#at this point you must have gathered it's the beatles so IF ANYONE ELSE IS INSANE AND CRINGE

[menlove]

when u go down an insane research rabbit hole and you just have to sit there Knowing Things now. insane how the mind works.

[littlemisslipbalm]

harry and reader have a pet, but they break up and pet finds reader’s old shirt

Anon request - harry and reader had a pet together, but broke up. The dog finds one of y/n’s forgotten shirts and brings it to Harry (full request here)

This is FLUFF but also ANGST (i guess) oh my god WHAT DID I DO! i am so sorry, but i did a bad thing with this request, the ending is...well it’s kinda happy. i love happy stories but for some reason when i got down a hole, i just keep digging it deeper - i hope i sorta gave you what you wanted tho anon  

Listening: “I Will” and “And I Love Her” by the Beatles

Warnings: break up angst, mentions of dog death (im truly so sorry what is wrong with me - i promise it’s still kinda happy)

--

Harry and you had been broken up for about a month now. You two loved each other very much, but you had reached a breaking point. You weren’t a fan of show business and held a regular job. Harry’s constant travel, touring, and press - everything that came with his fame from his passion - became too much for you. One night, after Harry had missed a date you had made weeks prior due to an interview taking longer than expected, the two of you had it out. By the end of the entire fight, both you and Harry were crying.

The worst part of the break up besides you moving out was that you and Harry had a big old English sheep dog together. Harry loved Paul McCartney and insisted you and him adopt a dog of the same breed as Paul’s dog, Martha. You and he had named yours George to keep with the Beatles theme. When you broke up and moved out, Harry and you had a long conversation about who should keep the dog. Despite Harry’s busy schedule, he pleaded to keep George and eventually you relented, not having the heart to take George away from Harry when you were already leaving him, much to his dismay.  

Harry sat at the little coffee table in his now half empty home. It was far quieter now, since you had left he didn’t bother playing music really. He loved to find new music and show it to you when you were home together, playing it by himself wasn’t as fun. He heard George padding around the house as he reminisced on how you used to rub George’s belly till you were a giggling mess at how cute he was. Harry smiled sadly at the memory. He’s brought out of his reverie when he feels a wet nose nudging his hand resting on his thigh. He looks down to see George at his side with something creamy and linen looking in his mouth.

“Whatcha got there, Bud?” Harry says, first brushing George’s hair out of his eyes and then reaching to take the piece of clothing he had gathered from the dog’s mouth. George let go easily, obviously intending to show Harry it. It was one of your t-shirts. Harry looked at George and gave him another loving pet, he missed you just as much as Harry did. You must have forgotten it when you had rushed out all those days ago. He loved this shirt of yours, a sweet simple cream top with a lemon and an orange on it. It looked gorgeous on you, and Harry was so happy to see it, the only thing that remained of you in this home you once had shared. As much as he wanted to keep it, cherish it and use it to reminisce the times when you ran around your home together in the top, he knew you would be missing it dearly. He knew the right thing was to return it to you. The best thing would be to have a mutual friend return it to you for him, but Harry didn’t care about doing the best thing. He wanted to see you.

He texted a simple, “I have something of yours, are you home?” to you. He felt strange using the word home, when he knew that your home should be with him. When you responded a quick ‘yes’ he grabbed a coat, his keys, slipped on his shoes, and put George on a leash. “Wanna go for a little ride, Georgie?” Harry asked sweetly to the dog. George only wagged his tail in response. The two headed out the door to where you now lived.

-

Harry and George arrived at your new apartment a little ways further into the city, closer to your job, and Harry rang the bell when he reached your door. You sighed at the sound, not ready to face Harry since you had moved out. When he had texted that he was coming over you tried to tidy yourself up. As much as you hated to admit it, you missed Harry so much and you missed the life the two of you had made together even if it was far from perfect.

You opened the door to not only Harry, but your former joint pet, George. When George saw you he jumped up and began to lick kisses onto your face. Your grimace had quickly transformed into an overjoyed grin, open with laughter and slight disgust. “Down, Georgie!” you attempted to say while the dog loved on you. When you managed him down, you bent down to his level and gave him a good face rub and kissed his nose. Then, you turned your eyes to Harry, who had watched you with a sparkle in his eye. Your grin turned to a soft, sad smile. You exchanged somber ‘Hi’s and you let him come inside, against your best judgement.

“George, here, he found your shirt somewhere, brought it to me. Thought you’d want it back…” Harry trailed off once the two of you had sat down on your couch and let George off his leash to roam the place. “Thank you…” you didn’t know what else to say, but the air around you and Harry was painfully tense. “Y/N, listen, I miss you so much and I know it’s not fair for me to say this because you had your reasons, but, would you ever give us another chance? I won’t be this busy for the rest of my life...and, and I still love you, I don’t think there’s anyone else for me out there.”

You were speechless, watching Harry look at you so earnestly, being so vulnerable despite him knowing that things might not change. His jaw was clenched, but he stared straight at you, his large hands soft and open in his lap as he faced you. You noticed how he was rather unshaved and how his shoulders were slumped in more than usual. He looked rough, probably just about how you looked right now as well. You didn’t know what to do, saying that didn’t change how you felt.

“I don’t know, H, uh Harry,” you stuttered with your use of your old nickname for him. “I don’t want you to wait forever on me and I can’t wait on you forever either. I never stopped loving you and I probably never will, but we can’t go on living these sad, lonely lives - miserable because we didn’t work out.” You looked him in the eye now, pleading with your eyes for him to understand what you meant. You wanted him to know that you loved him, you really did, but with where the two of you were in your lives - it wasn’t going to work out.

Harry nodded, somber and sad. He knew you were right, that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. He got up after telling you he understood. You walked him and George to the door, giving George one last belly rub at the door. Just as you were about to shut the door, Harry turned with some final words, “You don’t have to wait for the right timing for us, but it’s my choice if I want to wait for that time. So, I will. I’ll wait for you, Y/N, and our right time.”

--

Eight years later

Y/N hadn’t seen Harry in a long time, maybe a few times at mutual friend events, but you were never able to be friends with him, it was too hard. You kept your love for him close to your heart, but you had had relationships since then. None had ever compared to yours and Harry’s, no matter how many lonely nights you had during your two’s relationship, no one else ever came close to that spark, that magic you two shared. You had seen and heard from friends that Harry had dated around in the past eight years as well. Various women of high celebrity status. Everyone of them perfect in their own way, but everyone of them always disappeared from Harry’s life after awhile. No matter who they were, Harry always saw something in them that reminded him of you at first, that’s what got him interested, but then when he realized they were their own person, he had trouble staying committed, being attentive. Whatever they needed from him as a partner, he couldn’t give it to them. Maybe Harry got tired of them, maybe they had real problems, or maybe they simply weren’t you.

-

Then, one night, you heard a heavy knock on your door. It was not too late, but you weren’t expecting anyone so you cautiously went to check what they wanted. You couldn’t suppress the look of shock on your face when you saw Harry standing before you. He was a mess, his clothes and hair were disheveled, his cheeks were painted with tears and his entire face was red. “It’s George...darling, our boy, he-he’s dying. I took him in for his 13 year old check up and they said his heart’s not working the way it used to,” he choked out.

All you could say was ‘Oh my God’ and quickly wrapped your arms around Harry’s shaking mess of a body. The fact that he called George ‘our boy’ when you hadn’t lived with them in eight years fluttered your heart, but had to be pushed to the back of your brain right then. He usually loomed large above you, but now he practically had to rise up to meet your shoulder. “Said we should put him down soon, so that he doesn’t have to suffer anymore,” he continued to ramble into your shoulder through his sobs. His emotions spilled over into you as you guided the pair of you to your couch, far more worn in since the last time Harry had been here. Tears welled into your own eyes thinking about the five years you had spent with Harry and George, raising him from a puppy with Harry. It had been so hard to leave him with Harry and almost never see him, Harry always offered to bring George around, but it was too hard for both of you. It was best that you let George live with Harry and Harry only.

“We’ll figure this out, H,” you whispered as you rubbed Harry’s back. “Where’s George right now?” you asked staying quiet as you tried to comfort Harry as much as possible. He looked up from your shoulder, his tears leaving a wet spot on your t-shirt. The tear tracks on his cheeks only growing more prominent the longer he sat before you. “‘S in the car, couldn’t leave him home alone, but I didn’t want to bring him up in case you didn’t answer.” “Alright,” you nodded, “You wanna go get him, together, and bring him up here? You two can stay here tonight, don’t think any of us should be alone right now.” You tried to smile through the pain, it probably came off as more of a grimace, but Harry’s eyes were so blurred he probably couldn’t tell. He whispered his thanks and the two of you journey out to his car, where George sat. Despite what the doctors had told Harry, George seemed just as happy as he always was, maybe just a little more docile.

“Can’t jump anymore,” Harry mumbled as the three of you walked back into your apartment. “It’s okay, H, I’ll make him a makeshift doggy bed out of extra blankets, feel right at home,” you reassured Harry and then went to the kitchen to put on a pot of tea. This was going to be a long night. You got the kettle situated and then went into a back room for your extra bedding you usually used for guests staying on your couch. Harry helped you to set up George’s bed in your bedroom. It was a silent understanding, since you were using the guest sheets for George, that meant Harry either had to sleep without anything on the couch or in your bed. Since George was going to be in your room, you figured Harry would opt for the real bed.

The kettle whistled and you left Harry to finish making the dog bed. His tears had dried, but he hadn’t spoke much except to answer your questions. The night went on, you drank your tea, cried some more, cuddled with George, and then got ready for bed. “You can sleep in my bed, it’s fine, H,” you said immediately when you saw Harry look questioningly at the uninviting couch. For the first time that night, he gave you a small smile and headed to your backroom. George padded behind him, ever the diligent mate. After closing up your apartment, you followed the other two into your bedroom.

Harry sat slightly stiffly on your bed and George panted happily at you from his big sheet bed on the floor. It felt like old times, yet also completely new at the same time. You climbed onto your side of the bed, Harry still remembering which side you preferred even after eight years. You handed him a glass of water and placed your own on the side table, “Crying...takes a lot out of you. We’ve got a big day ahead of us, gotta take George out to his favorite places tomorrow. Drink up.” Again you witnessed Harry’s soft smile grace his perfect, yet sad face. Your strong facade you had tried to keep up all night for Harry was slipping away the sleepier you got. A single tear started to run down your face and Harry noticed. “Hey,” he said and instinctively scooted closer to you, wrapping his bare arms around your soft shoulders. “S’okay, Darling,” he cooed into your hair. You softly weeped in his arms feeling so confused right now. However, a sense of safety also settled over you with the familiarity of Harry’s sweet nothings in you ear and his strong arms cradling you close to his warm chest.

-

The next morning, you and Harry got ready and took George out to his favorite places, a gourmet dog biscuit shop, the dog wash place, and a little park by the river you and Harry both lived near. It was a beautiful day out. Sun shined and George had so much fun. Harry and you talked about your lives now. Harry’s career had begun to wind down, he’d chosen to stop touring for at least five years a couple months ago. He still wrote music, but he was doing other things and also was trying to live a more peaceful life. You had switched your job a couple years back and had moved up faster at this new one. You worked much less, but were paid more - meaning you had more free time and you didn’t have to worry about money. It seemed both your’s and Harry’s lives had slowed down and gotten to places where you were ready for a relationship as serious as the one you previously had together.

When you two had arrived at the park in the afternoon, you had realized no one had stopped and asked for a picture with Harry all day. Maybe the stars were aligning, albeit in a slightly tragic way. As you sat next to Harry and lovingly watched George prance among the tall grass near the river, you watched Harry’s hand creep itself onto yours. You turned your palm and intertwined your fingers. Then you looked up and met Harry’s gaze immediately. You both smiled, knowing a secret no one else need to know. A love like yours could never go away. It hadn’t left either of you over the past eight years. Even after being parted for so long and having minimal contact over those years, the two of you so easily picked up in a better place than you were when you were in the prime of your first time together. You had both grown so much and your lives had changed. It had come. As Harry had said eight years ago, you just had to wait for “Our time.”

[beatlesdumpsterfire]

prompt -> everyone cowers in front of ringo's supreme power

There’s a reason why Ringo never played drum solos. If you thought it was because he simply didn’t like them, then I’m sorry, but you got fooled by a famous Beatles lie. No, Ringo didn’t play drum solos because he had stage fright, or he thought that they were too ostentatious - he refused to play them because he knew it would give him too much power. So much power, in fact, that he could cause the end of the world.

Sounds dramatic, I know, but don’t believe me? Back in the Hamburg days, after being heckled by a rambunctious crowd for over 2 hours straight to play something that could put Buddy Rich to shame, Ringo finally cracked. He ran 64th notes down his drum kit in such a rapid succession that he started to glow bright orange, as if he were on fire. Rory and the rest of the band didn’t know what to do with their glowing orb of a drummer, but they didn’t have much time to fret on it anyways because the walls of the Kaiserkeller started to rattle and crack, which made the German audience, still recovering from WW2, duck for cover with a collective yelp.

“Ringo!” Rory tried to yell over the ear-splitting noise that was coming from Ringo as his orange glow got progressively brighter. Ringo couldn’t hear him because he was in the zone. The Auto Zone. “Quit it!!”

Ringo moved from his 64th notes to smacking away at his cymbals like he was releasing the rage of a thousand years. The middle of the dance floor started to cave in, swallowing those who couldn’t move away fast enough. If you listened closely, you could hear a deep, Liverpudlian laugh coming from the pit. The only reason Ringo didn’t cause the end of the world on this occasion was because, as he was about to start balancing his twirling drumsticks on his nose, his allergies (the thing that humbles us all) got the better of him, causing him to let out a loud sneeze that rocketed him away from his set. With his senses knocked back into him, Ringo gaped at the chaos in front of him and turned to Rory, who was gaping back at him with a look on his face that could only mean Ringo was out of the band.

This is the history of The Beatles that you don’t know about. Ringo was a freelancer for a brief moment in Hamburg before John, Paul, and George found him. There had been a rumor circulating that there was something wrong with Ringo, but when the three lads saw him standing outside of a club one cold evening, lighting a cigarette in his own solitude, they just assumed that everyone else was being mean and hinting at how big his nose was.

And just like that, Pete was out and Ringo was in, because John, Paul, and George had heard that Ringo could really bring the house down. Ringo had tried to warn his new band members on multiple occasions that he suspected there was something wrong with him, but all of them insisted that he was fine and that his nose really wasn’t that big, so he had nothing to worry about. Ringo wasn’t so sure about that but, following the Incident, he had braved the drums once again and managed to keep a steady beat without causing Armageddon. Needless to say, that didn’t mean he was any less nervous about playing. Luckily, he insisted enough times that he would never do a drum solo, and John, Paul, and George listened, though they did think he was a little bit looney.

And things were alright like this for a while, through the ups and downs of their career, playing across the globe to thousands of screaming fans. Ringo never once let his guard down: there were no solos coming from him, no matter how many people wanted it.

That fateful night in Hamburg felt like another life, so much so that Ringo nearly forgot about the unusual power he contained. It wasn’t until he was pushed to the edge that he remembered he held the fate of the world in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The year was 1969, the holiest year of them all, and Ringo was about ready to thrust his head through some drywall, he was so fed up with his bandmates. The incessant bickering over which songs made the cut on the album and which didn’t were really starting to drive him up the wall. Maxwell’s Silver Hammer was just the icing on the cake.

“We need another take on that one,” Paul announced to the band with an air of authority that Ringo wished he could strangle. They had just finished playing through their forty-seventh take and, although Paul was acting like it wasn’t his fault, it was absolutely his fault that they had to play the damn song again. For someone who acted like he was the leader of the band, Paul sure was having trouble remembering his baloney lyrics.

Without a word, John let his guitar slip out of his hands so it clunked to the ground in an amplified drop, its buzzing filling the room. John left them like that, stomping to the door and letting himself out, back to sanity. George gazed longingly at the door like he wanted to follow behind John, but he knew too well that Paul wasn’t going to let that happen. Completely unbothered by John, Paul turned to face the engineers in the sound booth and motioned in a grand gesture for them to start a new tape.

George looked across at Ringo and Ringo stared blankly back at him. He was really trying to repress everything he was feeling.

“Take 48,” George Martin nervously announced into their headphones, like he knew he was stoking a fire.

“Ringo, I’m gonna need some more umph on that drum part,” Paul turned back to Ringo with a smug look stretched across his face. “If you can handle it.”

That was it. That was freaking it. That was the line. The line’s way back there. Paul crossed that line. He crossed that line so hard it’s not even funny.

Ringo stood from his kit but, unlike John, he didn’t book it for the door. Instead, he rushed around the room, gathering every single percussion instrument he could find.

“I’ll give you umph,” he growled at Paul. In return, Paul smiled back at him because that was exactly what he wanted. In between them, George grabbed at his head. His two mates were really making him question why they were his mates in the first place.

“Take 48!” Paul called up to George Martin, spinning his finger around to motion that they start the tape. Then, he turned back to Ringo, who was staring at him with so much intensity it was a miracle Paul wasn’t sent flying backwards.

“One, two, one two three...”

Paul started to play the opening chords on his dinky little piano but Ringo wasn’t having any of that, oh no. He pounded into his snare drum so hard one of the drumsticks broke through the skin. Instead of pulling it out, Ringo left it there and grabbed a tambourine, which he proceeded to bang against his hi-hat. Paul wasn’t sure what Ringo was doing, but they had experimented enough in the past that he let it slide. George, on the other hand, was silently whispering prayers to himself as he stared at Ringo's glowing figure in horror. Ringo knew exactly what he was doing; if he did a drum solo, he could wreck their studio enough that he wouldn’t have to listen to Maxwell’s frickin Silver Hammer again. The trouble was, Ringo didn’t know when the right time was to stop.

By the time he started using two maracas as drumsticks on a timpani, Ringo began to slowly levitate. George’s whispered prayers were becoming louder from his panic. Up in the booth, it looked like the two remaining Beatles were performing an exorcism on Ringo.

“What the-” George Martin muttered. The boys must have stumbled across some new kind of street drug that really messed you up.

“Maxwell Anderson, majoring in medicine,” Paul cheerfully sang from his piano, his back turned to Ringo. Ringo started to shake in place, now suspended 5 feet above the ground, clicking castanets angrily while glaring down at Paul. George gaped as Ringo's color switched to a fiery, Kool Aid Man-red. It was bad. Paul continued to unknowingly play, but his left hand took a break to wipe some sweat from his brow. Someone must have turned up the heat, he mused to himself.

But no, it was Ringo, on the brink of causing a thermonuclear explosion. George was initially concerned for Ringo’s safety but, after seeing actual waves of heat emitted from his beige suit, George decided that his pal wasn’t worth it. He’d had some great memories with Ringo, but he could remember those later in therapy. For the meantime, he was getting the hell out of dodge, to wherever John had escaped to.

The problem was, Ringo’s power was sucking George so dry that he hardly had any energy left in him to move. It was like the goddamn relativity cadenza all over again. The more Ringo banged out the drum solo of the millenium, the more powerful he became. No one could stop him, he was a god. Ringo, god of the bongos. The most feared of them all.

Something caused Paul to finally turn around (probably Mal missing his cue to play the anvil because he was too distracted by whatever the hell Ringo was up to) and, when he did, his jaw dropped.

“Wot the fuck Ringo?” he shouted. They hadn’t agreed that Ringo could become a celestial being during their recording session. At that moment, John barged back in through the door, ready to give his half-hearted apology to Paul. That was quickly thrown in the trash when John looked up at their drummer, who now resembled a ball of fire, like the sun or something. (Even though it seems appropriate, no, unfortunately George didn’t write Here Comes the Sun about this event - that song had already been recorded at this point). John, as terrified as he was, couldn’t help but let out a loud cackle at the spectacle that was playing out in front of him. He knew that their session for Maxwell’s Silver Hammer had been bad, but he didn’t realize it was this bad, so much so that their drummer was spontaneously combusting.

“Silence, mortal!” Ringo boomed down at John, not even missing a beat on his woodblock solo.

That got John to shut up pretty fast.

“No one dares laugh at the almighty and powerful Ringo!” Ringo continued, his words practically searing through everyone’s skulls. “I can end you with the crash of a cymbal, I can tear this planet apart, piece by piece with only the sheer power of my mind!”

“Good for you, Ringo,” Paul stammered out as he tried to hide behind his piano. Paul was smart to pick up on the fact that, out of all of them, Ringo probably had the biggest score to settle with him. He really sincerely hoped that his charm would be enough to keep Ringo from smiting him but, just to be extra safe, he threw one of his famous winks Ringo’s way. Ringo, in turn, glared at Paul and pulled out a triangle.

“With a single ding on this triangle,” Ringo bellowed out, so loudly that everyone in England could hear him, “our planet will cease to exist.” He floated closer to Paul and Paul in return tried to back up, though he quickly found himself pushed against the wall. “Is that enough umph for you, Paul?” Ringo sneered back at him. Paul tried to respond that Ringo really didn’t have to do that and, actually take 14 had come out pretty good, but he found all of his words trapped in his throat. Ringo’s power was too overwhelming. Ringo seemed satisfied that he had terrified Paul so much that he finally shut his yap and, to really gloat in his glory, his hand slowly crept towards the triangle.

The closer Ringo got to hitting that triangle, the bigger he got. The image was straight out of Alice in Wonderland - in a matter of seconds, Ringo had grown too big to fit in their studio. That didn’t matter much, as the heat coming off of him helped sear away the wooden ceiling so it came crashing around him.

He’s really getting a big head, John mused to himself, though he didn’t dare make his observation out loud, which was a good decision because he would have been a goner otherwise. At this point, Ringo’s feet stretched the entire length of the studio (or, what remained of it) and his head was well above the skyline of London, where everyone could see him and scream with horror before going, “Wait, is that Ringo Starr from the Beatles?”

Ringo was only inches away from the triangle now and London had never been hotter. The ocean was starting to dry up on the coast, fields were bursting in flames at random, and children started asking their parents why they didn’t have more fans in their houses. Alongside the heat, the ground started to quiver before shaking, rattling, and rolling. Cars rocked in the street, smashing into each other, and trees and buildings started to tilt sideways, like wannabe Leaning Towers of Pisa. People were starting to panic, because nothing this exciting had ever happened in England before.

“Ringo!” George tried to call up to his mate, though he knew it was no use, considering how high up Ringo was. “Please, stop it!” John and Paul heard George’s desperate pleas over the commotion and joined in, falling to their knees and clasping their hands together, begging with all the energy they had left.

“We’ll let you have more songs on our album!” John tried.

“I’ll bring you more flowers,” George tried.

“We’ll stop recording Maxwell’s Silver Hammer for once and for all!” Paul tried without really thinking.

Ringo was a millimeter away from making contact with the triangle. But then, he stopped. And, faster than you could say “Maxwell Anderson,” the shaking and heat stopped. Ringo had almost instantly shrunk himself back down to his normal size and was no longer glowing a searing red. He calmly set the triangle down on the stool next to his kit and turned around to look at Paul, John, and George.

“Good,” was all he had to say. And, with that, he turned on his heel and strutted out of the practically demolished studio, whistling a happy tune to himself. Left behind, Paul, John, and George all tried to compose themselves.

“A new rule for the band,” Paul started slowly, “let’s not mess with Ringo.”

“Agreed,” John was quick to respond.

“Agreed,” George repeated.

[realityhelixcreates]

Dance of the Spheres Chapter 4: Venusian Vogue

Chapters: 4/?

Fandom:  Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel),

Additional Tags:  Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:  

Images of broken light Which dance before me like a million eyes They call me on and on across the universe.                   Across the Universe-The Beatles

“I am Loki.”

“I asked for a bride.”

The declarations smashed into you like fists and took your breath with them.

There was a ring on your finger. Silvery, plain, simple. Why hadn't you noticed it before?

This was clearly Loki. Sunken eyes, and onyx hair, and refined bones. Exactly like the pictures. Why hadn't you noticed?

Too many things all at once. Too much. A fearful whine escaped your teeth, as you tugged on the ring. It didn't budge.

“You're supposed to be dead.” You whispered.

His face fell the instant you spoke.

“You know. I sometimes think that myself. Yet somehow I remain. Take it as a reassurance: you will not lose me to battle, or accident. I will never leave you. I suppose that is something that new brides must worry about, especially human ones. You may put that fear to rest.”

“That's not what I'm-” You clamped your mouth shut. You were in a bad position, worse than you'd ever been, maybe. You were completely alone here; you could contact no one for help. You weren't even sure where exactly 'here' was-no one knew where Asgard was located.

You were trapped in a room with a madman. A prince among his own people, who had proven himself capable of the mass murder of humans like you. Yet claiming you were his bride.

No one would come to your aid.

Did anyone even know you were missing?

You glanced at the ring once more. Its twin rested proudly on his own left hand. What choice did you have?

You had to play along. At least until you found some way out of this. Stay on the madman's good side, as much as that was possible.

“Why me?” You asked, fighting down your panic. Just gather information for now. “I'm literally nobody.”

“I don't understand either.” He sat down on the bed, just a little closer to you than arms length. “This was supposed to be a chance at reconciliation. I willingly gave myself up in a symbolic act of unity. Sacrificed my own freedom.”

You side-eyed him hard. Gave up his freedom? In what capacity? He wasn't the one kidnapped and married without any knowledge or choice!

“This isn't an uncommon arrangement.” He continued. “Your species has done this since time immemorial. From kings all the way down to commoners, uniting families, uniting fortunes, uniting entire lands. Surely your...leader...understood what was to be gained. Yes, I did a terrible thing to your people, but this should have forged a new alliance. A promise that not only would I not do such a thing again, but that my formidable prowess would be for your people, rather than against them. Was this not enough? This should have opened the way for trade, for treaties...And you! Why do such a thing to you? One of his own people?”

“Oh, I'm not his.” You said. “I voted against him. I march in protests against his shitty policies. I oppose him in any way I can. I'd say 'maybe that's why', but it really can't be. I'm nowhere near important or influential enough for the government to pay any attention to me. They're too busy trying to kill me through austerity. Or through the cops.”

Loki's face darkened. “I should find that officer and flay him. Make you a bodice of his skin.”

He'd been reaching for your shoulder, but you flinched away.

“Okay see? That right there? That's why people might not want to ally with you.” You pointed out.

“He shouldn't have hurt you.”

“That's true. That doesn't mean you can use my pain as an excuse to rampage on Earth!”

“I shan't!” He protested. “Never again, I promise you that.”

But how good was the promise of government? Politician or hereditary ruler, it was all the same. How good was the word of a murderer? How many promises had he already broken?

“How do you feel?” He asked. “You seem...lively. Whatever you were drugged with, is it having a lasting effect?”

“I'm a little disoriented, but I'm awake.” You said. “The food and water helped.”

“Yes. About that. Ah. Would you like to see your rooms? I've been anticipating your arrival-well, someone's arrival-for some months now, and I've had chambers created that befit your new station.”

The big unknown outside. Beyond this room was nothing but uncertainty. But you would be the first human being to see this new Asgard. You told yourself it was a perk.

“Um...” You mumbled. “My clothes...” You weren't going out there in a flimsy hospital gown, that was for sure.

“Being cleaned and mended.” Loki informed you. “I have a simple gown that I believe should fit you. Here.” Wit a sweeping gesture, he produced a voluminous, forest green garment out of seemingly nowhere.

You scooted away. “How did you do that?” You demanded.

“Magic, of course.” He said. “You...don't know about the magic...?”

You shook your head and took the robe from him. It felt real enough, smooth and soft, with fur trim and pin tucks. This was simple?

“What do you know about me, my dear?” He asked.

“Not much. Just what...turn around!” Sheepishly, he turned his back so you could change. “Just what was on the news. And the approximately three million conspiracy websites that popped up afterwards. You might be shocked by how many people think you were an inside job.”

“A what?”

“That's not even counting all the cults. You and Thor really got the radicalization machine cranking them out. White supremacists, nationalists, doomsday cults...thanks a lot. Not as if we didn't have enough problems cleaning up the mess you left behind.”

“That...was not my intention. Were you...?”

“I was not part of any cults. I was also not part of the celebration of your death, either.”

The news broadcast had interrupted every television, lit up every phone. A tired and battle-worn Thor, looking not one inch the hero the world knew him to be, as he towered over the reporter. He gave only a short statement: His brother Loki was dead, perished in honorable battle, in an effort to protect the galaxy from an ancient enemy.

People had trusted him. They'd seen the destruction that enemy had caused, in their quest to destroy everything. The odd teleportation anomalies in England that had dominated youtube for a long time. The leaves in your bathroom, the foreign plants in the park. Exotic, even alien creatures being spotted.

People threw parties at the news of Loki's demise. You'd gone out, gotten yourself exactly one drink, and then stayed home for the weekend. It didn't seem right, not after seeing Thor so hollowed out. You didn't really get on with celebrating the death of your enemies anyway, only the success of your causes.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

“But yeah, all I really know is that you attacked us out of the blue, and brought an army with you. You caused billions in damages and cost hundreds of lives. Thousands more lost everything. The economic blow is still with us, and led to some of the problems I've been marching against. And then you died. Except not, obviously. Was Thor lying to us?”

“No. He truly believed me dead. I did too, until I woke up. So you know nothing of me. I feared that might be the case. I am no warlord, not truly. I am the foremost sorcerer of Asgard. My magic has many applications, one of which is that I am rarely found without what I need.”

“So magic is real?” Why not? Aliens were real. Gods were apparently real.

“Yes, very. When times were...better, I used to tutor younger students. I might go back to doing that, once we are more established. Once we are safe.”

Safe? From what? Was whatever it was that had destroyed Asgard still out there? Thor had said otherwise, before the radio silence, but he had also thought that Loki was dead, and he was wrong about that, so...

“May I look now, dear?”

“Oh...yeah. I'm dressed.” The gown did fit, though mostly because it was a shapeless, oversized thing that was closed around you with ties. Still, it was luxurious, and made you feel like you were actually pretty-as long as no one looked at you too closely. Was this what a princess wore? You shouldn't allow yourself to get too used to it. As soon as you found a way out, you were out.

“Delightful. Even such a simple gown enhances your beauty. Will you come with me, dear? Let me show you our grand achievements.”

You didn't really want to be exposed to the people of Asgard, but this room was no safer than anywhere else right now. Loki hovered, and you stood, and managed a few wobbly steps before you overbalanced. He caught you instantly.

“Don't worry.” He murmured. “I'm here.”

As if that wasn't the problem in the first place.

“So, while you were carrying me off...I mean, when you, uh, received me, did you notice a cane lying around?” You asked. “I had one. Did the guys who brought me give it to you?”

“I'm afraid not.” He said apologetically. “They seemed strangely eager to quit the area.”

“Yeah, well. They had just committed a felony.” You griped. “They probably had orders to disappear. And they probably didn't want to hang around and witness what a warlord was gonna do to me.”

He winced. “I promise you, that's not what I really am.”

“Sorry.”

He held out his arm for you. “I don't have your cane, but I can support you. We will have another cane made for you. There should have been an Artificer and an apprentice Healer in here at some point, to measure you for a new prosthetic.”

“Uh, there were. I, uh, kinda told them to piss off.”

“Ah. I suppose I cannot blame you, now that I know of your situation. But they are here at your service, as is all of Asgard.”

He helped you limp along, somehow maintaining his dignified stride, even as you wobbled along like a penguin. The hallways were as bland and labyrinthine as a human hospital, if somewhat more softly lit. Again the light source was obscured behind thin panes of cloudy crystal, which diffused the light, giving everything a comforting, if slightly mysterious atmosphere, which the general emptiness of the area only enhanced.

There were few people here, but for some reason, you had been placed in a room far within the hospital complex. Maybe they wanted to hide you away, so that no one knew you were here until they were ready to introduce you to Asgard. Or until they were certain you were going to survive. It might cause a scandal if the prince's bride just up and died upon arrival.

Or perhaps it was to protect you. There were plenty of reasons why a human bride might not be accepted by the Asgardian populace; everything from nationalism, to someone wanting to make a bid for that crown themselves.

There were still no windows to be seen, and everything was made of stone, just like in the hospital room. Out here, in the halls and waiting rooms, the desks, chairs, and tables all seemed to be joined to the walls and floor, as if the whole place had been carved from a single, solid piece, like the rock-cut architecture of the fabled city of Petra. Here again were the creamy grays and oranges lining the walls, though a smooth black also made an appearance.

Eventually, you came to what must have been a foyer, with a high ceiling, complex stone mosaics, and huge, gorgeously carved double doors, but still no windows.

“We will be going outside now.” Loki said. “This facility is within the palace complex, and is not far from your special chambers, but we will have to cross a few halls and courtyards. There are plenty of places to sit, so if you need a rest, simply say so.”

He opened the doors for you, and you stepped out into a world of stone.

Everything was stone, stone or metal. Before you was a wide open courtyard, clearly unfinished, but spacious. At regular intervals were stone towers supporting open pillared hallways in a multiple storied, vaguely Roman courtyard style. The towers shot up, and up, and up...you climbed them with your gaze, following them to the heights to which they had to buttress each other with thin struts of stone, higher still, where they joined with an impossibly high ceiling.

There was a roof over the courtyard, so tall that your couldn't fathom how it had been built. Beyond the courtyards stacked walkways-six full stories-you could see the tips of other towers, lined with lights, merging with this high rise ceiling. Was the entire palace built under this massive shelter?

Clearly the sun did not reach into the palace. To offset this, the crystal-paned, inset lights were everywhere, creating complex patterns that mimicked the intricate knotted carvings that chased up the towers and pillars. The corbels glared down at you, fierce masks of bearded men, wolves, dragons and birds, lights in their eyes.

Combined, it was not as bright as sunlight, but not dim either. The softness of the glow made shadows diffuse, made the stone look soft and fake, and even shimmery in places, like the set pieces in eighties fantasy movies. If not for the pain in your bruises, you'd have thought the dreamy atmosphere was just that, and that you were about to wake up from this absurd dream any moment now.

But the pain was there, and denied that simple, hopeful wish. And Loki was there, gently urging you forward like he was a real gentleman, instead of a heinous war criminal. There were a few other people out here as well; walking the courtyards pillared halls, resting on stone benches, carving hollows into the ground.

There was no soil here. All stone. As you crossed the courtyard, you noticed black, and gray, and cloudy crystal inlaid into the ground in a shape reminiscent of a compass rose, decorated with silvery wire knotwork in bird and serpent shapes.

There were troughs and niches being carved into the ground that looked to you like they were meant to be flower beds...eventually. You had seen no dirt here yet, no grass or growing things at all. Maybe once you finally got outside. But for now, it felt as if you had left a building, only to exit into another building, that was in turn, within another building.

It was a bit suffocating.

Loki led you across several courtyards, each with a different pattern inlaid into their bare floor, and through vaulted hallways that still contained no windows. Many of these hallways intersected in large, circular domes, and few of them had any distinctive markings. Soon you were completely lost. With any luck, you would be able to get your hands on some paper, and create a map-otherwise, any escape attempts would be doomed from the word go.

But maybe that was the point.

Your staggering steps echoed down a particularly tall and wide hallway, almost completely devoid of people. You were almost at the end of your physical capabilities, and while there were places to sit, you felt like you must be close to your destination. You really wanted to be in a room whose dimensions you could be certain of. A space you could comprehend.

Loki brought you to a stop in front of a pair of carved wooden doors. As the first piece of architecture you had seen here that was something other than stone, you found them more beautiful than anything you'd seen all day. They were something almost normal, almost like something you would have at home. If you were insanely rich, or your dad was a carpenter or something. They were a warm terra-cotta color, carved with a dizzying array of knotwork, framed with blackened, riveted iron. The handles were iron serpents.

“We imported some things from your homeland. This redwood lumber is one such thing. From what I hear, these trees are emblematic of your country.”

“Er...” How to politely say, 'not really, even though most people who live there do know what a redwood is'. They weren't very important to anyone who didn't live near where they grew. They weren't what you would call 'quintessentially American'. There wasn't anything you could really call that. The place was just too damn big.

“We couldn't bring too much, not yet anyway.” He continued. “It is expensive, unfortunately, and we only have one ship. It can only carry so much, and it takes about three days to transport. Things are moving slowly, but our construction projects are moving along speedily. There's little else to do right now, save build.”

He opened the doors for you, and led you into a fairy tale.

[koala-smiles]

Miss Americana and the Heartbreak Prince (Chapter 1)

A Jily Au where Lily transfers from America in the Marauder’s Seventh Year

Read on AO3 James heard about her before he ever met her. 

This is no surprise, of course. Rumors travel fast in any school, and Hogwarts was no exception. By his seventh year, James mostly ignored gossip, but there comes a point when even he couldn’t tune out the whispers. 

“—all the way from America—”

“—fully corporeal Patronus—”

“—kicked out—”

“—fought off ten—”

“—twenty—”

“—fifty dementors—”

What he could gather after separating out the parts that sounded like exaggerations was that there was a girl transferring into Hogwarts from America. This in itself wasn’t too strange, Hogwarts had been home to Americans before, after all. The part that caused excitement was that she was much older than any transfer student anyone could remember, and she was supposed to arrive mid-October, rather than the usual September first. 

Figuring this all out by the second week of September, he resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t actually know more until she arrived. Of course, this didn’t stop others from speculating and spreading more tales. 

-----

By October 15, the rumors had grown to include that she could produce multiple Patronuses at once, fought off 100 dementors, became an animagus at 13, and had been kicked out of Ilvermorny for hexing a professor that had accidentally bumped into her in the hallway. 

James was buttering his toast at breakfast and talking with Sirius about the possibility of making the Halloween feast have a surprise final course when the entire Great Hall turned silent. All eyes had turned to the entrance. 

The first thing James noticed was red hair on black leather. The girl turned her head, looking at each person in the eyes as if daring anyone to question her presence in the hall. When she met his eyes, James quickly closed his mouth, which had been hanging open. She quirked an eyebrow, looking amused. 

Remus was the first to move, standing and waving her over. 

“Moony, what are you doing?” hissed Sirius. 

“Dumbledore asked me to show her around.” Remus replied nonchalantly. James couldn’t take his eyes off her, noticing that she wore the usual school uniform, but with a leather jacket instead of robes. 

Remus smiled and sat down as she got to the table. 

“Remus Lupin, I assume?” she said, taking a seat.

“The one and only. This is James, Peter, and Sirius.” Remus pointed to each of them in turn. James gave what he hoped was a confident smile. 

“The Marauders. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. I’ve heard of you.”

James had no idea about how she had heard of them. As much as he would like to believe that their pranks and other escapades had become famous and widely known, he knew that the possibility was unlikely. And, considering the looks of surprise that came from around the room when she entered, she definitely hadn’t been there long enough to hear someone mention them in passing. She truly was a mystery.

“And what might your name be?” Asked James, thankful that his voice never wavered. What was it about this girl that made him so nervous? He knew that the rumors couldn’t be true. His heart shouldn’t pound around her. And yet—

“Evans. Lily Evans. I’m new, if you couldn’t tell.” She smiled at the last part, knowing full well that there was no way he didn’t know. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Lily. Would you happen to be a seventh year?” James replied, gaining his confidence again.

“I am. I’m also told that I’m a Gryffindor, if that helps.” 

“Finally, another Gryffindor with a sense of fashion,” Sirius said, noticing her jacket.

Lily smiled at him. “Leather is my first choice when flying. And when walking. Pretty much everywhere, actually.”

James perked up when he heard her mention flying. “Flying? On a broom? Would you happen to be interested in Quid—”

“Would you like us to take you to Gryffindor tower? We can figure out your schedule there,” cut in Remus, making James frown. He wanted to know if she was a fan of his favorite sport. 

“Sounds good,” she replied, gesturing for Remus to lead the way.

-----

In the Gryffindor common room, they figured out that she shared all the same classes as Remus, and was put in a room with Marlene, Dorcas, and Mary. James offered to help her catch up in Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration, all of which she declined.

“I’m a fast learner. I think I’ll be fine. However, if you could help me figure out this crazy, confusing building layout, I would be very grateful.”

“I’m more suited for that task than you would expect,” he quickly agreed.

She raised an eyebrow at this. “If you say so.”

She turned and walked to the stairs, going up to her room. James mentally smacked himself. That sounded so arrogant. I really need to stop making myself look like a fool in front of her. He thought glumly.

“What do you know about her?” James asked Remus. Remus chuckled.

“As much as you do. If you want to learn more, why don’t you ask her?”

James rolled his eyes. “I will, but you can’t expect me to climb up into the girls dormitories, can you?”

Remus sat down with some homework. “No, but I suspect you’ll interrogate her as you show her around the castle.”

James’ face reddened, and he turned to grab his bag from their room. Once he got back to the common room, he found Lily waiting for him. 

“Shall we?” she asked, motioning to the door. He put his strap around his shoulders, making sure that the map wasn’t peeking out of the bag. 

“Right. On to Potions.”

-----

They arrived a couple of minutes early, and he offered her the seat next to him. She gave him a grateful smile, and pulled out her potions book before sitting down. 

Slughorn approached them, looking nervous. He must have heard the rumor about her hexing a professor. 

“You must be Miss Evans. Welcome to Advanced Potions. We’ve been moving at a rapid pace so far this semester, so if you need help, feel free to ask. If I’m busy, Mr. Snape behind you is the best in the class, so I’m sure he’ll be able to answer any questions.”

Lily gave him a strained smile. “Thank you, Professor, but I’m sure I’ll be fine.” She looked back down, and started taking notes in her new textbook. 

Slughorn gave a small laugh, and then excused himself to start the class. 

“Hello everyone, today we will be brewing Excresco, a potion used to make plants grow quickly. It can be found on page thirty-two. Each person must work alone. You may begin.”

James pulled out his cauldron and found the ingredients detailed in the book. He poured in his beetle eyes, and then took out his beetroot to start cutting. He heard Lily start humming an upbeat song next to him. He didn’t recognize it, so he turned and asked what it was. 

“Eleanor Rigby. The Beatles?” She held up a couple beetle eyes.

He shook his head, confused. 

“Ah, must not be very caught up on Muggle culture then.” She put the beetle eyes back on the table, and started squishing them with the flat of her blade. He had no idea why Muggles listened to music about beetles. He decided to ask Sirius about it later, knowing that he would have a better understanding of Muggle music.

Slughorn came up beside Lily and watched for a minute. 

“Why are you mashing your ingredients? The instructions say to put them in whole.”

“The part of the beetle eyes that affects the potion is the juice inside. When you squish them, the juice can come out easier, causing the potion to have more potency.” She said, never pausing her squishing. 

James heard scribbling behind him, and turned to see Snape writing notes on what Lily had said. 

Slughorn looked at her beetle eyes again and turned, not wanting to be hexed for saying anything more. It seemed that everyone thought of her as someone not to be messed with. James looked down at her textbook, and saw that each of her notes had changed some part of the potion. She noticed him looking and smiled at him.

“Like I said, I don’t need help catching up in class.”

“I can see that. I’m happy just to show you how to navigate the castle.”

She smiled and poured her squashed beetle eyes into her cauldron. Suddenly remembering that he had a potion of his own, James went back to cutting up his beetroot. No one else commented on Lily’s unorthodox methods, but James kept hearing Snape writing notes.

At the end of the class, Slughorn passed out small seeds to test the potions on. Most people had small bushes, and a couple people had buds on their branches. Snape looked smug that his bush was the biggest that had sprouted, and that his buds had started to bloom. Everyone watched in anticipation as Lily took the plug out of her vial. It seemed like an eternity before Lily got a tiny drop of potion to put onto her seed. 

The class watched in awe as huge bush grew in front of her, and gasped when they saw large flowers go into full bloom. Lily smiled, and plucked a flower to put behind her ear.

“Beautiful.” James whispered, gazing at Lily. He turned bright red when he saw that she had heard. “The, er, bush. The bush is beautiful.” She smirked, raising an eyebrow at his hasty clarification.

“I think we might have a new top of the class!” Slughorn said, unable to take his eyes away from the bush, “I’ve never seen an Excrestco potion this powerful.”

James heard Snape grumble behind his, obviously not too pleased about losing his spot. 

In all of this, neither Lily or James had taken their attention off of the other. 

“Lunch?” Lily asked, standing and collecting her things.

“Sounds good.” replied James, mirroring her actions. 

They walked out of the classroom together, leaving their classmates and professor to marvel at the plant.

[theawkwardterrier]

things left behind and the things that are ahead ch. 4

AO3 link here

She comes home with a headache. It’s to be expected when one has been to three - no, four - time zones in just over forty-eight hours, but knowing the cause doesn’t make it go away.

The luggage that she takes from the back of the government car is the overnight case from the set that the Commandos had given to her and Steve for their wedding (“Better than that old kit bag!”). The blue and white leather is cracking by this point, but it’s too familiar for her to give up, and when would she have the time to pick out something new anyway? She could ask Steve to take care of it, she supposes, but would he know that she likes an elastic pocket not only in the lid but inside the body too, that she wants a removable lining for smuggling purposes when necessary?

(Well, he could probably guess that part.)

She walks up the path to the house so slowly that even the sound of the car has faded before she reaches the front porch. Her step is meandering rather than just tired, although the idea of a shower and the opportunity to fall asleep in her own bed is so pleasant that it is almost painful, like finally stretching a long-folded limb. She takes the time to notice the first of the crocuses coming up beside the steps, and how pretty the inset little stained glass window looks in the velvet night: the lamp had been on at the end of the drive, but this close there is just the faintest light from deep in the house beaming through. There are worn places in the front door varnish which she notices as she puts her key in the lock; Steve usually fixes it up once they’re deeper into spring.

Although she expected her husband to still be awake, she nevertheless feels a resignation when she sees him sitting, relaxed, on the living room sofa. She doesn’t think that she has the energy to talk, even with him.

She knows that he must have heard her footsteps in the hallway, likely even heard the car in the drive, but he doesn’t look up until she has slipped off her shoes and come to sit on the loveseat, staring blankly ahead of her toward the empty fireplace.

“Hi,” he says after a moment of waiting for her. He has his index finger tucked into a page midway through the book he was reading, as if he’s only anticipating a brief interruption. It’s a children’s book, A Wrinkle in Time according to the cover. Peggy thinks he must have started reading it to everyone at bedtime. “How was the trip?”

She waves a vague hand. “Who can remember?”

“Well, hopefully someone.” He sets his book aside. “Or else all this international travel was sort of a waste.” She smiles, or something like it, but doesn’t respond. She knows that Steve is watching her, but she finds herself closing her eyes and listening to the quiet country sounds around their house. Steve is more at home in the city, but they had both agreed that they would like to raise their children out here. The crickets, the wind in the trees and the sound of far-off birds reminds her of her childhood, out of reach by decades which feel so much longer.

“Was everything alright here?” she asks after a moment. Steve pauses before responding; she knows that he can see the weight in her, the tiredness, but he must recognize that she needs some sort of normal anchor too, because he starts to speak. The children have nearly worn out another Beatles record, playing it over and over, and Steve’s about ready to break it himself. Drea still wants to adopt the cat they keep seeing in the yard. Nate wet the bed again - they’d thought they were done with that. Someone went to the museum with their class. Everyone is already looking forward to their time in Brooklyn over the summer; they’d talked about it at dinner that evening…

She doesn’t realize that she is crying until Steve has crouched in front of her and given her knee a gentle touch. Crying isn’t the word for it, really. She is weeping, without sobs, the tears silent and unceasing.

“Did something happen?” Steve asks, and she feels the years that have passed, because he sounds solid, none of the discomfort he would have once had seeing her like this.

“Something is always happening,” she says on a drawn-in breath. “There will always be something happening, and it will always be my responsibility to handle it.”

“Ours,” Steve says instantly. “I know that I’ve taken a backseat in things—” Self-sacrificing, as always. As if it had been only his choice, as if they hadn’t decided together back at the beginning that it would be safest, as if he had been in any state at the time to do the work that needed doing, as if she hadn’t been so certain that she could do it all on her own. “Nate starts first grade in the fall. We’ve been talking about me going back to school anyway once the kids are all out during the day. There’s no reason I can’t come back in an official capacity.”

Technically he’s right. Keeping all circumstances in mind, his body is over fifty now, but he still runs a three minute mile when he has a mind to. His fighting style is more elegant than it was during the war, honed, reliant on physics and improvisation, and adaptable to even an older physique. And more than that, she imagines him by her side in meetings, in her office, a true equal with whom to make decisions.

She shakes her head. “We decided. You’ve done your duty.”

“That was years ago. You’ve been doing this twice as long as I ever did.”

“If you came back, it would drain something from you, something that I’ve seen you earn back over all this time.”

Gently, he asks, “But what about what it’s draining from you?”

She shakes her head. “It can’t matter.”

“It matters more than anything,” he tells her, and anyone else would be unwilling to argue with the steel underlying the words. Peggy stands, so abruptly that he shifts himself back. She simply has to be moving, even without purpose.

“I don’t think I had realized there would be so much,” she says. Her footfalls are soundless, lost in the carpet. The idea of the drinks cart crosses her mind and is erased again in an instant, papered over by the words spilling from her. “I should have known, but I didn’t really...The map keeps shifting on me. There are so many little pieces of which I must always be aware, and still there are things we can’t anticipate.” His mouth tightens, and she can tell that he is fighting against looking away. She knows he is remembering what happened with Emmett Till.

He gets to his feet, slow and careful not for the sake of his own aging body, but because of her caged eyes. He walks to her and moves to touch the pulse of her wrists, sliding his thumbs with tenderness over the gasping beat that he finds there. He places her palms together and presses his lips to the tops of her gathered fingers. “These are the strongest hands I know,” he says steadily. “But even the strongest hands can’t do everything on their own. If it is too much, you leave. You know that.”

“And have everything fall apart?”

“You’ve trained some competent people,” Steve points out with a bit of humor. “Things won’t go to pieces right away.”

“I’ve trained competent people, yes,” she says, “but no one who knows things as we do.”

She wonders, as she sometimes does, about the other Peggy, the Peggy who Steve had known. Did she set her course and rely on her own confidence, burdened with only the normal intelligence of spy networks and the instincts of her career, or did she feel this same hopelessness sometimes? She must have, Peggy thinks. How could she avoid it when there were wars on too many fronts, injustice all around, when people died on an order from her, died carrying out her orders?

The thought of simply leaving it all for someone else to take care of, all the effort and difficulty and the wrenching choices abandoned as she finds something that will be enough instead of sometimes too much, has something of its own appeal; she has been doing this for too long to deny that. She cannot pretend to have all of the youthful energy, the bullheaded determination, that she brought to her first assignments. But she recognizes this too: if she left, it would not be clean and guiltless and without consequence, either.

The thought of the other Peggy, the Peggy she might have been, steadies her for a simple reason: she knows that she can survive all this because in another reality, she already did.

“It would help,” she says slowly, her breathing nearly normal again, “if we could find a regular time to discuss these things—”

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t commit before I’ve even finished,” she admonishes. “You are planning on going back to school, after all.”

“And I’ll still be there for you, whenever you need it.” His voice is so smooth, so confident, but it is never just pretty words with Steve. Her husband is loyalty and dedication and standing up and trying, over and over again. She knows that now more than ever.

She frees her hands from his and dries her face inelegantly, swiping the heels of her palms against her cheeks. Steve sighs slightly and tips her chin up toward him, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief, slightly creased and linty from being shoved in his pocket. She supposes she’s lucky it isn’t stained from wiping something off a child’s face. There's something about the whole that's silly enough that she lets out a watery laugh. She still feels a bit raw, though, and pushes him gently away after just a moment.

"Cup of tea?" he asks tactfully.

"Two sugars," she says. It’s been years since she took sugar in her tea. It is a thing of childhood long left behind. He just nods, though, before walking down the hallway toward the kitchen.

She feels worn now not only from travel and business and distance from home, but from the expulsion of emotion, the release of her doubts. It has been too long since she allowed such things space in the open air. There’s a feeling in her chest as if she just finished a long run. She drops onto the sofa, her limbs loose, her stare open.

It is only then that she notices Rose at the top of the stairs. Rosie is her nighttime self, the kind she would never reveal to rivals or friends or classmates: she wears a voluminous white nightgown with delicate lace appliques and little silken bows, her hair in stubby plaits on either side of her head, her temper in its resting state. But she has her considering face pressed between the bars of the upper landing bannister, looking down; curiosity, as Peggy well knows, is hard to put to sleep.

Peggy tries to think of something to say, some excuse to smooth things over. Even when Rosie was small, at her wildest and most difficult to handle, Peggy had never cried in front of her. She had been very careful of that - predator’s instincts. But Rosie doesn't seem confused or scared.

"I’m glad you’re home, Mom," she whispers, audible in the drifting quiet between the two of them, and rises. She creeps down the hallway, pausing only to tap softly on Nate's door. Peggy wonders if it is a habit she hadn’t noticed or if he is also awake in there too, her sweet boy.

Steve returns then. Peggy doesn't mention Rose as she takes the teacup from him and inhales the steam.

"Are you sure you're going to be alright?" Steve asks. "Remember, you don't have to make decisions tonight."

She tilts a smile toward him. "I'll be fine. 'I can't go on, I'll go on' and all."

“You shouldn’t have to. I think leaving should still be an option.”

“Leaving will always be an option,” she says, her grasp on calm, on professionalism, returning to her. “But I doubt my not leading SHIELD will be the option that will be beneficial to the most people.”

“‘If you can’t do some good simply because you don’t have a badge in hand, then I’m not certain I know you,’” he says, and she gives him a dirty look because he is quoting herself back at her. "If it's too much—"

"I have you," Peggy says, lips against the rim of her cup. "I always have you here. How could I doubt that?"

And that's one thing that the other Peggy never had. It is no trouble to hope that she had someone else to talk to - there is no reason to begrudge her a bit of comfort - but this is one thing Peggy was given along with all of her essential, expansive, terrible knowledge, her endless responsibility: she was given Steve here to carry it all with her.

Previous chapters

[gkingoffez]

Written for @bizarrebird, for @redvsbluesecretsanta 2018, who requested Tucker fluff on Iris, with a side of Tuckington. 

Have a Merry Christmas and/or happy holiday season everyone, and thanks for reading my work this year!

Words: 2,497

AO3 | FFN.Net 

Only after the Chorus contingent has flown away and the initial hubbub of excited exploring has died down a bit, can Tucker finally slip away for a moment of motherfucking peace.

He climbed to the roof of the brand new Blue base and took a 360 survey of the landscape surrounding their new home.

It was fucking beautiful, so far removed from the grimey Armonia cityscape, the hellish heat of temple or even Blood Gulch’s lifeless desert canyon. Mountains rose up in the distance, blue peaks with rocky cliffs and greenish yellow grass spread out before them. Several armoured figures were darting about near the shore of the giant blue lake in the centre of it all, including a bird-chasing Caboose and Donut, and a pair of helmetless ex- Freelancers.

Wash’s ass looked particularly muscular from a distance.

Overall, it was different to any moon Tucker had even been to, more like the pictures of New Zealand from before global warming had fucked up nature’s shit than the dusty, unoccupied parts of Earth’s moon, or even the teeming jungle moon Endor from Star Wars.

It was pretty and picturesque and nice and just... good.

They deserved a break, and a beautiful place to relax in, and hopefully not fuck up too much (Sarge had already been talking about setting up perimeter mines and homing rockets, which could only end badly).

They needed some time away from the rest of the galaxy, without traumatising separation, civil wars, asshole mercenaries and all that general soldier bullshit getting in the way of what they did best- standing around and talking.

This was what they’d been promised when they boarded that ship back to Blood Gulch oh so long ago, and damnit was Tucker gonna take every advantage he could while it lasted.

The dusk arrived, and then gave way to evening as Tucker sat there. Caboose had fallen into the lake, shed his armour and rolled around in the grass in the interim, while Wash and Carolina had long since retreated inside.

Tucker sat and looked up to the sky and the stars. They were different from the ones over Chorus or Earth or Blood Gulch or anywhere else, which was another good thing. New stars, new chances, new beginnings for all.

He has a moment of utter peace before he falls asleep.

-

“The stars are different, aren’t they?”

There was a beat of silence in the cool evening air.

“...Are you being serious right now?” asked Wash. “Tucker, you do realise we’re in an entirely different star system now, right?”

Tucker scoffed indignantly. “I’m not an idiot, dude, I was just pointing out that- you know what, nevermind.”

Wash rustled on the grass beside him, obviously thinking. There was a pause

“No, I get what you mean. It always takes a while for your brain to adjust to new patterns and environments, of course the sky looks different to your eyes. I guess humans aren’t really evolved to adapt to new skies, but if we’d stayed with what was familiar and comfortable, we’d never have left Earth, I guess.”

“...no need start philosophising dude. The stars are different, it ain’t that deep.”

Wash huffed in amusement, and Tucker glanced at him. His silver streaked hair glinted in the planet-light.

“On a somewhat related note, what’s your favourite night sky?” asked Wash, still staring straight upwards.

Tucker raised his eyebrow in confusion.

“Favourite planet to view the sky from, I mean. Like, Earth is a classic, there’s so many well-known constellations.”

“Dunno,” grunted Tucker. “But Earth would be the boring choice, besides, you can barely see anything through the pollution.”

Wash inhaled deeply, his chest rising and falling.

“I did basic in Leonis-Minoris. It’s a binary system, you know, so it wasn’t dark planet-side too often. But when both stars set, boy did it get dark. Camp was out in the middle of nowhere away from the light pollution of the colonies, so you really could see everything, even the dust from the Milky Way. Any shooting star you saw was guaranteed to be a ship entering the atmosphere, though, so that took a little bit of the magic away.”

“Sick,” added Tucker.

“What about Blood Gulch?” asked Wash, twisting until he was on his side facing Tucker. “You were there, what, five years? You must have spent a lot of time looking up with nothing else to do.”

Tucker couldn’t help it- he burst into laughter. “Are you being serious, dude? The sun barely ever set there, and when it did it wasn’t some huge event. Yeah, maybe there was a heap of stars because we were in the middle of goddamn nowhere, but none of us gave a shit either way; it was all about dealing with the stupidity and trying not to die of boredom on a daily basis.”

Wash chuckled. “I forgot about that, although to be fair I only really skimmed that report before I visited. Did I ever tell you about Sarge’s cardboard cutouts?”

“God, that’s not even the worst thing Sarge did. One time his robot started a revolution with our tank at the most inconvenient fucking time possible.”

“Sounds familiar. Have you seen him gathering materials for his new army lately?”

Tucker groaned. “Not this again.”

Wash chuckled, then laid his hand over Tucker’s. They turned and grinned at each other, Wash’s smile turning from amused to a familiar softness.

“Who knows- maybe your newfound appreciation for simple things like stars means that you’ve grown a bit since Blood Gulch.”

Tucker looked into Wash’s shadowed eyes.

“Maybe, yeah,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” smiled Wash.

“Yeah,” interjected Caboose dreamily.

“Caboose, I thought I told you to stay quiet!” snapped Tucker, jerking in the other direction. He had almost forgotten that his dumbass teammate was there, lying on his other side.

“I know, but you were all agreeing to something and I wanted to agree too!”

“Fucking hell, man,” said Tucker, shaking his head. He wove his fingers more tightly in Wash’s, settled onto his back again and looked back to the stars. The night was clear and revealed thousands upon thousands of tiny bright dots.

“Hey Tucker, which one of them is Chorus?” Caboose asked, pointing upwards.

Tucker groaned. Wash sniggered.

-

“You’ve been out there like five times already. What the fuck do you even do up there so late?” asked Grif, as he shovelled food into his mouth at the breakfast table like a starving man. “Are you taking those magazines and beating off all night?”

“That’s gross, Grif,” yelled Carolina from across the table.

“No, asshole. I’m just taking some time to myself. Just lying there, looking up at the sky, thinking about stuff, taking in the view, ya’know.”

Grif paused with a burrito halfway to his mouth. “Sounds like some girly shit, dude.”

“Stop talking, Grif,” came Carolina’s voice.

Tucker shrugged, taking a swig of his coffee. “It gets me away from you fuckwits, so it must be worth it.”

-

They chose a spot near the lake to meet after dinner, all sitting in a circle in various stages of armour wear, from Caboose’s pyjamas to Carolina’s full suit (minus only helmet) and weapon lineup.

Tucker cleared his throat.

“Here ye, here ye! I call this band meeting to order. Judge Tucker, sex-god and your humble leader, presiding.”

He banged a rock down on the ground like a gavel.

“You’re not the leader, Tucker,” said Grif, flat-toned. He rustled with the packet of M&Ms in his hand.

“Yeah, if anyone’s the leader, that would have to be the lead singer,” sung Carolina, drawing out the last word torturously long.

Tucker fought back the urge to grimace, and exchanged knowing a look with Grif. If only they had the balls to tell Carolina she wasn’t that good of a singer. If only.

“Anyway,” said Carolina, “We don’t have to decide that now, we’ll have plenty of time to iron out the details later. Firstly, and maybe most importantly, we need to come up with a name.”

“The Red Beatles,” said Grif.

“Fuck no, Twenty-One Blues,” shot back Tucker.

“Caboose and His Best Friends!” interjected Caboose excitedly, waving his arms.

“Also something we don’t have to decide right now,” conceded Carolina. “So we have all our instruments and know all our roles... so, uh, anything else we need to talk about?”

“Yeah, I have a question. Why the fuck are we out here again?” Grif huffed, gesturing around. “There’s a perfectly good room with a perfectly good couch in the base and instead I gotta pull pebbles out my ass because Tucker has a hard on for nature suddenly?”

“Dude!” cried Tucker. “Artists draw inspiration from nature all the time. Just look at this shit.” He gestured upwards, all three of his friends followed his hand. “You could write a thousand love songs looking at this.”

The sky that night was on the more breathtaking end of Iris’ spectrum- They had no need for any light source other than it, the light reflecting from the planet and the ocean of stars enveloping it enough to make the whole moon surface glow.

“You still haven’t told me which one is Chorus yet, Tucker,” Caboose said quietly.

“Boo hoo, nature’s pretty, the sky’s so sexy I wanna die, waaaaah,” cried Grif pettily. “That’s what you sound like, Tucker.”

“Fuck off, red.”

Carolina shook her head. “I mean, yeah’s it’s beautiful, Tucker, but we need to get back to band business now. Now, hear me out boys, and don’t say anything until I’m finished- one word, tassles-”

Tucker had never suffered so much in his life as he did trying to swallow back a groan in that moment. He looked up.

-

“Do you miss Church?” Sarge asked gruffly, out of nowhere, not looking up from cleaning his gun.

Tucker shuffled, surprised and pensive. It was just the two of them, leaning up against their ramshackle base on the cusp of sunrise. A pale sky and dim stars stretched above them- either of them had spoken a word, both still shaking off sleep and a chill in the air.

Tucker swirled his coffee between his  bare fingers.

“I don’t know. Probably. Wasn’t the first time he left, you know? I’m used to it.”

Sarge grunted in acknowledgment and brought the barrel of his shot to eye level, peering down to check for blockages.

“He saved us all, in the end. This is probably the nicest thing I’ll ever say about one of you Blues, but I’m gonna miss him.”

Tucker swallowed. There was a tightness behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” was all he said in reply.

-

“Tucker...”

Tucker started from his doze at the sound.

“Tucker... ooooHHhhhh.”

He looked around, peering blearily through the darkness, the familiar landscape forming around him- outside on the rocky cliffside, he’d fallen asleep under the stars again. Not too unusual for him lately.

Something poked at his side, and he reached under the thin camp mattress he’d commandeered for stargazing, and pulled out a sharp rock, which was promptly thrown away.

“Tucker I am a ghoooost! Ooohhhhhh I am... scaryyyyyyy.”

Tucker sighed very audibly, rubbing at his eyes.

“Caboose, get your fucking ass back in this dimensional plane right now,” he yelled into the night. “If I can hear you now that means you must have found a way back- so just come through before you’re lost in the abyss for all eternity, or some shit.”

There was a pause, then-

“Oooooooh. Scary ghost! Scarrryyyyyyyy!”

Tucker was tired. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

“Come on dude. Wash is getting worried about you. Just come back.”

Another silent beat.

“...okay. Sorry.”

“Good. And you’re not a ghost, okay? Don’t say that.”

With a grunt, Tucker rolled over. He shot a glance at the starry sky above him, smeared with wisps of clouds, before settling back in to sleep.

He swore he heard footsteps walking down the rocky path to the base as he drifted off.

-

It was muggy beyond all belief.

Instead of tossing all night, sweating through the sheets and disturbing Wash, Tucker opted for a the second option. He carefully jumped up, pulled some boxers on, grabbed his camp mattress and set up shop a little ways outside their jumbled-together base.

He lay with his arms folded under his head in the somewhat fresh night air, gazing straight up at the now familiar stars.

Tucker would never admit it to anyone around him, but he was enjoying his stargazing habit far more than he’d expected. If you’d told him a year ago he’d spent so many nights outside pondering stars, Tucker would have laughed his ass off.

But between the fire, the dinosaurs, the water park,  the robots, the second fire, the dinosaur-robot war and having no one else to talk to but all his idiot friends, the peace of Iris at night and the twinkling of burning stars a thousand star systems away was a respite among chaos. It was kinda like his rock back in Blood Gulch, in that sense.

It wasn’t every night (he wasn’t nearly that sentimental, god), just every once in a while. He’d sneak off, maybe take Wash or anyone else who felt like it with him (which didn’t happen often, not that he minded) and chill out away from the crazy everyday shit that went down when multi-coloured idiots all lived together on a moon in the middle of nowhere space.

Truth be told, he’d never been a fan of stars before- maybe there’d been more interest in the universe before it all became so commonplace (and dangerous), but cultural attitudes had changed. He hadn’t joined the military to travel, mostly just to pick up hot military chicks and maybe fire a gun.

It was entirely possible he still wasn’t a fan of stars, and was just trying to vainly recreate that initial moment of peace from the first night on Iris. Maybe he was a sappy bitch at heart. Who fucking knew?

All he knew was that when he lay down and looked up at night, things were kinda okay. Nothing was on fire, people weren’t dying and his friends were all safe and asleep just down the hill.

It wouldn’t stay that way forever, and the system’s sunwould rise in a few hours, bringing new daily terrors. Grif could very well spike someone else’s food with his Meth-Meth, Carolina could take another opportunity to ‘practice’ her ‘singing’ and Sarge was extremely likely to be continuing his impossible war against gravity as soon as he humanly could.

Anything was possible. They could be dragged into another galaxy-hopping adventure any day now, or Donut could succeed in burning the entire moon down, them along with it.

The future was up in the air, but at that moment, Tucker felt peace as he stared up at the twinkling stars, the warm air a comforting blanket to lull him back to sleep.

[nightrainlily]

DAY TWELVE: WE MAKE OUR OWN FAMILIES

each run is more beautiful than the last. I went yesterday north to a neighboring village, then to another, and then back. the first one I visited was so tiny that I later asked Johnny what people do there. this morning, I ran slightly farther than intended because I made a turn onto a path which looked very legit, but which ended abruptly in the forest, without outlet. I then ran through the brush in the general direction of our house, with just a little bit of panic. but it was fine! I made it out the other side, into a field of beautiful sunflowers. so, I suppose it was worth the trouble.

I came back to find our whole party gathered around the kitchen island, talking. today is our last day in Burgundy, and while John is returning to Paris with us, he will be busy with work a lot of our stay there. effectively, my mother and he are coming to a close on their concentrated time together. if you’ve ever heard me talk about my uncle Johnny, it’s probably John that I’m talking about, and I call him my uncle because he and my mother have been best friends since high school, even though he moved literally to another continent six years into their friendship. when he first left, letters took weeks to travel, long distance calls were fifty dollars for fifteen minutes, and social media didn’t exist. our family contends that they were able to stay connected because they are truly soulmates and not even an act of God could tear them apart. and separation of the Atlantic in the 1970s was sort of like an act of God.

there is a kind of love in their relationship that I can only hope to achieve in my longterm friendships, a love that comes only with time and dedication. through this bond, Johnny has become my family, in a way that frankly some of my blood relatives with whom I have little to no relationship will ever be. I count it as a blessing that my mother has always instilled in me that family is a fluid thing, with more gray than black and white. I know that although my actual biological relations are few, I have a large family, a group of people who love me unconditionally.

when Johnny chose to emigrate to France, he was really only a few years older than Joelle and me. it was a decision that obviously changed the course of his life. I asked him if he was ultimately glad that he moved, and he said yes. although he was very close to his mother, I think that John also knows that we make our own families. he has found a community of friends, as well as Fred, with whom he can give and receive love. he does lament the language barrier; while of course he is fluent, he told me, “you’re never yourself in a foreign language.” he said that humor is difficult in translation, and that there’s a level of constant stress inherent in the process of conversation. Amalia even said that speaking English constantly on her Australian exchange was exhausting, and she started learning English when she was five. I can’t imagine for Johnny, who wasn’t fluent when he arrived here initially, how difficult the first few years must have been, before he adapted to this requirement of living in a foreign country. I would think you could never really relax. to combat this difficulty, he says he has an English night with two of his friends, expatriates from Ireland and England respectively. no French-speaking people are allowed, and they maintain their weekly appointment without fail, because it’s so important to have the break from the grind of translation.

Johnny has now lived in France for longer than he lived in America. of course, that fact is sad for us, my mother especially, because we selfishly want him closer to us, easier to access. the time difference limits contact, as does sheer distance. but John would probably never leave France; he dislikes American politics and has built a life here that he loves. the passage of his halfway point also coincided with the certification of his French passport and status as a French citizen. he decided not to give up his American citizenship, partly because my mother would be really upset, but also because a part of him is tied to those first twenty years of his life in the States.

I think about what I would do in his position. I can’t imagine living so far away from my mother, or from the things I know and which bring me comfort in their familiarity. learning a language and a culture is a process which can take a lifetime, and John still says he is surprised by some of the aspects of the French way of life that he just can’t quite digest. but in his time here, France has become his home.

I believe that people can have many homes over the course of their lives, and even multiple at once. for example, I hope to make Berkeley my home in the fall, but Phoenix will always be the home of my childhood. and for a time, both places will exist simultaneously, each owning different parts of myself. I think the perception that any place you choose can become your home is the key to being happy in whatever environment in which you find yourself. Johnny could not have survived a single Parisian winter without the conviction that this city could be his city. and I don’t think I’ll make it through a week of college without that same belief.

the fluidity of these ideas, home and family, have allowed Johnny, and honestly anyone else who leaves behind the world they know for a chance at a new life, to be truly happy in an alien environment. and it takes a special kind of courage to grasp the opportunity to make such a monumental change, for better or for worse. I’ve grown up with that inspiration in Johnny, and I hope that sharing just a glimpse into his story might inspire you too.

to the dreamers,

amaya

1. Julia - The Beatles

2. Nobody Else Will Be There - The National

3. Hounds of Love - Kate Bush

[amoralto]

Quotes for curious contemplation: John’s jealousy and possessiveness manifested in terms of family. (a compilation in progress)

Consider this a(nother) supplementary post to this ask, where I touched upon John’s absolutist outlook on relationships. Instances are specific to family, as I’ve noted in the title. More will be added as and when it occurs to me. (Other quotes for curious contemplation: John on distinguishing between best friends and partners, creative and romantic, male and female.)

If you’re wondering who else may have contributed to John’s perspective of love as a zero-sum game, here’s Aunt Mimi accusing John of, amongst other things, betraying her love by being generous to his estranged father and spending time with him:

I’ve been hurt. Cut to the quick. What do you think I felt like, when I’ve been with those Beatle parents, and have heard what they’ve done, for them? I was foolish enough to think, as I had you, and waited for you to be born, that I was father and mother to you. But my goodness, John, you didn’t want me. [laughs; bleak] You didn’t want anything to do with me. And a lifetime’s work was just thrown on one side as nothing.

And you say The Beatles were dumb. They may have been… but in many respects, they could’ve taught you a thing or two. The first thing they did was to make their parents secure. Forever. Knowing very well that they would always get it back. But oh no, you, right, left, center – anyone could have in. And then I had to ask you, this year, to help me out – a terrible thing for me, I’m telling you, it nearly killed me. I’d had the same money from 1962, and anybody with a little thought would have known that what I had was melting away, during that eleven years.

And it seems as though you hated the sight of me. You couldn’t bear the sight of me, and you never missed an opportunity to cut me down dead – in front of other people as well, which was even worse. But it didn’t do you any good, for people noticed. But you were very kind to Alfred Lennon, taking him round the West End and having him in your home. I don’t suppose it ever once crossed your mind that that would hurt me. Especially when you couldn’t stand the sight of me.

— Mimi Smith, recorded letter to John Lennon. (Early 1970s)

And because possessiveness and a sense of entitlement can linger long after the love has been lost or at least temporarily misplaced (see also John writing a song, well into househusband years no less, about the blustery American cowboy he suspected Cynthia was having an affair with in India), here’s John expressing his relief that he still effectively is the most looming presence in his father’s life and doesn’t have anyone else to compete with (while still being mindful of Mimi’s distaste for Alfred): 

Dear Alf Fred Dad Pater whatever,

It’s the first of your letters I’ve read without feeling strange – so here I am answering it – ok? As you know I’m pretty tied up at the moment, there’s a hell of lot to do – if I get time I’ll give Uncle? Charles a ring – but anyway I’ll get in touch with you before a month has passed – after that I’m going to India a couple of months so I’ll try and make sure we meet before then. I know it will be a bit awkward when we first meet and maybe for a few meetings but there’s hope for us yet. I’m glad you didn’t land yourself with a bloody big family – its put me off seeing you a little more – I’ve enough family to last me a few lifetimes – write if you feel like.

Love

John

PS Don’t spread it, I don’t want Mimi cracking up! (press I mean)

— John Lennon, letter to Alfred Lennon. (September 1st, 1967)

Where Paul is concerned, one can imagine John accompanying Paul to any number of Paul’s crowded and happy extended family gatherings and wishing, guilelessly, after that happiness and security for himself—

JOHN: I’m just turning out like all other parents, you see.

MATTHEW: [laughs] Obviously.

JOHN: But I must – I try and think about it, when [Julian]’s not there, I try to be rational. I’m trying to do it all right, but I’m sure it’ll all just turn out the same. And – I’m gonna try not to – you know. At least I’m thinking about it, now.

MATTHEW: But with that much experience behind you, now, would you like to have more children?

JOHN: Yeah, I – as many as come, you know. If Lennon roll out, as they. I like large families. The idea of it. 

— John Lennon, interview w/ Brian Matthew for Pop Profile. (November 13th, 1965)

—while also feeling resentful of and threatened by the importance of family and their emotional attachment to Paul. Consider the unpublished Record Mirror questionnaires everyone but John filled out circa early summer 1963, where John asserts himself in Paul’s answers (and past, and future):

McCartney’s response to the question regarding the biggest musical influence on his own career is initially completed in Lennon's hand in blue ink: John and why?: He's Great; McCartney scored out Lennon's confident answers replacing John's name with: Dad, adding: (he [Lennon] put that himself); as to a question about his future career if music was out, again McCartney crosses out Lennon's hand-written response: John and replaces it with: Tramp...

— Christie’s: Pop Memorabilia including the Collection of Alexis Mardas. (May 5th, 2004)

Not to mention John outright framing himself in competition with Paul’s father (and family) for Paul’s time, affection, and loyalty (the mitigating circumstances of which I’ve unpacked in the past):

[Paul] liked it with daddy and the brother… and obviously missed his mother. And his dad was the whole thing. Just simple things: he wouldn’t go against his dad and wear drainpipe trousers. And his dad was always trying to get me out of the group behind me back, I found out later. He’d say to George: “Why don’t you get rid of John, he’s just a lot of trouble. Cut your hair nice and wear baggy trousers,” like I was the bad influence because I was the eldest, so I had all the gear first usually.

So Paul was always like that. And I was always saying, “Face up to your dad, tell him to fuck off. He can’t hit you. You can kill him [laughs], he’s an old man.” I used to say, “Don’t take that shit off him.” Because I was always brought up by a woman, so maybe it was different. But I wouldn’t let the old man treat me like that. He treated Paul like a child all the time, cut his hair and telling him what to wear, at seventeen, eighteen.

But Paul would always give in to his dad. His dad told him to get a job, he fucking dropped the group and started working on the fucking lorries, saying, “I need a steady career.” We couldn’t believe it. So I said to him—my Aunt Mimi reminded me of this the other night—he rang up and said he’d got this job and couldn’t come to the group. So I told him on the phone, “Either come or you’re out.” So he had to make a decision between me and his dad then, and in the end he chose me. But it was a long trip.

— John Lennon, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld. (September, 1971)

John, in the same interview, immediately follows with a contemplation of the importance of family for Paul, and Linda with her “ready-made family” giving him what Jane Asher (or for that matter, John himself) couldn’t:

JOHN: So it was always the family thing, you see. If Jane [Asher] was to have a career, then that’s not going to be a cozy family, is it? All the other girls were just groupies mainly. And with Linda not only did he have a ready-made family, but she knows what he wants, obviously, and has given it to him. The complete family life. He’s in Scotland. He told me he doesn’t like English cities anymore. So that’s how it is.

MCCABE: So you think with Linda he’s found what he wanted?

JOHN: I guess so. I guess so. I just don’t understand... I never knew what he wanted in a woman because I never knew what I wanted. I knew I wanted something intelligent or something arty, whatever it was. But you don’t really know what you want until you find it. So anyway, I was very surprised with Linda. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d married Jane Asher, because it had been going on for a long time and they went through a whole ordinary love scene. But with Linda it was just like, boom! She was in and that was the end of it.

— John Lennon, interview w/ Peter McCabe and Robert Schonfeld. (September, 1971)

And because I can’t stress enough that the possessiveness and jealousy and resentment and longing flows both ways, here’s John bitterly lamenting both Julian’s attachment to Paul and Paul’s natural affinity with Julian/children in general (in stark contrast to his own perception of his faculty as a father):

SCHOENBERGER: How is it for an 11-year-old boy to have John Lennon as a father?

JOHN: It must be hell.

SCHOENBERGER: Does he talk about that to you?

JOHN: No, because he is a Beatle fan. I mean, what do you expect? I think he likes Paul better than me… I have the funny feeling he wishes Paul was his Dad. But unfortunately he got me…

— John Lennon, interview w/ Francis Schoenberger. (Spring, 1975)

Julian himself would lend a measure of credence to John’s paranoia:

JULIAN: [Paul] used to be a lot of fun, I remember. I mean… well, he was good with kids. [laughs] I’m not saying that Dad wasn’t, or is, or whatever. But uh, as far as I can recall, whenever Paul came round, we used to wrestle and fight and run around. Which was not something we did every day with Dad. We used to go for long walks in fields, and stuff like that. He’d tell me things, or point at things and say, “Look at that,” and “Look at this.” So in a strange way, Paul… almost, in some ways and sense, took over the role of Dad. Which is strange to say. But I do recall a lot of that going on, you know. Whenever he was there, it was always fun.

— Julian Lennon, interview w/ Elliot Mintz. (1988)

Which must have struck an especially discordant chord with John, as he seemed determined with Sean’s birth to keep Paul from taking any more of what wasn’t his to claim:  

He became so jealous in the end. You know he wouldn’t let me even touch his baby. He got really crazy with jealousy at times.

— Paul McCartney, “off the record” conversation with Hunter Davies. (May 3rd, 1981)

Having Sean and having a new go at being a good father didn’t exactly stop John from being niggled by Paul’s family (not to mention Paul’s continuing industriousness and creative productivity, recording music and going on tour all while taking good care of his family, and all else), however:

SHEFF: You say you haven’t really listened to Paul’s work and haven’t really talked to him since that night in your apartment—

JOHN: Really talked to him, no, that’s the operative word. I haven’t really talked to him in ten years. Because I haven’t spent time with him. I’ve been doing other things and so has he. You know, he’s got twenty-five kids and about twenty million records out—how can he spend time talking? He’s always working.

— John Lennon, interview w/ David Sheff for Playboy. (September, 1980)

To round up, a non-family-specific but nonetheless pertinent discussion with John and Yoko about love, jealousy, possessiveness, allowance, and self-fulfilling prophecy:

INTERVIEWER: Do you think people’s idea of love has changed, or young people’s idea of love has changed?

JOHN: I don’t. I think whatever love is – and it’s many many things – is constant. It’s been the same forever. I don’t think it will ever change.

INTERVIEWER: But do you think – I’ll say it this way. Do you think young people are now ignoring love, disregarding love, saying it doesn’t exist?

JOHN: How can you? It’s – it’s a sort of abstract concept that comes and goes whether you like it or not. Whatever legislation or whatever philosophies people have put out about it, it exists – without words, without philosophy, and without discussion.

YOKO: Yes, but I know why children, the young kids, are trying to ignore love. That’s very natural. Because they don’t get it and they’re bitter about it, so they’d rather not want it. You know that feeling about – well, you know that you’re not going to get it, and if you try to get it it’s so much pain, so you’d rather sort of pretend like you don’t want it. And you start to believe in that, like oh, “I’m glad that I’m not the type who falls in love, and I’m so glad about it because that way I don’t have to get hurt.” That’s sort of unreal.

JOHN: And they’re probably reacting against – they’d be reacting against the conception of “righteous” love that’s handed down from above over the centuries.

YOKO: Yeah.

JOHN: That’s what they don’t want. But real love they’ll get… whether they want it or not. It’ll happen.

...

INTERVIEWER: Do you think that a new attitude towards love and relationships – would it be fair to say we’re getting away from the property concept of relationships?

JOHN: Of owning the other person? I think – yeah, we could be. But uh… That’s all very well intellectually, but when you actually are in love with somebody, you tend to be jealous and want to own them, possess them a hundred per cent. Which I do.

YOKO: Yes, it’s real life, all that. And I do it too.

JOHN: But intellectually, before that, I thought – right. I mean, owning a person is rubbish, but. I love Yoko, I want to possess her completely; I don’t want to stifle her, you know? [Yoko laughs] And that’s the danger, it’s that you want to possess them to death. But… that’s a personal problem of mine.

YOKO: But we’re doing alright now – just very nice, you know. In other words, I think—

JOHN: It’s after the beginning, when it cools down a bit – not cools down, whatever, it st– uh, whatever the word is, you know – that you can allow each other to breathe.

YOKO: Yes. When you relax a bit, you know.

JOHN: But at first you tend to strangle each other, I think.

YOKO: And [inaudible] we’re starting to relax—

JOHN: And because you have so little as a child, I think it is, you – when once you find it, you want to hang onto it, you grab it so much you tend to kill it.

— John Lennon and Yoko Ono, interview for Women’s Hour. (May 28th, 1971)

Cue You made me love you / I didn’t want to do it... (Insert footage from Magical Mystery Tour of the Beatles singing the song here.)

And - it’s a bit of a self-serving interpretation of the case referenced, admittedly, but it is bizarrely appropriate, and the sentiment of each man killing the thing he loves stands:

Well, there was this Japanese monk, and it happened in the last 20 years. He was in love with this big golden temple, y’know, he really dug it, like—and you know he was so in love with it, he burnt it down so that it would never deteriorate.

That’s what I did with the Beatles.

— John Lennon, interview w/ Alan Smith for NME: At home with the Lennons. (August 7th, 1971)

(Insert John’s dramatically ironic and appropriate love for Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca during the househusband years, chewy parallels between Manderlay and the Kinkakuji and Paul/the Beatles, deranged and convoluted essay comparing John and Paul/the Beatles with Mizoguchi and the Kinkakuji as depicted in Mishima Yukio’s The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, something something Rinzai something something El Topo here.)

[lokisgame]

Enjoy The Silence - ch.2

Mulder woke up first. Slightly disoriented because of the unusualness of the bed, the white sheets, and a hand underneath his. Memories fell back into place like dust motes scattered while sweeping away sleep and he sank back onto pillows smiling. A glance to his left revealed Scully, still asleep, lips gently parted, her breathing even and deep, red hair spilled over the pillow and cheek, powder blue silk pj's, half hidden by the sheet. He never remembered her climbing underneath it, but it didn't matter really.

He read a poem once, but he didn't quite understand it’s meaning until today.

Let me put it this way...

Mulder never thought he'd feel that way about anyone, yet here he was watching her, not daring to move or make a sound and risk waking her, not yet. All he could do was watch the strand of hair across her cheek. It must bother her, but if he'd move really gently, he could make it go away, make her rest a little easier... There, done, she didn't even stir.

Dim light in the room grew brighter, it was going to be a fine day. Ideas started to form in his head, but first they needed coffee, and he needed the bathroom. It was time to get up.

Scully woke up to quiet music coming from downstairs and blue sky winking at her from behind the wind ruffled curtains. It felt good to sleep in. She couldn't remember when was the las time she did it. Waking up at home called to her instincts, she had to clean, she had to do groceries, pick up dry cleaning, a list of chores neglected over the week scrolled beneath her eyelids, no matter how beautiful a morning it might be.

Only today, she wasn't home. The sheets were clean, the clock showed almost 9am and there was music in the house.

It's was strange how natural it all felt. She wasn't alone, but she didn’t feel like a guest either. She didn't have to put her game face on, get dressed and be the most professional field agent that ever walked this earth. She could sigh and stretch, and run her hand over his side of the bed, feel it cool and not panic because she sensed Mulder everywhere, in the tiny sounds and echoes bouncing around the house. She felt like this when she stayed at her mother's sometimes. Calm, relaxed, safe. And famished.

So she made the bed, splashed her face with water, grabbed a light robe from her room, and went downstairs.

Scent of freshly brewed coffee and toast, the sight of bacon waiting by the stove, and Mulder still in pj's, carrying plates out to the deck, barefoot and disheveled, was most likely the best way to wake up on a Saturday morning. He saw her and smiled broadly, nodding at the table, pulling out a chair for her. There already was some fruit laid out, glasses and juice waiting in a jug. Taking a plate, Scully picked some grapes and nibbled on a piece of toast still surprised when Mulder came back with a cup of coffee for her, cream, no sugar. Heaven on earth. The bacon sizzled and she put her feet up, watching the ocean in the distance. Something in the air woke her appetite and made Mulder happy, he set aside his fear of crossing some invisible lines.

He was refilling her mug when the music, quiet as it was, suddenly started to skip and crack. Scully looked up from the toast, her eyes wide. Following Mulder, she sighed in awe seeing what was the problem. Vinyl. A large stack of records rested next to the turntable, and she fanned them out. Mostly classic swing and jazz, 50's and 60's, the music of his parents. This must have been what made Mulder's soul and taste, before he picked up rock and roll for himself. There was Elvis there, of course, but also the Beatles and Rolling Stones. She loved classical music, but these records weren't just for show here, the covers were worn out, torn, taped together in places, in other words, loved. She picked up one of Sinatra's records and he chuckled, putting it on before she changed her mind. He didn't play it from the start but picked one of the middle tracks and left her with a crooked smile before Frank teased her on his behalf, singing how she's too marvelous for words. It felt like a joke but she knew him enough to know it was his way of saying thank you. They finished breakfast, sitting shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the view, the music and the promise of warm day.

A very large beach towel over her shoulders wasn’t a very subtle way to catch her attention, but the message was clear and a slight nod and a smile told him she was down with this plan. Scully busied herself with a tiny picnic and Mulder found a spot on the couch where he could keep an eye out in case she needed help, or had trouble finding something. Not that he was staring or anything, but the book he tried to read, to make himself at least look like he was occupied couldn't hold a candle to the bright sunshine throwing together a couple of sandwiches and packing fruit and ice tea before she went upstairs to change. He didn't show her what else he found in his mother's closet, but kept it at hand playing a hunch.

It was amazing, how their silent pact made them aware of their surroundings and each other. He didn't think of much else which was the point, listening with his eyes and speaking through body language, expecting silent cues and side glances. The best part was realizing how much of this they already did, unconsciously. They didn't need to debate every piece of cold cuts going between slices of bread, this wasn’t work, it was life. He let go of control, giving himself into her hands. If she’d frowned at the towels, instead of beaming her wonderful smile, he'd suggest going to town, sightseeing or even staying in. He'd go down to the beach alone even, happy in the knowledge, that she'd be here or somewhere close when he got back. He always liked to have a clear center of his universe, a place he felt safe, a refuge from loneliness. His room and books when he was a kid, his favorite booth in the far corner of a bar near campus in Oxford, his leather couch, Scully's hands.

She came downstairs wearing white cotton sundress and tennis shoes, a book in one hand, sunglasses in the other, and before he gathered his thoughts she was already out the door. Mulder grabbed the towels and followed.

A gentle hand on her wrist stopped her and when she turned, curious and amused, a large straw hat landed on top of her head, shading her face and shoulders from the late morning sunshine. Light breeze played with the blue ribbon as she looked up, gently fixing the hat.

Mulder thought she looked like a dream wrapped in a million bucks and felt the day get four degrees warmer. It was like looking at the sun and she saved him from loosing his sight and mind by handing him the basket in exchange for the towels.

Linking her arm through his to pull him along, they fell into step side by side, and he led them down a gentle slope to a sandy beach that was hidden behind the house.

[miene-blaubeere]

After seven years we were finally leaving Hogwarts, a place that had basically been our home. Now that we were no longer students it was time to start organising our lives in the real world. However, there was plenty of time for that so now was are time to live a little more before adulthood took full effect. We had all decided to go to James' and meet up, we were most likely just going to end up frolicking around the local town. I apparated outside of James' house and knocked on the large door, after a short wait the door was opened to reveal the friendly face of Mrs Potter. Smiling kindly, she invited me into the house and told me that the other boys were up in James' room. As I made my way up I could already hear the loud voices of James and Sirius, I pushed the ajar door open further to see Sirius and James sat on the bed and Remus sat across from them in a comfortable, blue chair, all three of them roaring with laughter. I coughed, making my presence known, the three of them looked over smiling, "ah, how lovely of you to join us Miss L/N," Sirius grinned as I walked into the room making myself comfortable on the foot of the bed. I smiled and asked, " where's Wormtail then?" " Wormtail is currently MIA, none of us have heard a word from the guy since we got of the Hogwarts Express and promised to stay in touch." James said with a slightly bitter tone. Shrugging it off, we all just chatted catching up with the events of each of our lives, that is until a little more excitement was needed. Soon enough the four of us were heading for the front door, ready to cause a little marauder-like trouble. " No causing mayhem you four, you may have been able to get off lightly in Hogwarts but this is the real world, I do not want to hear that any of you have been arrested!" The voice of Mrs Potter could be heard from the kitchen, " don't worry mum, we'll be fine!" James shouted as the door closed.  We soon found ourselves in the local town, we were only just on the outskirts of the town so most of the area we were in was houses. The area was far too quiet for Sirius' liking so from his bag, which may or may not have had an extension charm on it, he pulled out his boom box. Down the street an influx of people could be seen making their way down a particular street, after closer inspection it was clear that this was a street party for the Silver Jubilee of Elizabeth II. " Oh I have the perfect song for this guys!" Sirius said with his signature grin. " Oh not this trash again," James whined, " Oh c'mon Jamesie, just because you're hung up on The Beatles doesn't mean you have to hate on this!" Sirius claimed as he set up the boom box as we got closer to the street party. " Excuse me Mr Sirius Black! Everyone will forever be 'hung up' on The Beatles as they are timeless and shall be loved forever!" James stated in a completely serious tone, myself and Remus chuckling at the antics that were going on in front of us. " Sure, sure, now listen to real music," as soon as Sirius stopped speaking out from the boom box the sound of God Save the Queen by the Sex Pistols began playing and the guys and I rounded the corner of the street party, all eyes instantly going to us. Sirius put the boom box on the ground for a moment during the introduction to pull up the collar on his leather jacket, picking it up again as the lyrics began to play, Sirius singing along of course. Running down the neatly laid out tables covered in lovely foods, we were receiving some very unsavoury looks from the older people at the party who clearly understood the lyrics and the message they were putting forward. As we neared the end of the street Sirius leapt into the air and pulled down some Union Jack bunting. " That wasn't very patriotic," I breathed out, catching my breath from the running as we stood together, a couple of streets over from the party. The three boys all started laughing as they also caught their breath. We soon made it into the centre of town, shops dotted all around, muggles everywhere. The buzz of life in the area was exciting, especially because it was an experience I was experiencing with my best friends. We dawdled around for a while before entering a corner shop to look around in. After a short while of being in there a familiar song began to play on the radio, after waiting for the perfect moment all hell was let loose in that shop. "I see a little silhouetto of a man," I spoke out, " Scaramouch, Scaramouch will you do the fandango?" the boys shouted out and yet still be somewhat reserved. We continued singing, remaining calm and not going too overboard. With every verse however, we seemed to increase in our performance. As soon as that instrumental hit we went insane. Running around, shouting lyrics - the shop assistant looked pretty scared to be honest. Soon enough the music slowed down and we all stood there swaying side to side. Through the tranquillity of the song the instantly recognisable sound of police sirens could be heard. We all looked at each other with concern written across our faces, Remus dragged us all into a corner of the shop where the assistant couldn't see us and in a flash we were gone, Remus had apparated us away. " We're just lucky that I saw that that place didn't have surveillance cameras otherwise we'd all be screwed." Remus said as we all stepped away from each other. I looked around at where we were and it seemed we'd ended up on the other side of the town centre. " Yeah but you can't deny that that was fun Moony, I know you were having a great time," James smirked, " I never said it wasn't fun," Remus smiled widely. Before anyone could say anything else Sirius had shouted " Bingo!" Confused, we all turned to see what he was looking at, it turned out Remus had quite conveniently apparated us to the outside of an off-licence. Sirius was looking up at the shop rubbing his hands together. " Sirius I am not becoming a day drinker," I told Sirius pointedly, " C'mon Y/N it's 7, that's hardly day drinking," I rolled my eyes with a small smile and without replying I pulled Sirius' jacket, dragging him into the off-licence. I didn't miss the smirk that spread across his annoying little face. We each gathered some beers, I had never drank muggle alcohol before considering we were all fairly new to being eighteen.  After we bought the drinks, flashing the shop assistant our IDs, we made our way back onto the streets having a couple of drinks. Sirius got ahead on the drinking so he got pretty out of it pretty quickly, we stumbled down a street and before us stood a massive pair of gates with a sign on one saying 'SCRAPYARD' in front of these gates sat a banged up old car. Quickly, Sirius ran over to the car throwing open the door and jumping into the drivers seat. Remus, James and I looked at each other with confusion before approaching the drivers side window, Sirius was sat there trying to get the car started. "Padfoot, what the hell are you doing?" James laughed opening the door. " I'm getting us outta here!" Sirius whispered loudly, we all began laughing loudly as Sirius was obviously missing the key reason he wouldn't be able to get this car moving. " Sirius, do you know what one of the main components of a car that allow it to roll along is?" Remus chuckled, Sirius seemed to contemplate Remus' words. " Haha, look at the cogs going round in that little head of his!" James erupted in laugher causing more laughter to spill out of Remus and I, there was a loud scratching noise from behind us and a beam of light followed by a deep voice shouting 'Oi! Who's out there!?' In a flash James had yanked Sirius out the car and was dragging him down the street as we ran, " Oh there aren't any wheels on the car!" Sirius shouted as he got a better look of the outside of the car. Shaking our heads, we laughed as we darted around a corner, James grabbed onto me and Remus put his hand on James' arm and we were quickly apparated away once again. We appeared in a clearing in a forest near the town, as Remus and I sat down with a slightly sobered up Sirius, James went off to collect some wood to start a fire. We sat around for about two hours just chatting, light drinking and just having a good time together. " Okay guys, lets knock this up a gear shall we, who's up for a game of truth or dare?" Sirius smirked as the rest of us cheered. The game had lasted a while, Remus had revealed that he had never kissed anyone and James dashed out in front of a car as his animagus having a classic deer in headlights moment. Sirius then turned to me and asked the title question of truth or dare, I decided to go relatively safe with truth. " Okay then Miss Y/N L/N, you've never really revealed a special someone to us before so tell us, who's Y/Ns crush?" All the Marauders we watching me with an intrigued look on their faces, " Well..." James. " If you must know... It's James," I muttered, keeping my head down. With my head still hanging down, I heard the unmistakable cheering of James Potter. Hastily, my head shot up and I saw James running in out of trees. Coming to a quick halt James sat down right beside me and said, " do you really mean that Y/N?" " Of course I do, do you remember in fifth year when I got hit by a bludger in our Quidditch match against Slytherin?" I asked, James nodded, " yeah, and I stayed with you in the hospital wing at any moment I had free," James told me smiling bashfully. " Well that's when I finally made the connection of all my feelings, you were definitely more than my best friend at that point." I informed him, getting shy towards the end my head falling back down. I felt my head being pulled back and my face was a mere inch away from James', I found myself getting lost in the beautiful eyes that were behind his glasses, I didn't even notice our faces getting closer until I felt our lips connect. As the kiss deepened Sirius decided to open his big mouth, " okay guys calm down, there are young innocent eyes watching!" Pulling away from each other, we looked over to Sirius wear he was covering Remus' eyes. We all started laughing and I spent the rest of the evening secure in James' arms. Sirius. " My crush just happens to be you Sirius," I smirked confidently over at the person who had asked the question. Sirius looked briefly shocked but as usual he recovered quickly and worn his classic smirk once again, " well who could blame you darlin'?" and he was completely right, no one could blame me. It was inevitable really, after all the times Sirius had sort fooled around, the odd kiss here and there, the flirting, all of it never coming to anything. " Sirius, after all the times we've gotten close and I mean close did you really expect me not to feel something for you?" I said getting slightly annoyed at the cocky look on his face. His face seemed to soften as he shuffled his way over to sit beside me. " You say that you couldn't help feeling something for me because of how close we are however I couldn't help falling for you from every look you ever gave me." Sirius whispered into my ear, I turned my head to look at him and all I could see was a genuine look of adoration on his face. Slowly we both began to move in for a kiss however there was something suddenly blocking our lips from connecting, that thing was my finger on his lips. " If you think you're getting there so easily now you are sorely mistaken," I told him moving away from him completely, the sound of James and Remus laughing in the background was heard as Sirius wore a very disgruntled face. Remus. " Um... my crush is actually Remus," I mumbled looking over at the boy himself, the werewolf had gone a bright shade of red, not saying anything. My nerves began to increase as time began to drag out as I was getting no reaction from Remus. The space was basically silent, no sound other than the warm crackle of the fire and the rustle of the leaves on the trees as they blew in the wind. All on their own, my legs seemed to get up and just run away. Off into the forest I ran, not looking back. I sat up against a tree and tears just began to flow down my face. My sniffles filled the space I was in until I heard a snap from beside me, instantly my head went up and looked over to where the sound had come from and saw the sandy haired boy I had just admitted my crush to. Without saying a word he came over and sat down beside me with his knees pulled up against his chest like mine were. Neither of us spoke for a moment until out of no where Remus' voice broke the silence, " do you remember when you ran into the common room crying because some of the other girls were being horrible in third year?" I nodded, still not looking at Remus, "the other guys were busy being stuck in detention so it was just you and me and we had a long conversation about everything that was going on and it spiralled into just talking about all the random rubbish we loved," I finally looked up and caught his eye, " from then on my feelings for you only grew- and... um," Remus began to mumble as he didn't know what to do from there, effectively shutting him up I pressed our lips together. Shocked at first, Remus froze but soon began to naturally melt into it, before anything more could happen the sound of Sirius and James cheering could be heard, "FINALLY!"

[adambstingus]

Cristiano Ronaldo film captures giant ego and strange, lonely world of being CR7

Ronaldos rivalry with Messi and extraordinary self-regard are to the fore in this vanity project but the suffering his success has brought his mother and the forwards sheer competitive drive also catch the eye

As a snapshot of what life must be like for Cristiano Ronaldo, there is one clip in the new film Ronaldo when his godson is being baptised and there is a small gathering around the font. The babys head has just been wet when the priest looks over to the tanned guy with the gelled hair and whips out a mobile phone. Any chance of a quick selfie? he wants to know.

Then there is the moment Portugals team are training at Estádio Moisés Lucarelli in São Paulo during the last World Cup and a sobbing girl breaks the cordon to run across the pitch in a desperate attempt to reach her hero. She is shaking, crying, close to hysteria and caught by one of the security guards. It is The Beatles at Shea Stadium all over again. Ronaldo hugs her and she looks as if she might pass out. He knows I exist, she wails, when a television reporter stops her a few moments later. What did he say? He asked me to stay calm and stop crying. And what did you say back? I asked him to follow me on Twitter.

It must be suffocating at times even if, for the most part, Ronaldo gives the impression that fame is his comfort blanket. The film is a remarkable vanity project and, even more than before, it is difficult not to come away with the feeling that Ronaldo must shout his own name during sex. He and his agent, Jorge Mendes, appear to have a relationship of mutual worship. Mendes, Ronaldo says, is the best, the Cristiano Ronaldo of agents and it is difficult to keep count of the number of times they get lost in each others eyes, reminding one another of their success and wealth and shiny brilliance.

Mendes sharp black suit, Rolex, phone almost permanently to his ear seems almost as hung up about Ronaldo winning the Ballon dOr as CR7 himself. It is a 24-7, twitching obsession, on both their parts, given far more relevance throughout the film than Real Madrids Décima or anything else, and it is a telling moment when Mendes and one of his associates can be heard muttering darkly from one of the Bernabéus executive boxes about the possibility the other guy might destroy everything.

That other guy is Lionel Messi, cast in a slightly villainous Ivan Drago-style role that he probably does not deserve. Its a card inside an envelope that can change so much, Ronaldo says of the Ballon dOr, describing what it is like being expected to fake a smile on behalf of his old adversary. To see Messi win four in a row was difficult for me. After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Watching this film, it becomes clear just how difficult it must be for Gareth Bale, signing for Madrid as the most expensive player in history, to deal with that planet-sized ego.

Other scenes are strategically laced with soft-focus Hello! magazine-style moments where Ronaldo can be seen playing with his son, Cristiano Jr, or dropping him off at school, but there is not always a great deal of charm elsewhere. Muhammad Ali and Brian Clough had great humour to go with all the braggadocio. Ronaldos style is not so attractive. Im not going to lie to you, he says, explaining why he went to the World Cup with an injury. If we had two or three Cristiano Ronaldos in the team I would feel more comfortable. But we dont.

A touch of humility every now and then would make Ronaldo much more appealing. Equally, he is as good as he is because of the way he is and a documentary of this nature, filmed over 14 months in his company, does show the enormous strains that come with the territory.

Sorry, your browser is unable to play this video.

Ronaldo: watch a trailer for the film.

At one point his mother, Dolores, is filmed inside a chemists handing in a prescription for sedatives because she can barely take the stress of watching him play. Ronaldo rings and asks if she has taken her tranquillisers yet, as if he is quite used to it. Its quite complicated to be the mother of a player who needs to win, Dolores explains. I suffer a lot. When he is playing in the World Cup she asks for her flip-flops and then walks up the hill rather than watch with the rest of the family.

It is this insight into the inner circle that reminds us it has not been straightforward for Ronaldo, and not just because of the fact he left his family in Madeira at the age of 12 to join Sporting Lisbon, with his first pimples on his forehead and braces on his teeth. Hugo, his older brother, now runs Museu CR7, the Ronaldo museum, in Funchal but, at 20, was spiralling into alcoholism. Hugo says it could have been him who played football. Instead, he worked in construction, and he says everyone drank in that game, particularly as he was used to seeing his father, Dinis, knocking it back every night.It isnt in the film but Dinis and Hugo resorted to selling Ronaldos Manchester United shirts so they could pay for more booze.

Dinis, we learn, was never the same after being called up to fight in the Portuguese colonial war in Angola. He came back very angry, Dolores explains. His head was filled with images of the war and though she says he always cared for his children she also says she became his victim. Dinis drank himself into an early grave, dying in 2005 when Ronaldo was 19. He was drunk nearly every day and when that happens it became hard to have a conversation, his younger son recalls. I didnt get to know my father for real.

As for Cristiano Jr, possibly the star of the film, Ronaldo explains that he always wanted my successor without going into any other details. His son is five, already doing sit-ups and still working on his pronunciation of Lamborghini, and Dolores takes care of him while Ronaldo is away. The mother? Its anyones guess. People speculate that it was with this girl or the other or a surrogate mother, Ronaldo says. Ive never told anybody and I never will. How a man in his position has managed to keep it secret is remarkable and, unorthodox as it might be, fair play to him.

Cristiano Ronaldo talks of his pain at seeing Lionel Messi win the Ballon dOr four times in a row: After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Photograph: Action Press/Rex

These parts are fascinating and, at times, Ronaldo comes across as so lonely it is a good job he enjoys his own company so much. In football I dont have a lot of friends. People I really trust? Not many. Most of the time Im alone. I consider myself an isolated person. It pains him that his father is not around to see his success but Mendes, he says, is like a father and a brother rolled into one. In Guillem Balagués new book about Ronaldo he writes how, to feed the competitive beast, the players entourage quickly came to realise they must keep criticism at a distance, or control it, create the narrative and keep him on his pedestal. Mendes is always there to fluff that ego and tell him he is better than Messi, and everybody else. It is far more than just the usual player-agent relationship.

Here, too, is the revelation that there was very nearly no Cristiano Ronaldo either. He was an unwanted child, Dolores explains. She considered an abortion and, on a neighbours advice, drank boiled black beer before running until she was on the verge of fainting, hoping to force a miscarriage. It didnt work and she seems pretty happy about that.

Thirty years on, the film released on Monday and put together by the people behind Senna does at least help us understand Ronaldo some more and the incredible drive that is needed to reach the top of his profession. It is not Ronaldos talent that stands out the most. It is his competitive courage, his absolute refusal to believe anyone can possibly outdo him and a level of self-obsession that makes one wonder how he will cope now he is approaching the age two years older than Messi when the powers gradually start to decline.

In recent years, he says, he and Messi have started talking to one another in a way they never did previously, asking about each others families and other polite small-talk. Ive started seeing him as a person, not a rival, he says. But we are always busting our balls to see who is better.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/cristiano-ronaldo-film-captures-giant-ego-and-strange-lonely-world-of-being-cr7/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/181635934402

[wristwatchjournal]

Recap – 5 Things I Discovered When Visiting Raketa in Russia (And How Different It Is From Switzerland)

Not so long ago, we talked to you about Raketa and a pretty cool watch the brand launched, a tribute to the famous Polar exploration watches done in the early 1970s. But that wasn’t all. With a flight ticket in my hand, and Back In The U.S.SR. from The Beatles in my ears (I know, total cliché), I flew to Saint Petersburg and I visited the Raketa movement manufacture. I’ve visited well over 40 watch manufactures in my career, mostly in Switzerland and Germany… But nothing that can compare to what I’ve seen in Russia. A truly unique experience, an eye-opener, fascinating, unusual, emotional, nostalgic, touching, sometimes slightly melancholic but always human. 

Raketa…

The Raketa Watch Factory, founded by Emperor Peter the Great in 1721, is Russia’s oldest factory still active today. Created first to cut semi-precious stones to adorn the Royal family’s palaces (and then known as the Imperial Lapidary Factory), it was, under the Soviet era, transformed into a watchmaking company. First by delivering jewel bearings for manufactures, then becoming a movements and watches factory.

As of 1949, watches were produced under the names Zvezda et Pobeda by the Petrodvorets Watch Factory in Saint Petersburg. The major turning point occurred in 1961 when the brand Raketa was launched. On 13 April 1961, Yuri Gagarin made the first manned flight in outer space onboard rocket Vostok 1. In honour of this achievement, the Petrodvorets Watch Factory named its watches “Rocket” Raketa in Russian. From the early 1960s until the late 1980s, Raketa would be one of the world’s leading watch manufactures. Raketa watches were produced for the Red Army, the Soviet Navy, and for North Pole expeditions, as well as for civilians. In the 1970s the factory produced about five million mechanical watches per year.

The historical Petrodvorets Watch Factory, not used anymore. The Raketa watches are currently produced a few metres away.

The dissolution of the USSR and uncontrolled privatizations were dramatic for Russia’s production facilities, including the local watchmaking industry, which was almost decimated. Still, for the last few years now, a team of passionate people, led by British, French and Swiss entrepreneurs have decided to restore Raketa to its former glory – maybe not in terms of numbers, but in terms of watchmaking, with true “Made in Russia” watches, including entire movements made in-house.

And here are 5 unusual facts I’ve discovered when visiting Raketa in Saint Petersburg, Russia.

1 – There’s a Choral… Yes, A Choral!

We start with something that has nothing to do with watchmaking, but that says a lot on what to expect when visiting Raketa. Some European watch brand might have their own soccer/football teams or a works council that organises trips for employees’ children… Raketa has something else, something a bit outdated, properly unusual, very nostalgic and touching at the same time: a choral.

While we were visiting the ateliers, David Henderson-Stewart, the man at the head of Raketa now, took his phone out of his pocket and gave a call to one of the women you see in the video above, a sort of matriarch who represents the retired employees of the manufacture. And in less than an hour, she managed to gather over 10 of her sisters in arms, all dressed up in traditional costumes and ready to perform the in-house choral. Clearly, this isn’t something you’ll see in Switzerland…

2 – Almost all the movement parts are done in-house

The concept of in-house or manufacture movement has been a great argument for Swiss and German brands for the past two decades. A sort of must-have for any brand that wants to demonstrate its savoir-faire and gain respect on a horological level. However… this in-house notion is vague and isn’t clearly defined by fixed rules and requirements. In fact, almost no brand can claim to make a movement 100% internally. Some parts are almost always out-sourced (for obvious reasons). However, Raketa isn’t located in the Swiss mountains and doesn’t have access to the same network as Swiss brands… That means finding solutions.

One important factor with Raketa is that the movements are almost entirely produced internally, to the exception of certain parts (such as jewels or ball bearings for instance). Plates, bridges, screws, wheels, springs, oscillating weights, balances or even escape wheels are produced in this manufacture, in the most traditional way. From raw material to finished product, everything is performed internally, even the plating or galvanisation of the parts that are done in a small atelier near the manufacture, by a lady with Ray-Ban glasses and a cigarette in her mouth – really… this is something special.

3 – And that includes the hairspring!

One of the most crucial parts of a watch movement is the hairspring, the small circular spring that allows the balance to move back and forth – in short, the beating heart of a watch. There are probably a handful of Swiss watch brands that craft hairspring in-house, and another handful of external suppliers that deliver the rest of the industry. Seeing them made in-house is quite exceptional since the production process is complex, time-consuming and requires multiple steps – drawing, rolling, cutting, coiling, pairing, pinning/soldering, poising and shaping the terminal curve (a process we explained in details here). That’s what it takes to transform a 1mm wire into a 60-micron concentric spring that will guarantee the precision of the watch.

As said, seeing this being performed in Swiss or German manufactures is already quite an event. But like the rest of the parts of the movement, Raketa makes its own hairspring internally, the old-school way – no CNC, no laser-controlled tools, no ultra-advanced technology here. It is done with the means at their disposal (post-WWII machines), with a certain cleverness and the experience of a century-old manufacture. If not cutting-edge, it is still remarkable.

4 – It’s a trip back in time

Forget about the clinical manufacture of IWC. Forget about the massive plants of Rolex or Patek Philippe. Forget about the rooms full with dozens of CNC machines, as you’ll find in Chevenez, TAG Heuer’s movement manufacture. Forget about the ultra-advanced Master Chronometer laboratory developed by Omega. Forget about the beautiful yet modern ateliers of Armin Strom. Or the high-end skills performed at Breguet. Raketa reminds you what watchmaking was back in the 1940s or 1950s when women and men – and not computers – were crafting parts of a movement.

So certainly, visiting Raketa won’t be a refined, luxurious experience. However, it has something else, a soul, an outdated charm, a feeling of simplicity combined to cleverness. Machines are old, full of oil and noisy. But they work, they are maintained so the parts can be produced and the movements assembled.

Visiting a manufacture in Switzerland or in Germany is something I’d recommend to anyone interested in watches. It’s a must in a collector’s life. And in the same vein, if you visit Russia one day, I can only recommend going to Saint Petersburg and visit Raketa. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and something you won’t forget.

5 – It’s more human than anything else I’ve seen before

Last but not least… This is certainly the most human experience I had when visiting a watch manufacture. The living memory of the brand is here, in the head and heart of the people that have worked there for decades and still today make this possible. No caption here, just some devoted employees who live for Russian watchmaking.

More details at raketa.com.

The post Recap – 5 Things I Discovered When Visiting Raketa in Russia (And How Different It Is From Switzerland) appeared first on Wristwatch Journal.

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[genskigen]

CHAPTER I

Alexis patiently waits for her to get off the bus en route to Carlsbad in San Diego, California. The travel won’t take long if you drive but with more than an hour ride, she has decided to put The Beatles in the background. This should be enough to keep her entertained until she gets to her destination. Albeit she knows she can’t keep listening to Let it Be as it’s just going to make her feel more home-sick from her friends and family whom she chose to leave in exchange of staying in Cali.

It was not an easy decision to make and Alexis has flown all the way from Canada to the US to stay with her extended family but she has not made up her mind yet whether to go back to university or get a full-time work. All she knows is she wants to spend a part of her life somewhere else which could potentially lead her to new adventures.

Minutes pass and she has now reached Carlsbad – time check, 11:43 PM. She was jittery throughout the journey that’s why she thought it’d be best to stay right behind the driver who is now demanding every passenger to move out as quickly as they can – because obviously, they’re only minutes away from starting the next day.

It would have been better if she travelled earlier, she deliberates, so it’d be a lot safer to walk around the area despite being unfamiliar with the place.

She gets off the bus as she curiously roams her eyes around, vigilantly checking any suspicious-looking creature that may be present, ready to attack. She pulls down her wrap-around skirt, brushes off strands of her long, black hair now covering her face, cleans her plain white tee from any visible dust, and begins to walk, still carefully assessing her surroundings with her pepper spray in hand. But the streets are busy with people still awake and aimlessly talking in groups. Her gut tells her though they aren’t the ones she would like to trust. “Should be alright.” She utters, convincing herself to be calm.

Alexis continues to walk at a slow pace wary of any danger that is most likely only in her head. She tries to squint her sharp brown eyes and see if she can spot any familiar face or place that looks safe for her to stay. She can feel her right hand starting to grip her luggage tightly as she tries to shove creepy thoughts away. But her heart jumps for a second when she hears her phone beep followed by a loud honk of a bus about to pullover. She feels hesitant to open her phone but she knows she has to check it because it’ll take her longer to get to her aunt’s place if she does not restrain herself from judging every human being she sees.

She rummages through her nude shoulder bag to get a hold of her phone. She taps it open and sees a message from her aunt pop up – politely letting her know that they won’t be able to pick her up because they are just about to go home from another errand that took hours to accomplish.

She suddenly feels her nape get cold and uncontrollably, Alexis lets out a heavy breath. She looks at the message again and does not want to believe that she will be travelling all by herself at an ungodly hour in a place she doesn’t even know. “Alright, no choice then.” She bravely takes a step forward unsure of where to go.

She stops for a second to tie her hair and it is without a doubt that Alexis still looks annoyingly pretty despite having sweat all over her brown-skinned face. She must have thought about the struggle she’d face on her first day and she chose to wear only a touch of pink blush on and curl her naturally long lashes.

Notwithstanding the crowd, she nudges herself through the groups of people and stands in one corner where she could gather her thoughts and clear up her mind. She is looking down, scrolling her phone to see if there is anyone from her contacts she can find and ask help from;unfortunately, there is none. “Excuse me, my lady.” Alexis hears a voice from behind.

She tries to hide the panic and looks to see who called. “H, hi.” She reluctantly greets the two men standing behind her with uncanny smiles.

“What are you doing here so late?” One man asks while puffing a thin stick of cigar that is already touching his beard which he probably doesn’t have the time yet to shave.

“Just waiting for someone to pick me up. He should be here any minute now.” She fakes. She knows she has to tell them something for them to move away.

“Oh, okay. We have a few time to spare and wait for that person – whoever is going to pick you up.” The other guy speaks. This time this man looks a little clean with only a black hat on, but his dark eyes and pale, wrinkled face say something else.

Her blood is now starting to rush and she begins to feel her cold sweat drip but she can’t let them see it. The two men look so dubious and this is not judging them based on their outfits alone. They have drinks and cigars in their hands as they talk to her, trying to make a lasting impression by being a little aggressive. She bets this surely is going to last.

“Uh, I’m fine. You can leave me alone.” She insists.

“You know, it’s not safe to stay here at this time by yourself. You need some company to protect you from danger, you know?” The first guy boasts with his breath smelling like he has drunk tons of beer.

Alexis shivers upon hearing what she has been told. She can sense an impending danger and thinks that if she stays from where she is, she might not be able to go home and see her aunt. She makes an effort to come up with a plan with her heart thumping every second and quickly scans the area. Suddenly, she sees a guy across the street and decides to take a chance.

“Oh! There he is! Nice meeting you guys! I shall see you around.” She victoriously waves to the two men as she dashes off to the other side of the street forcing her right arm to pull her luggage.

“Hi there, sir.” Alexis tells the guy, who is busy messaging someone else, as she reaches the other side.

The guy looks up and is confused seeing Alexis in front of him and recalls if she is someone he knows. There is silence for a few seconds and Alexis knows she should break it up. She is unable to utter words right away when she sees the gentleman’s eyes staring blankly at her, checking her.

“Hi. I’m sorry. You don’t know me. It’s just that I need a little favor.” She hears no answer. “If you could pretend that you are someone I know because those two guys there. They just approached me and they really look so scary.” She shares pointing her eyes to the direction of the men she was speaking with minutes ago.

“Uhm, I understand if you won’t believe me, but please, I need your help.” She adds and once again, she hears nothing from him.

“Oh, okay.” He starts to say. “Sh, sure. I am just quite surprised that you approached me and thought you are someone I know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that. I just do not know how to escape them and I was scared they’d harm me or something.”

“Do you really want my help? Are you sure? Because what if I am another one of them?” The guy kids as he puts his phone in his right pocket.

Alexis doesn’t seem to believe because he doesn’t look like one. He looks decent with his pair of jeans and light gray shirt. His dark brown, messy, curly hair is even a plus. But, of course, she can’t tell him that he looks effortlessly gorgeous.

“Okay. What do we have to do then?” He begins to ask when she is unable to say anything back in an instant.

She bites her lip in embarrassment and quickly picks herself up, “If we could continue talking so they’d think that you really came here to pick me up? That’s what I told them so they’d leave me alone. But, it didn’t work unfortunately. That’s why I crossed the street. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing.”

“No, no. That should be alright. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He says and starts to speak again after a short pause. “I have an idea, but I hope you don’t mind.”

“Yes? Anything. Anything that will keep me away from them.”

“Is it okay if I wrap my arm around your shoulder so they’d think that you and I are together and we’d walk towards that station, over there?” He points to the bus station.

“Oh, okay.” She answers with hesitation looking at the direction of his hands.

He slowly lifts his right arm and awkwardly puts it on her shoulder. Alexis feels a slight shiver kick in as soon as he lays his arm on her. She closes her eyes and clears her throat hardly.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

 “Yes, yes.” She utters in confusion.

He guides her to where the bus station is whilst checking if the two men could still be around. They start to walk and pretend to have a conversation like they have known each other for ages. The two men begin to disappear.

Alexis feels a sigh of relief when she sees the two dubious guys walk away and gently removes the arm of the guy who helped her out.

“Thank you. I can’t thank you enough.” She sheepishly says.

“No problem. It’s great to actually be able to do something good today and for a stranger.”

“Alexis. My name is Alexis. So you won’t have to call me a stranger any longer.”

“Lance.” He extends a hand. “So, what are you doing here late night?” He asks with a slightly crumpled forehead covered by his curly hair.

“Uhm, I am not from here actually. I came all the way from Canada and my flight’s a little delayed so I got here late. My aunt’s supposed to pick me up, but she said that she had errands to do and can’t come here anymore.”

“I see. It’s dangerous. See what happened earlier? This place is pretty safe but sometimes those blokes do silly things especially when they’re all drunk.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t really prepared for that. They just made my first day here memorable.” She responds and continues after a few seconds, “I better get going. Thank you again for the help.”

“Uhm, I can give you a ride. I can get my car. You know it’s not safe around here.” He offers, gesturing to his car right behind him.

“Hmmm, didn’t you just say that the place is pretty safe?” Alexis says with a grin on her face.

“You got me there. Just making sure that you get to your aunt’s place with two hands and legs.”

“Oh, god. Don’t do that. Please tell me you’re kidding.” She pleads with genuine fear in her voice.

“Sorry. Yeah, I’m just kidding. You sure you know where to go?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She tries to confidently respond but he can sense her uncertainty.

“Where exactly are you going?” He asks which seems like he is challenging her if she can go home on her own. He feels this is needed after she declined his offer to drive her home.

“My aunt sent me the address and told me I can take an Uber here.” She shares while typing something on her phone. “Does this seem right?” She shows him her phone with the address she’s been given before booking an Uber.

“I know that place. It isn’t that far from here. You should be there in less than 30 minutes.” He confirms to make her feel at ease.

“Thanks.” And she hits the book button. “There you go. I found myself a driver.” She shares and she awkwardly waits for him to say something. He was supposed to say something but stopped himself as soon as she hit the book button. She begins when he’s unable to say any.

“How do I thank you?”

“Nah, shouldn’t be a big deal.”

“No. You literally just saved my life. Who knows what could have happened to me if you weren’t even here. I should do something to make it up to you. I feel obligated now.”

“Okay. If you insist. Just give me your number and I’ll think about how you can thank me later.” Then he gets his phone back out all set to type her digits.

“Uhm,” She says, hesitating.

“It’s okay. I already thought it may be a little aggressive to ask for your number when we just met.”

“No, no. It should be alright. Besides, I was the one who I asked how I could thank you, right? I must give it to you now because my Uber driver is just a minute away.”

“Oh, okay. I’m all set.” He says with a smile and thanks her after hitting the save button of his phone.

“He’s here. I guess that’s it for now? Thank you again for the help tonight and I hope to make it up.”

“You will.”

“Uhm, not sure if I’d be happy to hear that as it seems like a threat. But thank you, anyway!”

“Take care!”

She hops into the car and comfortably places her luggage knowing that she is all safe now through the help of a stranger and also, in half an hour, she should be seeing her aunt and the rest of her family waiting for her to arrive.

to be continued...

[houseofardent]

I am now in the authentic religious area of india, Rishikesh. The city which recognises and proudly honours the beatles and flows with authentic spices and tradition. Rishikesh is not only one of the most traditional and holy places of India it is also the home city of Yoga.

Surrounded by the Ganges mountains and clay mud beaches it is definitely an authentic experience. Cows roam freely around the streets and stop the traffic to a stand still on the already overpacked streets. The area is bursting with colour from traditional dress and anyone with white skin is stopped by locals wanting pictures of our clear skin, the locals are better paparazzi than those from my usual world of media, they just snap away without permission, it is actually hard to walk to a destination without feeling overwhelmed by cameras pointed at you, this is the same for male and females.

My initial experience of India was Delhi for three days which blew my mind in many ways, the amount of people, tuk tuks, cows and the sight of mountains of litter piled everywhere. I can safely say Delhi is one of the  worst Cities I have visited, and I have travelled to many countries. Is it safe for a single women?  definitely not in my opinion, there is around 100 men to every women it is very intimidating and hard work to get around. I was fortunate only to suffer three nights in Delhi which was made easier by two German female backpackers taking me under their wing until I left.

My next stop is Rishikesh where I am right now, as mentioned before it is the home of Yoga and the main reason I came here. You see I wanted a change, a challenge, a rest of my mind and to add complimentary therapies to my counselling and media work, I signed up not really knowing what I had let myself in for..

Day 1

My home for 28 days is called AlakhYog and set in the countryside of Rishikesh away from the beeping of horns and freely roaming cows which are everywhere. My initial arrival was one of shock as I was expecting a luxury retreat with swimming pool, air conditioning, cleaners and all the added extras I thought I would get for the $1200 that I paid, unfortunately I was in for a shock…The entrance has barbed wire on top the walls accompanied solid iron black gates as the entrance, I seriously thought I had been dropped off in the wrong place.

I entered the accommodation, which actually looked Ok except for the wooden roof which had gaps letting in bugs from all angles (I am terrified of bugs). I am taken to the office and handed bed sheets, given some books and shown my room like enrolling in a prison wing. The bedroom is fine and I have been paired up with a young South African Girl named Jade who is very welcoming. I am informed the chef is preparing me some food, I never had the heart to tell them I had managed a large portion of chicken curry at New Delhi airport knowing it was going to be my last meat meal for a month.

After dinner I am to take my first class, mediation. The group of 20 women gather in the temple dome to await the master yogi. The class was something I had not expected, I seriously still think the Yogi was stoned… the only words I heard were Yoga-(long pause) is not a sport… literally he was just looking at us smiling and laughing, I thought I have signed up  to the funny farm. The evening food was delicious, authentic vegetarian yogic food-this surprised me as one think I was dreading was giving up my normal food for the month. Bedtime came around and entering my room put me into shock as there is bugs everywhere and I mean creepy beetle looking things-I ran out thinking no way am I sleeping in there fortunately I have bug spray and attack them like world war three.  I had a great nights sleep and woke to my alarm at 5.30 am.

Day 2

Early morning nasal cleaning (see pictures) and sun worshipping along with making bird noises, yes I thought I was being held in a cult, a funny farm cult. I manged poring of water through my nostrils, however I was not prepared to make noises to sound like a bird.. It just all seemed so sureal. The day consists of meditation (I feel asleep in class), Pranyama, Mantra, Chanting, three Astana yoga sessions and meditation. (see time-table attached), trust me the day is exhausting even for me as a regular women of exercise. The day went so fast and bedtime quickly came around and I needed my bed. Starting a day with no morning coffee is bloody hard work. I also realised I had been bitten to death during the day and even taking three cold showers in the 40 degree humid heat did not ease the itchiness. In fact it made it worse , I decided to spray the room and start world war four on the bugs which led to a bit of a fall out with my room-mate. You see she is a spiritual person and believes it’s a bugs right to sleep in my room and most likely my bed..I dont.

Day 3

I wake up to go outside my room to find my roommate sleeping in the corridor after the previous nights fallout over bugs and spray, her choice not mine. Not only this a storm had passed through the night creating a wind-swept forest in the building, I was the only one who had slept through it which was a relief, obviously we all had to clean it up before classes begun, you see we had been told that all cleaning was our responsibility and this included the communal areas…yes I am in prison. It suddenly dawned on me the storm had blown all my cloths off the washing line after I had washed them all by hand, we don’t have the luxury of washing machines. So no morning coffee, no cigarettes, no breakfast, ruined cloths and I still have to attend the group to make bird noises made a bad start to my day.  I manged to stay awake during meditation this time even though my muscles are aching after such intense classes and believe me when I say its harsh.

The end of the day my roommate started moving into another room with some younger girls, trust me I never told her too she had chosen to leave because of the insect repellent, to be honest who was I to argue about getting my own room.

Day 5

I am having a nervous breakdown, detox is hurting me and I desperately need a coffee and a cigarette. My body is sore and they have chucked in a class called Karma Yoga which is based on us picking crap up from the grounds which quite frankly I feel is their responsibility. I am loosing my rag, I’m tired, pissed off and feeling out of my depth. The group is starting to separate into groups which is great as 20 women stuck in a prison together is like a jail sentence. fortunately there is another 40 something British female called Sue who I have made friends with, I now feel I can relate to someone.

The same timetable today as usual and to be honest I am wondering if I can stick this out, I really feel overwhelmed being locked up and unable to escape. I think the people having bets on how long I will last could be the winners. I refuse to do meditation tonight as last time I did I was bitten by horny mosquitos wanting to ravish on my body. To top it all after a hard days timetable and being told to complete my Karma Yoga of cleaning yoga mats I am nearly ready to quit, right now is not good for me or anyone, fortunately for me and everyone else I am saved by a wild monkey coming through the grounds which took the attention form mat cleaning. I needed to sleep and soon.

Day 6

Same timetable as usual and if I am tired then the beginners in the class must be wrecked, literally everyone is so exhausted. The girls asked my opinion on what to do and suddenly I find myself the spokeswomen of the group and take on the responsibility of talking to the managers of the retreat. I tell them the girls are exhausted and after six days continuous working out incuding theory consisting of human anatomy, nutrition, mantra, chanting, prayers and karma yoga the girls needed a day off. I explained the science of too much exercise on the body, I ask them to take on board the situation before anyone becomes injured, to my surprised they took it on board.

The morning consisted as usual of the asana yoga, anatomy, mantra etc, only half the class fell asleep to exhausted to push themselves, I felt sorry for them and sorry for myself as I am hurting bad. Lunchtime came and everyone is drained emotionaly and physically when a group chat is held with  the teacher who informs us we can have a day off mid next week… I thought they were crazy. One girl had already quit after three days in camp and if they were not careful they were about to lose more. Afternoon classes started as normal when to our surprise the main Yogi comes in to inform us the day was to end after this class and we were to have the afternoon and the next day as our time off! I could see such relief in people’s eyes, some even shed a tear. The weight of more intense training had been lifted off them. Have no doubt how hard it is physically and mostly mentally to go through this kind of detox and training, its overwhelming, exhausting and challenging.

The afternoon I slept for three hours before getting up and feeling alive, I dyed my roots (a must) gave myself a facial and for the first time in three weeks felt normal. I had been trekking in Japan for 10 days before India and had not blow dried my hair in all the time I have been away. I am also not used to living this lifestyle, no washing machine, no television, no radio, hardly any wi-fi and having to live with so many people in a cult like centre. It is overwhelming and exhausting. This afternoon was a blessing.

Day 7

I feel like a new women, still no lie in as my body is now set to waking up at 5.30 am but who gives a shit as today is mine and everones day off, our day out the prison and out into the heart of Rishikesh to see local people, local food, tradition, colour, internet and freedom. The whole group is so happy and excited it’s as if we are all young children going on a school trip. Once thing I can say is we deserve it as we have another 3 weeks to go yet.

Have I settled into the place, absolutely and I have even accepted Karma Yoga and singing like a bird! I finally realise I can just be myself and feel like a kid at certain times and be exhausted at others. Could get used to this life? No way but I can tell you now I will see it through to the end and appreciate every luxury I have in my life with a bit more respect.

To my wonderful friends who have placed bets on me you will not win I can assure you so get ready to pay up on my return.

My follow up will be in a weeks rime…if i survive.

xx

Love from India

The Yoga prison! I am now in the authentic religious area of india, Rishikesh. The city which recognises and proudly honours the beatles and flows with authentic spices and tradition.