My Name Says It All

It started with the mustache.

You weren’t stupid. People thought you were, sometimes, because you smiled when it wasn’t required, because you liked pretty things (Paul), because you didn’t say much. But you’d known Paul. You knew Paul. His voice, his walk, the way his eyes always flicked down and to the left when he was lying.

This wasn’t Paul.

This was something with Paul’s shape and voice and mouth, but not his soul. Not the boy you’d carried a torch for since Hamburg. Not the one who’d kissed your cheek once after a gig and never looked at you that way again.

This one did look at you that way.

From the moment you stepped into the room, his eyes dragged across you like molasses. Slow. Heavy. Possessive. You felt it low in your belly, deep in the place that made you ache.

And God, the mustache.

Paul had been clean-cut, always trying to be the nice one. This creature in his skin, had let the softness go. The new growth made his mouth look dangerous. Delicious. Like he’d taste like smoke and secrets.

You should’ve been scared. Or confused.

But you weren’t.

You were curious.

Not afraid. Not shocked. Not even, really, surprised.

The change had been gradual, almost clever. A new mannerism here, a shift in phrasing there. Paul’s hair got longer. His smile changed shape, smaller, less eager to please, less boyish. Then there was the mustache. The one that made you stare the first time you saw it, some ridiculous day in late ‘66. Not because it looked bad, God no! But because it looked… good. Too good. Like a lie told with a wink. Like a costume piece that somehow fit too perfectly.

It scratched at the back of your brain. Like déjà vu in reverse. Like you were remembering something that hadn’t happened yet.

And the thing was, you’d liked Paul. The real Paul. Or the old one. Whatever. You had liked him the way you liked old cinema, or rainy afternoons, wistfully. Tenderly. He’d been nice. Genuinely nice. Charming in a boy-next-door way, almost bashful sometimes. You’d had a quiet crush, one of those ones you carried around like a pebble in your pocket... small, secret, only meaningful to you.

But he’d never looked at you. Not really.

And then this new one had.

Billy walked into the studio one day and looked straight at you like he already knew what you tasted like.

That was the day you stopped pretending nothing was different.

You should’ve been disturbed. Everyone else seemed to be. Or confused, at least. You caught John once, staring at him with an expression you couldn’t read, half boredom, half suspicion. George seemed on edge all the time now, strung tighter than his guitar strings. Even Ringo had started giving little side-eyes when Billy spoke a certain way, like he wasn’t sure if the man sitting beside him was still the one who used to split chips after a gig.

You just watched.

Watched him take up more space. Watched him lean back in his chair like he owned the air in the room. Watched the way his smirk curled different now, more self-assured, more wicked. Watched the way he looked at you.

And you teased him for it.

You couldn’t help it.

At first it was harmless. Casual. He’d walk past and you’d ask, all sugar, “New shoes?” even though they were clearly not. You’d tug the brim of his cap down over his eyes when he got too cocky. You started leaning over the mixing table just a bit too far, letting him see how unbothered you were.

Then you upped the ante.

"Where's the real Paul, then?” you asked him one day, flipping through notes with feigned innocence. “Buried in the garden? Or did you eat him?”

He looked up from tuning his bass, grinned slow. “What d’you mean, love?”

Your heart kicked. Love.

You tilted your head. “Nothing. Just feels like you’ve got more teeth than you used to.”

He chuckled. “I’ve got the same mouth.”

“That’s debatable.”

You walked off before he could respond, knowing he was watching you the whole way.

⸻

You mentioned it to John once, mostly to see what kind of answer you'd get.

You were backstage, John elbow-deep in a bag of crisps, feet kicked up on a flight case. The others were still loading in, and Billy was off somewhere probably charming a reporter or a sound tech or a wall.

“So,” you asked, casually, “when did Paul get replaced?”

John didn’t blink. Didn’t even look at you at first. Just kept chewing.

Then, “You one of those then?”

“What, a conspiracy nut?”

He shrugged. “People say things.”

You watched him. He didn’t seem uncomfortable. Just… unreadable.

“You’re not denying it,” you said.

John popped another crisp in his mouth, sucked the salt off his fingers. “You denying it?”

You smiled. “I didn’t say I minded.”

That made him look at you. Really look.

For a moment, John studied your face like it was something written in a language he only half-remembered. Then he smirked.

“You’re strange.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Most people’d be upset if someone died and got replaced by some cheeky bastard in a new suit... y'know, if it were true.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Yeah. Most people.”

There was a long pause.

“You alright?” he asked, not in a mocking way.

You shrugged. “Not really.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Fair enough.”

⸻

It got worse, or better, after that.

Billy started turning the screws, and you let him.

He’d catch your eye in the control booth and raise an eyebrow like he could hear your thoughts. He’d stand too close when you passed each other in the halls, hand brushing your back, fingers ghosting your elbow. One time, in a lift, you felt his breath on your neck and didn’t move away. You heard him smile.

It wasn’t subtle.

And you were a bastard about it.

“You ever gonna stop staring at me?” you asked him once, alone in a hallway with peeling green walls and no real lighting.

“Not planning to,” he said, not even pretending to look away.

You grinned. “You know, you used to write about people like me.”

He raised an eyebrow, trying to play off what you just said as a joke. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. People you didn’t shag.”

He laughed, low and slow, and stepped into your space.

“Then I’ll have to be more creative, won’t I?”

Your stomach flipped.

You couldn’t tell if you hated him or wanted to crawl into his lap and lick the smirk off his mouth.

Maybe both, you thought about it late at night.

Not Paul. Not really. But the shape of him. What it meant that something, or someone, could just step in and be him and somehow make it work. Was it still him if it made you want him more? Was that fucked up? Probably. Did you care? Not really. You think you liked this Paul better.

He was sharp where Paul had been smooth. Wicked where Paul had been sweet. He said things that made your skin crawl in the best way, with his tongue in his cheek and his voice like honey left out too long. You wanted to see how far he’d push it. You wanted to push back.

⸻

You were curious still.

And he was getting impatient.

Billy had been walking that tightrope with you for weeks, maybe longer. Each time your eyes lingered too long, each teasing comment you dropped like a lit match into the air between you, he let it burn. He’d been smiling, cocking his head, playing along. But there was something in him now, ticking louder each time you said nothing when he said too much. Each time your gaze held something like suspicion and something like want, and never settled on either. It was as if you knew he wasn't Paul. That was making him uneasy.

He wanted to crack you open and see what you’d do when there were no more games.

He started that night, late again, another studio after-hours moment you had no right to still be awake for. You’d been sitting on the sofa flipping through Paul’s old notebook. The real Paul’s, his, not his. Lyrics, doodles, bits of songs that had never quite grown up. You were humming something under your breath. Something unfinished.

Billy came in, quiet, movements fluid. He’d stopped bothering to knock. You didn’t stop flipping pages when he dropped into the seat beside you.

“You looking for something?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Looking’s not the same as expecting to find anything.”

He leaned back. Watched you.

“Funny,” he murmured. “You poke and prod like you’re digging for a secret, but you don’t ask any real questions.”

“I don’t need to,” you said without looking up.

“No?”

“You’re not trying very hard to hide it.”

That made him go still.

“Hide what, exactly?”

You turned a page. “Whatever it is you are.”

The silence sharpened.

He let out a laugh, low and mean. “You’re really something, y'know that?”

You just raised an eyebrow. Waited.

He leaned forward. “You want me to say it? You want me to admit it, yeah? That I'm a good boy who learned the part well enough that you couldn’t help yourself?”

Your pulse jumped. “I didn’t say I couldn’t help myself.”

“No, but you keep acting like you’re too clever to fall for it.” His eyes burned. “And yet, you’re still here. Still staring at me like you want to fuck the difference out of me.”

Your throat tightened.

“I never said-”

“You never said anything!” he interrupted. “That’s the problem. You just let me hang there. Let me talk circles around it while you play innocent and clever.”

He shifted closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the tension crackling in your limbs.

“Maybe I am him,” he whispered, voice like warm breath behind your ear. “Maybe I’m not. You think it matters now?”

Your hand curled around the edge of the notebook. “Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because you look at me like I’m something cracked open,” he said, eyes gleaming. “Like you want to crawl inside and see what’s left. And I keep waiting for the disgust. For the oh God what have I done. But it’s not coming, is it?”

He reached out, his fingers brushing your jaw, gentle but insistent.

“You like this,” he said. “You like me. Not because I’m a ghost of something you used to love. But because I’m not. Because I see you.”

You swallowed.

“And what do you see?”

His smile was slow, dangerous. “Someone who’s too smart to pretend they’re confused.”

You licked your lips. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

He leaned in.

But it wasn’t soft.

There was nothing delicate about the way his mouth dragged across yours. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a claim, the kind people made when they had something to prove and something to lose. You didn’t gasp prettily. You didn’t melt. You bit his lip. Not hard enough to bleed, but hard enough to say, you don’t get to be in control here.

He tasted like ego. Like something borrowed, something stolen. His hands found your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you under pressure, but you pushed back just as fiercely, nails dragging up his arms through his shirt, marking the fabric. If he wanted to pretend he was Paul, you’d make sure he walked out with bruises that weren’t his.

“Christ,” he muttered against your mouth, voice already ragged. “You’re nasty when you want to be.”

“You want sweet?” you said. “Dig up the last one.”

That made him laugh, a sharp, breathless sound that sounded too much like victory. His hand closed around your throat, not squeezing, just holding. His thumb traced your pulse like he was clocking the moment you gave in. You hadn’t.

Yet.

“Keep talking like that,” he said low, close, “and I’ll make sure you choke on my name. Whichever one you pick.”

You shoved him, hard, enough to rattle him back against the couch. He didn’t fall. Just smirked, smug and crooked.

“You like pretending you’re in charge, don't you?” you said, sliding into his lap like you had every right to be there.

His jaw flexed. Your weight in his lap told you exactly how much it had worked.

“You talk like you haven’t been thinking about this every night for weeks,” he said. “All your clever little digs... just a desperate way of saying please fuck me, I don’t care who you are.”

“Wrong!” you said, hands on either side of his face. “It’s I know exactly who you are. And I want you anyway.”

That did something. His fingers dug into your hips like he’d just realized they were real. That you were real. That this wasn’t a game anymore.

“Prove it,” he said.

You ground down, just once, just enough to make his breath catch.

“I’m already letting you breathe,” you whispered. “How much more proof do you need?”

And then you kissed him again, harder this time. With teeth. With intention.

He made a sound against your mouth, half startled, half amused, like you’d finally proved him right. His hands dragged up your back, rough through the fabric, not looking for comfort, just for contact. You bit at his lower lip again and he swore into your mouth, fingers tightening like he might leave prints.

“Not shy now, are you?” he murmured when he pulled back, just far enough to breathe. His voice was hoarse, nearly wrecked already.

You reached between you without ceremony, slipping your hand past his waistband, palming him through the front of his trousers with all the tenderness of a punch.

He jerked a little, hissed, and grinned like a bastard.

“Oh, bloody hell-you’re not even pretending, are you!?”

You leaned in, teeth grazing the corner of his jaw. “Wouldn’t know how.”

He caught your wrist, not to stop you, he guided you instead, like he wanted to feel every inch of your hand over him, deliberate and mean. His breath stuttered. His cock was already heavy under your touch, warm through the fabric, twitching each time your grip shifted.

His eyes had dropped, were watching your hand now, dragging slow up and down the line of him. His hips lifted, greedy for friction, but you eased off just enough to make him groan.

“Tease,” he breathed.

You smiled, voice steady. “Loser.”

And then he moved. Fast. No warning. His hands were on your shoulders, grip iron-rough, shoving you back onto the couch in a single fluid motion, your body bouncing once, breath punched out of you as he leaned over, pinning you down with his weight and that look in his eye like there you are. That wicked, wild, I’ve got you now glint.

He hovered above you, one forearm pressed to the cushion beside your head, the other hand curled just under your jaw, firm but not cruel, just enough to remind you who was on top now.

He kissed you again then, hard and dragging, all tongue and teeth and noise. His hips sank down into yours, and you felt the hot press of him against you, not coy anymore, not half-hard and aching but ready, and you arched into it without thinking, a low, involuntary noise pulling from your throat like it had been waiting to be let out.

He ground into you once, deliberately, and smiled when you whimpered into his mouth.

Then he was everywhere.

Hands under your shirt, dragging the fabric up, nails grazing skin. He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to ask. You were already lifting your arms, letting him peel it off, watching his face as he took you in, eyes dropping, lips parted, that sharp glint turning something almost reverent for a flicker of a second.

And then it was gone again, his mouth was on your throat, open and wet, sucking a mark into the curve just below your ear, like he wanted to brand you.

“Keep still,” he muttered, biting just lightly. “I want this to stay.”

You shuddered.

His hand dragged down, fingers rough through the cotton of your shirt, over your stomach, and when he reached the waistband of your pants he didn’t pause. The button popped with a practiced flick, zipper tugged slow like he wanted you to feel every tooth peel apart. Your breath hitched. He leaned back enough to look, to watch as he tugged them down, your hips lifting, cooperating without shame. He peeled them off with your underwear in one motion, dragged them down past your thighs, baring you inch by inch, like unwrapping something already half-melted in his hand.

Then his fingers were there.

Two of them, tracing through your slick with a filthy kind of reverence, like he liked what you’d done to yourself just thinking about him. He circled your entrance slow, teasing the rim, not pushing yet, watching your face the whole time. Your hips bucked, greedy, and that made him grin, dark and smug.

Your breath stuttered. He was watching you too closely now, like he wanted to see the exact second your defiance turned to desperation.

It didn’t take long.

He pulled his fingers out and dragged them across your tongue before you could argue. You sucked them in anyway, eyes locked on his. His pupils flared.

He swore under his breath.

Then he was undoing his trousers, fumbling them low enough, shifting to line himself up, and you felt the hot weight of him at your entrance, the head dragging slow through your slick, teasing but not quite, he wanted you to beg.

You didn’t. Not out loud. But your body did. And he knew it.

He pushed in slow, watching your face the whole time.

When he bottomed out, you gasped, high, caught, and his expression turned animal. His hips snapped forward again, sharp this time, and you cried out.

And then he really started. The rhythm was brutal, nothing delicate, nothing sweet. Just need-his hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread, jaw clenched as he drove deeper each time. You were writhing beneath him, every breath punched out on the end of a thrust, pleasure curling tight in your gut.

He reached up, grabbed your wrists, pinned them above your head with one hand.

“Keep them there,” he growled. “Be good.”

You nodded, biting your lip, and he leaned in to kiss you again, sloppier now, breathless, desperate. You kissed back like you were trying to take something from him, like you were trying to swallow whatever was left of Paul down and replace it with this.

You felt him press deeper, almost too much, and then he stayed there. Just ground in, thick and hot, pulsing faint against your walls while his breath went shaky near your ear.

But he didn’t finish. Didn’t even move.

He held you in place with one hand splayed over your lower stomach, the other still wrapped around your wrists where they were pinned above your head. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat wild but slowing, like he was forcing himself to stop.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. “Not yet.”

Your head turned toward him slightly. “You’re gonna hold out now?”

He kissed the corner of your jaw, open-mouthed and warm. “Didn’t drag this out just to come like some teenager. You want it quick, I’ll leave and send you the other one.”

Your legs flexed around his hips on instinct, trying to pull him back in, but he’d already started moving, slow now, deliberately so. Deep, dragging strokes that had your whole body shivering under the weight of him. Every roll of his hips hit that spot, precise, devastating. You cursed low, hands twitching in his grip.

“You’re, God, doing it on purpose-”

“’Course I am,” he murmured, licking into your neck between words. “You make me wait, make me talk in circles, least I can do is make you sweat.”

He twisted his hips at the end of one stroke, and your eyes nearly rolled back.

“That’s the spot,” he said, smug but breathless. “Knew it’d shut you up.”

You made a strangled sound, part whimper, part curse. He kissed your throat in apology and did it again, slower this time. You felt your toes curl, stomach coil.

“Feel you clenchin’ already,” he said, teeth grazing your jaw. “Gonna come, aren’t you?”

You nodded before you meant to. He grinned against your skin.

And then he started to ruin you properly.

He shifted up onto his knees, hands catching your thighs and pulling your hips forward till they hung off the couch. The new angle hit deeper, ruthless. You cried out, head thrown back, heels digging into the cushions for leverage. He rolled his hips with measured force, dragging out every inch until it felt like too much, then pushing back in with a single, maddening thrust that made your chest arch.

Your hands found his shoulders, then his face, then his neck, anywhere you could touch, anything to keep yourself anchored. He felt good, not just physically, real. Present. Not a shadow of someone else, not a question mark with a smile.

You tugged him back down onto you, and it wasn’t pretty this time. It was open, panting, clumsy, his hips still moving in those long, brutal strokes while his mouth caught yours again and again.

Your thighs started to tremble. He felt it, groaned against your mouth.

“There it is,” he breathed, fucking you harder now, finally.

Your body snapped taut, everything clenched around him, pleasure cresting fast, hard, your second orgasm slamming through you before you could brace for it. You sobbed against his mouth, hands fisting in his hair as he rutted through it.

“Yes, that’s it, just like that, good-”

He barely finished the sentence before he lost it too.

You felt him go still. His hips buried deep, his whole body shaking as he spilled inside you, moaning low and wrecked, his head tucked against your throat. He thrust once more, slower, a final twitch of his hips as the tension broke. Then stillness, just breathing, heavy and ragged.

His body sagged down onto yours, weight comforting. His breath hit your collarbone in hot bursts. You curled a hand into his hair, not to guide him, just to keep him. You felt his mustache brush your skin again, lazy and soft now, the cocky edge stripped out of him like someone had wrung it from his spine.

After a long moment, he finally spoke.

Voice raw. Quiet.

“…Still think I’m pretending?”

You blinked up at the ceiling.

Then: “You’re not him.”

His shoulders stiffened faintly.

You slid your fingers up the back of his neck.

“But you’re something.”

He was silent for a moment. Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Yeah, I think I am.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The room was quiet, save for the slow, wet rhythm of your heartbeats returning to something human.

Whatever he was now, whoever he was, you had him.

And he had you.

You hadn't flown in years.

Not since you were a kid, and your ears popped so badly you thought you'd gone permanently deaf. Even now, the memory prickled in the back of your skull, sharpened by the low hum of the jet engines and the stale, recycled air.

You were hoping, no, praying, that no one would sit next to you. Not because you were antisocial (well, not entirely), but because planes were such a specific kind of hell. All that forced closeness. The inevitable small talk. The weird dance of elbows on the shared armrest. You'd taken the window seat and already pressed yourself as close to the wall as possible, knees pulled in, book open on your lap even though you'd read the same sentence six times already.

You heard them before you saw them, the sounds of a group. Laughter, loud voices, the shuffle of bags. Something told you this was it. The seat would not remain empty.

And it didn’t.

A body dropped into the seat beside you, followed by a half-hearted, "Sorry, 'scuse me." Accent. Not posh. Kind of mumbly. Polite, though. You didn’t look up. If you didn’t look, maybe it wouldn’t register. Maybe this person would get the hint.

A beat of silence passed.

Then: "You like that book?"

You blinked. The voice was closer now. Still low, a little scratchy. You looked up.

And then promptly looked away again.

George Harrison was sitting next to you.

THE George Harrison.

Of the Beatles.

He didn’t seem to notice your tiny internal meltdown. Either that, or he was used to it. Probably.

You weren’t sure what to say. Your mouth opened. Closed.

"It’s good," you said finally, voice smaller than you intended. It always came out like that when you were nervous. He leaned a little closer, peering at the cover.

"One of my favourites, that one. Didn’t think I’d see it on a flight."

You nodded, heart hammering. You didn't trust your voice to say more.

He adjusted in his seat, long legs stretching out slightly into the aisle until a steward gave him a look. He folded them back in. Fiddled with the edge of his cuff.

"Long flight," he said, after a pause.

You nodded again.

There was a silence. Not an uncomfortable one, necessarily. More like he was waiting to see if you’d talk.

"Sorry," he said suddenly, turning to you properly this time. "Hope you don’t mind me talkin'. I get chatty when I’m knackered."

You risked a glance at him.

He looked exactly like the magazine covers. The posters. The newspaper clippings your friends giggled over. But he also looked tired. Not in a bad way. Just soft around the edges. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair slightly mussed like he hadn’t had time to fix it after the rush through the terminal.

"I don’t mind," you said. Almost surprised at yourself.

His mouth tugged into a half-smile. "Good. Couldn’t take another cold stare. Got hundreds of those just walking down the aisle."

You let out a small, involuntary laugh. Immediate regret flooded in. Laughing? At George Harrison? What were you thinking?

But he grinned wider at the sound.

"Where you off to then? Or back from?"

"Visiting," you said quickly. It wasn’t a lie, just an edited version of the truth. You didn’t exactly owe him your life story.

"Ah, lucky you. We’re off to another gig. Feels like I’ve been living out of a suitcase for months."

You nodded, unsure what to add. He didn’t seem to mind carrying the conversation.

"What made you pick that book?"

You hesitated.

"It was in a pile. In the back of a secondhand shop. Looked like it’d been through ten owners. Felt like it deserved one more."

He tilted his head, intrigued. "You always talk like that?"

You blinked. "Like what?"

"Like it’s a poem or somethin'."

Your face flushed. You looked away, back out the window. The clouds were thick now, cottony. Everything felt surreal.

"Sorry," you muttered.

"Don’t be sorry," he said quickly. "It’s good. Makes a change."

Another silence.

This time, you filled it.

"Why are you on a commercial flight?" you asked before your brain could stop you.

He smiled again, this time a little crooked. "We’re sort of... laying low. One of our connections fell through, and the label didn’t want us waiting around in some hotel where fans might find us. Thought it'd be clever to book separate seats on a public flight. Less obvious, I suppose."

You blinked. That was actually... plausible. Kind of. You nodded slowly.

The plane started to taxi. The seatbelt sign chimed. You gripped the armrest, breath catching.

George noticed. "Not a fan of flying?"

You shook your head. "Not... not great at it."

"Hm," he said, thoughtful. "Wanna know a trick?"

You looked at him, wary.

"Pretend you’re somewhere else. Somewhere boring. Like the dentist. You ever been bored at the dentist?"

"Not really."

He laughed, the sound genuine and light. "Alright, bad example. But y’know what I mean. Think about something slow. Not scary. Helps a bit."

You tried it.

You thought about the bookstore. The one you found the novel in. Dusty, sunlit, smelling like old paper and forgotten things.

The plane lifted off.

You didn’t panic.

━━

Hours passed.

He slept for a while. So did you, sort of.

It wasn’t intentional, really. One minute you were watching the pages of your book blur under dim cabin light, the hum of the engines and occasional rustling of passengers forming a dull, hypnotic backdrop. The next, your body was slowly giving in to the weight of exhaustion and recycled air. You hadn’t flown in years and forgot how draining it was, how it wore you down not just physically, but mentally too, like being suspended in a place outside of time.

Beside you, George had shifted subtly, he’d pulled his coat tighter around him at some point, arms crossed loosely, chin slightly dipped toward his chest. His face was relaxed in a way you hadn’t quite seen yet, softer in sleep. The usual sharpness in his features had eased. If you hadn’t been so bleary-eyed, it might’ve caught you staring.

Your eyelids dropped before you realized it. The seat cradled you at an odd angle, and your neck tilted a bit too far to the left. But what surprised you most wasn’t waking up sore, it was waking up warm.

Your eyes blinked open slowly, the light overhead now off, the cabin darker than before. Something soft pressed against your temple, and for a half-second, your brain scrambled to place where you were, what time it was, who-

George.

You froze.

He was leaning gently into you, his head resting lightly against yours, your shoulders nestled together in a quiet sort of truce. At some point during the flight, maybe an hour ago, maybe more, you’d both drifted toward each other like plants stretching toward warmth.

His breath was slow, even, and audible only in the silence between announcements and engine sounds. Your heart stuttered, not in panic, but in something else. Something a bit disbelieving. He didn’t seem to notice your subtle return to consciousness, not right away.

You didn’t move.

Not at first.

The weight of his head against yours wasn’t heavy. Just real. Steady. The kind of contact that grounded you.

You let your eyes drift again, fighting the dumb grin threatening the edge of your mouth.

When George stirred, it was gentle, like a cat re-situating. He blinked slowly, his brow creasing in the soft confusion of someone waking somewhere strange.

Then he noticed.

His eyes widened just a bit when he realized the way your heads leaned together, the way your shoulders stayed pressed like two puzzle pieces that had only recently found their match. You looked at him, suddenly self-conscious, but he didn’t pull away.

Instead, he gave a sleepy, half-smile. “Huh,” he murmured, voice gravelly with sleep and accent even thicker than usual. “S’pose we got cozy, then.”

You laughed under your breath, nervous and warm. “Guess so.”

He didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he leaned a fraction closer for a moment, like committing it to memory.

“Didn’t drool on ya, did I?” he asked, feigning concern.

You gave a lopsided smile. “No. You’re in the clear.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his face, then through his hair, mussing it further. He didn’t move away, though. Not really. His shoulder still brushed yours.

“Y’know,” he said after a beat, eyes still a little distant with sleep, “not the worst nap I’ve had. Might even be the best.”

You glanced at him, unsure whether he meant it or if he was just being nice.

Then he turned and looked right at you, soft and sure.

“Really. Best flight nap I can remember.”

You didn’t say anything, just let the silence speak for you. Let yourself lean again, just slightly. Just enough.

He didn’t mind.

john lennon

john gets pistol-whipped into love at the cavern club. you’re america’s sweetheart. john’s been waiting to meet you. john wakes you up at 4 a.m. to eat. it’s not about food john comforts you after cruel press comments in a world that took from him, you were the one thing he had to earn (18+!) john can’t keep his hands to himself. not when you’re this close. (18+!) john’s mouth does more than sing. you’re left speechless. (18+) you never meant for anyone to see you break. john does. john doesn’t understand why you do the things you do until he finally listens his eyes are on you.. and on anyone who looks at you. john’s burnt out. all he wants is you. (18+!) you’ve never felt confident naked. john won’t let you hide. (18+!) you’re a first for him. john couldn’t be happier. (18!) his glasses, a cramped flat, and you in his lap. (18!) hard day’s night premiere. john’s got a fake date, and a real problem. buried in fan mail are letters from home. john notices, and can’t leave it alone. two stars, too close. not love, but almost. (18+!) you’re a beatle too. not everyone acts like it. you hate him. he hates you. then you fall in love. you’re the nervous assistant with a poetry book. he reads it. you spend the day in the dakota. john doesn’t let you leave his lap. (18+!)

paul mccartney

you have a panic attack. paul finds you the train’s leaving. you’re not sure you belong in paul’s future. | part 2 you spend the day on paul’s farm, laughing and running wild. | more!! he’s cracking at the seams and you offer yourself up like a prayer (18+!) you’re john’s best friend. paul wishes you weren’t. your song about paul turns into a hit. now he’s at your door. paul loves you loud. you’ve never been loved like this. you and paul were firsts. now it’s 1969, and your songs still sound like him. the world sees you as quiet. paul knows how loud you get. (18+!) five years ago, you told paul to wait. he did. paul needs to unwind after the sessions. you offer your thighs. (18+!) paul finds himself writing songs again. you're why. he’s not the paul you loved. and you’re not sure you care. (18+!) (paul is dead) paul takes you to the beach for quiet. but he just wants you. (18+!) sfw alphabet paul shows you off all night, then takes you outside and ruins you. (18+!) paul gives you a daisy after a show. then another. and another. you clean the flat alone. paul makes you filthy again. (18+!) you ruin his bit. he tries to ruin your composure.

george harrison

you’re a florist’s apprentice. george listens to you talk about flowers. you’re scared of heights. you end up on the rooftop with george anyway. you and george are seated together on a flight. he likes the book you're reading. you're america’s shyest superstar, he was the quiet beatle. you’re far from the spotlight. george still finds you. george is crushing hard. he’s really bad at hiding it. george hasn’t seen you in weeks and he’s ravenous. (18+!) george loses himself to fame. your door is the last place he feels whole. years of love, never said out loud. you’re a folk singer with a busted guitar. george thinks it’s fate. it’s not supposed to be real. but in secret, he holds you like it is. a joint, a smirk, your legs in his lap. george takes it from there. (18+!) the mustache isn’t helping. george catches you staring anyway. (18+!)

ringo starr

you’re a reporters assistant. he smiles, asks your name, remembers it. you can’t see your worth. ringo shows you, over and over. you hate eating in public. ringo sees you struggling. the night’s over. ringo’s still looking at you like that. the storm hits. ringo finds you scared and stays. you're trying to feed him. he’s just trying not to die. ringo’s in boxers making breakfast. you don’t leave bed ‘til noon. you and ringo spend christmas the slow way.

multiple

the beatles comforting their girl after an argument kisses from the beatles nsfw alphabet: john and paul (18+!) nsfw alphabet: george and ringo (18!+) reader with an odd name pillow/tickle fights with them showing you a song they wrote for you them being protective over a reader who's also in the band the beatles with a southern accented partner the beatles with a plus sized partner the beatles with a s/o in arts the beatles with an easily startled s/o the beatles with a s/o who has super long hair paul and john are obsessed with you. neither backs down. (18+!) the beatles with you cuddled up and asleep on them the beatles with a hippie girl the beatles with an italian partner when there's a rumor that he's cheating the beatles with a black cat gf hugs from the beatles if you wrote them a song beatles with a novelist partner helping you with an ed their reaction to someone with odd colored hair first impressions but you were wrong taking you to a fair/carnival the beatles with a partner recovering from a bad breakup the beatles on your birthday the beatles reacting to your stretch marks/cellulite the beatles with a model girl the beatles with a pregnant s/o teaching you instruments the beatles with a ftm bf

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

“You’re all sharp corners ‘til i get my arms around you, aren’t you, puss?”

He’s obsessed with how untouchable you seem to the world. People whisper that you’re intimidating, or a bit cold, and John just grins. That’s his girl.

But he melts when you’re alone together.

When you quietly curl into his lap like a sleepy kitten, when your icy sarcasm melts into soft kisses on his collarbone, when you absentmindedly trace patterns on his chest with your finger.

John never says it out loud.

(Okay, maybe once, when he was drunk and blushing)

“I like bein’ the only one who gets to see the real you. Makes me feel like the moon caught the stars.”

He always pulls you close at parties, half to show you off, half because he knows you’re overstimulated and need something familiar.

He’ll whisper, “Alright, love? Want me to make an excuse for us to leg it?”

He teases you endlessly.

"Oi, don't give me the silent treatment, Miss Shadowcat"

But when you look up at him with sleepy eyes and say “Can we just go home?” he wraps you in his coat instantly.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

“You’re not foolin’ me with all that cool talk, love. I know what you’re like at home.”

Paul is enchanted by your mystique.

You’re never mean, just quiet, composed, a little unreadable in public.

But behind closed doors? You cling to him like ivy.

He loves catching your rare smiles when no one else is around. When you softly giggle into his shoulder, he goes feral.

When you're out, you lean into his arm like you're just slightly on edge.

He keeps a protective hand on the small of your back and whispers reassurance in your ear like,

“You’re alright, love. You’re with me now.”

At home, you sneak up behind him when he’s writing and wrap your arms around his waist.

He grins every time like it’s the first time. “Well hello there, stranger.”

Paul has learned not to move too much once you’re snuggled into him on the sofa, because you’ll softly groan and grab tighter.

He pretends to hate being trapped but lives for it.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

“You don’t say much to anyone else, but you never shut up when it’s just me, do you?”

George is quietly in love with you.

He never expected you to open up to him, never expected to be chosen by the girl who treats the world like a closed book, but the first time you curled up in his sweater, he knew you were his.

You sit in the studio with him, never interrupting, just watching with soft eyes.

He always makes sure to bring you a blanket and tea without asking.

You rarely ask for comfort, but he knows when you need it.

“People say she’s cold,” he shrugs, “but she’s got more warmth in her pinky than most people I know.”

When you're overstimulated from fame and fuss and flashbulbs,

George takes you somewhere green.

He spreads a blanket, pulls you into his lap, and hums into your hair.

He writes you letters. Even when you’re in the same flat.

Slips them into your books like: “For my little cat in the window. The one with teeth for the world and velvet for me.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

“I dunno what everyone’s on about. You’re sweet as sugar with me.”

Ringo is so proud to be the one person who can make your icy exterior melt into soft touches and giggles.

It makes him feel special, chosen.

He lives for how you always find your way back to him.

You’ll float around a room full of strangers like mist, but always end up tucked into his side, hands tangled, face buried in his shoulder.

He loves to tease you. “Don’t go gettin’ all cuddly now, people might think you like me or summat.”

But when you quietly kiss the side of his neck, he just beams like a little kid.

You never talk much in interviews, but Ringo always glances at you like “You good, love?” and you’ll give the tiniest nod, which makes him feel like a king.

You two share a quiet language... eyebrow quirks, hand squeezes, soft smiles.

He knows how you’re feeling without a word.

His favorite thing ever is when you crawl into his lap unprompted and just whisper something like “Missed you.”

He’ll go all mushy and say “Missed you too, sweetheart. More than you know.”

The sun crept in like it knew it was being rude.

Yellow streaks spilled across the bedsheets, lighting the tangled limbs and discarded t-shirt on the floor, the little record player in the corner with its lid half-shut and something still humming low because neither of you’d gotten up to stop it. The apartment smelled like warmth and dust and sleep.

You rolled over with a groan, cheek pressed into the pillow.

Ringo was gone.

Well, not gone. You could still hear him. Somewhere in the flat. Clanging.

You blinked slowly, head buried beneath the duvet, trying to place the noise. Something metal, something clumsy.

Then you smelled it. Butter. Bread. Was that eggs?

Your heart fluttered.

Ringo had said he was gonna cook this weekend, but he also said that about fixing the bookshelf and watching Dr. Zhivago with you. You’d learned to love the promises even when they dissolved like smoke. He meant them. But today… maybe he meant this one more.

You groaned again, curling into yourself, stretching your toes under the sheets.

Then-

“Aye!” he called from the kitchen. “Don’t think I don’t hear y’tossin’ around!"

You laughed, a sleepy huff into the pillow. “How d’you know I’m awake?”

“’Cause you always make that noise like you’re bein’ murdered when you stretch. S’nothin’ short of dramatic, that.”

You sat up, rubbing at your eyes. Your voice was hoarse with sleep. “You're makin’ breakfast?”

A pause. A suspicious sizzle.

“…depends how y’determine breakfast. Might be brunch by now. Or early tea.”

You dragged the duvet off and made your way down the narrow hallway in socks. The flat was old, with squeaky floorboards and weird little alcoves, and you loved every inch of it. Especially the kitchen.

There he was. Back to you, standing at the stove in nothing but his boxers and an apron that said “Kiss the Cook” in red paint. His hair was flat on one side, puffy on the other.

“You would wear that apron,” you muttered.

He turned, spatula in hand, big grin plastered across his face. “’Course I would. Gotta advertise, haven’t I?”

You leaned against the doorframe, watching. “What's all this?”

“Well, I made eggs, see, scrambled, then did toast, but I burnt the first two slices so you’re gettin’ the golden ones, not the test batch-aren’t you lucky-then I thought, well I’ll slice some avocado, right, real posh like. And then I thought, what if we want beans too?”

“Do we want beans?”

“I dunno. I just wanted to make enough noise that you’d come in and kiss me.”

You laughed and crossed the kitchen to do exactly that. He kissed you like he hadn’t seen you in weeks, hand on your hip, thumb brushing the hem of your shirt, warm and unhurried.

“Mornin’,” he murmured against your lips.

“’S not morning anymore.”

“Still counts if we haven’t eaten.”

You leaned into him, eyes closed. “You’re warm.”

“I’m cookin’, love. My arse is roastin’. Should’ve put trousers on.”

“You should’ve turned on the fan.”

Ringo looked toward the greasy little fan over the stove, then shrugged. “Adds to the charm. Keeps me sweatin’.”

You swatted his stomach and he grinned. “Table’s set. Sort of.”

He wasn’t lying. There were two plates, a butter knife, and a spoon that absolutely wasn’t needed for anything, but it was lying between them like it belonged. A single napkin sat balled near the edge. And in the middle: a little stubby candle in a wine bottle, half-burnt from last night, when you’d split a bottle of red and played cards with your feet in his lap.

You sat. He served.

He poured tea for both of you, two sugars for you, one for him. He did it without asking. Then he slid the food in front of you with a chef’s flourish.

You stared at your plate.

“Is that a heart-shaped egg?”

He raised both eyebrows. “You noticed!”

You laughed into your tea. “It’s lopsided.”

“S’how you know it’s genuine.”

You dug in, and to your surprise, it was good. The toast was buttery and crisp. The eggs were soft, a little peppery. The avocado was… well, it was avocado. But he’d sliced it with the love of a man preparing a wedding feast.

You hummed around a mouthful. “Richie…”

He perked up like a puppy. “Yeah?”

“This is a normal breakfast.”

He puffed up. Actually puffed. Shoulders back, chest out, doing a mock-bow in the chair.

“I accept awards in the form of snogs.”

You leaned over the table and kissed him again, slower this time. The candle wax had melted into the woodgrain. Your fingers brushed his.

You didn’t even realize you were smiling ‘til he reached over and traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

“I like seein’ you like this,” he said.

You swallowed. “Like what?”

“Happy. All soft and sweet. Like I did somethin’ right.”

You rolled your eyes, but it came out too gentle to mean it. “You do things right. All the time.”

“Not always.”

“No one does.”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking at you like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like the candlelight and the cheap toast and your hair mussed from sleep was something out of a dream he wasn’t done having yet.

You set your tea down. “Richie?”

“Mm?”

“Stay like this with me. All day.”

He grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

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.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

"You’re fucked in the head, love. Proper bent. It’s brilliant. No, I mean it!"

He reads everything you write.

Not always in the right order. Not always fully awake. Often drunk.

But he reads it and then won’t stop quoting you at breakfast like

“Y’wrote, ‘her mouth bloomed red as a crushed hibiscus.’ What the fuck’s a hibiscus?"

Calls your books “brain films.” Always pestering you to explain the weird bits, then getting mad when you do.

“Ugh no, don’t say it was metaphorical! It’s better when it’s fuckin’ spooky!”

Doodles potential book covers for you. Usually gruesome or obscene.

You’re like “this is a love story, John.”

He’s like “yeah, and love is fucked, so here’s a bleeding heart on fire.”

If someone ever disses your work in the press, he will threaten to mail them dogshit.

Did it once. He’s not proud, but he’s not sorry.

Tells people you’re smarter than him. Brags about it.

“They've got the brain, I’m just the dickhead with a guitar.”

He means it. Loves it.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

"Y’know, I told John... I told him, you've got that mad brain. Mad in a good way. Real twisty. It’s lovely, isn’t it?

He absolutely carries your books around with the title facing out like a proud mum with a school prize ribbon.

Always in his jacket pocket, signed of course, and he’s probably asked you to dedicate one to Paul, who gets to hear the saucy bits first.

Reads your work out loud to himself, dramatic voices and all. Adds his own little sound effects.

"BANG! And then she bloody caved his head in-oh, love, this bit’s ace.”

Calls you “me little paperback writer” constantly.

Never your name anymore. Even on the post-it notes he leaves on the kettle.

Will not shut up about you in interviews.

If you’re doing a signing, he will be there in sunglasses and a hat, pretending to be some rando fan, then causing a scene like,

“Oi! I shagged the author!”

Smug bastard.

Can’t stop smirking whenever he sees someone reading your book on the tube.

Has a whole catalogued mental list of all the weirdest places he’s caught someone flipping your pages.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

"I think it’s dead great, y’know, that you do all that with words. All that twisty mind stuff.

Devours your work. Reads slowly, thoughtfully, with a pencil in hand like he’s going to take notes on every metaphor.

His copies are dog-eared, underlined, highlighted.

Brings your books to the studio. Not for clout, just to have you close.

Opens to a favourite passage when he’s stuck on a lyric.

Says your writing is like music.

“It’s got rhythm, y’know? I can hear it.”

Likes watching you work. Sits across the room and just stares at you for hours while you’re typing.

You’re like “can I help you?” and he’s just smiling, shaking his head. “You’re making a whole world in there.”

He’s quiet about his pride but fierce. If someone talks over you in a panel or interview, he’ll pull them aside later and say things.

Very softly. Very firmly. They don’t do it again.

Asks thoughtful questions. Wants to know where your ideas come from.

Begs to write the score if one of your novels gets adapted into a film.

Gets way too into it.

Ruffles your hair after you meet a deadline. Calls you “my little storyteller” when you’re half-asleep on his chest. Makes you feel mythical.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

"I dunno how y’do it, love. I can barely write a postcard. And there you are makin’ murder mysteries with Latin quotes. Fuckin’ hell."

Ringo’s your biggest hype man.

Brings your books everywhere.

Bar. Plane. Dentist.

He reads slow but with real heart.

Laughs out loud when something’s funny.

Gasps when a character dies.

He’s just really dramatic about it, basically.

Asks if he’s ever gonna be in one. “Y’could kill me off! I’d like that. Poisoned by me own drumsticks. Classic.”

Keeps your headshot from the back of your book on the fridge.

Kissed the corner once and claimed it was a joke. It wasn’t.

Once tried to write a page of his own as a surprise. It was mostly swear words and a lot of spelling errors. You loved it anyway.

If you ever have a book tour, he comes to every event he can.

Front row.

Buys his own copy from the shop like a fanboy.

His favourite thing is when you read him drafts at night. Lies in bed, hands behind his head, eyes half-closed. “Tell me a story, love.”

Thinks you’re a genius. Like, genuinely.

Makes it sound like the highest compliment in the world.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

"You don’t think I’m soft, do you? Not for likin’ it? …’Cause it’s proper good, what you’re doing. Makes me feel real."

He stumbles upon it by accident, rifling through your notebook like a nosy bastard when you leave it out.

You walk in to him dead silent, perched on the edge of your bed, blinking down at the words.

“S’the song. For us,” he mutters. “For me?”

He acts like it doesn’t touch him.

Says it’s “a bit sappy,” but you catch him humming the melody the next morning while making toast.

Gets weirdly clingy after reading it. More teasing, more physical, almost annoying. But his eyes go soft when he thinks you aren’t looking.

He tells you “don’t go changin’ it, alright?” even though he hasn't heard the chords yet. “Wrote it like that for a reason, didn’t you?”

Won’t admit it, but he’s gutted when you go quiet about it for a few days. He’s walking on eggshells wondering if he ruined it.

One night, you play a rough version on your guitar, half-finished lyrics and all. You hear a sharp inhale, and John blinking hard.

Starts saying things like “when that song’s out,” as if it’ll ever leave your bedroom. He needs it to exist now.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

"That bit, it’s about me, yeah? I know it is. No, don’t laugh. I know your writing voice, I can hear it when you mean me."

He’s ecstatic. Absolutely beaming. You’re writing a song for him???

He’s preening like a proud cat.

Immediately volunteers to help finish it. Suggests harmonies, chords, a bridge. You’ve barely written the first verse.

Keeps interrupting you while you’re writing. “Is that about the time I-? Oh, that’s gotta be my bit. I can tell by the phrasing.”

Once hears a lyric that’s vaguely self-critical and goes

“Oi! What d’you mean ‘doesn’t let anyone in’?! I’m very accessible emotionally”

You have to tell him gently to let you write it first. “Okay, okay,” he says, holding his hands up. “It’s your love letter. I get it.”

Still sneaks peeks at your notes. Sometimes scribbles in the margins things like ‘what if you add a minor here?’

When you finally play it for him, he’s quiet. It stuns him.

He didn’t expect it to hit that hard.

“I always wonder if you see me, y’know? And then you write this, and I think maybe you do. Like, all the way through.”

Hugs you so tight you nearly drop the guitar. “I’d write you a thousand back.”

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

"If you’re writin’ it about me, don’t make it too sad, alright? I’ve got enough of that. Just… somethin’ warm. Somethin’ to come back to."

You mention offhandedly you’ve been writing a song about him.

He just blinks. “Me?”

You go, “Of course you.” And he bites his lip and nods and turns pink and says nothing else for ten minutes.

Doesn’t ask to hear it. Doesn’t hover.

But every now and then he’ll ask quietly: “Still working on that song?”

Once he does catch a lyric over your shoulder and goes “that bit’s for me, innit?” You nod. He looks away, swallows hard.

Secretly terrified you’ll write him in a way that’s too painful, too close to how he actually feels inside.

But he wants to be known.

When you play it for him, nervously, softly, he closes his eyes.

Breathes it in like incense.

Doesn’t clap when you finish. Just opens his eyes and says: “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

And then, “Can I have it? Like… write it down for me? I wanna keep it.”

You catch him playing the chords to it months later, quietly, alone.

He adds a harmony of his own. It’s gorgeous.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

"I don’t know what you were expectin’, but I’m gonna cry, alright? Just warning you. I am."

Is so moved the second you even mention you’re writing a song about him.

“Like, me me? I’m in it??”

Wants to know everything.

“What’s it like? What kinda vibe am I? Is it sad, is it funny, is it dancy?”

Tries to act chill but keeps peeking at your instrument when you’re playing under your breath.

You finally let him hear one verse and he goes “Oh! I’m-oh!” and starts laughing.

“That’s what you think of me? Really?? Like that? Oh, you sweetheart.”

Insists you record a demo and plays tambourine on it.

“Just so I can say I was in the song about me.”

Once tells someone, “Y’know, they wrote a song about me. That’s how you know you’re loved, innit? When someone sings you home.”

Requests you play it for him when he’s feeling low.

Just sits with his chin on your shoulder while you strum.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

“C’mere, will yer-don’t get shy on me now, I’m not gonna bite ya. Not unless you ask.”

He always pulls you fully flush to him, like he’s daring anyone to try and wedge themselves between.

He lives for your hugs. He’s like a man starved, even if you only saw him an hour ago.

During a cuddle on the couch, he’ll scoff, “You’re so clingy,”, while having a death grip on your middle and burying his face in your neck.

If he’s upset or overwhelmed, it’s silent. You’ll feel his body shake slightly, but he won’t say a word. He’ll just hold you longer.

Doesn’t want to let go first. Even if the hug starts out light, it turns into a hold very quickly. Especially if you give in and stroke the back of his neck.

A rare, devastating forehead-to-forehead hug happens when he’s feeling really raw.

He cups your cheeks and pulls you close like you’re the only one left on earth.

Hugs you from behind constantly. In public, too, just to show you're his.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

“Aww, c’mere, love. Can’t have you standin’ there all on your own now, can I?”

Paul hugs like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

His arms go around everything, and his head tilts to slot against yours.

He always makes a little hum or content sigh when you’re in his arms... like it just makes everything right.

If you’re having a bad day, he’ll sway slightly while hugging you. Rocking you like a lullaby.

Rubs little circles on your back.

Kisses your temple.

Murmurs sweet things in your ear.

Absolutely adores wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on top of your head (or shoulder, if you're taller).

If you're in a group setting and he sees you stressed or overwhelmed, he’ll sneak up beside you and pull you into a one-arm side hug, rubbing your back.

Holds your face afterward like you’re made of spun sugar.

Likes hugs after kisses. He’ll kiss you and then pull you into a long, lingering embrace like it’s dessert.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

“You gonna stand there or let me hold you properly?”

George gives slow hugs.

He doesn’t go in for them impulsively, but when he does?

You feel it for hours afterward.

He likes pulling you into a hug when things go unsaid.

You’re upset, or he’s unsure, or something’s too deep to speak aloud, he reaches, and just pulls you in.

His hugs start light and deepen as he feels your heartbeat sync with his.

His arms tighten, head tucks down into your shoulder, and suddenly you’re both locked there in silence.

He’s big on pressing his hand to the back of your neck during a hug. Grounding. Protective.

After arguments or tension, he’ll hug you slow and gentle, forehead resting on yours, thumbs brushing your ribs, no apologies needed.

When he whispers during hugs, it’s always something small and intimate. “Missed you.” “You smell good.”

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

“Wha-don’t just stand there lookin’ like that! You want a cuddle or not? C’mere!”

Ringo hugs like it’s the highlight of his day. Wide arms, a huge grin, then BAM!

You’re lifted a little off the ground if you’re lucky.

Hugs often come with a kiss to the temple or a noisy “Mwah!” to your cheek.

He’s just happy to be there.

He laughs when he hugs you sometimes.

That delighted, crinkly-eyed laugh like “Ain’t this the best?”

His hugs are warm in both temperature and spirit.

Always smells like aftershave and tea and whatever sweets he had earlier.

Likes to squeeze you, not in a suffocating way... usually.

His back rubs during hugs are the best.

Big soothing motions with his palm. He’ll say “It’s alright now, innit?” if you’re anxious or shaky.

If he hasn’t seen you in a while, he hugs you multiple times in one sitting. Can’t help himself. “Just makin’ sure you’re real.”

꒰ 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?”

You’d been with them longer than anyone could rightly remember. Before the fame wrapped tight around their throats, before America screamed their names like gods, you were there, lugging gear, jotting half-legible notes in the back of a pub napkin, pulling cigarettes from Paul’s lips to save them for later, rolling your eyes as John flirted with anything with a pulse and half a pint.

Now it’s the studio again. Where you live now, practically. The air is muggy with sound. Paul's hunched over his bass, lip between his teeth, sweat darkening the back of his shirt where it clings to his spine. John’s sprawled on the floor by the mixing desk, strumming an unplugged electric guitar, letting the strings hum in his palm like he’s taming something wild.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the couch, balancing a tea you won’t drink on your knee, pen spinning between your fingers. You’ve got no real job, not really, maybe "handler" if you're generous, but truth is they just won’t let you leave. You’re part of the fabric.

Tonight’s one of those long ones. Midnight’s already come and gone. George and Ringo left hours ago. It’s just the three of you now, and the tape machine whirrs like it’s whispering secrets.

Paul clears his throat, loud, over the quiet riffing of John's guitar. He tosses his fringe from his eyes and glances at you, eyes flickering like a match about to catch.

"You know, love," he says casually, fingers still dancing on the neck of his Hofner, "You never tell us who you fancy most."

John doesn’t miss a beat. Doesn’t even look up.

"That's ‘cause it's me," he mutters, then plucks a sour note on purpose.

You laugh through your nose, shaking your head, but your stomach tightens. A familiar game, but tonight their tone’s off... richer, slower, a thread of something heavier tugging beneath the surface.

Paul narrows his eyes at you, then shifts in his seat, that showman smile blooming like a flare.

"Go on then," he says. "We're dying to know. You’ve known us for ages. Surely there’s some preferences." He flashes teeth.

You blink slowly, sip your tea that’s gone cold. “I like the ones who shut up and play something decent.”

John barks a laugh and finally lifts his eyes. "So not Paul then," he drawls.

Paul gives him a look. "Jealousy's not a good color, Johnny."

"I'm not jealous," John says. Then he looks at you and there's heat behind his stare. "Just curious who gets to make you moan first."

Silence slices the room in half.

Your breath stutters, chest tightening, but you don’t look away. And they don’t either.

Paul stands, guitar sliding off his shoulder to rest on the floor, and stalks closer. John's gaze flickers to him, amused but alert, predator eye meeting predator eye.

"You think it's you, do you?" Paul murmurs, and he’s standing right in front of you now, a hand out to take your empty cup, his fingers brushing too slow over yours. His voice softens. "You think they'd melt for your words, your wit?"

John shrugs, still sitting but sharp now, coiled. "Better than some dumb love song."

"They like my songs."

"They'd like my fingers better."

Your mouth is dry. You set the cup down on the amp next to you and tilt your head back, catching Paul’s gaze with steady defiance.

"Why don’t you both shut up and… prove it?" You add, cheekily.

That does it.

John’s off the floor like he’s been pulled by a string, and Paul’s already bending forward, cupping your cheek with sudden, devastating tenderness, brushing your hair back. Your breath hitches.

“You serious?” John gawks.

You nod once, slow, and Paul’s thumb strokes your bottom lip like he’s studying it. His gaze doesn’t waver, even as John comes up behind you.

Their rivalry is a thing you’ve always danced between. Words, jokes, songs, but now it’s something else, burning between them like a livewire. And you? You’re the conduit.

The room stills, and not because anyone said to. Just because something’s shifted. The kind of shift you feel in your chest before thunder rolls. Paul’s watching you too closely now, mouth parted slightly, like he’s either going to say something or lean in and kiss you. His tongue flicks across his lower lip and doesn’t return. John’s not moving at all, but his gaze is fixed, boring into the side of Paul’s face, then flicking to you like a dare, like you see this too, right?

They’ve done this before... posturing, jabbing at each other, flaunting themselves like peacocks when you’re around. Paul will hold your hand too long while explaining a harmony. John’ll whisper something obscene against your ear while you’re trying to read. But this? This isn’t just teasing.

Paul shifts closer on the couch. Not dramatically. Just enough that his knee brushes yours. He acts like he doesn’t notice, but he always notices. “You don’t say much when we flirt with you,” he murmurs, tone low and careful, like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud it’ll break whatever spell they’ve just managed to cast.

“I say enough,” you murmur back, heart knocking hard under your ribs.

John huffs softly, guitar now lying beside him untouched. “You don’t say no.”

You turn your head toward him slowly. “I don’t say yes, either.”

John grins, sharp, wolfish. “You don’t have to, love.”

The way he says it, rich and sure of himself, like he’s already got your moans in his back pocket and Paul’s growing jealousy in the other, makes you clench around nothing. You grip the edge of the couch with one hand, trying to ground yourself.

Paul’s gaze is darker now. He leans in, slow and deliberate, brushing your knuckles with his own. “Would you say yes if I kissed you right now?”

There’s a breath, yours or theirs or maybe the studio’s own ghost, but you don’t move away. You don’t answer. And the silence? That is your answer.

He kisses you.

It’s slow at first. Not because he’s unsure, but because he wants you to feel it, every soft press and part, his lips molding to yours like he’s studied them in secret, like he’s been building this in his head for years. You sigh into him, hand rising to cup the back of his neck, and he hums low in his throat, the sound melting into you.

John shifts.

Not much, but you hear him. You feel the pull of his gaze like it’s hands already on you. Paul doesn’t let you go, he deepens the kiss, tongue brushing yours, teasing and coaxing, like he’s trying to prove something, and maybe he is. Maybe he knows you’re about to be stolen.

Because John’s behind you now, not touching yet, but close. His breath ghosts against your ear and it makes you shiver, caught between warm mouths and warm hands and all that thick tension finally unraveling into this.

“Let me have a taste,” John says, and it’s not a request.

Paul pulls back with a wet sound, his lips flushed, eyes glassy. “Not your toy.”

John grins. “Not yours either.”

His fingers hook your jaw, turning your head toward him, and then he kisses you too, rougher, needier, like he’s got something to prove and he’s not playing fair. His tongue pushes in deep, possessive, curling with yours like he wants to leave a mark inside your mouth.

You’re breathing hard when he breaks the kiss, and Paul’s watching with his jaw tight, hands twitching like they’re aching to reclaim you.

“So?” John breathes, voice gravel-thick. “Who kisses better?”

You blink at him, dazed and wrecked already, and let out a shaky laugh. “Is that what this is?”

Paul slides a hand onto your thigh, fingers pressing in just enough to make your breath catch again. “Maybe it is,” he murmurs. “Maybe we’re tired of pretending. You always liked us a little too much, didn’t you?”

“Funny,” you murmur, voice shaking as John's hands slide down your arms from behind. “I thought it was you who always liked me too much.”

That hits something.

Paul’s hand tightens on your thigh. John bites your neck, not hard, but enough to make you gasp.

And then it’s like they’ve both decided at once.

Paul moves first. He’s kneeling now in front of you, sliding his palms up your thighs, eyes locked on yours with something hungry. His hands push between your knees, parting them slowly, watching how your legs obey without resistance. Your trousers are still on, but not for long.

John’s behind you, still standing now, reaching for your shirt. “Up,” he murmurs, and you raise your arms.

They undress you like it’s a ritual. Every movement measured, every brush of skin deliberate. Paul unbuttons your trousers, fingers grazing your stomach, and the softness in his eyes nearly undoes you more than the heat. John slides your shirt over your head, kissing each inch of new skin revealed, your shoulder blade, the dip of your spine, the back of your neck.

By the time they’re done, you’re in your underwear only, and their hands are everywhere, warm and reverent and just this side of teasing.

Paul looks up at you, hands still braced on your thighs. “Tell me what you want.”

You open your mouth to speak, but John leans down, teeth scraping your earlobe. “Or don’t,” he says. “We’ll figure it out anyway.”

Your breath shudders out.

Paul leans in, kisses the inside of your thigh. Not high. Not close. Just enough to make you twitch. Then another. Higher.

John presses against your back, his palm flattening over your stomach, fingers spread wide like he wants to memorize the curve of you.

And then Paul mouths over the heat of you through the thin cotton, hot breath making you whine.

“You’re wet already,” he murmurs, the words reverent. “Bet you’ve thought about this.”

John’s hand slides lower, palm pressing down just above where Paul’s mouth works.

Your head falls back against John’s shoulder, moaning softly, hips twitching toward Paul.

You’re not sure who undoes your underwear. Paul’s mouth is too busy, John’s fingers are moving too fast, but then it’s gone and Paul groans low in his chest as he finally licks a long, slow stripe through your folds.

You jerk, crying out. John holds you tighter, his free hand rising to your chest, cupping one breast, thumb brushing your nipple until it pebbles under his touch.

Paul’s tongue is obscene, circling, flicking, flattening against your clit with practiced ease, each movement building tighter and tighter inside you. John’s breath is hot in your ear.

“Sound so sweet like this,” he murmurs. “All needy. Didn’t know you could beg, but I bet you will.”

You whimper. Paul hums approvingly against you, the vibration making your thighs shake.

“Think I’m winning,” Paul mutters into your cunt, voice smug.

John snorts. “They haven’t even come yet.”

“Oh, they’re close.”

Your body’s wound so tight you could break apart from one more flick, one more twist of tongue. Paul sucks your clit into his mouth and sucks, just once-

You groan, legs clamping around his head, back arched hard into John behind you. He holds you through it, grounding you as you tremble and gasp and finally collapse.

Paul pulls back, lips shiny, eyes blazing.

John watches you come down, then grins wicked. “Alright, mate,” he says. “Now move. My turn.”

John’s still behind you, still fully clothed except for the bulge straining against the zipper of his jeans, but his hands, his hands, are already moving with intent. One is curved possessively over your breast, thumb lazily circling your nipple, while the other slips down your belly, fingers greedy and slick with heat.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs into your ear, voice molten, lips brushing your lobe. “Think that was for me or him?”

You try to answer but all that comes out is a sound, somewhere between a whimper and a broken plea, as his fingers slide between your thighs and sink in. Two at once, deep and unforgiving, curling just enough to make your knees go soft under you.

You moan John's name and pant, hands bracing against Paul’s thighs for balance. Paul’s sitting back now on the couch, shirt open, chest rising slow and steady like he’s controlling every breath, every twitch of muscle. His cock’s hard in his hand, flushed dark and already slick at the head.

“You gonna suck me off or just sit there shakin’?” he teases, but his voice is hoarse, breathless, betraying how badly he wants it.

You drop to your knees on the couch, shifting so your face is level with him, tongue flicking out to lap at the leaking tip first, slow and teasing, savoring the way his hips stutter forward. John’s fingers don’t stop moving inside you, curling, dragging slick and slow against your walls, knuckle-deep and merciless. Your breath hitches and Paul lets out a strangled sound when you finally wrap your lips around him, cheeks hollowing as you take him deeper.

“That’s it-” Paul gasps, one hand tangling in your hair. “God, your mouth’s perfect.”

Behind you, John’s fingers are soaked, your wetness dripping down his knuckles, obscene and slick. He pulls them free and you keen around Paul’s cock, the absence sharp. Then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight, tugging your ass back toward him. You try to look over your shoulder, but Paul presses a hand to the back of your head, gently guiding you down onto his length again, your moan vibrating around him.

And then,

You feel the head of John’s cock press between your folds, thick and hot, nudging against your entrance. No warning. No soft words.

Just that low, hungry growl from behind: “Stay just like that.”

He thrusts in.

Your whole body jerks forward from the force of it, your cry strangled around Paul’s cock. You’re stretched wide, filled in one slow, possessive push until John bottoms out inside you, balls flush against your soaked cunt. Paul groans loudly as your throat tightens around him, the sensation too much, your moan rippling down his length like a jolt.

“Shit,” John grits out. “Fuckin’ hell.”

He doesn’t move right away. He just stays there, buried deep, letting you feel it, every throb, every twitch inside you, the unbearable fullness. His hands tighten on your hips and you can’t stop shaking, mouth still full of Paul, lips wet and stretched, eyes fluttering half-shut.

“C’mon, love,” Paul murmurs, hand stroking your cheek now, tender even as you’re choking on his cock. “Don’t get shy on us now. You’re doin’ so well.”

John pulls back an inch, then slams into you hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Your cry is muffled again, and Paul hisses through his teeth. “Bloody hell, John. They’ll choke.”

John leans over your back, chest pressed against your spine, lips hot on your neck. “They like it,” he growls. “Hear that? Fuckin’ moanin’ around your knob every time I slam in.”

And he does, he starts fucking you in a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward again and again, and each time he thrusts, your throat clenches tighter around Paul, mouth stuffed full and drooling. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can only feel, John’s cock driving into you from behind, Paul’s pulsing in your mouth, both of them using you like you’re some sweet thing made just for this, just to be taken apart by the two of them together.

“Look at you,” Paul murmurs, brushing your hair back to see your face better. “You gonna come again like this, love? Stuffed from both ends?”

You try to nod but it’s clumsy, helpless, and Paul curses again, biting his lip. “I’m close. Fuck, your mouth…”

John grunts, pace growing erratic now, his grip bruising on your hips, dragging you back into him with every thrust. “Bet they’ll squeeze me tighter when you do. Fuck, do it, Macca."

Paul shudders, hips jerking, and with a gasped "Fuck," he spills down your throat, hot and thick. You swallow as much as you can, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping free from the effort, but you don’t stop sucking until he’s twitching, oversensitive, pulling away with a groan.

The moment he slips free, you gasp, air flooding your lungs, but John doesn’t stop. If anything, he slams harder, one hand snaking around to rub fast, tight circles over your clit.

You’re crying out now, every noise raw and broken and loud.

“Come for me,” John pants. "C’mon, let him fuckin’ hear it-”

You do.

You fall apart with a sob, cunt pulsing hard around him, your whole body jerking, the overstimulation tipping you over fast and brutal. You hear Paul’s breath catch as he watches you unravel, and then John’s groaning behind you, hips stuttering.

He growls, and he slams in deep one final time, cock throbbing as he comes, spilling hot inside you with a moan ripped from his chest.

He stays buried for a long second, panting against your back, both of you trembling. Then slowly, he pulls out, and a mess of come slips down your thigh, warm and wet.

Paul watches it with hooded eyes.

You’re shaking. Knees weak, arms trembling, throat raw from moaning and choking and everything in between, but they aren’t finished. You know it the second you feel John’s hands curl around your waist again, lifting you gently but firmly off the couch, murmuring something low and almost sweet against your shoulder, something you don’t catch because your ears are ringing with the aftershock of your orgasm and the sound of your own ragged breathing.

Paul’s still shirtless, cock flushed again, watching you like he’s starving. His pupils are blown wide, hair damp against his forehead. He’s kneeling now, back on the plush rug beneath the soundboard, motioning you down with one hand.

“C’mere, love. One more.”

John guides you off the couch, steady hands easing you onto Paul’s lap like you’re something delicate, like you haven’t already been split open and ruined between them. Paul’s thighs are warm beneath yours. He lets you settle, chest to chest, your cunt still sore and leaking from where John filled you.

But it’s not over. It’s not even close.

Paul kisses you soft, almost too soft for how hard he’s already getting again beneath you. “Wanna feel you around me this time,” he breathes, voice low and reverent, like prayer. “Slow, yeah? You ride me.”

You nod, or maybe just don’t shake your head, it’s all you can manage.

He lines himself up, thick and ready, and you sink down onto him with a broken sound, legs quaking on either side of his hips. It’s so much. Too much. You’re already stretched and wrecked and every nerve is burning. Paul groans, hands tight on your waist, guiding you down, inch by inch, his cock sliding up into you slow and steady until your hips are flush and your head is tipped back in disbelief.

You’re barely seated on him when you feel John again, behind you now, pressing close, mouth dragging along the back of your neck. His fingers slide between your cheeks, slick with the mess he left in you before.

“I want in again,” he growls, and the way he says it isn’t a question. “Let us have all of you.”

You freeze. Just for a second.

Paul's hands slide up your back. “We’ll go slow,” he murmurs against your throat. “We’ll stop if you say. But you can take it. You’re perfect.”

Your breath trembles, chest heaving against his. The stretch, the fullness, the burn you can already feel, but your body is betraying you, clenching hard around Paul at the thought, aching and soaked and so willing.

You nod.

And it begins.

John slicks himself up, again, fingers brushing your entrance first, pressing slow and patient against your ass, making you sob against Paul’s mouth. Your whole body’s locked tight, shaking, but you don’t pull away. You push back.

Then he’s breaching you, just the head at first, thick and hot and so much. You cry out, and Paul holds your face, kissing your tears, whispering soft encouragements.

John presses deeper, and it’s unbearable, and it’s perfect, and it’s impossible and real and then he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed to your ass, chest flush against your back, breath ragged against your ear.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. You’re split wide open, Paul in your cunt, John in your ass, and all you can do is exist, body trembling, walls clenching around both of them so hard it makes them whimper.

“Fucking hell,” John gasps, voice shaking. “They’re gonna make me come just from this.”

Paul’s jaw is tight, hands braced on your hips. He's laying down now. “Move,” he says, voice almost a growl. “Fuck, move, Johnny.”

And then they’re fucking you. Together.

Slow at first, but devastating. They move in sync, one thrusting in while the other pulls back, keeping you full the whole time, never letting you feel empty. Their rhythm builds, steady and brutal, your body rocked forward and back between them, impaled and trembling, your hands clawing at Paul’s shoulders, nails dragging red lines into his skin.

Your mouth is open but no sound comes. You’re past moaning. Past words. All you can do is take it, take them, stretched and stuffed and wrung out between the two people who know you better than anyone, who know exactly how to break you apart and piece you back together.

John’s fucking you deeper now, balls slapping wetly against your skin, his hand wrapped around your throat from behind, not choking, just holding, grounding. “Come again,” he pants. “Come again right fuckin' now.”

And your body obeys.

Your orgasm hits like fire. You seize around them both, sobbing brokenly, cunt spasming around Paul’s cock while your ass clenches tight on John’s. You hear them both curse, feel them both jerk inside you-

John comes first, thrusting deep and hard as he spills inside your ass with a groan that sounds more like a growl.

Paul follows a second later, burying himself deep, cock twitching, warmth flooding you in waves.

And you?

You’re gone.

You collapse against Paul’s chest, the weight of your body barely supported by him as John slips free, both of them panting and spent, mouths open, hands running down your sides in something almost like worship.

You can’t speak.

You can’t move.

Your legs are trembling uncontrollably, your lips parted and glazed with spit, your eyes unfocused, breath coming in tiny, wrecked gasps. You’re soaked, inside, out, thighs smeared with come, your skin hot and flushed and shaking.

John presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Y’alright?”

You don’t answer.

Paul chuckles softly, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “Well,” he murmurs. “Guess that’s one way to settle it.”

“Not settled,” John says, still breathless, voice hoarse and ragged. “Not even fuckin’ close. I went second.”

“Oh piss off, you cheated. You ambushed 'em.”

“I earned it. You were too busy makin’ love, mate-s’posed to be a competition.”

You blink slowly, dazed and slack-mouthed against Paul’s chest, as the sound of their bickering rises around you again, like a storm circling back on itself.

“-next time, I go first-”

“Next time you learn rhythm-”

“I made 'em come harder-”

“Wasn’t even trying, mate, that’s natural talent-”

Their voices fade into a distant hum, like static, like bees drunk on your honey, and all you can do is lie there limp and boneless, jaw slack, your mind white-noise and floating, your body too wrecked to care.

You don’t speak. You couldn’t if you tried.

They’re still arguing.

And you’re still glowing.

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“We’re both a bit soft in the middle, love. Makes cuddlin’ better.”

John’s always been aware of his own body.

Especially the ways it didn’t match the skinny, sharp-edged rockstar image the media preferred.

He knows he gets soft around the middle. He knows the papers have written about it. He knows and doesn’t care.

So when he’s with you? He doesn’t make a single thing of your size.

It’s just your body to him. Like his is his.

He’s a total sprawler when cuddling, and your chest/stomach/thighs are his favorite resting spots.

He’ll lay half on top of you.

He’s defensive of you in the best way. If anyone makes comments, he's the one going feral.

“Oi, look away if you’re jealous, ya twiggy little twat.”

Or something like, “Yeah? Well, they’re fit enough to be shagged nightly by me, so what’s your excuse?”

He hates how the papers fixate on your appearances when they never seem to mention his. “What, I’m not a walking arse cheek but suddenly you’ve gotta be a Barbie doll?”

Sometimes jokes about the two of you being a pair of “soft little doughballs” when you’re laying in bed after a long day.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“You're the only person in the room when I look at you, love. That’s all that counts.”

Paul’s very tactile and loves the feeling of your body.

Warm, full, solid. He doesn’t make a deal out of it, but you notice the way he touches your waist a little longer, kisses the curve of your shoulder, traces the stretch of your thigh like it’s art.

He’s a huge fan of lounging at home together, limbs tangled.

He’ll literally bury his face in your stomach like it’s a pillow and hum a tune against it.

He write songs that imply body worship.

Paul grew up around people of all shapes.

Liverpool aunties and uncles, sturdy cousins, wide-hipped mums in aprons, John, George, Ringo.

So when he falls for you, it feels... natural. Your size isn’t something he has to “adjust to.”

The press is nasty. When they realize you’re not the thin, miniskirted girl-next-door, they go hard.

He’s deeply upset by it. But keeps it polite in public. Passive-aggressive. British. “I think they look lovely, actually. Always have.”

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“You’re not here to please their eyes. You’re here to live.”

George isn’t one to make a show out of things.

He’s subtle, thoughtful, and deeply aware of how culture treats bodies... he’s been picked apart his whole life, just in a different way.

He just sees you and takes you at total face value.

But he is keenly aware of how cruel the spotlight can be.

He never makes you feel like an accessory. You're not “his partner who happens to be plus size.” You’re his partner, full stop.

Tells you the industry’s always trying to make everyone look like copies of each other, but you’re an original.

He never comments on your weight because it’s not a thing.

You don’t talk about his nose or his neck or his eyebrows all the time, do you? Exactly.

He kisses your cheek in front of cameras. Has a photo of you in his wallet. Calls you “my gorgeous thing” on TV.

He’s so used to being scrutinized that when he finds someone who isn’t trying to shrink, who just exists and breathes and takes up the air he wants to breathe too, he falls completely.

Not because of your size. But not in spite of it either.

Because it’s you. And that’s the whole story.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I don’t care what they think, dove. I like you. End of story.”

Ringo’s the most chill about it outwardly, but he notices everything.

He grew up poor, around people who did real work. Hard women. Hard men. Curvy, broad-shouldered, thick-thighed people.

That’s home to him. So your body isn’t “different”, it just feels familiar.

He hates, HATES when tabloids make digs at you.

You can practically feel him tense up beside you when someone mentions it in an interview.

“Well, I reckon they should look in a mirror,” he snaps. “Wouldn’t throw stones if they saw their own reflection, eh?”

He’s a shoulder for you to lean on, not because he thinks you need it, but because he respects that living in your skin takes a kind of grit most people don’t see.

You both get rude comments sometimes. “Ringo and his tubby lover,” some rag writes. He reads it, laughs, and rips the page out to use as kindling.

“They can write what they want,” he shrugs, lighting a match. “I still get to come home to you.”

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“You say that again, and I swear I’ll combust. D’you know what you sound like, love?”

He loves it.

Thinks it’s sexy, hilarious, and weirdly comforting.

Calls you things like “cowpoke,”

When you talk to strangers back home, he watches with awe.

“It’s like you’re speakin’ a different language,” he says, eyes wide.

That said, the clash is constant. You say “buggy,” he says “trolley.”

You say “coke” for any soda, and he’s like, “You want what?!”

“We’re gonna start a war with the way we talk,” he jokes, grinning.

But he always listens when you speak.

And when you get homesick? He does a terrible Southern accent just to make you laugh.

“Miss yer porch yet?”

You absolutely have miscommunications.

One time you said “fixin’ to” and he genuinely thought you meant you were repairing something.

“You’re fixin’ what?”

“No, I mean, I’m about to-”

“Well why didn’t you just say that?”

But he starts borrowing your sayings, throwing them into conversations just to make you laugh. “We’re fixin’ to leave, lads. Let’s go.”

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“You say things like molasses. Sweet and slow and hard to get outta your head.”

Paul is delighted by your accent. He finds it endearing, charming, and vaguely musical.

He leans in every time you talk, just to hear the curl of your vowels.

He especially loves when you say his name, “Paul” in your voice becomes “Paaawl,” and it drives him mad.

You tease each other constantly.

“Y’all alright?”

“Youse alright?”

He lives for the affectionate little phrases you use.

“If you keep talkin’ like that, I’ll do anything you say.”

When you visit your hometown, he asks a million questions.

“Do I have to eat grits?” “Why do you all wave to each other on the street?”

He starts using your phrases just to be cute.

Says it completely wrong and gets smacked for it.

He loves when you two blend accents in everyday life.

You say “supper,” he says “tea.” You say “y’all,” he says “you lot.”

Somehow, it works.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“Y’know, I reckon we confuse everyone when we talk. Good.”

It takes a minute for him to adjust when you two first meet.

He’s used to thick accents, sure, but yours is like molasses and light, and sometimes he has to ask you to repeat yourself.

“Wait, what was that? No, I’m not takin’ the piss, I swear. I just didn’t catch it.”

But once he does get it, he starts noticing the subtleties, when your accent gets stronger, or softer, depending on your mood.

He loves that.

George asks genuine questions about where you’re from, what it was like, what music played on the radio, how your voice got to sound like that.

Eventually, he picks up some of your phrases, quietly, without fanfare.

He kind of stereotypes you based off what he sees in movies.

He’ll tease you a bit, especially if you start sounding extra-Southern when emotional.

“Getting riled up, are we?” he smirks. “You sound like a banjo’s about to start playin’.”

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I dunno what you just said, but it sounded sweet... so I’ll assume it’s nice.”

Ringo is delighted by your accent from the very first word.

“You’ve got such a nice voice. It’s all... soft an’ sunny. Like a radio show I’d fall asleep to.”

He grins every time you open your mouth.

“I mean it! You could read the phone book to me.”

The two of you absolutely have conversations where neither of you understands the other for a full 30 seconds.

He's like John with the miscommunications thing.

“I said I’m fixin’ to go.”

“You’re... what now? Fixin’ a toe?”

“No, I mean I’m about to go!”

“Ohhh! Right. Mad.”

He’ll try to imitate your accent and it’s terrible.

But he’s so earnest about it you let him get away with it.

He gives you cute nicknames that sound funny in his accent

He starts inventing phrases he thinks sound southern. You threaten to kick him. He thinks it’s adorable.

“Do I get points for effort?” he asks, pulling you into a hug.

“No,” you mutter into his chest.

“That’s fair.”

You were just there to deliver the sandwiches.

That was it. Your whole job. Get the press packets in before noon. Make sure the photographers didn’t spill tea on the rental equipment. And, crucially, bring sandwiches to The Beatles.

Not even for The Beatles, really. For the reporter you worked under. He was inside the suite already, talking at them about trends and music and something about their accents being “marketable.” Your job was to knock on the door, slide the paper bag in, and leave.

That was it.

You did not expect the door to open early.

Or for a mop of floppy dark hair to appear under a pair of soft blue eyes.

Or for him to blink at you like you were the one who wasn’t supposed to be there.

“Alright?” he asked, and leaned against the doorframe like this happened all the time. “You bringin’ snacks or somethin’? I smell food.”

You blinked.

Then stared down at the brown paper bag in your hand. “Er-yeah. Sandwiches. Um, one chicken, one egg, and I think one’s ham and tomato, unless it got mixed up with the manager’s again, in which case…”

You trailed off.

Ringo Starr was looking at you.

Looking at you and smiling.

“Well,” he said, stepping back with a sweep of his arm, “far be it from me to stop a sandwich deliverer. You’re a hero, you are. Come in.”

You shook your head quickly. “Oh, no, I’m not-I’m not supposed to. I just give them to someone and go.”

“Scandalous,” he said, deadpan. “You tease us with lunch and vanish? Who trained you?”

That made you laugh, too loud, a bit startled, and it surprised you. You hadn’t expected him to be funny like that. Not right away. Not so off-the-cuff and dry.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “Just doing what I’m told.”

“You sound like George,” he said, and then tilted his head. “What’s your name?”

You blinked again.

“…Me?”

“No, the ghost behind you,” he said, then leaned in, hand to his mouth, mock-whispering: “Yes, you.”

You told him your name, hesitantly, sure it would disappear the moment the door shut.

But he nodded like he was saving it for later. “Nice.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. So instead you said, “Um. Sandwiches. Here.”

“Right.” He took the bag and peeked inside. “You didn’t poison these, did you?”

“…No?”

“Good. Just checkin’.”

And then the moment passed. The door shut. The suite swallowed him up again.

And you stood in the hallway, heart doing strange, unfamiliar things in your chest.

━━

The next morning, you were back.

Only because the same reporter had asked you to be. He’d forgotten his notes and needed someone to drop them off. You weren’t even supposed to go up. Just leave them at the front desk. But the concierge had smiled and said, “Oh, they’re still upstairs. Suite 4B.”

Which meant you had to take the lift again. Past the same long hallway. Past the security.

You knocked softly, just once.

You weren’t sure why you expected the same thing to happen.

But you did not expect him to open the door again.

Or for his face to light up.

“There you are!”

You blinked. “…Sorry?”

“I thought I dreamt you. Y’know, bringin’ us food and all. Like a sandwich angel.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. “I don’t think angels get paid minimum wage.”

He grinned. “Still. You’re back. Which means fate, or somethin’.”

“…Or my boss forgot his notes.”

He shrugged. “Still fate.”

He took the envelope from your hand, but didn’t go back inside right away. He looked at you again, this time with a bit of hesitation, like he was trying to work something out.

“D’you wanna come in for a minute?”

You blinked. “Um-don’t you have interviews?”

“Yeah,” he said, with the same casualness someone might say “Yeah, I’ve got laundry.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to-”

“Oh, right. Rules.” He scratched his head. “Well. D’you want a tea, then? I’ve got one on. Paul won’t drink it, says I make it too strong.”

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say yes. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were already welcome. Maybe it was the fact that he’d remembered your face.

Or maybe it was because you hadn’t been offered tea in weeks without someone expecting you to file something afterward.

You nodded.

He stepped aside.

The tea wasn’t good.

You told him so.

He laughed so hard he nearly choked on it.

“Good. I didn’t want to share anyway.”

The others were still inside the suite, you could hear them. Paul’s voice going a mile a minute, John laughing too loud, George’s low murmur, someone from the press trying to talk over all of them. Ringo led you to the quieter side room, out of view, and plopped down on the couch with his mug.

You sat in the armchair.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

He looked at you, brow raised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

You shrugged. “You meet thousands of people.”

“Doesn’t mean I forget the nice ones.”

You blinked at that. All you did was bring their lunch...

He sipped his tea, then added: “Besides. You brought lunch! That puts you miles above most of the journos in this place.”

You smiled. Looked down. “I was nervous.”

“Still are, a bit,” he said, not unkindly. “You do that twitchy thing with your hands.”

You looked down again. Your fingers were indeed twitching.

“I get like that too,” he said. “Especially when they all stare at you like you’re a statue or somethin’. Weird, innit?”

You nodded.

He watched you for a moment. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

You looked up, surprised. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You don’t talk to me like I’m a headline.”

“I don’t think I’m qualified to talk to you at all.”

He laughed. “That’s even better.”

━━

It kept happening.

By accident at first. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

You’d be walking past the corridor, and there he was. Sitting on the edge of a low table, swinging his feet, sipping tea he never finished. He’d look up, beam like the sun cracked through a cloud, and say:

“Hello, you.”

You started keeping a spare cup in your bag, just in case he offered to make tea again. (He always did.) It was horrible every time. But it was yours. His and yours. In that echoing press-tinted suite, between recorders and flashbulbs, his half-whispered jokes and offhand glances were the only quiet things you had.

And he never got your name wrong. Not once.

The first time you brought lunch again, he opened the bag, looked inside, and then up at you.

“What’s this, then?” he said. “Spoilin’ me.”

You smiled. “Just leftovers.”

“You’re tellin’ me someone didn’t want this sandwich? In this economy?”

You laughed. “Eat the sandwich, Ringo.”

He grinned, tore the paper, and took a dramatic first bite.

“…Alright. You win.”

A pause.

Then, like it was nothing: “D’you eat yet?”

You blinked. “Not yet, no.”

He scooted over on the couch and patted the spot beside him.

“Well, go on then. I can’t be the only one chokin’ on crumbs.”

So you did. Right there in a posh hotel room, shoulder barely brushing his, half-wrapped sandwich in your hand, trying not to stare at the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the smudge of whatever it was on his chin.

(You handed him a napkin. He missed and wiped it with his sleeve instead.)

━━

And so it went.

You’d bring papers. He’d ask what book you were reading. You’d make a passing joke. He’d remember it a week later and bring it up like it was your shared secret.

Once, he looked over at you in the middle of a pause between interviews, with Paul making jokes to the press and John trying to balance a spoon on his nose, and he said, quiet-like:

“Thought about you yesterday.”

Your heart kicked.

He looked back at his tea.

“Just for a minute. But it was a good minute.”

You smiled, shy and stunned.

“…What were you thinking about?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. Just how you laugh sometimes. You do this little thing where your nose scrunches. It’s funny.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but George interrupted, calling him over.

He stood, gave you a wink, and mouthed: Good minute.

It wasn’t until the end of the week that it happened.

Another press day. Endless flashbulbs, tape reels spinning like clocks. You’d been running errands, mind buzzing, head down. You didn’t notice him until the elevator doors slid open.

He was already in it.

“Oi! Just in time.”

You stepped in without thinking. “Didn’t know I had a deadline.”

“Now you do. I’ve decided.”

You smiled, glancing down at your hands. Your knuckles were red from carrying too much. Your eyes ached.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“Busy one today?”

You nodded. “Lots of running around.”

“You always look knackered by the end of it. You should sit down more.”

You gave him a look. “I’ll sit when I’m dead.”

He grinned. “Morbid. I like it.”

The elevator hummed as it rose. You leaned back against the wall, just breathing.

He watched you quietly.

Then:

“What’s your favorite sound?”

You turned your head.

“…What?”

He looked at you. Earnest. Tilting his head a little. “Sound. Y’know. Something little. Not like music. Just... something that makes your chest go soft.”

You blinked. That wasn’t a question people asked. Not in your world, anyway.

You thought for a moment. “Rain on windows. At night. When you’re warm inside.”

He grinned, big and genuine.

“Rain on windows,” he repeated. “God, that’s lovely. I’m nickin’ that.”

“You asked.”

“And you delivered.” He bumped your shoulder gently. “Fair trade.”

The lift opened. He left with the rest of them. You stayed behind a moment, staring at the space he’d been in.

Rain on windows.

You didn’t see him the next day.

Or the one after.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. It was always chance anyway. You weren’t part of their world. You were just a helper in the wings, holding sandwiches and papers and late coffees for overworked journalists. You weren’t someone he’d-

But then came the morning after that.

You were in early. Fog outside the hotel. Rain in the air.

You walked past the front desk, arms full of folders, and the concierge called out to you.

“Y/n, sorry, someone left something for you.”

You blinked. “For me?”

He handed you a small, square box. Wrapped in navy paper. String tied at the top. No note.

You stared.

Untied it.

Inside, soft and delicate, was a compact, round little record. A vinyl single. No label. No sleeve. Just the glint of grooves, and a small post-it stuck to the inside of the lid.

“Made it for you. Listen when it rains.”

Your chest tightened.

You turned the note over.

Underneath, scribbled in small slanted print: Good minute. —R.

You didn't get a chance to thank him that day either.

Press madness swallowed everything whole again. But the next time you crossed paths, by the lift, same as before, he looked at you with that soft, cheeky smile.

“So? D’you like it?”

You nodded, a little stunned. “You made that?”

“Went back down to the studio late. Asked the lads to piss off for an hour. Paul’s still whinin’ about it.” He grinned. “Only about a minute of sound, but figured it might make you smile.”

You swallowed. Heart in your throat.

“Thank you.”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“Wanted to give you somethin’ back. You’re always bringin’ us things. Tea. Sandwiches. Calm, when it’s mad in here.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

A beat passed. You could hear your pulse.

Then he leaned in a little, not quite touching you, voice low.

“Next time it rains,” he said, “put it on, yeah? Think of me.”

“I already do.”

That made him go quiet. His mouth twitched up, then faltered, then steadied.

“Right,” he said. “Well. That’s alright, then.”

You smiled.

He smiled back.

And for a few long seconds, there was nothing else. Just the two of you, close enough to hear each other breathe, the murmur of the hallway gone quiet around you.

Then he added, barely audible...

“Can I… see you again? Properly, I mean. Not just in lifts and hallways. Like… dinner, maybe?”

Your breath caught.

“Yes.”

His grin returned, crooked and boyish and brilliant.

“Good. Great. Grand.”

He cleared his throat, stepped back, still smiling too much to hide it.

“Guess I’ll have to come up with another sound, then.”

You tilted your head.

“Why?”

He met your eyes, steady now.

“'Cause rain’s yours. Gotta find one that reminds me of you.”