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wincestisasincest · 5 years ago

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2000 Man (A beatle!reader story) - Part 1: Madam Beatle

Hello friends! Yes I absolutely am starting a new series when I haven’t finished another one. I was just so intrigued by the idea of a beatle!reader that I had to start something.

Credit to @casafrass for literally all the ideas and a few of the headcanons, I’ll name which ones I’m using for each part of the story.

Anyway, the story is framed through an interview that our dear reader is having in the year 2000 as she tries to promote her new book, Madam Beatle, which chronicles the story of her life. Expect a lot of flashbacks, and a lot of angst as the stories goes on. Kinda inspired by Slumdog Millionaire. I don’t know how long this is gonna be yet, but expect a L O T.

Anyway, let’s start, and get ready for more.

Description: It’s the year 2000, and y/n, the fifth member of the Beatles, is advertising her new book, Madam Beatle, in her first interview of the year. We see snapshots of her life, from when she joined the band, to the trials and tribulations, to the death of the band, and everything in between. Loosely inspired by Slumdog Millionaire.

Part: 1, 2

Headcanons: How the fans would react, how the press would react/how defensive the boys are

Words: 1,967

Pairings: None, at the moment, just general fluff and friendship

Warnings: Rude people and language

“Welcome back to the show, y/n. I hate to be the one to say it, but I haven’t seen you since the last millennium.”

“Thanks for having me, Harold, though I honestly didn’t think I would live to see the next one.”

“Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say that we’re glad you did. How else would we get to see the release of, what was it, Madam Beatle?”

“Yup, that it was.”

“Now, I mean this as so insult to your creativity, but I understand that this title isn’t your own thinking, is it?”

“Well, no, it was actually one of the many titles that the press had given me back in our early days. The first article that I read that was specifically about me, was, in fact, titled, ‘Madam Beatle, Yay or Nay?’. It was in a section of a teen magazine, I don’t even remember the name at this point, but it was where the magazine would pose a question in the previous issue, and fans would send letters with their responses. It was usually some sort of yes or no question. I’m afraid I don’t recall the whole thing, but I did save that page of the magazine, and I had it printed in full in the book.”

“Was this article particularly significant to you.”

“I’d like to think so. I remember reading it and thinking to myself, ‘Wow, this many people I don’t know have strong opinions about me.’ It sounds a little weird saying it out loud, but it was just such a strange concept to me, and was almost completely foreign at the time, though I grew used to it.”

Your hands sealed the envelope closed as you slammed it on top of your growing pile. You felt a little bad not putting the return address on the front of the letters. Of course, you knew full-well that that was Freda’s job, but there was simply so many. She would have to dedicate an hour, at least.

This response had been something special. Greta, a seven year old from Idaho, had sent you a drawing of herself and you, and you wanted to respond with something equally as awesome, so you sent her a drawing of yourself and her à la colored pencils instead of crayons. Something about children always brought out your soft side, even if it took an extra 10 minutes to answer.

You tore open the next letter without even checking the front. The address wasn’t really important, it was the name inside. Out fell a small sheet of paper and a crumpled page of a magazine.

The paper was about the size of a post-it note, with words scrawled on it in thick, black pen: “I’m not the only one who thinks you’re a whore.”

Shaking, you picked up the crumpled magazine page. You couldn’t figure which magazine it was, but you recognized the format of the column. A point-counterpoint type column, with the page split in half, headed either ‘Yay’ or ‘Nay’, and a collection of responses on either side. Or, they’re should’ve been, as the heading under ‘Yay’ was completely scribbled out by the black marker, leaving only the ‘Nay’ section visible.

The title of the article was ‘Madam Beatle, Yay or Nay?’, and under the title, in confident, showy lettering, was the question: ‘What do you think of y/n of the Beatles?’

You turned the page over and refused to read it. You knew what this was. You had heard of it. And you had also heard that the best way to deal with hate-mail was to not give into it. To not answer. But you weren’t very good at avoiding temptation.

There was a knock at the door. You peered through the fish-eye. Yup, it was the four lads, who had almost certainly all lost the room key. You pulled the door open slightly, only to have it stopped by the door chain.

“Y/n, love, you’re supposed to open the door the whole way.” You didn’t even have to look up to know that it was Lennon, dripping with sarcasm as usual.

“I dunno if I should. I was told by our very esteemed manager Brian that I should keep all riff-raff out of the hotel room.” You began rolling your rs in the way that posh people do.

“Then what are you doin’ in there?” Ringo joined the arena.

“I’m a beacon of morality.” You giggled as you unlocked the door.

The four blew in past you, moving to all corners of the room, and stretching out on whatever chair or sofa they could find.

“Was it worth it?” You blew some hair out of your face.

“Nah, he wasn’t home.” George crossed his legs on the coffee table while sitting on the sofa.

“Too famous for you, I guess.” You crossed your arms and took in the room of disappointed faces. If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t like to say ‘I told you so.’ But, you really did tell them so.

“Ah, just you wait. One day, we’ll be rejecting Elvis when he tries to come over.” John was scrounging through the kitchenette looking for snacks to fuel his sarcasm.

“Y/n, what’s this?” Paul, who hadn’t spoken yet, was hunched over the table with your fan mail sprawled out on it.

“Jus’ some fan mail that I was getting done, you know, being productive, while I was waiting for you four to get rejected.” You were silently praying that he wouldn’t notice that one shred of hate mail that you had. Of course, it had to be the hate mail that he noticed and not the thousands and thousands of wonderful letters that you had received. If anyone would make a big deal, it would be Paul.

“No, no, I mean this letter, if that’s what you can call it.” Paul, don’t you do it.

“What does it say?” Ringo called over everyone’s head.

“I don’t wanna say it out loud, but-”

“Paul, it’s fine, there’s no fans around.” You just wanted to get this whole thing over.

“What does it say?” John was looking over Paul’s shoulder at your table.

“Guys, it’s fine, I don’t ca-”

“Someone sent y/n hate mail.”

“What? What does it say?” Ringo and George both went over to join the group, hovering over what you had just opened.

“Yeah, but it’s like, not a big deal,” you walked back over to join them, “I got all these nice letters from other people, if one person is angry, I don’t really mind.” You patted the top of your stack of letters as there was a small silence.

“Good girl, y/n,” John strolled to your side and put his arm around you, “Lads, this is the grit that we’re gonna need to have if we’re gonna make it past this milestone.”

“What the hell are you on about, John?” Paul had finally given up his fascination with the hate mail.

“We’ve got our first hate mail. We’ve officially made it.” You joined a chorus of sighs, but John only chuckled.

“In fact, I think this calls for a celebration,” he pulled away from you, “Pour the champagne!” He whipped a bottle of champagne out of one of the cabinets and swiped give champagne glasses from the shelf. John and properly confronting the situation was often not a good pairing.

“Where the hell did that come from?” George chided, though it was through a smile.

“What does it matter? We’re fucking famous!” The champagne was overflowing in the glass that he shoved into your hand. You felt a smile creeping up your face. You couldn’t tell if he was just trying to ignore the situation, or if he was genuinely happy, and frankly, you didn’t care.

“To hate mail!” The five of you clinked your glasses, somewhat unexpectedly, but no one was gonna turn away a champagne celebration. You took a long sip. He was right. This was just another lesson to add to your collection of things that you had to deal with in the public conscience. First, it was the press, and now, it was some very pissed off fans. Only a little longer until you learned not to care about breathing.

The next few hours were a blur. Champagne had taken the place of the brandy that you took before shows to ease your nerves, though you obviously weren’t thinking about it at the time, and thus, were slightly more tired and drunk than usual.

Still, the show went fine. You honestly could’ve stood there for an hour and those fans would’ve screamed their heads off anyway. And life was good.

You stepped into the car that would take you back to the hotel, your feat aching, as they always did, and your eyelids begging to shut. The car lurched forwards.

“Y/n, I found this for you.” Ringo sat across from you and handed you what looked like a magazine, with his thumb marking one of the pages. You and him had stepped into the car earlier than the rest, as the group always took different routes in order to ease the escape from fans.

“Thanks, Rings.” You flipped it open, and your eyes recognized the page that you’d landed on. It was the same article from earlier, except that the ‘Yay’ column was no longer blacked out. You smiled.

“Aww, you didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, I know, but I wanted to make sure that you have the, the good opinions with the bad, and all that.”

“Another successful night, lads, and now, to the bar!” John hopped into the car, a tidal wave of fans following close behind. Paul and George then slinked in and the door was slammed shut behind them.

“What’s that you’ve got there, y/n?” Paul squeezed himself next to me.

“Ringo found me the same magazine from earlier. Wanted me to see all the ‘good opinions’.”

“Awww, Rings! Looking out for our y/n like that.” John ruffled his hair as he shoved himself into the seat next to him.

“I never knew how nasty girls can be towards girls. I always thought it was just the press.” George added his pensive two cents while looking out the window.

“Hey, hey, it’s the fans, not girls in general. And I’ll have you know, I got several adoring letters from both our male and female fans.” You leaned back in your seat.

“We have male fans?” Paul laughed. John snorted.

“But seriously, y/n, they don’t mean shit, those girls. We don’t like ‘em either.” John was bad at emotions, you knew this, but his words were some odd comfort.

“Wow, very nice, you could’ve said that without a bottle of champagne, y’know.” Brian jammed himself in the car next to John and Ringo.

“Here comes the killjoy.” Paul muttered under his breath.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that drunken stumble tonight, Lennon. And don’t think that the audience didn’t notice, either. Very unprofessional.”

“The only professional here is the driver, Brian, and even he’s speeding a little.” What a comedy duo. The rest of the car cracked up with laughter.

“Do watch that, Lennon. The rest of you, a little better, but do try to stick to brandy next time.” He took out one of his finer cigars.

“Tonight we’re sticking to more than brandy.” You added, and the group let out whoops of joy.

“Cheers, love.” Paul gave you a light shove.

Brian’s attempts to control the group were futile. The driver fulfilled his purpose and flipped off someone while slamming on the gas to pull into the lane. You and your best friends sped into the night, leaving all your inhibitions far behind.

#beatle!reader #the beatles #beatles #the beatles x reader #beatles x reader #john lennon #ringo starr #george harrison #paul mccartney #john lennon x reader #ringo starr x reader #george harrison x reader #paul mccartney x reader #classic rock #60s

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mirkwoodshewolf · 6 years ago

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Always family; John Deacon x teen reader

*Author’s note*

Hello all, I just wanted to share with you all ANOTHER Queen fic. Now this one here is pretty long so I’m sorry not sorry for the longness of this fic but it had to be done. Thought I’d dip my toe into the platonic Queen fics (besides my Rock Angel series) since requests will open up soon. I just want to catch up on all the requests that came to me over Winter break that the anons have been waiting so patiently on before I accept any new ones. So in this fic you the lovely reader are the cousin to this Disco man, but you both act more like brother-sister as you will soon see. Hope you all enjoy this little fic :)

Warnings: Family abandonment (IF THIS TRIGGERS ANYONE PLEASE DON’T STRAIN YOURSELF TO READ IT), angst, swearing, fluff, Paul prenter (Ugh) and the loveable and NASTY QUEENIES :) Enjoy my lovely darlings ;)

Taglist

@geek-and-proud

_____________________________________________________

*Nov. 1974, Live at the Rainbow*

It was another successful concert at the Rainbow theater. Queen had once again performed a killer performance, and Brian now finally feeling better after his hepatitis scare knew he was ready to get back on stage and he performed his heart out to make up for what he had to miss while in the hospital.

The three main lead vocalists Freddie, Brian and Roger were heading towards their dressing room when they noticed someone sitting outside the door of their dressing room. She appeared to be about 15 possibly 16, had long (h/c) with platinum blonde highlights. She wore a white crop top shirt, black leather jacket, denim blue jeans and high-heeled boots similar to what their bass player always wore.

They also took notice around her neck was a camera and she was also fiddling around with it, instantly knowing exactly how to operate it. Freddie turned to Roger and teased out.

“Look Roger darling, the girl you ordered finally came.” Roger hit Freddie’s shoulder and told him to fuck off while Brian walked up to the girl and asked.

“Excuse me?” She looked up from her camera and they also saw that she was blowing up a bubble from the gum that she had been chewing. She deflated the bubble as Brian said, “Can we help you?”

“Oh sorry I was just waiting for Deacy.” She responded before going back to her camera.

“You know John?” asked Roger.

“Do I know him? Of course I know him he—oh I get it. Typical Deacy, never likes to talk about me to his friends, thinks I’ll embarrass him or something.” She started off before trailing off into a teasing tone. The three Queen members were still confused to just who exactly this young girl was. She then gestured to herself as she continued, “I’m (Y/n) Deacon, Deacy’s cousin.” She then dug into her jean pocket and innocently held out a packet of gum as she said, “Gum?”

*My POV*

Hello people and beyond! The name’s (y/n) Deacon. I was born March 7th, 1959. And before you ask, yes I am related to John Richard Deacon bass player of Queen. He’s my older cousin but if you ask me he’s been more like a brother to me than my cousin.

In fact it was Deacy who got me interested in electrics, so much so that I’ve taken photography classes in school and then once I get into University I hope to major in photography. In fact the camera I always carry with me around my neck, Deacy actually got it for me three years ago on my 13th birthday.

I had heard about his little band from aunt Lillian and of course from my friends. Now that Queen is starting to gain that spotlight of fame, I took the first bus I could in order to check and see if my dear Deacy hadn’t forgotten about me.

I was now sitting on the couch in the guys’ dressing room, Freddie was sitting close to me and I spoke up.

“Okay see that’s where I draw the line with cats, I mean c’mon who would want a hairless cat? It’s like you just turned a cat inside out and said, ‘here’s your new baby’. Plus if you leave it in the winter it’ll turn into a cat-cicle. But if you leave it out in the summer heat then it’ll be a sunburnt naked mole rat.”

“Brian, Roger make note of this that we are keeping this girl because she gets cat logic.” Freddie claimed as he wrapped an arm around me bringing me close in a one armed hug. I smiled and blushed slightly hiding my head bashfully. We soon heard the door open and finally entering inside the dressing room was the Disco man himself.

“Deacy darling you’ve got some serious explaining to do.” Freddie proclaimed as if he were giving a proclamation. Wide-eyed and startled like a deer in headlights he looked between his bandmates and that’s when Brian spoke up.

“Like why you didn’t tell us about your cousin?” I then made myself known by waving to John and telling him hi. Finally taking notice of me, Deacy smiled and came over to me while I met him half way and the two of us hugged each other after not seeing him for a good couple of years now.

“What are you doing here?”

“What you didn’t think I’d miss the opportunity to miss my cousin performing on stage and finally get to see what all the fuss was about, now did yah?” I teased as I playfully shoved him.

“Did my mum drop you off?”

“Well actually I sorta begged her to get me a bus pass here to London.”

“You mean to tell me you came here all by yourself?” he demanded.

“Deaks I’m not a little girl anymore, I can take care of myself.” He sighed and said as he stroked my cheek with his thumb.

“I know you can, you know I just worry about you. Old habits die hard you know?”

“Gosh Deacy, who would’ve thought you were so overprotective? And here I thought you were the docile one.” teased Roger.

“Piss off Roger.” Defended Deacy.

“So (y/n), I’m just looking at these photographs of the concert and they are really good. Did you always want to be a photographer?” Brian said trying to change the conversation.

“Thanks Brian. And to answer your question not always. But I got interested in it at around 10 maybe 11 years old. It just started off taking pictures of the family dog Buddy and some birds, a few family outings but then when I turned 13 that’s when my interest in photography began to rise. In fact Deacy gave me this exact camera and showed me how to work out all the technical stuff with it for my 13th birthday.”

“I must say these are impressive. I would’ve thought a professional would’ve taken these.” Stated Roger as he picked up a photo.

“Aww come on you guys…..”

“No we’re serious (y/n) dear, you’ve got a gift.” Freddie said.

“That’s what I’ve always been telling her.” Said Deacy with a warm smile as he playfully ruffled my hair. I smiled at them and thanked them.

For the rest of the night I got to know the rest of the members of Queen, not just as rock stars, but as my cousin’s best friends. Most people know them as these four handsome young men trying to become famous rockstars, but I got to know their true selves. Brian the smart astrophysicist interested in all things regarding the universe who made his dissertation about stardust.

Roger who is known to most as the ‘heartthrob, womanizing, air-headed and stubborn drummer’ when actually he’s an intelligent person who first started off with dentistry (to which both Deacy and Brian teased him about) but then changed his profession to biology. The first drummer to ever truly tune his drums before playing them.

And of course the front man Freddie Mercury. Most people think he’s always the extravagant person both on and off stage, when in reality he’s just a humble, loving human being who studied design, loves cats and has his insecurities just like everyone else.

I knew from that night that I was going to see these boys not just as my cousin’s friends, but also an extended family.

3 years passed and any chance I got I would visit the boys during holiday breaks or stay with Deacy during the summers. I even got the chance to go with them to Rockfield farm when they recorded “A Night at the Opera” because I was assigned a summer project for my photography class. And when EMI saw my pictures, they actually hired me an internship with them to be the band’s official photographer.

Now that I am done with high school, I’m just waiting for the autumn to start so that I can officially start my University career in photography. The boys have definitely given me good practice for my camera work, doing pictures both on stage and for behind the scenes whether through the tours or them in the studio recording.

They’re rowdy and silly but it’s awesome to see them work and I actually get to see the genius machine that is Queen on how they create their music.

We were currently in the studio and the boys were recording their newest song “We are the Champions”. I was getting the best pictures that I could that the record company was asking for me. Some of the pictures included them in the booth rehearsing, or Freddie along with the sound technician at the sound table messing with the buttons and track, getting it to fit his vision.

Since they were on a strict deadline to get the song recorded, it meant more hours in the studio, hours that not even I could last very long with. I yawned softly when I felt a tap at my shoulder. I looked up to see Deacy standing beside me.

“You ready to head home?” I yawned again and nodded tiredly. “Alright missy, let’s get you home and into bed.” I moaned tiredly and raised my arms out and said.

“Carry me.”

“Are both your legs broken?” he teased. I let out a tired whine.

“You’re mean Deacy.”

“C’mon you get up. I know you can do it.”

“Too tired to get up.” I groaned.

“Then allow me your royal majesty.” I heard Freddie say as I was then picked up princess style and I wrapped my arms around Freddie’s neck. “That better darling?”

“I love you Fred.” I stated bluntly.

“You’re going to spoil her too much Fred.” Deacy said.

“Oh come off it Deacy, she’s a darling and she’s been working so hard she deserves this.”

“Yeah Deacy, I deserve this. Why can’t you be more like Freddie?”

“Because I know when to set limits for you.” I stuck my tongue out at him and then I was carried out of the studio and placed into Deacy’s Volvo. Deacy followed suit and we all bid each other a goodnight and soon Deacy pulled out of the parking lot and drove us back home.

We both entered quietly so that we didn’t wake up either Veronica or baby Bobby. Deacy and I kissed each other goodnight and I went to my guest room and got out of my jeans, didn’t even bother to get out of my shirt and just plopped on my bed and went to sleep.

The next day was like any other day, the guys had just gotten done finishing the final touches to “We are the Champions” and we were all celebrating. Roger uncorked the bottle of wine and poured the guys a drink while I got some non-alcoholic cider, but I knew that Roger would let me sneak in a sip of wine when Deacy wasn’t looking. As we were all gathered around just sharing stories and what not, it was then Paul came in and said.

“Freddie, boys there’s someone here to see you.” Roger and I looked at each other and he muttered.

“Hopefully the police to take him away for being an utter annoyance.” I snickered softly which made Paul glare at me and that’s when he said.

“Come on in Mrs.” And soon walking into the studio was someone I thought I’d never see again. My body tensed up and my heart sunk, it felt like I had gotten punched in the gut and had all the air knocked out of me as a blast from the past came back and stood before this very room.

Her familiar (h/c) now shorter than I remembered but she still kept it the same style, her (e/c) looking right at me. She looked a bit more run down than from what I remembered, probably got involved in drugs since that’s the big thing nowadays.

“Hello (y/n).” She started off. I stood up and just glared at her. “God you’ve—you’ve grown up so fast.” She tried to lighten up the mood. Really? How dare she come back after all these years. In fact how did she find out where I was? I walked out of the room avoiding another glance at her and slammed the door loud behind me.

*John’s POV*

“So…..where are the groceries?” I demanded.

“John please—”

“No, no I really want to know. Because you’re finally here, but I see no groceries.” I stood up and continued as I walked up towards her, “I mean that’s what you said when you dropped her off with mum, your sister. But news flash Katherine. You’re 15 years too late!” I now stood face to face with her, hell I almost lost my composure and wanted to hit her so hard.

“Whoa, whoa Deacy take it easy! Take it easy!” Brian said pulling me away from her.

“Deacy darling you’ve never acted this way before, just who is this woman?”

“Unfortunately she’s my mum’s younger sister. My aunt……”

“(Y/n)’s mother.” She finished.

“No, no, no! You lost that right when you abandoned her that day!” I snapped.

“Deacy calm down, calm down.” Brian said as he placed his hand to my chest trying to get me to calm down, but at this point I knew nothing would.

“Why are you here? How did you even know she’d be here?” I demanded.

“I’ve known how close you both were when you were kids, so I figured that she’d be with you. And when I heard about where Queen does their rehearsals I thought I’d get clearance, thanks to Mr. Prenter, he allowed me to come and see her.”

Bloody hell of course Paul would play a part in this. He’s always hated (y/n) hanging around, talking about her like she was a distraction from the band. Of course (y/n) never took anything lying down.

Much like Roger, hell in fact all her life when she needed and wanted to, she could be a right up trickster. Her pranks were always over the top but brilliantly planned and well executed.

I would know because I was unfortunately a victim to some of those pranks, but then again I also helped form some of those pranks on say like heart-breaking, back-stabbing boyfriends, stab in the back best friends, you know those types of people.

I then left the booth and tried to find (y/n). I searched and searched but I couldn’t find her anywhere, that was until I heard sniffling from the janitor’s closet.

I pressed my ear against the door and I knew without a doubt that (y/n) was behind the door. I lightly knocked on it and she stopped crying and choked out.

“Please go away.” I knew words wouldn’t convince her to come out, so I did the next best thing that always seemed to at least put a smile on her face, even when I couldn’t see it.

I went into the next room and managed to find some paper and a pen and I raced back towards the janitor’s closet and wrote something down on the paper before sliding it under the door.

*My POV*

How could she? How could she suddenly decide to show up after all these years? How the hell did she even find me? I kept crying all alone in the janitor’s closet, having the broom against the handle so that no one could come in. I heard a knock so I just told whoever it was to go away.

I heard footsteps walking away so I figured they got the message, but then I heard footsteps again and then something was tossed underneath the crack of the door. It was a piece of paper. I slowly crawled up halfway out of my spot to grab the sheet of paper and unfolded it to see a very familiar little rhyme.

Oh won’t you come out little Dale.

Don’t you weep and tell me your tale.

Deacy. Whenever I was so upset that I would hide away in either a closet or under the sink, he’d always write me a silly but comforting note that always first opened with those two lines.

Sometimes that was all it took for me to open the door and talk to him, other times we’d just pass notes back and forth between the door until I was ready to come out. Since there wasn’t a writing utensil at all in here, I was forced to remove the broom and slowly open the door.

The first thing I saw his hand being held out for me to take. I slowly reached my hand out from the door and took his hand. He always knew that whenever I got this upset to never push me. I felt his thumb rub and stroke over the top of my hand, his other fingers gently intertwining with my own in various different ways trying to give me the best comfort he could till I finally had the courage to come out.

Finally I opened up the closet.

I immediately hugged Deacy and he hugged me back and I whimpered out.

“I’m sorry I pulled a Roger move.”

“Shhhh. It’s alright my little nightingale. Unlike Roger’s temper tantrum over a strange car song, you have a better excuse. I’m so sorry love I had no idea it would be her.”

“I know you didn’t have anything to do with this. It’s just—”

“No I know. I know. Believe me love, I gave her a piece of my mind after all these years. All for you.”

“Why couldn’t you have been my real brother Deacy?” he softly laughed and said as he stroked through my hair.

“I may be your cousin by blood (n/n). But to me you’ve always been the sister I’ve always wanted. And that’ll never change, you hear me?” he cupped my face into his hands. He wiped my tears as I nodded and hugged him, burying my face into his shoulder. “We’ll get through this together dove, just like we’ve always done.”

Days passed and Deacy made sure that if my mum came anywhere near me trying to start a conversation, either he or the lads would come in and save me with a ‘task’ to do, just to spare me more agony and pain, especially since she kept coming over to the studio every day and was always in the same room as I was in.

However one day when guys all had to record their parts for a new song, I was looking at all my photos when I heard her voice say.

“(Y/n)?” I froze and turned around to see my mum standing there, blocking my only exit. I stood up and said.

“Stay away from me!”

“Please just hear me out, please! Give me 2 minutes.” I looked down at my watch and said.

“1.58” telling her that her time was ticking.

“I know that—I haven’t been the best mother. After your father left us I thought I could do well by you but I guess I was wrong. I never left you because I didn’t love you, I left you because I loved you too much to put you in what I was living under. I could barely keep the mortgage on the house, we would’ve been homeless. I couldn’t do that to you. I thought that by leaving you with my sister, you’d get a better chance. Much more than you could have with me.”

“Then why didn’t you visit me? Why didn’t you call?” I asked as tears filled my eyes.

“I was a mess I—I got into some serious trouble and had to try and work them out. If they found out I had a child, then they’d use you against me. I couldn’t let them do that. But I do have something to show you,” she dug into her purse and pulled out a photograph. She walked up to me and held it out for me. “Look at this picture, just look at it.”

I looked between her and the picture until I finally took it and turned it over and was shocked to see what the picture was.

It was a picture of me at my secondary school decathlon. It was the championship competition and I had gotten the last question correct which made our school the first time in decades win a decathlon.

“You—you were there?”

“Yes, you were always such a clever girl, I knew if anyone could get your school the win it’d be you.” I just stared at her in shock, even though I hadn’t seen her since I was a child, she still was there watching over me. “I—I got more pictures like that in the apartment that I’m stay at, if you’d like you could come over and see them.”

“Really?” she nodded with a soft smile. “And I was also wondering that after you’re done with work, do you—wanna get a drink or something? Coffee? Do you like coffee?”

“I love coffee.” I said.

“Great, I know this one coffee shop in downtown.”

And for the first time, I was starting to slowly reforge a bond with my mother.

As the weeks passed and the two of us got to know each other a little more, hanging out after work, going to the clubs, and going to the mall shopping for clothes. Of course I had to buy them but hell we were using Deacy’s card and he didn’t seem to mind at all. So long as we didn’t go crazy and spend all his hard-earned money at once.

And true to her word, my mum did in fact have pictures of almost all my main important events that have happened in my life. My first swim team competition, my school play freshman year, even my high school graduation.

Every important even, she was there.

One day she had came over to Deacy and Veronica’s place and we were both sitting on the couch. The two of us laughing and looking at all of the photos I’ve taken since I’ve been with the guys, explaining each and every picture.

“There us at Rockfield farm studios, Roger was messing around with the chickens, which I told him not to, then next thing he knew the rooster was chasing after him for over 15 minutes.”

“Wow, I must say these are probably the best taken pictures I’ve seen, you’ve really got a gift.”

“Yeah, Deacy says that all the time.” She sat there silent and she said.

“Hey how do you feel about road trips?” I looked at her and said.

“You’re looking at someone whose toured with the biggest band all over the world. A simple road trip wouldn’t hurt me. You—really mean it? You and me?”

“If you’re interested. Just you and me poppet.”

“I am…..mum.” She smiled and for the first time in a very long time, my mum embraced me. I smiled and wrapped my arms around her and hugged her back.

“We’ll go first thing in the morning.” She told me and I nodded.

*John’s POV*

Seeing (y/n) hugging Kathrine like that made me feel so on edge. In fact this entire time she’s been here I’ve felt this sickening feeling that history was going to repeat itself.

“Deacy?” I turned to see Brian standing behind me. I had invited the lads over for supper and just so that way Katherine would be outnumbered should she try anything.

“If you’re going to tell me to stop spying on them, you might as well leave now.”

“You know—maybe she’s really trying to change. Maybe she did try to come back and patch things up with (y/n).” I turned to him and snarled out.

“She had 15 years to do that, don’t you think if she really cared about her own daughter she’d have come sooner?”

“I know Deacy and I’m not jumping to any conclusions yet but, from what I’ve seen so far. (Y/n) seems to really want to be with her mother. Maybe you could try to let go of the past and see that Katherine is seemingly wanting to change. At least do it for (y/n).”

“Everything I do is for her. I just—I just don’t want to see her get hurt again. For three years when she was first dropped off at my home, she always asked me ‘when’s mummy coming back?’ At the end of the three years by the time I was a teenager I just snapped and told her that she abandoned her. I felt awful in the way I had to explain it, took me over a week to finally get her to talk back to me. And I don’t know what’ll happen if she tries to leave her again.”

“I know mate, I know.” Brian wrapped an arm around me trying to get me to cheer up as I watched with a heavy heart as Katherine and (y/n) were planning out their summer road trip.

It was early the next morning, I woke up to the sounds of Robert getting fussy and felt Veronica stir beside me.

“I’ve got him love.”

“But you took care of him last time.”

“For you my darling, I would always take care of our children if it meant you could still sleep.” I kissed her temple down to her neck before getting up and heading over to Robert’s room. “Alright my boy, what’s going on with you hmm?” I picked him up and he babbled.

“Hungwy dada.” Since Robert couldn’t quite get his R’s right they always sounded like w’s. I smiled and said as I picked him up and held him in my arms.

“Okay buddy, what shall it be today hmm? Cheese on toast?”

“No yucky dada.”

“How dare you! Cheese on toast is a wonderful dish, you take that back mister man.” I teased as I began to tickle his sides making him laugh. He squirmed in my hold and that’s when I saw the silhouette of aunt Katherine walking down the stairs.

I narrowed my eyes and peeked out of Robert’s bedroom door and swore I saw a suitcase in her hand. I told Robert to go over to our room and stay with his mum while I went down to see just exactly she thought she was doing.

I silently walked down the stairs and saw her with the suitcase and she was about to grab her purse when I stopped her and said.

“Going out shopping again, Katherine?” she froze in her spot and turned around towards me and said.

“John I—I didn’t expect to see you up so early; I would’ve thought the tour exhausted you out.”

“Oh it did, but then again when my child needs me I’m always there for them. So where is it to this time?”

“Actually it’s not what you think. Work called in and I’ve got to check in on some things.”

“And what about the big road trip you and (y/n) had planned? Hmm? Were you going to let her in on your business?” I snapped.

“I was actually going to have you tell her for me.” She said. I rolled my eyes and turned away from her shaking my head.

“I knew it.” I muttered.

“Excuse me?”

“You almost had me convinced. Almost I mean you finally convinced (y/n) but not anymore! I knew you could never change. You abandoned her once before and I knew that if you ever came back into her life again, you’d do it all over again!” My voice raising up louder and angrier than I ever thought I could go.

“John?” Veronica soon came down with Robert in her arms and the lads were right behind her as well, probably hearing my yelling.

“Jeez Deaks its barely 7 o’clock, what the hell is with all the yelling?” Questioned Roger.

“Katherine’s leaving (y/n) again.” I stated. They all turned to her and Veronica said.

“Is this true Katherine?”

“And it gets better, she’s wanting me to tell (y/n) the road trip they both planned out together is cancelled instead of telling her herself.” I made sure to point out.

“It’s just business Veronica dear, if you were in my shoes you’d do the same. I promise I’ll keep better in touch this time.”

“Took you 15 years just to get back in touch.” I said. Seeing the look on my wife’s and my friends’ faces they finally got to see what I had seen all those years ago. From what I had told them, now they finally got to see it. Veronica holding our son walked up to her and said.

“Katherine, if you walk out of (y/n)’s life now…..don’t you ever come back.” With that she walked back up the stairs passing the guys. All was silent before I spoke up.

“May I have a moment alone with her?” I could already feel the tension from them. I knew the guys were just as angry as I was because they cared for (y/n) as much as I did, even after knowing her after just 3 years. I heard them walk away until finally it was just Katherine and I in my front hallway. “Sit down.”

“I don’t have time for this John—”

“I said sit down Katherine!” I snapped as I finally turned back towards her and just saw her back as her hand was on the doorknob ready to walk out. She sighed heavily and walked right past me and sat down on the living room couch.

I walked over toward her and sighed heavily and finally spoke my mind.

“You know; (y/n) was doing just fine until you showed up. But now that you’re back, you have responsibility for her.”

“Look I came back for her—”

“Oh bull. BULLSHIT!!” I yelled at her. “(Y/n) is not some purse that you hang up on a rack and then pick her up whenever you’re ready to use it. Her life goes on! She’s not supposed to be there for you, you’re supposed to be there for her!”

“You get off my back! YOU THINK I WANTED THIS?! IT JUST HAPPENED!!!” She yelled at me as she stood up. Her breathing was sharp and heavy as she tried to explain her reasoning, “After Derek left, I tried my best but it was just too much and I—”

“CUT THE RUBBISH! ALRIGHT! CUT IT!! Cause I’ve been there! But I didn’t run out on Veronica. I was there for her every day because that’s what a real parent does.”

“A real parent!? Fine. Then you’re a better father than my good-for-nothing man was. Hell John you must be better than any man in the world must be! The one in a million golden boy!” She cheered sarcastically. I shook my head at her and turned away from her. “Now are you going to tell (y/n) or not?”

“I’m not gonna do your dirty work for you.”

“Fine. I’ll—I’ll call her from the road then.”

“Yeah you do that.”

“I will.” She then walked out and that’s when we both heard (y/n)’s voice call out.

“Mummsy.” Katherine stopped in her tracks as (y/n) stood in front of me setting her bags down as she said, “You ready to head out?” Katherine turned towards (y/n) and put on that fake persona act and said as she walked up towards her.

“(Y/n) love glad I caught you. Umm…..some business came up that I gotta handle, so we’re gonna have to put our—trip on hold. You understand right?” (Y/n) was silent for a moment before she finally said.

“Yeah, yeah I understand.”

“Oh that’s great, I promise you I had no intention of having this come up.”

“No yeah I understand.”

“And it’ll only just be for a couple of weeks….well maybe even longer.”

“I get it, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Look I’ll call you next week and we’ll iron out the details then, okay?” (Y/n) nodded.

I could tell from the second she got the news that (y/n) was heartbroken and I feared that she knew Katherine’s real reason for leaving. She tried to pull off an understanding smile and voice but I could hear the cracks in her voice.

“It was great seeing you again poppet.” Katherine said as she reached out to her but (y/n) shrugged her off as she said.

“You too—Katherine.” She spat out her own mother’s name icily as she stared right at her. Katherine knowing that she had lost her only child once more, sighed solemnly and left without another word, turning her back on (y/n) once more.

“I’m sorry love.” I heard a choked out laugh and that’s when (y/n) said.

“No this actually works out perfectly I mean with the tour about to resume I can get back to practicing before University starts and—”

“(N/n), you don’t have to pretend around me. It’s okay to be angry.” I assured her.

“Mad? Why should I be mad Deacy? I mean at least she said goodbye this time, right? Hell at least this time you won’t have to hear me complain ‘when’s mummy coming home?’ I’m not 4 years old anymore, I can handle it. I—just wish I didn’t waste my damn time building this fucking scrapbook!” She then pulled out from her bag a photo album and glued onto the cover was a recent picture of her and Katherine together.

With all the pictures she’s taken over the years, (y/n)’s other hobby included scrapbooking. I saw that it had been completed decorated and detailed, almost like a professional had made it. She set it down on the table and just glared down at it.

I slowly walked up to her but kept to her space because I knew it was only a matter of time before she would break down and I didn’t want to overwhelm her.

“Darling, you know that if there was anything I could do to make this better—”

“No, no, no, no this works out for the best,” she said as she came up to me looking me right in the eye. “I mean it’s her loss anyway I mean I learned how to ride a bike by myself. Yeah sure the boys laughed at me but I got back up and showed them a thing or two about riding didn’t I?”

“Yes you did love bug.” I said with a fond smile remembering that day.

“And there was a hell of a lot of stuff I did without her. I learned how to shave, how to drive, I got over my first crush and date without her, I did prom without her, I had fifteen great birthdays without her! That bitch never even sent me a damn card. TO HELL WITH HER!!!” She turned and screamed at the door.

God she’s always tried to remain so optimistic about life and everything around her. Always tried to remain strong after being abandoned by both parents, she always tried to go on every day with a smile and a laugh but now she was finally letting all that pain out like a dam bursting.

Hearing her sharp breaths and the tremble in her voice just broke my heart.

“I never needed her then, and I’ll never need her now.” She snapped as she walked away. I softly spoke her name as I reached out and touched her arm. That’s when she turned around and said.

“Nah you know what Deacy? I’m gonna get through college without her. I’ll get my dream job without her. I’ll find me a good guy to be with, and then I’m going to have a whole bunch of kids. I’m gonna be a better mother than she ever was because there’s not a fucking thing she can teach me ABOUT HOW TO LOVE A CHILD!!!”

Her eyes were red from the tears pooling in her eyes and her face morphed from pure rage to brokenhearted with a snap of a finger. It was almost like she had de-aged right before my eyes and was back to being that three year old girl that I once held in my arms whenever she cried about her parents.

“Why didn’t they want me?” At this point I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I immediately wrapped my arms around her and held her as close and as tightly as I could as I felt her wet my shoulder with her tears. Her sobs pierced the room as I felt her go limp against me. The two of us slowly collapsed to our knees but not once did I let my grip on her go loose. I kept hold of her as I rubbed her back and whispered words of love and comfort in her ear.

*3rd Person POV*

Unaware that in behind the door that led to the dining room, Freddie, Roger and Brian stayed and overheard the entire conversation. And overhearing their favorite girl break down like this, broke all their hearts. Freddie wiped away his tears that were flooding down his face, almost ready to break down the door and just hug his little camera girl.

Brian who standing behind Freddie had a hand on his shoulder but he too had tears streaming down his face. While Roger who was had pulled up one of the dining room chairs just a couple inches away from Fred, his back turned towards the door.

He was a mix between pure anger and heartbreak. He wa tempted to knock over the china cabinet but also just break down into tears at hearing his partner in crime cry this much. Never had he heard her make those sounds before and it just hurt him to the core.

Back with John and (y/n), she had finally managed to cry herself to sleep. Deacy slowly picked her up bridal style when the guys decided to come into the living room and the second John saw their red, teary eyes, he knew that they had stayed and overheard everything.

“You heard it all I assume?” John asked more as a statement than a question.

“We didn’t mean to impose John.” Said Brian.

“It’s fine, beats having to tell you guys and having her relive that pain and exhausting myself to repeat the same story.” He said as he looked down at his little cousin. Roger came up towards Deacy and stroked (y/n)’s head.

“The poor dear” Freddie said solemnly.

“Guess you were right about her Deacy.” Brian said.

“There will be plenty of time for ‘I told you so’s’ later, right now I should get (y/n) back into her room so she can get the proper rest she needs.” Deacy then took his cousin upstairs and placed her back in her bed.

He tucked her in and brushed away the hair from her face and lightly kissed her forehead before leaving her room to head back downstairs.

As time went on and it was around late afternoon the guys were still hanging around John’s place, agreeing to stay until (y/n) woke up so that the five of them could have a talk. Veronica who was currently walking up the stairs to check up (y/n) muttered to herself.

“Oh I hope she’s okay.” She got to the door and lightly knocked on it and said, “(Y/n), (y/n) love it’s Veronica, may I come in?” She heard nothing. She knocked again and said, “(Y/n)?” when she didn’t get a response, she opened the door to see a shocking sight.

The bedsheets had been turned over and the bedroom window was open, the curtains blowing with the wind.

“Oh no, John!” she cried out as she raced back down the stairs. The boys heard footsteps running down the stairs and when they saw Veronica, the first thing they saw was her frantic state. John immediately went up to his wife holding her arms and said.

“Love calm down, what’s going on?”

“(Y/n)’s is missing.”

“What? What do you mean missing?!” demanded Roger.

“I went to check on her but when I opened the door she wasn’t in her room. The window was open and—” without getting another word, the four bandmates raced up the stairs to see that Veronica was telling the truth. She came up behind them as Deacy and Brian raced towards the window and looked down.

“She must’ve scaled down using the pipes along the house.” Suggested Brian.

“My darlings, her bag is gone.” Freddie stated as he stood by the closet and sure enough the bags that she had used for the upcoming road trip were gone.

“She could be anywhere by now.” Brian said but then I snapped.

“She could be out of the country for all we know because we don’t know how long she’s been gone for!”

“Deacy calm down.” Roger said.

“I swear if anything happens to that girl, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Don’t worry darling we’ll find her.” Fred assured me as he placed a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll turn London upside down if we have too to find her.”

We then split up into teams. I called my mum first to take care of Robert and watch over him then once she took care of him Veronica and I checked in the square, Fred took the studio, and Brian and Roger took the park.

It was an endless search trying to find her, and I pray to God we find her alive. It would be dark soon and all the freaks and psychopaths love to come out at night.

*3rd Person POV*

It was hours into the search and sunset would soon be near and still no one had found any signs of (y/n). After search the studio, Fred decided to help Brian and Roger in the park while Deacy and Veronica tried the mall, hoping that maybe (y/n) had gone inside since it was getting dark soon.

Fred and Brian teamed up together to search one side of the park while Roger was near by the lake searching on his own. It was then he took notice of something underneath the bridge nearby. He quickly ran towards the bridge and low and behold he had found (y/n).

She was huddled under the bridge, her knees tucked in close to her body sniffling softly. Roger took notice of the tearstains on her face and he felt his heart break once more. He cautiously approached her and knelt down beside her and softly said her name.

*My POV*

I sniffled and felt more tears run down my face. I thought that I had finally found a place to cry in peace without risking anyone coming near me and asking questions when I heard the familiar soft, spoken voice of Roger Taylor say my name. I jumped up but then groaned and turned my back on him.

“Oh god…..”

“You know you really gotta pick your hiding spots. I mean seriously you have no idea how many people could see you—”

“Why are you here Roger?!” I snapped.

“We’ve been scouring the entire town looking for you (n/n). You gave us all quite a scare.” He said. I didn’t respond to him, just scooted as far away from him as I could and put my bag between us giving me that extra space I needed. “You wanna talk?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. My dad never wanted me, my mum never wanted me, nobody ever wants me.”

“That’s not true—”

“Open your eyes Roger!” I snapped at him as I felt a new wave of tears hit me. “All my life I’ve had to hear all my friends telling me what great parents they have. You know my dad fought in Vietnam, my mom’s a real estate’s agent. My parents help support me. Well—both my parents never wanted me! Yeah I had Deacy and aunt Lillian but they are just my cousin and aunt. It’s not the same! My whole life I had to be loved by someone whose not my parent and I hate it! I hate it soo much!” I lowered my head choking on my sobs.

It was then I felt Roger’s arms wrap around me and I felt him place my head over his heart, each beat of his heart trying to soothe my tormented mind. He stroked down my hair and he said.

“Do you remember back on Ridge farm when Brian took us all out to that one area of woods to see the stars? Paul forced himself into the getaway, so to mess with him you filled his bag with rocks and used that lizard you came across to put on his bottle as well as on his head.”

“And then it crawled into his mouth.” I finished.

“Yeah pure stroke of genius.” He chuckled. “(N/n), you may think you’re unloved, but that is absolute bollocks. You are loved. By Deacy, Brian, Fred, me, Veronica, hell even Miami. We all love you, and if anything had happened to you, we wouldn’t know what to do.” He wiped the tearstains away from my cheek with his thumb before lifting my chin up to face him, forcing me to stare into his baby blue eyes. “The only one who doesn’t deserve to be loved and wanted is your mother. Anyone who could play you like that, has no right to be called a parent. You are way out of her league.”

“Then why would she come back pretending to care?” Roger just looked at me sadly and he said.

“I wish I had the right answer. But I can tell you this; you’re sweet, you’re kind, smart, beautiful. You’ve got more sass in one finger than Deacy will ever have in his entire body. And it’s like you said one day in the way off deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep, deep.” I laughed softly as he kept repeating the word deep at least four more times before continuing, “distant future, you’ll become a mother yourself and I know that you’ll be twice the mother than your own was.” He tucked some of my hair behind my ears, revealing them before gently cupping my chin between his thumb and index fingers.

“How is it that a dentist ends up being wiser than both the astrophysicist and electrical engineer?”

“I was never a dentist and you know it.” He said as he playfully squeezed the tip of my nose shaking my head which made me laugh again as I pushed his hand away making him laugh softly. He then leaned forward and placed his forehead against mine.

This was a special little thing that Roger loved to do with me. It was our own secret little comforting mechanism. I was actually the first one to do it to him when he once had a breakdown after a show. He just seemed so peeved about something that the lads almost feared that he’d throw out another telly set. So I took the risk and took his hands in mine and just placed my forehead against his and just held that position till he calmed down.

From then on, whenever one of us was mad or upset, the forehead touch helped bring the other back to Earth. He then wrapped his arms around me giving me his famous bear hugs. His hand stroked down my hair as his head now moved next to mine while my head rested against his shoulder and the two of us sat there for a while in silence.

“C’mon kid, let’s get you home.”

“I don’t think I can.” I muttered sadly.

“Why’s that?”

“Deacy.” I simply answered. Roger separated from me and he said.

“He’s not mad (y/n)…..”

“You don’t get it, you may have seen John Deacon the man who can crumble you down with just two sentences, but you’ve yet to see what happens when he redirects that anger and mixes it with overprotective behavior.”

“Love, he’s been worried sick about you. He needs to know that his little sis is safe. I know I would.” I sighed heavily and said.

“But what if he does get mad?”

“I’ll talk to him. If anyone knows a thing about overreacting it’s me.” I smiled softly and that’s when Rog stood up and held his hand out for me to take.

“You promise to have my back?”

“Partners in crime till the very end. Just like those two cats in that poem you like so much.” I smiled up at him and took his hand and he helped me up as he took my bag over his shoulder and had his free arm wrapped around my shoulder as he guided me back to his car and he drove me back to Deacy and Veronica’s.

*3rd Person POV*

The sun had set about 5 minutes ago and with almost everyone back at John’s place, no one had found her. John who was running his hands through his hair frantic with worry as his wife tried to calm him down.

“Maybe we should call the police.” Suggested Brian.

“No need Brian.” Roger’s voice soon spoke up as he opened the door. Everyone turned to see that the drummer had finally came back.

“And just where were you all this time Roger dear?”

“Bringing back a lost lamb.” He then gestured with his arm and soon walking in cautiously was (y/n). Immediately everyone began crowding around her asking her questions about where she was and why she ran away like that.

Sensing his partner in crime’s nervousness and anxiety he told everyone.

“Guys, guys back it up. Don’t crowd her all at once.” John who merely stood there by the couch in shock to see his cousin alive and well. Roger looked to Deacy and pressed his hand to (y/n)’s back. She looked up at him and he nodded to her and she cautiously walked towards her cousin, like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs.

“Where did you find her?” asked Freddie.

“At the park underneath the Churchill bridge. Poor girl was crying her eyes out.” Roger whispered. Veronica ten decided to allow her husband and (y/n) to have some alone time so she guided the boys into the kitchen for a proper meal after their long search while she called Lilian to tell her that they found (y/n) and that she would pick Robert up in the morning.

(Y/n) stood in front of her cousin. John looked down at her before finally raising his hands to cup both sides of her face to lift her face up so that he could get a good look at her.

“You’re not hurt are you?” he asked. With a shake of her head, Deacy sighed with relief and immediately embraced her before openly weeping into her shoulder. She hugged her cousin back whimpering.

“I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry Deacy, I’m sorry.”

“Shhhh, you’re home now. Safe and unharmed and that’s all I care about now. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay dove.” The two cousins kept hold of each other trying to draw strength from each other knowing that they were going to get by and be okay.

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eveningmccartney · 6 years ago

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~help! movie highlights

this is like my favorite movie so uH the entire thing is going to be here soooo spoilers :)

- that cut from ahme going 'where is the ring?!??' to the ring on ringo's finger. poetic cinema

- help! is just a bop and i love it okay even if it makes me emo cause it's john crying out for help and :((((

- paul boppin with his moptop :,)

- eleanor bron (ahme) is gorgeous o k a y

- 'has anybody looked in the wash basin?' me trying to be helpful

- the h o u s e

- the hecking h o u s e !!!!!!!

- i love their rooms okay

- why does george have a man who mows his lawn carpet with dentures?? we will never know

- the way john steps down onto his bed is somehow really cute to me- also i want john's bed

- paul rising dramatically from the depths of hell while playing the organ

- ringo's scream when ahme bites his finger,,, is he okay fshfhsh

- paul's fucking eye roll at ringo after rings finally gets his hand free

- 'i thought she was a sandwich till she went spare on my hand' we've all been there

- props to the costume designer for this film honestly all of ahme's costumes are gorgeous

- george looks so soft when he's sleeping aww

- honestly the 'sleeps with his feet on the pillow' gag is so cheesy but it works so well here and i love it 'cause of course ringo sleeps the wrong way

- 'what are you doing on the floor?' 'i'm tired'

- john's excessive phone dialling

- george dancing in his bed :)

- 'hey bea-atle'

- paul looks really good in this scene ngl

- 'that's not the beatle with the ring!!' 'aren't i?' 'no, unfortunately *giggles*'

- paul's look after that exchange is an entire mood

- 'what first attracted you to me?' 'well you're very polite aren't you?'

- some quality lennstarr content skjfjdjf

- 'what're you doing?' 'posting a letter’

- the entire bathroom scene

- 'everyone laughs at ringo's sudden apprehension' george and john: ho ho hO HO HO HO

- b o n g o

- 'boys, are you buzzing?' 'no thanks, i've got the car’

- 'it was you buzzing, you naughty boy-'

- 'will you explain everything when the opportunity presents itself????' 'f l e e'

- it's a s i t a r

- i love the subtle hints of a hard days night in the soundtrack throughout this movie

- 'please say no more' 'i can say no more' 'say no more' 'i can say no more-'

- 'why is he not painted red?' 'i've never had the courage to ask him that, but seeing as he's my best friend, i will'

- john: *scoops some soup* what's this? glasses?

- slaughtered jolly with a knife!!!!!!!

- 'what's this?' 'a season ticket, what do ya think it is??' 'oh, i like a lot of seasoning in me soup :)'

- 'there's somebody been in this soup?!?'

- paul saving ringo :,)

- george stealing shit in the background at the jewelry store

- 'the wheel' 'nOt tHe wHeEL’

- 'you can see a lot of the world from the railings :)'

- john gets uncomfortably close to a lot of people in this film skskks

- paul waving at ringo when his pants drop

- john's weird ass fighting moves

- ahme's pink outfit!!!!! and matching pink gun!!! we stan!!!!

- paul stop flirting ringo is going to d i e

- oh it's time for my favorite song hHhheY YOU'VE GOT TO HIDE YOUR LOVE AWAY---

- ringo's salty tambourine playing

- john is so pretty :,)

- so is paul

- and ahme

- this movie is bisexual culture

- paul just bouncing as he plays i'm soft

- george whistling hhhH he's also v pretty

- they all are woAh

- george just full on passing out at the sight of the needle

- the super tiny gong ksksks we love a good ol' sight gag

- ahme staring into my soul d a m n

- we love all the fourth wall breaking in this movie

- the exciting adventure of paul on the floor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! my favorite scene!!!!!!!!

- john beating the shit out of a guy with a phone

- 'it's me you fool' 'sorry!' 'wELL STOP IT'

- ringo

- just ringo man

- when he gets splashed with red paint and just starts sobbing,,, me too

- them thinking ringo accidentally killed paul skskskks

- 'ugh i'm all sticky,,, you're all red???'

- john threatening everyone with lamps

- the entirety of the ticket to ride sequence owns my ass

- everyone, while sledding down a hill: hO HO HO HOH HO HOHO HO HO—

- a fiENDISH THINGY!!!!!

- george taking a big ol' chomp out of the symbol

- i wonder if john blows that trumpet like he blows—

- 'only me and paul know we're here?' 'i know we're here??????'

- why are all the songs in this movie absolute bops

- paul and john hardcore gazing at each other during i need you

- paul smiling while singing :,)

- them calling john johnny :,)

- 'come on baby, get up, come on johnny'

- paul just carefully taking the hay off himself skksks

- 'hey cop this- one hand' sick tricks with paul

- john, holding a giant knife: it's just like getting a tooth out :)

- 'it is a relatemmam cademsnem'

- 'b a d m a c h i n e'

- john's red dress shirt is a l o o k

- was paul actually just going to fucking bite ringo's finger off skskks great plan y'all

- 'how do you know i wouldn't miss it?' 'well you're a rat underneath aren't ya' i chOKED

- ringo darling i love you but that haircut

- 'all you have to do is sing beethoven's ode to joy from his ninth symphony in d minor' 'why didn't you think of that you tWIT'

- the beach outfits hH

- paul's ass–

- beepbeepbeepbEEPBEEPBEEP

- paul just whistling for his bike only for it to fall over

- the hard days night background music ugH i love it

- the orange blanket of d o o m

- george just latches onto the back of the car,, okay sticky boy

- john is so fucking cute what the hECK

- the other beatles willingly letting themselves get hurt if it means ringo stayed safe :,)

- riNGO— riNgO— ringOoOOoO *coughs*

- ringo risking his life for the other boys :,)

- 'hey you're all red again' 'yeah i'm beginning to like it'

- john: *shoves a knife in his mouth and starts dancing with the constable*

well that's that!! hope y'all enjoyed :) (this got really long sorry i just really like this movie skskks)

bonus: - 'i nEED YOU BY GEORGE HARRISON—'

#john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #richard starkey #the beatles #help!#help! the beatles #help! movie

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brian-may-likes-dust · 6 years ago

Note

hey. i just started listening to the beatles so can you please recommend some songs by them? thank you!

Aww yes, I’m more than happy to do so!

Some songs I can recommend and why (in no specific order) (these are honestly just some of my favourite songs and I got carried away with this ask sorry):

Lady Madonna (written by Paul McCartney, sung also by Paul)

Lady Madonna

Lying on the bed

Listen to the music playing in your head

It’s a cheerful song! It has great instrumental parts - the piano, bass, saxophones and guitars sound wonderful together! Whenever I hear this song I just get happy and bop my head to the beat! It was done in five takes and was released as a single in March 1968.

Octopus’s Garden (written by Ringo Starr, also sung by him)

We would be warm below the storm

In our little hideaway beneath the waves

By far my favorite song right now! It’s a happy and easy going song, to which you can relax to and let your mind wander! It’s Ringo’s second composition for the band (he only had two unfortunately) and he thought of it when he was on holiday. It was/is seen as a song for children but it has more to do with hiding away. It appeared on the Abbey Road album in 1969.

I’m A Loser (written by John Lennon, lead vocals also by John)

Although I laugh and I act like a clown

Beneath this mask I am wearing a frown

It sounds like a happy song, with a hard drum beat and dominant mouth organ & guitar solos, but it’s a song about romantic rejection. Why I like this song so much? I don’t know, when I started to listen to it (10 years ago) I didn’t understand the lyrics but liked John’s voice and Paul’s & George’s backing vocals! It’s from the 1965 album Beatles For Sale.

Run For Your Life (Lennon/McCartney, but mainly written and also sung by John)

Well, you know that I'm a wicked guy

And I was born with a jealous mind

This song is a rather hard one given the lyrics. It’s about a man who’s (veeeeery) dominant and jealous over his girlfriend and rather sees her „dead than with another man“. I don’t like this song for its lyrics but for it’s catchy melody. John said it’s the song he most regretted writing. It was released in 1965 on the album Rubber Soul.

Eleanor Rigby (Lennon/McCartney, but written mainly and sung by Paul)

Lives in a dream

Waits at the window

Wearing a face that she keeps in a jar by the door

Who is it for

It’s a beautiful melancholic song with a string arrangement. It has some kind of film music flair for me. It’s about lonely people and damn can I relate. By the way, although Eleanor Rigby is supposed to be fictional there is an Eleanor Rigby buried in a graveyard in Liverpool! Also interesting is that none of the Beatles play any instruments on this track. Paul, John and George only sing. You can find it on Revolver from 1966.

Come Together (Lennon/McCartney, but mainly written by John and also sung by him)

One thing I can tell you is

You got to be free

It has by far one of my most favourite bass lines! (And it’s actually the first song I learned playing from beginning to end on the bass). There’s a great musical interlude and I love John’s voice in the song. The song just seems cool and was written for Timothy Leary's campaign for governor of California. It was released as a single and on the album Abbey Road in 1969.

Get Back (Lennon/McCartney, but written by Paul and sung also by him)

Sweet Loretta Martin thought she was a woman

But she was another man

I have such a connection to that song because it was the first song I ever performed live (It was planned that I play the rythem guitar and sing, but I was too nervous so I only sang). It has such a nice beat and Paul’s voice is lovely, as is George’s lead guitar! It was released as a single in 1969 and was the closing track of their last album Let It Be in 1970.

Baby’s in Black (written by Lennon/McCartney and sung by both on lead)

Oh dear, what can I do?

Baby's in black and I'm feeling blue

Tell me, oh what can I do?

They were often asked who sings the main melody (Paul’s high voice or John’s lower voice), Paul’s simple answer to that is that they’re both singing the main melody. It’s a wonderful, bit sad, song to bob your head to and I just adore their voices together. It appeared on Beatles For Sale in 1964.

If I Fell (Lennon/McCartney, with John & Paul as lead voices)

If I trust in you

Oh, please

Don't run and hide

If I love you too

John said that this was his first attempt to write a ballad. Paul and John shared a microphone to record it so they would create a “closer“ atmosphere. In the movie A Hard Day’s Night (which I can only recommend) John starts to sing the song to Ringo and it’s such a cute scene. The song itself is pretty dreamy, I think! It appeared on A Hard Day’s Night in 1964.

Act Naturally (this song was covered by The Beatles and written by Johnny Russell, Ringo sung it)

We'll make a film about a man that's sad and lonely

And all i gotta do is act naturally.

Has there ever been a more relatable lyric? Nope, at least not for me haha. I adore Ringo’s vocals, the song will be stuck in your head and it has this comical twist and I just love it live! Ringo introduced it with the words:”Now we want to do something we don’t often do. We give someone the chance to sing who doesn’t often sing. And here he is, all out of key and nervous, singing Act Naturally, Ringo!“

Because this post gets to long if I write something about all the songs I can recommend (part 2? who knows), I’m just going to list some classics & honorable mentions:Hey Jude, Let It Be, I Saw Her Standing There, Roll Over Beethoven, You’re Going To Lose That Girl, Help!, I’m Happy Just To Dance With You, I Wanna Be Your Man, Money (That’s What I Want), Boys, Michelle, With A Little Help From My Friends, Penny Lane, I’m Down, Blackbird, Yesterday

My favourite albums are: Help! & A Hard Day’s Night, so I can recommend them too!

I linked videos to the songs! It was fun and I hope that this wasn’t over the top!

#This took so long haha #personal #asks #the beatles #paul mccartney #john lennon #ringo starr #george harrison

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somesmallfics · 7 years ago

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Like Mother

Rating: Teen?

Fandom: The Beatles, Nowhere Boy

Finished: Not really

Summary: A ‘John meets Niki’ fic. One of many. John notices a girl that reminds him of his mum. Thinking he’ll never see her again, he’s beyond surprised to see her wandering into Paul’s birthday party (yes another Paul’s birthday fic too...)

John is obviously not in the mood for band practice today. He can’t even be bothered to play a chord right. He just sits there, fingering random strings in random frets, picking at notes, making a horribly disordered sound. I’m not sure if he’s doing it deliberately or not, but every time I play something, he clashes with it, tossing his strumming hand down as though he were backhand slapping someone. I see his glasses in hanging in the top pocket of his black shirt. Just more proof that he doesn’t want to do anything. If he did, he might’ve put his glasses on so to see what he was playing. He’s blind without them.

Eventually, it’s just boring, trying and trying to get him to do some kind of work. I place the top of my guitar on the floor, the neck leaning up the back of the chair I’m sitting in. John looks all surprised, as though he wonders why I don’t want to do any work when he’s been doing so much. I roll my eyes.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

His brow furrows, “Write.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been fucking about since you got here.” I counter, kicking up onto my feet. I’ve just realised how much I need to pee.

John’s eyes follow me. He’s not pretending to be all hardworking anymore, “I wanted to write a song, not have a guitar lesson.”

I sigh, “Alright, well I’m going to pee. There’s some paper over there.” I point at the table behind where he sits. He puts his guitar down in a similar position to mine and goes to get the pad of paper and a pen.

I leave the room, strutting down the corridor. The toilet is two doors down from my bedroom where John and I had locked ourselves away for a writing session. They never seem to go well if we plan it. I guess it’s more of an ‘on a whim’ thing. John is never focused enough and I lose my patience with him too quickly.

When I get back from the loo, John isn’t back in his seat. The paper is strewn on his chair, the pen laying on the floor. My eyes scan the rest of the room. Nothing else is out of place.

Nothing except John staring out the window. It’s opposite his seat, opposite where I’m standing in the door way. He’s so still, I didn’t see him when I first walked in. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

“John?” My voice feels too loud, as though I’m disturbing something. John doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even move. I walk towards him, peering out the window, but I can’t see anything. The street is void of people, cars line the sides of the roads, the trees growing up from under the pavement rustle as a wintery breeze passes them by. Far away in the distance, there is a small dot, moving slowly away from us, a person perhaps nearing the end of the street. They’re gone by the time I stand beside John, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Is something the matter?” I ask.

“No…” He lies. I give him a concerned look that he doesn’t see. He’s fixated. I nudge him, asking him again what’s wrong.

His dark eyes shoot a look down at me. He’s gone deathly pale. “Just seen a ghost?” I try to joke, but it could be possible, given his sudden, horrified expression.

“I thought… there was someone who… my mum...”

John’s mum had died a month or two ago. It was awful to see him go through losing her, when he’d only just got really close to her again. The nights he spent crying, the days he refused to talk, the hours consumed by drink, by smoking, by writing songs. He was tortured by her forced absence. I’d been there through everything, knowing some of what he’d felt. My mum died too, before his I was there through every emotion he felt. I would hold him if he needed it, I would let him punch me if that would make him feel better.

“Really?” I whisper.

“It was just a girl, or something, but the hair… and the smile. The clothes. Everything. Paul, it was like she was walking down the street coming to see me.”

Band practice was over.

Paul’s having a party for his 16th. George and I turn up at around the same time. We’re the first people there. I’ve bought Paul a new pick for his guitar- his very first- while George has an old leather jacket of his that Paul said he liked once. He wraps his arms around us as he accepts the gifts, fucking emotional git, he makes me feel all soft.

His dad hasn’t allowed him any alcohol, so I’ve brought my own, one bottle of beer for each of us. It’s not enough to get us drunk, but it’s enough to start the night with. The next few guests come through the front door.

Paul hasn’t got a ton of people that he wants at his parties. He has school friends, he has the band, that’s about it. I know most of the people because they all live close, but there are some unfamiliar faces around. I stick close to Paul or George or Pete, quite happy in their company rather than all these others.

But I peel off from them for a moment, because they are all already full of food, yet I’m still hungry and fuck does Jim- Paul’s dad- put on a great spread for us. I pick up what must be my forth paper plate and pile it high with breadsticks and sandwiches. If only I had a beer to go with it.

As I’m standing there, leaning on one leg for comfort (I’m going to be at that table for some time) I see two, feminine, pale hands work their way across the table to the platter with sausage rolls built in rows on it. My gaze follows the slender wrists, the long, bear arms, up to a pair of shoulders that are covered by the short sleeves of a polka dot dress. The silky fabric clings to a pleasing figure that stands next to me. Curling copper hair dances down and passes the chest, melding with the bright red of her dress. I think for a second that it’s my mother, but I’ve made that mistake before.

It’s the girl who I had seen walk down the street when Paul and I were writing songs. Up close, she does not resemble my mum so much, but I can’t get over how similar the first glance is.

“Sorry, am in your way?” She doesn’t sound like mum. She’s far too posh. I shake my head, unable to process thoughts in my mind. Her hair is brighter, her face is fairer, she has a gentler smile. However, that smile disappears at the lack of my response. She gives me a sideways look, then takes a few cheese breadsticks, placing one into her mouth. After that, she’s lost to the crowd.

I don’t feel like partying. I put my food down and lean on the door frame, just away from the load of guests, dancing to Elvis. Paul’s probably having a great time. When I left, he was playing air guitar to Buddy Holly. No doubt he’s off dancing with some bird, or gyrating his hips around the room in a poor imitation of Elvis himself. George is probably shyly waiting for people to talk to him, as he always is. I think that I should join them, but I don’t want to. The music thumping through the speakers makes my stomach churn. Suddenly, the nice, smart suit I’ve been wearing feels way too hot.

I manage to wander back into the mess of sober students and find a seat next to a wall. I fold up my blazer to hook it on the back of the chair, while unbuttoning my shirt down to mid-chest. As long as it’s not flapping open, giving everyone a distasteful look at my lightly hairy torso, I’m sure no one will mind much.

I spot Paul at the record player, spinning over a single in his skilled hands to the B-side. He loves all those obscure songs. Everyone’s movement to the music changes. It’s like watching the waves on the sea start in a different direction. He sees me, sitting alone and dislikes it. Smiling, he walks over and occupies the chair by my side.

“I knew people would like this one if they ever listened to it.” He says, talking about this B-side. Everyone slowly warms to it, smiles brightening their previously confused expressions.

I shrug, “It’s a party, people will dance to whatever.”

That girl walks by us. For some reason, I thought I wouldn’t see her again tonight. Her long hair bounces, following her as she walks. It glows golden in the low orange light of the room. She looks over here and winks, I think to me until I look at Paul who is grinning shyly at the floor.

“Who’s that?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though her presence bothers me.

His cheeks flush, “Niki, from school. She likes… musicians.”

“Does she like you?”

“She hangs around with me and George. I don’t know if she likes me.” He continues to look at the ground, before getting an idea in his head. With enthusiasm, he asks, “Do you want to meet her? She’ll really like you. She loves Teds.”

“We’ve already…” I grit my teeth, “…had a pretty awkward encounter. I made a fool of myself.”

“Then make something else of yourself. Come.” The small, kind frame of my friend rises, holding out a hand as though he expects me to take it. Is he crazy? I am not a child who needs patronising encouragement. I give him a high eyebrow look.

“Alright,” He swings his hand down and acts more naturally, “Just come. You’ll like her.”

I won’t. I know it now. There is something that reminds me too much of my mum, but there’s too much different for it to feel uncomfortable. Still, looking at the longing in Paul’ wide eyes, I can’t say no. I drag myself up and follow him.

Niki looks all too happy to see my bandmate. She swings her arm around his shoulders, planting a kiss on his cheek. He blushes brighter.

“Aww, how about a kiss on the lips, McCartney. You’re old enough to.” She laughs.

Paul smirks, “I actually wanted to introduce my friend to you. This is John. He plays guitar too, and writes songs.” Then he whispers something in her ear that makes her smile even wider while looking at me. She holds out one of her hands for me to shake. On her wrist a bracelet swings, glistening like someone had woven stars into it. I close my hand around hers.

“So, you write songs, but you can’t be bothered to speak to people, eh?” She mocks, raising one of her eyebrows. She’s very posh.

“Sorry about that. I was a bit caught off guard.” I mutter.

“Yeah, I am a bit distracting, or so I’m told. Anyway, forgive and forget. I’m Niki.” Her confidence is unwavering, her hand shake is firm. I fall into habits of flirting, though a pain sears through my chest every so often. Niki and I sit down together and Paul leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, she loses her cool a little.

“I’m not used to socialising.” She whispers, leaning in towards me. She’s fiddling with her fingers.

“Then why are you so good at talking to people?”

“I’m not. I like talking to Paul,” She smiles over at him. I feel a pang of jealousy when he smiles back, “He’s very kind to me.”

He’s kind to me too. You’re not fucking special. “So, you like musicians?” I change the subject off of Paul.

“Yes.” She grins back at me, licking her bottom lip, “Very much. The first time I saw a clip of Elvis, I almost came.”

I was not expecting something like that to come out of her mouth. She has quite a youthful face. She can’t be much older than Paul. I bank in my mind the question of her age for later, when it becomes relevant again or if I need something else to talk about. This conversation has taken too interesting a turn for me to change it already.

“Yeah? So, if you saw us on stage, do you think we’d have a similar effect?” My voice takes a flirtatious tone.

“Depends how good you are. But I really hope that’s an invitation to a gig.”

Ok, she’s not so bad. I’ve changed my mind in an instant. All of a sudden, I want to play to her. I scan the room for Paul’s guitar. He was playing it a second ago. Or George’s, because his I can actually play- it’s the right way around. Fuck Paulie for being a lefty. I’m pretty sure George brought his.

“What about if I did a private gig here for you?”

Her face lights up, “You’d do that?”

I nod, “If you give me a second to find a guitar.”

She practically squeals. I ignore the tightness in my chest that will not leave me well enough alone. I rub where it hurts a little. This girl has such a strange effect on me. I want to cry and to fuck her. Is that weird?

I seek out George who is back at the food table. Thank god, we’re pretty much alone.

“Where’s your guitar?” I frantically push him to face me. He has a mouth of breadstick that he has to work through before talking. I wait impatiently.

“By the door. You need it?” He says, swallowing the last bit of food as he picks up another.

“I got a date with a chick who likes music.” I go to leave, but George brings me back.

“Niki?”

“How did you know?”

“Because I go to school with her. Paul introduced you?”

It’s eerie how much he knows. I nod slowly.

“Yeah, he was right to. She’s going to love you.”

I walk away feeling uncomfortable. Do people know, does Paul and George know how much she reminds me of my mum? Do they see it too? Do they have any idea how wrong it feels to be chatting her up? And if so, they think that she is still good for me?

There is something appealing about her. She has a combination of shy confidence and in-your-face flirtation. I keep telling myself to ignore the faint similarities between her and my mum and look for all the things that make her beautiful, alluring, sexy.

She waits for me in the corner of the room, still sitting on her chair. Her legs are spread open enough for it not to be decent anymore. She deliberately meets my gaze and pouts, telling me to hurry up with her gaze. Her wide-open legs are no accident. She wants me to wonder what’s beneath her dress, beneath the ruffles that puff out the skirt. I turn the corner of my mouth up, making her wait as I disappear into the hallway that holds the front door. There, leaning against the wall, right beside the doorway, is George’s guitar. I grab the neck and walk back into the party. Without having to go far, I catch Niki’s eye and beckon her out. I don’t bother asking Paul if I can use his bedroom, I just take her up there, promising Paul telepathically that I will not fuck her, not now.

“Can you play something you’ve written?” She pleads, sitting on the edge of Paul’s bed while I take a seat on the desk chair Paul keeps in here for our writing sessions.

“What about something Paul wrote?” I have lost all memory for my own work. Niki nods enthusiastically. I play the first bit of ‘In Spite of all the Danger.’ Niki’s gaze intensifies, watching my fingers closely as her own clamps around the mattress beneath her. I begin to sing.

In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you’ll be true to me.

She stops me, “Do you ever think of anyone when your singing?” Her head cocks to one side, her hair swings down, lightly hitting her face. The ringlets at the end frame her jawline perfectly. She looks beautiful.

“Right now, I’m thinking about you.”

Her breathing audibly hitches. She crosses her legs. I wonder if I’ve Elvis-ed the fuck out of her. She is blushing like Paul did when she kissed him, eyes darting up at me, then down at the floor, then over my legs and over the guitar. I think she’s smitten.

“Will you sing some more?” She implores me.

I sing slower, pronouncing every word, prolonging every note.

In spite of all the heartache, that you may cause me, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you’ll be true to me.

She doesn’t stop me, so I continue, smiling, tapping my foot on the floor. The pain has risen in my chest, making my voice louder. I think that the ache is want, or at least, it has become that.

I’ll look after you, like I’ve never done before, I'll keep all the others, From knocking at your door...

#fic #fanfic #fan fiction #the beatles #john lennon #paul mccartney #george harrison #ringo starr #nowhere boy

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hollywoodx4 · 8 years ago

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Sticking With the Schuylers (36)

There’s a lot going on in this chapter. It’s a long one, and I make every apology for it. But this series is my baby, and it’s such a wonderful thing to be able to write and to talk about with you all. So thank you. So much. For continuing to support this.

Tagging: @ellzabethschuyler, @butlinislin

Warnings: This story is pretty heavy on mentions of both physical and emotional abuse.

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 1112 I 13 14 15 16 17 18A 18B 18C I 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 I 30 31 32 33 34 35

Snow falls in a light dusting over the roads as they make their way toward the Schuyler mansion. It isn’t a long drive, but the weather causes a stop-and-start of cars that makes Paul curse and swerve out of the way of oncoming traffic that had been going just a little too fast. Too cocky, he notes as he pulls cautiously back into his lane. Drivers in the city are always too confident in their abilities. Eliza has pushed herself closer to him-the car jerking must’ve caused this. But she’s unbuckled her seatbelt and shifted over, to the middle seat, closing the space between them. He feels the presence of her hand resting gently on his thigh, thumb drawing abstract patterns as she chats with a cheerful lilt in her voice. The mindless action isn’t such; when he mirrors her-reaches over and rests his own hand on her thigh, the pressure of her body pressing even closer to his is a sign. She glances over at Alexander, a brief moment in time, and smirks. Not once does she stop her conversation.

They stop to pick up Angelica and John, who struggle through a particularly slippery patch of sidewalk to find their way to the car. Alexander pulls his hand from her immediately, slipping both of them in his lap, fidgeting with his thumbs. He wonders if Angelica can sense what has happened-what is currently going on. If she does she doesn’t make note of it. Her conversation flows from the weather to the end of term to a singer they had seen three nights ago at a bar. Her words come as fast as Alexander’s. They’ve never seemed to stumble as much. She draws the conversation out with sharp syllables stuck between her mind and her tongue, slipping occasionally. It’s just enough for Alexander to lean back, past Eliza’s head, and lift his eyebrows at her in secret.

“I’ll tell you when we get there.” Her answer comes through a hastily sent text, with abbreviations she’d typed in her purse while John and Eliza were laughing. Alexander is consumed with the anxiety he’s sure she’s sending him from the other side of the car. His heart thrums in irregular beats. There’s a break in conversation. Eliza’s hand moves stealthily up his thigh somewhere between the words cauliflower and champagne and the two separate moods tug at his heart, pulling and squeezing and drumming as his face turns hot. The only thing he’s sure of at the moment is a dire need to get out of the car. Paul is stopped at another red light. Alexander hides his groan behind an exaggerated cough. Three heads turn toward him and he looks out the window at the same moment that Eliza guiltily removes her hand from his leg. The sound of Angelica’s voice-clear, decisive, slightly judgmental, stings them the rest of the way to the mansion.

The red-brick façade can be seen from the end of the street of houses it is settled on, and as soon as Paul pulls up to the gate it is clear as to why. The strong shape of the house is outlined in dainty white lights, casting a brilliant glow on the front lawn. Somebody has come and built a snowman-several snowmen-that line the walkway in a picturesque army of greeters. They’re all adorned with matching scarves and hats, each with a sting-sewn S in the center. There are a few guests lingering on the front porch, nursing hot drinks in front of a brilliant copper firepit. The flames light their faces in an orange glow-accentuating wrinkles and upturned noses and eyes immediately cast their way. The girls wave in perfect time, left hands up and smiles painted delicate on their features. They call out names he recognizes immediately as a grouping of elected officials. She pulls him past them before they can strike up a conversation.

He’s drawn away from her immediately, instructed to follow Church as he weaves his way through the crowd to introduce him to somebody. The shift in Angelica’s expression tells him otherwise but he lets himself be led away, kissing Eliza’s cheek before departing. She watches him go with nerves that settle in her stomach, turned from a place of desire to a pit that sinks deep into guilt underneath her older sister’s perceptive stare. There’s a punitive rim around their edges, and although Angelica is not openly rude to her sister the edge of judgement sits uneasily with Eliza.

She grabs her hand, leading her through the thick, unmoving crowd and up the stairs to her bedroom. Each step is a sentence, a pathway to the memories of continual lectures brought about not by their parents but by Angelica. Firm, slightly reasonable, she’d worn this hard expression for the entirety of their childhood. She’s made to be an older sister. She thrives in the role.

Peggy is already sitting on the bed, feet dangling over its edge, when they enter the room. Upon seeing Eliza she bursts into a fit of laughter, cackling and wiping at tear-brimmed eyes with care not to mess up the mascara she’d perfectly winged.

“Are you serious right now?” Eliza tosses her peacoat on the bed, face flushed the same color as the Kate Spade dress she brushes down with anxious fingers. There’s a confusion; is there something wrong with it? She’d just bought it, so there wouldn’t be any holes or imperfections. Her hair feels smooth, curls fanned out and draped evenly down her shoulders and back. And then her sisters wouldn’t be making fun of her for such a trivial thing-they’d be helping her, guiding her to the closet or dragging out the sewing machine or brushing up her makeup. This-Peggy’s laughter, the bemused grin that smooths away Angelica’s judgement-is something entirely unfamiliar.

“Please tell me you guys didn’t walk by dad like that.” Eliza shakes her head, wordlessly, as Peggy guides her to the low stool in front of Angelica’s vanity. Then she’s taking out makeup-bottles and compacts and bags, lining the vanity with her choices. Eliza watches, wordless, as Peggy takes her in with wide, watered eyes.

“Red lipstick and concealer.” Peggy holds the two items up after considering her choices; a brilliant red with slight undertones of pink and a tube of tanned-porcelain , which she yields like weapons in front of her middle sister’s face. “You know, I thought you were smart enough to know this by now.”

Peggy begins her work, uncapping the lipstick and coating it evenly over the red mark that brushes Eliza’s collarbone. She’s immediately mortified, groaning while she watches her little sister yield her knowledge. Silence seems like the best option in this situation, as she wonders if this trick will even work, but Peggy has never been one to just let an embarrassing moment pass unnoticed.

“So how often have you gone out like this?”

“Is this even going to work? This seems kind of excessive.” Peggy brings a finger to Eliza’s lips, quieting her with a stern glare before bringing the concealer to the spot.

“Don’t underestimate me.” She brushes at the spot delicately, working with pursed lips, half-turned into a smile. “And don’t avoid the question. I see you and lover-boy are happy.”

“We are. But it’s been a few days and it’s not that bad and I kind of wish people would stop talking about it.”

“Your-uh-love bite has been a hot topic of conversation?”

“Never mind, Peg.” At her middle sister’s refusal she steps back, admiring her work. The mark is completely gone, hidden skillfully under layers of makeup Eliza wouldn’t have imagined to work. She touches the spot in the mirror, as if it’s going to come back through a simple brush of her fingers. Peggy smirks. “You’re kind of a genius.”

“I kind of saved your ass. Well, Hamilton’s ass, anyway. You think he could maybe keep it PG tonight? That’s my good shade of lipstick.”

Eliza flushes a furious red and nods her head, blinking between her two sisters as she collects her things. There is no sense in trying to lie so she doesn’t open her mouth to respond. From the look on Angelica’s face-lowered eyes and teasing smile-she knows that her point is moot.

One tradition more akin to the Von Trapps or the presidential family is the entrance of the Schuyler sisters. When the girls were little-when Angelica had to hold Peggy’s hand as she toddled down the stairs on her butt-the girls were met with the collective aww of the crowd. It took them twice as long, then, to get to the main entrance of the house, but their father stood proud at the landing each time, waiting. Phillip Schuyler would smile and reach out to them. Here are my girls. Only then could the festivities begin.

As they grew older the sisters found this task to be taxing. In their tween ages both Angelica and Eliza had spent a hefty duration of time lingering at the top, listening to the chatter of their family and their father’s friends as nerves bubbled within them. In these years the crowds grew larger. This is when their father had really begun to advance in his career-when they’d first been introduced to the spotlight. Peggy would traipse down the stairs, spinning and showing off her dress for the crowd as her older sisters walked slowly behind her, taking in the scene that had grown to hold more and more unfamiliar faces.

Peggy remains unabashed, now standing at the top of the stairs with a flashy grin. Her corduroy skirt and white collared shirt are an homage to her style, her personality. She wears a black fedora inside, hiding rows of braids that had been carefully crafted for the moment their father would insist that she remove it. Her black heeled boots are laced intricately, accentuating bare legs that make their way down the stairs a step ahead of her sisters. They linger on the step behind Peggy, framing her with bright smiles at the waiting crowd. Angelica’s look is a bit more matured. Her chiffon maxi dress is red-they’d agreed to match colors for this party-and flows with each step she takes. It is elegant and striking, as is the Schuyler who walks as if she has books on her head and a corset for her posture. Eliza searches the throng of people as she walks, finally catching Alexander’s eyes near the bottom of the steps. He’s staring back at her, mouth in the shape of a partially formed ‘o.’ She resists the urge to go to him right there, abandoning tradition for the hold of his hand and the comfort of his presence. She settles on a slight turn of lips-a grin that spans from Eliza to Alexander just long enough to keep discreet. At the bottom of the stairs, after a rather lengthy welcome speech by their father, they’re thrown into a mass of handshakes and sincere attempts at recognition.

Alexander finally pushes through the dissipating crowd with John Church in tow. He’s a bit more eager than his slightly older counterpart, bumping into distant cousins and rich politicians alike with no more than a hurried apology. John’s hand finds its way to Angelica’s shoulder, a kiss on the cheek their greeting as he reaches her. It’s not enough for Alexander. When Eliza turns to him he moves his lips to hers, feeling brief yet the contact is prolonged for the atmosphere they are in. And then his hand finds the small of her back, brushing the bare skin along her spine with a visible shiver as proof. Angelica shakes her head. Peggy laughs.

“You have at least four hours of socialization to get through. Please don’t embarrass us.” And then they’re alone, her sisters dragged off to some other conversation as they remain at the bottom of the stairs. Alexander surveys the scene, eyes wandering around the foyer of the house with immediate discomfort. There have to be hundreds of people here, he imagines. This entrance alone has been a revolving door from the moment they arrived, with people of all walks of life coming and going as if Christmas is suddenly the next big ‘to do.’ Some are family. He can tell by the way they embrace a bit longer, the overheard conversation less rehearsed. But most of them are colleagues, or big names within the town. They cradle champagne and snag appetizers from servers that roam around the room in black uniforms, unseen and unspoken to only until a refreshment is needed.

This is not true for the Schuyler sisters. They wander the room in a fan, one in each direction. Alexander keeps hold on Eliza’s back as she walks, tipping her head back to whisper in his ear every so often. His nerves wander from his hand through to he body-he attempts to mask them with a grin, a façade of confidence he hasn’t quite perfected. She shakes her head at this, her own hand around his back. They are pressed hip to hip now, keeping a slow pace with each other.

“Half of these people are only here hoping to get something from my father. There’s a few family members, but we don’t have a huge family like John does. And then there’s the photographers. My dad only lets in the good ones, with reputations meaning they won’t be trying to steal candids they’re not supposed to.”

“Has that happened before?”

“Oh yeah. Once, when I was…thirteen? Fourteen? a new hire for People tried sneaking up to our bedrooms. That was fun.”

She stops to chat with an older man, wrinkled features brought forth by the merriment of drinking and the smile that’s a little too lifted for Alexander’s liking. The much older man laughs with her, complimenting her appearance and the house and the party as she nods. He’s a doctor, or lawyer, or something of the type. He can’t decipher the conversation between the blatant wandering of eyes. He wonders if it’s making her as uncomfortable as he is. But Eliza doesn’t seem to take much visible notice. Instead she laughs with the man, at a joke that is barely funny, and takes the break in conversation to gesture toward a thin-lipped Alexander.

“Dr. Martin this is Alexander, my boyfriend.” Alex does not take his hand from Eliza’s hip, rather reaches out politely with his other hand for a strong gripped handshake.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir.” His words flow with a new confidence, and he gets through the conversation rather easily. There he answers questions about schooling, and then future plans, with ease. The doctor’s eyes flicker easily and unabashedly back to Eliza with each new word of conversation. The man is old, and smells of latex gloves and medication, but Alexander’s thumb runs along the line of Eliza’s hipbone. It’s subtle, but just enough for the man to control his wandering eyes. Eliza closes the conversation with a tip of her head and a heartfelt thank you before leading Alexander away, narrowing her eyes at him once out of earshot.

“What was that?”

“You can’t tell me that guy wasn’t being creepy with you.”

“He re-set Peggy’s arm after she broke it falling off the banister when she was eight. He’s been in our family that long. You’re not telling me some seventy-something man is making you-are you jealous?”

Pulling a small flute of champagne from a passing tray Alexander downs nearly the entire thing in one gulp. There is no answer to his question, only the continued hold of his hand on the small of her back as he listens to her voice crooning his name to a middle-aged couple who have stopped to greet them. She lets it draw out, emphasizing the third syllable with a hand pressed to his chest. He swallows back a lump in his throat and plays along, the thin cracking of his voice unnoticeable to their guests. Not to Eliza. She’s sure to slip his name into each possible sentence of their conversation, a practical sigh between her lips. And with each mention of his name her fingers play with the hem of his suit jacket, or his hips, or the detailing of his button-up shirt. And with each sigh of his name from her lips his hand holds her closer to him, face flushing near the color of her dress.

And then they’re walking again, Alexander just about to lower his lips to her ear, to suggest something-anything to make himself feel better-when she’s introducing him to another crowd of people. There’s the politicians, who smile and nod and laugh too much. Their teeth are pearly white but their Cheshire grins are identical, all in hopes of winning some sort of favor over a Schuyer-any Schuyler, he presumes. She brushes her hair to one side of her neck, leaving the other completely exposed as her fingers brush the skin there for good measure. He sighs. He remains composed. Then there’s the doctors, who speak in low methodical voices with twitching hands and eyes that continue to roam toward pagers resting on their belt loops. This is the least interesting of the conversations, because Eliza has taken to keeping one hand in the back pocket of his pants, well-hidden underneath his jacket so that one may think she’s just keeping an arm around him.

He’s not sure where all of this has come from. He’s certain that he’s been the one to initiate most of their physical contact-John can’t seem to stop reminding him of the fact. It’s not to say that she hasn’t started anything, or surprised him a few times. But this…this blatant, coquettish teasing she’s been playing at. This isn’t fair.

She lets up when they stop by a group of lawyers, with whom he’s actually able to have full conversation now that she’s just holding his hand. They seem impressed by him-not only by the fact that Elizabeth Schuyler is at his side but by his work ethic, the determination that seeps its way into the tone of his voice and the level of passion in their exchange. They slip him business cards, asking for his name again before leaving the couple to their own. The last of the men hasn’t even turned on his heel before Eliza tugs furiously on Alexander’s arm. He follows her, blindly because he’s busy making sure he’s not crashing into any part of the crowd, before he’s pulled down a narrow hall and through a door with a slam and the click of a lock.

It’s a mess of hands and lips and entangled limbs-Eliza pulls his body as close to hers as possible, Alexander backing her up against a wall. They trip over boxes and mops and the room smells like bleach but he doesn’t care. Her hands have found the back of his neck and she’s tugging at the ponytail keeping his hair secured, sighing when it comes undone. She runs her fingers through his hair, the thin and nimble digits digging into him. She can’t bring herself physically close enough to Alexander. He kicks at the cluttered floor with one foot, a resounding thud of plastic storage boxes against drywall. His hands cup her face, willing Eliza to tip her neck so that he can bring the attention of his lips down them in a smooth line. Alexander brings a shiver to her spine-a breath that comes out shaky and a wordless sigh begging for more as she holds the lapels of his jacket, prodding at the fabric until it falls to the floor. She barely gives him time to react-to stop, to appreciate the amount of exposed skin her dress has given him, before she’s fumbling with his buttons again.

“Wait, is this-we’re in a closet, and it’s-shouldn’t this be something special? I was thinking candles, or music, or-“

“Shut up and take your shirt off.” Her words fill the air between them between breaths, her lips and her hands barely taking pause long enough to get them out. They are a whisper, a groan, a desire pushed forth with bright eyes that fill with a rich, enflamed hunger. He can’t refuse her-he’s never been able to refuse her. In this moment he is so far gone that he’d rip the shirt himself if it weren’t for her hands on his, a breathless laughter as she slows him down.

“We do have to go back out there. Slower.” The pace of his heart is rapid underneath her hand. She works with him in tandem, her hands on his as they twist each button, unhinging. He is unhinged. Alexander cannot tell which way is up or down, where they are or how much time has passed. Eliza slides the sleeves of his shirt off and it joins his jacket on the floor, replaced by her roaming hands.

His shirt falls to the floor with a knock; a clatter misplaced within the harmony of the moment and unlike the billowing his suit jacket had caused. Alexander pays no mind to the difference. He can decipher no sound other than that of Eliza sighing his name, her lips brushing his jawline with each change of syllable. She’s joined by a rattling, then pounding. He is met with a sudden chill-she has moved away from him, pressing an ear to the door as she throws a curse into the space between them. He moves, too, moving to listen. He’s unsure of what she’s catching; the conversation is one-sided, and in rapid strings of French. The doorknob rattles once more, the voice on the other side of the door negotiating. Eliza pushes him back then, into the wall she had just been pressed against. He groans. She cracks the door open.

Eliza’s French is fluent, persistent. Without the weight of the door muting the sound Alexander can tell that it’s Laurie that’s found them. In between words he is unable to decipher he picks up Eliza and careless and careful, to which Eliza can only respond with a nod and a feeble promise before shutting the door again. When she turns back to him she picks his clothes off the floor, handing them to him with a heavy intake of air.

“Laurie said she’d give us thirty seconds to get out and be ‘responsible members of this party.”

He nods, taking the message and slipping his arms back into his sleeves in dismay. Eliza rearranges the closet, stacking boxes back to their original form and replacing bottles on shelves. She doesn’t help him with the buttons. Alexander is mildly disappointed as she reaches for the doorknob until she stops to trace the line of his jaw with her thumb, a lingering kiss a parting gift of sorts before they return to the crowd of suits and clinking champagne.

“I have some candles in the pantry at home.” It’s an art, leaving Alexander completely speechless, but Elizabeth Schuyler has perfected it with the implications of her promise. It leaves her lips masked in a dulcet tone, so that when they walk by a pair of women in long gowns they might assume a shopping list is being made. Alexander glances at the clock on the wall, Peggy’s words ringing through his mind, still teasing them although she is nowhere to be found.

You have at least two and a half hours of socialization to get through…

They stumble upon her parents while he’s crafting ways to shrink two and a half hours down to five minutes-fifteen, if he really needed to. Alexander had never been more thankful for Eliza, who had transformed both of their appearances back to normal within their allotted thirty-second window. He’s still warm from the contact they had had in the closet but it is manageable. He pushes down the twitching of his hand, eager to hold hers, and accepts a hug from Catherine Schuyler instead. He can barely make eye contact with Phillip, who is clearly seeking professionalism from the handshake he requires. There is more shake than hand within Alexander currently but he attempts, grinning at Eliza’s parents and complimenting their home. He stumbles over his words at first. It’s her fault, really, that talk of construction turns into obstruction which his mind manipulates into button, and her hands are on fabric again. He snaps himself back into conversation with grace, or at least a slight measure of it. And Phillip seems to like him through the guise of protecting his daughter. He’s not sure where the conversation ends but Eliza pulls two flutes of champagne from a caterer passing by, stopping to chat about their cat before handing Alexander a drink. He drains the glass in one long sip as she takes her time, brushing her lips together to rip them of the excess drops of liquid. Alexander watches her, his breath stopped completely in his throat. She notices. In lieu of granting him the mercy she’s so sure that he needs she grabs hold of his arm with two hands, leaning against him and brushing her lips against his neck before leading him across the room.

There are photos-the sisters on the banister, their family in front of the snow dusted mansion. Alexander and Eliza pose in front of the Christmas tree, Eliza’s arms wrapped tight around his waist as her pearly grin lights the room of spectators. He can hear his name reverberating across the room, a repetition of his story and their status and the details some Congressman may not have heard yet. He tunes them out. His name is a foreign object unless presented through cranberry colored lips and long, drawn-out sighs. He does not know his name in its regular form.

He’s patient in the car home, Eliza reminiscing upon the night with a slightly tipsy Angelica, who laughs and leans against Church with an alcohol-induced warmth. He likes this side of her, he decides, where she is loosened from the genuine intensity her body cannot seem to relinquish. However he wishes they had gotten their own car home. His thoughts are filled with candles and music and he fiddles with the buttons on his shirt as Paul stops at another red light. He imagines himself to be discreet, but then again Alexander has never been one for blending in or holding back. Eliza has taken notice-she laughs under her breath at him, takes his hand and settles it within hers on her lap.

“We’re almost home.” Another promise. Alexander nods. You only have at least fifteen minutes of socialization.

She practically runs up the stairs with him in tow, six flights in heels barely even presenting a challenge with the feeling of his hand and the sound of his feet keeping pace beside her. She fumbles for her keys in her wristlet as she stops at the door, dexterous hands and rapidly searching eyes as Alexander’s hands brush her hair to one side. She’s surprised the door opens with her shaking hands and eager pace, and she kicks it closed with her foot so that she can turn to reciprocate his attention.

“Wait,” He backs away, moving to the kitchen and leaving her pouting at the door. “Candles.”

She narrows her eyes, shaking her head at him before directing him to the correct pantry. Her foot taps impatiently, arms crossed and heaving a heavy sigh.

“Are they necessary?”

“Elizabeth Schuyler you deserve to be courted. Candles and music, I need to do this right. Let me have this one thing.”

“Fine.” It’s a begrudged agreement, Eliza near bouncing on the balls of her feet as he sets things up. It’s all a little much, the way he moves about the apartment with such a decisive plan. It’s much different than the closet, packed with brooms and boxes and the heat of their sweating bodies. But waiting has turned her anxious so she moves to the bedroom, opening the drawer of her nightstand.

“Before I forget, I have something for you.” Her voice carries from the bedroom as she moves with hurried feet. Eliza returns with a rectangular package, wrapped neatly in brown paper and adorned with a white bow.

“You kind of upstaged me the other day, but I wanted to wait until Christmas.” She drops the package in his hands and he stares back at her, challenging. Her hand finds a place in her hair, twirling undone curls in nervous wait.

“We said no presents.”

“We did. But you got me one too so just open it.”

The ripping of paper withers her heartbeat-Eliza is a bundle of nerves at this point, an occasional shock reaching from her stomach to her back and consuming her as he holds the gift in his hands. It takes him a moment-he turns the leather-bound book in his hands, feels the heartiness of its fabric and the detailing within it. He looks up, then, grinning and thanking her.

“That’s not-there’s more. Open it.” It takes him longer than she’d thought to gather the message of the book. His eyes wander their pages, taking in words written in neat cursive and preserved on treated parchment. Eliza witnesses the moment he understands, when his mouth unhinges and his eyes begin to water. There’s an audible gasp, his fingers tracing lines of words addressed to him in loving, dulcet tones.

It is a story within itself, containing thousands of words spoken only through the touch of ink to paper. It is words left unsaid, hidden in a leather pouch in the closet and taken out on the days he couldn’t handle the turmoil that often rose inside of him. It is mijo and my sweet Alexander, recipes and memories and a few torn-up photographs glued hastily to weathering parchment. Eliza isn’t sure how he will take it-the slight invasion of space sprinkled with good intentions. But he finally tears his eyes from the pages long enough to stare back up at her, incredulous.

“This is…I don’t know what to say. Are these real?” She nods, and her anxious expression heightens with a hand on his shoulder, his tears prodding the storm within her further. She had messed up-this was something he would never forgive her for. His mother’s letters are now contained to a single book, and he isn’t happy.

Alexander is floored. Each letter he had saved, each slant of her handwriting, the memories from his childhood…she had preserved them; for him-for his mother. Her eyes are wide and-wait, is she apologizing? Eliza is a mess as her head shakes, but he can barely make out the words she is saying. This tremendous show of respect to his mother, the way she's so cautious about his feelings. He's enveloped in a warmth he's felt from the moment he'd seen her. Her eyes, her sincerity, they cloak him in security and love.

“God, she would've loved you. I love you.”

There is only one candle, abandoned on the kitchen counter without so much as a second glance. They're stupid anyway, a waste of time. He'd much rather let his hands find the small of her back, first attempting to loosen the audacious bow before she pushes his hands away. The practice of her delicate work on the buttons of his shirt has been forgotten as two tumble to the floor in tandem, rolling out of sight completely ignored other than a giggle that escapes breathlessly from Eliza’s lips. This only surges him on stronger and he lifts her, her lips unmoving from the fine line of Alexander’s jaw as they topple onto the bed.

There is so much bliss he isn't sure it's real-she hastily pulls her dress off from her legs, tossing it across the room before bringing him back down to her. Her hands are in his hair, always in the spot where the finer hair hides at the nape of his neck. She runs her fingers through it, but he won't allow this tailoring of his own needs for long. He lowers his head to the skin now exposed, fingers hooked in either side of the lace her hips are resting on. Please. She nods, letting the remaining fabric leave her body as he inhales.

She is underneath him, craving his attention, deserving of each hold of his hands and brush of his lips and thrust of his hips against hers. There is so much space unexplored, undiscovered by his eager lips. Her hands fiddle with his belt and he rises only to pull off his pants and boxers, thirty seconds wasted to rid themselves of the last barrier between them. When his skin meets hers his body whispers her name, an explosion of fireworks and bliss and an anticipation that can no longer wait.

You have ten seconds until Eliza is yours.

And he's asking-begging between clenched teeth as she teases him with hands working an intricate magic on his hard-on. I need to be inside of you. Please.

He is better than she had imagined-than she could have dreamed. He is rhythmic and slow and her neck burns with the heat of an impassioned line of reddened spots he’d made until she’d begged for his attention elsewhere. Eliza can barely breathe beneath the careful devotion he is giving each part of her body, Alexander speeding up only with the moaning of his name, repeated as her fingers dig into his back and she arches up to meet him.

And then, it’s over. He collapses on top of her, a balance of his weight as he rests his head on her chest, which moves with heavy breaths. Her hands immediately finding their way to his hair again. She brushes the sweat-moistened strands aside with one hand, Alexander sighing through closed eyes in response. There is a certain level of tranquility now, a still that wraps the room in the beating of her heart against his ear, the continual whispering of I love you between them. Once he has said it he cannot stop, tipping his head up to repeat the three words, spilling over each other as his thumb traces an errant freckle on her shoulder. There are so many things to familiarize themselves with; the flag on Alexander’s back, with bright ink in the bold colors of the country he had come from. Then there’s Eliza, with a birthmark just above her hipbone. Alexander thinks it’s shaped like a heart, the way it dips and pulls in perfect synchronization of the shape. Eliza says he’s lying-he just wants to bring attention back to the space.

He shifts over in bed reluctantly, leaving her with his hands on the sides of her face and a kiss prolonged dramatically far for just going to the bathroom. For a moment Eliza lies facing the ceiling, letting the post-sex glow consume her body in warmth although he has already been gone much too long.

She’d wanted it, so badly. In her heart, her body, Eliza had wanted him so completely and fully that it had consumed her the entire night-and for weeks before that. She did not expect that something so pure of intention could cause this. There must be something wrong with me. Her head falls to her knees, exhaustion weighing on her shoulders, filling her with the billowing black cloud of a shadow. She had tried so hard to leave that shadow behind. She wills the tears to spill out freely while she still has the chance-it won’t be long. He’d be back soon, but by then she’d surely be fine.

Nothing comes-not a drop of liquid, or a single prick at the corners of her eyes. She is silent. Her body is still. Although the sadness and the heartache burn rapidly through her they refuse to come out in their physical form. This shadow instead manifests itself into a neat little nest inside of her heart; thorns and bristling succulents that drink her barren of any tears she may have had. There is no catharsis here, in the still of their bed. Alexander is a good man.

She wants to reach out-to hold his face in her hands, stubble bristing the delicate skin of her fingers. She wants him to hold her-really hold her-with his arms around her waist or her shoulders or her back, squeezing tighter because he knows that she needs this. There is a release that comes with his hands on her skin, the feeling of his callouses brushing against her spine. She wants him to whisper her name; his calm, their three words. She wants his voice to wrap itself around her, dissipating in the air between them but never quite dissolving. The rolling of an ocean wave meeting the shore-her name on his lips, crescendo and soft fall that collide into each other because he talks too fast, he always has.

He does not feel the same. When his weight weighs down his side of the bed again she curls further into herself. Suddenly it's his side of the bed and his blanket and his apartment and his Eliza. She no longer belongs to herself-cannot count herself as a single entity beside him. There is no space for that. There is no space. She takes in a haggard breath and her body refuses to let it out. There is shaking and shivering and uncontrollable tears and the weight on the bed shifts again and god, she can't breathe.

He is too close, but not close enough.

His fingers brush her back-her spine-and she had wanted it but suddenly he feels like fire. The stinging courses through her with the tips of his fingers scintillating their path. And when he stops-one hand settling in the center of her back-the conflagration settles and grows and burns outward. And there's her name; whispered soft through the dark of their bedroom, mutating into hissing between gritted teeth in its lengthened form, covered by cowering and screaming and I’ll do it, I’ll do it.

It's too much-the gentle wave of her name and his counting attempting to guide her to a peace she can't reach. She’s numb and unresponsive and his hands are like fire and god, he's her boyfriend. But she can't bring herself to look at him. His eyes-she can envision them well enough without moving from her cocoon. She doesn't want to see his kindness, the warmth that must be spreading through thick layers of concern. She can hear it in the crack of his voice-the swell that has gathered in his throat. He's begging her to come out, to talk to him.

She needs a shower. The places where his hands had been-where he had left lines of red from lips that doted delicately on each spot of her skin-she'd wanted him to leave those marks. He'd gone up and down and back again, tip of his nose brushing bare flesh as he picked himself up to her head tipped back in ecstasy to feebly whisper I love you in her ear. In the moment, she'd felt nothing but bliss-his name rolling breathlessly through her lips as the only word she could form. The marks are now a foreign object against her skin, as if she can't remember where they came from and how it happened. The present tense does not exist in the world of her cocoon, where she can remember every mark that had been left on her body before him. There is no separation-she is too numb to differentiate between the two although she knows his lips were sweet and his hands gentle and he’s my boyfriend, I love him. The only thing that reaches her mind in this place is the desperate need to wash everything off-a guilt consuming her and drawing her further into herself, further away from him.

She does not want to feel the shame that bubbles in her stomach, hot and taunting as she flinches away from his touch. She does not want to see the flash of hurt that crosses his concern but she does, and in her peripheral vision it pains her to have caused this. This is her fault-the stilling of her muscles spreads evenly as the reality crashes down on her. And then, it won’t stop. Her mind is a firing squad of insults, a barrage of foul words in gruff voices reducing her to a shell. Alexander makes another attempt to hold her. She recoils from his touch, sliding herself off of the bed with her body wrapped in a sheet, covering her eyes and throwing an incoherent apology through a broken voice and fumbling limbs.

The slam of the bathroom door is a knife in Alexander’s heart.

#hamilton #hamliza au #hamliza #mine: swts #I am v apologetic for not tagging my warnings before #Also I'm v apologetic for the roller coaster that is this chapter #that's all

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redbootsthetimetraveller-archive · 8 years ago

Text

Bea and I, With The Beatles Chapter 3

I do not own The Beatles and this work is pure fiction.

I haven’t updated this in so long....

I put my pen to the paper, and soon started writing.

Some days, I hope to be far away.

Not right here or near, not today

If I stay here my mind might fray,

How I long not to stay.

‘That’s shit.’ I said to myself.

It’s the end of the road, there’s nowhere to go,

But sit down and wonder where you’re going.

It’s been a long time, but shh, I’m fine.

Just gonna close my eyes, floating downriver finding ‘whats’ and whys’,

Watching how time will fly on by.

It’s the end of the road, a dam in the journey’s flow.

‘Tis the end of the road, for both you and me.

The end of the road, for anybody.

Just let me float down through the clouds, perfectly silent and perfectly loud, and then one day I shall go back,

From the end of the road.

I put the pencil back in my pocket, and picked up my flute. I played an A, two, then a B natural, up to C and then B, A then G. That would be the melody. Maybe a bass clef D for the bassline, something like that.

‘Hey Bea, could you come help me with this?’ George said.

‘Sure.’ Bea went over, and started reading over his song and making suggestions. I began writing another.

‘Hey Lizzy! Can I get a prompt?’ John asked me. I folded up the paper I’d started writing on, and threw him the paper plane with my one sentence on it. He opened it, and looked at it, and started writing. ‘Oh, and while I’m thinking of it, you written another one?’

‘Yeah, it’s done though. I’ve even got the melody;’ I said, picking up my flute and playing the A, A, B, C, B, A, G tune.

Let me tell you the story of how I got here, but skipping many years.

‘Hey, that’s not half bad!’ John replied, trying to work out what guitar chords to play with it, writing them down, and went back to scribbling the rest of the song I’d given him on the paper. I let my mind wander for about five minutes, and by the time John had finished I’d completely zoned out. ‘Hey, how’s this sound?’ he said, and began singing, strumming his guitar.

Ringo started tapping his drumsticks along to the beat on the sides of the chair.

I’m a runaway, leaving so many behind.

I’ve got my suitcase, I’ve got my pack packed,

I’m not even leaving my dog behind.

Walking down the neon-lit road,

Deadness of night as far as the eye can see.

I head to the station for the midnight train, I hope no-one comes looking for me.

I’m a runaway, I left my old self behind.

Let me tell you the rest, if you don’t mind,

I found a lodging in the station’s attic, bought us some food and got a good night’s sleep.

A lost guitar was given to me, nobody claimed it, and boom!

I found a way to tell you my story on the street corner.

I’m a runaway, finding my own way of life.

I’m a runaway, ain’t scared of living amongst mice.

I’m a runaway, ev-er-y inch a rebel!

By the fourth line, everyone was singing or playing along to the song.

‘We’re playing that on Saturday.’ Paul said. We goofed off the rest of the class, not really writing or playing anything, but it was fun. Soon enough it was half past three, and time to go. Paul, Bea and I went to our locker area and got ready to go home.

‘Uh, Lizzy? Do you want to stay at my place tonight?’ Bea asked.

‘Yeah, it’s not really like I’d miss much. Anyway, you guys have a television! Sure, I’ll come round.’ I replied.

‘Four OK?’

‘Yep. We should do our’ I said, feeling relieved that I’d not have to deal with Wallis tonight. Bea walked by and I waved goodbye. I packed my homework into my bag, put on my coat, and walked out into the cold. I walked over to the bike lockers, but before I got there I saw a few bullies with someone. I fought the urge to go help, but I had to get home quickly. But then I recognised the cries; it was Ringo. I immediately sprinted over to his aid. I was almost there when John came out of the nearby door, and he came over too. I could hear the bullies now.

‘Aww, is the little sick Ritchie hurt?’ one of them said, in a sick, singsong voice.

‘He’s old enough to not even be here! But sick little Ritchie’s got to stay and work!’ another chimed in.

‘Lay off it, Faulkner! Leave him alone, he couldn’t help being sick!’ John said, trying to pull the first one out of the way, while I slipped in and helped Ringo up.

‘What are you, his boyfriend?’ Faulkner said, and John was slightly angrier by this. ‘It’s not like you can talk, held-back-a-year-Johnny?’

‘Shuttup!’ John retaliated.

‘Ooh, you wanna fight, Johnny? How about we settle this tomorrow, before school?’ Faulkner said, knowing John wouldn’t, couldn’t, back down.

‘Fine then. Behind the sheds, quarter past eight. You chicken out, Johnny, and you’ll never live it down.’ Faulkner said, and beckoned his gang to follow him.

‘John! You’re really gonna let them beat you up?’ I said.

‘Well, I have to! Y’know how it goes, fight, and so on. It’s only Faulkner, the skinny bastard, after all.’

‘Yeah, but you didn’t agree on a one-on-one, did you?’ I said, and John’s face fell.

‘Lizzy, do you think you can help?’

‘What, fight? No.’ I said.

‘I don’t think any of us would.’ Ringo agreed.

‘What can I do? Take them all out, even Hopper?’ Hopper was a massive thug Faulkner had contracted into his gang.

‘Leave a note saying they were late, so they lost out on a fight. They’re not exactly known for being on time, hanging around clubs and that.’ Ringo suggested.

‘Good idea. Do that, John, don’t even think about trying to win.’ I said. I went and got my bike, and raced home. It was still snowy, but mostly sludge. I ditched my bike at the gate, rushed inside and threw clean clothes, a few books, my pyjamas, a hairbrush and toothbrush, and got changed into some more casual clothes, putting my school things in. I went back downstairs, and put a note saying where I was. I put my coat back on, and raced the quarter mile to Bea’s house. I put my bike next to Bea’s, and knocked on the front door.

‘Ah, Elizabeth! Nice to see you! Bea’s waiting for you in her room.’ Mrs Hall answered. I smiled and walked inside. The layout was similar to our house, but slightly different.

‘Hello, Elizabeth! How’s your mother?’ Mr Hall greeted me from the kitchen, where he sat reading the paper.

‘Still in Korea, Mr Hall, but we haven’t heard much for a while. She’s not dead, we’d have got a telegram by now.’ I replied. My mother was American and had enlisted as a nurse in the war, even though it had long finished. I smiled, and kept going upstairs. When I reached her door, the clock chimed four. I knocked, and Bea must have launched herself from the bed and landed right at the door, because I heard a thump! right next to the door.

#Bea and I with the Beatles fanfiction #chapter 3

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mrmichaelchadler · 6 years ago

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RIP Cinema: On James Dean's Disappearance and French New Wave Legacy

This creative essay was inspired by a real philosophy podcast and an illogical dream. What if James Dean lived into the ‘60s and worked primarily with French New Wave directors?

Decades from now, international film critics will philosophize about James Dean’s “First Four.” And why not, given the directorial and cultural prestige of films like “East of Eden” (1955), “Rebel Without a Cause” (1955), “Giant” (1956) and certainly Dean’s influential portrayal of boxer Rocky Graziano in Robert Wise’s Oscar-winning black and white picture “Somebody Up There Likes Me” (1956), co-starring Dean’s Italian wife, Pier Angeli. Few other male actors have affected American movie culture during like Dean, but he’ll always be remembered not as an American Rebel, but as the unlikely French New Wave icon who bridged the gap between European cinephiles and American movie buffs; the architect of the international societal movement known as RIP Culture.

Inspired by Louis Malle’s 1957 New Wave classic “Let It Rip (Déchirure),” written by French film critic and noted script doctor Jean-Luc Godard, RIP Culture promotes professional proactivity, cultural diversity and personal creativity through casual meditation. Nowadays, even the most ignorant moviegoers understand the cultural connotations of “Let It Rip,” an improvised line, courtesy of Dean, that sparked genuine conversations about race, gender and art amongst moviegoers and powerful global influencers. Portraying Roger Seitz—an American in Paris—Dean’s now-famous speech to his jazz-happy pub crawl partners precedes one of cinema’s most revelatory and moving discussions about cultural divides.

And, of course, “Let It Rip” introduced the world to Dean’s inimitable co-stars—Miles Davis, Dorothy Dandridge, Jeanne Moreau and Claudia Cardinale—all of whom used their national prestige to further advance international RIP Culture, or “Strappa La Cultura” as Cardinale famously evoked at the 1958 Oscars. Once a promising Method actor from New York City via the American midwest, Dean evolved into a cinematic prophet who trumped the Aww-Shucks mentality that made U.S. teenagers so temperamental and unpredictable during the late ‘50s. “Let It Rip” offered come clarity and balance, thanks to Dean’s mainstream appeal and the New Wave’s rising European influence. From that point forward, Dean’s collaborations with French New Wave directors became known as FRIP productions.

While “Let It Rip” inspired a global movement, Claude Chabrol’s 1958 film "Handsome Serge” represents the connecting tissue for international audiences. Already a noted film critic and Alfred Hitchcock devotee, Chabrol brilliantly utilized his relationship with Dean, via Godard, to secure FRIP Culture funding for his debut feature, based on a self-funded short film produced on location in Sardent, France. Opposite French actor Jean-Paul Belmondo, Dean further establishes himself as a New Wave hero, thus “paying it back,” as the Cahiers du Cinéma FRIP directors unquestionably appreciated American auteurs. With Dean portraying the savvy American cousin Eugene Tallerico, “Handsome Serge” paved the way for François Truffaut’s 1959 FRIP film “Breathless,” in which Dean’s “Rebel Without a Cause” co-star Natalie Wood stars opposite the “French James Dean,” Gerard Blain; a fusion of cultural philosophies that further strengthened international RIP Culture. While Dean only makes a cameo in “Breathless,” as his “Rebel Without a Cause” character Jim Stark, his mere presence strengthens the cultural connection, with Truffaut’s affinity for a-day-in-the-life conflict inspiring the American to fully maximize his screen time with careful improvisation. As for “Handsome Serge,” Chabrol managed to minimize Dean’s Method-inspired maniacal movements, resulting in a more natural and relatable character portrayal.

After Elvis Presley's tragic street mob death in 1960, Dean not only grabbed the torch as America’s leading pop culture voice, but also spread a universal message of creative camaraderie via Jacques Demy’s "The Soldiers of Cerbere” (1960)—a FRIP musical about love and war in the southwest corner of France. By this time, rumors had surfaced about Dean after a split from Angeli, and certainly after his reported romance with Cardinale during “Let It Rip”’s production. Given Godard’s reported admiration for the latter Italian actress, the media reports essentially killed a proposed FRIP trilogy, and the unspoken tension fully negated RIP Culture ideals.

Visually, “The Soldiers of Cerbere" highlights Dean’s chemistry with Danish actress Anna Karina (in her first feature role), but the film is anything but subtle with the character subtext between Dean and co-star Jean-Claude Brialy, both of whom portray masculine men in search of a familial bliss, but clearly interested in personal freedom. As Francis Franco, an opinionated wine connoisseur, Dean occasionally stumbles while attempting to sell “Pinot drunk,” but he does, in fact, appear charming and verbally succinct during the film’s street scenes, many of which were improvised by the male leads. While most European audiences were skeptical of Dean’s “too-giddy” song-and-dance numbers, Americans clamored at the box office and fully recovered from Elvis Fatigue.

While Dean’s FRIP productions weren’t a point of contention with La Nouvelle Vague as a whole, the growing professional bonds undoubtedly stung on a personal level for some. But then Dean return to America, and didn’t make another Parisian-set film for another six years.

That’s not to say that Dean entirely stopped working with New Wave directors. In 1962, Stanley Kubrick enlisted America’s artistic rebel for “The Idiot,” an existentialist adaptation of Fyodor Dostoevsky’s classic novel, written by FRIP director Jacques Rivette. As Pyotr Myshkin, a skeptical outcast living in New York City, Dean represents a sympathetic and cinematic version of The Catcher in the Rye's Holden Caulfield, with the performance guiding American audiences into a more self-aware era. Less than seven years after starring in “Rebel Without a Cause,” Dean essentially landed a haymaker on the American psyche once again, this time punctuating the movement’s core aesthetic concepts with his staccato manner of speech and harrowing train monologues. To this day, the “It’s me, Pyotr, and I’m crying” scene is the go-to for many aspiring performers in American casting rooms. Back then, Dean’s RIP interpretation of The Idiot appealed to quasi-conservatives with its surface level religious concepts, all the while providing RIP intellectuals with a healthy dose of philosophical material to break down at dinner parties.

During the mid-‘60s, Dean’s “RIP for America” campaign with President John F. Kennedy had a polarizing effect on RIP loyalists. On one level, Agnès Varda’s complementary documentary showcases the ins and outs of Dean’s quest for artistic education and enlightenment, but it’s the rumored “lost footage” that partially damaged the RIPPER’s reputation at the time. While many RIP loyalists blamed the Hollywood elite, it’s been reported that the so-called “Savage Detectives” Arturo Belano and Ulises Lima—the leaders of the Visceral Realism movement—were the instigators via a word-of-mouth smear campaign. Some have even argued that Mexican-American icon Ritchie Valens and tour-mate Buddy Holly were corrupted during the southwest leg of the tour, shortly before recording the movement’s chart-topping theme song. And when Dean returned to Manhattan to teach RIP Culture Performance at the Actor’s Studio, rumors spread that Brando himself had played a role in the fiasco. Unsurprisingly, those on the fringe of RIP Culture questioned the core ideals and distanced themselves from Dean—“rebels with a cause,” as the Visceral Realists would later call them.

In 1964, Dean reunited with FRIP filmmakers Chabrol and Truffaut to write “Theory of Forms,” directed by Alfred Hitchcock. The RIPPERS’ fresh narrative take on the master’s suspense formula allowed the director himself to “break on through,” as poet Jim Morrison famously wrote in American RIPPER, but it also afforded Dean some extra comfort during the most challenging and intimate scenes with co-star Sophia Loren. Mainstream American audiences weren’t used to such blatant sensuality, and the characters’ borderline mean-spirited dialogue challenged the very essence of RIP Culture by almost going “too far,” as American film critic Peter Bogdanovich wrote in RIP Cinema upon the film’s release.

When Dean returned to Europe for Alain Resnais’ "The Bullfighter” (1965), he organically transformed into a self-assured artist. In the Madrid-based FRIP film, loosely inspired by Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises, Dean begins strong—like a Raging Bull—by communicating intensity, passion and ultimately heartbreak, as “El Destripador” recounts the life and death of his bride-to-be. By immediately shredding the character of all masculinity, Resnais allows Dean to channel the vulnerability of his early characters. Many critics perceived "The Bullfighter” to be some type of creative response to the Visceral Realists, when it actually seems to be a nostalgic reflection on Dean’s mid-‘50s naïveté.

Before production commenced for “The Bullfighter,” Dean invited filmmaker and FRIP comrade Varda to document the experience, resulting in one of cinema’s most poignant behind-the-scenes portraits of an icon coming into his own, “Spanish Caravan” (1966). By now, Dean had fully dismissed the Method technique—“egotistical and stiff,” as he called it—and embraced outline scripts that allowed him to, well, “RIP.” Once upon a time, Godard and Malle helped Dean innovate while connecting with various demographics. Then, in the early ‘60s, Demy and Dean expanded the international RIP Culture family. Finally, Chabrol inspired Dean to pay special attention to American affairs, thus “bringing it all back home,” as midwest folk singer Robert Zimmerman exclaimed. “The Bullfighter” features Dean at top form.

For “Let It Rip”’s unofficial 10-year anniversary, Dean teamed up with Jean-Pierre Melville for "Culture Vulture,” resulting in Dean’s most shocking performance of the decade. Set in Paris, and written by FRIP outlier Alain Robbe-Grillet, the subversive heist thriller shows Dean satirizing a new school of radical performers; an unapologetic culture attack on the Mexico-based Visceral Realists. As thief Johnny Golightly, Dean literally and figuratively rips off French culture, aided by Brando’s Ace McCracken. The unlikely pairing itself guaranteed box office success, and with the deliberately non-sexualized appearances of Marilyn Monroe and Brigitte Bardot, “Culture Vulture” wildly succeeded by systemically picking apart the Savage Detectives’ questionable methods.

In a way, "Culture Vulture” established a sub-genre of film, along with hybrid approach for second wave of FRIP performers. Filled with fourth wall commentaries via reflected mirrors—later seen in Éric Rohmer’s instant RIP classic “The Prince” (1969) and especially in Jean-Luc Godard’s “American Ripper” (1969), Melville’s societal commentary bluntly addresses the rift between FRIP filmmakers and Visceral Realists.

Rohmer’s “The Prince” represents a “Culture Vulture” companion piece; a fitting conclusion to the FRIP director’s exploration of morals. The Florence-set Machiavellian tale of breakfast and ethics reunited Dean with “Let It Rip” co-star Cardinale and further cemented each as powerful multi-lingual orators in their native countries. Most importantly, "The Prince” clarified vague concepts from “Culture Vulture,” such as the melding of Method and Rip acting approaches.

If the Visceral Realists had gained momentum by late 1969, Dean and Godard calmed the storm by releasing the FRIP documentary “American RIPPER,” an insightful look at JFK’s final months in office, Martin Luther King’s European tour and the systematic deconstruction of the Che Guevara myth, after the Argentine-Cuban rebel was captured in Bolivia and questioned stateside about about the rising tensions between RIP radicals and rogue Visceral Realists.

With the impending release of Dean’s directorial debut “East of Fairmount,” along with Louis Malle’s road trip FRIP film “Easy Rebel,” one could argue that RIP Culture won’t soon fade away. But given Dean’s disappearance from the public eye, immediately after brashly criticizing the Visceral Realists’ political beliefs, one must wonder if the King of RIP is finally ready for a creative break. Or maybe, he’s simply preparing for Martin Scorsese’s loose interpretation of the mid-‘60s Kennedy-Guevara summit, in which he’s reportedly set to portray Chicago mobster Sam Giancana opposite Brando as President Robert F. Kennedy.

In RIP Cinema Vol. 1, Dean said “To RIP is to capitalize on the moment, and to RISE is to learn something valuable from the experience.” To paraphrase his famous call to action: RIP & RISE, James Dean. We’re waiting.

Vincent Quinn RIP Cinema Vol. 161, May 1971

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elizabethleslie7654 · 7 years ago

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How the GOP Establishment Created the Alt-Right and How Democrats are Supplying its 2nd Wave

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If we go back in time, not far mind you, just barely over one decade ago, we see a political landscape that looks almost nothing like the one we have today. It is unbelievable how rapidly everything changed in such a short period of time. The date was May 3, 2007 – the site was Simi, California. As springtime was warming and fading into the start of summer, the first debate between the Republican 2008 primary field was set to kick off at the Reagan library. In retrospect this seems like a quaint time and a calm before the storm. George W. Bush was a beleaguered president who had not won the promised quick and total victory in Iraq, still had a giant blackeye from the botched response to Hurricane Katrina, and was about to cap his second term under the greatest financial disaster since the Great Depression. Even by that point in 2007, Bush had few fans or even defenders left; wisely no one seated in his White House admin was going to enter the race. This left an entirely wide open field of candidates for the GOP, yet very few were willing to counter signal Bush no matter how unpopular he was. It was an odd deference to what no one wanted to (yet) confess was a failed and disastrous presidency.

To set the stage, Q-1 home sales were down, there were murmurs that some of the financial houses were over-leveraged, some were saying there was a “housing bubble,” but the DJIA was still trading very high, and the economy was still in great shape a year and a half from the November 2008 casting of ballots. The slate of debate topics from that night are pretty laughable now given the benefit of hindsight and seeing what we now know would become the decade of pure, non-stop pozzing. Everyone and everything seems so naïve and doe-eyed from that 2007-2008 period. This was a kinder, gentler time, way before Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman threw down at a Florida apartment complex, before tranny bathrooms, before BLM riots, there were not yet facebook background filters to virtue signal, this was still prior to frequent broad daylight executions of policemen in ambushes, no widespread opioid epidemic yet, no bake the gay wedding cake or else, and way before the third world crime and rape invasion of Europe unleashed by the Syrian “Civil” War. The main issues that night were figuring out how to exit Iraq and how to prevent another 9/11 style attack at home, everything else seemed pretty stable domestically, hardly worthy of presidential debate questions.

There was no housing collapse yet, which means there was no financial crisis yet, ergo no recession yet. Which means that there was no Obama yet. Which means there was no “tea party” yet. Identity politics were in their infancy and had not yet been fully and tactically deployed against the right wing, who in the name of respectability, refused to use the same tool. All of these things we are now familiar with were absent then but would come in rapid succession, acting as the gasoline that changed how Americans do politics by fire in the decade that followed.

Each of the candidates represented a faction of what broadly comes together to form the Republican/conservative brand. Mike Huckabee and Fred Thompson were the aww shucks, Southern candidates with deep accents and evangelical gestures. McCain and Romney were the GOP establishment choices, only needing to see which of the two emerged from the pageantry of early primaries before big pocket donors would know who to throw all support behind. Ron Paul’s paleo conservative, non-interventionism was preferred by the most optimistic and youngest Republicans but virtually no one else within the party. Giuliani was actually the front runner initially, running solely on the fading momentum of appealing to 9/11 themed patriotism and anti-terrorism. Tancredo and Hunter were basically single issue candidates who ironically ran on a border wall and aggressive deportation strategies, which while popular positions, could not catapult them out of the basement of the candidate field. The candidates pretty much spent an hour and a half discussing the theoretical destruction of Israel at any moment from the hands of an Iranian nuke, and creationism. Weird, I can’t imagine how they lost that election!

It was extremely apparent to anyone paying any attention that all of the energy and enthusiasm of those under 30 were breaking along lines of race and sex. The grassroots fundraising and activism was occurring almost exclusively in these age brackets. Young white men were overwhelmingly interested in Ron Paul, while young white women and non-whites of “all genders” were interested in Obama. There was virtually no interest whatsoever in the establishment candidates of either party from the young voters, a trend that repeated in 2012, and that then violently exploded in 2016. The major difference between the two parties in 2008 is that the Democrats allowed their activists, idealists, and optimists to decide who represented them – the GOP told theirs to shut up and get out.

The true power brokers and deep State did not feel threatened by anything Obama was offering, so he was never attacked. They sensed something threatening with Ron Paul though, so he was attacked. What were the primary differences?

A Ron Paul presidency would not have involved itself in Syria, would have jailed rather than bailed out the banks who defrauded the American public, would not have passed the insurance lobby subsidy called Obamacare, and would have ended the tribal collection of tribute sent back via “foreign aid” to Israel. Because of these things, all efforts were made to marginalize and drive Paul out of the primaries, the only problem is he kept getting donations and his activists did not get discouraged. As the rest of the GOP field folded with no ability to support themselves, Paul remained in the race, State after State, and continued to gather double digit vote percentages, yet he still was not asked many questions in the debates even as the field thinned down to 4, then 3, then finally 2 – only Ron Paul and John McCain. It was that important for the party machinery to prevent his counter-narrative message from being heard, especially by conservative audiences who were carefully managed and corralled by Conservative(INC). It was so obvious and so painful that the fix was in for those of us that were hardcore Paul backers. When the same thing happened in the 2012 primary, the repeating of the process removed the final fantasy that we would ever calmly steer the ship away from the rocks.

If you ever wonder: “What ever happened to all of those Ron Paul supporters? There used to be so many of them, so vocal, so active online – but I never see them anymore.” That guy that you remember who used to share 20 links a day about Ron Paul and campaign for liberty, but now never speaks about politics on facebook anymore — Do you ACTUALLY think he really just stopped caring about stuff? … care to guess WHERE he ended up when he was denied the opportunity to merely be “a moderate Republican?”

What the GOP establishment did in the handling of Ron Paul will eventually be looked back at as one of the biggest, high time preference, blunders of all time. For many of us, as young and engaged idealists, this was our first introduction to “the JQ” and the first time we had seen “ZOG” in action. This was a sweet old man who wanted sensible non-intervention, but even that was too much of a threat to the

Likud wing of the GOP. It is honestly as simple as that. Instead of giving passionate young men a place at the table within the party that is normatively attractive to them, they told these White millennials/late X’ers they were not welcome in the GOP … because they didn’t, as a priority, sufficiently value Israel’s interests. Perhaps that is why only a few short years later that there was an audience receptive to a candidate promising a radically different set of priorities that placed, dare we say, America first.

Ten years ago, the GOP establishment could have kept these young white libertarian men under the Aegis of Conservative(INC) by simply letting them be just one more new addition to a family filled with other quirky, mostly harmless, focused issues client groups who reliably vote Republican. They made similar compromises with evangelicals and hardcore NRA types. Instead, they acted like White Boomers raised in a high trust society and suckled on controlled media narrative would live forever. They mortgaged the future by ignoring the impassioned youth, and they lost the election anyways … TWICE.

Who do you think inherits the GOP as those boomers begin passing away? The same young men they denied political voice, and trust me, those young White men remember precisely WHO denied them and WHY. These are men raised in the internet age, not an era with three major networks pushing the same message and directing a binary and easily manipulated form of consensus. These are men who were forced to interact with the realities of race daily and intimately in a way that boomers never did, and who, because of those experiences, cannot be swayed by the same priestly class or hear the appeals to the superstitions of a different, and more gullible generation.

These are also the men who saw upfront and firsthand an almost exclusively Jewish neo-conservative set of keepers guarding the gates and preventing their access to participating in representative political life. And this experience will stick with them forever.

After having been told (and shown) that they were not welcome by the inner machinery that runs the Republican party, these libertarians began doing serious soul searching by reevaluatng every single one of their fundamental premises. Dispossessed and forsaken, these young men became what the French call in politics, “Les Enfants Terribles,” – the bad children.

All the while, the left hammered away with pozz, combined with racial flashpoints and fractures sprouting up like fountains for the next 8 years. It was in this incubating climate that what would begin calling itself the “alt-right” emerged from the womb as the unwanted offspring of the two parents responsible for forming them, and towards whom these “enfants terribles” held only contempt, even as their existence was only possible from the role each progenitor played in the procreation – George Bush (pure ZOG foreign policy, population replacement immigration, predatory capitalism) and Barack Obama (non-stop pozz, cultural Marxism, and anti-white domestic policies.)

Since there was no political inroad to a major party, there was also no longer any need to revere the sacred bulls and golden calf of society either, chiefly the taboo discussions of unaccountable Jewish power and racial group differences. Whereas we, like all respectable people, had broken out in uncomfortable sweats and promptly run as far and fast away as possible from those subjects, these two things were now on the table to finally examine honestly — to address humorously, irreverently, and without abandon. Is there any point to being politically correct when you are actively denied political access? It is not as though such an action will preserve a respectable political station. And let’s face it, is there any humor more exciting and more fun than the most transgressive and taboo? Is there any reaction more comical than that of the self-righteous, shaming zealot, reeling from shocked sensibilities and wounded by affronts to a morality they feel the need to puritanically enforce upon an unsaved society?

Like a doctor inducing labor, the GOP establishment had effectively forced these men, suddenly, painfully, and before they were ready, out of the safe and polite world to stand on their own. Perhaps that is why these fellows place such little value in taking safe and polite positions now… We had watched FOOTLOOSE and decided being Kevin Bacon was way cooler than being John Lithgow. Church ladies exist. They have pink hair, septum piercings, and like a Pentecostal in rapture, “literally shaking,” cannot deal with someone having a different moral axis. Their Jehovah’s Witness tier reactions will never not be funny to trigger.

It was a very strange thing. All of these men were having simultaneous and similar evolutions. It was a true phenomenon to see identical organic spontaneous responses to the exact same stimuli, at the exact same time, coast to coast, across populations that had never met one another. These atomized individuals soon discovered that none of them was transforming in this way alone. They were organically having the same mutation — they then found one another, and began forming communities and networks. Troll armies on Twitter.

So why were we all libertarians?

One of the oldest jokes and outside criticisms of libertarianism was that it appealed (even more so than the Republican party) to almost exclusively Whites (90%+) and males (98%+.) Is it possible that we subconsciously saw that political philosophy as a roundabout path towards representing the group interests neither major party would, we the “collection of individuals” who “just all happened to be” from identical backgrounds – young, high IQ, white men – the demographic primarily being targeted, squeezed, and replaced in the increasingly anti-white political system?

As it turns out most of our instincts were pretty good in the things we opposed. We already had all of the correct enemies. Libertarianism offered us a way to address them without going to the core of the issue nor offending society’s shibboleths directly. The system also tolerated us in that space as an escape valve since it offered only minimal threat to ZOG while also being fully compatible with all of society’s foundational myths of race. On the flip side, every time laboratory libertarianism had to interact with the harsh realities of race and group differences, it failed to deliver, and was therefore exposed as fantasy thinking, at least under the current racial composition of the United States. Libertarianism had to evolve, or rather its adherents did, particularly in the face of the increasingly racially defined identity politics. For most of us, we discarded it when it demonstrated its uselessness on the identity driven 21st century field of battle. We would not fight second generation warfare with first generation tactics. … Those kinds of bloodbaths and slaughters are for baby boomers and conservatives, duh.

As “libertarians” we thought we wanted a strict non-interventionist foreign policy, but what we really wanted was not having foreign powers, in direct violation of our own interests, dictating how we behaved internationally. We were against “the domestic police state” and “the prison industrial complex,” but realized that to the degree that those things exist, their construction as institutions was a response to the sheer volume and statistical frequency of crime created by the non-whites living among us. These kinds of violent institutions with aggressive posturing struggle to justify themselves in societies and municipalities without large numbers of black and brown people. That very same system that “imprisons people of color” also prevents Whites from escaping their presence. Our sentence is a ball and chain, overseen by a man with a gun, ensuring that the White and non-white are forever tethered to each other, no matter how much both dislike the arrangement.

We were against “high taxes” and “welfare” not because it distorted market values of labor and encouraged malinvestment, or whatever other highfalutin arguments we used to give, but because deep down we understood that those systems take from the productive and give to the non-productive. This again, had crystal clear “color coding” regarding which groups of people performed which function. The “surveillance and anti-privacy” laws that we hated, were the acts of a schizophrenic State having a completely illogical Visa and immigration system that refused to account for race, culture, and identity as conditions for entry, and rather than address those foolish policies, that State asked us to become less free and more scrutinized. We were being denied a high trust, high productivity society, and our liberties were disappearing under the weight of our increasing “56%” flavor of non-whiteness, that none of us had ever been asked if we consented to.

We could go on and on, but essentially all of the libertarian positions were a proxy for the various battlefronts of diversity eroding livable societies. Libertarianism was the White man’s negotiating tactic to secure minor concessions in an exchange for a general surrender. The death of libertarianism was this portion the body politic finally succumbing to the mental exhaustion of constantly denying race, so they simply stopped doing the thing that wore them out. Libertarians were the first to tap out, but they will not be the last. One by one, the rest of the electorate will also lose its devotion and stamina against the strains of diversity. We just got there first.

Jettisoning that deadweight had its own energizing effect. Enter Donald Trump … and the emergence of the frenetic “alt-right” as a legitimate constituency with the ability to sway close elections in swing States, no longer wasting energy on lies and wishful thinking – by 2015, these libertarians had recuperated and gathered, free to battle under a different and more genuine flag. They had officially arrived as an actual political force – a “basket of deplorables.”

Can Democrats learn anything from this?

Without giving away the game, it may be too late since everything is already in motion. The same way that the machinery in the GOP actively denied a political home to passionate, high IQ, high agency white men in 2008 and 2012 — the Democrats repeat performed from this script upon their passionate, high IQ, high agency white men in 2016. It was nearly a perfect copy pasta with Bernie Sanders, only more transparently and aggressively, with actual underhanded things done by the victorious, cheating candidate, and against a more broadly popular candidate with even wider support within the party. Will they make the same mistake and do this again in 2020? Are they willing to permanently chase out all straight White men from their midst? Are they willing to donate what would combine to form a monopoly of highly intelligent, highly creative minds to the alt-right … a group more than happy to welcome them in crafting a third position of politics?

There were several flashpoints in the election that made it quite clear how the Democrats would deal with White men first, and White women eventually. The first instance was when several black women grabbed the microphone on the stage in Seattle, chided the crowd under racial language, and pushed Bernie to the back.

The second was when globalist Sarah Silverman and fellow sexual predator and globalist Al Franken stood on the stage at the DNC and associated support for Bernie Sanders as akin to having an STD. They then promptly told Whites (because let’s face it, that’s who Sanders constituency is) to shut up, get in line, and cheer the candidate who manipulated the primary process to deny them political will – literally cheer your replacement, weakened position, and lack of a future – or leave. Will these Whites take them up on the offer?

The only available role for a White man in this party from this point forward is as a disliked and barely tolerated auxillary working in the baggage train. Sure, you can participate, but only if you remain silent and do not pursue leadership roles. How long do you think exceptionally bright, fiery, passionate, left wing White men with good ideas and true leadership qualities are going to be okay with that arrangement? Especially as the party doubles down on poor strategies that lose elections? Where there is no coherent ideologically left wing platform, because identity is more important to the “coalition of the ascendant” — a group whose appetite must constantly be sated with red meat — than economic fundamentals? Are these intelligent white guys really going to sit back and say nothing? Or do you think they will pursue another option?

If you don’t think there are millions more White males, this time on the left instead of the right, reevaluating their political positions as a result of their disenfranchisement, you don’t understand politics at all. The same way that the libertarians had to concede that their idealism could not work because of diversity, the Bernie bros. will learn that their idealism is destined for failure for the same reasons too. The alt-right doesn’t have to do a damn thing but sit back, watch, wait, and find room for these White men and give them voice and leadership after they have had enough with the Democrat party, who doesn’t want their talents anyway.

The Democrat party is so racially charged as a starting point on every issue that Universalist policies are seen as awful by the “coalition of the ascendant.” Free college education for all? Free healthcare for all? Guaranteed living wage for all? NOPE. The fracture point is the phrase “for all.” The racial spoils system has been nurtured so long and so aggressively by Democrats to bribe non-Whites that the idea of these constituencies sharing with Whites under a “for all” arrangement is a complete non-starter. There is absolutely no enthusiasm from people of color to contribute towards a colorblind society that would still disproportionately benefit Whites, the numerical majority. White Millenials will eventually discover that they are not seen as “allies” only competitors for the distribution of the spoils. The non-Whites do not see you as a teammate, they see you as a speedbump to run over along the way to controlling a political party that works solely for their interests. As we see more “browning of America” this political State of mind will increase, not decrease. Ironically, this is how politics works in shithole countries too … weird right? It is almost as if societies take upon the traits of their component parts.

There will be no socialism and shared progressive safety net without a White supermajority, “an Ethnostate” if you will. People of color controlling elections will happen within the Democrat party well before it is able to branch out into the larger political landscape. The few remaining Whites within the Democrat party will recognize this when they are eventually no longer able to seat candidates in party primaries, a point which may have already occurred. There are certainly some States, and countless cities and counties where this is already the reality. People of color as voting blocs have demonstrated no interest in gay and transgender issues, GMO food, global warming and environment, nor anything else urbanite, white, and hipster. City dwelling liberal Whites will not remain in a party where those things have zero traction or priority. They will want to go somewhere else.

Perhaps they will find a home with the hip and rebellious group that the GOP assures everyone “are not even conservatives….” Many have already made the jump.

Their establishment is effectively chasing these left wing White men into a harsh and painful birth, where they will have no choice but to become honest about race, just as ours did to us. The alt-right is waiting to work with them, our brothers, to come up with the solutions that modernity and the future will require. We are glad to welcome you. I suppose that this entire process was inevitable and the politics of the 20th century can fade permanently, giving way to what will be the inevitable politics of the 21st — identity …. blood and soil … whether we will or will not be replaced …

Welcome to the fight fellas! – Gwoobus Harmon

MY FAVORITE ACCESSORIES

from LIZ FASHION FEED http://ift.tt/2tCSao4 via IFTTT

#IFTTT #LIZ FASHION FEED

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mirkwoodshewolf · 5 years ago

Text

Aladdin Queen fic John Deacon x reader chap. 3; Second meeting

*Author’s note*

Okay guys so get read to binge read this series for a bit because since yesterday after finishing the last part of this chapter as well as writing up all of the next chapter, I’ve got 4 full chapters ready for you all to read and be amazed with. So I hope you all enjoy this little chapter and until the next update in just a short little while.

Taglist:

@psychosupernatural

@plethora-of-things

@waddles03

@ixchel-9275

@georgesgentlyweepingguitar

@queendeakyy

@simonedk

@geek-and-proud

@kairosfreddie

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In the throne room of the palace, stood the three daughter of Sultan Hassim of Punjab: the eldest Aesha, the middle child Kaia, and the youngest Priyanka along with their escorts and ensembles. Across the throne room just near the steps where the steps stood were the three English kings, King Harold of the kingdom Middlesex, King Michael of Norfolk, and King Arthur of Leicester.

“Welcome Princess Aesha, Kaia and Priyanka. We trust you three had a safe journey.” King Harold stated them as the doors slowly began to open.

When the doors were fully opened there in their royal garb stood Prince Roger and Prince John and in the middle stood Prince Brian. John nervously and unconsciously touched his right ring finger but remembered his ring was gone so he retreated his hand back. The three princesses stood in awe at seeing the three English princes.

“By Allah.” Whispered Priyanka. The three princes slowly walked down the steps with grace and poise and soon coming behind them was a servant around their age with short black hair and a mustache across his lips, in his arms he carried a badger and coming from the other side were the two lions, one female and a male lion with his dark mane shining proudly.

“Daughters of Hassim, allow us to introduce our sons, my only son Prince Brian.” King Harold started off.

“My eldest and only son Prince Roger.” Continued King Michael.

“And my eldest son, Prince John.” Finished King Arthur. The princesses stood in awe before the middle princess Kaia spoke.

“Why did no one tell us we would be meeting gods?”

“No one mentioned we would either.” Roger flirted back, but unlike how he would normally flirt with a woman, there was a bit of coldness to it.

“Aww thank you.” Kaia gushed obviously oblivious to Roger’s true meaning.

“They say back home in Punjab that we would be worthy of Lakshmi herself.” Bragged Priyanka as she made a high-class laugh and soon the escorts all laughed together in the same unison tone. “Men would line up the entire castle just to get a look at us.” The parrot on top of the advisor holding the snake staff laughed as John finally spoke.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny. We share the same title but are clearly not cut from the same cloth when it comes to humility and self-awareness.” At that statement Priyanka shuffled nervously. King Arthur cleared his throat and whispered.

“John, manners.” It was then Aesha noticed the badger the servant was holding and she said.

“Just what is that rat that servant boy is holding?”

“Badger. He’s a badger, actually. Not even relatively close to the rodent family.” Brian piped in defending his pet badger.

“It looks disgusting, take it out of my sight. I hate things that crawl!” Brian wanted to interject but his father told the servant to walk away with Brian’s badger.

“Oh forget about the rodent thing Aesha, check out those cats. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever seen.” Stated Priyanka. The male lion and lioness both glared at the princesses and were growling lowly.

“Indeed, especially the one with the luscious hair. She’s got to be the most beautifuliest cat I’ve ever laid eyes on.” Answered Kaia.

“He. Male lions have the mane, females don’t.” Roger answered as he stroked through his lion’s mane.

“They like you.” The parrot stated.

“What’s not to like? Back home cats adore us. Here kitty, kitty, kitties, hi kitty, kitties.” Priyanka walked up holding her hand out waving it towards the female lioness who just kept glaring and growling lowly, slowly baring her large canine fangs. As Priyanka continued to coo at the lioness, she was then met with a roar and a swipe of cat claws.

Her screams echoed through the walls as the escorts all just laughed.

Later that night in the study room of the English kings, they all sat around a desk with maps, books, a globe and scrolls all surrounding them. Standing before them was their grand vizier.

“My kings, our enemies grow stronger every day yet you allow your sons to dismiss the daughters of Hassim and a possible military alliance.”

“What enemies Paul?” asked king Arthur.

“Liverpool continues to amass.”

“Liverpool is our ally.”

“Was our ally.” Paul hissed out in emphasis.

“You would drag us into war with our oldest alley.”

“And you would allow our kingdom to sink into ruin for mere sentiment!”

“Paul!” roared Michael. Paul ceased and turned towards the second king. “Remember your place.” Continued king Michael.

“I apologize. Forgive me king Michael, I went to far.” Paul said as he slowly walked towards the door. But he stopped and slowly turned around and said “But,” it was then the eyes on his snake staff began to glow red.

It was then the three kings looked at Paul like they were under a trance.

“If you would only reconsider, I think you three would see that invading Liverpool, is the right thing to do.”

“Invading…Liverpool is…..” Arthur droned out in a monotoned voice.

“Invade Liverpool?” Paul was forced to release the spell he had over the three kings as John soon came into the room with a lioness behind him. His father Arthur turned towards his son as John continued, “Why would we invade mother’s homeland?”

“We would never invade Liverpool.” His father spoke.

“But an ally in Punjab would improve our situation.” Suggested Paul.

“Yes, if you and our sons would reconsider giving the princesses a chance.” Suggested king Harold.

“To rule? Uncle Harold I would rather have Nala as my Queen.”

“My son, we’re not getting any younger and…..we are running out of kingdoms. India is our only hope of a stronger worldly alliance.”

“Why must we marry a royal blood of a foreign country in order to help them? Now I have been preparing for this my whole life, I have read—”

“Books? But you cannot read experience Prince John. Inexperience is dangerous. People left unchecked will revolt, walls and borders unguarded will be attacked.” Paul spoke to him like he was scolding a child.

“Paul is right. One day,” his father came up to him and cupped the side of his face. “You will understand my son.” John looked up at his father breathing sharply but silently. “You may leave now.” John huffed before storming out of the studies with his lioness Nala following behind him.

John stopped in the middle of the hallway trying to calm himself down of his anger but also his sadness that his father still wouldn’t take him seriously.

Nala, his lioness came up and sat in front of him softly huffing and staring up at him solemnly, but when Paul Prenter came around the corner, her ears narrowed back and she growled defensively.

“Life would be kinder to you, Prince John. You have no wisdom of the world like Brian, nor the ambition of Roger. I think it would be better for you to be seen and not heard.” Paul spoke as he got closer to the young prince. As Prenter stared him down, he heard the threatening growl and was staring into the golden eyes of Nala.

He glared down at the big cat like he was looking at an abomination before calmly retreating back down the hallway.

John was now back in his, along with Brian’s and Roger’s, bedroom. He began thinking back to what Paul said. For years out of the three young Princes, John Deacon has always been the more quieter of the sons, he always relied more on his emotions rather than his actions.

Sure he would speak his mind when the time was necessary but he’d rather not get involved with things that were mostly stupid to him. After he lost his mother just three years ago he was so depressed and would barely speak, so with each princess he’s met he’s either acted cold and distant, or retorted back with his words like he did earlier this afternoon. As he walked around the room, he softly sung to himself.

*John*

Here comes a wave meant to wash me away A tide that is taking me under Broken again, left with nothing to say My voice drowned out in the thunder

But I can't cry And I can't start to crumble Whenever they try To shut me or cut me down

I can't stay silent Though they wanna keep me quiet And I tremble when they try it All I know is I won't go speechless

He sat down on the couch on the balcony before wiped away his hidden tears and trying to compose himself before Brian, Roger or their servant came through those doors.

*3rd Person POV*

Outside the palace, a merchant with a cart full of fresh supplies for the palace came pulling up to the gates of the palace and one of the guards told the gate keeper to open the gates. Standing amongst the crowd of people, who were watching a fire eater perform his nightly routine, (Y/n) stood there and whispered.

“Okay Abu, you know what to do.” Abu hopped off my shoulder and pestered one of the guards. As he was distracted, I walked up to one of the men and took his shawl off his back and wrapped it over my head and walked alongside the cart, pretending to be one of the assistance.

Unbeknownst to (y/n), something was watching her. The red parrot that always stood on Paul’s shoulder looked down from the perch he was on and said.

“Dirty monkey.” He then took off flying squawking out, “Street thief, street thief.” He flew high and over the palace till he arrived in another large study area that belong to his master, Paul who was now removing standing before a globe with a harsh look in his eyes.

“‘Remember your place, Paul’.”

“Remember your place.” The parrot mocked back.

“If I hear that one more time!”

“Sorry, master!”

“Another petty insult from those three small-minded English buffoons. They see a kingdom, where I see an empire.” Paul said as he walked around the globe towards a book that stood on a podium.

“Such vision.” His parrot spoke.

“Once that lamp sits in my hand…then I shall sit on the throne of England.”

“Thief in the palace.” His parrot spoke as it sat on the railing of the balcony.

“Thief. Thief in the palace?” asked Paul.

“That’s what I said. Thief!”

“What have you seen Iago?” Paul asked his parrot as he walked up towards him.

“Diamond in the rough.” As Paul now stood by his parrot Iago’s side he saw for himself just what the bird was talking about. Jumping and scaling across the top of some of the palace buildings was (Y/n).

After walking across the vineyard walls, (y/n) silently hopped down and hid behind one of the steel vineyard walls just as two guards turned around, wondering if they heard anything.

She then walked into the palace to see some servants cleaning up the room, while the captain of the guard monitored them. Telling them to either make bigger circles, or get a spot that they missed. (Y/n) noticed an abandoned red sari so she grabbed it and wrapped it around herself.

Paul and Iago came around towards the very part of the palace where they saw (y/n) go into to and there was a female servant with her head bowed down, her face hidden as she held a tray of tea while two guards passed by her.

When the servant revealed her face, it was (y/n). She softly smiled before walking off towards the Princes chambers.

“Who’s a clever girl?” Iago stated as Paul smirked.

“Indeed. She could be just who we are looking for.” Iago squawked as he flew off and Paul slipped away from the room.

Meanwhile in the Princes’ chambers John was standing along the balcony with the servant boy who came along with them to greet the Princesses. Prince Brian was by his maps with his badger standing right beside him, sniffing the paper, while Roger sat along his bed with his pet lion by his side.

“But Jim, there has to be something we can do.” John said as their servant Jim prepped him his nightly attire.

“Three princesses want to marry you and your two friends, when will life get any easier?”

“It’s not that we don’t want to marry, it’s just that we…..” Roger spoke as he dried his wet hair after just having his bath.

“John wants to be king, you wish to explore the world, and Brian you wish to become an astronomer.”

“You remember what our mums used to say, we would only be as happy as our least happiest subject. If they saw what Roger and I did today, they would be heartbroken.”

“They would also want us to be safe Deacy. And clean. I’m taking the next bath. You better not have used all the hot water this time Roger.” Brian spoke up as he stood up and headed towards the bathroom.

“No promises.” Roger said.

“With Paul’s guards on every corner, soon he’d have them invading our neighbors, risking lives and for what?” John continued as he looked out towards the balcony.

“Well one good thing will come from this forceful commitment of marriage. When I’m king, I’ll finally have the power to get rid of that slimy leech. What do you think John beheaded or gutting him? Or maybe a hanging?”

“Roger Taylor sometimes you worry me lad.” Jim stated solemnly.

“Oh come off it Jim, you’re the only Irish man I would spare from punishment. But Paul deserves everything I’ve got planned coming to him. I still don’t get why our father’s made him the grand vizier. If anything I would’ve made him the royal poop cleaner to Simba here.” He spoke as he stroked his lion’s mane who huffed and lowly growled. “What do you say Simba? You could give that overdressed, self-absorbed Paul Prenter a thing or two to scream about wouldn’t you?” Roger cooed as he cupped his lion’s face before affectionately headbutting him.

Simba rubbed up against Roger’s head before raising his head up and Roger proceeded to scratch under his chin down to his mid chest.

“To a degree I agree with Roger. We were born to do than marry some useless princess. It seems like all these princesses we are given don’t know how to speak up and just do whatever we say, or are too arrogant and spoiled.” John said.

“If you three had to choose a triplet of princesses, you lot could do worse than these three. I mean they do seem beautiful and yes they are a little spoiled but you’re just getting married. It’s not like you’ll have to talk to them.” Jim said.

“I wouldn’t go there Jim. Besides, he’d rather take that girl from the market place.” Roger teased as Jim softly chuckled before heading towards the bathroom to prepare Brian for his bath. John scoffed a chuckle. “Oh don’t play that John, you both we’re practically gaga for each other this afternoon. Hell she didn’t even notice me at all when we first met.”

“Yes Roger you’re very attractive, so much so that everyone confused you for a woman frequently while we were there.” John mocked back.

“Are you serious?!” cried out Brian from the bathroom. Roger glared at John and hissed.

“You bitch.” John grinned smugly when a soft knock was heard at the door. He walked down the two steps of the balcony and went up to the door and opened it to see someone with their back turned.

“Can I help you?” but when the person turned around, John was surprised to see the girl from the marketplace.

*My POV*

When the doors opened to reveal Jim, I held the tray of tea out and said.

“Tea?”

“You? You! What are you doing here!? Get in here now!” he pulled me inside the room and quickly shut the door.

“I came to return your ring.”

“My ring? Where is it?”

“On your finger.” I looked around in awe before I caught the sight of Ben, shirtless but wearing nightly pants stroking a big cat of sorts. I think I was a lion maybe? Never really seen those here but I have read stories about them. “Oh Ben hello.”

“Well, well look whose come back? Enjoying the view?”

“I’ll admit it’s not bad. I love what the princes have done with the place.”

“How did you get past the guards?” asked Jim.

“That was challenging, but I have my ways.” I said as I turned back towards him. “Hey Jim, while the princes are out, would you—like to go for a stroll? Have a little chat?” I now stood in front of him and he softly shook his head as he said.

“You’re unbelievable. You cannot just break into a palace and walk around like you own the place.”

“If you don’t have anything, you have to act like you own everything.”

“She’s got you there mate.” Ben said as he continued to stroke the lion.

“So what do you say? I did find your ring.”

“You did not find my ring, you stole it.”

“Correction the monkey stole it.”

“He’s your monkey.” He retorted.

“He’s still a monkey.” I argued back. He softly grinned at me.

“Who ordered the tea?” it was then we all turned to see a tall lean man who had massive curly hair and hazel eyes. He was in a bathrobe and standing by his side was another lion but without the hair, which made me think that this one was a female lion. I looked at the man stunned but before I could say anything Jim spoke up.

“I did. For you, Prince John Deacon.” Oh my god this was Prince John.

“Your majesty.” I did my best to bow.

“Why are you being weird?” I heard Prince John say. I turned to look towards Jim who settled himself from doing something and just smiled at me. I turned back towards the youngest English Prince and that’s when he face shined with realization.

“Oh I’m Prince John. Yes, mm-hmm. And it truly is good to be me. The young prince of Leicester. The accent I have is far unique and strange to anyone else of my little kingdom. But of course I always look up to Prince Brian because he is far superior to me with his wisdom for words and wisdom of numbers. Yes I do so admire that brother of mine.” He praised in an accent that almost clearly didn’t seem to fit him. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my precious lioness needs to be cleaned.” He then turned and walked away.

Okay that was—weird. I turned towards Jim and he looked at me and said.

“Poor thing doesn’t get out much.” I hummed and turned my back as I set the tea set down on a nearby table.

“Clearly.” But when I turned back around I was suddenly greeted by the lioness staring me down.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the bath?” she walked up towards me and sniffed my hand before softly whining out.

“Oi servant boys! This cat aren’t going to clean themselves you know!” Prince John proclaimed from the back room.

“But don’t cat’s usually clean themselves?” I asked.

“You have to leave now.” Jim urged me on as he dragged me towards the doors.

“Okay. But I’m coming back tomorrow night.”

“What? No you can’t….”

“Meet me in the courtyard beside the fountain when the moon hits above the minaret.” I then swiftly stole another ring from John’s finger, this time a silver medallion pin like ring that rested on his right ring finger. “To return this ring next.” Jim looked at me astonished.

I then reached up and gently but hesitantly tucked back a strand of his hair that fell to his eyes. I fiddled the ring between my fingers at him giving him my promise, before finally slipping out of the room.

As I ditched the servant sari, Abu came up towards me and got up on my shoulder and we walked off.

*John’s POV*

“What a woman. Now if she had done that to me, I would’ve had her right then and there.” Roger whistled.

“Keep your urges to yourself.” I hissed. I looked down at my right hand to see my ring finger was now naked but as I touched it, I swore I could still feel a hint of her fingers touching it as she went to grab my ring.

*My POV*

“Can you believe it Abu? The most heavily guarded place in all of Agrabah…” I said as Abu hung from my shoulder to my arm and we both admired the ring as well as me twirling around like it was nothing. But as I faced forward again, the captain of the guards stood before me.

“Evening.” He said as Abu came to hide behind my back.

“Evening.” My voice squeaked before I cleared my throat and I said again, “Evening.” There was silence before I said, “You’ve got guards behind me, don’t you?” suddenly my vision went black as something came over my head and I was dragged out of the palace.

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