#it was my first ever rave there were so many tall beautiful women i love lesbians i love women

[puppmeo]

Painted my religious rave experience

[dearest-alexander]

Hither and Thither- 365 DNI fanfic

Summary: She saved him, in so many ways a man could be saved. Massimo x Laura. 

Author’s Notes: I’ve uploaded this on AO3 & FF. I’m more active there, than here. Please check the sites for updates. 

Read it here:

Archive of our Own

Fanfiction

CHAPTER 1

The Don was talking about something.

The gentle, raspy voice was contrary to the cunning, dangerous man his father could be.

"Molto bene, molto bene, Mario." His father exclaimed in that giddy tone and slapped the man's shoulder, sitting in the front passenger seat. The man gave his father's hand a reassuring squeeze.

He couldn't help but wonder if his father's animateness was a good or bad thing. Being in the family business, the terms are sometimes... interchanged, by certain and normal people anyway.

"What would we do without him?" His father, the Don Torricelli, continued, looking at him for acknowledgment.

"A couple of fun things, for a start." He jested, earning a chuckle from his father and Mario.

Mario was his father's most loyal friend and confidant. He was there ever since he can remember. He was practically family, almost like a second father to him. But he was the strictest man he knew, even stricter than his father. Though, not more dangerous.

He gave a deep sigh and settled in his seat, switching his attention to the familiar scenery of Cefalú.

The familiar streets and alleys blurred as they passed. Locals and tourists alike flooded the white sandy beach. Their big umbrellas providing color to the already-rich scenery. Food carts swarmed the shore, providing refreshments in the scorching Italian summer heat. Everyone seemed to be enjoying the heat.

Everyone one except him.

It was the heat. If there was one thing he hated more than disloyalty and disobedience, it was the fucking heat. He almost didn't want to come today because of it.

But he had to.

"It's part of learning the trade." Mario reminded him this morning— just as he had done on more than one occasion.

Not that he wasn't interested in what his father does—which he was, a hundred percent. But there was this, sort of, defiance. Knowing that the choices he wanted to make have already been made for him, gives him a compelling urge to rebel. To break free and try his own luck in the business.

He wanted to step in, take over, show his father what he's capable of. Show him, without words, that his son was ready to take over. He wanted to see the notorious Victorio Torricelli actually grow old.

He wanted his father to finally surrender his gun in exchange for a quiet life. Because, he was aware that a lot of people in their way of life don't and won't have the same option.

But, like a young cub, he's shunted of his efforts.

"Learn how to walk first before you can run, figlio."

Despite his personal afflictions in anything that involved emotions, he loved his father. He revered him more than anyone else. His father might be the only thing in this world he truly cared about.

And money, of course.

The car stopped at their destination; a restaurant in the middle of a marketplace, right at the heart of the town. He exchanged a disapproving look with Mario through the rearview mirror. It was unusual for the Don to pick such a public venue for a meeting.

He was not hiding his objection and tried persuading his father to change location since the day he knew.

"Pa, it's too public. You can't be serious."

"Ah, figlio. Always worrying about me."

And why shouldn't he?

When your father's the most feared, most dangerous man in Europe, you learn to sleep with a gun in your hand.

As accustomed, they waited for a few minutes for their detail to secure and check the place. He usually assisted them, but under this weather?

No fucking way.

Mario and his father fell into a quick conversation about when they were teenagers. His dad had retold countless stories about his and Mario's prime. Just two privileged Italian legacies, against the world.

"You remember those girls at the beach?"

"Ey! Didn't you sleep with one of them?" his dad chirped.

"No, I didn't!"

"You did! You son of a bitch!"

"I slept with two!" Mario carolled, making him think of something gross.

They laughed, that good-natured laugh, he could aways expect from them.

He only half listened and continued to ogle at the mundane events happening before him.

The crowd was a river of people from all walks of life. A riot of colorful clothes under a huge tent of different loots and merchandise.

Everyone seemed to move from all different directions. The cacophony of blabber outside reverberated even on his tinted windows. Heat radiated their jolly faces. He could easily spot the tourists by their awful hats and big ass cameras hanging around their neck. And the locals, with their loud and rude gesticulation.

There was music coming from the makeshift stage on the beach. A few sunburnt, drunk, and barely clad guests were swaying to the bass. If everything went as planned today, they could stay the night here and he could slip to the rave.

His eyes fell on the bookstand a few feet west from where their car was. A couple of skateboard punks wheezed through the stand. One of them nudged the corner of the table and mountains of books toppled on the sandy pavement. He could hear the owner screaming at the kids, who didn't even turn back. His face was crimson with anger, a book threatening to fly from his hairy hand.

A petite woman with dark hair scrunched under a floppy hat, approached him. Her light skin was a fair contrast to the blue summer ensemble she's donning. She squatted down to help the poor man.

It startled him for a second.

Kindness has always been a mystery to him.

To him, kindness was the coercive reaction and result to fear.

Nothing in this world has been ever genuine—he realized that from a very young age.

Must be a foreigner. He thought. No local could be that generous.

He watched as the man, who appeared flushed all of a sudden, stood up, books recovered under his arms. The lady, who still had her back to the car, offered her gathered books back to the vendor. She must have said something because the man was nodding in a very vigorous manner. She then proceeded to slide her fingers on the display of books.

The merchant was still staring at her with a stupid smile on his wrinkled face. The woman picked up a book. She showed it to the man who nodded and grabbed a bag from under the table.

He observed, with an amused and curious expression as the people passing by the tent all did a double take at the woman. Some women narrowed their eyes, as if envious while all men have sheepish grins on their faces.

He sat straighter in his seat.

Turn around, baby girl.

The woman was and completely in her own element. He found himself transfixed by the way she's skimming her slender fingers on the book stacks

He caught himself and frowned.

What the fuck?

"Cosa pensi, Massimo?" His father asked.

He whipped his head back to his father, and tried to look anything but distracted.

A knock rapped Mario's window, saving him from his father's inquisitive brow. Outside, Domenico, his half-brother, gave them an assuring nod.

Mario got out first, before him and his father. Perspiration trickled down his neck in an instant. His hair clung in clusters on his nape.

He cursed.

He couldn't understand how anyone could enjoy themselves when the weather was dry and as hot as a desert. He could feel the gravel smoldering beneath his shoes. He might as well ask one of his guards to fry an egg on the sidewalk to prove the point to his father.

His father knew how much he hated the Italian summer heat.

"Whoa! Hot! Hot" His dad smirked at him, a teasing glint in his eyes. He was fanning his hands with an exaggerated flair before an umbrella came to his aid.

He groaned and rolled his eyes at his father. Taking pride in himself that he was the only person allowed to do so.

Six men from the entourage, stood beside them as they walked towards the restaurant.

Upon entry, they're welcomed by the loud blabbers and aroma of Mediterranean dishes.

"Buon pomeriggio."

A tall, lean, olive-skinned woman greeted them, her dark eyes lingering on him the most. He removed his sunglasses and tucked in on his dress shirt.

He heard the woman's breath hitched.

He couldn't help the smug smirk that formed on his lips.

Mario stepped in. And the woman bowed her head, as if finally recognizing the dangerous men before her. In an instant, she cast her eyes down and moved out of the way.

May be I'll have my fun with her later.

Domenico lead them to a wooden staircase and outside the balcony. A couple of diners were there, seated under their own umbrellas. Cocktails, appetizers on hand.

Great. More parching heat.

He walked to a secluded tent in the corner, away from the impertinent eyes and ears of civilians.

Two men were already sitting under the canopy, waiting, looking angst.

As they should be.

They're negotiators for a new venture his dad was looking into.

They lowered their eyes as they shook his father's hand. Their adoration was plain on their faces.

But were they real though?

He learned that love and fear, like good and bad, have interchangeable terms.

In this lifestyle, anyway.

Their men spread out and around the perimeter. Their authoritative presence was alarming some of the guests, who didn't hesitate to up and left.

His father and Mario sat down across the two men. While he maintained his distance.

This particular time, he wasn't allowed to join them. Considering what happened last week, he's banned from all negotiations until further notice.

He stood over the railings to past the time and asked for the binoculars from his guard. He occupied himself with the arid and suburban landscape of Cefalu. The heat was emanating from all surfaces and buildings. It's making him even more thirsty than he was

"Get me a bottle of beer. Ice cold. Have that beautiful lady receptionist bring it up to me."

Alek, his guard ever since he was sixteen, nodded and left.

He was looking out into the water when he heard the heightened pitch of his dad. He put the equipment away and observed.

From the pronounced scowl on his father's face, he could assume that it won't be getting any better. His future plans to sneak out later this evening was automatically canceled.

His father stood up and raised his hand in a dismissive wave.

That was the end of the discussion.

He looked pissed.

But as soon as the Don met his gaze, the old man smiled, the corner of his eyes shining with mischief.

"Fucking opportunists." His father cussed, clapping him on the back.

"You want me to talk to them?"

The Don shook his head and glanced back. "Mario's handling it." He gestured to the binoculars. "We don't want you threatening them away again, do we, son?"

He simpered, "But it's so much fun."

"Figlio, sometimes, you have to compromise. We have to make sure that we have certain people on our side exactly when we need them to be."

"I don't think you need anything or anyone else anymore."

His father laughed, removing the binocs from his face. "Have I thought you nothing?"

That's when he realized what how he must have sounded.

"Non accontentarti mai, anche se hai tutto, Massimo." His dad reiterated, forcing another smile from him. "Don't ever-"

"Don't ever settle. Even if you have everything." he repeated. "I know Pa, I know. My bad."

His father grabbed his shoulders so he was facing him. "And you do your best not to forget it."

He beamed down at him. "Sì."

His father cupped his face, like when he was a kid. The dark eyes, feared by many, gleamed with a raw and familiar with emotion.

And he knew why; he has his mother's eyes. His father often told him that he could still see her stubbornness alight in them every time they talk. He placed a hand on his father's forearm.

"You're-" He heard a sharp whoosh of wind and his father's sentence abruptly stopped. The paternal smile faded and a shocked expression replaced it.

His mind and body went numb.

Behind them, someone shouted. And chaos breaks.

He held his father. One hand on his shoulder, the other on the gushing wound staining his chest.

What's happening?

He was trying to keep them upright, but he felt weak, like someone's, something, was sucking the life out of him. His father slipped from his hands and dropped on his back.

His world went into a complete standstill.

A tight, burning pressure permeated from his torso and he fell down. Arms splayed out, the bright, yellow sun, blinding him.

The men were running, their guns poised in the air. The guests on the balcony scrambled down the staircase, screaming their heads off. He saw a flash of blue before he heard Mario shouted different orders to the men.

He closed his eyes and tasted the rust on his tongue. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound ever came. A pain shoot from his side, like a thousand hot electric needles pricking him. His muscles were tense. He was sweating, but at the same time felt like someone poured a bucket of ice cold water on him. He coughed and thick, warm liquid spurted out of his mouth.

No.

He became aware of his heartbeat slowing down, its weak thumps vibrating in his ears. The excruciating pain doubled, paralyzing him even more. His breathing became shallow, fast, gasps. He heard his name shouted over the dry wind.

Domenico.

Domenico crouched down and shook him. He slapped his face, his expression livid.

He and Domenico loved wrestling and kick-boxing, since they were kids. Being older and bigger than Nico, gave him a huge disadvantage; he always wins. Nico doesn't have a chance.

He almost wanted to taunt his brother and point out that this is the first time he couldn't get up to beat his ass.

"Wake up!" He grabbed the lapels of his shirt, pulling him up. "Don't you dare die on me!"

He winced, both from the pain, shaking his entire body and his little brother's trembling voice.

Idiot.

Leave me alone, Nico.

He never felt so exhausted.

Papa, Go to Papa.

He wanted to sleep.

Leave me be.

He just wanted to fucking sleep.

Domenico stopped shaking him. Somebody from behind grabbed his brother away. Domenico cried out, struggling to get back.

Get him out of here. Get both them out of here.

He closed his eyes and swallowed. He heard voices, so many voices. But they're muffled, like someone put cotton in his ears, drowning him out. He could feel each footfall vibrating on the ground. Somehow, he couldn't feel the heat he felt from it earlier.

He only felt the cold.

Good. I hate the fucking summer.

Everybody seemed to have abandoned him.

Finally.

He wanted to rest.

Time to rest.

But then, a shadow fell above his closed eyes, blocking out the blistering sun. A warm, soft hand touched his, raised it and pressed it on his chest. He felt it ran over his face, leaving tingling, warm impression.

It surprised him.

Without warning whatsoever, the warm, comforting sensation pulled him back. Away from the cold, drab void sucking him.

Then, the warmth left him, as swiftly as it came.

No.

Come back.

It was a struggle to open his eyes. But he did.

He blinked and sees someone, a woman, hovering over him.

Why does she look so familiar?

Then it hit him.

The woman in the bookshop.

The moment his eyes focused on her, she seemed relieved.

He felt it resonate through him.

Somehow, she appeared brighter, more unbearable to look at than the fucking sun above them.

She removed her floppy hat, placed it behind his head and used it as a cushion. She smiled down at him. Her mouth was moving, but he couldn't hear what she was saying.

He concentrated on her dark eyes, and even darker, almost, raven hair, flowing freely over the wind. Her lips were pink and soft as a carnation in full bloom. Her nose, tall and prominent. Her jaws, chiseled to look at but felt so delicate to touch.

He felt the remaining air knocked out of him.

He wanted to reach up and caress her beautiful face, but his body wasn't cooperating with him at the moment. Because everything hurts.

Everything fucking hurts.

The woman worked above him. He couldn't tell what she was doing. But his eyes bulged out of its sockets when he felt her, pressing her hand, hard, on his side.

He looked down and saw her holding a blood-soaked napkin on his torso. A sharp pain lanced through him, making him bite on his tongue. He closed his fist around hers.

Please, stop.

The woman cradled his head, soothing him. Her sweet, but firm voice, muffled by the pain. "We have to keep applying pressure. You're alright. You're okay."

The discomfort from his side was making it harder to think. He saw colorful spots flashed before his eyes, merging and splitting into thousand circular patterns. He let out a strangled scream and held the woman's wrist.

Make it stop.

"I'm sorry, I know it hurts. But I have to, okay?"

Her face swam back into focus again, clearer than everything and everyone else.

Her hair was falling around her face. He wondered what her hair would feel like wrapped around his finger. He wanted to tuck it behind her ear and see her blush.

He wanted to see it more than anything else.

"It's okay, you're gonna be okay." He heard her cooed through the haze before then she roared, "You work for him?!" Her voice as sharp as her face.

"Ye-yes." He recognized Alek's voice, the only one in his men who can speak English.

"Okay!... Bring me a flat surface... No… I don't care! Break the table, if you have to! He needs to be lying down!"

He never heard someone yelled at his men like that, not even his father, not even him. This tiny woman was barking orders to his people like she fucking owns them.

Atta, girl.

He felt his body spasm out of control; he was trembling again. This time, it's more unnerving than the last. The consciousness, he was trying his best to hold on to was slipping.

He was falling through the empty, dark space again; the space he knew was reserved for people like him.

"Hey! Hey! I'm here! I'm here!" she shouted at him, raking her fingers through his hair.

That felt good.

"Look at me."

And he did.

Her eyes were enthralling, it felt like they were the only thing keeping him here. It felt like it would hurt more to look away.

What color are they? He mused.

A flashback appeared before his eyes- a forgotten memory. He's eight again. He's baking. His mom was laughing beside him. He missed her laugh. She was letting him whisk the melted dark chocolate for the cake. She dipped her fingers in the bowl and bopped him on the nose.

Mamma.

"No, no no." he heard the raven-haired woman again. Her voice, disembodied like she's talking from behind a veil.

The wonderful slender fingers stroke his jaw again, like she did those books. "Stay with me." she said. Her tone was the borderline between a plead and a direct order.

He wanted to laugh. Nobody orders him around. But he did as he's told.

"That's it. Eyes on me." She uttered with her big, penetrating eyes.

Gray. Her eyes were gray, like the color of a giant sea storm.

"Where's that table?!" she howled again.

He kept his gaze on her, trying to name and decipher all the grays in her eyes.

If his life wasn't ebbing away, he would've found the situation ludicrous. The great Massimo Torricelli was finally taking his time gazing at someone else's eyes for the very first time.

And the last time.

How fucking twisted is that?

"Stay with me. Stay with me. They're coming." She whispered. One hand was holding his head up, the other was still in the gnashing bullet wound, applying pressure. The blood spilling from him was staining the blue romper she's wearing. He felt sorry. Why does he always have to destroy beautiful things?

I'm sorry. He almost wanted to say.

Dying really does bring the firsts out of people.

"Hurry up!"

He stared at her beautiful, angelic face, committing everything in his memory.

"Stay with me." she murmured again, flicking her eyes to his face and wound every now and then.

His dry lips cracked into an agonized smile. He wanted to comfort her, tell her it's alright.

But he knew.

He'd always known.

From the very first time he pulled the trigger.

Nobody's coming to save the devil.

He stopped believing in God decades ago. But in these few moments of limbo, he realized that this- seeing her for the first and last time- was the cruelest punishment he could ever have.

He clutched her hand with his shaky ones, rallied the remaining power in his body and choked, "Mio Angelo."

And the darkness welcomed him, like the prodigal son that he was.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

5 years later.

Warsaw, Poland

-I'm so sorry. I'll come over tomorrow. I promise, B.

She received the reply a few seconds later:

-Girl, it's okay. I have my wine and a half naked Paul Wesley on tv. It's fine, I'm not thinking about whatishface.

She texted back, guilt shrouding her:

-Are you sure it's okay?

Again, she didn't wait a second for her response.

-I am! Go and kick their ass, Laura. x

The text elicited a smile from her. She shoved her phone in her bag and storms the elevator.

Furious was an understatement.

She's supposed to have dinner with one of her best friends tonight. But because David Sawicki can't do his job properly, she's stuck here for the next hour. She heard the echoes of her most prized heels on the floor tile. Her fists clenched beside her, her lips pursed in a straight line. She felt the anger emitting like, from her skin.

The employees on either side of her parted and flattened themselves on the walls. She made her way to the board room, avoiding anyone's judgmental gaze.

They don't know what happened. Let them look.

She reached the heavy wooden door of the conference room and pushed. There were only four people in the room.

"Good evening, Miss Biel." Oskar, the PR manager greeted. She returned his warm smile and sat on the empty swivel chair next to him.

James, the head of their security sat in the nearest chair by the door. Marissa, the senior head's secretary was eyeing up the bastard sitting across her. But Sawicki was ignoring her. He was ignoring everyone in the room, except her.

She met his belittling gaze.

"Have you packed your shit already, Miss Biel?"

She sneered back at him. "Shouldn't you be asking yourself that question?"

Before he could make a comeback, the doors opened and the senior head entered.

"Good evening." Hayden Marek addressed the room, his eyes glued on the stack of folder he's holding.

Without further ado, he took his seat at the center of the table. "Now, can anyone please explain to me what the hell happened yesterday-"

The room was quiet. Her eyes remained on Sawicki, challenging and unfaltering.

Marek raised his voice. "-And how the fuck did it happen?!"

Sawicki was quick to point fingers—as the child that he always has been. "Why should we ask Miss Biel? Excuse my language, but one needs to have balls to have this job."

The room turned to her.

"Miss Biel?"

"First of all, it's not my fault." She started, cool, calm, and collected.

"Listen, Ma'am-" Sawicki butted in.

"I haven't finished yet." She hissed at Sawicki. "As I was saying Mr. Marek, it's not my fault. I'm in charge of bookings and reservations. It has never been my job to temper rowdy customers."

She narrowed her eyes at Sawecki. "And I think you should explain to us, why in the entire building there are only two security guards in the building? I remember explicitly suggesting that we need more. Since the band is Beatles level famous. I remember telling you that at our briefing, Mr. Sawecki."

Beside her, she could feel her friend trying to hide his smile.

"I booked the band at our hotel on purpose. They're at the top of their game and we need the publicity. We gave them and their team the best rooms. We even closed down the bar and buffet room to give them their privacy. Me and my team went to them ourselves and asked for anything they might need. Even if it's not part of our job."

She continued, holding everyone's attention. "Everything was going smoothly, until a roadie got past security and caused a scene. One of the members got mad because we promised them privacy."

Sawicki was speechless. He knew the story himself, having happened before his eyes.

"The roadie sent messages, bragging how she got in. And before we knew it, a legion of slutty teenagers bombarded the lobby. The band barely got out. If it weren't for the efforts of my team. I dealt with the press and strategized a new approach so we wouldn't lose our loyal customers and patrons. I'm proud to say that we are now booked for the next four weekends." She slid the reports to Marek, whose eyes widened at the numbers at the bottom part of the paper.

Yes, keep the ugly, greedy man fat with money.

Marek averted his annoyance to Sawecki. "You, in my office. Right away." And he stood to leave, James and Marissa followed him.

She leaned forward, elbows flat on the table. "This is exactly you need balls for."

Sawecki glowered at her before turning his leave.

Oskar clapped a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Good job, girl." And he too left, leaving her alone in the big, cold conference room.

She gave him another amiable smile, hoping it'll ease the tension in her chest.

Unlike many, Oskar is different. She felt at ease with the old man. Oskar was probably her only friend in this building. Most of them either feared her or wished her out.

They were unsuccessful with that last part.

But she has to admit, she's tired of this. Men constantly disparaging her and her achievements.

Because of what? Her gender?

Unlike those dumbasses she met in med school, she presumed that men in the hospitality sector would be more... non-discriminatory. But no. All men appear to be the same sensitive, egotistical and easily threatened rats she experienced them to be.

Yes. Even her boyfriend fit the bill, sometimes.

Men always tell society that they need strong, intelligent, independent women. But what they really want were cheerleaders. Someone to boost and feed their ego.

She exhaled the deep breath she was holding.

Calm down, Laura.

To distract herself, she checked her phone for the very first time since lunch.

Still no messages from Martin.

"How surprising." she scoffed.

She has never been the clingy type, but a simple short text after a long day at work would ease her stress.

She and Martin had been dating for four years already.

He came up to her at a hotel event and made an actual fool of himself to get her attention. She thought it was cute. Two years into the relationship, she sold her apartment and moved in with him. One year of living together, he proposed. And to this day, she didn't know what came over her to say yes.

For the past few months, they've been having more arguments. His reason? She's spending way too much hours with her work and no time for him at all. And she felt guilty, because it's true.

Thus, she's been trying to redeem herself. She tried to come home early, prepare his food and do other stereotypical duties of a good fiancé. But still felt... insufficient. Like something was missing.

Olga was having none of it. She hated the man. Unlike Bianka, she has never warmed up to Martin, even after all theses years. "You fool, don't settle for that lazy, bald freak. You're not his maid. Let him wash his own smelly gartered underwear." and she added, for good measure,

"Passion is essential to every relationship, as important as love."

Olga was always the voice of reason- whenever she wanted to be,

But she loves Martin.

She felt passionate about him.

She loves him.

Right?

If that wasn't love, why did she buy their tickets to Sicily for her birthday weekend? Why did she booked those romantic getaways? Martin was pretty excited about it.

That's love.

"I love him." she convinced herself. "You love Martin, Laura. Stop overthinking it."

The door creaked open again and the maintenance guy went in, pushing his mop cart. The man stopped and apologized.

"Przepraszam, Miss Laura. I thought it's empty."

"No, no. It's fine. I was just leaving" She smiled and gather her things. "Have a good night."

"You too, miss."

The floor was now empty, except for the cleaners who waved in her direction. She waved back, sincere and friendly.

As she was about to press the elevator button, when Oskar called her from the doorway of his office.

"Laura?"

She turned. "Mmm?"

"Marek told me that he wants to meet with you tomorrow. His office at 4."

"What?" She couldn't help but the thrill in ringing in her voice. But she toned it down. "Why?"

Her friend jiggled his eyebrows at her. "I don't know. Marek called me to say that Sawecki no longer works here. The General Manager position is open."

Laura squealed and hugged the man. She has not been working her ass off for four years to settle for the beta position. She knew she deserved so much more than what they're already giving her.

"Thank you, thank you!"

"Hey, all you sweetheart." Oskar kissed both her cheeks. "As an early gift, I have my driver take you home."

"What, no-"

"No buts. Besides, I have a date. A very hot date."

"Oh! Where'd you meet him?" She teased.

"Now you know that I don't kiss and tell, Laura sweetie."

"Kinky! I love it."

"Now get your ass out of here, Conrad is already in the lobby."

"Thank you so much." She enveloped him another tight hug before hurrying down the elevator.

Her mind was still reeling from, the possibilities of her promotion. She went over her mental list of the changes she could make to the management. This was probably the best birthday present she's ever had in years.

As he promised, Oskar's driver was waiting for her. Conrad has always been shy around her. He was standing by the passenger door and opened it as she approached.

"Dziękuję Ci." She smiled.

The man turned pink and nodded.

She didn't need to tell him the directions since Oskar has offered to take her home countless of times. Most of those times were, when Martin forgets to pick her up.

It wasn't a long ride, only a good thirty minutes—including the traffic. She could take the cab, if they weren't too damn expensive this time of year. If the bus fumes wouldn't kill her, she would literally take the bus every single day.

She was in her third year of MED school when her grandmother fell ill and died. Due to debt and budget constrictions, she's forced to quit the one thing she cared about the most.

She loved medicine, she loved studying it. The lengthy explanations, crucial step by step procedures, the jargons appealed to her.

With the death of her grandmama and her quitting medicine, she had a relapse and fell into a mild depression.

That's when her body developed it.

She was out with Olga that day she first fainted. She thought it was only panic attacks but it became more frequent. She consulted her doctor and found out she has Supraventricular Tachycardia. In simpler terms, she has a heart palpitations. That meant that her heart was beating more than it normally should. Her condition causes her to, sometimes, pass out and hyperventilate. This prevented her from engaging in strenuous exercises, smoking, stressful situations and caffeine.

She hated it. Everyone who knew has treated her like she's something fragile, like, she'll break at the tiniest push. It was disconcerting. So, she decided to keep it a secret, that even her parents didn't know.

She had no plans to tell Martin because it might affect their relationship—which it did. He accidentally found out a few months after they moved in together.

She couldn't tell anyone at work, except of course, the HR manager. She couldn't let assholes like David Sawicki get the slightest indication that there's a chink within her armor.

The only persons who do know were her college best friends, Bianka and Olga, and her doctor.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Martin.

Finally.

Hey honey, I'm coming late from work. Don't wait up for me.

Wanting to prove to herself that what she felt for him was still valid, Laura smiled deviously. She glanced in the rear view mirror to make sure Conrad wasn't looking where wasn't supposed to.

She unbuttoned her blouse, down to the last three buttons. She recorded a video and captioned it with:

Aww. But they miss you.

When he didn't reply in the first three minutes, she sent him another. She hiked her skirt to her upper thighs, widened her thighs and snapped a picture.

I miss you.

She was feeling hot that she slid her fingers on her inner thighs. She kept her moans to herself.

She waited for his reply, but it didn't come. Not even when she reached their apartment.

The frustration was twisting her abdomen, evil and needy. Martin's coming off late ever since... she couldn't remember.

A few weeks ago, he's required to put extra hours for the insurance firm he's working for. It was a slap to her face; she's finally having a taste of her own medicine. But she didn't pressure him on it. Nor complain to him about it. She loved a hard-working man. Besides, that way, he could finally get off her back for doing the same.

But as a consequence, she's left… dry and unsatisfied. With only her toys and fingers for company.

She sighed and threw her bag on the hook, and shook her hair out of her bun.

She took a quick look around.

At least, he left the apartment clean before he left this morning.

Martin was the messiest person she knew. Seriously, how hard is it to throw your wet towel in the dryer? Or put the scissors back where he got it from?

The knot in her abdomen tightened and she bit her lip. She went to check on her phone.

Still nothing from Martin.

She called him, but it went straight to voicemail.

"Oh, fuck it."

She poured herself a glass of wine before going to their bedroom. Even though she's alone in the apartment, she closed the door as a form of habit.

Martin doesn't like it when she pleasured herself.

She pulled out her special drawer and grabbed the black toy hidden among her sweat pants. The sight of it alone made her insides clenched in excitement. She took s huge gulp of wine and began to undress herself.

Her fingers traced her curves, slowly. The pads of her thumbs brushed over her nipples. She let out the loud moan she's been holding in the car before she switched the vibrator on.

The buzzing filled her ears, making the fire in her belly burn even more. She grazed it over her bra. Her nipples erected in their lacey confine. She removesd the clasp of her bra, to her own slow pace, and shimmied out her drenched undies. She lay on the bed.

There were certain advantages of studying medicine. Aside from treating other people part, this was one of them.

Shew was gasping now. Her hand was rolling the toy over the sensitive spot. Just the right amount of roughness, if not, more. Something Martin could never do, no matter how many times she told him how.

Her moans rocked their stilled apartment. She arched her back as she pumped against her own palm, using her legs and feet to meet her strokes.

She bit the back of her hand as she felt the white heat dripping from her. Her back landed back on the mattress and she waited for her heart to slow down.

But she knew she could take more.

God.

She could take so much more.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[star-spangled-steve]

His New Partner

Chapter 25: The Wedding Day

Series Masterlist

Previous Chapter

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Words: 1470

Warnings: Fluff, marriage.

Audio: “Unchained Melody” by The Righteous Brothers

A/N: So, this chapter doesn’t exactly have a huge conflict or main idea, I just wanted to give you guys a little glimpse of their big day. Also, Y/M/N means Your Mom’s Name and Y/D/N means Your Dad’s Name. Enjoy this short part!

Y/N sighed as she stared in the full-length mirror, running her hands down the satiny smooth skirt of her wedding gown. She let her fingertips wander to the bodice and proceeded to stoke up and down its length; almost as if she was testing if it was real or not.

The girl could hardly believe that she was finally getting married to the Captain America, the love of her life. After over a year of planning, organizing, arguments, and Steve forcing her to take sleeping pills in order to relax, the big day had finally arrived.

Dozens, possibly hundreds of news reporters and paparazzi were crowded outside, waiting for hours to even get one shot of the happy couple. After all, it was the wedding of one of the world’s favourite Avengers and one of the most popular actresses in the industry; the event would make for some great headlines. Steve and Y/N were basically American royalty, and everybody knew it.

Just take deep breaths, the bride told herself as suspense for the ceremony continued to grow. Her five bridesmaids, including her trusty Maid of Honour, were completely finished getting ready. They were now just helping Y/N finish up, tweaking her hair and smoothing out her dress.

“Five minutes.” Maria stated after checking the clock, walking up to the mirror in which the bride was facing. “You excited?” She questioned with a grin, placing her hands on Y/N’s bare shoulders.

The girl in white puffed out a breath, staring at her and Maria’s reflections. “Ya, ya.” She gulped. “A bit nervous too, if I’m being honest.”

“Relax, N/N.” Y/C/N spoke from across the room, reapplying her face powder.

Natasha nodded while adjusting the straps of her soft gold dress. “It’s ‘gonna be easy.”

Y/N hummed before turning around to face her friends, as well as her mother, who was currently having a chat with Pepper on one of the little plush benches. “D-Do I look okay?” She asked somewhat shyly. Even though Y/N had millions of fans across the globe constantly raving about how pretty she was, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t be self-conscious every now and then.

“Are you kidding?” Y/F/N chimed in. “You look so stunning!”

Y/M/N stood up and walked closer to the group. Pepper followed as well, all of the women now standing in a small circle around the puffy wedding dress. “So beautiful, Y/N.” The older woman smiled, feeling incredibly proud of her daughter.

“Let me just tell you,” Pepper fondly shook her head, “you’re going to knock Steve’s socks off.”

The actress laughed in delight.

“She’s serious, sweetie.” Natasha, the Maid of Honour, added. “That man worships you when you wear sweatpants. I can’t wait to see what his reaction will be to this getup.” She smirked, gesturing to the beautiful white gown that looked just exquisite on the girl.

Y/N spun around on the spot, giving everybody in the room a 360-degree view. Her dress was stark white and in the style of a ball gown; tight to her torso and extremely wide around the bottom. It was off-the-shoulder, a very tiny v-cut in the middle of her chest, and the outside layer was made of pure satin. Tons and tons of tulle was underneath, completely hiding Y/N’s tall white stilettos. She felt straight out of a fairytale.

“He’s a very lucky man.” Y/M/N commented before pulling her daughter into a gentle hug, still being mindful of the fancy attire.

Y/N smiled, rubbing a hand up and down her mother’s back. “Thank you, mom.”

Their precious moment was interrupted by a sudden knock on the dressing room door. “N/N?” A voice spoke from behind it, a voice that they instantly recognized to be the bride’s father. The women all looked towards each other, holding a breath as they waited to hear what he had to say. “It’s time.”

*****

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The ultimate, determinant words were spoken, and the couple gave each other bright smiles. Steve squeezed Y/N’s hands affectionately as small tears streamed down their faces. “You may kiss the bride!”

The guests erupted with applause as the pair leaned in, lips touching in a soft kiss. Steve placed his arms around Y/N’s torso and actually dipped her back for with excitement, just making the cheers and hollers from the audience become much louder.

The girl laughed as they stood up straight again, still in each other’s hold. Even though the room was filled with over a hundred different people, Y/N and Steve still felt like the only ones present. They were completely lost in each other’s eyes, each other’s arms.

The moment was pure bliss.

*****

“Let us welcome for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Steven and Y/N Rogers!”

Once again, the entire group of company began to clap and cheer in support. They watched as the newlyweds came through the large doors and headed farther into the fancy reception hall, huge smiles on their faces. They saw how the man twirled his wife around while they walked, his eyes never straying from her beautiful form. It was completely apparent to everyone how completely in love with each other they were. People could tell that what they had would last forever.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom will now have their first dance. If you would please all gather round the dance floor and show your support for the happy couple.”

The room went silent in anticipation, until the live band began to play first couple beats of ‘Unchained Melody’ by The Righteous Brothers. All of Steve and Y/N’s friends were aware of how it was ‘their song’, or something like that. Ever since three years earlier when she had sung it for him in the living room of her old apartment, the man had been completely in love with its tune, its tempo, and its sensuality. He just adored holding Y/N while it played.

“Oh, my love, my darling

I've hungered for your touch

A long, lonely time”

Steve brought the girl closer, right hand on her waist and left hand clasping her own right one. He began to sway them back and forth to the beat of the song, eyes never leaving her’s.

“Time goes by so slowly

And time can do so much

Are you still mine?”

One moment Y/N was held tightly to Steve’s body, and the next he was spinning her outwards, making her giggle in response. He quickly brought her back to his chest, hands grasping her torso even tighter than before.

“I need your love

I need your love

God speed your love to me”

The actress laid her head on her husband’s chest, feeling the beat of his super soldier heart underneath her right cheek. It was racing fast, and she had no doubt that it mirrored her own.

“Lonely rivers flow

To the sea, to the sea

To the open arms of the sea

Lonely rivers sigh

‘Wait for me, wait for me’

I'll be coming home, wait for me”

Steve rested his chin on the top of Y/N’s head and smiled to himself. “You look so beautiful, babydoll.” He spoke quietly. “Did I tell you that already?”

His wife grinned into his tuxedo jacket. “Multiple times, Stevie.”

The Captain lightly shrugged as he led her around the dance floor. “Well, it’s true. You look like a pretty princess.”

“Oh, my love, my darling

I've hungered, for your touch

A long, lonely time

Time goes by so slowly

And time can do so much

Are you still mine?”

Y/N lifted her head to get a look at her man’s face, and he lowered it, making their foreheads touch. They could feel one another’s hot breath over their skin, and the air was electrified with passion. They had extremely intense looks on their faces; almost as if they were about to explore the great unknown that was each other. If it wasn’t for the classy wedding attire, you might even suspect that they were about to go in for their first kiss.

“I need your love”

Steve’s crystal blue eyes lowered to Y/N’s rosy pink lips, wanting yet another taste. No matter how many times they had touched mouths, neither of them had ever gotten enough of the sensation.

“I need your love”

The girl’s tongue traced the bottom of her teeth, knowing exactly what Steve had wanted.

“God speed your love to me.”

She did what any reasonable wife would do and leaned up, sealing their lips together in a chaste kiss. This just made their friends and family whistle, especially when her husband’s hands rose to either side of her head, locking her in place. But it’s not like he really needed to; Y/N was never going anywhere.

Next Chapter

Feedback is always welcome!❤️

[supercasey]

The Perfect Child

Description: Michael Peterson was raised to be the perfect child. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect actions... unfortunately, his little brother wasn't. When all you've ever known is perfection, how can you possibly handle average?

A/N: So this is my first “creepypasta”, although I’ve been writing for about six years now. I really love reading creepypastas, so I finally gathered the energy to write one of my own. It’s not as scary as it could be, so it’s more an allegory for my own insecurities. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please refrain from being too harsh (I’m a huge wimp lmao). With that said, I hope you enjoy this piece!

Hello, my name is Michael. I am a seventeen year old boy, and I’m a perfect child. Please, allow me to explain:

I was born mid March, 2002, in Kansas. I was born on a hundred acre property, settled out of the public eye. When I was young, I saw nothing wrong with this. My life, as far as I could tell, was like any other child’s. From the moment I was able to walk, I was surrounded by other children, and for the most part, we were left to our own devices. The land we lived on held numerous barns, which were our room and board. We spent many a day running in the open fields, catching bugs, and playing small games together. We didn’t have names; we didn’t know what a name was. We didn’t talk either… no one had ever heard a word. No one screamed; those who screamed would be gone the next morning.

Three times a day, a siren would go off in all of the barns. Instinctively, we would all return to our beds (beds we had never once thought to move or not sleep in), and we’d find bowls of food waiting for us. It wasn’t sludge or nasty garbage either; we had steamed vegetables, baked chicken, eggs of all varieties, and much, much more. We didn’t know where it came from, it was always just there, waiting for us. No one had ever taught us to eat, but we ate in a dignified manner nonetheless, never spitting out our food or opening our mouths midway. After we ate, we would go right back outside to play in the sunshine.

It never rained. It never snowed. We had never seen a cloud in the sky before. The sun would rise and set indefinitely, and we never bothered keeping the time. We only played. Sometime when I was around four, my life changed. That day had been like any other; I slept, played, and ate. But that night… I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. This had never happened before. When I sat up and looked around, I saw a few other kids weren’t sleeping either. They were just as confused as me. Everyone else was out cold, unable to wake up, not that we tried to wake them. Suddenly, a group of adults filtered into the room, dressed in full body hazmat suits.

No one said a word- again, we had no concept of language- and we didn’t move either. We just let them approach us (an adult for each conscious child), pick us up, and carry us out of the barn. Once outside, they took us towards a building I had somehow never noticed before. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was easily three stories tall, and was painted white with a lovely blue trim. The adults took us inside, and in there, everything about my life was drastically changed. After being tucked into a brand new bed (though it looked no different from my old one) and falling asleep, my mind adapted.

When I awoke, I could speak. I spoke fluently, something no normal four year old could do. The other children could do the same. We could also read, write, and draw, things that were improved upon throughout the next year. For one year, the adults, who never once removed their hazmat suits, tutored and taught us within that house. We weren’t allowed outside anymore; that was for the little kids. I excelled at everything they told me to do. I washed the dishes best, was the most creative artist, spoke the most clearly, and was reading at a high school level by the time I was five.

The day before I turned five years old, I was pulled aside from the other children, and taken into the basement. I had never been in the basement before. It was nothing like any basement I had ever heard of, either. The walls were a beautiful redwood, and the carpeting wasn’t the least bit cold, even though I wasn’t wearing socks. Quickly, I was led into a small office, where I finally met an unmasked adult for the first time in my life. Behind the ivory desk sat a plump, mid aged woman with greying hair, dark brown eyes, and saggy skin. In front of the desk sat two women, both young and beautiful, decked out in their finest attire.

As soon as we walked in, one of the young women cooed at me- something I had never heard before, but I knew what it was from reading of it- and held her arms out to me. Without missing a beat, I smiled at her, and obediently walked up and hugged her. I had never given, or received, a hug before. Both women were ecstatic, and for the rest of the meeting, I was traded from lap to lap, both women taking turns cuddling me. The meeting was more of a business transaction than anything else; the lady behind the desk showed the two women a binder, filled to the brim with information on me. She listed my traits, my mannerisms, and health record. All perfect, just as ordered.

At the end of the meeting, the older woman- who I learned was called The Provider- seemed happy, and with a big smile, took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and laid it on the desk, presenting it to the young couple. It was an adoption form. The two ladies gladly filled it out, giving me my first and only name; Michael Damian Peterson. Afterwards, the employee who had brought me in scooped me up, took me out of the room, and got me ready. I was given a long bath, dressed in a red sweater with blue overalls, had my hair cut to be shaggy but short, and was fitted with a pair of white socks and black sneakers.

Once ready, I was returned to the young couple, who gasped and cooed at what I was wearing. Again, I was never set down, and they swiftly completed the transaction- handing The Provider a check for ten million dollars- and left. Internally, I wanted to run around the moment we stepped outside, as I hadn’t been outside in a year, but it was dark out and I was very tired, so I didn’t fuss. The couple took me to a sleek, brand new black minivan, complete with a hot rod flame design on the sides. When they opened the backseat, I was greeted with the sight of a large booster seat, and was strapped in immediately.

We left soon after, driving down a seemingly endless road. The windows were darkened, and with it being nighttime, I couldn't see a thing. It was then that the couple explained what was happening. Their names, to me, were Mama and Mommy, and I was to be their new son. They had always wanted a child, but due to their professions, they were unable to have or even adopt one through legal means. It was then that they were approached by a friend, who raved to them about the incredible work Perfect Children did. They then learned about a remote farm, out in the backend of Kansas, that specializing in producing ‘perfect’ children.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was bred to be perfect, but they admitted that not every child bred by Perfect Children was that way. In fact, more than ninety percent of them weren’t even close to perfect. So… what happened to the ones who weren’t perfect? I was told that they were picked out early in the program- around five to six months of age- and placed into the Bad House. A little ways away from the main buildings, sat a large, decaying barn, that was overflowing with needy, loud children that simply weren’t good. Sometimes they got better, Mama admitted, but those were very rare.

Again, I was confused. What happened in the Bad House? Mommy filled me in. “Those children… who simply aren’t perfect,” She had actually sighed, clearly disappointed. At the time, I thought it was with the company. It was only when I got older did I learn that she was upset with the children themselves. “Those children are for slaughter.”

“There are people in this world- and especially in our profession- that also want children. But not for raising,” Mama had seemed… hesitant to tell me these things, but after getting a nod from Mommy, she swallowed, then continued. “Sometimes, people want to have an imperfect child for… leisure. Maybe when you’re a little older, I’ll tell you more, but for now,” She put on the warmest smile I had ever seen, and before I could react, a little screen emerged from the roof of the van. “How about some TV, sweetie?”

I don’t remember the rest of the car ride. In fact, most of my memories of the farm have faded. Most of what I know now was learned later in life, but I do, somehow, remember my fifth birthday. When we arrived at our destination, the sun was rising, and I could finally see out the windows. What I saw… was incredible. Just on the horizon, I could see a massive, luxurious mansion. Even from a distance, I could see the first bits of the garden, surrounding the mansion in a field of different flowers. Mama must’ve noticed my gawking, because as I was looking, she cheerfully told me that the mansion I saw was OUR house… my new home.

When we arrived, there were already people waiting. Mommy and Mama’s friends. None of them had children of their own, but they cheered as Mommy parked the car, and came running once Mama had me in her arms. The party was spectacular. Everyone brought me at least five presents each, and they all gushed over me, telling my mothers how precious I looked. My manners were impeccable, and I never once acted out. I allowed the adults to pass me around, and even when they weren’t hovering around me, I still kept up my manners. I even offered to clean the dishes, something my mothers assured I could do later.

That night, I was brought to my bedroom. The room was painted baby blue, and despite having unwrapped enough toys to last me a lifetime during the party, my room was already filled with plenty of toys for me. I was promptly tucked into bed, read a bedtime story, and given two goodnight kisses. I fell asleep immediately.

From then on, I was the perfect child. Once enrolled in school, I was the best of my class. I never once got anything lower than 100% on all my assignments and tests, I was friendly with everyone in my grade, and I volunteered to help my teachers at every occasion. My mothers always beamed at the praise my teachers gave, and when pressed for how I could possibly be so good, my mothers would exchange a knowing smile, and happily tell my teachers the same answer each and every time: “Love.”

When I was six, my mothers wanted another child. I was unable to feel any form of jealousy. A week after my birthday, I was left with a babysitter, and when my mothers returned home, they brought me a brother. He was five when he arrived, just like I was, but he was… different. Where I was well behaved and honest, my brother- named Kyle- was good… to a point. He was ecstatic the first few weeks, clearly happy to be living with me and my mothers, but he soon began to make mischief.

I remember his first big prank. It had been a few weeks after he arrived, and while we were playing quietly in the living room, he asked me for a cup of water. I did as told. As soon as I opened the fridge, a jug of Kool-Aid spilled on me. I didn't cry. I didn’t get angry. I cleaned up the mess, approached Mama, and told her what had happened. When she questioned Kyle about it, he burst out laughing at the sight of me, still drenched in Kool-Aid. Mama laughed too, at least a little, before sentencing him to a time out. He took it calmly, and afterwards, it was water under the bridge… or rather, Kool-Aid under the fridge. Mama never could get the stain out.

Not a week later, and another prank occurred, this time getting Mommy. Kyle had taken the liberty of collecting every grasshopper he could find and hiding them in Mommy’s purse. The scream she let out when it opened was incredibly loud, and instinctively, I fixed her up a mug of hot chocolate while she went about punishing Kyle. He got another time out, and was made to write an apology letter to Mommy. He did so, though his handwriting was sloppy, and the incident was again forgiven.

But his misdemeanors continued. It quickly occurred to me that Kyle was one for mischief, but wasn’t outright malicious. He just liked to frighten folks, and wanted to make us all laugh, though he didn’t understand why no one else found him funny. Things soon got worse. He too was enrolled in school, but he took it badly. While I continued to excel, he barely passed anything, and routinely got into fights and arguments with his classmates and teachers. I tried to help him; I took a few punches for trying to end fights, and even if I ended up getting on the other student’s good side, my brother would get right back into it the moment I stepped away.

While my mothers had taken Kyle’s pranks and misbehavior somewhat well beforehand, they didn’t care for his school troubles. They routinely lectured him as to why he needed to get better grades, treat others better, etcetera. But he refused to behave. By the time I was seven, my mothers had reached their limit.

It was June when Kyle was returned. I was woken up at three in the morning by a frazzled Mama, who I obeyed to the letter. I dressed myself in my clothes and followed her out the door, and into the waiting minivan. Kyle was already there, screaming and biting at his carseat’s buckle. Mommy was in the driver’s seat, panting and angry, but with determination in her eyes. Mama turned up the radio several times on the way there, but Kyle’s screeching was hard to drown out. I tried giving him kisses and hugs, but he only bit and hit at me. When we arrived at the farm… I felt an icy chill up my spine. I stood beside Mommy and Mama outside the car, the sound of Kyle’s sobbing almost deafening.

There were no children in sight, and The Provider was waiting outside the farmhouse for us. She greeted my mothers kindly, and asked what they were there for.

“A return.” Mommy had said, her voice chillingly calm.

“Oh?” The Provider had appeared confused at first. She turned to me, head tilted. “And here I thought this one was one of our best products… was there a malfunction?”

“Oh no, not with Michael. He’s just as perfect as we’d hoped,” Mama explained, all of her usual kindness and love on display. However, it seemed to slip away- like a mask- the moment she brought up my little brother. “No, the problem is with Kyle.”

They was an audible sigh from The Provider. “I should have known… yes, I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you about that one. I must ask; what else did you expect from an imperfect child from the slaughterhouse? Yes, they’re plenty fine for some, but when you’ve only ever had perfection,” She smiled at me as she said that, patting me endearingly on the head. “It’s hard to deal with normal children after you’ve had a taste of perfect.”

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am. We’d like to make… a return,” There was hesitation in Mommy’s words, and even at seven years old, I could tell she was second guessing herself. “We won’t have to see it happen, will we?”

“Heavens no! No no no… we’ll take it from here,” Suddenly, a few men approached the car, opening the side door and pulling out Kyle. They weren’t the least bit gentle with him. “In fact, we have a customer coming today for a ‘leisure’ child… I’m sure he’ll adore this one.”

“MOMMY! PLEASE, DON’T GO!” Kyle’s screaming turned to begging, the terror on his face apparent. I’ll admit, some part of me was confused; life here had only ever been kind to me, if not a bit boring. What was he so scared of? “I PROMISE TO BE GOOD! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE!”

“Please hurry with him; I can’t stand that racket anymore…” Mommy rubbed at her head, a clear headache coming on.

Immediately, I retrieved a bottle of water alongside some Advil for her from her purse, holding the items up to her. “Here you go, Mommy. I love you.” I said, not even aware I was doing so. I was rarely aware of my actions.

The Provider grinned at me, chuckling to herself. “You see how much easier a perfect child is? So attentive, always willing to fulfill your needs,” She suddenly came closer, leaning in as if she had some big secret only available for my mothers. “You know, we have a few new ones that are ready for adoption… if you’d like, I’ll give you a good bargain for a replacement for the inconvenience. Perhaps a daughter? We have some precious little girls that are raring to go.”

It seemed to do the trick, as Mommy and Mama brightened at the news. Kyle didn’t. “NO! PLEASE! MAMA, MOMMY, I LOVE YOU! I’LL BE PERFECT! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Can we see them?” Mama had entirely ignored Kyle, more interested in the little girls that were available. “A daughter sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Right this way then,” The Provider was quick to lead us inside, away from Kyle and the security guards holding him. “I have the most perfect little girls ready for you.”

I’ll be honest with you… my memory of Kyle is weak. Sometimes I think he was a dream. Other times, when I close my eyes, I can still see the smile he’d give me when he ate anything sweet, or played with me in the garden, or managed to get a laugh out of someone. That day, when we came back out to the car, a little girl in Mommy’s arms, Kyle was gone. I never saw him again. My mothers named my sister Scarlett, and just as promised, she was perfect. Together, we were perfect siblings. If one fell, the other helped them up. We played games together, but never roughly. We never once fought. We hugged and loved each other, all while strangers swooned over the ‘precious siblings’.

Scarlett also got perfect grades, was friendly with everyone in her class, and went out of her way to help her teachers. Again, my mothers were flooded with praise, and they grinned as though it was all their doing.

When Kyle’s old teachers asked about him, Mommy provided the news: “He passed away. Tragic, really.”

When I was fifteen, my life changed… again. Scarlett was thirteen. We had been at school, both at lunch together, when we were approached by two men in police uniforms. We cooperated entirely, and were led out of the school, into the parking lot, and into separate police cruisers. We didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. We obeyed. Once we arrived at the police station and sat down with the sheriff, we were given the news; Perfect Children had been discovered by the FBI, and promptly shut down. Inside the farmhouse, they had found all the records on every child that had been sold on the property. We weren’t allowed to see our mothers anymore.

Again, we didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. I held my sister’s hand under the table and we obeyed.

It’s been two years, and I’m only just beginning to become my own person. I’m still not sure exactly what Perfect Children did to make me the way I am… the FBI agent who lets me call her Mom says it was a lot of things; the food, the water, the subliminal messages that they played while I was sleeping, the chip on the back of my neck… but I’m getting better. We all are.

I’m living in a hospital for right now, living with all the other kids they could track down involved with the company… Mom told me it’s because we’re all too impressionable to be around regular people. We’re too inclined to obey, and now that people know what happened… they’re looking for us. They want perfection.

Scarlett handles things better than me. She can laugh on her own now, something she’s really proud of. She managed to prank me a few weeks ago. It wasn’t much, just switched my pillow for her’s, but it reminded me of Kyle. I told my therapist about him, and she says that I’m getting better, too. I can speak, sometimes, without being prompted. It’s not much, but it’s better than before. Yesterday, one of the boys yelled after someone stepped on his foot. We all got very quiet, but one of the supervisors started cheering, and pretty soon, other kids yelled, too. I can’t do that yet, but that’s okay. I’ll get better.

I don’t know where my mothers are… Mom says that they’re in prison, and not just because they bought me and Scarlett. I thought of asking what else they were in for- something that made me feel very, very wrong- but I didn’t. I’m not sure I want to know.

Someday, I’m going to get better. It’s hard to imagine not being perfect, but it’s also… nice. It’s freeing. I want to yell. I want to pull pranks. I want to laugh. Someday I’ll get there, and when I do, I’ll get out of this hospital and be a normal person. Scarlett wants to get an apartment with me, and I think I’d like that. It won’t be perfect- nothing ever will be again- but you know what? I’m excited. I’m happy. I’m getting better.

The kids they pulled out of the Bad House are doing better than any of us. Most of them are older- averaging in their mid twenties- so they act a lot like older siblings to all of us. They’re trying to help us yell, and think for ourselves, and take things. None of them are Kyle. I tried looking around, but I can’t find him. Deep down, where I’ve secretly always felt things, I knew I was never going to see him again, but… I had always hoped I could. One of the imperfect boys let’s me call him Kyle sometimes. He likes the name, and he reminds me of him, so we’re going with that for now. Scarlett won’t comment on it, but I hope she will someday. Any reaction is a good reaction around here.

For their hard work as tutors to us, some of the other perfect kids have tried to return the favor. We give them names, like how I named Kyle. They don’t always stick- Duncan didn’t like Lauren’s first suggestion of ‘Dragon Slayer’- but some do. We also help with handwriting, since almost none of them have ever written before, or read for that matter. Now when I go into the cafeteria, I can see a group of imperfects learning basic table manners, while a perfect girl tries to chew with her mouth open. Mom is proud of me- of all of us- and I think I am too. I’m not perfect anymore… maybe I never was. Oh well. I’m learning to not care.

Thanks for listening to my story… stay imperfect.

A/N: There! I hope you all at least liked it. If not, why not tell me why? BTW, the reason I gave the main character two moms wasn’t to try and be like “having two moms is bad”, I just want to normalize queer relationships, and if I can do it through my writing I like to do so. Have a great day!

[purplenickel]

So this turned more into my queer dating history but its fun lol

So I have always been attracted to boys even before I knew that trans was a thing much less that I could transition. I also always admired girls and found ways to rationalize it until like middle school when I became aware of bisexuality where I had so many crushes usually on the mean kids at least the ones that didn’t have like weird shaped heads or watch alarms that went off at weird times during class like why do you need an alarm for 1:27? Youre supposed to be learning basic Spanish do that instead lol An I dated one guy in middle school when I knew I was bisexual and at least a tom boy. And the things I wanted to do to that boy. Like I was kinky as a small child lol like damn you could do a lot more than hold my hand and let me give you innocent little cheek kisses.

We stayed together until freshmen year of high school where I was bored with how slow things were going so I broke up with him. It probably didn’t help that I was starting to question my gender then either.  I told my mom I thought I wanted to be a boy and she shot that down real quick “You’re a girl and cant be a boy” so I ended up trying to cut off all my hair until it was so fucked she had to give me a buzzcut and I ended up looking like a hard core butch lesbian for a semester)

Second boyfriend was this skinny dude like only an inch taller than me and I was 5’3 at the time. I wrote down love song lyrics and gave them to him to ask him out. Im romantic like that lol. We dated for a while and I guess we just grew apart. He wouldn’t do much more than kiss me occasionally and I was like damn yall how do I keep getting these innocent Victorian straight boys. But he was cute and I still see him around town much to my embarrassment. Idk why im embarrassed so much maybe I feel bad that he thought he was dating a girl and im not?

Next boyfriend was a bi emo guy named Justice. I dated him mainly because he was the only bi guy I knew at my school in rural redneck Virginia lol he ended up being really kinky and kinda weirdly intense.  Like the fun part was he didn’t mind that I was all for sitting in the back of the anime club/computer classroom and tryina get down. The weird part was that he had the idea to write Real Person fanfiction staring ourselves as like vampires because he had a major biting kink and was really emo and thought he was goth but rural VA is a hard place to be goth when all your clothes come from walmart. But he was really intense like he had our entire lives planned out in the fanfic and actually went a bought me a ring  , gold with a pearl setting, that I immediately lost because why would you give me a ring??? Nah so I got real disinterested in Justice and planned to break up with him. I actually ended up cheating on him sort of. My class went on a field trip to Jamestown famous school tour site all Virginian probably had to go to. And one of my classmates/kind of friends was this really hot guy with this shaggy blonde hair and this wiry lanky body and was this laid back hot stoner type and I really liked him so I sat next to him on the bus ride and seduced him through out the whole trip until we stopped in this little shopping mall on the way back to school. I was walking around one of the department stores and saw him trying one underwear of all things lol he invited me to help him pick out a new pair of tight good looking underwear and I agreed and slipped into the changing room while he was putting them on and ended up giving him a hand job he was grateful lol. Then we went back to the bus and pretended like nothing happened but there was already a rumor going around the buses that somebody had sex in the store. A few days later Justice actually broke up with me because he felt that I was “acting different” and I probably was simply because I wasn’t attracted to him any more.

Between dating Justice and the next guy I did have my first kiss with a girl! She was so pretty with silky black hair in a bob and dark blue eyes and the palest skin. She dressed in rave clothes all the time and sometimes wore fairy wings and cloaks to school. She was delightfully strange but moved to florida I think but we were saying goodbye by the schools front doors and when it was my turn I gave her a tight hug and she turned her face and gave me a kiss and I was just wow kissing girls is so nice. Speaking of girls, I also had a huge crush on president of the anime club. She was so tall and really thin with a few curves, but she was really confident and funny and just made you feel at ease and I could’ve seen myself dating her easily but she was dating someone else but im pretty sure she might have been bi but she graduated and moved to Washington state to be a masseuse.

Next boyfriend was extremely religious and also wanted to get married. I was against getting married so young, really against converting to southern baptism and definitely against having kids. Pregnancy has always freaked me out mostly because I don’t like pain and don’t want to be in pain and in general everything about reproduction freaks me out idk why. But I really wanted him. He had these nice big and rough hands and was so warm all the time. He was also really sweet. But I broke up with him because I couldn’t do the religious thing It was Too Much™.

After dating him though I had this huge crush on this girl a year younger than me in me creative writing class. She was gothic in a very flowery dark fairy type way and I loved it she was also had a huge gay crush on my female friend who I can confirm is very beautiful with long dyed red hair and olive skin and this soft husky voice that would be perfect for a late night radio talk show where you call in about relationship problems. But anyways the girl I had a crush on was named Sage and she was beautiful  with her long blonde hair and her light green eyes and small everything she was very thin like scarily thin she actually had an eating disorder that we tried to help her with and she could reach her hand behind her ribs and grip the bottom of her ribs it was creepy to look at. She wrote beautiful and dark poems and never seemed to mind that my crush took the form of hugging her and resting against her as often as I could. She never seemed interested in me though I think she was actually fatphobic or maybe she was just femme for femme I dunno but I graduated and nev er saw her again so whatever.

After I graduated high school I decided to go to a traditionally womens college. My roommate was ace and like the first openly ace person I had ever met and she was really cool and introduced me to the idea of being ace but at the time I was decidedly bi and later pan once some more friends introduced me to tumblr and I started openly learning about gender and sexuality. All my friends were really hot that I met at college and I probably would have been down to date any of them except for the girl that I met through the anime club who also really liked the anime Hetalia. We could get together and watch episodes and read a variety of fanfictions ranging from family type things to kinky sex shit we were very close and im sure that a lot of people thought we were dating or at least fooling around together. We actually met each other at a Virginia anime convention where the anime club people went in a group and I went separately with some friends from high school (the best part of the experience was the wafflehouse in the hotel parking lot) but me and my friend got together at the con and went back to my groups hotel room to gush over the merch we had found and watch some anime together. I was in a closet cosplay that consisted of booty shorts and tied button up shirt so I had a lot of skin showing and we were sitting on the bed by ourselves until my friends came back and they all thought we had sex like no she was very attractive and had really nice curves but girl needed to shower more often because unfortunately she had a smell to her that I just didn’t like. I think she was interested in dating me but she ended up having financial problems of some sort and couldn’t come back to school the next year.

After she left school I came out as trans and got closer to the core group of the college anime club. They were all really hot except for the vegetarian one but she had a boyfriend and didn’t seem to like me much anyways so whatever. I also dated this one girl in my graduation class for like three days over the summer but she broke up with me because she was again a southern Baptist and couldn’t honestly date a trans person because it somehow went against god or some shit. That person has since come out as trans masculine. But anyways next person I dated was this smoking hot older girl who only wore skirts. She was southern Baptist and straight but I had to try even if I never got to be anything other than her creepy friend who everybody knew had a crush on her. She surprisingly was interested in dating me so we started going out. We went on dates around town to explore and see new stores and went to the park and shit was great we had kisses and cuddles and fun cute dates and sexy times but we also clashed a lot over mostly miscommunication. It didn’t help that I was on a medicine that once I started taking it regularly like I was supposed to my sex drive dropped to nonexistent. We fought over this a few times but still planned to try to get an apartment off campus the next year. I thought she was being too clingy by texting me pretty often that summer. I was in a bad mood all of that summer though. We broke up and got back together over the phone probably at least three times before deciding to break up for good. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we had stayed together because when we weren’t fighting we had a lot of fun and I told her things I hadn’t told anybody before, I felt safe.

The next person I dated didn’t go so well. This was a friend from the colleges LARP club that also had people from the community or it was a community club that extended to the college kids and just ended up being held on campus but that’s how we met. She had a very butch androgynous look but I just really liked her personality no matter how hot she looked in her leather jacket. So we started off as LARP friends and then I worked up the nerve to ask for her number and just texted her about random things and we ended up talking about how much we both like coffee so that turned into a coffee date at the local dunkin and it was a lot of fun and we had a few more dates like that and things were looking good. A few friends that knew both of us warned me that she didn’t normally go for men but I had talked to her myself and was like that a lie and you don’t know what youre talking about ok so we hung out for a few months going slow and not really relationship dating. Around the time I was thinking of asking her to be a couple my mental health deteriorated and I ended up being hospitalized. I tried calling her once to keep up the habit of talking at night through text since I couldn’t text at the time but I think me being in the “cr*zy ward” freaked her out because 1) the phone call did not go well and was never tried again and 2) once I got out of the hospital I texted her to see if she was interested in picking up where we left off and she shut me down saying she just wanted to be friends. Of course not even a month later I found out that she and the girl I had dated for over a year were now dating. This bothered me for a long time and I was constantly wondering if I was too cr*zy to date somebody or it was because I was trans a whole bunch of self hatred type thoughts. I eventually got over it (mostly)

Then I didn’t date anybody until last year. I started texting my friend Cat from high school (back then we had a very cute James Potter Severus Snape thing going on where the characters were dating but we weren’t) and I learned that they were agender and ace and I thought it over and determined that I was ridiculously attracted to them and didn’t mind being in a nonsexual relationship because at the time I was still pretty sex repulsed myself besides for reading kinky fanfiction and getting myself off every once in a while. So We went on a friends date in the spring to see Zootopia and it was so much fun and they were so cute in their leggings and hoodie with their windblown cropped hair dyed dark red. I asked them if they wanted to date and they said yes so we went on our first official date (a hike up an abandoned walking trail where we both got covered in ticks and I had to stop and stretch out a bad leg cramp, then we got lunch at a cute vegetarian café in town and went to the town park to hang out. We sat in the grass and listened to Florence and the Machine songs and smiled at each other looking cute. We then got milkshakes and learned that we still had ticks on us from the hick and they took me home and gave me a sweet kiss goodbye with the promise of more dates in the future). Over the summer we hung out a lot because they and their mom were moving from the house they had lived in for years to a house a county over and I volunteered to help with the moving of the last few belongings. Maybe 5 trips all together, but it was a good time every day we got to see each other. We would comfortable hang out in their old house packing things up and taking our time and then we would take the forty five minute drive to the new house listening to whatever queer music we could find and save to playlists.  Then we would cuddle on their couch after taking the days moving things inside and find something nice to eat on the way back to my house. I visited their college a few times (another traditionally women’s college) and met their friends who were also agender and queer and very cute people indeed. I enjoyed all the time I spent with Cat. Cat also helped me realize I was leaning more towards being a demiguy than strictly binary trans and that it was okay if I was ace, that sexuality can be fluid. Our relationship was very intimate and domestic and I loved it, especially the tight hugs and long slow kisses I would get each time we met and each time we had to say goodbye. I fell in love with Cat and because we didn’t see each other all the time and there was no pressure to maintain a sexual relationship I felt I could maintain those feelings I had for cat for a long time. We dated up until August of 2017 when they texted me and let me know they felt they were not only agender and asexual but also felt aromantic and would prefer to be platonic as they couldn’t keep up with the demands of a relationship. This devastated me. I took a week off from school to lie at home and let myself deal with the depression this brought. Im over Cat now. I enjoyed what we had but Im happy being friends though our ideas of friendship are different but that’s another textpost entirely.

I recently went to Charlottesville Pride 2017 with my friends that are the couple where I dated both and now they are happily dating each other and one of their other trans friends and it was so much fun. I think the act of getting a bag of free condoms reawakened my sex drive somehow?? Because now I would totally be down to get sex from anybody I was attracted to?? And im attracted to a lot more people than I usually am?? Like it was my friend Ness’s birthday a few weeks ago and she invited the same trans friend that went to pride with us to come and she brought her cousin with her and damn. Her cousin was the cutest and got so drunk like baby no you gotta stop while its still fun. So he’s agender and gave me his Snapchat and Im just…crushing so hard…hes too cute. But also I’ve been talking to people on OKCupid and everyones just so attractive (not the cismen tho neither the hets or gays wanna hit it so fuck em I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life) and all these tumblr people are cute and I wanna date everybody but everybody live like at least three hours away and it makes me sad because nobody seems to wanna try a long distance type thing which I would be up for.

So tl;dr:  if youre reading this and you think im cute, message me and ill tell you what all we could do together  ;)

Im a biromantic greyace chubby transmasculine enby and i like all body types and most personality types lol

[nafeathers]

King Henry was hearing petitions in the Great Hall when the disturbance began.

Prince Barry, his only son, sat on his right and, despite usually being diligent in his duties, found that his mind wandered recklessly this morning. Currently two of his father’s tenants were putting their cases forward regarding some livestock of uncertain ownership. Petty disputes such as this were common; Barry had heard enough of them when he had had to step up into his father’s role after his mother’s death.

The monotony of it caused his mind to drift back to that morning when he had run into Iris West, the daughter of one of his father’s tenants, here with her father to join in those petitioning the King. Iris was perhaps the most beautiful woman Barry had ever met with a sharpness of tongue and a talent for wit to match. They had crossed paths frequently since they were both children, their parents’ friendship extending even further back than that.

In his heart of hearts, Barry hoped to wed her someday. He knew his father would approve if he asked for his permission. Henry had worked hard to make his kingdom stable and strong. Where the children of other regents were traded off like stock to cement alliances between kingdoms, Barry had always been promised from a young age that he would be allowed to marry for love.

His parents’ had been an arranged marriage but they, unlike so many others, had come to love and respect each other so much that his father’s grief at her passing had been devastating. For several long months the running of the kingdom had fallen prematurely onto Barry’s young shoulders while his father was made useless and irrational in his sorrow.

Barry hoped to never experience what his father had, for he believed he could love Iris just as deeply as Henry had loved Nora. The way she had beamed at him this morning, not hiding her happiness behind a hand or a stoic facade like some of the women did, her eyes grown soft with fondness… Her smile was radiant like the sun and brightened Barry’s day.

The quarrelling tenants were still laying out their droll arguments when Barry was awakened from his musing by noise coming from outside of the Great Hall. At first it was faint and went unnoticed by almost everyone else in the room, but one by one they began to notice as it grew louder. Eventually even the petitioners’ arguing ground to a halt as the sound of scuffling and yelling came from the corridor directly outside the Great Hall.

The doors were thrown open and a trio of strangers pushed their way past the clamouring steward and into the hall. Barry leapt to his feet but his father beside him remained seated and did not seem outwardly surprised by the interruption.

The leader of the strangers stalked towards the king and his son, a sack in his hand and his companions - one tall and broad, the other short and compact - flanking him.

The man’s eyes raked across the room, surveying all those assembled, and it seemed to Barry that they lingered longer on himself, the stranger’s stormy eyes pinning him in place and looking right into his soul. Barry’s breath caught in his throat and his heart beat like a drum. Barry felt like he was being judged… and found wanting. It was a physical relief when the man looked away.

The tenants scattered like the sheep they’d been arguing over as the trio walked through them. When they had taken up the usual place in front of Henry, the leader gave a perfunctory bow. His companions did not mirror him. Barry admired his father’s composure as he rose from his seat and addressed them. He would never have been able to accomplish it. He may have filled in for his father briefly in the past but even he knew he was far from being ready to succeed him.

"Good day, sirs,” greeted Henry. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

The leader's answer was to dig into the sack he held and throw something from it at Henry's feet. It bounced wetly once and then spun in place at their feet. Barry leant forward to see what it was but instantly recoiled when he realised it was a severed head. His father merely approached it and nudged it face-upwards with the toe of his boot. The eyes were milky and sunken and the mouth slack but the face that now looked up at them was instantly recognisable as the visage of Eobard Thawne.

Barry turned to his father to see his reaction but his face remained stoically blank. Barry imagined it was a bittersweet emotion he was feeling. The death of Nora had devastated his father, left him a shell of his former self and necessitated Barry taking a much more active role in the running of the kingdom than was normal at his age. In Henry’s grief he had made all kinds of promises to the man who could avenge his wife. Barry had hoped they would be dismissed as the ravings of a husband not coping with the death of his beloved wife, and so had Henry when he’d recovered most of his sanity. Apparently not.

Henry wasn't a cruel man. In fact, he was the kindest man that Barry knew. He didn't delight in blood sports and war like some, and would only hunt for food. The death of Eobard Thawne itself would bring him no pleasure. Nor would it bring back his wife. In the light of the sobriety that followed his stormy sorrow, he could see this as it was: just another senseless death.

After a moment alone with his thoughts, Henry looked to the strangers and said, "I promised the avengers of my wife's death anything they should ask for, up to half of my kingdom. Pray tell me what it is you want.”

The stranger looked Barry’s father straight in the eye and answered, "Your son, the prince."

[feynites]

I... wrote Game of Thrones fanfic? Which is weird because I’ve only watched like two episodes of the show and read like none of the books. But I know a lot about it anyway and I couldn’t stop thinking about Elia, especially with all the awesome Rhaenys stuff that Cinn has been doing. Sooooo... yeah. This is my take on one of the most tragic characters in the series. Please excuse any continuity errors in light of the fact that I have no clue what I’m doing.

Elia Martell knew that having children might kill her.

It was something warned of for nearly her entire life. She was frail; she was sickly. She had a heart that fluttered and breaths that stuttered, blood that flowed too freely, narrow hips and frequent headaches and irregular moons. Her parents had hesitated in marrying her off. Even to a match most nobles would gladly throw any child into, even with the threat of a mad king’s displeasure should they do him the insult of refusing.

Elia’s parents loved her. But she was still a noble born girl, in the end. Still expected to produce heirs, or face unrelenting shame.

The world had always underestimated her. Even her family had, at times, though in their case, Elia knew it was from love and worry. Poor, sickly Elia. Her first pregnancy had been a nightmare. Much of it she spent bedridden, and she had felt for months upon months as if she was dying. As if they were both dying; herself and the little flicker of life building within her.

Rhaegar had been attentive. She had been glad for him, in many ways. His father was a nightmare, and her heart wrenched for Queen Rhaella, and all that she endured. But she could ask for far worse husbands than one who came and played soft music for her when she was ill, and sat often at her bedside, and spoke of books and songs and poets. Histories, quite often. Rhaegar was a scholarly prince, and an artistic one. He was handsome – though, privately, Elia thought that his looks had been over-sold. It was comparative, she reasoned. Any decent looking man born a prince would become the height of desirability.

Rhaegar always looked just a little too pale to her eyes, though. He was tall and fit, but his smile rarely reached his eyes, and his sharp features had a waxy quality to them at times, which made her think of masks and carvings more than any face. He was courteous and thoughtful. He brought her flowers and played her songs, but at times he also spoke of strange things.

Mad, she deduced, in fairly short order. He was mad, like most Targaryens, but at least his madness had no fire. It was more like the moon. Fickle and fey and driven to odd preoccupations. But harmless, she had thought.

A foolish thought.

Elia could scarcely recall Rhaenys’ birth. There was pain and blood and most of her recollections are of that, but she could remember afterwards. The startled feeling inside of her when she woke, and realized that she had not died. The warm weight of her daughter, being placed in her arms, and oh. Oh. She had thought she might despair if the baby was a girl, if only because it would mean that she would have to try again. To endure more months of torture and pain and probable death. And some part of her, later, did quail.

But Rhaenys was perfect. A little squalling bundle of a babe, round and healthy, with Elia’s brown skin and hair and the most beautiful eyes. She was a daughter, and she did not look a thing like Rhaegar. She looked like a Dornish girl, like home. Elia’s precious child. It did not matter, in the end, that she would have to make another attempt to give Rhaegar a son. Rhaenys was hers. Her girl. The best thing she had ever managed to achieve, through blood and pain and fear, and the sheer stubbornness that had kept her running past it all.

She had to work not to fight anyone who tried to take her daughter from her arms. When she discovered that she could not make enough milk to feed her, she wept like the fragile woman everyone always took her for, and was inconsolable on the subject despite all her best efforts to be practical.

Of course, the rest of the world was not always inclined to share her sentiments. Rhaegar seemed pleased – he held Rhaenys and cooed at her, and smiled his softest smiles for her – and there were celebrations in King’s Landing. Many happy congratulations on ‘the little princess’. But King Aerys did not share any good sentiments. He disliked that Rhaenys looked Dornish; he accused Elia of all manner of infidelity, and his son of weakness, and called his own granddaughter snake spawn and sand rat.

But he was mad, and that was known.

So it was not until he threatened to burn Rhaenys, should he discover who her ‘whore mother’ had actually permitted to sire her, that Elia felt something click in her. Something much colder than a mad king’s fire. It made her canine teeth itch like fangs, and the back of her throat taste like poison. It made her feel calm, and ready, and though she did not recall explicitly contemplating the matter before – that was the day she decided that if she ever got the chance, she would kill King Aerys.

Of course, Aerys was fire and power and madness, and paranoia in spades. So Elia did not suppose she would have very many opportunities. And she was still recovering from the ordeal of pregnancy, on strict orders from the Maesters not to over-tax herself. She spent more time in Queen Rhaella’s company, and that of the septas assigned to guard the queen’s honour. Court was sparsely populated ever since the king began to lean too heavily on his hobby of live immolation. The humiliation of Rhaella being forced to share her bed with the older women, to prevent adultery, struck Elia as a terrible and unworthy insult. But the queen herself seemed much happier to spend time with the septas, and her young son, than with her husband.

There wasn’t much for it, either way.

“Rhaenys may well end up marrying Viserys,” Rhaella mused, one afternoon, while the two of them had tea in Elia’s chambers. Rhaenys was down for her nap, but Viserys was with them. Playing with his toys as the two of them spoke.

Over my dead body, the cold venom in Elia hissed.

“May well,” she agreed, aloud.

“Dornish whore!” Viserys exclaimed, laughing. “Dornish whore, whore, whore!”

Rhaella sighed, and tsk’d. It made Elia think of her own mother, who had taken Oberyn’s chin in her hand the first time she heard him repeating that kind of language, and made him look her in the eye and repeat it. She had shamed him so neatly and concisely that Oberyn had nearly swallowed his tongue, hadn’t dared repeat such words again where she could hear them.

Somehow, Elia doubted that the same technique would work on Viserys.

“He has no idea what it even means,” Rhaella offered, apologetically.

“Of course not,” she agreed, and took a further sip of her tea.

When Rhaenys was old enough, she decided, then, she would send her to Dorne. She would convince Rhaegar to allow it, however she had to. She would foster her daughter out in her homeland. Send her to her family, get her away from the dragons and their ilk. She would not marry Viserys. Elia would find her a Dornish husband. 

But... Rhaegar had assured her, when they had first married, that they would be able to leave King’s Landing before long. That they would be free to go to Dragonstone, and avoid the mad king’s court for a time. The promise had proven hollow. Aerys was convinced, at times, that Rhaegar was plotting against him. That any mobility he granted his son would be used to organize a strike.

Elia had no idea if it was true or not. The crown prince did not confide in her. More importantly, she had learned the lesson of a broken promise, and learned it more firmly with each day that passed in King’s Landing. Getting Rhaenys away would be a challenge.

Recovering from her first pregnancy took time, and King Aerys railed and raged, at turns deriding both his son and Elia for failing to produce a suitable Targaryen heir; and at others gloating that he had a second son, that he had Viserys, now, and Viserys would surely prove to be everything that Rhaegar was not. Loyal and gifted and virile. He would shriek at Elia that Rhaenys would never marry Viserys; as if that was meant to wound her pride.

As if she wanted such things for her daughter’s future. Sitting in this stinking cesspool of a city, caught in the deluded ravings of this farce of a court.

The Dornish court had its dangers, and treachery, and ugliness. Elia had known that well enough. But it still functioned. More and more, she longed for home. The thought that she might be trapped here indeterminately was almost unbearable. Aerys was not so old, for all that poor hygiene and terrible habits and past suffering had weathered him. And Rhaegar was a disjointed mess; far kinder and better, but who knew if that would last? People had said that King Aerys was dashing and likable in his youth, too.

What if Rhaegar ended up the same as his father?

Elia passed several weeks nearly unable to look at the queen for long, for fear that she was looking into her own future. Rhaella’s wrists were bruised, and her eyes were tired. Another miscarriage. Aerys had raved of her infidelity, impossible though it was.

And then Elia’s second pregnancy took hold.

As bad as the first had been, the second was many times worse. It likely did not help, Elia supposed, that she felt so trapped. Rhaenys had discovered the wonders of toddling around on her own two legs, and raced around with happy abandon; but her increased mobility meant that the septas could watch her more, and Elia’s own seclusion gave her protests little weight. She felt almost entombed; trapped in her rooms, forced to avoid ‘excitements’, and with few visitors to speak of. The nobles who were both invited to attend court, and willing to tempt the fickle ire of the king, were few and far between. And maids and servants all kept as quiet as possible. Servants were often the first to be targeted by Aerys’ paranoia. None would risk immolation for the sake of smalltalk, and Elia could not even blame them.

She wrote letters home. More than once she thought of asking her family to send someone, some of her cousins or friends or maids, to come and attend her. Most of all she wished she could ask for her brother to come, but always, she would remember King Aerys, and her hand would still. Her mind filling with visions of some innocuous incident setting him off, and him exploding into tirades on Dornish assassins or intrigues, and burning them.

He would do it, too, she was certain. He believed everyone was already plotting against him, that they were all his enemies, or willing to be. A paranoid certainty in him that meant he was not afraid of making enemies. There was no point in trying to prevent something that had already come to pass, after all.

She began to wish, instead, that she could ask to come home. Dornish weather, she thought. She could claim that the Dornish weather would suit her better. She could take Rhaenys with her. Dorne had never been conquered by the Targaryens. It was by agreement that they had joined the seven kingdoms, not force. Her people had resisted conquest even when the dragons actually had dragons by their side. If she could go home, her family would protect her, they would have royal Targaryen children in their hands, they could go to war and finally rid the kingdoms of Aerys…

…And that was why she would never be allowed to leave. No matter what entreaties she made. Dragonstone, she remembered. The king would not even permit her to go that far, and Rhaegar had not brought it up again, despite several efforts on her part to suggest it once more. The subject would be changed. Apologies lurking in her husband’s gentle voice.

Sometimes, she thought about plucking the strings off of Rhaegar’s harp, one by one, and then smashing it against a wall.

She wrote to her family that she was expecting another child. That she missed and loved them dearly, but that they must not worry. She was strong. It would be a son this time, she was certain, and she would manage well enough.

Her family sent kinsmen to her anyway. Chief among them Ashara Dayne, whom Elia had known since childhood, and who kept her company in the infirmity of her condition. Laughing and joking and remarking upon things with the Dornish perspective that she had missed so fiercely.

It eased her mind; though not much could be done for her body, save hope.

As little as she recollected her daughter’s birth, her son’s would prove vivid in her memory, in all of its excruciating details. She felt certain that she would die, and the certainty was all the more terrifying when she knew what she would be leaving her first child to, if she did. Alone and motherless in this court of rot and ash, with a grandfather who hated her, who would never let her see Dorne, who would marry her off to her uncle, while her spineless fucking father played the harp and read books and broke his promises…

It was a miracle that she did not say anything treasonous in the throes of her worst pain. Pain that became so all-consuming that it circled around to a queer sort of place, where Elia could not process anything else. In labour it felt as if she lived in that pain, as if she spent a decade trapped in it, trying to fight something that could not be fought.

When it was over, she was so startled to find herself alive that she almost could not reconcile the shock of it.

Aegon, she was ashamed to say, did not win her heart as swiftly as Rhaenys had.

His father loved him with great preoccupation, spoke of stars and portents and old stories, and believed he had a destiny. He had the Targaryen look. Fair hair and violet eyes, and when Elia held him, and went through familiar motions of rocking and soothing him, she felt as though she was holding someone else’s child. A dragon child. Not hers, not really; he was for Rhaegar, for mad Aerys and for the cold Iron Throne.

It filled her with guilt. What an awful thing, to leave a poor baby motherless in this place. But she was exhausted and still in great amounts of pain, bleeding and weak, and Aegon… Aegon looked like a ghost. It made her feel dead, to hold him.

She tried to, anyway. Yet she did not fight the nurses when they came for him, did not wish to hold him longer than she had to. Rhaenys was brought to her in the afternoons, when she was often feeling strong enough to not frighten her daughter with lethargy or fainting or bleeding. Recovery was actually swifter than the first time, for all that the pregnancy and labour had been worse. Swifter, and yet, less complete. Her body was ruined. She could not have another child, but she had done her duty and given Rhaegar an heir, and survived the process.

And as the weeks passed, the alarming indifference towards her son began to ease, bit by bit. He had her skin, and her nose, she thought. He had Rhaegar’s eyes and hair, but he was darker, and there was nothing unnerving in his gaze. He was just a little baby, like the Lannisters’ so-called ‘imp’ had been. Not a monster or a horror or anything deserving neglect. If, perhaps, she still did not feel as though he was her baby, she did not see fit to mention it to anyone. Her heart was trying to shield itself, she thought. The gods had given her the Targaryen son she needed, and in so doing, the son that would never wholly belong to her.

He was Rhaegar’s perfect, healthy, unquestionable heir.

Aerys hated him anyway.

Called him ‘reedy’ and ‘weak’ and insisted he had the look of some ancestor who had gotten fat and disreputable in his old age. Elia had stood and taken the insults, had stared at Aerys, pale and thin-lipped and still aching in so many places. She knew some of them would likely always ache, forever on into the rest of her life.

However long that managed to be.

After that, she loved Aegon almost defiantly. Fervently as she loved his sister, though it was still different, too.

She had nearly died to give the dragons their accursed due – if Aerys did not want him, she thought, acid building on her tongue, then she would gladly take him home with her, too. Hair could be dyed, to look less Targaryen. And much of him did seem Dornish. When he smiled, she did not see Rhaegar’s own soft, sad expression; she saw Oberyn, the first time she had peered into his cradle, and he had grinned back at her.

It was a sweet, foggy memory.

We will be alright, she told herself. Aerys not favouring his grandson was not the worst of fates. He would still be more focused on Viserys, then, and if nothing else, they could avoid him as often as not. Perhaps, finally, he would let them go to Dragonstone, if they left without Rhaegar. There was no more need for Elia to remain close to her husband, now that she was barren, and whatever insults Aerys had levelled against them, he at least did not seem to credit her with being strong enough to pose a threat.

Not on her own, anyway.

Rhaegar, though…

After Aegon’s birth, Rhaegar himself became more of a worry.

“There is no chance whatsoever?” he asked, for what felt like the hundredth time, after Elia and the Maester and everyone, it seemed, had explained that she simply could not have another child. It made her glad all over again that the possibility itself was extinguished; because she knew, then, that for all his politeness and consideration and gentility, for all that he had never struck her or touched her harshly, or even raised his voice at her, that he would let her die trying for another child.

A child he did not even need.

“None,” she said, with more finality than she generally employed. She could grant that it was not the most secure of arrangements, to only have one daughter and one son. But Aerys himself had only been able to produce two viable children after decades of attempts, and Rhaenys and Aegon were both healthy. And if it came to it, Elia supposed, they could discuss the prospect of divorce. But not until the children were older. Rhaenys she might have been able to keep with her, but Aegon would be swept up by the court, and in constant danger. Not only from the existing threats, either – if Rhaegar’s second bride should prove scheming or ambitious, Aegon would stand in the way of her own heirs inheriting the throne.

And who would protect him? His grandfather, who hated him? His grandmother, who was abused and locked away? His father, who was sitting before her with that damning moonlit fire in his gaze?

Even Elia was not sure what she would be able to do for him. For any of them.

“You must understand. It has to be three,” Rhaegar said, all woe and tragedy in his countenance. “The dragon has three heads.”

She could have hit him. She wanted to slap her husband clean across the face, in fact. She wished that she believed it could work; that one single, stinging smack could shake the clouds from his eyes and drag his mind back up to reality, but it would only make him look woeful again, she suspected. And hurt her hand.

“I cannot give you three,” she said, at last. Her throat felt tight, to her own surprise. Her voice wavered, as she could not help but ask. “Are Rhaenys and Aegon not enough for you?”

What a terrible thing, for her children to have a father who loved them so little.

Rhaegar only looked still sorrowful, though.

“For me?” he asked. “For me, they are more than enough. But there must be more. All the signs… Elia, I don’t know how to explain it all to you. I have spent my entire life learning everything that I need to know, in order to understand what I do.”

Her father had told her, once, to never trust anyone who claimed that what they did was too complicated to explain. Either they were a swindling liar, or they thought too little of everyone else’s intelligence.

“You want three children because you believe that a prophecy has foretold the coming of a great hero, who will be needed in the days hence,” she summarized. “You named our son Aegon because the great hero of your line was a man who rode the back of a dragon alongside his two sisters, whom he married. You want a second sister for your son, so that when the time comes, the three of them can awaken the dragons of your dreams and restore your family’s dying legacy by beginning the cycle of history anew.”

Rhaegar stared at her for a long moment. Less sad, and more reserved.

“You think I’m mad,” he guessed. Elia thinks she might have appreciated it if he had sounded at least a little accusing, rather than pitying.

Has the possibility never crossed your own mind?

“Of course not, my lord,” she said, aloud.

He stood up. Put his back to her.

“This was a mistake,” he said. “I… I am sorry for it. But you were never the one who could have given me what I needed. I see that now.”

A cold, hard knot of ill-defined fear settled in the pit of Elia’s stomach. A warning bell rang in her mind. She could guess how a sensible man, in Rhaegar’s position, might react to all of this. But that was the thing about madness, she supposed. If it was sensible, it would not be mad.

Her husband left her chambers. Apologies scattered in his wake. Steps quick and stiff, shoulders tensed. Unhappy.

When he was gone, Elia found herself moving to the window, and looking out towards the grounds. If she was a fit woman, she thought, she would go into the nursery. She would take the children, and bundle them up, and carry them out. In the dead of night, when none were expecting such a move. And she would go… where?

Where could she go that would not result in either death or betrayal? Dorne was too far away.

And it did not matter. Elia was not a fit woman, and never had been. She put the thought aside, but went to the nursery, all the same. She was tired. Yet she felt much more at ease when she saw them both sleeping, safe and sound. For a long moment she watched Rhaenys’ eyelashes flutter in her sleep. Smoothing back some of the curls that had gotten into her face. Then she went, and peered down at Aegon.

His mouth was moving in his dream.

Gods, she hoped his dreams were not like his father’s.

It will be alright, she thought, but could not say.

She was expecting things to become complicated. Difficult. Even unpredictable; and it was the last one that struck first, of course. When Rhaegar arranged for his tournament, and fought, and passed her over in his victory run to name the Stark girl-child his Queen of Love and Beauty. Elia’s first thought was that he was shaming her on purpose. Her second thought was that Lyanna Stark was an active and healthy girl, but also, a girl. There was still baby fat on her cheeks and a certain hint to her frame that suggested she was on the cusp of a growth spurt.

Did Rhaegar choose a child, she thought, in hopes of making it clear that he was intentionally snubbing Elia? But, why pick a girl who was engaged to his own cousin? Surely Robert Baratheon could easily interpret the slight as one aimed at him, and it would be a needless insult if Rhaegar’s only goal was to humiliate her…

She sat, calm but also frozen, as something else pressed against the back of her mind.

Lyanna Stark.

The Starks were a northern family, of course. The wolves. Honourable but simplistic, viewed as very steadfast, and unwise to provoke, but also not generally involved with courtly affairs. They were well-liked by their bannermen, so far as Elia knew, and that was impressive, given the number of brutal houses reputedly situated in the North. But then, she supposed, pragmatism was often inescapable when one lived in a dangerous place, and the North was home to the Wall, and served as the last border against the wildlings. The first sentinel of winter.

…Cold.

As ice.

Ice, and fire.

Oh, Rhaegar could not be so stupid, could he? Lyanna Stark? Aegon was not even out of the cradle yet, and already her ‘honourable’ prince was making moves to woo a highborn and betrothed girl to his bed, all for the sake of his thrice-damned prophecy.

Elia was calm, and collected, and spitting mad when she finally made her way out of the stands with as much decorum as she could manage. Her heart was hammering hard enough that it was difficult to disguise her shallow breaths. The court was all in a flurry over things, of course, and the number of pitying looks she received was unsurprising. She preferred the outrage, though, and for once, when Aerys launched into one of his tirades, she found some small vindication in it.

Naturally, Aerys still managed to blame her for much of it. And Rhaegar’s response to his father’s shouting was stoic and resilient. Elia was permitted to leave, by way of her father-in-law bellowing that everyone else get out, and she did. She had no interest in hearing more of his tirades about spies and traitors and his son being an embarrassment. She had no will to even begin to defend her husband.

She was surprised when Rhaegar sought her out, not long after the shouting had finished.

She sat by the fire, trying to warm herself up, and calm the tangle of her nerves. Rhaegar stood at her doorway, still dressed as if for a fight. He looked tired.

“None could fault you for leaving me, now,” he ventured, after a few awkward moments.

Elia stared.

“Is that what you think?” she asked.

He blinked, as if that was not a response he had expected.

“You think I have stayed here because I could not manufacture a decent excuse for leaving?” she continued, too angry and too tired to bother minding her manners. “You are a fool. My children are Targaryens, Rhaegar. They are heirs to the Iron Throne, and your father may be as mad as a bag of cats, but at least he knows how political maneuvering actually works. There is not a lord in all seven kingdoms who does not want to see him off of the throne by now. If I go home, it will be with my children, and if I take my children to Dorne, then there will be nothing to prevent Dorne from rallying the discontent lords throughout the kingdoms, deposing your father, and ruling as regents until Aegon comes of age. He knows that.”

Rhaegar looked sad and stoic. Sad, and stoic, and gods, she was tired of it. He was an able warrior, a man with access to all the resources of the kingdom, and yes, his father was a mad wretch, and Elia did not pretend to know what growing up with that must have been like. But she, who had none of his warrior’s prowess, had taken to keeping a poisoned dagger beneath her skirts. She had watched, and learned, and she knew the way this court worked. She had laboured and nearly died to give Rhaegar his heirs, had done exactly what was expected of her, and given half the chance, she would bury her dagger in his father’s black heart and do what was needed, too.

Rhaegar had more than half a chance.

And he used his chances to give flowers to betrothed girls of five-and-ten.

“…I am sorry,” he ventured. “I did not think…”

Silence fell between them again.

Elia looked into the fire. She needed the warmth. But the sight of flames had long since begun to make her feel sick. The venom in the back of her throat felt like blood and ash, instead.

Rhaegar sighed.

“I will make certain you are safe,” he promised. She supposed it was the only thing he reasonably could promise, here. No other words of comfort would not tread too close to treason. The walls had ears; Elia had possibly said too much herself. Though, come to it, she doubted that she had said anything that King Aerys was not entirely assured of already.

“Of course. I know what your word is worth,” she replied.

And there, just barely, she saw him flinch. Saw the barb land home, for once. Before he turned, and walked away.

Elia of Dorne knew that having children might kill her.

But she had always supposed that it would do so in the carrying and birthing of them, and not the terrible intrigues that would follow after.

[getmybuzzup]

By Allison Kugel

Actor Brian d’Arcy James delivers a tour de force performance as dashing and tormented Quinn Carney in the Broadway play, The Ferryman, winner of four 2019 Tony Awards including Best Play, Best Author (Jez Butterworth) and Best Director (Sam Mendes).

In the acclaimed three-act play, d’Arcy James leads a magnificent tapestry of ensemble actors through a mid-twentieth century piece taking place in Northern Ireland during a time of conflict between England and Ireland, against a backdrop of a family’s celebration of the season’s annual harvest. Casualties of war and forbidden love come to a head among emotionally charged, generational relationships playing out on a multi-textured stage. For frequent and occasional theatre goers, alike, The Ferryman is a can’t miss Broadway experience.

This year, d’Arcy James can also be seen in films like The Kitchen starring Melissa McCarthy and Tiffany Haddish, a West Side Story reboot directed by Steven Spielberg, and Dark Phoenix starring Jennifer Lawrence and James McAvoy.

I sat down with Brian d’Arcy James to discuss his role in The Ferryman, being directed by the brilliant Sam Mendes, and having one foot on Broadway and the other in some of the coming year’s most anticipated films.

Allison Kugel: Your show, The Ferryman, is such a flawless piece of theatrical art; one of the most incredible theatre experiences I’ve ever had.

  Brian d’Arcy James: That makes me so happy to hear.

Allison Kugel: The play is three hours and fifteen-minutes with intermission, but I didn’t feel the time.

Brian d’Arcy James: I hear that quite a bit. People go in acknowledging the time, but then they say that it was not a factor at all, which is such a testament to the storytelling.

Allison Kugel: In film, you can rest and re-generate between takes, but with theatre, and especially with such an intense play as this one, how do you sustain the life of your character on stage for three hours?

Brian d’Arcy James: I would even take it a step further, by including the actual run of the show. Not only are you doing it nightly, for three hours a night, but you are having to keep that character alive for months at a time. Let me first give credit to the preceding cast who spent a lot more time in the shoes of these characters than we have. My hat’s off to them for that reason, alone. It’s a tall order, and you have to leave the pilot light on at all times, with the burner set on a low burn. That emotional life, the complexity of the situation that my character, and all the characters for that matter, find themselves in, requires a connection to that emotional life continuously throughout the run of the show. You have to open up and let that flame burn higher when you are doing the show. In order to do that, you have to keep it on a low burn in your own life, so that you are not sitting by a fireside with two sticks rubbing them together, hoping you can spark a flame during each performance.

Allison Kugel: The Ferryman is about a family living in Northern Ireland and it takes place during their annual harvest. One thing I found compelling, was that I learned a lot about the Irish people. I learned so much about Irish culture and customs, as well as some of Ireland’s past challenges in their once-ongoing conflict with England.

Brian d’Arcy James: Yes, that’s what’s called The Troubles (also called the Northern Ireland Conflict/c. 1968-1998). It goes back decades, and even centuries. The British Empire was claiming their space in the world and designating Northern Ireland as British territory. It’s the whole essence of the struggle for freedom and the oppression that is taking place in the north of Ireland at that time. That’s the larger context within the play. I’ve been in tune with that by virtue of my own family, and my own heritage (James is of Irish descent). My great-great grandparents were from Ireland and they came over here. My grandparents were Irish American, but they were first generation, so I have always had a strong connection to my Irish heritage. Being an actor is the best sociological education you can get, by virtue of having to explore and understand whatever it is you’re working on. In my case I’ve been able to work on many different Irish plays, some of them in Ireland. So, my awareness of the history and the culture was immediate.

Allison Kugel: Although this is a dramatic play, there are some priceless comedic moments that had me rolling in my chair. Some of the generational humor with the older characters was priceless, and those moments are sprinkled throughout.

Brian d’Arcy James: The play is also filled with immense love, and all the intricate relationships that a big family brings. Often times when you have really funny, witty people going at each other and trying to up each other, basically doing their best to keep things lively; it is hilarious because these people are remarkable characters. There is a great deal of humor and levity in this play just by virtue of the love that these characters have for each other. The show’s writer, Jez Butterworth, has done this incredible balancing act of keeping people entertained and enthralled by the humor of these people, and then having their world collapse by virtue of the circumstances they find themselves in.

Allison Kugel:  Let’s talk about the play’s director, Sam Mendes. Many people know of him from his work, directing Academy Award-winning films like American Beauty and Revolutionary Road, starring his then-wife, Kate Winslet. Does a director who has worked in both film and theatre bring a wider perspective to your show?

Brian d’Arcy James: Sam’s gift is his ability to take big ideas and create moments that serve the play and create a story where all of these themes can be heard and understood clearly. He is an expert at that. I do think that you are right in eluding to his skill as a director on film. I’m in rehearsals for West Side Story (a remake of the classic 1961 film), which Steven Spielberg is directing, and we were talking about The Ferryman. He was telling me that he saw a production of Guys and Dolls at the National Theater and that it looked like it was directed like a film. He was seeing the parallels of what is happening on stage in a cinematic sense. In mentioning the director, he said, “If this guy can direct a play like this, he’d be able to direct a film without even having to get out of bed.” In terms of my experience with Sam Mendes, he’s a brilliant mind. He has such a strong view of each moment of our play. It’s so great for any actor to receive that kind of direction, because it gives the actor confidence, and it gives the actor a lot of room to inflate to the best of their ability.

Allison Kugel:  The Ferryman cast has multiple generations of actors, from a small baby to children, teenagers, young men and women, and much older characters. You guys have a baby on stage! The actors are holding him, changing him, walking up and down a flight of stairs with him in their arms. It shocked me that the baby was compliant and behaving throughout the show.  For me, there was definitely this holding your breath aspect to it all, like “What’s going to happen here?” How do you direct a baby?

Brian d’Arcy James: You don’t. You let them be, which is what makes it so powerful. It’s the best acting you could ever ask for. Obviously, the main concern is logistics; making sure the babies are there, and having a couple of different babies there at all times in case one is cranky or can’t do it. Then they just have to be in someone’s arms or be on the stage, on the floor, you know, on the changing table. I’ve heard Jez [Butterworth] (the show’s writer and creator) talk about this a few times in terms of the baby and the live animals that we have in this play. There is nothing more electric and exciting than knowing that something could go wrong. I believe he even said that was the first image he had, was of a baby on stage with the character of Aunt Maggie. That was the first image he had for the play; basically, the eldest and the youngest of a family. And then he filled in everything in between. It does add that element of, “What’s going to happen?” and, “How is this baby going to respond?” All bets are off with babies and animals.

Allison Kugel:  You got a rave review from the New York Times, where they called The Ferryman “the production of the year.” What do you think makes The Ferryman such a jewel of a show?

Brian d’Arcy James: The way the play is written, specifically [writer] Jez Butterworth’s imagination in creating this cogent, thrilling material, and to have each of these people on stage be so distinct, vibrant and unique; and yet have that sense of familial history. Then of course, there is the structure of the play and the drama of it. The obstacles these characters face and the despair. It’s a powerful combination of an imagination at work. [This play] can make you laugh and make you cry in two different lines that are back to back. It’s an absolute gift.

Allison Kugel:  You’re going be in X-Men: Dark Phoenix which is a real departure for you. What was it like for you to be on the set of X-men?

Brian d’Arcy James: In a strange way I have likened the two different experiences because they’re all a form of art at its highest level. These are experts who know how to create these worlds filled with superheroes. For me, it was an eye-opening experience to be on the inside of how those things take place. You take the action sequences for granted when you see them on the screen but seeing all the nuts and bolts of how it takes place is quite an education. Anytime you are working with people who are at the top of their game, that’s an extraordinarily special thing.

Allison Kugel:  Since you’ve done a lot of great theatre as well as some film, what is your advice for popular film and television actors who might be nervous to try the rigors of doing Broadway? Or for television and film actors who are about to make their debut on Broadway?  

Brian d’Arcy James: For someone who has never done it, it’s baptism by fire. There is no way to know other than to just jump in. It’s important to know that it does require conditioning, and it’s a different tempo, in terms of doing a two and a half hour or three-hour play. It’s not fifteen-second increments that are captured over a period of two months. It’s the awareness of the difference in terms of what the tempo is and what it is going to take to sustain that. It’s just a different animal. To use a sports analogy, it’s like training for a marathon, as opposed to training for short sprints. Both mediums have their merit, and both are important when you need to do them. But they require a different type of conditioning.

  Brian d’Arcy James is appearing in the Tony Award-winning Broadway play, “The Ferryman,” at the Bernard B. Jacobs Theatre at 242 W. 45th Street in New York City. For tickets and information, visit TheFerrymanBroadway.com.

  Allison Kugel is a syndicated entertainment columnist, author of the memoir, Journaling Fame: A memoir of a life unhinged and on the record, and owner of communications firm, Full Scale Media. Follow her on Instagram @theallisonkugel and AllisonKugel.com.

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Brian d’Arcy James on The Ferryman and Being Directed by Sam Mendes [Interview] By Allison Kugel Actor Brian d'Arcy James delivers a tour de force performance as dashing and tormented Quinn Carney in the Broadway play, …

[101percentindia]

How Hosting A Couchsurfer Became My Happily Ever After... Almost

The Love Trip – Part 1: I met Adrian.

Not too long ago, I found myself in Bali. It was the first time I tried, what my friends had been raving about for years – CouchSurfing. It was the trip of my life.

When I got home, I decided I'd list my couch, and open up my home for other CouchSurfers. I figured the point of CouchSurfing is not just to score a free stay, it's to meet interesting people from around the globe and exchange world views. I scanned through the many different CouchSurfers who were interested in staying with me. And then I came upon Aidy's profile. Oh Adrian Booth, you tall, ginger, investment banking, English beauty. Not that I was interested in hooking up with someone on CouchSurfing, but a pretty face is a pretty face. Colour me superficial, it was one of the filters I was looking at. Anyway, he was 25 then. I was 30. Perfect. No chance of hooking up at all, I said to myself, I'm not into younger men. Right, I decided, I'd host him for a night and show him around the city the next day.

The day of his arrival, I picked him up at the airport – Bombay can be overwhelming. He was cute! “What first?” I asked him excitedly – hoping we could do something Bambaiya right off the bat. “Maybe rest a bit? I'm really jet-lagged,” he bummed me out. We headed home.

Aidy at VT (not CST)

When we reached, he made a beeline for my bookshelf, and we started discussing books and authors and writing genres, and I was falling... calm down, I was falling for him platonically. We were going to be friends. Later, I tour guided him around the city. Meetali's Mumbai Darshan – from Versova to South Bombay in a cab ride as long as a Bom-Del flight. We could only cover half the city. Haji Ali, Siddhi Vinayak Temple, the sea link, VT (no, not CST – VT) and the old Brit architecture around Colaba – we did the usual.

And the unusual - “THAT'S where the richest Indian in the world lives? THAT FUGLY BUILDING?”God, he was saying all the right things.

While we had lunch at Leopold, Aidy confessed he expected a little more attention in India. He was told people would want pictures and selfies with him all over the country... that he'd be a bigger attraction than the attractions themselves. “Also where are the cows?” he was puzzled, “I haven't seen a single cow holding up traffic yet!” This was not the India he was expecting.

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After a walk down Colaba Causeway, I treated him to his first 'meetha paan'. “What is this? It tastes like shampoo.” And then for the rest of the walk, he tried different things, trying to rid himself of the shampoo taste.

For the trip back, Aidy insisted we take the Mumbai Locals he had heard so much about. “No, no first class, I want to do it like everyone else.” I tried to explain how first class is like everyone else too, just a bit better. While marvelling at how massive VT station is - 18 platforms - Aidy finally had his moment of glory. A family of four wanted a picture with him. Yes, after every Bambaiya thing we'd done that day, this got him to smile his widest.

But that smile was soon gone when the train wasn't as full as he expected. “It's empty, Meetali? Are all the stories about India more myth than fact?” And just then, as soon as he said it, it was Dadar. A tsunami of people entered. Crotch to butt, crotch to butt, he was stuck, he was uncomfortable, he was almost in tears. “Myth enough?” I asked him, his face contorted to a state of shock.

The quiet dinner at home helped him recover from the train ride. He talked openly about relationships, monogamy, polygamy, infidelity, politics, books (he loved his books) and I quietly listened. He was me, or a version of me from five years ago – still not battle-ravaged by the big three O and the pressures of simply being that age. He was...fun. And I dare say, he was the most fun person I had hung out with in a long time.

Read the full series here: The Love Trip

Mumbai darshan

The next morning I dropped him off at the rickshaw stand. He was off to Goa by train. “It's not crotch-butt, crotch-butt again is it?”

“No, you have a reserved seat. Enjoy the ride.” I couldn't help but feel a little 'break-uppy' about this goodbye. But I quickly, and by now, expertly discarded these feelings – it was stupid to have any attachment to someone I barely knew for a day. I went back to my now empty apartment. I missed him. I'm going to assume he missed me too, because the next morning when he reached Goa, his non-stop texts started. Location shares, Snapchat pictures, videos of the calm Goan evening sea, selfies of him dancing with the random women he was meeting along the way... my heart sank. Here I was, still swooning for the man, and there he was having the time of his life. I was just a layover on his connecting flight to everyone else. But why was he texting me if he didn't care? He had to care. I put this to test. I asked him if he'd be game to have me tag along on his backpacking adventure around India.

He said yes.

Love Part 2: He Called Me His Indian Goddess

Disclaimer: The views expressed in this article are independent views solely of the author(s) expressed in their private capacity and do not in any way represent or reflect the views of 101India.com.

By Meetali Meshram Photographs by Meetali Meshram

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