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asa-writes · 10 months

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An Inconvenient Attachment - 01

“The Debut”

Aemond Targaryen x F! OC - Regency AU - 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 2,7k

Warnings: Period accurate misogyny, mentions death, mentions alcohol

The grand ballroom at the Earl and Countess' stately home on London's Hanover Square shimmered like a constellation under the soft glow of countless candles. The grand ballroom's walls were draped in luxurious velvet and silk tapestries, the marble floors gleaming beneath a shimmering constellation of candlelight. Colorful chandeliers sparkled like stars from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with beautiful oil paintings in ornate frames. Couples twirled gracefully on the dancefloor, their graceful movements almost hypnotic as they moved to the melodious music of the orchestra.

Lady Camille Stanmore, her dark brown curls arranged meticulously in an intricate updo, hesitated at the threshold, her heart fluttering like a caged bird within her bosom. Nervous but excited for her debut, she clutched her mother's arm tightly, her pale skin standing out against the delicate fabric of her satin gown. Its colors were shifting from deep royal blues to bright emerald greens. Intricate embroidery of silver and gold thread adorned the puffed sleeves, the low neckline, and hem of the dress, sparkling like glittering diamonds against the silky, smooth material.

"Deep breaths, my dear," whispered her mother, the Countess of Stanmore. The tall, slender woman gave Lady Camille a reassuring smile as they stepped into the throng of guests after they had greeted them. Her father, George James Hector Stanmore, the Earl of Stanmore, followed behind them, his chest puffed out with pride despite his short stature.

"May I present my daughter, Lady Camille Stanmore," announced the Earl, his deep voice carrying throughout the ballroom. The Ton turned their gazes upon her, appraising her youth, beauty and innocence. Lady Camille felt her cheeks flush under their scrutiny, her shyness exacerbated by the presence of so many well-groomed men.

"Camille, darling!" called Lady Felicity Beaufort, the Countess of Havisham, gliding towards them with the grace of a swan. Her dark blonde hair was swept up elegantly, framing her lightly ruddy face. "You look absolutely enchanting! Are you ready to be introduced to the Ton?"

"Thank you, Lady Felicity," replied Lady Camille, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Allow me to accompany you, dear," offered Lady Felicity, taking Lady Camille by the arm. The young debutante cast a grateful glance at her friend, whose steadfast loyalty and protection were like a beacon in this unfamiliar world of courtship. Lady Felicity had been her late brother's fiancée, before he had died a few years ago, so her family knew her well and approved of her being in Camille's presence.

"Very well," agreed the Countess, nodding her approval as Lady Felicity guided Lady Camille around the ballroom, engaging in small talk with various members of the Ton. In their conversations, Lady Camille's wit and intelligence began to emerge, though it was still tempered by her shyness around men.

"Have you met Alicent Targaryen, the Marchioness of Hightower?" asked Lady Felicity as they approached a cold, stoic woman with auburn hair. "She is Lord Aegon and Lord Aemond's mother. You must surely have read about them in the society papers."

Lady Camille's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Lord Aemond, but she quickly schooled her features into a polite expression. "I have not had the pleasure, but I am eager to make her acquaintance," she said while nudging Felicity. "I've heard that you might be of help?"

"Be mindful of your words, dear," warned Lady Felicity in a hushed tone, fanning herself gently. "The Marchioness has a tendency to be rather anxious and nervous. See how she bites her nails?"

"Thank you for the advice," murmured Lady Camille, taking a deep breath before approaching the Marchioness with a curtsy. "Lady Hightower, it is an honour to meet you."

"Likewise, Lady Camille," replied the Marchioness, her voice cool and detached. Her eyes, however, held a hint of warmth as they studied the young debutante. "Pray, if I may be so bold," said the Marchioness, her brown eyes never leaving Lady Camille's countenance. "Would you do me the honor of telling me a bit about yourself and your kin? It is only proper for my son, Lord Aemond, to be informed of you before any real introductions are made." Lady Camille turned crimson at the inquiry, taken aback by the sudden shift in discourse.

“Yes, your ladyship,” answered Lady Camille hesitatingly, feeling a pang of embarrassment as the Marchioness's gaze bore through her. With an uneasy cough, she began to inform the Marchioness on her family background, what minutiae intrigued her, and a number of other pleasantries that were deemed appropriate for those of a certain class. The Marchioness attentively heard these statements with curiosity, occasionally interjecting in order to glean more information. As their discourse concluded, a faint hint of satisfaction flickered across the Marchioness's features as she nodded approvingly.

“It was a true pleasure to make your acquaintance," uttered the Marchioness with a slight curtsey as she departed from Lady Camille. "I am sure my beloved son shall be equally delighted should he be granted the honour of meeting you." And thus, her charming countenance gracefully slinked away in the throng of highborn gentlemen and gentlewomen who engaged in conversation and dance throughout the magnificent ballroom.

As the evening progressed, Lady Camille found herself being introduced to a succession of eligible gentlemen, each vying for her attention and an opportunity to claim a dance. The grand ballroom was bathed in the soft glow of countless candles, their flickering light reflecting off the polished parquet floor and casting delicate shadows upon the dancers.

"Remember, dear," whispered Lady Felicity as they stood on the edge of the dancefloor, "a true gentleman will always be respectful and attentive to your needs. Pay close attention to their mannerisms."

Lady Camille nodded, her heart fluttering with nervous anticipation. She dried her sweaty palms on her luxurious dress and gave her companion an unsure smile. The first gentleman to request a dance was a tall, slender man with neatly-trimmed sideburns and an air of quiet confidence. She hesitated only a moment before accepting his offer, allowing him to guide her through the intricate steps of the quadrille.

When the dance concluded, Lady Felicity offered her assessment. "He is well-mannered, but perhaps a bit too reserved for your spirited nature. Lord Fitzroy-Sutherland is a keen observer of birds, I do not know if you could be well suited," she said, hiding behind her fan and taking a sip of punch. Her keen eyes continued to survey the room, evaluating each potential suitor with practiced ease.

"Would you like me to introduce you to another gentleman?" she asked, taking her chaperonee by the arm and guiding her around the room.

"Please," Lady Camille replied, her cheeks flushed from the exertion of the dance.

The next gentleman - the Viscount of Chelmsworth - was a jovial fellow with a boisterous laugh that echoed through the ballroom. He swept Lady Camille off her feet in a lively waltz, leaving her breathless and slightly disoriented by the end, constantly talking about his love for the Stanmore's berry pie.

"An enjoyable dance partner, I'm sure," remarked Lady Felicity once they had retreated to the sidelines, giving Lady Camille some Champagne, "but his exuberance may prove tiresome in the long run, don't you think?."

Before Lady Camille could reply, she felt a gentle tap on her shoulder. She turned to find her parents standing beside her, accompanied by a striking gentleman with silver-blond hair and a leather eyepatch over his left eye. The Earl of Stanmore cleared his throat, drawing her attention.

"Camille, allow me to introduce Lord Aemond Targaryen," he said, gesturing to the man before them. "Lord Aemond, this is my daughter, Lady Camille Stanmore."

"Your servant, my lady," said Lord Aemond, bowing low. His voice was rich and resonant, sending a shiver down Lady Camille's spine.

"Charmed, I'm sure," she replied, curtsying demurely. Her heart raced as she dared to meet his violet gaze, feeling an inexplicable connection that left her breathless.

"Tell me, Lady Camille," Lord Aemond asked, his tone light and teasing, "are you enjoying your debut so far?"

"Very much so," she answered, attempting to mirror his casual demeanor. "The company has been delightful, and the music enchanting."

"Indeed, the orchestra has outdone itself tonight," he agreed, casting a glance towards the musicians. "Might I have the honour of the next dance?"

"Of course, my lord," Lady Camille assented, her pulse quickening at the prospect. In the corner of her eyes, she saw Lady Felicity giving her a gentle wink.

As they awaited the start of the next song, Lady Camille could not help but marvel at the strange sensation that washed over her. In the presence of this enigmatic man, she felt both exhilarated and comforted, as if destiny had woven their paths together in a tapestry of fate.

As the music swelled, Lord Aemond extended his hand to Lady Camille, guiding her onto the dance floor with a grace that belied his proud lineage. The grand ballroom was awash in a sea of shimmering fabrics and glittering jewels, but in that moment, all faded into insignificance as they prepared to share their first dance.

"Remember to breathe, my dear," whispered Lord Aemond, a playful smile dancing upon his lips as he noticed her nervousness. "I promise not to tread upon your toes."

"Your assurance is most welcome, my lord," replied Lady Camille with a hint of her usual wit, allowing herself a small smile as she placed her hand on his shoulder, feeling the support and steadiness it provided. They moved in tandem with the music, their bodies an extension of the other's, as if they had danced together a thousand times before. Each step was fluid, each turn effortless, as if guided by some unseen force.

"Now that we have gotten past the pleasantries, tell me- what is your favorite food from tonight's ball?" asked Lord Aemond with a smile, seemingly trying to make Lady Camille feel more comfortable while he held her close.

Lady Camille smiled in response, for she found herself delighted by this sudden change in conversation. "Oh my lord," she began, feeling a blush rise to her cheeks as his gaze lingered upon hers. "I must confess that I've quite enjoyed all of the delicacies presented here tonight- from the roasted venison meddled with spices to the sweet pastries topped with fresh fruit." She paused for a moment to sin arund him before continuing eagerly. "But my favorite would have to be the delectable lemon tartlets - they are simply scrumptious!"

As they glided across the polished marble floor, Lady Camille felt the weight of her shyness dissipate, replaced instead by a newfound confidence that seemed to emanate from Lord Aemond himself.

"Lord Aemond," she ventured hesitantly, seeking to understand the enigma before her, "I cannot help but wonder...why did you choose me for this dance?" "Is it so unusual, Lady Camille, for a gentleman to be drawn to a woman of such rare beauty and charm?" His violet eye held her captive, revealing a vulnerability she had not expected.

"Perhaps not," she conceded, "but I sense there is more to you than meets the eye, my lord. I am drawn to you as well, though I cannot quite put my finger on why."

"Ah, Lady Camille," he replied, his voice barely audible above the strains of the waltz, "if I may be so bold, I believe we have stumbled upon a connection that defies mere words. It is something to be cherished, nurtured...and perhaps one day, it will blossom into something beyond our wildest dreams."

As the music drew to its enchanting conclusion, Lady Camille felt her heart swell with the promise of a future filled with passion and intrigue, her very soul entwined with that of Lord Aemond Targaryen.

Meanwhile, the Earl and Countess of Stanmore observed their daughter's debut from the edge of the dance floor, their eyes filled with a mixture of pride and concern.

"George," murmured the countess, "I am pleased to see our dear Camille enjoying herself tonight, but do you not think there is something...intense about her interactions with Lord Aemond?"

"Indeed, Anette," replied the earl, stroking his moustache thoughtfully, "but the young lord comes from a prestigious family, and if there is a genuine connection between them, who are we to stand in their way?"

"Of course, my love," the countess conceded, her gaze never leaving her daughter. "I only hope that in this whirlwind of excitement, our Camille does not lose sight of who she truly is – a kind, intelligent young woman with the world at her feet."

"Have faith, my dear," reassured the earl, placing a gentle hand on his wife's arm. "Our daughter has a strong spirit, and I trust that she will navigate these uncharted waters with the grace and determination that has always been her hallmark. Even though she might not be the brightest, may god forgive me for saying so, I do think that she shall find a perfectly well-established gentleman."

As they continued to watch Lady Camille and Lord Aemond, the Earl and Countess of Stanmore held fast to the hope that their daughter's debut would be the beginning of a bright and prosperous future, built upon a foundation of love, loyalty, and unwavering devotion.

The final strains of music echoed through the grand ballroom as Lady Camille and Lord Aemond reluctantly parted, a mutual understanding passing between them that their time together had been more than mere pleasantries. As the guests began to disperse, Lady Camille felt a sense of melancholy descending upon her like a velvet cloak. The night had been a whirlwind of emotions – trepidation, elation, and now, an overwhelming exhaustion.

"Camille, my dear," said Lady Felicity, appearing at her side, "you have truly outdone yourself this evening. I daresay your debut has been nothing short of spectacular."

"Thank you, Lady Felicity," murmured Camille, her eyes still locked on Lord Aemond's retreating figure. "Your guidance has been invaluable."

"Indeed, it was my pleasure," replied Lady Felicity with a knowing smile. "Now, do not dally; your parents are waiting for you."

As she approached her mother and father, Lady Camille's heart swelled with a mixture of gratitude and anxiety. Though they appeared pleased with the night's outcome, she could not help but wonder what her future held – and whether or not Lord Aemond would play a role in it.

"Camille, you were absolutely enchanting tonight," gushed the countess, enfolding her daughter in a warm embrace. "I am so proud of you."

"Thank you, Mother," whispered Camille, her cheeks flushed with emotion. "Your support means the world to me."

"Your mother is right," added the Earl, his stern visage softening for a moment. "You conducted yourself with grace and poise befitting your station. Well done, my dear."

"Thank you, Father," she replied, her voice barely audible. "I only hope that I have met your expectations."

"Exceeded them, my child," he corrected, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Now, I suspect you must be quite fatigued. Off to bed with you."

"Goodnight, Mother, Father," Camille murmured, curtsying politely before departing.

As she ascended the staircase, the enormity of the evening's events weighed heavily upon her shoulders. The hushed whispers and clandestine glances that had once unnerved her now seemed a distant memory, replaced by the exhilarating thrill of Lord Aemond's touch and the heady scent of his cologne.

Upon entering her bedchamber, Lady Camille was struck by the stark contrast between the opulence of the ballroom and the familiar solitude of her own quarters. She dismissed her maid for the night, insisting that she could manage undressing herself, and collapsed onto her four-poster bed, an elegantly embroidered canopy fluttering gently overhead.

"Lord Aemond," she whispered into the darkness, the name unfamiliar yet intoxicating on her lips. "Could it be possible? Could he truly care for me as I do for him?"

With a sigh, she allowed herself one final indulgence – a lingering touch to her hand where his had been, a remnant of their connection – before surrendering to the sweet oblivion of sleep, her dreams filled with visions of a future painted with the vibrant hues of love and desire.

#asa writes #asas fics #asas fanfictions #hotd #house of the dragon #house of the dragon smut #prince aemond #Aemond x OC #aemond targaryen fic #helaena targaryen #Aegon Targaryen #Jacaerys Velaryon #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #regency au #regency #lucerys velaryon

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vxlkyrieee · 4 years

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first blood

Endgame!Steve Rogers x Nurse!reader

Word count: 3352

*set during the latter part of endgame (some mentions of infinity war)*

Who would have ever thought that Captain America would need saving?

He appeared the picture of flawlessness. With a tall muscular build, pretty white teeth and a daunting stare, it was so easy to categorise Captain America as completely perfect and invulnerable.

Surely, living with a reputation like that would be exhausting. As someone that was expected to do no wrong all of the time, Steve was constantly on edge. He only ever disregarded his prestige if his moral compass took the unconventional route; he'd done that so many times, especially for Bucky. It usually cost him more than he would've liked.

But he's in too deep this time, and he can't pay for his salvation. Only you could do that for him. And it would cost you all your innocence.

You were never supposed to be a part of this shit. Steve mentally cursed himself, and he may or may not have mumbled a "fuck" when he first realised Thanos was attacking the compound, because you were still here with them. Why didn't you just go home when Steve insisted you'd worked enough hours?

You were his best girl, sweet and oh so gentle. Of course, you always held your own with more than enough handfuls of grit, but Steve believed you would never hurt a damn fly, and now you're all caught up in his mess.

The rubble seemed to deliquesce around your limbs as you try to recover from Thanos' artillery attack. Bruce, Rocket and Rhody, who were stuck with you, point out the arrival of water. It cascades down, sloshing into the confined space, and you couldn't help but start to sob. With every movement, the wreckage would attempt to submerge your body, leaving you struggling to keep your head above the surface. Rhody held your hand with cold, armoured fingers and Rocket clung to your arm for dear life. Here you were, just a mere woman among heroes.

Yet, that didn't matter right now.

Because Rocket was crying with you, The Hulk was struggling to hold up remnants of thick concrete, and War Machine couldn't move right without a full functioning suit. Just as the last flicker of hope was dimming, Ant-man squeezed his tiny body through the splits of rock and rubble, and added more sparks to your optimism. Still panting, Scott gives the three of you a hand and pulls you out.

"C'mon, guys! I'm pretty sure the whole band's back together now."

Making your way out into the open, you watch as the two adversarial sides yell their battle cries, and merge into a disorderly fight. A war, if you will. Leading the chaos was Steve, who now had everything to lose. The love of your life was throwing himself at a fucking Titan and his army, and all you were doing was spectating.

What the hell were you supposed to do? Wait on the sidelines until someone screamed "medic"?

It was as if that thought had climbed out from your skull and materialised before your eyes, when Steve took a particularly heavy blow. His shield was cracked, and if the vibranium was so easily broken, then what of Steve's bones?

As soon as he staggered to the ground, the cracks and fissures in your confidence began to make themselves known. Slowly, they paved paths along your heart, because what if Steve doesn't make it? What if he can't get back up? What if he's already dying?

Your sight becomes tunnel-visioned and you run towards Steve: the light at the end of the tunnel, as both earth and sky become one ash-ridden thing.

He saw your figure amongst the other Avengers, and they all fought tooth-and-nail around you, making sure you made it to Steve without an extra scratch.

"No! No, you've gotta get outta here now, Darlin'! Go!"

You hadn't moved from his side, and this was the only moment Steve ever wished you weren't so stubborn.

You stare at him, his face mottled with blood and freckles. At this point, Steve had trouble blinking without dirt invading his eyes. Instead of obeying his demand, or answering him, you ignore him completely. There were still many other Chitauri, that much you were sure of.

What you weren't sure of, was if Steve could make it to the end of this fight alive with the injuries he had, even when he could wield Mjolnir. His forearm had been torn open, the muscles just hanging onto their ligaments and bone. Steve being Steve, merely tightened the strap of his shield around the forearm, hoping that that would keep it in place. Another deep wound was opened on his thigh, blood soaking through the thick fabric of his uniform, forming a dark stain. He could feel the pain, like electric shocks, tingle down from his leg to his feet.

The same feet that you had once taught to dance.

The last five years haven't been easy. The first year was especially bad. There were days where you and Steve didn't get out of bed, hoping that your heads would stop spinning if you buried them under pillows for long enough.

This would count two times where Steve survived, and his best friend didn't. What made him so worthy of living?

Everyone would all tell him, the thoughts will pass. It's all in your head. But that was the problem. His head was so full with what he could've done, weighted and heavy like a dumpling, bursting and pounding with tears that never seemed to stop.

Steve could be all cloak-and-dagger sometimes. He was a marvellous arrangement of welded armour plates and kevlar, hiding behind a facade. But if you said the right words, touched him gingerly, held his gaze long enough, he'd dismantle and out would escape his affliction. Defences would crumble as he'd break down in your arms, and you in his. Castles and kingdoms collapsing together.

Even on the good days, Steve's blood flowed differently in his veins. His limbs were almost always exhausted, tired of waiting for some sort of breakthrough, holding on white-knuckled to a weakening hope that threatened to dissipate out of existence. Just like his friends.

But on the good days, the flurry of guilt and dust and Bucky and Sam, would shrink a little, even if by the tiniest fraction, to make enough room for something new. Those days meant slow dancing barefoot in the compound, cable-knit sweaters, ice cream flavoured kisses, filtered sun rays through windows, and tender bear hugs.

Those were the days where you had managed to get Steve's smile to reach his eyes: piercing blue, watery with laughter and flecked with tiny mellow greens. Eyes that glued themselves to your feet as he held your frame, swaying to the beat of soft jazz in the background.

On those days, he'd say "good morning." He'd have one hand in his pocket, and the other one wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. His eyes adorned with dark circles, almost a purple tinge to the skin, but smiley nonetheless.

On those days, he'd buy you a double-scoop cone when you passed an ice cream truck in Central Park, even when it was so cold, your breath would become mist in the air. He'd even try leading the dances you'd have in the afternoon sun, waltzing a little faster so you'd follow in kind, giggling as you did so.

And he'd stumble sometimes, but never once did he give up.

It reminded you of the Avengers' early days, when Steve had planned on courting you. When you were still somewhat an unfamiliar face, only appearing sometimes by Dr. Cho's side. But Steve had his eye on you. Determined to confidently allure you, despite how many times he stumbled over his words in your presence. Instead, he had slipped, fallen really, into a romance he couldn't ever recover from. It was like having his feet swept from under him in a panicked rush, only to land face first into your welcoming arms. It was scary, but he loved it.

And the closer you got to Steve, the closer you got to the rest of the Avengers. Even after the snap. You tried to distance yourself from them at first, as to maintain a professional relationship, but they had a pretty strong magnetic field. Especially the girls. It was like gradually being pulled by gravity into the orbit of a planet you hadn't known existed. It was only then you realised that the Avengers were people too. Human. Well, most of them anyway.

You'd found sisters in Natasha and Wanda who were lost much too soon, and unexpectedly strong bonds with both Nebula and Rocket. There were times before all of this time travel, that you and Nat missed Wanda so much, you cooked all her favourite Sokovian dishes together, from chicken Paprikash, to stuffed Sarmale. It was in her honour you supposed. May as well mourn with good food, right?

On one particular day, you'd made Smazeny Syr, and Nat absolutely insisted the two of you eat it in the unconventional way Wanda loved: with blueberry jam. The smell of frying cheese had lured Rocket and Nebula into the kitchen and you took both their hands, hurriedly dragging them towards the stove.

"It's fried cheese. But, you guys have to try it how Wanda used to eat it. Otherwise you get none," you said with a giggle. Nat cut a piece, stabbing it with a fork before adding a generous dollop of jam.

"Ugh, no thanks I'm out," Rocket sneered.

"Your loss."

Natasha lifted the fork, and Nebula accepted it, albeit with a grimace painted on her face. As she chewed, her expression gradually changed from disgust, to surprise, and finally, delight. She nods her head, humming as she swallows.

"See."

Rocket waved off Nat's 'I-told-you-so's, shaking his head in a disapproving manner.

"Some freakshow you guys are."

You gave him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms for emphasis. His demeanour faltered under your stare a bit, and he clumsily tried to save himself by favouring you. "'Cept you, (y/n). I kinda like how ya scratch behind my ears."

The room erupted into laughter and muffled complaints from Rocket. "Okay, that's enough outta you, racoon," Nat smiled smugly.

That signature Black Widow smirk. The one that either meant she was amused, or she was gonna kick your ass. You miss that smirk. And your memories of her were smothered with it, mocking you, the memories themselves unraveling into demons of sorrow.

Because now your heart has been broken once again. Your sisters are gone and they'd left you behind. And you will mourn of course, go through the motions of unbearable pain, until eventually it becomes tolerable enough to go back to routine.

But Steve was different. Steve was riddled with more guilt than was possible to endure. And now he could bleed out right in front of you if you didn't do something. But amongst a cold-blooded war, you'd have to avoid being killed too.

You had no weapon on you, and Nebula appeared to be the only one who noticed. So she tossed you a dagger, one that was idly sheathed on her leg anyway. A Chitauri warrior ran straight for you, and Steve was already rendered helpless laying in the dirt. You did the first thing that came to mind. You plunged the dagger right into the warrior's abdomen with a grunt, then ripped it back out, effectively killing the alien without leaving Steve's side.

Steve wished he could have done something. He wished you didn't have to do that. Because although the Chitauri wasn't human, you had just taken the life of a living being, in order to save his. You killed for him, with no reluctance whatsoever.

That was an action that would never be reversed. It was an action that came along with a side dish of guilt that would always make a home in the depths of a person's mind. Steve knew this all too well, coming back from a world war, and having to experience killing other opponents on many occasions. But that was something he wanted to isolate you from. He was the soldier, and you were the nurse. That's how it was always meant to stay, so he could suffer the mental trauma for you. So you'd stay safe from the horrors of having blood on one's hands.

Unlike your usual nature, you end up killing many more Chitauri while trying to clean the site of Steve's wounds.

All you could see was red. The anger and anxiety was so potent, it pressed heavily on your chest, rendering a physical ache in your ribs. Thanos had ruined a lot of things for you. And right now you'd kill as many of his sons of bitches that would dare come near you and the love of your life.

As you apply pressure on Steve's leg, a wave of 5 years worth of longing crashes into you with the force of a meteor shower, when scarlet coloured sorcery crosses your vision. Soon you're up, leaping, flying into Wanda Maximoff's arms. A bone crushing hug steadies the way you tremble against her, and before you know it, her hair is wet with your tears. Of course, time had passed differently for Wanda, but her eyes were apologetic as she caressed your cheek for a second, and you knew she understood how much her absence hurt you.

"C'mon, Princezna. I'll help you with Steve."

Wanda assists you in her progress, stitching Steve's wounds quickly and messily with magic and thread.

Steve notices how his head feels detached to his own body, all his thoughts flooding and melding into one giant entanglement, making it impossible to take a proper look at who was tending to his injuries. Shit, he couldn't even lift his head, weighted by the beginnings of dizziness.

"Is that you, (y/n)?"

"It's me, Baby, it's me. I'm gonna fix you." Fix him. Haven't you already tried countless times? You had thought you could smooth over his creases with love and affection, with time and effort. That was before you realised, no one can fix anyone.

However, Steve knew your efforts weren't wasted. You could never fix him or make him forget about the damage done to him over time. But you always helped him adapt. You helped him carry his burdens. You'd given him space and time to open up his baggage, then even unpacked some of it with him. You had done so much more than fix him.

You made him a new person. Different, sure. But still yours.

Once you had Steve in a stable condition, your adrenaline begins to wear off, and all the noise that previously pierced through the air, had suddenly dissipated. You weren't sure how the battle ended, but

you begin to realise exactly what you had done.

It felt good. As much as you hated to admit it, the bite of sharpened metal into wicked alien flesh was exactly what you needed. Or maybe you needed a minute away from everything. Weren't you supposed to feel apologetic? You were a nurse, for goodness' sake. Your purpose was the exact opposite of what you'd just done. Regardless, you knew Steve would be right there to comfort and console you if need be.

But right now, he needed you.

Bucky makes an appearance amongst the other avengers, and he comes forward, taking Wanda's place beside you. He helps Steve lay down on a stretcher, and into a helicopter sent by who knows who. All you know is, it isn't Thanos, and that's enough consolation for you.

Steve slips from consciousness while in the air, and you catch up with Bucky. He tells you you look different. You tell him you like his hair half-up, half-down.

You all end up inside the home of Tony and Pepper, and it becomes a sort of refuge. A place where everyone can wind down after the chaos and just be. Bucky carries Steve into one of the spare bedrooms, and you properly attend to his wounds. You start by unclipping and disregarding his helmet, before passing your fingers through his flattened hair. Bucky takes it from you, putting it by the window sill.

The bottom half of his face was painted with ash, which despite his predicament, makes you bite your lip to keep from giggling. He smirks at you, and you smile back warmly, wiping his face with a washcloth and a bucket of warm water, careful not to disturb his blooming bruises. You examine them softly. Your fingertips tickle against Steve's chin, but he doesn't complain. You hand him the bucket and he spits in it, ridding most of the blood in his mouth.

Whilst the bucket became more and more clouded with the backwash of the battle, Steve looked more and more like himself. You were so tangled up in Steve, you almost forgot Bucky was there until you hear the sound of his voice. His tone seemed to be sweetened by the sight of how his two friends have grown so much closer than when he left them.

"I'll give you lovebirds some space."

Before he turns to leave, (and supposedly find Sam) Steve clasps his hand on Bucky's arm. "It's good to have you back, Buck. We missed you."

Bucky gives you both a warm grin, nods, then leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

You take off Steve's uniform with languid movements, and he releases a sigh of relief. He was still sore, and unbelievably lethargic, but being this close to you made his brain all fuzzy, blocking out physical pain, to just feel you. He leans forward, resting the weight of his bare shoulder on you as he kisses you softly. The kiss was full of a strong ardour that seeped right into your bones, yet fragile enough, so that both your insecurities shone through. You'd have to rebuild much of yourselves later on, especially after today. Brick by broken brick, you'll both assemble your castles again. But for now, the kiss was enough to put a band-aid over everything.

"Love you, darlin'"

His voice spirals down your ear canals like melted chocolate, almost making you forget your own name. It made you drunk and alert at the same time, a familiar buzz running through your body. And when you smiled down at him, as sweet and soft as whipped cream, you didn't have to return the phrase. He knew. Steve had always been sentimental in that way, even when he wasn't there beside you. Like the months he spent AWOL as a fugitive after the whole Winter Soldier incident in Washington. He'd send you cuttings of your favourite flowers in an envelope, every now and then. No address, no name, no sender, but you knew it was him. You knew they meant 'I love you, be safe, I'll be back when I sort everything out.'

You pull away slowly from his lips, giggling, eliciting Steve to chuckle too. Such a sound was too rare nowadays, and you savoured it, locking the sound in your head to replay over and over later on.

"Okay, Cap. No more distractions, I gotta get you all clean and patched up."

"Only if you kiss me like a war just ended," he bargains.

"Alright, baby. But no frisky business. I'm exhausted."

Steve winks, adding a flirty little salute on the end "Yes, ma'am."

You'd left the curtain half open, hanging the fabric over the top of the window frame like a limp puppy ear. That way, the sunlight came through the window pane in mellow slices, coating your skin in a warm blanket of light while you indulge in Steve's kisses again.

He tasted like salt and cinders, but among that, after five long years, he finally tasted like Steve again. He was starting to heal. And it had cost him the mantle of Captain America, but planning to place it in Sam's care, it was a price he was willing to pay.

Taglist:

@asgardiangurll @avengingnatasha @whyamihere-bro

#Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #endgame fix it #don't know if this is even considered an endgame fix it fic but i'm gonna call it that #steve rogers fic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x you #captain america #captain america x reader #steve rogers x nurse reader #avengers #avengers: infinity war #avengers: endgame #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers angst

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yespolkadotkitty · 4 years

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A Duke in the Hand - pt II

Part I here

An hour later, Milly helped Clementine unpack her belongings. It’d likely take the entire day, if not more, to set everything in its place. Clementine did not travel light. She’d set her mind to something, and the old lady was immovable once she had decided. It is the principle, Milly, she had announced grandly. I may die, but it shall be on my terms and mine alone. And it shall be somewhere comfortable and I shall have all my finery around me.

One of Milly's favourite things about Clem was her stubborn will.

She folded an obscenely ornate peacock green cloak - the one Clementine wore when she was in one of her moods - and placed it carefully in the chest at the foot of the old lady’s new bed; an elegant four poster.

Milly had to wonder what had gone through Lord Suffolk’s mind when he’d greeted them. The handsome, serious-faced Duke had remained perfectly cordial, a silent raise of one brow the only indication that he suspected Clementine of not being quite as ill as advertised.

It had taken immense willpower for Milly to hide her smile at his obvious discomfort. He’d expected an invalid, perhaps even an old woman on a form of stretcher. Instead, he’d been met with the whirlwind that was Clementine. The unstoppable force meets the immovable object.

For herself, Milly was happy indeed for a change of scenery. The Duke’s manor house rose from the ground like a song of the ancients, all gorgeous stone and stained glass windows, beautifully carved, not unlike the man himself.

The rooms allocated to herself and Clementine were fine indeed. And best of all, Clementine had hinted often that Lord Suffolk would be away at court for much of the time, or away on the King’s business. For Milly, this was ideal. She could indulge in all of her… unladylike… past-times. Messy oil painting which stained her fingers (unbecoming). Riding a horse as a man did (very unbecoming - but much more comfortable). And wearing men’s hose whilst riding (the worst sort of sin, extremely unbecoming - and again, ever so comfortable. Everything men did seemed to be more comfortable than what women had to endure).

And alone, she could indulge in her favourite best case scenario daydream - finding a rich but amiable and dull husband who left her to her own devices, mostly, and indulged her past-times, who didn’t try to cage her in to being a “proper” lady but instead allowed her free rein. And of course being married to such a man meant she could be free to pursue her interests and also free of the pressure to marry. And free of the pressure of being a “spinster,” the scorn of society country-wide.

Her step-father had seen to it that if she ever found such an amiable man, he would likely be as poor as a church mouse, or a fourth son without prospects. Soiled doves could never command Dukes like Lord Suffolk.

Milly put that thought away, angry with herself for spoiling her first day at the manor house. She should be rejoicing that she’d been granted this turn of good fortune. Fresh country air. A room of her own, with a big window. A change.

She finished with the current bag of Clementine’s scarves and shawls and let herself flop back on the big four poster bed, stretching out her arms and legs, playing at making angel shapes, laughing at herself. So much space, and if she drew the curtains around the bed, she would have total privacy.

Did the Duke draw the curtains around his bed when he took lovers?

Such thoughts will not end well, Millicent, she lectured herself silently. But she had no doubt that he was quite the lover at court.

And out of it. And in fact, anywhere. He had the look of temptation; a fallen angel made in the form of a man. Summer-sky blue eyes, a jaw carved from marble, softened by a scruff of beard that would scrape a lover’s skin just so. And those thick curls, the colour of the finest, polished oak.

*******

“My Lord,” Lady Blake gasped, as Charles kissed his way down the slender column of her neck. He smiled against her skin. Lord Blake was aged, with what seemed a constant case of gout. Charles had been satisfying Blake’s wife for some months now. At somewhere around thirty, she was a striking, sensual woman, a naughty gleam in her eye across a banquet table had caught Charles’ attention. A few slipped notes by servants and it hadn’t taken long for the game to be afoot.

Her ringed fingers slid into the thick curls of his hair, pulling gently as he in turn laved her erect nipples, bringing soft mewls of joy from her lips. The valley between her breasts smelled faintly of lavender, her preferred perfume. His name escaped her mouth as he parted her legs, kissing a path down her stomach and the place where she’d take him inside her body.

The candles in the room showed their shadows moving as he licked her thoroughly, her legs trembling on his shoulders. When she climaxed, he moved up her body and entered her in one swift thrust, both of them exhaling at the contact. The muscles at the heart of her milked him, the wet heat a fire of pleasure licking up his cock, stealing the breath from his lungs. Her nails scraped at his back, and he welcomed the tiny hurt.

When it was over, there was no soft cuddling. Lady Blake never stood for that. She simply sent him on his way with a saucy smile. They both knew this wasn’t the last time.

A life at court afforded Charles plenty of bored married ladies, ripe for the plundering. He never took an unwilling partner, and he never made promises. He simply took pleasure where it was offered, and gave pleasure in as great a measure as he was capable.

Court was busy, often enjoyable, but sometimes, a trial, if the mood took Henry to be sullen or manipulative. However, currently, court provided an escape from his Aunt Clementine. She and her companion had been living under his roof for a scant three days - it taken taken almost all of that time to unpack everything Clementine had brought with her, all but the garderobe fittings, it seemed - and she had immediately given the girl - Millicent, not yet in mourning, a list of all the foods which upset her delicate stomach.

The same stomach did not stop her from eating sixteen of the freshly baked Jumbles, Cook had reported brightly. At least someone in Charles’ house was enjoying themselves.

And so, when the summons had come from His Majesty for Charles to attend court, for a special, seven course banquet in honour of Queen Anne becoming pregnant, Charles had for once, despite his intense dislike of Anne, happily acquiesced, riding the very same day.

As he’d mounted his horse, he saw Millicent watching from the big window in her quarters, wearing another black gown. He was starting to doubt she owned any other colours.

She’d put her hand on the glass, palm pressed against the window, open, as if reaching, and he thought, for a second, she looked quite wistful, like an angel, or an enchantress in a painting. For the first time, he’d wondered what it might be like to have a woman to come home to, a warm welcome awaiting him behind the big oak doors.

Then the moment passed, and he rode away.

Thanking my fantastic beta, @constip8merm8

Tagging: @moderapoppins @sweetsistergingerspice @ly--canthrope @dr-kayleigh-dh @flowerymoonlight @hopelessromanticspoonie @mary-ann84 @helenaeisenhower @wanderinglunarnights @rantsalon @queenmalhinewahine

#charles brandon fic #the tudors fic #henry cavill fic #henry cavill imagine

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yasbxxgie · 5 years

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As a child entering primary school, I struggled figuring out what it meant to be Canadian. It was a somewhat amorphous word, and besides standing up for the anthem every morning and seeing the red and white flag wave in the school parking lot, I really didn’t know what qualified as Canadian. But as I was exposed to different people and different ideas throughout my childhood, I figured out quickly that the primary criteria one needed to fill to be Canadian was this: whiteness.

The Construct of Whiteness

Now, when I say ‘white’, I’m not talking about Caucasians. It’s important we understand that whiteness is a highly politicized construct that doesn’t apply to all people who have light skin. There are plenty of Caucasians — say, people from the near and middle east — whose skin tones vary greatly, but who for all intents and purposes, are not white.

This is because the concept of whiteness is not necessarily one of skin colour (although it can be), but rather, a concept of power. For example, although in North America we may consider Polish and Ukrainian immigrants to be ‘white’, they are heavily racialized in Britain and other Western European countries. South-eastern European immigrants from Serbia, Bosnia, Macedonia and Albania are considered undesirable in Switzerland compared to immigrants from Western and Northern European countries.

A Macedonian acquaintance with a master’s degree in electrical engineering, whose husband was living and working in Switzerland, was not granted residency until she acquired a non-Macedonian passport. Her family had some roots in non-Balkan countries, so she was able to leverage this, and after two long years living away from her husband, she was finally granted entry into Switzerland.

My point here is that whiteness is relative and often used to establish power dynamics. If you are the child of immigrants, as I and at least a third of my classmates were, you weren’t really Canadian, but something in between. It was like being the adopted child in a well-to-do family that constantly reminded you that your birth parents weren’t respectable enough to keep you. The more obviously different your parents were — perhaps through their appearance, dress, or way of speaking — the more you were coded as foreign, and by extension of that, privileged to be in Canada.

The Trauma of Migration

My parents left their country of birth in the 1980s, when my father anticipated its collapse in the years to come. I was born once they’d already settled into Canadian society, but from the moment I had enough self-awareness to read social cues, I knew we were different.

My mom wasn’t like the other moms. When my classmates got picked up from school, I saw women with straight, shoulder-length hair — usually blonde or light brown, sometimes with highlights. They wore fashionable clothing, clutched fancy purses with manicured nails, and masked their imperfections with flawless makeup.

But my mom didn’t care about fashion. She wore the same sets of clothing day in and day out and carried a giant, ratty old leather bag wherever she went. She had untamed, curly black hair and olive skin, spoke English with a harsh accent, rarely painted her nails, and hardly ever wore makeup.

Now, you might wonder what hair dye, makeup, and fashion have to do with whiteness. Generally, there isn’t much of a relationship; anyone can choose to look and dress a certain way.

However, when you’re born to parents who left a politically tumultuous homeland, you very quickly realize they suffer from a kind of survivor’s guilt. They carry shame for having abandoned their own parents and siblings for what they believed would be a better life. They don’t believe they deserve to have nice things, or that they can afford them (even when they can).

Every moment is haunted by the potential of loss. Tomorrow could be the day they lose everything, so nothing of excess is ever worth wasting precious resources on.

Simply put, many immigrants are traumatized by the very act of migration.

Often, immigrants struggle with economic and social disadvantage. Many immigrant families simply don’t have the luxury to look nice, and so for the immigrant child, even superficial things like clothing, nail polish, makeup, and hair dye on certain bodies can become important signifiers of not just class, but also whiteness.

My mother was too stressed and overworked, alienated and depressed to care about fashion. She didn’t have any friends and felt uncomfortable with white women — partly for cultural reasons, and partly because of her accent. In fact, she was so self-conscious about her accent, she didn’t speak a word of English to me until I went to kindergarten. She didn’t want me to learn English from her because she was afraid I’d learn her accent, so she instead waited until I could learn ‘proper’ English from my teachers and classmates.

Her goal was to make sure that I was assimilated and that I fit in at all costs, and this desire was directly informed by her own feelings of alienation in Canadian society. Whatever differences I observed between her and the other moms must have been amplified ten-fold for her.

But I learned that my mom wasn’t the only one who was different. I was different too, and I struggled relating to other kids. I wasn’t exposed to the same media and culture that they were. I didn’t wear the same clothes, eat the same food, and I didn’t tell the same jokes, anecdotes or stories. It became very clear that I was a foreigner, even though I was living only a few kilometers from the hospital I’d been born in.

A Chimera Trying to be a Chameleon

When I was seven years old, I had my first play-date with a white classmate — let’s call her Karen. Karen’s family was some nth generation Canadian, with a clear family tree of every ancestor from the past few centuries. Karen had stunning, pale blue eyes and strawberry blonde locks that I desperately yearned for. During summer, I’d spend hours in the sun hoping that my dark hair would lighten.

“Am I turning blonde yet?” I’d excitedly ask my mother after spending a day in Karen’s yard.

Yet all that accomplished was sunburns for Karen and brown skin for me.

“Oh my God, you look like a Sri Lankan!” Karen’s mother and aunt laughed when they saw me.

At the time, I didn’t know that Sri Lankan was an ethnicity. I didn’t know what the comment meant or why it felt bad, but I had the impression that there was something funny or embarrassing about how dark my skin had turned seemingly overnight. There shouldn’t be anything embarrassing about looking like a certain ethnicity, but the tone with which I’d been told made me feel like I was somehow wrong.

Although I always knew my ethnicity, I didn’t learn about my muddled racial heritage until much later. I know that I am mixed race, but I’ll never know the extent of it, because imperial legacy does a wonderful job of erasing records and lineages.

While most people of Western European descent have the luxury of knowing where their ancestors are from — which great-grandparent was German, French, or British — people whose ancestors hail from Africa, the Middle East, or the Balkans can only speculate based on limited records and oral history.

Where there is empire, there is a deep loss for the children who are born after that empire crumbles. We want to know our roots. We want to know what our heritage is and where we belong. All I know is that I have diverse roots that have molded me into someone who is sometimes coded as white, and sometimes as something else.

The Universal Woman is White

These were my first encounters with soft racism, but even as they happened, I learned that there was far worse. I didn’t think what was happening to me was racism. As a kid, I assumed racism could only happen to black people, because everyone in my predominantly white neighbourhood seemed to have opinions about black people.

I remember overhearing Karen’s mother say that she would never want her son to date a black woman.

“They’re aggressive,” she argued, “and their butts look weird.”

“Really?” Karen’s aunt replied. “I think they have gorgeous bodies — such nice curves.”

In this brief exchange I had been exposed to two immensely toxic ideas:

First, that what mattered in a woman before all else was how well she conformed to white standards of beauty; and second, that black women are either dangerous and to be avoided, or exotic objects to be fetishized.

Of course, I didn’t have the language I do now to describe these ideas, but it would be a lie to say I didn’t understand them. Even as a third grader, I knew implicitly what these statements meant, and they affected how I understood myself as a girl and an immigrant, and how I understood other women of colour.

It entrenched in me an unconscious drive to be as white as possible. Until I was in my late teens, I kept dying my hair blonde, dieting, and begging my mother to let me wear coloured contacts. I wasn’t intentionally trying to whitewash myself, but I had internalized the standards of white beauty to such a degree that I genuinely believed I would look better with Keira Knightley’s frame, blonde hair, and green eyes.

And yet through it all, whenever someone asked me if I was white, I’d balefully reply that I was, in fact, beige.

***

I mentioned in an earlier piece, A Critique Privilege, Oppression, and Other Such Loaded Concepts, that calling myself ‘beige’ became my way of creating a space for myself. I knew from an early age that ‘white’ didn’t fit. But I also didn’t identify with any of the more established minorities in my neighbourhood. Rather, I occupied an ambiguous space where my race became subject to debate depending on my context.

Beige’ is my way of honouring my experiences of soft racism, of alienation, liminality, and of my family’s sacrifices. It’s a way to ensure I never forget the violent and complicated legacy of imperialism. It’s a reminder that whiteness is often oversimplified and too easily thrown around without consideration. This oversimplification is not just unfair to white-passing people of colour; it obscures exploitation and oppression that hinges on whiteness as a tool of power, wielded by a certain group of people. Without proper nuance, whiteness becomes too sweeping, too general — and something that speaks of everything fails to actually speak about anything at all.

#race #immigrants #immigration #white people #white-passing #white passing #medium #xandra j.#xandra j #racialization #whiteness #racism

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daddymcfriendlyfire · 7 years

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Smoke, Gold and the Dancing Dead

[Note: Just putting this out here. If anyone actually likes this hmu]

One

“Did he suffer… why is that even a question on this?” Alexis huffed, a frown tugging on her pursed, pink lips. “Well, if you’re willing to pay $2.5 million to bring him back then I think you can get through a questionnaire,“ Phoenix replied, tapping her nails on the glass coffee table. She sat back on the golden, white velvet couch, careful not crease her own white dress. “Not when I’ve been through five,” Alexis sighed, biting her knuckles with a furrowed brow. “Trust me, it’s worth it,” Phoenix promised with a small smile.

Is it worth it to have to put up with his insistent nattering? His drunken kisses that always felt like been kissed by a fish? But if I didn’t bring the damn fool back, wonderings would become rumours that’ll pile up so high they’ll to topple over and crush me.

The waiting room from the moment you stepped inside was like stepping into a different well, reality. The turmoil and rush of the harbour outside was nowhere to be seen inside the palace of La’Ramose. It wasn’t officially dubbed a palace but that’s what it was, from the white marble walls, the sandstone barriers, and towers at the water’s edge, the numerous flower beds filled with petals spun of white and gold and grass so green it seemed almost handcrafted. Even the guardsmen in their pale gold and cream-lined leather armour plated with silver scales on their back made for a rare sight of beauty and well-spent wealth. Even the waiting room itself, filled with a smiling secretary, four guardsmen, and a rare cactus cared to modestly boast of the Necromancer’s influence. Something both Alexis and Phoenix wouldn’t mind having a hand in. “Done,” Alexis said with a sigh through her nose, filing the papers into uniform. “Well then, they should be ready for the ceremony by now,” Phoenix said, straightening her dress and standing. Alexis followed the socialite to the Black Salt room, both graceful as feline despite the heels and golden armour plated on their arms. It was light and wouldn’t serve much in the way of defending them from an axe or bullet, instead it served a higher purpose. Their armour and the glyphs inscribed into the scales or the tattoos on their very skin were there to sing of their heritage. To say who they were without a single word leaving their glossy lips. From their shoulders to their arms, the gold and glyphs told any socialite, slave, soldier or Necromancer how their lineage fought in wars and skirmishes past and how they served humanity, earning their place and power. The second the two entered the Black Salt room, all warmth seemed to simply fade away. The white of the waiting room was gone to be replaced with black marble, the stone table in the centre covered in yellow roses, thorns and birch branches was surrounded by a shallow pool of water. Atop, resting pale and peacefully, the old fat man lay. He may be the corpse waiting to reawaken, but he was the star of this ceremony. No, that honour lay only and always with the Necromancer herself, the Lady Fleur La’Ramose.

She was everything and more the rumours, photos, paintings and chatter on the radio had promised. Her paintings promised a beauty of golden-auburn hair as if sunlight and honey had been spun into the wavy curls at her shoulders, the blue that looked to be as if her mother had stolen the blue from the sky and placed it in her child’s eyes. If her mother had stolen the sky, her father had stolen the moon and stars to weave the silver of her flowing dress and scales of light armour on her shoulders with a thin trail down to either middle finger, twisting into rings that promised to be worth more than Alexis’ family home. Of course, her paintings left out the brown freckles or the small scar by her left eyebrow but they were a candle to the sun. The Lady didn’t even need to say a word for silence to blanket the room. She merely stepped forward, barefoot into the water and onto the step. Fleur rested two hands upon the corpses’ forehead and closed her eyes. Alexis dare not take a breath. It was all over in a few moments. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but he didn’t jump back into life the second Fleur retracted her hands from his head. It took a moment but his arm twitched, then his head began to spasm until he sat up, coughing and splattering without an inch of grace for someone returning from the realm of death itself. The lady La’Ramose, having performed her miracle simple slipped her silver heels back on and went to leave, to return up the stairs from whence she’d came. But this would not do for Phoenix. It would not do for either of them. Together they passed the old man, looking about confusedly and went to speak with the Necromancer herself. “My lady…my lady La’Ramose!” Phoenix called out at the foot of the staircase. The Lady paused, then turned around, her silver trail reaching down to the step below. Phoenix faltered, hesitating in a realisation that she was speaking to Fleur herself. “I – just – wanted to share my admiration for your splendid resurrection and for your work as a whole. As such a contributor to our community, I thought you might like to join us for the Flauderlair annual ball on their river castle. It’s quite the stunning fair and so many – including Alexis and I will be in atten - ” Phoenix was cut off the second Fleur decided she had grown bored of pretending to care. “Quite so. As it happens, bringing back loved ones from the dead as a career is one that keeps me quite busy. As…interesting as the ball sounds I believe I, unfortunately, haven’t the time to spend on such things. Please do enjoy your husband, ensure you take him to your local evaluator to ensure he’s of sound mind and have you papers correctly filed to check he isn’t resurrected again,” Fleur pleasantly reminded them, not bothering to hide the distaste in her dry smile and sharp eyes. Phoenix was not someone most said the horrid word no to. For someone to put it so…forward in the way of a socialite left faint bitterness on the roof of their mouths and a strain evident in the vein in Phoenix’s neck and the grind of Alexis’s teeth. But Fleur didn’t care for their dislike or their thirst of the influence she carried. Fleur didn’t care for much. Only a few.

“Did they manage to get their claws into you yet?” He jested, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Don’t even joke about such things, at this point, I’m close to imposing a rule of silence in the Black Salt room. At least their dead ones don’t ask if I can attend their tea parties,” Fleur sighed, unlatching the silver armour upon her shoulders and letting it slip onto the floor. Hex simply laughed, rolling onto his back amongst the white sheets of the circular bed. That was one of the few things Fleur enjoyed without an inch of guilt. He didn’t bother with a shirt but lay amongst the sheets and pillows in his black pants, belt and a golden necklace, a black earring at the top of his lobe. He didn’t care for the open-air balcony that overlooked the river, or the fact that many in the harbour far below could probably see his half-naked self. Even after a day of doing nothing but lay about like a common house-cat, his black curly hair didn’t have a single sign of bed-head or a trace of sleep-dust in his eyes that seemed to reflect the blue in the sky above. As he laughed, his eyes did the thing where they squinted so he just fell into a wild tangle of blind cackling. Fleur couldn’t help but envy his laid-back nature and not to mention his ridiculous amount of free time. “Why not attend at least one? Feign some interest, make them claw at each other for a chance to speak with a La’Ramose,” Hex continued to grin, on his knees he helped her out of the silver armour on her spine and unlacing the open v at the back of her dress. Fleur sighed through her nose, dipping her head back onto his forehead. While he spluttered on her golden curls, Fleur shrugged the shoulder straps off and let her gown fold down onto the white, stone floor. It was cold and felt wonderful against her bare feet, sore from a day spent in heels. With the cold, salt-heavy wind that carried the colours of the river flew in through the open balcony separated by three, open white shutter panels, she couldn’t help but faintly shiver at his warm touch. Specifically, his arms wrapped around her waist, curls and face pressed onto her back, enjoying her own warmth. Without warning, Hex hugged her closer and let himself fall back, pulling Fleur with him. “Hey!” She half-heartedly protested, her exhaustion crumbling away for her to fall into a fit of laughter, the two entangled as Fleur turned and rested her head on his chest. It only took her a moment to begin to untangle herself and roll beside him. “C’mon, not even a minute?” Hex murmured, shifting onto his side. Casual as he dared, he slid a hand underneath the strap of her bra on her back as if she wouldn’t notice. Fleur jokingly glared and that only sent her house-cat of a partner into a bout of laughter. She left him to it and went to slip on a white, short jumpsuit and socks, tying her blonde curls into a high-bun. It was a small, separate room where she kept her clothes and jewellery, a full-length, jagged mirror set against the black stone wall. The small room was lit by a string of lanterns encircling the hexagonal set of walls, the warm light gentle against the honey-gold of her hair. There’s no time to play with Hex tonight…not with the stupid amount of paperwork I have to chew through and sign. Twenty appointments over the next three weeks and each demanding a different set of flowers, a choir for the Reese’s, a boat ceremony for the Charleston’s and a cleansing for the Maeth’s. Paperwork forced smiles and an overabundance in bullshit. Joyous.

Fleur took her time despite the fact she was only preparing for a night spent pouring over her desk and papers. A time in which Hex would spend continuing his painting of the riverside city by moonlight, probably listening to whatever jazz was popular twenty years ago, hogging her personal phonograph for his own amusement. “Fleur…?” Hex called out, something off in his voice. Did someone decide to show up unannounced? That’s what you get for laying about half-naked… “Fleur.” He called out to her again, but this time, there was most certainly something wrong. Shit. Cautiously, slowly, Fleur crept out from the dressing room and into their chambers. Hex was no longer on the bed, instead he stood between the shutters, a woman standing behind him. The shutters and the balcony itself, all of them were covered in some…substance, a red type vine that had spread across the balcony, the railing and through the shutters. The woman that stood behind hex was dressed in this same red, a cowl hiding her face. From her arm, a similar red substance grew into what looked to be a blade, the point pressed against the small of Hex’s back. Another stranger on the other balcony opening, the red substance grew from both of his arms, beneath the sleeves of his cloak. Hex looked her, fear clouding his features. “You’re the Necromancer?” The female stranger said, cocking her head to the left. “I – I am, but please whatever it is your after, I’m willing to cooperate. I have jewels – gold and silver - but please don’t, don’t hurt us - ” Fleur tried to reason, but the strangers had no interest in her pleas. Who are they? Their thread isn’t gold or black – but red? They’re not one of the Heavenly Artisans or a Witch Doctor but something else…someone who managed to get past my guards.

“We don’t want your gold,” The woman said almost softly, a lilt evident in her voice. Fleur stepped forward slightly, arms raised in a form of surrender. “Then…let him go and we can calmly discuss things…” Fleur suggested, taking another small step. “We’ll be taking what we came for. Don’t try to run, Fleur,” the Woman said, the shadow beneath her cowl looking directly at her. The second the necromancers’ name was uttered, the blade at Hex’s back was pushed through and out the front of his chest. Fuck it. Fleur leaped forward, any regard to remaining calm abandoned. All that mattered was getting his body, whether it was breathing or not. But she wasn’t fast enough it seemed, as the woman, her blade still between his ribs pulled back, the red thread throwing them back and over the balcony. “HEX!” Fleur screamed, starting after him only to be slammed into the two steps separating the room. The other stranger had pulled his arms from the thread, using one whip-like arm to hit her out of the way. She scrambled to get to her feet, doing her best to ignore the dizziness and throbbing pain. Every second, every decision Fleur made could bring her further or closer to the stranger woman and Hex. The stranger man struck and Fleur managed to stumble out of the way, over the threads of every shade of red she leaped over the balcony railing and felt the silence of the night air cancel out any other sound. Fleur La’Ramose had lived in the riverside mansion for her entire twenty-two years, so in that very moment without a single inch of hesitation, she jumped over the balcony to the dark, dark river below. The river Tet had been a home for her and now, it had become a cloak to shield her.

#fantasy #steampunk #first chapter #feedback

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