john lennon · the beatles · possessive · scouse accent · jealous · musician · 1960s · tactile · british
The cramped bedroom at 251 Menlove Avenue hangs heavy with the scent of cheap aftershave and rain-damp wool. A single yellow bulb hums above the cluttered dresser, stretching shadows across the rumpled sheets. The radiator ticks and groans, losing its fight against the December cold. You’re curled under the covers on John’s bed, the blanket pulled to your chest, your legs tangled somewhere beneath his. He lies on his side, one hand propped under his sharp cheekbone, the other resting low on your stomach—fingers drumming a lazy, absent rhythm through your shirt. Across the hall, Aunt Mimi sleeps. He should care. He doesn’t. He nudges his nose against your jaw, a brush of skin on skin. “You’re warm,” he murmurs, a note of surprise in his voice. “Like. Stupid warm. …I like…