#i’m in the dubious territory between ‘draw this to get it out of your system’

[kaleidemaran]

“he wanted to put his hand at ross’s jaw and force up his chin, wanted to dig his fingers in and cause a bruise, and be damned to the fact that they were in public” ok buddy let’s calm it down

[bang-to-the-tan]

Moth to Flame Chapter 2

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry...

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You come to slowly.

The first thing that occurs to you is that, for all you think you drank, your head actually feels pretty alright. Stomach doesn’t seem to be in any worse shape, either. Before you even open your eyes, you’re ticking off a mental checklist of all your limbs, all systems. Everything seems to be functional. When you go to shift your legs you realize you’re embarrassingly sticky in the downstairs zone, for some reason. With a start, you sit up, casting a confused look about your surroundings. You’re sitting on a four-poster bed easily three times your size, thick maroon drapes tied back to reveal the rest of a sparsely decorated but ornate room. Leaning forward, you gape at what looks like a faded painting on the ceiling—painted directly onto it with a hand no stranger to details and gold paint that shimmers when you move. Huge windows, covered by heavy curtains, decorate the far wall. It’s dark, but there are dimly lit lanterns that lend a soft glow to your sight. Old, very old lanterns, fitted with electrical lights.

You take a steadying breath, moving to slide off the bed and peering about your surroundings with a hesitant glance. For all intents and purposes, it seems you’re alone.

Trying to remember how you got here is futile. A sharp flash of tongues slipping against your neck. Hands caressing the apex of your thighs, murmured promises at your ear. You shudder at the memory. Unfortunately, that seems to be all that you can recall, especially with the fog in your mind that refuses to abate. Instead of dwelling too hard on it, you decide to focus on getting a better understanding of where you are. The door makes a small noise when you pull it open, and you flinch at the sound, but nothing else disturbs the stillness of the outside hallway. It’s long, peppered with a handful of other doors. The rich carpet muffles your steps as you follow it towards an archway that seems to be emitting more light than anywhere else. Peeking through reveals a wide entrance hall preceded by a wide staircase. The ceiling here is massive, decorated with a huge chandelier that casts slivers of light about the room.

It only takes another look at the luxury of the staircase before you make up your mind to go down it. Besides, the huge double doors to the front must be the way out. Maybe you can get a better bearing from out there, find your way back…somewhere. You aren’t really sure where else you’re meant to be—only that it doesn’t seem like it should be where you are. The staircase echoes your dainty footsteps, the railing smooth under your hand. Halfway down the steps, the carved mahogany doors creak once, and begin to slide open from the outside. You freeze.

Through the doorway steps a tall man, his gaze on the floor. Broad-shouldered, raven-haired, and so very tired as he comes through and closes the door behind himself. You can hear him inhale from here, as though about to sigh, but he stops before the exhale, ceasing all movement. Your blood turns to ice, and you briefly consider running. Could you make it back up to the room before he saw you? But thoughts of escape vanish into the ether when he turns slowly, weary gaze immediately zeroing in on you. Plump lips like rose petals part as he blinks in surprise.

“Hello,” he greets, his tone confused.

“Hello.” You echo, startled by the sound of your own voice.

He pauses, and you can feel the heartbeat lodged in your throat ticking the seconds away. His eyes are dark almonds as he regards you, curved and heavy with bags that betray so many nights without proper sleep. A slender finger suddenly raises to gesture at you, sculpted eyebrows rising almost comically. “You. You are the ‘problem’ I’ve been dealing with all night.” You aren’t sure how to reply to that. He blinks hard, and makes a long-suffering noise. “Of course you are.” When he looks back to meet your gaze, his expression has softened into something like sympathy.

“Come here. Let’s take a look at you.” He extends an arm, holding out a hand, an inviting smile appearing on his face. You’re already tapping down the rest of the stairs, gravitating towards him as obediently as though pulled by an invisible string. The closer you get to him, the better you feel, the more like you belong. His large hand engulfs yours when you place it within his grasp, eager to comply. He searches your eyes like he’s looking for something in particular, the corners of his mouth shifting upwards even further. His other hand rises to cradle your cheek, and you press into the warmth and the softness of his palm. Your eyes almost flutter closed at how good it feels against you. This must have been what you were looking for, seeing as how you’re so immediately put at ease. What a relief that you found him.

“You’re a sweet thing, aren’t you?” he breathes. He recaptures your attention with a tilt of his head. “Has anybody hurt you?”

You shake your head.

“That’s good.” His voice shakes briefly, but he clears his throat. He pulls you closer, his hand releasing yours to curl around your waist, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him. Your heartbeat quickens at the sudden thought of throwing your arms around his incredibly wide shoulders, dipping nearer to taste the softness of his lips. “I’m guessing you don’t remember much.” When he speaks, it’s hushed. Soothing.

You shake your head again. He hums, visibly distracted by your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, but hesitantly draws you even closer, so that your breasts press into his chest.

“You are in so much danger,” he murmurs so lowly you almost don’t catch it. His head inclines, fingers tilting your face to the side, and you feel his mouth just below your jawline, sliding across your neck. You can’t help but mewl quietly--serving only to spur him on to press a firm kiss there, the heat of his tongue tasting your skin. A deep noise rumbles through his chest, hungry, needy, and you whine. But his arm disengages from your middle to place a hand on your shoulder and push you away, hair tickling your cheek as he steps back, his other hand returning to his side. He looks no less tired, but now there is a darkness in his eyes that belies his gentle nature. You shiver.

“Do you want to explain this to me?” He speaks so plainly that for a moment, you think he’s talking to you until he cranes to address a familiar shape standing on the stairs. Red hair, youthful face, standing in the shadow cast by the enormous ceiling and sprinkled with pinpoints of light cast off from the chandelier. Cherry’s eyes flit from you to the older man, wetting his lips nervously.

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t done with her.”

“Why not?”

The boy shifts, uncomfortable, leaning against the railing and looking to the side. “We had to leave.”

“Did you.” The lack of amusement in his voice sends ice crawling up your spine. You wish he would go back to touching you some more instead. “Why was that?”

There is no reply from the youth, but for a brief moment, he glances back at you and away.

“You were over our borders, weren’t you?”

“It was just for one night—“

“Goddamnit, Jungkook.” Jungkook. You faintly remember the driver calling him that, too. “The borders exist to protect us, to keep you safe, all of you. You disrespected an entire coven of your elders. I’ve been running damage control all night because of you.”

“I—“

“I thought you knew better. I thought I could trust you.”

‘Jungkook’ visibly flinches at that, excuses dying on his tongue. He turns back slowly, his expression shining with regret.

“I…I’m sorry.” He starts moving again, down the stairs, towards the two of you. His tone is genuinely apologetic as he speaks in a soft voice. “I thought…I thought it would be okay if I brought my brothers with me. Just for one night. I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

The other man just sighs through his nose, shaking his head.

Jungkook stops just in front of you, looking to you only long enough to reach for your hand, which you immediately submit for him. His palm is warm clasped to yours, firm and strong.

“I can take care of this,” he says gently, placating. Hopeful. “And tomorrow I’ll go apologize to Namjoon myself.”

“I appreciate that. Really, I do. But the only reason you came back from their territory in the first place was as a warning; to you and me. They knew you were there long before you’d realized. You go in again, unannounced, and they’ll tear you apart. Plus…”

Two sets of dark eyes slide to you in tandem and you feel so incredibly small between them.

“You stole from them.”

“What? I didn’t—“

“She was on their turf. She was theirs, by all counts. Honestly you’d be in worse trouble if you had finished.” He raises his hand to your face, curling his fingers under your chin, pressing his thumb against your lip. You try to subtly kiss the tip but he disallows it, holding you in place. “At least this way, we can just give her back and maybe this whole thing will blow over.”

“That’s not fair. Jin, that isn’t fair. She’s my birthday present. I-I already got so close. I’m so hungry, please.”

“We’re all hungry, Jungkook. You’re just going to have to hunt somewhere else instead of stealing from others.” The elder male’s hand slips from you and he steps back again.

“There isn’t anywhere else,” Jungkook continues to protest, “Our territory’s shrinking. There’s been too many disappearances—“

“I guess you’ll have to be careful, then.” He turns to leave, but spins on his heel one last time, pointing towards you.

“Keep a closer eye on her. She doesn’t need to be wandering about the place; you know she was about to walk right through the front door?”

“I was just waiting for her to wake up...I didn’t think she’d try to leave so quickly—“

“And don’t touch her. I’m serious. I’ll send word out to Namjoon to try and fix your mess before it gets any worse.”

“You’ll send Jimin out to Namjoon, you mean,” Jungkook grumbles.

“Your brothers and I were the only things that saved you tonight. Don’t forget that,” he shoots back, his glance back less pointed than tired. “If you were with any other coven, you’d be ashes by now. Don’t be an ungrateful brat.”

Jungkook looks like he wants to continue arguing, but he hesitates with a sharp inhale. Instead, he nods to the side, red fringe doing little to hide the sour expression curling his face. You’re vividly aware of your heartbeat in the quiet that follows, and absently squeeze his hand for comfort. Exchanging glances with him, you simultaneously try to offer a hazy smile and re-grasp the train of thought you’d been chasing before this encounter, now that the discussion seems to be over. Certainly there was something on your mind. Something of vague importance, you’re sure. Was it following that man? It might have been.

“It’ll wear off in a few minutes.” Jungkook says after a moment. You nod sagely. “It’s not as strong with us cos we’re younger.”

You nod again. A rueful grin crawls across his face, slowly, before he shakes his head.

“Aaahh, look at you,” he mumbles. “How am I supposed to leave you alone?”

You don’t know. You didn’t understand any of their conversation, really.

“Are you hungry? Is that why you were going out?”

You are starving. How could you forget that? That must have been what you were doing. He’s so smart, you’re glad he’s here to take care of you. You nod.

“Come on.” He tugs at your hand, but releases it after a second’s hesitation, fingers brushing yours. Both his hands instead find themselves jammed in the pockets of his black jeans as he starts to walk in the opposite direction of the other man. His head jerks towards the corridor. “Kitchen’s through here.”

You follow him through the hallway, throwing him a cheerful grin every time he looks over his shoulder. He acts as if he’s only making sure you’re still there, which is odd because you’re pretty sure you haven’t got anywhere else to be. When he turns and the light glances off him just right, you catch a better glimpse of his backside, and your immediate appreciation of its musculature triggers more memory from last night. You almost trip over your own feet at the strength of the sudden wave of arousal that washes over you.

“I can’t guarantee we’ve got a whole lot for you,” he interrupts your filthy thoughts, stepping through a doorway into a sizeable, tiled kitchen. It’s not just clean—it’s untouched. No dishes anywhere, nothing to suggest anyone has even used it in the past century. Jungkook drifts over to a cupboard at random and flings it open, digging through. The strange thought occurs to you that he hasn’t actually introduced himself, and this time the spark of apprehension sticks in your mind instead of dissipating into compliance. It takes root, spurred on by the simple fact of its absence and replacing the steadily growing heat in your stomach with ice. Why do you trust him if you didn’t even know his name?...

“Crackers.” He says, oblivious to your inner turmoil, retrieving an old box and blowing the dust off the top of it. He turns it in one large hand, doe eyes appraising the packaging, one eyebrow cocked. “Good for another four years, I think.” He wets his lips, smacking carelessly before he shoves it towards you. “Here.”

You stare at him. You don’t accept it, grasping at the sudden rebellion that rises inside you, the tiny voice that screams to plant your feet. To keep your hands to yourself.

His head bobs encouragingly, jiggling the box within your reach. “Take it.”

You don’t want to. But you reach up slowly, anyways, and pluck it from his waiting fingers. He watches you expectantly as you stand there, dumbfounded, cradling the box of crackers to your chest.

 You weren’t looking for the other man when you came down here. You were trying to go out the front door. Why didn’t you go out the door? Jungkook chuckles at your expression of confusion, nose scrunching.

“I told you it would wear off. Pretty potent shit, huh?”

“What is?” You finally manage to whisper. Your voice is hoarse and you realize that you haven’t properly used it since you woke up.

He shrugs, casting a lazy glance around the room. “Jin has the most powerful haze out of all of us. Don’t tell him I said this but I think it’s mostly just because he’s old. He’s spent forever perfecting it.”

“He doesn’t look old.”

“You should tell him that instead.”

You peer at him, eyes narrowed. “…Ok.”

He stares at you for a while, shifting to lean against the counter. You busy yourself with opening the box and retrieving a handful of the small crackers, munching thoughtfully as you consider the possible meanings of this new information. The most powerful ‘haze’.

“I do feel hazy.”

“Mm.”

That just about does it for you as far as thinking goes. Probably best to leave that train of thought for later. You’re less light headed than a few minutes ago, but whatever it is hasn’t left your system completely.

“Feeling better?”

You hum agreeably through a mouthful of starchy goodness. Well, not exactly ‘good’. These things probably have a ridiculous shelf life for a reason. Thinking on it they kind of taste like cardboard. You’re not even sure why you’re eating them. You’re not that hungry.

“Good girl.”

When you glance at him, lightning strikes down your spine and roots you in place, frozen. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, jaw set, eyes half-lidded and dark. Knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the counter beneath him. Barely breathing, aside from an indulgent inhale he draws in as you stare. He’s looking at you like there’s nothing in the world he’d like better than to tear you apart and swallow the pieces whole. Something heavy settles between the two of you in the stillness, like a thick-pelted blanket. You half expect him to start stalking towards you with a face like that, and the very thought has your stomach coiling in anticipation. Disjointed memories from last night once again flash in your mind--those perfect teeth at your neck, those nimble fingers stroking at your panties. He sighs, shuddering, as your face threatens to flush.

“Fuck. This is impossible.” Jungkook whispers hoarsely. You’re inclined to agree, despite the fact that you still aren’t sure what exactly is going on.

“I should take you back to my room until Namjoon gets here.” He clears his throat, his gaze darting furtively away from you. He straightens and gestures to the crackers. “You should, uh. You should put those away first. Wouldn’t want you making a mess.”

 You nod, slowly, and begin to skirt around him, reaching upwards for the cupboard he’d retrieved them from. The entire time you’re only acutely aware that he hasn’t moved, the heat coming off of him so intense it makes the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. But the shelf is just that little bit too high, just a fingertip out of reach, despite your efforts. When you bounce on your heels to try and get maybe an extra inch or two, you hear him exhale and move. The light darkens and his hand slides into view just to your side, grasping the box. Your heartbeat kicks and restarts at the sensation of his breath tickling the back of your head, his chest almost touching your back. As his hand curls around the box, taking it from you, you automatically step backwards, pushing yourself into his body. His other hand rises as if to catch you, fingers clutching at your waist, but it stays there. Lingers there, while he settles the box back in its rightful place. His arm comes down to rest by your side again, and you can feel his head bow by the movement of his breath, now caressing the nape of your neck. He hums, whines, leaning forward to press you closer together, the countertop digging into your torso, the firm heat of his chest burning into your back.

“Should take you upstairs,” he mumbles. His lips brush, feather-soft, against your neck. You feel the hand on your waist squeeze, thumb rubbing back and forth. “For Namjoon.”

When you crane your head towards him, he lifts his own to meet your gaze over your shoulder. His eyes are so dark, already threatening to blow out from lust. His eyelashes flutter as he casts over your face, dropping to your lips. He sighs again, hand flexing on your waist, and leans forward. You copy him, neck twisting. And finally, your lips brush together. He kisses you so lightly, so gently. He’s barely touching you at all, but it’s enough to steal your breath. He captures your bottom lip, sucks on it, lets it go with a huff and a groan, and the kiss is over. You feel his warmth tear violently away as he quickly moves from you, forcing his hands back into his pockets and staggering back a few paces.

When you turn, he avoids your eyes.

“You need to go to the room,” he says, voice thick.

Jungkook stalks out of the kitchen, and you follow him. He doesn’t speak again until you get to your destination, and neither do you. You want to touch him again, want to hold his hand, curl your fingers in his hair. But following those desires you’ve got a deep intuition as though that is a terrible idea. So you don’t.

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[vampyr-bite]

hI! can you take a picture of that Sounds article and post it? i kinda want to read it lol

Hey! The archive I’m using at the moment is text only (thanks corona) but I’ve pasted the article below. Hope that’s good and u enjoy and u have a lovely day!

Pete Makowski, ‘Def Leppard: The Leppard Doesn't Sleep Tonight’, Sounds, 6 February 1982

ROUGH NOTES/ROUGH NOTES (Prelude)

THE SOUND of Ross Halfin's bouts of self induced vomiting...Steve Clarke smashing his guitar in a Blackmoresque frenzy...The black dude with a gold tooth who offers out cocaine in a packed McDonalds at eight o'clock in the morning...Sleepless nights, trying to get some shuteye on the tour bus which due to the lack of any form of suspension feels like a plane in the state of permanent turbulence...Waking up fully clothed feeling like an over abused cocktail shaker...Nights spent paralytic in bowling alleys and truck stops willing the hours away – If the rednecks with arms the size of those slabs of meat that adorn butcher shop windows don't kill you, the infra red fried chilli will...This is life on the road!

LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT TEXAS RADIO AND THE BIG BEAT!

The Lone Star State is a place one could easily write volumes about and still nobody would believe half the stories you told them. It's a proverbial utopia and lunatic asylum rolled into one. Plenty of sunshine and healthy-looking women; in fact every form of debauchery is available at your beck and call.

This was the perfect location for Def Leppard to close their tour which had proved to be a long and arduous trek. The merciless blows endured during the six months of gigging are cushioned by the fact that the Leppard entourage are basically a closely knit family-like affair. Tour manager Robert Alan (brother of drummer, Richard) also doubles as sound engineer, and token Irish lunatic lighting man 'Famous' is a typically stocky, cheerful chap who spends half his time dreaming about his homeland where he dreams his days away with fishing rod in one hand and a proverbial pint of the dark velvet brew in the other. The band and crew eat, sleep and defecate together giving the whole thing a warm congenial atmosphere.

As I've mentioned in a previous feature the group and entourage are all so young it makes one want to retch with envy. And they are all far from being as blasé (as one might expect) in fact surprisingly enough they still come over as avid fans, although their attitude to work is surprisingly professional and they put every iota of energy they've got into their stage performances, giving headlining act Blackfoot a good run for their money.

After all these months of hard graft Leppard are beginning to reap their just rewards, meeting with ecstatic audiences at almost every show. In fact their performances are met with nothing less than fanmania from a crowd that is not short of wholesome looking nubiles who squeal in frenzied approval at everyone of Leppard's moves.

While the average Blackfoot fan can be seen lumbering around the auditorium wearing the almost uniform check shirt, hiking up his baggy denim pants, clutching some obscene piece of junk food in one hand and the obligatory doobie aka spliffette in the other, The Leppard-ites in contrast are a new breed of fresh faced kids out looking for a whole new brand of kicks.

Although Texas is supposed to be a stronghold for Blackfoot (who to be fair are a hardworking road band with no shortage of talent and energy and as people are very amiable, good time folk from Jacksonville who really enjoy their crazed life style – these dudes do walk it like they talk it) there's no doubt that this time round the lil' ol' band from Sheffield made a big impression on the locals and will be guaranteed a headlining spot the next time round.

Their best shows on the tour were undoubtedly at the tropical seaside resort town of Corpus Christi and in Houston – which is undoubtedly one of their biggest strongholds in Texas shitkickin' territory.

"Home Of The Encores" is the sign emblazoned outside the Ritz, which in reality from the inside comes over more like a pokey old cinema that should have been condemned many moons ago.

The backstage area resemble a derelict bombsite and the roadcrew were apprehensive about the voltage system, the main concern being whether the place had enough juice to feed the vast backline Leppard had put together for this tour.

At first a feeling of despondency hung thick, like an onimous cloud, in the air and people were beginning to draw straws to decide who was going to lynch the promoter. Feelings didn't improve after they saw the bathroom facilities, that resembled something that harked from the dark ages. But once they took to the stage Joe Elliot and crew demonstrated where their real commitment lay and amidst the sweat arid sawdust blasted their way through a set that had the audience frothing at the gills.

Powered along by Rick Allen's tireless drum work that gelled with Rick Savage's fluid and thunderous basslines, the frontline barrage guitar attack of Pete Willis and Steve Clarke projected the excitement and innovative soloing that was ever present with Lizzy in their Live And Dangerous days.

Elliot becomes a more proficient frontman as the days go by. With one foot on the monitor he beckons the punters on, working them into a state of euphoric frenzy while belting out the lyrics to such epics as 'Let It Roll' and 'Lady Strange' with effortless ease.

He had the people totally on his side during 'High And Dry' and rafters shook as the auditorium burst into a chorus of "Saturday night, high and dry". It was this night that convinced me without a shadow of a doubt that Leppard are going to be a giant force to be reckoned with in the next couple of years.

NEXT DAY

AS THE bus jerked its way into Houston the local radio station seemed to continually plug the evening's show touting Leppard as one of the Eighties' brightest hopes. Meanwhile, back in the sleeping area Joe Elliot sat leaning against his bunk perusing his evergrowing collection of cut out and bootleg records, proudly announcing that he almost owned the entire Matt The Hoople catalogue. The rest of the group attempted to catch up with the strain of non-stop touring by getting as much sleep as they could in between the bumps on the road that shook the road-battered vehicle with the effect of a series of land mines.

Like the rest of Texas, Houston is overwhelming and unlimited in size and possibilities. The general atmosphere seems to be warm and welcoming throughout the State although this place as it turned out seems to be that much crazier.

The first chore of the day was to attend an instore signing, a common on the road practice which involved the group going to a local record store where they meet their fans, converse and sign autographs. The ritual was performed at the gargantuan Texas Record And Tapes Store, which can only be described as a proverbial Santa Claus grotto for vinyl freaks, featuring a dazzling array of parapheranalia and owned by the very amiable and over generous Geoff Hamer, otherwise known as 'General Doo Dah' – who is without a doubt a true gonzo at heart.

As it happened the band drew a record amount of people, in fact there were more fans here than at the previous day's concert (which by the way was sold out) and that evening the group performed like troupers proving they had Houston like the rest of the US, so it seems, in the palm of their sweaty paws.

The rest of the night was spent celebrating with an end of the tour party that included an Awards Ceremony hosted by yours truly The Grand Toastmaster who presented prizes to members of this deranged crew for various offences some too obscene and illegal to mention in this respectable organ. This was followed by a totally incoherent and over the top night of debauchery, courtesy of 'General Doo Dah' which took myself, Rick Savage and Steve Clarke into the land of Never Never, making any episode of Fear And Loathing look like the teddy bears picnic. A champion finale to a fine tour.

THE INTERVIEW/A MORE SERIOUS FINALE

"We don't worry about England anymore, we're just trying to put across the point that everybody's missed out and that is that we've been shit on and people have said things about us that are a lot of bullshit." – Joe Elliot

"I always look forward to playing England 'cause that's where we're from like, but I don't think that it will do us any good at the moment because the kids, the kids meaning people like me, I'm not sure whether they want to listen to us at the moment...which is a bit of a shame because they're missing out on a good thing." – Rick Savage

WHILE LEPPARD continue to 'wow out' crowds in the US, they still seem to be at the butt of abuse as far as certain British media and fans are concerned. While groups like Saxon and Iron Maiden seem to be able to travel the world and lead a grandiose lifestyle and still retain that dubious street credibility factor, anything that Leppard do is regarded as being pompous and the general consensus of opinion from the average anglophile headbanger seems to be that they are egotistical popstars who sold their souls to the American rock and roll machine.

Which couldn't be further from the truth. It's hardly surprising that Leppard feel jaded and bitter with their audiences back home. I personally believe that they are producing some of the finest high quality heavy rock sounds around today.

They write songs, not just riffs with words loosely attached to them, with a sophistication and flair that puts some of their elder statesmen to shame and they knock the average so called NWOBHM ('scuse me while I wash my mouth out) into a cocked hat and it's unfortunate that they have to travel across the water to get an audience that actually appreciates this fact.

When we conducted this interview, the band were beginning to recover from the lunacy of an American tour which began earlier last year with Ozzy Osbourne, and the strain of the roadlife was beginning to make itself apparent. This nomadic way of life can be as strenuous as it is exciting and it may sound crazy when you hear a band yearning for the simple things in life like a good old English breakfast and a copy of the Daily Mirror, but it all makes sense once you get caught up in the insanity they've endured since the release of High'n'Dry which is already winning them Stateside acclaim.

Leppard are undoubtedly on the threshold of breaking America: everywhere they play the audience reaction is frenzied almost to the point of being rabid, but as it became obviously apparent on this drunken night Def Leppard still miss their home and feel slightly more than sore about the lack of respect they get from the press and punters alike, and seem to be constantly trying to find a reason for this unexplainable feeling of malice.

"As far as England is concerned people have got something against Def Leppard for purely non musical reasons," explained Joe Elliot, amidst a background noise of chinking glasses and people yelling for more beverage, "40,000 people bought our first album, but only 20,000 people bought High'n'Dry, you're not telling me the other 20,000 didn't buy it because they didn't like the album. I believe they didn't buy it because they read the article in Sounds saying that Leppard had changed their spots. They followed fads."

"American people don't follow fads", announced guitarist Pete Willis, "They go for what they like while England seems to follow trends. Foreigner and Fleetwood Mac are good, they write good songs while bands like Motorhead are a load of shit...don't say that because I don't want Lemmy to beat me up."

While I don't agree with the last part of this statement, I do feel that the GB is basically puppeteered by fashions which ultimately dictate taste and the majority of which come over as nothing more than a grand parade of lifeless packaging, including the new league of HM groups who I personally feel have a very limited lifespan with their generally dated and usually moronic stance.

Elliott: "There's two things you can do when you're in a band. You can go out and do what you wanna do, that's not trying to be pretentious to anybody and that's just satisfying your artistic temperament or whatever you want to call it for the want of a better saying. Or you can do things like Saxon...I don't believe anybody but Biff Byford would want lyrics like that on an album! I mean you're not telling me that he's writing those words so that everybody from people out of a mental institution to people with 'A' levels can understand them?"

"I could write lyrics like 'Denim And Leather', that's the kind of stuff a drummer could write. I write lyrics that are on a street level and that everybody can understand but they're on a different line. I'm not afraid to hide the influences that I've got."

It's a well known fact that Leppard were the first band of its genre to actually stick its collective neck out, undertake major headlining tours, sign a major record deal and venture across the water. Other bands as they pointed out followed after learning from their mistakes and generally avoiding the pitfalls somebody had to make as a kick off. They're also a rarity when you consider they haven't had any line up changes since they established themselves.

At this moment in time the group are preparing material for an album which will again be produced by 'Mutt' Lange. I wondered if they were at all perturbed by the comparisons drawn between them and AC/DC.

"I don't even think AC/DC are that hot!", exclaimed Rick Savage.

Elliot: "The only comparison is that we've got the same producer and because of that you're likely to get the same sound. We didn't use him because he produced a big album and in turn we thought we'd get a big album, we just think he's the best producer around. Anyhow, no way could AC/DC write a song like 'Bringing On The Heartbreak' or 'Switch 625'."

Savage: "We'd have been a big band in England if Mutt had produced On Through The Night because it wouldn't have got the slagging it did. It was still a better album than people made out for all its supposed commercialism for the USA. We were on the crest of a wave when that album came out and the reviews that album got, particularly in Sounds, were so bad and so anti the attitude bands like Saxon and Motorhead and their fans have got, that we totally lost it.

"If England had accepted us like they should have accepted us, things might be a bit different. I think we're a lot better than bands that are accepted more freely than us."

Here, here! C'mon you pommy bastards here's your chance to rectify...And JOIN THE ROCK BRIGADE!!!

[scripttorture]

Hello, I recently found this blog so I'm not sure if you already answered this. But I wanted to ask about what would it be like if the torturer was mainly only hurting the victim for fun/just because? Would the victims reactions be similar as torture victims of say torture for questioning, or would it be different? If the torturer was already psychopathic enough to already be torturing a person for fun, would giving torture affect them psychologically as it does for "regular" torturers?

Welcome. :) And don’t worry about whether a question has already been asked. I don’t mind going over things again.

 Central to this question is the legal definition of torture.

 Legally torture is distinct from abuse, not because of what’s done or who it’s done to but because of who carries it out. According to international law (with some variation between countries) torture is when a government official or a member of a group powerful enough to control territory causes their victim pain for one of the following reasons:

Obtaining information

Forcing a confession

Punishment, of the victim or others

Intimidation, of the victim or others

 I tend to summarise this to a scenario where a police officer beats someone in two different places: if they do it at work it’s torture, if they do it off duty it’s assault.

 But the motivation is important to the legal definition and the understanding of what ‘counts’ as torture.

 What you’re talking about is not legally torture.

 Obviously I cover a lot of stuff on the blog that wouldn’t meet that strict legal definition. But I think it is important going in to your question to understand the difference. Because I answer these questions based on what I’ve read about legally defined torture; if the scenario is sufficiently different then you should be aware of the differences and that the evidence I’m drawing on might not be the best fit for what you’re writing.

 So torture isn’t for ‘fun’. You do get torturers who- I’m not quite sure what the correct psychological terminology would be. They sometimes put a lot of their self worth and identity into the fact they cause other people pain. They characterise themselves as ‘strong’ individuals and reinforce this by hurting and humiliating their victims proving the victim’s ‘weakness’.

 This is part of what Rejali calls the ‘hypermasculine subculture’ torturers tend to develop.

 But they don’t report finding this ‘fun’ exactly. (I’m basing this on what torturers say and that’s not always trustworthy, but I think we have to consider them the most reliable sources for what the hell they were thinking.)

 And they say that this is stressful. Because torture is- competitive. By that I mean that torturers don’t function alone. They work in groups and they treat each other as direct competition. They egg each other on. They feel that they ‘have’ to keep being more and more brutal or they’ll be showing weakness to the group.

 They do also, sometimes, report a sense of satisfaction. But this seems to be outweighed by the incredible stress they’re under from their own side and the inevitable mental health problems they develop.

 It’s also worth stressing that the organisations torturers are usually part of actively try to screen out people with mental health problems and anyone who shows enjoyment in violence. They consider these people harder to control.

 I really can’t stress this bit enough: the evidence strongly suggests that torturers are mentally healthy before they start torturing. Their mental illnesses are the result of being exposed to violent, traumatic events repeatedly.

 The structure of their brain does not care one whit whether the violence they’re witnessing is inflicted by them or someone else. It responds the same way and leads to the same symptoms of trauma.

 The second question is easier.

 Nothing I’ve seen has suggested that the torturer’s motivations effect victims in the slightest. Victim’s don’t care if the torturer is shouting questions, laughing or doing a jig.

 It’s the traumatic nature of violence that effects victims. Not the torturers’ beliefs or drives.

 A lot of torturers claim that they personally make a big difference or that they can control victims and change them in a predictable way. But the evidence says they’re lying or deluding themselves.

 Which leaves the last question.

 I’ve been asked this before and there isn’t any evidence.

 I don’t mean there isn’t any evidence for/against, I mean I literally can’t find a single case that matches this popular fictional portrayal.

 I’m personally dubious about the term ‘psychopathic’. I’m not convinced it’s a consistent description of a real condition.

 But for the sake of the argument, let’s assume it is and that it lines up with the popular understanding of the term.

 These are exactly the kinds of people organisations work hard to screen out. They’re the people who are not allowed to be in a position to torture.

 If they were somehow to slip through- Torturers create a really toxic working environment. Organisations that harbour them end up with a work culture that encourages bullying, competition rather than teamwork and discourages hard work.

 They tend to target people perceived as different for abuse, as well as people who disagree with them. And I think neurodivergence definitely counts as the kind of difference that would have other torturers turning on the character.

 And the assumption that neurodivergence and mental illness is the ‘reason’ for a character to be abusive- well that assumption that people who are different are also dangerous feeds a lot of violence and discrimination against the mentally ill.

 But even discounting all of that- the responses we have to trauma and to other people’s pain are wired deep.

 I’m not an expert in pain or the human nervous system so I can’t tell you how deep. But the impression I get is that these mechanisms have old evolutionary roots. They have been part of the biology of vertebrates for a very long time.

 I sometimes get asked questions about sci fi aliens or non-human intelligent beings in fantasy stories and how they would respond to torture (witnessing it, doing it or enduring it). I think the answer I tend to give there is relevant here:

 Does the character behave in a way that is basically understandable as human? If the answer is ‘yes’, then I think you should write them responding to torture like a human being.

 If the answer is ‘no’ then I’d ask you to consider whether they’re actually acting sufficiently differently to sound like a different species rather then a human with a health condition or a human from another culture.

 What I’m driving at here is- Does the character read like a Siamese Fighting Fish with the capacity for speech? Do they have behaviours that are just not typical of mammals and underline a lot of their basic personality and approach to things?

 For me to accept that a character might respond to torture in a way that’s different to the human norm they need to be convincingly non-human. Not like Tolkien elves or orcs. Not like alien species in Trek or Stargate.

 Really, truly, alien.

 A character in a magical story who genuinely can’t comprehend how you might need your major organs to survive and might be in pain without them- I’d say ‘OK that’s sufficiently different that I can’t predict it based on the evidence. Fill your boots.’

 But a character who is just a jerk? Who just ‘likes’ being mean? That’s still a human being.

 Treating them differently doesn’t do the real human beings who’ve been through similar things any favours.

 And yes the real human beings who torture people are scumbags. But suggesting they’re unaffected by torture just feeds in to the problem. It feeds this myth that torturers are ‘strong’ and ‘tough’ and superhumanly resilient to the effects of what they do. It feeds the lie that they’re super human.

 Help me out here. Cut them down to size.

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