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kpopisthereasonihavenolife · 6 years

Text

Love Me Now? [1]

BTS

Park Jimin/Reader [F]

Genre: Devil AU, Romance, Smut(Not in this part, soon my flowers)

Words: 5.8k

Prompt: Every 50 years, your community sacrifices a group of 18 year olds to Devil to hold off the end of the world. Boys become demon soldiers, girls become demon wives. You’re turning 18 the day of the sacrifice, but, when it comes time for the sacrifice, the Devil only wants you.

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It was the night before the gathering in the city plaza before all the soon-to-be adults all diverge from the path of humanity to live the rest of their lives accommodating to the wills and wishes of demons. It was the eve of the annual 50 year sacrificial offering to the Devil himself. Every 50 years this happened to those who are of the age of 18. No younger, no older. When one hits the age of 18, and they are unfortunately chosen to be taken from their families and friends, even some lovers, they are stamped with a contracted sign. A sign of demons, it was like a signature signing them all over to the species of the supernatural.

In the large ballroom of the hotel that is only in business every 50 years, a large group of 50 teenagers were holding a party. Dressed in their finest, drinking despite the lack of age, clenching their teeth into forced smiles as they all tried to desperately push away the inevitable fact they won’t be here tomorrow. 25 female, 25 males all gathered in their prime age of 18. All, but you. You were the exception to one of the most vital rules. You were not yet 18.

You were still a young 17 year old, and if you were just born one day later, you wouldn’t be here. But, it was just your luck that you were born on the exact date that the sacrifice takes place. You were 18 tomorrow, so you were not exempt from the unfortunate event. People would look at you: in pity, in anger, in mixed emotion of envy and lust for them to once again feel they were 17. You felt out of place in a group of people who were older, and who were being forced in the same situation.

It was an odd sensation. The same situation, the same rules, the same consequences, the same grounds and withdraws as every other human in the room, and yet you were the odd one out just over a measly 24 hours. You stuck to the wall almost the entire 2 hours you’ve been here. Attendees weren’t allowed to leave the ballroom until escorted out at 1 am. You’ve been here since 10, and the 1 hour left in your evening couldn’t pass by quickly enough.

Swirling the champagne in your flute glass, watching the golden liquid flow off the glass inside, you sighed. It was a boring night. Watching people dance, get drunk too quickly off champagne, stuff their face with the most elegant of sweets they may never see again. You hadn’t muttered a single word all night, no ‘hellos’, no ‘goodbyes’ and most certainly no ‘yes’ to anyone who asked for a dance.

Standing in a rented A-line 2 piece pink dress with a black mesh over fabric, with fake stones and embroidery covering your chest, your hair loosely curled on your back and shoulders and makeup that allowed your face to change, you did have a few people give you a look, but none opened their mouth. They knew you were the one ‘underage’ sacrifice. It was like you were sneaking into a club with a fake ID instead of attending a final last hoorah as a free human being before being wed to a damn demon. That’s what females did, wed demons. Probably used as some sex slave if you had to guess, but you’ve never heard first-hand stories of course.

You haven’t even met a demon before. You didn’t know if they really were as cruel as you’ve heard, or if they were truly humane and humans were just prejudice. Which is always a strong possibility. One man’s opinion can make a species that is kind seem like an ill mannered, blood-seeking race out to dominate the world. Though, you suppose that’s what this 5 decade sacrifice was avoiding.

It was odd, 50 humans given to the demons and the entire world can go on another 50 years. One year for one human. It was that thought that almost made this whole process worth it. It would allow your family to live longer, after all, you’d provide one year of the next 50.

You were so busy still swirling your beverage in the easily shatter-able flute that you didn’t notice the person standing beside you. Putting their back against the wall next to you, you jumped when they elbowed you ever so slightly to gain your attention. You nearly dropped your delicate flute and sighed when you looked to see a man, smirking down at you as you sighed and gripped at your chest.

“Jesus Christ…!” He chuckled as he crossed his arms over his chest, tucking further into the wall for support as he looked at you.

“Ironic words. Religious?” You blew out your lips in a disbelieving sound of disagreement.

“Not at all.” He smiled again.

“Excellent.” He watched as you took a sip of your champagne. Once pulled away from your lips, he took the glass from you as he untucked one of his arms and easily drank the remaining of your beverage. You gaped at him, not only is he the first to speak to you tonight, but he just robbed you of your third glass of champagne. He set the glass on a small table next to him. “I think you’ve had enough to drink tonight.” You scoffed at him.

“How would you know?”

“I’ve had my eye on you.” You rolled your eyes and lifted your lips into mock disgust at him as you pushed off the wall to go and grab yet another flute, wanting to make up for what he stole from your taste buds. He only grabbed your arm and pulled you back to the wall beside him.

“I mean it, I think that’s enough for one night.” He stopped and scanned your body for a moment. Females always have their stamp on the inside of their wrist, yet as he looked, you had nothing. “You aren’t stamped? Why are you here?” You pulled your hand away from him as you leaned against the wall, staring into the mass of crowds again. Small groups here and there and then the dancers pressed against each other in the middle of the shining dance floor.

“I’m not 18.”

“Then what are you doing as a sacrifice?”

“My birthday is tomorrow. Well, I guess today.” You looked at a nearby clock. 12:07 am. Happy birthday, you’re now officially going to become engaged to a demon today. You sighed as the boy next to you just analysed you further. You were a beautiful girl. The humans did a splendid job at dressing you up to spend your last night with them in full glory. The atmosphere suited you well.

“Well then,” he started with a smile, “in that case: happy birthday…?” He trailed off into a question, clearly wanting your name. That’s all he needed, he needed your name. You looked at him, meeting his gaze, and you swore you had seen it shift in color, but you just blamed your champagne intake of the evening.

“Y/N. I don’t think I need to give you my surname, as that will soon change as you know. So just Y/N is fine.” Y/N huh, a beautiful name for a beautiful human. He liked it.

“Happy birthday, Y/N.” You rolled your eyes at him.

“And who can I thank for my first birthday wish of the day, hmm?” He chuckled at you. He could easily deflect your question, not give you his name as of now, but he didn’t want to play his usual tactics he would pull as he attended these parties. You interested him, something he hasn’t felt in many years.

“Jimin. I could give you my full name, but let’s stick with the informalities, shall we?” You smiled to him.

“I can roll with that.” Naive. You were so so blissfully naive, it was almost craving for him to want to see more. He pushed off the wall, and gracefully extended his hand to you, offering a slight bend to his body to make him eye level with you as he silently asked for you to take it.

“Dance with me.”

“That’s not how you ask a lady.”

“Who said I was asking?”

“Demanding someone on her birthday? How crass.” He smirked as he rolled his eyes and grabbed your hand, being impatient for you to take it before he was pulling you to his chest. Taking step after step backwards, he lead you from the shadowed area of the wallflowers into the bright, lighted area of the ballroom dance floor. He could see your eyes shining so brightly in the light of the room, and how your skin glistened with its natural oils and made you seem simply divine. He was sure that without makeup, you’d be even more breathtaking. But, time will give him his answer. When this night ends, and that makeup and dress are stripped from you, he’ll know.

He lead you as he stepped in tune to the orchestral music played through speakers. He found it cheap. Humans spend so much in gussying their children up, giving them an entire hotel with a ballroom and a buffet of alcohol and sweets that could make a rich man swell up in envy, yet they played music through speakers. Not having an actual orchestra set up is definitely something he would have pegged, but humans are not always a race to see things through to the finest detail.

He was pleasantly surprised when he found you easily falling into line with his steps as he lead you in a traditional waltz. Nothing extravagant, nothing too fancy, but not many humans knew this kind of dance. They were always too busy raving and jumping to and fro with flailing arms. That’s what they called dancing. The times have not been kind to the beauty of dance and the elegance it originally possessed.

“You know the waltz?” You rolled your eyes yet again, smiling to him. A breathtaking sight to him to be sure. When was the last time he could look at something so bright and not want to squint at it’s radiance.

“Of course I do. I wasn’t raised in any back alley. I happen to cherish many forms of classics in many departments of history.” You tilted your head in pride. It was true. You had read many classic plays, poems, books. Studied much about the past through school and through your own research at the library or through listening to your grandmother’s stories. Listened to old music from all genres just to hear how it’s evolved or devolved depending on your opinion.

“You just keep getting better and better.” You scoffed. Was he truly flirting with someone like you? In this situation where the chance of ever seeing him again was at least 99.9% never going to happen? But, what did you have to lose?

“Don’t go falling for me now. We’ll never see each other again after tonight.” Oh, yes, that naivete that he had seen is a staple in your personality. The easy going sarcasm and wit that you used to mask and cover your nervous nature of your uncertain future. Yes, he knew that you assumed that the odds of ever seeing you after tonight was infinitesimal, but he knew otherwise.

“Hmm, maybe if you win me over, the odds will bend in your favor.” You laughed at him. It was a dry laugh, one that said “yeah right, as if.”

“Such hard work,” you quipped back. He smirked as he leaned forward and brushed his lips by your ear, tucking your hair behind the appendage. Your hair was soft, and he could easily smell your scent. The humans must have lathered you in nectar of a honeysuckle, because that was exactly how you smelt. Sweet and tempting. What a wonder you were; had humans always smelt like this, or was it just you?

“But worth it.” You laughed again as you pushed on his chest to back his head back up.

“My eyes are here handsome.” He quirked his brow. “What, I call them as I see them. I’m not afraid to admit when someone has looks. Quite frankly, it’s a miracle I’m dancing with someone who looks like a god.” He laughed, but not because of your compliment, but because of the complete irony of your words. Like a god? Quite unfitting for him.

He thanked you as he then continued to skillfully continue dancing with you. He’d dance with you a song, stop and talk with you for minutes upon minutes only to drag you back to that dance floor and press you against his chest once again in dance. It had been so long since he felt it, so he didn’t remember the feeling of disappointment. However, when the bell chimed 1 and the adults, clad in black entered the room without waiting for the chimes to end, he felt that very emotion in his stomach. He had to let go of you, even if it was just for a bit.

He grabbed your wrist, seeing that somewhere along the time of night, the stamp of a demon had been placed there. He growled at it. While you were distracted with listening to the booming orders of the adults ushering you out of the ballroom to change, change into your own personal clothing, return to your rooms and shower before getting your rest, he glared at your skin. Swiping his thumb gently over the tattoo-like stamp, it vanished, like wiping away water with a rag.

He tugged you towards him, bringing your attention back to his eyes as you stumbled into his chest. He smiled down at you, you blinked questionably up to him. He grabbed at your waist as his hand that held your wrist brought it to his mouth. He kissed the inside of it, just below your palm. You flushed at it, for some reason it felt oddly intimate. It was a small peck to your wrist, yet you felt like he just sucked a bruise on your neck.

He pulled your skin from his lips and smiled as he looked at where the mark use to be before he dropped your arm altogether. He put a small kiss under your eye before he smiled.

“I suppose I’ll see you soon my dear.”

“What makes you say that?” He smiled wider as he caressed your cheek into his palm. Feeling the softness and warmth of your human skin.

“Let’s just say, you officially won me over.” You quirked a brow, as he let you go. You were being called by an adult to move along. You looked at them for a moment and when you looked back to face Jimin and offer your goodbyes, he was gone. Almost like he was never there to begin with.

Within half an hour, you were in your hotel room with a different girl. You had just stepped out of the shower, towel drying your hair as you sat on the edge of your bed in your shorts and button up silk shirt. It was a parting gift of your mother’s. You had gone the extra mile for tomorrow. Washing your hair with the best smelling shampoo. Bathing in the finest of bath oils and lathering Shea butter lotion over your freshly shaved legs.

As you vigorously scrubbed the fluffy towel against your scalp, a thing you really shouldn’t do, your roommate tapped your thigh to get your attention. You stopped your borderline violent action against your head to look at her, pulling the towel away from your face for just enough vision to see her. Blowing puffs of air up and out of your lips to move stray hairs away.

“What’s up?”

“Why is your stamp different from everyone else’s?” You blinked at her, clearly confused. “Your stamp,” she tapped your wrist. “It’s different.” You hadn’t even noticed it was stamped in the first place, but it must’ve been because you finally aged up. She was right.

Her stamp was pale, a shade of pink and in the shape of a circle with to intersecting lines running clear through it, the vertex of the lines just barely off center circle. However, yours was different. It was a bright, bold purple that stood out on your skin. It was no circle either, but a triangle with a single line going through the middle of the shape horizontally. It was completely different, but why?

“I don’t know why? I-” You remembered how Jimin kissed your wrist earlier that night. Did he notice or something? “Jimin kissed me, so maybe he knows something about it. I’ll ask him tomorrow if I see him before the sacrificial march begins.”

“Who?”

“Jimin. He was a guy that attended the party with us.” Your roommate shook her head. “What?”

“I looked through the rooster of all the male and female sacrifices, and there wasn’t a Jimin on the male rooster anywhere.” You shook your head.

“Well, maybe you overlooked him. He was clearly there.” It looked like she wanted to argue against you a bit more, but you honestly just wanted to get to sleep. You resumed your actions of drying your hair as she got the hint and tucked herself into bed. She shut off the lamp by her bed as you soon climbed under your own blankets and shut off your own lamp before falling asleep.

You weren’t nearly as nervous as before, and the thought of Jimin passed by your head once more before you were waking up the next morning at 9 am.

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Much like everyone else, you had been rudely awoken at 9 am by a harsh banging on your door. You had took the liberty of locking the bolt on the door, so if the rude adults did decide to barge in, they most certainly wouldn’t get far. You groaned as you rolled onto your stomach, burying the side of your face into your pillow. Your roommate had leaned out of bed and flicked her bedside lamp on, making you wince at the sudden light. You let out a nasally exhale as you pushed yourself to sit up and blankly stare at the wall.

Yet more bangs and pounding were heard on your door. Along with more and more demands to open the door. You clicked your tongue and trudged to the door, opening the bolts then swinging open the door, only for an over-sized, black clad adult man to waltz in. He wasn’t flattering to look at, and quite frankly, didn’t smell of daisies. He came into the room and stood against the wall, you looked at him. Your tired mind is always accompanied by a cranky attitude, especially when woken so early.

“Can we help you?” You asked with a snarky tone.

“Shut up and get dressed. You’re already causing problems by delaying entry by locking your door. That was specially addressed as something you were not permitted to do.” You rolled your eyes. He wasn’t answering your question and you took a step away from him. You winced as you held back the urge to wave in front of your nose from the stench of his breath. It was like he spent the last 4 hours inhaling nothing but booze, he seriously needed a tic-tac.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He only pushed at your shoulder towards your roommate.

“Get. Dressed.” You hissed at him as you were buttoning your shirt, your back to him. You weren’t too shy at undressing, since if he tried anything all you really had to do is scream bloody murder and someone would come. Whether it be a swarm of adults, or a swarm of girls from other rooms. However, your roommate didn’t move. She was clearly uncomfortable with the man in the room. You turned to him, shirt unbuttoned and bra on display as you stood in front of her.

“Can’t you like, stand in the hall? She’s clearly not going to change with you gawking at her like a fucking pig.” Clearly not the best choice in words, but you weren’t going to lie about your opinion. You’d be gone in a few hours anyways, what’s a few insults to a person anyways? The man was quick to move, but not towards the door like you hoped. He began stalk towards you and reached out to move you, he already made it clear he had no problem with manhandling you.

You only slapped at his hand before he could touch you. The sting of the slap you offered against his palm moved through to his fingertips before he used the back of that same hand to run across your cheek. Your roommate gasped as he then took your shoulder and pushed you away from her towards your clothes on your bed. You pushed your tongue against your cheek as you just took it. You felt the sting of his hand and the small, millimeter cut that must rest beneath your eye from his wedding ring. What kind of psychotic human would marry a man like this?

He looked at your roommate, sneering at her as he moved back to where he stood before at the wall. She then began to change, still uncomfortable. So, you moved to stand in front of her. You refused to change as you stood facing her and opened your shirt like a curtain. She flushed at your nearly bare chest, but you just smiled to her.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t see you. Go ahead and change, no hurry.” You heard the man sigh in annoyance as you just told her not to worry about him. She changed quickly, and soon thanked you as you changed yourself. A pair of ripped jeans, a white t-shirt and a jacket was probably a bit too casual for a trip to meet your demon fiance, but you couldn’t be bothered. You packed your night clothes and small items into the bag each sacrifice was given and were soon ushered out of the room by the pig who was there since you got out of bed.

Lead down the halls then stairs, you watched as your roommate found her friends among the large crowd of sacrifices outside. They were taking the last few minutes they had to mingle and say goodbye no doubt. You sighed as you once again found yourself alone. Hey, who knows, maybe your demon husband won’t be so bad. Maybe he’d at least give you attention.

Then you mind began to wonder to Jimin. You looked at your wrist as you pulled your jacket sleeve up just to see the different, purple mark on your skin. You still had questions about it, but no one to answer it. Soon the priest of your little sacrificial town would show up to welcome the demons one by one to take the men and choose a woman before going back to whatever hellscape they came from. You didn’t know if they came from Hell or not, but who really knows.

“Maybe the Father will know.”

“Know what?” You jumped as you heard a sudden voice directly into your ear. You whirled around and stepped away as you held your chest as you watched the familiar face scrunch up in a smile and chuckle lightly, just as last night.

“Really? What is with you and sneaking up on people Jimin?” He shook his head.

“I only do it to you. Your reactions are cute.” You rolled your eyes.

“Flattering, really. I’m so honoured.” Ah, there’s that wit he so strongly found attractive. It was different seeing you in such casual clothing after seeing you so finely dressed mere hours ago in a grand ballroom. Your jeans and white shirt was flattering on its own, even if the shirt was almost too transparent. If he focused his eyes just enough, he could see the color of your bra on your chest. Moving up to your brushed hair, resting in the natural state of it not curled or supported with products, then he looked at your makeup free face. So, of course, he saw the red rimmed cut under your eye.

You had forgotten about it already, it didn’t sting and it’s not like it hurt. It was the initial slap that shocked you, but the pain was long gone. So, when Jimin carefully cupped your chin and ran his thumb under your eyes, you were a bit confused.

“What happened?” Then you remembered.

“Oh, it’s no big deal. Just-” You were cut off by the way he looked at you. It was like he was expecting you to tell him you fell, or dropped something on your face, but he knew by the way you brushed it off, that wasn’t the case.

“Did someone hit you?” You tried brushing it off again, it really didn’t matter anymore.

“It’s fine, really Jimin. It’s not a big deal.” His free hand that rested at his side clenched and unclenched, almost like it was begging to punch something, or someone.

“Who did it?” He was so stern in asking, it was like he would hit someone if you didn’t answer. But you know that was impossible. You’ve known him for only hours, but you knew without a doubt, he’d never lay a hand on a lady. He wouldn’t hurt you. You sighed as you looked around. “Was it a sacrifice?” You shook your head.

“No, an adult. He came into my room this morning. My roommate was too nervous to change with him there, so I tried to get him to leave- ah!” You pointed over Jimin’s shoulder as he dropped your cheek and followed your finger to the overweight man, sipping on a coffee. “There. The bigger man.” Jimin saw him. He looked at the glinting ring on his finger, the direct cause of the cut on your face. It didn’t even seem like you washed it, which you should’ve. He didn’t want the man’s disgusting germs going into your bloodstream.

“Him?” Jimin glared at him. His back was turned to you, so you missed the slight change in his eye color as he glared at the coffee he was ready to sip at again. The man suddenly let go of his cup, like it was scorching to the touch. The release of his cup sent the hot liquid onto his chest, where he pulled his shirt away from his chest, and caused a few people around him to chuckle at the situation. Even you laughed under your breath.

Jimin looked at you smile as you watched the man leave the scene to change. You proudly huffed as you looked up to Jimin and smiled wider.

“Karma is a bitch,” you joked, but he was happy to see you smile. He had it coming, even if Jimin didn’t tip the scale. Just like last night, Jimin stepped up to you and quickly, before you could protest, kissed under your eye, directly onto your cut. It made you remind yourself about the stamp on your wrist.

“Hey, Jimin.” He hummed at you. “Did you see this on me last night? You know, before you left?” You pulled up your sleeve of your jacket to show the purple stamp. He smiled at it, still loving the color of it against your skin. The color and shape of the stamp was flattering, or so he thought.

“I did. Was I not suppose to?” He played ignorant, just a bit longer wouldn’t hurt. Just a bit longer in pretending to be a sacrifice wouldn’t be so bad.

“Well, it’s different than the other girls’ so I was wondering if you knew-”

“Park?!” Jimin stopped you with a dry smirk as he looked over his shoulder to the person who shouted his surname, rather informally mind him. You peeked over his shoulder and watched as the priest came closer to you two, clad in his religious get up and holy book in his hand. You looked to see Jimin show his teeth as he turned fully to the Father.

“Ah, Father, how long has it been now?” The Father looked at Jimin almost fearfully, then he seemed to finally notice you, standing behind him. You smiled shyly to the Father, nodding your head in greeting. “50 years at least?” Jimin continued, trying to make him stop looking at you. “You know if you keep staring at Y/N, you’re going to scare her off with your big bad book of God.” He dryly chuckled as the Father looked at him.

“Why are you here? You agreed that every 50 years we give up-”

“Yeah, I know what I said. I’m not like you people, I don’t forget things with age.” Jimin waved off the Father easily, like they weren’t exactly friends. You waved slightly to gain attention, and with the small wave and the sleeve of your jacket still pushed up, the Father saw your stamp.

“Um, excuse me. But, since you’re here Father, is the sacrificial march starting soon? Because I have a few questions to ask you.” The priest cleared his throat.

“The march will-”

“I don’t think we’ll do that this time, oh heavenly Father.” Jimin mocked. He turned and grasped your wrist in his hand delicately, fondly looking at your stamp. “I don’t think I need 50 this time.” The priest was astonished at Jimin’s words, and you were just confused. What were they talking about?

“What- but you agreed that you wouldn’t harm our people with 50 sacrifices. Are you taking away that deal?!” Jimin only rolled his eyes as he moved his eyes to look at the priest.

“Don’t be so dramatic. I didn’t say I wasn’t taking a sacrifice. I most certainly am, and in return I won’t touch your stupid race as promised.” He looked back to you, smiling. You had your brows furrowed as your lips were parted slightly. Your nose was scrunched, and he was happy to see his kiss had successfully healed your cut, making it disappear from your flawless face. He quickly pecked your forehead. His kisses were somehow becoming something you expected, and you didn’t mind the feeling of his lips on you.

“My God… Are you really going to take this human girl?” You looked at the Father as Jimin showed him your wrist, and your different stamp. His stamp.

“I’ll remove the other 49 sacrificial stamps and they are free to stay here with your puny little town. I’m only after one human, and I think she’ll work out just fine.” The priest was worried about how long only one sacrifice would keep his people safe.

“But, our people, the planet. How long do we have. If you only take this one child, then what will become of us?” Jimin clicked his tongue.

“Selfish,” he hissed. The Father seemed to jump back, and this time you caught the change in the color of his eyes as he glared at the priest. “Only thinking of yourself when I propose only taking one human? As the Father of your stupid race, shouldn’t you try and at least bargain with me to change my decision? Or are you so scared of your inevitable doom that you’d willingly hand her over to the claws of the Devil?”

“Jimin,” he looked at you as you call his attention to you. You remember how he kissed you three times since early this morning. How when he glared at the man who hit you, spilt his coffee. How he seemed to stick to you and you didn’t miss how the Father was talking to him like he wasn’t human. “Are you human?”

“No, darling,” he dropped your arm gently and ran his hand through your hair. “I’m most certainly not human.”

“So, you’re a demon?”

“Hmm, almost. Getting closer.” You thought about what he said a moment ago. Maybe it wasn’t just a figure of speech people say. In his case, maybe he really was….

“Jimin, are you the Devil?” He smiled as he pulled a lock of your hair gently to his lips, kissing it’s freshly cleaned strands.

“That I am. Are you afraid of me now?” No, you weren’t. Not at all.

“Why would I be? You’ve been nothing but kind to me.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t all a farce to win you over?” You smiled as you poked at his chest.

“Wasn’t you who told me that I won you over last night?” He smirked at you as he got closer to you.

“You’re very clever,” then he quickly kissed you. He grabbed behind your neck to crane your head up towards him and kissed you with heavy force. You grabbed the neck of his shirt to support yourself. Your wrist felt hot, as the stamp on your wrist turned a blood red and a wave-like line ran from one each end of the horizontal line through it to encase your wrist like a tattooed on bracelet. He pulled away from you and chuckled at your flushed cheeks.

There was a commotion of the other sacrifices shouting about how their stamps all disappeared. You looked at the crowd, to the Father and then to Jimin. He just stared at you, smiling as a doorway of reds, purples and navy appeared behind him. Everyone looked at you now, just as Jimin looked at the priest.

“For her sacrifice, I won’t touch your people.” He looked back down to you. “I won’t touch them unless for some reason she leaves my side.” He was basically declaring that so long as you stayed with him, humans were safe indefinitely. Where you really worth that much in collateral? “Shall we go? I have a lot to show you, and you have a lot to get use to.” You could only nod. You didn’t know why you were nodding and not using your voice like before. Or eve what you were agreeing to in the first place, but somehow, he was too charming to deny.

He opened the door behind him and offered you his hand. Taking it, he lead you through the door and the door shut harshly behind him, phasing into nothing like it wasn’t even there in the first place. Like it was a trick of light and now the priest was left to explain the situation that just changed the way sacrifices have been done for years.

Your 18th birthday was the same day you had unintentionally broken the cycle of the sacrificial ritual and simultaneously somehow managed to become engaged to the Devil himself.

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wannawrite · 7 years

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who?: Wanna One’s Park Woojin genre: 🌺 - I’ve never had one angst sticker by itself, rarely ever type: scenario, poem ? word count: 1.7K blog navigator. • it’s the goodbye you two never wanted • it’s the goodbye that’s for the best • it’s the goodbye you’re both tricking yourselves into believing it’s a ‘see you soon’ Iris @alliwannado-w1 \ @101mess wanted angst so angst she shall receive. I’m still not that great at writing angst? but I hope I didn’t disappoint you!! 💖 - Admin L

It’s been three minutes since I last saw your smile, the one you could feel happiness radiate off from a mile. The one that made your lips touch your ears, the one I often treasured so dear. Why? Why did it drop? Was it my fault? Was the news too much? Did I hurt you? Your lips moved, but nothing was projected, it was like you were in an area where talking is prohibited. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m going to be a trainee in Seoul.” I guess that was the sentence that left a big hole, the stab in your heart I could never fill. Was it time for me to write my will? “Why?” you asked, tears filling your eyes. “Why Seoul? Isn’t Busan good enough?” I felt torn, like your heart I shredded into two. It was my dream I wanted to pursue but then again, there was also you. My mirror is sick of me muttering to my reflection, trying to work up the courage to tell you and witness your reaction. It pained me to see your face stained with tears, hurting you was my biggest fear. But, I messed up again, I messed with your heart, I messed with your brain. I know that, and I will take all the blame. “I-it’s Brand New, I can’t refuse.” I was ready for it. I was ready for you to yell at me, to hit me, to scream at me, but none came, it was like you went mute. Our relationship was dangling right in front of my face, like a bait tempting me to hold on and await sure death. You inhaled a sharp breath, probably burning your throat and lungs, choking on the cool night breeze. “I won’t,” you replied instead. “I’m not that selfish. Go, I’ll let you go.” My heart sank, disappointment flooded me, but that was irrational, I had to think straight. You were doing what was deemed best in your head, at least you knew what you were thinking, I just felt my world sinking. I cleared my throat, and maybe my thoughts. “I can’t leave you.” Well, clearly not. You shook your head, quickly wiping away your tears. “Go, there’s no point in me going with you. I have a life too, Woojin.” You gave me a gentle shove, willing for me to go. “Move,” you had hissed. “Leave quickly before I change my mind!” I tried to give you a hug, but you wrenched out of my grip. Rather, I let you slip from my fingertips. I knew that was it. “This isn’t goodbye,” I reminded, begging you to keep my number, pleading with you to keep calling me. Yet, they fell on deaf ears, your heart icing over. Your unfamiliar steely gaze locked with mine. “Or is it, Woojin?” You were right, you were just doing this for me, not for us. It was the best for me but not for you. I stayed silent - that’s my regret. I should have kissed your lips one more time before I got on a train that sucked your soul away.

Day and night, the worries never stop. Every single one of them is twisted, and some were misted. Is he okay? Did he get on the right train? Did he eat well? His mother wasn’t there to cook for him. For the first couple of days, it felt as if you killed me inside. Then, I was glad when the land started to slide. It washed away my thoughts, theories and worries, mind scrubbed free of any trace of you. How long has it been? Three days? I suddenly couldn’t count, or I didn’t want to recount. I pushed you away to live in a foreign city, it was what you wanted, what I wanted for you, why is this bringing me misery? All over was on fire, I just wanted to forget. I didn’t burn any pictures or letters, just kept them tucked away in a box, locked up like Fort Knox. I wished I should have. If only I had the willpower and strength to let go of you. I have more than three problems, surprisingly, none of them is of you.

“Woojin-ah, how long has it been since you became a trainee?” Rhymer questioned me, scribbling on his sheet of paper. “Oh, three months,” I answered respectfully. Three months. Three monthly evaluations down. Three missed face times with you. Mainly because either you or I shut them down before the call was made. I gulped when my boss looked at me, analysing every detail of my form. “You’re good,” he praised. “I wasn’t expecting that, good job. I like it.” My body bowed, my face blushed pink. The rest of my friends and fellow trainees gaped in admiration. My hyungs clapped and so did Lee Daehwi, I find them some of the closest to me. Of course, it brought great joy to get recognition from the CEO, it made me happy to dance and rap in front of such people. I was grateful to be a trainee. This all came at a cost, a hefty price I had to pay, a burden that weighed my shoulders down. I upset you, I needed to repay you. So I worked harder than ever, dancing and rapping for what seemed like forever. I will make you proud. Not a single part of my body was spared, I ached all over but I had to let the fire in me scorch the neighbouring fields. My lips cracked, my mouth often ran dry but my rap was getting better. That was all that mattered. I won’t make you wait a lifetime to see my face once again. Perhaps not in real life but a TV screen would suffice. For now.

Never in my life, have I wanted to smash my television screen so badly. Never in my life had I wanted to break down in tears in front of my television. You were doing so well in Seoul, and I wished I could take a train out to see you. This felt all too new. Change is good, I can’t deny that. A change was coming soon. I knew you would debut. You were too good to overlook, why is your rank so low. This is unfair. Later, I asked myself why I cared about you still, didn’t I dig your grave and bury you myself? Why were you will present in my head? It wasn’t like we were still an item, maybe one that was badly smashed and then two fragments were on the display shelf, up for sale. What were you doing on a survival show? Why couldn’t Rhymer just debut the four of you? What was wrong with him? I wanted to defend you, and internally, I still sided with you. I voted for you, willing for your rank to go up. You deserved the world and I had to present it to you. I don’t know why I cared so much. Had it not nearly been 30 months? Why did I still care like it was 3 seconds since you kissed me and told me you loved me? I’m going crazy. That will never happen again.

I thought I would never see your face in real life again. I suppose the universe was tying our lives together, trying to stitch our broken hearts altogether. My jaw dropped, face covered with shock. You, you came to my group’s third fanmeet. You changed in many ways, but I hoped your heart still remained the same. As much as I wanted to pull you into an embrace, I couldn’t. I was supposed to have forgotten you, trampled on all our memories until they were dust and ashes in my mouth. That was what I regretted the most. “Woojin,” Your voice had not said my name for too long, I missed it dearly. “You’re doing amazing, I’m proud of you.” I could only smile, nothing more, nothing less. I could only admire you from a mile away, nothing nearer, nothing further. “Thank you.” Those were the only words my lips could let out. I wanted to tell you so much more, I had everything to tell you. I wanted to talk to you, I wanted to hold you and cuddle with you. You were right within my reach yet I let you go again. Why, why? Why was I still clinging to you after it had been so many years after our last ‘goodbye’? I said bye. You said bye. What was wrong with me? I felt my mind spin to craziness. Our past whispering in my ears as I fought to keep my tears at bay. “Do you...remember me?” I had to lie. Oh, how much more did I have to tell fibs? To be fake towards you? Forever? I wished I said ‘yes’, maybe your hopes wouldn’t have been completely crushed. Your eyes said it all, you and I took a fatal fall. We died from the impact, from the pressure. Apparently, we burst open and out poured, all of our secret wishes and words we wanted to say - those we should have said. I saw your face again in three years. I heard your honey voice call my name. Your eyes managed to align with mine and I’m thankful for that. However, it wasn’t really you. I must’ve been dreaming. It was someone like you but something special was missing. “Three years...” You were yelled at by security to keep moving and somehow, I wanted to shout back but I bit my tongue and held my breath. “It changes a lot in a person,” you whispered, smiling sadly. “Thank you, I’m sorry.” Then you moved to greet my hyung. I was so hung up on your words I could not sleep at all. Sleep wasn’t even an option offered to me. I tossed under my blanket, wide-eyed and wondering why. We were running in circles, or like in a maze, lost each other, lost our way. A never-ending cycle that often comes with trials and change. Some, we made over, others, you or I fell behind. Maybe, it was meant to be. Things that happened three years ago were nothing but memories. Things we couldn’t even bring back to life, things that caused us to lie. Three years was too long for anyone to endure anyway. I’m sorry. Three years was like a lifetime for us.

#wanna one #wanna one scenarios #produce 101 #produce 101 scenarios #yoon jisung #ha sungwoon #hwang minhyun #ong seongwoo #kim jaehwan #park jihoon #park woojin #kang daniel #bae jinyoung #lee daehwi #lai guanlin

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bokura-no-ua · 7 years

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Inktober - Day 8: Crooked

Pairing: Jirou Kyouka/Kaminari Denki Rating: T Other Tags: A tad of social anxiety and some questionable behaviour on the part of a few young men

Art by Kumi. Words by Red. Read it on AO3! Please, do not repost anywhere.

Love-in-idleness

The atmosphere was stifling, and Denki brought his hand up to loosen the tie, the feeling of it around his collar constricting. He really hated these kinds of events, especially when propriety and formal attire were involved.

All U.A. students had to attend the formal party organised by the school so he had no other choice but to dress up accordingly. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were supposed to be celebrating but he knew the whole thing was for a charity of some sort, so he couldn’t really find it in himself to complain too much. He was an U.A. student now, so he had to suck it up and put up with everything that came along with that title.

He had started the evening off with his classmates, but they had soon broken up into smaller groups of twos and threes, until it was just him, Sero, Kirishima and Bakugou in one corner of the crowded room. However, after a short while, Sero claimed to be starving and left with Kirishima towards a table filled with fancy-looking food, whose ingredients they could not recognise and ended up asking Bakugou for help in deciphering what was what.

So, he had then drifted from group to group, chatting amiably with everyone he encountered throughout the majority of the event. He got to know quite a few of the first-years from other classes as well as feeling slightly intimidated by the powerful aura of a handful of second- and third-year students.

As of right now, though, he was standing near the doors that led to one of the balconies, shoulders and back leaning heavily against the wall. He was sure that if a teacher were to see him like that, he would get scolded but, for the first time that night, he didn’t care.

Denki needed a break.

He made a beeline for the balcony doors the second he saw the teachers nearby get lost in the sea of people.

The second he stepped out, he breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, his body relaxing immediately. He even literally welcomed the chilly breeze of the autumn evening with his arms wide open before taking the few remaining steps towards the railing.

The night was quiet, the closed doors keeping away both the music and the incessant chatter he was sure was happening on the other side. The smell of rain floated in the air as a few dark clouds took turns covering up the moon hanging high in the sky.

Denki felt at peace here.

He closed his eyes, the wind picking up and ruffling his hair. He was considered a social butterfly by most of his classmates and he knew he could crack a few jokes at the drop of a hat and lighten up the mood quickly, but he treasured moments like these, moments when he could just... be.

He absolutely loved living with everyone else at the dorms but he sure as hell missed being able to isolate himself completely and read for hours on end, maybe with some music playing low in the background.

His thoughts were interrupted, though, by the sound of the handle being turned and the door being opened and closed quickly afterwards. He turned and saw Jirou sigh in relief, her forehead pressed against the glass for a second before moving away from the door and finally spotting Denki behind her.

Perfect, he thought. Of all the people at the party that could’ve cut into his peaceful, alone time, it had to be Jirou, the girl who loved antagonising him. It didn’t help that their every interaction made him develop the tiniest of crushes on her, or the fact that her purple dress made her body look even more petite and cute.

She was wearing a short, dark purple dress, with lace covering her chest all the way up to the base of her neck. He had no idea what kind of name the neckline might have or what skirt it was, but she looked amazing in it nonetheless. And the addition of the leather jacket made the whole outfit suit her even more. He swallowed loudly, thankful that the moonlight wasn’t illuminating his face right then.

He put on a big smile and called out to her.

“Hey, Ji-” She ran towards him and put her hand on top of his mouth to shut him up.

“Shhhh!” She looked frantically around, as if to make sure they were actually alone and then over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone came through the door. “They might hear you!”

“Who?” came Denki’s muffled response from behind Jirou’s hand. She removed it, seemingly disgusted by the proximity.

“Just some guys who wouldn’t stop following me around. I also needed a break from the party itself, honestly,” she said and sighed again. She moved to the railing and turned, her back pressed against it while her elbows rested on top of it.

“Weren’t you with Yaomomo and Mina?” he asked, a frown appearing on his face as he walked closer to her.

“I was, until I lost them while I was coming back from the bathroom, which is when these guys spotted me. I have no idea what they want, but the way they were staring gave me the creeps,” she explained with a shudder. At his questioning look, she added, “They were worse than Mineta watching that interview with Midnight and Mount Lady for the one hundredth time.”

“Wow, that bad?” To which she just nodded, silence falling on them right after.

The quiet Denki had been seeking had been completely disrupted by Jirou’s sudden appearance. He tried to get back to his previous state of calmness and peacefulness, but her presence, along with the reason as to why she had joined him, prevented him from being able to relax fully.

He chanced a glance and saw her fiddling with the sleeves of her jacket. Even though she had this tough look most of the time, she was obviously still shaken up by those dudes leering at her. He willed his anger down at that thought and decided to try and cheer her up. It was the least he could do, right?

“Hey,” he said, another smile tugging at his lips when his eyes met hers. “You’re wearing purple, are you an old woman perhaps?”

Denki’s attempt at a joke was met with a succession of punches to any parts of his body Jirou could reach.

“What - the - heck, Ka - mi - na - ri?!” Each word and syllable of his name were said quietly, so as not to alert anyone that they were out there, and they were accompanied by a hit.

“It was a joke! A joke! Stop hitting me!” he tried to defend himself and deflected her attacks, something which only served to aggravate her even further. He was at least thankful that she hadn’t used her Earphone Jacks; those hurt a lot.

“What kind of a lame joke was that?” Jirou asked, a final fist successfully connecting with Denki’s chest.

“There’s this poem that begins with the line ‘When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple, with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.’ It’s pretty well-known.”

“Well, I... have never heard of it and I don’t really get what the joke was.”

“Never mind,” he said, and they stood in silence once more.

Denki felt bad now. He had just been trying to lighten up the mood! He didn’t know why he could never get her to laugh like he did with everyone else. Maybe he shouldn’t beat around the bush? Perhaps being more straightforward was the answer here.

So, after a few minutes of thinking, he went with a different approach.

“Did you know,” he paused for dramatic effect and only continued when he made sure she was actually listening to him, “that purple has always been associated with nobility and luxury because it was such a hard pigment to come by in the past? Only emperors and nobles had enough money to pay for garments dyed in that colour.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow at him. This was the most responsive he had ever seen Jirou being towards him, so he went on.

“Yeap,” he nodded as he looked up at the moon. “There was a time in ancient Rome when only the Emperor had the privilege of wearing that colour. Same thing here in Japan, we associate it with wealth and position. Also, the darker the shade, the more dignified the colour is perceived to be.”

After his little rant filled with fun facts was over, he lowered his gaze back to his companion and found her face rather close to his. He swallowed again as her eyes analysed every shift in his expression.

He had no idea what was going on inside her mind, but she must’ve found whatever answer she was looking for because, then, Jirou took a step back, her hands coming up to Denki’s tie, making quick work at adjusting it. He had actually completely forgotten about his lack of air from earlier.

“You know, you don’t have to try so hard if you just want to say you like the colour of my dress, stupid,” she mumbled, refusing to look him in the eye.

“Alright, then. I do actually like the colour of the dress. I think it suits you,” Denki replied softly, his face completely open and vulnerable if anyone were to walk out onto the balcony and see them.

She lightly hit him in the chest after finishing with the tie and walked back to the door.

“Let’s get back,” she said over her shoulder, and Denki followed her, keeping his body close to hers in case those guys were still around.

After a brief walk, he saw Jirou waving at the girls from their class. As he saw her practically sprint towards them, he thought that, even if the symbolism was different, Jirou definitely was the embodiment of the poem Denki had mentioned: never conforming to anything or anyone, always bending the rules and surpassing people’s expectations.

Denki grinned as he waved at the girls and almost didn’t notice the small smile in Jirou’s face that was being directed his way. His hand faltered a little in the air and he turned, face red, and decided to go find his three friends.

By the time he found them, standing near the same table piled up with food, his heart was beating rapidly still but, despite being surrounded by people from all angles, he at least felt unbelievably happy.

#Kaminari Denki #Jirou Kyouka #Kamijirou #BnHA #Boku no Hero Academia #My Hero Academia #Inktober #Day 8 #our art #our stories

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pensreadyhomeworkattacks · 7 years

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~11 Questions Tag~

I was tagged by @subitoscience thank you for always being there for me!!!

Rules: Answer these 11 questions, make up some more and tag 11 as many people you would like to complete this!

I Tag: @izobee @bombus-lapidarius @sapphic-nd @kirincult @nightvisionxpixels

Questions I’ve been asked:

1) If you could live anywhere in the world, where would you choose to live?

Menorca! It's such a pretty island and Mahon is my perfect idea of a city, quiet-ish and lots of culture. When i was a kid we would go there every summer!

2) Who’s your favourite musical composer/artist at the moment?

Agnes Obel, she is so calming and is Amazing on the piano. Green Day are great at waking me up and dodie is probably an all time favourite because she sings about things that I struggle to explain.

3) What are you studying/would you like to study at university and why?

Graphic design or some sort of prop design course. Or an art course at an art school.

4) If you could automatically become fluent in a language, which would it be?

British Sign Langauge. I am pretty much fluent but it annoys me when I can't find the right word. That or Spanish because I studied it in gcse and loved it. Would help my Menorca plan too 😂

5) Greatest achievement(s) in 2017?

Accepting my mental health more. Starting college and being honest with them from the start so I can get support rather than hiding everything then struggling.

6) Goals/Desires for 2018?

To gain more control over my mind, to become prouder of myself so hopefully I won't feel like such a failure every few weeks.

7) Are there any main reasons for your motivation/determination? If so, what are they?

Spite! I was told I'd never do anything in my life so I'm definitely going to do something. Also, all of my friends are ridiculously talented in their fields and it always inspires me to one day be as talented as them in my field.

8) If you could learn to play any instrument to a very good standard immediately what would it be?

Otamatone 😂😂 or piano. I've always loved the piano and dream of playing it but I'm yet to find time to go to the practise room at college. Maybe I'll start this week!!

9) What’s something that you truly actually like about yourself?? (Can be any type of thing!)

Ummmmmm... i like my clothes style and how one day i wear business dress and the next day I'm in a hoodie and jeans.

10) Favourite things to spend time doing?

Listening to music, analysing poems that are not on my specification instead of my actual exam poems. Writing poetry and creating installation or metal art.

11) Do you have a life motto? If so, what is it?

I have a lot!:

"This too shall pass" helps me in ny darker days and is from one of my favourite bands (Ok Go).

"Go and make interesting mistakes. Make amazing mistakes. Make glorious and fantastic mistakes. Break rules. Leave the world more interesting for you being here. Make good art" which Neil Gaiman said once and it stuck with me ever since. I have it written in such random places around my desk and bedroom because it means just so much.

"Today, just today." Is something my teacher emailed me when I had my breakdown because she knows I think about the future and the past and not the present when I'm freaking out. Her reassurance helps me so so much, she's my angel and devil on my shoulder since some days she helps with words like this, and some days she suggests a random adventure like 'save a load of graphics books from the skip whilst it's raining' lol.

Questions for you:

1. What's your dream job if money wasn't an issue?

2. What's your favourite poem?

3. Is there a day that really stood out to you in 2017?

4. When did you first develop your interest in what you want to do as a career?

5. What would you call your style?

6. How would your friends describe you?

7. What time do you study best?

8. Have you ever pulled an all nighter?

9. Do you have a teacher that you can joke around with/get along with best?

10. Is your school/college strict or do the teachers joke around a bit?

11. Where have you had your favourite drink ever?

Thank you for tagging me!!!

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silentambassadors · 7 years

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Happy Advent Sunday! I give you Patrick Kavanagh’s poem, “Advent”:

We have tested and tasted too much, lover – Through a chink too wide there comes in no wonder. But here in the Advent-darkened room Where the dry black bread and the sugarless tea Of penance will charm back the luxury Of a child's soul, we'll return to Doom The knowledge we stole but could not use.

And the newness that was in every stale thing When we looked at it as children: the spirit-shocking Wonder in a black slanting Ulster hill Or the prophetic astonishment in the tedious talking Of an old fool will awake for us and bring You and me to the yard gate to watch the whins And the bog-holes, cart-tracks, old stables where Time begins.

O after Christmas we'll have no need to go searching For the difference that sets an old phrase burning – We'll hear it in the whispered argument of a churning Or in the streets where the village boys are lurching. And we'll hear it among decent men too Who barrow dung in gardens under trees, Wherever life pours ordinary plenty. Won't we be rich, my love and I, and please God we shall not ask for reason's payment, The why of heart-breaking strangeness in dreeping hedges Nor analyse God's breath in common statement. We have thrown into the dust-bin the clay-minted wages Of pleasure, knowledge and the conscious hour – And Christ comes with a January flower.

Stamp details: Stamp on top: Issued on: November 19, 1980 From: London, England MC #857

Middle stamp: Issued on: November 27, 2014 From: Zagreb, Croatia MC #1155

Stamp on bottom: Issued on: November 2, 2004 From: Saint Helier, Jersey MC #1160

#advent #advent sunday #advent wreath #advent candles #royal mail #croatia #jersey #Hrvatska #stamps #philately #christmas #christmas stamps #december 3

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katiewattsart · 5 years

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21/01/20 : TELLING STORIES

AIMS OF THE LECTURE

- To introduce and discuss theories around narratives and stories

- To practise the ability to critique images and artefacts

- To develop the ability to make links between culture and arts practice

- To develop the ability to communicate a response to material shown

We are surrounded by stories in day to day life

Linking towards social media - says something about you and how you communicate

If today you post a Facebook or Instagram update, you are telling a story. The story you want the world to know. Instagram and Facebook both have a platform called Stories, where snippets of our day represent the narrative action we want to share with our followers and friends.

Storytelling is the thing of today. Brands tell stories. Politicians want us to know their stories. Artists live their stories in their art

‘Texts’ that could hold a narrative?

…novels, comics, films, tv series, plays, films, children’s books, animation, games, photographs, news stories, magazine covers, folktales and myths, book covers, paintings, editorial illustrations, window displays, packaging, logos…

poetry

Songs - music videos

Social media

Visual image can be ready as text

Each and every individual could be a narrative constructing our own narrative

Plato mentions old women going down to the harbour to comfort the victims bound for the Minotaur’s table by telling them stories… This is partly a point about social history: people told stories before mass literacy; but it is also about desire: what is loved in stories is often an imagined link to a long, living lineage.

Marina Warner, Once upon a Time

Athenian Girls Drawing Lots to Determine which among them Shall Be Sent to Crete for Sacrifice to the Minotaur

Jean-François-Pierre Peyron (1744–1814)

- Every individual can view a different narrative/story

- blue was the most expensive colour to be worn

- semiotic understanding

- immediate emotional response

- each generation can hold and change the narrative to fit them

A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo sapiens – second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter. Millions survive without love or home, almost none in silence; the opposite of silence leads quickly to narrative, and the sound of story is the dominant sound of our lives, from the small accounts of our day's events to the vast incommunicable constructs of psychopaths.

Edward Reynolds Price

Questions that we were asked within the lecture:

What’s the first story you remember being told?

My grandmother used to tell me the myth that if I ate apple seeds that an apple tree would begin to grow in my belly.

What’s your favourite story?

I believe the my favourite stories stemmed from my childhood as I trust that is when stories are most impactful on yourself as an individual

Stories that we wish to tell over and over again

- an element of nostalgia

- possibly about morals and values

- passing down messages using universal metaphors

- being re told though many different dynamics

William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (1595)

Warm Bodies 2013

West side story 1961

Gnomeo and Juliet (2011)

Private Romeo (2012)

Same Old Story

The Taming of the Shrew (1967)

10 Things I hate about you (1999

CULTURAL STORIES

Cultural narratives are stories that help a community structure and assign meaning to its history and existence. Cultural narratives include creation stories, which tell a story about the community's origins, and fables, which help teach moral values and ethical behavior. Cultural narratives help a community reinforce societal norms, preserve its history and strengthen its identity through shared knowledge and experience.

Juha and his Donkey

Juha first appeared in an Arabic book of the ninth century, though this was likely adapted from an older oral tradition. From there, Juha quickly splintered to the far ends of the Mediterranean world. He followed the Arabs to Sicily, where he became known as Giufà. In Turkey, his legend merged with a Sufi mystic called Nasruddin, while the Ottomans exported him to the Balkans. Some even claim that Juha inspired Cervantes’s “Don Quixote”

youtube

STORIES AND NARRATIVES

- What is the difference between ‘story’ and ‘narrative’?

- Story = a sequence of events (plot)

- Narrative = the way those events are put together to be presented to an audience.

narrative

/ˈnarətɪv/

noun

a spoken or written account of connected events; a story.

"a gripping narrative"

story

/ˈstɔːri/

noun

noun: story; plural noun: stories

an account of imaginary or real people and events told for entertainment.

"an adventure story"

NEWS STORY

- all telling the same story

- however, the narrative changes within each one

- narrative changes depending on values and political values

Narrative Theory

“Narrative theory starts from the assumption that narrative is a basic human strategy for coming to terms with fundamental elements of our experience, such as time, process, and change, and it proceeds from this assumption to study the distinctive nature of narrative and its various structures, elements, uses, and effects….More specifically, narrative theorists study what is distinctive about narrative (how it is different from other kinds of discourse, such as lyric poems, arguments, lists, descriptions, statistical analyses, and so on), and how accounts of what happened to particular people in particular circumstances with particular consequences can be at once so common and so powerful... ....Narrative theorists, in short, study how stories help people make sense of the world, while also studying how people make sense of stories”.

The Ohio State University

If you re-shuffled a story’s events you would essentially have the same story, with a new narrative – a new way of representing the storyTherefore, Narrative Theory explores the construction of the story ie. the way it has been put together, not the story itself.

Matt Madden,

99 ways to tell a story

(the basic/ template story)

Matt Madden,

99 ways to tell a story

(fixed moment in time)

Matt Madden,

99 ways to tell a story

(single image)

Matt Madden,

99 ways to tell a story

(style and genre)

Nathan Pyle

Narrative of the Image

Dorothea Lange

1936, California, US Lange’s most famous photograph was taken in a pea-picker camp in Nipomo, California. The woman’s name was Florence Thompson. She is the mythical mother, the unshakable fortress-refuge of our childhood fantasies, the one to whom we can turn when there is no one else.

Photograph: Dorothea Lange/Hulton Archive/Getty

The picture of revellers in Manchester, captured by Joel Goodman in the early hours of New Year’s Day 2016, became a viral sensation, retweeted 29,000 times, after the BBC’s Roland Hughes noted on Twitter that it resembled a beautiful painting.

The Fibonacci sequence

Renaissance artists would use the ratio with the visual aid of the Fibonacci spiral, which is created by drawing circular arcs connecting the opposite corners of squares in the Golden Rectangle. It was devised by mathematician Leonardo Fibonacci in the year 1202.

Pictures like this are often described as "accidental Renaissance", indicating that they inadvertently conform to traditional Renaissance ideas of beauty and symmetry. They often seem to fit the principle of the Golden Rectangle – a rectangle (shown below in pink) used by Renaissance artists where the longer side (a) plus the shorter side (b) divided by the longer side (a) is equal to the longer side (a) divided by the shorter side (b).

Narrative in a Digital Age

“The computer and the screen have revolutionised book production, but the prophet in me sees another more radical revolution, and it has to do with the nature of language itself. With the predominance of textual language we forget that language was first meant to be spoken not written and read. In the beginning was the Word and the Word was spoken. Stories were told. Instructions were given. Then the stories and instructions were memorised and passed down not in scrolls and scriptures, but by word of mouth. Stories were dramatised and then became dramas that were acted out. The actors memorised and passed the text on to the next generations through the formal traditions of drama, storytelling, teaching and memorisation.”

Longenecker (2018)

youtube

Accidental storytelling… Never, ever read the comments!

“There are multiple belief patterns in our society and many different types of narratives; however, the majority of these are repressed. The dominant classes have created a norm, a standard that is passed off as “natural” instead of as a social construction. This standard is reinforced by institutions, such as the church, schools, and government. However, this dominant ideology excludes many peoples, their culture, and their ideas. Outsider art and subjugated narratives have been continually produced as a response to the dominant ideology. What are some of these subjugated narratives and what forms do they take?”

Outsider Art

ART THERAPY PROCESS

The Palestinian Trail of Fish: Artist's Graffiti Dives Into Heart of Refugee Struggle.

Albaba leaves behind familiar Palestinian symbols, opting instead for his 'trail of fish,' a metaphor for refugees as fish out of water. “Keep in a dry and cool place far from the sun’s rays,” and below it is a comment in smaller letters: “Date of manufacture – 1948.” Alaa, The work is part of a series called the “Route of the Fish,” which depicts the tragedy of the Palestinian people in this country not through the traditional association with the land, but rather via the experience of being cut off from the sea. The Palestinian refugees who long to return are represented as fish out of water, hung up to dry, or squeezed into a can of sardines like those that were distributed by the UN Relief and Works Agency for Palestine Refugees after 1948. It deals directly with the Palestinian Nakba (or “catastrophe,” when more than 700,000 Arabs fled or were expelled from their homes during the 1947-49 Israeli War of Independence) and the refugee experience.

Alaa Albaba (image taken 2015)

Prison Tattoos

Graffiti

Narrative - Jason S Polley

“My tattoos, or, rather, my single narrative tattoo, essentially charts the Eastward migration of Buddhism from its Hindu sources in India through its multiple manifestations / incarnations / influences in Tibet, Myanmar, Thailand, Indochina, China, and, finally Japan. Not unlike Shakespeare’s Parolles, from the ironically (at least from Parolles’ point of view) titled All’s Well that Ends Well, before I put my once-discrete tattoos into dialogue, into the development of classical narrative arcing, I was a “man of shreds and patches.” A tattoo here, a tattoo there. I found my nine scattered tattoos aesthetically unsightly. So over an 18-year period I worked (with the help of tattooists from Canada, Thailand, Colombia, India, Israel, Vietnam, and Hong Kong) on establishing an interconnected narrative. A story. But a postmodern story: one that includes, among other things, fragmentation, flashback, back story, interruption, and openendedness. There’s no single reading of my story of Buddhist passage.”

The nesting place of the storyteller, Walter Benjamin pointed out, are in the loom shed and at the spinning wheel, in the fulling barn and the kitchen when doing tedious tasks - shelling peas in readiness for storing, sorting pulses for bagging, bottling and preserving. Stories were told to alleviate harsh labour and endless drudgery - and they were passed between generations - by the voice of experience, filled with the laughter of defiance, and the hope of just deserts.

Marina Warner, Once upon a Time

Narrative Fashion

- The art of creating the blouse passed from generation to generation. Women kept the tradition of sewing from mother to daughter.

- Embroidery designs can identify a region of the country or contain a special meaning - while decorative, they are also symbols of cultural beliefs and heritage.

- Narrative in Clothing

- Traditional Romanian Peasant Blouse

“EVERYONE tells stories. Narratives powerful like ancient Greek myths and the Bible have taught us how to relate to certain values and how the impact of stories shape our lives. When fashion designers and brands use these very same narratives, they become the storyteller, the expert of storytelling and apparel comes alive.”

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Crafting Narrative

Exploring how makers and designers are using objects and making ,to tell stories.

CRAFTING NARRATIVE AT PITZHAN

MANOR GALLERY (2014)

Swedish graduate Hilda Hellström contacted the last person still living inside the evacuation zone, Naoto Matsumura, and collected soil from his rice fields that can't be farmed due to contamination.

Hellström hopes the vessels - as unsuitable for food storage as the fields are for growing - will act as symbolic objects to help people understand the enormity of the disaster.

Craftsmen usually imitate antique vases in a batch and highly standardized way. I was anxious to criticize the current situation of imitation and even plagiarize and compare it with the situation in Chinese feudal period and the situation in other countries. However, a graduate work from Hao zhen-han (2013) called ‘Imitation, imitation’ made me have a critical thinking about Chinese imitation culture. It is a video documented different people work on ceramic industry and view it in a historical context. This work uncovers the social, political and economic implications of Chinese imitation culture. Hao's unique idea that has a positive attitude toward imitation made me reflect on the ceramic industry in Jingdezhen from an object and historical view.

IMITATION IMITATION, ZHENHAN HAO, 2013. PART OF CRAFTING NARRATIVE AT LONDON DESIGN FESTIVAL 2014

Task

Based on today's lecture, find examples of relevant work in your discipline and apply this to your reflection; consider how you would explore some of these themes in your own work.

References:

http://livedoor.blogimg.jp/mement_mori_6/imgs/1/e/1ebc1252-s.jpg

http://dujye7n3e5wjl.cloudfront.net/photographs/1080-tall/time-100-influential-photos-dorothea-lange-migrant-mother-23.jpg

https://www.shwrm.com/themagazine/five-beautiful-fashion-narratives/

https://blouseroumaine-shop.com/en

#gcop200

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thetimetravellinggaybar · 7 years

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Chapter Two: New Arrivals

“This isn't the Royal Academy!” bellowed Oscar Wilde, bursting through the double doors of the bar. Baffled, he stood stock-still in the entrance. He held his chin high, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you high?” A voice behind him asked.

“Sir? I fear your meaning is rather like an eel: difficult to grasp, and most likely quite vile.”

A whole host of voices now rose to protest. “Sod off, I'm trying to get out.” “Of course this isn't the bloody Royal Academy.” “You’re standing in the door.” “Maybe you've had enough for the night,” they called.

“I'm not drunk, what kind of a barbarian arrives drunk to his own reading? Now, if I don’t find the hall soon, I'm going to be late! Would someone be so kind as to direct me to – ”

“The Royal Academy? It’s over there,” someone sneered, gesturing towards the men's room. The man proceeded to elbow his way past Wilde, swearing as he tripped over his walking-stick.

“My goodness,” the poet gasped, before setting off, coattails flying, in the direction which the kind (albeit somewhat lacking in decorum) stranger had indicated.

He burst through the door, a genial smile on his face, “Good evening everyone, so sorry I'm late, I got a little – ”

He stopped in his tracks.

The room was small and grubby; something stank. A single man stood at one of the urinals, looking more than a little shocked.

“Oh… oh. I see.” Wilde turned on his heels and left in disgust, leaving the poor man to wonder.

He finally took the time to analyse his surroundings. There was music – of a sort – yet there was no orchestra. There were tables strewn haphazardly across the room, and a little further off an area over which multicoloured fires gleamed: they seemed to be electric lights, of incomparable force. They were in the shape of cannons, and projected their otherworldly glow from the bare beams on the ceiling. As for what the people were wearing – he had never imagined that one could wear so little in such bad taste.

They all seemed to be studiously pretending they weren't staring at him.

Ending his observations abruptly, Oscar sighed dramatically, rolled his eyes, and gave in: “Alright, alright, you got me! Who are you, where are you? Cyril? Did Bosie set you up to this? You know, it is quite extraordinary how you've set this up, but – ”

At this point, the crowd began to turn uncomfortably. There were hushed whispers. They seemed to be making a point of ignoring him.

“There are limits, and you are fast approaching them! You are testing my patience, whoever did this!… If this carries on any longer, I may miss my reading entirely. Miss Ambrose Green and her fiance will be there, I must be there to greet them… Where am I, what is this foul prank... and will someone please direct me to the Royal Academy!”

Wilde overheard a man whispering to another man. “I think he's serious. How many has he had? I thought he just walked in.” Outraged, Wilde glowered at the two. “Who do you think you are?”

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” the first man retorted.

“I am Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde, winner of the Berkeley Gold Medal for Greek Studies, Sir Roger Newdigate's Prize for Poetry, and the Rooney Prize for Literature, no less!”

Dead silence, followed by fits of laughter from all sides. Then all the bar's occupants returned to their drinks – all, except for one man. His attire, though too bland for Wilde's taste, was almost acceptable, with a bit of a preference for tweed; he approached Wilde, amazed.

“I don't believe we've been introduced, but your performance was breathtaking, an absolute marvel. You must be a big name in acting. In fact – I do think I recognise you. Your name is?”

“Acting, sir? Why, I haven't taken to the stage since my second year at Trinity. You must be mistaken.”

The man only chuckled. “Alright then. Admirable strength of – well, character, if a pun may be permitted.” He stuck out his hand. “Wystan Hugh Auden. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Enchanté.”

“A conversation with Oscar Wilde. God, will I have something to tell Erika about when I get home. On that note...” Auden hesitated. “At the risk of appearing, shall we say, a bit odd, I was wondering if you could tell me where we are?”

“I'm afraid I'm as lost as you are. Were you on your way to the reading as well?”

Auden glanced at Wilde, surprised at the tenaciousness of his ‘act’, but in no measure hesitant to play along. “I'm afraid I wasn't, but I’d have loved to go. Forever at the service of the great Oscar Wilde.”

Oscar's eyebrows shot up. “Well,” he began, “since I don't suppose I'll be getting to the Royal Academy anytime soon...”

“Are you serious?”

“Poetry is always serious.”

“You are incredible.”

Oscar flushed slightly. “Flattered. Shall we?”

But before he could so much as begin, a gasp was heard from nearby, followed by a yell:

“Oscar! My word, is that you? What on Earth are you doing here?”

“Oh, who's that?” Wilde turned in search of the voice – familiar, though he couldn't quite place it. His glance fell upon a face he knew well. “Walt! Walt Whitman! No, it couldn't possibly be! Why, I thought you were in New Jersey!”

“Well, so did I, until recently,” the American smiled. “I don’t suppose you have any idea where we are?”

“Not the faintest. No matter, though. Have you seen these lights? How marvellous!” Oscar waved broadly with his walking-stick, narrowly missing a tall girl with bright blue hair.

“Watch it!”

“So sorry. So many people, so little room,” the poet apologized; but the girl was already halfway across the bar. Oscar watched as she made her way onto the lighted arena, on which people seemed to be moving in tune with the music, in something akin to dancing – a form of it looking like a daring, though perhaps ill-considered, new invention of some sort of avant-garde.

He noted her fantastically high-heeled, glittering red shoes (an interesting statement for further consideration) as well as her absurdly short, skin-tight skirt (perhaps she had forgotten to put on her dress, and everyone had simply avoided mention of it out of tact?). Her hair baffled him; he wondered how they made such wigs. It looked so delicate, so full!

As he watched, she walked up to another girl, whose long, wavy dark hair almost concealed the sparse garments she had on underneath it: her attire was no less indecent than her friend's. The girl with the blue hair put an arm around her friend’s waist and kissed her on the lips.

Oscar turned away. He was beginning to have his doubts about the reputability of this establishment, although certainly it was like no brothel he had ever seen.“What an odd little place, don’t you think?” He remarked.

But the other two – Walt and this Auden fellow – were already deep in conversation.

“...and his Sphinx is brilliant, don’t you find?” Whitman was saying.

Oscar raised an eyebrow. Whose Sphinx? Could it be his own?

Auden was nodding, smiling. “Brilliant, of course… and so chilling. Such visceral detail… the understanding he has of the human condition, as it were - ”

“Oh, it isn’t a human poem! Certainly not!” Oscar broke in, only to be cut off again at the very offset of his diatribe. “The entire aesthetic of the mystical being wholly detached - ”

“The cholera epidemic in New York? Mystical?” It was Auden’s turn to look skeptical. Then he chuckled: “Or were you thinking of something else?”

Oscar stopped dead, reddening. “Oh, ah, yes. In fact I was. One of my earlier works went by the same name,” he mumbled after a moment. “May I inquire, then, as to which Sphinx you were referring to? Besides the Egyptian, of course...”

“Poe’s. During the dread reign of the Cholera, et cetera, et cetera. Have you read it?” Wystan was smiling now.

“Oh, Poe! Brilliant man! Although I prefer his poetic work - I’m afraid the value of the Sphinx as a political stylism is lost on me,” Wilde sighed. “Its terror has always been more spiritual than physical to me, if you understand.”

“I thought it was a grand metaphor myself,” laughed Wystan, “but to each their own.”

Oscar was becoming furious. He was the most influential literary critic of his century, if not his millennium. Nobody dared to disagree with him - much less to laugh at him.

Walt broke in before Oscar could come up with an appropriate reply. “This is rather abrupt, but are you familiar with the poetry of Richard Barnfield? He is a personal favourite of mine.”

“How incredible. I thought I was the last man on Earth who still read Barnfield.” Auden was easily distracted.

“Oh, I adore him.”

“Oh yes. A few of his especially - you have read Cynthia, I hope?” Auden’s eyes gleamed; his smile was wide. Both were emphatic, enthusiastic.

“Naturally.” Walt winked when he said this, a gesture Oscar couldn’t help but notice. Racking his brains, the Irishman managed to piece together a memory of this Cynthia: ‘the love of a shepherd to a boy’, he recalled. What treachery! What innuendo! Walt, pursuing this stranger - this infiltrator - before his very eyes…

Oscar decided to take matters into his own hands.

“And Marlowe, what of him? On the subject of the Bard’s neglected contemporaries,” he began, in his most pompous tone. “Edward the Second in particular has similar themes.”

“I never particularly enjoyed that one,” frowned Wystan. “I see what you mean, but it never really spoke to me.”

Oscar’s face drooped. This, truly, was ultimate rejection: the final proof that he had made a fool of himself in front of this most handsome, most articulate gentleman! He wanted desperately to make an impression. The compliments he had received for what Wystan had thought was acting had lit sparks in his soul, and he was unwilling to let them die. And yet everything he tried seemed to backfire, and he was at a loss for words: him! Wit of the nation! Pinnacle of eloquence! He had not felt such despair in decades!

Wystan, pitying the now visibly distressed Wilde, tried to make amends. “Obviously, it is still perfectly respectable in some interpretations... with many beautiful aspects... it’s just not really the kind of style I’m after,” he added. Oscar smiled weakly.

Whitman broke in. “I completely agree with you. Edward the Second is hardly a literary symbol. Even within Marlowe’s canon, it’s rarely recognized, and with good reason as well. To involve such themes in the tragic… it is barely a poem, never mind a love poem.”

“Don’t mind my wondering, but I didn’t know you read such things, my dear Walter,” Oscar commented, his manners crisp, his voice like a dagger coated in honey.

Walt shot Oscar a piercing stare. No words were exchanged, but both parties knew what this meant: “Back off, this one is mine!”

“Poetry is all about different interpretations. Neither of you is to say the other is wrong.” Wystan spread his palms, as in a plea for diplomacy.

The second Wystan had his back turned, Oscar bit his thumb at Walt.

“DO YOU BITE YOUR THUMB AT ME, SIR?”

“NO, I DO NOT BITE MY THUMB AT YOU, BUT I DO BITE MY THUMB!”

Wystan turned back, stared at both of them in turn, then nearly fell to the floor laughing. As the other two stared at him in horror, he slowly regained his composure, and looked at them, as if trying to decipher their intentions. Partly in jest and partly out of curiosity - still certain it was all an act - he lifted his hand to his mouth, and bit his own thumb at them both.

Complete silence. Then: Wilde punched Auden. Auden punched him back.

Wilde crumpled, doubled over, and sank to the floor, clutching his cheek.

It didn’t take long for Walt Whitman to decide where his allegiances lay. He grabbed Auden by his lapels.

“HOW DARE YOU! YOU, IN YOUR IGNORANCE AND YOUR CALLOUSNESS, HAVE INSULTED TWO MEN’S HONOUR IN AS MANY MINUTES; AND WHAT’S MORE, YOU HAVE INJURED A MAN. NO, WORSE STILL: YOU HAVE INJURED A BEAUTY. A MAN SO BEAUTIFUL AS OSCAR FALLS INTO THE REALM OF THE SAINTLY; IT IS A SIN TO TOUCH HIM,” he bellowed, enraged beyond measure.

Auden looked down at his opponent. Slowly, reality began to dawn on him. This was no act. Wherever he was, it wasn’t 1953. “I just punched… Oscar Wilde… in the face…”

Oscar stared at him, his face showing both confusion and anger. “What an absolutely fascinating observation. Are you quite certain of it?”

Oscar’s voice was cracking. His anger was fast dissolving, giving way to heartbreak. He really liked Wystan but couldn’t understand the sudden betrayal. A single tear ran down his cheek.

Auden, repentant, crouched down and sat next to his new friend, who had been lying on the floor since the blow. He kissed his forehead.

“Oh no, oh my god… I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you’d take offense. I just couldn’t believe you were real. I’m not from the same era as you are… do you understand?”

“I may as well say yes.” Oscar got up, dusted off his suit, then stretched out a kid-gloved hand to help Auden up.

In his relief, Oscar didn’t even notice Whitman staring at them, looking miffed. He refused to let go of Auden’s hand, and the two walked up to the bar.

“Do you know where we could find a place to stay for the night?” Auden asked the barman.

The barman gave them a knowing grin. “Sure! Step outside, turn to your right. Go straight down a couple of blocks, there should be a motel just on the left. They’re pretty decent.”

The two walked towards the door. As they left, Oscar whispered into Wystan’s ear, “What… is a motel?”

“Like a hotel, only cheaper. Perhaps not up to your standards, but it’ll have to do,” Wystan smiled.

Walt stared at them as they walked out, not quite crying but definitely not far from it.

#timetravellinggaybar #fanfiction #history #rpf #oscar wilde #walt whitman #w h auden #wystan hugh auden #gay #gay writers #19th century poetry #20th century poetry #time travel #sci-fi & fantasy #writing #collaborative novel

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segadores-y-soldados · 8 years

Text

Reaper and Soldier: American Cultural References

Alright, I know the title is a fuckin turn off for some people but I’m tired and so bad at essay titles, guys, you don’t even know, fuck I’d show ya’ll my college essays if they didn’t immediately reveal who I am but the titles were BAD.

So after a few people mentioned that the Reaper References post was helpful (and I saw your comments, I’m coming back to them, I promise), and after thinking about it a bit more this morning, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try and explain some of the more...oddball American cultural references going on in these skins. Please note that I’m not trying to be rude by not discussing the Mariachi or Blanco skins, but rather that I consider those to be out of my field of depth and would rather focus on the skins I do know more about.

This will have mild shipping discussions for Reaper76 but it’s mainly from an analytical perspective. In my opinion, with Blizzard being what it is, these are primarily coincidences or a way of demonstrating the two characters’ shared interest in American pop and literary culture.

Since this is kinda turning into a mini series, have these as well:

Reaper Art Assets

Reaper References

A LOT MORE under the cut, fair warning, this one is LONG.

Name and Design Comparisons

In the Reaper References post, I talked about how the name “Gabriel Reyes” could potentially have been derived from California’s Spanish history, such as by being references to the Mission San Gabriel Arcángel or the El Camino Real. John “Jack” Morrison has some interesting possible name references as well.

John of course, is another Biblical name, derived from the Greek Iohannes, which in turn is derived from the Hebrew Yohanan, meaning “graced by God.” “John” as a unique English name is due primarily to the Biblical figures John the Baptist and the Apostle John. So both characters feature religious or spiritually derived given names.

Jack is actually a nickname for John. Which like, makes no sense to me either, but this is from the language that made “Dick” a nickname out of “Richard” so we can all be lost on this one together. The term “jack” features a MASSIVE variety of uses and meanings in English, including but not limited to things like “jack of all trades,” “jumping jacks,” “a jack” (the card), etc. “The Encyclopædia Britannica article on the history of the word "jack" linked it directly to the common name: "Jack, a word with a great variety of meanings and applications, all traceable to the common use of the word as a by-name of a man."”

Morrison is an interesting one because it too is religiously or spiritual derived. One etymological hypothesis links it to Scottish or Gaelic roots as “son of Maurice,” with Maurice being the English version of the name Mauritius. Saint Mauritius is the patron saint of the Holy Roman Emperors, but more importantly, Saint Mauritius is the patron saint of soldiers.

“Maurice became a soldier in the Roman army. He was gradually promoted until he became the leader of the Theban legion, formed of 6600 soldiers.”

Mauritius ascended to martyrdom when he and his troops refused to engage in sacrificial offerings to the Roman gods, and Mauritius and his troops were killed for their refusal.

This, of course, has a number of parallels to the lore that Blizzard has provided around Jack Morrison. How much of it is intentional is debatable, but considering the Soldier: 76 concept and character has existed for like fifteen years, I’m willing to bet it’s pretty deliberate.

Other odd points of comparison:

Gabriel Reyes = 12 letters

Jack Morrison = 12 letters (still works with John)

Again - how deliberate is this? I have no fucking idea, but considering that both men are 6’ 1” (1.85 m) and they effectively swap outfits after the Fall of Overwatch (Reyes goes from simple jacket/sweatshirt and plain pants to long, dramatic overcoat; while Morrison goes from long dramatic overcoat to simple jacket and plain pants; both men wear masks after the Fall), like...I would not be surprised at this point?

Once upon a midnight dreary

“But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered— Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

Then the bird said “Nevermore.””

So I’ll just be honest and say that I’ve never really liked Edgar Allen Poe, and other people will offer you better analyses of “The Raven,” but for our purposes, we just briefly need to cover the subject of the poem and some of its themes. Basically, The Raven is about a man heartbroken over the implied death of his lover. He is visited in the night by a mysterious Raven who only speaks one word - “nevermore.” While the man is aware that the Raven probably only knows this word through conditioning from a human owner, he continues to ask the bird increasingly deep questions about love and the afterlife, despite being aware that the Raven will only ever give him one answer. It’s a play on the futility of deeper thinking to solve grief, a discussion on the nature of grief itself, and also a partial satire by Poe on making “a commercially successful poem” - one with deliberate rhyming intended “to appeal to both critical and popular tastes.”

It is perhaps one of the most famous and well-known pieces of American literature in history.

The Raven character is frequently compared to both heavenly messengers, such as angels, and more “evil” figures such as the devil, offering both the duality of possible salvation or damnation, depending on how the reader chooses to interpret it. In the last stanza, the man effectively gives up on deciding which aspect the bird represents to him, and lets the bird’s “shadow” both consume him and “lift him.”

So basically, Reaper’s Nevermore skin is fucking American literary NERDISM.

“This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;”

And

“And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;”

In the skin, Reaper’s eyes glow purple, as do the “eyes” on his shotguns. Moveover, Reaper will occasionally say “Nevermore” upon killing someone with this skin selected, a reference to the single word the bird says and also represents. The word “Nevermore” represents a true finality - something that shall never happen “anymore”. This is the first Reaper skin to be steeped in American literary history and references.

The second, which might surprise some people, is:

Pumpkin? But Pumpkin is a Halloween-theme skin!

But Pumpkin is also a reference to the Headless Horseman from “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” one of the oldest “American” folkstories and pieces of literature. It’s true that the Headless Horseman character is himself derived from a number of European original sources, but the variation found in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” has worked itself into American folklore and cultural concepts so deeply that it continues to affect American ideas of death, ghosts, and - yes - Halloween today.

In the Irving version of the story, the main character Ichabod Crane rides through the woods of Sleepy Hollow after a night of heavy partying and drinking and sharing ghost stories. The man is very superstitious, and is frightened when “a ghost” appears riding on a horse, carrying “his head” in his lap. The Headless Horseman pursues Ichabod through the woods, and eventually throws his head at Ichabod’s face. In the morning, Ichabod has mysteriously vanished from town, and the only traces found of him in the woods are his startled horse, a saddle, a hat, and a smashed Jack-o-lantern.

In almost all versions of the tale, the Headless Horseman either wears or carries a flaming Jack-o-lantern for his head.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-SsCHYW_I3s

This is the Disney version of the story that I remember seeing as a child. From the Headless Horsemen, a number of other American “skeleton” or “death” figures have been derived, including characters like Jack Skellington, Skeletor, and well...Reaper.

This is also probably why “The Reaper” in Junkenstein’s Revenge had strange horse noises associated with his appearance:

http://juunkrat.tumblr.com/post/151882686536/the-reaper-comes-for-your-s-horse-noise

Since the Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Halloween in general are associated with celebrating the fall harvest, Reaper has a number of voice lines exclusive to the skin talking about “harvesting”: “Harvest time” or “Time for the reapening.”

In fact, the entire concept of the Grim Reaper in American culture distantly stems from the Romans - not exactly Thanatos or Charon (both of whom were Greek), but Saturn, god of time and, well, harvesting. Saturn was frequently depicted with the sickle or scythe, a tool that has carried over to other mythological figures like Father Time or the Grim Reaper, and Saturnalia was the Roman celebration of the harvest. Much like Halloween, Saturnalia permitted role reversals, a shift in expectation, lots of partying, and both a respect and playful mockery of death. Saturnalia is one of the possible sources for the origins of Halloween, combined with Gaelic, Scottish, and Irish roots and festivities - such as the dullahan and pumpkin/turnip-carving - and the Christian “All Saints Day”. All of these aspects build into both the Grim Reaper and the Headless Horseman.

Again, this is not to say that the Headless Horseman is unique to American folklore mythology, nor that even skeletal figures are, but rather to acknowledge the prominence that these figures have taken on, especially as they relate to American Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns (also not uniquely American) have become a popular symbol of the holiday.

And since we’re on the subject, here’s one of the myths of the origins of the Jack-o-lantern, from Irish roots:

“Many years later, the thief died, as all living things do. Of course, Jack's life had been too sinful for him to go to heaven; however, Satan had promised not to take his soul, and so he was barred from hell as well. Jack now had nowhere to go. He asked how he would see where to go, as he had no light, and Satan mockingly tossed him an ember from the flames of Hades, that would never burn out. Jack carved out one of his turnips (which were his favorite food), put the ember inside it, and began endlessly wandering the Earth for a resting place. He became known as "Jack of the Lantern", or jack-o'-lantern.” - Wikipedia on the origins of Jack-o-lanterns

(Almost all uses of the word “jack” derive from the name “Jack”)

Which brings us to a certain immortal soldier.

The reference to immortality denoted by the skin’s very blatant name “Immortal” probably indicates something like vampirism or simply being undead (as death seems to be something that both Jack and Gabriel are like...physically incapable of doing). The extra-pale skin and the “skeletal” white paint on his gloves also point to him being some sort of...undead spirit. While I’m willing to say he’s probably some sort of vampire in this (like Symmetra...whose Halloween skin is a whole ‘nother can of worms), it’s not impossible, giving the Scottish/Gaelic/Irish origins of the name Morrison, that “Immortal 76” is also a reference to Jack-o-lanterns. Just food for thought.

More significantly, and more blatantly, the design of the Immortal skin is almost dead-on (heh) another cultural reference, although this one is less literary and more...poppy:

Given the fact that the black stripes on Immortal 76’s jacket is about as dead-on (somebody stop me) as Soldier’s design can get, the comparisons seem obvious. Even if the design was not deliberately influenced by Thriller, Michael Jackson’s outfit in the music video is so iconic that it’s pretty difficult to escape its influences, especially if you’re making a Halloween skin.

Soldier’s “sunken”/overly-make-upped eyes are also probably a reference to Jackson’s ghoulish appearance in the Thriller video, when he’s taken on a more haunting appearance:

Moveover, both Thriller and Junkenstein’s Revenge (both the in-game event and the comic) pay homage to “cheesy Halloween thriller movies,” featuring things such as a third-person narrator, a number of movie references, and the overall theme of “playing at” Halloween. I would hypothesize that Thriller probably had some sort of direct influence on the Halloween event itself, such as featuring a few “human protagonists” against a “zombie horde,” the narration by Reinhardt, cheesy lines between characters, and the whole concept of:

“You’re fighting for your life inside a killer thriller!”

Thriller remains one of the “theme songs” of American Halloween; arguably, it is the theme song of Halloween, so it would be very strange if Immortal 76 was NOT an homage to the song and the music video.

Plus, it yields itself to one of the best puns in Overwatch: Michael Jack-morri-son.

(Please note that I’m not necessarily arguing that Soldier: 76 was the best character for this homage - honestly, the fact that Lucio HASN’T had a Michael Jackson reference yet is mind-boggling considering he is actually a “professional music and star.” Maybe for a different event?)

Going Commando

So I brought this up briefly in the Reaper References post, but as far as I can tell, Reaper and Soldier are the only two characters who make references to a major American movie star: Arnold Schwarzenegger. This is rather odd considering characters like Reinhardt and Mercy are geographically and culturally closer to Arnold’s home country of Austria; Reinhardt in particular shares a similar sense of bravado and battle-lust that Arnold has portrayed in many of his films (Kindergarten Cop Reinhardt when?).

But in any case:

The Commando 76 skin pays homage almost directly to the Arnold Schwarzenegger film by the same name, “Commando,” which itself is pretty much a reference to other movies of similar caliber and nature.

Like, we’re talking down to the facepaint and everything:

And the vest:

And Arnold’s entire fucking outfit, really:

Reaper, on the other hand, has the voice line “If it lives, I can kill it,” which is a reference to Arnold’s famous quote “If it bleeds, we can kill it” from Predator, a movie that also features Schwarzenegger in a military role. I’m waiting for someone to get an “Hasta la vista, baby” line - bonus points to Blizzard if they give it to Mercy.

And since Soldier’s stupidly Americanized skins aren’t fucking deep enough in American pop culture, he had to be given this fucking abomination of a skin:

This is a reference to American stuntsman Evel Knievel, known for trying to do crazy jumps on his motorcycle while wearing a very...patriotic outfit.

Why the fuck they gave him the mustache is...I dunno.

Evel Knievel is one of these weird American icons that is difficult to explain. America has a long and bizarre history of “doing daring feats,” such as dropping off of Niagara Falls in a barrel (seriously, I’ve read a book on Sam Patch and just like...the whole concept of bravado in American culture is something that’s difficult to try and explain. I blame our revolution or something) all the way down to dumb shit like pranks and stuff like “Jackass” (ahaha, another Jack word). Again, it’s not that other cultures don’t have this - many do - but it’s so bizarrely celebrated in the U.S., to the point where Knievel has been dead for ten years but his legacy is still very much active and impressive to many Americans.

Knievel is also the source of the line: “Bones heal, pain is temporary, but chicks dig scars.” Which, of course, “Daredevil: 76” has a slightly different variation on the line: “Bones heal, pain is temporary, but scars look good.”

Now, trust me - the change in wordage is super tempting to read into, but it’s much more likely that Blizzard dropped the line about “chicks” because the term is slowly falling out of favor in North America. It’s not really a fun way to describe women anymore (although arguably it never was?), and I’m more inclined to say that they probably modified the quote to reduce the aging, not-funny slang.

That said, if you wanna read into it, go ahead?

...why did they give him the mustache?

And since we’ve got the ball rolling on military/stunt stuff:

When Does the Rooster Crow?

So in the Chinese New Year/Lunar New Year event, Soldier got a new voiceline that says “The rooster crows at midnight.” Despite being FUCKING HILARIOUS for the implied “the cock crows at midnight,” it’s actually another reference.

This time to M*A*S*H.

http://mash.wikia.com/wiki/The_Rooster_Crowed_at_Midnight

“In an otherwise empty mail bag, they find a package for B.J. Hunnicutt which turns out to be the novel The Rooster Crowed at Midnight which, according to the jacket blurb, was "another brain-teasing, spine-chilling whodunit from the prize-winning pen of Abigail Porterfield". The jacket blurb also described Abigail Porterfield as a 97-year old lady who had been residing in Sydney, Australia for the last 60 years.

The bored MASH staff soon pass the book around sometimes a chapter or a page at a time. For Hawkeye, getting to read the first chapter "just might be better than sex". For the impatient Winchester, "it certainly takes longer around here." The efforts of the MASH staff to identify the murderer take up much of the time in the episode.”

It’s actually a rather clever homage to both a military show and the Year of the Rooster, and is pretty much the only time a crossover between the two is applicable.

And hopefully people don’t take this the wrong way, but I wanna get a little bit into Chinese-American and Korean-American culture.

Many people may not realize this, but in big cities, or hell even medium-sized cities and towns across the U.S. West Coast, Asian American individuals are ubiquitous. I believe more people are familiar with the concept of Ellis Island in New York, which was a historic immigrations center almost everyone coming from Europe had to travel through, but the West Coast had “Angel Island,” a similar immigrations center that, quite frankly, was used to regulate how Asian immigrants entered the country during the 1900’s, many of them predominantly Chinese. That said, even with “regulations,” Asian immigrants continued to enter the country and settled at various points along the West Coast, including in neighborhoods like San Francisco’s Chinatown and Los Angeles’ Koreatown.

“Since Koreatown has a Latino majority, it's not unusual to find Latino employees in restaurants and grocery stores speaking Korean with customers or Korean store owners engaging Latino customers in Spanish. An example of a cultural interchange between Koreans and Latinos in Koreatown is the popularity of Korean-inspired taco trucks in Los Angeles that feature classic Mexican food infused with Korean ingredients.” - Wikipedia on Koreatown

Inter-cultural exchanges here in California are fairly commonplace in major cities, and “multiculturalism” (or whatever you want to call it) is taught at schools across almost all grades. In second grade, my class celebrated both Hanukkah and Chinese New Year - we learned the lion dance and ran around with paper dragons. In third grade, we learned about St. Patrick’s Day. In fourth grade, we studied the California Missions.

During Chinese and Lunar New Years, large “historically Asian” neighborhoods openly celebrate the festival, sometimes spanning two weeks or a few weekends. San Francisco and Los Angeles in particular hold huge parades and have open markets of gifts and food for anyone to stop by and visit.

“The parade theme emphasizes ethnic diversity, Chinese culture and exposure to Chinese-American businesses. The parade continues to be a rich and diverse experience for Angelenos of all ages and ethnicities.

The day of the Lunar New Year is the most celebrated holiday of the year for nearly 1.5 million persons of Chinese, Korean, and Vietnamese descent in Southern California. It is celebrated with colorful festivals, parades, and most importantly, large family gatherings. It is also a time when ancestors are fondly remembered and families give thanks for their blessings. Red packets of money (Lai see or Hung bao) and firecrackers add fun and excitement to the Chinese New Year celebration.”

http://www.lagoldendragonparade.com/

I understand that the Year of the Rooster event was not limited to set characters, and that all characters received sprays, voice lines, etc. My point is that characters like Reaper and Soldier celebrating the event alongside characters like Mei and D.Va would not be unusual to them. Gabriel in particular would probably be more familiar with the event, which it seems like he is based on his line “now those are some fireworks” and his firecracker spray, but Jack having the “folded hands” spray would not be particularly unusual either.

Regardless of how I feel about Blizzard’s writing abilities, I believe that their familiarity with Los Angeles and California culture at large (and the fact that many of their employers are Asian Americans or of Asian heritage) led them to the conclusion that, 60 years into the future, Chinese and Lunar New Year will be events largely celebrated across the globe, or at least globally recognized. The events are already massive celebrations in Asia, parts of North America, and parts of Australia.

Please know, however, that I obviously don’t speak for all Asian Americans on this matter, just myself and a few friends who I’ve talked to about this. I believe that, given context, the way the Year of the Rooster was approached was handled well. Personally, I found the Year of the Rooster events to be fun, entertaining, and delightful. They reminded me of the the spirit of fun that permeates San Francisco on the CNY weekends.

Sorry this got so long, but hopeful this was informative and helpful! The short version is that Reaper and Soldier are fucking NERDS about American history, literature, and cultural references. There are times when American culture gets bleak, or poppy, or downright weird, but Reaper and Soldier show an interesting variety of references to a number of American cultural aspects, from the bleakness of Poe, to the pop of Michael Jackson, to the weirdness of Knievel, to the love of celebration and diversity of cultures.

And I guess that also makes me a nerd because I find that to be FUCKING AWESOME.

#i don't even know how to tag this #reaper #soldier 76 #gabriel reyes #jack morrison #references #my writing #my essays #resources #overwatch #american cultural references #jack is surprisingly varied in his references #lots of military stuff but also some really oddball pieces of culture there #seriously #everyone go read about sam patch #dude was fucking insane

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