⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — michael loved his sister dearly, but he can’t stand that she’s your friend. she’s always been opinionated and very vocal, and she doesn’t hesitate to call him out whenever he’s caught catching a peek. and she knows he hates being called out or exposed, but that’s what sisters are for right? to push.
you could be having a sleepover or movie night so you’re in a comfortable pair of lounge shorts, and something as subtle as reaching over for a handful of popcorn makes your shorts ride up. it gives michael a perfect view, the round cups of your ass falling beneath the hem of your shorts. and with an instant his eyes are locked on your behind, and la toya takes notice almost immediately. she reaches over you, swatting michael on the shoulder, “i saw that michael!” her voice high pitched and squeaky.
he’s shaking his head with embarrassment and defeat, with a tight lip smile to match. his cheeks feel warm and his heart nearly drops at the screeching sound of her voice breaking through the previous silence the three of you shared. his voice small and quiet, “quit it, toya.”
and you’ve got a handful of popcorn stuffed in your mouth, sharing looks between them with confusion. their siblings so you figured it was normal sibling teasing.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — you always catch him looking at you, typically you pay it no mind. maybe he’s a little awkward, it’s sweet. but other times his staring is super intense, and you can always feel it.
it’s summertime, and the sun is letting you know it. blazing hot when it nearly cooks your skin. so it’s only right to indulge in a sweet treat to cool yourself off. something as innocent as strawberry flavored water ice has michael staring at you with a different type of intensity. his eyes are laced with lust.
long pointy tongue licking long flat stripes against the frozen goodness. you’re trying to act fast, the warm sun not being too forgiving with preserving the previous state of your frozen treat. you’re skillful with your technique, a few bold licks before your wrapping your lip gloss-slick lips around the whole thing with a loud slurp. the slurp innocent in your mind but lewd in his.
hands sticky with the way it’s melting over the plastic cup you hold, knuckles tainted in a sugary liquid. and it’s only a matter of time before you’re nearly deepthroating your index finger with hopes you’ll clear the substance off. he’s nearly panting watching the scene unfold before him, he can feel himself twitch whenever you make another whine or slurp, desperate to lap up any mess you’ve made.
and la toya is looking right at him, look right at you.
once he’s realizes he’s caught, his head is whipping around hoping he can shift his focus towards anything else.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — michael always giving you a task to do, asking you to hand him things he know you can’t reach, or something you have to bend down and get, hoping he can catch a glimpse under your skirt. just to get a little tiny winy peak of your cotton panties. he’s love to have a visual he can keep in the back of his mind for later on in the evening.
and per usual la toya catches him in his schemes, “get it yourself michael!” she again yells at him, before grabbing your arm to stop you from whatever item he ‘so desperately’ needs. and he’s sucking his teeth with the roll of his eyes.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — any excuse to touch your feet.. you could be at an amusement park and you lost your flip flop during a ride, of course michael finds it and he’s on one knee with your sandal handed out.
his hand ‘innocently’ assisting you in fitting your foot in the sandal and he’ll make a quick comment about how he likes your toes, or how you pedicure looks good.
if you’re having a pillow fight and your foot accidentally pushes up against his groin somehow, and he’s fighting for his life not to instinctively hump against it like an animal in heat.
god forbid if you’re playing twister and your foot is just slam in his face. he’s can’t be normal around you, he feels feral around you and it’s literally uncontrollable.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — loves to play with everyone, but you especially. you could be bouncing in a bounce house, or jumping rope, maybe bouncing onna trampoline; his eyes are solely fixated on your chest. heavy flesh bouncing around, feels like their antagonizing him—look at what you can’t have.
they don’t even have to bounce for him to peep. he’ll intentionally buy you long necklaces so he can look at how your breasts swallow the pendant attached to it’s chain, and he doesn’t care enough to fight the grin on his face anytime he notices it.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — your time with la toya could be coming to an end and best believe he’s rushing to give you a really good, unnecessarily long hug. wide palms dangerously low on your hips, really pushing his crotch forward, hoping he catch anything, even the slightest of contact. breasts flesh and squishy against his chest, and face tightly nuzzled in the junction between your shoulder and neck, truly breathing you in. he’s wants you so close, wants your scent to stain his clothes so he can relish in it later :3
I LOVE your hcs with the boys so much（´ 3｀) ok so picture this.... there's a rumour in the papers that he's having an affair, can you do how he'd show you that it's actually false and how he'd prove that he really loves you ? ˆ𐃷ˆ
𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑎 𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 ℎ𝑒'𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔
𐙚 note ; thank you for always being so kind!! i hope you’re feeling adored today!! ✿
𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪
"You really think I'd be stupid enough to cheat on you?"
It’s some daft article in the Mirror.
Claims John was seen laughing “intimately” with an actress at a party. There’s even a fuzzy photo. You barely mention it, but he knows.
He catches you going quiet when you think he’s not looking. Biting the inside of your cheek. Folding laundry without speaking. That’s how he knows it’s gotten to you.
At first, he tries to laugh it off,
“You think I’d go for her? Christ, she’s not even funny.” But then he sees your face fall just slightly, and he gets serious real fast.
“Look, I’m a lot of things, but I’m not bloody stupid. I wouldn’t toss this” he gestures between you two “just for a daft party flirt. You know me better’n that.”
He proves it. Reads you lines from his songs in that dramatic fake-Shakespeare voice
(“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s giggle, luv”)
Follows you around the flat strumming nonsense love songs until you smile.
“You want proof?” he finally says, softer. “I talk about you to everyone. Paul’s sick of hearin’ your name, swear it.”
𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪
"C'mon, love. That's not even my shoulder!"
Paul is devastated that the media would even suggest something like that.
The article has a grainy photo of someone who vaguely looks like him walking into a hotel with a girl, but it’s not him.
The hair’s wrong. The coat’s not his. The smile isn’t even close to being yours.
You don’t even bring it up, but Paul notices you’ve stopped humming his songs around the house. That’s enough to panic him.
He comes straight home with every receipt ever.
Swears he’ll call the bloody photographer if he has to.
He takes your face in his hands and says, voice thick, “Don’t let this rot get in your head, sweetheart. I love you. Only you. Always have, always will.”
Keeps proving it in little ways: he writes your initials in the margins of his notebook, takes you to the studio just to kiss you between takes.
He goes all out. Flowers, your favorite kind, hand-picked. A note tucked into each one, little scribbled things.
𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪
"Can’t stop ‘em printing lies. But I can show you what’s true."
The paper’s cruel.
Says George’s been “getting cozy” with some socialite at a club.
You weren’t even in town that night. You don’t ask, but George sees the shift, less eye contact, slightly less affection.
He doesn’t know how to say it at first. But it eats him up that you might think for even a second he’d choose someone else.
Comes into the kitchen one morning and just wraps his arms round your waist from behind, murmurs, “Y’don’t believe it, do you?”
When you hesitate, his arms tighten. “No. No, don’t do that. That’s what they want. It’s all rubbish, love. Every word.”
He proves it with his quiet devotion: he skips after-parties to be home with you.
He gives you his guitar when he’s writing.
He tucks your scarf into his coat pocket and calls it his good luck charm.
One night, you find a folded bit of paper in your coat, lyrics he wrote but never showed anyone. Scrawled at the bottom:
“You’re the only voice I hear through all the noise.”
He doesn’t say much. But when he kisses you that night, his hands trembling a little where they hold your face, you know.
𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪
“I don’t care what the papers say. You’re the only one I want comin’ home to.”
Ringo gets hit with a nasty one.
Claims he’s been “secretly meeting” a woman he dated years ago before fame. Total lie, but it rattles you.
He finds you reading it at the kitchen table. Frowns immediately.
“Don’t believe that rot, do you?”
You don’t answer right away. He gets real quiet, then pulls out a chair and sits beside you, knees touching yours.
“You know me,” he says softly. “I’m not slick. I’m not some silver-tongued fella sneakin’ round in the night. I’d never do that to you.”
You still look unsure, so he pulls out the box. The one he’s been hiding in the closet. Inside: a little ring he’s had made for you, engraved with your initials.
“Was savin’ this for later. But I think you need to see it now.”
“Y’know how I prove it’s false?” he adds, “’Cause I’ve been plannin’ forever with you, not anyone else. That’s real.”
He makes you your favorite tea. Writes you a silly poem that rhymes “cupboard” with “loved bird.”
He even calls up Brian and has him verify where he was the night the photo was supposedly taken.
He makes sure you know how loved you are, cuddling into your side when he watches telly, dancing with you in the kitchen to jazz records, introducing you proudly as “my better half.”
Hiii! So you know that time when Paul pretended to be French and mysterious n stuff? What if he encounters a reader who is French/ speaks French and kinda sees through his bullshit? I love your writing and especially the ones about Paul and George!!
-Love <3
𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑙 𝑖 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑎 𝑤𝑎𝑦 | paul mccartney x reader
𐙚 summary ; paul puts on a french act and gets called out, charmingly, by someone who actually speaks the language.
𐙚 note ; i took french every year they’d let me... and i’m canadian so i am basically legally obligated to pretend i’m fluent (don’t tell the real french people). also my sleep schedule is butt & i have no idea if this turned out good or not let me know
Paris. Cold January light streaked in off the Seine, gold diluted in mist, and on the corner outside some cafe, Paul stood with one hip cocked and a cigarette burning between his fingers. The coat collar turned up wasn’t fooling anyone; neither was the tilted beret (was that even real? had he bought it just for this?), nor the sunglasses perched on his nose, blocking the grey sky, not the gaze of anyone passing by, he was also holding an espresso.
He was doing a voice.
You weren’t even trying to listen, you were just waiting for your coffee and people-watching in that sluggish way only jetlag or heartbreak inspires, but then you heard it, like a wine cork halfway through a sneeze:
“Ah, mais non, mademoiselle, je suis… comment dites-vous ? Mmm, mystérieux.”
(ah, but no, miss, i am… how do you say? mmm, mysterious.)
You blinked. There was no mistaking him. Even in black-and-white photos in magazines, you could tell how bright-eyed he was, how much he liked being seen. That glint of half-held laughter in the corners of his mouth, that was always there, even now as he leaned in close to a pretty brunette who looked thrilled just to be in his orbit.
She giggled something, probably asking if he was really French.
“Oui,” he said far too quickly. “Je suis de… de Marseille.”
(yes. i’m from… from marseille.)
You snorted into your sleeve.
It caught his ear. You saw him glance, quick and suspicious, over the rim of his shades. You didn’t look away.
He tried again.
“Je suis poete, vous savez. Et… un peu de musique, oui ?”
(i’m a poet, you know. and… a little music, yes?)
The girl smiled politely, clearly not understanding a word, and he lit her cigarette like some kind of noir Casanova. You watched her nod along as he launched into some bullshit about art and revolution, all mispronounced and strung together with hope.
You couldn’t help it.
“Dieu,” you called over, flat and unimpressed. “Vous êtes embarrassant..”
(god. you're embarassing)
He paused mid-sentence, the lighter and espresso still in his hands, and turned toward you. Slowly. Like a man trying to place a face from a dream, or a heckler from across the street.
The girl giggled again, this time more awkwardly, and slipped away.
He followed her with his eyes, then faced you fully.
“You speak French?” he asked.
“You don’t.”
He blinked. “I do, y’know.”
“Oh, really?” You tilted your head, eyebrows raised. “You’re from Marseille now?”
He hesitated, lips twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to double down or bail out. “Well… I didn’t say I was fluent.”
You stared at him. Flat.
“I just said I do,” he tried again, voice lighter now, clearly edging into defensive charm territory. “Couple words here and there. Phrases. Enough to get by.”
“Get by what? Customs?”
He winced. “That obvious?”
“Painfully.”
“Well, now I feel wounded.”
“No,” you said. “Now you feel caught.”
He rested his elbows on the tiny café table, hands clasped like he was about to confess something deep. But the smirk still curled his lips, lazy and unbothered, a man more amused than ashamed.
“Alright,” he said, tilting his head toward you, hat still crooked like a metaphor for this whole goddamn thing. “Suppose I’ve been… playing the part a bit.”
“A bit?”
Paul raised one brow. “You saying I didn’t almost pull it off?”
You just blinked at him. Slowly. “She thought you were quoting Rimbaud. You were quoting a wine label.”
He shrugged, unrepentant. “It was a nice bottle.”
“Do you even know who Rimbaud is?”
He opened his mouth, closed it, then grinned wider. “Someone who’d be flattered to have me steal his lines?”
You let out an audible breath, somewhere between disbelief and a laugh you refused to give him.
“How many people have you tried this on?”
His expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes flickered. He looked away for just half a second, toward the café window where condensation blurred the reflection of passersby, then back to you. “D’you want an honest answer?”
You nod.
He leaned back, draping an arm over the back of the chair like he was ready to spin a yarn for the ages. “Let’s just say... enough to know it works more than it doesn’t.”
“That can’t possibly be true.”
“Oh, but it is. You’d be shocked at how many women melt the second they hear me speak."
You squinted, rolled your eyes, and looked back at him.
“That's right, it worked.”
You pointed at the empty spot the brunette had abandoned. “She left.”
“Because of you!”
“Because you said you were from Marseille and she asked where in Marseille, and you panicked and said ‘by the ocean.’”
“Well, technically Marseille is by the ocean.”
“Oh my god.”
“You're the first one to call me on it,” he admitted, without shame, like it was a compliment to you. “Usually I just keep the shades on, mumble a bit, and let the mystery do the heavy lifting.”
You leaned forward, elbows on the table now, incredulous. “So you're telling me… you’ve just been walking around Paris-”
“Just a few blocks.”
“-and it works?”
He looked deadly serious. “Like a dream.”
“That’s absurd.”
Paul leaned back with a shrug like that alone might justify it, his grin cocky and warm, like he’d just pulled off a petty heist in broad daylight. That expression, boyish, shameless, made your jaw tense.
You were still reeling from the sheer nerve of him, the idea that this worked on people, the certainty with which he described it, like it was science. But then he looked at you again, and for a half-second, something clicked, a strange sharp edge of familiarity slicing through your confusion.
And it hit you. You blinked, slow. Your mouth opened, then closed.
Oh yeah, this was Paul McCartney.
You’d known, of course, in that vague this-guy-looks-familiar way. You’d clocked the sunglasses, the swagger, the face that grinned from every damn magazine stand in Europe and America right now, even the haircut, God, especially the haircut. But your mind hadn’t made the jump. Not all the way. Not until now. He’d been so ridiculous. Pretending to be French. Making you laugh. Acting like a drunk poetry student on a dare.
But now your stomach dropped a little as you replayed everything he’d said.
The insane confidence. The "you’d be surprised what I can get away with" delivery.
Of course he could get away with it. He was a Beatle!
You stared at him in new light. And it was blinding.
He sipped his espresso and made a face. “Bloody awful. They burn it here.”
You let out a sharp laugh, loud enough that a couple heads at the next table turned. Paul blinked at you, lips still pursed from the bitter taste, clearly not expecting the outburst.
“Oh my God,” you wheezed, hand over your mouth. “You’re really out here doing a fake French act and then gagging on the coffee? That’s your commitment to the bit?”
He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes, but the smirk still clung to the edge of his mouth. “Well, excuse me for having taste.”
You were still grinning, too amused now to keep up the deadpan. “You’re faking being French. French. You’re a Beatle. Do you understand how insane that is? You could just walk into any room in the world and people would trip over themselves just to hear you say anything, in any accent. You could say ‘I’m from Liverpool’ and girls would faint.”
“I do say that sometimes.”
“Then why the fake Marseille backstory?”
He set his cup down with a small, tight clink. His smile flattened, polite, but distant in that instantly familiar British way. His voice went a notch cooler. “Didn’t realize it was such a crime to want a bit of fun.”
You caught it. That tiny shift in his tone, the flicker of defensiveness under the surface. His pride had taken a ding. You hadn’t meant to go that hard, but watching him flail in his own web of performance was just... funny. Too funny.
“I mean,” you said, still laughing under your breath, “it’s not a crime. It’s just, why? You’re pretending to be mysterious when everyone on Earth already wants to know everything about you.”
He looked at you then, properly, and for a second he really did look irritated. Not angry, just pricked, like you’d poked at something delicate he kept wrapped in layers of charm and dumb hats. You could almost hear the internal snap of his ego getting a paper cut.
He tilted his head the way a cat does when it’s considering knocking a glass off a table purely out of spite. “Y’know, you’re not exactly making it easy for me.”
You blinked. “Easy for you to what?”
“To charm you,” he said plainly, like it was the most natural goal in the world.
Your brows shot up. And then, goddammit, your skin betrayed you.
Not in some romantic comedy way where your heart fluttered and angels played the harp on cue. No. It was more like the heat of embarrassment climbed your neck, fast and sudden, like someone had just caught you staring, or worse, thinking too hard about someone who hadn't even said anything remotely worth thinking about. Charm you? He hadn’t said a single flattering thing. Hadn’t complimented you, hadn’t even tried, really, he’d just paraded around in that absurd beret he was now clentching, fumbled a fake French accent, and talked like every word was auditioning for the role of enigmatic, but tripped and fell on their own shoelaces.
And still. Your skin warmed. Your throat tightened. You looked down like your own face was giving you away.
Paul watched you. He wasn't grinning now, not the cocky, lopsided kind. This one was smaller, slower. A smile that wasn’t aimed at the café or the passing world, but at you, like he’d already decided you were funnier than the rest of Paris, like you were the only one who’d actually spoken to him instead of at him.
"Ah," he said, leaning forward like he’d spotted something glinting on a sidewalk. "There it is."
“There what is,” you snapped, too quick.
He hummed low, sipping again from the burnt espresso like it hadn’t just offended every taste bud in his mouth. “You look like someone who didn’t mean to laugh.”
You blinked, genuinely confused. “I didn’t laugh.”
“You did.”
“No.”
“A little.”
You squinted. “It was more of a snort.”
Paul nodded solemnly, resting his chin on one hand like you were under study. “A snort, then. Beautiful thing, that.”
You scowled, flustered again. Not because he was smooth, he absolutely wasn’t. But because he was watching you too closely now. Not with heat or intent, not trying to impress. Just... watching. Like he wanted to see what happened next. Like the game had shifted from ‘bullshit a girl at a café’ to something quieter and more reckless.
“You said you were trying to charm me,” you muttered. “But you haven’t actually done anything charming.”
He tilted his head, eyes crinkling at the corners. “No?”
“No.”
“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers once against the table. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”
You folded your arms. “And here I thought you were a professional.”
“I usually let the accent carry me.”
“That,” you said, “explains a lot.”
He grinned, finally. Not a smirk, not a show, just grin. Honest and sheepish. “I thought the beret might help.” he said, holding it up.
“It didn’t.”
“No?”
“You looked like a street magician with commitment issues.”
He laughed, genuine and loud, startling a guy off the next table. His shoulders shook with it, head falling back for a second like the insult had hit a sweet spot he didn’t know he had. When he straightened again, he was watching you with new eyes. Something behind them had relaxed. He didn’t look like he was trying anymore.
“Christ,” he said softly, like it wasn’t even meant for you. “I’ve been out here playing the fool and still ended up talking to the only person in this arrondissement who won’t let me get away with it.”
You paused, and this time, it wasn’t the heat of embarrassment. It was something stranger. Weightier. Like the conversation had shifted on its own axis.
“I’m not trying to make it hard for you,” you said.
His expression changed just a touch. “Didn’t....exactly say you were.”
You glanced down at your coffee, lukewarm now, the surface scummed with milk foam and cracked like the skin of day-old paint. “I just… don’t know what we’re doing. This doesn’t feel like flirting.”
“No?” he said again, gently this time.
“No.”
“Alright,” he said. He reached up and took off the sunglasses, finally. His eyes were brighter than you expected. “Then what does it feel like?”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second, but the words didn’t come. You looked at him, closely now, without the layer of cheap sunglasses and bad accent between you, and you saw it. The remnants of the earlier scene still clung to his shoulders like cigarette smoke: the Marseille nonsense, the clunky French, the absolute meltdown at “by the ocean.” And now here he was, all earnest eyes and gentle phrasing, like you were supposed to forget that just minutes ago he’d been getting burnt to a crisp by some person at a cafe.
“Oh,” you said, letting your voice drop into something almost amused, almost accusing. “That’s what this is.”
Paul tilted his head, the faintest flicker of guilt brushing over his face, like a dog caught mid-sock theft. “What is?”
You gave a dry laugh, no heat in it. “You’re changing the subject.”
He paused.
Then smiled, faint and guilty and pleased with himself. “Was it working?”
“Almost.”
The smirk cracked wider, but his eyes didn’t move from yours. “Suppose that means I’ll have to try harder.”
You shook your head, standing slowly, hands stuffed into your coat pockets as the wind whipped along the street again, tugging at napkins and stray receipts. You didn’t know what this was. Not really. But you knew what it wasn’t. And it wasn’t about Marseille, or poetry, or even mystery.
“Good luck with that, Paul,” you said over your shoulder, walking toward the corner. “Maybe next time try Lyon.”
He groaned. Loudly. “Oh come on! You really think Lyon’s better?”
You didn’t answer, just laughed once, low and sharp, then disappeared around the corner.
𐙚 contains ; nsfw! minors dni! female anatomy, age gap
𐙚 summary ; a rainy lunch break stretches into something far more intimate.
𐙚 note ; here is part 2 since so many people wanted one!!!! also sorry to all the piano players.. let's pretend you don't know how to play piano for NOW! | first part here :b
The morning stretched, taut as a snare drum skin. Every time you passed an open doorway, your eyes sought him. Every time his laughter echoed from the control room, your skin prickled. You organized tapes, fetched coffee for engineers, sorted sheet music, all with the ghost of his touch humming just beneath your skin.
He’d been everywhere and nowhere all morning. His voice drifting through intercoms, a flash of movement behind soundproof glass, the occasional hum of a tune you half-recognized when he thought no one was listening. It was maddening, that kind of presence.
At half-eleven, you found yourself in the kitchenette, staring blankly at the kettle as it clicked and hissed. You weren’t even sure if you’d filled it.
“Penny for them,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
You jumped, turning sharply. “Oh, fuck, you scared me.”
Paul leaned against the doorframe, one hand shoved into the pocket of his worn pants. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Didn’t mean to,” he said mildly. “You looked miles away.”
“Just thinking about lunch,” you said, forcing a small laugh. “Hungry.”
He stepped inside, smirking. “Hungry, are you?” His tone carried the ghost of a grin. “Funny. So was I.”
He brushed past you to reach for a mug. The movement was easy, unhurried, but close enough that your sleeve caught his. You felt it like a spark.
“Still can’t get this kettle to behave,” you murmured.
“Let me.” He reached around you, fingers grazing the back of your hand as he switched it off before it boiled over. The touch was nothing, bare skin on skin, but it hung in the air between you, echoing.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
He didn’t step away. “You’ve got that look again,” he murmured.
“What look?”
“Makes a man forget what he was about to say.” His eyes met yours over the rim of the mug as he poured. “Dangerous thing, that.”
You swallowed. “You said that earlier.”
He smiled faintly. “Did I? Must’ve meant it.” He set the mug down, then leaned his hip against the counter beside you. “You keep givin’ me déjà vu.”
“Maybe you just haven’t slept,” you said, trying to sound light.
“Maybe.” His voice dropped. “Or maybe I’ve been dreamin’ while I’m awake.”
You laughed under your breath, nerves fluttering. “You talk like a songwriter even when you’re not trying.”
“That’s the trouble.” His gaze slid from your eyes to your mouth, then back again.
The kettle clicked. Steam drifted up between you, curling like a veil.
“Work all right after our little chat?”
You hesitated. “Eventually.”
He hummed, stirring slower. “Good. Was worried I’d… unsettled you.”
You gave a quiet laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”
That earned you a smile, that slow, knowing one that tilted his mouth just enough to show the corner of a dimple. “Maybe. You’re handling it well, though.”
You looked at him properly then, meeting his gaze head-on. “Am I?”
The question hung between you. He didn’t answer immediately, just took a sip of tea, then set the mug down beside you, close enough that the ceramic brushed your hand.
He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You’ve been thinkin’ about it?”
You swallowed hard. “About what?”
He tilted his head, that same lazy, assessing gesture that somehow felt like a touch. “You know what.”
Your throat went dry. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
He smiled again , not arrogant, not cruel, just honest. “Probably not. But you shouldn’t look at me like that, either.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was alive. You could hear every small sound ... the ticking clock, the distant hum of an amp, the faint rustle of his jumper when he shifted.
Then, softer: “Tell you what. We escape. Proper lunch. Somewhere quiet. Sound all right?”
You blinked, trying to steady yourself. “You mean right now?”
He shrugged. “Soon as we can nick an hour. You, me, something to eat.”
Your pulse kicked up again, that reckless little thrill bubbling to the surface. “Why?” you asked, though you weren’t sure what answer you wanted.
He didn't say anything. He just straightened, took his mug, and stepped back.
“Half an hour,” he said quietly. “Out back. Don’t be late.”
You stood there long after he left, the kettle cooling behind you, his voice still curling through your head like smoke.
—
Thirty minutes later, you slipped out the rear fire exit into the grey day. The air smelled of rain and exhaust, a faint drizzle misting the pavement. Across the lot, his car waited, shining dully under the overcast sky.
He was already there, leaning against the driver’s side door with his arms folded, one foot propped behind the other. A long charcoal coat hung open over his jumper, collar turned up against the wind.
When he saw you, his mouth curved... not quite a smile...
“Thought you’d changed your mind,” he said.
You shook your head, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “Just had to finish labeling the reels. They’d never forgive me if I messed up the order.”
“Ah, the sacred tapes,” he teased lightly. “Wouldn’t dream of angerin’ the gods of rock ’n’ roll.”
You laughed under your breath, the sound misting in the cold. He pushed off the car and circled around to open the passenger door.
“Hop in.”
The endearment hit like it always did , casual, but never careless. You slid into the seat, and he closed the door with a soft thud before walking around to the other side.
The car had that same warm, smoky note you’d been carrying on your skin since the last time you've been in here.
He started the engine, the low hum filling the quiet. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The wipers beat a slow rhythm against the glass as he pulled onto the road, hands loose on the steering wheel.
“So,” you said after a minute, voice breaking the stillness, “where are we going?”
He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Somewhere better than the canteen, promise you that.”
You arched a brow. “That’s not saying much.”
He chuckled. “You’re not wrong. But I’ll have you know, I’ve got standards. Can’t be seen eatin’ processed soy on white bread. Bad for the image.”
You looked over at him, the easy line of his profile, the way his hair fell forward just enough to brush his lashes when he turned. He looked tired, but not in the way that invited pity.
The city blurred past, rain streaking across the windows. After a few turns, the streets grew quieter, narrower lanes, brick terraces, chestnut trees dripping water onto the pavement.
When he slowed to a stop outside a modest townhouse, you frowned. “Where are we?”
“My place,” he said simply, cutting the engine. He leaned back, draping one arm over the steering wheel. “Well, not really my place-place. I’ve got the farm, out in Sussex. This is just a little flat I rent when I’m workin’ in town.”
You blinked, processing that.
He noticed, of course he did. “That alright?” he asked softly, nodding toward the townhouse.
Your pulse jumped. “Yeah,” you said after a moment. “More than alright.”
His smile flickered wider, the kind that reached his eyes. “Good. Didn’t fancy eatin’ alone.”
He reached for the door handle but paused halfway, as if deciding something, then stepped out into the drizzle. The sound of rain filled the space he left behind. A moment later, he rounded the car to open your door again, coat collar beaded with tiny drops of water.
You stepped out, the air cool and damp against your face. He stood close enough that you could feel his body heat even through the rain.
Inside, the place was warm and lived-in, the kind of place that didn’t try to impress you. Guitars stood on stands in corners like old friends left mid-conversation. Gold records lined the walls. A grand piano sat near the bay window, its lid half-open, keys gleaming softly in the dim light.
There was a jumper thrown over the back of the couch, an open notebook on the coffee table, a mug with a tea ring at the bottom. The air smelled faintly of polish, old wood, and him, sandalwood and something sweet, like the ghost of last night’s cologne.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over a chair. “I’ll see what I can do. Might have somethin’ edible.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. You heard the faint sound of a door opening, the clink of jars, the muffled hum of the refrigerator.
You wandered.
Everywhere you looked, there was a trace of his life. Your steps brought you to the piano. It dominated the space, glossy and elegant, keys slightly yellowed with age. You paused, fingers hovering just above the middle of the keyboard.
“Go on,” his voice came from the doorway, warm and amused.
You turned to find him leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “It doesn’t bite.”
You hesitated, then let your fingers drop, pressing a single note. A middle C. The sound rang out pure and clear, fading into the stillness.
“Lovely,” he murmured.
He crossed the room, his steps unhurried, and came to stand beside you. The faint scent of him, soap, something earthy, reached you before he did. He rested one hip against the piano, close enough that your arm brushed the wool of his jumper when you moved.
“You play?” he asked gently.
“Not really,” you said. “I mean… I touch the keys sometimes. That’s about it.”
He smiled at that, eyes glinting. “That’s all anyone does, really.” He reached forward and pressed a few notes, a small, effortless chord that shimmered through the room. “See? You don’t have to know what you’re doin’. You just… feel for the bit that sounds like you.”
You watched his hands, long-fingered and sure, the same ones that had brushed your skin that morning, now coaxing music out of thin air. The intimacy of it made your pulse stutter.
He turned his head slightly toward you, the space between your shoulders narrowing. “Here,” he said softly, “try that.”
You followed his lead, pressing a key where his hand had been seconds before. The sound blended with the fading echo of his chord, and for a moment it was impossible to tell whose note was whose.
He smiled at the sound, not looking away. “See? Perfect.”
“It’s just two notes,” you murmured.
“Mm. Sometimes that’s all it takes.” His voice had gone lower now, threaded with something that wasn’t quite teasing. “You learn that with time.”
You swallowed, your eyes flicking to his. “With age, you mean?”
“Something like that.” His mouth curved.
The words hung in the air, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.
He looked at you then, and the smile softened into something quieter. You could feel it again, that tug, that invisible line drawing you closer without either of you moving.
A sudden clatter from the kitchen broke the spell. He straightened slightly, pushing off the piano. “Right,” he said, his voice rougher now, like he had to clear it. “Better make sure I’m not poisonin’ us.”
Lunch turned out to be a jumble of whatever he’d decided to make. Tomato soup warming on the stove, a loaf of crusty bread torn open between you, and a bit of cheese on the side “for balance,” as he put it. You ate at the kitchen table with your fingers, laughing when he dropped a slice into the soup and swore under his breath about never hiring himself as a waiter.
He spoke about his farm, the horses and the mud. It was all so ordinary and disarming that you found yourself leaning in, wanting to know every detail.
“It’s all contracts and phone calls sometimes,” he said after a while, poking at a piece of chicken. “Forgets why you started in the first place.”
“Why did you?” you asked.
He looked up, gaze sharpening, then easing into something almost shy. “Same reason you hum in the tape library. Because you have to. There’s a noise in your head, and if you don’t let it out, it drives you barmy.”
You nodded, feeling that truth settle somewhere deep.
He leaned back in his chair, studying you, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re quiet today.”
You smiled faintly. “Just thinking... again.”
“Mm.” He stood up, collecting the plates. “Well, stop thinkin’ so hard. It’s just lunch.” He carried the plates to the sink and then turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The casual pose was a lie; his eyes were intense, focused entirely on you. The air in the kitchen thickened, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly loud.
He stayed like that for a while, just watching you, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. His gaze wasn’t cruel, but it was steady, unyielding, like he was giving you a chance to decide what kind of game this was going to be. His thumb brushed the edge of the counter once, twice, a silent rhythm that made your heartbeat sync to it.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and measured, a quiet command that sent a shiver down your spine. You hesitated for a moment, then pushed your chair back and stood, your feet carrying you towards him without a word.
As you approached, he unfolded his arms, his hands slowly reaching out towards you. He moved deliberately, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to, but you didn’t. You stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the faint lines etched at the corners of his eyes.
He finally moved, his hands lifting to rest on your shoulders. His thumbs brushed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, a soft, almost absent-minded gesture. “You’re tense,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “All that thinkin’?”
You let out a soft laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “Something like that.”
He began to knead your shoulders gently, his touch firm and sure. “You know, when I was your age, I used to carry the world on these shoulders,” he said, his voice taking on a distant quality, as if he was remembering. “All the dreams and fears, the hopes and doubts. It’s a heavy load.”
You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, feeling the tension in your muscles begin to ease. “And now?” you asked softly.
He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “Now, I try to remember that it’s just one step at a time.” His hands slid down your arms, his fingers tracing the bones lightly. “You’ve got time. Don’t let the world wear you down too soon.”
You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his expression. He was closer than you’d realized, close enough for you to see the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the silver glint threaded through his hair. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made your breath catch.
His hands hesitated, then moved, one lifting to brush an errant strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone a moment too long. You felt the weight of that pause, the air thickening again, the unspoken thing hanging between you both.
His hands moved up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ this properly all morning,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. “Drivin’ me mad, you were.”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Just looked at you, as if giving you a chance to pull away. Then his hand tilted your chin up, his thumb tracing your jaw, his breath warm and uncertain against your lips.
And then he kissed you. Again.
It wasn’t like the hesitant, testing kiss in the hallway. This was deep and hungry from the start, a claiming. His mouth was insistent, his tongue sweeping past your lips without hesitation, tasting you, exploring you. A low, desperate sound escaped his throat, and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the solid, wiry strength of his body, the beat of his heart thudding against your chest.
His hands, rough and eager, found your hips, fingers digging in as he guided you backward, step by step, through the kitchen. You didn’t notice the clatter of a chair being pushed out of the way, or the soft thud of the fridge door closing as it caught your elbow. All you were aware of was his mouth on yours, his hands on your body, and the desperate need to get closer, to feel more.
The cool air of the living room hit your back as you crossed the threshold, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him. Your foot caught on the rug, but he caught you, his arm wrapping around your waist, lifting you slightly as he guided you backward. The soft, worn fabric of the sofa met your legs, and you tumbled down onto it, him coming with you, his knee sliding between yours, his weight a comforting, thrilling pressure.
He finally broke for air, both of you panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Okay?” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours.
“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice trembling.
A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Good.” He dipped his head again, but this time his kisses trailed from your mouth down your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, your head falling back against the sofa cushions as his lips and tongue worked their magic, his stubble a rough, thrilling friction against your skin.
“You smell so good,” he muttered into your neck, his voice muffled.
His hands began to move, roaming down your sides, over your hips, learning the shape of you. One hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his palm warm and slightly rough against the bare skin of your stomach. You flinched at the contact, a shiver wracking your body.
“Easy, love,” he soothed, his lips returning to yours for a soft, lingering kiss. “Just takin’ my time. Wanna learn you.”
He did just that. With a patience that was both maddening and incredibly arousing, he explored your body through your clothes, his touch firm and sure. He kissed you until you were dizzy with it, until your hands were tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. You could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your thigh, and a fresh wave of heat pooled low in your belly.
“Paul,” you whispered, arching into him.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips. “I know.”
His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, gathering the fabric before lifting it over your head in one smooth motion. He paused once it was gone, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin. The look in his eyes was one of pure, reverent hunger.
“Christ,” he said, his voice thick with awe. He bent his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your chest. Your back arched off the sofa, a broken moan escaping your lips.
He chuckled, a low, dark sound of pleasure. “Like that, do you?” He did it again, his tongue flicking over your skin. You cried out, your hips bucking against his.
“Shhh, shhh,” he soothed, but his eyes were alight with mischief. “Walls aren’t that thick.” The air was cool on your heated skin, but his gaze was warmer. He looked his fill, his expression a mixture of desire and something softer, almost wonder. “Perfect,” he breathed. He lowered his head again, but this time his mouth went straight to your nipple, his tongue circling the tight peak before drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth.
The sensation was overwhelming, a direct line of pleasure-pain that made you writhe beneath him. He suckled deeply, greedily, his hand coming up to knead your other breast, his thumb rubbing rough circles over the neglected nipple.
He lifted his head, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust.
He shifted his weight, his hand sliding down your stomach, over the waistband of your trousers. He paused, his fingers hooking into the fabric, his eyes asking a silent question.
You nodded frantically, beyond words.
He made quick work of the button and zip, peeling your trousers and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. He tossed them aside, his gaze burning as it traveled up the length of your bare legs to the apex of your thighs. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the raw hunger in his look was the most powerful aphrodisiac you’d ever known.
He settled between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider. He leaned down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he pressed a hot, wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. You jolted.
He did it again, slower this time, his breath hot against damp skin. The faint scratch of stubble followed, dragging goosebumps up your legs.
“Easy now,” he murmured, voice gone rough, accent thicker for it. “Been a while since I took my time with anyone.”
You felt him smile against your thigh, a small, private thing. When he looked up, the lines around his eyes caught the light, tiny creases from laughter and late nights and years lived too fast. His hair silvered faintly at the temples, the faint cut of exhaustion in the corner of his mouth. But he looked good. Devastating, even.
His fingers trailed over your hips, tracing the shape of you like he was learning a song he didn’t want to forget. “You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he said, voice low and reverent. “Christ, you make me feel twenty again.”
You smiled faintly, your hand sliding into his hair. “You don’t look twenty.”
He barked a quiet laugh against your skin, the sound vibrating against your thigh. “Cheeky.” Then softer, almost a whisper: “But I’ll take it.”
He kissed higher, lips and tongue dragging deliberate patterns closer to the heat between your legs until you were trembling under him. He didn’t rush. Everything about him was patience, restraint barely held in check. He looked up once, eyes dark and sure.
“Tell me if it’s too much.”
You nodded, breath hitching as his thumb parted you gently, exposing soft, wet skin to the cool air. His eyes flicked down, hunger and affection tangled together. Then he leaned in and tasted you, slow and deep, tongue sliding through you with the same care he gave a melody.
You gasped, your hips lifting, but his hand pressed lightly to your stomach, steadying you.
“That’s it, love,” he murmured against you. “Just breathe.”
The sound of him, wet, rhythmic, almost tender, filled the room. His tongue circled your clit, patient, practiced, every movement deliberate.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. “Paul-”
He hummed in answer, and the vibration made you cry out, head falling back against the sofa.
“Could spend the day here.” he murmured, voice muffled.
He set a slow, deliberate pace, his tongue tracing patterns that made you see stars. He was an artist here, too, exploring every fold, every sensitive spot with a focused, unhurried intensity that was utterly maddening. He’d circle your clit until you were whimpering, then pull back to lavish attention on your inner lips, sucking gently, before returning to that aching, swollen nub with renewed purpose.
“Paul… please…” you begged, your back arching off the sofa, your hands now fisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.
“Please what, sweetheart?” he asked, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his breathing ragged. “You gotta use your words. Man needs a bit of direction.”
“I… I need…” You couldn’t form the sentence, the words dissolving into a moan as he dipped his head and sucked, hard, sending a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure straight to your toes.
“You need to come, is that it?” he asked, his voice rough with his own desire. “You need me to make you come on my tongue?”
The filthiness of the words, spoken in that familiar, melodic Scouse accent, was your undoing. You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.
“Alright then,” he murmured, as if agreeing to a simple request. “Let’s see what we can do.”
He redoubled his efforts, his tongue lashing at your clit with a relentless, rhythmic precision that stole the breath from your lungs. One of his hands left your hip, his fingers sliding down to press against your entrance, not entering, just applying a firm, steady pressure that amplified every sensation tenfold. The world narrowed to the wet, hot friction of his mouth, the rough press of his fingers, the scent of his cologne and your own arousal mingling in the air.
It built inside you, a coiling, unbearable tension. Your thighs began to shake around his head, your pleas becoming incoherent. He sensed it, felt the way your body tightened, and he moaned against you, the sound one of pure, male satisfaction.
“Come on, then,” he growled, his voice thick and muffled. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
The command, the sheer possessiveness in his tone, shattered the last of your control. A broken cry was torn from your throat as you came, your body convulsing under his mouth, waves of pleasure so intense they were almost painful crashing through you. He didn’t let up, gentling his movements but continuing to lap at you, drawing out every last shuddering spasm until you were limp and boneless beneath him, gasping for air.
He finally lifted his head, his breathing as labored as yours. He looked utterly debauched, his hair a mess from your hands, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes dark with a primal hunger that had yet to be sated. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate gesture that was impossibly lewd.
“Fuck,” he breathed, staring down at you, at the wreck he’d made of you. He leaned down and kissed your stomach, a soft, tender press of his lips that was a stark contrast to what had just transpired.
He shifted, kneeling up between your legs, and began to fumble with the buckle of his belt. His movements were less graceful now, fueled by a raw, urgent need. You watched, mesmerized, as he pushed his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his erection.
“Now,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly command as he moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. He nudged at your entrance, the pressure firm and insistent. “Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His expression was a complex mix of tenderness and sheer, unadulterated lust. There was a question in his eyes, a final check.
You nodded, a tiny, desperate movement.
He pushed inside you in one slow, inexorable thrust.
The feeling was overwhelming. The stretch, the fullness, the shocking intimacy of it stole the air from your lungs. A sharp, bitten-off gasp escaped you, and you clenched around him instinctively.
He groaned, his head dropping forward, his forehead resting against yours. He was still for a long moment, buried deep inside you, both of you breathing in ragged, syncopated pants. “Oh, god, ” He sounded wrecked, his voice strangled. “You alright? I’m not… I didn’t hurt you?”
You shook your head, your nails digging into the sleeves of his jumper. “No,” you whispered. “Just… full.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “You can say that again.” He began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips that made you see stars.
Each thrust was deliberate, measured, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your toes curl. He kept his eyes locked on yours, his gaze intense, reading every flicker of pleasure and pain on your face.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. He leaned down and captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips. You could taste yourself on his lips, a dark, musky flavor that should have been shocking but only fueled the fire.
You wrapped your legs around him, meeting each slow thrust, the rhythm building in lazy waves. His pace faltered once, he caught his breath, muttered, “Fuck” and you laughed softly against his shoulder.
He chuckled too, though it turned into a groan when he moved again. “Don’t laugh at me. Man’s tryin’ his best here.”
“You’re doing fine,” you murmured, kissing his jaw.
He hummed, the sound almost tender. “Yeah?”
You pulled him closer. “Better than fine.”
That seemed to ignite something in him. His thrusts deepened, still slow, but heavier now, each one drawn from somewhere primal. His hand slid up, cupping your chest, thumb brushing your nipple. His other arm wrapped around you, holding you against him as he moved.
The sounds filled the flat. The soft slap of skin, his quiet grunts, your breathy cries.
His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding that perfect, swollen spot, and he pressed down, circling it in time with his thrusts.
It was too much. The world shattered.
Your climax ripped through you with a force that stole your breath and your sight. A raw, guttural scream was torn from your throat as your body convulsed around him, clutching at his length in wave after wave of blinding, white-hot pleasure. You were barely aware of his own groan, deep and guttural, as he felt you clench around him. His rhythm faltered, became frantic, and with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he spilled himself inside you, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever.
He collapsed on top of you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure. The only sounds in the room were your ragged, mingled breaths and the soft patter of rain against the window. You could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your chest, a wild drumbeat slowly settling into a steady, tired rhythm.
For a long time, neither of you moved. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and damp on your skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, holding you as if you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
Finally, he stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before he pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked down at you, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes soft and hazy with spent passion and something else, something dangerously close to affection.
When he pulled away, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb stroking your damp skin. “You alright?” he asked for the third time, his voice raspy and tender.
You could only nod, your own smile feeling wobbly and new. You were more than alright. You were ruined, remade, and utterly, completely his.
He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Good.” He shifted, rolling off you with a slight, weary grunt, but he immediately pulled you against his side, tucking you into the warmth of his body. The leather of the sofa was cool against your heated skin, but his arm around you was warmer.
The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy with the weight of what had just happened. The grand piano stood silent witness across the room. The city hummed on, oblivious.
“You know,” he said after a long while, his voice thoughtful in the dimming light, “they’re gonna be wonderin’ where we’ve got to.”
You nestled closer, your hand splayed on his chest, feeling the steady, slowing beat of his heart. “Let them wonder.”
He laughed, a real, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You smiled, stroking the back of his neck. “What a way to go.”
He chuckled, the sound muffled against your shoulder. “That’s one for the obituaries, that is.”
You lay there a while, tangled and warm, rain pattering softly against the windows. Eventually, he shifted, groaning as his knees cracked. “See? I told you. My body’s not built for this anymore.”
You laughed quietly, helping him sit back. “You’re ridiculous.”
He grinned, running a hand through his hair. “Still got it though, haven’t I?”
You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, Paul. You still got it.”
He smiled, soft and satisfied. “Good. Let’s have that tea now before I collapse.”
i saw u were taking requests and was wondering if u could do a george x reader where the reader doesn’t initially recognize him? the reader could be distracted by something, maybe work or searching for something, to realize they were half-absently interacting with george
i hope this isn’t too much (•᷄ᴗ•᷅ ᵕ)
♪) Hard to Focus
♪ Contains: fluff, gender neutral reader
♪ Summary: You’re too focused to realise he’s right there
♪ Notes: Ahhhh Tysm for requesting this is genuinely such a sweet prompt, feel free to give constructive criticism!
*I also didn’t know if you wanted an established relationship or not so I just made it an established one :p
It had been a long day of work, your boss was upping your workload while letting all your coworkers slack off. You were still not done with work by the time you went to go and wait for your boyfriend, George, to finish recording with his band mates.
You walked into Abbey Road Studios and greeted the reception lady while carrying your unfinished papers like a high schooler would their homework. You took your spot at a table and chair outside of studio two and set your full attention on the stack of work you had in front of you.
Chewing on your pen you lightly tapped the sheet you were stuck on, statistics you barely understood but were apparently in charge of. The soft hum of a fan above you helped you focus more on your task, hands becoming clammy from how tight you were holding your pen and eyes narrowing at one part you just couldn’t get.
Some small patters of steps approached you and stopped at your side, though you didn’t really distinguish the particular sound.
“Work papers..?” A soft voice spoke to you from above.
“…yeah” you replied back not really giving any attention, still focused on the data infront of you.
“Want a coffee or tea?”
“..tea thanks.”
“Right” the voice trailed off and the patter started again, probably to a break room or something.
After a few minutes or so, you couldn’t tell how much time had passed, the steps started and stopped at your table and placed down a mug on the coaster aside your stack of paper.
A couple moments pass and you feel a hand gently stroke your arm and you jolt and snap your head up, wondering who had the audacity to touch you in such an intimate way.
“George..!” You stammer in a surprised manner as he looks upon you in a somewhat confused way.
“Wha’ you seriously didn’t think it was me or somethin’?” He slightly chuckles and raises his eyebrow.
“Thought you were just some manager bein’ nice, was focused and didn’t recognise your voice!” You sit up straighter with a small smile on your face.
“Finished a bit earlier than expected and was gonna get myself a drink until I spotted you here, did think it was a bit odd you didn’t immediately ask me how it was like you normally do”. he commented and looked at your papers.
“I’m stuffed, wanna head back to mine? I’ll help you with some of these”. He proposed as he flipped through said papers.
“What about the tea you jus’ made me?”.
“Do you really wanna sit in that uncomfortable chair for another hour?”.
“You’re right”. You say as you gather your bag and stuff all the sheets in it, standing up.
George wraps an arm around your shoulder and brings you close to him, the scent of cigarette smoke wafting through your nose.
He lightly kisses your hairline and guided you out of the building, faint music ringing through your ears.
michael jackson is not a perfect person; far from it, he's too sensitive for the world. he has always had this difficulty with people—they often find him too weird, too childish, too sensitive.
anyway, that's not a problem.
not when he has you, the lady in his life. you're one of the few people who can understand him. he's not lying when he says he can't live without you.
with you, everything was easy. it was surprising how well you both understood each other; you could read his mind, and he didn't need to say a word. you would look at him and see through the window to his core.
you're younger than he is, but that isn't a problem—at least for him. it doesn't matter. not when you see his soul like nobody else can.
one time, you told him that you felt like he was your soulmate.
at first, he laughed about it, and you didn't like his reaction—but c'mon, he's an older man, what was the proper way to react to that?
but then, something weird happened. one night, he had this dream: you were the sun and he was the moon. he was orbiting not around the earth, but around you.
that was a strange dream.
of course he told you. your reaction? you started laughing, calling him a crazy old man.
but then, things started to make sense, like the way he always knew about the spot on your neck that would make you melt.
or the way you would recognize his favorite things even when he had never told you, like the specific way he drinks tea: always with four drops of sugar and one of milk.
and he swears he never told you any of that.
that was—according to google—soulmate behavior.
so when michael is in bed and you are there by his side reading a book, he looks at you.
he stares at you so deeply that you can feel goosebumps all over your body. well, you don't look at him, but all your focus on reading goes into space.
"baby, i think we're really soulmates."
"i told you that a while ago, but you only believe it now?"
he doesn't say anything; instead, he gets closer to you and has the audacity to close your book. you can feel his breath against your back; he starts to press gentle kisses on your neck.
a short whine escapes from your mouth when you feel his boner growing against your ass. he's so hard that you have no choice besides humping on it.
you already so fucking wet—thank god, you're wearing a nightgown. michael slips his panties to the side and gently puts his hard cock in.
he stretches you so well; he thrusts in that sweet spot, and it's so, so, so good—he whispers the sweetest words in your ear, you can feel that thing inside you growing until you reach your limit.
you're squeezing him so hard, you're so wet for him, it's too much for him; he cums deeply inside you, while he tells how much he loves you and how you're a good girl for him.
Summary: After All The Failed And Messed Up Relationships Michael Has Been Through He Notices There Is One Girl That Has Never Left His Side.
A/N: Please Follow, Like, And Reblog, My request Are Open.
There came a point in Michael Jackson's life where he stopped counting heartbreaks. Not because they stopped happening but because there were too many.
Relationships came and went same as promises and people. Yet somehow you never did. You were there before the fame became overwhelming. After the scandals, rumors, heartbreaks, and every disappointment that followed. You were always there.
At first, Michael never thought much about it mainly because you were simply Y/n. His best friend and his safe place.
You were the person he called at three in the morning and who always answered. Especially when things fell apart.
"Can I come over?" The question came through the phone at nearly midnight. You immediately sat up. "Of course." An hour later Michael was sitting on your couch. He was quiet and exhausted but mainly just heartbroken.
You handed him a cup of water and he accepted and you sat next to him as neither of you spoke. Because you knew he would talk when he was ready. Eventually he did.
"It happened again." Your heart ached. "I know." Michael laughed bitterly. "You always know." You smiled softly. "Comes with being your friend." Friend. The word should've been harmless instead it just hurt.
Because somewhere along the way you fell in love with Michael. And even trying so hard not to somehow you had never managed to stop.
Years have passed and the pattern never changed. Michael dated. You listened. Michael got hurt. You helped him heal. Michael moved on. You stayed. It was becoming unbearable.
Not because you wanted him to suffer. But because every time he looked for love somewhere else a tiny part of you wondered why you were never enough. Eventually, you stopped asking yourself that question. Because it didn't matter Michael had made his choice. Over and over again it just wasn't you. So you accepted it or at least you tried to.
The problem? Michael started noticing things. They were small things at first. Like how your first reaction was always concern whenever he called. How you remembered every important date. How you somehow knew exactly what he needed before he asked. How you never expected anything in return. And perhaps most importantly how you never left.
One evening Michael found himself staring at old photographs. Years worth of memories and while looking Michael saw one thing they all had in common, you.
The birthdays you helped throw for him always making sure he blew out a candle. The times you and would play board games while on tour. And after award shows you and him would get some drive thru. Family gatherings where you just fit right it. Even holiday dinners where you would help his mom in kitchen as you joked with his siblings making them all laugh. It was all you and he can feel his chest tighten at the realization. Because suddenly he realized something terrifying.
Every woman he'd spent years searching for had qualities that reminded him of you. Your kindness to everyone you meet. The loyalty you had especially to him in all these years. The warmth you had that attracted everyone. And your humor no matter how low he feels you always make him laugh. The realization kept hitting him like a truck.
"Oh my." His voice was barely a whisper because suddenly he understood. He wasn't looking for someone else he was looking for you and he didn’t even know it.
But this realization arrived far too late. Because recently you'd started pulling away. Not dramatically or Curley but enough to protect your heart. And Michael noticed immediately.
"Are you busy?" You smiled. "A little." The answer shouldn't have hurt but it did. "Can I call later?" "Of course." And for the first time you weren't dropping everything for him.
And Michael hated how much that scared him. Because what if one day you stopped answering completely? What if one day you moved on? What if someone else finally realized how wonderful you were?
The thought was making him sick. A few weeks later, Michael finally snapped. It wasn’t anger but after laying in bed every night imagining you smiling and loving someone else he couldn’t take it. He was desperate.
He showed up at your house unannounced. The second you opened the door, you knew something was wrong. "Michael?" His eyes were already glassy and your heart dropped. "What happened?" For a moment he couldn't answer wing he pulled himself a bit together. "You." "Michael what?" "You happened."
Now you were thoroughly confused. Michael just laughed but it sounded broken.
“Oh my Goodness” He wiped at his eyes. "I'm so stupid." Your heart immediately started racing.
"Michael—" "No." His voice cracked. "No, let me say it." And suddenly tears were falling, real tears. The kind Michael rarely let anyone see.
"I spent years looking for somebody who loved me." Your breath caught. "Years and she was standing right in front of me the whole time." It was quiet after that.
Because surely he couldn't mean— "I know." Michael nodded. "I know you loved me." Your eyes widened. "Michael" His voice broke again. "I know now."
The tears you'd spent years holding back suddenly burned behind your own eyes. Because hearing those words felt cruel it felt far too late. "Michael please."
"I know." He laughed bitterly. "I know it's unfair, I know I don't deserve you, I know I spent years being blind." The more Michael went on his voice kept breaking and suddenly Michael sank to his knees. It was dramatic but his legs genuinely gave out.
"Michael!" You immediately reached for him. But he grabbed your hands first holding them tightly. Like they were the only thing keeping him together.
"Please." The word shattered you. "Please don't give up on me." You felt like your heart stopped. "Michael—" "I'm serious." His voice cracked. "I'm so tired." A tear rolled down his face. "So tired of getting it wrong and for the first time..." He looked directly at you he is vulnerable and terrified all at once. "I know exactly what I want. And it’s you”
You don’t even know what to say all you can do is say his name again because you feel like this can’t be your best friend here breaking down. "Michael..." "I love you." The confession came instantly. Like he'd been holding it in for years and maybe he had.
"I love you so much.” Repeated as though he needed you to believe it. As if he needed himself to believe it.
The tears finally spilled down your own cheeks. Because after all these years of heartbreak and waiting. After all the times you'd convinced yourself it would never happen...nMichael was looking at you the way you'd always dreamed he would. Like you were everything.
You knelt beside him gently cupping his face. "You're an idiot." Michael laughed through his tears. "I know.""A complete idiot." You shook your head trying and failing not to smile. "I can't believe it took you this long."
The smallest hopeful smile appeared. "Does that mean-“ You kissed him before he could finish and Michael immediately melted.
Because after years of searching and failing and missing what was right infront of him. He finally found what he'd been looking for. The one who never left.
Authors Note: this is a request! I hope you all enjoy this - i rarely see any maestro au fics, so hopefully this can fill a void. not sure if this is exactly in mikey's voice that i have worked on building but i suppose it is a character he plays.. or an alter ego.
Pairing: Maestro! Michael Jackson X fem! paranormal investigator reader
Summary: The Maestro has been alone for twenty years with a question he cannot answer by himself. You trespassed on his property and now you will pay for your actions - not on the way you think though. You will leave this encounter… enlightened.
Word Count: 5096
Tags: smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving) michael as maestro from the music video ghosts, so... ghost sex?, haunted, 90s,
update: I wrote this all through the night on a red eye flight so if there are any continuity issues,,,, I be sorry lol
18+ minors dnu!!!
You walked through the hallways, that were startlingly still.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, a thick, dusty silence that swallowed the sound of your own footsteps on the worn parquet. Your flashlight beam cut a wavering path through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust that danced like agitated spirits. The dictaphone in your other hand felt both absurd and necessary, a tiny, plastic tether to the rational world you’d left beyond the iron gates.
“Log entry… seven,” you whispered, your voice hushed not just for recording but out of a deep, instinctive reverence. The house demanded quiet. “Time, approximately 10:47 PM. I’ve entered the main hall of the property known colloquially as the abandoned L’Estaque Manor. Initial impressions… the decay is theatrical.
Deliberate.
It feels less like neglect and more like a stage set waiting for its principal actor.”
You panned the light upwards. A grand staircase swept into darkness, its banister adorned with intricate, cobwebbed carvings. The wallpaper, once a rich burgundy damask, peeled in long, languid strips, revealing the skeletal lath beneath. It was cold, a damp chill that seeped through your jacket and settled in your bones. Yet, there was no malevolence in it. Not yet. It was the cold of emptiness, of a vast space long devoid of warmth.
“No standard paranormal signatures yet,” you continued, moving slowly toward a pair of towering oak doors. “No EMF spikes, no temperature fluctuations beyond the ambient chill. But the atmosphere… it’s heavy. It isn’t threat, maybe expectation?.”
You pushed open the doors to what must have been a music room. A sheet-draped grand piano dominated the space, a hulking white ghost in the center. Tarnished candelabras sat on the mantle.
Your light glinted off the glass of a large, gold-framed portrait above the fireplace, but the face within was too shadowed to make out. You stepped inside, your boots whispering on the Persian rug, its patterns faded into vague, blood-like smudges.
“This room,” you murmured into the recorder. “There’s a… resonance here. Auditory? Maybe. A memory of sound. If I listen…”
You stopped. You closed your eyes, letting the silence press in. And then, beneath the sound of your own nervous system, you heard it.
Or felt it. It wasn’t quite a melody, but the echo of one. The faint, phantom vibration of a piano chord—a minor, unresolved, hanging in the air like a question. Your eyes snapped open. The sheet over the piano was perfectly still. No dust had been disturbed.
“Did you hear that?” you asked the empty room, the dictaphone catching your quickened breath. “A chord. C minor, perhaps moving to… no. It’s gone.”
But it wasn’t.
As you moved back into the hall, it followed you. It wasn’t only just a sound, but a presence. The back of your neck prickled. The air, once uniformly cold, now seemed to stir with a faint, impossible current.
You entered a long gallery, portraits lining the walls, their subjects’ eyes seeming to track your progress from faces blurred by time and shadow.
Then you felt it. A breath. Not on your neck, but inside your ear. A cool, gentle exhalation that carried with it the faintest sound—a wordless, melancholic fragment of tune, the same one that had haunted the piano chord. It was intimate, paralyzing. You froze, your blood turning to ice water.
“Who’s there?” you breathed, not daring to turn. The dictaphone, still recording, captured the tremor in your voice.
There was no answer. Only the returning, absolute silence, now feeling like a held secret.
You forced your legs to move, driven by a compulsion that was equal parts terror and desperate curiosity.
The master bedroom was your goal. In these old houses, it was often the epicenter of residual energy.
You found the door ajar. Pushing it open, you were met with a spectacle that stole what little breath you had left.
The room was vast, dominated by a canopy bed whose curtains hung in tattered shreds. But it was the far wall that commanded attention.
The enormous windows were naked, their curtains ripped away or decayed.
They were thrown wide open to the night, and the wind poured through in a silent, powerful river.
The moon, nearly full, cast a slab of pewter light across the floorboards, illuminating the dust swirling in the turbulent air. The curtains that remained on the sides billowed and snapped like the sails of a ghost ship, soundless in the vacuum of the room.
The night itself seemed to be invading, a cool, black ink flooding into the tomb of the house.
You stepped into the lunar wash, drawn to the windows, to the view of the overgrown gardens and the skeletal trees. The wind played with your hair, kissed your feverish skin. This was it. The heart of the strange stillness. You raised your dictaphone.
“The master bedroom. The windows are open. There’s a… a violent peace here. The wind, but no sound. The moon, is so creepy. I feel…”
You felt watched.
The sensation was so intense it was a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You slowly, so slowly, turned from the mesmerizing night.
He stood in the doorway.
You hadn’t heard a thing; footfall or rustle of cloth. He was simply there, having coalesced from the very shadows of the hall. Your mind, trained to document and analyze, short-circuited, overwhelmed by sheer aesthetic shock.
He was beautiful. It wasn’t in a modern way, but like a painting by a Romantic master who believed in the tragic allure of the sublime. Tall and imperially slender, he was dressed in an anachronism of elegant decay: a white poet’s shirt of fine linen, its ruffles at the chest and cuffs pristine, the top buttons carelessly open to reveal a expanse of pale, smooth skin that gleamed like marble in the low light.
It was tucked into tailored black trousers that emphasized his long legs, and over it all, a sweeping black velvet cloak rested on his shoulders, not quite touching the floor. His hair was a cascade of raven-black waves, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch you, framing a face of heartbreaking symmetry—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that seemed carved from something both soft and cruel.
His eyes were the most alive thing about him, a burning, intelligent dark brown, with a glimmer of mischief in them.
And he was opaque, but only just. You could see, faintly, the outline of the doorframe behind him, the subtle suggestion of moonlight passing through the solidity of his wrist where he held the doorjamb. A ghost. A spectacular, gorgeous ghost.
Your legs gave out. The dictaphone clattered to the floor, but you didn’t hear it. The world tunneled into those dark benevolent eyes, and then into black velvet nothingness.
Consciousness returned without a jolt, but as a slow, cold seep. You were on the floor, but not on the hard wood.
You were cradled in an impossible chill, a sensation like being held by a statue carved from winter moonlight. Your head rested against the crisp linen of his ruffled shirt, and through the thin fabric, you registered a profound, deep cold, the utter absence of living heat.
“Open your eyes.” The voice was a melody all its own, low, cultured, vibrating with an old-world accent and a current of simmering anger. “I did not grant you the courtesy of my solitude only for you to escape into unconsciousness.”
Your eyelids fluttered open. His face was above yours, inches away. Up close, his beauty was even more devastating, and more unnerving. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen, and the cool air around him smelled of old books, dried lavender, and something metallic, like distant ozone.
“You…” you croaked.
“I,” he agreed, his tone icy. With a grace that was both effortless and unsettling, he shifted you, helping you to sit up. His hands on your shoulders were like brands of ice, a shock that cleared the last cobwebs from your mind. He didn’t release you. He knelt before you, his stormy eyes pinning you in place.
“Now. You will explain. Why do you trespass in my home? Why do you shuffle through my halls with your little machine, speaking to the silence as if it owes you answers?”
He was furious. It was not the rage of a monster, but a deep, personal offense of a scholar whose library has been invaded and ripped up by a vandal.
“I… I’m a paranormal investigator,” you stammered, your professional pride flickering weakly.
“This house… it’s famous. I thought it was empty.”
“Thought it was empty?” He released you as if burned, rising to his full height in a fluid motion. The white ruffled shirt he wore, flapped in the wind.
“You thought. Or you assumed? And on that assumption, you violate my peace? For twenty years I have curated this silence. Twenty years of moonlit rooms and echoing chords, and you believe you can simply… walk in?” He turned his back to you, a gesture of supreme disdain, looking out at his billowing curtains.
“Your world is so loud. So bright. It forgets what lurks beyond it. It bulldozes. And now it sends its curious little children to poke at what it has forgotten.”
You scrambled to your feet, your legs still unsteady. The dictaphone lay at your feet, its red recording light a tiny, accusing eye. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just… trying to understand.”
He turned his head, his profile a sharp cut against the moonlit window. “Understanding is not yours to take. It is mine to bestow. And I am not inclined to be generous.” He faced you fully again, his anger seeming to settle into a colder, more calculating resolve.
“However. You are here. You have seen me. That… complicates things.”
A new kind of chill, one of primal fear, trickled down your spine. “What are you going to do to me?”
A ghost of a smile, bitter and beautiful, touched his lips. “The traditional tropes? Frighten you to death? Haunt your dreams? How pedestrian.” He drifted closer, his movement so smooth on the rotten floorboards. The cold around him intensified.
“I am a man of intellect. Of passion. Trapped. For two decades, I have been a curator of memories, a prisoner of sensation I can only recall. The taste of wine. The warmth of a fire.” His eyes raked over you, not with lust, but with a desperate, hungry curiosity.
“The touch of a living hand.”
He stopped an arm’s length away. You were captivated, utterly. The fear was still there, deep in your veins, but it was subsumed by a terrifying fascination. He was a masterpiece of sorrow and anger.
“I will let you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that seemed to reverberate in your very bones.
“I will unlock the doors and watch you flee back to your noisy, bright world, and I will return to my melodic silence. But you will have given me something in return. A… experiment.”
“An experiment?” you whispered.
“A confirmation,” he corrected, his gaze holding yours.
“A sensory recollection,” he added, with a whimsical tone.
“I have wondered, in my long solitude, if the memory of pleasure is a lie the mind tells the soul. If the mechanics of passion are lost to a form such as mine.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers, pale and slightly translucent, hovered just beside your cheek.
You felt the chill, a thrilling ache.
“I wish to know if, after twenty years, I can still… feel. In the most primal sense. I wish to know if I can still make a living woman sigh, and in doing so, remember what it was to be a mere mortal man.”
The meaning crashed over you, not in a wave of horror, but in a surge of electric, reckless understanding. He wasn’t asking for your life. He was asking for your body. As a test. As a sacrament. Your mouth was dry. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You should run. You should scream.
You looked into his eyes, saw the centuries of loneliness, the artistic fury, the haunting, fragile hope.
You saw the pale column of his throat above the open ruffles, the elegant line of his shoulders under the worn white shirt. His hair fell shoulder length, and was beautiful - an almost blue hue shone off of it in the moonlight.
He was the most beautiful, terrible thing you had ever seen.
“Yes,” you heard yourself say, the word leaving your lips on a cloud of breath in the cold air.
His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, triumphant fire. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
The word hung between you, a pact sealed. The anger in him seemed to transmute, melting into a fierce, focused intensity.
He closed the distance. Where his body met yours, there was no solid impact, but a gradual, chilling immersion, as if you were stepping into the shadow of a glacier.
His hands came up to frame your face, and the cold was piercing, exquisite. He leaned in, and his lips met yours.
They were soft, and colder than anything you could imagine, but not inert. They moved with a practiced, desperate skill, and a strange thing began to happen.
As the kiss deepened, a sensation bloomed within the cold—a memory of warmth, a phantom heat that seemed to generate from the very friction of your living spirit against his spectral one.
A low, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound that was half moan, half sob, and it vibrated into your mouth.
The dictaphone was forgotten. The investigation was forgotten. There was only the Maestro and his experiment.
He pushed you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours, until suddenly he was gone. All that was left was a whisper of the feeling of him on your lips. You brought your fingers up to your lips immediately, missing the touch there.
All of a sudden he appeared behind you, as if by magic and grabbed your other hand and pulled you onto the bed.
With unseen force, the tattered remnants of the bed curtains fell away completely. He laid you down on the cold, silken coverlet, following you down, his form settling over yours with a weight that was more pressure than mass. His cloak enveloped you both, a dark tent against the moonlit room.
“Tell me you can feel that,” he murmured against your throat, his lips trailing icy fire down your pulse point. His fingers, deft and chilling, worked at the buttons of your jacket, then your shirt. “Tell me I am not just a dream touching you.”
“I feel it,” you gasped, arching into the shocking cold of his hands on your bare skin. It was a paradoxical feeling—the cold was so intense it burned, and within that burn, pleasure sparked, sharp and shocking.
“You’re real.”
You nearly yelped at the force in which he pulled off your jeans.
He made a sound, a raw, hungry thing, and his own clothing seemed to dissolve into mist and shadow at his will; revealing the pale, sculpted plane of his chest, the elegant taper of his waist. He was slender, graceful, beautifully made, and glowing with that faint inner luminescence.
His skin, when it met yours fully, was a shock—a deep, penetrating cold that made every nerve ending sing a desperate, alert song.
He explored you, focused, like a connoisseur rediscovering a lost art. His mouth, a brand of ice, traced the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breast, his tongue swirling in a pattern that left behind a trail of goosebumps and fire.
Your voice gave out, the sound swallowed by the billowing curtains and the silent night. Your hands clutched at his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under skin that was smooth and cold as polished alabaster.
You could fully feel him now, the reality of his form, even as your fingers sometimes seemed to sink into him a fraction too deeply, meeting a core of thrilling, empty cold.
“I crave the warmth between those legs,” he breathed, his voice ragged with wonder. He was between your legs now, his storm-cloud eyes holding yours, his dark hair cascading around his face, stirred by his own spectral energy.
“You are... A delicious, living thing. Something I have not been close to as of late. Let me… let me remember this.”
He prepared himself by using his index finger to rub the precum on his cock, and then entered you in one slow, relentless glide.
The sensation was beyond anything you could have conceived. It wasnt the friction of flesh, but something stranger, more profound. It was a bone chilling cold, a possession that reached into the very marrow of your bones and clawed up to your heart from below.
It was like being touched from the inside out by a icy winter river, shocking and pure and terrifyingly intimate.
Another choked and wordless sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure came from you; your back bowing off the bed, crazily, as if you were possessed. Maybe you were.
He stilled, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy. “Ah… it is… better than I remember….the memory is true. It is… worth the waiting.”
He began to move, and each movement was a study in contradiction—the solid, rhythmic pressure of him, coupled with the eerie, chilling diffusion of his essence spreading through you.
The feel of him became a drug, a stimulant. It sharpened every sensation, made every nerve raw, every pleasure point on the edge of falling apart.
You felt everything with a hyper-clarity: the silken slide of the coverlet beneath you, the rush of the moonlit wind over your heated skin, the exact, perfect angle of his hips as he drove into you, seeking his own forgotten culmination. His rhythm was diabolically good, you did not know that these feelings could overcome your body.
He was not silent within this endeavour. He whispered in a mix of broken words and song, fragments of poetry, curses, prayers. You couldn’t tell what was which - your brain unable to concentrate for the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.
“Warm — you are so extraordinarily warm — I had forgotten — god, the scent of your skin alone is enough to have me—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish. For the first time since you had met him, the Maestro had run out of words.
His hands were everywhere, icy points of contact that ignited wildfires under your skin. The juxtaposition of this feeling in your brain was hard to comprehend.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his marauding, freezing kisses.
The other gripped your hip, his fingers pressing in with a desperate strength that should have bruised, but only left a thrilling ache. You were unraveling, your own moans and pleas becoming a constant, ragged soundtrack to the act unfolding in this old gothic home.
The pleasure built not in a warm wave, but in a cryptic crescendo, a pinnacle of sensation so sharp and cold and brilliant it felt like nothing you’d experienced before..
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his form seeming to flicker with a stronger inner light. “Look at me when you fall from the precipice.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his. They were no longer just stormy, but lit from within by lightning, wide with a shock of feeling so long denied.
The sight of his beautiful, haunted face, hovering over you in the throes of a passion both otherworldly and devastatingly real, was the final trigger.
The world dissolved into a ridiculous gothic black and white film. You felt like you’d fallen through the bed and into a whole other dimension - your body experiencing such extreme sensation it had never felt before.
Your climax was not a release of heat, but a vacuum of sensation, a pulling inward of all the cold and the pleasure into a single, singular point of absolute zero ecstasy. You convulsed around him, a wordless scream trapped in your throat.
It triggered his own orgasm. He threw his head back, the veins of his pale neck standing out in stark relief.
His climax was silent, a seismic event contained within the shimmering outline of his form. He grunted mercilessly at first.
A visible shudder wracked through him, a wave of distortion that made the moonlight behind him bend and warp.
His head still thrown back, his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pure, unadulterated release, and for a moment, he became almost fully transparent, a mere sketch of a man lost in feeling.
Then he solidified again, collapsing forward, his weightless form half-covering you, his face buried in the tattered pillow beside your head.
You both lay there, entangled in the wreckage of pure sensation.
You could feel the echo of him inside you, a fading, delicious chill. His skin, where it touched yours, was no longer just cold; it was thrumming with a low, resonant vibration, like a plucked cello string.
He was the first to stir. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a dazed wonder. He looked… younger. The lines of ancient despair had softened.
“The hypothesis,” he whispered, his voice scraped raw, “was correct. I’m still able to make a woman come undone.”
A breathless, hysterical laugh bubbled in your chest. “Glad I could be of service… for your research.”
The ghost of a real smile, less bitter now, touched his lips. He traced one icy finger from your sternum down to your navel, making you shiver.
“Service implies a transaction completed. I find myself slightly… unsatisfied. The experiment had a singular parameter. Intercourse. It was a blunt instrument.”
His gaze drifted lower, down the trembling plane of your stomach. “I wish to get closer.”
The air, still crackling with the aftermath, grew thick with a new, focused tension. “Closer?” You asked.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate, bone-resonating register. “I felt your heat before. A glorious, enveloping feeling. But I was a clumsy guest, storming the gates.” He began to move, sliding down your body with a serpentine grace that left a trail of gooseflesh.
The silken coverlet whispered beneath you. “I wish to map the source. To taste the joys of your pleasure. To see if I can elicit the same symphony with my tongue as I did with… other means.”
He settled between your thighs, at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders pushing your legs further apart. The moon cast him in stark relief—the fall of his dark hair, the elegant line of his back, the pale curve of his buttocks.
“I wish to break you open, in your pleasure. Make you question everything you have ever known about your sensory receptors in your body. It needs to be precise”
He was kneeling on the floor, and as he did, you saw his hand move. He took himself in hand, his length already stirring again, impossibly, from the aftermath.
It was graceful like the rest of him, and he gave himself a slow, thoughtful stroke, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs with the concentration of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.
“You are watching me?” he said, without looking up. His thumb swept over the head of his cock, a slow, circular motion.
He sniggered at your lack of response.
“Good, I suppose. This is part of the process. The anticipation. The visual study.” He stroked himself again, a long, languid pull, his breath hitching with a soft, frosty sigh.
“I am reminded that women of this day like to watch solo performances…. However, you’ll be so overcome you won’t even remember I am touching myself too.”
The sight was mesmerizingly obscene. This beautiful, beyond the living man, kneeling in worship between your legs, casually pleasuring himself as he prepared to devour you. It shattered any last pretense of a normal encounter. This was a ritual. Unlike any intimate moment you had shared with a partner before - it was as if they never even existed outwith this moment.
He leaned forward then, and his breath washed over you first—a cold, damp gust that made you jolt and gasp. He didn’t touch you with his mouth yet. He nuzzled, his cheek and the bridge of his nose sliding through your curls, inhaling deeply.
“Extraordinary,” he breathed, the words a vibration against your wet cunt.
“The scent… alive. Musk, salt, sunlight trapped in flesh. I have missed this more than wine, more than music.” He finally looked up, his black thunder-cloud eyes glinting in the dark.
“Tell me to stop if you are frightened?”
You couldn’t. Your voice was gone, stolen by the spectacle of him. You could only manage a frantic shake of your head.
A dark, pleased hum escaped him. “Then we continue.”
His tongue was not like a living man’s. It was cooler, smoother, and yet impossibly deft. He didn’t attack; he was calm and slow when he devoured you.
A long, slow, flattened stroke from bottom to top of your centre, soaking in the feel and taste of you. You cried out, your hands flying to your mouth to cover the obscene sounds coming from you.
“Such a pretty and shy girl,” he murmured against you, the words almost indistinct, felt more than heard.
“Let me hear you,”
He continued to just marvel at your sex; you looked down at him, bewildered that this could even be really happening.
“The texture… the give… the heat is not a wall, it is a tide. And it welcomes me.”
He began to work in earnest, and it was clear he was, as he said, a maestro. His tongue was a precision instrument, tracing lazy circles around your clit before focusing on it with a pinpoint, icy pressure that made you see what felt like the expansion of the universe.
He alternated—broad, lapping strokes that cooled your entire core, then sharp, flickering assaults on that one hypersensitive node. His pace was deliberate, experimental, listening to every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.
And all the while, his right hand moved on himself. You could hear the soft, slick sound of it, a counter-rhythm to the wet, hungry sounds his mouth was making. He stroked himself in time with the flicks of his tongue, a slow, consistent pumping motion, his own pleasure feeding back into the attention he lavished on you.
It was a feedback loop of sensation, a closed circuit where his cold arousal and your burning need amplified each other.
“You taste of the world,” he groaned, lifting his head for a moment. His lips glistened. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed with a phantom of color. His hand never stopped moving on his cock.
“You taste of summer grass and night rain and… and life. It is an addiction.” He dove back in, his hunger less controlled now, more ravenous. He added his fingers, one, then two, sliding into you with that same shocking, perfect cold, curling upwards as his tongue lashed at your clit.
You felt obsencely overestimulated, the deep, filling chill of his fingers, the maddening, icy pinpoint of his tongue, and the visual, audible proof of his own mounting pleasure as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, frosty pants against your skin.
You were babbling, pleading, pulling his hair, your hips rolling uncontrollably against his face.
The cold was no longer just a sensation; it was the fuel, the catalyst that made every nerve scream twice as loud.
“Is this the way?” he asked, his voice muffled, desperate for confirmation. “Tell me, my living beauty… does this path lead to the same peak?”
“Yes—God—yes, please, don’t stop doing whatever you’re doing, please—” you sobbed. “I am so close”
He redoubled his efforts. His tongue became a blur of cold, relentless motion. His fingers pumped, crooking just so, and his thumb pressed hard, circling your clit. His other hand was a piston on his own length, the rhythm frantic now, the soft slapping sounds filling the air. He was chasing it, chasing your climax with desperation; starving for proof of his own existence.
The build was different this time. Not a shatter or a falling apart that you’d have been used to, but a slow, inexorable melt. The cold he was pumping into you seemed to meet the core of your heat and create a thermal reaction, a swirling vortex of sensation that pulled everything you were into its center.
Your muscles locked. Your breath stopped. The world narrowed to the freezing, brilliant point between your legs and the sight of his beautiful, obsessed face buried there, pleasuring himself as he drove you mad.
It broke silently, a vast, wave-like submersion. Your climax washed over you profoundly, a drowning release, a slow-motion unfurling of every tense wire in your body.
You pulsed around his fingers, a long, shuddering series of contractions, a silent scream locked in your throat.
He felt it. He let out a choked, triumphant cry against you and his own rhythm stuttered, then broke. His back arched, a perfect, taut bow, and he spilled over his own fist with a ragged, gasping groan, his release pearlescent and faintly glowing in the moonlight, striping his own pale stomach and the dark coverlet beneath him.
He trembled violently through it, his mouth still pressed against you, drinking in the final aftershocks of your pleasure as his own wracked him.
Slowly, he pulled away. He looked wrecked, glorious. His hair was wild, his lips swollen and slick. His eyes, when they met yours, held a look of stunned, satiated reverence.
He looked down at the evidence of his own pleasure on his hand and stomach, then back at you, as if he couldn't quite believe either.
"The data," he whispered, his voice utterly spent. "Is... overwhelming. The hypothesis is not only confirmed... it is expanded upon. The variables are infinite."
He moved then, fluid and weary, coming to lie beside you. He didn't pull you into the full, chilling embrace of before, but he slid an arm beneath your neck, his body a line of cool pressure against your side. He was still stroking your hair with his other hand, his touch now almost gentle.
"You have," he said to the canopy above, "given a ghost a memory that does not hurt to hold. That is a rare gift, little trespasser."
You turned your head on his arm. The dictaphone was still on the floor, its red light a steady, distant pulse. The investigation was over. Something else had begun.
"What now?" you asked, your voice hoarse.
He was silent for a moment, watching the curtains dance with the night. "Now," he said finally, a new, contemplative note in his voice, "we discuss the parameters of further... experimentation. And you tell me your name. One should know the name of a beautiful, living creation, should one not?"
hi angel! 🫶🏻 Hope you're doing good! I have another request if you don't mind 🥹
I'd really like to see John with a timid/naturally shy partner? Like before meeting John she was already introverted but she's not super afraid of people like how it usually is. She's just quiet and shows her love more through actions
Anyway, how are you? I always enjoy re-reading your fics 🎀 Take all the time you need.
- 🌸
of course !! this is so cute
im doing okay! im glad you like my writing lovely!! means alot :) so sorry for not being active lately, mental health is poopoo but i hope you enjoy this!! I haven’t written in so long so i hope this is what you were looking for! <3
pairing: john lennon x fem!reader
Quiet Love
It’s one of those nights when the four of them are crammed into a small waiting rooms or whatever flats they’re using between shows, guitars on the floor, ashtrays too full, laughter rolling over itself like it’s got nowhere else to be. Paul is flicking through chords half-heartedly, George throwing glances at him and Ringo telling a story that keeps getting interrupted by his own laughter.
You sit on the ground leaning against the wall, knees up, a calm little island at the edge of all the noise. You’re not withdrawn, not tense, you just don’t feed the chaos the way the others do. You watch, you listen, you absorb. If someone cracks a joke in your direction, you give a small, soft smile, the polite kind that acknowledges without dragging you in.
John’s stretched out on the couch, cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth, head tipping back as he laughed at something Paul said. He doesn’t look at you often, not in the obvious way but you can feel when his attention shifts. It changes the air a little when he remembers you’re in the room.
At one point, the record needle scratches to its end and the room keeps talking, nobody moving. You get up without a word, cross the room, and lift the arm to flip the record. You don’t ask if anyone minds. You don’t announce what you’re doing. You just fix the silence before anyone else notices
As you pass behind John on your way back, you stop for half a second, just enough to pluck the ashtray nearer to him, clearing the space at the edge so he doesn’t ash onto the cushions like he always does. You don’t say careful, you don’t say anything, you simply prevent the mess.
“Ta, love” he mutters, low so it stays between you.
You don’t answer. You go back to your place against the wall, settling in the same quiet way you left. But a minute later John shifts down the couch until he can see you better without turning his whole head, like he needs you in his line of sight the way other people need someone in their ear.
George notices first. “You gonna move in next to him at this rate?” he teases, nodding at how John has turned his whole posture toward you without admitting it.
John flicks ash at him. “Mind your business, Harrison.”
The others laugh it off, but John keeps glancing your way, not checking on you, not worried just claiming you as part of the room without making you speak to earn the space. When you eventually get up again, this time to bring mugs from the floor to the kitchen, John doesn’t ask where you’re going. He just watches, lips pursed like he’s biting back another smile.
When you return, you set a mug beside him, quiet as always. You don’t say you made it for him, you don’t wait for a thank you, you just place it within reach and sink back to the floor again.
He says “You spoil me” under his breath, and then takes a slow sip like he wants you to see him appreciate it.
No one else in the room understands that you’re talking to each other without speaking, but John does, thoroughly, comfortably, like it is a language built only for two.
Eventually the night burns itself out. Paul starts yawning between chords, George declares he’s “had enough of the lot of you,” and Ringo collects his coat with the dramatic sigh of a man twice his age. There are goodnights shouted from the hallway, doors closing, footsteps fading down the stairwell.
Then it’s quiet. Properly quiet.
You’re still on the floor when John flicks off the lamp beside him, leaving only the dim spill of the kitchen light. He doesn’t tell you to come closer. He just pats the cushion beside him once, not a command, not even a request, more like he’s offering a place that was already yours.
You stand, cross the room, and sit down beside him. Not touching, not leaning — just there.
He doesn’t talk at first. He doesn’t fill the air to make it meaningful. He just breathes beside you, one knee drawn up, turning his cooling mug in his hands.
After a minute, he shifts, not toward you, but for you, easing the cushion so you have more space, angling his body so you’re cocooned in the corner of the couch with no one on your other side. Protecting your quiet without announcing that he’s doing it.
That is how he answers you.
You don’t thank him. You simply take your legs up onto the couch and fold them beneath you. That’s how you say I noticed.
He glances at you sideways, mouth soft but amused. “You don’t half make a man feel looked after,” he murmurs, low enough it stays in this little pocket of space between you both.
You reach out and— instead of speaking — you straighten the collar of his shirt where it had folded, a tiny precise adjustment, your fingers brushing his jaw for half a second before you withdraw.
He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t turn it into a joke. He just sits very still, like he refuses to interrupt the fact that you touched him on purpose.
Then he returns the gesture in your language instead of his own:
he reaches up and tucks one loose strand of your hair gently behind your ear, slow, careful, as if speaking right back without sound.
No comment. No teasing. Just reply.
In the hush that follows, the whole room feels like a secret only you and he are fluent in.
Neither of you move for a while. John finishes the last sip from his mug and sets it on the floor without getting up, like the effort of standing would break whatever fragile peace the room has settled into.
He leans back, arms folding loosely across his chest. After a moment, he tips his head just slightly toward you, not enough to crowd you, only enough that if you wanted, you could lean.
You don’t, not right away. Your affection never arrives fast. You let the silence breathe first. Then slowly, like testing if the moment will hold, you shift so your shoulder rests lightly against his upper arm.
You don’t look at him when you do it. You just do it, the same way you do everything, plainly, without ceremony.
He exhales, not a laugh, not words, something softer, like relief.
Instead of putting his arm around you (too loud, too obvious), he adjusts the blanket at the back of the couch and drags it forward until half of it falls over your legs as well as his. Not tucking you in, not fussing, just sharing what was already on him. His way of saying come closer without making you move.
Your hand, resting in your lap, ends up barely brushing against the side of his thigh through the blanket. You don’t pull it away. He doesn’t comment.
He does something smaller instead: with the knuckle of one finger, he traces a slow absent-minded line across the back of your hand, not holding it, not gripping, just acknowledging its presence. A quiet, continuous touch that asks nothing from you.
You answer him the same way you always do: by staying. By not flinching, not leaving, not needing noise to justify the nearness.
He keeps his eyes closed as he does it, voice barely above breath when he finally speaks:
“Y’know,” he mutters, like it’s a secret he’s talking himself into saying, “you don’t say much…but it’s loud as hell anyway.”
You don’t reply.
You slide your thumb a single centimeter so that it meets his knuckle where it passes again — the smallest acceptance imaginable.
He hums — pleased, quiet, almost grateful — and lets his hand rest there, warm and still atop yours beneath the blanket.
No kiss.
No confession.
Just two people pressed into the same silence on purpose.
summary: how the boys confessed their love to you <3
a/n: 1908 wordssss, the longest i've written atm :)) and btw i think that i went a little but overboard with ringo lol
john lennon
it was a cold afternoon, the kind where the air smelled like rain and the world felt a little quieter than usual. she was sitting on the couch, mindlessly flipping through a book, when a familiar voice called her.
"darling," john called from the doorway, leaning casually against the frame. "you look like you could use a little excitement."
she playfully rolled her eyes but couldn't help to smile. "what now john?"
he flopped down beside her like he owned the place. "well look, i've been thinking... i figured it’s time to told you a little something."
"oh yeah?" she raised an eyebrow. "what is it?"
john shifted awkwardly, a rare moment of seriousness slipping through. "alright, don’t be getting all mushy on me, but... i think you might have stolen my heart.."
she stared at him, trying to hold back a laugh, but his wide-eyed expression was too much. he leaned closer, eyes sparkling with that familiar twinkle.
"i mean, i tried to keep it calm, you know," he continued, his voice taking on a playful tone. "but you just somehow kept sneaking in. a little smile here, a wink there, and bam!.. my heart was gone."
she chuckled, shaking her head. "oh john, you’re ridiculous."
he grinned. "i know. but seriously, i think i love you. and i’m not talking about the "i love you" like "i love my guitar". i mean the real thing, the "i can’t stop thinking about you and i’ll probably write a song about it" kind of thing."
she blinked, taken aback by his unexpected honesty, but he was already smiling like he hadn't just poured his heart out.
"now that that’s off my chest," he said, sighing and stretching his arms, "fancy going out for a cuppa?"
paul mccartney
the sun lazily dripped below the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow over the garden. the air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers, and paul sat across from her, bass in hand, his fingers effortlessly playing a familiar tune. she leaned back against the wicker chair, watching him with a smile, content in the peacefulness of the moment.
paul’s eyes twinkled as he finished the song, setting his guitar aside and giving her a playful grin. he leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxed, but his gaze steady on her.
“you know, love,” he began, “i’ve been thinkin’ about something for a while now.”
she raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “what about, paulie?”
he grinned, “well, i’ve been thinkin’ that you and i… we’re a bit like a song, don't you think?”
she chuckled, not quite following. “a song? how is that even possible?”
“well” he said, leaning forward slightly, his eyes locked on hers. “you see, a song’s got to have rhythm, harmony, a bit of sweetness and, well… i think we’ve got all of that, don’t you?”
she couldn’t help to chuckle, but there was something so sincere in his eyes that made her pause. he wasn’t just being playful, this was something serious.
he took a step closer, reaching out and gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. “the thing is, love,” he said softly, “you know that i’m very clear on what i want, and… i want to be with you. i’ve known it for a while now.” her heart skiped a beat, and before she could say anything, paul continued.
“you’ve got this way about you that I can’t quite put into words. but, all i can tell you is that i’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. i love you, darling. i’ve loved you for a long time now.”
she was speechless for a moment, the warmth of his words wrapping around her like a soft embrace.
“i love you too, paulie,” she said calmly.
his smile grew wider, his eyes lighting up as though she’d just given him the greatest gift. he leaned in, pressing a soft, gentle kiss to her forehead.
“good,” he murmured, his voice full of comfort. “because i plan on making sure you never forget it.”
george harrison
george sat beside her on the bench, the peaceful hum of nature filling the air around them, but his mind seemed to be somewhere else entirely, lost in thought. she glanced at him, wondering what was running through his mind.
“you alright, george?” she asked, nudging him lightly with her elbow.
he blinked, startled for a moment, before offering her a sheepish smile. “oh, yeah. just thinking… about everything, really.”
his voice was soft, his eyes distant but warm. there was something about him in these quiet moments.. something that made the world feel smaller and more intimate.
“what about?” she pressed gently.
george paused, taking a deep breath, as if gathering his thoughts. he shifted on the bench.
“sometimes, it feels like everything is… constantly moving, you know? everything’s always changing,” he said, his voice a little distant. “and we’re just… tiny little things floating along with it all.” he looked at her then, his eyes a little more focused. “but… there are moments, small moments, where it feels like everything stops. like time itself pauses, just for a second.”
she felt her heart racing slightly, his words feeling like they held a deeper meaning, something personal.
he cleared his throat nervously “and those moments, well… they’ve been happening more often when i’m with you, you know?”
she smiled softly, giving him the space to continue.
“it’s funny," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if the words themselves were fragile. "you spend your whole life looking for answers about the world, about yourself, and then you meet someone, it’s like… all the questions fade away.”
he looked down for a moment, “i’ve been trying to put this into words for a while now… but i think what i’m trying to say is that i love you. i’ve loved you for a long time, but i’ve never quite known how to tell you.”
his voice was soft, almost unsure, but there was an undeniable sincerity in his gaze when he looked at her. she could see the nervousness in his eyes, his usual calm demeanor shaken by his confession, and it made her heart swell.
“oh george…” she whispered, voice filled with emotion.
he looked at her, his face a mixture of hope and vulnerability. “i just… needed you to know. you mean more to me than words can really express, but i hope you understand, even without me saying everything perfectly.” he laughed.
she then reached out, gently cupping his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin against her palm. “of course i understand, george.. i love you too.”
“you’re everything i’ve been looking for, love” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.
ringo starr
the beatles were rehearsing for an upcoming performance, the familiar hum of instruments filling the air while she sat off to the side, watching them work their magic, enjoying the rhythm of the music and the warmth of the room.
ringo was behind his drum kit, his usual cheeky grin on his face as he played, though there was something different about him today. he kept glancing over at her, his eyes darting away whenever their gazes met. his usual confidence was missing, replaced by a subtle nervousness.
paul noticed it first. "ringo!," he called, nudging george, who raised an eyebrow. "you look like you've got something on your mind, mate."
ringo's face flushed a deep red, and he quickly focused on his drumsticks, tapping them nervously against the kit. "nothing, nothing at all," he said, trying to brush it off.
"oh, i think there is, starr," john teased, making his way over to ringo's side. "come on, mate, out with it. what's all this about, then?"
ringo cleared his throat awkwardly, his hands fidgeting with his drumsticks. "i... uh... i’ve been meaning to say something." he shot a quick glance at her, and then quickly looked down again, as if the words were stuck.
paul gave him a playful nudge. "go on, rings, don’t leave us hanging!"
ringo’s face turned even redder, if it was even possible, and he let out a nervous chuckle. "it's... just, well... i don't know how to say this properly." he glanced back at her, his eyes soft. "but i—"
john raised an eyebrow, smirking. "you fancy her, don’t you?"
the whole room fell quiet for a moment as ringo froze, clearly caught off guard by john’s bluntness. his face was now a shade of pink no ones ever seen before.
"alright, alright!" he muttered, embarrassed, but there was a hint of affection in his voice. he finally looked directly at her, his gaze warm but still a little shy. "yeah, i do. i like her. a lot."
the other three boys erupted into a chorus of exaggerated whistles and claps, all teasing him in the most dramatic way possible.
"well, it took you long enough!" paul said, still chuckling. "it was about time, mate."
george, with a mischievous grin, leaned against his guitar. "you should’ve said something sooner, ringo. we all knew."
ringo ran a hand through his hair, looking relieved. "i didn’t know how... what if she doesn’t feel the same?" he muttered, his voice growing quieter, more vulnerable. "i can't keep it in anymore."
"oh, come on, rings! just go over there and tell her. it’s now or never, mate." said john
he hesitated, biting his lip, his gaze flickering nervously between the band and her. "what if i mess it up?" he said, almost to himself.
paul grinned and gave him a playful shove. "theres no way you're going to mess it up. just be yourself. you’ve got this."
george chuckled, still strumming his guitar. "yeah, what’s the worst that can happen? she might even fancy you back!"
ringo rolled his eyes, but there was a spark of determination in his expression now. he stood up from behind his drum kit, his legs trembling like they were made of jelly. he took a few steps toward her, but stopped halfway, glancing back at the boys. john grined "good luck, ringo!"
he approached her cautiously, his heart pounding in his chest.
"hey," he said, his voice a little shaky at first. she looked up to him surprised to see him standing so close.
"hi, ringo," she said, smiling. "is everything okay?"
his smile was a little sheepish, but he pushed forward. "actually... no, not really." he cleared his throat. "there’s something i’ve been meaning to say." she tilted her head.
ringo took another deep breath, gathering his courage. "i... i like you," he said, his words coming out all at once. "a lot. i’ve liked you for ages, but i didn’t know how to say it. i’ve been nervous about it, to be honest."
for a second, he feared he’d said too much too fast, but she smiled, her expression softening.
"i like you too, rings," she replied, her voice warm and sincere.
ringo’s eyes widened in surprise, and he let out a relieved laugh. "really?"
she laughed, and he couldn’t help but chuckle along. the nerves that had gripped him earlier were now replaced with a warm, happy feeling.
the boys watched from a distance, paul giving a thumbs-up and george mouthing "told ya" to john.
authors note: hii everyone! school has been making my mental heath worse but im feeling better now. thank you so so much @katiebuggg for this amazing idea!!!! <3333
George Harrison x f!reader
warnings: one sided enemies to lovers (you hate him at the start), very fluffy, not proof read.
George wouldn’t leave you alone. You would always see him everywhere, it was like he was following you.
It all started when you were on the train. The Beatles were filming "A Hard Days Night." They were pretty famous by now and had many fans, most of them being teenage girls.
Currently, the film crew and the band were filming a scene on the train. John was flirting with some random girl, Paul and Ringo were chatting away about god knows what, and George was eating a sandwich.
You, on the other hand, were pretty curious about the film. It’s not every day you see the filming for a movie, especially seeing The Beatles in Public. You were never interested in them though, you preferred Frank Sinatra and The Ronettes.
Then, at the corner of George’s eye, he notices you. He approached your seat and you had a small chat. He almost choked on his sandwich when you asked for his name.
Then, he asked for your number and you told him off.
"Why are you getting mad at me, love? I just asked for yer number."
"You are just gonna use it to call me when you get lonely and bored and then you never want to talk to me again."
Then, you got off at your stop and your university. That’s when everything changed for George. That was the day he fell in love with you.
almost everyday at 3:00pm, he would wait outside your last lecture of the day and would try to talk to you when you walk out. You would always tell him to go away or "don’t you have something better to do?" But, he was so in love he didn’t even care.
One day, it’s the same as always at 3:00, he was waiting outside just like usual. He blended in with the other students. sitting on a bench, covering his face with a book. Typical disguise.
You see him and you sigh, walking over to him.
"Why do you keep doing this?"
"Do what exactly?" He tries to play dumb.
"Sneaking onto my college campus and stalking me like a crazy person!"
He chucked as he got up from the bench and closed the distance between you.
"I just want to prove that I’m not going to throw you away like those other rockstars you see."
You raise your eyebrows.
"Why do you want me so bad? I’m a broke college girl who can barely afford tuition."
"I want you because you are…" he pauses for a minute. "Real. You are a real girl and I just love that about you."
You start to get soft.
"George, you are a sweet boy. But, you deserve someone better than me. Like, a model or a socialite."
"I don’t want none of that! Can’t you see? I’m in love with you. If I wasn’t truly killing myself for your attention, I wouldn’t be here right now."
You start to feel bad about rejecting him, maybe he won’t be so bad. Then, he picks up you hand.
"Please, give me a chance. One chance please.." he is practically begging for you to go out with him. No man has ever been so desperate for your attention before. Then, you say the words:
The first thing you learned after becoming Michael Jackson's assistant was that Michael was horrible at taking care of himself.
Not because he didn't know how to.
Just because he was always doing something else.
Recording.
Rehearsing.
Writing.
You weren't even two weeks into the job before you realised that if somebody didn't physically place food and drinks in front of him, he would somehow survive on absolutely nothing all day.
Which was exactly why you were currently standing in the studio doorway holding a glass of orange juice.
Not normal orange juice.
Orange juice mixed with ginger and turmeric.
A recipe you'd started making after noticing how exhausted he looked some days and how bad his lupus flare-ups were getting.
Michael looked up from the notebook in his lap.
"No."
You raised an eyebrow.
"I haven't even said anything yet, Michael."
He pointed at the glass.
"That."
"Drink it."
"It tastes weird; you ruined orange juice for me."
"You say that every day."
"Because it tastes weird every day."
You crossed your arms.
Michael stared at you.
You stared back.
Eventually, he sighed dramatically, took the glass, and drank it anyway.
"There."
"Thank you."
"It still tastes weird."
You couldn't stop the laugh that came out.
Over the next few months, taking care of him became second nature.
You reminded him about meetings.
Made sure he ate.
Made sure he slept.
Made sure he wasn't working himself into exhaustion that couldn't be reversed. (Oh Michael, if only)
Somewhere along the way, during the late nights and the earlier mornings, the line between assistant and best friend started getting blurry.
Not that either of you ever acknowledged it.
One afternoon, a few members of the Jackson family were visiting Neverland to discuss a possible collaboration.
You sat with a folder in your lap while Michael, across from you, was barely listening to the conversation.
Eventually, he frowned.
"Are you sure you wanna release it now?"
J*e looked confused.
"What do you mean?"
Michael shrugged.
"Bad might overshadow it."
"Michael, Bad came out months ago."
Michael didn't seem convinced.
"It still could."
You looked down at your papers so nobody would see you trying not to laugh.
"Tell him how many sales Bad got today."
You glanced at the report in your lap.
"Ten million."
Michael frowned.
"Hm."
"That's less than I expected."
You turned toward him.
"Michael."
"What?"
"It's ten in the morning."
He paused.
"Oh."
"Good point."
The conversation continued.
Everybody else looked so shocked. You spent the rest of the meeting trying not to laugh every time you looked at him.
Later that evening, after everybody had left, Neverland finally became quiet again.
The sun was beginning to set as you walked beside Michael through the property.
Animals wandered peacefully nearby.
The air felt cooler.
For once, nobody needed anything from him.
No interviews.
No meetings.
You looked over at him.
He looked different when he was here.
Happier.
The version of himself that only a handful of people ever got to see.
The version you'd become familiar with.
The two of you walked for a while before Michael finally spoke.
"Thank you."
You looked over at him.
"For what?"
He gestured vaguely.
The schedules.
The reminders.
"The schedules. The reminders. Actually caring when he was pushing himself too hard without even realising it. The only other person who'd ever really done that for him was Bill."
"Everything." You didn't know what to say.
You did it cause you cared, not for clout or just to say you did, because you actually wanted to, and Michael realised that, and he was so grateful.
"You're welcome."
Michael only smiled.
Not the smile he gave cameras.
A real one.
The kind that made your chest feel warm and tingly.
Neither of you said anything else after that.
You just continued walking together as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon and the bright, colourful lights of Neverland came to life around you.
Mood-Board
Tag list : @cocomilaa @blcknebula @stiflersbabymama @callmeoncette @needjoekeery @nuttyrebelflower @1eliana123-blog @ladyearthsea @rastharex @darkgreengrl @bananajoeclone @violet0182 @minghaossv @melynex @thebabykashmere @ghoulxeg @simply-lovley44
pairing: old man mike x reader and her first generation iphone mature era!michael x reader
summary: michael accidentally discovered youtube, so the reader makes him watch a marathon of his old videos. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 916
author’s note: exactly two (2) people asked me for another part to this, so naturally i came home and wrote one immediately. i live to please ♡
@ackzfritz & @kenmas-whore01 sending you both a virtual kiss
“This one is my favorite.” You grinned, clicking on a twenty-five minute video: Michael Jackson Unauthorized Interview, 1983.
“Oh, God.” Michael groaned when he saw the thumbnail, burying his face in your shoulder. He looked adorable even in the preview, with his curly hair and pearly-white smile. He was wearing a plaid shirt underneath a red sweater (red had always been his color), and his arms were stretched wide, his mouth open like he was in the middle of singing something positively gleeful.
“Do you remember this one?” You asked, and he nodded, still hiding his face against your shoulder. “Then what’s the matter? It’s cute.” You nudged him playfully with your elbow.
“It’s embarrassing. And I’m shy.” He grumbled, his voice muffled by your upper arm.
“No, it’s cute.” You doubled down. “You’re cute. Watch.” You pressed play on the video, and a young Michael appeared on the small screen, leading a llama into the frame. “This is my llama, Louie.”
Beside you, your Michael sank further into the couch. “Can we turn it off, please?”
You shook your head, already absolutely enamored with what you were watching. You’d seen it countless times already, but you wouldn’t tell him that. “No way. And sit up. I have questions.” You nudged him until he was sitting mostly upright next to you, and he covered his face with his hands instead. “I don’t wanna.”
“Too bad.” You said, not unkindly, but in a firm, end of discussion sort of way. On the screen, the younger Michael was explaining what a charming, sweet animal Louie was. “He eats alfalfa. They’re originally from South America. And, uh… they originally come from the mountains in Peru. They’re from the breed of the alpaca, as well as the camel.”
Michael had begrudgingly removed his hands from his face, but he looked pained as he watched himself drone on and on about the wonders of South American camelids. “Why did they let me talk about that for so long?!”
You grinned again, resting your head on his shoulder. “Shhh. My show is on.”
He talked about llamas for a solid two minutes before stopping to ask the interviewer, “Are there any questions?” That made you laugh hard enough to press pause.
“I thought they were supposed to be interviewing you.” You teased him. Michael rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a telltale sign that he was trying not to smile. “I was very passionate about my pets.” He shrugged.
“I wish I could have met Louie.” You admitted, pressing play again. At about the three minute mark, Michael walked him off screen, and a beautiful fountain appeared in his place. Mike sat on the edge of it, looking longingly into the distance for several seconds, like he didn’t realize the camera had begun rolling again.
“Pardon?” He cleared his throat and sat up straight when someone offscreen asked him a question about his schedule. You pressed pause again.
“How old were you here?” You asked curiously, glancing over at him. Michael quirked an eyebrow. “I was twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five? I don’t know, I don’t remember what month it was filmed.”
“Just a baby.” You cooed, which earned you a gentle elbow to the side. But that’s what he looked like—a baby. Nothing like the grown man sitting next to you, although the gentle voice and sweet, shy personality were unmistakably Michael.
“This video is going to take us two hours to get through if you keep pausin’ it like that.” He reached over you to press play again, but he seemed to have relaxed a bit. He actually looked a little eager to see what was coming next.
You let the interview play uninterrupted for a while after that, but every cute noise, every nervous lip bite, and every random burst of song endeared this version of him (that you had never even met) to you even more.
“It’s a wonderful day!” You sang along to one of your favorite parts of the video, a dead giveaway that you’d seen it before. Whoops.
This time, Michael was the one to press pause. “You’ve already watched this.”
“Once or twice…” You admitted. (Okay, maybe a few more than that. But that was private information.)
Instead of looking annoyed, Michael just shook his head and laughed. “Why?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I like hearing you talk about how magical the world is. Kids. Animals. Nature. It makes me see everyday things in a different light.”
His expression went soft at that, and he put his hand underneath your chin, tilting it upwards to give you a kiss.
“Plus, you were like, really hot back then.” You added cheekily, spoiling the tender moment. Michael rolled his eyes again.
“I was? And what about now?” He asked, raising a brow.
“Still hot. But in an old man sorta way.” You replied without hesitation, and he pretended to look offended, but he was secretly enjoying this just as much as you. He liked the way you looked when you were watching his old videos—like you absolutely adored him at any age or stage of life. And you did.
“Now pay attention! My favorite part is coming up.”
You started the video again just as his sister La Toya shouted to Bill to close a door somewhere off camera. “Your voice is very irritating.” Younger Michael said. “You sound like Carol Burnett.”
ִֶָ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚ love never felt so good | michael jackson ۶ৎ˖ִ ˚
pairing: !m.jackson x !reader
michael had been stuck on the same song for nearly three hours. every single time he thought he had something good, he would stop halfway through and start over again. there were crumpled pieces of paper all over the studio floor, and he was getting really close to giving up for the day, but then you showed up.
you walked in carrying food you had picked up on the way and immediately started talking before you had sat down. something about your friend getting lost while driving to the hangout spot, and something about this annoying driver.
somehow michael ended up laughing so hard he had to wipe tears from his eyes, and after that the mood in the room changed.
you stayed on the couch while he sat at the piano, occasionally throwing comments at him from across the room. every now and then he would look over and find you doing something random, such as coloring with oil pastels, painting your toe nails, or trying to convince him to watch a movie you knew he would hate.
it was stupid, ordinary, completely random, but michael couldn’t stop smiling. at some point his hands found a melody, and he played it once. then again.
you looked up and smiled.
“ooh, i like that angel.”
he played it a third time, and something about it felt right. for the first time all afternoon, he wasn’t forcing anything, because he wasn’t thinking about writing a hit song anymore. he was thinking about you. about how much easier everything felt when you were around. how you could walk into a room and somehow make a bad day disappear without even trying.
the lyrics came not long after. michael wrote them down before he could forget them, and when he finally glanced up, you were still on the couch completely unaware that you were the reason he had managed to finish the song in the first place.
years later, when you heard it playing in the bedroom, you slowly turned toward him. the lyrics sitting in the air hit you hard.
“this is about me.” you stated
it wasn’t a question, and you already knew that.
michael nearly choked on his drink.
you pointed at him and said “this is literally about me baby.
context: you are the beatles’ assistant - you are also pauls best friend. since you are a woman, you are constantly accused of being pauls girlfriend. although, paul would love that.
1964.
it had been a long day for paul. countless interviewers running up to him to ask questions, girls following him around while their husbands feel jealousy and constant flashing lights in his eyes.
obviously, it was not only him going through this - it was his band mates too. they were sick of it, all of them. why couldn’t they just make music and be left alone?
however, today a new question had been thrown at paul, it made the day a little more interesting. it was one that made john tease paul for hours after it was answered, one that made his stomach sink to the floor.
“paul. you have said that you are not in a relationship but could you explain the countless images of you and your assistant, miss Y/N?”
paul laughed though his mind immediately went to his bestfriends beautiful face - one of his hands started to play with his earlobe.
“can a man not have a relationship with a woman, eh?”
its a few hours after the question, the words that the reporter spat at him were still ringing through his head like a melody from a favourite song.
the group were sat together, each member messing about with their instrument - then there was you, sat reading the bloody paper.
“are y’still thinking about that bleeding interview, paul?” john questions as his skinny fingers strum the strings on his guitar slowly.
as john fills in the silence, everybody in the room perks their heads up to listen in and attempt to engage in the conversation.
paul paused his playing and looked at john - his eyes narrow at him. he knows that john is teasing him, its bullshit. “no, am not actually.”
john lets out a hum and places his guitar down, he crosses his arms soon after. he wants to argue, the twat. “y’sure?”
john would just argue back and forth, paul knows that so he accepts his fate. god, john can be such a pain in the arse.
you were still sat reading the newspaper, your nose was practically sniffing the lines of words but you were listening to the boys, you were eyeing paul.
“what are you all on about?” you question, looking up from the neatly opened paper and placing it down.
you watch as the boys steal cheeky little glances at each other. pauls glances are more death stares though, to be fair.
“you n’ paul are in a relationship.” john snorts, throwing a ball of paper at ringo.
paul shakes his head at you, his eyes wide. the skin on his cheeks begins to turn a soft pink shade. its cute, really - his own makeup.
you cant help but laugh. although, it does make your stomach flip at the thought of dating him. “are we now? who told y’that?”
“paul.” all of the boys say together, going back to their instruments.
poor paulie was left in the corner, his head in his hands as he attempted to calm himself. god, he would do anything to date you.
this is quite short LOL anyway requests are open and i hope you enjoyed 💕
- 70’s Paul McCartney x Reader
- pt. 4 / 7
- fluff/angst/smut
-
-
Guilt ate at Paul the rest of the week. It was an ache that grew stronger each time it was ignored. Every day at work, Paul would avert his gaze, too ashamed of himself to look you in the eyes. He couldn’t; not after what he had done. Once again, he had proven he couldn’t control his primal desires.
On the other end, you were dealing with emotional whiplash. You and Paul had a wonderful conversation when you first met, and you felt that he was starting to open up a bit. Perhaps you could develop a relationship outside of boss/employee, and in your wildest fantasy, it could even go beyond friendship. But when you really thought about it, that’s all it was—a fantasy.
You didn’t know much about Paul. You wanted to get closer to him; you were drawn to his suave demeanor and lifestyle. But the likelihood of your truest, deepest personalities matching and living the life of a rockstar’s girlfriend was all… Unrealistic. A girl could dream!
But now all that seemingly had been thrown out the window. Paul wasn’t even looking at you anymore, let alone chit-chatting about his thoughts and feelings. You wondered if you had done something wrong, perhaps you overstepped, and it made him draw back. Perhaps something happened to him in his personal life and he was pushing everyone away. You didn’t know. He wouldn’t say.
When you passed in the hallway, you would look up at him cheerfully, and his face would turn sour as he slipped past. It broke your heart, and it broke Paul’s too. This went on for several weeks. The tension was thick, but you remained formal. You continued to take calls and do whatever little tasks Paul assigned to you. You would sit at your desk and daydream about Paul taking you away from it all, traveling the world, and being his muse. It bright you comfort only until the real him would brush past you without a word.
Paul continued to write and record his songs, but he was struggling. All he could think about was the pain filled face you would make each time he was near you. The guilt was driving him insane; he knew he had to do something to fix it.
. . .
By the end of the month you had accepted the way things had been going. You showed up to work and only spoke to Paul when absolutely necessary; you gave up on small talk with him. He was never all that receptive anymore. This position was temporary, you kept reminding yourself.
One afternoon while at work, you were snacking on some apple slices while staring out the grand lobby windows, bored out of your mind. It had been a slow week and you had too much time on your hands. Suddenly, a thought floated through your mind.
‘It’s 3:30, and I haven’t seen Paul come out of his studio a single time. Has he eaten at all today?’ you wondered. ‘Maybe I could bring him some food…’
You toyed with the idea for a moment before getting up and walking to the kitchen. You went straight to the fridge and pulled out your lunch bag, an uneaten sandwich sitting inside. You unwrapped it and put it on a plate, then made your way all across the studio to the recording room.
The ‘LIVE’ sign was off, meaning it was okay for you to enter. A wave of anxiety washed over you as your hand touched the doorknob. You hated being near him; his emotional distance made you oh so heartbroken. But you needed to overcome it eventually. You entered the room.
Paul was lost in a notebook, scribbling down notes and lyrics. He didn’t notice you as you walked up to him, and only when you cleared your throat did he jump and scramble to cover his notebook.
“_____! Sorry, I was distracted. Erm, did you need something?” His eye contact was near non-existent as he greeted you.
You set the plate with the sandwich down on the coffee table in front of him.
“You haven’t eaten all day, have you?”
Paul looked down at the sandwich and waited a few seconds before responding.
“No… I haven’t,” he admitted.
You gestured your hand toward the sandwich.
“Please, you’ve got to eat something.” You felt like you were practically begging.
Paul didn’t react, much to your dismay.
Abruptly, the singer stood and walked up to you, intensely gazing into your eyes. Your heart dropped to your stomach, completely unable to read his emotion.
“_____, dear, would you like to accompany me to dinner tonight? That is, if you’re not busy.”
You froze.
‘What? Dinner?? After weeks of avoiding me, he’s inviting me to dinner? Where’s this coming from?!’
“Uhhh…” You mumbled, quite taken off guard.
Paul’s eyes softened, now looking a bit worried.
“N-No pressure or anythin’,” he backpeddled.
“No—I mean yes! Yes, of course, I’m not busy at all. I’ll join you…”
Paul dropped his shoulders, visibly relieved.
“Thank you… Meet me at Scott’s at, say, 6:30?”
“Sounds good,” you agreed quickly. You were thoroughly confused and delighted at the same time.
The brunet returned to his desk and picked up the sandwich you left.
“I appreciate you thinking of me,” he murmured in a tone that hid a deeper meaning.
You smiled. “It’s what I’m here for.”
After that interaction, the rest of the day went by in a flash. You spent the rest of your shift trying to make sense of what could possibly be going through Paul’s mind to no avail.
Once 5 rolled around, you raced home to start getting ready for your dinner. You spent a while picking out an outfit and even longer doing your hair. It had to be perfect. You were being seen in public with the Paul McCartney, after all.
You picked a blouse and dress that complemented the curves of your body. It took you a while to find the perfect pair of tights. You were careful with your makeup to accentuate your best features. You were all dolled up and ready to go.
You stood outside your apartment building anxiously waiting for a taxi to arrive. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into, but you yearned to see Paul and finally have his undivided attention.
You soon arrived at the restaurant. It was nicer than you imagined, a beautiful older building with many people dining inside. You sat in the waiting room, nervously clutching your purse while habitually looking at the door to see if Paul had yet arrived.
“_____,” You heard his sweet voice call out from behind you.
You whipped your head around to see him beckoning you from within the restaurant. He was dressed up too, you noticed. He wore a white collared shirt under a bright, colorful vest paired with light blue slacks. His hair was neat and fluffy, exactly how you liked it.
You stood up and immediately walked towards him. For the first time in weeks, he offered you a sheepish smile as he guided you to the table, which was perfectly secluded from the rest of the restaurant, where you sat on opposite sides from each other.
“...”
“...”
You fiddled with the sleeves of your shirt, acutely aware of your posture, facial expressions, and overall how he may be perceiving you in that moment. You hadn’t a clue where this dinner was going, what his intentions were, or if you would have an appetite to finish your dinner.
“Thank you for agreeing to this,” he began quietly. His droopy doe eyes peered deeply into yours, an expression of hurt and guilt on his face.
“Of course,” you replied gently.
He took a deep breath before continuing. “... I think I owe you an explanation.”
You gulped, holding your tongue.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed I have been a bit… Closed off, lately.” He waited, gauging your reaction.
“A little…?” You felt as though that was a gross understatement. Your face twisted despite your effort to conceal your emotions.
“Very closed off,” he corrected himself. “And I need you to know that it’s not your fault, love.”
Your expression softened. You had been hoping to hear those words for a while now.
“I’m a bit shy to admit this, but erm,” You noticed his cheeks were rapidly flushing.
“I’ve been rather lonely recently… Well, with the band breaking up and all, not much is going on in my life anymore. The only real thing I have to look forward to is…” He bit his lip. “Seeing you each day at work,” he nervously giggled.
You gasped, heart skipping a beat.
With perfect timing, the waitress approached the table right then. She was young and had her eyes glued to Paul.
“Good evening! My name is Jenny, I’ll be your waiter this evening. What can I get started to drink for you?” She chirped.
You just stared at Paul in awe. He, however, had the incredible ability to code switch and answered her swiftly.
“Your finest bottle of wine, please. And for you?” He kept his eyes on you, purposefully ignoring the waitresses oogly eyes.
“Water’s fine.” Something about seeing her so fascinated with Paul made your eye twitch. You knew entire crowds of girls would wet their pants at the sight of the Beatles, but this was more personal. More intimate.
“You got it. I’ll be right back with those,” She grinned, staring at Paul for just a moment too long after she turned away. You were glaring at her menacingly. Paul took notice, finding your distaste for an adoring fan cute.
You looked back at him smiling at you. You blushed, then remembered what he last said.
“You look forward to seeing me? You kinda have a funny way of showing it…”
Paul grabbed your hand that was rested on the table with both of his hands. You were shocked by his forwardness, but at the same time delighted. Your adrenaline was up through the roof.
“I’m sorry for how I’ve acted, love. You didn’t deserve it. I’m battling things within myself, and I shouldnt’ve taken it out on you.”
Something about him apologizing to you and being so vulnerable gave you a total rush. It reassured all of your worries that you meant nothing more to Paul than just an employee. You were someone he cared about, and he was finally letting down his walls.
And the way he called you love ignited something inside of you. Deep inside. You tightened your crossed legs.
“I know we aren’t very close, Paul. But I’d like to be. I’m here for you if you need someone, and we all need someone.”
Paul’s chest tightened, his affection for you growing tenfold in that moment.
‘She’s an angel,’ he thought.
Once your wine came, your conversation deepened. Paul, now loosened up a little, talked about himself this time. You came loaded with questions, which he seemed delighted to answer. It didn’t feel like an interview, but like a genuine curiosity about him as a person.
You asked about his childhood. His favorite things to do. What music he listened to. And he gave thorough answers to each of your burning questions.
Neither of you had any idea where the night was about to take you.
(HELLO AGAIN!!! my sincerest apologies for the short hiatus, I've been struggling with some heart issues and work troubles but I am back in business and rest assured, all of your requests WILL be filled !! ✨️ please enjoy this lovely request from anon :) 💕)
⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️!!! VERY NSFW!!!⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️⚠️
You'd wondered about the strange look they seem to have shared, but thought nothing of it until reached your hand in your pocket to pull out a lighter, only to find a scrap of paper. The boys had slipped a special invitation into your pocket at your meet and greet, one they had been saving for a very special fan.
But here you were, standing in the hotel hallway and staring up at the door in front of you, glancing down at the slip of paper to make sure you have the right room number. You suddenly began to get cold feet, wondering if this was some kind of sick joke. Would you open the door, only to be met with bewildered expressions on unfamiliar faces? Or, even worse, would you be greeted by the four of them, cackling like a pack of hyenas at your gullible nature?
You push away those unwelcome thoughts, putting on as brave a face as you can muster and raising a trembling hand to the door. You knock thrice as instructed, waiting with bated breath. Until...
"Y/N! We were beginning to worry you'd run our invitation through the wash. Come on in!" Paul welcomes you, holding the hotel door open.
You sigh in relief and chuckle nervously, taking a few tentative steps into the suite, the scent of cigarette smoke and cologne almost overpowering. The other three all greet you, seated in various positions on the sectional sofa.
A voice stands apart from the others, clearer than the rest - it's John.
"We've been looking forward to this all week."
Your heart skips a beat and you look to him with innocent confusion.
"And... what, exactly, is this?"
The four men exchange shocked glances, having assumed you knew what was intended by the invitation.
"Well, we thought... you know, with us," Ringo begins, but John cuts him off.
"We want to shag ya. The four of us," he explains bluntly.
George gives him a swift elbow to the ribs.
"Knock it off, mate! You'll scare the poor thing." John only rolls his eyes in response.
You're taken aback by the proposition. You know no one in their right mind would pass up such an opportunity and, though not opposed, you can't help but feel intimidated. This would be your first time, and with The Beatles? All of them?!
Paul interrupts your train of thought.
"You really don't have to, we can just-"
"No, no! Believe me, I've dreamt about this forever. It's just..." you trail off, somewhat embarrassed.
"What is it? You can tell us, we won't judge," Ringo encourages, but John interjects.
"If we didn't say anything about that outfit you wore to our concert, you know we're good for it," he snickers.
George throws him another jab to the ribs with his elbow.
"Ow!"
You ignore his snide comment, too focused on the matter at hand to be offended.
"I'm... a virgin," you admit, bracing yourself for laughter. Instead, you're met with gentle nods and understanding expressions from the four men. They take a moment to process your admission.
"We wouldn't want to pressure you," assures George as you take a deep breath.
You take a moment to consider the idea. On one hand, this is an important part of someone's life, a milestone - not exactly a decision to be rushed. But on the other... it's The Beatles. I mean, come on. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.
"Well, if there was ever a good time... I suppose this would be it."
"You sure, love?" Ringo chimes in. "The last thing we'd want is for you to feel uncomfortable."
"I'm sure."
"Well, all right then." They share another look amongst themselves before John nods and looks to you.
"We'll start off slow then, yeah? C'mere," he says, patting his thighs. You approach, nervous excitement coursing through your veins.
You sit on his lap, your body tense. He places his hands on your shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.
"Loosen up, I wont bite."
"Yeah, right."
He shoots George a look.
"Unless you ask nicely," he says with a wink.
You chuckle, beginning to relax. The others watch intently as John shifts his hands to your waist, gently massaging your sides. He mumbles lazily in your ear, his thick accent intoxicating.
"Speak up, Johnny!"
"Share with the class, will ya?"
"Oh, piss off," John dismisses Paul and Ringo, returning to your ear for a nibble. You giggle at the unfamiliar feeling, his nose brushing against your cheek. He moves to your neck, starting off with gentle kisses before growing bolder, leaving love bites along the junction of your neck and shoulder.
You shiver as his hands wander lower - down to your hips, giving them a squeeze, then coming to rest on your thighs. The size of his hands and the warmth of his palms stir something within you. You inhale sharply, biting your lip as a familiar heat pools in your abdomen - the same kind you feel when you watch the lads perform. Judging by the growing bulge beneath you, it seems John is enjoying himself just as much.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes!" You reply breathlessly, a little too eager. "Yes. Keep going."
This earns a chorus of chuckles from the group, who have each begun to palm themselves through their trousers at the sight.
John's hands work their way to your inner thighs, caressing and squeezing gently. He mumbles sweet nothings in your ear as he parts them. His warm breath tickles the shell of your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.
"More, I want more."
At that, Paul stands and steps closer to you, twirling a lock of your hair around his finger.
"You want more, do you, pretty girl?"
You nod enthusiastically, whining in arousal.
"Perhaps she could use something in that pretty mouth of hers to muffle those whines," George suggests with a smirk. You get what he's hinting at, biting your lip and giggling nervously as you look up at Paul.
"I'm not sure I know how..."
"Oh, I'm more than happy to show you, love... if you would."
"Please."
"Eager little thing, eh?" George and Ringo tease, but Paul ignores them.
"Sweet girl... I'll give you what you want."
Paul undoes his trousers and drops them to his ankles, followed quickly by his briefs. You can't help but stare, awestruck, and Paul chuckles.
"Like what you see?"
You nod.
"Would you?" he asks, and it takes you a moment to realize he's inviting you to touch. You reach a tentative hand out in front of you.
"No need to be nervous," he soothes, stroking your hair tenderly.
You grasp the base of his length, hand trembling, and Paul groans at the contact. His skin is softer than you's expected, somehow, and you decide you like the feeling. You begin to move your hand up and down, pumping him cautiously as if afraid to hurt him. Your eyes flicker from your own hand to Paul's face, cheeks flushed and mouth agape. The sight of him this way, knowing what you can do to him with just a few simple touches, makes you feel powerful in a way.
Meanwhile, John's hand slips beneath the waistband of your knickers, traveling lower until he reaches your heat. You instinctively tighten your grip on Paul and the two of you moan in tandem. John trails a finger up your slick folds, drawing gentle circles around your clit.
"Mm... are you ready to open up for me, sweetheart?" Paul asks, his voice almost sickeningly sweet. By this point, Ringo and George have both unzipped their flies, tugging their trousers and briefs down past their hips. They're clearly enjoying this little show, pleasuring themselves as they devour you with their eyes.
"Go on, doll," John encourages. "Take 'im into your mouth."
You do as he instructs, eliciting another soft moan from Paul. He tightens his hold on your hair, using all of his willpower to keep himself from tugging you down onto him.
"Oh, good girl... further, if you can. I won't rush ya."
You pull back for a breath before obeying, slowly taking more of him into your mouth. He throws his head back, groaning in satisfaction. A string of curses tumble from his lips at the soft, warm feeling and you hear John snicker behind you. You really start to get the hang of things, falling into a steady rhythm and bobbing your head as if you were made for this.
All of a sudden, your focus is broken as John's fingers cease their movements and you feel them wander lower. He slides a finger inside of you, taking care to go slow - he's far more gentle than you had imagined. You moan around Paul and he growls, faced flushed pink and eyes screwed shut.
"Fuck... don't stop, doll. You're perfect," he praises and you continue as John's hand moves between your legs.
The friction of his fingers along with Paul's words of praise leaves you lightheaded - well, that and the lack of oxygen. As you pull away for air, George clears his throat.
"What about us, Macca?" He quirks an eyebrow, gesturing to himself and Ringo.
Paul hesitates for a moment before sighing, irritated.
"Fine... I'm getting close, anyway," he grumbles, tugging his waistband back up as you pout in disappointment.
Soon enough, Paul takes a seat on the sofa and George and Ringo take his place, pumping themselves idly as they gaze down at you with lust-filled eyes.
"Go on, doll," George begins, a wolfish grin playing on his handsome features. You comply, taking him into your mouth a little too far as you sputter and cough.
"Careful, dear," he chuckles. "Take it slow."
You try again, more gradually this time. John squeezes your hip with his free hand and you squeak, sending pleasant vibrations through George's lower half.
"That's it, love. Nice and easy," he groans, running his fingers through your hair. After a few minutes you gain momentum, growing more confident in your actions. A tight knot forms in George's stomach as he feels the others' eyes on the two of you, heat rising to his cheeks as he lets out another deep growl. You continue your work on him, but Ringo becomes impatient, scoffing and nudging George's shoulder to snap him out of his stupor.
"C'mon, mate. I think it's my turn - that is, if the lass'll have me." He turns to you, a hopeful glint in his blue eyes.
You nod, humming an "mm-hm" around George's cock. He relents, pulling away begrudgingly.
"Fine. Go on, Rich."
"Attaboy, Ritchie," John pipes up, a lazy grin on his face. Paul simply gazes at you through half-lidded eyes, mesmerized by the performance you've been putting on.
Ringo stands before you, trousers undone. He seems a bit nervous, but any reservations he has are quickly overpowered by desire as he sees your glistening lips and messy hair. You reach a curious hand up and Ringo takes it in his calloused one, guiding you to grasp the base of his length. You give him a soft tug, catching him off guard. He draws a breath through clenched teeth, eyes fluttering closed.
You take him slowly into your mouth, your jaw working overtime to accommodate his size. Once you've settled into your pace, you begin to experiment with your tongue, tracing the underside of his cock. He growls almost primally, tightening his grip on your hair and moaning your name as you bring him closer to the edge.
"All right, you've had your fun," George interrupts and buries his own hand in your hair, gently grasping and tugging. You go to work on him once again, in a daze.
"That's not fair, mate. I had her," Ringo retorts, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling you back in his direction. The two men bicker as they stand over you, essentially playing tug-of-war with your mouth.
"All right, all right, that's enough of that." John swats their hands away and they draw back, pouting.
"Yeah, c'mon, lads. We'll each have our turn," Paul chastises.
"In fact, " muses John, "I'd say it's about time Paulie and I take the reigns, eh?" He withdraws his hand from between your thighs, casually licking his fingers clean.
"Wait, wait... and? How's that supposed to work."
"Come with us, love. We'll show you." Paul takes your hand and leads you to the bedroom, the other three following suit.
John places a soothing hand on your upper back, ushering you to the bed.
"On all fours, darling. Just relax."
You do as he instructs, getting into position as the others watch on with hungry eyes. John pushes your skirt up above your hips and tugs gently on the waistband of your knickers.
"Can I take care of these for ya?" he smirks.
You hesitate for only a moment before turning back to look at him over your shoulder.
"Yes. Please."
"Eager, are we?" They all chuckle and John slides them off, his trousers growing even tighter at the sight of you bare before him.
"Christ, you're soaked," he murmurs and you blush, somewhat embarrassed.
"Is that... bad?"
"Oh. Right." You bite your lip. John undoes his trousers and lines himself up at your entrance, stroking your hair to calm you.
John chuckles, amused by your inexperience. "No, sweetheart, not at all. It tells me you're excited - y'know, ready for me."
"Now - you're sure you want this, yeah?"
"Yes! Yes. I've thought it through, and..." you draw a breath, "this is what I want."
John groans, satisfied by your response.
"All right. Relax your body as much as you can, and keep your breathing steady. Don't worry, I'll be gentle," he reassures and you nod.
"Ready for me, love?"
You hiss and squeeze your eyes shut. John waits for your body to adjust to the intrusion before gradually sinking all the way in, using your hip as leverage while he buries himself inside you. The others look on with a combination of jealousy and need, wishing they were the ones to fill you.
"Yes! Yes. I want you, John," you beg and he takes your cue, pushing slowly into you.
"Fuck, doll. You're so bloody tight," John growls as you grip the bedsheets beneath you. The other three groan, imagining themselves in John's place. After a few moments, he speaks up.
"I'm going to move now, doll."
John begins to move, sliding in and out of you slowly, careful not to hurt you. You whine in pleasure, the sudden friction causing you to arch your back further. His breathing grows heavy, grunting as he increases his pace.
"Mm-hm," you whimper and brace yourself.
"Ah... fuck. Uh-huh," you manage as John continues to fuck you into the mattress.
"Mm... you're doing so good. Think you can take Paulie too?" he challenges and Paul lifts his head, pausing his movements.
Paul approaches, a sly grin on his boyish features as he stands in front of you.
"Yes, Paulie, yes! I need you all so bad."
"Sure you can handle it, love?"
You moan around him as he slides himself into your mouth, stilling when he hits the back of your throat. He pauses, composing himself before sliding in and out of your mouth, gripping the base of his length as he guides himself.
Your words elicit a collective moan from the men and Paul presses his tip to your mouth, eager to have you again.
"She's damn good, ain't she, Paulie?" he asks through his own pleasured grunts. Paul hums in agreement as the two men thrust in and out of you, the rhythmic push and pull scrambling your thoughts and dulling your senses.
"Bloody hell," he mutters, "Her mouth feels so good Paul groans as John chuckles breathlessly, increasing his pace to match Paul's.
"Feeling generous, love? You've got two hands, after all," Ringo points out. In your lust-filled trance, you raise your arms, offering your hands to the two men. They gratefully accept, thrusting into your fists as the four of them surround you.
Ringo and George, stroking themselves to the sight, begin to feel left out and approach the bed.
You take care of the men's needs surprisingly well considering your lack of experience.
"She's too bloody tight to have done anything before. Trust me, Macca," he groans, gripping your hips as he fucks you into the mattress.
"You sure you haven't done this before, doll?" Paul questions, but John interjects.
"Fuck... Christ, love. Where do you want me?" he asks and you consider your options.
Your whines increase in pitch and frequency, but you certainly aren't alone as all of the men approach their climaxes.
"On my ass," you reply and he pulls out near-immediately, spilling his load on your lower half. You revel in the warmth, moaning around Paul as he approaches his own summit. He pulls out of your mouth, unloading onto your pretty face while you lie as still as possible, drunk on the taste of him.
"Bloody hell, Y/N..." Ringo murmurs.
While John and Paul catch their breaths, George and Ringo increase the speed of their movements, driven by the sight of you drenched in their bandmates' cum.
"I-I'm going to-" he pulls out of your hand, covering your chest and shoulder with his hot cum as George does the same, groaning your name loudly.
The five of you take a moment to breathe, all of you sweaty and spent. You collapse onto the bed, none of them really caring about the mess.
"You should probably clean yourself up, love," Paul suggests. Begrudgingly, you rise from the bed and head for the attached bathroom. You manage to make yourself decent, dressing yourself in a t-shirt one of the boys left behind before stepping back out into the bedroom.
They all stare at you in disbelief, mouths agape.
"So, uh... can one of you drive me home?"
"Plus, you ARE wearing my shirt," John points out.
"You really think we're going to let you go back to your flat after THAT?" George asks, incredulous.
You chuckle in response.
"Guess not," you reply, flopping down on the bed. The men clean themselves up, returning to your side.
"So good for us," George adds, nosing into your hair while the others hum in agreement.
"Such a good girl, you are," Paul praises and kisses your forehead.
By the time they start arguing about John hogging the covers, you're already drifting off to sleep, the familiar chatter comforting you and quieting your mind.
"Aww. Look at that, lads. Guess we lulled her to sleep," Ringo snorts.
"Yeah, but I should-" John pauses, interrupted by your faint snoring.
They each lean over to place kisses on your cheeks, whispering their own "goodnight"s and finally shutting the light off to join you in your slumber.
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