#The Sound of my 1972

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Meet the Errand Boy.

Team Fortress 2 × Gravity Falls crossover AU because the two canon timelines sorta match, yipeee!!!

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1971 (2 years after being kicked out at 1969)- Recently turned 19 and short on money, Stanley Pines gets hired by The Administrator as MANN.CO's errand boy alongside Miss Pauling (since the latter was falling behind on her work due to her excessive overworking).

He is saddled with various grunt work such as accompanying Miss Pauling to her arrands of burying bodies, killing and eliminating witnesses; delivering supplies and packages to the mercenary teams; and occasionally even gets to replace some of them for a few battles if they happen to be unavailable on short notice!

[velvet4510]

Note: this list references the 1961 version of West Side Story and the 1954 version of A Star Is Born.

[callmethehunter]

A close-up look at Robert’s bulgilicious performance

Sydney, Australia 1972

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

Fanny performing their song "The First Time" live on the TV show aired via PBS, The Session, in 1972.

[snailwitdamail2]

the ending of the 1972 Lorax film always makes me feel like this

[jezebelblues]

𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐀𝐑 | 𝐇.𝐒 ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

summary: it isn’t about fruit

cw: smut18+, oral (f!receiving) unedited, idk that’s it. there’s like brief mentions of cigarettes/alcohol if that’s an issue

word count: approx 3.7k

| LMFAO okay so here’s something i’ve had in the drafts for a bit. on the lil poll thing the majority of yall voted for smut so here’s a crumb i guess love u

yes it’s 70s!harry. i love u 70rry

masterlist

july 1972

harry knew of YN—a friend of mitch’s, the cousin of a girl he could still taste on his tongue.

she was always in the periphery of his world—not a groupie, not a colleague. she was the girl who held the bubblegum pink lighter to his lips if he couldn’t find his own, the girl who’d offer her red glitter pen if harry lost his black one.

so far, three songs in his notebook were written in sparkly cherry ink.

they met four months ago at a bar in california— his first night on the north american leg of the tour, she'd stood on her tiptoes to hug mitch, congratulating him over and over with a laugh like the fizz of soda on a hot day. harry remembers the scent of her hair when the breeze caught it—peach bubbly and honey. he remembers the crimson lipstick stains on the cigarette she passed him, the faint taste of her fruity cocktail on the filter.

since then, she'd been around. not a fixture, exactly, but something close to it. she didn't sing, didn't play, didn't take up too much space, but she had a knack for fitting into the cracks no one else noticed. sometimes, before a show, she'd twist his hair back just the way he liked it, or she'd swipe a bottle of polish to paint his nails in a shade that matched his shirt.

it was easy, the way she lingered. easy enough that harry never really questioned it.

now, the sucker in her mouth stained her tongue blue. her heart-shaped sunglasses, pink and a little scratched, sat low on the bridge of her nose as the sun painted the roof of the tour bus in a syrupy summer gold. she was stretched out on a towel beside him, humming a tune harry instantly recognized as his own.

he sat cross-legged next to her, the glitter pen—her glitter pen—rolling between his fingers. his notebook balanced on his knee as he scrawled down lyrics, but the words felt sluggish, stuck, like the heavy heat pressing down on them.

YN's hums drifted lazily in the air, quiet enough that the buzz of the bus engine nearly swallowed them up. her eyes were shut tight against the sun's glow, but harry couldn't help stealing glances at her. she looked serene, almost untouched by the heat that had him melting into his jeans.

the cherry-red ink glimmered faintly as he scratched another uneven line into his notebook.

with a sudden pop! she pulled the sucker from her lips and smiled without opening her eyes. "you're staring."

harry didn't flinch. he leaned back slightly and smiled—bunny teeth and dimples. "maybe you're my muse."

her laugh was soft and sharp all at once, the sound of a soda can cracking open. she propped herself up on her elbows, raising an eyebrow at him. "hardly. if i were, you'd have more than that down by now," she teased, nodding toward the page.

harry smirked, his gaze skimming the floral pattern on her bikini bottoms, the curve of her hip. "or maybe you're just a really bad muse."

she kissed her teeth and let herself flop back down against her towel, the movement making her breasts bounce slightly in her top. harry's eyes lingered, just for a beat. she didn't seem to notice-or maybe she did, but didn't care. instead, she nudged his thigh with her toes, the sucker swirling back between her blued lips.

after a moment, she pulled it free and held it out toward him, her pink-painted nails glinting in the sunlight. "want the rest?" she grinned, tilting her head against her shoulder. "it's bubblegum in the middle. your favorite."

harry sighed theatrically, but he leaned in anyway, his butterfly creasing slightly as he plucked the sticky stick from her fingers. he turned it slowly, the blue sugar catching the light, slick with her saliva as he slid it onto his tongue. it was sweet, bright, with the faintest taste of her still lingering underneath.

she watched him with a raised brow, her grin spreading. “will you tell me who kiwis about yet?”

his lips quirked up around the candy. "no."

this was the third time she'd asked in the span of four months. it was her favorite song, or so she claimed.

it was a month prior in chicago. the aragon ballroom. he'd gone early, hours before soundcheck, to roam the venue, let his nerves settle. but that day the stage hadn't been empty. YN had been there, sitting cross-legged on the polished wood, his guitar resting in her lap. her fingers plucked at the strings hesitantly, her brows furrowed in concentration.

she wore a bright yellow bikini top that day, a pair of denim shorts slung low on her hips. the sunlight streaming through the high windows made her skin glow.

he'd stayed quiet as he approached, leaning his arms on the edge of the stage to watch. she jumped slightly when she noticed him, her cheeks flushing.

"move your hand up a bit more," his voice was soft, nodding toward her grip on the neck of the guitar.

she bit her lip, looking down to adjust her fingers. "like this?"

harry nodded, a soft smile playing on his lips. "press your index finger there. now try."

her cheeks darkened further, but she nodded, her focus snapping back to the strings as she strummed again-hesitant, but closer this time.

her fingers moved carefully along the frets, still hesitant, but with a quiet determination that made harry smile. the melody of kiwi—rough and unpolished—drifted softly through the empty venue, the rawness of it striking something in him. she wasn't bad, not really, but she played like someone who was just beginning to learn—calculated, deliberate, all concentration and no flow.

"it's better," he said after a moment, straightening up to rest his chin on his arms. "but you're still a little off."

she paused, sighing, her lips pressing into a line. "it doesn't sound right."

"you're playing it too clean," he laughed, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk. "y’have to let it be messy, loosen up a bit."

her brows furrowed, and she glanced at him, her cheeks still pink. "messy," she repeated skeptically.

"messy," he confirmed, nodding toward the guitar. "you're trying t’control it too much. let it get away from you a little."

her lips quirked up in a soft laugh as she adjusted her grip on the neck. "easy for you to say, you've been playing since you were, what, twelve?"

"eleven," he corrected, grinning wider. "but who's counting?"

she rolled her eyes but didn't argue, her gaze dropping back to the strings as she tried again. her fingers stumbled at first, the sound of a muted note ringing out across the empty hall, but she pushed through it, letting the rhythm guide her this time. harry watched as her shoulders relaxed, the line of tension in her jaw easing slightly.

"better," he praised after a moment, and her head snapped up, her face lighting up with a cautious kind of pride.

"really?"

he nodded, standing to his full height and dusting his hands against his jeans. "you'll have it down by next week at this rate, sunshine.”

she snorted, shaking her head as she set the guitar carefully to the side. "next week," she repeated, her tone dry. "sure."

"what, no faith in yourself?"

her eyes sparkled as she hopped down from the stage, brushing past him with a grin. "none at all."

harry chuckled, turning to watch her as she headed toward the venue's exit, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. her yellow bikini top gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and the sound of her soft humming lingered in the air long after she disappeared from view.

the song wasn’t about her, no, written long before they’d even met—but it stayed hers in a way he couldn't quite explain. hers like the red glitter pen that sat loosely between his fingers, like the memory of the bubblegum sucker on his tongue, like the faint scent of peach and honey still imprinted in his mind.

he let the notebook fall shut and leaned back against the roof of the bus, the sun beating down on his face. beside him, YN shifted lazily, her hand reaching out to tug the sunglasses from her nose and push them up into her hair.

“you’ll tell me one of these days, harry styles.”

he didn't answer, just let his eyes drift shut, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips.

YN huffed dramatically, flopping onto her side to face him. The towel beneath her crinkled, and the faint scent of sunscreen mixed with the lingering sugar on her breath. “you can’t just smile at me, harry. it’s not fair.”

he peeked one eye open, his grin widening. “fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

“don’t be annoying.” she poked his chest, her nail grazing the inked swallow on his skin. “you can’t write a song like that and then act all mysterious. it’s cruel. is it about someone you dated? someone you wanted to date? tell me something.”

he pushed himself up onto one elbow, the glitter pen rolling off his notebook and landing in the crease of the towel. “and ruin the fun of you guessing every chance you get?”

she groaned, rolling onto her back again and flinging an arm over her face. her sunglasses slipped slightly in her hair, catching the sunlight. “you’re the worst,” she mumbled.

he laughed, soft and low, and let his gaze wander over her—the curve of her shoulder, the way the waistband of her bottoms dug into her hips just enough to make him wonder how her skin might feel under his thumb. “but you keep coming back,” he teased.

“not by choice,” she shot back, her voice muffled by her arm.

he leaned closer, the pendant around his neck glinting as it swung forward. “is that so?”

her arm fell away from her face, and she squinted up at him, the corner of her mouth twitching. “mitch dragged me along,” she said breezily. “i just wanted to see california. maybe get a tan. didn’t realize i’d be stuck with a rock star who thinks he’s god’s gift to songwriting.”

“a rock star, huh?” he echoed, smirking. “that what i am to you?”

her brows arched, her lips quirking into something smug. “what else would you be?”

harry didn’t answer right away. the silence stretched between them, thick and warm, broken only by the hum of the bus and the distant buzz of cicadas. YN held his gaze, unflinching, and for a moment, harry felt a pull in his chest—something slow, something sharp.

finally, he reached for her abandoned sucker, still sticky and shining faintly blue. he popped it into his mouth, smirking around it as he settled back onto the towel.

“god’s gift to songwriting,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

her laugh rang out, bright and unrestrained, and harry closed his eyes, letting the sound soak into him like sunlight.

YN’s laugh faded into a hum as she sat up, legs tucked beneath her, her knees brushing against harry’s thigh. her hand hovered over his notebook, tapping the edge lightly with her fingernail.

“what’s this one about?” she asked, her tone softer now, less teasing.

harry cracked one eye open, the sucker shifting lazily against his cheek. “why d’you always ask questions you know i won’t answer?”

“maybe because i know you’ll give me something, eventually.” she tilted her head, her fingers trailing along the notebook’s cover. “or maybe i just like annoying you.”

“you’re good at it.”

“thank you,” she said sweetly, ignoring his smirk. she flipped the notebook open, her eyes skimming over the half-finished lines written in that unmistakable cherry-red ink. “you’ve been stuck on this one for a while, huh?”

harry sat up, propping himself on one elbow and leaning close enough that her hair brushed his arm. “what makes you say that?”

“the way you’re chewing that sucker like it owes you money,” she teased, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “plus, there’s about three crossed-out lines on every page.”

he sighed, plucking the sucker from his mouth and tossing it into a paper cup near his feet. “some songs take longer than others.”

“and some songs,” she said, grinning as she tapped the glitter pen against the page, “are about a certain someone you refuse to talk about.”

harry laughed, the sound low and rumbling in his chest. “you’re obsessed, you know that?”

“just curious.” she rested her chin in her hand, her pink sunglasses slipping down her nose again. “what’s the line you’re stuck on?”

he hesitated for a moment, then reached out to turn the page. “this one.” he pointed to a scribbled-out verse near the bottom, the ink thick and smudged where he’d pressed too hard.

YN’s eyes narrowed as she leaned closer, the scent of her sunscreen warm and sweet. “hmm. it’s… cryptic. you’re trying too hard.”

“oh, am i?” harry raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.

she nodded, pulling the pen from his hand and spinning it between her fingers. “you need to stop thinking so much. write what you actually want to say, not what you think you’re supposed to.”

“and what do i want to say?”

she smiled, tilting her head at him. “how would i know? it’s your song.”

he held her gaze for a long moment, the teasing edge in her voice softening. his eyes flicked down to the pen in her hand, then back up to her face. “what if you’re the one i’m writing about?”

her breath hitched—just for a second, just barely enough for harry to notice. then she laughed, light and easy, her fingers tapping the notebook again. “then i guess i’m an even worse muse than i thought.”

“terrible,” harry agreed, his voice warm with something deeper, something he wasn’t sure he wanted her to catch.

YN didn’t move away, still perched close enough that her knee brushed against his. She let her fingers trail along the edges of the notebook again. She flipped a page, then another, her curiosity pulling her deeper into the sprawl of his unfinished songs and fragmented verses.

“you really don’t use normal pens anymore, do you?” she said, watching the way the glittery ink shimmered against the light.

“don’t need to,” he muttered without looking up. “not when you keep leaving these everywhere.”

“it’s a service, really,” she teased, flipping another page. “you’re welcome.”

her tone was light, but her fingers slowed as she scanned the next page. the handwriting was messier, more hurried, as if the words had come all at once and left no time for polish.

YN’s fingers hovered over the page, her eyes catching on the title underlined twice in red—watermelon sugar.

“what’s this one?” she asked, tilting the notebook toward herself as she scanned the uneven handwriting.

harry froze, “it’s nothing,” he said quickly, but the tension in his voice was hard to miss.

she arched an eyebrow, flipping the notebook to face her fully. “doesn’t look like nothing.” she read the first line aloud, her tone curious. “tastes like strawberries on a summer evening.”

harry leaned over, his fingers brushing hers as he tried to tug the notebook away. “YN, seriously—”

“hold on,” she interrupted, pulling it back toward her chest, her grin widening as she flipped to the next line. “and it sounds just like a song,” she read, her voice lilting in amusement. “you’re getting poetic on me, harry.”

“it’s not finished,” he muttered, sitting back against the towel, his jaw tight as he ran a hand through his curls.

“yeah, i can see that,” she said, tapping the page with her fingernail. “but what’s it about? strawberries? watermelon? a fruit salad?”

harry let out a sharp laugh, but there was something uneasy in the way his eyes flicked to hers. “something like that.”

YN squinted at him, her smile softening as she studied the lyrics again. “it’s… sweet,” she murmured, her tone thoughtful now. “like—” she paused, glancing up at him. “like a crush. isn’t it?”

his mouth opened, then closed again. for a moment, he looked almost caught—like she’d stumbled onto something he hadn’t meant to share. finally, he shrugged, his fingers fidgeting with the cross between his swallows. “it’s about… a feeling,” he said carefully.

“what kind of feeling?” she pressed, tilting her head.

he hesitated, his gaze darting between the notebook and her face. “just… something good. something warm.”

YN rolled her eyes, her teasing smile back in place. “you’re being annoyingly vague. is it about someone? or are you just really passionate about fruit now?”

harry exhaled a laugh, but he didn’t answer right away. instead, his gaze lingered on her, quiet and unreadable, before he finally shrugged again. “do y’want me t’show you?”

her teasing smile faded, curiosity dancing across her features. “show me?” she echoed, her voice gentler now, uncertain.

he nodded, shifting closer. the notebook was forgotten as his fingers brushed along its spine, pushing it aside. his eyes swept over her face slowly, studying the way her cheeks were flushed from the sun, the way her lips parted as if she wanted to ask something but had forgotten how.

his hands rested near her hips, the towel wrinkling under his palms. he leaned in, close enough that his breath was cool against her lips. "it's not about fruit," he breathed, his voice barely more than a rasp.

she blinked, her pulse skittering in her chest as her eyes flicked between his. "i... kinda figured," she whispered, her tone shaky, but her gaze steady.

his lips twitched, a soft breath of laughter escaping through his nose. "do you trust me?"

her eyes dipped, lingering on the curve of his strawberry-red lips. the weight of the moment pressed against her, electric and unyielding. "just show me, harry."

he didn't hesitate after that. his hands settled on her hips, warm and firm, as he guided her flat onto the towel. the sun hung heavy in the sky, draping them in a creamsicle haze, but all she could focus on was him—his weight, his touch, the way his curls fell forward as he hovered over her.

his ring clad fingers drifted to her thighs, palms flat along the insides as he spread her apart. the tip of his nose grazed the gusset of her bikini bottoms over to the flesh of her thigh right against his thumb. he pressed soft kisses into the skin, nipping at it gently to watch her chest rise from a gasp.

his lips trailed like the sticky sweetness of honey dripping down her skin, closer to her center, each kiss slow and warm.

he paused, his nose brushing against her clit still covered by fabric, but he could still feel her heat radiating through it. “still with me?”

she nodded, her heartbeat everywhere but her chest. “please, harry.”

he smirked, his fingers hooking underneath the bottoms, his touch feather-light as he slid them down. the movement felt slow, intentional, every second stretching out as the anticipation buzzed through her like electricity.

her arousal glistened in the sunlight—a bright peach dripping with water in the georgia heat. he laid flat on his stomach, arms looping behind her knees and pulling her thighs apart. he breathed her in, lips grazing alongside her folds before he pressed soft kisses into her.

she was sunshine, she was rock and roll, she seeped nectar and smelt like champagne—he wanted to take his time.

he kissed right into her heat, his lips slick with the remnants of her, causing her tummy to flip. he drank her in, sliding his tongue up until he could make slow swirls around her clit. it sent a jolt through her, a sensation so vivid it left her gasping.

she clutched the towel beneath her, head tipping back as the sounds of summer—cicadas in the distance, trees shaking in warm breeze, the hum of the engine—faded into the background.

he took her bud between his lips greedily, suckling gently and flicking the tip of his tongue against her. his grip on her thighs tightened as he pushed himself father into her, drawing soft, breathy moans from her throat.

he tilted his head, cheek flat against the space between where her thigh and cunt met. he lapped at her pussy, slow and languid strokes as he gazed up at her through his eyelashes.

“like sugar.” he mumbled against her, the reverberation causing her fingers to tangle themselves in his curls, her hips bucking against his face.

he smiled, pulling her down flat against the towel, burying himself deeper into her. she would tug on his curls every time he moaned against her folds. she’d push up against his hands every time he’d shake his head between her thighs, coaxing whimpers to fall from her lips.

he pulled her thighs over his shoulders, his nose brushing against her clit as he buried his tongue into her hole, tasting every drop, drinking in the way she’d clench around his tongue.

her cheeks flushed, words caught in her throat as he found his rhythm, his large hands holding her steady. his tongue moved like he was writing lyrics, every motion a verse, every pause a chorus.

she felt herself unraveling, her body tensing as she drew her higher and higher, the knot in her core overwhelming and intoxicating. she was an unrelenting sea, pressure, thrashing and trembles until the wave finally broke—gasping his name, her thighs trembling against his shoulders as her back arched.

he didn’t stop, relishing in the way she slid across his tongue, easing her though the aftershocks. his hands trailed from her thighs to her waist as she sagged back down against the towel, her chest heaving, fingers still threaded through his hair.

he pulled back slowly, a string of her release and his saliva snapping from the departure. he kissed up her naval, lips glistening in the sunlight, his chin soaked.

he smiled, resting onto his forearms as he hovered over her. “showed you, just like y’wanted. right, needy girl?”

YN blinked, her breath still catching as her body buzzed with the lingering warmth of him. she hummed, nodding.

his dimples deepened as he brushed his thumb along her bottom lip. “good,” he mumbled, pulling her lips apart as he leaned in. she could taste herself on him, sweet and heady, fruit and warmed by the sun.

he leaned his forehead against hers, their noses barely touching. “but if you need me to explain it again,” he hummed, kissing her once more. “i’ve got time, sunshine.”

[eddiemunson-reader-shame]

Be My Wife: Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: A “friend” freaks out when you split a Coke with Eddie the Freak.

Warnings: references to A Clockwork Orange, bullying, STI/STD mention, backwash drinking

A/N: So… I know this isn’t a Christmas fic. But I wrote this because I had those times in my youth where someone spread horrid rumors about either me or my friends, and I had to make those split second decisions to determine my loyalty. I always try to be loyal as best I can.

Thank you to @writhingg for giving the green light on this fic. And big thanks to @rxqueenotd and @melodymunson as well. And big thanks to viewers like you. Thank you. ❤️

Resources: @strangergraphics-archive for the dividers.

Taglist: @ali-r3n @melodymunson @twihard28

“Hey droogie, can I have a sip of your Coke?”

You looked up from where you were perched on the pony wall by the Seven Eleven bike rack. You had been chatting with a classmate, Chessie Hagar, about purchasing a purse from her mother’s Avon Colorworks catalog. It was a new collection for the year 1977. Said eye catching magazine with its spread of rainbow themed products was currently held between the two of you, and the pages began to rattle as Chessie shook in fear upon hearing the deep voice.

A flutter-smack sounded from the girl dropping the catalog when Eddie The Freak approached. His stride was casual as one could be, whilst battling both midwestern humidity and pit sweat in a white hand-me-down Jimi Hendrix shirt and sleeveless denim vest. As one of the middle schoolers who had been blessed with a growth spurt, his lanky height, shredded second hand clothes, and shaved head often made those in your grade— and some of those above— piss their pants.

You alone did not fear him.

The Fates had elected to weave you both in a tangled web of coincidences: you had been his project partner in every shared class since you started at Hawkins Middle School together, and you just so happened to live in the same neighborhood on occasion. The distance from Al Munson’s janky two bedroom home to yours was but a hop skip and a jump. Eddie used to ding dong ditch your house when he was six, until one day your mother caught him by the ear and brought him in to mend his tattered jeans and offer up a hot meal.

To any other rando, he was an unstable pariah. But to you, he was just Eddie Munson— the cute boy next door who sometimes ate at your place. And you had become his droog after spending winter 1972 sneaking into the Hawk Theater, and making Stanley Kubrick films your new big boy personalities.

Without thinking, you handed the soft drink over. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the Coke out of your grip and went for a swig, with plush pink lips wrapping around the transparent jade glass of the lip and neck. His protruding Adam’s apple was bobbing with the rhythmic gulping, and you couldn’t stop staring.

“Thanks.” He belched out.

“You said a sip, not half the goddamn bottle!” You whined.

Eddie grinned sheepishly and backwashed a good mouthful. Giving a half assed apology and a promise to pay you back mumbled under his breath, he handed the bottle back.

“Still up for doing last minute project prep?” You asked, swirling the leftovers he’d saved for you.

“Nah, let’s take a break from the train wreck brothers. Catch you tomorrow, though?” He said, scratching a blackhead off his nose and snorting a bit, “I had an idea for the oral report that might earn us a little extra credit. Think you can mimic a British accent?”

“Eh. Can’t do an accent without sounding like fucking Alex DeLarge.” You groused.

“We can work on that. Leave your milk-plus at home, though. Don’t want me own droog reenacting some Roman ultra violence on me.”

“Just don’t go popping out from behind your curtains at me again, that’s a good way to get stabbed in the neck with my mom’s kitchen scissors.” You snorted.

“Ahhh, the droog’s no fun. I guess I can tone down the surprise pop ups, though. If you insist. Catch you later?” Eddie said, waving.

“Later. Peace out, man.”

Chessie let out a shaky, sobbing exhale when you made to drink the dregs of your soda, and you turned and raised an eyebrow.

“Whassamatter?” You asked.

“Are you nuts?! You just shared your drink with the freak!” She blurted out.

… since when the hell was sharing with Eddie a crime?

“Yeah, so? It’s hot out. He looked thirsty.” You said.

“Did you seriously forget everything we’ve heard about him?!” She whisper-screamed, “Don’t you care what everyone talks about?!”

You rolled your eyes. Everyone talked about Eddie. If you hadn’t heard at least one rumor from a faceless student whenever he walked by, you were either stupid or living under a rock. They said he was a bad boy— yes, even with a full vocabulary of slurs and insults available, they still called him a bad boy. Like if he was still in diapers drawing with crayon on the wall, and needed a spanking.

Depending on who you asked, Eddie either did or sold drugs, it was never clear which. Some of the other trailer park kids said he was a mean scrapper when he went to his uncle’s on alternate weeks. Women’s restroom lore stated that he carried a switchblade in the back pocket of his Wrangler jeans, and that he used it to torture animals for his Satanic rituals.

A million and one things were said about him on the daily, but you knew none of them were true in the slightest. None of the talk deterred you from spending time with him. Sometimes he came to your house, more often than not you went to his.

Every other day found the two of you parked in front of his mom’s turntable, jamming to Deep Purple and putting together an elaborate poster board with some spray painted fake leaves made into laurel crowns, along with a block of text about your chosen co-emperor of the early Roman Empire.

You had wanted to write about Caligula so you could use the word ‘orgy’ in the report without getting in trouble, but Eddie had insisted he had a better idea when he discovered a two years tumultuous ruling of brothers from 209 AD to 211 AD.

“As much as I love a good sex party on paper, you just know that’s what everyone else is gonna write about. Let’s write about this nut job Caracalla instead! Dude killed his brother in the arms of his mother, and struck his name from the record. That’s like, the most metal shit ever! Also, here’s a better word for you to learn: fratricide. Apparently there’s a whole list of technical terms for when you kill a family member.”

“… what’s the rumor mill gotta do with my Coke?” You deadpanned.

“If you drink after him, you’re gonna get mono like Cindy! You gotta throw it out!”

Cindy Bishop in your science class had told everyone that had functional ears— swearing up and down on her life— that Eddie Munson had kissed her and given her mononucleosis. A dreaded affliction whose nickname to you sounded like one of the variations of sound formats for any sort of audio.

“Mono…?”

“Yes! Or the syph!”

You knew Eddie had to have heard Chessie’s vitriol. Turning around, you could see him staring at the two of you from across the parking lot, one leg over his bike. There was a stinging look of betrayal on his face. Telltale signs of a wet cherry nose and shameful red cheeks gave away his mistrust; as if he was expecting you to do as your friend told, and throw the bottle he drank from in the trash.

His imaginary affliction was just that: imaginary. You knew that to be gospel.

The kiss with Cindy was real, unfortunately. It happened way before Cindy was kept home with mono, and you remembered the incident well. Eddie had come running to your house just to brag that he’d finally gotten his first kiss, and that pretty soon he’d be popping girl’s cherries left and right.

Just learning about the simple kiss had pissed you off, because the closest you’d ever gotten to kissing Eddie was sharing the same fork whenever you both roasted Vienna sausages on the gas burner in his kitchen. Eddie hadn’t been sick when Cindy stayed home, he came faithfully to school to trap you on the playground and speculate about the thousand and one hidden meanings behind the kiss.

With all the excitement, he never noticed the smallest details like you did. One of the guys in your PE class had been sent home with a rash and a high fever, and it was only a month after Cindy was rumored to have also kissed the collapsed boy that she got sick. You had always shared cups, utensils, and other things requiring mouth use with Eddie and had been fine. Yet Cindy and Tommy Hagan swapped spit once, and both were out of commission.

But no one would ever say anything about Tommy Hagan getting mono. They’d always redirect every disease outbreak to the poor loser who split time between Cherry Street and Forest Hills Trailer Park. The same poor loser who had the misfortune of wasting his first kiss with Cindy; a girl who frenched behind the portable classrooms with anything that had a pulse. People could be so blind and stupid, they failed to notice the sickness timelines were not matching up.

No one deserved their first anything to be with Cindy. Not with the way she stabbed people in the back.

You took a long, hard pause as you stared into Eddie’s wet brown eyes. He was asking you a silent question you already knew the answer to: were you a stinking traitorous droog, or a loyal one? Were you, his one friend in the entire world, going to stand against him?

Without saying a word, you looked at Chessie, then looked back again at Eddie.

In a world of traitors— where brothers stabbed brothers in the arms of their mothers, or where violent men disowned each other with drug laced milk bottles to the face, you would always pick instead to be Eddie Munson’s loyal droog.

You lathed at the lip of the bottle and stuck your tongue down the neck, and shotgunned all of Eddie’s backwash.

Chessie’s mouth dropped open as she began to gag, and Eddie opened his mouth in an obnoxious and breathless laugh as you chugged the entirety of his germs. The carbonation caught up to you, so you let a belch rip before turning back around to face him.

“I GOT YOUR MONO NOW, MUNSON!” You screamed out to him, “NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!”

“IS THAT HOW IT WORKS, DROOGIE?” He shouted back, a shit eating grin stretched across his face, “YOU SHOULD HAVE LET ME KNOW BEFORE I TOOK A SWIG, I WOULD HAVE MADE SURE I GOT YOU A RING POP FIRST!”

“IT'S GODDAMN ROMAN CONFARREATIO LAWS, EDDIE! YOU GAVE ME MONO INSTEAD OF SPELT BREAD, NOW YOU GOTTA MARRY ME!” You joked.

You noticed from the big, smart ass grin that he was about to do something outrageous, and your heart began to sing. He immediately got to his knee on the asphalt, everyone in the Seven Eleven parking lot watching as he began to scream like an orator in the colosseum. He used your full government name and everything when he called out to the small parking lot audience.

“HEAR ME, CITIZENS OF HAWKINS! I AM BUT A VESSEL FOR THE GODS, A BEARER, A MESSENGER OF THAT MOST HOLY WORD FROM MOUNT OLYMPUS! I HAVE SHARED OF THE COOTIE WITH A WOMAN, AND THUS OUR MARRIAGE BETWEEN EMPEROR AND DROOG IS SOLEMNIZED-…!”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, FREAK!” Someone called out, immediately flinching back when Eddie rounded on him.

“THE GODS. HAVE. SPOKEN!” Eddie screeched, a glob of spit flying out of his mouth and onto the hot asphalt.

He was wide eyed. Deranged. Eddie lifted up the hem of his denim vest and held it out and to the side, to look like wings unfurling, screaming to the heavens as you began howling with him.

“YEAH!” You screamed out, raising your bottle and shouting every bit of nonsense you could think of, “GOD SANCTIONED DROOG MARRIAGE CO-RULER ULTRA-VIOLENCE! MAZEL TOV!”

“THE IMPERIAL HUSBAND NOW DEMANDS TO KISS THE DROOG BRIDE!” Eddie screamed, “PLANT ONE ON ME, GODDESS DIVINE OF THE REPUBLIC OF HAWKINS!!”

You looked at Chessie, who looked as if she was going to throw up or scream. It wasn’t immediately clear which. Instead of ending the joke, you grinned. Shrugged. The glossy magazine paper pages of the forgotten Avon Colorworks catalog ripped under the tread of your shoes when— without warning— you took off towards Eddie, and planted a fat wet kiss on his mouth. He froze for a moment, but returned the kiss with fervor, making an obnoxious hum and wet smack when you pulled away.

“Yum.” You gushed, licking your lips and changing your cadence to the unhinged Kubrick Cockney, “Them’s tasty cooties, they are, brother sir!”

“Yeah? Them false cytomegalovirus germs are what taste good to ya, droog?” He laughed, wrapping his arms around you and putting on his own terrible accent.

“That they are, sir, that’s what gives all me food and drink that plus flavor.” You grinned.

The two of you cackled, thoroughly enjoying throwing out random quotes and various insanities that to the normal person would put them off of your insanity and edge-lord humor. Chessie had long since taken off for the gated community of Loch Nora on her bike, but you didn’t care. You could live without a selection of eyeshadows, a rainbow tote purse, and all of your false friends if the choice came down to choosing them, or Eddie.

“Wanna go into the gas station and split another bottle of mono before we blow this joint?” You asked.

His grin could have rivaled that of Malcolm McDowell.

“Now, how can I say no to my new wife?” He grinned, holding out his arm for you to take, “But I am a man of my word, so you’re getting a new Coke, plus that Ring Pop so’s we can make this thing official.”

“Spare no expense, huh?” You grinned, and he pulled you in closer. Both of your hips knocking together.

“Hey… Only the best and finest gems and refreshments for Empress Droog the First of Hawkins, Indiana.” Eddie said with a confident smile.

You smiled at him, nudging one another with your bodies all the way into the gas station, until he pulled you in for another sloppy kiss in the middle of the snack aisle.

[staticbleeding]

⛧°。 ⋆Waiting on the Stars ⋆°⛧

+:｡.｡　teen Stanford Pines x gn reader　｡.｡:+

Part 3 is here y'all!! I'm tempted to keep a majority of the story in Ford's POV. Let me know what y'all think! warnings : strong language, suggestive language, the usual teen shit pt.1 pt.2 pt.3

1972 What happens when Ford's chance to ask you out is right in front of him? Will he grab it and run? Or will his time run out?

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Ford's POV

"Hello?"

What do I say? God their voice is so pretty. Do I hang up? No that's creepy.

Thoughts race through my head. Fear and anger crashes over my body like waves. Finally the reality hits, I need to say something.

"H-Hi (Y/N)?" I stutter out finally.

"Ford? Hey! How'd you get my number?" Their voice rings in my ears as a blush raises throughout my face.

"Stan. He saw you left your notebook in class today and let me call to tell you..I promise I didn't look through it at all! Just your..number." I feel myself mentally cringing at how creepy all of this could sound.

"Oh shit. I didn't even notice! Thank you!" They laugh and thank me, I feel my heart begin to beat faster. Not out of fear or anxiety, but of something else.

"Oh it's nothing! Just..buddies looking out for each other...not assuming we are buds or anything! Just a phrase..yeah phrase." I say and look up seeing Stan shaking his head and laughing. A silent glare is directed at him.

"Of course we are! Looking out for each other. Speaking of which, um would you like to meet up sometime this weekend so I can get it back? Not like a date or anything." I hear their voice quiet down at the last part. My heart tightens up and my stomach drops.

"SO like a date?! Oh he would LOVE to honey! I'll make sure he dresses all fancy for ya. Flowers and all! I like you already! He will pick you up tomorrow at 7 alright?" My mother's voice rings out through the line. I turn around towards the living room and see her sitting in her usual chair with the phone in her hands. She looks up at me and blows a kiss before getting up and walking away like she didn't just say the words I have been so scared to say out loud so nonchalantly. Oh God please let the floor open up and just swallow me whole.

"A date!? Oh! Um if Ford wants it to be a date..then yeah." I hear (Y/N) say into the phone.

"Excuse her! I am so sorry! I..is a date alright? Don't feel pressured to say yes at all! It is completely understandable if not." I cover my face with my free hand and quietly say into the speaker.

"I would love a date with you Ford..." I hear them speaking but after those 8 words leave their mouth I can't focus on anything else but my heart beating faster than it ever has. This can't be real. I am going on a date with them. An actual date. With the prettiest person to ever step foot into this town!? Oh stars what if I mess this up? I feel myself start to lose my mind to worries and anxiety. Tuning out everything except my own voice.

"Do I need to tell you the address again Fordsy?" I hear their laughter I have come to love so much, slowly bring me back into reality.

"Shoot! Um sorry yeah. Wait let me get a ink pen," I run around the kitchen finding something to write it down, "Okay continue please."

Writing down every number and word they say, brings this entire thing to reality. I am going on my first date ever. Do they know this is my first date? What do they even like? Where do I acquire flowers for a date?!

"So..tomorrow at 7?" A smile coats their voice so sweetly I can't help but smile back as if they can see it.

"Yes. Tomorrow at 7. I will..see you there!" With that we say our goodbyes and hang up. Finally a steady breath finds my lungs and fills them up.

"See!? Wasn't that hard Sixer. Just needed a push." Looking up I see my brother and my ma giving each other a high five. Rolling my eyes, I watch as ma goes to look for a suit that will fit me. Stan looks at me and tells me I can use his cologne that "all the ladies love it on me, surely it can help you". I can't help but smile a little. Silently thanking them for the help. I slowly walk to my room and find myself laying in the bed I have spent countless night dreaming. Dreaming of how I can ask them out, maybe the stars heard me? If I ever visit the stars, I will have to thank them. A big smile finds its way to my face. Maybe everything will be okay.

The next few hours are spent with Ford's eyes wide open. Imagining everything that could happen. Many thoughts circle the Young man's head. 'The possibility of this date going completely perfect is slim to none' , 'What do we do?' , 'I have to impress them. make them want to do this date thing again'. Ford slowly drifts off to sleep imagining the chances of this working out. Stan creeps into the room and smiles at the twin asleep cuddling against a pillow. A smile on the older Pines brother, bigger than Stan has ever seen on the usual stoic and serious face.

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Ahh! Chapter 3! Sorry for the shorter chapter! Didn't want to put the date and the phone call all in one. Gotta stretch it out wink wink. I hope you all are as excited as I am for the date.

[deadpresidents]

On the cliffs of Normandy, in a small holding area, the President of the United States was looking out at the English Channel. It was only six weeks ago, on the 80th anniversary of the D-Day landings, and President Biden had just finished his remarks at the American cemetery atop Omaha Beach. Guests had been congratulating him on the speech, but he didn't want to talk about himself. The moment was not about him; it was about the men who had fought and died there. "Today feels so large," he told me. "This may sound strange -- and I don't mean it to -- but when I was out there, I felt the honor of it, the sanctity of it. To speak for the American people, to speak over those graves, it's a profound thing." He turned from the view over the beaches and gestured back toward the war dead. "You want to do right by them, by the country."

Mr. Biden has spent a lifetime trying to do right by the nation, and he did so in the most epic of ways when he chose to end his campaign for re-election. His decision is one of the most remarkable acts of leadership in our history, an act of self-sacrifice that places him in the company of George Washington who also stepped away from the presidency. To put something ahead of one's immediate desires -- to give, rather than to try to take -- is perhaps the most difficult thing for any human being to do. And Mr. Biden has done just that.

To be clear: Mr. Biden is my friend, and it has been a privilege to help him when I can. Not because I am a Democrat -- I belong to neither party and have voted for both Democrats and Republicans -- but because I believe him to be a defender of the Constitution and a public servant of honor and of grace at a time when extreme forces threaten the nation. I do not agree with everything he has done or wanted to do in terms of policy. But I know him to be a good man, a patriot and a president who has met challenges all too similar to those Abraham Lincoln faced. Here is the story I believe history will tell of Joe Biden. With American democracy in an hour of maximum danger in Donald Trump's presidency, Mr. Biden stepped in the breach. He staved off an authoritarian threat at home, rallied the world against autocrats abroad, laid the foundations for decades of prosperity, managed the end of a once-in-a-century pandemic, successfully legislated on vital issues of climate and infrastructure and has conducted a presidency worthy of the greatest of his predecessors. History and fate brought him to the pinnacle in a late season in his life, and in the end, he respected fate -- and he respected the American people.

It is, of course, an incredibly difficult moment. Highs and lows, victories and defeats, joy and pain: It has been ever thus for Mr. Biden. In the distant autumn of 1972, he experienced the most exhilarating of hours -- election to the United States Senate at the age of 29. He was no scion; he earned it. The darkness fell: His wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident that seriously injured his two sons, Beau and Hunter. But he endured, found purpose in the pain, became deeper, wiser, more empathetic. Through the decades, two presidential campaigns imploded, and in 2015 his son Beau, a lawyer and wonderfully promising young political figure, died of brain cancer after serving in Iraq.

Such tragedy would have broken many lesser men. Mr. Biden, however, never gave up, never gave in, never surrendered the hope that a fallen, frail and fallible world could be made better, stronger and more whole if people could summon just enough goodness and enough courage to build rather than tear down. Character, as the Greeks first taught us, is destiny, and Mr. Biden's character is both a mirror and a maker of his nation's. Like Franklin Roosevelt and Ronald Reagan, he is optimistic, resilient and kind, a steward of American greatness, a love of the great game of politics and, at heart, a hopeless romantic about the country that has given him so much.

Nothing bears out this point as well as his decision to let history happen in the 2024 election. Not matter how much people say that this was inevitable after the debate in Atlanta last month, there was nothing foreordained about an American President ending his political career for the sake of his country and his party. By surrendering the possibility of enduring in the seat of ultimate power, Mr. Biden has taught us a landmark lesson in patriotism, humility and wisdom.

Now the question comes to the rest of us. What will we the people do? We face the most significant of choices. Mr. Roosevelt framed the war whose dead Mr. Biden commemorated at Normandy in June as a battle between democracy and dictatorship. It is not too much to say that we, too, have what Mr. Roosevelt called a "rendezvous with destiny" at home and abroad. Mr. Biden has put country above self, the Constitution above personal ambition, the future of democracy above temporal gain. It is up to us to follow his lead.

-- "Joe Biden, My Friend and an American Hero" by Jon Meacham, New York Times, July 22, 2024.

[goryhorroor]

What are some underrated horror films? I have watched all the popular ones and need more! Thanks!

mentally prepare yourself because im ready to give a gumbo list (this has been sitting in my inbox because i had to ask all my friends and this is the list we came up with):

curse of the demon (1957) the serpent and the rainbow (1988) paranoiac (1963) the old dark house (1932) countess dracula (1971) golem (1920) haxan (1968) island of lost souls (1932) mad love (1935) mill of the stone women (1960) the walking dead (1936) the ghoul (1933) tourist trap (1979) the seventh victim (1943) ganja & hess (1973) dead of night (1945) a bay of blood (1971) let's scare jessica to death (1971) alice sweet alice (1976) the deadly spawn (1983) the brain that wouldn't die (1962) all about evil (2010) black roses (1988) the baby (1973) parents (1989) a blade in the dark (1983) blood lake (1987) solo survivor (1984) lemora: a child's tale of supernatural (1973) eyes of fire (1983) epitaph (2007) nightmare city (1980) slugs (1988) death smiles on a murderer (1973) intruder (1989) short night of glass dolls (1971) the children (2008) alone in the dark (1982) end of the line (2007) the queen of spades (1949) the housemaid (1960) tormented (1960) captain clegg (1962) the long hair of death (1964) dark age (1987) the crawling eye (1958) the kindred (1987) the gorgon (1964) wicked city (1987) baba yaga (1973) 976-evil (1988) bliss (2019) decoder (1984) amer (2009) the visitor (1979) day of the animals (1977) leptirica (1973) planet of the vampires (1965) lips of blood (1975) berberian sound studio (2012) a wounded fawn (2022) matango (1963) the mansion of madness (1973) the killing kind (1973) symptoms (1974) morgiana (1972) whispering corridors (1998) dead end (2003) infested (2023) (this just came out but im adding it) triangle (2009) the premonition (1976) you'll like my mother (1972) the mafu cage (1978) white of the eye (1987) mister designer (1987) alison's birthday (1981) the suckling (1990) graveyard shift (1987) messiah of evil (1987) out of the dark (1988) seven footprints to satan (1929) burn witch burn (1962) the damned (1962) pin (1988) horrors of malformed men (1969) mr vampire (1985) the vampire doll (1970) contracted (2013) impetigore (2019) eyeball (1975) malatestas carnival of blood (1973) the witch who came from the sea (1976) i drink your blood (1970) nothing underneath (1985) sauna (2008) seance (2000) come true (2020) the last winter (2006) night tide (1961) the brain (1988) dementia (1955) don't go to sleep (1982) otogirisou (2001) reincarnation (2005) mutant (1984) spookies (1986) shock waves (1977) bloody hell (2020) the den (2013) wer (2013) olivia (1983) enigma (1987) graverobbers (1988) manhattan baby (1982) evil in the woods (1986) death bed: the bed that eats (1977) cathy's curse (1977) creatures from the abyss (1994) the dorm that dripped blood (1982) the witching (1993) madman (1981) vampire's embrace (1991) blood beat (1983) the alien factor (1978) savage weekend (1979) blood sisters (1987) deadly love (1987) playroom (1990) die screaming marianne (1971) pledge night (1990) night train to terror (1985) the devonsville terror (1983) ghostkeeper (1981) special effects (1984) blood feast (163) the child (1977) godmonster of indian flats (1973) blood rage (1980) the unborn (1991) screamtime (1983) the outing (1987) the being (1983) silent madness (1984) lurkers (1988) forver evil (1987) squirm (1976) death screams (1982) jack-o (1995) haunts (1976) a night to dismember (1983) creaturealm: demons wake (1998) the curse (1987) daddy's deadly darling (1973) nightwing (1979) the laughing dead (1989) the severed arm (1973) the orphan (1979) not like us (1995) prime evil (1988) the monstrosity (1987) dark ride (2006) antibirth (2016) iced (1988) the soultangler (1987) twisted nightmare (1987) puffball (2007) biohazard (1985) cameron's closet (1988) beast from haunted cave (1959) the she-creature (1956)

[sweetcherryharry]

good luck, babe!

based on the song 'good luck, babe!' by chappell roan.

pairing: harry styles x reader

i can't get this song off my head and i decided to write a little something about it <3

(masterlist)

It's fine, it's cool You can say that we are nothing, but you know the truth And guess I'm the fool With her arms out like an angel through the car sunroof

Y/N's heart skipped a beat as her eyes landed on the Instagram post. An unexpected wave of nausea washed over her. An update account, one she'd accidentally stumbled upon while scrolling, had posted a candid photo of him. Her stomach twisted into a tight knot.

There he was, her can't-quite-define-it almost-boyfriend, his famous face alight with laughter. The picture had been taken of him from a distance, in his yellow 1972 Ferrari Dino, along with a woman Y/N didn't recognize, her arms outstretched through the car sunroof, a carefree laugh painted on her face. A pang of jealousy shot through Y/N's chest. She couldn't deny the sting of betrayal.

Even though Harry and her hadn’t talked in a few weeks, it was enough to send Y/N's mind spiraling. The familiar taste of bile rose in her throat. 

It was fine, it was cool, that's what they'd agreed on. They were nothing, just two people caught in a whirlwind of stolen moments and unspoken desires. But this… this felt like a violation of their unspoken agreement.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her best friend, a string of question marks followed by an image, probably a screenshot from the same post. Y/N knew what she was asking. Everyone in her life knew about Harry, about their dance of intimacy and distance that had been going on for almost a year. 

It was the juiciest kind of gossip, the kind that kept the tabloids buzzing. But Y/N had always kept it private, a secret shared only with her closest confidants.

Now, this picture felt like a violation, a public declaration that their carefully constructed facade was crumbling. Y/N's fingers trembled as she dialed Harry's number, her heart pounding in her chest. It was the middle of the night, but she couldn't wait. She needed answers, she needed reassurance, she needed… something.

"Hello?" Harry's voice was thick with sleep, a hint of confusion lacing his words. He was in Italy, from what she could tell from the post and the caption she just saw. Even though it was only late afternoon for her, it was late night for him.

"It's me," Y/N said, her voice barely a whisper.

A pause, then a soft "Y/N?" His voice, usually warm and inviting, now felt distant and guarded.

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "I saw the picture." Her voice quivered slightly, betraying her composure.

Silence stretched between them, the only sound the quiet hum of the phone line. Y/N imagined Harry running a hand through his tousled hair, the gesture she knew so well, the one he made when he was trying to piece together the fragments of their complicated relationship.

"Which picture?" he asked finally, his voice guarded.

"The one with... with the girl," Y/N choked out, the words catching in her throat.

Another pause, longer this time. Then, Harry's sigh, heavy with resignation. "It's not what it looks like."

Y/N scoffed, the sound bitter and sharp. "Oh really? Because it looks a lot like you with another woman."

"We were hanging out at the beach with more friends," Harry said, his voice defensive now. "She's a friend."

"A friend with benefits?" Y/N retorted, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice.

"No," Harry said, his tone firm. "Just a friend."

"You can say that we are nothing," Y/N's voice cracked, the words barely audible over the growing lump in her throat, "but you know the truth." Hot tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill over.

A heavy silence descended on the line, the unspoken truth hanging between them like a thick fog.

"Y/N," Harry started, his voice gentle, pleading. "It's not what you think."

But Y/N couldn't listen to his excuses anymore. "Then what is it, Harry?" she asked, her voice rising with each word. "What are we?"

"We're… complicated," Harry sighed, the word falling flat in the vast emptiness of the night.

"Complicated," Y/N echoed, the taste of the word bitter on her tongue. "That's your way of saying we're nothing, isn't it?"

"No," Harry protested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"It's fine, it's cool," Y/N recited the words they'd both used to mask their feelings, the words that had become a shield against vulnerability. "That's what we tell everyone. But guess I'm the fool, right?” Tears streamed down her face now, the salt stinging her skin.

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.

"Don't," he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper.

But Y/N was done pretending. She was done with the half-truths, the stolen moments, the endless cycle of hope and disappointment.

"This isn't working, Harry," she said, her voice firm despite the tears. "I can't do this anymore."

"Y/N, wait-"

But Y/N had already hung up, the sharp click of the disconnect echoing the finality of her decision. The silence of her bedroom pressed in on her, suffocating her with the weight of her own emotions.

I don't wanna call it off But you don't wanna call it love You only wanna be the one that I call "baby"

The bass pulsed through the crowded room, a rhythmic vibration that matched the erratic beat of Y/N's heart. She laughed, a practiced sound that did little to mask the hollow ache within.

Three weeks. 

It had been three weeks since that phone call, three weeks of deliberately ignoring his texts and calls, willing herself to move on.

Yet, on a Saturday night at a party, the sight of him across the room sent a jolt of electricity through her, reawakening emotions she'd tried so hard to suppress.

A hand brushed against her arm, a familiar touch that sent a shiver down her spine. She turned, her eyes widening as they met Harry's gaze. His hair, usually a wild mess, was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. His eyes, always a vibrant green, seemed to hold a new depth, a hint of vulnerability she hadn't seen before. 

Despite everything, seeing him again ignited a spark of longing within her. But the memory of that photo, of his carefree laugh with another woman, quickly doused the flame. She hardened her resolve. She wouldn't let him back in so easily.

"Ignoring me, love?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a warmth spreading through her veins.

Y/N tilted her chin up, a defiant spark in her eyes. "Should I be paying attention, Harry?"

He leaned in closer, the scent of his cologne a familiar comfort. "You know you want to."

She took a step back, putting some distance between them. "I don't know what I want anymore," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

Harry's eyes darkened, a flicker of pain flashing across his face. "You looked pretty happy a minute ago, surrounded by all those guys."

A bitter laugh escaped Y/N's lips. "Are you jealous, Harry?"

"Maybe," he admitted, his voice raspy. "Maybe I don't like seeing what's mine being admired by everyone else."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. "Yours?" she scoffed. "I don't remember us ever being anything."

"Don't do this, Y/N," he pleaded, reaching out to touch her arm, but she pulled away.

"Don't do what?" she challenged, her voice rising above the music. "Don't pretend that we're something we're not? Don't pretend that you care?"

"I do care," he insisted, his voice laced with desperation. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "I don't wanna call it off. I just..." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I don't know how to do this."

Y/N met his gaze, her heart aching for him, but her resolve unwavering. "You don't wanna call it love," she said, quoting their favorite song, the words heavy with unspoken emotions. "You only wanna be the one that I call 'baby'."

Harry winced, as if her words were a physical blow. "That's not fair," he protested.

"Isn't it?" Y/N challenged, her voice laced with bitterness. "That's all you've ever been, Harry. A voice on the phone, stolen kisses and touches, a fleeting moment. But never mine."

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Harry standing alone in the crowd. He watched her go, a wave of regret washing over him. He knew he had to change, to prove to her that he was more than just stolen moments and empty promises. 

You can kiss a hundred boys in bars Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling You can say it's just the way you are Make a new excuse, another stupid reason

A week had passed since that tense encounter at the party. A week of radio silence from Harry, a week of Y/N trying to convince herself she was better off without the heartache he brought. She'd thrown herself into this girls' trip to a beach, determined to have fun, to forget about the man who couldn't give her what she needed.

Tonight, under the glow of the beachside bar's twinkling lights, she was flirting with a tall, dark-haired stranger. His eyes sparkled with amusement as he listened to her stories, his laughter a deep rumble that sent shivers down her spine. Tequila shots flowed freely, loosening her inhibitions and blurring the edges of her pain.

"You're quite the storyteller," the stranger said, his voice thick with a charming accent. "What brings a girl like you to the island?"

Y/N twirled a lock of hair around her finger, feigning nonchalance. "Just looking for a good time, a little escape from reality."

"Sounds like my kind of night," he grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Care to dance?"

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then nodded, letting him lead her to the dance floor. The music pulsed around them, the beat of the drums echoing the frantic rhythm of her heart. She closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her, trying to lose herself in the moment.

But even as the stranger's hands roamed her body, even as his lips brushed against her neck, her mind drifted back to Harry. She saw his face in the crowd, his eyes filled with a longing she couldn't quite decipher. She heard his voice, whispering sweet nothings in her ear, promising a love he couldn't deliver.

"You okay?" the stranger asked, pulling her back to the present.

Y/N plastered a smile on her face, hoping to mask the turmoil within. "Just a little lost in the music," she lied.

He chuckled, pulling her closer. "Let me help you find your way."

Y/N let him lead her back to the bar, another shot of tequila quickly appearing in her hand. She downed it in one gulp, the fiery liquid burning a path down her throat. "You can kiss a hundred boys in bars," she thought to herself. "Shoot another shot, try to stop the feeling."

But the feeling wouldn't go away. No matter how many drinks she consumed, no matter how many strangers she flirted with, Harry's ghost lingered in the shadows of her mind.

"You seem distracted," the stranger observed, his voice laced with concern.

Y/N shrugged, forcing another smile. "It's just the way I am," she said, echoing the lyrics of the song. "Don't worry about it."

But deep down, she knew she was lying. She wasn't just distracted, she was broken. And no amount of tequila or fleeting flirtations could fix the shattered pieces of her heart.

I'm cliché, who cares? It's a sexually explicit kind of love affair And I cry, it's not fair I just need a little lovin', I just need a little air

The tan had faded from her skin, leaving Y/N with a lingering warmth that did little to thaw the chill in her heart. Back in the monotony of her everyday life, the memory of that night at the bar - the tequila shots, the handsome stranger, the fleeting escape, the image of Harry in her head through it all - felt like a distant dream. 

But the ache for Harry remained, a constant throb beneath the surface of her carefully constructed composure.

She'd tried to distract herself, filling her days with work and her nights with friends. But every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face, heard his voice, felt the ghost of his touch on her skin. She told herself it was just a physical attraction, a hormonal craving for the familiar comfort of his embrace. But deep down, she knew it was more than that.

It was the middle of the night when she found herself standing outside his apartment, her hand hovering over the doorbell. She hesitated, a wave of self-loathing washing over her. You're pathetic, she thought. You're falling for his trap again.

But the memory of his eyes, filled with longing and regret, pushed her forward. She pressed the button, the shrill sound echoing in the silent hallway. The door opened a crack, revealing Harry's disheveled figure. His eyes widened in surprise, then softened with a tenderness that melted her resolve.

"Y/N?" he whispered, his voice thick with sleep and a hint of disbelief.

She didn't say a word, just stepped into his apartment, the familiar scent of sandalwood and musk wrapping around her like a comforting embrace. He closed the door behind her, his eyes searching hers for answers.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper.

A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that made her knees weak. "I've been thinking about you too," he admitted, his voice raspy.

Without another word, he pulled her close, his lips crashing down on hers in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. It was a familiar dance, a well-worn path of passion and unspoken desires. Y/N knew she was falling for his trap again, but at that moment, she didn't care.

She knew how cliché she was, yet she didn’t care as his hands roamed her body, igniting a fire within her. It was a sexually explicit kind of love affair.

As they tumbled onto his bed, their bodies entwined in a tangle of limbs and whispered promises, Y/N knew she was making a mistake. But the pleasure was too intense, the need too overwhelming. She cried out his name, her voice echoing the unspoken truth of their love.

In the aftermath, as she lay in his arms, a single tear slid down her cheek. "It's not fair," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. But she just needed a little love from him.

Harry kissed her forehead, his touch a silent apology. "I know," he murmured.

Y/N clung to him, knowing that this fleeting moment of happiness was just another illusion, another step in their endless cycle of heartbreak. But for now, she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of his embrace, knowing that tomorrow, she would have to face the consequences of her actions.

But for now, she allowed herself to bask in the warmth of his embrace, knowing that tomorrow, she would have to face the consequences of her actions. And knowing, deep down, that this wouldn't be the last time.

Think I'm gonna call it off Even if you call it love I just wanna love someone who calls me "baby"

For a blissful few weeks, it seemed as though they'd found a rhythm, a harmony that defied their tumultuous past. Every stolen glance, every whispered secret, every shared touch felt like a promise fulfilled. They spent their days tangled in each other's arms, their nights lost in a haze of passion and laughter. Harry's apartment became their sanctuary, a haven where they could shed the masks they wore for the world and simply be themselves.

But as the initial euphoria faded, the cracks in their foundation began to show. Harry's calls became less frequent, his texts more sporadic. The warmth in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a distant coolness that Y/N knew all too well. It was the familiar dance of intimacy and withdrawal, a pattern that had defined their relationship from the start.

One night, as they lay intertwined in his bed, the silence between them grew heavy with unspoken truths. Y/N traced the outline of Harry's chest, her fingers lingering on the tattoos that adorned his skin.

"Harry?" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the dimly lit room.

He hummed in response, his eyes closed, his breathing slow and steady.

"Do you love me?" The question hung in the air, a fragile bubble waiting to burst.

Harry's eyes flickered open, a flicker of unease passing over his face. "You know I care about you," he said, his voice evasive.

Y/N's heart sank. Care wasn't enough.  "But do you love me?" she repeated, her voice barely a whisper.

He sighed, turning away from her. "Why do you always have to complicate things?"

Y/N felt a cold dread settle in the pit of her stomach. This was it. The beginning of the end, yet again. She knew this dance, this familiar pattern of closeness followed by distance. She knew that no matter how many times she fell for his charm, no matter how many times she gave him her heart, he would never be able to fully reciprocate her love.

"I think I'm going to call it off," she said, her voice surprisingly steady.

Harry's head snapped back, his eyes wide with surprise. "What?"

"Think I'm gonna call it off, for good this time." she repeated, her voice gaining strength with each word. "Even if you called it love, I just wanna love someone who calls me 'baby'. I can’t continue with this never ending cycle."

He reached out for her, his fingers brushing against her cheek. "Y/N, don't..."

But she pulled away, her resolve hardening with each passing second. "I'm done, Harry," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I'm done with this endless cycle of hope and heartbreak. I deserve more than stolen moments and half-truths."

Good luck, babe (well, good luck), well, good luck, babe (well, good luck) You'd have to stop the world just to stop the feeling

She rose from the bed, her movements deliberate and purposeful. As she took her things, she walked towards the door. She paused, turning back to look at him one last time. “Good luck, babe.”

Then, she was gone, leaving Harry alone in the silence of his apartment, the echoes of her words ringing in his ears.

And when you think about me, all of those years ago You're standing face to face with "I told you so" You know I hate to say, "I told you so" You know I hate to say, but, I told you so

Years had passed since that fateful night, years filled with sold-out stadiums, countless faces, and fleeting romances. Harry had achieved a level of fame he had once only dreamed of, yet a void remained in his heart, a space carved out by a woman named Y/N.

The memory of her leaving, her final words echoing in the silent apartment, haunted him in the quiet moments between shows, in the lonely hours before dawn. He could still see the hurt in her eyes, the determination in her voice as she said, "Good luck, babe." It was a well-wish, a parting shot, a final goodbye. A dismissal that held a universe of pain and disappointment.

He'd tried to move on, to fill the void with other women, with meaningless flings and short-lived affairs. But none of them compared to Y/N. None of them possessed her wit, her passion, her fire. None of them challenged him, pushed him, ignited him the way she did.

One night, as he sat alone in his sprawling LA mansion, a glass of whiskey warming his hand, the memory of her came flooding back. He still remembered her perfectly; her standing in his doorway, her eyes filled with longing and regret, her lips forming the words he’ll never forget.

He remembered the taste of her tears on his skin, the way her body fit perfectly against his, the sound of her laughter echoing through his past apartment. One that he sold a few years back, since it only brought him memories of her.

He knew since then, with a sickening clarity, that he had made a mistake. He had let the love of his life slip through his fingers, blinded by his own insecurities and fear of commitment. And now, as he looked back on those lost years, he couldn't help but hear her voice echoing in his head, a haunting reminder of his own shortcomings.

Good luck, babe. 

The words repeated in his mind like a mantra, a curse he couldn't shake. She had wished him luck, but it was her who he needed. He had lost the one woman who had ever truly seen him, the one woman who had loved him unconditionally. And now, all that was left was the bitter taste of regret, the haunting realization that he had let go of something precious, something irreplaceable.

[tavolgisvist]

What we were talking about

The teenage Paul McCartney would love the idea of fame. That’s what he was trying to do, that was the dream. But it’s funny – life gives you minor premonitions. You don’t think of them as premonitions until the dream comes true and then you think, ‘Hey, I wonder if that was a sign’. I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another. The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.

(Paul McCartney, Feb 2012, interview for The Big Issue)

Paul: They’re onto that thing. They just want to be near to each other. So I just think it’s just silly of me, or of anyone, to try and say to him, “No, you can’t,” you know. It’s like, ‘cause – okay, they’re – they’re going overboard about it, but John always does! And Yoko probably always does. So that’s their scene. You can’t go saying – you know, “Don’t go overboard about this thing. Be sensible about it. Don’t bring it to meetings.” It’s his decision, that. It’s – it’s none of our business, to start interfering in that. Even when it comes into our business, you still can’t really say much, unless – except, “Look, I don’t like it, John.” And then he can say, well, “Screw you,” or, “I like it,” or, “Well, I won’t do it so much,” or blablabla. Like, that’s the only way, you know. To tell John about that. Michael Lindsay-Hogg: Have you done that already? Paul: Well, I told him I didn’t like writing songs… with him and Yoko.

(Paul McCartney, Get Back sessions, 13 January, 1969)

John’s John. John wants to wipe everything away and start again, but in doing so he never wipes anything away. He wants it to be him and Yoko against the world, or whatever, but he`s still in with all the others, in with all the contracts and going into the meetings and everything. “He’s getting pissed off with it though – I sense it. I’ve had a couple of good conversations recently with just John, and I’ve felt a lot of common ground with him.* And I watched him on the Parkinson show, and really a lot of the things he’s into, we’re into as well.”

(Paul McCartney, Nov 1971, interview with Steve Peacock for Sounds)

*after John’s ‘Imagine’ with HDYS but befor John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker

More about fight John and Paul had through the Melody Maker here

There’s no hard feelings or anything, but you just don’t hang around with your ex-wife. We’ve completely finished. ’Cos, you know, I’m just not that keen on John after all he’s done. I mean, you can be friendly with someone, and they can shit on you, and you’re just a fool if you keep friends with them. I’m not just going to lie down and let him shit on me again. I think he’s a bit daft, to tell you the truth. I talked to him about the Klein thing, and he’s so misinformed it’s ridiculous.**

(Paul McCartney interviewed by student journalist Ian McNulty for the Hull University Torch, May 1972 [From The McCartney Legacy, Volume 1: 1969 – 1973 by Allan Kozinn and Adrian Sinclair, 2022)

**after John's letter to Paul in Melody Maker (published 4th Dec 1971)

We'd had a bread strike over here*** and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says. I'm baking some bread.' 'Oh! Me too.' Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread.

(Paul McCartney, May 2001, interview for Mojo magazine)

***a bread strike in England was in Nov 1978

Q: Do you regret that your life has become so public? A: I realized that a good fifteen years ago. I remember actually thinking when I went on holiday somewhere, ‘God I’d really better start thinking now about keeping a few countries aside where we don’t sell records. I won’t be able to go anywhere without being recognized.’ But now I think, ‘Really, I’ve reached the point of no return. There’s no going back.’ Even if I didn’t want to sing anymore, I’d just be like Greta Garbo or Brigitte Bardot. They both retired but you’d never know it. John said this to me a year before he died. He said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.’ That’s the way I look at it. I wished for all this and I got it. To regret it would mean I’d have to sit here and live with negative thoughts about it. I know that would only sink me. Even if I had feelings of regret my personality would not really let them out. ‘Look mate, you don’t regret it. Look on the other side,’ that’s me. Not to sink. I always used to do that instinctively, and not allow too many negative thoughts to surface.

(Paul McCartney, April/May 1982, interview for Music Express)

Q: Do you remember your last conversation with John? A: Yes. That is a nice thing, a consoling factor for me, because I do feel it was sad that we never actually sat down and straightened our differences out. But fortunately for me, the last phone conversation I ever had with him was really great, and we didn’t have any kind of blowup. It could have easily been one of the other phone calls, when we blew up at each other and slammed the phone down. PLAYBOY: Do you remember what you talked about? PAUL: It was just a very happy conversation about his family, my family. Enjoying his life very much; Sean was a very big part of it. And thining about getting on with his career. I remember he said, “Oh, God, I’m like Aunt Mimi, padding round here in me dressing gown”– robe, as he called it, ’cause he was picking up the American vernacular –“feeding the cats in me robe and cooking and putting a cup of tea on. This housewife wants a career!” It was that time for him. He was about to launch Double Fantasy.*

(Paul McCartney, Dec 1984, interview for Playboy)

*Double Fantasy released 17 November 1980

I tell you, he said one thing to me which made me understand what they were up to just as two people, not as anything else. Just as two people. He just said, ‘I tell you, it’s like holding hands on the back row of the pictures.’ <…> John. . . he says, ‘It’s too bad if I look. . . if we look, like people think we’re funny. It’s too bad. This is how we are and we’re very straight.’ ’Cause they are, really. They’re two great people, you know, and they’re very much in love. So you can’t say anything more than that.

(Paul McCartney, May 1969, interview with Roy Corlett)

SALEWICZ: Well, I always found it interesting the fact that he got – I mean, it seemed too much like coincidence to me, the fact that he got married a week or month after you. You know what I mean? PAUL: Yeah. I think we spurred each other into marriage. I mean, you know. They were very strong together, which left me out of the picture. So I got together with Linda and then we got strong with our own kind of thing. And I used to listen to a lot of what they said. I remember him saying to me, "You've got to work at marriage," which is something I still remember as a bit of advice. I still remember that. Um… And then yeah, I think they were a little bit peeved that we got married first. Probably. In a little way, you know, just minor jealousies. And so they got married. I don't know if that's – I mean, who knows… [inaudible] making it up, anyway.

(Paul McCartney, 1986, interview with Chris Salewicz for Q Magazine)

I spoke to the Eastmans. I said, “If we all think he’s not going to have a tax consequence, let’s give [the indemnity] to him.”’Cause, you know, if all sides are that smart, let’s all offer it. Break the deadlock. I went to New York, feeling like the bringer of good news. I rang him up. “Hello, John, how are you? Hello, how’s the kids? Oh, great. What’s all this about publishing? Yeah, great”—laugh laugh laugh—“What about Apple?” Tense. You know, that was the unfortunate thing in the last ten years. The moment you mention the word Apple, all of us go, eeeeep! Dread and horror and shock goes through all our systems. I said, “Look, as I understand it, you need this indemnity.” John said, “Fucking indemnity. Fucking this, fucking that. You don’t need to give me fucking indemnity, you fucking—” I think we ended up just sort of swearing at each other. I said, “Fuck you, ya big cunt,” ’cause I just couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t be sweet and reasonable anymore. I was shaking for an hour after that. Of course, the funniest thing was, I then meant to ring John Eastman and say to him, “No, no, it’s not gonna work, this whole thing. I tried to do the indemnity, it’s not gonna work.” Of course, I got the phone numbers wrong. I rang John Lennon back instead. [When the phone was answered, I said,] “Hello, John? Yeah, listen, I just—oh—yeah well…” But it was Yoko this time, and then I said, “Look, I didn’t mean for it to get like that—but, shit, you know, it seems to have got…” The funny thing was, they knew I was trying to ring John Eastman immediately after, so that would have reinforced their little feelings about me double-dealing. I’ve hardly talked to him since. I rang last Christmas, and I was smart enough not to mention Apple. We had a pleasant conversation. I was allowed to talk to his son, which was lovely. His son seemed very nice.

(Paul McCartney, 1980, in All You Need Is Love by Peter Brown and Steven Gaines)

We were submerged in business troubles at the time. There was incredible bitterness. At one point, to get some peace in the camp, I told my lawyers I wanted to give John an indemnity he had been seeking against a certain clause in one of the Apple contracts. I said, “Someone’s gotta make the first move. I’d love to be the voice of reason here.” I happened to be on my way to the Caribbean, so, passing through New York, I rang John up. But there was so much suspicion, even though I came bearing the olive branch. I said, “Hey, I’d like to see you.” He said, “What for? What do you really want?” It was very difficult. Finally . . . he had a great line for me: he said, “You’re all pizza and fairy tales.” He’d become sort of Americanized by then, so the best insult I could think of was to say, “Oh, fuck off, Kojak,” and slam the phone down. “Pizza and fairy tales” – I almost made that an album title. That was about the strength of our relationship then – very, very bitter – and we didn’t get over that for a long, long time. But thank God, at the very end, we suddenly realized that all we had to do was not mention Apple if we phoned each other. We could talk about the kids, talk about his cats, talk about writin’ songs – the one paramount thing was not to mention Apple. So then the last couple of phone calls we had were getting very nice. I remember once he said to me, “Do they play me against you like they play you against me?” Because there were always people in the background pitting us against each other. And I said, “Yeah, they do. They sure do.” That was a couple of months before he . . . it’s still weird even to say, “before he died.” I still can’t come to terms with that. I still don’t believe it. It’s like, you know, those dreams you have, where he’s still alive; then you wake up and . . . “Oh.”

(Paul McCartney, September 1986, interview with Kurt Loder for Rolling Stones)

add to this

and this

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

Also, if you have not heard the amazing news that Fanny's live performances from Beat-Club in 1971 and 1972 are going to finally be released for the first time on CD and vinyl later this year (in June, 2024), you can pre-order them via RealGoneMusic!