#I really need to figure out frog anatomy better

[mysoullesscorpse]

Wow. I really need to remember that this place exists. Anyways, I have no idea how many people this will reach because I don’t know how many followers of The Symmetry War are here on Tumblr. but I drew Glib from it.  Also if you don’t know what I am talking about, I highly recomend you check out The Symmetry War on youtube or Spotify. It is great and you will not be disapointed. 

[mdhwrites]

Since you mentioned it in a recent post, what do you think about TOH having a sympathetic main cast of mostly conventionally beautiful, humanoid characters while still preaching about how 'weirdos have to stick together'? Do you think there's some hypocrisy in how the show handles its less 'cute' characters?

I do think it's hypocritical and that in and of itself is a problem. It's also just really fucking boring and contributes to the problem of it feeding into the fantasy problem of "Our world but with more teeth."

So since I'm going to rip into this creative choice for the rest of this blog, let's first talk about the positives of having a cast that is effectively all humans, especially all good looking ones, instead of demons, monsters, etc. After all, we need to be fair. There's a lot that goes behind these choices and while the Isles has a lot of bizarre designs in the backgrounds, there had to be a point to all of the denizens we commonly interact with looking like generic elves. *flips through notes* *checks some papers* *flips through more notes* It makes fanart easy.

...OKAY FINE! That's only SOMEWHAT hyperbolic. The reason it makes fanart easier is also why it's really easy to just go with a cast of humans. We as a SPECIES inherently trust and connect better with those who look like ourselves, for better and mostly worse. This can be as specific as skin color and as abstract as simply the human form. Yes, for people like me who are proud monster fuckers, this line blurs but for common Joe Shmoe, they're going to want someone who looks fairly normal if they're going to get really invested.

Worse yet is if you look at modern cartoons. Bare minimum, Molly McGee and Amphibia. Yes, SOME people in those fandoms will draw the frogs and Scratch... But they ALL draw the trios of human characters. And yes, shipping matters here but I've also seen a good number of Amphibia artists just admit to spending way too much figuring out how to draw Sprig because the anatomy is wonky enough to make you question yourself. If they're all humans, you can still get by just fine with your normal style and lessons that most art books are going to teach you.

This isn't even untrue from a writing perspective. Just a cultural shift (and yes I'm calling myself out on this) can be enough to throw you WAY out of your comfort zone for how to write a character besides token elements like food. Throw in entirely different anatomy, skill sets inherent to biology, weaknesses similarly inherent to that biology, and you start to have a lot more questions you need to ask for a very basic level understanding of a character. Which seems like a good transition point to talking about the monstrous denizens of TOH. Specifically that there is ONE 'monster' in The Owl House main cast and that is King.

...

Can you tell me what the fuck is special about King? Besides being short and fluffy, his differing anatomy effectively NEVER comes into play. His magical blasts are practically replicated by Raine whistling. Make him an 8 year old elf child and the only thing you lose is his ancestry. Not his heritage, his ANCESTRY. That's pretty fucking weak.

Edit: Someone on Twitter pointed out to me that King's design is effectively just a furred Cubone and I hate knowing this.

Otherwise, the only inhumane thing about him is that they make him a dog. Which, you know... isn't exactly going very far down on the spectrum of likability for most people. In fact, this technique isn't anywhere near new. Toothless is just a giant cat and I love him for it but I wouldn't blame anyone who looked at the How to Train Your Dragon Dragons and went "I wish they acted like dragons." Because... They don't? They have the designs and move sets of dragons but most of their temperament is far more cat like, down to having dragon nip and being distracted by reflected light.

King is also the only foreground deviation for the protagonists. As I said when I first mentioned this, you can't even really go with Willow being heavier set. She is pretty much the textbook definition of "More to love" seeing as her being slightly heavier just gives her a softer design than the rest of the characters instead of being anywhere close to unappealing like one of Mabel's friends in Gravity Falls is. You're supposed to look at Willow and go "I bet she gives really good hugs" and that's about it. Her weight, much like her ethnicity frankly, is hardly what you're supposed to think about with her design besides basic contrast.

And she's still better than the rest of the cast who are models. Including Luz for that matter. Now the show's style doesn't lend itself well to distinguishing how pretty a character is besides their reactions from a different character... But it can also absolutely do ugly. And no one in this main cast is ugly. You want a NASTY scar, you're gonna have to look elsewhere than the tatted up teenage boy and the girl who has a little flair on one of her eyebrows. One is meant to look cool, the other is still the same job while also being slight enough not to embellish the main face too much.

Amity and Eda though are explicitly in text stated as REALLY PRETTY. Like model pretty from how people react to them. Yes, one of these people is Luz's girlfriend but literally any acknowledgement of her looks is more than Gus, Willow or any of the villains (especially positively) are given. Not even Odalia who is the best case against this argument. But, you know, those are Amity's genes running through Odalia. She's not gonna be ugly because then how are all of the Blight Children ready for a Vogue cover shoot?

And here's the thing: In most media, this isn't really a problem. People like attractive people and there's nothing wrong with that. I know people want more representation and they are right to want that but also most media is a fantasy of some sort. Especially for a basic wish fulfillment isekai like TOH, a really pretty harem is packaged explicitly into the fantasy because who doesn't want hot magical beings saying they're the best?

Except then there's the line of "Us Weirdos Gotta Stick Together," or the fact that Luz is stated to be bullied (but didn't actually look out of place amongst the cheerleaders or drama kids), or the fact that TOH theoretically peddled early on a Fantasy vs. Reality theme. It is a show that is meant to CELEBRATE the Other and be challenging to those who are commonly seen as better... But the Other isn't present. When they are... They're villains. Belos is the only character with a curse that doesn't make them pretty. It's really gruesome what the curse does to him, even before he becomes a full monster. Contrast that with Eda who sprouts feathers and that's really it? Then you have Tibbles, who is a literal pig, the evil publisher who is a lizard, the monster hunters who are orcs effectively, Warden Wrath who is a homunculus? There isn't actually a clear inspiration directly for him besides 'monster' which is part of why he's one of the best one off villains of the series. The closest to a protagonist monster is Hooty which the series goes out of its way to make most people mock, outright hate and/or be actively repulsed by him, especially if it's a character we're supposed to care about.

When it comes to the villains, there are two who stand out as prettier than the rest and they both have direct connections to the main cast. In fact, to Amity. Odalia who I talked about earlier and Boscha. I guess Matt if you want to count him but as far as looking like a basic ass bitch goes, you don't get much more basic than Matt without bleaching his skin. Boscha on the other hand's prettiness is pretty much the best argument we had before she was given a half assed redemption that she was going to be redeemed. Why else make her so much prettier than everyone else? Unless it was just fueled by "She is going to be next to Amity a few times and a Blight wouldn't interact with anyone too... alternative." None of Amity's friends are more monstrous than a third eye after all and that doesn't really hold Boscha back all that much. Frankly, it probably saved her from large forehead jokes akin to what Amity gets since they both have hairstyles that pull their hair back and that's a problem for the show's style.

What does all of this mean? Well, it means in a show that is trying to lift up those who feel like they don't belong, it's still reinforcing standard beauty ideals of society. Worse yet, it just kind of discredits that Luz meets ANY outcast. I wouldn't have called my friends in High School ugly of course but were any of us ready for the runway? Of course not. We didn't take care of ourselves right for that or just didn't have the right genes for it.

Because let's face it: The eyeball head girl was NEVER going to be a main character. And that's... also really boring. The fact that witches are just elves but without any of the culture, long lifespans (as far as we know) etc. like that is also just really boring. And for a fantasy show, especially one that pitches in the first episode that ANY folk tale we have originated here, that's not good. Especially since even if they look like elves, you could have still at least TRIED to make them interesting with things like the bile sac but that's a throwaway joke to the writers. And the saddest thing is... If you're a person who LIKES weird characters, or actually embraces their weirdness and so doesn't need to be told they'll have a Victoria Secrets model as a wife... What is TOH gonna do for you? Or for anyone who doesn't want designs that are less interesting and less unique than even Danny Phantom's. And that's from fucking Butch Hartman who is not exactly known for being a top tier artist. Like SAM as a goth is more alternative (especially for when the show first aired) than fucking ANYONE in the main cast of TOH. And that show debuted ALMOST TWENTY YEARS AGO. And Valerie even had a similar bodytype to Willow but with WAY more personality!

Now I'm just thinking about all the shows I grew up with like Total Drama Island that had so much fun with even their pretty boy designs. That's frankly my biggest issue. The pretty problem in TOH IS bad thematically. Above all else though... it's just boring. Boring and lazy. How these characters look don't mean ANYTHING to them. It doesn't say much about them, the show or anything else.

They're pretty just because the creator probably likes making pretty people and I can usually support. I support Yoko Taro after all. But Yoko Taro makes people (or androids which are based off humans). This is fantasy. You can do whatever you want and the TOH crew couldn't be assed enough to even do a demon.

In a world called the DEMON REALM! I think at that point, you need to ask why the fuck they're bothering with it being a fantasy show in the first place, let alone one trying to pitch itself as anything other than basic wish fulfillment.

=======

I have a public Discord for any and all who want to join!

I also have an Amazon page for all of my original works in various forms of character focused romances from cute, teenage romance to erotica series of my past. I have an Ao3 for my fanfiction projects as well if that catches your fancy instead, If you want to hang out with me, I stream from time to time and love to chat with chat.

And finally a Twitter you can follow too!

[janearts]

How do you get your art/character interactions to be so expressive and organic? I've loved your art and ocs for years and keep coming back once in a while to skim through your Dragon Age and Elder Scrolls art to get inspired, so I wondered if you did specific art studies to get to where your art is right now?

Thank you for the compliment! I've got three answers (or exercises) for you and you can take them as you like 'em underneath the cut.

They are in order from Most Annoying to Most Pleasing.

The Noble Still Life

My parents threw me into art classes at around 6 years old. I don't mean to imply that that somehow makes me a better artist out of the gate--it truly doesn't--but it does mean that I've been doing still life studies for a sad but significant portion of my life. And as much as I hate drawing stupid fruit arranged with other stupid shit on stupid pieces of fabric, still life studies were really helpful across the board and especially with developing a sense of how shit works. ... Even if I go on to blissfully ignore what I've learned and draw fabric folds however the hell I want and put shadows wherever I damn well please.

The Ye Olde Master Study

As part of secondary school, we were also trotted out to local museums and parks and whatnot and told to just... have at it. So a lot of my sketchbooks from that time are filled with studies of library-lion-this and portrait-of-supposedly-important-man-that. Then, back in class, we were asked to imitate the old masters. Old Masters studies are really fucking fun and some of my favourite commissions have started out with phrases like "Can you recreate this Benjamin Constant painting but with my character as Empress Theodora?" or "How about a different Constant painting of Theodora?" I also do master-ish studies with my own digital paintings, like this one of Samson and this one of Bree. I think it's a fun exercise because it pushes me out of my comfort zone even if the end result doesn't look all that sophisticated or much like the original.

The Desperate Scribbles of the Human Form~

I should put gesture drawings and anatomy studies before master studies because in theory you need to know how to draw bodies before you start trying to paint in imitation of Caravaggio. (Now that I think about it, a deep knowledge of fruit is also essential to Caravaggio... but I digress.) In my art class, gesture drawings were more about flow and movement than it was about your unnerving ability to draw an elbow. Our teachers broke us using the Boiling Frog Technique, which was to say that they lulled us into a false sense of security by allowing us to sketch the person modelling for 10 minutes. Then 5 minutes. Then 3 minutes. Then 2 minutes. Then 1 minute. Then 30 seconds because they were sadists. It is unfortunately an effective way of teaching 1) how bodies move and 2) how to capture the essence of a pose rather than the strict reality of it.

But I really like anatomy studies and I really, really like drawing hands. And more hands. And even more hands. And then some more hands just in case. And then, just to shock and surprise everyone, a torso. A good chunk of my sketchbook is just me drawing faces and hands and eyeballs and hands and faces and sometimes feet when I can't remember how ankles work.

Other Weird Tips That Don't Quite Count As Studies:

If you don't wanna sketch in a museum or go to a park or stare at a stranger's ankles to figure out how ankles work, then go pull up fantasy stock photos on DeviantArt or take a photo of yourself and then get to sketching. That's what I do!

Watch a shitton of animated films. There's a fluidity & theatricality to how characters move in animated films that I love. Sometimes it seems like every inch of the character is expressing the emotion they're feeling. I find it personally inspirational even if I feel like gnawing off my own hand every time I attempt to draw my own frame-by-frame animation.

Study film. I studied film very, very briefly and a wee snippet of that was studying storyboards (as in: in library, with book) and doing some storyboard art projects (as in: at desk, with sketchbook). I treat every comic I do as if I was storyboarding the animated scene from the disjointed animated film in my brain and then polish it up to make it more readable/enjoyable.

Hope that helps!

[snellyfish]

I’m not really doing too well, if it’s alright could I have some Kiyo headcanons? Preferably just Kiyo, if it’s not too much to ask. It’s also fine if you don’t want to send any/respond.

Sorry to hear that, I hope you feel better soon, anon! ♥

A lot of these are pretty fucking grim but I promise there’s also some nice lighthearted ones in here somewhere 😭 Mentions of animal death and some classic sibling abuse in here;;

I always kinda viewed him being mostly raised by his sister: Never really had an attachment to his parents because he was very young when they died and any grieving he may have needed to do was swindled by his sister just trying Too Hard to move past it and coming across like “we didn’t need them anyway.” So I do think that he just really needs/wants parental figures / mostly a maternal figure in his life of any kind, since he lost his real one and was forced to depend on another. He doesn’t know how to cope without one.

Definitely a weird kid growing up, no friends in school but everyone was also too scared to bully him directly. Honestly believed he had a lot of friends in school at the time because he would just ramble to other kids about horrifying things and they’d run away crying, and his sister would have to drill it into his head later that he has no friends. Thanks, sister.

^On top of that I definitely think he’s on the autism spectrum...somewhere in there.

REALLYYYY liked dissecting frogs, probably tried bringing his own dead animals he found to school so he could dissect them in class...his sister was brought in MANY times by teachers to give him a stern talking to.

Had a secret highschool crush, probably not realizing it was a crush, and was trying to flirt with her like “I want to dissect you so bad.” Probably got kicked in the knees. But hey! Now he’s a big fan of human anatomy!!! #feminism

I think he was a peaceful kid otherwise, he would always try to pet any neighborhood pets or wild animals that would let him, likely has some childhood scars from this because nothing was un-pattable to him. He’s a lot more careful and smart about it nowadays, but he would still pet a moose if given the safe chance. For the experience.

Had very little reactions to death in general growing up, since he was forced to repress his mourning for his parents he ended up being a bit apathetic about it to cope. So, as much as she loved animals and would never hurt one; he loved dead animals just as much. Ended up seeing beauty in death. 

...DEFINITELY LIKES TAXIDERMY NOW THAT I THINK ABOUT IT. Took a few taxidermy classes, everything he stuffed was too mortifyingly bad to keep, except for a coiled snake he has kept throughout the years.

Probably went to a few funerals of his sister’s friends/coworkers and...enjoyed them, he was basically the only one not crying, just smiling behind his mask. As he got older he would hang around graveyards alone and write his thoughts, about whatever, in a little notepad--he liked watching stranger’s funerals from afar, too. He especially loves the feeling of graveyards at nighttime, it brings him comfort, making him feel close to the dead.

He’s, ykno, an atheist, but I think after extensively studying different religions and beliefs he has a fondness for them all, being a BIT spiritual himself and taking bits and pieces of religious beliefs in a different light for himself. Such as customs on eating, views on life/death, karma, etc. He’s not theistic by any means, but he likes the structure and meaning that psuedo-faith gives him.

His favorite color fluctuates between gold and red. :)) He likes the rich background of royalty in both of the colors; the irreplaceable shininess of gold and the gorey hue of red.

HE! LOVES! HIKING!!!!!! Whoever he’s travelling with is forced to hike the nearest large hill or small mountain with him wherever they are, this man is so lanky and beyond skinny but he loves to climb, his calves are SO TONED it’s UNREAL.

When they reach the top of the mountain, he refuses to take any photos, he loves to live as much in the moment as possible and has a near picture-perfect memory, he may lightly sketch out in a notepad whatever he sees when they reach their destination--but he doesn’t like digital pictures and would prefer his hiking buddy refrain from taking any as well.

Has too much of an attachment to the natural human body to get any tattoos, (still thinks they’re beautiful on other humans, self-expression is human nature afterall) but I do think he’d be a huge fan of piercings for himself--not that he’d even keep them in all the time, but he at least loves the process of it and needles in general.

Likes “feminine” things a lot due to being raised by his sister, and once he finally gets help regarding his trauma, I think he’d be determined to reclaim his makeup and skirts as a part of his own identity; stubbornly refusing to let the memory of his sister taint what he enjoyed so much. Maybe a little bit of non-binary Kiyo propaganda happening here. Who knows! runs away at mach speed

[jaskiersvalley]

Meet The Parents

Over on The Bog on Discord, there is a cursed Shrek channel. The idea for this fic was encouraged there and, well, 1.5k later, I have so many regrets, this is definitely what I'd call a shrekcident. All I can say is that writing Shrek and Fiona is really really difficult!

@dapandapod, @thecomfortofoldstorries and @fontegagrilledcheese I think you all asked to be tagged when this is up?

Meet The Parents

There had been several letters from back home, suggesting Jaskier return and brings his lovely travelling companion. It was, without a doubt, Jaskier’s mother writing the letters, she had always had a better grasp on courtly things than his father. Truth be told, it was no secret that the Count of Lettenhove absolutely hated ruling and would much rather spend his time out and about. There were several swamps in Lettenhove that he claimed needed his very dedicated attention. The fact Jaskier’s mother went along with him was no surprise. Despite her upbringing, she was quite fond of a swamp or two too.

“It’s another letter,” Jaskier sighed, flicking it into the fire in the inn. “I don’t understand why they are so insistent on me bringing you home. I mean, they’ve never been interested in previous love interests before. Probably because they’ve all held titles and had standards.” Geralt grunted, eyes fixed on the small alchemy set up he had going on the table. It didn’t deter Jaskier as he carried on. “Mother thinks you and father might get on well once you get past the initial shock of meeting.”

“I can’t imagine anyone being over the moon to meet a Witcher. Especially not one that their darling son is fucking.”

“Well, quite. Father had a couple of run ins with Witchers in his youth. Not all of them were pleasant. But I’m sure you can change his mind.” Jaskier hummed to himself as he thought. “Plus Mother was a cursed princess so you might find some common ground with her. And did I mention my uncle? I spent a lot of time with him growing up, he was really patient, letting me learn to walk by clinging to him. Anyway, he and his dragon-”

“Dragon?” Naturally Geralt perked up at that. “You should have started with that. We’re going to Lettenhove.”

Naturally Geralt had assumed the worst. As if anyone related to Jaskier would be able to keep a dragon against her will. His family was just too nice! But Geralt would learn that fact for himself in a few short weeks when they arrived at Jaskier’s ancestral castle. It was a castle, not a mansion, well kept, if a little more shabby than most. There were overgrown bushes around it and Geralt could have sworn the small of a sulphuric swamp drifted on the winds. They marched up the stairs, everything eerily quiet until the door burst open to reveal two menacing figures.

“Ogres!” Geralt shoved Jaskier behind himself, a snarl on his lips and ready to fight. “I believe this is the Count and Countess of Lettenhove’ residence. What are you doing here?”

“Witcher!” The male ogre spat. “Nothing good has ever come of your kind. You’re not making us move.”

From behind Geralt, Jaskier sprang forwards. “Mother! Father!” He embraced the ogres before being almost bowled over by a donkey. “Uncle!”

“You call this a greeting? This is how you say hello to your favourite uncle? What have I got to do before I get a hug from my favourite nephew?” The donkey looked to the side where the ogres were still staring and turned to see what the issue was. “That’s a Witcher. Oh, that’s your Witcher! That’s a nice Witcher.”

That seemed to pull Jaskier back into the moment and he stood up, clearing his throat. “Right, Mother, Father, Uncle, this is Geralt of Rivia. Geralt, my family.”

Vesemir would be so ashamed if he ever found out how Geralt reacted. All the years spent drilling manners into Geralt’s head were for naught.

“How?!”

“Well,” the donkey said into the stunned silence, “when one ogre loves another ogre and they’re into experimenting with potions-”

“Donkey!” Jaskier’s parents cried in unison before his mother continued. “Please excuse Donkey. I’m Fiona, this is Shrek. And to answer your question, ogres and humans had different anatomy. We got curious, had potions to change temporarily and, well, Jaskier happened during those three days.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to hiss, “Mother! Please don’t tell Geralt about your kinky sex lives.”

“Yes, Eskel told me about ogre anatomy and the differences in rather too much detail,” Geralt grumbled.

“Eskel fucked an ogre?”

“It was an orgy actually - though he insisted on calling it an ogre-y. Said he couldn’t get the mud from the swamp out of certain places for over a week.”

As far as first impressions went, Geralt didn’t think he could have done any worse. But he was being ushered in all the same, Donkey already chattering away about the inane things that had happened since Jaskier last visited. It left Geralt in the rather silent company of Shrek while Fiona led the way.

“Dinner’s at seven,” Shrek gritted out and Geralt hummed in acknowledgement which garnered a grunt in reply.

“Oh my word, you’re marrying your father,” Donkey cried at Jaskier, head snapping to look between Shrek’s retreating back and Geralt standing in the hallway as Fiona opened a door.

“Don’t mind him-” Whatever else she was saying went over Geralt’s head because he caught up with Donkey’s words. Just what was that about marrying?!

They stepped into the room and Jaskier let out a wail of anguish. “Mother! Two beds, really?”

“Just be glad Shrek let you even share a room. But I couldn’t talk him out of having Mirror on the wall.”

“Hello,” the enchanted mirror called. “Please don’t rearrange the room or do anything untoward, I really rather wouldn’t see those kinds of things.”

Geralt closed his eyes and took a few steadying breaths. This was fine, he could do this, there was a dragon somewhere around and he was duty bound to make sure she was free. He regretted such a decision by the evening. There was indeed a dragon who lived at the castle but she refused to take a human form, far too happy and, of all things, in love with Donkey, enough to have a clutch with him Dragon-Donkey babies were terrifying, Geralt had ascertained, menaces, taking their temperament from their father while their mother gifted them with wings and the ability to breathe fire. Suddenly, Geralt understood why there were never any contracts in the area. The locals befriended every creature, monster and anything in between. And any they couldn’t? Well, ogres and dragons could easily keep things in check.

Once the shock of it all had worn off, Geralt could actually focus on eating. Other than Jaskier, there seemed to be no one who cared for things like utensils.

“Please, Mother, Father, at least try to have some manners?” Jaskier looked pleadingly at his parents. His only response was Fiona letting out quite the impressive belch before high fiving Shrek.

The sound of small, pattering feet caught Geralt’s attention. He looked at Shrek and Fiona before trying to find the source of the sound. This seemed like the kind of company that would appreciate his party trick with a fork. A hand around his wrist stopped him.

“Not the Three Blind Mice. They’re friends.”

Almost disappointed, Geralt settled back to finish his surprisingly hearty meal. It wasn’t the usual fair of courts, this was more about being filling and warm rather than showing off all the money that went into making tiny portions full of expensive spices. However, it certainly helped set Geralt at ease.

“So, when’s the wedding?” The small amount of peace was shattered by Shrek asking around a mouthful. It had Jaskier shrieking while the rest of his family watched him, frozen in place but not exactly surprised. More like they were patiently waiting for him to be done. Shrek shrugged. “I thought you were bringing your Witcher home to get married. Isn’t that how it usually goes in fairytales?”

“That’s only princes and princesses,” Donkey cut in. “You have a viscount. They don’t have to get married. Unless…?”

“I’m not proposing,” Geralt blurted out. There was a collective groaning sigh from the table, some of it relief, some of it disappointment and Geralt didn’t know just how offended he should be. He didn’t expect Jaskier to loudly but delicately put his cutlery onto his plate to make in clink pointedly.

“Good. Because I wanted to be the one to propose. On my own terms. In my own time. Mother, do you still have the ring? I think I will take it with us. Might eventually use it.”

Donkey gasped. “Not the One Ring?”

“No!” Jaskier sounded exasperated. “We all know what happened to cousin Gollum with that one. I don’t have any wishes to lose my hair because of that. I meant Grandmother’s ring. I doubt Grandfather’s would be very useful.” He turned to Geralt. “Grandfather was turned into a frog. His ring is rather tiny as a result.”

Of course Jaskier had ogres for parents and a frog for a grandfather. He still took after his uncle the most by the sounds of things. Given how Donkey hadn’t stopped making noises, whether it was humming or popping his lips, it was incessant. Geralt felt he now understood Jaskier a whole lot better. And, when the time came, if Jaskier did offer him a ring, Geralt had zero reservations about the knowledge that he would say yes. But the wedding was going to be at Kaer Morhen, he was going to have to insist on that.

[elliethesuperfruitlover]

Dew Covered Rose

A/N: So we’re ignoring the fact that I haven’t written in like......two, three months. I honestly just haven’t felt like it, and my brain has been busy thinking about writing, or getting back to my daydreams, or thinking about Midnight. Comfort character tingz. But yeah, I’m bringing Topazi back (i also forgot when juneteenth was, I was supposed to do something for her then, I missed the day, but here I made up for it :) This is mild hurt/comfort, except my OC is tired, not hurt. Also this is probably time to mention that Topazi is a gardener, and goes to clients houses to plant things for them! Enjoy!

Tag List: @joz-stankovich, @misskittysmagicportal, @badsext, @super-unpredictable98, @the-freckled-luba, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @ghouls-buddy, @maerenee930, @frogs--are--bitches, @neuroticpuppy, @forenschik, @bisexualnathanyoung, @robert-sheehan, @firstpersonnarrator, @salvador-daley

Warnings: kinda unsafe driving bc sleep deprivation, brief mentions of nudity, swearing

  Topazi had a bit of a tiring day. The house that she’d been working at had almost no shade. The customers were as nice as they could be.....but it seemed as though every tulip that she planted correctly, they would request it to be put in a different place. Even though there was an extremely limited amount of space that she had to work with. It was very frustrating to her, to be honest. However, she got the job done. It took hours of her digging things back up and wiping sweat off of her face to be happy with the result. She was sure to make sure that everything was as good as it could be before the left for home. Even the thought of having to get back in her car and do something other than cuddle up and or sleep was killing her.

  It was late into the night, and the owl in the front yard stared at her as she pulled into the driveway, eyes barely open. She took multiple deep breaths and rubbed a calloused hand over her face before stepping out of the car, not even bothering to take her tools out of the trunk. She trudged her way into the house, carefully unlocking the door, as to not disturb Klaus, who should’ve been close to sleep, or in bed at that point. She tossed the keys into the bowl by the door, and hung her coat up, silently grimacing at the soreness already developing in her arms. 

  Not having the energy to call out to Klaus, she walked into the kitchen, finding one of the cats on top of the kitchen island, fast asleep. A small smile found its way onto her face as she gently pet it, smoothing down the fur on top of her face. She made her way over to the fridge, which she opened, very slowly, to find leftovers of spaghetti that Klaus had cooked for himself. She could never stand the noodles and sauce together, so she looked around for more things. Canned soup in the pantry....she’d have to heat it up, and she needed something instant. Juice wouldn’t be filling enough. She began to nod off, looking at the fridge once more, and she found a solution that she’d looked over. A sandwich.

“Thank fuck for bread.” she thought to herself as she grabbed the bologna, mayonnaise, and cheese slices from their respective spots before grabbing a knife and paper towel. By the time she put the bread back, her sleep levels had reached almost the maximum, and she began nodding off, head on the side of the fridge. She quickly came to her senses, and trotted back over to the island, joints creaking.

  She sat down on one of the stools on the kitchen island. (”Klaus, I need the stools, if my legs don’t look like a pretzel, I’m not sitting correctly.”) As she took a bite of her sandwich (crust first), her brain decided to shut down temporarily, and she almost fell asleep eating. The suds episode of Spongebob Squarepants, however, prevented her from doing so. She slowly ate the sandwich, grateful for the purpose that it served. After she finished her first bite, however, she completely knocked out. The cat woke up, looking at her owner, before hopping off of the counter, and walking up the stairs.

  Klaus had heard Topazi come home, but it’d been a while since he heard her open the fridge last, so he went to check on her. He avoided Minnie on the steps (as in Minnie Riperton, not the mouse) and walked into the kitchen, to find his lover fast asleep, small snores coming from her mouth. He smiled, almost letting a chuckle past his lips when he realized his task.

 “She looks fucking wasted.” he thought, before gently shaking her awake, resulting in a groan of annoyance.

“Come on T, you gotta get to bed.” he whispered, rubbing her back. She leaned against his chest, and shook her head into it, too tired to utter a rebuttal.

  Klaus chuckled lightly, and put Topazi’s used paper towel in the trash can, and her utensils in the sink, to be washed when he eventually came back down for his late night (and sometimes morning) snack. He gently picked her up, leaning down to press a small kiss to her forehead. He thought back simply how much he just loved her. He didn’t know how, as he said that “I can’t fall for someone completely. At least not again.” but he did. Although, it wasn’t completely all at once though. 

 Klaus made his way up the steps (once more avoiding Minnie), and into their shared bedroom where he gently laid Topazi down on the bed. He figured that she may want to be clean when she slept as well, but was somewhat confused how he was to go about the entire “my partner is half asleep and I’d hate to disrespect her boundaries”. So, he settled on simply getting rid of her outer clothes, and bra, then placing nightie over her form. It was one of the newer ones she’d bought. She would go on and on about how “there’s tiny flowers on this nightgown Klaus, I need to buy it”.....ah he loves Topazi with all of his heart.

  He gently tucked his lover into bed, making sure that she’s close enough to her phone that she won’t be grouchy about having to move from her spot in order to reach it. Topazi stirred in her slumber, but only a bit, and Klaus went down to the kitchen for his meal, which was going to be a good old fashioned lover boy nutter butter. Klaus thought back to when he first met Topazi as he ate his sandwich. It had been right after he met his....other siblings...like other other siblings. She was quietly sitting in a coffee shop, where she had her knees to her chest, reading a book. She was deep in concentration, but when Klaus found nowhere to sit, he had no choice but to ask her. (or to leave the shop and drink his hot chocolate elsewhere, but nah)

“Um, can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the seat. She nodded her head without looking up, making a small noise of affirmation at the back of her throat. Klaus sat in the booth across from her, his shoes making a squeaky noise on the tile below. He awkwardly crosses his legs, taking small sips of the drink.

“What are you reading?” he asked, eyebrows quirked upwards. She gently lifted her book, and it read “The Human Anatomy, Down to the Bone Cell” He hmmed in acknowledgement, and resorted to looking out of the window. 

 The drops of rain raced each other on the windowsill, determined for few seconds at a time, only to puddle together in the end. Klaus stared at a single corner outside, where nobody seemed to be walking over. It was the crack where the sidewalk met the much smaller border of the sidewalk. He watched the rainwater trickle into it, and he felt himself start to zone out. But that was alright...he needed time to think.

  This, in turn, was perfect for Topazi to stop reading her book and stare at this stranger. New people aren’t really her thing, as they’re usually below her standard of who she liked keeping in her circle. She peered at the way his curls were somewhat tussled, like he’d been caught in a windstorm of some sort. (Although it’s been rainy all day, no wind whatsoever.), she thought to herself. His eyes were beautiful, but so tired, it seemed. Wonderful shade of green, she thought, too. She pondered the different shades of green that she could remember, which lead to her thinking of the floating diamond of Sims’ characters. (plumbob, she repeated, overenunciating the first syllable). She went back to the thought at hand, and looked at the hand clutching the cup of hot chocolate, still seeming to be warm to the touch, judging by the steam coming from the mouthpiece of the top.

  His hand was veiny, somewhat red, (maybe because of the heat). His fingers looked very pale though, almost as if they’d recently been subjected to extreme cold, or flashes of it. (the rain, she thought) His chest was partially exposed due to the.....vest that he was wearing (maybe he’s some sort of performer, he does have a cowboy hat) She paid more attention to his face, also tired, and glanced at his lips, but only for a moment, as she didn’t need to get exceedingly horny in a public space over a complete stranger.....again. She softly gasped when he looked back at her, and she softly smiled, getting back to her book.

“Were you just staring at me?” Klaus asked, looking back at her.

“Yes.” she replied, eyes skimming over her paragraph on metacarpals. She had a fleeting thought to wiggle her hand in front of her face in order to properly label everything, but she could do that back at home.

“Why?” he asked, his tone giving off the fact that he wasn’t in fact upset, just curious.

“Eye contact isn’t my favorite thing, neither is small talk, especially if I’m preoccupied, so I sometimes stare at people in order to get a better understanding of them.” she explained, glancing at Klaus.

“Oh, well, don’t mind me then. I won’t bother you.” he said, looking at the table. Topazi put her book facedown on the table, apologizing.

“You’re fine! You didn’t try to talk to me, and you respected me when I didn’t reply with the name of my book, verbally at least. I like that.” she replied, deciding to look Klaus in the eye.

“Oh, thank you. Care to tell me why you’re reading about human cells?” he teased, a smirk coming to his lips. Topazi panicked for a moment, because she thought “fuck....he’s a charmer”

  She did tell him about why she was reading about human cells. And why she kept scratching a portion of the book as she read. He even noticed how she bit her lip when she read, which lead him to think that she was actually reading some sort of cell erotica, only to remember what she had previously told him. They talked for hours, it seemed. For once, Topazi found someone that she could talk to and not get tired. Interests, parents, everything (maybe a bit too much). They eventually had to separate, but not after giving each other their numbers, and Klaus found a small feeling of joy in his chest as he walked out of the coffee shop. He walked back into the Hargreeves (uh.....Sparrow) mansion with a small smile on his face. His face hurt, not from too much sun, or biting his lips too much. From pure excitement and joy, he found. Bubbling out of him, steamrolling its way out into the open. His fists shook in glee, and he squealed, and he didn’t care. For once. He needed something good, and she was it. Beautiful Topazi. Wonderful Topazi. That’s the answer.

  Klaus came back to his senses as he realized that some of the marshmallow fluff had leaked its way onto the counter where he scooped it up with a finger, tempted to put it into his mouth. A few moments of thinking gave him his decision. He imagined Topazi’s look of disgust when she caught him doing that once, and stuck his finger under the tap for a few moments, wiping the water off on his bare thigh. He finished his sandwich, and went back upstairs (once again avoiding Minnie). He snuggled next to his partner in bed, breathing in deeply. Yeah....she’d need a bit of a shower when she woke up, but that’s alright. That’s alright though. She would spend the rest of the day at home, to rest from being on her feet and knees for hours the previous day. And he’d tell her how important and beautiful she is, and think about how he’d almost went to the pizza shop across the street. But he didn’t. And he chose right, so right. With no regrets, for the first time he could think of in a while.

Masterlist

[redslilstories]

Woozy Words

Author: lilyme (aka. redslilstories aka. me ;)) Summary: Set in 5x09. While trying to mend her nose, could a new colleague help her mend her heart? Pairing: Callie/Arizona Rating: PG Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Grey's Anatomy". They were created by Shonda Rhimes and belong to her and the ABC network. No copyright infringement intended! All mistakes are mine.

"So, this is the last area on this floor," Richard Webber, Chief of Surgery at Seattle Grace hospital, pointed out the newest addition to his surgical staff, as they walked through the outpatient area of the hospital. "The post-anesthesia recovery. Adults. Um, children are one floor below. I guess that is where you will be more likely to find," he smiled at the woman with his arms contently in front of his chest.

He was happy – one could easily say relieved - to have found a surgeon for his pediatrics department, which had been fairly understaffed in the last months.

And this one wasn't just any surgeon.

Trained at Johns Hopkins' and even holding the position of Chief Resident during her last year of residency, the woman had been praised all over for the skills she had acquired within her specialty.

And what was also important – she was good with the kids. There were rumors of her even putting on some roller skate shoes to amuse her patients. He was not yet sure if he approved of this or not. He hadn't seen anything like that on her yet, since, including today, she had always worn street clothes.

But this would only be a tiny problem, if this rumor really were true.

The surgeon in question – Arizona Robbins by name - worked hard to memorize everything the chief was telling her, keep track of her surroundings and draw a map of the hospital in her mind. Luckily she had always worked in large hospitals, so she figured she would only need a few days to really find her way around here.

"How many outpatient surgeries do you have per year?" she inquired, wanting to get an idea of the figures. She was already impressed by the 1600 beds the hospital could provide in total. Out of which 140 were in Peds.

"Hm, all in all about 60.000, including 2.000 in Pediatrics," Webber gave her the average of the last years.

"Impressive," she smiled at him, as they came to a halt at the area's nurses station.

"Thank you," he nodded, proud of his hospital baby. "Um, now we could...," he began, thinking of something else to show her, but was interrupted, when...

"Oh, Chief, good. Can I have a minute?" Miranda Bailey, who Arizona already knew was the surgical Chief Resident at this hospital, came walking up towards them.

"Um, sure," he wavered for a moment, pulled out of his original thought. "Will you excuse me for a moment?" he directed his question at Dr. Robbins and followed Dr. Bailey out into the hall.

Arizona was unsure of what to do while the chief was gone. Since he likely wouldn't be long and she being new would likely lose her way wandering about, she figured she should just stay put.

Maybe she could chat up the residents and nurses here, getting to know her colleagues.

But then again... the lone resident that was present was currently busy with checking the vital signs on some of the patients. She figured it better not to disturb him.

So she just waited near the station.

Until a soft and initially indistinct sound reached her ears.

Soon she noticed that it was someone talking, or rather mumbling something.

Her eyes searched around and quickly found the probably source of the sound.

A brunette with a bandage on her nose.

And even though it was not her responsibility – she wasn't even officially working yet – the blonde was in doctor mode immediately, needing to make sure the woman was alright.

She walked up to the patient, who had her eyes closed and her brows furrowed. "Um, hi," she inquired in a low voice – trying not to startle the woman - and put a soft hand on her arm, "are you okay?"

But to no avail. The eyes – gorgeous deep brown eyes, Arizona noticed – shot open and the humming ended abruptly. Only to be followed by an uncertain gurgle.

"Sorry," the blonde apologized, "I just heard noises and was wondering..."

Callie Torres, the woman with the gorgeous eyes, for a moment wondered if she was hallucinating. If the nice pain killers she had been given made her see thing that weren't actually there. Like total strangers by her bed in the hospital's PACU. A doctor or nurse would be the norm, but this woman wore street clothes, so most likely didn't even work here.

But despite the mystery of how this woman even got in here unauthorized...she seemed trustworthy enough. Certainly looked it.

So, without thinking too much of it, Callie finally responded, "Oh, um, sure," the questioning look telling her that she must have taken quite some time to actually do so. "I was just... testing out my nose," she explained and felt a little embarrassed at having been caught. "It's new. Or, um, good as new?" she frowned, now even more embarrassed by the puzzling way she explained things. "A patient of mine broke it in the E.R. today".

"Oh!" Arizona's eyes shot up at this information, "you're a doctor?" she asked intrigued.

"Yes, I'm an ortho surgeon here. I'm actually here to fix bones, not get mine broken," she pouted and felt excited when the woman's lips formed a sympathetic expression.

"I hope it was an accident, and you don't have violent patients here beating doctors for no reason," Arizona joked... with a tiny bit of worry on her mind.

"No," Callie waved it aside, "it was an accident. I happened to stand in the wrong spot at the wrong time."

"Oh, good! Well, not good, because, well... ouch". Now it was Arizona's turn to frown. "What I meant to say is, I hope you'll get better soon," she said sincerely, and finally took a step back, realizing that as a doctor – and a total stranger – she was standing just a little too close to the bed.

"Thanks," Callie smiled, and couldn't help notice the attractiveness of the other woman. The little blush she was sporting now only highlighted this perfect face. From the sweet lips to the bright blue eyes and the light blush lingering on her face. This woman was nice to look at. And nice to talk to as well. She was easily someone Callie could imagine...

No!

She shouldn't go there. Not after the fiasco with the last blue-eyed blonde was barely two weeks in the past.

But then again, this seemed to be a very different blonde... On the cute side with a natural sparkle emanating from her...

No! Callie desperately needed to think of something else.

Luckily the other woman helped out, hopefully unaware of her thoughts. "So, um, what are the test results?" she inquired, as Callie didn't speak for several moments, obviously again in her own little world.

"Huh?" the brunette asked in confusion, but realized what Arizona meant when this one tapped her own nose as a hint. "Oh! Uh, no final results yet. Hard to say from the inside, I guess. I mean, do I sound funny?"

"Well, just a little," the other woman replied with a little shrug and a lot of dimples. "Then again, I have no idea how you normally sound. Maybe you really sound like Kermit the Frog trying to talk under water," she joked, before adding a little, "Sorry".

Callie snorted wholeheartedly at the comparison. An action she regretted as a sharp pain shot through her mending nose. "Hah... Ouch!" she squeaked, almost bringing her hand to touch her olfactory organ.

Arizona winced in sympathy, "Oh, my, God. I didn't mean...," she apologized. Something told her she should have known better than to make a broken nose laugh.

"It's okay," Callie played it down. "I don't mind the laugh. Maybe the painkillers are wearing off," she wondered.

The offhand comment did not go unnoticed by the blonde, who without second thought made a move to check Callie's chart. See what dose of medication she was on.

Callie saw this and immediately remembered that this woman likely was not authorized to do any kind of medical work around here. And certainly not inspect her patient information. "Um, I don't think you're supposed to do that," she pointed out with raised eyebrows, indicating the chart the woman was holding.

"Hm?" Arizona hummed distractedly, getting a read on the chart's figures. "Oh!" she exclaimed, suddenly realizing that her non-patient didn't even know who she was. "I'm so sorry, you're kind of right," she admitted, reaching into her pocket to produce her company ID, stating her name and soon position at this hospital. "But I'm a doctor too. Actually starting to work her in few days," she calmed her and handed the item off to the brunette. "And as a doctor, I have to make sure the patients are okay. Even if they're not mine," she smiled.

Callie felt somewhat relieved. So this stranger was legit after all. And even better would be a colleague of hers. In Peds, as the ID with the ridiculously good picture of the woman pointed out.

And...

"Yeah, okay," Callie lay her head back down on her pillow. "But I guess I'm still a little woozy. I could swear I just read your name as 'Arizona'...?" she wondered with raises eyebrows. Or maybe HR wrongly put her home state as her name...?

Said Arizona gave her a challenging yet amused look. "That's my name".

"Really," Callie more stated than asked, still incredulous as she handed the ID back to its owner. It was a pretty unusual name. But, then again, it could be worse. Her name could be Delaware or... Wyoming. Dr. Delaware Wyoming Robbins... Huh...

"Really, 'Calliope'...," the blonde returned to the woman, who seemed to entertain amusing thoughts. Arizona couldn't help but hint at the fact that she was not the only one with a fairly unusual name in this room.

The implication dawned on Callie and she mumbled, "Touché".

The blonde eyed the expression on Calliope's face. A beautiful face, which had a very beautiful name attached to it, if she was allowed to say so. And it suited what she had seen of the woman so far.

Not even the miffed expression at being called out could change that. And she couldn't help but release a wholehearted laugh at this.

Being brought out of her sulking state by this, Callie's eyes traces over Arizona's face again. Now there were even dimples to boot. Sparkling blue eyes, shiny blonde hair, sweet voice and now entrancing dimples. "You're really pretty," she said mesmerized.

Only seconds later noticing that she had actually said that out loud. "Oh, I didn't mean. I mean, I didn't..."

Being drawn to someone – which she by now helplessly and hopelessly was – was one thing. Admitting to it out loud by accident within minutes after meeting said someone was another.

And hitting on this person – a future colleague – could be problematic and could make working together very awkward from the start.

But then the other woman surprised her. Again blushing a little, but this time at this unexpected compliment. Before she sweetly returned. "You're really pretty too".

Callie perked up in relief. So, no awkwardness. Judging by the flirty smile, quite the opposite. "Wait till you see me without the bandage," she therefore dared to speak.

"I can't wait," the blonde returned, as they heard footsteps approaching them, belonging to the long forgotten Bailey and Webber. "Oh, Dr. Bailey, great. Could you or Dr. Sloan check if Dr. Torres is on sufficient pain medication? I see he is the surgeon on this case. Dr. Torres is having some discomfort," she said in a professional tone. While casually stroking Callie's arm, a move that did not go unnoticed by the other three people.

"Uh, sure," Bailey responded, a little surprised by the situation and closeness of the two women.

"Thanks!" Arizona returned and handed over the chart to the chief resident. "I'll see you two around?" she smiled, catching the dreamy look Calliope's eyes sent her one last time, before heading over to Dr. Webber to continue their hospital tour.

Bailey looked after the newcomer for a moment, before she turned her attention to Callie. "Is everything alright?"

"Kinda," Callie returned, not really answering to the matter Bailey was hinting at. But rather the more obvious one. "I seem to have a thing for blondes," she smirked, enjoying this fluttery feeling the blonde gave her. This feeling better than any painkiller.

END

[nonbinaryresource]

I'm figuring out that I'm nonbinary for the first time and I'm so scared. I'm also figuring out that I have dysphoria. All my life I've felt like I was incomplete like I was missing certain anatomy down there. To be more specific, one part grew out but the other didn't grow out. As an adult the dysphoria has been getting harder and it's harder to touch my own body. My question is, do you have any tips for washing your body? This really isn't meant to be sexual I'm in tears I'm so embarrassed.

I’m so sorry you’re struggling with dysphoria in this way and on top of that feeling like you’re doing something wrong that you need to be embarrassed and ashamed!

You’re certainly not doing anything wrong by experiencing dysphoria or being uncomfortable with your body.

One thing I’d certainly do is start working on CBT techniques (the free app Sanvello will help out with this) to help mentally cope with dysphoria and to help stop fighting yourself over feeling your feelings. I’ve heard from a lot of trans people with dysphoria how CBT techniques really helped give them useful tools to managing their dysphoria, so it’s really work putting the time in for this. Dysphoria sucks, but there’s no need to add more mental strain on top of that by beating yourself up for feeling something you can’t help feeling. I would also check out the other methods listed in our coping tag.

As for washing itself, I think there’s quite a few things you can try - together or separately, whatever works for you.

- Do some (guided) meditation before/during your shower. I use the free app Insight Timer, which has thousands of free meditation sessions from plain music to guided for sleep, anxiety reduction, calmness, intention setting, depression management, etc. I would suggest trying out one meant to manage anxiety or promote calmness to help your state of mind going into and during the shower.

- Play music during your shower. You could try calming/soothing music or distracting music (something that makes you feel like dancing or singing along?) or even put on a podcast to have something else to focus on besides your discomfort.

- Daydream while you wash. Just focus on anything else and let yourself clean on autopilot.

- Think about showering in the dark or in low light. It won’t stop what you feel, but you won’t have to see it as much and that might help you. It used to help me when I was so sex repulsed that I was repulsed by my own body, anyway.

- Cover the mirror or take a hot shower to fog the mirror up for when you get out.

- Shower with swim bottoms/a swim top/a shirt on. You’ll need to reach under the swim suit to clean yourself, but putting on swim clothing that make you comfortable might overall help reduce the anxiety you feel in the shower and make touching yourself for a short period of time seem more doable. You can also try showering with the right exercise clothes on. I’ve read that some exercise clothes, due to their nature of being breathable and having to be made for sweat, can actually be fine to clean yourself through them, and that would be one more layer between your hand and your body.

- What do you use to shower to wash yourself? Try mixing it up to something that requires you feel your body (or at least the parts of your body that makes you most uncomfortable) less. This could be a loofa, body scrubber, or body sponge (obviously you won’t want something too coarse if one of your big trouble areas is your sensitive bottom areas) - there’s a surprising amount of variety in products out there meant for helping to clean your body.

- Take fast showers. You do not have to spend half an hour scrubbing everything raw. Do what you can handle. If that’s a quick lather and rinse that is fine.

- Shower in the middle of a busy day so you know there’s a time limit for being in the shower and you have other things to focus on (completing your to-do list).

- Buy shampoo/conditioner/body wash/soap/bubble bath/bath bombs/shower bombs that you really like the smell/feel of. There are a few 3-in-1 shampoo/conditioner/body wash products you can try. I know some people prefer these because they seem quicker. Buy these products from whatever section you prefer or go for products that don’t specifically say man/woman on them - whatever is more comfortable for you. Buy your body scrubber of choice in a color you really like if at all possible. Having things you really enjoy available in the shower/bath can help give you some positives to focus on and make bathing more enjoyable.

- Lay out the clothes you’re going to change into beforehand if being naked bothers you. (It used to bother me, and I would take my clothes to the bathroom to shove on as soon as I finished drying off.)

- Have a plan for after you wash for something fun/enjoyable/relaxing to do, even if just for 10 minutes. This might be cooking a meal, going for a run, stretching, reading, putting on a movie, eating a meal, knitting, shadow boxing, calling a friend, writing, drawing, working on your car, etc.

- If you’re having trouble scrubbing yourself up, just get in the shower, wash what you can (hair? face? neck? feet? armpits? arms?), and rinse off. Just give yourself a few minutes for water to run over your body. Something is better than nothing.

- If you’re having a string of time where you just can’t get in the shower: wash your hair in the sink or use some dry shampoo if possible, wash your face, wash your armpits (maybe a bit of your arms), and wash your feet (and maybe even your calves part of your thighs). You can use cleaning wipes or just a washcloth and some soap leaning over the tub. Maybe take some time to do some other grooming: clip your nails, shave wherever if you shave, take care of your cuticles, lotion where you can lotion. Also remember to change your underwear everyday regardless of if you wash or not. Something is better than nothing.

Above all, be sure to give yourself a break and treat yourself with kindness and patience. You’re doing what you can, and that’s enough.

[Drawing of a green frog by artist yuni hong. The frog is facing the screen with its arms linked in front of it. It has a curly, French mustache, is wearing a beret, and is holding some baguettes and a bottle of wine. Above the frog is a speech bubble with the frog saying “You’re doing great!”]

~Pluto

[it-is-bugs]

Blake Secret Santa Fic: I’ll be Home for Christmas

I can feel @blakesecretsanta2019 sweating in her latest post, but posting with plenty of time. (two whole hours) 

For @thetucc:  prompt is 'Jean/Lucien or Matthew/Alice (your choice) with settled Christmas traditions (so not first Christmas together)'

Thank you to thetucc and all the fans that are keeping this fandom strong, and here’s to 2020 giving us even more to enjoy.  And thank you so much to @aussiegirl41 for Ausifying.  

Lucien and Jean build a new tradition, while Matthew and Alice enact their own annual celebration 

***

"You put the angel on top, and it's finished."

The woman directs your tentative actions...the woman is Jean.  Jean is your wife.  Your wife is explaining this process, where in the colourful and shiny objects in the box are transferred to the conifer. This is done for every Christmas...it is Christmas, a holiday to celebrate friends, family, and faith. Nod and smile.  Show your appreciation.  Try not to react to the distress in her expression.

"Missed a spot," from behind them.

The man...the man is your friend...the man is Matthew.  Not Matt, not Matty.  Move the string of lights to the left, and he nods in satisfaction.  Release a breath of relief. 

"Lucien?"  All her fear in that name.

Lucien...yes, your name is Lucien.  Not Louie, not Lucky, not these names other people have been calling you since the darkness lifted. You didn't question the darkness; didn't everyone's life start in the dark?  

"Yes, darling?"  You find it easier than saying a name that means nothing, and there's always a glimmer of hope in her eyes when you say it.

"Why don't you help me start dinner?" she says, forcing cheerfulness. 

An instinct tells you to hold out your hand to help Jean stand, which she takes and her slim finger slips along your bare ring finger.  She'd asked if you'd lost your wedding ring, but she's really asking another question. You lie, and say you don't remember where you lost it.  

The gold band had been the first thing you sold for food, an easy act in the moment of gnawing hunger. It had meant nothing, and the act gave you no pause to question 'where's this wife?' The only force more powerful than the hunger and pain in your skull was this need to hide, to stay in the shadows, a sense that a pursuer wanted to take your life. Surely no woman waited at home as this Jean said she had. No hearth was warm, no supper ready, no bed soft. Only the dark cold cobblestones of the back alleys felt comfortable.

The first night in this house, Jean took you to a large bed under a flickering golden ceiling.  Her pale arms wrapped around you, her breasts heaved against your chest from her rapid breathing. "You're home now, my love.  I never lost faith." 

It would have been easy to complete this act. You were urgent and hot between your bodies, her scent was intoxicating. Her touch seemed as familiar as that of a longtime lover, but she was a stranger.  For all these months you'd been another man, not her Lucien, women had reached for you, offered you this but something had stopped you. Had it been her holding your urges in check?  

You'd left the bed, her embrace, and slept on the floor wedged between a dresser and a corner. This felt right and familiar. Later you moved to a bedroom by the front door; easier to leave when this all becomes too much. It is nearly too much;  you vibrate like a plucked violin string all the time.  

The other woman breaks your paralysis as she rises from the lounge chair where she's been reading a psychology book. "I shall help with the preparation as well." She is Alice, and she tells you that she worked with you in your role as police surgeon. An odd thing for a lady to do, but her steady, competent gaze shows she could dissect a corpse with ease.

You see dead bodies when you close your eyes, and you didn't know why.  Or why you were a doctor if these thoughts fill you with dread.  Shaking your head, you trail the others to the kitchen.  

"Lucien, why don't you peel the potatoes for us?"  The one called Alice remains cool and controlled, even as your wife bunches her shoulders at the sink and scrubs the carrots much too hard. 

"Ever since I came to work at the hospital, you've made me welcome in your home at Christmas time," Alice explains as she takes down the china from the cupboards.  "I'm an awful cook, so I try to help by setting the table, and bringing the wine."

You smile encouragingly.  She cocks an eyebrow.  No, you don't remember. 

Matthew limps to the table where a bowl of potatoes waits.  "I'm a much better help."  Waving the paring knife at Alice, he notes, "You should be able to slice and dice a spud if you can butcher a man like a suckling pig."

"That's simply a matter of anatomy," she counters, "from years of study. I've not had the time to apply myself to cookery."

"Leave her be," Jean says sharply.  "She doesn't need to cook."

You don't like to see her upset.  "What's going to be on for dinner beside potatoes?"  What do people eat at Christmas Eve?  "Goose?"  Once, there was a goose...but not here. Not in this bright light. Dim evenings, lamplight casting into dark rooms from the streets outside.  A roaring fire, not these warm Australian summer nights.

Although she's not happy that you don't know, she's relieved that you're trying.  "Goodness no. Too greasy.  We do a nice pork roast, with roasted potatoes, pumpkin, honeyed carrots, buttered brussel sprouts and my Nanna's plum pudding for afterwards."  

You can smell the pork even though you know it's still sitting raw on a plate in the fridge.  "It's delicious," and she gives a genuine smile.  

"Yes, yes it is, if I may say so myself."  

Matthew clears his throat and you look down at the unpeeled potatoes.  Picking up the knife with one hand and a spud with the other, you are uncertain what's next.  Matthew still watches, and slows his motion so you can observe.  Carefully, mustn't cut a finger, the curl of peeling gives satisfaction.  You're surprised to find your forehead moist with sweat when you finish.  

The meal is equally torturous, with many more prompts: as host, you pour the wine, slice the meat, pass the dishes.  

Finally Alice lifts her glass and offers a toast that makes no one feel better: "To old friends, together again."

All through the meal, there is a tension beyond your missing past.  It has form and shape.  You've watched the lurking figure in the shadow out of the corner of your eye. Jean doesn't see it, Matthew seems to ignore it, Alice keeps her back to it.  But you see it.  You want to trust these people, but can't from the way Matthew and Alice meet gazes, then their eyes dart away.  They whisper near those shadows, then part, watching Jean to assure she hasn't seen.  They watch you too, checking if your attention is caught.  Months on the streets of Melbourne have taught you how to keep your attention one place, while the hunter's heart watches another.  

"I suppose I should be getting home," Alice says, beginning the process of giving her farwells, gathering her handbag, and moving to the door.  You stay back at the table, observing the scene, alert for that deception that weighs heavily on your shoulders.

"Lucien, aren't you going to thank our guest for coming?"  Jean is losing patience with you, but it doesn't matter.  You will bring light to the shadows. 

Matthew is equally nonchalant, tossing a "Seeya then," to Alice, then wandering back to the lounge and his newspaper.  

You face Alice and don't like how her level gaze probes. Give a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and she pulls back, containing a shudder.  Sometimes moving closer will push someone away.  

The door shuts. "It's been a long evening. I think I'd better go to bed," you announce.  Jean steps into your kiss, holding her close until you can feel her fingers' grip through your shirt. Retreating through the bedroom doorway, the heavy walnut door closes off her pained expression.

When the darkness covers the entire house, and the only sound is the low buzz of frogs, you leave the house and wait in the deep shadows by the garage. Patience is rewarded. The front door cracks open and a figure stumbles through. In the time it takes Matthew to lock the door, you dart to the auto, slide into the backseat, holding the door closed but not latched. Matthew comes to the driver's door and gets behind the wheel. As he slams his door, you can secure yours.  

The auto moves slowly down the drive then picks up speed after turning onto the street.  Minutes pass until Matthew stops and turns off the engine.  You press down on the floorboards, holding your breath so he won't notice you.

His dragging steps fade away. Sliding from the auto, you crouch in the carpark, spotting Matthew as he goes through a side door of a large building.  It's the hospital, quiet and still this late on Christmas Eve.

You follow, silent on light feet. The hunt feels good after weeks confined in that house.  Matthew's distinct footfall is easy to track through the tiled corridors.  You seem to know where you're going, and it's not necessary to trail him closely. Downstairs, as he travels from spot to spot of light, you remain in the shadows.  At the end of a corridor, he pauses, glancing behind him and you melt back into an alcove.  He goes through a swinging door.  You wait, but he doesn't come out, minute after minute passing.  Finally, you move forward.  At the door, you listen.  Low voices, speak, long pauses, speak again with urgency but you cannot make out the words.  

You dare to push open the door the slightest of cracks.  Easing closer, you peer through.

There's a small Christmas tree on a stainless steel topped gurney.  Two glasses of champagne sit beside it, untouched.  Your gaze refocuses at the sound of movement....and Matthew Lawson and Alice Harvey are engaged in an act of intimacy across the room.

Stepping back, you carefully ease the door shut and reflect. You dare to murmur, "Bloody hell." If they are involved in any conspiracy, it is none of your business.  Retracing your steps, you find your way outside and look up and down the street. On Christmas Eve, there are no cars or taxis.  It's a warm summer night, the sky full of stars. A walk will do no harm.  You know you were once a larger man because your clothes now hang on your frame.  Jean tries to fatten you up, but if you had an interest in extra pudding, it's fled. Sturdier limbs would be welcome.  

A mile along a dark street, headlights catch you.  The urge to flee is strong, and when the vehicle is revealed to be a blue police car, it's nearly overwhelming.  It stops beside you.

A blockish face peers out.  "What's up, Doc," says the policeman, a sneer on his lips. 

You are a doctor.  You are Doctor Lucien Blake. "I'm out for a stroll."

"Pretty far from home."

"The time escaped me."

"Get in and I'll give you a ride."  It was not a suggestion, but an order.  

You take the passenger seat after pausing at the back door, wondering if you should sit in the criminal's place.  

"Out drinking."  Again, not a question.  The policeman drives swiftly but not recklessly.

"No."  You realise that you haven't had a drink in days, weeks, when was the last time you drank?  But you tasted whisky on your tongue the moment he said drink.  

"Jean will wonder where you got to." 

You don't like the way this man says your wife's name.  You have no reply. 

He's turned down your street--how do you know your street?--but as relief washes over you, he speaks again. "It would have been better for everyone if you'd stayed dead."  He pulls into the drive.

You don't reply until you're out of the car.  "But I am back and I'm not going anywhere."  Every day you want to leave, but saying it aloud means it's true.  

You don't thank him for the ride.  

Inside the front door that you open as quietly as you can, Jean is standing, her sheer dressing gown flowing around her slender legs, her face white, her knuckles tight on her clenched fists.  "Where have you been?"

"I went for a walk."

"You've been gone for hours."

She's the watcher, not Matthew and Alice. 

"I lost track of time."  It's a foolish thing to say.  

Her fingers lace with yours.  "You're freezing."

"It's a warm night."

"You're freezing," she repeats, and tugs you past the first bedroom door and down the hall to the magnificent room that she calls your bedroom.  It's made you ache to enter it.  It speaks to a special sort of marriage, where there's the intimacy of two people spending time alone before a fire, one reading aloud from the many volumes lining the room while another listens; her knitting while you warm your socked feet; of time spent in the large bed set at the middle of the room like a throne.  

She pulls you down to the bed, and slips her dressing gown from her shoulders before holding you close. "We don't--please just let me hold you. Warm you up."  Her skin is heated and smells welcoming. Your head drops to her shoulder as you're suddenly exhausted. 

"Tired, my love?"

"Always."

The two of you stretch out atop the bedspread, and stare at the dead fire, suddenly muted.  Finally she asks again, "Where did you go?"

After considering lying, you keep it short. "I followed Matthew.  I wanted to know where he was going so late."

She goes bolt upright.  "Oh, Lucien!"

"What?"

She flops back down.  "Did you see anything?"

You don't want to shock Jean--

"You did.  I hope you didn't embarrass them."

"I'm sure they didn't see me."  You clear your throat.  "They were occupied."

Her arms around you, her legs twining with yours.  "Just don't tell anyone.  It's their secret."

"But you know."

 "Silly," she calls you. 

"Do you want me to go?"

"Please don't."  Her arms tighten.  

Forcing yourself to relax, you listen for your memory in her soft limbs and steady breathing.  She remains a stranger but you still close your eyes, and allow sleep to come.  

Christmas day dawn filters around the heavy curtains, waking you before Jean.  In the night, she's rolled over, her back to you.  Sunbeams illuminate her spine--you see pearls down her back, she's turning to hand her bouquet to a young woman--

Your fingertips trace this sharply focused picture along her vertebrae, causing her to murmur and roll to face you.  Sleepily, her eyes open then widen at your intense gaze.  "Do you remember something?"

You need to respond to her pain-filled hope.  "I've never forgotten I love you.  Never."  

Even as she collapses against your chest, you know that's not enough.  If you loved her, why didn't you come back?  Why did you stay away all these long months?

She kisses you anyway, tentative at first, then soft and warm, her chilled fingers plucking at your shirt buttons.  Her spine arches and presses her writhing body to yours, and memories don't matter.  Just this feeling of belonging to someone--this someone who seems to fit with your limbs like puzzle pieces.  

A ringing from across the room; the phone is ringing.  

"Jean--"

She wriggles free.  "It's probably Christopher calling to wish us Happy Christmas.  I don't want to miss the call."  She does lean over for a quick kiss, and promises, "I'll keep it short though." 

But when she picks up the receiver, her expression becomes worried.  "Danny?"  She half-turns away.

Danny...sandy-haired lad in a blue uniform.  You in court again, more charges for petty larceny.  None of it matters.  A night in jail is a night with a bed and supper assured.  But this time, one of the coppers in the seats waiting for his case called out: "Doc!"  He was calling to you, recalling another life that you could not remember.   

"Are there more charges?" Jean murmurs, winding the phone cord around her nervous fingers.

His fines had been paid, the shop owner repaid handsomely for his troubles.  He'd been carried away from Melbourne in a large auto, this woman, this wife, his Jean beside him, her hand clinging to his arm tightly enough to hurt.  

"Yes, yes, you can come by--"  She glances to you, and you rise, straightening your clothes.  "Charlie's with you too?  What's wrong?"  Frustrated, she says, "Alright, we'll be ready for you."  She rings off.

"They'll be here in about twenty minutes."  She moves to the wardrobe.  "You've met Danny, but Charlie is an old friend as well."  She's become used to introducing everyone to you before we met again. 

She hands you a set of fresh clothing, and you take them slowly.  It feels as though you're dressing for a tribunal.   

Two young men arrive, the one called Danny in a uniform, and a stranger in a dark suit with a portfolio under his arm.  They are not dressed for a Christmas Day visit, and their faces are grave.

Jean, her hands shaking as she grips the tray with teapot and cups, leads them to the lounge.  After she pours, she sinks down beside you on the settee to face them.

"This is Charlie Davis," says Danny, "he's a detective with the Melbourne police."

"A detective," you repeat. 

The two men lock eyes, as though gathering their courage.

Charlie removes a photograph from his portfolio and puts it on the table before you.  "Do you know this man?"

It's an older man, about your age, with blank sullen eyes and a scar along his jaw.  You touch your beard that covers your scars.  You know they're there even if you can't see them.  

"Who is he?" Jean asks. 

You keep staring at the picture.  "He's dead."  You know this because his very image crushes your chest, makes your eyes burn, causes blood to rush in your ears.  

Jean grips your hand tightly but you don't acknowledge her.

"His badly decomposed body was found three weeks ago, downstream from the bridge where you were last seen."

"You don't believe--" Jean gasps.

"A suicide note was found inside his pocket," Charlie quickly explains, meeting gazes with Danny again.

"At the same time that you disappeared, Doc," says Danny, "A woman named Vera Griffith was found murdered in her home.  Her husband was missing."  He nods to Charlie, as though they were passing a football back and forth.  

"When I did my initial investigation of the murder scene," Charlie says, "Lucien's fingerprints were found on the doorknob."

This time, Jean can't even protest.  She sags against you, but your body is frozen with terror.  

Danny doesn't look at his aunt when he admits,  "We kept this from you, Auntie Jean. We weren't sure what had happened--"

She spits out, "That's why you shut down any inquiries I made--"

"We were protecting you, Jean," Charlie offers but she only huffs louder.

Your question stops the argument: "Did I kill this poor woman?" 

Shaking his head, Charlie taps the photo.  "This is Michael Griffith, her husband.  The suicide note was saturated with water, but our forensic scientists were recently able to decipher it.  He confessed to the crime and that he was killing himself as well."

Jean sputters angrily, but your heartbeat thumping erratically between relief and anxiety.  

"With the discovery of Griffith's body," Charlie says, "I searched their house again; tore it apart."  He removes a thick folder from the portfolio.  "I found a number of letters from Doctor Blake."

Jean turns to you.  "Did you know him well?"

A flash of irritation. Of course you did. The blood in your ears has become pounding waves, and bury your head in your hands. It was cold and dark on the bridge. Shouting voices--you wanted him to come to you, to stop talking madness, why was he covered in blood?  Why so much blood?

Jean takes the letters.  "What's in them?" 

"We need you to give us that answer," Charlie says to you, not Jean.  "They're one side of the correspondence and don't tell us much. We're hoping his letters are here."  Now he asks Jean, "Did you find any letters from Griffith?"

She shifts away on the settee, blushing. You're confused at her embarrassment.  Of course she would go through your things when you disappeared, trying to find an answer.  

"Just a bit," she admits, "But I know one place I didn't look."   She hops from the settee and hurries from the room.  You remain staring at the picture until she returns with a large metal box.

"Let me get that for you, Auntie Jean," Danny says, but she holds it away, giving it to you instead.  

"It's Lucien's."  

The box is heavy. You open the lid slowly and are confronted by a charcoal drawing of an unspeakable act being done by a Japanese soldier to a child.  Jean watches you turn the drawings, one after the other.  These are horrible images, but you cannot look away.  Each one must be carefully examined.  When the final one is seen, there's a bundle of letters underneath. You say, "Mike did the drawings.  He didn't want to keep them after the war, but I couldn't see them destroyed.  He thought if he burned them, those memories would go away.  They never go away."

Jean stands. "Why don't you boys go down to the station. Matthew's on shift for the holidays."  She's ordering them out of the house, and they know it. After looking yearningly at the letters, they leave.

When she returns from shutting the door behind them, she says, "Drink your tea."

"I've got to go through these letters."

"Drink your tea," she orders more forcibly.   "I'll organise them."

As you down your tea thirstily, she puts the letters together, yours and Michael's, by postal mark date. 

"Do you want to read them, or shall I?" she asks.

You touch the stack carefully, as one would lift a hot kettle.  "I'll read the ones I wrote. Can you read Michael's?"

She hesitates, then nods.  The first letter is from Michael.  He had reached out to Lucien Blake after years of silence, reminding him that they had been in the same prisoner of war camp but had gone separate ways after returning to Australia. Now he wrote in distress.  

"Sorry to be a bother, mate, but I saw your wedding announcement in the paper and thought I'd drop a line.  How are you getting on?  ...I can't stop the nightmares, haven't slept in days. "  Jean puts down the page and looks expectantly at you.

"I am so very sorry to hear things are getting you low, Mike, and that I hadn't replied sooner. I've been on my honeymoon. If you need to talk, I'm up in Melbourne now and then."

The letters went on in the same tone, Lucien trying to help Mike, until the week before your disappearance. 

Griffith had written: "No matter what I do, I can't keep the dark thoughts away.  I'm just so bloody angry.  Vera does nothing to help, always yapping at me to try harder. I do try, and find myself right back in this hell. How do you keep the wife off your back?"

You look down at the page before you.  "Vera only wants what's best for you. Just as Jean knows the man I can be, so I work every day to be that man. You were a great artist at the darkest time and you can be great again.  I'm coming to Melbourne to follow up on a case next week.  Let's get together, and see if we can get you through this."

Jean taps the empty table.  "That's the last of them. Why didn't you tell me about meeting up with Mike?"  She's the most hurt that you've seen her.

"Our life was going so well.  My troubles were behind us.  If you saw this...afraid that you'd come to fear me as Vera rightly feared Mike."  These are less certain memories of Lucien Blake, more words that just appear on your tongue.  

She starts to protest, but then stops.  Carefully, she says, "I can never know what you feel, but I do want to help."

 Lifting her hand to your lips, you press a kiss to it. 

She turns her hand to cradle your cheek.  She whispers, "Do you remember what happened?  Were you there when he did it?"

You cling to her hand as the room goes dark.  You whimper, "I don't want to go back."

"If you go back to that day, perhaps you can go back to the day before and the day before that, and find yourself," she says urgently.  "And I'll be there.  I'll always be there to catch you when you fall."

You're shaking.  "It's cold. I'm cold."

Her mouth is close to your ear. "Is Mike there?"

"Yes."

"What's happening?"  She pulls you into her arms and holds you with fierce strength.

"I went to their house.  Vera was already dead.  I told Mike we had to go to the police.  He laughed.  Said I would do the same some day. I'd snap."  You're babbling.  "I tried to force him to his car and he knocked me down.  When I got up, he'd run...run to the river....the bridge."

"You tried to stop him."

"Yes."

"But he'd already planned to jump."

"S'pose."  You're so very tired.  Can barely speak. 

"He wanted to take you with him," she breathes, clinging to your heaving back. 

"Did he?"

"You never would have jumped."

"No. But I had to try to stop him.  I had to," you sob.

"Yes, you always need to try."

"Then he was falling...I was falling....we were falling."   

"You survived again.  He fell, but you lived."

You can't even hold your head up.  You accept her embrace, your face in the shelter of the crook of her neck.  "But your Lucien is gone."

"For now."  Her hand makes soothing circles on your back. Minutes pass.  Her hand presses your chest over your heart.  "But this Lucien, perhaps he's come home to stay."

"Perhaps," you choke out.  The photos have been everywhere, people talk about Lucien Blake--his humour, his compassion, his passion--as though he's not the man whose body you live in.  Surely you're not enough for her?  

Gently she disentangles herself and goes to the tree.  She plucks a small gold box from one of the branches.  Sitting beside you again, she cradles the box, seeming nervous. 

"You remembered our wedding?"

"I think so.  Parts."  I feel as dizzy as if dancing. Music playing--

"The Christmas before our wedding, I set the date.  Perhaps we should make that our new tradition."  She turns my hand over and places the box in it.  "Will you marry me again?"   

Opening the box, I see a wedding band inside.  After staring at it for a long moment, I ask, "Jean...you'd marry this man?"

"You have come back to me, don't you see that?"  

I barely nod. The stone as been cleaved, and memories are seeping through. 

Her chin goes up.  "So, then, will you marry me?  On our anniversary?"

March, our anniversary is in March.  "Let's do the ceremony in the sunroom.  I'll get my kiss this time."

She's breathing as though running.  "You haven't answered my question."

I face her, tracing the tears on her cheeks with my thumbs.  "I will, Jean.  I will marry you."

~ End

[ronanvespertine]

... good grief I didn’t consider the wider implications of that ask. Can you just imagine a first responder scene “ma’am are you a doctor?!” “I’ll do ya one better: I’m a vet.” This world would be a nightmare to practice in. It already takes six years plus specialisation. How long does it take to be a doctor in this world? Fifteen years?

(Previous Ask)

Bruh, idk. Honestly, I'm sweating just thinking about it. My sister is a nurse (RN, to boot) and most of my memories of her are just stressing over work and school. And she was in school for a long, long time. (And we don't talk about her student loans.😨)

I tried to find a cute way out of 15 years of medical school (because Y I K E S). I can't imagine every goddamn doctor knowing how to resuscitate a dolphin. So.....

....a new specialization? "Quirk specialization". Quirk doctors, like Ujiko/Garaki. They're the ones who'll know how to deal with mutant/emitter/transformation quirks. (Legit read up on the wiki. Hoo, boy, this took me down a rabbit hole.) They're the ones who spend half a year in general vet school, haha! For their education, I'd say the ability to adapt and basically yolo their way through would be emphasized. (Because I believe vets do that anyway? Like, they know different animal biologies, but it's not like there are specialized equipment for every animal, so they use medical tools meant for humans and figure it out.) Besides, all their patients would be mostly human. So those extra animal bits might not be that big a deal.

Worst case scenario, they teach doctors to prioritize human biology in emergencies and green light the neglection of quirk care until it's safe or the patient is stable.

Actually, now that I think about it, it's probably that. The quirk factor is just a gene. And judging from what we've seen.....human biology is not dependent on the care of one's quirk factor. It's affected by it, but not dependent.

Quirks are like an extra body part, but they're not an essential organ. You can usually live without it. Just like you can live through amputation or losing a kidney.

The big thing would be quirks that hold more importance in a person's biology. Those ones might be regarded as a risk factor in the medical field. I'm mostly thinking mutant quirks that occur through the whole body. Froppy, for example. And maybe her lizard friend. (Ew, does Tokoyami have a weird skull structure? Oh YUCK, I tried not to imagine how his brain would be sitting in his bird head. YUCK! And EW, how does his x-ray look with the fucking beak--?!) Aoyama would be the biggest example of someone who is dependent on the care of their quirk.

For them, I'm not sure how emergency medical care would go. I think medics would try to stick to human biology as much as possible. But Asui's got a frog's stomach, so idk what other special organs she has that may pose a challenge. Hopefully, her quirk didn't add like some super important frog organ. I doubt it, though. Animals basically have the same structure humans do, right? Heart, brain, lungs.....

Uhhhh, I'm trying to remember a little medical tidbit I learned from my sister the other day about triage. There's like this way nurses assess who is prioritized in triage by going down a list. Consciousness, breathing, blood.....(I'm spending way too much time and brain power on this.)

Okay, I just did some searching, and there are different ways to assess a person's condition for triage depending on country and profession ("lay people", like firefighters who only know basic first-aid, judge differently from trained medical professionals). The thing I think my sister uses is the ISS (injury severity score) that separates the body into ABC categories.

(God, all this speculation is giving me flashbacks to a chapter from my old fic, The Haunting of Tony Stark. In one chapter, I explored Doctor Strange's medical background and talked about this hellish mass casualty incident that forced him to make heavy decisions with triage. It got kinda dark. Just reading about the ISS thing put this layer of somberness over me.)

Basically, let's hope Asui's quirk doesn't do extra shit to her head and abdomen (A & B). I'm guessing those are like the key areas of the human body that you really don't wanna mess with.

(Good god, I thought I could get away from the curse of the medical field in my family. But it comes to haunt me in my writing.)

And Aoyama.....hoo boy. If his support belt breaks, I think he's basically gonna have to deal with the pain and injury of Navel Laser leaking out until the hospital can emergency order a temporary support item from a lifestyle support company like Detnerat.

But if Aoyama is in a life-or-death situation in the ambulance, and the paramedics can't treat him because of Navel Laser or Navel Laser is continually making his situation deteriorate, then.....

Quirk suppressants.

Drugs that can forcibly nullify a person's quirk factor enough so that the quirk is not majorly affecting the patient. Very risky, and still an experimental medicine, but medics use it nonetheless if it could possibly save a person's life. It may bear future side effects or damage the quirk factor. But the patient would live.

Though quirk suppressants would be cool, I'm not sure they'd exist yet. I mean, we had that whole thing with Eri and the bullets. If there were medical drugs that could suppress quirk factors, the Shie Hassakai would've just used those instead of blindly evolving Eri's blood.

Basically, the medical field is still trying to adjust to the evolution of quirks. BNHA is basically in the 17th or 18th century when it comes to quirk care in the medical field.

Anyway, that spiralled out of control. I've been blindsided by anatomy fears once again (and outside of art no less, d'you see why anatomy is the enemy of us all?) and got hunted by the medical field curse in my family. But hey, we did some awesome worldbuilding!!! (Doing your job for you, Horikoshi, no thanks needed 😎)

This also may be food for thought for an OC I have in development for BNHA. 😏 She's been slowly developing in my WIPs, and is actually concentrated around medicine. I'll introduce her sometime when I have her fully fleshed out, but for now, she remains a WIP. 😂

Thanks for simultaneously scarring me and giving me quality brain food in the middle of the night, anon! 🤣😁 I always appreciate the random thoughts you pop into my ask box. 🤗

[lovelyirony]

Wait I didn't see the send full prompt in thing lemme try again. Natasha/May with 10: high school popular kid/nerd au.

May was one of those girls that was just…effortless. Anything she wore, regardless of brand name or popularity, looked great. She could wear a sweater that was badly knit, and it would look like fashion. She was kind, always smiling, and Natasha was…

Well, she didn’t want to call it “in love.” She liked May Parker, in a way that wasn’t just “hey I admire your style and want to emulate it,” it was more of “hey I wonder what would happen if I made your picture-perfect bun messy and lipstick smeared.” 

Yeah. It was like that. 

Now, she doesn’t mean to, but her situation is kind of like a typical romantic-comedy. Natasha isn’t in with the crowd, although she certainly has friends up there. Tony will sometimes have her sit with him for lunch, and they’re on relatively good terms. So maybe not a romantic comedy. More of Natasha just doesn’t really mesh well. 

She wears old t-shirts that are ironically funny (at least, she hopes they are) and would prefer not to go to football games or school events of any kind. 

Which is why it’s odd when she’s at a pep assembly, and May Parker decides to stand next to her. 

“I hate football pep assemblies,” she says over the crowd. “They’re so boring, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Natasha says. “We know that they’re good, and I don’t know why they need a ‘send-off’ for an away game. God knows debate, soccer, and volleyball don’t get this.” May nods. 

“I could be at home right now getting an early nap in, you know?” 

And then that’s all the conversation is, because Tony leans down to say something to May, she slaps him on the arm and tells him to shut up, and then her attention is called to Hope Van Dyne asking her about anatomy class and the quiz in it. 

Natasha thinks it might just be May being bored and trying to get a new friend for a pep assembly. 

But…no. May keeps coming up to Natasha and talking, and so she thinks they’re friends? 

They sit together at lunch, and Natasha finds out that they both really like making seasonal playlists and May finds her deadpan sense of humor hysterical. May really wants to go into nursing, possibly even working in neonatal care. Natasha wants to work in law enforcement, probably become an FBI agent. 

It’s…nice. 

And then May invites her to dinner. Just to talk and become better acquainted. 

Natasha wasn’t aware that the new thing to do was go for Italian. May admits that she’s not exactly the best cook, and the place has the best pizza, thin crust. They both agree that thin crust is the only way to eat pizza. 

At the end of the night, Natasha gets a hug. 

People don’t hug Natasha. So it is a Big Deal. She grins as she gets home, and Clint looks at her. 

“You went on a date with May?” 

“No,” Natasha says quickly. “We had dinner. Talked.” 

“You wanna know who I do that with?” Clint asks. Natasha gives him a look. “Bruce. And we’re dating.” 

“Yeah, but you guys talk about….dating stuff.” 

“No we don’t,” Clint says with a snort. “Me and him debated for two hours whether or not Kermit the Frog would be a good secret agent.” Natasha just stares. 

“I cannot believe you two.” 

“Okay, well we both agreed after a while. He forgot that Kermit was in Spy Muppets: License to Croak, and I set him straight. Well, not literally.” Natasha snorts. 

“Of course you know the movie.” 

May will hang out at Nat’s locker, walk her to class, and vice-versa. 

Natasha lies awake at night, and really wonders what it would be like to go on a real date. To have stupid arguments like Clint and Bruce do. 

(It seems that it could be a thing, and holy shit it terrifies the hell out of her.) 

It culminates to the Sadie-Hawkins dance. 

Natasha isn’t one for big displays of affection, but May has been looking at Instagram posts of big proposals and smiling to herself. So she figures that she should ask May. 

She sends her on a scavenger hunt. There’s an announcement over the PA at the beginning of her day, and clues on either the white board or in school notes throughout the day. 

May solves it as Nat stands with a crafted poster board. 

“I’m glad you’ve found the way to a date!” reads the sign. Not Nat’s best work, but she was planning the hunt. 

May grins, and kisses Nat on the cheek. 

Natasha buys a dress, and May asks for the color. It’s a wine red color, long and classic. 

She wears a fucking suit. A black suit, perfectly tailored. Her hair looks good, her make-up looks good–everything looks good. 

Natasha is too gay to play this off as just-friends, but she’s not starting anything during dinner. They’re going with Maria and Sharon for dinner, and Natasha orders a burger with fries. 

May reaches through her arms to snag fries and grin. 

May pulls Natasha outside, just for a brief moment. It’s freezing outside, snow blowing fiercely in. May shouldn’t look good as her teeth are chattering and her arms are visibly shaking. 

“Okay, so let me cut straight to the chase: I fucking like you and your arms are literally the buffest please let me date you.” 

Natasha laughs. She does. Laughs, and she probably ruined her mascara, but she grins and hugs May, putting a kiss on her cheek. 

“Of course I will, May.” 

(They get married after graduating college, and this time Natasha wears a suit, tailored and fit like a dream. Her shoes have the same embroidery as May’s dress, and they dance to cheesy, poppy love songs. 

May still looks effortlessly beautiful every day, even when the gray streaks start popping up here and there.) 

[saltyandoverdramatic]

As I Sit in Silence [Part 3]

Part 1

Part 2

It had been days since they’d taken Matt. It was futile to think he was still alive. If you lived, you would be taken back to the cell to rest so that the next time you would fight as fiercely and be as entertaining as before.

No. Matt was gone.

Lance felt numb. Not only from the cold, but from the loss. There were dried tear tracks on his face, but he couldn’t cry anymore. He had cried when Matt had been taken and when he hadn’t come back by the next day. He’d felt like a crybaby but Jaiva hadn’t judged him, shedding some tears of her own. Lance had been grateful to have her there. They both supported each other. Even though they had been imprisoned for a long time, they hadn’t lost anyone important to them since Sam. They had been lucky but not anymore. After they took Matt, they’d stayed away for a couple of days, then they took Jaiva.

Lance had run out of tears after they took her.

It was hard to say how long he’d been sitting there alone. He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness, still barely able to stand, sometimes passing out due to pain because he accidentally disturbed one of his internal injuries.

Lance didn’t know what would be worse, dying in the arena like everyone he cared about in this place, or slowly bleeding out in the cell, cold, numb and alone.

The other prisoners stayed away from his corner. Maybe they knew he was already dying. There was nothing they could do for him. Instead they focused on each other, comforting and holding each other, probably assuring that it would be fine.

Lance snorted. Nothing would be fine. They were all going to die, either from cold, illnesses or the teeth of a monster that hadn’t been fed properly for far too long. At first, Lance had entertained thoughts of escaping one day. Getting back to earth and telling his family that he was alive, but he had lied to himself. There had never been a chance to escape and in this condition? No way. He wouldn’t make it to the end of the hallway much less out of the whole ship.

Escaping was out of question, so Lance didn’t struggle when the sentries came to fetch him for the fifth time.

They half dragged him with them because he couldn’t keep up with their pace. He hoped his death would be quick. He didn’t want to suffer any more than he absolutely had to. Maybe there was an afterlife and he would get to see Matt and Jaiva again. The thought brought a smile to his face despite everything.

The sentries turned to the left and started dragging Lance down a hallway he’d never been to before. This one had several shiny metal doors in rows as far as Lance could see. They didn’t look heavy like the cell door had. It was creepy how quiet it was. No machine noises, footsteps or anything. Lance couldn’t even hear his own steps. The hallway was void of sounds.

Eventually they stopped in front of a door. It was identical to all the other doors and lead to a room with steel walls, ceiling and floor and an operating table in the middle. A woman? Man? Whatever, in a long purple cloak was waiting near the head of the table.

Lance started struggling. What were they going to do to him? Were they going to dissect and study him like a frog in a biology class? Or like- whoever it was that studied the human anatomy by cutting dead corpses open? Lance didn’t agree to this! He would take a fatal wound from a boar-snake any day rather than subject himself to human experimentation.

The cloaked figure said nothing as the sentries forced Lance on the operating table and strapped him on it to prevent his escape.

Only after the sentries had left, did the cloaked figure move. They hovered over Lance, who was now able to see that she was indeed a woman and that she had purple skin and yellow eyes as well as red scar like markings under her eyes. She looked like someone you wouldn’t want to stumble into under any circumstances. She looked more like a monster from a nightmare than a real being.

Then again, maybe the situation made her seem more terrifying than she actually was.

She grabbed Lance’s chin and turned his head from one side to other. She made a noncommittal noise before turning to examine his wound.

Lance was disturbed by the whole situation. He didn’t want to be examined by a purple female version of It. He wanted to get out of there before anything could happen. He should have tried to fight the sentries before they took him here. Damn the consequences! He had a feeling anything would be better than this.

“Tsk” The woman scoffed and probably rolled her eyes. “Idiots. They almost ruined you. I should have sent my sentries to fetch you the moment you weren’t brought to me after your injury.” It didn’t sound like she was talking to him. Lance didn’t know how he should feel. He’d managed to avoid being a human test subject for a few more days than intended. ‘Feels like such a victory’ Lance though sarcastically.

The woman picked up a thin needle and injected whatever was inside in Lance.

At first it only felt like uncomfortable stinging, like when you hold something really cold for too long, but it got worse until Lance’s whole body was on fire.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut and screamed. He trashed and struggled and tried to break free of his bonds because it hurt like hell!

It felt like someone was pulling his limbs, trying to rip them away from his body while someone else was stabbing him while a third person was cutting him open with a jagged sword.

Lance lost consciousness several times but every time he woke up, he was reintroduced to the pain.

By the end of it he was crying and shaking. Ready to welcome the sweet release of death. The pain was slowly subsiding, and Lance found himself sighing in relief.

The cloaked woman came in view once more. Her hands and the front of her robe were stained with Lance’s blood. She looked satisfied with something.

She raised her hand and instead of slapping Lance like he thought she would, she instead stroke his hair in an oddly gentle way. The way you would usually pet a dog or a cat. A pet. That’s how she was treating him now. After putting him through so much pain, she did this.

“Oh, my new Champion.” she said, her voice was raspy and her smile twisted and frightening. “Do not fear. Your pain today was not for nothing. I have fixed you and I will keep improving you until you become the perfect weapon. I still have plans for you. You have not been forgotten.”

Lance wanted to tell her to go shove her improvements where the sun doesn’t shine but he was too exhausted to talk. He wanted no part in this. He just wanted to see his boyfriend again. Was that too much to ask?

“Rest now. Regain your strength. We wouldn’t want to break you before we have to.”

Lance snarled at her back as she left. He wasn’t going to play her game. He would get her to kill him or let him go, either accidentally or purposely.

 -

 Lance had been laying on that table for who knows how long. His back hurt and his limbs were numb but other than that he felt better than before. Breathing was easier and his head was clearer.

‘She really did fix me’ Lance admitted grudgingly. He would have loved to say she had lied, that he was still not okay, but that just wasn’t true. She had caused him a lot of pain, but she had done what she had promised.

Lance still didn’t think he should be grateful.

During his time in isolation, he’d learned to appreciate sound. There was nothing in the room and it was maddening. It wasn’t the same kind of all-consuming silence as in the hallway. It was just regular silence. Lance had taken to tapping the operating table with his fingers, humming or talking to have something to do instead of just staring at the ceiling and waiting for the- the witch to come back.

The Cuban shivered. He didn’t want her to ever return. Even if that meant being trapped in this room for the rest of his days.

The door opened, making a quiet sound. Two pairs of footsteps entered the room. They were heavy and metallic. Sentries then. Did that mean they were going to throw Lance in the arena again? He hoped so. The alternatives weren’t nearly as inviting.

They freed him and the other stepped back while the other helped him sit up. One of their hands was pressed against Lance’s back. He was supporting Lance and keeping him in sitting position. Sentries never did stuff like this. They grabbed you and dragged you where you were needed. They weren’t this gentle.

The sentry cupped Lance’s face with his hands. Okay this was freaky. Lance was just about to push the sentry away when-

“Lance.” The sentry sighed in relief.

After the initial shock, Lance came back to his senses and pushed the sentry away from him. it tripped and crashed on the floor with a groan.

“Who are you?” Lance asked, sliding off the operating table and glaring between the sentry that was guardian the door and the one laying on the ground.

The sentry from before fumbled with his helmet and pulled it off, revealing familiar golden eyes and blonde hair and that crooked smile Lance had thought he’d never see again.

“Matt.” Lance gasped. It was Matt, or it looked just like him. Was this just a clone sent to break him or was this really Matt? He’d never seen Matt die, he’d just assumed when he hadn’t come back.

Lance walked over and knelt in front of Matt. He stared at his face, trying to find anything that was off or anything that would prove that this was really his Matt. Lance ghosted his fingers over Matt’s forehead and cheekbone before cupping his face like he’d done to Lance mere moments before.

Matt’s smile widened and he ran a hand through Lance’s hair. “Hey Lance, blue eyes, meme man, sunshine. I missed you.”

That sold it to Lance. He didn’t think Galra would bother to dig for Matt’s response to the first time Lance accidentally flirted with him. It had to be the real Matt.

Lance could feel tears welling in his eyes. Matt was alive. They were both alive. Lance kissed Matt, trying to show him how relieved he was that Matt was alive and there with him.

The other sentry coughed to get their attention. “Are you done?” She asked, sounding really tired. She folded her arms. “I want to get rid of this armor. It’s crushing my arms.”

Lance’s eyes grew as large as platters and he turned to look at the other person dressed as a sentry. Matt whined at the loss of contact but didn’t try to pull Lance back. “Jaiva?”

The girl nodded. “It’s me. Now, if you’re done wasting time, we have a pod that’s leaving for ‘Earth’ as you people call it in fifteen minutes and I would really like to get out of here.”

“I can understand you.” Lance marveled. He could actually understand the girl he saw as his sister now. “How?”

Matt helped Lance up. He’d forgotten he was still on the floor. “We found a translation device. One of those the Galra use. We were surprised it actually worked. Then we figured out a plan to get you out and escape.”

Lance laughed in delight, for real this time. “You are amazing.”

Jaiva nodded. “Yeah. Great, great can we go now?” She was shifting anxiously, looking out of the door now and then. “If we’re caught, we’re dead.”

Matt nodded and put the helmet back on. He nodded at Jaiva and they both got back in character. Jaiva grabbed Lance and started pushing him to the direction of the pods.

Most Galra and sentries ignored them, but Lance found his palms sweating whenever they passed someone. Some nodded at them as they hurried past, a few looked at them a little too long but eventually left them alone.

They finally reached the pods with only a few minutes to spare. They were so close. Just a little bit more. They were almost out!

“Hey!”

The trio whipped around to see a Galra point a blaster at them. His hands were steady and there was a look of confusion on his face. “You’re not supposed to take the prisoner to the pods!”

Jaiva worked quickly and knocked the Galra unconscious with the butt of her blaster, but someone down the hall saw them. The trio could hear the Galra yell about an escaping prisoner.

“Shit.” Jaiva cursed. “Three minutes to launch.”

“They’ll be here in seconds. Can’t we speed up the launch?” Lance wasn’t ready to lose either of them again.

Matt shoved his blaster in Lance’s hands. “Take this. I’ll see what I can do.” He rushed to the panel and started fiddling with the panels and typing in commands and codes Lance understood nothing about. He wasn’t sure how much Matt understood either, considering everything was in the Galras’ own language.

Lance raised the blaster. He’d never shot a weapon like this before. His older brother had taught him to shoot a normal gun, without their parents permission, and he’d always been good at shooting games in the arcade but this was different. There was no ‘game over, try again’ He only had to do one mistake and that was it. There would be no second chances, no health bar. This was not a game.

They started flooding from the hallway before Lance could react. Lance aimed and shot.

There was a scream and a splatter of blood. Lance’s eyes widened. He just killed someone. He murdered someone, even if they were from an evil planet-conquering species, they may have had family and he just stole a loved one from them-

“Lance!”

Lance snapped back in reality. While he’d been in his trance, Jaiva had discarded her armor and handed her blaster to Matt. She had somehow gotten her hands on three daggers that were about as long as Lance’s forearm. She was now spinning like a whirlwind, taking down foe after foe.

Lance lifted his blaster again and shot those who were getting too close. His aim grew more accurate the more he shot. He ignored the blood and the screams. If he didn’t shoot, he would be the one whose blood ended up splattered across the floor. The pile of bodies was growing. Most of them were the robotic remains of the sentries. It was easier to pretend they were all like that.

“It’s ready to launch!” Matt yelled.

Lance acknowledged that with a nod. He was too concentrated on shooting. He took down another row of sentries but before he could move on to the next, he was grabbed, his blaster was wrenched from his hands and he was pushed backwards in the escape pod.

Lance scrambled up, trying to get back to fight with his friends, but the escape pod had already sealed itself.

Matt flashed him one last smile before turning back at the sentries and continuing to slaughter the sentries and Galra.

Lance screamed his name, banging on the glass. He was begging for Matt to come with him, delay the launch so that they could go home together, but soon he was launched to space and toward the earth.

He knocked his head against the back of the pod. There was an odd smell in the pod.

Lance passed out again.

-

 He’d woken up on Earth, surrounded by scientists who wanted to take him apart, just like the witch who had said she would ‘improve’ him. He was saved by his best friend, his boyfriend��s little sister and two strangers, who turned out to be Matt’s friends. They found a Blue robot lion and flew to space to fight Lance’s previous captors with four more color coded robotic space cats.

It was weird, but it was his life now.

Lance rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d started to cry.

He shook his head, staring into the vastness of space. He knew Matt was out there. Jaiva as well. He hoped they were okay. They had always been stronger than him. They would have survived, even if they hadn’t been able to follow him.

Maybe he could apologize to Pidge and offer to help her later. He wanted to find her brother just as much as she did.

“Don’t worry Matt.” Lance muttered, closing his eyes. “We’re going to find you. I promise.”

/This is it for now. I feel kind of empty now that everything that I planned is written. 

//If you want more, don’t hesitate to tell me! I’m always up for writing more of this AU!

/// I was inspired by THIS amazing idea by @langst-is-my-unborn-baby

[aion-rsa]

Lovecraft Country: Bringing the Shoggoths to Life

https://ift.tt/3o3hsUu

Contains spoilers for episodes 1, 2, 8 and 10 of Lovecraft Country.

Grant Walker is a monster person. “I’m a monster person, indeed.” He confirms. “It’s definitely been there since I can remember.” Raised on a diet of Clive Barker and ‘80s horror, The Lord Of The Rings and painting Warhammer figures, Walker is just fascinated with monsters. So as Framestore’s VFX supervisor on Lovecraft Country, in charge of bringing the shoggoths to life, he’s in his element.

“Misha [Green – creator] briefed us on the character of the shoggoth and it was basically supposed to be the ultimate guard dog. It’s a loyal creature. It’s a guard dog that’s supposed to be terrifying and fierce and powerful. The most important of those, I guess, is terrifying,” Walker explains. “Almost every element about the creature is supposed to be there to terrify you. Its teeth, all the weird eyes it’s got all over its back. It’s got a powerful anatomy. It’s got these little raptor arms for chopping up people and poking them.”

A creature originally described in H.P. Lovecraft’s mythology, Walker says he was still given plenty of leeway to make his shoggoth his own.

“I really wanted to push the teeth. That was the main thing. It was a big, powerful creature that was supposed to be absolutely terrifying, but also slightly otherworldly. It didn’t want to feel like it was just a monster from the zoo. While we base a lot of reference on existing animals like gorillas, big cats, sharks and things like that, it was supposed to have an otherworldly nature about it to give it some sort of eeriness and sit it into the Lovecraft world.”

Shoggoths make appearances in episodes one, two, eight and ten. A surprise ambush occurs in episode one, followed up in episode two when they’re in guard dog mode. Then in episode eight the shoggoth returns for a big gory action scene, while episode ten sees two shoggoths go head to head.

VFX explained

So how do you put a CG shoggoth into a live action scene interacting with actors? 

“It is tricky,” explains Walker. 

“What we do is we first plan it out with a pre-visualization, a very basic animation where we take a scan from the set so we can build the set in our computers, and we block out the entire sequence with all the actors, with the shoggoth, with all the stuff that’s happening

“That’s to really iron out what we’re going to film, because obviously when we get on set there’s no shoggoth. There’s stunt guys holding puppets but we need to know how fast the shoggoth can run, we need to know what he’s going to do, what he’s going to impact. If he bumps into a car, when do we nudge that car on-set, all those kinds of things.”

There’s no clear cut rules about what will be done with CGI and what will be practical FX, Walker explains. Instead it’s a case of trial and error and ensuring he always knows what can be achieved in CGI if they don’t get the shot. The scene in episode eight where the rampaging shoggoth tears off Office Lancaster’s (Mac Brandt) arm, for example, originally involved a prosthetic limb, but ultimately CGI worked better.

Molding the Shoggoth

Using the pictures supplied by the art department and with further direction from Misha Green, Walker set about sculpting the shoggoth.

“We basically built a digital sculpture of the shoggoth like you would in clay. Then you build a control rig for animation,” he explains. “On top of that you have to replicate all the anatomy inside [the creature]. We build a muscle system that works with simulation so we can simulate muscles bouncing around, flesh wrinkling and all that kind of stuff in a technical process.”

When he was happy with the musculature, attention turned to attempting to replicate the lighting on set, focusing on the skin of the creature and how it would absorb and reflect light. 

“You have to paint all these textures and develop, what we call, shaders that react to light in the way that you would expect certain objects to react to light. You render it using the lights from the set and then at that point you should see your shoggoth sitting pretty much on top of the film plate,” he says. “Then you have a massaging process called compositing where you merge the two seamlessly together.” 

This involves things like adding shadow, painting out bits of blue screen and working with environmental elements like the shoggoth kicking up dust as he runs which could be done via CGI or via a filmed element to really bring it all together.

Guts and gore

Lovecraft Country prides itself on not holding back when it comes to the grue, but this posed more challenges for the team when deciding what should be done in-camera and what would in-computer.

“There’s one significant shot in ep eight where the gore is a big feature that’s in-camera,” says Walker. “There’s this big blood exposure, it covers them. That is the one that I would hate to attempt in visual effects. It’s got too much interaction with the characters. That’s the one significant gore piece that is in-camera. Then there’s the set dressing, which is the blood, guts, arms, prosthetics limbs that are on the floor.”

Blood directly from and around the shoggoth – when it comes from the shoggoth’s gills or when he’s mauling people – was CGI and there were different types of blood they needed to simulate.

“It was surprising how many different types of variation of blood that we needed to do. Blood exploding was one type. Then there’s blood that landed on the ground. From a technical point of view there were probably six, maybe eight, variations of how to produce CGI blood for doing different things. If blood’s seeping into a jumper it’s a textural thing that has to change over time. We also have bits of blood protruding from somewhere and then landing onto something. Then it has to change from one type of data, which is geometry data landing to effect texture. That would turn into another thing. It was quite a complex setup. 90% of it is visual effects blood.”

You can tell monster-man Walker is here for it.

Real life inspirations

Walker got the concept designs from the art department which acted as a blueprint for how the shoggoth would look but Green gave him the greenlight to make tweaks where he saw fit and some of his reference points came from the natural world.

Take the teeth:

“I see all those teeth, but I’m like, ‘Is that the sarlacc pit? Is it just a round thing with loads of teeth in it?’ I want this thing to be able to churn up people’s faces rather than just shaking teeth around. That was one area I was like, ‘Let’s look at teeth that are scary.’ 

“I saw an angular fish that had these big pointy teeth that jut out at you. Then I looked at a shark’s jaws, because I knew that their teeth operated separately from the main cranium skull. Then we built these mandibles inside the mouth that could act like a food processor for people’s heads.”

Nice.

The shoggoth also has gills at the back of the head which inspired Walker in further grossness.

“When someone said, ‘He’s got gills back there and he eats people’s heads,’ I was like, ‘Oh, sure we can blast the blood out of the back of the head.’ I’m sure I wasn’t the first person to think it…”

Putting the moves on

The next challenge for Walker and his team was how to make the shoggoths convincingly move and for this Walker turned to primates.

“In terms of also making it move and be powerful, I looked at it and I’m like, ‘All right, it’s muscular, and looks like this it’s running on its knuckles.’ That’s the gorilla,” he says. With the animation supervisor they would look at other references and tweak the anatomy of the shoggoth in reference to the movement, adjusting the length of the arms and the legs and making tweaks until the anatomy matched the motion they wanted.

Eyes in the back of its head

From the original Cthuhlu mythos the shoggoth was covered in eyes but Walker wanted to adjust exactly where they were situated.

“We put their eyes on the head and the back. We removed them a bit from the shoulder. They felt a bit strange on the shoulder. We were thinking that maybe its brain is in its head. You can imagine that the spinal column might have some sort of optical nerve that might tie it all together. But to be on limbs as well pushed too far. I did feel I’d like to try to keep it around the spinal column at least,” he explains.

“In terms of how that affected the animation and the character was quite interesting because the idea is this creature can see in pretty much any direction. Most creatures hear or see something and they turn their head to look at it. Well, this doesn’t need to. How do you make the creature look at something without needing to turn its head? There was a bit of a trade off there. We did ultimately use the head and little looks, but there are some shots where it’s mainly in the eyes.”

Big mouth strikes again

With the eyes scattered around the shoggoth’s head and neck and the pupils not easily identifiable – they are either have slight cataracts or they’re almost entirely black – much of the shoggoth’s facial focus is on the mouth. As well as the teeth, the shoggoth’s tentacled tongue became an important aspect of the design. 

One of the early animation tests of the face

“When you’ve got a mouth as big as this, you have to spend a lot of time controlling it. This one was a pretty big feature. We spent a lot of time working on where the lips should start and finish. I did do a version where the lips were closed over the teeth, which kind of looked a bit like a weird Kermit the Frog and became immediately less terrifying,” deadpans Walker.

The tongue was another big focus.

“There were a couple of concepts from our art department where they had a single tongue, double tongue, and a four tongue kind of thing but the ends of it were quite short,” Walker explains. He had his heart set on something bigger, a longer, twistier tongue that could feel like a weapon, with barbs down the side he says were inspired by the barbs on a cat’s tongue. 

The shoggoth is a scary beast. There is also something grotesquely phallic about it.

“It’s weird you say that because I’ve done a number of creatures and it’s often a comment about creatures that I make. It must be something subconscious that creeps into these creatures. I don’t know what it means. I’m not going to analyze it too much. But yeah, I have no good explanation for that,” says Walker. We’re not going to push.

Under the skin

The skin of the shoggoth was another element that took work. Walker says the plan was always to make the skin slightly translucent which meant building the skeleton, muscles and vein system beneath the skin so that you can see into it a bit if you shine a torch at it.

  Concept art of the shoggoth

“There’s some kind of red gnarly stuff all over his skin as well,” says Walker. “They’re supposed to be creatures that haven’t seen the sun or don’t like light. So the skin was always supposed to be a bit sickly. That scarring, also was an artistic way of creating variations. There’s a few of these, what we call white shoggoths, in the episode so we needed to have a few variations.”

The money shots

Walker says episode eight was the biggest challenge, in particular the sequence where the shoggoth goes on the rampage and bites Lancaster’s arm off.

“When a monster is interacting closely with a human being, you need to make sure it’s either moving that person or it’s physically affecting that actor, but also that it’s casting shadows correctly,” says Walker. Sequences like this are where the pre-vis comes into its own, he explains, “you’re filming all this action going on and there’s one significant thing missing, which is the shoggoth.”

Walker says they’d been working on this sequence for around five months, and that’s not including the pre-vis which they completed over a year ago. 

Read more

TV

Meet the Monsters of Lovecraft Country

By Rosie Fletcher

TV

Lovecraft Country Episode 10 Review: Full Circle

By Nicole Hill

The shoggoths get a final hoorah in episode ten, in several sequences where you see it close up, not on the rampage “It’s more chill, it’s in bodyguard mode, it’s just following around and you get to see it in a bit more detail in certain shots,” says Walker, while there’s another scene where two shoggoths have a scrap (“he’s going to bob, with his little paws and he’s going to wait up and he’s going to throw a right hook…” boxer Walker describes acting it out for the animator).  

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

Walker says the show’s been a joy to work on, and he’s even enjoyed watching it back, though he doesn’t always like to look at his own work – surely an indication of the quality of his creation. The show has been a success and while there is by no means any guarantee any sort of second season will materialise, if it does, we’d fully expect to see more of Walker’s supernatural guard dogs – for the merchandising opportunities if nothing else. Because after all, who wouldn’t want a shoggoth of their very own?

The post Lovecraft Country: Bringing the Shoggoths to Life appeared first on Den of Geek.

from Den of Geek https://ift.tt/31t2JbY

[writtenthroughtime]

This would totally be an AU fic but I would love to see Claire teaching a figure drawing class and Jamie being one of the students draws her.

So this is a bit of a role reversal from what you requested @lindseyylu17, but I’m enjoying it. 

“We have to what?” The entire class exclaimed in disbelief. The professor smirked and relaxed against the lab table.

“All of you heard me just fine. I expect to see the results from this class and Professor Montgomery is already expecting you starting tomorrow night. Don’t worry about supplies, Professor Montgomery says that he’ll have things ready for you each class, just remember to sign in on both of our rosters. This class starts at 8pm sharp tonight! I don’t want to hear about any of you being late!” Doctor Randall looked down at her wrist and waved her hand towards the door dismissing us.

I packed my bag with my head still reeling from what Doctor Randall required, Life Drawing, a class designed to embarrass all of the parties involved. Naked men and woman lounging for hours at a time while a gaggle of students attempted to draw their forms from various angles.

“Jesus H Roosevelt Christ!” I whisper yelled to myself as she made her way across the empty campus. “I can’t take a life drawing class I just… can’t! I can’t draw to save my life! Besides how does life drawing even fit with an anatomy class? I should be learning how to—”

“Talking to yourself again, Claire?”

“Agh!” I swung around nearly hitting my former roommate with her bag.

“Jenny!” I exclaimed clutching a hand to her heart, “you know not to sneak up on me like that!”

Jenny laughed and settled her hands on her hips, “Och aye but that’s the best time to sneak up on ye! What were you ranting to yourself about this time? Did fuddy-duddy Professor Whitman assign another frog dissection?”

Jenny’s strong Scottish accent lilting with each word and I smiled at the familiarity of if. “No, not Whitman…this time.”  

I laughed and Jenny snorted, linking her arm with mine as we made our way to the library.

“So if it wasn’t Whitman who and what did they do to deserve the horrible Beauchamp rant?”

“Doctor Randall. Not the history professor, his wife the biology professor,” I amended quickly. “Doctor Annie Randall, who isn’t even a doctor by the way! She dropped out of her residency and decided to teach Bio 425 and she’s forcing us to go to Life Drawing instead of our lab class for the next two months!”

Jenny’s eyes went wide, not only in shock but in the way I knew she was plotting something. “So ye have to take the life drawing classes this quarter?”

“Ugh! Yes. I really don’t see the point in this class. I’m in biology not art!”

“Quitcher whinging Claire and just go to the damn class. Ye never know what ye might find or should I say who.”

——–

The art room was small, cold, poorly lit and reeked of chemical adhesives. Was this really happening? I kept asking myself. Was I really taking a life drawing class? I groaned thinking of how my time would be better spent studying or in the lab examining specimens, rather in this dank room foolishly facing a class I felt was beneath me. Why art? Why did she have to send us to an art class, what good would this do or bring to us? Artist are careless junkies that will get nowhere in life. This chosen path won’t pay their bills or get them the type of scholarships needed to further pursue a career. I couldn’t fathom their reasons for joining a group that might lead them to ruin.

“Class! Come to order now, please!” The hippie who I assumed was Professor Montgomery said with a clap of his hands.

“Please cease your conversations and begin to find your way to an easel, then position yourself so that you may see the stage unobstructed.”

The so called ‘stage’ was compiled of ratty boxes haphazardly draped with tattered striped cloths and a wicker chair that look as though the weight of a butterfly would cause the fibers to crumble.

“On the easel in front of you, you shall find a fresh pad of newsprint. You have five minutes in a medium of your choice to do a nice warm up sketch of the popcorn kernel I am passing out now.”

“What?” I mumbled to myself as everyone around me pulled out pens, charcoal, pencils and pastels, even my fellow biology classmates had found a tin of pencils and were passing them around to one another.

“Ready?” Professor Montgomery paused, looking around. He pulled a stick from behind his ear and handed it to me. “You may begin!”

With the oddly shaped pencil I paused with it’s point on the paper, not sure how to start. The lumpy, misshapen mass in my hand did not resemble popcorn in the least. The people around me were making wild gestures with their arms, beautiful curves appearing on the easels I could see. Taking a steadying breath I mimicked their motions and had the faintest of curves when the timer went off and we were told to stop.

“Perfect! Now that we’re all warmed up I would like to introduce our first two weeks model.” He swept his hands towards a side door that cracked open slightly. “This is our model’s first time sitting for a life drawing class so please, everyone give the warmest of welcomes to Mr. Alexander Malcolm!”

The model appeared from behind the door clad in a fluffy blue robe. His steps were sluggish and hesitant, I got the feeling he didn’t want to be there as much as I did. He slowly made his way towards the stage, but not climbing into position.

“Mr. Malcolm, if you please.” Professor Montgomery said gesturing towards the boxes.

Mr. Malcolm stared at the professor. From the reactions I could see of my classmates and the professor, the model was challenging him.

“Mind if I work up to disrobing?” A deep and thick Scots accent drifted my way.

“Fine!” Came the angry reply from Professor Montgomery. “But this is for tonight only! I have you for only four sittings and tonight is a shortened class due to first day bullshit! Tomorrow I expect you to be prepared from the moment the class arrives.”

Mr. Malcolm nodded tersely. He kept his head down as he approached the stage and settled himself on the wicker chair, which creaked with his weight.

“Mr. Malcolm will sit in this position for ten minutes, before adjusting to a different pose in a different direction.There will be five different poses, each lasting ten minutes tonight. Typically we do twelve fifteen minutes poses, but tonight we shall adjust! Please capture as much as possible given the circumstances. I want your drawings labeled per pose, with your name on it, and date at the end of the class. Other students use these pads so please try not to be heavy handed. You may begin!”

From my angle all I could see was the bulky collar, the top of his shoulder blades and his shoulder-length curly red hair. I tried to capture the way his shoulders fit the robe and disappeared behind the wicker chair. However, when I looked at the drawing the paper reflected back a mass of scribbles that no matter what way you looked at it, you could not tell what it was meant to be.

I huffed out a breath and tried again, this time focusing on his hair. Again the spirals on the page no more reflected the coils of Mr. Malcolm’s hair than it did the curve of his shoulder. Our time started to dwindle down on this first pose, Professor Montgomery began to adjust a small space heater to point towards the stage. I noticed the model’s shoulders tense and his arm begin to shake.

“Stop! Readjust!”

Mr. Malcolm stood and took a deep breath before untying the front of his robe. The fabric swung to his sides. He turned and began to sit on a block directly in front of me, I finally caught a glimpse of the man I was supposed to study. His muscles were well defined, smattered with freckles and curls of fair blonde and red hairs. They made a trail that lead to a patch of even thicker curls that surrounded, while flaccid, still a very impressive penis. My clinical mind took over, examining his every muscle and curve. The way the skin was stretch taught in areas, and bulged in others. I wondered what activities he must do to maintain the way he looked. Even sitting there wasn’t a roll or wrinkle of fat. His body was the perfect biology project.

“Stop! Readjust!”

I jolted from the sudden exclamation. Looking at my easel, I realized I hadn’t sketched a single line. I had to shake myself out of this. He was just a man. A very well defined, attractive man, but still just a man. Think of him as a patient and this is how you’re to figure out what’s wrong with him! Get your head on the assignment, Beauchamp!

Three more positions followed and with each one Mr. Malcolm slowly became more and more unclothed until finally the robe was laying across the floor out of his reach. My temper rose with each minute. This man was most likely being paid for this, but still he was being put on display in front of complete strangers who are meant to analyze his every feature. I could not understand why he was putting himself through this torture, he was clearly not comfortable no matter how long the class went on and I couldn’t blame him. Not only was he being exploited but the amount of females in the class started to overwhelm even me. These girls shouldn’t be allowed to look at him this way! He wasn’t theirs to oogle and treat like a piece of meat! He’s not yours either, a small voice reminded me. Yet, he felt like he was mine. I felt the need to cover him up and hide his body from sight, to protect him and comfort him….

My internal rant lead to the rapid end of class. I didn’t even hear the final instructions nor did I care I only had two of the required five drawings. I signed, dated, and numbered them before tearing the sheet off of the pad and handing it in. Mr. Malcolm had already disappeared from sight. Slowly I returned my supplies and stared at the door he had appeared from at the start of class. Tomorrow then, I thought and hitched my bag over my shoulder just as the side door squeaked open. The lights were dimmed even further than before and I could just catch the glint of his red hair as he darted out of the classroom.

“There’s the nudest!” A bellowing, familiar, laugh sounded.

“Shut it Ian, or I’ll make ye!”

“Och, come off it Jamie! Ye ken I’m just pullin yer leg! How was it? Did your cock come out to play and make the lassies faint with desire?” The sarcastic tone was cut off by a loud thump. I slipped through the door in time to see none other than Ian Murray rubbing his jaw from where Mr. Malcolm, or Jamie, had hit him. Ian merely laughed more.

“Are ye tellin me there wasn’t a single thing good to come from that class?” Ian’s tone was similar to that of his fiancee’s, sneaky and up to something.

“Nay!” Jamie roared as they made their way to the elevators. “I canna believe ye and my sister dared me and not only dared, but forced me to do this after losing a bet! There isn’t enough money in the world to make me want to come back tomorrow night! It’s definitely not worth the sixty pounds they’re paying me!”

Ian had his arm around Jamie’s shoulder as the two of them entered the elevator. As Jamie/Mr. Malcolm turned around we made eye contact, maybe the first of the night, but his eyes went wide. He was saying something to Ian but I couldn’t hear nor make it out as the doors shut and I was left alone on the abandoned art floor.

[flypaperreviews]

Consolers: A Webcomic Review

Disclaimer: I am on familiar terms with the author of this webcomic, that is to say, I communicate with her on a somewhat frequent basis. I have tried to be objective, but best take my words with a grain of salt. These are my opinions, make your own.

Consolers, by Zanreo (@zanreosauce) is a webcomic about video games – but unlike several webcomics about that particular subject which makes use of the cliché of two men and a pair of milk jugs on a couch, or affectionately parodies the logic of video games, it instead adopts a perspective that could be simply described as “video game Hetalia”. In other words, “personification of video game companies” would be the vehicle that this webcomic uses.

I am pretty sure that this concept is not exactly new. Conversations with the author, dimly remembered, indicate that this has been executed on deviantArt. Forgive me if I do not talk about those, however, for this is a review on Consolers.

Now, Consolers is a webcomic that focuses on video games, and on the history both comparatively antique and modern . While mostly on the Big Three of video games (namely Sony, Microsoft and Nintendo), it occasionally brings up the escapades of other smaller companies and game developers themselves. There is no overarching plot structure, which would have made absolutely zero sense otherwise, but it instead presents various vignettes of the video game industry’s history.

It has run for quite some while, stretching on for four years from 2013 to 2017. However, I have been requested to focus on the 2015 to the most recent strips, which I will do so, though I might occasionally bring up the earlier strips in order to make comparisons or snide remarks, should the mood strike.

Like now.

If one should read this webcomic chronologically, art evolution, ranging from better lines, speech bubbles and anatomy would be apparent. However, it does occasionally carry on the same problems it had in its early stages.

Firstly, what strikes me is the problem of anatomy. This is pretty much the bane of several people, myself included, so I will not be too harsh about this. I might be lying.

Now, there are definite improvements. Zanreo’s grasp of the human body has improved to some extent so as to not create monstrosities such as Atari’s hand in the picture to the left (E.T. Go Away, 20th Oct 2014). However, there are occasional slip ups with the anatomy in the more recent strips – Nintendo, on the far right comes from a strip published on the 27th of January, 2017 (Meeting - part 2) , but her hand, however, reminds me of the frogs that I had to remove from my garden just recently. Furthermore, though the cropping of the image does not show it quite well, her leg seemed to be shortened.

There is, too a perennial problem with stiffness. The figures themselves feel a bit like posable dolls, or a bundle of sticks. Occasionally, Zanreo breaks out of this with a nonstandard pose – by which I mean, a pose that requires the spine to not be straight.  

Another problem is one of perspective and by association, backgrounds. Backgrounds are also rather simplistic, providing little detail save for situations when points are to be made, which are actually effective, for they draw the eye to the figures, who are definitely the main focus of the webcomic. But occasionally…

You get pages like this (Metal Gear Barely Surviving, 19th August 2016 in the above example; Digital Homicide, 26th September 2016 is another one). Perspective. Needs work.

But do not take these as extremely jarring -  these mistakes are do not break the webcomic too much, and if Zanreo continues practicing her skills, more improvement should be seen. Her skill in shading, for example, has improved as time went on, giving depth to the figures, and the usage of panels was rather good.

The character design deserves some mention, however. With such a multitude of video game characters and designs, the companies should rather be pleasing, or entertaining to the eye, and be rather identifiable almost immediately. This, Zanreo excels in. She incorporates several features in each character, making them stand out from one another.

Square Enix is my favourite of favourites and I will proceed to share with you the fanfic I wrote about Squeenix and Y2K zips -  erm. Back to the review.

This is not totally perfect. A few designs are rather bland. EA, for example is presented as what is known online as a dudebro, if I’m correct. It works. It communicates his character as someone with an extensive catalog of sports games, but I feel that it doesn’t communicate the entire depth of EA’s catalogs, ranging from Star Wars to The Sims to cult hit Mirror’s Edge. Perhaps, however, Zanreo has not got around to addressing EA’s nature yet, outside of the Character page.

Sony, however, is rather bland in design, taking the appearance of a black T-shirt wearing man. Other than his emblems, his design does not evoke any questions or make him stand out, which is rather a shame, really.

Speaking of communication, the webcomic itself aims to present video gaming news in a webcomic format.  However, it is rather insular to a mild degree – it assumes that you have an interest in video games (which is obvious, given the name), and that you have some knowledge of the industry’s messes itself.  Now this has lessened to some degree, but I have encountered this once in a while. Take the page Tecmo's Revenge (3rd Oct 2016) for one. I was a bit puzzled about what was occurring until I decided to scroll down and read the comments, which gave me a link to a previous strip for more context.

The writing in the pages and strips themselves is clear and concise enough, and comes off as natural. This is all good. There is also a good use of speech bubbles, but as with everything, it is not totally perfect.

Now, this is really crowded, and gives me the impression of a text crawl a la Star Wars trying to escape this horrendous white circle. If it were up to me I’d have done this: separate each paragraph into their own speech bubble. A mockup is below.

Now this is only one way to create break up such a text wall and arrange them. There are surely better methods and arrangements, but the end result is to actually give some breathing room and connections for the words and bubbles.

Structure-wise, the comic itself is in one word, scattered. This is one glaring flaw of the comic itself – it is not arranged in a logically pleasing, continuous manner, and to confess, one of the reasons I picked on the earlier strips was that the archive positively defeated my efforts to locate any of the  2015 strips easily. The archive itself is arranged in story arcs, but most of the strips are unchaptered. This arrangement defies any chronological sense, but I comprehend why one would do so. However, it does not make for easy reading.

Reading chronologically is also an issue. Some arcs are scattered between dates, with other strips, filler material and whatnot wedged in between. Flow is broken this way, and though no one truly minds brief interruptions, to have 13 pages composed filler material and a midway break is rather distracting. I am referring to the strips between the Meeting pages.

The site itself isn’t too distracting – the background wallpaper is fun to look at, but it doesn’t take away the attention. Its muted colour scheme works in its favor, but the header bar is rather clogged, filled with links to several other sites. A recommendation, if I may, is to condense it into one page of Links, or move them to the About section. It makes for a less cluttered header bar, which takes less attention away from the page.

Disqus, also needs some work. The text is black, making it blend in with the background. Perhaps make the background of the Disqus box itself white. Placing it above the disclaimer bar, in the main box would be a better location too.

The comic as a whole however does not offer too much to be damned to the blackest pits of video game comic hell, which I’m pretty sure exist, and that I’m going there one day to be tormented by loss.jpg and Penny Arcade’s new art. It is actually a rather good effort at portraying the inherent nature of the video game industry as one of constant wackiness hiding under a veneer of straight, no-nonsense professionalism, and shows that despite everything:

“Above all, video games are meant to just be one thing: Fun for everyone.” -Satoru Iwata

[aidanchaser]

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents beta’d by @ageofzero​ and @magic713m​

Chapter Four Horace Slughorn

Harry sat in the window seat of the Potters’ small parlor. His leg bounced nervously as he twisted a purple and gold pamphlet in his hand, more out of a need to fidget than any real interest in its contents. His green eyes drifted instead to the garden outside, but it remained unchanged. The sun set slowly, and the hyacinths beneath the window danced lazily in the slight breeze. He could just make out Neville and his father working in the garden on the south side of the house. They’d invited Harry to join them, but Harry had declined, unsure if he’d had the time. He checked his wristwatch for the third time that hour.

It was still not yet seven. He had hours to go, but that did not stop him from being nervous.

The door to the parlor creaked open. Harry turned, startled, and half-expected to see Dumbledore standing in the doorway, but it was only Sirius.

Three nights ago, Dumbledore had written Lily, James, and Harry to ask if he could borrow Harry for an errand. He had been vague about what the errand was, but assured them it had nothing to do with Voldemort and was purely Hogwarts business. Still, Lily and James were hesitant to let Harry go. They trusted Dumbledore in a way they did not trust the Ministry, and Harry’s curiosity was piqued. He wanted to help Dumbledore with whatever the errand was.

“Did you get enough to eat?” Sirius asked.

This was an unusual question for Sirius, who did his best to appear irresponsible. His reckless behavior included letting Harry fly his motorbike and making jokes in the middle of life-threatening situations. Over these last two weeks, however, Sirius had been strangely attentive.

Harry tried to smile. “I think Mellie would skin me alive if I didn’t take second helpings of everything.”

“Maybe we should warn your dad. She might be fattening you up to eat you.”

Harry laughed, but his momentary humor was immediately wiped away by Sirius’s next question.

“Dumbledore won’t be here for a few hours yet. D’you want to do some drills while we wait?”

Harry groaned. He had asked Sirius at the beginning of the summer to teach him healing spells. After the fight in the Department of Mysteries, where Pearl Lais and Ginny Weasley had both broken bones, Harry had thought it would be handy to learn a few simple spells for healing up cuts and breaks. Perhaps he couldn’t practice advanced counter-curses, but he could learn the basics.

So far, Sirius had Harry doing nothing but reciting anatomy textbooks. Sirius insisted that Harry learn the name of every bone and organ, where they were in the body, and how they worked. It was a lot of information, and while Harry worked hard at it, he was tired of repeating the same words over and over.

“Can’t I do some real magic yet?” Harry asked.

“We’re not quite ready for you to stick your wand into any open wounds. The next step is dissecting a live frog.”

Harry concentrated very hard on keeping his face still, afraid to betray disgust at the idea.

Sirius had taught himself healing magic when at fifteen, with nothing for assistance but the Hogwarts library. Harry wanted to show that same determination under Sirius’s tutelage. Still, he couldn’t help but feel queasy to think of how many frogs had suffered in Sirius’s hands as he had tried to learn all he could about healing, just to make things a little easier on Remus’s werewolf transformations.

Sirius may have worked hard to appear careless, but he was not good at it if you knew him for very long.

“I think I can do that.” Even as Harry got to his feet, he felt light-headed.

“You sure? It’s not a pretty part of the job.”

“I want to learn this,” Harry said with more confidence. He followed Sirius from the parlor and into the dining room. “I need to know healing spells.”

Lily, seated at the dining room table, looked up from the letter in front of her. “What are you working on today?”

“Sirius wants me to dissect a frog.”

She set her quill down. “Oh! I do need some frog parts for our potions stock. Mind if I sit in and cut out what I need when you’re done?”

Sirius shrugged. “I figured for our first dissection I’d use a Duplicate, but if you need us to use a real frog….”

“No, never mind. It’s not an urgent need. Besides, I should probably finish this letter.” But Lily stared at the parchment in front of her like it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Scrimgeour again?” Harry asked.

Lily and James had read him the letters from Fudge, and the subsequent letters from Scrimgeour, all asking for Harry’s help at the Ministry — or at the least, asking for Harry to make a show of helping the Ministry. Lily and James had asked Harry what he wanted before making their decision. Harry did not want to help the Ministry when they had done so little to help him last year, and his parents agreed. He appreciated that his parents were making a conscious effort to be more open with him, especially after they had kept the prophecy from him for so long.

Though Harry had been angry with his parents for keeping such an important secret from him, he could see now why they had done it. Even just the rumor of a prophecy had sent the Wizarding World into a frenzy. The front page of the Daily Prophet wondered if Harry was “The Chosen One” to defeat Voldemort, and both Ministers for Magic incessantly begged Harry to help the Auror Office, to restore confidence in the Ministry, they said.

When Lily had told Harry the prophecy just a couple weeks ago, she’d said that she and James had never wanted Harry to grow up as a weapon. Now that people suspected Harry could be destined to defeat Voldemort, it seemed like that was all people wanted from him. He understood his parents’ desire for secrecy much more clearly.

It was still hard to forgive them.

“That’s our latest letter to Scrimgeour.” Lily gestured to a sheet of parchment at her left. “I’m waiting for James to read and sign it before I send it off.” Paragraphs of black ink ran from the top to bottom of the page, lengthy words and arguments that probably could have been summarized in a simple, “No, thank you, and please stop contacting us about this matter.” She tapped the feathered end of her quill against the incomplete letter in front of her. “This one’s to Remus.”

“Did he write us?” Harry asked hopefully.

“No, I just thought…. Last Monday was the full moon, so I thought I’d let him know we were thinking of him, and maybe send him some chocolate frogs.”

Harry’s heart sank with disappointment. His last conversation with Remus had not been the best terms to say goodbye on. Harry had gotten upset with Remus, just as he had with Sirius and his parents, for keeping the prophecy from him. Remus had taken Harry’s anger and talked him through it, then encouraged Harry to forgive and trust his parents. He had not asked Harry for forgiveness himself, and Harry, though he was still struggling to forgive his parents and Sirius, wished Remus were here this summer, too, so Harry could at least try to repair his relationship with Remus.

“Tell him I miss him, too,” Harry said.

“Of course. Sirius?”

Sirius snorted. “I have nothing to say to him that I haven’t already told him.” He hesitated, then sighed. “If you really want him to come by, let him know I won’t be here, and I’ll clear out for whatever day it is. It’s me he’s avoiding more than anything.”

Lily frowned. “I’m sure that’s not —”

“Come on, Harry, let’s look at some frog innards.”

Sirius disappeared into the kitchen. Lily frowned after him.

“Do you know what he means?” She kept her voice low to keep it from carrying into the kitchen.

“Sort of. Not really.” Harry ran his hand through his hair in a gesture that was so unconsciously like his father. “They fought at St. Mungo’s. Sirius said it was about nothing, but I think he was mad Remus wouldn’t take his wand.”

This did not sound like the right explanation, but Harry, who had mulled over Remus and Sirius’s fight for days now, had not been able to come up with a better answer. He’d been meaning to ask James about it but hadn’t had a chance to. Sirius, clearly, wasn’t going to talk about it.

“Harry,” Sirius called, “are we doing this or what?”

Harry hurried into the kitchen. Picksie had been wiping down the woodstove, but when she learned what they were about to do, she squeaked and disappeared with a pop. Sirius Summoned a frog from the garden, Duplicated it, and returned the original frog to the pond. Harry wasn’t sure using a Duplication was any less disgusting, but on the whole, the experience wasn’t as terrible as Harry had expected. Sirius explained each spell he used as they cut into the frog, and told Harry that next time he would expect Harry to cast the spells. Sirius then pointed out the systems in the frog’s body, showed Harry how they worked, and asked Harry to make the appropriate comparisons to the human anatomy Harry had been learning.

Sirius was in the middle of pointing out the nervous system when everything fell into chaos.

Neville and James returned from their gardening, arms full of Leaping Toadstools. Neville saw the frog on the table with its skin pinned back to reveal the frog’s inner workings, whispered, “Trevor —” and promptly swooned. James lurched forward to catch him before he hit the floor. All their toadstools went leaping about the kitchen.

Harry abandoned his lesson to slam the back door shut. Lily heard James shouting for help and rushed into the kitchen. A pair of toadstools leapt past her before she could close the door to the dining room. Sirius swore as the toadstools jumped around his feet. Picksie appeared suddenly to see what the commotion was and shrieked as toadstools leapt onto her head. Sirius’s half-opened frog took advantage of the distraction to spring back to life. Sirius swore loudly and pointed his wand at the frog before it could leap out the kitchen window. It croaked once, and Sirius Vanished it. Harry hastily tried to scoop up toadstools while Lily dug a cardboard box out from a cupboard. James handed the woozy Neville off to Picksie so he could help collect toadstools. The challenging part was not only grabbing them, but keeping them in the box once they’d been collected. They liked to leap out.

“Don’t Stun them,” Lily snapped at Sirius as a red spark shot from his wand. “They’re no good in potions once they’ve been Stunned!”

“Then Picksie can make us a nice mushroom soup instead,” Sirius snapped back, tossing the Stunned toadstool onto the counter. “Are they really worth this trouble?”

“Usually you take the box with you when you harvest them.” Lily wrangled another mushroom into the box and glared at James.

“It was an impulse decision!” James’s glasses fell off his face as he dove under the kitchen table after one of the toadstools. “Neville said they looked ready to harvest, and I thought he was right.”

“They were ready alright,” Harry grunted. He grabbed one in each hand and shoved them into the box Lily guarded.

The kitchen fireplace suddenly roared to life with green flame.

Harry let a toadstool slip out of his hands as he looked at his watch. “It’s eleven already?”

“Dammit — For Merlin’s sake —” Lily snatched a mushroom mid-leap and shoved it back into the box.

“Picksie, can you — ow!” James hit his head against the table as he tried to crawl out from under it.

Out from the green flames and into the chaos of the kitchen stepped Albus Dumbledore.

If Dumbledore was surprised to see Neville unconscious on the kitchen floor while the Potters, Sirius, and Picksie scrambled around the kitchen catching Leaping Toadstools, he did not show it. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his blue eyes betrayed only the smallest glimpse of amusement as he said, “It seems I’ve caught you at a bad time.”

Sirius lunged for a Leaping Toadstool that had managed to get on the counter and was making a jump for the open kitchen window. “Could be worse.”

James rubbed at a growing lump on the back of his head. “Can we get you anything to drink?”

Dumbledore’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Even in the darkest of times your hospitality shines bright. I shall do my best not to intrude for too long.”

Harry snatched up the last of the toadstools and stuffed it into the box. Hastily, Lily closed the box flaps and used her wand to seal it. It still rattled as the contents bounced against its walls.

“Those will be fun to chop.” Lily took in a few deep breaths and pulled her hair back. “So sorry about the mess. Harry, are you ready to go?”

Harry got to his feet and dusted the knees of his trousers. “I guess?” He looked to Dumbledore. “What will I need? My wand?”

“It would be unwise to travel without one, yes,” Dumbledore said. Picksie handed him a glass of water. “Ah, thank you.” He took a seat at the kitchen table. “And, Harry, I would advise you to bring along that wonderful cloak of yours. It might come in handy.”

Lily shot a glare at James. “You mean the cloak he wasn’t supposed to inherit until he turned seventeen?”

James grimaced. “Now is probably not the time.”

“If you don’t mind,” Dumbledore said, “I’d like very much for Harry to keep the cloak with him at school. I think it will come in handy while he is at Hogwarts.”

“It has so far,” Harry said, though it was probably not the smartest thing to say in front of his mother, who knew only a fraction of the trouble Harry had gotten into with the cloak, and that alone was enough to make her wish he’d never had it. “But,” he added quickly, “won’t you guys need it?” he turned to Lily and James. “You’re the ones who will be fighting — I’ll be away at school.”

James shook his head, then winced and pressed his hand to the growing knot beneath his hair. “It’s your cloak Harry. You keep it.”

“Besides,” Lily said, “if Dumbledore says you need it, then he’s probably right.”

Dumbledore shrugged. “I have been known to make mistakes.”

Sirius snorted. “Few and far between.”

“Right,” Harry said. “I’ll just get my cloak then.”

Harry hurried upstairs to his bedroom, careful to avoid setting off the alarm on the fourth step. His trunk was half-unpacked. Clothes had been removed, but textbooks, parchment, and quills still lay in the trunk, a chaos born of a hasty packing at the end of the year. It took him a while to rescue the cloak from beneath his stack of Transfiguration textbooks.

With his wand in the back pocket of his jeans and his cloak in his arms, Harry headed back downstairs. Before he reached the kitchen, he found the two escaped Leaping Toadstools trying their best to hop up the china cabinet in the dining room. Harry snatched them just before they leaped out of his reach.

Neville sat at the kitchen table, looking embarrassed but altogether recovered from his fainting fit. Dumbledore sat beside him and politely thanked Picksie as she handed him a glass of mead. James still held the bottle, and was filling three more glasses. He smiled at Harry.

“One more for you?”

Harry grinned back. “Sure.”

Lily frowned and took one of the glasses from James. “You’re still fifteen. No.”

“Only for two more weeks.”

“Then maybe in a year and two weeks you can have one.”

Sirius reached for one of the glasses. “James and I drank plenty of firewhisky when we were fifteen. We turned out just fine.”

Lily pursed her lips, like she might argue this point, then the humor in her eyes sharpened as she watched Dumbledore drink. “What’s happened to your hand?”

Dumbledore’s smile was unusual sheepish as he lifted his right hand. His robes slipped and revealed black, decaying flesh, clinging to a bony hand. Neville gasped loudly and Harry’s stomach turned, more violently than it had during the frog dissection. It reminded Harry quite vividly of a dementor’s bony, undead hand, and he guessed by Lily’s pale face, she too, recalled a warm summer night she and Harry had been ambushed by dementors.

“This,” Dumbledore said, “is the result of one of my mistakes. It is quite alright now, though. Severus has seen to it.”

“Would you like me to take a look?” Sirius asked, in a tone that conveyed exactly what he thought of Severus Snape.

“Thank you, but there is no need,” Dumbledore said.

“That’s got to be quite the story,” James said. “I’d like to know which Death Eater did it.”

“It’s a thrilling tale, truly.” Dumbledore took a sip of his mead, and set the empty glass on the table. “I would love to do it its proper justice, but I’ve no desire to keep Harry any later than I need to. The sooner we depart, the sooner we may return. And, if I recall, it is a fair walk to the Apparition Point outside your property.”

“We never lifted the protection charms after Regulus Black escaped Azkaban,” James said. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need for an apology. I think it was a prescient decision, considering the times that have followed. Well, Harry, shall we?”

Harry hastily finished his tea, though it was nearly hot enough to burn his tongue. “Yep.”

“Bye, Harry,” said Neville.

“Be careful,” said Lily.

“And safe,” added James.

“You’ll be with Dumbledore,” Sirius said. “That’s the safest place to be, really.”

“Thanks.” Harry let Lily give him a kiss on the cheek, and hugged both Sirius and James goodbye, before leaving through the kitchen door.

The summer night air was warm and humid. Harry enjoyed walking through his family’s property. Most of his childhood had been spent running through the groves, picnicking by the lake, or flying a broom across the garden. He’d been able to spend some time with his father, and Neville, working in the garden this past week. He liked learning about the different plants his family grew, though sometimes it felt like James was only teaching him because this might be his last chance to do so. It was hard not to think that each time he carefully pruned back the Roaring Roses or weeded the ground around Weeping Willow that this summer could be the last summer they were all together. In just two months, Harry would return to school and his parents would return to the front lines of a war.

“Thank you, Harry, for indulging me in this errand.”

“Er — of course, Professor.” Harry tried to banish his fears of the war, at least for the moment. Sirius was right — there was no safer place to be than with Dumbledore. “Though I’m afraid I don’t know what exactly we’re doing.”

“I’ll explain in a moment. Firstly, I’d like to ask about your scar. Your parents have told me in their letters that it hasn’t hurt. Is that true?”

Harry was startled to realize that Dumbledore thought Harry might have lied to James and Lily. He supposed there was some basis for that, but the assumption sort of hurt.

“It really hasn’t,” Harry said. “Actually, I thought it would hurt more, you know, if Voldemort is getting more powerful.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Interesting. I imagined quite the opposite. You see, Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you.”

Harry thought of how Voldemort had manipulated that very connection against him last year. It had served Harry and the Order in small ways, and saved Arthur Weasley’s life, but in the end, Voldemort had used it to lure Harry to the Department of Mysteries, where several of Harry’s friends and family had nearly died.

“Well, I’m not complaining.” Harry was grateful for the closed connection, and grateful he would no longer feel unusual jolts of pleasure or anger in his History of Magic class that had nothing to do with goblin revolutions.

“No, I can’t imagine you would. I do believe I owe you an apology. I am afraid I asked too much of you when I had Professor Snape teach you Occlumency.”

Harry flushed with embarrassment. His lessons with Snape had culminated with him accidentally letting Voldemort know that Snape loved Lily. It had led to Snape being tortured mercilessly at Voldemort’s hands in an effort to lure Harry to London. “I know I messed up — I put Snape in danger, and I am sorry, really.”

“Professor Snape told me you apologized to him directly. I imagine that was not an easy thing to do.”

“No. I almost didn’t, but it was my fault in the end. It was my fault he was tortured, my fault my parents got hurt, and my friends almost died, and Remus and Sirius are fighting again —” Harry had not meant to spill his problems onto Dumbledore so suddenly, but he had not felt he could share any of this with his parents or Sirius. His guilt was so tangible it hurt to speak aloud, and apologizing did not make it easier, as he had hoped it might.

“Even great men make mistakes.” There was a weight to Dumbledore’s words that stirred something in Harry, like Dumbledore knew the exact guilt Harry felt right now. “Great men make powerful decisions, and they do not always get it right. Asking for forgiveness can be hard, and giving it to ourselves even harder. It is the good, not the great, who can admit their mistakes and seek reparations.”

Harry, eager to turn the conversation away from such emotional currents, searched for a light-hearted joke to diffuse his guilt.

“That sounds like something Uncle Remus would say.”

A faint smile curled in Dumbledore’s beard. “Where do you think Remus learned it from?” But his smile faded away fairly quickly. “I do not mean to reprimand you for what happened between you and Professor Snape. I only meant to apologize for my own failing. I should have taught you Occlumency directly, but I hoped to keep Voldemort from pursuing you by keeping my distance. It was a mistake, and I hope you can forgive me.”

“Yeah — of course. You couldn’t have known I would look in the Pensieve and mess everything up.”

“You are the child of James and Lily. You possess a tremendous curiosity and a sense of justice stronger than most. Do you not recall what happened when I accidentally left you alone with the Pensieve?”

Harry searched for an excuse or counter argument, but he found none. “I — I guess so. I don’t blame you for my terrible Occlumency lessons, Professor. And I know I made a mistake looking in the Pensieve, but — er, I mean, I really shouldn’t have.”

Dumbledore’s smile was knowing. “Information has its uses, no matter how ill obtained. I will not judge you for using what you have learned.”

“I just mean, I don’t know — I’m glad to know Snape loved my mom. It helps me understand why he and my dad don’t get on, and I know he’s the one who told Voldemort the prophecy in the first place, but if him loving her is what made him turn good, then that love is a good thing, right?”

Dumbledore was quiet for a few paces. His eyes were fixed on the horizon in front of them, and Harry noticed he held his wand in his hand, almost as if he were walking into a duel. Finally, he said, “Love may take many forms. It can destroy us or raise us to new heights. What it does, most of all, is change us, and change the world around us. We decide what that change will be. Professor Snape has allowed his love to do as much damage as good. His love for your mother has made him braver than perhaps even he knew he could be. The work he has done for the Order has been incredibly difficult and incredibly valuable. The tasks ahead of him are even harder. But he has let his love for Lily destroy a relationship he could have with James, or with you, or even with your mother. What I mean to say, Harry, is that love alone will not make you good. It will change us, certainly, because love is wild and uncontrollable, but what we do with it will make all the difference.”

Harry, probably better than most wizards, knew how powerful love could be. Love had saved his life more than once. It had shaped his life in incredible ways. From Peter Pettigrew standing between his family and Voldemort, to his parents, rushing to the Department of Mysteries to save him. His entire life was built on love, and that was what gave him power.

Harry decided to make the conscious effort to let his love for his parents drive him to do better and be better, rather than let guilt tear him away from them.

“That makes a lot of sense,” he said.

“I find that true of my words quite often. Ah — we have arrived, it seems.”

They had, indeed, reached the crumbling stone wall that marked the edge of the Potter’s property.

“It was quite the invigorating walk,” Dumbledore said. “And thank you, Harry, for the stimulating conversation. Now it has come time for the short part of our journey. My left side, if you don’t mind.”

Harry took Dumbledore’s left arm and with a pop they Disapparated.

They reappeared in a small town square, not unlike Stinchcombe, which Harry had visited with his family on several occasions. There were some benches and a statue, a memorial of some sort, but Harry did not have much familiarity with Muggle history to know what it was a memorial to. Dumbledore led Harry past a dark inn and a handful of small houses, out of the town center and into a cluster of homes.

“Where are we?” Harry asked.

“We have Apparated into the charming village of Budleigh Babberton.”

“What’s here? You said it was for Hogwarts business, right?”

“Yes. You see, as it has so often happened, I seem to find myself one staff member short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts.”

“What can I do to help with that?”

“I think all I shall need is for you to be yourself — a shining example of what Hogwarts youths have to offer.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very outstanding student, sir. I’ve had quite a few detentions over the years. You might have wanted to bring Hermione if you wanted a good student.”

Dumbledore searched Harry for a moment, as if checking to see if there was any sincerity in the statement, or if Harry was merely joking. He seemed satisfied with what he saw. “You have your father’s sense of humor, you know. He would have said the same of your mother.”

Harry’s ears burned. “I don’t — I don’t think of Hermione the way my parents —”

This time, Dumbledore actually laughed. “I did not mean to suggest so. I apologize for your discomfort. If I —”

As they rounded a corner, Dumbledore stopped suddenly. Harry nearly stumbled into him, but fell into the gate around the nearest house instead.

“Er — Professor —”

“Wands out, Harry. Follow closely, please.”

Harry looked up and saw what had Dumbledore so spooked. The house they had stopped in front of had clearly been broken into. The door hung off its hinges, and broken glass littered the garden beneath the windows, glittering off the light of the waning moon.

Harry stayed on Dumbledore’s heels as Dumbledore led him up the footpath and into the front door. The house was dark, until Dumbledore lit his wand, casting a pale light around them. The destruction evident outside was just as clear inside.

The grandfather clock in the hallway had fallen over and shattered. Harry stepped over the cracked clock face and followed Dumbledore into the sitting room. A piano had been scattered across the floor; its ivory pieces littered the torn carpet like scraps of parchment. Glass shards glinted in Dumbledore’s wand light. Some of the pieces must have belonged to dishware, but a lot of it seemed to have come from the chandelier that had fallen from the ceiling. Harry looked up to the golden chain still dangling above them and caught sight of thick, dark liquid splashed high on the walls.

Harry gulped.

“Not pretty, is it?” Dumbledore stepped around the chandelier and examined a couch that had been split in two. “Yes, it certainly looks as if something horrible has happened here.”

“Maybe there was a fight?” Harry suggested. “And they dragged him off?” He tried not to think that Dumbledore’s friend might be dead. There was no body, so surely he was alive somewhere.

“I don’t think so.” Dumbledore had moved on from the couch and was now looking at an overturned armchair.

“You mean he’s —?”

“Still here somewhere? Yes.” Dumbledore plunged his wand into the seat of the well-stuffed chair.

“Ouch!” said the chair.

“Good evening, Horace.” Dumbledore stepped back as the chair vanished. It was replaced by a large, bald old man with a thick mustache that reminded Harry of a walrus. He was as stuffed, if not perhaps more stuffed, than the armchair. He rubbed his round stomach and cast an irritated glance at Dumbledore.

“There was no need to stick the wand in that hard,” he grunted. “It hurt.” He adjusted the tie of his thick velvet robe. “What gave me away?” He looked more irritated than embarrassed to have been caught.

“My dear Horace, if the Death Eaters really had come to call, the Dark Mark would have been set over the house.”

The wizard grunted again. “Knew there was something… ah well. Wouldn’t have had time anyway. I’d only just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you entered the room.”

“Would you like my assistance cleaning up?”

“Please.” As he let out a heavy sigh, his large mustache flopped around his face, reminding Harry of a horse or even Hagrid’s very large dog, Fang.

Together, Dumbledore and the man waved their wands. The piano put itself back together, the chandelier returned to the ceiling, and the furniture snapped back to its rightful place. Harry turned and watched the grandfather clock pick itself back up. Rips in curtains, tears in carpet, and cracks in wood stitched themselves back together. The blood on the wall vanished.

“What kind of blood was that, incidentally?” Dumbledore asked.

“On the walls? Dragon. My last bottle, and prices are sky-high at the moment. Still, it might be reusable.” He waved his wand one more time and summoned a tiny bottle. The crystal stopper refracted Dumbledore’s wandlight into tiny rainbows across the ceiling and walls where the blood and just been. The dragonblood moved slowly as he stirred it. “Hm. Bit dusty.” As he set the bottle down, he realized that Dumbledore was not alone. His irritation cleared into wonder, and then sheer excitement as his eyes landed on Harry’s forehead.

Harry was familiar with people staring at the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. Their reactions ranged, but wonder and excitement were common. It always made Harry uncomfortable, because he’d never felt like he’d done anything impressive. He’d been an infant when Voldemort gave him that scar. It was his parents and Peter Pettigrew who had done the impressive part.

But Harry had never seen anyone react to his scar with the excitement that this man had. This man was thrilled the way Harry had been thrilled to see a Firebolt in a shop window. This man coveted Harry’s scar. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to another, wishing he could walk away.

Dumbledore, as if he sensed Harry’s discomfort, placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder and squeezed it gently, not unlike Lily or James would do when introducing Harry to someone who was more entranced by the scar than the young man it was attached to.

“This,” Dumbledore said, “is Harry Potter. Harry, this is an old friend and colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn.”

Slughorn’s excitement returned to the sulky petulance Harry had seen on him since they’d began this conversation and he glared at Dumbledore. “So that’s how you thought you’d persuade me, is it? Well, the answer’s no, Albus.”

Now, as he took the crystal bottle of dragon’s blood and returned it to a large trunk, he looked like he was trying very hard to restrain himself. Harry remembered that feeling, knowing he shouldn’t ask for a Firebolt but wanting it anyway. He didn’t understand what it was Horace Slughorn wanted, though.

“I suppose we can have a drink, at least?” Dumbledore asked. “For old time’s sake?”

Slughorn grumbled and closed the trunk. “Alright, one drink.”

Slughorn turned on a tableside oil lamp and Dumbledore lit a fire in the fireplace. He motioned for Harry to take a seat by the fire, and Harry could not help but feel that he was on display. He was the Firebolt in this scenario. Harry now understood why Dumbledore had brought him over Hermione. Hermione was a good student, but Harry was legendary. He didn’t know why that appealed to Slughorn, but it clearly did.

Slughorn poured a honey-colored liquor from a decanter into three crystal glasses. He handed Harry his quickly, like he was afraid to get too close, and once he had given Dumbledore a glass, he sank into the very plush sofa. He took up quite a bit of it, and his short legs did not even reach the floor.

Harry looked at the glass, remembering how only hours earlier his mother had refused to let him drink mead. A combination of a rebellious spirit and simple curiosity encouraged Harry to take a sip. He tried very hard to keep his face still as it burned, and he wondered if this was a glass of Firewhisky or if all alcohol burned this way. He’d tried his mother’s wine once, and he hadn’t cared for that, either. Once the burning cleared, though, he was left with a sweet aftertaste. Wine certainly hadn’t done that. Harry took another sip.

“How have you been keeping, Horace?” asked Dumbledore.

Slughorn grunted. “Not so well. Weak chest. Wheezy. Rheumatism, too. Can’t move like I used to. Well, that’s to be expected. Old age. Fatigue.”

Harry got the sense that Slughorn liked to complain.

“And yet,” Dumbledore said, “you must have moved fairly quickly to prepare such a welcome for us at such short notice. You can’t have had more than three minutes’ warning?”

He continued his complaint, but he looked impressed with himself at Dumbledore’s praise. “Two. Didn’t hear my Intruder Charm go off. I was taking a bath. Still — the fact remains I’m an old man, Albus. A tired old man who’s earned the right to a quiet life and a few creature comforts.”

Comfort, indeed, this house had. Plush chairs, a wide variety of liquor in crystal decanters, books stacked on tables, plush pillows, his velvet bathrobe and the silk pajamas peeking out from beneath it — Slughorn indulged himself without hesitation.

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace.”

“Maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself.” Slughorn took another sip of his glass and his eyes fell on Dumbledore’s blackened hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right.” Dumbledore shook back his sleeve and revealed the damage quite plainly. “I am undoubtedly slower than I was. But, on the other hand….” Dumbledore spread his hands, as if to say that the benefits of his age spoke for themselves. As he swept his uninjured hand towards the fire, Harry noticed Dumbledore wore an unusual ring. The gold band appeared unrefined, as if it had been made by an amateur, and the large black stone set in the band was cracked down the middle. Scratches had been etched in the stone, as if perhaps it had taken several attempts to break through it.

Harry was not the only one who lingered on this ring. He saw that Slughorn was staring very intensely at it, too. Harry got the impression that Slughorn, though a seemingly fussy old man who liked to indulge himself, was incredibly shrewd and observant.

“All these precautions against intruders, Horace,” Dumbledore said, settling his hands on the armrests of his chair once more, “are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit or mine?”

Slughorn tore his eyes away from the ring. “What would the Death Eaters want with a poor, broken-down old buffer like me?”

“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder. Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”

“Haven’t given them the chance,” Slughorn grumbled. “I’ve been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Muggle house to Muggle house — the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very pleasant. I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how. One simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneakoscope and make sure the neighbors don’t spot you bringing in the piano.”

“Ingenious, but it sounds rather tiring for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. But if you were to return to Hogwarts —”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would have been more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days —”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of the centaur herd. I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a crowd of angry centaurs, ‘filthy half-breeds.’”

“That’s what she did, did she? Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”

Harry could not help but laugh. When Dumbledore and Slughorn looked at him, Harry buried his face in his glass. “Sorry —” he coughed when the drink burned “— but I never liked her either.”

Dumbledore stood. “Horace, might I use your bathroom?”

Slughorn looked disappointed Dumbledore had not stood up to leave. “Second on the left, down the hall.”

As Dumbledore left, Slughorn’s gaze fell on Harry. He seemed to take him in for the first time, not simply the scar and his name, and all that came with it, but to truly look at Harry.

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you.”

Harry, who could not deny Dumbledore’s intentions, was unsure what to say.

“You look very like your father.”

Harry smiled. “Yeah — I’ve heard that.”

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got your mother’s eyes.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“How are James and Lily these days?”

“They’re good.” Harry wasn’t sure if he should mention his father had lost an eye and his mother still limited her diet to the most bland of foods.

Slughorn stood and approached the fire, warming first his hands, then turned to warm his behind. “You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine — Lily, I mean. She was Lily Evans then. One of the brightest I’ve ever taught. Vivacious, charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back, too.”

Harry, whose mother had spent his last five years of school admonishing him to treat his teachers more respectfully, was surprised to learn this. He felt he didn’t need to ask, but he did anyway. “Which was your House?”

“I was Head of Slythern. Oh, now, don’t you go holding that against me. You’ll be like her, I suppose? Gryffindor? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always. Sirius Black, you’ll know, your father’s good friend. His whole family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

Harry knew Sirius and Regulus had gone to opposing houses, but it felt strange to hear a teacher speak so highly of Sirius. Most criticized Sirius’s trouble-making when they talked about Sirius as a student. Slughorn seemed more interested in Sirius’s family and talents than his qualities as a student.

“Your mother, though, excellent witch. Absolutely brilliant. Couldn’t believe she was Muggle-born. I’d thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so talented.”

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born. She’s the best in our year.”

“Funny how that happens sometimes, isn’t it?”

Harry was beginning to like Slughorn less and less and learning he preferred Blacks to Muggle-borns was the last straw. “Not really.”

“Oh —” Slughorn looked surprised by Harry’s tone. “You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced! No, no, no! Haven’t I just said Lily was one of my all time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her, too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!” Slughorn gestured to the piano. Now that it was repaired, it was covered in photographs of people smiling and waving. Slughorn walked over and Harry, unsure what else to do, got up and followed.

“All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Baranbas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And Ambrosius Flume, of Honydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkiss, who gave him his first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies…. People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

Harry listened politely. He did find each of these people impressive in their own way, but it was strange to hear the thrill in Slughorn’s voice as he talked about each of them. He seemed proud of their accomplishments, but he seemed more proud of his connections to accomplished people than having much interest in the people themselves.

“And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” Harry asked. If the Death Eaters had not been able to track Slughorn down, Harry wondered that Gwenog Jones knew where to send tickets.

Slughorn’s excitement faded. “Of course not. I’ve been out of touch with everybody for a year.” He stroked his thick mustache, considering his own words. After a moment, he shrugged. “The prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hogwarts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate —”

Harry could not keep his irritation out of his voice. “You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts.” His parents and their friends had put themselves at risk not just once, but twice to fight against Voldemort and keep Harry safe. Harry was counting down the days until he could join himself. He had no patience for this man who hid in comfort. “Most of the teacher’s aren’t even in it, and no teacher’s ever been killed — except Quirrell, but he had Voldemort’s soul attached to him.”

Slughorn went very pale and grunted in protest at Harry’s use of the Voldemort’s name. Harry did not care.

“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumbledore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?”

Slughorn’s hand trembled as he stroked his mustache. He still seemed very shaken by Harry’s blunt use of Voldemort’s name, but he did ponder Harry’s words. “It is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore. I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Eaters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me as a friend… in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus. I cannot pretend that the attack on Amelia Bones did not shake me. If even she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection….”

Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Amelia Bones was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. There really could not have been a better duelist. Her attack had nothing to do with Ministry connections and everything to do with Voldemort’s cruelty. But before he could open his mouth and criticize Slughorn further, Dumbledore returned.

“Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Harry eagerly started for the door.

Slughorn, strangely, looked disappointed. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“Lost…?”

Dumbledore retrieved his traveling coat from the chair he had been sitting in and fastened it over his shoulders. “I am sorry you don’t want the job, Horace. Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”

“Yes, well — very gracious… as I say….”

“Good-bye then.”

Harry followed Dumbledore to the door, but as Dumbledore’s hand closed around the handle, Slughorn shouted after them.

“Alright, alright, I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore turned, eyebrows raised. “You will come out of retirement?”

“Yes, yes. I must be mad, but yes.”

“Wonderful! Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will.”

Harry could not decide if he was particularly happy Dumbledore’s errand had succeeded. Though Harry had had a variety of Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, he could not picture Slughorn among them. If anything, he was a bit like Gilderoy Lockhart, who was little more than a fraud, so Lily had replaced him. Harry wondered if he could convince his dad or Sirius to take over for Slughorn.

Just as Harry and Dumbledore reached the garden gate, Slughorn shouted again, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore laughed and led Harry back through the quaint village of Budleigh Babberton. Once they had Apparated back to the edge of Styncon Garden, Dumbledore said, “Well done, Harry.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Oh, you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

“Er.” Harry was afraid to criticize Dumbledore’s friend. Luckily, Dumbledore did not press him.

“Horace likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin Liaison Office. I tell you all this not to turn you against Horace — or as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who Lived’ or, as they are calling you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’”

Harry frowned. “Mum and Dad hate that title.”

“You can see why I was hesitant to share with them the details of the errand. Your parents have worked very hard to protect you from people like Slughorn. People who would use you, seek to influence you, simply for their own gain.”

“Not that it matters much now.” Harry kicked at a rock in the dirt path as they walked back to the house. “Every wizard knows what I am —”

“No, Harry. Firstly, your mother would be rightly cross with me if I did not remind you that what you are is very different from who you are, and one of those things matters far more than the other. Do you understand?”

Harry nodded, but knowing something was true and feeling it was true were very different things.

“Secondly, the full contents of the prophecy are known only to those whom I have told and you have told.”

“I haven’t told anyone.”

“And wisely so, I should think. What I mean to say, I told your parents and your godfather of the prophecy and they have told you. That is the full extent of how far the prophecy has traveled. What the rest of the world may speculate is only that — speculation.”

“My parents told Uncle Remus.”

Dumbledore did not look surprised to learn this, but he did look thoughtful. “Your parents are brave and exceptionally strong. They have borne this burden for quite some time. It is not an easy thing to be told your unborn child must kill or be killed.”

Harry swallowed down a lump in his throat.

“But your parents have not carried these burdens alone. They have trusted their friends. They have shared their fears during these past years not only with myself, but with Lupin and Sirius as well. I have just said it was wise of you to keep the prophecy and its contents to yourself. It would be remiss to share it haphazardly, and increase the likelihood that the full contents reach the ears of Voldemort. However, like your parents, I recommend you find people you can trust. You cannot bear this burden alone, no matter how brave or strong you are.”

“You mean I should tell Ron, Hermione, and Neville?”

“I simply mean you should rely on friends of your own. As your parents have relied on Lupin and Sirius, you should choose your own support. Only you can decide who that will be. It could even be your parents, and you share the prophecy with no one else. Though, am I right to suspect you have not confided your own concerns about it in them?”

“I — I’m not concerned about the prophecy….”

“Harry, much like your father, you are a supremely terrible liar.”

“I just mean — I talked with Firenze about prophecies last year, before I even knew what the prophecy really was. And what he said made sense — they’re kind of inevitable not just because they were said, but because they just are. I know I’d fight against Voldemort whether it had been prophesied or not. He’s evil, and he hurts people, and I know I wouldn’t do nothing, even if there wasn’t a prophecy. I want to fight, not just because of what he’s done to my family but because he keeps hurting people. Chosen One or not, I want to fight.”

Dumbledore allowed Harry a moment of silence as they walked before prompting, “But?”

“I — I don’t know. It’s like you said, kill or be killed — that’s hard. I don’t want to kill someone, even if it is Voldemort. But I don’t want him to kill me. And I don’t want him to kill people I care about as he tries to kill me. You said I need to rely on people, but maybe it’d be better if I didn’t. Maybe if I just went after Voldemort alone…. Mum and Dad would probably kill me first if I tried that.” Harry laughed, If he had learned anything from his parents, it was that humor could diffuse just about any tension.

Dumbledore’s face, however, remained solemn. “There is no shame in admitting to being frightened. We are brave where we need to be, and it is alright to be afraid when we cannot be brave. It is alright to ask someone to lend us bravery. Your parents love each other dearly, of course, but I believe one of their greatest strengths is the way they lend bravery to each other. You, Harry, need someone you can ask for bravery.”

Harry remembered the few times he had seen his parents’ bravery fail them. Lily, when she had desperately tried to protect Harry from Tom Riddle’s diary, and collapsed against James when it was all over. Or when she had faced a dementor alone for the first time, weighed down with all the fears of Voldemort’s return. James, too, had broken more than once. His brief time in Azkaban, being brave for Remus, had left him shattered. Then, learning that Voldemort had taken and tortured Harry in a graveyard, and having to sit with Harry, alone, while Harry recounted the horrors he and Cedric had faced — James had comforted Harry, but Harry had seen the fear in James’s face, the panic that had not faded until Lily joined him again.

Harry did not have anyone in his life that he trusted the way his parents trusted each other. He had not really considered this a problem. But he remembered how quick Hermione, Ron, and Neville had been to join him in his quest to the Ministry. Ginny, Luna, Cedric, Amber, and Pearl, too, had refused to let him fight alone. Having them with him had made Harry feel brave.

“On a different subject,” Dumbledore said, after a lengthy silence, “it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this coming year.”

Harry looked up at Dumbledore in surprise. “Private — like Occlumency?”

“We will not be doing much Occlumency, as I’m sure you will not be terribly upset by.”

“No, not really. What will we be doing?”

“A little of this, a little of that. I should ask two things of you, though, before we part.”

The house had just come into view, with the kitchen light still on. Harry wondered who was sitting awake at the table, waiting for his safe return. It could have been anyone in his family. He hoped it wasn’t everyone.

Dumbledore slowed his pace and Harry struggled to fall back into step alongside him.

“Firstly, Harry, I do not wish to ask you to keep secrets from your parents. I know the trust you have with them has been hard-earned. I would not ask you to break it. I should warn you, however, they may not be over-pleased by these lessons. You have already mentioned your parents’ distaste at the idea of you as ‘The Chosen One.’ They may not take kindly to the idea that I am providing you with a unique education.”

“Do you mean you’re going to teach me to fight Voldemort?”

“I only mean to ask that you use your best discretion when you speak to your parents about our lessons. I should not like to receive any Howlers from your mother this year.”

“Have you received Howlers from her before?”

“Twice. And secondly, I wish for you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all times from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent.” Dumbledore resumed the brisk pace they had begun their journey with and walked Harry to the door of his home.