jojo ᨳ𐔌՞҂ ˕ ֊՞𐦯ᜊ

hihi Even if you explain it in depth, those who don't have the experience can't understand it entirely. -Jonghyun, SHINee- lvl 19

[archivearchangelica]

Charm Vending Machine, 2003

[princessesposter]

Gal Pals

[charleywrites]

dear god please send me a man who looks exactly like chubby john lennon

[plus-size-aesthetics]

[mysterioussoul90]

my vision rn

[lottsoccasionallywrites]

hihi (•ؔʶ̷ ˡ̲̮ ؔʶ̷)

i was wanting to request a john lennon x reader fluff (u can pick the era), with a reader that collects dolls and when going on an outing falls in love with a doll that john thinks looks absolutely haunted 💔💔

thanks so much ;) ‪‪❤︎‬

a/n: thank u so much for the req! this was the most adorable ever aaah🥹 sorry it took a while to get out!

teddyboy!john x reader

'what the actual fuck' is the only thought running through john's head when he stares into the shop window.

you'd dragged him to a little store you frequented, a little antique store filled with all sorts of random nicknacks.

your bedroom was practically a shrine to this store, with old china figurines of angels on your shelves and old dolls littered all across the room.

john hadn't really thought of it before. sure, he'd noticed, but it was nothing more than, 'oh, a doll. right' before you'd distract him with something and his mind would be driven away from the little beady eyes staring at him.

but not today.

you were pointed animatedly at a doll displayed in the shop window, bouncing on your feet as you gush over it, but all your words go in one ear and out the other as he stares in horror at the doll as its eyes pierce through him.

"isn't she adorable?" you croon, practically buzzing with enchantment as your eyes stay latched onto the doll.

'sure, if adorable is synonymous with creepy, horrifying and nightmarish' he thinks, but he just nods and manages to huff out a weak, "yeah", his voice breaking as you drag him into the shop.

as you squeal and ogle at the doll, all john can thinking about is how it's going to haunt him and ruin his life, and how he can find a way to stop you form buying that doll. he considers paying the shop-owner to not let you buy the doll.

but then he looks at you.

your eyes are wider than he's ever seen them, pupils blown out with so much love for the creepy thing, smile so wide with pure, unadulterated joy. you look like a little kid with your cheeks all puffy from grinning, and suddenly he forgets all about how unsettling the doll is and all he can think about is if he has enough money to pay for it.

"i should totally buy her, right?" you're practically bouncing on your feet, and its clear you've already got your mind set on taking it home with you. "i mean, i can't just leave her here, can i?"

"how much is it?"

your hands go to the little tag hidden in the dolls dress, and groan in frustration, "twenty-five quid!"

you deflate, and the sights a little heartbreaking to him. it's like taking candy off of a baby. he tries to remember how much money he has socked away at home, from gigs at the jacaranda and odd pub shifts.

"let's just go home, eh?" he says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder, guiding you out of the shop, "staring at it won't make you feel any better."

a week later, and many pub shifts later, he manages to save up enough and heads back to the antique shop. he has to come up with excuses all week as to why he can't see you, and he feels so guilty seeing your disappointed and suspicious face, but it's all worth it now, as he stares at that creepy, probably haunted, doll.

he picks it up by its hand, wanting to keep as little contact with it as possible, and heads to the counter. he pays, and he feels somehow lighter when he leaves with the bag in hand, somewhat more of a man because he managed to buy his bird something proper, not just a bag of sweets for five pence.

he walks to your house with a spring in his step, the bag swinging from his hand. the birds are chirping and the sun is shining and the world is good.

and he's probably going to be haunted by this tiny fucking doll, but it's all okay, because it'll make you smile.

he greets your parents, watching you watch the interaction with a awkward expression only embarrassed teenagers get, before you manage to grab him by the hand and guide him up to your bedroom.

the millions of eyes in your bedroom follows him as he enters, the little dolls all focusing in on him, and the bag, like you've brought a new offering.

"what are you doing here? i thought you were busy this week." he wishes he could wash away that sad, slightly worried expression you're carrying. "i've hardly seen you at all."

"i know, and i'm sorry, but i have a surprise."

your expression lights up, and all those horrible shifts cleaning up after drunks seem to be worth it. "a surprise? gimme, gimme!" you gasp excitedly, back to bouncing on your feet and clasping your hands together.

based on john's track record, the surprise is probably just a bag of lemon sherbet's, and you'd be happy enough with that.

but when he pulls the bag from behind his back, with the antiques stores logo, your face lights up even more. you start jumping up and down, wrapping your arms around john's neck as you squeal unintelligibly about how grateful you are and how much you love him, all whilst he just laughs fondly.

once you're done with your celebration, and you take the doll out of its prison (the little paper bag), you cradle it to your chest gently, before delicately finding space for it among your army of other dolls.

"how were you able to afford her?"

he shrugs, as if its no big deal. "took a few shifts at the pub."

but you know 'the pub', you know about how grotty it is there, with it's sticky counters and endless drunk men gravitating in and out. your face only grows fonder at the knowledge, cupping his cheeks and leaning up to give him a 'thank you' kiss, but he stops you.

"what?"

"they're watching." he says, voice more serious than you've ever heard it.

"my parents?"

he shakes his head. "the dolls."

your eyes dart around his face, trying to gauge how serious he is. when you're met with his face stuck in firm solemnity, you burst out laughing.

"i'm serious!"

you just laugh into his chest until your eyes are pricked with tears. "i know! that's what makes it so funny."

he huffs, fake-moody. "making fun of me after i bought you a gift and everything."

you pull away from him with a teasing pout. "poor johnny." you lean up and peck his cheek. "i'm sorry. thank you. really."

but his eyes don't meet yours, still darting around the room to meet the eyes of the dolls.

and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

[johnlennoncommacarrao]

hiihihi!!! if it isnt too much to ask could you maybe write something with major mccartney from the beatles movie magical mystery tour? hes such a cutie

costumière

note.1:I wasn't sure if you wanted a fanfic of THE character or of Paul in character as the character. But the point is that I couldn't write fanfiction with the character himself, because he doesn't even have a personality, so it would be very difficult for me, especially in a nonsensical film like this one. Anyway, I hope you like it, even through im not the best writing for Mccartney

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The noise from the film set drifted in from a distance, a muffled hum through the thick walls of the dressing room the costume department had commandeered. The air smelled of shellac, new fabric, and the strong, reheated coffee someone had left on the table, next to a well-thumbed copy of some Shakespeare book. You were adjusting the hem of one of the military jackets, your fingers finding the steady rhythm of the work, when the door opened

Paul came in as if he'd been pushed by a current of air, but the movement was more contained than usual. He was wearing the full Major's uniform — the grey khaki jacket, the grey beret tilted slightly, the immaculate boots — and wore an expression that suggested he was about to complain, but didn't want to seem rude.

— 'Ello, love — he said, his voice carrying that Liverpool accent you knew so well. — Sorry to barge in, but...Uh — He tugged at the fabric across his chest, frowning. — It's a bit tight 'ere. Reckon I overdid it at lunch.

You set the jacket aside and stepped closer, your eyes running over the uniform with a professional eye. The side seam of the jacket was, in fact, slightly strained.

— Let's have a look, then — you said, and he obeyed, straightening his shoulders.

As you examined the seam with your fingers, feeling the rough fabric beneath your fingertips, Paul was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he started to chatter:

— Y'know, I was thinkin' about this Major. 'E's a very serious bloke, inn'e? Must've lost someone in the war, or summat. Drinks black tea with no sugar, gives you a dirty look if your belt buckle ain't shiny. — He paused, and his voice softened, almost dreamy. — But I reckon 'e likes poetry. Carries a little book in 'is pocket.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the unexpected turn, but played along.

— And what would the Major do to a costume girl who messed up the stitching on his uniform? — you asked, feigning alarm.

Paul stopped chattering. His brown green eyes met yours, and for a moment, the eager boyish expression faded. A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

— Well — he said, his voice dropping, losing its anxious edge and gaining a quieter intensity —, I reckon 'e'd 'ave to... interrogate you. Old school style, yknow

He stepped closer. You could feel the warmth of him now, the smell of his soap mixed with the new military fabric. Your hands were still on his collar, and you could feel his breathing, a little shallower than before.

— And what if I refuse to cooperate, Major? — you whispered.

Paul tilted his head, his eyes travelling over your face with deliberate slowness. He raised his hand and, with surprising gentleness, traced his fingers along your jaw, lifting your face to meet his

— Well then — he murmured, his voice rough and low –, I'd 'ave to administer a proper punishment, wouldn't I?

He leaned in. You felt his breath, warm against your lips. The kiss came soft at first, almost a question — and when you answered, pressing your lips against his, Paul let out a small sigh, and the kiss deepened.

His hands found your waist, pulling you against the uniform. Your fingers tangled in his collar, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm — a little fast, a little nervous, hidden behind the confident Major's facade

— Y'know what? — he said, his breathing still a little uneven. — This uniform ain't really that tight. Reckon it was just... an excuse. To see you.

— Paul... — you laughed, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

He shrugged, but the smile was genuine.

— What? The Major's a strategic bloke, inn'e? Got to plan 'is attacks.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment.

— Mr. McCartney? — a production assistant's voice came muffled through the wood. — We need you on set in five minutes. The director's calling.

Paul closed his eyes for a second, biting his lower lip — that nervous tic he had when he was frustrated.

— Bollocks — he whispered. Then, louder: — Coming!

He turned back to you, and his hand found your face again, his palm warm against your cheek.

— Listen — he said, his voice now soft, just for you —, soon as this scene's done, I'll be back. Promise. We'll finish this fitting. — He winked, and a mischievous smile crept across his face — And I want to see what else you can fix on this uniform

You held his hand, squeezing his fingers.

— Go on, Major. Go win the war.

Paul laughed — that loud, genuine laugh you loved — and turned towards the door. Before opening it, he stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and adjusted his beret with a theatrical gesture.

— If I survive the battle — he said, giving an exaggerated military salute —, I'll be back for surrender.

And then he was gone, leaving the door ajar and his scent lingering in the air.

You leaned back against the sewing table with your heart racing, thinking about how good it was to have your handsome sergeant with you

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note.2: I hope I wrote McCartney well, I swear I did my best 😓

[miultraviolent]

[pinkpearledswan]

hello angel!

your work is SPECTACULAR!! 👼🏼

i was wondering if you could do some early john/ teddy boy john x fem reader

fluffy please!!

xx

WOWIE thank you my dove >0< !!!!!!!!

100% i can do fluff

𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓁 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝑒!

teddy boy john x fem!reader

a/n: another short one IM SORRY. disclaimer!!!! I understand these are real people, this is for entertainment purposes only!!! excuse any grammar mistakes! not proofread. summary: Secretly pinning one other before you eventually connected. wc:853 warnings: FLUFF

You met John during college. Shared a couple of classes with him, Though you never acknowledged him entirely. I mean you just saw him as some normal “teddy boy” , nothing out of the ordinary.  While John couldn't really form a thought about you. 

He could tell you weren’t some goodie two shoes. And he could also tell you weren't full of yourself. You were just kind of there. 

Art really interested you, it had been something you took seriously. Although your parents picked on you for picking something so silly to be serious about. In their mind they saw you with no good future.

Even though if something were to get out of line. You didn't really have a plan B if art didn't work. 

Paying for your own college wasn’t cheap, but thankfully you had been stashing money since you were five. Picking up a few summer jobs and selling some things in your room. To buy a few supplies for school.

So of course you were taking everything seriously. You paid for it all yourself. Not wanting any bit of the money you gave off to go to waste. 

And you’ve been here since. Parents still not supporting you and having to basically fend for yourself. 

John first noticed your art before you. He would say it was a bit precise and clean. He liked to think that others viewed your art with a simple meaning.

While he saw it with a deeper one. You could say he was a fan if he was really reading into your work this closely, but he’d never admit it.

On the other hand you had seen his work when you were zoned out during a lecture. Your eyes had absentmindedly fallen on his easel where his canvas lied.

Taking in the lazy sketching and the random pain streaks. It kind of provoked something in you. Just so fascinated by it in such an odd way. 

It was as if his work spoke to you on a different level. Now when you saw one of his more “finer” pieces. That's what made you notice him more often. 

Looking at the works of other people's art in the class that had been off for show outside. You found yourself standing in front of one for quite some time.

Head slightly tilted to the side and eyes working overtime as they scanned the painting.

 Feeling a presence next to you. You glanced over at who had made an entry to the empty space besides you. To see John. 

“This your work?” you asked curiously. Pointing to the canvas in front of you. 

“I don't know, who signed the bottom of it?” he asked cheekily. 

Your eyes quickly flickered over to the bottom of the painting and returned back to him. 

“You.” 

He slightly shrugged his shoulders, looking down at the floor. 

“Well I really like it. It sort of settles something inside of  me.” 

He looked from the floor to you. Eyebrows furred at what you had just said.

“Really?” 

You nodded. 

-

From that day forward, he picked up your name from your art. Started to notice you more in his classes. Catching himself slightly obsessing over you. He would watch you as you worked.

Noticing how your nose would faintly scrunch up when you were adding fine details. Or how you would have this confused expression when you didn't like how something was turning out. 

John slowly started to slip into your life more often. He would sit by you and just start talking. Sometimes he would go on about his band or he’d tease you. You were always pretty quick to wit back at him. 

You had just been adding some finishing touches while he was in your ear about something. 

“Who knows, maybe you’ll be front row at one of my shows screaming for me?” He smirked

“Hm probably wouldn't be sober though.” you laughed. 

John watched that smile of yours flash for a minute or two. And to him, it was like a glimpse of heaven. 

The bond between you got closer. Shared more secrets, more personal life information you probably weren't going to tell anyone, but you told him anyway. 

You soon fell smitten for him. His velvet brown eyes that seemed to hold so much pain. The vague lines of tiredness that marked his face. 

And for him? It was of course your smile that made him weak. But he was quick to take in the way your hands would slightly shake from time.

Always seeing how your cheeks would turn pink when he would tease you purposely. The ribbons in your hair, the way your nails always had some reminisce of paint on them. 

The lonely night you spent away in your room away from your parents. We're now with him sneaking in through your window.

Sharing a kiss or more during quiet whispers. You’d let him take you to some of his shows. When you knew everyone in your house was really asleep. 

It didn’t matter anyway,  nobody was out for you except John. And that’s all that mattered. 

request, request, request.

[snookeroosfactorygirl116]

Sneaky peeky!

Sneak peek of an upcoming work in progress John Lenny x Fangirl reader requested by @charmingteeth

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Finally John, dripping in sweat, voice getting hoarce, gripped one of the mics closest and took a second to catch his breath before roaring, "L-last... last song we're play for you is a little something from our first album, and we'd like you all to clap your hands along to TWIST AN' SHOUT!"

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Sorry its such an itty bitty sneak peek... ;3

If you want more just give me the word and I can give you some more!

Thanks for being patient, its almost done.

(Like I said its still a work in progress, this might change a little but give me your thoughts!)

Still open for head cannons and fanfics!

[sarinetteee]

I feel like girlbloggers all do the same content like i need something refreshing not « Lana del rey is my mommy » type shit

[tengyunghan]

biology

[miultraviolent]

Gyaru nurse 💊🩷

[weeoweeooowee79]

Nana Suzuki!

(2009)

[ashslio]

Brian Epstein (shyly) signs some autographs for the fans

-> 1965, London (maybe Hullabaloo??)

[someshineforyou-deactivated2013]

[johnlennoncommacarrao]

hello!!!!!! i wanted to request 60s john lennon x a reader with large curly hair who keeps getting made fun of in the papers for it, this is very vague and might not be a lot to work with but i wanted to give u creative freedoms 😭😭 thank uuu if u decide to do it 😭😭😭

note.1: hii!! Sorry for taking so long, I went to bed early last night and had school earlier.

note.2: Since you didn't specify some things, I tried my hand at being creative, given the freedom you gave me. I made the reader a performer like Nancy Sinatra, because that way she would appear in the newspapers a bit more without depending solely on John Lennon and such. Anyway, thank you for making this request, I LOVE John and wanted to write something about him!♥

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Les journaux

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London, late autumn 1964. The air smells of wet pavements and cheap coffee, and you are sitting in a cramped dressing room somewhere in the West End with a newspaper folded on your lap like a dead thing.

You’d performed the night before. The review for your voice was fair, even kind. But the columnist had decided to sink his teeth into something else entirely — something you couldn’t change, something that was just you.

“The young singer certainly has the chops, but the hairdo is a disaster. What a mess! All those excessive, voluminous curls — she looks less like a rising star and more like a poodle who’s done a runner from the kennel. A thorough straightening would do wonders.”

You hadn’t even noticed your eyes getting wet until the mascara began to sting. Your hands went up to your hair automatically, fingers digging into the thick, coarse curls as if you could crush them into submission. It hurt because it was precisely the thing you’d always been quietly at war with — the hours of detangling, the stares on the street, the well-meaning aunties suggesting you “do summat about that mane”. And now it was printed. In ink. For all of London to read.

The door creaked open. You flipped the paper face-down, but too slowly. John Lennon was already standing in the doorway, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, fringe flopping into his eyes. He was holding two cups of tea and had the beginnings of a grin on his face — a grin that vanished the second he caught sight of you.

— What’s all this, then?

He set the cups down on the dressing table with a clatter, brow furrowed. His eyes flicked to the newspaper and he plucked it up before you could stop him. You watched his expression shift as he read — confusion, then a short, hard laugh that had no humour in it whatsoever.

— “Poodle who’s done a runner from the kennel.” — He read it aloud, deadpan, then crumpled the paper with both hands and hurled it at the wall. It bounced and rolled under a chair. — Bloody hell. D’you reckon they pay ’em by the word or by the ounce of stupidity? ’Cos if it’s stupidity, they’re millionaires.

He turned back to you, jaw tight, but the anger in his face dissolved into something else when he saw you properly — your red-rimmed eyes, your hands still fisted in your hair. He crossed the small room in two strides and knelt down in front of you on the tatty carpet, taking your wrists gently and pulling your fingers away from your curls.

— Oi. Stop that. — His voice had dropped, the sharpness gone. — You’re not changing a thing. D’you hear me? Look at me.

You did. He tilted his head, eyes searching your face.

— I’m not being nice. I’m being honest, and that’s not the same thing, is it? — He took a breath. — Y’know what I see when I look at this hair? I see summat wild. Summat that doesn’t apologise for takin’ up space. When you’re up on that stage an’ you throw your head back an’ this whole mane swings — the audience stops breathin’. I saw it last night. I was stood in the wings, an’ I nearly missed me cue for the second number ’cos I couldn’t take me eyes off you. It’s the frame round your face. It’s beautiful. An’ if those soft gits in the papers don’t get it, that’s their problem. Not yours.

He let go of your wrists and sat back on his heels, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

— You think I’m handsome, right? With this hooter? — He tapped his own nose, pulling a face. — Half the press calls me the “big-nosed Beatle”, the other half dont even think im the good-looking of the band. But if I went and got me nose fixed, I’d be givin’ ’em what they wanted. An’ I don’t give ’em anythin’. Neither should you.

He got to his feet, shrugged off his jacket, and then, to your absolute surprise, picked up a comb from the dressing table. He turned it over in his hands like it was a foreign object.

— Right then. How d’you normally do it? Show me. — He waved the comb vaguely at your hair. — I’m gonna learn. We’re gonna get this mane so big they’ll see it from Manchester. Tomorrow, you walk on that stage with the most enormous head of curls London’s ever witnessed. An’ if anyone says a word, you send ’em to me. I’ll tell ’em meself that the only poodle I know is that columnist who writes like a right berk.

You laughed — a proper, surprised laugh — and he grinned, the one that crinkled his eyes, before stepping forward and pulling you into a tight hug. He smelled of tea and cigarettes and leather, and he held the back of your head with one hand, palm pressing right into the thick mess of curls without a flinch.

— Listen, love… — His voice was softer now, muffled against the top of your head. — Don’t let them pillocks ruin what you’ve built, alright? Promise me. ’Cos I like you just as you are. The whole lot. Curls an’ all.

You promised, your face buried in his shirt, and felt him press a kiss to your hairline. A slow, deliberate kiss, the kind that said more than words ever could.

Later, when he finally had to leave, you found a napkin he’d left behind on the dressing table. Scrawled in his messy handwriting — the same handwriting that would one day be worth millions — were a few words:

“Beautiful curls – for me girl. Nobody puts it out.”

And in the corner, a little doodle of a poodle with a large X drawn right through it.

You tucked the napkin into your makeup bag. And at the next show, you walked onto that stage with your curls higher than they’d ever been, shaking them out under the lights with a new kind of defiance. Because somewhere in the crowd was a Beatle with a big nose and a bigger heart, watching only you, and clapping like he meant it.

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— End — ♡

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note.3: I REALLY hope I got what you wanted right, although I found this fanfic to be pretty mediocre.