#or half the beatles at least

[zilabee]

[thegalaxyinapaperbag2]

i just realized stupidly that i only ever posted these on pinterest and instagram so here’s part 1 of the beatle tbh’s

[carewyncromwell]

🏠&✈️ for Carewyn (moodboard ask game)

🏠 HOUSE — my muse's family/hometown: Liverpool, England, UK

✈️ AIRPLANE — my muse's dream travel destination(s): Vienna, Austria

I loved these prompts so much, ma cherie, thank you!! xoxoxo

Character Aesthetic Ask!

[plexiglassonion]

a small section of my script, doodled (poorly)

[beatlblog]

#they were litol kids (via @biatels)

#one beatle year is like 10 regular ones I swear (via @drivenalphabitchpaulmccartney)

#we forget how young they were#blaming them for being stupid#I was so extremely stupid in my 20’s and I didn’t deal with even a fraction of what these boys went through (via @majinmelmo)

see now i bypass that by only interacting with a few people therefore hurting fewer life hack! /s

#I forget how young they were all the time#like for ringo and paul the most chaotic parts of their lives were half a century ago like what (via @lefant14)

depends on what counts as chaotic

The Beatles in 1969 | 28 year-old John Lennon, 28 year-old Ringo Starr, 26 year-old Paul McCartney & 25 year-old George Harrison

[apricot-blossomss]

☛ mortal! fem! reader telling apollo she is pregnant

☛ sfw, angsty-ish, fluff

he was late, and it only worsened your anxiety. for the last half hour, you had been pacing nervously around the house, jumping at every sound that might announce the return of your immortal lover. the ticking of the clock mocked your growing despair as your gaze flickered between the door, the window and the bathroom door that stood between you and it. the positive pregnancy test on your sink.

five minutes late. was there any way he knew already? would he never come back to you again? the nausea that crept up your throat was very unlike the one that had you throwing up over the toilet this morning. just when you thought you would start to cry, there was a knock on the door. eight knocks in the rhythm of "here comes the sun" by the beatles.

since you had been waiting by the door, you opened it in a matter of seconds, only to be met with the face of apollo. a look of surprise graced his divine features and he smiled breathtakingly down at you with raised eyebrows. "quite eager to see me, are ya', sunshine?"

swallowing down your worry and despair was easy when he was right here, in front of you, when his shining smile made your heart burst with happiness and his deft fingers reached for your hips to ground you against him. a warm hand landed on your neck as your lover gazed down at you with pure adoration in his eyes and leaned down to kiss you. it was warm, it was perfect, it was like coming home and you sighed contentedly into his mouth.

however, you were pulled out of your haze when you felt the tips of his fingers dip under your skirt and the kiss become more heated. shakily, your hands pressed against his chest to push him away and immediately, you could feel him retracting. "love?" you opened your eyes to find him looking down at you, his worried eyes searching your features for an explanation for your shaky figure.

you should get this over with. after all, it was also his fault that you were now in this predicament. so you smoothed out your skirt and looked him in the eye, fingers fiddling with each other. "apollo, i'm... i'm pregnant"

the rush of emotions on his face was too fast and intense for your mortal senses to pick up. there seemed to be conflicting reactions within your lover which at least meant that he didn't only react with distain. at last, worry remained as his hands wrapped themselves around your bicep and he leaned down to your height. "how are you feeling?" oh, right. god of medicine.

"fine, just a little morning sickness earlier today," you answered, remembering the horrific story of his own birth. without your permission, your lower lip started to quiver and your fingers clawed at his shirt. "will you- will you leave me now?" you lowered your head to avoid looking at him if he pushed you away, it would be so much harder that way.

not that you thought he was a monster. but he was a god. dieties are fickle, as one mortal is only a second in the eternity of their existence. god's don't stick around and only rarely burden themselves with taking care of a mother and a child. from the moment you saw that the test was positive, you knew you wanted the baby, but you also wanted apollo. would you have to let one or the other go?

"leave you?" strong hands tilted your averted face towards the god and you couldn't help the tears burning in your eyes. if you could at least have a graceful farewell, but no. here you were, crying pathetically between his warm hands. apollos brows were furrowed- in anger, wonder, worry? you couldn't decipher it, even though you could read him fairly well most of the time.

"yes?" you squeaked with your broken crying voice. a dry chuckle left apollos lips and you frowned. must he mock you now as well?

"sunshine," he sighed and another tear escaped your eye at the sound of the nickname. grimacing, he brushed it away and offered you a gentle smile. "after all the poems and songs and declarations, what made you think i could leave you this easily?"

"don't you gods always?" you sniffed and tried to blink your tears away. "apollo, I- I want to keep it"

"good," he hummed and lowered his head to press a kiss onto your tear-stained cheek. "if that's what you want" as if to physically stop him from leaving, your arms locked around his godly body and you hid your face in his neck. your voice quivering with a shy hope, you whispered: "I want you, too"

"well, i'm glad," he laughed and you shuddered because even that sounded so ethereal. softly, he said your name, prompting you to look at him. with your faces only an inch apart, his warm breath fanned your moist face. he was smiling and you were in awe of how happy he looked. "sunshine, i'm not leaving. not ever"

"no?" you hiccuped embarrassingly and he chuckled. strong hands came up to cup your tummy as if there was a bump already. "i am amazed by your strength, lover, to carry our child. i shall promise to be with you every step of the way."

"thank god," you laughed and wiped your tears away. looking back, your outburst seemed almost stupid, but you knew you were justified in your suspicions when it came to gods and their feeling of obligation to their families. but not apollo. your lover was going to stay, with you, with the child. as the realization sunk in, your heart swelled with joy. about the baby, about the god in your arms, about your family.

new strength flooded through you and you took a step back. "i'll make dinner, do you want-"

apollo didn't let you finish, he picked you up princess style and shook his head scoldingly. "you aren't allowed to do anything. i'm making dinner, you just relax." before you could protest, he set you down on the couch, covered you in blankets and placed a cup of tea in your hands. "do you feel okay? any nausea? any pain?"

the deadpan look you gave him didn't seem to impress him very much. "apollo, I'm only a few weeks pregnant, this is ridiculous, do you want me to spend the next seven months on this couch?"

A tender but mischievous smile graced his lips as he pecked your nose and tucked you in despite your protests. "maybe. what would you do about it?"

"probably smother myself with these pillows out of boredom." you huffed and rolled your eyes. "apollo-"

"i know," he almost whined and you raised your brows. this thousands of years old diety was not supposed to sound like a toddler asking for his bedtime story. "it's just- you humans are so easily ki- hurt"

you frowned, but he turned away and walked a little more hurriedly to the kitchen than necessary. to not elicit any more protests, you didn't go after him but sat up on the couch, watching him scramble around just a tad bit to un-gracefully for a god. a sigh left your lips as you watched him and he stiffened a little. "apollo, how are you ever going to get through the childbirth?"

[lennonmccartneyofficial]

Happy July 6th everyone 💚💙

Welcome to the McLennon Multiverse

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirteen

I don't even have anything to say besides good luck reading this one...and the next one...and the next... 🫣 Remember that I love you guys!

Warnings: ANGST!!!, panic attack, Richard Monroe being creepy and weird

“So,” Hotch checks his side mirrors before merging onto the interstate. “Strauss said she had already discussed this with you.”

You sigh, checking your watch. You’ve been on the road for barely twenty minutes. So much for the coffee being a peace offering.

“Yes,” you answer finally, rubbing your forehead. The caffeine did absolutely nothing for your headache. “When we had lunch before the last case.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Yes,” you repeat, irritation rising already.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Sorry, is that a rhetorical question?”

If he wasn’t driving, Hotch would’ve glared at you. Hard.

You roll your eyes, continuing anyway. “Because a new case came in, so we had other priorities — and Strauss didn’t say it was a sure thing. It was only a maybe.”

“If she mentioned it, it was already a sure thing.”

“Well, pardon-fucking-me.”

Hotch says nothing. You say nothing.

Maybe the coffee did do something, because for some reason, you break the silence. And give him a genuine answer.

“I didn’t think you needed to know— Don’t make that face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“Yes, you are,” you hiss. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you. Because I knew you’d act like I didn’t tell you as a purposeful slight against you and for once, alright, that wasn’t my intention, I just—” You pause, voice quieting, “I didn’t want to think about it.”

Hotch stays quiet for a moment. “Are you nervous?”

“Yes, Hotch, I’m nervous about talking to a serial killer who seems obsessed with me and recognized me for some goddamn reason that I can’t place and it kept me awake last night — is that what you wanted me to say?”

The admission feels like you’ve cracked your chest open, baring your heart to him, goading him, daring him to make fun of you. You half expect him to, or you at least expect him to ask more prying questions, but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t do any of that, and it shocks you so bad that it takes a minute to register what he’s actually just said to you.

“You don’t have to do this. I won’t force you.”

It’s not said in a teasing manner, or even the least bit condescending. It’s soft, genuine.

You sigh, wishing you could take him up on his offer and ask him to turn the car around. “I do. I do have to. I want him to keep cooperating in the investigation because…I don’t know, maybe it’ll lead them closer to who kidnapped Lila.” You turn your head, looking out the window. “But yeah, I’m scared. He creeps me out.” 

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” Hotch says, still so genuine.

In any other circumstance, that would not have comforted you. You’re surprised that it comforts you right now. 

Part of you expected Hotch to force you to speak to Richard alone, just to watch you have another freak out, just so he can say he told you so. Admittedly, that doesn’t sound like something he’d do. Because as much as the two of you argue and get under each other’s skin, he isn’t a cruel person.

“Thank you,” you say, turning to look at him.

He glances at you for only a second, keeping his focus on the road. But he nods. “Of course.”

You let the silence hang for a bit, broken only by the soft sounds of The Beatles still playing on a low volume. Traffic is moving steadily; you’ll be at the prison in no time.

You contemplate telling Hotch the truth right now — ripping the band aid off, getting it over with before it can come out of Richard’s mouth. But then again, you don’t know if Richard will say the truth. He seemed to enjoy having one up on Hotch in the interrogation room, having a secret only the two of you knew, especially considering it was clear you weren’t going to disclose it.

You think of how Hotch has been the past few days. Reassuring you that you’re valuable to this team and deserve your place here. The peace offering of coffee that he somehow remembered correctly. The strange reassurance now, that he won’t force you to do this if you’re uncomfortable.

You think of what Rossi said that night at the hotel bar. How do you know that it’ll make Hotch look at you differently? You don’t know for sure.

But it’s all easier said than done. When it comes down to it, the words refuse to escape your throat, even as you’re finally giving them permission. It would be so simple to say it now, while you’re in the car, in private, and Hotch is behind the wheel so he’d be forced to control his emotions. You could say it right now.

You could.

But you don’t. You reach forward and turn the music up slightly, glancing in Hotch’s direction to see the tiniest of hints of a smile crawling up his lips.

That’s enough to make you stay quiet. You’d rather not ruin what little peace the two of you have found right now.

+++

You’re shaking like a leaf but doing your damnedest not to show it when Hotch parks at the prison. You unbuckle and go to open your door when Hotch places his hand on your arm, effectively bolting you in place. Slowly, your eyes drag over to his.

“The second you want to leave, you tell me,” he says, sincere and firm. “Okay?”

You nod, swallowing around the traitorous lump in your throat. “Yeah. Okay.”

He nods once to confirm, then removes his hand and steps out of the car, leaving you staring at the empty space. But you know if you don’t get out of the car in the next second, he’s going to make the executive decision that you can’t do this, and that’ll just piss you off. 

You can do this.

You force yourself out of the car, shutting the door mechanically. You reach into your pocket and find your badge, clipping it on the outside of your blazer. They’ll give you visitor badges when you head inside, but it’s easier to have this out. And somehow it makes you feel safer.

You follow Hotch to the entrance of the prison, going through the motions of checking in and locking your weapons away. You both knew you’d have to leave them at the door, but neither of you wanted to make the drive without them, just in case.

After finishing check in and sticking your visitor pass next to your FBI badge, you walk through the large steel doors. An officer waits just inside to guide you and Hotch to the block where Richard Monroe is already in a small room for you to speak with him.

“We didn’t think you’d come,” the officer says casually. “He’s been asking for you for weeks.”

You can practically hear Hotch’s scowl.

“Yeah, I know,” you reply, trying to sound just as nonchalant. “We had other pressing issues. He’s lucky I had a free afternoon.”

The officer chuckles, but says nothing else, weaving you and Hotch through other doors. You forgot how much prisons can feel like a labyrinth. You’re aware that that’s the point, but it does nothing to soothe your nerves.

You reach the final door standing between you and Richard Monroe, and it’s like your nerves skyrocket in one second, nausea threatening to buckle your knees.

Get yourself together, you scold internally. He can’t hurt you.

You mean for it to be reassuring, but your doubt creeps in. You don’t know for sure that he can’t hurt you. Physically, sure, he can’t, because he’s cuffed to a table that’s bolted to the floor and there are two officers standing guard directly behind him, and you have Hotch with you. But verbally? You have no idea what is about to come out of his mouth when he sees you.

“Ready?” the officer asks.

You nod, and Hotch does as well, only after seeing you do it.

The buzzer sounds out as the door unlocks, and the officer pushes it in, letting you and Hotch pass through.

“You came!” Richard’s voice echoes as soon as he spots you. “I told you she’d come!” he says, seemingly to the two officers standing behind him. He looks back at you, eager gaze hardening into a frown when Hotch appears behind you. “Oh. You brought him.”

Your mind finally kicks into gear, your countless hours of interrogation training flooding you as you offer a polite smile. “It’s nice to see you, Richard.”

His frown melts away just a fraction. “It’s nice to see you! I’d stand and properly greet you, but,” he holds up his hands, chains clanking when he reaches the end. “You know how it is.”

“That’s alright,” you say, pulling the chair out across from him and sitting down. “I heard you’ve been asking for me.”

“Took you long enough to answer,” he replies, only slightly bitter. His eyes flick toward Hotch who no doubt looms behind you. “Does he have to be here?”

You chuckle, threading your fingers together and resting them comfortably on the table. “Richard, you had to know there was no way I’d be allowed to speak to you alone, right?”

He practically pouts. “But why?”

You ignore him. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” you ask, checking your watch. “I don’t have long.”

Richard seems unphased  by this, but his eyes glance back at Hotch. “Can you at least make him sit? He’s making me nervous.”

His tone isn’t at all serious, but still you oblige, turning to look at Hotch and nod for him to sit next to you.

You know Hotch doesn’t smile that often, but the frown he’s sporting on his face right now looks deeper than any others. You knew already, obviously, that he doesn’t like Richard Monroe, but it’s starting to feel a lot more serious than what he’s letting on.

When Hotch sits next to you, he leans on his forearms on the table, staring Richard down.

On second thought, maybe you should have fought harder to speak to Richard alone if Hotch is going to act like he’s trying to set the man on fire with only his eyes.

“Richard,” you say, gaining his attention so he’ll stop looking at Hotch with his taunting gaze. “What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

“How’s Lila?” he asks.

“She’s fine, as far as I know,” you reply. “I haven’t spoken with her.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” you shrug. You’re not going to bother explaining yourself to him. You know these aren’t the real questions he wants to ask. “Anything else?”

“How are you?”

Hotch tenses just a little, enough that only you would notice. Richard clearly doesn’t because he keeps his focus on you.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Thanks for asking. How are you?”

“Fine,” he shrugs, then goes quiet.

You sigh. “Alright, if that’s all, then we should be going, we have other—”

“Wait,” Richard nearly jumps forward, chains rattling. The officers behind him take half a step toward him, but you shake your head, telling them it’s fine.

“What?” you prompt. “As much as I love catching up with you, I can’t do this often. So ask what you need to because I can’t promise I’ll come here again.”

Richard glances at Hotch, then back at you. “Does he know?”

You hardly register what he might be getting at, so you parrot his question stupidly. “Does he know what?”

Richard smirks, eyes falling back on Hotch. “She hasn’t told you.” He pauses, smirk deepening the more he studies Hotch’s face. “Oh…but you do know,” he hisses, not unlike a snake. “But does she?”

Your eyebrows furrow, the panic starting to creep in. “Do I know what?” you ask, your voice firm. You turn to look at Hotch, finding him glaring at Richard, his jaw tense. “Hotch.”

He won’t look at you.

No. No.

“I think I know who kidnapped Lila, and why you haven’t found him yet,” Richard says, ever so casually, looking back at you, still grinning like the fucking cheshire cat. “And I think you know, too. Deep down. You just haven’t admitted to yourself yet.”

You don’t know what comes over you. The words fly out of your mouth before you can stop them. “My father is dead.”

“Oh, I know that,” Richard scoffs. “Not him, silly. Sorry for your loss, by the way. Well, for both losses.”

You feel Hotch’s gaze flick toward you for only a moment, but he doesn’t turn his head, keeping his glare leveled at Richard.

“Who, then?” you snap, barreling past all the emotions he’s dredging up, letting anger cover them all like a shield. “Give me a name, Richard, don’t fucking play with me.”

“Why not?” he starts to pout again. “It’s oh-so fun.”

“A name,” Hotch repeats, much harsher than you. “Now.”

“I don’t know his name,” Richard says, and you don’t believe him for a second. “Just that he was close with your dad. A little too close, I think, but,” he pauses with a dramatic sigh, lifting his fingers as much as he can to wave, “what do I know, right?”

“Anything else you’d like to spill?” you fume. “I’m not coming here again.”

“I’m surprised you came in the first place,” Richard taunts. “Though I’m not surprised you brought him. Bit of a guard dog, isn’t he?”

You clench your jaw so hard you’re worried you’re going to crack your molars. “That’s enough.” You push your chair back and stand to your feet, forcing your knees not to shake. “Thanks for wasting my time.”

“Always a pleasure,” Richard grins. “And please, shoot him when you find him?” he asks, bitterness curling his tongue. “The bastard was supposed to leave my daughter out of it.”

You have no fucking clue what that means, but you’re damn sure not sticking around to ask. 

You don’t even look behind you to see if Hotch is following you, but you know he is. You know his footsteps, especially when he’s irritated and walking briskly.

You stomp your way through all of the doors, saying nothing to the officer as he guides you back to the exit. 

You check out at the front, signing your name and collecting your belongings, securing your gun back on your hip. You rip the visitor badge off and hand it back to the officer at the front door.

You’re outside in the fresh air before you start breathing normally — if your deep, heaving breaths can be considered normal. You’re pacing in circles outside the car when Hotch finally catches up with you.

You brace yourself for some snide remark. For some prying questions. 

You brace yourself so hard for these things that you flinch when instead Hotch asks, “Are you okay?”

“Don’t fucking ask me that right now,” you snap, halting your steps just to glare at him. “How much do you know?”

“Get in the car.”

“No,” you say through gritted teeth. “Answer me.”

“Y/N.”

“Aaron.”

It’s the first time you’ve used his first name, and it causes him to physically take a step away from you. 

Somehow that’s as damning as when he wouldn’t look at you inside the prison with Richard.

“Unbelievable,” your voice is hoarse, breaking and tripping over every syllable. “I can’t— Oh my god, you—” You shake your head. “You’ve known—”

Alarm flashes over Hotch’s face. “Y/N…” he says, slowly stepping toward you like you’re a wounded animal that might flee. “You need to breathe.”

“Don’t,” you swat at the air, thinking he’s closer than he is. “Don’t.”

Hotch opens the passenger door, trying to herd you toward it. It doesn’t take much effort, your instincts acting on their own and forcing you toward a place where you can sit. It’s either the concrete of the parking lot, or the comfort of the car seat. You opt for the car.

He keeps his distance, standing at the edge of the door as he watches you sit and try to control your breathing again. You suck in gasps of air before you stop breathing entirely, and just when he thinks you’re going to faint, you exhale. 

It goes on, and on, and on, for what feels like hours. He stands there, helpless, knowing if he moves closer it’ll only make it worse. He will only make it worse.

Eventually, you gain control again and you turn, facing forward in the car, your knees pulled up to your chest. Hotch takes the opportunity to shut the door.

When he gets in the driver’s seat, you’ve let your knees down and buckled yourself in, and wrapped your arms around your middle.

He wants to hold you instead. He wants to make it better. He wants to fix this. He knows where he went wrong, but it was tearing him up inside, not knowing what was going on with you, and it’s tearing him up now, seeing you like this. Knowing now that you’ve been feeling this way this whole time, and you haven’t let anyone in. Haven’t let anyone help.

He wants to help. He wants you to want him to help. He wants you to let him in.

But you won’t. And he’s ruined all chances of that, and he has no one to blame except himself for the fury you’re about to rain down on him.

If you ever start talking.

You’re completely silent, and somehow that haunts him even worse than anything you could say or have said to him in the past. This silent rage where you stare straight ahead, not moving — he has to check to see if you’re even breathing — it’s terrifying. 

It’s like you’re not even in the car with him.

[sugardollcurse]

𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒓

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x reader

꒰ summary ꒱ you’re a florist’s apprentice. the boys stop in to buy flowers for an interview shoot. george asks you what the meanings of the flowers are, and listens. really listens.

꒰ note ꒱ i'm so proud of this i think

The bell above the shop door jingled with a sound so familiar you didn’t bother to look up. It was the middle of a Thursday, early spring, and the windows were still a little fogged from the morning's chill. Your hands were buried in a bucket of cool water and daffodil stems, fingertips tingling from the cold, when you heard a chorus of vaguely familiar voices. “No, Paul, it’s not for you. It’s fer the camera. You don’t need to pick the pinkest ones.”

“‘Course I do, don’t want my complexion lookin’ grey in that shot.”

“Oh, sod off, you’re always hoggin’ the spotlight.”

You blinked. Froze a moment. Looked up... slowly.

They were there. Not just people. Them.

The Beatles.

Real. In your shop. Or at least, the shop you apprenticed at, tucked on the corner of a street just shy of town center. They looked like they'd just wandered in off the street, which, well, they had. No entourage, no screaming fans. Just four young men in tailored coats and those mop-top haircuts you'd seen in magazines and on telly and... right there. In front of the hydrangeas.

You dried your hands on your apron without thinking, watching as Paul turned a bunch of roses this way and that, critiquing the hue like he was selecting paint for a living room wall. John was already halfway to bored, poking at the baby’s breath and pretending to sneeze dramatically into it. Ringo peered curiously at a row of chrysanthemums.

And George was standing still.

He wasn’t talking. Just looking around. He had one hand in his coat pocket, and the other gently grazing the edge of a display bucket filled with lilies.

You moved forward before your brain fully caught up.

“Um. Can I help you?”

They all turned toward you like a school of fish changing direction, but it was George who answered.

“Yeah, ta. We’re doin’ a shoot later. Some magazine thing. They want us holdin’ flowers. We wanted to look for the flowers ourselves.” His accent was thick with Liverpool, low and smooth like the underside of a river stone. “Don’t know why. Just want us lookin’ ‘springy’, apparently.

“Oh,” you said, nodding. “Seasonal.”

“Yeah. Flowers ‘n all. Makes sense, I s’pose.”

You expected him to wander off again, maybe nudge Ringo or roll his eyes with John. But instead, George kept looking at you. Curious. Not impatient. He leaned a little closer, chin tilted toward the bucket you’d been sorting.

“What do these ones mean?” he asked, gesturing.

You blinked. “The daffodils?”

“Mm.”

You hesitated a beat. “Rebirth. New beginnings. Some say unrequited love.”

That made his eyebrows lift. “S’pose they couldn’t make up their minds either, eh?”

You smiled faintly. “It depends on the culture. But yeah, most flowers have a few meanings. Layers, I guess.”

George hummed like that meant something to him. Then turned toward the rest of the display, eyes scanning slowly.

“What about those?” he asked, pointing to a cluster of delicate white blooms... sweet alyssum.

“Sweetness of soul,” you said. “And serenity.”

He nodded once, then twice, like he was filing that away. Not just hearing you, listening. You could almost see it, the way his attention lingered. Not on your apron, or your hands, or your face in that glassy, half-present way most customers did. But all of you. As if your voice, your knowledge, your presence, all of it held weight.

“What’re you gettin’ all poetic for?” John called from the corner. “It’s just a bunch of petals, George.”

George didn’t even turn. “They’ve got meanings, y’know.”

John made a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “So do I, but you don’t see me wrapped in cellophane.”

Paul shook his head, still fussing with a bouquet. “Can we just pick somethin’ already? We’ve got to be at the studio in half an hour.”

“Go on, then,” George said. But he didn’t move away from you. He pointed to a spiky stalk of delphinium. “That one?”

“Dignity,” you said. “Sometimes grace. But in the old Victorian guides, it could also mean fun, or lightness.”

He gave a small smile. “Nice mix, that. Like a posh joker.”

“I guess so.”

He went quiet for a moment, then offered his hand. “I’m George.”

You shook it before thinking. “I know.”

He tilted his head. “Do you?”

Your fingers slipped away, a bit too warm now. “Everyone does.”

“Dunno about that,” he said, but didn’t press it. “What’s your name?”

You told him. Something about the way he repeated it, quietly, as if testing the shape of it in his mouth... made it bloom behind your ribs.

“I think I’d like a bunch that means somethin’,” he said. “Not just for the photo. You’ve got a good sense for it.”

You nodded. “Alright. Give me a minute.”

You moved on instinct, half-aware of his gaze following as you plucked stems from across the room. An iris for wisdom. A sprig of lavender for devotion. A single hellebore for serenity in the face of challenge. You weren’t sure why your fingers chose those, only that they felt right. Then something softer, a wild pansy, delicate and thoughtful. And at the last moment, a bloom of peony. Passion. A quiet flame.

You handed them over in a tied bouquet, no frills. George took it gently, like it was a glass bird.

“Thanks,” he said.

He looked down at them, then back at you. “Think I’ll remember this.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you just nodded. A beat passed. Then another.

And then Paul whistled. “Come on, George, don’t fall in love in the flower shop, we’ve got telly to do!”

George rolled his eyes, but still lingered another moment.

“See you ‘round,” he said, and it sounded like a promise.

Then the bell rang again, and they were gone.

You didn’t expect him to come back.

But he did. A week later.

You were arranging window baskets when the bell chimed, and you glanced up, already speaking.

“We’re out of tulips until Tuesday, I’m afraid-”

“Wasn’t comin’ for tulips.”

You froze. Then turned.

George stood in the doorway, hands in his coat pockets again, hair messier than last time. A little windblown. A little tired.

But smiling.

“Oh,” you said. Brilliantly. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was a pause. The air smelled like eucalyptus and lemon balm, and your knees suddenly felt like water.

“I liked the flowers,” he said, after a beat. “Didn’t just look good in the photo. Felt… right. Like they meant somethin’.”

“I’m glad.”

Another pause. He stepped closer, slow. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome.

“D’you mind if I ask about a few more?”

“No,” you said quickly. “Of course not.”

So you did. You walked him through meanings again, deeper this time. Into forgotten symbols, language barely spoken anymore. He listened like it was music. Like your voice had chords. Sometimes he’d ask strange things, like:

“If you were a flower, which one would you be?”

You thought. “Maybe a thistle.”

He laughed. “Prickly?”

You shrugged.

He tilted his head. “Yeah. I see that.”

And sometimes he'd point and ask, “What would you never give someone?”

You answered. “Yellow carnation. Rejection. Contempt.”

George raised his eyebrows.

“Brutal, isn’t it?”

“Mm.” His gaze stayed on the flowers a moment longer, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Flowers’ve got more bite than I thought.”

You nodded. “That’s why people used to take them so seriously. Whole courtships, built on what someone handed you in a nosegay.”

That made him laugh under his breath. “Suppose I’d best brush up, then.”

“You planning to court someone?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave you a small smile and changed the subject, easy as water slipping through cracks.

It was two days later when you opened the shop early, fog still hugging the pavement, keys cold in your palm, and found something leaning against the front door.

A single bloom. Pale, soft, and unmistakable.

A moonflower.

You crouched without thinking, brushing a finger along the velvet white petals. It had been left gently, carefully, wrapped in a twist of brown paper and twine. Not one of yours. Not from your buckets or any arrangement in the shop. In fact, you hadn’t seen a moonflower around here in months. Not since late summer, when they crept open only at night, shy and glowing under moonlight.

And yet, there it was. Waiting.

You unlocked the door with your breath held and brought it inside like it might dissolve in your hands. There was no note. No explanation. Just that singular bloom, unfurled with something like trust.

You pressed it into water, heart thudding.

George didn’t come that day.

Or the next.

You tried not to wonder about it too much. He was famous. Busy. You told yourself he was probably in another city. Probably recording, or flying, or being asked to smile for someone else’s camera.

But you couldn’t stop looking at the moonflower. Turning it over in your mind. In the language of flowers, it meant dreaming of love. Of waiting in the quiet dark, hoping for something that blooms when no one’s watching. It must've been from him. You knew it was.

He came back the morning after that.

The bell above the door rang, and you were elbow-deep in ivy stems, not expecting anything. Not anymore.

But then there he was. Same coat, collar upturned. Eyes a little tired. Hands in his pockets.

You stared. “You left a flower.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Did I?”

“Moonflower.”

“Sounds romantic,” he said, and his lips twitched like he couldn’t quite hide the smile. “D’you like it?”

You tried not to beam, tried not to let it show, but you knew it was already there in your voice. “Where’d you get it?”

He shrugged, but it was a loaded one. “Got a bloke I know. S’pose I could’ve asked you, but I wanted it to be... right.”

“You remembered what it meant.”

“‘Course I did.”

He moved closer, quiet, careful. The hum of traffic outside seemed very far away. And then:

“What’s your favourite?” he asked, low and rough-edged, like it cost him something.

You looked at him, really looked. His eyes were soft but searching, wide with a kind of wonder you weren’t used to being the subject of.

“I don’t know,” you said. “It changes.”

“Tell me anyway.”

You hesitated. Then: “Snowdrops. First ones to bloom in winter. They’re not flashy. They just… come back.”

George nodded slowly, the answer sitting somewhere deep in his chest. “Hope,” he murmured.

You smiled. “You remembered that too.”

Another pause, close enough now that you could smell his cologne, soft, musky, clinging faintly to the lapels of his coat.

Then he reached into his pocket.

“I brought you somethin’,” he said, almost shy.

He pulled out a single sunflower. Like he just plucked one on his way here. Like he’d taken painful care of it.

Your breath caught.

“George-”

He didn’t hand it to you yet. Just looked at it. Then you. “D’you reckon that’s a bit too obvious?”

“No,” you said, voice small. “It’s nice.”

This time, when he passed it to you, his fingers lingered.

You took it like it was something sacred.

He stayed after that.

Not every day. But enough that your coworkers stopped asking. Enough that your boss raised a brow once, then smirked and let it go.

He didn’t bring flowers every time, but he brought other things. Stories, poems he’d read, a sandwich he thought you might like. Once, a record he said reminded him of you. You never told him how many nights you played it on repeat, how your room filled with his voice and the soft thrum of longing.

He told you about Liverpool. About the road. About how everything felt fast and far too loud sometimes.

You told him about your old garden. The one you left behind. How you still missed the smell of wet earth after it rained.

He said, “I think that’s why I like you. You talk like you’re rooted in something.”

You said, “I think you’re still growing.”

The first time he kissed you, it wasn’t a moment. Not like in books.

It was just after closing, and he was helping you sweep. You’d turned off the front lights, and the whole shop was dusky with the last light of the sun. You said something about peonies again, how they always reminded you of quiet wants. Of things that aren’t said, but felt.

And then he was kissing you. Like the answer had bloomed inside him all at once.

It was soft. No fanfare. No rush.

Just yes.

Your fingers brushed the back of his neck, his coat collar, the edge of his cheek. And he held your face like he’d always been meant to.

When you parted, he rested his forehead to yours. “Took me too long.”

You whispered, “You got here.”

━━

Months passed.

Spring faded into something warm and golden. You got used to waking with flower petals in your pockets, your hair, sometimes your sheets. George would leave them like breadcrumbs, a violet on your windowsill. A primrose tucked into the strap of your bag. Once, a clover pressed between the pages of your notebook.

You started to learn him the way you’d learned flowers.

What his hands did when he was nervous. The weight in his voice when he was tired. The way he said your name, soft and reverent, like it was already part of a lyric.

And you knew. Deep down. That he’d never just breezed in.

He’d seen you.

Chosen you.

The same way you chose each flower: not for flash. Not for show.

But for meaning.

One evening, as summer stretched lazy across the horizon, he walked you home.

The street smelled of jasmine and distant bonfires. He held your hand, warm and steady.

“D’you think we’ll last?” he asked suddenly.

You looked at him. “Us?”

He nodded.

You thought for a moment. Then:

“Some flowers bloom once and never again. But some come back every year.”

George looked at you like that meant more than anything. Like it was the kind of answer that could keep him going when the world spun too fast.

“I’ll come back,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

He leaned in, kissed your temple. Then your cheek.

And finally, your lips, like a slow season turning, like a new petal unfolding in the dark.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps

[crownics]

McLennon won’t be revealed overnight, nor will he be exposed in an explosive way as everyone wants and expects. For over 50 years, they have been weaving wrong and false narratives. These narratives are already ingrained in the minds of older fans and intrinsically plastered in the history of the Beatles. The change of parameters that we want regarding Lennon/McCartney won’t be abrupt or happen magically. People don’t accept when something is imposed on them, even more so when they have very strong beliefs and refuse to give up what they have always believed. The view that John and Paul were lovers and had an affair is relatively recent and only part of a new generation of fans. It’s still a niche “theory” that few people know about. Not everyone has contact with it. Only the youngest fans are aware of it. And we are a minority. If this “theory” is exposed without any filter and spilled all at once, the old audience is likely to reject it and show aversion to it (as always happens when we ourselves present this narrative to other Beatlemaniacs). Unfortunately, some people will not deal well with the idea that John and Paul were lovers. Human beings tend to be frightened by the unknown and to create resistance to the new. We are talking about past generations and a cultural heritage. Everyone already has, in their heads, a preconceived concept that John and Paul were just friends and brothers. Precisely for this reason, the idea that they were in love needs to be implemented with caution, persuasion and subtlety. It needs to be gradual so that it can first be processed, and then finally accepted. Profound changes are prolonged and take time. You have to learn to dribble and gradually convince. All this movement has been happening since Get Back and the release of Now and Then and, if we stop to think about it, none of the information is being released all at once. They are taking it slow — it’s no wonder we’ve been stuck on this turning point for almost five years.

Ian Leslie can turn things around and get other historians, biographers, and fans to follow the same path. He won’t provide all the answers to the questions we have. He won’t make any big announcements. We won’t find out (at least for now) what really happened in Paris or India. Unfortunately, an LGBTQ+ woman or man wouldn’t be taken seriously, because the Beatles fandom is extremely sexist, misogynistic, and homophobic. The fact that the first person to come up with this “theory” was a straight, white man gives us a certain advantage and, like it or not, caused an extremely strong initial impact. It’s fair? Definitely not. However, it gives us support and we can take advantage of it. This book is for a audience that doesn’t know half of what will be written there like we do. It’s not exactly for us, because theoretically we already know everything about John and Paul’s relationship/history. It’s being released with the objective of introducing McLennon to the rest of the world. The point it’s Ian is bringing a new emotional perspective to John and Paul — a dependent, passionate, romantic view that many deny or refuse to accept — not that he will reveal secrets that have been kept hidden for decades. I’m not saying that we need to idolize him or put him on a pedestal, because we absolutely don’t. His character and intentions are being questioned, and it’s a valid question. But I do think that we need to take a broader, more general view of what is going on. Try calm down.

[paulmccartneyexplodingonstage]

ok so.

i liked the movie a lot, i’ve been on a beatle biopic binge lately (say that five times fast) for some reason so this was a very refreshing watch after the likes of nowhere boy and backbeat. (i should also mention i watched it as a double feature with daydream believers, the horrible monkees biopic, at my sibling’s insistence so that may be coloring my judgement).

but anyway, yes i really liked the movie. one thing i can say is that it definitely kept me engaged the whole way through. i don’t think there was a time where i was getting bored or losing focus, which is a major bonus for me. but i think knowing about the “production hell” that this thing went through for years before its release definitely also colors my opinion. the seams really show in some places, especially the ending, which kind of seems to come out of nowhere. for a movie with such a strong first and second act, the way it just peeters out at the end felt really unsatisfying.

but enough of the film bs let’s talk beatle fan shit. so, i loved the casting. if only john weren’t so goddamn SHORT!! 😭 that is my ONE HUGE COMPLAINT. everyone looks, sounds and acts great, EXCEPT FOR JOHN’S FUCKING HEIGHT. WHY IS HE 2 APPLES TALL. HE’S SHORTER THAN RINGO FOR CHRISTS SAKE. anyway, yeah everyone’s faces look good at least (maybe not ringo but it wasn’t so bad that it took me out of it). the accents are good as far as i can tell, being american. but everyone seems to have a really good grasp of their mannerisms and speech patterns which is fantastic. and they’re also musicians in real life!! well, the guys playing john and paul are at least, can’t speak for the others but that’s always fantastic to see! and yeah as others have said: blake richardson knocks it out of the park as paul, like, i think there was at least one point where i genuinely forgot that was not actually paul. they need to get on him QUICK for the upcoming biopics.

and brian. oh brian. jacob fortune-lloyd sells me so hard on his performance that tears were shed when the end credits rolled. he…god it’s been several days since i watched it and im still speechless over what to say about him. he is without a doubt the highlight of the movie. he brings such a light and humanity to brian that has been previously unheard of for beatle casuals. his performance is exactly what i wanted from a brian biopic. he does such a phenomenal job that i wish we could get an even longer and more in depth deep dive into brian’s life beyond the beatles. you feel every high and every low as if you were experiencing it yourself, and i feel that he captures brian’s spirit perfectly. that’s what stuck with me after the credits rolled, is how glad i was that they got such a fantastic actor to portray this beautiful love letter to a man we lost far too soon, who meant so much to those close to him. this might be the thing that pushes me to learn more about brian and his whole side of things, as most of my limited research has been restricted to the bugs themselves until now. but this shit got me SWITCHIN UP.

anywho tldr: i’m no beatle historian and i also know nothing so take everything i say with a grain of salt but i liked this movie and i thought it was a fabulous tribute to brian. wish the ending didn’t suck, but it’s biographical so yknow what can ya do. it’s a definite recommend from me, watch it if you have the time, you won’t regret it. 6/10

guess who watched midas mannnnn

[cineatros]

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁only star ✮ manon bannerman

She may be the reason I survive

pairing.ᐟ actress!manon bannerman x reader

about.ᐟ when actress Manon Bannerman walks into your record store searching for a rare vinyl, she doesn’t expect you to be clueless about her fame. the brief encounter turns intriguing when a fan outs Manon’s identity, leading you to chase after her and get her number, but the connection is quickly tested—paparazzi ambush the both of you, forcing an escape to your apartment, where you bond in private. As you get a glimpse of Manon’s chaotic world, the reality of dating someone famous becomes overwhelming and just when things start to feel real, Manon’s girlfriend returns from L.A., ready to reclaim her place.

genre.ᐟ fluff, kind of angsty

wc.ᐟ 1094 words

a/n.ᐟ the song isn't really necessary, but i just want to appreciate this song cuz it just make me feel something, also i might not post or i'll try to post another angst today (thesis been biting me in the fuckin ass). anyways, happy valentines, my lovely peepz!

The why and wherefore I'm alive

The bell above the door chimed as Manon Bannerman stepped into the vinyl shop, the scent of old records and dust filling her senses. She wasn’t sure why she chose this particular store—maybe it was instinct, or just blind luck—but she was searching for something rare. Something special.

Rows upon rows of vinyl stretched before her, a collector’s dream. As she made her way to the rare collections section, she was greeted by the shop’s owner, a charming individual with a welcoming smile.

“Looking for something special?” a warm voice called out.

She looked up to see the owner behind the counter. You had an easy confidence about you, a quiet charm. Not someone who immediately recognized her, and that was refreshing.

“Yes, actually,” Manon replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Do you happen to have The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, signed by all four Beatles?”

You frowned, tapping your fingers against the counter. “That’s a deep cut. Let me check.”

As you sifted through your catalog, Manon watched you. There was something about the way you moved—calm, deliberate, unaffected. She could tell you weren’t used to dealing with celebrities, and for some reason, she liked that.

“No luck,” you finally said, glancing up. “But I can put out feelers.”

Her lips twitched in amusement. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

You shrugged. “Should I?”

Before she could respond, a high-pitched squeal rang through the shop. “Oh my God, Manon Bannerman?” A young woman clutching a stack of records gawked at her. “I love Uncharted! Your performance was unreal!”

Manon stiffened slightly, her expression flickering between amusement and frustration. That was when it hit you—she was famous. Like, really famous.

A beat of silence stretched between you before she sighed, muttering, “Well, that answers that.” Then, with an apologetic half-smile, she turned and slipped out the door

You hesitated only a second before following. “Hey, Manon!” you called, jogging after her.

She glanced back, surprised.

“At least let me get your number for when I find that record.”

She studied you, lips quirking. Then, as if making a decision, she plucked the pen from behind your ear, grabbed your wrist, and scrawled a number across your skin.

“Good luck,” she said before disappearing into the city.

A week later, you were sitting in your apartment, sipping whiskey with Manon while hiding from a pack of paparazzi who had caught you outside a café. What started as a casual text about the record had spiraled into something else entirely.

She sat cross-legged on your worn-out couch, flipping through your vinyl collection with a lazy smile. “You really don’t care about all this, do you?”

“The flashing cameras? The tabloid buzz?” you mused. “Not really. I mean, it’s a little surreal, but you’re just… you.”

She exhaled, relaxing. “I like that.”

And for a while, it was good. Until reality crept in.

So it went, an unusual romance blooming between a quiet vinyl shop owner and a Hollywood star, but dating someone famous wasn’t all stolen moments and whispered secrets. It was dodging paparazzi in alleyways, waking up to your face in gossip columns, strangers dissecting your relationship online.

Just last night, you had booked a secluded part of a restaurant—minimal windows, barely any people. Yet somehow, the paparazzi still got in and if that wasn’t enough, a waiter had kept pestering Manon for a picture, completely ignoring the fact that you were trying to have a normal evening.

The night was ruined.

Afterward, you hadn’t spoken much. She tried to explain, insisting this was inevitable, that she couldn’t escape the spotlight.

“I just want a goddamn normal life and a non-showbiz girlfriend,” you had snapped in frustration.

Her face fell, the words cutting deeper than you had intended. Without another word, she walked out, leaving you alone with your regret.

The next day, armed with a bouquet, you knocked on her hotel door, ready to apologize. But instead of Manon, another woman answered—wearing Manon’s shirt.

Your heart clenched. “Hi, is Manon here?”

Before the woman could respond, Manon appeared, eyes widening when she saw you. She quickly pulled the other woman back inside and stepped into the hallway with you.

“Who the hell was that?” you demanded.

She hesitated. “That was my ex. She showed up causing a scene, and I let her in to calm her down.”

You didn’t believe it. “Really? Wearing your shirt?”

She sighed, exasperated. “It’s not what you think.”

You exhaled sharply and shoved the bouquet into her hands. “You know what? I give up.”

“No!” She grabbed your wrist. “Please, can we just talk?”

You contemplated, then shook your head. “I need to think this through. Can we take a break?”

She swallowed hard but nodded, stepping back into her room.

That night, you found yourself at your sister’s house, breaking down in her arms.

“Oh, darling, everything’s going to be fine,” she soothed.

You sniffled. “It doesn’t feel fine.”

She sighed. “You either accept her for who she is or find someone who fits your idea of normal.”

The words lingered in your mind.

The next day, you dragged yourself to work. It was quiet, save for the occasional customer. As you searched for Manon’s record, someone cleared their throat.

Looking up, you found her standing there—natural hair, no makeup, a soft, hopeful smile.

“Hi,” she said. “Can we talk?”

You led her to the back office.

“So, how was your weekend?” you asked lightly.

“Spent it in my hotel,” she admitted. “Thinking about how I messed up.”

Silence stretched between you before she continued, “I’m leaving today, but I wanted to see you—maybe to remind you that I still like you. A lot.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “Manon…”

She bit her lip. “I know I come with baggage, but I don’t want to lose you. Maybe we can find a way to make this work?”

You hesitated, but then you thought of her smile, her laugh, the way she felt like home despite the chaos. Maybe your sister was right—you either accept someone for who they are or you walk away.

You reached into the drawer, pulling out a package. “I found something.”

Her brows lifted as she unwrapped it—The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, not signed, but still pristine.

She laughed, teary-eyed. “It’s perfect.”

You grinned. “So, should we give this another shot?”

She nodded, stepping closer. “Yeah. Let’s try.”

And as she kissed you, soft and slow, you knew—you were all in.

[sweetbabycheesez]

HOPELESSLY DEVOTED..

-ˋˏ ༻𖤓༺ ˎˊ-⠀⠀

Dallas Winston X Soc!Reader

warnings: making out, sexual, no actual p in v, adult language, somewhat sub reader, edging, toxic/secret relationship, humping, homewrecker + bitchy reader lowkey.

Summary: Your boyfriend, with whom you're currently on a break, comes over in an attempt to win you back. Although it leads to an argument, the outcome turns out to be even better than you expected.

You should’ve known better.

You should’ve known the moment you walked into Buck’s party and saw him there—Dallas Winston, leaning up against the kitchen counter like he owned the whole damn place, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a bottle of beer sweating in his hand. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his eyes were already set on some poor girl, sizing her up the way he always did when he was feeling mean.

But it wasn’t just some poor girl.

It was Cherry Valance.

And maybe it shouldn’t have hurt. Maybe it shouldn’t have sent that deep, awful feeling crawling up your throat, because Dallas had always been a dirty, no-good hoodlum, the kind of guy who couldn't keep his hands to himself, his mouth to himself, his damn attitude to himself. But it did hurt, because he wasn’t just Dallas Winston, town disgrace and part-time jailbird. He was your Dallas Winston. Or at least, he had been.

You’d stood there in the doorway, gripping the sides of your short pink dress, heart thumping like the bass of the record player in the next room. The whole place smelled like smoke and spilled beer and cheap cologne, and there was Cherry, standing way too close to him, laughing at something he said.

“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” you had muttered under your breath.

Maybe she saw you first. Maybe that’s why she suddenly straightened up, her smile flickering for just a second. But Dallas? He turned his head slow, like he had all the time in the world, a lazy smirk stretching across his face.

“Hey, doll,” he had said, taking a drag from his cigarette.

You had walked right up to him, your arms crossed so tight it hurt. “Don’t ‘hey, doll’ me, Winston.”

He had exhaled, smoke curling between the two of you. “Ain’t nothin’ happened,” he had said, smooth as ever. “Just havin’ a conversation.”

“A conversation?” You had glanced at Cherry, who had been biting her lip, looking real guilty all of a sudden. And Dallas, the bastard, had just grinned at you, cocky as ever.

“Yeah,” he had said. “A man’s gotta keep himself entertained somehow.”

You had slapped the beer bottle right out of his hand.

The crash had been loud—louder than the music, louder than the shouting, louder than the way your heart had been pounding against your ribs. The whole party had gone quiet, all eyes on the West Side girl in the pink dress and the Greaser with the cigarette dangling from his smirking mouth.

God, you feel embarrassed that he didn't even care. Let alone react or flinch.

You had stormed out of there before he could say another word.

Later that night, you had told him you needed a break. He hadn’t even fought you on it. Just stood there, chewing on the inside of his cheek, hands in his pockets, looking at you like he had half a mind to laugh but didn’t want to get his teeth knocked out.

And maybe that should’ve been the end of it. Maybe it would’ve been the end of it.

If only Dallas Winston knew how to take no for an answer.

The radio is still playing when you hear the noise.

It’s faint at first, mixed in with the low hum of I Should’ve Known Better floating from your nightstand. Then it gets louder—gravel crunching, a muttered curse, a soft thud.

And then—

Clink.

Clink.

You know that sound.

You sit up so fast your Beatles Weekly falls right off your lap.

The first thing you see is your vanity, the way the lamplight spills across the cluttered surface—the open lipstick tube, the old pack of cigarettes he left here weeks ago, the crumpled-up homework, the cold cup of tea with its red-lipped rim, flaking slightly. The second thing you see is the window.

And him.

Hanging off the damn ledge like a stray cat.

For a second, all you can do is stare.

Then—“Jesus Christ, Dally!”

You scramble out of bed just as he swings a leg over, landing way too hard against the floor with a thud. He winces, rubbing his knee, then looks up at you, grinning.

“Sometimes I forget how high your window is.”

“You idiot—”

He doesn’t even look at you. Just brushes off his jeans and strolls right past, like he belongs here, like you didn’t just break up with him. He flops onto your bed, hands behind his head, cigarette already between his lips.

You huff, hands on your hips. “You can’t be here, Dally.”

“Yeah?” He flicks the lighter open, the flame catching on his sharp features. “Well, I am.”

The cigarette lights with a quiet fssst, and then he exhales, letting the ash drift lazily onto your pink bedsheets.

You grit your teeth. “You’re gonna burn a hole in them.”

He doesn’t even blink.

You step closer, fists clenched at your sides. “I’m serious, Dallas.”

“Me too.” He tilts his head, watching you through the smoke. “Dead serious.”

You narrow your eyes. “Get out.”

“Nah.”

You reach for his cigarette, but he moves fast, grabbing your wrist before you can touch it.

“You’re pissin’ me off,” you say through your teeth.

His lips twitch, amused. “No kiddin’.”

For a second, neither of you move. The Beatles hum softly in the background, the piano in the corner sits untouched, the sheet music still a mess.

And then—finally—he sighs. Runs a hand through his messy brown hair. Drops his cigarette onto your nightstand, still smouldering.

“…Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.” He looks at you, dead-on, eyes dark and unreadable. “I’m sorry.”

It almost sounds real. Almost.

But then he ruins it.

“But what do you want me to say?” He leans back, smirking again. “A man’s got urges.”

You slap him so hard your palm stings.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just looks at you, something unreadable in his eyes.

And then you kiss him.

His lips are rough.

You don’t know why you expected anything different. Maybe because yours are always soft, always coated in some kind of sweet-smelling gloss, the kind that leaves a faint shine under the lamplight. Dallas Winston doesn’t care about that kind of thing. Never did. He smokes too much, drinks too much, gets into too many fights to ever bother keeping his lips from cracking.

But still—you kiss him.

It’s desperate, angry. You hate him for it, for making you want him when you shouldn’t, when you swore you wouldn’t. His fingers tighten around your wrist as he leans into it, like he knew all along you were gonna fold. And maybe he did. Maybe he always does.

The cigarette smoke clings to him, mixing with the faintest traces of leather and cheap aftershave. He tastes like nicotine and trouble, like every bad decision you’ve ever made and the ones you haven’t made yet.

And then, just when he starts to move—when his hands find your waist, when he tilts his head just enough to make you forget—

You rip yourself away.

You’re furious.

Your chest rises and falls as you glare at him, heart hammering so hard you swear he can hear it. His smirk is still there, lazy, satisfied, and it makes you want to hit him, hurt him, make him feel something the way you do.

“You,” you breathe, voice shaking, “are a terrible boyfriend.”

Dallas just shrugs. “Ain’t no surprise there, doll.”

“No, really,” you snap. “You cheat, you flirt with my friends, you—God, you just don’t care! About me, about us! You just do whatever the hell you want like you don’t have a single thought in that thick skull of yours—”

He laughs, cutting you off. “Oh yeah?” He leans back on his elbows, looking you up and down like you’re something funny. “And what about you, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

His grin widens. “You’re actin’ all high and mighty, but I don’t remember you caring too much when you were all over Randy that night at the beer blast.”

Your stomach drops.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t even try it, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, still grinning. “You were smashed. Looked real cute, though. Hangin’ off him, gigglin’ like a dumb broad.”

“That’s not—”

He tuts. “Doin’ all that right in front of Marcia, too. Real classy of you.”

You want to argue. You want to say something, anything. But your throat feels tight, and you can’t, because he’s right.

And that’s what makes you angry.

“That was different,” you manage, voice sharp. “I was drunk—”

“Oh, sure.” He stretches out on your bed, looking up at the ceiling like this whole conversation bores him. “You were drunk. That’s the excuse, huh? Well, I was drunk when I was talkin’ to Cherry.”

“That’s not the same—”

“Why not?”

“Because—”

“Because you don’t wanna be wrong?” He tilts his head at you, all faux innocence. “Or because you think you’re better than me?”

You scowl. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

But he’s smirking again. “Face it, babe. If you didn’t have all these fancy clothes, this big house, and that pretty face, you woulda been a Greaser.”

Your blood turns hot.

“Shut up.”

He shrugs, still smirking. “Ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing. Just funny how you walk around all high and mighty when you ain’t nothin’ but a Greaser in pearls.”

That’s it.

You don’t even think—you lunge, shoving him hard against the mattress. But Dallas just laughs, catching your wrists before you can do anything else, flipping you over like it’s easy, like you weigh nothing.

“Feisty,” he murmurs, still smirking. “I like it.”

You glare up at him, breathless, furious, wanting so badly to hurt him in a way that lasts.

But that’s the thing about Dallas Winston.

Nothing ever does.

You struggle against him, but it’s useless. Dallas is stronger, always has been. His hands are rough where they pin yours down, calloused from fights and bad decisions, from growing up too fast and too hard. His smirk is still there, lazy and smug, and you hate him for it.

“Get off me,” you snap, but he doesn’t move.

“Nah.” He’s looking down at you like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s comfortable here, stretched out against you on your own damn bed. “Think I like it here.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins. “Yeah? You weren’t sayin’ that a minute ago, doll.”

“God, I hate you.”

His smirk deepens. “No, you don’t.”

Your pulse thrums in your ears, hot and quick. You should shove him off, kick him out, let him rot in some alley where he belongs. But then he shifts just slightly, the weight of him pressing into you, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

And that’s when you realize—he knows.

Dallas knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

His grip loosens just enough for you to move, but you don’t. Instead, you glare up at him, the heat in your chest twisting into something else entirely.

You tilt your chin up, lips curling into a sneer. “You think you’re real smooth, don’t you?”

He shrugs, all confidence. “Ain’t heard no complaints.”

You scoff, but it’s weaker than you want it to be. “You’re such a bastard.”

Dallas hums, like it’s a compliment. “Yeah, yeah. You done talkin’ yet?”

And then, before you can think of some sharp remark, he kisses you.

This time, it’s him who moves first, but you don’t stop him. You should, you should, but instead, your hands—finally freed—move to tangle in his stupid, messy hair. His lips are still chapped, rough against your gloss-slicked ones, and it should feel wrong, should feel awful, but all it does is make you want more.

You gasp against his mouth when his hands slip under your shirt, just barely ghosting over your skin, teasing, testing, and you shudder.

Dallas laughs, breath warm against your lips. “Knew you’d fold.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, but it comes out breathless, desperate.

He kisses you again, and it’s messy, all clashing lips and teeth, all pent-up anger and fire. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and your body presses against his like you’ve forgotten why you were even mad.

For a second, nothing else matters. Not the break, not Cherry or Randy or Sylvia or Paul, not your parents or his reputation. Just this—this fire, this ache, this terrible, terrible need to feel something real.

Your fingers trail down his back, nails dragging just enough to make him groan, and the sound goes straight to your head, making you feel dizzy, reckless.

You bite down on his lower lip, hard enough to make him swear, and when he pulls back, his eyes are dark.

“Minx,” he murmurs, voice low, amused.

“Loser,” you shoot back.

He grins, and then—

He kisses you harder.

You don't know who pulls who first—maybe it’s him, maybe it’s you—but before you can stop yourself, you're back against the sheets, hands tangled in Dallas' stupid, messy hair, and his weight pressing into you like he's got no intention of moving. His body is solid, lean muscle and bad intentions, and you hate how good it feels.

The room smells like cigarette smoke and his cheap cologne, like your floral perfume and the vanilla lip gloss he’s smeared all over his own mouth. You can feel the heat of him everywhere, the way his hands are gripping your hips like he’s trying to prove a point. He always has something to prove.

His lips leave yours for just a second, long enough for you to catch your breath before he moves to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—

"Dallas," you gasp, fingers tightening in his hair, pulling his face up to yours again.

His mouth is pinker than before, slick with your lip gloss, and he's smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

You glare. “You think you’re hot shit, don’t you?”

His fingers skim under the hem of your top, rough fingertips trailing over your stomach, slow, deliberate. You shiver.

“I don’t think, doll.” His voice is lazy, full of smoke. “I know.”

Cocky bastard.

You roll your eyes, trying to shove him away, but he barely moves, just chuckles under his breath like you amuse him.

"You got a real smart mouth, you know that?"

"You got a real annoying one," you shoot back.

Dallas laughs, low and throaty, before suddenly flipping you over onto your back again, pinning you down beneath him with that stupid, smug smirk. His hands are at your sides, thumbs brushing your ribs, and you know he can feel how fast your heart’s beating.

For a second, neither of you say anything.

His eyes flicker over your face, down to your lips—now smudged, gloss all but gone, swollen from kissing him. And God, you shouldn’t want him like this, not after what he did, not after what he said, but you do, and it makes you furious.

"You ain't as good as you act, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice like a challenge. "You act all sophisticated and proper, but you wanna be bad just as bad as me."

Your eyes narrow, anger flaring in your chest. "Screw you."

Dallas just smirks. "You sure about that?"

He squeezes your hips tightly and pulls you closer to him with one hand by the thigh.

he laid back down your bed, pulling you on top of him.

He grabbed your left hand and led it to his bulge, staring you right in the eye. Your chest was on fire as you felt something burning in your soul. Was it desire, was it pleasure, or was it a mix of both.

"Good girls dont do this doll. you aint a good girl so stop acting like it." He said in a raspy voice, his eyes low as he guided your hand, you rubbed him slowly, he was breathing heavily.

You decided to be a bit bold and take your hand off of his bulge, sit up, scoot closer to him and sit on his lap.

He looked up quickly.

"Slut. I knew you wanted this." He said, his smirk lazy and condescending.

you didn't bother to reply. Instead, you decided to grind on him slowly, your arms wrapped around his shoulders as you laid your head in the crook of his neck.

He guided your hips, his touch rough as he tugged you back and forth, low groans and whimpers coming from both of you.

He was breathing heavily, whispering sweet nothings into your ear but you knew he meant none of it.

The thick and rough feeling of his jeans, contrasting with the thin silk of your nightdress. You felt your panties getting wetter and stickier with each passing moment.

A heat burned rapidly from your core and spread all around your body.

"No one else can make you feel like this right?" He grunted into your ear. He was getting closer and closer to his limit and so were you.

Your brain was so fuzzy, and you felt so confused with everything so you just nodded in agreement.

"Not even Randy or Paul. God they dont stand a damn chance."

Your breath hitched, heart slamming against your ribs as his words slithered into your ear. Randy? Paul? They didn’t even cross your mind—not now, not when it was Dallas beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like he owned you, his voice dripping with something possessive, something dangerous.

"You like this, don’t you?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw, his smirk still lazy, still infuriating. "Bet you’d hate to admit it, but you love it when I get my hands on you."

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, but your body betrayed you. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding onto him like he was something solid in the middle of all this chaos. He chuckled, deep and knowing, like he could feel the way you were unraveling under his touch.

"Go ahead," he taunted, tilting his head, lips ghosting over your pulse. "Tell me you don’t want me."

Your breath stuttered, heat pooling in your stomach. You hated that he was right. You hated that no matter what he did, no matter how many times he got under your skin, you always came back to this—to him.

But you weren’t going to let him have the last word.

With a sharp inhale, you leaned in, your lips barely brushing his. "I don’t want you," you whispered, even as your fingers tightened in his hair, even as your pulse betrayed you.

Dallas just grinned, his hands skating up your sides, his voice rough with amusement. "Liar."

[pennyserenade]

please please me | jackson rippner x you

summary | sick of waiting for you to return his endless favors, jackson finally says please--at least, in the nicest way he knows how. rating | (explicit) tags/warnings | explicit content, dubcon, noncon, coercion, oral sex (male receiving), slut shaming, jackson's crazy inner dialogue, toxic dynamics, slight innocence kink word count | 2.1k+ a/n | if you seen me post this once before, no you didn't. i had a few problems with the original version that i needed to tweak before i could be really happy with it. also, this the first entry in cillian's beatles birthday bash series! which you can check out here: x. the first song i picked is please please me from the beatles' 1963 album of the same name.

This wouldn’t do anymore, Jackson had decided. He hated to be the bad guy - especially to you, such a darling little pawn in the grand scheme of things - but it wasn’t his fault you were so goddamned selfish. 

He’d been perfectly attentive since the moment you’d been assigned to him. In fact, he’d gone as far as to develop every trait you said you looked for in a man on that pathetic little dating website you signed up for: Polite. The perfect amount of introverted. Drank only at social events, didn’t smoke, owned one cat, took interest in topics such as: feminism, fiction, pop music. To put it short: he’d worked hard to become the sentimental, pussy eating man of your dreams. 

You, on the other hand, weren’t nearly as generous. At first, he had chalked it up to your nerves. It had taken longer than usual to infiltrate the distrusting bubble you lived inside; charm and simple gestures of affection didn’t work half as well on you as they had on the others. You wanted time. He had liked it in the beginning. It felt like a brisk walk after running marathons. But then it became tedious. You had let him touch you over your bra on the fourth date, but he had to wait an entire month and a half before you’d actually shown him your cunt. 

But once you had let him inside, you really didn’t want him out of it. God, you what a whore you could be—which didn’t surprise him. The demure types typically were; he liked them best for precisely that reason. What did surprise him was the fact that you didn’t like to return the favor—not half as enthusiastically as he did it for you, anyway. The timid way you had wrapped your mouth around him those few times, while he’d sat rigidly, as not to frighten you, paled in comparison to what he did for you, day in, day out.  

No--he wouldn’t take it anymore. With his mouth still coated in your fresh slick, Jackson crawled up your body and pressed his lips hard on your mouth. He’d abandoned his usual politeness: rubbing it off on his shirt first because he’d even considered you might be too much of a prude to want to taste yourself. Now he thought you might need to be taught about the things you really did want; he didn’t think you knew. 

“I think it’s my turn,” he told you. His eyes flashed dangerously, daring you to protest. Your fingers grabbed onto the side of his billowy button up and confusion drew your eyebrows together. You masked it with a smile. “Hm?” you asked.

As if you hadn't heard him right. He wanted to wrap his hands around your pretty little neck. 

“Oh, please,” he chuckled. Jackson tried to keep calm as he spoke, to force his tone to be excruciatingly patient. He was so close with you, and he couldn't risk losing it all over this. He cupped your face in his palms. “I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I, baby? I mean…” He motioned down his cock, which had long ago begun to strain against his slacks. “Listen—I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining here, but I’ve been on my knees a lot more than you’ve been on yours.” 

He sensed the shift inside of you--could see the way you were beginning to cower already. Any other night, he’d be placating, reassuring you that it was okay—that he could wait—but he couldn’t do that anymore. It wasn't good for you. You wouldn’t be the first person he had to talk into doing something he knew was good for them. Besides, he was sure you’d come to see it his way. You were smart when you weren’t under his thumb. 

“You’re gonna suck my cock because you want to make me happy, don’t you, baby?” he spoke again, voice even. He watched you try to read his face. The mask had begun to fall and what was left was unfamiliar to you. How worried you looked, his pet. “Don’t you?” he repeated with more insistence. 

“Yea,” you croaked. The word had been lodged in your throat. 

Jackson smirked. “On the ground, then” 

He directed you down as his belt slipped through the loops of his pants. You were better trained than he gave you credit for. Even with the hesitancy - or was it cold, hard fear forming? - in your eyes, you still did what he said. And my god, what a sight you were, kneeling at the side of the bed. 

With his palms pressed flat against the bed, Jackson leaned back on expectantly. “Take it out,” he guided. 

You hesitated. “Jack-”

His responding smile was terse as his eyes darkened. He was quickly finding out of the infinite pool of patience he thought he had for you did have its bottom. “Fine, I’ll start,” he said, tugging himself free.

You were about to work up the courage to tell him you couldn’t do it, as you had many times before; he could see it in your eyes. 

“I’m trying to be patient—“ He paused to stamp out the hardness that was forming in his voice. He knew it would do no good, frightening you. It would only make everything much messier than they needed to be. He continued on, conscious of every word. “—but this is just silly. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“But Jack-” you stuttered. You watched his jaw clench beneath the surface of his freckled skin. He looked a little frightening, his blue eyes all iced over as he stared down at you. 

He gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to look at him. While his hold on you wasn’t anything you couldn’t escape from, you were aware, for the first time, how strong Jackson could be. “It makes me feel good to make you feel good. Don’t you want to make me feel good?” he asked. 

“But I wasn’t any good at it before,” you protested.

“You didn’t try,” he insisted. “Try.” 

“Jackson, really—“

“Do it,” he spat. The last of the kindness had ebbed out of his voice. Forcing an encouraging smile back onto his lips, he said, much more lightly, “Please.” 

You wrapped one of your hands around the base of his cock, but hesitated still. Jackson let out an irritated sigh before you found the courage to bring your lips down around the head of his cock finally. 

Like before, it lacked a certain enthusiasm, but he wasn’t going to complain just yet. The hot, wet warmth of your mouth felt so good after having craved it for so long. All he could do to restrain himself was fist your white sheets in his hands, and watch you as did exactly as he had told you to do. Your eyes shifted up to look at him, always hungry for approval. Jackson tried to motivate you with a dazed smile. It was more genuine than he liked, given that you were hardly doing anything. 

He let your bop up and down, liking the way he was disappearing inside your mouth. There was beauty in the unskilled way you took him in—you were artless in your approach, eager to please. Innocent, in a way. You couldn’t take too much before you got nervous and came back up. He’d was certain he'd probably experienced better in high school, but he didn't care; he'd wanted it so badly from you. Already, he could feel the mounting arousal rising inside of him.  

He allowed one of his hands to sneak up your shoulder, resting at the place just where your neck began. His thumb moved over the soft exposed skin there, soothing you. His voice was low, just slightly above a husky whisper as he said, “You can do more, baby. I know you can.” 

Jackson moved his fingers up the side of your neck before he brushed his thumb delicately over your jaw. His lips parted in a soundless moan as you took more of him in than before. “That’s it,” he said, gasping, “Use your tongue—ah, fuck, yes.” His fingers twisted up in your hair, losing consideration. “Faster.” 

You were trying, he could tell, but he felt you had more in you than this. He’d seen how depraved you could get, after all. Just last week you’d let him fuck you into you the with no condom. The entire time you were begging for it, arching up and moaning while he pushed your face down into the bed. You liked being a whore. Week by week he’d been unraveling you, finding you out, bit by bit. 

He cradled your neck. For a moment, he saw the flash of awareness in your eyes—could see the obstinacy begin—but he held on tighter and said, “Remember when you sat on my face? When I let you do what you want to me?” 

With that, you let your resistance go. He wasn’t doing much more than you had been, after all, only guiding you down the wet line you had already created on his cock, only slightly faster. Still, your eyes kept darting up, nervous. 

He watched as a dribble of saliva escaped out of the side of your mouth and traveled down his cock. He knew then he couldn’t resist any longer. You felt so fucking good, so warm and wet, and he needed more. No, he deserved it. His other hand came up to your head and he pushed you down, making you take all of him. He hit the back of your throat with his cock. Surprisingly, all you did was gurgle.

Your nails pressed harshly into his thighs and you jerked back, slipping off of his cock with a crude pop sounding. Betrayal flashed in your eyes. He expected as much. 

Jackson ran his thumb along your glossy bottom lip. “I didn’t say you could stop,” he chided. 

“You…I just wasn’t expecting you to do that to me,” you stuttered. Startled tears had begun to gather in the corners of your eyes. “I’m not good at this, Jackson.”

He frowned, playing along with your little pitiful act. His tone became softer. “I didn’t do that because it felt bad. You’re were getting pretty fucking good, actually.” His cock jutted against his stomach, impatient as he felt. He stared blankly at you before adding, “I don’t really want to say please again, honey. You’re not gonna make me, hm?” 

Though it wasn’t necessarily a question, he appreciated the obedient nod you gave him. 

Taking his cock in his hand, he held it up for you to put back in your mouth. Your hands rested against the tops of his thighs and pride swelled in his chest as you took him back inside of your mouth. Your fingers pressed into his legs, but you didn’t jerk back as he guided you down again.

He wanted to cum in your mouth, to make you swallow it all down, because he knew you would. You’d do anything for him, probably. He only had to push you into it, sometimes, but wasn't that the way of relationships?

His orgasm was quickly building inside of him, only spurred on by the way you had begun to flick your tongue against the underside of his cock again. Jackson let go of your neck, grasping onto the sheets behind him once more. Tears began to slide down your cheeks. He wiped one away with his finger as you bobbed down on him.

Your nails dug deep into the skin of his thighs, but he didn’t mind; the stinging sensation only made what you were giving him all the better, mixing the lines between pleasure and pain in a way he knew you yourself would come to like eventually. 

You began to take him so deeply that you gagged around on his cock, but you didn’t stop. You were doing so much better than he anticipated now. He could feel the rise of his orgasm in his groin, could sense the way he was about to lose all control, but he said nothing. He didn't want you to know.

Jackson hissed and his cock twitched inside your mouth. Hot ropes of his cum spilled down your throat and he could see the surprise register in your glassy eyes as you looked up at him, but he didn’t care. He deserved this. He had been so patient. So good. “Fuck,” he moaned, his head lolling back as you took the last of his cum.

You rose quietly off of him after, wiping your mouth against your hand. Jackson liked knowing the way you looked—hair mussed, eyes watery, lips puffy and red—was because of him. It was so rare you weren’t in tiptop shape. 

“Was that good?” you asked weakly. Your voice was gravelly and he couldn’t help but smile, knowing how deep his cock had been inside of your throat just moments before; it was probably sore.

“Yeah," he nodded, smiling proudly. "I told you you could do it, didn’t I?” he beamed. 

The hollow look in your eyes as you nodded and smiled back at him only added to his heady elation. He leaned forward and kissed you on the lips once more. He could practically feel the way you molded in his hand now. “Mm,” he hummed, “that’s my good girl. Practice makes perfect.”

[itshelfiredean]

Being Dean Winchester’s Daughter Would Include

1.) Dean teaching you how to drive in the impala, but he’s scared that either of his babies would get hurt so he would make up any excuse for you never to get behind a wheel. This of course ended with Dean catching you and Sam in a driving lesson and you both got yelled at for hours.

2.) Ever since you were in pigtails, Dean would always call you nicknames like “Kiddo”, “Rugrat”, or “Princess”. Your Uncle Sam would keep it rather traditional with “Sweetheart”,“Honey”, or your least favorite “Lil’ Dean”.

3.) Your dad and uncle would make lasting friendships through the years, but would hide them from you because they know that if you get attached, then it’ll break your little heart if they died.

4.) Dean taught you his music taste and basically forbid you to obsess over Bieber or Katy Perry, but you didn’t necessarily ‘love’ his hard rock music taste. You tended to favor Sam’s favorites such as The Beatles, Wings, and the Traveling Wilburys, but Dean got you hooked on Queen, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and David Bowie.

5.) If either your dad or uncle were killed on a hunt or by whoever, they made a deal to take you in no matter what the circumstances were because they would never abandon you like John would.

6.) If you were ever hurt or sick, Dean and Sam would put on this whole show of Dr. Dad and Nurse Sammy. They would dress up in scrubs and check you over all while keeping a playful charade. Your final treatment would always be 20 extra cc’s of tickles and of course rest. Unlucky for you, this carried on well into your teenage years even if they had to drag you down to the infirmary to do so.

7.) You always understood that family doesn’t end in blood. When you were a little girl that reached up to just below their knees, you had the best family you could remember. Uncle Cas was always around and would let you put makeup on him and style his hair, but little did you know that you taught Castiel how to open his heart to people especially to a little girl. That came in handy when he sacrificed himself for the sake of you and Jack against the empty. Then of course you had Grandpa Bobby, or “GrandBob”. Bobby would come off as a nasty old grump to everyone else, but to you he would do anything you said. He practically raised Sam and Dean, but you were different than they were at your age. Bobby saw you as Dean’s precious baby girl who deserved the sun, moon, and stars. And damn-it, he would lasso the biggest star in the sky if you asked him to. You grew up with many amazing men who would do anything to keep you happy, but no one compared to Jack. You were 16 when Jack was born and unlike your dad and uncle in the beginning, you did everything in your power to protect him from your family. You actually helped Jack run away when he was first new, but you knew damn well and Dean dragged your ass back to the bunker once him and Sam tracked you both down. After Dean finally cam around to your side and chose to accept Jack as a member of the family, it made it easier for you to get closer with the devils son. You both were never romantically involved, but your were destined to the two half’s of a whole. He was your Westley and you were his Buttercup. However, Dean wasn’t too happy with seeing you and Jack getting all buddy-buddy, but Sam convinced him that this was really the first friendship you ever had. All through your life, you realized that you had a huge family that loved you, and you loved them in return always.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Y/N age 6

“Daddy, would you still love me if I was bad and mean like Lucifer was to you and Uncle Sammy?”

“Kiddo, I would still love you if you told me that you completely wrecked the Impala”

“That must mean a lot because Sammy told me that you love ‘Baby’ more than anything.”

“You’re my real baby. I will always chose you over a stupid car. But don’t tell Sammy that because it always makes him mad.”

“I love you too, Daddy. I love you more than all of the stars in the sky.”

“I love you more, Princess. With all my heart and each and every grain of sand”

[buellersfueller]

I won't lie, I was fine with the idea of the doctor clinging to a child. I figured it paid off the line from the Beatles episode about how despite Susan's existence time travel meant they hadn't had a child yet. It felt well enough in line with the Doctor's broader last of my kind angst. Belinda being so down for it was a little startling, but whatever, she's a nurse who cares about people & we have no evidence against the reading.

But rewriting reality and the sacrifice of the regeneration was centered on the Doctor's child, and his grief at that loss, even only half remembered. The reality readjustment is a complete nightmare, and all the worse because it isn't treated as such. Like a Belinda ran into the forest to scream about this like an hour ago. I would know I binged the whole season today to avoid spoilers. As everyone has been pointing out it's a complete contradiction when held to the Point of the last episode. The horror of the domestic sphere, the flattening and agony of hegemony. And what, that's Belinda now? She was a person up until the penultimate, and by the end of the finale she's unrecognizable, and that's after she was shuffled out of frame for the majority of those episodes. Unreal. It was so refreshing to have this companion who was genuinely frightened by the Doctor, who saw them as dangerous and their life as more scary than exciting, and the slow seduction (so to speak) was really very compelling. Shifting that in this way is beyond the pale. I'm just so sad to lose her in this way.

And for another thing, why should we have to lose Gatwa over this. He's been so incredible but he's hardly been around. Two whole episodes without him between his two seasons, both in favor of Ruby, and now fully sandwiched between legacy returns, to minimize his role as the doctor. He brought so much life and joy to the role and I'm just so bereaved to see him go. And no amount of Billie Piper can fix that.

And another another thing! Bringing Rogue back just for him to be implied dead? Are you fucking serious? Like, this is the least of my concerns with the finale. There are bigger fish to fry in terms of structural issues and racist misogynistic writing choices. However. Why. Why bring him back just to say I love you and then die. Why not adjust him back in? Why why why? One of many great joys in Gatwa's run was the queerness of his performance as the Doctor and I'm both worried we're seeing the last of it as a major character element and disappointed they stirred that one back up to this end.