#the detail of a novel without much regard for the probable realities - the realities that he has given no sign of wanting to hire and

[siena-sevenwits]

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[kevinsreviewcatalogue]

Review: Dark City (1998)

Dark City (1998)

Rated R for violent images and some sexuality

<Originally posted at https://kevinsreviewcatalogue.blogspot.com/2023/04/review-dark-city-1998.html>

Score: 4 out of 5

Dark City is a film that failed at the box office in its time and, despite a critical reevaluation as one of the hidden science fiction gems of the '90s, still gets overlooked quite often nowadays, for one simple reason: despite its mind-bending plot and creative visual design homaging classic '40s/'50s film noir, it had the misfortune of coming out just a year before The Matrix, a sci-fi masterpiece with very similar themes about what we think of as reality being just an illusion designed to control us. This film was a much more cerebral thriller whose effects shots, while no less visually impressive, were a lot less punchy and action-packed, instead feeling like if the first half-hour of The Matrix got stretched to feature length, given a retro gloss, and focused mainly on Keanu Reeves slowly peeling away the layers of his world, saving the big action sequence for the very end. It's a moody, foreboding film that built up to a great reveal while slowly imbuing the viewer with a paranoid suspicion that their own world may not be "right", and while the finale wrapped things up a bit too neatly and conventionally for my tastes with a rather silly-looking confrontation, the meat of the film was still a slick and highly effective tale that I won't forget anytime soon -- ironic, given what the villains here like to do to people.

The film takes place in an unnamed city with vaguely mid-20th-century technology, aesthetics, and feel, specifically the kind lifted out of a Raymond Chandler novel, a place where the streets are always cloaked in shadows even during what feels like it should be the daytime -- and hey, while you may have childhood memories of sunny days, when's the last time you saw the sun, anyway? We start with a man who wakes up in a hotel room with no memory, only figuring out that his name is John Murdoch from the ID in his wallet, surrounded by the corpses of dead prostitutes that he probably killed, which is not a situation that most of us would want to stick around for so they can calmly explain everything to the police. On the run from the law and searching for both Emma, a cabaret singer who he finds out was his wife, and Dr. Daniel Schreber, who he finds out used to be his psychiatrist, John gets pulled into a twisted web as he's pursued by the Strangers, mysterious, inhumanly pale-skinned men in hats and trenchcoats who he soon finds aren't entirely human, and who seem to control the city from the shadows and regard him as a threat to their plans. Meanwhile, Inspector Frank Bumstead sets out hot on the tail of the suspected murderer, not knowing exactly what he's getting himself into.

I can't really go into much more detail about the plot. Like a lot of old-fashioned mysteries, this is a movie where part of the fun is piecing the puzzle together yourself and then the film revealing how close you came to the truth, albeit one that puts a sci-fi twist on the usual noir story. I can, however, speak to the production values and writer/director Alex Proyas' sense of style, and on that front, I was at once pulled into the film's world and wondering what awful truths lay outside it. The city is the kind of seedy place you'd set a hardboiled detective story, exaggerated to the point where it feels like a warped parody thereof and creating an unsettling feel that this place should not be. Some of the supporting cast members having spotty American accents (this was shot in Australia), something I'd normally ding a film for, only lent to the uncanny valley feel of the city, as did countless other little quirks that made the place feel like somebody trying to draw a picture of a mid-century East Coast metropolis without any reference points as to what that would look like beyond old movies. And that's before you get to the Strangers who are after John, who wear conspicuous trenchcoats and have names like "Mr. Book", "Mr. Hand", and "Mr. Sleep" that sound like somebody tried to come up with ordinary-sounding "John Smith" names to blend in and... didn't pull it off, on top of their general weirdness and stilted manner of speaking calling to mind the G-Man from Half-Life. While it takes a while to get to the "why" of the titular dark city, the film lets you know rather quickly that this is not a normal city, and even before we get to the big special effects shots, Proyas did a great job right off the bat heightening its artifice and pale imitation of humanity. More than anything, it felt like I was watching the darkest possible film adaptation of The Sims, predating the first game by a couple of years but otherwise, without spoiling anything, taking some of the series' central concepts and playing them for paranoid horror.

The cast also did great in making this world feel just the right mix of real and artificial. Rufus Sewell as John, Jennifer Connelly as Emma, and William Hurt as Bumstead all felt like they could've been lifted out of a real 1940s film noir, while Kiefer Sutherland played Schreber as a character wholly unlike the take-charge heroes he's been coded as since 24, a dweebish doctor who serves as the main characters' bridge between the world they know and what's really going on through his exposition. The special effects were not the focus, but they were astonishing to watch for a fairly low-budgeted '90s film, especially a key sequence where we witness the city's buildings shifting around as the Strangers' true power over the city is made clear. Only at the very end did it feel like Proyas ran out of ideas, as John's final confrontation with the Strangers after unlocking his true power ended with them shooting beams of light at each other with their minds while buildings crumbled around them. It all felt pretty goofy, like they needed to find a way to wrap this up and have the hero prevail, even though if I was writing this, there are some seriously dark directions I could've taken the story. The ending, I feel, underlines the big reason why The Matrix was the big late '90s sci-fi movie about reality being a lie that everybody remembers; when it did similar battles between the good guys and bad guys, they came in the form of epic shootouts and martial arts sequences straight out of Hong Kong.

The Bottom Line

Dark City is a film that doesn't get talked up nearly enough, even if I can't really say much more in a non-spoiler review. Ending aside, it makes a great companion to The Matrix as a more cerebral and noir-tinged take on very similar concepts, one that will, at the very least, make it very difficult for you to play The Sims the same way again. A big thank you to Popcorn Frights for screening it last week. Check it out.

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[jawllines]

There was very little Y/N could take from Anne’s brief testimony. At this point from the judgment of character alone Y/N had long since abandoned the idea that he could have killed his wife. The part of her that is immersed in the world of stories, dark literature, and mystery, tells her that she’s naive to trust him so wholly. That certitude like this would personify, walk with her hand-in-hand off the ship on a wooden plank, and there she’d find her naivety with a sword to her throat, telling her to jump. 

Y/N could be intuitive when she wanted to be. When she truly opened up her heart to a situation and saw it for what it was, and despite quite a few attempts of trying to make the accusation of murder make sense, she simply couldn’t. That didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear it straight from his mouth though. Just because she had made up her mind about the idea of him killing her, didn’t mean she knew the details that led to that judgment from the town. Who heard when about what and why; there was no way to know other than the two ideas she’d come up with: 

1. Break into the police department and look through classified records. 

2. Ask Harry. 

She thinks she’d try her luck fighting off a policeman first. 

or

Y/N’s questions are answered and Harry’s been through a lot, hasn’t he?

(TW: mentions of murder, suicide, abuse, alcohol/drug use)

part 1

part 2

part 3

iv.

For four years, Harry had been stuck in a meadow.

Not a beautiful one that flourished beneath a vivid blue sky, with colors aplenty and life in abundance. It was cold; clouds hung low and heavy with icy rains that pierced his skin with every drop. The world was grey, the flowers were dead, the life was dormant, and Harry was alone. Stagnant in old memories that he wished to forget, haunted by new ones as the days passed and grew shorter, the night came quick and stayed long, his insides hollowed and his skin froze. Each passing day felt empty, bunnies with chubby paws and gurgling, giggly faces brought small beads of happiness but bunnies had to sleep, and he has to work.

Numb -- he felt numb and bitter, starving for warmth in four years of winter. Even his tears had frozen, the hot sting no longer brought comfort but more pain. And he lay there among the dried yellowed grass, wondering when it might get better. He lay there the first year wondering if his marriage was a mistake, and the second year he questioned if it would’ve been better if they had not met. The third-year he ponders if he were ever meant to be loved-- he wonders if it was supposed to feel this rotten. Had love stories no truth to them? Had all the authors been lying? Within the bad, there was always some good, but Harry hadn’t felt much good for three years by then. The fourth-year he wondered if it was his fault, all of it, just as the wind whispered in his ear. Maybe had he done something different then nothing would have happened. Maybe if he had been different then everything would be fine. Maybe then the bunnies wouldn’t have eyes that didn’t match his own.

It had started with a speckle of sunlight. The kind that appears at the end of a sluggish storm that came in the afternoon, filled the streets and soaked the soil of ditches with rain. Clouds withdrew, revealing the sun had begun sinking past the horizon, only thirty minutes or so until night inked the sky, but even for those few minutes there’s comfort. Reddish hues cut through the gloom, half the sky is dense clouds that ease to another town and the other half are cooed promises of a stormless day come morning. That’s how it started. . .just a little bit of sun with a giggle that drowned out the thunder.

The next day, the rain stopped. He blinked up at the clouded sky questioning why it had stopped pelting his skin like glacial stones -- it had been so long of this he panicked for one moment, maybe two (maybe three), but he tried to make do with it. His hollow stomach growled for the first time in ages, the scent of almond jam tarts slithers through his nose and makes his mouth water. The sun peeks out through the clouds to giggle again, teasing him with a few minutes of warmth -- the bunnies came to bask in it too, from beneath the burrow he’d made for them. One he lay on top of to keep them from the rain. They nudged at his back, demanding to come out, and so he rolled over and let them and they enjoyed the heat as well.

Each passing day the sun shows itself more and more, first timidly -- meek and mild, a little unsure. It smiled at Harry though he rarely smiled back. . .his cheeks were frozen how could he? But slowly he thawed; he could move his head again, look side to side, visualize the grass was now lush, healthy green, and wildflowers in an assortment of colors had begun to bloom. When the sun first came, he’d been so guarded. . .so worried. . .so angry that he couldn’t welcome the feeling of it kissing his skin. As each day passed the sun grew warmer and brighter, and as each day passed, the grass grew greener and the flowers more lively, and as each day passed, Harry’s smile grew bigger.

Harry liked laying in this field much better, bathed in golden rays.

And Harry liked waking up with Y/N beside him.

She was a rather heavy sleeper, or so Harry found which confused him greatly. The few times he’d woken her with his nightmares, somewhere behind all the murky fog of him trying to gain his footing back in reality, he would wonder how she woke so easily. Was he really that loud or did she rise at the sound of a pin colliding with linoleum? It had been the second night she’d coaxed him back to sleep that he realized it had been the former as it was easy to quietly slide out from the cocoon of her arms and the blankets that she’d made to bring him comfort. Y/N slept like a log -- he’s sure she could sleep through a marching band storming up and down the halls of the hotel -- but she always woke for him. Woke for him and coddled him.

Harry hated needing it, but he loves it while it’s happening. In ways it felt like a guilty pleasure; something that he indulged in though he probably didn’t need to, akin to an extra scoop of ice cream on his waffle cone, or staying up an hour later to finish binging a show. As he came down from the horror that his subconscious had fed him, to melt in Y/N’s arms was very pleasant. She felt like sun but she smelled like spring rain, and she held him like she knew how much he needed it. Like she knew how good it felt for him to be in someone’s arms. . .how happy he was to not wake up alone.

He preferred this though -- to wake with Y/N beside him, no memory of a night terror tormenting his brain as he blinks his eyes open. Y/N was not curled as close to him as she had been when they’d fallen asleep and while this made him pout for a moment, he is glad to watch her from this angle. She was close enough to him that he felt her warmth diffuse from her body beneath the sheets, but far enough that he could make out all of her features without having to move his head. All he does is press the corner of the pillow from his face with his fingers so his view isn’t obstructed at all.

This wasn’t a creepy thing -- he knew if she woke it might look like a creepy thing, him just watching her, but Harry was simply looking. He enjoyed the calm that her face contained; soothed and undisturbed. He could tell from one look at her face when her mind was racing, whether it be the faint furrow in her brow or the way she starts playing with her lips with her fingertips or nipping at her nails absentmindedly. That spacey glow in her gaze when she stares out the windshield of the car lost in a daydream that Harry wished to join her in. What does she think about when she spaces out like that? Harry would love to know but he found himself too shy to ask most days.

Too shy? It was novel, the idea of him being shy. Had anyone in his life known that he got absurdly shy and flustered when it came to this girl, they’d find it laughable. He wasn’t like this normally. . .even after everything that had happened, he was able to put on a brave face and fake the character that he’d always presented himself as. To make people more comfortable, to force the pity out of their stares when he walked into a room, to make himself feel normal when he had every reason not to.

But when he was with Y/N, he felt all jumbled and rearranged, his thoughts knocked together like the beads inside Charlie’s little rattles. It made little sense to him but his feelings never made much sense to him, even the ones he thought he’d understood. As a young boy, he’s always felt his emotions so intensely, like they could encompass his being sometimes, both the good ones and the bad ones. Rarely did they ever make him act out, but his mind was constantly going, it felt, and his mum always told him he was governed by his heart. And when he grew and chose to be more analytical, he’d thought he’d pressed that all aside. At the point that Y/N had entered his life, he’d made the assumption he’d grown out of it.

He’d been wrong.

That was okay though, wasn’t it? It was alright to feel things but they were so big. That’s the only way he knew how to describe them -- incredibly big, ardent, impassioned. Did she feel these just as he was? When she saw him, did her heart race unreasonably fast? Did she feel bashful beneath his gaze? Was she happier when they were together? Why couldn’t Harry just ask?

Why couldn’t Harry just ask?

The ache in his knuckles reminds him of what he’d done the night prior, mixed in his emotions regarding it. His reaction to Emmett had been boorish, and how he took the guitar even more so. After the little anecdotes, Y/N had shared with him about the kind of man Emmett was, it filled him with such hatred. Such hatred and spite for a man that he had not once met, but had raised memories from Harry’s own brain that he could not leave ignored. He hated him. . .he hated him for what he’d done to Y/N -- hated him for the broken look in her eyes at the thought of him, at what life he’d taken from her.

And he hated him for his own personal reasons. . .selfish reasons.

How could there be so many of the same type of person in the world?

Y/N wriggles in her spot, her brow pinches as her arms emerge from the covers and reach toward the headboard, a soft groan stirs from her chest. Harry held his breath for a moment -- should he look away? If she opened her eyes to find him staring at her, would she be unsettled? Would they be okay like she said they would? He hoped so. . .he really, really hoped so.

Her eyelids flutter first, before she blinks, squinting against the sharp morning sun that filled the room. Only a moment passes before she turns to him, a small, sleepy smile pulls at her cheeks. Eyes puffy from sleep, Harry struggles not to coo aloud -- she’s terribly cute.

“G’morning.” Her voice sends sparkles through his body; glittering, dazzling, iridescent bubbles.

“Good morning,” he cleared his throat after his gravelly response, and watches as Y/N pushes herself up from the mattress, but her bottom lip pouts, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

She nodded, “Mhm,” it’s gentle how it leaves her mouth, it makes him want to protect her from the world, “You made me all sticky last night.”

Harry’s brows raised -- he hadn’t thought she’d mention it. If anything, Harry half expected them both to pretend it hadn’t happened. It probably shouldn’t have but at the moment, Harry had not considered what it might mean afterward. All he’d known was in that moment, he needed to touch her, and taste her, and feel her in every way imaginable.

It would hurt, Harry thinks, if they had to pretend that things hadn’t changed. Harry’s body, his mind, his heart sang too loudly for him to drown the sound of it out and play pretend. He had felt her against him in every way imaginable the night prior and still it hadn’t felt like enough. It had been a part of the reason he’d tried his best to hold out for as long as he could. If that were to be his only time with her, he wanted to make it count, but even then. . .even with how much they did and how long they did it for -- he just wanted to be even closer.

And he almost can’t stand it. Almost can’t stand how much he wants her.

“I cleaned you up, Sweetheart. Did I not do a good job?”

Y/N tilted her body toward him, and very suddenly did she plop across his torso, words muffled from where her face was pushed into the covers, “You did alright I guess, but I need a shower.” He smiled, laying his hand flat across her back, rubbing circles over the cotton fabric of his shirt she wore and he felt her melt; her muscles ease and her bones jellied, “Don’ wanna get up yet.”

“Don’t have to,” he murmured, “Can sleep as long as you like.”

Y/N’s response is a low hum that vibrates from her chest to his belly. The familiarity in her actions brings relief to the tension he’d been stacking in large blocks throughout his body. He had filled with such dread that they might revert back to their old, sheepish tendencies in how they regarded one another. Part of the reason he’d watched her wake, he’d admit, was because he’d been so happy that she was still there and he had to make sure for the first few minutes that it wasn’t a lovely dream. That Y/N was right beside him resting, not sat in her room in deep contemplation about how to go about reorienting their situation to how it had been.

Of course, if Y/N told him that she was uncomfortable and that things were weird, he would respect whatever decision she’d make in response to it.

He is, however, more than delighted that that wasn’t the case.

Still, he voices his concern slightly, in case he was reading her actions wrong. He doesn’t stop rubbing on her back as he begins speaking, and she startles some as he’d just woken her back up, “We are okay, yes? We’re still good how we were?”

Y/N re-earths her face from the blankets, lying on her cheek so she could face him. Her face looked so soft -- Harry’s tempted to reach his fingers out to stroke against her cheek, but he stops himself, “Are you worried?” He does not waste a moment before giving a solemn nod, swallowing thickly when her fingers find the bare skin of his chest, stroking there gently, “Why?”

His brows furrow, trying to deviate his attention from her careful caresses, “I. . .we did a lot last night,” he murmured, “I’m worried that you might regret it a little.”

“I’m glad you said it, ‘cos I was g’na say I was worried you regretted it but I’d been too embarrassed to ask,” she moves her hand to cradle his cheek, and Harry’s face warms as he lets his eyes flutter closed, leaning against her soft palm, “I don’t regret a thing,” her words were sincere, “We’re silly.”

Harry nodded, a small smile painted his face as he allowed himself to get sucked into the moment. Free of his memories, free of his worries, free of anything. . .anything at all that doesn’t have to do with being in this bed. It feels good. Harry doesn’t think he’s felt this good in a long time.

Harry doesn’t think he’s felt this good ever.

“We’re silly.” He repeats.

                                                             .                       .                       .

Feeling things could be a lot sometimes.

Emotions could be cumbersome.

At least that’s how they had felt before, especially with Emmett. Y/N always felt like her emotions were trudging through sludge, grappling for the edge of a riverbank but being dragged back into the murky water. They were conflicting and confusing; they didn’t feel good at all. And they dwindled so thin that by the time she was packing her things in her car, the tears she cried were out of frustration that she was the one who had to pick up and move her life around, not because she was sad she lost him.

But these feelings for Harry have always felt so. . .light? That didn’t feel like the right word. Not light in the way that they weren’t intense for her, because they were earnest and enthusiastic -- but they didn’t feel heavy. It had felt like Emmett was always at her hips, yanking her down to the deep end of a pool she’d drown in. With Harry, he pulled her hands gently toward fields and hills of green, where they floated just above the soil, giggled and tumbled and skated their fingertips along the morning dew.

She felt calm with Harry. . .her feelings were big, and they were good.

For the rest of their time in the city, things had felt as if they changed but in the same breath, they hadn’t much at all. Harry is still as tender as he always is, and he still trips and fumbles over his words. As they had grown to know each other his stony exterior cracked progressively but it had felt that he’d dragged down a full wall for her. Maybe two even; she’d taken a chisel and sledgehammer to the mortar fixing the stone together and carefully broke it. A soft glowing center had been revealed but only sometimes, she found. Only sometimes would he hold onto her for a little longer than normal. Only sometimes would his gaze linger. Only sometimes would it look like he might kiss her, but he pulls his lips into his mouth instead.

Y/N doesn’t push him because she knew there were at least two more walls left fixed around him, and both of them are components of life before her. Whatever had happened, had left Harry a broken man, and no matter how desperately she wanted to know everything about it, she wouldn’t pry. She even tried to stop quietly theorizing about it all, though Anne does not make it very easy at all.

Last night they all went out for one last dinner together, and when Harry and his father excused themselves to go to the restroom it was only Y/N, Anne, and Charlie left at the table. Charlie had found his way into Harry’s lap at some point throughout the night, and Harry passed him off to Y/N’s lap when he’d left the table, but he pulled off one of his rings so that Charlie could keep playing with it. Y/N held the marching teddy ring between her thumb and forefinger as his chubby hands gripped around it and he marveled silently.

Anne smiled gently at her as she pierced a piece of steamed broccoli onto her fork, “I want to thank you, Y/N,” she had begun, before she twisted her body around to look at the direction of the bathrooms then turned back to face her, “I’ll be quick about it, the two of them never wee for long. I want to thank you because. . .well, I don’t know what you’ve done to him, but he seems less. . .less miserable than he has been these past few years. I know part of it could just be the healing properties of time, but something tells me you bring a lot of light into both his and Charlie’s life.” Slowly she shook her head, “He’s misunderstood, a lot of the time. He always has been, even when he was a child.  Just loves with his whole heart and some people take advantage of that. I don’t know the nature of your relationship but I just ask that you continue to treat him kindly, no matter if it is platonic or not. God knows he needs that after what she put him through,” she hovers the broccoli over her mouth, “Though I hate to speak ill of the --���

Y/N wanted more. She wanted to take Anne out for coffee after dinner, find themselves a secluded booth in the back, and ask her every question that she could possibly think about what she didn’t know. Deep in her marrow, she knew it would be wrong to find out from someone who wasn’t Harry, but it would be easier wouldn’t it? Y/N would know and Harry wouldn’t have to relive the traumatic events for her to know. It would be the easiest solution, she’d think.

But before Anne could even finish her sentence, Harry appeared. The worst of it was she couldn’t even be irritated with his sudden reappearance, because the smile he gave her was sweet enough to melt her heart as he placed his hand on her shoulder then squeezed past her to get back to his seat, “Through the windows, I saw a candy store. It’s the same chain that has those fudge-dipped Oreos you like. Would you like to stop there after dinner?”

There was very little Y/N could take from Anne’s brief testimony. At this point from the judgment of character alone, Y/N had long since abandoned the idea that he could have killed his wife. The part of her that is immersed in the world of stories, dark literature, and mystery, tells her that she’s naive to trust him so wholly. That certitude like this would personify, walk with her hand-in-hand off the ship on a wooden plank, and there she’d find her naivety with a sword to her throat, telling her to jump.

Y/N could be intuitive when she wanted to be. When she truly opened up her heart to a situation and saw it for what it was, and despite quite a few attempts of trying to make the accusation of murder make sense, she simply couldn’t. That didn’t mean she didn’t want to hear it straight from his mouth though. Just because she had made up her mind about the idea of him killing her, didn’t mean she knew the details that led to that judgment from the town. Who heard when about what and why; there was no way to know other than the two ideas she’d come up with:

1. Break into the police department and look through classified records.

2. Ask Harry.

She thinks she’d try her luck fighting off a policeman first.

How could she just ask? There was no way to, she was certain of it -- no appropriate way to, at least. Any way that she tried to phrase it in her head sounded too nosy, too forward, too abrasive. Not only had she come to the conclusion that she didn’t believe he could kill his wife, but she’d also come to the conclusion that it was simply impossible to string the right words together so she could question why everyone would think he did. What was their relationship like before? He’d said they’d gone on trips -- that she’d liked the sun, and her only solace moving somewhere as dreary as the vacation town they inhabited was the beach. And she knew that Anne didn’t like her, for some reason or another -- that she put Harry through a lot. But that’s it.

That’s it.

If she thought about it for too long, her head ached. And when her head ached, her brows knit and she’s staring off into space without thinking all too much about it. So she hadn’t realized that Harry had even appeared back beside her in her hotel room, until she felt the tenderest of caresses just along her jaw, something he typically only did at night. When she turned to face him, his fingertips met her face, smoothing out her brow with the pad of his thumb, “Your head is hurting,” he murmured knowingly, the icy mint scent of his gum flutters along her nose, “Do you want to rest? I could finish packing for you.”

“How did you know my head was hurting?” Harry continues to rub her brow until she’s relaxed the muscles in her forehead, and the tension begins to dissipate from her shoulders.

“I’m observant,” he murmured, letting his hand fall away from her face but he slips it down, letting it rest on the curve of her throat, “You slept very little last night. Could feel you tossing and turning.”

It was true; she’d fallen through the rabbit hole of her thoughts as she’d spent many nights doing, only now when she was doing it, chances are she was laying beside Harry. One of the things that had changed was their need to find an excuse to sleep in the same bed, which was a blessing. Now, how Harry asks, is by offering her a shirt to sleep in while he feeds Charlie his last bottle for the night, cradled in the crook of his arm. Y/N gives Charlie plenty of cuddles and kisses, they lay him down in his crib, and the both of them get ready for bed themselves.

All of it feels very domesticated, especially the bits where after they’ve washed their faces and brushed their teeth, they crawl into bed and Harry finds them a movie to watch that they inevitably speak through half of, then get invested in the last quarter. Y/N thinks Harry finds it easier to touch and cuddle at night; this is when things feel most different than what they had been. He indulges in soft caresses, gentle squeezing, pulling her flush to his body, and skimming his fingers all along her skin, giggling when she shivered like he found joy in rousing goosebumps in his wake. The way Harry holds her spoke for how touch starved he’d been, and Y/N melted beneath the attention. Especially since this was when he was most open and willing to give it.

The night prior, he’d fallen asleep after one movie and the half of a second one (typically he tries to wait for her to fall asleep first, but she had taken to combing her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, and when she peeked up at him as his eyes began to flutter shut, he scrunched his nose at her, “Thank you, Darling”), and she’d stayed up. Her mind chattered at her, tweeted thoughts like a rose-ringed parakeet. What had Harry gone through? That would make him have horrible nightmares? That would make people think he was capable of murdering his wife? That his mum would thank her for bringing light into his life? The whole dark mess of it was so lost on her. It just made her want to hold him, kiss his rosy cheeks, protect him from the world and only share him with the sun and the moon.

After she had gotten up to have a wee, checked on Charlie, and crawled back in bed, she didn’t want to disturb him by weaseling her way beneath his arms again so she stayed on her side. So she tossed and she turned, wondering and searching for answers she couldn’t pull from thin air. Maybe she could just call his mum -- she’d given her, her number -- she could call her, ask her, sit on the phone for hours because she loved to talk (Y/N would guess that’s the outcome of a relatively silent husband) and she’d divulge every nitty-gritty secret Y/N knows she’s been nearly frothing at the mouth to tell.

But she couldn’t. . .she just couldn’t.

It was after she’d sighed to herself, quiet enough that there was no possible way she woke him up, but she felt a hand meet her side. His forearm slid along her hip, tucked around her body, and dragged her from her spot to meet him back in the middle. Y/N gave a questioning hum as she rolled around to look at him, but his eyes were closed, and he still appeared to be asleep. That is until his lips parted, a small, tiny smile at the corner of his mouth, “Sleep now. I’m giving you half of my sleepiness to help you.”

She rested her head on his chest, packaged all her inquiries in a tightly bound bundle, and tossed them outside for the night.

His notice reminded her of this, and her shoulder slumped as she tipped her forehead against his chest, “Aish, I forgot I woke you up last night. I’m the worst bed buddy.”

Harry rests his chin on her head, “Don’t say that,” he murmured, “You take away my nightmares and you smell like how I think the moon might, so you’re the best bed buddy.”

So gentle. Soft. How could he ever even hurt a fly?

Did he have something dark in him? Y/N wonders what it might have looked like to see him with Emmett, as she slid her arms around his waist and hugged him to her body. This rare display of daytime affection made whatever relationship they were developing feel real. More than just a drunken romp after emotions had run high; something tender and warm. Something that Y/N could get lost in.

“I reckon you take the title of best bed buddy. You gave me half of your sleepiness, remember?”

Harry hums, “Mhm,” he pulls back, letting his lips touch to her temple, “And I’ve just given you a quarter more. Lie down Sweet thing, I’ll pack the rest.”

Just as Y/N’s flipping back and forth between lying down for the nap or sucking it up and packing the rest of her things after taking paracetamol or two, there was the telling babble that told them both someone was awake. They unwind from each other, turning around to see that Charlie had woken up from where he’d been napping in his car seat. Y/N peeks around Harry, brows rising at the big, bright eyes that stare at them tiredly, “Well look at that! The absolute sleepyhead just woke up.” She made her way to Charlie, clicked the buckle that secured him to the seat, and fit her hands beneath his armpits, “C’mere, you little sloth. Say good afternoon, Daddy! I slept so long so that I could have an extra good time on the way back home, hm?”

Charlie lies his head down on her shoulder, holding out his chubby fingers toward Harry who made his way over easily. He took Charlie’s hand and kissed each of his fingers, before pretending to eat them, and smiling triumphantly when a bubble of giggles is the result. The scene makes her heart warm, but not nearly warm enough for her to not remember their check-out time was briskly approaching.

“Here,” she murmured, handing him over to Harry, “Cuddle, and I’ll finish packing, yeah? I’ll save my quarter of sleepiness for later.”

“Could I --” Harry began, just as she was about to move toward the bathroom. When she pauses and looks back toward him, he has that shy look on his face again. . .the one that appears just before he starts to fumble over his words a bit when he asks her something. Whether it be for a cuddle, or if she’d like to visit someplace with him, or if he wants his hair played with, “--could I kiss you?”

She tries not to smile too hard as she pushes up to kiss him.

And she presses an exaggerated kiss to Charlie’s cheek too.

                                                                   .                      .                        .

Being back at home is. . .different.

They got home around dusk; the sun sank low in the sky, disappeared behind the tree-line, and with it the end of their trip together. Coming home from a vacation always felt a bit off, after pretending another place was your home for a little while. Rooms were stiff, the air was stale and un-lived in, and it took about two hours of lighting candles, pushing open windows, turning on fans, and turning on every light and telly so that it wasn’t so quiet. Silent, and weird, and lonely without the people she’d been with.

Even though Y/N had technically had her own hotel room, by the end of their trip they had been spending every night together. She was with Harry, Charlie, and Marzipan which was much preferred than the stillness of a flat post-vacation. If she were honest, she struggled not to tear up as Harry was helping her take her suitcase from the trunk, and to hide her emotions in an effort not to appear clingy, she hugged him and hid her face in his throat. Harry curled his arms around her tightly. He knew though -- in the weird Harry way, he knew how she felt, even though she was making good on not letting it show on her face,  “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Sweetheart,” he dipped his face into her hair, pushing a chaste kiss to her head, “I don’t start at the university again until next week, and I’ve only got a bit of work to do at home, so you’ll be bothered with me all day.”

Harry kissed her cheeks and sent her to her flat with Marzipan. She aired the place out, desperate to make it feel less uninhabited, and had even shoved her linens in the wash before she showered (which made for a very cold shower -- after so long of being gone, she’d forgotten that warm water for her sheets meant frigid water for her body). Marzipan reacquainted herself with her surroundings and though it all smelled of her, she even appeared to be discontent with the change.

Around 10 PM her phone buzzes on her bedside table, just as she had moved her linens into the dryer while simultaneously regretting washing them at all (she just wanted to lay down at that point). Brows pinched, she reaches for it and sees Harry’s contact on the screen -- had she forgotten something? Why would he be calling her?

“Hello?” She held the phone close to her ear, “Harry? Is everything okay?”

“Yes, yes, everything is fine,” Harry responded, and he paused for a moment, just silent on the other end until he cleared his throat, “I -- well, I believe this was much less embarrassing in my head. I don’t mean to sound as if I’m fixed at your hip, but I missed your voice.” A dish clatters on the other end of the line, and he mutters a small ‘shit’ before continuing, “It’s -- um. . .it’s very quiet without you here. Not that I think you’re loud or anything I just. . .yeah. I just miss you.”

Y/N is incredibly fond; her heart swarms with warmth that stretches it three sizes too big for her chest, and she feels soppy and softened. Her lips curl in a tiny smile though he can’t see it, she wonders if he’ll be able to hear it in her voice through the receiver, “I miss you too,” she responded, brushing her hand against her cheek, “It just feels weird.”

“I’m not keen on it. Which is why I -- well, I wondered if you would like to stay on the phone with each other? Would just tell you to drive over now but it’s so late, I don’t want you on the roads.” He explained to her, “I had thought about just coming to get you myself, but then I’d have to strap Charlie back in his seat and for some reason, I feel he would not appreciate being woken up.”

Soft -- she would say it again, and again, and again. Harry made her feel so unbelievably soft, she’d reckon if someone tried to hug her right now she’d mold into the shape of their body. It’d been so long since someone had evoked such strong emotions from her and she just isn’t used to it anymore. All the heart racing, the stomach flutters, the sweaty palms, the goosebumps. . .everything.

“Yes, I’d like that,” she sat down on her bare mattress, tracing the diamond-shaped dips and curves of the upholstery, “If you’re falling asleep and I’m talking too much, you’ve got to tell me though. I’ve just put my bedding in the dryer so it’ll take me a minute before I’m actually lying down.”

Harry hummed, “I should’ve thrown mine in the wash, now that you’ve mentioned it.”

“No you shouldn’t have, ‘cos I’m miserable now,” she lamented, “Would give anything to just pop my head on the pillow and pass out.”

“Poor thing,” he murmured, “You don’t have extra bedding?”

She flopped down, tucking the phone between her ear and the uncovered pillow, “Harry, I’m lucky to even have the ones I do now. Hate spending money on bedding, it’s too much! Especially if it’s anything worth sleeping in.”

“I get what you mean,” the sound of running water cuts on, and she hears the sound of ceramic plates clinking together again, “Plus, it’s few and far between you find something aesthetically pleasing, innit? And then it’s got to match your room. White is the easiest to match but I reckon if you’re an on-the-bed-eater then that could be a bit problematic.”

“No kidding,” she agreed, “I guess for like -- I dunno, cum stains -- white works out though.”

”Christ,” she could picture it, Harry shaking his head in the way he does when Y/N says something he wasn’t expecting that may have been on the side of vulgar -- he did it several times when she would briskly and casually mention the fact that he’d morphed into something short of a male Aphrodite. He’s shy -- he’s always been shy, but he just manages to get shyer in the bits that he should be confident in. “I guess -- I guess, yeah for cum stains, that’d work out wouldn’t it?”

“Mhm,” she let her eyes close for a moment, “What’ve you got to do tomorrow? Tell me all about your engineering and I’ll try to keep up.”

He does.  Harry explained the project that they were currently working on and Y/N attempted to understand the large words and abbreviations he was using, but eventually she did have to tell him to bring it down to a freshman at college level so that she could at least kind of follow. It made sense that he was a professor, and a good one at that, because he knew so much but was able to break it into smaller bits and pieces so that she could digest it. When she had questions, he had full-fledged answers that swiped away the dark areas. By the end of it, she was halfway certain she could take a crack at computer engineering (like running their coffee orders and half understanding what they were discussing around meeting tables, but still a better understanding than she had in the first place).

Around 12 AM, Y/N’s made her bed up and sat star-fished staring at her fan blades whipping above her, listening to Harry’s syrupy voice tell her about his trip to Scotland he took with his parents when he was around 15. Explained to her that he met a man there who taught him how to play guitar in the two weeks they were there, and connected him to a woman who would further his learning in London. Harry had mused about how he had used to hope to be a musician of some kind, but he never thought he’d been good enough. Y/N told him that he’s silly because she thinks he’d be lovely.

“You’ll have to play for me,” she told him, rubbing the corner of her pillowcase between her thumb and forefinger, “On the telecaster. Y’know that’s yours now, don’t you?” Knuckling tiredly at her eyes, she suppresses a yawn so she could continue speaking, “Not to re-gift something from my ex or anything, but it’ll only collect dust in my closet.”

Harry, who had long since finished his nighttime routine (he’d politely excused himself to brush his teeth and wash his face), sounded like he was shuffling in his bed, “Wouldn’t you want to sell it? You could make a pretty penny off that, Sweetheart, especially the one you bought. It would feel wrong to have it wasted on me.”

“Wasted on you?” Y/N scoffed, “How could it be wasted on you? I don’t care about the money, I just want it to have a loving home. Now if you don’t want it because it’ll just be a hassle I’m sure I could pawn it off on someone, but nothing could ever be wasted on you. You’re the whole reason I even have it back!” Lulling her tongue over her mouth, she wiggles her toes at Marzipan who eyeballs her from the floor, where she had been sat for the past twenty minutes falling asleep, “Which -- could I ask you about that?”

He’s silent for a moment -- a pause long enough to make her regret asking, to disrupt how smooth the conversation had been going before her question -- but he does respond eventually, “You can ask me anything you want. Anything at all.”

“How did you get it back?” She swallows, “Like, I’d assume from your knuckles he hadn’t just handed it over.”

Harry, again, pauses for a moment but this time it seemed like he was only gathering his thoughts, “When you had gone to the bathroom, I went to the green room they had to get it back for you. I know you hadn’t asked but. . .well, it didn’t seem right for him to have it. Not after what he had put you through, you know?” Y/N hummed, encouraging him to continue, rolling out the muscles in her shoulders that had gone stiff in her idle sitting, “So I went in and I asked for it back, and he was. . .difficult about it. He offered to pay for it and then told me I was trying too hard and that you weren’t “worth it”. . .so I punched him and said a few choice words. I’m --” he sighed to himself, “I’m not a violent man, I just couldn’t -- I can’t stand when someone acts like that. . .like he deserved that guitar. I apologize for resorting to violence though. I shouldn’t have done it without speaking to you first, and now that I recount the details I feel a bit silly. Barbaric or summat -- like -- I’m sorry for talking in circles, I feel like I’m talking in circles. ” He does another deep sigh, Y/N can almost feel it against his cheek, like the content ones he lets out after they’re finally cuddled in bed but with a slightly annoyed lilt, a warm and gentle puff, “It frustrated me and I acted out, but I don’t regret it. It’s your guitar.”

Y/N dipped her face back into the pillows, tingles zip down through her body like sparks of electricity as he recounted the story and began to fumble around his feelings. He doesn’t realize how much she appreciates it though -- how refreshing it is to hear him speak. It always sounds so open and raw, like he’s saying the words as soon as they pop in his brain. Brisk pauses, talking in circles, expressing how something had made him feel and how he feels now because of his actions.

“Harry?” She shuts her eyes, pretending that he’s laying across from her.

His voice is small but clear, “Yes?”

“I think you’re amazing,” she began, “And I think, you don’t have to apologize for anything because if you would have first cleared it with me I would’ve suggested more barbaric antics, like kicking him in the chest and something with fire.” A breathless giggle comes from the other end, she smiles a dumb, big smile that makes her cheeks hurt, “Thank you for standing up for me. If anyone ever says something to you, I’ll kick their ass, how about that?”

Another chuckle leaves him, Y/N feels as if she’s swallowed it, feeling it warm her bell, she keeps her eyes closed and melts into the mattress while Marzipan jumps up and claims the space behind her back.

“Thank you, Sweetheart.”

                                                         .                             .                            .

It was rare that they went into town together.

Well, not so much rare as it was relatively nonexistent. The only time they’d been here with each other, they had made a beeline to a private beach where they couldn’t be disturbed. It was simply them, the fine grain sand in tiny hills and mountains and the gentle plodding of waves against the shoreline. They hadn’t even stopped for food or sweets, and Y/N couldn’t blame him -- if it were her in his situation, she would avoid the town at all costs.

So, it was safe to say she had been surprised when he suggested it.

They’d been back from their trip for four days, which they had spent re-acclimating to life at his house again. Y/N got back into the pattern of her regular nanny duties while Harry got back into his work, though he does take a few more breaks than he had been prior to their trip. These breaks last a bit longer than the old ones did as well, and are typically ended with a kiss to her temple and a raspberry blown into Charlie’s neck. If he takes a break while she’s sat in Charlie’s room during his naps, he scouts her out with a snack of some kind and will sit in there with her for a little while as they share it.

One night, Harry had asked if she would like to stay over and of course, she had agreed to it. Their day went as normal, Y/N put Charlie to bed while Harry finished up the course plan he’d been working on for several hours. After she showered and got ready for bed, she slunk down to the kitchen and brewed lavender vanilla tea, before pouring the both of them a cup and finding her way to his office. Despite the door being cracked open, she knocked first and waited until he called for her to enter before she did so.

“I made us tea!” She began as she entered, smiling gently when his eyes met hers, “It’ll help get you ready for bed too, since your brain has been so busy all day, reckon it should calm you down.”

Harry looks surprised -- the kind of shock that might light someone’s eyes if they weren’t expecting something. She thought he’d have heard her bumping around in the kitchen, but she wonders if he’d assumed she was only making some for herself. If he had even paid mind to the disturbance in the quiet at all. The apathetic look he’d been giving his computer prior to her arrival is replaced by one of gentle delight; his lips pluck up at the corners, “You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured as she set the mug down on a coaster, “Thank you -- I appreciate this a lot.”

“Of course,” she smiled before fixing her handle on the mug, about to pivot on her heel to make her way out of his office but his fingers loop around her forearm suddenly, “Oh! --”

“Why are you leaving?” He inquired as Y/N steadied herself, and he plucked her wobbling mug from her hands to set it down on the desk.

She nodded toward his computer, “I figured you were still working,” she explained, then motioned to herself, “And I didn’t necessarily want to annoy you today.”

The skin between his brows crinkles as he shook his head, “You could never be a bother to me,” he responded, no teasing lilt in his voice that would have matched her own -- he seemed almost offended that she would even suggest such a thing, “Stay with me. We can drink it together.”

“Yeah?” Harry nodded earnestly, “Well, alright. I guess I’ve always kind of wanted to try sitting on that couch --” she turned again, her mind set on going toward it, but Harry’s grip only tightens around her wrist, stilling her. 

“Wait --” he began, but when their gazes locked, his cheeks pinkened quickly; she thought it was cute, how easy it was from him to blush, and she thinks if she reached out they would be warm to the touch, “ -- I. . .well, this feels silly now,” he shook his head at himself, and sighed heavily, “With you, I always act and speak before I think things through, it’s very -- it’s troublesome, for me. I get flustered too easily.” 

“That’s okay,” she told him, “Just means every word out of your mouth is authentic. Plus,” she succumbed to her desire, reached her fingers out, and touched the warmth of his cheeks, “I think it’s a bit cute.” As always, he leaned into her touch like he was starved for it -- just wanted her near. . .as close as possible, and then even closer than that. “What were you going to say?” 

Harry’s hands found the hem of her shirt and he ran the pad of his finger along the seam but he was never one to avoid looking into her eyes. No, instead he stared at her, pupils fixed on her face, “I wanted to know if you’d like to sit in my lap? Not in a filthy way!” He rushed to say, “I just wanted to hold you for a little while, if that would be okay?” 

“Of course!” She used her knee to push his chair out further, plopped down on his thighs, and wiggled until she could settle. Y/N would have been a little coyer about it had the situation been with any other person, she thinks, but Harry responded much better to this. He asks for things like she’ll judge him for them -- like he’s worried her reaction to his inquiries will be poor, that she will be disgruntled or angered by them. And Y/N’s goal was to make sure he knew there was not a doubt in her mind when she agreed to do something that he suggested. He had good ideas, she wanted him to know that. 

Albeit startled, he acclimated to her position on his lap easily. He slung his arm around her waist, and held her still and close, scooting them both nearer to the desk. He reached for her mug and placed it into her hands before picking up his own. After a sip, he hummed low and dipped his forehead against her shoulder, “You’re always so warm,” he murmured, “And soft.” Once he set his mug down, his fingers floated up toward her neck, stroking against the delicate chain of the necklace he’d gotten for her, “I’m glad you like this.” 

“How couldn’t I?” She responded, raising her hand to his knuckles, “It’s a very thoughtful gift. How did you know I liked rubies, hm?” 

“I didn’t,” he spoke into her shoulder, “Really, it was one hell of a guess. The jewel was just so beautiful it reminded me of you.” 

Y/N felt her face heat up, “Aish, here you go -- always buttering me up,” she turned some, craning her neck to look at him, “Flattery will get you nowhere, y’know? If you want me to do something for you, all you’ve gotta do is ask.” 

Harry nuzzles back and forth, his face brushing and crumbling the back of her shirt. She’s not sure if he’d been doing it to shake his head or if it was a sign of his affections, but either way, Y/N hummed and poked his thigh, pushing for a response. “I’m not buttering you,” he murmured, “You deserve to hear these things. They’re the truth after all.” 

“So there are no ulterior motives to all these sweet words?” Harry shook his head once more, “Then what’s poking my bum?” She had noticed it after she had shifted on his lap the first time in an attempt to get comfortable and had been toying with the idea of mentioning it. They hadn’t done anything sexual since New Years', just cuddles and caresses, but the opportunity really hadn’t arisen. And Harry, well, she couldn’t imagine him initiating anything, with how much he second-guesses himself.

His response had been to squeeze her tighter, and tuck his face deeper into her shoulder, and she hummed once more “Hm?” 

“Sorry,” his words muffled, his tone bashful, “I -- I get them sometimes, when. . .it doesn’t have to necessarily be because I’m turned on, y’know?” 

Y/N leaned back into him, “Ohhhhh,” she tutted her tongue, “Like an affection stiffy then, yeah? You big softie.” She slid her palms against his forearms to carefully unwind him from around her waist despite his protesting whines, as she sunk to the ground, the thud of her knees muted by the rug, “Get your kit off, I know a good remedy for affection stiffies.” 

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to,” he murmured as she fit herself between his legs, her hands firm on his knees when she split them apart, “I could do you instead.” 

Her brows pinched and her mouth pouted as she looked up at him, “Hm? But I want to do you,” she told him, then tilted her cheek against his knee, keeping her gaze fixed on his, “Do you not like blowies?” 

Harry’s cheeks are such a rosy pink -- he’s so damn shy, she couldn’t stand it (in the best way). Such a domineering, strong-willed man all flustered and red-faced from just her speaking about having her mouth on him. It made her head spin in circles. 

“No, I -- I really like them, but --” he shuffled his hips, his hand found her head and he stroked her temple, and if not for how mesmerized by him she was, she might have let her eyes flutter shut, “-- I just don’t feel like I deserve one if I haven’t made you cum yet.” 

For fuck sake. 

Y/N slid her hands up his sweatpants and pulled at the drawstring of his sweatpants until the knots are undone. She tucked her fingers into the waistband and started to tug, before he finally raised his hips to help her get them down, “Technically we’re at an uneven orgasm ratio. You got me off four times, I’ve only gotten you off once.” Y/N found quickly that Harry hadn’t bothered with underwear at all, and she swallowed thickly as she looked at him. It felt like the first time all over again; the delight and the nerves, the way her mouth waters. The head is swollen, ruddy, and wet -- he was so big that she knew once she got her lips around him, only a quarter of the way down would feel like an absolute mouthful. She could already feel the ache in her jaw. 

“Well, you’ve -- oh,” he paused when her fingers looped around the base, “I mean if we’re being. . .if we’re being technical, you’ve made me cum plenty. The thought of you at least.” 

She didn’t know what to do with the information. The knowledge that Harry got off to the thought of her -- the imagery that invades her brain is enough to make each of her cells feel electric; sizzling and sparking as she pictured it. Harry is in his bed, surrounded by his crumpled bedding, face heated and body flushed as he works over himself. She imagined what it must have been like. Had he been trying to fall asleep but his mind danced toward her? Had it started out as an affection stiffy or was it pure arousal? What did he imagine when his fingers were wrapped around his cock? Was she riding him while he sat on the couch? Did he fuck her roughly over his desk, or was it soft sweet, and tender in his fresh cotton sheets? Maybe he’d even imagined sticking his prick deep in her mouth and fucking her face? Did he look as shy as he did right then? 

It was difficult to bite back the lewd noise that crawled up her throat, so she plugged her mouth with the head of his cock and stifled it against him. Harry’s head tossed back as her lips stretched over the tip, lulling her tongue against the slit where precum deliciously oozed. Y/N mustered all the spit in her mouth to drool over him -- she wanted it to be wet, sloppy, and messy for him -- wanted it to feel as if he’d dipped his cock into a warm pool. He deserved it, or at least she thought he did. 

Plus, she thought, if he kept looking down at her so shyly, with his knuckle tucked between his teeth as he watched her, she would just have to clip off a part of the moon and hand it to him. 

Despite her desire to keep watching him, Y/N had to tilt her head down so she could take more of him into her mouth. Her tongue stroked against the underbelly, slicked across the throb as she forced herself downward. Though her gag reflex was dodgy, she hummed to suppress it, sending vibrations down his shaft. His thighs squeezed around her body, her eyes watered once she got him to the back of her throat. She was only able to keep him there for a few seconds before she had to slide off, popping him out of her mouth before she gasped wetly. Strands of spit and his precum attach them to each other, but they bow and snap once she starts to twist her hand up and down quickly. Her lungs burned as she sucked in a breath to make up for the fact she hadn’t really been breathing well through her nose. 

She cradled his prick to sponge wet kisses down the side of it, down to his balls where she suckles and drools as she peeked up at him and felt a shiver run down her spine. Harry already appeared so fucked out, his chest heaved, his knuckle still tucked into his mouth to keep quiet. “Hey,” she panted, swallowing the spit that had collected in her mouth, “I want to hear you.” The hand that wasn’t preoccupied with his cock, she used to grab his wrist and pull down, “Let me hear you.” 

“Sorry,” he let her take his hand, but he maneuvered them so that he could slot their fingers together, and he held her hand tightly before he rested them on his thigh, “Haven’t had this done to me in a while, and with it being you I -- well, I’m just a bit of a mess.” 

“I like messes,” Y/N murmured against his head before she flicked her tongue along the frenulum, “Do you wanna hold my head? Or you could stand up and fuck my throat -- I’m good with either.” The moan that left his lips was well worth taking a moment to breathe, and she shivered at his whimpers when she circled the pad of her thumb at the underside of the head, “I just want you to feel good.” 

Harry squeezed her hand again, “I don’t know, Sweet girl, I just -- oh! Oh, fuck, baby,” Y/N had sunk back onto his prick by then, without a thought other than sucking him down and sucking him dry. He deserved it -- she thinks that if she could for him, she would stay on her knees for days on end and leave her mouth open for him to use as he pleased, “You’re going to make me cum if you keep doing that.” 

Again she hummed and sank as low as she could go, her throat spasming around the head while she used the other hand to cup his balls and his thighs tighten around her again in a little hug. It restricted the movement of her hand a bit, but he mewled, goosebumps pebbled over her skin as she felt him throb against her tongue once more. She drags off of him again for another breath, only this time she doesn’t tug at him while she does so. 

Y/N wondered what she looked like to him from this position. She’d only ever let one boy take a polaroid of her before when she’d been on her knees for him, and when she’d witnessed it after the fact she cringed. It was blurred, but the angle was awful and his thumb was halfway in front of the lens, so after he fell asleep she took it, cut it up into little slivers, and saved it to burn in the next bonfire she attended so that she would never have to look at it again. It had put her off blowies for a while, actually, but she had thrown all caution to the wind when it came to the man sitting above her. She hadn’t concerned if she looked pretty or not, she just wanted him to feel good, but now as her chin is wet and her lips no doubt reddened and swollen, she wondered if he thought she was still pretty. 

Maybe with anyone else, she would be far too self-conscious to ask, but with Harry, she doesn’t worry about it. Isn’t even the least bit nervous when she swallows and asks, “Do you think I’m pretty?” She murmured, blinking up at him.

Harry didn’t waste a second to respond, “I think you’re beautiful.” 

“Even like this?” Her hand began to move over him slowly, and she watched with delight as his eyelids fluttered, “Even all messy?” 

Another whine slithers from his throat, long and drawn, low and pitiful, “I --” he sucked in a deep breath, she watched as the air filled his lungs through a heave of his chest, “I always think you’re beautiful,” he admitted, “I think you’re an angel.” 

Satisfied with his answer, Y/N tucks the head of his prick in between her lips again but stays put. Only lets him sit against her tongue, trying hard not to smile when he makes a little desperate noise, “Baby,” he wiggled, “Please!” 

“Hm?” She hummed against him, and he bucked his hips a little in response. 

His hips stuttered away from her, “Sorry -- sorry, I --” she squeezed the hand she still held of his, encouraging him to do it again. It took him a minute to understand what she meant by it, but when she stayed in her place and squeezed his hand a second time, he rocked his hips up into her mouth again, “You want me to --” 

“Mhm,” she hummed again, and Harry does it again, and again, and again, stroking against her tongue and fucking shallowly into her mouth. She feels him throb again, and she knew it was going to happen soon; her insides bristled at the thought of him filling her mouth.

“So good,” he murmured, his head tilted back, “So, so, so good, fucking hell,” he panted, “Your mouth -- I’m g’na cum,” his hips jutted forward, “I’m g’na cum, I’m g’na cum.” 

The ache in her jaw burned only slightly, but she began to bob her head and started moving her hand. She wanted him to cum, and the quicker the better, honestly, because she didn’t know how much longer she could keep it up. Y/N thinks she would have pushed herself just to make sure that he came, no matter how long it would have taken, but this was much better, she’d say, at least for her mouth.

His other hand did eventually find her head, and he doesn’t slide his fingers through her hair but he does lie his hand on the back of it. The pulse drums in her mouth, she tilted the head against the inside of her cheek and all his muscles go taut as a bow while he squeezed her hand tightly. His groaning is loud, he didn’t bother to muffle it at her request as he began to spurt into her mouth. It’s warm, so much of it filled her mouth and if she could smile at the joy of it then she would have but she had to keep all of it. She worked him through it, twisting her palm against his shaft until he squeezed her hand again, this time for a different reason as she kept on him until he was twitching and sensitive. 

Y/N pushed herself from her spot on the ground, and took hold of Harry’s chin, and used her thumb to pull his lips open. It took him only a moment to understand what she wanted, and he opened up for her easily, as she fixed their lips together and pushed his cum into his silky mouth. Harry moaned against her as he tasted himself, and once she parted with another little peck, she pulled back and swallowed the rest. He swallowed as well, staring at her with spit-slicked, fuchsia-colored lips as he panted. 

With the back of her hand, Y/N dragged it across her mouth to dry it, “You cum a lot,” she was careful in how she handled his softening prick, tucking it back into his sweatpants that she helped him tug up, “It tasted good though, so I guess that’s alright.” 

“Thank you,” he wrapped his arms back around her waist when she sat back down on his lap, where she had been before, “You’re wonderful. I’ll make you cum next, yeah?” 

“Mm,” she hummed, “I’m good for t’night, just wanted to do you.” The lavender tea was still warm, she could feel it from the ceramic that heated her fingertips, as she passed it off to his hand, “Since I have the most wonderful-est mouth in the world though, you could make me cookies or something.” 

Harry took a drink, she wondered if it sank warm and comforting in his belly, “I don’t have anything for making cookies, Pet, I’m sorry,” he continued before she could pout, “But -- well, I thought maybe we could go into town tomorrow. A picnic on the beach might be fun if you’d like that -- it’s supposed to be a bit nicer out than it has been. We could even stop by that bakery you like so much and get sweets, yeah?”

“I love picnics, but --” she stopped herself, the words dance on her tongue but she shot their feet and watched them crumble because she couldn’t say but you hate going into town, don’t you? Since they think you killed your wife? -- no, that wouldn’t do. Her stupid brain had been just seconds from ruining a nice moment, and no matter how badly she wanted to know the truth, she didn’t necessarily want to find out after his prick was in her mouth. It felt like a heavier conversation than just post-orgasm cuddles on his chair, “-- but I didn’t bring my basket.” She settled for instead and she watched as the concern that had been building on his face dissipated, “I’ve got a wicked picnic basket but I think I either lost it in the move or it’s still at my old place.” 

“That’s alright,” he began to rub her back with his free hand, “I’ve got one. It may not be as spectacular but it will do.” 

She pushed a kiss to her cheek, “Okay, good,” she told him, “Now finish your tea, I’m exhausted.” 

                                                         .                             .                           .

They cuddled that night; Harry liked to be a big spoon so he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. 

There is a nightmare -- a small one, nowhere near the extent of the other’s that she’s woken him from -- so she doesn’t have to wake him up as abruptly nor aggressively. She merely spun in his arms and petted at his face, murmuring for him to wake up only two times before his eyes blinked open. Before she could say anything, he reached up and held her hand closer to his cheek. 

“I’m okay,” he said, his voice gravelly, “I’m awake?” 

“Mhm,” she hummed, “You’re awake.” 

Harry nodded, “I’m awake,” he agreed quietly, his eyes fluttered shut again, “I love you.” 

Y/N’s brain doesn’t really catch it -- how could her brain catch anything, really? She was so sleepy, and Harry was so warm, and soft, and she wormed her body closer around his. 

“Love you too.” She murmured but her mouth is filled with marbles and her brain doesn’t catch that either. 

                                                              .                          .                         .

“Baker bezzy!” Adam cheered when the bell on the store door’s knob clinked against the glass at their arrival, a grin stretched wide on his mouth as he stuck his arms out high in the air, “Oh, how I’ve missed you -- but the cash registers have missed you more, m’sure of it.” His brows shot straight to the sky once his gaze shifted over to Harry, “Mr. Styles, always a pleasure! And Mr. Charlie, looking dashing.” 

Y/N loved a warm welcome and Adam was always keen on giving them. Charlie was strapped to her chest in his best picnic gear, dungarees beneath his purple coat and buckled shoes that Y/N knew she was going to pop off at some point so he could stuff his toes in the sand. He held her finger in one of his hands, flashing gummy smiles with a singular tooth that had begun to sprout, and Adam waved at him with three fingers. She was appreciative of his treatment toward Harry most of all though; despite his clear surprise that he was seeing him for the first time in what may be more than a year, he covered it well. 

“Hello,” Y/N smiled brightly, “My wallet surely hasn’t missed you though if I’m honest.” 

He holds his hand over his chest, “You wound me, but I’ll let it go. Lucky for you, I’ve just pulled your favorite out of the oven.” 

“Cinnamon rolls?” She gasped, and Adam used both of his hands, waving them toward himself. 

“Yes, yes, you can say it -- Adam, you’re the best, you’re so cool, oh my god what would we do without you -- wouldn’t be the first time I heard it, and you know what?” He plucked off the glove on his right hand, typing something into the register quickly, “They’re on the house, ‘cos I missed you lot so much. Take me on your trip next time.” 

Y/N thanked him about a dozen times before picking out what else she would like, and looping one of her fingers in Harry’s belt loops to tug him closer to the display, “D’ya want a chocolate puff? I dunno’ what that is but it sounds yummy.” 

She effectively racked up a little too much, but it’d been so long since she’d been here so she deemed it only appropriate. Plus, she got free cinnamon rolls which made it a little better. Y/N tried not to spend so much time speaking with Adam as she usually does, especially when she’d realized quickly that Harry was not adding much to the conversation. He probably felt awkward -- Y/N might if she hadn’t been down walking about town for a while, unknowing of how he might be received. Adam had been kind outwardly, but were his thoughts filled with malice? Was he looking at Harry up and down, debating on whether or not he was a cruel being?

Adam had been the one to bring it up to her, but he was also the first to disagree with the population consensus. Harry didn’t know that though -- all Harry knew was that Adam was working smack in the middle of a town that thought he’d killed his wife. Y/N couldn’t say that she would be up for much conversation at that point either, but she still tried to incorporate him into the conversation though he was more so responding with polite smiles and nods. There was little tension behind it but she could still sense his discomfort and ended the conversation with a wad of cash as her gratitude; he told them to come back soon and sent a wink in their direction.

She thought nothing of it -- he always winked, whether it be to her, or the older women that come in, she reckoned he was just being a flirt. It had been so insignificant, actually, that after they made their way to the private beach, laid his lavender-colored “bleach blanket” out to sit on, and unloaded the basket (that was filled with sandwiches, chips, fruit and veggie slices, the cinnamon rolls they’d just gotten for dessert, and some mashed peas and sweet potatoes for Charlie to eat), when Harry said, “He likes you,” Y/N is more than confused.

“Who, Charlie?” She had pulled him from where he was strapped on her stomach, flipping him around so he was sitting in her lap, leaning against her torso and staring out at the ocean, “I’d sure hope so, he has to see this ol’ mug often enough.” Y/N popped open the container of mashed peas, while she let him hold onto his spoon, his fingers wrapped tightly around it while he marveled at the ladybug figure on the handle.

Harry shook his head pensively, “No, not Charlie,” he responded, and in turn, Y/N’s brows furrowed, as she took the spoon from Charlie and dipped it in the peas, “Your baker bezzy. . .Adam.”

A scoffed laugh left her mouth as she gaped at him, “Adam?” Her movements pause, the spoon stopping just short of Charlie’s mouth, and a frustrated whine peels from the back of his throat, “He absolutely does not like me!”

“I think he does,” he twists his ring at the bottom of his pinky finger, but instead of bashfully looking to the side his eyes bore into her own, “How he looks at you and talks to you -- he winked at you and gave you free cinnamon rolls. . .” he trailed off, before repeating firmly, “I think he does.”

“I think that he’s just a bit of a friendly flirter and I leave good tips,” she shook her head again, “But like me? Not like that, I’m certain of it.”

Harry straightened out his back, “How do you know?”

It hadn’t been what she was expecting, and she’s flustered as she fumbles over, “Because I just know! I figure I could piece together if someone had feelings for me or not.”

“You didn’t know I had feelings for you,” he pointed out, reaching forward to wipe away some of the food that had dribbled onto Charlie’s chin before wiping it away with a napkin, “I’d been -- I’d been enamored by you since the first week we’d met, and you had no clue, did you?”

Her eyes bulged wide, as she exclaimed, “No you weren’t!” Because she wasn’t that blind, was she? The first few weeks they knew each other Harry had been so cold and closed off; she would shuffle back and forth anxiously behind him while he methodically made his morning coffee hoping he wasn’t moments from telling her she was fired. As time went on, they’d certainly gotten closer, but she would have had to say that bridge was crossed further than just a week of meeting, “Harry, I thought you hated me that first week.”

“I was incredibly fond of you. More so than I should have been and more so than I particularly cared to admit at the time. You smelled like fresh linen and sweets all the time, and your smile always reached your eyes; I never imagined you would feel even remotely the same for me, so I tried to be as distant as possible with you working in my house but it was difficult -- you made it very difficult.” Again, Y/N wishes that even for a moment he would break away his gaze, because she’s captivated by his words and mesmerized by the way the sunlight brought sparkles to the green of his irises, “When you held me for the first time, it felt like my insides had melted and it was all I could think about for weeks after.”

Her heart was hammering, thundering in her ears, “Harry --”

“And I was so cold toward you because I hated myself for feeling that way, but it felt good to be warmed in the light that you emit. All of that is beside the point,” he huffed out a breath, pointing his finger toward himself, “If I could hide that right under your nose, then he could definitely hide liking you behind free cinnamon rolls and cheeky winks.”

It took Y/N a while to find what to say, her mind racing a hundred thoughts a second, but she felt as if no response she conjured up would be good enough. Her heart filled with butterflies, that fluttered down to her stomach and made her giddy all over. She felt like a kid again, as she flushed warm, so it was only reasonable that in true teenage fashion her response was to nudge him with her foot, trying not to grin as hard as she wanted to.

“Harry,” she began, “You’re jealous.”

A disgruntled look took his face, and for a moment Y/N almost regrets saying it, but then he responds.

“I am,” he admitted, shoulders slumped and for the first time he shifts his gaze from her to the ring he’s twisting around his finger, “Like a petulant child,” he sounded upset with himself, giving a strong sigh, “I am jealous that you may have feelings for him because I think you two would do well with each other. And I -- I fear that I’m not very fun.”

His honesty is a lot, but it’s refreshing. Like breathing the air of a meadow far from the city smog that sat heavy in the lungs, where the grass is green and dewy, the flowers have all blossomed, it feels like living in a painting and it smells like renewal and it’s clear as looking through crystals. He speaks from his heart; his words are sincere, and it makes her feel like she’s floating. She wishes he didn’t look so grumpy about it though -- and she wishes he didn’t think that he wasn’t fun.

So Y/N plopped the spoon back into the peas and set it off to the side for a moment, placing her hand on Charlie’s tummy and keeping him pressed to her body as she began to shuffle from where she’d been positioned. She carefully avoided the food they had set up, but she urgently pats at his thighs until he gets the hint to spread them open. Y/N spun around so she faced out toward the water again, only this time she pressed her back up against his torso and lied against him, settling Charlie back in the cradle of her crossed legs, taking the peas in hand.

“If I had feelings for Adam that surpassed friendly, then I would be in the bakery kneading bread or summat. And if I didn’t have fun with you Harry, then I would avoid every chance of seeing you outside of your house for more than a few minutes at the time,” she tilted her head back, craning her neck so that she could look up at him some, and she finds that he’s looking at her, “If I wanted to be anywhere else right now, then I would be, but I’m not because I want to be with you.” She knocks his foot against hers, “Aish, you’re silly.”  

Harry smiled, his hand cradled the side of her face and petted at her jawline tenderly, “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the waves crash against the shore in a particularly loud burst but he’s so close she can still hear him clearly, “I know I worry too much. I’ve never had this amount of reassurance before.”

She grinned, “Well if it’s reassurance you need, then I’ve got a load of it!” Y/N dipped the spoon in the peas and fed Charlie again, “I love a bit of reassurance myself, so I try to dish it out as much as possible, y’know?”

He dips his forehead against the back of her head, and breathes in deep, wrapping his arms around both her and Charlie.

Harry says nothing but he doesn’t have to.

Their lunch is pleasant, the sun is warm, and Charlie fell asleep soon after they had finished, resting with his cheek on her chest and his arms slung around her body. Y/N was moments from sleep herself, with her belly full and her mind swimming in drowsy clouds. It hadn’t helped that Harry was petting so gently at her arm, accompanied with murmured stories of his childhood by her request. Harry had always told her that he’d grown up with money, and from the time spent with his parents that much was clear, but she was curious by the extent of it. Growing up her family hadn’t been in the worst shape, but definitely not the best, so the polarity of their younger years was interesting to her.

He’d told her about the birthdays that he had, one of which included him and his four closest friends taking a trip to Disney World. His parents covered the entirety of the visit, along with bringing Harry’s nanny along so that she could watch over all five of the nine-year-olds (which clued her in that paying for nannies on their trips was a standard practice Harry had carried over). Nothing had been off-limits, he’d told her, that whatever he had set his eyes on he got and Y/N mused over the possibilities of all the things his nine-year-old self had determined he needed. Shirts, stuffies, figurines -- he told her his mum had kept them all, and each year on his birthday she sends one of the stuffed animals with his actual gift (which she’d been doing for eight years now, meaning that he had gotten at least eight stuffed animals and with the price of those things? Christ!).

And then he told her about his first kiss, back when he was 11 under an apple tree at his Nan’s farm, with the daughter of a family friend. He told her it was horrible, and he’d been so nervous that he’d cried leading up to it, but he regarded the memory fondly. Harry kept in touch with her for years after and had even been the first person she’d come out to when they were teenagers -- he came with her on her first date and spied from a distance because she had watched one too many crime shows and had been positive she was going to be kidnapped, but it went well. When the date had gone to the restroom, Harry slid over to the table and slipped her money to pay the tab and get ice cream afterward.

Y/N had inquired about his schooling, and he told her all the ins-and-outs of the private school that he’d attended. He said it had been pleasantly boring, but went on to tell her an extensive four-part story about a student-teacher relationship that somehow managed to last three of their four years there. It had pulled her from the dreamy state she had slipped into, finding that she’d slipped down so her head was in his lap as she opened her eyes and gaped up at him, “That’s like -- like, incredibly illegal.”

“Don’t I know it,” Harry had agreed, “I always knew something was up with the bloke — he ate raisin bread every lunch period.”

A horrified gasp left her mouth, “No, the monster! Why every lunch period?”

“Couldn’t tell you. It was very unsettling.”

After that, Harry started describing a trip that he’d taken to Japan during cherry blossom season, and went into extreme detail about how the air smelled, and how the wind felt against his skin. He told her that words and pictures would never be able to translate how beautiful it was, but he tried his best to as he traced looping patterns with the tips of his fingers onto her cheeks. That’s when her eyes had fluttered closed, and that’s when she started falling into a pleasant slumber. Harry still spoke though she knew he could see that she was falling asleep, but he doesn’t mention it other than caressing her jaw and murmuring, “Sleepy thing.”

Y/N is unsure how long they are there, but she is very sure that she’s never been more comfortable in her life. And as he coaxes her awake, she opened her eyes, squinting at the sun that still sat high over them while she tried to refocus on his face, “Hm?” She hummed and Harry giggled brightly.

“I said let’s get you two home, Angel,” he helped guide her from his lap, but he doesn’t rush her -- just a gentle hand on her back as she cradles a still-sleeping Charlie to her body as she sat up, “When I checked the weather they called for rain in an hour or two. Reckon it wouldn’t be very fun to get caught up in the storm.”

They clean up after themselves thoroughly, and Y/N carefully places Charlie in his holder that was fixed on Harry’s chest this time. As they walk toward the car, Y/N can tell that Harry is deep in thought but she doesn’t question him on it -- she didn’t like to pry or push him to say things if he wasn’t ready to, which made it all the more gratifying when he did open up to her, even about little things. Though this thing, apparently, had felt very big to Harry -- at least the furrow in his brow was telling her that.

“I --” he began, and Y/N paused, her hand wrapped around the handle of the door, humming to let him know she was listening, “I need to go to the store.”

She controlled her features well enough, she’d say, because her brows don’t skyrocket at the suggestion of going in an even more public area than the bakery, “Oh? What d’ya need?”

With a clear of his throat, he explained, “We ran out of creamer and paracetamol,” his fingers are clutched tight around the keys but he finally digs the pad of his thumb on the button to unlock the car, “It’ll only be a moment.”

Y/N popped the door open, “Well that’s easy enough! I can pop in for you if you want. Or we could go in together too!” It rolled off her tongue -- she tried to act as natural as she could about it; she couldn’t let him go into that store alone. The thought of it gave her hives all over, “I might as well pick up a few things myself.”

Harry gave a ruminative smile, one that barely reached his eyes and only twitched the corner of her mouth by the smallest of quirks. It was very reminiscent of the sort of smiles she’d been privy to when they’d first met, and she’d not realized how much she hadn’t missed it at all. She liked the smiles that she received now, big and bright, rosy cheeks but a beautiful light behind his gaze. No, this one was cold and contemplative -- this one spoke of loneliness and pain.

“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want you to go in by yourself.” Harry questioned and she didn’t waste a moment, nodding quickly.

“Of course,” she popped the door open, “Yeah, we’ll both go in then. In and out, right?”

He was nervous. Even if Y/N had not an inkling of a clue about his past (and his present, she guesses) with this town, she could feel the tension thick and heavy in her chest. It makes her shuffle uncomfortably, silence filling the car apart from the tick of his blinker as they made their way to the market. Her heart hammered as he parked the car, and it continued to hammer as they got out of the car, Harry placed Charlie into his holder against his body and they walked toward the store. Y/N tried to lighten the mood even just a little, and again she got that tiny little smile, that made her shoulders sink just slightly.

She thinks the tension eases when they walk through the doors and are not immediately stoned. Y/N isn’t a hundred percent sure what the both of them expected, but she guesses something to that extent was what had built up in their heads. A deep breath in and she tried one more time, and squeezed his shoulder once as a silent reminder that she was right there beside him, “They have those red bean buns here, right? I’ll get us some of those.”

Harry scrunched his nose at her, “I think your body functions solely off sweets now, doesn’t it? If not for me  you would not eat any real food.”

It felt as if both of them had been holding air in their lungs but finally sighed out, and each passing minute without a scene breaking out among the others in the grocery, the more they both relaxed. While she could still feel Harry’s worry, he had even begun joking some with her, not letting his guard down but making an effort not to let on how uncomfortable he was to her.

Y/N had really thought they’d made it through the whole store without any trouble, as she slipped the red bean buns into their basket. Harry had been right in the middle of asking her if she’d like anything else while they were still here, just as they passed a woman in a purple knitted sweater. If Y/N hadn’t been staring at one of the stitches at the back of the neck that was just a bit loose, she may not have caught it, and maybe it would have been better if she hadn’t. Maybe it would have been better if her ears hadn’t perked up to hear the uttered, “Disgusting,” that left the woman’s mouth as her gaze caught Y/N’s.

Her brows dip as she paused, her upper half had already been turned and her bottom half followed so she faced the woman fully, “Excuse me?” Y/N said it without thinking, and Harry hums as if he thought she was speaking to him, “Ma’am, what did you say?”

The woman had little shame as she turned to face Y/N, face pinched as if she were revolted, and Y/N’s heart began to sink as she realized what was happening, and with Harry right beside her no less, “I said disgusting,” she put emphasis on the word, “For him to show his face here. We all thought he’d moved.”

Y/N scoffed, “Listen, you need to --”

“Y/N,” Harry’s voice cut through her sentence, his hand resting idly on her shoulder, drawing her attention from the woman, “It isn’t worth it. We should go home.”

The pain in his eyes makes her heart sink lower; she felt as it eroded in her stomach’s acid, and the fight in her had been snuffed out like a small flame beneath a shoe. Y/N looked from the both of them, perturbed by the situation, conflicted only slightly as she swallowed and began to turn away from her. She would have left to -- for Harry’s sake, she would have left and pretended that it hadn’t happened at all until he felt comfortable enough to bring it up -- she would have, really.

“Yeah, why don’t you go home? Wife killer.”  

She really would have.

“Actually, I think you’re the disgusting one,” Y/N had begun as she turned back around, “To say something so cruel. He lost his wife and you’ve decided that it’s his fault? You’re the worst kind of cruel -- downright evil,” her nails pinch into her palms, “You’re awful!”

“Y/N --” Harry tried again, but the woman cut her off quickly.

“He’s the awful one!” She seemed shocked Y/N could have even suggested otherwise, “You’re new here, Honey, so I’ll let you in on what your boyfriend did. He killed his wife after treating her awfully -- cheating on her!” Her words were vile, and to say all of this in front of Harry. The rage that lit through her vessels was enough to make her feel like she was burning up, “And he got away with it ‘cos he can afford fancy lawyers to cover up the truth. So before you go around calling people you don’t know evil, look at the man beside you. And learn some respect.”

Y/N took a small breath, just a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Fuck off.”

“Excuse me?” The woman’s brows raise.

“Respectfully, Fuck. Off.” Y/N’s glare was undeviating, but she could feel eyes on them -- other people watching them closely, though they wouldn’t show it outright, “Were you there when it happened?” She stepped forward, “Or are you God? Some deity?” The woman appeared confounded, like her argument should have been able to sway Y/N, “I don’t think you are -- I think. . .I think you’re a foul creature that thinks you have the right to judge a situation you had no part of. And I think you should think about someone’s feelings before you start saying something with no real basis other than word of mouth from other people just as rotten as you. You really need to do some soul searching if you think that this is the proper way to confront anyone about your feelings. I hope you think about this before you go to bed at night.” She stepped back, closer toward Harry before taking another small breath, “You’re lucky you didn’t wake the baby, or you would have really upset me. Goodbye.”

With this, she turned back on her heel,  and carefully guided Harry by his shoulder to follow her as he let the basket sit on the ground where they’d been. Her eyes burned with tears of frustration and anger, as the look on his face when the woman had first stopped them replayed over and over again in her head. Maybe if she had fought him on it -- maybe if she had just fought him a little harder, he would have stayed in the car and she could have spared him from having to hear that woman. She gave in too easily, and when he tried to get them to leave, she stayed to fight which. . .well, she doesn’t regret saying anything that she did, but she does regret making Harry look bad if she had.

All she had done was bring more attention to them -- she blew it out wide open and brought everyone into his business. She wouldn’t be shocked if he were upset with her. . .no matter her defending him.

“Y/N,” he says her name, but she doesn’t respond at first, swallowed in her thoughts she barely registered that he’d said anything, “Y/N.”

“Yes?” She responded, her hand sliding from his shoulder and back down toward her side.

He paused for a moment, “You knew?”

For a moment, everything freezes.

Her breath caught in her throat, and her heart hiccuped over a beat; Y/N’s fingers twitched where they sat at her sides, her lips hung open waiting for her brain to muster a response -- anything. Could she figure out something to say? Anything at all?

“Y --” she sighed, her blood roaring in her ears, “Yes,” she answered, shoulders slumping in defeat, “I knew. But not -- I didn’t know at the start at all.”

“How long?” Charlie began to blink his eyes open, slow as a pleased cat, “You knew for how long?”

Was he angry with her? Y/N couldn’t tell -- she couldn’t read him at all and it made her palms sweat. She hadn’t been technically lying but she still felt immense guilt suffocating her at the realization that she hadn’t been entirely truthful either. Not that she ever had the opportunity to just. . .bring it up, but still -- fuck, she didn’t know what to do.

“Since the third week.”

                                                       .                            .                         .

The ride to his house is silent.

Not the comfortable one that they sometimes fell into; like when she’s so focused staring out the window that no words come to her mouth, where the engine’s lulled purr and Charlie’s small giggles and babbles fizzled through the quiet. The kind where Harry had much recently started placing his hand on her thigh, resting it there with no real purpose other than to touch her. One where she feels content and calm, and if she let her eyes flutter shut she could drift off to sleep, the sun disappearing and reappearing as they drive past trees creating pink flickers behind her lids.

No, this wasn’t like that at all.

There was no noise. It felt like even the car had sensed the tension and held its breath waiting for one of them to slice words through the quiet. Her gaze was trained out the window but her fingers shook and her heart raced -- she could hear it thumping in her ears. She should have kept her mouth shut, she’s decided that if she hadn’t said anything at all then everything would be okay. If she had ignored the woman’s tasteless murmur, then she and Harry could have been laughing right now. Maybe they would have sat at one of the park benches, or pushed Charlie on the swing. Maybe Harry would share one of her sweets with her while the sun began to sink. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so downtrodden and gloomy.

Clouds thick with rain pulled in from the North and had Harry not mentioned them earlier, she would have thought the weather had changed with the mood. It was befitting, at the very least, the heavy drops spatter the glass as the gates open for them, and the loud iron hinges that usually make her cringe is a welcomed piercing into the silence. If it were a normal day, Y/N would joke that they should ditch the gate and invest in a moat instead  -- she thinks Harry might have chuckled.

Y/N half expects him to tell her to go home, but he doesn’t. The first words he spoke after about 20 minutes of nothing was a gentle request to take Charlie in, and warning her that Niall would be stopping by for something. She vaguely remembered him mentioning Niall earlier before all this, so she doesn’t panic that he was lifting her of her duties and going back to how things had been before her, but the thought had still arisen, no matter how fleeting.

“Do you need help grabbing everything?” She inquired, but he only shook his head.

“I’ll be okay.”

It was rotten -- this feeling that had begun to overcome her was as rotten as the wood in a forgotten cabin and as dense as sludge from the bottom of a polluted river. This was her fault. . .god, if she had just kept her stupid mouth shut!

But how could she? The lady had been so spiteful and so cruel, and to witness it happening rather than just theorizing about it, made it much too real. At that moment, the weight of what Harry had been going through here had finally settled deep in her chest and it made her sick. She didn’t know what happened but she knew he had vivid nightmares -- she knew the lost, faraway look that would take over his face at the mention of his wife, and she knew the pain that crossed his features every moment he’d uttered how he doesn’t really go to town.

They all so viciously passed judgment on them for something they knew absolutely nothing about and Y/N defended him for something she knew nothing about. It felt as if it had happened either seconds ago or hours ago like she was caught in a figure-eight of time that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be -- seconds, minutes, hours. Tears still burned behind her eyes but she refused to shed them, as she hid away for a little while with Charlie in his playroom. The only time she comes out is just a little over two hours of them being home when it was time for Charlie’s supper. Just as she’d stepped onto the hardwood from the last step, the doorbell rang and Y/N was quick to answer it.

Niall is revealed once she pulls the door open, and the warmth of his grin combats the chill of evening air that rushed in the foyer, “Hey, Y/N!”

“Hi,” she smiled, stepping out of the way so that he could step in, “How was your winter break?”

Niall loosened his scarf from around his throat, “If Mr. Styles asks, it was dull, boring and I couldn’t wait to get back to work, but between you, me, and Charlie, I wish we had about four more weeks of it.”

She led them in and went to the kitchen while Niall made his way to Harry’s office. Y/N fuddled about making Charlie’s dinner, but could only stomach a glass of water for herself as she fed him. Normally she would dance between giving Charlie some, then eating a bite of her food, and making idle chatter with him as she did so. She still tried to chatter at him so he didn’t notice the difference, but she knew he could feel something was off. Babies were smart little things, and they could read energy better than anyone in a room like they had built-in radars that either dampen or strengthen with time.

Instead of feeding off it in a bad way and getting fussy, he’s just extra cuddly though. Held one of her fingers while she slid mashed carrots into his mouth and cooed at his puckered lips while he tasted it. No matter what happened today, this little guy knew no different -- just another day for him. . .she longed to switch places.

Just as she had wiped his face clean of his food and filled the dishwasher with what she used, the door to Harry’s office opens, followed by a call of, “See you, Mr. Styles!” So she turned her body toward the opening to the kitchen so she could bid him a farewell too, and soon enough he pops into the frame, “Hey, I’m heading out. Mr. Styles said after you lay Charlie down to come speak with him,” Y/N’s breathing hitched, Niall raised his fingers that he had crossed with a grin, “Hope it’s for a raise. See you later!”

“See you later,” she called after him but it was weak, and her heart (that had just finally begun to settle) began to hammer again. It continued to do so as she pulled Charlie from his seat, and all throughout his nighttime routine. She still tries for him, smiling at him, humming, and talking as she washed him clean of the day, blew raspberries into his tummy after she lotioned his skin, and dressed him in something warm and cozy. Charlie would fall asleep if she set him in his crib, she knew that, but to soothe herself and prolong what may be an intense conversation, she sat him in her lap and read him a story. Even after he’d fallen asleep in her arms, she pressed her nose to his soft hair and tried to calm herself down.

Eventually, it couldn’t be helped any longer. Her nerves got the better of her and she lowered him into his crib, turned off the light, clicked his sound machine on low, and crept out of the room quietly. She knew Harry would still be in his office because she hadn’t heard him go to his bedroom, so she walked down the steps and tried to soothe the worry from her bones as she grabbed a water bottle from the kitchen. No matter what, it was still Harry -- still the man who was always so gentle and kind with her. Today had thrown him off -- it would throw anyone off, so she understood why he was so quiet and distant. She would be too if the circumstances were flipped.

Still, she hated how this felt, as her knuckles knocked against the wood and she held her breath, waiting for him to speak.

“Come in.”

One more deep breath and she pushes the door open, and instead of making her way to his side like she had been doing, she stood at the door awkwardly, waiting for him to speak first. If she had been the one to initiate this then she would have prepared something to say, but she stays quiet -- he invited her down, so he had something to say, and she was keen on hearing it. Harry stood in front of his desk, his bum resting against the lip of it with his legs outstretched, and he held himself up with his hands on either side of him. He doesn’t avoid her gaze, locking it with her own, and she watched as he took a deep breath of his own, blowing a small stream of air through pursed lips.

“First, I want to apologize,” he finally started, and Y/N swallowed thickly, “I shouldn’t have -- I shouldn’t have subjected you to an environment I knew could have been hostile. We should have gone home and I should have just ordered it.” Her brows knit immediately, and she opened her mouth to refute that, that could have been his fault in any way but he held up his hand, “Please, Sweetheart, I -- I need to -- I need to get through this.”

She nodded, the twist in her belly partially satiated by the term of endearment -- he wasn’t mad at her, at the very least -- that helped a great deal.

“I should have, but I hadn’t because  -- because things just feel so normal with you, and I wanted that. . .I wanted to go to the grocery store with you how we could in the city, and to be normal here. I thought that maybe we could, but for my own selfish reasons, I didn’t think it through nearly enough.” He shook his head at himself, “And I apologize for shutting down the way that I did on the ride home. It was naive of me to believe you could work for me this long and not know what is thought of me here. I think a part of me thought you might know but you had always -- you had always treated me so kindly, and you never asked questions so I had suspicions that you may have heard a passing word of it but not in great detail.” One of his hands, he combs through his hair, sighing before he started again, his voice shook only slightly with the first syllable before he got a hold of it, “I told myself several times that if you. . .if you had ever asked what had happened to my wife, I would tell you everything. I would open my heart to you in every way imaginable before you could -- before they could say anything to you. So I was frustrated finding out that you had already heard that side of it, and that I wasn’t able to speak with you before you could think that I was a murderer --”

“I don’t,” she cut him off firmly, “I don’t think that at all.”

His lips twitched again, in a small smile that just barely reached his eyes that tilted down to the floor, “I want to tell you,” he took in a shaky breath, “I need to tell you, but I’m scared. I haven’t. . .I haven’t really told anyone the whole thing, but --” he looked back up to her, “Do you want to know? Are you -- are you willing to listen to me?”

“Yes, Harry,” she answered with assured conviction, without even a moment passing by, “I want you to tell me everything. If you want me to know then I want to know.”

He nodded,  “Okay,” he murmured, “Can we sit?”

They positioned themselves on the couch, and Y/N took the decorative pillow that would be pressed against her back and sat it in her lap. She curled her arms around it, her fingers idly playing with the tassel at the bottom left corner just to give herself something to do. Harry was preparing himself to speak, and despite how relieved she was to finally get the story, she felt her heart clench in pity for him. Re-living it would be difficult, but he wanted to tell her -- he said he needed to tell her -- so she would listen.

“Ebba and I had met when we were 18 but had only been officially together for 2 years before we started to have problems,” he finally said, shifting uncomfortably on his side of the couch, his fingers fixed around the ring he’d been playing with earlier today, “It was little stuff at first -- little fights and grievances, but we both had decided that it was normal, that kind of thing. Couples bicker and argue because they love each other enough to, that’s what my mum had always said and it had always sounded about right. So we would have tiffs and make-up and it would be well again, but. . .well, the arguments started getting a little worse, especially around our anniversary. She kept accusing me of cheating on her, again and again, and again, but I hadn’t even so much as thought about another woman since I asked her on our first date.” He stared at a spot on the floor -- he looked far away, “And it’s a shit feeling being accused of something like that, so I would fight her back.”

“You’d think we would have taken a break or something to cool off from each other, but we were 23 so instead we moved in together. Thought maybe if we were around each other more then questions of infidelity could be shattered because we would be around each other more. This is around the time I started really gaining my footing in the industry, you know? And Ebba -- well, she’d already had a well-established place at her mother’s company so she was doing just fine. We played happy home for a little while in the new place in the city but it went. . .it went bad again, a few months in. She became very. . .aggressive when we fought, like -- like smashing things and breaking things, but I always figured that was kind of my fault. Could never admit when I was in the wrong about something so I’d just keep pushing her, y’know? Or it had felt that way at least, like no matter what I said I would just push her and push her and push her. But we --” he dipped his head down, staring into his lap, “We loved each other so much, we didn’t want to end things. Had plenty of conversations about ending it, and she’d even packed her bags a few times but we’d never go through with it. If she left, she’d show back up at our flat the next day.”

He took a small breath, pausing for a moment like he was collecting his thoughts again and Y/N offered him the water that sat at their feet. Harry nodded and took two drinks before he continued.

“My mum suggested couple’s counseling, ‘cos she and my father had once when they were younger, so we did. The woman they had gone to see was still in practice so we went and did about 12 sessions. It worked for a little while, or well enough that I thought proposing was the next best step -- we had re-entered that honeymoon stage again and it felt like we were on top of the world. So I proposed and we got married, and it was good for a few months but then I got a promotion,” he twisted the cap back on the bottle, setting it back where it had been on the ground beside her leg, “So I was traveling less with her, and I had less time off but that was a decision I made for myself, the company hadn’t made it. I wanted to -- for selfish reasons. . .it was all for selfish reasons. I wanted more money and I wanted to climb up the company and to learn from the best, but I couldn’t do that if I was spending summer weeks in Cabo. But I never -- I was never clear behind my motives for doing it, so she thought I was just trying to avoid her. Avoid her and “fuck some old computer prick’s wife” is what she would say. And the more we would fight, the longer I would stay at work, the less we would see each other.”

Y/N’s mind was spinning; it felt like Harry was dropping pieces of information that she followed closely behind to collect, fixing them into a timeline that he’d created. Her heart was still beating quickly.

“The first time I caught her cheating, she cried to me after I walked in on them -- it was some bloke from her job, I think, but she had thought I was gone at a business conference for a week. We’d had a massive fight before I left about me leaving, so I had changed my flight a day early to surprise her. The flat was trashed and she was there on the bed with him in our room. I wanted to leave -- to stay at a hotel for the night but she was sobbing, and she was drunk, and I couldn’t leave her alone. So I stayed, and the next few days were rough but then we talked it out, and we cried, and it was good again.” He gave a small self-deprecating smile, “That happened only one more time in that flat, but it technically “didn’t count” because we were on something of a break. I didn’t really see it as that kind of break, but I hadn’t been clear, I suppose.”

It was hard to hear him reflect on it, still finding fault in things that he shouldn’t at all find fault in. Her chest ached for him.

“I went back to school for my Master’s in an accelerated program when I was about 25. I told her I wanted to teach because I wanted to share my knowledge and help students put their best foot forward how some of my good professors allowed me to. Which was true, for the most part, but most of me just wanted to be away from her. I couldn’t handle it anymore -- the fighting, and the breaking, the yelling and the. ..and the hitting. It just felt good to not be home, but instead of being honest with her, I just found more reasons to not be alone with her for more than a dinner or two. I regret that. . .I regret not being honest.” He took in a shaky breath, “2ish before she died, we moved out here, and that was the real end for us. It started out kind of good, like always but then she started disappearing for days at a time. She had started drinking a lot and partying, and the worse our fights got. I tried to get her help -- I could see she was unhappy and this was never the life she wanted to live. It was too close to her father, and she hated it, and so I tried but she didn’t want it. She would say that she wasn’t addicted to anything, she was just having fun because life with me was miserable. I told her I wanted a divorce.”

His eyes had started to become glossy, she noticed how dewy they looked from the glow of his lamp, so she placed her hand on his knee and stroked it carefully with her thumb.

“At first she didn’t fight me on it, only packed her bags and said she would be with her mother for a while. A week later she came and told me that Charlie was in her belly and he was mine -- it was bittersweet. For once I understood why people tried to make marriages work for a child’s sake, and for nine months we were. . .fine. We weren’t awful but we weren’t good either -- we were just fine. But when Charlie was born I. . .” he paused, “When he was born I just had a feeling. A sick, disgusting feeling but it was there nagging at the back of my head and I couldn’t quiet it. So one day when she had gone out with her friends, I took Charlie and we got a paternity test.”

Y/N forces her face to stay neutral.

Her breathing pauses entirely.

“5 days later I found out that Charlie wasn’t mine,” his brows furrowed, and he shook his head, “I confronted her about it. I didn’t -- I didn’t care that he wasn’t mine, I had already fallen in love with him but I needed her to know that I knew. I wanted to know who his real father was. I wanted to know why, if there was any doubt that he could have been mine, did she not tell me. She got upset, she took Charlie and went to stay with her mother again. I didn’t see either of them for 4 months, until -- until one day someone knocked on my door but they were gone before I’d gotten there, and in their place was Charlie. It was too cold for him to be out there so I brought him inside first and I made sure he was warm and taken care of before I called her. I called her again, and again, and again, and again. Niall was there for that, which -- well, he really shouldn’t have been here even while he’s a TA but he was struggling with the material for an exam in one of his other courses and asked me to help him. I hadn’t been on campus so he drove out and we’d been studying in my office.” He explained, wiping a tear from his cheek, “I wonder. . .I always wonder what must have been going on in his head to see his professor like that. Couldn’t bring myself to look at his face but he was playing with Charlie for me, while I was pacing.”

“I checked her location and saw she was in the city, and I -- I apologized and begged Niall to sit with Charlie while I went to see if everything was okay. I just had this horrible feeling, because it hadn’t felt like the other times where she would just disappear and not answer my calls. If she was in the city already then it couldn’t have been her to drop Charlie off, someone else had. Halfway there I got a call from her mum and -- she was sobbing, and asking if Ebba was with me. If I knew where she was, and I told her I was on my way there. She told me that Ebba had written her a letter and left it on the counter for her, for when she got home. She said she was going to -- she said she was done with it all. With everything -- with life.”

It’s getting harder for him to continue, tears fall freely from his eyes now but he still won’t allow himself to truly break and Y/N’s hold on his knee tightens.

“She was at this bridge -- it used to be really popular a decade ago but they started construction on it that never finished, so it was basically deserted. By the time I had gotten there, the police were already there and they were -- her body was covered at the river below the bridge. I cried into the dirt, and I screamed and I screamed and I screamed until an officer’s hands touched my back and he sat me up. Her mom showed up around then too. It was awful. . .it was so, so, so fucking horrible.” He wiped at his face again, “When they actually looked over her, she was -- she had a lot of different drugs in her system.”

“And everyone. . .everyone in this fucking town had thought I killed her and after. . .and after all this time, it started to feel like it. I would have -- I hadn’t seen her for months at that point, there was nothing I could have done, but they look at me like I’m a fucking monster. Like I pushed her off the bridge myself. There stupid fucking theories -- they didn’t think I could hear them but I could. How I didn’t act like Charlie was my son because I resented him and his mother. I love him with my whole heart but those first few months after her death and even sometimes now I’m just so. . .I’m so scared that his biological father will come for him. I didn’t want to -- it sounds stupid now, but I didn’t want to get too close so it wouldn’t hurt as bad when he was taken from me, but even that didn’t work. I’m stiff and stuffy but I love him, and even though the whole relationship was nothing but tattered ribbon by the end, I would have never hurt her. I had. . .I didn’t love her anymore. I hadn’t felt any true love for her for years at that point, but I didn’t want her dead, and with a child in this world no less! But no -- no they made me out to be a killer.“

Y/N is overwhelmed by all of it -- every single word had been more and more difficult to process, and there was no hope of her being able to formulate a response that would do him any good just moments after he’d finished telling her. Sympathy and sorrow weigh in her muscles as she moves forward, wrapping her arms tightly around Harry’s body and dragging him into her own. As if had taken a sledgehammer to the last stonewall he had up around him, he sobs. He holds her close, even tighter than he has after a nightmare, and he lets every emotion that he’d been bottling up out all at once. It’s heartbreaking; her own tears wet her cheeks.

She isn’t sure how long he cried, but it wanes slowly, reduced to hiccups and sniffles. Y/N would have held him to her chest as long as he wanted -- all night and into the morning if that’s what he needed -- but when he’s finally settled, he begins to withdraw. His cheeks are red and wet, his eyes are puffy, his lips are bitten swollen and fuchsia red -- he looks absolutely fucking exhausted. Y/N cradles his face in her hands and guides him to look at her, stroking the damp skin of his face with her thumbs as she spoke.

“Thank you for telling me. I know it must have been very hard,” he nodded, “I don’t think I could ever have the right words to say, to absolve you of any guilt you’re feeling, or to make any of your pain go away, but I do -- I do want to tell you,” his lips quiver, “That Charlie is your son, even though you don’t share blood. You’ve raised him, and you care for him, and when he sees you you can just tell that he is yours, and no matter what happens nothing can change that fact. And I wanted to tell you, that you were not at fault for her death. There was nothing you could have done, so you cannot blame yourself for that, because she was sick Harry.  And you can’t solely take the blame for what you’d been through in your relationship either -- it was abusive. You’ve been through so, so much and nobody should ever have to go through anything like that,” she leaned forward, and pushed a kiss to his forehead, “I’m so sorry, Harry. I wish I could take it all away.”

Harry took in a shaky breath, “Thank you for listening to me,” he murmured, “And for. . .and for not believing them and what they said about me. And for telling Mrs. Stuart off in the grocery. And for. . .for everything,” he dipped down, touching their foreheads together, and he giggled a small bit, “I want -- I want to get better. To process all the trauma of it so I can be the best version of myself for you and Charlie. Reckon I should probably look into therapy.”

Y/N breathed out a laugh, “I think that may be beneficial, yeah. Think everyone could use a bit of therapy -- nothing shameful about it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded to himself, “I think I’ll do that.”

                                                     .                              .                               .

Y/N had not foreseen how light the air around them would be. Even lighter than before; if a week ago it felt like floating on clouds with him, then now they move when the wind blows even a gentle gust. It’s good and it’s freeing, and if it feels as if there’s a weight off her chest then she knows Harry must feel a weight off his.

It was a lot — all of it was so much, and she doesn’t think she could truly comprehend the pain that Harry had suffered through but though it hurts to know, she’s glad to understand him more. To understand all his stony bits and all his worn, weathered bits. To push a piece that had been missing in the puzzle and see the full picture — and while it was agonizing to retell, she noticed how even now Harry has softened more, and she had already thought he was as soft as he could’ve been.

As if he were porcelain, Y/N treats him delicately. She knows how he must feel right now, exhausted and raw; his inner thoughts and the source of his nightmares cracked open and spread out before the both of them. He deserved to be touched kindly, and gently. With warmth and love and care. Y/N knew it wasn’t her responsibility to pick up the broken pieces and tape them back together -- that would be too much work for any one person to do for another -- but she vowed right then to help him. In her mind, she promised to hand him bits of tape when he was sticking parts together or helping him reach his back. She’d support him in any way she could because she. . .she felt so deeply for him. Y/N doesn’t think she’d ever felt this way for anyone before -- she knows she hasn’t, actually.

She drew him a bath and sat with him while he soaked in the tub, the both of them just wanting to be close. Needing to be close. He had offered for her to climb into the tub but she politely declined, “Let me take care of you for tonight,” she murmured, “I’ll take you up on that tomorrow though if the offer still stands.”

“The offer will always stand.”

Y/N shampoos his hair for him, massaging his scalp and soaping up the strands for no other reason than she knew it would feel good. They understand it without words, which is why Y/N simply sheds her clothes and digs through his drawers for a shirt to sleep in as he dries off. And it’s why she crawled into his bed beside him, immediately adhering to his side, their legs tangling and their arms wrapping around each other like if they even for a second thought about letting go, the other would float away.

Y/N pushes kisses all over his face, loving on him in every way that she could because she could and he accepted it happily. His smiles were soft and sweet and made her melt. She just wanted him to remember that he was with her, right now, in the present -- away from that. Away from the pain and the hurt. The look in his eyes when she paused and just stared at him for a little while said everything that she needed to know without words, but when he said it aloud, it felt even sweeter.

“You mean the world to me,” he hummed, the pads of his fingers smoothing over her temple, stroking down to caress her jaw, “I love you.”

Her heart swells full, and she bites down a grin that threatens to split her cheeks.

“I love you too.” She responded, lowering down so her face was pressed to his chest. He’s warm -- she lets her eyes flutter closed as she immerses herself in him. His essence and his being; she breathes him in greedily.

Harry is quiet for a moment, long enough that she thinks they may be going to bed for the night, but he chuckled suddenly.

“Weird,” he murmured, “Feels like we’ve said that before.”

[sabugabr]

Why the Clone problem in Star Wars animated media is also a Mandalorian problem, and why we have to talk about it (PART 2)

Hi! I finally finished wrapping this up, so here’s part 2 of what has already become a mini article (you can find Part 1 here, if you like!)

And for this part, it won’t be as much as a critic as part 1 was, but instead I’d like to focus more on what I consider to be a wasted potential regarding the representation of the Clones in the Star Wars animated media, from the first season of The Clone Wars till now, and why I believe it to be an extension of the Mandalorian problem I discussed in part 1 —  the good old colonialism.

Sources used, as always, will be linked at the end of this post!

PART 2: THE CLONES

Cody will never know peace

So I’d like to state that I won’t focus as much on the blatantly whitewashing aspect, for I believe it to be very clear by now. If you aren’t familiar with it, I highly recommend you search around tumblr and the internet, there are a lot of interesting articles and posts about it that explain things very didactically and in detail. The only thing you need to know to get this started is that even at the first seasons of Clone Wars (when the troopers still had this somewhat darker skin complexion and all) they were still a whitewashed version of Temuera Morrison (Jango’s actor). And from then, as we all know, they only got whiter and whiter till we get where we are now, in rage.

Look at this very ambiguously non-white but still westernized men fiercely guarding their pin-up space poster

Now look at this still westernized but slightly (sarcasm) whiter men who for some reason now have different tanning levels among them (See how Rex now has a lighter skin tone? WHEN THE HELL DID THAT HAPPEN KKKKKKK) Anyway you got the idea. So without further ado...

2.1 THE FANTASY METAPHOR

As I mentioned before in Part 1, one thing that has to be very clear if you want to follow my train of thought is that it’s impossible to consume something without attributing cultural meanings to it, or without making cultural associations. This things will naturally happen and it often can improve our connection to certain narratives, especially fantastic ones. Even if a story takes place in a fantastic/sci fi universe, with all fictional species and people and worlds and cultures, they never come from nowhere, and almost always they have some or a lot of basing in real people and cultures. And when done properly, this can help making these stories resonate in a very beautifull, meaningfull way. I actually believe this intrisic cultural associations are the things that make these stories work at all. As the brilliant american speculative/science fiction author Ursula K. Le Guin says in the introduction (added in 1976) of her novel The Left Hand of Darkness, and that I was not able to chopp much because it’s absolutely genious and i’ll be leaving the link to the full text right here,

“The purpose of a thought-experiment, as the term was used by Schrodinger and other physicists, is not to predict the future — indeed Schrodinger's most famous thought-experiment goes to show that the ‘future,’ on the quantum level, cannot be predicted — but to describe reality, the present world.

Science fiction is not predictive; it is descriptive.”

[...] “Fiction writers, at least in their braver moments, do desire the truth: to know it, speak it, serve it. But they go about it in a peculiar and devious way, which consists in inventing persons, places, and events which never did and never will exist or occur, and telling about these fictions in detail and at length and with a great deal of emotion, and then when they are done writing down this pack of lies, they say, There! That's the truth!

They may use all kinds of facts to support their tissue of lies. They may describe the Marshalsea Prison, which was a real place, or the battle of Borodino, which really was fought, or the process of cloning, which really takes place in laboratories, or the deterioration of a personality, which is described in real textbooks of psychology; and so on. This weight of verifiable place-event-phenomenon-behavior makes the reader forget that he is reading a pure invention, a history that never took place anywhere but in that unlocalisable region, the author's mind. In fact, while we read a novel, we are insane —bonkers. We believe in the existence of people who aren't there, we hear their voices, we watch the battle of Borodino with  them, we may even become Napoleon. Sanity returns (in most cases) when the book is closed.”

[...] “ In reading a novel, any novel, we have to know perfectly well that the whole thing is nonsense, and then, while reading, believe every word of it. Finally, when we're done with it, we may find — if it's a good novel — that we're a bit different from what we were before we read it, that we have been changed a little, as if by having met a new face, crossed a street we never crossed before. But it's very hard to say just what we learned, how we were changed.

The artist deals with what cannot be said in words.

The artist whose medium is fiction does this within words. The novelist says in words what cannot be said in words. Words can be used thus paradoxically because they have, along with a semiotic usage, a symbolic or metaphoric usage. [...]  All fiction is metaphor. Science fiction is metaphor. What sets it apart from older forms of fiction seems to be its use of new metaphors, drawn from certain great dominants of our contemporary life — science, all the sciences, and technology, and the relativistic and the historical outlook, among them. Space travel is one of these metaphors; so is an alternative society, an alternative biology; the future is another. The future, in fiction, is a metaphor.

A metaphor for what?” [1]

A metaphor for what indeed. I won’t be going into what Star Wars as a whole is a metaphor for, because I am certain that it varies from person to person, and everyone can and has the total right to take whatever they want from this story, and understand it as they see fit. That’s why it’s called the modern myth. And therefore, all I’ll be saying here is playinly my take not only on what I understand the Clones to be, but what I believe they could have meant.

2.2 SO, BOBA IS A CLONE

I don’t want to get too repetitive, but I wanted to adress it because even though I by no means intend to put Boba and the Clones in the same bag, there is one aspect about them that I find very similar and interesting, that is the persue of individuality. While the Clones have this very intrinsically connected to their narratives, in Boba’s case this appears more in his concept design. As I mentioned in Part 1, one of the things the CW staff had in mind while designing the mandalorians is that they wanted to make Boba seem unique and distinguishable from them, and honestly even in the original trilogy he stands out a lot. He is unique and memorable and that’s one of the things that draws us to him.

And as we all know, both Boba and Jango and the Clones are played by Temuera Morrison — and occasionally by the wonderful Bodie Taylor and Daniel Logan. And Temuera Morrison comes from the Maori people. And differently from the mandalorian case, where we were talking about a whole planet, in this situation we’re talking about portraying one single person, so there’s nowhere to go around his appearance and phenotypes, right? I mean, you are literally representing an actual individual, so there’s no way you could alter their looks, right?

(hahahaha wrong)

And besides that, I think that is in situations like that (when we are talking about individuals) that the actor’s perspective could really have a place to shine (just the same as how Lea was mostly written by Carrie Fisher). In this very heart-warming interview for The New York Times (which you can read full signing up for their 5-free-articles-per-month policy), Temuera Morrison talks a little bit about how he incorporated his cultural background to Boba Fett in The Mandalorian:

“I come from the Maori nation of New Zealand, the Indigenous people — we’re the Down Under Polynesians — and I wanted to bring that kind of spirit and energy, which we call wairua. I’ve been trained in my cultural dance, which we call the haka. I’ve also been trained in some of our weapons, so that’s how I was able to manipulate some of the weapons in my fight scenes and work with the gaffi stick, which my character has.” [2]

The Gaffi stick (or Gaderffii), btw, is the weapon used by the Tusken Raiders on Tatooine, and according to oceanic art expert Bruno Claessens it’s design was inspired by wooden Fijian war clubs called totokia. [3]

And I think is very clear how this background can influence one’s performance and approach to a character, and majorly how much more alive this character will feel like. Beyond that, having an actor from your culture to play and add elements to a character will higly improve your sense of connection with them (besides all the impact of seeying yourself on screen, and seeying yourself portrayed with respect). It would only make sense if the cultural elements that the actor brought when giving life to a fictional individual would’ve been kept and even deepened while expanding this role. And if you’re familiar with Star Wars Legends you’ll probably rememeber that in Legends Jango would train and raise all Clone troopers in the Mandalorian culture, so that the Clones would sing traditional war chants before battles, be fluent in Mando’a (Mandalore’s language) and some would proudly take mandalorian names for themselves. So why didn’t Filoni Inc. take that into account when they went to delve into the clones in The Clone Wars?

2.3 THE WHITE MINORITY

First of all I’d like to state that all this is 100% me conjecturing, and by no means at all I’m saying that this is what really happened. But while I was re-watching CW before The Bad Batch premiere, something came to my mind regarding the whitewashing of the Clones, and I’d like to leave that on the table.

So, you know this kind of recent movies and series that depicted like, fairies in this fictional world where fairies were very opressed, but there would be a lot of fairies played by white actors? Just like Bright and Carnival Row. If you’ve watched some of these and have some racial conscience, you’ll probably know where I’m going here. And the issue with it is that often this medias will portray real situations of racism and opression and prejudice, but all applied to white people. Like in Carnival Row, when going to work as a maid in a rich human house, our girl Cara Delevingne had to fight not to have her braids (which held a lot of significance in her culture) cut by her intolerant human mistress, because the braids were not “appropriate”. Got it? hahahaha what a joy

Look at her ethnic braids!!!

One of the reasons this happens might be to relieve a white audience of the burden of watching these stories and feeling what I like to call “white guilt”. Because, as we all know, white people were never very oppressed.  Historically speaking, white people have always been in privileged social positions, and in an exploitative relationship between two ethnic groups, white people very usually would be the exploiters  —  the opressors. So while watching situations (that every minority would know to be very real) of opression in fiction, if these situations were lived by a white actor, there would be no real-life associations, because we have no historical parameter to associate this situation with anything in real life — if you are white. Thus, there is less chance that, when consuming one of these narratives, whoever is watching will question the "truthfulness" of these situations (because it's not "real racism", see, "they're just fairies"). It's easier for a person to watch without having to step out of their comfort zone, or confront the reality of real people who actually go through things like that. There's even a chance that this might diminish empathy for these people.

Once again, not saying this is specifically the case of the Clones, majorly because one of the main feelings you have when watching CW is exactly empathy for the troopers (at least for me, honestly, the galaxy could explode, I just wanted those poor men to be happy for God’s sake). But I’ll talk more about it later.

The thing is, the whole thing with the Clones, if you think about it, it’s not pretty. If you step on little tiny bit outside the bubble of “fictional fantasy”, the concept is very outrageous. They are kept in conditions analogous to slavery, to say the least. To say the more, they were literally made in an on-demand lab to serve a purpose they are personally not a part of, for which they will neither receive any reward nor share any part of the gains. On the contrary, as we saw in The Bad Batch, as soon as the war was over and the clones were no longer useful as cannonballs, they were discarded. In the (wonderful) episode 6 of the third season of (the almost flawless) Rebels, “The Last Battle”, we're even personally introduced to the analogy that there really wasn't much difference in value between clones and droids, something that was pretty clear in Clone Wars but hadn't been said explicitly yet.

In fact, technically the Separatists can be considered to be more human than the Republic. But that's just my opinion.

So, you had this whole army of pretty much slaves. I know this is a heavy term, but these were people who were originally stripped of any sense of humanity or individuality, made literally to go to war and die in it, doing so purely in exchange for food and lodging, under the false pretense that they belonged to a glorious purpose (yes, Loki me taught that term, that was the only thing I absorbed from this series). Doing all this under extremely precarious conditions from which they had no chance of getting out, actually, getting out was tantamount to the death penalty. They were slaves. In milder terms, an oppressed minority. And again, I don't know if that was the case, but I can understand why Filoni Inc would be apprehensive about representing phenotically indigenous people in this situation. Especially since we in theory should see Anakin and Obi-Wan as the good guys.

(and here I’d like to leave a little disclaimer that I believe the whole Anakin-was-a-slave-once plot was HUGELY misused (and honestly just badly done) both in the prequels and in the animeted series  — maybe for the best, since he was, you know, white and all that, and I don’t know how the writers would have handled it, but ANYWAY — I believe this could have been further explored, particularly regarding his relationship with the Clones, and how it could have influenced his revolt against the Jedi, and manipulated to add to his anger and all that. I mean, we already HAD the fact that Anakin shared a deeper conection with his troopers than usual)

Yes, Rex, you have common trauma experiences to share. But anyway, backing to my track

As I was saying, we are to see them as good guys, and maybe that could’ve been tricky if we saw them hooping up on slavery practices. Like, idk, a “nice” sugar plantation owner? (I don’t know the correct word for it in english, but in portuguese they were called senhores de engenho) Like this guy from 12 Years a Slave?

You know, the slave owner who was “nice”. IDK, anyway  

No one will ever watch Clone Wars and make this association (I believe not, at least), of course not. But if we were to see how CW deepened the clone arcs, and see them as phenotypically indigenous, subjected to certain situations that occur in CW (yes, like Umbara), maybe some kind of association would’ve been easier to make.

I mean, come onnnn I can’t be the only one seeing it

You see, maybe not the whole 12 Years a Slave association one, but I don’t think it’s hard to see there was something there. And maybe this could’ve been even more evident if they looked non-white. Because historically, both black peoples and indigenous peoples went through processes of slavery, from which we as a society are still impacted today. And to slave a people, the first thing you have to do is strip them from their humanity. So it might be easier to see this situation and apply it to real life. And maybe that could lead to a whole lot of other questions regarding the Clones, the Republic, the Jedi, and even how chill Obi-Wan was about all this. We might come out of it, as lady Ursula Le Guin stated in the fragment above, a bit different from what we were before we watch it.

Maybe even unconsciously, Filoni Inc thought we would be more confortable watching if they just looked white (and because of colonialism and all that, but I’m adding thoughts here).

And of course I don’t like the idea of, idk, looking at Obi-Wan and thinking about Benedict Cumberbatch in 12 Years a Slave or something like that. Of course that, if the Clones were to play the same role as they did in the prequels, to obediently serve the Jedi and quietly die for them, that would have been bad, and hurtfull, and pejorative if added to all that I said here. But the thing is that Clone Wars, consciously or not, already solved that. At least to my point of view, they already managed to approach this situation in an incredible competent way, that is giving them agency.

2.4 AGENCY AND INDIVIDUALITY

So, one of the things I love most in Clone Wars is how it really feels like it’s about the Clones. Like, we have the bigger scene of Palpatine taking over, Ahsoka’s growth arc, Anakin’s turn to The Dark Side, the dawn of the Jedi and rise of the Empire and all that, but it also has this idk, vibe, of there’s actually something going on that no one in scene is talking about? And this something is the Clones. We have these episodes spread throughout the seasons, even out of chronological order, which when watched together tell a parallel story to the war, to everything I mentioned. Which is a story about individuals. Clone Wars manages to, in a (at least to me) very touching way, make the Clones be the heros. 

Can you really look me in the eye and say that Five’s story didn’t CRASH you like a full-speed train???? He may not have the same amount of screen-time as the protagonists, but his story is just as important as theirs (and to me, it might be the most meaningful one). Because he is the first to break free from the opression cicle all the Clones were trapped into. 

His story can be divided into 6 phases.

1 - First, the construction of his individuality, in other words, the reclaiming of his humanity. 

2 - Then the assimilation of understanding yourself as an individual of value, and then extending this to all his brothers, not as a unit, but as a set of individuals collectively having this same newly discovered value.

3 - This makes him realize that in the situation they find themselves in, they are not being recognized as such. This makes him question the reality of their situation.

4 - Freed from the illusion of his state, he seeks the truth about it.

5 - This then leads him to seek liberation not just for himself, but for all the Clones (it's basically Plato's Cave, and I'm not exaggerating here).

6 - And finally, precisely because he has assimilated his individuality and sought freedom for himself and his brothers, he is punished for it.

His story is all about agency. Agency, according to the Wikipedia page that is the first to appear if you type “agency” on Google, is that agency is “the abstract principle that autonomous beings, agents, are capable of acting by themselves” [4], and this abstract principle can be dissected in 7 segments:

Law - a person acting on behalf of another person

Religious -  "the privilege of choice... introduced by God"

Moral -  capacity for making moral judgments

Philosophical -  the capacity of an autonomous agent to act, relating to action theory in philosophy

Psychological -  the ability to recognize or attribute agency in humans and non-human animals

Sociological -  the ability of social actors to make independent choices, relating to action theory in sociology

Structural - ability of an individual to organize future situations and resource distribution

All of them apply here. And this is just the story of one Clone. We know there are many others throughout the series. 

Agency is what can make the world of a difference when you are telling a story about an opressed minority. Because opressed minorities do exist, and opression exists, and if you are insecure about consuming a fictional media about opressed minorities, see if they have agency might be a good place to start. So that’s why I think that everything I said before in 2.3 falls short. Because the solution already existed, and was indeed done. Honestly, making the non-agency representation of the Clones (the one we see in the prequels) to be the one played by Temuera Morrison, and then giving them agency in the version where they appear to be white, just leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

And honestly, if they were to make the Clones look like Temuera Morrison, and by that mean, take more inspiration in the Māori culture, maybe they wouldn’t even have to change much of their representation besides their facial features. As I said in part 1, I am not by any means an expert in polynesian cultures, but there was something that really got me while I was researching about it. And is the facial tattoos. More precisely, the tā moko. 

2.5  TĀ MOKO

Once again I’ll be using the Te Ara: The Encyclopedia of New Zealand as source, and you can find the articles used linked at the end of this post. 

Etymologically speaking,

“The term moko traditionally applied to male facial tattooing, while kauae referred to moko on the chins of women. There were other specific terms for tattooing on other parts of the body. Eventually ‘moko’ came to be used for Māori tattooing in general.” [5]

So moko is the correct name for the characteristic tattoos we often see when we look for Māori culture. 

These ones ^. Please also look this book up, it’s beautiful. It’s written by  Ngahuia Te Awekotuku, a New Zealand academic specialising in Māori cultural issues and a lesbian activist. She’s wonderful. 

According to the Tourism NewZealand website, 

“In Māori culture, it [moko] reflects the individual's whakapapa (ancestry) and personal history. In earlier times it was an important signifier of social rank, knowledge, skill and eligibility to marry.”

“Traditionally men received moko on their faces, buttocks and thighs. Māori face tattoos are the ultimate expression of Māori identity. Māori believe the head is the most sacred part of the body, so facial tattoos have special significance.”

[...] “The main lines in a Māori tattoo are called manawa, which is the Māori word for heart.” [6]

Therefore, in the Māori culture, there’s this incredibly deep meaning attributed to the (specific of their culture) tattooing of the face. The act of tattooing the body, any part of the body, is incredibly powerful in many cultures around the globe. The adornment of the body can have different meanings for these different cultures, but all of which I've come into contact with do mean a lot. It’s one of the oldest and most beautiful human expressions of individuality and identity. 

And in the Star Wars universe, the Clones are the group that has the deeper connection to, and the best narrative regarding, tattoos. In fact, besides Hera’s father, Cham Syndulla, the Clones are the only individuals to have tattooed skin, at least that I can recall of. And they do share a deep connection to it. 

For the Clones, the tattoos (added to hairstyles) are the most meaningful way in which they can express themselves. Is what makes them distinguishable from each other to other people. Tattoos are one of the things that represent them as individuals.

And I’m not BY ANY MEANS sayin that the Clones facial tattoos = Moko. That’s not my point. But that’s one of the things I meant when I said earlier about the wasted potential of the representation of the Clones (in my point of view). Because maybe if it were their intention to base the culture of the clones after the polynesian culture, maybe if it were their intention to make the Clones actually look like Temuera Morrison, this could have meant a whole deal. More than it’d appear looking to it from outside this culture. Maybe if there were actual polynesian people in the team that designed the Clones and wrote them (or at least indigenous people, something), who knows what we could’ve had. 

Even in Hunter’s design, I noticed that if you take for example this frame of Temuera from the movie River Queen (2005), where we can have a closer look at the design of his tā moko

Speaking purely plastically (because I don’t want to get into the movie itself, just using it as example because then I can use Temuera himself as a comparison), see the lines around the contours of his mouth? Now look at Hunter’s. 

I find it interesting that they choose to design this lines coming from around his nose like that. But at this point I am stretching A LOT into plastic and semiotics, so this comparison is just a little thing that got my attention. I know that his tattoo is a skull and etc etc, I’m just poiting this out. And it even makes me a little frustrated, because they could have taken so many interesting paths in the Bad Batch designs. But instead they choose to pay homage to Rambo. And I mean, I like Rambo, I think he’s cool and all that.

Look at him doing Filipino martial arts

But then, as we say in Brasil, they had the knife and the cheese in their hands (all they had to do was cut the cheese, but they didn’t). Istead, it seems like in order to make Hunter look like Rambo, they made him even whiter??? 

2.6 SO...

Look, I love The Clone Wars. I’m crazy about it. I love the Clones, I love their stories and plots. They are great characters and one of the greatest addings ever made in the Star Wars universe. They even have, in my opinion, the best soundtrack piece to feature in a Star Wars media since John Williams’ wonderful score. It just feels to me as if their narrative core is full of bagage, and meanings, and associations that were just wiped under the carpet when they suddenly became white. It just feels to me as if, once again, they were trying to erase the person behing the trooper mask, and the people they were to represent, and the history they should evoke.

I don’t know why they were whitewashed. Maybe it was just the old due racism and colonialism. Maybe it was meant for us to not question the Jedi, or our good guys, or the real morality of this fictional universe where we were immersed. But then, was it meant for what?

The Clones were a metaphor for what? 

(spoiler: the answer still contains colonialism)

Thank you so much for reading !!!! (and congratulations for getting this far, you are a true hero)

SOURCES USED IN THIS:

[1] Ursulla K. Le Guin, 'The Left Hand of Darkness', 14th ACE print run of June, 1977

[2] Dave Itzkoff, 'Being Boba Fett: Temuera Morrison Discusses ‘The Mandalorian’', The New York Times, published Dec. 7, 2020, https://www.nytimes.com/2020/12/07/arts/television/the-mandalorian-boba-fett-temuera-morrison.html (accessed 15 September 2021)

[3] Bruno Claessens, 'George Lucas' "Star Wars" and Oceanic art' , Archived from the original on December 5, 2020, https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114353/http://brunoclaessens.com/2015/07/george-lucas-star-wars-and-oceanic-art/#.YEiJ-p37RhF (accessed 15 September 2021)

[4]  Wikipedia contributors, "Agency," Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Agency&oldid=1037924611 (accessed September 17, 2021)

[5] Rawinia Higgins, 'Tā moko – Māori tattooing - Origins of tā moko', Te Ara - the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, http://www.TeAra.govt.nz/en/ta-moko-maori-tattooing/page-1 (accessed 17 September 2021)

[6] Tourism New Zealand, ‘The meaning of tā moko, traditional Māori tattoos’,  The Tourism New Zealand website, https://www.newzealand.com/us/feature/ta-moko-maori-tattoo/ (accessed 17 September 2021)

[fiftysevenacademics]

Over the summer I read a novel I just learned about, called “Whose Names are Unknown,” by Sanora Babb. The novel is based on some of Babb’s early childhood experiences and extensive work she did helping people in California’s migrant labor camps during the Dust Bowl and Depression of the 1930s for the government’s Farm Security Administration (FSA). 

In 1939 she completed “Whose Names are Unknown” but her publisher, who had initially been enthusiastic and given her an advance, declined to publish it. George Steinbeck, already a successful author, had just published “The Grapes of Wrath,” and it jumped immediately to the top of the bestseller list. The publisher felt another book on the same topic would be, in his words, “anticlimatic.” Babb’s novel wasn’t published until 2004, when she was 97 years old.

But Steinbeck’s novel owes a debt to Sanora Babb. Steinbeck began research in 1936 for articles that would eventually prompt him to write “The Grapes of Wrath,” visiting migrant labor camps that housed Midwestern Dust Bowl refugees. One of these camps was Weedpatch, near Bakersfield, California. Steinbeck befriended the camp’s administrator, Tom Collins. Collins helped Steinbeck’s research by giving him copies of detailed reports he and other FSA workers compiled about the people and conditions in the camp for the FSA. 

One of the people who helped write these reports was Sanora Babb, who worked at Weedpatch, and was also friends with Tom Collins. Babb even briefly met Steinbeck twice.

The amount and type of Babb’s notes that Collins gave Steinbeck seems unclear. Did Babb give Collins personal, private notes she might have kept as part of her writing process? Or did Collins only have access to the notes she took for the official FSA reports? Regardless, Steinbeck had access to at least some of Babb’s observations to inform development of his novel.

Some have accused Steinbeck of stealing her work and publishing it as his own and of not doing his own research. This idea appears to be based largely on a blog post that makes some assertions without offering any evidence. 

The executor of Babb’s literary estate said, “We have no proof that Steinbeck used her notes. We know her notes were given to him, but we don't know whether it was in the form of a FSA report of not. If that's the case, he wouldn't have known they came from her specifically. So we can't know to what degree he used her notes, or didn't, but at the end of the day, she was in the fields working with the migrants. She was the one doing that."

Writing in The Steinbeck Review, Michael J. Meyer noted numerous "obvious similarities" between the two novels "that even a cursory reading will reveal", such as Babb's account of two still-born babies, mirrored in Steinbeck's description of Rosasharn's baby. Among other scenes and themes repeated in both books: the villainy of banks, corporations, and company stores that charge exorbitant prices; the rejection of religion and the embrace of music as a means of preserving hope; descriptions of the fecundity of nature and agriculture, and the contrast with the impoverishment of the migrants; and the disparity between those willing to extend assistance to the migrants and others who view "Okies" as subhuman. Meyer, a Steinbeck bibliographer, stops short of labeling these parallels as plagiarism but concludes that "Steinbeck scholars would do well to read Babb — if only to see for themselves the echoes of Grapes that abound in her prose." (Source: Wikipedia)

I would say, however, that these similarities probably have more to do with the leftist, even socialist politics both writers espoused. Both were members of communist organizations at one point and both were strong supporters of labor activism and unions. Moreover, villainous banks, corporations, and company stores were, in fact, the cause of so many people’s poverty during the Depression and during the Dust Bowl. Clear-eyed, left-leaning writers like Babb and Steinbeck would certainly have elevated this fact in their fiction. Contrasting fecund nature/impoverished humanity, and disdain/kindness toward “Okies” seem to me like pretty obvious choices when writing about a human-made natural disaster (the Dust Bowl) and with a desire to humanize and generate sympathy toward both the victims of the disaster and toward the union movement. There is also a stillborn baby in both books, described in similar ways. That could, indeed have been something Steinbeck took from the FSA notes, as it is something he is unlikely to have witnessed himself. However, stillborn babies must have been pretty common in the FSA camps. Even this detail can’t be pinned directly to Babb’s notes, though it is suspicious.

In spite of these similarities, “Whose Names are Unknown” is very different from “The Grapes of Wrath.” Babb’s book explores the lives of her characters in ethnographic detail and portrays their lives and struggles with profound empathy and realism. It is clearly the work of someone intimately acquainted with the people and their moral universe, as well as the exacting minutiae of everyday life. Babb writes like an anthropologist, which is something I love about the book.

In “The Grapes of Wrath,” I think (and I am no Steinbeck scholar, heck haven’t even read the book since high school) Steinbeck was more concerned with creating a myth or grand narrative that encapsulated all of the good and bad aspects of America than he was with ethnographic truth. It has drama, good and evil, memorably flawed characters, and, importantly, an epic road trip that probably helped spawn the “road trip” genre of writing. It’s a book with many layers of meaning and emotional resonance. You don’t learn as much about the characters’ world and worldview as in Babb’s book, but you feel so much more and are moved to do something about it. 

Babb felt she was a better writer than Steinbeck because her book was more realistic. If realism is the goal, I would agree with her. Her book is vastly superior to “Grapes” in that regard. But Steinbeck’s book is art. It’s a reflection of reality distorted and expanded into the level of myth or dream. Both books are really good, and really important.

I highly recommend reading “Whose Names are Unknown,” especially if you enjoyed “The Grapes of Wrath” or are particularly interested in Depression-era culture and politics. I don’t know if her book would have been successful if it had been published in 1939, though I suspect her publisher was wrong and it would have sold well enough. It’s also pretty clear that sexism played a big role here. I feel like the subtext of the publisher’s decision was another book about the Dust Bowl (BY A WOMAN) can’t compete with The Great White American Male Author.

[thebibliosphere]

My Heart’s In The Highlands by Amy Hoff (Book Review)

Hey fam, we ready to talk about a Scottish lesbian time traveling romance? 

Also, just an upfront disclaimer on this one: I received an ARC (advance review copy) copy of this book from the Publisher and am writing this review voluntarily.

A Quick Summary:

My Heart’s in the Highlands by Amy Hoff is a sapphic time travel romance set in Scotland, starting in the late 1880s.  Lady Jane Crichton is a learned woman of science (based on the historic ‘Edinburgh Seven’), who has spent her lifetime railing against the restraints of Scottish Victorian life and the expectations placed upon her. Fortunately for Jane, she finds herself in a marriage of convenience (he’s gay and needed a beard to protect his political career, and she needed the financial freedom and support of a wealthy patron. They’re buds about it.) and with the help of her husband, Jane is able to fund her own research and builds a functioning time machine. 

Unfortunately for Jane her time machine malfunctions during one of its voyages, and she finds herself thrown back in time, crash landing into the 13th century. And also into Ainslie nic Dòmhnaill, who is next in line to inherit the great Clan Donald. Which is one hell of a way to find out your a lesbian, but also 10/10 would willingly fall back in time and into the arms of a buff Scottish warrior woman. But Jane also holds a secret. She knows what will become of these lands, and to the people that live on them, and she must choose between her fairy tale romance, or the harsh reality of history that lies ahead. Can her and  Ainslie’s love survive? Or will they be torn apart by time? 

Review:

Okay, so for some perspective going into this review, I am a Scottish editor, and I have worked extensively in the realms of Scottish Historical Romance. Most of you have probably heard of the term ‘Britpacker,’ so if it helps, think of me as a ‘Scots Sifter’—I catch chunks of inaccuracy and gently nudge the phonetic (mis)spellings toward the realms of the accurate. And as a Scottish person who reads romance for both fun and work, it’s a breath of fresh air to read someone who knows what they are doing in this regard. The historical details many readers crave are there in spades, lovingly rendered through beautiful and flowing prose. The (accurate!!!) use of Scots and Gaelic are also masterfully included in the dialect without feeling contrived, and overall enriches the narrative. Hoff is someone who loves Scottish culture and knows it well, and it shows.

(A note for history foodie buffs: I caught one slip-up in the form of potatoes being mentioned in the 13th century when they didn’t arrive in Scotland until 1739. I am, however, willing to concede that perhaps our heroine Lady Jane is perhaps not the first time traveler to have crash-landed into the Highlands. The others were merely better supplied. EDIT: I’ve been informed this error will be corrected in the next print.) As a heroine, Lady Jane is charmingly out of time and place even before she sets foot in her time machine. A woman in her later thirties (a novelty I’ll never tire of in Romance), she holds many convictions and beliefs, both about history and herself. All of which are proven wrong the moment she is flung back in time and meets the charming (and I cannot stress this enough) incredibly buff warrior woman, Ainslie nic Dòmhnaill. Setting aside my more analytical interests in this text, allow me to just say, I would die for Ainslie; something which I feel secure in saying would not happen, as Ainslie would murder anyone that tried. (And I would hold her golden torque and flower all starry-eyed while she did it.) However, there were one or two things that jumped out at me, both as a reader and an editor. While some scenes are concisely eloquent, there are a areas where pacing (and grammar) fall down, and the book feels like it could use with tightening up with another pass at editing. There was very little build up to the romance itself, which is fine, the instant true love trope is a well-loved trope for a reason. But it felt out of character for Jane, who presents initially as either on the demi or ace spectrum, but then falls immediately, if not in love, then certainly in lust with Ainslie. If this was intentional, I cannot say, but her sudden switch in dynamic is jarring and could have used a little gentler development.

Once the romance begins, it is sweet and enjoyable for the most part, but also again not without issue. There’s a distinct lack of verbal consent which modern readers might find discomfiting, especially in the LGBTQ+ spheres which paved the way for better consent and relationship dynamics in modern romance, and if I were asked to tag this book, I’d likely opt to tag it as “dubious consent” just to cover any potential triggers for people who would be unsettled by that sort of thing. (“Tell me no” being met with silence is not the same as consent. It might have worked 20 years ago in publishing, but it wouldn’t/shouldn’t fly now.) I like the characters dearly. Ainslie is smitten with Jane the moment she sets eyes on her, even if Jane is initially very awkward and prickly. Jane is also taken with her glorious redheaded warrior, and frankly, who could blame her? The book also has several of my favorite romantic tropes in it, including the all-time favorite “There’s Only One Bed”, though I wish more had been made of them. The sex scenes are hot and also sweetly endearing at times, though again I would like to see more explicit consent. Overall, it’s not a bad debut novel into the forays of Romance for a first-time Romance author. It’s enjoyable, but I am left with nagging the feeling that it could have been so much more. To my mind, where this book truly excels is Hoff’s love affair with history and Scotland itself. Their narrative shines in moments of reflection, and the subtle and nuanced injections of historical detail, which in my experience, are rarely done so well in this genre. But this is however a Romance novel, and the time-traveling scientist lesbian and her buff redhead warrior girlfriend felt second fiddle to the history at times, which was disappointing because how often do you get to say those words together? Not enough, in my opinion. Overall, I’d rate this as 3.5 out of 5, though it would have been a solid four were it not for the issues surrounding pacing and consent. If Hoff chose to continue the series, however, I’d absolutely be down for more of it. I want to see the characters grow and thrive. I just think a little more experience with the genre (and better editing) is needed first. My Heart’s In the Highlands is available now on Kindle, Paperback, and most other online retail stores. You can also buy directly from the Publisher.

[gumnut-logic]

Callisto (Full Prologue)

Prologue Part One - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3 | Bit 4 | Bit 5 Part Two - Bit 1 | Bit 2 | Bit 3

When I first started this story, I was of two minds whether to put all of the prologue at the front or scatter it throughout the fic. I started with 700-odd words of it and drove into the body.

It fast became obvious that I really needed to build a lot more into the prologue as the OCs were empty shells and I needed to explain the story behind them and why Jeff is so determined.

So at the end of Part Two, I stopped and went back. This is the result. Nearly 5000 words of Jeff Tracy landing on Mars. It can stand as its own story, but it definitely leads into the planned events for the novel, Callisto. Either way I hope you enjoy it. Be aware that the first 500 words or so may be familiar as they were part of the original version. Don’t worry, the rest is new.

Of course, many, many thanks to @tsarinatorment​ @scribbles97​ and @janetm74​ for all the amazing support and help with this fic. Plus @onereyofstarlight​ my go to science officer on this voyage. You guys are absolutely amazing and I couldn’t have done this without you ::massive group hug::

Now this is done, I can finally go back to writing the novel chronologically. I have to say that this is going to be one hell of a ride.

No warnings needed.

-o-o-o-

2033

 “Another boy?”

Jeff grinned. “Yeah. Another one.” He couldn’t help but stare at the photo that had landed on his screen as a good luck token from Earth.

He did of course, know about Lucille going into labour the night before and it was for that reason he hadn’t had the sleep he probably should have pre-history making Mars landing. But honestly, to get this signal from that little blue planet a good eight months away…his heart swelled…his beautiful baby boy had a shock of red hair that screamed their Irish ancestry down through the hundreds of years since their family had left the old world.

Lucille sat holding him, looking tired but ever so proud. Her dark hair was tied back and the sparkle in her eyes brought a lump into his throat. Her mother, pink hair and all, sat beside his wife holding his two eldest boys on her lap. Scott had his hand on Virgil’s arm as the now second youngest reached over towards his baby brother, a frown of concentration on his face.

“He’s beautiful.”

Jeff startled a little. Berry was breaking regs and leaning over the back of Jeff’s pilot couch, her straps unfastened. The cockpit was pretty snug in the lander, most of the room taken up with safety equipment and interfaces, leaving little for the padded personnel support.

He shot an eyebrow in her direction and she smiled a dare back at him. The astrogeologist wasn’t one for breaking the rules, she just liked to taunt him a little.

Ju, in contrast, was checking her harness was secure a second time. “Creating your own crew, Tracy?” Her auburn eyes smirked at him. “Aiming to replace us?”

He grinned. “Could be.” Dare he mention that his four-year-old eldest could already name all the controls in this cockpit? His grin widened. “But we can’t replace the first person to set foot on Mars, now can we?”

Berry snorted, a little abashed. But it was, after all, her part to play once they made touchdown. The words had been rehearsed, the order of exit decided. For very specific reasons, the first human on Mars was going to be Kate Berrenger.

Berry had worked her ass off to make this mission a reality. Her specialisation onboard was astrogeologist, but honestly it was far more. The woman was talent on legs. It was she who had designed much of the equipment they were deploying on the surface, she who had hunted and gathered the funding, she who had put in the sweat and tears to make this work. And Ju wasn’t far behind. The two of them were quite a powerhouse pair. Jeff considered himself and Lee lucky to have been chosen for this mission. Of course, he’d known Berry for a very long time, worked with her for most of it, but it wasn’t a given that the team that had helped populate the moon would also be the first on Mars.

“Given how many life support pods we’re dragging down there, I bet your boys could drop by in about thirty years or less.”

“You gonna put your money where your mouth is, Berry?” The thought was tantalising. Not to put pressure on any future careers – Lucy would kill him – but he would hope that at least one out of three might follow in his footsteps.

Maybe?

He turned around and opened his mouth, only to be interrupted. “Major Tracy, tell your team to secure. Two minutes to separation.” Sinclair was his usual grumpy, nervous self.

“Roger that, Orbiter Control.”

He glared at Berry and the redhead bit her lip with a smile, green eyes dancing, before sitting back and strapping herself in preparation for the sequence.

She didn’t stop smiling though.

“So watcha gonna name him?” Lee prodded him with his eyebrows from beside Jeff.

A last glance at the photo before he returned to separation prep, fingers tight in his gloves. “Are you going to remember this one?” An eye in the engineer’s direction.

“Sure.”

Running his fingers over the controls, Jeff ran through pre-flight. “Name my eldest.”

Lee grunted, his eyes darting away. “Not important right now.” A flick of a switch. “I’m green across the board.”

“A-ok.” Jeff ran through the last sequence of checks…and ran them again…for luck. “Orbiter Control, we are green for separation.”

“Roger that, Cornerstone. Separation in sixty seconds on my mark.” A breath. “Mark.” Another pause. “Good luck.”

And the countdown began.

Jeff ran his eyes over everything again. The great ship that had journeyed so far from home was preparing to split in half. The lander at the top of the vessel was to pull away from the orbiter and its massive propulsion engines to begin the historic descent to the Martian surface. Eight months in space, so much preparation time and so many sacrifices before that, had all led to this moment.

History in the making.

His eyes combed the readouts watching like a hawk. The computer had control, but computers could only do so much.

Still green across the board.

Quiet, his fingers touched the screen where the photo had been. “John Glenn Tracy.” A breath. “His name is John.”

Displays shifted as the countdown hit zero and machinery grunted. The Cornerstone drifted apart from its propulsion module and floated free far above the red of the Martian surface.

Jeff eyed his instrumentation and sent a prayer to his family back home.

Today was an important day.

-o-o-o-

Lee watched Jeff side-on as he clicked his helmet into place. Taylor was a realist and he knew he wouldn’t be here without the crazy pilot.

It was Jeff’s drive that had gotten them this far. It was like riding a rollercoaster of determination and outright luck. From the Airforce, through space training and their sojourns on Alfie, Lee had tied himself to the man’s coat tails and hadn’t looked back.

God, it had been fun.

Jeff Tracy was a tsunami that crashed through everything and took everyone with him.

And Lee went willingly.

When they had been chosen for this mission it was a dream come true.

The countdown dropped to zero and machinery clunked as the lander separated smoothly from the orbiter. She drifted momentarily before the computer engaged thrusters to push her gently out of orbital alignment.

“We are five by five for atmospheric entry.” The words he uttered were almost rote after so many practise simulations back on Earth.

Atmospheric entry on Mars was considerably different to entry on Earth. Terran atmosphere was more like soup in comparison to the barely-there Martian atmosphere. Still made for a warm entry though, friction was friction after all.

“Trajectory achieved.” Jeff’s voice was confident and firm. As always.

Lee eyed the computer readouts, mentally ticking off procedure as the lander dipped into the outer reaches of the atmosphere and shifted to its entry interface.

Forces wrapped themselves around Lee and his body responded. After so many months of weightlessness, this was going to be a challenge.

“Ready for deceleration burn.”

The landing module sported early entrance stage retro thrusters designed to slow the vehicle to reduce the friction on the spacecraft’s skin. A new innovation that had proven essential in many return trips to the moon in preparation for the creation of a habitable dome on the satellite.

And here they were attempting to do something similar on Mars.

Cornerstone shook as her thrusters engaged exactly on time.

The craft roared.

Lee revelled in it.

“Three minutes to subsonic.”

“I really hate this bit.” It was barely heard above the commotion.

Lee snorted to himself. Ju was an astronaut in every sense, but she had a thing regarding atmospheric entry and the microscopic bits they could be exploded into if something went wrong.

“We are on track, Ju. Not a thing to worry about.” His voice reassurance itself, Jeff could sell the moon cheese if he so felt like it.

“Orbiter to Cornerstone. Tracy, we have a problem.”

Lee blinked. Sinclair’s voice was ominous.

“Orbiter, detail?”

“Cornerstone, weather has kicked up on the landing site. We have a developing dust storm. Looks to be a big one.”

“Orbiter, we are fixed for descent. Please advise severity.” Jeff’s tone was frustrated and Lee couldn’t help but echo it.

Data landed in Lee’s console and while Jeff continued to monitor their descent, Lee examined the situation. “We have a category five dust storm developing over the landing site. Orbiter is right, she looks like she could actually do some damage.”

Mars dust storms were generally all gust and no guts. The air density and pressure forced storms that were dramatic to look at, but generally little more than a windy day on planet Earth. This one, however... “It’s an anomaly.”

Jeff’s eyes darted from his console to Lee’s, grey eyes assessing the data. “Ju, your opinion?” They had to make the decision fast. Altering their trajectory now was possible, but fuel was precious. Any extra used now narrowed their safety margin for later.

The meteorologist’s fingers darted over her board. “Unusual strength, I agree.” Lee glanced in her direction as she frowned. “But Cornerstone should be able to handle it.”

“‘Should’ is not a good enough assumption, Zhang.” Jeff was frowning. The lander’s retros cut out as they reached a safe enough velocity to manoeuvre and Jeff’s hands curled around the yoke.

Lee’s finger darted over his board and brought up the outside cameras.

The red planet stretched out before them, her slightly blue tinted atmosphere contrasting against the rust of her surface.

That surface was churning.

Ju was outraged. “How the hell did that develop in the time it took us to separate from Orbiter? She was as calm as a sleeping baby!”

“I don’t care about then, I need now. Zhang, recommendation!”

The woman grunted. “I say go. If you think you can handle it. It is well within Cornerstone’s specs. Your decision, Major.”

Jeff’s lips thinned, his eyes darting across the readouts. A moment and he hit the comms switch. “Orbiter, we are go for landing. We’ve come this far, might as well go all the way.”

“Tracy, are you sure?”

“Humanity never got anywhere taking it easy.” He glanced at Lee. “Hold onto something.”

Cornerstone began her turn, orientating her nose to the sky so her retros could lower her safely to the Martian surface.

Or in Jeff Tracy terms, ‘spinning so she could park her ass’.

As if reading Lee’s mind, the glint in Jeff’s eyes was something to both be wary of and to celebrate.

Out of the four of them, Jeff was the most reckless, the most daring. But as he was the pilot, it sometimes called for it. Jeff had already saved them from becoming just another crater on Earth’s moon by pulling the most unconventional manoeuvre ever seen on the satellite when a landing thruster misfired on approach. The craft had shot off on a completely unpredicted vector that would have ploughed them into moon dust...if Jeff hadn’t reacted as fast as he did. He flipped the craft with its remaining three thrusters and, shedding the majority of their velocity in an energy dump that had Lee’s stomach on the outside, planted their craft like a sack of potatoes.

They had landed roughly, but they had landed alive and Lee was still amazed his friend had been able to do that.

So, if they were going down in a cloud of red dust, Lee was quite happy to have Jeff at the controls.

Not to say that Lee himself wasn’t handy with a spacecraft. He had his own experience to be proud of. He flew, but his realm was more the mechanical. He was here as back up and maintenance.

For those times the Tracy fix wasn’t quite enough.

A sigh. He eyed the billowing clouds below as they rapidly approached. They were history in the making. Whatever happened here today would be taught in schools for decades to come.

He had faith in Jeff. They would land, Berry would take those first important steps on a new planet, say the rehearsed words, and join Neil Armstrong in the halls of fame.

But first they had to get there.

-o-o-o-

Jeff swallowed as the cloud of dust loomed beneath the lander. Numbers scrolled across his console. The computer should be able to handle most of it. Its programming was solid. Lucy had made sure of it.

The thought of his beautiful wife...little Johnny.

Dust swelled and wrapped around their craft and visibility became...bad.

Cornerstone shuddered.

Mars dust was a bastard of a thing. Ever so fine and carrying a tiny electric charge that on occasion interfered with instruments.

This was one of those occasions.

“We have blackout on three primary sensors.” Damn. Two others flickered, the screen fritzing a moment.

His fingers darted over controls in an attempt to compensate for the data loss.

Lee was muttering beside him and stabbing at his board. “Rerouting to back-ups.”

Their screens flickered and cleared somewhat.

Numbers plummeted.

Beyond the blinding dust the digital readout that marked the surface of the planet approached.

Far too fast.

Retros crucial to start the landing sequence did not fire.

Shit.

It took seconds for him to compensate and move to manual, but that was enough for the craft to fall many more metres so, when he did manually trigger the burn, they were lower than they should be.

Cornerstone roared as he pushed more energy into braking.

“Lee, we need primary thrust or we are so much pancake!” Her four landing thrusters were not slowing them enough. The math in his head was churning out a fatal result and their history-making attempt was fast turning into a shitfest. “I need that power now.”

“You have it.” Short and sharp as Lee’s hands darted over his console.

On Jeff’s board the main thruster icon lit up.

It wasn’t meant to be used this way. The main thruster was for launching. It was far more powerful than they needed to land. But if he didn’t slow Cornerstone, she was going to take on a big red rock and lose.

The computer ran calculations and spat numbers out at him.

“Firing main thruster.” The icon flashed, Cornerstone roared and g-forces wrapped around all of them and squeezed.

No one said anything for the second of burn that slowed their descent ever so rapidly. Everything shook, the ship’s superstructure groaning.

Jeff’s eyes tracked their velocity, counting down as the surface of the planet rushed towards them. Visually they couldn’t see it. Virtually it looked ready to slap them in the face.

But the main thruster compensated, slowing the craft just enough for the landing rockets to do their job.

Jeff killed the big one and concentrated on the landers to take the last of their speed.

Cornerstone slowed. Five hundred metres. Four hundred metres. Three hundred metres. Two hundred metres. One hundred metres. Landing struts deployed. Fifty. Thirty. Twe-

The whole ship slammed to a stop, its structure groaning and tilting for a second before righting itself. Alarms began shrieking, red lights flashing all over his board.

What the hell?!

The readout had them stalled nineteen metres ‘above’ the virtual surface. Virtual was obviously not lining up with actual.

Another metallic groan and the ship tilted slightly again. This time it stayed tilted. No doubt a landing strut had taken the brunt and folded.

One red light screamed at him more than the others.

Beside him, Lee confirmed his fears. “We have a fuel leak.”

Shit!

He was unstrapping himself even as the craft groaned again. Something sparked not far away. Lee was a split second behind, listing the reason for the malfunction. The exterior hull, and the mangled landing strut responsible.

A rupture in the external hull. Hell.

Jeff undocked a diagnostic pad and slapped it on his belt.

Martian gravity made itself known. So many months without its native pull, Jeff’s body protested the sudden movement, but they didn’t have time. Precious fuel was escaping.

He hit the ladder leading out of the cockpit at a run, feet locking around the struts and his hands pushing him down. The whole sensation of gravity, but only a third of Earth’s was baffling. His body caught between expectations and stumbling along the way. Ultimately, he partly fell his way down through the access ports, hands grabbing at the railings barely preventing him from colliding with each deck.

Cornerstone’s fuel tanks were attached to her four landers, with a fifth fueling her main launcher.

It was number three that was the problem.

His boots hit decking and he scrambled for the airlock. Beside him Lee had a toolkit and they both barrelled through the door sealing it behind them.

The pumps cycled and the pressure dropped, their suits shifting with the change, and then the elevator was lowering them to the ground.

As the doors opened, they were faced with a wall of swirling dust.

Jeff did his best to ignore it but it fast became a problem. The maintenance tab in his hand was directing him to climb ladders up the side of the vehicle, but he could barely see the tablet, much less the ladders themselves through the red dust.

“Stick close, Lee. I’d hate to lose you in this.”

“Right behind you, Jeff. Wouldna want to lose you either.”

It was simple, but reassuring nonetheless. Fumbling, he found the landing strut. It was skewed in a way that even in the thick swirling haze, he could see was far from the right angle for correct support.

Hooking a foot into the lowest rung, he snagged his friend and urged him up the ladder ahead. If anyone was going to save their asses in this situation, it was Lee.

If Jeff could land it, chances were Lee could fix it. The man could jimmy two sticks and a rubberband into whatever was needed. Hell, he’d done almost exactly that on the moon at least twice.

This was just another challenge. Jeff had landed them, no matter how roughly. Now Lee would be able to fix it.

Jeff clung to that maxim.

But the question wasn’t about skill, it was more about whether or not they were going to damn well be able to see what they needed to see in order to do what needed doing.

Red obscured everything. The speed it was all flying past spoke to his earth senses of gale force winds, but the pressure on his suit was little more than a windy day.

Not enough to affect the spacecraft.

Mars was obviously educating them early that this was not Earth. Not in any way shape or form.

Their clamber up the strut was partly a blind one, but they made it to the damaged side of the craft. Through a mixture of touch and virtual readout, it became clear that the outer hull had buckled, forcing the inner hull into the fuel tank. Most of it had held, but there was a small microfracture and the pressure differences were bubbling solid state fuel into gas at a rate that, if it didn’t deplete the tank, would likely cause an explosion that would solve all their problems with a history-making finality.

Jeff climbed up beside Lee as he fumbled at his tool kit. The tank was dislodged off its mounts, something they would need to remedy later, but it was still inset from the hull.

Jeff put his body in position to block the main flow of the dust and wind, jamming himself up against the still warm hull of his ship.

A little less dust swirled over the bubbling crack and Lee didn’t hesitate. Before Jeff could blink, gell bondtape landed smoothly over the area, the engineer sealing it with an electronic nudge from a set-wand. The electricity lined molecules up like soldiers and locked them in place bonding them to whatever the tape was adhered to. They had used the same stuff on Alfie two years ago when one of their habitats had tried to make one with the lack of lunar atmosphere.

An extremely simple solution for a very dangerous problem.

His heart, still adrenalin-fueled, refused to believe the danger was over.

As if reading Jeff’s thoughts, Lee smirked at him through the haze. “Never leave home without it.” A sigh as he ran a gloved hand over the seal. “This should hold for the short term. Once we are sure the strut is stabilised, I’ll give it a good going over. Hopefully, we can lose this storm in the process.”

Jeff would have liked to claim it couldn’t blow forever, but both of them knew Mars storms could be unpredictable and last for months if they so chose to.

Lee ran a scanner over the strut’s connection to the launcher. How the hell the engineer could see the readouts, Jeff didn’t know.

For all future excursions to the Red Planet, Jeff was going to recommend helmet based heads-up displays.

“She’s safe for now. A little bent, but she isn’t going to fall over. Hopefully, once we get out some of the heavy lifting equipment we can bend her back into shape if we need to.” Lee stood up. “Hull patching is going to be an ass, though.”

Jeff’s lips thinned and he dropped a hand onto his friend’s shoulder. “One thing at a time. We’ve got this, Lee.”

Lee grunted. “How the hell do you keep spinning the optimism, Jeff?”

A snort. “What? You’d prefer doom and gloom?” He shuffled back towards the ladder. “That’s it, Lee, we’re never leaving this god forsaken rock. Welcome to your new home.” He raised up his hands and as if the gods declared him some kind of Moses for that very moment, the dust clouds parted as if they were a red sea of sand. Sol, so much smaller this far away, poked its weak light through the hazy atmosphere and lit up the bare red rocks of their temporary home. While on one side, the billowing wall of dust storm swirled on its way, on the other red mountains rose up to a weak blue-red sky.

Lee shifted down beside him. “You know, I figured you had an agreement with the gods of physics, but isn’t this a little ridiculous?”

Jeff was too captivated with the view to respond.

Cornerstone was on the plateau they had been simulating for months on end. She stood tall and proud, if a little crooked and pinker than her promo shots.

“We made it.” The words fell from his lips.

Lee clung to the ladder beside him. “Yeah, that we did.”

Sunlight flickered weakly in the atmosphere and a gust of wind dragged more dust across the view.

Jeff shifted. “We better get inside before that mess starts up again. Take advantage of being able to see where we are going.”

Lee didn’t respond immediately, his eyes combing the jagged horizon. “Thanks, Jeff.”

A frown. “For what?”

“Getting us here.”

“It was a group effort, Lee, you know that. Couldn’t have done it without the team. Couldn’t have done it without you. Hell, you just patched a hole that could have blown us up.”

Lee grunted.

“Are you guys going to hang outside all day, or do we have to guess the sitrep?” Berry’s tone was tight.

“Roger, Berrenger. Situation secure. On our way back in.”

It wasn’t until they reached the elevator that he realised exactly what had happened.

And who he was.

By the doors, protected by the shadow of the lowered module was a single footprint that hadn’t been blown away by the wind.

“Aw, hell.”

Lee, as always, stepped up beside him. “Yeah. I guess that makes you the first man to walk on Mars.”

-o-o-o-

Ju was furious. “It was Kate’s right to be the first!”

The vacs in the airlock had sucked everything off their suits to the point Lee was surprised his hair wasn’t standing on end despite the helmet.

As it was, his hackles were somewhere near orbit as they stood in the conference room that doubled as a mess. “And what exactly do you think we were supposed to do? The ship was going to explode.” It was simple to Lee. Sure, he was all for equality, it was a given, but they would’ve been all equally dead if he and Jeff hadn’t done what they did.

“You didn’t give us a chance!”

“I’m the engineer here, Zhang. There wasn’t time! The decision was made and we are alive because of it.”

“Then why weren’t you first, Taylor? Why the hell was Tracy even out there? He’s not the engineer!”

Beside Lee, Jeff straightened. “Standard procedure, Zhang. We work in pairs. If you think I was going to let Lee go out in that on his own, you’ve been serving while wearing a blindfold.”

The short, dark-haired woman stepped up to the Major, her eyes fiery. “It was Kate’s place in history and you stole it!”

Lee flared. “We did what was necessary! This was not a publicity grab, for Christ’s sake! It didn’t even occur to us until we were returning. It was about saving our lives, Zhang. How can you possibly think it was anything else?”

“Because it always is.” She waved a hand at Jeff. “Always the hotshot. Always the first. Always the hero. Do you ever think, Tracy? Do you ever think about those you barrel past?”

Jeff glared down at the meteorologist. “I will not apologise for my achievements, Zhang. This was an honest to god accident.”

“Due to decisions made by you.”

“What the hell, Zhang?!” Lee pushed forward. That was taking it too far.

“We should never have tried to land in that dust storm. We should have waited it out.”

“You said we could take it!”

“But it wasn’t my decision, was it?” Her tone was a positive hiss at Jeff.

“Screw you, Zhang-“

“Taylor!”

“Jeff-“

The man was still the damn tall walking wall when he wanted to be. “Lee, stop.” He glared at Ju. “I will not apologise for my command decisions either, Zhang. What was done, is done.” His stance softened as he turned to Berry.

She had been ominously quiet the entire time.

Jeff sighed. “I’m sorry, Kate.”

The red-haired astrogeologist straightened away from the bulkhead, her arms still folded across her chest. Lee had always liked Berry. She had her head on much straighter than Ju ever did.

Ju was like a terrier with a bone.

The bone variety today was definitely Jeff-flavoured.

But there was only kindness in Berry’s eyes as she looked up at the Major. “This sucks, Jeff, it really does.” She looked down a moment. “But it is what it is and I guess it was what it was meant to be.” A shrug. “I suppose I’ll have to settle for third on Mars. Still pretty momentous, I think.”

“Kate, it doesn’t have to be that way.” Jeff took a step towards her. “It’s not official. It was a stupid repair. We can do the ceremonial step onto the planet anyway. No one has to know.”

Her head tilted to one side. “So, the ship miraculously healed itself?”

“Berry-“

She closed the gap between them, placing a hand on his arm. “Jeff, honestly, it’s not what is important here. You took the first step. We still have plenty of others that need to be taken. My ego can keep.”

Zhang flared again. “Kate, this was for women-“

“Ju, enough. It doesn’t matter! Humans have just landed on Mars, for god’s sake. I would have thought we would be a little less worried about the gender of the person taking the first step and more worried about the fact we did it without blowing up.”

“It was supposed to be you.” Ju wilted in defeat under Berry’s glare.

“Well, it was Jeff, and I think he is no less deserving than any of us.”

Jeff’s voice was quiet. “Are you sure, Kate?” The use of her first name was a rarity for the major, there was a friendship between those two almost as long as the one between Jeff and Lee. Hell, if Jeff hadn’t met Lee’s sister, Lucy, the engineer wondered what might have eventuated in that department.

Not that he had ever had to worry about that. Jeff was a complete sop for Lucy. His sis had the man wrapped around her little finger.

If that made Lee feel just that touch more protective of the crazy pilot, then so be it.

Kate straightened, her shoulders strong. “I’m sure.” Then her lips curled up a little. “Besides, my lines were so much more elegant than ‘Stick close, Lee. I’d hate to lose you in this.’”

Jeff snorted and shrugged. “If I’m going to make history gotta make sure my best friend is with me.”

Zhang made a disgusted sound and stormed out of the room.

Shoulders dropping, Jeff sighed. “Guess I need to work on my phrasing.”

But Lee was too wrapped in the moment, a little too proud and grateful to care. “She’ll live.”

The grunt from Jeff reminded Lee that they still had months to share living quarters with the fiery Ju.

“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to her.” Berry squeezed Jeff’s arm before reaching out to Lee as well. “Thank you, both of you, for getting us down safely. We’re on Mars, guys. Let the party begin.”

The smile in her eyes was honest and ever so heartening.

-o-o-o-

Next

[k7l4d4]

Kamen Rider Info and Ideas (Feel free to ignore)

As a huge fan of Kamen Rider, I always wondered about ways it could be expanded, and maybe not improved so much as become More. So, right now, I am gonna make a list of Kamen Rider Series, starting with Black and RX, and continuing all the way to the Reiwa Era! Everybody clap your hands!! *Cricket noises* Okay, here we go!

Kamen Rider Black, and its sequel, Black RX, details the journey of Kohtaro Minami, or Minami Kohtaro for those who prefer the traditional Japanese naming conventions, on his mission to defeat Gorgom, an ancient tribe/organization that has evolved into a cultic terrorist organization bent on world domination. While still holding to the Showa era’s tradition of having Cyborg Riders, Black and RX were the first in which, aside from Kamen Rider Amazon, the supernatural played a prominent part in the powers of the riders, as Kohtaro and his stepbrother Nobuhiko were the designated heirs to the leader of Gorgom, the Century King, and infused with the relics that contained his power, the Kingstones. Both Kohtaro and Nobuhiko were infused with the Kingstones, in the attempt to convert them into the Villains Black Sun and Shadow Moon, with only Kohtaro managing to escape.

One of the things that I felt could’ve been at least a little better in regards to the series was if Shadow Moon could regain his original self and rejoin the path of justice. It would’ve also been pretty cool if Shadow Moon gained his own upgraded form, which did actually happen in tie-in novels and manga, and if either or both of them gained the ability to unleash a final form that drew upon the power they wielded as the New Century Kings. Ah well, that’s what fanfiction is for!

Kamen Rider Kuuga details the battles of Yusuke Godai, the successor to the ancient warrior of justice, Riku, as the Kuuga. Kuuga’s powers are derived from Growth, allowing him to access a variety of forms and powers based on what he needs to grow into, and can be bolstered by mystical energy sources to ascend even further! Yusuke’s enemies are the Gurongi tribe, ancient monsters who abandoned their humanity to satisfy their love of death and conflict, and wished to have all of humanity become as dark and twisted as them, with the “honor” of being the Gurongi to start the process going to whichever of them managed to win their tournament, in which the Gurongi Tribal-members all battled to the death as a whole.

One of the things that bugged me a little, was that Kuuga never fully evolved all his forms, and that his true final form was even used in his series! I mean, seriously, what!? Once again, budget concerns limit the awesomeness of a series before it can bloom, sigh.

Kamen Rider Agito is the story of Shoichi Tsugami, a young amnesiac who belongs to an offshoot of the human race known as the Agito. Agitos possess incredible psychic powers and exist in a perpetual state of evolution, adapting to the changes in themselves and the world around them at an incredible rate.

My only real beef with this series was the limited number of forms Agito had as compared to Kuuga, and that one of the Extra Riders had the lazy name of Another Agito. You heard me right. All in all, not to bad, but a little frustrating.

Next up, Kamen Rider Ryuki, which also served as part of the inspiration for the list. Honestly, with how much I plan on covering JUST for Ryuki, I’ll probably leave this off after this and pick up more tomorrow. Ryuki is one of the first series in the franchise to fully exploit the nature of multiple riders, and basically invented the concept of Dark Riders, which I will also explain.

Ryuki involves the Rider War, a conflict taking place in the real world, and a parallel realm known as the Mirror World, populated by unfeeling monsters known as, you guessed it, Mirror Monsters, which must constantly kill when in our world in order to remain stable, or at least they are allegedly supposed to. The Rider War was a conflict set up by a man known as Shiro to revive his dead sister, under the guise of a tournament to the death for a reality-warping wish, which Shiro wanted for himself. The war brought together 13, yes you read that right, 13 Riders, all with variances in their styles and abilities. This selfish conflict is partially, if not entirely why I said that introduced Dark Riders properly to the franchise; Dark Riders are individuals who bear the same transformative powers of Kamen Riders, but instead of using them to fight against the wicked and monstrous, are instead put towards their own selfish ends, and none of them are the type of individual you wanna run into in a dark alley.

The Riders of Ryuki derived their power from two things, their Contract Monster, a Mirror Monster that they formed a bond with in order to exist without needing to bring about death, and an Advent Deck, a Deck of Cards that harnessed the power of the Mirror Monster it bonded to and allowed the Riders to survive in the Mirror Realm, which is inherently fatal for humans to be in. One of the key aspects of Advent Cards is how they work, each one draws and harnesses an aspect of the Contract Monster it is connected to, or wields a power specifically to fight other Advent Riders. Now, before I get to my thoughts and ideas, I am going to list each Rider from Ryuki, as well as the nature of their Advent Decks and fighting styles.

Shinji Kido: Kamen Rider Ryuki himself, and contracted to the fierce Dragon-Type Mirror Monster, Dragonredder. With a Dragon on his side, you’d expect him to be the powerhouse of the group, right? HAHAHAHAHA no. Shinji stumbled upon the Rider War by near-complete accident, and, being the nice guy he is, decided if he was going to be a part, he would protect the bystanders from the conflict and ensure as many of the Riders made it out alive as he could. Easier said than done. Out of all the Riders, Ryuki has the least straight-forward fighting style, not helped by his incredible clumsiness, with his deck emphasizing the ability to have as many options as possible; jack of all trades master of none, but better master of none than master of one.

Ren Akiyama: Kamen Rider Knight, and the contract holder of the Bat-Type Mirror Monster, Darkwing. He comes across as aloof, cold even, whose only in it for himself, but in truth he decided to enter the war to save the life of his ill fiance. Knight’s fighting style blends straight-up direct combat, and subterfuge based war tactics, with his deck emphasizing this by providing him with both weapons and special abilities that optimize getting the drop on his foes. Hmm... themed after a bat, a knight, and mixing close combat with dark and spooky tactics. Now where have I seen THAT before?

Masashi Shido: Kamen Rider Scissors, a Dark Rider, and the contractor of the Crab-Type Mirror Monster, Volcancer. A corrupt cop and detective, Scissors took bribes and cuts in illegal dealings, and used his Mirror Monster to liberally dispose of witnesses as he pleased. He ultimately died when his contract was destroyed and Volcancer turned on him. Despite his practices necessitating subterfuge, Scissors’ fighting style is rather extravagant, emulating that of a gladiator, with his deck providing cards that mix heavy combat with putting his enemy into an unfavorable situation to seal the deal, fitting for a backstabber.

Shuichi Kitaoka: Kamen Rider Zolga, one of the neutral and later heroic elements in the war, and the bearer of the contract for the Minotaur-Type Mirror Monster, Magnugigas, a colossal bio-mechanical behemoth. A shady lawyer with a lot of wealth, Zolga was diagnosed with fatal cancer, and desired to become immortal to continue living his lifestyle forever. While initially uncaring and selfish, he ultimately came to see the value in others, and lamented all the criminals that walked free due to his actions, hoping Ryuki would win. Cunning, intellegent, and crafty, Zolga’s fighting style favors both heavy defense and massive firepower, burying an enemy in a storm of blasts while he hunkers down, with his deck further emphasizing this with a bevy of long-distance combat cards and barriers.

Miyuki Tezuka: Kamen Rider Raia, a fortune-teller beyond compare, he enters the war to save lives and honor his deceased friend, and bears the contract of the Stingray-Type Mirror Monster, Evildiver. Raia’s fighting style places heavy importance on movement, offering cards that can offer him superior movement, and uses a whip as his principle weapon.

Jun Shibaura: Kamen Rider Gai, an utterly selfish and monstrous beast of a man, he wields the contract of the Rhino-Type Mirror Monster, Metalgelas. A prodigy of computers and gaming, Gai sees the death match that is the Rider War as nothing more than a game, and the fighters as players he can wipe out at his leisure. Gai’s fighting style is a straight up rush of overwhelming force, with his cards emphasizing interfering with his opponent’s options to force them to fight him directly and his brutal power of himself and his Contract Monster gives him an edge.

Takeshi Asakura: Kamen Rider Ouja, and the main Dark Rider of the series, holder of the contract for the Snake-Type Mirror Monster, Venosnaker. A sadistic monster to his core, Takeshi killed his own family as a child, and left a bloody trail in his wake for years, remorselessly cutting down anyone who falls in his path in his bloodlust. Despite his seemingly simple minded nature, Ouja is immensely cunning, favoring a sadistic fighting style that emphasizes causing as much pain to his enemy as he can before they die at his hands, and he is far from afraid to get his hands dirty. Ironically, Ouja has one of the weaker decks in the war, bearing limited options to fight with, Ouja thrives due to his sheer brutality, fighting ability, and utter ruthlessness. “Fun” fact, unlike the other Riders, Takeshi never realized that a wish was up for grabs, he was just having a good time! When he finally learned that the winner got a wish, he decided his wish would be to have ANOTHER Rider War, so he could kill another pack of warriors! Ouja’s deck does have two solid advantages over the other riders; Ouja possesses extra Contract Cards, meaning he can add other Mirror Monsters and their powers to his deck, ultimately deciding to save them to take the Mirror Monsters of the Riders he kills, with his other big trick his Unite Card, which allowed him to COMBINE his Mirror Monsters into the horrifying Chimera-Type Mirror Monster, Genocider (ain’t that a name).

Odin: Kamen Rider Odin, a Rider not designated Dark only due to the fact he doesn’t have enough of a mind to be one, and wielder of the Phoenix-Type Mirror Monster as his Contract, Goldphoenix. Odin is unusual, in that he is essentially a puppet, a brainwashed shell that acts as Shiro’s representative in the war that occupies whatever body Shiro gives the Contract to. Out of all the Riders, Odin has the greatest immediate strength, allowing him to overwhelm just about anything in ideal situations, and if things go wrong, Odin (along with Shiro) can REWIND TIME to reset the war until Shiro gets the outcome he wants, only giving up when he accepts that he won’t be able to bring his sister back.

Satoru Tojo: Kamen Rider Tiger, a man who wants to be a hero, and wields the power of the Tiger-Type Mirror Monster, Destwilder. Tiger is a broken individual, lacking a LOT of basic understanding in regards to people, he wavers between good and evil in his desire to be a hero due to his incomprehension of what it means to be heroic, ultimately becoming a hero when he selflessly sacrificed his life to save a father and son about to be hit by an oncoming truck, finally realizing what it truly meant to be a human in his last moments. A highly inexperienced fighter, Tiger often lost, which didn’t help his instability, forcing himself to rely on ambushes to win, his deck favored close-range melee and offered him support in the form of ice attacks.

Mitsuru Sano: Kamen Rider Imperer, a self-styled mercenary rider, and wielder of the multi-type contract allowing him to command the power of the Gazelle-Type Mirror Monsters, with Gigazelle serving as the leader of his horde. Imperer was raised to believe that wealth was what was most important in life, completely missing the fact that his idea to be a mercenary in the Rider War was impossible as all but one of the contestants must die for it to complete and you cannot quit either. After falling in love, Mitsuru seemed to be realizing that there is more to life than money, he tragically died before he could act on his new views, trapped in the Mirror World, reaching out to the image of his love, screaming in fear. Imperer’s fighting style makes use of boxing, and bum-rushing his enemies with his massive swarm of Contract Monsters.

And, because I am starting to grow tired and this is REALLY LONG, I am gonna finish this later today before I burn out.

[jeannereames]

Writing Historical Fiction (Well)

From an anonymous ask:

"What advice would you give to someone who wants to write about Alexander?" Sorry I didn't clarify, I was thinking of writing a fictional novel (but do not plan to publish it, lol)

If you’re just writing for yourself with no plans to publish, you don’t have to worry about constraints like wordcount and publishability. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to sell mainstream historicals. Selling a genre historical is easier (historical fantasy, historical mystery, historical romance). But there’s a reason it took me 30 years to get Dancing with the Lion into print. Yes, some of that time I was actually writing it, but much more was devoted to finding a market for it, and notice that I did, finally, have to sell it as genre even though it isn’t really. (It was that or shelve it forever.)

Yet if you’re asking for my recommendations, I assume you want to write something that’s marginally readable. Ergo, what follows is general advice I’d give anybody writing historical fiction.

For historicals, one must keep track of two things simultaneously: telling a good story, and portraying history accurately enough. It’s possible to do one well, but the other quite badly.

First, let’s look at how to write a good story.

There are two very basic sorts of stories: the romance, and the novel. Notice it’s romance small /r/. A romance is an adventure story; in romances, the plot dominates and characters serve the plot. A novel is character-driven, so plot events serve character development. Dancing with the Lion is a novel.

Once you’ve decided which of those you’re writing, you have a better handle on how to write it. You also need to know where you’re going: what’s the end of the story? What are the major plot points? Writers who dive in with no road map tend to produce bloated books that require massive edits. That said, romances will almost always be faster paced, in part because “what’s happening” drives it. Whereas in novels, the impact of events on characters drives it. Exclusive readers of romances are rarely pleased by the pacing of novels. They’re too slow: “Nothing is happening!” Things are happening, but internally, not externally.

Yet pacing does matter. Never let a scene do one thing when it can do three.

You will want to pay attention to something called “scene and sequel.” A “scene” is an event and a “sequel” are the consequences. So let’s say (as in my current MIP [monster in progress]) you open with a fugitive from the city jail racing through the streets with guards following: he leaps the wall of a rich man’s house and ends up in the bedroom of a visiting prince. That’s the scene. The sequel is the fall-out. (House searched, prince hides fugitive, prince gets fugitive to tell him why he’s running.) Usually near the end of the sequel(s) to the first scene, you embed the hook to the next (a slave of the rich man has been found murdered outside the city walls). The next scene concerns recovering the body and what they discover (then fall-out from that). Etc., etc., etc.

That’s how stories progress. Or don’t progress, if the author can’t master scene-sequel patterns.

It also means—again—you need to know where you’re going. Outlines Are Your Friends. But yes, your plot can still take a sharp left-hand turn that surprises you…they almost always do.

When I sat down to write Dancing with the Lion, I knew three things:

1)     I wanted to write about Alexander before he became king.

2)     I wanted to explore his relationship with Hephaistion.

3)     I especially wanted to consider how both became the men they’d did.

With those goals in mind, I could frame the story. Because I always intended Hephaistion to be as important as Alexander, the novel opens in his point-of-view to establish that. And because I didn’t want to deal with Alexander as king, the novel had to end before he became one. History itself gives a HUGE and obvious gift in the abrupt murder of Philip. Where to open was harder to decide, but as I wanted to explore the boys’ friendship and its impact on their maturation into men, I should logically begin with their meeting, and decided not to have them meet too young. From there, I spun out Hephaistion’s background, and his decision to run away from home to join the circus, er, I mean Pages. 😉

IMO, Alexander’s story is Too Big to do in a single novel, or you get an 800+ page monstrosity like Chris Cameron’s God of War. The author must decide on what piece of the story she wants to tell. (Or, like me, view it as a series.)

So that’s (in a nutshell) how you construct a story.

As for the historical side, there are three levels here:

1)     What the world looks like (details).

2)     The events that take place.

3)     How people living in that world understand life, the universe, and everything.

Number two is probably the easiest. Numbers one and three require deeper research on all sorts of things. Sometimes historical novels spend all their time on number one and completely forget number three exists.

The past is a foreign country. Just as you wouldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) write a novel set in Japan (if you’re American) without learning something not only about the physical country but also the customs…same with stories set in the past.

This is why the Oliver Stone movie failed. He put modern people in a costume drama. He didn’t understand how ancient Macedonians (or Greeks or Persians) thought. So he committed crazy anachronisms like the oedipal complex between Alexander and Olympias. Freud may have named his theory after a Greek hero, but it’s largely a foreign idea to the Greek mind. (Whether it’s valid at all is a topic for another day).

The author has to let ancient people be properly ancient.

Problem: what do you do when they’re SO foreign they’re impossible to understand for modern readers—or their attitudes are outright offensive?

Well, if you don’t plan to get your story published, you don’t have to worry about that. Or not as much. But if you want to share it with others, you might still want to consider it.

There are two basic approaches:

1)     Introduce your world through a “stranger” who enters it.

2)     Spread out more “modern” views among various characters in the story, to give modern readers something familiar to hang onto.

The first of those is by far the most common. So in Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander, Claire Randall—quite literally a modern woman—introduces the modern reader to Jacobite Scotland. As she learns about her new world, so does the reader, and in Claire, the reader has a voice to express both their fascination and their horror of that world. In Judith Tarr’s Lord of the Two Lands, she uses Meriamon, an Egyptian priestess, to enter the Macedonian world of Alexander. Judy can then contrast Egyptian and Macedonian cultural values in order to explain them. Meriamon asks questions the reader wants answers to—or Niko (or Alexander) ask questions of her about Egypt.

The second choice (which is what I did in Dancing) is to identify cultural mores likely to offend modern readers: indifference to slavery, glorification of war and conquest, Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards women, and Greco-Macedonian attitudes towards sexuality. Then to assign one of the characters to voice a more modern view. Alexander gets to be a proto-feminist, and I gave points of view to two women. One of those women, I made a slave. Hephaistion gets to express a more modern view regarding the horrors of war. Sexuality was a bit tougher, but I used the boys’ atypical relationship—that the younger is the one of higher status—to illustrate Greco-Macedonian assumptions about what a male-male relationship should look like.

That approach presents more hurdles, but for my purposes, I preferred it.

I harp on this because it’s the biggest problem for historical fiction: not having historical characters! It wrecks what might otherwise be decent research into the details. No matter how much you look up what they ate, how they dressed, the way their houses were laid out…if you have them behaving anachronistically, it’s a bad historical. Or if you have circumstances that just wouldn’t occur.

Let me give an example. I’ve said before that, when I started writing the novel in December of 1988, Dancing always began with a run-away boy (Hephaistion). But in my initial version, he showed up in Pella incognito. The more I read about Macedonia, however, the more I realized that was virtually impossible. There just weren’t that many Hetairoi. He’d have been recognized, and probably sooner rather than later. So I went back to the drawing board and, instead of having him try to hide, he comes right out and says who he is, and that he wants to join the Pages. It might take away the “mystery,” but set up more interesting dynamics: would Philip let him stay? What would his father do? Etc.

That requires the author know enough about the culture to know what’s possible, probable, and impossible. It also requires the author to be willing to change original plans in order to reflect reality, not insist on doing ___ anyway.

A good example of jettisoning history in favor of “what I want to do!” can be found in David Gemmell’s Lion of Macedon. So many, many things wrong with that book, starting with his choice to make Parmenion a Spartan for no historical reason whatsoever—but (I assume?) because Spartans Are Sexy. Parmenion likely belonged to the royal house of Upper Macedonian Pelagonia. Although even if he didn’t, absolutely nothing suggests he wasn’t Macedonian, and quite a lot says he was. The whole duology (with included The Dark Prince) was essentially Blue Boltz ™ Epic Fantasy Does Greece. The fact he actually included a bibliography in back, and got weird, isolated details right only added insult to injury.

Yet Gemmell was a best-selling British fantasy novelist who knew pacing and how to spin a good yarn. For a reader with zero knowledge of Alexander, it would stack up as a predictable but tolerable fantasy set.

Remember that as an historical fiction author, your job is to practice the art of getting it right. If that isn’t important to you, please God, write something completely made up.

At the spectrum’s other end is Showing Notecards on Every Page. You’ve done ALL that hard research, and you’ll be damn sure the reader knows it!

Um, the reader doesn’t care. The reader wants to be transported to another world. How locals in that world shoed horses (or if they shoed horses at all) is irrelevant. It matters only if your main character’s a farrier. And even then, it matters only if said-farrier is having a conversation with someone else while shoeing a horse.

If people want all the little details of history, they’ll read a history book.

Now, how much detail is “too much” can vary from reader to reader, and often has something to do with the genre.

Regular readers of historical fiction are fans because they enjoy history. So they’ll expect proper world-building. But they don’t want the Dreaded Information Dump. Weave in details. The Dreaded Information Dump is a common beginning-author error across the board, but especially bad in certain genres, such as historicals, fantasy, and SF.

What’s an “information dump”? It’s where the author provides details the reader doesn’t need at that point in the story. What the character looks like, is wearing, their family background, what they had for breakfast….

As mentioned, details should be woven into the story organically. What your character had for breakfast matters only if, later, it’s giving him/her gas: “Damn those beans in my breakfast burrito!” Some details may be useful to set a scene and prevent characters from walking around, having conversations in a void, but again, a light touch.

Similarly, One scene, One head. We do NOT need to see everything from each character’s point of view. No, really. We don’t. And dear God, please don’t “head-hop” inside of scenes (unless you’re writing omniscient, but be sure you know what omniscient IS). Drives me BUGGY.

Anyway, back to the Notecard Showing Problem. As noted above, genre expectations and reader preferences often dictate what IS “too much detail.” Generally, historical Romance (the genre) and historical mysteries go lighter on detail than historical fantasy or plain historicals. That’s because the former two have genre conventions that work against it. Romances preference the love story front-and-center at all times, and mysteries have a mystery to unravel. E.g, they’re plot driven. By contrast, historical fantasies tolerate more world building because world building itself is a feature of fantasy (and science fiction too). And the appeal of mainstream or literary historicals IS the world building, so you get massive novels like Ken Follet’s Pillars of the Earth.

I’m blathering now, but hopefully this gives pointers not just about writing Alexander, but writing fiction period, and historical fiction in particular.

[divine-bangtan]

Solidarity • IV (m)

BTS x reader, reincarnation!au, supernatural!au, angels and demons!au, slow burn, smut, angst, violence.

Summary: A few weeks away from your 22nd birthday, there are a number of things one would expect to have on their mind. Partying? Oh yes. Drinking? Most definitely. Being told by seven strange men you are the reincarnation of a powerful goddess and the key to winning a demon war? Uh…come again?

Pairing: OT7 x reader, Goddess reader x demon Prince Taehyung, goddess reader x vampire Prince Namjoon, goddess reader x warlock Yoongi, goddess reader x incubus Seokjin, goddess reader x angel Hoseok, goddess reader x shapeshifter Jimin, goddess reader x werewolf Jungkook.

Warnings: angst, some violence, hallucinations, oral (f. receiving).

Word count: 6.4k

Masterlist

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You could feel multiple pairs of eyes burning into your profile across the table, thinking you were oblivious to the intense scrutiny, when in fact you didn’t have the courage to meet the eyes of any of them. Nobody seemed to be making any conversation either, only the sound of metal cutlery scraping harshly on porcelain occasionally making you flinch in discomfort. Instead, you remained unnaturally interested in the assortment of lavish foods on your plate. Where would they even get these ingredients from? Were those fish eggs? Topped with some strange purple garnish-

 “Does your arm hurt?” A voice suddenly whines into your ear. Surprised, you glimpse left to Jungkook beside you, now looking sheepish at how he had roughly pinned you to the ground earlier. 

“Oh…” you whispered back, shaking your head softly and rolling your shoulder to appease his worries. “Not really, I’m sure you were just doing your job. Maybe a little too well…”

 “Our guard dog got a little overexcited. He should really apologise about that.” Yoongi said from your other side, causing you to jerk your head around.

 “You know what it’s been like lately, hyung!” He whined back in a harsh whisper, but Yoongi was too preoccupied with his nose buried in a novel to pay attention. His side profile was quite lovely, you thought to yourself. The little details such as the way his silver earrings gently swayed every time he shifted his head slightly or the way his soft locks of black hair framed his face. When your gaze wandered up to the cat like slant of his eyelids he turned to look at you. Caught out, you startled and opened your mouth to apologise for staring.

Instead you gasped when a pea hit him square in the forehead, and he froze momentarily before he slammed his book down onto the table, causing everyone to jump a little. “Don’t be a brat,” he hissed at Jimin across the table. 

 “Okay, I will now that you’re paying attention to me again, hyung,” he said, plump lips that were once pouting stretching into a smile. It made your heart palpitate how stunning he looked as he grinned, with his blonde hair and red velvet jacket practically radiating confidence. He probably strutted instead of walked too. God, why were they all so beautiful.

 Yoongi scoffed loudly, before promptly returning his attention back to the book he had been trying to read. Jimin whined, draping himself back against his chair as if he were dying. “Don’t even think about throwing anything else at me, I’ll turn you into a cat again. This time you won’t be able to change back unless I say so,” Yoongi warned, a dangerous glint to his eye. 

 Jimin met his jeer by sitting up straighter, his own emerald eyes glinting an icy blue. If you’d have blinked, you’d have missed the way Jimin’s hair suddenly darkened from blonde to a deep fiery red. 

“That’s low, hyung. Because you know Jungkook can’t help himself when he sees a cat! He turns straight away, last time he chased me for a whole hour!”  

 “Ya! It was not that long! Stop making everything seem more dramatic than it really is, Jimin.” Jungkook countered, slamming his fists on the table and causing everything to jump.

Silently, you locked eyes with Hoseok directly across from you, who was trying to enjoy his meal in peace. He sighed deeply, defeated. Something told you this must be a regular occurrence when they sat down for a meal together. His fork was halfway to his lips when Jimin knocked his arm in his bickering, leaving a trail of gravy down the front of his white tunic where his food dropped.

Taehyung stood, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape and all the commotion in the room ceased. He walked to the open door before pausing to turn and look at you expectantly. 

 “(Y/N), come with me.”

 ***

There were so many faces. Every step you progressed deeper into the mansion, seemingly further away from the only people who seemed to occupy it, yet you were always being watched. 

It was difficult to see past his broad shoulders, swaying with each step he took, so your attention turned to the walls as they passed. He owned a great number of statues, and a lot of paintings you noticed. Yet, the thing that seemed strange about the number of stone figures was that they greatly outnumbered the amount of real people in this large place. You hadn’t been here very long, but it became apparent rather quickly just how empty these walls seemed.

An eerie feeling of loneliness clung to the air, permeating it in the facade of art. Perhaps he liked being that way. Perhaps he just liked art. Who knew? You certainly didn’t, he was a complete stranger to you and had been none too hasty to reveal anything to you. Yet.

 The walls around you slowly changed from being dark, solid wood that left you feeling enclosed, to panels of glass like a greenhouse with plants every few steps. The hallway opened up to reveal a larger space with a fountain in the middle, water softly trickling down in white noise. He didn’t look at you, instead Taehyung perched himself on the edge of the pond, staring into the water in silence. 

“Sit,” he ordered, gaze not moving from his fingertips creating small ripples in the water’s surface. You were quick to obey, anxious about what you could sense Taehyung was about to reveal.

 “It all began about a year and a half ago, when an angel was cast from his place in heaven. That alone was not an uncommon occurrence, it has happened many times before and was no cause for alarm. Those on the path of righteousness sometimes stray so far they are unable to return, or simply aren’t welcome. They often become beings that spend the rest of their days in the human realms, living a sort of half existence. A select few, however, turn to darkness.” He said, still staring into the depths of the water. The back of your neck prickled due to the direction of the conversation. “This one particular angel, his name was Seungri.”

 There it was. The name immediately sent cold shivers down your spine, unconsciously your hands balled into fists. Taehyung regarded you with a careful gaze, trying to figure out what your nervous expression meant. The way your teeth sunk into the soft flesh of your bottom lip caught his gaze, his eyes following as you solemnly nodded. “I know it.” 

 He sat up much straighter at your confession, visibly intrigued.

“I had this terrifying dream that I was dying. No…not dying. I was murdered. The strangest thing was I felt like I wanted to trust the man who drove the dagger into my heart. I wanted to trust him…Seungri,” you described in a small voice, fearful of what reaction your revelation might elicit from the man next to you. Yet he didn’t move, didn’t appear to breathe as if a picture-perfect replica of one of his many sculptures.

“The occurrence that you speak of, you didn’t dream it I’m afraid. You are describing something that really happened.”

 “What – no, you can’t be serious,” you quipped back, yet Taehyung only looked at you solemnly. His silence told you everything you needed to know. “But it was horrific.” Without a word, he stood and held out his hand to you, and without question you took it.

Before giving you a chance to stand on your own he was pulling you to your feet with unnatural strength. Another tug brought you stumbling right into his solid chest, and his arms wrapped around you. It felt nice and warm and oh so comforting for a fleeting moment before the room around you was swallowed by tendrils of black smoke. Your stomach lurched from the feeling of suddenly moving inhumanly fast, and when you blinked your surroundings were entirely changed.

The bright white room was still spinning in your eyes when you came to, you could somewhat make out the dozens of marble statues scattered around.

“H-how…how did you do that?!” You questioned, only able to focus on the face directly in front of you while the rest of the room was hazy.

“I’m a demon, sweetheart. I can do a lot more.” He teased, turning to look around.

You suddenly noticed was that you had been here before. This was the exact place your dream had occurred, and you gasped softly, looking toward the end of the room.

There stood a statue of Eve in the very place that she died.

Startled by the reality of it all, you stepped back only to gently bump into Taehyung. Large, warm and already familiar hands gripped your shoulders to steady you. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he reassured, the corner of his mouth curving upwards. Did he really just smile at you? (Y/N)?

You gave him a small nod before stepping away, attention shifting back to the statue. The closer you got, the more it was like looking in a mirror. Cautiously, you traced a finger down the bridge of her nose, across her lips, and you swear you felt the faintest touch mirrored on your own. A faint shudder manifested through your body as your fingertips slipped off her chin. Your chin, you couldn’t help but think.

Taehyung’s eyes were glued to every move you made, every little curious touch, the way you frowned slightly when you discovered she even had the same mole on her right ear. You were more cautious, didn’t seem to trust things so easily. Unlike Eve. You weren’t like her at all.

“Who was she?” You finally asked after a long silence, turning back to look at Taehyung.

“She was a goddess, and a powerful one at that. I still remember the evening she came here for the first time, as if she could sense we were in danger. It was pouring rain, a night much like this one, and she was drenched to the bone and freezing.”

“But where did she come from? Surely you would have heard of her before?” You cut in, curiosity getting the better of you.

Taehyung tutted, looking slightly irritated at your interruption. “Inquisitive little human, aren’t you?” Your mouth twisted into a sour pout, not really appreciating the comment since all this time he’d kept you in the dark about what was really happening. His features softened a little. “But I can understand why you would be. She came to us the day after Seungri fell. At first, nothing was out of place. Things were…good and…happy. She made me happy.”  The last part was so quiet you barely heard, but when you did your heart twisted.

“It’s been a year since, well…you know well enough what happened,” he continued. “Small run ins between the magical beings that roam the human realm are by no means uncommon, neither was Seungri’s fall from grace unheard of. There was no cause for alarm, and that was the first mistake we made. She came to us for a reason, we should have been paying more attention. Creatures of all kinds started showing up dead, even angels. The strangest part was they had all been drained of their abilities. We’re not sure exactly how many, because their bodies began to disappear as well. See all the statues? These were all people I loved. He killed them, Seungri killed them.”

“What?” you gasped, stepping toward him. “Oh Taehyung…I’m so sorry.”

“What’s done is done. I couldn’t protect them.”

“You can’t blame yourself for this. Your actions were not what caused their deaths.” He wouldn’t look at you, and your hand bunched into a fist from the urge to touch his shoulder or do something to comfort him, but you decided against it. “I can’t help but ask…why did he do it?”  

“Simple, he wanted power. He wanted to be the most powerful being in existence, forge his own throne and have everyone bow to him. Somehow he has the ability to siphon others’ abilities, which makes him very dangerous. Our second mistake was underestimating him, we should never have left Eve alone. I thought she could easily protect herself if he went after her. I was wrong, he was much more powerful that I thought. She put up a good fight, however, it didn’t kill him. He was severely wounded, and we haven’t seen any sign of him since. But he’s out there somewhere, recovering and waiting. I have no idea what his next move will be, he’s been silent for so long. I’ve been trying everything in my own power and those I know to hunt him down while he is weak. But if there’s one thing he’s good at, it’s being a coward.”

“But that still doesn’t explain why I’m here, and why I look like her,” you pointed out, turning back to stand face to face with the statue.  

“I think I know,” his deep voice came from behind you, warm breath tickling the back of your neck and causing the hairs to stand on end. You turned around only to find Taehyung was incredibly close, he backed you into the statue, a tiny squeak leaving you when you hit stone. Your eyes were drawn to the intriguing shape of his lips, your own tingled in memory of the way his devoured them. “The universe needs balance, and when Eve was...gone, it gave us you. I had begun to lose hope that we would have a fighting chance against him when he does inevitably return. But now we have you – you can help us. You bring a new hope to this war.”

“Hope? Hope? Have you ever considered that maybe you’re wrong? I’m not some super powerful goddess or entity or whatever she was. Have you considered that maybe I don’t want to be your fucking mascot? To fight a war that, quite frankly, terrifies me? I’m not just some replacement that you can snatch up because it was so convenient. Surely, I have more purpose than that...” you trailed off, voice that began as defensive fading to a defeated mumble.

“Do you really think that’s true, (Y/N)?” Taehyung asked, a knowing taunt to his question. As if he could see all the hours you spent staring at your ceiling while you weren’t working in hospitality, deciding what course you life was going to take. Not just from now on either, for you had asked yourself that many times in the past. Where are you going? Who are you? What are you doing? When will you change? 

At your silence, Taehyung moved forward even further causing you to press harder against the marble statue. Against what was essentially Eve’s tombstone, all the memories of how she was violently murdered came rushing back into your mind. Was that what fate awaited you?

 “I don’t want any part in this,” was all you managed to choke out before you shoved past him. 

So you ran.  

You ran as fast as your feet would carry you. The distance that you and Taehyung had walked passed by in a blur, the entrance hall coming closer and closer. Chairs scraped as the others scrambled to stand when you rushed past the dining room. Faintly, through the ringing in your ears you heard Jungkook almost whining your name.

The iron gate slammed shut behind you, sounding like another crack of thunder through the rain, the droplets battering against your skin. Your vision was obscured by it as you located the scooter and kicked it to life, not once looking over your shoulder as the mansion grew further and further away.

It was easier not to believe. Much, much simpler to just take a warm shower and succumb to sleep once you arrived back to your dark and silent apartment. Tomorrow you would go to work like usual. It was normal, and normal was good, you could understand it. Normal was safe.

***

“...me. Hello? Excuse me!” 

The cold of the drink seeping into your hand finally snapped you out of the daydream that had been occupying your thoughts, your fingertips tingling from becoming numb. 

“Right! Yes, sorry. Here you go, one large iced mocha to go,” you announced as if you hadn’t been almost drooling on yourself moments ago mid-daydream. The young customer took it from your hands and backed away slowly, almost as if you would try to harm him if he made any sudden movements. You wanted to throw your arms in the air and yell I’m not crazy! However, you knew that would certainly have the opposite effect. A fed-up huff came from your lips as you shook your head, trying to rid yourself of all these lingering thoughts. No, you didn’t want to know if Taehyung was thinking of you...right? No! He was dangerous and would only bring trouble and disruption into your perfectly peaceful life. Anyway, days had passed and you were safe now and fully intended on living a mundane and monster free lifestyle.

“Excuse me, dear,” a frail voice drew your attention back to the counter, where a short elderly woman waited patiently for assistance. You were in front of her in an instant, smiling kindly at the way her hands trembled as they gripped her cane weakly. “I was wondering if you could help me with the board up there. I’m terribly sorry, I’ve left my glasses somewhere and it’s a struggle for me to see very far without them.”

“Oh no, it’s alright. Don’t apologise, I’ll go through the options with you. Here,” you pulled out a much smaller menu from the display and began rattling off each item to her, but the brush of her finger on your hand stopped you abruptly.

“Say, a young lady I once knew had a mole just like the one on your wrist. She was very pretty, just like you,” the old lady commented, a kind smile etched into her wrinkled features.

The remark was very sweet and would normally have left you feeling warm and fuzzy inside, however, you couldn’t help the way you internally recoiled at the way she said just like you. A cold shiver ran down your spine due to the way she looked at you intensely, but you couldn’t blame her due to her old eyes. Regardless, you still rushed to finish up with her and seat her at one of the tables, the rather thick hairs around her top lip and the glassiness were starting to creep you out.

You spent the next two hours being run off your feet as usual, huffing in relief when it was time for you to go home finally. Despite getting the answers you so desired, your ability to sleep seems to have only gotten worse, as did the nightmares. So much for normal, it was easy to pretend while you were at work, as soon as you got home it was so quiet on your own. It was still more than a week until Isabella was due back from her holiday with her family, and you missed her terribly.

A loud thunk sound made you jump, only to relax when you saw a napkin pressed up against the glass from inside the coffee shop. Friday? it read in sharpie, held up by your coworker with a large grin spread across his face. You couldn’t help the way your own mouth copied his, breaking out into an ecstatic smile as well. He had asked you to accompany him to a party on Friday night, and you had agreed a little too eagerly, jumping at the opportunity to do something which you once thought you’d never enjoy. A small nod from you had him grinning wider, despite the minute feeling of guilt that bubbled up within you. No matter how many times you tried to convince yourself you might actually like him if you gave him a chance, you continued to catch yourself thinking about him. 

You took your frustration out on a small rock that came across your path, continually kicking it along the footpath in front of you every couple of steps. Each time it travelled a little farther as you got more annoyed with yourself. You would never see the man again, it’s so much easier to just forget about him. Yet you had to admit your heart ached in a way it never had before, like an undeniable connection was under the threat of being broken. Like the two of you were destined to be togeth-

“Argh!” You cried out, giving the stone an especially harsh kick. There you go again, letting your thoughts run rampant. The rock skidded to a stop at the intersection, right at the feet of an elderly person about to step into oncoming  traffic. Acting blindly, you lurched forward into a sprint. “Wait! It’s not safe to cross yet!” She froze midstep, unable to move until you grabbed her shoulder before she could step any farther, gasping when you recognised the little old lady from before.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, grasping your arm to steady herself when she stumbled, suddenly released from her daze. She blinked a couple of times, squinting up at you before her eyes narrowed further. “It’s you…” Her voice dropped with the last two words, and you swore she hissed. You were about to ask her if she was hurt while straightening, but her grip on your arm tightened. 

“Hey,” you cooed in a soothing tone, she might be in shock or frightened. “It’s okay, you’re safe now.”

“You’re not.” 

“What?”

“He’s coming for you. It’s only a matter of time.” 

In the blink of an eye you were pulled toward her with an unnatural amount of strength for her deceitful appearance, and white hot pain erupted from your arm as her sharp teeth sunk deep into the flesh. You tried to scream in pain and fear, but her hand clamped over your mouth, clawed fingernails digging into your cheek hard enough to draw blood. You mustered enough strength to push her off, her teeth momentarily latching on harder causing more of your flesh to tear as you struggled to get away. She screamed out in a manic laugh, but you had already turned and began to flee, wild panic driving you to sprint faster. Before long your lungs were burning and you had tears streaming down your face but you didn’t dare stop. A look over your shoulder only caused you more terror at the sight of some kind of demon in pursuit on all fours, nose following your trail of blood.

You made a sharp right turn, stomach dropping in dread when you saw a few innocent bystanders. You screamed at them to run, waving your uninjured arm maniacally. However, they didn’t budge as you caught up to them, didn’t hear you coming up behind even as you made quite the ruckus. You stopped abruptly in front of them, panic obvious in your expression and the way your chest heaved. Just as you were about to cry out in a panic yet again they walked right past you, completely oblivious.

They couldn’t see or hear you.

You stumbled after them as they passed, deep in conversation with one another but it was useless. They continued to walk down the street, unaware of your presence. They soon disappeared from sight while you continued to stumble along the path, feet dragging and vision blurring around the edges. Something was definitely wrong, you thought as you collapsed on the ground. A glance at your arm confirmed it was healed, no longer dripping with blood but the two puncture marks were still prominent. They looked infected and pulsated with something dark green. 

After a few seconds your vision became far too blurry, and you found yourself unable to keep your eyes open any longer. Everything started to go black and you slumped to the ground, succumbing to unconsciousness. 

***

When you opened your eyes again, all you could see was darkness still. It must have been the middle of the night, you noticed as you sat up in bed, your bed you noticed. The familiar dark space of your bedroom came into focus as you blinked several times, willing away the bittersweet embrace of sleep. Quickly you pulled your arm out from under the covers, noticing it no longer hurt, and as you looked closer you could see no evidence of the encounter ever happening. Was it another nightmare? It must have been, how did you get back home safely? What happened to the demon that was following you?

As if sensing your thoughts, you noticed an unfamiliar shape in the corner of the room where the shadows were at their darkest. You gasped quietly, panic setting in as an arm reached out, fingers brushing the stem of the lamp. You froze as a soft glow illuminated your room.

In the armchair, one ankle hooked casually over his knee sat Taehyung. His rings shone softly in the light as they drummed against his cheek.

“Quite the troublemaker, aren’t we?”

“I-I um,” you shuffled through your thoughts trying to look for an explanation, seeming as though he likely found you unconscious on the sidewalk, arm mauled and venom pumping through your veins.  “Well, it’s not l-l-like I...um,” you swallowed nervously as he stood from his seat, slowly stepping toward the bed. He cocked an eyebrow at your unfinished answer. “I didn’t go looking for it, it just happened.”

“A lot of things seem to have just happened to you recently, haven’t they?” He questioned rhetorically, moving to sit on the edge of your bed. He was much closer now, and you sank back down into the sheets gripping the covers almost to your chin. It was cooler in his presence and you were well aware of how much your nipples poked out against the thin fabric of your shirt. “You’re not safe by yourself. Come back to the mansion, please Y/N. Come back to me.” He whispered, each word he spoke he had inched closer until his breath fanned over your cheek. You didn’t stop him even as his lips brushed your skin, capturing the corner of your mouth. You didn’t stop him as his fingertips dragged up your body over the covers, drawing a line straight through the valley of your breasts and his fingers gripped the top of the doona. He pulled it down slowly, and you gasped softly at the way it dragged over your painfully stiff peaks. Taehyung easily swallowed the sound, laving his tongue over yours in a brief show of dominance. 

“What are you-” you began to ask but you were quickly silenced by his index finger being pressed to your lips.

“Hush sweetheart.” He bent down, warm breath tickling your lips before seeking to nibble on the corner of your mouth again. Instead of moving to deepen the kiss, he continued a blazing path down your cheek toward your ear. He sat back on his haunches, fingertips brushing the top of your blanket that was still covering your legs before eyeing you, waiting. You nodded once, giving him silent permission and Taehyung pulled the covers down, a rush of cool air made your skin break out in goose bumps yet you felt hotter than ever. He slotted a knee between your thighs as his mouth returned to your neck, his delightful lips pressed a soft kiss right behind your ear after he leaned down to whisper words of praise to you for allowing him access.

 His hot, wet tongue made you squirm when it laved over the crook in your neck, seeking out the spot where you were most sensitive. You whined loudly when he found it, a satisfactory smirk stretching across his lips before he began suckling a bruise there. Your nipples scraped over his chest with every heave of your lungs, god they were extra sensitive right now. He relented with a chuckle, shifting further down to nip your collarbone before honing in on the stiff peak poking through your shirt.

He drew your left nipple into his mouth, and your hips bucked unconsciously as you gasped, his hands gripped the soft flesh of your thighs, kneading firmly. The cavern of his mouth was so hot and created a wet patch where he suckled your peak through your shirt. A nip of his teeth drew another whine from you, before he relented the abused nipple only to latch on to the other. 

“Spread your legs for me sweetheart, that’s it,” he whispered, not really giving you an option with the way his fingers gripped your knees and pried them open, but it was embarrassing how quickly you complied. How quickly you wanted to comply. “Good girl, so eager and ready for me, aren’t you?” Quickly he settled his own hips at the apex of your thighs, and you mewled at the feeling of his bulge brushing against the wet patch on your sleep shorts. 

 “Please Taehyung,” you whimpered, whole body twitching with need. You jumped again when the cool metal of his rings brushed across your heated skin, trailing down your hips until his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. He glanced up and locked eyes with you for a moment, something feral was alight in his gaze that made your pelvic floor clench around nothing. You shivered as he dragged your shorts, panties included, ever so slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Taehyung’s mouth quickly followed, laving over your stomach in slow, torturous kisses. Occasionally he would nip your skin and soothe the bite with a lick. When he finally sat back, his grip on your knees tightened and he pushed them wide apart, gaze falling to your exposed core. You whimpered in embarrassment and tried to snap them closed but it only elicited a growl from him, clearly displeased at your disobedience. When you stilled he smirked, and shifted down to lay on his stomach with his face centimetres from your cunt. Warm air fanned against your glistening folds as he chuckled in amusement at how worked up you had gotten.

“You’re practically gushing, sweetheart. Do you really need me that badly?” He questioned, but before you had an opportunity to answer he dragged his flattened tongue over your honeyed hole, devouring your juices in long slow swipes. The muscle ventured to the side, sucking hickies all around your pussy lips but making no move to return to your most sensitive parts.

The drag of his sinfully warm tongue continued on and was driving you near insane, drawing one long, wide circle just outside of where you needed him most. Every now and then he would tease you with the lightest lave of the muscle over your clenching orepheus, but he never quite delved in. Your pussy clenched pathetically from the lightest dip.

Suddenly driven impatient and worked up to a point where you didn’t care, your hands flew down to find purchase in his silky blonde locks. You attempted to push his head further into your heat to gain some stimulation as you rutted your hips up, not remember that he had an agenda of his own. With a feral growl, he pulled away, one large hand coming to enclose your wrists and tug them from his head.

“Now now sweetheart, you aren’t being very well behaved are you? I might just have to put you over my knee and teach you some manners, hm?” He drawled, the pads of his fingers dipping into your wetness teasingly, before sitting back as he brought them up to admire the strings of your arousal that connected them. 

“Please please,” you whined, continuing to squirm. The playful smirk he once adorned fell from his face only to be replaced by something displeased. His free hand moved so suddenly you barely registered the movement until you felt a sharp sting across your pussy. He repeated the action once more, leaving you mewling underneath him from the smack.

 “First warning,” he growled, hunkering back down.

Finally his tongue delved into your entrance, licking up the pool of juices you were sure had gathered there by now. The tip of his tongue stopped just short of your throbbing bud, and you squirmed from being so close to the stimulation you craved. His thumb came up just above your pearl, pulling back the hood to expose it. He blew air on it gently and when your hips began to buck he finally trapped it between his lips only to begin suckling without mercy. The action tore a near scream from your lips, if you were squirming before, you were positively thrashing now as his teeth nipped at your sensitive clit. The sudden you onslaught of pleasure had your pelvic muscles contracting so hard you swore you almost gushed all over the sheets.

He eased off a little, opting for more gentle suckles and licks against your bud, but they were strong enough to still have you clenching and whining as your climax drew closer. The push of something slim and solid against your entrance had your eyes going wide for a moment, before he sunk his middle finger into your cunt easily. Immediately your walls clamped down on it, welcoming the intrusion. Taehyung lifted his head off to admire the way your head was thrown back against the pillows, eyes rolling back into your head. You whimpered when he pushed another finger in, two making a delicious stretch that had your spread legs twitching. He chuckled endearingly at your response, and how smoothly you’d taken them into your sopping pussy.

“Good girl,” he hummed. “So eager for me, let me hear you.” 

The continuous drag of his fingers against your walls elicited a loud moan from your panting lips, particularly when he easily located the soft spongy bed of nerves nestled within. He crooked his fingers, pleased at the way you grew tighter, that coil in your stomach getting closer to snapping. “That’s it sweetheart, come for me,” he growled, lips seizing your clit once more and he lashed his tongue against it without mercy in tangent with the movement of his wrist. 

After being on the brink for some time, this easily tipped you over and you hurtled into your climax. You felt every muscle lock up as you hit the peak of pleasure, a loud sting of cries torn from within as you began to tremble and buck your hips when Taehyung refused to let up. The pleasure became a little overwhelming once your orgasm had finally subsided, and you pushed Taehyung away with a whine. He sat back, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. The fingers that still glistened with your juices, rings and all, were popped into his mouth. He groaned as they dragged over his tongue, and the sound made you twitch, still sensitive.

His sinful lips were moving, but no sound was coming from them. You frowned, still in an elated haze wondering if perhaps it was just your ears ringing. He was talking more, the expression on his face looking alarmed now.

You tried to sit up, reassure him that you felt completely fine but strong hands gripped your shoulders and held you back down. When you looked up your vision was blurred, your eyes were unable to focus on the room around you and you could no longer see Taehyung clearly. 

You began to resist against the hands holding you down, shouting out in confusion. Your arm throbbed in pain, it felt white hot and swollen. Someone was shaking you by the shoulders, and you squeezed your eyes shut. This felt wrong, you felt incredibly groggy and your head was pounding.

“(Y/N)! Wake up!” A voice was calling out, sounding far away. It repeated your name a few times, each one getting louder until your eyes snapped open to look at the figure hovering over you, hands gripping your shoulders.

“Yoongi?”

“Would you like to explain why I found you half dead on the sidewalk?”

***

You were back at the mansion.

Shadows danced in the corners of the room as the fire cast a warm glow across the library, giving off comforting crackling sounds every few seconds. Taehyung was noticeably absent, and you opened your mouth to question his whereabouts. An uneasy feeling came over you, however, and you decided against it. He didn’t want to see you right now.

You had woken up in Yoongi’s workroom, your wounded arm wrapped in a bandage. A demon bite, and a nasty one too he informed you. The type that causes people to go insane before they died, hallucinating things they...desire. The fire warmed your already rosy cheeks, flaming in embarrassment at what had occurred in your dream. It felt incredibly real.

“I can’t believe you survived that, honestly. I’ve seen a lot of bites like that before and the end result is never anything pretty. People go downhill pretty quickly.” Yoongi mused, staring straight into the burning flames, light flickering in his eyes.

“Good people too,” Hoseok added as he came back into the room, offering you a steaming mug of tea which you accepted gracefully. “Here.” He also draped a blanket across your shoulders, causing you to melt a little under his doting. 

“Thank you, really.”

“Don’t mention it, you’ve been through quite a lot, and I’m afraid it’s only going to get worse. Demon numbers are on the rise. No doubt it’s related to...him.” Hoseok looked away as he talked about Seungri, and you eyed his wings remembering how Seungri had a pair just like them, only black. You had a sinking feeling the two were connected somehow. 

“That...thing. The demon, it said something to me. He’s coming for me.” You shuddered at the thought, at your dreams, what Taehyung said to you. Everyone in the room turned to look at you, and Yoongi opened his mouth to speak.

He was interrupted as a crack of thunder boomed through the sky, flashes of lightning illuminating the room. The doors to the library were thrown open with a tremendous bang causing everybody to jump. Two figures appeared in the doorway as more lightning struck.

“Well, well, well…what do we have here?” The first one said, tilting his head at you and giving a far from comforting smile. Yoongi was quick to be by your side.

“Namjoon, Seokjin….this is (Y/N).”

A/N: I’m sorry for the late update!!! I know it’s been a really long time but I’m such a slow writer, plus my mental state hasn’t been very good lately. If I missed you on the tag list I’m sorry, it’s hard to keep track!!

Tag list:  @lachiminlajimin​ @sugasheart @jessilliam-caronday@yikesskaina @wonzigyumin @diorluvs@xxqueenwxtchxx @irissilujm​ @sweetcrvture @mrcleanheichou @youtube-obsessed-duh @sarahkriswugirl@bangtanlove16 @mariacorbi @baby-hobii@catsandstrawberries @it-is-dana @januarythirteen @just-a-little-teapot13 @jooheonbee​ @crajishie​ @lyuxs​ @t-mel19​ @joonsroses​ @valiantcollectorofsandwiches​ @psiphidragon​ @ro2424​ @mingukmania​

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[guardmesherlock-rowan]

(image changed to show oldest message first)

So Enola Holmes... is... alright.

I definitely think I set myself up for disappointment by reading the first book however.  Then again it wouldn’t be the first time a movie adaptation failed to live up to my expectations, and it didn’t wander off from the novel as much as other movies have (that I still haven’t forgiven).  

This will contain some spoilers, and I’m still not sure if all my mental ducks are in a row.  And if anyone who has read the rest of the books can explain some of the additions to the movie please do!

Rant below.

When it came time to watch the movie I thought I would make notes while I was watching it, stayed up till it released at 2am my time, got some popcorn and prepared.  Though I honestly felt like I was not prepared for a nearly 2 hour movie.  The set up for her family dynamic was off from the get go.  Book wise, the issue was that her mother gave birth to Enola so late in her life that to others it was a scandal like how could this woman avoid having a child for so many years between Sherlock and Enola.  The way the movie presents it, it’s no different than me not knowing my youngest sibling well because I went off to college when he was 4.  It’s presented in the movie as the boys got busy in their own lives and never visited, and Mycroft had put an time limit over his mother’s head that she could live there until Enola became 16.  To make him look like an even bigger jerk.  In the book this was presented as an unfairness that Mycroft took ownership of the home after their father died due to being a male heir, but that he was still leaving the care of it to his mother.  There was no threat of possible homelessness after a while.

Adding this detail where the guys simply moved on with their lives, and removal of this potential scandal, removed the fact that Enola’s mother told the guys not to come around.  Which showed her mother plotting this escape for a long while, and now just shows how if the brothers had just spent more time with their family they would’ve realized what was happening.  Also making it their fault they don’t have a relationship with Enola, and not her mother’s.  

In the book Enola’s mom:

Left Enola alone to teach herself.

Left Enola alone most days so she could wander (she would bond over art)

Told Enola she was fine Alone, which can be a form of gas lighting when you combine the mother’s absentee behavior to the fact that 

She told the boys not to come visit, creating a wall between her children

It’s highly understandable, being the only family Enola’s known, that it would be important to find her mother.  But also why it wasn’t a big leap for Enola to start living on her own with the time came.  

The only connection Enola had with her brother was through the articles about his cases.  Which makes the cute scene with Lestrade later in the movie where they compare knowledge of Sherlock Holmes very odd.  Adorable, but odd.  Though Lestrade in this also has me a little ruffled with his henchmen like behavior later when he breaks down a door on a mission for Mycroft. 

Mycroft deserved better, but at least he got to act like a shady government big brother character, it was entertaining.  

They made comments about how Sherlock and Enola are more gifted than him.  They also made comments about he was a jerk and cruel to Enola and their mom with what he said about them staying until Enola was 16.  And I have a feeling they put in the finish school scenes so she could have the blow out with Mycroft as he brought her there.  Which would of course also include a space where Enola could be semi-rescued by her now love interest, and give reasoning to Mycroft later washing his hands of her, despite his adamant belief that he is responsible for her.  

Of course Mycroft’s reaction, Enola’s mother’s change of focus, and the new family dynamic set up for another change in Sherlock Holmes.  Now we have the middle child who was not as cruel as his brother, but was still at fault for not visiting.  But he remembered some things about Enola from the time they lived together that he would bring up to show he cared.  Would even be used as ammunition against her mom in their last scene together.  (though it is a fair not to be distracted by the far past kind of shut down instead of an accusation that her mother didn’t care)

Instead of being on the opposition of Enola, he seemed to be on her side.  Even in the last moment where he tried to trick her into coming to see him, it didn’t seem completely malicious.  He appeared to be proud of her when she beat him to solving the mystery, though he had not been active on it where she had been because he was busy trying to find her.  Not because she was curious and got herself involved, but because the guy was stowing away in her cabin and got her involved.  It was definitely her choice to step into it, but she had already turned away once before so she would meet her train.

This love interest character is not my favorite. In the book we have a kid who had some romanticized notions of seafaring and had his mistaken beliefs squashed by reality, hard.  He became determined to go home and actually talk it out with his mom how she was babying him.  Now we have a guy who is about Enola’s age (16, which was 14 in the books), who is knowledgeable in wild plants, willing to be adventurous, and even a little wild with Enola.  Even changing it up where his interest in being a sailor was a cover to send people in the wrong direction of the fact he would want to work with flowers. 

This all leads into the new piece of the Enola story.  The mystery.  Instead of a child running away, attempted kidnapping and ransoming, we have one murder and one attempted murder.  Which also ties into the big political part of the movie regarding voting.  It is revealed that there is a domestic terroristic plot due to not everyone having the right to vote (not said outright but hinted that this about giving women the right to vote).  It would be voted upon by the lords later. 

~~Politics~~

Which leads to a bit that gets me a touch upset.  There were a lot of ties between protests and this bomb making lab that were not said, just indicated with flyers and other signs.  Enola is later confronted about how they don’t have to set off the bomb because they thought they would have to make noise to be heard -rewatching that ending scene right now to make sure I remember it-

“You have to make some noise if you want to be heard. Oh, it’s funny. I thought I was the one that was going to change the world.  The reform bill, is it true what you did?”

This part got me so angry.  What Enola did was save her love interest who just happened to have a seat of power in which he could vote and help sway it in their favor with his one vote.  In a certain light it felt like they were saying that believing in those with the power to change will change is better than protesting.  The line is not wrong, but it felt like they were putting the bombs on the same stage as protests, which they are not.

It feels like they used the political aspect to help propel a more compelling mystery, which was definitely better suited for the big screen than the earnest story in the book.  However, I can’t help but feel that it was muddled and poorly done.  The fact they used politics doesn’t bother me as much as how they used it.  Politics is used in stories all the time.  Law making, what is just, what isn’t.  Driving to the grocery store and what I see there, who I see there.  It affects day to day life.  However, if they want to focus on the element of protesting versus voting for change there is a debate there that I have feelings on, but not in a position to debate it.

Though it was very odd that they would want to talk about politics in the time frame and not show them as much in the movie as they did in the book.  Keeping politics effects on life at arms length enough to use political shouting and protests without the more compare and contrast which THEY COULD’VE done with the love interest if they felt more inclined.  But while the book version of him actually seems to have learned more about the outside world, this one just came in mint woke condition and only needed saving from the murderer and some mild convincing to go back and vote because they didn’t want him to.

~~Less Politics~~

Which also brings in the humorous political and societal norm that was ignored in the movie but brought up in the book.  Women’s clothing.  Enola’s mother uses it as a mean to hide her essentials while running away, and Enola does the same.  She also does a good many things while dressed up as a woman, not bribing men to change clothes with her as often.  The clothes that Enola once had despised at the beginning of the book she would grow to appreciate, especially the corset whose ribbing protected her from death with a knife caught on it.  Honestly same though, it’s funny when a piece of sturdy material you’re wearing saves your life and stops a blade (personal experience, mine was metal).

It felt like a dishonor to change that thought process, especially when Book Enola also didn’t disguise herself as a guy because she thought it would be too obvious.  Where as a lady, or a nun, or a widow would make better disguises when they only see a child when they look at her and presume she doesn’t care for womanly attire. 

It is probably better to go book to movie in this case.  You get a different story that is more exciting for the screen.  Whereas going movie to book might be disappointing without the literature equivalent of jumping from a moving train..

The book was a fun read, Enola was a strong young woman who definitely feels like she is a Holmes without having to subject herself to them. 

The movie is exciting, with a fractured family feeling with some political commentary. 

Each of the pieces have their own positive traits and negative traits.  I can see why certain changes were made.  Though I may not agree with them. 

[script-a-world]

Clearly there are some settings which make no sense scientifically. But how do I decide when to intentionally ignore reality, can't bother to do research, don't understand research, and thus create scientifically impossible places? When are such things considered be offensive or overused cliche or have a reader point out the impossibility and can't get into the story? I'm guessing some of this might be structural issues instead of world building?

Tex: One of the perils of attempting to write about highly technical subjects is that you run into the issue of not understanding your writing. I do raise a nominal objection as your first sentence, because sensibility is a sliding scale based on one’s familiarity with a given subject. I don’t know crap about, say, textile art (however much I might have bluffed readers in the past - no, no, this is just good googling skills on my end), but that doesn’t mean the textile arts are an inherently incomprehensible subject.

Scientifically, automobiles were once thought to be insensible. Scientifically, phones were thought to be a flight of fancy. Scientifically, 3D printing was improbable. Scientifically, quantum computing was the stuff of sci-fi nerds who just wanted to slap the “quantum” label on everything.

And yet we are now on the verge of robotic vehicles, mostly functional smartwatches, laser printing cells (PDF), and quantum computers (VentureBeat, IBM).

So I would argue that the insensibility of a setting would be due mostly to, yes, a structural issue - on the part of the author. No matter what you put into your world, internal consistency is key; nothing, no matter how ostensibly outlandish, will make sense if you contradict yourself.

I’ll volley a few questions back to you:

“[...] when to intentionally ignore reality” - Are you ignoring reality entirely, or just parts of it? Why? How does that decision benefit your world? How does it detract from your world?

“Can’t bother to do research” - Is it because you are discouraged by the breadth of your comprehension of a subject, compared to the subject’s depth? Or is it because of something else?

“Don’t understand research” - Is this because you don’t understand the academic papers that turn up in your search results, or because you have a fundamental lack of or misunderstanding of the given subject? Or is it because of something else?

“When are such things considered to be offensive or overused cliche” - As someone who intentionally arranges their studying around the plausibilities of the future, I would quite frankly be delighted to see more conceptual stretches of the imagination in this regard, as do many others on this blog, and beyond it. Why have you already passed judgement on the offensiveness or clichéd-ness of incorporating scientific things? Is this related to your other comments?

“[...] or have a reader point out the impossibility and can’t get into the story?” - If you are writing to please a specific individual or demographic, you are inevitably always going to fall short, because it’s genuinely impossible to meet every single item on a group’s wishlist without devoting your life to it (not an entirely worthy pursuit, in my opinion, but alas). What made you decide to be so concerned over the potential reaction to your stories that you worry about it before the story is even written?

I think I will put the majority of my curiosity’s weight on the last bullet point, as I’m seeing similar themes with the other portions of your question. It’s a fruitless endeavour to tie yourself into knots over a possible (not necessarily probable!) reaction - and quite likely from a stranger, to boot. Education is a relatively easy situation to fix, so long as you’re patient with yourself; dealing with anxieties over readers is… not so easy.

I can really only recommend that you take a close look at the goals of your worldbuilding, and see where you contradict yourself - once you have that in hand, it’s a relatively simple yes/no process of what concepts you want to keep. If the issue of decision comes from a lack of understanding, then make a note to yourself to seek out either the million wikis we Pylons utilize ourselves like any other worldbuilder, or to chalk it up as a genuine lack of context.

Please understand that even someone who’s dedicated their life to a certain aspect of science won’t know everything about it - that’s the point of research! We’re constantly asking ourselves questions, and pushing the envelope of known boundaries. Star Wars has lightsabers, but we don’t need to know how they work; likewise with holodecks in Star Trek. So long as an audience is reasonably entertained with the least amount of head-scratching, you can get away with handwaving quite a lot.

Lockea: On a scale between Star Trek and Star Wars, how “hard” is your science fiction?

I mention that mostly to illustrate that science fiction exists on a continuum, wherein science fiction with more “science” than “fiction” drives a story towards the harder end rather than the softer end. Also, a story’s place on the continuum will change based on what we know and understand about science.

I feel like everyone always beats me to saying all the important stuff about questions, so I’ll just give a few thoughts from my personal experience as a science fiction fan with two engineering degrees and a thesis about robots on the moon (yes really, I wrote my thesis on AI for moon robots). I really, really, love the creativity of science fiction writers. I think so often in defending the genre, we can get caught up in saying things like “science fiction predicted XYZ!” Well, sure, I may have studied Isaac Asimov’s three laws of robotics in my introduction to engineering ethics course, but I was also greedily reading my way through “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins at the same time. The fact that I sincerely doubt Panem will ever happen didn’t dampen my enjoyment of Katniss’s story. It was a fun read and it gave my friends and I something to talk about that wasn’t “feasibility of Battlestar Galactica” during our daily lunches.

The thing about writing science fiction is that, without a doubt, there will be someone who knows more than you about a topic who reads your story. Most of the time, I end up being that someone since everyone likes to talk about Skynet and robots taking over the world to a roboticist who sincerely refers to artificial intelligence as artificial stupidity. Y'all are seriously overestimating the field, my friends. Nonetheless, I still enjoyed “Captain America: The Winter Soldier” even as I thought how impossible Project Insight would be. Honestly, something every READER of science fiction needs to make peace with is the fact that writers will get something wrong. Writers, despite their best efforts, are not always going to understand that a facial recognition algorithm will fail if you introduce tiny amounts of random noise and are thus going to treat The Algorithm™ as infallible in your crime drama novel.

It’s not the writer’s fault, though.

That deserves to be on its own line. It is not YOUR fault if you get something wrong. Would it be nice if science literacy was just better all around? Of course! But it’s not your fault if your science literacy isn’t up to snuff enough to parse the article I cited above. It’s also not your job. Your job as the writer is to tell the most interesting story you can and to maintain your own internal rules and logic such that the reader never breaks the willing suspension of disbelief.

I watch Star Wars and get really into the light saber fight scenes and forget that light sabers are basically impossible to make. Star Wars has the Force, which is basically magic, and that’s okay. Really. I KNOW it’s not possible, but I still have a lot of fun watching it!

So yeah, write that story about how the robots are going to take over the world. I’ll probably enjoy reading it even as I laugh off my friends telling me that I will be the first to die in the robot apocalypse (of course I will -- I have five robots in my living room alone).

Constablewrites: Tone and consistency are the biggest pieces of this for me. If it’s the kind of story where the answer to “How does this work?” is usually a detailed and plausible explanation, then getting an answer later that is implausible or slapdash will stand out more. But if it’s the kind of story where the answer to “How does this work?” is “You push that button and it goes whoosh” from the start, my expectations adjust accordingly. (It’s possible to have the latter version in a story that is mostly the former, frequently when it’s played for last. Again, tone is key.)

So yeah, a lot of this is execution and the way the story sticks to the rules it sets for itself, and also how central the implausibility is to the story. A realistic thriller that relies on cartoon logic for a background bit might be a little jarring, but not nearly as much as a realistic thriller that relies on cartoon logic to set up its main showdown. The more central it is to the story, the more consistency and accuracy matters. Learning how to balance this can take some practice and some insight from beta readers.

[semiotexte]

As the years passed, I learned to think of dreams as an integral part of life. There are dreams that, because of their sensory intensity, their realism or precisely their lack of realism, deserve to be introduced into autobiography, just as much as events that were actually lived through. Life begins and ends in the unconscious; the actions we carry out while fully lucid are only little islands in an archipelago of dreams. No existence can be completely rendered in its happiness or its madness without taking into account oneiric experiences. It’s Calderón de la Barca’s maxim reversed: it’s not a matter of thinking that life is a dream, but rather of realizing that dreams are also a form of life. It is just as strange to think, like the Egyptians, that dreams are cosmic channels through which the souls of ancestors pass in order to communicate with us, as to claim, as some of the neurosciences do, that dreams are a “cut-and-paste” of elements experienced by the brain during waking life, elements that return in the dream’s REM phase, while our eyes move beneath our eyelids, as if they were watching. Closed and sleeping, eyes continue to see. Therefore, it is more appropriate to say that the human psyche never stops creating and dealing with reality, sometimes in dreams, sometimes in waking life.

Whereas over the course of the past few months my waking life has been, to use the euphemistic Catalan expression, “good, so long as we don’t go into details,” my oneiric life has had the power of a novel by Ursula K. Le Guin. During one of my recent dreams, I was talking with the artist Dominique González-Foerster about my problem of geographic dislocation: after years of a nomadic life, it is hard for me to decide on a place to live in the world. While we were having this conversation, we were watching the planets spin slowly in their orbits, as if we were two giant children and the solar system were a Calder mobile. I was explaining to her that, for now, in order to avoid the conflict that the decision entailed, I had rented an apartment on each planet, but that I didn’t spend more than a month on any one of them, and that this situation was economically and physically unsustainable. Probably because she is the creator of the Exotourisme project, Dominique in this dream was an expert on extraterrestrial real-estate management. “If I were you, I’d have an apartment on Mars and I’d keep a pied-à-terre on Saturn,” she was saying, showing a great deal of pragmatism, “but I’d get rid of the Uranus apartment. It’s much too far away.”

Awake, I don’t know much about astronomy; I don’t have the slightest idea of the positions or distances of the different planets in the solar system. But I consulted the Wikipedia page on Uranus: it is in fact one of the most distant planets from Earth. Only Neptune, Pluto, and the dwarf planets Haumea, Makemake, and Eris are farther away. I read that Uranus was the first planet discovered with the help of a telescope, eight years before the French Revolution. With the help of a lens he himself had made, the astronomer and musician William Herschel observed it one night in March in a clear sky, from the garden of his house at 19 New King Street, in the city of Bath. Since he didn’t yet know if it was a huge star or a tailless comet, they say that Herschel called it “Georgium Sidus,” the Georgian Star, to console King George III for the loss of the British colonies in America: England had lost a continent, but the King had gained a planet. Thanks to Uranus, Herschel was able to live on a generous royal pension of two hundred pounds a year. Because of Uranus, he abandoned both music and the city of Bath, where he was a chapel organist and director of public concerts, and settled in Windsor so that the King could be sure of his new conquest by observing it through a telescope. Because of Uranus, they say, Herschel went mad, and spent the rest of his life building the largest telescope of the eighteenth century, which the English called “the monster.” Because of Uranus, they say, Herschel never played the oboe again. He died at the age of eighty-four: the number of years it takes for Uranus to go around the sun. They say that the tube of his telescope was so wide that the family used it as a dining hall at his funeral.

Uranus is what astrophysicists call a “gas giant.” Made up of ice, methane, and ammonia, it is the coldest planet in the solar system, with winds that can exceed nine hundred kilometers per hour. In short, the living conditions are not especially suitable. So Dominique was right: I should leave the Uranus apartment.

But dream functions like a virus. From that night forward, while I’m awake, the sensation of having an apartment on Uranus increases, and I am more and more convinced that the place I should live is over there.

For the Greeks, as for me in this dream, Uranus was the solid roof of the world, the limit of the celestial vault. Uranus was regarded as the house of the gods in many Greek invocation rituals. In mythology, Uranus is the son that Gaia, the Earth, conceived alone, without insemination or coition. Greek mythology is at once a kind of retro sci-fi story anticipating in a do-it-yourself way the technologies of reproduction and bodily transformation that will appear throughout the twentieth and twenty-first centuries; and at the same time a kitschy TV series in which the characters give themselves over to an unimaginable number of relationships outside the law. Thus Gaia married her son Uranus, a Titan often represented in the middle of a cloud of stars, like a sort of Tom of Finland dancing with other muscle-bound guys in a techno club on Mount Olympus. From the incestuous and ultimately not very heterosexual relationships between heaven and earth, the first generation of Titans were born, including Oceanus (Water), Chronos (Time), and Mnemosyne (Memory) … Uranus was both the son of the Earth and the father of all the others. We don’t quite know what Uranus’s problem was, but the truth is that he was not a good father: either he forced his children to remain in Gaia’s womb, or he threw them into Tartarus as soon as they were born. So Gaia convinced one of her children to carry out a contraceptive operation. You can see in the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence the representation that Giorgio Vasari made in the sixteenth century of Chronos castrating his father Uranus with a scythe. Aphrodite, the goddess of love, emerged from Uranus’s amputated genital organs … which could imply that love comes from the disjunction of the body’s genital organs, from the displacement and externalization of genital force.

This form of nonheterosexual conception, cited in Plato’s Symposium, was the inspiration for the German lawyer Karl Heinrich Ulrichs to come up with the word Uranian [Urning] in 1864 to designate what he called relations of the “third sex.” In order to explain men’s attraction to other men, Ulrichs, after Plato, cut subjectivity in half, separated the soul from the body, and imagined a combination of souls and bodies that authorized him to reclaim dignity for those who loved against the law. The segmentation of soul and body reproduces in the domain of experience the binary epistemology of sexual difference: there are only two options. Uranians are not, Ulrich writes, sick or criminal, but feminine souls enclosed in masculine bodies attracted to masculine souls.

This is not a bad idea to legitimize a form of love that, at the time, could get you hanged in England or in Prussia, and that, today, remains illegal in seventy-four countries and is subject to the death penalty in thirteen, including Nigeria, Pakistan, Iran, and Qatar; a form of love that constitutes a common motive for violence in family, society, and police in most Western democracies.

Ulrichs does not make this statement as a lawyer or scientist: he is speaking in the first person. He does not say “there are Uranians,” but “I am a Uranian.” He asserts this, in Latin, on August 18, 1867, after having been condemned to prison and after his books have been banned by an assembly of five hundred jurists, members of the German Parliament, and a Bavarian prince—an ideal audience for such confessions. Until then, Ulrichs had hidden behind the pseudonym “Numa Numantius.” But from that day on, he speaks in his own name, he dares to taint the name of his father. In his diary, Ulrichs confesses he was terrified, and that, just before walking onto the stage of the Grand Hall of the Odeon Theater in Munich, he had been thinking about running away, never to return. But he says he suddenly remembered the words of the Swiss writer Heinrich Hössli, who a few years before had defended sodomites (though not, however, speaking in his own name): “Two ways lie before me,” Hössli wrote, “to write this book and expose myself to persecution, or not to write it and be full of guilt until the day I am buried. Of course I have encountered the temptation to stop writing … But before my eyes appeared the images of the persecuted and the wretched prospect of such children who have not yet been born, and I thought of the unhappy mothers at their cradles, rocking their cursed yet innocent children! And then I saw our judges with their eyes blindfolded. Finally, I imagined my gravedigger slipping the cover of my coffin over my cold face. Then, before I submitted, the imperious desire to stand up and defend the oppressed truth possessed me … And so I continued to write with my eyes resolutely averted from those who have worked for my destruction. I do not have to choose between remaining silent or speaking. I say to myself: speak or be judged!”

Ulrichs writes in his journal that the judges and Parliamentarians seated in Munich’s Odeon Hall cried out, as they listened to his speech, like an angry crowd: End the meeting! End the meeting! But he also notes that one or two voices were raised to say: Let him continue! In the midst of a chaotic tumult, the President left the theater, but some Parliamentarians remained. Ulrichs’s voice trembled. They listened.

But what does it mean to speak for those who have been refused access to reason and knowledge, for us who have been regarded as mentally ill? With what voice can we speak? Can the jaguar or the cyborg lend us their voices? To speak is to invent the language of the crossing, to project one’s voice into an interstellar expedition: to translate our difference into the language of the norm; while we continue, in secret, to practice a strange lingo that the law does not understand.

So Ulrichs was the first European citizen to declare publicly that he wanted to have an apartment on Uranus. He was the first mentally ill person, the first sexual criminal to stand up and denounce the categories that labeled him as sexually and criminally diseased.

He did not say, “I am not a sodomite.” On the contrary, he defended the right to practice sodomy between men, calling for a reorganization of the systems of signs, for a change of the political rituals that defined the social recognition of a body as healthy or sick, legal or illegal. He invented a new language and a new scene of enunciation. In each of Ulrichs’s words addressed from Uranus to the Munich jurists resounds the violence generated by the dualist epistemology of the West. The entire universe cut in half and solely in half. Everything is heads or tails in this system of knowledge. We are human or animal. Man or woman. Living or dead. We are the colonizer or the colonized. Living organism or machine. We have been divided by the norm. Cut in half and forced to remain on one side or the other of the rift. What we call “subjectivity” is only the scar that, over the multiplicity of all that we could have been, covers the wound of this fracture. It is over this scar that property, family, and inheritance were founded. Over this scar, names are written and sexual identities asserted.

On May 6, 1868, Karl Maria Kertbeny, an activist and defender of the rights of sexual minorities, sent a handwritten letter to Ulrichs in which for the first time he used the word homosexual to refer to what his friend called “Uranians.” Against the antisodomy law promulgated in Prussia, Kertbeny defended the idea that sexual practices between people of the same sex were as “natural” as the practices of those he calls—also for the first time—“heterosexuals.” For Kertbeny, homosexuality and heterosexuality were just two natural ways of loving. For medical jurisprudence at the end of the nineteenth century, however, homosexuality would be reclassified as a disease, a deviation, and a crime.

I am not speaking of history here. I am speaking to you of your lives, of mine, of today. While the notion of Uranianism has gone somewhat astray in the archives of literature, Kertbeny’s concepts would become authentic biopolitical techniques of dealing with sexuality and reproduction over the course of the twentieth century, to such an extent that most of you continue to use them to refer to your own identity, as if they were descriptive categories. Homosexuality would remain listed until 1975 in Western psychiatric manuals as a sexual disease. This remains a central notion, not only in the discourse of clinical psychology, but also in the political languages of Western democracies.

When the notion of homosexuality disappeared from psychiatric manuals, the notions of intersexuality and transsexuality appear as new pathologies for which medicine, pharmacology, and law suggest remedies. Each body born in a hospital in the West is examined and subjected to the protocols of evaluation of gender normality invented in the fifties in the United States by the doctors John Money and John and Joan Hampson: if the baby’s body does not comply with the visual criteria of sexual difference, it will be submitted to a battery of operations of “sexual reassignment.” In the same way, with a few minor exceptions, neither scientific discourse nor the law in most Western democracies recognizes the possibility of inscribing a body as a member of human society unless it is assigned either masculine or feminine gender. Transsexuality and intersexuality are described as psychosomatic pathologies, and not as the symptoms of the inadequacy of the politico-visual system of sexual differentiation when faced with the complexity of life.

How can you, how can we, organize an entire system of visibility, representation, right of self-determination, and political recognition if we follow such categories? Do you really believe you are male or female, that we are homosexual or heterosexual, intersexed or transsexual? Do these distinctions worry you? Do you trust them? Does the very meaning of your human identity depend on them? If you feel your throat constricting when you hear one of these words, do not silence it. It’s the multiplicity of the cosmos that is trying to pierce through your chest, as if it were the tube of a Herschel telescope.

Let me tell you that homosexuality and heterosexuality do not exist outside of a dualistic, hierarchical epistemology that aims at preserving the domination of the paterfamilias over the reproduction of life. Homosexuality and heterosexuality, intersexuality and transsexuality do not exist outside of a colonial, capitalist epistemology, which privileges the sexual practices of reproduction as a strategy for managing the population and the reproduction of labor, but also the reproduction of the population of consumers. It is capital, not life, that is being reproduced. These categories are the map imposed by authority, not the territory of life. But if homosexuality and heterosexuality, intersexuality and transsexuality, do not exist, then who are we? How do we love? Imagine it.

Then, I remember my dream and I understand that my trans condition is a new form of Uranism. I am not a man and I am not a woman and I am not heterosexual I am not homosexual I am not bisexual. I am a dissident of the sex-gender system. I am the multiplicity of the cosmos trapped in a binary political and epistemological system, shouting in front of you. I am a Uranian confined inside the limits of techno-scientific capitalism.

Like Ulrichs, I am bringing no news from the margins; instead, I bring you a piece of horizon. I come with news of Uranus, which is neither the realm of God nor the sewer. Quite the contrary. I was assigned a female sex at birth. They said I was lesbian. I decided to self-administer regular doses of testosterone. I never thought I was a man. I never thought I was a woman. I was several. I didn’t think of myself as transsexual. I wanted to experiment with testosterone. I love its viscosity, the unpredictability of the changes it causes, the intensity of the emotions it provokes forty-eight hours after taking it. And, if the injections are regular, its ability to undo your identity, to make organic layers of the body emerge that otherwise would have remained invisible. Here as everywhere, what matters is the measure: the dosage, the rhythm of injections, the order of them, the cadence. I wanted to become unrecognizable. I wasn’t asking medical institutions for testosterone as hormone therapy to cure “gender dysphoria.” I wanted to function with testosterone, to experience the intensity of my desire through it, to multiply my faces by metamorphosing my subjectivity, creating a body that was a revolutionary machine. I undid the mask of femininity that society had plastered onto my face until my identity documents became ridiculous, obsolete. Then, with no way out, I agreed to identify myself as a transsexual, as a “mentally ill person,” so that the medico-legal system would acknowledge me as a living human body. I paid with my body for the name I bear.

By making the decision to construct my subjectivity with testosterone, the way the shaman constructs his with plants, I take on the negativity of my time, a negativity I am forced to represent and against which I can fight only from this paradoxical incarnation, which is to be a trans man in the twenty-first century, a feminist bearing the name of a man in the #MeToo movement, an atheist of the hetero-patriarchal system turned into a consumer of the pharmacopornographic industry. My existence as a trans man constitutes at once the acme of the sexual ancien régime and the beginning of its collapse, the climax of its normative progression and the signal of a proliferation still to come.

I have come to talk to you—to you and to the dead, or rather, to those who live as if they were already dead—but I have come especially to talk to the cursed, innocent children who are yet to be born. Uranians are the survivors of a systematic, political attempt at infanticide: we have survived the attempt to kill in us, while we were not yet adults, and while we could not defend ourselves, the radical multiplicity of life and the desire to change the names of all things. Are you dead? Will they be born tomorrow? I congratulate you, belatedly or in advance.

I bring you news of the crossing, which is the realm of neither God nor the sewer. Quite the contrary. Do not be afraid, do not be excited, I have not come to explain anything morbid. I have not come to tell you what a transsexual is, or how to change your sex, or at what precise instant a transition is good or bad. Because none of that would be true, no truer than the ray of afternoon sun falling on a certain spot on the planet and changing according to the place from which it is seen. No truer than that the slow orbit described by Uranus as it revolves above the Earth is yellow. I cannot tell you everything that goes on when you take testosterone, or what that does in your body. Take the trouble to administer the necessary doses of knowledge to yourself, as many as your taste for risk allows you.

I have not come for that. As my indigenous Chilean mother Pedro Lemebel said, I do not know why I come, but I am here. In this Uranian apartment that overlooks the gardens of Athens. And I’ll stay a while. At the crossroads. Because intersection is the only place that exists. There are no opposite shores. We are always at the crossing of paths. And it is from this crossroad that I address you, like the monster who has learned the language of humans.

I no longer need, like Ulrichs, to assert that I am a masculine soul enclosed in a woman’s body. I have no soul and no body. I have an apartment on Uranus, which certainly places me far from most earthlings, but not so far that you can’t come see me. Even if only in dream …

[buildarocketboys]

Books read 2020: Reviews (1-20)

Decided to write a little review/overview for all the books I’ve read this year. Mostly just for personal record but please feel free to message me about any of these books!

1. Amberlough by Lara Elena Donnelly (Jan 6th – Jan 13th) 8 days 400 pages

I loved this whole trilogy, but this might have been my favourite of all three. I loved the setting (the main reason, apart from the queer characters, why I wanted to read this book) which is a fantasy setting based on the dying days of Berlin during the Weimar Republic. Loved this setting (especially the cabaret/music hall part) and it’s the only book that really features it. I also enjoy (or…find compelling, enjoy might not quite be right since there’s some very ‘yowch’ descriptions regarding torture/being beaten up) the story/plot most in this one, I was on the edge of my seat wanting to know what happened next…

2. Maurice by E.M. Forster (Nov 17th – Jan 21st) 256 pages

This is the only kind of cheat I have in here, because yes I did start reading it in November 2019, but I read the vast majority of it in 2020. I’d wanted to read it for ages because it’s such a gay classic and there were many sections (sentences, paragraphs) that I related to heavily, not even always as a queer person, but in that way that the best books get at the heart of something about the human experience in a way that’s intensely relatable to the reader. I think I found the romance elements kind of anticlimactic overall but maybe that’s kind of the point? It’s a happy ending, but in a very quiet way. (I think, it has been nearly a year since I read it!)

3. East, West by Salman Rushdie (Jan 17th – Jan 24th) 8 days 224 pages

I started reading this to compare it with its Spanish translation for my Postcolonialism in Translation essay lol. Some pretty interesting stories in here, also pretty sure this is the only collection of short stories I read this year, so it has that distinction. Not super my thing but acted as an enjoyable reading break in the local park while I was slogging my way through essays (and God do I miss that life now).

4. Affinity by Sarah Waters (Jan 24th – Jan 31st) 8 days 352 pages

This was the first of three Sarah Waters books I read this year. I have now read all of her work, and I enjoyed this one a lot – very much a ghost story. It wasn’t my favourite, but definitely sits nicely in the middle.

5. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger (Jan 31st – Feb 5th) REREAD 6 days 500 pages

Reread this while on a trip to York, when stuff like that was still possible. As good as ever. I love Time Traveler’s Wife not for the romance (which is…interesting, but personally I don’t find it exactly enjoyable and the characters aren’t particularly likable or relatable for me) but for the prose and the structure. The back-and-forth structure of the book (travelling through time, Henry – and Clare – at different points in their life) makes for a breathtakingly constructed plot and I love it more every time. Some of the prose and stuff the characters talk about are kind of pretentious but I’m kind of pretentious myself (I discovered  Rilke through TTW) and a lot of it has stuck in my brain, to the point that 10 months later I keep thinking about it and kind of want to read it yet again.

6. Armistice by Lara Elena Donnelly (Feb 5th – Feb 9th) 5 days 400 pages

I really enjoyed this sequel, I loved exploring the rest of the world, I loved the interaction between characters who either hadn’t met before, hadn’t seen each other in years (there’s a time jump between Amberlough and Armistice) and brand new characters (who were mostly equally as compelling/lovable). A worthy sequel.

7. Consider the Fork: A History of How We Cook and Eat by Bee Wilson (Feb 13th – Feb 24th) 12 days 327 pages

My thing (at least non-fiction-wise) this year has been books about food and food history, and this is the first of those on this list. It was pretty good, very interesting. I have trouble retaining information from non-fiction books so I only remember it in the broadest strokes (and remember reading it in the Hygge café in Sheffield which was really cool and I hope it’s survived the pandemic) but it was a really eye-opening look into different appliances/tools/processes/spaces used throughout history and in different parts of the world when it comes to food and cooking.

8. Bi: Notes for a Bisexual Revolution by Shiri Eisner (Feb 25th – Mar 11th) 16 days 352 pages

I read this in the period just before everything started shutting down and the day I finished it (incidentally my girlfriend’s birthday) was more or less the start of the lockdown for us, so that’s my prevailing memory of this book. It was a very good, enlightening look into bi politics and what we (I, as a white gentile especially) could do better. But again, I don’t remember it in great detail because I was more preoccupied with what was happening around it.

9. Solitaire by Alice Oseman (Mar 14th – Mar 16th) 3 days 392 pages

This was pretty good but I definitely read most YA (well, reality-based YA) as an easy, quick read that doesn’t challenge me too much, so I don’t have too much to say about it. It was nice to read about the Heartstopper characters

10. What If It’s Us by Becky Albertalli and Adam Silvera (Mar 17th – Mar 20th) 4 days 437 pages

Again, early lockdown YA so basically brain popcorn for me. That’s not a bad thing though.

11. The Little Stranger by Sarah Waters (Mar 20th – Mar 30th) 11 days 512 pages

This was my least favourite of the Sarah Waters books I read this year, and probably not coincidentally, the only book of hers without explicit queer characters. But still a pretty good scary story.

12. Amnesty by Lara Elena Donnelly (Apr 1st – April 6th) 6 days 384 pages

The last in the trilogy. I still liked it very much, but not as much as the first two books. I think endings to a trilogy are hard to get right. I feel like there was too much focus on one character and his predicament (and while I enjoyed his ending and happily ever after with probably m favourite character of the series), I wasn’t as compelled by this one as I was by the other two.

13. Lisey’s Story by Stephen King (Apr 6th – Apr 15th)  10 days 513 pages

My first Stephen King! I actually really enjoyed this, especially the scary fantasy dream world thing. It wasn’t too scary for me (I am a big scaredy cat who’s just dipping my toe into horror novels since I figure reading horror is moderately less scary than watching it) and just overall pretty good.

14. This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone (Apr 16th – Apr 20th) 5 days 209 pages

Loved this! The meandering almost poetry of it, the epic enemies to lovers, the weird admixture of sci fi and larger than life fantasy concepts (and beings!). Will definitely return to this one again.

15. Five Hundred Mile Walkies by Mark Wallington (Apr 21st – Apr 25th) REREAD 5 days 224 pages

I read this as a young teenager and found it hilarious. It was one of my dad’s books (he might even have recommended it to me, although I did have a habit of reading anything and everything that was in the bookcase – Memoirs of a Geisha at about 13, anyone?) and I laughed out loud practically every page. The gist of it is that Mark takes his sister’s (or sister’s ex??) dog, Boogie and goes to walk the entire 500 miles of the South West coast path. I loved this anyway because I loved the South West (especially Cornwall) and love seeing it through someone else’s eyes. So I reread it and I still enjoyed it, but didn’t find it as rip roaringly hilarious as I used to. Guess your sense of humour changes as you grow up, who knew?

16. Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café by Fannie Flagg (Apr 27th – May 10th) 14 days 416 pages

I’ll be honest, I struggled with this one. I’m not sure if it was the setting (historically, geographically, linguistically) that put me off or the way it was written or what. I enjoyed the story but it just wasn’t really my thing.

17. The Night Watch by Sarah Waters (May 11th – May 17th) 7 days 528 pages

My final Sarah Waters book (until she writes more! *fingers crossed*) and definitely my favourite of the ones I read this year. Set during the Blitz in London, it’s pretty much straight up historical fiction, and I enjoyed it very much. I think part of it was I related heavily to the characters going through this dramatic time in history, because, you know, pandemic! There were certain passages that really connected with me/felt like an echo of today in a way that was sort of comforting, I guess.

18. Doctor Who: The Maze of Doom by David Solomons (May 18th – May 19th) 2 days 272 pages

A fun, quick and easy Doctor Who romp. Not much to say about this one.

19. Room by Emma Donoghue (May 19th – May 20th) 2 days 321 pages

Possibly the opposite of the previous. If you know anything about Room (the book or the film, which I actually watched years ago) then you know the subject matter is pretty dark and harrowing. Because it’s told through the eyes of a child however, I found it pretty easy (in terms of speed rather than subject matter) to get through and read it in about 24 hours. It’s super compelling too.

20. The Psychology of Time Travel by Kate Mascarenhas (June 6th – June 11th) 6 days 372 pages

This, as far as I remember, was just a random one that I managed to pick up (metaphorically since I read this as an ebook) but it was pretty good. Possibly my favourite random discovery of the year, an interesting look on time travel and its consequences, based around the discovery/invention of time travel by four women scientists in the 1960s (I think) and how it affects the rest of their lives.