#fangsharrison

[pattie-remembers]

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

[yawnleonard]

“ do you ever get scared ?”

“I get scared all the goddamn time,” John confessed, eyelids heavy from not having slept since fuck knows when. He’d said he didn’t feel like talking much, and sat there like a fat frog with his bottle of gin close at hand. George wasn’t drunk, or maybe he was, but somehow his presence felt necessary. Moral support, perhaps? Never mind the case, having a close friend near to simply listen felt as vital as the drink in John’s hand and the air in his lungs. One kept him dead, the other alive.  “Scared of my own ambition, but what’s the use,” Lennon trailed off, reaching for a cigarette from the open pack on the counter. He didn’t light it, instead perching it up in the corner of his mouth and letting it dangle as he spoke. If only the world knew about half the thoughts that swirled about in his head. John had it all; the wife, a kid, wealth, and a fucking successful career, but every now and then he couldn’t help but reminisce on much simpler times. 

Every few seconds, his eyes darted towards his neat and tidy little Beatle suit, still hanging in the dry cleaner bag and waiting to be used for the fuckteenth time in just as many months. Lately, John resented wearing it because of what it represented. For him, a suit was reminiscent of funerals or weddings, neither of which he felt thrilled about attending. All of that sentimental shit made him feel moody and miserable and lonely. What’s worse, John felt that wearing that Beatle getup meant losing his edge. So he was getting drunk to stop thinking about his fucking suit. Navigating the cigarette out of the way with his tongue, he downed his fourth drink in two gulps and reached for the bottle again, now half-empty (and definitely not half-full).  “The only trouble is that we think we’ve got time,” Lennon shrugged, “I doubt I’ll ever make it past forty.” The cigarette fell onto his lap. He stared down at the damn thing intently, but his gaze wasn’t focused, and he drunkenly contemplated it like cavemen must have gazed at the night sky. John wasn’t in the right headspace. It was clear to see in how he swatted the cigarette away and tore it in half, scattering tobacco across the hotel room carpet. 

[whydvntwe]

➺ ❝ doubt there’s any left in tha’ burner ‘v yours , ❞ paul mumbled half-irritably under his breath . left to eat the spaghetti cold after the last incident with the fire , he was ! from the licked-clean spoon he held in his hand , the boy squinted warily at his friend . ❝ y’better watch it , geroge . i don’t think they’ll come back with me eyebrows burnt off . ❞

a hum followed a thought . ❝ too bad ‘e couldn’t come . with ‘is girlfriend probably . ❞ 

after stashing away the spoon into his backpack , he flipped up the collar of his coat and shoved his hands into his pockets to hide from the cooler air setting in . ❝ d’you reckon we could get some business if we brought our guitars ? real business tha’ll afford us more than a couple’v cans , y’know . ❞

( continued ! | @fangsharrison ! )

[ourlittlejewel]

starter for @fangsharrison !!!

   bijou preferred being the opening act. the nerve-wracking aspect of the night was out of the way, leaving her to simply sit back, sip at some lavish champagne she couldn’t afford on her own and observe the rest of the performances like she was at some sort of upper-class concert-viewing party—a gig where everyone in the crowd had at least some level of fame. it was fascinating, to say the least. she felt awfully privileged. madonna snuck away to exchange pleasantries with someone more up her alley—famous and interesting—someone who would discuss matters of more importance than boys. she’d jokingly elected her best dancer to keep everyone in line while she was off mingling, though her best dancer had never been especially good at that. so here they were, out of their performance attire and in tasteful slip dresses of varying ( but uniform ) designs, bijou and five other pretty girls settled around a circular table. they were engaged in girly chatter, trying to arrive at the unanimous ruling as to which member of the beatles was the best looking while they took the stage. the round-cheeked one was decided upon—paul. by default, she preferred the drummer ( as she now realised she gravitated towards, those drummer-types ) but had her gaze steady fixed on the boy stood in the middle of them all, giving him a proper examination. heavy brow. she had been elected by ‘the grand majority’ to approach one of them after their performance. “which one’ll it be?” an amused voice chirps to the right of her, coupled by a nudge from the japanese dancer to the left. but bijou only waves a hand from her slouched and rather un-ladylike position in her chair, shushing them. “i’m thinking,” mused over the rim of her alcoholic beverage. but she had already decided. there was something about that one that had her mind made up. there was an intermission. the boys had returned to their table. luckily for her eager audience of dancer comrades, they were sat rather close to the girls. everyone was up and moving about; it was now or never. bijou scoots her chair and herself out from beneath the rivulets of the long tablecloth, saving a moment to primp. she makes her way over to the table of bugs ( but not without a loving tap to her bottom ), the thin stem of her champagne glass caught between her fingers as it’s cradled in her palm. to bring confidence to her conclusion, her target was positioned at the very end, an empty seat next to him—a seat just for her! a seat she’ll take, free-fingers curled into the silky satin at the hem of her pink dress to tug down her thighs before doing so. she perches an elbow over the table’s surface to rest a chin upon the back of her hand. turns her head to face him, loose curls spilling over a bare shoulder. there’s a brief second of quiet study, before plum-stained lips part to break her silence. he looked a lot younger up close. she begins, softly, "what is your name?"

[papalrot]

&    g.  harrison   ;  @fangsharrison

THE INEVITABILITY OF QUESTIONS REGARDING HIS ABSENT COSTUME WOULD PLAGUE HIM ,                he  just  knows  it .      there  was  little  he  truly  enjoyed  about  the  little  holiday  but  business  was  afoot  &  the  idea  of  costuming  himself  was  is  enough  to  wear  him  out.  the  cardinal,    upon  arrival,     was  glad  to  see  that  he  was  not  the  only  one  adorning  leather.    there  were  no  more  halloween  costumes  than  regular,   party - goer  outfits .

he  passes  first  with  his  hand  along  the  first  leather  jacket  ,         already  with  his  least - disarming  grin  protruding  from  his  maw  like  a  bruise .       ❛      LOOKING  GOOD ,   BOYS.     ❜        the  cardinal  gives  a  good  slap  to  george’s  shoulder.          ❛       ey ,       who  invited  this  schmuck  ?       ❜

[camillelafaye]

‘ you’re beautiful ‘

“you a damn lie, now whatchu want–”

“an’ don’tchu lie again neitha’, i know you mus’ want som’ if you puttin’ suga’ on my tail, yo’ lil mean ass don’ neva put no suga’ on me.”

@fangsharrison

[thosefour]

@fangsharrison continued from here   our boy wasn't much of a fighter ( peace and love, baby! make love, not war; that was more of his thing ) but after a dense line of dust that left him all powdery-nosed and crazy-eyed, pupils blown right out, it was difficult to place a limit on what he was willing to get himself into. not his usual debauchery, the antics that followed when all of his bandmates decided to let loose—the women, meaningless sex, cross-dressing, the unintentional, clumsy vandalism—this time around, it was going to be a brawl. if you were to catch any of their names in a music zine for a fight the next morning, it’d be their bass player’s. sure, the man was tiny, but he packed quite the punch. if he were here now, there would be less blood shed on micky’s end. more than he knew about fights, he knew how to get out of them. he had a sharp tongue. where was he now? it didn’t matter. our micky, on the other hand, he just wanted to give it a go. the pretty brunette groupie-thing on his arm fled the scene ( the cocaine should have been her first clue ) and thank god for that. it had been no place for her to begin with. a rather rough crowd, one that egged on the fight like it was a better show than the set itself...which it likely was, the boys played like shit that night. if these two had anything in common, aside from their similar band names ( the beatles and beetlemoth, who knew—they sure were rowdy for a couple of bugs ), it was their bloody noses and their unrelenting desire to win. to be the last man standing. and with a huff, a result of being thrown against the wall, the vocalist was left dizzy; the force of it had the wind knocked out of him. if it weren’t for the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the anger from having his boy bits nudged, he surely would have slumped over. but now the heat of the club seemed to have reached the heads of many, and punches were being thrown like lunch in a cafeteria food fight. his opponent seemed to think he could just walk off with that stupid smirk smacked onto his face, all cool in that leather jacket. but he could think again, because here we have micky making a run for it, weaving through the busy crowd just to jump onto the other’s back like some sort of wild, rabid animal. it has him toppling over the bar counter, sending bottles and half-empty glasses alike to the ground in a loud shatter. micky couldn’t care less about the ruckus they were causing, he had his arm slung around the beatle’s neck, elbow tucked beneath his chin in a chokehold. the weight of him keeps the hold tight, but he’ll still squeeze for good measure. the words “fucking cunt” leak from the gaps of teeth clamped shut. killing him wasn’t his intention, but maybe he’d have to. that’ll show him—for bloodying up his favourite adidas trainers.

[erguitar]

    ‘ MR HARRISON SIR.   YOU are most influential icon of this decade, and I consider this a most BODACIOUS, turn of events meeting you in this century. YOU SEE---i am from the future, and I need to interview you for my journalism class, if that’s okay dude ??!!  ’ / @fangsharrison