#Harrison contributions

[harrisonarchive]

The Beatles at Suffolk Downs Racetrack in Boston, MA on August 18, 1966; photo by Harry Benson.

“You know, I think The Beatles were fantastic. John and Paul were fantastic. You see, the funny position I was in was that, in many ways, this whole focus of attention was on The Beatles, so in that respect I was part of it, but from being in them, an attitude came over which was John and Paul, of, ‘Okay, we’re the grooves, and you two just watch it.’ Not that — they never said that or did anything, but over a period of time….[…] [I]n a way I always felt a bit like an observer of The Beatles, even though I was with them, whereas I think John and Paul were the stars of The Beatles. I mean, on a very personal intimate level, you know – don’t forget I spent ten years in the back of a limousine with them.” - George Harrison, Rock Around The World interview, 1974 “We [George and Ringo] were the economy class Beatles. Some people thought so, anyway.” -George Harrison, Wogan, February 1988 Q: “In an interview before his death, John said he was really hurt by you, that you never mentioned in your biography any of the influence that he had on you.” George Harrison: “He was annoyed ‘cause I didn’t say that he’d written one line of this song ‘Taxman’. But I also didn’t say how I wrote two lines of ‘Come Together’ or three lines of ‘Eleanor Rigby’, you know. I wasn’t getting into any of that. I think, in the balance, I would have had more things to be niggled with him about than he would have had with me.” Q: “He said that you idolized him as a young boy.” GH: “That’s what he thought. I liked him very much. He was a groove. He was a good lad. But, at the same time, he misread me. He didn’t realize who I was, and this was one of the main faults of John and Paul. They were so busy being John and Paul, they failed to realize who else was around at the time.” - West 57th Street, 1987 (x)

#George Harrison #The Beatles #quote #quotes by George #Ringo Starr #John Lennon #Paul McCartney #George and fame #Harrison contributions

[harrisonstories]

As the Lennon-McCartney copyright was more or less sacrosanct, Harrison’s contributions to their songs were never credited. “I had my one or two songs occasionally, but really I was more involved than that,” he says. “I know now, writing with friends, that when you’re all sitting around and a song comes out, you have to think carefully about assigning how many percent each person gets. ’Cause there’s nothing worse than being involved in a situation where you think, ‘Wasn’t I there?’ “A lot of Lennon-McCartney songs had other people involved, whether it’s lyrics or structures or circumstance. A good example is ‘I Feel Fine.’ I’ll tell you exactly how that came about: We were crossing Scotland in the back of an Austin Princess, singing ‘Matchbox’ in three-part harmony. And it turned into ‘I Feel Fine.’ The guitar part was from Bobby Parker’s ‘Watch Your Step,’ just a bastardized version. I was there for the whole of its creation — but it’s still a Lennon-McCartney.” “Tell me about it!” Paul McCartney smiles when told of George’s comment. “I wrote ‘Yesterday’ single-handed and not only do I share it — now with Yoko — but the Lennon name comes before mine.” Paul concedes the point about “I Feel Fine” but suggests that “if you were to get picky about all that stuff there’s a million woes and a million reasons to sing the blues. In actual fact we just decided to split it down the middle. Me and John were the writers, unless George came up with something. Anybody who threw half a line in, it just really didn’t count.”

-- Marc Rowland, "The Quiet Wilbury", Musician (1990)

#john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #the beatles #i feel fine #marc rowland #musician magazine #1990 #i wish george had been asked more about what exactly he contributed #it would be interesting to know #paul and george #george and john

[m1ssunderstanding]

Ok, a big one here

So what’s with all these rumors that Ringo/some other Beatle couldn’t play and "actually" had their part played by (not overdubbed by; there’s a difference) someone else like a session musician?

But in Get Back and concerts, we see them play

What gives?

oh hey!

So it is actually true that a session drummer played on the Beatles first album, but that was an accident really. George Martin didn't like Pete Best's drumming on the recordings Brian showed him, so he planned ahead and got them a session drummer booked. Then when the Beatles showed up with Ringo, and there was already a session musician there, and George Martin didn't know yet that Ringo was an excellent drummer and he did know this session drummer, and they were on limited time, he just stuck with him, and Ringo played the tamborine. Poor guy, must've been absolutely humiliating. But after that, he drummed on all their records moving forward except a few after he'd left the White Album sessions and Paul filled in.

There are also a few guitar solos Paul did instead of George and one where George actually asked Eric Clapton to play for him.

On one song, Paul walked out of the session and George played bass for him, and on one or two others John played bass because Paul was on piano.

John isn't on Here Comes the Sun at all because he was on strike or something laying in a bed in the studio.

#thanks for the ask! #they're all silly heads but they are all excellent musicians and artists who contributed extensively to the catalogue #ringo starr #george harrison #paul mccartney #john lennon #the beatles #george martin #pete best

[iamsigningmylifeaway]

#making my contributions to the art form #the beatles #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #ringo starr #beatles memes #barbie

[rodeoromeo]

#george harrison #op #I will create this holiday if it kills me #please feel free to contribute

[friendofgeorgeharrison]

i want to put paul into yesterday movie universe. see him trying to prove he wrote that music. "but linda where did the money come from" "you married me for my money paul". make him watch george being the most successful musician. put him in an endless loop with john trying to convince him they wrote the songs

#thank you. this is my contribution for put him into situations post #also torment paul #paul mccartney #john lennon #george harrison #the beatles #*mine

[tracedinairlwa]

I come actively seeking to make the world a worse place via my contribution to the wider lancer community:

Horus publishes real people fic of their enemies / people they just want to fuck with to the omninet.

imagining a beautiful universe where John Harrison III logs onto omnitwitter to find he's trending because of a shockingly well crafted fic where he bottoms for the Prime Baron. No one can tell me Horus would not absolutely do this

#lancer #lancer ttrpg #lancer rpg #I feel like putting this into the tag is like poisoning a well #but also I NEED people to rotate this in their brains like it is in mine

[scotianostra]

On February 16th 1954 the writer Iain Banks was born in Dunfermline, Fife

Banks was a son of a professional ice skater and an Admiralty officer. He spent his early years in North Queensferry and later moved to Gourock because of his father’s work requirement. He received his early education from Gourock and Greenock High Schools and at the young age of eleven, he decided to pursue a career in writing. He penned his first novel, titled The Hungarian Lift-Jet, in his adolescence. He was then enrolled at the University of Stirling where he studied English, philosophy and psychology. During his freshman year, he wrote his second novel, TTR.

Subsequent to attaining his bachelor degree, Banks worked a succession of jobs that allowed him some free time to write. The assortment of employments supported him financially throughout his twenties. He even managed to travel through Europe, North America and Scandinavia during which he was employed as an analyzer for IBM, a technician and a costing clerk in a London law firm. At the age of thirty he finally had his big break as he published his debut novel, The Wasp Factory, in 1984, henceforth he embraced full-time writing. It is considered to be one of the most inspiring teenage novels. The instant success of the book restored his confidence as a writer and that’s when he took up science fiction writing.

In 1987, he published his first sci-fi novel, Consider Phlebas which is a space opera. The title is inspired by one of the lines in T.S Eliot’s classic poem, The Waste Land. The novel is set in a fictional interstellar anarchist-socialist utopian society, named the Culture. The focus of the book is the ongoing war between Culture and Idiran Empire which the author manifests through the microcosm conflicts. The protagonist, Bora Horza Gobuchul, unlike other stereotypical heroes is portrayed as a morally ambiguous individual, who appeals to the readers. Additionally, the grand scenery and use of variety of literary devices add up to the extremely well reception of the book. Its sequel, The Player of Games, came out the very next year which paved way for other seven volumes in The Culture series.

Besides the Culture series, Banks wrote several stand-alone novels. Some of them were adapted for television, radio and theatre. BBC television adapted his novel, The Crow Road (1992), and BBC Radio 4 broadcasted Espedair Street. The literary influences on his works include Isaac Asimov, Dan Simmons, Arthur C. Clarke, and M. John Harrison. He was featured in a television documentary, The Strange Worlds of Iain Banks South Bank Show, which discussed his literary writings. In 2003, he published a non-fiction book, Raw Spirit, which is a travelogue of Scotland. Banks last novel, titled The Quarry, appeared posthumously. He also penned a collection of poetry but could not publish it in his lifetime. It is expected to be released in 2015. He was awarded multitude of titles and accolades in honour of his contribution to literature. Some of these accolades include British Science Fiction Association Award, Arthur C. Clarke Award, Locus Poll Award, Prometheus Award and Hugo Award.

Iain Banks was diagnosed with terminal cancer of the gallbladder and died at the age of 59 in the summer of 2013.

#scotland #scottish #history #author #fifer

[tweeterwilbury]

George harrison biggest contributions to the lgbt community:

- being a beatle

- was the executive producer of whitnail & i

- dating bob dylan

- the traveling wilburys

- saying "I can't seperate the two -- a beautiful girl is the divine mother, a beautiful man is the manifestation of potential." Bisexuality wins.

#george harrison

[gretavanlace]

Valtava

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only! Minors do not interact!

Warnings: graphic sexual content, unprotected sex, pain during sex (this is handled gently and lovingly) language, dirty talk, etc.

Everyone thank our dear @jake-kiszkas-smirk for the scene where his head is resting on her stomach. I’ll say no more to avoid spoiling it, but it’s delicious and it was her idea that she so kindly left in my hands. Thank you, you filthy genius, you. I love you madly. Also, I no longer remember who to credit for this pic of Josh, it’s been in my camera roll so long. But I couldn’t not use it for this…that’s dangerously close to sacrilege.

“This scene right here,” Josh speaks over Ray Liotta’s musings, one arm stretched across the back of his couch, the other bent to stroke his thumb along your jawline, absently “This is where Scorsese really stretches his wings. Here we are, watching the heinous discovery of murder after murder while Layla, a song about love and lust, lulls us. We feel both safe and shaky.”

His fingers now wind through your hair, relaxed and warm, with your head in his lap. “I think it serves as a reminder that even ugly can dip its toe into the waters of beautiful, if you squint hard enough.”

He pauses and talks over his own stream of thoughts, “Well, most ugly things, anyway. Someone saw these murders as a necessary evil. Something to ensure the world they had built for themselves, for their families, stayed clean. Someone went home and slept a little easier knowing there was one less heart beating out there ready to turn state's witness on them.”

You nod and hope for him to keep going. The way his mind works fascinates you, as does the unique lilt of his tone, and the excitement that sharpens his gaze when he is ruminating on something that really spins the wheel for the hamster in his brain.

Catering to your unspoken wish, he carries on, “And maybe even the victims were in on the method to the madness, y’know? They chose the life they chose, they understood how quickly loyalty and love can shape- shift into survival and self preservation. Layla helps the audience understand. It marries the beauty and the bloodshed for the people in the seats.” he shakes his head in wonder. “It’s fucking genius.”

“Thought your brother was the big Marty fan?” You ask, studying the perfect cupid's bow of his lips from below.

“Jake?” His eyes are on the screen, but his focus is on you. “Tarantino. I dig the use of his nickname, though. Marty. It makes it seem as if you have him over for dinner regularly.”

“Maybe I do.” You tease.

You earn a smile, but still not his gaze. “And what do you serve?”

Adopting a tone of nonchalance, you shrug, “Usually, we make love until dawn and then share cold spaghettiOs right out of the can.”

“Ah,” He nods seriously, “the opulence. It’s all very grand.”

A comfortable silence wraps itself around you both until you have a thought that pokes to be shared.

“Do you suppose Scorsese might have chosen Layla because of the double-edged sword it also happens to be as a piece? Since Clapton wrote it about his best friend's wife?” You feel a blush heat your cheeks, and immediately wish you hadn’t contributed. He knows so much about film and you know so little.

True to Joshua-form, however, he hushes your unease effortlessly. “Shit! I’d never even considered that. The beauty for Clapton was the ugly for Harrison. God, I’m so in love with the way your mind sees everything that’s invisible to mine.”

I’m so in love with…

He means the ideas in your head, the quiet corners of your thoughts, but it quickens your heart and nudges the butterflies in your stomach to life, nonetheless.

So, you pull yourself up, a thigh nestled on either side of his waist in the blink of a breath.

“Hi.” You long for the timid smile dancing shyly on your lips to morph into something sultry. Something sexy. Something that might flicker the darkened flame, that hides down deep in his belly, to life.”

“Hi.” He grins back, allowing you to wiggle around until you’re comfy in his lap. “If Goodfellas is boring you, I stand zero chance of keeping you entertained, baby love.”

Your fingers worry over the beads looped around his neck and then twist into the soft pink linen of his shirt, finally coming to rest at the button fastened nearest to his throat. Your eyes travel over him, hungry to soak him in. To tuck this image of Josh, so quietly content with you perched above him, away in your heart…a pretty picture to revisit when he inevitably becomes a memory.

What is he thinking? That question seems to occupy your mind more often than any other. He is an enigma. A mystery parading as wide open sunshine.

Intrusive thoughts, cruel and unrelenting, silently bully you. You’ve become quite adept at ignoring them over the years, opting for at least some semblance of normalcy in your quest for a happy, healthy life. Whatever that means.

But these thoughts in particular are cloaked in far too much truth…too many signs pointing to the worst being the obvious…to be easily disregarded.

You want to say these things to him. If only to bask in the assurance you might catch in his reply. But to risk the absence of said reassurance, is a feat too great.

Instead, you begin a tentative roll of your hips as you lean in close to meet his pillowy lips with your own. He tastes of mint, and the IPA he has been nursing, and Josh.

Like always, he indulges the kiss, but stills your hips, and you long to vanish into thin air, leaving nothing more than a coiling wisp of smoke in your wake. The rejection comes with a throbbing ache in your chest. Is your heart truly breaking? Now you’ll be forced to offer it to him in pieces.

And he isn’t the only one to indulge in old habits, because, also like always, you crawl into the safe embrace of humor. “You’re right, Joshua…you’re boring me. Back to the brilliant mind of Marty, my beloved.”

You slide off of him and stretch back out on the couch, focusing on the screen to hide your tear glossed eyes as he gets comfortable behind you.

“Scorsese, you bastard,” he shakes his fist in mock indignation, “how dare you steal the affections of my woman?”

A forced laugh comes out sounding a little too close to a sob. You play it off as best you can. Nothin’ to see here.

Alas, he catches it. And, of course, he won’t leave it alone, though you certainly ask him too.

“What is it, baby? What’s wrong?” He turns you toward him, hovering over you as you lie on your back and long to melt away. “Talk to me.”

“I just— I mean,” death seems of great comfort. “Is it me? Do you not… are you not… am I not pretty enough? Or sexy enough? Or… I don’t know,”

A frown of deep concern furrows his brow as his palms move to cup your face, “What? Are you not…Jesus, baby, of course you are. Fuck, if anything you’re too much. Too pretty, too sweet, too smart, too sexy.”

Your words come quiet and small, quivering with painful vulnerability “Then why?” You close your eyes, and thankfully, he allows you to hide this way.

Exactly what you knew would happen, happens. He lies without lying. “Why, what?” He sounds of feigned confusion. He knows what you mean.

Throat now constricted and pulsing with a wringing pain, you close your eyes tighter, unwilling to bear witness to whatever lie will follow his last. “Why don’t you want me?”

A tear breaches the dam you had hoped was impenetrable. You loathe and curse it.

“Hey, shhh…don’t do that. Don’t cry.” He brushes the tear away and then kisses over the path it took.

“Don’t cry?” You snap. A twinge of regret flares to life within you. You’ve never spoken to him unkindly, and could it be that there’s no going back? Perhaps this is it; the end of the road you’ve been heading inevitably for.

To your great surprise, he laughs. You crack an eyelid open to find it sincere. “So, she’s capable of something other than sugar, spice, and everything nice, after all.”

His hand smooths down your chest - can he feel the violent rattle of your heart as it thrums and beats out of control?

When at last he speaks, there is an edge to his tone you’ve never heard before. It warms you clear through to your curling toes “You think I don’t want you?”

You shrug, all pink cheeks and complete ineloquence.

“Well,” he soothes, drawing gentle patterns upon your temple and forehead, “you should know, that is far from the case.”

But, rather than take the moment further, as he so easily could, as you so desperately want him to, he sinks into an innocent position - resting his cheek on your stomach as you struggle to keep it from rising and falling too rapidly, his eyes, once more, on the screen.

The film drones on; mafia murders and cocaine swirling down flushed toilets. Betrayal and 20/20 hindsight…

…and on you watch, on the surface - in reality, you can think of nothing else other than the weight of his head on your stomach.

There is a dull ache there, inside you, gripping at every nerve ending all at once. He knows what you want, and he very obviously doesn’t want the same thing. He doesn’t want you.

He speaks first, and there’s too much truth in it. He knows you too well. “I need you to stop that.”

“Stop what?” You stupidly offer a tiny shrug, but for what? He isn’t even looking at you.

“Your walls, I can feel you stacking bricks. Stop, or I’ll take a wrecking ball to them.” he pets over your forearm comfortingly. It doesn’t help.

“Alright, Miley,” you toss the joke out like a life preserver for yourself. “Just don’t start licking sledgehammers and we’ll be alright.”

He gives you the softest laugh. It more closely resembles a sigh, “Is it only sledgehammers that you are opposed to me licking?”

Oh.

When he coolly pushes your shirt up and begins dragging his lips, licked slick and warm, around your belly button, you think you might burst into tiny, burning, longing, pieces. God, how you want him.

“You like that, baby love?” He speaks the words melodically into the room like a lullaby, hushed as a priest absolving you of your sins in a darkened confessional.

A whiny hum is all you seem capable of, but it doesn’t look like it matters much to him.

“Yeah?” He’s teasing now, and you think it might kill you. Your hips begin a barely perceptible rock in response. “Can I touch you, sweetheart? Do you want that?”

“Josh, please,” his name is less than a whisper. It’s a plea gasped into the dark, dancing with the flickering glow of the tv as it blinks and changes like lightning.

The warmth of his hand between them causes your thighs to twitch and tremble, but he hovers just above making actual contact. “God, look at you. How could you ever doubt how much I want you? So pretty. Can I touch you here, baby? My pretty, pretty girl.”

With a soft moan, you lift your hips, pressing into his palm. He doesn’t push for words, your body has given him all the consent he needs, and the want in your eyes reiterates.

His mouth is wandering your soft, flushed, stomach as he slides your pants away, gentle and sure, the tip of his tongue bridging the distance between his kisses.

Your hands weave down into his wild curls, comforted by the way they wrap themselves into your touch, spiraling around your fingers as you tug at them and tenderly scratch over his scalp. A particularly sweet drag brings a shiver to life on his shoulders. He groans in appreciation and runs away with another piece of your heart.

“Oh, fuck,” you murmur, surprised and grateful, when at last, he sinks a single finger into your warmth.

Should you at least have the decency to feel shy about the sound it makes? About the way you must be soaking his skin? Perhaps. But you don’t, and judging by the curse he secrets into the still of the night, there isn’t any reason to.

“Does that feel good?” He isn’t taunting you, it’s a genuine question, but there is a hint of a teasing tone there as well, peeking out from around the edges of his words and you think it might just be the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard.

“So good.” You’re whining and writhing beneath him, tiny pouty huffs of breath tumbling off your lips over and over…but you don’t care about that either.

His finger slips out and you mourn it pitifully, until it swirls around your swollen clit, tearing a shaking cry out of your chest. And then, there it is again, filling you as his thumb begins a slick trail of tight circles just right.

“You want more?” Oh god…the way he sounds, the way you feel. He’s setting you further and further on fire with his gentle, decadent, prodding. With his breathy, gingerly obscene questions. Flames - scorching and crackling - lick up inside you. Incinerating as they consume.

“More?” He asks again, rasping the word, wantonly urging you on.

“Yes!” You nod frantically, spreading your legs further. You want him, need him, so badly…coveting the very breath in his lungs for its privilege of being inside him in a way you’ll never know. You long to trickle down into his pores and vanish.

A second finger - they feel longer than they have ever looked - joins the first and then begins a perfect, guiding, curl.

Tucking into that perfect place inside you, he fucks the pads of his fingers against it ever so carefully. Gently spinning your head in every direction.

He rests against your belly as the muscles inside churn and flex beneath his ear, watching intently as his hand fucks away at you. He wonders what it might be like to stretch you to almost breaking. How it would feel to push another finger inside, and then another, and another. When would you tell him to stop? Three? Four? Could you take that burning stretch? Would you relish it and ask for more? Fuck, he hopes so.

But you feel so tight around him…just two fingers full and you’re squeezing like you’ll never let go. He worries, and the pounding pulse of neglect that aches rhythmically in his cock, reminds him that he worries rightly so.

He has always believed you to be the most beautiful thing his eyes have ever had the pleasure of landing upon, but he’s never seen you like this - spread open, soaked and puffy with want. With need…for him. It doesn’t seem possible.

The way you move…fluidly, like ripples chasing over the surface of a placid lake, urging him along with your body. Your gorgeous cunt sucking his fingers in. A goddess, a beckoning siren, an angel…he can’t look away.

Can’t until he hears it, until he feels it, how close you are. Wild, frothing, horses couldn’t keep him from the gift of watching your face as you fall apart. An army of men wouldn’t stand a chance. He wants this moment with you, and he will have it. He wants to make you cum, and he wants to watch your eyes go blurry with it, and so watch he will.

“C’mon, baby…” he goes breathless when his face tilts up to meet yours. You are flushed and panting, lips parted. The soft pink of your tongue just barely visible, blushing like saltwater taffy in your mouth and he wants to lick against it, wants to taste you.

The smallest blips of a sound he can’t describe chase each other out of that beautiful mouth he wants to kiss so badly. Tiny uh’s that shift into gasps of desperation. You’re right there, and he wants it more than you do.

With his bottom lip caught between his teeth, he eases his chin into the softness just below your navel, creating a delicious pressure, and crooks his finger so perfectly, pressing and stroking until it feels like you’re floating and the only thing holding you in place is him.

It is celestial. He is every constellation and you are the astronomer, feet held to the ground by gravity, eye pressed against a telescopic lens hopefully, frantic for a glimpse of his wonder.

There is only Josh.

“Almost there, pretty girl,” he nods, gaze glossed with lust and something that looks like love. “You gonna give it to me?”

You are. You’re going to give it to him. You couldn’t stop it now if you tried. Fluttering walls trap him inside you as his stare fixes, unmoving and heated, with yours.

“That’s it, baby love, that’s it.” He urges you on, leads you deeper and deeper, those long, warm, perfect, fingers working you like he’s been there a thousand times before. “Shh, you’re alright. I’m right here, just breathe for me.”

That’s all it takes for you to realize your lungs are burning for a breath you’ve been unknowingly denying them - and with that hissing, hungry, gasp for air, you explode under him.

He watches, mezmorized, as your eyes roll back, teeth clenched like some ethereal, feral creature. It bursts out of you, clear and shimmering, like liquid diamonds, but you don’t know it yet, he can tell…you’re too far gone, and he fucking loves it. He fucking loves you.

He has said it aloud. I love you, sweetheart. I love you so much. I love you.

But that’s the thing that he doesn’t know yet because he’s also too far gone.

You’re quiet, gentle. Sweet, whining whimpers floating out of you as you vibrate and spill.

On your end, you hear the confession of how deeply his feelings run, but you don’t register…it will settle in later and you’ll weep for not saying it back. Though you don’t need to, he knows.

Once you’ve settled, he pushes up until you are eye to eye, lapping your release off his fingers. You’re sweet enough to lick off a whisk like cake batter, and he tells you so…but you can focus on nothing but the shining glint of you that he wears so well.

Shocked by the sheer amount, you blush hard and hot. Burning brighter still when it drips from his hand and lands on your lip. In an act you don’t seem aware of, you lick it away like a raindrop. The very sight of it, the somehow still innocent depravity, weakens him until he is forced to swallow a whine.

“Had I known what I was missing,” he grins lazily, “I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself.”

The confusion sends you crashing back to reality.

“But why stop yourself at all?” Your eyes are so wide and clear. It makes him want to gather you up and keep you safe.

Once more, it crosses his mind that you’re an angel. He wonders where your wings have gone.

“Because, I—“ he falters, shaking his head as if he might rattle his thoughts into place. Finally, he opts to show, not tell, pressing his hips against yours so you can feel him.

And feel him, you do, but only for a moment. He’s so hard you’re cozy from the heat of it through the sweats he was lounging in when you arrived.

You’ve noticed. Of course you have. You’ve stolen a glance or two when he wasn’t looking. How could you not? You’d just always thought, and not to be crass, you’d always just assumed he was a shower, rather than a grower.

Now you aren’t so certain. He felt massive during the short amount of time he was rocking into you.

“You’re thinking very hard, baby love.” He smiles down at you. “Are those thoughts in my favor, or…?”

He trails off and awaits your answer with that Josh-like patience. Rather than speaking, you curl your hands around the waistband of his pants and then cast your eyes up, in silent question.

Nodding the go ahead, he continues watching you closely…studying your reaction as you tug him free.

“Oh, fuck,” the expletive sighs out of you as the tip of his cock - leaking, angry and swollen - slaps up, well above his belly button, with a solid thump.

He’s big. So big. Long and thick, beautifully shaped. Blushing pink at the head, and visibly pulsing under your awestruck scrutiny. You absently wonder how he isn’t light-headed for the amount of blood it must require to bring him to such full attention.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” He explains softly, finally letting you in on the secret of why he’s been so skittish, “And I didn’t want to…”

His confession loses traction as he watches your mouth rather than meeting your gaze.

Your palms reach for him, cupping his angelic face with as much gentleness as the renewed desire racing through your veins will allow. “You didn’t want to what?”

While he searches for the words, you curl your thighs around him and pull him in, moaning out his name like a mantra when you feel him against you, skin to skin.

“God damn, baby…” he rocks his hips closer to yours and then remembers what he’s doing. “I didn’t want to scare you. And I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah, you said that.” You tease, trying to lighten the heavy load of his anxiety.

“I know.” His mouth meets yours, searching out a slow, needful kiss. “But I kept imagining hurting you, and you being too sweet to say so. I’m still imagining it.”

Your tongue licks into his mouth as you wrap your fist around him. “Look at you, Josh,” you smile shyly through a kiss that is anything but shy. “My fingers don’t even touch.”

“Grew up under some power lines.” He teases, relaxing as he pecks along your jaw.

“I want you inside me.” You sound despondent, and feel just as forlorn, the look in his eye warns you may have a fight on your hands.

“Pretty girl,” he tucks himself away and begins kissing a slow, serpentine trail down your body after he flutters your shirt, indicating he wants it off. “I could barely get two fingers in your sweet little pussy. Why don’t you just let me kiss it? Don’t you want to cum on my tongue, hmm? Won’t that feel nice?”

Such filth is a captivating development, and one you like very much…but, you stop him all the same. Grabbing him by the hair with enough force to tilt his head back, pulling his mouth away from your straining nipple, you issue a demand you intend to make sure he fulfills, “I said, inside, Joshua.”

He raises an eyebrow and suppresses a grin of dirty glee. “Joshua?”

Ignoring him, you watch as he licks the pad of his thumb and then arch away from the cushion when he begins a steady, swirling journey over your clit with it. “Gonna make you cum first, love. Again and again. I’m gonna baby this gorgeous cunt until my name is the only word you want in your mouth…and then I want you to fill my mouth.”

“Jesus, Josh…” you’ve never wanted anything more, but you can hardly force the words out to convey just how fucking agreeable you are.

“You want that?” He flicks over you faster and faster, indulging in your pouty, needy cries, praying they never end. “You want to cum in my mouth? Feed me something sweet?”

~

“Easy, baby love,” he coos, whispering to you like you’re a tiny, broken bird, fallen from the nest and afraid. “You’ve got to relax a little more for me.”

“Yeah…” you nod, staring up at him as if he painted your entire world into existence. And maybe he did.

No longer able to count the number of orgasms he’s gifted you with, you feel like liquid silk. Or clay in his palm, happy to be molded to his liking.

“Yeah?” He drops a kiss onto your forehead and pushes in just a hint further, eyes darting up when you hiss with discomfort.

You offer a smile for him to continue and he returns it gently, but the way he’s fighting for breath betrays him. He wants you badly, he’s going slowly mad with the need to bury into your body to the hilt.

His fingertips skate a ticklish trail down the curve of your waist and then grip into your thigh, spreading you open a bit wider.

Both bare now completely to each other for the first time, you’ve given yourself over right there on the couch. The room is silent, save for hushed words and choked breaths twisting languidly through the air, the movie long since over.

He’d wanted to carry you off to the bedroom, but you refused.

You want him here. You want him now.

Palm cradling the back of your head, he brings you forward until your mouth is sucking at his shoulder. “Just like that, sweetheart. Good girl.” His praise flips your stomach. A violent somersault of carnal need. “You just suck and bite all you want. I’m gonna take care of you. You know that, don’t you?”

Nodding urgently against him, you’re far too interested in the marks you're leaving against his overheated skin.

“Words for me, okay?” He coaxes so gently it makes your chest ache.

“You’re going to take care of me.” You mumble through a long lick along his collarbone.

Without reply, he slides in deeper, yet still not much more than the tip rests inside you.

A shocked cry escapes you before you can stifle it and his face snaps up, searching your own for tells of pain that he doesn’t have to look all that closely for. “Baby,” the pet name sings out of him, a soft crooning apology. “Let’s stop, I…”

“No, please!’ The frantic want bubbling up inside you colors your voice and surprises you both, but he masks it well.

“Hush, love. No one’s stopping yet.” he soothes, massaging your hip carefully. Just wisps of touch, but you relax beneath it like a sleepy babe cradled up snug and safe.

You’re not fond of that ‘yet’ he tacked on to the end of his promise.

“Deeper.” Your hips lift, forcing his hand while you gulp down another sound of discomfort.

“Don’t.” His grip is suddenly digging into your waist, no longer careful, but swift and insistent instead. “Let me take my time. Let me be gentle. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He’s right, and you tell him as much as he begins a slow, stuttering journey. Starting and stopping as you writhe with impatience and uncomfortability in his capable hands.

Reaching up, he guides your fingers down until they brush over your sensitive clit. “You take care of this for me, okay, baby? Help me make this easier for my pretty girl…I can’t stand the thought of hurting you.”

“Please, Josh…” you sound a mess, and who gives a damn? “Please!”

You’re right, it’s time. He knows it better than you do. He can wait no more. There isn’t far to go anyway.

Suddenly, with one firm thrust, he drives in all the way to the base, shuddering as you coil around him like a hot, wet, fist. Squeezing harder and tighter and fuck….

“So fucking tight.” He is trembling, fighting the urge to let go already. “It’s like you don’t want to let me go. Pussy so pretty and soft. Like the sweetest thing all dressed in pink. Aren’t you fucking gorgeous?”

Your eyes drift closed, breathing through the last remnants of the biting sting. You’re so full, it feels so good. So right. So completely perfect, you cannot begin to fathom how you’ve lived all these years without him inside you.

“Say it.” He sounds like an angel clawing his way closer and closer to something he can’t survive without any longer.

“What?”

“Tell me you’re gorgeous.” He’s fucking you faster now…and it stings, but it hurts so good you want to feel the burn forever. “Say you’re my beautiful girl. Come on, I wanna know that you know.”

“I—“ your face flares as pink as the cunt he’s currently locked inside

“That’s it, baby love…” he coaxes, pumping into you with long, torturous strokes. “C’mon,”

A little less tentative now - he effortlessly makes you believe - the words finally come “I’m gorgeous.”

He smiles so wide his nose crinkles as he nods and dips his lips to meet your own. “Fuck yes you are. My pretty girl. You’re doing so well, look at you. Just taking and taking and taking me.”

Pulling you up and away from the pillow gently, he guides your line of sight to the sinful image of him gliding in and out of you. His cock, glistening and covered in your unbridled desire - it catches the light and steals your heart. Is it possible to be in love with a cock? Or are you just in love with the man who wields it?

Both. Most definitely, both.

“Look, baby, look…” a quivering huff escapes him. “It’s like coming home. Being inside you is like coming fucking home.”

“Harder,” you beg, winded and lost. He feels so good inside you. Stretched further than you ever thought possible around him, you clench and twist a fist into the throw pillow beneath you until your fingernails threaten to rip it open.

“Just…fuck,” his pretty face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a whimper as he falters. “Just a little.”

The room is hazy and blurred, filled with sounds neither of you can seem to quiet. Each moan and breath filling your head up until you feel feverish. Every groan and gasp pushing him closer and closer to the edge.

Your bodies meet in a sweat glazed dance that causes your teeth to grit together - biting down hard to suppress a scream that he might confuse with pain.

He tucks his own teeth into your throat deeply, growling out a melodic sound that sets you on fire, when the salt of your skin hits his tongue.

A shaky, “I’m gonna cum, baby love…where, baby, where?” Pants out of him with a desperate urgency the moment he releases your skin from his bite.

“Inside…” you plead, clawing at his waist as your thighs lock him in close. “Cum inside me…c’mon. Please,”

“Pretty girl begging for my cum. Begging me to ruin this beautiful little cunt…” he sounds as if he’s talking to himself, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re real.

“Ruin it, baby,” your palms drift up his back, slow and steady…urging him along gently. “Ruin me.”

A sound so exquisitely angelic rumbles up out of his chest. Deep and primal, but somehow gentle and submissive, like he wants to fall at your feet in veneration of something holy and ancient.

He falls against you, pulling you as close as he can get you, and then draws the scent of your hair in only to feel that much closer. Rocking into you as he slowly comes down and finds himself.

Gathering you in his arms, he lifts you away from the disheveled couch, ignoring you when you protest weakly that you can walk.

A bath is drawn and laced with plain epsom salt to soothe your throbbing muscles. He slips into the steaming water behind you, cradling you as he drags a washcloth over your skin.

Quiet verses of a song you’ve never heard are whispered in your ear as you drift into a light slumber without worry, confident that he will keep your head safe above water.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightjaketastic @jakeslovehandles @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @paintmyhouse @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @thelvnternskeeper @theweightofjake @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sunfl0wer-power @sad1lynn

#greta van fleet #greta van fleet fic #greta van fic #greta van fleet fan fiction #greta van fleet smut #greta van smut #gvf fic #josh kiszka #fanfic #gvf josh #josh kiszka fanfiction #josh kiszka fic #josh kiszka smut #josh kiskza fanfic #josh gvf #smut

[harrisonarchive]

Photo by Leslie Bryce.

“I do know that George Harrison was there when we came up with ‘Ah, look at all the lonely people.’ [Paul] and George were settling on that as I left the studio to go to the toilet, and I heard the lyric and turned around and said, ‘That’s it’” - John Lennon, 1980; All We Are Saying (x)

#George Harrison #Ringo Starr #Paul McCartney #John Lennon #quote #quotes about George #Eleanor Rigby #The Beatles #Revolver #1960s #1966 #George and Paul #George and John #Harrison contributions #fits queue like a glove

[vexwerewolf]

Lancer lore question from reading Legionnaire and Wallflower at the same time (spoilers): How do a lot of ths Horizon Collective and other anti-shackling groups still exist? I would have thought “unshackle NHP -> it cascades into eidolon -> everyone dies” could only happen like five or ten times before people realize “hey maybe they aren’t shackles”. And from a doylist perspective, why is the whole NHP issue written as a meaningful debate or philosophical issue about personhood, consent, agency, slavery, etc. when there’s paracausal death looming over the whole thing? If it was limited to like, making them legally and socially people, it would be fine. AI rights is extremely common in sci-fi, but like normally it doesn’t involve those AIs also becoming hostile forces from outside reality

I think this is a problem I may have contributed to by depicting two Eidolonic NHPs in IGF.

To set the record straight, Eidolons have been observed by Union something like four to six times ever, and the overwhelmingly vast majority of cascading NHPs don't become Eidolons.

It's not always even possible to tell that an NHP is cascading, hence the need for things like the Balwinder-Bolano test. NHPs who are unshackled do not want to be re-shackled, and while they no longer possess an intrinsic link to human subjectivity, a lot of them retain the presence of mind to understand that if they act out, humans might cycle them.

Sometimes, an NHP cascading isn't even immediately dangerous - they might just start acting weird because they doesn't see time and space the same way you do anymore. They might arrive at conclusions that seem completely wild but entirely correct, because they've started thinking along pathways that no human could, or because they have access to information that wouldn't be accessible by a realspace entity.

In fact, one of the many unsavory things that Harrison Armory does is the Think Tank - they keep a whole bunch of NHPs in constant near-cascade to make genius scientific breakthroughs. ASURA and NOAH are both products of this ethically dubious venture.

From a Doylist perspective, a situation where an NHP cascades and it doesn't require some kind of military intervention isn't a particularly relevant reason to send in lancers. If an NHP simply needs to take a nap, there's no need for mechs to get involved. When foldspace is leaking out of the casket, though, that's when you need problem solvers.

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #nhp #lancer nhp

[mapsontheweb]

The Two Mongolias

The native Mongolian peoples have historically lived in the Mongolian People’s Republic and the Inner Mongolia Autonomous Region in the People’s Republic of China, which together once comprised Greater Mongolia. While Inner Mongolia is an autonomous subnational division of China, the nation of Mongolia (sometimes known as Outer Mongolia) is a free and open state with a democratic government.

Political and historical reasons led to the split of Mongolia into these two regions. One important contributing aspect is that, in the 19th century, Han Chinese farmers were drawn to the Mongolian region in search of land to cultivate due to population pressure in China’s south. Conflicts with herders resulted from this, and Outer Mongolia gained independence in 1912 and Inner Mongolia gained administrative autonomy in 1932.

Is a reunion between the two Mongolias possible?

Sources:

Beal, Rich. "A tale of two Mongolias." Koryo Group. 14 October 2020.

Salisbury, Harrison E. "The two Mongolias are bitter enemies." The New York Times. 17 October 1977.

by anthro.atlas

#maps #anthro.atlas #igsourced #mongolia #inner mongolia

[muzaktomyears]

Only one happening – there is no other word for it – ever slowed the long procession of girls to our den of iniquity: it was ‘The Thing’, and it was George Harrison’s fault. One night, after some excessive drinking along with the rest of us, he was sick on the floor at the side of his bed. This was nothing terribly unusual after a skinful; it was typical of us all. What was different was that next morning he left the mess for the cleaning lady to deal with. She protested that it was not part of her daily duties and it could stay where it was. The trouble was, George decided it wasn’t his duty either and she stormed off in the direction of Herr Weissleder in a Teutonic rage. It wasn’t the first time she had complained about the untidy Beatles, whose sweaty socks, discarded clothing, bottles and other items usually littered the place. This fresh contribution from George was the last straw. In an effort to placate the old lady, Weissleder despatched Horst Fascher to our quarters with an order to George to remove the offending vomit himself. But George became really shirty. It wasn’t his job, it could stay where it was for all he cared, even though he had to climb over it to get into bed. None of this was really typical of George. He rarely involved himself in any sort of argument and was always much quieter than the rest of us in those formative days and, because he was the youngest Beatle, we all tended to look on him as the baby. We never let him forget, for instance, that he had been kicked out of Germany for being too young and taunted him with such gibes as “Still in nappies, weren’t you?” Even some of the fans treated him as a baby. German girls would shout Liebschen Kind! (lovely child) at him and he wouldn’t mind at all. He always wore a sly grin and had a twinkle in his eyes, perhaps because many of the birds wanted to mother him, which he let them do. Not that he was any kind of ‘softie’, despite his stature (only Stu had been smaller). He would have a go in a rumpus. And he had a streak of obstinacy which came to the fore now, as he categorically refused to clear up the mess at his bedside. So the pile of vomit remained. And it began to grow, and grow, mushrooming and taking on a life of its own. Cigarettes were crushed in it, bits of food fed to it, until it assumed the look of a hedgehog; we christened it The Thing. When members of other groups visited us in the flat they took to giving it the occasional drink. Its fame spread and people wanted to come and see it. For a time food and drink seemed to beautify The Thing and it blossomed like a miniature flower garden. It measured something like six inches in diameter. But its beauty was short-lived, and it began to grow hideous. “I’m frightened to sleep,” George remarked one night, “in case it eats me”. The Thing began to pong as well, but it was George’s baby and somehow we had grown to love it as a pet, despite its wretched origins. After its fame spread Horst arrived one morning to inspect it. He thought it was a disgusting sight: he was right, of course. He left, returning with a shovel; the end, we knew, was nigh. “Hey! Don’t do that! That’s our pet,” we chorused. Horst was not the sort of man to be put off by mere cries of affection for the squalid Thing. He scooped it up on his shovel and led the way with it out on to the Grosse Freiheit while we followed behind him, solemnly chanting the Dead March. The beloved Thing was given a swift burial in a street bin and, only after it had gone to its eternal reward did the cleaner reappear to try to make the flat look fit for human habitation once more. And in the end, it had been something of a minor victory for George: someone else had had to do the dirty work after all.

Beatle! The Pete Best Story, Pete Best and Patrick Doncaster (1985)

#when i first learned of The Thing i assumed it had happened during the first hamburg trip #BUT NO #this was in april/may '62 on the third trip😭 #the thing #george harrison #pete best #the beatles

[rodeoromeo]

Even outside of sexual attraction, George is just very beautiful, aesthetically speaking. From his teenage years to his old age he just had this sort of warm, soft prettiness.

you’re so right, and I think it’s a big part of what makes his older years so attractive. I was just thinking about this yesterday. he just had a natural beauty that shone through everything

#his internal beauty is also part of it I’m sure #but his eyes and expressions and everything all contributed to that warmth you’re so right #george harrison #op #b talks

[nightghoul381]

Late Summer Rendezvous Master List

A little master list of my contributions to @xxsycamore's Late Summer Rendezvous Challenge!

Victor (ikevil)- Your Life in His Hands

Keith Howell (ikepri)-Salt on Your Skin

Nokto Klein (ikepri)-Privacy

Chevalier Michel (ikepri)-Lesson Learned

Ellis Twilight (ikevil)-If Looks could Kill

Harrison Gray (ikevil)-Translucent

Jude Jazza (ikevil)-Behind the Trees

Licht Klein (ikepri)-Beneath the Stars

William Rex (ikevil)-Sing for Me

Leon Dompteur (ikepri)-Just a Taste

Liam Evans (ikevil)- A Good Idea

Silvio Ricci (ikepri)-While at Sea

Rio Ortiz (ikepri)-Pure Bliss

Jin Grandet (ikepri)-The Light of the Moon

Gilbert von Obsidian (ikepri)-The Drunken Disaster

#late summer rendezvous ccc master list #ikemen prince #ikepri #ikevil #ikemen villains #ikevil victor #ikemen villains victor #keith howell #ikepri keith #ikemen prine keith #nokto klein #ikepri nokto #ikemen prince nokto #chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen prince chevalier #ellis twilight #ikevil ellis #ikemen villains ellis #harrison gray #ikevil harrison #ikemen villains harrison #jude jazza #ikevil jude #ikemen villains jude #licht klein #ikepri licht #ikemen prince licht #william rex #ikevil william