˚₊‧꒰ა XO - Simp ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The neon lights of 1984 didn’t care about sweat, but the stage cameras certainly did. 

Behind the massive, roaring stadium, the backstage area of The Triumph Tour was a chaotic ecosystem of humming air conditioners, tangled black cables, and the constant, rhythmic thrum of bass soundchecks vibrating through the concrete floor. Clothes racks overflowing with sequins, shoulder pads, and heavy silk moved like metallic waves down the hallways. Security guards with ear pieces barked into walkie-talkies, and wardrobe assistants scrambled with hot irons.

And right in the center of the storm sat the Jackson brothers. 

You leaned over Tito’s chair, a fine dusting of translucent powder on your brush, delicately sweeping it across his high cheekbones. The man was a rock. 

While his brothers—Michael pacing in a corner practicing spins, Randy laughing loudly with Jackie, and Marlon messing with his hair—were high-energy live wires, Tito was the quiet anchor of the group.

“Hold still, Mr. Jackson,” you murmured softly, your fingers gently resting on the edge of his jaw to steady his face. “You’re making my job hard with all that fidgeting.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours through the lighted mirror. A slow, warm grin spread across his features, deep and easy. 

“Now, you know I’m the quietest one in this chair,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone—deep like rumbling thunder, packed with that relaxed Indiana cool that never seemed ruffled. “You got Michael bouncing around like a pinball, and you’re picking on me?”

“Because you’re the one holding out on me,” you teased gently, dabbing a bit of blotted lip balm on his bottom lip. “You sweat right through the primer before you can even step foot on that stage.”

“That’s just hard work, baby,” Tito chuckled softly, the nickname slipping out with that natural, unhurried charm of his. “Guitar strings don’t play themselves. Takes real muscles.”

The space between you two pulsed with an understated heat. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t demanding. It was in the way his eyes lingered on your lips when you blew gently on a brush, or the way your hands seemed to stay a second longer than necessary on his skin. 

Every brother in the room had noticed it weeks ago.

From across the room, Jackie leaned over to Marlon and whispered loud enough for the back row to hear, “Look at ‘em. Tito’s been in that makeup chair for forty minutes. Man’s skin ain’t that detailed.”

Marlon snorted. “Tito, man, if you get any more powder on your face, you’re gonna turn into a ghost. Just ask her already!”

Tito’s ears turned a dark red, but he kept his cool, tossing a rolled-up towel lazily at Marlon without even looking. “Y’all need to mind the business that pays you,” he grumbled, though a small, shy smile betrayed him.

You laughed softly, stepping back to hand Tito his pocket mirror. But as your fingers brushed against his broad palm, the air in the room suddenly turned ice-cold.

The heavy wooden door to the dressing room swung open with a sharp, heavy thud. 

Joseph Jackson walked in. 

The room’s volume dropped instantly from an eight to a zero. Michael stopped mid-spin, adjusting his hat line. Marlon straightened up. Jackie cleared his throat.

Joe stood in the doorway, hands buried deep in his trousers, wearing his signature leather coat and a fedora tilted forward. His eyes swept the room like a hawk looking for a crack in the wall, finally settling on you, standing just a little too close to his second-oldest son.

“We got fifteen minutes to doors,” Joe said, his voice a flat, gravelly scrape that carried no warmth. He looked directly at you, eyes narrowing into thin slits. “You done with him yet? We ain’t paying for personal conversation. We paying for a show. Get these boys looking right and get out of the way.”

Your throat went tight. “Yes, Mr. Jackson. He’s all done.”

Tito’s jaw clenched hard—the muscles along his cheek pulsing—but he kept his eyes lowered, respecting the boundary he had been forced to respect his entire life. “I’m set, Joseph,” Tito said softly, his voice tight, stripped of its previous lazy sweetness.

Joe grunted, casting one last warning glare at you before turning to Michael. “Michael, I need to talk to you about the mix on Can You Feel It. Come here.”

As soon as Joe walked toward the production manager at the other end of the room, you hurried packed your brushes into your leather kit, feeling the harsh burn of humiliation behind your eyes. You loved working with the boys. They treated you like family, like a queen. But Joe made you feel like an intruder, a distraction to be eliminated. 

As you zipped up your bag, a large warm hand gently covered yours over the zipper.

You looked up. Tito was standing right beside you, shielding you from the rest of the room with his broad shoulders. His eyes were soft, filled with an apologetic angst that broke your heart. 

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice so low only you could hear it over the sound of the stadium crowd muffled through the walls. “Don’t let him get to you. You do great work. Best we ever had.”

“I just don’t want to get you in trouble, Tito,” you whispered back, looking down at your sneakers. “Or lose my job. He looks at me like I’m a menace.”

“You ain’t no menace,” he said firmly, his thumb lightly brushing the back of your hand before he pulled it away, mindful of any wandering eyes. "He’s just... Joe. He thinks if we ain't working every second of the day, we’re failing. But he don't own everything." Tito paused, looking deep into your eyes, a sudden spark of quiet determination lighting up his dark gaze. "You staying at the Omni downtown tonight?"

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. 12th floor.”

“Keep your door unlocked around eleven,” he said, the words smooth and steady. “I’m coming by.”

Your heart took a hard, violent leap in your throat. “Tito, the hotel is crawling with security. Your dad’s floor guards are on every exit, not to mention the paparazzi outside.”

A slow, devilish grin tugged at the corner of Tito’s lips—the look of a man who usually followed the rules finally deciding he’d had enough. “Let me worry about all that, baby. Just be ready.”

At 10:30 PM, the hotel hallway of the 14th floor—the Jackson executive floor—was dead silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning.

Two burly security guards hired directly by Joe stood near the elevators, arms crossed, looking like brick walls in matching suits. Down the hall, Joe’s suite door was cracked open an inch, light pouring out as he argued on the phone with tour promoter Chuck Sullivan.

Inside Tito’s room, a covert war council was taking place. 

“I’m telling you, it’s a suicide mission, Tory,” Randy said, leaning against the dresser while biting into an apple. “If Joseph catches you out of this room after curfew, he’s gonna pull the contract on her before the sun comes up. He thinks women are ‘distractions’ before a three-night run.”

“I don’t care what he thinks no more,” he said calmly, buttoning up a crisp maroon silk shirt and checking his mustache in the mirror. “She’s special, Randy. I ain’t letting another city go by where I just look at her through a mirror. I’m taking her out.”

“Respect,” Jackie grinned, slapping Tito on the back. “Big Tory’s got it bad! Alright, so how we getting him past Big Mike and Big Bob at the elevator?”

The door to Tito’s room opened silently, and Michael stepped in, wearing an oversized trench coat and an infectious, mischievous grin.

“I got it,” Michael whispered, his voice light and bright. “Jackie, you and Marlon go down to the lobby and start a fake fan commotion. Tell security somebody saw a crowd break through the side doors. That’ll draw at least one guard down.”

“What about the other one?” Tito asked, fixing his gold chain.

“That’s where I come in,” Michael giggled quietly. “I’m gonna go out there right now and tell Big Bob I need him to walk me down to the kitchen because I ‘forgot’ my special tea. Once he’s gone with me, the hallway is completely clear for ninety seconds. That’s your window, Tito. Take the service stairs down to twelve.”

Tito looked at his younger brothers, a profound warmth in his chest. For all the pressure they were under, when it came to matters of the heart, the Jackson brothers were an unbreakable unit.

“You guys are really doing this for me?” Tito asked, stepping into his sleek black leather loafers.

"Man, you’ve been pining over this girl since Kansas City," Marlon laughed, throwing his arm around Tito’s neck. "Go get your girl, Tory. Just don't get caught, or we’re all doing five hundred pushups tomorrow."

Tito smiled, his quiet confidence locking in. "Appreciate it, fellas. I owe you one."

Three floors down, in Room 1204, you were pacing the floor like a caged animal.

You had changed out of your work clothes into a simple, beautiful emerald-green velvet dress that hugged your curves, your hair freshly pressed and your makeup done to absolute perfection. But your nerves were shot. Every creak of the floorboards outside made your stomach drop.

He’s not gonna make it, you thought, looking at the clock on the nightstand. 11:08 PM. It’s too dangerous. Joe probably caught him.

Just as a sigh left your lips, three, low rhythmic knocks tapped against your door.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

You ran to the door, checking the peephole. 

Standing in the dimly lit hallway, looking left and right with a sharp, cool leather jacket thrown over his silk shirt, was Tito. You unlatched the deadbolt and pulled him inside, closing and locking the door in a split second.

"Tito!" you breathed, pressing your back against the door, your chest heaving. "You actually made it? How—"

Before you could finish your sentence, Tito turned around, took one look at you in that emerald dress, and forgot how to speak.

The quiet guitarist stood there for a second, his eyes sliding down from the sheen of your hair to the velvet of your dress, a deep, admiring breath pulling through his chest.

"Damn, baby," he said softly, his voice thick with genuine awe, that Indiana drawl slipping out smooth as silk. "You look... man, you look fine as wine."

A hot flush hit your cheeks. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Mr. Jackson.”

He stepped closer, filling your field of vision. Up close, he smelled divine—expensive cologne, crisp cotton, and pure warmth. The tension of the backstage area vanished, replaced by a deep, electric calm that only Tito seemed to carry with him.

“I promised you I’d get here, didn’t I?” Tito murmured, offering you his arm with old-school chivalry. “Now come on. We got a date, and I ain’t letting Joseph, security, or the whole state of Georgia stop us tonight.”

“How are we getting out of the hotel?” you asked, slipping your hand through the crook of his elbow, feeling the hard muscle beneath his coat.

“Service elevator down to the laundry room, through the kitchen, out the side alley,” Tito grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Marlon greased the cook with fifty bucks to keep the back door unlatched. We’re home free.”

Twenty minutes later, the paranoia of the tour melted into the cool midnight air of Atlanta. 

Tito had arranged for a private vintage Cadillac—borrowed from a local contact through the band’s rhythm section—to be parked down the alley. He drove himself, one hand casual on the steering wheel, the other resting comfortably on the center console, close to yours.

He didn’t take you to a fancy, high-end restaurant where the press would scout him out. Instead, he drove you to a quiet, late-night jazz lounge tucked away in a quiet neighborhood on the edge of town—a place with dim red booths, low ceilings, and a saxophone softly weeping on the stage. 

Sitting in a secluded back booth, away from the world, the heavy weight of The Triumph Tour finally dropped off Tito’s shoulders. 

“You know,” he said, stirring his drink with a small straw, his heavy eyes fixed on you with an intense, warm devotion. “I been wanting to do this since the day you joined the crew in Dallas.”

You smiled, swirling the ice in your glass. “Dallas? Tito, I barely said three words to you in Dallas. I was terrified of messing up your foundation.”

“I wasn’t terrified,” he chuckled, his voice low and vibrating over the table. “I was sitting in that chair thinking, Lord have mercy, who is this beautiful woman touching my face?’ But I’m a quiet guy. I don’t run my mouth like Marlon or try to show off like Jackie. I just… observe.”

“And what did you observe?” you asked, leaning closer, resting your chin on your hand.

“I observed that you’re the sweetest thing that happened to this tour,” he said softly, reaching across the small table and taking your hand in his. His fingers were big, calloused from thousands of hours of plucking heavy bass and guitar strings, but his touch was impossibly soft. “I seen how patient you are with my brothers. I seen how hard you work. And I seen the way you look at me when you think I ain’t paying attention.”

Your heart fluttered softly in your chest. “I didn’t think I was being that obvious.”

“To the rest of the world? Nah. You were professional,” he said, his thumb slowly stroking the back of your hand, sending goosebumps up your arm. “But to me? I felt it every time you touched my skin, baby. It was like… electricity. Soft, but real heavy.”

You looked into his eyes, seeing the quiet pain and restraint he carried every day. “I wanted to say something, Tito. So many times. But your dad… he makes it so hard. I was scared if I stepped out of line, he’d fire me, and then I’d never see you at all.”

His eyes softened, a shadow of angst crossing his features before he squeezed your hand tightly.

"Joseph’s built a lot of things for us," Tito said, his voice dropping into a somber, honest register. "And I respect him for keeping us alive in this business. But he don't own my heart. He thinks music is all there is. He thinks if we fall in love, we lose our edge. But sitting here looking at you tonight... I ain't ever felt more sharp in my life."

He leaned in across the red velvet booth, his face inches from yours.

"I don't care about the rules no more," he whispered firmly. "I care about you."

The sincerity in his voice dissolved every doubt you had ever held. In the quiet, red-lit corner of that jazz club, far away from the screaming stadium crowds and the controlling glare of his father, Tito Jackson wasn't a superstar. He was just a man who adored you.

By 2:30 AM, the Cadillac rolled quietly back into the alleyway behind the Omni Hotel.

The night had flown by in a blur of shared laughter, quiet confessions, and steady, holding hands under the table. Sneaking back up through the laundry room and the service stairs was surprisingly smooth, the adrenaline of their stolen night making every shadow feel like an adventure rather than a threat.

Standing in the quiet, carpeted hallway outside your room, the world seemed to freeze.

The dim wall sconces cast a warm gold light over Tito’s broad shoulders as he stood in front of your door, hands tucked loosely into his jacket pockets, looking down at you with a heavy, sweet gaze.

“Well,” you whispered, turning to face him, holding your hotel key card tight. “We survived. No security, no press… no Joe.”

He let out a soft, rumble of a laugh. “Told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you smiled, looking up into his velvety eyes. “Thank you, Tito. That was… the best night I’ve had in a really long time.”

“Me too, baby,” he said softly. The playful banter faded, replaced by an intense, lingering stillness. He stepped closer, closing the small gap between you until you could feel the radiate heat of his chest. 

"I don't wanna go back to my room yet," he murmured, his deep Indiana drawl dripping with an ache that sent a shudder down your spine.

"Tito..." you breathed, your pulse racing. "If someone sees you out here—"

"Let 'em see," Tito whispered, his cool composure melting into pure, unadulterated passion.

He lifted a hand, his large, warm fingers gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb lifting your chin slightly. His gaze dropped down to your lips and stayed there.

"I been waiting all night for this," Tito rasped, his voice dropping an octave, heavy and thick. "Can I kiss you?"

You didn't answer with words. You leaned up on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms gently around his neck.

Tito bent his head and pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was slow, deep, and impossibly sweet. It wasn't rushed or frantic; it was like Tito’s guitar playing—deliberate, rich, and full of soul. He pulled you flush against his chest, his other arm wrapping tightly around your waist, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You melted into him, tasting the subtle sweetness of his drink and the absolute warmth of his devotion.

When he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, both of your breaths were uneven in the quiet hallway.

Tito’s eyes were heavy, a slow, intoxicating smile spreading across his face. He kissed the tip of your nose, then pressed one more soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

"Good night, baby," Tito whispered, his hands lingering on your waist before slowly letting go. "I’ll see you in the makeup chair tomorrow. And this time... I ain't letting nobody hurry us up."

You smiled, your heart bursting with a quiet, triumphant joy as you unlocked your door and backed inside. "Good night, Tito."

As you gently clicked the door shut, Tito stood in the hallway for a second, adjusting his leather jacket, a cool, unshakeable smirk on his face. Let Joe talk. Let the security watch. Tito Jackson had his girl, and nothing on The Triumph Tour was ever going to be the same.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

LEO

Leo approaches your illness like a tactical crisis. He is deeply, deeply concerned, but he channels that anxiety into being incredibly organized and authoritative.

He completely commandeers your recovery. He sets up a strict hydration and medication schedule on a whiteboard next to your bed. If you try to get up to use the bathroom, he is instantly there, hovering a hand near your waist just in case your knees buckle.

Being part reptile, he’s naturally drawn to warmth. When he sits next to you on the bed, your feverish heat makes him want to lean in close. But he forces himself to stay back because he doesn’t want to accidentally make you hotter.

His hands are steady and gentle as he wrings out a washcloth and lays it perfectly across your forehead. If you start shivering from chills and beg him to hold you, it breaks his heart. But he’ll compromise by letting you hold onto his wrist while he speaks to you in a soothing voice until you fall asleep.

RAPH

Raph has zero coping mechanisms for things he cannot physically fight. He can’t punch a virus, which makes him incredibly frustrated, restless, and deeply worried that his size and gruffness will make you feel worse.

He paces. A lot. The floorboards of the lair or your apartment groan under his weight as he stalks back and forth outside your bedroom door. He will yell at his brothers to “Shut the hell up, they’re tryin’ to sleep!” even if they are only whispering.

He feels clumsy and dangerous around you when you’re this fragile. When you’re delirious and sweaty, you might reach out for him. The first time he tries to press a cool hand to your cheek, he’s terrified his rough skin will make you feel worse.

Once he realizes that you actually want him there, he softens completely. If you’re freezing from chills, he’ll sit on the edge of the bed and carefully pull you against his chest. He’ll wrap his arms around you, murmuring gruff but well-meaning comforts into your hair like, “I gotcha. You’re fine. Just breathe, babe.”

DONNIE

Donnie handles his panic with data. The moment your temperature crosses 100°F, he goes into a full medical research spiral, treating your flu with the intensity of a level four biohazard outbreak.

Your room suddenly looks like a makeshift ICU. He sets up a digital monitor to track your heart rate, oxygen levels, and temperature. He’s constantly adjusting a humidifier and checking your vitals every twenty minutes.

He’ll accidentally overwhelm you with information because he’s trying to reassure himself. He’ll explain the exact cellular mechanics of a fever while you’re just laying there groaning. “Technically, your hypothalamus is elevating your thermoregulatory setpoint to create an inhospitable environment for the pathogen, which is actually a good sign, but—”

The second he sees a tear squeeze out of your eye, the scientist melts away and just leaves the man who loves you. He’ll immediately shut up and dim all the lights and screens. He’ll bring you electrolyte fluids, and he will sit by your side, gently stroking your hair, watching your vitals like a hawk so you don’t have to worry about a thing.

MIKEY

Mikey wears his heart on his sleeve, so seeing you weak, pale, and shivering completely derails his usual high-energy self. He becomes incredibly sweet, quiet, and hyper-focused on making you comfortable.

He believes in the healing power of cozy comfort. He will raid the entire lair or your residence for the softest blankets, pillows, and plushies, building a literal nest around you on the bed or couch until you are practically buried.

He’s very tactile and usually has no concept of personal space. Having to keep his distance so you can rest is hard for him. He’ll sit on the floor next to your bed, just watching you with huge, sad, puppy-dog eyes.

You sat content in the space car, watching as Rick maneuvered through asteroids and citadel rubble. Part of you wondered why he was taking you out this far, you had been to the Gloppy Drop system enough times to know it wasn’t out this far, but you didn’t question it. 

You remained smiling innocently, your eyes locked on all the stars outside the window, your hands rubbing your round belly. 

“ Why are we out this far? ”

“ Detour, baby. ”

You nodded in response, watching as he whipped through the debris, flying down to a nearby asteroid. Rick landed in a field of Crystal Corn, his gaze moving over to you. 

“ Why don’t you get out and stretch your legs for a minute.. ”

You slid out of the car, sighing softly as you held your belly. 

“ Are you coming? ”

You didn’t receive an answer, Rick simply slammed the door shut, flying off. 

“ Rick! Rick come back! ”

Your cries fell on deaf ears, Rick was already out of sight as when you began screaming for him.

You heard the crystal corn moving from behind you, but you were too distraught to care. A moment later you were greeted with a shot gun barrel to your back. 

“ Turn around slowly. ”

You raised your hands, turning around slowly. 

Rick took in your appearance, your big eyes glossy with tears, your swollen stomach sticking out from your slim figure. 

“ Hey- don’t cry.. Just.. put your fucking arms down. ”

Your arms dropped, moving to support your belly.

“ Did your Rick leave you here? ”

You could only nod, not wanting to admit the truth out loud. 

Rick lowered his shotgun, bringing a hand over his face, “ Jesus fucking Christ. ”

A sigh escaped Rick’s lips, his eyes meeting yours, “ Come on we need to get inside. ”

You were a mess, stumbling after Rick as tears clouded your vision. You followed him into the farm, your eyes glancing at the mutated pigs feeding from the trowel, a few drones holding Crystal Corn, it was simple, but complex. Rick had nothing to start with on the asteroid, but now had a thriving farm, somewhat healthy pets, and a well put together farm house.

Rick sat you down on the worn out sofa, grabbing you a bottle of water, gently pressing the cold bottle into your hand. He watched as you slowly drank from the glass, his eyes wandering as a drop slipped from lips, sliding down your chin.

With gentle hands you set down the bottle on the coffee table. Your hands rose roughly wiping away your tears. 

“ You can stay here until your Rick comes back. ”

“ He’s not goi- ”

“ He will, I know him, I am him. He’s not going to leave you here, ‘specially pregnant. ”

You only nodded, rubbing your stomach with gentle hands, your eyes still full of tears. 

“ Come on, you need to lie in a real bed, not a shitty couch. ”

Rick took your arm in his  hand, helping you stand. With gentleness almost foreign to him he helped you up the tall ladder that led up to the hay loft. It was simple, quaint, but homey. In the corner sat a few small bales of hay, remnants of the citadel farm. Opposite of the hay laid a small bed, it was definitely lived in, but it was nice. 

Rick helped you over, holding your hands before helping you to sit down on the worn bed. He slowly pulled up your legs, grabbing a spare pillow to put under your feet. He dragged the blanket up your body, leaving you to lie alone. 

That night Rick laid awake on his sofa listening to your soft cries that drizzled down from the loft. He knew it wasn’t from his lack of hospitality, but it made his heart hurt in a way that was indescribable. 

The next morning Rick woke you in bed, he had a tray in hand, on it sat a plate full of odd non-human looking food, with a glass full of something that resembled milk. 

“ Eat this, I’ll come back and get you down in a few minutes when you’re done. ”

You watched as Rick climbed down the ladder, leaving you alone in his bed. 

- 

Rick came back up the steps after a few minutes, finding the plate and glass empty. He took down the tray before coming back to help you down. You followed Rick around as he performed his daily chores. You watched as he collected the Crystal Corn, tossing it into a basket one of his drones carried. After he finished in the fields he moved to feed his mutated pigs, making sure they were well taken care of. 

“ Are they pigs? ”

“ Yeah.. They’re just a bit messed up from.. Everything. ”

You reached out a hand, gently stroking the hair on top of a conjoined pig's head. 

“ I like this one. ”

Rick would never say, but that was his favourite pig too, the closest thing he had to a companion before you showed up. 

“ Yeah, he’s a good pig. ”

He walked you back inside the farmhouse, sitting you back on the sofa before putting your feet up on the coffee table.

“ Listen, I have to go into Morty Town to get a few things, stay put. ”

Tears welled up in your eyes, you didn’t want to be alone, you didn’t want to be abandoned again. 

“ Shit.. don’t cry. ”

He sat down beside you, hesitantly pulling you close. Your face buried against his neck, your small hands gripping onto his denim overalls. 

“ It’s not safe for you to come, I’ll be back in an hour. ”

Gently Rick pulled you away from him, standing up from the sofa, he reached into his pocket. His hand slipped from the denim, a small wrist watch in his hand. He pressed the watch into your hand, standing in front of you. 

“ Two hours, max. ”

You waited on the sofa, watching through the window as the sun fell over the fields. It had only been twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity waiting. Your eyes drooped as you watched the hands on the clock slowly click forward. Eventually sleep took you, making your worries vanish with it. 

- 

Rick came in through the door, the clock nearing midnight. He found you slumped over on the sofa, your eyes pressed shut, your hair draped across your eyes. With carefulness he lifted you from the sofa, his ears perking up as a soft whine fell from your lips. He shushed you like a child, his hand  coming up to press your head down onto his shoulder. 

He laid you down in his bed like you were a porcelain doll, taking care not to wake you, but as his hands slid away from your warm skin your eyes peeked open. 

“ Stay. ”

It was a soft plea, and it made Rick shatter, slowly he crawled over you, laying beside you on his bed. He watched as you turned over, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him as close as possible even with your large belly acting as a divider. 

-

After that night you grew closer, falling into routine with Rick. You woke early every morning, helping Rick with chores, following him around like a puppy.

Rick didn’t know when it happened, but sleeping beside you became a routine, he found himself holding your hand throughout the day, making you breakfast in bed, and on the rare occasion pressing kisses to your skin. Maybe it was from lack of companionship, or maybe it was your pregnancy, he didn’t know, but maybe it wasn’t all that bad being stranded on an asteroid. Everything was better in his life this way, maybe it wasn’t a complete loss when portal travelers reset. He liked being stranded, stranded beside you. 

His life finally felt liveable, it didn’t feel like he was just another Rick with a gimmick, he wasn’t just “ Farmer Rick ”, he felt regular again. The last time he felt this normal was before Rick and Morty, before the Citadel of Ricks, when he was just a husband to his wife. 

It finally felt like his life was back on track, until he came back. 

-

It was just another peaceful evening beside you, your arms wrapped around him, and his around you, until he heard the soft whirring of a space ship. He slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb you from sleep. He crept down the loft’s ladder, grabbing his gun before leaving out the front door. 

“ Baby! Where are you? ”

He could hear your Rick yelling from the corn fields, before catching a glimpse of him. They stared at one another, before your Rick spoke.

“ Hey! Have you seen a girl around here, dropped her off last month? She’s like, that big.. fat.. kinda stupid looking. ”

Between each word your Rick made an exaggerated hand gesture, clearly more wasted than usual. 

With no hesitation Rick fired, shooting your Rick dead. Quickly he looted the body, grabbing the flask from his inside coat pocket, and the portal gun from his opposite pocket. 

You woke to the sound of a shot being fired, you hurried out as quickly as you could. You ran from the farmhouse, into the fields.

“ Rick?! Rick answer me! ”

You were distraught, you didn’t know what happened, who was shot, or where he was. You ran out into the opening, finding Rick standing alone, his lips pressed to his flask, guzzling down whatever alcohol lay inside. 

“ I.. I heard a gunshot, what happened? ”

“ A rogue Morty I had to- ”

You didn’t let Rick finish, wrapping your arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.

“ I’m fine. Go get your things, we’re leaving. ”

🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷 🪷

Being the person who captured the hearts of all four Beatles isn't easy, but behind closed doors, away from the flashing cameras and screaming crowds, it’s the warmest place in the world. Living in a quiet house together during their days off feels like stepping into a private, cosy sanctuary made just for you.

~ 🪷 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 🪷 ~

John is all about that playful, teasing tension. He loves making your heart race when the others are around. While everyone is sitting in the living room, he’ll casually lean over the back of the sofa, letting his lips brush past your ear just to whisper a cheeky compliment or a joke that makes you blush bright red. When you look up at him, flustered, he just gives you that smirk, utterly fascinated by the effect he has on you. He’s the one who pulls you onto his lap when he’s playing the acoustic guitar, resting his chin on your shoulder while humming against your skin. Jhon loves to provoke you on purpose just to see you explode and raise your voice towards him. While you give him orders or scold him with eyes shining with anger, he just laughs in your face with that arrogant and mocking smile, really enjoying pressing your buttons. That frustration of yours is precisely the excuse he uses to hold you against the wall, shut you up with a hungry kiss and show you who is really in charge the moment you lose your patience.

Meanwhile, Paul expresses his love through constant contact, gentleness and absolute devotion. He makes sure you never feel overwhelmed or left out in a house full of hyperactive musicians. During long band discussions or lazy afternoons, his hand will almost always be holding yours, tracing patterns on your knuckles or gently playing with your fingers under the table. He’s the romantic who leaves little post-it notes all over the house "Don't forget I love you", signed with a doodle) and brings you a freshly brewed cup of tea exactly how you like it, before you even have to ask. And the thing is, after spending a whole afternoon together laughing and resting, inspiration sweeps over them all; you’ll see Paul and John running over to the piano to toss melodies back and forth, but you know the secret: all the romantic songs they write together are secretly for you, being the real reason behind every line of love that passes between the famous Lennon-McCartney tandem. To Paul Your intelligence and the way you follow the mental and creative rhythm. Seeing that you stimulate and challenge him turns him on completely. That intellectual spark becomes a voracious physical desire behind closed doors.

George provides the quietest and most comforting moments for the soul. He’s naturally observant, so when the house gets too loud or chaotic, he’ll gently catch your eye and point towards the porch or the kitchen. For him, your smile is his greatest refuge; in the middle of the storm that fame can be, seeing your face light up or hearing your genuine laugh is the only thing he needs to regain his peace. At 2:00 AM, when neither of you can sleep, you’ll find him sitting on the floor with a blanket over his shoulders. He’ll share one side of his headphones with you so you can listen to a soft melody he’s just composed. George deeply enjoys that unique intimacy, the fact that you understand him without having to speak. You’re his ultimate muse: when things get grey, the melody of your laughter brings back his calm, and as you stroke his hair and tell him everything is going to be alright, he knows that’s where he belongs. For George it is the genuine tenderness that completely disarms him. It is enough that you slide your hand down his thigh and whisper in his ear how much you care and that you are there to take care of him, he will take your face with a silent urgency and devour your lips with deep and desperate kisses.

Ringo is pure comfort, joy and warmth. He’s the first one to pull you into a big, tight hug the moment you walk into the room, lifting you slightly off your feet just to hear you laugh. On rainy afternoons, he’ll claim the middle of the couch, pulling you right beside him and tucking a blanket around both of you. He loves resting his head on your shoulder while watching TV, subtly resting his hand over yours. Ringo has a way of making you feel completely safe and cherished, always ready with a silly joke or a warm smile whenever he notices you feeling down. For ringo any moment is suitable to adore you and especially when you wear lingerie, and you strut in front of them (he would take the trouble to compare the most expensive lingerie)

❀ * ｡ ─── 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘓𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 ─── ｡ * ❀

When the rain batters hard against the panes of the old country house, the outside world completely disappears, leaving just the five of you in your own private universe. There are no interviews, no screaming fans, and no airports; just peace, music and warmth.

Paul is the official early bird. He’s already in the kitchen with his apron on, getting a giant pot of tea on the go and stacking up a tower of toast with homemade jam before the sun even finishes peeking through. You’ll find one of his post-it notes on your mug: "Morning, love. The coffee can wait, come into my arms first."

John curls up in bed next to you for a little while longer, lazy and reluctant to get up, wrapping his arms around your waist and refusing to let go until Ringo bounces into the room, throwing the curtains wide open and laughing as he lobs a pillow at you to coax out a laugh.

George comes stumbling downstairs barefoot in his favourite jumper, eyes half-closed, and sits next to you at the kitchen table in absolute silence, enjoying having you right in front of him as he passes you the butter without a word, just rewarding you with a knowing smile.

speke, 1954

"play us somethin' else, paulie!"

you beamed in awe over the shoulder of your older brother. he hung his head bashfully, hand clamped sideways over his mouth. with haste, you squeezed beside him on the small piano bench. giddy with a grin, you nudged him. 

"c'mon, da will be up any minute!"

suddenly, you were both torn down the middle by a whining michael. 

"i wanna go, it's my turn." his words drawled out causing you and paul to wince. you swatted him away, fussing over paul to continue. at the sound of heavy footsteps - no doubt your father's - you giggled at your brothers. paul rose his hands to begin playing again until the wooden door creaked open.

"come 'head, it's time for tea." his low voice instructed the herd on mini-mccartneys. you all filed out of the living room to the homely kitchen table. around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, you raved about your brothers talent to your parents.

everyone in the house knew it. his future was burning bright. paul swallowed before speaking. "it's really nothing."

your features twisted in disbelief and right as you went to insist, a gentle hand was on your arm. your mother's, her weak smile warming your chest.

"don't talk with your mouth full, dear."

the next morning was the first of the school year, which meant the atmosphere in the house was much more chaotic than normal. you were adjusting your jumper in the mirror as paul and mike bickered about something unimportant. 

times like this made it suffocating to share a room with them and you sighed, flinging open the bedroom window. instantly, a reliving autumn chill seemed to fly in and carry the hostility out. 

"i hope george is on the bus." paul muttered to himself, tying up his laces near the floor. you hummed in question, not sure if you'd caught what he said.

"who's george?"

"he's my mate. always on my bus so we sit next to each other and walk to the institute."

you frowned and it caught paul's eye as he glanced up. "what's wrong, y/n?"

"i wish i had a friend on the bus. i wish we rode the same bus, paulie!" 

your sulk was justified. the institute paul went to was for strictly all boys. your school was in the opposite direction by bus and you rode with michael since he wasn't old enough to attend the same school as paul yet. 

paul stood now, moving over to you by the window. he looked at you, moving some of your hair from your face in his clunky, brotherly fashion. he seemed to nod to himself once it was fixed and replied. 

"well, george doesn't live too far. i'll invite him round and you can meet him. he's closer in age to you actually."

you struggled not to smile at that. it was out of both of your control which schools you attended but if paul had the power to introduce you to a new friend, he did it. and you loved him for that.

a few weeks later, your school had an inset day. this meant you were waiting at the gate of the institute, eyes flickering over each pale-skinned, thin-limbed boy until you recognised your brother. and his bus friend.

you greeted paul happily, walking alongside him as the three of you made your way to the bus stop. when you reached, paul familiarised you two.

"y/n, this is george harrison. and george, this is my sister, y/n."

"lovely to meet you, george." 

george nodded, inspecting you from head to toe. by the time his eyes met yours again he had an amused expression. "aye, likewise. you don't seem like paul's sister." 

for a second, you were lost for a response. for a second. "you don't seem like you play guitar."

george stumbled for words, bested by your quick wit and you and paul chuckled. he fidgeted with the cuff of his uniform. you soaked in his kiddish teddy boy appearance. his blazer was slightly grey in contrast to paul's stark black. 

"i take it back." george said. "ya laugh the same."

speke, 1957

by the time paul met john, lots of things had changed in your lives. the obvious maturing from sappy preteens being the main thing. your dynamic with paul shifted. your mother had passed away, striking your family with grief. and none of you, not a single mccartney, talked about her. 

you tried to at first. however your dad always dismissed you, paul was like a stone wall and michael didn't have a good example to follow. 

you felt an unspoken pressure to grow frighteningly fast in your mother's absence to fill the maternal presence that the house lacked. you learnt recipes, inherited a basic knowledge of first aid, discovered how to clean things that you hadn't before. clothes, kitchens, sinks. 

you felt distant to your father. he tried, you know he did and he was still there. things were just different. he never hit you but he'd become heavy handed with the scotch and in turn, short-tempered with your brothers. he'd even hit them when they disobeyed, plunging the house in an unbearable silence. 

you and george became well acquainted. you graduated your old school and now took the bus with paul and george in the morning, getting off two stops before them. besides those morning conversations, you'd interact more and more when your families would mingle in festivities and when paul invited you to come along to his new favourite pastime. he sold his trumpet for a guitar and didn't play the piano much anymore.

all his time went to this new band he was in - the quarrymen. and his new friend, john. 

john lennon was an interesting character. you and paul had seen him on the bus long before they came to meet. only acknowledging him in feared intrigue. all teds made you uncomfortable as they were usually: 

a) older  b) knobheads c) in a gang  d) concealing a weapon  and e) looking for a fight or just all of the above.

you worried for paul, quietly praying for him not to get mixed up in the wrong crowd. of course being paul, against your father's warnings, he went and befriended the biggest ted on the block.

see, lennon was older then paul. rough around the edges but soft in the middle. you knew that because he went to art college and would come round to your home at forthlin road, coincidentally when your father was away at work and sit with paul in your room for hours. 

they'd obsess over their guitars and little richard records. you enjoyed the music that filtered through the house. whenever you'd go into the shared room, excusing yourself on the way to your side - you'd find them hunched over a notebook. john would rip his glasses from his face, clearing his throat and greeting you with an awkward nod.

as you're grabbing what you need, john'd whisper-shout. "christ, macca. forgot you had a sister?" 

it was clearly this time between them was intimate, fragile and you hurled out of there as soon as you were done.

when your father was home, john would shimmy up the drainpipe instead and tumble into your room. unfortunately for you, the window was on your curtained-off side. so more often than not, you'd be filing your nails or tending to your school work when the clumsy ted in all his glory would collapse through the window frame. 

at first you were scared out of your wits, calmed by john's silly smile as he pressed his finger rapidly to his lips. but it started to become routine and you could notice whenever he'd be at the wall. 

all you'd say is "paul, john's—" and he'd be at the window, waiting to pull the boy up and forcing the rest of your evening to be spent eavesdropping their conversations. the records became your escapism. 

their gigs were even better and you frequently attended to support paul but one night on the bus ride home, you expressed to him that there was someone missing.

paul agreed, insisting to you that george's entry to the band was a work in progress. being a man of his word, george came along to the very next quarrymen gig. 

you were full of glee to be stood beside him in the crowd. whenever the beat would swell, you'd pull him into a dance. your hands in his, you'd both jump and laugh to the music. despite the booze being passed around, you kept a watchful eye to steer it clear of your direction.

the idea of polluting this moment with alcohol made you feel sick. george didn't seem to mind, being a good sport and keeping up with your rambunctious movements.

by the end of their set, you and george were slightly sweaty and full of giggles. the lads peeled off stage and paul stalked over to the two of you.

"how did we do?" he was glistening and clearly bouncing with adrenaline. you hurled a handkerchief at his face that was resting in your pocket. 

"not so bad." you couldn't inflate his ego. george seemed to be on the same understanding.

"yea, i'm with y/n. you're alright."

paul cracked up at that, attracting the attention of john who wrapped an intoxicated arm around his shoulder. with a hiccup, he added. 

"we're the next elvis, aren't we, y/n?" john's eyes combed across your face lightheartedly, before his gaze shifted to george. his face curled up into a sneer.

"who's this?" 

you grimaced at john's bluntness. so did paul. george didn't seem to flinch though. you curled an affectionate arm around his, leaning into his side to introduce him.

"our friend, george."

george managed a tight lipped smile, nodding the same way he did when he met you. his tone remained monotonous. "alright set that." he addressed to john. 

who stared at him, smile tugging at his lips. he made a noise of acknowledgement, removing his hand from paul and walking towards the bar. paul shot an encouraging expression to george before following john. 

"is he always that...?" george trailed off, eyes going after the two before looking down at you. his thick eyebrows were pushed down towards his eyes. you couldn't deny it, john was that short with people. besides and especially paul. 

a moment later, you noticed your closeness to george. the arm wrapped around his and the way you leaned into him before. the way his body language had been completely open to it. 

you kept your cool unfurling your body from his, jutting your head in the direction of the exit. "let's wait for them outside, aye?"

that evening on the journey home, you'd fallen asleep against the window of the bus. the warmth of the top deck, the cigarette smoke clouding your senses, the lull of the vibrating bus, the closeness of george's thigh against yours. you sparked out in minutes of sitting down. 

"you and y/n were pretty close today." paul spoke plainly to george across the aisle. he was hoarding two seats with himself and his guitar. george shrugged, subtly scanning paul's face for how he felt about his closeness to his sister. there was nothing there for him to read, just a sense of exhaustion from the gig.

"yeah, looked like a right couple down there." john exhaled a lungful of smoke in george's direction. he was sprawled out across the backseat, guitar in his open lap.

"she wanted to dance." george justified. 

"that one's as stubborn as our paul." john taunted, plucking mindless notes on the fretboard. "is she your type?"

george looked at you, briefly from beside him. as if you were listening, your head bobbed to the side finding home on his shoulder. john and paul watched in deep concentration, sharing a glance with each other. 

george huffed a laugh. "she's paul's sister."

"not what i asked you, georgie." john poked in accent posher than his own.

paul interjected. "let's move on from all this y/n talk. play us raunchy, george."

george looked at both of them in indecision, then landed on paul as he said. "you've heard me play it before."

"john hasn't." paul suggested and looked to john, "can he?" he gestured at john's guitar, paul's would be no good as it was restrung to suit his left hand. john took a long inhale of his ciggy and passed his guitar to george with the other hand. 

george played perfectly with no mistakes. he was excited for you to wake so he could tell you how john would definitely be recruiting him into the quarrymen. 

"too young." is what john said to paul, which paul said to george, which george was now explaining to you with a scowl the next day. 

you walked beside george, a hand buried in his. because of the chill, you'd said. he'd walked to meet you after school and you would both ride the bus back home. paul was off with john someplace. 

"said I have the face of a toddler and that it'd reflect badly on the group." george murmured, disheartened by the rejection. 

you shushed him, "that's just john, i think. he should come around. you just— keep coming to gigs with me."

that made him crack a smile. "alright. how could i say no to that?"

"you can't. i wouldn't 'ave it."

august, 1960 

eventually john caved and invited george to join. you struggled to see how they coped without him.

the beatles were round at your house. that was their new name now. it was a celebratory get together for being scouted to go to hamburg.

jim mccartney was luckily away on an overnight work trip, leaving paul in charge of the household. naturally john hosted a mutiny on your home, leaving drunken bugs scattered everywhere by the end of the night. 

you accepted the hostile takeover under the condition that they left your room alone. mike stayed out at a friends and prompted you to do the same. and everyone honoured that condition until just passed midnight, you heard a knock. 

paul would've knocked while opening the door, since your barrier was always drawn at this time of night. you're certain that john would've announced himself already. pete and stuart, who you weren't close to, had no reason to enter your room at this time of night or ever. which meant it could only be george behind the door.

your deduction was correct and when you opened the door to see a disheveled harrison stood in the corridor. he started, "i'm not thinkin straight, sorry."

he moved to return back down to the others but you pulled him by his collar through the threshold of your room. "don't be daft."

you shut the door, leading him by the hand past the curtain into your feminine corner of the room. you plopped down on the bed, and he sat facing you. he stunk of alcohol and you had to mention it.

"why'd you smell like a pub, hazza."

"the lads, they— i dunno, they kept putting beers in my hand. i drank 'em but—"

you let out a quietened laugh, pushing his bangs off of where they stuck to his face. he closed his eyes and leaned into the contact, letting out a deep breath. the intimacy of it all winded you and you pulled your hand away, placing it on your thigh instead.

"why're you still awake? sounded like the party died an hour ago." 

"was bursting for a piss."

you were trying to ignore how hilarious drunk george was and failing miserably. he was staring at you as he added.

"then i just wanted to see you."

"now you see me." 

george yawned, and it shook his whole figure. his collarbones really prevalent as he stretched. you couldn't help but marvel at him like this. sloshed and in the moonlight of your room. he scooted closer on the bed and now your legs were touching.

"i'll miss you, y'know." hamburg. there was nothing else he was talking about. the whole group were due to go two weeks from now.

you smiled, shyly at him. "i'll miss you george."

he fixed his squinting gaze at you. you felt pinned by his stare and couldn't help but ask.

"what? what is it?"

george leaned into closer, tilting his head. "you're perfect, y'know." 

like some cruel reflex, you licked your bottom lip. your heart was hammering in your chest. "george?"

he lifted his hand to your jaw, before moving forward to press a clumsy kiss to your lips. you closed your eyes, taken over by delirium for a blissful second. it was as though the drunkenness was bleeding out of him into you.

you pulled back, settling a hand on his collarbone and cementing it there. "georgie, you're really drunk." 

"sorry." george slurred and you shook your head in bittersweet restraint. 

"it's okay. just— i don't want you to regret this tomorrow." you scooted your hand to his neck, petting the hairs at his nape. "can we... just cuddle?" 

you offered and "please." was his response.

your bed was tiny, barely enough for your growing body. so two pubescent teens? some limbs had to hang from the bed. george adjusted behind you, getting comfortable as the big spoon. he grumbled sleepily into your ear.

"will y'wait for me?"

you pulled his arms tighter around your torso as you replied. "i think i'd do anything for you, george."

you drifted asleep fast and woke up abruptly seeing that the time the sky had lightened. your head craned over to the clock on your bedside table. 8:03am.

that was the best sleep you'd had in your life. which shocked you considering the circumstances. george was still entangled around you, snoring lightly against your back.

you yawned, nudging george behind you with your heel to his shin. eventually he was stirring and opening his eyes.

"morning, georgie." you cooed, leaning on one elbow and bringing a hand to his face and skimming your thumb along the soft skin there. 

you'd stay in that moment forever if time would let you. 

"cor, my head." he mumbled into your pillow, trying to get back to sleep. you nudged him again.

"georgie, you have to get in paulie's bed." 

he lifted his head from your pillow, head darting around the room. it looked like he quickly regretted it as he stilled and laid his head back down. his dark eyes finally met yours and he croaked out.

"when'd i get up here?"

it stung to hear him not remember last night. then again, he'd been black out and you were stone cold sober. you put the hurt aside. 

"just after midnight, love. do you not remember anything?" the pet name slipped out. luckily george seemed a bit out of it to notice. 

he started to look a little panicked as his eyes darted from you to your bed and he lifted up the covers to check how dressed he was. his white t-shirt and drainies were as he left them. 

this made you laugh uncontrollably, with a hand pressed to your mouth to not wake the other boys downstairs. you put him out of his misery. 

"all you did was kiss me."

george's mouth formed a small 'o' before he sandwiched his lips back together. he groaned in what sounded like pain. mental or physical, you had no idea.

"sorry, y/n." 

your heart pained even more to hear hints of regret in his voice. you were quiet as you spoke. "you also told me to wait for you." he was wracking his brain and you asked gently. "do you not remember any of that?"

his face fell into a frown as he shook his head. you inhaled deeply. "well, you need to get in paul's bed now. if any of them lot come up and find you with me, i don't think they'll be happy."

george moaned as he slinked out of your covers, making his way over to paul's bottom bunk with your help. you were glad michael claimed the top bed since george would never make it up in his hungover state. 

you tucked him in with care while he apologised profusely to you. as you moved to return to your side of the room, he called out your name.

you stopped, turning back with a kind "yeah?"

"it's— i'm not sorry i kissed ya. it's just i would've done it differently. i wanted to remember it." your eyes widened, nerves overflowing.

"you mean that?"

"course i do." 

you left a beat. "...then i'll wait." 

liverpool, 1962

you were freshly 17 and it had been nearly 2 years since you had seen your older brother and his friends. george. you had matured what felt like decades from the day they left yet you still had that childish giddiness rise in your chest at the promise of their return. 

you would hear from paul intermittently. each phone call, his voice was deeper than before and he seemed to be having a great time out there.

you'd sent him and george, and sometimes john, parcels. packing domestic things like cans of beans, tea bags, some left over change from your weekend job etcetera. they all quickly insisted that you stop sending them money.

they were making enough out there, that's for sure. but you liked to think it helped. 

george wrote to you constantly. he'd tell stories of john cutting up some birds dress, pancakes at the diner nearby, how he nearly got involved in a hostage situation and this ringo fella he seemed keen on. 

you kept all his letters in a box underneath your bed and made sure to write him back equally as often, telling him about home, how his mother was doing, gossip at your job.

on this particular day, you were cooking some tea for your father and brother when the phone rang. your dad went to answer it, quickly involved in an intense conversation.

you and michael fell silent from whatever you were conversing about. the phone pinged as it returned to the hook.

"what's going on, dad?" mike spoke as frozen as you felt.

"it's paul. he'd been arrested in hamburg on acts of vandalism and arson but they've sent him home. he should reach this evening."

you and michael released an onslaught of questions onto your dad, ones that he could and couldn't answer. he directed the both of you to ask paul upon his return.

late that night, like expected, paul came home. a tentative rap of knuckles on the door. mike flung it open as the two of you waited up to greet him, and drowned him in a long hug. 

he happily reciprocated and when he stepped inside with all his luggage and his guitar, you took in his appearance.

you started. "paul, you look like—"

"shite." your head craned to mike with a furious intensity. he shrugged. "it's true."

you walked over to him, prodding his face and his side with your finger. "what happened to you out there, paulie?" 

"you look half dead, lad." mike added.

"just wait till dad sees you tomorrow."

"he said you went to german prison. what was it like?"

"you told us you were having a good time."

"tell us everything, what—"

"alright you two! okay, i get it but i've just got back!" paul's expression was overwhelmed and incredulous. he rolled his eyes from where he sat at the kitchen table. you served him a plate of toad in the hole that had been warming for hours and gave him a scoop of peas. 

you couldn't contain one last question.

"is george home?"

paul seemed to frown at that but continued to eat. "uh, he got deported aswell. about a week ago for being underage." 

"he's here?" you gaped.

paul nodded. "should be."

you were going to kill that boy when you saw him next. 

london, 1964

turns out you and george did a lot of kissing and making up. the cat was out the bag about you both and paul was surprisingly chilled about it.

he trusted george, that was evident from the moment he returned from hamburg. the beatles were now 4, after the departure then untimely death of stuart and the band's new manager brian had given pete the boot. which meant now it was the lovely ringo you'd heard so much about in his place. you got on with him well and understood why george was fond of him.

you were sat in a crowded conference room, far enough from the noise and cameras. you and george had a date afterwards but the interviewer's questions seemed endless and just as you were starting to clock out, you heard your name.

"y/n?" 

your head perked up and when you looked over to the source, the entire room had its eyes on you. paul was grinning wide, waving you over. 

your head was moving on its own, shaking. you mouthed a curt 'no'. all the others started to beckon you over too, riling themselves up at the thought of you appearing in the interview. one brotherly beatle was persuasive enough. 

four? one being your boyfriend...

you swallowed, standing up and manoeuvring through the room until you were beside george at the end. 

"hi y/n, it's james reporting on behalf of the sun, could you tell us who your favourite beatle is?"

you felt heat rise to your cheeks at the anticipation in the room. your wit rised like bile in your throat, coming out quickly.

"is that what all the fuss is about?"

a roar of laughter from everyone. the reporter affirmed, outstretching his microphone. all of the boys turned around batting their long eyelashes at you. you glimpsed over all of them one at a time before your gaze ultimately landed on george.

you leaned down to place a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. the gesture was purely innocent, a you-blink-and-it's-gone, but the cameras were rolling. they had seen. george flinched at the swiftness of it all, but once you pulled away he was beaming from ear to ear. you started to see a shade of pink cloud his cheeks. the noise in the room peaked again and you heard the annoyed groans of the other three next to him. 

"does that answer your question? the quiet one's my favourite." at once you were shrinking into yourself, coy. everyone seemed to surge in energy and paul's hand flew to his chest in fake offence. he pulled his microphone close. 

"woe is me. honest, i'm hurt." john and ringo came to his mock defence, clapping him on the back. you heard a few reporters shouting follow-ups to you but it was hard to hear any of their overlapping speech. 

"why is that— could you elaborate— are you together—do you both plan to marry?"

your stomach churned being in the spotlight and your head started to pound under the flashes of cameras. regret started to creep in at the fact that you'd actually kissed him in front of everyone. thankfully brian noticed your discomfort, pulling the microphone from ringo at the other end.

"miss mccartney won't be taking anymore questions, thanks." 

you took that as your cue to return to your seat at the far end of the room and your heart continued to thump. you heard george quip lazily.

"i'm happy."

on second thought, no regrets.