#paul girl in a john girl’s body
Text
It’s still October 9th in my time zone for another 26 minutes. In honor of John’s birthiversary, I want to highlight the Rainbow Henleys of Destiny (TM) in Get Back/Let it Be.
Several people (@lenetaylor ❤️) have done extensive research into this topic, so I will not.
I just want to point out, decades after Get Back/Let it Be was filmed, Paul gives Anthology interviews in a very familiar pink/purple Henley.
And unless I am very much mistaken, the dark green Henley John is wearing makes a reappearance on SNL.
(Is it possible he might have bought new ones? Yes. Likely? No. https://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/paul-mccartney-wears-same-tuxedo-8853623.amp )
Have I somehow made this John post all about Paul? Kinda. My point is, BoyfriendHusbands share clothes. *heart eyes*
Happy birthday, John ❤️!
#john lennon#lennon mccartney#mclennon#husbands sharing henleys#paul girl in a john girl’s body#frankly i miss paris
63 notes
·
View notes
Text
Modern Au RDR2 Headcannons (Arthur, John, Charles, Mary-Beth, and Micah.)
Arthur:
TikTok icon. He has a nature survival account, but most of his followers just think he’s funny. He’s got like 500k followers and they quote his quips DAILY.
Zach Bryan and Noah Kahan fanboy.
Starts twitter beefs. He’s on his third account because how often he’s been banned.
Drives a classic car and talks to it like a person. You treat her (the car) with respect.
He’s a safe person to hold your drink at a party.
John:
Cracked phone screen that he refuses to fix.
Goes to the AITA subreddit every time he gets into an argument.
Listens to underground folk punk and massively judged you if you don’t listen. Like “You don’t listen to Sister Wife Sex Strike! Have you ever heard music?”
Posts one good picture on instagram and the rest are stupid stolen memes.
Takes .5 pictures of all his friends.
Charles:
World’s slowest typer. Takes him 30 minutes to type a sentence.
Almost no social media presence. He got facebook to keep contact with Arthur and has never even posted on his page.
Wears headphones EVERYWHERE and gets mad when people try to talk over the headphones.
Big fan of slow, sad music but also has a guilty pleasure of Pierce The Veil.
Hoodie central. He’s the guy with a million hoodies and will share if necessary.
Mary-Beth:
Prolific fan fiction writer. Girl would literally write on a Samsung smart fridge if she had to.
Cries at movies no matter how sad they are.
Collects scented candles. Her room is a fire hazard.
Lana Del Ray and Taylor Swift enjoyer.
Tutors kids at the library.
Micah:
Also frequently on the AITA subreddit and calls people soft when they comment YTA.
Has a dude bro podcast where he calls himself an alpha male.
Body shames women on TikTok and claims he’s “looking out for their health.”
Listens to bro country.
Religiously watches Logan and Jake Paul.
#red dead redemption 2#rdr#rdr2#charles smith#arthur morgan#red dead redemption#rdr 2#van der linde gang#john marston#mary beth gaskill#micah bell#rdr2 modern au
193 notes
·
View notes
Text
John Lennon's collage "for" Paul
I was very curious about the collage image going around tumblr (e.g., here, here, and here) that was identified as being made "for Paul" and titled "I Only Have Eyes for You", and done by John Lennon "at art school". Here it is; I scanned this from Julian Lennon's book Beatles Memorabilia: The Julian Lennon Collection (by Brian Southall and Julian Lennon, 2010)
You can see that Paul has written at the bottom "J.L. Collage - To Julian - love Paul x".
The book caption reads
A distinct and original collage of faces and bodies dedicated to Julian from Paul. It was created by John and given to Paul.
But the first time this previously unseen collage surfaced was in 2000. It was included in a show held by artist Peter Blake at the Tate Liverpool, called About Collage.
An article in The Independent at the time says
A John Lennon collage never seen in public is to feature in an exhibition that opens 30 years ago to the day the Beatles split...
Lennon's collage, done at art school in the 1950s, comprises faces and figures cut from magazines, and features a number of eyes and lips pasted on images of girls. Blake said: "The style tied in with my Sgt Pepper's album cover, which was simply a more organised version, with bigger heads." Natalie Rudd, who helped curate the exhibition, said: "No one really knows much about Lennon's collage. … It has no title and is rather dark, with a lot of black and red and we can only guess at what he was trying to say."
In this 2009 Guardian article, Blake says,
By then I knew that Paul McCartney owned a collage that John Lennon had done, so I borrowed that. Paul also made a sound collage of Liverpool, and he made an artwork too.
Another quote from Eye Magazine in 2000:
He hopes to borrow an unseen art school collage by John Lennon, owned by Paul McCartney.
There was a book produced to accompany the show, called Peter Blake: About Collage (2000). The collage is reproduced in the book:
The credit reads "John Lennon 1940-1980, Untitled, late 1950s, Paper collage, 970 x 675mm, Private Collection". It does not have the handwritten note by Paul at the bottom.
Peter Blake's comments say:
I have followed Paul McCartney's career as an artist, so when About Collage emerged, I suggested that he made a collage, perhaps from sound, which he has pursued. John Lennon made a collage at art school during the late 1950s which is included in the show.
Paul did make a sound collage for the show, and released it as an album called Liverpool Sound Collage; some of it is on YouTube. (There used to be a website for it, long gone now, but you can see bits of it at the Internet Archive). Here's his artwork, titled The World, mentioned by Blake above (the central image is a back and white photo of Jerry Lewis):
So, to summarize:
The collage does NOT have an official title. I don't know where the "I Only Have Eyes for You" title came from
It's not clear that the collage was made for Paul specifically, only that it was given to Paul, date unknown
It's not clear if the collage Paul gave to Julian is the original or a copy
It seems unlikely that it was made at art school, as some of the images are of women in classically mid-1960s clothes and hairstyles. The only source for the date of composition seems to be Paul
It's not stated who gave the collage to Paul - it might have been John, but it could easily have been Julia or Yoko (or even Cyn?)
Paul's artwork was NOT made for John
PS. I looked through the book Paul McCartney: Paintings but the collage isn't mentioned.
PPS. I tried doing some image searches on the clearer photos of women in the collage, but got no results. Perhaps someone else will have better luck.
113 notes
·
View notes
Text
what's up ! non-exhaustive list of stories featuring weird plants :
The Day of the Triffids, John Wyndham
The Night of the Triffids, Simon Clark
In the Tall Grass, Stephen King and Joe Hill
The Boats of the 'Glen Carrig', William Hope Hodgson
The Man Whom the Trees Loved, Algernon Blackwood
The Red Tree, Caitlín R. Kiernan
Annihilation, Jeff VanderMeer
The Willows, Algernon Blackwood
The Nature of Balance, Tim Lebbon
'Bloom', John Langan
The Ruins, Scott Smith
The Wise Friend, Ramsey Campbell
'The Green Man of Freetown', The Envious Nothing : A Collection of Literary Ruins, Curtis M. Lawson
The Beauty, Aliya Whiteley
The Ash-Tree, M.R. James
Canavan's Backyard, J.P. Brennan
Invasion of the Body Snatchers, Jack Finney
The Hollow Places, T. Kingfisher
'Reaching for Ruins', Crow Shine, Alan Baxter
'Vortex of Horror', Gaylord Sabatini
Hothouse, Brian W. Aldiss
Vaster than Empires and More Slow, Ursula K. Le Guin
Odd Attachment, Ian M. Banks
Deathworld #1, Harry Harrison
The Bridge, John Skipp and Craig Spector
'The Garden of Paris', Eric Williams
Apartment Building E, Malachi King
The Seed from the Sepulchre, Clark Ashton Smith
Rappaccini's Daughter, Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Nursery, Lewis Mallory
The Other Side of the Mountain, Michel Bernanos
The Vegetarian, Han Kang
Sisyphean, Dempow Torishima
The Root Witch, Debra Castaneda
Semiosis, Sue Burke
The Wolf in Winter, Charlie Parker #12, John Connolly
Perennials, Bryce Gibson
Relic, Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child
Gwen, in Green, Hugh Zachary
The Voice in the Night, William Hope Hodgson
Ordinary Horror, David Searcy
The Family Tree, Sheri S. Tepper
The Book of Koli, Rampart Trilogy #1, M.R. Carey
Seeders, A.J. Colucci
Concrete Jungle, Brett McBean
The Plant, Stephen King
Anthologies/collections :
The Roots of Evil: Weird Stories of Supernatural Plants, edited by Michel Parry
Chlorophobia: An Eco-Horror Anthology, edited by A.R. Ward
Roots of Evil: Beyond the Secret Life of Plants, edited by Carlos Cassaba
The Green Man: Tales from the Mythic Forest, edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling
Sylvan Dread: Tales of Pastoral Darkness, Richard Gavin
Evil Roots: Killer Tales of the Botanical Gothic, edited by Daisy Butcher
Weird Woods: Tales From the Haunted Forests of Britain, edited by John Miller
'But fungi aren't plants' :
The Fungus, Harry Adam Knight
Growing Things and Other Stories, Paul Tremblay
The Girl with All the Gifts, M.R. Carey
Mexican Gothic, Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Fruiting Bodies, and Other Fungi, Brian Lumley
'The Black Mould', The Age of Decayed Futurity, Mark Samuels
What Moves the Dead, T. Kingfisher
The House Without a Summer, DeAnna Knippling
Mungwort, James Noll
Fungi, edited by Orrin Grey and Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Trouble with Lichen, John Wyndham
Notes :
all links lead to the goodreads page of the book, mostly because i like to look at book cover art ;
list features authors/books that i love (T. Kingfisher, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Ursula K. Le Guin, the collections from the British Library Tales of the Weird, etc.), but also a few that i don't like and some that i have not yet read ;
if upon seeing that list the first novel you check out is by Stephen King's you have not understood the assignment ;
not all of those are strictly horror stories, some are 100% science fiction (Brian W. Aldiss' Hothouse for instance).
#text#ramblings#plant tag#botanical horror#last time i posted a list of non-fiction books on the topic. time for some variety
159 notes
·
View notes
Text
Living The Beatles Legend:
After a lifetime of self-doubt over body issues and inveterate shyness, he simply couldn’t control himself. “Big Mal was a demon for sex,” Tony wrote. “[...] Like sacrificial virgins, a lot of the girls willingly accepted that they would have to do it with Mal to get to John, Paul, George, or Ringo, and Mal knew it.”
“A couple of newspaper friends put on a private show involving several prostitutes for our entertainment, one of them being very pregnant.” As Mal recalled, “It was a little unnerving to have these ladies performing before our eyes with each other in one room, with Brian, George Martin and Judy, and the rather more staid members of the press in the adjoining living room.”
“I was being entertained by a young lady late one evening,” Mal wrote, “when George rushes into the darkened room, stoned out of his mind, tearing the bedclothes off, shouting, ‘My turn next—come on, give us a bit!’” Mal gave way to the Beatle, concluding that “apart from that, I was the one that got screwed.”
By this point, [Lily] wasn’t just finding “silly groupie letters” in his suitcase, but also the occasional stray pair of knickers and other telltale signs of infidelity. She recognized that Mal was being seduced—and had been for some time—by overwhelming forces, impulses with which she could hardly begin to compete.
After her brother returned from the States, June recalled that “Malcolm came home knackered, absolutely shattered from that tour.” [...] Her brother and the Beatles were living in a “totally unreal world—an extraordinary, horrendous, wonderful, terrible place that they were all existing in during that period. And they were all damaged by it. They suddenly could have anything they wanted.”
After sharing a convivial dinner with Victoria’s father, who retired early, Mal (31yo) and Victoria (16yo) returned to the hotel and went up to the twenty-seventh floor. [..] “Mal was very sweet,” she recalled, “and we talked and we talked, and we sort of made out.” And while she was unable to meet the Beatles the next morning to do an interview, she exchanged contact information with Mal. And later that year, the letters from her new pen pal began arriving, elegantly adorned with “this beautiful British handwriting.” *
Eventually, Mal would develop a vital relationship of his own with the Scruffs, although he had his detractors—namely, Carol Bedford, a peripheral member of their scrum and a George aficionado who later claimed that Mal tried to put the moves on her. Apparently, Mal had continued to approach women in the Beatles’ universe in the same transactional manner in which he and Neil had “auditioned” willing fans during the band’s touring years. Another Apple Scruff recalled a similar instance when Mal’s attempts to cozy up to the Scruffs went terribly wrong. Apparently, he had crawled under one of the girls’ blankets and “touched something he shouldn’t have.” With that, the offended Scruff came flying out from under the blanket yelling, “Who do you think you are, Paul McCartney?” **
Since leaving the hospital, [Arwen (21yo)] had reared Little Malcolm in her cramped lodgings in West Hampstead. At some point, around the age of six months, he was put up for adoption, leaving her care lock, stock, and barrel, with Mal’s teddy bear as the baby’s only consolation. Mal’s diary would enumerate lunches and telephone calls with the young woman at various points across 1969, but eventually, Arwen chose to move on, putting the whole painful episode behind her. ***
[For his son's birthday] Mal made a cassette recording in which he offered his sincere wishes for the coming year. [...] But any goodwill Mal hoped to deliver was quickly undone that morning as Gary listened to the recording over breakfast with his mother and sister. To his incredible pain and embarrassment, the tape didn’t end with his father’s birthday greeting. Apparently, Mal had recycled the cassette, and as Gary and his sister prepared to go to school, they heard the unmistakable sounds of Fran fellating their dad. The boy’s only solace was the knowledge that his eight-year-old sister didn’t understand the sounds emanating from the tape player.
[..]for the first time, Fran found herself afraid of her boyfriend, whose darkness had never been more acute. It all came to a head one night when Mal, drunk to the gills, began threatening her with his Colt Woodsman pistol, at one point placing the gun against her head before discharging it into the washing machine. When he sobered up, Mal couldn’t have been more apologetic, swearing to mend his ways and be the boyfriend she deserved.
____________________________________
Another quote under the cut, with trigger warning for rape and attempted suicide - and a few notes about some of it.
____________________________________
June 1964 - New Zealand
At the time, the official story involved a twenty-year-old female fan who, having secreted her way into the hotel, chose to slash her wrists in Mal’s room after being unable to talk her way into the Beatles’ suite. Fortunately, police caught sight of the young woman through a window and broke down the locked door with a battering ram. She was subsequently taken to a local hospital and discharged that same day.
[There are then some bits about how Derek tried to ensure it didn't link back to the Beatles in anyway, and the way the press reported it as "Girl Tries To Die For Beatles", and someone else claiming she'd actually had sex with someone and then got 'hysterical' because she realised he wasn't going to get her in to see the Beatles... but eventually it cuts to the quote from Mal's diary below.]
“On arriving back at the hotel at two in the morning,” he wrote, “I was greeted by a crowd of police and detectives as the elevator doors opened at my floor. On verifying that I occupied a particular room number, they very solemnly escorted me there, where to my horror on opening the door, I found the bathroom and bedroom covered in blood. Apparently, what had happened [was] several people had gang-banged her in my bedroom. She was so distraught, she took a razor blade from my razor and slashed her wrists, but was discovered in time and recovered in hospital. Obviously I was a prime suspect, but I had the best alibi in the world—I was drinking tea with her mother.” ****
____________________________________
* Victoria was 16, and Mal was 31. He wrote with her for a few years and met up with her again several times, and there's a quote where she says she "thought she was in love with him", and another where she was surprised to find out he was married. He's a grown man with a family and it's creepy as fuck that he was leading on/grooming a 16 year old girl - although I think according to the book they never had sex.
** I've bolded a lot of the wording which fucks me the fuck off in that passage about apple scruffs, what a fucking weird piece of writing. Apparently apparently apparently - I don't even think he's using it to suggest it might not be true, I think he's just using it to make it sound a bit casual, oh turns out he was just treating them like shit like he used to! Oh he was just 'cozying up' ??????? The last bit also feels like the girl being able to fight her corner and tell him off is being used to suggest it therefore didn't matter - not to suggest that there were probably lots of other girls who didn't want his hands on them but didn't know how to say no. It's also quickly followed by a quote of another apple scruff saying he took care of them like a big brother and they all loved him. Which is fine. But teenage girls feeling as though the creepy guy who is being nice to them in order to take advantage is just being nice to them, doesn't mean much. It's creepy that he was trying to befriend the young vulnerable girls that idolised anyone who worked with Beatles, you've literally just said he was doing it in a 'transactional manner'.
*** The author used a pseudonym for Arwen - a young woman that Mal had an affair and a child with. He wrote in his diary when the child was born, and visited them, "gifting the boy with an oversize teddy bear from Harrods". Personally I think 'chose to move on' covers an awful lot of pain very glibly. Imagine having to give your baby away after six months, imagine what she went through. It is not a small thing that he carelessly got a young woman pregnant and then offered her nothing.
**** I think we all live in Beatles fandom knowing that the people we enjoy did awful terrible things, but sometimes it's good to confront how bad it was, even if we'll never know who was involved in this particular incident. Or how often it happened to other women. Whether Beatles were involved here or not, they were around this, they were inside it. They were influenced by and friends with horrible people. Imagine writing that in your diary like it's a good joke that you were having tea with her mum while she was going through that, and not how awful that would actually feel if you had a heart. The author adds that this incident affected Mal, saying, "His “demon” persona was still alive and well, to be sure, but there would be perceptible shifts in his outlook as the group’s touring days moved forward." I didn't really pick up on these, so I'm not sure how so.
100 notes
·
View notes
Text
R.I.P Van Der Linde Gang 💔 You would have loved:
(seen a few ppl do this,, if you started this definitely lmk and I’ll credit u !!)
updated to add Kieran and Sean
Dutch - Self help books, those podcasts where people give you terribly incorrect health information and claim that they’re doctors
Uncle - The massage chairs in malls, Frank Gallagher, insane reddit stories that definitely never happened, scamming disability cheques from the government
Abigail - iPhone’s share your location feature, the Parent Teacher Association, audiobooks
Arthur - Remote control racing cars (aarwh it’s a toy boat!), the catch and cook youtube videos, Cowboy Carter by Beyoncé, free healthcare mayhaps…..
John - Maury, The sassy man apocalypse on TikTok, Sitting and watching Bluey in a trance with Abigail after Jack has already gone to bed
Miss Grimshaw - Supernanny, Judge Judy, Spas, Massages, Bear Grylls probably, Bed Bath and Beyond
Sadie - Streetwear, absolutely bodying men on FPS games, Rage rooms
Charles - Axe throwing to get the frustration out, wildlife protection acts, David Attenborough, ATLA
Javier - The head massage you get when you get your hair washed at the salon, edibles, Guitar Hero, collecting vinyls
Hosea - Game shows like The Chase and Deal or No Deal, Dolly Parton probably, cruises, community libraries where you take a book and leave a book behind
Strauss - Cryptocurrency, whatsapp scams
Mary-Beth - Wattpad, Ao3, Booktok, you name it. Those fanfic movie adaptations like After, 50 shades of Grey etc, Cottagecore aesthetic, Taylor Swift, TikTok edits, Bridgerton
Tilly - Those ‘Day in the Life of’ Tiktoks, Jazz bars, Chloe x Halle, cruises as well
Karen - How To Get Away With Murder, Bottomless brunch, Reality shows with a bunch of drama like Love Island or Married at First Sight, Ru Paul’s Drag Race
Bill - Mardi Gras, Brokeback Mountain 😋, Home Depot, probably, those giant American cars that are on the verge of being trucks, Call of Duty
Pearson - Those late night infomercials that show random kitchen utensils like a garlic mincer or a nutribullet blender, Reddit, Spending money on E-Harmony, standing in the club and staring awkwardly at a woman, Dungeons and Dragons
Lenny - Online self paced university, Jordan Peele movies, Studio Ghibli movies, Noise cancelling headphones, The Last of Us
Kieran - Animal crossing, Saddle Club, the Wikihow “how to talk to girls” page, taking horrible advice from tik tok just because the person who posted it sounded trustworthy, astrology probably
Sean - Getting drunk at local football games and heckling the other team, claiming he’s not into Karen’s reality shows but then standing there watching the whole episode with his arms crossed while asking her about every single person and their drama, would most definitely be famous for yapping on Twitter, Derry Girls would be his fave show
#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan#rdr2 memes#modern rdr2#dutch van der linde#van der linde gang#lumbago#uncle#abigail roberts#john marston#lenny summers#cowboy carter#tilly jackson#susan grimshaw#mary beth gaskill#javier escuella#charles smith#bill williamson#sadie adler#hosea matthews#karen jones#leopold strauss#incorrect rdr2#red dead
136 notes
·
View notes
Text
reading you right (father paul hill/john pruitt x reader) -nsfw
Father Paul Hill, Midnight Mass
prompt(s): "Me. You. Bed. Now." [from this post]
[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]
anon: I had a normal amount of fun writing this, hope you enjoy :) i wanna do a pt. 2 because ofc i do,, honestly I got a lil hot n bothered lmao
notifs: paul hill is a tease!! ; shoe-grinding ; fluffy smut ; hierophilia ; you're father paul's dirty little secret ; denial ; reader begging ; reader's down HORRENDOUS ; terms used: good girl, slutty thing, pet
"You've been lying there moaning for ten minutes." Father Paul chuckles, trying to focus on his reading.
You feel your leg twitch as you lay on your stomach, looking a bit dazed across the room. A giggle escapes you. In your mind's eye a constant stream of images plays- every dirty thing you’ve done with Father Paul in the last 48 hours, a rare weekend’s reprieve from prying Beverly Keane, sitting bedside with her sister or aunt or who-the-hell cares on the mainland. It was too easy to sneak into the house behind St. Patrick’s, and too goddamn pleasurable to leave after the first night. A delightful ease of domesticity has settled over the two of you. And you’re even more whipped for the Father than you were when this whole messy arrangement began.
"I can't help it-"
"It's understandable to whine like a whore while I'm still inside you, but cooing like that when I'm not even touching you is a little ridiculous." Smug, he licks his finger and turns a page. "A man's ego can only grow so big."
“What are you reading?” you ask, completely uninterested, and your voice betrays it. You might enjoy a good book now and again, but something worlds more tempting is sitting before you. In his jeans and tee shirt, only his glossy ankle boots remaining, Paul is a rare sight out of uniform, like something sent from heaven. Or Hell. Both, somehow.
“You asked me that fifteen minutes ago. Or did you forget already?” He shoots you a disapproving, but playful look. He can hardly resist you more than you can him. Hardly. There is that last smidgeon of reserve that Paul prides himself on. He can’t be bothered to think of you as a sin, because life’s become far, far more complicated in the last few months than any one man can hold in his head, and because it feels like paradise to touch you.
Caught in your inattention, you abandon the ruse of asking about his book. "You fucked me too good...." You whine.
"You're going to complain about it?" He laughs at you.
"You're laughing at me."
"Of course I'm laughing at you," he admonishes. Not to be taken in by your wiles, Paul's eyes trace the paragraph he's started unsuccessfully three times.
"You whine before I fuck you, you whine while I fuck you, and you whine after I've fucked you. You're silly."
The vision renews itself in your mind of last night creeping around in here, your excitement waiting in the antechamber of St. Patrick’s late at night, Paul sneaking up on you in the dark and taking you in that muggy little den where they keep the wine and spare things. You want him to grunt against your ear like that again, to fuck you like he needs you in order to breathe.
"I'm not silly!" You gasp out. He hears the difference in your voice and scans your body with his eyes. Grinning. He licks his bottom lip and pretends the fool. “I want it, please, I want it, I don’t caaaare…” Your caterwauling would be annoying if it wasn’t so bone-deep genuine. Paul could probably keep you here forever as a pet, a secret from innocuous parishioners, visitors from all walks of life, and you’d be satisfied as long as he used you from time to time. Fed you.
“Oh, that’s undignified.” He smiles, turns the page and hopes he can pick up without the aid of the passage his mind simply refused to retain.
You get on all fours and start to crawl over to him. You tug on the leg of his jeans, utterly debased.
“You’re insatiable, you know that?” his tongue flicks and flutters around the word in a musical way that you know you could find better uses for. You nod. His voice. He could guide you anywhere with it. To make things worse, he imitates you. The facsimile of your lust in his voice is enough to make you jump him. “‘Father, I can't focus on my book....Father, please fuck me with your fingers, I can't without it, I need it...I told you pack things to stay because I imagined I’d be enjoying some downtime other than between my sheets.'"
You bite your lip, the adoring way you look up at him unfairly reminiscent of Biblical portraiture, the Madonna (too ineffably ironic), Saint Lucia, devout, suppliant little succubi. Paul’s heart breaks a little, and his cock twitches with interest, which he endeavors to suppress.
“What’s that look for, child?” He plays up the religious bent of your dynamic, something that presses inexpressibly sinful and delicious buttons in your dirty mind.
"I do need you."
You pout. Your words with Paul repeating them was enough to rev your proverbial engine. You shift just the littlest bit, yet the friction of the floor underneath you is enough to tease out a whimper. Not totally on purpose, but not totally by accident. John chuckles again.
“Present tense?” He pretends to turn a page, but he’s not reading a damn thing now.
"I need you all the time you're not in me.” It’s filthy, but it feels true in these moments when all the thoughts are leaving your head empty.
He smiles one of his private smiles. His eyelids crinkle as he reaches up to scratch his cheek. "Let's not be pornographic, huh?"
"I wanna fuck again..."
"What else is new?"
"You've ruined me." He looks at you then like you’re something to eat. The book is shut and put down. You have your beloved hot priest’s attention. His eyes ask, smoldering, what will you do now you have it?
“You have my boot. Or aren’t you smart enough to get yourself off.” His tone shifts and a shadowy, serious dominance settles in his countenance. Every behavior, every quirk of his expression, curve of his smile, owns and owns you. He may plead and beg to bury his head between your thighs from time to time, on one occasion he may have shown up at your door, his satchel a deceptive front for rope and ribbon, which you were to restrain and blindfold him with. Life’s too short for dynamics that don’t shift and change like the tides. But in this moment, this energy, you are his. And he intends to impress that upon you.
You gape at him just a moment, heady lust clouding your already addled brain. Then slowly, carefully, you adjust your position, grab the upper part of Paul’s calf, and hoist your lower body up onto his shoe, your pelvic bone bumping his shin. Any hesitations or embarrassment that linger in you drown in the deeper, sweeter excitement of feeling some real friction as you roll your hips. Oh. God.
This might be the senseless, reckless need talking, but fuck. Just the sensation of the toe of his shoe right between your thighs, exactly where you need it, makes you feel a little bit crazy. You look up at him in awe, and thank God he’s not picked up his book again but instead is sitting comfortably, his gaze dropped low to watch you, his groin thrusting the tiniest bit forward at nothing, too much nothing. He groans, and you chase your pleasure like a thing possessed.
Words slip out of your mouth without a shred of logic behind them, and Paul tells you to repeat yourself. He bites his bottom lip as he watches you. “Hello? Still a brain in there?"
“I said you make me so sensitive,” you mumble, finding a new groove in the contour of his shoe, where it meets his ankle, and leaning on his knee, shaking, groping for his thighs, all involuntarily. Your dripping, dripping on his shoe, and the thought of how uncivilized that is makes Paul bite his fist.
"Uh huh, so it's all my fault, then."
"Yes..."
"Yes, 'what'?"
"Yes it's all your fault, Father."
“It’s my fault you’re going to cum on my shoe?”
You whine again. Your soul’s leaving your body, want spreads through every inch of your body, intense and blinding, high, so high.
“C’n I cum, please, can I cum?” You pant, feeling his hands wrap around yours, warm and loving.
“Look at me, pet.” He orders. You obey. His irises envelop you. You steady yours on them, trying to get a grip, breath filling your belly and leaving your parted lips in rapid gasps. “No.”
Your brows shoot up in surprise. Disappointment isn’t the word for it, desire lets itself out as a sound. You slow down, somewhere in a high place you hear him say:
“Stop grinding, slutty thing. Your Father told you ‘no.’”
You sink against him, laying your head on one of his thighs. He kisses the top of your head, and murmurs, “Good girl. Good girl, good.”
Fireworks are setting off under your skin, your thighs are trembling, every bit of you is sticky. “That wasn’t easy, I bet.” He says, voice condescending and sweet, but every bit as needy as you are. You make another noise in response.
“I’m not done with you, you know,” he takes your chin into one of his hands, lifts your head. He kisses you again, with a fierceness that just sharpens your feeling. “I’m not even close to done with you.” He rests his in your neck, kisses you once, twice, up your jaw, on your cheeks, the ear he can reach. He bites your earlobe and almost hisses, “Me. You. Bed. Now.”
[Pt. 2 Out Now!! Linked Here :)]
#midnight mass#john pruitt#father paul hill#thirsting hours#monsignor pruitt#monsignor john pruitt#father paul#fic tag#midnight mass fic#father paul x reader#hamfam smut#my blabber#tfw you can't even write your smut drabble well bc you're feral for the man you're writing about
244 notes
·
View notes
Text
John was laying in bed after a long hard day of rehearsing for about 10 hours with his friends. Him, Paul, Stu, and Pete were all practicing until 10:00 AM to 10:00 PM. Needless to say, he was exhausted.
You were already asleep. You fell asleep about an hour before he was to come home. John decided to finally take off his glasses and pull the covers over himself, as he held your waist to get your body closer to him. Before he fell unconscious, however, he heard whimpering. Not a painful whimper, quite the opposite. He seemed taken aback at first, not realizing the problem was. That was until he felt you grind up against him and softly moan. You were having a wet dream.
“Birdie, hey, wake up sweet girl.” He whispered, lightly tapping your shoulder and placing his hand on your thigh.
“Mmh, john..” you said, half asleep.
“That’s it, love, Johnny’s here.” John cooed as his hand slithered up your inner thigh and started ti rub at your panties. You never wore shorts to bed, just felt more comfortable in nothing but just your underwear.
“J-john, your home?” You said groggy, rubbing your eyes and looking up at him.
“Mhm, just in time for my sweet girl to start thinking about me in her sleep. Ain’t that right, doll, hm? You were thinking about Johnny making you feel good?” John said teasingly, rubbing you faster. You bit your lip as you grabbed his arm.
“Yes, John, m want you so bad please.” You said, to be fair, you didn’t wanna fall back asleep cuz you were still extremely tired, fuck that. You’d rather be fucked.
“I know, baby. I heard all about it.” He chuckled, sliding your panties down your legs and throwing them to god knows where in his room. He spent no time shoving two fingers of his right hand inside you as he clasped your mouth shut with his left.
“Shhh, little girl. Don’t want mimi to hear us, now, do we?” He whispered, you nodded as you softly whimpered. John was a guitarist for a reason, he was immensely talented with his fingers. He reached spots you didn’t even think were possible to hit.
“Fuck, you’re soaked. You like it when I finger your little cunt, love? Hm? You like it when I touch you like this? John said, his voice deep and low. You nodded frantically, biting your lip so hard it would bleed.
“J-John, I need you so bad, please. I missed you so much.” You quietly cried out. John smiled as he kissed your head. He took off his boxers and revealed his hard member to you. He slowly lined himself up, looking into your eyes as he pushed in. Your eyes flew to the back of your head as you covered your mouth to let out a loud moan. You felt so stretched and full and you loved it.
“Fuck, so tight. I don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, love.” John grunted.
“Don’t, please, want it so bad.” You whimpered out, your legs spreading wider to give him more room. John used that as a perfect opportunity to start pounding into you whilst covering your mouth again. Can’t forget about mimi.
“You like this, little girl? You like when I’m fucking you rough? My cute little whore. My fucking whore.” John panted out. You could feel your insides getting hotter and hotter, you knew you were about to cum.
“John i-“
“You gonna cum, yea? Do it, sweet thing.” John moaned out. That’s what let you go, it took everything it had in you to not scream as your orgasm washed over you. Just seeing your fucked out expressions made John follow in suit with you, cumming deep inside of you.
You ached, but you knew it was going to be a long night.
-
Hi hello I got bored so here’s a thing im back yay fun.
#classic rock#classic rock imagines#george harrison#john lennon#paul mccartney#ringo starr#the beatles#the beatles x reader#60s#john lennon x reader#john lennon smut
60 notes
·
View notes
Text
“This is, basically, a memory song that is a love song to John.”
-Paul McCartney
“Here, Today” McCartney: A Life in Lyrics From Pushkin+ Early Listen
He’s out here just saying it now. No warning. Just talking about love songs to John as if we haven’t had to listen to heteronormy bullshit for 50+ years of Beatle press alongside divisive Lennon vs. McCartney rhetoric (Thanks, Jann!).
Be still my beating heart.
(In contrast, from the same podcast, Paul’s thoughts on the anti-love song to John, Too Many People:
“Too Many People is on an album called Ram. It was at a time when John was firing missiles at me. I dunno what he hoped to gain other than punching me in the face. This kind of annoyed me obviously, and I suddenly decided to turn my missiles on him.”)
#heart eyes motherfucker#lennon mccartney#mclennon#paul mccartney#paul girl in a john girl’s body#he really ought to warn a girl#raining on my face#he definitely just wanted to punch you in the face#McCartney: a life in lyrics
38 notes
·
View notes
Text
baptism | father paul x reader | one shot
summary: this is a really, really quick one-shot i wrote last night while feeling witchy. john talks you through it.
warnings: lots of smut. use of biblical passages during sex. typical priest stuff.
a gentle purr.
“jesus,” he murmurs. “creator of such lovely things…”
you arch against his chest as he holds you beneath the steady stream of the shower. the only light illuminating the bathroom were the sparse candles behind the curtain, highlighting the contours of your bodies.
soaked. baptism in motion.
pure blasphemy.
he takes your chin between two fingers, his lips just inches from yours as he breathes, “you’re a delicate sin, darling girl.”
you whimper, trying to kiss him - to feel his lips upon yours like a salve - but he teases you, moving just a hairsbreadth away before sliding his hand down your belly.
it burns. it burns like hellfire. you’re soaked, both by shower and by seduction. he’s smug, grinning the entire time his fingers dance around where you need him the most.
“please, john…” you whisper. “please. touch me.”
take away the pain.
your hands slide up to his hair, the angle slightly awkward but rewarding; his locks are long and vulnerable to your grip. you tug just slightly when his thumb ghosts over your clit.
finally you moan out, “father.”
and he gives in.
your sensitivity - between the hot shower and the anticipation - is heightened. your clit quivers as he rubs softly, watching from over your shoulder as you shudder in his arms.
he’s always fascinated by your body - by how it works and responds to him. “it’s like watching a work of art come alive,” he once said.
“your thighs shelter a paradise of pomegranates…” he quotes breathily.
you almost crumble in his arms when he gently prods a finger inside; the fit is snug - warm. it takes you a moment to adjust but you do with a groan that sounds both neolithic and angelic at once.
“that’s it, darling girl.” he crooks the finger, hitting a spongey part of you. you keen, bending a little in his grasp. “oh, yes. right there.”
one finger is followed by another until he’s three fingers deep. and despite how many times the two of you have had sex - have intertwined your bodies before god - you’re never prepared for his cock.
he kisses the side of your neck, slowly pulling out his fingers from you. “part your legs more, sweetheart…” you do, still gripping the back of his neck for support. “that’s perfect. you’re perfect.”
you snuggle into his shoulder, murmuring sweet nothings and blessings while he prepares you.
“you’re gonna grab onto the bar,” he gently untangles your arm from him and positions your hand onto the bar that was convenient for him when he was elderly - when his body was retired from such experiences.
he’ll use it for different purposes now.
john kisses your spine, hand caressing your thigh before he has you place your leg on the lip of the tub. having sex in the shower is no small feat; you were prepared for the positioning like a marionette doll. but now you were so desperate - so ready for him - that you were more than willing to do with as he pleased.
“john…” you whine.
he tsks softly, hands wrapping around your waist. “patience is a virtue; a fruit of the spirit.”
you can’t help but smile in your lust driven haze, especially when you feel the firmness of his cock nudging at your entrance.
“ame-“
you squeak, cut off by the harsh — but delicious — feel of his cock pushing in so slowly. every inch. every ridge. your limbs become like jello the further he goes. it’s heavenly. it’s sacred. it’s…
so goddamned hot.
you lean over in his arms, his hands gripping your hips so firmly you’re sure they’ll be blossomed with purple in the morning; a frank reminder of your blatant blasphemy against the church. john groans low at your ear and it sounds uneven.
“i have entered my garden, my treasure…” he pauses, pushing one more inch in and prodding at your womb. you gasp, white knuckling the bar. “…-my bride.”
a whine, pathetic and impatient, escapes your lips. your free hand grabs at his on your hip, searching for any inch of him to touch - to feel.
he intertwines his fingers with yours and begins to move.
it’s slow, at first, but then his movements are more forcible - precise - rather than gentle.
john’s length is more impressive than his girth but he makes up for it with each and every thrust. soon, your grip on the bar isn’t enough and your hitched leg is becoming like a limp noodle.
“john, oh my god.”
he’s crazed, like an animal in heat. he presses his face to your neck, sucking an impressive bruise beneath the skin. you cry out, all too aware of the hidden canines, but he doesn’t cut flesh. he wouldn’t.
unless you asked.
“that’s a good girl,” he grunts, one hand laying on your lower abdomen and the other fondling your tit. “best little pussy god ever created…”
your eyes roll back. “i am my beloved and my beloved is mine,” you gasp, each movement of his hips knocking each syllable from you.
john growls, which he usually does when he’s close. the crude sound of wet skin slapping against one another betwixt the exchanging of biblical passages can only be described as hedonistic, but he doesn’t care. he can’t bring himself to when your cunt is so tight and wet around him - when you’re so pliable and feminine.
when he comes, you do too. it’s a divine blessing, the two of you completely strung out on one another’s essence. he finishes inside of you, pushing his spend back in with each lazy thrust nearing the end. the noise you make when you come is his guilty pleasure - his pride. it’s a stark contrast against the state of the world, a breathy whine that rings hot with euphoria.
john gives you a moment before helping you step down from the ledge of the bath; apparently your limbs seemed to have stopped working. the two of you catch your breath, pressing against one another under the shower that slowly turns tepid.
you press a delicate kiss to his naked chest and then to his shoulder blade. “thank you.”
john finds you staring at him, the reflection of the candles’ light dancing in your pupils. he kisses the tip of your nose.
“for what, my love?” he asks in a soft voice. he’s always so gentle afterwards.
you smile, hand cupping his cheek. “for something so beautiful.”
321 notes
·
View notes
Text
Lamb
|Midnight Mass |
Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI
Father Paul Hill/John Pruitt x fem!reader
Word count: 11k
Summery: An entire life of being a good girl was a difficult cross to carry...especially in a tiny town with 127 residents on a good day. You kept the town fed and spirits as high as you could, but when a new face steps off the afternoon Breeze, things around you start to change; you don't even know you're in the eye of the storm.
Warnings: nsfw, reader is religious, religious symbolism, ideology, explanations and general conversations of religion, age gap (like this man is 80 technically and he watched reader grow up, and can remember reader as a little girl so if that’s creepy to you then go no further), stalking, manipulation, murder (hello have you seen the show?), drinking of blood, hunting of a person, grief, description of animal death, reader is described as blushing, character death, non consensual help showering, guilt and god maybe more but I think that’s it…this is not really a fix it fic
Notes: There’s a little Easter egg in this chapter for any Hamish fans…let’s see if anyone clocks it.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Crickets were the first to make a sound.
For days, that speck of an island was silent. Birds either flew away or hid in their nests. They didn’t chirp, or caw.
Bees slowly began to appear again too after a week.
Flowers began to open.
Months passed and finally things looked almost as they used to.
Buildings repaired, town cleaned up.
Only now the island looked abandoned during the day.
You had never liked summer. Too hot and humid. You still didn’t like it.
John was used to hearing the Crockett Island community wander the island every night.
He was used to the occasional sound of your screams, too.
It wasn’t often, but sometimes your fortified house lacked, and you were forced to run into the night and hide until sunrise.
John pursed his lips bitterly the first time he had stopped them from finding you on the abandoned spit on the west side.
They claimed they just wanted to help.
Wanted you to be at peace and be a part of the community again.
Those words stung like poison; hearing his own justification used back at him.
He’d seen you run past him on one of his walks, not even knowing he was there as he stood amongst the skinny trees. Eyes like little pinpoints in the darkness.
A predators eyes.
A wolf’s eyes.
When he had only wanted to be a Shepard.
Though of course that had been the issue. He would have had to have wanted to be a fellow sheep for him to see just how wrong his actions were.
Now there he was, just one of the wolves watching their token sheep run for her life.
You were so resilient. Determined to stay alive. Hope incarnate. But you were not delicate or wispy like most imagined hope to be; a foolish thing. Your hope was bruised and battered and exhausted from having to get back up again after surviving another night.
You still prayed.
He heard you at night when he would walk past your house and listen close to one of your boarded windows. It was mostly to check that you were alright.
It was a little because he found your heartbeat soothing.
But hearing you pray was what helped him continue. That you hadn’t lost your faith. He didn’t care who you prayed to…just that you had faith.
And that faith had you.
You tasted copper as you ran.
It had been months since they had last managed to get inside your house, and you had begun to get comfortable with the couple knocks at night and the pleading to come out. But over the last week, the knocks had turned to pounding, and tonight the pounding turned to splintered wood and you bolting across Crockett as fast as your exhausted body would carry you.
The best shot at safely was the thick woods on either end of the island. You used to keep a boat in the Uppards for emergencies, but they had found it and taken it one night.
Now you had become stellar at losing them, but tonight something felt different. You had noticed clear medical baggies of blood in trash cans just a few weeks following…following that night. You assumed they used Sarah’s medical connections to have shipments of blood brought to the island at night.
You wondered who Bev had to bully to have that done. Not like it was hard.
But you wondered now if perhaps the latest shipment wasn’t received, and now the islanders were…antsy.
Not that the reasoning mattered to you greatly as you passed by one of the abandoned buildings. What mattered was that they were closer to you than usual, and you hadn’t slept properly in weeks. That, and your terror that they winged bast might still be prowling around looking for a new body to drain.
You pushed yourself to go faster but you couldn’t put distance between you and them. That feeling of fear began to creep back into your tissue. It was only natural; it didn’t matter how at peace you were with death. A lamb being hunted was a lamb being hunted.
And wolves never stopped being terrifying.
John sat, book in hand inside the rectory.
Collarless.
He heard your heartbeat from a half mile away, and it was fast. Too fast.
He stood, and walked to his door and opened it to step out onto his porch. You didn’t usually come this way, but as fate would have it - or your great misfortune- you did. John could hear feet following you- a few sets by the sound of it.
John walked out into the middle of the cemetery.
He waited.
Sure enough, a few minutes later you came up the hill; your adrenaline being the only thing that kept you going.
John called your name.
It was the first time since Easter that you had heard his voice. It made you take such a quick breath that you stumbled a little. It felt like you had been sprayed with ice water.
He looked down the road where the small militia was chasing you, then back to the rectory- door wide open. You stood there for a moment, and you wanted to keep running. But those footsteps were close and you figured it would be easier to fight off one instead of several.
You could feel your rage start to rear its head over the fear, but you knew it would only get you killed.
You ran towards him, and he began leading you inside. The warm glow of the rectory enveloped you, and John shut and locked the door as soon as you stepped onto the floorboards. He closed the curtains and turned off most lights aside from a reading lamp, and began taking you to the far end of the house. As you approached you stopped short and shook your head.
“What are you doing?” You whispered, eying him wearily.
He knelt down and lifted a part of the carpet in his room and lifted a small door.
You stared at him hard.
And he stared back. “It was built for me decades ago for storms.” He said simply, and calmly.
You were apprehensive. Even more now than just being in his presence.
Uneasy.
Terrified.
Cold.
“Please…they won’t find you.” He whispered a little harsher- you couldn’t hear them but those footsteps were getting closer now. Just cresting the hill.
You might have resented the monster before you more than anything, but you did need help. And you didn’t have a plethora of options. You walked over to him and sat down on the edge of the opening- feet hitting the steep stairs. “I don’t trust you.” You said, staring down into the dark room. You could see a lamp there.
“I know.” He nodded.
You blinked, and didn’t look at him as you began to lower yourself. John grasped your arm to help you, but you wrenched it from his grip, “Don’t touch me.” You snapped.
He immediately dropped his hands, and had to almost sit on them to keep himself from reaching out to you to help.
As you hit the ground, you reached into your pocket and pulled out a small fishers knife to show him.
“If you don’t let me out, or try anything I’m killing myself and braving Hell, Father.” You shot at him.
Again, Father Pruitt only nodded in understanding, “The lamp is fully changed. There’s a blanket on the shelf.” He said, then looked suddenly back towards the front of the house.
You flicked the light on, and when you stared back up at the preist, he quietly shut the door.
You watched it for a moment, then slowly took in the space. A very small room that looked more like a bomb shelter. There was a small bed and a shelf with some canned food. And indeed there was a thick blanket there. You sighed, and went to settle in only to jump a little when you heard voices. You stayed still and tried to listen as close as you could…but then it went quiet, and you only heard one pair of soft footsteps.
John opened the door to see a handful of fairly new parishioners standing there on his stoop.
“Evening Father…she ran past here a few minutes ago did you hear anything?” One of them asked.
She.
You didn’t even have a name to them anymore.
John sucked on his teeth, “I’m afraid not. She’s quick.”
Another one nodded, “G’night Father.” They mumbled and began walking away- eyes scanning the trees and brush.
He watched them for a moment, then walked back inside and locked the door again. He might have gone out that night for a walk or to visit someone in the community. While he didn’t fully count himself as a priest anymore, he was still the guide to many of his flock. They were even more lost now than ever.
After that first night, many turned to the church for help. His heart ached that still his parish turned towards God for help; that he hadn’t driven them away from their faith entirely.
Many resented him.
He didn’t hold any blame towards them.
But still, when he held Mass, many came. Many still confessed to him. Many still asked for his aid.
But John Pruitt was less of a person now, and more of a symbol.
A tool.
He kept to himself- accepting his passive segregation.
Unwanted, but needed.
With no need for food, John felt a sudden panic when he hadn’t given you anything fresh. He strode back to the little door and gently opened it; the lamp was still on, but even in the low light he could clearly see you sitting against one of the walls breathing deep, heart rate slow.
You hadn’t used the blanket, he noticed. John knew you were strong willed, but he didn’t know how stubborn you were. Perhaps a trait you hadn’t discovered until he ripped your life apart.
John carefully lowered himself down into the little cellar, and crouched down in front of you. He gingerly eased his arms under your knees, and pulled you to his chest, then hoisted you up and carried you back to the main level.
John didn’t care if the others heard your heartbeat. He didn’t care if they came to his door. He knew they wouldn’t dare try to get you while he was there. He had been turned for longer than them, and was much stronger, and much faster. For the ones who were present when Sturge had shot Sarah, they knew he wasn’t incapable of beating a man bloody.
He laid you down on his bed, and slipped your boots off carefully; he caught the knife that fell from your left one, and rolled it over in his hand.
He had pushed you to violence. Self-defence, but violence all the same. He tarnished that ray of sunlight he had seen that first day he returned.
John smiled bitterly. He supposed it was only fitting that you were sunlight and he would die if he touched it.
You were so limp as you slept- your exhaustion taking over and forcing your body to rest. John brought the blanket over you, and left you there to sleep.
The bed laid unused most days.
It wasn’t as if he truly slept anymore.
The first thing you were aware of was the great sense of comfort that enveloped you.
The second was how that feeling horrified you.
You knew you had slept in an uncomfortable position, so why was there a pillow under your head and a blanket over you.
The third was how well rested you were.
You instinctively reached for the knife you kept in your boot, but then that came to your forth realisation: you weren’t wearing your boots.
You bolted up, and took in your surroundings. You were back in the rectory. You felt fear start to creep back into your flesh as you realised just how deeply you had slept. Your hand instinctively reached for your neck and shoulders so ensure you didn’t have any marks. You checked your arms and then you saw the flicker of metal out of the corner of your eye- your knife sat comfortably beside you on the bedside table. You snatched it up, and slipped your feet down onto the floor as quietly as you could-
“I made you some coffee if you’d like it.”
John called to you; he had heard your heart rate spike as you awoke. In an effort to not spook you too much, he waited to speak from his place in the living room until you were fully up.
You crept to the door, and tentatively pushed it open, knife clutched tight as you surveyed the room.
The curtains were all drawn, and two lamps were on. If it weren’t for the man who lived there it might have been a very inviting home. But you saw the man in question sat at his desk, writing.
John paused, and looked up from his paper to you.
“How are you?” He asked, genuinely wanting to know. It was a loaded question- he knew- but he truly wished to know any ounce of your mental state that you would provide him with.
You looked around once more- ensuring you were alone.
“Don’t worry, they all think you’re in the Uppards.” He said, turning a little towards you.
You stood there. And stared at him. You didn’t even know what to say to him.
“A shipment was late.” You finally said.
His brows perked up, “Yes.” He nodded, “Yes there…there was an issue. Has been pushed back but it’ll be here by tonight, not to worry.”
You nodded.
John sucked in a breath and exhaled, “I’m sorry-“
“You’re not ashamed of what you did, Father?” You cut him off, voice breaking more than you would have liked. Finally meeting his eyes properly for the first time in months.
Father Pruitt placed his pen down and leaned onto his knees, staring up at you, “I believe I…I do feel shame yes. For my actions, but even the good intentions that I attempted were misconstrued, I never meant-“
“But it happened,” You shot back - eyes starting to sting, “You were selfish. You just…assumed everyone would want what you wanted.”
He nodded solemnly and stood slowly, and suddenly you were a little more afraid. You didn’t know what he was fully capable of anymore, and you did not want to find out. As if he could sense your apprehension, John backed away and leaned against the kitchen counter.
“You’re welcome to stay if you have questions-“ he started, trying to give you an open space.
“Questions? I don’t have any questions, Father,” you did. But you wouldn’t admit that yet, “I am alone, and I will live alone and I will die alone. I don’t need to know much more if it won’t change that.” Your voice shook.
He nodded and looked down- brows pinching together as he began to feel the weight of your burden, “I’m so-“
“Please don’t.” You said, tears forming in your eyes.
John raised his gaze to look at you, and he pursed his lips that you once thought were so pretty. A moment passed as both of your gazes were trained on one another.
John watched your beautiful eyes well up the longer you looked at him, and he clenched his fists to stay put lest he try to comfort you. He had only just gotten you to open up the tiniest bit to trust him for a few hours that night, he didn’t want to take one step forward and three back. So he didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t try to make you stay or understand.
He hoped there would be a time when he could, but he knew that it wasn’t time yet.
You took a shaky breath, and turned to the door, and left.
Once upon a time you might have looked back and maybe would have waved goodbye. Might have said that you'd see him tomorrow.
Might have wanted to stay longer.
Might have flushed in his company.
But you didn't look behind you. Not anymore.
If you had, you likely would have caught sight of the preacher in the window where one of the curtains was pulled back a sliver; you might have seen how he let the sunlight fall over his face; how he let the sun burn him as he watched you.
John listened to your heartbeat fade as you walked further away and out of his sight. His chest ached just as his skin did. And that ache churned and curdled down into his stomach and out into his fingertips. He felt that thing that he had once been so thankful for not feeling- guilt. It felt like so long ago that he had sat across from Riley and told him about how God had moved through him and how remorse had never come after Joe...Now he felt sick when he dwelled on his delusion. So selfish he had been. So utterly desperate.
Sometimes he could still hear that record you had played for him...how you had reminded him of his youth. Your vibrance had overthrown him, and drawn him in. That memory alone made him feel younger than the blood he drank.
The warm summer air immediately made you feel sticky. Humidity filled your lungs as you took a few settling breaths. Then as you reached the bottom of the hill, you finally allowed the tears in your eyes to fall. You sobbed quietly as you walked past the general store. It was an unwritten rule that they kept out of there- that was your space during the day. Most of the time they abided by the understanding.
Sometimes someone got hungry and waited to see if they could sneak a bite of you.
You had to laugh a little though- it was always a dead giveaway if it wasn’t safe to enter the store. All you had to look at were the windows.
Covered: not safe.
Uncovered: safe.
They kept the store stocked enough for you. Sometimes you felt ill at the thought of them just doing it to keep you alive. You bet they thought it was a mercy. You wondered if they fought over it; end the food supply to make you starve and beg them to turn you vs. keep you alive because you didnt deserve their fate.
You went to the shop everyday knowing that one day you wouldn’t have food stocked. Shelves and fridges empty.
Waiting for the day that they finally broke and had enough of keeping you alive.
You passed by more houses...Scarboroughs and the Flynns, and you didnt dare look up at the buildings. You never did anymore. It hurt too much.
The families you knew well used to leave you things…food they made out of boredom…flowers…Annie used to write you the odd letter. Then after a while they stopped.
Back in the later spring sometimes someone would be stupid and run out of their house to try and grab you...The smell of burnt flesh was still engrained in your nose.
No one tried anymore.
You wondered who was still there. You wondered if Ali was still there... you wondered how he was. You wondered how Leeza was and if her family was okay. You wondered if Bev was pulling the strings.
You missed that routine you used to treasure. You missed seeing your friends and neighbours. You missed talking.
It was like some sick joke that the first person you had spoken to in close to 6 months was the very man who had done this to you.
When you finally reached your house, you felt your heart sink even lower as you took inventory of the damage. The broken doorframe and smashed windows were going to be an issue.
You sighed and walked to the small shed at the back of your house to retrieve tools you had accumulated and set about fixing your home. Hours passed as you tried and tired again and again to make sure everything was fixed and strong. But the longer you worked, the lower the sun settled, and the less time you had to ensure you would be safe. But as twilight began to set in, you sighed; you were done. The inside of your house was almost pitch black with all the windows boarded up over the broken glass. You stretched and locked your doors, then began up the stairs to wash yourself after the previous night. But then as you walked past the spare room, you stopped breathing.
You had missed a smashed window.
The wind blew against your face as if it was taunting you of your mistake.
Your gut tightened as you began weighing your options.
You didn’t have many.
And the most feasible one made your eyes glaze over as you contemplated every life choice you had ever made.
With one look out that window, you knew you didn’t have time to think of anything else. So against your better judgement, you grabbed a large bag from your room and began shoving anything you might need, showered and bolted out your door within ten minutes with your hair still wet.
You weaved through the island's foliage and kept off the main road lest anyone be watching from their windows. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to know where you were going. As you crept through the trees past the marsh, you crouched down and stared up at the rectory in the distance. There was a warm light coming from the building like a beacon; your gut clenched at the memory of Easter... how you had thought the exact same thing for St. Patricks.
The sun was just a sliver of light now on the horizon, and you knew you had to decide quickly if you were going through with this or finding a tree to hide in tonight. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath.
I’m here to help
Those words of his…they still rang in your ears from that first day. He was sick. Selfish. Egotistical and manipulative and…
You sniffled.
You had really thought he was a kind man. You had let him in and he had made a home of your soul. Healed you and guided you and aided you, but all for himself.
You pursed your lips. You hated that you needed his help. But you did.
With another deep breath, you began stalking up the grass, and hurried a little more when you heard voices down the road. You hadn’t even noticed it was properly night time and worry spiked in you as you stepped up to the door and went to kno-
“Come in.”
You jumped at the sound of his low, soft voice calling out to you from inside. You slowly opened the door, and took a tentative step inside.
John Pruitt was stirring a cup of tea by the kitchen counter, and looked up at you- a weak smile on his face.
“Twice in one day, to what do I owe the pleasure, young lady?”
You clenched your jaw at his honeyed words. So gentle and honest-sounding.
“They destroyed my house. I didn’t have time to repair it completely. Didn’t feel like being dinner.” You murmured, then looked at the cup he seemed to have forgotten he was holding.
John followed your gaze, and nodded, “I heard you come up through the trees 10 minutes ago…I hope you don’t mind, but I made it for you just in case.” He extended the cup out to you, and you eyed it wearily.
You didn’t see him make it. Anything could be in it.
John knew that look. The same one you had given him when he ushered you inside the previous night. He retracted the offering and placed it on the counter.
“I apologize for their brutality …many of them don’t know better. I will speak with them tonight at Mass. They won’t harm you again.” He assured you like he used to when you thought his last name was Hill. “It’ll be fixed by tomorrow.”
Your gaze snapped up to his, “Mass?” You asked.
He nodded in realisation that you likely weren’t around when service happened, “I- it’s…well…it wasn’t my idea…it’s- everyone is so lost and they need something to hold onto…I cannot undo what I did. And I know they will never give me forgiveness, but many of them are still very close to God and some have become closer in their…confusion…and I’m just…I try to keep them on the right path. The path I should have been on..stayed on. Your path.” He pushed his hands towards you as he spoke so sincerely.
You pursed your lips as you listened. You wanted so badly to believe him…but the last time you did it had been the worst decision of your life.
The silence stretched between you. You didn’t want to ask for his help, but it was too late to not ask-
“You are welcome to stay here again.” He added, trying to get you to engage. Like he needed you to speak to him.
You nodded, “My warning still applies.” You reminded him of how he’d better play nice or you’ll be dead before he can do anything.
John sighed and nodded. His brows pinched and his eyes drooped, “Of course- I- Mass is in a couple hours…but I can stay-“
“I’d rather you weren’t here, Father.” You said quietly, looking down as guilt started to creep into your gut. He was so wonderful at making himself seem small. Non-threatening. You forced yourself to remember how easily he had restrained you in the church; how his hands had held you without making a mark yet you couldn’t pull away…
“I understand.” He muttered, then something seemed to catch his attention outside as he almost jerked up from the counter and looked towards the front window. You twitched at his reaction, and already knew there was someone nearby before he said it.
“Come on, let’s get you settled.” He said almost to himself as he began back towards the small door in the floor.
You followed behind him, and gripped your bag’s strap a little tighter as he crouched and opened the hatch. He shifted away a little to make room for you to get by, but you saw how tightly he clenched his fists. Whether it was to keep himself from reaching out to help you or to grab you, you didn’t know.
As you descended, you noticed that it was far cleaner down there, and had an extra lamp.
“Knock twice if you need anything.” He said softly. Earnest.
“I won’t.” You stopped looking up at him as that guilt started to return.
“I’m sure you won’t. But everyone needs something sometimes.” He finished, and offered you a tight little smile.
You stared up at him, and neither of you moved.
“Goodnight, little one.” He murmured.
The endearment made your stomach flip upside down and your throat constricted; you ached from how much you missed...well...everything. You missed being called "Hun" by the fishermen and being hugged by Annie and walking Leeza to church and sitting among the pews and enjoying your morning walks and you missed your life.
Before you could say anything, he closed the door, and you heard him lay the carpet over top. There were no footsteps though- not for a few minutes. You listened close, and felt your eyes unfocus when you heard him muttering a prayer over you.
You almost shouted up to him to stop it.
That you didnt need his protection.
But your mouth went dry when you realized that you did.
Why else were you letting him hide you?
Several minutes later, you heard his long strides move throughout the rectory, then the door shut, and you were left in silence.
Mass.
Sadness flooded you in mourning of your beloved routine, but jealously quickly took its place when you realized you were the only one being deprived of your time of worship. The jealousy startled you. Anger was understandable, but jealousy was new.
You closed your eyes, and focused on why you were there. Safety.
The feeling slowly left you, and as you calmed, you turned on the lamp. It was cold, and with no extra warmth, you shuffled onto the cot and grabbed the thick blanket that sat folded there. As you settled in, cocooning yourself in it, and laid your head on the pillow, you felt your eyes start to droop. You found yourself breathing in the smell of the blanket, not even noticing that it was the smell of the man keeping you hidden that you were inhaling. It comforted you…like smelling your mother or father. Somehow familiar.
It was early when you awoke the following morning, not that you could have told that by your surroundings. Your sleep could have been five minutes for all you knew. You laid there for a few moments, listening. The last thing you wanted was for it still be night and for Pruitt to have a visitor. You paled at the thought of Bev being there. But when a few minutes turned into several, then you were certain there indeed was no additional company.
It was silent.
You gingerly raised yourself up out of the bed, and made your way up the ladder- bag in tow over your shoulder. You didn't even make it up to the top to knock before you heard shuffling and footsteps above you. The door was pulled open, and you stood stock-still for a moment as fear clutched your heart for a moment. The light from the lamp below you caught his eyes and made them glow in the darkness of the bedroom. Indeed it was dim in the space around him which only seemed to accentuate his dark features and made him appear as more of a creature than a cursed man. You swallowed.
“Good morning, young lady.” He greeted you with a hand outstretched.
You clenched your jaw, but took his offered hand tentatively, and he pulled you up with far more strength than he should have had. You got your footing, and noted the light illuminating the drawn curtains- it was bright enough for you to leave.
You didn’t say anything, and chose instead to dig your nails into the palm of your hand.
“They put in new windows and fixed your door…I’m so sorry that happened…I spoke with them and they will do better.” He murmured gently, as if he didn’t want to scare you away.
You nodded; mouth clammed shut. There once had been a time where you would have bared your heart to him, and poured your soul into his hands, but now you found yourself unable to find much more than a few words to utter to him.
“Did you manage alright? I know- I know it’s a bit cold down there…” His voice was a low rumble as you adjusted your bag.
“Just fine.” You whispered, looking away from him. You couldn’t stand that he cared.
“I can-“
“I’m fine, Father.” You snapped. He looked like you had slapped him; to his credit he also looked like he understood it. “Thank you.” You added when the pain in your chest twisted unbearably.
He nodded, seeing your unease.
"Goodbye." You whispered as you gathered yourself and headed to the door.
He so deeply wanted to tell you to stay and let him explain everything, but he supposed if he needed to force you to say, then his apology would be hollow and selfish.
Days passed quietly again. A few knocks on your door was the most disturbance you got. Things had calmed considerably.
He must have been right…that shipment did come.
Something itched in the back of your mind as you sat in your fortified house one night. It had been over a week since you had last been hiding in the rectory, but something he had said stewed inside you.
He still held Mass.
You wondered if that had been something agreed upon by everyone…they must have felt so lost…
It had been close to midnight when Father Pruitt had left for Mass that night…and it was just past midnight now.
You wondered if…if you could just climb up one of the trees and listen. If he still preached with the same vigour as he used to you were certain you could hear a little. It was silly and dangerous- you knew that- but it had been so long with just yourself and your thoughts…you craved just a little bit of something else.
You slowly walked downstairs to your front door and listened. It was silent outside.
You very slowly undid your several locks, and gingerly pried it open when you still heard nothing.
Indeed, there was not a single person in your field of sight- not that there were many who ever came down your way that far down the island. You opened the door a little more, and stepped out into the night air. It was refreshing when you weren’t running for your life.
You shut the door just as carefully as you had opened it, and quickly knelt down to check that you had your knife in your boot before starting to walk as softly as you could towards the bushland. The tall grass that had been bleached by the summer sun rose up around you the further you walked and helped to hide you while you trekked across the island and through the marsh and into the skinny trees that slowly grew thicker until you were on the same hill that you used to walk up everyday.
You could see the back of the church, and the bright light that shone through the windows. You had been right- you could hear them sing. It would have been so easy for you to just go back home, but you moved without thinking, and began towards one of the older trees behind St. Patrick’s and jumped up to the lowest branch, and began to climb.
As you grasped each branch, climbing higher and higher, you began to sing along; your throat was tight as tears threatened to fall, and you let them.
John felt a little tick in the back of his head that made him twitch slightly as he began down the aisle. Something off. Something he wasn’t used to during church. The people around him sang their hymn, and as he listened closely, he recognised a sound that he hadn’t heard in so long.
Your singing. Broken by your cries.
John’s sinuses stung as tears rose that wouldn’t fall, and he nearly stopped service right then to go and find you, but he was stuck.
You sat above the church, and leaned your head against the trunk of the tree as you listened to the preacher. You could have sworn he was louder than he used to be… though he wasn’t so much about revival, as he was about reconciliation and guidance. His words no longer made you uneasy. You didn’t want to admit it, but it did indeed sound as if he just wanted to help. Finding the light in the dark.
Mass finished, and you watched the islanders leave slowly…and saw the tall figure you knew wellstand at the front to bid everyone a blessed night. It was so strange to see it all from your viewpoint then- truly a stranger looking in. You perked up when you started to recognise some faces and felt your throat grow tight all over again. Your eyes burned from the tears that wouldn’t stop.
The church grew empty, and John waited until he couldn’t hear footsteps before finally turning back inside to shed his chasuble. His thoughts preoccupied him as he moved quickly and placed the fabric onto the table in the vestibule and walked out the back door. He hoped he wasn’t too late…that you hadn’t left yet. Then as he stepped into the chilled night air, he knew you were still in your perch.
That sweet smell of your skin…the gentle thump of your heartbeat.
John slowly followed the sound, and stared up at the trees until he spotted you. He stood down at the bottom amongst the roots, and cast one last look behind him then back up at you and extended his hand for you.
You stared down at him, and while he was the last person you wanted to help you down from that tree…he was also somehow the exact person you wanted, too. His sermon had made your hardened shell break a little, and you gradually climbed down to him. You sat on that last branch, and tentatively took his outstretched hand; he closed his fingers around yours and you jumped.
Your feet hit the ground with a soft thud, and you quickly looked around out of habit.
John still held your hand in his, and he gazed down at you so softly that you thought he might weep. Instead, he slowly brought his free hand up to your cheek and wiped away the remains of your tears.
“God loves you…” he whispered earnestly.
You felt your nose sting, and your lips pulled into a small, bitter smile as a tear fell and caught the corner of your mouth, “Just not enough to save me.”
The man before you pursed his lips at that, and looked down at your hand in his. He didn’t show it, but you felt a single drop of water on your thumb.
So he could cry.
And he did.
His eyes were red from holding them back once he did finally look back up at you.
Neither of you said another word before you took your hand from his grasp and left him. You took off into the brush and kept low, and didn’t look back even as you felt that prickle on the back of your neck like you used to after Mass.
September brought with it a crisp wind.
Colder weather meant you prayed harder that no shipments were delayed or you would have to hide out in the cold if they got inside your home. The autumn that you once loved was now a marker for your extreme isolation. You knew snow would eventually come, and winter storms that would knock out the power.
There was one night when you were delirious with loneliness that you actually walked into the main town. You walked along the beach. You knew most islanders would be at Mass, so you strode to the marina and sat on the shoreline. You stayed there for hours, and found yourself not caring when you heard voices of people passing by on the road. It wasn’t until you heard a couple familiar old voices that you looked up at the doc. Leeza and Warren were standing at the edge of the platform looking out over the water.
It was Leeza who stopped talking first. She stalled, and looked down sharply and you stared up at her. She looked as if she saw a ghost, and you didn’t blame her.
You were practically like a unicorn on Crockett.
You watched her elbow Warren when he asked her what was wrong, and he looked down at you with the same expression. You waved slowly, and offered them a small smile.
They looked behind them, then back at you and waved back.
They didn’t come down to see you. And they didn’t tell anyone where you were.
You stayed and watched the slow approach of the Belle that they now used for shipments. It tore through the waves of the Atlantic, and you watched as it docked. You wondered how easy it would be for you to sneak aboard, but you knew that was next to impossible. You didn’t know who sailed it, you didn’t know who intercepted the shipment…for all you knew you would be offering yourself up on a platter for Bev to serve to the community.
The sky began to brighten, and you still remained where you were as the boat sailed away.
You almost started waving your arms and screaming for them to come back.
Almost.
The sun was still down when you stood up and brushed off your pants. You sighed and turned to start back to your house for a needed cup of coffee, but when you looked up to the main road, you went still.
His dark eyes bore into you. Father Pruitt stood on the edge of the road staring down at you. You wondered how long he had been standing there. You hadn’t heard him.
He had that same pained expression on his face that he seemed to have every time he saw you. Like you were even more of a reminder of his sins than the turned islanders.
You stared back, and shivered when a wind picked up. You could feel the sun start to rise behind you, and you wondered if he was going to stay there looking at you until he burned.
It seemed like he wasn’t quite ready to face his wrongdoings as he slowly turned and began to walk away. You stood there alone as the day came and embraced you.
And once again, the island was silent.
Another day alive.
Another day alone.
November was cold. So cold.
During the day you could sometimes see sheets of ice floating on the top of the shore. Frost on the trees. Complete silence.
You had been trying for weeks now to map out the arrival and departure of the Belle and who sailed it, how long it stayed, if there were any moments when it was left unattended. Anything.
You could feel yourself start to lose yourself. You looked at old recipes you used to love making, and considered trying them out…but your shoulders would sag when you remembered you had no one to feed and a shortage of ingredients. You listened to every vinyl in your house and had started several books. Your internet connection was horrible as it always was but you tried to learn something new when you could. You were jamming your brain full of information so you could ignore the hole in your heart that grew everyday.
You knew you couldn’t stay like this forever, but if you were honest you didn’t know what else to do.
You were afraid.
John pulled his long coat a little closer around his collar as he began his trek back up to the rectory. He waved at a family as they passed him, and he found that he now received small smiles from people instead of grimaces. That change alone had him humming a little as he ascended the hill, but before he even started, he stopped short.
Those sensitive ears of his prickled as he picked up the sound of a rapid heartbeat.
He listened carefully to see if it was just an animal in the trees, but it was much too strong. He began to follow it, but after only a few strides, a sense of dread filled him.
It had to be you.
And you hadn’t come this way in months.
With your heart beating that fast, you were either terrified or exhausted. Or both. Neither was a wonderful option. John hurried his steps and walked up the pathway to the rectory when he slowed again just shy of the steps.
John had to steady himself.
The stench of blood confronted him like a wall, and he felt that repressed hunger inside him rise, but the last bit of goodness in him beat it down like a heathen. It was then that his sharp ears picked up the sound of several pairs of feet walking on gravel…perhaps 50 meters away. They were coming that way, fast.
John stepped up to the door, and noticed then that the door was ajar. He never locked it- it wasn’t like he needed to. But it wasn’t the open door that made him even more compelled to move quickly, it was the drop of blood there on his doorstep.
You were actively bleeding.
John pushed the door open, and scanned the dark home. It was so still inside. If it weren’t for his heightened senses, he could have missed what was wrong. The Monsignor, however, did know very well that there was something or someone in his room. The man slowly made his way back to the dark room, and his eyes lowered to the floor at the edge of his carpet.
Little bloody fingerprints were imprinted on the floor and smudged onto the fabric.
John knelt down and gingerly gripped the edge of the hidden door, and pulled. If it weren’t for his stellar sight in the dark, John wouldn’t have seen a single thing in that cellar. But as he stared down, he remained calm and refrained from making any sudden movements.
You were there against the furthest wall, curled in on yourself, eyes just barely visible in the sliver of dim light from up above; blood soaked your visible clothes and you trembled terribly.
“Don’t you dare come any closer!” You cried in a strained voice.
You were in pain.
“What happened?” He asked gently, crouching a little more to get a closer look at your shaking form.
“You lied that’s what happened!” Your voice was strong despite the tremble from fear and pain.
“How did I lie?” He asked. The Father tried to keep his voice as level as he could without begging you to tell him who did this. However, he took a very slow, very cautious step down onto the stair and that was not the right move.
“I said-…I said don’t come closer!” Your edge was lost as fear began to take over.
He held his hands up and knelt there on the first step, “You’re clearly hurt, I just want to help-“
“That’s what you said before! And the time before that! But if you had meant what you said about telling everyone to leave me alone then I wouldn’t be here!” You were almost crying- throat growing tight and heart beating faster as anxiety set in.
Father Pruitt felt his fingers itch with want to carry you up to his home and care for you, but he couldn’t risk scaring you before expressing his submission. Disbelief settled in as he looked over your tattered and bloodied clothes.
“They did this…” he said aloud to himself as he came to terms with the carnage, “I told them very clearly that you weren’t to be bothered I promise you-“ he started.
“Even i-if you’re not lying they didn’t listen…” You curled in tighter on yourself. Your weakening voice strung at Johns heart.
John swallowed and made to take another step down to you as he tried to quell his rage.
“Hey- shh…okay. I’m- listen to me sweetheart I’m-“ John paused then. He could hear those same footsteps he had heard before now just outside the rectory and he had a sneaking suspicion that he had what they were seeking, “I’ll be right back.” He whispered and lowered the door again.
John slowly straightened himself up and stood to his full height; he began walking to his door, but as he grew further from you, his calm walk turned into a determained stride that was in no way welcoming and anything but docile.
He wrenched the door open and without missing a beat he stepped out in front of the small group of islanders who were now half stumbling back from him.
Johns nostrils flared and his eyes lacked any semblance of the gentle man he was. His eyes glinted in the light from their lanterns, and his shoulders hunched slightly like he was ready to attack. In that moment, John was thankful that you couldn’t see him in such a state- he was certain he would never lay eyes on you again if you did.
“Did I not say that that young woman was off limits?” He bellowed, teeth bared as he snapped, taking another step forward off the porch.
There was a small gathering there, but not a single person had been prepared for the Father to burst in such a way. The attack on you had seemed like such an insignificant thing for them- like they were trying to catch a stray cat.
“Hey now! I-we- well you know how- I- it was-“ the man at the front floundered.
“I gave you all specific boundaries to abide by. I might as well have said nothing because now I have the last creature on this island that deserves Gods grace, and she is halfway to meeting her maker.” John paused and looked down at the stomach of the man then back up at his face. There was a large bullet hole there just above his bellybutton that had a ring of blood surrounding it, “Did she do this?” He asked, still seething, cold and direct. His tone quieted as he spoke now.
The man nodded, “Y-yeah she blew me right off-“
“Good.” John nodded and shifted back up to his full height, “You know what this is good because now you all know the consequences of disobeying your limitations. Daylight is one of your limits, and this girl is now too. Get that through your heads or god help me I’ll hand her the gun next time myself.” He didn’t wait for a rebuttal before he was slamming the door and locking it.
John barely broke stride as he turned and marched right back to the door in the floor and opened it back up to peer down at you. You were still there, and still cowering in the corner.
“I’m so sorry…They’re gone…I- please let me help you…I can keep you safe here but you’ll bleed to death if you don’t let me help you.” He pleaded with you.
John watched you for a few very long moments. When you didn’t respond, he felt a jolt of dread spear his chest and he was suddenly flooded with the memories of his sister on her deathbed; how he hadn’t been able to do anything about it. It only intensified when memories of Sarah’s limp body flashed in his mind.
He had lost his sister.
He had lost his love.
He had lost his daughter.
Now his eyes blazed as he decided he was going to help you whether you let him or not.
You were not going to die.
Johns eyes prickled as he pushed those memories away and leapt down the remaining steps to you and gathered you into his arms. You weren’t completely limp, but you weren’t doing well. You must have gone into shock from the attack, coupled with the freezing cold night and your lack of proper clothing.
As he pulled you up with him and gently laid you on his bed, he finally saw why you had come to him.
On your shoulder was a very deep bite. Whoever had done that to you had not wanted to let go- looked as if the perpetrator had almost taken a chunk of flesh right out of you. John felt that anger in him start to seep into his veins as he thought of someone maiming you so brutally- he nearly considered finding that man who had done this to you and-
No.
No he was better than that. That man would meet his fate when it was the right time.
John sucked in a breath despite not needing to, and went to his small bathroom. He searched frantically for a small medial kit he remembered he had there, and almost tore it open to find what he needed. He took a moment to gather himself as well. Certainly he was well stocked with blood, and he wasn’t hungry, but there was always something about fresh blood that made that beast inside him claw at its bars.
But this was you.
And he would be strong for you.
When he returned to you, your face was buried in the blanket there, hugging it to yourself. John pursed his lips, and ripped open the disinfectant wipe and gauze. He wetted the material in the sink, and began dabbing at your wound.
“Holy Spirit, please come like a dove…Shield and protect now the one that I love. Cover her wounds with Your grace feathered wings…Shield them from sorrow, breathe hope songs within…”
John’s voice began to shake as your wound came clean; as he prayed for you, all he could think of were how many times he was unable to stop Gods plan of taking those he loved. How he was perhaps still foolishly trying to stand in His way.
“Tend with Your goodness the pain that she bears. Heal now her sickness with miracle care. Carry her high far above till she sees...”
He pulled your night dress down over your shoulder to clean the rest of the dried blood. He swallowed as his mouth began to ache. His teeth itched at the sight of such fresh blood- flesh already broken…so easy…
But he pushed it away.
“Your rainbow of promise, real hope lies ahead. I love her so dearly, so help me to be. All that you, would give out through me.”
John gazed down at your sleeping form and felt his chest tighten. His last little piece of hope. His ray of sunshine that burned him to touch but he couldn’t let go. Even with your skin clean, your clothes were still sodden with blood and sweat. He knew that if you stayed in them you could risk getting ill, and worsening your recovery. He sobered at the thought.
John looked up that the cross on his wall, and closed his eyes for a moment. “Oh God, in beautiful ways, you created and redeemed mankind. Give us steadfast minds to resist the allurements of sin so that we may attain the joys of eternal life. Hear us, Oh Lord. Amen.” He muttered quietly, and slowly as he focused on the words, he found that his thirst ebbed away slowly and the ache in his mouth dissipated.
After a moment, John carefully unfurled you from your position and pried your hands away from the blanket. Then as tactfully and quickly as he could, he gripped the edge of your dress and pulled it up. He kept his eyes glued to the fabric in his hand, then once it came away, he stared only at the wound you had; to keep your warm, he pulled one of the blankets you had bled on up over your body. John wiped and dabbed as gently as he could, chastising himself when he would accidentally watch one of the droplets of bloody water run astray and trail down your collarbone over your clavicle. Your skin was coming clean, but there was still the grime and sweat on you.
John hung his head- his forehead touching your arm.
“God help me…” he murmured. If you got a fever because he didn’t clean your wound and body fully then he would fret and stress even more than he already was. It would torture him just as it would torture you.
After contemplation, John made the decision to hold you under a gentle shower steam- just something to wash you a little better. If he had dwelled on the idea a little longer he might have talked himself out of it and spiralled for a while, so instead he chose to act quickly. He strode into the little washroom and turned the tap. Waiting until the stall was filled with steam that would warm you up.
John stared down at you for a long minute- wondering if there was some other way to do this. When he didn’t come up with anything, John trained his eyes on a point on the wall to keep from accidentally seeing your bare skin, and gathered you into his arms as gently as he could, and carried you into the shower. As soon as he stepped in, the water began to drench his clothes. The warmth permeated the small space and cocooned both of you as the water soothed your filthy body. John was mindful to not constantly hold you under the direct spray; he slowly let your legs down to hang limp and he dangled your arms around his shoulders as he swayed with you under the spray like a doll. With his height, your feet didn’t even touch the ground as he held you, and it seemed to make things easier as he could manipulate you enough to rinse off most areas of your skin without needing to jostle you too much and cause more bleeding or wake you up.
The longer he stood there with you, he began to realise that there was something so tranquil to stand there with you in his arms. Relaxing and hypnotic - the warmth of the steam invading his senses. The intimacy of having someone’s body against his. John found himself humming, and his thumb drew small circles on your back. It was selfish to say he enjoyed it. Sinful too. But he did. He could feel your soft breath on his neck, and your heart beat against his soaked chest.
He felt young again.
Human again.
John basked in the rejuvenation.
After several minutes, he carefully stepped out with you, and cradled you to his chest as he grabbed his towel from the back of the door. He sat with you on the lid of the toilet and did his best to wrap you in the towel while barely looking at you. He praised God for the halted bleeding, and while he was still dripping he walked back into his room with you.
John positioned you on the bed, and rubbed the towel against your damp skin until he was satisfied. He then pulled any hair away from your shoulder and placed a large bandage over your wound. He paid attention so as to not irritate any small cuts from the bite. It would scar, but you weren’t going to turn.
Then as he pulled away, John could feel his soaked clothes cling to him, and he stood quickly to not get the bed any wetter. He needed to change you, but if he was going to keep you dry he needed to deal with himself first. He grabbed whatever he had folded on the edge of his bed and went back to the washroom to change. As he removed his shirt, he paused when it clicked that now he had to dress you while you were completely bare. He swallowed thickly, and quickly settled into the mindset that you were his patient, and he was giving you care. Nothing else.
If he was honest he wished the earth would swallow him up.
What time was sunrise?
Maybe he could go for a walk and just disappear forever in the wind. The thought was fleeting but so tempting at that moment when he straightened and quickly changed. Even the dry clothes didn’t fully dissipate the sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.
The Monsignor returned to your side quickly albeit timidly now. He eyed you wearily as he gathered some clothes for you, and had to muster up some courage to continue. He stood there just feet from you, and watched you breathe for a moment.
You looked so calm.
Serene.
Beautiful.
But he couldn’t stand there forever. And he knew it would be so much worse if you woke up in the current state you were in versus dressed.
He bowed his head and crossed himself as he muttered a prayer, then inched over to you and gingerly sat beside you. Father Pruitt slipped an arm under your back and rolled your torso into his lap. He focused on the top of your head as he fiddled with the shirt he was now getting over it, and cursed to himself when he had to look for your hands to bring them through the shirt. His ears would have flushed pink if he had been human. He told himself it wasn’t his fault for catching sight of your nipple. It was his fault for noticing that it had become pert in the cold.
John finished with your top as fast as he could, then he guided you back further onto the bed and rested your head on his pillow before glancing down where the towel was draped over your legs. He gripped the sleep pants in his hand like a vice and he gulped down the saliva that pooled on his tongue. The good Father’s hand shook as he took the towel away and instantly looked down at your feet where he started to hook the pants onto you, slowly sliding them up. Up, up, up until he had to finish the last of it a little roughly as he looked away.
The intimacy of it all had his head dizzy. It had been such a strained relationship with you for months now that having you in a state like this made him feel like a perverted old man taking advantage of your state. Of course he knew he wasn’t and that he was just taking care of you, but the guilt remained.
John looked down to inspect his work, and sighed with great thanks that the stressful task was over.
You were washed and dressed and you weren’t bleeding out as badly.
The Monsignor carefully placed a small towel under your head for your damp hair, and brought the thick blanket up over your body; he retrieved an extra one for good measure and laid it over you too. He petted your head for a moment- smoothed his thumb over your forehead to draw an invisible cross there, and read a prayer for your health and forgiveness. He was well aware that he was undeserving, but they prayers came out of habit, and soothed his anxiety of what he had done.
John then pressed a kiss to your temple and left you there to sleep. Your gentle breaths filled the room, and the Father sighed. No doubt you would be spitting fire at him tomorrow, but for now he could admire how innocent and peaceful you looked.
He cast one last look at you as he shut the door, and his mouth twitched into a small smile.
Sunshine.
Hours passed. John watched the sun rise and began writing, then read, then he checked on you, then prayed. Then began the cycle over again. If your shortness of breath and rapid heartbeat was any indicator when he had found you, you must have ran very quickly across the island…that coupled with your blood loss must have exhausted your body. You needed rest.
He had stood guard outside the rectory until twilight began- hand clenching and unclenching. Digging his rosary into his palm. The scales were out of balance, and he hadn’t wanted to rectify that so badly until now. Wanted to find the man likely still healing from the bullet hole in his stomach and make him feel the same fear you felt.
John briefly wondered where you had gotten a shotgun from. A pistol wouldn’t do that damage. Though he supposed it wasn’t entirely foreign that you had one.
He heard you stir and move from inside, and abandoned his post to return to your side; wetting a new cloth to lay on your head.
Now, he was sat on the small couch, and waited. He filed away several passages from the Holy book in his hand- ones that he may enlighten you with should you need it. There he remained until he heard your heart rate pick up again, and the blankets start to rustle. John slowly placed the Bible in his lap, and stared at the pages as he waited. It took a while until you slipped from the bed and your bare feet hit the cold floor. He really should have put some slippers there for you.
He heard you scramble for a moment, most likely grabbing something to throw at him or something to defend yourself with. He understood both. The last thing you likely remembered was laying in his dark cellar as you bled. Now you were in his bed and changed.
Johns suspicions were proven correct when he felt a pair of scissors fly at his head and nick his ear.
He didn’t blame you for a second.
“Good morning.” John murmured calmly as his flesh stitched back together.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
@littleredwritingcat @zaunite-leo @f4er1e-g1rl @purplemotif @vampyre-kin @hamishlinklaters @spacechupss @pansexualpamandabear @ebiemidnightlibrarian @erialuna @nilla-bear @vintageglassheart02 @ethanhoewke @dancingisdangerouss @cherrysugarx @daisychainsinknots @thesoundresoundsecho
#midnight mass#father paul hill#hamish linklater#midnight mass fanfiction#flanaverse#father paul x reader#father john pruitt#father John Pruitt x reader
41 notes
·
View notes
Text
bringing some of this out of previous tags, but something incoherent about the escalation of ‘dolls’ throughout the series, and the (obviously gendered) difference between ‘dolls’ and ‘puppets.’ including but not limited to:
john’s first forays into necromancy as puppeteering ‘Titania’ and ‘Ulysses,’ who are explicitly named as ‘extensions’ of john, which progress to the puppeteering of the world leader, which progresses to the apocalypse and john fashioning the parts of earth he doesn’t consume (alecto) a barbie-shaped vessel.
back in gideon the ninth, cytherea’s puppeting (explicitly called this, i believe) of protesilaus, to be contrasted with cytherea’s own doll-like position. both in her posturing as someone who needed to be carried, adjusted, coddled and in the broader uncanniness of pretending to be dulcinea septimus, of being a passable but undead ‘fake’ substitution of the living ‘real’ dulcinea.* all of the victorian energy also undeniably relevant. all of this progressing to cytherea’s body being a doll? a puppet? a weapon? for commander wake in harrow. the role she forced upon others and enacted being enacted on her own body in death.
rocking back up to nona, where images of dolls and puppets abound. though ianthe describes it as puppeting, naberius body is described, by others, in a way that’s much more suggestive of a barbie doll (“fashion hair” echoes the “hollywood hair barbie”). and naberius, furthermore, stands apart from the multitude of soldiers ianthe is also controlling from a distance. mixed with corona getting quite literally dolled up (hair refashioned, and ianthe’s fixation on the poor condition of corona’s hair, and put into a dress) once pulled back under ianthe’s control (to whatever degree we believe her to be). the doll as a particular extension of oneself, perhaps laced with intimacy? naberius as the conduit through which ianthe can (insufficiently) touch coronabeth; john’s romantic desire for annabel (and his occasional inability to sleep without her comforting him); even the fact that naberius becomes the vessel for palamedes and conduit through which he and camilla can become paul. (noting that camilla and palamedes sharing a body is framed outside of this language, possibly because camilla actively consents, for good or ill, to the process?)
(in dialogue with all of this, the way BOE encodes the lyctors as ancient weapons, and kiriona’s assertion that she is fulfilment of the nine house’s arts, stronger than titanium, faster than a speeding bullet: a weapon in the shape of a corpse, a prince, a girl. [to be a very dead weapon-body rather than a tragically alive one.] [also, as an aside, how her mother conceived of her: a bomb in the shape of a baby.] [also obviously related is that the out-of-house derogatory term for necromancers and cavaliers being, respectively, zombies and minions.])
i do not have a thesis statement, of course, but i think there is a clear development of a theme and some symbols and language that may be helpful to return to later or to unpick some of the various (and very gendered) ways agency is or is not present in necromancy.
* very known, but i think the fact that cytherea and dulcinea are both subjected to the same cancer-eugenics and arrive at a near indistinguishable state, that they are in some ways duplicates of each other, takes on a really compelling sheen in the wake of her comment that john, explicitly, is building a static society.
#nona the ninth#cytherea the first#ianthe naberius#nona spoilers#the locked tomb#m: tlt meta#i have to do a reread of freud she said neutrally#i have to reread all about that living doll and the swapping of eyes and Whatever#something around naberius' body is potentially a foothold into a reading that paul is not as distinct from lyctorhood or jodhood#as paul may wish to be but that's also immensely speculative without more of alecto#i did not say this explicitly but i think it is very clear that men and anonymous masculine masses are more frequently puppets#and there is something happening with babs-as-doll and also john's childhood affection for barbie#sorry this is very high school me laying out my quotes to write about Imagery Sets#perhaps i will return one day with an actual argument stay tuned
570 notes
·
View notes
Text
The Universal Classic Monsters Collection will be released on 4K Ultra HD (with Digital) in digibook packaging on October 3 via Universal. Designed by Tristan Eaton, the eight-disc set is limited to 5,500.
It includes 1931's Dracula, 1931’s Frankenstein, 1932’s The Mummy, 1933’s The Invisible Man, 1935’s The Bride of Frankenstein, 1941’s The Wolf Man, 1943’s Phantom of the Opera, and 1954’s Creature from the Black Lagoon.
All eight films are presented in 4K with HDR10. The Spanish version of Dracula is also included. Special features are listed below, where you can also see more of the packaging.
Dracula is directed by Tod Browning (Freaks) and written by Garrett Fort (Frankenstein), based on Bram Stoker’s 1897 novel. Bela Lugosi, David Manners, Helen Chandler, Dwight Frye, and Edward Van Sloan star.
Dracula special features:
Alternate score version by Philip Glass
Dracula (1931) Spanish version directed by George Melford
The Road to Dracula
Lugosi: The Dark Prince
Dracula: The Restoration
Dracula Archives
Monster Tracks
Trailer gallery
Transylvanian vampire Count Dracula bends a naive real estate agent to his will, then takes up residence at a London estate where he sleeps in his coffin by day and searches for potential victims by night.
Frankenstein is directed by James Whale (The Indivisible Man) and written by Garrett Fort (Dracula) and Francis Edward Faragoh (Little Caesar), based on Mary Shelley’s 1818 novel. Colin Clive, Mae Clarke, John Boles, and Boris Karloff star.
Frankenstein special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Rudy Behlmer
Audio commentary by historian Sir Christopher Frayling
The Frankenstein Files: How Hollywood Made A Monster
Karloff: The Gentle Monster
Universal Horror
Frankenstein Archives
Boo!: A Short Film
100 Years of Universal: Restoring the Classics
Monster Tracks
Trailer gallery
Dr. Frankenstein dares to tamper with life and death by creating a human monster out of lifeless body parts.
The Mummy is directed by Karl Freund (Dracula) and written by John L. Balderston (Dracula). Boris Karloff, Zita Johann, David Manners, Edward Van Sloan, and Arthur Byron star.
The Mummy special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Paul M. Jensen
Audio commentary by Rick Baker, Scott Essman, Steve Haberman, Bob Burns, and Brent Armstrong
Mummy Dearest: A Horror Tradition Unearthed
He Who Made Monsters: The Life and Art of Jack Pierce
Unraveling the Legacy of The Mummy
The Mummy Archives
100 Years of Universal: The Carl Laemmle Era
Trailer gallery
An Egyptian mummy searches Cairo for the girl he believes is his long-lost princess.
The Invisible Man is directed by James Whale (Frankenstein) and written by R.C. Sherriff (Goodbye, Mr. Chips), based on H.G. Wells’ 1897 novel. Gloria Stuart, Claude Rains, William Harrigan, Dudley Digges, and Una O'Connor star.
The Invisible Man special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Rudy Behlmer
Now You See Him: The Invisible Man Revealed
Production Photographs
100 Years of Universal: Unforgettable Characters
Trailer gallery
A scientist finds a way of becoming invisible, but in doing so, he becomes murderously insane.
The Bride of Frankenstein is directed by James Whale (Frankenstein) and written by William Hurlbut. Boris Karloff, Colin Clive, Valerie Hobson, and Elsa Lanchester star.
The Bride of Frankenstein special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Scott MacQueen
She’s Alive! Creating The Bride of Frankenstein
The Bride Of Frankenstein Archive
100 Years of Universal: Restoring the Classics
Trailer gallery
Dr. Frankenstein, goaded by an even madder scientist, builds his monster a mate.
The Wolf Man is directed by George Waggner (Operation Pacific) and written by Curt Siodmak (I Walked with a Zombie). Claude Rains, Warren William, Ralph Bellamy, Patric Knowles, Bela Lugosi, and Lon Chaney Jr. star.
The Wolf Man special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Tom Weaver
Monster by Moonlight
The Wolf Man: From Ancient Curse to Modern Myth
Pure in Heart: The Life and Legacy of Lon Chaney Jr.
He Who Made Monsters: The Life and Art of Jack Pierce
The Wolf Man Archives
100 Years of Universal: The Lot
Trailer gallery
Larry Talbot returns to his father's castle in Wales and meets a beautiful woman. One fateful night, Talbot escorts her to a local carnival where they meet a mysterious gypsy fortune teller.
Phantom of the Opera is directed by Arthur Lubin and written by Eric Taylor (The Ghost of Frankenstein) and Samuel Hoffenstein (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde). Claude Rains, Nelson Eddy, Susanna Foster, and Edgar Barrier star.
Phantom of the Opera special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Scott MacQueen
The Opera Ghost: A Phantom Unmasked
Production Photographs
100 Years of Universal: The Lot
Theatrical trailer
An acid-scarred composer rises from the Paris sewers to boost his favorite opera understudy’s career.
Creature from the Black Lagoon is directed by Jack Arnold (The Incredible Shrinking Man) and written by Harry Essex and Arthur A. Ross. Richard Carlson, Julia Adams, Richard Denning, Antonio Moreno, Nestor Paiva, and Whit Bissell star.
Creature from the Black Lagoon special features:
Audio commentary by film historian Tom Weaver
Back to the Black Lagoon
Production Photographs
100 Years of Universal: The Lot
Trailer gallery
A group of scientists try to capture a prehistoric creature luring in the depths of the Amazonian jungle and bring it back to civilization for study.
Pre-order Universal Classic Monsters Collection.
#universal monsters#dracula#frankenstein#the mummy#creature from the black lagoon#the wolf man#bride of frankenstein#phantom of the opera#the invisible man#horror#classic horror#dvd#gift#the bride of frankenstein#tristan eaton#wolf man
97 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ok like I don’t know what I can’t get over more, that Cristabel was literally a nun or that Mercy’s best friend was a literal nun, yknow? Like when John says Mercy was a hard atheist since 12—that’s totally “they both grew up in hardcore Catholic households together and two paths diverged in a fucking wood,” right? Like when Mercy figured out she was bi? Gotta be it. Jesus Christ imagine if the girl you’ve been in love with your entire life becomes a nun. And the guy you’re in love with is Augustine. And then the world ends! What a time. I suppose Gideon—>Prince Kiriona Gaia is a good map of pre to post resurrection, perhaps. It’s these little things I keep pondering. Like Cassie, Most Mad Scientist, was a lawyer??? And Cassie and Nigella were married! I mean that is not like surprising but it’s sweet. Alfred is Just Happy to Be Here, as always.
Loved Crown spending a good chunk of the book dragging Judith’s screaming, mostly unconscious body around being like “will SOMEBODY please help my fucking girlfriend????” (A girlfriend who would give Ianthe? Crown? Both? a single calendar for every birthday). What a fucking move by Crown the way. Ianthe using Babs as a very fancy but still totally disposable glove was bonkers in fucking Yonkers still not over it. Ianthe continuing to be, somehow, despite being the worst girl in the world, the one trying to actually stop the apocalypse. We all got so starry-eyed over “the death of the lord” we didn’t realize the lyctors begging him to seal the “saltwater creature” away was the pact of the flood. But a challenger approaches! Now we know why harrows parents were so hellbent on reproducing.
Speaking of Ianthe—the fucking duel!!!! Fuck!!!! I’m frankly fucking devastated about Cam and Pal. Like I love Paul because they’re Cam and Pal, but also they’ll never be Cam and Pal again, and it’s A Lot. It’s beautiful and it’s awful and it just is what it is. God Muir how could you take Camilla Hect from me. Fuck. Add that to the fucking board I guess, for “ways not to do lyctorhood” because that would only work for those two.
#the locked tomb#ntn spoilers#nona spoilers#nona the ninth#I remain unclear as to whether crown would specifically object to being called coronabeth anymore but I’ll just go with crown til otherwise
528 notes
·
View notes
Text
George Chapter of the Day. March 13, 2024
Greetings my dear tumblr and Beatles' families! Happy to announce I'm popping a foot into the fanfiction pool and seeing 👀 what happens. Your comments are more than welcome!!
All the important stuff:
Title: I Saw Her Standing There
Story Description: John, Paul, George and Ringo meet Joie Armagh, a strong willed American girl, who influences their lives more than they wanted.
Trigger Warnings: swearing, drinking, smoking, drug references, adult situations and behavior, M/F smut, fluff, falling in love, tense arguments, angst.
**18 only please***
**This is a work of fiction. As such, it should not be read as a factual account of events or as biography. While many characters of the story bear the names of actual people, they and their actions have been imagined by the author and should be considered products of the imagination. This story is fictional and the events did not happen. It is written and re-produced here online for the purposes of entertainment only.**
Author's Note: I've noticed many fanfics have a Starrison or a McLennon flair, but this story will be M/F interactions including smut. It's just how I see them! Now if you're under 18, just move yourself right along. As I'm not there to patrol over you, just be strong and pass this up. I had to wait to read adult material and so do you!
Thank you to gif artists and photo owners.
Phew! That's over....
She was across the room from him; he could barely see her without his thick, black rimmed glasses. He felt her. Felt her as if she were standing within inches of him. His skin was hot. The light brown hair on his arms came alive – his stomach grumbled with a feral intensity.
Chapter 1
There was something about her. Something, he figured, she didn't know about yet, something she didn't know how to use – yet – but it made John Winston Lennon rearrange his slumped body to a nearly half-attentive position.
John watched her as best he could without his glasses. He was nearly blind without them, but acknowledged only to himself that he was far too vain to wear them in public. Besides, if he had to see something that important, Paul, George or Ringo would alert him. But at this moment, they were too interested in their own orbits to notice much.
She was talking to someone. Someone he didn't know – which he didn't care much about. From her body language, he could tell it was tense. She ran a hand through her short, auburn hair, and he continued to watch as she pointedly aggravated the man she was talking to.
This, to John, was great entertainment.
She turned in John's direction, although he couldn't tell if she saw him or not. It was nice she wasn't straining to scope out a look at the four of them , like they were the side-show freaks they felt like – or make a mad dash for the table to try to touch him like he was some bloody good luck charm. He liked that. Maybe she didn't give a shit who they were. THAT, he nodded to himself, would be refreshing for a fucking change.
She was, however, very pissed off at the little runt who was running the audition and had he been asked, John would have agreed with her. The whole scene was outrageously idiotic, as were their whole lives now, but he had danced with the devil and this was payback time.
The little moron in charge, whom John was introduced to but couldn't have cared less about, was a highly paid ass-kisser with a slimy handshake and badly manipulated crew cut. John might have the appearance of someone who didn't give a shit, but he took in everything. Every person, every nuance, every sight and smell and sound. Nothing got past him, unless he wanted it to. And the little California-tanned wild bird was giving it to the little pisser and John couldn't take his eyes away from her. It made him jealous and angry and aroused that she could do what he wasn't allowed to.
Brian was about to intervene, as the pisser/wild bird barney was holding up the whole show. He wanted to tell Brian to leave her alone, that she was practically giving him a hand job from across the room, but he also had an immediate urge to get the hell out of this place. He didn't like the United States. Too much fucking sunshine and not a decent cup of tea within 10,000 miles. But, as was his current circumstance, money, the promise of women and fame had too much a hold on all four of them for anyone to say "piss off" and head back home to England. Because as sure as the sun rose in the east, if one went home, they'd ALL go home.
John watched as Brian interrupted the moron and the woman of his dreams. He threw an elbow into Paul's side to wordlessly alert him to the situation. Paul lifted up his brown eyes and tried to force a smile.
"Another one?"
"No man. Totally different. She's cutting that audition manager a new asshole."
"Good. Maybe we can get the fuck out of here. I'm beginning to think I made a wrong move when I chose a band over plumber's apprentice."
John looked at Paul. "You? A plumber? I'd pay to see your ass rooting out some loo in the low rent district."
"Piss off....," he answered. "So what's going on?"
John filled him in. Ringo and George were both still half asleep, cigarettes hanging off their lower lips. No one made any attempt to pay attention when their manager approached them.
"Get those bloody fags out of your mouths," Brian said to them. "You are all clean cut, working class boys from across the pond – and well paid to act your parts. So sit up and pay attention."
John made an obscene gesture. Ringo turned his back to him continuing to smoke and George leaned forward and gazed at Brian with his middle finger slowly working its way up to his temple.
Paul, ever the diplomat, made a valiant attempt to appear slightly more involved. "Look Brian, we aren't trying to make your life hell, but this is getting out of hand. We've spent 2 hours evaluating 200 girls who want to have a role in this movie. Really, it doesn't matter. We don't even know what the movie is about. Just have that little audition manager pick out the best of the bunch and send everyone on their way."
Brian sighed and pulled up a chair. John knew they were about to be lectured from the Brian Epstein Guide to Managing a Famous British Band. John wished he could order about a dozen Scotch and Cokes and call it a day.
"Boys," he started.
Ringo, George and John turned the switches off and began cruising down the avenues of their brains. Paul pretended to listen and caught the gist of the whole thing.
They were famous. Yes, he remembered that. There were politics involved in being famous. Yes, he remembered that. It was sometimes necessary to go through these things for the publicity. Yes, he remembered that.
"Just like a politician. You have to, figuratively speaking, kiss the babies and hug the old ladies. Half these girls are daughters of Hollywood big-wigs. We can't piss them off. We must pretend we are gentlemen."
"Thank God we've had lessons...." John piped in. "Now shut the hell up and tell me who that bird is."
"Who?"
"The one who is still going off on the audition manager."
Brian turned and jumped up. "Oh shit."
John sat totally upright for the first time all day as he saw her coming towards them at a determined gait. The audition manager followed her, mumbling.
Brian was about to intercept her when John looked at him sternly. "Back off, big man. Let her have her say."
If there was one thing Brian knew, it was when to absolutely listen to John. He could manipulate the other three on an individual basis, but John alone or the 4 of them enmasse, well, that was the ballgame. He let out a heavy breath.
John stood to watch her walk towards them. He had seen plenty of pretty girls since becoming famous. He had HAD plenty of pretty girls since becoming famous, but this pissed off bird was in a class by herself. She was nothing like the girls he normally went after – nothing like the birds of his own turf. He was, at this stage of his life, attracted to "bee-bees", Beautiful, Brainless and Sexy chicks who knew better than to open their mouths for anything except a blow-job. After a brief affair consisting of plenty of sex and perhaps a late night supper or two, maybe an autograph or an album, it was less of a problem to diplomatically dump a BB than it was a hometown girl or some mate's sister.
John had his exit line and delivered it with the precision of Olivier playing Hamlet. He could conjure up this little boy lost persona, with a pained "this is going to hurt me more than it is you" look and begin his speech. "I'm SOOO sorry, but I've realized that I really DO love my wife and I don't know how to thank you for helping me see the honest truth. I have to go back to her. Your unselfishness and honesty showed me what I must do. I know you'll understand. I can't tell you what you have done for me. I will never forget you (insert name or not). "
And it worked. 99% of the time. The other 1%, Brian took care of.
All at once, she was in front of them. Directly in between Paul and George. John shifted in his chair to look at her.
"Look, I know this is all fun and games, but it's 95 degrees out there in the hallway and girls are dropping like flies. There's no water, no air. C'mon---hasn't everyone had enough?"
Brian walked over to her and extended a courtly British hand. "I'm sorry Ms. but you will have to get back into line or leave the audition. You are causing a disruption."
The young woman looked at Brian then beseechingly at the four English lads that were sitting before her. John, for once in his life, was speechless.
Paul stood and faced her. "We didn't know..." was all he could muster. She was not amused. Not amused at all with any of them. George turned his eyes toward her and remained quiet.
"Well, now you do," she said without emotion, then sighed. "Look, I know you are the biggest things to come out of England since Earl Grey, but it's really hot out there. Can you put an end to this?"
George finally spoke. "What are you doing here?"
Her brown eyes flashed at him. "Does it matter? I'm just trying to get those other girls out of the heat."
"Why do you care?" John blurted out, his cigarette smoke exiting his mouth.
She sighed and was going to speak when Brian returned with a police officer and the audition manager.
"Hold off...." John eyed him.
The police officer stared at the woman for a minute before saying, "Joie?"
She looked at him and smiled. "Yes. It's me. I'm just trying to get those girls out of the heat, Mr. Watson. Or get them some water or something. I know they are all probably daughters of movie studios, but they are melting just the same."
Officer Watson turned to Brian. "I know this girl. She doesn't mean any harm. And after all, she has a point...."
John and Brian exchanged looks. Brian knew it well.
"We will get the girls out of the heat and move this along...." He answered properly.
"Thank you." Was all she said. And she turned to leave.
She didn't give a shit that they were the Beatles. She didn't give a shit if she got a bit part in their first movie. She just didn't give a shit about them. What she cared about was 90 remaining strangers, struggling in the heat.
John was enamored.
The audition manager was sweating profusely. He was too old for this shit. He had been around the greats---Barrymore, Hepburn, Gable. These punks from somewhere in England might make every girl wet her pants, but all they were was trouble to him.
Brian pulled him aside and a plan was made to move the line of girls along so they could get a look at the Lads from Liverpool and Brian would pick the 15 or so they needed in bit parts. The others would be given a ticket to the final concert in the film. All Brian knew for sure is that there was going to be a concert at the end. And 100 seats were to be occupied by the offspring of Hollywood elites. The other seats were to be auctioned off to fans through the fan club.
This is what he knew....as the screenwriter typed away, tucked safely back in London.
"Mal...." John groused at their assistant. "get her number....."
#the beatles#george harrison#john lennon#paul mccartney#ringo starr#beatlemania#Beatles fanfic#george harrison fanfic#i saw her standing there
25 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
assortedexistence
Assorted Existence
bursaproiecte-blog
bursaproiecte
maryamkhojini
Oil Painting
sumnermangum42
The Journey of Franco 446
anotherfanaccount
fangirling was my hidden talent