sharksausages

[sharksausages]

[sharksausages]

Just a dom eye-fucking his sub and asserting dominance, as he should.

[sharksausages]

[sharksausages]

🎶 Want a horse, I want a sheep

I wanna get me a good night's sleep

Livin' in a home in the heart of the country 🎶

[sharksausages]

while my guitar cries so hard it throws up

[sharksausages]

I love it when he does that.

[sharksausages]

we're going back in time to the first circlejerk to get starrison ON THE MENU

[sharksausages]

Every time I see McBeardy I understand John’s level of delusion. Fumbling him would drive me to do terrible things I fear.

[sharksausages]

HIIIII HI!!!

I had the sweetest idea that I think you’ll like (if you haven’t done it already!!)

But imagine, the boys teaching you how to play an instrument….and it’s all like cute n stuff..

You could like do all of em or just one of em whatever you feel like doing! :3

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝑒𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑢𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑠

𐙚 note ; I LOVE THIS IDEA!! i’ll do all four ‘cause you deserve nothing less xoxo

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

“If I knew you’d look that good fumblin’ with strings, I’d have broken that guitar weeks ago.”

John insists on teaching you guitar, and it’s his guitar. Like, his actual one.

He passes it to you like he’s lending you a limb and then stares like he expects miracles.

The second you mess up, he makes a face. “Oh, bloody hell, that was tragic.”

“I’m learning!”

“So was I when I was fourteen.”

But then he snickers and ruffles your hair and says, “Nah, go on. S’cute when you try.”

He doesn’t teach the traditional way. He doesn’t name chords or use sheet music. He just shows you where to put your fingers and makes you copy him until it sounds right.

“Like that. Yeah, yeah, no, that’s it, well, nearly. You’re stranglin’ it a bit. Be gentle, not like you’re wringin’ its neck.”

Has no patience for slow practice, but infinite patience for you.

He’ll groan and whine and tell you you’re hopeless, but never actually walks away. He likes being needed too much!!

When you strum something that even vaguely resembles a song, he gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, you've done it! Call the press!”

He plays behind you sometimes, arms over your shoulders, hands guiding yours. “Like this,” he murmurs in your ear. You’re not sure if you’re blushing or just overheating from the proximity.

When you get frustrated, he gets very weirdly earnest. “Hey. Don’t get pissy. You’re not s’posed to be good straightaway. S’bout the trying. Y’look good when you’re all concentrated.”

Eventually you manage to play something passable. He pulls out a harmonica and starts jamming along. “Look at us. Fuckin’ Lennon-McCartney and you.”

“Thanks.”

“S’a compliment.”

“Barely.”

“I’m kissin’ you now, shut up.”

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll get it. And if not… I’ll just keep makin’ you try.”

Paul chooses bass for you. Not guitar, not piano. Bass. “S’sexier,” he says, not bothering to explain, and then just watches your hands fumble with the neck like he’s witnessing a private performance.

He’s leaning on the wall with one arm folded and one leg bent, looking at you like he’s waiting for your soul to rise out of your body.

Every time you hit a wrong note, he doesn’t correct you, he smiles.

“No, no, not like that,” he says, stepping forward to adjust your grip. His hands are warm. His fingers wrap around yours, fixing the placement.

“There. That’s it. You feel the string hummin’ there? Like it wants to behave now?”

You make eye contact and he just stares, all eyebrows and soft lips.

He says you’ve got good rhythm, “even if your hands are thick as pudding.” He says this while kissing your fingertips, so the insult doesn’t land, and you let him get away with it.

Teaches you by making you play along to his tracks. He pulls out a demo tape and points:

“You hear that part? That’s me. Now you do it.” You’re like “Paul, that’s you,” and he says, “Right. So do it better.”

He’ll play along with you, but only after watching you squirm for a bit. His fingers fly over his own bass, barely watching, showing off. You scowl. He grins. “Jealous?”

After a while he stops coaching and just watches you play. Sometimes closes his eyes.

When you get a riff right, he grabs you like he can’t help it, arms around your waist, face in your neck. “Knew you had it in you,” he murmurs, and you feel the words settle right between your ribs.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

“You don’t have to impress me. But if you keep practicing like that, you might.”

George wants to teach you lead guitar. Because he’s a snob and wants to show off.

“You hold it well,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek like that’s all he has to say.

His lessons are meticulous. He’ll correct your posture, your finger placement, your vibe.

You get all flustered and mess up, and he just sighs and leans over you, his long fingers slowly repositioning yours. “No, here. Not there. You feel the difference?”

He shows you scales first, then little licks. You ask if he’s ever gonna teach you a full song. “Not ‘til your fingers stop squeakin’ like a broken window.”

He won’t admit it, but he loves watching your hands learn!

He watches you all the time, pretending he’s focused on the guitar, but no, he’s looking at you.

Occasionally you’ll hit a note just right, and he’ll nod once. “There. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” You’ll glow.

When you’re discouraged, he turns more serious. “It’s hard. Took me a while. You’re doing good. Don’t stop.”

On rare days, he brings out one of his acoustic guitars and teaches you fingerpicking. “It’s worth it.” He plays something haunting and gorgeous and then hands it to you like, “Here. Your turn.” You try. You fail. He just chuckles and says, “We’ll get there.”

Once, when you’re particularly pouty, he kisses your knuckles and murmurs, “You’re not terrible. Yet.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

“It’s not about being perfect, y’know. It’s about making a mess and still finding the beat.”

Ringo doesn’t even ask. You mention once that you think drums are cool, and the next thing you know, he’s hauling out his practice kit and beaming.

“Sit,” he says. You sit. The throne squeaks under you. “Hold the sticks like this.”

His hands are surprisingly firm when he corrects your grip. “Like snakes. Don’t strangle ‘em. Just let ‘em breathe.”

You think you’re doing great until he taps your shoulder. “You’re off.”

“Off what?”

“Everything.”

But he’s never cruel! He just grins at your frustration and says, “Try again. You’re gettin’ it.”

He claps along to help you find the rhythm. Sometimes hums a bassline. Sometimes drums on his thighs. You realize pretty quick that he feels music in his bones.

If you mess up too bad, he tickles you. “That’s what you get for rushin’ the hi-hat.”

He teaches you little fills and cheers every time you don’t fuck them up. “There they are! Told you you had soul in ya.”

When you finally manage to sync up a full rhythm, he stands and does a ridiculous little dance. Wow. Weird.

“Don’t laugh,” he says. “That was celebratory. We’re makin’ art here.”

He’ll never let you quit. If you get down on yourself, he just shrugs. “So? We’ll try tomorrow. And the day after that. I’ve got time.”

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

[sharksausages]

Magma from today!

[sharksausages]

𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 | paul mccartney x reader

𐙚 summary ; after a show, paul's arms are full of fan gifts and he offers you a single daisy in passing, thinking nothing of it. but the next time, he hands you another. and another.

𐙚 note ; a bit lazy but enjoy anyway! i think i hate this but i worked too hard on it </3

The hallway smelled like sweat, hairspray, and adrenaline.

You’d been working behind the scenes long enough that you didn’t flinch when the band came charging offstage like a pack of wild animals, shirts clinging to their backs, laughter echoing against the walls. Someone nearly ran into you, Ringo, maybe, and offered a breathless apology as he disappeared down the corridor.

Paul was the last to come off, arms full. He was cradling what looked like a ridiculous amount of offerings from the press? Fans? You didn't know. Just bouquets in wild arrangements of lilies, roses, some floppy thing you suspected was a peony, along with plush animals, and a pink feather boa that had gotten tangled around the corner of one box. His arms were full like a bad magician mid-performance. He looked like he was trying to laugh without dropping anything.

You caught the door before it swung shut on him, palm flattening against the metal with a hollow thunk. It would've smacked him right in the shoulder otherwise.

He turned his head, brushing hair out of his eyes with a sharp puff of breath and gave you a grateful, crooked smile. His cheeks were flushed from the stage lights, or maybe the sprint. "Ta."

“Busy night?” you asked, eyes flicking to the growing tower of gifts he was awkwardly balancing against his chest.

“They keep throwin’ 'em,” he said with a dramatic little huff, nudging a teddy bear back into place with his chin.

You laughed, stepping aside so he could shuffle through the door. “Occupational hazard.”

“Tell me about it,” he muttered, barely holding on as a crinkly paper-wrapped bouquet started to slide from the pile. He jerked to catch it, nearly dropped the whole lot, and muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “bloody circus.”

You reached out instinctively, grabbing one of the envelopes before it could flutter to the ground. He glanced over in surprise, then grinned. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I try.”

He jostled the armful of gifts higher, then paused, gaze darting to the floor.

Something had slipped out of the mess, barely a whisper of motion, but he caught it fast. A daisy. One lonely little flower, thin-stemmed and perfect in its simplicity, lying on the scuffed tile like it had been placed there on purpose.

“Bugger,” he murmured, crouching fast despite the precarious load. You could see his leg wobble a bit from the sudden bend, but he still moved like someone used to being watched, carefully, casually, aware of his own rhythm.

He almost dropped everything in the process, wobbled, caught it against his chest with a hiss of victory, and then pinched the daisy delicately between two fingers. He stared at it for a beat longer than expected, like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Then his eyes ticked up to you, unreadable for just a second.

“They gave me too many flowers,” he said simply, voice dry but light. “You want one?”

You blinked, slightly caught off guard. “Oh. Sure.”

Without another word, he slipped the daisy into your hand. It was still warm from his fingers, the stem bent slightly from being crushed under everything else. A little lopsided. A little bruised. You couldn’t stop staring at it.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He was already halfway down the hall by then, muttering something about needing a bigger bloody crate as he bumped open the dressing room door with his hip. It swung wide, letting out a sudden burst of noise, George laughing, someone’s voice raised in a terrible falsetto, and then it thudded shut again, muffling the chaos.

You stood there for a moment longer, the daisy pinched between your fingers like it might dissolve if you held it wrong. You looked at it again. Just a flower. One of dozens.

You didn’t think much of it.

━━

The next city, it happened again.

Detroit. Cold and humming. The venue was some cavernous theater with echoing stairwells and the constant hiss of the heating system kicking on and off. You were mid-haul, lugging a coiled cable loop around your neck like a necklace of thorns and dragging a speaker on a dolly that squeaked just a little too much with every bump in the floor. The concrete corridor smelled of coffee and old leather seats, and your shirt was sticking to your back in patches from the effort.

You were rounding the corner near the back corridor, one of those dim halls that always looked the same no matter the city, gray paint, flickering bulb overhead, some forgotten metal door halfway down with peeling paint around the knob. You weren’t expecting to see anyone.

But then Paul came striding through the shadow like something out of déjà vu, arms full again. A crumpled bouquet was tucked under his chin, pressed precariously between his collarbone and jaw. He looked like he'd just escaped another shower of gifts and barely survived the onslaught. There was a feather boa hanging off his shoulder, again. A beaded bracelet clung to his wrist that definitely wasn’t his. And confetti, you noticed, tiny scraps of red and gold still clinging to his hair.

He spotted you before you had time to duck out of the way.

He slowed, barely, but he paused long enough to look at you. That same little smile spread across his face, the one that curled at the corners like he was keeping something to himself.

Then, without ceremony, “Here.”

His hand dipped into the mess, fingers searching through the foliage and paper like he knew exactly what he was after. A second later, he emerged triumphant with a single flower, bright yellow, slightly battered, petals turned up like a sun in mid-sneeze. A daisy again. It was almost comical how direct it was, how unthinking, like it was simply what he did now.

He handed it to you with the same familiarity as someone giving you a pencil or passing the salt at dinner. No big gesture. No winking.

You stared at it in your palm, thumb brushing one soft petal.

“Getting a collection,” you muttered, more to yourself than him, voice half-swallowed by the creaking of the dolly behind you.

And maybe you imagined it, but he glanced back and grinned.

━━

After the third time, you stopped pretending it wasn’t a thing.

You never brought it up, never teased or joked or tried to make it into anything bigger than what it was. You didn’t need to. It had a rhythm of its own now, quiet and reliable, unspoken but unmistakable. A ritual, almost. Every city, every show, without fail, he found you. Just once. Just briefly.

Always when your hands were full, or when you were mid-task, coiling wires, hauling a mic stand, checking setlists against taped-up venue maps. He’d appear like the second act of some play only you two knew the script for, arms full of stuff, always carrying too much, and somehow still managing to unearth a single daisy like it had been waiting just for you.

“Too many flowers again,” he’d mutter offhandedly, eyes flicking to yours as if the moment wasn’t worth more than a shrug.

“This one looks like you,” he said in Toronto, completely deadpan, even as a stuffed parrot slipped from the pile and bounced off his boot. It didn't look like you, by the way, he just didn't know what to say... leaving you utterly confused.

In Atlanta, he passed you the daisy one-handed while balancing LPs and a gift bag. “It was either this or another pink bra,” he said, and kept walking like he hadn’t just detonated your entire pulse.

It was never anything but a daisy.

He never made a show of it. Never lingered too long after. He’d press the stem into your hand and vanish, leaving you standing there with something small and bright.

You started keeping them.

You didn’t really decide to. They just… stayed. The first ended up pressed into the back flap of your notebook, forgotten until you flipped the page and there it was, pale, dry, but still whole. The next got tucked into the zipped mesh inside your suitcase, fragile against your socks. One made its way into your wallet, slipped between two receipts and a folded stage pass. Another, you pinned absently to the edge of your mirror in the dressing room, and then never moved it again.

You didn’t mean to collect them like that. But you couldn’t throw them away!

At some point, you started to expect them.

One night, after a show in San Francisco, you caught him before he could vanish again.

The venue that night was tight and clattering, the backstage maze-like, dressing rooms practically on top of each other. Everyone was buzzing after the set, George strumming something nonsensical, Ringo tossing grapes into someone’s cup, John howling with laughter at a joke no one else had heard. You could still feel the leftover bass in your ribcage, the electric thrum of it sticking to your skin.

Paul had just given you the daisy, delicate and already wilting a little at the edge like it had been picked too early.

He turned, ready to vanish again into the churn of bodies and post-show static.

“Wait.”

He paused. Turned slowly. One brow arched, eyes soft with post-performance adrenaline and the curl of a half-smile already in place.

You held up the daisy between your fingers.

“Why daisies?”

He blinked once, then shrugged. “They’re easy,” he said.

You gave him a look. “That’s it?”

“Yeah,” he said again. But then something shifted, his expression softened, more earnest now, and he took half a step closer without seeming to realize it. “And I like seein’ you holdin’ ’em.”

Something fluttered in your chest.

“Oh,” you said.

He smiled and walked off.

You stared down at the flower.

Oh.

━━

By the time you reached Chicago, you’d started anticipating it.

Not just hoping, expecting. That quiet flutter in your chest had become something steadier now, a soft, persistent pulse that kept time with the rhythm of the road, the venues, the cities changing like scenery in a dream. You didn’t look for Paul outright, but your eyes wandered whenever a show ended. You lingered near places he might pass... cord-strewn back corridors, loading zones that still echoed with amps, corners behind dressing rooms where the buzz dulled into silence. Always just long enough. Just in case.

He found you anyway. Sometimes backstage, sometimes near the vans, once while you were half-asleep with your cheek resting against a crate, half-dreaming of someone tuning a guitar in the next room. You hadn’t even registered the sound of his steps until he crouched down beside you and slipped a daisy into your hand, like a passing ghost. You’d blinked at him in a daze, and he’d only smiled and touched your wrist briefly before standing and disappearing again.

And each time, your heart did something stupid and soft and involuntary in your chest, a gentle stutter that made your fingertips tingle and your thoughts blur into static.

The others started to notice.

“Paul givin’ you those on purpose?” Ringo asked, peering at the daisy behind your ear.

You shrugged, fighting the warmth crawling up your neck. “I think he just doesn’t know what to do with them.”

But even you didn’t believe that anymore.

One night, late, after a show that had run long and left everyone strung out and scattered, you found him sitting alone in the hotel lounge. The lights were low, casting the room in amber and gold, and the air buzzed faintly from the vending machine humming by the ice buckets. The others had vanished, some to bars, some to sleep, some into city streets with cigarettes in their mouths and hotel keys in their pockets.

Paul was nursing a drink. A small one. Clear. His fingers curled loosely around the glass as he stared off toward nothing, humming something tuneless under his breath, head tilted slightly like he was listening to it evolve as it formed.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, then walked over.

He looked up when he saw you. His eyes lit the way they always did when you were near, like he’d been waiting without realizing it.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Too tired to throw flowers tonight?” you asked, slipping into the seat beside him.

He laughed, that soft-edged laugh he only used when the world was quiet. “Ran out of daisies.”

“Unthinkable,” you murmured, and he grinned into his drink.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was. There was something easy about being next to him when everything else had fallen away, the shouting, the setlists, the heat of stage lights and the cold slap of wind outside the van door.

After a long pause, he spoke again.

“Do you keep 'em?”

You turned your head slowly. His eyes were still on his glass, but there was something a little tight in his voice. Hopeful. Hesitant.

You hesitated too. Then: “Yeah.”

He smiled into his drink again. A small, private smile like a secret had just been confirmed.

“Thought maybe you would.”

You watched him, watched the way his hands flexed around the glass, the slight blush of color on his cheeks from the lingering buzz of alcohol or maybe something else entirely.

“Why do you give them to me?” you asked, soft, but steady. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just wanting to understand the language he’d been speaking to you one petal at a time.

He was quiet a long time.

“I dunno. I think… I just like knowin’ they go somewhere. Not sure what I'm gonna do with 'em.”

You nodded slowly, eyes dropping to your lap. Your fingers brushed together, aching to hold something, maybe another daisy, maybe him.

“And I like you,” he added, suddenly. The words came out quick, like a breath he hadn’t planned to release. A confession unspooled before he could decide if he meant to say it out loud.

Your heart flipped. Actually flipped. Not just a flutter this time. It somersaulted in your chest like it had been waiting weeks to do so.

You looked at him again. His eyes met yours, steady, clear.

You didn't know what to say.

━━

The two of you hung out outside the hotel that night. Just the two of you, half-perched on a curb like teenagers killing time, your knees brushing every so often. There was a soda between you, half-finished and going flat. You passed it back and forth without saying much.

It was soft. A little uncertain. The way your elbows bumped when you shifted. The way he leaned back on his palms and looked up at the sky like it might give him something. The moon hung low, pale and quiet, like it was trying not to listen in.

You tasted daisies on your breath. Not literal, of course, but that same feeling, fragile, green, oddly sweet. Like you’d swallowed a secret without realizing.

After that night, something shifted.

He didn’t give you the flowers in passing anymore.

Now he placed them behind your ear, brushing your hair back with careful fingers. He’d grin to himself like he’d just set the final piece in some inside joke only he understood.

Sometimes he’d slip them into your bag when you weren’t looking. You’d find them hours later tucked between your notebook and a balled-up t-shirt, a little bent but still holding shape. He’d pretend not to know anything, but you’d see the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth when you caught him looking.

Once, while you were balancing a clipboard and half a sandwich, he just stepped close and slid a daisy right into your hair without saying a word. You didn’t move. Just kept chewing while he adjusted it slightly, like he was framing a painting.

You still never really talked about it. There wasn’t a need. One afternoon, a few cities later, you found another daisy tucked into your coat pocket. Still fresh, still warm. He was watching you when you pulled it out.

“You know,” you said, holding it up, “this is starting to feel like a coordinated attack.”

Paul snorted. “You say that like it’s not workin’.”

You rolled your eyes and slipped it behind your ear anyway. “If I start sneezing constantly, it’s your fault.”

“I’ll buy tissues. I’m very responsible.”

“Are you?”

“Within reason,” he said, grinning, “for a man who carries plush toys and bras in his arms most nights.”

You laughed, breath catching on something warmer than just amusement.

And he leaned closer, voice lower. “You’ve got a petal stuck in your hair.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of trying to touch my face again?”

“Very bold of you to assume I need an excuse,” he shot back.

You shook your head, but you didn’t move away. Neither did he.

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

[sharksausages]

alright

[sharksausages]

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 | john lennon x reader

𐙚 contains ; john being an unrepentant nosy bastard

𐙚 summary ; he meets you during a radio interview. you’re the nervous assistant with a poetry chapbook half-sticking out of your bag. he takes it. he reads it. he falls in love.

It starts with static.

The sort of crackling that gets under your skin. The kind that makes you want to crawl out of your own body and beg the nearest electrician to pull you back together with wire and tape. Every fluorescent hum in this building makes your molars itch. Every intercom chirp is a fresh slap to your already-frayed nerves. The station has a way of pressing down on you like an extra layer of gravity. You arrived only two days ago, and the exhaustion is stitched behind your eyes like a hangover that never ends.

Your name’s already been forgotten three times.

The BBC smells like dust, toast, and something vaguely electrical. The kind of place where everything important happens behind glass. You are not on the other side of the glass. You are on this side: the cables side, the run-and-fetch side. The side that stands up when someone important enters the room.

And today, apparently, someone important is late.

“John bleeding Lennon,” mutters the producer, glancing at his watch like it owes him money.

You nod like you understand. Like you, too, are exasperated by this John bleeding Lennon. Really, you’re just trying not to let it show. The nerves, the overwhelm, the way every breath feels like it’s got to audition for space in your lungs. You’re not good at hiding it. The jitters leak into your hands, turning simple tasks into minor disasters. Pens drop. Cups wobble. You nearly baptised the broadcast engineer with lukewarm tea this morning... hasn’t looked at you the same since.

You're crouched on the floor now, fumbling through your bag for a spare mic clip. The strap’s caught on a loop of cable. You tug, curse under your breath, and that’s when the studio door slams open behind you.

“Christ, is this the place or the bloody morgue?”

You look up.

He’s taller than you expect. Louder, too. All mod and mess, hair that doesn’t know what a comb is, and eyes like he’s constantly bored of every room he walks into. John Lennon. You know the name. Who doesn’t? But names don’t prepare you for the real thing. For the way he walks in like he owns the air. Like being late was a favour.

“Sorry, traffic,” he says with a shrug that implies he’s not sorry at all.

Nobody believes him. Nobody cares. The room shifts like it’s caught a new scent. Laughter sparks from somewhere behind the glass. The tension drains out of the producer’s spine in one long sigh, and just like that, John bleeding Lennon is forgiven.

He’s magnetic, even when he’s a bit of an arse.

You try to vanish into your task, but he’s already looking.

“What’s your name then?” he asks. Not to be polite. He’s bored. Looking for something to poke at. Probably.

You answer, quiet. Too quiet. His eyes narrow slightly, mouth twitching like he’s rolling the syllables around in his teeth.

He repeats it, dragging it out, trying it on like a jacket. Not mocking, exactly, more like testing the weight of it. Deciding if it suits you. If you suit him. He's not listening to the briefing. Not sitting where he's meant to sit. He's already walking, orbiting the space like it's his own personal stage.

You're standing now, still holding that damned coil of cable, and your hands have decided to betray you again. You shift to kneel, trying to tame the cable into a neat loop. That’s when it slips out. The chapbook. Small, handmade. Just your initials stamped in black on white card. Nothing flashy. You made it last winter during a bout of insomnia and regret. Fifteen poems. Never meant for anyone’s eyes but yours.

It slides from your bag and lands on the floor with a soft pap, too quiet for drama, too loud to ignore.

You freeze.

Before you can even lunge for it, he’s already crouched down. Nimble. Interested. Too fast.

Before you can react, he’s crouched beside it.

“Hey-”

“What’s this then?” he says, lifting it with two fingers like it might bite him. The grin’s already there. He flips the edge with his thumb, rifling through the pages without hesitation.

You forgot it was in there. You’d meant to take it out this morning, you’re sure of it. You’re also sure the ground is the only place you belong right now.

“Yours?”

You hesitate. Long enough for him to look up, brow lifted like he already knows the answer and is waiting for you to realise it too.

“Depends who’s asking.” It slips out, sharp and defensive, a reflex you didn’t know you had.

He snorts. That grin again, wider now. “Poet with bite. I like it.”

He opens it. The pages crinkle.

You want to disappear.

“‘I saw God in a laundrette,’” he reads aloud, accent dragging each syllable into a strange sort of reverence. “‘And she had curlers in.’ Bloody hell. You write this?”

You nod, helpless.

He flips again, already halfway to the next. Your stomach twists itself into origami shapes. You want to snatch it back. You wish you had written it better. You wish you’d never written it at all.

“That’s good, that is,” he murmurs. “Weird, but good.”

His finger taps the margin beside a line you hate. A line you almost cut. Your cheeks burn.

He doesn’t stop. "Fuck me, you write like a drunk priest." But there’s no malice in it. He’s grinning, pleased, turning the pages too fast and too slow all at once. You can barely breathe.

Someone clears their throat near the sound desk. The producer’s trying to get him seated. He waves a hand without looking up.

He’s sprawled on a chair now, legs wide, book balanced in one palm, flipping with the other like he’s reading liner notes.

“D’you ever read this on air?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

You shrug. The kind of shrug that means, I’d rather set myself on fire.

He studies you over the top edge. “You ever want to?”

You don’t answer.

He doesn’t need you to. He’s already on the next page.

━━

The interview is chaos. You half-forget the rest of the day. You stand in the corner, trying to look invisible, and you watch John speak like he’s trying to outrun his own thoughts. He jokes with the host. He pushes buttons just to see how far things bend before they break. But every few minutes, his eyes flick to you.

Not obvious. Not overt. Just quick glances, like he’s checking to see if you’re still there. Like part of him wants to know whether you’re still watching, whether you’re listening. And sometimes he looks, not at you, but at the space you were earlier. Where your bag used to be. And when he leans back during a lull, his fingers slip into the inside of his jacket where the curve of your chapbook now lives.

It’s over eventually, though you don’t remember how. The host shakes his hand. The producer claps him on the back and mutters something about genius, or madness, or maybe both. The rest of the team disbands, scattering like spilled marbles, rushing to edit the audio before it’s due. You gather the leftover cables in a sleepwalk, barely feeling the coarseness of them under your fingertips.

You’re meant to be leaving.

It’s just after six. The April light outside the studio is sharp and pale, the kind that makes everything look a bit more honest than it wants to. Your coat’s still too thin for the wind that’s snuck in through the doors, and your hands are also, still cold, fingers stiff where they grip your satchel strap. You keep walking. Or try to. You make it to the end of the corridor, near the vending machine with the crisps that always eat your change, before you hear him behind you.

“You’ve got more?” he asks, and you turn to see him standing like he was just passing by. He’s not good at pretending he wasn’t looking for you.

He lifts the book slightly. Your book. Just enough to let you see the edge of the white card against his palm.

You shrug, the cold tightening your shoulders. “A few.”

“Bring ‘em next time.”

“There won’t be a next time.”

He blinks. Like the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

“Why not?”

“I’m temporary.”

John doesn’t reply. Not right away. The grin on his face evaporates like it was never there. Like he was genuinely upset about this random person that writes shitty poetry not working here anymore. It’s strange to see him this still.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Looks off to the side like the corridor might offer him a script he can read from.

“Oh,” he says.

You see the crease in his brow that wasn’t there before. The quiet in him. It’s not the same as boredom or distraction or the usual cloud of thoughts too fast for his mouth. It’s something else. Like a door just closed and he doesn’t know why it bothers him so much.

He frowns, faint and fleeting.

“What do you mean?” he asks finally. Too casual. Too careful.

You shrug again. “Contract ends Friday.”

“That soon?”

“Mmm.”

He nods. Slow. Deliberate. Taps the spine of the chapbook against his palm, not even glancing at it now. His eyes are elsewhere. Still not looking at you, not directly, but always near.

“Well, that’s shite,” he says. “For the BBC, I mean.”

You don’t answer.

“I mean, look at you. Writing all this mad stuff about God in curlers and whatnot. They’d be idiots to let you go.”

You try to smile, but it doesn’t stick. It’s the kind of smile that folds at the edges before it ever finds your eyes. “Doesn’t really matter what I write.”

“It bloody does.”

It’s out of him fast. Sharper than before. Like he didn’t mean to say it quite that fiercely.

You glance at him. He notices, reins it in.

“Anyway,” he mutters, softer now. “don’t see many people writing like this.”

He probably doesn’t say what he means. Not really. He doesn’t say: I don’t meet people who make me shut up. Who make me read instead of talk. Who make me wonder what they’re thinking and not want to interrupt. He doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he pretends to check his watch. There isn’t one on his wrist.

“Should get going,” he says. But he doesn’t move.

Your bag’s still at your feet. Between you like a boundary neither of you want to cross too fast. The chapbook is still in his hand, resting against the frayed edge of his coat sleeve.

“Can I keep this?” he asks.

You nod. “Only if you don’t quote it on the telly.”

He snorts. “Not telly. Just radio.”

“Still.”

He tucks it into his coat like it’s worth something. Then he glances at you again.

“You’ll come Friday though, yeah?”

“I’m not scheduled.”

“So come anyway.”

You hesitate. The kind of pause that can go either way.

“I don’t-”

“Don’t what? Like me?”

His grin is back now, lazy and lopsided. The kind that dares you to argue with it.

You blink. “I didn’t say that.”

He grins. “You didn’t have to,” he says, and he says it like he means it.

Then he steps back. Just one step, toward the corridor, toward the chill and the end of the moment.

Then stops. Looks at you like he wants to say something he doesn’t know how to start.

So he doesn’t. He just lifts his hand in a small, strange wave. Then leaves.

━━

You don’t plan on showing up Friday.

You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra. Like if you say it enough, it’ll become true. You rehearse all the good reasons not to go, how it’s better this way, a clean break, neat as hospital corners. No awkward goodbyes, no drawn-out silences where someone should speak but doesn’t. No trying to decide if you should hug or just nod. No pretending this week meant anything more than what it was: a temp job with bad lighting and lukewarm tea. No lingering stares across soundproof glass.

You’re firm about it Thursday night. You reset your alarm clock. You pack up your things like you’re already gone. You tuck away your badge, fold your spare jumper into the bottom of your suitcase. You tell yourself there’s no reason to wake early. No reason to take the bus. No reason to press yourself into the grey plastic chairs of the control booth like you belong there.

But then Friday morning comes. And the light is soft, and the air smells like rain that hasn’t arrived yet. And your body, traitorous, ridiculous thing, gets up anyway.

You don’t eat breakfast. You forget your gloves.

And you go.

Because the world is stupid, and so are you.

And maybe you want to see if he kept it.

━━

Friday smells like tea bags and old wood polish.

You hover in the hallway outside the recording studio, coat clutched close like armor. You don’t even have your badge anymore. You’re not meant to be here.

But someone waves you through.

“Poetry person’s back,” someone says, not unkindly, just loud enough for it to stick.

You roll your eyes, but you don’t stop walking.

He hears you before he sees you.

“Look who it is,” he calls from inside the studio.

You step through the threshold like it’s thinner than it should be, like the air changes when you cross it. And there he is, already grinning. Already half-twisted in his seat, one leg hooked over the arm of the chair like he owns gravity. His hair’s a wreck. His eyes are too bright for this early, and he looks like sleep is something he chased but never caught.

“You brought more?” he asks, hopeful, greedy.

You shake your head.

He groans, loud, theatrical. “You’re cruel.”

“You’ll live,” you say, trying not to smile.

He narrows his eyes at you. But it’s a pantomime, all mock injury and tilted amusement. The grin threatens again at the edge of his mouth, like it’s always there, waiting for a reason to return.

“You say that like you know me.”

“I don’t.”

“Maybe you should.”

It hangs there between you. Not flirty. Not even daring. Just said because it’s true. Just said because it wants to be said.

You glance around the studio. Everyone else is doing that polite pretending, not listening, but definitely listening. You shift your weight, uncomfortable under the attention that’s not quite attention.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Walk with me?” he asks, sudden and low.

You don’t say yes. You just follow him out, into the hallway, where the walls are closer and quieter.

He slips through the studio door like water, and you follow him into the corridor, where the ceiling is lower, the lights softer. The noise peels away behind you. The hallway wraps around you, closer, quieter.

He walks like he talks, half-thought, half-whim. Long strides, hands buried deep in his coat pockets, shoulders up like he’s trying to make less space of himself and failing. There’s a restlessness in his limbs, the kind that’s always looking for something to do or undo.

“You really weren’t gonna come?” he asks, still not looking at you.

You shrug again. “Didn’t seem like it mattered.”

He makes a noise in his throat. Disbelief or frustration, maybe both.

“You know, I read that thing three times.”

You blink. “The chapbook?”

“No, the bloody weather report.” He shoots you a look. “Course the chapbook. ‘God in curlers.’ That stuck in my head, that did.”

You want to laugh. You want to joke. But the sound sticks behind your ribs like a breath too big to let go.

“I didn’t think you’d even remember it.”

He stops walking. Just, stops. Mid-stride, like the idea offends him.

He turns to face you. Eyes on yours now, steady. Grounded.

“You think I don’t remember things that matter?”

The question is blunt. Not angry, but close to something sharp. Earnest in a way that feels too exposed for the hallway.

You open your mouth. Close it. You want to be careful. You want to be honest. You want to walk backward out of this conversation but you can’t, he’s holding it open in front of you like a door and you either walk through or you don’t.

“I think,” you say carefully, “you remember things that interest you. Until they don’t.”

There’s a pause.

He doesn’t like that. Not because it’s wrong, because it isn’t. You are correct. But because... he's not sure why.

He watches you. Not blinking. Not smiling. Just… watching.

“You think I’m fickle.”

“Yes. But I also think you’re busy.”

“I’m not too busy for this.” He taps his coat, where the chapbook still lives.

You look down. “It’s just some scribbles.”

“No,” he says. And it’s soft. Not sharp, not performance. Real. A quiet truth between breaths. “It’s not.”

The silence after that buzzes like low voltage.

He looks down the hallway, then rubs the back of his neck with one hand, fingers sliding through his hair like he wants to scrub the moment out of it.

“I dunno what I thought’d happen today,” he says. “Thought maybe you’d bring more. Thought maybe you’d stay.”

Your heart jumps at that, unexpected and awkward. You fold your arms tighter across your chest.

“I don’t belong here... like, work.. anymore.”

“Neither do I,” he says. “That never stopped me.”

You laugh, dry, involuntary. “You’re John Lennon, you're a Beatle.”

He smirks. “And you’re the poet who made John Lennon shut up for five whole minutes. That’s not nothing.”

You don’t know how to stand under that kind of gaze. He’s not flirting. He’s not joking. He’s just, being.

“Come to the next recording,” he says.

“I’m not staff anymore.”

“I’ll put you on the bloody guest list,” he shoots back. “Don’t make me pull strings.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’d do that?”

He grins. “Already did.”

The words make you pause. You search his face, but he’s not bluffing. There’s a lilt to his voice, but no game in it.

The door at the end of the hall opens. Someone calls his name. He glances at them, then back at you.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says. “But-”

He hesitates.

“Don’t stop.”

You nod. Not because you mean to, just because your body answers before your mouth can.

He lingers one beat longer than he should, then turns and walks off.

You don’t follow. Not this time.

But when you leave the BBC building, your fingers smell like paper and ink, and your bag is just a little bit lighter... somehow. It was nice.

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

[sharksausages]

[sharksausages]

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

[sharksausages]

beatles x reader christmas hcs OR.

RINGO X READER CHRISTMAS FIC.. U CHOOSE....

ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑦 ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 | ringo starr x reader

𐙚 summary ; you and ringo spend christmas the slow way.

𐙚 note ; bit early... JKJK!! this could’ve been a hallmark movie if hallmark knew what real love was

Christmas morning begins with your face pressed to Ringo’s chest, your nose half-frozen and buried against the worn cotton of his sleep shirt, which smells like too many wash cycles and his skin. Outside the window, snow’s been falling slow since about 2 a.m., dusting the parked cars and naked trees, making the air a hushed thing. You’ve been awake for ten minutes but haven’t moved because his arm is looped tightly around you and the blanket is perfect and you know, just know, that the flat is a refrigerator beyond the edge of the bed.

“’S today Christmas?” he mumbles into your hair. Voice low. Scratchy.

You make a noncommittal sound.

“Suppose we oughta get up, then,” he says, making no movement to do so.

“No,” you whisper.

“Mmh. Right,” he agrees, and shifts only enough to wedge his socked foot between your ankles. You yelp.

“Your feet are ice.”

He grins against your forehead. “They’re festive.”

“Festering.”

“Rude.”

You both settle deeper under the covers. The tiny heater by the wall ticks faintly. Somewhere in the flat, the kettle clicks on, because Ringo’s plugged it into a timer for exactly this reason.

You doze again, curled like spoons, your back snug against the warmth of him, legs tangled beneath the weight of the duvet, one of his hands tucked absently beneath your shirt, palm pressed to your stomach. It’s the kind of soft morning that doesn’t really start, not properly, just tilts lazily from dream to haze and back again, each blink slower than the last. The heater hums gently. Somewhere in the flat, something shifts. You hear it even through the fog, quiet kitchen movement, the subtle clatter of ceramic on countertop, the rhythmic creak of the floorboards under familiar weight.

Then, Ringo’s unmistakable voice, not shouted but projected like he’s aiming to make you smile before you’ve even sat up: “I made you a cup! It’s… well, it’s still in the cup. That’s as far as I got.”

You don't answer right away, just bury your face into the pillow, laughing silently, eyes closed. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect. He’s been up maybe fifteen minutes and already the flat smells like marmite toast, and something deeper and richer that’s unmistakably cocoa, thick and real, not powdered mix, with milk and sugar and probably way too much effort for a man who once served you cornflakes in a teacup and called it brunch.

Eventually, you surface, limbs heavy but warm, still pulled from the heat of bed and from him. You emerge into the main room wrapped in one of his old jumpers, the sleeves too long, the neckline worn loose from years of love and laundry. It smells like his cologne faintly, cedar and spice, and your hair is a mess, and you know he loves you more like this than in anything dressed up. Thick socks muffle your steps. The carpet is patchy and the fairy lights on the tree flicker like they’re fighting for life, and the faux fir is very much leaning to the left, propped by a stack of books and a stuffed dog in a Santa hat.

Still, it's beautiful. There’s a crooked red bow tied near the top, the kind that looks like it was attached after three failed attempts and one small tantrum. Underneath are the presents, maybe ten of them. A few look nearly store-wrapped, crisp corners and patterned tape. Others... clearly not. One’s in newspaper, one’s in a Tesco bag, and several seem to be triple-layered like he lost confidence halfway and just kept going. A few have corners ripped, Scotch tape peeled back and re-stuck, one with what might be spaghetti sauce on the ribbon.

Ringo hands you the mug when you enter the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything immediately, just watches. He’s in plaid pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt that says “I’m only talking to my dog today,” despite the fact that he doesn’t have a dog. His hair’s flattened on one side. He’s leaning on the counter with the stance of a man deeply invested in your reaction, like he's just handed you a rare wine or an experimental cocktail instead of a cup of cocoa.

You take a sip. It’s hot, just right, rich, and thick with cream. Something subtle lingers underneath the chocolate, clove? Cardamom?

“Perfect,” you murmur against the rim, and watch as his eyes crinkle with relief.

“I knew it,” he says, self-satisfied but not smug. “Did you taste the nutmeg?”

You pause, then raise an eyebrow. “You didn’t...”

“I thought about adding nutmeg,” he amends, grinning. “And that’s just as festive, innit?”

You roll your eyes and laugh, stepping past him to pull yourself onto the counter stool, cradling the warm mug between your hands like a sleepy squirrel hoarding treasure. He doesn’t suck at making tea, not at all. That was never the issue. In fact, his tea game is solid, old school, leaf and pot, steeped just right. But cocoa is different. Cocoa is deliberate. Cocoa is care. Cocoa is him deciding to make something sweet for you on a morning when your bones were still too heavy for breakfast.

He moves around behind you, brushes his hand over your shoulder as he goes to refill his own cup. There’s toast on a plate nearby, corners slightly burned, buttered to the edges, and spread with marmite like a dare and a love letter all in one.

You take another sip and hum softly, voice low and slow with contentment. “Thoughtful,” you murmur.

Ringo leans on the fridge, watching you again. “You look good in that jumper.”

“You always say that.”

“Yeah, but right now I really mean it.”

“You always really mean it.”

He shrugs, then smiles crookedly. “S’pose I do.”

You glance toward the tree, the blinking lights, the mess of ribbons and wrapping. It’s early still, barely even eight, and yet the room feels full, of smell, of light, of him. You know the presents under that tree are going to be hilarious. Maybe one’s a toothbrush. Maybe one’s a rubber duck. But one of them, you’re sure, will be unexpectedly perfect.

“You really considered nutmeg?” you ask, arching a brow again.

“I opened the jar and everything,” he says solemnly, lifting his mug in a toast. “Then I thought, no. Better not. Don’t want to peak too soon.”

You spend the morning like that, barefoot, bleary-eyed, wrapped in each other and the lingering scent of toast. The living room becomes a nest of crumpled ribbons and half-rolled tape, your legs tangled with his on the rug as you both work through the last of the presents, each reveal punctuated by laughter or disbelief or Ringo shouting “No peeking!” even as he angles his head to peek at yours.

When you get to his gift, he can’t hold it in. He’s already gripping the couch cushion like it’s the edge of a cliff, knuckles pale, leaning in as if he’s watching a penalty shootout.

“It’s the weird ashtray you liked in Camden,” he blurts, right before the wrapping’s halfway off. “Don’t act surprised. I know you.”

You do try not to smile. Bite the inside of your cheek like that’ll keep it in. But it’s impossible. The thing is absurd, vile, really. A fat ceramic frog, green-glazed and bug-eyed, looking like it died mid-smoke break. But your heart swells at the sight of it. It’s exactly what you’d wanted and absolutely nothing you would’ve bought yourself.

Ringo doesn’t say I knew you’d like it. Doesn’t puff up or make a joke to deflect. He just watches your face break into that ridiculous grin, and his own blooms in return, quiet and wide and boyish, like you’ve cracked something ancient open in him.

Your gift to him is less obvious. Just a scarf. But not just a scarf. It’s thick and soft and a shade of purple that’s almost offensive in daylight, the kind of color only ever seen in old ecclesiastical robes or cartoon grapes. But he had mentioned that jumper once, the one he lost years ago, the one he used to call his “church-wine disaster.” You remembered how he’d stroked the frayed cuffs like they were holy. So you hunted down the color, knit for hours while pretending it wasn’t important, dropped stitches and unpicked rows just to get it right.

He pulls it on like it’s sacred, wrapping it twice around his neck with theatrical flair. “Christ. Gonna wear this everywhere. Even in summer. Y’may regret this, y’know.”

“I won’t.”

He squints at you, lips pursed like he’s trying to see through you. “Not even when I’m sweating through it on Brighton pier in August?”

“No.”

“You’re a sick person,” he mutters, tugging the ends dramatically. “I love it.”

After that, the day settles into a different rhythm. Quieter. Softer. You end up on the sofa, the quilt you both love draped over your laps. It smells like cedar and dust and old winters. The TV’s on but low, an ancient black-and-white holiday film with actors speaking in transatlantic accents and too much eyebrow. Ringo doesn’t watch it so much as let it play in the corner of his attention. His real focus is you, arm tucked behind your back, fingers brushing against your hip in gentle rhythm.

He leans in after a while, his nose against your temple, not kissing, just resting there. Breathing you in. He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not always loud about love. He just is, present, steady, a hand that always finds yours without needing to ask.

“Didn’t really get Christmas as a kid,” he murmurs, words spoken into the collar of your jumper.

You don’t respond. Not yet. You shift a little so he can feel you listening. He goes on, voice smaller now.

“I like it now,” he says, tentative, like if he says it too clearly it’ll vanish. “With you. S’like it makes sense.”

The back of your throat tightens, that quiet ache you only feel when someone is being unguarded, utterly unvarnished, and somehow trusting you with it.

You kiss him. No reason. No cue. Just the simple overflow of affection. His lips are warm, and he still tastes faintly of cocoa and marmite and everything this morning meant. He kisses back lazily, contentedly, his hand cupping your jaw.

Later, you make some attempt at cooking together. Ringo insists on mashing potatoes with a wooden spoon that should be arrested for war crimes against starch. He ignores every logical utensil you hand him.

“Masher’s broken,” he says, stubborn.

“It’s not.”

“I’m just saying. Spoons are timeless.”

You catch him sneaking a brussels sprout into his mouth like a guilty raccoon. You flick water at him from the sink and he clutches his chest, staggering like he’s been struck.

“Don’t hit me, I’m tender!”

“Good,” you smirk, “that means the sprouts are done.”

He wails theatrically, lamenting his injuries. You throw a towel at his face.

Dinner happens somehow. Maybe not everything’s hot at the same time, maybe the stuffing’s a bit dry, but it doesn’t matter. You eat by candlelight, not out of romance, but because the overhead bulb died two days ago and neither of you remembered to fix it. The candles flicker. The plates clink. The cider pops open and Ringo tries to pour yours with a flourish that ends in the tablecloth soaking.

After dinner, coats go on over pyjamas. Gloves on, scarf wound twice. The snow’s deeper now, blanketing the street in hush. Everything is muffled and luminous under streetlamp glow. You walk hand-in-hand to the corner shop, even though you know it’s probably shut. It is. You don’t care.

The cold bites your cheeks. Your noses pink. Ringo kisses yours over and over like it’s some kind of spell to keep it warm.

“Better now?” he whispers, breath fogging between you.

“Almost.”

He kisses it again, then your forehead, then your chin for good measure. “Now?”

You nod, grinning, breath fogging up between you both in the cold, but it’s not just the kiss or the snow or the way his gloved fingers are squeezing yours in these little excited pulses, it’s the fact that you’re out here at all. Just you two, walking slow, no purpose, no plans.

“Looks like someone dusted the world with icing sugar,” Ringo mutters, squinting up at the sky like he’s trying to catch a flake on his lashes.

You tip your head back too, the flakes landing on your cheeks, your nose, melting slow as you walk. Everything glows. Everything softens. It’s like the city’s a snow globe you’re both trapped in, except it’s not a trap. It’s a choice. A moment you stepped into deliberately.

You pass a car half-buried on the corner, someone’s snowman already slumping sideways on the verge, scarf trailing off like it’s making a break for it. Ringo pauses, kicks at the snowbank beside it.

“Race you,” he says, and you don’t have time to ask what the hell he means before he’s already taken off down the pavement, boots skidding, arms flailing, nearly wiping out on the first patch of ice.

You shout after him, laughing, chasing his footprints. He’s not fast, he’s running like he’s never done it in his life, knees too high and scarf trailing like a kite, but he’s gleeful. He disappears around the corner and you catch up to find him doubled over, hands on his knees, wheezing with laughter.

“I won,” he pants.

“You tripped over your own feet.”

“I still won.”

You press your forehead to his chest and he wraps his arms around you, your laughter turning breathless in the cold.

When you get back, the quiet wraps around you again, as warm as any blanket. The coats come off. The socks peel off slowly. You make tea this time. He doesn’t argue. You bring it to the sofa where he’s already sunk into the cushions like a man returning to his natural habitat.

“You’re my favorite,” he mumbles as you settle in beside him, sleep thick in his voice, eyes blinking slow. “Of all the things I’ve got.”

You don’t answer. You just press your forehead to his again and pull the quilt up over your shoulders. The tree lights blink against the wall in uneven rhythm. The room smells like cider and sugar and faint pine plastic. You can hear the snow still falling outside, a soft shush against the windowpanes.

It’s Christmas. You’re home.

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

[sharksausages]

Could you write something about the Beatles reaction to seeing your stretch marks/ cellulite! I think it would be adorable especially then coloring the stretch marks!!!🩵🪷

𝑏𝑒𝑎𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑒𝑡𝑐ℎ 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘𝑠 & 𝑐𝑒𝑙𝑙𝑢𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑒

𐙚 note ; oh my heart!! this ask is a bowl of honey with little sparkles in it.. thank you for bringing something so sweet and body-affirming into the room!! :b so cute

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

❝If you don’t like your skin, give it to me. I’ll wear it better.❞

At first? He definitely notices. John is observant as hell, sometimes cruelly so. If he’s never seen your thighs fully before, or the inside of your arms, or the soft parts of your stomach, it does take him a second. Not out of disgust, just that classic Lennon pause, that split-second where he’s calculating what this means.

First time he sees them is probably casual. You’ve got your top off. Maybe he’s sitting on the floor beside the bed, guitar in his lap, and you stand up and stretch and boom, there they are. Marks across your hips. Dips and texture on the back of your thighs.

As a teen, John was merciless to people. Loud, mean, performative about it. He picked at anyone who didn’t look like the pictures in Honey or Tatler, and half of it was projection, his own stomach rolls and fleshy cheeks made him cruel! He couldn’t stomach softness in others because he didn’t know what to do with it in himself.

Now, older, still cutting but less interested in harming for the laugh… he notices your stretch marks, of course he does! They're not invisible. They don’t shock him, just stir something quiet. Recognition.

And he says, without thinking, “You always had those?”

You freeze. Shrink a little. He sees it. And immediately scrambles, because he didn’t mean it like that.

“Don’t do that. Was just askin’.” He tries to soften it. “Look like tree rings.”

He’s bad at compliments sometimes. But he wants you to know he thinks they’re hot! That you’re hot. He kisses the inside of your knee and says, “You’ve got these little valleys.” He runs his hand down your hip. “Like a map.”

Still, he fumbles more than once. Jokes that don’t land.

But then one night, when he’s high and quiet and sentimental, he starts tracing your stretch marks with a marker. Literally drawing on your skin. Connecting the lines like constellations. Adds little stars. Names them after songs.

You say, “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Yeah. But you’re art.”

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

❝If I ever said anything cruel like that before, I didn’t know what I was missin’. You’re beautiful. Honest.❞

Paul’s complicated about beauty. He grew up equating it with perfection. Polished magazine girls. French actresses. Ballet posture. He’s learned some bad habits. Has said stupid things. Been careless.

So the first time he sees your stretch marks, your cellulite?

He doesn’t react. Not with his face.

But you see it in his pause. He blinks. Tilts his head. And says nothing.

Which makes your stomach drop. That’s worse than saying something.

Later, you bring it up.

He looks devastated.

Shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything ‘cos I didn’t know what to say. Not ‘cos I didn’t like it. I was… just surprised.”

After that, he goes hard on making sure you know. He kisses the backs of your thighs while you’re lying in bed. Things like that.

One morning, you wake up and he’s drawn little hearts in marker on your hips.

“Needed to mark my favorite bits,” he says.

He makes sure the other lads know too.

Casually says shit like “God, people who think those marks aren’t sexy are fuckin’ losers,” while tuning his guitar.

And you believe him. Because when he looks at you, he looks like he wants to write symphonies about your skin.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

❝I like the places you hide from yourself. That’s where all the secrets are.❞

George doesn’t say anything the first time. You’re both half-naked, maybe getting dressed after a bath, and you catch him looking. Not staring. Just noticing. Like he’s making mental notes.

You tug your shirt down instinctively. His brow furrows. “Don’t do that,” he says.

“Do what?”

“Cover yourself up like I’d be offended. I’m not.”

He says it so simply.

George likes details! He’s tactile. He starts touching those parts of you like they mean something. Not just in bed, either. He rests his hand on your thigh while reading. He rubs your back in lazy circles. He kisses the skin you hate without hesitation.

When you ask if it bothers him, he shrugs. “It’s your skin. I like your skin. I like you.”

He’s not loud about it. But one night you find a sketch he made, your back, your legs, your whole self, down to the textured parts. It’s beautiful. Honest. You ask him why he drew you like that

“Didn’t know there was any other way.”

He gets mad if anyone makes you feel small. Doesn’t yell. Just stares at them with that cold look, the one that says you’ve made a mistake.

He tells you, softly: “People who can’t handle skin like yours haven’t lived. You look like you’ve lived. I want all of it.”

One day he pulls out a little watercolor set and asks if he can paint them. You lie still on the couch while he makes them soft pinks, deep reds, little washes of plum and ochre.

“You look like a painting already,” he says. “Just wanted to add to it.”

Poetic guy!

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

❝You think that’s a problem? Love, I’ve got freckles on me arse.❞

Ringo’s not oblivious. He notices everything, but he’s the least likely to make it weird. He sees your stretch marks, your cellulite, and it just... doesn’t register as something negative. It’s part of the painting. The whole picture.

“Oh good, you’ve got ‘em too,” he says, patting his own thigh. “Mine look like a melting mattress.”

He likes them. Thinks they’re interesting. He insists on seeing them in daylight.

You mention it in passing once. Something like, “Don’t look at my legs, they’re gross.” And he’s offended.

“Gross? Whose legs’ve I been kissing every night, then?”

That night he kisses every mark, every dent, every line like he’s counting constellations.

“That one looks like a jellybean.”

“That one’s a backwards ‘L’.”

“That one might be Australia.”

Omg!! Boy!!

He makes a joke of drawing on your thighs with Sharpie (“tattoo artist Ringo at your service!”) but also quietly buys cocoa butter “for both of us.”

He takes photos of you when you don’t know. Your leg propped on the window. The curve of your side while you’re curled up reading. “I’m makin’ a gallery,” he says. “Gonna call it: The Best Bits.”

When you point out something you hate, he winks: “Well I love it. So that’s two to one. Guess who wins?”

He gets out a Sharpie later.

Draws a tiny astronaut at your navel. A rocket near your hip. Connects your stretch marks into constellations with shaky, loving hands.

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