had any visions since we got here?”

“No. My powers have been radio silent. Well, at least the ones I can’t control.”

Loki had you step away from little Natasha’s door and into his bedroom. He had one of the smaller bedrooms, and let you have the master. Still, he utilized his space well. His bed was neatly made, something you both had in common. Loki had bookshelves lining one wall with his books in stacks. His shelves looked more like a museum of his mind than something displaying books. There were trinkets, Asgardian technology, and two jars filled with bottlecaps.

“Bottlecaps?” you pointed.

“Ah,” Loki reacted. He started searching the shelves for something. “I’ve begun to collect Midgardian things. My therapist instructed me to ‘fall in love’ with Midgard by collecting things I like about the world. I like your ale.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” you remembered that. Loki handed you a book. It was fairly new and the leather cover enticed you. The title ‘On Control’ shined in the gold font it was in.

“I feel very responsible for your condition,” Loki confessed. “I can control my powers. Let me help you control yours.”

“That’s impossible.”

“It’s not,” he smiled at you. “All it takes is practice. The more you practice, the better control you have. Soon, you won’t be fainting or throwing up anymore. You’ll be able to command visions to you. You’ll be able to play minds better. Don’t you want that?” It seemed like a daunting task, but what Loki said was enticing. If you gained control, you could help more.

“When can we begin?”

Natasha held both of your hands as you entered the prestigious preschool that Parker Novak had recommended to you both. The young children wore uniforms and each teacher had a doctorate degree in their subject. Loki wore a polished suit with tones of green throughout. You wore a simple black dress with heels.

“You look like you’re going to a funeral,” Loki commented.

“What? I like black.”

“As do I, but this will work better.” With a snap of his fingers, your outfit brightened up in large floral designs with matching tones of green under. A string of pearls appeared around your neck.

“You want us to match?”

“If we both dress well, we’re a normal, rich family who wants their daughter to get into this school. It’s about looks here.” Loki had a point. You watched the secretary knock on the dean’s door. Her dress belt was designer. Her designer shoes clicked the polished hardwood floor.

“The Dean will see you now,” she smiled and walked back to her desk. Her manicured fingers typed away at her keyboard again. Before you and Loki could walk in, another woman called out behind you.

“Hello! I’m Dr. Sarah. I’d like to take Natalie on a tour if that’s all right with you.” Her smile warmed you. You shook her hand. The immediate contact took you inside her mind. Sarah had built her career around children. She wanted nothing but to shape and mold the minds of them and love them since she wasn’t able to have any of her own.

“Dr. Sarah, I hate to impose—

“No, it’s alright Thomas,” you placed a reassuring hand on your pretend husband. You bent down to kiss Natasha’s head. “Go with her, Nat.” She waved a tiny goodbye to you both as Dr. Sarah exited the waiting area.

“You had a glimpse inside her mind?” Loki questioned.

“She had true and good intentions, but yes. I did.”

“Good. Do it again with the dean.”

Loki and you were welcomed into the dean’s office with the greeting smell of vanilla and cotton. Two bookshelves carried distinguished books and picture frames of the dean and his family. College degrees and doctorate degrees hung on the wall. The thick glass windows reminded you how old the building was.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Copeland,” the dean’s deep voice comforted you. His salt and pepper beard looked as wise as the degrees on the wall. “I’m Dr. Malik Andrew Robinson II. Welcome to Andrew Academy. From both of your resumes, I can assume you’re new to Colorado?”

“We are,” Loki nodded. “We only moved here about a month ago. We wanted to give us a chance to really settle in before we put Natalie in school again.”

“That’s an interesting choice,” Dr. Malik said. “May I ask why you moved here?” You chimed in by placing your hand on Loki’s knee.

“He was offered a position with a law firm that we couldn’t pass up. Colorado is a wonderful place to raise a family, and we never had the chance until now. We found our forever home.” Dr. Malik smiled brightly at you both. Loki waited. You needed to get inside the dean’s head.

From what you knew, you needed physical contact with someone to play inside their mind. Unluckily for you, there was a large desk between you and the dean. You had to find some other way.

“How did you find out about us?” Dr. Malik continued. Loki took his turn, distracting the dean while you focused on the dean himself. His wide nose took in every scent that the vanilla had to offer. His smile was even grander. Someone who has seen more happiness than most people and he was grateful for it. You looked around his desk for anything, but most things were out of your reach. Pens, desk trinkets, and a candle. No, that wouldn’t work.

You looked at the Dean again and felt a spark in your mind when he looked back at you. Attention. You needed his attention.

“Dr. Mailk,”you interrupted. “Could you tell us more about the extracurricular programs you offer here at the academy?”

“Of course,” he smiled. A he listed and explained different programs such as art and theatre. You gained his full attention. Once he had his eyes on you, you focused your energy more into his face. You began to see an accomplished man who worked harder than everyone to get the life he had. You saw his own grandkids surrounding him at Christmas time. His immediate thoughts came to you as well. Through his eyes, he saw a rich, young family that wanted to make roots here. Something he identified with.

You squeezed Loki’s hand, hoping to give him an indication of what you saw.

“Do you have any other questions?” he asked.

“No, I think we’re good.”

“Thank you for your time, Doctor. When will we find out?” Loki asked.

“An acceptance or a denial letter will be sent to your home in a week,” Malik told you both. “It’s been a true pleasure. Give Novak my best.

Nat quietly watched television while you and Loki ate popcorn behind her.

“So, were you able to do it?”

“I was. He liked us. We aligned with his values. She’s going to the academy,” you smiled. You offered Loki a high five and he happily matched you. His eyes turned back to the television and narrowed.

“What exactly are we watching again?”

It was your turn to put little Nat to sleep. You tucked her in. Her mother’s dark curls laid all over the pillow. She held onto her favorite teddy bear and looked up to you.

“Do you want me to sing you a song?” you asked. She nodded happily and you began a tune you were familiar with.

Dancing bears, Painted wings, Things I almost remember, And a song someone sings, Once upon a December. Someone holds me safe and warm, Horses prance through a silver storm, Figures dancing gracefully across my memory.

The lullaby lulled your favorite girl right to sleep with pictures of people dancing in her head. Her pretty closed eyes looked too peaceful. Her little hand held your hand, and you felt something that you didn’t feel before. You always loved Natasha and the rest of the Barton family. It never occurred to you to have your own before.

With your mother constantly asking about dates and your last boyfriend using your cushy, high paying job as a reason to be a dick, family wasn’t in the foreseeable future for you. You turned away from Natasha to see Loki standing in the doorway. You both jumped.

“Sorry!” Loki whispered loudly. “I was only passing by when I heard your singing.”

“I’m so sorry about—

“No! Please don’t apologize. It’s lovely. It’s so wonderful,” Loki laughed. “I’ve seen many singers in the royal palaces of Asgard, and you’re better than all of them.” Your eyes started to shift around the room while your fingers played with each other.

“No, no. You don’t have to say that.”

“But it’s true. That song. Is it an old Midgardian song? It sounds old.”

“I wish, but it comes from a movie,” you admitted.

“Perhaps we should watch it sometime. You and I together. Maybe you could even sing that song again. Good night, Y/N.”

You smiled at Loki warmly as you retreated to your own bedroom. “Good night, Loki.”

You felt something arouse you again. It was the same attraction you felt on the Avengers Compound and the Polar Express. A happiness that spread through your chest. A fluttering heart that matched your wandering mind. Loki was your friend for now, but now you had secretly hoped for something more.

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[ellebeebee]

Family

Shortly after the Baron of Namaire passes, Sabine returns home to the Guyenne estate for an overdue visit with her family.  It’s not all tea and roses, and Sabine has business in mind for her siblings.  (And yes, Rosalin is shamelessly inspired by Julie d’Aubigny.)

5821 words, Revaire!mc and no pairing, general

-

Sabine took the hand Chrétien offered, and a few raindrops fell on her traveling gloves.  Black spots bloomed over the maroon silk.  She stepped down from the carriage, careful with her impractical and yet very pretty slippers on the slick running board.  The butler-- the new one that Chrétien had written to her about-- held an umbrella to shield her mostly, and her brother partly, from the rain.

“Thank you,” Sabine told him.

“Of course, madam,” he said, specks of water dotting his coarse dark hair.  He managed a bow that was both elegant in its grace and careful in its keeping the umbrella still keeping the rain off.

It could never be said the facade of the Guyenne estate did not show a modern style-- attractive in its stately proportions with larger windows than the ancestors had used and more delicate crenelations-- but that was the face of the castle.  The interiors and the unseen sections told a different story.  The southern wing jutted out over a lake and would have lovely vistas if the whole wing did not smell of mildew and the foundation had not been steadily dissolving into that very same lake.

Only half the eastern wing was kept open, and many of the western wing’s room were also kept closed.  The best and oldest portraits were kept covered year-round unless company was expected.  Servants were constantly hired and dismissed as the cash flow changed, so new faces were a permanent feature of the house.

“Shall we?” Chrétien asked.

It never failed to surprise her: having to look up at him.  Even though he’d been taller than her for years.  Curly dark hair and dimples, her precious baby brother.  He smiled inquisitively at her lingering.

Sabine patted his arm. “Very well.”

They walked the short distance over the shining gravel to the entrance, Manel and his umbrella following.  The footmen were waiting with the entrance doors.  Rain darkened the shoulders of their wool uniforms.  They bowed as she and Chrétien passed.

Warmth washed over them in the foyer.  White and pink marble, silver sconces and gold gilding.  She had a minimum of time to inspect the latest refurbishment before a side door burst open and screaming bounced about the foyer.

Two bundles of taffeta and ribbon bows bowled into her midriff.

“Sabine!  Sabine!”

Sabine laughed and stooped to grip the two girls strangling her waist even tighter to herself.   They squealed.  She knelt to push them back a little and get a better look.  Identical brown and dimpled cheeks, cheekbones that would one day be sculpted, little bow mouths.  Camilla wore a yellow frock with yellow lace, and Marigold wore blue with black velvet ribbons.  They grinned at her.

“Oh my doves,” Sabine said. “Little dumplings.  You’ve grown so much!”

“Did you bring Pardot’s Theorems--”

“What about The Principles of Thought as--”

“Girls,” Chrétien said.  He handed his coat off to the doorman and frowned at them. “She’s been in the door for a second.  You could at least give a proper greeting.”

Sabine stifled a snort.  His babyface made the frown look very ill-fitting indeed.  She tugged on the twins’ mahogany curls.

“He’s right.  I could be convinced by a kiss though,” she whispered.

They giggled, and together pecked either side of her face. “Hello, sister!”

“Hello, loves!  The books are in my luggage, and I’m sure the maids are already unpacking--”

They flew up the main staircase before she finished the thought.

“Camilla, Marigold!”

Vera appeared in the same archway they’d come screaming from, herself much more sedate in a great voluminous skirt of a saccharine pink.  Her thin and brown shoulders nearly drowned in embellishments, and her head swayed under the great whirl of her dark curls molded into a complicated style.  She smoothed down delicate rosettes and ruffles to smile at Sabine.  Lilah followed her into the foyer as well.

“Sabine,” Vera said after a pause, her arms jerking upward for an embrace.

“Vera,” she said and pulled her as close as possible with that large skirt.  Their jaws clacked together in the cheek kisses.  Sabine held her shoulders and smiled as she inspected her. “My.  Aren’t you a picture.  Perfectly pretty, dear.”

Vera inspected her as well, again pausing a little too long. “And you look-- well.  Quite appropriate.  Quite appropriate, sister.”

Sabine smiled.  The traveling gown was red for mourning.  The seamstress had cut it well-fitted and styled it modernly.  Not too ostentatious to be worthy of second looks, but certainly not dowdy.  Quite appropriate indeed.  Yet Vera’s eyes lingered on the close cut of the dress and her figure beneath it.  When gathered together, Sabine quite always stood apart from the other Guyenne women in not being quite so narrow and svelte.  Not at all, in fact.

And Vera let slip the word ‘appropriate’ in that condescending manner that was ever her particular charm.  Yes.  There certainly was no place like home.

“Lilah,” Sabine said, looking beyond Vera’s shoulder.

Lilah stepped forward in a motion not quite a curtsy and yet still somehow deferential.  As she dipped, her hand swept smooth the front of her simple dress.  Rather too simple, really, in Sabine’s opinion.  A schoolgirl’s crown of braids wrapped around her head and pulled taut at her temples, making her hooded and heavy-lashed eyes rather doll-like.

“Sister,” Lilah said.

Sabine raised a brow. “‘Sister’?  Why, what manners!  What a perfect little lady-- oh don’t, I know quite well you’re all growing up, but if you think I’m going to let you get by without a hug you are sorely mistaken.”

She held out her hands and gestured imperiously.  Lilah’s lips cracked a little smile despite herself.  They hugged, a little awkwardly having been several months out of practice.  And she was turning out to be such a formal little thing, her Lilah.

“Oh, look at my beauty, my love--”

Behind Vera appeared Mother and Father.  Lilah released her as Mother bull-rushed them and scooped Sabine into a fiercely tight embrace.  And then Father threw his arms about the both of them and squeezed them until they squealed.  A great deal of fussing and admiring was had, with complaints about the journey and the eye-rolling about Camilla and Marigold.  Sabine protested the absence of the littlest of her siblings (Andreas, Domin, and baby Marjot); Chrétien smiled and pointed out that it was well past dark and their bedtimes.

When this quieted, and her mother stopped making dewey eyes at the sight of her in full mourning, Sabine looked about the hall where they-- still-- lingered.

“Where is Rosalin?” she asked.

Mother and Father quieted.  Lilah and Vera’s eyes flew to their faces.  Lady Guyenne, beautiful as ever with an artful tumble of dark curls and a thin face and large thick-lashed eyes, stared at Sabine with her lips mouthing around floundering words.  She looked to her husband.  Lord Guyenne, mahogany to his wife’s copper with his coarse hair flaring from his head in a handsome halo, tugged at the lapels of his coat and hesitantly smiled at Sabine.

“Well.  Dear--”

“Where,” Sabine said, her tone changing. “Is Roselin?”

Lord Guyenne’s lips puckered.  When their parents still remained silent, Sabine’s gaze shot to Chrétien.  His dark brows shot up.  He raised his hands defensively.

“I’ve just gotten back with you.  I know as much as you do.”

She turned back on her parents.  They managed placating smiles.

“Sabine, darling--”

She exhaled violently. “No, do not-- I cannot believe the pair of you!  This is the third time.”

Mother sighed and laughed. “Oh, Sabine, really.  It’s not such an ordeal.  You know Rosalin!  She can’t be caged, she’s a free spirit--”

“She is a young girl,” Sabine shot back. “She is a foolish and arrogant young girl you have coddled into thinking that she is impervious to consequence--”

This tirade and back and forth continued on for a while.  Vera and Lilah drifted as close as Vera’s ridiculous skirts allowed, with mirroring awkward nonplussed expressions.  Chrétien’s hands hovered about and reached forward as if to make some gesture of intervention, but he never expressed anything other than silent dismay in his wide eyes.

Mother fluttered her hands. “Oh, enough!  She’s fine--”

“Really?  Really, she’s fine?  Do you even have any idea where’s she gone this time?”

“She has a poetic heart!  Romance is in her blood, and I’m glad--”

“So that’s what this is?  Another love drama?”

“Sabine,” Father said.  He placed a hand on her arm and smiled at her pleadingly. “Please.  Rosalin is an intelligent girl.  She’ll be fine.”

She stared up at him, clenching her jaw. “How long has she been gone?”

He hesitated. “Ah.  A… few days.”

Sabine closed her eyes.  She released a long stream of extremely cross breath. 

“Sabine,” Chrétien said.  He looked at her with beseeching eyes and dimples.  He has always hated conflict.

She exhaled and pursed her lips. “Alright, fine.  Vera, Lilah-- I think it’s time you two went to bed.”

Vera made a sound of protest, her mouth opening in an angry ‘o.’  Lilah discretely nudged her in the side before pulling on some sash or enormous silk rose on her skirt.  Vera made a bit of a squawk as she was led up the stairs.

“You two,” she gestured at her parents. “Continue on, I suppose.”

Mother blinked. “Wh-- Won’t you come sit down for a nightcap?”

Sabine shook her head, already walking past them. “No.  Good night, Mother, Father.  I will see you at breakfast.”

She moved past the grand staircase to the oaken door tucked behind it.  A pair of ‘Good night’s!’ and Chrétien’s footsteps trailed after her into the warm and dimly lit hallway that meandered around the parlors, the library, and the sitting rooms.  A slightly threadbare carpet kept their steps muffled, and the inset panelling kept the damp and cold air from the rain out.  It was late enough that they didn’t encounter servants.

“Sabine,” Chrétien said.

“I have a feeling.  She knew I was coming, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”

They found their way to the kitchens.  The broad and tall-ceilinged room was lined with worn wooden counters, beautiful hammered copper pots with dark patina, little terracotta pots with herbs, and dried ham hocks.  The scent of salt and yeast and rendered fat perfumed the air.  At one of the thick-planked tables set around for food prep, a cluster of servants sat over cups of tea.  Brows raised, they stood as Sabine and Chrétien entered.

“My lord, my lady--”

“Hello, Cook,” Chrétien smiled. “This is Sabine.  The oldest of our little brood.”

The older woman-- suspiciously thin for a cook, but appropriately cheerful in the smile-- bobbed a bit.  Another new face hired on since she’d left.

“Oh, yes, of course.  We’ve heard so much, my lady.”

Sabine smiled back, stuffing down her agitation. “Some of it good, I hope.  Please-- don’t stand on my account.  And I have to ask your forgiveness for intruding on your domain.”

“Oh, not at all.”

Sabine gestured and the cook and the two kitchenhands hovered in an almost-sitting position.  They hesitated, looking at each other.  Chrétien smiled encouragingly, and Sabine moved past the butcher’s block and the counters to another of the clean, lemon-scented tables.  She sat, her red skirts rustling loudly, and the servants slowly sat as well.

But the cook popped up again. “Shall I make you tea?”

Chrétien sat beside Sabine, and waved his hands. “No, no, we’re fine.  Please, don’t worry on our account.”

“Yes,” Sabine said. “We’re sorry for imposing--  Ah, my manners.  What was your name?”

“Nadia, ma’am.  But ‘Cook’ is fine.”

“Nadia.  We’re sorry for imposing.  But we’ve a little mouse we’re hunting.”

Nadia blanched.

Sabine stopped short and smiled. “Oh, no.  Don’t worry.  Not a real mouse.  I’m only joking.”

Pausing a moment, she smiled back and chuckled. “Oh, well.  Just so you know, ma’am, I keep a tight ship down here and you’ll find no vermin here.”  She wagged a stern finger.

“A woman after my own heart,” Sabine said.

They all sat like that for a while.  The servants at one table them at another.  Despite their assurances, the conversation between the cook and her girls went stilted and too quiet.  Sabine and Chrétien sat silently, smiling placatingly at their inquisitive looks.  Rather quickly, Cook and the girls left for their quarters.

The candles in the sconces and hanging lanterns flickered as the time dragged.  Sabine let the stillness of the kitchen cool her off, and Chrétien made some comments about the skill of the new cook.  He yawned a few times but shook his head when she told him to go on to bed.

But in fact, they didn’t have to wait that long.  The door to the kitchen yard, around the corner from where they sat, squealed as it cautiously pushed inward.  A long pause.  The hard patter of rain and the blue light of the moon spilled into the kitchen.  The door creaked as it closed.  The tap of well-heeled boots bounced off the walls.

Rosalin rounded the corner, freezing at the sight of her two older siblings sitting in the kitchens.

“Hello, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “Nice of you to join us.”

Her lips flapped open and closed for a moment.  She was soaking wet.  Her black hair was plastered to her skull, her ponytail a tangled mess.  Her jaunty scarlet coat drooped splotchy and dripping from her thin shoulders, and her matching red breeches clung to her legs.  Her black boots shone with rain.

“Uh,” Rosalin struggled. “Uh.  I, uh.  Thought you were coming tomorrow.”

Sabine raised a brow. “That’s the thing about carousing rakes.  They tend to lose track of time.”

Rosalin frowned. “I wasn’t-- You have no idea--” She rounded on Chrétien with a glare. “You!”

He threw his hands up. “I was gone, remember?  I was with her, and had no notion at all about this.  And anyway, why does everyone blame me for these things?”

“Oh!” Rosalin huffed. “You’re always on her side anyway!”

Sabine stood. “There are no sides, Rosalin.  There’s only our family.  And don’t talk to your brother like that.”

She rolled her thick-lashed eyes. “So what?  Is this the part where you give me the lecture?”

Sabine eyed her.  She shook her head. “You’re drenched.  Go change and get to bed.”

“Sabine, you’re not my mother.  You can’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re right, I’m not your mother,” Sabine said. “But I do happen to be the one paying for your dancing lessons.  Your singing and fencing masters.  I happen to be the one that has paid bribes to alehouses and casinos to forget your face.  I am the one who paid for that very suit you wear and the food on your table, Rosalin-- so.  Go upstairs.  And go to bed.”

Rosalin glared.  They gazed at each other.  Exhaling angrily, Rosalin walked away with an indignant clip in her step.

Sabine deflated when the kitchen doors banged shut behind her.  She closed her eyes, the journey catching up with her.

“Welcome home…?” Chrétien said.

She stared at him, and shook her head. “I don’t know why I bother.”

-

A certain Boneille Guyenne had commissioned the desk nearly a century ago, insistent that it be as impressive as possible.  Her interpretation of “impressive” honestly left much to be desired aesthetically.  It loomed in the middle of the library, nearly the size of a draft horse, with its fluted columns for legs and its crenellation of roses and little birds.  Sabine leaned over its inlaid cherry wood surface.  A black ledger laid out before her.  The fingers of her red gloved hand perused the pages and columns.

Mid-morning light, lavender from last night’s rain, danced over the parquet, the tall shelves, and the leather chairs.

Chrétien stepped through the open archway. “Ah.  The audit’s begun already.”

Sabine straightened and smiled wryly at him. “Trust me.  It’s light reading.  I have absolutely nothing to worry about and you’ve done very well.”

He approached, his hand coming up to rub at his neck bashfully.  He looked down at the ledger with her.  “Really, please check to see if everything matches what I’ve sent you.”

She sat down at the desk’s overplush chair, smoothing out the draping of her red skirts. “Chrétien.  I’m proud of you.”

“Just make sure you really do look through everything.  I’m sure…”

“Did you hear me?” she gazed at him, still avoiding her eyes. “I said I’m proud of you.”

His dimples deepened with his embarrassed smile.  He reluctantly met her eyes and shook his head. “You’ve done all the hard work.”

Sabine gave an exasperated sigh.  She smiled at him, and flipped the ledge shut.  He sat at the edge of the ostentatious desk, trying to keep a little opal gilded lion from digging into his back.

“Any sign of Rosalin?” Sabine said.

“She generally never wakes up before noon.”

Her lips pinched. “Well.  I’m having a talk with her at some point during this visit whether she likes it or not.” Her eyes snapped to him. “Actually.  I need a talk with you as well.”

“Me?  What did I do?”

“Oh, nothing, honey.  Not that sort of talk.  Unless I need to know something?”

“No, no!”

She laughed. “You’re so cute.”

“I--” he started, dark and thick brows knit perplexedly. “What did you want to talk about?”

Sabine inspected him.  The tall and thin windows looked out over the south grounds and its articulated “natural” paths and little copses.  It was easier and cheaper to maintain a naturalistic garden than a formal one.  Chrétien leaned toward the tall side, with limbs that were gradually coming into their own with a graceful way of drawing him up politely.  He dressed well, yet simply, and his pleasant looks invited instant trust.  No one could mistake him for anything other than a noble son.

“You’re going to university,” Sabine said. “No matter what.”

He gazed at her, and his lips pulled a bit tight. “Sabine… I…”

“I know you think that staying here and keeping up with the estate will be the best,” she went on. “But you going and furthering your education, spending time in society and learning more-- that is what will help this family most, Chrétien.”

“I just.  I worry about what will happen here if I’m gone.  I was visiting you for not even a fortnight and Rosalin ran off with us knowing.”

“Rosalin is another matter.  Completely unrelated.” She reached across the desk and laid a hand on his fingers. “I want you to be selfish in this.  I know you want to go; your books and theorems are always on your mind, I know it.  There will be plenty of time to rebuild the family name and all of that later.  But now is the time for you to serve yourself.”

He remained silent.  She squeezed his fingers.

“I want you to go out, meet bad influences.  Make mistakes.  Have fun.  You deserve it, you know.”

“Bad influences?” he smiled.

She frowned. “Well.  Not too bad.  I shall certainly have stern words if you get too wild.”

He smiled a moment longer before looking down and rubbing his fingers on the desk’s surface.

“I… think I do want that.  To, uhm, go.”

She stood and went around to him, pulling him into a hug.  Seated, he actually was at eye level with her.

“I know you do,” she said. “You’re my baby brother.  Of course I know.  And go you shall!”

He patted her back. “Please don’t start on the baby brother stuff.”

“My sweetie!  My itty bitty wuvie-dovie baby--”

“Stop!  You’re bullying me, stop!”

Sabine laughed and released him.  She leaned against the desk beside him.  Their shoulders knocked.  It reminded her of them being small and sitting on a kitchen bench together, squeezed in with the others.  Staying warm in one of the remaining rooms to be heated, during one of the more lean times.

“I wanted your thoughts on some other things,” she said.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I think it’s time to look to the future.”

A maid passed by in the hall outside the entrance, weighed down with a basket of laundry.  Rosalin’s red suit dangled from the edge.  The laundresses would have a time of it restoring the red wool after the drenching it got yesterday.

“You are going to university,” Sabine stated. “Afterwards, we’ll see, but I’m sure you’ll have options and ideas for after.  Rosalin-- let’s put her aside for the moment.  She is her own tangle of problems.  Vera…” She tapped on the desk with her fingers. “What do you think of marriage for her?”

Chrétien’s brow rose. “She’s… too young still, don’t you think?”

“I don’t mean right away.  A few more years.  But I think not too long, because I highly doubt that she will ever mature much more.  I think the best thing is to find someone patient and indulgent, and of good enough position to flatter her vanity--”

“And enough money to afford it.”

“Yes.  Someone safe and not caught up in politics or the court.  Because she simply is unsuited to those matters.  But, eventually.  I think that would be best for her.”

He nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.”

“I’ll speak to her about it,” Sabine pushed on. “Now, Lilah.  Lilah-- I would rather push off her marriage for as long as possible.  I see potential in her for political power, and I don’t believe she’d ever be satisfied with a safe marriage.”

“Are you thinking… the Summit?”

“She won’t be old enough for the next one.  But maybe the one after.  Or…” She paused. “I have some ideas for myself, and if she were willing she could be a great help to me.  She has intelligence, poise, looks…”

“But-- I’m not sure what she wants.”

“Me either.  Another conversation to have.  If I can draw her out-- you know how difficult she can be.”

“Yes.  But there’s time.”

Sabine nodded. “Now, the twins.  I think it’s obvious for them.  When they’re fifteen or sixteen, I think we’ll send them along to one of Jiyel’s academies.  They’ll thrive there, I’m sure.”

Chrétien smiled. “They’ve already talked about that, you know.”

“Have they?  Well, it’s settled then.  I’ll look into the different schools.  Or just ask them, because I am sure they know everything already.  And have opinions.”

“So then, the children?”

She smiled. “You’re all children to me, love.”

“You know, you’re not that much older than me.”

“My baby brother.  Adorable little dimpled babycakes.”

He grimaced nervously. “Please don’t.  Domin?  Andreas?”

Her expression faded back to seriousness. “Honestly, I’d like to have them fostered elsewhere.  Preferably together.  Wellin or Arland.  Somewhere staid.”

Chrétien hesitated. “But, they’re so young.”

“I know.  I don’t say this lightly.  Maybe in a few years, but…” She shook her head, and she sighed. “And Marjot…”

Marjot had only been born the previous year.  She was happy little bundle of gurlges and squirming, but she truly was just a baby.

“A baby truly should have her mother,” Sabine said. “But… I don’t know, Chrétien.  I’m nervous about waiting too long.”

Somewhere deeper in the house, Camilla and Marigold and the two young boys were shrieking about something.  Overhead, running feet pounded across the upper floor.

Sabine lowered her voice and leaned in closer to him. “You don’t know quite how bad it is in the capital, Chrétien.  The stories alone don’t do it justice.  Everything is beautiful and jeweled and gilded, and the ballrooms are full of laughter-- but there is suspicion everywhere.  Blood being spilt in the dark, away from the public’s sight but always on their minds.”

She swept a red-gloved hand over her red skirts.  Chrétien reached over to lay an arm over her shoulders.  They leaned into each other.

“Mother and Father…”

“You know how I feel about them.”

He nodded, and went silent.  They sat together-- the two of them, the two oldest and therefore tied together as the responsible ones.  They had always been partners in everything, and knew better than anyone what they each carried.

-

After a day or two of chasing rumours of Rosalin stalking the halls, taking her meals in strange places, and making a nuisance of herself in the servant’s quarters-- Sabine finally hunted her down in one of the closed off wings of the estate.  If ever renovated, the long gallery would be beautiful with its very old and very tall (and very boarded up) windows and its covered antique settees and enormous pink marble fireplace.

Rosalin prowled around the room, wearing white breeches and a blue fencing jacket with its tails whipping behind her.  She moved about with one arm tucked into her back and the other thrusting and slashing with her rapier.  She hummed an arpeggio as she fought an invisible opponent, dust dancing in her wake.

In the doorway, Sabine cleared her throat.

Rosalin paused.  Her expression fell at the sight of her.  She’d somehow pulled the boards away from one window, and its light caught along the wavering edge of her suspended blade.  Sabine stepped forward.

Rosalin lowered her sword arm. “Do you want something?”

Sabine gave her a look. “Could you please try to sound more displeased to see me?  If that is even possible?”

Rosalin’s mouth twisted around and she shrugged.

Picking up her skirts so the pretty embroidered hem didn’t drag in patches of dust, Sabine gingerly minced forward to a couch shrouded in a white cloth.  She grimaced at the layer of powder and fuzz on the cloth and jerked at it until she could toss it to the side.  At the cloud this disturbed, she coughed and waved in front of her face.  The upholstery of the couch was ratty and badly in need of replacement.

Still, Sabine sat with as much grace as if it were the finest silk.  She eyed Rosalin, but she remained stuck to her spot with her feet placed for some fencing maneuver.  As if waiting for her to live so she could restart.

“You can remain standing if you like,” Sabine said. “But I’m going to speak to you anyway.”

They stared at each other for a bit before Sabine exhaled.

“Rosalin, I hope you do realize that I don’t treat you the way I do to anger you.  I love you, and I get concerned.”

Rosalin’s eyes went wary. “I’m not a child.  I can take care of myself.”

Sabine sighed. “I know.  You’re not a child, but neither are you completely grown.  You realize that, don’t you?  The places you go, the things you do… They’re more dangerous than I think you know.”

“I’m not afraid of danger,” she retorted, eyes flashing. “Especially when it’s in the service of what’s right.  When it’s a strike back at the boot on the throats of the innocent and downtrodden.”

“And you think you’re actually helping people?  Helping your great cause and not simply invited scrutiny?  Scrutiny that could very well mean not just your neck but all of ours?  That you aren’t, in fact, simply playing revolutionary?”

Her dark brows drew in anger. “I’m careful.  I’m always careful.  But I can’t believe it-- I knew you were such an overbearing sham, but I can’t believe you’re an actually cold-blooded monarchist.”

She spat the word, monarchist, venomously.

“I am-- publicly,” Sabine stated calmly. “As so many of us must be.  You would be surprised how many of the people you spit at for being bootlickers actually harbor no good will for the current Crown.”

Rosalin sniffed. “No action is as bad as support.”

“Who said I’m not acting?” Sabine said.  They stared at each other.  Sabine remained straight-backed with a direct gaze while uncertainty seeped into Rosalin’s eyes.

Sabine continued. “But that is the difference.  Do you know the type of people that crowd the gallows stage and swing on the ropes?  Those without caution.  That move without subtlety.  And their loved ones and friends swing with them.  You know this.  You’ve seen it.”

Oh, yes.  She did indeed know about all of Rosalin’s little excursions into the cities and their lower quarters.

Rosalin fully lowered her rapier and brought her feet together.  She looked away, bit her lip.

Sabine leaned back. “But you’re right.  You’re no longer a child.  So I’ll let you know that I’ve talking with Chrétien about all of you.  About your futures.  Because Mother and Father certainly aren’t thinking about it.  But when it comes to you, I worry.”

Rosalin sat on the couch with her, quite a few seats away and not looking at her.

“Women have few choices, Rosalin,” Sabine said. “A true marriage isn’t possible for you.  But-- if we discuss our options-- certain arrangements can be made in a marriage.”

Her eyes shot up at this. “I don’t want that.  Ever.  Love should be true and honest and gone into with everything you are.”

“I was talking of marriage.  Not love.”

“I won’t separate the two.”

Sabine studied her.  Truthfully, she could not blame her.  She was grateful to Namaire, and had loved him in a way-- but she’d never been in love with him.

“Maybe there is something in our blood,” Sabine said. “Because now I am very little inclined to disagree with you.  In the future, I…” She trailed off, and she shook her head. “Who knows what the future holds?  But for now, I am not going to force you into anything you don’t want.”

She scoffed. “I’d like to see you try.” But the sullen edge was gone and a more genial, sarcastic sharpness took its place.

Sabine glanced at her with a small smile. “Well, then, what do you think your future will look like?  Because I am struggling to see anything more than corrupting young ladies and winning duels.”

“That sounds pretty good to me,” Rosalin said. “What’s so wrong with that?”

“That’s all very well and good in your youth, but you’ll have to settle down at some point.”

“I don’t see why.”

Sabine gave her a look.  Rosalin pursed her lips and shrugged.

“Look.  I can take care of myself, Sabine.  I know-- I guess-- that you want to help, but I’m never going to be alright with ‘quiet’ and ‘respectable.’”

“Who said anything about respectable?  A good rumour or three can be quite useful.  I’m more concerned about safe.”

“I said I was careful, didn’t I?  And… I’ll try to be more careful.  Your subtle thing.  I’ll try.”

Staring hard at her, Sabine exhaled. “I’d prefer to see it rather than just hear it from you.  But alright.  And no more running off!  If you want to go in to the city, you need only ask.  You’re old enough now that you can pretend to be accompanying one of our friends.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rosalin said, in an entirely unconvincing tone.  She changed tactics. “You said you were thinking about the future for all of us?”

She was the third oldest.  Sabine was used to relying only on Chrétien concerning family matters, and she was used to expected the worst of Rosalin’s temperament-- but perhaps she was mistaken about that now.  She was the third oldest and therefore some of the responsibilities could be imparted to her.  Or at least discussed if only to open her eyes to the realities the rest of them were in.

Sabine spoke to her about her tentative plans for each of their siblings, and Rosalin commented here and there.  She still seemed wary, as if there was some trap in Sabine’s new candor.

“You seem… oddly concerned about getting us out of Revaire.”

Rosalin now sat facing her on the couch, one soft boot on the floor and the other tucked up underneath her thigh.  The singular uncovered window’s light gilded her dark ponytail and her strong brows, her high cheekbones and proud nose.  She studied Sabine hard.

Sabine leaned back, her red gloves in her red wool crepe lap. “I am, very much so.  This country is a disaster.  It is a bloody sty, and I am quite done with it.”

“But the estate--”

“Look at this place,” Sabine gestured around them. “Look.  It’s a rotting mess.  And what has this horrible old pile of stone ever done for us?  Other than made us miserable with its expense and its history.  Chrétien wants to keep going, to restore everything-- but I have very severe  misgivings about it.  I hope in time I’ll be able to convince him to look to himself first.”

“What about the people?”

“You are my people.  My siblings, my servants, and my friends.  These are my people.  I may sound heartless, but I cannot save the world.  What I can do is protect you all.  And I am determined to do so.”

Rosalin shook her head, mouth drawn tight.  Clearly, she disagreed.  And Sabine really did fear for her.  There was too much death sown into the soil of this country; she had no appetite at all to see any of them struggle to grow in such poisoned conditions.

“If you won’t think of the greater good--” Rosalin shot at her, to which she raised an arch brow. “--Then what, at least, about Mother and Father?  You didn’t say anything about them.”

Feeling a cool stillness crack over head like an egg, Sabine gazed at her. “Our parents have made their choices in life.  I am done with being constantly disappointed in them.  Done cleaning up their messes.  Neither I, nor any of us, owe them anything.  They will have to find their own way, as best they can.”

Rosalin stared back.  It was apparently not the answer she’d expected.

Sabine sighed.  They sat together in silence, each considered the chaotic valleys and hills of their childhood.  The highs and lows of the money and the petty, unrealistic concerns of Lord and Lady Guyenne.  The scrabbling for any sense at all of some safety in their lives.

“My concerns lie with my siblings now,” Sabine stated. “And whether you like it or not, that includes you.  I won’t dictate to you how to live.  But I love you Rosalin, and I want you to be safe and happy.”

Rosalin’s shoulders hunched a bit, and she looked off.

Sabine smiled. “Did you hear me?  I love you, Roz.”

“Yeah.  Well.  I love you too.  I suppose.”

Sabine laughed. “I’ll take it.  Now--” She eyed her sister and her embarrassed expression, and her eyes coi nsidering their conversation.  She continued. “Now.  This latest escapade of the heart-- are you or are you not going to tell me about her?”

Rosalin’s eyes shot back to her, scrutinizing for sarcasm.  Sabine smiled.  Rosalin snorted.  She straightened and flicked away her ponytail with cavelier pose.

“Well-- If you really want to know…”

[southern-god1]

Changes

You awaken to find yourself in a well-decorated office of some sort. Your lying on an antique fainting couch, hard but also surprisingly comfortable. A handsome young man in a very nice suit sits at a glass-topped desk, writing in a notebook. He looks up. “Ah! I’m so glad your awake. I’m sorry to say you had a brief loss of consciousness.” He had a very smooth Southern accent, very sophisticated sounding. Not at all the New York accent you were so used to. “Who are you? Where am I?” You asked. The man smiled warmly, regarding you with his cool green eyes. He hauled himself out of the chair behind his streamlined desk, exposing his slim form, and walked over to sit across from you. “I am your therapist. Your in my office. Dr. William Greyson. You hired me to help with your personality issues. And some moderate depression. You fell unconscious five minutes ago. I decided to let you rest. It’s happened a few times before. Perhaps a defense mechanism of some sort.” He replied, still smiling while tweaking his bow tie. You look around the room. A series of diplomas from Miskatonic University are framed. Psychology, psychiatry, and sociology, with numerous complex specializations. Several bookshelves lined the walls, with a set of encyclopedias and medical volumes dominating several of them. A small window sat behind the desk, the light streaming behind the doctor giving him a faintly angelic or godly appearance. He had brown hair, and was very tall and slim. A cup of coffee sat steaming on his desk. The walls were a dark red with black crown molding. A painting of a Civil War battle was on the wall, entitled “The Burning of Nocturne City.” Closer examination revealed the signature of the painter to be that of Dr. Greyson. “I have?” “Oh yes, I’m sorry to say. It’s happened about three times. You never seem to remember. Interesting. Now then, back to our treatment. I believe you said you wanted to be more polite, but you felt certain aspects of your personality prevent that? I have a few suggestions I was going to voice before you blacked out. Have you ever considered speaking more slowly? A well thought out and well delivered reply works wonders as opposed to a quick and rushed one. You could use my speech as an example. Slow, soft, perfectly calm.” You were perplexed but tried it. He said “Excellent. Your already sounding better. Now, have you ever considered a change in attire? I find fine clothes lead to fine manners.”

A few weeks later, you arrived for your next session. Your voice was now smoothly Southern, and you wore a suit and Confederate flag bow tie. You had just attended a Rebels game, proudly cheering for them, hoping they’d beat the hated Yankee teams. They won, of course, but only by two points. The doctor had helped improve your personality all right. You were a fine, upstanding, polite young Southern gentleman now, nothing like the Yankee you had been. You had even changed your name to Tyler. You had learned the truth about the War of Northern Aggression, and proudly supported the South. Any remnants of your old Yankee self were being suppressed and destroyed thanks to your weekly sessions with Dr. Greyson. As you held the door for an attractive redhead exiting the building, you thought about how happy you were that you had hired him. He had perfected you, made you into a fine Southern gentleman.

Greyson wrote in his notebook: Test complete. Experiment proved hypothesis correct, though it was only one subject. Need more tests subjects. Perhaps make a “country boy” next time?