⋆˚꩜｡ aikoru

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 Introduction

Hiii! I go by aiko or derakoi online, and I'm a huge movie lover! My english might be a bit wonky, since it's my second language while polish is first. I use she/her pronouns if you're wondering

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 Interests

As i mentioned above, I'm a huge movie lover, you can catch me on letterboxd (aik0ruu if you're interested in following ;0). I'm also into art (mostly watching it in art galleries since i last drew/painted months ago, but I still found it fun and calming) and psychology (mostly resocialization aspect, social phobia, anxiety disorders, derealization/depersonalization and depression, there's a lot of topic i'm interested in when it comes to psychology, I'm planning on studying psychology as well)

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 Blog

I would love to start writing again, so I do hope that there will be numerous posts about my writing (both about nothings and on AO3, currently trying to start to write something there, it's been ageees since i last wrote some story...). There's also a huge posibility of me writing about movies - most likely reviews, lists and silly comments about my fav movies ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 masterlist! ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 my letterboxd ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 my AO3 ⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 my strawpage

im warning y'all with peace and love that I will freaking ignore every single "write mclennon, 1964", "give us mcharrison 1970" request CAUSE IM BEGGING YOU GUYS, READ INFO ON MASTERLIST😭😭😭😭

no, I do not write nsfw (only might put some suggestive subtexts)

no, i do not write character x character (it might change, but at the moment it is as it is, I'm only two months in fandom I'm trying to understand as much as possible thanks)

no, I did not think about writing fanfictions with e.g Jane, Pattie etc, I'm not deep enough into the topic yet 💔

and PLEASE when requesting, put some details: I am physically unable to understand what someone means when they write "[character] x reader, 60s" - do u want fluff, angst, early 60s, late 60s???? Please give me some details I can't read your mind😭

Fluff and comfort 💗

Thank you in advance!

Thank you so much for request, I'm glad you liked it! I hope this one won't dissapoint you HAHA

It’s refreshing that someone finally requested a George fanfic; I had a lot of fun writing this one!

Behind closed doors⋆˚࿔

Pairing: George Harrison x Reader

Details: Fluff, Comfort, do i count it as hurt/comfort i dunno!, no use of Y/N for reader insert, mention of John Lennon, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr

Summary: After a failed rehearsal, George comes home, and you need to find a way to talk to him and cheer him up. As it turns out, the saying "the way to a man's heart is through his stomach" really holds true.

From the very start of the rehearsal, George had a nagging feeling that something would go wrong that day - terribly wrong. And so it did; instead of the calm exchange of views that usually followed a disagreement, a whirlwind of insults and aggression erupted, showing absolutely no signs of stopping. It began with a few stupid words exchanged between Paul and John, something so trivial it was almost absurd, yet it was enough to make both men bicker like children. Ringo tried to defuse the situation - as he always did - but to little avail; he merely managed to stop the guitarist and bassist from trading punches to the face. At that point, George couldn't even recall what had started the whole mess, or even what he had been thinking about just moments before.

Then, he remembered what it was all about.

He recalled wanting to play Paul a song he had written the night before - a raw, unfinished piece with no drums, no bass, nothing but guitar and vocals - but he never got the chance. After he played the first few chords, John cut in, bringing up something he’d read about the band in the newspaper. Without a second thought for the fact that they were interrupting George, Paul fired back at Lennon just as aggressively as Lennon had started. Yeah, that was it.

In any case, no one cared about Harrison - or the fact that he had slipped away for a smoke halfway through a discussion, only for that brief break to stretch into forty minutes before he returned; nobody cared at all. After spending so much time with those three friends, George had stopped expecting even a shred of interest from them. While Ringo would occasionally ask how things were going, chatting about trivialities or music, no one else ever asked about his life, whether he was writing anything of his own, or if he’d be playing. He had to beg for a scrap of attention; he constantly felt like a child shut in a room with three adults. The problem was his age - but by how much was he even younger? Two years younger than Lennon and Starr, and a mere eight months younger than Paul. An eight-month difference, yet no one looked at McCartney as if he were some clueless kid! It was laughable; the whole band was driving him to the brink of a nervous breakdown, and he was certain that if things went on like this, he’d go grey before turning thirty.

The very idea of remaining in the same situation made George walk into the studio each day with a knot in his stomach. He couldn't go on like that, yet every attempt to leave the band (whether serious or merely a bid to get his bandmates' attention) was met with either laughter or empty promises: they’d stop the teasing, they’d listen, they’d take him seriously... But nothing ever changed. It was always the same. There would be a brief period of calm - not even a full week - before it all started over: they’d listen for a moment, nodding and agreeing, only to turn on their heels and say something along the lines of, "Nice one, but..." There was always a "but"! They never let him create anything of his own, except when they were running low on material and urgently needed a song for the album. Only then did they remember the work of the band's youngest member. It was always the same.

Walking through the door, George didn’t give a second thought to announcing his arrival. He shrugged off his coat, kicked off his shoes, and simply sat on the floor right next to the shoe rack. It wasn’t exactly comfortable down there; his guitar had been tossed aside, and Harrison… Well, he sat against the wall, staring blankly at his feet. A few tears were welling in the corners of his eyes, but that was fine - he wasn’t a crybaby, after all. Men don’t cry; it’s a sign of weakness.

He just needed to compose himself; it was just emotions and a need for attention - or so he told himself. It had always been this way, someone would get ignored for a moment, but then their friends would listen either way, right? Maybe he's just exaggerating, maybe it's not that bad... Whatever.

“George? Is that you?” Harrison stiffened at the sound of his partner’s voice coming from the kitchen. The color practically drained from his face; he began frantically wiping his face with his shirt sleeves, desperate to erase any trace that might lead her to conclude he’d been crying, or was even close to it.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me. I just need'a minute to cool off.” He explained, but as the words left his lips, he cursed himself for how weak it sounded and for the way his voice cracked. He hadn’t thought it through.

“Dear, what happened to you? Is this about the rehearsal?” You asked in that gentle, melodious voice of yours - one that was impossible to resist for anything in the world.

Personally, he liked the idea of you living together - after all, having you close meant you could spend every spare moment together, but the problem was that, with the arrival of the last boxes of your things at his apartment, George had to officially say goodbye to total privacy. He could no longer spend his days holed up in his room, complaining about everyone in turn, cursing people out, playing guitar until dawn, and subsisting on nothing but cigarettes. Times had changed, and you deserved an explanation.

He swallowed hard, trying to get rid of the lump forming in his throat, and smoothed back a few strands of hair - as if just to give his hands something to do. Then he caught a loose thread on his shirt, twisting and fiddling with it between his fingers.

“Well…”

“Take your time.” When you said that so calmly, something inside him seemed to give way. Even if he wouldn’t admit it aloud, it was exactly what he needed - the opposite of those moments when one of the Beatles would brush him off, saying they’d “look at what he’d written later.” He needed it desperately, though he hadn’t realized it at first. His silence seemed to trigger an instinct in you, though; just as he opened his mouth to speak his mind, you knelt beside him and pulled him close against your chest. It felt so natural that George felt… Understood?

With a quiet murmur of discontent - since your words had completely disrupted his train of thought - George pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, looking at you in the hope that you would understand him without a word.

“Okay, point taken. You don’t have to say anything.” You sighed, sitting on the floor beside him and letting the silence fill the space between you. Neither of you was quite sure how long you sat there in silence, but neither of you was in any rush. You were home, your duties were done, and time wasn't pressing you - at least not for the moment. You remained in that state for quite a while, until George’s knees began to go numb from the uncomfortable position. Only then did he tilt his head to rest it on your shoulder and sigh, feeling tears welling up in the corners of his eyes once more. It felt humiliating, but he was still learning to be open about his emotions with you; he was still learning, still trying.

“It was ‘bout the rehearsal. Same thing again - they’d said they’d start listenin’, but nothin’ had changed. They were arguing the whole time...” He paused for a moment. “...John and Paul, I mean. They were arguing. And me... I was just there; I stepped out for a cigarette for a bit - I thought they’d notice. I came back after, I don’t know, forty minutes or so, and nobody had even noticed.” He finally confessed, skipping the details of the argument between the two musicians. He didn’t think you needed to know exactly what they were fighting about. So, he left that part unsaid and focused instead on wiping his face with his hands.

“Oh. Sorry... To hear that.” You whispered, feeling a bit awkward; after all, George didn’t open up often, so you struggled with how to approach the situation. Still, you had recently found something that helped you whenever you came home sad from school, it was also something that Mrs. Harrison had suggested. Food.

“You know... I made you some curry. Vegetarian - your favorite.” You said tentatively, running your fingers through his hair. “I think we’ve got a pack of Jelly Babies in the cupboard somewhere, too.” Sensing a shift in the energy, you smiled. So, the saying about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach held some truth after all - or maybe you’d just gotten lucky. You couldn’t really figure out which one it was.

“You’re the best, luv.” He mumbled, lifting his head just enough to look you in the eye before giving you a quick peck on the lips.

“Yeah, yeah, you tell me that all the time. Let’s go eat.” You rolled your eyes as you picked yourself up off the floor and extended your hand toward the man. The subject of the rehearsal didn't come up again - it was dropped - and the two of you focused on the meal, accompanied by conversation about plans for the afternoon.

to be clear, I didn't read it, I was browsing George Harrison fanfics...

thank you my goat 🫰

wowie it was my first time writing anything romantic involving three characters at once, but I hope I pulled it off:) Feel free to place as many requests as you like - I’m available and curious to hear your ideas!

I Wanna Be Your Man⋆˚࿔

Pairing: Beatlemania!John Lennon x Reader x Beatlemania!Paul McCartney

Details: Fluff, no use of Y/N, flirting, bit of suggestive content, one mention of Ringo and George

Summary: As someone intimately familiar with the Beatles, you are invited to join them on tour. Despite the initial plan for you to act as the group's minder, two of the musicians have slightly different plans for you.

You never imagined you’d be one of the few people to find themselves right in the thick of peak Beatlemania. At first, you viewed the whole thing quite neutrally - much like a group of friends introduced to you by an acquaintance who happened to know the band’s bassist... But once you met the bassist, the guitarists, the drummer, and the entire inner circle followed. Managers, fans, the press, journalists. You couldn't recall the exact moment you signed the paperwork that plunged you into the heart of the Beatles craze; you must have been asleep at the time. It wasn’t that the men were crazy or unbearable - no. They were decent enough, just a bit... Peculiar. That was why you received a formal invitation to join the musicians on one of their trips. Could you even call it a tour? Honestly, you had no idea what you’d signed up for, but you were taking a train - that much you knew for sure, along with the fact that you’d packed as if for a two-week trip. Mind you, the journey was supposed to last less than two weeks.

In any case, the main reason you were invited to accompany the band was the concern that the four men might start arguing at some point during the trip - and let’s face it, everyone needs a strong, dominant woman to keep a few guys in line. That, then, was your role: acting as the group’s caretaker. Four grown men needed a caretaker. It was laughable, but you decided to let it slide and just enjoy the trip. You had hoped that the views from the train window would somehow make up for your situation. It was also a comfort that the trip gave you some time off work; sometimes, being friends with such popular people paid off.

Either way, you decided to settle more comfortably into your compartment and watch the scenery the area had to offer in weather like this. Your fascinated observation of the world through the window was constantly interrupted by four lively souls, all stubbornly intent on winning a card game - or something of the sort; you hadn't been paying much attention to them. As time passed, the four voices dwindled to three, and the three to two. It became... Unnervingly quiet. You felt compelled to glance at the two occupied seats where - to your dismay - only Paul and John remained. You secretly feared that a squabble would break out between them sooner or later; they were so prone to sudden arguments, whether in jest or in earnest. You could already feel cold sweat trickling down your back.

“Purely hypothetically. Do you think I could take Macca in a fight?” There it was. You glanced, somewhat bewildered, at Lennon and the equally bewildered McCartney. You hadn't the faintest idea what his problem was. You expected him to burst out laughing or playfully throw a punch at the other man any second, yet he sat there strangely calm. You didn't quite grasp the situation you had found yourself in.

"What?" You asked, wondering if you had misunderstood something.

"It was a purely theoretical question, luv. Macca likes the same pretty bird I do, and I don't plan on giving her up without a fight." John explained, prompting Paul to roll his eyes.

"No, you wouldn't beat me in a fight, Lenny, and no, I don't plan on fighting you," the bassist clarified, and you breathed a sigh of relief - there was a good chance they wouldn't be brawling right there in the train compartment after all. At least for now.

Unsure of how to resolve this strange dispute between the two men, you turned in your seat just enough to face them rather than the window.

"Maybe you should ask the girl which one of you she prefers?" You suggested, and the moment you finished speaking, you were certain the gears in the guitarist's head had started turning. He looked as though he’d just heard the best plan in the world - a moment for which you mentally patted yourself on the back. Crisis averted.

"Great idea. Which one of us do ya prefer?" John blurted out; Paul muttered something under his breath, looking flustered, and rubbed his face with his hands.

"That’s not how it was s’posed to go, Johnny." He remarked, while you glanced from one face to the other, bewildered.

"Which… What?"

"Which one of us you prefer - you told us to ask, so I'm asking."

"I didn't think you meant me!" You tried to smooth things over, silently praying for George or Ringo to appear in the doorway, you needed one of them there, pronto.

With a low grumble of discontent, John rose from his seat and forced his way in between you and the wall, compelling you to shift over; you ended up stuck sitting between the two musicians, practically squeezed tight between them.

"I said we could share ya, but he wouldn't listen, that daft." Paul blurted out, his voice laced with audible reproach.

"That would be a bit queer, Paulie." John snapped back, prompting a whine from his friend.

"It would be queer if we were kissing, not us kissing her!" With that, you began to feel somewhat excluded from the conversation - as if you weren't actually sitting between two grown men arguing over whether sharing a girl with a friend was a sign of latent homosexuality. Wow, okay. You had never given it any thought before, nor did you plan to now; your main concern was how to resolve the dispute between the bassist and the guitarist before they decided to call off the trip - or break up the band entirely.

"I’d be a better partner for her; I’ve had my eye on her ever since I met her." Paul decided to go on the offensive and lash out at John, trying to make him look bad in your eyes.

"And I’ve had my eye on her since even before we met her!" John shot back, and as the two men began to go at each other’s throats, you felt increasingly squeezed between them - and irritated by their childish squabbling.

"Oh, for God's sake!" You finally snapped, raising your hands slightly to show you had no patience left for their bickering.

"You can just share me - it’s not like it’ll be queer!" You probably said it a bit louder than you’d intended, leaving both men to hesitate for a long moment, wondering if this was really how it was supposed to go - or if they should actually roll up their sleeves and fight like real men.

"Are you sure?" Paul asked to be certain, and John - as it turned out - didn't need to be told twice; his hand immediately began to slide slowly up your thigh. Seeing this, McCartney joined his friend, though his hand found its place on the other side of you, resting on your waist. John wasn't particularly interested in waiting for you to be one hundred percent sure whether being shared between two men was a good idea. It seemed he already had some sort of a plan in mind.

The guitarist found comfort in gently brushing his lips against your cheek and whispering sweet nothings to you.

"As soon as we get to the hotel, I'll show you that I'm way better than Macca." he murmured - a remark that stirred a competitive urge in the man he’d mentioned.

"I could prove it to you right here, y'know." He whispered, brushing his nose against your earlobe. Their convoluted rivalry was starting to make your head spin, but you didn't stop them; you merely tossed out an indifferent "oh yeah?" wanting them to keep up the fight. Well, as it turned out, not every argument was as bad as you’d expected. Being at the center of such a squabble didn't bother you in the slightest - in fact, you actually enjoyed it.

Your ill-advised attempts to stoke a competitive spirit between the men meant that anyone walking down the train corridor could see two men practically devouring you with their eyes as they sat flanking you, their hands wrapped around you. As their lips grazed your cheeks, you felt almost desired - but the moment both men began slowly sliding their hands beneath your layers of clothing, you burst into loud laughter.

"Now, that kind of sharing would be a bit queer."

I woke up in the morning to upload oneshot

My head started hurting so badly that I thought I was dying

thanks in advance!! ^_^

It’s been ages since I dropped everything I was doing as quickly as I did when I saw the request for Lennon (with era of my choice! my choice! bless you anon xx). At first, I was like ew, ew, ew, he’s so weird but then I felt sorry (please catch the reference), and we’re actually vibing😛

can’t believe i wrote it all in one sitting what the hell

(Just Like) Starting Over⋆˚࿔

Pairing: 80s!Spouse!John Lennon x Spouse!Reader

Details: Fluff, no use of Y/N, tiny bit of flirting and bickering, very brief mention of Beatles breakup, one suggestive mention, i still dont know how to write in scouse im sorry, although I hope you catch what i did.

Summary: Despite many years of knowing each other and being in a relationship, John cannot take his eyes off his spouse, savoring every moment they share.

Late autumn 1980. John never imagined he would manage to settle down with someone - someone with whom he didn't have to play a role or pretend to be someone he wasn't. He had his ups and downs, but everyone learns from their mistakes. Even though you entered his life alongside some of his worst blunders, he never dared to label you a mistake; if anything, you were the sole ray of light proving to him that, no matter how dire the situation, he could always find a way out. You turned out to be a bridge between life and eternal mourning - even though no one had actually died. For although John was alive and doing very well, during that period he was grieving: mourning the band - since the seventies had come to an end - mourning lost connections, and, most importantly, mourning his former self. Lennon’s life was never a bed of roses; from a very young age, he faced personal struggles, with family conflicts leaving the deepest mark on him. He didn’t remember much from that time, though he would occasionally recall - with a smile - his first days living with Aunt Mimi. Later, he created his own trouble: skipping school and driving his legal guardian to the brink of madness - and almost into a state of anxiety - whenever he snuck off with the boys to play music in some seedy dive. That was simply who John Lennon was, right from the start. Although he eventually managed to settle down and mature somewhat, a part of his old self remained within him. He kept it hidden, but you were the one who managed to bring it back out into the light.

"What are you thinking about?" The gentle question seemed to snap the man out of his reverie. Coming back to the present moment, John looked around at their surroundings. The sand, the sound of the ocean... Yes, he was definitely right where he belonged. The sun was just about to rise; the wind gently tousled his hair and left your cheeks slightly flushed. He held your hand tightly, as if afraid that a stronger gust of wind might tear you away from him. Despite the fact that you had known each other since the breakup of The Beatles, John was possessive when it came to you. It wasn't bad enough to be labeled toxic - no, Lennon simply loved you. Sometimes he felt like he loved you so much his heart might burst in his chest, yet he never complained about it. He only did so in a desperate bid to get your attention - some habits die hard.

"Me?" He asked foolishly, even though the answer was obvious, since no one else was walking along the shoreline that early. Besides, was it even beach season? No, it was too late for that; people were returning from their holidays and getting ready for the festive season, vacations were the last thing on their minds. That was why you hadn't worried about anyone interrupting your intimate moment of solitude.

"Do you see anyone else here, Johnny?" You asked with the smile Lennon adored so much, though he rarely spoke of it. He likely feared that, over time, you might turn that charming asset to your advantage, playing fast and loose with your spouse's feelings just to get what you wanted. He didn't take you for that sort of person - in his eyes, you were an angel on earth - but there was only one pack of biscuits in the house, so you could have used it... He preferred not to take the risk; he felt quite comfortable retaining at least some rights within his own home.

"Personally, no- but maybe ya see something..." He admitted, glancing jokingly behind him, which made you laugh. Another direct hit - another weak spot of his!

"I’m the one who should be worried!"

"True, but it’s me job to worry about you, remember?" He reminded you, proudly pointing to his wedding ring. In your eyes, that didn't change the situation at all; after all, it didn't mean you couldn't worry about the fact that your partner saw ghosts.

"That doesn't prove anything." You murmured reproachfully, pausing for a moment to turn and face the sun as it slowly peeked over the horizon. When you stopped, John did the same, but he positioned himself so as not to block the sunlight from your lovely face. Bathed in the sun's rays, you looked ethereal to him; despite years of knowing each other and being married, the sight still took his breath away. He felt like that lad from Liverpool again, playing in some obscure band within the walls of the Cavern. He missed that place, but his new home was here - with you.

"Oho-ho! Well, that proves a lot - an awful lot!" He cleared his throat, trying to calm the heart racing in his chest. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze, and your engagement ring - along with your wedding band - glinted softly in the sunlight. It was one of his favorite sights, right up there watching you just after you’d woken up - and, of course, his secret favorite: you in bed, writhing beneath him...

He cleared his throat again, and this time, it caught your attention.

"What is it?"

"Me? Nothing. Just admiring the view."

"Oh. I thought you said something?"

"You only imagined it, luv."

"Uh-huh… I’m sure you wanted to tell me something, though?" Despite your husband’s assurances, you wouldn't let it drop, leaving you looking at a great musician, an idol to hundreds of thousands (if not more) of people, shifting from foot to foot like a child about to be scolded for breaking a priceless vase.

"You just..." He glanced away, but that didn't satisfy him, so inevitably his gaze settled back on you. "...You look lovely in this sunlight." He finally declared, letting the deep, rolling waves of the ocean freely punctuate your conversation. To others, the ocean might have been just a body of water, but to Lennon, it was something more. He didn't need a yacht worth millions; standing on the sand and watching the waves was enough to satisfy his curiosity.

"Thank you very much; you look quite handsome, too." You smiled at him, well aware of the effect your simple smile had on him. You had never really liked the way you smiled, or rather, you weren't a fan of it, but ever since meeting John, all your anxieties and insecurities seemed to fade into the background; knowing what it was like to struggle with self-esteem, Lennon made sure you never felt like a stranger in your own body. On the other hand, you hadn’t been living under a rock. You knew full well what the whole concept of Beatlemania was all about. You were a Beatles fan yourself, yet you only met one of the band members after the group had split up - and entirely by chance; that one recluse you met happened to be standing right next to you, and the two of you were legally bound by the bonds of marriage. Back in the days of peak Beatlemania, girls would never have believed it... Or they would have torn you to shreds.

"Only quite?" He asked, feigning a bit of offense at your careless choice of words.

"Only quite for now, we don't need your head getting any bigger, dear." You assured him, raising your free hand enough to pat his chest gently. But you could see that something else was still weighing on his mind. You'd known him too long not to suspect he was hiding something from you. You were already married, so it couldn't be about an engagement, and you lived together, so that wasn't a problem either. You started to stress, wondering about everything he'd asked of you, whether you'd missed anything, whether you'd accidentally thrown away some important letter, and John was about to give you a hard time about it.

"You know..." John began, and the hairs on the back of your neck practically stood on end, anticipating what he'd say next.

"I don't know, that's the problem, you're stressing me out." You drawled, clenching the hand that was still holding John's, and removing the other from his chest, stressed by what was about to happen next. The sun peeked deeper and deeper over the horizon, forcing you to squint slightly against the light. John, however, seemed unconcerned, gazing at the sight before him.

"I like my life that way. I thought it was over then, but you..." He sighed dreamily. "Oh, an angel in human form, me dear. It's a miracle I didn't drag you down to hell with me, like Mimi said." He nodded, utterly proud of his performance. When he finally managed to tear his eyes away from the sight and noticed your horrified expression, he laughed loudly.

"Bloody Christ! You look like you've seen a ghost!" He cackled, pulling his hand from yours to cup your face in his, gently, as if you were made of fine china. "Are you sure you're the one who can't see ghosts? I told ya I should worry about you, it always ends the same way!" Your husband's comments and snide remarks were like a bucket of cold water to you, as you gently pushed his shoulder with a snort.

"I thought you were going to tell me something serious, that... I don't know, that I threw away some important papers!" You turned away from him, but it didn't last long, as you immediately felt two long arms wrap around your waist and his head resting on the top of yours.

"Oh come on..." He sighed, his laugh slowly dying. "It's a shame you couldn't see yer face. It was priceless. Priceless!" He snorted again, and then, because of the way he kept laughing, you allowed yourself a little laugh.

"Okay, maybe it was a little funny."

"See? There's that pretty smile."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Lennon." You warned him.

"It’s already taken me far enough; I don’t need anything else to be happy. I promise, I could die happy now."

kisses to all my followers, non-followers, moots and random people interacting, y'all are keeping me from going crazy from boredom, waiting for more requests x

Could you write a fluffy 70s McMullet Paul x fan reader? Like he meets her backstage because she sneaks in and he flirts with her a ton

thank youuuu I’m so excited to read it <3

omg i see there's still a demand for '70s Paul one-shots, and im here for it🥹

Let me Roll it ⋆˚࿔

Pairing: 70s!Paul McCartney x Reader

Details: Fluff, Flirting, no use of Y/N, most likely mistakes, cause english is not author’s first language, a lot of yapping about 70s fashion (i have this art freak in me)

Summary: While trying to escape the crowd and find a spot where you can watch the performance of the newly formed band Wings in peace, you run into one of the musicians in person.

The 1970s. A colorful, vibrant, yet pivotal decade of contrasts. On one hand, a time of carefree fun and freedom; on the other, a period of deep economic crises and the birth of new, rebellious subcultures. 1970s fashion was an expression of the quest for individualism and freedom of expression, manifesting in a diversity of styles and an absence of uniform trends. Weekend or vacation attire became suitable for any occasion. The distinction between daytime, afternoon, and evening wear began to fade, and evening fashion differed only slightly from everyday clothing. Sometimes skirts were marginally longer or made of somewhat finer fabrics, but the differences were not significant. Formal dress codes were becoming a thing of the past. Joyful colors and unconventionally combined elements stood in stark contrast to the conservative attire of the older generation, the notion of a single prevailing style, or the strict observance of dress codes for specific occasions. This eclectic mix of accessories from diverse origins became a fashion of acceptance - honoring various cultures, crafts, techniques, and materials - as well as a fashion of love and a stand against war. A time of sequins, shimmering fabrics, bell-bottoms, and platform shoes. Rebellious defiance against the system and commercialized music, the enduring trend of fringe... You still didn't like fringe, but you could somehow accept it. You did let them slide.

Somehow, you’d managed to snag the very last concert ticket. It was the first time you were seeing live music without your best friend - who usually kept you from making the stupidest decisions when the adrenaline kicked in. You’d promised her nothing bad would happen while she wasn't there - a lie, and you both knew it, but you didn't want to worry her. Judging by the fact that you had to call her three times after reaching the motel just to reassure her that you hadn't been kidnapped or jumped into bed with some random guy... It was going to be a long night.

Sweat was pouring down your back in torrents, and people kept trying to shove their way right up to the stage. It was a concert by the newly formed Wings. Under normal circumstances, no one would have paid much attention to such a fresh band; what brought them fame was the fact that former Beatle Paul McCartney was a member. Linda Eastman, Denny Laine, Jimmy McCulloch, and Joe English played alongside him, but let’s be honest - you were there mainly for Paul. You had been watching him since the height of Beatlemania, and even though three other attractive men played with him back then, he was the one who truly held your attention. Not just yours, of course, but this is a story about you - and you alone. Let the press and journalists worry about the rest of the fans.

As you jostled your way through hundreds of delighted fans, you realized that no matter how much effort you put into pushing through, you wouldn't manage to get right up to the stage. You didn't want to waste the savings you’d spent on the ticket, so it didn't take long for you to come up with one of your best ideas. Proud of your plan, you continued to weave your way through the fans of the newly formed Wings; instead of trying to get closer to the stage, you moved away from it, finding relief in a patch of relatively open space near the speakers. It wasn't an ideal spot - you felt like your eardrums were about to give way under the pressure - but at least you weren't squeezed between sweaty bodies. It was only after escaping the crowd that the second phase of your plan began.

This part turned out to be trickier; somehow, by a stroke of luck, you managed to slip through to the backstage area without catching the security guards' attention. You could hardly believe what you’d pulled off... You were backstage! Without a VIP pass! You smiled broadly to yourself and, looking around, found a quiet corner that offered a good view of a curtained-off area. You guessed that the band - and Paul - were performing right behind that thin fabric. Oh, Paul... You sighed dreamily, not even noticing the moment the fans' screams intensified and the music died down. Something seemed wrong…

"Bloody hell! I thought they’d never let us leave the stage!" A loud comment rang out, and your heart nearly stopped. You knew that voice so well; every night, it filled your apartment, drifting from your record player. Paul McCartney in the flesh. It was the first time you had seen him this close - close enough to practically reach out and touch him. Your original plan had been to find some breathing room - away from people digging their elbows into your ribs - and maybe catch a close-up view of the Wings performance from a different angle, but this... This had definitely exceeded your wildest expectations. You were already poised to step back and turn away before anyone noticed you, but it was too late for that, too. You watched as one person headed straight for you, while the rest of the band walked off in the opposite direction. Oh no.

"And who is that pretty bird?" You straightened up, surprised by the turn of events. Pretty bird? You furrowed your brows slightly as you lifted your head. Just as you’d expected, Paul was standing right in front of you, his forehead and cheeks slightly damp with sweat. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make an impression on you. He was close enough for you to catch the scent of his cologne. He looked stunning. He was dressed in his usual distinctive performance style, but what really stood out was his hair - longer than usual, practically a mullet. You’d seen him in his "Teddy Boy" era, his 1960s Beatles era, with a beard and without, with a mustache and without - but this... His hair really impressed you and sent a whole swarm of butterflies fluttering to life in your stomach.

“Oh, I-...” You mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear; you didn't even know what excuse to come up with or what to latch onto.

“You snuck backstage, am I right?” Paul asked and you could swear that in that moment you were one hundred percent sure that he’d get security and kick you out… At worst, they might even slap you with a ban on attending Wings concerts. Was that even possible? You didn't know, but you were starting to feel a bit stressed; that anxiety was constantly lurking in the back of your mind, preventing you from fully enjoying this moment of closeness with the musician.

“Well, nobody was checking who was passing by…” You tried to offer an explanation, but once again your feeble excuses were cut short, not with words this time, but by a hand tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. You looked up at the man with wide eyes, and it turned out he was gazing right back at your face. You were tempted to think he might have indulged in a little pre-concert drinking, yet you couldn't smell a thing. Honestly, what was making someone like McCartney get so close to an utterly ordinary person like you? You gave your arm a surreptitious pinch - a move that fortunately went unnoticed by Paul. To your amazement, you found yourself still standing there backstage, right alongside the ex-Beatle.

You looked at the man as if he hung the moon; you couldn't help it - up close, he looked even more attractive than in magazines or on TV. Dark, slightly too long strands of hair framed his face, and the contrast between his hair color and his complexion made his rosy cheeks stand out in full prominence. Not to mention his charming smile or those joyful eyes... You sighed dreamily, wishing with all your heart that you could freeze that moment forever - or at least pull out your camera and snap a close-up photo of him.

"I ought to call security to have you taken away, y'know..." He began, and you couldn't manage to stammer out a word in your defense. "...But you look so charming that it would be a shame to kick out a beauty like you," Paul finished.

"Beauty?" You asked, unsure if your own thoughts were altering reality.

"Yep. A beauty in all her glory. Did you come here alone?"

"Backstage, or...?"

"No, to the concert." He laughed good-naturedly.

"Yeah, I came alone..." You admitted with a hint of regret; you were a little sad that your friend hadn't been able to join you for an event that meant so much to you.

"Here, let me..." Paul began, grabbing your forearm and pushing up the sleeve of your top. He wiped your arm with his hand, since you were both sweaty, and, seemingly having a plan in mind, started rummaging for a pen. Once he was sure your arm was reasonably dry, he began writing a number on it. You started to assume it might be his private phone number. The thought delighted you, and you could barely stand still without bouncing up and down or shaking like a leaf in the wind.

"Here. My number. Call me when you get back to your place, okay, luv? We should go out sometimes." With those words, he flashed a genuine smile and gave your bottom a light pat as he walked away. You, meanwhile, stood rooted to the spot, unable to process what had just happened. Wait... He didn't even know your name!

Masterlist ⋆˚࿔

❀ - Fluff

᯽ - Hurt/Comfort

𖦹 - Angst

⋆ George Harrison

Behind Closed Door ❀᯽

⋆ Paul McCartney

Carry That Weight ᯽

Let Me Roll It ❀

⋆ John Lennon

(Just Like) Starting Over ❀

⋆ Ringo Starr

none at this moment

⋆ Other (more than one character)

I Wanna Be Your Man ❀ (Lennon + McCartney)

Rules, boundaries, and other important things

⋆ no NSFW - of course, I can agree to suggestive content, but I won't write purely NSFW stories

⋆ no weird age gaps

⋆ i'd like to mostly focus on x reader content, so no oc x character and no character x character (eg mclennon, starrison etc) please

⋆ concepts associated with hatred, homophobia, the exclusion of social groups, etc. - huge NO

⋆ when requesting fanfiction, please provide details such as the type of story (fluff, angst, etc.), the timeframe you're interested in (e.g., the 70s, 60s, hamburg era…), and any other details that will help me write the story just the way you'd like it :)