katiebuggg

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary Chapter 5

check out the Pinterest board I made for this fic!

also BIG THANK YOU TO BSF @loveinthevein for helping w this chap!

check out her stuff!

this will be posted on my ao3 (see bio)

---

The next few weeks at the office followed in similar fashion. Paul’s professional facade was back in full force after his brief, awkward conversation with you. 

Before you knew it, he was back to barking orders. 

You've been frequenting lunch with John – it’s nice to have a friend in the office and he’s kind enough. A bit spunky, you must admit, but kind nevertheless.  

He occasionally buys you coffee in the mornings (if he’s there earlier than you), and always holds doors open. 

That's far more than Paul has ever even offered to do. 

One Thursday afternoon, your fingers are gliding across the steel keyboard as usual, typing away. John was already waiting down at the lobby for you as you finished a few quick things before lunch. 

Paul had been especially busy that week working with Rich in analytics, organizing the expenses to air a new string of adverts during some sporting event. 

If Paul was busy, it meant you were as well. You had felt that your fingers might fall off from the amount of typing you've been doing – tirelessly busting out letter after letter to other departments in the office. 

You begin to wonder if that typewriter that sits heavy on Paul's desk ever gets any use at all. You seem to be doing a large majority of his writing. 

You pull a finished letter out the mouth of the typewriter and stamp Paul's information and seal at the bottom of it.

As you are folding the paper into an envelope, the door to Mr. McCartney’s office door swings open. 

He’s clutching a different letter in hands, one from the other day you assume, and takes quick strides towards your desk. 

You look at him, “Good afternoon Mr. M-”

He shakes his head and holds a hand up, signaling you stop talking. He takes a sharp breath in. 

“I thought I hired someone with experience.” he said flatly. 

You let out a small scoff and pull your hands back from the typewriter, “Excuse me?-“

“You’re making all kinds of spelling errors.” He bellows, huffing. 

“You’re making me look like a fucking idiot sending out papers that make hardly any sense.” Paul says and slams the paper he’s strangling onto the desk.

You jolt at the sudden, aggressive, movement. All you can do is blink as you process the words he’s yelling at you, “i’m sorry sir I-“ 

Paul snags a red marker from the cup of pens on your desk and begins circling various words and sentences. His grip on the paper makes the edges of it curl inward. 

You watch as the marker stains the paper with its blood, red circles, jaw slack. 

For sure you’re losing your job. 

He tosses the marked-up paper at you, his face scrunched up in anger. “Maybe if you weren't so distracted with going on dates, you'd be more focused on what actually matters. Your fucking job.” Paul snarls. 

You watch as the paper flutters down in front of you – seemingly flashing its red markings teasingly. Your eyebrows furrow at Paul’s words and you snap your eyes up at him. 

“What are you even talking about right now? All I do is work!-” You say and stand up, leaning forward on your desk in an attempt to get in his face. “I would love to have time to go on dates but you have me working like a goddamn dog!” You say in a half-scoff-half-laugh, in disbelief of his accusations. 

Paul doubles down, “Really? Then what the hell do you call your lunch breaks with John? Huh? Is that just a work relationship–” 

You throw your hands up, “Yeah! That's exactly what it is!” 

Paul crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, not buying it. “Yeah right.” He grumbles. 

“What else could that be? Im not going to put my whole job at risk for, fucking, John!” You laugh again, bewildered by Paul's words. Where in the hell did he even come up with something like that? 

“What do you even care anyways? Am I not allowed to talk to other men in the office? Who do you think I am?” You scoff again, “Who do you think you are?!” You yell, eyebrows knitted together angrily as you point a firm finger at him. 

“What do I care?” His tone begins to rise. “I care that you're not distracted while working! I care that the money I pay you is going to good fucking use! That I'm not throwing money down the drain on some unprofessional bitch!” He yells back, huffing through his nose and he inches his face even closer to yours. 

You nearly bellow in laughter. “Un - fucking - beliveable!” You pull your face away from the closeness, huffing out shallow breaths. You place one hand on your hip and the other on your forehead as you look at him, shaking your head. 

You feel your anger start to boil over. “I’m.. the unprofessional one? Really?” You say, tone softer and more taken-aback than anything. “You're the one..” You swallow down a ball of hateful spit, “..who called me ..drunk off your fuckin’ ass!” You throw your hands and let them fall dramatically at your sides. 

You look at him, awaiting a response. 

Paul just pants lightly, blinking. Knowing you're right – something he’d never admit. 

The two of you stand there, breathless, just staring at one another. The air lays thick and unbreathable between you. 

Paul sniffs and wipes his nose, eyes darting down to his shoes as he straightens his suit jacket. “Rewrite the paper.” 

He turns around, his footsteps heavy against the carpeted floor as he steps back towards his office. “Take your lunch inside the office today. Maybe you’ll be less..” he drags out the last word, it lingering on his tongue with an unsatisfied venom, 

“… distracted then.. Thank you.” 

Paul’s hand wraps quickly around the knob to his office door and he tugs himself into that familiar darkness, sealing the door behind him. 

Day bleeds into night as once again, you’re wrestling your way through the crowded streets of New York. Fighting for a tight spot on the constantly crowded subway and holding onto the handle bar for dear life as you shot through the underground. 

Before you know it, you're pushing the rickety door to your shoebox apartment open and tossing your purse into a corner – you’ll worry about finding it later.

You tug off your work clothes and start up a nice warm shower, wrapping yourself in a robe. 

The phone on your side table rings and stroll over, New Yorker in hand, skimming the bolded story headlines. You pull the phone up to your ear and sit down on the edge of your bed. 

“Hello?” 

“Heyy! Lennon speaking!” 

You smile to yourself and close the magazine. “Oh hey, John! What's happenin’?” 

“Nothin’ much, just wanted to hear your voice.” John chuckles lightly into the phone. “What happened to you earlier– uh, at lunch? I didn’t see you.” The sounds of the public ring lightly through his end of the phone; He must be out. 

“... Oh. Yeah um – I still had work that had to get done so I ate inside.” You say and twingle your finger around the phone's chord, tugging at it gently. “Where are you at? Sounds busy.”

“Oh! Me and some friends from the office are down at the pub.” He says something to one of them, but Y/N couldn’t quite make out what he said over the phone, the music from his end muffling it. 

“Ya busy tonight? Why don’t you stop by?” He speaks quickly. 

John clears his throat, “I know work’s been hammering you harder than a … Hah, I don’t even know what! Why don’t you come down and let loose a bit? It’ll make up for you ditching me at lunch!” He snorts into the phone. 

“Well, John, I’d love to but I really don’t–” You roll your eyes and let go of the phone cord, eyes dropping back down to the magazine in your lap. You hoped for a quiet night in. 

“Ah, come on Y/N. Don’t say no! All you do is sit around moping about how tireeeeed you are from work and how you have nooooo time for yourself. Now’s your chance!”

You sigh and rub your forehead with your thumb and index, “John, I am taking time to myself-”

“Taxi will pick you up in 10.” John says into the phone with a snicker, completely disregarding your comment.

“John what-”

“Sh! I'll see you soon!”

“God John! You never listen-!”

Click!

You groan and fall back into your bed, tossing the magazine and the phone. There's no avoiding this, you guess.

--

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary -- Chapter 4

This fic is also posted on my ao3! (see bio)

also feel free check out the Pinterest board I made for this fic!

----

That following Monday, you feel like you’ve been shoved into a brick wall. You are exhausted, to say the very least.

Nonetheless, you drag yourself out of your bed and slip into your usual business casual clothing.

A fitting pencil skirt, with a white button-up tucked into it. You slip on a suit jacket with thin shoulder pads and a belt for good measure,

You powder your face and you’re ready to go, grabbing a coffee and an egg sandwich on the way to the dreaded office.  

When you walk into the waiting room, Paul is leaning on your desk, head down. You clear your throat.

“Good morning, Mr. McCartney…” you awkwardly mumble out and walk towards your desk (as well towards him).

“I should apologize—“ he says rather suddenly and drags a hand down his face. He looks a mess — hair all sorts of unmanaged, wrinkled shirt, and an untied dress shoe.

You take your seat and place your stuff down for the day, shifting your suit jacket off.

“You should.” you say plainly without looking at him.

He’s leaned over your desk again, looking down at either you or your papers or your hands… his eyes are scattered and nervous, it seems.

Paul doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

You take a sip from your coffee before tapping a stack of papers on the desk. You scan him in his messy state.

He disregards your comment. “What I did Friday night was extremely unprofessional.” Paul gulps and rests his hands on his hips. His ears are tinted pink.

“I won’t let it happen again. I get, uh—“ he hesitates.

You look up at him with a catty smile. You put your elbows on the table and rest your head in your hands.

“I get honest… when I drink.” Paul says and clears his throat.

Before you can reply he’s already said his goodbyes — “Let’s have a productive day.” and shuts himself up into his office.

The day moves along as it normally does — your fingers dragging along the heavy, metal, typewriter, taking miscellaneous calls and writing down random notes.

Soon enough, the clock strikes lunch and Paul still hasn’t stepped out of his office. Hasn’t called you in to ask you questions or to tell you to do something, hasn’t put his order in for lunch — nothing.

However, as you’re packing your things for lunch, John slips in. That familiar foxy grin stretches wide across his face.

“What’s your plan for lunch?” he asks without even saying hello, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

He’s wearing loose dress pants and a rolled-up white button-up, tucked into his belt. A thin patterned tie lays flat down his chest.

You shrug on your suit jacket and give him a small smile back. “Uh, lunch just started so I haven’t really got one yet.” you answer honestly with a small chuckle.

“Come with me?” he suggests, “I’ll pay.”

You shrug and nod, why not? You could definitely save a few dollars.

A few minutes later, you’re meeting John down at the lobby, chatting casually with him about business affairs as you stroll out of the building.

The two of you walk around the bustling mid-day New York streets before landing on a burger spot.

It's small but charming. Smells of fry grease and bread. You and John slip into a booth and you pick up a menu, scanning your options.

“Do you like Paul?” John asks abruptly, looking down at the menu as well.

The question catches you off guard. “Sorry?” you say and raise an eyebrow. Your attention on him now rather than the menu.

“Do you like Paul.” he repeats, tone unchanging.

You huff out a chuckle and look back down at the menu. “Of course I do.” you say simply, clearing your throat. “He’s my boss.”

“Hm.” John says, a sly smile creeping at the corners of his mouth again.

You place the menu down and lean on the table. “Why?” you inquire.

“Nothing nothing—“ he says quickly, pushing his glasses up with a finger. He glances up at you then back down at the menu.

“Just find it strange he called you the other night.”

You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms, leaning into the back of the booth chair with a huff.

“Is the whole reason why you brought me here was to interrogate me about Paul’s poor decision making?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

John opens his mouth to defend himself but you cut him off.

“Oh give me a break. I’ve been here hardly a month and you people think I’ve already tried to get into my boss’s pants?” You throw your hands up, feeling yourself boil over.

“Can’t a woman just do her job? Can’t a woman just be polite without you men thinking I'm trying to seduce him?”

John clears his throat, a little panicked now as your tone begins to get louder. He glances around at the other patrons in the restaurant.

“Fuckin’ hell! Shh! I’m sorry!” John says anxiously with a small laugh. “I put that rather bluntly – I apologize!”

He puts a hand up in surrender and straightens his tie. “Look. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t…” he paused to find the words. “…overstepping… between you and Paul.”

John cleared his throat, “You know how Paul gets.”

You narrow your eyes at John. No, you don’t know how ‘Paul gets’.

You lean your head into your hand and continue to read the menu.

You haven’t really considered Mr. McCartney in that light before. You figured he was a grumpy drunkard and that’s why he had rang you, nothing more.

Lunch comes to a close (without any more talk of Paul, thank God) and as does the work day.

You don’t see much of Paul that day, maybe once or twice in passing. 

You recall seeing him by the water cooler in the break room, filling up a plastic cup for himself.

You found that odd. He would usually ask you to do that.  

You said hi to him and asked him how his lunch was, but he walked past you, cup in hand, as if you didn’t exist. He had completely ignored you.

You didn’t talk to him the rest of that day.

However, you couldn't help but think back to the conversation between you and John over lunch.

The brief mention of John's curiosity about you and Mr. McCartney's relationship clung to the forefront of your mind. 

The image of a relationship that you have strictly viewed as professional, begins to warp as you imagine it from an outside perspective. 

--

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary — Chapter 3

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as always, massssssssive applause to the wonderful @yesitisbea for writing this dialogue and helping with story boarding for this chapter. Ur a saint lovely xxxxx

PLEASE check her out.

i’ve made a Pinterest board for the the aesthetic and fashion referenced in this fic! enjoy!

https://pin.it/6ex4yUxDf

—-

The day bleeds into night as you continue your miscellaneous tasks, glued to your desk. It's not like you were scared of Paul—you knew full well you could leave whenever you pleased. You were a liberated woman, god damnit!

The light clicking of a clock drones as you work. It feels almost mocking as the minutes drag by.

The waiting room door swings open and a familiar face pops in. He pushes his glasses up his broad nose with a grin. John strides up to your desk and leans on it, similar to how Paul did earlier.

A shiver crawls up your spine as the events replay in your head.

You meet his eyes with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Lennon.”

Using his last name was a sort of protest. You knew he hated it.

He scoffs playfully and pushes off of your desk. He knows the game you’re playing.

“Oh, good afternoon to you as well. Looking ravishing as ever—”

Before you could even react to John’s blatant teasing, Paul stepped out of his dark office. His eyes didn’t even glance in your direction.

He held a slick leather briefcase as he straightened out his lapel. Paul stepped toward John, who in response, wrapped an arm around Paul’s shoulder.

Paul made a face and tried to pull back from the embrace, but John only squeezed tighter.

Bitter old man, Paul seemed to be.

“Leave her, John—” Paul muttered and finally brushed John’s arm off of him.

“Not allowed fun in this department?” John remarked, putting his hands up in mock surrender as he sauntered out of the waiting room.

“BYE, John—” Paul barked with a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples.

Once the door to the waiting room clicks shut, it’s only you and Paul left alone once again. Only it was an awkward silence between the two of you—only the sounds of the air conditioning could be heard in the thick, uncomfortable air.

Paul clears his throat.

“What do you get up to after work?"

You blink, a mix of stunned and confused by the question. He has never inquired about your personal life. He must feel bad for earlier, you think.

“Sorry, sir?”

“Oh, that's—not in that way—” He awkwardly shifts his weight between his legs. Suddenly his suit felt too tight on him.

“We're going to this bar after work—John, George, Rich, and I. I think some other people. I was wondering if you'd like to come?"

He looked at you expectantly, slightly fidgeting with his large hands. You've never seen him like this. Is he... nervous?

A smile creeps at the corners of your mouth at the thought. You quickly brush it off and offer him a pleasant (and professional) smile. “Am I free to go now, sir? It's 9 p.m.—”

“On a Friday—” Paul says with a scoff. Doesn’t handle rejection well, does he?

“And I finish at 8, usually, so—” You retorted with a small chuckle, not shocked by his pushiness in all honesty.

“It’s just a work thing. Like, company culture. Community—”

“Those are great words, Mr. McCartney, but I’ll have to decline. Thank you, though.” You rise from your chair and begin to pack up your things from the day, shaking your head as you speak.

“Sure? I’ll pay.” Paul says and takes a step closer to you once you stand. You meet his eyes for a second and see a sort of pleading within them. A silent apology speaks from them.

"I'm alright, thanks." You say and sling your bag onto your shoulder, blinking at him.

“Right, well, you’re free to go. Good work.” He practically mumbles as he turns back to his office, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

With this, you march straight out the office and into the busy streets of New York. You could not be bothered to stay there for another minute.

After hopping onto three subway trains and walking around four blocks you, finally, drag yourself into your small apartment and faceplant into your even smaller bed.

You feel your eyelids begin to weigh on you and feel sleep start to take over. You curl into the warm covers and—

RIIIIIIIIIIIING!!

You could cry. This day refuses to end. You pull the receiver off the phone from your side table.

“Hello?” you grumble.

“She picked up—heyaaaa!” A voice rings out from the phone. A drunk voice.

“It’s midnight, you have the wrong number—” You drag a hand down your face and groan, almost putting the receiver back down onto the phone.

“Y/N, you shoulda come out!” The drunken voice hicks from the other line. The voice suddenly sounds familiar.

“Mr. McCartney?”

“It’s a nice place—!”

“Sorry—what is happening, sir?”

“Paul—” he corrects sternly, but still slurring his words.

You clear your throat and pinch the bridge of your nose. No way in hell you’re getting paid enough to deal with this shit.

“Paul.” You sigh. “How much have you had, sir?”

“I feel greaaat.” Hiccup.

“John and the Rich are here too. George. Some others. I wish you'd’ve come too...” He whines into the phone, sniffling. God, he’s a fucking mess, you think to yourself.

“Ohh, well, next time, I guess—” You let out an awkward cough and sit up in bed, the sheets shifting loudly.

“Oh! Did I wake you—? Shit, sorry, I—” Paul fumbles over his words.

“It’s alright, I was up anyway—” You lean back onto your headboard and fidget with the hem of your comforter.

“You’ll be exhausted tomorrow—”

You laugh. “Says you! You’ve drunk enough for the whole of New York, it sounds.”

“Oh, I’m above all that—” Paul scoffs, a mumble of voices passing him by.

“Above hangovers?”

“Something like that, yeah…” Paul is quiet for a minute on the other line. The sounds of cars whizzing by and honking are the only things indicating he’s still holding the phone.

He takes a quick inhale. “Would you wanna come out with me—us, next time?"

You shrug even though he can’t see it. A small smile creeps at the corners of your mouth. “I’ll consider it.”

Another silence trickles by. You clear your throat. “Right. Well—”

“Bloody good beer they have—why don’t you come now?” Paul slurs into the phone as if he wasn’t yelling at you this very morning.

You lean back into your soft pillows and look down at the nails of your free hand. “Oh, Paul, I’ve gotta get some rest—just like you should.” You say, your tone edging on teasing.

He catches this in his drunken state, almost immediately. “How fun of you—” Paul snorted out a chuckle. “Piss off.”

What a strange man he is.

You hear grumbles of voices which you guess are the other three office-dwellers, drunk off their asses. There’s a quick exchange of incoherent conversation between Paul and the others, all their words being too slurred and muffled through the line to understand.

“I know! I know—just—gimme a fuckin’ second… bloody hell.” Paul sighs loudly.

“I’ll let you get your beauty rest.” Hiccup. “Goodnight, love.”

You let the term of endearment pass. “Night, Paul.”

The line clicks as Paul hangs up, and you follow in suit, putting the receiver back down onto the phone on your nightstand. You click your lamp off and pull the covers above your shoulders. You let your head sink slowly down into the pillows as you blink into the darkness of your small room.

You weigh your options. After all, this was extremely unprofessional. Especially after the shit he pulled that morning. And keeping you after your scheduled time (which you doubt you’ll be compensated for).

You could take this up with Brian, get Paul put on suspension or even fired. You smiled at the idea.

Or…

You could use this to your advantage.

——

This fic is also posted on my ao3 (@katie_bugggg)

i swear (hand on the bible) that i will post more often 🙏

[katiebuggg]

Are you still aliveee? I’m still soo drilled on your paul fic 💔 (not rushing tho take your time!)

what if i told u it’s coming out tonight 🤫 give me 30 minutes

[katiebuggg]

hiii will there be any more updates to You Really Got A Hold On Me it's sooo good and I cant wait to read more of it haha :)

sadly there wont be any more updates on that fic 💔💔 i am working on a new paul x reader as well as some other projects with some of my friends ( @loveinthevein & @treeeeesurfer go check their stuff out as well xxxooo)

[katiebuggg]

GODDDDD YESSS

”Sure Ain’t Sweet”

chapter four

A few hours later, John was skating around down by the docks on his skateboard. He needed something to distract him from the thoughts that plagued his mind like a locust swarm. Some of his acquaintances he made over there tried to wave him down and invite him to come hang, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t even know he was there. But he did notice Paul. He came to a rough halt, kicking up his skateboard into his hand. He narrowed his eyes at Paul, who was staring at him through the haze of cigarette smoke he blew out.

He then slowly walked over to John, who’s hand unconsciously clenched on the skateboard to try and ground himself. He took a deep breath, Paul stopping mere feet away from him. “John.”

“... Paul.”

The two nodded awkwardly at each other, both of them on bated breath. “How’s it goin’? Ain’t heard from you in a while.”

“Well, I-”

“Eh, come off it. I know why.” Paul shifted his position and cocked his head, letting out a scoff. “I really can’t believe you’re letting our friendship go all jarg over a girl. You barely speak to me now. You haven’t even reached out or tried to- tried to explain yourself after we fought last time. You just don’t care.”

“Piss off. Stop gegging in my business, Paul. Besides, you’re the only one feeling this way. The other lads in our band … they don’t give a rat’s ass!”

“Oh! Oh, sorry John! Sorry I miss my fuckin’ friend! Sorry that I’m upset you’re fuckin’ me over like a whopper and choosing Y/N over me! I- I mean- Am I not your best mate?”

“You are, it’s just-”

“Oh, belt up! Ever since you met Y/N, it just feels like you’ve been driftin’ away from your mates every single day. All you did was blabber about that … that damned judy and-”

“Watch your mouth!”

“Belt up! See? You’re all fuckin’ defensive over her! Even now, all you do is talk about her and half our songs you’re writing are about her– Don’t think I didn’t notice, John! I’m not a knobhead like you! You don’t do anything else but mope about her hating you, and she has good reason to! You’re abandoning me for a fuckin’ girl!

“You? You! I’m abandoning YOU ?! Paul, are you fuckin’ bat?! Why the hell are you actin’ like a jealous meff?! Can I not speak to her? Am I suddenly not allowed to want to be her friend?! You said yourself that you wanted us made up together, and here you are actin’ bloody scally! You’re acting like a fuckin’ meff, Paul!

“You know what, yeah? Fuck you.”

“Pardon?”

“Fuck you, John. You’re a bloody bastard so lovesick for a fuckin’ heffer that you forget you have mates that care about you more than she ever will.” 

John suddenly snapped and socked Paul right in the jaw, which was the starting point to a rough and bloody brawl. The other skaters gathered, some trying to break the two entangled men up as they elbowed and swung at each other and hit some of the other people in the process. Paul was the one who was ripped off of John by a bystander, cursing and shouting with blood seeping out his nose and mouth. John was on the ground, panting and beaten up in the face. His nose and lip were bleeding, his cheek starting to get swollen and his whole face was red. He had cuts on his brow, nose, and blood leaked from the corners of his mouth.

“You’re a fuckin’ meff, John! Fuck you! You bloody no-good fuckin’ bastard!” Paul kicked and shouted, the bystander trying to calm him down even though it was clear it’d be in vain. He broke free of the bystander’s grasp, but stormed off in a pissy fit.

John stumbled to his feet, wiping the blood off his nose as he watched Paul storm down the sidewalk. “Fuckin’ hell.” He picked up his skateboard that was discarded on the floor upside down, stumbling to the pub down the street. After all that, he needed a drink.

He walked inside, and Y/N was sat there at the window table with her friend Marge. Marge was boisterous, waving her hands and laughing as she spoke. Y/N contrasted her energy, silently nodding her head as she listened to Marge’s ramblings about … honestly whatever. Y/N’s eyes immediately snapped to John, and she let out a sharp gasp. “John!”

She bolted up from her seat, tripping on the legs and almost fell down. She hurried over to him, her eyes raking over his battered face and the blood on his shirt. “What the hell happened to you?! You- You look- Who-”

“Relax, Y/N. Come off it. It’s nothing.” John said dismissively, pushing Y/N back a bit. “I just got into a tussle. I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding from your mouth, John!”

“Yeah, that happens when you get bloody socked, Y/N.” John wiped the blood on his lips, and let out a heavy sigh. “... I’m sorry. I- … I just need a moment to myself.” 

Y/N’s breath hitched, a little frown on her face. “John …”

“I’ll explain it to you later.” He turned away and ran his fingers through his hair and went up to the bar, completely dismissing Y/N which, in all truth, kinda stung. Y/N let out a sullen sigh, her hands clenching as she fought back the urge to march up and demand he let her in … but she knew she shouldn’t. She turned away and went back to Marge who was watching with a shocked expression that was frozen on her face.

“What in the bloody hell is going on with you two? Who’s that?” 

“... John.”

“John?! That bastard who plays that racket above your apartment?”

“... Uh, yeah. Yeah, him.” Marge’s expression turned skeptical, raising a brow.

“Yeah … Him …” She repeated, her eyes flicking up and down at Y/N. “What’s changed about ‘im? Clearly he ain’t a nuisance to you no more.”

“What? Sure he is! He’s just as insufferable as he always has been-”

“Sure.” She let out a dry chuckle. “You ain’ barkin’ like a mad dog about him anymore like ya usually do. Usually you’d be bloody heated talkin’ bout that man. Clearly something’s went jarg with that.”

“Please! God forbid I care about a man when he waltzes in beaten to a bloody pulp.” Y/N waved her hand dismissively at the thought, but it was clear Marge was still suspicious about the obvious. The two continued their conversations, but Y/N’s eyes were glued on John who was slumped over the counter with a bezzy in his hand. 

How she wished she could go over there and comfort the poor man. Even though another part of her was burning with a rage at the thought of her doing such. 

John turned over his shoulder, his eyes blank but still had a spark in them that flickered as soon as he met Y/N’s gaze. The two held their gazes for a minute, before Johns lowly turned away. 

Overcome with a strange urge that ate at her like a rabid dog, she surged up from her seat mid-conversation and went over to John. 

“Hey,” she crooned softly, placing her hand on his back. “You okay? Well, obviously not, but I-”

“Yeah. Yeah …” He looked up at her, turning to face her fully. His eyes glanced around the room for a moment, and then he took Y/N’s hands in his. 

“Can you please come over one last time tonight?” He suddenly blurted out. “I … I need you. I need to talk to you. It’s not urgent or anything, I just- I just gotta-”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure. Of course. Um. When, exactly?”

“Whenever you want. I’ll wait for you as long as I have to.” 

“... O- Okay. That’s sound.”

“Great.” John’s lips curled into a little smile, his eyes flicked down to Y/N’s lips for a brief moment, and his eyes suddenly turned desperate. “Wait. No. As a matter o’ fact,” He suddenly surged to his feet, his eyes suddenly burning with a strange kind of desperation. “Come with me now.”

“But I-”

“Please, Y/N. I really, really want you- Need you.”

“Pardon?”

“I mean! I- i mean I want to talk- Fuckin’ hell, my mind is all fucked right now, I- I just really want to spend some time with you again. I- I want to talk to you. I have things I need to say, like …”

“Like?”

“... I’ll- I’ll only tell you if you come with me.”

“But John, I’m here with my friend.”

“Tell her you’ll see her later. Or would you like me to tell her myself?”

“No, I- I’ll tell her.”

“Sound.” John suddenly began to drag Y/N out of the pub after he tossed his pocket change on the bar, Y/N barely being able to tell her friend goodby as she was dragged out the door. John didn’t turn back, he walked with a raging determination and his grip remained strong as he thundered to the complex. Once they got there, John swung the door open and ushered Y/N in.

“John, what-”

John immediately cut her off, and grabbed her by the waist and pulled her to him. “Y/N,” He rasped, “Please. Please, tell me you feel it too.”

“What are you talking about-”

“YOU … You know what I’m talking about. How clear do I have to make it to tell you that I need you? That I love you?” John’s eyes widened a bit, and he leaned a bit closer. “Please … Please just tell me. This is eatin’ at me like a fuckin’ dog, Y/N.”

John’s hands snaked up to cup Y/N’s face, forcing her to keep his gaze. “Please. Don’t push me away like you did last time.” 

Y/N took a shoddy breath, the two silent and just staring at each other. John’s breathing suddenly began to spike, and he abruptly ducked down and roughly pressed his lips against Y/N’s in a desperate, pent-up kiss. Y/N let out a soft squeak in the kiss, her hands coming up to grasp at his shoulders … but she didn’t push back. 

She found herself easing into the kiss that increasingly grew more and more passionate after each affarming second went by. John only broke the kiss briefly just to murmur. “So do you love me, Y/N?”

“… Mhm …” 

“Hm?” 

“Yes! …”

John chuckled and pressed his lips back against Y/N’s, his body starting to get too hot to wear the leather jacket he had on. He awkwardly jerked it off of him, letting it fall onto the floor without a single care. All he could focus on was Y/N right now.

God; how he prayed for this moment to come. 

But then a soft knock came at the door. John’s head snapped at the door with both annoyance and confusion. “… Wait here. Don’t go anywhere.”

He backed up from Y/N doing a “stay” motion with his hands, then walked up to the door and looked through the peephole. 

…

“Paul?”

———————————————————————

[katiebuggg]

a year js ran down my leg xxx

"Sure Ain't Sweet"

grungy john lennon 2000s au x reader

CHAPTER TWO

Y/N didn’t really want to speak. She was unconsciously biting her lip, her eyes wide and raking over John to take in every single detail. She took a sharp inhale in, for the first time Y/N saw John as something more than just a no-good jackass who can’t do anything but be a nuisance, but a man. A fine one at that. 

Wait a minute.

What the hell was she thinking! This was all part of his stupid plan, and she was falling for it! Hah! A fine one? Yeah right. She immediately rose up from the couch, nervously swallowing and then she furrowed her eyebrows. 

“Ridiculous.” She gritted. “You looked like a total knob.” 

Y/N nervously tousled with her hair, averting her gaze. She let out a dry laugh, and she started walking to the door. 

“Yeah. I sure am impressed, you managed to look even more bonkers than I could have ever imagined. Bloody good job”

She laughed sarcastically, but her movements and voice were janky and shaky. 

“Good night to you boys.” 

She opened the door and walked out, and as soon as she shut the door she let out a harsh breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her stomach was still fluttering, and her hands were getting progressively clammy. Her legs were wobbly, and she almost felt as if she was gonna throw up. All over that bloody bastard, John fuckin’ Lennon!

It wouldn’t leave her mind, the way he sang each line, the way his fingers danced over the strings of his guitar with such expertise, the way he moved his body in tandon with the lyrics, how his hips rolled against his mic stand, God help us all!

Of all bastards Y/N was feeling fickle about, it just had to be the one man she hated the most. She battled with her inner thoughts as she silently walked back downstairs to her apartment, her chest still heaving and his hands still clenched. 

It’s a natural, human reaction. I was only reacting to the way he was acting. I can’t blame myself. Did you see the way he was moving and looking at me? Any woman would be weak! This feeling will surely subside. There’s nothing more to it than a normal reaction … I hope.

—--------------

6:15AM

The morning came, and Y/N was totally restless the entire night. 

And this time, it wasn’t because of the noise. 

Nonetheless, it didn’t matter. Like she said, this feeling will fade out in time. Laying in bed wallowing in it wasn’t gonna help either, so she forced herself to get up and get herself ready for the day since she was already up. Better early than never, I suppose.

She groggily got out of bed, letting out a groan as she rubbed her eyes. Once she set her hands down, she blankly stared at the wall for a moment, letting herself register and come off her sleepy high. For a moment, it was peaceful. Her mind was blissfully blank and fuzzy, and she didn’t have a care in the world for that short amount of time.

 But that same thought she battled all night began to fester again, the memory as clear as a camera recording of last night with a pink, pretty haze. 

That face, that gaze … it haunted Y/N like phantom. Letting out another, this time much more agitated groan, she shot up from her bed and hurried to the bathroom to freshen herself up. Maybe if she washed up, she’d wash away the memories too. 

But even as she stood at the sink and stared at herself heaving and distressed, she swore she could see those same hands wrap around her waist, and that flushed, passionate face resting on her shoulder. She could hear that … that GRATING voice whisper “Relax, Y/N. What’s got you so worked up?” with his lips softly brushing against her ear. 

She let out an irritated growl, as she frantically shook her head to shake off whatever it was that was coming over her. She looked back up in the mirror, and took a deep, controlled breath.

Relax, Y/N. The more attention I give him- IT … The more attention I give IT, the worse it’ll get. Just let it go!

She mumbled affirmations to herself, still taking deep breaths to ground herself again 

Once she slowly opened her eyes, she finally began to wash her face and brush her teeth. She stepped out of the bathroom, wiping off her mouth with a dingy little rag and made her way to the kitchen. 

Knock-knock-knock!

… Uhhh, it’s like, 6:30. Who the hell would be knocking at her door at this time? Y/N set down the rag on the counter, and called out. “Coming!”

When she opened the door–

SLAM!

JOHN FUCKIN’ LENNON. What in the bloody hell was John doing at her doorstep at this hour?!

“Huh! Good morning to you too, Y/N!” John called, chuckling a bit. “Relax, I’m not here to antagonize you or piss you off. I got something for you. Forgot to give it to you last night.”

“I don’t want shit from you! Buzz off, John!”

“Y/N, come on. Just open the door. You think I’m gonna rip your head off or somethin’? I don’t bite … unless you ask me to.” John blurted out a chuckle and his risque joke, but then immediately bit his lip to hold it back.

“What- What the hell are you talking about?! Wha … God.” She cracked open the door, peering through it with a scowl. Her eyes flicked down to what was in John’s hand … her walkman! She’s been looking for that! She swung open the door, looking up at John with a shocked expression. “Where’d you find this?”

“You left it at the park. Guess I was so deep in your mind that you forgot it, am I right?"

He raised his eyebrows and smirked, handing her the walkman. Y/N snatched it out his hands, letting out a stubborn huff.

 “Uhm ... Uhh ... Thanks, I guess.” She reluctantly forced out. “Sorry” and “thank you” were two things that Y/N dreaded saying to John. He doesn’t deserve her thanks, and she shouldn’t have to ask for his forgiveness! But I guess today was one of those rare times where she was willing to. She couldn’t live without her walkman, after all. 

“Yeah, yeah– You know, Y/N. I wanna talk to you.” John shifted his position, and looked both ways down the empty hall. “Can I come inside?” 

“Absolutely not! Go back to your-”

“Aw, come on, Y/N. Don’t be like that. I let you in mine.”

“I didn’t WANT to go in there, you and Paul made me.”

“Made you? No, love, you came in with your free own will. I said you’re free to leave anytime you-”

“FINE, FINE! ... Just ... Fine, come in. But you got 5 minutes. I don’t want you … you infecting my place with whatever you got going on. Go sit down on the couch, and don’t touch anything.”

“Yeah, yeah.” John chuckled, as he followed Y/N into her apartment. It was very simple, some would say boring even, but what caught John’s eye was the scattered CD’s on her coffee stand. Radiohead, Linkin Park, Arctic Monkeys … and these all looked pretty new. He thought Y/N said she didn’t like that kind of music! His eyes flicked up to Y/N who was pouring herself a cup of coffee with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided smile. 

“Aye, Y/N. What music did you say you liked again?”

“Why?”

“Just wanna know why you hate my sound so much.”

“Because your kind of music is just noise. I like real music, like– Wait, what are you doing over there?”

She quickly left the kitchen and went into the living room, her eyes immediately drawn to the Radiohead CD in his hand. Her face immediately flushed, and she snatched it out of his hand. 

“I said don’t touch anything!” She gathered the rest of the CD’s and dumped them in a cardboard box next to her TV. She immediately turned around to scowl at John, who was heartily laughing.

“Just noise, huh Y/N?” He taunted, raising his eyebrows. “Seems to me you like that kind of noise!” 

“Shut up! Those … Those are for my friend Marge. She likes those bands. I don’t.”

“Then why’d you put them over there with your other ones?”

“... Because you’re- Because- Shut up! Just get- What did you want to talk about, John?!”

“How’d I do?”

Y/N’s expression fell, and she sharply inhaled. That whole entire night came flooding back into her head, and she felt her cheeks start to burn. She immediately turned away and put her hands on her hips, clearing her throat. “... You- You looked like a knobhead.” She murmured.

“A-what?”

“A KNOBHEAD!” 

John raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Yeah, what’s new? You said that already.”

"Tell me how I did, Y/N. To me, it seemed like I made quite an impression on you. I remember you staring at me with your eyes all wide and your jaw dropped, you were all flushed and fickle. Don’t think I didn’t notice that. I saw you.” 

John walked around the coffee table to where Y/N stood, her gaze immediately dropping to her feet.

 “I wanna hear your thoughts.” He lowered his voice to more of a whisper, and leaned down a bit to try and meet Y/N’s gaze. “Don’t get shy on me now, you’re always so loud and fussy with me. What’s happening now?”

Y/N stayed silent, his breathing ragged and her heart thundering in her chest. She clenched and unclenched her hands, and her mouth suddenly ran dry. “Um,” Y/N awkwardly started. “... I don’t know. I-”

“You?”

“SHUT UP! I’m- I’m trying to think!” She looked up at John with a scowl, but her expression immediately fell when she took in his gaze. Though his facial expression was calm, his eyes were bordering on smoldering. Y/N immediately choked on her words, and her face flushed again. John’s lips curled into a smirk, narrowing his eyes as he took in Y/N’s flustered state.

“Mm. That’s what I thought,” He straightened up and took a few steps back, his smirk growing wider. 

Pardon? You thought what??? What does THAT mean?!

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you around Y/N.” He chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked over to the door.

“You know, you should come over again sometime. Just us. I’d love to have you.”

And with that, he opened the door and walked out, the soft click of the door being the punctuation mark. Y/N just stood there frozen, the room now feeling much emptier and much ... much too quiet.

What the hell just happened?

-----------------------------------------------------------------

thank you for the support on chapter one! ^.^

again, made with @katiebuggg in mind, check out her absolutely AWESOME SAUCE fanfic!!

[katiebuggg]

BUSSSAAAAANUTTTTTTTTTTTTT

“Sure Ain’t Sweet.”

grungy john lennon in the 2000s au x reader

( for my beautiful @katiebuggg )

CHAPTER ONE

It was a cloudy afternoon in Liverpool, nothing less than the average. Despite the notorious ragtag teenagers running around with their skateboards and getting chased off of the statues in the St. Johns Gardens by the bizz, there was no real disturbance in the gentle serenity within the atmosphere. Sitting on a bench not too far where those kids got shooed off of, sat Y/N. In her hand, was her walkman and her headphones. She watched curiously as the bizzies shouted and threateningly raised their batons at the cackling kids as they chased them out the park. Nothing too new to Y/N, but it never really got old. She put her headphones on, and adjusted her turtleneck to sit more comfortably on her neck before starting up the music. She rocked her head a bit to the music as she rummaged in her dark brown leather bag that complimented her dark brown turtleneck, the faint sound of an electric guitar faintly being heard by those who passed her by. She pulled out a small journal with a leather covering, and her fountain pen. When she opened her journal to an empty page, she tapped her chin curiously with the pen, thinking about what, or how she should write. 

Her eyes flicked up and what immediately caught her eye was a man at the entrance walking in with his friend, a cigarette pressed between his lips as he let out a billowing cloud of smoke. He had a somewhat tight black mock turtleneck with a black leather jacket and matching black pants held up with a modest silver studded black belt, his hair shaggily cut and his eyes lined with a faint black eyeliner that accentuated his grungy appearance. On his left hand he had a silver band ring on his middle finger, and on his right wrist he had a black crocheted bracelet that had a silver charm tied into it. This man lived right above Y/N’s apartment, and she’s spent many of her sleepless nights listening to his curses and banter with his shoddy, ragged band and those grating guitar riffs that she swore would blow out her eardrums. She stormed up to his apartment several times to give him a piece of her mind and tell him to belt up and knock it off, but it only seemed to make the situation worse. It was almost as if it was intentional at this point. Just plain foolish. She prayed to God that he wouldn’t utter a word to her, that he’d walk right past her with his head turned the completely other direction, even though the path he walked led right up to the front of her little bench. Life just couldn’t let up that easy, right? Her eyes flicked up for just a moment, only to be greeted with that infuriating smirk that he always plastered on his face whenever Y/N was around. “Lovely day, isn’t it Y/N?” His tone was bordering taunting, and he bit his lip as if he was holding back a chuckle at the sight of Y/N’s eyebrows furrowing already. “You seem peachy.”

“Belt up and piss off, John.” Y/N gritted out, her eyes flicking up and down at him with a pissy expression. “Leave me alone.”

“Gosh,Y/N. Are you always this grumpy? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile since I met you.” He playfully said.

“What is there to smile about when all you do is set me off? Look at you, you’re bloody smirkin’ like a jackass!” Y/N pointed up at him, causing John to finally let out the chuckle he’d been suppressing all this time. “Relax a bit, yeah? I can’t be happy to see my favorite gal in all of Liverpool?” John took a step closer to lean down to get in Y/N’s personal space, which she clearly didn’t appreciate.

“Oh, come off it John!” She then rose to her feet, letting out a scoff. John also rose up, his height imposing over her. He stared down at her with a playful look of disdain, and raised a brow. “Oh ho, you’re getting bad now eh? You almost look as if you wanna hit me!” He tapped his cheek as if he was saying “go on, do it!” His friend, who’d been watching this whole time snickering, placed a hand on John’s shoulder. “Don’t push her too far, she just might. Although I doubt it’d hurt much with those baby hands of hers.” John snickered at his friend's comment, this side banter only irritated Y/N more than she already was. “Shut it, Paul! I swear, you two are no better than bloody children!” 

Y/N grabbed her bag and roughly swung in onto her shoulder. “Paul, John, good day to you! I’m going home.” She whirled around and began to storm off, but of course John had to get his last two cents in. “Uh, love. the complex is that way.” He pointed behind him, both him and Paul starting to enter a chuckling fit that grated on Y/N’s ears. “I... I don’t care, I’m taking the long way! Anything to get the hell away from you bastards.” She called out from over her shoulder, even though her face flushed a bit from the embarrassment. She didn’t really mean to go this way, but she was so irritated that she wasn’t thinking straight. John and Paul still snickered and made taunting comments at Y/N’s expense as she walked away, and it took everything for her not to snap on them again. But no! Today, she was the bigger person. She stepped away, and didn’t let them spur her about and get what they so desired. But it wasn’t so much this interaction she had with them today, but the fact she’d have to deal with them later. It was a whole other thing with those two during the night. They were the reason why Y/N barely slept at night, her performance at work was starting to teeter, and her usually bright face started to get tainted by her worsening eye bags. Every day she missed her life before she moved into that damned apartment complex. 

A few hours passed, and Y/N was sitting on her beat up leather couch flicking through the TV channels. Nothing really good was on, and in all honesty Y/N’s mind was completely elsewhere right now. John had pissed her off so badly today that she was just sitting in silence. At first, it was serene. She didn’t mind the silence, usually John and Paul and their annoying jackass bandmates would ruin the entire night with their racket but it seemed that tonight Y/N was spared … or so she thought. 

“A-one, a-two, a-five, six, seven, eight!” Like a revving motorcycle, the sound of that blasted guitar, although muffled, blasted from above, snapping Y/N out of her reverie. She jolted up from the couch, looking up and just imagining how stupid they looked up there. Stomping around like bumbling elephants, thrashing their heads like they were dedicated to make them roll off their heads, even the thought of that prickled underneath Y/N’s skin. “Bloody fuckin’ hell!” She hissed, as she whirled to the entry and swung open the door, not even bothering to put on her slippers as she stormed upstairs. Once Y/N made it up, she pounded her fist on the door with all her strength. Of course, there wasn’t any answer. All she heard was singing (if you could even call it that …) and the sloppy racket of the instruments. “John!” She yelled, slamming on the door again “You bloody bastard- JOHN!”

“Hold on, hold on! …  My favorite visitor finally came to commend us.” Y/N heard John say from the other side of the door, followed by the snickers of the other bandmates. “That’s sound.” Paul uselessly chimed in. John finally opened the door, that smirk Y/N hated more than anything already plastered on his face. “Hello, Y/N. Came to get a better listen?” John teased as he leaned against the doorframe.

“Hell no!” Y/N snapped, furrowing her eyebrows as she glared into John’s taunting eyes. “I’m here to tell you to BELT UP! It’s 11pm, people have work and the kids have school! Do you care about anyone else about yourself?!” John chuckled, turning away to shake his head. “I care about you. Why else do you think I play loud enough for you to hear-“

“Come off it!” She quickly bit out, her chest heaving. The two stared at each other for a moment, John contrasting Y/N’s heated gaze with total, taunting indifference. Y/N let out a sigh and broke away from John’s gaze. She fidgeted with her fingers, the silence giving her time to collect her thoughts. However, John spoke first.

“Y/N, why don’t you come inside?”

“What?!”

“Come inside. Listen to us play. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” John’s voice was a lot softer now, and it was quite unsettling and caught Y/N completely off guard. She blinked in surprise, her mouth hung open to try and formulate some sort of response but she just couldn’t seem to do so.

“Is that a yes?” John reached his hand out, but immediately Y/N pushed it away. 

“Wh- No! It’s a cold, hard no!” I wouldn’t ever step into that shithole you call a-”

“Ohhh, oh. Come on now. No need to be so rude, Y/N.” He crooned, coming off of the doorframe and took a step closer.

“It’s clear that our relationship here is all jarg, I am simply wishing to fix it!” John’s eye flicked up and down Y/N, raising his eyebrows in an inviting gesture. “There is nothing to fix.” She gritted, furrowing her eyebrows and pursed her lips tightly. “You’re just a jackass, and you know it. I want nothing to do with you, I can’t STAND you.”

“I know.” John chuckled, bridling his head just a bit as he shifted his standing position. 

“All the more reason to learn about one another. Maybe you’ll find that I’m not as unbearable as you think- Actually, I’m curious, what exactly makes me so unbearable to you? It can’t just be because I’m a “bloody jackass.” What else is there?” John leaned a bit closer, and Y/N immediately recoiled back. “That’s just it! You’re a jackass! You’re sitting here fussing at me while you have your friends sitting there starin’ and waitin’ on you!”

“I don’t see why that’s an issue. You have every opportunity to go and leave, Y/N-”

“Shut the hell up! That’s not the damn point, the point is that you’re so insistent on getting me bloody riled up-”

“Hush, hush. Now you’re the one who’s getting all loud, not me. All I did was talk to you and invite you in, and you got all hot and bothered.”

John took in a deep breath and leaned back up to his full height, looking down at Y/N and raised his eyebrows again as if he was saying “gotcha!” Y/N was silent now, completely speechless. Yeah, sure. Whatever. She knew he was right, but of course she’d rather die than admit that. She let out an annoyed huff and turned away, putting her hands on her hips.

“Tell me I’m right. I’m sound as a polished pound. Go on!”

“Shut up, John.”

“Uh huh …” He looked over his shoulder, exchanging knowing glances with the other three inside who watched silently with wide eyes and faint unconscious smiles on their faces.

“Aye, Y/N,” Paul, who walked up behind John, started. He tilted his head, acknowledging both Y/N and John as he spoke. “Are you going to come in, or are you gonna go home missin’ your belooooved-”

“Oh god. Will you stop it, Paul? Stop!” Y/N belted out, before quickly quieting herself. “Fine. I’ll come in. Only because I know both of you won’t let it go until I do. Mo- Move out of the way.”

“As you wish, your highness.” John stepped out the way and made a grandiose gesture as she walked in that only pissed Y/N off even more. He and Paul bumped fists, and turned around to grab his guitar that was leaning on the wall.

 The apartment was an odd mix of both messy but clean. There were a lot of discarded things on the floor, game cartridges for John’s Gamecube, energy drink cans, and other clutter forms of clutter. There was a lot of wall decor, a dart board on the opposite wall from her (which several missing darts were pierced in the wall and only few actually hit the target), an old clock tick-tocking on her left, and behind her were a bunch of framed pictures of little moments in John’s life and cheap paintings he probably bought from the store or inherited. In the corner of the room, there was a bean bag where one of the bandmates sat and tuned his guitar. The couch, coffee table, and end table were all awkwardly pushed out to make room for him and the band to play, and Y/N wondered why they couldn’t have just rented out a studio room to do all of this in. 

John strode over to Y/N, playing a small riff. “I pray I’ll be able to impress you, my lovely Y/N. CLEARLY you’re a very hard woman to please.” She was going to say something, but she was immediately cut off. 

“A-one! A-two! A-five, six, seven, eight!” The band erupted into their song, and Y/N immediately covered her ears. The amps and speakers blared unforgivingly and the beat of the song painfully thrummed in her eardrums. She shut her eyes, and she was barely able to open them because of just how overbearing it was. But slowly, Y/N started to get used to it. Her hands slowly trailed down, now placed on her lap. 

Her eyes still twitched and winced at the higher pitches of the song, but for some reason … this didn’t sound like the brainless noise she heard almost every night before this one. The passion could be felt in each strum of the bass and guitar, beating of the drum, cry of the voice, it all came together in a beautiful way that Y/N really didn’t want to acknowledge. 

She was supposed to hate everything about this. In fact, this entire genre of this unapologetically nasty, punk rock sound was on a completely different spectrum from what Y/N was used to. Especially with the innuendos that oozed from almost each lyric. But what Y/N couldn't seem to break away from was John himself. He was very animated as he sang and played, his movements exaggerated and even somewhat salacious at times, and it was very clear that he wasn’t ashamed of it at all. 

In fact, it was obviously intentional just to gauge a reaction from Y/N, his eyes flicking over to her from time to time every time he said something or did something a bit raunchy. Reluctantly, Y/N’s face started to flush just a bit. When the song came to a close around 4 minutes later, the room was dead silent aside from the panting and heaving from the band. John and Y/N held a very intense gaze, charged with a festering tension. Wiping a bit of the sweat from his forehead, the corner of his mouth curled into a knowing smirk. “How’d I do, Y/N?”

[katiebuggg]

write a fanfiction about John Lennon dropping his pants

look up john lennon dropping dead bc he got shot with a .38 special revolver

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary - Chapter 2

---

thank you to @yesitisbea / @treeeeesurfer for her contributions to this fic! go check her out. enjoy!

(as well as my lovely irl @loveinthevein )

i’ve made a Pinterest board for the the aesthetic and fashion referenced in this fic! enjoy!

https://pin.it/6ex4yUxDf

---

Days turned into weeks and you found yourself in a natural flow of things. You get used to the similar pattern of paperwork, note-taking and whispers of conversation between you and Paul. 

He only ever talked to you in passing, barking a quick order at you to grab lunch or to make a call. You always complied quietly, nodding in return. The last thing you needed was to get in trouble at work. 

John and the others file in and out of the office regularly. Most of the time, they didn't bother to even acknowledge your existence. They just swiftly stepped into Paul's office, usually holding a mess of papers that needed “urgent” attention.

John, however, never shied away from a quick smile your way each time he slid into the waiting room. Sometimes he’d even ask you about your day, making quick conversation to fill the quiet office space. He was nice enough, you thought. 

A Wednesday morning (similar to the rest), started off with you typing away on the loud clacky typewriter, pushing the slide over with every new line. Thin beads of rain raced down the long windows outside. A thick blanket of heavy clouds covered any sunlight that tried to peek into the waiting room, making the already dull space even darker. You yawn and crack your neck, trying to wake yourself up. 

The phone rings loudly and you swiftly pick it up. You wedge the receiver in between your shoulder and ear as you continue typing. 

“Hello this is Paul McCartney’s office. How can I help you?” you begin. 

“Good Morning, I was looking to set a meeting with Mr. McCartney for 8 today. This is Epstein.” 

You pause in your typing and blink down at your hands. He’s the CEO, if you’ve remembered correctly. You slide your notepad over and scribble down ‘Epstein at 8’. 

“Of course sir, he’ll see you then.” 

“Thank you.” 

Click. 

You place the receiver back onto the phone and poke your head into Paul’s office. He glances over at the sound of his door opening. 

You offer a small smile and he blinks in return, dragging a long breath from his cigarette. 

“You’ve got a meeting at 8 with Mr. Epstein, sir.”  

Paul lets out a sigh, the smoke pooling from his lips. He stands and gathers a small pile of paper, tapping them on the desk before sliding them into a manila folder. 

He snubbed the cigarette in a crystal ashtray and tucks the folder under his arm. 

“He almost never takes meetings this early in the morning.” Paul says casually as he walks around his desk. You shrug and pull away from the door, slipping back behind your desk. 

Paul nods to you as he leaves the office. You smile in return before promptly continuing your typing. 

30 minutes pass. 

Then an hour. 

By 9:02, you’ve wrapped up your morning papers. You file them away in the cabinet close to your desk. 

Finally, you have a moment to breathe. You relax into your chair and sip graciously on your, still warm, coffee. 

It’s quiet in the office. 

The silence is suddenly broken when the door to the waiting room is thrown open. In the doorway stands Mr. McCartney, eyes ablaze, looking straight at you. 

You nearly choke on your coffee as you meet his eyes.

“How was the meeting-” 

“You didn't specify a time, did you?” Paul quickly cuts you off, venom coating his words.

Hiis breathing is labored and his eyes don'tdon't leave you for a second. It was abundantly clear that he was upset. More than upset. He was furious. 

Your mouth was agape as you scraped your mind for details of the brief call with Epstein earlier that morning. 

You felt yourself shift uncomfortably under your seat, switching your legs to cross over each other. You nervously tighten your grip on your coffee cup. The liquid inside now felt cold.

Paul waited in the doorway for you to answer. Gaze unwavering.

You looked anywhere but at him, avoiding even the slightest glimpse at his direction. You opened your mouth to speak, but only anxious sputters came out.

“ Well- uh.” 

“No. The answer is no. You didn’t.”

The air is thick and feels unbreathable. Paul takes long, heavy strides across the dark waiting room. He’s clutching a manila folder tightly. 

He throws the thin folder into your lap. It opens and papers fly onto the floor. You look at them as they flutter to the floor sporadically. 

Paul’s hands meet the cold surface of your desk, palms pressed flat against the wood. His tense body looms over you and you can feel the heat of his heavy breaths. Paul’s face nears yours. 

You can do nothing but stare back at him, frozen. 

But not in fear, oddly enough. 

“Y/N, revise this for me,” Paul’s voice fell to a soft, honeyed whisper in your closeness.

It held no kindness.It made you shudder, and almost recoil back. 

However, as if Paul had his own magnetic force, you felt yourself draw closer to him.

“Y/N.” He snarled, slamming his palm on the table.

You flinch back into consciousness at the loud sound.

 “Revise this.” He repeats, anger dripping from his tongue. “Show me exactly where you specified the time.” 

You frantically scooped up the papers and shuffled through each one, looking desperately for something that you innately knew you wouldn't find. Your eyes grazed quickly over the papers. 

You sputtered out “I swear it was here!” and pleaded to yourself for it to randomly show up like a miracle. 

You glanced up at him, praying that his gaze would soften just a bit. 

But no, his gaze was absolutely suffocating.

You could tell his patience was wearing thin, like he wanted to grab your shoulder and shake you, but he kept his calm. He held on to whatever modicum he had, taking deep, controlled breaths. 

“Can you find it?” His voice was still soft, but taunting. 

The softness in his voice made you squeeze your crossed legs as your shoulders dropped in defeat. You felt your eyes get hot and you stayed staring at the assortment of scattered papers. 

You shake your head in defeat. 

An exasperated chuckle left Paul as he raked a hand through his dissolved hair. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.” He muttered low, seemingly to himself but loud enough for you to hear. 

“I wasted away my morning in an empty conference room. Do you know the shit I could’ve finished up in that hour I was sitting on my ass?” His voice raised an octave as he spoke. You felt his gaze still bore into your skull. 

You didn’t return his gaze. 

A moment of tense silence droned by. You didn’t breathe. 

“Look at me.” it wasn’t a request. 

You muster up the courage to drag your eyes to meet his. 

“You will stay here until 8pm tonight. The time that the meeting actually is. You won’t leave until I do. Is that understood?” 

You choke on your own words. Your jaw hangs slack. You blink up at him with glossy eyes. Paul’s gaze hardens despite your state. A muscle flexes in his jaw.

Does he.. like this?

“Is that. Understood.” 

“Yes-“ You say quickly.

“Yes, what?” 

“Yes sir.” 

He nods and lifts his hands off the table.

“I don’t want you leaving that desk until I dismiss you.” He says as he straightens out his lapel and tie. 

His pressuring gaze wouldn't leave for a second even as he rose up, which only served to make you feel even more scrutinized and some strange other feeling that either you couldn’t recognize … or just didn’t want to recognize. 

He glides over to his office door and pulls it open but he hesitates in the doorway. His gaze shifts from the floor back to you. 

“I hope you know,” he begins with a deep breath, “I will not hesitate to fire you. Don’t let this happen again.” 

With that, He closed the door behind him. The quiet whirl of the air conditioning was the only other sound in the waiting room. You press a hand to your burning cheek. 

Oh my god.

---

this fic is also posted on my ao3! (katie_bugggg)

[katiebuggg]

Temporary Secretary - Chapter 1

-

80’s Paul Mccartney x reader

—

New fic!! lmk how you guys like this one wink wink

thank you to @treeeeesurfer / @yesitisbea for her continued support and contributions to my fics!! pls go show her fics some love

this will also be posted on my ao3 (@katie_bugggg)

i’ve made a Pinterest board for the the aesthetic and fashion referenced in this fic! enjoy!

https://pin.it/6ex4yUxDf

—

After what has seemed like months of mindlessly picking up whatever job you stumbled across in the paper, you finally landed a secretary spot that paid more than the other shit jobs that only kept you a few months before their companies dissolved.

This spot was different as it was in advertising for a big record company. You’ve worked in advertising before but for a shit vacuum company that quickly went bankrupt because of issues regulating heat. It blew up and burnt someone’s house down. Messy way to go down.

You filed into the busy lobby of the New York office building, countless people clocking into whatever miscellaneous job they had.

You glance down at the ad read in the paper that you clutch tightly in your hand. Floor 17.

Like sardines, you squeeze into an elevator that shoots you and about ten other people up.

Eventually, you reach your floor and creep up to the front desk.

APPLE RECORDS

is what’s plastered on it. You introduce yourself to the woman sitting in front of her loud typewriter, explaining you’re the new hire and hope you could be guided on where to go. Her smile is friendly enough during your simple conversation. She nods and stands up from her seat, gesturing to you to walk with her.

Casual conversation grows between the two of you as she points out where everything is on the floor.

“Here is public relations, next to them you’ll find our accounting and finance, as well as data analytics. Oh and right down that hall is Creativity and Visuals.”

Her pace slows as she stops in front of a light wood door. On it, a gold plaque shines under the fluorescent lights. You squint to read the lettering.

Advertising Director

J. P. MCCARTNEY

“This is you!” She says cheerfully as she pushes the door open.

Inside, there’s a small waiting room and an empty, L-shaped desk facing outwards into the room in the further left corner. You assume that would be yours.

A set of 4 chairs line up along the wall adjacent to the desk. A taller potted plant is placed in another corner and a dull modern artwork hangs on the wall above the chairs.

There's another door on the other wall. This one is deeper in its shade of wood but still adornes the same gold plaque.

Large windows cover the wall behind the desk, casting a bright morning light into the waiting room.

“You should be all set up in here.” The receptionist says as she strolls over to the desk. You glance around at the items on it. A black typewriter (similar to hers) sits heavy in the middle alongside a notepad, a cup of pens and a filing cabinet.

You thank you and exchange pleasantries as you get comfortable in your new desk, setting your stuff down and pulling out the chair.

She opens the door to the hall but lingers in the doorway, hesitant. “Uh-“

You glance up, “Yes?”

“Mr. McCartney is-“ she pauses and looks around, seemingly looking for the right word as if it’ll pop up in the waiting room. “…difficult.” she lands on.

You raise an eyebrow and sit down in the chair.

“Keep a good head on your shoulders. Just do what he says.”

Her mouth stays open like she has more to say, but she’s hesitant once again. Her lips close as she decides against whatever she was thinking and gently pats the door frame, giving you a small smile before closing the door behind her.

Strange. You take note of this… warning?

You blink at the empty space around you. It’s very quiet.

You pull out a few of your personal belongings: a framed picture, a fountain pen, and a little cat figurine. It looks like your own cat, grey and stripped.

The warning the receptionist gave hangs heavy on your mind, leaving a thick blanket of anxiety over you. You knew you’d have to introduce yourself to your new boss so you swallow the score lump in your throat and walk over to the mahogany door.

Face to face with the name plate,

MCCARTNEY

you reread.

You roll three low knocks onto the door, the sound being jarring in the painfully quiet waiting room.

A few seconds go by and you hear the quiet shifting of papers and the creaking of a chair beyond the door.

“Come on in,” a voice echoed. The accent caught you off guard at first, however it was not unusual in the mixing-pot that was New York. But still, surprising.

You grabbed the cold handle and pushed the door open. You took in the space around you as you stepped in.

The office space was simple. Large windows stretch from ceiling to floor on one wall, allowing large streams of morning light to pool inside the office.

On the wall Adjacent to the windows, there were framed photos of older advertising posters and LP’s, framed as well.

In the middle of the room sat a large, heavy dark wood desk with two leather seats placed in front of it.

On the desk sat another large typewriter. His was dark green and shiny, much more expensive looking. A desk lamp shined over the scattered papers he was shuffling through.

And behind the desk, sat Mr. McCartney. He was younger than what you had expected, hair still dark in color.

But you could tell he was still quite a bit older than you, subtle lines that rippled down from his cheeks was the only indicator of his age. You guessed around 15 years older — in his mid or late 30’s.

He sat tense in his large leather office chair, eyes never leaving the papers. He wore a simple black suit jacket, and a smooth white dress shirt with some sort-of patterned tie. He looked very put together.

You gulped.

“Good morning sir. I’m you’re new secretary, Y/N. I’m sure you’re already aware.” You say as confidently as possible, your voice bouncing off the quiet walls of the room.

Finally, he looks up from the papers andblinks at you. His eyes were soft and downturned, small crow-feet lines pull at the corners of them. He has long (almost feminine) eyelashes and highly arched eyebrows. His hair was a dark brunette, longer in style with short bangs and some length at the back of his neck.

Mr. McCartney’s eyes raked over you. Slowly, from head to toe. Your legs in the sheer black tights. A dress that fell just above the knee. Hair pulled back into a bun.

He gave a small nod, “G’ morning, then.” was all he said in return. His eyes snapped away from you and back onto the papers.

You blinked. Well, alright.

Awkwardly, you shuffled out of the office and back to your desk, tightly shutting the door behind you.

The day drags on, morning soon becoming midday. You find yourself doing miscellaneous tasks that Mr. McCartney asks you to do. Call this place or that person, schedule a meeting for this time, write down notes from these papers.

Around 11:30, the door to the waiting room opens and a man steps in. He looked to be around Mr. McCartney’s age, maybe a year or two older.

He was tall and fashioned a similar look to Mr. McCartney’s. His dress shirt and pants were brown however. He wore round, thin framed glasses and had shorter, wavy, light brown hair.

He held a large black portfolio tucked tightly under his arm and a mess of papers pressed to his chest.

The man blinked in surprise at you sitting at the desk in the waiting room. He snorted out a laugh.

“That didn’t take long.” He huffed under his breath, giving you a quick once over.

“Here to see Mr. McCartney, sir?” You ask politely, looking up at him.

“You can save it sweetheart, I’ll be two minutes.” the man said with a sly grin.

“John’s fine by the way. My job’s not nearly important enough to be called ‘sir’.” He laughed out the last part of the sentence before tugging the darker door open.

“Paul! How are ya!” Was all you heard before the door shut behind John.

Paul. You thought on the name. You’d doubt you’d get familiar enough with ‘Paul’ to ever call him that. But it was good to know since he didn’t even introduce himself.

You huff and fall back into the back of your chair, crossing your arms. What dicks they all seem to be here.

About 25 minutes passed before you were called into the office. You cracked the door open and peaked your head in.

John was stood over the desk, drawings spread across it. Paul sat relaxed into his large leather seat behind the desk.

“Yes?” You ask.

“Lunch please.” Paul said blankly, holding out a small piece of paper. A Post-It.

You felt your eye twitch at the impoliteness. But who were you to argue? This was your job after all. Simple as it was.

You strolled up and took the paper from his fingers. John’s eyes dragged over you once again, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You hold back a gag. God. men.

Nonetheless, you obliged and rang in an order of sandwiches from a bistro down the street so they’d be ready by the time you’d walked there. You snagged your purse and rushed out of the building.

You hadn’t been gone for more than 15 minutes, returning with two large brown bags of food. You pushed the dark door open and to your surprise, two more men had joined Paul and John. They all chatted loudly, strings of fluffy smoke surrounded them.

“You weren’t lyin’, John.” One said as you walked in, giving you the same eyes that John had earlier.

You gave an uncertain smile. The air felt thick.

Being the only woman in a room full of men like this feels like being a sheep circled by wolves.

You curled in on yourself slightly, refusing to make eye contact.

Gently, you place the bags down on Paul’s desk before hurriedly walking towards the door.

“Ah-!” Paul calls after you just as you tug on the handle. Ah fuck. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“Yes?” You say and plaster on the most pleasant smile you can muster.

“You see a room full of men, don’t you?” He says with that same blank tone. His eyes bore into you.

Your mouth goes dry — what does that even mean? Obviously you sees them.

The silence trickles on.

“Coffee.. jesus-“ he sighs and puts out his cigarette.

You don’t move.

“Coffee! Get the men coffee!” Paul lets out an annoyed laugh and throws his hands up a little, looking at his coworkers who all chuckle.

You nod, the smile quickly dropping from your face as you rush to the kitchenette. You wanted to disappear. Wanted a hole to open up under you and swallow you whole. If you’d known your boss would be a total asshole you wouldn’t have taken the job.

But alas, bills needed a-payin’.

A few minutes later, you return with four mugs. Your past waitress experience coming in handy. You place the mugs on the dark wood desk, still not making any eye contact with any of the four men that blow smoke around you.

“Thanks.” Paul grumbles out, as if it hurt him to be kind.

The shortest of them lets out a laugh and rolls his eyes. He has a larger nose and a thick mustache spread across his top lip.

“God Paul, it wouldn’t kill ya to be nice to the thing” He says and picks up a mug, eyeing you as he sipped it.

The one who appeared to be only a few years younger than the other three followed in suit, taking a generous swig of the coffee. “Rich is right.” He says simply.

He sucks a deep breath through his sharp teeth, “At least this one knows how to keep coffee hot!”

They all erupt in laughter; all besides Paul. His eyes still dig into you. You return the gaze, only for a second.

Something lingers behind his eyes. Something expectant; hungry, one could argue.

A chill creeps up the low of your back before you slip out of the office.

—-

[katiebuggg]

well yes

@katiebuggg

[katiebuggg]

i never reblog but this is national news

keep getting beatles biopic casting aftershocks. george harrison receding hairline. not my george. #notmygeorge

[katiebuggg]

mid

[katiebuggg]

THE WORDS - chapter seven, in which john and the quarrymen finally board the ferry.

AS ALWAYS, thank UUUUUU SM ICON @katiebuggg the bestest ‼️ everyone READ YRGAHOM 🙏

chapter 7:

it won’t be long (til i belong to you.)

“John Winston-“

“Lennon. Yeah, but Mimi, the amount I’m getting paid now, I can hardly afford my flat. The Hamburg rates I’ll be getting in two months is enough for me to buy my flat. Plus extra for, uh, food-“ I exaggerate with every part of my body, and she frowns, her eyes still fixed on the road.

“An education can provide you with a job that pays even better-“

“Mimi, I’m going. I have to see if this’ll work. Trial and error. Then I’ll become a teacher, or whatever I can do with an art degree, I will. If it doesn’t work out, I will.” I say softly, her eyes finally meeting mine as she parks the car. The sky is a soft grey, the midnight sun only just making way for the daytime one, which is blocked by thick and menacing English clouds.

“John, you need to be sensible on this trip. Do you understand-?”

“Of course, Mimi-“

“And look after the young ones. George and Paul.”

I chuckle softly, opening the door to open the boot, taking my case and swinging my arms while I hold it in my gloved hands, courtesy of Mimi, “Yes, Mimi.”

She stands up on her toes to hug me, “I mean it when I tell you to ‘be sensible-‘“

“I know ya do, Mimi-“

“Talk properly, John.”

I breathe in the 6-AM air as I look out at the docks, seeing a certain Stu running towards me, “Lennooooon! HAMBURG! PARTY, JA?”

I turn to Mimi, who holds back from saying anything about it, “Call me when you arrive, John. Be safe.”

I salute her, “Aye, aye, Mimi. G’bye.”

“Bye, John.”

As she drives off, I finally say, “Oh, this is gonna be great, lad.“

“You’re tellin’ me. Now, you didn’t tell her it’s in the red-light district, did you-?”

“I’m not fully insane, Stuart. She’d have stopped the ferry had I said that-“

“We’re old enough, aren’t we?” He says, that glimmer of mischief in his eyes.

I look into Stu’s eyes, and they lead me to his perfect lips. I can only see his face, his perfect face.

“Old enough.. Yeah..”

“Right,” he chuckles, “Well, c’mon, Pete’s here. Paul and George are on the way.“

When we make it to the right side of the docks, I see a tired and moody Mike wave Paul off, while his father places a hand on his shoulder, repeating that same phrase everyone’s been so caught up on, “Be sensible.”

I can’t seem to understand what makes us un-sensible. Is it travelling to Hamburg with a week's notice? Or just our way of being?

I see George’s mother beaming, albeit teary, “Oh, George, I’m so proud- You’ll call plenty, right?”

George nods, holding the scones she’s made him, “Yeah,” he croaks, clearing his throat, “Plenty.”

“You’ll keep him safe, lads-?”

George’s face flushes a shade of red, and Paul and I look to each other, reading each other like a book.

“Ms Harrison, we won’t let George out of our sight-“

“Safe? Of course! We’ll give him a curfew, and make sure he doesn’t talk to any strangers-“

“No strangers-“

“No, completely safe-“

Allan, who seems to appear out of thin air, placates her, “They’re being daft, your George’ll be in good care-“

“I know,” she smiles softly, George’s father’s hand on her shoulder comfortingly, “Oh, you’d better go now- if you’re bloody late, don’t blame me!”

George chuckles, “Ta-ra, Mam. See ya, Da.”

When all the parents drive off, Allan hands us our boarding passes, “Don’t lose them.” He seems to only look at me when he says it.

Paul nods seriously, before going into some kind of important conversation with Allan, Stu and Pete, of all people.

I look over to George, whose face is flushed and has a kind of pallor, “D’ya get seasick?”

“We’re on land, John-“

“Just makin’ conversation-“

He sniffles a bit, and my head whips around again, “Are you cryin’?”

“No, I’m not crying-“

“You’re ill?”

“Third time’s a charm. I reckon it’s just allergies.”

I don’t push, cause I know annoying him wouldn’t do any good, “You wanna smoke?”

”Yeah, sure.” I light the cigarette that hangs from his lips, and he takes a long, drawn out breath before coughing, “Aww, first time smoking? Or allergies?”

“Piss off, yeah?” He coughs again, harder and harsher, and Paul turns to put a hand on George’s back, “Could we take him to a doctor if he gets worse?”

“Uhh, well he’s-“

“I can’t, Paul. My paperwork’s illegitimate.”

“Let’s cross that bridge once we get there,” Allan says smoothly, “Anyroad, the ferry’s set for boarding, it seems-“

And suddenly, we’re watching the docks fade as the sea carries us along, “Ham-burg. Haaaamburg. Guten Abend, Hamburg. Es ist Nacht und-“

“Es ist morgen, George-“ We’re sat in the compartment which we are to share, all us five - Allan had waved us off with a stern, “Don’t be daft,” and we’d discovered he’d only booked us four beds.

The compartment is small, with bunks that give you little to no room. It’s a minor issue, because I know Hamburg’ll be lush.

About 15 quid a week, paid food and accommodation, and rock n roll, in all its glory, 24/7, 365 - the dream is only a few hours away.

It’s only George and I in the compartments now, the others going off to explore and play Black Jack with some other lads they’d found around our age. We both lie on our bunks and stare at the ceiling, both in comparatively miserable states.

I’m staying behind with George because of Stu, that bloody Stu. I can’t look him in the eyes, lest I think too much about his perfect lips and his perfect face and-

George coughs again, “What do you think Hamburg’ll be like?” He has this sort of wistfulness whenever he talks about Hamburg. If I wasn’t excited already, he’d be enough to make me.

“I think it’ll be a proper rock n roll spot- Like, Elvis kind o’ crowds. Not in size, but in intensity. They’ll scream for us- for you, they’d say, ’George! George, oh! Ich liebe-!’”

He doesn’t laugh the way he normally would at a ridiculous voice I put on, instead sighing deeply, “Y’know, I’ve never been away from home on my own, ‘cept hitchhiking with Paul.”

“Is Georgie scared, then-?”

“Sod off, Lennon.”

There’s a gentle silence, where we listen to the water and the chatter from outside.

There are footsteps in the hall that grow closer and closer, until the door slams open, revealing a tightly-wound Paul, “How’re you feelin’, George?”

“Alright. And yourself?”

“Fine, fine, yeah.”

Our eyes meet, and it’s as though Paul and I wordlessly communicate. As though we transcend all boundaries of human existence for a brief moment until we blink again.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Nothing, c’mon, let off- I’ll just have a read-“

“What book, then?” I peer over the edge of my top bunk, “Sugar For The Horse, Bates-“

“Any good-?”

“Haven’t read it, have I, Lennon-?”

I roll my eyes, “Be quick, I’m getting bored.”

“I’m boring?” George asks in mock-offense, “Not all of us can be interesting, lad-“

“Priiiiick.”

I close my eyes, listening to the ambiance of the ferry.

“If I sleep now, would one of yous wake me up when we get to Hamburg-?”

“George, if you’re asleep that long, it’s safe to assume you’re in a coma-“

“Right, well, wake me up from that then. Night, lads-“

Paul stand up from the bottom bunk beneath me, and puts his arms on the railing of my bunk, tilting his head as he looks at me, “Thank you. I wouldn’t be on a ferry to Hamburg if not for you. Not to be soft-“

“You’re being quite soft, though-“

“Oh, piss off- I’m being sincere!”

“Sincerely, you’re being rather soft-“

“Yeah, yeah.. Y’think George’ll make it to Hamburg?”

“No, but I’ve got another guitarist to take his place-“

“I’m not asleep yet!”

Paul and I laugh harder than what’s warranted, and harder than most would - Paul and I are more than anything I’ve ever been with anyone.

But Cynthia Powell’s face, her gorgeous face, flashes in my mind, and it’s as if Paul can tell exactly what I’m thinking; his smile seems to fade.

“Well, I’ll try get back to reading,” he disappears to the bunk below, and I frown, staring at the ceiling again.

There again is that silence, but it’s not comfortable anymore, rather gut wrenching. I feel wrong, I feel confused.

“Oh, and you’re most welcome, Paul-“

“Thank you, John. ‘M glad we do this little band thing together-“

“Was tellin’ George before how the girls’ll scream like they do for Elvis-“

“Christ, if that’s true, I may never go home-“

“Hey, now, what happened to being ‘sensible?’”

I hear a snort, “I’ll be sensible if you are.”

The way he speaks those words makes my heart soar for a reason I can’t quite express.

George turns to face me, his face flushed, “We’re going to Hamburg. Soon. Now-“

“Get some sleep, lad-“

“I’m trying to, McCartney-“

In a couple of hours, I’ll be in Hamburg. In Germany.

In the red light district playing rock n roll all day and all night.

It won’t be long til I belong to that world, til I really belong to rock n roll.

It’s as thought I’m surrendering my life to the one love I know will never die or falter or leave.

And what a life it’ll be.

[katiebuggg]

You Really Got a Hold on Me -- Chapter 5

-----

Thank you for the patience on this chapter! Going to try and get on a weekly upload schedule but dont bet on it!

SUPER SPECIAL THANK YOU TO THE ONE AND ONLY @yesitisbea for writing the dialogue for this chapter. SHES A SAINT AND AN AMAZING WRITER GO CHECK HER STUFF OUT

enjoy!

----

In the days following the eventful date, Y/N finds herself at a roadblock. With every spelling mistake and grammatical error she circles at work, with every cup of coffee she pours, and even with every stroke of her hairbrush, her mind seems to only want to linger back to John. She almost feels guilty for her inability to pull the image of John’s bloodied face from her head—the way he sat, dissolved and injured, on the rim of her bathtub. He looked like a stray dog to her, his eyes hungry and unreadable.

Despite her longing to, Y/N doesn't call John back. The worm in her ear, Nancy, got the best of her the morning after the impromptu date, along with a pounding headache. The memory of their kiss is fuzzy and distant, stained with a twinge of guilt and regret.

"He’s a bad influence," she repeats to herself when she finds herself staring at the quiet telephone. It stares back at her, cold and silent.

Y/N picks herself up from the couch she's sprawled across. It's a Wednesday night, and it’s as uneventful as they always are. She’s been reading a novel that Nancy recommended to her, Stranger in a Strange Land. Not her favorite. She sets the open book down and strolls over to the cold fireplace, cranking on the gas and throwing in a lit match. The fire gently roars awake, and Y/N melts in its warmth. Her skin and hair are wet from the shower she took fifteen minutes before, still donning her light green, towel-textured robe. She stares, crouched in front of the hissing fire, watching the flames whip and curl mesmerizingly over themselves. It snaps and pops, drowning out her still-rushing thoughts of John.

A set of quick, rhythmic knocks sound from her red front door, jolting her out of her daze. She rises from the fireplace and rubs her temples. Who could it be at this time of night? Probably Nancy wanting to go out and pub crawl again, or maybe she’s already drunk and needs a place to sleep it off. Wouldn’t be the first time. It seems silly to Y/N to change out of her robe if it’s only Nancy, so she unlocks the door.

"Yes?" Y/N says, eyes half-closed in her tiredness. She only pokes her head into the chilly night. However, to her utter shock, it isn’t Nancy who stands drunkenly on her front door's landing, but John. John Lennon, standing there in his stupid, tattered leather jacket, crossing his long legs as he leans against the wall next to the door. His smile is smug, but sheepishness pulls at the corners of his mouth beneath his confident facade. His hair is a shaggy mess of auburn waves, and the side of his cheek is still slightly bruised from when she last saw him.

Almost immediately, Y/N feels the blood rush to her whole face. She’s in nothing but her robe, the cold night biting at her bare legs. "Shite, John!" Y/N yells and pulls the door shut. She hears his foxy snickering through the thick door as she rushes upstairs. Y/N bursts into her bedroom and pulls on a pair of linen sleep pants before rushing back down the stairs, tugging the door back open. Face to face with John once more.

He glances her up and down, his eyes lingering on her bare collarbone, still slick with water from her hair. John takes it upon himself to stride into the flat like he’s been there before. Regrettably, Y/N remembers, he has.

"Let yourself in, then—"

Y/N pushes the door closed and locks it behind them. John saunters inside, glancing around at the warm interior. He looks between the worn sofa, the roaring fire, and the unwashed dishes in the sink. He turns back to Y/N, who’s standing with her arms crossed, still in front of the red door. John tucks his hands into the pockets of his fitted jeans. His eyes drag up and down her like they always do, and she clicks her tongue, rolling her eyes as if she wasn’t secretly thrilled he was standing in front of her.

His head drops and shakes with a low chuckle as he strolls back over to her, kicking his heels with each long stride. Like he’s some sort of cowboy. “Oh, c’mon love, don’t gimme that…” he says, barely more than a mumble.

She shakes her head, her face getting indisputably red. John inches closer to her, close enough to reach out and touch her, which he does. His rough, calloused fingertips brush against the towel-like texture of her robe. His hands lay comfortably on her hip. Her body doesn’t protest, but her mind is racing with thoughts of Nancy’s disapproval.

“Y/N, got all dressed up for me, did ya?” John mumbles, his eyes watching his own hand. His thumb rubs against the curve of her waist.

“Oh, give me a break. Surprised you even remembered my name.” Y/N pushes down her racing heart and fluttering stomach as she puts her hand over his, gently brushing it off. “Stop…” Y/N whispers, warning him not to start something she knows he’ll regret. Or worse, that she’ll regret. A guilt she’ll have to swallow every time she walks past Nancy.

“C’mon, I know you did,” John mumbles and doubles down, placing both of his large hands on her hip. He gently pulls her closer to himself, leaning over Y/N and dipping his head toward her neck. His breath lingers, smelling of cigarettes and cheap mint gum. His lips graze her wet skin, as if he’s waiting for a go-ahead, a green light.

Y/N lets out a soft sigh, her hands having a mind of their own as they tangle into his messy hair. She pushes his head gently down, letting his lips touch the sensitive skin of her neck and the beginnings of her shoulder. John groans gently, leaving vibrations against her skin, and he leaves gracious pecks across her neck.

“Lord, you’re infuriating…” she mumbles, letting her hands roll into fists around his hair. Y/N doesn’t let this last for long—her head simply won’t let her. Despite the aching her body feels, Y/N pulls away from John's clearly lustful embrace. A pit grows in her stomach, and she remembers that she’s not the only woman he’s doing this kind of stuff with. He’s probably been knocking on all sorts of doors tonight, seeing who’s weak enough to let him in.

“And you’re beautiful when you’re infuriated…” he whines toward her as she pulls away, leaving only one hand still hooked on her hips.

“John—” she sighs and rubs her temples again, a signature move of hers now. Y/N tries to be rational with herself, battling whether to throw him out into the cold or let him stay for just a moment longer. She knows what game he’s playing—and she can’t decide if she wants to be in it.

“Can I stay?” John pulls a hand through his choppy hair and lets out a small sigh, sensing by her face that he might not be as welcome as he originally thought.

“And do what?” Y/N practically scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. She meets his deep brown eyes, glossed over in the dim light of the entryway.

John shrugs innocently, glancing away from her stern gaze. His eyes suddenly become interested in her decor and space. John lets out a nervous exhale as he turns and walks back into the hallway.

“I almost forgot what your house looked like…”

“Well, you saw it all through a punched-up face…” Y/N lets out a pity laugh, arms still tightly woven across her half-bare chest.

He chuckles along with her, unaware of her pity. “Wasn’t that bad. I was just busy looking at you.” His back is still turned toward Y/N as he strolls down her hallway, glancing at the pictures lining the walls. She watches his back like she did when he was performing. The soft muscles shift with every stride he takes, filling out the leather jacket that might as well be molded onto John’s shoulders. Y/N never saw him without it—other than when he was bent over the edge of her bathtub, blubbering in pain like a baby.

“John, it’s late. You know I've got things to do tomorrow—” Y/N follows him like a fish to a lure into the hallway adjacent to her kitchen.

“Am I one of them—” His stride slows and he turns around to face her, his hands sliding back into the front pockets of his jeans. His own flirtatious comment makes him chuckle. John’s antics remind Y/N of the hot fire she stood in front of only a few minutes earlier. She’s drawn to the heat.

“John!” Y/N groans, face flushed with embarrassment. Her hands shove into her face, covering her red cheeks. “Oh, you really must go—” She says and begins to walk away from him, toward her open kitchen, unable to stand in front of his hard gaze.

“Why, oh, why must you be so cruel to turn me away?” John echoes to her as the distance between them grows. She tries to distract herself as her mind races. It hasn't stopped since she cracked open the door and saw John standing there. Her palms sweat as she pulls out a box of tea bags and cranks the gas stove on, dragging over the kettle from her drying rack and placing it over the lit flame.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Get me a Guinness—”

Y/N scoffs, almost laughing at his bluntness. “Do I look like a barmaid to you? I’m making you a cuppa—”

By now, John is leaning against the counter closest to the phone perched on the wall. “Should suffice.”

The bickering and conversation fade to silence as Y/N makes the tea. The quiet echo of quick music drifts from outside Y/N’s street. John taps his foot to an almost silent beat. He hums. He must know every song under the sun, Y/N thinks to herself as she pours the boiling hot water into a chipped mug. She mixes in a teaspoon of honey and gently stirs it as she hands it to John. Soft plumes of steam rise from the mug, warming John’s face and hands as he tightly cups it in his palms. He takes a gracious sip of the light golden liquid, letting it heat his throat. Y/N pours herself a cup as well, mixing a more generous amount of honey into her frilly tea cup.

The silence is sliced when the phone rings, startling Y/N. Just as she reaches for the phone, however, John’s quick hand swipes the receiver off and tucks it up to his ear. He gives a small smug smile, all happening too fast for Y/N to even react before he speaks into the phone.

“Heya, YN speaking—”

The color drains from Y/N’s face, and she starts grabbing at the receiver. John, of course, being the boy he is, pulls away from her grabbing hands, snickering. “Oh my Lord—” Y/N whispers to herself as she swiftly sets her tea down and grabs John by his arm. She gives him a look. A cold, ruthless, panicked stare.

“Get off the bloody phone,” she mouths. John lets out a nervous laugh into the phone. Y/N hears a voice on the other line, letting out a string of frantic questions. Nancy. Of course.

Y/N twists John's arm, who acts like it hurts him, and begrudgingly gives up the phone, handing it to her.

“Heya, Nancy—” She mumbles into the receiver, rubbing her temple and closing her eyes. She's turned away from John, who is snickering like a fox over her shoulder.

“Who was that?” Nancy says strictly, like she's her mom or something. This rubs Y/N the wrong way. Why should it matter who's on the other line?

“Just, uh, me—maybe I’m coming down with something, y’know, that time of year—” Y/N says with a fake cough, earning a proper chuckle out of John. She kicks him and gives him another stern stare.

“Oh, it must be a bad, poor thing. Y’know, you almost sounded like that one greaser for a second—what was his name? Jack—” Nancy laughs into the phone, her suspicion seeming to wear off. Y/N has no idea how that worked.

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Been seeing much of him, then?”

“Not really—” Y/N gulps as her eyes dart between John and the floor. “Been so tired, must be that, uh, thing going around.”

“Right. Well, I’ll let you go. Rain check for work? I’ll bring you soup later.”

“Thanks, Nancy.”

“If you ever run into that John, run the other way. Teds are trouble. He's not above it, y’know. If that’s who he hangs with, that’s who he is.”

John's arms have made their way around Y/N’s waist, and his head rests in the crook of her neck as she speaks into the phone. Her breaths grow shorter with each word she attempts to mumble into the receiver. She knows John can hear Nancy over the phone. It seems like it almost thrills him—the trouble she could be in with her friend if she knew that “Ted” was smothering her as they spoke. That familiar feeling of thrill coats Y/N’s stomach with a fuzzy feeling.

“Yeah, I know. Ta-ra, Nancy.”

“Bye, Y/N.”

The second Y/N clicks the receiver back into place on the phone body, John's hands explore past only her waist, and her body doesn't protest. She’ll have a lot of explaining to do.

---

[katiebuggg]

twin posted another chapter of my fav fic of all time GO CHECK IT OUTTTTT

THE WORDS - chapter six, in which john and cyn have slept together a LOT, and the quarrymen brace for uncharted territory.

@katiebuggg THANK UUUU FOR YOUR HELP ON THE WORDS ‼️‼️ everyone MUST check out @katiebuggg ‘s ‘you really got a hold on me’ bc it simply eats. end of intermission. part 2.

chapter 6:

no, no, nay, will she deceive.

Cynthia Powell is in my arms, her brunette hair in gentle curls laying across my chest, while she softly speaks things that mean nothing but everything to the both of us.

“John,” she starts, turning herself over onto her elbows, and I straighten up, “I’m free all day.”

I hear the sweet words and sigh a breath of fresh, early morning air, “Then, stay in bed with me, Cyn.”

“I’d love to.”

She holds my hand, she looks at me with those beautiful eyes, the ones that the princess of Hoylake deceives you with; I’ve learnt quickly that she might not be all that goody-goody, and that makes me want to know her even more.

“Oh, Cyn-“

Before I can continue my sweet-talk, my telephone rings louder than it ever has, “K’nell, who’s bloody calling now?” I step out of the bed, curmudgeonly as ever, my steps feeling like those of a sloth, if sloths can walk, that is.

“Hello, John Winston’s residence, this is his secretary speaking-“

“Hello, could you pass me onto Mr Lennon?” Stu jokes before saying, in a hushed tone, “Hurry up, your band’s gonna murder you if you aren’t here in ten. I told them you got caught up with something-“

“With what?”

“I thought being vague was the key to believable lies-!”

“Lord, Stu.. Look, give me fifteen, I’ll be snip and snap-“

“The hell does that mean?”

“I’ll bloody be there, lad.”

Cynthia stands in the doorway, leaning against it as I look at her and she looks at me.

I suppose now we’ve seen each other. She sees me like none of the others ever has. She sees me.

“What’s the matter?” She yawns, “You got plans?”

“I’m, uh, in a band-“

“I know that, Johnny, you’re always talking about it,” she giggles, “The Quarrymen, yes.”

“We’ve got a show, it slipped my mind-“

“Can I come?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

I scramble to find my clothes, all scattered on the floor, and she puts on her dress from last night, “Casbah?”

“Yeah, yeah. This one’s kinda a big one though-“

“Why’s that?”

“Well- It might not be, but our manager’s been trying to get us playing at a new place, uh.. Hamburg.”

“Germany?”

“That’s the one.”

She pulls her socks on, “You’re going to bloody Germany?”

“Only for a month, or two.”

“John.”

”Well, Derry and the Seniors are there, and they’re doing so damn well. £100 a week. I’d be rolling in it. And I’d buy you nice things-“

“John.”

“Would you rather us play Butlins- bloody Butlins - for eternity? I mean, it’s a big step up. Don’t say ‘John’ again, Cyn. Say something.” I watch her eyes expectantly, and she sighs, “Well, I’ll call you heaps, and send lots of letters-“

“As will I, my darling Cynthia. Y’know, I love you, don’t you?”

She kisses me, long and with that passion that I’ve never felt before, “I love you, John.”

And I suppose that she’s all I’ll ever need. She‘ll never hurt me. She won’t desert me.

I have Cynthia Powell. Cynthia Powell has me.

We run to the Casbah at an astounding speed, making it there within those fifteen minutes I had promised, and Stu, a Coca Cola in hand, smirks, “Snip and snap, you say-? Oh, who’s the lovely lady?”

“Sod off, firstly. And this is Cynthia, my-“ I pause for a brief moment, looking into her eyes to ask myself if it’s okay to be in love with her, “My girlfriend, Cyn.”

“Good luck, Cyn,” Stu says, shaking her hand, “He’s quite a handful.”

“Oh, I know.”

“Anyroad, I’ve got to get to the band- Y’alright out here, Cyn?”

She nods, “I’ll watch side-stage.”

“Go on the left- You’ll get a better view of me.” I quip, pulling a face before putting an arm around Stu, “Good catch, Lennon.”

“She’s mine, Stu-“

“And you’re hers. Can’t believe you’re with Hoylake-“

“Why’d you introduce yourself if you know her?”

“It’s just a thing we do. I’ve done classes with her for years. Always been very upstanding.”

I frown, before pulling back the curtains and finding Paul, George and the newly-‘recovered’ Pete sitting around, “Pete! How’s the Lampington’s going?”

“Better each and every day,” he deadpans, “It’s a miracle in itself I’m here, y’know.”

Paul rolls his eyes, “John. What bloody took you so long-?”

“Oh, hang on a mo,” I say, unraveling myself from the tangle I’m in with Stu, “I’ll show you.”

I bring Cynthia backstage with me, and Paul’s eyes narrow on me as he shakes her hand, “Heya, how are ya? I’m Paul - love your dress, you look gorgeous.”

I notice George is slower to get up, “You look half dead, lad,” I point out, and he flips me off, “I look half alive, is how I look.”

Pete gives her a nod, “Ayup, Cyn.”

Mike pulls the curtain back at the moment I’m about to make any kind of statement about our relationship status, saying, “Good Lord, the coffee’s awful here- Sorry, Pete. Don’t tell your mam, I still want a gig here.”

Pete chuckles, “If you can’t act like you like it, you’re a great act.”

“Ta, lad. Anyroad, you’re on in like two, maybe, so instruments on, lads. Oh, and Paul, June’s in the audience, try not to get too.. excited-“

“Chrissakes, Mike-“

“Just saying!” He throws his hands up, and my heart doesn’t sink hearing June’s name. I know that I have Cyn, and she’s all I’ll ever need.

“Allan called earlier, John, we’re having a meeting after the show about- uh, business.”

“Business. Love a bit of business talk in the morning.”

Stu snorts, “Already in Hamburg time, are you? It’s 12:50.”

“What’s Mimi thinking about it?” Paul asks, carefully eyeing Cynthia, and I hold her just that bit closer, “I might have exaggerated some numbers to help my case. Suggest you do the same.”

“Well, my da’s really only worried about the safety of it, y’know-“ I scoff, “Paul, we’re big kids now. We can look after ourselves. I mean, we’re the same there as we are here.”

Paul and I look into each other’s eyes for an infinite eternity, Mike smirking and saying, “Ladies, on stage now! Quick, quick.”

Paul steps out first, and I watch as his eyes assess the room, looking for June before starting, “A-one, two, three, FOUR!”

As we get into Chuck Berry, I watch Paul slip out of himself and become this even more extravagant performer - he’s turning it up for June.

He closes his eyes as he plays, shakes his head more, and somehow plays the bass in a more pronounced way.

He looks incredible.

I keep my eyes on Stu, instead, who stands solid and rarely moving, keeping time as best as he can.

He smiles at me, I smile back, looking to my right, and seeing Cynthia, on her left.

She seems to have found a friend, and though the girl next to her is talking, her focus is only on me. We’re the only two people in the Casbah, it feels, the only two people breathing in the dusty air, in this damp, cellar of Ms Mona Best’s home.

I look away for a second, to see what Paul’s doing. He’s seemed to tone it down a bit, but he’s still the same old Paul - a performer, a real showman.

George steps up to sing I Love You Because, though without the usual verve, and I give him a nudge afterwards, as if to say, ‘are you alright?’

I finish the show with That’s Alright, and we pull back the curtains and go backstage once more, finding Allan sitting, waiting, applauding, “Great show, lads.”

I furrow my brows as I look at George, “What’s the matter with you?”

“C’mon, John, have off, yeah-?”

“I didn’t ask you, Paul, did I?”

George stares at me blankly, “Shirley and I broke up. She’s movin’ back to Limerick.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, “Oh, don’t worry, lad, you’ll find another-“

“I know that. Doesn’t make it any less painful, though, does it?”

Allan frowns, a bit awkward as he fidgets with the envelope in his hand, “‘s alright, lad. Gorra push on, eh? Especially when-“

“Oh, get out, we got the gig-?”

“Let him speak, Paul-“

He chuckles, “Here y’are,” he hands the envelope to George, “You can say it.”

“‘To Mr Allan Williams, we are happy to accept formally your new group to Hamburg. They are to begin within the next two weeks, accomodation provided by the Indra club. Regards, the Indra club.’ That’s nice-“

Paul, Mike, Stu and I instinctually form a celebratory circle, forcing George and Pete to join, “Hamburg, bloody hell,” I say once we’ve calmed down, and Allan nods, “Now, there’s plenty of paperwork to be done, especially for you two,” he says, narrowing his eyes on George and Paul, “But, maybe a bit of celebration is in order, eh?”

George nods, “I’m gettin’ sloshed tonight.”

I chuckle, “Here, here!”

I mumble something about quickly going to find Cyn, “We’re going to Hamburg!”

“Congratulations,” she beams, kissing me, “We’re gonna go celebrate, but I’ll call you later, yeah? I wanna spend the rest of my time here with you, Cyn. I love you.”

“I love you, Johnny.”

I go back to the others, all exhilarating and expectant, “Wait on,” Paul starts, “When do we actually leave?”

Allan sighs, “Well, I called up Herr Koschmider, he wants you there in the next seven days-“

“Shite, that’s soon.”

“Can we get sloshed before we worry about technicalities?”

In this moment, I see George isn’t that little fourteen year old that blew me away with his Raunchy, and that Paul is much more to me than just Ivan’s mate, even thought I can’t quite pin what that so-much-more really is. I see that Pete is still just Pete, the drummer we recruited last month after our old drummer went off to join the military, and I see Stu as my beautiful friend, my uniquely strange and gifted and incredible friend.

I see everything as it should be; Fine.

And I know that I have Cynthia Powell, and Cynthia Powell has me.