#the way john plays it cool but he was the one who touched paul

[javelinbk]

Sixty years ago today, Paul McCartney got bopped on the head

John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison in EMI studio 2 during recording sessions for A Hard Day’s Night, 27th February 1964 - part one (part two)

#it’s more of a flick than a bop but you know what I mean #he probably deserved it too #moment of all time for me #the way paul spots it early on but plays along #the way john plays it cool but he was the one who touched paul #tfw you have a crush on someone and just have to touch them #tfw you have a crush on someone and they touched you! eek! #john lennon #paul mccartney #john and paul #teenage crush behaviour #the beatles #it was sixty years ago today #a hard day's night #javelin’s gifs #javelin’s gifs: 1964 #spider hands

[shippingmclennon]

Trope: Paul gets too drunk/stoned and John takes care of him <3

Teddy boys.

Period typical era.

Confused Paul. Secretly in love John.

(it did not end up being "mini").

Paul looked at himself in the mirror, stomach knotting. He and John… they… they did it…

Three times!

The first time, when they were leaving the pub, and the two were roughhousing, their dicks got in the way, and John was the one who changed their course of focus. The ‘focus’ being their dicks, and getting them off on each other. It felt intoxicatingly good. They hadn't even kissed.

That time, he blamed it on the alcohol.

The next time they were alone, John started with attacking his lips. Paul was curious, so he let it happen. He blamed that time on the arousal.

The third time, they were sober and it was daytime. John kissed him again. Also whispered filthy things into his ears as his hands made their way. Paul couldn't believe how good it felt. Being touched by John.

He didn't know what to blame it on that time. But since then, he wanted more. No drunken self, no arousal, no curiosity. Just desire.

Did that make him queer!?

He never thought of himself as someone who likes blokes.

He never thought of himself as someone who likes John. But here he was, crushing harder than a schoolboy getting his first blowie.

Something about John just did it for him. Maybe it was the difference. This dynamic of being so taken care of in such an aggressive way, rather than some gentle way like with a bird. Or maybe that it was wrong, and doing something he shouldn't gave Paul some kind of sick thrill. Or maybe… it was just John.

But the odd thing about John is, in the moment he acts like he's so gone for him. Saying the most flattering, borderline loving things, being all over him, finding excuses to see him.

But… once it's over… it's all ‘one-and-done’. Like John doesn't give a fuck anymore.

It irritates Paul to no end.

John's the one who's started this! He gets Paul thinking and wanting. And then… changes?

John's a difficult bloke, no doubt there. But… it's like, while they're doing it, everything's perfect. Easy… harmonious. Just like with their music. And when that's over, Johns… ‘cover’ returns, and he's the same difficult ted that he is with everyone.

He's not so bad with Paul. They're mates after all. Best mates, if you'd call it that. But something about the change in their ‘relationship’ caused John to hold some kind of shell over himself. Like… being into Paul means he needs something to prove? Or maybe it's his way of being in control.

Paul hated it. He didn't even want stupid John in the first place! But now, he ached for him and that indescribable pleasure. He was becoming desperate for it. And it was all John's stupid fault.

When they meet up for practice tonight, Paul approaches John after a couple hours of playing. Waiting for a good moment, while everyone's taking a bit of a break.

He stands besides John, trying to look as casual as ever, but feeling so over-thought and rather foreign in his body.

“Comin' over tonight?” Paul asks suddenly, the way that John would so easily do. This was his first time asking for him.

John, no doubt, looks at him with a satisfied, smug smirk. Surprised at first, but now inflated with pride.

“Missin’ me?” He teases instead of answering, the pretentious dick!

“Just… wonderin’” Paul says, trying desperately to sound casual, but knowing he doesn't. John knows it too. He looks way too satisfied for Paul to be pulling off the “cool ted” act.

John steps into his personal space, making Paul panic that they're still in front of others, but even worse, that he isn't able to trust himself from preventing anything. Paul feels John's body heat, and without even touching him, his body flares up in response.

“Well, that depends…” John starts. Paul's staring up at him with his puppy eyes, completely dazed into him, eyes dilating as they stare into John's. He wishes he could kiss him now. Even more, wishes they would keep each other close. For once. “Will ya make it worth me while?”

Paul swallows, but at John's waiting, nods his head. Submissively. Obediently. He hates it. This bastard who he once called his best mate has him wrapped around his finger. And he wants it so bad; hates that he does; but he….

He misses his mate.

That night, John's hands and lips feel like they're everywhere. Each time they've done this was longer than the last, and following suit, this one's setting a new record.

Paul loved it. He didn't want to just get off. He liked John spending time on him. More time for that pleasure. And it made everything more heightened.

They're making out heavily now, much more than they did the last time. John often makes an attempt of claiming Paul's lips in a predatory way. Paul allows it.

John grabs his chin. “Love those lips. So plump an’ good,” John says, making Paul moan. Paul feels his chest flush in arousal. “Want more from ‘em. Put those lips ta good use, Macca. What they're meant ta do,” John says.

Paul's dilated eyes now blink and he frowns. “W-what.”

John brushes Paul's hair before pulling at it in a dominant, suggestive way. “C’mone. Y’know what I need. Promised me a good time,” John says, and kisses him again, sloppily and wet. Paul moans again, hates that he does because John's words do something funny to him, but at the same time, he feels like he can't.

He parts them.

“I… I'm not doin' that!” Paul declares.

“Oh c'mon Paul! We know yer the baby of the group, but ya gotta grow up at some point,” John says, tugging his hair again, hoping to push the lad lower. John angers him. John always made fun of his age and youngish features. He just hasn't grown out of his youthful appearance yet, and he hates John treating him like a baby.

He swats John's hand away. John lowers it to Paul's dick and says, “C’mon, luv. Want those lips wrapped around me.” This time, Paul's eyes flutter closed and he moans, hips rocking at the new touch. “Hm.. look at you. Ya want it. I know ya do.”

Paul gets ripped out of the pleasure and stops John again. “No, John! ‘M not gonna do that! Now shut up ‘bout it!” Paul snaps.

“Why not?”

“Because!” Paul starts, not knowing what to say. There wasn't a 50’s teen bloke questioning his sexuality’s way to describe ‘not being ready’. “It's sick!”

“Oh, like ya haven't done other things ta me… let me do things to you,” John says, starting to tease him again. “As if ya wouldn't let me do it to you…” John adds, voice lingering suggestively. Paul imagines it and his groin heats up in desire, breathing hard at John's advances. But it didn't change the fact.

“It doesn't matter! The answer’s still ‘no’. So we can finish, or you can leave!” Paul says demandingly. John brought out that side of him.

“Fine.” John says. “Prude.” Paul pokes him and gets a swat on his hand, making him smile at the way they're acting like mates again, and like he's not the prey of some heartless sexual predator.

They get it on like normal, and John doesn't bring it up again. Later, they crack Paul's window open to smoke a ciggie beside it.

“Is it true that Stu’s comin' out with us Saturday night?” Paul asks.

“Aye,” John says. “Why? Ya jealous?”

Paul rolls his eyes. “No ya sod!” Paul says, then pauses at the next. “...is it true that he… has pot?” Paul asks. John nods again. Paul inhales and swallows. “Said he'd let us have a go at some… Would… would ya try it?” Paul asks, both nervously and curiously, as if John's answer predicts Paul's own decision.

John laughs cockily. “I already have.”

Paul's eyes widen unexpectedly. “Ya have?”

John laughs again, as if his pride’s been insulted. “Course I have. Stuart’s like me best mate.”

Paul looks down. “Oh.”

“Oh so ya are jealous?” John teases smugly and proud.

Paul rolls his eyes. “I'm not! I just didn't know, tha's all. What… what's it like?” Paul asks, already feeling the nerves of anticipation. This is it. They're talking about it. John's tried it. He's next. No going back now.

“Hm… weird. Really good. Just makes ya feel relaxed. Laid back…”

“S’pose I should try it then, ay?” Paul asks. But he's not asking for John's permission. This was new, and that made it scary, and all he wanted was a bit of comfort. He wished John hadn't done it already, because then they would've been in it together. Forced to experience it side by side, vulnerability and closeness inevitable.

“Ay it'd be perfect fer ya! Maybe then ye’ll loosen up ‘bout the blowies,” John says smugly, tickling at Paul's hairs in a suggestive manner. Suggestive that says, ‘if this'll get me to persuade ya into it, I'll do it.’

Paul frowned. He didn't know why John had to be such a dick all the time.

He found some excuse about calling it a night, and John left. Paul wanted him so badly. More of him than just… this. But John was so difficult to grasp. It frustrated him.

Especially that… this new ‘relationship’ they've entered seemed to make them more distant from each other. Paul'd think it'd make them closer. Hell, they were already close. But now… what was this? He treated Paul like a bit of a sex toy…

On Saturday night, Stuart brought weed like he promised. They were at some low, grotty pub, hiding out in a corner, when he brought it up.

He snuck them out the back alley for all the mates to try out for the first time. Except John and Stuart of course. They each started with one puff. Then Stuart had a couple more. He offered everyone a second hit, which they took. Except John, oddly enough.

Not long after, Paul felt the effects start to kick in. It felt good. It made him feel relaxed. And giggly.

John noticed and approached him, making Paul feel giddy and smile at his presence.

“Likin' it,” John asks. Paul raises his arms to John's chest and shoulders as he nods, wanting the closeness and touch. Besides, everyone else is far enough not to notice, or stoned enough not to care.

Much to Paul's delight, John seems to welcome it. ‘That’s a first.’

“Told ya,” John says. Paul's smiling at him. “So er… when's a good time ta sneak ya off and finish where we left off?” John asks, making Paul frown with a subtle ‘huh’. “Don't think I've forgot,” John teases with his stupid smug grin.

The idea suddenly makes Paul sick to his stomach and wracked with nerves. He drops his hands from John's shoulders.

“I already told ya ‘no’!” Paul says. It's not that big a deal. He could've warmed up to it, but the timing couldn't be worse, and all he could think of was getting out of this conversation.

John scoffed at him. “Fine!” He said, before walking off. Pissing Paul off. But more than that, hurting him. John however, was much more pissed, and much less forgiving.

Paul knew John and Stuart were close, but for the first time, he's actually considering the possibility that they might have the same thing that he and John have, and the idea made him even more sick to his stomach.

John was flirting with Stuart on purpose as some shitty way to punish Paul for refusing him. Paul hated watching it and it made him vile with jealousy, even while high, and left feeling alone and empty with need to fill it with some sort of attention or validation. From John, to be specific. He wasn't getting any from there, however.

He approaches John, who has a lazy arm around Stuart. “How ‘bout a drink ay?” Paul tries. “Could head inside.”

John brushes Paul's hair, but not in a loving or sexual way, but the way an older brother does to their juvenile, younger sibling. “‘M busy. The adults are still smokin’,” John says, eliciting laughter from his mates, and fueling Paul's anger even more. John wasn't even smoking! Paul's pretty sure he's only seen him take that one hit! Why, he wasn't sure, but he was sick of his pissy attitude!

Paul was breathing heavily with rage, when suddenly, the joint got passed and held in front of him.

“Ya want another? Or had enough?” Stuart asks him, and has a patronizing tone, one that has John grinning in approval and everyone else chuckling at. Paul snatches it, as if to prove everyone wrong, and takes the biggest hit he'd probably ever take in his life.

He inhales until his chest is puffed and his lungs are full, so much so that they start to burn.

“Woah, easy there mate,” Sturt says as Paul begins to cough. “Don't take more than ya can handle, ya?” Stuart says with a laugh. Paul says nothing and storms off, heading back into the bar.

John turns his head over his shoulder. He watches as Paul heads back inside. For a second, he worries Paul won't handle what he just took. For another second, he has this sudden feeling that he should go look out for him.

When his mates make another vile joke about nonsense, John joins in and lets it go.

Back in the pub, Paul’s drinking himself into oblivion. He starts by chugging beers, but the rage and dissatisfaction in his gut persist, and he gets a hold of shots. The few mates that are inside with him have some too; don’t notice how hard he’s going. With them here, he’s able to blend in. That is, until, all the alcohol starts to hit him. And worse, there’s all that weed he’d smoked too.

Paul lets his head fall on the dirty table as he groans and clutches his stomach.

“You aright, Paul?” One of his mates asks, but Paul’s too distracted to answer. He feels sick, light-headed, and weak. A part of him wonders if he should just surrender and sleep on the table, or even tumble over to the floor and submit his strength, worried that he won’t even be able to pull himself up without falling over.

Outside, Pete joins the crowd from where he was sitting in the pub. “That Paul might need a sleepin’ bag in there,” he says humorously, making everyone laugh.

“Is he that pissed?” Ivan asks. “What’s he thinkin’. That kid knows he can’t hold his booze,” he says, making everyone laugh.

“Shite, tell me ‘bout it. That sod looks ‘bout ready ta yack all over that pub. If he won’t topple over an’ faint or somethin’.”

John blinks at that, suddenly serious. Faint? He looks at Pete. “He aright? He asks, trying to sound casual, because caring is apparently the worst thing in the world.

Pete shrugs. “Er… dunno. I tried askin’, but he wouldn’t answer. Or, couldn’t.”

John frowns harder. What? What a thick sod! If he can’t answer obviously that means he's not okay! “Er… ‘m gonna… get a drink,” John lies, trying to sound casual as he sneaks off and enters the pub. He spots Paul, who’s slouching over the table, rubbing his face with his eyes squeezed shut.

As Paul opens his eyes, his vision is momentarily blurry. Christ, he felt so sick! He couldn’t tell up from down. He wished he hadn’t done any of this. He wished he was at home now.

Beside him, he spots John approaching him, and in a sudden, unexpected wave, his rage reactivates in his body, and despite himself and his just previous doubts, he impulsively swings at another bottle of beer and begins chugging it.

John catches up to him and snatches it out of his hand, mid sip. “Paul! Whaddya doin’, luv?!” John demands,

“F-fuck off, J-John,” Paul yell’s face scrunched in anger, as he tries to elbow the lad, but stops as it brings him a sudden wave of vertigo. He groans again.

John feels sweat beading his forehead with worry. Christ! What was Paul doing!?

“Stop Paul! Cut that out. We gotta get ya out of here!” John says, using all his power to move Paul, who’s incredibly resistant towards him.

“N-No! S-Screw you, Lennon! ‘M not… ‘M not goin’ anywher’ with you!” Paul says.

“Yes you are!”

“N-No! Y-Yer jus’ gon’ make me…” Paul starts, then John stops in realization.

He crouches before Paul. “What. No ‘m not! Of course not! C’mone, I’m gonna take ya home.” As Paul sits there, John examines his face. He looks at Paul, both his eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his breathing is heavy and strong and he’s moaning and wobbling in discomfort. “Christ, look at you,” John says, mostly to himself. He suddenly feels an array of guilt and regret wash over him.

Christ. It was his fault Paul’s like this. He brought him here. He pissed him off. He pressured him. And now… Now his poor Paulie looks so ill and sounded so lost and hurt.

Suddenly, Paul tumbles to the floor, his body giving out. John scatters to help him, alarmed that he’s passed out or something. He momentarily wonders if he should take Paul to the hospital. Was he still conscious? Was he breathing?

“Mmm! I feel s-so sick!” Paul whines, he looks and sounds like he’s about to cry. “I wanna go home,” he begs, although he doesn’t want to beg to John. He feels like he hates John right now.

John’s brows are furrowed tightly in concern. Christ, he’s such an idiot! How could he let this happen to Paul! How could he let him get so messed up! And how on earth could he be the cause of it?

John cupped Paul’s cheek. “Paulie, listen to me. We gotta get ya home, aright? I know ya feel like shit, but ‘m gonna help ya. I just wanna get ya home an’ make sure ye’re okay, aright? But ya gotta help me out and let me take ya. And I’ll make sure ye’re aright… I promise,” John says, looking deeply into Paul’s eyes. And despite Paul’s vision being blurry and the state that he’s in, he can tell this is the sincerest John’s ever been with him. He nods and allows John to help him up.

He groans as the room spins and his head pounds. John sneaks him out and gets him to the nearest bus stop. Paul barfs a couple times, to which John rubs his back and soothes him. Even kisses his head. On the bus, John’s trying to figure out a way to sneak Paul into his own house in this state. The McCartney residency was tough as nails. It’s almost impossible to do. Jim would undoubtedly catch them, and if he would, John would have no chance at staying.

He thinks frantically of what to do; how he can stick around to take care of Paul.

Finally…

Paul’s not going home. John takes him to his own place. The walk is challenging, but he holds Paul’s weight without a single complaint. Paul’s groaning aches him enough to forget how physically enduring he must be for this.

Inside, he sneaks Paul upstairs, and gets him cold water and advils. Paul chugs everything down, then takes a deep breath. John sees his breathing slow down, which he takes as a good sign and sighs in relief.

John’s crouched beside his bed, where Paul is lying with his eyes closed. John watches him with feelings of pain and regret in his body. John himself feels like he could weep. He did this to him. How could he? How could he do something like this to the bloke he loved. He should be protecting him, and taking care of him… not this!

John strokes the tops of Paul’s hairs. Lovingly this time. The way he’s been aching to do, but can’t bring himself to do in any other moment. “‘M sorry, luv,” he whispers, in the most gentle, hush tone. Paul seems to be asleep. And his aching has settled down. ‘Thank god!’

John undresses himself before laying with him beside the bed. He strokes the lad’s cheek, then kisses it. He kisses it again, and again, and nuzzles his nose into Paul’s face. He loved touching Paul; being close to him.

He… he wished he could show him that.

He stayed close this time. Right where he left off, he left his arm draped over Paul’s, face pressed to his, and fell asleep.

The next morning, Paul wakes up hung the fuck over. It takes him a moment to register the limb swung over his body. He frowns, completely confused. He has absolutely no recollection of last night.

He finally realizes he’s in John’s bedroom.

And that would mean… that would make this… John… sleeping against him like this. Spooning him from behind with an arm draped over his body.

As Paul shifts and turns around, he realizes John’s actually awake.

Wait, John’s awake?!?

Why is John cuddling on him like this?

“Hey,” John says. Paul doesn’t answer. John bites his lip. “How ya feelin’?”

“Hung over. Shite,” Paul says. His voice sounds hoarse and raspy. John offers him the extra advil beside his bed, which Paul takes with a large swig of water.

John strokes his cheek, pulling Paul’s interest. “‘M sorry I let this happen,” John sudden;y says, looking apologetic and guilty. “This is all my fault.”

Paul frowns at him. He still feels drowsy and very confused.

“What… What d’ya mean?” He asks. Why was he in John’s bed? ”Did somethin’ happen last night?” Paul asks. Meaning: did ya finally get me to suck you’re dick?

“No. I just… had ta make sure you were okay,” John admits. John leans in and kisses him. It was sweet, gentle, slow and… not? Leading to sex?

“You… You just kissed me,” Paul says. They’ve kissed before, but John knows what he means. He smiles at him. Then nods. John kisses him again.

“Yer not so bad a kisser,” John jokes, making Paul laugh happily, but sluggishly in the state that he’s in. “You, er… ya had me worried there,” John says, avoiding Paul’s gaze, and playing with his shirt collar.

Paul’s smiling at him. “That so?”

John meets his eyes and lets himself smile. Finally feeling refreshed that he can drop his pride. “Aye,” he lets himself admit. “‘M not lettin’ that happen t’ya again,” he says.

Paul grabs his wrist; the one up close to his collar; and holds it. He yawns suddenly. “‘M feelin’ still sleepy,” Paul says.

John grins. “Go back ta sleep. I’ll be here when ya wake up.”

Paul listens, turning into John, who welcomes him. “Ya gonna make me do sick favors fer ya then?”

John kisses him again. Then whispers, “no,” which Paul is so happy to hear, he almost can’t believe it.

“Johnny?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks.”

John smiles instead of speaking, before kissing Paul’s head, pulling him close, and holding him as he sleeps. He likes it like this. No more hiding himself from Paul. Suddenly, their relationship seems to have changed once again. Only this time, thay have a feeling they’ll like it.

#mclennon #fic request #mclennon fics #thanks anon! #i wrote this instead of sleeping #tropes #:) #here ya go! #will post on ao3 soon

[throwthewine]

Something I’m never going to stop thinking about is that enigmatic exchange between John and Paul in 1969 in the lunchroom (after George quits) that goes like:

John: It’s like how I would be like, “Do you like me??” to you—I always sorta played that one.

Paul: …Yeah. Yeah, I’m aware.

John: Sure, right.

Paul: I’ve been watching… I’ve been watching the picture.

Idk, I feel like it speaks to the levels of insecurity and anxiety on both ends of the relationship. Familiar mistrust maybe.

For some context, in the same conversation, John talks about “maneuvering” and “playing games” with people, how he’s been trying in recent years to stop, and how he’s been aware of himself doing that since childhood (unlike Paul, who seems to think he’s been doing so unwittingly (making John and especially George doubt themselves in composing and let Paul lead) although John seems to doubt this, since, as he says, he’s always been highly aware of the tendency in himself).

I think it’s a kinda wild thing John just throws out there, like “I play games with your affection” (but why? for Paul’s affection actually? Or ulterior motives? Or both?) and Paul tries to play it cool (“you can’t manipulate me, because I know what you’re doing”) and then John tries to play it cool about that (“sure, fine, the game is played on multiple levels”). Meanwhile Yoko is sitting there with them, clearly picking up on these insane vibes and just goes, “Back to the topic of George! What are we going to do about George?”

And this is just a few hours after the insane exchange where John looks at Paul and says, “When I touch you, I feel happy inside. Ask me why, I’ll say I love you,” and Paul says, “What you need is a schedule.” Is John trying to take it back? Create plausible deniability by suggesting it’s a strategic play? Or on a deeper level is itself another bid for Paul’s affection, asking him again if he cares by reminding him that he’s asked this before? Is it just a simple confession? (I think it probably actually is mostly that. But I’m not sure that’s how Paul takes it?)

What does John even mean by “do you like me?” Like, back in the time he’s referencing. Was it about guilting Paul into validating John, testing Paul’s commitment to their friendship and getting him to side with him or do things for him for that? Teasing Paul about liking him too much or in the wrong way? For what, to make Paul nervous or throw him off?

And on Paul’s end, how nerve wracking would this be? Wouldn’t he wonder what John is really doing, what John’s feelings really are or how much he means anything? It’s so interesting to me that his first impulse in response to it is to try to save face (and not question, or anything else). Are both of these exchanges typical and have they characterized years of their relationship?

#ramble thoughts #john and paul #I’m probably slightly misquoting the exchange—just wrote it from memory #I’ll add a link to amoralto’s audio later

[jackalsinthekitchen]

aladdin sane is fifty

a look back from the future on an album that predicted it

Hey sweetie – do you think you could sit a little bit, you know… stiller? I know, I know, I’m sorry – I can tell you’re anxious about time, but don’t worry, I’ve got my eye on it. We’ll at least get you there before the party really picks up. Yeah, yeah, I’m joking. And yeah, OK, I wouldn’t know. Does your generation not do “fashionably late”?

Anyway, I know part of your mood is that you really didn’t want your old dad to do your makeup for you. Your mom has the magic artist’s hands; I knock over every third thing I touch. Just try to relax, OK? Here: let me tell you about the album this look comes from. Nobody knows the album, but everybody knows the cover.

Sometimes I wonder what “kids” these days think about Bowie. Yeah, old kids like you – old enough to have started thinking like adults, or at least making a very serious attempt of it. I mean, he’s the kind of public figure you just know about, from early on – I know you think I’m old, but God, I’d love to be old enough to have seen him when he was something new. It’s impossible to imagine the joyous shock of it. Yes, I did just say “joyous shock”. Hold still. I don’t know – young people seem to sort of idolize him by default. His cool has no parallels, after all. In a way, he is directly culturally responsible for my trend-bucking, impossibly stylish nonbinary teen.

But what do you think about his music? Like, what three songs come to mind first? OK, cool, “Rebel Rebel”. The one moment of uninterrupted brilliance on a great, if flawed, album – the one with the cover that you always used to get scared of. “Major Tom”, OK – it’s called “Space Oddity”, I know you knew that, though saying it out loud makes me realize it’s the kind of title you could only get away with in 1969. “Ashes to Ashes”, nice. Deep cut, I’m proud. So do people your age know that Bowie made almost no listenable music after the album “Ashes to Ashes” is on? Sure, sure, “Let’s Dance”. “Modern Love”, OK. And then yeah, Blackstar, at the end. Bowie spent a lot longer just being Bowie than he spent doing the kind of work that fixes a name in the stars for good. He did it all in one artful burst, one it had taken him a while to conceive.

I know you know “Ziggy Stardust”; you knew all the words before you knew what they meant. Hell, I don’t know even what some of them mean – what’s this about a fly trying to break our bones? That was my album, kid. I was 12, and it was 1999. You know, you just can’t start an album with something as beautiful as “Five Years” and expect people won’t play the whole thing over and over just to get back to it again and again. Honestly, that was the thing that first struck me about Bowie. His melodies. So many of those early songs were as gorgeous as he was. Those strings on “Space Oddity”, from the master – Paul Buckmaster, to be precise. Sorry – dad joke. “Life On Mars?”, God, try not to cry while you’re straining to hit that note. OK, sure, yeah. You don’t have to strain, but.

But the other thing that struck me was my sense that this person was just different. All those decades after he’d landed on Earth, the dangerous things he flirted with still felt… dangerous. I mean, it was still not OK to be gay in 1999. The threat of permanent othering greeted your every transgressive sashay before your mind even completed the thought. All those old hateful clichés were waiting around the corner to strike you dead in the face. Yes, yes, I know you know your dad’s not gay, and wonder if you know that neither, perhaps, was Bowie.

While Elton John, the other biggest pop star at the time, was stuck agonizing in his closet, Bowie made it cool to overtly suggest you switched sides on a whim. Just by coming on like he did, Bowie liberated millions into doing far more than he perhaps ever tried himself. And even for fans who weren’t gay, but weren’t conventionally masculine, he kicked open a door: now, threading that needle between masculine and feminine was fashionable. There were countless who’d been waiting forever for this.

Progress isn’t linear, of course – everything got wrenched back six steps in the eighties, Bowie included. But once you open the box, it’s hard get it all back in. For me, a boy who never felt anything like a “boy”, but was pretty sure he wasn’t gay or trans, Bowie threw light on a secret space: with the right amount of conviction, you could be anything. It was all in that voice – that indulgently theatrical, unabashedly British voice, in a perpetual search for the feyest cadence. Bowie stitched his image together from a zillion borrowed ideas. But nobody has ever sounded quite like him since, and believe me – hundreds upon hundreds have tried.

The funny thing is, Bowie actually took forever to figure himself out. He was one of those young people whose life was fueled entirely by the art he encountered, and one of those young people possessed with this nagging sense that they were destined for something unimaginably big. Of course, it was hard for a young white British man not to suspect this in the wake of the Beatles. In 1964, however many Brit kids believed in God, all had faith in this giant hand in the sky that would whisk you away to American stardom – provided you started a group with guitars and matching suits. So Bowie formed one, playing blues covers, which perhaps he should have been legally barred from ever doing.

But the key to Bowie is that he wasn’t really a musician. He had almost no technical facility. He’d had training, sure – as a mime. But not only could he not play any instrument particularly well (including the saxophone you couldn’t rip out of his hands), he couldn’t actually sing that well. People don’t usually notice this, because his voice is so arresting. But Bowie’s one of the greatest non-singers pop ever saw. It was all fabulous contrivance, every vocal the sound of a man circling his favorite songs or albums like a vulture. That silly band he formed was doing Velvet Underground covers back when less than a thousand people knew about them. He always saw pop music as a concept, and he’d road-tested multiple theories before the eureka.

His first three albums are total miscalculations. The forced whimsy of the first David Bowie, from ’67 right before Sgt. Pepper blew a billion minds, is the only music he ever made that sounds completely dated. The album feels like him trying on a dozen different funny hats, and all of them are the wrong hat. When I was growing up, that album was seen a false start, and was harder to find than the others, which is just fine. You used to like “The Laughing Gnome” when you were little, you know. Oh – you don’t remember that one? Well, forget I said anything. If you go and play it, you’ll stop speaking to me, and I’m not ready for that phase just yet.

Anyway, he realized he hadn’t pulled off what he wanted to, and for a minute, flirted with being half of a duo – like Simon & Garfunkel. Can you imagine? But then he struck gold with “Space Oddity”, a hit so beloved nobody cared that the rest of the album sucked. It’s a bunch of acid-damaged freak-folk, and yeah, I just made it sound cool as hell, but it’s not. It’s boring and distracted and not one song is anywhere near as good as “Space Oddity”. So he tried rebranding again with The Man Who Sold the World, another strange, poorly defined collection of rambling non-songs, this time with a bunch of electric rather than acoustic guitars. Oh yeah, no – that’s not a Nirvana song. But Kurt Cobain was really good at rescuing songs. At this point, Bowie’s whole deal was that he really didn’t see his own strengths.  But he got the cover right: himself, elegantly reclining in a satin dress. Naturally, in America it was replaced with a horrible drawing of an unshaven, gunslinging cowboy.

But all of a sudden, with Hunky Dory, he knew what he was doing. It’s the first of three albums that I think sum up what people think of when they think of “Bowie”. Then came four decades of using that image and its stardom as a license to do the most unexpected things he could think of. But Bowie’s genuinely weird albums always have this dour, almost museum-y vibe. From ’71-’73, he’s having insane fun, in the most contagious way possible.

Look – Hunky Dory is still probably his best record. In a way, that cover is perfect, and sets the tone for everything to come. What face is he making, exactly? It’s said to be an imitation of Marlene Dietrich or Lauren Bacall or somebody – I’d look it up right now if I wasn’t totally nailing the end of this lightning bolt, just wait till you see this. But something about it… his eyes glancing up to heaven, or maybe his home planet, there’s something mock-desperate but also actually desperate in his face. Even without the dress he exudes feminine allure. And the songs, God, the songs, a menagerie of styles that sums him up so well he could’ve crashed on the jet to America with his entire legacy secured.

“Changes” is on that one! Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Yeah! Nice. OK, but if you keep singing, you’re guaranteeing that your dad is going to make you look like you did this yourself without a mirror. You can “turn and face the stranger” later – right now turn and face me, please. We’re so close, kid.

But Ziggy Stardust really set things in motion. Androgyny wasn’t the only untapped territory waiting to be mined by a superstar. By 1972, America was getting a little sick of hippies. There was a deep craving, especially in the UK, for the shock of the new – out with beards and jeans and back-to-the-earth, in with femme looks and outlandish outfits and outsider myths about outer space. Bowie songs like “Five Years” and “All the Young Dudes” – you know Bowie wrote that, right? – were “carrying news” of a truly apocalyptic conclusion to society, one he really thought was coming soon. He decided that the world would notice better if the warning were coming from a sexy, dangerous, genderless alien, and that it would require a special vessel: namely, the catchiest pop songs he’d ever written.

Still, none of that was the true breakthrough. This was actual rock theatre – Bowie was pretending to be “Ziggy Stardust”, on record and on stage, with all the commitment of an actor, and a good one, which ironically he really wasn’t. But offstage, he was coy about the difference between Ziggy and David. This was an inversion of the unique thing about musicians, as opposed to movie stars. It’s performance, but also a kind of reality, in that the person you’re seeing perform really is that person, filtering themselves through music. Bowie was taking the Dylan trick of shifting one’s identity further – you could occupy two identities at once, and you could deliberately blur the line between real and fake. And god knows, in the drug-addled rush of his heyday, that line got blurred in Bowie’s own head. Like so many spectacles, it was built to flash so bright and burn out so quickly. But for that brief, bizarre moment, it conquered the world – because it cut a picture that had never been cut, and filled a space that had never been filled.

Aaaaaaaaaaaand OK. We’re done. Let’s get you over to the mirror – oh, wait, shit. What time is it? How long have I been talking? Weren’t you watching the clock? No, no, OK, yeah, I told you to sit still and face me… Look, we can absolutely make it. If I take that backroad route the cops usually avoid, I can probably get you there no more than fifteen minutes late. And you know I will go to jail if I need to, so long as it gets you there! Alright – grab your shoes. We’ll listen to Aladdin Sane in the car, and I’ll tell you more.

–

God, I love this one. Watch that maaaaaaa-ee-aaaaaaan… Yes, I saw it turn green. I’m just savoring the moment! It’s what life’s all about. Anyway, the thing about 1973 is that it was the first year that the Rolling Stones made a bad album. But that year, a whole bunch of people started putting out Rolling Stones songs better than they could. Elton John, the New York Dolls, Bowie. The best thing about Aladdin Sane is that army of crunching guitars. See, Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust, they’re not really rock ‘n’ roll records. They play with cabaret and beautiful ballads, all sorts of soft stuff. But for the most part, Aladdin Sane, which also plays with cabaret and beautiful ballads, KICKS ASS. Absolute ass. It’s the sound of the prettiest star, #1 in the UK and a wildfire rumor everywhere else, high on his own supply.

The thing about the Ziggy Stardust “concept” or “story” is that there really isn’t one. It’s all just scenes and songs, loosely linked together. Same with the Diamond Dogs album, which was originally supposed to be a musical about 1984 before George Orwell’s widow took legal action to stop him. So Aladdin Sane is often described as “Ziggy Goes to Washington”, the obsessed-with-America album. And the character Aladdin Sane, the one I just painted you to look like, is often described as a kind of Ziggy-Stardust-from-another-angle. But that’s really all the “concept” there is – and Bowie later admitted that his ideas were much vaguer for this album. Which is fine! He wasn’t an actor or storyteller or playwright or even a mime. He was a rock musician, so the concept of this album is “self-made androgynous alien superstar gets to make an album from the pinnacle of worldwide fame for the first time”. This is Bowie leaning back and enjoying being Bowie, thrilling to how well he’s curated the image he now inhabited from stage to stage.

But that was short-lived: at the end of the year he declaimed from one such stage that he was retiring from performance for good. Obviously, it didn’t take. Bowie wouldn’t be trapped by an image any more than Bob Dylan would – at a moment’s notice, he’d switch his costume and his sound. But because he didn’t yet know how smoothly he could execute those ch-ch-ch-ch-changes – sorry – something about Aladdin Sane is a little confused, the kind of album that doesn’t know exactly what it wants to be. This is probably why people don’t put it on lists of the greatest records of all time. Also, “Time” sucks. Here, listen to that one. No, wait, let me fast forward to this bit. This stupid bit in the middle, after the stupid bit about how time “falls wanking to the floor”, this bit where he talk-sings “screeeeams!” in the most self-parodic way possible. Honestly, I start to like it when the chorus builds at the coda. And I mean, look up the lyrics to “Watch That Man” one day. No one was better at hiding terrible ideas in terrific songs.

There’s an attitude throughout this album, a tough and liberated attitude that animates you like the cocaine Bowie was having for breakfast around this time. No, I’ve never tried it, I’ve told you that. And you’d do well to follow my example. Just look at Bowie, baby. Do you want to wake up one day having no memory of recording some of your greatest music, or deciding you should only eat milk and peppers, or having so fogged your mind you get caught by paparazzi doing a Nazi salute just for the hell of it? Anyway, this album hypes you all the way up. “Cracked Actor”? Crack, baby, crack, show me your reel… He was never this menacing, this pointed, this savage. Put that in my ears and I’ll run that mile in double time. Or even the why-did-you-do-this? cover of the Stones’ “Let’s Spend the Night Together”, on which he triples the intensity while dispassionately ripping all the tenderness out of it.

Shoot! I haven’t even mentioned Mick Ronson! Mick Ronson is the reason all the guitar solos on these albums sound like sorcery. Mick Ronson was the deputy of Bowie’s dreams. Honestly, I don’t need to say anything about Mick Ronson. Just google “David Bowie Mick Ronson” right now, and feast your eyes.

But what was I talking about. Uhhh… yeah. There was a lot on Bowie’s mind on this album. He’s obsessed with the US, but still hung up on the apocalypse stuff too. So you get the futurist doo-wop of “Drive-In Saturday”, about kids learning how to make out from watching clips of Mick Jagger in Performance – please do not do this – or “Panic in Detroit”, about god knows what. These songs are Bowie at his best as a lyricist – chopped-up lines that are all frantic suggestion, a gumbo of weird images adding up to a feeling, as opposed to a story. They cloud upbeat music in a doomy mood, and the juxtaposition is genius. And then there’s “Jean Genie”! Which is said to be about Iggy Pop, who was one of many forgotten pioneers Bowie used his power to resurrect by producing their records in ‘72 and ’73 – Mott the Hoople, Lou Reed… I said that Bowie should go to prison for trying to play the blues. But! When he filters it through his lilywhite cyborg vision, when that hard soul grows steel-cold and passion fossilizes into deadpan indifference…

OK, OK. I’ll stop. No, I don’t know why your dad talks like that. But who knows? Maybe pretension is hereditary. And if Bowie taught us anything, it’s that pretension is cool, if you have a little fun with it.

Anyway, we’re five minutes away, says here. Which is perfect, because it’s just enough time for us to listen to all of the title track. I’ll shut up for all five if you will. Well, no, I’ve barely let you get a word in edgewise, so you can talk. But you must keep perfectly silent for the entirety of the piano solo at 2:03.

…

Fuck.

Oh shit – pretend you didn’t hear that. Ah, fuck it – who am I to restrict you from any part of the vast and diverse plains of language? It’s a powerful word, Vinyl – deploy it only when necessary.

Oh, and that album cover? That makeup was designed by a guy called Pierre LaRoche, and was supposedly inspired by the logo on a rice cooker in photographer Brian Duffy’s studio. That album cover? That album cover was the most expensive album cover ever printed at the time. I guess they knew what Bowie was worth. Anyway, call if it gets close to midnight, and let me look at you one more time before you go in. Ahhhhh… yeah! Just about perfect, if I do say so myself, though I’m no Pierre Laroche. The lighting’s usually pretty dark at these parties, right?

#aladdin sane #david bowie

[victorian-miner]

j+p no. 7?

So apparently “ficlet” means nothing to me and I’ll just keep writing til they decide to shut up. Thanks for the ask!

7. things you said while we were driving

John presses his forehead against the cool windowpane, watching the grey English countryside pass by in flashes of shadow. This isn't the only tour they'll be on this year, far from it. Brian already has them booked nearly every day for the next two months. It was exciting at first. Now, much like the landscape outside, the days are beginning to blur.

Paul, in the seat next to him, nudges him gently. John doesn't respond, just presses his forehead more forcefully against the glass. Paul pokes him, harder this time, and John keeps his head turned away because if Paul sees his face he'll see the smile he's trying to hide.

“John,” Paul whispers, “I know you’re awake.”

John holds out a moment longer, but when Paul’s touch turns ticklish, he quickly jerks away and turns back to face his bandmate. The grin on Paul’s face quashes any annoyance that might’ve been building.

“Knew you were awake,” Paul says, smug.

“What’s your consulting fee, Mr. Holmes?” 

Paul shoves him, and as his hair falls into his face, out of the carefully combed hairstyle Brian has them wearing, John catches a glimpse of the boy he used to be. Before him, it seems, is the fifteen-year-old that wormed his way into John’s band, and his heart. As of yet, John hasn’t been able to get him out.

John swallows back the lump that’s materialized in his throat. “What’d ya wake me for?”

Paul shakes his hair out of his eyes. “Thought you might want to write.”

The truth is that John doesn’t see himself ever declining that request. But he’ll also never pass up the opportunity to mess with Paul. So he turns his gaze back to the window and squints at the blurry darkness. “It’s half past three.”

He hears the leer in Paul’s voice before he turns to watch it play across his face. “We’ve done worse things at three in the morning.”

John snorts, not quite willing to conceal his smile. “Hush, son.” He peers over the seat in front of them, but the only person within earshot is George, and he’s sleeping soundly. “Alright, do you have a pen?”

Paul smiles, reaching behind his seat to produce a pen and the worn notebook that’s covered in their handwriting, which he passes to John. John stares at it as he takes it.

“I thought you would have an idea, since you’re the one who wants to write.”

Paul blushes as he ducks his head. “Figured you might need to get some things out of that head of yours.”

John’s fingers stop their skimming across the notebook’s cover and clench along the spine. “Yeah.” He turns to a blank page. “Didn’t think you’d noticed that.”

Paul’s palm lands light on his hand, lingering there for a moment before traveling toward the crook of John’s elbow and resting there. The heat from his touch travels from John’s arm and deep inside. John resists the urge to tug at his collar. “Of course I did.” Paul’s voice is almost too soft in the night that surrounds them. 

“Well. I did. Do. Have an idea.” John’s words feel thick in his throat as he watches Paul’s fingers curl around his arm. 

“Yeah?” Paul moves his hand, tucking it under his thigh. “What’ve ya got?”

“Well it’s your typical corny love shit,” John says.

Paul smiles. “I like your corny love shit.”

John snorts. Yeah, he probably does. “I was thinking about how...” He lets out a breath, gripping the pen and pretending to think. Like these thoughts haven’t been swirling in his mind for months. Years, really. “If there’s anything that you want, anything I can do, just call on me and I’ll send it along.” He swallows, mouth dry. “With love from me to you.”

Paul doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but then his hand slips back toward John’s, this time staying there and weaving their fingers together. “You should write that bit down.”

“Do you think?” John looks out the window to calm the rabbiting of his heart. It’s still the early hours of the morning, the dark blur outside now comforting rather than overwhelming. Now, it’s almost like they’re the only thing in the entire world. Their hands twisted together, each side of the notebook resting on one of their legs, John lets himself forget about the rest of the year looming before them.

Paul presses closer, ostensibly to get a better look at the page that John’s now writing on, though they’re not performing for anyone but themselves. “I do.”

John nods, pleased, and hands him the pen. He barely has to move, honestly, the degree to which Paul is leaning into him. “Now your turn.”

'things you said' asks

#very loosely (VERY) based on them writing from me to you in the back of a bus on tour in 63 #this is in no way trying to be historically accurate #john wrote the first verse of this and that's all we know so that's what i went with #mclennon #john and paul #mywriting #tomvorikandharry #asks #my attempt at writing fluff because another ficlet i'm working on is All Angst #(it's an india fic so yk) #also this isn't proofread At All my apologies i hope you like it #john lennon #paul mccartney

[asphalt-cocktail]

okay sin sunday !! what if reader is feeling really self-conscious and one of the beatles (or all of them 👀👀) just worship the reader’s body and tell them how gorgeous they are,,, and make them cum like 4 times 😳

Oh my god I love this idea! I’ve been thinking about writing something like this so I’m excited you suggested it. This turned out WAAAYYYY longer than I expected. But if you want me to write another one where they have a proper fuck let me know! Because I also have that idea brewing 👀👀👀

Warnings: group sex, smut, oral(f), fingering, some body shaming and confidence issues, body worship

Your ears burned with embarrassment and anger as you pushed your way onto the plane through the crowd of people.

“I can’t believe they’d let someone who looks like that work for them.” The crew of girls snickered as they talked about you, oblivious to the fact that you were in ear shot.

The burning in your ears traveled up your cheeks and spread down the back of your neck as you stood in the tiny plane bathroom and stared at yourself in the mirror. You poked and prodded at your face, your big nose, and lopsided eyes then you smushed your belly in your fingers and let out a sigh. Maybe they were right.

“Hoy, you almost done in there love?” You could hear ringo knocking from the other side and quickly composed yourself.

“Yeah I’ll be out in a minute.” You answered back shortly before you exited.

The rest of the plane ride you sat some distance away from the boys, using the excuse of paperwork and the fact that you needed to get some sleep to not arise any suspicions.

After the plane landed you holed yourself up in the hotel room.

“Don’t you want to have a drink with us?” Paul’s eyes pleaded with you. It was tradition that after you landed you all sat down for a card game and drinks before sleeping the first night in your new hotel room.

You shrugged your shoulders “nah I’m kind of beat after the last flight.” Paul looked at you with a pouty expression and the way johns eyes narrowed as he looked at you told you he didn’t buy it. But neither of them said anything

The following evening as you all rushed to enter the the hotel after a business day of interviews and photo shoots you could hear girls again talking about you, “oh my god those shoes?” and “god can you believe they let her leave with her hair like that?”hammered in your ears.

Your throat felt tight and your eyes burned, a little hiccup left your mouth and you rubbed your stinging eyes with the palm of your hand. George looked at you and squinted his eyes as you all waited for the elevator, “are you... are you crying?” He asked loudly.

You blinked hard and felt hot tears run down your cheeks “no.” You said weakly and quickly rushed I to the elevator as the doors slid open. You crossed your arms over your chest and your lips pressed into a tight frown.

“What’s wrong?” John pressed, putting an arm in your shoulder.

You shrugged it off and walked off the elevator, thankful to hear it ding and see the doors open to the floor your room was on, “I’m fine.” You hiccuped quickly walking off.

When you got to your room door, you fumbled you with your keys before you finally broke and let out a soft sob, hoping the boys were far enough away that they couldn’t hear.

“Oh, come on love, we only want to help.” Ringo said staring at you with his droopy blue eyes.

Your lip quivered and you let yourself in, the boys followed shutting the door and turning towards you. You covered your face with your hands feeling Johns firm arms embracing you in a tight hug. His broad body surrounded you, making you feel comforted and protected from the mean words that dug I to your brain.

“I feel ugly.” You choked out, crying and leaving tear stains on Johns suit jacket.

You could feel their eyes burning into your back as John tried to soothe you, rubbing your back softly. The awkward silence told you that they didn’t know how to react, “what makes you think that?” You could hear George swallow thickly after he spoke, like he was trying to choose his words with military precision.

“The girls outside always say bad things about me.” You said finally pulling away and moving to sit on the edge of your bed, John followed holding your hand in your lap. You played with his fingers, tracing them and admiring the callouses and roughness of his palms.

“What girls?” Paul asked

“She means the ones downstairs.” George answered

You sheepishly looked away from them, “I don’t know why you guys keep me around, I’m no good.” You huffed out.

Paul gaped at you, “what do you mean no good?” He scoffed.

“Well there was the time I told you the wrong time for the interviews back in New York and we showed up on the wrong day, or the time I forgot ringos cymbals at the venue, or when I tripped over your guitar stand in the studio and knocked all the papers over.” You whimpered softly and rubbed your eyes, feeling more tears forming, “you guys should really get someone prettier who is more organized.”

John squeezed your hand, “a forgotten cymbal and some messed up papers are hardly a thing to get fired over. Hell Neil didn’t strap our guitars down and they busted all down the high way and we didn’t even fire him.” His hand cupped your cheek and forced you to look at him, “and don’t ever say you aren’t pretty.” The way he stared at you told you he was deadly serious.

You swallowed thickly and placed your hand over his, “Brian wouldn’t have hired you if he didn’t think you were worth it. You know how much of a perfectionist he is.”

Ringo hummed in agreement, “I knkw it’s easier said than done, but don’t listen to those girls out there. They don’t have anything on you okay!”

Paul nodded his head, “very easy on the eyes, love” he said and gave you a quick wink.

Your face felt hot and you quickly looked away and played with the hem of your blazer, rubbing the stiff fabric between your fingers, “I don’t know, they always say my hair looks bad and that I’m ugly or my nose is too big.” You still felt bad thinking about their words.

“Well do they know that you wake up two hours before everyone else to take your hair out of your funny little curlers every morning?” John asked

Your face whipped over to him, “how do you know I do that?”

Johns face flushed and he shrugged, “I hear you rummaging about when we get those fancy villas.” He admitted. He swallowed thickly and looked at the three other men.

The silence told you that they were conversing. It was something that only they seemed to be able to do with eachother, talk with looks they only they understood.

Paul cleared his throat before the silence could get uncomfortable, “here why don’t you lay back and if you wanted we could show you. You know how much we appreciate you.”

You could feel the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck and spreading across your cheeks, “what, what do you mean?” You asked.

John put his hand on your shoulder, “let us take care of you, yeah?” His eyes searched your face for any uncertainty.

“We can stop anytime you like.” Ringo added quickly.

You swallowed thickly and nodded your head, “Okay, I can do that” you said more to reassure yourself that you weren’t going crazy.

John sat back against the plush hotel pillows and patted his legs, encouraging you to settle between them. You hesitated for a moment and looked at the three men standing in your room trying to decide if they were taking the piss. The nischevious glint in Paul’s eyes wasnt the same as when he and John were scheming, no it was something you’ve never seen before.

You crawled over and laid against John’s chest, admiring how his body was soft and firm. You let out a shaky gasp feeling his hands rubbing your arms and brushing your hair out of the way, he tipped your chin back with his forefinger and placed a timid kiss on your lips.

The kiss was nothing you’d expect from big tough John. It was soft and sweet, like he was kissing for you to enjoy and only you. You let out a soft whimper and craned your neck at an awkward angle, wanting to take in more of him. He pulled away and smiled devilishly at you seeing your flushed face and dazed eyes.

All at once you felt the bed dip around you and you suddenly remembered there were three other people in the room. You felt a wave of embarrassment begin to wash over you.

Paul nudged your legs open with his knees and you hesitantly spread them open, now overwhelminlgly aware of how your cloths had begun to stick to your skin from sweat. When did it get so hot?

You reached to unbutton your blouse but your hands were caught between George’s long slender fingers. He gave you a kind smile and worked your buttons, placing soft kisses down your chest as each button exposed more and more of your skin. Your stomach twitched and you saw George hovering over your exposed tummy “don’t” you quickly said in a panicked voice.

George nuzzled his face against your soft tummy and kissed it, “please don’t be nervous, you’re gorgeous.” You could feel his lips moving against your skin and shivered at his words.

The three men removed the remainder of your cloths with soft touches and kind glances that reminded you this was about you, not them; and soon you were bare before them.

Paul slipped to the side while Ringo took his place. Paul placed little kisses along the outside of your spread legs while Ringo’s fingers lightly raised up them, the cool metal of his rings burning against your hot flesh. You squirmed as they both got closer and closer to your core. You watched with anticipation as both boys hungrily eyed you.

To your surprise Ringo was the first to act, swiping on of his thick fingers and gathering your slick on them before he inserted one into you. You let out a weak sigh and your walls twitched when you realized that George, John, and Paul also let out soft sounds of satisfaction and watched as Ringo’s thick finger pumped in and out of you with ease.

Your mind began to swim, feeling Paul kissing and sucking on your thighs and hips before kissing the top of your mound. Your hips jolted with surprise and your squirmed feeling the tip of his tongue expertly flick against your swollen clit.

You bit your lip hard and struggled to keep quiet, while staring at the two men at your lower half. Paula tongue traced rapid shapes against your clit as Ringk inserted another finger, “Jesus Christ,” you hissed out loudly, your back arching against John and your shoulders pressing into him.

John hummed and nuzzled your neck, kissing snd sucking on the sensitive skin, “love those pretty little sounds you make.” He whispered heavily in your ear. You shivered and tried to maintain your composure, but all sensibility was lost upon feeling George’s rough hands kneading your breasts and peppering your collarbone and chest with wet kisses.

Your mind began to swim with overstimulation, George’s hot mouth sucking and swirling your nipples against his tongue while Johns hand eagerly took to pinching and twisting the neglected ones while he whispered things that would make even the most foul mouthed sailors blush. Paul’s talented tongue flicking and lapping at your clit while ringos thick fingers pumped in and out of your soft wet walls.

George trailed kisses up your neck and jaw before placing an opened mouthed kiss on you, it made your toes curl feeling his tongue rubbing against yours while John kissed your neck. You brought your hand up to rub George through his tailored suit pants. He broke the kiss and lightly pulled your hand away, “this is about you” he said softly. He was so close you could feel his lips lightly brushing against yours as he spoke snd feel his hot breath on your face. “You look gorgeous like this, you knkw that right” he asked after placing a quick succession of lingering kisses in your lips, “taking us so well, suck a good girl, bloody brilliant”

Your face scrunched up and your walls twitched around ringos fingers. You were close. Heat began to build in your belly and your thighs flexed, “I-”you could hardly recognize your voice as you struggled to find your words.

“You gonna come for us?” Ringo asked, the pace of his fingers speeding up.

You let out a breathy whine and bucked your hips. Your hands traveled from George, to John, to Paul, unsure of where to ground yourself. Finally you settled with one hand in Paul’s hair, pushing his face closer to you while the other hand gripped John’s hand tightly. Paul’s lips lewly smacked as he sucked your clit and he let out a satisfied him, “Oh fuck” you huffed out.

Your breathy mains climbed in pitch and your back arched until suddenly your mind went blank and your skin felt like TV static. Your walls clenched around Ringos fingers as he and Paul worked you through your orgasm. Your mind felt fogged over like the morning after too much drink and your thighs felt sticky from your mess.

John, or was it George? Someone kissed your temple and you let out a content sigh, much too exhausted in that moment to open your eyes and check.

“I think you’ve killed her,” John said, cheeky as ever.

You hummed and arched your brow as it to say “I’m still here” and lazily opened your eyes.

The first face you saw was Paul, his pouty lips red and wide eyes hanging heavy as he placed an opened mouthed kiss on your lips. Paul’s were almost analytical, You could taste yourself on his mouth and moaned into the kiss. He eagerly swallowed up your sounds before pulling away and kissing the tip of your nose. A gesture so innocent in comparison to your prior actions.

You hadn’t noticed ringo left the room until he returned to the room with a warm washcloth. As attentive as ever, he cleaned your mess from your thighs. As he finished you grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, the way he kissed was wildly different from John, Paul, and George. The way John kissed you was tender, he kissed you for your pleasure while George’s were fiery and passionate. Paul was analytical, like he was always trying to get one step ahead of you as though it were a competition. But ringo he was soft, his mouth moved against yours with care, for a moment you forgot the rest of the boys were in the room. He smiled for a moment and pulled away.

Once your light and airy high passed you sat up from John’s chest. John looked at you “i don’t to ever hear you say bad things about yourself again.” He said like a mother scolding a child. His serious facade passed and a ghost of a smile played on his lips “if you do we might have to do this again.”

You smiled and let out a small laugh, “i don’t know if I’ve gotten the point across maybe I could use another reminder later.”

George grinned, “we’ll have to check with our fab assistant to see if it fits into our schedules.”

#the beatles x reader #george harrison x reader #john lennon x reader #paul mccartney x reader #ringo starr x reader #sin Sunday #ac asks #smut

[uppastthejelliclemoon]

Uppast's Cats Tour Comments: Act 2

act 2 for my tour comments! this finishes the show, though i'll make another one or two posts about specific characters!

Moments of Happiness

Deut just... walked out with about 5 minutes left to intermission, and it was the best. I got some good Deut pictures because of that!

Coricopat and Tantomile greeting Cassandra was precious

I definitely get the vibes that Coricopat and Tantomile are Deuteronomy's "advisors" or something like that, because they're ALWAYS around him.

Ugh, Brianna has SUCH a sweet voice for Sillabub.

Tugger laying on the oven, he likes being tall 😌

The part where they all jump up and stand frozen??? Chills, literal chills.

Gus the Theater Cat/Pekes and Pollicles

The babies love storytime with Gus!!!

Plato was sitting behind the Kitten Squad, and I got massive big brother vibes from him, he just needs to make sure they aren't getting into trouble!

Demeter and BOmbalurina were on either side of Old Deuteronomy with Munkustrap standing behind them, and Mistoffelees was sitting on the pipe!! Family photo!

Tugger's still on the oven, i love it.

I love Kayli as Jellylorum! She's got the mothering personality down perfectly!

John is SUCH a great Gus, I love how dramatic he got.

Tugger and Mistoffelees exchanging a look and having an exchange with one another during the song, i love them.

OH OH SO once Munkustrap leaves to take over "Pekes and the Pollicles", Tugger goes to sit with Old Deuteronomy. He is literally having SO MUCH FUN during the play, he and Old Deut are so proud of Munkustrap.

ALSO DEUT WAS GROOMING TUGGER'S FUR HE'S SUCH A GOOD DAD

Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat

First off, Christopher is Skimbleshanks. Just... he's Skimbleshanks.

Okay, so Skimbleshanks waved to Jennyanydots because she was up on the scaffolding watching, and my heart exploded.

Tugger was having the time of his life. He didn't steal the spotlight, but there was one moment where he was straight up headbanging and I couldn't stop laughing.

Christopher's mannerisms as Skimbleshanks were just perfect! He got the Skimble vibe down!

Tumblebrutus being blown away by Skimble's glass green eyes, RIP Tumble

Macavity/Macavity Fight

OHHHHHHHHHH HERE WE GO

Macavity costume? Perfection, no one can tell me otherwise.

As soon as Macavity showed up, Munkustrap IMMEDIATELY went to shield Demeter from him. He had his back to Macavity and everything, and was looking down at her making sure she was okay.

Macavity attacked Munkustrap before kidnapping Old Deut, and the positions changed! Demeter crouched over Munkustrap, and Bombalurina and a few other cats went to check on him as Macavity left.

Lauren and Chelsea's vocals AGAIN!! Lauren's Demeter was perfect, she was bitter, a little reminiscent, but you could TELL there was very bad blood between Demeter and Macavity. Chelsea was such a good jaded Bombalurina, and their dynamic was amazing.

I love the idea of Sillabub being the youngest at the Ball, so she has to be shown what to do, follow the leader style, so she was the last queen to join the Macavity dance!

So I don't think we were meant to see, but right after "Macavity the Mystery Cat" ends, Macavity sneaks past Munkustrap to stand amongst the queens, most likely to surprise them. But I really love the idea of Macavity using his magic to surprise everyone by just appearing.

HOOOOOOOOOOOO BOY THE FIGHT

THE MUSIC

THE CHOREOGRAPHY

ONE OF MY FAVORITE SCENES IN THE SHOW

Everyone has their choreography, and Demeter was the ONLY one who wasn't in unison. She was crouching on the edge of the stage, watching the fight, and it was SO well done.

Also the Fake Macavity (while Macavity in the Deut Suit... haha) had a Macavity mask that was actually kind of terrifying.

Mr. Mistoffelees

SOFT DEMESTRAP SOFT DEMESTRAP SOFT DEMESTRAP

Okay, but I ADORED the way they included the "Don't scoff" line. Tugger begins introducing Mistoffelees, everyone's kind of like "this isn't going to work", and they all start to leave the stage, and THEN Tugger says the line, almost pleading, and everyone's still a little hesitant but they listen.

Munkustrap wasn't very sure, but he listened

Zach is such a perfect Tugger (y'all i'm going to have a WHOLE post on him), and he and Paul just played off of each other so perfectly!

During the little mirror dance at the beginning of the number, Tugger just started doing his own thing, and it was the cutest, dorkiest thing.

They did sort of a strobe light thing, where the lights went off and on for like a second, and every time the lights went on Mistoffelees was in a different position, and it was great.

I love Cassandra's light-up costume!! And Tugger got so excited when she changed colors!!

I just really enjoy the lighting during this scene, it always makes me happy.

OKAY OKAY OKAY

SO

RIGHT AFTER MISTOFFELEES BRINGS BACK DEUT AND RIGHT BEFORE THEY DO THE LINE THING WITH THE HOLDING HANDS

TUGGER AND MISTOFFELEES DO A LITTLE SHIMMY (THE FUR SHIMMY THAT TUGGER DOES) AND IT'S VERY CUTE YES

BUT THEN THEY NUZZLE

LIKE FULL ON, NUZZLE THE FUR ON THE HEAD AND THE MANE

ADKJGABDVKSLDB GOODBYE

Anyways, Paul is such a perfect Mistoffelees, 10/10 would want to rescue me from an insane magical cat.

Memory (Reprise)

Everyone's touching each other right before, like reassuring each other, it was so sweet

Sillabub is tall!!! She's adorable!!

Everyone's turned away from Grizabella except for Deuteronomy, Munkustrap, Victoria, and Tumblebrutus!

Tumblebrutus looked SO nervous, but he didn't stop looking at Grizabella until she made eye contact with him. Then he looked down, but he looked back up. After that, everyone started to turn!

Taylor's voice is OTHERWORLDLY WOW

her emotion is just spot-on

"Touch Me" made me cry, as it always does

It looked like she was walking towards Tumblebrutus, but then she paused and reached behind her for Victoria! Tumblebrutus was the second one to touch her though!

Journey to the Heaviside Layer

Grizabella being accepted by everyone!!!

Old Deuteronomy, Coricopat, and Tantomile bowed to her!

Before they got on the tire, Grizabella held her tail, almost like a security thing T_T

For a hot second I couldn't breathe because of the fog machine, I was fine though

They didn't do the harness, which I was super happy about! They brought back the shiny Fancy Stairs, and that was SO cool.

The tire still flew, but the stairs came straight out, and then Grizabella stepped on and went offstage.

Ad-Dressing of Cats

I do have to say, this has never been my FAVORITE number.

I do really love seeing all the cats lined up though!!

Everyone's reactions to the food mentions were great, you could tell that they really thought about how they'd react.

#cats the musical #cats us tour 6 #uppast's cats tour comments

[blackberry-gingham]

Hello there! How about John x Reader where Lennon began to notice her shy gestures whenever they got the chance to hangout, and since the reader was usually comfortable with him and suddenly, her manners turned into a delicate one, at the same time, now barely speaks with him. John never asked the reader why and suspects by himself she fancies him. He’s certainly not sure about his thought so, he soon pulled his bandmates to help him find the real reason out.

Oooo interesting! John needs the whole squad to figure out your feelings lmao. So on brand tho ??? I love it 😂

Enjoy!

---

The sun beams proudly overhead, framed by sparse clouds. It's a surprisingly mild summer day and you are relaxing pool side with your best friend, John Lennon. You're at his place and he's reclining in his yard chair completely at ease, eyes closed behind his dark sunglasses.

You sneak yet another glance over at him, trying hard to play it cool. With a quiet but deep breath in, you turn your attention back to the clouds.

What's wrong with me? You think to yourself.

You see, you and John have been friends for ages now. Before Hamburg, before the Quarrymen, before the Beatles... There was just you and him.

All this time, you've both been comfortable in your friendship together. After all, it's hard to find someone who gets you quite like you get each other. And yet... you feel different somehow.

You glance John's way one more time. He's begun to stir a bit and after so many years of knowing him, you sense he'll want to find some fun soon. But for now, you continue resting.

For all this time that you've known him, it may surprise some to know that deep down, the tough and witty John Lennon everyone knows is actually something of a romantic. John's had his flings here and there on his search for lasting love, but nothing seemed to stick for him. Of course, things have worked about the same for you.

Normally it gives you both just another thing to commiserate about, but you've got to thinking lately...

It's probably stupid. After all, if it were possible, surely he would've realised it by now, or at least said something... right?

You sigh and play with your hair, a bad habit of yours, you know. The thing is, you can't help but wonder if there would ever be a chance for maybe... You and John to be together. Of course there's no guarantee things would work out, but you'd never know unless you try...

"Alright, enough of that", John sits up abruptly and takes off his sunglasses. He ruffles his hair and turns to you. "Want to cool off with me?", He nods to the water, "Then we can clean off inside. I know you have to be getting on soon"

You smile, a bit proud to have your hunch proven right. With a big stretch, you sit up as well and turn your sunny gaze to him, "Sounds like fun"

John smiles a cheeky grin and leaps up from his chair. Before you can inquire what all the rush is about, he tears off towards the water and over his shoulder he yells, "Last one in is a rotten egg!"

You gasp in playful disbelief, but you aren't about to let him win. In less then a second you're up and right after him. John slows down a touch just before the waters edge, and for a moment, you think he might let you win.

He comes to a stop right at the lip while you yourself slow down from your head of steam to join him. But, before you can stop completely...

"Ladies first!", John gives you a playful push and sends you on your way into the water. This end of the pool is shallow enough for you to stand with your head comfortably above water, so you shoot back up just in time to get splashed as John cannonballs in beside you.

You splutter and wipe the chlorine water out of your eyes quick as you can. Once you think you're safe, John reemerges and shakes his mop top out, sending another sheet of water your way.

"Oh, you-!", You clear your eyes and then, for the briefest of moments, you bring your hands to action.

John is wading there with a grin plastered on his face, as though he wants you to retaliate. Call him a name. Splash him with water. Perhaps give him a little shove... This is his idea of fun and games. Annoying people, that is.

Normally you quite enjoy it actually, but ever since you've been second guessing your feelings for John, you're not sure how to act. After all, you can't risk giving your feelings away! What if he catches on and rejects you, and then doesn't want to be around you anymore?

No, best to not do anything that could even remotely be interpreted as flirtation or teasing or anything of that sort.

You instead use your hands to tread the water and head back to the lip of the pool, "You are such a child!", You laugh.

John's grin falters as he watches you wade away. After being by your side for years, he can safely say that is very strange behavior for you. He's so comfortable and use to you returning his shenanigans that to see you just... Not, bothers him deeply.

In fact, now that he thinks about it, this is far from the first time you've acted this way. It's actually become a bit of a pattern with you over the last week or so, and John can't stand the mystery.

He sighs sadly, disappointed that his plan to get you to act like your old self didn't work, and crawls out after you. The two of you clean up and part ways for the day. John doesn't bring up his concerns to you, and yet he does want to know the truth...

All that evening he can't escape his thoughts.

By all accounts, nothing should be wrong! Nothing's changed between you two, no ill words or actions, so that's out. There's no outside life issues causing problems, or at least nothing that wasn't already there, so it can't be that either!

But then... What's left?

John pulls the blankets up close as he lays down for the night. The clock on the wall says 11:48, and even now he's still worrying over all this. He rolls over with a sigh. The bedside lamp is still on.

He reaches to click it off, but hesitates for a moment. Instead he finds himself digging in the messy table drawer until finally... Yes, here it is.

Out comes a little polaroid photo. It's a bit aged and ragged by now, but it's perfectly clean and one of John's most prized possessions. Within the frame of the picture, your beautiful face stares back at him, smiling sweetly. You gave him this photo as something for him to hold onto while he was away in Hamburg.

He's never told a soul, but even after all these years, he takes it with him on all his tours since.

He smiles back at your picture. He's never been so love sick in his whole life. For a minute, he dares to wonder... What if, you liked him back? It might explain why you've been acting strangely, but...

Well, that's just rediculous. John frowns and, with a little hesitation, begins to return your picture to the secrecy of it's drawer. There's just no way you could fancy him.

After all, he knows you. Just as he knows that, while he's many things, being worthy of you is not one of them.

He closes the drawer with a gentle click and turns out the light. John rolls over and falls asleep, dreaming a dream that you were here with him.

The next day, John is in the studio with the other lads. They're tuning their equipment and gearing up for the day. As such a close friend of John's, you're on friendly terms with the other Beatles as well of course! So when John tells them about the goings on with you, they're quite dumbfounded.

Even they know something is up.

Paul and Ringo suggest a few silly things, all of which John waves off. After some back and forth between those three, George speaks up and suggests something that John has been too afraid to ask.

"Well I think it's obvious... John, she likes you", George's tone is teasing, but the seriousness of the suggestion is quite apparent.

The room falls silent at George's words.

Slowly, Paul begins to nod. "Yeah... Yeah! Have you thought about that John? You two have been mates a long time, makes sense she'd might fancy you after a while"

"Exactly", George adds.

John's heart skips a beat at the idea alone, but he quickly shoots them down. However, the boys are persistent. They ask for more details on your behavior, and with every scenario John describes, they only grow more adamant. Even Ringo agrees!

There's a bit of back and forth to convince John, but... Maybe... Maybe they're right. Even if they weren't, how long was he going to lie to himself? He knows who his heart belongs to, and no one else could take your place.

He has to at least try.

It's a couple days at least before John sees you again. You must admit, you've been purposely trying to keep your distance. To what end, you don't know. But today you have no excuses to fall back on.

You arrive at John's place right on time and when you arrive at the door, he greets you with a bright smile, just as always. But today, John follows it up with a hug, something a bit unusual for him. He takes you by the hands and pulls you inside after you've said your hellos.

"John, wha-?", you laugh.

"Sh, I have something to tell you!"

You laugh some more and follow him briskly to the living room. John takes a seat on the couch and pats a spot beside him for you. First though, you have to take in the view.

There's a soft and low record on in the background and the room smells fragrant and fresh. A far cry from it's usual scent of cigarettes and musk. On the coffee table sits two cups of tea, a fresh vase of roses, and a small flickering candle.

"What's all this...?", you approach the couch slowly as you bask in the environment.

"Oh, well I um... I hope it's not too much, it's just I-I've been meaning to ask, er uh, I wanted to tell you-"

The look on your face is unreadable, and John's words begin to falter. This was a dumb idea, he's ruined everything. But then...

You lean in ever so slightly. A light dances in your eyes, a smile tugging gently at the corners of your lips. This is everything you've ever wanted...

"Yes?", You ask with baited breath

John sits in stunned silence for but a moment. Then, "Well, I-I love you"

Finally.

The tension seems to melt in an instant. You throw your arms around him, "You've no idea how long I've wanted to hear that"

"Really?", John looks utterly surprised.

You laugh and reassure him, and any last traces of his anxiety is gone.

"In that case... You've no idea how long I've been waiting to do this"

He leans in close and there, in the candle light and amongst the flowers, you share your first, tender kiss.

#the beatles #john lennon x reader #john lennon #friends to lovers

[scotianostra]

  On January 11th 1999 the novelist and politician Naomi Mitchison died.

Naomi Mitchison is best known as a novelist and social commentator, but she also wrote and published poetry, much of which is rooted in her Scottish background. Her Father,  John Scott Haldane, a distinguished scientist based in Oxford, where Naomi Haldane grew up. The Scottish connection remained important throughout her childhood, and she spent many summers at Cloan in Perthshire, the Haldanes’ family home. Although her formal education was limited, she was steeped in an environment of scientific and creative enquiry which influenced her entire life.

In a life that spanned the twentieth century, Naomi Mitchison published over ninety books – novels, plays, short stories, poetry, essays, children’s fiction, travel writing, history and autobiography. As an active feminist and socialist, her writing was always politically engaged but she found that she had to promote her most radical ideals under the cover of historical or, later, science fiction. Her frank memoirs and the diary she kept for Mass Observation during the Second World War are important historical and social documents.

She wasn't afraid of controversy, her personal life drew as much attention as her work, from shocking contemporary convention in the 1920's by declaring her marriage an open one, she had continual fights with publishers who insisted on removing explicit references to sex from her books. Her novel, We Have Been Warned published in 1935, dealt with abortion and birth control was censored. A rebel against social restrictions on women from her youth, she had a tendency to lash out physically at men to prove her point, once took a swing at the Labour Party leader Hugh Gaitskell and on another occasion whacked a dinner guest over the head because he asked the woman seated next to him to fetch his dinner from the kitchen, definitely a woman ahead of her time! 

Married for 54 years and the mother of seven children, she was asked on her 90th birthday if she had any regrets. ''Yes,'' she said, ''all the men I never slept with. Imagine!''

She moved to a 300 acre farm at Carradale on the Mull of Kintyre in her late 30's, from there she "held court" to a influx of visitors, she made Mull of Kintyre a cool place way before  Paul McCartney did!

There is so much more written about Naomi Mitchison, she preached that if intelligent people shouted long and loud enough at governments, she believed, truth would prevail. She travelled the world supporting injustice going to the US in the 1930s, because she was worried about sharecroppers; to Vienna in 1934 when the Nazi-era storm clouds gathered, and she smuggled letters from endangered people to Switzerland in her knickers. She ventured to the USSR hoping to find a socialist experiment that she could champion, sadly finding, amongst other things "a wasteful and repressive bureaucracy."

Naomi reached the ripe old age of 101. 

Early life in Perthshire is reflected in Naomi’s poetry; The Glen Path details walks taken around Cloan, the one below is a reminiscence:

Next Stop Perth

That was my place that I am far from.

Those were my hills I climbed all over.

Through the tunnel I went under

My now over-passing railway line.

That was my love I burned for the touch of.

That was my faith I worked and lived for.

In those dreams was painted foreknowledge

Of the chilling age-years that now are mine.

Those were my ghosts that I gave way to.

Now from within the shape of terror

I see my young and in frozen fear of

My fetch that is giving the counter-sign.

#Scotland #scottish #writer #poet #socialist #strong woman #history

[richincolor]

Voting and YA Lit

The November election is getting closer and closer. If you're eligible to vote and need more information, Vote.org is an excellent place to start. The League of Women Voters also has a First Time Voter Checklist that may be helpful. This year there may be additional challenges to voting, but if you are able, please let your voice be heard through your vote.

In the final two months before the election, you may enjoy some related reading. First, a few YA novels featuring elections or voting:

Yes No Maybe So by Becky Albertalli and Aisha Saeed Balzer + Bray [Group Discussion]

YES Jamie Goldberg is cool with volunteering for his local state senate candidate—as long as he’s behind the scenes. When it comes to speaking to strangers (or, let’s face it, speaking at all to almost anyone), Jamie’s a choke artist. There’s no way he’d ever knock on doors to ask people for their votes…until he meets Maya.

NO Maya Rehman’s having the worst Ramadan ever. Her best friend is too busy to hang out, her summer trip is canceled, and now her parents are separating. Why her mother thinks the solution to her problems is political canvassing—with some awkward dude she hardly knows—is beyond her.

MAYBE SO Going door to door isn’t exactly glamorous, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, the polls are getting closer—and so are Maya and Jamie. Mastering local activism is one thing. Navigating the cross-cultural romance of the century is another thing entirely.

The Voting Booth by Brandy Colbert Disney-Hyperion [Crystal's Review]

Marva Sheridan was born ready for this day. She’s always been driven to make a difference in the world, and what better way than to vote in her first election?

Duke Crenshaw is so done with this election. He just wants to get voting over with so he can prepare for his band’s first paying gig tonight.

Only problem? Duke can’t vote.

When Marva sees Duke turned away from their polling place, she takes it upon herself to make sure his vote is counted. She hasn’t spent months doorbelling and registering voters just to see someone denied their right. And that’s how their whirlwind day begins, rushing from precinct to precinct, cutting school, waiting in endless lines, turned away time and again, trying to do one simple thing: vote. They may have started out as strangers, but as Duke and Marva team up to beat a rigged system (and find Marva’s missing cat), it’s clear that there’s more to their connection than a shared mission for democracy.

Romantic and triumphant, The Voting Booth is proof that you can’t sit around waiting for the world to change, but some things are just meant to be.

Running by Natalia Sylvester Clarion Books

When fifteen-year-old Cuban American Mariana Ruiz’s father runs for president, Mari starts to see him with new eyes. A novel about waking up and standing up, and what happens when you stop seeing your dad as your hero—while the whole country is watching.

In this thoughtful, authentic, humorous, and gorgeously written novel about privacy, waking up, and speaking up, Senator Anthony Ruiz is running for president. Throughout his successful political career he has always had his daughter’s vote, but a presidential campaign brings a whole new level of scrutiny to sheltered fifteen-year-old Mariana and the rest of her Cuban American family, from a 60 Minutes–style tour of their house to tabloids doctoring photos and inventing scandals. As tensions rise within the Ruiz family, Mari begins to learn about the details of her father’s political positions, and she realizes that her father is not the man she thought he was.

But how do you find your voice when everyone’s watching? When it means disagreeing with your father—publicly? What do you do when your dad stops being your hero? Will Mari get a chance to confront her father? If she does, will she have the courage to seize it?

There are also a few YA nonfiction books that deal with activism and voting rights:

How I Resist edited by Maureen Johnson Wednesday Books

Now, more than ever, young people are motivated to make a difference in a world they're bound to inherit. They're ready to stand up and be heard - but with much to shout about, where they do they begin? What can I do? How can I help?

How I Resist is the response, and a way to start the conversation. To show readers that they are not helpless, and that anyone can be the change. A collection of essays, songs, illustrations, and interviews about activism and hope, How I Resist features an all-star group of contributors, including John Paul Brammer, Libba Bray, Lauren Duca, Modern Family's Jesse Tyler Ferguson and his husband Justin Mikita, Alex Gino, Hebh Jamal, Malinda Lo, Dylan Marron, Hamilton star Javier Muñoz, Rosie O'Donnell, Junauda Petrus, Jodi Picoult, Jason Reynolds, Karuna Riazi, Maya Rupert, Dana Schwartz, Dan Sinker, Ali Stroker, Jonny Sun (aka @jonnysun), Sabaa Tahir, Shaina Taub, Daniel Watts, Jennifer Weiner, Jacqueline Woodson, and more, all edited and compiled by New York Times bestselling author Maureen Johnson.

In How I Resist, readers will find hope and support through voices that are at turns personal, funny, irreverent, and instructive. Not just for a young adult audience, this incredibly impactful collection will appeal to readers of all ages who are feeling adrift and looking for guidance.

How I Resist is the kind of book people will be discussing for years to come and a staple on bookshelves for generations.

The March Trilogy by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin and Nate Powell Top Shelf Productions

A graphic novel memoir in three parts. It tells of the Civil Rights movement through the eyes of John Lewis. Readers see Lewis and other activists launching campaigns such as the Freedom Vote and Mississippi Freedom Summer. The books lead all the way through to the Selma March.

And finally, picture books aren't just for children. Here are two picture books young adults would likely appreciate:

The Voice of Freedom: Fannie Lou Hamer by Carole Boston Weatherford, illustrated by Ekua Holmes Candlewick Press

A stirring collection of poems and spirituals, accompanied by stunning collage illustrations, recollects the life of Fannie Lou Hamer, a champion of equal voting rights.

"I am sick and tired of being sick and tired."

Despite fierce prejudice and abuse, even being beaten to within an inch of her life, Fannie Lou Hamer was a champion of civil rights from the 1950s until her death in 1977. Integral to the Freedom Summer of 1964, Ms. Hamer gave a speech at the Democratic National Convention that, despite President Johnson’s interference, aired on national TV news and spurred the nation to support the Freedom Democrats. Featuring luminous mixed-media art both vibrant and full of intricate detail, Singing for Freedom celebrates Fannie Lou Hamer’s life and legacy with an inspiring message of hope, determination, and strength.

Granddaddy's Turn: A Journey to the Ballot Box by Michael S. Bandy & Eric Stein, illustrated by James Ransome Candlewick Press

Based on the true story of one family’s struggle for voting rights in the Civil Rights–era South, this moving tale shines an emotional spotlight on a dark facet of U.S. history.

Life on the farm with Granddaddy is full of hard work, but despite all the chores, Granddaddy always makes time for play, especially fishing trips. Even when there isn’t a bite to catch, he reminds young Michael that it takes patience to get what’s coming to you. One morning, when Granddaddy heads into town in his fancy suit, Michael knows that something very special must be happening—and sure enough, everyone is lined up at the town hall! For the very first time, Granddaddy is allowed to vote, and he couldn’t be more proud. But can Michael be patient when it seems that justice just can’t come soon enough? This powerful and touching true-life story shares one boy’s perspective of growing up in the segregated South, while beautiful illustrations depict the rural setting in tender detail.

#voting #election #YA Lit

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 31 Pt II

The song was winding down as she reentered the living room. She looked for Buster and saw him among a group of men, smoking a cigarette and talking. Judging by their heavy builds and ordinary looks, they were directors. Ramon Navarro bumped her and Orange Blossom went over her fingers. “Oh!” she said. 

“Goodness, I am so sorry. Just a moment, miss, just a moment.”

When he’d returned with a couple cloth napkins and she’d wiped the drink from her hand, his profuse apologies gave her an idea. She threw back the remainder of the drink and said with a smile, “Give me a dance and call it even?”

The tall, dark man with the Spanish accent smiled gleamingly upon her. “Miss, I will gladly dance with you.”

She couldn’t tell if the drinks made her a better or worse dancer. In any case, she wasn’t as stiff. As the orchestra took up a cheerful rendition of “My Pet,” she shuffled her feet with energy and abandon. It was a quick dance and Mr. Navarro was smiling and gracious.

The orchestra took a break following their dance. The crush of guests seemed to double in size as the many orchestra members made their way to the foyer. Nelly located Bradford speaking to a tall, broad man with a large stomach.  A thin, small pale man with dark hair and eyes stood with them. He seemed to be about Buster’s age and was about two shades, she reflected, from being terribly good-looking. Not that he was bad on the eyes as he was. Feeling quite free and happy, she introduced herself. 

“Nelly Foster. I’m Bradford’s girlfriend.”

The men who shook her hands were Eddie Sedgwick and Irving Thalberg. Mr. Sedgwick, who took her hand second, smiled. “I know you. You’re the girl from Buster’s place.”

Even through the sheen of liquor, Nelly’s stomach felt like it dropped straight out of her body. She had never seen Mr. Sedgwick in her life; Buster always made sure Segdwick’s half of the bungalow was unoccupied before smuggling her over. All she could think of to say was, “Oh yes. I’ve visited once or twice.”

Mr. Sedgwick winked at her. “Say no more,” he said jovially, swishing a glass of what looked like Scotch and taking a sip. 

Bradford’s arm curled around her shoulder, but it was too little too late. How many other people at the party knew about her and Buster? “Mr. Thalberg’s just telling us about this new thing called Technicolor they’ll be using in a talkie next year,” said Bradford. “It’s a musical too. Says they’ll need a lot of extras and we ought to try out.”

Nelly tried to listen as Bradford, also on another drink, carried on with enthusiasm with occasional remarks from Mr. Sedgwick and Mr. Thalberg, but all she could concentrate on was how exposed she felt. A thing like an affair never stayed quiet for long once a third person was in on it, a fourth if you didn’t count Buster’s butler. She nodded and smiled in the appropriate places. She couldn’t do anything else, knowing how it would look if she fled to Buster, which was her impulse. She wanted his reassurance that it was a case of mistaken identity with her and Mr. Sedgwick. It was a silly explanation to wish for, since that would mean the presence of another woman at Buster’s bungalow.

She did not have to wait long for Buster. “Whatever they’re saying about me’s a god damn dirty lie,” he said, strolling over to them. He took a puff from his cigarette.

Mr. Thalberg laughed and Mr. Sedgwick slapped Buster on the back. Buster pretended that the force was so great it bowled him over and not missing a beat he slipped and fell flat on his back. The whiskey in the glass in his hand rocked a little, but not a drop had spilled. He looked up at Nelly and pressed his glass into her hand to hold while he rose to his feet. She didn’t appreciate it. It was another gesture of familiarity that gave them away. She wondered if Irving Thalberg knew about them too. Mr. Thalberg and Mr. Sedgwick were too busy laughing to notice her discomfort, though. She had an awful gnawing in her gut that she didn’t think any amount of drink could assuage.

“Ready for that second dance,” Buster said to her in an undertone, once he was back on his feet. 

“Mr. Sedgwick knows,” she hissed back, feeling pale. 

Buster cleared his throat and took a sip of whiskey. He pretended to listen to Sedgwick’s retelling of an incident that had happened during the filming of Snap Shots, one in which Buster had convinced a number of the extras and crewmembers that he’d been run over by a car, the stunt being carefully orchestrated beforehand with the car driver. After several moments, he shrugged. “So he knows,” he said. His breath smelled like whiskey. 

“If he knows then who else does?” she whispered, feeling galled. Even speaking to him in such a knowing way was a sign of a deeper acquaintance. She felt surrounded by booby traps. 

“Just relax, alright? He won’t say nothing.”

Nelly wasn’t convinced. For the first time since they’d been going together, she found herself truly mad at Buster. It would seem that nothing would make him realize that they were treading on thin ice. She turned her head away from him and watched the other guests. No one was paying the slightest bit of attention to her. Gradually, she was able to settle back into a drunken indifference, although any pretense of enjoying herself had vanished. The orchestra was setting back up again. The blue-eyed singer passed by some of the guests a few feet from her and Gloria Swanson stopped him to talk. He was carrying a cocktail and laughed as she made a joke Nelly couldn’t hear. Like Irving Thalberg, he wasn’t bad-looking either despite his ears and being a bit on the stout side. His smile was nice, his eyes were nice, and most of all his voice was nice. When Miss Swanson let him go, Nelly was seized with a whim to introduce herself and ran to catch up with him. 

“Sir,” she said, touching him on the shoulder. 

He turned. “Why, hello.” He smiled. 

“Sir, you’ve got the most wonderful voice. I’m a tremendous fan of your music. I’ve got so many of your records.”

“Oh,” he said, the white smile never faltering. “Well, thanks for that. You’re pretty kind.”

“I’ll let you get back to singing I suppose,” she said, not knowing what else to say. It would have been hard for her to further describe how his music made her feel. It was humming to herself in the prop shop during the summer of Steamboat Bill, playing bridge in Louise Brooks’ apartment, lying alongside Buster after they’d made love, and dancing a tight foxtrot on the rug in the confines of Buster’s bungalow all bound up in one. 

“Oh, I can chat,” he said. “They’re giving our pipes a little rest for the next couple numbers. Gonna do a couple instrumentals.”

Almost on cue, the orchestra’s uneven murmuring cohered. The full ensemble burst into boisterous song. She recognized it as the Black Bottom Stomp after a few bars. Hardly thinking, she grabbed the singer’s hand. “C’mon, you ought to enjoy yourself too.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, his feet planted. “Slow down a little, kid.”

“I need to dance or else I’ll scream.” As soon as the words left her lips, she realized what was driving her wasn’t a desire to make Buster jealous or even sow suspicion in the minds of those who might have been looking askance at Buster and her; it was to conquer the nervous energy that had been building in her all day. 

“Boy, if you insist,” the singer said. He handed the closest guest—Buster Collier—his glass and whirled her into the riotous press of bodies. They tromped up and down the length of the room several times. She let the horns and clarinet carry her away. The more her heart pounded, the better she felt. She didn’t look at any of the other guests, simply watched her dance partner who was grinning despite his professed reluctance. Like most of the men she’d encountered in Hollywood, he was a good dancer. Although sweat shone on his forehead, Nelly wasn’t aware of the answering moistness of her skin. She didn’t feel tired in the least, just full of strange energy. 

When the song ended and their feet stopped moving, there was a round of clapping. Nelly looked around her. They were being applauded by Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore, and at least one of the Talmadge girls; Nelly thought it was Norma rather than Natalie, but didn’t look long enough to confirm. 

“Thank you,” she said to her audience, with a vague embarrassment mostly tempered by the liquor. 

The singer grasped her hand and bowed, and Nelly followed. 

“Well I simply must have the next dance with this lovely creature,” said Charlie Chaplin, winding his arm around her waist. 

“Thank you for the dance!” she called after the singer, who was headed back toward the stage. 

“Enchantée!” he shouted back, with a wave, smile, and befuddled shake of his head.

Rather than burn off like gasoline, the liquor head somehow soaked in more and Nelly leaned her head against Charlie’s shoulder even though a voice in the back of her head warned that he was a Dangerous Man. His shoulder was thin and slight, and he felt almost wispy compared to Buster. She began to feel like she was fading out until Paul Whiteman set the band in motion and a loud, energetic version of “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” rang out. She found energy to bounce up and down the room once more, clinging to Charlie, although her reserves had finally begun to dwindle. It was a relief to focus on each dance and each dance partner and not worry about Buster, but Buster would not stay away. At some point Charlie was no longer with her, another drink (her seventh? eighth?) was half-gone in her hand, and she was squinting with drunken brazenness at the crowd wondering why she shouldn’t ask John Barrymore to dance. 

“Time to cool your heels,” said a voice. Fingers pulled the glass away from her hand. One of the fingers was shorter than the rest, missing a knuckle. 

“I presume I can take care of myself,” she said, looking over her shoulder and aiming a beliquored glare at Buster.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, but it’ll be quite a tale if they find me holding your hair in the bathroom while you’re upchucking.”

Nelly thought back to the first time he’d seen her in over her head and done just that. “Hmmph.”

Buster tossed the rest of her drink back into his mouth and an obedient butler standing at the wait nearby dispensed with the glass. 

At that moment, Whiteman’s voiced boomed out. “I’d like to welcome The Rhythm Boys back to the stage. Over here’s Harry Barris”—he gestured at the dark-haired singer with the center part who’d been doing most of the scat singing—“This is Al Rinker”—pointing to the brown-haired singer with thick lips who had been on piano—“And to top it off, Mr. Bing Crosby.” At this, he inclined his head toward the blue-eyed singer. 

“What an odd name,” said Nelly. 

“Any odder’n Buster?” said Buster. 

“Nobody’s odder than Buster,” she quipped, and he pinched her. 

“Ow,” she said. Her worry about being seen being too familiar with him resurfaced. She was going to chastise him, but the saxophones, trumpets, and horns had started a familiar tune, shortly joined by the strings. “Oh, it’s this one,” she uttered. She could feel her eyes shining in amazement. 

“It’s this one,” said Buster with a pleased smile. 

She remembered that the band was a birthday present, the most generous, thoughtful present she’d ever been given, and wasn’t sure she wouldn’t cry if she spoke further.

Buster put a hand about her waist and folded her back into the dancers with him. The foxtrot he took up had a gentle rhythm to suit the song. The saxophones played a teasing melody that all the brass instruments and violins followed with a loud, plucky answer. It was one of the songs from the first record Buster had given her and they’d danced to it regularly. Buster always teased her with the lyrics, staring into her eyes as he sang, “She’s got eyes of blue, I never cared for eyes of blue.” Every time she looked in the mirror now and noticed the color of her eyes, she was reminded that she had become a weakness for Buster, a thought that made her spirits swell.

In brief pauses, The Rhythm Boys scatted. But-duh-dut-dut-dut duh-dut duh-dut-dut. Buster looked casual and collected. She was relieved there was no strong emotion from him, still worried one of his guests might put two and two together. 

Shhhhhe’s got eyes of blue, went The Rhythm Boys in a singsong, their S sibilant. I never cared for eyes of blue But she’s got eyes of blue And that’s my weakness now!

Shhhhhe’s got dimpled cheeks I never cared for dimpled cheeks But she’s got dimpled cheeks And that’s my weakness now!

Oh me, oh my …

If they had been an ordinary couple going together, she would have leaned forward to kiss him, to thank him for giving her this. 

Shhhhhe likes to bill and coo I never liked to bill and coo But she likes to bill and coo And that’s my weakness now

Buster’s hold on her waist was firm. As the Rhythm Boys sang “Shhhhhe likes” and “I never liked” and the instruments filled in the blanks with suggestive retorts, he leaned in and said, “…to pet and play.” Nelly blushed and went warm. He stroked her hip with his thumb and she put her mouth to his ear and told him to stop, but on purpose grazed her lips against it. On the next refrain of “Shhhhhe likes,” he finished “…to fuck and flirt.”

“Buster,” she said, but the warmth increased. 

“You wanna go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he said. 

“No,” she said, even though she wanted him with a sudden desperation. 

“Sure?” he said. “We can bill and coo.”

She shook her head. “You go dance a little more. Perhaps you can see me out when Bradford and I leave.” Although she’d been at the party for less than three hours, it felt much longer. With so many cocktails, her body had begun to feel leaden.

When the song had finished and Buster had let her go, she left the crowd and used the washroom again, returning to the living room in time to see a slow dance in progress. Some couples waltzed gracefully like Norma Talmadge and Gil Roland, others like John Barrymore and Bebe Daniels, who had had too much to drink, were shambling. 

I’ll be loving you, always With a love that’s true, always

Nelly scanned for Bradford and Buster. Bradford was in the far corner of the room talking again to a cluster of men, one of whom might have been the director Harry Beaumont; she couldn’t quite tell. Her eyes felt heavy. Buster wasn’t dancing, but was talking with Harold Lloyd, holding another glass of whiskey and looking composed. 

Days may not be fair always That’s when I’ll be there, always Not for just an hour Not for just a day Not for just a year But always 

The lyrics pinched her in the chest somewhere. She was struck by the ephemerality of the whole scene. It seemed only yesterday she’d been seventeen, dead bored with high school and dreaming of what lay beyond. As the years passed, most of her friends married and found their always, and she minded the grandchildren of her mother’s friends and haunted stages by night. Here she was a blink of an eye later, her life already a third lived. Always was an illusion, one that Hollywood said it believed in and didn’t, actors dying, divorcing, and becoming forgotten by the week. Yet the pinch was for what a pretty thought it was: not for just an hour, not for just a day, not for just a year, but always. Every woman, she supposed, wanted something like that. She couldn’t bring herself to think that anything of the sort would ever be possible as long as the man she was seeing was married.

The song ended with a wistful singing of the strings, the brass providing a soft accompaniment. 

“This here’s another slow number,” said the blue-eyed singer, Bing. “By a fella by the name of Jimmy McHugh. What a name, huh?” He paused. “His mama oughta have called himself something a little more traditional, something sensible, y’know? Like Bing.”

The audience roared at the joke. 

He waited for the laughter to die down before finishing. “Anyway, this one’s called ‘I Can’t Give You Anything but Love’ and it’s a pretty one if I do say so myself. Grab your guy or your girl and hold ‘em close, folks.”

A clarinet warbled a sweet, jazzy introduction with the piano accompanying and Bing leaned into the microphone. 

I can’t give you anything but love, baby That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby Dream awhile, scheme awhile, we’re sure to find Happiness And, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for 

Nelly’s eyes flickered to the dancers and her stomach seized. Natalie and Buster were swaying close together, Buster’s hands gripping her small waist, her arms wrapped around his neck. They were a handsome couple, Natalie’s tiny frame setting off Buster’s modest brawn, both their hair dark and wavy. What gave Nelly the greatest pang, though, was the way that Buster looked at his wife. His face was all tenderness, something she was shocked to see given what she thought she knew about their marriage. She looked away, heartsick, and sought out Bradford. He put his arm around her when she approached, pausing just for a second or two to say hello before returning to his conversation with the director and the other men. She closed her eyes and nuzzled her face into the side of his chest. Tears stung behind her lids. Buster still loved Natalie. How she’d never realized this, she didn’t know. 

‘Til that lucky day You know damned well, baby I can’t give you anything but love

“You okay, baby?” Bradford said, noticing that something was wrong.

She opened her filmy eyes and shook her head. 

“What’s wrong?” Even in her unhappiness, she had to hand it to him. He sounded exactly as a concerned boyfriend would. 

“Too much to drink, I think,” she said, quickly wiping away the tears from the corner of her eyes. 

Bradford rubbed her arm. “Let’s get you home.” He dipped into the side pocket of his trousers. “Here’s my card.” He passed one to each of the three men. She watched them exchange pleasantries, and could see that Bradford was glowing with excitement and charisma. A wave of regret hit her for taking him from the party. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“No, I won’t hear of it,” he said, perfectly good-natured. “Wouldn’t want to wear out my welcome anyhow.”

There was no one for her to say goodbye to. Everyone but Buster was close to a stranger. Bradford’s arm through hers, they walked away from the room of partygoers and the beautiful noise of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra. She tried to cheer herself up with the good parts, dancing with Bradford and Buster and Bing, hearing all her favorite songs, hobnobbing with stars. The orchestra was her birthday gift too, a dear secret only she and Buster shared. Even with these reminders, she still felt miserable. A part of that, maybe not an inconsiderable part, was the result of too much to drink. Her stomach ached dully. Her vision was dizzy. Her eyelids sagged. She thought with longing of changing into a clean nightgown, drinking several glasses of water, eating some crackers, and collapsing into bed. Bradford held the great mahogany door for her and she stepped out into the brisk May night. The air smelled like peonies and was cold against her bare face and arms. It made her feel a little better. 

She and Bradford were a few paces away from the door and walking in the direction of his car when a voice from behind them cried, “Nelly, wait!” She turned to see Buster rushing toward them. “Where’re you going?” he said when he’d caught up to them. 

A lump climbed into her throat. “I’m feeling ill,” she said, and it wasn’t a lie. 

Buster looked confused. “Feeling ill?” He looked to Bradford. “Mind if I borrow her a minute?”

“Go right ahead Mr. Keaton.”

Buster took her by the arm and led her to a shadowy patch of topiary to the east of the front door out of hearing of Bradford. “What’s really the matter?” he said. 

Nelly shook her head. “I drank too much.”

“Ah, gee. Wish you hadn’t. I was going to propose we slip off in a few minutes here.” He stroked her cheek.

She realized he was referring to amorous activities and she couldn’t help but be amazed by him. He’d just been enjoying a romantic dance with his wife and yet was scheming to seduce her at the same time. “We couldn’t even if I felt well,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“Sure it is. I’ve done it plenty.”

With her brain sluggish with liquor, it took his words a few moments to make sense. He was saying he’d sneaked women into the Villa under his wife’s nose before. She felt horrible all over again. “No. Not tonight.”

“What about tomorrow? You gonna come to the premiere?”

Nelly had been so fixated on the party, she’d forgotten about the premiere of Steamboat Bill altogether and Buster’s offhand suggestion a few days back that she attend. She shook her head. “It isn’t safe. If Mr. Sedgwick knows about us, we can’t draw any more attention than we already have. We should be safer from now on.” She stopped short of telling him that coming to the party was a mistake too; she didn’t want him to think that she wasn’t grateful for her birthday surprise.

Buster searched her eyes and she knew he was trying to puzzle out her gloomy mood. “Okay, if you say so. Is this character gonna get you home safe?” he said at last, looking over at Bradford. 

“Of course. He’s been the perfect beau.”

He narrowed his eyes. “See to it he don’t get too perfect.”

“Buster,” she chastened. She had to hand it to them, it was some damn Shakespearean plot they’d woven, Bradford in disguise as her paramour and she and Buster playing the parts of two star-crossed lovers. 

Buster kissed her hand. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

She gave him a half-hearted smile. “You can always call.”

“Remind me to tune my ukulele before I sing you the birthday song,” he joked. He held her hand in his, running his thumb over her palm. 

A wave of gratitude sunk her. Hiring the Paul Whiteman Orchestra had to say something about how he felt for her, no matter the doting way he looked at Natalie or his experience sneaking around with other women at the Villa. She leaned into his arms and put her hands around his neck. “Thank you for tonight and the band. I had the time of my life.” 

He put a hand in the center of her back and touched her cheek with his free hand. “I’m a sentimental sap, that’s all,” he said, then in a quieter voice,“Can I kiss you?”

“Okay, but make it quick.” She glanced toward the front door. No one had come out since Buster, but she remained on her guard even though the drinks urged her to throw caution to the wind.  

Buster leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, kissing her breathless. She tasted cigarettes and whiskey on his tongue. She tried to make her answering kiss say what she couldn’t put into words, what she’d thought of during the first dance they’d shared earlier, the stars, his lips, and a Paul Whiteman phonograph record crackling softly in the background. “No funny business with that beau of yours, you hear me?” he said when he pulled back. His voice was thick in the way it got whenever he was in a carnal mood. Nelly embraced him again. The lump in her throat held sadness as well as gratitude. She never wanted to let him go. 

Minutes later, Bradford’s car was bouncing over the roads out of Beverly Hills. The night was black and starless. Bradford gushed about Irving Thalberg, Edward Sedgwick, and all the other directors and production men he’d flattered and wooed. He didn’t say a word about Buster and her. Her foggy mind drifted over Twelfth Night. Although she was having no trouble learning her lines for the play, she knew now why her heart had not been in it since she’d gotten the role of Maria. It had nothing to do with her ambition of being in talking pictures or that she was too overburdened at United Artists to play such a substantial role in a play. In her head, she ran over three of Viola’s lines again and again. 

She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought.

Viola had met Duke Orsino, but his love was still fixed on Olivia. Notes: Soundtrack to this chapter: “The Five Step,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyW73Zdqqzc

“Mary,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fse_J4WcAVY

“You Took Advantage of Me,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_o01n3vVEss “My Baby Don’t Mean Maybe Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGBzOuLmaAc “My Pet,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9nJZlg66io There’s no version I can find of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra doing the Black Bottom Stomp, but I imagined them playing a lively version like Jelly Roll Morton’s original: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcgIrAyNGGM Similarly, for the “Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” I imagined them doing this version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k22IKM3PFoQ “That’s My Weakness Now,” Paul Whiteman & His Orchestra: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAfVQpzQB3g And for “Always,” the George Olsen version: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dGRWlgXqcwU “The Darktown Strutters’ Ball,” “Mississippi Mud,” and “I’m Coming Virginia,” though they were extensively covered by black artists, are racist songs. However, I felt that omitting them would be a bit of whitewashing since songs like this were heavily popular and would undoubtedly have been in regular rotation for a popular orchestra. (Buster actually danced to “Darktown Strutters’ Ball” in coordinating his dance sequence in The Playhouse.)

#Buster Keaton #Fan fiction #RPF #Actor RPF #Silent film #Golden Age Hollywood #Bing Crosby

[lennonsprincess]

Hi I absolutely adore your writing! It makes me so happy we have such a good writer in the fandom 💓 If you're still taking requests, can you please do a truth or dare scenario where Paul has to give John a blowjob? (Extra spicy points for some gay panic and eventual smut)

Aw thank you so much <3

————————————————

*smut*

John/Paul

“Okay… McCartney, truth or dare.” Pete said from the other side of the circle, a small smirk playing at his lips.

They were supposed to be having band practice right now, but they got caught up drinking a few too many beers and somehow ended up playing a game of truth or dare.

“Oh c’mon Pete, why ya gotta choose Paul? We all know he’s gonna pick truth.” Len groaned.

Paul furrowed his eyebrows at that. He hated when the rest of the band treated him like a baby.

“Dare.” Paul said loudly.

Len laughed a bit.

“Well give him a good one, Pete.”

Pete nodded and looked around the circle making eye contact with everyone. Everyone except John, who was sitting on the couch with Paul by his feet, staring down at the boy with a certain look in his eyes. He seemed to be making direct eye contact with his lips.

Pete suddenly got an idea. He chuckled a bit as he started to speak.

“Alright Paul,” he said looking directly at John. “I dare you to suck John off.”

Paul’s eyes widened at that and John shot his head up to look at Pete.

“W-What?” Paul stuttered trying not to look at John.

“Suck his cock. C’mon it’s not that big of a deal.” Pete repeated.

“I’m not-” Paul started, then stopped when he saw the multiple eye rolls from around the circle. “I don’t think John would want me to.”

“I’m cool with it.” John interrupted. The calmness in his voice was unsettling.

Paul suddenly felt his face start to heat up. What was he supposed to do now? He wasn’t actually going to suck John off, was he? He looked up at John and then down at his crotch, noticing a slight bump. Paul swallowed and scooted so he was sitting in front of John’s knees.

“Is he actually gonna do it?” Paul heard Colin whisper from beside him.

Paul slowly looked up at John with his big doe eyes, waiting for John to give him a sign to continue.

He heard a quiet groan erupt from John’s throat as he nodded his head and spread his legs a bit.

Paul felt his heart start to race as he went to reach for John’s fly. He had always had a bit of a crush on John, but he never thought that it would ever be acknowledged, especially like this. He started to fiddle with the button of John’s jeans, slowly unbuttoning it. Once the button was undone he slowly dragged John’s zipper down until he could see the bulge under his boxers. Paul bit his lip and slowly started to pull John’s pants down. Once they were down below John’s knees, Paul thought about maybe going into another room. A place where everybody wouldn’t be watching. But then he thought again, and how if they did that he could easily just say he did it without actually doing it. And besides, they’ve all seen John’s dick before so there wasn’t even a good reason to.

Paul looked back up at John with a worried look in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” John whispered. “It’s just me.

Paul felt as though a flock of butterflies had been released in his stomach at the tone in John’s voice. It gave him the courage to pull down John’s underwear.

Paul let out a small gasp once he was met with John’s cock. It looked much bigger when it was right in front of his face.

“C’mon what’s the hold up, Paul? Put it in your mouth already.”

“Sh!”

Paul heard from across the circle. He felt his cheeks begin to heat up even more when he felt John wrap his fingers in his hair.

“It’s okay Paulie, you can do it.” John whispered just loud enough for Paul to hear.

Paul just barely nodded before he brought his head closer to John’s cock. Before he could even think, Paul licked the tip of John’s dick, barely holding back a moan at the taste of it. Paul heard little whispers and gasps come from the rest of his band mates at the action. Suddenly, Paul felt John’s hand tug his hair slightly, causing him to really moan out as he brought his lips to the tip of John’s cock. The circle was completely silent when Paul wrapped his lips around John’s dick. Paul was worried that the silence was of disgust rather than shock. He didn’t want his band mates to think he was queer, but he also didn’t want them to think he was a pussy.

Paul slowly started to bob his head, not quite knowing how to go about this. He just acted as if he was sucking a popsicle.

“Oh fuck.” Paul heard John groan from above him. He quickly looked up at John and saw that his head was thrown back in pleasure. Was this really pleasuring John?

“Oh my god…” Paul heard what sounded like Pete whisper.

Paul felt John’s hand tug his hair again, causing him to moan around the cock in his mouth. The vibrations of Paul’s moan on John’s cock caused John to let out a groan of himself. Paul suddenly got the wild idea to try to take John all the way down his throat. John was big, and Paul wasn’t sure that he could get it down without gagging. But despite that, he tried anyway.

Paul slowly moved his head closer to John’s pubic hair, opening his throat as well as he could so he could take John down his throat. As soon as John’s dick hit the back of his throat, Paul gagged. The sound was embarrassing and he quickly looked up at John to see if he was laughing. But was surprised to find John looking down at him with a dark and dominant look in his eyes. The look made Paul shiver and moan, and spurred him on to try again to take John down his throat.

This time Paul hollowed out his cheeks and took a deep breath through his nose as he started to take John down his throat again. This time when John cock hit the back of his throat he didn’t gag, but instead, slipped it down further.

“Mmm…” John groaned at the feeling of Paul taking his cock down his tight throat.

“Is… he… fucking deep-throating him?” Colin whispered to Pete.

It wasn’t loud enough for Paul to hear, but John sure heard it.

“Mm fuck yeah he is…” John groaned as he tugged at Paul’s hair.

Paul let out another moan around John’s cock, almost forgetting he was in a room with four other guys.

“P-Paul… I’m about to… fuck-” John closed his eyes, not wanting this to be over. “I’m about to cum.”

Paul didn’t stop.

“Hey Paul. You, you might wanna… mm… y’know- unless you want to…”

John couldn’t seem to form a sentence yet Paul knew exactly what he was trying to say. Paul looked up at John, hoping that the look in his eyes would tell him what he wanted.

John moaned loudly when he made eye contact with Paul, and tugged his hair once more before he came down his throat.

From the tug of his hair and the taste of John’s cum in his mouth, Paul came in his pants. Untouched.

Paul quickly swallowed John’s cum, not once wincing at the taste, and slowly pulled his lips off of John cock. He looked up at John with parted lips and a bit of cum still dripping from the corner of his mouth, watching as John removed his hand from his hair and wiped off the corners of Paul’s mouth with his thumb. John smiled down at Paul as he pulled his pants and underwear up, the sound of John’s fly zipping up, sent Paul back into reality.

Paul looked down at his own crotch, making sure his pants weren’t visibly wet before turning around to face the rest of the circle. When Paul turned around, he was met with gaping faces of his band mates. They were all wide eyed with their mouths agape. Paul couldn’t help but go a bit red as he still felt the aftertaste of John’s release in his mouth.

“Holy… fuck.” Len said, looking in between Paul and John.

“Who knew Paul had… such a talent.” Pete said, trying to make a joke to shake himself out of his state of shock.

John chuckled at that and trailed his hand down Paul’s back. Paul shivered at the touch and looked behind him at John, who was looking at him with the most wicked smirk Paul had ever seen.

#mclennon #john/paul #john lennon #paul mccartney #the beatles #mclennon smut #mclennon fanfic #fanfiction #smut #requests

[cas-backwards-tie]

Extraordinary

Paul Sevier x Reader

Request: paul trying to remember what it's like to be human again after the doc releases and attempts a normal, functional social life

Words: 2,603

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of genitalia, mention of bullying.

A/N: So... here’s the thing: in your request you stated ‘the doc’, like a documentary, and I... didn’t really see it that way? Yeah, at some points they were filming, but I more so assumed that it was for the government, not the public. So, I’m going to write something sort of in-between. I hope that you like this! I know that we don’t know a whole lot about him so I hope that you enjoy the beginnings of a sort of... backstory I’ve made for him, and ugh I can’t stop looking at this gif. It’s so cute! 

There are many upsides to working in the Federal Government, sure, but there are a lot of downsides too. One of the few is that a social life, or time-off, is discouraged... discouraged to the point where one might imply it’s forbidden, but can’t really say so. That’s what Paul would say. Perhaps not in those terms, but it’s the truth nonetheless. Now, being a contract worker for the government... well, that doesn’t help. Being closely monitored after and in-between each job is somewhat disconcerting, to say the least, and when your literal reputation can be judged just based on the people you know or hang around, well, you tend to stay away from people.

After the recent case, Paul heads back home. While they discourage a social life, it doesn’t mean one doesn’t have friends or family, it’s just that, well, Paul sticks around the people he knows. Upon arrival, he’s already gotten a few requests from friends to meet up. One of his good friends, John, convinces Paul to at least accept one invitation, which ultimately ends up being his.

“I thought you knew we were going to this new bar, Paul?” John eyes him up and down from the front hallway of his tiny apartment, judging the sweater Paul wears. “For one, it’s the summer, and two, you’re not getting laid in that!” Trying to pry the sweater off of him, Paul swats at John’s hand.

“I’m not trying to get laid!” He defends, taking John’s advice and pulling the sweater up and over his head. The fabric clings on, a bit of his stomach showing before he finally removes his sweater and tosses it over onto the couch. “Please, do you really think I have time for that? The next case could be as early as tomorrow!”

“Or as early as three months from now! So what? Live for once, Paul! Geez. I can’t promise you that I’m gonna be here to help you out five years from now, man.”

The criticism and threat of an absent romantic life manage to bring him back to reality. Time continues to pass and pass, and with an endless onslaught of cases... there’ll come a time when he has to make a choice. Luckily, that day isn’t today. Taking the advice for once, Paul goes with the basic plaid button-up he’d had on underneath the sweater. After all, he’s not used to ‘looking good for the ladies’ or whatever it is that John and his buddies do. He’s glad at least that John hadn’t made too many remarks, or suggested contacts.

When they arrive, Paul’s glad to see that this isn’t a club or some dingy bar, in fact, this place isn’t just a bar: it has games. There are a few bowling lanes in the back, a few billiard tables scattered around, while many of the walls have booths for darts, which just happens to be exactly where John’s leading him toward. 

It isn’t too noisy tonight, but he still has to actively listen and lean down to hear whoever he’s speaking with. “This is -” John introduces you, but your name gets lost in the noise. “This is Paul.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you,” the kind words make it to his ears, and he can’t help but offer you a polite smile and handshake. 

“Oh? Did John mention me? Hopefully nothing bad,” he jokes, surprised by the confident and firm handshake you have for someone so innocent-looking. The smirk and mischievous look that follows makes his eyes widen for a moment until you laugh.

“I’m just joking. He’s never said anything bad! Mostly talks about how you’re a workaholic... how he misses having you around.”

Nodding in acknowledgment, the feeling of someone’s hand on his arm grabs his attention. It’s John. “Thought you could use a beer,” he comments, handing Paul an IPA.

“You remembered,” Paul states, touched as he hadn’t known John really cared about him with his job taking him miles and miles away constantly, never permanent in one area.

The night ensues, rounds and rounds of darts being played, you, surprising him even more with your precise nature. He isn’t too bad himself, though he could probably use some more practice. Darts... not his thing. In-between turns he talks to you, not too fond of John’s current girlfriend, Charlotte, a fairly nice girl, but constantly causing unnecessary drama in John’s life. 

“So you’re a coworker of hers?” Paul repeats back what she’d said, a tidbit he’d learned a while ago: if you repeat back what someone said to you, it makes them feel heard and understood, while you simultaneously get the facts straight. With a nod of your head, a faint smile displays itself on his lips, glad his little trick worked.

“Well, what do you do?”

Oh no. It’s the dreaded question. Internally panicking just slightly as he isn’t quite sure how she’ll take it or not, he grabs ahold of his beer from the table and buys himself a few moments to come up with a more... broad answer. Taking a sip, he plays it off as something indifferent. “Oh? I’m- uh, a contractor.”

“Okay?” You smile at him, shaking your head as you tilt your head slightly. That isn’t good, that means you’re interested. “But what kind of contract do you do? Construction? Freelance? Writing? Photography?” It seems you’ve pegged him for the creative type, a compliment if he ever got one. Your questions are smart, you have a real knack for interviewing, he supposes. 

With his beer still in his hand, Paul sips at it again, deciding with the half an ounce still within that he should just finish it off. Once he’s swallowed the somewhat acidic liquid, he places his bottle aside and looks over and down at you. “Governmental work. They call, I come and fix whatever needs fixing.”

There... it’s out there now, there’s no hiding it anymore. A second flies by, then another, and he can tell by the look upon your face that you’re thinking about it. Unconsciously he holds his breath, awaiting your answer. 

“Hey!” John suddenly calls, “Come on, we’re gonna play a round of pool.” The offer feels like a relief, an end to the conversation, a life-preserver thrown out into the sea of awkward social interactions at the last second, saving him from social doom. A quiet sigh of relief passes through his lips as he stands, and as he turns, the feeling of someone’s touch on his back makes him freeze.

“That sounds really cool. Badass, even. A lot more entertaining than what I do,” your hand slides down his back before falling by your side as you step around him and head toward the table, suddenly stopping as you notice his lack of movement. Looking back at him, you smile and beckon him to follow, your dress swishing as you turn and continue on your path toward the rest of the group.

Paul stands there stunned. What had he done? No one has ever responded that way before; going so far as to call him badass? Ha! Him? Scrawny, tall, geek Paul Sevier? A badass? A smirk forms on his lips. He’d like to think of himself as such, but of course, the bullies that haunt him would say otherwise. Completely disregarding the past, he decides to embrace the man that you see him to be, the man he wants to be, the man that sometimes, late at night when he retraces all the wildly unimaginable things he’s done in his lifetime, he thinks maybe he could be.

He’d been put on your team. Of course he had. The telling wink from John is all the clue he needs to know that he’s been set-up with you. Usually, he’s all for complaining, but tonight... he’d rather not. As you position the pool cue up to shoot, Paul grumbles a little louder than he’d thought.

“That’s not how you-” his words die on his tongue as he knows he can be a strictler for the small things, the nitpicky things... that’s just who he is.

He’d hoped you hadn’t heard him, but as you’re bent over the table, head turned to look up at him, he pales slightly out of embarrassment. “Show me how I’m supposed to do it then,” you say teasingly, making his cheeks and ears slightly flush. He shouldn’t be a flustered mess; that’s not what a badass would do... but he is, he’s flustered. Swallowing his anxieties, Paul closes the space between you, gently bending over to place his hands over yours, slowly guiding them to where they’re supposed to be.

“Relax,” he whispers, his lips right by your ear. Your eyes catch his and make contact as you turn your head to look at him, which he finds odd considering he’s trying to change the placement of your fingers on the pool cue. “It’s like this,” he speaks softly, motioning with his eyes for you to look at what he’s doing. 

“Get a room, right?!” John interjects loudly, laughing as he makes everyone uncomfortable. Paul immediately straightens and puts some distance between the two of you, standing beside the table to watch as you take your turn. He’d been done anyway and shouldn’t have gotten caught up in the moment.

The next thing he knows, John and Charlotte are leaving, and given John was his ride... he’s stuck with you. One thing leads to another and you’re walking him up to his apartment, insisting that it’s the right thing to do. If things were any other way, he’d laugh and call you the gentleman, however, he still feels awkward after what John had done.

Now you’re standing at his door, leaning against the wooden frame as you both stare at one another. You don’t seem phased by his friend’s untimely joke, your eyes seeming to shout radiant energy up at him from the few feet apart. Slowly you’re closing that space, killing the distance in-between. Paul feels trapped, like prey caught under the gaze of its predator... only part of him wants to be eaten alive. He hasn’t had an interaction like this since college, and even then he didn’t have much time for such things. What could he say? Grades are important. Suddenly his eyes shut and he’s reveling in the feeling of your hands on his chest, his arms slowly sliding their way around the back of your upper torso and down to the small of your back. 

Your lips are supple, soft, and refreshing, unlike the distant memories of kissing he can recount. There’s an expectation, a want, a desire... and Paul knows how to fill it. Fumbling behind your back with the door-knob, he eventually twists it enough to unlock the door and get in. It somewhat surprises him that you’d let him take you inside, walk you back toward the bed until the back of your knees are hitting the mattress. It’s only then that you part from the brief slew of kisses.

Both of your eyes focus on nothing but one another, some unknown tacit message trying to register itself with him. “Do... you want to stop?” He asks, confused by your lack of words. Although his hands still rest on your sides he doesn’t move them, not wanting to make your closeness more obvious.

“Actually... yeah,” you whisper, breaking the eye contact to shake your head, hair swishing with the movement. “It’s not that I don’t want things to go further... I just-” you sigh and tear away from his grip, starting to pace by his bed. “-I’ve been through this so many times, Paul- the going out, the kissing, the dating, even an engagement, and... it never works out.”

His eyebrow quirks up and Paul pushes up his glasses a bit from where they’d fallen down the bridge of his nose. The click of your tiny heels against his floorboard resound through the room and he tries to ignore the feeling of his length having started to harden. Despite this, he listens to your words with confusion within him. Why are you telling him this?

“I’m just tired of going through all this just for it not to work out. My mom, my friends... they’ve started to say I’m getting too old for this. I’m sure your friends have been saying the same. So... I don’t know if you mind, or what your intentions are, but... I’d rather just not do this tonight. As handsome as you are, I just feel like if this is going anywhere, it’s better to wait.”

Ah... so that’s where you were going. Adjusting the collar of his button-up, Paul clears his throat. “I didn’t really have any intentions going in, honestly,” he admits, turning to sit down on the edge of his bed. “John and I haven’t seen each other in a while, and though we talk through email and text... he thought it’d be good for me to ‘get out’ and meet some people. It’s clear now they were only trying to set us up. Not that I mind- I- I do hear those things too... my mom pestering me about a family. I get it,” his words trail off as he thinks about these things once more today.

You audibly exhale a sigh, joining him in sitting on the edge of the bed. “I get that,” you encourage him, slipping your purse off and onto the bed. “It’s just frustrating.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles, glad that you actually seem to understand and aren’t just saying that like some of his other friends would. “I... was actually not planning on taking this further. Not because you aren’t pretty, or kind or anything... but because, well... honestly my job takes me away for months at a time sometimes, and I’m not always around. People don’t like that.”

Silence consumes the air and a comfortable energy settles in its place. “That’s the only reason? From... I don’t know, us going on an actual date?” It warms his heart in some weird way to hear you ask it so innocently, like a child being denied a popsicle after dinner or something alike.

“Mm,” he hums in thoughts, finally turning his head to look over and down at you, “yeah. I mean, it’s hard. Not a lot of people I know are really up for long distance, you know?”

A hum of acknowledgment emanates from you this time, you nodding your head thoughtfully. He notices the way you play with the fabric of your dress, hands bunching it up and fingers brushing back and forth over it in a nervous manner, or maybe one of thought. “Would... you be against trying?” As you meet his gaze, Paul feels taken aback but struck with some sort of awe and reality check. Aware of everything going on at this moment, he shakes his head ‘no’. He wouldn’t be against trying. “Then... do you wanna swap numbers? I’m not saying we should make it official or anything, but I do think I’d like to get to know you better, Paul.”

This is the first time a genuine smile has placed itself on his lips outside of work in... years. Within work, sure, he sees mystifying and unreal things every day, always bewildered by the extraordinary, but... eventually the ordinary just seems, well, boring in comparison. Seeing the smile on your lips and the hope in your eyes (at least he thinks it’s hope) Paul decides that you... you might just become his new extraordinary. 

“Yeah, I’d like that too.”

#Paul Sevier x Reader #Midnight Special #Paul Sevier x Reader fluff #fluff #Midnight Special fic #my writing

[thecoleopterawithana]

The Fool

— Tout Les Jours (Every Day), by René Magritte (1966).

-

Day after day  Alone on a hill  The man with the foolish grin  Is keeping perfectly still  But nobody wants to know him  They can see that he's just a fool  And he never gives an answer 

But the fool on the hill  Sees the sun going down  And the eyes in his head  See the world spinning round 

Well on the way  Head in a cloud  The man of a thousand voices  Talking perfectly loud 

But nobody ever hears him  Or the sound he appears to make  And he never seems to notice 

But the fool on the hill  Sees the sun going down  And the eyes in his head  See the world spinning round  

And nobody seems to like him  They can tell what he wants to do   And he never shows his feelings 

But the fool on the hill  Sees the sun going down  And the eyes in his head  See the world spinning round, oh oh oh, round round round round 

He never listens to them  He knows that they're the fools  They don't like him 

The fool on the hill  Sees the sun going down  And the eyes in his head  See the world spinning round 

Oh, round round round round, oh 

-

‘I see somebody now!’ [Alice] exclaimed at last. ‘But he’s coming very slowly—and what curious attitudes he goes into!’ (For the messenger kept skipping up and down, and wriggling like an eel, as he came along, with his great hands spread out like fans on each side.) 

‘Not at all,’ said the King. ‘He’s an Anglo-Saxon Messenger—and those are Anglo-Saxon attitudes. He only does them when he’s happy. His name is Haigha.’ (He pronounced it so as to rhyme with ‘mayor.’) 

‘I love my love with an H,’ Alice couldn’t help beginning, ‘because he is Happy. I hate him with an H, because he is Hideous. I fed him with—with—with Ham-sandwiches and Hay. His name is Haigha, and he lives—’ 

‘He lives on the Hill,’ the King remarked simply, without the least idea that he was joining in the game, while Alice was still hesitating for the name of a town beginning with H. ‘The other Messenger’s called Hatta. I must have two, you know—to come and go. One to come, and one to go.’

— in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871).

-

Paul then went back to his guitar and started to sing and play a very slow, beautiful song about a foolish man sitting on the hill. John listened to it quietly, staring blankly out of the window, almost as if he wasn’t listening. Paul sang it many times, la-la-ing words he hadn’t thought of yet. When at last he finished, John said he’d better write the words down or he’d forget them. Paul said it was OK. He wouldn’t forget them. It was the first time Paul had played it for John. There was no discussion.

— in Hunter Davies’ The Beatles: The Authorised Biography (1968).

-

JOHN: Who’s the fool on the hill, Paul?

PAUL: John.

-

Thank You Girl (1963): I know, little girl, only a fool would doubt our love

Another Girl (1965): You're making me say that I've got nobody but you / But as from today, well I've got somebody that's new / I ain't no fool and I don't take what I don't want / For I have got another girl, another girl

Girl (1965): She's the kind of girl who puts you down when friends are there / You feel a fool

The Fool On The Hill (1967): And nobody seems to like him / They can tell what he wants to do / And he never shows his feelings

Sexy Sadie (1968): Sexy Sadie, what have you done? / You made a fool of everyone

Hey Jude (1968): And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain / Don't carry the world upon your shoulders / For well you know that it's a fool who plays it cool / By making his world a little colder

Glass Onion (1968): I told you 'bout the fool on the hill / I tell you man he living there still

Maxwell’s Silver Hammer (1968): Back in school again Maxwell plays the fool again / Teacher gets annoyed

Come And Get It (1969): If you want it, here it is, come and get it / Make your mind up fast / If you want it, anytime, I can give it / But you better hurry 'cause it may not last | Did I hear you say / That there must be a catch? / Will you walk away / From a fool and his money?

Dear Friend (1970): Dear friend, throw the wine / I'm in love with a friend of mine / Really truly, young and newly wed / Are you a fool, or is it true?

Some People Never Know (1971): No one else will ever see how much faith you have in me / Only fools would disagree that it's so / Some people never know | Like a fool I'm far away / Every night I hope and pray / I'll be coming home to stay and it's so / Some people never know [...] Only love can stand the test / Only you outshine the rest / Only fools take second best, and it's so / Some people never know

Sally G (1974): Somewhere to the south of New York City / Lies the friendly state of Tennessee / Down in Nashville town then I met a pretty / Who made a pretty big fool out of me

Memories (1979): Wondering, wondering / Is that really me / Running ’round in circles like a fool? / Off in such insanity / It’s a wonder how I survived / Ah, angels have been good to me / And I’m glad to be alive

The Other Me (1982): The other me would rather be the glad one / The other me would rather play the fool / I want to be the kind of me / That doesn't let you down as a rule

Your School (1984): Never thought I’d learn so much / Just a poor fool in love / Your school / I never felt the gentle touch until I met you

-

[Note: This term is very common in the vocabulary of the 50′s songs they grew up with. It’s not as specific to them as other motifs. Still, I was keen to track when and how they used it; with what meaning. Suggestions of additions, as always, are welcome.]

#who is the fool on the hill? #The Fool On The Hill #Thank You Girl #Another Girl #Girl #Sexy Sadie #Hey Jude #glass onion #maxwell silver hammer #Come And Get It #dear friend #some people never know #Sally G #Memories #the other me #Your School #The Epistolary #my stuff #René Magritte #Lewis Carroll

[ghost-writing]

Fee+Bear 2/?? - Home (Henry Cavill fanfic)

This is a re-post from my other blog… I’ve decided to post my writing on a separate page, it’ll be easier to access like that.

I’ve edited this a little, but there might still be some spelling mistakes & grammatical errors. (English is not my 1st language!) So, if you see something that irks you, please tell me! :)

Word count: almost 1.8k

Warnings: brief mentions of sex, AND SOPPY SUGARY FLUFF. 

This is a prequel of this, but there might be some inconsistencies in the Fee+Bear stories, as it’s more a collection of one-shots, so be warned!

The sun is shining outside London. For once, the weather is great, even if a bit cold. But after spending most of the day in the garden playing with the kids and the dogs, Sofia decides to retreat to her office, because the script for episode 6 is not gonna check itself. And it needs to be sent to twins John and Paul, the writers and showrunners, for their own corrections, with still enough time left to print the final version for the whole cast and crew. 

There are a lot of people depending on her now: she’s not just the star, but also one of the executive producers of her new show. A show that she’s abandoned a lot for, that she’s invested a lot in. She was working hard for it before, and is working even harder now that the lock-down is finally over, to make up for lost time.

Work is a lot on its own, but she also wants to be there for Gigi and Noah. Carmen and Elena had moved to London with her, and she owed them a huge debt for that. Their presence allowed her to dedicate herself to rehearsing and filming during the week, but she insisted on staying at home on the weekends as much as possible. Her schedule was so full, she was sure no man would have wanted to be included in that constant chaos, but Henry was not any man. He worked hard too, but came to spent most of his free time with her and her kids, instead of partying or doing whatever he used to do before they got together. She had sworn not to rush back into a relationship so quickly after her divorce, but he changed her mind easily. From the moment he met the kids, blissful, happy moments were the norm in their home when he was around.

But right now, she has to work just a little to be able to enjoy the rest of the 4-day weekend they had managed to squeeze into their extra tight work schedule. (Just one more proof that Henry was committed to their relationship.) And the quicker she gets it done, the sooner she’ll be free of it. She knows that, but she’d pushed it to later several times already.

The room is cool, which Sofia welcomes after the overheating she endured in the garden. Even in shorts and a top, the intense playing made her blood boil. But maybe that was because Henry took of his t-shirt at some point… Of course, the cat had followed her, trying to escape the ruckus Kal, Kit and the humans made (the big one being the loudest), bothering his fifth nap of the day. Sirius knows that in here, he’ll find peace and quiet, and maybe some belly rubs.

Sofia grabs the small stack of paper that’s been sitting on her desk for almost two days now, a purple pen (her designated colour for corrections, the twins using blue and green), her phone and headphones, and goes to lay on the sofa, the huge Maine Coon in tow. As soon as she settles, her head resting on a big cushion at one end, facing the door, and her bare legs and feet on the other end, Sirius looks for the best spot: her belly isn’t large enough for him to curl up in a ball on, and there’s not enough space for his large fluffy body between her and the back of the couch. 

Sofia lets out a slightly annoyed sigh. “Can’t you decide already?” The black feline lifts his majestic head and looks at her right in the eyes with those enormous green marbles of his, as if to argue that this is the most important part of his routine. She melts, as usual. “Alright, baby.” She lifts him up, kisses his forehead and pets him gently, long enough for him to purr for a moment, and places him on the armrest, above her feet. She knows that in ten minutes tops, he’ll get down from there to get closer to her, demanding attention, but at least, she’ll cool down before having to deal with him. She puts the headset on, turns on some heavy rock music, like she always does when she needs to concentrate, and begins to read.

She’s about halfway through her task, and Sirius has moved spot three times, when Henry’s head peaks through the door.

“What?”, she says, taking the headphones off.

“Can I come in? I have to make a phone call.”

“Sure!” She smiles at him. “And you also need to hide from my adorable but exhausting kids, don’t you?” She winks.

He sighs deeply. “I do love them, but they. never. stop.” After removing Sirius with the utmost care and putting him gently on the ground, he sits next to her. The tiger looks at him with disdain, making Henry recoil a bit, before searching for another position of power.

“It’s all your fault, Cavill!” She brings her legs closer to her upper body to give more room to the big man. “Don’t be so goddamn nice to them, and they’ll play with each other, instead of always asking you to entertain them!”

“I tried, but I can’t say no to them! Gigi always makes that sad puppy face, and I cave… Every time!”

“Superman defeated by a pouting 6 year old… Batman’s got nothing on my girl”, she mocks. “Ok, make your call and let me finish this, please! When I’ll be done, I can teach you how to fight off the Evil Curly Dragon and her sidekick, Deadly Birdie.” She puts the headphones back on, not waiting for her boyfriend to groan at her.

Henry calls a friend or one of his brothers, presumably. She turned the music down to a more acceptable level, and she can hear him laugh. She can’t help but peak out from behind the sheets of paper every now and then: he smiles, he frowns, he makes gestures with his hands, fully immersed in his conversation. She forces herself to concentrate on her work.

Minutes pass, she’s getting close to the end of the script. Sirius is now resting on top of the sofa’s back, close to her, his legs lazily dangling on each side. His butt is turned towards his rival for Sofia’s affection, showing his disapproval.

Immersed in her script, Sofia suddenly realizes that Henry’s hand is resting on her legs. Her bare feet were now pushing on his meaty thigh, as she was looking for warmth, subconsciously. She always had cold feet, and Henry was hot in more than one way. He starts moving up from her feet, slowly caressing the ankle, then up the calf, lightly massaging the muscle with the pulp of his fingers. She looks at him, ready to scold him for distracting her, but he’s still talking over the phone, apparently unaware of what his hand his doing. He’s gone a bit quieter, so she can’t hear what he says.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees her looking at him. His hand leaves her briefly, gesturing for her to take off the headphones.

“Mum says hello!”

“Hello, Marianne! See you soon!”

“You heard that? Yeah, maybe in…”

She puts the headphones back on, decided on finishing her task rapidly. But his hand is back on her leg. His whole palm is rubbing her calf now, going back down to her feet.

“God, this is divine…”, she thinks. Henry is very tactile, and she always welcomes his gentle touch. Thinking of it, they had barely shared a moment alone yet this weekend, just the two of them… They arrived really late on Thursday night, exhausted, so she just snuggled in his arms as they both fell asleep rapidly. The children had been all over them from early Friday morning. Only last night did they finally make time for some intimacy, but they were still tired, so they did what they had to do, and quickly called it a night. Maybe he was attempting something now… She couldn’t deny it was slowly putting her in the mood.

Until he touches her sole with his thumb, which makes her wiggle her toes at the tickling feeling. She puts the script down harshly, slapping it on her thighs. He silently apologizes, continuing his conversation with his mother. This time, his hand stays still on her legs, not going back to his delightful ministrations. And she feels like pouting at him just like her daughter, to make him start again. No, she has to finish work first!

A few minutes later, she sighs with pride and relief, closing the script and throwing it in direction of the desk. It bumps on it and falls on the ground, the noise making Sirius flinch and almost fall from his perch. She turns to face Henry, who’s looking at her, a grin on his face.

As soon as she takes her headphones off, he queries “Finished now?”

“Almost! I just have to scan it and send it to the twins!”

“Can you do that a little later?” He places his hand on her exposed thigh, his expression speaking without the need for words.

“Why would I wait?”, she replies, as innocently as she can, while he stretches his gorgeous body above hers, one of his knees placed between her legs. She can feel the heat emanating from his broad chest, flowing down to her stomach, and lower.

“Because your legs are cold, and I have to warm you up… Should we go to your bedroom?”

He dives his nose in her neck, his stubble scratching at her skin deliciously, his lips and tongue tracing a wet trail on her veins and nerves. They’ve been together less than four months, but he very quickly found all of her weak spots. Only four months, but things got serious between them even before they actually could start. After talking to each other almost everyday over the phone for several months, it did not feel like they were rushing into anything thoughtlessly. Maybe it was time for another step forward…

“Our bedroom?”, she asks.

He lifts his head from her neck and looks at her, not talking for a moment. She feels worried that he won’t agree. But he kisses her lips, and she kisses him back, her arms grabbing his neck while he wraps her legs around his waist. She pushes him gently with one hand, breaking the deep kiss, needing a clear answer.

“To our bedroom, then!”, he says, the biggest of smiles illuminating his face.

#fanfic #henry cavill fic #henry cavill fluff #fluff #with a dash of smut #Fee+Bear

[theadrogna]

This comes under the heading of better late than never, and many apologies to @singledarkshade​ for the lateness of this response to the Dream Movie Challenge. So, we were given six actors from our favourite TV shows/movies, a wildcard actor, and a random item. We had use these actors and the object to create our own movie.

I give you a supernatural romantic comedy, starring Matt Ryan, Elizabeth Henstridge, April Bowlby, Taika Waititi, Ellen Page, and Woody Harrelson. With a special appearance by Merryl Streep.

Synopsis:

Max Webster is working as an investment banker in London, making huge amounts of money that support a lifestyle of clubs, bars and one night stands, until his boss and mentor commits fraud on a huge scale. Max is implicated, despite knowing nothing. He loses his job and not a single other bank in the city will touch him, meaning his career is effectively over and he’s rapidly going broke. Just when he thinks things can’t get worse, he is told that his sole relative, his estranged paternal grandmother has died and left him property in Brighton.

With nothing better to do and hopes that the property is worth something, Max heads to Brighton to tie up his grandmother’s affairs, dreading his time outside the capital and increasingly depressed about life. Upon arrival he meets Poppy Fletcher, his grandmother’s lawyer who was the one who contacted him about his grandmother’s death. 

Max discovers that his grandmother was the proud owner of the “Worst Wax Museum in Britain”: The House of Wax. Only a handful of the wax statues look like who they’re supposed to be and the rest are like someone sculpted celebrities that they’d never seen. The museum is barely making enough to keep it afloat. He begins to make plans to sell the museum and at least make enough to pay off his Grandmother’s debts. Enter Cooper Farnsworth, rich American businessman, on the run from the Mafia after a dodgy deal went wrong. He desperately needs to make money fast.

But Max finds out that his inheritance is rather unusual in a number of ways...

For starters, there aren’t many wax museums where Meryl Streep hands out advice and enjoys watching the footy on the night watchman’s TV when the punters have gone home for the night. But it isn’t just Meryl, all of the waxworks come to life thanks to an old book of magic that is powered by the signatures of the guests and the messages they leave. The less visitors there are, the less magic there is to keep the waxworks alive and things have been getting desperate lately until only a handful of the waxworks have the necessary magic to come to life.

The waxworks tell Max about how his grandmother desperately tried to bring in more people, but her failing health meant that everything fell apart. Max discovers how his grandmother loved the museum and also loved him, despite her outwardly cool demeanour. He had thought that she didn’t care that he left Brighton, but Amelia unearths the letters that his grandmother wanted to send but didn’t have an address to send them to.

Max realises that he can’t sell the wax museum after all, and he enlists Poppy’s help in finding a way to keep it going. In the process she also discovers the secret of the museum, and Max and Poppy discover that they’re falling for each other. Meanwhile Cooper is plotting to get Max out because the listed building is worth more than Max is aware, especially with some of the period features.

The finale has Cooper breaking into the museum to destroy the waxworks, but Steve, the night watchman sounds the alarm. Cooper accidentally starts a fire and there is a desperate fight to save everyone from melting. Max and Poppy rally everyone to deal with the fire, and Cooper is arrested for arson.

The publicity from the fire actually brings in more customers, Max updates the museum with new exhibits, deciding to focus more on local history and tell the stories of the people who live in Brighton. He’s cleared of any wrong doing at the bank and Poppy helps him sue for wrongful dismissal. He uses the payout to finance repairs to the museum and more and more waxworks come alive every night as the visitors pour in.

And Max never thinks about leaving again, because now he has a family, albeit one that includes Meryl Streep, Amelia Earhart and Margaret Thatcher but he doesn’t mind.

Max Webster (Matt Ryan): Max lost his parents when he was young and was raised by his paternal grandmother. The two did not get on and he left home as soon as he could for university and then the big city. He always had a love of risk taking and wanted to be rich, so he studied finance and got a job in banking. He spends his time closing deals in a highly stressful job during the day and then out on the town in the evening. He has very few friends, all of whom are from work, and he very rarely sleeps with the same woman twice. He has a very shallow outlook on life and everything is about money.

His life is changed by inheriting the House of Wax and discovering that his memories of his grandmother are flawed and desperately inaccurate. He deals with the unusual House of Wax that his grandmother created and his grief at her passing. He comes to realise that not everything in life is about the next deal or how much money can be made.

Poppy Fletcher (Elizabeth Henstridge): Poppy is a lawyer and is responsible for executing Max’s grandmother’s will. She’s the one who hand Max the keys to the House of Wax and sees the look of disappointment on his face. She is very efficient and competent, loves the town she lives in and knows everyone on her street. She mourns the loss of Max’s grandmother, and has no idea that she was anything but the eccentric, elderly owner of the House of Wax. She doesn’t like Max at first because of his attitude to his grandmother and his version of her doesn’t seem to be the same as the woman she knew.

She ends up spending a lot of time with Max as the property sale becomes more difficult and after a while, she realises that he’s not at all the image that he projects. She starts helping him to get back on his feet and renovate the museum. Then she discovers about the magic book and she realises that she can’t let Max deal with the situation on his own.

Florence Nightingale (April Bowlby): Florence doesn’t look like the picture that hangs next to her in the slightest. Even her period dress is somewhat suspect. She prefers to wear much more recent clothes and is doing online first aid courses at night. She’s slightly haughty and thinks she knows best.

She can see that Max is depressed and grieving when he arrives. She’s one of the driving forces behind getting Max to take better care of himself and to talk about how he feels. Once the museum is safe, she works at becoming qualified as a therapist and sees patients online, writing an agony aunt column for the local paper.

Amelia Earhart (Ellen Page): She likes to pretend that she’s actually the pilot that she was sculpted to be. She’s very much her own person though, feisty and fun loving. She has no idea how to fly a plane, but has a flight simulator that Max’s grandmother gave her and is a computer game ace. She has the high score and no one can beat her.

She is the first waxwork that Max discovers is alive and persuades him that he isn’t hallucinating. She takes him to see the others when she realises that he’s the grandson of the previous owner.

She ends the film playing games in esports tournaments and winning, much to the amusement and delight of her fellow waxworks.

Steve (Taika Waititi): The night watchman of the House of Wax. He’s always known as Steve and no one knows his full name. He never really seems to go home, he’s just there. Max is very confused by him at first, but eventually realises that he’s another waxwork. He was one of the first created and no one is ever sure who he was supposed to be, at the end of the film it’s discovered that he’s supposed to be Genghis Khan, but like most of the other waxworks he bears no resemblance to his original. He is quite protective of the museum though.

Cooper Farnsworth (Woody Harrelson): An American property developer who is interested in buying the House of Wax and turning it into flats. He moved to the UK, to get away from some people who didn’t like him much (actually he double crossed the Mafia). He gets increasingly desperate to buy the House of Wax when some of his former business partners catch up with him, threatening Max and Poppy if they don’t sell up, but he never finds out the real secret of the museum. He thinks he’s hallucinating when he sees the waxworks move and fight back during the finale. He’s dragged away shouting about moving statues and charged with arson.

Meryl Streep (herself): She is modelled after the three time Oscar winning actress and is the only waxwork who looks like she is supposed to. She’s something of a leader of the group, checking in with everyone to make sure that they’re doing okay. She’s concerned about the fading magic and trying to keep everyone’s spirits up. She offers very good advice to Max about how to run the museum, most of which Max ignores to begin with because he thinks he knows better. Later we see her taking on the museum accounts and running the financial side of the museum with Max listening carefully to her. He may have been a banker but those skills are very little use when it comes to book keeping.

Additional actors:

Arthur Darvill as David Bowie - Can actually sing, sounds nothing like David Bowie. Wants to be Major Tom and follows NASA on Twitter. Tom Ellis as Paul McCartney - Can also sing and taught himself to play the piano. Duets with Bowie to entertain the rest of the group. John Boyega as Frank Bruno - Hates punching people, is a total softy. Ryan Reynolds as Salvador Dali - He once tried painting and decided never to do so again. He prefers reading and writes poetry. Eccentric. Celia Imrie as Queen Victoria - Knows everything that there is about Queen Victoria. She misses Albert who hasn’t woken up for a while now due to lack of magic.

#RBACL QCC #Dream Movie Challenge