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thewestern · 2 months ago

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Epilogue

Where are they now > End Credits

Dead & Company. “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door > Not Fade Away,” 16 May 2024, Sphere, Las Vegas.

[This is supposed to be like the part in movies where they say what happens to the characters in the future. The written descriptions are to be accompanied by grainy, sepia-toned film footage. Starting with Billy, at Rockland riding his mini bike.]

Wilhelm Wolff III

“Billy”

He didn’t get sent to Wilderness Renewals after all. Rather, his mother agreed to a compromise, that he be enrolled in graduate school. He is currently pursuing his Masters of Business Administration, in year-three of a two year program.

Ooh, Ooh (2x)

[Raj, intensely focused with a blunt resting on his lip, while he types away on a laptop.]

Rajit Patel

“Yayo-L”

As part of his binding non-disclosure agreement spanning the length of his friendship with Billy, which through it all remains ongoing, Raj received a lucrative incentive package from the Wolffenbeir Company, which following the collapse of the merger agreement with GloBev, likewise remains a going concern. In addition to receiving a considerable lump sum in the form of an annual bonus, Raj was set on a fastrack for promotion, taking Billy’s spot in the vaunted Rotational Leadership Program. He is now a Vice President of Information Security.

Mama take this badge off of me

[Mister X posing for a photo-op with Doctor Goodlove, giddily shaking his paw.]

Name unknown

“Mister X”

Thwarted in his dogged pursuit of Doctor Goodlove, Mister X settled for his backup plan for world domination, representing Globev in their acquisition of the Kraft Heinz Corporation. In hindsight, he may have been lucky to strike out with Wolffenbeir, on account of how the broader stable of brands at KH has provided the opportunity to build an extended content universe around these beloved products and characters. Of course, they are anchored around the singularly iconic Kool-Aid Man, who has emerged as something of a demigod-like figure in Asia, inspiring a truly zealous fervor among a legion of devoted followers the continent over. Presently Mister X has him preparing for a viral stunt, a la Evel Knievel, but with a key twist. Rather than jumping over some obstacle or void on a motorcycle, he will drive the Oscar Meyer Weiner Mobile, fueled by a jet engine converted to run on Velveeta cheese, directly through the famed Badaling section of the Great Wall of China. Already, all throughout Tiananmen Square, children chant his famous catchphrase: 哦，是的.

I can’t use it anymore

[B-roll of wooks dancing.]

The Grateful Dead/Phish

In modern life, we spend so much of our precious time staring at screens. Computer, phone, television. Everywhere we look, here’s a screen. There’s a screen. It’s gotten to the point that the term Screen Time has entered the lexicon, even securing coveted honours as Webster’s Dictionary’s Word of the Year in 2012.

You may even be reading this sentence on a screen right now. But do you even know screens work?

(Pinky promise this’ll be, like, the last one of these. So enjoy it.)

Perhaps you’re familiar with the term, pixel. It was coined in 1965, referring to images being transmitted from the Moon via space probes back to Planet Earth. Etymologically it’s evolved to mean the individual units that make up a picture. Put simply, digital images are made up of a mosaic of pixels, and the more pixels there are, the higher resolution the image. Say for example your television is 1080p. That means the height of your screen is 1,080 pixels tall.

Now every cotten-picking one of those pixels is divided into three sub-pixels. Each of those is occupied by a single colour. Red, Blue or Green. They are, of course, the three primary colors of light.

How a screen works, talking in layman’s terms here, is all those hundreds upon thousands of pixels get blurred together. So that rather than just those three colors, you can blend them all together — like Bob Ross on his palette — to create millions of colors. And then if you stand back a little, you the viewer can see those colors formed into pictures. It’s a little like those old optical illusion posters, in that regard. Magic Eye, they’re called.

After Jerry died, the surviving band members reunited with one another intermittently over the years. There was a handful of incarnations. The Dead (drop the Grateful), Furthur and The Other Ones, among some others. A murderer’s row of otherworldly talented musicians sat in with them on those tours. Susan Tedeschi, Warren Haynes, Joan Osborne. Obviously, although they played his guitar parts and sang his lead vocals, they never deigned to fill the Jerry-sized void on stage.

On the contrary, despite Garcia’s staunch insistence that the Grateful Dead were a captainless ship of fools, a power vacuum nonetheless formed in his stead, wherein the longstanding sibling rivalry between Phil and Bobby festered into something of a Cold War. As the twenty-year anniversary of their comrade’s passing approached, not only did a commemorative reunion portend unlikely, the Dead seemed headed for a more permanent uncoupling indeed.

That was until at the Eleventh Hour, when a New York-based music promoter by the name of Peter Shapiro — whom many consider to be the spiritual heir to Bill Graham — intervened on fate’s behalf. Between Lesh and Weir, he negotiated a detente, signing the group for a three-show Fourth of July-weekend run, to take place at the site of Jerry’s final performance with the band: Soldier Field in Chicago. Fare Thee Well, as it would be known. And to the untold delight of burnouts the world over, Shapiro lasso’d a very special guest indeed for the albeit unenviable task of assuming Jerry’s mantle: Trey Anastasio of the band Phish. For a universe of music that is so thoroughly steeped in Lore, this was akin to a great prince — the Prince Who Was Promised — taking up the banner of a fallen king.

FWIW, some heads derided FTW as a blatant cash grab. They did after all gross 50 mill US. Not bad for five-nights’ work. (Two warm-up gigs were added at Levi’s Stadium, the recent replacement for Candlestick Park as the home of the San Francisco Forty-Niners, despite being a 45-mintue drive with no traffic away from San Francisco, in the master bedroom community of Santa Clara.) Nonetheless, the consensus was that they made for a fitting tribute and a hell of a fun time, and that Anastasio acquitted himself well. Even if he did sound like Trey Doing Jerry, that he could shred, no one would sure deny.

Given the beef between Phil and Bob, as well as the fact that the boys were now all elderly men, everybody assumed that would be it. They would all go their separate ways. End on a high note. Go out with a bang.

Ah, but did you see the part where I said how much fucking money they made? Fifty, million, dollars, US. In the biz they call that Proof of Concept. Or in other words, when the gravy train is rolling, you better keep laying down track. And so they did. As for Lesh’s claim to the throne, well there was a simple solution. Sayonara! You can fuck right off to Phil and Friends. (What some consider to be the finest configuration of the post-Dead milieu.) We can get any asshole to play bass. Ah, but then, who do we get to play Jerry? Trey would be great, but he’s a non-starter. Not only does he have his own thing going — some consider the Summer ‘15 tour to have been the pinnacle of the 3.0 period, and attribute Anastasio’s time spent practicing the Dead repertoire to sparking something within him — but he would consider the very notion of serving as Jerry’s understudy, in any other context than a commemorative one-off like FTW, offensive. He’s gone on record to that effect. Without Jerry, it’s just nostalgia, he says. Enjoy it all you want, but that’s the truth.

(There also persists a fan theory, albeit uncorroborated, that Bobby felt a bit upstaged by Trey. Specifically on night two of Santa Clara during Hell in a Bucket, there’s video evidence of Anastasio ripping a solo whilst Weir attempts to signal him to wrap it up, and appears visibly frustrated in so doing.)

Little did Trey know, while he was up on stage, laying waste to HIAB, there was a man in the audience, waiting in the wings to volunteer himself as tribute. Mother F-ing John Mayer.

This could get contentious, so let’s all take a moment to pause, and remember that we’re all friends here.

[Exaggerated coughing a la PSH in ACP.]

Like so many public figures today, John Mayer is a divisive force in our culture. But I’m here to tell you that he needn’t be. When you strip away the special interests and their focus grouped talking points, it’s actually all pretty cut and dry. Here is the common sense position on what John Mayer is.

A massive tool.

Now obviously it’s more complicated than just that. For a fact, there are many descriptors for what he is — a blowhard, a clout chaser, a star fucker, a fuccboi, a lightweight, a dilettante, a culture vulture, a hypebeast and perhaps, above all, a poseur — and all of them are accurate in their own way. In a vacuum, however, none of that necessarily matters. Because the world’s full of rich and famous douchebags. Rather, for the purposes of this exercise, since he has inserted himself into the broader discourse surrounding the Grateful Dead, the only relevant metric is how he measure up to Jerry.

Spoiler alert: he fucking doesn’t, but let’s play it out for the sake of argument. Jerry was himself a lot of things. A banjo picker, a guitar player, a filmmaker, a painter, an underrated singer and avid scuba diver. By no means was he virtuosic in all of those pursuits, nor especially was he always such a nice guy, nor even all that enlightened a cat. (Just ask the women in his life, recalling his bromance with the Hells Angels. Or better yet, ask him about his aforementioned opinion on hip hop.) But, above all else he was one thing: An Artist. With a capital A.

John Mayer may make things. But those things are not art. They are products. John Mayer is not an artist. He is a bull shit artist. Morever, John Mayer is the Anti-Jerry.

A lot of genuinely well-meaning albeit woefully misinformed people are reading this and to themselves saying, say what?! They might even acknowledge his past, shall we say, indiscretions — more on those in a bit — before they’ll inevitably say something like, but one can’t deny he’s one of — if not the — best modern guitar players.

Yes, one can.

That’s not to say he isn’t technically skilled. He is. Indeed quite so. Particularly as a mimic. He can and does play all the greats’ riffs. But to that I say, so what?

Here. Think of it this way. If you live in a major metropolitan area, there’s a guy playing in a bar Tonite who is as technically skilled as John Mayer. Is that city that you live in Nashville or Los Angeles? Maybe even Chicago or Austin? Then it’s likely several guys. That’s just the facts.

(Obama voice: Let me be clear. That’s not to shit on guys that play in bars. Or even necessarily Mayer. They’re fucking sick at guitar. That rules. But it’s not like, divinely ordained, or anything.)

The difference between those guys and John is that the latter is a Pop Star. Always has been. His defenders would no doubt quibble with that designation, but just look at the guy’s discography. His major label debut, Room for Squares, peaked at number eight on the Billboard Chart. Every subsequent release of his thereafter has charted either No. 1 or No. 2. For the sake of comparison, let’s look at the Grateful Dead, arguably the Great American Band. (Go on, then. Who’s better? Beach Boys? Eh, maybe. But if we’re being real, it’s Brian Wilson and a bunch of guys. Allman Bros? Sadly, too short of a window. Van Halen or GnR? Too eighties. Nineties’ nominee would probably be Nirvana, but they had the same problem as the Allmans. As for the 2000s, it’s slim pickins. RHCP? FOTH. [E-Street and the Heartbreakers are disqualified, on account of they’re technically support acts. The Band on the other hand would be considered eligible, despite being more than half Canadian. I don’t make the rules.]) How many of their 13 studio albums would you guess were bonafide hits, cracking the Billboard Top Ten? One. Uno. Eins. In the Dark. Their penultimate effort, and FWIW, widely considered among Deadheads to constitute somewhat of a sellout. To the extent that the term In the Darkers has emerged as a pejorative for the yuppy, bandwagon fans of the late eighties. The Johnny Come Lateleys. (Looking at you, Tucker Carlson, you fucking evil piece of shit. Hope you die.)

But even that’s not to pop Mayer for being popular. That’s also fine! There’s nothing wrong with pop music, necessarily. But for our boy Johnny, you see, pop stardom and all its trappings, that wasn’t enough for him. Thus, and perhaps this was a calculated effort to avoid the pitfalls of one-hit-wonderdom, Mayer was always savvily self-branded as something more. A singer-songwriter. And it didn’t matter that there are lots of pop stars who write their own songs, nor that his compositions were cotton candy, bubblegum pablum. (See Your Body is a Wonderland, Daughters and Waiting on the World to Change — an anti-protest anthem and apathetic rallying cry for maintaining the status quo — for his greatest offenses against the adult contemporary canon.) Also, and arguably more importantly for the purposes of our argument, the notion was perpetuated through in popular media that he was a virtuosic guitar player. And by virtue of the fact that he played an instrument at all — something most pop stars do not, on account of their being too busy dancing — the bar for this was set quite low. Therefore, through playing up aspects of his resume, namely that he attended to the prestigious Berklee College of Music (nevermind that he dropped out after two semesters … perhaps the only chill thing about him), the John Mayer Industrial Complex was able to construct this myth around him, and fool all you fine people into thinking he was ever anything more than a more approachable, watered down Dave Matthews. Yeah, I know.

(JM and DM have similar vocal affects, although the latter employs his to better effect. There are elements of breathiness and frat bro vocal fry at play in both their phrasings, but ultimately it’s a quality of a counter-melodic, call it, anti-singing. As if they’re both trying to Sing Funny, perhaps as some crude self-defense mechanism propped up against the otherwise unapologetic cringiness of their lyrical output. Specifically in Matthews’ case, it manifests in him sort of doing Adam Sandler thing. Eh-scooby-doo. Ah-la-di-dee. Zippity-doo-dah. It’s actually kind of playful. Mayer, for his part, just sounds whiny.)

And wouldn’t you know that it fucking worked. Mayer was put on a pedestal of his own erecting. Basking in the glow of his critical acclaim as a solo act, he even went so far as to launch a side project called the John Mayer Trio (Lol), a seemingly simple branding tweak that nonetheless runneth overfloweth with plutonium grade pretentiousness. It’s not quite but close to Justin Bieber getting two other guys and calling themselves the Justin Bieber Experience. Or like if it were called, The Rock: A Film by Michael Bay.

But people ate that shit up, too. And to further bolster his shred cred, he’d appear alongside luminaries such as B.B. King and Eric Clapton at various award shows and benefit concerts to Jam. The latter — an on-the-record racist dickhead and all-time bad friend … seriously, what kind of wanker writes a song … sorry, multiple song-s … mother fucking rock ballads … about another man’s wife … not cool, dude — even co-signed him as a modern Guitar God, which we’ve hopefully by now well established is Not Actually a Thing.

Lo, but even a false apotheosis wouldn’t satiate his unquenchable thirst. So then he became a sex symbol, to boot! The Bad Boy of Easy Listening. (Sidebar: this is another thing he does. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was pretending to be self-deprecating about his shortcomings. This is Mayer’s gambit to a tee. He even titled one of his latter works, Sob Rock, as if to poke fun at himself. Haha. Don’t fall for it. I assure you, this man is deadly serious.) And full credit to him, he banged a lot of turn-of-the-century celebrity babes. Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Love Hewitt, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift. Whoa, dude! Save some poon for the rest of us!

(Those are some hot famous ladies, no doubt about it. Mayer, on the other hand, while by no means ugly according to modern beauty standards, is also nobody’s idea of a male model. Particularly as he matures, he’s got the problem a lot of middle-aged rock stars have of increasingly looking like a lesbian. Older men with longer than average-length hair suffer this affliction in general. It’s one of the few advantages of male pattern baldness.)

Ah, but as we all know, pride and getting crazy amounts of pussy comes before the fall. Thusly he was among the first intrepid pricks of the post-Weinstein/Cosby paradigm to be Cancelled, and all for the sin of trying to be funny and play up his reputation as an irreverent provocateur, saying some bullshit to Playboy Magazine of all publications in the year of our lord 2010 about how sick it was to fuck Jessica Simpson, while also adding, apropos of nothing, that he wasn’t into black chicks. Okay. (On the topic of Playboy, the Grateful Dead infamously appeared on their short-lived television variety show in the sixties, and as legend has it, they dosed the entire production crew and studio audience with acid-laced coffee. Now, That’s Funny.)

But since Cancellation was then as it remains, also Not Actually a Real Thing, in the end it only served to bolster the Myth of Mayer, wherein the act of his saying on the record that he had a white supremacist penis became all but the brief abyss in his longer-arcing hero’s journey. Following the now tried and true playbook, he entered a brief period of self-imposed exile, as he later recounted in breathless detail on the Ellen Degeneres Show, during which he bought a ranch in Montana, probably off some multi-generation dirt farmer who couldn’t afford the skyrocketing property taxes what for the encroachment of wannabe cowboy wads the likes of John Mayer. He also got sober, as he recounted in a separate interview — a possible explanation for his staying power is that Mayer has in many ways thrown a life preserver out to late-stage legacy media, being as he is a last bastion for cheap clicks — after drunkenly embarrassing himself at Drake’s 30th birthday party. (Humblebrag! Shout out @twittels, our tour guide to the cosmos. Sorry.) And finally, as to consummate his reputational pivot, he put out an accompanying record named Paradise Valley after the place in Montana he ruined by moving to. The material on said release is wholly immaterial — likely your standard fare, second-term Obama-era Americana. The album art, however, is a work of art in its own right. There’s Little Johnny Mayer, born of Fairfield County, Connecticut, transplanted to Paradise Lost Valley, standing in a stupid meadow with a MILF-hunting dog that if it ever was his to begin with, he one hundred percent put up for adoption within weeks of this photo being taken, staring wantonly up at him as if to say, please … pay any attention to me, whatsoever, whilst he himself heroically resists the gravitational pull of the camera’s lens to stare vacantly off into the middle distance, his brow furrowed under the cartoonishly wide brim of a Big Dumb Hat, paired with what looks to be a poncho or a hopefully smallpox-laced blanket, itself covering no less than five additional layers of flannels, twills, corduroys and any or all other manner of stolen valor workwear fabrics, including denim if you count his pre-distressed jeans that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe combined. (This is kind of a clunky analogy, and typically I would say Car here, but in all fairness to Johnny-boy that’s probably a reach. I’d venture to guess these one pair of pants ran him in the ballpark of $500 to $1,000, though. So depending on the blue book value of your vehicle, or certainly mine, maybe not all that far off after all.) And to tie the ensemble all together, he’s accessorizing with what’s known as a Squash Blossom, a Native American necklace often smithed of sterling silver and inlaid with turquoise to signify wealth and status as it was worn by elder members of the Navajo and other tribes of the American Southwest, which for those geography buffs at home is nowhere fucking near Montana, not that it matters but still.

While Paradise Valley was commercially viable — peaking at No. 2 on the Billboard 200 — Mayer admitted in an interview with his dear friend, the reality television impresario and cultural slumlord Andy Cohen, that it’s his least favourite of his personal oeuvre. Perhaps on account of it was the first of his releases not to receive a Grammy nod. (A seven-time winner and nineteen[!]-time nominee, he’s something of a Recording Academy darling. The Grateful Dead, on the other hand, despite amassing a grand total of zero nominations over their illustrious career, were nonetheless honoured with a life-time achievement Grammy in 2007.) Reckon that’s when decided to cut his losses and latch on to the wellspring teat of the Dead Industrial Complex. Rather though he claims it was a moment some years prior when the song Althea magically appeared on his algorithmically-generated music feed, when he became a Deadhead. How’s that for a meet-cute?

And by some stroke of Faustian good fortune, Mayer and the surviving members happened to share representation. One Irving Azoff, a titan of the recording industry in his capacities as a one-time major label head for MCA and Warner, the former C.E.O. of Ticketmaster and manger to Rock and Roll royalty, including U2, Bon Jovi and Steely Dan. Azoff’s longest-standing client of more than forty years, Don Henley of the Eagles — himself widely known to be an exceptional asshole — once described him by saying that he may be Satan, but he’s our Satan. (Azoff perhaps more than any other individual is responsible for the consolidation of the music industry at the expense of all fans, most musicians and really anyone other than Irving Azoff, and by extension his clients. Insofar as he presided over the merger between Ticketmaster and Live Nation, effectively monopolizing live entertainment through the vertical integration of things like ticket brokering and artist management and venue ownership. All Don Henley’s jokes aside, it’s true that the music industry is chock-full of shall-we-say colourful characters guided by dubious moral compasses. Bill Graham is a prime example, and even he wasn’t without his charms. Irving Azoff, meanwhile, is a reprobate without peer. A true villain amongst petty crooks.) As soon as the contracts were signed presumably in blood, John and the boys, newly christened as Dead & Company — itself a perfect moniker of incorporation if there ever was one — hit the road. And in defiance of the laws of time, they’ve toured off and on for seven years, culminating in this latest run of shows at The Sphere.

A Domus Aurea for the modern day, The Sphere is the wet fever dream-cum to life of James Dolan (Azoff’s partner), a beastly little man who fans of his two previously most high profile assets, the New York Knicks and Rangers, can attest is as close as we currently have to an American Nero. Long since considered a punch line among his billionaire buddies, The Sphere is his attempt to once and for all prove the haters wrong, and in his own words, Reinvent Live Entertainment. And according to some, this Ewok-looking mother fucker may have just pulled it off. Those who have made the pilgrimage to The Sphere — if they ever do return — will regale you of its majesty. They’ll show you cell phone videos of its massive LED display. (A screen on a screen.) It was a life-changing experience, they’ll proselytize unto thee. But The Sphere can’t be understood by second-hand accounts. Nor either by seeing it in person. It’s simply too overwhelming to put into words. Like so much about our lives tday, it can only be truly grasped as a set of numbers. A linear regression of statistics.

2.3 billion — USD, what it cost to erect

366 x 516 — dimensions measured in feet

1.2 million — lights in the 580,000 square-foot exosphere, each about the size of a hockey puck and containing a cluster of 48 LEDS

650,000 — approximate dollar amount spent to advertise on the exosphere’s surface with a 90-second advertisement running for a single week leading up to the presidential election by the Kamala Harris campaign

312 to 226 — Harris’s electoral vote margin of defeat to her opponent Donald Trump

34 — felony counts on which Donald Trump had been convicted mere months prior

5 — Auras, the brand name of a humanoid robot, stationed throughout The Sphere’s grand atrium as proto-tour guides tasked with greeting guests, answering questions about the experience and in some instances even making jokes or flirting

256 million — pixels in the theater’s interior screen, the main attraction, the highest resolution in history, measuring 160,000 square feet, or 20x the size of a standard IMAX

60 — gigabytes of data it requires to film one second of content on Big Sky, The Sphere’s 316 mega-pixel proprietary camera system (images captured on normal cameras would only fill a fraction of the screen, so they tried welding 11 cameras together … when that didn’t work they just invented their own)

12 — the minimum amount of people it takes to operate the Big Sky camera system

10 — the number of patents protecting Big Sky

120 — frames per second seen on its 18K film

165 — degrees of view proffered on it’s 1ft-wide lens

10,000 — haptic seats that use infrasound and moving-magnet technology to create a 4D experience

167,000 — speakers, 8 per audience member, in its German-engineered sound system

Perhaps that last stat bears particular significance. These are after all concerts, aren’t they? For a fact, the system is said to be so advanced, that they can project distinct sounds to each individual seat. So presumably you could be listening to four octogenarian musicians and a 30-something glorified influencer play Mississippi Half Step in one seat, whilst the person next to you is listening to Harry Potter: The Prisoner of Azkaban on audiobook, in Finnish. It’s comforting to know that even in this massive bubble, protected by the unrelenting heat of the desert outside — did I mention The Sphere is in Las Vegas … and reportedly coming soon to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia! — we can remain comfortably in our own individual bubbles.

And speaking of bubbles:

500 million — dollar loss accrued by The Sphere in its first fiscal year of production

But don’t you worry about that. Keep your eyes on the screen. It’s starting. The opening image is an easter egg homage to the Wall of Sound, which you’ll recall was the massive tower of speakers built for the band in the early seventies by Owsley “Bear” Stanley, the prolific LSD dealer.

In the thereafter the big fancy light show shuffles through all the other Dead iconography. Roses and Skulls. Lightning bolts and tie-dye rainbows. Dancing bears and banjo-picking turtles. Motorcycles and busses.

Alright, now we’ve reached the end of the show. It’s well past these old farts’ bedtimes, and Mayer’s got a private jet to catch back to fucking Montana.

The encore begins with a satellite image of The Earth, our dying planet. We’re facing the Western Hemisphere, where dawn has just broken about perpendicular to the San Andreas Fault. Slowly we start zooming in toward Northern California, as the band starts in on KOHD. This is not a fast song as it was originally recorded, but the boys are playing it even slower still. Dead & Slow, as they’re somewhat affectionately known.

The closer we get, we can start to make out the dramatic topography of the Pacific Coast. Yeah, now we’re entering our atmosphere. There’s the Bay beginning to take shape. Up at the top of your screens is where the guys currently reside, in posh Marin County. The bandstand itself is but a small plateau, right below downtown San Francisco, now the world’s largest open-air toilet, where human suffering is on full display, although you can’t quite make it out on this screen.

Bobby bobbles his way through the first verse and chorus, doing some of his trademark scatting, somehow turning Door into a four-syllable word.

Hey, there’s Alcatraz. And now it’s time for a John Mayer solo. Resist the urge to leap off the Golden Gate Bridge. In all its myriad meanderings of bends and slides and pedal effects, it insists upon itself in a way that a Jerry break never did. Maybe it’s because Garcia’s improvisational influences cut such a wide swath, into bluegrass and jazz. Bill Monroe and John Coltraine. Somewhere between them he found himself. The way his stubby fingers seem to pirouette along the fretboard. Mayer, meanwhile, who fancies himself more of a straight-ahead Blues Brother, came up idolosing Stevie Ray Vaughn. Which is to say that his style, such as he has one, is already a photocopy of a photocopy. (Mind you, Garcia was by no means a stanger to the blues genre. It’s how he and Pigpen bonded upon their meeting. [They were the first two members to so converge.] Jerry particularly dug Big Bill Broonzy.) What you can’t hear over his ostentatious tone, you can just as well see right in his ofay face, contorting so, as he painstakingly tries to squeeze out the notes through a century of cognitive dissonance as if blood through a stone. Or it could be just that his fretting hand is weighed down by his full sleeve of traditional Japanese tattoos, or perhaps his wristwatch—

180,000 — dollars, the appraised value of John’s — ahem — Timepiece, a one-of-one special edition made in commemoration of his debut at The Sphere by Audimars Pigeon, the Swiss luxury brand for which Mayer has recently been named Creative Conduit (gasp), presumably a purely ceremonial title conferred in recognition of his well-known passion for horology as well as his prolificacy as private collector, which he put on display in a viral interview with the watch blog, Hodinkee, that you should stop reading this right now and YouTube if for some reason you want to know what it felt like to be a French peasant in the 1780s, taking a shit on the Champs-Élysées, as Mary Antionette strolls by in a gilded carriage, her olfactory so overwhelmed by her beloved perfumes, that she couldn’t even deign to be disgusted by your stench And gravity pulls us closer still. There are the famous Streets of San Francisco, ascending and descending like the stairs in that one famous painting. Two in particular come into focus. Haight and Ashbury. The epicenter of the hippie movement. And now the slate roofs of the Victorian-style houses. Most of them were reduced to rubble in the 1906 Earthquake that killed 3,000 people and destroyed 80% of the city. Except for a fortunate few historic landmarks. The famous Painted Ladies. The Full House house. And the one we see now.

710 Ashbury Street

For the uninitiated, this is considered to be the spiritual home of the Grateful Dead. It’s where all five original members cohabitated for an albeit short period of time. They started as the Warlocks, a jug band gigging in the basement of a pizza parlor. After that they were the house band for the Acid Tests. But then at 710, they became The Grateful Dead. Houseguests included a whose-who of the San Francisco Scene, which looms larger in the American memory than it ever lasted in real life. In reality, it was only a couple years. More like eighteen months. (Larry McMurtry might compare the sixties counterculture to the quote-un-quote Old West, in that regard, which he characterized to be the Phantom Limb of the American cultural consciousness or something.) In addition to hosting their acid rock contemporaries, the Airplaine, Quicksilver Messaging Service, Big Brother and the Holding Company and Janis Joplin, 710 functioned as a sort of Salon, wherein members of thought-leading countercultural organisations would exchange ideas and bodily fluids. Among them were the Merry Pranksters and the Hells Angels, who you might’ve heard of, as well as the Diggers, of whom you probably haven’t. A group of mostly actors, since disenchanted with the limited capacity to affect social change through experimental street theater, the Diggers became what they called Life Actors, insofar as they Lived their Art, the central theme of which was always Freedom. Not so much Freedom in the way it’s been co-opted to mean by maleficent forces in the present day United States, as in the Freedom To Have or Do Whatever I Want As Well As The Freedom To Refuse To Do Anything I Don’t Want To Do. Rather the Diggers’ vision of freedom was somewhat higher-minded. Specifically, they proffered Freedom From Money and Freedom From Fame, the latter of which was interpreted to be anonymity, hence how come they all went by the alias George Metesky, the namesake a man who has suffered a severely debilitating on-the-job injury, had his worker’s comp claims were denied by his employer, Con Edison, the electric utility of New York and went on a bombing campaign of Manhattan, targeting such historic landmarks as Penn Station, Radio City Music Hall, Grand Central Terminal and the New York Public Library.

The Diggers were most known for their free food program. To be fed, patrons were only required to step through a colossal empty frame, not unlike the ones often erected at music festivals for wristbanded attendees to take pictures inside. The Diggers called theirs a Frame of Reference, on account of if you put a frame on something, it’s art, as the great avant-garde composer John Cage once said. When the Diggers Emmet Grogan and Peter Berg visited 710, they threw down a proverbial gauntlet of sorts for the Grateful Dead, according to the band’s official biographer Dennis McNally. We do our experimental street theatre for free. So, how about you play your music for free, pussies?

And so they did. Played public concerts, that is, hooked up to a generator on the back of a flatbed truck, at the Panhandle near Golden Gate Park, where the Diggers distributed their gratis grub. Thereafter they branched out, playing free shows in support of like-minded causes across the country. At Columbia University in support of a student strike, and at San Quentin Prison in support of an inmate strike, just to name two. Per McNally, the act of giving away the fruits of their labour became a part of their DNA, as a band. Hence the laissez-faire attitude toward tapers, etcetera.

But then again, all good things … it was only a matter of time until the whole San Francisco Scene spun out of control. The Haight became overcrowded, what with runaways from all over descending on the place like hopped-up locusts. They’d read about the hippies in LIFE Magazine and thought that all that free stuff — food, music, love — sounded pretty groovy to them. Not to mention all the drugs you could take. The cops eventually caught on to that tip. The block was hot, boy. Pigs even raided 710, arresting Pigpen of all people for possession, never mind that he didn’t partake in the pharmaceutical pursuits. Rotgut whiskey was his groove. Later they had the gall to book Bobby on charges of assault with a deadly water balloon.

About the time their house became a stop on a guided bus tour, the band members decided they’d officially had enough and decamped for their greener pastures in posh Marin County, just across the bay. Over the years there were a few more free shows here and there — Altamont ‘69 was public, although technically the Dead never went on for their set — but they pretty much petered out in the early seventies. According to unofficial Grateful Dead blogger, Dead Essays dot Blog spot, the band played their last free show in the year of their tenth anniversary, back at Golden Gate Park, on an unseasonably cold autumn day in San Francisco, September 1975. Something about the cold in that city. It’s like Twain always said. It can go right through you.

(The Diggers, for their part, determined that in the face of fascism and imperialism and the oncoming cultural holocaust, the only truly revolutionary thing left to do was get addicted to heroin. Which, respect.)

Justy shy of a half-century later, it’s a balmy 99-degree spring day outside The Sphere, where Dead & Company are finishing the opening show of their Las Vegas residency. Jerry’s been gone going on 30 years. How the time flies. What were we talking about, anyway? John Mayer? Oh, enough about him. Pixels. Remember. Red, green, blue. All the other colors are just shades. Variations on a theme. Kind of blue. Didn’t matter. Doesn’t now.

It’s getting dark, too dark to see

[The Deputy leaning against a wall, holding his hands in his armpits, chewing gum menacingly.]

Brandon Justin

“The Deputy”

Although he was officially cleared of any wrongdoing by an internal affairs special investigation into the officer-involved shooting of Zeke, the deputy didn’t receive his coveted promotion back to his cushy post at the County Jail. Rather he was subtly managed out of the department altogether, whereupon he wound up working a security guard gig at West Middle School. The pay’s shit, and his cousin busts his balls for being a rent-a-cop, but, hey, at least they still gave him a gun.

Feel I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door

[Ari driving Hildy’s car, with one of her dogs licking his face, and the other sniffing his crotch.]

Ariel Zev Emanuel

“Ari”

His request to be transferred off the Wolff account was granted, on account of a lurid sexual harassment claim he filed against Hildy with HR. Now he’s also working with schools on behalf of The Agency, albeit in a more dignified capacity than the deputy, who frisks 14-year-olds for their milk money. Ari runs active shooter drills. Not just at schools, either. Movie theaters, pumpkin patches, those big-ass gas stations that seem to be popping up all over the place, the occasional bowling alley. It’s pretty much a dream job, although he still also has dream of starting his own discotheque/distillery of vodka. One day, I do it.

Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door (4x)

[Jaime doing his Ted Talk thing.]

James Francis Delano

“Jaime”

Speaking of dreams coming true, Jaime also achieved his dream of starting a podcast. It’s about The Culture. If you want to know what that means, just ask him. And like and subscribe.

Mama put my guns in the ground

[Mayor Larry sheepishly emerging from underneath Hildy’s desk.]

Lawrence F. Mockingbird

“Mayor Larry”

He also got what he wanted, becoming Governor Larry after winning his election in actually kind of a landslide, although only after his staunchly anti-LGBT rights opponent was caught with his size-ten, steel-toed boot — the one he was always threatening, oddly specific-like, to shove up Larry’s hind parts — under the men’s room stall divider in a public park, playing footsie with an undercover vice cop. So Larry may have Cruised to Victory by Default, but baby, a dub’s a dub. And as governor, he technically made good on his campaign bumper-stickered promise to Get Some Things Done. With regard to common sense firearm safety measures, the all-powerful gun lobby actually threw him a bone, allowing him to ban high-capacity magazines, like the one involved in the officer-involved shooting of Zeke. That was mostly it though, beyond his persistent and unsubstantiated claiming credit for making his state More affordable for regular folks. Legislative achievements notwithstanding, his tenure was marred by controversy. Particularly with connection to his acceptance of non-disclosed gifts in the form of first-class tickets — as well as five-star hotel accommodations and dining upon arrival — to Fort Lauderdale and the United Arab Emirates, which a specially-appointed ethics panel inquiry deemed to be Un—ethical. (Beyond said condemnation, no further penalty was levied in this manner.) Also, despite his affair with Hildy coming to an abrupt end, his wife up and left his sorry ass anyway. What’s worse, she didn’t even have the decency to take sole-custody of the kid. He had to agree to Co-parent. Drag. However, this served only to further fuel his desire to become America’s first divorced president. (Ok, second. Ole Jelly Beans Reagan was technically first, but by the time he took the oath, the Gipper had gotten himself remarried to the throat god, Nancy, as you’ll recall.) Alas, Larry’s bid for his party’s nomination was aborted almost before it began, as registered voters in the early primary and caucus states above all else made their apathy for him abundantly clear. So then he had to settle for the Senate, since deteriorated into a legislative backwater where the politically ambitious went to die. (Quite literally. Some 300 of those old farts have died in office. For a fact, the median age of a senator is 65, two years older than the supposed average retirement age, which keeps going up thanks in large part to the body’s only bi-partisan issue, the outright contempt for the concept of — if not at very least the refusal to protect from decades of erosion resulting from unrelenting austerity measures — Entitlements.) He won. Whoopty-doo. Wasn’t all bad, though. He did eventually find love. Married that gal from the gun lobby.

I can’t shoot them anymore

[Hildy at the kitchen counter at Hank’s farmhouse.]

Hildegard Wolff

“Hildy”

For her part, she never did marry. Not her style. Billy would say she was married to the game, as indeed she did remain at the helm of Wolffenbeir Co., where perhaps she always belonged. Until of course the board unceremoniously pushed her out in favor of the CFO, no doubt some limp-dick CPA. It had to be one of them. She took it in stride though, throwing herself into philanthropy, full-time. The music will never stop at the Edge City Philharmonic. Not on her watch. Additionally, in an effort to head off any civil litigation, she made overtures to Zeke’s mother and father in the form of a donation made in his name to SciTech, commemorated with the unveiling of a mural painted on the facade outside the Cavness-Baumann atrium. It was Zeke alright, in his favourite Newfy shirt. His parents did not attend the dedication ceremony. Doctor Goodlove did, though, solemnly.

That long black cloud’s comin’ down

[Kitty grading papers.]

Katherine Maria Parker-Salazar

“Kitty”

Kitty gave birth to a beautiful, healthy baby girl. If she’d been a boy, she would’ve named him after Zeke. But alas she was secularly Christened as Rose Salazar Solomon, or Rosie. Part of Kitty was hesitant to bestow on her a name that was too old-fashioned sounding, or one that could have also worked for a labrador. This on account of having spent so much time teaching kids called Clementines and Milos and the like. But, hey. There but for the Grace. She never did go back to West, though, like she and Mick planned. After everything that happened, she found she couldn’t be around kids, excepting her own precious daughter, whom she clung to for dear life. It was all too sad. As for gainful employment, she got a job in Development at Hildy’s new non-profit, the Mary Todd Lincoln Project, which was committed to scale the Sci-Tech model across the country, as well as generally to increase young women’s access to science-based curricula. It was fine. They had on-site child care. Parents weren’t supposed to visit during program hours, so as to increase the kids’ independence, but she’d bend the rules and sometimes wave at her through the glass partition. Hi sweetie!

Feel I’m knockin’ on Heaven’s door

[Grace driving the forklift, with Mayor Larry the cat riding shotgun.]

Grace Taylor Armstrong

“Grace”

Maybe the only person that took Zeke’s dying harder than Kitty was Grace. They didn’t talk or even interact all that much, but at the end of the day they were companeros, weren’t they? Especially after all the shenanigans they went through together with Billy. But seeing him dead like that, bloody, on the floor. It broke her fucking heart. Maybe needless to say then she got the hell out of the brewing industry altogether. Joined the Pipefitters’ Union. Talk about some great fucking benefits. Health insurance out the ass. Deductibles for days. And word on the street is she’s making a go of it with the lovely Miss Anna Leigh, who for her part is off to nursing school. Must be some kind of catch, if she can make an honest woman out of a scamp like Grace.

Knock, knock, knockin’ on Heaven’s door (4x)

[The Cowboy saddled up to the bar, tipping back a cold glass of Bar Fight IPA.]

Carl Frank McDonald

“The Cowboy”

He died. Don’t shed no tear on his account though. He went peaceful, in his marital bed. Five minutes after five, after he didn’t rustle up on the hour sharply, his old lady knew he’d done crossed over the rainbow bridge. Undertaker wouldn’t be up at this early of hour, so she just went downstairs and started breakfast like always. By accident though she cracked their usual four eggs. It was just out of habit; they hadn’t spent hardly a day apart in fifty-odd years of matrimony. Still, always a shame to waste good eggs.

Ooh, ooh (2x)

[The Twins behind the bar, flicking eachother back and forth in the face.]

Thadeus and Louisa Jackson

“The Twins”

Alas, they also no longer work at the Newfy either, where their profane pitter-patter is only sometimes missed. To their parents’ surprise, they actually returned to the Church of Latter-day Saints. Their craft brewing sojourn didn’t count for a mission, so they’re off together in Alaska, of all places, spreading the weird word. Since of course you’re wondering, they mostly quit their quarellous ways. Even the incessant cursing, which they stopped cold turkey. Considered disrespectful to the Godhead and harmful to the Spirit. Foul language wouldn’t get them far with the largely native population to whom their mostly soliciting, anyhow. It’s a little-known fact that Eskimos — or Inuit as they prefer to be called — don’t cuss. It’s simply not a part of their language. All them words for snow and not a single one for fuck or cocksucker. What a thing.

Outro [Hank in the Doctor Goodlove suit.]

John Henry O’Sullivan

“Hank”

For all the fanfare of his return, Hank didn’t stick around for very long. Found things had moved on without him, whatever that means. Last anybody heard he was down Mexico way, starting a scuba diving cult. Not a bad gig if you can get it. Billy went down for a visit, although he sson found that he and his old man didn’t have all that much in common after all. He’d rather chill with Uncle Ernie, to be honest. He always got me.

Silence

[Uncle Ernie, on horseback at Rockland, tipping his cap to us.]

Werner Otto Wolff

“Uncle Ernie”

He would’ve loved to’ve spent more time with Billy, but alas he was busy joining Hank’s scuba cult. Don’t you hold it against him though. This book is dedicated to Uncle Ernie, as well as to uncles all around the world. Your Uncle Robs, your Uncle Tonys, your Uncle Nicks, your Uncle Joes. To all the avuncular men in your life, whether or not they’re your blood kin, it don’t matter none. God bless you, every last fucken one of ya. We need you now more than ever. More than you know.

[The Mick, writing or drawing something in his marbled brewer’s notebook.]

David Michael Solomon

“The Mick”

To this day the Mick’s still brewing beer. The last of the New Frontier Four. The long-awaited spontaneous fermented program was actually somewhat of a sleeper hit, and the lines reformed outside the Newfy, if only for a short whie. Eventually everybody started drinking Hard Seltzers and things quieted back down again. Now they brew those, if you could call it brewing. The process could better be described as artificial flavor infusing. Anyway, he’s got all new staff. Bartenders and an assistant brewer. The position of social media coordinator and event manager remains as yet unfilled. The new guys and girl are alright enogh though. None of them knew Hank, nor for that matter Grace or of course Zeke. So the institutional knowledge of the place is faded some. Even Kitty doesn’t come around all that often as she used to. Her hours are different, for one thing, as well as she’s just a little cagey about baby Rosie growing up in a bar. I guess who could blame her.

Cast

I wanna tell you how it’s gonna be

(In order of appearance)

Zeke … Jaden Smith

The Mick … Paul Mescal

You’re gonna give your love to me

Kitty … Selena Gomez

Grace … Millie Bobbie Brown

Mayor Larry … Jeremy Renner Strong

I’m wanna love you night and day

Hildy … Parker Posey

The Deputy … Barry Kheogan Or Jacob Elordi

Ari … Jack Harlow Or Machine Gun Kelly

You know our love will not fade away (2x)

Billy … Shia Lebeouf

Thadeus … Timothee Chalamet

Louisa … Timothee Chalamet (doing double duty … like in the Social Network, how the Winkelvi twins were played by that cannibal fella, the one who tossed Timmy’s salad in CMBYN)

My love is bigger than a Cadillac

The Cowboy … Peter Coyote

Anna Leigh … One of them Fanning sisters … whichever’s cheaper

Jaime … post-Ozempic Jonah Hill

You try to show me but you but you drive me back

Yayo-L … pre-roids Kumail Nanjiani

Senora Emily … ugh, I don’t know … fucken, Florence Pugh? The other Fanning? Uncle Ernie … Jon Bernthal

Your love for me has got to be real

Mister X … Jackie Chan

Hank … Matt Damon Edge City … Pittsburgh/Atlanta/Vancouver/Toronto

You’re gonna know just how I feel

– A J.J. Abrams Joint –

Acknowledgments

With respect to Buck Owens and Don Rich

~ The End ~

Love for real not fade away

#novls of tumblr #john mayer #the sphere

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petareonline · 2 years ago

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Should I have a burial or cremation for my deceased dog?

Losing a beloved furry friend is an emotional and challenging experience. After their passing, it's only natural to want to honor their memory and find a fitting way to say goodbye. One decision you may face is whether to have a burial or cremation for your deceased dog. This choice can be influenced by various factors, such as personal preferences, religious or cultural beliefs, and practical considerations. To help you navigate this difficult decision, let's explore the options and consider some dog death quotes that may provide comfort during this time.

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Burial for Your Deceased Dog: Honoring Their Life and Memory

Choosing to bury your deceased dog is a traditional way of paying homage to their life and creating a physical space for remembrance. It allows you to establish a final resting place where you can visit and find solace. Here are some key aspects to consider:

Memorialization: Burial offers an opportunity to create a lasting memorial for your beloved companion. You can personalize the grave with a headstone, markers, or plaques inscribed with their name, birth and death dates, or meaningful dog death quotes. It provides a dedicated space for you to reminisce and find comfort in their memory.

Emotional Connection: For many pet owners, having a burial allows for a sense of closure. The act of laying your dog to rest in a meaningful location can help in the grieving process and bring a sense of peace and acceptance.

Familiarity and Tradition: Some individuals prefer burials because it aligns with their cultural or religious practices. It can bring a sense of comfort knowing that you are following established customs.

Dog Death Quotes for Comfort and Reflection

During times of grief, finding solace in words can provide a healing touch. Here are a few dog death quotes that may offer comfort and reflection:

"Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love, they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog, it merely expands the heart." - Erica Jong

"Grief is so painfully real, regardless of its origin. The love of, and attachment to, an animal friend can equal that of human relationships." - John Grogan

"Dogs leave paw prints on our hearts." - Unknown

"Dogs do speak, but only to those who know how to listen." - Orhan Pamuk

Cremation for Your Deceased Dog: A Unique Way to Honor Their Spirit

Cremation is an alternative to burial that offers a different way to honor your departed dog. Here are some considerations for choosing cremation:

Flexibility: Cremation allows you to retain the ashes of your dog in an urn, providing you with the flexibility to choose how to memorialize them. You can keep the urn at home, scatter the ashes in a meaningful location, or even opt for a customized piece of cremation jewelry.

Portability: If you anticipate moving residences in the future, cremation offers the advantage of portability. You can take the ashes with you wherever you go, ensuring that your beloved companion is always close to your heart.

Environmental Factors: Cremation can be viewed as a more environmentally friendly option, as it avoids the use of land for burial. Some pet owners appreciate the reduced impact on the environment and find solace in this choice.

Dog Death Quotes for Comfort and Reflection (Continued)

"If there is a heaven, it's certain our animals are to be there. Their lives become so interwoven with our own, it would take more than an archangel to detangle them." - Pam Brown

"A dog is the only thing on earth that loves you more than he loves himself." - Josh Billings

"Dogs' lives are too short. Their only fault, really." - Agnes Sligh Turnbull

"Dogs leave paw prints on your heart just as they do on your floor." - Karen Davison

In the end, the decision between burial and cremation for your deceased dog is deeply personal. Consider what feels most meaningful and comforting to you. Reflect on your own beliefs, traditions, and circumstances as you navigate this challenging time. Whether you choose burial or cremation, remember that what matters most is the love and bond you shared with your faithful companion.

As you embark on this journey of healing, dog death quotes can serve as poignant reminders of the love and joy your dog brought into your life. Embrace the memories and cherish the time you had together, knowing that your beloved pet will always hold a special place in your heart.

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#creature companion #cute dog quotes #pet animals

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benchmarkeducation · 2 years ago

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Unveiling the Essence: Exploring Amratva by Benchmark

The Inspirational Journey of Kumar Vishwas Kumar Vishwas, a revered poet, and speaker, has garnered immense fame for his poignant poetry and eloquent oratory. His journey to become a celebrated literary figure began in a small town in Uttar Pradesh, India. Vishwas' humble origins have shaped his writing, infusing it with relatable anecdotes and emotions that resonate deeply with readers from all walks of life.

The Magnificence of Amratva Amratva, meaning "nectar," encapsulates the essence of life's myriad experiences. This collection of poems transcends boundaries and evokes a plethora of emotions within the readers' hearts. Through vivid imagery and lyrical prowess, Kumar Vishwas has crafted a body of work that immerses readers in a world brimming with love, hope, and introspection.

The Impact of Amratva on Hindi Literature Amratva Hindi Book by Kumar Vishwas has made a profound impact on the landscape of Hindi literature. Its poetic brilliance and emotional depth have touched the hearts of millions, making it a revered classic among poetry enthusiasts. The book has garnered critical acclaim and numerous accolades, solidifying Kumar Vishwas' position as a literary maestro.

Exploring Themes in Amratva Love and Longing: Kumar Vishwas explores the intricate tapestry of love and longing, delving into the depths of human emotions. His verses paint vivid pictures of desire, heartache, and the eternal quest for love.

Reflections on Life: Amratva offers readers a mirror to reflect upon their own lives. Vishwas' introspective musings provoke contemplation, inviting readers to delve into the deeper meaning of existence.

Nature's Symphony: The beauty of nature finds a lyrical portrayal in Amratva. Vishwas weaves enchanting verses that celebrate the magnificence of the natural world, reminding readers of the interconnectedness between humanity and the environment.

Social Commentary: Kumar Vishwas seamlessly blends social commentary into his poetic narratives. He addresses societal issues, highlighting the need for compassion, unity, and progress.

Kumar Vishwas' Unique Writing Style Kumar Vishwas' writing style is a harmonious blend of eloquence, wit, and emotional depth. His choice of words and metaphors creates a rhythmic flow that engages readers from the very first line. Vishwas' ability to craft verses that resonate with the masses has made him one of the most beloved Hindi poets of our time.

FAQs What inspired Kumar Vishwas to write Amratva?

Kumar Vishwas drew inspiration from his personal experiences, observations, and the beauty of the world around him. His innate passion for poetry and the desire to connect with readers on a profound level propelled him to create Amratva.

How does Amratva resonate with readers?

Amratva strikes a chord with readers through its relatable themes, evocative language, and the raw emotions it portrays. Kumar Vishwas' ability to capture the essence of the human experience enables readers to find solace, joy, and introspection within its verses.

Is Amratva suitable for readers of all ages?

Yes, Amratva transcends age barriers. Its themes and narratives have a universal appeal, making it a delightful read for both the young and old alike.

Has Amratva received any accolades?

Yes, Amratva has received widespread acclaim and has been honored with prestigious literary awards. Its profound impact on Hindi literature has earned Kumar Vishwas a special place among contemporary poets.

How can I obtain a copy of Amratva?

Amratva is widely available at bookstores, both physical and online. It can also be purchased through various e-commerce platforms and digital bookstores.

Will there be future works by Kumar Vishwas?

Kumar Vishwas' passion for poetry and storytelling is boundless. Readers can eagerly anticipate future works that will undoubtedly captivate their hearts and minds.

Conclusion Amratva by Benchmark stands as a testament to the immense talent and creative prowess of Kumar Vishwas. Through its enchanting verses and profound insights, this Hindi book takes readers on an unforgettable journey of emotions and self-discovery. The timeless appeal of Amratva ensures that it will continue to inspire and resonate with readers for generations to come.

#Amratva #Amratva by Benchmark #Amratva Book by Kumar Vishwas #Amratva Hindi Book by Kumar Vishwas

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moriiartist · 3 years ago

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your mutuals as songs?

Hmm...

@shepard-ram gives me Sweet Tooth by Cavetown vibes

@g0re-h0und makes me think of JEKYLL & HIDE by Bishop Briggs

@cr3scentm0on... I'd have to say rises the moon by Liana Flores?

@itsonlydana, I tend to associate with cottagecore/fantasycore things, so There Beneath by The Oh Hellos

@blooming-mushroom is a big ol' softie, so I like to think of her with a vibe similar to fever dream by mxmtoon

@nixoxia is a punk/goth icon, and y'know what? Good for her! (Glory And Gore by Lorde)

@sushi-rens I admit I haven't interacted with a whole lot, but for some inexplicable reason I think they give off the same energy as Voulez-Vous by ABBA

@frog-that-writes is much the same as Sushi, but with vibes slightly to the left- Lemon Drop by Raynes

#ask #anonymous #shepard ram our beloved #g0re our beloved #cres our beloved #dana our beloved #bloom our beloved #nix our beloved #sushi our beloved #alistair our beloved

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euphorickaeya · 2 years ago

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THE ALMIGHTY.

buwan’s notes : I’m alive but I’m dead LOL, i don’t think I’ll be posting much on this account, maybe some for a few months here and there but other than that, I’m barely active. I apologize to those who keep asking for updates but I no longer consider myself in the genshin fandom.

I would also want to apologize for this fic, this fic is somewhat cruel, and I don’t want to offend anyone, please do speak to me if it seems I’ve gone too far, but this is merely a more story-based fic than being a fic about the characters being shipped with the god!reader. I wanted to explore the idea of being denied your saving grace when your god is right there, and they know it. It sort of a revenge fic?? Errr idk how to explain HAHA ok enjoy 😭

summary : you refuse to be treated the way you were, when you descended on your lands.

CW : obsession, sagau in general, borderline abuse as a creator, revenge and angst (?).

[no ships, more reader-centric.]

[gender-neutral!creator!reader.]

song recommendation: babooshka - Kate Bush.

part 2

EDIT: I COMPLETELY FORGOT THE TAGLIST..

EDIT #2: SIKE I WROTE IT DOWN LOLS @emperatris-rinaka | @iyhmibyo | @nicebonescomrades

A cold wind blew over the lands of Liyue, the creator has blessed the ancient lands with their presence, being bombarded with the lavish gifts of forgiveness of the people of Liyue by your feet, as you sat at a public throne.

Your eyes held nothing but resentment and no remorse for those who ask for your blessings, even if they bring a sickly child by your feet, begging and crying for a single blessing for you to heal this sickly child placed on your feet.

You merely spare the family a glance, before staring at your acolyte, Zhongli stared at you with concern, unsure of the thoughts racing through your head.

You made your decision when you had shooed the family, a shocked look on their faces as the hold on their poor kid faltered, almost dropping the frail boy. You could merely scoff as the mother handed the kid to her husband as she ran to your feet, wailing.

“Your grace, please punish me for any wrong-doing my family has done, but please! Heal my boy! He’s done nothing wrong, he’s nothing but a boy!” The mother wailed into your robes.

You felt your face morph into disgust, your eyes swelling in anger, tears starting to form from annoyance and anger. “Don’t pity yourself under my feet, lady.” You spat, pushing the mother with your feet.

The crowds that came to revel in their creator’s stared in disbelief and silent horror as the lady sobbed loudly on your podium, and their god, you, doing nothing to comfort or even give a slice of remorse to the pitiful lady by your feet.

After a few minutes of your unrelenting emotionless gaze on her and her unstopping sobs as her husband held their boy from afar helplessly, the lady raised her head to look at you.

An anger in her eyes, betrayal, anguish met your cold, frozen eyes.

“You’re no god, you’re not our creator, you’re just a mere copy..” the lady whispered spitefully, looking at you with nothing but hatred for your embodiment.

For once, in a long time, you laughed, a smile on your face, not of happiness, but of mockery, a scoffing, bashful smile.

“I’m no god? I’m a mere, copy?” You scoffed at the lady, your eyebrows raised in a mocking way, you stood from your throne, even after being able to sit on the golden seat, it still felt like it stung you, like silver does to a vampire.

It burned and stung, but it did nothing but fuel you even more. “Is this what has come of my empire? Of my beloved world?” You asked, walking slowly up to the lady who gravelled and clutched the hot concrete under her palms.

“If I had known my own children would dictate who I am, I would’ve destroyed this world to bits.” You threw that sentence out recklessly, seeing your acolytes stiffen quickly from your peripheral vision. You couldn’t help but grin at their uncomfortable faces.

“You, a mere lady, who lives on nothing but scraps, gets to tell me, a creator, a celestial being, who I am?” You snarled, your spear appearing to intimidate those who dare to anger you so.

“You’ve got some nerve, you all do!” You pointed to the crowds, who flinched and screamed in fear as you pointed with your spear, the metal shining against the sun.

Your acolytes could only wish that the sun could’ve given you it’s golden rays in a better situation, seeing as you flowed with unrelenting bravery and anger.

“I had to harm myself, to cut my flesh and show my blood, so that I wouldn’t die in this mortal form!” You screamed into the crowd, no longer holding the annoyance and disgust you held for this world.

“If I were a mere mortal with my face, you would’ve called them an imposter, burn them at the stake, like you’ve done with me!” Zhongli could only watch helplessly as your struck fear into his people, unable to stop you, for his loyalty refuses to let him move.

“You’re no people of mine, this world is obsessed with the idea of me, not my being as your creator!” The lady no longer glared at your with angry, but with disdain and anxiousness.

“I refuse to be dictated and be a holy grail for this shitty fucking world. Your people don’t deserve to be blessed with my presence nor my help.” Zhongli’s eyes could only widen, glancing at Ningguang, who was hyperventilating, watching you as you threw your spear away, it dissipating into particles.

“so suffer, suffer as I have, hope that there’s another god who’ll give you the forgiveness I will never give you.” You scoffed, you looked at the father who held his son with a life-threading grip.

Looking at you, his eyes holding a flickering flame of hope, that under all your anger, you would find the kindness to give them the mercy they’re desperately grasping at.

But you merely turned away from him, watching from your peripheral vision as the flame in his eyes extinguished, before his eyes filled, refusing to look away from your retreating figure.

“Zhongli, I want to end my appearance here and now.” You refused to look at the archon that stood by your throne as you walked past. Soon after a while, you had walked into the Liyue palace doors, finally out of public eye.

That is when Zhongli finally moves. Although being the most powerful archon, his knees buckled like that of a weak mortal, the pain and fear of his people weighing down his back.

But how can he save them? not when he knows he’s one of the many people who’s fueled this despicable behaviour in their god.

Their god who was so reverent and kind, only corrupted by it’s own creation.

#genshin impact sagau #genshin sagau #sagau #genshin self aware au #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #yandere genshin #euphoric~works #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact self-aware #genshin cult au #genshin x gender neutral reader #yandere genshin x reader

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merrysithmas · 3 years ago

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masculinity in star wars

you know, after some great posts by the brilliant @intermundia my mind has been going. something i've long thought, and something they recently put into very beautiful words, is how one of the central themes of star wars, and why so many nonbinary/queer/trans/masc people gravitate towards it, is masculinity.

i'd even argue it is THE central theme (even beyond the concepts of Spiritual Balance & Good vs Evil), which explains the phenomenon of cismen being so violently gatekeeping and protective of it.

we all know when sw was released in the 70s the emotional arc at its core revolved around the concept of Father and Son, the forgiveness, redemption, or blame therein.

it is easy to see why Luke Skywalker, noble, innocent, and nontoxically pursuing a masculine concept of "knightship" (while retaining feminine qualities himself which would prohibit him from fitting in with the imperials) would become a hero to many young cis boys who had overbearing, unrelatable, absent, or downright evil fathers. it is easy to see why obiwan, the wise and protective second-father figure would become their beloved guru.

it is also easy to see, of course, the reverse, wherein many men who feel they failed at fatherhood, partnership, and life, would relate to Vader and the salvaging love he had for his son. the possibility that they were not totally consumed and digested by the toxic masculinity that had conscripted them and of which they then became soldiers of - an Empire.

the question SW asks in almost every film to this date is - what is masculinity? where does it come from? how do we define it? what do we do with it? and how do we balance it?

we see this reflected over and over again - Din Djarin with Grogu, the Bad Batch with Omega, Palpatine/Qui gon with Anakin, Obi-wan with the Skywalker twins, Rey's unrelenting search for a father figure in Luke, Kylo Ren and his burning abandonment in front of the absent Han Solo, Yoda and his Order, Cassian Andor and the powerless castration he experiences via the Empire, the HyperMasculine Empire, the warsome Mandalore vs. the pacifist Satine Kryze, Cal Kestis & his success borne of his crew of resourceful women.

Characters who are presented as male are constantly being challenged by ideas of masculinity and by which route they will choose to express it.

what does it mean to be a "man"? a question queer, trans, and masc people often ask themselves in relation to our identities. and a question we see the SW characters face constantly. is it sacrifice (Anakin)? protectiveness (Din)? bravery (Luke)? resilience (Obi-wan)? taking up arms when you are wronged (Cassian)? vengeance and blazing your own way (Vader)? Kindness and vulnerability (Cal)?

of course, this concept of masculinity in SW as a central theme also extends to its female characters and what it means to have female masculinity of any kind especially within a patriarchy or a situation where masculinity can be translated into a threat (to anyone, including oneself). this is another reason, id argue, for uproar in the cismale sector of the fandom when they are faced with a topic (female & queer masculinity) that they neither experience nor understand and see therefore, as a threat.

characters like leia, rey, jyn, reva all display various components of outright female masculinity and/or display a picture of women grappling with the masculinity around them, which i would postulate is what makes them so iconically and instantly popular. they are allowed to be whole on screen. they are not merely a "feminine" archetype. they are whole - masculine, feminine, passive, and aggressive.

Leia with her commanding military presence is never once questioned. She then becomes a mother who grapples with the duties of traditional motherhood while following a path that is most meaningful for her (the Rebellion).

Jyn, the abandoned streetrat rebel who is allowed to be callous, doubtful, unpreened, and cynical. Whose strength of heart eventually pulls a motley crew together.

Rey, a sexless scrapper whose skills come from self-reliance, who is pushed face to face with someone who repulses her - Kylo Ren with his burning crucifix of a saber, who haughtily croons to her that he can take "whatever he wants" from her. She pushes him away, rejects him continually, until he renounces the toxicity of his confused perspective (brought on by his own torture). Only to in the end embrace Ben, the good man who'd die for her to live: as she embodied the principles that he failed.

Reva, a hardened and traumatized covert soldier who gives in and then climbs out of the charybdis of vengeance and spiritual suffering. who mistrusts and is disgusted by the men who were supposed to protect her family (Obi-wan and Anakin). we rarely get to see this rage and pain from a female character on screen.

as queer people of course we see ourselves in between those philosophical questions and identify with various characters and their struggles. we are always presented with these internal questions of what makes an identity and confronted with our own society's labels of "masculine" and "feminine" and how they relate to our place as queer people.

& of course, "canon" doesn't truly exist in the sense of a character's gender or sexuality - a character's orientation and identity is up to the viewer- and with complex questions of identity already at play in this universe it is easy to see oneself as a queer person within this story.

and then of course, we are now starting to see characters like Merrin, Obi-wan, and others' sexualities expanded upon further than the "assumed cishet" brand usually defaulted by the general audience.

so those are some futher, not-totally developed thoughts on the topic here haha

#just thoughts #star wars #sw meta #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #luke skywalker #leia organa #din djarin #cassian andor #cal kestis #rey skywalker #reva sevander #jyn erso #han solo #kylo ren

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pizza-writes · 2 years ago

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Worried

A Bad Batch one shot

Summary: When y/n is injured, they try to hide the severity of it, causing the boys to panic when it’s worse than they realized.

Pairings: None. Implied attraction to Hunter because, well, he’s hot.

Warnings: SFW. Broken bone, nausea, passing out. Doctor Tech. Comforting Wrecker. Also Guilty Wrecker. Comforting Hunter. Sassy Crosshair. Concerned Hunter. You know—the necessities of a hurt/comfort oneshot.

Word count: 2.5k

Disclaimer: this was originally posted on my other account @thereforepizza

if there’s anything else y’all see that needs tagged, please lmk and I’ll gladly tag it here !

Consciousness stirred you awake with a hesitant hand. You groaned, setting both feet on the floor and rubbing your eyes. If there were ever a day you wished you might forget, yesterday was it, yet the memory came back to you in an instant. The darkness. A shuttering breath. One mistake after another.

You made your body move, though each sore, aching muscle protested. With an effort, you got to your feet. Your right leg gave out. Cool, metal floor boards slapped your hands. Your lips loosed a whimper. Shaky, you got up, and a hand found the far wall for balance.

You caught your breath, wincing.

The next attempt to stand on two feet left you grimacing, acid rising from your stomach. This nausea plagued you from the moment of your injury. When you had risen from your place under the stones, you had instantly lost the contents of your stomach. This struck the entire squad by surprise because you possessed a stomach of steel. They brought you back to the ship and you passed out the moment your head hit the pillow of the lowest bunk. It wasn't your bunk, you realized, but nobody cared. The last thing you remembered was seeing the look of concern in Tech's eyes your focus waned. Looking back, it takes a lot to get Tech frazzled, so something must have been wrong.

Something was very wrong.

As your mind raced, your heart begged to be with the batchers. Something in your soul could sense that you needed to get their attention. If not that, then at least be near them. Tech could fix you. Hunter could comfort your fears. Wrecker could distract you. Crosshair… well, he might not appear to care, but you knew he’d want to do something.

You tried to stand again without being as gentle. Perhaps the mundane ache would be drowned out if you experienced something sharp and quick. You pushed against the wall and tears blinded you. You found your footing. Caught your breath. Fighting the urge to cry out, you limped through the cabin of the Marauder.

Every step made you sicker. Your fists balled at your sides. The pain was masked by numbness and an ache that crept clear to your shoulders as you moved. Perhaps your reaction was dramatized… Pride donned the poker face you plastered on as you sauntered into the cockpit. A last second call said they didn't need to see you wimping out on them.

"That's precisely my interpretation of the data, Hunter. We will deplete our stock of supplies in..." Tech trailed off, squinting at your newly arrived form. You nodded a greeting and found a seat, uncomfortably aware of the four sets of eyes on you.

"Go on,"

Tech adjusted his goggles. “You should be resting.”

"I'm not wasting that much energy, am I?"

He frowned at you, then at his beloved data pad. "We will deplete our supplies in two weeks. It is time we return to Kamino to regroup and restock any items that are low in our inventory."

"How long has it been?" Hunter glanced at you.

"According to each solar—"

"A long time," you hummed. You leaned forward on your elbows in an attempt to distract your mind. "I estimate two and a half months."

Tech paused, gears grinding. “You are almost correct. Two months and nineteen days. How'd you know that?"

A shrug and tilt of your head. “Good internal clock."

"My internal clock says we've been gone for forever!" Wrecker leaned back in his chair and you swore you heard it creak. "I almost lost track a how many successful missions we've done. Don’t you worry, though. It’s twenty-nine.”

Your hand slipped to a fresh bruise on your forearm.

“If it hadn’t been for someone’s recklessness, we would have had thirty.”

Wrecker’s voice sounded strained. “Shut up, Crosshair. It was an accident!”

You stood atop a hut raining hell on the droids around you. The mission’s end was in sight. The town’s liberation close at hand.

“Sure.” Crosshair’s voice turned cool. “But accidents happen when you’re too reckless.”

Boom

Hunter hushed them. “That’s enough, Cross. Arguing about it won’t change what happened.”

Misfire from a destroyed cannon did its job. The surface dissolved under you. Your fall was brief. Wrecker lifted a wall from you only minutes later. When you stood, the world danced, and not in a pleasant way. You threatened to shoot Tech when he tried to look over you for injuries. You pushed away Wrecker’s attempts at apology—claiming he had nothing to do with it even if he was the catalyst. On your way back to the shuttle your mind replayed a single, wistful phrase: ‘I’m not hurt.’

"How you holding up?"

You looked at Hunter. His eyes bored into yours. The question was aimed at you.

He let out a deep breath. “Thought we’d lost you there for a minute."

Your frown traveled to take in each of the batchers. They shared the same expression: concern. It sent you curling up into your seat.

“I was thinking.”

"I do not wish to alarm you…” Tech hesitated and looked at Hunter.

"You look sick. Your face is pale." Crosshair leaned forward. His serious tone made your heart drop.

Wrecker sat up. “You good, y/n?”

Your trademark tough shell shifted. "Wh—what?"

"Are you okay?" Hunter got up and closed the distance between you. "Be honest. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Sarge.”

The look in his eye spoke enough for you to admit defeat. Of course he would know. He could probably smell the blood.

"I believe it is necessary to examine you further.” Tech’s message was stately. You stood no chance arguing. "Crosshair, please take the controls.”

An extended hand grounded your scattered mind. You glanced up at Hunter. "Where we going?"

"To the back. Tech wants to check you."

"I uh… I heard that.” You hopped to your feet and everything went black.

You drew a sharp breath. The bunk above you shadowed your eyes. Head foggy, you took in the room. Hunter leaned against the wall, arms folded, scowl engrained in the skull adorning his face. Unmoving, he studied the floor.

You motioned to move and Hunter whispered. "Stay there, y/n."

He passed over to the bunk and pushed your feet back to the middle of the bunk before your mind caught up. The wealthy of Coruscant were more in tune with their surroundings than you. You bid your eyes close, and sleep greeted you again with far softer arms.

You awoke to the sound of two distant voices.

"She will need more rest, but we cannot wait to set it."

"Do you know how to do that?"

A beat. "I have read extensively on the topic. I have never needed to preform the operation, but I believe my knowledge is sufficient."

"Then do it. I reckon you'll need more local anesthetics?"

"No need. The supplies from this med-kit will work."

A sigh. Hunter’s voice softened. “Please don't get this wrong, Tech."

"They will be okay. Don't worry."

His gentle hand pushed your shoulder and you drew a breath, slowly coming from a sleep you didn’t know you’d fallen into. A frown mushed your face.

"Good morning, y/n.” Hunter hummed with a smile in his voice.

Your lips failed to formulate an intelligent reply, so you mumbled your similar return.

"Since we don’t have the right equipment, we need you to be awake so we can test these pain killers. Once we're sure they work, you can relax."

You nodded. "What is it?"

"You broke your... Tech, which bone is it?"

"The Tibia,"

"You broke your Tibia. Shin bone. We need to reset the bone so it doesn’t fuse wrong on the way back to Kamino."

"Do you feel this, y/n?"

A moment of confusion was followed by your looking down at Tech. He pressed on your exposed shin with a couple gloved fingers. The pressure didn't cause any reaction, but the sight of your wounded leg did. Fascinated, you wanted to touch it.

"No, no—lay back down." Hunter pushed you back onto the bed.

"Do you feel this?" You frowned down at Tech, wondering why he'd repeat his question when it struck you. His hand rested on another part of your leg. Satisfied, he turned to his datapad.

"I don't feel any of that. Is that bad?"

"Quite the opposite."

You caught Hunter’s shoulders relax. He turned to you and you met his eyes without a sound. A reassuring smile crossed his lips and you caught yourself thinking about just how handsome this man was. It took a moment to pull you back. Then you heard what he was saying to you.

"You can relax. We'll take it from here."

He didn't have to tell you twice. You were already embracing the darkness. A long time passed, you couldn't be sure how long. When you finally came to, you found yourself drifting away again. This became common until one time, you were able to hold onto a relative instance of consciousness. The dim room shifted as you sat up and scooted to lean your back against the wall.

This was not the Marauder.

Slow eyes scanned the disastrous room, hesitating on the fresh tally marks carved into the wall. They moved to the droid head on a table in the center of the space where Tech and Hunter sat. Eventually your gaze drifted to the pile of dirty blacks and then to the window that was pelted with large raindrops. You hadn't been on Kamino in a long time.

"Glad to see you awake.” Hunter greeted you, setting aside the armor he had been polishing.

"It hasn't been two weeks already, has it?" You noted that Crosshair and Wrecker were gone. "Tech said two weeks."

"It's been three days actually," he moved to lean over your... his bed. Resting his arm on the wall above the rather large alcove, he looked down at you. From there he went into the lame-man’s explanation of your surgery. It wouldn’t take long to heal, so the squad would head out in a few short rotations.

"The operation would have gone better if you were transparent about the extent of your injury." Tech had both elbows resting on the table and he looked up from the data pad in hand. He paused, eyes darting to the side. "On a… similar note: I should have recognized the symptoms immediately. Nausea and fatigue following a traumatic event are trademark symptoms of serious injury. I assumed that you were exhausted from the mission or perhaps angry at Wrecker. Had I been more thorough..."

"Hey.” You waited until his eyes met yours. "Don't blame anyone. We’re not gonna start that. I’m not upset at you for anything because it was out of your control. You were respecting my wishes to be left alone.”

A heavy sigh left his lips and he bobbed his head in agreement. "My apologies. When you fell in that building I knew it had to be worse than you let on."

Hunter frowned. "None of us realized how bad it was till you passed out in the cockpit."

Your chest grew heavy. "I'm sorry. I should've been more forthright."

"We forgive you. I want you to know that we care, y/n." You found Hunter's dark eyes. "Please tell us next time if you need help."

A beat followed before you nodded. "I will."

A minute later, the door hissed open and in came Wrecker shoving Crosshair. The sniper punched him in the gut and Wrecker grunted, swinging again. Cross dodged it easily. Hunter coughed pointedly. They both paused, staring your way. An enormous smile struck Wrecker and he clamored over to you like a little kid. Your entire body was buried in huge arms.

"How are you doing, y/n?" He held you at arms length and looked at you, brows stitched together. "I was worried sick!"

"I'm doing good, Wreck. I am pretty tired though." You stole a glance at Crosshair who stood near the door toothing a toothpick. "Apparently I have a good poker face.“

The sniper huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. You turned back to the large man who moved next to Hunter. His arms crossed and you caught a look come over him. His shoulders were a little more slouched than normal and after his initial reaction to seeing you, his brows furrowed at the ground.

“It’s come to my attention that there’s a bit of guilt going around you boys,” you said, trying not to directly aim your words at any of them. “But I want you to know that fretting over the past won’t make anything change. It won’t fix me. You know what will? Good vibes and a decent breakfast.”

Hunter smiled at them. “What do you say, boys? One of you wanna grab ‘em some grub?”

Wrecker whooped in approval and the others followed him to the door while Hunter stayed behind. He sat on the edge of the bed.

"You not going to eat?"

He shook his head. "I ate before they got up."

You hummed.

Steady raindrops filled the silence that ensued. The empty look in Hunter's eyes drew your observance. He stared at nothing, all the while looking at the galaxy. Those were the eyes of a burdened leader. You wondered if he knew he did this from time to time.

"Are you okay?"

The light reignited in his eyes and he turned his focus to you. "I will be,"

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow. “What's up?"

He hesitated, eyeing the floor. "Just... when you passed out? I haven't lost any of my brothers in this squad. For a second, I thought I was going to lose you. I've never really let myself think about that before."

The expression on his face when you had woken a few days ago spoke a novel when paired with those words. Every mission that went well grew confidence in the boys. You saw this consistently. That confidence probably shattered the moment they realized one of them could get hurt. Did all of them feel the same fear?

That image made your heart race. You imagined their reaction when you failed to hide your pain. The thought of their worry plagued you. It was... mortifying.

"But you made it," he whispered. “And you're alright."

"I am,"

It took half an hour for the others to return. When they did, you found yourself watching them in a new light. Truly, these boys were different. You knew you'd be in good hands while you recovered from this inconvenient injury. The best part was that you'd have four... well, three really caring clones to keep your spirits up as you did so.

//~//~//

Thanks for reading!

Please reblog and comment to show support! At the end of these one shots I like to have a question to boost interactions—feel free to respond!

Q. Have you ever broken a bone? If so, would you be interested in sharing the story?

A. Nope! I've been close a time or two, but I have yet to break any bones

Masterlist

#tbb #the bad batch #the bad batch fanfic #the bad batch one shots #the batch batch x reader #Hunter tbb #Hunter x reader #tech tbb #wrecker tbb #Crosshair tbb

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irisisasiren · 2 years ago

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Shu Yamino as your bf

A/n: howdy fellow reader:D I been healing up so I guess I can say that I'm all better now🐸 but anyway, here's our beloved sorcerer (◍•ᴗ•◍)

(P/s:lolll he's my second oshi 🥹🫶)

Warning: a bit of swearing 🥲

• he likes so hold hands whether u guys are in public or at home

•will call u babe or any nickname u prefer

•he likes to kiss u on your temple, cheeks, hands or a perk on your lips

•he absolutely loves it when you place ur hand on his cheeks

"Hmm? Babe do u need something? "

"Oh? I see what u r doing~"

(P/s: Holy shit the fact that I found this during writing this :0 )

• he'll let u sit on his lap will he's doing his work or playing games

• He'll teach u Japanese:D

•Pls be careful when u agree to be his test bunny:-)

•for example: once he accidentally turn u into *inserts ur favorite animal* for 24h

• and the next morning, the first thing he see when he opens his eyes, you . . . FUCKING NAKED SNUGGLING AGAINST HIM sujqiausnuao

•his face was bright red 👁👄👁

•"good morning shu-"

•"BAE, YOU'RE NAKED!!!"

•"here!!" *gives u one of his shirt while looking away* "cover it up with this..."

•"I- thank u, Shu!!" *putting on his shirt while thanking him*

• oh and although he can cook(bcs in one of stream, he said that he only know the basic), he much prefer orders out 🥲👍

•the Yaminions love you guys 🥹🫶

A/n: cre to the owner of the pic that I found

Hope y'all enjoy 🥲🫵

#luxiem x reader #luxiem #shu yamino #shu yamino x reader

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lifeofkaze · 3 years ago

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Warning - rant incoming.

Having been a writer for more than a decade overall and an active one for almost two years now, there's a question that has been bugging and making me anxious over and over again, and that is:

What kills a writer? What kills the joy writing sparks in us? What makes us want to go and just stop?

And no, I'm not talking about like/reblog ratios here on Tumblr, lack of kudos on AO3, or non-existent interaction (even though these all suck in their own way).

No, what's been grinding my gears over and over and over and over again is when people are lying. You think that sounds rude? Well, so is this kind of behaviour, imho.

For the love of God, please...

... don't say you have to read an author's work when you don't mean to. And no, I don't mean "I really want to engage with what you do properly, but I'm really short on time/motivation/attention span atm but it's sitting in my drafts and I WILL get round to it". Like, that's me, all the time. The number of tbr posts sitting in my drafts is ridiculous, but anyone who knows me knows tI eventually gets around to all of them. No, I mean those people who say things like these because they feel it's expected of them and don't want to say, "Listen, it's cool what you do, but it's not my jam." And I mean, I get it, it takes a lot of courage to say that, and not everyone is mature enough to separate this from the feeling of not being liked or appreciated. BUT - as someone who's been told exactly that and gotten her hopes up of getting interaction and having people to talk about with what's really close to my heart - let me tell you, this kind of behaviour is crushing, and it rings more empty every time you hear it. You stop trusting in people when they say it, and eventually, trusting in what they say altogether. If you are not interested in someone's work, don't make them think you are.

... don't pretend to interact if you don't care. Striking the same cord, if a work doesn't appeal to you or you lost track of it, or you cba with it atm, don't act as if you read/engaged with it with generic or just plain false comments. And again, no, I don't mean generic comments are bad or anything, not at all. But trust me, people can tell if you actually read their work, or just looked at someone else's comment and rephrased it, or skimmed it and possibly got a wrong gist altogether. We can tell. We can always tell. And because we do, it leaves a very, very bitter taste in our mouths every time we get a reaction like this. Interaction should be based on excitement and involvement, not on a quid-pro-quo mentality. You should interact because you want to, and not just so the other person feels compelled to interact with and boost your own content as well. That's not how this is supposed to work. If you like a creator but don't want to engage with their content for whatever reason and are scared they won't like you anymore, just hit them up and talk to them. I've yet to meet another author who will be angry at someone reaching out.

Take inspiration, but do not steal. I know it's virtually impossible to create something so original that it's never been here before in the history of mankind. Tropes are here and beloved for a reason, and every author has that one piece/scene/line they took from something they love. Really, we all do, and inspiration is a beautiful thing to have. That being said, there is a very big and very important difference between getting inspired and copying. I cannot stress enough how upsetting and frustrating it is to a creator when their work is blatantly copied, or something is "inspired by them" that is just a carbon copy or an unsolicited addition to something they never intended to share in the first place. Just because something is put out there doesn't mean anyone has the right to go and grab it for themselves. There's obviously no means to stop anyone from doing so, but just think about how you would feel if something was done to a piece of content/character/art you created. If you want to add to someone's work or it inspires you to do something similar, take the second out of your day to contact the creator and tell them about it to see if they're okay with sharing. Often they are, and if not, they might just have another idea to make things work for both of you.

Oof. That was nice getting off my chest. If you feel offended by what I said, maybe stop and take a moment to think about why. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

#writblr #goes for any fandom/creative process #but for me specifically #hogwarts mystery #hogwarts legacy #hphm #hphl #hpma #magic awakened #don't kill the fandom by driving people away like this #it's sad and frustrating

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iammissingautumn · 2 years ago

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1, 2, 7, 11!!

1. What OTPs in your fandom(s) do you just not get?

Uhhhh okay so fandom don’t kill me for this but uhhh cre/ek.

2. Are there any popular fandom OTPs you only BroTP?

Hmmmm i don’t think so? I mean i’m a bit quirky since i’m alterous. soooo. i’ll drop a fav alterous couple instead. hmmm. alterous stendy perhaps? i wish them well.

7. Is there anything you used to like but can’t stand now?

Nope!! in fact the opposite happened to Cartman. I used to avoid him like the plague. he’s become a rlly therapeutic character to love in fandom since then.

11. Is there an unpopular character you like that the fandom doesn’t? Why?

YES. GARY HARRISON MY BELOVED. And as to why. hmmmm. I love his charm, the way that all his responses make it hard not to love him even when people are hating on him. He’s smart to a boot and has such a good bond with his family. I love the crisis he gives Stan and more than that I love how he’s not afraid to call someone out when the time comes to it. Stan is so clearly in the wrong for being so upset but also it’s because his thought process is just twisted. I also just rlly love the message of that episode. Which is unrelated to why I love him technically but the whole “My religion might be flawed but it’s allowed me a structure that’s helped me and my family become better people and it’s important to me. We shouldn’t be damned for our religion when we aren’t the people acting damning” type stuff. it’s beloved.

thank u!!!

#sp #asks #phantomchill #ask game #mod caden

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kicksaddictny · 3 years ago

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Introducing Nike Forward

According to Nike

What to Know

Nike Forward is a game-changing innovation platform revolutionizing apparel creation.

The process to create Nike Forward requires fewer steps than traditional Nike knits or wovens which significantly reduces the carbon footprint of the first generation Forward material — an average of 75% reduction compared to traditional knit fleece used by Nike.

Nike Forward highlights NIKE, Inc.’s culture of innovation and commitment to take action in create a better world.

Nike Forward debuts in the form of one of the most beloved sport-inspired silhouettes, the iconic grey hoodie.

Athletes around the world have shared that climate change is a barrier to sport. Nike Forward, the company’s most significant apparel innovation since Dri-Fit, responds to that concern by re-setting the way we think about fleece. Moving away from traditional knit and woven processes, Nike Forward revolutionizes apparel creation by hacking punch-needle machines for the purpose of making premium, sustainability-minded product.

“Nike Forward feels different because it is different. It is not a traditional knit or woven, but a completely new material that drastically reduces its carbon footprint,” says Carmen Zolman, VP Innovation Apparel Design, NIKE, Inc.

Over five years of research went into the development of Nike Forward. The innovation, shifting from knit or woven, simplifies the process of material fabrication by reducing steps. Rather than follow a multistage (spin yarn, knit, cut, sew and more) creation cycle, Nike Forward turns fiber directly to textile through needle-punch. Fewer steps means less energy consumption, contributing to an average of 75% reduction in the carbon footprint for this first generation material compared to traditional knit fleece. Nike Forward material also has a lighter density than traditional knit fleece, which is crucial to reaching 75% carbon reduction, and the finished product is comprised of 70% recycled content by weight.

Nike Forward debuts in a beloved silhouette, the grey hoodie. In keeping with its sustainable ethos, the hoodie forgoes embellishments and dyes, favoring raw cut pockets and zero water usage.

“It’s game-changing platforms, like Nike Forward, that accelerate a culture of innovation at Nike to help protect the planet and the future of sport,” says Janett Nichol, VP Apparel Innovation, NIKE,Inc.

Nike Forward is the latest advancement in over 30 years of sustainability-minded innovations, joining the ranks of Nike Air, Flyknit, Flyleather, Space Hippie and Next Nature. The platform is purpose-built and created for future circularity — the first iteration of Nike Forward products are made without zippers, aglets or extra trims, making it easier for the garments to be recycled. In total, Nike Forward is an unlock as we work to achieve our impact targets.

“As part of our commitment to serve athletes* by offering more sustainable options and meeting our bold, science-based impact targets, we’re introducing a material innovation that can be adapted to different lifestyle and performance purposes,” says Seana Hannah, VP Sustainable Innovation, Nike, Inc.

Nike Forward can be made with a diverse range of layers, including industrial and post-consumer waste, and can be precisely tuned for athlete* needs. It is a testament to audacious imagination and hands-on experimentation with the most advanced proprietary sport science, digital tools and manufacturing techniques. Not only does it solve problems for athletes*, Nike Forward continues Nike’s legacy of setting new aesthetic and performance standards for sport.

“We believe this platform has the potential to reset the way we think about material and apparel. This is the biggest Nike apparel innovation since Dri-Fit 30 years ago and has huge potential to transform the industry in the way that Air and Flyknit did for Nike footwear,” says Aaron Heiser, VP Global Apparel Product Merchandising, NIKE, Inc.

Nike Forward debuts in Hoodie and Crew styles. Releases globally September 15th, 2022.

#nike #clothing #nikeforward #collection #kicksaddict

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hannibalcreative · 4 years ago

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Announcing the last of Hannibal Cre-Ate-Ive’s events: #ThisIsMyBeginning

As we as a group face the reality of this journey ending for us, we are looking back at the amazing things we have experienced through all of your contributions, your kind words and wonderful ideas. We couldn’t have done this without YOU. Without this brilliant fandom and without the love you gave back to us, not just with your works, but also with likes, retweets, comments and Kudos.

But every end is also a beginning.

From November 27th to November 29th we are asking you to show us what a new beginning means to you. Is it Hannibal and Will moving to a new place again? Is it the new morning starting with the song of birds or the cat on your face? Is it spring, when nature wakes up from its slumber? A new job, country, flat, a new enemy, or the epiphany of love and the change that comes with it? Is it….breakfast?

To go with the proverbial door that is closing for a new one to open: show us what our beloved characters from Hannibal and the Extended Universe can find behind the impossible amount of doors or windows. Post art, fic, poetry, edits, vids, RP— all the creative things! Just use the tag #ThisIsMyBeginning so that we can find your contribution (and maybe tag us, just to make sure).

Remember that the work you post has to be entirely new and unpublished.

Thank you so much @camilleflyingrotten, for once again providing us with an amazing piece of art. We were so happy to have you as a long-time member who contributed several amazing banners to our fests and challenges.

#ThisIsMyBeginning #info post #Hannibal #heu

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night-rhea · 4 years ago

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Big question!!!!

What would Night serve Samantha as a Meal, when Sam ask them for a typical turkish meal?

*overexcited noices* @samshogwarts I HOPE SHE İS READY BECAUSE NİGHT GONNA PREPARE WHOLE BİG DİNNER FOR HER JFJLFMFMMFMFMF I think you will find these, a bit romantic. In a very different way. Turks loves to eat okay, really l o v e s.

We should start with a beautiful soup. Tarhana Çorbası (tarhana soup)! @cres-aragon come quickly its Cres's fave soup!

"This is a soup that’s made and eaten at home. It’s a comforting, winter family staple. It’s what parents make and send to their kids who are away at uni or working away from home, just so they can be sure their offspring are at least eating one wholesome sensible meal occasionally."

Another famous Turkish dish, Dolma is next!

Maybe calling it turkish dish is wrong? Pff im not really sure. Wikipedia says it comes from Ottoman, but now it also means Balkan's knows that too!

"Dolma is a family of stuffed dishes from Ottoman cuisine that can be served warm or cold. Some types of dolma are made with whole vegetables, fruit, offal or seafood, while others are made by wrapping leaves, most commonly grape or cabbage leaves, around the filling. These wrapped dolma are sometimes called sarma."

"Dolma is divided into two groups: dolma without meat and dolma with olive oil. Those without meat and cooked with olive oil are called yalanci, meaning imitation.

Meat dolmas must always include rice, or sometimes bulgur. As explorer Pietro della Valle wrote, "If it doesn't contain rice, it is not a Turkish dish." Nevertheless, the end result is always the same–delicious and flavorful stuffed rolls of grape leaves."

And you h a v e to eat dolma with Turkish Yoghurt aka Yoğurt. No, its not like the ones you know.

(DAMN im so hungry now...)

"Once you cultivate an appreciation for plain yogurt you will have a hard time eating the sweet, fruity varieties, although they too are available in most urban areas. Turkish yogurt is so rich and creamy it more resembles sour cream.

Some varieties are sold with a thick layer of cream or skin on top, called 'kaymak.'"

Next? Mantı!

aAh my beloved mantı... yes its also yoghurt you see top of it.

"Manti, which is also referred to as Turkish ravioli may vary in size and shape depending on the region from which it comes. They may be boiled, steamed, baked or fried, but the recipe itself is fairly standard. A classic pasta dough is rolled out and filled with a mince of either lamb or beef and onions and spices then folded and cooked. It is then served topped with a garlicky yogurt sauce and sprinkled with sumac, red pepper, oregano or mint.

The making of manti is nothing short of a family affair. Ladies get together rolling, filling and folding these dumplings, spending hours gossiping about the latest news. Aunts and sisters, mothers and daughters, the making of manti is a group effort. Especially if the dish is being served to celebrate a wedding or engagement. However, it would be just as common to make for the family dinner. While dried manti is sold in little shops and at neighborhood bazaars, there is nothing more comforting than homemade manti, it’s almost certainly the extra infusion of gossip that ishomemade manti’s secret ingredient."

You can be sure Night will have one of the best homemade mantı's ever fufufu

My inner chef said Sammy should taste Kısır too. Baş üstüne Chef! (Hai hai chef)

"Traditionally kisir is made with bulgur wheat, if you are avoiding gluten, you might want to use quinoa, millet or even rice instead. Kisir is one of these dishes that tastes even better the day after so it’s great for making a big batch in advance and bringing it into work the next day. If, like me, you like mezze-style meals kisir makes a great addition to any mezze.

Its zingy, spicy, and fresh taste will excite your palate and its vibrant colours will brighten up your table."

Hey Sammy, wanna something cold to drink? heres your Ayran! (It pronounce exactly like "I run." ) Another yoghurt in our dinner XD

"By diluting plain yogurt with water and adding salt, you have created ayran. It is a very simple and very delicious drink which is served ubiquitously throughout Turkey. Common with meat or pizza sort meals, ayran is not often offered with seafood because of some superstitious about a negative reaction occurring in your intestines."

Are you full yet Sammy? Good! You ate so much didnt you? Youre lucky we are in the end!

Now we can have one of the best sweet in the world! Baklava!

"The recipe may sound too easy to be true: chopped nuts are spread in between the phyllo (yufka) layers, dressed with butter, baked and sweetened with syrup or honey. But the excellence depends on the quality of the flour, the thinness of the dough (phyllo) and the proportion of the syrup."

And here something kinda funny:

"There was a special reason for baklava being a favorite among the wealthy families and the Ottoman Sultans with their large harems. Pistachio and honey were the two prime elements and when consumed regularly they were believed to be aphrodisiacs. Cloves of two spices, cinnamon for females and cardamom for males, were added to increase the aphrodisiac effect of the pastry."

See? Its a sweet of riches XD

Every quality Turkish meal must end with tea, and you will be suprised how it will help your stomach after all the things you just ate ✨

The thing about Turkish meals is, not eating in hurry. I said Turks loves to eat right? Mostly, we love to eat together. Even if you were so busy with eating to talk, when your tea and baklava comes i can guarantee you, you will have such a lovely and warm time with the ones youre with!

Afiyet olsun! (Bon Apetite!)

#I cant believe i writw whole long ass post XD #IM SO HUNGRY RN 😭😭😭😭#Now say... Would Sammy prepare dinner for Night too? :3 #hphm #hogwarts mystery #hphm mc #night rhea #samantha o'connell #Turkish meals from Night

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excuseme-youpretty · 5 years ago

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BTS Reaction ~ Caught by their child

Anonymous asked:

Hello, can I please request how all the members react to your child walking in in you when your making out or being intimate.🥰

All credits for the gifs go to the original owners/makers.

Genre: Fluff / Crack. Slight smut.

Rating: M

Word Count: 575 - 980

Warnings: Heavy allusions to sex but nothing too graphic!

Kim Seokjin

It is no secret that Seokjin always prefers to perform his culinary magic underneath the rhythmic guidance of whatever cheesy pop song happens to illuminate his beloved sticker-slathered radio. Tonight's offering? Britney Spears.

As you make your approach from behind, you can hear your husband synchronize the sharp click of his knife tearing through colorful fresh vegetables with the admission that oops, Britney has indeed done it once again, and can't help but to chuckle.

Your arms enslave his midsection as you press your lips into the smooth strip of velvet skin at the nape of his neck. His hands hesitate for a minute only; just long enough for an enthralled grin to decorate his face.

"Well hello, babe. Fancy seeing you here."

Seokjin is careful to peel away the latex of his gloves before he turns, cradling both of your cheeks within his palms as he pulls you forward. His lips just barely brush across your own.

"And where is our little lovebug right now?"

You sigh contently, thumbing over the solidity of his abdomen through his flour-speckled shirt.

"She's currently captivated by the wonderful adventures of Mickey Mouse's Clubhouse. You know how she gets… she could be watching for hours."

"Hours, you say?" Seokjin smirks, applying just enough pressure on your bottom lip so that he may autograph a signature heart across your flesh with his tongue. "Well, that gives me just enough time to indulge on a craving I've been having…"

Seokjin's palms are exceptionally warm where they slip across the small of your back, thumbs painting intricate semi-circles over the elastic waistband of your cotton shorts before they delve even lower. He palms across your outer thigh with the same delicacy he would afford kneading an enriched dough.

You can't help but to release a small, perfectly clipped exhale of pure bliss.

"Aren't you worried that you will spoil your appetite, Jinnie?"

Seokjin's digits move rapidly. They slot underneath your thighs in order to aid in twisting your body that bit closer, the tip of his nose skimming across your fluttering pulse point.

"On the contrary. I consider this to be an appetiser; an Amuse-bouche if you will."

Seokjin's velour lips weave a haphazard pathway down between your collarbones, clinging to a particular cluster of nerves that he is certain will nudge you toward delirium.

"And I happen to find my wife very amuse-ing."

He lifts your thigh slowly, shifting your leg until it wraps securely around his waist, and begins to lift you up onto the counter-

"Eomma!" Your daughter cries, her voice as syrupy-sweet and innocent as birdsong.

Her little feet pad triumphantly across the kitchen tile, her unicorn slippers squeaking with every fortified step.

"Eomma, you missin' d'best bits!"

Seokjin is swift to back away from you, dropping your leg as though your flesh had transformed to molten lava and seared his palm. His back hits the edge of the sink with a rather comical thud, ironically synchronized with the orchestral stab of The Backstreet Boys announcing - once again - that they are back.

You have been left rather uncoordinated yourself, heat pouring into your stomach with all of the cloying stickiness of a candy-coated toffee apple.

"Sorry, darling. Eomma will be right there, okay? I was just asking Appa if he needed any help with dinner."

Your daughter's eyes are large and round and so similar to her Father's own that it is almost frightening; they contain an abundance of constellations and more knowledge than should be capable of someone her age.

Her bottom lip protrudes in thought, plump and ever so slightly discolored from slurping on grape juice all afternoon. It only takes a minute before she nods, seemingly satisfied with your excuse.

"Okai, Eomma. But huwwy!"

Taking off in a carefree, infantile sprint, with her slippers squawk-squeaking all the way, you are finally left alone with your husband once again.

"Rain check?" You ask once your heartbeat has settled back into a reasonable rhythm.

Seokjin brushes his thumb underneath your jawline, swiping over the small cluster of ginger-hued freckles which kiss your skin. He tips your face skyward, pressing a smattering of kisses back and forth over your satine cheekbones.

"Rain check. No appetisers tonight, babe."

A brief flicker of tanzanite temptation illuminates your husband's vision, one of his hands slipping down to rest almost tauntingly around your throat.

"I'll just have to have you for dessert instead."

Min Yoongi

Min Yoongi has always considered himself to be a being with exceptional hearing. He can detect even the smallest alteration in pitch, can recognise when an arrangement requires more volume or bass or vocal power, and can easily complete a portfolio of compositions in a single afternoon.

And yet, his outstanding hearing is so acute that he almost misses the unmistakable sound of his studio's pass code being punched in.

"Yoongi?" You breathe quietly, treading lightly lest you shatter the creative bubble that your husband is famous for cocooning himself within.

Yoongi pivots slowly in his chair, swivelling around until he can face you fully. Light touches his eyes with the intensity of several beautifully bobbing fireflies.

"What're you doing here, sweetheart?" He chirrups, sparing a brief glance toward his wristwatch. "I thought the kids and I were going to pick you up from work today?"

Yoongi's arms open out toward you, encouraging you to burrow into his lap without much need for communication.

You drape over his thighs as though you were pouring yourself into the very mould of your husband, situating yourself into all of the nooks and crannies you have claimed ownership over since the dawn of your relationship.

"Well, I finished early." You place an abundance of soft, featherweight kisses along the underside of Yoongi's razor-sharp jawline; savouring the fragrant tang of cologne which glistens like diamonds upon his skin. "Which means we just so happen to have some alone time before the twins get dropped off. Just think of the possibilities~"

No more than a moment after your syllables have been fully formulated does Yoongi wrap his opalescent fingertips around the nape of your neck and pull you close.

He kisses you deeply, presses the very tips of his cuspids into your bottom lip and lalves over the succulent indents with the gloss of his tongue until he can feel you shudder against him.

Your hands find their way into his hair with very little navigation. Sighing blissfully, you rake your nails over his scalp as though you were illustrating your initials in vibrant saffron sands; leaving your mark in the form of several exhilarated goosebumps.

"I love you." You whine, tipping your head back just far enough to provide enough room for Yoongi to suck several small candy wrappers into your throat.

"You too, sweetheart."

Yoongi's palms bracket over the swell of your jeans, each digit slipping one by one into the stitching of your back pockets so that he can grab your fleshy behind by the fistful.

He guides you forward, setting a slow but deliberate pace as you work in tandem with each other to feel-

This time, there is no mistaking the distinct sound of Yoongi's pass code being punched in.

You only just manage to pry yourself from your husband's lap by the time that his studio door bursts open.

You hear your twins before you see them; a cornucopia of fluorescent overalls and mismatched trainers and a seemingly unfathomable energy which completely belies their own paternity.

"Eomma!" Your son cries, the latter syllable smothered by the sensation of him excitedly clinging to your calf. "You're here!"

"Yes baby, Eomma is here!"

Beside you, your daughter makes quick work of climbing all over Yoongi's torso. Her hyperactive cackles seem to reverberate throughout the studio walls as she runs her chubby hands all over Yoongi's silver-toned hair; worsening the mess your own digits had made not five minutes before.

"Appa is a lion! Raaaawr! Look Unki NamNam!"

Lifting your son into your arms, you spare a glance over to the man in question and internally curse Namjoon's uncanny ability to destroy even a moment of impromptu passion.

"Sorry I'm early." Namjoon sighs, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck.

He can't seem to meet your eye.

But as you glance over toward Yoongi, making sure to nod artificially every so often as though to show feigned interest in the tall tales that your twins are spinning, you are met with a pair of dark, bottomless irises which sparkle, bubble and pop with the promise of what's to come as soon as you are protected by the coverage of twilight.

Yoongi definitely doesn't need exceptional hearing to know that your heart is absolutely beating out of your chest.

Jung Hoseok

On days like these it is often hard to determine what has your head spinning faster; the sensation of Hoseok twirling you under his arm or the reverberation of music pulsing like gunpowder throughout your veins.

Realistically, you should have known that your dance rehearsal was in jeopardy the second that Hobi's phone had diverted away from the relay of his own voice and opted instead to play Sistar's Touch My Body; your husband's not-so-hidden vice.

After grinning wildly and gyrating his body back and forth to the swish-swish dance of the song, he had pulled you in close in order to innocently mouth the lyrics against your cheek.

Fortunately, you had always been a stickler for following the rules.

And touching Hobi's body has always been your favourite pastime activity.

Your fingertips had found purchase upon the ridge of his collarbones, thumbs falling into the crease of his deliciously sweaty skin before shifting lower. Your lips had painted his Adam's apple with precision, tasting the sherbet of his aftershave and the natural essence of Hoseok.

Now your lips are plump and swollen from the feverish trap of his uncoordinated kisses.

He has you pinned up against one of the mirrored walls by his pelvis, the tip of his tongue writing soulful soliloquies into your skin until you glow with poorly contained adoration.

"Mm, Hobi. Calm down~" You sigh, arching up into the pressure of Hoseok's teeth as they paint faint crescent-shaped halos in the flesh of your earlobe.

Hoseok shifts his fingertips around your wrists, effectively binding them in a ribbon of calluses and articulation as he traps them up over your head.

"I can't help it, honey. You know what you do to me, don't you?"

"I'd have a guess, but I'd say that the evidence is pretty clear."

Certainly, with how Hoseok presses against you, he leaves very little to the imagination.

"A guess? Well, Maybe I'm not making myself clear enough, then…"

Using his unpreoccupied hand, Hoseok dips the faintest whisper of his fingertips into his mouth in order to get them appropriately wet. He then kicks your ankles apart, situating his thigh in place between your quivering knees.

It does not take a genius to recognize the unbridled gallop of small, toddling feet racing through narrow linoleum hallways. Nor does it require much effort to deduct that those very footsteps and the loud, high-spirited giggles which precede them can only belong to your son.

The studio door swings open with all the momentum of a party popper being pulled taut. Only instead of confetti you are rewarded by the sight of your son's beautifully plump rosy cheeks and his gap-toothed grin.

"Appa~!"

Hoseok turns just in time to drop to his knees and scoop your toddler up into his arms, the tone of his voice shifting from leather and velvet into something bubbling and bright.

"There's my little Hapi!" Hobi coos, nuzzling into your son's soft mousy hair. "Did you have a good day with Uncle Kookie?"

"Uh-huh! Appa, you look so silly! You wearing Eomma's lips!"

Hoseok lifts his thumb to swipe it over his bottom lip, gathering the fluorescent remnants of your transferred lipstick which lingers there.

"Yes I am." Hobi teases. "Do you want some? Mwah~"

It takes half a second before your son shrieks in protest, immediately sprinting away from your husband's chaotic influence. Hoseok chases after him with pursed lips, making outrageously exaggerated smacking noises during his pursuit.

Sighing softly, you lean all of your body weight on the mirror behind you and fan your face with your palm in an attempt to cool your rapidly rising body temperature.

"You're blushing awfully hard." Jeongguk acknowledges as he settles in beside you.

"Dance rehearsals. Worked up quite a sweat."

"Oh, I bet. You want me to keep him out a little later next time?"

Your teeth find purchase on the crease of your bottom lip, a residual sting prickling upon your flesh from how intensely you had been kissed mere minutes before. Your pulse continues to fizzle and pop and jump underneath your skin; a firework ready to burst.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You watch as Hoseok finally catches up to your squealing son. He lifts him effortlessly, pressing kiss after kiss over his rotund cheeks and your heart absolutely sings. How did you get so lucky?

And yet, as Hobi tucks your child carefully underneath his chin, you don't miss the way that his mouth dances around a simple word inundated with promise.

'Later.'

You can't wait to see what 'choreography' piece Hoseok will teach you next.

Kim Namjoon

There is something to be said about the sweetness of Namjoon's kisses during nightfall, when the moon is pitched high over Seoul's skyline and there is little need for urgency.

Without the influence of convoluted phone calls or frequented business meetings, it is almost as though your husband has been impassioned anew.

His kisses always start off deceptively slow, the petal pink tip of his tongue wicking across your bottom lip like butter gliding over hot toast. He rests his palms against your crimson-hued cheeks, guiding you that bit closer to his body as your bedsheets rustle down around your hips akin to a tambourine being jostled.

"I love you." Namjoon sighs, rotating his body so that you fall to a collapse against his exposed torso.

Your fingertips splay against his flushed skin as though seeking out purchase, eager to aid in the transition of your rolling hips.

"I love you more."

Burning with vibrant adoration, you can feel your stomach positively froth with frenzied butterflies. Your lips lather a steady stream of kisses down between Namjoon's pectoral muscles, pausing just millimeters below his ribcage where you sink your teeth ever so gently into his skin, determined to leave a mark which will last for days to come.

"And now I'm going to prove just how much I-"

The sound of your daughter's shrill, waterlogged sobs as they carry through from her nursery and into your bedroom is stark and corrosive; a bolt of lightning which strikes through your sternum with the intensity of blunt nails on a chalkboard.

As she tumbles into your bedroom, raven hair plastered to her cheeks by way of her seemingly limitless tears, and her tiny hands balled into fists where they cling to her beloved Koya plushie, you are quick to spring from your bed in order to gather her up into your arms.

"Oh sweetheart! What's wrong?"

Burying her reddened nose into your neck, your daughter splutters through her words.

"D'eres a monsta under m'bed! He's big n'mean and.. and scawy!!"

"A monster, huh?"

After some careful readjustments, Namjoon climbs out of bed to join your side. He runs his hands affectionately over your daughter's swollen cheeks, clearing the hair away from her eyes.

"Well, I'd like to have words with this so-called Monster. Let him know that he's messing with The Rap Monster and his beautiful little Princess. We'll see how mean and scary he is then!"

You each take one of your daughter's petite hands, being mindful of Koya’s unshakable presence, and inflate your chests into plates of pseudo armor as you lead her back into her nursery.

It takes less than a minute for Namjoon to scare away the fictional threat, adding just an ounce of parental gravel to his words for extra emphasis.

And it takes even less time for your adorable puffy-eyed princess to convince you to stay in bed with her until she feels safe once again.

With both you and Namjoon planted firmly on either side of your toddler's tiny frame, and the sensation of your fingers combing gently through the small tufts of her hair, she finds sleep easily.

"So…" You whisper, just loud enough for Namjoon to hear over your daughter's infantile snores. "You're a monster, are you?"

Despite the impenetrable darkness of your daughter's room, broken up only by the small heart-shaped night light which twinkles beside her bed, you can clearly see your husband's fiendish smirk.

"Just wait - I'll show you later."

Park Jimin

Two years.

You have been married to Park Jimin for two whole years.

And in that time you have seen him at his best, with a rhinestone microphone held in place between his dainty fingers and a light sheen of sweat glittering against his brow. You have also seen him at his worst, when thick black bags sit underneath his sunken eyes and sleep is a distant memory.

You know your husband inside and out; his flaws (or lack thereof) and his many merits.

Which is why you should have known that his suggestion of an impromptu movie night was nothing more than a ruse to have you exactly where he wanted you; draped across his lap on the couch and purring every time his lips brush against a weak spot on your neck.

"Shh, darling. Not so loud." Jimin teases, already moving to run the tip of his tongue along the underside of your jaw.

Your fingernails dig into Jimin's biceps from how tightly you grasp at him, leaving small moon-shaped welts in your wake which somehow pale in comparison to the roses he is currently embossing into your skin.

"You're a cruel man, Park Jimin."

"So I've been told. C'mere."

Maneuvering his hands underneath the blanket which he had draped over your shoulders in order to preserve your modesty, Jimin clasps at your hips and pulls you that bit closer to him.

"You're so beautiful." He sighs, swiping his thumb over your bejewelled lips.

For a moment he simply stares at you, admiring the cinnamon flush of your cheeks and the way in which you seem to flutter with every poorly managed breath; his influence evident.

Unwilling to lose this unspoken game you are playing, you up the ante by bearing your hips down against Jimin's own and push your fingertips through his bubblegum pink locks until he hums with bliss.

"Now who's the cruel one, darling?"

Before you can answer, the sound of your son's hiccuping whimpers resonates from inside his nearby bedroom.

"Appa! Eomma!"

Throwing the blanket off your shoulders, you are quick to rise from Jimin's lap, not missing the urgent way in which he grabs the fleece in question and places it over the space you had once occupied.

Your son darts into the room with a speed which belies his small stature, falling into your arms with his bottom lip quivering and his paw print pyjamas torn at the knee.

"Hey, easy! What happened?"

Your son rubs furiously at his damp eyes, making small but urgent grabby-hands toward his Father. Jimin reaches over to rub affectionately at tiny knuckles.

"Twipped. Was thirsty and twipped!"

He points adamantly at the small red welt which glows against the pale skin of his knee, his entire body shaking with barely contained sobs.

"Aw, you poor thing." Jimin consoles, his own lower lip protruding in a manner which reflects your toddler's pout exactly. "Eomma, our little Tiny got himself a booboo."

"So I see. You definitely have your Father's clumsiness trait, hm?"

Careful to avoid hurting him, you place a gentle kiss against the affected area.

"There we go. Good as new. Now, let's go get you a bandaid, okay?"

"Iwonman?"

"Of course! An Ironman bandaid for my little superhero."

As you lift your son with the intent of carrying him into the bathroom to patch up his battle scar, he makes a small whining noise and reaches for Jimin once again.

"Appa? You come too?"

You watch as your husband's face somehow darkens in hue. His ears burn scarlet-hot, beads of sweat stippled like pearls across his clavicle. He glances between you, your son, and the blanket currently concealing his hips.

"Uhh-"

"Appa will join us in a minute, baby. He's just gonna clean up first. Right, Appa?"

Jimin nods enthusiastically. "Right! I'll be there in a minute, Tiny. Promise."

Seemingly satisfied with his answer, your son turns to rub his cheek into your chest, already changing the subject to an unusual dream he had earlier in the evening.

Briefly, you can see the relief flash in Jimin's eyes as he collapses back onto the couch. He bites his bottom lip, mouthing a brief word of thanks toward you.

You blow him a kiss in response, not missing the way that Jimin pushes his fingers back through his hair to fix the mess you had made. His eyes briefly sparkle with something oh so familiar; something salacious.

After two years, you can be certain that you know your husband well enough to guarantee that your little game of cat and mouse is far from over.

Kim Taehyung

When Taehyung loses himself to his illustrations he is always completely silent.

His lips form a pursed rosette of pure concentration, brows furrowed low across his forehead, and his pinkie finger develops a small but temporary tick every time he pauses to load his paintbrush with a new pigment.

He is so silent, in fact, that the only sound you can hear on your approach toward his office is that of novelty ice cubes clinking back and forth within the glass of freshly poured lemonade you prepared for him.

Knocking politely on the door to alert him to your presence, you can only watch in awe as Taehyung dabs a bead of sweat from his brow, his fingertips stained shades of periwinkle and amaranth.

He stipples another dollop of paint onto his canvas, brushing back and forth in broad strokes in order to heighten the saturation of a particular petal cluster.

"Hey, you." You hum contentedly, placing the glass of lemonade down on Taehyung's desk. "I thought you could use a drink."

"Thank you, Jagiya. That's very kind of you."

Placing his paintbrush down into a pot of discolored water to soak, Taehyung turns in his chair to face you. He reaches his arms up overhead and stretches until his shoulders give a rather satisfying pop and then reaches out toward you, guiding you into his lap.

His large palms stroke along the individual notches of your spine, touching you with the same care he would afford a piece of fine, antique china. The tip of his nose nestles against yours for a moment, wading back and forth before he uses the cool compress of his thumb to elevate your chin.

"Look at you. So beautiful; my muse."

Your husband's words flutter about inside your abdomen like dispersed dandelion seeds; soft and aerated and tickling you in all the right ways.

He kisses you softly, deeply, the tip of his tongue tracing whimsical patterns across every dip and divot of your lower lip as though he has found his new favourite canvas; a magnum opus all wrapped up in a beautiful wife-shaped bow.

You can feel every single brush and stroke of his tongue as he kisses you, somehow both cool and hot at the same time, until you are absolutely incandescent with hue and color.

Taehyung shifts until you are comfortably straddling both of his hips. His calloused thumbs knead at the nape of your neck until goosebumps sprinkle like powdered sugar upon your skin.

With your husband's outrageously long fingertips combing through your hair, you find yourself clasping onto the crisp collar of his shirt simply to keep yourself afloat.

You trace the blunt curvature of your nail against his pulse point, doodling a small asymmetric heart on his gilded skin which quickly dissipates when his blood begins to flow southward.

"You taste so sweet, Jagi." Taehyung remarks once your mouths finally separate, savouring the numb tingling sensation which busies his tongue.

"Not as sweet as you do, Taehyungie."

You catch your teeth against your husband's earlobe, ever so carefully guiding the steel loop of his piercing into your mouth. Taehyung's torso seems to reverberate when he mewls, his every breath pitched by anticipation as you guide your hands lower and lower and-

Yeontan darts into Taehyung's office with such gleeful acceleration that you almost leap out of your skin.

He yips merrily, a petite ball of downy-soft fur flanked by your shrieking daughter and her tiny outstretched fingertips.

"TanTan!" She squeals, chasing Yeontan with reckless abandon.

Sighing softly, you place a small apologetic kiss to Taehyung’s nose and climb to your feet once more.

"Are you having fun, sweetheart?"

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Taehyung reach for the lemonade glass. He takes a long, dehydrated drink.

"Uh-huh!"

Your daughter's arms are short and chubby where they wrap around Yeontan's fluffy brown body. She places a comically loud kiss to the top of his head and then bursts into a fit of bright, energetic giggles.

"Eomma!" She wheezes, pointing a finger up at you. "Yous all colow!"

You bring a hand up to your face, frowning when you feel the crackled texture of rapidly drying paint swept over your cheeks and into the roots of your hair; Taehyung's evident touch tinting your skin turquoise.

"Ah, yeah. Eomma was just helping Appa to paint."

"Ooh! Can y'paiwnt me too, Appa?"

You blush sheepishly, watching the way that Taehyung instantly softens when your daughter regards him with a vibrant rosewater smile and hopeful eyes so similar to his own.

"Of course, Cherub. Come here."

Taehyung lifts her up into his arms, helping her get comfortably situated on the ball of his knee. He grabs for one of his many paintbrushes, drying the excess moisture on a paper towel before he dips it onto a dollop of glowing tangerine paint.

He turns toward her, his tongue protruding ever so slightly out of the corner of his lips as he once again falls victim to his own concentration.

He starts by painting an almost perfect circle against her cheek, chasing it with an abundance of soft squiggly wisps until he has created a summer-bright sun on her skin.

And it works, because she positively burns with delight.

"I suppose I better leave you both to it, hm?" You muse, your voice almost lost to Taehyung's amused giggling as your daughter sings his praises.

You carefully usher Yeontan out of the room, a surprisingly easy task as he trots off in search for a place to nap, and just barely catch the scalding hot sear of your husband's eyes meeting your own.

"You'll finish painting me later, won't you?"

Taehyung rests his chin ever so gently against the top of your daughter's head. His lips twitch with poorly contained mirth.

"You can count on it, Jagiya."

Jeon Jeongguk

The sound of deliciously hot water hammering down on cool tile is loud; a brigade of heavy footsteps echoing throughout an otherwise tranquil room.

And yet, it pales in comparison to the vehement growls Jeongguk emits every single time your fingertips brush over his abdomen.

Your digits move as though you have been hypnotised, the pads of your thumbs following a line of apricot-scented suds as they skim down betwixt Jeongguk's hardened muscles.

"Baby, if you keep touching me like that I swear it's game over."

It never fails to astound you just how talented Jeongguk is at kissing - much like everything else.

His lips crash against your own, sticky and warm and deliciously wet from the torrential downpour of a perfectly-angled shower head. Using the prickle of his teeth, he paves a petite pathway into your mouth. His tongue conducts something of a waltz alongside the succulent slip-slide of your own.

When you finally break for air, your lungs tingling with the poetry of a perfectly executed liplock, you can see starstruck galaxies burning just beyond your damp lashes.

Finally, fighting past the lump which has formed in your throat, you will yourself to simply speak.

"And if you keep kissing me like that, I'm going to be forced to pounce on you."

Jeongguk's playful laughter seems to reverberate throughout his sternum, smothered in part by the sensation of his nose ghosting down your stomach as he slowly folds onto his knees.

"Challenge accepted."

Turning his head into the flush of your thighs, Jeongguk peppers kiss after kiss against your water-warmed skin. He starts at the base of your knee and works his way up, pausing only when he feels the tug of your trembling fingers his hair.

He grins, fiendish and dark, and you see stars far brighter than your wedding band shimmering in contrast to his inky-black hair.

"Jeongguk, I-"

"Nnnnyeeeoowww~!"

The noise of your son's small, sputtering lips opening and closing as he makes loud, enigmatic sound effects is unmistakable.

Through the percussion of water droplets you can hear plastic feet pit-patting against the bathroom counter, dashing across your various lotions and potions, and undoubtedly destroying the perfect sanctuary you have spent the entire afternoon crafting.

Jeongguk stares up at you with wide doe eyes, pressing his pointer finger to his lips.

"Appa?"

Internally hissing, Jeongguk pulls the shower curtain back just far enough to poke his head out, hoping that his son's ignorance and naivety is enough to prevent him from questioning why he's situated so low to the ground.

"What's the matter, bud?"

"Can we pway supahewoes?"

Your son shakes a worn Spiderman action figure in Jeongguk's face, his smile full of young bewilderment.

"Uhh.." Jeongguk turns his head to glance up at you.

He absolutely does not miss the way that you smirk, clearly finding humor in your current predicament that Jeongguk himself sorely lacks.

"What about Uncle Yoongi? Can't he play with you?"

"Nuh-uh. He gone nap-nap. N'I can't find Eomma!"

Jeongguk swallows his sigh, briefly thumbing through a rolodex of suitable excuses within his mind. When he comes up short, he gnaws against his bottom lip and opts instead to admit defeat.

"Okay, buddy. Give me five minutes and I'll be right out, okay?"

"Yay!"

From your position pressed flush against the cold shower wall, you can hear your son bounce up and down from excitement. After a brief victory cheer, he quickly darts out of the bathroom and leaves you alone with your partner once more.

"So… Good call on asking Yoongi to babysit for us to give us some alone time, huh?"

Jeongguk rolls his eyes as soon as he springs back up onto his feet.

"Yeah, Yeah. Even a golden maknae is wrong every once in a while."

Brushing his thumb over your fuchsia colored cheekbone, Jeongguk pulls you forward into a sickeningly sweet open-mouthed kiss. His tongue lalves a brief signature against your own; just enough to leave you sizzling all afternoon long.

"We'll pick this back up later, okay?"

You sigh happily, bringing a hand up to stroke across the spun sugar sting of your lips.

"It's a date."

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