tori

I remember a time when everyone I loved hated me because I hated them.  So what, so what, so fucking what. I remember a time when belly buttons were knee high When only shitting was dirty and everything else clean and beautiful. I can’t remember anything without a sadness so deep that it hardly becomes known to me. so deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own STUPIDITY And so I go rambling on with a hey nonny nonny no. How long can one go on writing and writing like you. I now don’t really know who I’m writing to or why its quiet peculiar. I usually write like this and forget about it, but if I post it it’s like a little part of my almost secret self in the hands of someone miles away who will wonder what the hell is going on or just pass it off as toilet paper. Anyway I don’t care really what happens because when I think about it, its so bloody unimportant – but what is important, who has the right to say that this letter is not important and Jesus is a something anyway – in any way – anyway – Yeah! I wonder what it would be like to be a cretin or something. I bet its great. Er how are you keeping, Stuart old chap. Are you OK – is life as good – bad, shite, great – wonderful as it was or is it just a thousand years of nothing, and coalmen on and on and on.  I think this is it  Goodbye Stu don’t write out of – er, what’s it?  Well, not because you think you ought to. Write when you feel like.  So goodbye (from John. You know, the one with glasses) 

ANY WAY BYE BYE See you soon. I don’t know why I said that.

Right on the cheek. Right? And then he smiles. And it looks like Paul says “John” when he does? Let’s slow it down! 

Hi everyone!! This is my first time writing something like this, so I hope it's satisfactory.

Keep in mind that while you read that this is satire and to not take this seriously! This is based around CBML by Brummelliana on itch.io, so if you haven't played that before, I recommend doing that as this fanfic will very likely not make sense otherwise. This will get vaguely explicit towards the end, so just be cautious about that.

Enjoy!!

You rather begrudgingly follow Paul through the door of The Beatles' flat at 57 Green Street, belongings burned and dignity stripped.

You see, you had just been sold by your horrendous mother, who hated you, to Paul McCartney of the Beatles. The Beatles! You HATED the Beatles. You were not like the other girls. You only wanted to listen to OLD music, like Beethoven or something.

Anyways, the door was labeled "L." You did not know why. I don't either.

When you first stepped in, you were met with three young men seated at a table, appearing to be having morning tea. This was very important, as you British people must have tea multiple times a day. It's an integral part of your diet.

They had very surly faces, sitting there with their awful mops of hair. The one on the left had large, thick eyebrows and a pinched face. He vaguely resembled a stick-bug in his general appearance, bent over his rations. You could see he had some large teeth when he opened his mouth.

The second one, in the middle, had a very square-ular face and a pointy nose with eyes that looked like almonds. The man appeared vaguely like Juliet Greco, if Juliet Greco were an English lad from Liverpool. He was the stockist of them all.

The third one was the smallest. He looked similar to a basset hound, with his big blue eyes. This man, however, stared with a sort of fascination. You did not know why.

Either way... How far had society fallen... If these are the idols of today's youth.

"By gum, Macca. You've got to stop buying hookers." The stick-bug-looking one said.

Paul joined the other three at the table, sitting down. You noticed there was no seat for you. Instead, Paul pushed on your shoulders until you were seated on the floor.

"It's uh.. bad for our image if you're trifling with prossies." The little one said, turning to Paul but sneaking glances towards you. "Just fuck regular broads like the rest of us."

Paul rolls his eyes, groaning to himself. He was very saucy. "Well, I DO fuck regular broads, right. But as I've told you lads already...! I've got unique tastes only a hooker would be accustomed to." He states this in an entitled way, his lips almost drawn in a pout. "It'd be worse for us if I divulge it to a regular bird and she runs off to the press!" Paul declares. Then he bites his cheek and mutters to himself. "Discretion is preferable in this scenario, y'know..."

He brightens right back up then, grabbing you by the arm. "But Y/N's no hooker, actually!" The Liverpool lads give him a look of surprise at this, almost intrigued. "I've bought her up her Mum for no less than 10 quid." Paul declares, quite pleased.

It seems as if there was a record scratch, but despite being in a music group, these were men of flesh, not in LP form at this present point in time.

"Good Lord, Macca, you've bought a fuckin girl?!" The Juliet Greco wannabe shouts. "Paul, ye can't just buy a fuckin girl." The first one says, seemingly more concerned.

Paul holds out his hands in a way that resembles that one Druski meme. "Lads, c'mon! ...How often do you get a chance like that? I was reading the paper, y'know... And I saw the listing... Well, we've got that album coming out tomorrow. So we've got the money coming in." He says firmly.

"Isn't that... Y'know..." The stick-bug hesitates. "...illegal?" Paul pouts some more. "C'mon... Better me than someone else!" He winks. He was more womanly than you were.

The members now look at you. You did not like this. "Er..." The wannabe says unintelligently. His voice was rough, staring with beady eyes. "Would say take 'er back to 'er mother... But as she sold 'er for ten quid, not sure tha's a good idea..."

This was all getting to be a bit much for you. It had been one hell of a morning, and it wasn't even 10 am.

"Cor..." You mutter, pressing your palm to your forehead, pushing back your brown hair. You speak up with a question, despite being deeply flustered. "So... How's this gonna go?" The larger one looked at Paul with mild offense and surprise. "She talked."

Paul looks down at you and hushes you gently. "Shh-" The insect cuts him off. "Well, go put 'er somewhere, then." He suggests. Paul becomes cheery again, rubbing his hands together like one of those cheesy cartoon villains, except happier. He turns to you. "Ohhkay. Let's getcha acquainted, then!" He winks.

---------------------------------------------------

A cage. He put you in a fucking cage.

This was not something you enjoyed. In fact, you despised it. You despised all of this. Stupid Beatles! Stupid men! Stupid music, stupid mother! You wanted your old music! Your cylinders, your room... You wouldn't put up with this! No sir-ee! You would break out of this cage, find that good-for-nothing, cunty little man, and give him a piece of your mind! Yeah! Down with the patriarchy! Eat the rich! Stop the war...

You sigh.

Oh, what was the use? You were locked in this crate, and Paul would surely just get angry if you tried to leave...

You curl up in your cage and close your eyes in resignation.

---------------------------------------------------

You stir slightly, feeling a finger poke at you as if you were an animal in a zoo exhibit. Which, let's be real, you might as well have been.

This was not Paul. You knew this because Paul smelled of cunt and cigarettes. This was also not the insect, whose name you had learned was George. George had also interrupted your slumber previously. George smelled of foodstuffs, cigarettes, and Tabac Original Eau De Cologne. This one smelled like canned beans, cigarettes, and cognac. You were familiar with cognac because your mother was an alcoholic.

You open your eyes, looking around confusedly. You could not see anyone. That was, until the person spoke up.

"Ello luv."

It was the little one from earlier, sitting on the ground down low. You hadn't noticed him at first.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you down there." You apologize.

The little man sighs, clearly bothered by something. "O' course... That's the way it always is." He sighed.

You frown, surprised by the sudden depression emanating from the small band member. "How so?" You question. You were not familiar with the way these modern bands worked.

"You see, no matter what, I'm lower than the others... Whether it's down here or up on me drums." He explains, deeply sorrowful.

You suddenly feel very bad for this poor little man. "So you're... Different than the others? Cast aside?" You suggest.

"I suppose? Perhaps."

You thought it was almost as if... He wasn't like the other *lads.* You related to this heavily. Except you were not a lad. You were a girl.

"I understand. Everyone casts me aside because I'm not like other girls."

Ringo blinks. "....I see."

"Oh, you lovely man... I'm sorry. In my heart, you'll always be right up there too, with everyone else."

He smiles a bit, a sweet little smile. "Can't believe he's keeping a sweet thing like you all locked up in a cage... Not right to treat a lady like that." He mutters.

You blush at this, thinking about what a gentleman he was. A right sweetheart. You tilt your head, nodding. "Yes. Very improper." You agree.

"I'm Ringo, by the way. Me real name's Richard, but they call me Ringo 'cause of my rings." He informed you. "I'm Y/N." You replied. He tries to kiss the fingers you had gripping the bars of the cage in place of kissing your hand. You giggle coyly at this.

"Sorray I woke you earlier, luv. Just... Curious about you, I suppose." He says.

"That's alright. You're not the first one." You admit, referring to George. "I had just been dreaming again anyway. Still nothing sexual. And still not anything about Paul."

Ringo squints. "Right... That would be odd." He says. You nod again. "Yes. Especially because I hate him so much. "

It's silent for a moment, and you look at each other. He was quite attractive, actually, you realized with a growing lust. His big nose... Blue eyes... And surely he could keep a good rhythm... You surely would drive his car.

"Ringo?" You whisper.

"Yes?" He replies.

"Will you let me out, please? Save me from Paul?" You ask very nicely.

Ringo ponders this for a moment, then nods. "Alright. But we'll have to be careful! He'll have me on a platter otherwise..."

He unlatches the cage, and you spring out, pouncing on him. He topples backwards with a sound of surprise.

Your lips meet his in a passionate kiss. Ringo takes a moment to process this, but quickly kisses back. Before you know it, he's got you up in his arms, legs wrapped around him, and he's carrying you to his room.

"Oh, darling." He groans as you break away for air. "It's only 1963, and besides, that's not even your song." You reply, before going back in for seconds. You arrive in his room, and the two of you tumble into his bed.

Ringo undresses you with haste, and you gleefully allow him to. You pull at his own clothes, fishing out his humongous, hard, spitting cobra. Golly gee, it must've been 9 inches easily! What a monster. You sure understood your mother now.

"You may not be 16, but you sure are beautiful *and* you're mine." Ringo declares loudly, before slamming his clam hammer into your weeping flower. You moan obscenely.

NEW PAGE RULE

Do not do whatever the fuck this is

Violations will result in multigenerational solitary confinement and slavery

-THE FAB FOUR

I remember a time when everyone I loved hated me because I hated them.  So what, so what, so fucking what. I remember a time when belly buttons were knee high When only shitting was dirty and everything else clean and beautiful. I can’t remember anything without a sadness so deep that it hardly becomes known to me. so deep that its tears leave me a spectator of my own STUPIDITY And so I go rambling on with a hey nonny nonny no. How long can one go on writing and writing like you. I now don’t really know who I’m writing to or why its quiet peculiar. I usually write like this and forget about it, but if I post it it’s like a little part of my almost secret self in the hands of someone miles away who will wonder what the hell is going on or just pass it off as toilet paper. Anyway I don’t care really what happens because when I think about it, its so bloody unimportant – but what is important, who has the right to say that this letter is not important and Jesus is a something anyway – in any way – anyway – Yeah! I wonder what it would be like to be a cretin or something. I bet its great. Er how are you keeping, Stuart old chap. Are you OK – is life as good – bad, shite, great – wonderful as it was or is it just a thousand years of nothing, and coalmen on and on and on.  I think this is it  Goodbye Stu don’t write out of – er, what’s it?  Well, not because you think you ought to. Write when you feel like.  So goodbye (from John. You know, the one with glasses) 

ANY WAY BYE BYE See you soon. I don’t know why I said that.

a/n: thank you so much for the req and the sweet words!! <3 sorry it took a little while to get out !

you'd never liked john.

or, that is to say, your father never liked john.

you'd grown up on the same street, but never really noticed on another. in fact, your father hadn't payed much notice to him until he started sauntering about in leather jackets with a guitar slung over his shoulder, cigarette in hand.

it was then that he decided that you were not to spend time with john, no matter the circumstances.

in truth, john hadn't really ever done anything to deserve it, but your father was the protective, strict type and what's said goes.

and so you avoided him at every turn. when you were walking down the street and saw him and his friends leaning against a lamppost, you turned the other way, even if it meant going the long way home. you avoided certain areas of town, certain people, anything to avoid john lennon.

john had never paid you much attention either, beyond thinking you were cute, until he noticed how diligently you avoided him. it humoured him, to be honest, watching you sheepishly stumble away whenever you spotted him. he found that little bashful, nervous expression you'd made absolutely endearing, and wished to see it a million times more.

what bothered him, however, was not knowing why you avoided him so religiously. every cute look was twinged with his obliviousness to what caused it. he tried to think back across your very minimal interactions for some kind of evidence of why you seemed to dodge him, but he came up flat.

despite going to the same college, you never really came across each other for more than a few seconds. every now and then your paths would cross and he would open the door for you, or you'd happen to be in the library at the same time as him. other than that, you were virtually strangers.

and so, he made it his mission to find out why.

after his class on tuesday, he waited outside the building until you came out, messing with his hair to make sure he had the perfect quiff (for no particular reason whatsoever...)

his eyes manoeuvred through the throngs of students wandering out of the building, before finally landing on you. books held to your chest, talking to some girl from your class, waving her goodbye as you went on your own way.

and then you stop.

when you see him, your feet stop of their own accord. it's not even a conscious decision anymore, it's instinct. but you don't run, you don't turn in the other direction like you usually do, you just stand and stare, as he stares right back.

"mind if i walk you home?" he says, but it's not really a question.

you're stunned for just a second, before regaining your composure. "that's alright. thank you for the offer, john." you say, before bowing your head slightly and swiftly brushing past him to make your way home.

but john just sauntered behind you, watching as you scurried away like a terrified little mouse.

but your rejection didn't defer him, oh no.

he continued to wait outside your class for the next coming days, all to be met with the same response. no, thank you. each word just fuels his desire to crack you open, to find out what it is your hiding from him, and what in god's name he did to make you avoid him so.

it wasn't until friday that things changed.

instead of being met with your nervous, but also somewhat expectant expression, he found you with a face of pure monotony. "john, what are you doing this for?" you ask, a little exasperated by his refusal to just leave you alone. you didn't see what joy he derived from you rejecting him and just watching you walk home.

"can't i just want to walk a pretty girl home?" he smirks as your face flushes, despite your attempt to feign disinterest.

knowing that he's getting to you; thats what joy he derives.

"you've never spoken to me before. why now?" you say, beginning to walk, not looking back because you know he'll be right along. this time, you aren't practically sprinting, so he falls into step alongside you, hands in pockets, so nonchalant it infuriates you.

"you hadn't avoided me before. why now?" he rebuttals, his smirk growing as he sees your face grow tomato red, jaw tight with annoyance. "care to explain that?"

you let out a sharp sigh, silent for a few moments, chewing your lip as you think of the right words to use. "my...father."

he nods, not interrupting.

"he doesn't think you're the best kind of person for me to be spending my time with." you feel silly as the words come out, like your seven and can't form your own opinions yourself.

he doesn't, but you can tell he's stifling a laugh from the way his shoulders shake and he presses his lips together to stop any noise from coming out.

"don't laugh."

"I'm not." but his voice hitches a little at the end.

"john."

"i'm not, i'm not." he says, getting a small laugh out, before schooling his expression, "it's just that...you're an adult, right? you know you don't have to do everything your dad says, y'know?"

"i know that," you say defiantly, a small pout forming on your lips that he can't help but stifle another laugh at, "but i still value his opinion."

"you can value his opinion whilst also having your own."

you don't expect such a genuine response from him, and your words seem to get stuck in your throat and your ability to speak momentarily flys up into the sky. you stare at him for a second to make sure he hasn't been body swapped or something, and your voice returns to you.

"i have my own opinions."

he raises an eyebrow, smirk returning, seriousness gone. "then go out with me tomorrow."

you look at him like he's crazy. "and why would i do that?"

"so you can determine your opinion on me, without the influence of your lovely father." his sarcastic tone is not lost on you.

you think for a second, a defiant look on your face. "fine." you say, approaching your front gate. "but don't be surprised when my opinion of you is not all that positive."