₊ ⊹ a collection of beatles x reader fics, sweet moments, and stories written with lots of love. ♡
꒰ა about me! ໒꒱
♡ I love Lana del Rey
♡ I love the Beatles (my fav Beatle is either george or John)
♡ I adore queen (Brian may is so hot)
♡ I genuinely get maximum fomo possible even over things that happened before I was born!! (Ugh)
♡ I love Brigitte Bardot she is adorable
౨ৎ mostly writing:
♡ the beatles x reader
♡ fluffy fics
♡ comfort
♡ occasional angst (with happy endings… maybe).
♡ trying to write more shorter stuff/one shots but we’ll see!
୨ৎ requests : open
୨ৎ inbox : always open for anything.
꒰ა please do ໒꒱
♡ constructive criticism would be appreciated as I haven’t written much before!
♡ reblog ect.
Hello ! I'm not English, so I may make some mistakes, sorry.
I would like you to write the Beatles x reader where the reader is an extremely famous French writer. ( The newspapers call her " The second Molière. ) You can do it as you like. If you want, it can be as a headcanon for them all or just one of the Beatles, I love them all. Just do as you like ;)
Sorry for bothering you... omg, I'm so awkward 😳 😅 😫
⊹John absolutely loves that you're impossible to impress.
The first time he tried flirting, you simply said “That line was derivative” to which John replied with a squint of eyes in bewilderment, “derivative?”
After this, he learned to tailor his responses so as not to be embarrassed, as he is still a bit ego-hurt.
Although this did not dispel his mirthful teasing.
⊹You are constantly in some tiff about one thing or the other.
⊹When you are at home together and he is strewn out on the bed; you at your desk polishing off some scene, he’ll wait for you to be done. Quietly waiting for you to come to bed.
⊹Although there is a language barrier between you two, John has managed to pick up some bits of French.
You hiss something in French under your breath when he’s being unnecessarily challenging, “Temper! I know that one.” John exclaims as he repeats the word you said.
You correct John's French pronunciation, just to watch him complain, which makes a grin finally play on your lips.
⊹John is still somewhat jealous of your ability to walk into a room and go unnoticed but still be highly noticeable by people well versed in your writing, quite opposite to the fame the Beatles have achieved.
⊹He secretly loves your writing and really does believe that you could be “the second molière”.
Whenever your works brought up he ends up chipping in with moments that he found quite humorous, you raise an eyebrow “You’ve got impeccable memory John, for someone who ‘only skimmed over it.’”
⊹Still, John refuses to call you “the second molière”.
Instead he’ll introduce you as “the first ____.”
To this, he receives a sharp glare.
⊹Although the act he puts on he greatly appreciates the literature you produce and values it greatly.
୨୧ ˚₊‧bonus mini moment! ୨୧ ˚₊‧
Arriving at the awards ceremony with the other Beatles you earn yourselves some looks, a couple minutes of peace ensue but not before a journalist asks John“How does it feel knowing ‘the second molière’?”
“Terrible.” He states bluntly.
The room goes silent.
John continues with, “‘cause she’s spent years trying to convince people she’s the first herself, and they still insist on comparing her to a bloke who’s been dead for three centuries.”
You glance at him surprised.
He shrugs.
“She’s written enough to earn her own name.”
꒰ა Paul ໒꒱
⊹Paul is your biggest fan.
No, really.
If someone criticises your plays, especially your prestige compared to molière. Everyone will be met with your sigh as Paul launches into a 10-minute speech about how you're only more refined in your writing as yours is widely spread through European newspapers, and your reach will only stretch further as you advance in your career.
⊹He is captivated by your writing process and has happily adjusted to more quiet nights in than the usual Beatle party-night-life.
⊹He has a whole shelf dedicated to your works.
Not because you’re together.
He bought every edition before that. He tried to piece together the French version with his limited vocabulary but ended up needing to purchase the English translations, admitting defeat.
A first edition that cost him more than he’d like to admit.
“Paul…”
“It’s an investment.” He replies.
“I could have given it to you myself…”
⊹He’ll glance over your shoulder as you're working, quite the personal shadow.
⊹He absolutely melts when you compliment his songwriting.
⊹He loves hearing you read your plays in French.
He doesn’t understand every word. That doesn’t matter.
He says your voice changes when you perform your own dialogue. Softer. More animated. Like you’re talking to old friends.
He could listen for hours.
⊹Whenever you finish a manuscript, Paul insists on being “Reader Number One.”
You remind him that your editor gets it first.
He pouts dramatically. “Reader Number Two, then.”
“Always.”
⊹He is very interested in your literature and in awe of your creativity.
୨୧ ˚₊‧ bonus mini moment! ୨୧ ˚₊‧
Paul takes you to one of his band's shows, this happened after you showed intrigue over wanting to know how he ended up being as famous and adored by his fans.
Paul is oddly nervous knowing you’re in the audience. Although he’s played for thousands of screaming fans, he always feels the need to earn your admiration as his wit doesn’t compare to your own.
He fidgets with his bass strap before they go on, John glances over giving him an inquisitive look.
You aren’t backstage before the show.
You insist on sitting with the audience.
“I want to see it the way everyone else does.” and Paul, he secretly loves that answer.
The lights go down. The screaming begins. You have attended premieres, award ceremonies, royal galas… Nothing prepares you for Beatlemania. You glance around in complete amazement. Afterwards, you tell Paul,
“Your audience doesn’t applaud.”
“No?”
“They erupt.”
Halfway through the show, Paul catches your eye. He smiles at you softer than ones made for the crowd, just for you. John immediately notices and strolls his way over to Paul’s microphone, and mutters just loudly enough for Paul to hear.
“Stop making eyes at her.” A blush creeps up Paul’s neck reaching the tips of his ears as his face flushes red.
The audience just suspects it’s another joke.
Backstage, Paul immediately asks,
Well?”
No, did you enjoy it?”
Just, “Well?”
You know exactly what he means.
You think for a moment.
“I’ve spent years studying how words move people.”
“Tonight I watched music do the same thing.” Paul doesn’t speak.
He just looks at you with a small grin he is unable to suppress.
Later that evening, you hand him a folded piece of paper.
He expects notes. Instead, it’s a theatre review.
The Performance
★★★★★
Lead Singer
“Charming.”
Bass Player
“Rather distracting. I found myself watching him instead of the rest of the performance.”
Paul laughs so hard he has to sit down.
“A bit biased, aren’t you?”
“Extremely.”
“Good.”
He folds the paper carefully and slips it into his jacket pocket. Weeks later, it’s still there; creased from being unfolded and reread more times than either of you can count.
꒰ა george ໒꒱
⊹George loves that you’re not as interested in the rewards of fame and the celebrity status as some would like to be.
Neither of you competes over success.
One week it’s your premiere. The next one is his album release. The spotlight simply shifts back and forth. You’re happiest applauding each other.
⊹You disappear together often. Quietly getting away after a long day.
⊹George is quite the interviewer when he speaks to you, always asking little bits after having a peek at your recent work in progress.
⊹George saves every handwritten note you leave him. Making sure to cherish everything of yours with great care.
⊹You translate your favourite poems for him.
Never word-for-word.
You always stop halfway through and say,
“That doesn’t exist in English.”
Then you spend twenty minutes explaining one phrase.
George listens to every second. Not because he needs to understand French. Because he wants to understand you.
⊹George loves walking with you, not to get anywhere, just for leisure: through London, along the Seine when you’re in Paris, around gardens at country houses. Most of your best conversations happen when neither of you is looking directly at the other.
୨୧ ˚₊‧ Bonus mini moment! ୨୧ ˚₊‧
The first time George visits your apartment in Paris, he notices the silence. Not the absence of sound. The kind of silence that belongs to old buildings. Floorboards that creak politely. The distant murmur of traffic below. The rustle of pages turning somewhere inside.
Like it’s someplace sacred.
He follows you through the flat while you apologise for the mess. There are books everywhere. On shelves. On chairs. Stacked in careful towers against the walls.
A manuscript rests open on the dining table beside a loaf of bread and an uncapped fountain pen. George smiles.
“You live like you’re halfway through writing a sentence.”
You stop and look around.
“I suppose I do.”
He wanders toward the bookshelf. French classics. Volumes of poetry. History. Philosophy. A few English novels with notes sticking out between the pages.
Then, tucked awkwardly between two leather-bound plays…
One of his records.
He laughs.
“That looks terribly out of place.”
“It isn’t,” you reply. “It’s where I was when I finished Act Two.”
He blinks.
“What?”
“I listen to different records depending on what I’m writing.”
“You wrote a whole act with me playing in the background?”
You nod as though it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
George doesn’t know what to say to that. Instead, he carefully slides the record back into its place.
꒰ა ringo ໒꒱
⊹Ringo is the only one who never seems intimidated by your reputation.
To everyone else, you’re one of the greatest playwrights in Europe.
To Ringo, you’re just the person who steals chips off his plate and leaves books all over the sofa.
He genuinely can’t understand why people get nervous around you.
“They’re acting like you’re going to mark their homework.”
⊹The first time you take Ringo to Paris, you’re convinced you’ll have to show him museums and famous landmarks.
Instead, his favourite part of the trip is watching you. You greet florists by name. You stop to pet people’s dogs.
You argue cheerfully with a baker because he insists on giving you an extra pastry “for the famous writer.”
Ringo laughs.
“I thought I was visiting France.”
“You are.”
“No, I mean your France.”
⊹Whenever you’re writing, Ringo treats your study like sacred ground.
Not because you’ve asked him to.
Sometimes he’ll quietly open the door just enough to leave a cup of tea inside.
You don’t even notice he’s been there until an hour later.
⊹You often read new scenes aloud to him.
Not because he’s a literary critic. Because he’s wonderfully honest. If something’s funny, he laughs immediately. If it’s sad, his face falls. If he’s confused…
He’ll simply say,
“I got lost.”
Oddly enough, those are usually the most useful notes you receive.
⊹You help Ringo with letters. Not because he can’t write them. Because he worries about saying exactly what he means. You’ll read a draft, move one sentence, change another, then hand it back.
He’ll read it and grin.
“That’s what I was trying to say.”
You always answer,
“I know.”
⊹Your French occasionally slips out when you’re tired.
If you drop something…
French.
If you’re surprised…
French.
If you’re annoyed…
Definitely French.
Ringo never interrupts. He simply waits until you’ve finished. Then asks,
“Good French or bad French?” You cover your face. “Very bad French.”
“I thought so.”
⊹He keeps every programme from your premieres.
Every single one.
Years later, you find a box in the attic.
Inside are ticket stubs, newspaper clippings, handwritten notes, and photographs from nearly every opening night.
You look at him.
“You kept all these?”
He shrugs.
“They’re our memories.”
୨୧ ˚₊‧ Bonus mini moment! ୨୧ ˚₊‧
It’s late when you realise Ringo has been unusually quiet. Not absent. Just… focused in a way that doesn’t quite fit him.
He’s sitting cross-legged on the rug in your apartment, flipping through the final draft of your newest play. Pages are scattered around him like he’s landed in the middle of a paper storm and decided to stay there.
You lean against the doorframe.
“You’ve been reading that for an hour.”
He doesn’t look up.
“Yeah.”
“That’s not normal reading speed.”
“I’m not reading it normally.”
That makes you pause.
“What does that mean?”
He finally looks up, eyebrows slightly raised, as if the answer should be obvious.
“It means I’m trying not to miss anything.”
You walk over and sit beside him.
“You’re not supposed to read it like it’s a mystery novel.”
Ringo nods seriously.
He goes back to the page, but now he’s tapping each line lightly with his finger as he reads, like he’s keeping time with something only he can hear.
After a while, you notice he’s stuck on a scene you barely thought about.
A small one.
Two characters arguing over something trivial while everything else falls apart around them. Ringo stops there.
Reads it again.
Then again.
“What?” you ask.
He hesitates.
“This bit,” he says slowly. “You didn’t finish it.”
“I did.”
“No,” he says gently, shaking his head. “You stopped it early.”
You frown, reaching for the page.
“It’s complete. That’s the point—they don’t resolve it.”
Ringo looks up at you now, completely serious.
“But what happens to them after?”
You open your mouth.
Then stop.
Because the honest answer is: you hadn’t thought about it. You always thought about structure. Impact. Ending. Not what happens after the curtain falls.
Ringo seems to notice the shift in your silence.
He tilts his head.
“You do that thing.”
“What thing?”
“That writer thing,” he says, like he’s naming an everyday habit. “Where you close the door and pretend the room behind it disappears.”
You let out a short breath.
“It doesn’t disappear,” you say. “It just isn’t the point anymore.”
Ringo nods as he understands, but doesn’t agree.
“That’s what I mean,” he says softly. “You stop where you feel it most.”
You look down at the page again.
The unfinished argument.
The half-spoken sentence.
The moment you ended because continuing it would have meant answering something you didn’t want to answer yet.
Ringo taps the page once more.
“I don’t think they stop there,” he says.
You glance at him.
“They have to.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where the scene ends.”
He smiles a little at that, as you’ve just told him something charmingly wrong.
“That’s where you stopped writing,” he corrects.
The room is quiet for a moment.
Then you sigh, rubbing your forehead.
“Ringo, I don’t know what happens next.”
He looks genuinely surprised.
“Yes, you do.”
You shake your head.
“I don’t.”
He leans back on his hands, considering you for a moment, then says it like it’s the simplest truth in the world:
“Then write until you do.”
You stare at him.
“That’s not how it works.”
“It is for songs,” he replies.
You open your mouth to argue—
Then stop.
Because he’s already gone back to reading, like the conversation was never about winning. Just about making sure you don’t leave someone behind in a moment that isn’t finished yet.
After a while, you speak again.
“…You really want to know what happens to them?”
Ringo doesn’t look up.
“Yeah.”
A pause.
You pick up your pen.
Then quietly add,
“Me too.”
And for the first time all night, the ending doesn’t feel like something you have to decide alone.
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: The Beatles (Band)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: John Lennon/Reader, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, George Harrison & John Lennon, John Lennon & Pete Shotton
Characters: John Lennon, Reader, Mimi Smith, Pete Shotton, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (The Beatles)
Additional Tags: Fluff, Eventual Smut, 1950s, Teddy Boy John Lennon, Teddy Boy George Harrison (The Beatles), Teddy Boy Paul McCartney, John Lennon will be smitten just wait, Angst, Loss of Parent(s), Slow Burn
Summary:
(john lennon x reader)
You were fifteen when the news arrived: your mother was gone, and mrs smith (your late mother’s close friend), who had insisted you call her Mimi when you spoke on the phone, stepped forward with an offer you could not refuse. She had already taken in her orphaned nephew, seventeen year old John Lennon, and now she opened her modest home to you as well. Accustomed to the polished life of London and genteel routines, the idea of relocating to Liverpool felt like a brusque dislocation, a plunge into a life far removed from the comforts you knew. Still, beneath your initial reserve there was a quiet gratitude form Mimis’s charity. You resolved to meet the upheaval of your life with dignity, and to repay the kindness which you’ll now depend on.
guys just posted the first chapter to my new fic… I’m scared… would appreciate and tips!!
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: The Beatles (Band)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: John Lennon/Reader, John Lennon & Paul McCartney, George Harrison & John Lennon, John Lennon & Pete Shotton
Characters: John Lennon, Reader, Mimi Smith, Pete Shotton, Paul McCartney, George Harrison (The Beatles)
Additional Tags: Fluff, Eventual Smut, 1950s, Teddy Boy John Lennon, Teddy Boy George Harrison (The Beatles), Teddy Boy Paul McCartney, John Lennon will be smitten just wait, Angst, Loss of Parent(s), Slow Burn
Summary:
You were fifteen when the news arrived: your mother was gone, and mrs smith (your late mother’s close friend), who had insisted you call her Mimi when you spoke on the phone, stepped forward with an offer you could not refuse. She had already taken in her orphaned nephew, seventeen year old John Lennon, and now she opened her modest home to you as well. Accustomed to the polished life of London and genteel routines, the idea of relocating to Liverpool felt like a brusque dislocation, a plunge into a life far removed from the comforts you knew. Still, beneath your initial reserve there was a quiet gratitude for Mimis’s charity. You resolved to meet the upheaval of your life with dignity, and to repay the kindness which you’ll now depend on.
