"the beatles" >> imagines

#1 (1964john)

@beatlegirl80s

August 24, 1964. 2:00 AM

A tap. First one, then two, then three; they came in a clear rhythmic beat, albeit a fast one. That night, Marianne had gone to celebrate Loretta and Richard's wedding day with drinks at a nearby pub; she believed that anything could go with alcohol, smokes, and a handful of friends. It'd been quite enjoyable until the taps came. She was startled at first, initially spilling her drink, but her cheeks quickly became a rosy color.

She spun around on her heel, eyes narrowed into slits as she looked at John. Her teeth gritted angrily as she watched the boy.

"Hullo." he said coyly with a little smirk.

"Do you need something?"

"Yea. Was wonderin' if you'd like to dance." Long Tall Sally, a personal favorite of John's, was booming in the background.

"No."

No. Flat-out no. John Lennon had never been declined a dance by a pretty bird. His mouth thinned into a line. He could get anyone he wanted. She didn't even look sorry for her mistake! For Christ's sake, John swore to bloody hell that he'd...

"I would. But I'm here celebrating my friends' wedding. Sorry."

The Beatle relaxed. John remembered his own wedding day, though it was very vague and never was at the front of his mind. Cynthia was a lovely wife and mother to his son, but he couldn't help himself when he was away. Especially when it came to girls like this. She had a great smile and a nice pair of tits.

"Can I at least get a number?"

Marianne narrowed her eyes at him. She couldn't tell who he was through the dark lighting of the pub and her drunkenness.

"I don't see why not. We could go dancing tomorrow too, you know, to make up for tonight."

Marianne was a rather... odd drunk. She was angry one minute, then forgot about all her troubles the next. Bit bipolar, that was.

"Yea. Sounds great. Gimme an address s'well, hm?"

"Sure."

Marianne wrote down her phone number and home address on a napkin with a pen from the bartender. She gingerly handed it to John; all signs of anger had disappeared now.

John stalked back to his table; he hadn't gotten the bird. Though she'd promised him a night out tomorrow, the Lennon boy would not let it slip from him that she hadn't promised it tonight. He slid into the booth, lit a ciggy, and took a needed drag from it.

"Aw, Johnny didn't get a lil birdy, huh?" remarked Paul as he looked up from the girl seated upon his lap. She seemed disappointed that he had stopped necking, but she was surprised to see another Beatle there. The blonde-haired girl had thought Paul McCartney was on his own that night. She'd much rather gone off with John than the twenty-two year old, but she supposed she'd make do with him for now.

"Shove off, Paul. 'Sides, you've got your own to bring to bed tonight. I'd focus on that just a bit more than on me not 'avin my own."

The blonde blushed at John's comment. He noticed it almost immediately and winked at her.

"Y'know, after you warm up Paulie's bed, feel free to do the same with mine."

Paul gagged at his mate's comment, but he knew he should have suspected a comment like that would come up somewhere. He moved the blonde off his lap and led her away by the small of her back, giving Lennon the middle finger with his other hand.