beatles blog: #mclennon

op: someone tagged this with mclennon. like john lennon and paul mccartney. like the beatles.

guy who only reblogs discourse and photos of the weirdest looking white man you've ever seen: people are shipping the beatles????

Like, by no means am I trying to weigh up the MXTX love interests' separation periods (as I like to think of them), but Hua Cheng had hope that he would find Xie Lian - he had so much hope that he actively searched for eight hundred years for him before he found him. Luo Binghe was able to bring Shen Qingqiu back, was in the midst of doing so when the mushroom body situation happen and then (while it wasn't Luo Binghe who did it) did bring him back.

Wei Wuxian died. Like straight up, no coming back, impossible to see him again, died. And I sometimes feel like saying that Lan Wangji was waiting kind of undermines the fact that this was a soul-crushing thing, and this was just going to be the rest of his life. There literally was no fucking shot of Wei Wuxian coming back in anyone's even remote comprehension, and the fact that he did come back was a fucking miracle in and of itself.

Lan Wangji mourned for those thirteen years. Hua Cheng searched, Luo Binghe (it's been a while so call me out if I'm wrong) was almost in denial over Shen Qingqiu's death even though he comprehended the sacrifice so he planned, but Lan Wangji mourned, and was going to mourn for the rest of his life. He just had to get used to the fact that he would never, ever get to see the love of his life again. There wasn't even a body to bury. It was just the memories and the gradual, slow descent of those memories disappearing with aging.

ALSO now that I'm thinking about it, the fact that he couldn't even talk to anyone else about it. Obviously, there's this whole thing of memories being kept alive through like sharing and talking about them, but Wei Wuxian cemented himself as basically a taboo subject. A monster who is only talked about to scare people or to curse out his name. Those who remember him can't or won't talk about him for one reason or another, and that means that Lan Wangji is left all alone, mourning someone who nobody even cares to talk about, and that will be the rest of his life. He has come to terms with the fact that he will die with the faint memory of Wei Wuxian's smile and that's all.

And, once again, this isn't trying to make a competition out of the separation periods, I could just as easily talk about how Hua Cheng's despair of not being able to find Xie Lian but knowing that he is alive somewhere (or is he? Has he gone? Faded away? Is Hua Cheng just looking for a memory?). I could talk about that desperation that Luo Binghe felt at losing the only person he had ever loved and been loved by, who had sacrificed himself to save him when he needed him most, who gave so many mixed signals, and then needing to get him back by any means necessary. But this post was borne of me being tired of the 'waiting' label being applied to Lan Wangji's mourning period.

You didn’t ask him to stay. You never do.

But when Simon knocks on your door after midnight, rain clinging to his hoodie, shadows in his eyes, you step back and let him in without a word. He shrugs off his jacket. You don’t ask how his day was. He doesn’t ask how yours was either.

It’s easier that way.

You need to forget. He needs to feel. It’s the rhythm you’ve fallen into—flesh and friction, no strings, no questions. Just bodies tangled in the dark, moving until the world fades to static.

And tonight, you need that more than ever.

You pull him in hard, mouth crashing to his, fingers already tugging his shirt over his head. He follows your lead, backing you toward the bedroom with heavy, purposeful steps like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

The moment your back hits the sheets, he’s between your legs. Pants shoved down. Condoms found blindly. Your body opens for him like it’s been waiting, like he’s the only thing real in a week of fake smiles and empty hours.

He sinks into you in one long thrust.

You arch. He groans. And for a second, it works.

The burn, the stretch, the deep drag of his cock, it drowns the noise. The meetings. The phone calls. The pressure. The loneliness. He fucks you with something close to desperation, hands bruising on your hips, forehead pressed to your throat.

You moan. Claw at him. Buck up to meet every thrust.

“Fuck,” he pants. “Takin’ me so good, sweetheart.”

Your body shudders. It feels good. He feels good. But it’s like something’s knotted deep inside you, refusing to unwind. Every snap of his hips pushes against it, but doesn’t break it. And then— It does.

Not with pain. Not even with pleasure. But with the heat of his hand sliding under your spine to pull you closer. With the sound of his breath in your ear. With the way he mutters your name like it means something.

That’s when it happens.

Your eyes blur. Your chest tightens. And before you can stop it, a tear slides down your temple. He notices.

He freezes, just slightly.

“…Are you crying?”

His voice is low. Confused. Like he’s not sure if he’s hurt you or if the world has. You don’t answer. You can’t. You turn your face into the pillow, jaw trembling, tears streaking silently down your cheek. Simon exhales—slow, deliberate. His rhythm doesn’t stop. But it changes.

He fucks you slower. Deeper. Like he’s not trying to get you off anymore. Like he’s trying to reach something buried in you, something fragile, something breaking.

The tears come harder now. But you don’t stop him. You cling. One hand grips the back of his neck. The other fists the sheet like it’s the only thing anchoring you. You sob—quiet, shaking, cracked open beneath him.

He fucks you through it. Not cruel. Not selfish. He gives it to you. Gives you everything.

And when you finally come, it tears out of you like grief. Your body spasms. Your mouth falls open. You sob into his shoulder as your orgasm crashes over you. Raw, desperate, holy.

Simon doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, slowly, he withdraws, breath ragged. You think he might leave. Or say something. But he doesn’t. He gathers you into his chest. Blanket. Arm under your knees. His shirt between your tears and the pillow. One hand stroking your hair with a gentleness that undoes you more than the sex ever could.

Still no words.

Just his heartbeat. Steady. Solid. And the silence—the real kind. Not the emptiness you’ve been drowning in. The kind that says I’m here. I’ve got you. Fall apart if you need to.