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2016: The Year Pop Culture Died
http://ultrafiles.co/cocgames 2016: The Year Pop Culture Died " data-medium-file="http://popwrapped.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/david-bowie-1976-billboard-650-e1483219429265.jpg?w=273" data-large-file="http://popwrapped.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/12/david-bowie-1976-billboard-650-e1483219429265.jpg?w=383"> Billboard If February 3, 1959 was the Day the Music Died, then 2016 was the year pop culture died. Not just the music world, but film, sports, and politics too were all dealt iconic losses. Faces that have been around for most, if not all of our lives have shuffled off this mortal coil leaving gaps that cannot be filled. On December 27th, a piece of my childhood died. The year ended with the… View On WordPress http://popwrapped.tumblr.com/post/155221337514
2016: The Year Pop Culture Died
2016: The Year Pop Culture Died
Billboard
If February 3, 1959 was the Day the Music Died, then 2016 was the year pop culture died. Not just the music world, but film, sports, and politics too were all dealt iconic losses. Faces that have been around for most, if not all of our lives have shuffled off this mortal coil leaving gaps that cannot be filled. On December 27th, a piece of my childhood died. The year ended with the…
View On WordPress
---@bladexhadow
In, out.
Jhin's breathing was calm; a slow concerto with its own rhythm and melody, conducted as such. Here he was, poised in a diplomat's house. No -- here he was, poised in a canvas's house. The quarry of perfection meant the canvas losing that title, as it lost its life and its humanity. Only, only then, could it be beautiful.
And this canvas rivaled the rest of his masterpieces in its awe inspiring design, executed by yours truly.
The Golden Demon was not often a political sort. True to his name, gifted down from folklore and turned into his costume and persona, he did not both much with political statements. He was blind to a canvas's standing in the world as he believed all could be made into something inspiring -- in due time.
Tonight was different.
This particular canvas, as he now fancied to reflect while basking in the quality of his handiwork -- was an odd one. A Noxian-born, Ionian-raised diplomat. The Noxian embassy had long shut its doors since the dawn of the war, and only now did people such as this peculiar canvas be released amid protest and cries of treason.
Though close, they were not Jhin's countryman. Not that he cared, save for the drama that entailed.
Their blood stroked the edge of his blades all the same.
at first, it is just a joke. stretched out across the demon's lap, throne for a hanged man, he stretches, eyes low and sultry, his body acrylic on the couch's canvas. a strand of dark hair lays twirled around his finger, shirt collar low and indecent, wrapped in gold and red; an outfit chosen to appease the devil. but despite all this grandeur, his face remains so low-light, so shy, so eager to please. "come now, dear," he murmurs, back arched over the demon's lap, "don't i please you?"
“Is there a part of me that does not appreciate you, darling?” Jhin asks, his lips pushing up to form a subtle smirk. He’s placid, as he always is; firm, but not rigid, and not the least bit terse. The hair that follows the poor man’s fingers feels as good to the touch as a masterwork of silk.
Hmhmhmhm. The hum is familiar, one that’s saved for the height of performances. Jhin supposes that in its own way, their encounter was a performance – yet there is no blood, no gore at the end of this performance. Instead there but is a man doing his best to please an otherwise insatiable demon.
The thought makes his smirk grow. He brushes a hand across his other’s forehead, his fingers manicured and all-too perfect for how often worked they are. “You’re beautiful,” he tells him, his voice a snake’s hiss, “don’t you know that?” Of course he does – Jhin told him so. Even an alternate as shy as the artisan must have known if he brought himself to say so.
Leaning forward, he meets his gaze. As friendly as he looks, his eyes match those of a pleased predator. “You’re so beautiful that – oh, I could just … cut you up.”
His fanged teeth through the smile speak much of the same.
operatic.
@bladeserenade
In, out.
Inhale and exhale.
The blades shook, a deep, tight pulse pulse pulse ebbing from within their spirits. If they were on edge, then so too was Irelia -- but she remained quiet, close to the curtains. She dared not pull them back. Not yet. She was not ready for what would be staring at her, mortified and slackjawed, behind the curtains.
A dampness hung in the air, fresh of something. Beneath it, a faint smell of vanilla -- and something else that she decided not to identify. Pulse pulse pulse.
Be as it may, she was late to the evening's festivities. She knew how late she was when she came inside the theater house, hot on the heels of this befouled creature, and then heard nothing but the somber silence that now buzzed incessantly in her ears.
Why did she chase him? Why did she believe for but a second that she could have him, take him apart and bring him to justice? He evaded Kusho. He continues to evade the Eye of Twilight. To threaten him is to watch him speed by her, a disgusting blur, only to stop when he was far enough to turn and taunt her.
Was he taunting her now? Her hand remained steady on the edge of the curtain, unwavering. He left her clue and hint and knew that she would come, one way or another. Irelia could not resist the hateful allure of the Golden Demon, and that is what bothered her most.
No, she decided prematurely. The Golden Demon does not taunt by proxy. He taunts in person. With a breath, she tightened her fingers on the curtain, then gently pulled it back --
-- and immediately wished she hadn't.
“What do YOU want to become?”
“Terribly loaded question, wouldn’t you say?” Jhin grins, wry as could be.
“That implies there are titles I have not yet accomplished.”
Despite the confidence that radiates out of him as some sort of paragon, Jhin turns his head to think. It is not something he considers often – for him, the present is the most exciting, with the future borne of eventual performances and finales-to-be. He sits as a timely concession to his contemplation.
“I suppose that I will be immortalized, one way or another; by word or by legend, likely both. My art has already inspired countless and terrified countless more ignorants. What more could I want?” The question rings too shallow for his liking, and he scrunches his nose. “No. What I want –”
“– is to become mythical in my grandeur. And I am so very close.”