An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

seen from Australia

seen from Maldives
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Germany
seen from Maldives
seen from Russia
seen from Chile
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from Brazil

seen from Canada

seen from United States
seen from Netherlands
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from Belarus
seen from United Kingdom

seen from Malaysia
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
â do you ever get scared ?â
âI get scared all the goddamn time,â John confessed, eyelids heavy from not having slept since fuck knows when. Heâd said he didnât feel like talking much, and sat there like a fat frog with his bottle of gin close at hand. George wasnât drunk, or maybe he was, but somehow his presence felt necessary. Moral support, perhaps? Never mind the case, having a close friend near to simply listen felt as vital as the drink in Johnâs hand and the air in his lungs. One kept him dead, the other alive. âScared of my own ambition, but whatâs the use,â Lennon trailed off, reaching for a cigarette from the open pack on the counter. He didnât light it, instead perching it up in the corner of his mouth and letting it dangle as he spoke. If only the world knew about half the thoughts that swirled about in his head. John had it all; the wife, a kid, wealth, and a fucking successful career, but every now and then he couldnât help but reminisce on much simpler times.Â
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. Whatâs 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). âThe only trouble is that we think weâve got time,â Lennon shrugged, âI doubt Iâll ever make it past forty.â The cigarette fell onto his lap. He stared down at the damn thing intently, but his gaze wasnât focused, and he drunkenly contemplated it like cavemen must have gazed at the night sky. John wasnât 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.Â
âș â doubt thereâs any left in thaâ burner âv yours , â paul mumbled half-irritably under his breath . left to eat the spaghetti cold after the last incident with the fire , he was ! from the licked-clean spoon he held in his hand , the boy squinted warily at his friend . â yâbetter watch it , geroge . i donât think theyâll come back with me eyebrows burnt off . â
a hum followed a thought . â too bad âe couldnât come . with âis girlfriend probably . âÂ
after stashing away the spoon into his backpack , he flipped up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide from the cooler air setting in . â dâyou reckon we could get some business if we brought our guitars ? real business thaâll afford us more than a coupleâv cans , yâknow . â
( continued ! | @fangsharrison ! )
starter for @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 couldnât afford on her own and observe the rest of the performances like she was at some sort of upper-class concert-viewing partyâa 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 alleyâfamous and interestingâsomeone who would discuss matters of more importance than boys. sheâd 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 uponâpaul. 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 âthe grand majorityâ to approach one of them after their performance. âwhich oneâll it be?â 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. âiâm thinking,â 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 itâs cradled in her palm. to bring confidence to her conclusion, her target was positioned at the very end, an empty seat next to himâa seat just for her! a seat sheâll 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 tableâs surface to rest a chin upon the back of her hand. turns her head to face him, loose curls spilling over a bare shoulder. thereâs 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?"
&   g. harrison  ; @fangsharrison
THE INEVITABILITY OF QUESTIONS REGARDING HIS ABSENT COSTUME WOULD PLAGUE HIM ,         he just knows it .   there was little he truly enjoyed about the little holiday but business was afoot & the idea of costuming himself was is enough to wear him out. the cardinal,  upon arrival,   was glad to see that he was not the only one adorning leather.  there were no more halloween costumes than regular,  party - goer outfits .
he passes first with his hand along the first leather jacket ,     already with his least - disarming grin protruding from his maw like a bruise .    â   LOOKING GOOD ,  BOYS.    â    the cardinal gives a good slap to georgeâs shoulder.       â    ey ,    who invited this schmuck ?    â

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
â youâre beautiful â
âyou a damn lie, now whatchu wantââ
âanâ donâtchu lie again neithaâ, i know you musâ want somâ if you puttinâ sugaâ on my tail, yoâ lil mean ass donâ neva put no sugaâ on me.â
@fangsharrison
@fangsharrison continued from here  our boy wasn't much of a fighter ( peace and love, baby! make love, not war; that was more of his thing ) but after a dense line of dust that left him all powdery-nosed and crazy-eyed, pupils blown right out, it was difficult to place a limit on what he was willing to get himself into. not his usual debauchery, the antics that followed when all of his bandmates decided to let looseâthe women, meaningless sex, cross-dressing, the unintentional, clumsy vandalismâthis time around, it was going to be a brawl. if you were to catch any of their names in a music zine for a fight the next morning, itâd be their bass playerâs. sure, the man was tiny, but he packed quite the punch. if he were here now, there would be less blood shed on mickyâs end. more than he knew about fights, he knew how to get out of them. he had a sharp tongue. where was he now? it didnât matter. our micky, on the other hand, he just wanted to give it a go. the pretty brunette groupie-thing on his arm fled the scene ( the cocaine should have been her first clue ) and thank god for that. it had been no place for her to begin with. a rather rough crowd, one that egged on the fight like it was a better show than the set itself...which it likely was, the boys played like shit that night. if these two had anything in common, aside from their similar band names ( the beatles and beetlemoth, who knewâthey sure were rowdy for a couple of bugs ), it was their bloody noses and their unrelenting desire to win. to be the last man standing. and with a huff, a result of being thrown against the wall, the vocalist was left dizzy; the force of it had the wind knocked out of him. if it werenât for the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the anger from having his boy bits nudged, he surely would have slumped over. but now the heat of the club seemed to have reached the heads of many, and punches were being thrown like lunch in a cafeteria food fight. his opponent seemed to think he could just walk off with that stupid smirk smacked onto his face, all cool in that leather jacket. but he could think again, because here we have micky making a run for it, weaving through the busy crowd just to jump onto the otherâs back like some sort of wild, rabid animal. it has him toppling over the bar counter, sending bottles and half-empty glasses alike to the ground in a loud shatter. micky couldnât care less about the ruckus they were causing, he had his arm slung around the beatleâs neck, elbow tucked beneath his chin in a chokehold. the weight of him keeps the hold tight, but heâll still squeeze for good measure. the words âfucking cuntâ leak from the gaps of teeth clamped shut. killing him wasnât his intention, but maybe heâd have to. thatâll show himâfor bloodying up his favourite adidas trainers.
   â 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 thatâs okay dude ??!! â / @fangsharrison