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yamayuandadu · 2 years

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Ninshubur, Inanna’s Sukkal: Just a Servant or Something More?

Special thanks to my girlfriend for providing the vintage shoujo parody above, feat. Inanna, Ninshubur and Eblaite artifacts Due to its unique character this post requires a special preface. Most of my “serious” coverage of mythology is meant to be presented as rigorously as possible for a layperson doing this mostly for entertainment, which is who I ultimately am. This post represents a departure from this standard - it’s basically entirely unfounded speculation, personal feelings and wishful thinking. Similar posts often get passed around accompanied by grandiose claims from commenters, so I will stress that I wrote this for personal reasons and only discuss personal feelings. I do not claim this is some sort of suppressed truth, as I am particularly not fond of cases where personal interpretations - which I view as valid if they are acknowledged as just that - are used to claim modern, rigorous research is in fact phony or a nefarious conspiracy. With that out of the way - as stated in the title, I’m going to discuss a case which as many of the regular readers are aware of is close to my heart - that of how Mesopotamian literature depicts the relationship between Inanna and Ninshubur (a deity I like so much that she now has a longer and better sourced wikipedia page than many more major Sumerian deities). I plan to show why I personally think that regardless of the intent of the original authors, there is enough subtext in known sources - presumably not necessarily intentional - to interpret them as a couple. I will also try to highlight Ninshubur’s rarely discussed prominence, both in myths and elsewhere. Parts of the article simply discuss vaguely relevant historical background and primary sources. As usual, I am also providing a bibliography. Therefore, I hope that even if you are not really interested in ultimately pretty silly speculation, you will find something interesting under the cut. Meanwhile, if you are interested in relationships between women more than scholarship, I hope that this post will serve as a fun example why the study of mythology can lead one to find unintended subtext.

The basics - Inanna, Ninshubur and the descent myth

Impression of a cylinder seal from the Old Akkadian period depicting Inanna (Wikimedia Commons) Inanna was one of the major deities worshiped by the Sumerians, the ancient inhabitants of the southern part of modern Iraq. She was also adopted into the beliefs of other cultures of ancient Mesopotamia. In hierarchical listings of deities she is usually placed somewhere right behind the pantheon heads. She was responsible for, among other things, kingship, love, war and assorted celestial matters. She is also one of the most recurring deities in literary compositions written in Sumerian, with a considerable number being available as part of the Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature. Inanna’s love life was regarded as rather complex. Her most recurring lover was the shepherd god Dumuzi, who is a classic specimen of the clade of periodically dying deities, a category which also included the likes of medicine godling Damu, king Gudea’s personal deity Ningishzida and the elusive underworld god Alla. Multiple narratives about the courtship and love of Inanna and Dumuzi were in circulation in antiquity, most of them joyful. However, some also deal with Dumuzi’s untimely death (which,it should be noted, was also a subject of works unrelated to his relationship with Inanna). The degree of Inanna’s involvement varied from composition to composition, from cause to passive onlooker to vengeful avenger. Arguably, however, the most famous is Inanna’s Descent, in which Dumuzi’s death is attributed to his unwillingness to mourn Inanna during *her own* temporary death. A prominent aspect of this myth is also Inanna’s reliance on Ninshubur, a goddess of slightly lesser caliber serving as her sukkal. Sukkal is a term which can refer to a deity’s “ second in “command” - in other words, a sidekick. The word was also used to describe a rank of human court officials, in which context authors variously translated it as “vizier” or “envoy”. Despite the nature of her position, Ninshubur’s status was hardly a minor deity, judging from her popularity in the sphere of personal worship and from a number of theological texts. She was arguably the archetypal example of a sukkal, and her functions - those of a divine messenger, diplomat and mediator - largely stem from this status. Dumuzi’s and Ninshubur’s roles in the story differ greatly. Prior to the reveal that he was not partaking in the customary mourning rites, Dumuzi has minimal presence in the narrative. Ninshubur, by contrast, is an active participant, entrusted with enacting an emergency plan in case of Inanna’s prolonged stay in the underworld, equivalent to death. A long section is dedicated to her grief and to the journey she undertakes to attempt to convince major gods to resurrect Inanna. Ninshubur’s adventure culminates in the creation of two artificial genderless beings who manage to revive Inanna, at the command of the god Enki. Subsequently, Ninshubur reunites with the resurrected Inanna, who praises her for her devotion and protects her from the galla, demonic underworld constables. The term also denoted mundane policemen, or at least people who could be roughly considered their equivalent in ancient Mesopotamia. In the discussed myth, they are meant to deliver a replacement for the resurrected Inanna to the underworld at the orders of its ruler, Ereshkigal. In this myth - but surprisingly not anywhere else - Ereshkigal is regarded as Inanna’s older sister. Much of the popular perception of the story appears to be centered on this relation but it is ultimately Ninshubur whose connection with Inanna is particularly close, as seen in the quote below (all quotes from Inanna’s Descent in the article are sourced from ETCSL): This is my minister of fair words, my escort of trustworthy words. She did not forget my instructions. She did not neglect the orders I gave her. She made a lament for me on the ruin mounds. She beat the drum for me in the sanctuaries. She made the rounds of the gods' houses for me. She lacerated her eyes for me, lacerated her nose for me. She lacerated her ears for me in public. In private, she lacerated her buttocks for me. Like a pauper, she clothed herself in a single garment. All alone she directed her steps to the Ekur, to the house of Enlil, and to Urim, to the house of Nanna, and to Eridug, to the house of Enki. She wept before Enki. She brought me back to life. How could I turn her over to you? Afterwards, Ninshubur, who apparently spent the rest of her Inanna-free time weeping at the entrance to the underworld, accompanies Inanna during visits to various lesser underlings’ houses (well, temples); as it turns out, they too mourned properly, and after brief words of praise are left to their own devices. However, that is not the case when it comes to Dumuzi: They followed her to the great apple tree in the plain of Kulaba. There was Dumuzid clothed in a magnificent garment and seated magnificently on a throne. The demons seized him there by his thighs. (...) They would not let the shepherd play the pipe and flute before her She looked at him, it was the look of death. She spoke to him, it was the speech of anger. She shouted at him, it was the shout of heavy guilt: "How much longer? Take him away." Holy Inanna gave Dumuzid the shepherd into their hands. The rest of the myth is poorly preserved, but seemingly Inanna eventually has a change of heart and the well-known system in which Dumuzi and his sister switch places in the underworld every 6 months is established. The ending doesn’t address why it was Ninshubur, rather than Dumuzi, who received the instructions pertaining to the mourning of Inanna’s death and her subsequent resurrection. It doesn’t also explain why Ninshubur stood by the entrance of the underworld, waiting for Inanna, something not even the other mourners did. The goal of this article is to find out if there are any grounds to assume that there is a romantic component to this issue, at least from a modern point of view. I’ve noticed that there are few, if any, academic publications dealing with related matters, and that generally potential lesbian subtext - intended or not - in myths generally is hardly discussed, therefore I hope it will be an interesting curiosity to you, if nothing else.

Gay relationships in Mesopotamian mythology

Naturally, the first question which needs to be addressed is whether any form of love between people of the same gender occurs in relevant literature in the first place. The answer is a cautiously optimistic “yes.” Of course, almost everyone is aware of the speculation about the nature of the relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the most famous heroes of Mesopotamian literature. Therefore it probably comes as no surprise to any readers that many modern authors seek evidence that at least in some portrayals they were in love. The problem is arguably less whether anyone did interpret them as in love, and more how common it was and which sources show it best. Authors who present this view include the world’s arguably greatest Gilgamesh expert, Andrew R. George, as well as hittitologist Gary Beckman. According to George, the notion that Gilgamesh and Enkidu loved each other is present first and foremost in a version of the poem Death of Gilgamesh, known from Tell as-Sib excavations in Iraq’s Diyala region (ancient Me-Turan). The poem is Sumerian in origin and predates the famous standard Epic of Gilgamesh, which only developed after the Old Babylonian period. The passage in mention is apparently not actually present in many of the known copies. It features the head god, Enlil, informing elderly, sick (the illness seems to be the doing of Namtar, known as both a disease of death and as an envoy of the netherworld) Gilgamesh that in the afterlife he’ll be reunited with Enkidu. Due to the emotional value of this passage I will simply let you read it yourself:

The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts vol 1 by A. R. George, p. 142 The belief that loved ones might be reunited in the afterlife appears in texts from various periods of Mesopotamian history, so it can be safely assumed it was not an uncommon idea, even if the most famous myths present the afterlife as incredibly unpleasant. Additionally, Enkidu is evidently treated as a member of Gilgamesh’s family but not a sibling here. My first thought after reading George’s description of the Me-Turan version of the tale of Gilgamesh and Enkidu was to wonder if it is possible that versions which seemingly stresses the view of them as a couple might reflect the needs of a specific audience. Thanks to George’s own studies, as well as those of other authors, we do know that the stories of Gilgamesh were often adapted to fit the tastes of one audience or another. For example, in Hurrian and Hittite translations locally popular deities, such as Shaushka (known as “Queen of Nineveh” or “Ishtar of Subartu”), Hittite Sun God of Heaven, or personified Sea known in both these cultures factored into the story (both as replacements of familiar characters and as stars of brand new “story arcs”), while the descriptions of distant Uruk are often shortened as they were of comparatively little interest to inhabitants of Syria and Anatolia. Could therefore the Me-Turan version represent an adaptation written by and/or for people who were invested in the view of Gilgamesh and Enkidu as a couple more than the average aficionado of similar poetry in ancient Mesopotamia? That would be my assumption, but you should bear in mind it is nothing more than that I am not an actual authority. I am not aware of any examples of mythical figures other than Gilgamesh and Enkidu engaging in similar endeavors. The other potentially relevant evidence comes from different genres of texts, such as omens, magical formulas and (middle Assyrian) laws. Sadly, there isn’t much evidence for gay relationships and what there is doesn’t necessarily match the sphere of myth, to put it lightly (the aforementioned legal texts, in particular, are not exactly pleasant to read). For what it’s worth, there are sporadic references to love magic meant to guarantee the love of a man for another man, alongside the much more common straight variations (both with men and women as targets of the ritual). I will not address the issue of the galla (not to be confused with the homonymous underworld constables!) and similar priestly classes here as the matter is not settled, and many researchers involved are hardly rigorous (this article in particular is a nightmare but it’s not much better elsewhere). All that can be said about the galla with certainty is that they were lamentation singers. It has been argued that they were possibly regarded as possessing a distinct, unique identity, but what that entailed is hard to tell. It does appear that their mythical counterparts in Inanna’s Descent, the two entities created by Enki, are genderless, at the very least. Galla priests performed songs in a “dialect” of Sumerian, emesal, popularly understood as “women’s speech” - however, it’s not really an accurate translation. While the precise meaning is unclear, something like “high pitched speech” might be more appropriate. Emesal is sometimes regarded as a “sociolect” spoken by a specific group (ie. women) but it’s actually more likely to be first and foremost a “genrelect” reserved for specific liturgical purposes according to recent research. As summed up by Piotr Michalowski in a very brief encyclopedic summary, it appears to be “restricted to direct speech of goddesses and women in certain types of literary texts, in particular lamentations.” Bear in mind even this use is not universal: Dumuzi speaks emesal in some texts, Inanna does not in others. Enheduanna, arguably the most famous woman in Mesopotamian history, did not write in emesal, even when it came to direct speech; meanwhile, there are references to purification specialists - who were not galla - reciting emesal texts. Emesal aside - no primary sources actually discuss the sexuality of the galla to any meaningful degree and it’s not even certain if all galla were assigned male at birth, to put it in modern terms. Therefore, any such assumptions pertaining to them are just speculation, often with a dash of vintage orientalism thrown in for good measure. That’s it for men. How about women? As noted by Frans Wiggermann in his brief and somewhat flawed overview of references to sexuality in Sumerian and Akkadian texts there are no known direct references to women attracted to women and to relevant activity in any primary sources (I think there is a passage in a late hymn to Nanaya which might be an exception, I wrote about it a few months ago). He provides no clear explanation for this, though he notes that most scribes were obviously men aligned with the dominant power structures. This state of affairs largely shapes the character and contents of many sources. I personally think it’s safe to say that the fact the literacy rate among men was much higher than among women is at least partially to blame.

Female literacy, religiosity and relationships between women in myths

Generally speaking, the level of literacy even in cultures with a rich scribal tradition was naturally pretty low in the bronze and iron ages, with the only estimate I found (pretty old, I should note) being 2-5% for “western Asia and Egypt” collectively. These are therefore presumably the figures we can apply to ancient Mesopotamia for example in the Ur III and early Old Babylonian periods, when many of the famous myths developed in their presently known textual forms. While it was not entirely impossible for a woman to become a scribe, or to learn how to write through other means (ex. as part of a noblewoman’s preparation for courtly life), it was much less common for them than for men. For instance, only between 4 and 6 (2 cases are uncertain) scribes or scholars identified by name in colophons of known texts were women. Of course, not every text has a colophon with such information, so it’s not impossible that we in fact know more texts written or copied by women, but whose authorship will never be possible to prove. It’s also worth noting these few examples indicate the presence of women (not many, but still) on most stages of scribal education. Nameless female scribes also at times appear in economic documents. Nevertheless, references to women in other similar professions are somewhat infrequent. The exception to this was female physicians, who were generally expected to be literate. I’ve gathered some more detailed information here. This perhaps is somewhat of a reach, but I personally assume both the lack of references to romantic relations between women and the relatively small number of compositions dealing with bonds between female deities seemingly not based on blood relation (and even the latter are hardly common!) can be attributed to the comparatively small number of female scribes, outlined above. A similar argument has been advanced by Alhena Gadotti, though in reference to mortal women as characters in texts copied in scribal schools: women “were generally not part of the cultural, political, and economic elite that the Old Babylonian scribal schools produced and therefore did not play a particularly prominent part in the corpus.” As remarked by Joan G. Westenholz and Julia M. Asher-Greve, interest in female deities was somewhat higher among women than men - “numerous women chose the temple of a goddess for their votive gifts (...), or preferred the cult of a goddess (...), or have names composed with that of a goddess, or are depicted worshiping a goddess” [on cylinder seals - clarification mine]. It’s of course impossible to deal in absolutes, though - there’s ample evidence for personal devotion to gods like Shamash, Zababa, Dagan or Marduk among women, and to goddesses such as Inanna, Ninisina or Namma among men; kings were almost always men but there is a fair share of areas where the source of kingship was at least in certain time periods held to be a female deity - Ninisina in Isin in the Isin-Larsa period, Ishara in Ebla c. 1700 BCE, Belet Nagar, nomen omen, in Nagar in the Old Babylonian period, Inanna in Uruk at various points in time, etc. Still, I think the point might be valid.

A possible depiction of Geshtinanna and Geshtindudu (Goddesses in Context by J. M. Asher-Greve and W. G. Westenholz, p. 387; identified as such on p. 168) Other than Inanna and Ninshubur in Inanna’s Descent and a number of other sources, the only two goddesses I am aware of who appear to share a close bond in myths and aren’t a mother-daughter pair (like Nisaba and Sud/Ninlil or Ninhursag and Ninkasi) are Dumuzi’s sister Geshtinanna and a certain Geshtindudu, who are to my knowledge not attested outside of a small handful of mythical fragments. Julia M. Asher-Greve outright describes these two as “divine girlfriends' ' - I presume not in the romantic sense, though. This is probably just a paraphrase of the ETCSL translation of Dumuzid’s Dream which indeed introduces Geshtindudu as “Her [Geshtinanna’s] girl friend.” Asher-Greve also speaks of it as “one of the few relationships between goddesses based on friendship.” As for other relations based on friendship: I’ve seen references to a myth(?) about Ninisina and Nintinugga - the medicine goddess par excellence and her small time “ersatz” from Nippur - visiting each other (source; it’s on p. 5), but I have not been able to locate it so I can’t tell if it should count as another example. Additionally, while the myth Enlil and Sud deals first and foremost with the relationship between Sud and her mother Ninlil and with her tumultuous romance with Enlil, it seems a poorly preserved section also had Sud interact with Enlil’s sister Aruru (who you may know as the creator of Enkidu in the Epic of Gilgamesh). Given how Enlil and Sud generally seems to have notably more “Ninlil-centric” outlook than its “rival” myth Enlil and Ninlil (which treats Ninlil, a popular and high-ranking deity, oddly poorly), perhaps this should be counted as an example too, though it has been argued the passage might simply indicate that the bridegroom’s sibling played some role in traditional marriage rites. While each of these myths surely could be an interesting topic, I sadly won’t discuss them in detail here (do expect a post on Enlil and Sud at some point, though), as the this article is ultimately about Inanna’s Descent and other sources pertaining to Ninshubur.

Inanna’s Descent once more

While I already provided a brief overview of Inanna’s Descent earlier, the fact that its contents are frequently misinterpreted - often by authors with no knowledge but a large audience - means that some more context is needed. From Jungian nonsense (with all due respect for Olga Tokarczuk, whose works I generally enjoy, her Anna In w grobowcach świata falls into this category) and weird attempts at elevating Ereshkigal well beyond the rank attributed to her in antiquity to a baffling attempt at understanding the myth in Nietzschean terms, Inanna’s Descent is arguably among the most tormented Mesopotamian literary texts, both online and offline. To begin with, it’s important to place it in the context of Sumerian beliefs regarding proper care for the dead. As we can learn from a variety of sources, from myths to prayers to personal letters, the Sumerians viewed mourning and other related matters as incredibly important. Mourning was expressed in many forms, though particularly notable were funerary libations - you can find a reference to this even in the discussed myth: she offers generous libations at his wake, proclaims Inanna about the purported funeral of Ereshkigal’s supposed late husband. Elsewhere, the city of Enegi, associated particularly closely with the cult of the dead, is itself called the “libation pipe of the earth.” Known texts stress that close family, such as spouses, siblings, or children, should be involved in funerary rites. As a matter of fact, from some texts we learn that the status of the dead in the underworld depends entirely on their close ones’ proper adherence to funerary customs. The important role of family in mourning rites creates a problem for the narrative of Inanna’s Descent: Ninshubur is not exactly a family member. She is a courtier. While the “public figures” of ancient Mesopotamia were often mourned publicly by a large number of people, here the mourning seems to be private. As far as I understand - Ninshubur is essentially instructed to act as a family member would. Following the usual genealogy of Inanna, there is no real place for Ninshubur on her family tree, as it is generally safe to assume Inanna’s parents are Nanna and Ningal, while she is herself childless. In fact, there is no strong indication Ninshubur was even conceptualized as part of a family tree in the first place. As noted by Frans Wiggermann, texts are largely silent about her parentage. To be fair this is not uncommon for servant deities, divine spouses (even the most prominent ones like Aya and Shala have no established genealogy!) and the like. Curiously, Ninshubur’s mourning is described in very similar terms as that of Ningishzida’s wife Ninazimua in a composition possibly dealing with the former’s death, as Jeremy Black and Judith Pfitzner remarked in their respective articles about the composition Ningishzida and Ninazimua. Of course, this alone is not exactly a strong argument, as parallels can be drawn between these and the figures of mourning sisters and mothers in other texts dealing with deaths of gods. Still, it does appear to be somewhat of an outlier to have a servant, rather than a relative, express grief in such a composition. It’s worth noting that while the only example we have is Inanna’s Descent, we know from preserved Sumerian catalogs of hymns and other similar compositions that there were a considerable number of currently lost texts which dealt with Ninshubur’s grief over something that happened to Inanna. Whether this was a different version of the story or some other, presently unknown, sorrowful event (perhaps banishment only known from an incredibly fragmentary text?) is impossible to tell. A number of researchers, most recently Dina Katz, have proposed that Inanna’s Descent as we know it was in reality the result of combining multiple older narratives, as it only dates back to the Old Babylonian period. I speculate that the aforementioned unknown Ninshubur texts could perhaps have been predecessors to the version of the myth we see today. Such a process of development was not uncommon for Mesopotamian myths. Both Epic of Gilgamesh and Enuma Elish are well known examples. Additionally, this theory explains the dissonance between the usual character of Dumuzi and his relationship with Inanna, known from countless love songs, and that presented in Inanna’s Descent. Katz argues that this presently purely theoretical “original” did not feature Dumuzi - Inanna was saved by Ninshubur’s intervention and Enki’s trick alone, and the addition of a replacement for her seems superficial given the presence of “water of life” in the myth. Inanna’s Descent wasn’t the only myth in which she appears which also served as explanation of Dumuzi’s death, as I already mentioned much earlier - in Inanna and Bilulu, for instance, she tracks down the killer instead (given the extreme level of violence, it would perhaps be fair to call the author a Sumerian Tarantino). At the same time, is somewhat unique in portraying Dumuzi’s death as being the result of his own shortcomings - something which probably indicates the compilers were more invested in Inanna than him, and that perhaps the goal was to merge as many different elements as possible into a coherent tale. As a small digression I should note this is not the most negative portrayal of Dumuzi in known sources: late enigmatic lists of so-called “Seven Conquered Enlils” (in which the name is used just as a title, something like “lord”) place Dumuzi in the company of various well known mythical antagonists, like Tiamat, Asag or Mummu, not to mention the mysterious cosmogonic figure Enmesharra, whose disposition is generally villainous too, as seen for example in the text Enlil and Namzitara. The change in focus from Inanna (or rather than equivalent of her) to Dumuzi only occurs in a very vague adaptation of Inanna’s Descent - the 1st millennium BCE Ishtar’s Descent. While Inanna’s Descent is known from nearly 50 copies, found anywhere from the major cities of Mesopotamia like Ur and Nippur to scribal schools located on the western periphery of the “cuneiform world,” the other myth has only a handful of them, all of exclusively Assyrian provenance. The myths are often conflated online, which leads to horrific misconceptions. Katz argues that the latter myth represents an attempt at state revival of Dumuzi’s (or, to be more accurate, Tammuz’s, as the name was rendered in Akkadian) cult undertaken by the Neo-Assyrian Empire, which strikes me as a convincing argument. The change in focus is rather surprising, as the dying god par excellence, as noted by Berndt Alster, “did not belong to the leading deities in any period of Mesopotamian history” (unlike Ninshubur!). A huge difference between Inanna’s Descent and Ishtar’s Descent is the absence of Ninshubur. In the latter myth, Papsukkal, a male messenger deity associated with Anu (and, at an early stage, with the war god Zababa, at home in Kish, modern Tell al-Uhaymir in central Iraq), makes an appearance instead, introduced not as a personal attendant of the heroine, but simply as a servant of the “great gods” collectively. What’s also missing are any references to the instructions regarding mourning and petitioning other gods on her behalf. Evidently, whatever factors resulted in the portrayal of Ninshubur in Inanna’s Descent did not apply to Papsukkal. However, it’s important to stress that the very focus of Inanna’s Descent is different from that of Ishtar’s Descent. Dina Katz noted that while Ishtar’s Descent as a whole seems to be focused on the matter of very broadly understood fertility, “we cannot associate Inanna’s death and revival with procreation in nature nor with fertility in general,” contrary to what one can often read online. After all, fertility is a matter an agricultural deity would be much more concerned with, and Inanna’s Descent is ultimately not focused on Dumuzi and Geshtinanna, the only figures associated with agriculture in the original myth. At the time when the new myth had most likely been composed, Ninshubur was hardly a relevant figure, having seemingly lost her relevance at some point during the Kassite period, in the mid to late second millennium BCE. However, it’s not like the first millennium Ishtar (the myth does not associate her with a specific location like Assur, Nineveh or Arbela) didn’t have a variety of female courtiers who could’ve made an appearance in the myth in her stead. A particularly notable example is the well-attested incorporation of Hurrian Ninatta and Kulitta, a duo of goddesses sharing a rather close relation in myths with Shaushka, the “Ishtar of Subartu” as she was sometimes called, into Assyrian Ishtar cults. Coincidentally, there is no evidence for female scribes in the first millennium BCE, the time of the “translation’s” composition (I put that in quotation marks because while the text is often incorrectly labeled as such, it was actually, as outlined above, pretty much a new myth). Was this a factor in the evident change in sensibilities between Inanna’s Descent and Ishtar’s Descent? Hard to tell, but I personally would not rule it out. To sum up: ultimately, what is important for the subject of the article are two facts about Inanna’s Descent: 1. Ninshubur acts as one would expect a family member 2. Her bond with Inanna is uniquely close The evidence for the two points above does not start or end with Inanna’s Descent alone.

Beyond Inanna’s Descent: Ninshubur, sukkals and “wife goddesses”

Probably the strongest argument in favor of viewing Inanna and Ninshubur as uniquely close is the use of an uncommon synonym of the word sukkal, SAL.ḪUB2 (reading uncertain; the 2 should be subscript but tumblr doesn’t allow that, it seems), to refer to the latter. This term is very sparsely attested and only ever used to a handful of deities, exclusively sukkals, in all cases to indicate they are very closely associated with their divine “employers.” In addition to Ninshubur, it occurs for example in relation to Enlil’s sukkal Nuska, envisioned at times as a son of Enlil’s distant ancestors Enul and Ninul and a senior deity in his own right, and to Nabu, Marduk’s sukkal turned son turned pantheon head. I sadly have no access to an article which apparently decisively established its meaning - Vizir, concubine, entonnoir... Comment lire et comprendre le signe SAL.ḪUB2? by Antoine Cavigneaux and Frans Wiggermann - but thanks to the help of a friend I was able to learn a few months ago that, in their words, the authors conclude that it denotes a sukkal “who is dear or intimate.” This interpretation is presumably supported by the fact that in one of the few texts using this term (seemingly the one which is actually largely responsible for scholarly interest in establishing its meaning), Ninshubur is referred to as Inanna’s “beloved SAL.ḪUB2“ and appears among her family members - while her parents, brother, etc. are listed first, Ninshubur’s relation is seemingly more significant than that of in-laws in it, for what it’s worth. Other courtiers, like Nanaya, do not make an appearance. One more possible source is a curiosity from the Hittite capital from Hattusa (located near modern village Boğazkale in central Turkey), specifically a ritual related to the goddess Pinikir. This is (tragically) not the time and place to discuss Pinikir in detail, but it will suffice to say that she was understood as reasonably Inanna- or Ishtar-like. While the text in mention comes from a Hurro-Hittite milieu (Hittites, relatively “young” by the standards of Ancient Near East, viewed Hurrian culture as prestigious), it was written in Akkadian, and it’s primarily concerned with an Elamite goddess, making it uniquely cosmopolitan. Pinikir, whose name is spelled logographically as ISHTAR there, is invited to come alongside her family to receive offerings. She is described as the daughter of Nanna and Ningal and twin sister of Utu/Shamash; the other two figures invoked, Ea/Enki (addressed as “your [ie. Pinikir’s] creator”) and the goddess’ sukkal, instantly bring a variety of myths to mind (Descent, of course, but also Inanna and Enki and the less known Agushaya texts). The name of the sukkal, however, is Ilabrat, spelled syllabically. As far as I am aware, such a pairing is not attested anywhere else, and Ilabrat is generally speaking only Anu’s sukkal, unlike Ninshubur and even Papsukkal, who have multiple roles. While the researcher most involved in the study of this text, Gary Beckman, makes no such connection, I personally think it’s possible that a hypothetical forerunner to this late text featured Ninshubur. Beckman on linguistic grounds concludes Hurrians likely adopted Pinikir, and a variety of rituals connected to her and her usual associate, the enigmatic deity DINGIR.GE6 (“Goddess of the Night”; reading of the name remains unknown; once again, the numer should be subscript, once again), from a Mesopotamian intermediary and not directly from Elam. He proposes that the transfer happened during the period of well-attested intense Sumero-Hurrian contacts in the late third or early second millennium BCE (the text in mention, meanwhile, is no older than the 14th century BCE, I believe). This, coincidentally, was also a time of immense interest in Ninshubur, including theological texts presenting her as one of the “great gods,” side by side with Enlil, Ninlil, Inanna, Ninurta and the like. Perhaps much later on a Hittite scribe, not necessarily fully aware of Ninshubur’s existence (she was, after all, not really a deity of any relevance anymore in the late Bronze Age), worked with older Hurrian material which originally had Ninshubur in this role, but assumed the name is merely a logographic spelling of Ilabrat’s, a phenomenon attested in many locations in the Old Babylonian period? This is only my own, not necessarily valid, speculation, though. Another curiosity is a text in which Inanna calls Ninshubur “mother” - this, however, is not a statement of actual kinship, but rather of respect. Senior gods of the pantheon are often called “father” or “mother” by other deities regardless of actual parentage. Such statements aren’t even necessarily reflections of alternate genealogies or anything of that sort. A good example can be found even just in Inanna’s Descent: Ninshubur addresses Enlil, Nanna and Enki this way, even though none of them are attested as her actual father (and only Nanna was regarded as Inanna’s father between these 3). Presumably Ninshubur’s recurring participation in Inanna’s adventures, and her capability to appease her or to “soothe her heart” was worthy of such reverence.

Impression of a cylinder seal depicting a mediating goddess, possibly Ninshubur as indicated by accompanying inscription (Goddesses in Context by J. M. Asher-Greve and W. G. Westenholz, p. 406; identified as such on p. 207)

Impression of a cylinder seal possibly depicting Ninshubur (middle) interceding between governor of Lagash, Lugal-ushumgal, and the Akkadian king Shar-Kali-Sharri (wikimedia commons; goddess identified as Ninshubur in Goddesses in Context by J. M. Asher-Greve and W. G. Westenholz, p. 180) The closeness between Inanna and Ninshubur wasn’t limited to texts of mythical nature, and had a very real religious dimension too. Ninshubur was a common object of popular devotion, appearing in personal names, in seal inscriptions, and in other similar sources because she was believed to be capable of mediating with Inanna (and with other deities as well, on the account of being a divine messenger and diplomat). While a sukkal could act as a mediator in the cult of their master, most sukkals are deities with no personality, no individual role in myths and limited, if any popularity: for instance, Ishkur’s sukkal is simply the deified lightning, Nimgir. The difference between Ninshubur and Inanna and that which existed between most sukkals and their masters has been described by Frans Wiggermann as that between “command and execution” and “cause and effect.” To my knowledge very few other sukkals maintained the degree of popularity Ninshubur enjoyed, a notable exception being Nuska. Both of them were listed among the “great gods” every now and then: for example, in a text from the reign of the Third Dynasty of Ur (as I already noted, seemingly a period of prosperity for Ninshubur) both appear side by side with Enlil, Ninlil, Nanna, Inanna, Ninurta, Nergal and Utu - the creme de la creme of the pantheon. Ninshubur is also the only sukkal whose role I’ve seen compared to that of the “wife goddesses” (this is not a genuine scholarly term, I use it for simplicity’s sake). Julia M. Asher-Greve and Joan G. Westenholz specifically draw parallels between her role in Inanna’s cult with that played by Aya, the type specimen of the “wife goddesses” (her to-go epithet is quite literally “the bride,” kallatum) in the cult of Inanna’s solar twin. Of course, this does not indicate that she was ever seen as Inanna’s spouse - but it does at the very least show that it wouldn’t be entirely impossible to claim she was close to that status. While there is no known evidence for Ninshubur status actually moving between that of wife and sukkal when it comes to Inanna, it should be noted that she, as a matter of fact, does move between these two roles in one very specific case. In the area of Lagash and Girsu (modern Al-Hiba and Telloh in Iraq), especially in the third millennium BCE, Ninshubur was associated with Nergal (well, Meslamtaea, as he was typically called in the south early on in Mesopotamian history). As remarked by Wilfred G. Lambert, Ninshubur in this context appears to show up both as sukkal and, unexpectedly, as Nergal’s wife (Nergal’s love life seems to be a rather complex matter). This is rather unique as Ninshubur was generally viewed as unmarried. I don’t think Nergal is exactly similar to Inanna - though both deities share a warlike character - but this association, especially coupled with the modern observations regarding Ninshubur and Aya - does appear to support the idea that you could see Ninshubur likewise moving between status of sukkal and wife when it comes to Inanna. Especially taking into account that, as far as I am aware, it is only Inanna in relation to whom she gets to be a SAL.ḪUB2.

Ninshubur as the lesbian Enkidu?

One final point I’d like to make is that it is possible to make a number of comparisions between Ninshubur’s status to that of the only unambiguously attested gay love interest in Mesopotamian mythology, Enkidu.

A little discussed (outside scholarly circles, that is) aspect of the relationship between Gilgamesh and Enkidu which I’ve already mentioned early in the article is the fact that in the oldest sources do not yet present the latter as the “wild man” created to serve as a foil to Gilgamesh by the gods. Instead, he is the king’s courtier or servant, though a very close one - a status not too dissimilar from Ninshubur’s connection to Inanna in mythical context.

Obviously, the development from servant to cherished companion to lover was gradual, and presumably how the relationship was perceived varied too. Still, it’s worth stressing that while integral to Enkidu as a character in our modern perception, his origin story was actually a novelty compared to his position as Gilgamesh’s beloved, which predates the composition of a singular Epic of Gilgamesh. According to Andrew R. George, it’s possible that his newer “backstory” was meant to stress that to develop as a character Gilgamesh had to interact with a challenger completely from the outside of own sphere.

As a linguistic curiosity it’s worth mentioning that in the old standalone poems Enkidu’s position has been described in a few cases (for example in Gilgamesh and Akka or in Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld) with the poetic term shubur-a-ni, which shares its etymology with Ninshubur’s name. “Shubur” is a term referring to the land also known as Subartu - the areas north of Mesopotamia, inhabited chiefly by Hurrians, or “Subarians,” as Mespotamians called them. However, it also acquired the meaning of “servant.”

You may therefore ask if Ninshubur was the “Lady of Subartu” in origin, perhaps a “Subarian” equivalent of the god Martu/Amurru who embodied traits associated with “Westerners” (that is, Amorites from Syria) or was she always just “Lady of Servants” as Frans Wiggermann interprets her name? That’s hard to tell. Nothing prevents her from being both at once, as acknowledged even by the aforementioned author, especially taking into account that Hurrians were present in Mesopotamia on all levels of society in the 3rd millennium BCE already. Speculating about her origin, fascinating as it is, ultimately is not the concern here.

Another prominent similarity between Enkidu and Ninshubur is that based on a variety of texts the latter fulfilled an important, rather specific role in Inanna’s life, serving as a source of good advice, a characteristic also well attested for Enkidu. In Gilgamesh, Enkidu and the Netherworld it is the loss of this advice that Gilgamesh laments after it turns out his friend cannot come back to life (a passage which George interprets as one of the early examples of the tradition according to which the two of them were in love). It should be noted that in Ninshubur’s case whether her advice was followed or not is a complicated matter - as we learn from one composition, one of Inanna’s abilities is knowing when to disregard both bad and good advice.

Finally, there is a less direct similarity. It is undeniable that Inanna and Gilgamesh both have heterosexual relationships with other characters, but Enkidu actually doesn’t in sources predating the development of his backstory, and I’ve already outlined Ninshubur’s marital status before. However, Inanna’s and Gilgamesh’s heterosexual relationships are not necessarily emphasized in compositions dealing with their adventures. It is instead their relationships with their respective “sidekicks” that commonly come to the forefront. In Gilgamesh’s and Enkidu’s case, this requires no examples, as various episodes from the Epic are well known. Similarly, in addition to her role in Inanna’s Descent, Ninshubur also appears in the myth Inanna and Enki, where she likewise defends the eponymous heroine from any harm which may befall her - in this case at the hands of Enki’s guards, rather than underworld demons. Ninshubur also praises Inanna after the daring scheme appears to work, leading to the transfer of me (divine powers) to Uruk.

Finally, there is the myth known as Agushaya or, in older literature, Ea and Saltu. While the relations between specific deities in it generally speaking reflects the Sumerian texts which formed the base of the scribal curriculum in the Old Babylonian period, it is presently only known from Akkadian versions. What makes it somewhat of a curiosity is the presence of Ninshubur, otherwise almost exclusively present in literary texts written in Sumerian - perhaps a lost Sumerian original awaits us somewhere out there. While the text uses the name Ishtar to refer to the protagonist, her relation with Ninshubur mirrors Inanna’s in the two texts above.

Saltu (“Strife”), mentioned in the title, is essentially a hostile copy of the heroine, formed by Ea out of dirt from underneath his fingers (note the similarity to Enki’s preferred mode of creation in Inanna’s Descent). Ninshubur apparently provides her mistress with information about this new adversary, whose very appearance fills her with fear. It has been argued by Benjamin R. Foster that a set of odd scribal errors which recur in the passage is meant to be a unique way to render agitated stuttering. Sadly, the middle of the text is not preserved, making it impossible to tell if Ninshubur played any other role in it beyond that.

Closing remarks

The examples above do not show that anyone actually viewed Inanna and Ninshubur as a couple, and it is not my goal to prove decisively that anyone did at the time of the discussed texts’ composition. While obviously there definitely were women attracted to other women in every time and place (how was it expressed and whether modern labels could be easily applied to them is a different matter), it is ultimately not really possible to determine whether they left behind any indirect traces in Mesopotamian textual sources, and how to locate them. The only point which I believe I’ve been able to prove above is that Ninshubur’s relationship with Inanna is uniquely close. As such, both this connection and Ninshubur’s character and broader role in Mesopotamian religion deserve more scholarly attention (can you believe there is no monograph on the concept of sukkal yet?) and more presence in the public perception of Mesopotamian mythology, and more specifically Inanna’s Descent I do personally think there are grounds to debate whether there is subtext in the discussed myths. Even if it was not intended by their authors nearly 4000 years ago, it is hard to deny that from a modern perspective the implications are certainly there. If nothing else, discussing this topic could possibly make the study of relationships between women in ancient texts - not necessarily romantic ones, mind you - more prominent than it is now, both among academics and laypeople. Additionally I think the discussed topic deserves exploration in fiction. As I’ve pointed out above, using the example of Gilgamesh and the reinterpretation of stories about him, certain aspects of myths could be emphasized or de-emphasized to match the expectations of new audiences, without the core of the story being lost. I think this still holds true. Ultimately what I want to say is not “Ninshubur is clearly gay in Inanna’s Descent,” it’s “wouldn’t it be interesting to consider if she was, and whether the ancient sources make it viable?” And that is the question I would like to leave you, the reader, with.

Bibliography

J. M. Asher-Greve, J. G. Westenholz, Goddesses in Context: On Divine Powers, Roles, Relationships and Gender in Mesopotamian Textual and Visual Sources

B. Alster, Inanna Repenting: The Conclusion of Inanna’s Descent - can’t vouch for the site this is hosted on, but it was originally published in a credible journal

B. Alster, Tammuz(/Dumuzi) (Reallexikon der Assyriologie entry)

G. Beckman, Babyloniaca Hethitica: The "babilili-Ritual" from Bogazköy (CTH 718)

G. Beckman, Gilgamesh in Hatti

G. Beckman, The Goddess Pirinkir and Her Ritual from Ḫattuša (CTH 644)

G. Beckman, When Heroes Love: The Ambiguity of Eros in the Stories of Gilgamesh and David (review)

J. Black, Ning̃išzida and Ninazimua

A. Cavigneaux, F. A. M. Wiggermann, Vizir, concubine, entonnoir... Comment lire et comprendre le signe SAL.ḪUB2?

M. Civil, Enlil and Ninlil: The Marriage of Sud

B. Dedovic, "Inanna's Descent to the Netherworld": A centennial survey of scholarship, artifacts, and translations

B. R. Foster, Ea and Saltu

A. Gadotti, Portraits of the Feminine in Sumerian Literature

A. George, The Babylonian Gilgamesh Epic: Introduction, Critical Edition and Cuneiform Texts

D. Katz, How Dumuzi Became Inanna's Victim: On the Formation of "Inanna's Descent"

D. Katz, Inanna's Descent and Undressing the Dead as a divine law

D. Katz, Myth and Ritual through Tradition and Innovation

D. Katz, Sumerian Funerary Rituals in Context

S. N. Kramer, Two British Museum iršemma "Catalogues"

W. G. Lambert, Babylonian Creation Myths - sadly not open access

W. G. Lambert, Introductory Considerations

A. Löhnert, Scribes and singers of Emesal lamentations in ancient Mesopotamia in the second millennium BCE

N. N. May, Female Scholars in Mesopotamia?

P. Michalowski, Emesal (Sumerian dialect) (The Encyclopedia of Ancient History entry)

P. Michalowski, Literacy in Early States: A Mesopotamianist Perspective

S. Nowicki, Women and References to Women in Mesopotamian Royal Inscriptions. An Overview from the Early Dynastic to the End of Ur III Period

J. Peterson, The Banishment of Inana

J. Peterson, UET 6/1, 74, the Hymnic Introduction of a Sumerian Letter-Prayer to Ninšubur (ZA 106)

J. Pfitzner, Ninĝišzida and Ninazimua, Nippur version l. 104 (=Ur version l. 40)

P. Pongratz-Leisten, Comments on the Translatability of Divinity: Cultic and Theological Responses to the Presence of the Other in the Ancient near East

E. Robson, Gendered literacy and numeracy in the Sumerian literary corpus

G. J. Selz, Female Sages in the Sumerian Tradition of Mesopotamia - careful with the final few paragraphs: the author is a bit too enthusiastic about the so-called “Helsinki school” which sees Mesopotamia as little more than source of dubious evidence for greater than in reality antiquity of specific currents in early Christianity and in broader gnostic tradition; for a criticism of the core ideas of the Helsinki school see this review by J. Cooper

T. Sharlach, Foreign Influences on the Religion of the Ur III Court

M. P. Streck, Nusku (Reallexikon der Assyriologie entry)

A. G. Ventura, Review of "Women's Writing in Ancient Mesopotamia. An Anthology of the Earliest Female Authors" (Charles Halton & Saana Svärd, 2018)

M. Viano, The Reception of Sumerian Literature in the Western Periphery

G. Whittaker, Linguistic Anthropology and the Study of Emesal as (a) Women's Language - note that some of Whittaker’s other writing on Sumerian language is dubious at best (especially his quest for an “Indo-European substrate” in it; for overview of theories about substrates in Sumerian and explanation why they are faulty see On the Alleged "Pre-Sumerian Substratum" by G. Rubio); I am merely using this article as a point of reference for information about Enheduanna’s writing

F. A. M. Wiggermann, An Unrecognized Synonym of Sumerian Sukkal

F. A. M. Wiggermann, Nergal A. Philological (Reallexikon der Assyriologie entry)

F. A. M. Wiggermann, Nin-šubur (Reallexikon der Assyriologie entry)

F. A. M. Wiggermann, Sexuality A. In Mesopotamia (Reallexikon der Assyriologie entry) - do not take it at face value though, at least one of the sources is pretty much a nightmare, make sure to read a critical review by A. R. George

#mythology #mesopotamian mythology #sumerian mythology #lgbt history #women in history #inanna #ninshubur

107 notes · View notes

knivesareout · 3 years

Text

remain devious

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Smut (18!!!+ ONLY), slight sexism, oral sex (f receiving), mild breath play (under negotiated kink).

A/N: My fic for The SL+ Discord™ Fic Exchange! This goes out to the lovely @soyelfuegoquearde who I was graced with writing a fic for and here’s hoping I delivered. 💖

Read on AO3 here.

Summary: Javier Peña’s mouth was going to get him in trouble one day-- if only he’d put it to good use.

---

There weren’t many people who could go toe-to-toe with Javier Peña. You learned the first day on assignment in Bogotá that you could.

The embassy was a quick walk from the apartment complex they’d set you up in and while they had suggested you drive the standard issue bullet proof Jeep they’d provided, mostly for safety’s sake, it seemed like a waste.

A blonde man, who quickly introduces himself as Steve Murphy, was outside to greet you with a strong handshake and a grin. You almost anticipate him to be rude to you out of the sheer fact you were joining the fight late but he seems grateful, explaining to you the ins and outs of the different sectors in the large building that made up the Embassy: the DEA, the Mil Group, and the CIA-- all housed under one roof with a common goal: taking down Pablo Escobar.

“There’s another one, right? We have another partner?” You ask, turning a corner and almost running into a woman who looked beyond frazzled and you apologize quickly before catching up with Steve.

Steve turns over his shoulder to glance at you, a smirk curled on his lips. “Yeah. Peña’s usually late. You’ll meet him. At some point.”

Peña was two hours late.

You and Steve go through six briefs and four cups of coffee between the two of you in the small office shared among your team before your other partner decides to grace you with his presence. Your desk that was once clean was now a disaster with papers scattered and crumpled across the top and you now had a headache slowly creeping between your eyes.

“Well this just looks fucking sad,” a deep voice sounds from the doorway and you snap your head up to glare at the offending noise.

Steve lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “What’s fuckin’ sad is you showing up two hours late and not even bringing us lunch, Peña.”

So this was him.

“Shut the hell up, Murphy. Who is this?” Javi points to you and looks at Steve, waiting on an answer.

“I’m your new partner.” You stand up and fix him with an icy glare. “And you can ask me if you have any questions, Agent Peña.”

He doesn’t respond and walks back out of the room, mumbling something about coffee.

---

You realize quickly that you and Javier are more similar than you would personally like. Word around the office was that he was a bit of a slut and that was something you knew all too well. Your reputation back home was something comparable, the whispers more annoying than they were degrading. Who cared if you liked to have sex? You were a grown ass woman and it was nobody’s business but your own.

And if you hadn’t learned just from the regular old office gossip, you were quick to learn from having your apartment right next to his. The walls were thin, the calls of ‘Más duro, Javi,’ in the dead of night interrupting your sleep more times than you could count.

Javier would walk into the office refreshed, hours late, while you were there, on time, and in desperate need of caffeine.

It wasn’t worth mentioning; at least not at first. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction that you could hear his sexual escapades and how he was clearly a fantastic lover. There was a bit of jealousy, just on the surface, because it wasn’t you getting laid and you were sure if you asked him to keep quiet, he would be able to tell immediately that you were hard up.

And while yes, he was getting information from his CIs that was helping in the quest to catch Escobar, that didn’t make it any more bearable. In fact, it made him even more insufferable because he felt like he was doing an extension of his job by sleeping with these women.

It all came to a head three months into your stay in Colombia.

Three nights in a row, Javier had brought women, different women, if the tones of their voices were anything to go by, back to his place. You’d gone into work with dark circles under your eyes after the third night and Steve had long since stopped asking what was wrong after you went off on him a month prior.

After you’d snapped at him and took the time to explain why you were in such a foul mood, he had immediately understood and offered to talk to Javier for you. An idea that you quickly dismissed, as it was your problem and yours alone.

Your head was buried under your arms, the bright lights of the office only serving to make your headache worse. There were two empty cups of coffee stacked on your desk that you’d downed immediately after walking in, Steve having left them there as a peace offering of sorts. He could tell after the second day that you needed the extra help and you had shot him a grateful smile when you’d walked in this morning.

“So, I’ve got a lead,” Javier announces walking into the office only 30 minutes late this time.

“Thank fucking god,” you mumble, picking your head off the desk and swiping at your mouth in case there was any drool from dozing off.

Javier’s head whips towards you, his gaze a mixture of anger and curiosity; like he can’t believe you had the nerve to say anything.

The two of you, at best, tolerated each other. Snarky remarks, quick jabs, and blatantly ignoring the other was how the you two communicated and you knew Steve was getting sick of it. It was a surprise that he hadn’t yelled at either of you over the whole thing but you chalked it all up to his angel of a wife, Connie, helping him keep his temper in check.

“The hell is that supposed to mean, Agent?” Not even on a first name basis, it was how the two of you addressed each other.

You shrug, “Just been hearing a lot of information coming from your apartment every night for the last couple of days. It was about time you got something useful.”

Javi goes to speak but Steve cuts him off with a finger and shoots you a pleading stare that says ‘not another word, please’.

You only keep your mouth shut to appease Steve and sigh, tossing your empty cups into the trash and wait for Javier to spill the information he received.

Javier shoots you a nasty glare before going on to explain something about a brothel in Medellín and some of Escobar’s sicarios. There was a meet up of sorts happening tomorrow afternoon, where you were almost guaranteed to catch Velasco and maybe a few others. Javier distinctly chooses not to look at you when he’s explaining, his information relayed directly to Steve. For whatever reason, this is what seems to break the camel’s back and you stand, beyond irritated.

“Agent Peña, if you have an issue with me then I’m going to need you to be very clear about what it is and why. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve the freeze out you’ve been adamant about since I got here and frankly, it’s insulting,” you start, chest heaving as you try to keep a level head. “I’m on time every day, without fail. I work just as hard, if not harder, than you do in this wild goose chase and to be treated as anything less is sexist. We all went through the same training, the same courses, to be here. I don’t know what it is about me that bothers you so much but I’m going to need you to get the fuck over it and get with the program if we’re going to get anywhere.”

Your outburst seems to catch him off guard, if his open staring at you is anything to go by. Taking your seat again, you nod for him to continue and he does-- this time making sure you’re included.

Things get better after that and while it’s not quite the comradery you have with Steve, it’s better than it was before and you’ll take it.

Javier now treated you with mild respect and that’s all you had wanted to begin with.

---

The week had been long; tiring and full of false leads. You were sleep deprived and overworked. A chase mid-week that had put you all over Bogotá and left you empty handed was still wreaking havoc on your back a couple days later. Case files were taking over your desk and the thought of looking at even one more had you wanting to scream, the low lights of the office once again giving you a headache that no pain medication seemed to help with.

Javier and Steve were starting to pack up to head out while you sat there, eyes starting to blur as you look at your 5th file in the last hour.

“We’re headed to the bar near the apartment. You wanna come?”

Normally you turned down the invitations Steve extended you, knowing Javi’s nicer attitude probably only extended to working hours only, but you were so desperate to have an excuse to leave that you nod quickly, standing up and sliding on your coat.

“Let’s go. Murphy, you’re buying the first round,” you tell him as you pass by out of the office.

You can hear his laugh behind you as you walk through the empty building, hoping you didn’t just make a mistake.

---

They’re not far behind you but you’re already a drink in when they walk through the front door, Steve finding you tucked in a booth in the back corner already with an empty beer bottle on the table while you’re nursing your second.

“I started a tab in your name, Murphy,” you explain with a grin as a waitress comes by and takes their orders.

Steve grimaces but nods, taking it in stride. “Should’ve figured.”

Conversation is light and superficial and you can tell Steve is working to keep things peaceful and on neutral ground. Javi’s mostly one worded answers are almost worse than the snide remarks from before and you have to take measured breaths not to say anything, for your sake and honestly, Steve’s too.

“Can you let me out? I need to piss,” he asks you and you stand up to let him out, sliding back into the booth and taking Steve’s spot so he can just sit down when he comes back.

It’s silent between you and Javier for a moment, the loud noises of the tv and the bar crowd filling the space until he glances over at you with a curious gaze.

“Did you ever wonder?” He asks without context, sipping at his beer.

You’re taken aback by his question, tilting your head as you try to think of what he might possibly be talking about. “Wonder what?”

“All those nights where you could hear me through the walls. Did you ever wonder what I was doing?”

You almost want to laugh at his question. The fact that he’d been holding on to certain parts of your outburst for months has pride blooming in your chest.

“No, not really,” you tell him easily. “It was pretty easy to just make my own assumptions.

“And what did you assume?”

“That either they were faking it for your sake or you’re actually as good as they say around the Embassy.”

Javier smirks behind his beer and nods, licking his lips to chase the beer that dropped.

“Oh, I’m better than they say,” he promises.

“Prove it.”

You swallow thickly, wondering if you’ve just backed yourself into a corner when Steve comes back, launching into some tangent about Noonan and a new policy she’s putting through. His voice goes in one ear and out the other as you try to focus on anything other than the man to your left. You know Javier will make good on his promise when you feel his hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze and you breathe slowly, turning towards Steve with a smile.

“Yeah, agreed. She’s such a hard ass.”

---

You and Javi burst through your apartment door hours later and you silently thank whatever deity there is that Steve lives upstairs and is already home, your moans loud and carrying throughout the lobby before Javi can shut the door behind you.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the first day I saw you,” he admits, tugging at your shirt and undoing a few buttons in his haste to get you naked. His hands are everywhere once your top is pulled down your arms and you feel like you’re burning, the rough calluses on his fingertips creating a delicious drag across your skin.

It’s almost surprising to hear him say he’s thought about you in any context, let alone this one, but you mask your expression and cry out as his mouth finds your shoulder and bites down, sucking so hard you know you’ll be bruised come morning.

“And what did you think about?” You shoot back, arching your chest against his.

The yellow button down he’s wearing is your current nemesis as you fumble your way across the buttons and finally just yank it open at the neck, buttons scattering across the hardwood floors.

Javier grunts at the motion, moving his mouth down your chest, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and pinching it open until the material falls slack on your chest.

“Thought about how loud I can get you to scream my name,” he mumbles, leaning down to capture your left nipple between his lips while his fingers find the right and start pinching in tandem with the work of his mouth.

It’s been months since anyone has touched you other than yourself.

You’d made a promise to yourself before moving down to Colombia that your job was going to be your first and only priority. Work hadn’t leant itself well to finding randoms to sleep with anyhow, mostly keeping to yourself and the few friends you’d made around the Embassy that you’d grab lunch or coffee with in the very little spare time you did have-- so having Javier’s full attention on you, your body, was intoxicating.

“Is that a challenge?” You manage to get out, weaving a hand through his dark hair and tugging him away from your chest, angling his head to look up at you.

His eyes are blown wide, practically black and his hair is a mess but he’s never looked so fucking hot and you hate it.

Javi doesn’t answer your question, just moves up to slot his mouth against yours.

The kiss is angry. Teeth clashing, lip biting, angry. Even his hands feel angry as he tears off your clothes, leaving you naked before him.

Your chest is heaving as you try and catch your breath once Javier pulls away and you place a hand on his chest, making him take steps backward. “My room is back there,” you nod, pulling him in for another quick kiss and pushing him away.

Javier grabs you around the waist, pressing your naked chest to his own and noses against your ear as you both walk blindly towards your room. “I bet I can get you to scream my name so loud even Murphy’ll hear,” he tells you, dragging his nose up the side of your neck and latching his lips on the lobe of your ear.

His challenge makes you laugh and you roll your eyes before walking into your room and laying down on the mattress, crooking a finger towards him.

“Then fucking prove it.”

Javier’s on you in an instant, pushing your legs apart to settle between them. His mouth nips around your stomach, your thighs. Little love bites that you know will serve as a reminder of what a shit head he is, like he’s claiming his territory.

If they didn’t feel so good you’d push him away and tell him to get on with it but his mouth is so warm that you don’t care. Suddenly, you really don’t care that Javier Peña is the biggest fucking pain in your ass so long as he puts his mouth to good use.

His head moves lower and you can feel his hot breath on your pussy, his fingers sliding between the lips and exposing your heat to the cool air. Once his mouth makes contact with your clit, his name slips from your mouth quietly, “Javier.”

“Louder,” he tells you from between your legs while he drags a finger through your slick.

“Don’t get cocky, you-,” you start to warn him, going to kick him in his side until he slides two thick, longer fingers inside of you without warning and your leg goes straight, your head pushing back into the plush pillow behind you and you cry out his name at the feeling of being stretched.

Nothing is comparable to this feeling, no matter how hard you’ve tried and at that moment, you’d sing Javier’s name if he asked you to so long as he didn’t stop.

“More, please,” you whimper. Your eyes are screwed tight and you clutch the pillow behind you in a death grip.

“What was that?” Javi’s tone is smug and you take a breath, willing yourself to just submit to him.

“Please, Javi. More,” you tell him louder this time, voice strained.

He seems to like the sound of that, a third finger sliding home inside of you and you clench around his digits as he starts a steady pace, thrusting them slow and powerful.

The sounds that fill the air are pure filth. The wetness seeping out of you is coating the inside of your thighs and you’re sure you’re dripping onto the blankets beneath you. Javi’s tongue laps at your clit, bringing it into his mouth and sucking harshly.

That feeling is what brings you over the edge. Your body ascends and crashes in the same second and you take a shuddering breath as your cunt pulses long and hard around Javier’s fingers as you cum. Your whole body is buzzing like a live wire, your toes numb.

“What the fuck,” you groan, chest heaving.

“Never doubt me, Agent,” his tone smug.

“Shut the fuck up, Peña.” You push at his head and he laughs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Javier’s lips trail up your thigh, across your hip and up to your chest where he finally lands on your lips. The kiss is the sweetest it’s been all night and you relish in the languidness of it, the way his tongue sweeps across yours and licks into your mouth like he knows what you want. What you crave.

His cock, hard and rigid, bumps against your hip as he moves and seeks friction, so you slide a hand down his chest to grasp the thickness of him. “Fuck me, Javi,” you whisper as he peppers kisses across your throat and groans when you squeeze him tight. “Prove to me that you’re just as good of a lay as everyone says.”

Your words seem to kick him into gear and he shuffles back away from your touch, leaning back on his legs while he sits between your thighs and takes his cock in hand. His other opens the lips of your pussy and he moves forward just enough to tap the head of his dick against your clit.

“Just fuck me Javi for fucks sake,” you whimper, still sensitive from your previous orgasm and you just want him inside. The teasing was unnecessary but wholly Javier and you curse again when he slowly starts to slide the head of his cock down until it notches against your entrance.

Javier moves slow once he’s fully sheathed inside of you and it’s the best and worst thing to happen to you, you’re sure. The feeling of finally being filled is worth the wait but the way he does it is infuriating because he knows just how good it feels. Javier slides a hand to your shoulder and fixes his dark gaze with your own and it’s over from there.

His pace is like nothing you’ve endured before. The push and pull of Javier’s hips hitting into yours is loud in the otherwise quiet room, the wetness between your thighs now coating his own. He’s sweating as he moves, grunts spilling from his lips, “Fuck your pussy feels so good around me.”

Normally you’d snark out a response but words are hard to form with the way he’s working you over. His cock fits you like a glove, hitting all of the right spots and playing your body like a well tuned instrument. It’s just missing something.

Your hand that was clutching the comforter beside you reaches out to grasp his forearm that’s on your shoulder and you slowly move his hand until it’s cupping your throat. Javier’s pace falters at your movement and he just stares you down, a curious look pointed at you.

You’d overheard at work it was something Javi was into, some water cooler chat you’d walked into only a few weeks prior. One of the CIA girls had been retelling her hook-up story with Javi from months ago to a new hire and they were all eating it up. While you had only passed them by, not managing to hear more details, you still decided to file that information away for later-- a bit surprised that you had something else in common with him after all.

“Two taps if it’s too much,” you tell him, tapping on his arm so he understands and he nods.

Javier’s hand slightly grips your neck, his thumb pressing in on the side and the pressure is delicious and you clench hard around his cock at the feeling.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groans out, his hips slowly starting to move again until he finds a rhythm.

His hand doesn’t do much more than lightly press against you but it’s enough. It feels safe, warm around your neck and you know Javier would never hurt you, the unexplained trust of having him as your partner translating now to the bedroom.

You both work in tandem, his hips pushing in and you chasing his as he pulls out only to slide back in. It’s probably the best you two have ever worked together and it’s irony at its finest.

Javier tilts your head back, baring the full length of your throat to him, his thumb tracing along your jaw and you cry out once he hits that spot inside of you that makes your limbs go numb in pleasure. He drags your bottom lip down and you suck his thumb between your lips, lightly scraping your teeth around the digit. He abandons your neck then, using his now wet thumb to press against your clit and that feeling coupled with his thrusts sends you over the precipere, your body baring down and clenching tightly around his cock as you cum.

Your whole body is shuddering, your mouth open as you try and find your breath as Javier continues to pound into you in search of his own release. He finds it just a minute after your own, his mouth dropping to your neck as he groans, hips stuttering as he pulses his release inside of you.

Careful not to just collapse on top of you, Javier rolls to the side and lets out a long breath before turning to you, eyes searching.

“If you’re looking for some sort of regret, you’re not gonna find it Peña,” you tell him, reaching over into your nightstand to find your emergency pack of cigarettes. You offer him the pack but he waves you off, swinging his legs off the side of the bed to stand up while you light up.

You watch as Javier moves around your room, slowly dressing himself. Jeans zipped back up and he’s left shirtless, his top somewhere in your living room missing half of its buttons.

“You want a shirt?”

He nods, “Yeah, that’d be good. Forgot you fucking ruined mine.”

Laughing, you stand and move around Javier to reach into your dresser and pull out a plain white shirt that you normally saved for laundry days. You toss it over to him and lean against your dresser, pulling a drag from the cigarette while you watch him tug it on. The shirt is a little too tight around the chest but it looks good on him and you’re almost sad to see him go. Almost.

“So I’ll see you in the office on Monday?” You ask, putting your half smoked cigarette out on the windowsill and leave it there, making your way out into the kitchen. Javier follows and tugs his boots on, shoving his socks into the pockets of his jeans and he nods.

You’re almost glad that Javier is the first person you’ve slept with while you’re here. He’s not expecting anything more than you are and despite the fact that you two work together, you don’t see any issues coming forward about your night together unless he wants to do it again. The prospect is nice and you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping as you watch him turn to leave.

“Yeah, Monday.” He gives you a salute and a wink. “I’ll see ya, Agent.”

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ladyamoit · 2 years

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The Balcony (Julian and MC)

Just thought I would share the short story I did featuring my oc Alexis and Julian comforting her. Context: Alexis has been living in Vesuvia for a year now, away from her home city and is feeling rather homesick. Lucio, in an effort to celebrate his lover's birthday, has thrown her a big ball, but it's not quite to her taste. Julian finds her out on the balcony and comforts her. You can find info on Alexis in my previous post on her character sheet :) Enjoy! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The boisterous chatter, combined with the bursts of laughter of guests enjoying their time and the loud thrumming of the music that flooded the main ballroom was simply too much for a quiet and reserved woman to handle. Alexis retreated to the balcony, excusing herself from the few who would even bother to notice her absence, if only for a split second. She knew she wouldn’t be missed, despite this being a party thrown for her birthday. She barely knew a soul inside there, among the throngs of ornately decorated and gussied up guests, which meant she had little interest in making her rounds and putting on a pretty smile for temporary people.

A simple request of the guards manning the doors to the veranda and they were shut quickly and quietly behind her after she had entered, at least dimming the sounds coming from inside. The night air hit her face, warm in the summer air but not so hot that it was anything but peaceful and welcoming. The edge of the pier invited her, its stoned railing waiting for her to rest her arms on it and gaze up at the twinkling night sky of Vesuvia. This party was never something she had asked for or wanted. In hindsight, she scolded herself for not having explicitly told Lucio to refrain from throwing such an event, but she knew he meant well. He enjoyed parties, and thought that for her birthday she should be celebrated in the way he always celebrated his own, but he had forgotten to take into account that they were different people, with different tastes. Something she was frequently struggling with as of late. Whatever she needed, wanted, was overlooked. The man couldn’t look beyond himself or what he would enjoy, and assumed that everyone around him must like what he liked.

She sighed, dropping her head down from the stars as she closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of a few deep breaths slowly entering and exiting her lungs. It was strained to be able to take them in, thanks to the tight corset lacing of her gown, something she knew she would never be used to. Sure, in Vesuvia they weren’t customary, but in Renacei all the women were expected to wear them for formal events, and regardless of the Count, she was still an Ambassador, representing her culture and her city. How long had it actually been since she had been to Renacei? A year? A little longer than that? She had gone back once or twice after meeting Lucio that first fateful night, but had quickly returned a month or so later to continue her diplomatic efforts with the city when she had spread word that the city of Renacei had been building up a good reputation on her behalf. She continued to write back to home, to the royals she served, to her father and mother, but hadn’t gone back since. It was largely in part to having met Lucio, of all people. He had offered her a permanent place at the palace, and as enamored as she had been with him, she had agreed.

That hadn’t made the homesickness go away, though. No, and especially not as of late, where she found herself growing more and more strained with the Count. Sure, they had always had their ups and downs, even since the beginning, but the longer they continued the more weary she found herself becoming of his antics. Maybe she would be able to take a trip home for a month or two. Surely they would welcome her back with open arms, right? Could her place there have faded long ago?

Her heart grew heavy the more and more she thought about it. She wanted to go back, but what if there was no one there waiting for her still? What if they had all moved on from her? Her life was very much now here, in Vesuvia, which she still found herself trying to get used to time and time again. She wasn’t certain that she’d be able to handle it if she went back and found there was no place for her. Perhaps it was better to not know, and not go, than try at all.

For a brief moment she heard the sounds coming from inside amplify, the doors clicking open before they were quickly closed once more. Alexis turned immediately at the sound, dread filling up inside her, knowing she would have to put on a good face--she couldn’t get even a moment alone to recuperate. Her red lips parted, ready to smile and greet whatever guest had come out to see her, before she halted, words caught in her throat as her brows twisted in confusion and then settled into relief. “Enjoying the party?” Julian asked, coming over beside her, a few feet down from where she was at the railing, he himself leaning down and gazing out at the stars. Alexis had seen him only once or twice throughout the night, but he had definitely seemed to be enjoying himself, weaving between guests, engaging in games, chatter, and all the activities the party had offered its attendees. As if someone had to even doubt how at ease he felt in a place like this, his necktie was undone, and his shirt unbuttoned.

Alexis turned back towards the city of Vesuvia, facing the same way Julian was, but she kept her gentle gaze on him. She knew she didn’t have to keep up a front with him. Although she wouldn’t describe themselves as anything more than acquaintances, he had always been friendly and kind with her, and never had high expectations for how she was to behave.

Truth be told, she wasn’t quite sure why he had come out here. He must have known that Alexis had little to no liking for him and his dramatic tendencies, and they were by no means very close. Simply another person working beside her in the palace.

“It’s a lovely party,” she answered, dodging the question as the evening breeze blew through her hair, singing its flyaways past her bare shoulders and ruffling the feathers on Julian’s collar. “Not much your speed, I’d assume. I’ll be honest I expected one to be thrown knowing Lucio, but I also expected you’d probably be weary right about now from it all. Remembered how you prefer small private gatherings over large events and whatnot,” he chatted calmly, answering for her when she failed to do so directly for herself. “You seem to be enjoying yourself,” She replied quietly, not wanting to disturb the peace of the nighttime air. The quiet was all she wanted. “Did Kaliana come with you tonight?”

Julian turned around, shaking his head as he leaned backwards on the railing, which took a few inches off his height, resting on his elbows. “No, I’m afraid not. Still out of town, traveling and such. Still, I’m having a dandy time with what you’ve got going on here. Lucio is good at one thing and that's throwing a good party,” he acknowledged, staring back through the glass doors towards the people laughing and dancing, with Lucio at the center of it all.

Alexis followed his gaze, and her heart grew ever heavier. How funny that on her birthday the one man who was supposed to matter most to her didn’t seem to even notice her absence, and instead was enthralling himself with the adoring people that surrounded him.

For a moment she forgot to reply to Julian, a somber expression of longing and hurt resting sorrowfully on her perfect features. She wasn’t doing a very good job at pretending to be enjoying herself, but like before, that wasn’t her top priority with someone like Julian.

He noticed her expression of course, and he spoke softly, tenderly. “You know he means well when it comes to you. He thought you would enjoy this as much as he always does,” he tried to comfort softly, gentle stormy gaze focused on her from a few feet away. His words shook Alexis out of her trance, and she stiffened, pulling her shoulders back and trying to reclaim control of her emotions as she looked away from the scene of it all, back out towards the city. “I’m aware,” she said with a bit more volume, trying to command control of herself again, but she wavered. It didn’t mean much to her when he couldn’t see her for how she was and her own needs. It made her feel like he hardly knew her, or that he didn’t truly care. How could he? He had never been capable of it before, from what she had learned from tales of him from the others. There was no reason that would change now.

Julian cleared his throat, once again turning to match her, trying to be gentle and not step outside of his bounds. She wasn’t fond of him, nor did she view them as close, but he did care about her and quite like her, which prompted him to want to make sure she was okay. “What’s troubling you, my dear?” he asked gently, watching her cautiously, ready for her to get irritated with him or send him away yet again. “A lovely soul like you doesn’t deserve to have to keep everything to yourself all the time.”

Something about his words, the gentleness in his tone, his consideration of how she was feeling and trying to look out for her hit her chest hard, and she bit her lip, casting her gaze down as she felt tears begin to well in her eyes. They wouldn’t spill, but they were summoned by his kindness, something she had been aching for from Lucio for so long. A gesture of him hearing her and knowing her, above all else--not materials, not riches, not temporary parties and mindless and fake love from people she would never see again.

“He’s…” she wavered, not sure why she would be opening up to Julian now, of all times. She didn’t even want to speak badly of Lucio in any way, since she did truly love him and care about him, and he already had such a terrible reputation. All she ever wanted was to try and help him build up his reputation with people again, and complaining or insinuating he was not enough surely wouldn’t help her achieve that.

“I won’t tell a soul a thing you say, if you’d like this to stay between us,” He offered softly, knowing her hesitations. “I’m ready to listen and take whatever you share to my grave, you have my word.”

She blinked back the tears as he said that, comforted by them without having needed to ask for them. He was nothing if not considerate, or caring. He was definitely much more socially aware than Lucio, at times, which was something she had neglected. A pang of guilt hit in her stomach for having been so curt with this man before, when even after all that he still seemed to worry about her.

“He’s very hard to love sometimes,” she confided, just barely above a whisper with a shuddering breath. She bit her lip again as soon as she said it, more guilt bubbling in her chest for having admitted something like that about Lucio out loud. It was as though she were trying to keep a lid on it all from spilling out, where if she didn’t bite down it might all come out at once. She was never very good at confiding to begin with, but it did tend to build up, as it would with anyone.

Julian let out a soft huff of laughter, as though that weren’t a surprise. “I don’t doubt that for a second,” he agreed. “He’s hard to love for anybody, in fact, most people despise him, although that’s not new news to you, I’m sure,” he said with a hint of sorrowful humour. “You’ve picked quite the challenge of a man, I’ll give you that. I certainly don’t know how you do it,” he tsked, shaking his head as he looked back out towards the stars.

Alexis looked back towards him, surprise in her emerald eyes. She hadn’t expected such a grave issue of heart to be agreed with and met with no surprise from Julian. But then again, he was right. Was this really new to her? Was this something not to be expected from the very start?

“I don’t know either,” she admitted softly, pulling her gaze back down to her limber hands resting on the balcony rim. “Falling for him, all those months ago, well….I just…” she sighed, unsure how to finish her statement, shaking her head softly as she pursed her lips. “I fell in spite of myself. He never would have been the man I thought I would love. I was furious with myself for having caught feelings for him to begin with.”

“Completely understandable,” Julian affirmed, nodding as he took in her words. “But I do understand that the heart wants what it wants. I do think you’ve been good for him. I see more and more of a man capable of love coming around the longer you are with him. For him to go so far as to do something for another person to begin with is a vastly different change than the Lucio I knew for years,” he tried to comfort, while still keeping his distance and watching his words. He wasn’t sure what would be okay to say with her and what wouldn’t. They really hadn’t spent that much time together to begin with.

“You think so?” she asked in a whisper, fiddling with her fingernails to busy her hands, lips still pursed together as though to try and keep from wavering.

“Most certainly. And as much of a pain as he is now, I would bet on it that he will become less of one with more time, the more he learns how to look out for you and be around you. Unfortunately, he does have that learning curve to get past. I don’t think I’ve ever met him love someone besides himself. Not the way he seems to care about you.”

“I would hope so,” she agreed softly. “It just...it gets…” she trailed off, trying to find the words, to gauge whether or not she felt safe opening up even more to Julian, but there was coming relief in getting someone who would listen to her problems, unlike Lucio. She had tried with him a few times, but it had never ended well.

“It gets lonely, sometimes. More often than not, if I’m not lying. It’s difficult sometimes to have him be really the only source of company I have here,” she confided softly. Julian sighed, familiar with the sentiment. “Ah, yes, homesickness, I could feel it from a mile away,” he said, albeit a bit dramatically as he stood upright and ran his fingers through his red curls, pushing them out of his face. “I’m more than familiar with an ache like that, I’ve felt it all my life for the many places I’ve been to. Unfortunately there’s not often a cure for it unless it's to revisit the place that you are longing for or to come to love the place that you are in wholeheartedly.”

A twinge of distaste shuddered in her lips, reminding her of why she didn’t frequent time with Julian often. She didn’t have the taste for his theatrics. “Perhaps,” was all she said in return, a bit coldly, which was what he received from her most of the time. Her hardened gaze looked back out towards the city, staring at it in focus.

He winced, knowing he had just closed off whatever bond he was starting to salvage earlier, and calmed down, leaning back down and speaking more softly again. He had to remember himself when with Alexis. “Have you considered taking a trip back home for a while? I’m sure Lucio would bend over backwards to make it happen for you if that was what you wanted,” he said, back into a soft and gentle tone, hoping that he hadn’t shut her off from him completely by his mistake.

She glanced back at him out of the corner of her eye, her expression stern, debating. He clearly seemed to have gathered what had shut her off just now, and was trying to remedy it. And besides, she was a bit desperate for any semblance of a connection. Stiffly, she decided to answer. “I have. But I don’t much know that I have a place waiting for me back home, nor that Lucio would let me travel without him. And he’s not quite someone I would want meeting my family, at least, not yet.”

Julian nodded, agreeing. “It would likely make your ambassador efforts that much harder,” he concurred. “You wouldn’t want him souring all the hard work you’ve done. Probably for the best that he wouldn’t tag along, if you did go.”

Alexis fell into silence for a moment, just thinking over what was sitting in her heart still, and what she might want to say, or not say. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had someone near enough to her that she could confide in them, or feel heard and listened to. If she didn’t stop dwelling on it right now, she would definitely lose her composure, and she wouldn’t have that. She straightened once again, releasing a shuddering breath and standing up tall before she cleared her throat. “Have you heard anything from Kaliana, then? I thought she was due to return two weeks ago.”

This time it was Julian’s turn to look somber, looking longingly out towards the ocean past the Vesuvian city. “Alas, only a letter a few days ago. I was glad to hear that something hadn’t happened to her, a day more and I was ready to go out searching for her, but she said she just doesn’t feel ready to return home yet,” he said sorrowfully, eyebrows twisting up in pining. “Truth be told, I wonder if she’s avoiding me here. Her trip was supposed to only be a month long, and here we are three months later. She’s writing less and less, too. I wonder if she’s ever going to come back at all.”

He looked utterly dejected, staring towards the port where she had left a few months ago to go travel. Alexis wasn’t close with either of them, but it pained her to see that Julian was not the only one feeling lonesome here in Vesuvia. She wanted to say something to console him, but she wasn’t sure what. Not that it was necessary, no--Julian was good at filling the silence so that Alexis didn’t have to. He didn’t mind opening up to her (or anyone for that matter), so he spoke freely.

“I was more than willing to go with her, you know. She told me she wanted to take a trip, go travel a bit, and I was delighted, asking her what kind of weather I should pack for. I hadn’t even realized she had wanted to go alone until she had to say it outright. I got used to her being by my side, I just...I imagined it would always be that way. I hadn’t sensed anything wrong, she seemed as enamored with me as I was with her, could barely spend a day apart from each other, you know--”

“I remember.” “And then with less than a week’s notice she was gone. I keep, ugh,” he sighed, shaking his head, looking absolutely puzzled and frustratingly confused. “I keep replaying that week, and the week leading up to it, trying to figure out if I had done anything to make her suddenly want to leave, to get away from me, but I can’t think of a thing that I hadn’t done before already. I’ve asked her a few times in my letters why she left, but she never touches on it, she just reassures me she’ll be back soon.”

The breeze was calming, which in turn meant it was clarifying for Alexis as she listened to his predicament. He was right, she had seen first hand how those two could hardly stand a day--no, not even a day--an hour away from each other, and how they had always gazed at each other, hopelessly in love. She remembered finding their public display fairly distasteful and unrefined, but also frequently feeling jealous that she didn’t have that sort of hopeless infatuation for Lucio still. There was not a doubt in her mind that Kaliana loved Julian in return, which was why she could easily understand why he was confused by the mixed signals.

“...She traveled a lot before she settled down in Vesuvia, didn’t she?” She asked gently, trying to understand and make sense of the situation for him.

“Oh, for years, hopping from one place to the next. She always had the most amazing stories about where she’d gone, I’d never grow tired listening to her talk about her journeys, and she never seemed to tire of listening to mine. We have the same restless soul, it was like we were a match made in heaven,” he sighed wistfully. “I miss her more and more everyday. There was never a dull moment with her, not a one. I just wish I know what I had done wrong...I have a knack for ruining things one way or another, so I shouldn’t be all that surprised, truth be told.”

Alexis pondered in silence for a moment at his words. She really didn’t know the pair all that well, so who was she to give her two cents, but if it could offer him at least a semblance of clarity or hope, maybe he would appreciate it. She tried to think through them carefully, picking and choosing them delicately in her head before she spoke slowly. “She might be afraid of how much she loves you,” she said, just above a whisper. She knew the feeling. “I don’t think she’s the type of girl who has ever had anything very permanent in her life. And it doesn’t seem like she ever wanted anything that long lasting, either. So to want you so intensely, so....steadfastly...she might just be intimidated by it all.”

Julian glanced back towards Alexis, reading her expression as her words sunk in. A spark of hope lit up in his aching chest. “Do you really think that could be it? Why--why would she ever be afraid of something as wonderful as love?”

A small smile came to Alexis’s lips, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him, instead glancing his way with a bit of a humored glint. “You said you are both very much the same, aren’t you? She probably feels just how you do; afraid that she always does something to ruin things one way or another, which she doesn’t want to do because she clearly cares about you. She’s probably afraid of the pain she would feel when she thinks she inevitably ruins everything, and is just running to avoid that happening. It's easier to sabotage something you care about than accidentally destroy it, sometimes. At least, that’s what I think. I really don’t know her or you all that well, so I could most definitely be completely incorrect.”

Naturally, it was hard for Julian to feel anything without being absolutely flooded by it. Hope swelled within him, feeling like he finally had clarity on the situation that had been bringing him so much pain. Her words made sense to him, and if they were still true it meant perhaps her leaving hadn’t been his fault, and that she did truly still love him! Which meant there was hope she would return for him, and he would reassure her as much as he could, trying to convince her that no matter what he loved her to the ends of the earth, so that she would never be in such a state of fear that she would flee from him again. He was already getting lost in his emotions, and his pining for her, which had become a dull ache the past few weeks, became a throbbing pulse in his chest.

Despite feeling all this, he simply let out a huff of breathless laughter, almost in shock. Slowly, he began to shake his head, smiling with hope on his face. “I can only hope that you’re right. I better not ask her about your suspicions outright, though, in my letter...it might be best to give her time, don’t you think? Just reassure her of how much I love her, how much I can’t wait until she gets back, I think…”

Alexis smiled, in a bit of pain at his display. It melted her heart, and caused such a sense of longing in her. She wished Lucio was as aware of her absence as Julian was of Kaliana’s. No, it just brought her back to her earlier pains. Lucio was inside, on her birthday without her, having the time of his life with no consideration as to where she might have gone. All she could muster was a forced close-lipped smile, nodding. “I think that sounds best. At least for now.”

Brought down from his high of hope, Julian sensed her aching sadness and smiled softly in return, sympathetic. He stepped closer to her, reaching out for her small hands in his large ones, holding them gently as he met her gaze. “Thank you for giving me your insight tonight, my dear. You have a better way with words than Asra, at least,” he said through a delighted grin, chuckling and shaking his head before he hummed, grasping her hands a bit tighter and looking back down at her. “I know that I may not always be your cup of tea, but if I can ever make you feel not as alone here in Vesuvia know I am always willing to keep you company and be a listening ear. I’m a man of my word and I promise I won’t tell a soul about what you tell me in confidence,” he reassured kindly. His words softened her already hurting heart, and for a moment she truly didn’t feel so alone as she stared at him, his gentle eyes connected on hers for a moment. It was a moment of companionship and comfort she had been craving for months now, and a spark lit in her chest as she instinctively held her breath, lost in the moment. A slight blush came to her pale cheeks under the evening moon, glowing. The flicker in her chest and the sudden heat she felt in her face scared her, and the sudden pining that hit betrayed her. She blinked rapidly, looking away and clearing her throat, a bit flustered. “I appreciate that, Julian, thank you,” she forced out quickly, trying to put her walls back up, to compose herself once more. “I do hope everything works out for you and Kaliana, and that she returns home safely to you soon.”

Julian released her hands as she pulled away, an easy smile crossing his face. “Of course, my dear, anytime. Now, I don’t believe the birthday girl should be sitting out here all alone with no one to dance with, and it sounds like they’ve started on one of my favorite songs. Would you care to join me?” he asked happily, offering her his elbow with a grin. “I can think of nothing better than getting to dance with the beautiful woman of the hour.”

Finally a laugh bubbled up from inside Alexis, a rare sound but melodic and endearing to anyone who was lucky enough to get to hear it. It was only there for just a split second, one moment there, and the next gone, but it made Julian grin wider to know he had finally gotten one out of her, after months of being unable to make her so much as give him a genuine smile his way. She nodded, tucking her hair back behind her ears before taking his arm, resting her hands on the crook of his elbow. “As long as you promise not to draw too much attention to us.” “My dear, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

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shifuaang · 2 years

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15 for the fic ask meme

Thank you for the ask! Are you ready for a LIST?!

15 - something you learned this year - I did a lot of research for my fics this year, and I am honestly so excited to share some of the cultural references I pulled from and what I learned.

Dolma (what I named Aang's mother) means "mother of liberation" or "goddess of liberation" from Tibetan སྒྲོལ (sgrol) meaning "liberate, free, release" and མ (ma) meaning "mother, goddess" (metaphorically referring to enlightenment).

Amma is the Tibetan word for mother and is used in various other languages and cultures to describe either a mother or mother goddess.

Seven is the number of ascent in Buddhism, and Poy Sang Long, a rite of passage among the Shan people of Southeast Asia, occurs between the ages of seven and fourteen. I decided then that seven was the age that air nomad children were matched with their flying bison companions.

Aang's tattooing ceremony in Amma was largely inspired by Yantra tattoos or Sak Yant tattoos, which are traditionally engraved into the skin with a bamboo 'needle' or metal rod sharpened to a point. Yantra tattoos are believed to bestow mystical powers, protection, or good luck. In Southeast Asian culture, the head is considered the most sacred and holiest part of the body.

Hanshi, the title that I gave Suki in Baobao, is a ranking in Japanese martial arts. Hanshi translates literally as “exemplary teacher.” Many English speaking martial artists will use the term “professor” interchangeably with hanshi.

Camellia oil or Tsubaki oil in Japan has been known for thousands of years as a cooking oil. But in Oshima Island of Japan, the women who harvest the oil were known to have very long beautiful hair and radiant skin–and it was found out that it was because they used the oil harvested from the nuts on their hair and skin. Suki mentions Ty Lee smelling of camellia in Baobao.

An extensive chunk of my research was done on Mongolian weddings, food, and music for Sokka and Qacha's wedding in Baobao. I could honestly sit here and talk about all of the interesting things that I read all day, but here are some of the highlights: Shimiin arkhi or milk vodka is the Mongolian traditional alcoholic beverage. It’s distilled with fermented tarag (cow milk yogurt). At Mongolian weddings, there is feasting, dancing, music and the singing of traditional songs. White food, baked goods and roasted mutton are served and large amounts of airag (fermented mare's milk) are gulped down. The morin khuur (horse-head violin, in my fic I changed it to horseyak-head) is a typical Mongolian two-stringed instrument. The body and the neck are carved from wood. The end of the neck has the form of a horse-head and the sound is similar to that of a violin or a cello. The strings are made of dried deer or mountain sheep sinews. It is played with a bow made of willow, stringed with horsetail hair and coated with larch or cedar wood resin. I recommend this video which also inspired many details and visuals of the wedding scene.

Also in Baobao, the Kyoshi Warriors use a jinkai horn to signal each other, particularly during monsoon season when it is difficult to see through the rain. In war, a shell, called jinkai, or "war shell", was one of several signal devices used by Japanese feudal warriors known as samurai. A large conch would be used and fitted with a bronze (or wooden) mouthpiece. It would be held in an openwork basket and blown with a different combination of notes to signal troops to attack, withdraw, or change strategies.

Baobao itself is a Chinese term of endearment meaning ‘baby’, commonly used between two lovers.

Ty Lee and Suki kiss under a maple tree at the end of Baobao. Japanese maple trees represent balance and practicality and are called "kito" in the Japanese language, which means "calm," "rest" or "at peace."

#ask meme #fanfic

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i-like-it-when-ju-sleeps · 3 years

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I am the Apocalypse (Part 3)

Pairing: Jay Halstead x Sarah (OC)

Summary: Takes place during Chicago Fire 3x18. Sarah is a doctor at Med and in a long term relationshp with Jay. She is at Med when the grenade goes off.

Part 1

Part 2

The next hour was spent trying to help as many people as they could but at this point, they had seen everybody who needed to be seen and people were just really playing the waiting game. Sarah looked at the woman who was in the room with Hermann and came in, deciding to check on them.

“What you got?” She asked the two and Hermann answered instead of the woman.

“We need to patch in your boyfriend” he stated grimly, and the young woman nodded, getting her phone out.

“He was working with Marburg.” Sarah told the blonde woman as she listened to Jay’s information. “He injected himself with it.”

“What's Marburg?” Hermann asked.

“It's a viral hemorrhagic fever. The Soviets developed it as a biological weapon. Ask them which strain of the Marburg virus.”

“Yeah, which strain?” Sarah transmitted over the phone and listened intently before answering the woman. “Raven.”

“Okay. All right. Okay, so now I just have to see if he was past the incubation period and actually infectious.” She stated clearly and the doctor and the firefighter looked at her expectantly.

“And if he was past the incubation period?” Hermann asked worriedly.

“It means Aleem was a walking biological weapon.” Diane announced and the three of them shared a look before glancing at all of the people outside.

“Alright,” Sarah sighed “Keep me posted, okay?” she asked the other woman before returning outside the room. The ER was still dark and filled with smoke, people anxiously waiting against the walls. Right now, there was nothing left to do but wait, as everyone who could be treated had already been taken care of. Sarah sighed and sat down, a feeling of tiredness taking ahold of her now that she knew she couldn’t do anything more to help. She leaned against the wall and let her head fall backwards, a feeling of dizziness taking over and her head pounding. She lifted her hand to her forehead, where blood was coming out when the explosion happened. There was still fresh blood on the wound but it was not bleeding too much; She refused to believe that it was something serious. Still, she felt a bit nauseous but blamed it on the lack a clean air rather than a mild head injury. Will, noticing that she looked a bit pale, crouched in front of her and she perked up, looking at his concerned features.

“You okay?” he asked motioning to her forehead.

“Yeah….” She sighed “I’m fine. Just hit my head during the explosion.” She shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“And you still ran around for the past couple of hours? Not checking if it was serious?” Will frowned. She felt like a child being scolded.

“You know I’m a doctor, right?” she chuckled quietly. “If it really was serious, I would have noticed. I just felt dizzy because I’ve been on my feet for hours that’s all”

The man in front of her rolled his eyes and got a small light out of his pocket, checking her eyes.

“You could have a concussion, seriously you…”

“Seriously I’m fine stop fussing over me” Sarah cut him off, a little annoyed. She hated when people treated her as if she were made out of glass, and she did not want to have someone taking care of her when so many were in worse shape that she was. Still, she let Will grab bandages and securing one on her forehead, where the wound was finally stopping to bleed.

The young brunette stood up with a sigh once he was done, aware that he was still looking at her carefully, when movement got their attention. Hermann had just gotten out of the room with Diane Claman and wore a solemn expression.

“What is it?” Matt Casey asked worriedly from behind the two doctors.

“Not contagious” Hermann told everyone, a grin breaking onto his face. Sarah’s eyes widened slightly, and she let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding.

“Influenza A tested positive, but the Marburg virus didn't have time to incubate. Whatever he had in his body died with him.” Diane then said, her helmet off. The crowd cheered, people letting cries of joy and relief. Sarah turned to Will and the two shared a bone-breaking hug, laughing as a way to let out the stress.

“Open up the ER” Will called out and Otis who was close happily complied. Over his radio, Matt informed the chief that it was all clear and cheers could be heard outside. Sarah looked over at Gabby who was still siting with the older man, Jim. She approached them and gave Gabby a side hug before looking at Jim.

“Ready to pull that thing out and get out of here?” She asked with smile and the man nodded gratefully. The two women helped him sit on a wheelchair and watched as a nurse started guiding him towards another part of the hospital. Before he left, he latched onto Gabby’s arm, thanking her for everything. Gabby blushed slightly and brushed it off quickly, watching him leave.

“You know” Sarah said watching her with a smile. “I still remember when you wanted to become a doctor”

“I sure have gone a long way, haven’t I?” Gabby answered with the same small smile.

“Yeah you have.” Sarah chuckled and gave her another hug.

“You know we still all miss you at the firehouse… You sure you don’t want to come back?” she joked

“As much as I miss all of you, I guess I was always meant to be there.” Sarah sighed looking over her shoulder at the doctors and nurses of Chicago Med who were walking around helping people out. Gabby was about to say something else when a very worried Jay made his way towards his girlfriend. He took a few long steps and engulfed the girl into his arms. Gabby left quietly, not wanting to disturb the two as Sarah’s arms went around her lover’s torso, burying her face into his neck. As they broke the hug, Jay’s hand went to her face, his eyes widening slightly at the blood on her forehead.

“It’s nothing” she reassured him with a soft smile. “I’m fine I promise”. Jay let out a deep sigh looking her in the eyes to make sure she was telling the truth before nodding and taking her into his arms again. As they broke their second hug, Will put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and Jay turned to him, giving him also a tight hug.

It took them a long time to actually transport everyone to different wings of the hospital. Every member of the staff that had been in the explosion had been dismissed, but none of them had actually left, helping around as much as they could. Once the day was over, and every patient had been looked after, Sarah tiredly walked into the resting room, only to find Hannah Tramble, sitting down on the ground, tears in her eyes, and Will’s hand placed on her knee in an attempt to comfort her. Sarah gave the two a week smile, sitting cross legged across from them.

“One hell of a first day huh?” she asked Will, although her tone made it clear that she wasn’t expecting an answer. It was a dark question to end a dark day.

Sarah had finally been able to go home and shower, to wash away the grime, dust and blood from the day. As she wiped the fog on her mirror, she took a look at her reflection. She looked pale, her skin contrasting with her dark brown hair, but also with the purple under her eyes. And on the top of her forehead, hidden among her hairline, there was a purple bruise, on which stood a red angry line. The young woman sighed before concealing her eye bags, applying a bit of makeup and going to her bedroom.

Jay sat on the edge of the bed, simply waiting for her to come out. He hadn’t really been able to talk to her since this morning, as both of them had been busy. He looked up as she entered the room, noticing the tired eyes of his girlfriend.

“We don’t have to go out, you know?” he said quietly “We could stay here and rest if you want to.”

“It’s fine” Sarah answered softly “Everyone is going out and I really need something normal today.” she explained.

Jay stood up and walked towards her, stopping only and inch from her. She could feel his breath as he looked at her, his hand slowly grabbing hers.

“I was so worried about you. When I heard, I hoped that you weren’t there. I just…” he struggled to find his next words, so he settled for simpler ones that he thought conveyed his feelings as best as possible. “I love you”

“I love you too” Sarah answered with a conviction in her eyes that made Jay smile. Jay’s hand rose towards her cheek, touching it as if she was the most precious thing in the world, before their lips connected, a way for them to express what their words couldn’t.

At Molly’s, the couple stood with their friends, beers in hand and laughing around when Chief Boden called for everyone’s attention. The room fell silent, looking at him as he spoke.

“Just a quick word.” He explained “Wanna take a moment and let you all get back to the fine cocktails that they serve here at Molly's.”

“Keep talking, Chief.” Hermann interrupted, which made everyone chuckle.

“To the good people at Chicago Med.” He said, raising his beer slightly. “You made us proud today. And we are very grateful for the service that you do for us and for the city. It's not said enough.” He told us, looking over at the different doctors, a small smile on his face.

“Thank you, Chief.” Sharon Goodwin answered for all of the staff that was here. “We want you all to know that every time those doors crash open, there are good people, strong people, people at the top of their game ready on the other side.”

With that being said, everyone raised their drinks, a distinct “hear, hear” to end and terrible day on a good note, surrounded by family.

Sarah leaned into Jay as they spoke to Brett, Mills and Will, and she stopped listening to the conversation for a minute, taking a moment to appreciate being surrounded by people she loved, and she smiled to herself, enjoying the beautiful moment she was living after a terrible day. She had hope that no matter how bad everything could get, she’d always get better.

#jay halstead #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #One Chicago #Chicago Fire #Chicago PD #chicago med #chicago pd imagine #chicago med imagine #one chicago imagine #OC #fanfic

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jeannereames · 3 years

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Hi, Dr. Reames! I just read your take on Song of Achilles and it got me thinking. Do you think there might be a general issue with the way women are written in mlm stories in general? Because I don't think it's the first time I've seen something like this happen.

And my next question is, could you delve further into this thing you mention about modern female authors writing women? How could we, beginner female writers, avoid falling into this awful representations of women in our writing?

Thank you for your time!

[It took a while to finish this because I wrote, re-wrote, and re-wrote it. Still not sure I like it, but I need to let it go. It could be 3xs as long.]

I’ll begin with the second half of the question, because it’s simpler. How do we, as women authors, avoid writing women in misogynistic ways?

Let me reframe that as how can we, as female authors, write negative (even quite nasty) female characters without falling into misogynistic tropes? Also, how can we write unsympathetic, but not necessarily “bad” female characters, without it turning misogynistic?

Because people are people, not genders, not all women are good, nor all men bad. Most of us are a mix. If we should avoid assuming powerful women are all bitches, by the same token, some women are bitches (powerful or not).

ALL good characterization comes down to MOTIVE. And careful characterization of minority characters involves fair REPRESENTATION. (Yes, women are a minority even if we’re 51% of the population.)

The question ANY author must ask: why am I making this female character a bitch? How does this characterization serve the larger plot and/or characterization? WHY is she acting this way?

Keep characters complex, even the “bad guys.” Should we choose to make a minority character a “bad guy,” we need to have a counter example—a real counter, not just a token who pops in briefly, then disappears. Yeah, maybe in an ideal world we could just let our characters “be,” but this isn’t an ideal world. Authors do have an audience. I’m a lot less inclined to assume stereotyping when we have various minority characters with different characterizations.

By the same token, however, don’t throw a novel against the wall if the first minority character is negative. Read further to decide if it’s a pattern. I’ve encountered reviews that slammed an author for stereotyping without the reader having finished the book. I’m thinking, “Uh…if you’d read fifty more pages….” Novels have a developmental arc. And if you’ve got a series, that, too, has a developmental arc. One can’t reach a conclusion about an author’s ultimate presentation/themes until having finished the book, or series.*

Returning to the first question, the appearance of misogyny depends not only on the author, but also on when she wrote, even why she’s writing. Authors who are concerned with matters such as theme and message are far more likely to think about such things than those who write for their own entertainment and that of others, which is more typical of Romance.

On average, Romance writers are a professionalized bunch. They have national and regional chapters of the Romance Writers of America (RWA), newsletters and workshops that discuss such matters as building plot tension, character dilemmas, show don’t tell, research tactics, etc. Yet until somewhat recently (early/mid 2010s), and a series of crises across several genres (not just Romance), treatment of minority groups hadn’t been in their cross-hairs. Now it is, with Romance publishers (and publishing houses more generally) picking up “sensitivity readers” in addition to the other editors who look at a book before its publication.

Yet sensitivity readers are hired to be sure lines like “chocolate love monkey” do not show up in a published novel. Yes, that really was used as an endearment for a black man in an M/M Romance, which (deservedly) got not just the author but the publishing house in all sorts of hot water. Yet misogyny, especially more subtle misogyny in the way of tropes, is rarely on the radar.

I should add that I wouldn’t categorize The Song of Achilles as an M/M historical Romance. In fact, I’m not sure what to call novels about myths, as myths don’t exist in actual historical periods. When should we set a novel about the Iliad? The Bronze Age, when Homer said it happened, or the Greek Dark Age, which is the culture Homer actually described? They’re pretty damn different. I’d probably call The Song of Achilles an historical fantasy, especially as mythical creatures are presented as real, like centaurs and god/desses.

Back to M/M Romance: I don’t have specific publishing stats, but it should surprise no one that (like most of the Romance genre), the vast bulk of authors of M/M Romance are women, often straight and/or bi- women. The running joke seems to be, If one hot man is good, two hot men together are better. 😉 Yes, there are also trans, non-binary and lesbian authors of M/M Romance, and of course, bi- and gay men who may write under their own name or a female pseudonym, but my understanding is that straight and bi- cis-women authors outnumber all of them.

Just being a woman, or even a person in a female body, does not protect that author from misogyny. And if she’s writing for fun, she may not be thinking a lot about what her story has to “say” in its subtext and motifs, even if she may be thinking quite hard about other aspects of story construction. This can be true of other genres as well (like historical fantasy).

What I have observed for at least some women authors is the unconscious adoption of popular tropes about women. Just as racism is systemic, so is sexism. We swim in it daily, and if one isn’t consciously considering how it affects us, we can buy into it by repeating negative ideas and acting in prescribed ways because that’s what we learned growing up. If writing in a symbol-heavy genre such as mythic-driven fantasy, it can be easy to let things slip by—even if they didn’t appear in the original myth, such as making Thetis hostile to Patroklos, the classic Bitchy Mother-in-Law archetype.

I see this sort of thing as “accidental” misogyny. Women authors repeat unkind tropes without really thinking them through because it fits their romantic vision. They may resent it and get defensive if the trope is pointed out. “Don’t harsh my squee!” We can dissect why these tropes persist, and to what degree they change across generations—but that would end up as a (probably controversial) book, not a blog entry. 😊

Yet there’s also subconscious defensive misogyny, and even conscious/semi-conscious misogyny.

Much debate/discussion has ensued regarding “Queen Bee Syndrome” in the workplace and whether it’s even a thing. I think it is, but not just for bosses. I also would argue that it’s more prevalent among certain age-groups, social demographics, and professions, which complicates recognizing it.

What is Queen Bee Syndrome? Broadly, when women get ahead at the expense of their female colleagues who they perceive as rivals, particularly in male-dominated fields, hinging on the notion that There Can Be Only One (woman). It arises from systemic sexism.

Yes, someone can be a Queen Bee even with one (or two) women buddies, or while claiming to be a feminist, supporting feminist causes, or writing feminist literature. I’ve met a few. What comes out of our mouths doesn’t necessarily jive with how we behave. And ticking all the boxes isn’t necessary if you’re ticking most of them. That said, being ambitious, or just an unpleasant boss/colleague—if its equal opportunity—does not a Queen Bee make. There must be gender unequal behavior involved.

What does any of that have to do with M/M fiction?

The author sees the women characters in her novel as rivals for the male protagonists. It gets worse if the women characters have some “ownership” of the men: mothers, sisters, former girlfriends/wives/lovers. I know that may sound a bit batty. You’re thinking, Um, aren’t these characters gay or at least bi- and involved with another man, plus—they’re fictional? Doesn’t matter. Call it fantasizing, authorial displacement, or gender-flipped authorial insert. We authors (and I include myself in this) can get rather territorial about our characters. We live in their heads and they live in ours for months on end, or in many cases, years. They’re real to us. Those who aren't authors often don’t quite get that aspect of being an author. So yes, sometimes a woman author acts like a Queen Bee to her women characters. This is hardly all, or even most, but it is one cause of creeping misogyny in M/M Romance.

Let’s turn to a related problem: women who want to be honorary men. While I view this as much more pronounced in prior generations, it’s by no means disappeared. Again, it’s a function of systemic sexism, but further along the misogyny line than Queen Bees. Most Queen Bees I’ve known act/react defensively, and many are (imo) emotionally insecure. It’s largely subconscious. More, they want to be THE woman, not an honorary man.

By contrast, women who want to be honorary men seem to be at least semi-conscious of their misogyny, even if they resist calling it that. These are women who, for the most part, dislike other women, regard most of “womankind” as either a problem or worthless, and think of themselves as having risen above their gender.

And NO, this is not necessarily religious—sometimes its specifically a-religious.

“I want to be an honorary man” women absolutely should NOT be conflated with butch lesbians, gender non-conformists, or frustrated FTMs. That plays right into myths the queer community has combated for decades. There’s a big difference between expressing one’s yang or being a trans man, and a desire to escape one’s womanhood or the company of other women. “Honorary men” women aren’t necessarily queer. I want to underscore that because the concrete example I’m about to give does happen to be queer.

I’ve talked before about Mary Renault’s problematic portrayal of women in her Greek novels (albeit her earlier hospital romances don’t show it as much). Her own recorded comments make it clear that she and her partner Julie Mullard didn’t want to be associated with other lesbians, or with women much at all. She was also born in 1905, living at a time when non-conforming women struggled. If extremely active in anti-apartheid movements in South Africa, Renault and Mullard were far less enthused by the Gay Rights Movement. Renault even criticized it, although she wrote back kindly to her gay fans.

The women in Renault’s Greek novels tend to be either bitches or helpless, reflecting popular male perceptions of women: both in ancient Greece and Renault’s own day. If we might argue she’s just being realistic, that ignores the fact one can write powerful women in historical novels and still keep it attitudinally accurate. June Rachuy Brindel, born in 1919, author of Ariadne and Phaedra, didn’t have the same problem, nor did Martha Rofheart, born in 1917, with My Name is Sappho. Brindel’s Ariadne is much more sympathetic than Renault’s (in The King Must Die).

Renault typically elevates (and identifies with) the “rational” male versus the “irrational” female. This isn’t just presenting how the Greeks viewed women; it reflects who she makes the heroes and villains in her books. Overall, “good” women are the compliant ones, and the compliant women are tertiary characters.

Women in earlier eras who were exceptional had to fight multiple layers of systemic misogyny. Some did feel they had to become honorary men in order to be taken seriously. I’d submit Renault bought into that, and it (unfortunately) shows in her fiction, as much as I admire other aspects of her novels.

So I think those are the three chief reasons we see women negatively portrayed in M/M Romance (or fiction more generally), despite being written by women authors.

------------------------------------

*Yeah, yeah, sometimes it’s such 2D, shallow, stereotypical presentation that I, as a reader, can conclude this author isn’t going to get any better. Also, the publication date might give me a clue. If I’m reading something published 50 years ago, casual misogyny or racism is probably not a surprise. If I don’t feel like dealing with that, I close the book and put it away.

But I do try to give the author a chance. I may skim ahead to see if things change, or at least suggest some sort of character development. This is even more the case with a series. Some series take a loooong view, and characters alter across several novels. Our instant-gratification world has made us impatient. Although by the same token, if one has to deal with racism or sexism constantly in the real world, one may not want to have to watch it unfold in a novel—even if it’s “fixed” later. If that’s you, put the book down and walk away. But I’d just suggest not writing a scathing review of a novel (or series) you haven’t finished. 😉

#misogyny in m/m romance #how to avoid misogyny writing women characters #writing complicated women characters #asks #writing life #writing advice

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ssson-of-sparda · 3 years

Text

A Dozen Ice Cream Cones (Dante x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Patty wants to know what happened to the girl who offered Dante his very first strawberry sundae. But to know the rest of the story, she must erase the dozen ice cream cones from Dante's tab. (Part 2 of A Tab To Erase) (Part 1)

Tags: Pre DMC3 Dante / Dante is Tony Redgrave / Flirting / Lost Friends to Lovers / Implied Sexual Content / Explicit Language

Author’s note: You wished for Part 2, there it is ;-) If you want to place this part of the story in the DMC timeline, I'd say that it is shortly before DMC3. Dante is roughly eighteen (and so is Reader) and still goes by the name Tony Redgrave. Again, the Dante who is talking to Patty is definitely post DMC Anime. I decided not to give many details about him so that he could be the one of your choice. Can definitely do a part 3 if you want.

MISSION 2

Dante was about to get fleeced. He could feel it in his guts, which had somehow developed this strange ability to knot tightly in his stomach each time he was about to lose. Probably the result of so many years of bad luck in gambling. And yet, Patty’s eyebrows were weirdly furrowed as she was quietly eyeing all of the cards in her hands. She had to have a straight flush. Dante had no doubt about that. So why wasn’t she playing? “You know, Dante. I was thinking …” “Not again.” The man grumbled, wondering why she was taking her time. But Patty had learned to ignore Dante’s sudden irritations long ago, knowing they were always brief and harmless. “You didn’t stay friends, right?” Dante arched an eyebrow and stared at the girl in front of him as she was sitting still, big blue eyes fixed upon his face, patiently waiting for the answer to her unexpected question. “What are you talking about?” A sigh escaped his mouth. He knew what she was talking about. He just wanted to elude the answer. But the little blonde was not one to easily give up. “With the little girl. The one who made you first strawberry sundae. You didn’t stay friends. Why?” “What makes you think that?” Using a question to avoid an answer. Yes, could work. “Well, if you had a friend making you strawberry sundaes for free, then you would not spend an unreasonable amount of money on them. So, I’m guessing she must not be around anymore.” Patty was perceptive. Dante could give her that quality, for sure. Though right now it was more a bother than anything else. “What happened?” “She moved on with her life.” was the only thing that he felt like answering as he quietly stood up to take a beer in his fridge, certain that this was just the beginning of another long questioning. “So you never saw her again after that night in the diner?” Patty asked as she watched Dante slouch back in the couch, taking his cards back in his hand to cover whatever expression Patty was trying to spot on his face. “Yes, I did saw her again.” He finally confessed, eyes on the dog-eared Queen of Hearts he was grazing with his thumbnail. “Then tell me!” The girl begged, unable to resist the excitement growing in her body any longer. “ Why would I? Don’t you have any stupid soap opera to watch?” “ The TV’s broken… AGAIN.” She complained but he couldn’t care less. He had no money to afford buying a new one or fixing this one. Plus, there was nothing worth watching on TV so …“Come on. I’ll erase the dozen ice creams cones from your tab if you do.” Dante looked away from his cards with a sudden tiny smirk as he noticed Patty on the edge of her chair, impatiently waiting for the new part of his story to begin. “Now you speak my language, Patty.” “ You never do something for free! It’s annoying!” “Are you kidding me? I do a lot of things for free. That’s why I’m so broke and live in this hellhole.” He waved at the place with open arms before taking a gulp of his beer with a grimace. Yuck, it’s hot! And of course it was. He hadn’t paid the bills yet again. “So we have a deal, then. Now tell me.”

A DOZEN ICE CREAM CONES

It was the nineties – perhaps the most awful period for anyone who had even just a small sense for fashion or music - and as the city of Red Grave was still lovingly dancing on ridiculous love ballads on Friday nights, wearing tight crop tops, colourful scrunchies and platform sneakers, Dante – now named Tony Redgrave - was trying to make his place as a young mercenary in the rough areas of the city, hanging in bars serving some drinks stronger than strawberry sundaes (though he would always order one at some point) and in clubs where women would gladly take their clothes off if asked too, mind a few bucks of course (except for Venus. Venus would always flash her breasts for free for her sweet Tony).

“Not sure I want to know that.” “ Oh yes. Forgot the story must be PG-13, sorry. Anyway …”

He was looking for jobs, something that would help him pay for a proper roof over his head and the fancy long red leather coat he had just bought (five hundred bucks but worth every single dime) and luckily for him he knew the perfect man to find him that.

His name was Enzo Ferino. A short and chubby Italian-American broker, probably the best informant in the neighbourhood, one who could smell high-paying jobs for miles around especially those Dante loved to refuse.

“Where was Morrison?” “Can I tell my story please?”

“Come on Tony! You can’t refuse that job. Not another one. Not again.” He almost threw a fist on the counter before he remembered the last time he did so. Two bullets had whizzed the top of his black curly head and he had had thanked his mama for making him so short. “Haven’t you heard the reward? Don’t you see all the zeros on that check, my friend?” Yes, there were four and enough to pay the bail and few rents of the place he wished to rent to create his own agency. But Dante didn’t want that check nor did he want that job. “If he wants to recover a stupid necklace, he can call the cops for that … or a bailiff. I don’t go after silly poker players. I have better things to do.” He took a sip of his whiskey, the third of the night, not even looking at the two men sitting next to him and begging him to take that damn job with pleading eyes. “You have nothing better to do!” Enzo shouted, throwing his hands in the hair like a living Italian cliché. “Please Sir. It’s my girlfriend’s necklace. One she offered me on our anniversary. It’s very precious to her.” The man who wished to hire him declared as he started rummaging in the pocket of his designer coat. “And you bet on it?” Dante scoffed. “Damn. What a perfect boyfriend you are. But that’s still a no.”

The man pressed a piece of paper next to Dante’s drink. A photo, a polaroid, judging by the quality of the paper, carefully placed face down like a poker card, showing that that man was most probably a pro-gambler or at least was used to card games. Another reason not to help. He would probably lose the damn necklace right after recovering it. And yet, Dante took the picture in his hand. Though he didn’t really know why he did. Certainly the curiosity to know what kind of chick that prick could have in his life or maybe the will to use the picture to taunt him about his taste in women. He imagined a prude church girl, some daddy’s girl probably as rich as him, not very pretty but fancy, wearing pearl earrings and silk headscarves matching her shiny shoes. The type of girl that swaggers in the street and roll her disdainful eyes when they see men like Dante (though they might secretly wished he would rumple their sheets).

Patty cleared her throat. “What? Every girl loves some good bad boy once in a while... And how do you even know what that means?”

He couldn’t be more wrong. And he couldn’t be more surprised. He would recognize those big (colour) eyes and that sweet smile among thousands, despite the time apart, despite the years that had turned a fearful little boy into a daredevil mercenary and an adorable little girl into a magnificent young girl. He would recognize them always because they were the first that had made in smile when he thought he would never smile again. “Her name is Y/N. She’s the sweetest girl in the world. Innocent. Pure.” Dante cringed at the man’s words, finding them rather repulsive and somewhat perverted. Something in the way they were rolling off his tongue. “Come on, Tony. You can’t say no to a sweet girl.” Enzo’s sentence was met with a glare that made him shiver but when he saw his partner stand up and empty his glass of whiskey, he somewhat relaxed. “You’re pieces of shit. Both of you.” “Does that mean you take the job?” Dante didn’t bother answer.

But he took the job. Not for Enzo. Especially not for his shitty client. And even less for the cash. For her. Just for her. To finally return the favour after so many years. Because he owed her one. Because she was possibly one of the few humans he’s always respected in his ten years wandering the nighty street of Red Grave. And because she didn’t deserve an asshole like the one she dated to lose something apparently so precious to her in a silly game of cards. An easy job for someone like him but one he despised nevertheless. He hated to deal with humans. They were sometimes worse than demons and you can’t fix problems with them by using a sword.

“Don’t tell me you won the necklace back?” “ I did. Fair and square. Well … almost. I ended up using my sword. Turned out the Mafiosi who had Y/N’s necklace were a bunch of demons who had made a few bars in downtown Red Grave their lairs.”

But once Dante had Y/N’s necklace in the palm of his hand he did something only Dante could do. He refused the reward, refused all the zeros on the check and the chance to finally buy that agency he wanted so badly. “The things you do for beautiful women.” Gunsmith Nell Goldstein had said when she had given him back his guns, all polished and fixed, after he had wrecked them on the job again. “They’re your weakness, Tony. Always leading you around by the nose … or something else.” Perhaps, but he never minded.

And as he watched Y/N approaching the door to her home out of the corner of his eye, a bunch of books under her arms, looking for her keys in her bag, Dante knew he would not regret his weakness for women or his decision to refuse the money.

She looked as sweet as he remembered, as delicate as in the picture if not more. And just as her shitty boyfriend had said, she indeed seemed rather innocent and pure. Almost fragile. Nothing like the girls he had met before, especially those he had seen undressed at Love Planet or in one of the magazines he kept in his drawers. “Goodness grac…” She almost dropped her books as she jumped, surprised and somewhat scared, and put her hand over her heart that had certainly missed quite a beat when she noticed this insanely tall stranger on her doorstep. But her sudden fear disappeared immediately when she recognized the silvery white hair covering the icy blue eyes of the man before her. “Tony?” She arched an eyebrow and he smiled with the same childish joy she had witnessed on his face years ago. And just like that, she was certain it was him. “Hello, Y/N” He offered his hand and she briefly stared at it, remembering for a small instant the time she held out her tiny hand to him the same way, the night they met. And so she grabbed it, genuinely happy to see him again and yet curious to know how he had found her and why he was back after so many years. But when she fell something cold and metallic in his hand she got her answer. “My necklace. How?” “Won it back for you.” He simply answered but that was enough for her to understand what happened. “[Boyfriend] lost it on a poker game, didn’t he?” And even though that didn’t really surprised her as she knew how much he loved gambling despite her telling him not to, it disappointed her anyway. “You shouldn’t date boys who have a streak of bad luck in gambling… Except those like me.” She looked up at Dante’s piercing blue eyes, unsettled by his flirtatious humour, thinking he accidentally let that slip but he definitely did not. Those last words, impulsive and yet somewhat well thought out, had rolled off his tongue with a scandalous smoothness and a self-confidence that had rooted her to the spot, speechless, but in a weirdly pleasant way that made her want to slap herself. “Or especially me. Depends if you like trouble.” With a smug smirk, he stared at her, deep in her eyes, almost … hungrily? She didn’t really know. All that she knew was that never a man had looked at her that way. Certainly not her boyfriend. And who knew such icy eyes could set fire to her cheeks like that? “But, judging by that place and your guy, you seem to enjoy some well-ordered life.”

Not really. Not at all. Her life was boring, plain and dull. Nothing like in the books she read. Nothing like what she had dreamed of. But exactly what her mother had wished for her. She was an adorable daughter, a top student finishing up high school, ready to leave Red Grave with her well brought up boyfriend to start a life many would envy but that she cared little about. She wanted adventure. She wanted excitement. Passion. Frivolity. Freedom. And maybe even some danger. She wanted all that and more. And as she looked at the self-assured man in front of her, she couldn’t help but believe that he had somehow managed to obtain all that. And she wanted to know how. How did that life feel? How could he live such a life? How could she have the same? And Dante noticed that small fire, that tamed lonely flame burning deep in her eyes that needed just a drop or two of gasoline to rage and shine brightly. Something he could easily provide if she let him, if that’s what she wanted.

“Take care of yourself, Y/N” He nodded her goodbye and as he shifted to walk away, she opened her lips to say. “Would you like a strawberry sundae?” And she cursed herself for this, so damn loud in her head. You have a boyfriend! A voice repeated on and on, feeling the temptation in her heart and the ideas of what some people would call unfaithfulness seeping in her brain. But as she opened the door to her apartment, ready to finally kick the boredom out of her life for something else, for something more, the voice seemed to fade. Guess the Devil truly finds work for idle hands to do.

#devil may cry #dmc #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry fanfiction #dante #dmc dante #dante x reader #a dozen ice cream cones #a tab to erase

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noire-pandora · 3 years

Text

Blush

For @14daysdalovers also on my AO3

Words: 2317

Pairing:Solavellan

Warnings: pain and wounds mentioning.

Heavy, dark clouds gathered above Val Royeaux, threatening to release the cold rain over the streets, to flood every nook and cranny. Without warning, their burden poured over the people who enjoyed their walks around the luxurious streets. What started as a sunny autumn afternoon transformed into a cold, wet day. The downpour and the joining wind ruined the lovers' romantic walks, forcefully waking them up from their love-induced dizziness.

In a few seconds, markets filled with people emptied as the rain came down rapidly, transforming into a cold curtain, the smell of wet dust rising in the air. Women wearing sparkling and expensive dresses hurried to find shelter, their tiny multi-coloured shoes useless against the flooding waters. Soon, the streets transformed into small streams, the sewers unable to contain it all.

The open terraces slowly became waiting stations, as people gathered under the tiny roofs, finding temporary shelter against the unexpected turn of events. Among the tensioned gents and giggling ladies stood Elluin, annoyed by the lack of respect for personal space. A young, half-drunk man nonchalantly used her shoulder to steady his movements, winning a long, deadly stare from her. With a low growl, she left the safety of the coffee shop, to lie against the outside wall, hoping the small, extended roof will be enough to keep the water out of her hair.

She stared ahead, cursing her luck. Of course, it had to rain precisely on the day she decided to come back, after ten years of diligently avoiding setting foot in this town. She returned at the Diplomat's insistence. At first, when the woman informed her they have to come here to sign commercial contracts with the merchants, she refused, but Josephine advised her to let the traders see her face, especially after Haven's fall, to combat the rumours of her death and ease their fears. She accepted, dreading the meetings. But, to her surprise and joy, after a few minutes, the merchants grew bored with the Inquisitor, their interest grabbed by the offers laid in front of them. At that moment, Elluin slipped past her and her companions, to walk the streets of Val Royeaux again.

The stroll brought back memories long forgotten, the sights and the smells reminding her of a younger Elluin, one who ran around the city's avenues, ignoring their beauty and elegance, in a hurry to deliver the packages her adoptive father entrusted her with. Back then, the numerous faces and accents of the city fascinated her. She spent her free hours studying the people, learning how to read their emotions and moods only by observing their body language. Now, the busy streets, with everyone bumping and pushing her from every direction, took the air out of her lungs.

When the thunder rumbled in the sky, she decided to make her way back to the merchant's base. When the lightning electrified the clouds, her instincts beckoned her to find shelter. As she barely reached the terrace, the rain came down, making her feel as if every single inhabitant of Val Royeaux decided to retreat under the same roof as her and shove their perfumed selves into her soul.

And now, she stood under the small extended rooftop, her short-sleeved shirt and linen pants doing nothing to stop the cold from pricking her skin. She swore under her breath as the rain reached her toes through her sandals.

The wait reminded her why she despised the rain's touch on her skin, the icy kisses of the water drops, sending her body into a frenetic fight against the cold. A shiver shook her body, her teeth chattering with a dull sound. She whimpered, wishing she learned how to cast a barrier to protect her from the downpour; instead, she had to wait for the skies to finish pouring their anger on her. The thought of a walk through the rain sent another powerful shiver through her body, the hair on her arms standing up in indignation.

Suddenly, a pang of pain crossed her left leg, starting from her big toe, moving up towards her knee and stopping at the back of her thigh. There, the pain pressed on her nerves, forcing her to bite down on her lower lip to supper a groan. This affliction tortured her almost every day since Haven's fall and her trip through the mountain's cold paths. The wounds inflicted on her by those violent events slowly healed, leaving scars on her skin, but one made her life harder: a sword cut that reached the bones of her leg. No matter how careful and thorough Solas has been with the healing, the pain came back to remind her of her vulnerability. And when the weather turned cold, the sharp pain intensified.

She closed her eyes and took in a few deep breaths, flexing her fingers while trying to remember the calming techniques Solas advised her to use when her body suffered.

"What terrible weather, mademoiselle!" a man suddenly addressed her, forcing her to open her eyes and look at him.

A blond Orlesian joined her, his back against the wall to protect his expensive-looking clothes from the rain's touch. The bright colours of his attire stood out in contrast with the grey hues of the day. Under his tastefully decorated mask, deep blue eyes shone with delight. Elluin watched him, perplexed, unsure if he addressed her.

"Yes, it's been pouring for a half an hour already," she found herself replying. "I hope it will stop soon, my toes are turning blue."

"I suspect it will continue for at least thirty more minutes," he explained, his melodious voice grabbing Elluin's attention. "Autumn in Val Royeaux can be quite wet. I hope you did not plan for sightseeing today." He smiled at her, his perfect, white teeth, offering her a hint about his social status.

She sighed, cursing her memory for forgetting that. Three more drops reached the tips of her toes, and she shivered again. Gods, she hated rain so much.

"Are you in our exquisite town for the first time?"

"No, I've seen it a few times," she answered, wondering why an Orlesian bothered to talk with an elf. She suspected the wait for the rain to pass might have bored him. Truth be told, the half-hour-long wait bored her too.

"Oh, is that so?" he inquired, genuine curiosity colouring his voice.

"Yes. I lived here for a few years with my father. He owned a bookstore, close to the University of Orlais."

A sad smile tugged at the corners of her lips, the memories of the jealousy nestled in her heart as she watched the students leaving the University pulling at the strings of her heart. Back then, she would have given anything to join them.

"Did he?" My memory must be deceiving me, for I do not remember any book shop there."

"I closed it ten years ago after my father died."

"In the Blight?"

She gave the man a short nod, hoping he won't continue interrogating her. The loss of her adoptive father still haunted her dreams, even after ten years.

Silence fell over them, and Elluin thanked the gods the Orlesian man understood her tone. She had no desire to share her private life with a stranger.

"While we are waiting, shall we warm ourselves with a drink?" he said, breaking the silence and startling her. "They serve the most delicious Sun Blonde in here, imported from Tevinter."

Elluin blinked with disbelief at the man, amusement and confusion blending in her mind. Last time she checked, no one dared to even speak with elves, at least invite one to a drink in a busy cafe. The sly smile on the man's lips made her frown. Was he aware of her identity?

"Lethallan?" a voice reached her ears, making her heart skip a beat.

She spun on her heels to face the owner of that voice, thanking the gods for sending Solas at the perfect moment to interrupt the awkward invitation.

Solas stood outside, his tall, lean body unbothered by the rain, his clothes and face dry. A soft, white halo buzzed around his body, the magical barrier keeping the rain at a distance.

"Solas!" she exclaimed." What are you doing here?"

"I came to get you."

"Get me?" she frowned. "Did something happen? Does Josephine need me?"

He shook his head, nonchalantly. "No, our Diplomat is doing wonderful, much better than any of us can do. I came after you because of the rain."

"The rain?" she asked, knitting her eyebrows in confusion.

"Indeed. If I remember correctly, you told us you hate the rain and," a small smile appeared on his lips "your hair smells like a stinky wolf when wet. Since you do not possess the ability to create a protective barrier, I have been searching for you to offer my help against the rain."

Elluin watched him, baffled, various emotions knotting in her throat. "Did you search for me, not knowing where I am exactly? In Val Royeaux? In this immense town?"

"I did. But I found you faster than I anticipated. It took me only fifteen minutes."

"You walked in the rain for fifteen minutes, searching for me in a place you don't know," she repeated, dumbfounded, her breath shortened. "Solas, I--- that's so-- "

"Extremely romantic," the Orlesian man shouted, scaring Elluin who completely forgot about his presence. His hand reached for her waist, playfully pulling her closer to him, a bright smile adorning his face. "In all my years of courting, I have never seen such determination," he let go of her to move closer to Solas.

The elf watched the human with a raised eyebrow, a mild amusement reflecting in his eyes. The Orlesian circled Solas, carefully studying his body and posture. Then, he stared into Solas' stormy grey eyes, stroking his chin and nodding, as if understanding a marvellous secret.

"Yes, yes, I can see it in his eyes. He knows how to pleasure a woman," he turned to face her and gave her a dramatic wink. "This one is a keeper, my lady Herald."

Her eyes widened as she heard the man's words, a blush blooming against her freckled skin, starting from her neck, up to her cheeks, reaching even her lips, to travel all the way up to the pointy tips of her ears. A pleasant chill ran up to her back, but she felt considerably warmer than a few moments ago. She waved her hands in the air as if to clear the air.

"What? No, we're not….Solas is my companion!" the Orelsian snickered at the last word. "Not like that! Of for...Solas is just my friend, that's all. Friend!"

She looked at Solas and discovered a blush discreetly dusted his cheeks, and for a second, she hoped he felt the same rush at the words uttered by the other man.

"That is how all the relationships start, my dear," the man continued to tease her and Elluin felt the blush reaching her forehead and scalp. A few more seconds and her face would catch fire.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Solas intervened. "Thank you for your fascinating insight, Messere, but the Herald is needed in another place. Let us get going, Lavellan."

Solas reached out for her, extending his arm towards her, palm up, and for a second, she thought he wished to hold her hand. Then, she realised he waited to cast the barrier on her. Her fingertips reached for his, the cold touch of his skin soothing and calming the maddening rhythm of her heart. He whispered a few words, and the barrier shrouded her, instantly warming her. She instantly missed his touch when he retreated his hand.

"It was a delight to speak with you," the Orlesian man waved at them as they left the cafe, the sly smile never leaving her lips. "I offer you all the best wishes, Herald."

They walked in the rain, the barrier keeping her dry, a comfortable silence settling between them. She looked up at Solas, delighted to see the blush reached the back of his neck.

"Are you well, Inquisitor?" he softly asked.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"How is your leg?"

"My leg?" she asked back, unsure what he meant.

"Yes. Does it hurt?"

"Oh! Yes, it does, but not as bad as it did a few moments ago. The barrier is helping me by keeping away the cold and the rain.”

"I see. I am happy to hear it."

She frowned, looking down at the ground, the raindrops bubbling as she walked. Was this the real reason why he searched for her? Did he fear the pain would take over her again? The thought made her breath hitch.

"Who was that man?" he spoke again after a few minutes of total silence.

"I have no idea. He joined me when I was waiting for the rain to pass. Did you notice he called me 'Herald'?

"Yes," he paused. "You should be careful. People will not shy away from any means to feel the taste of power. Even if it means charming their way to it," he added, the vein on his temple pulsing nervously.

Elluin glanced at him in amazement, the faint note of irritation in his voice surprising her. "Do you think he tried to charm his way into my heart? Did the man make you jealous, Solas?" she spoke before her mind had any chance to catch up with the meaning of her words.

He chuckled. "I worry about your safety, as everyone does. After all, you hold the key to our salvation in your hand."

"Ah, of course," she commented, barely containing a cheeky smile. Somehow, the blush spreading towards his ears contradicted his words.

She grinned. For a reason, at this moment, even the infuriating rain filled her heart with unspoken joy.

#14DALovers #blush #solavellan #solas #lavellan #elluin lavellan #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #noire writes

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zelenacat · 3 years

Text

Chapter 6- When We Were Young- An Obitine Story

After being complimented on her skill with Parliament, the Duchess’ advisors informed her that she would be meeting with the Cerean representative on trade, Shea Mundi, and Queen Padme Amidala to discuss the trade deals.

“The Queen of Naboo herself, I’ve heard, is quite looking forward to meeting Your Grace.” the Prime Minister added.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Satine smiled, “I’ve only heard wonderful things about her.”

The summit was to be held on Naboo, and for the next three days, and Satine had an arsenal of women to help her prepare.

“On the first day, Your Grace,” Parna suggested, “you should wear something grand, but not flamboyant.”

“I agree,” the Duchess said, grabbing colored pencils, “it should be in my house colors as well, like an introduction to Mandalore.”

“Perhaps a flowing gown with draped sleeves,” Khaami suggested, “they are very fond of those on Naboo.”

“Yes.” Satine agreed, sketching out a dress.

“And you must wear a headdress,” Fesma added, “hair is a symbol of power on Naboo.”

On the first day of the summit, the Duchess would wear an ombre gown beginning with ebony at the hem, morphing into royal purple above that, and finally ending at Kryze blue on her upper bust and shoulders.

“We could embroider the Mandalorian star system on your gown.” suggested the head seamstress.

“Oh,” Satine gasped, “that would be glorious.”

“I think silver jewels would be best for that gown, Your Grace.” suggested the royal jeweler.

“Yes,” Satine nodded, “I agree.”

Ripping the page from the notebook, the Duchess handed the page to a seamstress, who ran off to begin preparations.

On the second day of the summit, the day of negotiations, the Duchess would wear a golden gown cut in the Mandalorian style with an open back and soft pink accents.

“Definitely golden jewelry to complement this outfit.” Khaami suggested.

“Lily flowers,” Parna suggested, “your emblem.”

“Yes,” Fesma agreed, “we shall have them in your hair instead of a headdress.”

Satine ripped out the sheet and handed it to a second seamstress.

“How about white for the final day,” suggested the head seamstress, “one can never go wrong in white.”

“With green accents,” Khaami added, clapping, “so it can match Naboo’s natural habitat on your excursions.”

“Emeralds then?” Parna asked.

“Emeralds.” Satine agreed.

Once the three dresses were off, Satine made talking points and practiced curtseying. As a Duchess there were few nobility in the galaxy she showed respect to, but a monarch was always one.

On the day of the journey to Naboo, Satine was excited, except for her stomach which was a flutter of nerves. Besides Khaami and Fesma, Parna and a seamstress, Waldie, accompanied her. The Duchess was thrilled when they landed, taking in all the sights along with her entourage.

“Never been to Naboo before, have you?” remarked a guard.

“No, sir,” Parna gawked, “the trees are so tall.”

The Theed Royal Palace was spectacularly extravagant, and Satine felt a kindred spirit already with Queen Amidala.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” bowed an advisor, “the Queen shall receive you in the audience chamber.”

He led the way.

“Her Grace, Satine Kryze, Duchess of Mandalore,” announced the advisor, “Second of Her Name and Lady Kalevala.”

Satine stepped forward and curtsied, “Your most Serene Majesty, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.”

When she stood, Satine noticed Queen Amidala was smiling, “Your Grace, we are more than thrilled to have you on Naboo.”

“I am glad to be here,” Satine replied smoothly, “my ladies and I couldn’t help but admire the natural beauty of the place.”

“I too often find myself astounded by such grandeur,” Queen Amidala agreed, “please let Randor, my aid, show you around the palace and to your rooms, you must need rest after such a taxing journey.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Satine nodded, backing up slowly.

The next time the Duchess saw the Queen was that evening, at a garden pavilion where horderves were served. Khaami, Waldie, Fesma, and Parna were dressed in navy gowns which matched Satine’s dress perfectly. The Duchess got many appraising and interested looks as she made her way to her seat next to the Queen.

“What a lovely dress, Your Grace.” the Queen of Naboo commented.

Satine smiled warmly, “Well, knowing my destination, I thought it necessary to come prepared.”

Queen Amidala gave a wide grin and blushed slightly. Satine realized that Padme Obi-Wan had told her about was likely only 15, then again, she herself was twenty.

“Your Grace is very kind.” the Queen managed.

There was a show and then dinner, the discussions would not begin until tomorrow, but Satine wasn’t anxious. Instead, she felt calm, albeit a little sad thinking about Obi-Wan, because of course, the play Satine and the Queen were watching was about lovers, but she would manage. Satine always managed.

Dinner went long into the night, and Satine was impressed with the young Queen’s stamina, and that of her own ladies.

“This food is marvelous.” Parna whispered to Waldie.

“I know,” the seamstress agreed, “how lucky are we?”

By the end of the night, the Queen had asked the Duchess to call her Padme.

Satine took Padme’s hands in hers, “Then you must call me Satine.”

“It’s a lovely name.” Padme commented.

“Thank you,” Satine tilted her head slightly, “I happen to be partial to it.”

Padme snorted.

Satine stood, “Good night, Your Majesty.”

“Padme.” the Queen corrected.

“Good night, Padme.”

The Young Queen smiled, “Good night Satine.”

Khaami had too much champagne that night. The Duchess came to this observation when they got back to their rooms and her lady started throwing up.

“Oh, Khaami.” the Duchess frowned.

“I’ll care for her, Satine,” Fesma said, jerking her head towards the bathroom, “Parna and Waldie will help you undress.”

“Alright,” Satine agreed, “just make sure her head’s okay.”

Fesma nodded and Parna and Waldie set to work. Once her jewels were stored, her hair and headdress carefully undone, and her dress draped over the toilette chair, Satine dismissed her two newest ladies and took Fesma’s place by Khaami.

“It was so, bubbly.” Khaami said sincerely.

She had stopped throwing up now, and was cleaning up the bathroom.

“I know, my father used to train me on how to drink,” Satine confessed, “he used to say: a Duchess can never be drunk.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah,” the Duchess helped Khaami out of her dirty dress, “we can launder this, right?”

“Yes, Satine,” Khaami grinned, “that's how laundry works.”

The room was set up so Khaami and Fesma would sleep in the same quarters as Satine, with Parna and Waldie in the room next door. They even had their own receiving room.

“Tomorrow will be a day,” Fesma said, arriving at the door with Khaami’s nightdress, “so much diplomacy.”

“Yes,” Satine agreed, joining Fesma at the door, “sleep well, ladies.”

The next morning, Satine slept a little later than she’d hoped.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” the Duchess asked Fesma.

“Parna and Waldie went to get breakfast,” The lady explained, “they were up early, so I got dressed and prepared your clothes.”

“But what about-”

Khaami snored.

“Ah.”

“I’ll wake her,” Fesma said, pinning up her hair, “you should start getting ready.”

After performing her essential tasks, Satine began brushing her hair. Parna and Waldie returned with breakfast and the Duchess ate some toast before changing.

“Once I spilled jam on my court gown,” Satine explained to Parna, “so now I eat before getting dressed.”

“I remember that day.” Waldie sighed.

Khaami got dressed while Fesma and Parna did the Duchess’ hair in an old style braid down her back with lily flowers woven in.

“Oh, it’s gorgeous.” Satine gasped.

“You’ll look stunning in the gown, your Grace.” Waldie added.

Draped in gold, with her four ladies in tow, Satine made her way to the negotiation chamber. Where a group of people she hadn’t met where gathered amongst themselves.

“The Duchess of Mandalore.” called the announcer.

Descending into the foyer, Satine realized that the group present were all wearing Cerean colors and standing by pale seats. To their right was a throne for Queen Padme and on her right were seats in the colors of House Kryze.

A woman stepped forward from the pack and curtsied, “Your Grace, I am Shea Mundi of Cerea, Ambassador of Trade, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Satine greeted the Ambassador warmly, “It’s wonderful that we can sort through these troubles we seem to be having.”

“Most certainly,” agreed Ambassador Mundi, “Queen Amidala has been most kind to host this meeting.”

As if on cue, trumpets blared and Padme entered the negotiation room in her regalia.

“Please,” she spread her hands, “let us begin.”

The room shifted, Satine sat on her cushioned, elevated seat with her ladies around her and their personal guard scattered around them. On Satine’s right, Ambassador Mundi sat atop a similar seat with her aids around her, and at the head of their circle, sat Queen Amidala.

“The issue at hand is the trade tariffs recently imposed on Naboo and Cerea by Mandalore,” the announcer began, “the Queen has requested to speak first.”

“Dear friends, ambassadors and representatives of Mandalore and Cerea,” began Queen Amidala, “Naboo’s manufacturers are quite upset with such an action, as we have been long time trading partners.”

“Cerea is also not pleased,” Ambassador Mundi agreed, “we are a traditional people in many ways, yet foreign goods are very valuable in our culture.”

All heads turned to Satine.

“After discussing this issue with my Parliament and Prime Minister,” the Duchess began, “we have reached a proposal we confer on.”

Fesma handed two documents to the announcer, one for Cerea and one for Naboo.

“Mandalore would like to suggest a compromise,” the Duchess continued, “we shall lower the taxes on the tariffs, and offer special trading benefits to Naboo and Cerea, in return, we would like to ask for a loan to help boost our economy.”

Whispers went up among the groups, questions filled the air.

“Please indulge us more, Duchess Kryze.” asked a Cerean aid.

“The tariff tax shall be lowered from twenty-five percent to fifteen,” Satine announced, “Parliament agrees that you shall find this much more manageable.”

“We do,” answered Queen Amidala, “tell us about these special benefits.”

Satine held out her hand to Khaami, who passed her a sheet of paper.

“Discounts for pilots carrying valid IDs,” the Duchess read, “and we’ll wave the atmosphere entering fees.”

“This sounds pleasant.” Ambassador Mundi commented.

“How much are you asking for?” asked an old Naboo emissary.

Satine swallowed, “Ten thousand credits, from each of our trading partners.”

The room went silent. Then the Cerean Ambassador leaned over to speak with her aids.

“Your Grace,” she said after a moment, “is this the number your Parliament has asked for?”

“Yes.” Satine nodded.

“My dear Duchess,” Queen Amidala began, “do tell us what you plan to use this money for.”

Straightening, Satine answered, “We have exhausted much of our national funds on rebuilding the economy through civilian programs, yet much of our infrastructure, schools, hospitals, and government institutions, have fallen into disarray.”

The aids whispered among themselves and to the women representing them. Even the announcer, who was also acting as the meeting’s scribe, looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps we could lower the amount of credits.” suggested a Cerean aid.

All eyes turned to Satine.

“I would hate to disappoint a Parliament that has put such faith in me.” the Duchess replied.

More silence.

“I suggest a recess so all parties may discuss in private,” Queen Amidala spoke, “perhaps half an hour would serve us well?”

“Yes,” Ambassador Mundi agreed after a minute, “that would be beneficial.”

Fesma offered Satine her arm and the Duchess stood, but as was decorum, Queen Amidala left the room first. Then the Duchess, and then the Ambassador. Satine and her entourage retreated to their rooms to relax. After using the fresher, the Duchess and her ladies stretched and nibbled on some fruit that had been left in their room.

“God,” Parna sighed, “politics is so hard.”

“I agree,” Waldie huffed, “so much push and pull.”

“The bartering hasn’t even begun,” Satine frowned, “and this is my first foreign visit.”

“Nothing can shake you, Satine,” Fesma said, taking her hands, “did you see how you conducted yourself in there?”

“Yeah,” Khaami agreed, “and everyone seems very respectful.”

“Besides,” Waldie added, “you have every right to be in that room just as everyone else does.”

“You’re the Duchess of Mandalore,” Parna stated, “you have powers according to our constitution.”

Satine forced a smile, “Thank you, ladies, your confidence is reassuring.”

When it came time to resume, Fesma helped Satine onto her seat and smoothed her dress around her.

“The Queen of Naboo has requested to speak first.” stated the announcer.

Turning to address Satine, Queen Padme began, “Naboo has decided to loan you your requested ten thousand credits, but we would like to raise the average interest rate from seven to ten percent.”

“Cerea has also considered this proposal,” Ambassador Shea announced, “but we will offer eight thousand credits with an interest rate of four precent.”

Satine was silent for a long time, calculating the math in her head.

“Ambassador Mundi,” the Duchess spoke, “would you accept an interest rate of zero if you only offered seven thousand credits?”

The ambassador turned to her aids.

“And Queen Amidala,” Satine turned, “would your nation be willing to loan us ten thousand credits with an interest rate of eight percent?”

Padme leaned over to her advisors, whispering in quiet tones.

“Cerea agrees to this proposal.” the Ambassador decreed.

The scribe went crazy.

“Naboo agrees to this proposal as well.” Queen Amidala smiled.

Satine clasped her hands, “Then let us draw up an agreement.”

Once all the paperwork was written up and signed, the Ambassador of Cerea and Queen of Naboo held a joint press conference with the Duchess of Mandalore, where the decision was announced. Reporters had a chance to ask questions, but none heard Satine’s view, as she excused herself to call Prime Minister Djarin.

“Parliament is for the most part pleased,” Satine could hear her smile over the phone, “well done, Duchess.”

“Thank you.”

Ambassador Mundi and her entourage left later that afternoon, and after a formal goodbye, Satine and her ladies joined Queen Amidala and her ladies for a “casual” dinner. The next day, the Duchess and her ladies explored palace exhibits as their rooms were prepared for departure.

“Thank you for coming, Your Grace.” the Queen said as she and the Duchess made their way to the landing pad.

“It was a pleasure, Your Majesty.” Satine replied.

“I hope I shall see you again.” Padme confessed.

“So do I,” the Duchess smiled, “you don’t make for bad company.”

When Satine arrived back at the palace, her council was waiting for her, and as the Duchess stepped forward to greet them, they began to clap.

“Well done, Satine.” congratulated Jaru Djarin.

“Thank you,” the Duchess smiled, “I hope Parliament understands.”

“You’ve made us proud, Satine,” the Prime Minister nodded, “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

Jaru’s words rang in Satine’s head all day, and it boosted her pride. She’d represented her country nobly, and she couldn’t be happier. Unfortunately, that high didn’t last.

“Satine? Satine!”

As the Duchess spewed the soupy contents of her stomach into the toilet bowl, she began to cry. What could she possibly have eaten? Trying to keep her hair clean from vomit, Satine reflected on everything that had happened in the last month and a half, but she couldn’t think of anything.

Footsteps got louder as they approached, and soon Fesma and Khaami were standing over her.

“Satine!”

“Should I call for the doctor?”

“No.” Fesma answered darkly.

“Why not?” Khaami’s nose wrinkled.

“Because,” Satine straightened, “it could’ve just happened again.”

“What happened again?”

“The medical droid,” the Duchess turned to her senior lady, “where did you leave it last?”

“Still in the basement,” Fesma answered, “Khaami will help me fetch it.”

Satine spent the next few minutes cleaning herself off and creating a makeshift examination table on her bed.

“Nice to meet you,” beeped the machine, “I am Oiyo, the medical droid.”

“Oiyo,” Satine pulled her nightdress up to her knees, “I need you to determine if I am carrying a child.”

The droid seemed to understand, and asked its patient to bend her knees.

“Human female, correct?”

“Yes.”

The droid took out a scanner and began his work.

“When did you bleed last?” Oiyo asked after finishing.

Satine grimaced, “Not since my boyfriend left.”

Khaami gasped.

“I have determined that you are very likely pregnant, if you do not bleed in the next two weeks, it is one hundred percent certain.”

Fesma turned Oiyo off and wiped his memory.

“I’m sorry ladies,” Satine was suddenly overcome with emotion, “I let it happen again.”

Khaami sat down next to Satine, “You couldn’t have known.”

“But she could’ve tried to prevent it.” Fesma huffed.

“It was all so sudden,” the Duchess gestured, “I didn’t even think, I didn’t have time to think!”

“Satine, it’s going to be alright.” Khaami whispered.

There was no question of what the Duchess’ choice would be.

“We’ve done it once,” Fesma stated, “and we can do it again.”

By nature, the Duchess of Mandalore was very skinny, so she was constantly worried about the hiding of her new baby. Unfortunately, so much happened in her first trimester that Satine could hardly think about her new pregnancy. Bo-Katan, her own sister, had gone on video saying that the ways of Old Mandalore could not be forgotten, and had called Satine a shame to their parents. The Duchess cried and wondered if she knew. Within three hours of the video’s release, Bo-Katan Kryze was banned from all palaces where the Duchess held court, and her status was degraded from Countess to Lady.

“Satine, did you hear me?”

Releasing a breath she didn’t know she was holding, Satine answered, “No.”

“Waldie has agreed to make them,” Fesma stated, “the girdles.”

“Thank you,” the Duchess sighed, “I hope my research turns out to be useful.”

“It will,” Khaami assured, “although, these ancient figure slimming devices can't be good for the baby.”

“No,” Satine shook her head, “but I have to take these risks.”

When the Duchess was seventeen weeks pregnant, nearing the end of her fourth month, she started wearing the girdles. They were worn in ancient times by women to make them appear slimmer, and as far as Satine could tell, it was working. The Duchess had asked Fesma to tell Waldie that she had an obsession with historical fashion, and for the most part, the head seamstress seemed to believe it.

“Good morning.” Satine said, gliding into the council chamber.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” responded many advisors.

“We have a serious problem, Satine,” the Prime Minister said as she sat down, “it relates to your sister.”

“Oh?” The Duchess raised an eyebrow.

“She has caused a ruckus with her opposition,” a male advisor explained, “there is talk that those who dislike your policies will join her.”

Satine frowned, “Should we summon the clan leaders to swear fealty again?”

“With respect, Your Grace,” began a female advisor, “it is likely that oaths will not help the situation, but if we show the clan leaders that you are more capable than your sister-”

“Then they will not stray.” Satine finished.

“I suggest we host a dialogue panel,” Prime Minister Djarin began, “summon the clan leaders and ask them to bring their problems to us, show that we can be of more use than Lady Bo-Katan.”

Satine’s fingers curled at the mention of her sister’s name.

“Is four days enough time to prepare?” questioned the Duchess.

“I should think so.” an advisor concluded.

“Then it’s settled,” Satine straightened, “we must outperform my sister.”

#satine kryze #duchess satine #satine x obiwan #obitine #obi wan kenobi #korkie kenobi #korkie kryze #bo-katan kryze

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sweeethinny · 3 years

Text

The Duke - Chapter 6

thank you very much for the reviews! really. writing this fanfic has been quite a challenge, but I just love writing a drama, and maybe it sometimes has a questionable quality, but I have fun. thanks for letting me know that you guys are having fun too! and thanks to my favorite beta @theroomofreq, and @deadwoodpecker for listen my crazy ideas

AO3 | FF.NET | SIYE

| H. F |

‘‘The Dueling party?’’ His mother’s sweet but still loud voice rang out in Henry’s room, and her face contorted with joy and, it seemed, fear. '’This is something very big, don't you think? I mean… it's the dukes.’’ Arabella whispered the last part as if someone could hear them and take Henry off the guest list.

‘’I know.’’ He nodded, fidgeting with his hair nervously. ‘’But I need to go with Miss Weasley.’’ Her mother’s face contorted again, and even through the flames of the fireplace, he knew she was thinking that wasn’t a good idea. ''What's the problem?''

‘’There are none… really, I’m happy that one of us can at least step inside that castle.’’

''But…?''

‘’Henry, dear… It’s not our place. Who guarantees that Your Graces will treat you well? Especially when you're not going to be an employee of them, which they can send or dismiss, but you're an employee of Mr. Weasley. Entering through the front door.’’

‘’No need to worry, I’m always camouflaged among these people. I am at a safe distance from everyone, but I can still follow Miss. Weasley.’’ His mother sighed, and Henry wished he could hug her, try to calm her down.

‘’Well, Miss. Weasley could get married and get you out of this job, right? It’s so dangerous, son… You got hurt yesterday, and today you tell me that you were attacked.’’

‘‘We haven’t been attacked, Mom.’’ Henry looked at the small window beside him, night already falling like a gloom under the whole yard. ‘’I’m fine, she protected me.’’

''Poor girl ... How is she?'' He tried not to smile as he remembered how she yelled at him when he Apparated to their safe place, and how she made his heart ache when he realized that she was almost crying with only the idea of him being attacked in front of her.

''Good. We're close to finding a suspect.'' He shrugged, not to say that he had followed Mr. Weasley across borders and that the two had visited Yeovil a third time (fourth time, if he considered the time that went alone).

The city was still an endless war field, cold as if the winter were endless, with horrible cloudy weather, and so charged with the magic of darkness that it drained all your happiness out, being very difficult even to be able to smile. They had struggled to enter without causing confusion - as they did the first time - and Henry could still taste the blood in his mouth when he had to kill a Death Eater.

The boy should not have even reached the age of 20.

‘’I hope they’ll arrest the person soon. I miss you, and I’m so worried that you die or get hurt.’’ Arabella tried to smile, but Henry can see there were tears in her eyes.

''I will be fine. I promise.’’ He smiled at her, wishing he could hug her again. He hadn't seen his mother in almost a year. It was too risky to visit her and be in danger of being followed. There were some people who had reason to want to get back at him.

''Send me news. Now, tell me what you’ll wear at the Dueling Party. ’’

‘’Work clothes, mom. My black robes, and at most, the Auror coat of arms. It’s the best way to camouflage myself.’’

‘’Why don’t you try something new? Maybe you might meet a woman ..’’

''Miss Arabella, it is a party of the high aristocracy, there are no women for me there.'' Henry laughed, not wanting to delve into the thought that the only woman he wanted, he could never take out for a dance. Even though he always saw her at the back of the room, alone, looking at all the other couples while she just looked madly melancholy.

Henry would never understand why no one asked her to dance, when he was ecstatic at the thought of having her in his arms for a few minutes.

‘’If you say so,’’ The woman shrugged, then yawned. ‘’I’ll let you rest… please take care. I’m thinking you are too thin.’’

‘’I’m still the same.’’ He laughed, waving at her. ''Bye. Love You.''

‘’I love you, too.’’ And then she was gone, the flames turning red again, making him hear the sound of the loneliness that night provided. The elves' feet walking down the hall, the wind whipping the trees rough, some crickets and frogs, and a few creaking branches.

Henry sighed, lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling, trying to forget that morning...

As soon as Henry apparated inside their security location - a house where only Ginny was Secret-Keeper - he was greeted by Ginny's scream echoing through the empty house;

‘’You could have died!’’ She threw herself at him, hitting his chest with closed fists. ‘’Died! In front of me and I couldn't have done a thing!’’ Henry grabbed her fists, making her stop. Feeling a little shocked by the reception, even a little dizzy from her explosion.

‘’But I didn’t die.’’ He reminded her as if to say that tomorrow day would still dawn. ‘’And it was the best thing to do.’’

''The best? How is it best to leave me behind while I can see you being murdered in front of me?!’’

Better me, than you.’’ Henry remained calm, even though her skin seemed to burn his with proximity. The brown eyes staring at him as if they were going to read his mind - and Henry thought she would.

‘’Don’t say that.’’ Her voice came out with a tone of hurt that he had never heard before, not even when he met her on a bad day. ''Never. I am not worth more than you. And I'm not saying that to you to say that 'bla-bla-bla of course it is, because you're here to take care of me'... You are my best friend Henry, and I don't know what would happen if that spell had hit you and I saw you die in front of me.''

Best friend... She, a daughter of a Viscount, who had been promised to a son of Duke, who was one of the most powerful witches he had ever met, considered him her best friend.

He, a poor man, son of a harlot who died for her Death Eater lover, abandoned in a dirty gutter, condemned to die... Best friend of a daughter of a Viscount.

Of course, if it were up to him, they would be much more than best friends. Henry would do much more than take a peek at Ginny's sweeping curves, and he would never let her sit at the back of a ball, alone and bored. No, Henry would dance with her, spin that red-haired woman, so alive that reminded him of fire, all over the hall, as he had seen some men doing with their wives.

Henry might even dare to ask for her hand in marriage ...

But that was only if he was someone else. Henry Figg, Ginny Weasley's bodyguard, needed to settle for Best Friend.

| G. W |

‘‘You don’t look good,’’ George said, moving the chess piece and waiting for Ron to counterattack.

‘’Shouldn’t Henry protect you? Why did you almost die?’’ Ron asked, without even looking at his sister, paying attention to the board as if it were the most important thing of the moment.

‘’What are you two doing here still? I thought that now that you had houses, and responsibilities, you would spend less time here.’’ She complained, irritated to the last hair. She overheard when her father argued with Henry about putting her in danger, even though he couldn't have predicted it. Besides, the image of him dying in front of her continued to haunt her like an endless nightmare. ''Wants to know? Don't answer me. I'm going to lie down.’’ Ginny turned her back on the brothers, stamping her feet against the floor and running up the stairs.

It had been so terrifying to see the green light almost hit Henry, and she hadn't even raised her wand before the spell came out and protected him, almost making her believe that she could do magic with her bare hands.

All day, after the attackin the morning, she was locked up at home, like a prisoner. She overheard Ron talking to his father about Miss Granger (and then with George), she continued to read the news in the paper about the Dueling Party - that her parents were seriously considering not taking her. Ginny almost cried when she tried to fly and was stopped by Henry, who seemed almost sadder than she was doing that.

Ginny didn't cry, however, but she was silent all day.

It was so disconcerting to read about what each lady was wearing at the last party, or who they had been dancing with, while she could barely fly out in her own backyard. It was almost torture when Fred arrived at their parents' house showing the new broom he had bought, and when she saw, as a prisoner, through the bedroom window the brothers taking turns to test the new broom.

She could have fought and tried to convince Henry to fly with her, or that she wouldn't go more than two meters, but Ginny was so tired of living like that - or, not living - that she just nodded and sat in the living room, reading another stupid romance book that would only serve to make her realize how… empty, her life was.

Ginny, before the attack, had the opportunity to have, what she likes to call, a near life; she managed to make some ‘’friends’’, and it seemed that little by little people forgot that she had been promised to the Dukes' son and all the drama. Until, someone threatened her in the middle of the park, and her first reaction was to blow up the greenhouse where her mother was.

She didn't remember that day very well, the only thing she could remember was that she felt someone enter her mind and make her feel a lot of pain, and then the next moment was when she woke up on the floor, surrounded by dead plants, glass, and dirt, being watched by so many wizards that it looked like a festival.

Everyone looked at her as if she were a monster, who had almost killed her mother and injured 10 other people who were around (including a child, who almost died).

''Doesn't she know how to control her magic?'' ''I heard she was possessed by You-Know-Who.'' ''She did it so she could finally make headlines.'' ''I heard it was a way that her father found, for them to call attention to her.'' ''That is the dark arts, I'm sure.'' ''I always knew she was crazy...''

Everyone suddenly had a history and had witnessed some crazy Ginny. Everyone was pointing a finger at her. Everyone never let her forget when she lost control over her magic as a child.

But a child does not do as much damage as she did.

And if it was only once... There was that other day, after all the confusion, when her mother took her to a party to try to make everyone forget, and a Marquis tried to kiss her in a dark library when they accidentally met.. She tossed him away, startled when she was grabbed by the arms and tried to be kissed by force.

Apparently, it was a lot of fun trying to make her lose control of her magic and take on that strength that seemed to rip through her chest.

He was badly hurt, but no more than Ginny, who was so embarrassed and scared that she didn't leave the house for weeks. She could barely get to the newspaper without shaking for fear that there would be more lies about her.

''She wants to draw attention.'' ''I'm sure she was the one who provoked him.'' ''I don't even know what he saw in her.'' ''Her father must have paid for them to meet… a man like that would never want to see himself next to a madwoman like her.''

Ginny had never had much freedom, but after the attack, it was as if she could never do anything that involved getting out of the grounds of their home. She couldn't even fly alone, a brother always needed to be together. Until Henry arrived.

Henry was the closest person she would call a friend. They talked, he never seemed to doubt that she would be able, and even in the moments when he needed to deny her requests - like flying alone - he seemed upset about doing it. It was as if he felt the pain with her, somehow.

If she had seen her one and only best friend die in front of her, because of her, Ginny didn't know what she would do.

‘‘It’s okay, Dootie, I can do it myself.’’ She waved to the Elf who was waiting in the room, ready to undo Ginny’s hair (even though she had just done a simple braid), and helped her put on her pajamas.

‘’Are you sure, Miss Weasley?’’ The little creature asked, head down.

‘‘Yes, thank you.’’ And then, after closing the door, Ginny observed her daily arrest.

The window was ajar, magically made to always seem closed when someone looked outside, and the wind blew into the room and caused the curtains to swing. Ginny wondered what Henry was doing, and maybe, if it wasn't so late and so inappropriate, she could go up to his room for them to talk. She always felt more alone at night.

He had been very kind to her - as always - during the day, even when he needed to leave to speak to the boss by Flu, he had promised her that it was not her fault.

Which was a lie, because it was obviously her fault. She, and damn fate, who decided that it was not enough to be promised to someone at birth, but the man needed to be kidnapped, leaving her the burden of carrying a hope that would not be fulfilled, alone.

She felt guilty when she thought of the boy's parents, who had lost a child, at the same time that she was irritated since no one thought she could do anything about it, and that as much as Godric's Hollow had hoped that the Dukes would give the city an heir and keep it under control and away from any dark activity, Ginny had little to do.

But still, people liked to talk about her, as if she had been the cause of the kidnapping.

Tired of a day that seemed endless, Ginny lay down on the bed, fiddling with her wand to make the room a little colder than it already was, and hiding under the covers, where it seemed to be the only safe place in the world.

For a few moments, she let herself think about how handsome Henry was, and how she imagined that maybe, just maybe, he could look at her differently, and even forget about the social rules and just kiss her.

Unlike the Marquis, Ginny wanted Henry to kiss her.

Maybe he would undo her braid himself and compliment her hair... maybe Henry would compliment her like no one ever did. Ginny couldn't even think of what that would be like...

Ginny heard a noise in the corridor of her room, something like footsteps, and if it weren't for the fact that her parents slept upstairs, and that no more siblings lived there, that floor shouldn't make any noise except when she was the one walking. And she was lying down.

She grabbed her wand, her heart pounding against her chest, rising as quietly as she could, trying to assume who might be there so late.

The footsteps stopped just in front of her room, and when Ginny prepared to put into practice the many dueling lessons she had with Henry, the person knocked on the door;

‘’Ginny?’’ Her body froze behind the door, hearing the low voice seemed to echo down the empty hall.

‘’Henry?’’ Ginny didn’t let her guard down, knowing that everything could be a big trap. ‘’Where did we fly together for the first time?’’

‘’We never flew together.’’ She sighed, it was him. Opening the door slowly, afraid that the wood would creak and her mother would get up, Ginny just stuck her head out, a little ashamed that she was wearing pajamas so old and ugly.

The man also wore pajamas, but instead of being a faded pink nightgown, it was black sweatpants and a white tank top. A tank top that let Ginny see his arms precisely, tanned by the sun and so well defined that it made her squeeze her thighs and swallow. She knew that Henry was strong, but not that strong.

‘’Did something happen?’’ She asked, trying not to let him notice the lack of a bra or how transparent that fabric could be. Ginny was not the woman with the most striking curves, she knew that, the Marquis had made it a point to point out that she needed a lot of effort if she wanted to be as beautiful as the other women.

"I… I just came here to thank you for protecting me." He ran a hand through his messy hair, looking a little bewildered, without glasses, and his green eyes seemed to shine even in the little light that came through the hall window and the fireplace that Ginny kept burning.

‘It was instinct, I think.’’ She shrugged. ''Are you alright?''

‘’Yes.. yes.’’ Henry took a step forward, entering her room for the first time in 2 years. He had never passed the door. ‘’I came here just to thank you, and... and do this.’’ Then he kissed her.

It was completely different from the Marquis' kiss, and Ginny would never be able to explain why. But before she could understand why, her chest seemed to burn and tear, taking all the air out of her lungs, like squeezing a fruit until there is no more left liquid. Ginny thought she might be dying.

She opened her eyes and looked at the white ceiling above her, alone and lying on the bed, sweating as if she had run a marathon. When she tried to reach for the wand to make the room even colder, the wand seemed to spit out magic and snowflakes began to fall everywhere. She was getting out of control.

Desperate, Ginny applied all the tactics she knew to calm down, fearing that her room would be buried in the snow. The same tactics that Henry applied to himself in the room a few floors below, also feeling his chest burn and sweating, frightened by the dream and the snowflakes falling under his room.

#hinny #harry X ginny #Harry Potter #Harry and Ginny #read-a-hinny-fic #hinny fanfic #hinny au #royal au #Ginny Weasley

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