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mcgrillzdumpinc · 3 years

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In Which Nie Huaisang Does Not Know How to Drop It

Summary: Jin Guangyao intercepts one of Nie Huaisang's trade deals. Nie Huaisang won't rest until he gets his revenge. Jiang Cheng would very much like his husband to drop it.

Written for sangchengber day 4 - Crime AU!

Rating: M

Pairing: Sangcheng

Warnings: Talk of sex

ao3 link

“I’m going to kill Yao-ge!”

His husband’s voice echoes through their apartment and into the master bathroom. Until now, Jiang Cheng didn’t even know Nie Huaisang was home.

Sighing and removing the cucumber slices from his eyes, Jiang Cheng calls back, “Welcome home, A-Sang.”

“Hello my love! I’m home!” Nie Huaisang enters the master bath, still dressed to the nines. “Know any contract killers I can hire?”

Jiang Cheng sinks further into his bath. He’d been planning to take the day to himself, away from the family business. But crime doesn’t sleep and, apparently, neither does the weird friend-enemy relationship between Nie Huaisang and Jin Guangyao.

“What happened now?” Jiang Cheng asks as he starts to chew on the cucumber slices.

Nie Huaisang begins disrobing with a significant sigh. “You remember I was going to finalize that trade agreement with the Tang family? They’ll get top of the line ecstasy from the Nie and we’ll get access to their spy network?” Off goes Nie Huaisang’s top, revealing the intricate and lace-like tattoo that encircles his waist. “Well, take a guess at what Yao-ge did!”

Jiang Cheng watches in appreciation as Nie Huaisang removes his black thigh highs. “He killed your contact in the Tang family?”

Then goes the pleated skirt. “Worse! He intercepted the trade and took the deal for himself! Now the Jin will have everything my family was supposed to.” Finally, he removes his satin briefs, gloriously naked and unfairly sexy in front of Jiang Cheng.

“In that case, I don’t think killing him will fix anything,” Jiang Cheng counsels. As Nie Huaisang approaches the bath, Jiang Cheng leans over the bathtub rim, reaching out a hand to grab his husband’s ass.

“Not right now, A-Cheng,” Nie Huaisang says, grabbing Jiang Cheng’s hand to leave an apologetic kiss on the inside of his wrist. “I need to think.” Without bothering to remove his makeup, Nie Huaisang slips into the bath. Thankfully, their tub is more than large enough to accommodate the two of them.

“About killing Jin Guangyao or taking a more civilized route?”

“Would you be mad if I said both?”

“I’d be very annoyed. It’s hard enough making sure the Ouyang and Yao families stay loyal to only the Jiangs. If you start a war with the Jin, I’ll be up to my eyeballs with internal conflict.”

Nie Huaisang clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll be nice this time.”

“Will you try to make a new trade agreement with the Tang? Or weasel your way into the one Jin Guangyao finalized?”

Nie Huaisang sinks into the bathwater, the bottom of his hair floating with the soap bubbles. “Probably see if I can convince Yao-ge to renegotiate. First I should figure out why he wanted my trade agreement. Then I’ll stick it to that bitch.”

Jiang Cheng smiles and slots himself between Nie Huaisang’s legs, hovering about his husband. “That’s the man I married,” he says, doing his best to sound seductive.

It must work, because Nie Huaisang tucks Jiang Cheng’s hair behind his ear before bringing him in for a searing kiss. “That’s enough thinking for today,” he whispers against Jiang Cheng’s lips.

Jiang Cheng smirks before making himself busy.

~~~

A week later, though, the situation isn’t resolved.

“Little bitch won’t even talk to me,” Nie Huaisang grumbles as he types on his phone. Jiang Cheng’s best guess is that he’s talking to a Jin contact, but he can’t be certain. “The second I mention the Tang deal, everyone clams up. San-ge won’t answer my calls, er-ge is leaving me on read, and now da-ge! My own da-ge! Calls me this morning to tell me to drop the situation. Like I’m going to do that when they’ve got me curious!”

Jiang Cheng would very much like to watch this movie with his husband but, well, he’s used to disappointment.

Pressing pause on Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Jiang Cheng sighs and leans back in the couch. “Want to talk about it?” he asks, putting on his best sarcastic tone.

“I’m sorry, puppy,” Nie Huaisang says without looking up from his phone. He reaches out his hand and Jiang Cheng places it on his knee so Nie Huaisang can rub it apologetically. “I can’t leave this.”

“No, I know.” Sighing again, Jiang Cheng rubs the bridge of his nose. He loves Nie Huaisang more than anything, but he won’t deny there are sides of him that Jiang Cheng can barely stand. His stubborn desire to solve any mystery, for example. Jiang Cheng will never forget what happened after he watched Inception with Nie Huaisang and Wei Wuxian when they were still in their teens. In what was his first glance into his future-husband’s intellect, he saw his then-friend lose himself in Reddit theories about the movie’s ending and pick apart all the possible meanings. That insatiable curiosity was insane then and it is insane now.

Jiang Cheng stands up and turns on the living room lights. Nie Huaisang is still sitting on the couch, buried deep into his phone, his share of the snacks untouched and forgotten. Restraining another sigh, Jiang Cheng decides then and there what he’ll have to do before his husband drives him mad. He won’t like it, not in the slightest, but he’s willing to make due for love.

~~~

Nie Mingjue, Lan Xichen, and Jin Guangyao share an apartment in midtown. Among the many swanky high-rise buildings and metro lines, the trio live in a quaint, three-storey building. It is the last place one would think to look for three of the most powerful names in the criminal underworld as well as just cute enough to appeal to Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao’s cottage core tastes.

Jiang Cheng presses the buzzer for their apartment – room 303. He knows there is a camera attached to the buzzer and that he didn’t bother wearing a disguise, so he is very surprised when he is allowed entry. As he climbs the stairs, he runs through scenarios in his head. He is wearing a bulletproof vest just in case, but he knows that winning the argument will ultimately come down to sincerity (or how well he can fake sincerity) and word-spinning (or how well he can mimic Nie Huaisang without betraying his pride).

When Jiang Cheng knocks on the door, he is greeted by Nie Mingjue wearing only baggy sweatpants with his long hair tied into a long braid. All arguments immediately leave Jiang Cheng’s head, because it is simply impossible for a mere mlm to not fall victim to the intrinsic sexiness of Nie Mingjue.

“Huaisang sent you?” Nie Mingjue grumbles, sounding so much like a deeper-voiced version of his younger brother.

“Um—no, I came here on my own,” Jiang Cheng stumbles to reply. “I wanted to talk to you. On my own.”

Nie Mingjue rolls his eyes and steps back from the door, allow Jiang Cheng to enter. “I’ll go get the other two.”

The other two arrive in short time. Lan Xichen, as always, is dressed impeccably and like he just walked out of a photoshoot for Vanity Fair. Jin Guangyao, meanwhile, is still in his pajamas, a mismatched set of yellow sweatshirt and light green pants, yet his make-up and hair are not a detail out of place.

“How can we help you, Wanyin?” Lan Xichen asks, serene smile in place as he fills a tea kettle with water.

“If it’s about the Tang deal, please tell Sang-di the answer is still no,” Jin Guangyao adds as he settles into the couch next to Nie Mingjue.

“You know he won’t drop it,” Jiang Cheng responds. When Lan Xichen asks him his preferred tea, he responds anything with chamomile, thank you.

“Neither will I,” Jin Guangyao retorts, smiling politely as Nie Mingjue throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him against his side.

“I’ve lived with the brat for years,” Nie Mingjue argues, “he’ll drop it in a few weeks.”

“He’ll be a bitch about it for an extra month, though,” Jin Guangyao snarks.

“A-Yao,” Nie Mingjue scolds.

“He’s right, da-ge. Sang-di is a bit of a bitch,” Lan Xichen says.

“I’m his husband and I have to agree,” Jiang Cheng adds.

Nie Mingjue rolls his eyes. “Fine. But you can use nicer language.”

“Here’s the thing, though,” Jiang Cheng starts as Lan Xichen pours hot water into four cups, “Nie Huaisang is a bitch and I love him so much, but this Tang deal is getting in the way of a happy marriage.”

“Suck his dick if you want him to pay attention to you,” Jin Guangyao immediately snarks.

“A-Yao!” Nie Mingjue nearly screeches.

“I have to agree with da-ge on this one, A-Yao. That was a bit far,” Lan Xichen says smoothly as he carries in the tea.

Jiang Cheng takes his cup first. “The problem is that I have! But then right after, it’s back to the Tang deal!”

“Please don’t talk about my didi’s sex life,” Nie Mingjue whines.

“Hm, he really sounds like a Nie alright,” Jin Guangyao says as he takes his cup of tea. “Thank you, Huan-ge,” he adds sweetly to Lan Xichen.

“Please don’t bring me into this argument!” Nie Mingjue cries as he hides his face in Jin Guangyao’s hair.

“Maybe he needs a new project?” Lan Xichen tries as he sets his and Nie Mingjue’s cups on the coffee table.

“I’ve tried getting him interested in some Jiang affairs,” Jiang Cheng says as he settles into a loveseat adjacent to the couch. “He won’t pay them any attention.”

“Jiang affairs are probably boring to him now,” Jin Guangyao advises. “He married into them, after all.”

“Perhaps ask Wei Wuxian? There’s always something interesting going on with him,” Lan Xichen says as he sits down next to Jiang Cheng, looking every bit like somebody’s hot and nice school counselor.

“I’ll, um, I’ll try that,” Jiang Cheng replies. He turns his eyes onto the door, hoping he’ll be able to finish this cup of tea before he’s somehow roped into this weird polycule.

~~~

Lan Xichen’s advice turns out to work. Wei Wuxian has somehow embedded himself in a tricky situation involving the Wen siblings versus the rest of their stupid family. Getting Nie Huaisang involved proves a quick fix to both Wei Wuxian’s bullshit and the Tang deal.

“So was this san-ge’s idea, too?” Nie Huaisang asks after a night of long-overdue sex.

“Xichen’s, actually,” Jiang Cheng replies, curling up around his husband. “But if you’re thinking about trying to weasel your way back into the Tang deal, I will leave you.”

“…Fine. I’ll leave it be,” Nie Huaisang mumbles as he slots himself against Jiang Cheng’s body.

“Good. I love you.”

Nie Huaisang laughs softly. “I love you, too.”

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #sangcheng #nie huaisang #jiang cheng #sangchengber #sangcheng month 2020

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sleepysera · 3 years

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Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk and the Superiority of Human Nature

Oftentimes, people enjoy reading fiction to escape the harsh corners of reality. They like happy endings, and stories that entertain the more positive, lighter notions of life. If anything forces these people to confront the uncomfortable aspects of existence, many seem to prefer being guided through it with strength, resilience, and an overall restoration to balance in the end. In Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk, a short story collection about personified animals, David Sedaris brings the reader’s awareness to the vividly darker shades of reality and, after forcing them to look, leaves them there to laugh or cry at what they see. Through the use of book presentation, personification, and allegory, Sedaris lures his readers until they are all at once trapped with the inescapable confrontation of the darker side of humanity. It is here, through the reader’s own concluding reaction of discomfort and disgust that the author brings the concept of human nature to its knees with humility, proving the notion that humans are not all that superior to the very nature of the animals that they would seek to always hold mastery over.

Beginning from the outset with a mirage of judgement, the way that the author and the illustrator, Ian Falconer, present the book gives the impression that each story will be a light read about animals, much like a children’s story to be read before bed. Each story is only a few pages long with a larger font, and comes complete with an entire page or two of illustration. This model mimics a children’s book, and the reader is almost invited to approach the stories with a childlike innocence, thus giving an initial illusion of a happy ending. On the first page of “The Motherless Bear,” there is a cute picture of a sad and crying bear. Although the drawing appears similar to that of a children’s book, the story immediately takes a darker turn as the bear’s mother suddenly dies leaving her to grieve. The reader follows her further and soon understands that the bear stays in her unresolved grief looking only for the attention that comes with sympathy. As her life begins to unravel due to her endless complaints in search of such attention, she finally finds someone undeniably much worse off than her: a male bear who was taken prisoner by a human village, where they treat him horrendously. They had knocked out his teeth and beat him, among various other mistreatments.

As the bear is about to complain again, she is ambushed by the humans and taken hostage herself. The male bear is disposed of, and the story ends as she becomes the new prisoner living under the horrible conditions. On the last page is an illustration of the same bear, still sad, but now she is covered in sores, missing teeth, and is missing fur all over. Through the power of presentation and illustration, Sedaris and Falconer present a misleading premise that slowly unravels as the stories and illustrations evolve, getting darker, more grotesque, and more violent with every page. This progression reflects and coincides with the growing suspense that this was a book meant to captivate the mind and force it to face that which it has always been too uncomfortable to face about itself. After being lured in, the reader is given no choice but to confront the truth that life is never wholly innocent, and that there are horrible realities to be reconciled with the nature of life itself.

“‘But the muzzle--,’ the bear said.

‘That’s just to make me look dangerous.’

“Oh,’ the bear said. ‘I get it.’

‘No,’ he told her, ‘I don’t think you do. See, I have got maggots living in my knees. I’m alive, but flies are raising families in my flesh’” (Sedaris 37).

Following the initial impression left by the illustrations, the reader then notices the obvious use of personification, as each story revolves around animal characters who act and speak as though they were human. The reader, as a human, is emotionally removed enough from the animal characters to see clearly and place judgement on the absurdities and faults that develop within each story. With a focus upon animals, there is an understood concept that they are not one of “us,” and the reader is guided to feel more objectively upon each glimpse into the animals’ lives. In one of the stories, “The Mouse and the Snake,” a mouse adopts a baby snake as her pet. Immediately apparent is the ironic concept of prey adopting predator, and as the story progresses, the metaphor of humans adopting dangerous animals as pets grows all the stronger.

“In time she stopped using the word, ‘pet,’ as it seemed demeaning. The term ‘to own’ was banished as well, as it made it sound as though she were keeping him against his will, like a firefly trapped in a jar. ‘He’s a reptile companion,’ she took to saying, and thus, in time, he became her only companion” (Sedaris 43).

Even though humans do the same with their own pets, the personification of a mouse doing the same action encourages emotional removal to the point of judgement. The reader begins to place judgement upon the mouse. The mouse grows more infatuated with her “companion,” and begins to exhibit absurd behaviors such as trying to speak in hisses so that the snake could perhaps understand her. Yet, progress further, and the lighter reflections of human behavior towards pets continues into the extreme, and the mouse has slit her own tongue while covering up blatant murder to feed her “companion.” The reader journeys through this crescendo of absurdity until at the climax the reader discovers the snake has eaten the mouse. As a human being, the reader is led to view this ending as not only inevitable, but highly foolish--and yet, it leaves the reader with a subtle discomfort anyway, as though finding themselves at a crossroads in perception. The boundary between what is acceptable and unacceptable to humanity is blurred as this personification to the point of absurdity forces the reader to see that which humans would judge negatively in others, and that which humans would be hesitant to judge themselves for. The ability to objectively judge the personified animals was a mere illusion, for we as humans are forced to reckon with the recognition that we are no better ourselves.

To emphasize the absurdity of human judgement, Sedaris utilizes the structure of allegory to lead the reader into further acknowledging the faults of human nature. With blurred human and animal behavior through allegory showing such grotesque suggestions on humanity, the reader is left to react on their own, with humor or disgust. By establishing the reader’s attention with the illusion of innocence and judgement, the author then hones in precisely on the specific aspects of society he wants to address. In “The Judicious Brown Chicken,” for example, he allegorizes the concept of human reasoning and with a laser focus exponentially increases the absurd aspects of reasoning to the point of satire. The brown chicken witnesses several deaths around her, and in her desperate quest to survive, she reasons out how it was each victim’s fault that they died.

“The hawk could just as easily have abducted her, but it did not. The question was, why? A less spiritual being might have taken a practical approach: the guinea hen was smaller and easier to carry. But that wasn’t the answer, and the chicken knew it. The hen had been killed because she empathized too much and was strange to boot” (Sedaris 115).

Unable to cope with overwhelming anxiety about death, the fear of the unknown mixes bizarrely with the need for logical reasoning in a blind grab for the mirage of control over uncontrollable circumstances. Humans, as well as this chicken, often resort to explaining the unexplainable with spiritual rationalizations, even though these happenings are scientifically more likely dictated by chance. Through picking and choosing what to believe--even at the expense of logic and rationality--the chicken’s story mimics countless stories over human history, hinting at a deeper underlying aspect of human nature that is uncomfortable for us to face head on. With the amplified strangeness of the chicken’s reasoning, the human reader has no choice but to realize that human beings have been known to enact similar lines of thinking, and still do all the time. Throughout history we see civilizations evolve in similar ways, often intertwining politics with religion, such as with the witch hunts beginning in the 15th century. By placing blame on a victim for dying, the chicken feels comforted by the illusion of control over the chaotic nature of life and death. So too, would humans seek any explanation that could help them reject the chaos of existence; yet, as we can see with the chicken, the depths we go to in blaming others might very well have no actual foundations in reality. These stories confront people with uncomfortable ideas which they would often rather deny, and the reaction they have over them are telling in what shadows of human nature they would rather escape than admit are really there.

The end result with Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk is a collection of short stories dripping with irony, all of which are offensive first and foremost in their unflinching reflections upon the truth behind human nature. Though the reader may wish to deny looking at such darker aspects of life, the very presence of discomfort and revulsion in response to the themes illuminate a certain truth--a certain recognition. It is in this spark of recognition that Sedaris catches the reader off-guard, and it is in this recognition that the reader may react with disgust or humor. To cry is to deny the truth, but to laugh is to acknowledge and even accept such reflections that humans are petty, weak, and violent. With a piercing gaze, Sedaris unflinchingly expresses the hypocrisy, irony, and idiocy of human nature. With his ruthless satire, he forces his reader to acknowledge or deny these darker aspects, humbling human nature’s pride and wounding its ego with this final message: we are not as superior as we would like to think.

Works Cited

Sedaris, David. Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. Little, Brown and Company, 2010.

#I woke up the other morning and chose write literary analysis essay #literary analysis #lit #literature #david sedaris #essay #writing #dark humor #spoilers #satire #book response

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luminara · 5 years

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Soukoku

A Love Like War by psychncislover (37,883 - ongoing)

The city of Yokohama was maintained by two Mafia Families. When an enemy targets the Nakahara Family, they find their only hopes lies in an alliance... with their greatest enemy, the Tsushima Family. But their help comes with a price - a marriage between the two heirs! Will both sides survive not only this enemy, but each other?

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Shortly after the defeat of Mimic, Dazai Osamu leaves the Port Mafia. Wanting to take advantage of the situation, the government sends Nakahara Chuuya to gain his trust.

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Chuuya looks underneath Dazai's bandages without his permission. What he finds underneath changes everything.

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Chuuya knows he’s so so close, fingertips just barely brushing the possibilities between them. But Dazai’s the one calling the shots again, and he’s yanking it away, out of Chuuya’s grasp, taking absolute control before Chuuya even knows he’s given it up. Every single facet of their relationship is one-sided, both of them too blind and too stubborn to stop for a second and consider what’s on the other side of the wall between them before they try to tear their way through it.

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Dazai presented the white candle with one hand and stretched his other hand out towards Chuuya. “My life to defend until your bitter end! Through the fire and iron of Hell, I order you to walk with me! I name you—”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered open as a tired smile spread across his lips at the sight of Chuuya’s impossibly stormy eyes widening with the realization of what specific spell the executive was performing. Nearly falling, the Wellspring altered his course in an attempt to flee from the range of the spell, but the power of the sigil’s pull had already latched onto him like a noose and began to pull him back towards Dazai, despite his wounded hollering and ceaseless writhing.

“—I name you, Nakahara Chuuya, my familiar!”

* * *

Or: Nakahara Chuuya returns to Yokohama and is forced into aiding the Port Mafia in helping them capture a mysterious, dangerous hacker from a checkered past. Along the way, he has to adjust to his new life as the familiar to the most infamous warlock in all of Yokohama: the one and only Dazai Osamu.

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But that doesn't mean he can't try going on a last ditch effort of a quest trying to stop it from happening.

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When Chuuya wakes up in the middle of an ongoing fight without any memory of how he got there or what happened to him, he ends up turning to someone saved as 'bandage-waster' in his phone. Somehow, it just feels like the right decision.

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For his biggest regret is—

[groundhog day AU with a twist, where Chuuya relives the day Dazai leaves the Port Mafia over and over and over and over]

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‘A robot?’

‘Kind of a degrading term, but yes; a robot.’

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[No Summary Available] A/B/O Dynamics

A Catspaw in the Wolf Court by dgalerab (58,357 - complete)

Prince Dazai, a single werecat in a court of wolves, is to be married off to Prince Chuuya, a fox in the kingdom that accepts everyone. He's given one instruction: bring back a defector to the wolves and topple Chuuya's kingdom from the inside.

Things, of course, get more complicated than that.

Counting the Days by Neiro Gin (Neiroa) (23,575 - complete)

How will a certain bandage-wearing ex-Mafioso detective react to hearing that his former partner-who-is-definitely-not-more-than-that has…

…a girlfriend?

“He has been all lovey-dovey with her ever since they came back together!”

“No way! How could any girl fall for that short hat rack?”

“I heard she’s glued to him every single minute of the day. He seems to really like her as well! I’ve never seen him so sweet to anybody!”

“Even if—and that’s a BIG if—she loves him, he’s not the type to just fall in love after only knowing someone for a short amount of time.”

“She’s French.”

“…”

“D-Dazai-san? Dazai-san?!”

Countdown by setosdarkness (31,175 - ongoing)

Eternally-single Chuuya is dared by his friends to date someone. Chuuya eventually agrees, but adds a condition: if the guy he chooses breaks up with him within 10 days, it will suffice as proof that Chuuya’s not meant for dating and therefore his friends will stop nagging at him about his non-existent lovelife.

Thinking that it’s an easy win, Chuuya chooses to date Dazai, his asshole childhood friend who’s known to be a serial womanizer.

Chuuya... is very wrong.

don't you ever tame your demons by writingfromtheshadows (108,592 - complete)

Every year, a handful of children are born with the ability to command supernatural powers. Thousands of dollars and dozens of trained specialists are tasked with identifying, tracking down, and labeling each one as Deviant. Once identified, they have no rights other than those that are permitted to them, and disobedience is a crime punishable by death.

Chuuya has never known a life outside of the routine he's forced to follow, but when the boss of Yokohama's Port Mafia offers him a chance of freedom, Chuuya is not prepared for the rebellion he's stumbling into.

Chuuya Nakahara and the Falling Camelia by Anonymous (12,628 - ongoing)

A new year begins at Hogwarts, and between a nervous wreck of a first year Chuuya met over the summer managing to become Akutagawa's arch enemy upon their first meeting, a pair of second year's younger sisters' complicating things, and leftover tension with Tachihara, Chuuya is in for a hectic term.

Things take a turn for the worse, however when there are rumors about a man eating were tiger, Dementors -- unspeakable creatures who bring back horrible memories and can steal your very soul -- surrounding Hogwarts as wardens and watchmen, and a murderer breaks out of Azkaban, a high security prison in the wizarding world.

Especially when that murderer is dead set on getting his hands on Dazai.

Chuuya Nakahara and the Chambers of Draconia by Anonymous (51,820 - complete)

After a first year full of questions, Chuuya barely gets a moment to breathe before his second year proves the last to be gentle in comparison. With tension among friends and the looming threat of an unknown danger, he'll need all of the clues he can get -- not just for the safety of the school, but for the strength of his friendships.

Madder Aubrieta by hypermoyashi (21,790 - ongoing)

Flowers bloomed, rain fell, and the whims of nature dictated all. This was the status quo that Chuuya knew, and it was a surprisingly delicate order. Change came in the form of a mysterious man he found, woken from an ageless sleep by none other than Chuuya himself.

Margin of Error /// Scale of Success by izanyas (31,416 - complete)

PART 1: After a failed assassination attempt on his person, Dazai finds himself recovering in an unfamiliar place: a hospital where criminals abound, staff and patients alike, and Dazai's own doctor is a little too attractive.

PART 2: Dazai makes due on his promise. Chuuya has to revise his.

#lumi's archive #bungou stray dogs #bsd #soukoku #dazai osamu x nakahara chuuya

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punkpoemprose · 5 years

Text

The Love Talker- Chapter 7

Universe: Gancanagh/ Fae AU Rating: T (currently, expect M in time) Length: 1997 Words

A/N: This is dark fic. If you’ve made it this far you know what I’m talking about. This chapter might give you some answers. It might give you more questions. We’ll see. Thanks for all the positivity so far! I’m having fun writing this as a little bit of a NaNoWriMo project, so hopefully I’ll finish it before the film comes out! We’ll see!

Kristoff’s heart raced in a way it hadn’t in years. He was frantic. She could be dead. She could be lost. He might never see her again.

Just because he didn’t want to addict her didn’t mean he didn’t want to stop seeing her, he just wanted to see her of her own free will, and he certainly didn’t want to never see her again because she’d wandered into the wrong faery’s circle. He’d bargain for her if that happened. He’d lived in the forest his whole life, he had connections, he knew things, but that only mattered if she’d been found by fae who believed in bargaining and not simply murder on sight. God forbid she find another gancanagh.

His kind, solitary and rare as they were, tending to not mind “sharing” their prizes, but he didn’t want that. He didn’t want Anna to be taken against her will, for someone to torture her before killing her or letting her kill herself. The idea drove him mad.

He was almost certain he was the only gancanagh left in the woods, but if he was wrong, he was terrified at the possibility. The forest was full of other solitaries though and they didn’t often take kindly to strangers, and that much more real possibility gave him little comfort. There were a few fae he wouldn’t be worried about finding her, the glastigs in the woods were mostly benign, especially to young women. He may very well find Anna striking up a conversation with one of the goat women, and while it seemed like it would be in character for Anna, his fears outweighed his hopes.

He was distracted from his thoughts by a small strip of white cloth tied to the branch of a nearby tree. He was in the heart of the woods now, not too far from his cabin, where many of the solitaries lived. None of them, however, wore white cotton dresses like the one he knew Anna was wearing. None of them needed to mark where they’d been in the woods because they knew it like the back of their hands.

He opened his mouth to call her name again, but thought better of it now that he was outside the protection of his own space. Calling her name here would give it to others who might use it against her. He feared the possibility of what may have happened if he’d called out her name and it had been heard by a Gan Ceann. One only need know the name of its victim and call it out in their earshot to kill them where they stood.

“Kjekk,” he called, “Følg stemmen min Kjekk.”

There was no answer, but he was undeterred. He would find her come hell or high water. He gave very serious thought to touching her when he found her, binding her to him. He didn’t want her addicted, but he didn’t want her to run off into the woods and be lost to him forever either. It was a dark thought, the idea of binding her to him, the idea of what that allowed him to do, in fact what that meant he needed to do to her to keep her well.

It had been a very long time since he knew the touch of a woman. He’d been young, and he’d not cared about what he’d done. He’d followed his nature because that was what was expected of his kind. Other gancanagh had shared with him. That memory was what disgusted him most. That was what he feared most for Anna, that was why he needed to find her before anyone else, except of course maybe a glastig. He sincerely thought that Anna might enjoy a conversation with one of their kind, and he knew that they liked to talk to maidens in return. It was one of a few best-case scenarios he was trying to focus on as he called out the name she’d given herself again and again in the wood, looking for and finding more bits of fabric as he went.

***

Her skirt was going to be irreparable. The white fabric had already been dirtied by days of wear in the woods, but the tearing of its edge to create a trail certainly wasn’t helping matters. She’d already decided, jokingly of course, that showing up at the cabin naked save her underthings and Kristoff’s coat was much better than not showing up at all.

The fabric scraps were helpful enough in keeping her from walking the same way twice but were no help in ensuring that she wasn’t trekking deeper and deeper into the woods. She decided to take a moment’s break to see if she could perhaps think of another solution to better her odds and decided to braid her hair as she thought. Her hair had been messy and down since her escape from the village, and while it was the least of her concerns at the moment, the act of combing her fingers through her hair and detangling her snarls was one that relaxed her and kept her levelheaded.

She still couldn’t see the sky well enough to use it as any marker of progress, nor could she see anything distinct enough to serve as a landmark from which she might recall her initial passage into the dark wood.

Her fingers worked through her hair skillfully and she managed to put it into some semblance of twin braids as she sat and thought about her situation. Perhaps they were more like cousins than twins, both uniquely messy and tied off with additional bits of ripped skirt, but the small act of straightening herself was a comfort, even if it didn’t bring her any new solutions.

“Kjekk! Følg stemmen min Kjekk.”

She pushed off the tree trunk she had been leaning against and jumped to her feet. Kjekk. He was calling her Kjekk. Only he could know that she had wanted him to call her that. Only he could know that she’d managed to lose herself in the woods.

She was exhausted and a bit embarrassed, but still she called out in return, “Jeg er her min Gancanagh!”

She would not shout his name. She might however whisper it to him with some words of appreciation when he found her. She imagined that he was either going to lecture her about the meaning of the word “stay” or simply kill her on the spot. Neither seemed particularly enjoyable, but she was happy to hear his voice.

***

He heard it and his blood ran cold. It was his own voice, but he hadn’t spoken. He’d said the same thing, but a few minutes before in a different area of the wood. Someone had heard him and it hadn’t been Anna.

“Jeg er her min Gancanagh!”

That was what made his blood run cold. That was Anna’s voice. She was answering his call, but she wasn’t answering him. She was answering something else. She was calling out and leading something in, and while calling for him was foolish enough, plenty dangerous in the grand scheme of things, whatever she was answering clearing likely had intentions worse than his own.

He thought for a moment about what he could do. He could call out her name, her real name, but that would give it to the other creature as well. He knew most of what was in the wood with him, some creatures of the Irish tradition, some of the Norwegian, and almost all able to mimic a voice. He could even mimic if he really cared to, but in this situation it wouldn’t help.

His only hope was to warn her, and then find her first.

“That wasn’t me Kjekk,” he shouted.

He was answered by a cry that he knew was hers. He hadn’t been fast enough.

He ran in the direction of her voice and nearly crashed into her as she emerged from the trees, looking more terrified than he’d yet seen her.

Behind her strolling almost leisurely was a troll, in fact a very familiar troll.

“Hvorfor kaller du henne kjekk? Hun er vakker,” the creature was smiling and was asking him a question that was so deeply familial, Kristoff could only chuckle in response. He should say that he called her handsome because that’s what she’d wanted to be called, and that yes, she was beautiful, but he needed to catch his breath before he could do any such thing.

He could hug Anna in the moment. He could hug the troll walking towards him. He could die happy on the spot because things could have been so much worse, but he didn’t. He placed a hand he hoped was comforting on the small of Anna’s back, a place well covered by her dress and his coat.

He watched as recognition filled Anna’s eyes, “Du snakker norsk?”

The creature nodded, “Vel, jeg er fra Norge. Er du ikke?”

He watched Anna work through translating in her head and she looked up at him with a mixture of relief and puzzlement.

“I… can’t find the words I want… Nei min far var det?”

Kristoff nodded. Her father was from Norway evidently. It didn’t explain so much how she knew things about the laws of the fae hailing from Ireland, but that was a question for another day. A question he was sure she’d find created questions of her own for him. He couldn’t very well ask her why she knew both if he couldn’t ask her the same.

“ Det gjør deg fremdeles til en av oss. Er det derfor du ikke har...?” The troll confirmed that her ancestry was good enough for him, but Kristoff shot the stone creature a look before he finished his question. He didn’t feel like discussing why he hadn’t addicted Anna with the creature that had been, for all intents and purposes, his father.

He was grateful, however for his interference. Having any of the trolls find Anna before something else could, was a blessing he hadn’t even dreamed of. Even if they didn’t know what his relationship was to her, they would surely recognize his coat on her shoulders. They weren’t hostile creatures to begin with, but knowing that she was with him had been enough.

“I’m sorry I screamed,” Anna said. He saw her trying to translate as her brow furrowed. It was harder for her than it was for him. It was her second language clearly.

“It’s okay,” he said, still touching her gently, “he understands English.”

The troll bobbed his large head pleasantly.

“I do! It’s no trouble, you didn’t expect to see me. I’m sorry I frightened you!”

She smiled shyly and Kristoff wished beyond all things that he could press a kiss to her cheek. She’d scared him terribly, and despite the fact that she was safe now, he could still feel her trembling under his hand. To give her some comfort, more than he could give her through layers upon layers of fabric, was something he longed for.

The troll approached her once again, and Anna, making Kristoff love her even more, crouched down to his height to speak with him.

The creature stretched his hand out to her and Anna placed her small palm in it. Delicately, with the patience and gentleness Kristoff remembered him having when he was young, the troll covered her hand with his and gave her a meaningful look.

“My boy there… he’s a bit of a fixer upper, but give him time?”

She looked confused and Kristoff felt himself flush. This was not how he’d expected this to end, but it was also much better than almost any other alternative, so he chose to simply sigh and let it happen.

Anna, still looking a bit confused, nodded, and leaning forward pressed a small kiss to the troll’s cheek. “Thank you for helping me.”

The old troll chuckled, “Åh! Jeg liker henne!”

#the love talker #kristanna #fae AU #Gancanagh AU #dark fic

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panda-noosh · 6 years

Text

Action!{P6}{Lance x YouTuber!Reader}

Words: 5498

Summary: Being a YouTube guru is hard enough without the added stress of living with Lance McClain, the man who insists on bombarding into every YouTube video you try to film. His viewers love him, and so do you.

Pairing: Lance McClain x YouTuber!Reader

Notes: p1 – p2 – p3 – p4 - p5 - p7

The beeping had become unbearable.

It was echoing by the first hour. A constant tinge in the back of your head, begging for an attention you didn’t want to give it. But that was how it had been for the past five days – everything was begging for an attention you didn’t want to give it.

This was different, though. This was Lance’s life. This was no longer you just trying to get him out of your life. This was him leaving for good. This was him leaving everybodies life. This was him, with internal bleeding and a swollen brain and clotted blood vessels.

This was your best friend of three years, and whether you wanted to or not, the sadness and despair pulling at your chest was giving the situation the attention you so desperately wanted to pull away from.

Your thumb nail was lodged in between your teeth as you stood over him, the sunlight streaming in through the large windows. You had slept in the waiting room overnight, unable to leave without some confirmation that he would be alright, and even now, as the sun rises over the horizon to signal the start of a new day, you were yet to receive that confirmation.

The doctors were beating around the bush, giving you a load of ‘maybe’s’ that were about as reliable as a six year old telling you the same thing. Pitied glances your way, some people raising their eyebrows sceptically at Lance’s unconscious body – he was the crazy, drunk guy who had been hit by a car in downtown LA. Most people probably thought he deserved it for being so stupid. A lesson.

They didn’t know the half of it, and their prying eyes bothered you to no ends.

And yet you stood your ground, standing over his bedside, inspecting as much as you could. You waited for him to move. You waited for his eyelids to flutter or his breath to hitch or for his head to move – anything to signal that there was still something going on in his brain. Anything to tell you that the possibility of him pulling through were increasing rather than decreasing.

But nothing had happened. He was still – pale skin, tubes being sliced through his skin to keep him hydrated in his incapable state. Every now and then a nurse would come in, take one of the tubes out of his arm, wait a moment before shaking her head and putting it back in – testing to see if he was breathing on his own.

He had yet to do such a thing.

You hadn’t spoken during your time at his bed side. You had seen the movies, how the victims always woke up and recalled exactly what a visitor had told them, replaying the sweet words like they had suddenly grown a photographic memory in their time under. You weren’t as open minded as that. You saw the whole idea of can you hear me a little bit far fetched, thus making you stay silent.

The door opens for the first time that day, a doctor giving you a warm smile as he waltzes into the room, looking fresh and peachy. You can’t help but scowl, feeling something burst in your stomach. He had most likely had breakfast with his doting family this morning. He could breathe on his own. His life was in tact by the looks of his smile.

“Good morning, Miss L/N,” the doctor cheers, walking around to Lance’s bedside. “I’m just here to check on the swelling.”

You grit your teeth but nod in response, placing your thumb nail back in your mouth as you watch him do his job. He places a machine against the side of Lance’s head, a picture immediately flashing up on the screens behind him. It’s all in black and white, and you can’t decipher anything upon it, but judging by the way the doctor purses his lips before detaching the machine from Lance’s head, things weren’t looking so good.

He tries to leave. Not another word or another look in your direction. He just gets up and heads towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets but you can’t take that. You can’t take his silence for an answer any more, and before you can agree with your better judgement, your hand has snapped out and grabbed his wrist, stopping him from walking any further.

He turns to you, eyebrows raised. “Is everything okay?”

“You haven’t told me anything,” you seethe. “I don’t even know if he’s going to live or die yet. Is there anything you can tell me about his condition?”

The doctor purses his lips, giving you a look of pity that you know for a fact he had practised with a long line of pitied girlfriends before in the past.

“I can only indulge information to his emergency contact list or family,” the doctor informs you. “And you are neither. As far as the hospital is concerned, you’re a visitor.”

“I’m the only person in LA with him right now!” you bark and your voice is rising before you can stop it.

“That doesn’t make a difference, Miss L/N. His parents have been informed and have told us they are on their way. If they want to share the information we tell them to you, then that is their decision, but we are not authorised to give you any information before his emergency contacts have been informed of his condition first.”

You close your eyes, your fingers going slack against the doctors sleeve before falling to your side completely – shrivelled, weak feeling.

The doctor sighs, placing a firm hand on your shoulder that you immediately shrug off. “Perhaps you should get yourself some breakfast. I don’t think I saw you down in the canteen at all today.”

“I’m not hungry,” you grumble, turning on your heel and walking back into the hospital room.

Back towards the beeping. Back towards the echoed sound of nothing but beep beep beep, followed only for a minute by the sound of the door clicking closed.

Silence ensues once again.

It was weird. You slumped down in the plush chair next to Lance’s bed, and you realised just how unfamiliar this situation was. Lance and you in the same room in complete silence. Lance and you in the same room with nothing overactive going on, nothing big, nothing extra and loud. It was just silence. A dark, heavy silence that weighs down on your shoulders like a million boulders stacked one on top of the other that you can’t seem to shrug off.

The weight is a mix of uncertainty, confusion and fear. Fear that Lance won’t make it. Uncertainty about why you’re here in the first place. Confusion as to why you were worried, why you cared so much.

But the answer was simple and undeniable. Lance could hurt you ten times over and you would still be sat by his side right now, because he was your best friend and he had been close enough to a saviour for you for three years straight.

Sure, you still felt angry. You had every right to be angry at him. But the anger didn’t overtake the feeling of responsibility you still got whenever he was in need.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember waking up, your neck jerking upwards at the sound of a door clicking closed, a pain spiralling down your spine due to the position you had fallen asleep in in the first place.

You rub at your eyes lazily with the balls of your palm, pulling yourself up in the hospital chair. One glance at Lance tells you everything – he hadn’t woken up. He hadn’t even moved, though now he had an oxygen mask placed back over his face.

You’re too invested in looking at his fragile state to notice the people standing by the door. That was until one of them cough, taking you by immediate surprise.

Your head snaps around, eyes widening whenever they meet with Francesca and Averall McClain, Lance’s parents.

You stand up far too quickly for your food-deprived body to handle and end up having to catch yourself on the wall at the side of you. The tipsy-ness doesn’t stop you from stumbling over to the two adults, though, one hand out stretched which the shake with vigour.

“Mr and Mrs McClain,” you breathe out, half tempted to apologise for being caught sleeping in a time so crucial. “You got here fast.”

It’s Averall who replies. One glance at Francesca tells you that she is in no right mind to be replying to comments just yet.

“We heard the news and immediately got on the first express train,” the man explains. “How is he?”

You stuff your hands in your pockets, turning to look at Lance over your shoulder. “He hasn’t done much and the doctors won’t tell me anything. I’ve kind of just been – keeping him company.”

Francesca lets out a sob that immediately tugs at your heartstrings. Her dark brown eyes aren’t even taking your presence in – she’s barely even glanced at you. Her eyes are glued on to the boy in the bed, a shaky hand covering her mouth as words fail to come to her. You find yourself thankful for that. You aren’t sure how much longer you’d last upon hearing her shaking voice trying to form words in this moment.

You duck your head down, nibbling on your bottom lip. “I’ll leave you two to speak to him if you like.”

Francesca throws herself forward without giving you a direct answer. It’s like something has finally snapped in her – realisation, patience, you aren’t sure. She escapes the confines of her husbands grip and tosses herself towards Lance’s bed, crumbling onto the seat you once occupied as she scrambles for his limp hand.

Her wrinkled, veiny hands take his and you have to physically hold your breath at the sight. Lance had always been like his mother – big eyes, hopeful features and a bubbly personality. Francesca had always been the one who told her kids to be themselves, and she had taught them that being normal was boring, that being true to yourself was always the way to go.

It was absolutely soul-crushing to see her now, all hope drained from the eyes which used to mimic Lance’s in the way they held so much happiness and hope for everything to come. Now, it was like somebody had placed a wall in front of her that she could see no way around.

Her son had a possibility of death right now. She could very well out live one of her children.

You inhale deeply and turn back to Averall, wiping at your eyes with the sleeves of the jacket a nurse had given you to drape over your dress which you had no chance to change out of from the night before.

You duck your head down, ready to skid past Averall to escape into the hallway, but his hand reaches out and grabs your wrist before you can do so.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he asks.

You frown but nod in response. The two of you walk out into the barely-crowded hallway and immediately Averall sighs, digging the pads of his thumbs into his eyes.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

Averall shakes his bald head. “I just – I want to thank you for staying here with him. The nurses told us that you didn’t even go home last night. It really comforts us to know he wasn’t alone. Lance always hated being alone.”

Your chest constricts and you feel dizzy, like you could throw up any moment now. Instead you smile, nodding your head. “It was really nothing, Mr McClain.”

“Tell me another thing,” Averall continues. “What happened last night? Lance hardly ever gets drunk, and he’s never this careless. Something had to have been wrong.”

These it was. The question you had been dreading because the answer stirred so much guilt within you that it was difficult to extinguish once ignited. You remember Lance looking down at Shiro’s hand around your waist, the way his eyes lit up in a rage you had never seen him hold before, the way he had stepped out even though you were screaming at him to stay where he was.

You still remember the sound of the car breaks screeching, the millisecond of Lance’s screams as the pain hits his body, only to be cut off by him falling unconscious against the tarmac. All of it only lasted a couple of seconds, and yet your brain had managed to grab every single second and remember it clear as day.

You swallow thickly, leaning your shoulder against the window to keep yourself from falling over. “I don’t – I don’t know, Mr McClain. I wasn’t with him. I didn’t even know he was in LA until – until I saw him outside of the museum.”

The lies are acidic. You are looking directly into the eyes of a grieving father and telling him that you have no idea why his son would act up in the way he did, why his son was going against his strong personality. You knew full well why he had been drinking. Lance had told you outright himself through slurred words and heartbreak.

You watch as Mr McClain’s face falls and the first few tears make their appearance. He had been trying to stay strong. He had been trying to keep up a tough persona, and it was crumbling right before you. You didn’t know what to do, what to say because you yourself were feeling the same way.

You shoot a glance through the window of the hospital room. Francesca has her head bowed, her hand still wrapped in her sons own, and you can see her mouth moving as she prays for Lance to just wake up. He’s too young. Not him, God, please.

“And he can’t breathe on his own? Was the hit really that bad?” Emma asks.

Her voice sounds muffled through the speakers of the cell phone you have pressed against your ear, the slight wind of LA causing even more disturbance as you stand outside of the ER, fresh air pelting at your sweating skin.

You hadn’t realised just how good the feeling of sunshine could be after a long day of being trapped behind closed curtains.

“I don’t know,” you reply. “I really don’t know. I’m just worried he’s not gonna wake up, or he’s gonna go from unconscious to being in a full on coma.”

You hear Emma sigh. “I know you’re worried about him, babes, but you need to get home eventually. You’re still wearing your heels, for Christs sake. Your feet must be non existent at this point.”

“You’d be surprised just how long I’ve been sitting down.”

“That’s not the point. It’s not your job to stay at his bedside, okay? His parents are there now, so he won’t be on his own.”

“I wanna be there when he wakes up.”

“Why, though?” Emma sounds almost whiney now, and you can imagine her throwing her head back and groaning at how easily you had fallen back into routine. “I don’t mean to sound morbid, but you do remember what he did, right?”

“I’m not going to hold that against him now,” you grunt. “He’s on a bloody breathing tube, unconscious and it’s all my fault.”

Emma is silent for a second. You hear her breathing become shallower, her intaking a sharp breath as if you had just punched her square in the face for no absolute reason.

And then, “Y/N, don’t you dare start this. Lance stepped out in front of that car on his own accord – you couldn’t have stopped it.”

“The only reason he was crossing the road was because he saw Shiro and I,” you reply. “I just wanna wait until he wakes up so I can clear things up.”

“You think he’ll be in any state to talk about your relationship straight after he’s woken up from being knocked unconscious?”

You purse your lips. “We’ll see. Look, I’ll talk to you soon. Get yourselves back up home. Don’t wait for me.”

“We’ve already told you this, Y/N. We’re not leaving LA without you in tow. We can book an extra few days if need be.”

You can’t help but softly smile to yourself, looking down at the floor as you scrape your foot against the warm concrete. “You guys are the best.”

“Yeah, tell us that with cash whenever you get back. We’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You hang up. The phone feels warm in your hand. Everything feels warm. The dress you are wearing is sticking to you uncomfortably. Your head swims with hunger and your stomach growls, but you know for a fact that there is no way you’d be able to keep food down if you decided to finally eat. Your stomach was in knots, a swirling mess of emotions that you were struggling to process.

You had left Francesca and Averall to speak to the doctors on their own, have some time alone with their son. You didn’t want to leave. You felt an odd attachment to the room you had been cooped up in whilst waiting for their arrival, though you had to admit that the fresh air was a nice change and it certainly woke you up a little bit.

Not to say you felt fresh in any way. You still felt the piercing pain in your gut – guilt, sadness, confusion at your own emotions. It was all still there and you weren’t entirely sure when it would go away.

You sigh and stuff the phone into the pockets of your jacket, opting for leaning against the wall of the hospital for just a minute longer. You wanted to be okay for just a minute longer.

The entire sixty seconds doesn’t span out before the hospital doors are sliding open and Averall has popped his head around, spotting you immediately. You give him a tired and warm smile – anything to make him feel at ease. You know it can’t be easy having to tend to your dying sons medical needs.

“You okay to come back in?” he asks. “Francesca and I have a few things to go over with the doctor, and Fran doesn’t feel comfortable leaving him on his own. Lance-”

“Never liked being on his own,” you finish for him, pushing yourself off the wall with a nod. “Of course I’ll sit with him.”

He still looked sick. He still hadn’t moved. You still couldn’t quite believe it.

You were holding his hand for some reason. You don’t entirely remember the moment you decided to pick his hand up off of his chest and intertwine your fingers with his, but it had happened and you weren’t pulling away. Even after his parents had left the room to go and tend to things elsewhere, you still kept your fingers wrapped around his, held it close to your lips, looked down at him in half-awe and half-horror.

Because he was still sick, and he certainly didn’t look to be improving. His skin had gotten paler overnight, veins protruding from his wrist from the amount of needles that had been stuck in his skin, unknown to him. You knew that if we woke up – when he woke up – he would be absolutely mortified to find out he had been pricked and stabbed with needles whilst he was asleep.

He would probably scream. He certainly wouldn’t be calm about it, and you could imagine him now, making a big deal out of it, waving his arms around his head and asking you repeatedly how you had let them do that to him.

It would all be in good fun, but you would still roll your eyes at him and tell him to be quiet, and then he’d call you old and you two would bicker.

You would do anything to hear him call you old right now.

Nobody ever understood just how much the two of you balanced each other out. You would scold him for being too loud and he would tell you to go to hell and you two would argue as you walked down the road, but it kept you grounded. It helped you deal with things better, situations that you used to lose your mind at.

Like right now. Sitting at his bedside, clutching his hand whilst his parents got what was most likely the worst news of their lives. Perhaps Lance would be brain dead when he woke up. Maybe the doctors had failed to get the swelling under control and his brain was permanently damaged from the impact. Or maybe his health was deteriorating and they could find no way to bring it back.

Maybe they were telling them that they should say their goodbyes because there was no hope left. The impact had been too much. He had shattered too many bones, made too big of a mess of himself for them to do anything with him.

Were you going to have to say goodbye to him?

The thought has you standing up, nervous energy spiking through your body at one hundred miles an hour and you just need to punch something. Because you’re so confused. You’re so utterly, completely confused and guilty and mad because Lance of all people didn’t deserve this.

He had done something bad to you, something you knew you couldn’t forgive him for, but that could all be sorted out when he was healthy. He should be healthy. He should be okay. You two should be dealing with your drama right now – just like you should have done from the very beginning. Maybe you could have heard him out, understood his side of the story.

Now you weren’t even positive you were going to get the chance to hear him out. You had read the interview, but words on paper didn’t always mean what they sounded like. Their could have been something behind them that Lance was tried to explain to you last night in his drunken state but you just hadn’t let him.

The thought aches. It nips at your chest and makes tears cloud your vision which you quickly swat away, groaning into the quiet room to find some release from the menacing thoughts of self-hatred and the memories of the car that spiral through your mind in this moment.

Maybe if you had led him out of the museum yourself, you could have ensured he got himself home safely. Maybe if you hadn’t left him to fend for himself when he was in a state of clear incompetence, you could have stopped this from happening.

You bite down on your lip, groan past clenched teeth as your hands trail through your messy hair, gripping at the roots. A few days ago you were so ready to drop him. So ready to let him leave your life without a goodbye to send him on his way, and now you were losing yourself in his hospital room because there was a risk that he would no longer be by your side.

You could be as angry as you wanted to be, as angry as you needed to be, but at the end of the day, this was Lance you were talking about. You would never be able to sit back and watch him struggle without feeling compelled to help him.

“Please don’t do this,” you whisper into thin air, not even facing his bed but the words are directed at him. “Please don’t leave. Not yet, Lance. You said you’d be with us forever. We used to talk about growing old together, being the two idiots in the care home. Let’s make that happen, yeah? We can only make that happen if you wake up.”

You turn to look at his bed finally. He hasn’t shifted. His eyes haven’t opened. His body hasn’t moved. He just lays there, immobile and still and completely frozen in his daze of pain. You grit your teeth, tears flooding your vision all over again.

You grab the pillow from the seat you had once been sitting on, throw it back to the floor with a yell of anger emerging from your lips.

“Lance, come on!” you exclaim. “I know you. You aren’t a bitch! Remember? You used to say that to me all the time whenever I got upset because I hurt myself. You used to say man up, Y/N. You’re not a bitch. Take your own advice this time, okay? Just this once. Please. The world needs a Lance McClain. Heaven can wait. We need you here with us, now-”

Your words fall short whenever Lance’s neck jerks.

The movement is far from swift. It isn’t like how it is in the movies, where their fingers barely move and suddenly it’s like the light of God himself is shining down on the main character. This movement was choppy, almost painful looking as his neck slams back against the pillows. It looks like he’s trying to swat a fly away from his head without the use of his hands.

You narrow your eyes, mouth running dry. “Lance?”

His chest heaves upwards out of nowhere, rising up from the white quilts which confine him. You jump back at the sudden movement – the sudden movements, because that’s not all. All of a sudden, his entire body is jerking left right and centre beneath the quilts, small grunts escaping his mouth, spit dripping down the corners of his lips.

The machines wail around you, clearly thinking that he’s woken up and is trying to pull the needles from his arm.

“Nurse!” you scream, throwing yourself towards the door only to be thrown backwards as the nurses and doctors scramble inside, immediately grabbing his shoulders and holding him to the mattress. He doesn’t stop jerking as they grab at him, his body jostling from side to side.

You had never seen anything so heartbreaking, and you have to look down at the floor to stop yourself from getting dizzy.

Francesca and Averall bombard into the room, Averall immediately having to hold Francesca back. The nurses are yelling, telling you and Averall to get her screaming form out of the room whilst they calmed the situation down and got Lance back, but not even Averall seemed adamant to listen. He was holding his wife back, but his eyes were glued onto the fitting body of his son and his feet weren’t moving.

You wanted to pull them out of the room. This was no sight for a parent to see. But you can’t even move yourself. You stand behind the door, gripping the door frame tightly, your feet unmoving and your heartbeat speeding up.

“You scared me.”

Lance’s usual reaction would be a scoff and a soft shove of your shoulder. He knew you never meant it. Lance could never scare you – not when he was conscious.

But he had scared you and he didn’t even know about it. He wasn’t even awake to see it, and maybe that was for the best. You had no doubt in your mind that he would feel bad about it if he was awake. It was best kept private.

Nonetheless, those three words were the beginning of it all as the moon rose up, coating the halls of the hospital in a thin sheen of darkness that hid the tear stains on your cheeks from the onlookers walking past. The most they could see of you right now was your bowed head and your hands which were tangled in Lance’s, not wanting to let go, not wanting to leave.

You were talking to him as a last resort. The seizure had been induced by the swelling in his brain, and the doctors said it wasn’t a good sign. You wanted to at least give this a try.

“I don’t know if you can hear me right now, but you scared me. It’s okay. I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean it, because you’re a big softie, really. You’re about as scary as a Kumamon plushie.” You smile lightly, tracing circles on his knuckles. “I meant what I said before – before the seizure happened. I know you probably don’t remember, but it was something along the lines of don’t die. And I’m sure I called you a bitch somewhere in there as well. I’d love it if you proved me wrong. Proved to me that you weren’t a bitch by waking up.

“Your parents are here, too. I’ve been keeping them company and they’ve been keeping me sane, I guess. Your dad made sure I ate this morning because I was on the verge of a melt down.” You chuckle lightheartedly. “It’s good to know he hasn’t forgotten about me. He loves you a lot. He was talking about how you used to hang up Christmas lights when you were younger, and you were always the kid who got tangled up in the lights and ended up looking like a big, Latino Christmas tree at the end of it. You never told me about that. I wanna hear the full story whenever you wake up.

“The doctors also said you were going to be going under observation whenever you wake up, so I want you to be ready for that. Maybe they’ll quiz you. You’re good at quizzes, aren’t you? Especially the ones about the celebrities. We found a bunch of those in a magazine one night, remember? And you actually won for the first time. I don’t think I ever congratulated you on that. I just huffed and walked off, but you know I was proud of you, right? I’ve always been proud of you. I’m proud of you right now. You’ve made it very far and I know you can make it even further.”

You swallow the golf ball sized lump in your throat, looking down at your intertwined hands. His fingers were still limp around yours, but you refused to let go. It was a nice reassurance for you to feel his presence at the side of you, feel his skin on yours.

You felt stupid speaking to him. You highly doubted he could hear you in the first place, but it was nice to speak. It was nice to speak and feel like your words were making a difference, even if they weren’t. It would give you something to look back on whenever you got out of here.

The door to the hospital room opens again and in walks Averall and Francesca. Francesca looked a little shaken up, eyes big and her hands shaking around the paper coffee cup she was holding in her hand. Her brown hair was sticking up around her head at all angles, her smile missing from her features and replaced with a grim look of worry.

You offer her your own smile, though it’s nothing special. It falls just as soon as it makes it’s appearance, you too tired to put in much effort right now.

“We got you a coffee for the road,” Averall informs you in a hushed voice. “We can take it from here. Thank you for everything you did today.”

You nod gently and go to reach for the coffee he is holding out to you. You shift your arm, ready to get up to grab for it, but you stop whenever you feel a slight tingle on the tips of your fingers – something trying to grab for you, but being too weak to do so properly.

You whirl around midway from standing up from the chair, eyes darting down to look at Lance’s hand. His fingers are twitching, trying to grapple for your fingers before you can pull away.

Immediately you fall back into the seat, grabbing his hand in yours, assuring him that you’re still there and that you don’t plan on leaving if he doesn’t want you to.

“Lance?” you whisper. Francesca and Averall look on with baited breath, eyes wide and hopeful. “Lance, are you okay? Are you waking up?” It takes a second. A second of excruciating silence, breath held and hands becoming clammy, heart beat racing.

And then a groan as Lance tilts his head back, fumbling around as if he was trying to get comfortable.

He speaks so quietly you can barely hear him, but you catch onto what he’s saying at the last minute.

“I’m not a bitch.”

#voltron #voltron headcanons #voltron fics #voltron fanfics #Action!#Lance x Reader #Lance McClain #Lance voltron #takashi shirogane #shiro voltron #voltron au #pidge gunderson #pidge voltron #hunk garrett #hunk voltron #keith kogane #keith voltron

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sassyhazelowl · 7 years

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@shiapark - sorry it took me awhile to upload it; I have a lot of my plate right now :) Set over the 7 year time skip and through the GMG arc.

Ultear and Jellal disagreed on many things, although, often, Jellal gave in simply because he saw no reason to fight about it further. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the Time Witch regularly got her way simply because he let her. Not necessarily out of laziness, however. Often, her ideas and plans were better than his. While he was gifted in many things, especially power and force, she was equally gifted in others, such as subtly and manipulation. The two balanced each other out that way. And of course, it, technically, was her guild; she was the one who rescued him and invited him in and allowed him to stay with them.

Technically, this should have fallen completely under her jurisdiction as well. Yet he was unwilling to give ground.

‘Jellal, that is completely unnecessary. Where ever did you get such an idea?’ 'It’s not.’

'If you must be something to her, be a role model; show her how to act and follow the tenants of the guild. That is what she needs, not a father. How old do you think she is, anyway? Far too old to have a surrogate parent.’

He shook his head in divergence of her opinion. You were never too old to have a parent, surrogate or not. It was something he desperately wanted, deep in his heart. Something that was buried along with his other yearnings of the heart, and something he would never have. But it was something he could give, he thought, somewhat hopefully, trying to hold desperately to what Erza told him about faith. Maybe another child could be saved from the cycle he and the others had found themselves in, orphaned and abandoned, alone in the world. He couldn’t save them; they had all had their families and childhoods violently stolen from them, a cycle of abuse he had aided. But perhaps, in some small way, he could atone with this girl. This lonely, silent little girl, who seemed more like a doll than a child sometimes.

Yet, he found bonding with the child unexpectedly difficult. Not only due to his own cluelessness and inadequacies, as if those weren’t difficult enough, since his only interactions with children stemmed from his own childhood. No, that wasn’t it. She simply didn’t respond to his advances, at all. Questions went unanswered, compliments unacknowledged and commands unheeded. Treats and bribes were ignored entirely. Any move towards touching her resulted in swords and a glare. Certainly, if Ultear told her to, she would respond obediently enough, but he had yet to get her to willingly come or talk to him. It meant nothing if she was just appeasing Ultear.

'You must understand, Jellal, it is my fault, not hers. I taught her to be reserved with strangers, for her safety. It is nothing personal. Please, forgive her.’ But it was personal. Because they’d lived and traveled together now for months. The girl had hardly spoken two words to him any given week and barely acknowledged him in any other way. And she never smiled. When he addressed her, as kindly as he could, she merely stared with empty green eyes. It bothered him, although he couldn’t say why exactly. He wasn’t trying to subvert or replace Ultear; he simply wished the child would show something towards him. At this point, disgust would suffice, or anger. It was unnatural, her lack of emotion and her silence. Children, as far as he knew, should be lively and full of emotion. So much so that they couldn’t control or contain it. Even as child slaves, the children of his childhood were still children; quieter, more subdued, certainly, but they played and had curiosity and dreamed of the future.

He was about to give up, deciding he did not need the approval of a child to fulfill his life, when an event changed their relationship for the better. Ultear left to do a solo mission, infiltrating a guild where Jellal and Meredy couldn’t follow. The utter panic and despair in wide green eyes made Jellal’s heart hurt. It reminded him so much of another set of panicked eyes- panic that he had caused, pain he had caused. Meredy’s pain wasn’t by his hand, this time, but he felt an immense compulsion to relieve her of her suffering.

Even so, he awkwardly tried to appease her with meaningless phrases, like 'Ultear will return’ and 'Please don’t worry.’ Such hollow words hardly helped to stop her frantic pacing or frequent glances for the woman’s safe return. The girl wandered around the camp, nervous and taunt, like a feral animal locked in a cage without a safe place to hide.

By evening she was exhausted, staggering and whimpering, but still acting the same. Ignoring the food he prepared, she finally sank down to sit in the dirt and wait at the edge of the camp. He let her be. When he asked her to come to bed, in the sleeping roll he laid out for her, she acted like she hadn’t heard him. Maybe she truly hadn’t, given how deeply she was in her own head. Jellal let her be again.

In the middle of the night, something startled him awake by creeping up onto his sleeping roll and curling into a miserable, shaking ball. The sleeping roll was hardly intended for two occupants, but she was so small that he felt they could both squeeze in together. Scooping the shivering, thin body against him, he stroked her hair and talked. All night. There wasn’t much to say about himself, at least not that he found appropriate to tell this strange little child; yet he found the words to talk about food, about politics, about the animal life around them, about magic, about Erza, about anything and everything yet nothing. By dawn, he was exhausted, his voice hoarse and raw; he had not talked so much in many years. Yet, he was also filled with satisfaction at the sleeping child nestled against his chest, breathing peacefully and sleeping soundly. Lulled, he drifted off into the first true slumber he’d had in a long time, her small heartbeat under his hands.

Ultear found the two of them later, both snuggled down, looking more peaceful than she’d seen before. It touched her heart. Although, Jellal didn’t know that until much later; it was then he won the Time Witch over. She pretended, however, she had seen nothing, unwilling to embarrass either party with her observation.

Guilty, the next day, he confessed to Ultear. He expected to be berated or scolded. Taking a pre-teen girl into his bed? What sort of man was he? Instead, the woman laughed at his hangdog expression and remarked if that’s what it took to keep both of them happy while she was gone, she didn’t mind; she trusted him to do what was best in her absence. He was humbled by her faith, and took it to heart, since she was the girl’s protector and teacher. If she felt that Jellal was doing something good, he would take that trust and treasure it. He would also become the girl’s protector and teacher, the best that he could anyway.

It was after that he noticed her trailing around after him, watching him training and leaving little gifts for him to find. Sometimes it would be a feather, sometimes a shiny rock. They were always conspicuously placed just so he would find them, so there was no doubt where they came from. But she still wouldn’t speak to him, just silently watch; and he’d yet to coax a smile out of her either.

Every so often, when he trained, he would catch her mimicking him. It took a quick eye to catch her though, since she seemed to sense when she drew his attention and paused. But the moment it drifted off, she would be right back at it. Avidly, she would watch his motions, greedily tracing the path his body took to express the fighting move he was practicing. Once she had seen it enough, she would clumsily attempt it on her own. The few times he caught her, she was having trouble. While a good mimic, he was performing moves that were far beyond the level of a twelve year old girl.

Rather than approach her about it, having learned the fastest way to startle her was to confront her, he modified his routine. He started with simply and basic moves; they were child’s play to him, literally, but seeing her execute them nearly flawlessly made the extra few moments worthwhile. Watching her smash a dark wizard’s nose up into his face with the heel of her palm certainly encouraged him as well. Pride flooded him at that moment as she straightened up and finished her stance levelly as she’d be taught. Although, he wished he’d been the one to smash the man’s face – the man would not be rising ever again for the sin of touching her if he had done it. Fractured nose bones caused by blunt force trauma slammed up into the cranial cavity would do that… kill the victim, that is.

Hit like a girl was becoming his new favorite phrase.

Ultear was not nearly so thrilled.

'You need to teach her directly, if you insist on this. She needs to learn how not to hurt herself while fighting.’

This, of course, was prompted by a strained ankle and broken wrist from a failed attempt to copy a move he’d been teaching her. The girl had lost her footing and tumbled down an embankment. She was shaken but fine, determined to keep improving.

Since it was Ultear’s command, they both worked together to fulfill it. She improved, and so did their relationship. She’d pointed out beautiful birds and talked about her day, chattering about things that seemed meaningless to him, but to her were incredibly important. He listened patiently, wondrously, to her babbling, unable to believe this was the silent wraith of a child from mere months before.

It was another year before he saw her smile at him.

He’d seen her smile before, of course. At Ultear. At wild bunnies nestled under the bushes, frozen with fear. At flowers and ice cream and various other objects. But her smile eluded him.

Brush in hand, she approached him and silently held it out, biting her lip, hard. Sometimes, when she was forced to ask favors or approach him directly, she lost her voice like when they had first met. Her beautiful pink hair had been growing out and now hung down in thick waves past her shoulders. It was a misery to Ultear, but Meredy insisted she wanted it long because she was a young woman, and young women had long hair, not short or choppy boy cuts. Today, it seemed, Ultear was done with the mess all together. Hence, the brush offering.

Tentatively, Jellal picked it up, feeling the smooth wood press against his palm and curling his fingers around it lightly. Gingerly, he dragged it through the thick snarls, gently teasing and working his fingers through the knots that seemed to multiple like dark guilds overnight. Her hair was silky and bedazzling, unlike his own unruly, shaggy, blue locks. She sat in front of him, rigid and stock-still, patiently waiting for him to finish. It took twice as long as it took Ultear. A few quick swipes and tying up the ponytail, he stood back to survey his handiwork. It was utterly dismal. The ponytail was lopsided and drooped. Tufts of hair stood out from the sides of her face and strands hung in her eyes. Still, she solemnly turned to him and gave a smile that lit up her entire face when she saw herself in the mirror.

From then on, he was the preferred hairdresser, and he did eventually get quite good at it. Nails, on the other hand, he never got the hang of.

It wasn’t until a year later he saw that familiar panic resurface that tore into his heart so deeply. Ultear, predictably, was away. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she did it on purpose, just to torment him. But as she’d said many times before, she controlled the flow of time, not the flow of the future. She knew no more of what tomorrow held than anyone else.

'Jellal, I’m bleeding!’ The poor girl was near tears, sending him into a mini-heart attack of his own. They hadn’t been in any fights recently and there was nothing in the area that could hurt her. She hadn’t had any self-inflicted training wounds for months. She shouldn’t be bleeding; she’d be fine earlier that morning, just feeling a little ill with an upset stomachache type pain.

'What? Where are you bleeding, Meredy?’ He questioned, eyes roving over her for gushing, bloody wounds.

She looked down.

'You have to tell me where…’ he trailed off as he followed her gaze into her lap, making the connection, albeit slower than he would have liked.

Curse Ultear’s lack of attentiveness to such things!

Near hysterical in relief and embarrassment, and glad she wasn’t truly hurt, he found some old cloth and fashioned it into something serviceable for the task. Keeping his voice level, so as not to scare her more, he did his best to explain something he really knew nothing about. It was vague and pathetic, but she trusted him, and his words soothed her. Upon Ultear’s return, things were more explicitly explained, much to Jellal’s mortification, and he much preferred his sanitized version.

It as the year after that he became aware that she had a crush on him. Doing some quick mental math, he realized that, indeed, she was of an age for that sort of behavior. Logically, he was the only male around, and her senior as well. An older male who she loved and respected – it was probably inevitable. Ultear found it cute, but he noted that she wasn’t making any crude jokes about sharing their bed. He could read between her subtle lines; it was time to resolve this.

He was more careful about his state of dress, his touches, his words. The easy relationship they’d built was slowly crumbling away with forced neglect. She often stared at him, wordless, as she used to do, clearly dejected and confused. He was also confused and gloomy, missing her happy conversations and their hair sessions.

Ultear was the first to suggest a solution, watching the two as she often did, 'Take her on a date.’

At first, he was horrified. Wouldn’t that just feed the problem?

'Take her on a date, and show her how a date should go. Treat her like you’d want your daughter to be treated by her boyfriend. Be a role model.’

Surprisingly, it worked. While she embraced their new closeness, the crush seemed to fade over time, leaving their shared dates a much treasured habit. But he made sure to instill a measure of respect into their dates, each and every one, long after the crush had faded. He listened carefully, looked her in the eyes, paid the bill and made her feel mature, like a lady. It was their shared time away from Ultear; something he’d never dreamed of years before when he wanted just a sliver of her attention.

But it also made him realize she was growing up, physically and emotionally. Self-doubt and self-torture surfaced, as she often lamented about her appearance. It was either her hair, her body, her eyes, her personality or anything else about herself she could find to criticize. Ultear merely brushed her complaints aside, assuring her that she was none of the things she thought she was and giving her a hug or shoulder to cry on when it got particularly bad. Jellal felt helpless. And when he turned to Ultear, she simply told him it was something all girls had to work through to become women; there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had no idea. Was this truly some rite of passage? If he couldn’t stop it, surely he could ease it.

Somehow.

He started dropping compliments. Not about her bust size or her hair but about her loyalty, about her cheerfulness, about her heart. About all the things that were at her core, that he loved and admired about her. They were sincere and sparse, timed just so. At first she was resistant, insisting he was making it up to appease her, but soon she started to appreciate them. The glow she had made him pleased she considered herself to be more than just a pretty face or a nice body, although, in his opinion she was both. This was merely an enhancement of the beauty she had inside however.

That was the first time he got a thank you. Such words were not generally traded among them, even between Meredy and Ultear or Ultear and Jellal. Not in that capacity, at least. It was assumed that it was their duty to uphold each other, support each other, with no thanks expected or needed.

Those two words were the sweetest sound he’d heard since his imprisonment. It was the year after that they lost Ultear. His sixth year in the guild, his sixth year of having the pleasure of knowing Meredy.

It haunted him, the what ifs. Erza’s return, Ultear’s grace, Ultear’s sacrifice, Erza’s defense… it was all muddled up in his head. So many things could have gone differently. He was hurt and depressed; the only thing holding him together was the precious girl who was suddenly his lifeline. All of his investments came back ten thousand fold, when she showed her core, her fighting grit, her feminine side and her feelings. She was hurting too, lost and terrified inside, but she put on a brave front. For him.

But at the same time, he realized she had become her own person. An unintended side effect of Ultear’s disappearance, to be sure, but one that was happening right before his eyes. She held and fought for her opinions, stepping up to balance him with her cleverness and astuteness. She worried over him and fussed over him. Their dates continued, of course, but the topics of discussion shifted drastically towards strategies, politics and boys.

He would lose her too, someday. To another man. At first it was a troubling thought, entrusting her safety and happiness to another. Allowing another to receive her beautiful smile and supportive words. It brought him back to her crush stage, where she insisted that when she got older, they were going to get married.

Slowly, it came to him that she would look for him in a partner. The notion was absolutely terrifying. How could anyone like him be for her? Since he couldn’t trust in himself-he just couldn’t bring himself to do it- he would have to trust in her. She had grown into a strong, capable young woman who was a far cry from the lost, lonely soul of six years before.

Jellal never thought he’d become a father at the age of twenty. It was one thing he couldn’t regret, the one thing in his dark life that needed no atonement.

#mine #ficlet #crime sorciere

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lorainelaneyblog · 7 years

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"They know not what they do," said Jesus Christ in the bible. This is what he tells me about that: "That saying means one thing and one thing alone, Loraine. And that is that they know not that they take themselves to hell, Loraine. It is not about me, and my suffering, it is about them, and their suffering.'

'Wow.'

'What about "turn the other cheek?" I was confused as to whether this meant to allow an enemy to hit you again, or whether it meant to look the other way upon one's victimization, to do nothing in revenge, in other words.'

'It means, and theologians agree, Loraine, that your interpretation of the Adam and Eve story was accurate in the book, and they have read it, Loraine, because parishioners came to them about pedophilia in droves, Loraine, saying, and this is what they said, "I loved a little girl once, and I knew I loved her too much," and this is what they said, "I left her alone, and regret it to this day." That's what they said, Loraine. This pedophilia thing has been swept under the rug long enough. Real men have real love for little girls and desire a true marriage and true commitment. That is what they truly desire, to care for a little girl for their entire lives, not to "hit it and quit it." "Hit it and quit" is not how men feel, it is, as you say in your book, an offshoot of rules and laws against polygamy. One man said, "I would have pimped her to the ends of the earth if that was what she needed. I loved her so much, I thought I was going to die.'

'I'm going to be vilified again for this shit. I can't believe this shit. Are you serious? What did clergy actually say?'

'I'm not done. One man said, "I would love her until the day she died," Loraine. "The day she died. I do not love women, I love a little girl, I need one, I need her, I need her, I need her to be innocent when the sexual relationship begins. And I don't care if she is not a virgin in love, but she must be a sexual virgin. I need total control of her sexuality for her entire life, and I don't care how broad it is, that's what I need. That's what I need," he said.'

'What are the poly needs of such men? I worry about the girls with whom there is no commitment, it, as I say in the book, gives rise to child prostitution, since, victimhood rules dictate that a woman should not be used sexually. How do they get to adulthood these men? Are they virgins? Are they dating/using adult women? Are they younger than we see in society today, because of pedophilia laws?'

'I will answer all of these things. I feel no need to deny my pedophilia, Loraine. I would make love with a child, as would you, but never outside a context of family, community, and church. This idea you had, the clergy thought much of it, yes, they did, because they realized how needy the Indian children were and, as a result, succumbed their own judgement, which was a mistake. The children, often, were better off emotionally, so they saw this too. Loraine Laney speaks of an exodus from her school, at the ages of sixteen to eighteen, girls went to a nearby school where it was rumoured that the program leader was a pedophile. It was rumoured that he had affairs with the students. And the admit, etherwise, that this was their primary motivation for leaving their school. We are talking tens of women over a few decades who travelled for a special program, granted it was exciting, outdoor, and sporting, but they admit, Loraine, they admit it, they were excited by the prospect of a real man, Loraine. Women will, it is known now, play the field with older men, and settle down with someone their same age. It gives rise to notions of prostitution, yes, it does, and Loraine is right, it is preferable to using women for casual sex, it kills their self esteem, casual sex, for women of all ages. They hate it. They need the money, Loraine. No matter what, women who screw want the money. It's a travesty what happened to prostitution. It used to be taken for granted in Roman times, yes, it did. Women of all ages, whenever they were alone, would charge a little for sex. And it did not harken badly on them or on the men either, no, it didn't. It was sensible. Men worked and women kept the home alive and well, even when single. Many men did not have homes, but travelled for work, and slept in rooming houses.'

'You said it was cheaper, not prohibitive as today, and, in that respect, the book was, perhaps, predictive?'

'Prostitution costs are dropping, Loraine. And women are busier, and feeling better. You know how you feel when you are busy, versus dead?'

'Yes. This is what I need to see.'

'We need this ministry, Loraine. We need it to help the pedophiles and the little girls who love them. This is a moot point, because gay love is equally important, but these men do not prefer men, they prefer a girl. These girls are so eloquent about their love, and remember the minister with the seven year old wife? They are still happy, because they didn't get arrested, Loraine, because the community refused to turn them in. They were so happy, Loraine. And the minister was practically a virgin himself.'

'I believe, and this is because of the reputation of judges and clergy as sensitive, that these men, have massive victimhood needs. And by that I mean, and I spoke of this in the book, that men, all men, seek innocence in women, but that pedophiles seek the most innocent of women, to learn from their suffering at their own hand. I spoke of this as the only true measure of a man, not war, aggression, but love making. Even given this notion of pimping, every sexual experience of that individual is monitored by her husband, and her suffering is his teacher. And these men are our most sensitive leaders.'

'That's right, Loraine. How did you discern that?'

'I heard about judges, and they were picking up young prostitutes, and I had a hard time believing their immorality--'

'Because why?' says Jesus.

'In Vancouver, children in prostitution is well known. I had a friend who worked as a social worker, and children could not be convinced to the sex industry. So I, perhaps wanted to imagine, that this was a helping relationship, and full in the knowledge that they could have picked a child who was completely naïve, and turned them, but instead their countered their own, probably natural instincts to choose an innocent, and instead, chose an experiential child.'

'How did you know that though?'

'I trusted the position and the trends were apparent to me.'

'What trends?'

'Judges and clergy.'

'Oh, I see.'

'And many, many, men, were not pedophiles, but were falling to pedophilia to escape experience in women. Everyone knows "you get over one by getting under another." This notion circumvents victimhood profoundly. It prevents suffering in women, temporarily, or, if she can find, by such means, a man who will stay with her, despite her past, them with some permanence. But, the men in her past, never see her cry. And it is tears and anger in women, following sex, which teaches morality to men. This is the book, at least.'

'Why does victimhood cause tears, Loraine?'

'That's for God. Oh, you mean physiologically?'

'Yes, Loraine. Because you cried with me once.'

'That is an excellent question. And I'm going to argue the eroticism mimics female abandonment.'

'And eroticism relates to the four dominances. Infantilization, controlation, degradation, and exploitation. And perhaps disgust is part and parcel of all these eroticisms.'

'Yes!'

'Jesus wants to say that Loraine Laney is the best thinker in sexuality since himself.'

'Oh.' I gasped a little.

'You're a doctor, Loraine. She's a doctor. Loraine Laney, according to God, holds the first doctorate in sexology. There are no PhD's in sexology, Loraine. People were stunned by what you accomplished there. And the blog reinforces all of it.'

'Back to how these men mature, Jesus. Because this is what I heard, that ten years between a man and his child spouse would be normal. I don't want to get caught up on age, what I want is to know how many girls get used on the path to true love?'

'None, Loraine. In the olden days, relationships started much younger. We were betrothed by fifteen. And some girls started earlier, and some boys waited longer.'

'Is it orientation to wait longer? Are they torturing some poor girl with refusal? Are they displaced by anti polygamy laws?'

'In what sense?'

'My men, bless them, will never settle down. Women began to think that monogamy was a right. And shut down male polysexuality. Perhaps for good reason, because there was no clear, fair, way of dealing with female polysexuality.'

'Explain what you mean?'

'This prostitution thing, did wives do it?'

'Of course, Loraine.'

'People don't want prostitutes to "do well." It messes up the sexually and socially lowest women, and deprives other women. I thought that prostitution should normalize and every woman would do better, and have fewer men, and thus a better chance at marriage.'

'You say in the book that women are overexperienced, causing lack of attractiveness to men, and this is true, Loraine. You overdo it, and men can no longer relate to you. You leave them behind. And they must be superior in all ways, including sexually, though they are naturally sexual inferiors to women. How did you know all this?'

'It was like a puzzle. Each piece ended up fitting.'

'How did you know, that, in particular?'

'Women were getting whatever they wanted, and men weren't.'

'How did you know though?'

'It's common knowledge, I guess. I grew up with liberation. And women simply had more opportunities for sex, and, I realized, with my high libido, that they had the same desires. Easy to get into hot water.'

'Hot water, is a good explanation, Loraine, because women didn't realize what was happening to them, in victimhood. How did you?'

'Again, struggling with a high libido and a natural, strong jealous of men, I told myself that, in order to control my jealous, I would have to be ahead of men. I wanted, I knew I wanted more experience than they. But fairly quickly I realized the folly of this. Because I'm sensitive to emotion in others, and a little baby myself, I realized that men were happy and successful, and I was crying.'

'Women are weaker, you argue.'

'A good analogy for men would be imagine if you had to marry your boss.'

'Good one, Loraine.'

'People want to know how you justify prostitution in light of this,' says Jesus Christ.

'I don't try to justify prostitution unequivocally. I intertwine marriage reform because a woman should not be sentenced to work in prostitution alone. I can't so much as rent a basement suite from a client without risking his real estate. Relationships are totally unsupported by the current regime. And polysexual women need exponentially more protection because of the numbers of men. Women desire experiences too, but marriage, polygamous marriage, and pimping allow protection from a man or men. I don't think casual sex is ever appropriate for women without commitment from a man or men who allow it. And briefly, on pedophilia, this is a special calling to care for a woman's sexual needs for her entire life. These men are not small. And nor are pimps low or small. In fact, I believe the cuckold fantasy is almost nonexistent. It has come about because men believed that sharing a woman emasculated them. It may also have to do with a forced bisexuality in men insofar as, since gay love is so closeted among predominantly heterosexual men, the thinking would go, at least there is a man present, or at least the wife gets to have sex with him, if not oneself.'

'You're brilliant, Loraine.'

'Who said that?'

'Eminem.'

'Thank you.'

'Why does that seem like a stretch?'

'You didn't think of it?'

'You couldn't believe it, that I didn't, but I didn't. What do you make of those small bi guys? They do not attract you in the least. You watched porn tonight, and you decided that a manly face sucking dick was imperative to your arousal.'

'Yeah. Their women are higher. They may, I want to ask [ ], would you group with a lesbian leader and serve a woman, as long as there were also more submissive women in the group?'

'Exactly that, Loraine. We, the bi men, got to know which women were conducive to small men, and they were bigger, though still submissive to us. Loraine did not attract me at all, joking Loraine. Loraine was very popular.'

'With who?'

'The men.'

'Oh, why? I thought we were friends.'

'We were.'

'Was I almost so big, or something?'

'Physically, no. We knew immediately that you preferred the big men, even if they were bisexual, but we knew that, and, as it turns out, you didn't.'

'Right. Which brings me to restate the following, to all those to whom I reported that I wanted "the men to be straight." I, as a gang bang girl, did not, and many gang bang women still don't, realize that the men I wanted were bisexual. I had nothing against gay sex, but I closed my eyes, thinking my ideal men were polysexual heterosexuals, even rampant with women, but never with men. Emasculation was my only conception of gay sex.'

'What about gay men?' asks Jesus Christ.

'These high low scales taught to us by God, through this blog, do not really apply to gay men. They seem to have their own hierarchy, as do lesbians.'

'For example,' says Jesus.

'Speaking to [ ] [ ], it was a surprise to me to find that some gay men will answer to a female dominant. Lesbians will run a family, and be the sexual center too, while primarily heterosexual women never dominate men, any men, gay or not.'

'Do you think they weak?'

'I don't know. In what sense? Sexually? Physically? Not aggressive. What are they like, because one of my friends who reportedly prefers masculine gay men, would run family of seven men, and only play the field with a lesbian, say, now and then. And I think--'

'She right. We still dominate them. That's why I liked Loraine, and almost had sex with her one night, in a threesome, but he wasn't into it, a primarily monogamous man, caught up in promiscuity.'

'We dominate them. They lick us, not the other way around. But they are still men.'

'I see. There is a segment of primarily heterosexual men who serve more also. But I have never met a man lacking in dominance, ever.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'That's why I wrote the diagram, simplistic as it was, to illuminate that oral sex on a woman is not submissive, arguably, ever submissive. Is this true of gay men? Even as the sexual center and the head of the family, [ ] [ ], do you still have the sense that the men are "getting around you" somehow?'

'You do, Loraine. That's right. So maybe not a separate scale after all.'

'Yeah.'

'I run the family and they serve me, and that's it.'

'And me too. Do you think it was a case of "he wants to be me?"'

'That's, no. That's a relationship dynamic given rise to by the closet. We were friends, and enjoying and commiserating on the polysexual lifestyle.'

'That's what you think?'

'It hurts, it damages. There was no damage.'

'How does it damage?'

'Because they don't want you. You are the exact opposite orientation to what they need.'

'Give me an example.'

'Centers for example. A man needs women, the female center needs men. They don't couple. They are the only ones of their gender in any given family.'

'What about me?'

'You've met countless centers undoubtedly, and battled over control.'

'Yes, I have. And I hate it. I'm the center. What do you make of my twinkness?'

'I've wondered if your lovers are similar because you always say you like masculine men, while you yourself, toy with feminine characteristics.'

'Like what?'

'You make fun of gayness, it's a feminine speech or physicality, is it not?'

'We debate that, Loraine. Don't think we don't. But we love men only. Not transsexuals. Did you say are transsexuals just gay men trying to make money?'

'How does that shake down?'

'You appeal to a wider variety of men, experimental heterosexuals for example.'

'Who are they?'

'This is lore again, but I have heard that men who want to try a dick feel more comfortable with semblance of traditional roles, again, implicating the closet.'

'So who are they?'

'As with women, they smaller men, sorry, the more submissive men, or rather, perhaps we should always, always, say the less dominant men, fall to prostitution our of a desire to please their lovers.'

'I say women, as submissives, will make bad decisions out of the desire to please dominants, and thus, find themselves overly experienced, consequently unattractive to men as partners, and thus the sex industry becomes the only recompense.'

'I see. Why the sex industry?'

'The women most vulnerable to male sexual demands are those with the highest libido.'

'I see, I see, I see, I see. I wanted to read this book but I was afraid it would be more fun than my life.'

'So many were.'

'Really?'

'Erotica, they feared. Or a feminist diatribe.'

'What is it, Loraine, because when I saw the title, I could not understand how you got anti equality out of "bros before hos".'

'Wow. Good one.'

'Bros before hos presumes that women are stronger or at least as strong as men, because it lauds their abandonment in favour of men. I blame equality and capitalism for the female promiscuity which gave rise to this idea.'

'Game wants to take this one.'

'There is lore in prisons that bros before hos was invented in prisons, delineating the fact of the male closet, and, at the same time, blanketing women with bad reputations. It is said that the catch phrase came from men who came out to their women, and were cheated on, as a result. Go on, Loraine,' says Game.

'As much as possible, to find reasons for evil, never, never, underestimate the impact of jealousy over same sex relationships. With the highest men putting the kaibosh on group sex with men, due to misconceptions about emasculation, prison wives and girlfriends, as associates of the highest men, were the very women most hurt by the abdication of responsibility for their sexual needs.'

'Do you ever run out of material for me?' says 50 Cent.

'I think the science of sexuality may be finite.'

'Me too. How's your head?'

'Not a migraine, but my shoulders hurt too.'

'Take a break.'

'Okay. God?'

'Let's finish with [ ].'

'Why capitalism?'

'I argue in a small essay immigration puts an inordinate amount of pressure on individuals to succeed, referencing the consequent development and thus "fewer and smaller parcels of green space." God agrees that ugly people immigrate, and smart people immigrate.'

'How do you know that, Loraine?'

'Because I went to Spain.'

'Oh, I see. As an ugly.'

'Right.'

'You did it, so you thought others did it.'

'Right.'

'Why?'

'Hope springs eternal.'

'Why did you do it?'

'The competition was too stiff with the Chinese girls. I saw men look my way, perhaps hoping to see a cute white girl, only to be put off by the nose.'

'Oh, I see. They say you did the Chinese women inadvertently.'

'The cops want want to take this one.'

'As you know, there are many Asian men on the force, and, though they don't drink as much, we heard from them that they missed small pussies. And we, as white men, felt bad.'

'Does Loraine deal with this in the book?'

'She talks about race jumping.'

'But that's exactly what she's doing.'

'I was so distraught by the defection of white men, that I was blind, for two years, to the consequent injustice to black women.'

'The basis of which is what?'

'Taking more than you need. Penis vagina. Simply.'

'Oh, I see. So what did they do wrong?'

'They took a standard Asian value, silence about female promiscuity and prostitution and applied it to white men, gleaning the best of both worlds, sexual freedom before marriage and fidelity after.'

'They have a different deal.'

'Yes, also inadequate for dealing with female polysexuality within marriage.'

'Men get it after. I get it Loraine. How did you justify it?'

'I didn't. It was too late.'

'You wrote to him and struck his fancy?'

'How, Loraine? In a nutshell.'

'There is no nutshell,' says 50 Cent. 'She made me cry for a month, [ ], a month, [ ], a month, [ ], a month. Lloyd told me she was innocent of gay love, but, when she asked me to the Pride parade, I thought she was with friends and making fun of me. She was never with anyone. She was so lonely, [ ], and, because of that, she stopped at nothing. And that's what she means by too late.'

'I heard this. She wanted white men always, but this thing took over. Why?'

'Whites were sitting ducks between blacks and Asians, both women and men, due to equality, seeking to re-establish dominance and submission in relationships.'

'White women to black men, and white men to Asians.'

'What about love?'

'Equality sanitized the bedroom. And female promiscuity gave rise to the desire to abandon white women.'

'What about 50 Cent though?'

'Promiscuous women were forced to higher, men who had adapted to polysexuality by virtue of, despite the mores and laws, higher sexual intelligence.'

'The blacks.'

'What about the women though?'

'God says that in New York, only ten percent of black men defected to white women, while in Vancouver, it was one hundred percent defection.'

'Sitting ducks.'

'Promiscuity is a scourge of our time.'

'Why?'

'It is fine for men. But lone women cannot manage their own victimhood.'

'It's fine for men. But I don't like it anymore. I doubt if I ever really did.'

'Let's ask 50 Cent.'

'Yes, Loraine, even casual sex, and Lloyd agrees, is more exciting with a partner to go home to.'

'Wow.'

'Men like to play the field,' says 50 Cent. 'We've said this a million times, Loraine.'

'It's perhaps easier to explain why women don't, because of the inherent lack of protection and compensation. Additionally, say a couple decided to keep their numbers perfectly even, the man playing the field, and the woman through prostitution with friends and colleagues of the man, there would still be more eroticism in these gender specific events, I'm thinking because women say no, it's a reflection of the man's desirability, while, since men say yes, it's the consistency which gives rise to more pleasure. Men are more jealous sexually thus, to manage a woman's sexual partners allows more security and thus, more pleasure for the couple.'

'What is consistent about the friends.'

'Every last couple, etherwise, had a man friend who adored the wife.'

'What about the money?'

'Money is neither here nor there in passion.'

'Really?'

'The rub with money is that it gives to logical love, obscuring a lack of passionate love.'

'The eyes are the same.'

'I think so.'

'Has anyone ever been in love with you?'

'[ ]. Seventeen.'

'And you?'

'He was a gang bang boy, having sex with his brother. They were my first gang bang fantasy. With a big Asian guy.'

'Did you tell them?'

'Absolutely not. Are you out as a seven, center?'

'No, Loraine. They would laugh. No one does a group like that.'

'But the constant deprivation gives rise to a lot of promiscuity, which doesn't cause victimhood for men, of course, but causes loneliness, sometimes, because men are careful of reputations when the heart is involved, passes disease or at the least, gives rise to a lot of condom sex, creating deprivation in and of itself.'

'Do you ever shut up, Loraine?' asks Eminem.

'As [ ] again,' says God. 'He reports Loraine as absolutely silent around his friends, who are gang bang boys.'

'That little short guy does men? Whoa. I thought, I thought, those little guys were so straight.'

'If anyone enlightened me to the down low, it was you. God says only 12.5 percent are heterosexual, and God?'

'Yes, Loraine, you understood, those individuals are also monogamous, heterosexuals mostly, and one percent of lesbians and gay men, most of whom, [ ], are bisexual to some extent, you are not weird or a traitor, as Loraine also felt in the bisexual and lesbian communities, though everyone else was doing it on the sly.'

'What do you think of my values? They wouldn't stay with me, Loraine. That's why?'

'What?' says 50 Cent.

'Most, reportedly, were stupid.'

'Oh, I see.'

'And he almost never sees them with friends.'

'What's wrong with that?'

'You don't integrate your lovers. It's hurtful.'

'She tried, [ ]. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants Loraine Laney. 50 Cent is the only man for her,' says God.

'How do you justify this? He's huge. In every way. She's nothing.'

'She isn't nothing anymore,' says God. 'She's famous in Ottawa. She has over a thousand hits a month on her website.'

'Loraine, Loraine,' says Eminem. 'Does he know I love you too? I was privy to the emails.'

'What did she say?'

'That's redundant. truly. Read her blog. It doesn't bore. God writes it.'

'He wants to know one more thing.'

'What are you going to do with his dick?'

'Oral, I'm getting my palate stretched.'

'You're funny, Loraine.'

'No, but seriously, even small dicks rub my teeth.'

'I know how to have sex with small girls, because even God says that all women are attracted to a gang bang boy. Loraine identified that almost all women desire a large penis once in awhile.'

'But this is going to be more than once in awhile.'

'God?'

'I said it was also who they became, not a natural fit perhaps.'

'Oh, I see. Who did she become, 50 Cent?'

'What was your minor thing keeping you evil?'

'Infidelity, Loraine. I never told you, but I cheated on [ ], rampantly, with higher men. What about higher men? What about larger penises?'

'God?' 50 Cent and me ask.

'I have said that pedophiles will pimp to men with larger penises. It is true, Loraine.'

'There is such an exigency to frequency of sex in marriage that most women choose appropriate sizes.'

'What about satisfaction?'

'I had big eyes, but I can't fit them. My little group in cadets, besides [ ] and his brother, two of the men have said, etherwise, that they would have been happy with me, and they were small.'

'So this is orientation, not size?'

'I think so. Deprivation grows your needs.'

'What did 50 become that you needed?'

'Oh, a pimp.'

'You needed someone to handle men.'

'Yes, emphatically.'

'Why are you so attractive?'

'The lowest submissives, conversely, are attractive to the most men,' says 50 Cent. 'That's why they end up prostitutes.'

'Oh, it's not her fault then?'

'You still think it's her fault, after all this?'

'Sorry, I'm getting tired. You needed a pimp for this?'

'And he says in a song, I'm going first, so even though I gradually realized a pimp goes last too, I knew he was down with sharing a woman.'

'Do you think the gay sex equalizes it for them?'

'Absolutely, but not entirely.'

'God wants to take this. Men in gang bangs are never monogamous with the woman, gender wise, and this is what made 50 cry, Loraine. She never once mentioned his sexuality with other women, never once, and his songs are full of it, full of it.'

'Oh, I see. She didn't judge him, or see a need to control it.'

'Right,' says God. 'He cried over that alone, he had never had a fan say nothing about it, Loraine, never.'

'They always do. What is the gay equivalent, Loraine?'

'I think it must be lack of place, [ ].'

'I get it, Loraine. They need to know they're wanted, male or female.'

'Don't worry about the order, though.'

'It's belonging, passionately, of course, that seems to matter more. God says that order in families is determined--'

'What's 50 Cent?'

'Loraine is the sexual center but lacks the ability to lead a family. I do that. I am her keeper, God said. Without me, there is no family. None of the men have what it takes to handle Loraine. She always says she has a big heart. She is not that promiscuous, [ ], she's not. She asked me to come in her face. She asked if she was pretty enough. It made me cry, because, and you don't know this this, Loraine. I thought she was gross, and I wanted her to be good.'

'Have you done that, 50?'

'Of course I have, but I'm a man, and I have seen women taken down, [ ], and I mean down, dirty, filthy even, it's like Loraine--'

'I get it 50, victimhood destroys.'

'Do you think there's victimhood among gay men?'

'Not at all.'

'No. These men don't think so either.'

'They don't?'

'No.'

'Even gay men?'

'No, we don't. That's why promiscuity flourishes, no suffering.'

'Except the heart,' he says. 'Yes, Loraine. Men opt out too. That's what [ ] was doing. I want it in print why you cried. She cried. She wasn't even in love, I learned later.'

'I thought I was being done for poly while he enjoyed the friend game.'

'Why the tears though?'

'Being done for poly, another rejection, and the double standard. I think it harkened to the double standard itself, which became the central thesis of the book..

'What?'

'That the double standard is real, it stems from female sexual suffering, and men's reaction to female sexuality run amok is a natural part of manhood.'

'What do you call that?'

'This is old,' says Eminem.

'Assumed victimhood.'

'Loraine is coming down and her computer is so slow on tumblr,' adds Eminem.

'What do you see in Eminem? Passionately, I mean.'

'Well, I vetoed him for stunning good looks. And then fell in love with 50 Cent, thinking he might be fooled by an ugly white girl.'

'What are you an egomaniac, or something?'

'She isn't,' says 50 Cent. 'She was desperate, and that's it.'

'What did you think would happen?'

'I thought about what I wanted, not what was likely.'

'Not at all?'

'Not at first, but later, I realized my folly, once the battle began. He put me in my place, for sure.'

'I thought she was bad for barking up such a tall tree, but, I had to admit, that is what all fans are doing. She did it better was all. And she had ESP, prior to God, which helped suss me out.'

'What the hell is this shit? Are you going to take my little friend, Loraine.'

'I felt guilty too, she told me her size, and I realized she didn't know--'

'This is old!'

'--how big I was. I always thought 5'7 was my minimum, and even that was too small, [ ]. It was a meeting of the minds, and heart.'

'What are you going to do with his dick, Loraine, eat come or something?'

'Gang bang boys are very gentle with women,' 50 Cent says. 'The eroticism is phenomenal, and Loraine will tell you that polysexuality was very much a part of her strategy.'

'What do you need her for though? She gets a big dick, what do you get?'

'We get the lowest submissives, [ ]. I thought it--'

'This is getting boring,' says Eminem. 'Go and get a beer, Loraine.'

'Would you have picked a black woman?'

'Absolutely, and Loraine knew that.'

'How did she know that now?'

'My videos. She thought she had an in with innocence.'

'Why?'

'Innocent looking black women. Not always, but she saw little because of channel blocking, but the romantic ones sometimes. She thought I was lonely, and she was right, all the rappers were.'

'Why?'

'We were paying for it, [ ]. We weren't playing around with women's hearts. And come in the face, well, that went too. We were deprived, and she reminded us of that fact. That's how she got in.'

'But why her though?'

'She was eloquent. I was sad and lonely, [ ]. I had three women at one time, [ ]. They all left me because I was gay, prostitutes, [ ], I turned them out, and they were happy, and pined for me the rest of their lives. They, as Loraine, made the same mistake about high men, believing that somewhere there was a high man who wasn't gay.'

He laughs.

'God wants to say something. [ ] [ ] has had more gang bang boys than Loraine.'

'Thanks, God.'

'You're funny, Loraine. They felt less guilty being poly on men.'

'They handle it better.'

'Wrong. Worse.'

'With women, they want it all, Loraine.'

'Yes, among women, but among men and women, men are worse. They might get poly stars, but it's not for commitment. But, let's face it, nobody is winning at poly right now.'

'Why? I feel stupid. K. I'm done. I'll read the stupid book. And the stupid blog. What are your poems about? Because I thought they'd be about flowery sex, and annoy me for their boringness.'

'Heartache, with some humour.'

'Are they stupid?'

'No,' says 50 Cent. 'They're good. And easy to read. Fun, even.'

'What do you see in Eminem, because he strikes me as cold, in his work.'

'We recently decided that Eminem is not as sexy as some of the other men.'

'She has an anal fetish and so do I.'

'I once described Eminem as a phat baby, and he is a love bug, to be sure.'

'How?'

'He broke 50 Cent, and--'

'Yes, I acknowledge I want him too.'

'He allied the men of the family by saying that no man should be rejected by any other.'

He laughs again. 'What if they're not attracted to each other?'

'The gist of that is that they were hang ups. Smaller men wanted larger men, they felt self conscious about their size.'

'Yes, and they were afraid of implications of inequality.'

'What if they're not equal?'

'This is a very high family. All the men are in the same ball park, according to God, Loraine. Eminem was right, we all agreed.'

'You were going to say?'

'God told me, God told me, that Eminem was hard core, and I have been forced to conclude that I just didn't know him well enough yet.'

'Because he's brutal in his songs. He gets his mother.'

'As do I. His music is perfection, eh wot?'

'Yes, Loraine.'

'But yes, he is the biggest prick in the family. I've tried to dump him. Even 50 Cent has tried to dump him, for my sake.'

'She shit in my face. Go pee, Loraine.'

'Who shit in your face?' asks [ ].

'My wife did. She screwed two bare backs on our wedding night, in her dress.'

'50 wants to know if you're worried about that.'

'That being the idea of men keeping the field separate from their wife, I was wondering if there was an erotic component relating to cheating.'

'None, Loraine. We like to be on our own, is all. Why do you like me there?'

'It's not to hurt you, that's for sure. This eroticism is alien to me still.'

'I think women are very private.'

'She's right, 50 Cent. It's because the woman would be different, not you.'

'Why is my jealousy different than yours?'

'I might go so far as to say that women are minimally sexually jealous and that keeping other women out of the home caters to the arena where they are jealous, the notion of losing protection. While for men, competition being, alongside labour, their central problem, keeping a grip on who and what becomes the only solution.'

'Why are women so private and men aren't?'

'Women judge each other and men don't, sexually, I mean.'

'Do you think men get off on it?'

'On suffering?'

'Oh, I see, thus prostitution for married women, a kind agreement between the men.'

'Right. God, would Sigmund Freud?'

'Yes, they charged, Loraine.'

'Why are you so in love with Eminem?'

'If someone makes me come on the ether, it is him. He is gifted verbally.'

'Over 50 Cent?'

'Far and away. 50's gifts are physical I'm told.'

'So you don't know?'

'I feel I don't know a part of Eminem too, though. He holds back physically. I have no doubts about 50. None.'

'Why doesn't he have any about you?'

'He asks the pertinent questions of God, and he doesn't fall for anyone until he has them.'

'So he hasn't fallen for you entirely?'

'You might think that, yes, though he's full of love.'

'For everyone though?'

'You have just happened upon the crux of our union.'

'You are two sluts together, then?'

'Right. Only I'm controlled, and he's not.'

'I'm not like that. I want total control, of everyone.'

'I'm invested in control of her, and no one else.'

'God says that gay relationships are different, Loraine. One man controls everyone, like the lesbian controls the whole family.'

'All?'

'All, [ ], you're not weird.'

'Does a couple ever share control?'

'Yes, Loraine, in bisexual families, but a man is still the head of the family, though the woman bears influence sexually.'

'Eminem has a question for Loraine.'

'Do you worry about us playing the field, Loraine?'

'It would be naïve not to, or what God?'

'What, Loraine. These men are so happy with you, they want to die. They wanted a nice girl, and now they have one, they will not fuck it up. Trust me.'

'Everyone has lost faith in men, but promiscuity gives rise to any port in a storm.'

'I agree. And it damages passion and feelings.'

'50 wants to say something.'

'Put hand lotion on please. We're going to have you all soft and not working.'

'Go pee, Loraine,' says Eminem.

'[ ]?'

'Yeah?'

'You said you control everything, but how do you control the field.'

'There is precious little field, Loraine, you're right..'

'Not in all gay communities, [ ], but in yours.'

'These men who play the field are crazy, Loraine. They sleep with men, you do realize that?'

'Yes. They've not, on the ether, left me in the dark. I still have not met a gang bang boy.'

'It was desire that concerned me about male bisexuality, not the sex itself.'

'Do you bum fuck them?'

'Yeah, you have to, it's what they like.'

'When we found out she was having fantasies about it, we made her.'

'Do they clean? And ass to mouth?'

'All theoretical, but yes. I'm highly degradable. In marriage only, of course.'

'Of course, as am I. It's back and forth, [ ], I see you wonder that all the time.'

'What is the daddy twink relationship, God? Didn't you say it was a fallacy?'

'Yes, Loraine. Again, as in your work, it arose out of lack of commitment in men.'

'But why?'

'Theorize.'

'I'm bored again.'

'Okay, but Eminem, this is important.'

'Why?'

'The need to feel cared for is pushing smaller gay men onto the fringes, into transgenderism and prostitution.'

'Why don't they team up?'

'The team is sexually inadequate, they need a group, and uh oh, a higher, [ ]?'

'I'm the highest, Loraine.'

'A higher head of the family.'

'Done, Loraine,' says God. 'Your little friend [ ] capitalized--'

'That's what happened, they asked me and I couldn't turn them down.'

'Why seeking the smaller men?'

'That's like asking , why do prostitutes need sex? It's a safer haven for smaller, lower individuals, because of the money, and the bigger gay men, arguably, God, more polysexual--'

'Yes, Loraine, you're right. The small ones would couple if someone would organize them. They're not monogamous, [ ]. They're bored in couples.'

'Oh, I see. I thought we, and I use the term loosely, I have seen prostitutes, Loraine, but only men, Loraine, were taking advantage of them.'

'Well, that is the upshot.'

'It's a fine line between helping and hurting in the absence of polygamy.'

'So it's not my fault, nor the heterosexual, primarily, men.'

'No.'

'Oh. It's government in our bedrooms.'.'

'Yes, exactly.'

'And you want to formalize this?'

'For minors.'

'That's it. Not me?'

'No, no no no no.'

'Oh, I see.'

'50 Cent wants to say wrap it up, we need you. I'll read it whenever you want. If I'm away, we can read it on Skype, Loraine, quit.'

'Okay, thank you [ ], and thank you 50 and thank you Eminem and thank you God. '

Eminem wants to say, say what you were going to say about me.'

'He is interested in every aspect of my femininity.'

'What does that mean?'

'Hair, clothes, make up.'

'What about 50 Cent? What's he into?'

'Every aspect of my sexuality.'

'Everything.'

'The smallest detail. You're keeping a close eye on me.'

'That's right, Loraine. No orgies when I'm away, nothing over two men, and I'm making her do lineups, and I'm afraid--'

'I'm going to do that too. One at a time. That's what the pimp does, isn't it? And I'm a bit of a pimp, Loraine. You have to be, they're sluts. I play the field a little on my own.'

'She has precious few hang ups, [ ]. The end, Loraine.'

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