#i like to print out all the information; go through it; rehearse some questions; drink a nice cup of tea; meditate; panic….

[fingertipsmp3]

Had to reschedule my online interview and now I’m nervous lol

[theotherackerman]

My Mind Turns Your Life Into Folklore

My Mind Turns Your Life Into Folklore

COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: Any recognizable elements belong to Attack on Titan.

NOTES:

Saturday, January 16th

chapter seventeen: taught me some hard lessons

Levi had always held a certain disdain for the Reiss family.

They were not the only ones in town with money.

In fact, Levi was sure, as the only living male Ackerman, he currently had more than the Reiss family.

Unlike the Reiss family who had dropped all their money into a company, the Ackermans had invested.

How many bank accounts were out there in his name?

Not to mention the money from Kenny alone for doing all of Rod’s dirty work.

Levi hated the Reiss family.

He blamed Fritz Pharmaceuticals for his mother’s death, blamed Kenny too.

How had Kenny work for a company that made medicine and let his own little sister die?

Levi had been eleven when he had come to live with Kenny, when Kuchel died.

That began his down spiral.

Because why had his mother who had done nothing but good have to die?

Why did she have to suffer with kidney failure and liver failure?

Why was he so fucking powerless to watch her in a hospital bed while machines beeped?

Why didn’t Kenny save her?

If Uri was so good of a boss, why didn’t Kenny just ask him to fix it?

Why did none of this matter?

Levi was angry.

That anger fueled Levi for a very long time.

He created his path.

He’d get into fights.

He’d get suspended.

He’d ended up in a jail a few times.

No one dared to expel or press charges against  him. He was Kenny Ackerman’s ward. One didn’t mess with Kenny unless you wanted a very unpleasant visit.

A lawyer.

What a joke that was.

Sure, Kenny had the degree and on paper he was Fritz Pharmaceuticals' lead member of their legal team.

But everyone knew the truth.

If money couldn’t buy silence, Kenny had other ways of persuading someone.

Eventually, Levi’s hate for the company sizzled. He had joined the military, leaving those feelings behind.

Or so he thought.

Levi stood on the balcony outside his room in the cold night air. He hadn’t been able to sleep despite trying over and over.

He had seen how Mikasa had been.

He knew Mikasa would never say how much it bothered her to lose her songs. He knew she would pretend like it didn’t because her love for Historia outweighed her love for her music.

Mikasa reminded him of his mother.

That undying love of other people.

Maybe that’s why he loved Mikasa so much. That kid had changed everything for him. It would never be enough that when he left this world, he’d be leaving her all of the Ackerman fortune.

Some things she didn’t even know about like the money she’d get when she’d turn twenty five or when she got married. How much he had squirreled away into accounts, stocks, and bonds all in her name. He didn’t want her to have to worry about money or anything else ever in her life.

Sure, Levi could set up an anonymous buyer and try to buy the songs back. It would be awfully suspicious though. He knew out of spite Rod wouldn’t sell.

Besides, someone needed to teach that man a lesson. Levi walked back into his room and closed the doors to the balcony.

Sawney and Bean were sound asleep on his king size bed.

Levi sighed as he walked over to the wall that held a large painting that his mother had painted.

He pulled it down, a safe behind it. He put in the code.

Inside, sat the box that Eren had sent Mikasa along with the letter Levi had found on the floor.

Along with it sat several thick file folders. Levi pinched his nose before he sighed again.

This was going to open a can of worms that could not be shut back.

He flipped through the folders until he found the one he was looking for.

D.F. was written in Kenny’s handwriting.

He flipped through the folder even though he knew the contents.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. He tossed the folder back into the safe and closed the safe.

He gently hung his mother’s painting back on the wall to cover it.

Was he doing the right thing?

He always told Mikasa to do the thing she regretted least.

Maybe he should take his own advice.

He pulled his phone out and made a call. He wasn’t expecting the other person to answer so it did not surprise him when they did.

“You said to give you a call if I had any information on your mom. Well, I do. I don't know what your plan is exactly but I’m in. You’re going to ask what’s changed because you’ve always got to prod into my brain. It’s simple. He fucked with my kids.”

Levi simply ended the call after that.

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

Sasha had woken the entire house up.

“I made pancakes!” She called and suddenly the kitchen was swarmed with people. Levi had already been sitting at the table with Sawney and Bean. Sasha brought two tiny plates over for the dogs that had tiny pancakes on them. The dogs quickly gobbled them up.

“Sasha, have I ever told you how much I love you?” Ymir asked before taking another bite of her pancake.

“Rarely,” Sasha snorted.

“Well, I love you or maybe I just love you’re cooking.”

“Way to ruin the moment, Ymir.”

Mikasa placed a cup of peppermint tea in front of Annie.

“Thank you,” Annie said before taking a drink.

Mikasa shrugged, “sure.”

Sasha was still busy flipping pancakes.

“Hey, when that’s finished, just bring it over to my plate over here,” Ymir laughed.

There was a knock on the door.

“I swear if that’s another letter…” Levi said before standing up.

They heard the door open and a very familiar voice filled the house.

“And that’s how my key broke,” Hange said as they entered the kitchen.

“We’ll get another copy today,” Levi sighed as he sunk down into his chair.

Sawney and Bean immediately began running and jumping around Hange’s legs.

“I missed you two! Have you been good?” Hange asked as they kneeled down and petted both of them.

“Hey Hange, did you hear what Dad got us?” Ymir smirked.

“I’m not your father,” Levi mumbled.

“The recording equipment? I did. Thanks for finding those bugs. They will be great for my entomology class,” Hange said before sitting at the table.

“You want any pancakes, Hange? There’s plenty,” Sasha asked as she put more down on Ymir’s plate.

“Sure! Thank you, Sasha,” Hange said as they sat down on the other side of Levi.

Sawney and Bean began chasing each other through the house.

“Were any of those bugs...you know…..alive?” Ymir grimaced.

“Oh no! They are specimen jars. Not alive at all. Very useful in class. Armin isn’t even in that class this year but I couldn’t pass up on showing him the pictures Levi sent me. He found them just as interesting as I did.”

“Wish you would have been here when we found them,” Ymir muttered before eating.

“If you find any more, let me know,” Hange smiled before Sasha sat down a fresh plate of pancakes down in front of Hange. “Thank you, Sasha,” Hange smiled.

“With Kenny, that’s possible,” Levi muttered.

“I thought you said you got rid of all of them!” Ymir exclaimed.

“I did and then you found more,” Levi replied before he took a drink of coffee.

Ymir groaned.

There was another knock on the door. Levi sighed as he got up.

“Sorry,” Armin said as he came into the house.

“Armin!” The group in the kitchen shouted.

The removing of shoes could be heard before Armin appeared in the kitchen.

“Hi, sorry. I had to talk to Moblit. We’re corradating so I can be Hange’s assistant starting this summer,” Armin said as he sat down on the other side of Hange. “Means more money for the baby,” he smiled at Annie.

“Yeah?” Annie beamed at him.

“And I’m staying until Monday afternoon so I can go to the doctor with you on Monday.”

“Good, then you can move what little shit you have left here into Annie’s room,” Levi remarked.

“Why?” Armin asked, confused.

“We’re gonna need room.”

“For what?” Mikasa asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe the baby that’s coming. Plus, if I’m hiring contracts in here to put up walls in the basement, I might as well have them paint the baby room ahead of time.”

Annie was not a very touchy person sometimes.

She didn’t like public displays of affection.

However, this one time, she stood up from her chair and ran over to Levi. She hugged him and Levi just froze.

He finally patted her on the back.

She let go and returned to her seat.

“Thank you,” Annie mumbled as she sat down.

Levi waved his hand in the air, “anyway, they'll need soundproof down in the basement too. This recording equipment picks up everything so once you all get it cleaned out, I’ll give them a call.”

“Quick question, who is going to run the recording stuff?” Ymir asked.

“Me,” Levi replied before taking another drink of coffee.

“Yes!” Sasha yelled. “We finally got Levi to do something with us!”

“Hange, did you see the selfie he took with us last night?” Historia asked as she picked up her phone.

Levi groaned.

“I didn’t!”

Historia held the phone up and Hange’s smile grew.

“That’s such a great photo! Why aren’t you smiling? We should print it out and hang it over the fireplace!”

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

Over an hour away, Zeke Jaeger’s house was having a very difficult morning.

Practice for The Restorationists had not been going very well as of late.

Floch had always been one to cause conflict.

I n fact, Zeke wasn’t sure why Eren had asked Floch to be in the band. He wasn’t an extraordinary bassist. He was just okay. Half the time Floch picked fights with Niccolo and Floch only listened to Zeke half the time.

Today was a very important rehearsal for The Restorationists. This was a song that was very important to Eren.

However, Floch seemed to be six notes a head of everyone else.

Niccolo was losing his patience and Eren couldn’t blame him.

“You’re way too fast on that part,” Niccolo said before throwing his drumstick at Floch.

“Ow! Stop throwing those things at me!” Floch picked up the drumstick and threw it back at Niccolo.

“Then play on beat!”

“How about you keep a steady beat?”

“How about you suck my…”

“STOP IT!” Zeke yelled. He had become fed up with the fighting. He felt like he was dealing with preschoolers. It was supposed to be a relaxing hobby with his brother but right now, it was making Zeke want to pull his hair out. Eren looked up at the ceiling of Zeke’s living room. This was getting old.

“You two need to get your shit together. Floch, Niccolo is right. You’re too fast. Niccolo, don’t throw your drumsticks at Floch. Throw the cymbal next time,” Zeke said.

Niccolo laughed.

“Not cool, Zeke,” Floch responded.

“You know Pieck can play bass too,” Zeke suggested before he took off his guitar and sat it down on the stand.

“You’re going to replace me with Pieck? Really? After all we’ve been through?”

“Stop whining,” Eren finally spoke up. “It’s getting old. Practice outside of our practices. Besides, this song isn’t about you, Floch.”

“Oh no, right. It’s about Mikasa. Like every other fucking song we play is about her. What’s so magical about her? Sex that good? She got a golden…”

Floch didn’t get to continue as Eren punched Floch right in the jaw.

“Don’t you ever talk about her like that again!” Eren yelled as he pinned Floch to the ground.

Zeke grabbed Eren by the waist and pulled him off of Floch.

Floch thought this was a good idea to take a sucker punch at Eren.

Zeke let Eren go but before either Eren or Zeke could do anything, Niccolo gave Floch a swift kick to the groin.

Floch fell to the ground.

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” Niccolo smirked.

“When you can stand, get the fuck out of my house and don’t come back,” Zeke ordered. “I’ll get you something for your face, Eren.”

Zeke disappeared into the kitchen. He reappeared with an ice pack for Eren’s face.

Eren and Zeke sat on the large couch that had originally been in Grisha’s basement. Niccolo sat down on the loveseat across from it.

Floch stayed on the floor for a bit before he got up. He angrily put his bass into the case and then stormed out of the house. He slammed the door behind him.

“He did not just slam my door,” Zeke said as he stood up from the couch. He walked over to the front door. “Hey asshole! This door costed more than you fucking car! Don’t slam shit that’s not yours! You could have broken the glass in it!”

“It’s probably good that your brother lives in the middle of nowhere.” Zeke heard Niccolo say as he went out the door.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Eren replied as Zeke closed the door.

Floch scrambled to his car.

"You are out of the band, you fucker!" Zeke screamed at Floch.

Floch got in his car and drove away.

Zeke sighed as he pulled his cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket.

Just as he had lit the cigarette, his phone began to go off.

PIECK FINGER showed up on the scene. Zeke sighed again as he answered.

“How is your morning going? Because I just had a brawl in my living room,” Zeke replied.

“Not nearly that exciting. What happened?” Pieck’s voice rang out.

“Floch was being a fucking asshole. Eren punched him, then I stopped him from really hurting Floch. Then Floch sucker punched him so Niccolo kicked him in the groin. Then the bastard had the nerve to slam my front door. I could have fucking killed him.”

“There is a lake outside your house...but it might be suspicious.”

“So I have no bassist currently.”

“I don’t know why you didn’t just ask me to begin with.”

“Because you are always busy. Between the galas and your photography. Not to mention the art commissions you have been recently taking on.”

“Can we not talk about galas right now?”

“Why? Did you not meet your latest lover at one?”

“Ugh! Do not call him that.”

“You still owe me details about how that whole situation came to be. Oh. I got a voicemail from Levi this morning. It was about my mother. I am heading over there to pick up the information.”

“What? I thought he said he didn’t have any.”

“I knew he did. There was no way Kenny Ackerman would not have information on my mother.”

“Let me know what you find out.”

“I will. I will call you when I get back.”

“Okay. Talk to you then,” Pieck replied before she hung up.

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

Eren removed the ice pack from his face. “How bad is it?”

“Nothing too bad. Just red. Does it hurt?”

Eren shook his head, “I’ve had a lot worse but I’m not going to argue with Zeke about putting ice on it.”

“Yeah, I won’t either,” Niccolo laughed.

Zeke calmly reentered the house and shut the door behind him.

“So do we have a body to hide now?” Eren asked.

“No, I just kicked him out of the band. He was shit anyway. Then I smoked as I talked to Pieck. I have to go to Levi’s today. You’re coming with me,” Zeke said before he grabbed his coat off of the coat rack.

“Why do you have to see Levi?” Eren was confused. He didn’t even know Zeke and Levi ever really talked.

“Stuff,” was all Zeke replied.

“Can I tag along too? Sasha lives there too and we haven’t got to hang out much,” Niccolo asked.

“Sure,” Zeke shrugged.

“Okay, but what stuff?” Eren asked as he stood up and grabbed his coat off of the rack.

“I’ll explain once we get there,” Zeke replied as he walked back towards the front door.

Eren looked over at Niccolo who just shrugged as Niccolo grabbed his coat.

They made their way over to Zeke’s car before heading off in the direction towards Levi’s house.

[sandpapersnowman]

@mobius-loop​ (!!! how are u!!!) i honestly feel like i wouldn’t be able to do the league of villains justice but aizawa and all might on a teacher appreciation day sounded good as h e l l. this ended up unreal long so it has to be mostly under a readmore

it starts with aizawa’s teacher appreciation day gift, but all might’s is the second half of the fic!

ao3 link

They’d started having teacher appreciation days a few years back; it’s good for morale as finals creep closer, and it serves as a fun distraction and a chance for students to get to know their teachers a little better. After all, they’ll be working alongside them as heroes in a few years’ time.

They have some reviews scheduled for teacher appreciation day, but Iida and Yaoyorozu had come forward the week before and asked if they could put aside a few minutes toward the end of their class to give him a gift. He’d been surprised; he figured with everything that’s been going on and all the turmoil of beginning high school, and in such an intensive hero course, they weren’t planning on doing anything.

He’d agreed, of course, which brings them all to now, huddled around his desk with just under ten minutes left in class.

“We all voted on what it,” Iida explains. “We wanted to combine praise for your abilities as a teacher and a hero, as well as sprinkle in a little humor so it wouldn’t come off too formally.”

“Kiss-ass,” Kirishima fake-coughs, but the rest of the class laughs with him, Iida included.

“You’ve taught us a lot,” Midoriya continues. “As a teacher and as a pro hero we all look up to.”

Something tightens in his chest at that; look up to, huh?

Iida removes the class gift from behind his back and holds it out to their teacher.

It’s wrapped in a plain yellow paper, the true shape of whatever it is obscured by the packaging, but the weight in his hand is familiar, and he has to hold back a small smile.

Aizawa’s amassed a collection of mugs over the years from his students. They’re a good staple, and he’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy being able to put off doing his dishes another day for every cat-themed novelty mug he has, plus every one he has proclaiming he’s the #1 Teacher or with a joke about needing coffee in the morning.

“Thank you,” he says, thumbing at the tape keeping the whole thing sealed. “May I open it?”

The whole class makes a chorus of affirmative noises, all apparently excited for him to receive it. It sounds like they had it custom made, so it’ll probably be something more personal than previous years, but he’s not sure if any of them actually know enough about him to make it something personal.

There’s a small card taped to the top, so he opens that first.

Sensei,

We all want to thank you for your dedication to our class and to us individually as students and as future heroes. We look forward to continuing to learn from the best for the rest of the year.

Happy Teacher Appreciation Day!

He wonders which of them wrote it, considering how extraordinarily formal it sounds and how neat the writing is.

“Iida composed it and I wrote it out,” Yaoyorozu points out.

“We decided she has the best handwriting out of all of us,” Jirou nods, and Aizawa mentally agrees. None of them write terribly sloppily, but Yaoyorozu has such a neat, composed script that it’s always something of a relief when he realizes her homework is next to grade.

He puts the card gently on his desk, propped up so the multicolored ‘From Class 1-A’ on the cover points out toward the room.

He continues to unwrap the gift carefully, flashing back to one year where it had been taped and folded in odd places and he’d dropped it, but successfully wrangles this one out of the mass of tissue paper and ribbons.

“We tried to wrap it pretty nicely but still cute,” Uraraka points out, apparently the one behind the awkward (but cute) bow scrunching all the paper around the middle.

“I see,” he humors her, carefully untying the bow so it doesn’t rip or crinkle.

The top of the mug reveals itself first, and it surprises a laugh out of him. There’s three gel packs stuffed inside, each in a different flavor, and there’s scattered laughter as he pulls them out and examines them.

As often as he replaces his meals with these, he thinks he’ll probably save these for a special occasion. Keep them in his office until the written portion of finals need to be graded, and live on them as motivation reminding him his students are worth it to sit through the same test 20 times.

“Thank you,” he says, out to all of them, and sets the packs on his desk.

Kirishima and Tokoyami both chirp out ‘you’re welcome!’ from somewhere behind the front wall of students.

“It was their idea,” Tsu informs him with a smile. “I don’t think the rest of us wanted to encourage you, though.”

He snorts at that, wondering if Hizashi had told them to give him shit about the protein packs if they saw him with one, but does still appreciate the thought.

They all look excited as he moves on to the mug itself, pulling paper away to reveal something printed on it. As the majority of the paper peels back, he realizes it’s their most recent staff picture; every instructor and professional working at UA, most either smiling or goofing around with their coworkers, wrapped around the front of the mug.

“It says something, too,” Todoroki pipes up. “On the bottom.”

Aizawa scans the blank edge under the picture, but doesn’t see anything.

“On the bottom bottom,” Kaminari clarifies. “Under it.”

Aizawa gives them all a questioning glance, but slowly turns the mug so he can check the underside.

And sure enough.

On the bottom of the mug, only visible at an angle tipped up to drink from, is a simple sentence in bold font.

I’d rather be having a cat nap.

It’s…

His eyes feel warm.

It’s perfect.

“I love it,” he blurts out, in genuine awe and fondness. “It’s true,” he jokes, shooting them all a tired look.

There are a couple very real cheers from some of the students.

“I told you!” Midoriya beams at Todoroki, who just smiles as though he also knew it’d be a great gift and just made Midoriya second-guess himself to… Fuck with him, or something? He knows the two of them are something like friends now, just like everyone that comes within a mile of Midoriya is eventually.

“Thank you all,” he says, still smiling softly at how thoughtful they’ve been. “Don’t tell the other classes, but this is absolutely the best mug I’ve gotten.”

To his surprise, there’s a very satisfied ‘HELL YEAH’ from the back of the cluster. He’s 99% sure it was Bakugou.

All Might doesn’t know what to expect for his first teacher appreciation day. As the #1 pro hero, he already receives appreciation on a daily basis.

“None of us could figure out what we could get you,” Midoriya admits. “So we just decided to all make you cards.”

All Might beams.

“Oh, I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble. Having you all as my students is already a gift every day.”

Someone in the class calls out “That’s cheesy!”, earning a couple laughs in agreement.

Midoriya seems to be their leader in this situation, apparently still the only one out of them all that’s comfortable approaching All Might, and the rest of them follow when he stands from his desk.

They form a practiced line, which is just as endearing as it is efficient.

Midoriya hands his card over first, of course. The front says Happy Teacher Appreciation Day, and rather than writing out a note within it, he’s drawn a picture of them both. They have lightning around them, their shared quirk imagined at full power, and they both look ready to save the day.

“I love it,” he gasps. “Thank you, Midoriya! I do hope that one day we’ll see this picture become a reality, and we’ll be able to fight side by side as pillars of hope.”

(It rings false in his head, considering his powers are waning, but he’s not ready to let Midoriya know that yet.)

All Might scoops Midoriya up in a hug and the boy yelps, then laughs as he hugs back. As expected, he has tears in his eyes when All Might puts him down, and All Might ruffles his hair before addressing the next student.

It goes on like that for each of them; they’ve all prepared a card, and while most do have a note in it thanking him for his dedication or gushing about how honored they are to be training under him, a few have also followed in Midoriya’s footsteps and made doodles as well.

Iida draws them both running together. Jirou draws them in a little band, with All Might wearing black and yelling into what he assumes is a microphone. Shouji just draws six little thumbs-up hands. Tsu’s features her crouched on his bicep as he poses, both in matching frog-themed outfits, and while All Might is gushing about how cute it is, he realizes he’s going to need to buy frames to keep these all in.

Almost every student goes for a hug, as well, when All Might opens his arm after thanking them for their card. Todoroki even considers it, but holds out a fist for All Might to bump instead.

He does, of course. He knows Todoroki isn’t supposed to like him because of his father’s grudge, but that doesn’t change the fact that Todoroki is a bright and talented kid, and All Might is here to help them all grow regardless.

Eventually, every student has handed over a card but one.

Finally, hesitantly, Bakugou approaches.

Most of the class have dispersed back to their seats, chatting amongst themselves and giving Bakugou space. There’s a mutual understanding that All Might is someone they all look up to, and it might be weird to have people hovering around while you try to tell your hero how much they’ve inspired you.

Bakugou looks just as annoyed as ever, but he holds out a card, too.

“I’ve looked up to you since I was four,” he rushes out. “I always wanted to be just like you so I could save the world and help people. I still want to be like you, but now I want to be even better.”

It sounds so rehearsed, like he practiced it in the mirror over and over. He almost sounds cruel, talking about wanting to surpass him instead of being like him, but All Might smiles wider. He knows exactly what Bakugou intends to say.

“I’m proud to have inspired such a strong young man not just to be like his heroes, but to improve where they did not,” he says softly, as though it’s a secret just between them. He takes Bakugou’s card in the same conspiratorial, I won’t tell if you won’t way. “You are determined and will only become stronger and faster as your training here continues, and I have no doubt in my mind that you’ll be leading a new generation of heroes toward greatness.”

The slightly horrified look on Bakugou’s face reveals he hadn’t expected All Might to say something heartfelt in return, if anything at all, and he wipes at his eyes quickly to keep a tear from falling.

All Might opens his arms to offer a hug just as he had with the other students. Bakugou hesitates again, and All Might wonders if he should let him know he obviously doesn’t need to feel obligated to hug anyone (and throw in something role model-y about consent and never succumbing to peer pressure), but then Bakugou lurches forward and wraps his arms around his waist as much as he can.

He squeezes so tightly All Might thinks this might actually be an assassination attempt, but then he’s pulling away, this time not wiping his eyes in time to stop a tear slipping down his cheek.

“Thank you,” Bakugou mumbles. “I promise I’ll kick your ass one day.”

All Might chuckles.

This dedication and talent will become the bar set for the next twenty years of heroes, and his heart swells knowing that he’s helping them reach for their full potential and further.

“I look forward to it.”

[kpopboysreact]

Marked - Jungkook/Taehyung Scenario

Requested by giveaway winner @97gcf 😘 Prompt credit: (twitter) @amoseok Prompt: taekook soulmates au in which you get a mark on your body as soon as you touch your soulmate and jeongguk wasn’t having it that night when he punched the guy who kept annoying him and his arm got marked with “KTH” Words: 2,051 Masterlist

Jungkook shot back another glass, the vile liquid stinging his throat. You’d think after so many, it would be numb by now. “Another.” He demanded. “You’re cut off.” The bartender responded without looking up, wiping a few glasses dry with a towel. “Bullshit. Give me another.” The bartender filled one of the glasses he was drying with water and slid it over to Jungkook. “If you’re so insistent, sober up a bit first.” Jungkook scoffed and slid the glass back to him. “That defeats the purpose.” The bartender ignored him and Jungkook held his head in his hands. Nothing went right that day. He kept fucking up at rehearsal and at this point, he didn’t know if he was ever going to debut. “Can I just get another?” He asked again, begging.

“Sorry, kid.”         Jungkook grunted and stood. “I’ll just spend my money elsewhere if you won’t help me.” “Not like that, you won’t. Either sober up a bit or I’m going to have to take your keys and call you a cab.” The bartender slid the glass of water back to Jungkook. He glared at it for a moment, before reluctantly sipping from it. “It stings worse than the liquor.” He joked, a tiny smile playing on the corner of his lips. “That’s how you know you need it.” Jungkook continued to drink the water, his head pounding but holding his composure until the last sip. He waited several minutes before insisting he was feeling better. “Let me see you walk in a straight line.” Jungkook did as the bartender asked, surprising himself even more than the bartender. “Alright. Get on home, eat. You’re going to really feel the effects of that alcohol in the morning.” Jungkook nodded and, carefully, walked towards the door. He exited without looking too much like a drunkard, to his content, and got in his car. He sighed to himself, punching in the address of another bar he knew into his GPS. Checking his rearview mirror to see if he was clear, he began to pull out of his parking spot. Who the fuck is he to threaten taking away my keys? Fucking assho-CRASH Jungkook’s head whipped forward as the rear end of his car rammed against another. “SHIT!” Jungkook threw open his car door and exited, wobbling a little, then walking up to the car he hit. The driver was getting out of his side and Jungkook went to confront him. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t see-” “You fucking ASSHOLE!” Jungkook threw a punch at the other driver’s face, hitting him square in the cheek. The punch had enough force in it to throw the drunk Jungkook off his feet, and he collapsed on the pavement. Hearing the crash from inside the bar, the bartender ran outside to assess the satiation. “What’s going on out here?!” The driver rubbed his cheek. “This guy hit my car and then hit me.” There was venom in his words, and the bartender picked Jungkook up by his collar. “You. I knew you were too drunk to drive.” Jungkook shrugged the bartender’s hands off. “Don’t fucking touch me.” “I’m calling the police.” The bartender began to take out his phone. “Wait!” The driver exclaimed. “I...think I know him.” The driver peered into Jungkook’s face, and Jungkook glared back at him. “Yeah, I know him. I don’t want to press charges, this can just go through insurance.” The bartender raised an eyebrow. “You sure?” “Yeah.” “Well, could you call him a cab? I’m not letting him back in his car, I’ll call a tow.” “No problem.” The bartender walked to the driver’s seat of Jungkook’s car and took the keys out of the ignition, then proceeded to call a tow company while keeping an eye on the two men. The driver made a quick call to a cab service, then rubbed his cheek. “Could I get some ice for this?” He called out to the bartender. “I’d rather not leave the two of you alone out here. Just go around the back of the bar, there’s a scoop in the ice bin.” “Thanks.” The driver left for the bar and returned shortly. He approached Jungkook and handed him a pen and napkin he’d gotten from inside. “Can I get your information?” Jungkook wordlessly took the napkin and scribbled everything down, then ripped off half of it. “And give me yours.” The driver did as Jungkook asked and Jungkook took it back forcefully. Soon enough, the cab arrived. “Why don't you call me in the morning...after the worst of the hangover is through. We can talk about how to handle the damages then.” Jungkook nodded dismissively before getting into the cab, slamming the door behind him.

Walking up to his front door proved to be one of the hardest tasks of the night. His heavy leaden feet dragged on the paved walkway, the ends of his pant legs occasionally snagging themselves on a rock or unleveled ground. Jungkook stumbled, but shook it off. He thought back to the driver of the car he’d hit. He said he knew him, but how? Jungkook thought hard but couldn't place his face. Well, he could barely remember what the bartender looked like in his drunken state, so he decided on resolving the issue in the morning. After turning the key the wrong way in the door, which he did even when he wasn't drunk, Jungkook finally entered his haven, his tiny apartment paid for by his parents while he was off living the high life as a trainee. High life. Jungkook scoffed. Better hope no one recognised me and saw that little incident, or I’ll be fired. Now Jungkook was laughing. Fired. What’s so bad about that? He thought about all the late nights, all the aches and pains, all the criticism that came with being a trainee and sighed. Why bother?

At 3 am, after barely getting an hour of sleep, Jungkook’s alarm blared, waking him instantly. He had rehearsal in two hours, and needed to get over his hangover before then. If anyone could smell alcohol on him, even sense that he’d been drinking, he’d be done for. It would be easy enough. Now that he had his wits about him (for the most part), he could come up with a plan. Make some food, comfort food but nothing too greasy so he doesn't get sick when he’s dancing. Shower, and take the time to really scrub the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke from the bar off your skin. Get dressed, and wear something that isn't too-WHAT THE FUCK?! Like a tattoo, the letters KTH were printed, seemingly burned onto the inside of his arm. It took a minute for him to put the pieces together, but Jungkook recalled the story his mother used to tell him of your soulmate’s initials being printed onto your arm upon first contact with them. But who...oh shit. Jungkook ran to the hamper, where he rummaged through the pants he wore the night before to find the napkin with that guy’s name. That stupid driver... Kim Taehyung. Jungkook’s blood ran cold. No way... He whipped out his phone and entered Taehyung’s number as a new contact. I’ll find out what’s going on later. He said to himself, in too much of a rush and his head pounding too hard to really concentrate in that moment. But he couldn't shake the feeling of dread, topped with...was that excitement? He’d been a loner his whole life, maybe some change is a good thing. But I don't want that change to be with the asshole that wrecked my car... My car. Jungkook hadn't even thought about the fact that he no longer had his car. “SHIT!” He ran to the living room and pulled his transportation card out of his desk drawer, quickly checked his appearance in the mirror, then headed out the door.

Thankfully it wasn't too long of a ride, and Jungkook got to practice on time. Barely. He was out of breath by the time he got there, mostly exhausted from the night before, but also from how his heart hadn't slowed its rapid beating ever since that morning when he’d seen the mark on his arm. I’m marked. Something about that fascinated Jungkook, but scared him all at the same time. And there's the matter of hiding it from the instructors...Jungkook wore a black, skintight, long-sleeved top to hide the mark. He just hoped no one would question why he opted away from his typical white baggy teeshirt, on a hot summer day nonetheless. “You're late!” One of his trainers called out to him. No I’m not. You can take that attitude and shove it up your-”I’m very sorry.” Jungkook muttered, bowing before heading inside. “And what are you wearing?! You're going to burn up.” His instructor continued to berate him. “Ah, I just wanted to wear something tighter today, so I can focus on how my body moves dancing. This was the only thing I had.” “Take it off if it gets too hot. I don't need you passing out on me during rehearsal today.” “Yes, sir.”

Jungkook made as strong of an effort as he could, but the throbbing in his head thew him off his game. And with his instructor calling out his mistakes constantly, he became frustrated and eventually couldn't focus on his dancing. “What’s with you these days, Jungkook?” “I’m very sorry, sir.” “I’ve heard enough sorries. I’m getting worried that you're not going to pass your next evaluation.” “I’m doing everything that I can-” “It’s not good enough. Come back here tonight at 6pm. Another group of trainees will be practicing with a different trainer. You could use more practice.” “Thank you, I will.” Jungkook didn't get why he had to say thank you. He didn't get why he had to act like his instructor was helping him when really, he was hurting him even more. Rather than being encouraged for what he did right, his instructor picked out a flaw in every single thing Jungkook did. And he was sick of it. Jungkook picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder, getting his breath back and regaining his composure. Don't let this get the best of you. He thought to himself, and bowed at his instructor before leaving the practice building. He checked his calendar on his phone while waiting for the bus. A 6pm rehearsal would be practically impossible. He had singing lessons from 2:50-5:40, and it was all the way across town. I can save time if I just stay in this outfit through it all. His outfit. The outfit he's wearing because he’s been marked. Jungkook sat far back on the bus when it arrived and lifted his shirt sleeve, staring at the mark that adorned the inside of his arm. He didn't know if it scared him or if he liked it, but it was there, and he had to get used to it. Is it really that guy? He questioned. I bumped into a lot of people last night. Jungkook laughed remembering how drunk he’d gotten. Yeah, it can't be that guy. Kim Taehyung...must be some kind of coincidence.

He felt like his body was going to give out on him at any moment, but Jungkook made it to the 6pm rehearsal with absolutely no time to spare. This instructor seemed much nicer, and didn't care that he wasn't early. He even smiled as he greeted the trainees that came in late. Using his kindness as an advantage, while not taking advantage, Jungkook asked for many water breaks, burning up in the long-sleeved black shirt. The instructor looked at him sympathetically, even a little uneasily as Jungkook occasionally swayed on his feet, feeling the strain of the hyperthermia and the tiredness, even some stings of the hangover that plagued him. But whatever, he could do it. He just had to make it through this rehearsal without incident and then...he’d be better. He’d work harder. Nothing would distract him or come in the way of him and his debut. “Sorry I’m late!” One of the trainees apologised frantically before entering the room. It can't be. Jungkook turned around and faced the trainee... And the mark on his arm began to burn.

[lickmeleclerc]

|Missed Connections| H.O {Chapter 1}

Characters: Harrison Osterfeild x Female Reader

Summary: A lost phone, Two strangers, and one missed connection

Playlist: here

Warnings: cussing

 Harrison’s leg bounces up and down anxiously in a fast motion as he sits flush against the hard plastic chairs. He moves his gaze from his knotted hands to the others in the room. Some were holding the script and practicing lines, others chatting with one another, and then there’s him trying to calm himself down before his name is called. A buzz in his pocket distracts him as he grabs his phone but when the screen lights up as his thumb brushes the home button no notifications are seen. Again, he feels a buzz and he realizes it's the strangers phone. When he grabs it to silent it his eyes land on her lock screen, its silhouette photo of her standing by the ocean her figure has his heart skip a beat but he quickly shifts his gaze to see a reminder about some deadline and he hopes her computer is linked to her phone cause he really doesn’t know how he’ll get it back to her but he hopes its a face to face encounter.  

“Harrison Osterfeild.” His name rings through the room of awaiting actors and he stands sliding the item into his back pocket. A sigh leaves his lips as he urges his nerves into excitement.

“Hi nice to meet you guys.” He greets them with a handshake and a nod. They seem to like his looks and the first impression as himself is good, they just need to see if he can act.

“Okay we’ll start with Act two scene two.” The casting director calls. He nods and licks his lips as he stands in front of them and begins his rehearsed lines. His American accent isn’t the most natural thing in his performance but the effort is there and they can see it.

“Thank you for coming in today Harrison we hope you look forward to our call.” The man speaks the good news as Harrison wraps up. His smile is true and honest as he nods and leaves them to continue their auditions. He could leap for joy that it turned out so well. He reaches into his pocket for his phone so he can call his agent but ends up grabbing the wrong phone with the large smile still plastered on his face he kisses the phone calling it his lucky charm and then pulls the correct item out to make the call.

“Y/n! Get in here.” Her bosses voice rings throughout the office, the mail boy passing by gives her a look that resembles the words ‘ooooh’ as if she were being called into the principal's office. A huff of hot air leaves her mouth blowing the hairs in front of her face away as she pushes herself away from her desk. Her feet and tailbone ache from the journey to work today.

“You called?” She questions trying to hide the sarcasm in her tone. Her eyes land on an annoyed older woman with her nails click against the keyboard.

“Yes I did. I need you to go print 100 copies of the newsletter, our new clients need to get one this month, could you pick up envelopes and stamps as well, we’re gonna mail them.” She demands not even glancing at the girl in front of her desk.  

“Yeah for sure. And Arnold called he wants to set up a video conference.” The younger girl informs as she exits. Before she leaves to run the errands requested she grabs an original copy and her backup sneakers. It may not match her professional attire; a pencil skirt and collared blouse, but the walk around town in her heels will kill her feet more than they already are. She slings her bag on her shoulder and heads out of the building this time being sure to manage her time well enough she won’t have to run through crowds and end up harshly running into someone, even if the someone was very attractive her tailbone is suffering. The day has been off from the start but not without a phone it’s little to none chances of it turning around.

“Hi! Can I get 100 copies of this please.” She asks politely to the clerk, he nods and walks to the back of the store and begins his work. The girl takes a seat in the small waiting area as she looks around for something to entertain herself, but the lack of a certain device doesn't make passing the time easier. He eyes land on a tabloid with water damaged corners but a catchy headline. She picks it up gently by a corner not really sure if she wants to touch it. The worn magazine flops open to a page about up and coming actors, he eyes land on a familiar face in the corner of the page. “What!” An exclamation leaves her mouth as it drops open and her eyes widen. A gasps follows as she sees the rude stranger from this morning. Before thinking about her actions she rips the corner of the magazine out and stuffs it in her bag.

“Harrison!” A curly haired boy yells through the empty bar as he raises his drink up to signal the brit . It’s only 2pm on a monday people would have to be having a really bad day if they’re already drinking, but for Harrison’s case its celebratory.  

“Hey!” He responds as he increases his steps to meet his mate and pull him into a hug. The two have both been on a path to become actors and Harrison hasn’t been that successful until now. His humble and determined attitude along with patience have paid off.  

“Congrats man, I’m so proud of you!” His friend from childhood commends and pats his shoulder as they both take their seats at the bar. Harrison’s smile hasn’t dimmed all day and it seems to light up the dimmed room.

“Thank you Tom, that really means a lot to me.” The smiley boy responds as he sips a beer the bartender has handed him. Thye alcohol helps him to finally calm down, the nerves and excitement are all that have been coursing through his system today. “Now you can be my assistant.” He adds with a laugh referencing their past business relationship. The other laughs too as he nods.

“I would in a heartbeat mate.” He proudly responds and nods. The happiness for his friend is in his eyes and Harrison can’t help the giddiness rushing back. He’s not only made himself proud but everyone else whose been rooting for him this whole time, he’s gotten the part. A ding interrupts the twos conversation and he already knows it's not his phone. He slips out the item and silences it. Tom quizzically watches his friends actions.

“What’s that?” He asks a teasing smirk playing on his face. Harrison sets the item on the counter and laughs.

“Okay you’re not going to believe this.” He goes on to explain the morning phiasco while Tom laughs and nods along but then an idea spurs in his hopeless romantic mind.

“Harrison you have to track her down and return it, then ask her out to make it up to her!” He exclaims then covers his mouth at how loud he voiced his plan. A blush finds its way to the others cheeks at the thought, he was caught off guard at her beauty this morning he can’t imagine having to talk to her again.

“Come on, you gotta put yourself out there.” He encourages him as he downs the last of his beer. HArrison nods and grabs the phone again, the lock screen is now littered with reminders and one has an address;

Friday: fancy dinner thing at 7:00pm @ The studio museum Harlem

“Okay, I guess I’m going to a museum on Friday.” He concludes as they both look at the reminder. Tom nods smiling wide and fist bumps the air in victory for talking him into the idea. The two end their conversation and make plans for lunch after Friday to see how it goes. Harrison hails a taxi as he processes the thoughts in his head, can he really do this? It’s very much out of his small comfort zone.

“You will not believe who has my phone! Some wannabe actor!” Y/n excalims into her laptop with a skype call in progress. She huffs air from her mouth as pulls on her oversized shirt as she sits up more in her bed. The day has been long and the only one who’d listen to her venting is, Milly, her older sister that’s off in Stanford in California.

“How is that possible?” She questions her voice coming out more robotic from the speakers. The girl clicks on the mouse pad hoping to better the connection somehow but with no luck a awful ‘reconnecting’ logo pops up over the camera’s view.  Another groan leaves Y/n’s lips and she’s had her limit of herself in a pity party so she ends the call and sends a message through the Skype chats feature. Nothing is more annoying than not having her cellphone, which she depends on greatly for her daily life. Before she calls it a night she sends an email to her boss;

‘Hey Lisa,

I will be about two hours late tomorrow morning, I have to stop by the phone store and pick a new one up since mine was quote on quote ‘stolen.’ I’ll have Courtney bring in your coffee and any messages. My apologies for the schedule changes.

                             Sincerely, Y/n’

It's a hard pill to swallow that she has to get a new phone but at least her life can be normal again. It sucks to admit but she does need a cellphone to function and if she ever does meet this Harrison Osterfeild guy she’ll just ask him to sign a check as reimbursement, like that'll ever happen though.

Harrison’s ears are numb from the loud music of the club, he’s a friendly guy and a party every once in awhile is fun but he’s not feeling the beat of the music or the company that surrounds him. He pays his tab and walks to the dark street. It’d rained earlier and the ground was coated as evidence of it. His big day no coming to an end left him with no regards to protect his white tennies. His feet slapped in the water as he made his way back to his small apartment he’s rented for the stint of time he’ll be here. England will always be his home base no matter where his life takes him. A deep breath leaves his mouth as he plugs his phone and the girls phone in, he thinks of this upcoming Friday and how it will god. Will she be angry to see him?

Taglist: (Ask to be added):  @aaminah12 @parkerstan  @spideynora @spideymood @painted-soulss @tomsfireheart  @smexylemony @beautiful-holland @cherryhollands @lovelyh0lland @futureparker @sweetosterfield @lemirabitur

[bethhxrmon]

All I Ask of You Pt. 7

“We start with stars in our eyes. We start believing that we belong, but every sun doesn’t rise, and no one tells you where you went wrong.” - “Waving Through a Window” from Dear Evan Hansen

Pairing: Peter Parker x Original Female Character

Word Count: 4,358

Warnings: More infidelity, more emotional angst, descriptions of depression

Summary: Annie finally hears her dad’s side of everything while comparing herself to a murderous fictional character.

A/N: Soooo, against all odds I managed to get this chapter up on time! Feedback is always appreciated, I like knowing what you guys think!

MASTERLIST

Playlist

           Saturdays were meant to be spent being White Swan while claiming to be hanging out with friends. They weren’t supposed to be for letting her father explain himself or justify his cheating. However, because he offered to take her to the matinee of Phantom of the Opera, she had been won over. Granted, she would be stuck hearing her dad’s side anyways, it would either be over a bribe or him cornering her while she was in the apartment with him. Ever since her mom said she told Annie why they really moved, her dad had been waiting to tell her more. All Annie wanted was to move on and forget about it all, that was the best way to get over the news that she never wanted to hear.

           Annie ate some chicken nuggets and looked over at her dad. Forcing her to sit and talk before the show was probably for the best. If he had waited until after, she would have booked it and called Peter or Ned, even MJ or Tina if she had to. Listening to her dad justify being the root of all the issues in their small family was not how Annie felt a lunch at McDonald’s should be spent either, but there were too many things going on that she didn’t have a say in that she didn’t have the motivation to cut her dad off.

           “I know what you’ve been expecting me to say,” Carter Hardwick started.

           Annie swallowed a chicken nugget, “You couldn’t possibly know, and even if you did, I’d bet I’m right.”

           “You know, you’re not as perceptive as you think. Before your mom said anything, did you know anything was wrong?” he asked, drinking the black coffee he bought for himself.

           Annie looked down, “I knew it was weird that Melanie quit tutoring me and that we moved.”

           “But you know what else? Why your mom and I didn’t divorce?” he asked.

           She shrugged, “Because me not having a broken home mattered more to mom than your need to tap it without wrapping it?”

           Her father’s forehead creased as he sighed, “Well, that factored into it… but do you remember your mother’s partner at the firm?”

           “Yeah, Jim, cool dude, what about him?” Annie prompted.

           “They were seeing each other as well, I suppose she left that out, didn’t she?” he questioned.

           Annie blinked, her grip tightening on the flimsy plastic cup her caramel frappe was in. Her dark eyes looked up to meet her dad’s. It had to be a lie. There was no way that both of her parents had been the bad guy in the relationship. Who was the victim supposed to be then? Could it be her even if she hadn’t known what was going on?

           It was silent while Annie took a few drinks of her overly sweet iced coffee. There wasn’t exactly a manufactured response or a pre-ingrained retort for her to deliver. She couldn’t just run away, there wasn’t someone she could run to and ask to help her ignore everything going on around her.

           All she could do was slowly nod, “Oh… she forgot that, I guess… well, anything else you wanted to say?”

           “Actually, yes, you know how you were adopted right?”

           “What does that have to do with anything?”

           He cleared his throat, “It’s the way you were adopted, well, the way you had been found.”

           “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?” she spat.

           “Hey, I need you to calm down.”

           “Why should I? I was doing great back home and you move me here without hearing me out and I find out why we’re even here… and now you’re gonna distract me with my birth parents or some bullshit like that?”

           “You don’t know what you want and you don’t know the full story. Besides, acting isn’t sustainable, I’m doing what’s best for you. One day you’ll understand.”

           “But you’ve never asked what I wanted or even what I like. It’s like you don’t care about anything I work on.”

           “Now you’re being self-centered.”

           “Because fucking my tutor was such a selfless act, wasn’t it?”

           “You say that like your mother-”

           “I’m mad at her too, okay?! Just tell me about ‘how I was found’ or whatever because apparently that’s gonna be enough of a distraction for me to stop being pissed at you.”

           “You were found in a lab, being experimented on. You were a test tube baby. There, now you get that truth you were looking for,” her dad responded with a shrug.

           Annie’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened as she quickly shook her head, “That’s gotta be some kind of messed up joke, Dad, seriously.”

           “Annika, it’s true. I don’t know what that means for you, but I felt like you needed to know,” he replied.

           She closed the box of remaining chicken nuggets, “Right, because you thought now was such a great time.”

           “Ann, I-”

           “Whatever, we’ll be late to the show. Let’s go.”

           It was difficult to know what to do with the new information. All of it was nearly too much for Annie. She couldn’t even bring herself to cry or say anything more. Her entire body seemed to numb itself on instinct, almost like it knew if she really took long enough to feel anything that she would end up breaking down in the middle of the McDonald’s that was only a few blocks away from the theatre she was going to. That show was the only thing keeping her anywhere near her dad. The tickets he had purchased last minute were nowhere near each other, and Annie knew that was for the best. Annie had no clue how she would have been able to sit next to her dad for two and a half hours straight after everything he had said. Especially when she had a feeling that she was going to crack and end up crying eventually.

           The theatre was nearly packed, and Annie sat in the seat that was printed on her ticket which was nice and far away from her dad. He wasn’t someone she was sure she could ever manage to talk to again. Sure, he wasn’t the only guilty one out of her parents, but he was also the one who never bothered to see why she enjoyed the things that she did. It felt like he would never notice what she liked unless it was something she liked. When it came to classic novels, they were fine, but the minute Annie admitted that the only reason she was about to start War and Peace was because of the musical made based on it, the conversation would run dry.

           What she needed was a chance to process everything. Though, it seemed like there wasn’t enough time for that. Even in a room full of patrons, all she could think about what how different she was from everyone. Sure, she was dressed somewhat nicely in a floral dress and a grey cardigan, making her seem just as normal as the other people there. However, no one else she knew of was an abandoned science project.

           Watching the musical, Annie came to multiple realizations. They ranged from the obvious like how she would kill to be Christine when she was old enough to truly make something out of herself. When she would be able to spend all of her time acting instead of having to wait for a class or rehearsals for some after school production. Then there were the less clear realizations like how Annie could only relate to Erik, the phantom. No one else was like him, he had abilities that no one else was able to compare to, and he seemed to be just as lonely as she felt. At least, that was what she gathered by the end of the first act.

           Tears were in her eyes as intermission started, but at least that wasn’t completely frowned upon. She quickly wiped under her eyes, attempting to keep her eyeliner and mascara from smudging. Whether she succeeded or not was to be determined because she couldn’t see her reflection all that well from the phone screen in the dimly lit seats. That wasn’t why she was turning her phone on, though. Her dad had to be kidding himself if he thought she was going to go home with him. No, she was going to call someone to walk back with her, so she first messaged Peter.

           Pete, can you do me the biggest favor of all time?????? -Annie

           Yeah, what do you need? -Peter

           Meet me on Broadway in an hourish????? It’s kinda important and kinda a long story and I don’t have time to tell it all rn -Annie

           I’ve got the internship, I’m so sorry -Peter

           It’s cool, see ya later then -Annie

           There wasn’t long left in the intermission, and Annie needed to get someone to help her. She scrolled through her contacts, pression on Ned’s name.

           Hey are you doing anything??????? -Annie

           Not really, what’s up??? -Ned

           Could you meet me on Broadway soon, like an hour? If not it’s cool, but yeahhhh…. -Annie

           Yeah! I’ll be there, everything okay? -Ned

           It’s a long story, but I’m fine -Annie

           Okie dokie! I’ll be there dude -Ned

           The house lights started to dim down and Annie turned off her phone again as the second act began. She watched as all of the brightly colored costumes crossed the stage for the first song. While she had seen the musical before, it was never while she was in the audience. Seeing the dancing almost made her forget everything going on.

           Forgetting everything was for the best, she didn’t want to have a complete mental breakdown on Ned when he came by. That would only leave her feeling terrible and probably leave Ned feeling as confused as ever. So instead she tried to focus on the musical, only the musical. Though, that wasn’t much better of an option as the plot continued.

           What was worse was that Annie knew exactly what happened, she knew that Christine was going to have to face Erik again and that Raoul was going to try and save Christine. Despite knowing all of that, Annie still felt tears falling down her face. Whether it was because of her dad or because of everything happening in the show, she wasn’t completely sure. Either way, Annie was positive that her makeup was smudged all over her eyes, but she didn’t make a move to wipe her eyes. Not when it was only halfway through the second act.

           It was seeing Erik proposing to Christine that truly made Annie start crying. She knew that Christine would reject him and that he would kidnap her, and that Raoul would just run off to save Christine. By all rights she shouldn’t have been connecting with Erik so much. She was a soprano who just wanted to get by and perform but got thrown into situations from being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

           Still, hearing Erik’s singing about how lonely he had been all those years felt much more relatable. No one else was different in the same way she was. Though, she wasn’t a murderer, at least, she didn’t think so. Maybe the only reason she hadn’t cracked all the way was because no one rejected her for her powers. Then again, only one person knew she had powers and they lived across the country.

           By the time the show finished, Annie’s eyes were irritated from her sweater rubbing tears away from them. She quickly filed out of the theatre with almost everyone else hoping that if she left quickly enough that her dad wouldn’t catch her. He didn’t see her, or he did and chose to not talk to her. Either way, Annie ran a hand through her dark curls as she made her way back outside to the chilly December air.

           Maybe a dress hadn’t been the best idea, but there were so many emotions coursing through Annie that she hardly noticed how cold it had gotten. It took a bit of walking around on the street to finally see Ned, and she rushed right over to him. She didn’t want to be around a crowd of strangers for longer than she had to.

           “There you are! I was gonna call you if I didn’t see you soon,” Ned told Annie, hugging her.

           Annie gave a small shrug, “I was watching a musical and-”

           “Is that why you’ve got that raccoon-eyes look going on?” he asked.

           Annie sighed, “It’s a sad musical okay? I mean, no one super important dies, but it’s just… it’s emotional, ya know?”

           “Yeah, and because of this, we’re getting you some chocolate or something. Do you wanna talk about why you’re here alone, though?” Ned questioned, starting to walk towards Times Square.

           Annie shook her head a little, “Not really, it’s just more family drama that was also a bribe that I was dumb enough to take.”

           “Meaning?”

           “Meaning my dad wanted to clear his name by taking me to McDonald’s and Phantom of the Opera.”

           “Are you gonna tell me what he said?”

           “Probably not, it’s kind of a lot.”

           Ned nodded a little, “Got it, we’ll just get some chocolate and take the subway home and we can talk about literally anything else.”

           “That sounds like a fucking plan, Ned, let’s go!” Annie replied, a small smile on her face.

           They continued walking in a comfortable silence, but Ned must have noticed the expression on her face change as she started to think again. He cleared his throat a little and nudged her, nodding at all of the terribly done costumes pretending to be Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck.

           “Fucking hell, Ned, those are so creepy, I’m out,” Annie said, pulling Ned away by the wrist.

           Annie pushed past a few people who were trying to hand her and Ned CDs and other different items. The area was just so crowded, and Annie felt her legs getting cold as she led the way into the Hershey’s store. While that store was crowded too, there was at least chocolate and a heater making the experience bearable.

           “Alright, you can get anything, it’s on me, dude,” Ned said.

           Annie shook her head firmly, “No, that’s not okay, you don’t have much money. Besides, weren’t you saving up for a Lego Sandcrawler thing?”

           “That’s not important, you’re not doing too well-”

           “I’m fine. My family just sucks,” Annie insisted.

           Ned shrugged, “Not doing too well, bad family life, same difference. I’m getting you something and you’re picking.”

           “But that model-”

           “I can keep saving up for it later, right now, you need the emotional support that only chocolate can give.”

           It didn’t matter how much Annie protested, Ned continued to insist as he picked up a package of mini cookie crunch bars for himself. Though, Annie really didn’t think he needed to pay, Ned felt that it was the least he could do. Whereas Annie was starting to feel like she owed him for getting from Queens to Manhattan right when she asked.

           Ned sighed a bit, “Come on, I’m insisting. You know you’d do the same thing for me.”

           “Maybe… maybe I wouldn’t,” Annie countered as she picked up a bag of fun sized Almond Joys

           He shook his head, “You would, I mean, you’d say that you wouldn’t, but then you would anyways.”

           By the time Annie thought of something else to say, Ned had taken the bag to pay for everything. She didn’t even have a chance to protest again because he was paying. Though, being around someone else was enough to make her feel normal for a little bit. Especially as they walked back to the subway station to get back to Queens.

           They talked about little things until there was another quiet between Ned and Annie. The two teens sat next to each other on the subway, eating their candy. People poured in and left as they went to different places as they waited to get through the Queens Midtown Tunnel. It had taken a little effort to get in fast enough so they both had seats, but Annie was quick enough for both of them.

           “So, you saw that musical… was it any good?” Ned asked.

           Annie gave a small nod, “Yeah, it was great actually. Phantom’s always been one of my favorite musicals. Right up there with The Great Comet, but that got taken off Broadway before I even moved here. Which is a shame because it had a lovely soundtrack… on the bright side, it means I can use one of the songs from it for my audition. But I would rather get to see it… sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

           “No, you’re fine. I think it’s really cool you know all that stuff. I know Peter thinks the same thing, I’m sure Tina does too. You’ve got your ‘thing’, ya know?”

           “My ‘thing’?”

           “Yeah, like Peter and me are great at science and MJ is always reading and writing… you’re good with theater stuff. You really shouldn’t be at a science school, though,” Ned pointed out.

           Annie laughed a bit, “Oh, you don’t need to tell me twice, my dad was the one who pulled that. There’s who knows how many great performing arts schools here, I could get mentored by someone, dammit, but he suddenly decided I needed to be more practical. As if he has any room to talk.”

           “That’s a shame… but seriously, I’m not sure if you’ll do great at the audition, favorites and stuff, ya know? But if anyone were gonna pull off getting the lead role after being here for a month, it’d be you,” Ned told her, smiling a bit.

           Annie smiled back, “You know what? That’s the best thing anyone’s told me in ages, thanks, Ned.”

           When the subway finally stopped at the right place, Ned walked Annie back to her apartment. They stopped talking about anything remotely serious, instead talking about the new Star Wars movie coming out in about a week. There were so many theories they were going over. If there wasn’t much reason to be excited for Christmas, Annie had plenty of reasons to be excited for Star Wars, even if she probably wouldn’t get to see it right away.

           That evening, Annie finally got the chance to suit up and she wasn’t taking crap from any petty criminals. It was pretty normal for her to go all out with her powers when she was busy being royally pissed off. She wasn’t over her parents both turning out to be terrible. Not to mention how pointless everything felt.

           All she could do was exert the energy out through using just a bit too much of her powers. While it left her a bit short of breath, Annie was able to really feel something when she felt energy coursing through her. She was breathing quickly as she shoved back a man so he was thrown nearly three blocks away.

           “Jeez, Swan, I’d hate to see what that guy looks like,” commented an all too familiar voice.

           Annie turned around, fighting to roll her eyes, “He was trying to mug an old lady, he probably deserved it anyways.”

           “Not to say I disagree, but have you ever thought of a more pacifist approach?” Spider-Man asked, jumping down into the alleyway Annie stood in.

           Annie shrugged, “Maybe I’ve considered it, and maybe that doesn’t interest me too much. Anyways, we don’t work together again until Monday, what’re you following me around for?”

           “Your powers just keep sending all these shockwaves around the city. I-I mean, normal people can’t tell, but I kinda can. You know, senses dialed to eleven and all,” he told her, his hands behind his back.

           Annie nodded, “Yeah, so I’m working a bit more today than normal, is that really such a bad thing?”

           “Well, if you’re hurting people, then it kind of is a bad thing,” Spider-Man pointed out, leaning against the wall.

           “They’re bad people, Spidey, they did shitty things and I’m stopping them.”

           “But there’s more than one way to do it.”

           “I don’t need your moral compass today.”

           “I feel like you do.”

           Annie huffed, starting to walk away. The only reason she didn’t say anything was because she knew he had a point. At the same time, why should she even care about anything else? It felt like there just wasn’t any point in her trying to save people.

           As she walked further, Annie noticed Spider-Man following her and she tugged the white hood of her suit more as she looked up at him. It was almost as if he was trying to be obvious. When she saw him give a little wave, she knew that he was doing this on purpose.

           “You should give me a lift!” Annie called out.

           Spider-Man nodded, jumping down again, having an arm around Annie as he webbed the top of the building. They made it to the top and Spider-Man patted the spot next to him on the ledge for Annie to sit next to him. She sat, seeing her silver leggings and black combat boots dangling from the ledge, cars driving back and forth beneath her feet.

           It was already pretty dark because of how close to winter it was getting. The weather was cold enough that Annie had a couple shirts beneath her hoodie in an attempt to make sure she wouldn’t freeze to death. Though with the combination of emotions she felt starting to cancel each other out, Annie couldn’t bring herself to feel much at all.

           Sometimes that happened on its own, where after going a million miles a minute Annie would simply stop and it felt like there was nothing. Those were the times when it felt like nothing could touch her and she was invincible. Even with Spider-Man next to her, the one person who could ever come close to understanding her, she felt like there was no one else in the world.

           “Um… I don’t really like it when things get quiet. I-I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your thinking, but seeing you fight like that… w-well it worries me,” he started.

           Annie looked at the masked hero, “Hey, hey, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m just a little pissy today.”

           “Then explain you leaving for a few days with no warning. Y-you leave for a few days and come back. If you need to talk-”

           Annie frowned, “I don’t wanna talk about it. It doesn’t fix everything happening in my life. I just… stuff happens and I can’t sneak out or I can’t get myself to because I know I’ll be a liability.”

           “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his eyes squinting.

           She shrugged, “Like, when I get told something, or things go wrong I’m not gonna be any help. I mean, I get in the way a lot already, I’m sure-”

           “You don’t. Maybe we don’t agree on everything, but it beats being the only hero wandering around. Come on, think about it. There’s two million people in Queens, right?”

           “Yeah, your point being?”

           “Well, we each get a million people. Then less bad things can happen. I mean, one million’s a huge number, that’s more than enough for both of us.”

           Annie breathed out, seeing her breath fog in front of her, “Hypothetically, yeah, that works… but not all of us have Iron Man supplying us.”

           “Well maybe that could change. Maybe we could work together for more things! Come on, we understand each other in a way no one else could.”

           “I don’t know about right now, but maybe someday. After we finish everything with Tina, we could think about that.”

           Getting back into her apartment, Annie found herself feeling just as numb as she had felt since her dad told her everything. Though, she did feel like she could get through it one way or another. Things weren’t completely bleak, she wasn’t entirely alone. Still, she didn’t want to talk about what had her thinking far too much.

           Just as she was about to turn off her light to go to bed, Annie’s phone went off. Peter was calling her, and why he was calling her when it was almost midnight she had no clue. Still, she picked it up.

           “Hey?” Annie answered.

           “Hi… I um… I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

           “Don’t worry about it, Ned helped me. Why’re you calling so late? Not that I mind, just, you should be sleeping.”

           Peter gave a nervous laugh, “I could ask you the same thing, but I had a question. How would you like to see The Last Jedi with me and Ned on Thursday night?”

           “Wait, like, the premiere?” Annie questioned.

           “Yeah, it’d be kinda late, but would you like to? Mr. Stark gave me three tickets and you said something about liking that type of thing, so I thought you’d like that and-”

           “Pete, I’d love to!”

           “What about your parents? Are they gonna be okay with it?”

           “They can go fuck themselves. If they won’t let me I’ll sneak out,” Annie told him.

           The conversation didn’t grow much from there, both of them sounding as tired as ever. She could hardly believe that he’d asked her. If she hadn’t been so conflicted, she would have felt like it was close to a date. Except it wasn’t, Ned was going to be there. They were all just friends.

               Annie was being silly, there was no way Peter could like her like that. Especially if she ever told him the things her dad had told her. And after seeing what lying did to her parents, she didn’t want to be in a relationship if Peter didn’t know she was a superhero, and she didn’t want him knowing. Though, being friends wasn’t too bad either. She still got to see Peter smile his dorky smile and geek out over nearly everything. Things were going to get better eventually.

Tag list: @flushings-here / @upsidedownparker / @gaypanda / @ijustdontknowsometimes / @lionsfandomsandbearsohmy (just ask to be added to the tag list)

[coreymichaelsmithson]

The Gecko

I dance when I paint.

I don’t mean this to sound like some kind of barfy New-Age metaphor; rest assured that I haven’t yet become the “I wear floral caftans and practice yoga and drink kale smoothies and shop at Whole Foods and the whole universe dances through me, rama-lama-ding-dong” version of myself. I mean to say that I dance in the actual sense of moving rhythmically as I wield my brush. There are good practical reasons for doing this … sometimes it’s important to rehearse a tricky stroke before committing it to canvas, so I trace in the air what I intend to do, and prepare myself in advance for the actual execution. Some strokes are so complex in their trajectory, twisting and turning on themselves like the coils of the small intestine, that I need to make a few practice tries first. I have to use my whole arm, from shoulder to fingertip, and on really long strokes, dozens of other muscle groups come into play. Add some music, a soupçon of dramatic flair, and voilà! Dancing. But there is another, weirder aspect to what I do with my body when I paint. When my painting is going well, when I’m really “in the zone”, it feels like I am physically manipulating the forces within the composition. And by “forces” I mean actual dynamic forces … like torque, shear, tension, compression, lift, drag, gravity. These can all be represented in two dimensions, but I like to diagram them out in four. So I’ll make a range of expressive motions, which may seem to any observer like the gestures of a conductor, or a sculptor, or a magician. I may push, pull, draw out, spin, wave, smudge, swirl, scrape, all without touching the canvas. This may go on for several minutes, until I’m satisfied that I know what needs to happen. Then, and only then, I’ll make my move.

Lately, all this dancing has drawn the attention of local wildlife.

The place where I’m staying, on the northeast coast of Florida, is surrounded by water: ponds, marshes, rivers, and estuaries. Herons and egrets flap overhead, and falcons perch on the live oaks. Snakes make an occasional appearance. Because of all the swampy green space nearby, the yard is overrun with skinks, anoles, whiptails, and geckos. Our studio space has four large picture windows, and a pair of sliding glass doors. Each window has a mesh screen. Sometimes, the smallest lizards will cling to these screens and just hang out for a while. They’re probably doing this to enjoy the ventilation and to scope out the yard … but it’s a cute, endearing behavior, and it makes me strangely happy to see them.

As I was working on a particularly challenging painting, dancing out my curlicues and whatnot, this one gecko scurried up the mesh of the nearest window, and parked himself right in the middle of my view. He kept turning his head this way and that, eyeballing my progress from various awkward angles. After a few minutes of this, he climbed down the screen, crossed a few inches of patio, and zipped back up to the top of a nearby lawn chair, which allowed him to see more directly into the window. I’m guessing it was my dancing that caught his eye. Maybe he couldn’t tell if I was a threat, a large predator lumbering about on the other side of the window. Maybe he thought I was a particularly gawky crane. But, at the time, it seemed like he was interested in watching what I was doing, for he stayed in place a long time, tilting his head back and forth to look at either me or my canvas.

This may sound absurd, but I must tell you why the interest of this gecko filled me with such profound sense of validation. But in order to do so, I’ll have to plunge into a very dark place for a while, so that I may impart some important contextual information. Bear in mind that I am saying this all quite matter-of-factly, while calmly sipping my tea, without a lot of handwringing or lip-quivering or Sturm und Drang, so please don’t panic as you read. What follows is not meant to worry you, nor am I merely bemoaning my bad fortune … rather, I wish to paint this oddly joyful experience in a fuller, more revealing light. So bear with me for a moment, through a few paragraphs of heavy weather, and I promise that we’ll eventually find our way to a happy ending, the kind you’ve come to expect from my stories.

The fact is, I’m in trouble. Real trouble.

My bank account is now five hundred dollars in the red, with more automatic bill deductions coming in every week. My phone’s been shut off for non-payment. Pamela’s WA tabs have expired, so I can’t legally drive her … as a result, her battery’s gone dead, and she’s had unused fuel sitting in her lines for three months, which may lead to further complications. My laptop and smartphone are beginning to show signs of wear and tear, and I can’t afford to replace either. The big picture gets worse the more I look at it. I have over $160,000 in student loan debt, $9,000 in New York State tax debt, and somewhere around $50,000 in IRS debt. My bank account is likely to be seized again any day now. Because I haven’t been able to make even the bare minimum on previously established payment plans, and because I don’t have much freelance income, I have no means of negotiating for further relief. Every former address has piles of unopened mail from debt collectors. Bankruptcy will not dissolve either my scholastic or tax liabilities. Furthermore, because of my loan defaults, I cannot access my college transcripts to apply for teaching positions or degree-dependent jobs. And I’m too old and weird to be an attractive candidate for most of those appointments anyway. I have no health insurance, and can’t afford even sliding scale care to address my three broken teeth, lifelong asthma, and untreated severe depression. Free clinics cannot help with the severity of my dental and mental issues.

In short, things may seem a little bleak at present, down here in the Sunshine State. But as I said, there is a silver lining to all this … so hang tight, and in a little while I’ll lift us back up into the land of dancing and portent reptiles.

Now, I’m sure that some of you are already rolling your eyes and saying, “Well, you made your bed … quit whining and get a real job.” This seems to be the go-to response when artists don’t perform well in a capitalist society, and many people have already said as much, directly to me or among themselves. The thing is, my résumé is already full of “real jobs”: sanitation, construction, moving, disaster services, dishwashing, deliveries, landscaping, corporate video editing, darkroom printing, customer service, telemarketing, proofreading, design, teaching, consulting. I’ve worked in a car factory, a soup factory, a vineyard, a children’s hospital, a bookstore, a college library, a marketing agency, an art supply store, two publishers, five photo labs, and serviced more industries than I can even remember. I’ve designed menus and logos and show posters, I’ve bartended and filled dumpsters and hauled furniture and maintained spreadsheets. I’ve scrubbed soot off of ruined antiques, painted stripes on wastebaskets, taken dictation from lawyers, torn down drywall, pulled weeds, yanked nails, bottled whiskey, loaded ceramic tile, and demolished office cubicles. I even once helped raise a circus tent. I’ve kissed plenty of asses, both in the literal and figurative senses, for ridiculously low sums of money. I’ve done plenty of the icky stuff that nobody wants to do.

But my work ethic, skill, and earnestness simply aren’t paying off ... yet.

This is not an unusual predicament for people like me, though. The kind of jobs that folks expect me to have, based on my education and capabilities, won’t even grant me an interview, no matter how carefully I tailor my cover letter and CV, no matter how much positive energy and enthusiasm and hope I muster for the application. I’ve been completely and conscientiously sober for nearly seven years now, but even that level of commitment and self-care hasn’t done anything to change my financial situation, which has reached an all-time nadir. I’ve learned that “rock bottom” is an illusion … at the bottom of the well you’ll sometimes find not bedrock but quicksand and bobbing turds.

The inevitable question to ask, of course, is whether or not I am bringing all of this on myself. I’m sure some of you insist that I have this masochistic / self-destructive narrative that I’m adhering to, some kind of badly warped Van Gogh complex. You may feel that I remain impoverished only because of my own stubbornness, self-pity, delusions of grandeur, sloth, or outright stupidity. Some of you probably feel that I keep failing because I never apply myself properly, that I just don’t try hard enough, that I should love myself more, that all I need is a good full-time job with health insurance. You may have already thrown up your hands in frustration. I don’t begrudge you your opinion or your irritation … but to all of these things, I can only say, “I’m doing my best with what I’ve got.”

Throughout my career, I’ve been very forthright about my struggle with living … not because I am fishing for sympathy or solutions, but because I’ve come to believe that sharing such challenges openly is an essential part of my purpose as an artist. I am describing my state of crisis not to alarm you, or even to cry for help, but simply to reveal the full dimensions of my situation. I also hope that by explaining my fears and doubts I may help you to alleviate some anxiety of your own … for there is no relief quite like that of fellowship. As some of closest friends know, I have been on the precipice for my entire adulthood, and have come close many times to losing my grip altogether. Many of you can relate. Despite these troubles, though, I’ve clung stubbornly to existence, even when my fingertips are slipping on the beveled edge, just so that I could occasionally arrive at a moment like the one I had today with the gecko … moments when my life’s work seems to reveal its actual shape, when I can feel the ongoing dance of the world move through my fingers, when I am reminded that the long meandering road itself is the whole point. All those shitty jobs and sleepless nights were a vital part of the composition. They all brought me here, collectively, to this one instant, when I was dancing with a brush in my hand and a lizard was watching me from the window, a moment when everything changed.

Art is the alchemy that transforms any hardship into gold.

I hope you’ll come to understand what I mean when I say, right now, that it feels like as if I’ve inadvertently engineered my entire life just so that my passion might catch the eye of a wandering gecko.

I keep working because there is more work to be done. I keep fighting to live because I believe that I have an important message to deliver, and that I cannot rest until it is safely received. I don’t yet know what this message is, or where it comes from, or why it has been placed in my clumsy hands … but I feel burdened with the responsibility of lasting long enough to relay it. Judy Garland once told me the secret of immortality, and now a gecko is telling me the secret of artistic success.

So I am here to tell you about a gecko who was watching me paint.

I am here to tell you about a gecko who is now forever splayed on the window mesh of my mind, a gecko who stares at me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion as I struggle to keep my brush moving, as I desperately dance away from the reality of ruin, as I choose one more day of making art over surrendering to doom. I am here to tell you that this gecko is looking sideways at my canvas, with his googly roving eye, and he seems quite pleased with my output. I am here to tell you that this gecko has become my biggest fan; if I achieve nothing else in my career I’ve at least entertained one living creature with my artistry.

I am here to tell you that the gecko is delivering a message through me to you … on behalf of all the artists who have ever lived and died in total obscurity, all the forgotten and abandoned and hopeless creators who valued experiences more than fiscal solvency, those who saw many of the world’s most wonderful riches despite having no money or fame or toothpaste. My friend the gecko is saying to us, you and I, that it’s all been worth it. Every flawed and stupid choice we’ve made has been the right one, as long as each of us keeps trying our best to write a compelling poem with our life story. The gecko is telling us, you and me both, that everything’s going to be okay. He says that no effort is wasted, that no bravery goes completely unnoticed, that no talent is ever squandered if it has brought comfort or amusement or a moment of beauty to others. He says that we won’t be remembered for our poverty, but we will be remembered for our grace under duress. The gecko is assuring us that no sincere artist is a failure. The gecko believes in you and me, just as I believe in you and me. In fact, the gecko just whispered to me now that you’re the richest person he’s ever seen, and that your dance moves are awesome. The gecko told me to tell you to keep dancing, no matter what, for as long as you can, and to never give up on your gifts, which are plentiful and splendid and rare. He says he admires your brilliance, and your stamina, and your coordination. He says that he can see the whole world dancing in your hands.

[ankyouweek]

Second Time Around

3 - Change

Ritsu arrived and set hell upon them, making the class bitter by being more successful than they collectively had all year. Terasaka tried his own brand of fixing before Sensei fixed her on the inside. 

(“Terasaka-kun, people’s outsides aren’t as important as their insides!”

“They are when they’re made of guns!”)

Her creators came in, restored her, and Ritsu played her trump card, giving herself thought and becoming their ally.

It was time for Karma to play his ace. 

Along side the essentials, Ritsu had a bunch of strange programmes and apps installed, some from her creators, some she found while browsing the web, some from Itona and one from Karasuma. Before he’d left, Karma and Karasuma had pooled their knowledge together and uploaded it to this programme. It was meant to work in conjunction with the time machine and Karma didn’t think it was possible (Ritsu’s technology was different in this time, the time machine was different in this time and a variety of other doubts) but Karasuma thought it wouldn’t hurt to try, and Karma couldn’t argue with that.

The programme wasn’t on Ritsu, but he knew how to download it. Far too long later (he’d forgotten how bad internet connection up here was…) it’d loaded and he found his document.

The idea was to write notes so he and Karasuma could communicate. If that failed, at least Karma had a record of previous knowledge and could add how he was changing things. Unfortunately, things weren’t that simple.

Half the file was corrupted, not surviving the travel. Most of it was about what had happened in the future, but Karma had lived that, so he could make do without it. Sure, there were details he wasn’t sure about without the document, but he couldn’t do much about it (though he did ask Ritsu to see what she could do about it at another time). What was most useful was the small log at the bottom, from who he assumed to be Karasuma.

Did you make it?

Messages were a week or so apart, starting from the day after he left. Karma grinned. He needed to give Karasuma more credit, and if he got back to his own time (or even had to live in this one), he’d definitely buy the man a drink when he was legal again.

He jotted his own note briefly while Ritsu printed out what information could be salvaged.

Got back on my first day. Moe Box only arrived a few days ago. Sensei is on to me. Has anything changed yet?

— 

Karma was sick to death of these classes. He tried to fit in, tried not to be overpowered or snarky or be too smart for his own good, he really did, but he just couldn’t take it. After throwing Isogai and Maehara on the ground for the third time in a row, he snapped.

“You need to work harder! All of you! Put more effort in!”

“We are!”

“That’s bull and you know it! You haven’t improved at all and we’re nowhere close to killing this asshole!” Said asshole was playing in the sandbox, having being removed from class by Karasuma. Again. “You’ve got to put more effort in - this isn’t a game, y’know?!”

“I get what you’re saying, but you’re already a fighter! You were ten steps ahead of us from the start and you’re a genius!”

“Stop making excuses! They won’t help when shit goes down!”

Rio snorted, flicking her hair back. “What, like you know ‘what’s coming’?”

Karasuma wisely choose to interfere before Karma could run his mouth further. Unfortunately, his outburst had caught Sensei’s attention and Karma didn’t think he’d be able to avoid questioning on that front, or the scolding on Karasuma’s.

—

A free trip to Hawaii wasn’t something most kids would complain about, and indeed, Karma was grateful for the trip, the lesson and the movie, but he had things to do. He needed to plan how to save the world, he needed to become physically stronger, he needed to know how to get his class mates more motivated faster. He needed to do a lot and he just didn’t have time for this nonsense.

Ritsu popped up on his phone when he got home.

“I didn’t think it was wise to tell you earlier, but you have a message.”

His stomach dropped. There was no way of knowing what Karasuma would say. There was no way of knowing if Karma had been a hero or a villain.

But he had to know.

Opening the message, he felt sick.

Nothing.

—

Luckily for him, Itona decided to show up and ruin everyone’s weekend plans. They were at school while Sensei was grading, figuring out how to kill him (without success, obviously). Itona burst through the wall just before lunch, startling everyone half to death.

For him, at least, it was a welcome distraction.

It was a little different than the first time, which Karma took with a salt shaker. Perhaps things were changing, just not enough? But he didn’t want to get up his hopes and relax. At the very least, he hadn’t made things worse. Karasuma’s note had continued to say that he had been reported as missing. Karasuma was investigated over his disappearance and was currently innocent. The rest of 3-E was undergoing the same treatment.

The match between Itona and Sensei felt like it went on for an age. 

Karma called out to Itona. “You know, we could use strong people like you here. You’d be giving these guys something to work towards.”

And he was right. Itona’s strength and confidence and made everyone feel inadequate, making them raise the bar.

Finally, we can really get started.

—

“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Yeah, I know, I was out of line and he’s on to me.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

While Karasuma hadn’t changed much, Karma much preferred talking to the one in his time. His Karasuma was more relaxed, he trusted their judgement. This Karasuma hadn’t seen them do anything worthwhile, hadn’t gotten close to them yet.

“You realise how hard this is for me right? Two of my class mates were murdered not even a week before I came here! I’m doing the best I can-“

“You’re acting like a child! Get it together!”

Karma shut his mouth. He didn’t think the man was entirely right, but he wasn’t wrong either. Karasuma was a soldier, through and through - the mission came first and Karma needed to take that idea to heart. He couldn’t keep snapping at others. He needed to find a way to motivate and inspire everyone.

Time to take a leaf out of Isogai’s book as well.

— 

Sugino was an expert player in his time, and he wasn’t half baked in this one either. Karma didn’t wait for Sensei’s orders and led the team to victory. 

“Karma-Kun!” It was Sensei, questioning him about why he wasn’t going to class, more than likely. 

Karasuma had warned him about Takaoka appearing and had skipped his introductory class. Today was the day he was going to leave. Karma decided to hang back at the building, making everyone fight for themselves. Last time he wasn’t on campus and missed the show, and this time he wanted to see the event that gave everyone so much respect for Nagisa. 

“Good job in the game the other day.” Or perhaps Sensei wasn’t going to grill him for skipping.

“Thanks. Just played them at their own game, really.”

“It was good thinking.” They paused, watching as Takaoka hit Maehara. Sensei winced but left them to their own devices - Karma expected to see him more agitated, but he was calm.

“What do you really want to say?”

“You’re not like the other students, are you? You aren’t like your file says, either.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“What do you know?”

“A lot.”

“Now who isn’t answering questions?”

Karma didn’t like that this conversation was dragging out, but he didn’t really know what to say. Rehearsing a conversation and living it were different. Most of the time he dealt with Fun Sensei, but this was clearly Assassin Sensei and that was a different ball game altogether, one he didn’t have a lot of experience with. He’d seen him in action, against Nidaime and other times, but he’d never had direct interaction with Sensei when he was serious like this. 

“I know your history, Shinigami-san. I know why you’re furious about Itona and why you came to this class. I know how this game ends.”

Karasuma rushed outside, putting a halt on Takaoka’s lesson.

“How?”

“Can’t say. Karasuma trusts me. I know the moves to play to get the same outcome, but I’m meant to alter it. That’s probably more than I should say, but I’m on your side, on this class’ side.” He was completely honest when he said it. “This is my family.”

Sensei said nothing.

Nagisa was smiling serenely while Takaoka was almost frothing at the mouth. A combined hit by Karasuma on his body and Gakuhou on his psyche sent him running. 

Karasuma left at the end of the day closer to the class, shouting them snacks at a nearby cafe. Karma was sure he heard him mutter “perhaps my other self wasn’t wrong” but didn’t question it. Everyone was due private time, as well as a secret or two. 

Sometimes it was nice to ignore the bigger picture and enjoy the little things, like now. A full family (minus Sensei), laughing together like nothing would ever go wrong.

—

Karma had been working on taming Terasaka, but with Yanagisawa lurking in the background it hadn’t been easy. But he knew the game, while Yanagisawa was only testing theories. Karma followed Terasaka to their meeting spot and let the exchange take place. 

He bullied Terasaka into meeting him early the next morning and showed him what Yanigsawa really planned. 

Terasaka was stunned, and Karma was able to use that to get him to become a member of the class. A rude and ungrateful one, but one who hadn’t almost killed his class thanks to some crazy and his experiment. Who was incredibly pissed. Yanigasawa was furious too, mostly because he was outsmarted by a kid, but Itona had been robbed of a rematch, of a certain victory.

They’d stormed the classroom again, Itona refusing to stay near the water for an advantage, much to Yanigsawa’s chagrin. Karma was confident on home ground, level flooring, instead of a mountain still shaking from the earlier blast.

“I told you, you’re needed in this class. For everyone else to grow and to try and beat you.” Itona was getting pissed again (“nobody can beat me!”) and he could see Karasuma sighing, irritated that he’d run his mouth again while Sensei was becoming anxious.

“You may be stronger than most of us, but unless you’re smarter than all of us, you can never win.”

Itona snapped.

Chairs went flying and while Sensei stopped most of them, he was only so fast and able to predict so much. He could only protect so many of them, even with a dozen tentacles, and Karma, with his skill level, wasn’t a priority.

— 

Karma woke up in the hospital after taking a book to the face. 

(“It was one of those Kyoto guidebooks, dude. Dunno why it was still in the classroom, but it hit you pretty square in the face.”

“Like an anime!”

“Fuwa, you’re not helping…”)

But Karma didn’t mind. Change was good (he hoped). If he could bully Itona and Kayano into being on his side (possibly before they lost the tentacles and their superhuman skills), he could possibly find out a way to save Sensei. If he could use Itona to get close to Yanagisawa, maybe the man had information on how to reverse the tentacle serum and his experiments.

Now all he needed was a chance to get his plans into action. 

—

Exam time was easy for Karma. He took Asano’s spot and challenged the rest of the class to keep up with him.

The time he once would have spent studying was spent at Karasuma’s, figuring out how to get Itona on their side or to bully him into teaching them more skills. Irina was more than happy to teach him new skills, and took great pride when he pulled manoeuvres off successful. Even more so when Karasuma praised him, since she could take the credit. 

(“It’s like I’m a real teacher!”

“That’s because you are, idiot…”)

Class 3-E was off to Okinawa, having beat out A Class for the top spots. But more than that, Karma was excited about Karasuma’s message. It wasn’t the best news, but it had been weeks with no response, so any news was good news. 

I apologise for the late response. I was imprisoned for treason. A low key imprisonment, and I’m out now, legally, but I’ve lost my job. I believe the programme has been bugged. I won’t be able to message you.

The state of the world hasn’t changed, but there have been some changes.

Baseball Nerd has married the Japanese Princess and has two children. This is a new change. 

English Girl never left Japan.

Half Baked Takaoka has climbed the ladder significantly, though is perhaps not as aligned with us as we once thought.

My wife returned and I have a daughter.

Change is happening.

[elfnerdherder]

Soulmate AU: Art for Art’s Sake

Read it on Ao3 Here

Art For Art's Sake:

           “This guy is hitting every two weeks, body gone by Thursday and returned by Saturday morning to bed.”

           “I’m aware of the timeline, Jack.”

           “It’s Tuesday, and I’ve got my director breathing down my neck to do a press release.”

           “I can’t pull a killer out of midair like some god damn magician,” says Will, and he moves to the side to let someone pass. He hates crowds, hates the sharing of skin and clothing in such close proximities, but the Starbucks down the way tasted like burnt beans and he’d had enough of the BAU’s habit of forgetting to change out the coffee grounds on a particularly hairy case. He’d needed a break, needed some space to get a drink and unwind his muscles for a moment. He’d miscalculated the time, though; it was peak lunch hour for business, which meant every coffee place was packed with the business class fighting for their caffeine rush to get them through the two P.M. lull.

           At his mention of killers, a girl in line gives him an uncomfortable glance that he ignores. Two solid green eyes; not worth the risk if they accidentally meet.

           “No, but here’s what I’m thinking: we’re at the ready. We can’t get you in first, but we can try and keep as many out as possible; keep it fresh. As fresh as we can. You go in, you take as much time as you need, and we get what we can from it. Try and get a head start on the next one.”

           “Jesus, Jack,” Will murmurs, planting his feet when he gets jostled again. The air smells like fresh ground coffee beans, syrup, and the beginning tendrils of a burnt bagel.

           “I’m just-”

           “You’re just trying to get me hyped, maybe give me a jolt to see something I’m not seeing. Trying to remind me of what happens, we don’t get something. You don’t have to remind me what I’ll be walking into; I’d say I know better than some. Maybe most.”

           He blinks away images like photographs in his mind’s eye, snapshots of bodies ravaged, ruined. He moves the phone from one ear to the other, takes another step closer to the register.

           “I’m just trying to prepare you, that’s all,” Jack replies.

           “If we get a print back, that’s one step closer to grabbing the bastard.”

           Someone glances back at him, and he focuses on the frame of the glasses perched precariously on his nose rather than risk meeting their eyes. Their nose is wrinkled in distaste at his language, words of disgruntled disapproval fat and heavy on their bottom lip. They ultimately say nothing, though. Be it his stance, his grave expression, or the turn of his shoulders that urges people to just look away; they turn around and leave him to Jack’s reassurances that Will would be able to complete the profile.

           The line moves, and he disconnects from the call, tucking his hands into his pockets. At the front, he watches his glasses and orders a chai latte, a small luxury but a luxury none-the-less. Smoother than coffee and arguably healthier, although Will Graham wouldn’t let that determine whether or not he’d consume the drink. Mostly, he had a closet sweet tooth.

           “Do you want to donate to the Lost Soulmate Fund?” the barista asks. It’s a rehearsed question, and her matching eyes and flat tone give him all that he needs to know about her opinion on the fund.

           “No, thank you.”

           He’s jostled as he waits for the cup, jostled as he sprinkles a small dusting of hazelnut on the foam, and by the time he’s making his way to the door he’s about fed up with everyone in their entirety. He needs a walk –reasons a walk will maybe clear his head until there’s nothing but the killer inside. Maybe if the killer’s there, they’ll find him in the real world before he can hurt anyone again.

           He’s jostled once more at the door, and as he turns to the side to avoid someone, the door opens and smashes right into his cup, spilling its contents down his shirt.

           “Fuck,” he hisses, hand shaking furiously as scalding tea hits it. He’s aware of too much: eyes, stares, whispers, noises of concern, hands reaching for napkins. A mild quiet as the baristas behind the counter watch the mess being made before their eyes, unable to fight through the crowd to clean it. The front of his shirt is soaked, burning hot on his skin, and he accepts a handful of napkins from a random stranger’s hand and smacks dismally at his chest.

           “My apologies, I didn’t see you there,” a man says, but Will isn’t looking at him. He manages a nod, scoops up the cup from the grimy floor and skirts around him to leave, his neck uncomfortably hot at the stares, skin on his chest even moreso from the burns.

           “It’s fine,” he manages, and his feet are hitting concrete. A bad idea to be in public, what with the tasteless thoughts in his head. A bad idea to be at a coffee shop. A bad idea to interact.

           “If I may,” the same voice says, and Will is stopped from a clean getaway by an odd tweed suit and an argyle tie blocking his path.

           “It’s fine,” he repeats uncomfortably.

           “I’ve spilt your drink and stained your clothes; allow me to at least get you a new cup.”

           A cursory glance gives him minute details of a clean-shaven face, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. A second glance reveals neatly combed hair, broad shoulders, and a sharp jawline. Matching eyes.

           “It’s not the first time I’ve spilled something on this shirt,” Will says, and the man allows a short laugh.

           “Be that as it may, you didn’t wait in line just to carry an empty cup and first degree burns.”

           Maybe it’s because he’s been really looking forward to the hazelnut on top, but Will manages to agree. He waits outside of the madhouse though, just because. He dabs at the stain spreading as his shirt greedily soaks up the liquid, although it’s more to have something to do with his hands than anything else. Will has always needed something to do with his hands.

           The man emerges from the coffee shop faster than Will imagined, and he accepts the new cup, tucking it into the old and empty one.

           “Thank you.”

           “How is your hand?”

           “My hand?” Will blinks, then remembers he’d burnt himself. He looks at it, sticky and pink, and he shrugs. “It’s fine.”

           There’s a pause, a faint lull as the man tries to catch his eye, and it occurs to Will, not for the first time, that he’s utterly impossible in situations like this, which is why he generally doesn’t work with many people if he can help it. He’s better off sequestered away with his profiles and his guest lectures where he’s talking at people, not with them. Usually they give him a solid barrier, too, a podium to fend them off if they get too close.

           “I’m Dr. Lecter,” the man says, and he holds his hand out.

           “Dr. Graham,” he replies, and he awkwardly wipes his hand before going to shake Lecter’s.

           Rather than shake his hand, though, Dr. Lecter surprises him by turning his hand and inspecting it for anything more than a mere burn. The shock is just enough that Will actually looks at him rather than the suggestion of him from around the rim of his glasses, and when their eyes meet his skin goes clammy.

           “It does look superficial,” Dr. Lecter says, letting go of his hand. His gaze is steady, searching, and Will quickly looks away from him, cramming his hand into his pocket as his eyelashes flutter, his breath stutters.

           He’d seen someone’s eyes. Will Graham tended to be rather good at avoiding eyes. Out of eyes to accidentally see, a small whisper reasons that they were a rather lovely shade of maroon. Another panicked whisper says he’d better get his contact information, just in case.

           “It’s fine,” he says again, and maybe he’s just doomed to parrot his words for the rest of the day. He clears his throat, glances to the sidewalk to count the cracks. “Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but I must be going.”

           “Off to change your shirt, I’d presume?”

           Will starts to say no, that he’d just lurk about FBI headquarters with a stained shirt for all he cares, but he stops himself. Most people would care enough to change their shirt. “Uh, yes. Then work.”

           “Are you quite sure you’re alright, Dr. Graham? You look flushed.”

           “That’s just my complexion,” he replies distractedly, and he’s down the sidewalk before Dr. Lecter can say anything else, let alone point out that one’s complexion doesn’t just change so quickly and drastically naturally unless something is very wrong. “Nice meeting you,” he manages to toss back as he goes.

           Back at HQ, he splashes water on his face, cools himself off. It was fine. He’d seen someone’s eyes, but it was fine. It’s not the first eyes you see, but a random pair of eyes, and he’d gone quite some time since the last scare. As water drips from his eyelashes, he takes slow, calming breaths and manages to convince himself that he’s not going to change. His eyes will remain the same. It was just a random coincidence, Dr. Lecter or whatever his name was, smashing into him.

           At least, he reasons much later, face dry and shirt stained, he got his chai.

-

           When he wakes, his actions are automatic, unconscious. His shirt isn’t fully buttoned as he leaves the hotel room, and he’s struggling to tie a knot in his shoe laces on the elevator. Something inside of him is whispering, urging, and he’s just sleep-deprived enough that he isn’t questioning it. Sometimes, a killer gets in so close that he wonders if he’s mirroring their actions, same things in a different place, and maybe that’s what this is. It’s an itch he can’t reach, and he’s too tired to try and figure out –he can only act.

           He doesn’t know where he’s walking, only that he must walk. The early morning air is cool on his cheeks, wet after light showers off and on in the night, and small buffets of air curl and puff in clouds about his lips. He’s wandering, uncertain, then stops. The urge is an odd thing, a thrum of energy that travels down his spine, then back up.

           Something tugs at him, whispering. Go, go, it says, and he takes another step, then another. At a crosswalk, he instinctively crosses, although he can’t say why. Maybe he is really losing it; maybe this was just enough to push him over, and God what was Jack Crawford going to say about that?

           It occurs to him that he can’t be losing it if he realizes he’s losing it, but that’s no comfort.

           He finds his way to a park, one he’s often visited when he needs to walk about and clear the spaces of his brain, fill it with something nice. The wet grass makes his steps slick, and he slips a few times before he makes it to the paved walkway, looking around. Searching. For what?

           What am I searching for?

           The park is deserted, and he wanders it, aimless, seconds ticking faintly on the watch on his wrist, reminding him of lost sleep. He turns to continue walking, to continue searching for something, something. When he sees it, he stops.

           Just across a small bridge, someone stands, staring. At the distance, he isn’t sure how he knows the person is looking at him, but looking at him they are. At the recognition, they take a step towards him, and suddenly he’s walking, a lurch to his gait that tells him to hurry, hurry, and he’s got a little bit of a scuff to his step as he picks up his pace and all but collides into the poor bastard with a tight embrace on the center of the bridge.

           It feels right.

           Arms wrap tight around him, securing him in place as he’s buffeted with the sensation of endorphins being released, humming with a pleasure in his veins, in every heartbeat. Without thought, without question, lips seek his and claim them, and he’s drowning, pleasure hot in his stomach and tingling along his palms. It is not so much a question of whether or not he wants to be kissed, but if he’s even in the right place to question it.

           Quite simply, he’s not.

           His mouth is soft, yielding under Will’s curious hunger. Palms pass along his sides, his back, his shoulders, and he inhales the scent of a luxuriously calming cologne, something smacking of bergamot and cedar. It’s dizzying in his mind, and he closes his eyes tight, lips moving with an urgency for the whispers under his skin that’s begging him to just touch.

           They break for air; a gasping breath wheezes from him, and it’s with a startling lurch that he realizes something he’d been too tired to piece together before:

           Soulmate.

           He looks at the man’s face, his eyes, and sure enough. One eye blue, the other maroon. His breath leaves him, and he seems to slump into the man, shaking his head.

           “No.”

           “Yes,” Dr. Lecter replies. He doesn’t seem perturbed; if anything, there is awe on his face, in his gaze. He doesn’t seem to mind holding Will up against him, and he tightens his hold on his waist to better support him, lifting one hand up to glide against his cheek.

           “It was just…it was just one look,” Will protests. At his touch, he can’t help but lean into it, digging his fingers into the material of the man’s sweater like he can rip it in two.

           “That’s all it takes. You would know that, I think,” he says, and his fingertips slide into the curls of his hair, caressing them. “Dr. Graham, a common topic of conversation among psychiatric circles for your consulting with the FBI on soulmate dynamics and psychology of soulmate behavior.”

           “You looked me up?” There is a sensation of something thrilling at that, as well as a sliver of guilt. He’d looked up Dr. Hannibal Lecter, too. Just in case.

           “We met eyes, and in case I didn’t find you today, I needed to be able to contact you somehow.”

           Silence, save the two of them and the air that smells like rain and fresh earth. Will thinks to rage, to scream, but it’s tempered by the hand that lifts just enough to glide across his back, like he wants to trace over every aspect of his skin. Will desperately wants him to continue doing that, to not stop. If he rages and screams, it’s more than likely he’d stop.

           “This isn’t happening,” Will murmurs, but that’s not quite what he means. His stance straightens so that he’s eye-level with Hannibal, chest-to-chest, almost nose-to-nose. “Are they…are mine…?”

           “One eye blue, the other maroon,” Hannibal assures him gently. Will can taste Hannibal’s pleasure at that in the back of his throat. “I’ve not endured a phenomenon like this.”

           “Neither have I.”

           He thinks that he should break apart from him, pull away so that they can breathe in something other than the instinct to consume, to touch. Enough studies taught him that it was certainly possible to resist the initial connections, that it was not all-consuming.

           He is ready to tell those studies to fuck off because there’s no way he’s strong enough not to touch.

           “I’m sorry,” he says, and Hannibal tilts his head.

           “Why?”

           “I’m…I met your eyes, and…”

           “Are you afraid, Dr. Graham?” Hannibal asks, and Will’s breath catches. He glares, stiffens in his embrace.

           “No.”

           “You are,” he realizes, and something on his face is kind, non-piteous as he slides his hand to the back of Will’s neck, leaning forward to press his forehead to Will’s. “If it’s any consolation, I am, too.”

           Will feels it, just as uncertain as his own fears, his own misgivings. Neither one of them, he thinks, are the sort that enjoys feeling so out of control. It’s a heady sort of sensation, though, that one isn’t strong enough for their skin and its demands.

           “Did it wake you from your sleep, too?” Will asks.

           A quiet hum of assent, a nod. Hannibal closes his eyes, and Will basks in the close proximity of his skin, the heat of his palm against the back of his neck.

           “I knew not where I was going, only that I had to get there,” he says quietly. His lips brush against Will’s as he speaks, and it makes his damn knees weak.

           “Now that you’re here?” Will wonders. A dangerous question, given the desires within his own veins –something naughty, something verging on possessive.

           They were complete strangers, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t be feeling this, thinking this; he is, though.

           “I’m overcome with a genuine desire to touch, Dr. Graham,” he replies, and fuck –hearing his own desires validated by the person that’s consuming him does odd things to Will’s knees, makes him pull their bodies flush against one another.

           “That’s…normal,” he says raggedly.

           “Is it?”

           “Yes.” He wets his lips, keeps his eyes shut tight. Without sight, his tactile sense is heightened, makes everything sensitive, wonderful. “It’s…an inconvenience, I’m told.”

           “I don’t feel inconvenienced.”

           “Oh, good.”

           Silence again, save for their quiet breaths, the sound of water burbling underneath the bridge they stand on. Will thinks maybe to invite him to his hotel where they can maybe talk, maybe work through what’s just happened because years of his work and studies have taught him that it’s not as easy as it feels right in this moment –he doesn’t want to sound crass, though. He doesn’t want to imply anything.

           He really, honestly just wants to touch.

           “My house is nearby,” Hannibal says suddenly, voice breaking the churning thoughts in Will’s head. He can’t bring voice to them, can’t share them, but Hannibal seems to know anyway. “If you woke as I did, I can assume you’re hungry.”

           “I’m hungry,” Will agrees, and it’s not about food.

           “It will give us a private space to discuss this in further detail too,” Hannibal adds.

           Will manages to pry himself out from around Hannibal, and he also manages a nod, although a curt one. The space pains him, something inside urging him to close the distance, to not let go now that he’d found something beautiful, something he wanted to touch, and –

           -Hannibal grasps his hand, stilling the racing thoughts. His smile is polite, congenial, and Will decides to follow him, not just because of the questions they’ll need to answer but because he’s smart enough to know when he’s not fully in control of himself.

           “That is the same shirt as yesterday,” Hannibal says, and God, he almost sounds affectionate pointing that out.

           “…I was in a rush,” Will replies. He’d grabbed the first thing he could find, and when Hannibal leads him off of the bridge, he realizes that the collar of his undershirt is riding high up on his neck, and yes, he’d most certainly put it on backwards in the dark.

           He takes some small comfort in the fact that at least Hannibal Lecter’s hair looked mussed, like he’d forgotten to comb it in his haste to leave his home. Still managed to get a button-up on underneath his sweater. Bastard.

           It isn’t far –closer than Will’s hotel, at least. They walk side by side, hands clasped, silent. Shoulders brush together occasionally, and although the first time he figured it was an accident, by the tenth time Will knows they’re both doing it on purpose. It’s the chemicals, he tells himself. The chemicals are feeling pretty damn good, in truth.

           It’s a lovely Tudor style home, and he’s deposited to a cushioned, wrought-iron metal barstool while Hannibal begins making breakfast, ignoring his offers to help cook.

           “…I looked you up too,” Will says, watching him break eggs in a glass bowl. His barstool sits just close enough that whenever Hannibal passes by him, the side of his slacks brushes against Will’s pantleg. Every time he walks back, his fingers brush against his arm resting on the counter, making small spirals of sensations spread along his skin. A ripple effect, and he feels much like he does when drunk, a disconnect between reality and the pleasure he’s floating in.

           “What did you find?”

           “A psychiatric practice, very well-maintained clientele. A socialite, too.”

           “What gives you that impression?” A small, self-satisfied smile. Will sees the flash of a canine, finds it endearing that it’s a little sharper than most.

           He mulls over just how a sharp canine could be endearing, but he puts that thought on the back burner. Anything about your soulmate is supposedly endearing, and just thinking like that makes his stomach churn –he’s not sure yet if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

           “There were a few articles about you showing up to a play or an opera,” he says, watching elegant fingers and knowing hands as they handle ginger over a cutting board. “No one just gets mentioned as being at a place like that unless they’re rich, important, or some kind of socialite.”

           “Or?”

           “Sometimes and,” Will allows. “Sometimes a bit of all three.”

           “Would you presume that it’s a bit of all three now?” Hannibal glances at him, and Will is distracted by his mismatched eyes, how warming it is to see his own eye pigment and know that it’s his, his and no one else’s. It’s possessive of him, and Will isn’t normally the possessive type –previous lovers abound could attest to his distinct lack of attachment.

           “Definitely important,” he murmurs, and he looks down to his French pressed coffee so that he doesn’t have to witness Hannibal seeing his ears turn pink. He’s not a sentimental sort like that, to say shit anything close to that.

           “Thank you.”

           There’s relief in his voice, and Will looks up from the rich color of the coffee, black as requested, focusing on the curl of his lips as he folds ginger into a skillet with a few other herbs and spices.

           “Thank you?” he asks, confused.

           “I know of you, Dr. Graham.”

           “Please, just…Will.” A pause as he laughs, taking a sip of coffee so that he has something to do with his hands. “I think after…this, you have every right to just call me Will.”

           “Thank you, Will,” Hannibal says, and he pauses in his mincing to fix Will with an honest expression. “As I said, I looked you up because we met eyes. I saw your panic, your…distaste. Your genuine fear. I normally am not so worried with my eye contact that I feel the need to find the person later, but your expression alone was enough that I was mildly concerned for you.”

           Will wants to correct that he wasn’t afraid when he realized just what he’d done outside of that coffee shop, but the urge to lie just doesn’t exist at a time like this. The urge to touch does, though. His fingers twitch, and if he reaches he could just touch his elbow, a mere grazing of fingers but dammit if it wouldn’t feel good, he thinks.

           Will stubbornly resists.

           “You are prolific on studies of soulmates, but within those studies I noticed time and time again that you emphasized their existence not being any different than others, their social standing something constructed because of us deeming their connections more important than connections to anything else. ‘We as a society have decided to place utmost importance on a simple chemical connection when in reality it teaches us to not make more than the basest amount of efforts in maintaining friends and acquaintances. Soulmates have the capacity to make one lazy in their day to day interactions.’”

           “…I did say that,” Will agrees.

           “I felt quite confidant in not being your soulmate after that, seeing as how my thought on the matter is that their connection is of vast importance to how we make connections with others. I read extensively about the conjectures as to why someone of your skills and knowledge would avoid eyes after seeing the wonderful things that it could be.”

           “I’m sorry,” he echoes from earlier.

           He glances to Hannibal’s eyes, double checking. Still mismatched.

           “Don’t be. As I’m allowed my romantic nature, you too are allowed to be anything but.”

           They take breakfast out on a patio that shows the hesitantly rising sun. The overhang kept the table and chairs from getting wet, and Will breathes in the crisp air of something just on the horizon, beckoning. When Hannibal places his chair on the same side of the frosted glass table so that their arms occasionally brush against one another, Will doesn’t complain. He’s more relieved, he muses, since he wasn’t the one that had to make a show of needing a consistent physical presence. No one actually enjoys being needy.

           “This doesn’t have to change things for you,” Will tries to comfort him.

           “Is that your way of saying you don’t wish for things to change?” Hannibal asks. He uses chopsticks to place delicate folds of sashimi on his tongue, and Will watches for far longer than he should.

           “No, I…it’s more to…comfort you,” he replies lamely. He clears his throat, forces himself to look at a quaint backyard with Japanese maples, a koi pond and stone benches near a well-manicured bush. It’s a good bush, he decides. This was the kind of well-established guy that made domestic living look effortless and even fun.

           “To comfort me? Are you selling yourself short, Dr. Graham?”

           “More warning you that I’m not really the type that’s good at this sort of thing, even without a soulmate connection,” he explains awkwardly. He fumbles with the chopsticks, gets them set right in his hands, and picks at the fish among the ginger. “You can ask my exes; it’s abysmal.”

           “Perhaps they didn’t understand you,” Hannibal says evenly. He sets his chopsticks down, glides the back of his fingers along Will’s bare arm. Will freezes, tracking the motion with rapt attention, food only half-chewed in his mouth. He takes a few more bites, swallows heavily, and leans back in his chair, mouth decidedly dry.

           I want to touch you.

           “I wasn’t really that good at helping them understand.”

           “Therefore, you see fit to build walls where your subconscious wanted to place doorways.”

           Will glances to his face, ready to protest, but it dies in his throat at the expression of utmost interest in Hannibal’s eyes. It’s not the look of someone that is merely entertaining what’s happened to them out of obligation –it’s someone that is genuinely curious.

           “…Do you want this?” he asks rather than argue. He’s stunned at the thought that someone would run willingly to such a forceful initial connection.

           “I am open to it, at the very least.” Hannibal tilts his head, and something flickers across his face, something too quick to catch. “That means nothing, though, if you’re not.”

           “I help hunt down serial killers for the FBI.” The words burst from his mouth, unbidden. When Hannibal says nothing to that, he continues, “I keep odd hours, I don’t sleep well at night, I don’t have family to introduce you to, my cooking is nowhere as fastidious and detailed as this, and I’ll have you know I didn’t go to the hotel room to change my shirt yesterday before going back in to the bureau –I once stood in the same room as the Vice President with a soup stain on the hem of my shirt without realizing it. When I realized it, I didn’t really care.

           “I don’t care much about people, and if you’ve looked me up then you know about my empathy disorder, and you know I once punched Dr. Frederick Chilton in the face because he kept pestering me for an in-depth analysis on my person and he caught me on a bad day after I’d had drinks with the few friends I have. I don’t like eyes, I don’t care much for cats, and sometimes I get so lost in my head I come back and have to piece together who I am.”

           Hannibal listens, expression impassive.

           “I have fourteen dogs at my house in Wolf Trap, Virginia,” he continues ruthlessly, and he drums his fingers on the table to expel the nervous energy just under the surface of his blunt and unfiltered confessions. “I don’t like soulmates because people try and force something that may or may not work, all for the sake of a connection that society told them spans time and the universe or whatever. I think it’s a load of shit.

           “Even then, I’m just not good at connections. You’re a socialite, you’ve a presence in the art community, the psychiatric community and, hell, you’ve even got connections to the government, and I’d hate to be the reason you have a rough time with that, just because there’s something about us that our subconscious saw before we did.

           “But really, above all, I’m just not the kind of person that’d be good at that, I think. So it’s not so much whether I want to or not, it’s that from what I’ve seen on the internet and what I’m seeing here, I’d be just about as useful to you as a tick on a dog’s ass.”

           He’s not looking at Hannibal anymore; instead, he’s staring out at the lovely stone wall that surrounds the backyard, free of kudzu and ivy. So lost is he in the many shades of grey in the rock that when Hannibal’s voice starts, just at the shell of his ear, he jumps a little.

           “You have a distinct southern accent when you’re agitated,” he says, breath warm and honeyed in his ear. “I find it oddly attractive.”

           Will finds himself holding very, very still.

           “And,” Hannibal continues, tone low and even, “you gave me a dramatic resume, complete with your own estimation of what you think of yourself; at the very least in regards to what you think ties you to people –usefulness. Do you suppose people only create friendships or relationships with you based off of what is it about you that makes you useful?”

           Will wants to answer ‘yes’, but he knows the right answer is a rather defensive ‘no’. He settles for looking down at his plate, a small and elegant display of food for no other reason than the simple fact that Hannibal wanted to, and he’d seemed to enjoy doing it, too.

           “You’re a person of aesthetics, and I’m…distinctly not that,” he manages.

           “Neither are you a tool, tolerated only for the work you can do. You think like that, though. I can see that.”

           “Can you?” Will asks, mild sarcasm tinging his words.

           “Yes.” Hannibal doesn’t rise to the bait, and he shifts just close enough that lips brush against Will’s ear as he makes sure that every aspect of Will Graham is distinctly aware of and wanting every single aspect of him. “There is nothing wrong with art for art’s sake.”

           “Art for art’s sake?”

           “You can enjoy something without it representing something of symbolism or usefulness to you. Most people searching for a domestic partner do not choose them because they fulfil a demand, but simply because they enjoy being within the same general area as that person.”

           “We connect due to a need. People are useful because we tend to move in packs, forming organized locations around one another due to the skillsets of the people within an area,” Will replied. He refuses to admit to himself just how lovely it feels to have Hannibal pressed so close, mouth close enough that if he turned his head, he’d kiss it.

           “Yes, but we don’t choose down a long line of criteria as though it is a job. We enjoy people simply because they are enjoyable, no matter if their hands build homes or their minds solve puzzles.”

           “You’re awfully close to sounding like you think you’d enjoy my presence,” Will said dryly.

           “I can enjoy looking without wondering what use I can gain from your presence. Just looking would be enough.”

           “Would it?” Will asks dubiously. He can feel it, though, knows the answer before it’s said. He knows it before Hannibal even grabs him gently by the chin and turns his head so that he can kiss him, lips soft and searching. It isn’t the same as on the bridge, when an unknown urge propelled him, wanting. It’s gentler, and he’s sighing into it like it’s some sort of cheesy romantic comedy because there’s just something so right about how Hannibal’s hand slides along his jaw to tangle in the hair at the back of his neck, like he knows that it’s a weakness of Will’s, like he knows it just makes him feel like he’s melting into a puddle.

           Hannibal pulls away, just enough to speak. “I suppose just looking wouldn’t be enough. Not on a day like today, at least.” His voice sounds strained, mildly pained at the close proximity. Through the connection, he feels Hannibal’s desire pooling in his stomach, making his hands want to reach out and grab. Will slides his hands along his chest, cashmere sweater soft against his calloused palms. He’s glad he didn’t rip it earlier.

           “That fades,” Will tries to reassure him. His voice is pitched, hoarse.

           “I’m not quite sure that I want it to.”

           Well, there’s that. Will curls his bottom lip into his mouth, glides his tongue along it to taste. More than a want, he realizes. A need. He’s not sure how to articulate that, not without another rousing round of confessional, one psychiatrist to another. Maybe a little more kissing. Maybe just a little more touching.

           “Any other day though, after the strength of the chemical compounds fade to something more manageable, just looking is something I believe I could do,” Hannibal says when Will doesn’t speak. Can’t speak.

           “…Yeah?” Inelegant, blunt. Beverly at the BAU would have almost fallen over laughing at him.

           “In reality, I’d like to have dinner with you, at the very least.”

           “We’re having breakfast.”

           “We moved to a private location so that we weren’t overcome with the desire to remove our clothes in a public park,” Hannibal corrects him. Will can’t argue that, no matter how much he wants to –Hannibal wasn’t wrong, after all. “As much as I enjoy Mukozuke, this was a spontaneous act in order to ease the onslaught of endorphins our systems received.”

           “You think once those endorphins ease, you’re going to want to have dinner with me?”

           “That stems from a genuine curiosity, not from chemical compounds.”

           Will knows he’s telling the truth about that –he’d seen it, after all. Hannibal’s hand is still tangled in his hair, and he peeks up at him, an odd sort of grimace that he can’t quite fix into a smile. It’s surreal. The entire thing is surreal, and he’s pretty sure he’s one drink away from waking up in a ditch with no memory of the encounter –

           -Then why worry? If this is really just a random, colorful dream of the drunken, what’s the harm?

           “…A date,” Will finds himself saying. “Not just dinner.”

           “It doesn’t have to be a date.”

           “It does, otherwise it’s not worth it. If we’re going to give this a try, we’re going to do it right,” he says. “All in or not at all, right?”

           Hannibal kisses him again, and Will is just pleased enough with the way he’s wrapped his mind around the whole thing to let him. That, and it was either Hannibal kiss him, or he was going to kiss Hannibal.

           They finish their breakfast –he’d have to research what the hell Mukozuke was –and Hannibal, naturally, is ambidextrous enough to use his left hand rather than his right, to better keep a hold on Will’s hand.

-

           He realizes, of course, that it wasn’t a drunken hallucination where he woke up in a ditch the next morning with no credit cards in his wallet. The next morning his eyes are still mismatched, and four days later he’s on a date with Hannibal Lecter, top recommended psychiatrist of Baltimore area and an avid fan of the opera.

           He said one date, but after that one there was another. Then another. Then another.

           Quite frankly, he decides to stop counting them because at this point he’s too damn old to count dates like he’s waiting for one where they become something more official.

           Instead, he decides to try the whole ‘art for art’s sake’ and just sits back to enjoy the ride.

[findstuff]

21 Wedding Photography Tips You Must know in 2019

"Help me - I'm photographing my first wedding! ... Help me with some wedding photography tips, please!"

It's a question that has, been asked a few times on our forums in recent months. So while I'm not a professional wedding photographer, I thought it was time to share some tips on the subject of wedding photography.

I will leave the technical tips of photographing a wedding for professionals - but as someone who has been invited to photograph several friends and family weddings - here are some suggestions. Before learning these tips, you need a professional camera and best lens for wedding and portraits photography 

1. Create a ‘Shot  List'

One of the most helpful tips I got about wedding photography is to get the couple to think in advance about the photos they would like you to capture on the day and compile a list so you can see them. This is particularly useful in family photos. There is nothing worse than retrieving the photos and realizing that you have not photographed the happy couple with their grandmother!

2. Family Photography Coordinator

I think the family photo part of the day can be quite stressful. People are going everywhere, you don't know the different family dynamics at play, and people have a "festive spirit" (and often drink some spirits) to the point where it can be quite chaotic. Have the couple nominate a family member (or one on each side of the family) who can be the "director" of the shoot. They can get everyone together, help put them on the scene, and keep things moving so the couple can get back to the party.

3. Examine the location

Visit the locations of the different places you will photograph before the big day. Although I'm sure most professionals don't do this - I find it really helpful to know where we're going, to get an idea of ​​some photo positions and how light can come into play. At one or two weddings, I even visited venues with the couples and took some test photos (these were great 'engagement photos').

4. In wedding photography, preparation is key

A lot can go wrong on the day - so you need to be well prepared. Have a backup plan (in case of bad weather), charged batteries, blank memory cards, think of routes and time to get places, and take a full-day itinerary to find out what's going on next. If you can, attend the ceremony rehearsal, where you will find plenty of excellent information on possible shooting positions, lighting, ceremony order, and so on.

5. Set expectations with the couple

Show them your work / style. Find out what they want to achieve, how many photos they want, what key items they want to be recorded, how the photos will be used (printing, etc.). If you are charging for the event, make sure you have the pricing agreement in place.

6. Turn off your camera sound

Beeps during speeches, kissing and vows do not contribute to the event. Turn the sound off before hand and keep it off.

7. Shoot the little details

Photography rings, backs of dresses, shoes, flowers, tables, menus etc. - help give the final album an extra dimension. Scroll through a wedding magazine at a newsstand for some inspiration.

8. Use two cameras

Beg, borrow, hire or steal an extra camera for the day - set it up with a different lens. I try to shoot with a wide-angle lens (great for spontaneous and close-up shots (especially before the day's preparation ceremony) and a longer lens (it might be useful to have something as large as 200mm if you can put it hands in one - I use a 70-200mm).

9. Consider a Second Wedding Photographer

Having a second backup photographer can be a great strategy. This means less movement during the ceremony and speeches, allows one to capture the formal photos and the other to get spontaneous photos. It also takes some pressure off you being the 'one' to get every shot!

10. Be bold but not intrusive

Shyness won't give you a chance - sometimes you need to be bold to capture a moment. However, time is everything, and it is important to think ahead to reach the right position at important times so as not to disturb the event. In a ceremony,

I try to move at least 4-5 times, but I try to time it to coincide with longer songs, sermons, or readings. During the formal photos, be bold, know what you want and ask the couple and their party. You are running the show at this time of day and need to keep things moving.

11. Learn to use diffused light

The ability to skip a flash or diffuse it is critical. You will find that in many churches this light is very low. If you are allowed to use a flash (and some churches do not allow it),

consider whether the jump will be sufficient (remember to bounce off a colored surface, it will add a colored tone to the image) or if you might want to buy a diffuser. flash to soften the light. If you cannot use a flash, you will need to use a quick lens at large apertures and / or increase the ISO. A lens with image stabilization can also help. Learn more about using flash diffusers and reflectors.

12. Shoot RAW

I know a lot of readers think they don't have time to record RAW (due to the extra processing), but a wedding is one that can be particularly useful as it offers much more flexibility to manipulate photos after taking them. Weddings can provide photographers with complicated lighting, which results in the need to manipulate exposure and white balance after the fact - RAW will help considerably.

13. Show off your photos at reception

One of the great things about digital photography is its immediacy as a medium. One of the fun things I've seen more and more photographers doing recently is bringing a computer to the front desk, loading photos taken early in the day, and letting them spin like a slideshow at night. This adds a fun element at night.

14. Consider Your Background

One of the challenges of weddings is that there are often people going everywhere - including the background of their photos. Particularly, with formal photos, the area where they will be taken ahead of time looks for good experiences. Ideally, you will want cluttered areas and shaded spots in direct sunlight, where a wandering great-aunt is unlikely to wander around the back of the scene. Read more about getting the right funds.

15. Don't Discard Your 'Mistakes'

The temptation with digital is to check images as you go along and delete images that don't work immediately. The problem is that you may be getting rid of some of the most interesting and useful images. Remember that images can be cropped or manipulated later to provide more artistic / abstract looking photos that can add real interest to the final album.

16. Change Your Perspective

Be a little creative with your photos. Although most images from the final album are probably quite "normal" or formal - make sure you mix things up a bit by taking pictures of low, high, wide angles, and so on.

17. Wedding Group Photos

One thing I did in every wedding I photographed is to try to photograph everyone in a scene. The way I did it is to organize a place that I can rise above everyone right after the ceremony. This can mean climbing stairs, using a balcony or even climbing a roof. The beauty of getting up is that you have everyone's face and can accommodate many people at once.

The key is to be able to get everyone to the place you want them to be quickly and be ready to take the picture without everyone staying long. I found the best way to get everyone there by taking the couple there and having some helpers to gather them all in that direction. Read more about taking group photos.

18. Fill Flash

When shooting outside after a ceremony or during shooting, you will probably want to keep the flash connected to provide a little flash. I often go back a little (one or two stops) so that photos are not erased - but particularly in backlit or midday shooting conditions where there may be a lot of shadow, fill flash is required. Read more about using Fill Flash.

19. Continuous Shooting Mode

Having the ability to capture many images quickly is very useful on your wedding day, so switch your camera to continuous shooting mode and use it. Sometimes it's the photo you take a second after the formal or posed photo, when everyone is relaxing, that really captures the moment!

20. Expect the unexpected

One more advice someone gave me on my wedding day. "Things will go wrong - but they can be the best parts of the day." Every wedding I've attended something tends to go wrong with the day. The best man can't find the ring, the rain falls the moment the ceremony is over, the groom forgets to fly, the flower girl decides to sit in the middle of the aisle or the bride can't remember her vows

These moments may seem a bit panicky at the moment - but it's those moments that can really make a day and give the couple memories. Try to capture them and you can find them.

For more information related to Camera and lens checkout: Camera Lens Review 

[randomconnections]

Hymns and Hops

I was intrigued by this idea of a Beer and Hymns event. When I found one in Columbia I sent a note to my friend Dwight saying that he and his wife Sue should check it out. He responded that there was already such a thing in Greenville. After doing some digging, I found Hymns and Hops would be holding its next event at What’s on Tap, a bar on Woodruff Road. I contacted my partner in this endeavor, Don Kirkindoll, and we made arrangements to attend.

The event was the Tuesday following the Easter Weekend. I have to admit I was a bit skeptical. While other Beer and Hymns events I’d found online looked like rowdy songfests, the videos of this event looked more like church in a bar. I decided to give them the benefit of the doubt.

I arrived at the venue a little before 7:00. What’s on Tap is typical of the many taprooms that have sprung up around Greenville. There is a huge selection of beer, but no food.

There was quite a crowd gathering. In one corner instrumentalists were going through a soundcheck. I stood in line to get a beer, then took a seat at the bar.

I was waiting for Don and a guy who appeared to be in charge walked by. While he was standing next to me I took the opportunity to ask a couple of questions. I asked if this was affiliated with any church, and he said that while several of the singers attended the same church, it didn’t have any affiliation. I don’t remember the name of his church, but it was one of those single name churches like “Elevate Church” or “Go Church or “The Edge Church.” My skepticism increased as he tried to get me to attend.

The group was a typical gathering of young Greenvillians. There were families present, as well as some older folks, probably members of the church there to encourage these folks. On the whole it struck me as a good, wholesome event, just set in a bar. One unusual thing was that several, including the lead singer with whom I’d spoken, had this weird Amish Hipster vibe going on – extremely short hair or shaved head, full beard, but no mustache. I hadn’t spotted that as a trend around town, but it could be a new thing.

Don arrived and ordered his beer, and things got underway.

Printed “hymnals” were available. These had nineteen hymns, mostly traditional. The hymnal was specifically crafted for this event, including some Easter songs. It served more as a program or bulletin rather than a an all-purpose song book. Fortunately there were no praise choruses. That relieved my skepticism a bit. We grabbed a couple of them and got ready to join in. The hymnals are available for download in PDF format.

I couldn’t see the band very well, but it seemed to be several people – the lead singer and guitar player I’d met earlier, another guitarist, a drummer, a bass player, a female singer, and another woman playing fiddle/violin. All of it was amplified, as if this were just another bar band…

…and that’s kind of how things started. There was a band on stage performing, and people listening (or gabbing, or drinking, or a hundred other things) but not really participating. It was performers plus audience, and could have been any other band, except that they were singing hymns. Don and I sang, trying to fill in harmonies and parts as best we could. Here’s a short video clip. You’ll hear the lead singer encouraging the group to sing louder.

Eventually the crowd got settled with their seats and their beers and more started singing. The band went through the hymnal in order, taking a break right at the middle fold of the hymnal. The second half were the Easter songs.

I do have a couple of audio clips. The first is the opening hymn, How Firm a Foundation:

If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here http://chirb.it/JwNkbJ

Check this out on Chirbit

The second is from the second half, He Is Risen, Alleluia. You’ll hear Don and me singing the version of the melody that we know from the hymnal:

If you can not see this chirbit, listen to it here http://chirb.it/ObNrnE

Check this out on Chirbit

I didn’t stay for the whole thing. I’d been away from Laura the entire Easter weekend, been away for rehearsal Monday night, then this on Tuesday. I wanted to get back home to her, and didn’t know how much longer this might go on. I left Don to finish out the evening.

Observations:

We had fun, and I’m glad we went. However, it was very much “church in a bar”, minus the preaching and prayers. As a very traditional church musician it seemed that even though they were singing hymns, it looked like the type of setup you would see in a more contemporary church, with a praise band leading the singing. There was even emotional hand raising, which I mention not to criticize, but to point to as evidence that this had heavy religious overtones, despite its setting.

Even so, I was glad to see that this was a congregation that didn’t try to hide that they drank beer. Though their worship style differs from what I’m accustomed, it made me curious about the theology of some of these single-named churches. I’m sure the “Jesus ate with sinners” and “water into wine” passages of the New Testament come into play here, which is fine with me.

The musicians were quite good. They used some innovative chord progressions and arrangements for the hymns. Unfortunately, this tends to work counter to having the audience/congregation participate. It was hard to figure out exactly when we were to start singing and how to harmonize if we wanted to sing parts.

There seemed to be an obsession with documentation. It’s probably just a result of the Facebook/Twitter/Selfie oversharing generation, but for every hand raised in worship there was another raised with a cell phone taking photos and videos, as if to say, “Look at me! I’m doing this cool thing!” I’d like to think my photo taking was for a better purpose, for research for our own event and for blogging, but what I was doing was probably just as bad.

The bar setting itself proved to be a distraction. The room layout wasn’t ideal, but wasn’t much different from the pubs I visited in Ireland. However, Don and I found ourselves looking and laughing at American Ninja Warrior and wrestling on TV about as much as we looked at our hymnals.

Lastly, while the printed hymnals were a great idea and a great help, Don and I wished that they had included printed music. Logistically it’s easier just to type up some lyrics, but it would have been good to include the harmonies. Granted, with the arrangements the band was using, those harmonizations wouldn’t have worked.

The Hymns and Hops folks have a good thing going and their constituents clearly enjoyed themselves. I wouldn’t dare try to waltz in and say, “You’re having fun the wrong way.” However, it’s not exactly what I was after. I was hoping for something a bit less religious and a bit more boisterous.

I think when and if we do get our event together it will be a small informal gathering pulling from several resources such as Beer and Hymns and Beer Choir. It probably won’t be in a bar, but there will still be adult beverages. We will have the music printed and available, and perhaps a way to project songs if someone finds something online they want to sing. We’ll include a good mix of religious and secular music – folk music, traditional songs, drinking songs, and maybe even a madrigal.

For the layout I don’t want it to be performers vs audience. There is a lot to be said for how drum circles or the open square for Sacred Harp singing encourage everyone to participate. And as with a Shape Note singing, I think anyone should be able to pick a song and lead. Accompaniment will be kept to a minimum and will only be amplified if necessary. Singing and participation should be the priority.

A couple of things I know for sure…it will NOT be a rehearsal. It will NOT be a performance. I’m hoping it will be rowdy and fun with no religious obligations whatsoever. We’ll see.

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