#disunity au

[frozenrose105]

Whumptober Day 5

Prompt: Every Whumpee's Needs

Characters: demon!Author, human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

Upon waking the second time, the Host had no memory of what happened to Bim. He supposed that was a good thing, considering all of the things he did remember.

There had been more killing. Some days, slow, torturous deaths done by his hand. On other occasions, it was a massacre. The Author would start and not stop, losing himself in a frenzy- too powerful for anyone to stop him, including the Host himself.

That was the fucked thing, the Host realized as he once again pushed himself out of bed. He hadn't wanted to stop him, even if he was able to. He ran a hand through his hair, thinking about the Author's thrill at hurting people- about how it had become his own in those moments, in place of his normal apathy towards the deed. He did what he had to do when he needed to, he had never done such things for fun.

Regardless, the Host diverted his attention back to the task at hand. He needed to rid himself of the Author. But even as he thought that, he realized how very awake the Author was in his head. He was being watched almost curiously by the demon possessing him, and he felt himself tense. It was akin to being an animal in a zoo, unable to escape but very aware of the eyes upon you. The Host waited a long moment, prepared to fight the Author if he was intent on taking back control. Still, the Author only watched.

"What is your end here, Author?" The Host asked aloud. In response he felt the Author's amusement- and then he felt the Author's urge to narrate, to bend reality with his words, as though the other was willing it on him. The power hadn't worked when he'd tried it last time, but the compulsion to try had him speaking the same words as before. "...The Host's vision returned to him." This time, the Author seemed to guide him, and he could feel the power in his words. There was a relief to using his power, though he wasn't sure if it was the Author's or his own. He wasn't sure if there was still a difference.

The Host also felt blood fall down his face like tears from his eyes as his vision did indeed return to him- though not in the traditional sense. It returned to him in brief images of the room as he narrated the scene around him. It confirmed his suspicions that the room was his own, but the images faded as his narration stopped, his voice choking up involuntarily.

Can't lose too much blood. The Author's voice in his head was quick to remind him of that in a singsong tone, as if the thought of it amused the demon. The Host growled lightly and stood from his bed, moving to his adjoining bathroom to clean his face of blood. The Author also guided him that way, able to see much better than the Host. But the Author only had so much patience for mundane things- that, the Host knew from experience- and as soon as he was done the Author was nudging at his mind. He didn't take control entirely, but it was clear what he wanted.

He wanted to kill. He wanted the Host to kill for him. ...And the Host wasn't sure where the Author's desire ended and where his began.

He knew subconsciously that he should be resisting, but he felt the Author's compulsion to kill as his own.

So he let the Author direct him.

The demon still wouldn't take control of him entirely, but the Host heard his whispering in his head telling him where to go, feeding him increasingly violent scenarios that only had the Host moving more desperately to follow.

He followed these whispers out of his home, able to see his surroundings via narration, which came more smoothly as time went on. He could hear the whispers in his head of the Author's narrations, keeping him from bleeding more with the use of the power. When the Host stopped, he found himself in a graveyard. The place was unfamiliar to him, but he moved expertly through it until he came to a hole in the ground.

Six feet deep. A coffin at the bottom. The panicked shouting of someone within, accompanied by the pounding of fists on hardwood. The Author had set up the perfect scene while the Host was a prisoner in his own body. And now, the Host was unchained.

He was unchained and the Author had shown him how to use his power. The Author wanted him to finish the job. It took only a moment of narration for gasoline to appear in his hand.

You know what to do. A wooden coffin burns nicely.

The whispers only got louder the longer he delayed, coupled with the shouting of the person in the coffin- though their voice was clearly growing hoarse.

Hurry. You want to hear them scream.

It took another moment to set the coffin ablaze.

And he did hear the scream. He heard the scream and then the coughing as his victim began to run out of air, and he heard it devolve into pained sobs. He felt the heat of the flames and the visceral satisfaction as his narration told him of the fruitless struggling from within. And his head was his own again, the Author's voice quiet- for the time being, anyways.

It wouldn't be long until the whispering started again, urging the Host to kill more and more. He chased the quiet it gave him, unaware that the voice in his head driving him to do so was none other than his own.

-----

Meanwhile, the Author lurked in the shadows, stalking the Host for a long time. He was no longer possessing him, like the Host seemed to think, but he didn't correct the man. In fact he moved on quickly, in search of a more permanent vessel.

For now, though he was still bound in a less physical form, his job as the god of corruption was done.

[etherfalling]

infatuated with ideals of far-flung social policy

chapter one: Your New Boyfriend

narnia | caspian/peter pevensie m/m | teen & up | 4.8k

tags: dark au, apocalypse au, arranged marriage, politics

Once upon a time, they had been peaceful. Look at us now. Look at our disunity, our suspicion. What would Aslan have thought of brethren turning against brethren?

With a pang, Peter shoved the thought out of his mind. It would do him better not to consider such—such idle fantasies when he had other pressing, diplomatic matters to attend to.

Not when the Lion was dead.

[amadholes-lostre]

Countries- Amphibia, The Owl House, and maybe Star vs Evil

I said before that my bnha au I'd is a crossover with other series including Amphibia, toh, and aot, which is half true. In reality, it wasn't the case originally because I made it in the early 2021. During this time, I was very much obsessed with The Prom. However, after the Amphibia Final aired (which I got so depressed from the series I was contemplating suicide, lol), I started adding other series. Initially, it was just the characters, including the nonhuman ones. However, I found that boring, so I decided to have the Amphibia continent and the Boiling Isle (actually the entire demon realm) transported on Earth. The idea of Amphibia transporting to Earth was my theory of how Anne and Sprig stayed together before the finals.

So, Amphibia, the Demon Realm, and maybe Mewni transported onto Earth in the Early Dark/Vigilante Era (around 2070s), right after the Final Ballad. For the world reaction, half the world were panicking, screaming their ass off, wondering if G-d forsaken them. For the other half, it more the align of this:

How each land came into appearing on Earth is different (I not even bothering with Mewni). For Amphibia, I imagine it happened when Leif stolen the Music Box. There were more scuffle between her and Andrias, which led the Music Box not only teleporting them but Amphibia to Earth.

(A very shitty map of how I vision it. And yes, Amphibia is that big, Matt said it was the size of Australia.)

I certain Amphibia could keep the majority of its technology even without the Box, though it couldn't maintain some of it (maybe like the that could made Newtopia Castle hovered). By the time in bnha contemporary, the population should be around a billion or so, and there will a lot of technology exchange, much to the Core chagrin. For instance, Hop Pop will be around 130 years old. Also, there are Amphibians who have quirks (Asui Tsuyu is half-Human, half-Amphibian thanks to this; her mother is a Frog and her father is a Human with Toad-like quirk)

Also, no, I will not make this au an Anne x Sprig. They are very much best friends, sister and brother. I am a very strictly Sashannarcy shipper.

For the Demon Realm, it is a bit tricky. Mainly because there isn't a full map of the Demon Realm, so we don't know how many islands there are, how big the world, or even there are non-Titan landmass. So there going be a lot of guessing.

Unlike Amphibia, the Demon Realm lands were scattered across Earth. Some, like the Titan-Trapper Isle, are located near Amphibia, like the Southwest of Mexico Coast. For the Boiling Isle, it's located in Atlantic.

(Lol, lmao even)

The Boiling Isles, referred to as the Belus Archipelago, is mostly still disunity, even after teleporting onto Earth.

The Belus Archipelago is much larger than the BI, though not the island itself. Terrace said the Titan is the size of Vermont, 24,000 km² (smaller than the Bay Area). While the island is still the same, there are far more lands in its surroundings, most of it is non-Titan landmass. This brings the total land area of 150,000 km². Not only that, there are other titan archipelago that align with Belus, both north and south, making it look like this:

(Like this, but there are dozens more)

Belus and its islands total population should be around 10 million, either Witch-kind or Demon-Kind. And there is a similar population for the other archipelago, bringing the population nearly billions of Witches and Demons. Witches and Demons cannot gain a quirk unless they manage to have a child with either a Human or Amphibian. Luz in this AU is a half-Human, half-Witch. Her father is a Witch whose family lived in the Dominican Republic for many generations (can a nonhuman be a Latine?). He met Camila, and they moved to Gravefield just like canon. The reason why, other than for Healthcare (there is a colonycof Witches), was the intensive discrimination they faced from both Witch and Humans for interspeciesrelationships. Luz, being mixed, faces discrimination due to this, being called the M-word. Luz can't do magic, but she does have a quirk, creating non-physical light.

I can't really think anything else. Belos/Philip likely controls the Boiling Isle like in canon, except not only the Belus Archipelago but also the other archipelago. I also will think his motivation will change, though I don't know what.

That's it, see yay!

[furcht1]

Deutsch

Jewgeni Jewtuschenko

Folgendes passiert mir: Mein alter Freund kommt nicht zu mir, aber alle möglichen Leute gehen in kleinlichem Getue. Und er geht mit den falschen Leuten irgendwo hin und versteht das auch, und unser Streit ist unerklärlich, und wir leiden beide mit ihm. Mir passiert folgendes: Eine ganz andere Person kommt zu mir, legt ihre Hände auf meine Schultern und stiehlt mich einer anderen. Und dieser - sagen Sie mir um Himmels willen, wem legen Sie die Hände auf die Schultern? Derjenige, dem ich gestohlen wurde, wird auch aus Rache stehlen. Er wird nicht sofort mit dem Gleichen antworten, sondern mit sich selbst im Kampf leben und unbewusst jemanden umreißen, der ihm fern steht. Oh, wie viele nervöse und kranke, unnötige Verbindungen, unnötige Freundschaften! Wo gehe ich davon aus?! Oh, jemand, komm, breche die Einheit und Uneinigkeit der nahen Seelen anderer Menschen!

Englisch

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

This is what happens to me: my old friend doesn’t come to me, but the wrong ones go around in petty fuss. Here’s what happens to me: a completely different person comes to me, puts her hands on my shoulders and steals from another. He will not immediately answer the same, but will live with himself in a struggle and unconsciously outline someone distant to himself. Oh, how many nervous and sick, unnecessary connections, unnecessary friendships! break other people's unity and disunity of close souls!

[gatchayam]

@creeptastically Thanks for reblogging that thirst post, it reminded me i still have some prepare to post on here

[cupsofsuga]

𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ ☕️} NOTE - this is in the order of the member’s obtained! thanks for the request, daisy! also, creds for idea goes to @bangtans-apollo​!!!

{ 💐} ANON ASKED - ❝ Headcanons on how the fanclub discovered each other and reacted to each other’s obsession for YN? ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

ah, the melancholic suffering of a lovelorn teenager

how he holds nothing but an eternity in the crevices of his heart

the serene sunlight, words dripped in saccharine, cloyed gestures

nothing hurts more than praying to whatever god truly exists that you’ll return the adoration but finding the fatal fate of no response

and that leaves jin now, seething with envy that could intimidate a pack of wolves

how dare the teacher not pair you up with your soulmate!? it’s just blasphemy!

someone gets to soak in the glitter of your presence, they get to bathe in the rain after a century in sunlight

all while he has to waste precious hours of his time with some plastic nobody

he has to waste time with bland, boring kim taehyung

he’s a dull star amongst a million planets, a saturated wasteland amongst an oasis of color

and how jin’s blood burns seeing that you flash that summer smile to someone who most certainly doesn’t deserve it

ditching the dinner date with his soulmate, jin is forced to work on this godforsaken project with the loner

if only you two had run away when you got the chance, relishing in each other’s warmth as he holds the privilege of looking into your eyes, which he finds resemble dewdrops held upon spider’s silk

that is the honeyed heaven he so badly craves to taste

and as he stumbles around taehyung’s adobe, the curiosity held within jin get’s the best of him as he stumbles into his bedroom

and oh god, what secrets did he uncover

your face, his lover’s face plastered all over the walls and ceiling

some even had his face punctured out of them, some taken without your consent, one’s that jin even took himself

and there’s that one sweater you once ranted to jin how you swore it vanished into thin air, and how he teased that ghost in your attic probably snatched it

if it was physically possible, there’d be steam seeping out of jin’s ears

he clutches his fists so tight, there would most likely be blood drawn; he clenches his teeth so tightly, he fears they might crack under the pressure

but, before jin turns tail, he then sees taehyung as fear swims in his irises

and then jin feels it,

a revelation, an act of generosity

❝ i think you could be useful… ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

with every breath he takes, there lies humiliation

shame, a ruthless emotion he swore he’d never live to see the depths of

the summer amongst the dark clouds, all lied on a silver platter for your supposed boyfriend to see

but there is kindness in jin’s eyes, a sliver of evil dripped with every word he speaks

and therein, we have witnessed the blooming of the “writing club,” whose only members were lovelorn kids who’ve infatuation got the best of them

with some sugar-laced words, jin had managed to maintain a room for their meetings after school, taehyung quickly ditching his art club for these fleeting moments spent with the man closest to his love

no, taehyung had never been fond of jin, but, holds undying respect for him, anyways

his heaven lies in his words, his sunlight is seen in his eyes, the fate he craves so desperately is clutched in his hands

and it’s only so long before his grip weakens, and taehyung can rob jin of his pleasures in his moment of vulnerability

but, that future must wait as it frolics in the back of taehyung’s head

he must gain the trust of your childhood best friend before he catches his infinity like a firefly in a jar

but, with that being said, taehyung doesn’t mind all the hours he spent huddled in the tree outside your house, hiding behind a canopy of leaves as he admires the dream before him

he’ll sketch your face (which he can now draw from memory) in his notepad, ethereal poetry and doodles held around your sparkling face

he’ll snap a few photos, catching the fireworks and shooting stars in the purity of the fleeting moment

to simply have the privilege to love you silently holds the light of a million stars

oh, how he loves you…

how the earth bruises your cheeks, the moon litters your skin, the stars possess your eyes and the rings of saturn held in your touch

there’s pure bliss within every heartbeat lept

and there’s only so much time before he has you all to himself

he just hopes no burden will stop him from such…

━━━ 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

the student’s that litter around these halls resemble parasites

all feeding off the others, annoying them with their deafening disunity, and all trailing behind others like burdens

but, there’s always been that one, that one that stands out like a sore thumb

bland, boring kim taehyung

a boy capable of summoning enough envy and rage within jungkook to crumble planets to nothing but ashes floating throughout the galaxy

how he denies his infatuation for you with red cheeks, but anyone with eyes can see those “adorable” dimples puncture his cheeks whenever he sees you in the halls

how he isn’t burdened by the overwhelming fate of unrequited love, drowning in his jealousy when you simply look at someone else

how he stalks in class you like a hawk would to prey, probably undressing you with his eyes like the freak he is!

how he simply exists, and how it makes jungkook churn with rage

and that leaves him now, dodging students as the race out of the school, hot on the tail of his rival

he must end him before he could potentially hold your heart in his hands

that single idea makes jungkook gag…

he hears taehyung’s voice, shoving a scoff back down his throat that could potentially jeopardize his identity

there’s another voice, too, but, jungkook assumes it’s another one of those art freaks who’s also pretentious with coincidences

then there’s your name, and it would’ve sounded like it was dripped in gold if it didn’t leave the mouth of his sworn enemy

and then he hears of this writing club, and jungkook seethes

these lowlifes get to breathe in the fragrance of those fleeting moments, which is a fate jungkook whose he is well-deserving of, not them

to simply touch the crevices of your soul carved in silk for just a mere second is a privilege

and letting these cretins possess that opportunity is simply unholy

despite holding a burning hatred for the rest of the memories, for you, jungkook would drag himself through the depths of hell

he just prays that the club members don’t pray too far under his skin

he doesn’t know if he can control himself.

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

oh, y/n l/n…

an angel in the purest form, a humid june afternoon

they are a touch softer than autumn’s breeze, their word’s sharper than winter’s embrace, eyes starlit like the dreamy land of springtime, their presence like the bliss of summer and the melancholic longing after it’s demise

they hold within them the entire galaxy and namjoon can’t help but stare

but, there’s another pair of eyes

and they are burning bullet wounds into his soul with a craving to mutilate him swimming in their irises

as the bell rings its tumultuous song and deadbeat kids begin to litter the halls, namjoon is suddenly shoved against the locker by no other than the modern-day jeffrey dahmer

jeon jungkook, dust amongst a field of flowers

his sadistic pleasures and his lust for blood, the holy scent of iron that smoothes out all the creases

❝ if i catch you staring at my Y/N like that again, i’ll tear you apart limb from limb. ‘got it, dipshit? ❞

he is in all means terrifying, but, is nothing but a little boy to namjoon

time has passed, a damn near million tabs are held upon the screen all containing the history of namjoon and his family’s wealth

jin, who had been reported the incident by a fuming jungkook had found an opportunity in the depths of his teenage angst

he’ll feed into namjoon’s desire to touch you across hundreds of separating years

he’ll pray into his craving to kiss you as the naked moon sets for the final time

he’ll reach into his heart and use namjoon for his benefit

and how the rest of the members all fed off of his wealth like parasites

anything their little heart desired, they’d hold in their possession

as much as namjoon longs to deny them pleasure, he had been threatened to lose his place in the club and every inkling of access he has to you if he dared disobey

and namjoon would rather die than lose his love to the eternal night

the strange and enigmatic masterpiece, the ancient moon across a sea of stars

his violet lover has been sawed through by nostalgia, and his infatuation glows harder than a summer sunset

although jin’s intentions have a mile or two to run before they stab him in the back, namjoon still has a clear vision of his goal

and there shall be no burden before he meets his longed fate.

━━━ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

you, a flower itself, flood his brains like a tsunami to a pitiful city

you, a strawberry in winter, hold sly ways of slithering your way into the recesses of his heart once more

that leaves jung hoseok here, letting the teacher’s words fade to white noise as he doodles your name adorned with hearts on flowers in his notebook

there is distant gossip and whispers that echo from afar, which hoseok picks up due to his childlike curiosity

it begun with useless chitter-chatter, then dissolving to the melodic sound of your name which tumbles from their lips

he listens as the two boys curse the teacher for giving you a D on your exam, them mentioning this supposed ‘club’ that circled everything around you

hoseok was smart, he could raise your grade!

oh, how hoseok would just die to help you with your studies!

with a paradise sparkling in his eyes, he sparks up a conversation with the group, also known as kim namjoon and jeon jungkook

but, the doe-eyed teenager hisses at him, barking at him to ‘keep his fucking mouth shut’

he takes the hint, leaving the conversation with a silent ocean welling up in his eyes

but, this is the embodiment of hope that sits in this dull classroom

he’ll crawl around the corners of his soul till he’s enervate to retrieve what he has longed for

and that leads us up to now, as hoseok stalks to the two from a safe distance, watching as they disappear to the writing club

and just before the door closes, hoseok peeks through the crack of the door and finds the identity of kim seokjin, a boy he’s seen accompany you multiple times

the following day, while the students all stare in confusion for the small boy walking through the halls, hoseok finds him and confronts him

by the look of purified fear, this ‘writing club’ was a hushed secret, and him knowing of this secret was dangerous enough, as it is

after negotiating about how he’d contribute to your satisfaction, jin had no choice but to accept his offer

he doesn’t want this loud-mouthed kid to run up and down the halls preaching about their sins, anyways

the rest of the club members didn’t favor his arrival, all shooting looks of envy and hatred

but, there was no other choice

their fate is written in the stars and complimented with a wax steal upon an envelope.

━━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

opening his locker, jimin finds a taste of eden’s garden as he finds your face strung upon the wall

there’s irises, rivers, fairies, and peaches within the single picture cutout from the yearbook as he sighs dreamily at the sight

his daydream of honeyed days is quickly disrupted as his best friend, hoseok interrupts his thoughts with stars circling in his eyes

before he can find the words to scold him, hoseok begins rambling about this ‘club’ at a rate to fast for jimin to decipher

he hears tales of his dreams, a chance to taste your beauty

this most definitely sparked his undying interest, ushering his best friend to continue with his intentions to get the boy warped in this world

thus, we are taken to the night where the clock reads 3:38 AM in it’s bright, neon hues

the boys would never dream of staying up this late, especially on a tuesday night as the fear for the scolding of their parents’ echos, but, the adrenaline that seeps through their veins serves as a protection

because of the prophecy of this new club, they are rebelling

and as a new day rises and the sun shimmers in all of its celestial beauty, the boys have come up with a plan

every club needs a mission manager!

and who else would be perfect for this job no other than park jimin…? right?

well, let’s just say, despite his unreasonable, childish, and almost dangerous plans, the rest of the boys weren’t happy upon his arrival

the sighs of annoyance to his careless nature, the scoffs of envy when he speaks words of poetry about everything as little as when you made eye contact that one time 2 months ago

jimin’s contribution isn’t favored, but, if it’s for you, all 6 boys are willing to drag themselves through hell and back

every member holds an undying love for the god/goddess themself, all possessing a wild heart that they’d bled dry if you asked

and jimin is just one branch of the group who also holds an intense infatuation

the water to his parched heart, the flowering spring in a winter haze

he has found the sun as it shimmers against the snow

and nothing is as holy as this.

━━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

another dull day at the café, yoongi listens to his longing for spring’s voice

his hatred for this place burns bright and softly, as he dwells in the anger held within his small body

the college kids, the early morning joggers, all possessing ways of churning yoongi’s anger, one-by-one

obligated to put on a plastic smile for their sake has wars prancing through his head

but then, there’s you

oh, and those lively eyes he craves to gaze into for eternity and the soft furrow in your brow when you stare at the menu

he is mesmerized and listens to the songs of summer as he drowns in your stare

you haven’t taken notice to the hearts that swirl within his eyes as you order, unfortunately, and therefore leave a boy longing for a taste of the sun

during this fit of a daydream, 6 boys stumble in, all conversing at abnormally obnoxious levels

yoongi has to shove a scoff back down his throat and bring a halt to the urge to roll his eyes and dresses himself in the facade

as they all order and then continue their chatter elsewhere, yoongi can resume his illusions about your sparkled presence

whilst in the process of finishing a cappuccino, he hears the sugary melody of your name

he freezes, then concludes he must be hallucinating, resuming the process of the drink in his hands

after all, spending hours upon hours in this sacred place causes his mind to go hazy at times

the lilied waters of your eyes, skin like roses in the evening

you are so, so very loved by the boy at the café

starting up the hot chocolate with “extra sugar,” he hears it once more

does he need to stretch out his sleeping schedule or was this real?

were they truly speaking of you, or has he truly gone insane in the late afternoon?

peeking over his shoulder, that’s when yoongi sees it

your face was drawn upon a notepad, all fluttered hearts and empty petals around your face

the soul of the planets, the green pigment of the gardens, all held in this stranger’s arms

with determination, yoongi is required to learn more of this guest who spoke hushed tales of you

he’d do anything to know more about the star who enlightens his grey days

and now, the club is complete.

[jewouj]

Jean Rabel Massacre - Haiti

23 jiyè 1987, pi gwo masak peyizan ki fèt nan istwa Ayiti komanse nan zòn Jean Rabel, nan nòdwes. Anviwon 139 peyizan te mouri e nou pa menm konnen kombyen ki te blese anba men brigad ak makout ki tap swiv lòd ak jwenn kòb nan men oligak Rémy Lucas ak lòt grandon tankou Jean-Michel Richardson ak Nicol Poitevien.

Jean Rabel Massacre - Wikipedia

The Jean-Rabel massacre took place in Haiti on 23 July 1987, near the town of Jean-Rabel.[1] At least 139 people were killed (one of the self-proclaimed assassins claimed 1042). It was carried out by "paramilitary groups led by macoutes and acting upon the alleged orders from a local land oligarch, Rémy Lucas".[1] Several days earlier Henri Namphy had visited the area and "publicly supported the Lucas family and their rights to the land they claimed".[1] Many of the dead were members of the Tet Ansamn land reform group.[2]

Jean Rabel Massacre commemorated with outcry and excuses | In Haiti Progres, This Week in Haiti, Vol. 16, no. 19, 29 July - 4 August 1998

Named mentioned and accused according to Haitian peasants

Remy Lucas [Perpetrator]

Remy Lucas te pran tèt yon bann asasen pou t al boule 15 kay ti peyizan nan Gwosab, jete rekòt yo epi detwi plantasyon yo, jou ki te 9 me 1986. Menm jou a, ak dòt zakolit li, Remy Lucas te antre kay Ekip Misyonè a nan Bouk Janrabèl kote li ta pral sasinen yon manm Ekip la ki te gen tan chape erezman.

Jean Michel Richardson [Perpetrator]

Nou pa bliye 27 Dawou 1986 lè anbasad meriken tal mennen ankèt sou Gwoupman TET ANSANM ak Ekip Misyonè a nan Janrabèl, sou demann grandon yo, pi espesyalman sou demand Jan Michèl Richadsonn, dapre deklarasyon yon anplwaye anbasad ameriken, David Lee, li menm te fè.

Nicol Poitevien [Perpetrator]

Nicol Poitevien claims that Jean-Marie Vincent and his missionary team are inventing accusations against him and the Lucas family, in this case concerning food aid and Poitevien's truck that was carrying goods from Jean Rabel to Port-au-Prince.

[RADIO HAITI ARCHIVES]

Jean Rabel: Rémy Lucas and Jean-Michel Richardson, date unknown 1987

Interview with Rémy Lucas (local oligarch) and Jean-Michel Richardson on their roles in and perceptions of the violence in Gros Sable on February 17, 1987. Lucas and Richardson dismiss allegations that they were responsible for the burning of peasant houses in Gros Sable or any of the events in the Jean Rabel area. They insist that they never had a problem with anybody — they are the victims and that the real blame lies with the “missionary team” of Father Jean-Marie Vincent, who was organizing local peasants to claim their rights and land through the Tèt Ansanm movement. It is not the peasants’ fault, they say, because they are being poorly guided. Lucas and Richardson claim, variously, that Father Vincent is corrupt, that he’s only claiming to do things for the peasants but is in fact profiting, that he’s done a few good works but that it’s been insufficient, that he’s responsible for the introduction of ill-suited North American pigs to Haiti (via his work with Caritas), and that the missionaries personally burned down Richardson’s factory and therefore only increased poverty and hunger in the area by depriving people of their jobs. Lucas and Richardson claim that Father Vincent is not acting as a priest should, that he is creating disunity rather than unity and dividing the community. They defend the reputation of Nicol Poitevien, another powerful local landowner, denying that he was a Macoute. Richardson likewise says he was never a Macoute himself: he was in government, but he never had the “soul” of a Macoute. Lucas claims that he is part of a new, more open generation of the Lucas family. He hedges when asked how much land his family really owns, and says that the peasants have cut down most of the trees on it, anyway. Interview Konpè Filo.

Jan Rabel - Radio Haiti - Start at 5:00 - 17 Fevrier 1987

Peasants from Gros sable speak up about the events of Febuary 1987. They warn the population that there are people to save and massacres still happening. Jean Marie Vincent, a Haitian priest says that this is revenge for the peasants having taken their land back (rightfully, as they are the people’s land). He states that they then invented the fable that peasants were stealing land to warrant burning 17 of their properties. He also says that the peasants’ appeal was going to be brought to court, - something wealthy landowners did not like. They are blaming the members of Gwoupman Tet Ansanm, group from which survivors state they are being attacked for their organizing. They name Remy Lucas and Poitevien as perpetrators, and denote a strategic effort to drown them further into poverty. There’s a Kat Klat (?) syndicate, who is said to have used their power with the church to massacre peasants and then blame it on the Gwoupman Tet Ansanm - even though they all saw the crime scene and investigated it alongside the church. Jean Marie adds that the peasants warned people In Port de Paix, (see Jeunes Etudiants Chrétiens (JEC) Port-de-Paix anonse yap bay ekip misyonè ak manm Tèt Ansanm sipò, e yap denonse rejim makout la.- 11 Juillet 1987) and had been organizing since 1986 to prevent further murders.

“ Mezanmi, ala pwopagandis yo fò, se pa teknik ak ladrès ki manke yo ! Yo vle fè inosan pase pou kriminèl, pandan y ap chache fè asasen yo pase pou inosan ! Yo fè ekspre, yo fè kòmkwa yo pa konnen si masak 23 jiyè 1987 la se te aboutisman yon bann ak pakèt agresyon, entimidasyon, konplo ak atak vyolan grandon, Lame Dayiti, sèten sektè reyaksyonè nan legliz katolik ak pwotestan, nan sendika jòn KAT KLAT ak yon ti ponyen jounalis k ap defann movèz kòz t ap mitonnen san rete kont Gwoupman Tèt Ansanm ak Ekip Misyonè Janrabèl la, pran depi 9 me 1986 rive 23 jiyè 1987.“

SOURCE (20 an apre masak Jan Rabel la)

Different accounts show that some peasants were hired and given the position and power of a makout, just to kill other peasants, as desired by wealthy landowners and sectors of the Church.

July 28, 1987, two members of Tèt Ansanm who had survived the massacre made their way to Port-au-Prince and spoke with Michèle Montas on the air at Radio Haiti:

“It was a group of landowners that organized it, in La Montagne [in the commune of Jean Rabel],” explained Anne Jean-Louis. “They paid people 10 or 15 gourdes, to organize them to kill people…. [The landowners] are hiding behind them, they’re hiding themselves to send those people out to fight for them.”

Noland Métayer described what had happened.

We went to go see our fellow peasants in La Montagne, near La Reserve. We were going to have a meeting between peasant and peasant. We were going to hold a demonstration. We came in solidarity with our brothers. But when we arrived, they didn’t accept being together with us. From the moment we appeared, we didn’t even have the chance to explain why we’d come. They began to attack us, to throw rocks at us, shoot bullets at us, shoot rifles. And that’s when everyone became afraid. There were four people who got shot, they got hurt, they died – I believe of the four who were shot, we only saw one. The others, they disappeared. After that, when we saw that we had come in friendship and they hadn’t accepted it, we turned to leave, and that’s when they ganged up on us, they cornered us on a path, they joined up with the Macoutes from Jean Rabel… They formed their brigades. They blocked a bunch of people on the path, they forced them to go to Jean Rabel. And there were a lot of other people who were hurt, who had broken bones, and they thought that in the town of Jean Rabel they would be safe. So they tried to get to Jean Rabel. But when they got to Jean Rabel, that’s where they really massacred them. They put them in prison, they put some in the hospital. But even in the hospital, they weren’t safe. The Macoutes, all those people, they entered freely whenever they wanted. They were threatening them, they were putting lots of pressure on them, and they told them that whenever a single one of them was released, they’d be watching them, and they’d be eliminated nonetheless. They are going to die nonetheless. All those people…” his voice trailed off. Anne Jean-Louis described in harrowing detail her escape from the massacre.

I pulled myself together not to sleep on the street, I didn’t want to sleep at someone else’s house. If someone came and found me sleeping on their porch, they could beat me and I could die badly. I had already almost died. I managed to sleep in a corner of the hospital, on the ground behind a toilet.” Her brother Fadiné, also a member of Tèt Ansanm, was arrested. “They took him, they wounded him to the point that he was in the hospital. I tried to see him, then. Everyone was worried. They were already saying I’d been killed, that I wasn’t among the living anymore. They thought I was dead, and when they saw me on Friday they were shocked. As for Fadiné, he was inside the hospital, and there was no security. They were asking for members of the gwoupman in both the hospital and the prison. They blamed them for everything…. Their lives are in danger. They can’t sleep. People say there was a massacre on July 23, but that’s only when it started. It lasted Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday. They kept killing people.” In the interview, Anne Jean-Louis said she had last seen her brother in the hospital. She wanted to know what had become of him, but she was afraid that if she reappeared, she would be arrested and killed.

“Many ostracized peasants became makouts or regime loyalists to renegotiate their disempowered status. After experiencing decades of political marginalization, many became attracted to the makout militia as a means to achieve self-realization in the Duvalier years. “Perhaps the most significant result of Duvalier's revolution,'' observed the historian David Nicholls, "will turn out to be the sense which was given to the mass of the peasants that they were really citizens and that what they did was important.” He continued, “If people are told 4 often enough that they are important, they may begin to believe it."3 Many peasants bought into the promises of the regime and joined the makout militia to defend their individual and communal interests. Peasants formed the bulk of Duvalier’s unpaid militia; they were what Michel-Rolph Trouillot referred to as "a consenting army of volunteers…because for the first time they were becoming citizens––acknowledged members of the nation. [SOURCE]

“If you’re mobilizing poor peasants to assert their rights, you aren’t going to make certain big families who have held political and economic power for more than forty years very happy, because they’re going to lose certain advantages, they’re not going to find workers to come and work their fields for only one or two gourdes [a few cents] anymore… They find that people are a little ‘disrespectful’ now, they find people aren’t docile anymore. The peasants have become a little too enlightened, and they say, ‘You, you’ve taken the blindfold of the peasants’ eyes.’ They don’t like that kind of work, obviously. They call that kind of work communism.” - Father Marie Vincent

Father Marie Vincent

A Roman Catholic priest who once saved the life of the Rev. Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the fellow cleric who was later elected Haiti's President, was killed by automatic-weapon fire late Sunday a few feet from his order's house. The Rev. Jean-Marie Vincent, 49, the leader of a grass-roots peasant movement in Haiti's remote northwestern district, was a close friend of Father Aristide, now in exile after being ousted in a 1991 military coup. A priest in Father Vincent's order, the Congregation of Montfortin Fathers, said he was killed by unidentified gunmen in a jeep about 8:30 P.M. as he waited in a heavy rainstorm for a gate to be opened into the courtyard of the order's house.

Inter-Actualités Magazine, Special Report on Jean Rabel: Land Ownership, Anti-Communism, the Catholic Church, and Rumors, 16 August 1987

Three weeks after the massacre at Jean Rabel, the independent media is still forbidden to visit the area, so Jean Dominique sits with Michèle Pierre-Louis (who had recently visited the region as part of Mission Alpha) and agronomist Chavannes Jean-Baptiste (the founder of the Peasant Movement of Papaye) to discuss the aftermath of the massacre and the factors underpinning it. Pierre-Louis observes a great deal of hostility toward Jean-Marie Vincent and his missionary team among the peasants of Lacoma. But this hostility is the product of intentional strategy, one that the local landowners adopted when Tèt Ansanm’s ideology called into question existing social structure.

These landowners — threatened by the possibility of losing their traditional power amid post-Duvalier political change — have manipulated the peasants of the Jean Rabel area, pitting them against one another, currying favor with certain groups of peasants with promises of land redistribution and favoritism. They have created a situation, in Jean-Baptiste’s words, in which the “little dog eats the little dog, poor peasants are killing poor peasants just like themselves.” According to Jean-Baptiste, the landowners and their allies (including certain radio stations and the traditional Catholic Church) have been part of a misinformation campaign, accusing Jean-Marie Vincent of being a communist, creating a climate of fear in which peasants believe that communists are going to seize their land, homes, and possessions. Divisions within the Catholic Church — between the traditional, reactionary Church hierarchy and the “ti legliz” preaching liberation theology and promoting the rights of the poor dispossessed peasantry – are also responsible for the massacre, and, according to Jean-Baptiste, the Church should be held responsible. Interview Jean Dominique.

Cartoon from Tèt Kole’s 1989 pamphlet commemorating the Jean Rabel massacre. Peasant farmers plan to cut down the tree of injustice and oppression with the axe of liberation. (Source: Radio Haïti Inter paper archive)

Gwoupman tèt ansanm

Tèt Ansanm would later change its name to Tèt Ansanm Ti Peyizan Ayisyen, after it was no longer directly affiliated with the Catholic NGO Caritas.)

In July 1987, for example, peasant members of the Gwoupman Tèt Ansanm (GTA) in the northwest were victims of a violent conflict that came to be known as the Jean-Rabel Massacre. Leaders of GTA, including the radical leftist Père Vincent, portrayed the massacre as a result of a political attack led by former Duvalierists, local landed elites, and tonton makouts who were attempting to suppress popular movements in the northwest. Although originating from state- sponsored peasant councils that included a number of makouts, GTA, by the post-Duvalier period, grew into a leftist organization and opposed landed aristocrats and state predation. They were known for seizing elite-owned land, for occupying tax offices to stop unfair taxation, and for thwarting court judgments against peasants. [source]

TÈT KOLE

Works with the smallest peasants, not even the medium-sized ones, because even within the peasant sector, enemies of the peasant use middle peasants to attack other peasants. We are organising for life, for survival, to move from absolute poverty to social change. Most of the peasants we work with are land-less. They either sell their labour or work as share-croppers. They have no decent housing, no schools for their children, poor health conditions. Both their social and their economic situations are extremely fragile. So our work is in popular education and consciousness-raising so that these small peasants can see the real root of their problems, analyse the causes, and come to demand that the state resolve these problems. The state offers them no services—no potable water, very few schools or health clinics, (and those there are in very bad shape), inadequate roads, no technical support for agricultural production, no electricity in many areas, no means of communication. Tèt Kole was born in this context.

« Konstitisyon se papye, bayonèt se fè »

. “Constitution is paper, bayonet is iron”

Remember, the United States had a perpetual goal to rid Latin America of Communism! * this is from the 1970’s.

Objectives (as stated in NSSM-70)

“Our objectives are to:

(1) Ensure that Haiti does not become a hostile military base under Communist control threatening the security of the U.S. (e.g., Cuban missile crisis).

(2) Prevent, to the extent politically feasible, Haiti from becoming a base or haven for subversion,anti-U.S. attitudes, extremism, and racism in the Caribbean.

(3) Protect U.S. lives.” - NSC Interdepartmental Group/Inter-American Affairs : Contingency Study for Haiti [Reviewed December, 1971]

« Okenn moun ki gen bon sans epi ki onèt pa kapab bliye imaj Nikòl Pwatvyen ki t ap bat lestomak an triyonfatè nan Televisyon Nasyonal pou te devwale san li pat rann li kont, veritab planifikatè ak òganizatè masak la. San okenn jèn, li te deklare ak kè kontan : « Nou menm nan kan ameriken an, nou tchwe 1042 kominis ! » »

Source: MESAJ DIREKSYON NASYONAL TET KOLE TI PEYIZAN AYISYEN NAN OKAZYON VENTYÈM ANIVÈSÈ MASAK TI PEYIZAN JANRABÈL AK BOCHAN YO

———————————-

Achiv masak Jan Rabel, 8 an aprè. J.J. Dominique

Alternative Title:

Les archives du massacre de Jean Rabel, huit ans après. J.J. Dominique || - Jean Rabel massacre archives, eight years later. J.J. Dominique || -

Radyo Ayiti fè yon rapèl sou masak Jan Rabel epi difize kèk ekstrè sonò Radyo Ayiti fè an 1987. Li gen ladan l yon manm ekip misyonè Jan Rabel k ap mande otorite yo ede viktim yo, kout lambi Tèt Kole te fè anvan masak la pete, epi yon viktim reskape ki dekri sa li te viv li menm epi ki mande otorite yo vin ede lòt moun ki poko mouri yo. Repòtaj J.J. Dominique.

Radio Haiti remembers the Jean Rabel massacre on the eighth anniversary and revisits their broadcasts from 1987. Includes a member of the missionary team in Jean Rabel calling on authorities to aid the victims of the massacre, Tèt Kole's "kout lambi" (call to action) that preceded the massacre, and the testimony of a member of Tèt Kole describing what she experienced and asking the authorities to help the other survivors. Report by J.J. Dominique.

Komemorasyon masak peyizan Janrabèl ak Mawotyè yo!

Yè 1987- 23 jiyè 2017, 30 lane depi atoufè sanfwanilwa te mare sosis yo ak grandon sou konplisite kèk otorite nan leta a pou yo etenn souf plis pase plizyè santèn ti peyizan ayisyen nan depatman Nòdwès la. Espesyalman nan komin Janrabèl, kote peyizan yo te òganize yo nan yon regwoupman, yo te rele : Tèt Ansanm, pou yo te mande tè pou yo travay, non sèlman kòm gwoup moun ki makònen ak tè men nan enterè depatman an [....] Yo fè konnen nan lane 2013 prezidan ki te la a Michel Martelly te deklare nan Raymond yon katye nan premye seksyon kominal komin Jan Rabèl « Li pral fè baraj pou dlo 3 rivye a, palmantè yo vote yon bidjè 320 milyon goud pou baraj la » Anyen pa janm fèt, sanble bandi Mateli yo te gagote kòb la. Manifestan yo denonse tou : nan bidjè rektifikatif 2017- 2018 la, gen lajan pou baraj rivyè bas, baraj dlo 3 rivyè a ankò, kòb pou wout Kafou jòf Pòdpè, yo swete lajan sa a tou pa gaspiye nan fè kanaval tribò e babò, nan fè touris nan peyi etranje jan sa te konn fèt sou Martelly. Popilasyon Nòdwès la pare yon po kann ak tout foumi pou yo,: se pou tout rezon sa yo, nou vin devan ministè agrikilti pou fòse otorite yo nan lajan yo mete nan bidjè 2017- 2018 pou yo fè aktivite pou moun Nòdwès yo, sitou sa nou sot site yo avan ane fiskal la fini.

Nòdwès nan mizè, pa gen manje, pa gen wout, fatra ap bay moun maladi ajoute sou sa pa menm gen yon bon lopital pou peyizan yo ale. Sa k pi rèd, jou ki te 21 Jiyè 2017 la, nan meri Jan Rabèl la otorite santral yo te prezan, yo te vin gade kijan pou yo fè eksplwatasyon min nan komin nan. Noumenm, nou konnen dega eksplwatasyon min fè nan divès peyi nan Amerik Latin lan sou lavi moun, sou anviwonman, konsekans li genyen sou dlo moun ap fonksyone, popilasyon Nòdwès te vote palmantè yo, se pa pou bagay sa yo, fòk yo pran responsablite yo nan enterè pèp Nòdwès la.

Nou tande gouvènman Jovenel/ Lafontan ap mete lame sou pye, nou konnen lame sa, se pou fè represyon sou popilasyon an, pou fasilite grandon yo kontinye pran tè ti peyizan, pou fasilite gran miltinasyonal yo vin fè zòn franch touristik, zòn franch agwo endistriyèl ak pwodui OGM pou fini ak tè ti peyizan yo, pou ti peyizan kontinye kite peyi a, al pase mizè kay vwazen epi mouri sasinen pirèd, nan Sendomeng, Chili, Brezil ak Taiwan. Nan kontèks sa TET KOLE TI PEYIZAN AYISYEN, ap kontinye renouvle angajmanl nan divès baz li prezan nan peyi a, pou mande bon jan akonpayman pou tipeyizan yon an peyi a, semans, bank agrikòl, irigasyon, bay peyizan yo tè pou yo plante pou olye prezidan ap mache likide tè agrikòl yo bay gwo milti nasyonal yo , pou plante plant pou fè kawotchyou, ak lòt pwodui pou y al itilize nan lòtbò dlo.

[btgalaxy]

Estrella ~ BTS fantasy!au

➳ pairing: jin x reader, jimin x reader

➳ genre: fantasy!au, fluff, angst, slight smut

➳ word count: 600

 masterlist / next

Prologue

          In the beginning there was war.

The land was riddled with enmity, and malevolence plagued men like a disease, spread through the blades of handcrafted daggers when plunged into the heart of another, ruthlessly and in cold-blood. Nobody knew of peace and cooperation, instead anarchy ruled, enforced by the God Calvus, ensuring no man would or could exhort harmony amongst this everlasting battle.

Calvus’ cruelty ran deep; the skin of his hands became stained with a bloody crimson the more lives seized at the hands of his undiluted barbarity; his eyes turned an unforgiving black with his callous satisfaction derived from the screams of innocent. He became an incarnation of Lucifer himself, revelling in the power he emanated as the war intensified and proliferated till the land itself grew barren, unusable. The ground was stripped of life after all the heavy boots and hungry mouths, too busy mounting attacks, overlooked the need to replenish the sources that kept them fighting, which ultimately led to the next sickness besides Calvus’ wargames; starvation.

It hit the South first, the colder realms, where they relied on fishing and meats to survive; sourced in the species that became contaminated with various pollutions: lead poisoning, acidic rain- and once one fragment of the food chain fell extinct, the rest followed suit, leaving those in the South to die out slowly from starvation, as Calvus’ wars waged relentlessly onwards. The East and the West came next, the dry, battered land littered with worn down blades and rotting corpses proved too much for the brittle ground to expunge, consequently leaving the entire midsection of the land cropless, and as food became scarce, so did the men indulging Calvus’ sanguinary lust. And finally, the North, although it lasted the longest the fall was just as severe when the sweep of famine reached their doorsteps, greeting them with a sadistic smile.

Calvus grew enraged there was no longer men assuaging his insatiable desires for bloodshed and fire, and in his fury he reached carelessly into the depths of the Onyx Sea to bring out an occult jewel that had the power to restore life to the land and fuel his endless discord. However, this was not the case. Andromeda, a woman, a Goddess, emerged; an entity that would shed a warm light on his empty wasteland and bring forth the harvest and life back to man. She brought about quietude to the land, to observe the damage Calvus had caused, and it was near reprehensible, the amount of harm he’d selfishly incited. So she restored everything; the animals, the crops, the Badlands. And she banished Calvus to exist only in the flame of a fire, a meagre flicker of a candlelight, an ominous light of a burning house. And the key to his release was smashed into seven pieces, scattered and strewn for no man to find.

The men struggled to achieve and maintain consensus that Andromeda taught them, and so to discourage any further disunity she formed the Five Kingdoms of Estrella. Orion, Lyra, Volantis, Mensa and Antares. She chose the wisest, strongest men to lead each kingdom, and they signed an oath to never become greedy or selfish and try to steal another’s land. But what she didn’t foresee was the deception of humanity and hidden amongst true nature hubris will always reign.

Irrespective, she returned to the Onyx Sea, contented with the newly formed Estrella now, finally, at peace. And it would stay that way for a century or so, until monarchs and rulers grew gluttonous and lecherous, deliberately falling back into the old conducts of Calvus’ belligerence…

masterlist / next

[littlesundragon17]

Bandit!Yang AU  Freezerburn

First time on posting an idea about an AU story I wanna start writing that other people on here already talk about (Ex: Bandit!Yang) I cant remember who you guys were that talk about this and use it all the time, I APOLOGIZE AHEAD OF TIME AND CREDIT GOES TO YOU. It screams slow-burn and angst but who doesn’t like that? I’m still unsure about it which is why I posted a summary and an overall view  of the story for opinions and extra thoughts. Hope y’all like it! :)

Summary: What if everything was the same except Ilia was on Team RWB  pronounced ‘RWBI’ and Yang instead was a bandit raised by Raven her whole life? Ruby knows about having a sister but doesn’t know anything about her. Taiyang only gave her bits and pieces about having a sister but doesn’t bring it up much because it either gets him angry or depressed. Yang (even more rebellious and unruly being a bandit) still has her arm and is corrupted to believe Taiyang is a bad father. Ilia is her usual self but doesn’t agree with certain things on the team (a.k.a Weiss) where fighting and disunity is among the team daily. What happens when they meet Bandit Yang?

Beginning with the fall of beacon, Weiss doesn’t get taken by her father and instead stays with Ruby as they explore Mistral with Jaune, Nora and Ren. Blake disappears without a trace heading into Menagerie…from the knowing of Adam being at the Fall of Beacon, not wanting to see him along with her horrors come back to haunt her. Ilia, scared about losing Blake, follows Blake into Menagerie…running into Sun in the process. Then everything spirals out of control. With Ruby (followed by Weiss, Jaune, Nora, Ren), she hunts to find and meet her long lost sister, looking for her by searching throughout Mistral. Ruby only knows a piece about Raven from Taiyang and an idea of what Raven looks like, basing her hunt to try to find her sister from finding Raven. This can be where they meet Tyrian along with the Nuckelavee and Qrow coming to the rescue, just with Weiss in the picture. That’s when Qrow finally tells Ruby and the gang that Raven lives in a tribe somewhere in Mistral and is warned not to go there. Being Ruby, she denies and exclaims to her uncle that she is going to find her sister, no matter the costs. Meanwhile with Yang, Raven raises her to believe that Taiyang (Without saying who he is) was an uncaring and evil father that had nothing to do with her. How Raven came and saved the day when Yang is a baby and ever since Yang comes to admire her mother. (Think of Yang and Ruby’s canon close-relationship). She used to be explicit with Vernal but they never worked out. In the end, they treat each other like sisters and are super close. Yang and Vernal know of Raven’s secret as the Spring Maiden and take turns to be decoys when outsiders come and say they want the spring maiden powers. That’s until the day when Yang leaves with, surprisingly, Shade D. Guy and his gang, to get firewood for dinner that night. That time is when Cinder, Mercury, Emerald and Watts come and threaten Raven to join them and collect all the relics. Raven obviously refuses but that’s when Cinder and her faction wreck the whole tribe, leaving nothing but blood and ash. Forcing Raven to have no choice but oblige to keep her secret in check and tells Vernal to lie that Raven got kidnapped. How Vernal was knocked out and got seriously injured in the process of trying to save her. Vernal refuses to tell this story to Yang until Raven knocks her unconscious in order for the story to be believable, thus leaves with Cinder and her faction. Yang returns, furious about the story that Vernal begrudgingly (the one Raven makes her say) tells her, Yang believes it. That’s when Ruby and her gang see the smoke and follows the path and stumbles upon the obliterated tribe. That’s when they see a muscular blonde and a brown short haired girl in a heated fight (They get into a heated argument from leftover anger from the destroyed tribe) and they don’t interfere (in favor of Weiss) until they let both girls pass out from too much aura. That’s when Ruby tells the gang to tie both of the girls to a tree and question them when they woke up. Where Ruby and the others will investigate the tribe and they come to the conclusion that this is the tribe that Qrow was talking about with Raven. This is where Ruby becomes excited and believes she is one step closer to finding her sister…unbeknownst that she already found her. Huge shenanigans will occur when both girls wake up along with a bunch of questioning. Ruby and the gang all come up with a solution where the blonde girl, now known as Yang, and the short brown haired girl, Vernal, will help them find Raven. Yang lies to Ruby and the others about the fact of her being Raven’s daughter and says that her and Vernal were instead loyal followers and want to get their leader back and save the tribe. Ruby obviously believes them, whereas Weiss and Jaune feel something is up with Yang and Vernal. This is now when Ruby’s charm and innocence gets to Yang and Vernal. Especially with Yang, where Ruby tells Yang about her mission one night with finding her long lost sister after a couple weeks of being with them. How Ruby is trying to find Raven because she is the clue to finding who her sister is because her father had relations with Raven. Yang connects the pieces altogether and freaks out internally but doesn’t tell Ruby about being her older and long lost sister and leaves her in the dark. Ruby also tells her about Taiyang and how a wonderful father he was and was always there when Ruby was a kid. Yang undoubtedly admits to her that whoever Taiyang was, that he DOES seem like a good Father and how Ruby is lucky. This is when Yang starts to change her personality and outlook on life, from the start with Raven. Now this is where Yang sees Ruby in a new light and her newly founded father, starts to become a little overprotective even when the gang fights small grimm. Confusing the others especially Weiss and Vernal. Where Yang starts to doubt all of her choices and beliefs about Raven and tells Vernal her internal struggles. Vernal doesn’t like this at all and demands Yang that they both abandon the gang and to find Raven on their own. Yang denies doing so and both get into a heated fight once again, where Vernal escapes last minute, leaving Yang stabbed from a dagger and is injured (Weiss is seriously concerned for Yang’s well-being when she finds her). Yang lies to the others about what happened and explains that an enemy tribe came and kidnapped Vernal for revenge. Obviously Weiss doesn’t believe her. From this point on, Weiss and Yang weren’t on good terms but soon both warm up to each other when Weiss is the one to take care of Yang’s wounds for awhile. A bunch of silly shenanigans happen but soon both start having feelings for each other. Of course Yang doesn’t know want to do, in favor of not knowing herself anymore and who to trust. She knows deep down Ruby, Weiss and the others are honest people no matter what and sees herself become one of them. Feeling guilty, Yang comes clean to Weiss about her relations with Raven and what actually happened to Vernal. Weiss is furious and knew she was right all along about the lies that Yang told them and Yang apologizes profusely and desperately asks Weiss what she needs to do. After a couple days, Weiss warms up to Yang again from a fall out with the gang and so Weiss tells Yang to officially tell Ruby the truth before something happens to ruin it. Yang agrees but doesn’t have the courage to tell Ruby just yet when she fails miserably and stumbles over her words the first time. Leaving Ruby unutterably confused. There’s a bunch of more ideas to come, but that’s what I got so far. I hope you guys like the AU idea and message me for more ideas continuing where I left off after this! I’m still open in the area about how Yang and Weiss will express their feelings and how they will find Raven once again along with Cinder’s Faction. Along with Blake’s story and reconnecting to everyone once again. I hope you guys can help me!

[frozenrose105]

Whumptober Day 4

Prompt: Dead on Your Feet

Characters: Demon!Author, Human!Host, Incubus!Bim Trimmer

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

The Host didn't know how long it had been when he finally found himself at the forefront of his own consciousness again. As he woke, he could only assume he was at his own home, but- ...he couldn't see.

Why couldn't he see? His head was killing him, and there were various aches and pains in the rest of his body, all of which he felt as he sat up despite the comfort of his mattress beneath him. Had he been attacked? Robbed? The Host's hand flew out to where his nightstand should have been, feeling around for his phone with intent to call someone. A goddamn ambulance, the police, anyone. Though, maybe the police weren't such a good idea, given his... hobbies.

He gave up his search for his phone, not finding it where it should have been, and wondered abruptly if it hasn't been a robbery after all, but rather had something to do with said hobbies. Had it been a deal gone awry? It wouldn't have been the first time something like that had happened, though the blindness was new.

Hesitantly, the Host reached a hand up to his own face, running his fingers over the area from his eyebrows downwards. His touch was light, but there was still a jolt of pain as he closed his eyelids and felt the start of scabbing there.

With the jolt of pain came a memory, fleeting like a that of a dream, like a word on the tip of his tongue.

A circle. Shaking hands. Sharp, unexpected pain and then darkness.

A demon, made up of black and gold aura. His own fingernails digging into his eyes.

The deal.

The Host shoved himself off of his bed, but stopped short when a wave of nausea hit him. The memories were slowly but surely coming back to him, the pieces of the puzzle fitting together. He had been tricked- made to assume that he'd assist the demon in finding a vessel, when in reality the vessel would be him. In hindsight, he should have known better.

As these memories returned to him, so too did some... other ones. He saw flashes in his mind of hurting people, but not for his rituals. The memories came after he'd lost his sight, so mostly he recalled the visceral feeling of it. ...Satisfaction and enjoyment which were not all his, but which he felt all the same while his mind had been melded with the demon's.

Some of which still remained.

He heard himself speaking, somehow with the intrinsic knowledge that reality was bending to his will. And with these memories alongside the gnawing urge to continue the demon's work, he felt something within him stir.

The demon had never left.

The demon- the Author, as he recalled- now rested within him, and though the Host didn't know why that was so, he knew that wasn't what he should be dwelling on.

A sense of urgency washed over the Host anew with the realization that he was a ticking time bomb. There was nothing that would stop the Author from regaining control, and the Host didn't have much time to figure out how to remove him from the equation. But how could he, when he couldn't default to his books as he normally would? They were no good to a blind man, after all.

Then again, the Host had made the deal as a means to gain the Author's abilities. Whether or not the Author was controlling his body, he should be able to use the power.

"The Host-" He paused for a moment, afraid that somehow his voice breaking the silence of the room would wake the Author. But the Author had already stirred, and the Host could feel the second consciousness within him waiting. Watching. He had to continue. "...The Host's vision returned to him." Then he waited. He expected instant change, but nothing seemed to be happening. His words didn't feel any different than they ever had. They lacked the power that was present when the Author spoke through him, and he felt the Author's cruel amusement at his attempts.

The Host didn't know if he had been screwed over more than he originally thought or if he simply didn't understand how to use the power, but after a few more attempts he deemed it a waste of time. He needed to move, before the Author bored of watching him fumble. He sensed that was the only reason he hadn't pushed to regain control of the Host yet.

Although the Host couldn't use the Author's power, he wasn't out of options. He had made many deals over the years, and some still owed him favors. The question of the matter was who would be able to help him? And beyond that, who would be willing? If he called on his favors they would have no choice, but the wrong move would put the Host on their bad side- and demons were known to hold grudges. Still, he didn't have the luxury of searching for the best option. The Author didn't want him to call another demon there- that, he could feel.

He did know one demon that was rather whimsical. One who was as likely to help as to hinder him, but who could be easily swayed. And the Host had swayed him indeed, landing him a favor from an incubus named Bim which he had yet to call in. One which he intended to make use of now, which was what had him speaking the demon's name.

"I'm a busy man you know," came the voice, which the Host promptly turned to face. He couldn't see him of course, but the Host would recognize his voice anywhere, and he could picture the demon's pristine suit and hair.

"Yet here you are," was the Host's retort, accompanied by a half-hearted smirk. He could feel the Author's displeasure. ...He could feel that the Author wanted to kill Bim, and he felt his fingers twitch. No.

"Yet here I am," he agreed, and the Host could hear the grin in his voice. "What can I do for you?" There was a moment of pause. "...What happened to your face? And why do you have aura? You're human."

"I need help, Bim," the Host said, his smirk faltering into a grimace as he fought the Author's influence. It was an unspoken rule not to admit your desperation or need for anything to any demon, but he couldn't care. "I fucked up, got myself possessed, I'm- fighting for control and I don't think I can continue for long. I can explain later if you desire, just- help me."

Another wave of nausea hit him, and he could feel his consciousness beginning to slip away from him. Still he fought it, his hand reaching out for- anything to steady himself. His hand first found his wall, then Bim's arm, which guided him back to his bed. He sat down, but he tensed as he still fought, gritting his teeth. He couldn't fall asleep. He couldn't let the Author continue to puppeteer his body. He couldn't, but he seemed to be getting less and less of a choice as time went on.

"What the Hell have you gotten yourself into, Host?" Bim asked, though he didn't give time for a response. "I need to know this thing's true name if I'm going to get it out of you. You summoned it, right? Got any idea?"

It was formatted as a question only for formality. As a demon himself, Bim knew that he needed a demon's true name to summon it most of the time. And the Host did know it, but when he opened his mouth to speak, nothing came out. He tried again, but rather than the words he wanted to speak, a laugh escaped his lips- dangerous and wrong.

"It isn't me you ought to be worried about, incubus." The words came out of the Host's mouth without his consent, and he felt dread settle in the pit of his stomach. Dread which was quickly being replaced with excitement as the thought of killing Bim crossed him once again.

The Host was losing this battle and he could feel it. A slow smile spread across his lips.

Bim must have known it too. The Host heard him swear, could hear him moving away. Run, the Host tried to say. Leave. ...Help me.

The last thought came weaker, even as he felt his body standing. He was being shoved out of control of his own mind, and despite his desperate attempts to remain present, the Host wasn't strong enough to stay awake.

[auskultu]

The Golden Road: A Report on San Francisco

Paul Williams, Crawdaddy!, June 1967

SITTING IN THE window. Sixth Avenue, Greenwich Village, flirting with the girls going by, the Grateful Dead very loud on 4X speakers somewhere in the room behind me; 92 degrees, a week short of summer, a week back from the Coast, San Francisco. Now, three thousand miles away, what do those words mean? Was I ever anywhere but here?

The geography of rock. There are a half-dozen LPs sitting by my New York City phonograph, at least two from San Francisco: Moby Grape and Grateful Dead. Rock Scully, a Dead manager, just walked by; the Grateful Dead are at the Cafe Au Go Go, two blocks from here. The Moby Grape are midtown, playing at the Scene.

We speak of a San Francisco Sound because these groups developed there. They may not come from there (Skip Spence is a Canadian, the Steve Miller Blues Band got together in Chicago); they may not even live there (Moby Grape is technically a Marin County group; Country Joe are #l in Berkeley, but half a dozen local bands get better billing in San Francisco). But San Francisco—the Fillmore, the Avalon, the Trips Festivals, the Diggers, Owsley's acid, Haight Street and Ashbury and Masonic and Golden Gate Park, the Straight Theatre, Herb Caen, the Barb, the communication company—these have been and are and will be the environment and influences that have shaped the music of many of the best bands in America.

More specifically, the several aspects and influences of the San Francisco area have created a community; out of this community has come a feeling, an attitude; and it is this attitude that has imparted a unity to the music coming out of the Bay Area. It is this attitude that is most commonly reflected in the San Francisco Sound.

There is a geography of rock; San Francisco is different from New York musically, different because the music made by the Grateful Dead would be different if they had developed in New York, playing the Night Owl or Action City, trying to get a master sold, living on East 7th Street and maybe dealing meth for rent money, padlocking their front door and freezing in the winter and worrying about the air and not having children till they can afford the suburbs, reading the New York Times and having maybe two dozen friends that they see once every two months or so, never considering that they might find a manager who wasn't just an adversary, never thinking that there was much more to it than making the charts, never wondering about the empty girls with too much make-up and an unshakable confidence in this best of all possible nothings... probably hating each other after a while and wondering why people shat on them for doing just what everyone else does.

New York is New York, and it's very good for some things. The energy it generates is second to none; nowhere in the world is there as much activity to dive into every time you turn around. Some people thrive on that. I do, much of the time, and that's why I stay here; but I don't think it's a place to make music. San Francisco is.

The trolleys run along Haight Street pretty often; the tourists snarl up the traffic a bit, but still you can get from theOracle office to Fillmore Street, change, and arrive at the Fillmore or Winterland in less than twenty minutes. At fifteen cents for the entire journey, that's not bad at all. The Avalon is a little further away, but just as accessible, and nowadays often more worthwhile.

But the ballrooms have lost their importance. They were vital once; without Bill Graham, and the hard work and business knowhow he threw into the Fillmore when the scene was starting, there might never have been an SF Sound to talk about. Give him credit, and give Ralph Gleason credit, without whose enthusiastic columns in the SF Chroniclethe city would have no doubt shut down those psychedelic superstructures before you could say "building inspector." And Ken Kesey, the man whose Trips Festivals irrevocably tied together rock and roll and light shows and the head community. The Family Dog, illuminator Bill Ham, the Charlatans, the Matrix, and Jefferson Airplane, all those originators who now cling to their place in history with alarming awareness that after two years the past is buried in the dust of centuries.

The ballrooms have given way to environments even more closely knit into the community. The great outdoors, for one; the Panhandle is only two blocks down from Haight Street, and on an average weekend you'll hear everything from Big Brother & the Holding Company down to the local teen group playing top 40 hits off-key. And it's all free, free not just from admission charges but from walls and stuffy air and hassles about coming and going; free so that the music is as much a part of your life as a tree in blossom. You can stop and embrace it, or pass on by.

The Panhandle is the San Francisco Sound today: the music of the street, the music of the people who live there. The ballrooms, obsolete in terms of the community, have been turned into induction centers—the teenyboppers, the college students, the curious adults come down to the Fillmore to see what's going on, and they do see, and pretty soon they're part of it. They may not go directly to Haight Street with flowers in their hair (though many of them do), but they change, they shift their points of view, their minds drop out of Roger Williams and into the Grateful Dead.

Back on the Street something is happening that may be even more important than the music in the park. The Straight Theatre, long a cherished vision, has burst into reality. The Straight is an ancient movie house, an imposing structure capable of taking some 1700 people out of the center of Haight Street and into whatever it feels like presenting. The property includes a theater, which will be used for concerts, gatherings, poetry readings, etc., a dance workshop, another smaller theater for experimental drama, a photographic studio and darkroom, various storefronts, a backyard mall, and more, all of which is being lovingly shaped by devoted hippie artisans into what should be the model for future art centers all over the country.

And in the air, another major change: KMPX-FM, not just radio for heads but rock radio for rock heads, a station that totally ignores the top 20 (because you can hear that stuff any time you want on seven other frequencies) and just plays what it feels like playing. KMPX is run something like a college radio station; the people in charge know much more about rock and roll than they do about radio programming, how to talk jock, how to sell an audience, or any of that other crap. They make mistakes—records go on the turntable at the wrong speed, careless comments go out over the air—and everyone loves them. There are no mistakes, because they can do no wrong. They're human, and they love the music—and that's what's been missing in radio till now.

If you examine San Francisco closely, you'll find major changes taking place in almost every aspect of city life. New attitudes towards jobs, towards education, towards entertainment and the arts. Basic shifts in the relationships between man and his environment, shifts that have affected every facet of that environment, changes that best can be communicated not in words but in music: Big Brother & the Holding Company, Jefferson Airplane, Moby Grape, Steve Miller Blues Band, Country Joe & the Fish, Quicksilver Messenger Service, Grateful Dead.

Consider the albums. The Airplane was first—and second, too, for that matter. The San Francisco Sound on records begins with those first two notes of 'Blues from an Airplane', and a more noble beginning would not have been possible. Regardless of how many better albums have been recorded since Jefferson Airplane Takes Off, that album still glows with the beauty of the first trip, the birth cry of a new era in music. Between the Buttons was the definitive last statement of an earlier age; JA Takes Off is the first of a new generation of rock albums, of which Sergeant Pepper is only the latest and best.

Tim Jurgens, Ralph Gleason and Marty Balin all used the word "love" in their attempts to pin down what made that first Airplane album different. It is much easier now to understand what they were getting at. Jefferson Airplane Loves You with what has been disdainfully referred to as "potato love"—the indiscriminate love for all people simply because they are people. This attitude enriches their music. Compare Revolver with Sergeant Pepper, do you really think the Beatles loved you when they recorded the earlier album?

Surrealistic Pillow, the Airplane's second, is a definite bringdown; certainly the worst LP to come out of the current Bay Area scene (not considering such piffle as the Sopwith Camel, who ceased to be an SF group when they met Erik Jacobsen). The problem with Pillow is mostly that it's not an album; it's a collection of tracks that neither feel good nor sound comfortable together. The Airplane, of course, were the first SF group to record a second album, and it is likely that at least one other good Bay Area group will flounder on their second try. And Pillow, despite its disunity, has half a dozen fine tracks which prove that the group is better, even if their LP is worse. Sometimes progress is not reflected in quality—and this is often the fault of fate and the A&R man more than the group.

At any rate, the Airplane's first LP is easily as good, in context, as that of any other Bay Area group so far; and how well other groups do on their second albums remains to be seen. It's always kind of lonely to be first in line.

The Grateful Dead's first try is pure energy flow. West Coast kineticism has developed into a fine art; the first side of this album rolls with a motion so natural that one suspects the musicians have never listened to the Who or the Kinks or even the Four Tops—they have developed their own kinetic techniques without reference to the masters in the field. With one exception: this album has so much in common with The Rolling Stones, Now! as to be almost a sequel.

Of course, I'm not complaining. Now! will always stand as one of the great rock albums, and by giving us the New World, sun-rising-over-the-Pacific-Ocean version of that album the Dead have unquestionably added to the quantity of joy around. And the Dead's LP is much more first-hand: where the Stones glorified the mythical American South rock joint in 'Down the Road Apiece', the Dead give you the feeling that that kind of wonderfull abandon is a part of their daily scene ('Golden Road'). The Stones assume the persona of Chuck Berry driving down the New Jersey Turnpike (which they've probably never been on!) to convey their personal energies in 'You Can't Catch Me'; the Dead do a song with almost identical impact ('Good Morning Little Schoolgirl') but they don't need to think of themselves as Sonny Boy Williamson—the song goes out direct to every teenybopper in the audience, and by the time they start into the fourth minute or so, every member of the band really feels every word that Pigpen says. Musically, the Stones' performance is as good (in fact, better) than the Dead's; but where the Stones confront a mythical highway cop, the Dead confront the actual members of their audience. Hence the Grateful Dead LP, though not quite as good as Now!, is at times even more effective.

(The Stones do, of course, confront their audience in 'Everybody Needs Somebody to Love', but it's not emotional confrontation. It's great showmanship, posturing—similar to the Dead's terrific posturing when they "do" the whole Kingston Trio era and its approach, in 'Cold Rain and Snow'. I'm comparing the Dead to the Stones not to show a preference for either, but to point out the fascinating similarities in the impact of their music and in the music itself—play 'Schoolgirl' after listening to 'You Can't Catch Me' to appreciate the extent to which the Dead resemble the Stones in their concept of what music is and how a rock band should perform.)

The first side of the Dead album is one song, unrolling its varied but equivalent delights at top speed. 'Beat It On Down the Line' ("That's where I'm going to make my happy home") moves into the certainty of 'Good Morning Little Schoolgirl' with the ease and impact of Jean-Luc Godard. Garcia smiles, Pigpen squints, and you're on your way. And you can't turn back. "See that girl?... Well, she's coming down the stair—and I don't worry, I'm sitting on top of the world." (Appropriate J. Garcia guitar run here.) Breathless.

The flip is something else: introspective, more like a journey than a joyride. 'Morning Dew' conjures loneliness, pain, uncertainty, courage; pleads, asks, questions, denies; and finally, "I guess it doesn't matter anyway." Apocalyptic. Or just resigned. "I thought I heard... " ? And whatever it was, you'll find it in the song. Beautiful, with a kind of intense detachment. San Francisco isn't known for its vocalists, but this song could change all that.

'New, New Minglewood Blues' serves as a sort of bridge in the context of the album, which is not at all the nature of the song in live performance... and no doubt this is one of the many things about this LP that disappoints fans of the live Dead. The more you've grown to love Grateful Dead live performances over the years the more difficult it must be to accept an album which is—though very beautiful—something completely different. Only 'Viola Lee Blues' has any of the fantastic "this is happening now!" quality of, a good Dead performance; only 'Viola Lee Blues' takes you away as far as the longtime Dead fan has grown accustomed to being taken. It's an escape song—a prisoner for life dreams his way to the dim edges of space and time—and if you don't think you're a prisoner, surrender to 'Viola Lee' and see what happens.

When the Country Joe album arrived at the Crawdaddy! office, it was immediately inscribed "This record is to be played on special occasions only," and certain factions suggested that it would be in poor taste to even review such a sacred work. Sacred or not, this album does seem distantly removed from anything that has been previously associated with rock and roll. Indeed, the staunchest hard rock supporter on our staff can find no redeeming musical value in it at all. He's wrong, of course; or, to be more accurate, he's somewhere else. For many people, this album is so exactly where we are, it's frightening. To be played on special occasions only.

Words should be applied to this album with extreme caution. Like a kaleidoscope, it's easy not to appreciate—all you have to do is stare at the toy instead of into it—but if you do dig it, you may suddenly find it very hard to decide which of the sliding multicolorous worlds all around you is your own. It's perfectly fair of me to especially dig 'Flying High' because I'm a long-time hitchhiker; but when I decide that 'Section 43' is without question a midsummer thundershower, and then realize that the storm is outside the window and not in my head, perhaps I'm too involved in the music.

Background music is an old concept; this album, at last, is in the foreground. It is Joe MacDonald's world, and you are invited in. Does it seem strange that the introduction to 'Flying High' has nothing to do with the song, or that Lorraine's first name is really Martha? Not at all—remember, we are guests here. This is Berkeley 1967, Fish Street, residence of Country Joe—we are invited to see, hear, feel, smell, but not participate. 'Grace'—that's not a singalong. This is music at its most sensuous and least analyzable—sounds, unidentifiable, flash at you, words evoke pictures but no meaning, you never hear the same thing twice. But you always feel the state of grace.

'Death Sound' ("I see the minutes chasin' the hours"), that homicidal tambourine, schizophrenic lead guitars. It's all in the impact; if it doesn't scare you, I can't talk you into fright. 'Section 43'—simply the most satisfying, evocative piece of music I know; I could wander its paths forever. It's a concert performance—no individual virtuosity can be found and praised; each person did his job precisely and flawlessly, up to (and especially) the feedback and few tinkling notes at the end. The brilliance is in the composition; and in a subtle way we should consider this whole LP a composed rather than a performed work, because every note seems to have been firmly in place in every song long before the actual recording of the album. On 'Love', a mistake is met with "Aw, come on," as if nothing could be more ridiculous at this point than doing something wrong. Indeed, a perfect Fish album: it had to be this way.

'Masked Marauder' is utterly delightful; instant movie soundtrack for whatever is going on around you. (Theme music, not background stuff.) 'Superbird' would be instant #l if radio stations weren't so sensitive. It's the only rock and roll song on the album, and of course it's perfect. "Drop your guns, baby..." Wow! Everything on the album is one-of-a-kind, as a matter of fact; like Sergeant Pepper, the only thing linking these songs is that they like to be heard together. 

'Sad & Lonely Times' is a ballad, very simple, very warm—pretty. 'Not So Sweet Martha Lorraine' is a totally different type of ballad: Berkeley Gothick, cynical, respectful, overpowering. Even affectionate; few people who've heard this album could really describe this song, but every one of them could describe Lorraine. And though every description would be different, each would be thoroughly respectful, thoroughly correct. David Cohen (organist) is magnificent.

And 'Bass Strings' is the invocation of the Muse. "Hey, partner, won't you pass that reefer 'round?... I think I'll go to the desert... Just one more trip now, and I know I'll stay high all the time." If you want to understand the Bay Area, 'Bass Strings' will give you a fair start.

Well, it took me a long time, but I finally figured out who Moby Grape remind me of: the Everly Brothers. Also Buddy Holly, Buffalo Springfield, middle-Beatles, Byrds, New Lost City Ramblers, the Weavers, Youngbloods, Daily Flash and everybody else. Above all, the Grape give off this very pleasant sense of déjà vu. Rock has become so eclectic you can't even pick out influences—you just sense their presence. I don't really know why the Grape remind me of the Everly Brothers. But it's a nice feeling.

Moby Grape is one of those beautifully inextricable groups with four guitarists (including bass), five vocalists, five songwriters, and about twelve distinct personalities (Skip Spence alone accounts for five of them). The Grape is unusual for an SF group in that it does not have an overall, easily-identifiable personality. It is without question schizophrenic—which is nothing bad, because the group is extremely tight and they simply shift personality from song to song. Their music is always unified; it's their album as a whole that's schizoid. In fact, much as I like it, I enjoy the songs even more one at a time (for your convenience, Columbia has issued almost the entire album on singles—which is particularly nice because the mono mix is far better than the stereo, which must have been done too fast).

Skip Spence's two songs make it clear that he's the most talented—though not the most prolific—songwriter in the group. 'Omaha', to my tastes the toughest cut on the album, is one of the finest recorded examples of the wall-of-sound approach in rock. It surges and roars like a tidal wave restrained by a sea-wall. Moby Grape is a particularly violent group—not in the sense that they want to do harm to anyone (it is a huge misunderstanding to think violence is inherently evil, or that it necessarily causes harm—there is violent joy, and this album is proof of that), but in the sense that almost every song is attacked with great force and abandon. Moby Grape assault their audience, bathing them in almost unavoidable joy. Jamming it down their throats, in fact. 

The other Skip Spence song on the LP, 'Indifference', is another screamer, a well-constructed, brilliantly-executed shuffle number, to be sung on the street, loud, early in the morning, or listened to in the afternoon with your fist pounding the table.

Peter Lewis is second in the hierarchy of Grape writers, and probably the most sensitive. He shares with the other Grape members the ability to create extremely appealing melody phrases, chorus lines, and rhythm riffs; this ability, combined with the resultant concentration on structure, tightness and brevity, is what makes all the Moby Grape songs sound like good singles. Lewis, in 'Fall on You', puts together a number of catchy little themes into a very nice, very fluid song, vaguely reminiscent of 'One More Try'. In 'Sitting by the Window', he waxes almost eloquent, with just enough restraint to make the song both illuminating and unpresuming. The guitar-work is really excellent; the three Grape guitarists work together with exceptional taste throughout the lp.

But describing each song is not really the way to write about Moby Grape. They are elusive; you detect a thousand moods and changes, but you never quite hear the words, never know who's singing, never are certain who's playing lead. You can't pin them down, can't get too close; you learn to forget, learn to absorb their music, learn to stop trying, submit to it—and sooner or later it all comes clear. Country Joe, the Dead, are very clean; this group never lacks for tightness, but they get fuzzy 'round the edges. They aren't involving, but you dig the changes; they aren't involving, but you listen for the words; they aren't involving, but there's something going on here—and slowly but surely the depth in this music (which at first attacked you but seemed so uninvolving) swallows you up, and you feel the complexities it invokes.

Moby Grape is an almost ideal example of a "rock and roll" group, and their emergence now, as the historical concept of rock and roll seems on the verge of disappearing into a music too complexly-based to fit a general description, is both surprising and quite pleasing. The Grape play short, melodic songs, complex but straightforward, tightly structured with careful drumming and rhythm, experimental (but not "far out") bass, exciting, well-thought-out lead guitar (no fooling around) and early Beatles- or Everlys- style group vocals. A given song ('Mr. Blues') might draw on C&W and blues traditions, Otis Redding phrasing, Keith Richard restrained lead guitar, 'Captain Soul' rhythm progressions, etc. And every note is proper, polite. It's enough to make you nostalgic; nothing is more refreshing than the unexpectedly familiar.

These are the major rock albums to come out of the Bay Area thus far. However, there is a very important, very good album recorded by a San Francisco group in the new vein prior to the Airplane's first LP. I haven't mentioned it because the group is not generally thought of as a rock group. They are classified under jazz, which is fine; but I think at this time we can also add John Handy's Live at Monterey album to the list of great SF rock LPs. Listen to it, study its structure and its changes, and I think you'll understand why.

Rock is not a term that can be or that wants to be defined. San Francisco rock is an even more elusive concept, particularly when one removes the obvious geographical limitation and includes the Who's Happy Jack and Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. One specifically San Francisco, or New World, trait is the inclusion of open acts of kindness toward the listener within the body of the album. Throughout Sergeant Pepper you feel that the Beatles are with you and understand where you're at ("we'd love to take you home with us"). The Who in their comic operetta 'A Quick One' bathe the listener in the repeated assurance that "you're forgiven." For everything. And the gentle applause at the end of each side of the John Handy album is a subtler application of the same effect.

Geographically, the San Francisco groups have the common heritage of the Bay Area '65-'67, and all the influences present there; most specifically, they have all been reared by the same audience, the Fillmore/Avalon crowd, the first good rock audience in America. This audience is responsible for, in addition to the Airplane, Handy, the Grape, Country Joe, and the Dead, at least three other fine groups as-yet-unrecorded: Big Brother & the Holding Company, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and the Steve Miller Blues Band. 

Big Brother is in many ways the most exciting group in the Bay Area; and though they are all white, Sandy Pearlman has correctly called them "the best spade band in the country." Their arrangements, their control of what they're doing, their material all indicate that under the right conditions they could produce the best SF rock album yet. Steve Miller is the most creative of American white blues bands at present, which says a lot for the San Francisco influence. Quicksilver is a fine example of a group that would have gone nowhere were it not for the SF audience egging them on; they're still in the growing stage, and not yet ready to record, but there's good reason to believe that the moments of brilliance they now enjoy will soon become hours of brilliance. Outside of San Francisco they wouldn't have bothered getting better because they wouldn't have needed to.

Above all, the San Francisco Sound is the musical expression of what's going down, a new attitude toward the world which is commonly attributed to "hippies," but which could more accurately be laid at the feet of a non-subculture called People, earth people, all persons who have managed to transcend the superstructures they live in. People who have responded to the reality of the industrial revolution by requiring that they run the system and benefit from it rather than be made part of it. In very small print between the lines of 'Naked If I Want To', 'Grace', and 'Cream Puff War' is written the following message: There is a man, me, and there are Men. These two forces will and must interact as smoothly as possible. Everything else—concepts, objects, systems, machines—must only be tools for me and mankind to employ. If I or Man respect a system or a pattern more than ourselves, we are in the wrong and must be set free. "Nothing to say but it's okay..."

[podcastmecaptain]

the stim bin

part of advanced PLACEMENT: an ars PARADOXICA high school au about a gang of queer teen nerds, by @estherroberts​ , @podcastmecaptain , and @lizzieraindrops

all three of the aformentioned dorks are equally responsible for the hijinks found in this post. today as well all three aforementioned dorks are neurodivergent folks writing about neurodivergent folks.

click here for the au masterpost | track #ars placement for updates!

ALSO: things aren’t always showing up in the tags, so your most reliable bet is the aforementioned masterpost.

attention: all contents incredibly neurodivergent

everyone shares those fidget cubes

collectively they have like five

in so many colors

esther also designs a giant version that’s like. the size of a KEYBOARD and with lots more options and Bigger

jack builds it

they call it the stimboard deluxe

anthony has nintendo

sally brings him all her childhood games and watches him hyperfocus

sally and anthony were the first autistic friend each other had and they love sharing weird stuff from their childhoods that nobody else liked

they have a lot of overlap of interests and they spent so long without anyone like them who really got them

and they both feel so safe and loved not only with each other but with the whole gang because everyone’s neurodiv af even if they’re not sure in exactly what way

anthony brings notes everywhere

scribble scribble

Doing The Right Thing, Doing Science For Good is sort of his ruling philosophy

a lot of times it’s really easy to lead him down the wrong path if he thinks it’s Science For Good

he has some problems with gullibility

the pressure stimming is too real

PRESSURE! STIM! HUGS!

Big Coats or Lab Coats

fiddling with his glasses

he’s bad at artistic/creative things and just doesn’t get it. he can follow a pattern tho,

polish patterns work for him, especially with tape. he likes taking care of his nails because he’s v tactile, he likes the smooth feeling of the polish and likes tapping his nails

he either gets really anxious or angry about Bad things

breakdowns, breaking things, and weirdly quick recoveries

he could hug people for hours

he usually does if he’s had a panic attack, but other than that acts like he’s fine

canon says sally eats weird and has a disturbing appetite so like,

sally separating EVERY SINGLE FOOD by group and flavor and texture and then like putting one piece of one in her mouth at a time and keeps TALKING CAUSE SHE’S A DORK

other options:

SHREDS EVERYTHING AND EATS IT WITH A STRAW

eats only EXACTLY one quarter of anything at a time and forgets the rest

uses her hands for THINGS SHE SHOULD NOT

burnt things

she love the Cronch

puts things together that should not even touch

jack cries the day he sees her dip pickles in whipped cream and shove a fistful of blue cheese blissfully into her mouth immediately after that

sally’s special interests:

electronics, gadgets, tinkering, SCIENCE, beginning quantum physics, computers

stims by tinkering and uses voice recordings for vocal stims, plays with her hair and bites her nails, spinning, dancing, tapping tools

hands on everything

the dancing is so bad and uses her full body (it’s actually so cute)

is a bad driver bc she either hyperfocuses on the road or she starts TALKING and gets lost in anything BUT driving

sally wears her lab coat everywhere

she plays with the seams, runs the fabric between her fingers, tugs on the corners of it to create pressure on her shoulders

sometimes she spins in a circle just to let the fabric flap behind her like a cape

tags on clothing are EVIL

she takes them out with a seam ripper till there’s no traces

sallys clothes are always a little large and odd bc if they’re not comfy she Dies

no really she’ll end up in a ball somewhere crying because of sensory grossness

she has serious sensory processing issues

sometimes it’s really a Drag but she loves fiddling with things so much and it feels so good and she wouldn’t give it up for the world

she has a watch that sometimes she’ll make clicking noises along with the tick tick tick tick

lots more under the readmore!

sally is the queen of weighted blankets

she always has one readily accessible in case she needs to wrap up in it

the gang Knows this and they’re always asking her to borrow one

like one time esther texts sally like “help me im having sensory issues and i need hugs”

and sally turns up with not one but TWO heavy blankets

(she may have fallen over once or twice trying to carry both of them)

(just these two lil scurrying feet on skinny legs goin patpatpatpat supporting this huge bundle of extra-weighted bedding floating down the hall)

she wraps esther in them and then squeezes her, too

for good measure, sally gets up on her tippie toes and rests her chin on esther’s head

esther, muffled: “i am a burrito now”

sally: “a precious tiny gay burrito”

or, estherrito

bridget puts her in her phone contacts as ‘ettie burrito’

and sally in turn puts her in hers as ‘questherdilla’

also oh my god when will she Stop doing fingerguns with accompanying tongue clicks

sally talks to herself

she has a little wee tape recorder named Diane because Diane

its covered in stickers

she likes to record what she’s doing to organize herself and calm down

and she’ll replay them to process things

sometimes her friends will leave happy messages on there for her

or helen will sing her a little ditty

helen is the world’s best audio stim

her voice is just really soothing

she’ll sing absently and everyone just operates more smoothly for that minute

she likes singing for herself too

humming and tapping her instrument is a soothing habit

helen is very audio/vocal

she likes to play the same song over and over again

bridget has some issues with self image

she also has obsessive tendencies, sometimes related to organization and labeling things

but also related to literature and only being able to talk about whatever she’s into

sometimes it’s easier to quote things from her favorite books instead of replying in her own words

she doesn’t like things that are uneven or unbalanced

objects OR concepts that are unfair or unequal

(except her hair. her hair is badass and she’s okay with that kind of disunity)

esther’s adhd and her big stims are

high heel clicks on the floor when she walks

fancy & feminine clothes that make her feel secure

the ritual of putting on her makeup

pencils (tapping or twirling)

HER RINGS, she has three and she spins spins spins

she likes to rub the shaved side of bridget’s head

and run her fingers through the hair on the other side

she ALWAYS has her father’s old deck of cards with her, she’s shuffled them so many times they’re completely worn down, and no one is allowed to touch them but her

they’re very soft, she has a new pack as well for crisper sound/feeling and everyday use

sometimes she uses card games as lens to make sense of the world

she has a rough time with communication and a rough time with empathy but she’s trying to work on both of those

both come easier with people she’s close to and bridget is helping her some too

it’s easy for her to hyperfocus in class and doing homework, so it took them a while to diagnose her

out of all of them, esther is the best at reminding people to be organized and do self-care (tho she doesn’t always take care of herself)

she spends a lot of her time in her own head, she really values alone time, and she needs to recharge after she spends time around people

even people she loves

jack’s also adhd, had been diagnosed for a while and has almost all of the opposite symptoms as esther (which is another one of the reasons it took them so long to figure out esther)

jack always works better after he moves, if he runs a little or bounces a ball around or is shaking his legs, rocking on his heels

he makes lots of rolling rrr sounds and blows his lips when he’s frustrated

the pencil chewing ended in splinters and the pen chewing ended in ink all over so now he has a little necklace with a chewable shark

the sharks name is Fredrico

his binder is actually kinda helpful because it’s pressure

he screws and unscrews things a lot

actually taking apart and putting back together all machinery is a Big Thing

june is dyslexic

she has cute tinted glasses to help her with studying

sometimes helen reads stuff out loud for her, she doesn’t mind but june hates to ask

for her birthday quentin bought her a five sided highlighter to color code different things

she has some emotional processing issues

it’s easier to feel angry than anything else

& her methods of dealing with anger aren’t super healthy either

quentin is the only one who actually can manage himself

Quentin is a Hydrated Boy

(he has great skin)

quentin always comes across as super chill but that’s actually because he has hella anxiety and works really hard to manage it

penny is autistic and if june and helen are the dad and mom friends and esther is the gay cousin

then sally and anthony are the autistic aunt and uncle who adopt penny as their niece

they can spot one of their own from a mile off and just decided We Gonna Take Her Under Our Big Fluffy Damn Wings

penny is the Flappiest Autistic

big happy arm flaps, upset little hand flaps, her fast excited flaps are literally the best and most joyous thing

she’s always been kinda embarrassed and insecure about it but jack is so supportive

he’s only a moderate flapper but he often flaps with her when she does it

and he calls her his butterfly

this melts her heart and makes her feel happy and not weird and when this happens she is prone to flapping even harder

she calls him her moth

they’re precious fluttery darlings

sometimes when they both get going, sally joins in too and they all spin around the room fluttering in a big flappy tornado

it’s Good 

[antidotemms-blog]

President Muhammadu Buhari’s Speech to commemorate Nigeria’s 58 Independence Anniversary (READ FULL BROADCAST)

President Muhammadu Buhari’s Speech to commemorate Nigeria’s 58 Independence Anniversary (READ FULL BROADCAST)

INDEPENDENCE:  President Muhammadu Buhari extolled the performances of Nigeria’s armed forces in confronting insurgency in the country in his independence anniversary broadcast.

In the speech, he also lists the achievements of his administration.

Read full text of the speech below:

NATIONAL BROADCAST BY H.E MUHAMMADU BUHARI PRESIDENT OF THE FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF NIGERIA ON THE 58TH INDEPENDENCE…

[gatchayam]

That feel when you create... canon.. aus? in your rp? Parallel timelines?? what even is prepare anymore. This is a clusterfuck. I love it so much

[cupsofsuga]

𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 ━ 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐓𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ ☕️} NOTE - there’s some heavy violence in this headcanon! again, viewer discretion is advised! also, thank you anon for being so kind!!!

{ 💐} ANON ASKED - ❝ Hcs for each member to their s/o having a hard time at school because they have a lot of exams and there is like this one girl who is kinda bothering them a lot and says thing’s like „you’re so dumb“ + Thank you for your hard work🌟 :) ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊𝐉𝐈𝐍

whilst walking through the early afternoon, jin can’t help but let his mind wander to his y/n

they are candied cherries, chocolate-covered strawberries, slices of honeydew of a sultry june afternoon

they are a summer sonnet, saccharine sunshine embodied

they are in every means the light in a pit of darkness

and just before his fists meet with the mahogany door, the hushed sounds of sobbing brings his ethereal thoughts to an abrupt halt

that sugary taste of spring melts into a metallic tang

jin is ripped from the arms of serendipity and embraced by a holy, winter night; he is exploited by hell and feels it’s knife-sharp kisses litter his body

and without a second thought, he bursts through the door with enough force to puncture the wood

he is quick to provide aid for his love, letting them trail on of tales of their arrogant teachers and that sadistic blonde who finds pleasure in your torment

jin’s heart shatters and underneath the glass shard in unfathomable rage

and just like that, we watch as his anger swells and the events that follow after the faltering of his flower

5:38 PM, your teacher who has thrust you into a rough patch with school stands by his car

jin strikes, he falls to the ground, streets seeping with crimson blood as his sinful acts bleed into the creases of the pavement

the brick in his hand is quickly disposed of as he hijacks the stranger’s car and attends the key to his office

hours later, he finds you, nestled under silky blankets with moon tea in your grasp

he presents to you a cheat sheet, relishing in the way you smile so vividly and the summer petals that asphyxiate him

next, is that girl who dared to let you cry tears for her

and the acts performed on her were horrific

he nustles you back into bed, a gentle kiss to the head and caresses to the cheek, then, he is off into the night

within the next 12 hours, jin had managed to slice off her fingers and toes, laughing sadistically as she begs for mercy

the annoying disunity of her pained, guttural screams irritated jin, and to end of the night with a bang, he forced her to eat a bullet

now, the burdens have been disposed of, the anger has simmered and his love has found peace, you both can live smoothly

without the suffocating weights of the horrid world, jin can listen to his midsummer sonnets as they grace his world with their delicate smiles and infectious laughter

finally, he can breathe.

━━━ 𝐌𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈

yoongi awakes in the evening a couple of steps into march, early spring sticky on his cheeks and sheets pressed upon his dainty legs

the burning revelation of what lies next to him feels like the midnight sun warm against his bareback

he knows the love of his life rests right beside him, deep in a luminescent slumber

yoongi turns his body around, meeting with his love, who instead is perched on the side of the bed, phone screen illuminating the room that drowned in obscurity

beneath that canopy of constellations, there is his y/n, crying out to the empty night

and that bruising palpitation that strikes his heart with one bitter-intended swing could’ve crumbled planets in the galaxy to nothing but dust bunnies you’d find nestled in the depths of the attic

every bated breath is suffocated within his lungs, saltwater smothering him as he can’t find the words to provide aid for the love of his life

the ashes skies and dull clouds envelop him, and alas, magic has died

with a gentle touch to your shoulder, the boy behind you coos and hushes his own cries of worry as you both sit in solid darkness

through saturated cries, you manage to cough up tales of demons that litter the hallways, choking on the acerbic aftertaste of tears

with the moon strung high, yoongi finds devotion through the thorn-laced ivy that punctures his form

he must prove his infatuation, he must

after all, when the world left him astray, you painted him gold with stardust brewing in your lungs

when the galaxy abandoned him, you gifted him the sun as if the planet was nothing but coins in your pocket

when he was alone, you were there in all of your effervescent glory

and that leaves your lover now, writing an anonymous complaint about that blonde’s behavior, lacing the letter with false stories of her becoming physical

yes, yoongi knows this is wrong, but that image of you with gleaming tears sprinting down your cheeks robs him of any potential mercy

he loves you, and he must defend you from the world

and there it is, your smile

you look like a pack of adonis blue butterflies in the summer, the diamonds that scatter the galaxies, rose petals as they fall from the clouds

you are happy, and now you can live in tranquillity

as the sun sets and the wolves venture out of their the caves, you two spend eternal hours on the roof, sipping cheap red wine as bellowing laughter echoes

and it’s so sweet - so, so sweet - living days in the depths of ice-rimmed snow globes and soaring through the land of hogwarts

it's so sweet finding forever summer within the cold days of late winter

it’s so sweet to live the rest of his days with you.

━━━ 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊

❝ oh, oh! i’ll do them for you! ❞

without a hint of breath, hoseok interferes your rant about exams with a shimmering idea

that’s who he was, after all

a boy willing to spit out the ash of bullets with the sun pounding against his ribcage and with the alacrity of his spirit

he’d watch the stars bleed and summer fade, he’d embrace violence with pleasure and hunt out the wolves of the night

he’d swallow seas, seethe in hellfire, swim within the embers of the sun and wither planets to dust

he’d just about do anything for you, and you milked his very desire to do such

you see, exam season was hot on your tail and there were only seconds before you witness the death of a downfall behind procrastination

the elegance of time has faded, and fortunately for you, your pretty-pliant boy toy is there with a cape to save the day

you should feel guilt for manipulating and twisting your lover's brain, but, the poison that seeps through the maze of your veins robs you of any empathy

his whitening bones and your rotten figure, his sunset skies and your ashen wastelands

you both might as well have been a devil and an angel sitting in the same high school class

but, the burden of exams is only an inkling of the baggage heavy on your shoulders

that blonde who finds sadistic pleasure in turning your life into a living hellhole awaits your next move, and with the help of your delusional lover, you may find stars within the black hole of the universe

as your grades all skyrocket as planned, you’ll have enough golden stars and lollipops to have her regina george and her precious good-girl streak melting into the tile before her expensive platforms

so, as the next afternoon blossoms, you meet hoseok at his locker with a disposition burning within your heart and ask him out on a date, watching as summer’s sky drowns out within his irises and the essence of spring spreads amongst his doll-like features

as he accepts with a stutter, you become concerned with whether or not you should check if the poor boy is still breathing, but settle on attending the ice cream parlor on the corner of town

and as you both sit in the sunset as superman ice-cream stains his lips, your plan proceeds in perfect harmony

with your sweetheart who resembles a golden retriever who’s met face-to-face with a battered-off tennis ball, your every desire is granted

with cloy praises and sugar-tainted caresses, you’re passing your exams with a pretty little pet there to serve to every one of your commands

and blinded by the infatuation through the manipulation, hoseok finds lavender-infused meadows and universes undiscovered

ever waking second with you, he finds the sun as it beats against his empty eyelids

alas, he has found clarity within the treacherous world

and he doesn’t know what he’d do if you ever left him.

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐉𝐎𝐎𝐍

wednesday afternoon, namjoon is roaming around the somewhat-secluded library, once again

he finds you at a deserted table and relishes in the ambivalent pandemonium of your eternal gaze that pounds his hummingbird heartbeat

he finds cherry stains chalked upon your lips, the dust of a child’s dreams scattered upon your features, the touch of aphrodite herself laced within your fingertips as you turn the pages with elegance

to have a stark sight of you, he has found rome in the depths of you and he is only left to scrutinize every last moment

as you talk with a friend on the phone, namjoon picks up a stray book off the shelf, posing to deem it interesting as the ink fades to nonsense

there’s a tangible bitterness in your tone, stating your stress over exams, then exclaiming your rage for another student who has found entertainment in using you like a rag doll

namjoon listens, and he seethes

there’s a vivid pulse of red, a breath of tranquility left astray, heavy spring rain that envelops him

in the serrated halt in his thoughts, he listens to your rants and the harmonious claps of thunder that follow after the light rain showers

as the clock reads 3:27 AM, the boy spends the ungodly hours of the night inhaling the musk of silken mist as he dives into the depths of whatever information he can grasp of your supposed bully

after all, he’d do just about anything for you

he’d swallow bullets, suffocate himself on clouds, slice galaxies and set your shadows aflame if you simply asked

he loves you, and the burning light’s embrace taste of lemonade

you are willow trees in late june heat, apple pies left to cool on an autumn afternoon, a star amongst a field of faux pearls, a fairytale you’d find hidden in the dust of a bookstore

you are in every means a melody of summer and the ethereal sense of purity that follows after

so, that leaves namjoon now, casting his gaze upon a penthouse where the villain of your story lies

and the acts that follow after climbing into the adobe through the fire escape are horrid

he spits out threats and insults as the girl shows her submission, tears tumbling down her rosy cheeks as she pleads for any potential compassion found within the man

she then proceeds to swear on her life that she won’t utter a breath of this night if the intruder were to simply leave, but, the myths that lie within those ocean eyes state differently

and so he kills her - he kills her so violently - he watches the life leave her doe eyes like a dying star

namjoon then leaves her in the bathtub, mustering up some sob suicide note about how unfair her life was, then neglecting his sins at the domain

finally, finally, he can taste the midsummer plums and strawberry-tainted air without the burden of the world

finally, he can dance with the sunbeams as the rain begins to fade into lustrous stars

finally, he can breathe with you.

━━━ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊 𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍

even with the simple incantation of a compliment, you have jimin vowing his devotion to you, a simple stranger

you, who holds the hypnotic elegance of a swan, the unintentional divine nature of a ghost and the substantially ethereal depths of aphrodite herself hold a young boy’s sensitive heart in the palm of your palms

you, who lives in the wind by the riverside, hold the universe in your hands

jimin, and his tenacious behavior, stand just outside the door of his father’s office, ear pressed against the door, clinging onto any inkling of a word he can grasp

your father stands in the room, too, just without you, the sun in the empty abyss

with muffled words, he listens as your father speaks stories of your stress with upcoming exams and with a bully of yours

his brave iris, his luminescent flower, his star dripped in honey nectar- is suffering…?

jimin has been left to wallow in a desolated graveyard, just to fantasize of your dancing touch and luminescent smile

you are both two bunny rabbits prancing through the barricades of spring, two fairies dancing with dust in the heat of summer

every fleeting moment, it all echoed within him

and that leaves jimin now with the yearbook that he borrowed from you settled in his lap

he takes the brief second to examine your school picture, tracing delicate fingers amongst your features and the doodles of hearts and flowers that litter around your sparkling face

flipping through the pages, he hears your father’s voice in his head, who had spoken the name of the demon that dared to dwell in you

languorous days, lavender hearts and june-infused nights, he has found some sense of clarity within the heartbreaking loyalty

inhaling the musk of a filthy bar littered with drunk men, he finds a blonde head, plan lingering within his mind

he then forges attraction, single whispers proving more of the bruises on his skin than the flower of his love

with angelic tones and forcing gags back down his throat, jimin had finally gotten this parasite alone

he had gotten the doe-eyed villain alone in an alleyway, lust staining the shades of her eyes

and that leaves the blue-eyed, plum-lipped girl with golden hair now, left in a puddle of piss and beer - dead

there’s blood everywhere - in the wind, on the pavement, on the brick walls, stained upon empty skin

but, alas, despite drowning in the sticky residue of his sins, eden’s garden has bloomed

alas, without the burden there to touch your soul and carve letters to ghost upon your precious skin, he is free

and you venture behind your father to another meeting several days later, meeting face-to-face with an abnormally bright puppy-dog with summer sunbeams soaked in the hues of his irises

❝ y/n! y/n! hey! do you- do you need help with your exams? i can help, i swear! i really can! i promise...! i’d do anything to help… ❞

━━━ 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐀𝐄𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐆

you curl your fingers around the flutter of the telephone cord, the prismatic pastel hues complimenting every syllable that leaves your mouth

your brows knit and nose scrunches, your lips twist and eyes glimmer

and, within your haze, after leaving your window open to find some contentment in the heavy humidity, a figure slid in through the crack and resides in the closet

taehyung now cherishes you through the speckles of light given through the rift of the closet door, summer leaving its eternal residue upon his form

he stares and finds the embodiment of the moon and its naked bones through the gentle film of your bedside lamp

he then listens as you complain about your bad day, dwelling in the curves and juts of your tone

how no matter how many times you attempt to curl your way out of her embrace, the blonde who has learned to despise you, an angel, always seeps her way back into your bloodstream

like a sour lemon upon the july sun, like the burning embers of winter amongst summer stars

his tranquility found in the human he loves has suffered a perceptible shift

and now, all he can touch and all he can see is unfathomable rage

how dare someone treat such a creature with envy? how dare they treat his love with obsidian-stained hatred!?

how could a human disrupt a heartbeat trapped in the galaxies!? how could a human hurt such an angel...?

these thoughts spread like constellations as taehyung sits beside you on your bed, tucking you tighter into your blankets with caution not to jeopardize his identity

you sleep like pearls in the sea, like california poppies in the daybreak

and with a gentle kiss to your forehead and a secret in the grave, he is off into the night

and within the blistering bite of the night, taehyung finds the girl and gives a gaze with two beady, stern eyes that burns bullets into his helpless victim

a good game of tag as the wind chills through the oxygen, cat and mouse in the opalescent midnight sky

and within a matter of seconds, an arrow pierces through the night and penetrates through her neck

he watches- watches as life bleeds down her collarbone

and he loves it

but now, he has returned to his love, soaked head-to-toe in the irony taste of his own sins

he sits beside your sleeping form, clutches midsummer peaches in his grasp as places his land ever so gentle upon yours

a plan lingers- a plan of how he'll kill two birds with one stone

he'll begin tutoring lessons, assisting you with your exams and drowning in the neon hues of your soul

and through the lullaby, kim taehyung has found a pale summer sky in an eternal night

he has found the lulling taste of july fruits in the suffocating depths of the attic

he has found his heartbeat in the graveyard of his mind

and his love for you is eternal.

━━━ 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐊𝐎𝐎𝐊

with a juul held beneath your skin, nicotine soaks in the air and poisons the musk around

it fills your nostrils, holy smoke fogging up the deceased, midnight breeze

there’s muffled music that doubles yourself in this dream, there’s tranquility found in the abandonment of time

you listen and bathe in the epiphany found in the ghost of the late-night song, dwelling in the simmering sounds

you and your closest friend sit on the roof of your car, just outside of a party, gazing at the moon and sharing hits of the toxic juul pod

and within jungkook, there is infatuation infused with every breath, every blink, every waking second

there lies pearls and petals of lotus flowers within your irises, the smoke serving as a wreath around your exquisite form

your voice sounds of nature as you speak to the moon, and he has fallen prey to every curve and jut of the gibberish that leaves your mouth

you are graceful, you are broken

you are enigmatic in the hypnotizing land of twilight, you are beauty embodied as the stars circle the earth

but, through the canopy of tulips and chirping birds, the wolves venture from out of their adobe with bloodlust staining their golden eyes

you fuss about a particular blonde, proceeding to thrust your friends sanity into the flames of a hearth

you are but a doll in her grasp, a bruised and battered toy crafted for tantrums

you speak words of sour lemonade, and alas, the tranquility in the air has simmered into wrath

with lilacs in the black skies and tragedy in the pavement, you, too, find anger within the slender bones of the moon

you despise being wormwood in her grasp, but, you assume those are just the blues of being a high school student

and as the night falters and dawn blooms, you are met with fatal permission

you have met with the edge of the woods, found the corpses of mauled wolves, found ecstasy in a wasteland of dust

you eavesdrop and hear silent chatter of how regina george did not retreat home from the party the previous night

unknown to your knowledge, the sadistic candyland you were a plastic figure in has met its fate

as it will forever live as a mystery, you are unaware to the fact that her body lies miles away, left to rot within the venomous soil

then, you approach jungkook, filling him in on the latest gossip and expressing your cruel joy for her disappearance

and the pleasure that settles in his face like honey’s residue on a july afternoon was terrifying

jungkook has lost himself in a hallucination of lively color, an illusion of summer days amid winter

he has found the phoenix flower as it blooms within the hues of your eyes, he has found silken stars as they litter your face like sugar and glitter

he has found solace in the new day, the new beginning

he has found euphoria in judgment day.

[frozenrose105]

Whumptober Day 3

Prompt: Hair's Breadth From Death

Characters: Demon!Author, Human!Host

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3

======================

The man had never shied away from things like blood and gore. That much was evident as he shoved his ritual knife through the heart of the person in front of him. This he did with a practiced sort of ease, not so much as reacting to the human's choked attempts at screaming through their tape covered mouth. They died out regardless when he pulled the knife out and set it aside.

The man made quick work of decorating the floor with the fresh blood- indeed using it to draw a large summoning circle. Inside was drawn a pentagram and several sigils, all of which had been previously unfamiliar to the man. Through all of his years of demonic and magic research, he had only ever been able to summon weaker demons, though not for lack of trying. Those with power usually knew to destroy evidence of their true names or anything else which would see them summoned and bound to the will of others.

Perhaps he had gotten lucky, but the man had stumbled upon a book detailing a demon with power unimaginable to humans such as himself. He was nicknamed the Author, and his power allowed him to create and shift reality with only his words. It was a power that was too great to pass up, and the book had told him all he needed to know about the summoning ritual.

So once he finished drawing, the man stood outside of the circle. He looked it over for a long moment, comparing it to what was depicted in the book. Satisfied with his work, he finally spoke the demon's name.

What he normally got was something that could be mistaken for a human by someone lesser. Whether demons were pissed or simply saw it as opportunity, they took on human guises when called to do business. The man had never seen anything beyond that. Not until that moment, at least.

The scene before him was still and quiet for too long. But when the silence was broken, it was only for a deafening screech to replace it, like the sound of nails on a chalkboard amped up to fill the room and try to escape it, threatening to shatter the windows in its attempts. The worst thing to do before a demon was to show it your weakness, but the man couldn't help the way his hands clapped over his ears and a swear escaped his lips. It didn't help that his hearing was more sensitive than most- all of his senses heightened from various deals in the past.

For a moment his eyes squeezed shut too, but he forced them open. He needed to be able to see what was happening. Instead of a humanoid or some kind of fantastical, horrifying creature standing before him though, he only saw swirling, shadowy aura laced with vibrant gold. It threw itself harshly against the invisible barrier containing it to the circle, so violently that the man would fear that it would break if he didn't know any better.

When finally it fell still, it was as though the world fell still with it, the screeching coming to a halt. The man felt like he had escaped into the eye of a hurricane, and he waited a moment to see if he would be thrust back into the storm before hesitantly uncovering his ears.

"Why am I here?" The question was instantaneous, the voice male as far as the man could tell. But still, there was no physical form.

"I want a deal." The man had taken to being blunt in such endeavors. While many demons loved their word games, he didn't often have the patience for them, and they were less hostile when they knew they weren't being tricked.

The demon seemed to consider that, though it didn't take him long. He didn't have much of a choice regardless, and he must have known that as his aura still flicked restlessly around the circle. "I assume you have something in mind."

"Indeed." At this, the man hesitated. His terms depended entirely on the information he'd read being correct, and so far things hadn't gone exactly as he'd expected. ...Still. He had to assume it was true. "I want your power. The ability to change reality with my words."

"And in return you'll let me free, is that right?" The demon laughed, not waiting for an answer. "I have a counter offer, human. I'm weakened- I can't even manifest physically, nevermind give you what you desire."

So it /was/ true then. If that was the case, the man was willing to help this demon. He didn't worry about going to Hell for it. He'd dealt with enough demons and played with magic enough that he was already condemned as far as he was concerned. Not to mention the people he'd killed for his rituals. "What do you need then, for your power to return to you?"

"I need to find a vessel. Something through which I can channel my power."

"...I'm sure that won't be too difficult," The man said, glancing at the dead body of the human he'd killed for the ritual. If the demon needed a live vessel, he had plenty of experience dragging those in.

"Seal it," the demon demanded. As he did, the aura solidified just enough to form a hand, reaching out towards the man. The man didn't protest. He only reached his own hand forward, past the barrier separating him from the demon, and he took his hand.

A handshake was a powerful thing for demons. It would bind the demon itself and the other party to whatever terms were agreed upon irrevocably, and the man was entirely aware of this.

What he didn't know was what exactly this demon had in mind.

"Oh how helpful you've been. Say goodbye, human."

The words came alongside laughter which had the man's hair standing on end, and it was with that that he realized what the demon had truly meant. Far too late, he realized that /he/ would be this demon's vessel.

Before he could even think to respond, the man was being overwhelmed by aura. It entered through every possible orifice, flooding his body and bringing him to his knees. He would have screamed if he could, but as it was he clawed at himself in his attempts to stop it. He clawed at his own ears and his eyes as the aura- something which humans weren't meant to have- integrated itself into him. It was becoming a part of him, this demon was taking him over and he was desperate in his attempts to stop it. He dug hard at his face like he could pull it out of him, and he felt the blood from the wounds he opened as a result.

But it was for nothing, as he felt his consciousness slipping away from him, both from the pain and the Author's aura invading his body. He would have his power indeed, at the price of his own mind, for it was then that he would truly come to be known as the Host.