#would ALSO punch george for sleeping with ringos wife

[cultofbeatles]

I really love the beatles and sometimes I imagine what it would be like to talk with them and have fun conversations but then I also remember all bad dumb shit they did and it makes me want to punch them all in the face. it is the dumb dichotomy of my mind

i'm like that with all the bands i like. i wouldn't want to meet any of them in their prime. is the younger version of them hot and talented? yes. but was their personality kind of shit? also yes. 

honest to god though, when you put that much power and fame in the hands of  young people (especially men. fuck men) you’d be amazed at the shit they are capable of doing. the unlimited supply of drugs, ability to do whatever you want cause your manager will get you out of it, alcohol everywhere, and able to sleep with pretty much anyone you want caused the god like mindset a lot of them had. and when we get older that’s when we start to settle down and become more humble in general. and i think that’s why a lot of these rockstars are drastically different, and seem to regret doing the things they did in their younger years. it’s why i like to look at how someone acts now rather than how they acted in the past. 

[themagicalmysticalboy]

Hi. Can I request hurt!John story? I thought it could be based on his car accident in 1969 but let's change some details of it - he was driving alone and ended up seriously injured. You can begin with Paul and the others arriving to the hospital after receiving the news... or whatever you choose 😉. So angsty story with some mclennon (but not necessarily; they can be just friends).

a/n: the thought of writing yoko has kept me from ever writing this request. But imma write it and pretend she doesn’t exist 😜. also I have no self control so this story goes through a lot more than just Paul showing up at the hospital hehehe

Nobody has to guess that baby can't be blessed/‘Til he finally sees that he's like all the rest/ With his fog, his amphetamine, and his pearls

He Breaks Just Like a Little Boy

John had thought himself rather fond of Scotland. He had visited many times before for pleasant vacations and stops to meet family. But in all these years and through all his visits he had never actually driven its roads, having the luxury of a driver. On his solo trip, he remembered exactly why his arrangements were as such.

The sky was dripping with fog that crept down from the foothills, reaching out with thick claws that effortlessly encapsulated the road. The small apertures between the paws of fog were filled with mist that left sheens of dew across the windshield. With his wipers going at a steady metronome's pace he flipped between high and low beams, unsure which way was worse. Mimi had surely told him the correct answer but his nerves and general troubles with driving had him dumbfounded. 

The road ahead appeared completely deserted so he had no concerns with continuing to flip back and forth. The distraction of the lights left room for error in the ways of speed. He was pushing 20 over the determined limit. In these conditions the absence of a speedometer, or in the event of ignoring one, it was impossible to determine how fast the world outside was passing by. John kept at his pace, even when he had settled to keep his lights on low beams.

In his vain attempt to see more than two meters ahead, he hunched forward with squinting eyes and tense muscles. Music was playing at an almost unperceivable volume, turned down multiple times over the course of the descent into fog.

Entering another aperture of mist, he relaxed, letting himself blink properly and his fingers release from their bleached white grip on the steering wheel. Once his eyes had opened again, a set of disembodied lights sent him rigid. His senses were set on blast: eyes wide open and bursting with color, the taste of copper coating his mouth, the smell of his leather interior and cigarettes somehow amplified. The intense sensations did nothing to harbor a coherent plan.

He reacted on gut instinct as the lights were backed by the shape of a car. Horn blaring, he jerked the wheel to the side. It was almost instantaneous that his stomach jumped to his throat, body leaving the seat to press harshly into the seatbelt. He was a feather made of lead.

**

In the late hours of the morning, Paul finished readying himself for a trip into town. He grabbed up his keys and wallet and made for the door. Before his escape could be made, the phone rang. He lowered his lids and shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to decide if he should answer it. With a resigned roll of the eyes, he jogged to the phone. 

The words that came through the line left no room for pleasantries, throwing blades that sliced through his reality and let it drain from around him. Pressure built against his skin with each sentence, heart pounding through his limbs.

His voice was void of emotion when he asked, “Have you told the others?”

“You’re the first I’ve called,” Cynthia replied. Cynthia. That's who was talking. Paul had not even processed her voice.

“Okay.”

He hung up, one arm left limp at his side as he gnawled at his fingernail. The world was not coming back to him. It had bled out and left him stranded, unable to move or react. Echoes of what Cynthia had said reverberated off the walls and assaulted his ears.

“... an accident… He’s in surgery… They don’t know if…if…”

Everything ushered back into color like a punch to the gut, leaving him stumbling into actuality. He fell into a chair and caught his breath.

 He had to get to him. He had to leave.

Rushing back to the phone, he threw together the fastest trip to Durness humanly possible. The trip, though only an hour and change by plane, was excruciating. Void of distraction, or want of, Paul was shedding strings of sanity like a dog’s winter coat. Nothing was fast enough until it suddenly was all too quick.

Once in the last leg of his journey, a small taxi cab, he began to dread the thought of arriving. Though still a few miles away, the antiseptic smell of the hospital was already pungent in his nose. The cramped waiting spaces and grim reality would tug and drag on his psyche. 

And he was not proven wrong. He had arrived first but it wasn’t long before George and Ringo filed in. They all shared anxious glances upon entering the private room they were ushered to but didn’t speak a word.

George ended up slumped in a seat, head in hands, as Paul stood and tapped his foot, his mind still shifting in and out of focus. It was Ritchie that had broken the eerie stillness. He was biting down hard on his lip, pacing the room. As if he had just realized the other two existed, he jumped when his path crossed Paul’s.

Paul’s eyes were dead in their sockets but Ritch’s pinged over his face with something desperate that made Paul want to conjure a sort of reassurance. He fell severely short, only able to muster a thin lipped hint of empathy.

George came in for the save. Paul, too engrossed in his own turmoil, barely noticed him getting up and moving towards them. He took Ringo into a tight hug that was warmly reciprocated. They both breathed in one another before breaking. He patted Rich on the shoulder then turned to Paul.

He hadn’t the heart to tell his friend he’d rather be left alone and was consequently enveloped into his arms. And maybe it was for the best he had not stopped him. Something calming and familiar shallowed a hole in his heart. George’s ever-comforting presence should never be put to question. He hugged George back with a grim intensity that surprised himself. It cracked a dam but did not break it.

“Don’t lose hope.” With that the hug was broken, leaving Paul with a warm heart and cold body.

In time, they all sat together on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, backs to the wall. Coffee cups and ashtrays were all around. The TV that sent extra illumination to the room was widely ignored, set at a low volume. At some point, a doctor had come in to update them. John was under close watch but out of surgery. It hadn’t done much to put anyone at ease but it drove in the hope George was keen to stoke. 

So they kept at their quiet conversations and heavy silences. The atmosphere was so odd. No one was bringing up the band dissolving. No one was arguing. Instead, a rather blissful suffering blanketed the room. At an excruciating crawl, night was arriving, the sky drifting from blue to inky black. 

Everyone was growing tired from their adrenaline crash, staring at nothing with half lidded eyes. Ringo had taken the plunge and was asleep on Paul’s shoulder. Paul’s arm was wrapped around George and George was slumped back to stare at the ceiling.

With a steady knock at the door, they were startled back to life. As the doctor came in, the three rose to their feet with varying speed.

“Good evening-”

“He’s alright, yeah? Can we see him?”

“We’ll get there, Mr. Harrison.” The doctor collected himself and looked over a messy chart. “Mr. Lennon is recovering as expected. I can’t go into detail, seeing as you aren’t blood, but his injuries were less serious than we first thought.” He looked up at the trio. “He’s asking for visitors in the morning. Have you any idea of relatives arriving?”

“His aunt, at the very least. I’d assume his son and ex-wife as well,” Paul answered cordially.

“I’ll let him know, then. Now, if you wish, you may sleep here. Blankets and pillows can be gathered. But there is a hotel only a mile away.”

They looked between one another and came to a silent agreement. “We’ll stay.” The luxury of comfort would gladly be dispensed of.

Sleeping in the cold and bare room sent Paul back in time. He felt 18 again, sleeping in a backroom in Germany with George nearby and Ringo in the place of John. At least he’d been able to sleep easier then- full of beer and dead tired from performing. Now, it took a long time but sleep finally crept into his eyes.

Though Paul was the last to sleep, he was also the first to wake. He gathered coffee and fresh carts of cigarettes before George or Ringo so much as stretched. As he waited for them to wake, he watched the news. At the moment, the camera was pointed to frame an audience gathered with candles and signs. All with well wishes to John scribbled and painted across them. 

“Have we traveled back to ‘63?” Ringo’s voice was full of sleep as he pulled himself off the floor.

Paul was glad to learn he was not the only one feeling the blast from the past. With a nod of acknowledgment, he poured Ringo a cup of coffee from the side table. Leaning back in his seat, he handed him the cup. Ringo pulled a cigarette from his pocket before taking it and mumbled a “Ta.”

It wasn’t long before George woke as well, leaving them staring at the TV that switched between actual news and coverage of the crowd outside.

“Think John’s enjoying this?”

“Think? I know. Deserves the treat of it, anyroad.” Paul huffed.

“We’ll find him off his head with pain meds waving from the window if he’s left alone too long.”

“Flashing the crowd with the backless gown on his way to bed.”

Lifting their spirits with some senseless banter, the wait for their turn to see John was less dreadful. Any bittersweetness, though, drained from Paul’s being when it came time to actually see John. Much like the journey to the hospital, the tail end of his wait for John was coming all too quickly.

They were filed out of the small room and his heart was fading with every step. It did not want to leave the strange safety of the room and Paul could not blame it. It was set and done and nothing dangerous happened. Now he was ushered into a terribly galvanizing and risky endeavor of a fresh space and unknown circumstances. As the door came to view, his heart fast tracked to full opacity and shot into his throat.

George and Ringo looked so painfully normal in comparison to how Paul felt. Surely all they were thinking of was how happy they were to see John. Not how scary it might be to see him broken. Not how one word could fuck everything up. 

The desire to pivot on the spot and run was shamefully present when the doctor held the door for them. Paul was last in line and heard the cheery greeting from Ringo before so much as seeing the foot of the bed. 

His eyes darted down to stare at George’s heels as he entered the threshold, following their path until he found a seat. Paul meandered in, jumping when the door shut behind him. He stopped in his tracks. 

“Glad the guests could finally be bothered to gather. Now the party can really start.”

With the sound of John’s voice pulling at his chest, Paul finally looked up to find him staring directly at him. He was right there, covered in scratches and bandages. There was a cast on his arm, a bruise over his eye, and a large swath of gauze peeking from the neck of his gown. His face was blushed with color, nonetheless, looking as alive as ever. When he truly looked at John he found himself wanting to cry. Why? He couldn’t have explained it to anyone but he knew the feeling swirling inside. He bit down on the inside of his cheek and gave a thin lipped smile.

“Think you’ve done enough partying without us,” Ringo said while he sat at the only other seat in the room, leaning an elbow on the bed. A smile was splashed across his face.

George leaned back pleasantly. “This is why I never let you touch my car, you know.”

John huffed. “I don’t think I’ll be touching a steering wheel ever again.”

The words were all lost on Paul. He couldn’t stop staring into John’s eyes until he finally broke contact to speak with George. Feeling uneasy in the center of the room, Paul moved to the wall, looking John up and down until he’d memorized every cut and bruise. His fingers were filled with pulsing blood, the sensation gathering up his arms as the moments passed.

No one looked at him or asked him anything. He was just a fly on the wall, chewing on his nail. So there was no warning when George and Ringo stood up. Paul jolted back to reality and stood up straight, ready to follow them out.

“Can you stay?”

”Hmm?” Blinking wildly, Paul noticed John was speaking to him.

“We’ll be back in the prison cell,” Ringo quipped before shutting the door on them.

The urge to sob spiked again. He gulped down the lump in his throat and let out a shaky breath. “Hi.”

“I look that ghastly, do I?”

Paul stared at his awkwardly shuffling feet and offered a breathy laugh. “No.” His voice cracked with the single word and burning tears sent pins into his eyes. Something in the moment sent his dam crumbling down.

Alone with John, he found absolutely no reason to hold back. So he didn’t bother. Fully absorbed by his presents, he took long strides to the now empty seat, falling into it. Without losing John’s gaze, he gently took his hand, feeling the rough cuts as he rubbed circles over the back.

Tears tracked down his face. His lip quivered. His heart brimmed full like a tidal wave crashing to shore.

“Hi,” he said again, this time with a voice damp with dejection. He sniffled with a painful smile stretching the corners of his mouth, threatening to rip from the center. He reached out to brush John’s hair from his face with a shaking hand. “You scared me, y’know?”

John pulled his hand away and Paul could feel the tidal wave retreating. He sucked in an aching breath. Rejection.

It all came back, though, when John held the side of his face, losing his fingers in Paul’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

With a fickle laugh, Paul nuzzled his head closer to John’s hand. “Don’t apologize- not for that.”

John’s head tilted as he pet Paul’s hair. “‘Bout thought you didn’t want me any longer. Seeing me all banged up and bruised. And that stare of yours. That should be categorized as some sort of weapon.”

A soft cry, that was supposed to be a laugh, rose from his throat. He leaned forward, hovering over the seat, and gently kissed John’s chapped lips. John fully reciprocated, fingers gripping his hair ever so slightly.

When they parted, poignantly slow, Paul swung his legs into the seat so he could comfortably rest his head on John’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can ever stop wanting you.” His fingers ghosted circles over John’s heart. With a concerted effort, he tried to be as gentle as possible with his battered lover.

They sat in sweet silence as John burrowed his cheek into the top of Paul’s head.

“Really though, was it that scary? Seeing me like this? You didn’t even speak when the other lads were in.”

More tears were threatening to close Paul’s throat. He gripped John’s blanket. “I thought I was scared to see you. But I don’t think I was. I was scared of myself more, y’know?”

“Can’t say I do.”

Paul pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I was afraid of messing up. I just blanked when I saw you hurt like this. I’ve never- I just want to do... New things. New things are scary.”

John rubbed his shoulder blade, soothing him to loosen up on the blanket. “And look at us now! Crying like babies all over each other.” John’s had traveled down to Paul’s bicep. “Guess we were both scared.”

“God. This wasn’t even the scariest bit- not by far. Getting that damned phone call. Thought the world was falling out from underneath me.”

John was kneading at Paul’s skin. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I thought I was never going to see you again,” He confessed. “Soon as the car went off the ledge, I could only see you and Julian in my head.” His voice was gruff and strained, muffled by Paul’s hair.

“It feels unreal, almost. After all this. Both of us in this room. Both alive. Lennon and McCartney, the dream team- or whatever bullocks.”

Paul felt the rumble of laughter in John’s chest and more tears poured out of him. He glanced down and noticed he was soaking the thin fabric of the gown. He almost felt bad but suspected that John’s tears were dampening his hair. Fairtrade.

“Yeah. Whatever bullocks.”

They quieted for a brief moment before Paul adjusted himself to be closer to John. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“No.” A kiss graced the top of his head. “Can’t feel much with these painkillers, really. Besides, my shoulder’s not my biggest issue.”

Paul hummed curiously. 

“Go this real groovy gash down my chest,” sarcasm dripped from his tongue as he coaxed Paul off his shoulder to pull up the neck of his gown. “Here.”

A trail of gauze led down his chest and to his stomach, which was completely wrapped with the stuff. Paul wiped away his tears and peered a little further down. His brow raised and the corner of his mouth twitched. “Aye. At least your willy made it out in full form.”

“Off it,” John dragged out the words like a warning, pressing the patterned fabric to his chest. “Horn dog.”

Paul only giggled, pressing his lips to John’s again. John sighed into it before guiding Paul’s head back to his shoulder, fingers running through his hair.

Betrayed by his own mind, Paul thought back to that meeting. I want a divorce. He pulled in a harsh breath. They had drifted that day, so far from one another. Building it back had been painstaking and soul crushing. “I’ll never let you lose me again.”

“Really, now?”

“Yes.” His tone was serious. “You’re not allowed. Whether or not we’re cross with each other, we won’t lose one another, alright?”

John hummed into his hair. “Sounds fine to me.”