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What will I write about?

• angst, fluffy, soft, PROBABLY smut and the like

What will I NOT write about?

• I won’t be writing anything involving problematic themes, such as underage x overage

Who am I going to write about?

• mostly artists from the ’50s to the ’70s. If I don’t recognize someone, I’ll look them up and try to come up with something decent – I don’t want to let anyone down

Am I accepting requests?

• Yes, I’m accepting requests! Also, don't feel embarrassed to ask for anything, I'll do anything to please you

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About me: Well, as I said, my name is Ella. I'm a Brazilian girl completely in love with the 60s.

My favorite bands are: The Beatles, The Velvet Underground and Fleetwood Mac.

My favorite artists are: John Lennon, Jacques Dutronc, Françoise Hardy, Keith Richards, Serge Gainsbourg and Bob Dylan.

I can speak French, Brazilian Portuguese, and UK English.

I am around 1.72 meters tall and 18+

I love reading books, and currently my favorite authors are: Clarice Lispector, Anne Sexton, Fernando Pessoa, Emily Brontë and Sylvia Plath

My favorite movies are: Vivre Sa Vie, Cabaret, Submarine and São Paulo Sociedade Anônima

MICK JAGGER

• Mick's flirting is a game of power and provocation. He doesn't come to you – he makes you come to him

• He watches you from across the room with that penetrating stare, those thick lips curling into a slow, calculated smile. When you finally look back, he glances away as if he couldn't care less – but that smile stays put

• he uses the stage as his weapon of seduction. During gigs, he moves towards you, hips swivelling, silk shirt hanging open to his chest, his eyes locked on yours as if you're the only bird in the room.

• After the show, he saunters over with a glass in hand, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. He tilts his head, hair falling across his face, and asks in that drawling voice: "Did you enjoy the gig, then? I spotted you right at the front. Couldn't keep my eyes off you, to be honest."

• He loves making you blush. He'll lean in and whisper things in your ear, his breath warm against your skin, just to watch you squirm.

• When you finally give in, he kisses you with an intensity that leaves you breathless – and then pulls back, smirking, as if he knew exactly what he was doing all along.

Drabble:):

The gig's finished, but the energy's still buzzing in the air. You're leaned against the back wall, trying to catch your breath,when you feel a presence beside you. Mick. His shirt's still open, chest glistening with sweat, hair a right mess. He doesn't say a word, just studies you with those dark eyes, a slow grin spreading across his lips. "You're the bird from the front row, aren't you?" his voice is low, raspy. "Been watching you all night, I have." He steps closer, and you feel the heat radiating off him. His hand finds your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "Fancy knowing what I was thinking?" He cocks his head, lips brushing against yours. "That I'd rather like to take you home with me.".

KEITH RICHARDS

• Keith's flirting is instinctive, straightforward, and devoid of games. He hasn't got the patience for messing about – if he wants you, you'll bloody well know it.

• He finds you in a corner of the party, away from the racket, and just stares at you with those dark, piercing eyes. A fag's dangling from his lips, smoke curling up slowly

• He doesn't bother with pretty words – he uses action. He'll pull you close, his hand finding your waist like it's the most natural thing in the world, and murmur right by your ear in that gravelly voice: "You're gorgeous, you know that?"

• He's disarmingly honest. If he fancies you, he says so. If he wants to kiss you, he bloody well does it. No strategy, just gut instinct.

• He loves making you laugh. Has a dry, sharp wit that catches you off guard.

• when he kisses you, it's with a savage intensity, like he's starving for you. His hands cup your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones, and he's in no rush whatsoever.

Drabble:

The party's heaving, but you're leaning against the wall, trying to escape the din. Keith appears out of nowhere, a fag in his mouth, hair a complete state. He stares at you for a long moment, then plucks the cigarette from his lips and grins. "You look a bit lost, love." His voice is slow, thick with that London drawl. "Or maybe you're just trying to dodge me." He steps closer, and you catch the scent of smoke and whiskey. His hand finds your face, calloused fingers brushing your cheek. "Saw you when you walked in. Couldn't stop looking, could I?" He tilts his head, dark eyes fixed on yours. "Alright if I give you a kiss?" He doesn't wait for an answer – he just leans in and kisses you, slow and deep, like he's got all the time in the world.

BRIAN JONES

• Brian's flirting is intense, romantic, and almost hypnotic. He looks at you as if you're the only person on the planet – and you actually believe him

• he approaches with a natural elegance, his blond hair perfectly in place, his clothes immaculate. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, and he speaks to you as though every single word matters.

• He gifts you little things – a flower, a record, a scribbled note. He pays attention to details; what you like, what makes you smile.

• He looks at you with those intelligent, pale eyes and says, in that gentle voice: "I simply can't stop thinking about you. It's odd, isn't it? We hardly know each other, and yet I feel as though I've known you for years."

• He's intense – perhaps a bit too intense. His flirting carries an emotional weight that makes you feel special, but also leaves you a little breathless

• When he kisses you, it's slow, almost reverent, as if you were something precious. His hands hold your face with a tenderness that contrasts with the fire in his gaze.

Drabble:

You're out on the balcony, looking up at the stars, when you sense someone approach. Brian. He's wearing a smart blazer, his blond hair catching the moonlight. He doesn't speak – just stands beside you, gazing upwards. After a long silence, he turns to you. "I was inside, you know," he says, his voice soft. "And I simply couldn't stop watching you. You're... different." He steps closer, those light eyes fixed on yours. "May I tell you a secret?" He leans in, close enough that you can feel his breath. "I rather think I'm falling for you. And we've barely even met." His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining slowly.

CHARLIE WATTS

• Charlie's flirting is as silent and elegant as the man himself. You barely notice it – until you realise he's always hovering nearby.

•He doesn't approach with a cheesy line or a bold gesture. He simply... appears. In the corner of the bar, at the next table, in the hallway. Always with a book or a sketchpad in hand.

• When he speaks to you, his voice is low and velvety, and he looks at you with those calm blue eyes that seem to see right through you.

• He notices everything. What you're wearing, what you're drinking, what makes you smile. And quietly, he does little things – offers you a drink, holds the door, pulls out your chair.

• It's in the way he holds your gaze a second too long, the shy smile that escapes when you speak, the way he leans in just a fraction when you laugh

• When he finally kisses you, it's with a slowness that takes your breath away. His hands find your face with a tenderness that feels utterly out of place in a world of rock and roll.

Drabble:

The party's in full swing, but you find a moment of quiet at the end of the bar. Charlie's sitting beside you, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his suit immaculate. He's not looking at you – he's staring into his glass, fingers tracing its rim. "Do you like jazz?" The question's so unexpected you laugh. He turns his head, and a shy smile tugs at his lips. "It's a serious question, that." He leans his body slightly towards you. "I know a place. Small, dark, proper good music...Perhaps you'd like to join me there. One night." He just looks back down at his glass, but the smile stays put

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The noise from the film set drifted in from a distance, a muffled hum through the thick walls of the dressing room the costume department had commandeered. The air smelled of shellac, new fabric, and the strong, reheated coffee someone had left on the table, next to a well-thumbed copy of some Shakespeare book. You were adjusting the hem of one of the military jackets, your fingers finding the steady rhythm of the work, when the door opened

Paul came in as if he'd been pushed by a current of air, but the movement was more contained than usual. He was wearing the full Major's uniform — the grey khaki jacket, the grey beret tilted slightly, the immaculate boots — and wore an expression that suggested he was about to complain, but didn't want to seem rude.

— 'Ello, love — he said, his voice carrying that Liverpool accent you knew so well. — Sorry to barge in, but...Uh — He tugged at the fabric across his chest, frowning. — It's a bit tight 'ere. Reckon I overdid it at lunch.

You set the jacket aside and stepped closer, your eyes running over the uniform with a professional eye. The side seam of the jacket was, in fact, slightly strained.

— Let's have a look, then — you said, and he obeyed, straightening his shoulders.

As you examined the seam with your fingers, feeling the rough fabric beneath your fingertips, Paul was quiet for a moment. Then, as if he couldn't help himself, he started to chatter:

— Y'know, I was thinkin' about this Major. 'E's a very serious bloke, inn'e? Must've lost someone in the war, or summat. Drinks black tea with no sugar, gives you a dirty look if your belt buckle ain't shiny. — He paused, and his voice softened, almost dreamy. — But I reckon 'e likes poetry. Carries a little book in 'is pocket.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the unexpected turn, but played along.

— And what would the Major do to a costume girl who messed up the stitching on his uniform? — you asked, feigning alarm.

Paul stopped chattering. His brown green eyes met yours, and for a moment, the eager boyish expression faded. A slow, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

— Well — he said, his voice dropping, losing its anxious edge and gaining a quieter intensity —, I reckon 'e'd 'ave to... interrogate you. Old school style, yknow

He stepped closer. You could feel the warmth of him now, the smell of his soap mixed with the new military fabric. Your hands were still on his collar, and you could feel his breathing, a little shallower than before.

— And what if I refuse to cooperate, Major? — you whispered.

Paul tilted his head, his eyes travelling over your face with deliberate slowness. He raised his hand and, with surprising gentleness, traced his fingers along your jaw, lifting your face to meet his

— Well then — he murmured, his voice rough and low –, I'd 'ave to administer a proper punishment, wouldn't I?

He leaned in. You felt his breath, warm against your lips. The kiss came soft at first, almost a question — and when you answered, pressing your lips against his, Paul let out a small sigh, and the kiss deepened.

His hands found your waist, pulling you against the uniform. Your fingers tangled in his collar, and you could feel his heartbeat beneath your palm — a little fast, a little nervous, hidden behind the confident Major's facade

— Y'know what? — he said, his breathing still a little uneven. — This uniform ain't really that tight. Reckon it was just... an excuse. To see you.

— Paul... — you laughed, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

He shrugged, but the smile was genuine.

— What? The Major's a strategic bloke, inn'e? Got to plan 'is attacks.

A sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment.

— Mr. McCartney? — a production assistant's voice came muffled through the wood. — We need you on set in five minutes. The director's calling.

Paul closed his eyes for a second, biting his lower lip — that nervous tic he had when he was frustrated.

— Bollocks — he whispered. Then, louder: — Coming!

He turned back to you, and his hand found your face again, his palm warm against your cheek.

— Listen — he said, his voice now soft, just for you —, soon as this scene's done, I'll be back. Promise. We'll finish this fitting. — He winked, and a mischievous smile crept across his face — And I want to see what else you can fix on this uniform

You held his hand, squeezing his fingers.

— Go on, Major. Go win the war.

Paul laughed — that loud, genuine laugh you loved — and turned towards the door. Before opening it, he stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and adjusted his beret with a theatrical gesture.

— If I survive the battle — he said, giving an exaggerated military salute —, I'll be back for surrender.

And then he was gone, leaving the door ajar and his scent lingering in the air.

You leaned back against the sewing table with your heart racing, thinking about how good it was to have your handsome sergeant with you

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★ - He loved teasing you with terrible jokes and a deadpan face. If you rolled your eyes, he'd chuckle quietly, satisfied. If you actually laughed, he'd look at you with a glint in his eyes, as if he'd won a prize.

★ - On the rare nights when he drank a bit more than usual, he'd get quieter and more honest. One night, he looked at you and said, straight out: "You're the only person on this tour who doesn't want anything from me." Then he turned his face and fell asleep.

★ - When the whole band was busy on days off, he'd drag you along on aimless walks. He liked to point at random things in the street and make up stories about them, complete nonsense, just to make you laugh. If you laughed, he'd go quiet, with a small smile, as if he'd won something.

★ - He always saved you a seat on the bus. Not next to him. He'd leave an empty seat between you. Until the day you sat beside him without asking. He didn't say a word, but he put his hand over yours and didn't move it for hours.

★ - When you showed up to rehearsals looking sleepy, he'd look at you with amused curiosity and, without a word, push his mug of coffee in your direction. He knew you hated black coffee, so there was always a bit of sugar at the bottom.

★ - He wore flowers in his hat. Every now and then, without warning, he'd take one out and tuck it into your hair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then he'd carry on walking, pretending nothing had happened.

★ - During long drives, he'd sometimes pick up his guitar and start playing softly, almost as if he were alone. But you'd notice he always looked at you during the prettiest parts of the songs – as if checking you were paying attention.

- During rehearsals, Bob never gives you direct instructions. He plays something, looks at you, and waits. He expects you to hear what he wants— and somehow, you always do.

★ - He wrote a clarinet solo into "Isis" specifically for you. He never told you. You only found out when you heard the demo tape and your part was already there, note for note.

★ - When you miss a note on stage, he glances at you with this tiny smirk –like he's amused, not annoyed. After the show, he whispers: "Keep that mistake. It sounded better than the original."

★ - He insists you sit beside him during soundcheck, not because he needs you, but because he says "I need to see your hands move before I can hear mine".

★ - Bob can't cook anything except coffee and burnt toast. Once he tried to make pancakes for you and nearly set the bus on fire. He never tried again. But you thought it was adorable.

★ - He keeps every note you write—even the ones that just say "buy bread" or "don't forget the show at 8". You found them one day, inside his guitar.

★ - On bad nights, Bob sits on the floor of the dressing room with his make-up smudged and doesn't say a word. You sit beside him. He puts his head on your shoulder. It's the only time he lets the mask fall completely.

★ - When you finally fall asleep in your corner, he covers you with his coat. even if it's cold for him too.

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You'd been staring at the same page of your book for twenty minutes when the front door slammed, rattling the frame. The rain had been coming down in sheets all afternoon, hammering against the windows of the Weybridge house, and you'd curled up on the sofa with your hair — still damp from your own walk earlier — pooled around you like a great spill of pink ink. You didn't look up. You knew the sound of that door. You knew the rhythm of those footsteps, the way John kicked off his boots without untying them, the soft thud of his jacket hitting the floor. You heard him pause in the hallway, probably catching sight of you through the doorway, probably registering the fact that you hadn't moved, hadn't called out a greeting, hadn't done any of the things you usually did when he came home from the studio.

— Alright, then?

His voice floated in from the hall, casual but probing. That was John. He could smell a mood from three rooms away, you were sure of it.

— Eh...Yes — you answered, but it came out flat as day-old tea, and you knew he'd clock that too.

There was a stretch of silence, then the soft sound of him padding into the living room in his socks. You heard him stop in the doorway, and you could feel him looking at you — at the way you were curled up, at the book you weren't really reading, at the pink hair spilling over the arm of the sofa like a waterfall made of chewing gum. The sofa dipped as he sat down at the other end, not too close. Giving you space. He could be good at that when he wanted to be, when he wasn't too wrapped up in his own head.

You kept your eyes on the page, the words blurring into grey smudges. The rain hammered on. Neither of you spoke.

— Right, then — John said eventually, and you could hear the fidget in his voice, the way he was probably running a hand through his hair or scratching at the back of his neck the way he did when he didn't know what to do with himself. — You gonna tell me what's got into you, or am I meant to sit here and guess? 'Cause I'm warnin' yer, love, I'm bloody useless at guessin' games. Once spent an entire Christmas tryin' to suss out what Ringo'd got me. Turned out to be a jumper. A jumper. Very disappointin'.

You didn't laugh. You wanted to, a bit, because he was trying, and John trying was a thing to behold — all awkward sincerity wrapped up in three layers of sarcasm so you wouldn't notice he meant it. But the weight in your chest wouldn't shift. You closed the book and set it aside, still not meeting his eyes.

— I were thinkin' — you began, and your voice sounded strange to your own ears, too careful, too measured — maybe I ought to go away for a bit.

The silence that followed was the heavy kind. You felt John go very still at the other end of the sofa, the way he did when someone said something he hadn't seen coming. Which didn't happen often. John Lennon prided himself on seeing things coming.

— Go away where? — His tone was still light, still playing, but there was a thread of something sharper running underneath it now, like a wire pulled taut. — We've already done Brighton. Blackpool's rubbish this time of year, and Margate's even worse. Full of old dears and donkey rides. You'd hate it.

— That ain't what I mean.

You forced yourself to look at him. He'd taken his glasses off — he always did that when he got home, always said they made him feel like he were still on stage, still performing — and his brown eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that made you want to look away again. His hair was a right mess from the rain, all sticking up in different directions, and there was a smudge of blue ink along his jaw where he'd been scribbling lyrics and then rubbed his face without thinking. He looked tired. He looked like a man who'd been fighting battles you couldn't see, and he looked like he'd been losing a few of them, too.

— I meant away from all this — you said, and the words came out in a rush now, tumbling over each other like they'd been waiting to escape. — Away from you, from the papers, from that bloody phone goin' off every hour. Paul's been ringin' again, hasn't he? I heard you on the line last night, havin' a right go at each other. And the Mirror this mornin' had another one of them pieces, didn't it? "Mystery girl with the circus hair," "Lennon's lost the plot," "Beatles in crisis." Like I'm some sort of evil genius with a grudge, single-handedly bringin' down the biggest band in the world just by existin'.

John's jaw tightened. He still didn't speak, but his fingers drummed once — just once — on his knee. You knew that tell. He was working something through, chewing on it, trying to decide whether to laugh it off or take it serious.

— And I know you keep sayin' not to let 'em get to me — you went on, and now you couldn't stop, the words spilling out like water from a burst pipe — but they are gettin' to me, John. Not 'cause I believe 'em. I know I ain't a freak. I know me hair's ridiculous, but I liked it before anyone ever pointed a camera at us on that beach, and I still like it now. That's not the point. The point is — the point is I can see what's happenin'. Every time you miss a session, every time Macca rings you with that worried voice he does, every time the papers print another load of rubbish about us… it's my name in there. I'm the excuse. I'm the thing they point at and say, "There, see? That's why Lennon's lost the plot." And maybe — maybe if I just stepped back for a bit. Went somewhere quiet, kept me head down, let you sort things out with the lads without me in the frame… maybe everyone'd calm down. You could finish the album without all this noise. Paul'd stop lookin' at you like you'd personally betrayed him. And I could just… breathe. For five minutes. Without a bunch of strangers callin' me a clown.

Your voice cracked on the last word, and you absolutely hated it. You weren't a crier. You'd never been a crier. You'd spent your whole life being the odd one out — the girl with the strange clothes and the stranger hair, the one who didn't fit — and you'd learned to wear it like armour. But there was something about the relentlessness of it, the way every single day brought a new headline, a new photograph you hadn't posed for, a new quote from some "anonymous source close to the band" who claimed to be deeply concerned about the future of the Beatles. It was wearing you down like water on stone, and you were tired. You were so bloody tired. And underneath it all, there was a small, insidious voice whispering that maybe they were right. Maybe you were a distraction. Maybe John would be better off if you just… disappeared.

John was quiet for what felt like a very long time.

He wasnt looking at you anymore. He was staring at the fireplace, at the dying embers glowing orange-red in the grate, his brow all furrowed up the way it got when he was thinking about something serious — not the put-on serious he did for interviews, the "war is over if you want it" serious, but the real thing. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than you expected, stripped of its usual cutting wit.

— You know what I were doin' before I met you?

You blinked. That wasn't the response you'd been braced for. You'd been ready for an argument, for sarcasm, for him to wave it all off with a joke and a fag and a change of subject. This was something else.

— Tourin'? — you guessed, your voice small.

— No. I mean, yeah, that an' all. But I mean up here. — He tapped two fingers against his temple, just above his eyebrow. — I were goin' right off me head. Not in a poetic, tortured-artist sort of way, like. I mean properly. I'd wake up in the mornin' and I wouldn't have a bloody clue who I were meant to be. Was I John Lennon the Beatle, the one who had to grin for the cameras and say the right things and not cause trouble? Was I John Lennon the husband, the father, the fella who mowed the lawn on Saturdays and went to dinner parties with the neighbours? Was I the one who wrote the songs, or were I just the one who sang 'em 'cause Macca needed a second voice? I didn't know. I'd been doin' it so long — bein' what everyone else wanted — that I'd forgot what I actually was. If I ever knew in the first bloody place.

He stopped, reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, pulled one out, and then just held it between his fingers without lighting it. His eyes were still on the embers. You didn't speak. You didn't dare.

— And then I walked into that bloody gallery — he went on, and now something in his voice shifted, something almost wondering — and there was this woman stood in front of a blank canvas, tellin' me it were a load of rubbish. With hair the colour of bubblegum, like somethin' out of a dream, and this daft little fringe like Audrey Hepburn, and she didn't give a toss who I was. Didn't ask for an autograph. Didn't giggle and go all red and ask if Paul were single. She just told me I were lookin' at rubbish and she were dead right about it. And I thought to meself — I thought, "There. That one. That one's real."

He turned to look at you then, and the intensity in his eyes was almost too much to hold. You felt pinned in place, like a butterfly under glass.

— So don't sit there and tell me you're gonna go away — he said, and his voice was rougher now, the Scouse coming through thick and fast the way it always did when he was feeling something he couldn't joke about. — Don't tell me you're gonna step back for the sake of the band, or the album, or Paul's nerves, or any of that. Because I don't give a toss about any of it. Not compared to this. Not compared to you.

— John… — you started, but he weren't finished.

— No, listen. You listen to me. — He shifted closer on the sofa, leaning forward, the unlit cigarette still forgotten in his fingers. — Them papers, they don't know nothin'. They're vultures, the lot of 'em. They'd sell their own grandmothers for a headline. And Paul — look, I love Paul, you know I do, he's me best mate and he's a genius and all that — but Paul's got his own idea of what the Beatles ought to be, and right now that idea don't include me takin' a breath. That's not your fault. That's between me and Macca, and it's been brewin' since before you ever walked into me life. You're not the cause of anythin' except — except me actually wantin' to get out of bed in the mornin'.

His voice cracked, just slightly, on the last bit, and you watched him notice it and hate himself for it. John Lennon did not do vulnerability. He did wit and he did scorn and he did righteous fury, but this — this raw, unguarded thing — was something he only let slip when the armour got too heavy to carry.

— You make me feel like I'm allowed to be a person — he said, quieter now. — Not a Beatle. Not a product. Just a fella. A fella who can go to the seaside in November and laugh at a woman with pink hair who argues with him about Bob Dylan and falls asleep on the sofa with her head on his shoulder. You think I want to give that up so Paul McCartney can stop frownin' at me? You're off your rocker.

You let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. It came out shaky, almost a laugh, almost a sob. The lump in your throat was still there, but it had changed shape somehow — still heavy, but less sharp.

— I just don't want to be the thing that breaks everythin' — you whispered. — I don't want to be the reason the Beatles fall apart. I couldn't live with that I couldn't live with you endin' up hatin' me for it somewhere down the line.

John looked at you for a long moment. Then he reached out and took your hand — not dramatically, not like some grand gesture, but simply, the way you might pick up something fragile to keep it safe. His fingers were cold from the rain, and you could feel the calluses from his guitar strings rough against your palm

— The Beatles — he said slowly, like he were sounding out the words for the first time — are four grown men. If we fall apart, it'll be because of us, not because of you. And if Paul wants to blame you for it, he's welcome to, but it won't make it true. He blamed me for sayin' we were bigger than Jesus, didn't he? Blamed me for the whole fiasco, and we're still standin'. Sort of. – A ghost of a smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. – The point is, love, I've spent ten years bein' what everyone else wanted. I've smiled for the cameras. I've said the right things — well, most of the time. I've worn the suits and gone on the telly and waved at the crowds like a good little pop star. And you know what it got me? A big empty house and a head full of noise. Then you came along with your ridiculous pink hair and your Audrey Hepburn fringe and you didn't want anythin' from me except an honest opinion about modern art. D'you know how bloody rare that is? D'you know how long it's been since someone just… liked me? Not Beatle John. Just me. The fella who tells bad jokes and leaves his socks on the floor and can't cook an egg to save his life.

— You really can't cook an egg — you murmured, and it came out watery but real, and John's smile widened just a fraction.

— I really can't. It's embarrassin'. I tried to make Ringo one once and he still brings it up. — He squeezed your hand. — Don't leave, alright? Don't let the bastards chase you off. That's what they want. They want you to disappear so they can go back to writin' about our haircuts and whether George is turnin' into a Hindu mystic. But I don't want you to disappear. I want you right here. Bein' pink. Bein' you. Arguin' with me about Dylan. The whole lot.

You were quiet for a moment, letting his words settle. The rain was easing up outside, the steady drumbeat softening to a patter. The fire had almost gone out, just a few orange embers winking in the dark grate. John's hand was still wrapped around yours, and he hadn't let go.

— I'm scared — you admitted, barely above a whisper. — Not of the papers. Not really. I'm scared of wakin' up one day and findin' you've changed your mind. That you'll look at me and see what they see. A distraction. A mistake. A phase you went through

John let out a short breath — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh.

— Do you know how many phases I've been through? — he asked. — I've been a teddy boy, a rocker, a mod, a folk singer, a psychedelic visionary, a husband, a father, a Beatle, an embarrassment to the entire United States of America accordin' to some. I've been a lot of things. But I've never met anyone like you before. And I'm not stupid enough to let that go just because the Daily Mirror thinks your hair's a bit much. — He tilted his head, studying your face. — You want to know what I really think?

— What? – You asked, curious

— I think they're threatened. All of 'em. The papers, the critics, even Paul a bit. They're threatened because you don't fit into their tidy little boxes. You've got hair down to your knees and a fringe like a film star and you don't apologise for it — or you didn't, before they started havin' a go. And that scares 'em. Because if you can exist, bein' exactly what you are, then what's their excuse? Why are they all walkin' around in grey suits and grey lives if someone like you can just… be pink? — He said it with such genuine bafflement, such honest-to-God curiosity, that you almost laughed. — You're not a distraction, love. You're a bloody revolution with a fringe.

You did laugh then — a small, wet, surprised sort of laugh that bubbled up from somewhere deep. John looked pleased with himself, that familiar smug little smile creeping back onto his face.

— A revolution with a fringe — you repeated. — That might be the best thing anyone's ever said to me.

— Well, I'm a poet, innit? — He finally lit the cigarette he'd been holding all this time, cupping his hand around the flame even though there was no wind. — Seriously, though. You stay. The band'll be fine, or it won't, and either way it's not down to you. Paul'll get over himself, or he won't, and either way it's not down to you either. The only thing that's down to you is whether you're gonna let a bunch of blokes in Fleet Street tell you who you're allowed to be. And I think we both know the answer to that.

You looked at him — at his messy hair and his tired eyes and the ink smudge on his jaw, at the way he was holding his cigarette like he'd forgotten it was there, at the way he was looking at you like you were the only solid thing in a world made of smoke and mirrors. And you felt something shift inside you. Not a resolution, exactly. More like a decision that had been waiting to be made.

— Alright — you said. — I'll stay.

— Good. — He nodded, as if that had never been in doubt. — Now can we please talk about somethin' that isn't the papers or the album or Paul? Because I've been in the studio all day with George talkin' about the meaning of life, and honestly, I think me brain's about to leak out of me ears.

— What did George say about the meaning of life?

— Uh, i don't know, I stopped listenin' after the first hour. — He took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke toward the ceiling. — I did draw a very good cartoon of Ringo as a spaceman, though. Proper artistic. Might put it on the next album cover.

You laughed, properly this time, and the sound of it seemed to ease something in the room. John smiled — not his performance smile, not the one he gave the cameras, but the real one, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look about ten years younger.

— There she is — he said, almost to himself. — There's me girl.

And outside, the rain kept falling over the city, over the tabloids that tomorrow would have new headlines, over a world that never stopped turning. But in the Weybridge house, with the fire dying and the pink hair spilling across the sofa cushions, something had settled. Something was, for the moment, alright.

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★ He doesn't say "I love you" often. When he does, it's almost a whisper, and always in the most random moments — you washing the dishes or him simply putting on his seatbelts.

★ He finds it beautiful when you're angry. He told you that once. You nearly threw a cushion at his face.

★ He has the weirdest sense of humour — he'll show you a deeply profound poem and then the last line is some stupid joke that makes you snort

★ He watches you sleep. You woke in the early hours and found him propped on his elbow, just looking at you. "Was trying to memorise you," he murmured.

★ When he's too drunk, he gets very quiet and asks things like "Do you think I'm a good person?" You say yes. He never quite believes it.

★ There are days when he doesn't answer, doesn't look you in the eye, doesn't touch you. You've learnt it's not about you — his head has just gone too far away. You leave a glass of water next to him and wait.

★ You argue badly from time to time. He says something cutting, you fire back, he storms out. Hours later, he returns with two coffees, sits on the floor beside you, and rests his head on your knee. It's the closest to "sorry" you'll ever get

★ He hates crowds, and you discover this at a party where he disappears and you find him sitting alone in the garden, smoking and watching the stars. He offers you half his cigarette without a word.

★ Jim disappears on tour. He sends short letters: "I'm alive. Paris is cold. I hate you for not being here." You know that "I hate you" is his way of saying "I love you" in those moments.

★ He has an obsession with collarbones. He can't explain it, but whenever he's distracted, his fingers find their way there, tracing the bone slowly.

★ His kisses are always slow and wet. He kisses as if it was more than just two lips togheter, but something only the two of you know, exploring every corner of your mouth.

★ He has a habit of stopping mid-act just to look at you. It's not teasing — it's worship. He wants to memorise your face in that exact moment.

★ Away from the roaring crowds and the Lizard King stage persona, reading is his grounding anchor. When the weight of fame or his inner demons get too loud, reading to you — or letting you read to him while he rests his head in your lap — is his only real peace.

★ He tests you by handing you obscure, heavy-hitting philosophy or symbolist poetry without context, watching your face intently to see your reaction and how your mind works

★ His flat or hotel room is perpetually overflowing with paperbacks. You constantly trip over copies of Arthur Rimbaud, William Blake, Friedrich Nietzsche, etc.

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London, late autumn 1964. The air smells of wet pavements and cheap coffee, and you are sitting in a cramped dressing room somewhere in the West End with a newspaper folded on your lap like a dead thing.

You’d performed the night before. The review for your voice was fair, even kind. But the columnist had decided to sink his teeth into something else entirely — something you couldn’t change, something that was just you.

“The young singer certainly has the chops, but the hairdo is a disaster. What a mess! All those excessive, voluminous curls — she looks less like a rising star and more like a poodle who’s done a runner from the kennel. A thorough straightening would do wonders.”

You hadn’t even noticed your eyes getting wet until the mascara began to sting. Your hands went up to your hair automatically, fingers digging into the thick, coarse curls as if you could crush them into submission. It hurt because it was precisely the thing you’d always been quietly at war with — the hours of detangling, the stares on the street, the well-meaning aunties suggesting you “do summat about that mane”. And now it was printed. In ink. For all of London to read.

The door creaked open. You flipped the paper face-down, but too slowly. John Lennon was already standing in the doorway, leather jacket slung over his shoulders, fringe flopping into his eyes. He was holding two cups of tea and had the beginnings of a grin on his face — a grin that vanished the second he caught sight of you.

— What’s all this, then?

He set the cups down on the dressing table with a clatter, brow furrowed. His eyes flicked to the newspaper and he plucked it up before you could stop him. You watched his expression shift as he read — confusion, then a short, hard laugh that had no humour in it whatsoever.

— “Poodle who’s done a runner from the kennel.” — He read it aloud, deadpan, then crumpled the paper with both hands and hurled it at the wall. It bounced and rolled under a chair. — Bloody hell. D’you reckon they pay ’em by the word or by the ounce of stupidity? ’Cos if it’s stupidity, they’re millionaires.

He turned back to you, jaw tight, but the anger in his face dissolved into something else when he saw you properly — your red-rimmed eyes, your hands still fisted in your hair. He crossed the small room in two strides and knelt down in front of you on the tatty carpet, taking your wrists gently and pulling your fingers away from your curls.

— Oi. Stop that. — His voice had dropped, the sharpness gone. — You’re not changing a thing. D’you hear me? Look at me.

You did. He tilted his head, eyes searching your face.

— I’m not being nice. I’m being honest, and that’s not the same thing, is it? — He took a breath. — Y’know what I see when I look at this hair? I see summat wild. Summat that doesn’t apologise for takin’ up space. When you’re up on that stage an’ you throw your head back an’ this whole mane swings — the audience stops breathin’. I saw it last night. I was stood in the wings, an’ I nearly missed me cue for the second number ’cos I couldn’t take me eyes off you. It’s the frame round your face. It’s beautiful. An’ if those soft gits in the papers don’t get it, that’s their problem. Not yours.

He let go of your wrists and sat back on his heels, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

— You think I’m handsome, right? With this hooter? — He tapped his own nose, pulling a face. — Half the press calls me the “big-nosed Beatle”, the other half dont even think im the good-looking of the band. But if I went and got me nose fixed, I’d be givin’ ’em what they wanted. An’ I don’t give ’em anythin’. Neither should you.

He got to his feet, shrugged off his jacket, and then, to your absolute surprise, picked up a comb from the dressing table. He turned it over in his hands like it was a foreign object.

— Right then. How d’you normally do it? Show me. — He waved the comb vaguely at your hair. — I’m gonna learn. We’re gonna get this mane so big they’ll see it from Manchester. Tomorrow, you walk on that stage with the most enormous head of curls London’s ever witnessed. An’ if anyone says a word, you send ’em to me. I’ll tell ’em meself that the only poodle I know is that columnist who writes like a right berk.

You laughed — a proper, surprised laugh — and he grinned, the one that crinkled his eyes, before stepping forward and pulling you into a tight hug. He smelled of tea and cigarettes and leather, and he held the back of your head with one hand, palm pressing right into the thick mess of curls without a flinch.

— Listen, love… — His voice was softer now, muffled against the top of your head. — Don’t let them pillocks ruin what you’ve built, alright? Promise me. ’Cos I like you just as you are. The whole lot. Curls an’ all.

You promised, your face buried in his shirt, and felt him press a kiss to your hairline. A slow, deliberate kiss, the kind that said more than words ever could.

Later, when he finally had to leave, you found a napkin he’d left behind on the dressing table. Scrawled in his messy handwriting — the same handwriting that would one day be worth millions — were a few words:

“Beautiful curls – for me girl. Nobody puts it out.”

And in the corner, a little doodle of a poodle with a large X drawn right through it.

You tucked the napkin into your makeup bag. And at the next show, you walked onto that stage with your curls higher than they’d ever been, shaking them out under the lights with a new kind of defiance. Because somewhere in the crowd was a Beatle with a big nose and a bigger heart, watching only you, and clapping like he meant it.

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— End — ♡

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The dim light of the bedside lamp cast a golden hue across the small hotel room, enveloping it in warmth. George stood by the dresser, his back turned as he unbuttoned his shirt, the soft rustling of fabric the only sound in the quiet of the night. His dark hair was slightly tousled from a long day, and a hint of exhaustion clung to his features. He had spent the entire evening in the studio, working tirelessly on new material, yet as he stood there, slipping out of his shirt, he felt a sense of peace settle over him

A soft click echoed in the room

He turned his head slightly, a small smirk forming on his lips. "What are you up to?"

You stood by the doorway, camera in hand, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Just capturing the moment. You always look so effortlessly beautiful when you're not paying attention."

George chuckled, shaking his head as he turned fully to face you. "I must look a right mess," he teased, though the warmth in your voice made something inside him stir

You lifted the camera again, framing him through the lens. "Not to me," you murmured, snapping another shot

He sighed playfully, running a hand through his hair. "You and that camera... always watching me."

"Because I love you," you said simply, lowering the camera. Your voice was soft, but the weight of your words hung in the air between you. "I love every version of you—the one the world sees, the one you show only to me, and even the one who’s convinced he’s a ‘right mess’ when he’s really just tired."

George swallowed, his teasing demeanor faltering as he gazed at you. There was something about the way you looked at him. Like he was the only person in the world. He felt his heart ache in the best way, as if he were finally understood in a way words could never express

Setting the camera down, you moved toward him, placing a gentle hand on his chest. "You're so lovely, George. It's always so nice to be with you."

He exhaled slowly, his arms encircling your waist, pulling you into him. "You always know what to say," he murmured against your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky."

You smiled, fingers tracing soothing patterns on his bare skin. "Maybe it's just the universe making sure you feel as loved as you make others feel."

He let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I do, love. I do."

He kisses you, that classic slow motion movie kiss. You get closer to him, your bodies pressed together. He starts kissing you'r neck...This night would be more intense than you thought

• He's not the traditional romantic, but he shows love through teasing, inside jokes, and spontaneous acts of affection. He might not say "I love you" all the time, but you know through his actions. Like writing silly notes or drawing little cartoons of you

• Loves to ruffle your hair or poke your cheeks just to get a reaction. He thinks it's hilarious when you roll your eyes at him

• Definitely the type to get jealous but tries to play it cool. He'll make sarcastic comments instead of outright admitting he's jealous.

• "You seem very interested in him, why don't you ask him to marry you?"

• If anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, he'll cut them down with his razor-sharp wit. You are his girl and he makes sure people know it

• He would definitely wake you up at odd hours with a ridiculous idea. "Let's go for a walk!! it's only 3 AM!"

• Unpredictable mood swings, he can be the life of the party one moment and deeply introspective the next

• Beneath the sharp wit and sarcasm, he's deeply insecure and needs reassurance, though he'd never ask for it outright

• He'll open up when he truly trusts you, showing a side of him that most people don't get to see. Gentle and deeply loving

• Always has to be touching you. Whether it's an arm around your shoulder, playing with your fingers absentmindedly, or resting his chin on your head

• If he's away on tour, he'll write you the goofiest love letters, full of weird doodles and inside jokes. "Miss you, love. Don't go running off with a Paul McCartney lookalike."(I had to make some joke about this theory)

• John always draws the people he loves in that ridiculous way and it wouldn't be any different with you.

• If you had different customs or a different nationality than him, he would try his best to fit in. If you had any unique culture, he would love to participate and go with you to all the events

some smut headcanons below!!

• He doesn't share, period(💅). If he senses anyone else showing interest in you, expect some intense energy later. He'll remind you exactly who you belong to

• Marks? Oh, absolutely. Hickeys, scratches, bruises-he wants to see the evidence of what you did last night the next morning. And if you try to hide them? He'll just put more

• Eye contact is huge for him-he loves locking eyes during intimate moments, making sure you feel everything

• And his libido? Through the roof. The man has energy to spare, especially in his early 20s. He'll initiate at random times, whether it's in the middle of writing a song or just after a nap

• Spontaneity is key, yk. He's the type to pull you into a secluded room at a party or suggest something risky just for the thrill of it

• But he's also a lazy lover sometimes. There are days when he just wants you curled up on top of him, taking it slow while he enjoys every second

• And he loves your moans. Hearing you say his name drives him completely crazy