#fangsharrison

Every few seconds, his eyes darted towards his neat and tidy little Beatle suit, still hanging in the dry cleaner bag and waiting to be used for the fuckteenth time in just as many months. Lately, John resented wearing it because of what it represented. For him, a suit was reminiscent of funerals or weddings, neither of which he felt thrilled about attending. All of that sentimental shit made him feel moody and miserable and lonely. What’s worse, John felt that wearing that Beatle getup meant losing his edge. So he was getting drunk to stop thinking about his fucking suit. Navigating the cigarette out of the way with his tongue, he downed his fourth drink in two gulps and reached for the bottle again, now half-empty (and definitely not half-full).  “The only trouble is that we think we’ve got time,” Lennon shrugged, “I doubt I’ll ever make it past forty.” The cigarette fell onto his lap. He stared down at the damn thing intently, but his gaze wasn’t focused, and he drunkenly contemplated it like cavemen must have gazed at the night sky. John wasn’t in the right headspace. It was clear to see in how he swatted the cigarette away and tore it in half, scattering tobacco across the hotel room carpet. 

( continued ! | @fangsharrison ! )

   bijou preferred being the opening act. the nerve-wracking aspect of the night was out of the way, leaving her to simply sit back, sip at some lavish champagne she couldn’t afford on her own and observe the rest of the performances like she was at some sort of upper-class concert-viewing party—a gig where everyone in the crowd had at least some level of fame. it was fascinating, to say the least. she felt awfully privileged. madonna snuck away to exchange pleasantries with someone more up her alley—famous and interesting—someone who would discuss matters of more importance than boys. she’d jokingly elected her best dancer to keep everyone in line while she was off mingling, though her best dancer had never been especially good at that. so here they were, out of their performance attire and in tasteful slip dresses of varying ( but uniform ) designs, bijou and five other pretty girls settled around a circular table. they were engaged in girly chatter, trying to arrive at the unanimous ruling as to which member of the beatles was the best looking while they took the stage. the round-cheeked one was decided upon—paul. by default, she preferred the drummer ( as she now realised she gravitated towards, those drummer-types ) but had her gaze steady fixed on the boy stood in the middle of them all, giving him a proper examination. heavy brow. she had been elected by ‘the grand majority’ to approach one of them after their performance. “which one’ll it be?” an amused voice chirps to the right of her, coupled by a nudge from the japanese dancer to the left. but bijou only waves a hand from her slouched and rather un-ladylike position in her chair, shushing them. “i’m thinking,” mused over the rim of her alcoholic beverage. but she had already decided. there was something about that one that had her mind made up. there was an intermission. the boys had returned to their table. luckily for her eager audience of dancer comrades, they were sat rather close to the girls. everyone was up and moving about; it was now or never. bijou scoots her chair and herself out from beneath the rivulets of the long tablecloth, saving a moment to primp. she makes her way over to the table of bugs ( but not without a loving tap to her bottom ), the thin stem of her champagne glass caught between her fingers as it’s cradled in her palm. to bring confidence to her conclusion, her target was positioned at the very end, an empty seat next to him—a seat just for her! a seat she’ll take, free-fingers curled into the silky satin at the hem of her pink dress to tug down her thighs before doing so. she perches an elbow over the table’s surface to rest a chin upon the back of her hand. turns her head to face him, loose curls spilling over a bare shoulder. there’s a brief second of quiet study, before plum-stained lips part to break her silence. he looked a lot younger up close. she begins, softly, "what is your name?"

he  passes  first  with  his  hand  along  the  first  leather  jacket  ,         already  with  his  least - disarming  grin  protruding  from  his  maw  like  a  bruise .       ❛      LOOKING  GOOD ,   BOYS.     ❜        the  cardinal  gives  a  good  slap  to  george’s  shoulder.          ❛       ey ,       who  invited  this  schmuck  ?       ❜

@fangsharrison

    ‘ MR HARRISON SIR.   YOU are most influential icon of this decade, and I consider this a most BODACIOUS, turn of events meeting you in this century. YOU SEE---i am from the future, and I need to interview you for my journalism class, if that’s okay dude ??!!  ’ / @fangsharrison