yelena :: she/they :: '08 :: eastern european :: vegan :: guitarist :: fanfic & original fic writer
ꫂ᭪݁ currently obsessed with: the beatles, paul mccartney, magical mystery tour (or any beatles film, but mmt is my fav)
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!! fic requests always open but if it's not about my current obsession then it most likely won't get written for a while !!
most recent fic: indelible you :: masterlist
summary: After reluctantly agreeing to do a collab photoshoot with Jabber, Zanka regrets every descision leading up to there. The crazy photographer of theirs says she "doesn't see enough chemistry", therefore they have to spend the following three days together and somehow get closer to keep the job.
!! you can be added to or removed from my general taglist here !!
I’m not sure if this counts as “poly” but its more just welp i guess everyone is just here so…..yk…. 🫤
Basically (this is like teddy/teen ish era +ringo) and reader is baking or just having a lazy day at home and one by one, each of the guys just come in… for whatever stupid reason
reader’s kitchen is suddenly filled with four guys and she has to double her cookie recipe sigh
It’s totally okay if you can’t do it but I think your writing charm could make my domestic beatles dreams come true🥹🥹 thank you!!!
“Cooking by the Book ! !” ˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ Ringo Starr x F!reader
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a/n: Sorry it took me so long to get to this! Good lord 😭 Anyways this req is so cute and our boy ringo needs some LUV!
Content: fluff and stuff!
Paul, George, and John all admired the efforts you made towards baking and cooking. Some days the boys would go over to your flat just to see what snacks you had packed up in your fridge or on the counter—which Ringo didn’t mind too much.
You loved giving them sweet treats and fussing over the boys like a pestering mother. Hell, they appreciated it sometimes as well. They’d stop by with an empty stomach and then stay with glasses of milk and delicious chocolate cookies, seated in front of the telly as they watched cartoons.
“I wish I grew up with a mum like you.” John once dramatically sighed, flopping his head back against the couch to stare up at you as you flipped through a cookbook.
You cocked a brow and tilted your head with skepticism.
“John. You’re a grown man.”
He just shrugged. “I’m only twenty-one!”
You just frowned at him with pity. “Still too grown to be actin’ like this. Should I call your mimi?”
Ringo appreciated this little tweak of yours the most out of everyone else. You’d pamper him when sick, prepare a bath for him after a long day and best of all—let Ringo cook with you.
He was okay, but he just liked it when you would yell at him for folding the cookie dough incorrectly. (With love of course)
One particular day, Ringo decided to skip band rehearsals and visit your families home. Immediately the smell of bacon, biscuits and something heavenly filled his nostrils. He just loved the environment. It was a nice, humble place with warm tones and portraits hung over each wall you looked. Ringo liked the pictures of you caught in action, looking happy and unaware of the camera on you. It just felt so…domestic.
You were seated on the floor of your living room, twirling rug wool around your finger as you watched the telly; some morning cartoon that everyone was a fan of. Ringo cleared his throat, catching your attention with a slight smile pulling at his lips.
“Richie!” You jumped up, running towards your boyfriend and immediately enveloping him in a tight hug. He caught you, stumbling back ever so slightly with a laugh.
“Baby!” Ringo grins, pressing his nose into your soft hair before pulling back to look at you with admiration.
“I’m glad you’re here…but wait.” Your brows furrow in confusion and you step back, glancing at the clock over your boyfriend’s shoulder before meeting his eyes again. “Aren’t you supposed to be at some type of recording session for the group?”
He shrugs. You sigh.
And just like habit, Ringo follows you into the kitchen as you two discuss what it is you should bake today. You get out the ingredients as Ringo flips through the pages of your mothers cookbook— finally finding a page that sounds appetizing.
Chocolate cake.
Then comes the knocking, or rather, banging. Loud. Familiar. Ringo’s shoulders fall in disappointment with recognition that he’d just been caught by the others.
“(Name)! Is Richard in there with you!?” Paul shouts, his voice muffled by the wooden material of your front door. You sigh, clapping off baking powder from your hands and rubbing the remainder on your apron.
“One moment, I’m coming!” Ringo grabs your arm before you can even move, shaking his head pleadingly.
“All I wanted was to spend the day with my girl.” He practically whines. You send him a look.
“Hush. You were being lazy. Don’t try to charm your way out of this.”
Ringo groans, arm falling limp to his side as you stride to the door.
And then you open it to just one Beatle. A nosy one at that.
“Hello.” Paul acknowledges, peering over your shoulder and sticking his head in the house to look around. “Is Ringo with ya? We need ‘em for a song.”
“Goodness gracious.” You huff under your breath, stepping aside to let the younger lad in.
Paul nods politely, taking tall strides through your home (which he is familiar with due to his frequent visits with the other boys) in hopes of finding the flake.
That’s when he catches glimpse of your kitchen counter; baking ingredients lying about on the surface as well as a mixing bowl and whisk.
Then, Ringo is forgotten about. Paul’s ears perk up at the cartoon playing on the TV, and he feels as though he’s in heaven.
“You’re baking?” He asks, glancing over his shoulder to see you adjusting your apron. You nod. Immediately, he sits down on your couch and leans back like an obnoxious younger brother.
“Alright then. Sorry to interrupt. Carry on.”
You roll your eyes fondly. “Why thank you, Paul. Am I wrong to assume you’d like a slice of chocolate cake as well?”
“Not wrong at all.”
“Right then. I’ll get onto it then.”
“Ah, I’m sure John might want some too. Might I use your phone to give him a ring?” Paul suddenly asks, turning to look back at you as you crack an egg into your mixing bowl. You nod, and he walks over to your landline.
After punching in just a few numbers, George answers at the studio.
“George here.” He coughs, probably choking on the smoke of a cigarette.
“George. Where’s John?” Paul asks, pulling the phone away from his ear at the sound of loud incessant banging.
“Oh. On Ringo’s drums trying to see if he can carry a beat.”
“Did you say he was playing Ringo’s drums? Oh, he isn’t going to like that.” Paul shakes his head.
“On me drums!?” Ringo shouts from the bathroom, suddenly stumbling out with an angered expression.
“Wash your hands please.” You command in the softest voice on that side of liverpool.
Ringo sighs dejectedly, glaring at you as though you’d just kicked him. Paul nods for a few more moments, mumbling to the phone before putting it back on the hook.
“Alright then. George and John are coming too.”
…
And soon, you had four boys all sitting around the TV, forking sweet chocolate cake down their throats with groans of delight. And as per ritual, you’d set down a glass of milk on the counter waiting just for them.
“Absolutely delicious, Mrs Starr.” John teased, lightly elbowing Ringo whose face had already gone bright red. You sighed, taking his plate and bringing it to rest in a sink filled with dishes.
“You’re flustering Richard, John.” Paul teased, standing up from the ground with a plate in hand. Wiped clean of all that was on the tupperware, Paul nods to you with a smile on his lips, quietly thanking you for the desert.
It was only mid-day by now, and George had suggested the idea that you teach the boys how to whip up delicious desserts like the one you baked today. However, you already taught Ringo everything there is to know about the craft.
“Ah, Richie will teach ya! I’m his mentor, so it’s basically the same experience.”
John blew raspberries, sticking his thumb down in the air. Paul smacked his arm.
“Come on. You don’t want a charming lad like me teaching you wankers how to bake?” Ringo complained sarcastically. You rolled your eyes.
“We want the pretty one to teach us.” George joked, causing the other boys to laugh.
You obliged with a heavy sigh.
“Next week, if you aren’t busy, then I’ll let you come over and take a few baking lessons.”
They cheered.
“BUT—“
They stopped.
“Only for today, Ringo gets to stay home with me and you will NOT bother us.”
The room was silent, leaving the other three Beatles to look between each other; lips pursed in thought.
…
“Deal?”
And sure enough, Ringo kicked them out and slammed the door right behind their sorry arses.
Now it was just you two. Warm candles filled the atmosphere with their inviting sent. Chocolate cake sat flat square in the middle of the counter, just begging to be shared.
Ringo led you to the couch, started the kettle for some tea, then came to sit beside you. His lips curled up kindly, one large hand repositioning to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer and closer—
Your Ringo fic was so cute I couldn’t resist !! Now I have another new request if you please - the Fab Four (whichever member of your choosing) with the reader having cuteness aggression towards them or vice versa 😛 take your time to write - all good things do, & like I said before - remember to take care of yourself ! 🫶🏼
“Too Cute!” 𖤓˚࿔
(Separate)The Beatles x F!Reader
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a/n: I LOVE YOUR REQUESTS!!! ur such a sweetheart ☺️☺️
content: slight swearing maybe? reader is crazy yuh :)
John ୭˚. ᵎᵎ
Despite having a ginormous ego, John was rather insecure. You’d see the way he poked at his nose, muttering how large the damn thing was, before going off and pouting with his face in a pillow. Once, you caught the bloke pinching at his stomach with a troubled frown and tight brow, making your heart worrisome. The media had been extra harsh on him lately after the two of you went to the beach, mocking his body and granting John the title of “The Fat Beatle.” You couldn’t stand it and wrote a very strongly worded letter to every article that would say such a thing.
One day, he was sitting with his shirt off, guitar in lap as he strummed and plucked random notes. It was hot, humidity filling the musical air with a sweaty atmosphere. As you walked into the room, pulling on the collar of your shirt, you saw him.
And damn, he looked fiiiineeeee.
The sweat gathering on John’s forehead, the way his arms would flex as he readjusted his position. His stomach, which he tried to subtly cover when you walked into the room was what threw you over the edge.
“Oi, you want me to do somethin’ about the looks you’re givin’ me?” John teased, a boyish smirk pulling at his lips.
You POUNCED.
John yelped and the next thing he knows, you’re pinching and pulling at his cheeks, muttering things he doesn’t understand against his skin.
“What the bloody hell are you— stop that!” He couldn’t help but flush.
“John, you’re so handsome! Christ, i’m such a lucky girl!!” kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss
His heart fluttered with embarrassment, quietly grumbling as you tugged at his hair and buried your face in his neck.
“Don’t go smellin’ me…’m sweaty.” John muttered bashfully, setting his guitar aside to pull you into his lap.
“I like it.” You grin, wrapping around your arms around his neck and leaning back. “Very manly.”
John huffed out a scoff, gently ruffling your hair with a fond smile. His warm, brown eyes darted over your face, silently grateful for the boost in ego. He shrugs.
“Is it now?”
You nodded.
“Well. M’ no Hercules but I’ll take the flattering where I can get it.” He nuzzles his nose into your neck, making you giggle.
“Says the bloke with men and women screaming and wetting themselves any time he steps out into the glory of day.” You tease, poking his side.
He hums, gently pecking the skin around your collarbone as a thank you.
The light still shines down on the two of you, just as hot and just as gross. Still, you sit there and kiss his hair every now and then, whispering warm praises and compliments that leave him feeling ever so slightly more confident.
Paul ୭˚. ᵎᵎ
You couldn’t believe your eyes. In fact, you thought you were dreaming.
Not too long ago, you caught a sickness going around. Nothing too serious, only a cold that left your throat sore and your nose full of snot. However, Paul took it very very seriously. He bought every cold medicine on the shelf, not bothering to worry about the price of this or that. You were forced to lay in bed with the telly on, tissue box and bottomless tea on the nightstand right next to you. (You weren’t complaining, the fussing was cute)
But it got to a point where Paul could not keep his eyes off of you. No matter where you went, Paul was there. He couldn’t help it; He was worried about his girl! He took it to the furthest point possible, even going as far as to stand guard by the door when you went to piss.
Naturally, you had enough.
“Paul, for the love of god, if you don’t get off my butt i’ll—” You snapped. He tried helping you get into trousers after telling him you were more than capable of doing it yourself. From his squatting position on the floor, he looks up at you with puppy dog eyes, as though you’d just kicked him out into the street with nothing but used diapers to eat for the next month.
Your brows curled up, and you felt the most overwhelming affection roll over your system.
“AWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!” You squealed, taking his face in your hands and pressing kisses all over his face. “You’re so cute! Omigosh omigosh omigosh!”
Paul just sat there and took it with surprise evident in his expression. One minute, you’re getting ready to lash out and yell at him and the next, YOURE KISSING HIM?
“Uh…” He hummed, watching as you tugged at his soft cheeks as though they were putty. “What’s goin’ on?”
You just groaned, melting to the ground beside him and wrapping your arms around the bloke’s waist, your head under his chin.
“I love you so much. You’re so cute.” You whispered, kissing his neck and jawline.
Paul flushed, quickly clearing his throat before peeling you off of his chest and standing up, your hand in his.
“Alright. The medicine is making you loopy.”
“What!? No it’s not!” You stood up beside him, dragging his chin down with your hand. The movement was quick, and Paul couldn’t suppress a gasp from your manhandling.
Though the harshness quickly disappeared as you felt your heart swell again.
“Paul.”
“Y-yes, love?”
“I’m going to bite you.”
He paused, swallowing thickly.
“Right then. Nap time it is.”
George ୭˚. ᵎᵎ
You suppressed a sigh at the man. George had been muttering on and on about god knows what for the past fifteen minutes, not even bothering to check and see if you’d been listening to a word he’s said. (Spoiler alert: You weren’t)
“And it goes like that, when it’s supposed to go like that, but it doesn’t go like that when it goes like—“ He paused, tilting his head to meet your gaze as you nearly zone out into the distance. “Do y’know what I mean?”
You felt as though you snapped awake, nodding to his question as you tried to sit up straight. A smirk pulled at his lips, revealing the sharp fangs that left you breathless.
“Right then. So you agree that I should sell my liver for a couple of pounds?”
“Wait what?!”
George burst out into laughter, covering his mouth as your face flushed bright red. You cleared your throat and gently shoved his shoulder.
“oi, you nutter. I can’t stand you.” You giggled, leaning back against your couch as George leans in just a bit closer.
“Why don’t you sit down then?”
You scoff, poking his side. He jerks away.
“‘m already sitting down, ya daft boy.”
He smiles to himself, laying back against the couch cushion.
Your stomach flips.
“You’ve got a cute mug on ya’.” You whisper, reaching your hand out to touch his face. Used to the action, George puts his hand over yours and presses warm, soft kisses to your palm.
“Mm…” He hums, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Ya mean it?”
Your jaw drops. George’s eyebrows draw together curiously as you move closer and closer, watching as your hand moves from his to find his face.
Then, you aggressively kiss him. Like hard.
Does it even count as a kiss? You just slammed your face against his, almost breaking his nose.
“What the hell—!” He can’t even get in another word of shock, because you’re grabbing at his curls and letting out concerning sounds that he could only describe as demonic growls.
“George, You’re so cute!!!! So romantic, gorgeous, beautiful…I can’t believe i’m the one who gets to kiss this—mwah mwah mwah —face!!”
He just laughs, almost breathlessly, pulling away to rub at his nose (which may or may not start bruising in a few minutes).
“You only love me for my looks, eh?”
He teases, tickling your sides as you begin to crawl over and into his lap.
“Maybe.” You giggle, brushing the bangs away from his brow. George rolls his eyes despite desperately leaning into your touch.
“Fine by me. Long as you keep givin’ me this attention, that is.”
Ringo ୭˚. ᵎᵎ
Ringo was a simple man. You touch his hair, he does whatever you ask. You kiss his nose and tell him he’s pretty, he will go out and buy you flowers and chocolate and maybe even your favorite desert.
But recently, you’d been so caught up and busy with work that you’d hardly even noticed the Beatle. it was like he didn’t even exist. You’d come home, greet him with a hum, then flop down on the couch with your heels still on your feet and hair in messy curls.
And, like the attentive man he is, Ringo would take off your heels and makeup before throwing you over his shoulder and bringing you to your shared bed.
Every. Single. Night.
He knew you were busy and that you had a lot of things on your plate. Ringo just wished you could make some time for him, too.
It was sunday, the one day you had out of the office. Of course, you decided to sleep in to store up your energy for the upcoming week, knowing very well that the endless cycle of misery would repeat itself.
That’s when you woke up to the smell of bacon and biscuits right on your nightstand. Ringo, for the first time in a while, decided to make breakfast in hopes of winning over your attention. And it worked.
“Ringo?” He heard you call from the hall.
His heart stopped. Wearing a kiss-the-chef apron, standing by the stove with a spatula covered in bacon grease, Ringo stood with eyes blown wide and full of hope.
You entered the kitchen, hand brushing over the wall as your eyes searched for him. Then, with just a few moments of eye contact, you and ringo seem to run towards each other like lovers who haven’t seen each other since the war.
“I’m so sorry for avoiding you—“
“I missed you so much, my girl—“
“You know I never meant to shut you out, i’ve been so—“
“No, No, No, it’s okay, really—“
After all the muttering came to and end, you pulled apart to look at the man with a small smile, watching as his big blue eyes admired the life that seems to have finally entered your body again.
“Gosh…” You whispered, clearing your throat as a smile pulled at your lovers lips,
“What? Is there somethin’ on my face?”
Ringo wouldn’t get to know the answer. You kissed him and kissed him and kissed him until he stumbled back against the counter. His face was in your hands, cheeks warm and flushed against your skin.
“Well. I s’ppose your apology’s accepted.” He mutter, almost in a daze.
please don’t feed my work into ai or copy it without my permission, thanks!!
hii i love your beatles fics!! could i request a paul mccartney fic with a reporter/journalist reader?? thanks 😋😋
a/n: thank you so much for the req! super cute idea!! this reader is specifically fem; I just wanted to note as usually my readers are more ambiguous
paul hadn't excepted you.
among the sea of reporters in their identical suits and haircuts, there you were. it was rather abnormal to see a female have such a profession; most women were nurses or secretaries if they were lucky, so seeing you just sat there, completely composed and relaxed, kind of shook him.
and you were sharp with the questions too. you were genuine, you didn't just ask questions about beatlemania or how they took their tea the way some reporters did. you asked real questions about the music, upcoming albums, tours. it was good enough to be asked genuine questions for once; being asked by a pretty girl was even better.
he definitely wasn't complaining when he noticed your eyes lingering on him for just a tad longer than necessary.
the rest of the boys noticed too, and practically pounced on paul when they managed to free themselves from the clutches of the press. "pretty reporter, eh?" john grinned, bumping his shoulder with paul's, enjoying the sight of his reddening ears. "sure seemed to take an interest in you."
"d'you know her, paul?" george asks, lighting a cigarette, bumping into a bin as he tries to catch up.
"no," his tone is a little grumbly, not enjoying being on the receiving end of teasing. "i probably won't even see her again."
and they drop it, finding something else to talk about. but paul can't pull himself away from you.
i probably won't even see her again.
the memory of his words go round and around in his head, and a small ache blooms in his chest. he doesn't even know you, knows nothing of you really except your profession and your face, but the idea that he will never see you again is daunting.
but the next day, he looks in the newspaper and there you are. well, there your article is. usually, he looks past any articles about him unless the title really intrigues him, but today he sits down, tea going cold, and reads the entire thing. twice.
it continues like this.
every time he gets a newspaper, he searches it for your name and reads whatever you've written. you could be writing about the paving of a car park and he'd read about it anyway.
the rest of the beatles tease him, waving the paper around just to watch his face sour in annoyance and embarrassment, but he doesn't stop. he'll interrupt recording sessions just to see what you have to say.
and still, he accepts that he's never going to see you again. it's been months, and no matter what press or interview he does, you never show.
he's already in a sour mood when he walks into the conference room, the bright flash on cameras pointed at him and questions already being thrown at them.
it's early and he can barely see with all the flashes, his ears already ringing with the sound of mindless questions being thrown at him.
but when he sits down and gets a proper look at the sea of reporters, he finally spots the face he's been dying to see. he feels like he's dreaming, seeing you sat there is your work attire looking like an angel.
you're looking down at your lap, flipping through your notes like you aren't in a room with the most famous band in the world, and for some reason, that lack of care makes his stomach flip,
to think he's been driving himself crazy over you for the past few months, and you don't even look up when he enters a room.
the conference goes on like usual; the typical mindless questions and over-analysing of song lyrics, queries about fangirls, girlfriends, whatever. when you ask a question, it isn't directed at him and it feels like a spear through his heart.
he still doesn't look at you with any less affection.
the conference is over as quick as it started, and paul escapes outside for a smoke before the boys can notice his mood.
"hello."
he jumps out of his skin, dropping his just-lit cigarette onto the floor. he's about to curse at whoever it is, grumble something, but when he turns around, he sees its you.
standing there in the dirty alley in your button-down shirt and mary-janes, you look totally out of place. you're holding a newspaper to your chest, but all he can focus on is your face.
"oh," is all he manages to get out. "hello."
"did you get my messages?" you ask, as if he's supposed to know what on earth you're talking about. he looks at you like you've grown a second head.
"messages?"
"in my articles." you say, face still calm as if this conversation is totally normal and not at all confusing.
he splutters a response. his brain seriously cannot wrap around what you're telling him, no matter how hard he tries to make sense of it.
"you didn't see them?"
"i honestly don't know what you're talking about."
you furrow your eyebrows, tilting your head like a confused puppy and he wills himself not to faint at the sight.
you unfold the newspaper, flipping to a page and holding it out to him. he reads it, and all he sees is practically gibberish. "what's this? it's just..letters, random letters."
"its caesar cipher." you say, as if he's meant to know what that means. your eyebrows furrow further. "moving the letters down three...a becomes d, you know."
"i think you're too smart for me." he chuckles out a laugh, looking at the paper, then back at your face. "what did they say?"
"usually just asking to meet for tea, or if you wanted to talk." you shrug. "thought you must've thought i was insane when you never responded."
"i didn't know, truly."
"would you have responded if you did?" you voice takes on a shyer tone now, nothing like the confidence and calmness you approached the situation with.
he feels a little bit of solidarity, knowing it's not just him going into this with a pounding heart and sweaty palms.
"yes." he nods, trying to keep his voice steady.
you nod, absorbing the information, and he thinks he sees a flush blooming on your cheeks. "would you like to? go for tea, that is."
he's so used to being the one asking, pursuing, so it gives his heart a little thrill to be the one on the receiving end for once.
content warning; none. literally just fluff and something i came up with like a fart in the wind.
a/n: sorry if it ain’t too good. i’m getting used to writing for this evil man.
“i don’t like this weird silent thing you’re doing, John.” You grumbled under your breath, tossing a stuffed animal at his back. he just huffed.
this mood was all because of one little remark that you made towards him in the supermarket after he kept charming the cashier woman.
“keep that up and you’ll see just how close i am with the milk man.”
obviously you’d meant it as a joke. but john didn’t take it that way. and yes, this is the john who uses his charisma to get discounts and finds himself accidentally (?) flirting with old men.
and since that fateful moment, he’s been shooting glares at you like you killed his grandma.
“Why don’t you just go make small talk with that milk man you’re so fond of.” he snipped, voice muffled by the pillow he had his face buried in.
somehow, despite his oh-so-obvious -anger he still couldn’t find the decency to express it by sleeping on the couch. so he was just curled up in the fetal position at the foot of your shared bed. sitting with you legs crossed, you lean into your hands as your bent elbows dig into a soft velvet pillow.
“maybe i will. i’m sure he’d make better company than a pouting little baby.” you sneered, opting to toss another pillow at his head instead of apologizing.
he only groaned.
you groaned back teasingly.
the silence grew, bouncing off of your walls with an eery and unwanted echo. you knew he was truly upset, and you know you shouldn’t have made that comment. but seriously, one joke should not have sent him off the edge like that when he’s always flirting with everyone!
“…john?” you whispered.
“mmghff?” he acknowledged.
“i’m sorry.”
“…”
the silence felt awkward. you picked nervously at your cuticles.
“and you know that i don’t really talk to the milk man.”
“oh?” he raised his head slowly. you were getting him back!
“yeah.” you soothed. “he’s much too old.”
John’s eyebrows furrowed together with scrutiny as he leaned forward accusingly.“so you’re saying you’d be into him if he was younger!?”
“oh my god, are you menstruating?”
You got hit with the pillow this time.
and when you tugged the darn thing off your face, john was standing at the window, peering out into the front yard. you didn’t understand until you distantly heard a familiar door slam shut. oh no. the milkman was here.
“i think ill go fancy myself a chat with that bloke.” he muttered, just loud enough so you could hear his threat.
“john.” you warned.
“(name).” he mocked.
“don’t.”
“best try to stop me then.”
he ran out of the room like a stray cat caught in a trash bin. you scrambled, nearly tripping over your own feet on the way out.
“John! JOHN QUIT!”
he was just about to open the front door when you said those fatal words.
“IF YOU OPEN THAT DAMN DOOR, YOU AREN’T BEING THE LITTLE SPOON FOR A WEEK!”
tl;dr: my headcanons for each of the beatles' (your boyfriend's) sleeping habits!
word count: 2.5.k (ish)
a/n: tysm for all the love everyone showed on the last one, hope you lot enjoy!
JOHN LENNON
most nights, john sleeps peacefully.
he's a medium heavy sleeper and snores a little.
when alone, his arms are curled into his chest or under the pillow at his head and his legs are all crossed up.
for a man with big energy, he sleeps quite timid.
he chronically sleeps with his glasses on and the amount of pairs that he's deformed or straight up lost via sleeping on them is insane.
based off of the picture i posted of him sleeping, he sleeps with two pillows.
stacked vertically on top of each other????
now moving on to when he sleeps with you, he radiates big spoon energy. and he is the big spoon until he falls asleep.
he turns like a rotisserie chicken bro.
so if you ever wake up in the middle of the night, one minute he's spooning you, the next minute you have a face FULL of hair.
remember when i said he sleeps well most nights? yeah well let's talk about the days he DOESNT.
he turns into the most abnormal sleeper ever and i'm sorry for you.
these nights usually occur after a hard, long day at the studio.
i predict that he'll just reanimate like frankenstein and shoot up in the middle of the night which wakes both of you up.
sometimes he's fully awake in a second and can't sleep again.
others his eyes are open... lights are on... but nobody's home.
he'll be unresponsive while 'staring' right at you. it's kinda freaky.
but seconds after you waggle your finger in his face and ask him if he needs anything, he's very dramatically falling back asleep.
you thought he was fibbing when it first happened.
oh yeah and he sleepwalks sometimes.
you should be scared, but it's oddly endearing to lead him back to bed, remember to set his glasses on the desk that are hanging off of his face, caress his arm and watch him fall back to sleep.
in general, when he actually wakes up in the morning, he takes super long to come to his senses and get up.
"five more minutes." yeah right.
you flinched awake, suddenly disoriented by the harsh return to reality. you were home. safe. you craned your head around to peak at the curtain, and saw faint rays of moonlight peaking through the cracks. you let out a huge sigh and then craned your head again to peer at the clock on the adjacent wall. it was a little past 2am. so why were you awake?
your eyes were dry as you blinked them to life and when you turned your body over, you saw the silhouette of john's back. he was sat up with his feet off the bed and hands planted in the mattress at his sides. all you could make out was the steady rise and fall on his shoulders in the dark.
he felt the dip in the mattress and when you settled, he spoke low.
"sorry to wake ya."
john didn't sleep talk at all so you assumed he was wide awake as a result of his restlessness. you reached out to place your warm hand on top of his cooling fingers. you squeezed him, firm. he spared you a side glance but you couldn't see his expression in the dark.
"and m'actually awake." he added. you believed him. there was a dry attempt at humour that sleepy john would never possess. you sensed his reserve. maybe he'd had a nightmare? you weren't sure but you knew whatever he was feeling was still fragile. you took a deep breath and responded, sincere.
"i know, john."
he reached up to rub his face, removing the glasses there and clanking them on the bedside table. he let out a loud exhale and a weight sat on your heart. you snuggled deeper into the covers and retracted your hand from his to pat the space next to you. he reacted to the gesture but didn't move at all.
"would you lay with me a while?" is all you said.
"how could i say no to a face like that?" slowly, he lifted the covers and slid back in the warmth. he laid beside you and scooted closer so you were situated in his chest. he draped a delicate arm around you. you looked up at him, clunky and close.
"can you even see me right now?"
he scoffed, "don't be daft."
that was and wasn't an answer but you chuckled and accepted it anyway. your eyelids started to droop in no time and you rest assured knowing that he would follow your sleepy lead eventually.
PAUL MCCARTNEY
paul sleeps like the hot mess he is
and he's a heavy ass sleeper too.
all the beatle lads HATE it.
you find it hilarious though and sometimes snap photographs of some of the positions he manoeuvres himself into.
in hamburg especially, nobody wanted to sleep in the same bed as paul because he's a notoriously duvet hog and rowdy sleeper.
he thought he'd outgrown it since then.
you reassure him that he has. that it only happens sometimes.
you are lying. he hasn't outgrown anything. it happens every night.
he sleeps with a singular pillow and it genuinely explores the bed.
the reason he sleeps so heavy is because he dreams every night and they are super vivid dreams.
nothing can penetrate his song delivery dream time.
and you've tried.
in the event he does wake up, he startles like a single mother of three.
clutching his chest, gasping, his eyes open and darting everywhere.
funny thing is, he starts off the night great. he sleeps as quiet as a mouse, on his back and arm resting on you/holding your hand.
but somewhere in the night you can't pinpoint, everything goes wrong.
you wake up in the night to disheveled sheets, and now he's on his stomach while body parts hang across your torso.
sometimes there's an arm draped off the bed, knee tented in the air, legs jutting out of the quilt in different positions. his hair will either be astray or clinging to his forehead, slightly sweaty.
maybe a lil drool too.
and as if it was your imagination, by the time you wake up, the room is somehow back to normal?!1?
overtime, you've evolved to navigate a good night’s sleep and wake up feeling somewhat decent. it was hard to adjust to, but you're a trooper.
when paul wakes up in the morning on the other hand.. he’s as unaffected as a princess. maybe it’s his beauty sleep. zero eyebags, no grogginess. he's always the one dragging you out of bed, ready to start the day.
that smug oblivious bastard.
you had just returned from an afternoon shower, towel clung to your damp figure. paul sat absentmindedly at your vanity, preening himself in the mirror. you got changed into some casual home clothes while he hummed something you didn't catch. it was one of those uneventful days, spent lounging around in each others presence.
you were reading some pop magazine laying around. there was a small section that included the beatles, so what else would you do beside your god-given responsibility as his girlfriend but read it out in an exaggerative voice? the segment was clearly written by a crushing fan because rather than being informative, it was endlessly praising their looks.
paul had an influx of compliments towards him, which flattered and tickled him.
"somethin’ funny, pretty boy?" you interrogated.
"no, nothing." he smirked at himself, combing the back of his hair in the reflection. you stood up, stalking behind him and dropping your hands on his shoulders. he squinted slightly.
"what are you doing?" he questioned and you watched him.
"oh, just-" you quickly raised your hands to his hair, ruffling it wildly. "nothing."
safe to say, the play fight that occurred from that left you knackered. you were sprawled across your shared bed, catching your breath when paul groaned and thumped back down at the vanity. he moved towards your top draw.
"this comb's not going to-" he drifted off, mid sentence which piqued your curiosity. you sat up and after panting, asked.
"y’okay, macca?"
there was absurdity laced in his words. "what's all this?!"
you stood, crossing the bedroom fast to peek over his shoulder. your hands rushed to your face to cup a laugh in before it slipped out. sat in paul's hands were dozens of photographs of him in his fitful sleep. he flicked through the selection with his jaw falling further to the ground with each one.
"how long- when- i- why's it still going?!" he cried out and you stood no chance containing your laughter after that.
GEORGE HARRISON
georgie sleeps relatively normal.
he's a light sleeper.
i just know he was overwhelmed bunking with everyone in hamburg.
can't get anything past that one.
he doesn't snore but he does those sleepy grunts intermittently. almost like he's clearing his throat.
when you first hear it, you think he's going to say something.
and then he does.
he sleeptalks. only sporadically though!
it's pure nonsense that he blurts out and it's never more than three words. happens in the early morning so usually you can sleep through it.
on the day you didn't, you murmur a sleepy "huh?"
and boom, he's actually awake.
he then proceeds to gaslight you that he didn't say anything and that he wants to get back to sleep with a sleepy grin. he hushes your objections until you fall back asleep.
he's a still sleeper and will barely move.
his limbs are so lanky that whenever the blanket is any higher than his waist, his feet will poke out of the bottom.
extremely fair with the blanket though, he'll never exile you.
unlike paul.
but he sleeps quite isolated. so close to you but never really tangling his limbs in yours. he’s still undoubtedly protective but it gets him overly warm and if you so much as shuffle to itch your arm, he will wake up.
sleeps with two pillows evenly distributed between both of you. it smells heavily of him and the second your head touches it, K.O. you're out.
his morning voice is frighteningly deep and he stretches like a cat upon getting up.
lowkey prides himself on being a good sleeper.
besides the muttering, of course.
you were laid awake for god knows how long. that stupid evening coffee you had kicked in and the caffeine refused to relent and let you sleep. george on the other hand, had passed out a few hours ago and you'd been testing your willpower not to move despite the jitters buzzing throughout your whole body.
you were surprisingly winning the mental battle, focused on a spot on the ceiling and thinking about how to get to sleep. counting to 1000 failed so bad that after doing it the first time, you did it again. then again. everything was futile.
your attention was pulled from the blank roof since george stirred next to you. you let your head fall to look at him from where you laid on your back. his face was turned away buried in the shoulder outside your view. your eyebrows knitted together in confusion.
he spoke, near silent. "don't miss letter."
you cleared your throat to kickstart your sleepy voice. "wha'd you say?"
he replied without moving, a "hmm?"
"you said something, love?" you clarified, turning on your side and he lazily stirred and swooped round to look at you.
"ya sure about tha?"
you pulled your lips into a thin line, faltering in your judgement. you confirmed. "yeah?"
he nodded, completely unconvinced. you saw it in his sleep-ridden features. you started to elaborate.
"hazza, i mean it. you said-"
he brought a hand to your face pushing his huge palm to your mouth to silence you. he started getting sleepy again, speaking over your obstructed words. "sshhh, sshhhh, sshhh, i know."
he reaffirmed nothing in particular and you realised proving anything was pointless. he yawned, wide and obnoxious. this was followed by him sinking further into the bed. the tussle to speak drained some of your energy and you felt the beginnings of sleep start to come.
he’d pay for that in the morning.
RINGO STARR
last but never least.
okay, ringo ACTUALLY sleeps normal.
but don't get me wrong, he has... habits.
like he sleeps like a rock, a log, a brick.
he's the heaviest sleeper out of them all.
however he does not snore! despite the snoring ringo propaganda that we are fed in the ‘a hard days night’ movie because of his nose.
the only noise he's guilty of while asleep is deep breathing.
which makes sense since his head is probably right next to your ear.
the weirdest thing he'd do lowkey is sleep half on TOP of you with his whole weight.
but it's safe to say, a night with ringo is absolutely fantastical.
he goes to sleep and stays asleep, which sounds like it would be inconvenient if you ever wanted to use the toilet or get a glass of water.
but like clockwork, he unravels to let you go when you tug and when you creep back in the mix of the bed, he senses you're back and engulfs you again.
he has two pillows for you both but they are typically pushed to the side by the time you both wake up.
he isn't opposed to being a little spoon either but it's usually not a conscious decision.
haha he'd definitely run really hot in his sleep. with or without you.
it makes the shower in the morning extra therapeutic cause you're both lowkey drenched.
and when he wakes up in the morning, he's blissfully unaware.
of everything.
the brain fog he gets is unreal, but you can pull him through it when you break into a fit of laughs at his obliviousness.
you woke with a groan, which escalated to coughs since your mouth was really dry. it was the morning, that was apparent by the sound of birds outside the flat. you looked down at the body intertwined with yours. ringo looked like a model fastened across your chest like a seatbelt. he had long abandoned his pyjama top, so all you could see was hair and skin. an abundance of both.
you stretched your arm to the bedside table, clutching at the glass half full of water. you pulled it over, steady since you couldn't see it well from your laid position. once your arm was over your head, you tilted the cup and opened your gob to catch the water.
on the plus side, you got most of the water. on the negative side, you underestimated the clamminess of your hand and the sweat that accumulated. this caused the glass to slip and land on your lip.
the impact felt awful. you yelped out in pain, pushing the glass away in the bed. the rest of the water soaked your neck. immediately, your finger rushed to your lip, wincing when you pressed on the area. you could feel it start to swell and if you were any less discombobulated, you might've shed a tear at the pain. you rested your head back on the pillow and was surprised to experience a lapse in consciousness.
you had fallen back asleep somehow?
this time, once fully awake you gave ringo a good shake to get up. he yawned, prying his face off of your torso and blinking into the light. he was sheen with sweat and you supposed that you mirrored exactly how he looked.
you lifted your finger back to your mouth, upset to realise it wasn't a dream and that your lip felt like it was on fire. ringo pushed himself up on his forearms, moving closer to your face.
"happened to ya lip?" he stared, unblinking.
you swallowed before muttering. "how bad is it?"
he grimaced a little. "bruised. swollen."
he stared at you longer before tapping a feather-light kiss to your lips.
a/n: i turn into mei-mei from turning red writing these fics lol. leave a comment and shout at me if you hated it, follow me if you didn't!
gonna make a masterlist soon so everyone can navigate my fics similar to this really easy! also feel free to leave an ask/request :) (i may not write it... but would give credit if i took inspiration from it at all!)
take care, till the next one <3
~ Beatles hcs !! ~ How they would act around you (crush)
Quick note if any of yall have requests I’m happy to do them!
John: He would be unusually jittery around you. Like people would notice him fiddling with the buttons on his cuffs or picking at his nails, etc. He would also act more “aggressive” with you, punching your arm, trying to wrassle with you, and play fighting. He would see this as an excuse to touch you even if it’s just poking your arm to annoy you. Another thing with touch if you so happened to brush behind him in a tight corridor, he’s freaking out. Red faced. Palms sweaty. The whole thing. He worries about you too, like a mother in fact. If you come to the studio with an hangover he will scold you a little then offer you a coffee. He will take note of when you arrive in the morning and if you’re over 5 mins late he will internally freak out. He will pace until someone has to sit him down and even then he’s biting his nails as he watches the clock or his wrist watch. And when he sees your car he’s like a dog, he runs up to the door and waits for you to come in and the acts all nonchalant. Like he wasn’t just preening himself so he looks nice for you. Also he stares, a lot. If you catch him staring (which happens all the time) he will try to play it off.
“There was a fly behind you! See!” As there’s no fly
Paul: Very charming, I mean he charms every girl that comes across him but with you he goes an extra mile. For example, if a girl is walking behind him he will open the door and wink at her. But for you if you’re walking in front of him he WILL make it an effort to get in front of you and hold the door open for you, even if you had your hand of the doorknob. But small difference is he won’t wink, he thinks with having a crush there’s different “stages”. If he’s on stage one, finding out he has a crush on you he won’t even look at you because he will end up blushing like crazy. Stage two would be kinda putting himself out there, actually talking to you. And the rest goes on. If the lads know they will ask him “ay, why haven’t you made a move yet Paul!” And he will reply; “I’m just not there yet! I don’t want to rush it.” He still tries to be all “romantic” but it’s just him sitting close to you and freaking out internally. But he will try to strike up a conversation (ofc on the right stage) but he will almost never stop thinking of what clever thing to say or funny quip. Also he thinks about you a ton. During practice, John will get on him for not paying attention meanwhile Paul’s thinking about how you said good morning to him and if he said it back weird.
“Sorry John! My minds just been..busy lately.”
George: Very observant but secretly. He won’t tell the others and he definitely won’t tell you until he knows for a fact you’re into him. Just like Paul he thinks about you all the time but instead of previous times you have talked to him, it’s more physical things. How your hair flows in the wind, your eyes sparkling when you hear a new song, you pursing your lips when thinking, etc. Another little quirk about him is he acts like a bird. I mean that as in he brings you pretty rocks, a flower or two if he’s feeling brave, a leaf he thought you would press between the pages of a book. Basically anything that he would think you like he will bring it to you. Sometimes he will call you over just so you two can catch up over some tea and he uses that as an excuse to play you guitar because he learned a new song that he knows you like. And he loves taking to you and hearing you talk, in private ofc he isn’t called the quiet Beatle for nothing lol. He thinks your voice sounds as smooth as silk and he would pay actual money to listen to you talk.
“No you’re not boring me, I quite like listening to you talk. Your voice soothes me.”
Ringo: He gets like 10 times more playful when your around, not like John with aggressiveness, but he will act more goofy around you and encourages you to do the same. He loves seeing you smile and he loves even more to make you laugh. Speaking of that he will laugh at any little joke you make. Whether it’s a sly comment about a radio host or repeating something you read in the newspaper, he will laugh like you’re a comedian. And he swears up and down that you are. He will say things like; “Are you sure you’re not some secret comedian behind closed doors? Because you make me laugh like you are one!” And he tries to call you these cute nicknames and when you ask him why he says he calls everyone that (he does not) Despite him being all silly around you he does try to impress you. Playing a tricky drum solo when no one is doing anything in practices because he knows your looking, trying to out wit anybody even if he makes a fool of himself, and when he’s alone with you he makes a sure effort to seem like he’s the strongest guy around. He tries so hard.
“See love, this one time I helped this guy one time after a show and I was all tired yknow. And he was struggling picking up my bass drum, you see the bass was like 100 pounds. More than that I bet! And get this, I picked it up with ease!”
I hope yall liked this I may start writing more hcs lol I love this format !!
hiii ur writing is soso good omg, i was wondering if u would write something for paul mccartney ?? just something sweet <3
a/n: thank u so much for the request! <3
if paul was anything, it was a baby when he was sick.
yet, having only started seeing each other a few months ago, you didn't know this, hence why you didn't think twice when john rang you and told you to come over stat.
the door swings open before you can even knock, and out comes John in a flurry, clutching his jacket in one hand. "he's your problem now."
you assumed that maybe they'd had a fight, or that paul was drunk. you could deal with that, had before, and whilst he was a little annoying and uncooperative, it was manageable.
the house is silent when you enter, toeing off your shoes in the entrance, before tiptoeing upstairs. the silence is a little unsettling; you're so used to some kind of noise being made here, whether it be music or paul's endless chatter. without it, you feel like you're doing something wrong, causing you to take every step carefully as to avoid any creaking stairs and being caught doing something you're not supposed to.
when you finally make it to his bedroom, you speak through the slit in the door to see him hunched over in bed, cough muffled by a tissue. the bed's littered with at least half a dozen others, the sheets a tangled mess, and the room awfully stuffy.
"paul?"
he jumps up at that, revealing his stuffy nose, pink from blowing it repeatedly, and cheeks flushed. "love...i thought you were john." his voice is nasal and hoarse, and it sounds like it hurts to talk.
"well, that isn't very nice," you pretend to be offended, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "and when i came over to take care of you and everything."
he just groans, head nuzzling into the pillow, body slumped in exhaustion.
thats when it really hits you. paul is actually sick. he's not acting up, he's not being overdramatic. if paul can't banter with you, then something's seriously wrong.
you bush back his hair to feel his forehead, quickly pulling your hand back when you feel the burn. "christ, paul. you're boiling." your tone is almost accusing, as if you're annoyed that he hadn't told you sooner about how sick he was.
if only you knew the drama queen you were about to be introduced to.
"i'm freezing." he whines, pulling the sheets around him.
you huff, stomping over to the windows and pulling back the blinds, which causes him to hiss like an angry cat when the light hits his eyes. he whines and babbles about the sun hurting his head, and how much his stomach hurts and blah blah blah, but you're too set on fixing whatever's wrong with him and getting normal paul back that you ignore him and head to the bathroom.
you find a flannel and soak it in cold water, squeezing the excess out, before retuning to the baby. "here you go, lift your head a little." you say, hand on his side to guide him onto his back. it's the most effort you've ever had to put into taking care of a single person, especially with his added whimpers of protest, but you manage.
when he's on his back, murmuring something about how he's sure he's got pneumonia or something, you place the flannel carefully on his forehead, pushing back the stray hairs. "you don't have pneumonia, paul, it's just a little cold. now stay here for a minute."
once your sure he's not going to run away or do something ridiculous, you head downstairs to the kitchen. rummaging through the cupboards, which are mostly filled with biscuits, you find a packet of tea bags, and brew him a cup, adding some honey and lemon to aid his throat.
just to be nice, you also bring him a biscuit.
but paul isn't having it. he mumbles protests as you try and bring the tea to his lips or force the biscuit into his mouth. "i can't eat, it'll kill me. i'll be sick."
you roll your eyes, holding the custard creme to his lips. "it's a biscuit, paul. you'll have eaten it in two bites."
it takes some more back and forth, as well as some threats, before he finally relents and takes it into his mouth. once he's eaten it all, you make your way back downstairs.
the day continues with you making soup and going back and forth between the kitchen and his bedroom, forcing small spoonfuls of the liquid into his mouth, with paul continuing to fight you ever step of the way.
and when you finally decide to leave, with your shoes already on and your coat wrapped around you, that's when paul decides he needs you.
you're replacing his flannel with a fresher one, stroking his sleepy head before you leave, when he reaches out to grab your wrist the second you pull away. he's half asleep, pitifully sniffing. "don't go."
"no?" you respond, tone teasing but equally as soft and filled with affection. "what happened to you fighting me all day?"
"didn't mean it," he mumbles, drunk with sickness and sleepiness. "want you to stay."
and so you let him pull you down, into his little bubble of sickness that is his bed, but you don't complain, just let him tuck his head into your chest, letting him sleepily snore into you, before drifting off yourself.
you're awaken early, by the sharp light hitting your eyes. you groan, just to find your throat sore and nose blocked, and the bed empty.
you sit up groggily, rubbing your eyes with a incoherent murmur of annoyance, when paul walks in, bright eyed with a cup of tea in hand. "morning, sleepy head."
and all you can do is glare. "you got me sick."
he presses his lips together, suppressing a smirk (and failing). "oops."
Haiiiiii (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) Do you think you could do something about how Paul would be with a very clingy partner? Like they LOVE to wrap their arms around him and just follow him around the house
yesyesyes! 100% yes! (..◜ᴗ◝..) my laptop is lowkey lagging currently. i've had it for a year but i'm starting to suspect it's all the chrome extensions i'm using. animal crossing noises when i type and a bunch of flipping things that makes website i use cute (｡ᵕ ◞ _◟) oughhhhh...
paul x clingy!reader headcanons ಇ .ᐟ
୨ৎ doesn't mind the clingyness one bit. he will happily have you waddle about behind him, while he focuses on mundane tasks!
୨ৎ it takes him a while to get used to, but at the same time, i imagine him matching your energy.
୨ৎ he always likes cozy nights in with you, because it means you're right next to him at all times ૮₍ ´ ꒳ `₎ა
୨ৎ you tucked under his arm, something random on the telly and the comfy warmness of the sofa.
୨ৎ if you fall asleep on him, he refuses to move.
୨ৎ "probably knackered, aren't you?" he says, turning the telly down and pulling you further into him.
୨ৎ he can be playful. more so likes to tease, because of course he does ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎
୨ৎ taunt's you for being so clingy. complains you 'can't go five minutes without him.'
୨ৎ but realistically, he can't either. he's been gone away on tour for a month? you're absolutely done for, he won't get off you.
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.
OUHMYGODDB YOU WRITEB FOR JD ...... PLSPSLSPLSPSLS AUGH PLS JD HEADCANONS. JD AND NAIVE PARTNER HEADCABONS... NAIVE PARTNER WHO LITERALLY BELIEVES EVERYTHINB HE SAYS.. PLES AE OH TKGID I LOVE HIM SOSOMUCH DONT BLOW UP WESTERBURG BLOW UP THIS PUSDY OH JYY GODOD HELPPP
Omg I'm so sorry this is soooo late but here bestie
Jason Dean
Once he realizes you're an absolute goner btw
This man literally says "Our love is God" about a million times so like you're just,,, fueling his lowkey obsession
That just makes him think you'll do whatever he wants
And that's actually horrible because he will get you into such deep shit lmao
But that's what you're here for, right?
He tests it regularly btw
Like,, just little things at first.
You don't smoke? He's got you shotgunning cigarette smoke (and weed too ofc ofc)
This man has no morals so tbh he'd probably be the same way towards you
Y'all follow each other around like you're glued at the hip
And he loves it
No need to trail behind you on his motorcycle after you leave, so much easier, just being with you all the time.
Tbh he'd probably use how naive you are to just bring you a million times closer to him
Like he'll randomly bring up you moving in with him, and list off made up excuses that itd be better for you.
He's probably just sick of having to climb in through your window though.
Would 100% kill anyone who says anything about y'all being together
Or just anyone in your way in general.
Extremely loyal, he's too obsessed to pay attention to other people.
He also thinks he's always right too btw like most men do,, but you literally give him a reason to, always agreeing to everything.
Sometimes he chalks it down to him being your boyfriend, obviously youll agree with your significant other, but most of the time? He just savors it.
You definitely fuel his god complex every time.
But hey, at least you get a kiss for it, totally worth it.
