axelakim

[axelakim]

Special “Girls”Of George Harrison

Jennifer Brewer:

George and Jennifer met in 1954 on a vacation with their families. They remained “sweethearts correspondence”(Excuse me, not much is known of this relationship)

Iris Caldwell:

It was George bride when she was 12 and he 14 years, in 1957. Together they enjoyed watching television holding hands. George always considered as his first girlfriend. According to Louise, sister of George, they were inseparable until he knew the music. They ended in 1958.Shortly after the break, Paul and she were couple

Ruth Morrison :

  Ruth was a girl from Liverpool who in 1958 caught the attention of George. He and Ruth began a romance that was to hold hands and kiss, never went beyond that. It was partly thanks to Ruth George finally got to play a proper gig with the band of John Lennon and the Beatles got their gigs at the newly opened Casbah Club, Ruth and his gang of friends were helping Best family decorating. At that time George was giving concerts with his friend Ken Brown, who recalls: “One night, the three were sitting in Lowlands Club, drinking coffee, moaning about the fact not that we where playing when Ruth suggested we saw Mrs. Best in the Casbah Club ”. Ken was a close friend of Ruth and recalls how she was crazy about George, but he was so interested in his music that did not have much time for girls. “In those days, Paul was not interested in girls. It took one or two photos, but that was it. He was in love with music. With George was the same. Ruth was crazy about him, but he did not I was very concerned about it. ” After his romance with George ended it was decided by the nursing career and moved to Birmingham

Pauline Behan:

Pauline was a young woman from Liverpool who lived in the area of ​​Hunts Cross, she worked as a secretary at the Construction Cooperative Society and loved music. At first his main love was jazz, but after seeing Paul McCartney performing the song “Lend Me Your Comb” in the Casbah Club, was completely crazy about rock and roll and The Beatles. John attracted initially, but eventually became the bride of George in 1960 when the Beatles went to Germany, Pauline still wanted to go out and enjoy the music. It was at one of its outputs met Gerry Marsden (who would be part of the group Gerry and the Pacemakers). They left a couple of times as friends because she had made it clear that she had a boyfriend. When George returned from Hamburg called so that they look. Gerry George confessed to being in love with Pauline but neither took it seriously, but their relationship faltered since Gerry Pauline looked much while George was not. George asked him to take a decision, whether between him and Gerry. She chose to Gerry but remained a close friend of George. The October 11, 1965, Gerry Pauline married in St Mary’s Church, Woolton Liverpool.

In the photo:George,Pauline and Gerry

 Monika Pricken:

When The Beatles played at the Indra Club, she saw there and became one of his first followers in Hamburg. As she was quite good English, a friend asked him to ask the band something for her - that was how she became familiar with the Beatles. At first, she stuck to Stu, until he and Astrid became inseparable. Being of the same age as George, the two struck up a platonic friendship.

Here are some memories Monika translated the book “Mach Schau!”

“George was incredibly funny and open and we had a lot of fun. But it was completely platonic.”

Her parents asked him to invite the band for a meal at the home of his family and when it was time to leave, “said politely goodbye with a handshake and bowed. That was very nice. And as a thank you, John le my mother played a song: I stood up in the living room with a guitar and sang some half in English and half in German ”

Ann Marie Guirron:

She worked as a model and went briefly with George in 1962 when The Beatles moved to London (Excuse me for not finding more information)

Bernadette Farrell:

Bernadette was a young hairdresser who lived in Childwall. She first saw the Beatles early in 1961, when he became a frequent guest at the Cavern Club became his devoted fan. Two years later, when she was 17, George, who lived close to her, asked her out a note through the door. When the fame of George started away from her more often, the couple decided to break up amicably and Bernadette never had any resentment about his decision to leave and continue his career.

Bernadette and George

Estelle Bennett:

The Ronettes met John, George and Ringo at a party in January 1964 in England. As they danced, it became clear John was attracted to Ronnie and George by Estelle. They were paired in bedrooms, Ronnie said nothing happened apart from kissing. She and Estelle were still young and inexperienced, and sweethearts in the United States. Ronnie and Estelle had double dates with John and George and they asked them about the rock and roll in America. They ceased to be when The Beatles went to Paris and The Ronettes they returned to America. They met again when the Beatles came to America in February 1964.

Estelle with George

Pattie Boyd:

George and Pattie met in 1964 on the set of the film “A Hard Day’s Night”. After several proposals from George and Pattie rejections, they ended up dating. They were married on January 21, 1966, same time she wrote a column for the magazine “16”. In early 1970, the relationship is complicated. George’s  and Pattie’s infidelities, coupled with excessive interest him in their religious explorations, made the marriage came to an end in 1974, officially divorced 9 June 1977. Despite that, they continued to have a cordial relationship

Joey Heatherton:

Joey went out with George for about six months while he was dating Joey in 1964. Pattie met George at a charity ball in New York and then followed a long-distance relationship with him by phone. In 1965, things did not work and ended, which depressed George.

It was rumored that the song “I Need You” by The Beatles was written for her and not for Pattie.

Hayley Mills:

The March 20, 1964, after being out for a week with Pattie, George accompanied the actress Hayley Mills and his mother to the projected benefit concert of “Charade” at the Regal Cinema. Hayley’s mother was the winner of a charity auction to win a date with George, which would share with her daughter. They went out for a month.

Charlotte Martin:

Charlotte was a French model who dated Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page later married.

After separation of Eric Clapton, Charlotte briefly lived with Pattie Boyd and George Harrison in his bungalow Kinfauns in January 1969, before returning to Paris to continue working modeling. Charlotte had an affair with George, which devastated Pattie Charlotte because he considered a friend. Pattie left the house and returned when George called him telling him that Charlotte was gone

Krissy Wood:

She was the wife of Ronnie Wood. Krissy and George fled to a villa in Portugal in 1973.

Maureen Cox:

George and Maureen had an affair after Pattie and her sister Jenny were a weekend to visit his mother in Devon. George gave Maureen wearing a necklace against Pattie. Then Patt found them locked in a room of Friar Park, knocked on the door telling George to open, I knew that Maureen was there, George opened and said he was tired and Maureen had leaned a little.

One day, George, Chris O'Dell and Pattie went to the house where Ringo and Maureen George, before all, said he was in love with Maureen.

Chris O'Dell said Maureen explains that only they were having a ‘spiritual matter “and that she felt much connected at that level. Maureen sometimes arrived late at night at Friar Park, the Harrison estate. She spent several nights with Harrison. Pattie Ringo then phoned every night to tell where his wife was.

Kathy Simmonds:

She worked as a model, appearing in "Top Of The Pops” and in 1968 played the role of Samson in “The Touchables”. In 1974 at age 24 he began dating George. Convinced that their relationship would develop into something deep and meaningful, even to see George as his true love, she moved in with him in a small village near the bay of St. George in Granada. They spent several happy weeks together before George out to Los Angeles to plan his first solo concert tour. As George flew to Los Angeles alone, leaving Kathy heartbroken, it became clear that the matter was merely a casual adventure for George

Olivia Arias:

In 1974 Olivia met George at the offices of the company A & M Records and then met again at a party. They started talking on the phone and realized they had much in common, that’s when George invited her to join him on tour in America, where officially began their relationship. Shortly after the tour, they moved to George mansion, Friar Park in Henley-on-Thames, England. The couple decided to marry as soon as possible, had to wait for the divorce from Pattie was concluded with George, which took place in June 1977. Some time later, Olivia discovered she was pregnant, so the decision was made to conduct the wedding. Unfortunately, this did not happen as planned because George’s father died in May 1978. On August 1, 1978 was born the first and only child of the couple, Dhani, and George and Olivia were married on September 2, 1978.

[axelakim]

Hi !! You know I’m so obsessed with you and your writing .. do you think like famous actress reader with either like George or John !! Just stolen moments keeping it a secret and hiding 💕💕

𝑠𝑝𝑜𝑡𝑙𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡’𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓, 𝑦𝑜𝑢’𝑟𝑒 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑒 | george harrison x fem! reader

𐙚 summary ; it’s not supposed to be real, or public. so it’s secret smiles, hotel rooms, and the way he holds you like the world doesn’t exist.

𐙚 note ; hey you!! i'm pickin' george for this cuz i need to write him more... enjoy!!

He wears sunglasses inside like he doesn’t care how obvious it makes him. You do. You sit two tables away at a charity gala in Mayfair, pearls on your neck and your heart in your throat. He hasn't looked at you all night.

That’s how you know he’s dying to.

You smile politely when photographers aim at you, one hand folded over the other, just enough sparkle to play the part. Across the room, George pretends to sip his drink. The rim hasn’t touched his mouth in ten minutes. His fingers are twitching.

Later, in the dark stairwell that smells like varnish and old London plaster, he catches your wrist before you make it to the second floor.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he asks, quiet and low, like a challenge. His thumb rubs the inside of your wrist. He hasn’t even taken his bloody glasses off.

You breathe out hard through your nose, fighting the grin. “To the loo.”

“Liar.”

You shove him, gently, and he presses you back into the wall with a growl in his throat. His mouth is on yours before you can speak again. Velvet lapels brush your collarbone. His hand cradles your jaw, calluses rough from his guitar and sweet against your skin. Your fingers fist in his shirt.

“You’re such a brat,” you murmur between kisses.

“Y’love it.”

You do. You love all of it, the thrill, the secrecy, the way he slips into rooms where he doesn’t belong just to look at you. How he tugs you into corners, into coat closets, into his car after awards shows and says mine like it’s a prayer.

He presses his forehead to yours. “Haven’t seen you in six years.”

“We were just in the same room together.”

“Yeah, and you were workin’ the whole time. I had to sit next to some film bloke who kept tellin’ me how much he fancies you.”

“Did you kill him?”

“Almost.”

His mouth is back on yours before you can answer. It’s hot and possessive and a little desperate. You realize, with a thud in your chest, that he needs this more than he lets on.

In the room upstairs, someone’s giving a speech. The applause is thunderous. Neither of you move.

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Do you ever want to go public?”

George swallows. His jaw ticks. “D’you?”

You hesitate. It’s complicated. Your studio would throw a fit. His fans would burn your photo. Everyone would ask if it’s real, or just another headline.

But the truth is, you love him. Wildly. Secretly. Loud in the dark and soft in the silence. You love the man who sleeps in until noon and reads mysticism books in the bath. You love his quiet looks, his jealousy, the way he writes your name in the corner of lyric sheets no one will ever see.

“…not yet,” you whisper.

His thumb runs over your cheekbone. “Good.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Good?”

“Means I get to keep you to myself a little longer.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than hidden in a stairwell with your lipstick on his mouth and your perfume all over his coat. And maybe he means it. Maybe the hiding makes it sweeter. Maybe it makes it feel more like yours.

You let him take your hand and lead you upstairs through the staff exit, avoiding the lights.

The flashbulbs go off behind you. But they’ll never catch this, the way his fingers curl tightly between yours like he’s scared to let go, the way he opens the door to the hallway with his shoulder but keeps his body between you and the world, the way he glances down both ends of the corridor with sharp, calculating eyes. You're still pressed up against the inside of his coat, scent clinging to you both: hotel soap, musk, a bit of that cinnamon tea you drank before sneaking down here.

He walks you slow. Like a bodyguard. Like a thief.

“I’m not just your secret, y'know?” you murmur, teasing, though your throat’s still thick with heat.

“No,” he says. “But I’m not sharin’ you either.”

The hotel suite is quiet when he shuts the door behind you. A gold slit of city light spills through the curtains. Neither of you turn on the lamp.

You kick off your heels and feel his arms snake around your waist from behind. He kisses the slope of your neck once, twice, three times. Light. Tender. His breath smells like mint and longing.

You twist around in his grasp and grab the collar of his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. “I hate pretending I don’t know you.”

His eyes search yours, dark and soft all at once. He doesn’t answer at first. Just lets the coat slide down his arms in silence, the velvet brushing your knuckles as it falls.

“I hate it too,” he says finally, voice low and tight, like he’s holding something back, frustration, maybe, or want. “You sittin’ next to some actor with his arm behind your chair. Me starin’ down at me hands, pretendin’ I’m not burnin’ up inside.”

You breathe in slow, chest rising against his. “We could stop hiding.”

His hands come up to cradle your jaw, thumbs brushing just beneath your ears. “We could,” he says, tilting his head, pressing a kiss to your cheek, not quite the lips. “But again, I’d have to share. And I’m not that generous.”

You grin, heart full and aching. “Jealous boy.”

“Only for you.”

The moment stretches, eaning closer, mouths nearly touching again, your hands flat on his chest now. Your eyes flutter shut, breath trembling at the edge of a kiss-

Knock knock.

You both freeze.

A beat of silence. Then, again, a polite but firm: “Room service.”

George sighs into your neck, forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You ordered food?”

“I-I forgot.” You start laughing, helpless, forehead to his. “Maybe? I don't know? We just got here! I didn’t think-”

“I did not leave a party for this,” he mutters against your collarbone, but he’s smiling. That quiet smile that starts in the corners of his mouth and climbs slow, like a secret.

You pull away, breathless. “I’ll get it.”

“No, I will.” He’s already grabbing the coat off the floor, trying to shake off the wrinkles, half-buttoning his shirt like he’s been up reading and not minutes from devouring you against the headboard. “Can’t have anyone recognisin’ you in this state.”

You look down at yourself, half-out of your dress, bare feet, one earring gone. “Fair point.”

He peeks through the peephole, mutters, “Young lad. Not a threat,” and opens the door just enough to slide the tray inside.

“Ta,” he says with the practised weariness of a man who tips too well to avoid questions.

You’re standin’ in the middle of the suite still tryin’ to right your dress, cheeks hot.

“Saved by cheese,” George says, shuttin’ the door with a little click.

“I’m not even hungry anymore,” you huff, crossin’ your arms.

He raises his brows. “I am.”

“Of course you are.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince

[axelakim]

Would it be wild of me to ask for a george x reader? Maybe like get back era? Like she gets to sit on the roof while they did their rooftop concert?

*Personally, I'm with George. I don't want to go on the roof.*

I'm mad scared of heights, but I feel like seeing the roof top performance would have been like changing.!*

𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒐𝒑

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x fem!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ fear of heights

꒰ summary ꒱ you were scared of heights, and george knew it. still, somehow you ended up on the rooftop while history unfolded in the winter air.

꒰ note ꒱ omg... thank you for this request. truly. i’m already in love with this concept.

If you had a penny for every time you told the Beatles “no”, soft, stubborn, heart hammering, you might’ve bought your way off that bloody rooftop.

It started earlier that morning. You were curled on the battered sofa in the Apple lounge, pretending the cracked leather wasn’t cold through your pants, when George came striding in with his coat slung over his shoulder, cheeks pink from the January wind.

“Come up wi’ us,” he said, voice breezy like he wasn’t asking for the impossible.

You looked up from your paperback. “Where?”

He jerked his chin upwards. “Roof. We’re doin’ it. Now.”

The words hit you like a slap. The roof. The roof.

Your stomach flipped traitorously.

George must’ve seen it on your face, because his smile softened into something more careful. He dropped onto the sofa beside you, smelling like cold air and aftershave, his knee bumping yours.

“You don’t have to,” he said, quieter. “S’pose you could stay down here and mind the biscuits.”

You stared at him. At the way he was trying so hard not to push you.

But the thing was, you wanted to see it. More than anything.

You wanted to see them. To hear the sound pouring out into the open sky, wild and reckless. You didn’t want to miss it, even if your ribs squeezed painfully tight at the thought.

“I’ll come,” you said. Your voice sounded stronger than you felt.

George’s face broke into one of those rare, luminous smiles, the ones he saved for the stage, or for when you caught him humming to himself.

“Good on ya,” he said, and squeezed your hand, quick and clumsy.

━━

The staircase up to the roof was worse than you’d imagined.

Narrow. Drafty. The walls closing in the higher you climbed.

Mal sat behind you, lugging Ringo’s drum kit with muttered curses. John’s laughter echoed ahead like it didn’t cost him anything.

Halfway up, George paused. Turned back.

“You alright?” he asked, tipping his head.

You nodded, too quickly.

He didn’t call you out on it. Just offered you his hand.

You took it.

You always did.

The roof was…

Well, it was a roof.

Flat and grey and cold as sin. Wind whipping your hair into your mouth. Chimneys and skylights like jagged teeth.

You froze just outside the stairwell door, heart hammering in your ears.

The edge wasn’t even far, but Christ, it was far enough.

No rails. No safety. Nothing but air yawning open over Savile Row.

George didn’t let go of your hand.

He didn’t pull you forward either. Just stood steady beside you, your anchor.

“Come sit by me, yeah?” he said gently, like you were a skittish cat.

You managed a nod.

Together, you picked a spot near the stairwell structure, close enough to feel solid but still tucked out of the way. George fetched a crate someone had used to haul cables and set it down for you like a makeshift seat.

“Y’can jump down the stairwell if the wind picks up,” he joked, trying to make you smile. It worked, a little.

You sat, pulling your coat tighter around you. Your hands trembled, just barely.

George knelt beside you, rummaging in his guitar case.

Then, softly, so only you could hear:

“Don’t look over the edge, alright?”

You swallowed thickly. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

He smiled, that lopsided, slow thing that always made your knees weak, and pressed a quick kiss to your temple.

“Good.”

The others were already bustling around, Paul tuning his bass, Ringo tugging his coat tighter, John making some stupid comment about falling off and suing EMI.

You barely registered them.

You were too busy feeling everything. The cold, the fear, the height. And under all of it, beating louder: the thrill. This was history being stitched together in real time. This was your boys, your George, playing the roof off the world.

The first notes spilled out sharp and messy, carried off by the wind.

It didn’t matter. It worked.

The city paused. Heads turned on the pavement below.

Faces appeared at windows across the street.

And you forgot to be scared. Because George was glowing. Alive in a way you hadn’t seen in days. Maybe weeks.

Chords flying off his fingers. Hair whipping into his eyes. Grinning like a boy let loose from school.

You pulled your knees to your chest and listened.

By the time they started One After 909, your fear had retreated to some back room of your brain, muffled by the noise and the impossible joy of it.

You clapped along, your gloves thudding awkwardly against each other.

George gave you a look, mock scandalized, and then laughed outright.

You wanted to memorize that laugh. Carve it into the inside of your ribs.

Later, when the police finally turned up, suits flapping, faces pinched, you felt the mood shift.

Paul and Ringo hammed it up, of course, smirking through the verses.

John threw in a bit of “I’d like to say thank you on behalf of the group and ourselves” nonsense.

George just played.

Quiet. Steady. Sure.

Like he knew, somehow, this was the last time it would ever be this. You wondered if it broke his heart a little. Maybe not... but you wondered if he’d even tell you if it did.

When the last song ended, the crowd down below clapped and whistled and scattered.

The city exhaled. And you were still sitting on the crate, hands stiff, heart so full it hurt.

George came over, sliding his guitar back into the case.

“Y’did it,” he said, bumping his knee against yours.

“You did it,” you said, voice wobbling.

He smiled, slow and private.

Then, before you could think, before you could lose your nerve, you reached out and grabbed his coat lapels, yanking him down.

You kissed him.

Right there on the frozen roof of Apple Corps.

His hands fumbled for a second, surprised, but then he kissed you back.

Long. Warm. Certain.

When you pulled away, George was grinning so wide it made his cheeks pink.

“You reckon that’s better than biscuits?” he teased.

You laughed, breathless. “Way better.”

You didn’t remember the climb down.

You only remembered his hand, tight in yours.

The roof wasn’t so scary after all.

━━

Back inside, the stairwell felt almost too warm. The walls sweated with everyone’s breath, the echo of laughter, the murmur of “bloody brilliant” and “I can’t feel my fingers” and “Ringo, you mad bastard, how’d you play like that without gloves?”

You trailed behind the others, your boots thudding quietly on the concrete steps, still half in a dream.

George’s hand never left yours. He held it like it was the only real thing keeping him grounded now, like the sky had lifted him a little too high and he wasn’t quite ready to come down.

You got to the second floor landing and he tugged you gently aside, out of the way of Paul’s bounding strides and John’s dramatic groan about needing tea “or heroin, whichever’s quicker.”

He ducked into one of the smaller offices, some little forgotten corner with a dusty window and old mixing notes scattered on the desk. He didn’t say anything at first, just shut the door behind you, shut out the world.

Then he exhaled like he’d been holding that breath all morning.

You stood in the middle of the room, coat unbuttoned, hair windswept, adrenaline still ticking beneath your skin like it hadn’t got the message yet.

George leaned against the wall, watching you. His lips were pink from the cold and your kiss. His lashes cast little shadows on his cheeks in the dusty light.

“That was…” you started, but the words melted on your tongue.

“I know.” He pushed his hair back from his face, still grinning. “Mad, wasn’t it?”

You nodded.

He stepped forward, slowly. Like he was afraid to break the quiet. “I was watching you, y’know.”

“While you were playing?”

“Mm.” He tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Kept lookin’ over. Thought you might bolt.”

“I almost did.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “At the top of the stairs. I looked out, and… I couldn’t breathe.”

George pressed his palm to your cheek, gentle as a breeze. “But you stayed.”

“I wanted to see you!”

That lit something in him. Not just pride, something softer. Need. Maybe even a little awe.

“Christ,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re brave.”

“I was terrified.”

“Still counts.”

You laughed a little, but it turned into a sigh, and then, before either of you could think, you were in his arms again. He held you so tight you felt the beat of his heart through both your coats. A little fast. A little stunned.

Like he’d just jumped off a roof too.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee

[axelakim]

HAIII!!! I think this is pretty simple and I dont think anyone has asked this yet, but could you please write hcs of the boy on readers birthday? It'd be super sweet, thank you!! -

૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑏𝑖𝑟𝑡ℎ𝑑𝑎𝑦

𐙚 note ; HAIII sweetheart!!! 💕💕 ohhh what a sweet idea!!! thank u for the ask! blows party horn!!

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

❝You’re still not sick of me, yeah? Good. ‘Cause today, it’s you and me against the world.❞ (BOOO CORNBALL)

Doesn’t mention your birthday until exactly midnight. You’re brushing your teeth or lying on the couch or watching something dumb and suddenly he’s pulling out a candle from nowhere, lighting it on a biscuit, and whisper-singing Happy Birthday into your ear in the creepiest falsetto.

“You thought I forgot, didn’t you?” he smirks, eyes gleaming. He absolutely wants you to think he forgot.

Keeps the rest of the day as close to his chest as he can, gives you zero clues and answers everything with “Dunno, maybe…”

The surprise ends up being wild. Not a party, he knows better than to spring people on you.

But he rents out a whole cinema room (with money he probably shouldn’t have touched) and has them play your favorite movie, all popcorn and drinks included, just for the two of you.

Brings you a handmade card that looks like it was drawn by a deranged child. “It’s modern art,” he insists. “That’s us. That’s our love. That’s your arse.”

Afterward, takes you home, puts on a record, and slow dances with you in the dark kitchen.

Mumbles “You deserve all the good things, y’know that?” into your hair.

Gets real tender when the lights are low.

You wake up the next morning to a drawing of you taped to the fridge. You’re wearing a crown and holding a sword.

UGHH GROW UP!!

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

❝Alright, love, I’ve had this planned for months. Just sit there, look good, and let me spoil the hell outta you.❞

The man has been preparing since your last birthday. He’s got a list. He’s got reservations.

He’s been quietly sleuthing out your favorite foods, colors, textures, and emotional needs for weeks.

If you even mentioned something once in passing, he remembered.

Makes you breakfast with your favorite song playing, already dressed like a dream. “Happy birthday, love,” he coos, kissing your forehead like it’s a ritual. Beams when you smile.

Takes you shopping but insists it’s not about material things. “It’s about experiences,” he says, while physically pushing you toward the store with the fancy shoes. (Yes, it's about material things)

Writes you a song...

Of course he does!

Plays it for you while pretending he didn’t spend three days perfecting the rhyme scheme. The chorus includes your name and some cheeky detail only you two know.

Dinner at your favorite restaurant, where he somehow charmed the staff into putting candles on everything. The bread? Candle. The wine? Candle.

Ends the night slow, quiet. Just the two of you curled on the couch, his head in your lap, your hand in his hair.

“You’re my favorite person in the world, y’know that?” he murmurs. And he means it. Every word.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

❝You’re not gettin’ older. You’re just levelling up. Like a wizard. A really hot one.❞

Doesn’t say much about your birthday until you bring it up, and then he smiles all soft and says, “I know.”

Pulls a small, neat box from his jacket. “Was waitin’ for the right moment.”

The gift? Perfect. Hand-carved, vintage, maybe something spiritual... like a pendant or a lucky coin he’s had forever.

He doesn’t explain it much, just says, “Reminded me of you.” And you believe him.

As much as he wants to, he tries not to make a big show of anything.

Takes the day completely off for you. No distractions. No phone calls. Just you and him.

Takes you to a forest, a quiet beach, a tucked-away gallery... anywhere the noise stops.

Buys you records you didn’t even know you wanted. Sits with you while you listen.

Doesn’t interrupt, just watches your face, like the gift was getting to see you in your element.

If there’s a party, he makes sure it’s big. Intimate. But with people you like, music you actually enjoy.

He’ll hover near you all night, arm around your shoulders, not saying much, just keeping you grounded.

You feel safe the whole time.

That night, you’re lying in bed, your face buried in his chest, and he murmurs,

“Hope you felt loved today. You are. Every fuckin’ second.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

❝You’re the only person I’d wake up early for. Don’t tell the others, yeah?❞

Ringo lives for your birthday. He says it with his whole soul every time: “IT’S YOUR SPECIAL DAY!!!”

He brings streamers. No one asked for streamers. But they’re everywhere.

Puts a bow on your cereal box. Tells you “I got you the gift of me,”

His gift is thoughtful and high quality.

Jewelry you casually admired months ago? He bought it, had it engraved. A coat you couldn’t afford? He had it tailored to your size and boxed it with a note in his neat, slow handwriting: Only the best for you, birthday beauty.

If you’ve got a thing for music or art, he hunts for something meaningful. Original vinyl. A signed photograph. A rare first edition. He’s private about his wealth, but not stingy! He doesn't brag, he gives.

During the day, he’s playful. Light teasing, quick kisses, a “don’t lift a finger today, love, that’s my job.” He gets you laughing without trying too hard. Makes the celebration feel effortless and warm, like being in your favorite jumper.

He calls you “darlin’” a lot on your birthday. And “birthday royalty.” And “my lucky thing.”

The man has taste! He lights candles at home, puts on your favorite record, pours your favorite drink.

The evening ends with you in his lap or lying against his chest while he strokes your hair and says, “You’re still the best present I’ve ever got.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince

[axelakim]

I would like to request something with like 1980 John and a younger reader like age gap? Basically I just wanna suck him off while he pets my hair and praises me and tells me I’m pretty ♥️♥️

𝑠𝑢𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝑜𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑘𝑛𝑒𝑒𝑠 | john lennon x reader

𐙚 contains ; nsfw! minors dni!, age gap, slight dacryphilia

𐙚 summary ; you drop to the floor in his studio, and john gives you exactly what you need.

𐙚 note ; same

It was raining in New York again.

Not that it mattered, you weren’t planning on leaving the Dakota. Not when you had the afternoon, the whole day really, to yourselves. Just John’s little studio, cluttered and slightly too warm, the carpet still shedding from where he’d pulled an amp across it last week.

You were stretched on the old sofa, spine melting into cushions you’d long since broken in. A mug half-full of lukewarm oolong was balanced dangerously on a stack of demo tapes. You didn’t care. John hadn’t noticed.

He was hunched over his upright piano, shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, brow furrowed in that way that meant he was actually getting somewhere. And you didn’t say anything. Not at first. You knew better than to break the spell.

But the mood was thick today. The kind of day where the air felt too heavy with something. The kind of day where your chest kept tensing with no real reason except there’s too much in there and nowhere for it to go.

So you watched him.

And he kept playing, stopping to hum something, swearing under his breath when he hit a wrong note, somehow. He was tired.

His voice had gone low and rumbling lately. Softer. Still carried that Liverpool sandpaper, but deeper now, steadier. Like a fire that had burned hot for too long and now just glowed warm. It made your stomach flip, that sound.

You were sat cross-legged by the time he noticed.

He didn’t even look up. “You alright over there?”

Your throat was dry. “Mhm.”

“You look funny,” he added. Still playing. “Eyes all fogged up like you seen a ghost.”

“I haven’t,” you said. “Just you.”

That made him look. One hand stayed on the keys, the other came to rest on his thigh, fingers long and ringed, one of the joints slightly swollen. A mark of age.

His mouth twitched. “Careful.”

“Why?”

He stared a moment longer. His eyes were that muddy brown that turned gold in the afternoon, only it was too grey for that today. Still, there was a light in them.

Then, he turns around, his back facing the piano now: “C’mere.”

It’s soft. Not a command, barely even a request. John just pats his thigh and crooks his fingers, looking up at you from the piano bench like he’s trying not to smile too hard. His glasses have slipped a little, and the light overhead is catching in his hair, catching in the gold threads of his shirt, casting soft old-lamp shadows across the curves of his collarbone.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to, because you do, with a kind of dull, primal ache in your chest, but because it feels like stepping off the edge of something. He’s watching you like he knows that, too. Like he’s giving you the space to make your choice. You shift forward slowly.

“You nervous? What for?” he asks.

“No.”

“Liar,” he says, one brow tilting up, but he smiles with it. Then his hand slides along your hip, slow, until his palm settles at the small of your back. Holds you there. His voice drops lower. “You gonna let me take care of you or what?”

Your breath hitches. You nod.

He clicks his tongue. “Use your words.”

“…Yes. I want you to.”

“There you go.”

His fingers climb under your shirt, just the pads of them, rough with callouses. He strokes you there, slow as anything, like he’s got all night to unspool your nerves one thread at a time. You feel a little stupid, there in front of him, skin heating by degrees under his casual touch. Like being looked at this long is making you unravel. Like he can see through you and isn’t put off by what’s underneath.

His hands slide down, along your thighs, then back up again, thumbs dragging under your waistband. “C’mere,” he says again, and this time he guides you gently down, slow, until your knees bend and you settle onto the floor between his legs, palms resting on his knees, looking up at him.

John blinked once. Twice.

Then that slow, crooked grin. “Well now.”

Your hands crept up his thighs. His jeans were worn, softened by years of play and wear, warm under your palms. He let you touch him, watching with a look that was part curiosity, part possession.

“Look at you,” he says quietly. “Christ. You’re sexy.”

Your heart stumbles. You try to look down again but he doesn’t let you. Thumb against your chin. Firm. Gentle.

“Hey. None of that. Don’t go all shy on me now, not when you’re doin’ so well.”

“John-”

“Ssh,” he murmurs.

His hands fall away slowly, only to move to his belt. He undoes it without flourish, just unbuckles, pops the button, drags down the zipper. He’s semi-hard already. You watch the way he palms himself slow, the slick sound of skin on skin, lazy strokes that don’t seem rushed at all.

Then his hand is in your hair, gentle.

“Gonna take your time with me?” he murmurs. “Wanna do it nice and slow?”

You nod. You can’t do anything but nod.

“That’s it,” he says, and then he’s guiding you forward, not forceful, just present. Like a hand on your back, leading you through the fog.

You wrap your hand around him first. He’s hot, smooth under your palm. You stroke once, twice, marveling at how it makes him twitch. His hand tightens gently in your hair.

“God, that’s good, love.”

You lean in, lick the tip, just a tease, and his breath catches. He pets your hair again, slower.

“Don’t tease me,” he murmurs, “unless y’wanna pay for it later.”

You smile against him, lips parted just enough to press a kiss to the head. Then you open your mouth, take him in slowly. Feel the weight of it on your tongue. Feel his thighs tense as you suck gently, inch by inch, until he’s deeper, your jaw stretching around the curve of him.

He hisses, hand tightening. “Just like that. That’s it.”

You move slow. Purposeful. One hand at the base, the other steadying yourself on his knee. You hollow your cheeks and take him deeper until your nose brushes his stomach and he groans, soft and breathless.

“You’re look so good like this,” he says, voice ragged. “My god. Mouth like a fuckin’ angel.”

You moan around him. The sound makes him shudder. His hand is heavy on your head, palm warm and steady, fingers stroking lazily through your hair like he’s brushing a cat. Affectionate. Proprietary.

He doesn’t press down, doesn’t guide you or force anything. Just keeps you there. Warm. Full. Lips stretched and throat fluttering as you try to take him deeper, slower, like you’ve got something to prove.

“You’re a vision, you know that?”

His voice is hoarse, silk-wrapped gravel, like whiskey down the spine. The kind of voice that’s lived through too much and is still greedy for more. You moan again, vibrating around him, just to feel the way his cock twitches on your tongue. His breath catches.

“Christ, that mouth-fuck, s’like it was made for me.”

Your eyes flick up.

He’s looking down at you with that lopsided grin, tired and full of something tender and cruel at once. Like he’s never seen anything more perfect. Like he could break you in half if he wanted, but he'd rather just watch you unravel on your knees. He pets your cheek with the back of his fingers, lets the wet sheen of your spit smear across your skin. You lean into it.

You hum, cheeks burning. His other hand never stops moving, combing slow and hypnotic through your hair, gentle, steady, like he could do this for hours. Like he wants to do this for hours.

You hollow your cheeks and bob your head, sliding deeper until your throat tightens. He groans, not loud, but low and wrecked.

“That’s it. Mm, yeah, just like that. Love how you try, baby. Love how you push yourself, just for me.”

His cock presses against the back of your throat. You gag, just a little, and he pets you through it.

“S’alright. Easy, now. You’re alright. Brave thing.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. Not from pain, not really. From want. From the sheer heat of it, the intimacy, the weight of his attention. He’s watching you like you’re art. Like you’re a miracle he doesn’t understand but refuses to look away from.

You pull back for air with a gasp, spit trailing in a thin string from your lips to the head of his cock. You blink up at him, flushed and wrecked and hungry. He just smiles.

“Gonna suck me dry, are you?”

You nod, blinking slow and dumb, pupils blown wide.

His cock throbs in your hand. He strokes your cheek again, thumb dragging across your lower lip to catch the spit there.

“Good. That’s what that mouth’s for, yeah? Keep it open for me.”

You sink back down. He groans louder this time, hips twitching.

You suck slow, deliberate, tongue pressed flat against the underside of him, hands resting on his thighs for balance. He spreads his knees just a little wider, lets you nestle closer. One hand cups the back of your head fully now, not guiding, but holding. Possessive. His other drapes across the arm of the chair lazily, veins prominent, ring catching the dim lamp-light.

You dig your nails into his jeans. His breath hitches.

“God, if I’d known you’d be this good, I’d have never let you outta my sight. Would’ve kept you under my desk. Between sets. At home. Christ.”

You pull back again, messy now, mouth shiny, gasping, panting, desperate.

“Please,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

He raises an eyebrow.

“Please what?”

“Please come,” you say, eyes wide, mouth open, shameless. “I want it. Want you. Please.”

His hand tightens slightly in your hair.

“Y’don’t even care how filthy that is, do you?”

You shake your head, tongue already flicking out, tasting the salt at his tip. He watches you like a man starving.

“No shame,” he mutters. “Love that. Love it when you’re shameless for me.”

And then you’re back on him again, faster now, wetter, sloppy and hungry. He’s close, you feel it in the way his thighs tense, the way he stops talking and just groans, low and helpless.

“That’s it. That’s it, love. Gonna-fuck-gonna fill that mouth-"

He comes with a breathy, choked gasp, hips stuttering. You take all of it, eyes fluttering shut, throat working. He holds you there through it, panting, moaning something half-incoherent that sounds like your name.

When you pull off, he leans forward immediately and drags you into his lap.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, thumb swiping at the corner of your mouth. “You’re unreal. Y’know that? Just fuckin’ unreal.”

You press your face into his chest, dazed and glowing.

He kisses the top of your head and wraps his arms around you like you’re his.

You are.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[axelakim]

Pathetic mustache Paul with a breeding kink please I need that man CARNALLY

ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑟𝑜𝑤𝑛 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 contains ; nsfw! minors dni!, female anatomy, breeding kink, overstimulation, body worship, praise mixed with degradation

𐙚 summary ; nothing gets paul hotter than the idea of having you full and keeping it there.

𐙚 note ; bless you for requesting this bussanut

The bucket sloshed. Bleach-scented water slapped up the rim as you set it down with more force than necessary, slapping your palm down over the handle of the mop. The floor needed doing. Badly. And unless it had spontaneously developed the capacity for sentience and self-hygiene, it wasn’t going to get done unless someone did it. That someone was supposed to be Paul.

Where the hell was he?

You tipped your head to the side, listened, but the flat was eerily still. No heavy heel-toe pacing in socks. No wobbly hums or tuneless whistles. No sounds of him moving cups in the kitchen just to make noise. You squinted down the hall. His bass was still here, leaning against the wall like a sentry, unwatched and unplayed, but Paul himself was absent.

You swore he said he’d mop. He’d said it so breezily, too. Waggled his fingers when you raised an eyebrow, like, “Relax, love, I’ve got it.” With that awful toothy grin of his.

That was three hours ago.

You sighed hard and rolled your sleeves up. Fine. Whatever. You’d mop the fucking floor.

And you did. First with righteous fury, then with quieter resolve. The living room first, where Paul had left behind a series of scuffed half-moons from dragging his boots off with one foot, and then the kitchen, the hallway, and finally the tiled bathroom floor, where you had to get down on your knees and scrub.

You tried not to question it too hard.

Eventually, your muscles eased. The rhythm of moving the mop back and forth grew soothing, the slap and drag of damp cotton against tile hypnotic. The scent of pine cleaner wrapped around your nose like a warm towel, and when you finally sank back into the couch, the bucket emptied and the mop leaning in the tub to dry, the flat felt good. Quiet. Clean. Peaceful.

Still no Paul.

You glanced at the clock. Five past six. The sun was starting to turn the windows gold, and you knew the warm light would get in his eyes wherever he was hiding. You exhaled, long-suffering. If he was passed out on the roof again, you were going to kill him.

You didn’t want to be annoyed. He was beautiful, and you were foolish for him. But there was something uniquely infuriating about doing chores alone while your supposed partner in grime had gone ghost.

The hallway echoed with your footsteps as you hunted. You swung open doors.

He wasn't even pretending to hide. He was just… gone.

You stood in the middle of the lounge, and blew out a slow breath. That’s when the front door clicked.

And in he walked.

Shirt half-buttoned, hair windblown, and wearing those obscenely tight trousers that made you question every life choice that had led you to fall for a man with such fashion sense. That ridiculous mustache framed a mouth too smug for its own good.

"‘Ello, dove," he said, grinning like a criminal. “Thought I’d nip out for a smoke and a paper. Ended up gettin’ a coffee. Didn’t think you’d be up yet."

You blinked. Then pointed at your bleach-stained shirt. “I’ve been up for hours. I've been up since you left.”

Paul blinked back at you innocently, then tilted his head as though just now noticing the domestic battleground behind you, cleaning supplies strewn, towels draped over chairs, the faint smell of vinegar hanging in the air like disappointment.

He winced. “...Bugger. We were cleanin’ today... weren't we?”

You threw a sponge at him. It hit his chest with a wet slap and slid down slowly, leaving a streak of lemon-scented shame across his buttons.

Paul looked down at it, then back up at you. “I deserved that,” he said seriously.

You walked past him, ignoring the way his fingers brushed your hip as you did.

You heard the smile even if you didn’t turn around to see it. He was probably standing there with his weight on one foot like he always did, hands in his pockets, mouth twitching as if resisting the urge to be cheeky. It was impossible to stay mad at him for long. But that didn’t mean you were about to let him off the hook.

Back in the kitchen, you grabbed the mop and planted it in his hands the moment he followed you in.

“Earn your keep, McCartney.”

He saluted you with the handle, spinning it dramatically like it was a rifle on parade.

He swished it across the floor once. Then again. After a third pass, he leaned on it like a cane and watched you lower yourself into a squat again to tackle the baseboards.

“Y’know,” he mused, eyes traveling lazily down your back, “this domestic life suits you. All bent over like that, muscles workin’. S’very...”

You looked up, catching him staring.

“Careful,” you warned, “flattery doesn’t do dishes.”

He leaned against the counter, shameless. “No, but the sight of you gettin’ sudsy in my t-shirt does somethin’ terrible to me. I’m only human.”

“You’re a lazy human,” you said, pointing at the floor.

But there was something in the air now, buzzing just under the surface, heat that had nothing to do with the steam rising from the sink.

It clung to you like humidity, pressed behind your ears, curled low in your belly, made your hands still against the damp towel you’d been wringing dry. Paul was still leaning with both palms flat on the counter, watching you with a look far too molten for a man who'd just started half-assedly mopping half the kitchen. That mouth of his parted slightly, his tongue wetting his lower lip like it was an unconscious tick, like he was tasting the idea of you.

And then he straightened. Slowly.

You knew that look.

Like he was about to say something clever, but every inch of him was taut, hungry, waiting for an opening in the air between you where he could slip in with his hands and tongue and teeth. He approached you with that lazy, rolling gait he always had when he’d just made up his mind to ruin something. Or someone.

You blinked, and his fingers were curling around your hips.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he murmured, thumb brushing just under the hem of your shirt, not quite pushing up, just making sure you felt the potential of it. “This whole cleaning thing’s got me feelin’... productive.”

“You only mopped for a second.”

“And yet,” he said, dipping his mouth close to your ear, breath hot and low and intentional, “I’m all revved up like I just ran a marathon.”

You swallowed. He smelled like coffee and salt, faint sweat and stubborn male arousal. The kind that didn’t go away with willpower or a cold shower. The kind that thickened and settled in the gut, waited for permission.

“You’re unbelievable,” you muttered.

“I am,” he agreed, pressing closer, the shape of him unmistakable now, thick behind the zip of his trousers, pushing against your hip like punctuation. “But you still let me kiss you.”

He tilted your chin. And kissed you.

Slow at first. Thorough. Like he was trying to taste your day, the lemon soap and effort, the mild resentment still clinging to your molars. His hands spread across your waist, dragging you flush to him. You could feel how hard he was, insistent and needy, not cocky like usual. Not yet.

When you didn’t pull away, he groaned into your mouth, low and scratchy, his fingers kneading your back through your shirt like he’d been aching to touch you all day and this was his first sip of water after a sunstroke. One hand drifted, down, around, gripping the softness just above the waistband of your pants, squeezing there with a reverence that made your thighs twitch.

Then he pulled back to look at you, lips kiss-slick, breath shaking.

“You really shouldn’t clean in that shirt,” he said, eyes dropping to your chest. “It’s soft and tight in all the wrong ways. And it keeps ridin’ up when you bend over. I swear to god I nearly passed out when I saw your back just now.”

“You could’ve helped clean instead of perving.”

“Didn’t have the blood to spare,” he said, then grabbed your hand. “Come on.”

“Where-”

But he was already dragging you toward the bedroom. Not rushed, not forceful. Just determined. Like he’d waited long enough. The mop forgotten. The dishes unwashed. The world irrelevant except for your hand in his and the glint in his eye as he kicked the bedroom door shut behind you.

And then his mouth was on yours again, with less patience this time, tongue pushing past your lips, teeth grazing, his mustache catching faintly against your skin in a way that made your whole face feel kissed. He pressed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You fell, and he followed, crawling over you with knees bracketing your hips, hands already at your waistband.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick, northern vowels gone lazier now, drunk off lust and power, cock already straining against the zipper of those tight trousers like it couldn’t wait another second to be inside you. “All soft under me. Legs open. Knew you’d let me do this. Knew you’d be good for it.”

His fingers hooked the band of your pants and dragged them down with one long, deliberate pull, eyes locked on your hips, your belly, your thighs like he was memorizing how you looked without the clothes, like this was a ritual he couldn’t get tired of. One hand stayed at your waist, splayed wide over your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles over your skin like it was his already.

“Christ,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “You’re warm. All over. So fuckin’ soft, fuckin’ ready, aren’t you?”

“Paul…”

His head snapped up, curls falling into his eyes, and you could see it in his face, the shift. Obsessed. Ferocious in the quiet, focused way that only a man with a goal could be.

He leaned down and kissed your navel. Just a brush of lips. Then another. Then he lingered, eyes closed, like he could already feel the shape of himself inside you.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ day,” he said, voice guttural. “You in this bed. On your back. And me…” His fingers tightened, one hand still palming your stomach. “Me makin’ it swell.”

Your pulse stuttered. The air went thick, cloying. There was no hiding from it now, not with the way his eyes were locked on you like you were prey, like you were purpose-built for his fantasies. You remembered it then, sudden and sharp, that very first time, when he’d come deep inside you and pulled out slow just to watch it drip. The way he’d said, ‘Wish I could leave it in you. Wish I could see what you’d look like full.’ He hadn’t meant just come. He hadn’t even pretended he did.

You whined, helpless beneath him. His mouth latched onto your nipple for a heartbeat before he pulled back and tugged your shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him like it offended him for covering you.

His hands were on your hips now, holding you open, steadying himself like you might float away if he didn’t pin you. His thumbs dug in just enough to leave faint marks, and still that one hand kept drifting back to your stomach. Like he couldn’t resist it. Couldn’t help thinking about it. Dreaming about it rounding out.

“Bet you’d look beautiful carryin’,” he said, hand still spread over your belly like he was already picturing it, full and high and his.

He dipped lower again, mouth open over your inner thigh now, biting, then licking, then sucking like he meant to mark you there.

Your legs were trembling, open for him, aching for more, but Paul didn’t rush. Not yet. He was savouring. Drawing it out. Drawing you out.

“Know what I’d do?” he whispered against your thigh. “If you were carryin’? Wouldn’t stop touchin’ you. Wouldn’t leave your side. I’d fuck you soft every morning just to remind you it was mine that did it.”

“Paul-”

You breathed it more than said it, voice gone thin from all the blood rushing south, from the heat pooling in your gut, from the way he kissed so slow and sure that your body had already given in long before you could think to stop it. He didn’t answer, not out loud. Just lifted his head and looked at you, really looked.

And that was somehow worse.

His hair was already damp at the edges, little curls sticking to his temples from sweat and steam and tension. His mouth was red. Red from your skin. Red from wanting. He looked like he could ruin you without even trying, but he wasn’t in a rush.

His hand was still resting over your stomach, the weight of it grounding you like gravity, and his thumb was stroking slow, almost absent-minded circles. That simple touch had a tenderness to it that made your chest ache more than your cunt. Because it wasn’t just lust. It was something deeper, older. A quiet kind of claiming.

He didn’t have to say the words. You knew.

He was going to fuck you like he wanted something to stay.

“Look at you,” he murmured finally, voice rough and low like a secret rasped into a pillow. “Christ, you’re... fuckin’ beautiful.”

You reached up and cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone, and he leaned into the touch like a man starved. Kissed your palm. Then your wrist. Then lowered his head to kiss your mouth again, slow and open and deep.

And this time, when he shifted to press inside you, it wasn’t frantic. It was worship.

Except, he still had his trousers on.

You blinked, dazed but coherent enough to frown slightly. Your legs were spread open for him, the backs of your knees already bracketing his hips, your cunt soaked and aching, but that familiar brush of fabric, that zipper dragging ever-so-faintly along your inner thigh, no.

“Paul,” you murmured, voice hoarse with want, hand drifting down to tap the back of his thigh, “you’ve still got your pants on.”

He paused, blinked once, and looked down like he was just now registering that he’d been trying to fuck you still mostly clothed. The trousers were halfway unbuttoned but still clinging to his hips. You could see the outline of him, pressed painfully against the inside of his boxers, twitching like it was furious to be ignored.

Paul exhaled a small laugh, breathless and crooked. “Jesus. You’ve got me all turned ‘round.”

He sat back on his heels between your thighs, hands moving to his fly like his fingers were fumbling through water. His cock strained against the fabric, the bulge obscene, the damp spot darkening at the tip where precome had already soaked through. You reached forward, tracing it with one finger, and he hissed.

“Don’t,” he said, voice strangled.

“Can’t help it.”

“You will if I finish in my pants like a teenager.”

You watched, breath catching, as he undid the last button, tugged the zipper down slow. His cock sprang out almost too fast, flushed, wet at the tip. Your thighs twitched in response, cunt clenching down on air in protest. He shoved his trousers down past his knees with a grunt, leaving them tangled there, not bothering to kick them off. It was lazy and impatient and utterly him.

Then he leaned back over you, cock in hand, guiding it to your slick, dripping entrance.

And this time, really, it was frantic. He pushed in.

Slow. Deep. Intent.

Paul fucked you like he was pouring himself into something that would keep him, something that would hold. Every thrust was deliberate, hips rolling in a rhythm built not for frenzy but for permanence, the heavy weight of him dragging along your soaked walls like he was trying to etch himself inside.

His hand never left your belly. He kept it there, pressing firm, fingers spread as if he could feel the shape of his cock from the outside, like he needed to touch both sides of you at once. Each slow drive forward made his palm rise with the motion, and he let out this soft, ragged sound, half groan, half reverent exhale, every time your body gave and took him deeper.

“God,” he breathed, voice unraveling. “You’re takin’ me so good.”

You moaned, legs hooked tighter around his hips, your nails raking lines down his back without thinking, just needing to grab something, to ground yourself against the molten stretch of him. The sound it drew from him, low and desperate, was almost pained.

He fucked you deeper.

You felt him shift, tilt his hips just so, and suddenly the head of his cock dragged against that sweet, aching spot inside you that made your mouth fall open.

He felt it. And he did it again. And again. And again.

Your back arched, hands flying to his shoulders, and he kissed you, sloppy, needy, tongue dragging slow over yours as he rolled his hips in deeper, deeper, until your breath came in choked little sobs and the wet sounds of your bodies filled the space between every half-whispered curse.

“Listen to that,” he rasped, mouth trailing down to your throat. “Fuckin’ soaked for me. You feel that? How much you’re giving me?”

You whimpered, and he laughed, quiet, ruined, so goddamn smug it made your thighs shake.

“Oh, I know what this is,” he murmured, nuzzling the underside of your jaw. “You want it. Want me to fuck you slow so it stays. Let it fill you up real nice. Hold it.”

Your whole body pulsed in response.

He ground in again, hips flush, and stayed there, buried.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue dragging across your neck. “Say you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathed, panting.

“Yeah?” he pressed, voice hot in your ear, hips circling so his cock ground right against your most sensitive spot. “Want me to come inside? Stay there, warm and heavy and full for hours?”

You nodded, frantic.

He started to move again.

Slower. More purposeful.

And deeper.

He kept that pace, deep, grinding thrusts that hit so far inside it made your whole body curl forward against him, like your cunt was trying to pull him further in. Your legs wrapped tighter. Your breath stuttered. Your eyes rolled back.

He watched every second of it.

“Look at you,” he muttered, half-delirious, dragging his hand up your thigh, guiding your knee up until your pelvis tilted just right. “Takin’ me like you’re meant to. Built for this. This cunt’s made for me.”

He thrust hard then, and you cried out, nails digging into his arms.

“Shh,” he soothed, slowing again. “I got you. Not gonna stop. Not ‘til you’re full. Not ‘til you can feel it sittin’ right here-”

His hand pressed firm over your belly again, thumb stroking your skin, and that image hit you like lightning, his come staying, thick and hot and heavy, settling deep inside, the idea of it sticking. Of catching.

You moaned, loud and desperate, hips lifting to meet his next thrust.

“Y’like that?” he breathed. “Fuckin’ love the thought of it, don’t you? Being all messy after, too full to stand up. Leakin’ all down your thighs. But it won’t matter, will it?”

His rhythm faltered, the start of a tremble taking hold of his body.

“‘Cause I’m gonna give you so much,” he groaned, voice cracking, cock pulsing inside you already, “you’ll feel it for days.”

You came hard.

It hit fast, like a wave crashing up through your belly, pulsing out through your legs and spine, stealing the breath from your lungs. You clamped down around him, tight and slick and needy, crying out his name like it was the only word left in your body. Paul choked on a moan, hips jerking as he tried to keep fucking through it, but your cunt clenched so tight, so perfect, that he couldn’t last.

He gasped, face buried in your neck, hands fisting in the sheets beside your head.

And then he was coming.

He pushed in hard and held, cock throbbing, hips trembling, chest heaving as his orgasm tore through him. You felt it flooding you, thick and hot and so much, so much, like he was trying to make your body take all of it. His whole frame shuddered with each pulse of it, soft, ragged groans muffled against your skin as he emptied himself deep inside you.

It felt endless.

When it finally stilled, when his hips went slack and his breath turned to soft panting, he didn’t move. Didn’t even try.

His cock was still twitching faintly inside you. Still hard, still there, still keeping every drop where it belonged.

Paul kissed your jaw. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth.

Then he looked down at your belly again. Laid his hand there, slow and heavy. Let it rest.

His palm splayed wide, fingers gently tracing the curve of your skin, as if he were trying to feel it shift, feel it take. His breath had evened out, but the weight of him over you, around you, inside you hadn’t lessened. He was still nestled deep, cock softening only slightly, keeping the heat of him sealed where he’d spent it. And that hand... it stayed there. Possessive. Quietly reverent. Like he was afraid to take it away in case something might spill.

His thumb moved in slow circles, barely brushing back and forth, just over the center of your belly. Your skin twitched under the warmth of it, over-sensitive, but you didn’t ask him to stop. Because it didn’t feel like touching. It felt like marking.

His eyes flicked up, lashes damp and heavy. Still dazed, but focused. That rare Paul look, the one that usually came only with a guitar in hand or your name on his lips.

“Y’doin’ alright?” he asked softly, thumb pausing.

You hummed. Tired. Full. Wrecked. But yes.

His smile was small but real. One of those lazy, lopsided things that said mine without saying anything at all.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to the space just beneath his hand. Not your mouth. Not your neck. Not even your breast. Your belly. One kiss. Then another. And another.

He stayed there, mouthing silent, worshipful things against your skin, and the tension in your thighs curled up tight again without warning. You shifted, breath catching as you felt him twitching inside you, softening slowly, but not enough to keep him from stirring again. Still buried deep. Still wanting.

Paul pulled back slightly, just far enough to see your face.

Then he smiled.

That look.

“Think we should go again,” he said, casual as tea on a Tuesday. Like he wasn’t still inside you. Like you weren’t still dripping full of him. Like your legs weren’t trembling from the last orgasm, still twitching each time his cock shifted even a fraction.

You blinked at him. “Are you serious?”

He kissed your jaw, then nosed against your cheek like a cat.

“Reckon I didn’t get it all the first time. Just bein’ thorough.”

You stared.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[axelakim]

I love ur writing so bad😭😭😭 it’s the air in my lungs honestly. Anyways not really a very well written plan.. but like maybe something with a reader who has super long hair 🫶 think like almost Victorian style length. I think it’d be pretty cute !!

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ you sweet lil creature this is so lovely ♡ i think you’re onto something gorgeously romantic here....

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“Christ. It’s like… Rapunzel, but a little weirder. And I like it.”

Pretends to be nonchalant about it, but his hands will not stay away.

He’ll twirl the ends around his finger while you talk, watching them bounce back when he lets go.

The first time he saw it loose, after you’d taken it down from a braid, he went completely silent. For once.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, almost reverently, and then reached out slowly like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch it.

Becomes very possessive of it. If someone else compliments it, he leans in all smug and says, “Yeah, well, they don’t let just anyone braid it, y’know.”

Likes when you sit between his legs while he half-heartedly tries to brush it.

He pretends to mess it up on purpose just so you’ll stay there longer.

Sometimes talks to it like it’s its own being. “Oi, you’re hiding their face. I’m talkin’ to them, not you.”

Insists you let him tie little ribbons in it.

You look over your shoulder one day and he’s braided it into a very lopsided plait and added one of his guitar picks near the end.

But then he kisses the back of your head and murmurs, “You’ve got magic in there, don’t you?” and you forget all about it.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“D’you know how lucky you are? You’ve got the kind of hair people write songs about.”

He’s obsessed.

Thinks it’s the most elegant, beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Absolutely wants to photograph you with it flowing over your shoulders like silk.

Will sneak up behind you and gently lift a strand to kiss it, grinning when you shiver.

“It’s like… living art, love. Honest.”

Has 100% written lyrics inspired by it.

He’ll never admit it, but there’s one notebook with your name written at the top, and every metaphor is about you + your hair + how you make him feel like he’s caught in a daydream.

He helps you wash it, all careful hands and warm water, and whispers praises the whole time.

Loves to brush it out in the evening while you sit in front of him, sleepy and content. He hums as he does it.

“You’ve got me under a spell,” he says one night, fingers combing through gently. “All this hair and you still don’t see how magical you are.”

He means it with his whole heart.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“Don’t move. The light’s catchin’ your hair just right… it looks like fire.”

He’s completely enchanted.

Like stunned every time you enter a room.

You’ll turn your head and the whole sheet of your hair will follow and he’ll forget how to speak.

Sits beside you and watches you brush it like it’s a religious experience.

His eyes are huge and soft and adoring.

“Can I…?” he’ll ask shyly, reaching for the brush.

And then he’ll do it so gently you barely feel it, murmuring things like, “It’s so soft,” and “Feels like water when it moves.”

Likes to rest his head in your lap and bury his face in it, sighing like you’ve just saved his soul.

Genuinely gets worried if you ever mention wanting to cut it.

He’s supportive, of course, but he’ll blink rapidly and go, “Oh… really? You sure?”

Will absolutely play his guitar while you sit nearby and braid daisies into it.

Buys you nice clips and pins and insists “It just looked like something you’d wear.”

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“Y’don’t think it’ll get tangled in me drumsticks, do you?”

He’s in awe but also totally playful about it. Will tug very gently on a lock and go, “Hello? Is Rapunzel home?”

Likes to hide behind it and pretend it’s a curtain. “The theatre of dreams,” he announces dramatically, peeking through it with a grin.

Loves it when it’s wet and wavy and clinging to your shoulders.

“You look like a mermaid. Or a siren, maybe. Gonna steal me soul?”

He offers to braid it but has no idea how.

The result is a knotted mess of love and effort. “It’s modern art, alright?”

Sleeps with his head on your shoulder just so he can feel it against his face.

Will randomly start brushing it when you’re mid-sentence.

Doesn’t even ask.

He’s just like, “You were talkin’ about that book, right? Mm-hm. Keep goin’,” while gently detangling.

Likes leaving little kisses at the nape of your neck where it starts. Just because.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[axelakim]

I was wondering if it would be okay if you could possibly make one where you do each of the Beatles. It has the other Beatles react to you cuddling, asleep aside one of them on the couch!^^ Youre my fav! I love your fanfics so much!!!

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ this is such a sweet lil concept i love it sm!! and thank you angel that’s so sweet of you to say eee i’m so lucky to have readers like you!!! these aren't exactly headcanons.. but i hope you like what i did with 'em!

꒰ JOHN ꒱

"You always fall asleep on purpose just to get outta listenin’ to me, don’t you?"

It’s late. Everyone’s knackered. You’re tucked into the corner of the green room sofa with John beside you, legs stretched out, bantering halfheartedly about some ridiculous story he’d made up just to make you laugh.

Your head had slipped onto his shoulder during one of his quieter pauses. You didn’t stir again.

John sat there blinking for a second. One arm in mid-air. Mouth open. Then he just slowly let it rest behind you on the back of the couch.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath. “Well… you’re not movin’, then.”

He didn’t want to wake you, he was already absurdly aware of how soft your cheek felt against his jumper. Kept still as anything, every muscle tight, eyes glancing down at you once in a while.

He wanted to make a joke about it. He wanted to nudge you and say something daft like "Fallin’ for me already, are you?" But he didn’t.

The other three came in with tea and took one look.

“Christ,” Ringo said. “Look at you.”

Paul smirked. “They asleep?”

John looked up, eyes narrowed. “No, I’m just sittin’ like this for the hell of it.”

George raised a brow. “You don’t look bothered.”

“I’m not. They’re warm.”

Paul, snorting: “You’re lettin’ someone fall asleep on you? You’ve gone soft.”

John didn’t reply. Just stared ahead, very still.

Later, when you stirred awake and groggily apologized, John said, almost too quickly, “You’re alright. I didn’t mind.” And that was all. But his jumper smelled like your shampoo for days.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

"Oi, don’t go noddin’ off on me, I’ll start thinkin’ I’m boring."

It happened in the studio lounge. You’d been curled up next to Paul on the couch while they waited for George Martin to finish a phone call.

You were chatting, your voice soft and tired, until you drifted off completely, your head resting lightly against his chest.

Paul froze, cup of tea halfway to his lips.

His first instinct was to smile.

Just a little.

He glanced down at you and let his arm slip carefully behind your shoulder, his fingers grazing your sleeve.

“Are they asleep?” George asked, walking in.

Paul nodded. “They just knocked out, poor thing.”

Ringo looked over, squinting. “You look like you’ve never held a person in your life. All stiff.”

“I don’t wanna wake ‘em, do I?” Paul whispered back. “Be nice.”

The whole exchange made Paul chuckle under his breath. He leaned back into the couch, making sure you were still comfortable, careful not to move too suddenly.

You didn’t wake for a while, and Paul didn’t move a muscle until you did.

Even then, he just smiled and said, “Hey, you needed it. You looked dead tired.” But inside, he was absolutely glowing.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

"You alright there? You can lean on me if you want… s’alright."

George had been playing a quiet melody on his guitar when you’d leaned against him, head tilted gently onto his arm. It surprised him, he tensed for a moment, fingers faltering on the strings. Then he looked down and saw your face, peaceful and soft in sleep.

He didn’t move you. Kept strumming lightly, the tune turning into something slower and gentler, something he hadn’t written before.

Ringo wandered in and stopped short. “They out?”

George nodded. “Didn’t even say goodnight. Just gone.”

“Couldn’t be more comfortable, eh?”

George looked down at you again. “Could be worse.”

John peeked in too, of course. “You look bloody smug.”

“I’m not smug,” George said. “I’m… responsible. Don’t wake ‘em.”

There was a small pause before Ringo, ever the tease, asked, “So, you’re happy to let someone sleep on top of you, but not kiss them?”

George shot him a withering look. “Not everything needs to be a bloody joke, you know.”

Ringo chuckled. “That’s not what I meant. But, yeah, alright. You two look cozy.”

He played until his hand got tired. Then he just sat back, watching the way you breathed, quiet and steady. He wished he could bottle that moment up and keep it.

You woke later, rubbing your eyes, and George only said, “You were dead to the world.” But he’d remember it longer than he let on.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

"You’re not even tryin’ to stay awake, are you? Go on then, I’ve got you."

You were curled up next to Ringo in the band’s shared flat, the two of you crammed on a too-small couch watching telly. Your legs touched. Your shoulder bumped his. And then your head slowly dropped onto his chest.

Ringo blinked. Looked down. Then let out the softest chuckle.

“Sleepy, are we?” he whispered. You didn’t answer. Just let out a quiet breath and stayed there.

He turned the volume down. Wrapped his arm around your back and let his hand rest near your shoulder, thumb brushing your jumper sleeve. A tiny smile played at his lips.

When Paul and John walked in, Paul started grinning immediately. “Look at you two!”

Ringo just held a finger to his lips. “Shh. Let ‘em rest.”

George peeked in behind them. “Didn’t take long, did it?”

Ringo shrugged, trying to look casual but obviously a bit red in the face. “They were knackered. What was I meant to do, push ‘em off?”

John: “Can’t believe you’re the first to get a cuddle.”

Ringo smiled, quieter now. “Neither can I.”

When you woke up, you found a blanket over you and Ringo watching the telly with one arm still draped protectively around you. “Hey there,” he murmured. “Feelin’ better?”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee

[axelakim]

all their loving

beatles x reader

genre: fluff

warning: none !

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.

[axelakim]

her majesty is a pretty nice girl

george harrison x reader

genre: fluff

warnings: none !

summary: geo gets a camera and cant wait to try it

a/n: hiii, srry for not being here that much lately :// i havent been on my best these days and wrote this on a rush, so hope yall like it :)

it was a chilly afternoon, george stood in the living room, holding a brand-new camera in his hands like it was the most precious thing in the world, the excitement on his face was unmistakable.

"darling, you must have a look at this beauty," he said, tilting the camera to the side to admire design. his fingers gently traced the body of it, as if it were some sort of artifact. "i’ve been wanting one like this for ages."

she smiled at his enthusiasm from across the room, her arms crossed casually. "it’s really nice, george. but... do you even have any film for it?"

his expression faltered for a moment. "uh… well… no, not exactly.. but we can get some, right?"

she couldn’t help but laugh at how he’d been so swept up in the excitement of the camera that he’d forgotten the most important part. "alright, let’s go get some film, then."

both slipped on their coats, george zipping his up with a sudden burst of purpose. "let’s make it an adventure," he grinned, taking her hand as they headed out the door. "besides, i’ve been wanting to talk to you about something anyway."

as they walked down the quiet street, george casually slipped into a conversation. "you know, the band’s been on a bit of a break lately, and i’ve been thinking about how everything’s changed."

she looked over at him, her hand still tucked in his, noticing the slight wistfulness in his voice. "yeah, i’ve been thinking about that too. it feels like things have gotten… complicated, doesn’t it?"

"complicated’s one way to put it," he said. "i guess we’re all just figuring it out. i mean, paul’s doing his own thing, john’s always got something to say, and ringo’s… well, hes just being himself."

she chuckled. "i guess that’s true. but, you know, i think it’s nice. we’ve all kind of grown, in a way."

george glanced at her, a soft smile playing on his lips. "i think so too. it’s just different now, isn’t it?"

"pretty much." she squeezed his hand, the cool air carrying the sound of their footsteps as they approached the corner store. "but hey, at least you’ve got your new camera. you’re gonna capture everything that’s worth remembering."

"that’s the plan," he said with a wink.

as they entered the store, a jingle of a bell above the door announcing your arrival, the familiar smell of old wood and musty books filled the air. mr. smith, the man behind the counter, looked up, adjusting his glasses. he gave a friendly smile as he noticed both of them.

“well, well, if it isn’t the two lovebirds.” he said playfully.

she felt the sudden heat in her cheeks. george, of course, caught the way she squirmed, and she could feel his gaze on her as she awkwardly shuffled her feet. "i.. uh.. thanks," she mumbled, feeling shy.

george, on the other hand, was completely unfazed. "hello, mister," he said with an easy grin, leaning over to ask the man for some film.

mr. smith handed george a few rolls of film, a knowing smile on his face as he waved them off.

george grinned widely, and with a quick "thanks," he ushered her out of the store, the doorbell jingling behind them. as she walked back down the street, george turned to her, his playful grin still on his face.

“you okay there, love? mr. smith seemed to make you blush.”

she rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "he’s just… he’s just one of those people. you know? the ones that make you smile easily"

george’s grin widened. "i think he just knows you’re a catch."

she shoved him gently with her shoulder. "stop it," she said, trying not to laugh.

he nudged her back, laughing too, but then fell silent for a moment. before she could ask what he was thinking, she felt a light click sound behind her. she turned, eyes widening as she saw george casually taking a picture of her with his new camera, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"george! what are you doing?" she exclaimed, half laughing, half protesting.

"i’m capturing my beautiful girlfriend," he said, clicking again. "i don’t need someone’s compliment to know how amazing you are."

she could feel her heart flutter at his words.

george’s eyes lit up as she walked up to the front door, his excitement palpable. "i’ll take a few shots of everything!"

she smiled as she unlocked the door and stepped inside, a sudden realization dawning on her "wait… we’re out of film, aren’t we?"

"what are you talking about? we just bought the film, do you really think that i would spent it so quickly?" as he checked the camera, george’s face fell. "oh, love… you’re right."

she couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. "well, that’s what happens when you get all caught up in the excitement of new toys, huh?"

george chuckled, shaking his head as he set the camera down on the table. "guess we’ll just have to go back for more film, but no flirting this time, alright?"

[axelakim]

let me into your heart

george harrison x reader

genre: fluff & comfort

warnings: sh ! pls don’t read if youre not comfortable with the topic or struggling, remember that you’re not alone <3

summary: ⤦ having a hard time, but he makes it better

a/n: hii, this one is a little more personal (srry for that). i've been struggling with my mental health for a few years now, and because i didn't know how to deal with all, i used to sh. things haven't been that great lately, so i relapsed a while back. that's the main reason i haven't been able to post that much lately, which i'm sorry for. if you're going through a rough time, remember that you're not alone, and don't be afraid to reach for some help <33

the rain had been tapping against the window for some hours now, soft and steady. the room was dim, the curtains drawn, silence on every corner. she hadn’t left her bed all day, not feeling like doing much of anything really, her thoughts distant.

there was a knock at the door, it was soft.

she didn’t answer.

there was a little pause before the door slowly creaked open.

“love?,” george’s voice asked. she hadn’t seen him in a few days. he’d called and even left some flowers outside her door one night, which she found the next morning, with a small note: “thought this one might make you smile. please call me when you're ready. i love you.”

“i’m coming in,” he said gently, peeking his head through the doorway.

she didn’t move, still curled up in bed and buried in blankets, face pressed to a pillow she hadn’t changed in days.

george stepped in quietly. he didn’t say anything at first, just walked over, slow and soft, and sat on the floor beside her bed like he always used to when she’d study or read.

“i was worried,” he murmured, fingers nervously fidgeting. “did i do something wrong?”

her heart cracked a little at the sound of that.

“you didn’t,” she whispered, voice hoarse from disuse. “it’s not you.”

he nodded, trying to understand and, in a way, he did. he didn’t press her, just stayed there, hands resting in his lap. he looked up at her, eyes warm and full of concern.

“i miss you,” he said after a long moment. “even when you’re right here.”

tears pricked her eyes before she could stop them. she hated that she’d been pushing him away. not on purpose, but it was like her body was protecting itself by keeping everyone else out.

“i’m sorry,” she croaked, throat tight. “i don’t know why i’ve been like this. i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

george shifted closer, “there’s nothing wrong with you,” he said firmly, “you’re just hurting. and there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s okay.”

when she finally sat up, slowly because of the pain in her limbs, george reached for her immediately. not rushed, not forceful, just open arms. like an invitation.

she let herrself fold into him.

he held her close, her head tucked under his chin, his fingers gently brushing up and down her back. she could feel his heartbeat steady, grounding.

“you don’t have to explain it,” he whispered. “you don’t even have to fix it all today. just let me be here with you, please?”

she nodded against his chest, silent tears slipping down her cheek.

“i’ll stay,” he added. “all night, all week if you want. we don’t have to talk, let me hold you. i can play you something later if you feel up to it. or just sit, whatever you need.”

she pulled back just enough to look up at him, his brown eyes soft and sincere, his thumb brushing gently under her eye to catch a tear.

“i love you,” he said simply, “even on your bad days, especially on your bad days.”

george stayed close. he helped her shift the blankets, tucking them around her legs and gently sitting beside her, as if she was made of porcelain. he didn’t ask questions, didn’t make her speak. he just held her hand loosely, his thumb brushing the back of it.

the rain kept tapping softly at the windows.

then, with a small hop, a little blur of fur appeared at the end of the bed.

“is that your cat?” george asked softly, smiling as the feline trotted over with confidence only cats could have. she gave a small nod.

“she’s lovely,” he murmured, letting the cat sniff his fingers before she promptly settled herself between them, purring loudly like a small engine.

george chuckled. “she’s a fan already.”

she smiled for the first time in what felt like days. a real, tired, soft little smile. and that was enough to make george’s whole chest ache.

“you wanna lie down?” he asked after a while, voice gentle.

she hesitated, but then nodded.

he helped her, carefully easing down beside her on the bed, her cat curling herself into a donut shape at their feet.

george propped himself up on one elbow, his other hand still in yours. she shifted a bit under the covers, the fabric brushing against her arm. she flinched slightly, that’s when george noticed.

he didn’t say anything right away, just shifted his hand slowly, gently tracing over her wrist with the lightest touch. his eyes flicked down, seeing the scars. faded, some newer, some long past. his breath caught just a little, but not in fear. not in judgment.

he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her wrist, so soft it almost didn’t feel real.

then he leaned in close, forehead brushing hers.

“you don’t have to be okay all the time, but please don’t do this,” he continued. “not for me. not for anyone. but i want you to remember something, alright?”

she nodded, tears slipping silently down your cheek.

“you are loved,” george whispered. “you are loved on the hard days, on the quiet days, even when you feel like you don’t deserve it. and i’m not going anywhere.”

she couldn’t stop the tears then, but george didn’t mind. he just gathered her close, wrapping his arms around her and letting her cry quietly into his chest, his hand cradling the back of her head.

“i’m here,” he kept murmuring. “you don’t have to carry it all on your own. i’ve got you.”

eventually, she started to drift, worn out, but warmer somehow, her body relaxing into the softness of the bed, into the steady rhythm of george’s breathing.

george pressed one last kiss to her temple and whispered:

“you are my heart, love. just as you are.”

...

the room was quiet again, not in that heavy kind of way. the world outside could knock and knock but wouldn’t be let in.

george hadn’t let go of her hand once. even as the rain ticked on outside. even as her cat curled tighter at the foot of the bed.

when he saw the scars, he didn’t say anything at first. just saw. just noticed.

then, softly, so gently: “can i hold you properly now?”

she hesitated, but george just gathered her into his arms. not urgently, not pitifully. just full of care.

she buried her face into his chest, and for a while, neither of them spoke.

then she whispered, just barely: “i don’t know how to make it stop. i don’t even know what’s wrong with me.”

george’s arms tightened slightly around her.

“there’s nothing wrong with you,” he said, and there was steel under the softness this time. “you’re hurting, it doesn’t make you broken. it makes you human.”

her fingers clutched at his shirt. her body started to tremble, the weight of everything, the numbness, the shame, the guilt, the exhaustion, everything rushing out of her all at once. she couldn’t stop it. the sobs were thick and hot in her throat, and the tears came harder than she meant to let them.

“i’m so tired, george,” she choked out, “i’m so tired.”

he cupped the back of her head and tucked her closer. “i know, love. i know. let it out, you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt, but he didn’t move. he just kept whispering, over and over: “you’re safe now, i’ve got you.”

when her sobs quieted, not fully gone, but gentled to sniffles and hiccups, george pulled back just enough to see her face. his thumbs brushed her cheeks. his eyes were glistening too.

“you don’t have to hide this from me,” he said. “not your pain, or your scars, not even your sadness. i don’t love some perfect version of you. i love you. and this is part of you.”

he brought her arm up gently, and ran his fingers along the faded lines there.

“these,” he said, voice thick, “are proof that you’ve survived every day you didn’t think you could. you’re still here. and i’m so proud of you for that.”

a fresh wave of emotion hit her chest. but this time, it wasn’t from the loneliness, it came from the impossible weight of being seen, truly seen, and not being abandoned for it.

george leaned in and kissed her forehead, then her temple, then her hand.

“promise me something?” he asked quietly.

she nodded.

“if it ever gets too much again… will you tell me? before you hurt yourself? let me help you?”

“i don’t want to be a burden,” she whispered.

george frowned, “you’re not, you never will be, i want to be here. i’m not here out of pity but because i love you. you matter to me more than anything.”

she didn’t say anything, just leaned into his chest again, her arms around his waist this time, holding him.

the cat stretched at her feet and curled up against her legs. the room smelled like rain and worn cotton and that faint trace of george’s cigarettes, warm, safe and steady.

after a while, he shifted a little to pull the blanket further over both of them. his voice was softer now, sleepy.

“i was thinking… maybe tomorrow, if i could play something for you. or we can just sit by the window, talk about nothing. or maybe i’ll read something to you, what do you think? we’ll take it slow. one soft day at a time.”

she nodded into his chest. “that sounds nice.”

his hand found hers again under the blankets, lacing their fingers together and pressing a final kiss to her head.

[axelakim]

omg

the boys x reader hcs except it's them at a fair/carnival.

like what would they do with their girl at a carbival??? how would that date go???

𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟/𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑣𝑎𝑙

𐙚 note ; this prompt was so cute i got a cavity 💗💗 thank you for your words, i'm sending you a fistful of fair tokens and a kiss on the cheek.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

❝Win you a prize? I’ll nick the whole bloody stall if you want.❞

He shows up late, of course. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled, eyes glinting like trouble under the lights.

Doesn’t even say hello before he slips an arm around your waist like it belongs there and mutters something about the way you look in your jacket.

He pretends he doesn’t care about the games. “Rigged, all of ‘em,” he scoffs.

Then you make a single comment about the giant teddy bear at the ring toss and suddenly he’s throwing like his life depends on it.

Misses the first three, swears at the carny under his breath, then hits the last one with a yell so loud people turn. Smirks like it was no big deal.

Buys you cotton candy and eats half of it.

Keeps pressing sticky fingers to your cheek just to hear you squeal. “Sweetest thing I’ve tasted all night,” he says, then kisses the sugar right off your face.

Tries to act cool on the Ferris wheel but goes uncharacteristically quiet at the very top.

You turn to tease him and he’s already looking at you, serious, a little breathless. “Wish we could stop time,” he says.

You’re halfway to making a joke when he kisses you.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

❝You wanna go on that? I’ll scream louder than you, bet.❞

Shows up with flowers. Says, “These reminded me of you,” with a twinkle in his eye.

When you point out they’re from the stall outside the fairgrounds, he grins. “Exactly. Got ‘em fast, so I wouldn’t be late.”

He lives to impress you. Hits every target at the BB gun booth, does card tricks while you’re waiting in line, sings under his breath like a jukebox set to flirty.

Tries every single food item. Hot chips, fried doughnuts, something questionable-on-a-stick, he buys two of everything and insists on feeding you bites.

“One kiss per crisp,” he bargains. You roll your eyes and kiss him anyway.

The moment the music starts from the carousel organ, he grabs your hand.

You dance barefoot in the grass behind the food trucks, twirling like fools.

He dips you dramatically and almost falls. You laugh so hard your ribs ache.

By the end of the night, your hands are sticky, your hair’s wind-tangled, and he’s leaning against a fence behind the kissing booth with his mouth pressed to your neck, murmuring, “Next year, we’re comin’ twice.”

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

❝This queue’s longer than our last tour. Are you sure this ride’s worth it?❞

He’s reluctant about the whole thing at first. “A carnival? What, like, with screaming kids and candyfloss and everyone recognizing us every five seconds?”

He says it like he’s too cool for it... but still shows up wearing a bomber jacket and the smallest smile like maybe, maybe, he’s hoping you’ll prove him wrong.

He wears sunglasses at night, obviously. Says it’s for anonymity, but he mostly does it because you said he looked cool in them once.

Offers you his arm without asking. Buys your tickets when you’re not looking. If you want to go on the big rides, he’s there. Willing to brave the screaming and spinning just to sit beside you, his thigh pressed firm against yours, hand steady on your knee. “If I puke, it’s your fault,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling the whole time.

Unbelievably good at carnival games. Wins you some absurdly ugly plush within ten minutes. Smirks as he hands it over and says, “Don’t say I never give you anything.”

He teases you endlessly if you’re scared of the rides. “You’re jumpin’ like you’re on Ed Sullivan again,” he snickers.

At some point, some bloke flirts with you at the hot chip stand. George stares him down like he invented disdain.

You get to the Ferris wheel last. And he acts like it’s silly.

Says, “I’ve seen better views out the hotel window in Cleveland.”

But when the car tips up and you’re hanging above the world, he wraps his arm around your shoulders and murmurs, “Y’know, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. But he squeezes your hand like he means it.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

❝I’m not much good at rides. But if you scream, I’ll scream with you.❞

Shows up in a too-big coat and carrying a flask of tea.

Offers you a sip before saying hello. “Didn’t want you to get cold,” he explains, voice soft.

You hadn’t even thought about being cold.

Takes you on the carousel immediately. He picks the silliest horse.

Makes funny faces the whole time. Holds your hand across the poles.

When you dismount, he kisses your knuckles like a gentleman, then pretends to trip and fall dramatically at your feet.

Buys every snack... for you that looks weird. Pickled egg on a stick? Sure. Crushed candy in a cone? Absolutely. He makes a game of you ranking them out of ten and gives bonus points if you kiss him with your mouth full.

Takes a picture with you in the photo booth. You both look ridiculous. He buys a frame for it the next day. Keeps it by his bed.

He's not a thrill-seeker... no spinning rides, no high drops.

But he’ll go on the bumper cars just to make you laugh. Wears the seatbelt too tight and screams every time you hit him.

At the end of the night, you sit together on a bench, his head on your shoulder.

He tells you about when he used to sneak into the fair as a kid, climb under the fence and pretend he was rich enough to ride the Ferris wheel.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[axelakim]

coughs.. boys x reader hcs where reader got out of a bad break up a few months before, and maybe the boys go to show affection and they flinch. like NOTICEABLY flinch..

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑐𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑎 𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑢𝑝

𐙚 note ; heeeyy you!! thank you so much for this one!! you know i live to suffer beautifully...

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

❝Flinchin’ like I’m gonna deck you or somethin’. That what you think? Christ.❞

The first time it happens, he honestly doesn’t clock it. He moves behind you to grab a record, and your shoulders hitch, just a tiny thing. Barely noticeable. He might think he startled you, but you don’t say anything, and neither does he. He’s too wrapped up in whatever song he wants to put on.

But then it happens again. He brushes your wrist to pull you toward him while he’s saying something sarcastic, and you flinch. Not dramatically, just a wince and a pull back, like you’re bracing for something. He falters, mid-sentence, watching you like you’re a math problem he suddenly can’t solve.

He plays it off. Of course he does. “Jesus, I’m not gonna bite you.” But something needles at him. You don’t laugh. And you look embarrassed, not annoyed.

By the third time, when he reaches for your face and you pull away like it might hurt, he snaps. “Okay, what the fuck is that about?” And now you’re flustered. Apologizing, stumbling, trying to laugh it off, but it’s too late.

“What, d’you think I’m gonna hit you or summat?” he asks, half-defensive, half-wounded. There’s a crack in his voice. You can see how fast his brain is spiraling.

You have to explain. You didn’t mean to make him feel like that. You just… came out of something rough. Nothing obvious. Just a constant low thrum of fear you didn’t know how to turn off. You tell him that your ex wasn’t violent, not exactly, but there was yelling. Control. The kind of shit that makes flinching into instinct.

And John shuts up. Not coldly. Just… quiet. His mouth is tight. He fidgets. And for a few long moments, you think he’s going to leave the room.

He just nods. Keeps his hands in his pockets. His voice is hoarse: “Wish I could punch whoever made you like this.”

The next day, he brings you tea with one hand behind his back. Says, “Comin’ in slow, alright? No fast moves.” It’s a joke, but a soft one. And when you let him touch your cheek this time, he just rests his palm there. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t rush.

He learns. Slowly. Stubbornly. But he does. And when someone else startles you one day and he watches you flinch, he nearly decks them. That’s the moment you realize he never stopped thinking about it.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

❝It’s alright. I’m not like that, y’know? I’d never. You know that, right?❞

Paul notices immediately. The man’s a hawk for facial reactions. But he’s also so used to being liked that the first time you flinch at his hand brushing your shoulder, he just sort of... freezes. Then laughs. Nervously. “Alright, then,” he says, “guess I’ve got ghost hands now.”

He doesn’t think much of it. Until it happens again. And again. And suddenly it’s not funny. Suddenly, he’s rewinding every interaction in his head wondering what he said wrong. Wondering if he misread the vibe.

He starts pulling back. Subtle at first. Less touchy. Keeps space between you on the couch. Doesn’t reach for your hand unless you offer. You don’t notice at first, too deep in your own tangle of anxiety, but one day he kisses your forehead and you flinch hard, like he’d thrown something.

“...Darlin’,” he says, blinking. “That wasn’t about me, was it?”

And that’s when you explain. Quietly. Because you hadn’t wanted it to be a thing. Your last partner weaponized affection. Used it to get their way. Guilt-tripped you when you didn’t react the way they wanted. It made touch feel dangerous.

Paul listens. He looks like someone’s punched him.

After that, he’s hyper-aware. Walks into rooms slower. Talks softer. Asks every time, even if it’s just reaching for your hand. Not in a pitying way... just... careful. Respectful.

Eventually, when you start touching him first, laying your head on his shoulder, brushing your fingers over his wrist, he doesn’t say anything. Just kisses your temple like he’s praying with it.

He makes it feel safe. Like love with no strings.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

❝Didn’t think I was that scary. Bloody hell.❞

George doesn’t say anything the first time you flinch. He just frowns, narrows his eyes a bit, and files it away. He’s not one to confront shit immediately. He waits. Watches.

But it bothers him. He keeps trying to remember if he was too sharp with his voice. If he moved too fast. If he came off as angry. He doesn’t think he did, but what if you’re scared of him? That idea eats at him.

Second time it happens, he’s just standing behind you, watching you tune his guitar. He reaches forward to adjust the strings, and you startle like he yelled. And he just... goes quiet. Doesn’t even finish the sentence he’d been starting.

He doesn’t bring it up until later. But when he does, it’s in a low, very still voice: “You think I’d hurt you?”

And you panic, of course. Try to explain it all at once. How the flinching isn’t about him, it’s a leftover twitch. Your ex used to grab you when things got heated. Never left bruises, but it was always too fast. Too tight.

George listens with this expression that barely changes, but his jaw clenches. And when you finish, he just nods, then walks into another room for like five minutes. Comes back with tea and his favorite scarf and hands them both to you without comment.

He sits closer after that. Talks more. Shares songs. Starts humming when you’re around. The kind of affection that asks nothing from you. He doesn’t even bring it up again.

But when he does finally reach out, just a pinky brushing yours, you know it took effort. Not because he’s scared, but because he wants it to mean something.

He’s observant. He learns your rhythms. And when someone else startles you at a party, he moves. Fast. Steps between you and them like instinct. Doesn’t say a word. Just stares.

He makes it known....nobody’s allowed to make you flinch anymore!!

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

❝Y’don’t have to do that, y’know. I would never. Promise.❞

He notices right away, but he doesn’t react right away. That’s Ringo. Still waters. He clocks it the first time his hand brushes your lower back and you twitch under it like it burned you. His eyes narrow, not dramatically, not for show. Just... calculating. Quiet.

“What? Did I hurt you?” he asks later. Voice low. Serious. No drama in it. And you panic, of course. Try to wave it off. Say you didn’t sleep, had a spasm, anything. He doesn’t push, but he watches you closer after that. Starts piecing things together.

You think he’s backing off out of awkwardness. But he’s not. He’s watching. Learning. Taking inventory.

Then it happens again. A noticeable flinch. This time he was just leaning over you to grab something off a high shelf, no warning, no sound, and your whole body jerked. And he steps back. Looks at you differently now. Not confused. Not offended. But sober.

"You look like you’ve been hit before,” he says, quiet, like he’s not asking. “I don’t like that.”

You try to explain. Haltingly. It wasn’t that bad... but your last partner got physical during fights. Grabbed you hard. Cornered you sometimes. And yeah, you flinch now. Sometimes you don’t even notice it until it’s too late.

Ringo just nods. Like he’s confirming something he already suspected. “Yeah. Thought so.”

He just starts acting different, but subtly. More intentional. Before he touches you, he taps first. Fingertip to wrist. Elbow to shoulder. Like a heads-up. Like, “I’m here, but I won’t move till you do.”

He doesn’t make it weird. Doesn’t smother you. Just stops making you do all the emotional heavy lifting. If you flinch again? He doesn’t freeze. He just pulls his hand back and goes, “That’s alright. I’ll wait.” Like it’s no big deal. Because to him, it’s not about his feelings... it’s about your safety!

And Ringo doesn’t like anyone who fucks with your safety. You find this out later, when some drunk dude at a pub tries to grab your arm and you visibly recoil. Ringo doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t shout. Just steps between you with his body loose and calm and absolutely lethal. He stares the guy down until he stumbles away without a word.

“Don’t need to raise my voice to get rid of trash,” he tells you after. Sips his drink like it never happened.

When you finally touch him first, reach for his hand under the table, curl against him in bed without prompting, he doesn’t react big. He just laces your fingers together and murmurs, “Knew you’d come ‘round.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels

[axelakim]

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑎 𝑚𝑜𝑑𝑒𝑙 𝑔𝑖𝑟𝑙

𐙚 note ; another one that got lost to the inbox </3

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

"They only see your tits ‘cause they’re scared of your teeth."

John’s initial reaction to dating a model is possessiveness. Not the obvious kind, not a hand on your shoulder at parties or anything so banal. It’s in his jokes. The quiet flick of his eyes when someone else photographs you. The smirk he wears when people ask, “Her? Really?”

He has a thing for icons. But that also makes it hard for him to see you as soft. It takes time before he stops projecting onto you.

You’re in a magazine and he’s snide about it, even though he bought three copies. “Look at you, swanning about in a pair of feathers. Was that meant to be art?” But he won’t let anyone else speak that way.

He loves watching people react to you. Loves seeing the change in body language when you walk into a room. If someone fumbles their words? He grins. Proud. “She has that effect.”

And you intimidate him. Sometimes. In the greenroom of some shoot, you're sitting bare-faced, legs crossed, reading some philosophy book he hasn't heard of, and he's hit with the fact that you’re real. And maybe smarter than him in ways he isn’t ready for.

He gets weirdly tender when he helps you undress. Quiet. Peels the fabric off your limbs like it’s something sacred.

You say something self-critical , about your thighs, your waist , and he gets mean, but at the world. “You let them put that in your fuckin’ head? You think I give a shit about a bloody photo angle?”

He calls you “his muse” with that crooked grin, but only after you’ve already said you hate being called that.

He writes about you. Not just songs. Scrawled half-poems in the margins of his notebook. You’ve seen one.

“Your hips like comma splices. You make sense even when you shouldn’t.”

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

"Perfection’s a trick mirror, darling. You stand in it too long, you disappear."

Paul loves dating a model. Let’s be clear. There’s a performance element to it that he’s not even ashamed of. You on his arm = validation. You’re his taste made visible.

He’s always been drawn to refinement. Ballet, film stars, grace under pressure. And you, with your poise and discipline and elegant suffering, fit the image too well.

But he’s also complicated about it. Perfection is comforting , and threatening. He’ll photograph you for hours, light you just right, but if you show him pictures you love of yourself that he didn’t take, he’s quietly sulky.

When you're working nonstop, he says, “Don’t forget to eat, love,” in a lilting voice, and sometimes it pisses you off because he doesn't get how punishing the industry is.

But he tries. He asks questions. He's fascinated by your routines , the skincare, the casting rituals, the go-sees. He watches how you move backstage and thinks it's choreography.

At parties, he flaunts you just a little. Like “Look what I have the honor of going home with.”

And he loves catching people staring at you. He’ll lean in and say, “That one’s been eyein’ you all night. Shall I knock him out or let him suffer?”

One of his biggest pleasures is unmaking you. Watching your hair come down, your walk shift from runway to barefoot.

He brings you on tour and you’re in the dressing room one night, barefaced and in his shirt, and he catches you in the mirror and just freezes. He writes a song the next day.

He overreacts when you get insecure. By the way.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

"You’re not your picture. You’re the bit they never get right."

George is stunned by you. He’s not as showy as the others but he watches you constantly. You walk past in a silk robe and his eyes track every inch. Reverence, not hunger.

He used to assume models were cold, performative, hollow. But you’ve got warmth, humor, weird little rituals, and it undoes him.

“I thought you’d be posh,” he mutters once, after watching you snort-laugh at a stupid joke he made. You grin and say, “I am.”

He’s the most supportive when it comes to your work. Doesn’t flinch at long hours. Doesn’t try to own you. You tell him your schedule and he just nods. “Do what you need. I’ll be here.”

But he’s private. The idea of you being so visible unsettles him sometimes. Not because he’s jealous, he just doesn’t like to share you with the world.

He calls your modeling shots “portraits” and means it. Thinks they’re art. Quietly prints out his favorites.

Your body is sacred to him. He lights candles when he bathes you. He’ll kiss you everywhere,.

“You let them have you,” he murmurs once, post-shoot, tracing a fading contour line. “Now let me keep you.”

When you express self-doubt, he doesn’t argue. He listens. Just lies there, brushing your hair out of your eyes. “You don’t have to be beautiful for me. But you are.”

He writes you letters when you’re away. Small, full of drawings. One just says, “Everything blooms where you walk.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

"Can’t lie, I’m dating out of my league. But it’s fun up here."

Ringo absolutely treats you like a beauty queen. You're the main event. He cannot shut up about it. You're in a catalog? He's flipping it open in front of guests. You're in a perfume ad? He starts wearing the perfume.

"That's her, right there. Yeah, that’s mine. Crazy, innit?"

You catch him flipping through one of your magazines and he says, “They picked the wrong cover, love. Page 17’s the best.”

He’s affectionate. Pulls you into his lap even when you're in full makeup. Kisses your forehead when your face is powdered. Doesn’t care. He just wants you.

When you get insecure , when you say you don’t feel like yourself anymore, or you’re scared you’re just a pretty thing , he’s so real about it.

“You’re not just one thing,” he says. “You’re brilliant. You’re funny. You make the best eggs I’ve ever had. Who cares if you look like a dream when you do it?”

He’s delighted by everything you wear. Feathered sleeves? “Elegant.” Floor-length fur coat? “Mob wife, but hot.” Jeans and nothing else? “Fashion.”

If someone tries to be snide , says something backhanded like “must be hard to keep up with a model,” he’ll blink slow and go, “Yeah, it is. I train daily. Push-ups, vitamins, moisturizing. You should try it.”

He keeps clippings of your ads in a scrapbook he won’t let you see. “Private archive,” he says. “For historians.”

....

He also cannot take pictures of you to save his life.

He loves when you walk into a room and heads turn. He watches the heads turn. He beams. “That’s right. Rotate for royalty.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @silly-lil-lee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince, @emz2092

[axelakim]

heyyyy!! i reached 1k on my tiktok account (yayyy)!! i thought i was add the edit here as well 🫶🏼 please feel free to give us a follow on there @ oldschoolmaniaa on tiktok ✨

[axelakim]

hallo lovee may u pls pls pls feed us george harrison smut. perhaps w overstimulation too THANK U OK BYE

𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖 (𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉)

꒰ pairing ꒱ george harrison x reader

꒰ contains ꒱ nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, overstimulation, george being very patient and mean at the same time

꒰ summary ꒱ george hasn’t seen you in weeks and he’s ravenous.

꒰ note ꒱ runs into george's sticky beatle fringe

The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Just a muted snap of wood and lock as George dropped his guitar case by the wall and stood still in the middle of the hotel room.

His fringe hung low over his eyes, dark and damp from the walk from the car. The collar of his shirt was askew, he’d been tugging at it, apparently, somewhere between the interview and here. You watched him from the chair, where you were curled in one of his old shirts, knees drawn up, book open but unread in your lap.

He looked like he’d been holding his breath for a week.

And when he saw you, he exhaled.

“There you are,” he said, voice low and rough with road-wear. He toed his boots off without looking away from you. “You don’t know what it’s been like, luv. All week. I’ve been goin’ off my nut.”

You smiled, half-teasing. “Ringo called. Said you cried on the plane.”

George scowled, stepping closer, unbuttoning his jacket.

“He’s a bleedin’ liar.”

“You missed me.”

“I need you,” he corrected sharply, eyes dark. “Couldn’t think straight, not with your voice stuck in me head, not with your smell all over my pillows.”

You didn’t have time to respond. His arms wrapped around you from behind in a hard pull, breath warm at the curve of your neck, and you melted straight into him like sugar on the stove.

“Missed you,” he murmured, and it was almost slurred, like the words hurt to say. “God, I fuckin’ missed you.”

His nose buried against your skin. You turned in his arms, hands splayed over his back, and caught your first full look at him: tousled hair, soft in the fringe, eyes rimmed dark like he hadn’t slept properly in days. But the way he looked at you, hungry. Like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss you or drop to his knees.

“George,” you breathed.

He kissed you. Just once, a firm press of lips to yours, and then again harder, deeper, his mouth warm and plush and needy, like he had to drink you in or die. His hands gripped your waist tight enough to ache. You moaned against him and felt it send a shock through his spine, the way his hips jolted forward like he’d barely touched you and already couldn’t take it.

“Didn’t even mean to go so long,” he said against your lips, ragged. “They said it’d be two weeks, was nearly four, ‘bout lost my mind.”

You stroked the back of his neck, your nails gently scratching under his hair. He shuddered, forehead resting against yours.

“‘Swear,” he mumbled, “I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout you all night, every night. Can’t fuckin’ sleep, can’t think. Just me hand in the shower like a fuckin’ teenager.”

You flushed hot. “Yeah?”

He grinned, slow and dark. “Yeah. But not like it helped. Never works. Just makes me want you more.”

His mouth was back on you in seconds, greedy now, tongue licking into yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip like he’d forgotten what kissing felt like. And maybe he had. Maybe he’d been so deprived he’d started inventing you in dreams just to remember the taste.

He didn’t carry you to bed, he yanked you off the chair and pressed you to the nearest wall, lifting your leg around his hip, kissing down your throat like a man gone blind with it. His hands tore at your clothes, unbuttoning and unzipping with frantic precision, dragging fabric off your body like it offended him to see it in the way. By the time you were naked from the waist up, he was already sinking to his knees, hands on your thighs.

“Fuckin’ look at you,” he breathed. “Christ alive. Never seen anything so lovely.”

He kissed your stomach. Your hip. Dragged his lips down your belly with almost painful tenderness, like he had to re-familiarize himself with every inch. When he got to your underwear, he hesitated.

“Can I?”

You nodded fast. “God, yes.”

He mouthed at the wet fabric first, breathing hard. “All soaked and I’ve not even touched you yet.”

You whimpered.

He pulled them down slowly, watching the way the wet center clung to you. He hissed.

Then his mouth was on you.

You almost collapsed.

Tongue flat, slow at first, then faster, then pointed, flicking your clit with wet pressure, sucking it between his lips until you cried out. His hands pinned your hips to the wall, and he groaned against you like you were the one giving head. He licked you through your slick like a starving man, like he’d waited years, like nothing mattered but how wet and warm and perfect you were around his mouth.

“George-fuck, fuck-”

You were grinding on his face now, his nose brushing your clit with every pass, and he loved it. He moaned like he was drunk on you, like he could stay down there for hours, and when your knees buckled he held you there, one hand slipping between your legs so he could fuck you with two long fingers while he sucked.

Your orgasm hit like lightning, sudden, shaking, full-body, and he didn’t stop. He kept going, dragging it out until your thighs were trembling and you were writhing against his mouth, begging:

“Too much, please, fuck-”

He looked up, chin soaked, eyes wild. “More,” he said, and grinned. “One more. Gimme another.”

And you did.

You came again, even harder, hips spasming in his grip, your voice nearly breaking from the overstimulation, but he held you steady, whispered shhh, shhh, good, as you shook against him.

When he finally pulled away, he looked wrecked. Hair in his eyes, lips pink and slick, chest rising hard. You were still clinging to the wall, panting, boneless.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

He stood, kissed you sloppy and deep, making you taste yourself on his tongue. His cock was hard against you through his trousers, so hot it burned.

“Bed,” he said, and it wasn’t a suggestion.

You didn’t remember how you got there. One second you were dizzy in his arms, the next you were on your back, legs open, George’s shirt unbuttoned and tossed aside, his belt hitting the floor.

You reached for him.

He grabbed your wrists gently, pinned them above your head.

“Not yet. M’not done with you.”

He kissed down your chest, sucked your nipple into his mouth, groaned at the taste of your skin. “Want you beggin’ again. Want you cryin’ for it.”

You moaned, legs parting further. “Georgw, please, need you-”

“You’ll get me,” he said, sliding a hand between your thighs again. “But not ‘til I’m done. Not ‘til I’ve got every sound outta you. Yeah?”

You nodded, desperate.

He grinned.

And then he devoured you again.

This time it was slower. Meaner. He licked up and down your slit like he was teasing himself as much as you, sucking your clit just enough to make your hips jump, then easing off, whispering filth against your skin.

“You get tighter when I talk, y’know that? Can feel you clench every time I say something filthy.”

You sobbed.

His fingers pushed back in, curling just right, and you came again with a gasp that cracked open your chest. Your vision blurred. Your voice was gone.

But George didn’t stop.

He kissed your inner thigh, and kept going.

You were writhing now, incoherent, begging and babbling and grabbing at the sheets. Your clit was so swollen it hurt, your cunt still fluttering from your last orgasm, and he was still tongue-deep in you, like he could chase a fourth out of you just because he wanted to.

“Can’t,” you gasped.

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice husky. “You’re gonna give it to me. I know you are. Know this body better than you do.”

He eventually pulled back. Only then did he kiss up your trembling stomach, whispering soft, frantic things, so good, that’s it, never seen anything like it, you’re a fuckin’ miracle, as he crawled up your body.

He kissed your face all over, cheeks, forehead, the tip of your nose. Your chest still heaved.

Then you felt him, hot and hard between your thighs.

And for one awful, perfect second you realized,

He hadn’t even fucked you yet.

“Can you take me?” he asked, and his voice was wrecked. Barely a whisper. “Or d’you want me to wait?”

You whimpered, hips tilting up. “Want you now.”

He swore under his breath.

He slid in slowly, inch by inch, deeper than any toy or finger, stretching you wide. You cried out, and he groaned loud, both hands gripping your waist like he needed to ground himself or lose control.

He fucked you slow at first, watching your face. Watching the way your mouth fell open, your hands gripped his arms, your thighs shook. Then he picked up speed, hips slapping yours, cock dragging against every perfect spot, your body still soaked from everything he’d pulled out of you.

You were crying again, full tears this time, overwhelmed and floating.

“Too much?” he asked, but his voice cracked, he was so close.

You shook your head.

He groaned in relief, fucked you harder.

He growled, “Want you leakin’ me for days. You’ll smell like me, taste like me, won’t forget me.”

You came again. Just from that.

And that was what did it. He buried himself deep, cursed your name, and spilled inside you with a groan so guttural it didn’t sound human.

When he finally collapsed beside you, both of you covered in sweat and come, he dragged you into his chest and didn’t say a word. Just held you, shaking.

You whispered, voice hoarse, “Still alive?”

He let out a laugh, muffled against your neck. “Barely.”

You smiled, drifting.

And then: “Might have to marry you after that.”

You snorted, kissed his throat. “You fuckin’ better.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee

[axelakim]

HEY ITS UR BESTIE💥💥

I saw a gif of George smoking on Twitter and it made me go crazy so I would like to request some smut with George that involves shotgunning maybe? I just hate that the Beatles look really good when they smoke 😩😩

𝑏𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 | george harrison x reader

𐙚 contains ; nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, shotgunning

𐙚 summary ; it’s late, george has a joint, you’ve got your legs in his lap. things escalate the way they always do: with smoke, smirks, and that filthy mouth of his.

𐙚 note ; you are so RIGHT for this. george smoking and that lazy lil smirk?! BUSSAANUUUTTT!! i’d ruin my life!!! ARGG!!!

It’s after midnight when he pulls the joint from behind his ear like a magician revealing his final trick, sly grin catching the low light.

You’re cross-legged on the floor in one of his shirts, legs bare, feet cold on the old rug. His fingers are in your hair, lazy. He likes touching you when he’s high. Likes touching you when he’s not. Either way, you end up in his lap more often than not.

George flicks the lighter with a little snap of his thumb and leans back against the old sofa with a satisfied groan. His hair's falling into his eyes, a little damp at the nape. His shirt’s unbuttoned halfway down, collar loose, chest showing just enough to distract you.

“Y’ever done this?” he asks, cocking a brow as he brings the joint to his mouth, lighting it. “Properly, I mean.”

You blink. “Weed?”

He exhales. The smoke curls out in lazy streams, curling around his tongue. He lets it drift toward the ceiling. “Shotgunnin’.”

You cough out a laugh. “Like kissing?”

“Sort of.” He takes another drag, long and deep, holds it in his lungs, then reaches out and hooks a finger under your chin. His voice is velvet-dark. “Let me show you.”

You let him pull you in, knees sliding across the rug until you're between his thighs. His hand cups your jaw, thumb tracing your cheek.

“Open,” he says.

You do.

He leans in close, nose brushing yours, and exhales directly into your mouth. You inhale out of instinct, your lips parting wider around the breath he gives you, warm and thick with smoke. It tastes like him, sharp and earthy and faintly minty from his gum.

His mouth is still there when you breathe out, lips ghosting yours. The contact lingers. He watches you, eyes half-lidded.

“There y’go,” he murmurs. “Not bad, eh?”

You shake your head a little, dizzy from the rush and the heat. “Do it again.”

He grins, slow and knowing.

The next time, he presses his mouth to yours as he exhales, proper now, the kiss lingering as the smoke fills your chest. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth on the exhale and lets it go with a little tsk.

“You’re gonna make me fuckin��� wreck you if you keep lookin’ at me like that,” he mumbles, hand dropping to your thigh.

Your voice comes out hoarse. “Who says I’m not already wrecked?”

His mouth twitches. Then he sets the joint down in the ashtray on the windowsill, not even bothering to stub it out. His attention’s fully on you now, his eyes flicking down to your lips, then to your neck, your bare thighs bunched under his shirt.

“You sittin’ there in my clothes, beggin’ for it with your eyes, what am I meant to do, eh?” he asks, rough now, one hand dragging slowly up your inner thigh. “You gettin’ off on it? Bein’ smoked out?”

You nod without thinking. He laughs under his breath, but it sounds more like a growl. His hand reaches the hem of the shirt, fingers skating up under it, warm and calloused.

“God, you’re unreal. Warm everywhere.“

You whimper when he touches you properly. His palm cups you through your underwear, firm pressure making your hips jump. His fingers are cold against the thin fabric. He grins, filthy.

“You are wet. Knew it.”

He shifts on the couch, spreading his thighs wider. His hands find your waist and tug you forward until you're straddling his lap, breath coming fast.

You rut against him, shameless. He’s hard in his trousers, and the friction sends heat racing through your spine.

But then he pauses, one hand slipping to your lower back to still you, the other moving down between your bodies, his brow furrowed with something more urgent now. “Hold on.”

He leans back just enough to unfasten his trousers, quick and practiced, lifting his hips to shove them down along with his briefs. His cock springs free, flushed and already wet at the tip from how long he’s been grinding against you through all that teasing. He kicks the pants off completely, a little clumsily, with one heel catching on the fabric for a second before they fall forgotten to the floor. Then he’s bare beneath you, hot skin against yours, not even a whisper between you now.

“There,” he breathes, exhaling like it’s a relief. His eyes drag over your body like he’s memorizing the view.

He yanks your shirt over your head, “Off,”

The cotton bunches under your arms for a moment, dragged clumsily over your head, and then you’re bare before him in the amber haze of his flat, skin flushed from heat and smoke and the way his eyes are raking over every inch of you like he’s starving. His pupils are blown wide. He doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze drags down your chest to your stomach, your thighs straddled over his, the sharp hitch in your breath.

He exhales hard through his nose, reverent. “Look at you...”

His hands find your stomach, thumbs grazing upward until his palms cup your chest, gentle at first, then more possessive. He’s got that look again, quiet and intense, like you’re not even real, like he can’t quite believe you’re letting him touch you.

You lean in and press your mouth to his, slow, at first. Not demanding. You kiss him like you’re trying to feed him something warm. He breathes through his nose, arms wrapping tight around your waist, and it’s only when you grind your hips down over the hard line of his cock that he breaks the kiss with a moan.

“Y’drive me mad when you do that,” he mumbles against your jaw, teeth grazing.

You do it again, on purpose, and his head drops to your shoulder as his hips buck once, involuntary. You feel the tremor in his thighs beneath you.

“I’m gonna take these off,” he mutters, already pushing at your underwear. “Right now.”

You lift yourself up just enough for him to pull the last of the fabric down and off. Then you’re skin to skin, his hands on your hips, and your breath catches when the head of his cock brushes the inside of your thigh.

He doesn’t move to fuck you yet. Just sits there, breathing heavily, eyes tracing every inch of you like he’s afraid he’ll forget. His fingers rub slow circles into your hips.

“You alright?” you ask, voice small.

His eyes flick up to meet yours. He nods.

“Just…” He swallows. “You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous like this. Can’t believe I get to have you.”

Your heart clenches.

And then he grins, all mischief again. “Can’t believe you’re naked in my lap and still let me get high first.”

You laugh, sharp and warm. “You’re the one who started it.”

He reaches for the joint again, wedged in the ashtray on the sill. Lights it, takes a long drag, his head tilted back just enough to expose his throat. There’s a thin sheen of sweat there, glinting in the dim light.

You lean forward, hand curled around his neck, and tilt his face to yours.

His mouth quirks. He leans in and exhales slowly between your parted lips, hot smoke curling down your throat, into your chest. You choke on it slightly, cough once into the kiss, and he smiles against your mouth.

“Not used to takin’ it like that, eh?”

You narrow your eyes and lick his bottom lip, slow and deliberate. “Try me.”

That gets a groan out of him.

He sets the joint aside once again and suddenly grips your waist, guiding you upward. The heat of his cock nudges your entrance, thick, flushed, slicked already from how long he’s been grinding up against you.

You sink down slow, inch by inch, and his face breaks.

His mouth falls open, brows knit tight. “Oh, Jesus,”

You both stay still once you’re seated fully, breath trembling. He’s so deep it aches. You can feel his heart beating against your chest, fast and heavy.

Your hips roll. He gasps.

You start moving then, slowly, deliberately, riding him with a rhythm that makes your whole body sing. George’s hands grip your waist like he’s anchoring himself, guiding your movements just enough to drive himself crazy.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasps. “Gonna ruin me.”

You smile through your panting. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

His head tilts back against the couch, throat exposed. You lean forward and suck at the base of his neck, leaving teeth and spit behind. His moan rips through the room.

Your rhythm builds. The slap of skin on skin. The soft creak of the couch. The obscene sound of you both, slick and loud and utterly unbothered by the world outside.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he groans. “Squeezin’ me like you want to make me come first.”

You nod, dizzy with it. “I do.”

You cry out as his fingers find your clit again, slick and aching, and rub in tight, desperate circles, no preamble, no tease, just pressure and intent. Your body jerks like a livewire under him, your thighs trembling where they’re spread wide over his hips, and your nails dig harder into his shoulders, half in reflex, half to anchor yourself as the pleasure coils in your gut like a fuse burning fast toward detonation.

He feels it. Hears it in your breath going ragged. Sees it in your eyes, glazed and fluttering.

“C’mon,” he pants, mouth hot and damp against your jaw, his thrusts going ragged and deep, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you. “Come on my cock. Come for me, yeah?”

You try to answer, but your throat won’t obey, only a breathless moan escapes, high and breaking. Your stomach clenches. Then the dam bursts.

It slams through you, full-body, spine arching, thighs tightening around his waist, pussy clamping down around him so tight he nearly sobs.

Your voice is cracked, lost in the wave cresting through you. You shake as it hits, hips jerking helplessly, every nerve lit and sparking. You don’t come, you're torn apart by it. Pleasure snaps and floods, fast and hard, overwhelming.

George doesn’t stop. Not for a second. His fingers keep working your clit, slick with your come now, and his cock keeps thrusting into your pulsing cunt like he’s chasing your orgasm into the very center of you, like he wants to grind it deeper, make it last.

You moan again, this time more guttural, overstimulated, legs shaking. He fucks through it, voice low and wrecked in your ear.

“You’re squeezin’ me so tight-bloody hell, you’re still comin’, aren’t you?”

You nod, more of a twitch, really, and he laughs, low and breathless, mouth open against your cheek.

“You’re perfect."

You can’t move, limp and boneless now, gasping. But he’s relentless. He grabs your hips, slick fingers sinking in, and fucks up into you with a new kind of urgency, fast and filthy and deep enough to punch the air from your lungs. You groan, brain molten, still twitching from aftershocks.

“You gonna let me fill you up now?” he mutters, teeth grazing your cheek, his voice all gravel and heat.

You nod again, weak, eyes rolling back.

He groans as he chases his own edge, every muscle straining, his thrusts turning erratic, hips jerking up into you with raw, gasping intensity.

He spills inside you with a shout, hips bucking, cock throbbing deep in your cunt as he fills you up, thick and hot. He bites into your shoulder to muffle the sound, growling low as he empties himself in pulsing waves.

You both shudder together, bodies clinging, sweat-slick and trembling.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just holds you there, buried deep, breath ragged against your neck. His arms loop tight around your back, as if afraid to let you go, like he’s still feeling you from the inside.

You collapse against him, cheek to his chest, the rhythm of his heart hammering under your ear.

He kisses your temple, soft now. Reverent.

The room smells like sex and weed and sweat. The joint’s ember still glows faintly in the ashtray, forgotten. Everything around you hums with the thick, slow buzz of too much, too much pleasure, too much need, too much love.

You breathe in. Exhale with a shaky laugh. Your cunt’s still fluttering around him, twitching with the echo of your orgasm.

“Wanna do it again,” you mumble, voice wrecked and dreamy.

George lets out a strangled laugh, pulling you closer like you’re his favorite drug.

“Let me catch my fuckin’ breath, you ruddy maniac.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee, @alanangels, @wisepainterprince