❝ you fancy me, don't ya? ❞
❝ christ, you're a prick! ❞
ㅤ
ㅤ
ㅤ
While a swarm of teenage girls go gaga over a thought of this lad, you're unfortunately stuck with John Lennon, the human embodiment of a mischievous imp. You swear yo...
¡Ay! Esta imagen no sigue nuestras pautas de contenido. Para continuar la publicación, intente quitarla o subir otra.
ੈ✩‧₊˚best viewed in: white bg|serif|smallest font size
ੈ✩‧₊˚contains: profanity, sexual content
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ
ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ You're sauntering through the quaint streets of London, entranced by the evening lights that illuminate the city. Leaves of amber and gold rustle beneath your feet as the crisp breeze gently tousles your hair. Suddenly, a medley of fragrances attempts to captivate your olfaction, as the scent of freshly baked bread mingles with subtle hints of tobacco. You suppose it's best to blend in with the bustling scene around you rather than persisting in that white room of confined space; after all, you long for a night brimming with pure tranquillity.
"Breathe in . . ." your chest expands just as you close your eyes, yearning for some sanguine air to enter you.
But, to your dismay, even the fresh breeze fails to soothe your gnashing teeth and restore the forfeited opportunity for peace throughout the night.
The reason?
Never is the chance that you can escape a ceaseless cycle tangled in your everyday life: being made fun of. Alas, mere moments ago, that upsetting truth struck you for the nth time.
"Good afternoon, (Y/N)!"
You sighed as soon as you caught sight of the pest named John Lennon earlier in the studio. Thick-rimmed spectacles framed his eyes as he wore his signature mocking face.
"It's five past six now, actually," said George Martin, their record producer, casually passing by him and making his way towards the door.
"Ah, right. Evenin' it is then. Anyhow, how's this bird doing today?"
"I'm fine."
You hoped it wouldn't unravel into yet another episode of madness. If it did, oh boy—not even an ounce of hesitation would linger before informing Mr Epstein about it. Truth be told, you're the personal assistant to the Beatles, while Mr Epstein is the band's esteemed manager.
John suddenly had an upward curve on his lips—something familiar, something mischievous.
You realised you were falling into his trap, and so you had to counter with another remark. "Not until that face of yours came in my sight."
The young man let out a chuckle. He knew he would become the cause of your flushed cheeks this day. He just had to maintain his feat.
"Really? That sounds great!" John replied sarcastically. That, and the grating sound of his snickers created a cacophony that irritated your ears, provoking an impulsive growl to escape you.
