#i always wondered if john was actually resting his chin on paul or it just looked like it
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The Wrong Time - Brian May
Hello lovelies <3 This is just a sweet and cute one shot, with Mr May
Summary - A trip to the farmhouse to record turns from sweet to sour when the worst situation to happen...happens, luckily, Brian can step in and lend a helping hand.
Word Count - 3k+
UHHH if you’re sensitive to periods then this isn’t for you, sorry angel, also Roger being a bit of an asshole but that’s expected innit
---
The car’s parked up outside the farmhouse and the rest of its property. It was a sight to behold. Large wooden buildings, aged perfectly with time and crafted with beautiful wood. You’d always had an appreciation for architecture. You could remember going to holiday houses in the countryside as a child, running around the property with your favourite cousin and just exploring. This same nostalgic energy ran over you.
“Come explore with me, Brian” You grinned, turning your head to face him. The car’s engine had just turned off and he was barely awake. His hair was frizzy and a small line of drool was sliding off his lips onto his chin. He stretched uncomfortably, gangly legs being held down for the long drive.
“How’s about we get settled first, love” Brian smiled tiredly, reaching out to pat your hand as a way of solidifying his statement as a promise.
“Aren’t you both just so excited!” Freddie exclaimed from the passenger’s seat, opening the door to step out, dramatically inhaling some fresh air. “Come out and take a good, long whiff of the country!” He stated, tapping his knuckles against the window.
You opened your door and lazily stepped out, stomping right into wet mud, watching as it splattered onto your pants. At least they were just some joggers, a spare pair from Brian from a long while ago.
“Wow, it’s so pretty, look! There’s animals” You gasped, grabbing Freddie’s hand to drag him over to inspect. You never noticed Brian stepping out of the vehicle, who smiled with admiration at your excitement. While Paul only grimaced at the sight of the livestock.
A second car rolled up into the property, holding Roger, John and some bird Roger had come along with them. She was actually a lovely girl, a bit uptight, but you loved her presence nonetheless.
Freddie and you mocked the poor chickens, chasing them in an attempt to pick them up and make acquaintances with them. “Ugh, they just can’t handle our energy, poor souls, their loss” Fred huffed as he crossed his arms, the brown leather of his jacket crinkling as he gave up.
“Another day, I have to go help Brian unpack, he’ll kill me if I don’t” You laughed, watching as Freddie’s mischievous smile played upon his lips. “What?” Your laughter hushed down a little, looking at him inquisitively.
“Oh, I didn’t say a word, love, we just have to see where Paul’s settled us, but I’m sure you’ll be right at home” He spoke, fingers tapping rhythmically against the leather. “You’re speaking in tongues, Mercur-”, you were hushed with Freddie putting his finger to your lips, then gesturing for you to follow him. The rest of the day went quite smoothly, everyone went into the kitchen to grab something to eat after the long ride. There wasn’t a wide selection, but everyone settled on toasties or just plain sandwiches. “Ah, this is a delicacy, Y/N” Brian announced, taking a seat next to you at the large table, even though he was just eating bread and butter. You looked at him as performed a small chef’s kiss, trying not to let your girlish giggle slip out, which only resorted in you and him trying not to snigger at one another. You turned your head a little to look at Freddie, whose eyes gleamed with some kind of emotion and a small smile on his lips darted across his face, a lit cigarette held between his teeth. He simply raised his eyebrows and shook his head, removing the cigarette and mouthing;
“I didn’t say anything”.
“Paul, where are we even sleepin’ tonight,” Roger asked, his girl sat in his lap, both of them sharing the same cigarette. His fingers were combing through her long black locks, her face was a mix of Morticia Addams and Marilyn Monroe. She was quite gorgeous, you saw why Roger wanted to have her stick around for a little while.
“Right, of course, when we’re all finished, we’ll go out and I’ll show you” Paul announced, sitting straight in his chair, caught off guard as he held a hand to his mouth to stop any crumbs slipping out.
The tour began and rooms were assigned. “What about Y/N and Gracie?” Roger asked with an arm slung around his date. “I just assumed that Grace was staying with you and Y/N with May?” Paul said, a questioning tone in his voice.
“Why May with our little chicken chaser?” Freddie asked, reminding you of the morning’s antics, making you chuckle a little. “Why are you asking silly questions, they’re a couple, aren’t they?” Paul turned to Freddie, before looking around in confusion as the group erupted into a chorus of laughter, however you turned and saw Brian turn beet red, and he looked as though he was forcing his laughter a bit. Hell, you felt the same way.
After the laughter died down, Paul turned and gave a half-sincere apology, but insisted you two still stayed in the same room together. You two did.
---
Songs were recorded that evening, to give space, Gracie and you did some exploring, though you’d rather if Brian had been with you.
“So, how’s it with Rog?” You asked as you went around the back of the farmhouse, going through the pathway, around shrubs and bushes. “It’s actually goin’ good, I mean, I’m trying not to let it get to my head and ego, I know he probably has tens of other girls waiting for him...I’m just tryin’ to enjoy it while it lasts, you know?” She smiled. You could hear the tinge of disappointment in her voice but she hid it pretty well, for the most part.
“You never know, I’m not too close with the blondie but...he is a bit of a softie, and I don’t think he’d pass up a woman like you, knowing him as much as I do” You elbowed her a little, seeing her face light up slightly, a small snicker leaving her lips.
“Enough of me, so...you and May? You’re telling me you’re not dating? I could’ve sworn!” She continued, taking your hand as a way to guide you through the thick bushes, trying to find more kinds of forest areas, somewhere interesting. The sun had set, the sky was an array of blues and purples. You wondered if Brian saw the same stars you were, or if he was still recording, huddled in his chair at the soundboard.
“No, we’re only friends” You laughed, letting a blush creep up on your face. “Like, not saying I wouldn’t appreciate a little bit more but a girl can always dream” You admitted, snorting at Gracie’s drawn-out ‘ooooh la laa~’.
“He’s great, he really is, I don’t see why you just don’t go...you’re cute, I’m cute, let’s shag!” Gracie joked, the trees became sparing, but it was the best you two would get. She brought your hand up to her face, checking it out. “I can tell you’re not getting any action, love, definitely not with those nails” She teased, letting it go before sitting down on a fallen log. You both took in the night’s sky.
“He studied for astronaut stuff, ri’?” She asked quietly, looking up at the stars, the lack of light made them pop and shine. “Astrophysics...he loves the stars, and I love listening to him talk about it, I could listen forever Gracie, I really could…” You smiled dreamily.
You pointed out a few constellations, ones you could remember. These girly talks were nice, it was great to talk one on one with another girl instead of a bunch of band boys. She understood you and you understood her. You listened to her go on about Roger, it was cute, she told you small intimate details, about how he likes to go through her hair and play with it and how he loves to have his back traced with her nails, till shivers run up and down his arms and spine.
You both laid out and talked in the woods for a few hours. The walk home was a lot quieter. You tried to ignore the small sense of discomfort around your tummy, you assumed it was hunger. You let Gracie hold onto your hand or arm as you guided her back home. It was late. You both lost track of time, it could be midnight for all you knew. You knew Brian would be worried sick, and you did hope it wasn’t so late.
“Are you as hungry as me?” You asked her, your stomach aching slightly, but she just shrugged. The farmhouse came into view, the clucking of chickens becoming more audible. The cars were in the same places, so no one was gone. The lights were still on as well.
You fumbled with the door handle and immediately saw Brian in the hallway. “My God, I thought we lost you guys!” He raised his voice, not in anger, just with worry. He came over and embraced you, long arms wrapped around your shoulders.
“It’s almost midnight-” Just as you predicted, “-what were you two thinking, going out so late, I thought you got lost, love” Brian didn’t let go, arms simply tightening a little bit.
You could smell the tobacco on his breath, he smoked when he got stressed sometimes. You didn’t think it had been that big of a deal.
“I’m gonna go find Rog” Gracie awkwardly added, before slowly leaving, closing the hall door behind her. You could hear Roger start hollering in relief.
“I’m fine, hun, I didn’t go far, why are you so worked up?” You asked, pushing his head back a little so you could look at his face. “I...I don’t know, just thought you couldn’t find your way home, dove...just got worried...take my watch with you next time” He mumbled, quickly nestling his head back against you, holding you in that hallway, it was a warm and sweet embrace.
After a bit, he let go, pushing your hair from your face. “Did you see the stars?” He asked with a quiet voice, smiling at you. You nodded, smiling back. “I thought they were beautiful, I was hoping you were looking…” He said, letting his eyes sink into yours. You both stood in a moment of silence before he cleared his throat. “Fred found some frozen pizzas earlier, they should be done by now” He smiled, taking a step back as he walked into the kitchen. You followed suit.
---
You had been sleeping in the same room as Brian for the past two nights. Sometimes you woke up to your head on his chest but you always moved before he woke up. He snored a little bit, not too bad, just enough for you to keep you awake for a while longer when you were restless. Which had been exactly how you were for these past nights. You could barely sleep and there was a restless ache at your midsection. You stayed completely oblivious to the signs.
Night three was okay, you hopped into bed a bit late, seeing Brian laying there, loose t-shirt hanging off his shoulders with some soft joggers on as well. A small book was on his chest, you took it off and dog-eared the book, placing it on the nightstand. You took off your trousers, leaving you in your underwear and you left on the jumper you had worn all day, sliding under the duvet. You turned off the lamp, the small click echoed in the room. You heard his little snores, giving you the signal you needed to inch yourself closer, placing your head on his shoulder, curling up next to him. He made a little grunt, shifting a little before his arm just subconsciously curled around you as if he was hugging a pillow. His warmth helped you drift off to sleep.
---
The morning was cold and quiet. Everyone was off at the recording studio. You had raced up. You were uncomfortable and practically on the verge of tears. Brian was gone when you woke up but all you saw when you woke up was bright red bed sheets, and underwear coated in blood as well. You were panicking. You never packed for this. You were way too early. It shouldn’t have happened for God’s sake!
You knew you needed to shower, your thighs were red too, red and sticky. However, you just took a washcloth and some water from the sink. You couldn’t change underwear with no products to put on them.
Tissue it is…
You threw tissue into your underwear, and those joggers you wore on the first day. Why did they have to be light grey? You really were about to cry, your vision was hazy and the realisation that your period happened on the worst possible occasion had made your cramps become slightly more unbearable. You quickly shuffled your way down to the recording studio.
You ran in, your face as white as a ghost. “Good morning, sleepyhead” Freddie greeted you, you could hear Brian in the booth, strumming away.
“Ooo, you look rough, what happened? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” Roger teased, John simply elbowed him to get him to quit it upon seeing the annoyance build upon your face. Gracie came up to you, taking your hands, “Lovie, what’s wrong? My, you look like you’ve seen death himself”.
“It’s bad, Gracie, it’s really bad” You mumbled, really trying to keep it down so they wouldn’t hear. “Honey, honey, what’s bad?” Her thumbs ran over the back of your hands. You saw Freddie raise his hand to Brian, as a signal to pause. He stood up and walked over, questioning you like Gracie, you simply just kept saying that you don’t know what to do, the tears started welling up again.
“Must be someone’s time of the month” Roger snorted, looking at your dramatic display, a cheeky grin forming before he saw you burst into tears, incoherently giving out to him after. Your voice raising at him as you continued to shuffle around on the spot awkwardly.
When nobody came to the soundboard, Brian had taken it as his cue to leave. When he opened the door to leave, he was face to face with the back of your body...and the splotch of red on the behind of your joggers.
“Uh, Y/N, you...you wanna step out for a bit,” He asked, stepping forward, standing behind you so as he guided you out, he hoped nobody would see.
“Baby, hey, calm, what’s up...love, I can’t understand you when you’re mumbling” He wiped your tears with his fingers, as your breath hitched. You felt so uncomfortable, and just so upset. “It’s...ih-it’s my per-period” You managed to say, it sounded so stupid out loud, but it still made you feel so embarrassed. Despite knowing the answer, after seeing your behind, he still felt his face go hot, not really being introduced to this stuff a lot as a young boy.
“There’s no, like, things for you here?” He asked, clearing his throat, taking a hold on your shoulder, watching you shake your head. “Well, alright, one minute” He stepped away, walking into the recording studio.
“Boys, I gotta go for a bit, just record whatever else, we can finish what I was doi- Roger, this isn’t an argument, I’m going, okay, bye! Bye!” He yelled in, before closing the door to avoid the chaos. You stood there, holding your arms to your chest, sniffling before Brian gave you a soft smile, carefully placing his arm around your shoulder and taking your hand in his free one.
“Come on, I heard there’s a town close enough, we’ll find something for you,” He told you in a pleasant tone, soft and dreamy, it was calming.
“Paul’s gonna be mad if I get blood on the seats” You muttered, walking with him, shuffling out the doorway to the familiar driveway. “I’ll tell Paul that it was Roger’s fault, I’m quite bored having Roger nag at me, love to see a little fight go down” He chuckled, but fell faint when you didn’t return the laugh.
The car ride felt tense. You were on edge and Brian drove with not much pep in his step. He quietly hummed every now and again though. He mumbled a few lyrics every now and again as you both travelled down the country roads.
“‘M just a poor boy...nobody loves me...he’s jus’ a poor boy from a poor family...spare him his life from this monstrosity...do, do, do, do, do…” He sang to himself, turning his head when he heard a small snigger from you.
“You like that?” He smiled back, you nodded, smiling back. “It’s cute...is what I could say...is it on the album?” You asked, and watched as he nodded vigorously. “Honestly, it’s best you weren’t there for the recording. Fred kept pushing...and pushing and fucking pushing Roger to sing higher and higher till he couldn’t go anymore, it’s stuck in my bloody head and it’s only day three” He vented, reaching out and placing a hand on your knee as a small sign of reassurance. “I know we’ve been busy but I promise we can explore soon...you asked and you will receive, darling…” He continued, soon the sparsity of buildings started to die down. A small town was beginning to form.
“Brian?” You said quietly, listening to the sounds of the tires on the bumpy road. “Yes, love?” He replied with eyes keen on remaining on the road, avoiding any people who ran across.
“Thank you...you didn’t have to do this...I really appreciate it and I appreciate you, you mean a lot to me, Brian” You told him, placing your hand on his, the one that rested on your knee. “It’s the least I can do, Y/N, you’re a lovely girl and I hate to see you hurt, it would be rude of me to just ignore it all” He replied, pulling up against the path, to align with small corner shops.
“You coming with?” He asked, unbuckling his seatbelt but he took you unbuckling yours as a sign. “Oh shit, here” He muttered, taking off his jacket, handing it to you. “Bri, it’s not cold out?” You tilted your head, slowly taking it. He made a gesture to tie it and you took the signal. The shop you both entered had a few locals, some kids, no older than fifteen, came over with excitement, all bouncing on their feet to say hello.
“We’ll pay for it, Mrs. White!” One boy yelled as he took a marker from its packaging right off the shelf, asking could he sign their skateboards. He complied, watching as the kid paid for the marker before they all ran out with smiles on their faces. You shuffled off to find the sanitary products, being greeted with a small array. You felt Brian come up behind you, placing his head atop of yours.
“This is completely foreign to me, dove, just take your pickings and I’ll have the wallet out” He smiled, moving his head as you inched forward, picking up a few different boxes, making sure there was enough.
“Is there a bathroom near?” You asked the lady at the counter, a small lady with white curly hair and a purple cardigan draped around her fragile frame. Her big eyes shone from behind her glasses as a shaky smile adorned her face, a frail finger pointing in the direction of a wooden door off to the side.
“A lucky girl to have such a nice husband to help her out, I’ll tell you, my husband would never step foot near woman’s products back in my day, young man, so take care of her, alright, dear?” The lady said to Brian as he paid for the items. He never corrected her. He didn’t really mind being mistaken for your husband.
---
You went to bed early that night, cringing at the blood that dried into the sheets. You had taken a shower and as you put on fresh clothes to get cosy in, you heard the door open.
“Good evening, love” Brian announced as he walked in, two sandwiches on a plate. “Are you not busy recording still?” You questioned, helping yourself to the sandwich with actual fillings, you knew the one with butter was for him. “Nope, I did my work and told em’ I’d rather be with you than be surrounded by a couple goblins” He chuckled, turning pink as he watched you let out a girly giggle, hand covering your mouth.
“Hop into bed with me, dear, I’d like to actually get to hold you for once instead of just waking up and having to get up and move you away from me” His voice went quiet towards the end of his sentence.
“I’d like that too, Bri” You let your grin be free, taking Brian by the hand, sandwich in your other to snack in bed, hoping he wouldn’t notice the stain.
#queen#queen imagine#queen fanfic#x reader#brian may x reader#fem!reader#brian may#freddie mercury#john deacon#deaky#roger taylor#queen one shot#fluff#brian may fluff
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My Man
A BenHardy!Roger Taylor x Reader Fic Part II
Summary: Reader is a Broadway actress currently starring in a West End production of Funny Girl. She’s a widow, thanks to the Vietnam War, but it’s a well-kept secret. She also wants everyone to think she doesn’t care for rock music. She meets Roger Taylor when he brings his date backstage.
Word Count: 1.8K (it’s shorter but there’s more progress this time, I swear)
Tag List: @bohemian-war if anyone else would like to be tagged, let me know!!!
Part I
Part II here we go!!!
You lay awake that night contemplating Roger. His bandmates really made him more tolerable to be around. When he just brought his dates to your dressing room, you thought he was coarse and conceited, but with the rest of Queen in the room, he helped you with your jacket and then offered to walk you home like a gentleman. Just who was he? Which was the true Roger? Were either of them the true Roger?
With a sigh, you rolled onto your side and looked at the clock. It was well past two in the morning. Sleep eluded you once again. It always made you thankful your job was in the evenings. Working a typical nine to five would have killed you since your depression kept you awake when the night was as dark as your thoughts.
Every book and article told you to take moments like this to call someone. But who would be there for you? Your parents hadn’t spoken to you in nearly a decade. Your friends back home only made it worse. All of them still had their husbands, and most of them had children now. It was only a harsh reminder of what was taken from you. They were supportive, but they just didn’t understand a bit of what you were going through.
Forgoing sleep, you threw the covers off yourself and got out of bed. You padded out to the kitchen and opened your fridge. An unfinished bottle chardonnay sat front and center on the shelf, and you grabbed it by the neck. You yanked the cork out and took a swig. With a snicker, you thought of what your mother might say if she saw you now. Her proper little lady drinking wine out of the bottle and living on her own without a chaperone or a husband.
You took a couple gulps.
You stumbled a bit making your way over the couch. You switched on you TV and surfed through the basic channels. A late night re-run caught your eye. It was a fucking Queen performance they had done a couple years ago. Rolling your eyes, you downed the remainder of the wine. Your head began to swim as you realized this much wine was a mistake when you hadn’t eaten since the previous morning.
“Ugh,” you groaned. The camera panned to Brian and then Roger. You looked upward and addressed the heavens. “You’ve got a really awful sense of humor.”
Irritated, you smashed the power button and turned it off. Roger Taylor was just another man. Why was the universe forcing him on you?
That afternoon, you walked into your dressing room knowing you looked hungover. You had come across a bottle of vodka after the wine and drank a large portion of that as well to get Roger Taylor off your mind. It worked, but it cost you.
“You look terrible, Y/N,” Gary said as you shrugged your coat off.
“Get bent,” you returned.
“Rough night?” he asked, ignoring your rudeness.
“I had a normal night,” you said. “I just added some wine...and some liquor. Leave me alone.”
“You sure a certain drummer didn’t keep you up?” he teased.
“Gary, I’m gonna lose my shit on you.”
He put his hands up in surrender. “Don’t bite my head off, girl.”
“Do not call me girl.”
“You are a girl,” he said. “You’re Funny Girl Fanny Brice and if you don’t start acting like it I’m calling your understudy.”
You flashed him a sarcastic smile.
“That’ll do for now. I need you on stage in ten minutes for warm ups.”
He smiled and wiggled his fingers at you on his way out the door. You took a seat in front the mirror, taking your ring off, and retrieving your makeup. You put it on carefully, thankful for something to focus on.
When showtime came and the curtain went up, you flipped the switch in your brain to be your actress persona. You became Fanny once again and were relieved that for a few hours, you could be someone other than you. You could escape inside her each night. When you were Fanny, you were free.
But then it ended. The curtain fell, the lights dimmed, and Fanny was just a character on a page. The real world snatched you back into its cruel clutches. After taking your bows, you returned to your dressing room.
You changed for the party Freddie invited you to, suddenly considering blowing it off. What could be gained by going? Feeling more lonely than ever in a house full of people? More infuriating confrontations with Roger? What was the point?
Well, you did really like Freddie. He was awfully sweet to you and it was kind of him to invite you at all. A lot of people would kill for an invitation like that. Sighing, you changed into your jumpsuit and heels. As you headed out the door, you felt your nerves start up. Then you remembered what George used to tell you when you were feeling insecure.
You’re a goddess, baby. They just can’t handle your light.
Smiling to yourself, you stood a little taller as you walked out. That was what you’d always loved about George. He made you shine.
When you arrived at Freddie’s home, you didn’t let it intimidate you. You knocked on the door and a man you didn’t recognize answered.
“Can I help you?” he asked in a thick Irish accent.
“I’m Y/N Y/L/N,” you told him. “Mr. Mercury invited me over.”
“Did he now?” the man returned, skeptically.
“Uh, yes,” you said, annoyed now. “Why are you being such a di - ”
“Y/N!” Freddie’s cry cut across you. “Step out of her way, Paul, she’s a friend.”
The man named Paul obeyed and you stuck your tongue out at him while Freddie’s back was turned. When he faced you again, he pulled you into a hug.
“It’s wonderful to see you, darling,” he said. “How’d it go tonight?”
“Same as always,” you told him.
“Well then it was fucking fabulous, wasn’t it?” he said with a grin.
You beamed back. “It was, Mr. Mercury, thank you.”
“What would you like to drink?”
“Beer is fine.”
He had someone bring it to you, and you thanked them. You followed Freddie to another room where you saw the rest of the band. Brian and John both had dates, but Roger had two women with him - one on each side. You fought a brutal urge to roll your eyes. Freddie disappeared to the beckoning of another guest, so you made your way over to the familiar faces.
“Evening, gentlemen,” you greeted. “May I join you?”
“By all means,” Brian said, pulling up a chair.
“Thank you, Mr. May,” you said, taking a seat.
You chatted with them for a bit. It was nice to interact with people, even though you had been scared before. The women there were also friendly. You felt normal for a little while.
After about a half an hour, a slow song came on over the speakers. Roger locked eyes with you and smiled. He got up and offered you his hand.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked. “That is if your husband doesn’t mind.”
He pointed to a man in the corner, dancing wildly by himself. You laughed.
“Not my husband,” you said, taking Roger’s hand.
He led you out where there was some room and then placed one hand politely on your waist. You swayed with him for a moment, keeping a safe distance between you. The other couples were almost completely engulfed in each other.
“So, where is your husband this evening?” he asked.
You swallowed. “He couldn’t make it.”
“Awfully elusive, isn’t he?” he remarked.
“I guess you could say that,” you returned, looking down.
He took your chin in his thumb and forefinger and lifted your eyes to his. “Everything alright?”
You nodded, shaking him off. “Of course.”
A few beats of silence passed between you before you spoke again. “I didn’t take you for much of a dancer, Mr. Taylor.”
“I’m not usually,” he said. “But I have a weakness for a beautiful partner.”
“You had one,” you replied, not taking the bait. “Two, in fact.”
“Are you jealous?”
“You’re an infant.”
He laughed. “There she is.”
“Perhaps you were guessing who might be the best dancer,” you joked.
“Would that be you?” he asked.
“I am a classically trained ballroom dancer, Mr. Taylor,” you said, and it was true. “I know the foxtrot, the waltz, quickstep, et cetera, et cetera. And when I started doing musicals I learned to tap as well.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Is it about dance?”
He chuckled. “Fascinating as your resume is, that’s not what I’m after.”
“What can I help you with then, Mr. Taylor?”
“That’s what I’m asking about. You can call me Roger, you know. What’s with all the formality?”
That was a difficult question to answer. Your upbringing was so rooted in you in some ways. And calling a man who was not you husband by his given name was something you always struggled with. Especially when you didn’t know him very well. How could you explain the conservative brainwashing you’d received as a child?
“I was just raised that way,” you said. “Some habits are hard to break.”
“It just makes you sound like you’re in a Jane Austen novel,” he said.”
“Have you even read a Jane Austen novel?”
“Course I have, I went to university, didn’t I?”
“I didn’t ask if you were assigned Jane Austen. I asked if you actually read it.”
“For your information, I did,” he said with a self-satisfied smirk.
“Which one?” you wondered.
“Pride and Prejudice,” he said.
“Naturally.”
You paused again.
“Can I ask you something now?” you put forth.
“Fire it off.”
“How come you wanted to see me again? Mr. Mercury said you couldn’t stop talking about me. But I was really rude to you.”
“The first time, I didn’t want to see you again,” he admitted. “But then Jackie kept talking about how glamorous it was and - like I told you - we had a wonderful night together. I figured I’d give it another go even if you did annoy me. When you talked about your husband, you seemed more human. It made me think of Pride and Prejudice, actually.”
“You think I’m Lizzie Bennet?”
He shook his head. “No, I think you’re Mr. Darcy.”
Your mouth dropped and you stopped moving. “You think I’m Mr. Darcy?! Why?!”
“Because you’re rude but in a way that tells me there’s something deeper,” he explained with a chuckle. “And I think it’s got something to do with that missing husband of yours.”
He moved to begin dancing with you again, but you dodged his arm, looking away.
“Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was only joking.”
“No, you weren’t,” you replied. “I’m sorry too, it’s just...it’s complicated.”
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Something like that.”
You bit your lip as you looked toward the door. “I should go,” you said before meeting his eyes just once more. “Good night, Mr. Taylor.”
You left before he could say any more.
#queen#roger taylor x reader#ben hardy x reader#ben!roger taylor#bohemian rhapsody#roger taylor#roger taylor x you#ben!roger x reader#ben hardy#ben!roger imagine#freddie mercury#rami malek#brian may#gwilym lee#john deacon#joe mazzello#fanfic#queen fanfic#queen imagine#reader insert
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#tumblrspiritweek, Wordy Wednesday, Part I
Since this is all about our own work, now’s a good opportunity for some #shameless self promotion. I’ve already posted the first chapter of my first novel, What We Need to Survive, a few times, but not recently.
The overview: post-apocalyptic romance, grim world but hopeful message, first of a trilogy following the same couple, potential triggers = global collapse due to illness, rape mention, gun violence, other weapon violence, onscreen character deaths (not the mains! yes there is a happy ending!)
I KNOW THIS ISN’T NECESSARILY WHAT EVERYONE WANTS TO READ RIGHT NOW. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but I also couldn’t know in 2015 when I published this that I’d be trying to make a living as an author through an actual pandemic. I am writing other things that don’t have plagues in them (and I will post the first chapter of my current WIP later today) but I love these books and I’d be sad to give up on them just because the real world sucks right now.
So I get it, if this is the wrong time for you to read this. Check back later today for some rock-star action.
If you’re still here through all of that, this book is currently on sale for 99 cents and the trilogy omnibus edition for $4.99;or if you’re up for reading it in a timely fashion and leaving an honest review, I’m always willing to send out [free, digital] review copies, hit me up.
Below the cut: the first chapter in its entirety.
Chapter 1 - Cigarette Lighters
August 23rd, 4:23 pm – Somewhere along US-36, Central Ohio
Paul kicked a rock out of his path, watching it bounce and skitter down the highway.
He saw no point in wasting breath on cursing the weather. One squall of rain caught him earlier in the day, forcing him into the cramped shelter of one of the abandoned cars dotting the road. But the boom of thunder in the distance worried him. He’d spent plenty of nights out in the open. Sleeping in the rain was miserable enough, but he imagined sleeping through a storm would be next to impossible.
He looked up, but thick forest on both sides of the highway hid all but the narrowest strip of sky. Blank, unbroken gray hovered above him. There was no way to judge how close the storm was, except for the unreliable system of counting Mississippis.
The closest building he remembered passing was at least half an hour behind him, maybe an hour. The closest town he’d left behind yesterday afternoon. Turning back might get him to shelter before the storm struck, if he hurried.
Or it might not. The road ahead curved away from him, and the trees could hide anything.
Paul kept moving forward, faster under the threat of rain.
Ten minutes later, he spied a gas station and picked up his pace even more.
As he got closer, the station didn’t seem promising. Most of the windows gaped empty, broken down to their frames, and the front door hung askew on a broken hinge. The first fallen leaves of the season littered the parking lot. Shards of glass from the broken windows and random bits of trash lay scattered among them.
The rain started as Paul reached the edge of the parking lot. He sprinted for the cover of the roof protecting the pumps.
Hard-won caution kept him from dashing the rest of the way inside. Instead he approached the building with slow, deliberate steps, holding up his empty hands. “Hello in there!” he called. “Anybody home?”
There was no answer, but Paul remained wary. When he was a few yards from the open door, he stopped and called again. “Is anyone there? I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, just a place to get out of the rain.”
A shuffling sound came from his right, and a movement that flickered in the corner of his eye. He turned toward it and saw a gun pointed in his direction. The gunman himself hid in the shadow of the empty window frame.
“Stay where you are!” the man shouted. His voice was deep and authoritative, the kind of voice that focused the attention of anyone who heard it. Paul didn’t doubt it belonged to a man willing to shoot him, if necessary.
“No trouble,” Paul repeated. “I was hopin’ this place was empty, ‘cause I’d rather be inside than out with a storm overhead. But if I ain’t welcome, I’ll move on.”
“Stay right there, and give me a minute!”
Paul did as the man ordered, watching the gun in the window, which didn’t move. He guessed the man was talking to someone inside, but he couldn’t hear anything. While he waited, the rain grew heavier, pinging on the corrugated metal of the roofing like the highest notes played on a huge steel drum.
“You got any weapons?” the deep-voiced man called out.
“Just the knife on my belt,” Paul answered. “No guns.”
“You can wait out the storm with us in here, then be on your way. Sound reasonable?”
Paul lowered his hands. “Yeah, that’s good.” The gun disappeared from the window, and the knot of tension in Paul’s chest loosened. He hadn’t believed he was going to get shot, but he was relieved to be right.
Unless they were going to rob him the minute he walked in the door. But it was too late to run now. If they meant to take his supplies, then the man with the gun could shoot him in the back when he fled.
Best to play along.
A man with dark brown skin and chin-length dreadlocks appeared in the doorway. He was shorter than Paul, but that didn’t mean he could be dismissed as a threat, since he was much more heavily muscled. His straight-backed posture and firm gaze shouted military to Paul. Or maybe cop. And he sported a holster on his belt. The man with the gun.
Unless there’s more than one of ‘em.
When Paul didn’t move, he flashed a grin, wide and startlingly white. “Come on in,” he said, beckoning with one hand. He stood aside to let Paul through.
The inside of the station wasn’t in any better shape than the outside. The metal shelving units were empty, all the chocolate bars and potato chips gone. Glass-fronted refrigerators lined the back wall, but those were empty, too. At the counter, the cash register lay on its side, the drawer popped loose. Paul guessed that had happened in the first few days, when looters thought money still meant something. It hadn’t taken long before that wasn’t true anymore. Dark patches stained the white linoleum floor. Paul hoped they weren’t blood. Though they probably were.
“I’m John,” the man said. His voice sounded almost friendly, and Paul lifted his hand in automatic reaction to meet John’s for a shake. He dropped it when he saw there was no hand offered.
“Paul.” He settled for giving John a nod instead.
John turned and headed for an open space beyond the counter. Paul meant to follow, but he stopped short at the sight of a girl crouched under the window. She was small, her thin limbs folded in on themselves to take up as little space as possible. Her black hair was oddly uneven in length, not quite reaching her shoulders. Paul guessed it was growing out from whatever shorter style she’d had, before. Her wide eyes watched him with silent tension, like a fawn ready to bolt to safety.
Paul hadn’t met many kids on the road, but most of them looked a lot like her. Frail and frightened, not ready to face what the world had become since the plague had ruined everything.
Before Paul could decide what to say to her—or even if he should say anything at all—she shot to her feet and followed John across the room. Her ill-fitting clothes didn’t completely hide the curves of her body, and the swing of her hips was shocking and compelling at the same time. She wasn’t a young girl at all. Her head wouldn’t even reach Paul’s shoulder, but she was a grown woman, right down to the angry toss of her hair.
But still frightened.
Paul let her have her distance from him. With any luck, the storm would pass before nightfall, leaving him time to move on and make camp somewhere else for the night. He’d shared makeshift shelter with strangers before, talked, and traded, but he never slept well. And it was no great leap to guess the woman didn’t want him there.
Though she had let him in, at least. That was why she’d been at the window, Paul guessed—John had checked with her before giving Paul permission.
Lightning flashed outside. Paul counted four-Mississippi before the thunder rolled over the building. After the next strike, he counted three.
If the light were better, he could pass the time scribbling in his notebook. A half-formed song had haunted his thoughts for days, and he’d welcome a chance to jot down the lyrics. But it would be a waste of ink and paper trying to write by lightning flashes.
If the company were better, he could talk and see about some trading. He was running lower than he liked on food, though he had enough to see him through the next day or two. The towns on this stretch of the highway all seemed to be one or two days apart, so he expected to hit another one tomorrow. He could spend a day searching houses for supplies.
Glancing around the interior of the station, he wondered if there was a rack of local road maps. So far, he’d been navigating by the ones posted on the walls at rest stations. But it was too dark to see much of anything, except a weak glow from the far corner. Someone had lit a candle. He heard low voices talking. John’s, he recognized. Another one, lighter and higher-pitched, he assumed was the woman’s. But there was a third, too, higher still and squeaky.
Another flash of lightning drew Paul’s attention back to the window. No need to introduce himself to the others if they were only company while the storm lasted. With nothing else to do, he cleared a space on the counter, sat on it, and watched the storm.
There was a light patter of footsteps. Paul turned just as someone reached out to touch his arm. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Paul replied. The boy looked about nine or ten. His skin was almost the same deep brown shade as John’s. The glow of the candlelight behind him traced the edges of his short corkscrew curls, giving them a faint golden sheen.
“Do you want to trade with us before we eat dinner?” he asked, half-polite and half-shy. “Maybe we have something different, if you’re tired of what you got.”
“Sure.” Paul slid off the counter top and followed the boy over to the others.
John sat cross-legged with his back to one wall. “Aaron, I told you not to bother him.”
Aaron shrugged as he settled beside John. “I just wanted to see if he had any different food we could trade for. I’m tired of peanut butter crackers.”
In the corner, the woman sat with her knees drawn up before her. She flicked a glance at Paul but said nothing as he pulled off his pack and sat down several feet away.
“You might be in luck, then, Aaron,” Paul said. “I’ve got some granola bars. The s'mores kind, I think.”
Aaron gave him a big smile that was nearly identical to John’s. Paul didn’t want to leap to any conclusions based on the fact that they were both black, but they looked enough alike to be father and son. So far, they were acting like it.
Paul stole another glance at the woman as she stared into the candle flame, ignoring everything else. Her skin was a lighter golden brown, under the smudges of dirt. And despite the realization that she wasn’t a child, she didn’t look anywhere near old enough to be Aaron’s mother. So who was she, and how did she end up with them?
The sound of a zipper snapped his thoughts back into focus—Aaron had a battered red backpack on the floor in front of him. He reached in and pulled out two packets of crackers.
Paul rifled through his own supplies and turned up two granola bars in exchange. He was about to ask what else they might want, open-ended, to see if he could draw the woman out at all. Before he could, he heard wet, squelching footsteps from the front of the building. He leaped to his feet, whirling to face the newcomers. Three of them, two women and a man, all middle-aged, all splattered with rain.
“Easy, Paul.” John’s voice was firm. “They’re with us.”
“If we’d known the rain would start so soon,” the man said, “we could’ve just set these outside and let the storm fill them up.” He had a large metal water bottle in each hand. One he passed to John, the other he set on the floor beside him as he sat down. “So you made a new friend while we were gone?”
A soft snort came from the corner, but John answered them without acknowledging it. “Just sharing the roof until the storm passes.”
The man pulled off his baseball cap, ran a tanned hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, and smiled. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to get rained on.” He stuck out his other hand, which Paul shook briefly. “Mark.”
“Paul.”
“And this is my wife, Sarah,” he went on as one of the women sat down on his other side. The rain plastered her short blond hair to her forehead, but she smiled too and passed the extra bottle she carried to Aaron.
“Nice to meet you, Paul,” she said.
The final newcomer was still standing, looking down at Paul with a curious intensity. “Hello there.” Handsome, Paul mentally tacked on, because that was the exact tone she used. Since she was staring, he did too.
She was tall, or maybe she only seemed tall because she was lean and angular. Her hair was a riot of messy red curls in dire need of a wash, but she was pretty, in a faded, tired sort of way. Before the plague hit, she must have been beautiful. Before her eyes grew ringed with dark circles and her cheeks hollowed out from lack of food. “I’m Alison.”
Paul nodded. Alison tilted her head to the side for a moment, clearly waiting for more. When she didn’t get it, she strode past him. Behind him, which made his shoulder blades itch before he realized she was going to the small woman’s side.
Who still hadn’t given her name. Someone would, though. Paul could be patient.
Alison leaned against the wall and tapped it twice with the extra bottle in her hand. The sound reminded Paul of a food dish being set on the floor for a pet. Without looking, the woman reached her hand up, palm flat, and Alison set the bottle on it. Neither of them said a word.
When Alison sat down between her and Paul, closer to him than he would have liked, he had to resist the urge to pull away. No sense in being rude if he was only here until the storm let up.
“So, Paul,” Mark said with forced cheerfulness, “which way you headed?”
“East.”
Mark’s lips twisted behind his dark scruff of a beard, which hadn’t gone as white as his hair yet. “Damn, us too. I was hoping you were coming from there, so we could get an idea what the road ahead was like.”
Shaking his head, Paul said, “Sorry I can’t be more help.”
“Maybe you can,” Sarah said. “Do you have anything to trade?”
With an easy smile, Paul asked, “What d'you need?”
Sarah pursed her lips as she thought, and the cuteness of the expression took years off her face. “Extra socks?” she asked, hopeful enough that Paul knew she needed them, but resigned enough that she didn’t expect to get them.
Paul shook his head and turned to Mark. “Smokes.” Which earned him a light slap on the shoulder from his wife. “What, it’s been weeks now!” But Paul’s answer was another shake of his head.
John had Aaron seated in his lap and was finger-combing the boy’s hair. “I’m not holding my breath that you’ve got any natural-hair care products. I’m more likely to get struck by lightning. Inside.”
The dry, deadpan tone startled a laugh out of Paul. “I ain’t even got anything for myself right now,” he said, scratching at his dark blond hair. “I’m way overdue for a wash, and dunkin’ my head in a river ain’t the same. I’d shave it all off if electric razors were still a thing.”
Mark gestured at him. “You’ve got a knife.”
“I’d cut myself to ribbons. I think I’ll keep bein’ shaggy for now.”
Aaron, sensing his turn, piped up. “Any books? I’ve read the one I have about a dozen times by now.”
“Not much of a reader,” Paul answered. “What book you got?”
“Treasure Island,” Aaron said. “I like adventure stories.”
Alison snorted. “You’re living in one.”
John gave her a narrow-eyed look over Aaron’s head, but he didn’t say anything.
“Pain killers.”
The sharp and sudden request focused Paul’s attention on its source, the unnamed woman. Gone was the frightened doe of a girl—now her eyes were hard and flat. “Half a bottle of aspirin,” he offered. “What’ll you give me for it?”
“All I’ve got to spare is food. Cheese crackers, chocolate bars, take your pick. Or a can of Red Bull, if you’re afraid to sleep in here with us tonight and want to stay awake instead.”
“Nina …” John said with more than a hint of warning in his voice.
So she’s got a name after all.
“It’s thunderstorm season,” she said. “We’ve been lucky so far they haven’t been worse, but this one’s not going to pass over in an hour like you hope. We’re going to be here overnight.”
Alison hunched forward, elbows on her knees. “How do you know?”
“The weather here isn’t much different from where I grew up,” she answered with a slight shrug. “I lived with this every summer as a kid.” She turned back to Paul. “Anyway, does that work for you?”
Medicine of any kind was valuable, even the common stuff like aspirin. Food was never a bad trade, but he doubted she had enough to spare. “You hurt?” he asked, stalling.
“Cramps,” she answered shortly, and Paul suppressed a grin.
Any urge he’d felt to smile, though, disappeared when Alison spoke. “I’d think you’d be glad you’re having them.”
Paul found the bottle in his pack and rolled it across the floor toward Nina. It stopped at the toe of her boot, and she stared at it without speaking. “Don’t need any food,” Paul said, though it wasn’t strictly true. “I’ve got enough for myself for now. But since y'all were here first, I figure anything left in this place is yours, and I saw some lighters in the display on the counter. I’d be happy with a few of those. Seems like a good thing to have, and they might come in handy for trades down the line.”
Off to his other side, John and Mark traded a stunned look—Paul guessed they hadn’t noticed the lighters. Mark got up to retrieve them. “Let’s see …” he said, counting. “If we each keep one for ourselves, that leaves six for you. Sound good?”
“Sure,” Paul said. Mark brought them over to him, and out of the corner of his eye Paul watched Nina. She didn’t reach out to take the aspirin until the lighters were in his hands. Mark distributed the rest of them while Nina swallowed a few pills with a swig from her water bottle. She noticed Paul watching and nodded at him. He figured that was the closest she would come to thanking him, so he gave her a smile. Not the huge, dazzling grin that his mother had once told him would break hearts someday. Instead it was the small curve at the corners that his girlfriends, over the years, had all told him was sweet. He used the first one on women he wanted to impress—the second was usually reserved for the ones he was already close to. But the last thing he wanted to do was make Nina think he was attracted to her.
Even though he was. Illuminated by the candlelight, Paul could see she had beautiful eyes, big, vividly blue, and fringed with thick lashes. He had a pronounced weakness for women with gorgeous eyes.
But Paul could see Nina wasn’t like some of the other women he’d met on the road in the aftermath of the plague. The ones just as lonely as he was, who were willing to trust him for the length of one night before they parted ways in the morning. He never looked back, and neither did they. There hadn’t been many, and it had been weeks since the last time, so it was only natural he’d find himself falling in lust with someone.
Even if prying words out of that someone was a challenge.
Before the silence between them stretched on too long, Paul forced himself to look away. “Alison, you want anything?”
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Could I possibly request a John or Paul fic where one of them finds their SO after a rough day with a tear streaked face and puffy eyes, so they go and either make a lovely lunch/dinner/breakfast or buys a bunch of flowers to arrange around the room or something to make them happy?
i used teddy boy paul for this and slipped in some big brother john because i’m a bit of a whore for that troupe tbh. except an epilouge to this because it didn’t end where i wanted it too but it was starting to get really long and i didn’t want to make you wait for it!!! thank you for the request!! i hope you like it!!
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Everyday after school, you waited by the front stairs for your brother John to bring his car around and take you either home or to the library while he practiced with his band so that you didn’t have to be home alone if Mimi wasn’t there. Today was supposed to have a library day but when you got to the stairs, John wasn’t there. Now normally you didn’t mind having to wait a little bit but today had been exceptionally rainy and cold and you were in no mood to get dumped on. Unfortunately, an hour later, you were still waiting for John and the doors to the school had been locked. Sighing, you accepted the fact that your brother had forgotten about you. A rumbling in your stomach accepted the fact that he’d also forgotten to give you your lunch earlier.
Begrudgingly, you set off on foot to where you assumed you’d find John - Paul McCartney’s house, where him and the rest of the band liked to rehearse. You were sure that John won’t be happy about you showing up, he didn’t like having to share his friends or his baby sister. That’s why he always made you wait at the nearby library. “It’d just be awkward,” He’d defended, “we’re trying to play songs about adult stuff and m’ little sister’s just sitting there. I can’t play that shit in front of you.”
You were pretty sure that he really just didn’t want to come off as a babysitter, worried that it would break the bad boy vibes. But no matter how pissed John would be at you crashing in, you were sure that you were more upset at being left at the school in the rain without your lunch. Besides, it wasn’t like you were going to stay for long, you were just going to let him know that you were still alive, if he bothered to care, and try to wrangle some money out of him for food - if you were to try and say no in front of his mates, that’d just make him look like an ass. Then you’d be on your way. You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t want an excuse to see Paul too.
You’d only met him a few times, but each time had turned your knees to jelly. He had big soft eyes and an even softer voice that made you swoon whenever you called you ‘love’. Boys didn’t normally call you pet names like that. Well, your brother did but didn’t count. Maybe he would stick up for you in front of John and invite you to stay and watch them rehearse. You would like that, you actually thought they sounded pretty good. Or at least Paul looked pretty good when he was playing. This was another reason that John didn’t like you being around his mates. He wasn’t about to let anyone, especially Paul, get into your pants. But the joke was on him, you were hardly as outgoing as he was when it came to people you liked. And you doubted that Paul would ever see you like that - after all, you were just John’s little sister. There wasn’t much promise in that.
The walk to Paul’s house was taking longer than you had anticipated. It was hard to see with the wind whipping your hair that wasn’t stuck against your face in your eyes and the rain had soaked through your flimsy jacket and your dress, pelting your skin. The violent shivers that rippled through you made it hard to concentrate on where you were going. Your school bag seemed to be tugging you downwards and you could have sworn that you heard it groan. All your papers must be soaked by now. The unpleasantness of the situation mixed with your hunger reminding you that your brother had really just forgotten about you brought tears to your eyes, only making seeing more difficult. You were wet, hungry, tired, and forgotten about.
Finally you reached Paul’s house, letting out a breath of relief when you saw John’s car parked out front as you trudged up to the front door and knocked. You felt nerves shoot through you when Paul answered, a grin on his lips.
“Oh hello - what’s happened?” Paul’s forever good-natured expression fell as he took in your red face which had been slapped by the weather, with your eyes puffy and teary, your makeup smeared every which way and your nose running for dear life. Not to mention you were soaked to the bone.
“H-hey Paul, is J-John here?” You asked, every word being agony as you were out of breath from the long walk and the constant shivering. Paul shook his head.
“’Fraid not, love.” He said with a frown, “You alright?”
His question made the tears well up again. Now you were wet, hungry, tired, forgotten about, missing your brother and standing in front of his handsome best friend looking like an absolute wreck. You let out a sob and looked at your feet, not bearing making eye contact with Paul. Paul, however, was not about to stand for this.
“Hey, hey, hey, come’ere,” He cooed, pulling you out of the rain and into a hug, “It’ll be okay, I’ve got ya, I’ve got ya.”
You let out a spew of mumbled apologies in his chest through your crying, clutching on to him like he was the only thing keeping you standing - which he basically was at this point. Paul had one arm holding you tightly and the other rubbing up and down your back, shushing into your sopping hair. You shuddered, struggling to catch your breath and he gave you a squeeze.
“Deep breath, love.” He reminded you, pulling away. You took a couple and he smiled a little, “Come in, you’re trembling.”
He led you into the living room then squeezed your shoulder, telling you to wait. He gave you a knowing smile before disappearing down a hallway. You stood there, hugging yourself as you sniffed. A few tears continued to escape down your cheeks but besides those, the cascade had ceased.
“John and George took me car to go see about a couple of guitars in Birkenhead. Said they might be able to book us a gig too.” Paul explained, reappearing with a towel. “You can wait here if you like, I know Johnny’s said that you don’t like being alone.”
You nodded, slightly embarrassed John had exposed your irrational fear to Paul (and you assumed George and Stu as well). Paul wiped up the tears, water, and makeup off your cheeks before wrapping the towel around your wet neck. You blushed when he smiled down at you, turning the corners of your own lips up a tad.
“There she is!” He said gently, catching your chin before you could look away from him, “You’re much lovelier to look at than John.”
It was all you could do to keep your breath from hitching. You’d heard that Paul could be a bit of flirt from girls at your school who knew him, but you’d never seen it in action, nor did you ever expect his charms to be used on you. Especially right after showing up soaking wet at his front door bawling. But you supposed he was right. You were the lovelier Lennon. A sad growl from your stomach interrupted the nice moment. Paul’s look of concern was back, crooking an eyebrow at you.
“John didn’t give me my lunch today and I didn’t have any money on me.” You said sheepishly, suddenly aware of how absurd you must seem to him right now. Paul chuckled, taking a step back.
“We don’t have a lot in the way of food, but I can make you some nice toast, yeah?” He offered. Not wanting to mooch to much off of him, you began to decline but your stomach wailed again.
“That would be wonderful, thanks Paul.” You grinned.
“You got it, darling.” As he turned to head into the kitchen, your face got a little redder, your stomach forgetting about its emptiness in its excited twisting and you couldn’t help the smile that began spreading across your face, although you attempted to hid it when Paul spun on his heel. “Oh, do you want to change your clothes? I’m afraid it’s me and me dad and brother, so we don’t have much in the way of girls clothes, I’ll bet I have sweatpants we can get to fit you and if you don’t mind the bagginess, I’ve got tons of shirts you can borrow and I can throw your stuff in the dryer so they’ll at least dry off a bit.”
“Okay.” You nodded, another batch of butterflies releasing themselves in you at the thought of wearing his clothes. ‘This is just a stupid crush’ you thought to yourself, ‘Stop getting caught up in it’
“C’mon, you can get changed in my room.”
This wasn’t the situation you pictured when you thought of being in a boy’s room for the first time. More boy, less water, pretty much the same amount of you undressing. It looked a lot like John’s room, but a little more organized. A desk sat in the corner, sheet music scattered all about, an Elvis poster hanging above it. Various concert posters had been tapped around the walls, among a Quarrymen one that you recognized as John’s artwork. Next to Paul’s bed was a picture of the band trying to look serious but George was clearly laughing at something - which was funny, George always came off a little scary to you. You continued looking around as you hiked up the sweatpants, tying the drawstring to a comfortable level before stepping out. Paul paused at the top of the stairs.
“I was just comin’ up to tell you that your toast is done,” He said blinking at the sight of you in his clothes. “And if you wanted any eggs with it, ya know, to complete the Breakfast for Dinner experience.”
“Some eggs would be delightful.” You smiled, “Thank you for the clothes by the way, I really appreciate not having to wait in soaking wet ones.”
“Well, I, uh, didn’t want you to catch a cold or nothing,” He said, trying to stay cool, “Your brother’d have a cow.”
He offered you his arm, leading you down the stairs to the kitchen. The presentation he’d set up for the simple plate of toast made you feel warm. Juice had been poured into a wine glass and a flower had been placed in a vase on the table. You looked up at Paul with what you were sure was a stupidly happy grin.
“You seemed like you were having a rough day.”
Then you were hugging Paul. Handsome Paul that you had a stupid crush on. Because he’d made you breakfast for dinner and lent you his clothes and let you into his house after you’d had to walk in the rain and comforted you without any hesitation and let your shitheaded brother borrow his car when John had a perfectly good one of own. “Thank you so much Paul. I know we don’t know each other very well but this really does mean a lot to me.”
“You know, love,” He began, pausing to kiss your head, “I think you’re my favorite Lennon.”
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Shadow Over Seventh Heaven Review, Part II: Jenny Wren and Richard Redbreast
Image source: “Da Luna et Ramsès- Doberman – Frère et Sœur -” by ERAL. Licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 2.0 license.
Welcome back to my review series for Shadow Over Seventh Heaven, the second novel by Ian Martin, original headwriter for Strange Paradise and second most prolific writer for CBS Radio Mystery Theater, published under the name of his second wife Joen Arliss. It’s been two and a half weeks, and I have been dying to go back to recapping this not-quite-rare-but-close piece of Martiniana.
In Part I, we learned of the late April Tennant, legendary star of the silver screen, whose glamorous life ended suddenly when she fell from the cliffs on her home estate of San Rafael. We also learned of her husband Richard Morgan, a legendary actor in his own right, and met his overly attached sister Lisa, who is not pleased by his recent remarriage, and Chita, their very Raxl-esque servant who clings to April’s memory. In this installment, we will meet Richard and his new wife, Jenny, themselves as they return from the Philippines to the former Spanish mission which may or may not be haunted by the spirit of his first wife.
Chapter 3
We open with our heroine, Jenny (née Summers), and her new husband Richard at the Manila International Airport, where paparazzi are hounding them. “She had seen [crowds] at fiestas, at rallies for President Marcos or even his opponents [1], at rush hours, church holidays, national holidays. The Philippine Islands abounded in inland fish, and in rice, but most of all, in people. But she had never seen a crowd quite like this” (p. 22). She is a little frightened, but Richard, for whom this is apparently a regular occurrence, tells her to keep moving until they get through the sea of people--which, given the current circumstances around the globe, sounds like a nightmare even though this book takes place about forty years ago.
A reporter starts to interview her and reminds her, almost right after their marriage, that she is replacing the legendary April Tennant:
“Mrs. Morgan--you are the envy of most every woman in the world as well as here in the Philippines. How does it feel to be Mrs. Richard Morgan the second?”
“You don’t have to answer,” Richard said protectively.
“But I want to,” she said. “It feels marvelous! I’m the luckiest woman in the world!”
“Aren’t you a little afraid?” the young man persisted.
Jenny wasn’t going to admit that to a stranger.
“Why should I be afraid?” she said.
“You are replacing a very exceptional woman.”
Now the noose of fear tightened around her neck, so that momentarily she could not answer. It was Richard who did for her.
“My first wife is dead,” he said with barely repressed anger. “For God’s sake let April rest in peace. For her own sake as well as ours. Now please--we have a plane to catch” (p. 23).
They leave him and hounding turns to harassing as rabid Richard Morgan fans begin reaching for them, tearing off pieces of her collar and the Filipino-style flower appliqué on her skirt and stealing Richard’s pocket square. “It was a good-natured, adulating adoring crowd,” the narration insists, “but like every mass of humanity, a possibly dangerous and uncontrollable force” (pp. 23-24). Sorry, narrator, but to me, it still sounds like a COVID nightmare--literally. I’ve had nightmares about this kind of thing for months. Generally, I try to avoid writing about current events on here because I don’t consider it appropriate for a blog about escapist Gothic melodrama, but this scene reminds me of some of my recent dreams.
Anyhow, the crowd and the reporter only reinforce Jenny’s feelings that she’s already in April’s shadow. Before Richard took an interest in her, she was only the daughter of an obscure American ambassador, not even an actress like April. She just got married and already she is having second thoughts, and not because of her husband:
Then that miserable worm of fear began to gnaw at her again, and she so desperately didn’t want to face the truth. But the words said themselves inexorably to her, marching across the inside of her eyelids as though chiseled on some granite rock that revolved before her inner sight, or burned so deeply on an indestructible tape that they could never be eradicated. The trouble is April Tennant. The woman the whole world revered and loved. They only wanted to see Jennifer, weigh her, find her wanting. They knew nobody could replace April--and that nobody had the right to try. Only without realizing what she was getting into, Jenny had done it. For once, she was the big attraction. But they didn’t think she could measure up, and she wasn’t sure she could herself. How had she ever thought she could? (pp. 24-25)
As they head for their flight, a crowd of “smiling brown people” cheer for them to return, and one little Filipina girl even chases Jenny down to give her “a woven garland of sampaguita flowers” (pp. 25-26). I must admit that I don’t know much about Filipino history, but I have trouble imagining that a crowd of Filipino people would cheer on the (presumably white) daughter of an American official who, given U.S. foreign policy at the time, would have backed Marcos’ repressive regime. Do I believe that they cheer for an international celebrity like Richard? Yes. Would they want to wish him a happy marriage? Probably. But I can’t imagine them liking Jenny much, for reasons that have nothing to do with April Tennant.
Chapter 4
This chapter begins with a description of Richard Morgan’s appearance that is an entire page long:
His mouth was full, the lips unusually red, with just the slightest quirk in repose which suggested sardonicism...The nose was classic, intriguingly flawed by some old injury...The eyes were brown, so dark that they were almost black, smoldering under somewhat sullen brows...His hair was a great, tousled, tawny mane, unruly, and resistant to brush or comb. His eyebrows had a fierceness about them that seemed to challenge anyone to cross swords; but this aggressive effect was completely belied by the way one or another would twitch and cock upward as though laughing at the world--or perhaps himself. His chin was probably too prominent, but again the feeling of overconfidence and overwhelming strength was softened by the deep cleft in the middle of it that broke the uncompromising line. He was not a tall man--perhaps an inch under six feet--but he carried himself with the lithe balance of a jungle animal or a trained athlete, and there was hardly anyone who did not think of him as tall and powerful. He was a man who even in repose radiated a sense of kinetic and tireless energy (pp. 29-30).
Richard Morgan, according to the cover artist.
Honestly, I was disappointed the first time I read this passage because he doesn’t much resemble Colin Fox. Virtually the only features the two have in common are the nose and the way they carry themselves--and (if we are talking about Jacques’ portrait) the lips. I always find it interesting how male authors describe the male characters whom others in the story find attractive, especially when said author is straight and writing for a female audience. Therefore, this is likely Ian Martin’s idea of what an incredibly handsome man looks like and/or his idea of what the average straight woman wants.
That, in turn, makes me wonder if this is how he visualized Jean Paul Desmond and his lookalike ancestor Jacques Eloi des Mondes, especially given that most of the other characters (and many fans, myself included) see them as incredibly handsome. Richard does have several facial features in common with John Bayliss, the actor originally cast in those roles, but there isn’t any evidence to suggest that their resemblance is anything more than a coincidence.[2]
The SP character whose appearance Richard’s description most closely matches, the Reverend Matthew Dawson. Lacks the unruly tawny hair and the sardonic lips and doesn’t carry himself like Richard, but the eyes are similar and they have the same chin. Not ugly (Dan MacDonald was better-looking IMO than the guy on the cover), but also not my idea of male perfection.
While relaxing on the plane, Jenny allows herself the luxury of thinking about herself instead of Matt Dawson’s tawny-haired twin. We learn that her name isn’t actually Jennifer--which contradicts the passage above where she calls herself that--but just Jenny, and that her parents named her after Jenny Wren from the (surprisingly dark) nursery rhyme “The Wedding of Robin Redbreast and Jenny Wren.” She relates in particular to the part where the wren says “I must wear my plain brown gown / And never go too fine,” because she dislikes not just putting on airs, but thinking about herself, period, which she attributes to her strict upbringing. She’s almost cartoonishly modest, which is pretty typical of Gothic ingenues and of Linda Barclay, the protagonist of Martin’s earlier “romantic suspense” book, Nightmare’s Nest, who was even more so.
We flash back to the evening she met Richard, who was apparently an old friend of Nene Ilusorio, one of her late father’s friends who became her close companion following his death in a helicopter crash. At that time, April was not yet dead, so Richard had to keep his dates with Jenny secret. They traveled out to the mountains together, where she showed him the rice paddies the locals constructed on the mountains with their irrigation system and where he won her heart by quoting Robert Burns’ poem “My Heart’s in the Highlands.” Apparently women find men who like Robert Burns irresistible, at least according to this and the Kitty Soames storyline on Dark Shadows. I can’t confirm, though, because no man has ever quoted Burns to me or given me a book of his poems.
Chapter 5
A filler chapter about Jenny and Richard’s flight from Honolulu (where they had a layover) to San Francisco. I got excited at one point when Richard said, “We had a picture half done that had to be scrapped because of her death” (p. 46), thinking at first that he was referring to the portrait and being reminded of two certain other portraits of a certain character from Strange Paradise. But then I realized, no, he means “picture” as in “movie,” not as in “painting,” and got disappointed. We also learn that Richard has an encyclopedic knowledge of all the classic poets and playwrights, not just Robert Burns. In a flashback, Richard recites Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem “How do I love thee?” for her in his amazing voice, leaving her “drunk on love” and “drunk on all [the poets to whom he introduced her]” (p. 54). If he sounds anything like Colin, I can understand why she’s so seduced by him reading poetry. Even so, if I were her, I wouldn’t be able to get past the fact that he’s quoting other people instead of using his own words to convey his love. If Jean Paul could come up with something new to say to his frozen wife four days a week for a month, then surely Richard can as well. He's just being lazy--or is he? The back cover (”WHAT LAY BEHIND THE MASK OF LOVE?”) hints at some possible deception on his part.
Chapter 6
Jenny and Richard arrive back in California, and the story starts to pick up again. This is roughly where “Here Goes the Bride” begins, not counting the teaser at the beginning. They are driving along the Pacific shore in a red Mercedes without air conditioning, and Richard refuses to let her roll the windows down because he doesn’t want anyone to recognize him. He angsts for a while about how, even though actors like him need the audience in order to live and “for the magic to come alive,” the audience has become increasingly like “a great, crouching tiger...a creature of emotion and whim that can turn on you suddenly and get completely beyond your control” (p. 59). He rants about how April’s fans worshiped her and made almost a cult around her, and about how they will most likely go ballistic if they see him with another woman instead of playing “the high priest, ascetic, mourning, forever dedicated to her memory” (p. 60). By driving the car with the windows up, he hopes to avoid the paparazzi and other stalkers on their way to San Rafael.
We learn in a flashback, by the way, that the car is Lisa’s and that Richard had Jenny disguise herself as her by putting on a hat and sunglasses. Jenny asks if she really looks like Lisa--which, if it were true, would imply that he reciprocated Lisa’s feelings for him, at least on an unconscious level--but he says no. Her hair is dark, while Jenny’s is “tawny gold” (p. 63), which I had forgotten, probably because Lisa reminds me too much of Cersei Lannister not to picture her as such. Also, Richard has dark hair now, too? Two chapters earlier, his hair was tawny like Jenny’s. I guess this book’s editor didn’t notice the continuity error--not that it was that important, anyway.
The woman on the cover, most likely Jenny.
While waiting for Juan to open the gates, Jenny stares in awe at the fortifications surrounding the estate--which, as you may recall from Chapter 1, Richard had built around the estate, allegedly to keep his and April’s rabid fans out, and even added the broken glass himself. “It’s like a fortress--barbed wire, broken glass,” she exclaims. “And the gate looks as though you borrowed it from the Bastille!” The mention of the Bastille reads like subtle foreshadowing of a later reveal, but, per my self-imposed rule against spoilers, I won’t say any more about it for now. The gates open and we hear Richard’s pack of snarling dogs for the first time, the sound of which makes her uneasy. She asks about them and Richard just says, “They’re our guardian angels. They patrol the grounds at night” (p. 67).
We also meet Juan, “a square-set Mexican...a man of some sixty years, with a sun-whipped face that was as craggy and seared with lines as the landscape they had just passed outside the gate” and “blackened teeth in a dark-brown face dried by so many days of sun that the oil had cooked from the skin until it was tanned like animal hide” (p. 67). Here we have the third piece of evidence of the dystopian nature of life at San Rafael. First, we saw the excessive level of security which Jenny compared to the most notorious prison of France’s ancien régime; next, we heard snarling from Richard’s kennel; and now, it is implied that Juan doesn’t get paid enough to afford either modern dentistry, sunscreen, or a good moisturizer. Combine this with Richard’s refusal to romance Jenny in his own words and his insistence that they drive with the windows up and no air conditioning in southern California, and his behavior abounds with red flags. It does make you wonder what lay behind the mask of love, and it’s quite reminiscent of early Jean Paul and his control-freak tendencies even when Jacques isn’t possessing him.
Unlike Quito, his Strange Paradise equivalent, Juan can speak and often does. Half of his dialogue is in Spanish, the other half in English. Sometimes he will even randomly throw a Spanish word into a mostly English sentence (ex. “They will not be tranquilo till they see you for themselves” (p. 68), which, even with my extremely limited knowledge of Spanish, I know should read “tranquilos,” because he is talking about the dogs). This, combined with his appearance and the mention that he stands “with Indian patience, unmoving and stolid” (p. 70), makes him come across as rather stereotypical. It’s surprising how SP, despite being a decade older, has actually aged slightly better than this book in terms of racial matters--although, given that this book is forty years old, that’s to be expected.
Upon meeting Juan, Jenny feels “an icy whisk of rejection that shuddered between her shoulderblades [sic]” (p. 68), as though she knows before he says anything that he is a card-carrying member of the Cult of April Tennant. He reveals to Jenny that the dogs “are trained to kill...anyone who does not belong here,” and that they will only protect her “if they learn to know you belong” (p. 70). Then he casts a huge heaping of doubt on whether that will ever happen:
Jenny’s voice was hushed and sympathetic.
“You must have loved her very much.”
He lifted his head proudly, the dark deep-set eyes flashing from under the craggy brows. “She was La Senora de la Casa!”
The statement was simple and obdurate. A declaration of faith that shook Jenny because it was so basic. She found herself fighting to keep her throat from tightening up as she answered tentatively, “I hope you won’t blame me too much for taking her place.”
The answer, although delivered with remote courtesy, was flatly uncompromising. “There is no one to take her place” (p. 71).
Richard interrupts them when he returns with all six of his dogs on leashes, which frightens her even more now that Juan has given her reason to suspect that the dogs, too, worship April Tennant and will not accept anyone in her place. He probably wants them to reject her, especially because he never thought to give her some bones or treats to use to win their loyalty. If I were in her position, I would be begging Juan for some good cow knuckles filled with marrow for them to gnaw on. Then--assuming that he obliged--I’m sure they would love me forever.
Chapter 7
Richard introduces Jenny to his dogs, six Doberman pinschers named for “the six noblest Romans of them all. Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Marc Anthony--Mark for short--Cinna, and Casca” (p. 74). He has them demonstrate their obedience to him--while he demonstrates more of his own control-freak-ness--by ordering them to sit, then charge, then shake hands with her. Much to Juan’s likely chagrin, Richard has every intention on making the dogs recognize her as their new mistress, and so he has her give them dog biscuits.
They all appear to like her except for Casca, who is slightly less quick to obey Richard’s commands and also reluctant to kiss Jenny’s hand, unlike the others. She’s relieved to have found acceptance from them so quickly, but Juan has to rain on her proverbial parade by staring silently “with no solitary hint that he shared the dogs’ enthusiasm for Jenny” (p. 77).
Chapter 8
They get back in the car and continue driving (how vast is the estate?), this time with the top down because of the lack of prying eyes. We learn as they drive to San Rafael that April’s mother had it built, something that Richard doesn’t want to admit, but which he makes obvious at least to the reader:
“When April’s mother-” He choked that off and rephrased, biting his tongue for bringing up her name. “I mean, when the property was first bought, some foundations were discovered where the house was to be built; and the architect sold Apr--ah--them on recreating a Spanish mission. It was picturesque, but not very practical for modern living, so when Ap--I mean, when I was married and entered the picture, some changes were made [like the addition of that portrait, I assume]” (p. 79).
Jenny expresses her doubts that San Rafael “will open its arms to [her] and invite [her] in,” and he responds by kissing her, which doesn’t answer her question, but whatever:
He lifted her chin, tilting her face toward him gently, his eyes flickering back and forth across hers, his own gleaming and almost mesmeric as the sun slowly slipped down over the horizon. Then very slowly he touched his mouth to hers, his lips opening against hers as he quite suddenly pressed against her ardently, his tongue lightly touching hers, engaging it, probing and awakening her mouth and the answering touch of lips and tongue, till all the world was blotted out, and there was only the rush of teeming blood, throbbing in the head and along all the nerves to the end, and the surge of desire that blotted out anything else (p. 80).
Unbeknownst to them, Chita and Lisa are spying on them, wondering why the car stopped! (ROFL) When Chita realizes what’s going on, she criticizes Richard in true prudish Raxl fashion: “That he would be so shameless in daylight,” says she. “To take this woman in his arms--” (p. 81). Lisa reminds her that they are married now; although the narration doesn’t mention a twinge of jealousy, I’ve no doubt in my mind that she wishes she were Jenny in that car.
Richard and Jenny get out and Lisa rushes to hug them. Surprisingly, she acts outwardly friendly towards Jenny, who notices that “[Lisa’s] dark blue eyes were penetrating as they took in Jenny in one swift appraisal. They might have frightened Jenny except for the deep spark of interest in them, and the wide smile which she didn’t realize was uncharacteristic for LIsa” (p. 82).
Then he introduces Jenny to Chita, whom she instantly dislikes. “From her long sojourn in the Philippines,” the narration tells us, “she was very conscious of relationships between employer and servant. Not that she subscribed to the sort of feudal system that existed there, but simply because she was an extraordinarily sensitive girl who was responsive to human vibrations. And she could tell that Conchita’s were not right about her” (pp. 83-84).
Conchita, likewise, has a bad first impression of Jenny, thinking her a snob because of her use of Castilian instead of Mexican Spanish. But Jenny doesn’t realize that, instead noticing and fixating on the portrait of April:
Either by accident or design, those were the lights which Conchita had turned on. In the gloom of the hall, the full-length portrait dominated everything. Every detail of that matchless beauty was so sharp and clear that the figure of this lovely woman seemed to be alive and breathing.
And to Jenny, to be warning her and saying, “Why did you come? You don’t belong. How did you dream you could take my place? Did you think I would ever allow you to? This is my home, and Richard is mine. I’ll never let either of them go” (pp. 84-85)!
Compared to the beginning, Chapters 3 through 8 are not very meaty. These chapters are like chicken wings compared to the drumsticks that were the intro and the first two chapters. The main similarities that I found between these chapters and Strange Paradise were (1) the revelation that, like Maljardin-era Jean Paul, Richard is a control freak who is obsessed with his privacy and (2) the introduction of Juan, who fills Quito’s role as loyal male retainer but talks using occasionally inaccurate gratuitous Spanish (the “tranquilo” line). There is a lot of filler and also perhaps a little too much repetition of the idea that no one can ever take April’s place as mistress of San Rafael, so not as enjoyable as Part I or the next part of the story.
Coming up next: We get our first set of hints about April’s mysterious past, while Jenny tries to adjust to life in a house that may or may not be haunted by her spirit.
{ <- Previous: Part I || Next: Part III -> }
Notes
[1] Did Ferdinand Marcos even allow his opponents to hold rallies? As I said above, I don’t know much about Filipino history, but I do know that he ruled over the Philippines as a dictator and tried to suppress any opposition to him. Most likely either the above passage is inaccurate or what Martin is describing are actually political protests, but it’s worded in a way that suggests that he thought of Filipino politics in the 1970s-1980s as more democratic than they actually were.
[2] I did look up Michael Wager, the actor who played Richard in the original radio drama, and he did resemble this description (and was indeed quite handsome, if I do say so myself). However, it would be strange for Martin to have Richard look like his original actor when none of the other characters in the book do. Notably, Jenny’s description in the book as a gray-eyed blonde bears no resemblance to her original actress Ruby Dee--which I suspect may have something to do with the publisher wanting to avoid controversy for depicting interracial marriage, as Ruby Dee was black.
#shadow over seventh heaven#joen arliss#ian martin#cbs radio mystery theater#gothic fiction#strange paradise#related media#review#ian martin's novels#continuity errors#dark shadows#foreshadowing#the irresistible seductive power of robert burns#rebecca
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Is The Butt Chin a Dealbreaker?
So obviously since it’s Texans Patriots week in the playoffs and there’s not much to talk about football-wise, naturally all I can think about is the mystical nature of the butt chin. How does a butt chin form? In the womb? Is it genetic? I’m sure some quick Googling could reveal the actual medical answer but I really don’t like risking Google Images popping up out of nowhere so I think I will continue living in mystery.
Of course this week’s matchup features 2 of the most prominent butt chins in the universe; Tom Brady and Bill O’Brien. Don’t really need to know anything about sports to know that Brady wears the butt chin better, as evidenced here.
Directly compared to Bill O’Briens....
Let’s have a closer look....
Clearly a black hole into the upside down that may have captured Brock Osweiler’s entire soul.
Anyways, this got me thinking (Carrie Bradshaw style of course)...is the butt chin a deal breaker? Upon some extensive research, it appears that at least in the celebrity world most of the butt chins are seen on men. For me at this point it’s going to take a lot more than a butt chin to scare me away; single girls don’t get to be that picky here in Boston. It turns out that I never realized half of these celebrities even had butt chins before stumbling upon a Buzzfeed article listing 46 of them. Of course Buzzfeed has already covered this because #RealNews. Here are my top 10, coincidentally almost all male.
10. Demi Lovato
No surprise here, I hate Demi Lovato. Like she’s top 5 for me on most hated celeb status. Ever since she came out saying she was anorexic at age 5 and ignored her way more famous and well-liked sister Poot Lovato for her whole life I really just couldn’t get on board the Lovato train (big fan of Poot of course). There’s only one girl on this list, and since I clearly despise her, she’s in at #10. Her butt chin would be the least of the deal breakers for me.
9. Wario
I’m going to be honest here, Wario is a lame Super Mario Brother. As a girl I obviously always played with Peach or Yoshi because he’s fucking cute but Wario always reminded me of a fat, creepy cook in the back of some old diner. Sure his mustache is fire and his weight makes me feel less body conscious but he’s not cracking the top 10 here. Butt chin is pretty solid though.
8. John Travolta
Number 8 spot, I must specify, is for YOUNG John Travolta. If you had told me at 10 years old that Danny Zuko would turn into Adele Nazeem/Scarlett Johansenn creep I would have slapped you. I’m confident 1980′s John Travolta made the butt chin hot, and it’s a damn shame it has mysteriously disappeared from his face after I’m sure 0 plastic surgeries and no drug use...
7. Ashton Kutcher
Ashton Kutcher always has me confused. Is he hot or no? In this case I don’t think the butt chin is a deal breaker but I just can’t get the Von Dutch trucker hat visions out of my head so he’s in the middle of the pack. Being married to Mila Kunis brings you up like 4 notches though so good for you, Christopher.
6&5: Matt Damon/Ben Affleck
Of course Matt Damon and Ben Affleck both have butt chins. Ben Affleck wears it better but it’s because he’s kind of an asshole which always makes you more physically attractive.
4. Peter Griffin
If we’re sticking with the honesty here I’ve watched probably 1 episode of Family Guy in my life. I put this here to impress any guys reading and make them think I’m cooler but writing this kind of defeats the purpose. I just didn’t know what else to say. His chin looks like a sack of balls and Kim Kardashian’s ass at the same time so on visuals alone he cracks the top 5.
3. Jon Stamos
Uncle Jesse gets the #3 spot on name alone. I just can’t put Uncle Jesse any lower than 3 without feeling like it’s something I’m going to regret the rest of my life. That face changed my life.
2. Dan Hedaya aka Mel Horowitz aka Cher’s Dad
This butt chin is that of a REAL MAN. He’s a lawyer, a single dad, he’s masculine, working on his eating habits to stay healthy...what more could you ask for? If you’re out there wondering how to rock the butt chin and still get the ladies (after all he had multiple baby mommas that produced Alicia Silverstone and Paul Rudd so), take notes from Mr. Horowitz.
1. The GOAT
Come on here. Like everything else I do, it starts and ends with Brady. He’s the greatest quarterback of all time and he’s the greatest butt chin of all time NO QUESTION. In the butt chin hall of fame there’s a bust of his face at the entrance. He can cover it up with some facial hair and add a popped collar like he did here, or he can let it show, fresh faced while wearing his Uggs. Sorry Billy O’Brien, you’re going to lose this game on Saturday and you lost the war for best butt chin.
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