#objectively funny if someone else fails your drug test

[morganbritton132]

Even more Steve Has Older Siblings AU add-ons:

1. Steve wanted to be a ninja so bad when he was little but Hawkins didn’t have any martial arts classes he could take. Jason offered to ‘teach’ him. This was just an excuse to throw him around a bit but they had to stop when he accidentally dislocated Steve’s elbow two weeks before basketball tryouts.

2. Anytime his dad decided to be a good father, he’d send Steve to his grandparents for the weekend that the other kids were at their house and then do activities with them. Steve didn’t mind this at the time because Grandpa Otis told him cool stories about the war, but when he got older he realized that it was a really fucked up thing to do.

3. Steve thinks that Richie is spearheading fixing their relationship because his own kids live in a different state now, but it’s actually because Will Byers went missing. He called the house six times in between Will going missing and being found, and no one picked up the phone once. It genuinely scared him, especially because he heard their dad bitch about Barb going missing at their house. Steve was mainly screening the calls but for one of them, he was fighting a monster.

4. Carol fucking hates Steve’s siblings so much. She used to cut tiny holes in their bedsheets with fingernail clippers when she’d come over on the weeks that they weren’t there. Later when she worked the summer at the movie theater, she’d spit in their drinks.

5. The first time Steve’s siblings meet Eddie Munson (sans Richie) is after the murder charges are dropped. It’s also in the middle of a forced family dinner. They’re all sitting there awkwardly and then heard the door fling open, and Eddie shout out as he moved through the house, “Harrrrrington, let’s go! I’ve got beer in the cooler and a lunchbox full of - bibles. Hi!” Steve’s out of his chair and dragging Eddie back out the house like, “Sorry, gotta go. To church. Bye mama, love you. Bye.” Eddie is crackling the entire time and Steve comes home the next morning smelling like weed and a good time, and is promptly handed a cup to go piss in. Jason takes the drug test for him. Fails it.

[whereismymonsterlover]

Djo came out with another ear-creamer and it's gay.

Djo (Joe Keery) has just come out with another single called Figure You Out. it's so good and I'm so excited for the album. I heard the first verse and was like "This... This is fruity." Let me explain: (light CW for mention of AIDS within an interpretation)

I'm beginning to understand

There's no mystery to this man

It's the simplest things I need

Just my friend and a place to sleep

But I never fail to surprise

There's a feeling that's new to me

Unmistakably that's my voice

And it's speaking as clear as day

"I've been trying to figure you out"

I like your funny words, magic maaaaan. I, being the dirty little queer I am, immediately added queer context behind it - using Steve Harrington as my test subject. The result was: Steve's Bisexual Revelation. It's so beautiful when you think of it like a man discovering he's bisexual (I might be acting really dumb and saying something obvious. I'm most definitely too used to being left with speculation when it comes to queer-coded storytelling).

But wait! It gets gayer!

How can you get to know yourself?

take a test and you get a grade

I read this as the man looking for a way to discover himself, hoping finding your sexuality was as easy as taking a test and getting the answer at the end. I've also been learning a lot more about the AIDS crisis during the 80s and 90s in America and UK recently and so my brain also linked this theme when I heard "take a test" - as well as in the lines:

If the money just wasn't there

And the power you had was gone

And these people were just like you

Tell me then would you lend a hand?

The singer is asking the higher power with the control and money (the government) if they'd actually take action if the queer people, drug users and all affected by AIDS were instead people like them (cis-het). I know that's a heavy interpretation, it is just simply one way I made sense of those lyrics!

Back to Steve Harrington. Another interpretation which I believe is truer to the actual meaning, is Steve evaluating himself, first year without the "King Steve" title, and realising he is boring.

There's no mystery to this man

There's nothing interesting or mysterious about himself.

it's the simplest things I need

Just my friend and a place to sleep

He is content with the bare minimum, no desire in the past for excessive material objects, no hobbies outside of the sports curriculum in high school.

"I've been trying to figure you out"

he's been trying to look into himself and explore new hobbies, potential interests etc.

Is the memory really mine?

Is the story I told just fake?

Steve has to embezzle on stories to make them actually interesting.; Sometimes, he relays someone else's story and claims it as his to make interesting conversation about himself.

How can you get to know yourself?

Take a test and you get a grade

Again, him trying to figure himself out.

If the money just wasn't there

And the power you had was gone

And these people were just like you

Tell me then would you lend a hand?

If Steve wasn't rich, if power was never synonymous with the name 'Harrington', and he was just like anyone else - would there then be something of himself? Something interesting and fun and different that would attract more friends and people looking to have a long-lasting relationship with him?

It's not easy when you're closing down, down, down

Mans having an identity crisis rn.

Something's in my mind and I'm focused on you, yeah

This line that repeats at the end goes back to Bisexual Steve Harrington and being infatuated with this other guy - causing this whole sexuality crisis.

I think those are all of my thoughts. I don't know, i just wanted to get some of my thoughts down and promote Joe's new album lmao The singles we've gotten have been absolute bangers so far and I'm so excited!!

[gellavonhamster]

ghost stories

Suicide Squad (2016) || characters: El Diablo feat. everyone else || post-canon, sort of a fix-it

ao3 link eng || this was first written and published on ao3 in Russian in 2016 but I didn't attempt to translate it into English back then.  

Harley is the first to see him.

She catches the smell first. Something appears to be burning, and she checks cautiously if there is something wrong with the coffee machine. She doesn’t find anything suspicious – not that the appliances about to flame up smell like that anyway. Could it be that there’s a fire starting? That would be funny, but seems like there’s hardly a chance. It is the smell of a bonfire at the beach, of the fallen leaves being burned in the yards in fall, of a melting candle in the church; weirdly, all this at the same time. A smell that seems too pure for Belle Reve, for Gotham, for everything that makes up her life these days.      

Harley looks around once again – and springs to her feet like she’s been stung.

Chato Santana is standing next to her cage.

“Diablo?” she whispers, unable to believe her eyes. She would’ve thought she’s lost her marbles if there were any left to lose.    

“Harley,” says Diablo, and it’s his voice, his shy, sad smile, his eyes and his tattoos, and Harley squeals in delight as she rushes to him. The bars of the cage are live, so she only dares to stick out the tips of her fingers. He touches them with his hand – certainly alive, certainly not a product of her mind being tortured by boredom and monotony – and she laughs.

“You’re alive, alive, alive! How did you survive? And how did they let you in?”

“It’s a long story. And I don’t think I have much time,” Diablo looks guilty. He’s still holding her hand and looking at her so earnestly it’s almost worrying.  “Harley… don’t go with him.”  

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?”

“He’s coming here. Don’t leave with him, Harley, stay. It sounds strange, but this would really be for the best.”  

“Don’t leave with whom?” she can’t follow him. He gives her a melancholic look – and suddenly disappears. Without any smoke or flames or any other special effects. She can’t wrap her head around how it happened – it’s just that he was here a moment ago, and now there’s no one beside her, and she’s reaching out towards nothing.      

“Diablo?” she calls, and when she gets no answer, she decides to get things straight by asking the guards. What kind of cruel joke is this? Only one person is allowed to joke here, and that person is her. “Hello there! Mister jailer, yoo-hoo! Where’s my friend?”  

No one is in a hurry to respond. Finally, one of the armed-to-the-teeth guards approaches the cage.

“Why are you yelling, lady?”

“Where’s my friend?” Harley asks petulantly. “He was here just now, and we didn’t finish talking. Where did you take him?”  

“There was no one here.”

“What do you mean ‘no one’? I just talked to him!”

The guard examines her from head to foot. Looks like he’s chewing gum, which, combined with his empty apathetic stare, makes him look like a cow.

“Definitely crazy,” he sums up, and leaves. Irritated, Harley forgets to take caution, hits the bars and falls down on the floor right away, writhing in pain.    

“Well, well, well,” she whispers, playing the recent events over in her head. Chato was very much corporeal – not a ghost, then. Yet the guards didn’t notice him, and then he vanished into thin air. Harley thinks about the being Chato transformed into by the end of the battle – an ancient one, as if straight from the walls of some Aztec temple. Could some petty bomb kill such a being? Could the Enchantress’s brother have survived too?  

“I am friends with a god,” she informs the ceiling. “Incredible.”

About an hour later, her Puddin’ comes for her, and she forgets the advice Diablo gave her.  

  Croc sees him on the night of the same day. He knows for sure that it is night thanks to the TV listings – the only reference point for time and days of the week that he has. Not that it was bothering him too much, truth be told. Monday or Sunday, every day in Belle Reve is a carbon copy of the day before. However, Croc doesn’t complain. He has a roof over his head, water, food – even better food than he used to have in the sewers in days gone by – and a TV, and it is honestly not too hard to do without such extras as companionship and fresh experiences. Still, he is glad to see Diablo. Even though first he lunges at him with his fangs bared, because he doesn’t immediately recognize him and supposes that Waller and company are sick of feeding him and decided to kill him. Or to put someone else in his quarters, which would have been no less audacious.        

“Croc, it’s me,” Diablo hastens to say, and lights up a flame over his left palm – so unusual and out of place in the dampness of Croc’s cell. Croc freezes and watches the flame for some seconds. That must really be Diablo; there are hardly many people in the world capable of such tricks.

“Hey, man,” Croc says. “Whatcha doing here?”

“Just checking up on you.”

Well, that must definitely be Diablo. Croc knows that there are hardly many people in the world who’d care to check up on him, but that sounds like something El Diablo would do. Back then, during the mission, he was friendly, asked “You okay?” after each skirmish, and could clap him on the shoulder without shuddering. And there are definitely even less people in the world that would touch him willingly.      

“Did they just let you in like that?” wonders Croc. Diablo gives him a slight smile.

“They don’t know I’m here.”

“So you’re, like, a ghost?” Croc asks. It occurred to him from the very beginning, but it sounds particularly joyless when said out loud.

Diablo gestures vaguely. “I’m still figuring it out myself, to be honest.”

“Hmm,” Croc glances over his cell. A bag of food on the cot catches his eye. “You want a burger?”

“Nah, I’m good. Save it for yourself.”

“They’ll bring more today, I’m telling ya.”  

“Then I want one.”

“Then you’re not a ghost,” grins Croc, and the fact that Diablo doesn’t flinch or try to look away also proves that this is the real Chato Santana, because most people don’t like seeing Croc smile.

And so he and Diablo, who kind of is a ghost but kind of isn’t, sit there eating burgers and watching some crap on MTV. Life has taught Croc not to be surprised by anything, so everything’s fine.  

“So what happened after the bomb went off?” Croc asks. Diablo opens his mouth, and then closes it again, apparently at a loss how to explain.

“I was smoke,” he speaks finally. “Then I was flames. Then I became myself again.”

“I see,” Croc replies, although, of course, he can’t see shit.

“Who are you talking to?” comes the guard’s voice from behind the door. “Hey, scum!”

Croc puts the burger aside.

“Wait a bit,” he tells Chato, gets up, and heads for the door.

When he comes to the bean hole, the guard already looks like he regrets calling him.  

“No one,” Crock smiles as widely as only he can, and the guard, who isn’t among the people able to watch him smile without blinking an eye, steps back reflexively. “But come inside, and I’ll talk to you if you wanna. How about that?”   

When he turns around, Chato has already disappeared, and Croc could have assumed he has dreamed it all, but there are two half-eaten burgers on the cot, not one.

  Digger sees him next, and he isn’t even amazed. The bastards keep drugging him with all sorts of shit to calm him down. Usually after the shot he just lies there, feverish, and can’t even move, let alone stand up, but who knows, perhaps they’re testing some new poison on him. Or they’ve started using something stronger because they noticed that a couple of hours after the usual stuff he’s already able to yell, bang at the door, and do everything he can to get the best of them while cooped up inside. Or it’s simply that there’s already so much of this shit in his blood that it’s impossible not to have any screws loose, try as he might to keep them in place. In any case, he’s not exactly shocked when, as he tosses and turns on the floor after another injection, he turns his head and sees El Diablo, large as life and twice as ugly.

“Fuck me sideways,” Digger says. He doesn’t have any energy to be mad yet. “I must be tripping.”

“You’re not tripping,” Diablo objects.

“You died. So I must be.”  

“I didn’t die either.”

Diablo sits down cross-legged on the floor next to him.

“Has it crossed your mind that if you stop getting on their nerves, they might start treating you better?” he asks.

“Go to hell.”

“Message received.”

There’s a footfall outside; a whole bunch of people must be running somewhere.

“They’ve turned the entire joint upside down,” says Digger, because it’s been ages since he has spoken to anyone who’d at least pretend to listen, so a hallucination will do. “Blondie escaped.”  

“I know,” Diablo replies gloomily. “I tried to warn her not to go with the Joker, but she didn’t listen to me.”  

“Why warn her?” Digger asks. Harley Quinn is no bosom friend of his, but she kind of tore out the heart of the witch who kind of tried to end the world, and anyway, teammates probably should take interest in each other’s lives. Probably. He’s never really made sense of that teamwork stuff. “What’s he gonna do to her?”    

“At best, what he always does.”

Two tiny figures of fire appear on Diablo’s open palm – a man and a woman. The man backhands the woman across her face, and she falls down. Digger watches the dancing flames with fascination, and meanwhile in his head, bit by bit, stroke by stroke, a plan starts to take shape. He wouldn’t be Captain motherfucking Boomerang if he fails to use any opportunity that turns up – even a ghost of one. 

“Listen, mate,” he begins cajolingly. “If you’re really here and it’s not just me tripping… help an old friend out, won’t you? I’m fed up with being stuck here, you know.”

“I’m not gonna help you escape,” Diablo says calmly. “How do you imagine that would even happen?”

“Can’t you just burn the entire Belle Reve to the bloody ground?”

Diablo smiles.

“I can,” he admits. “But I won’t.”

The next thing he knows, the son of a bitch is gone without a trace. Anger and offence must be giving Digger strength, because he manages to leap to his feet. Like a lunatic, he thrashes around the cell, looking for at least some kind of proof that someone else was here a moment ago.  

“Oi!” he shouts, knowing damn well that the guards have long stopped listening to what he has to say. “Grab the devil! A convict escaped! Hey, wankers!”  

But he’s feeling lightheaded, and this shit must be really strong, and he collapses, badly hitting his head.  

  Tatsu sees him next – late at night, in her apartment. She’s a light sleeper, and wakes up as soon as she hears footsteps. The sword is close at hand, and she grabs it instantly, blade swishing through the air.  

“Who’s there?” Tatsu asks, and then repeats in English. “Who’s there?”

There is nowhere to hide in her bedroom. The only furniture is the mattress and the pair of chairs she uses to hang her clothes on. Everything is on the floor or on the windowsill – weapons, her laptop, the book she tried to read before going to sleep but could not concentrate on. It is an ascetic, comfortless dwelling that does not look permanent and is not supposed to become so. Fate and Amanda Waller, though, seem to have other plans in this respect.  

There is nowhere to hide in her bedroom – but someone’s definitely walking in the antechamber; she flings the door open – and sees El Diablo, standing by the entrance and looking around. In a blink of an eye Tatsu is next to him, and the blade of the Soultaker is pressed to his neck.  

“Katana, it’s me,” Diablo says, unfazed. “Chato Santana.”

“Chato Santana is dead,” she says through her teeth. Chato Santana was a gangster who killed, albeit by a tragic accident, his own family – but she fought side by side with him, he sacrificed himself to save the world, he called their squad his family and died for them. That is enough for her not to let anyone use his name as a cover. “Who are you?”    

“I’m alive,” Diablo replies. He puts his hands up to show he’s unarmed, and forks of flame appear on his palms. “Or sort of.”  

Sort of.

Tatsu lowers the sword and looks warily at the man standing in front of her.

“How did you…”

“You’re gonna have a new mission soon. Demand that Waller tells you everything.”

“About what?”

“I couldn’t overhear that,” he says with regret. “But…”

Something knocks on the window. Tatsu turns around quickly, but that must’ve been just a tree branch hitting the windowpane. When she turns back to Chato, he’s already gone, and her apartment is silent.

It’s just four in the morning, but she can’t make herself fall asleep again. Having poured a cup of tea, Tatsu sits down on the mattress and thinks, think, thinks about what just happened. Tatsu believes in ghosts – her sword is teeming with them, so she wouldn’t say that her worldview is shaken. Still, this is strange, very strange. What did he want to tell her? Why did he disappear so abruptly? Like… a broadcast was interrupted.    

Colonel Flag calls her at daybreak and tells her that there’s a shoot-out between two gangs on the outskirts of Gotham, with metahumans on both sides. When Tatsu arrives at Belle Reve, it turns out they must have considered it to be not enough to ruin her Saturday morning, because she is asked – more like ordered, actually – to escort an inmate from his cell, an inmate who attacks anyone who tries to enter and has already injured three guards with his bare hands, and it’s not reasonable to sedate him before the mission, and “he’s likely to obey if it’s you, Katana” – the last is Rick’s argument, and if he told that to her face and not on the phone, she would have had to strain every nerve not to hit him with something.    

No one tries to attack her when she enters the cell of Captain Boomerang – Harkness is sitting on the floor quite still, his arms around his knees, and when he notices her, he even smiles with bruised lips.  

“Hello, gorgeous,” he says. “Am I hallucinating you too?”

“No,” the question is unexpected and confuses her. “Why?”

“Well, they keep injecting me some crap, and lately I’ve been seeing things,” Harkness explains peacefully, even eagerly. His voice is quiet and hoarse, which, combined with his Australian accent, leads to Tatsu being barely able to make out half of what he’s saying. To hear him better, she crouches down next to him, still gripping the sword hilt – there is no telling if he isn’t just making her come closer to take her down and bolt. “Saw the devil yesterday.”      

“The devil?”

“Our devil. Día… de fucking Muertos. Chato Santana.”

Tatsu gives a shiver and, having lost her balance, half sits down, half falls on the dirty floor.

She isn’t the only one to have seen him. She isn’t the only one he wanted to send a message to.

“Hey, luv,” Harkness frowns and reaches out to touch her knee lightly. “You all right?”  

“Same as you, more or less,” she wants to reply, which of course would mean she isn’t, not at all.

“What did he tell you?” she asks him instead.

  When Floyd sees him, he is hardly surprised, since the others have already warned him. Boomerang, Croc, and Katana tell him everything while they’re waiting for the helo, and had it been just Boomerang, who believes inexplicably that he has a sense of humour although he certainly doesn’t, Floyd most likely wouldn’t have believed his ghost stories, but it is even harder to believe that Croc, let alone Katana would agree to take part in such pranks. Which is why he listens to them closely and takes note: okay, then he doesn’t have to worry about his mental heath if the late Santana suddenly appears out of nowhere to give some advice or share some news or simply ask how he’s doing. So the four of them keep whispering to one another like kids at the back of the class until their transport arrives – just the four of them, which is a pity. If there is anyone on the team that he had missed a little, it’s Harley. Floyd knows some things about the Joker, for it isn’t possible, as they write in the papers, to belong to the criminal world of Gotham and not know anything about the Joker. Floyd knows what Flag had spilled to him when visiting him in his cell or escorting him there after a visit to Zoe. Floyd thinks that in his entire lifetime he hasn’t understood a thing about love – is it even possible to understand it, on the other hand? – but he feels like the mad and brilliant Harley, Harley the whimsical, Harley the loving deserves better.                

“What’s with the gossiping?” Flag inquires suspiciously.  

“Nothing!” Croc and Digger answer in unison, in unison, and Floyd facepalms because seriously, are they in some cheesy movie or what? They don’t tell Flag anything yet, but Floyd is almost sure that sooner or later Santana will visit him as well, because Flag is one of them too, after all. Not that he’s even trying to deny it; no one’s making him drop by Floyd’s cell every other day to chat about some nonsense through the steel door.          

So Floyd is hardly surprised when, as he makes his way behind the dumpsters loading one gun after another, he notices a familiar, head-to-toe-tattooed figure standing nearby.  

“There are snipers on the roof over there and around the corner of the shop,” Chato says instead of greeting. Floyd nods.

“I noticed.”

“Eight men in the drugstore on the other side of the street. Each with a machine gun.”  

“How do you know?”

“I’ve just been there.”

“Got it,” there’s no time for lengthy conversations. No time to say: glad you’re alive, man. No time to ascertain: are you alive, though? So he thinks over the plan of action, making a mental note to ask all these questions later, when there are no bullets whistling past their ears.  

People like them deserve no guardian angels, frankly speaking, but they may have managed to earn one for all of them.

[chameleonspell]

some random iriel words i found

[I just found this in my drafts, must have been there a few years, as I don’t remember anything about it. From context, I gather it’s answers I wrote to some sort of horror-themed OC question meme. I used to do a lot of these for character development when I was writing HTDC, but rarely posted them in case I ended up wanting to use the content in the fic. Might as well post it now? I have no idea if anyone else likes reading this stuff, but lmk if you do, I no doubt have a ton more somewhere...]

They have a premonition that something terrible will happen to them. How do they handle the situation?

Iriel would carry on as normal, because he has anxiety, so that's a normal Loredas, tbh. Perhaps some breathing exercises, or carefully modulated Calm spells. If, however, the premonition is specific and prophetic-sounding enough to convince him it results from an external source and not his own brain, then that's a whole different nest of scribs. Because that means that someone is fucking with him, probably a Daedra, and Iriel has well-documented reservations about the trustworthiness of such things. What situation are they REALLY trying to engineer, and why?

Do they have a fear of the unknown and things they can’t explain?

Not nearly as much as some people. Iriel has enough known-fears to contend with that something being unknown gives it rather an advantage, at times. Besides, he's a scholar. Unknown things are inherently interesting, because then you can research them, and test hypotheses! Sometimes to the point of almost contracting vampirism, because you can't resist touching weird-looking corpses.

What is the most disturbing thing they’ve ever seen?

I had to think about this one, because pitching Iriel through Morrowind involved subjecting him to a lot of disturbing things. Sixth House stuff is obviously designed to be body-horror nightmarish, and Ire's particular terror of skeletons meant that ancestral tombs were always going to be a trial. In terms of character turning points, though, I'm gonna say Rotheran was the worst thing he'd ever seen, the most upsetting. Because it wasn't just the slavery, or the sadistic games, or the Daedra worship, or the illusion-magic mind control (though that was all bad enough!). It was the dark things about himself, about his psychology and attitude to other people, that he believed he saw magnified and reflected there, triggering a spiral into self-loathing and despair, and the events of the next several chapters! Which... sounds really depressing, but was ultimately useful, in a gotta-lance-the-poison-filled-abscess-before-you-can-clean-and-heal-it kind of way.

What would they do if they witnessed an alien ship crash landing?

I like how this sort of question highlights the differences of the TES setting. Cosmology, f'rinstance, is rather a different affair. Space travel is occasionally a thing in the lore, but their "space" isn't the same as ours. The appearance of strange crafts from out of the air filled with unidentifiable creatures wouldn't imply "aliens!!!" to someone from Tamriel, but probably something more like: "oh shit what have the Telvanni made NOW?" or "please no more portals spewing horrors from another Daedric realm-o'-the-week, i am so very tired."

If they were a ghost, what methods would they use to haunt someone?

"If". lol. Iriel spends a fair amount of HTDC baaaaasically turning into a ghost, yeah? Insubstantial, invisible, losing all grasp on the material realm. And yet, he utterly fails to use his powers to prank people! Shani and Bodu agree that this is a tragic waste of ghostly powers.

Actually, this is another one where TES sensibilities might differ from ours. In Tamriel, ghosts are a well-documented spiritual phenomenon - the result of a lapse in burial rites, or, in the case of Dunmer, the successful product of them. Haunted houses tend to be places full of actual screaming spectres, rather than strange, poltergeist activity. Floating objects and suchlike would be more readily explained by a mage's mischievous telekinesis than the restless dead.

Anyway, to return to your question, a house haunted by Iriel is largely identical to one in which he is actually living. Either way, you may see little hard evidence of his presence, yet sometimes experience odd, herbal smells; indistinct, yet melancholic apparitions in the corner of your eye, and soft sighs just on the edge of hearing. You may also find your books mysteriously disappearing, and reappearing with the pages tea-stained and dog-eared.

How much would they have to be offered to live in a haunted house for a month?

"Let me get this straight. You're offering me an empty house... yes, fine, there are ghosts, but no real people... an empty house that everyone else is frightened to go near, so I'd have complete peace and quiet-- yes, yes, apart from the ghosts, I mean-- ...and I can do whatever I like there, and... let me be absolutely clear about this... YOU want to pay ME?"

("Hmm? Oh yes, it's been fine. Honestly, the dead are far less trouble than people think, especially the non-embodied kind. Simple wards and charms will do adequately if you want to keep them contained, but really, a little attention is all most of them want. They like it when I sing to them, actually. I did get one dreadful screamer, and had to spend a night traipsing around the cellar, scrabbling in the dirt until I found where the poor thing had been buried, but ever since I got the gravedigger to move him somewhere more comfortable, he's been a total sweetheart. Which is more than you can say for dogs or babies or Bosmer housemates, honestly.")

Could they stay calm lost in the woods all night by themselves?

It's funny... I'm sure Iriel's pa used to take him camping in the woods as a kid, and I'm sure Ire spent the entire time freaking out about weird noises, and generally having an unhappy, stressful time. And yet, upon being released from prison as an adult, he immediately vanished into the woods, and voluntarily spent multiple days and nights alone out there. (Three reasons: fear of civilisation, dissociation and drugs.)

After that, even once the drugs wore off, he'd become accustomed to wild places, and grown to feel safer there than in cities, where the dangers around him were harder to predict and quantify. Iriel is, in some ways, very unimaginative. His mind will create possible scenarios based on his experiences, but it won't invent implausible monsters from nothing, and he finds darkness comforting, rather than a source of horror. The woods at night are a good deal more peaceful and friendly than many other places he's spent time.

[robert-c]

Gun Control

When I wrote “The Right to Bear Arms” (https://robert-c.tumblr.com/post/611144969512796160/the-right-to-bear-arms)  I certainly expected some people to disagree, even vehemently. Their rantings were predictable; irrelevant and personally insulting. For example, I’m supposedly a “panty-waist leftist” who doesn’t own a gun. This is really funny to me, because I own three guns. I assume the other reference is supposed to mean gay, which I’m not, but a lot of my friends have been and I volunteered in the gay community during the height of the AIDS epidemic, so we’ll let you have a half point on that one (though wearing panties has never been my thing, no judgment, just not for me). Now whatever ‘leftist’ means today I don’t think being in favor of responsible gun control qualifies for the whole “agenda”.

In my first article I pointed out that the Constitution’s language actually makes clear that regulation of this right is tied to not banning gun ownership outright. I suggested that considering the times and the purpose of the amendment proficiency testing (at a minimum) would certainly be right in line with the amendment. Just to keep the facts straight – only those states with concealed carry permits require such training, and only if you wish to carry your gun around with you in public; not for the buying of one, which is where some of the problem starts.

The myth that the Second Amendment was some sort of “last resort” against tyranny was also taught to me in high school civics back in the 1960’s (by football coaches because it was such an important topic <yes, that’s sarcasm>). In my other post I illustrated how that simply doesn’t comply with the language in the Constitution. Not only in the regulation referred to in the Second Amendment, but also in the main body of the Constitution – Article III, Section 3 –“Treason against the United States, shall consist only in levying war against them, or in adhering to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort.” Taking up arms against the government of the United States would seem to qualify as treason to most reasonable people.

So let’s talk more about gun control. Those opposed seem to go right to the conspiracy idea that any step to eliminate free and easy access to virtually any weapon is a step toward removing all weapons. Even if that were true, that is not the issue “on the table” in the current debates. And if (or when) such a proposal ever shows up it can be opposed then; and such opposition would be supported by quite a few gun control advocates.

In the meantime, why is it a problem to do a background check on someone to ensure that they are not a convicted felon (prohibited by law from owning a gun) or a mentally unstable person? While it is true that some stable person with no criminal record might buy a gun and later become unstable, I don’t see that as the major problem with gun violence. Nor do I see any way I could support that could avoid that situation. One can only hope that those close to someone who changes in such a way could alert others and authorities.

Waiting periods seem to be principally a problem for the hothead who wants a gun “right now!” because they intend to use it on someone “right now!” Let’s be realistic, hunting seasons are known well in advance, if you have gone until now without a personal home protection weapon it’s hard to see how a little more time will make much difference. Likewise, if you just think it would be good to take up shooting targets as a recreation. There just aren’t a lot of good reasons why you would need to buy a gun and take delivery the same moment you pay for it.

Limitations on the sorts of weapons that can be owned brings us right into the scariest heart of the matter. Where the line is reasonably drawn may be a matter for some debate, but hopefully every rational person would agree that a line is necessary. Should my neighbor be allowed to possess chemical, biological or nuclear weapons? How about Hellfire missiles? Flame throwers? Hand grenades?

And then the most damning of all – why should any of these restrictions be suspended just because the guns are sold at a “gun show” or “swap meet”? This goes beyond being a loophole – it’s a damn chasm which effectively eliminates any other hard won controls that were put in place.

Now we must confront what meaning the Second Amendment has in the 21st century. It has been well over 100 years since the United States relied on the militia model to defend itself or keep the peace. In an age of modern warfare part-time citizen armies equipped with their own weapons is worse than laughable. For hunting or target sport any fully automatic weapon seems unnecessary and in fact detrimental to the stated objectives. (As comedienne Brett Butler once said, ‘If it takes you 600 rounds per minute to bring down Bambi, hunting may not be your sport.’) Likewise for home defense, unless you are planning on holding off a mob, in which case the police and maybe even the National Guard should be involved.

So here we enter the murky territory of “doomsday” prep. While some individual scenarios for “doomsday” seem far-fetched, I agree that our world has entirely too much dependence on every part of the manufacturing, transportation and distribution systems working perfectly, as well as other aspects of daily living. That is a recipe for disaster of one sort or another. A single massive failure in one sector quickly spreads to all others. In such scenarios law and order can quickly break down and the police and even the National Guard could soon be overwhelmed by civil violence, and ensuing anarchy. Add the polarized political environment and you have a situation ripe for civil war on a neighborhood by neighborhood basis.

Which brings us to the “militia” movement – in an armed uprising against the government I don’t think they could win. But exploiting some other breakdown of authority might be just the edge a group with a huge stockpile of weapons could use to effectively takeover large areas. Many of these people are far right wingers whose appreciation for the subtleties of rights under the Constitution is shall we say “questionable” – starting with their persistent misreading of the Second Amendment. Read their racist blogs. Look into their idea of what the Constitution means and discover that very few of us will have any rights whatsoever if they are in charge.

Perhaps they are concerned about having their guns taken away because they know that if the rest of us realized what their ultimate aims are, we’d feel compelled to do that to protect our own and everyone else’s liberties. Perhaps there are some militias that are not “poster children” for Fascist rule, but I am sure that private armies dictating their view of the Constitution was not in the minds of the Founders of our republic.

To be clear, I don’t want to ban all weapons in the hands of the public, but I do think that registration, restrictions on who, what kind and how many are more than reasonable and within the bounds of the Constitution. My opposition to a complete ban on gun ownership isn’t just Constitutional. We have plenty of examples of how prohibition fails disastrously and with unintended consequences – e.g. alcohol in the 1920s and 1930s, and the present day with drugs.

I think gun control is and ought to be primarily about keeping guns out of the hands of people who represent a danger to others. I’m not talking about ‘profiling’ or guessing that they will commit a crime based on their political beliefs (unless they are advocating violent overthrow of the government). I think criminal history and some health history should be enough. However, none of it makes any difference until we can shut down the ridiculous “loophole” of the gun show.

One of the most factually baseless claims made by gun “rights” lobbies is the presumed extra protection from lone gunmen shooting up schools or businesses. The argument goes that if “everyone” were carrying a weapon then when some crazy comes on campus, or into the office to kill people they can be taken out by any one of the many people legitimately armed to protect themselves. It has all of the right ingredients for something that seems reasonable. Except that numerous training exercises and a few unfortunate real life experiences prove that in such scenarios more innocent civilians are killed by “friendly fire” than by the perpetrator. This is why police forces train in special courses to learn to quickly identify what is a real target and what is an innocent bystander. It isn’t easy and it goes against the natural biological reaction to narrow one’s focus instead of broadening it to see a larger picture.  This justification for arming a significant portion of the populace is another example of simplistic thinking about solutions to the gun violence problem. Perhaps it comes from watching too much TV where it is easy to identify the bad guys and “lucky shots” are common. Another way to know this idea is bad? When people start saying things like “shooters would think twice if they knew others were armed.” That suggests you know how these shooters think, or that you assume they think just like you; but you wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. The world is not a simple place and inside the mind of someone who shoots up a school or business is even less clear.

We need to call out the ridiculous opposition to gun control every time they misrepresent a control measure as an attempt to remove all guns. Diverting the conversation is a crude tactic for those who fear facing the actual questions. Hold them to the issue, don’t get drawn into a false debate, keep coming back to the question at hand – Why do you think it’s OK for someone with a history of violence to run out and buy a gun on the spur of the moment? Why do you think it is OK for someone to circumvent every gun control law by simply buying or selling a gun at a ‘gun show’?

Reasonable gun control will NOT cure all gun violence, it is not a problem that has a complete and simple solution, once and for all. But it could certainly help, and there is no good reason not to put into place reasonable controls.

[horrorhouse]

A Response to Josh Gad

On August 28, 2019, actor Josh Gad decided to post a lengthy Twitter thread regarding our political climate. I decided I wanted to post it in its entirety as one long letter instead of just posting each individual tweet and then give my response point by point. So here we go.

I don’t want to be the guy always shouting at the top of his lungs about the same thing. Life is too short. So this (I’m hoping) will be the last time I try to put into words how I feel about the current political situation we are in and reach out to those of you content with where things are right now in our country. So here we go. I know some of you wanted and hoped to throw the whole system out and see what happened if we disrupted political norms and elected a “guy who says it like it is” and in a weird way, I guess I even understand that impulse. But this is where we are now objectively: Donald Trump has never been fit for office and it appears that he is mentally unhinged. We can talk around it. We can play word games. We can debate what that means. But by all appearances he is truly a “madman.” I know it sounds funny and entertaining to hear the absurdity of the President of the United States threaten to nuke a thunderstorm to send it away or get angry at a country for not selling him another country but it’s not funny. It’s actually debilitatingly [sic] sad. Because our lives aren’t a reality show, even if he thinks he’s living in one. We have all lost the plot. We are chasing him down a rabbit hole of insanity and avoiding real issues like gun violence, immigration, health care, poverty and most importantly the very real threat of climate change, something this man doesn’t even believe exists because apparently he knows more as a realtor than the entire scientific community. We aren’t on the precipice of catastrophe or at the doorstep of doom...we are sadly past it. We need leadership to help us formulate how we adapt, grow & tackle environmental changes unlike any humanity has seen in the last few thousand years. But we don’t have that. Instead we have a man more interested in who likes him & who doesn’t than in anybody’s welfare currently reading this thread. I know some people out there believe he must be supported because he represents the religious and moral values you and your family share. But, the truth is, I know nobody really believes that because each and every single version of religious texts I’ve come across say that lying, cheating, stealing, coveting, and deceiving are not moral attributes worthy of lauding. He’s the definition of a fraud. You know it. I know it. Hell, even Fox News knows it. For them, it’s just another inconvenient truth. This isn’t about moral leadership. If you can sleep at night telling yourself that this President is a morally righteous, mentally sound, truthful man, I envy you. I wish I could fool my brain into believing a single syllable of that sentence. I’d have much fewer gray hairs. But I’m not living with my head in the sand. I can, sadly, see what a child should be able to see...we are all in danger as long as this demagogue is in the Oval Office. He is a monster. A racist white Nationalist, who doesn’t even bother using dog whistles, but is singing out loud for all to hear. Our allies are now our enemies. Our enemies are now inside our gates making a mockery of our system while our President cheers them on. 2020 isn’t an election year. It’s the single most historically important moment for our country in the modern era. We have already failed this test once. If we fail again...there is no do-over. History will bury us in its annals and assail us like those fools whose mistakes we repeated because we were too greedy, stubborn or polarized to do the right thing. After all, this is no longer about political differences. This isn’t a football game where we’re all on different teams. This is one union. One country under God that has been through hell and back but carried a torch of greatness on its shores promising something better than anywhere else in the world...opportunity. “The American Dream.” For far too many that dream has become a waking nightmare. Let’s wake ourselves up. Let’s come together. Before it’s too late. Register. Fight. Educate. Learn. Read. Resist. And most importantly. VOTE. Vote like your life depends on it...because this time it does.

Josh, I hope that you have the chance to read my response and consider what I have to say. Part of the problem with the condition of our country is the divisions created when people aren’t willing to listen to and respect each other’s differing viewpoints. First of all, you say that you don’t want to be the guy screaming about the same thing at the top of your lungs and life is short, yet you say you’d have much fewer gray hairs if you could go to sleep at night believe the President is a morally righteous, mentally sound, truthful man. If life is so short, why are you keeping yourself up at night over your own personal beliefs? It’s self-sabotage, and maybe you should consider seeing a doctor for the benefit of your mental health and also a cardiologist so you don’t have a coronary. I voted for President Trump, and it wasn’t to throw a wrench in the system and shake up “political norms”. I weighed my options. I didn’t vote for him in the primaries. But between Trump and Hillary Clinton, I chose who I felt at the time was the lesser of two evils. Voters had no real yard stick with which to measure Trump’s political accomplishments or failures. We had one for Hillary, and clearly the American people didn’t want her in office. She has a history of racism going all the way back to her time as First Lady of Arkansas. There’s video of Hillary on the campaign trail from March 2016 at a coffee shop in Minnesota when she snapped at a young female person of color for questioning her on whether she planned to address the diversity of elected officials. Not to mention the emails that leaked days before the election no doubt had an affect on voters. Her history with her husband’s victims didn’t help her, either. The President isn’t avoiding issues like gun violence, immigration, health care, poverty -- you just don’t agree with what he has done on those issues. He’s addressing the issues and looking for bipartisan solutions. For one thing, he instituted a ban on bump stocks. He pressured Mexico to crack down on migrants passing through their country to get into the United States (the majority of whom were entering the country illegally -- you can hate the law all you want but until it changes, it’s the law that exists and should be enforced), his administration has expanded access to prescription drugs and the slowdown in prescription drug price growth during his time in office has saved over $26 billion. With regard to poverty, President Trump created 4.7 million jobs in his first two years and lowered the unemployment rate to its lowest in recorded history, particularly for African-Americans and Hispanics. I’d love to hear what your solutions are for these issues.  As for climate change, President Trump said climate change is a complex issue and added “I’m not sure anybody is ever going to really know” the cause. There are several theories that have been explored by scientists and numerous solutions presented, both small- and large-scale. Some aspects of earth’s core temperature changes have nothing to do with man - they’re do to natural environmental effects. So how do you intend to completely eradicate global warming? I know the President isn’t perfect. I know he’s not a paragon of moral virtue. But in my opinion, he’s still a better leader than Hillary Clinton would have been. At this point, you sound like someone standing on a street corner holding a sign that says THE END IS NIGH. If anyone’s mental state should be considered and questioned, perhaps it’s your own. Just from reading your tweets, it comes off that you’re some foaming-at-the-mouth lunatic.

[grahamparrish]

Why Does My Cat Spray Everywhere Staggering Useful Tips

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How To Stop An Unneutered Cat From Spraying

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How To Stop A Cat From Spraying Indoors Home Remedies

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[star-anise]

I'm in my last year of undergrad and I feel like everything has gone to shit. The past year and a half have been awful, i have depression, anxiety and im almost positive i have ADHD too. I feel like such a piece of shit because I keep asking for the extensions on projects and exams, and I'm afraid I'm gonna be this way forever. Sorry this is a lot but do you have any advice on how to take the first step in digging myself out of this hole ive created?

Okay, so it seems like you came in via this post. That’s pretty much my philosophy here. I don’t know if you’re gonna “be this way forever” or not--I know I will probably be the way I am (depressed, anxious, with ADHD) forever, but that isn’t necessarily the same as being a trash disaster on academic probation forever.

I’ll be honest, I kind of feel like after a year and a half, you’re kind of an expert on what you can do with two hands and a shovel. You’ve been digging yourself out as fast as you can, and it’s been a real struggle. I think it’s time for you to get actual help, as in, other people. Reaching out to me was a good first step. I can help you decide where to go from here.   

Keep it simple and take it slow. If you don’t know where to find any of this stuff, feel free to private message me your school’s website; I have a minor knack for reading organizational structures.

For the next week, pick ONE OR TWO of the following options. Even if they’re all good ideas, keep your goals manageable. And then, of those one or two, pick one or two SMALL ACTIONS you can do to pursue them, like looking up a number in your student handbook or making an appointment. If you do more, that’s great, but the siren song of our people is, “I’m gonna accomplish so much!” 

Without further ado: Some Options For Help

Your school’s Disability Services/Accessibility Office/Office of Inclusion/whatever they call it

You’re looking for the office that helps Deaf/Blind/mobility-impaired students succeed in school. Mental health falls under the same category. It’s their job to make sure your school is providing you with as much chance at an education as it would provide to someone who’s totally neurotypical. Tell them what you told me.

Stuff they can do:

Tell you what your school’s requirement is for documenting a disability

Give you information on local assessment and treatment options--what psych professionals locally are good? Is there a fund somewhere that will cover your testing? Does the student health centre have a psychiatrist?

Provide you with a letter that tells your instructors that giving extensions, having flexible schedules, or dropping penalties for non-attendance is a legal requirement to accommodate you. This is not necessarily a free pass--a professor may decide that some things are mandatory or non-negotiable--but it is an easy way to bring these problems up early, before they become an issue.

Help find your or fund you a tutor (more on this later)

Help you find other resources and services on your campus

Your school’s Counselling Centre/Wellness Services/Social Work Office/wherever they hide the shrinks

This is the place where they offer free counselling. If there’s walk-in, go to walk-in; if they can book an appointment in a week, go in a week; if there’s a three-month waitlist, get your name on the waitlist.

Funny story--I had graduated undergrad before I realized that students got free counselling on-campus. I’d been in therapy since I was 16, but five years of undergrad? Yeah, no clue. I was looking for therapists on Psychology Today and shelling out hundreds of dollars out of pocket, and there were hot and cold running therapists under my very nose.

In fact, there might be more than just therapists. The school I worked at had regular counsellors, and also a Learning Specialist, whose job included teaching people with executive function disorders like depression and ADHD how to study effectively!  It’s worth asking about.

When you see one of these people, it’s very tempting to think they are An Adult Who Is The Boss Of You. They will look at you, understand you with their expert knowledge, tell you what your deal is, and give you instructions on what to do now!  

In reality, therapists are not Sherlock Holmes, or profilers on TV. We can’t just look at you and go, “I see by the way you button your coat that you’re a middle child and ambiguity makes you uncomfortable.”  We rely a lot on “client report”--on what you say is true. Psychological assessment is a process involving interaction, not a detached observation of stable qualities. If a therapist says something about you that seems inaccurate, it is beneficial and good to say, “No, actually, I think you’re mistaken. To me, it looks more like...”

You’re recruiting an experienced co-traveller to go on a trip with you. They know a lot about rocks and trails and climbing harness, but they don’t know the territory you’ll be travelling together. So first and foremost, you want to find someone you want to go on a trip with: a therapist who is a good fit for you.

If you don’t like your assigned therapist, ask for a new one. We have an ethical responsibility to provide referrals when we can’t provide someone with the treatment they need, and since a good client-therapist relationship predicts therapy outcome like 70% of the time, simply not liking or trusting your therapist is a good enough reason to try somebody new. If you want you can just email them after the session and say, “I don’t think you and I quite clicked. With what you know now of my personality and issues, is there someone else in your office you can refer me to?”

Medication. Different medication.

Not gonna lie, going on antidepressants was like... getting the inside of my brain whitewashed. There was so much space. So much room. I could think and feel without being constantly smothered in negativity! And going on ADHD meds on top of that was like.. the thoughts that had always been slippery, unable to grasp or manipulate, suddenly became solid in my hands. I could grip them, slow them down, tell them to go somewhere else.

Both times, it took five to ten adjustments to get to the right cocktail and dosage. For example, I was on an antidepressant that stopped me from crying and freaking out all the time but killed my creative drive, so we added a drug that gave me more energy so I could write again. Then money got tight, we tried me on a generic, found that didn’t work, and found a way to pay for the first version. Each time, it meant seeing the doctor, trying a dose for two weeks or a month, and then going back to report progress and try adjusting it again.

Again: It’s a process, an interaction. It’s something you get a say in. And if you’re currently on meds--well, let me just say: If you sent me an ask like that, your meds aren’t doing their job. They’re not the right ones for you. So it’s time for an adjustment.

If you can get to or afford a psychiatrist, great! A general practitioner who’s known you for a while will often do. And if you need to, well, I’ve gotten my meds adjusted by a different doctor every time at a walk-in family practice clinic. You do what you can. Information on who and what is available is often why Disability Services is a great resource--who knows, maybe there’s a psychiatrist on campus you can see for free who sees the depression/anxiety/ADHD trifecta all the time!

(General life tip: When they give you an assessment for depression, anxiety, or ADHD, don’t downplay your symptoms. Answer the way you would on a bad day or when you’re struggling. Of course you know how to cope with these challenges, but the unfair part is that you have to cope with them at all)

A tutor or academic coach

This never occurred to me for a long long time, because I was always a “smart kid”, and I always thought tutors were for people who didn’t intellectually grasp the material. Meanwhile: Surprise! I have a developmental disability that significantly impacts my learning! My grad school put me on academic probation and effectively foisted a person of this job description on me, and it was the BEST THING EVER.

If you’ve ever felt like you would work so much better if only you had someone sitting there all the time making you work? Or a sympathetic friend who could help you break it down and be less overwhelming? If the only time you get your work done is when someone else asks you about it? This is the person for you.

Most schools provide these services to students for free, or subsidize disabled students’ tutoring. If all else fails, you can find a tutor on your own and say, “I get this stuff intellectually, but I really need someone who makes me spend time with it, because left to myself I’d get anxious and ignore it all until the night before the deadline.”

If you have good friends who can do this for you, that’s great too--but the biggest objection to the post that brought you here is, “I’m depressed and socially anxious--I don’t HAVE anybody to help!”  So this post is aimed at linking you up to people whose explicit job it is to help you--people you, your insurance, or your tuition dollars directly pay for.

[smuttbunnie]

Control

Member: V

Genre: Smut / Angst

Series: The Moon Child

Theme: Halloween

Part: 2 / {pt.1} {pt.3} {pt.4} {pt.5} {pt.6} {pt.7}

The sky had already been painted with the night’s pallet; in shades of dark sapphire and indigo when Taehyung entered his room. He was usually up at this time, but his research had left him exhausted both mentally and physically. Your past was a dusty and incomplete book, with many stains, rips and pages that were missing. The writing that he could make out told a sickening and ghastly story, and he wasn’t sure what was fiction or truth.

His weary eyes traveled towards the bed, your small frame huddled and curled up in the middle of the mattress…somehow incredibly lonely, and lost. Sweeping the white strands that fell across your face behind your ear, he could see unfallen tears clinging to the corners of your lashes, a painful expression still stitched onto your face in the midst of sleep. Damn it…he really messed up this time.

Tenderly lifting you up, he carried you towards the right side of the bed, pulling the covers back and gently laying you down. Quietly climbing in himself, he softly pulled the sheets over both of your bodies, your chest rising and falling in what he hoped was peaceful sleep… Cupping your cheek with his slender fingers, he brushed the tears from your eyes.

“Sorry…” he whispered, not knowing what else to say and turning his back on you instead. He didn’t want to look at you…if he did he’d never get any sleep. What was he supposed to make of the current situation? Taehyung was by no length an affectionate person, and had gained cruel tendencies over the unforgiving years. He was a prince, and still had his duties as such...he didn’t even have the time to entertain the possibility of someone like you. Someone so…

Taeyhung sat up and sighed into his hands. Your scent still lingered on his body…it was starting to cling to the sheets, tainting the air with such an enticing smell. His majesty angrily tossed the covers aside as he stood up, moving away from the bed with detest. 

Sleep? How the hell was he supposed to do that when you tempted him like this. Even when you lay and dream you torment him relentlessly, testing his control and pushing it to the limits! When was the last time he tried to sleep of all things? He rarely used his bed for anything besides momentary pleasure, and yet here he was, climbing underneath the blankets like a child!

Turning towards the bed, he was ready to throw you out of his room, but caught himself as he heard the soft mumble of sleep; “Hmm...Don’t...sto...plea...se”

It was as if water had doused the fire inside of him. As if the match he’d struck had burnt out as soon a flame dared to flicker, and his anger was quietly snuffed out. Slowly getting back into bed, he moved closer until his forehead was resting against yours. Did your previous masters get to hear this? The soft, incoherent conversations you had in your head? The whispers of sleep that slipped past your lips...

For a reason Taehyung couldn’t name, he loosely pulled you closer into his arms. He would sleep. For the first time in months, he would close his eyes, and sleep, and try to desperately to control himself. This unbearable scent was not allowed to break him, he thought. Not when he was already full from your blood, and when his fresh bite marks still covered your skin. 

***

Your eyes fluttered open as you heard the soft click of the door opening, the curtains drawn shut as they forbid the entrance of sunlight through the windows. Sitting up and rubbing the sleep from your eyes, they came to land on the vampire standing in the doorway. Memories from the day before flooded your brain, overwhelming you with dread in an instant. You pressed your back against the headrest of the bed in fear, fiercely clutching at the sheets as you pulled them up to cover your disheveled appearance.

“N-No no, it’s okay, don’t worry” the boy hurriedly said seeing your reaction, a silver tray in his pale hands as he made his way towards you. “I promise not to-…um…not to do anything like…last night again.”

You didn’t move away, but still watched his every move with caution; slowly approaching you as if you were a skittish animal that might run away. Placing the tray on your lap under the covers, you flinched, and a brief look of guilt and pain flashed across his face.

“Um,” his majesty awkwardly started, running a hand nervously through his hair where he stood beside the bed. He had never had to talk to his meal before, let alone apologize for being hunger-… for being aggressive. To say the least;  This, was not his majesty’s strong suit.

It couldn’t be helped. You were confused...yesterday he was so demanding, but today he’s acting so hesitant. Anxious…worried? “I wasn’t sure what you could and couldn’t eat, so I told the servants to prepare you a few things. Bread from the kitchen, porridge, and some tea…earl grey.”

It was a simple meal. Porridge ,which was common for the poor, and bread that you could tell wasn’t freshly baked. But you couldn’t remember the last time you ate, and the man standing beside you would never know how much this small meal meant to you. Remembering you were still a slave in this castle, you were about to mutter a mandatory thank you, but was cut short by a sharp pain shooting through your scalp. Groaning softly, you held your forehead, feeling it throb underneath your fingers.

Worry lined Taehyung’s brow, but you failed to notice. Headache’s were not uncommon with a history like yours, and the sudden pain no longer surprised you. “I’m sorry, you must be very fatigued from yesterday. You lost a lot of your-” He stopped himself, biting his lip as he quickly looked away. Funny…it’s almost as if…he regrets it? You quickly scolded the thought, telling yourself that you knew better than to naively hope like this.

The prince paused, before uttering in a slightly more serious tone; “There’s a vile of blood too…that is, if that sort of thing matches your tastes.” If Taehyung was being honest with himself, he didn’t know if you could drink it or not. A Moon Child’s teeth, though pointed, would never be able to penetrate the skin  - even a human would have better luck trying to drink blood. But he had heard that your kind still craved it’s nourishment, and grew weaker because of the lack of blood in your diet. You became easy prey for vampires, regardless if they were clueless fledglings or matured masters. Loosing blood, and becoming feeble and frail, they would become an inevitable victim.

It was a vicious cycle.

Seemingly having run out of things to say, and since you didn’t make a move to touch your food, Taehyung simply gave a curt nod, before leaving you alone in the room once more. He had enough control to stop himself from asking for forgiveness. It was much too early for you to even consider such a thing. Glancing at the food, you wondered whether to eat or not. Your stomach felt hollow and you desperately needed the food. Nothing smelt like poison...the porridge and bread didn’t contain any sharp or harmful objects hidden inside either.

Looking at the tea, a smile almost touched your lips. Being something that was only drank by those who could afford it made this small, chipped cup, an absolute luxury. You took the small vile, pouring some of the dark, thick, crimson liquid into the tea, and stirring it before raising the cup to your lips.

You couldn’t help your surprise at the taste.

Ah…it’s…

Sweet.

***

The prince’s bedroom, where you were being kept, was a lot bigger than you had first realized. It had two connecting rooms, one being a lavish bathroom and the other a study that you weren’t allowed to enter under any circumstance. With these rules in place, you spent your days in his room, waiting for the hours to pass.

You didn’t sleep - that was far too risky. If the master came in and saw you on his bed, he might beat you for doing so without consent. It had happened before with a previous owner, and you only made that mistake once. If there was one thing that had been burnt into you a million times over, was that mistakes, would not be tolerated.

Quickly standing up, you lowered your head and put your hands behind your back as you waited. 5...4...3...2... Right on cue, the door opened and Jin came in with your afternoon lunch. The man was very punctual, and sometimes brought you your meals if another servant wasn’t available. He was surprised upon entering; you were always standing there with your eyes to the floor. It reminded him of something...like a child being scolded, or a window quietly mourning beside a grave. 

“You...you can raise your head, it’s just me” he said, wondering if the prince instructed you to stand like this whenever the door opened. You lifted your head; silent as you waited. You always did that - waited. You would stay like that until Jin said, ‘You can eat now’ and only then would you move. It was like a carefully practiced dance, like routine...like habit, he thought.

You took the tray from him, and sat down on the floor. Today it was bread, an apple and a small slice of cheese. You stared at your supper, anxiety gnawing at your belly like a starved dog. The blandness of it didn’t phase you - the reason behind the food however, did. Why were you always offered consecutive meals like this? Maybe he just toying with you before he starved you for a week...maybe it was like a game to him... You couldn’t trust this. There had to be some sort of drug or sedative in the food, some sort of poison to make you susceptible to orders or commands or lies. It couldn’t be so simple as to just feeding a slave.

It was never that simple.

You must have been sitting like that for quite some time, because Jin suddenly spoke up; "You know, our prince isn't as cruel as he seems. If you have any gods you pray to, or some higher power you believe in, he won't stop you. You won't be punished like before. You can go ahead and pray out loud if you wish."                         You looked up at the man, and he was startled at the blank expression lain across your face. You gave him a smile that failed to reach your eyes, and for a minute the room was ice cold.                          "If there are any gods out there, they must hate me."

***

“She does what?” Taehyung asked, baffled by what his servant had just told him. Jin grimaced, sharing Taehyung’s shock from when he had first seen it.

“She checks the food...breaks open the bread, sniffs the cheese. She even refuses to sit anywhere except the floor.”

Taehyung put down his book, trying to take in the new information. It was understandable that you didn’t trust him...after what he had done, it was only the logical thing for you to do. But this? This was an entirely different matter.

”She also does this thing-...whenever I enter the room, her arms are folded behind her back, and her head is lowered. Like...like a...like a-”

“Like a prisoner.” Taehyung finished.

For a few moments the room was still, before he spoke up again.

“You know... Every night, she’s tormented by nightmares. She’ll try to sleep, but in the end, she slips out of bed as soon as she thinks I’m sleeping.”

“Does she try to escape?” Jin asked; surprised. To that the prince simply shook his head. “She just...lies down, away from the bed. And like clockwork, after two hours, she’ll climb back in around the time I get up. Both were quiet, considering the unsettling facts that made the air heavy in the room. Everything tasted like lead, and not even blood as sweet as yours could make it go away. 

Taehyung decided not to tell Jin about the scars on your back; only that you had a history with masters, and that this type of thing had happened before. He wouldn’t tell anyone about gruesome marks that branded you, nor the tears that ran glass trails down your cheeks that night ...how you looked so vulnerable and fragile...how he whispered apologies onto your deaf ears... How he almost kissed you when he woke up to the sound of your breathing, his control barely a thread.

His majesty sighed deeply, running a hand through his crimson hair. This kind of thinking was dangerous, and would bring disaster if he continued like this. Where was he supposed to go from here? You wouldn’t last a day outside of the castle, and sending you back to your country was out of the question.  No...that wasn’t it. He wanted to keep you. If given the chance, he would surely turn it down, and make sure no one could ever steal you away from him. He wanted to...control you. 

“That’ll be all for today Jin, you can take your leave now.”

“Thank you sire,” the man said bowing, and then left Taehyung to think by himself. He thought about your strange behavior...about the face you made when you saw him standing in the door and how your whole body recoiled in fear. You were so visibly cracked, that one more little fracture would make you fall apart and shatter. So broken and crippled; how you were still standing on the ruins of your humanity was somehow a miracle...if it could even be called such a thing.   He took a deep breath, pressing his hands against his face. There was no way he could take you again. If he were to press you down into those sheets, and once again hurt you like before, you would never be able to forgive him. He had to control himself. Control the primal urge that hungered after you. He had to have control.

Jin suddenly burst through the doors, a distraught expression grasping onto the edges of his face. Sweat coated his brow, and his hair was wild around his face from running, his breath coming out in gasps for air.

“You majesty it’s the girl!”

He was in control.

“A servant attacked her and she tried to stop him-”

Utter. Control.

“and he ended up grabbing her!”

Control.

“She- They threw her in the dungeon!”

Control.

~To be continued. 

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