dolly ୨ৎ

The morning stretched, taut as a snare drum skin. Every time you passed an open doorway, your eyes sought him. Every time his laughter echoed from the control room, your skin prickled. You organized tapes, fetched coffee for engineers, sorted sheet music, all with the ghost of his touch humming just beneath your skin.

He’d been everywhere and nowhere all morning. His voice drifting through intercoms, a flash of movement behind soundproof glass, the occasional hum of a tune you half-recognized when he thought no one was listening. It was maddening, that kind of presence.

At half-eleven, you found yourself in the kitchenette, staring blankly at the kettle as it clicked and hissed. You weren’t even sure if you’d filled it.

“Penny for them,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

You jumped, turning sharply. “Oh, fuck, you scared me.”

Paul leaned against the doorframe, one hand shoved into the pocket of his worn pants. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Didn’t mean to,” he said mildly. “You looked miles away.”

“Just thinking about lunch,” you said, forcing a small laugh. “Hungry.”

He stepped inside, smirking. “Hungry, are you?” His tone carried the ghost of a grin. “Funny. So was I.”

He brushed past you to reach for a mug. The movement was easy, unhurried, but close enough that your sleeve caught his. You felt it like a spark.

“Still can’t get this kettle to behave,” you murmured.

“Let me.” He reached around you, fingers grazing the back of your hand as he switched it off before it boiled over. The touch was nothing, bare skin on skin, but it hung in the air between you, echoing.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He didn’t step away. “You’ve got that look again,” he murmured.

“What look?”

“Makes a man forget what he was about to say.” His eyes met yours over the rim of the mug as he poured. “Dangerous thing, that.”

You swallowed. “You said that earlier.”

He smiled faintly. “Did I? Must’ve meant it.” He set the mug down, then leaned his hip against the counter beside you. “You keep givin’ me déjà vu.”

“Maybe you just haven’t slept,” you said, trying to sound light.

“Maybe.” His voice dropped. “Or maybe I’ve been dreamin’ while I’m awake.”

You laughed under your breath, nerves fluttering. “You talk like a songwriter even when you’re not trying.”

“That’s the trouble.” His gaze slid from your eyes to your mouth, then back again.

The kettle clicked. Steam drifted up between you, curling like a veil.

“Work all right after our little chat?”

You hesitated. “Eventually.”

He hummed, stirring slower. “Good. Was worried I’d… unsettled you.”

You gave a quiet laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. “A bit late for that, don’t you think?”

That earned you a smile, that slow, knowing one that tilted his mouth just enough to show the corner of a dimple. “Maybe. You’re handling it well, though.”

You looked at him properly then, meeting his gaze head-on. “Am I?”

The question hung between you. He didn’t answer immediately, just took a sip of tea, then set the mug down beside you, close enough that the ceramic brushed your hand.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low. “You’ve been thinkin’ about it?”

You swallowed hard. “About what?”

He tilted his head, that same lazy, assessing gesture that somehow felt like a touch. “You know what.”

Your throat went dry. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

He smiled again , not arrogant, not cruel, just honest. “Probably not. But you shouldn’t look at me like that, either.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was alive. You could hear every small sound ... the ticking clock, the distant hum of an amp, the faint rustle of his jumper when he shifted.

Then, softer: “Tell you what. We escape. Proper lunch. Somewhere quiet. Sound all right?”

You blinked, trying to steady yourself. “You mean right now?”

He shrugged. “Soon as we can nick an hour. You, me, something to eat.”

Your pulse kicked up again, that reckless little thrill bubbling to the surface. “Why?” you asked, though you weren’t sure what answer you wanted.

He didn't say anything. He just straightened, took his mug, and stepped back.

“Half an hour,” he said quietly. “Out back. Don’t be late.”

You stood there long after he left, the kettle cooling behind you, his voice still curling through your head like smoke.

—

Thirty minutes later, you slipped out the rear fire exit into the grey day. The air smelled of rain and exhaust, a faint drizzle misting the pavement. Across the lot, his car waited, shining dully under the overcast sky.

He was already there, leaning against the driver’s side door with his arms folded, one foot propped behind the other. A long charcoal coat hung open over his jumper, collar turned up against the wind.

When he saw you, his mouth curved... not quite a smile...

“Thought you’d changed your mind,” he said.

You shook your head, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “Just had to finish labeling the reels. They’d never forgive me if I messed up the order.”

“Ah, the sacred tapes,” he teased lightly. “Wouldn’t dream of angerin’ the gods of rock ’n’ roll.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound misting in the cold. He pushed off the car and circled around to open the passenger door.

“Hop in.”

The endearment hit like it always did , casual, but never careless. You slid into the seat, and he closed the door with a soft thud before walking around to the other side.

The car had that same warm, smoky note you’d been carrying on your skin since the last time you've been in here.

He started the engine, the low hum filling the quiet. Neither of you spoke for a moment. The wipers beat a slow rhythm against the glass as he pulled onto the road, hands loose on the steering wheel.

“So,” you said after a minute, voice breaking the stillness, “where are we going?”

He smiled, eyes still on the road. “Somewhere better than the canteen, promise you that.”

You arched a brow. “That’s not saying much.”

He chuckled. “You’re not wrong. But I’ll have you know, I’ve got standards. Can’t be seen eatin’ processed soy on white bread. Bad for the image.”

You looked over at him, the easy line of his profile, the way his hair fell forward just enough to brush his lashes when he turned. He looked tired, but not in the way that invited pity.

The city blurred past, rain streaking across the windows. After a few turns, the streets grew quieter, narrower lanes, brick terraces, chestnut trees dripping water onto the pavement.

When he slowed to a stop outside a modest townhouse, you frowned. “Where are we?”

“My place,” he said simply, cutting the engine. He leaned back, draping one arm over the steering wheel. “Well, not really my place-place. I’ve got the farm, out in Sussex. This is just a little flat I rent when I’m workin’ in town.”

You blinked, processing that.

He noticed, of course he did. “That alright?” he asked softly, nodding toward the townhouse.

Your pulse jumped. “Yeah,” you said after a moment. “More than alright.”

His smile flickered wider, the kind that reached his eyes. “Good. Didn’t fancy eatin’ alone.”

He reached for the door handle but paused halfway, as if deciding something, then stepped out into the drizzle. The sound of rain filled the space he left behind. A moment later, he rounded the car to open your door again, coat collar beaded with tiny drops of water.

You stepped out, the air cool and damp against your face. He stood close enough that you could feel his body heat even through the rain.

Inside, the place was warm and lived-in, the kind of place that didn’t try to impress you. Guitars stood on stands in corners like old friends left mid-conversation. Gold records lined the walls. A grand piano sat near the bay window, its lid half-open, keys gleaming softly in the dim light.

There was a jumper thrown over the back of the couch, an open notebook on the coffee table, a mug with a tea ring at the bottom. The air smelled faintly of polish, old wood, and him, sandalwood and something sweet, like the ghost of last night’s cologne.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said, shrugging off his coat and tossing it over a chair. “I’ll see what I can do. Might have somethin’ edible.”

He disappeared into the kitchen. You heard the faint sound of a door opening, the clink of jars, the muffled hum of the refrigerator.

You wandered.

Everywhere you looked, there was a trace of his life. Your steps brought you to the piano. It dominated the space, glossy and elegant, keys slightly yellowed with age. You paused, fingers hovering just above the middle of the keyboard.

“Go on,” his voice came from the doorway, warm and amused.

You turned to find him leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “It doesn’t bite.”

You hesitated, then let your fingers drop, pressing a single note. A middle C. The sound rang out pure and clear, fading into the stillness.

“Lovely,” he murmured.

He crossed the room, his steps unhurried, and came to stand beside you. The faint scent of him, soap, something earthy, reached you before he did. He rested one hip against the piano, close enough that your arm brushed the wool of his jumper when you moved.

“You play?” he asked gently.

“Not really,” you said. “I mean… I touch the keys sometimes. That’s about it.”

He smiled at that, eyes glinting. “That’s all anyone does, really.” He reached forward and pressed a few notes, a small, effortless chord that shimmered through the room. “See? You don’t have to know what you’re doin’. You just… feel for the bit that sounds like you.”

You watched his hands, long-fingered and sure, the same ones that had brushed your skin that morning, now coaxing music out of thin air. The intimacy of it made your pulse stutter.

He turned his head slightly toward you, the space between your shoulders narrowing. “Here,” he said softly, “try that.”

You followed his lead, pressing a key where his hand had been seconds before. The sound blended with the fading echo of his chord, and for a moment it was impossible to tell whose note was whose.

He smiled at the sound, not looking away. “See? Perfect.”

“It’s just two notes,” you murmured.

“Mm. Sometimes that’s all it takes.” His voice had gone lower now, threaded with something that wasn’t quite teasing. “You learn that with time.”

You swallowed, your eyes flicking to his. “With age, you mean?”

“Something like that.” His mouth curved.

The words hung in the air, and for a moment you forgot how to breathe.

He looked at you then, and the smile softened into something quieter. You could feel it again, that tug, that invisible line drawing you closer without either of you moving.

A sudden clatter from the kitchen broke the spell. He straightened slightly, pushing off the piano. “Right,” he said, his voice rougher now, like he had to clear it. “Better make sure I’m not poisonin’ us.”

Lunch turned out to be a jumble of whatever he’d decided to make. Tomato soup warming on the stove, a loaf of crusty bread torn open between you, and a bit of cheese on the side “for balance,” as he put it. You ate at the kitchen table with your fingers, laughing when he dropped a slice into the soup and swore under his breath about never hiring himself as a waiter.

He spoke about his farm, the horses and the mud. It was all so ordinary and disarming that you found yourself leaning in, wanting to know every detail.

“It’s all contracts and phone calls sometimes,” he said after a while, poking at a piece of chicken. “Forgets why you started in the first place.”

“Why did you?” you asked.

He looked up, gaze sharpening, then easing into something almost shy. “Same reason you hum in the tape library. Because you have to. There’s a noise in your head, and if you don’t let it out, it drives you barmy.”

You nodded, feeling that truth settle somewhere deep.

He leaned back in his chair, studying you, one eyebrow lifting. “You’re quiet today.”

You smiled faintly. “Just thinking... again.”

“Mm.” He stood up, collecting the plates. “Well, stop thinkin’ so hard. It’s just lunch.” He carried the plates to the sink and then turned, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. The casual pose was a lie; his eyes were intense, focused entirely on you. The air in the kitchen thickened, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly loud.

He stayed like that for a while, just watching you, the hum of the fridge filling the silence. His gaze wasn’t cruel, but it was steady, unyielding, like he was giving you a chance to decide what kind of game this was going to be. His thumb brushed the edge of the counter once, twice, a silent rhythm that made your heartbeat sync to it.

“Come here,” he said, his voice low and measured, a quiet command that sent a shiver down your spine. You hesitated for a moment, then pushed your chair back and stood, your feet carrying you towards him without a word.

As you approached, he unfolded his arms, his hands slowly reaching out towards you. He moved deliberately, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to, but you didn’t. You stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the faint lines etched at the corners of his eyes.

He finally moved, his hands lifting to rest on your shoulders. His thumbs brushed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, a soft, almost absent-minded gesture. “You’re tense,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “All that thinkin’?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “Something like that.”

He began to knead your shoulders gently, his touch firm and sure. “You know, when I was your age, I used to carry the world on these shoulders,” he said, his voice taking on a distant quality, as if he was remembering. “All the dreams and fears, the hopes and doubts. It’s a heavy load.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, feeling the tension in your muscles begin to ease. “And now?” you asked softly.

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “Now, I try to remember that it’s just one step at a time.” His hands slid down your arms, his fingers tracing the bones lightly. “You’ve got time. Don’t let the world wear you down too soon.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch his expression. He was closer than you’d realized, close enough for you to see the faint creases at the corners of his eyes, the silver glint threaded through his hair. There was something unreadable in his gaze, something that made your breath catch.

His hands hesitated, then moved, one lifting to brush an errant strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone a moment too long. You felt the weight of that pause, the air thickening again, the unspoken thing hanging between you both.

His hands moved up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking over your cheekbones.

“I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ this properly all morning,” he confessed, his breath warm against your skin. “Drivin’ me mad, you were.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Just looked at you, as if giving you a chance to pull away. Then his hand tilted your chin up, his thumb tracing your jaw, his breath warm and uncertain against your lips.

And then he kissed you. Again.

It wasn’t like the hesitant, testing kiss in the hallway. This was deep and hungry from the start, a claiming. His mouth was insistent, his tongue sweeping past your lips without hesitation, tasting you, exploring you. A low, desperate sound escaped his throat, and his arms wrapped around you, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the solid, wiry strength of his body, the beat of his heart thudding against your chest.

His hands, rough and eager, found your hips, fingers digging in as he guided you backward, step by step, through the kitchen. You didn’t notice the clatter of a chair being pushed out of the way, or the soft thud of the fridge door closing as it caught your elbow. All you were aware of was his mouth on yours, his hands on your body, and the desperate need to get closer, to feel more.

The cool air of the living room hit your back as you crossed the threshold, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him. Your foot caught on the rug, but he caught you, his arm wrapping around your waist, lifting you slightly as he guided you backward. The soft, worn fabric of the sofa met your legs, and you tumbled down onto it, him coming with you, his knee sliding between yours, his weight a comforting, thrilling pressure.

He finally broke for air, both of you panting. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “Okay?” he breathed, his forehead resting against yours.

“Yeah,” you gasped, your voice trembling.

A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. “Good.” He dipped his head again, but this time his kisses trailed from your mouth down your jaw, to the sensitive spot just below your ear. You gasped, your head falling back against the sofa cushions as his lips and tongue worked their magic, his stubble a rough, thrilling friction against your skin.

“You smell so good,” he muttered into your neck, his voice muffled.

His hands began to move, roaming down your sides, over your hips, learning the shape of you. One hand slid under the hem of your shirt, his palm warm and slightly rough against the bare skin of your stomach. You flinched at the contact, a shiver wracking your body.

“Easy, love,” he soothed, his lips returning to yours for a soft, lingering kiss. “Just takin’ my time. Wanna learn you.”

He did just that. With a patience that was both maddening and incredibly arousing, he explored your body through your clothes, his touch firm and sure. He kissed you until you were dizzy with it, until your hands were tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. You could feel the hard ridge of his erection pressing against your thigh, and a fresh wave of heat pooled low in your belly.

“Paul,” you whispered, arching into him.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips. “I know.”

His hands slid to the hem of your shirt, gathering the fabric before lifting it over your head in one smooth motion. He paused once it was gone, his gaze sweeping over your exposed skin. The look in his eyes was one of pure, reverent hunger.

“Christ,” he said, his voice thick with awe. He bent his head and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of your chest. Your back arched off the sofa, a broken moan escaping your lips.

He chuckled, a low, dark sound of pleasure. “Like that, do you?” He did it again, his tongue flicking over your skin. You cried out, your hips bucking against his.

“Shhh, shhh,” he soothed, but his eyes were alight with mischief. “Walls aren’t that thick.” The air was cool on your heated skin, but his gaze was warmer. He looked his fill, his expression a mixture of desire and something softer, almost wonder. “Perfect,” he breathed. He lowered his head again, but this time his mouth went straight to your nipple, his tongue circling the tight peak before drawing it deep into the heat of his mouth.

The sensation was overwhelming, a direct line of pleasure-pain that made you writhe beneath him. He suckled deeply, greedily, his hand coming up to knead your other breast, his thumb rubbing rough circles over the neglected nipple.

He lifted his head, his lips wet and swollen, his eyes heavy-lidded with lust.

He shifted his weight, his hand sliding down your stomach, over the waistband of your trousers. He paused, his fingers hooking into the fabric, his eyes asking a silent question.

You nodded frantically, beyond words.

He made quick work of the button and zip, peeling your trousers and underwear down your legs in one smooth motion. He tossed them aside, his gaze burning as it traveled up the length of your bare legs to the apex of your thighs. You felt exposed, vulnerable, but the raw hunger in his look was the most powerful aphrodisiac you’d ever known.

He settled between your legs, his hands spreading your thighs wider. He leaned down, but instead of kissing your mouth, he pressed a hot, wet kiss to the inside of your thigh. You jolted.

He did it again, slower this time, his breath hot against damp skin. The faint scratch of stubble followed, dragging goosebumps up your legs.

“Easy now,” he murmured, voice gone rough, accent thicker for it. “Been a while since I took my time with anyone.”

You felt him smile against your thigh, a small, private thing. When he looked up, the lines around his eyes caught the light, tiny creases from laughter and late nights and years lived too fast. His hair silvered faintly at the temples, the faint cut of exhaustion in the corner of his mouth. But he looked good. Devastating, even.

His fingers trailed over your hips, tracing the shape of you like he was learning a song he didn’t want to forget. “You’ve no idea what you do to me,” he said, voice low and reverent. “Christ, you make me feel twenty again.”

You smiled faintly, your hand sliding into his hair. “You don’t look twenty.”

He barked a quiet laugh against your skin, the sound vibrating against your thigh. “Cheeky.” Then softer, almost a whisper: “But I’ll take it.”

He kissed higher, lips and tongue dragging deliberate patterns closer to the heat between your legs until you were trembling under him. He didn’t rush. Everything about him was patience, restraint barely held in check. He looked up once, eyes dark and sure.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded, breath hitching as his thumb parted you gently, exposing soft, wet skin to the cool air. His eyes flicked down, hunger and affection tangled together. Then he leaned in and tasted you, slow and deep, tongue sliding through you with the same care he gave a melody.

You gasped, your hips lifting, but his hand pressed lightly to your stomach, steadying you.

“That’s it, love,” he murmured against you. “Just breathe.”

The sound of him, wet, rhythmic, almost tender, filled the room. His tongue circled your clit, patient, practiced, every movement deliberate.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, nails grazing his scalp. “Paul-”

He hummed in answer, and the vibration made you cry out, head falling back against the sofa.

“Could spend the day here.” he murmured, voice muffled.

He set a slow, deliberate pace, his tongue tracing patterns that made you see stars. He was an artist here, too, exploring every fold, every sensitive spot with a focused, unhurried intensity that was utterly maddening. He’d circle your clit until you were whimpering, then pull back to lavish attention on your inner lips, sucking gently, before returning to that aching, swollen nub with renewed purpose.

“Paul… please…” you begged, your back arching off the sofa, your hands now fisted in his hair, not guiding, just holding on for dear life.

“Please what, sweetheart?” he asked, lifting his head just enough to speak, his lips glistening. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his breathing ragged. “You gotta use your words. Man needs a bit of direction.”

“I… I need…” You couldn’t form the sentence, the words dissolving into a moan as he dipped his head and sucked, hard, sending a jolt of pure, undiluted pleasure straight to your toes.

“You need to come, is that it?” he asked, his voice rough with his own desire. “You need me to make you come on my tongue?”

The filthiness of the words, spoken in that familiar, melodic Scouse accent, was your undoing. You nodded frantically, a sob catching in your throat.

“Alright then,” he murmured, as if agreeing to a simple request. “Let’s see what we can do.”

He redoubled his efforts, his tongue lashing at your clit with a relentless, rhythmic precision that stole the breath from your lungs. One of his hands left your hip, his fingers sliding down to press against your entrance, not entering, just applying a firm, steady pressure that amplified every sensation tenfold. The world narrowed to the wet, hot friction of his mouth, the rough press of his fingers, the scent of his cologne and your own arousal mingling in the air.

It built inside you, a coiling, unbearable tension. Your thighs began to shake around his head, your pleas becoming incoherent. He sensed it, felt the way your body tightened, and he moaned against you, the sound one of pure, male satisfaction.

“Come on, then,” he growled, his voice thick and muffled. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

The command, the sheer possessiveness in his tone, shattered the last of your control. A broken cry was torn from your throat as you came, your body convulsing under his mouth, waves of pleasure so intense they were almost painful crashing through you. He didn’t let up, gentling his movements but continuing to lap at you, drawing out every last shuddering spasm until you were limp and boneless beneath him, gasping for air.

He finally lifted his head, his breathing as labored as yours. He looked utterly debauched, his hair a mess from your hands, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes dark with a primal hunger that had yet to be sated. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate gesture that was impossibly lewd.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring down at you, at the wreck he’d made of you. He leaned down and kissed your stomach, a soft, tender press of his lips that was a stark contrast to what had just transpired.

He shifted, kneeling up between your legs, and began to fumble with the buckle of his belt. His movements were less graceful now, fueled by a raw, urgent need. You watched, mesmerized, as he pushed his trousers and briefs down just enough to free his erection.

“Now,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly command as he moved over you, bracing himself on his arms. He nudged at your entrance, the pressure firm and insistent. “Look at me.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His expression was a complex mix of tenderness and sheer, unadulterated lust. There was a question in his eyes, a final check.

You nodded, a tiny, desperate movement.

He pushed inside you in one slow, inexorable thrust.

The feeling was overwhelming. The stretch, the fullness, the shocking intimacy of it stole the air from your lungs. A sharp, bitten-off gasp escaped you, and you clenched around him instinctively.

He groaned, his head dropping forward, his forehead resting against yours. He was still for a long moment, buried deep inside you, both of you breathing in ragged, syncopated pants. “Oh, god, ” He sounded wrecked, his voice strangled. “You alright? I’m not… I didn’t hurt you?”

You shook your head, your nails digging into the sleeves of his jumper. “No,” you whispered. “Just… full.”

He let out a shaky laugh. “You can say that again.” He began to move, a slow, deep roll of his hips that made you see stars.

Each thrust was deliberate, measured, hitting a spot deep inside you that made your toes curl. He kept his eyes locked on yours, his gaze intense, reading every flicker of pleasure and pain on your face.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice a rough whisper against your lips. He leaned down and captured your mouth in a searing kiss, his tongue mimicking the rhythm of his hips. You could taste yourself on his lips, a dark, musky flavor that should have been shocking but only fueled the fire.

You wrapped your legs around him, meeting each slow thrust, the rhythm building in lazy waves. His pace faltered once, he caught his breath, muttered, “Fuck” and you laughed softly against his shoulder.

He chuckled too, though it turned into a groan when he moved again. “Don’t laugh at me. Man’s tryin’ his best here.”

“You’re doing fine,” you murmured, kissing his jaw.

He hummed, the sound almost tender. “Yeah?”

You pulled him closer. “Better than fine.”

That seemed to ignite something in him. His thrusts deepened, still slow, but heavier now, each one drawn from somewhere primal. His hand slid up, cupping your chest, thumb brushing your nipple. His other arm wrapped around you, holding you against him as he moved.

The sounds filled the flat. The soft slap of skin, his quiet grunts, your breathy cries.

His hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding that perfect, swollen spot, and he pressed down, circling it in time with his thrusts.

It was too much. The world shattered.

Your climax ripped through you with a force that stole your breath and your sight. A raw, guttural scream was torn from your throat as your body convulsed around him, clutching at his length in wave after wave of blinding, white-hot pleasure. You were barely aware of his own groan, deep and guttural, as he felt you clench around him. His rhythm faltered, became frantic, and with a final, deep, shuddering thrust, he spilled himself inside you, his own release a hot, pulsing flood that seemed to go on forever.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight a welcome, grounding pressure. The only sounds in the room were your ragged, mingled breaths and the soft patter of rain against the window. You could feel the frantic hammering of his heart against your chest, a wild drumbeat slowly settling into a steady, tired rhythm.

For a long time, neither of you moved. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his breath warm and damp on your skin. His arms were wrapped tightly around you, holding you as if you were the only solid thing in a spinning world.

Finally, he stirred, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder before he pushed himself up on his elbows. He looked down at you, his hair damp with sweat, his eyes soft and hazy with spent passion and something else, something dangerously close to affection.

When he pulled away, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his thumb stroking your damp skin. “You alright?” he asked for the third time, his voice raspy and tender.

You could only nod, your own smile feeling wobbly and new. You were more than alright. You were ruined, remade, and utterly, completely his.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours. “Good.” He shifted, rolling off you with a slight, weary grunt, but he immediately pulled you against his side, tucking you into the warmth of his body. The leather of the sofa was cool against your heated skin, but his arm around you was warmer.

The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy with the weight of what had just happened. The grand piano stood silent witness across the room. The city hummed on, oblivious.

“You know,” he said after a long while, his voice thoughtful in the dimming light, “they’re gonna be wonderin’ where we’ve got to.”

You nestled closer, your hand splayed on his chest, feeling the steady, slowing beat of his heart. “Let them wonder.”

He laughed, a real, genuine laugh that shook his whole frame. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

You smiled, stroking the back of his neck. “What a way to go.”

He chuckled, the sound muffled against your shoulder. “That’s one for the obituaries, that is.”

You lay there a while, tangled and warm, rain pattering softly against the windows. Eventually, he shifted, groaning as his knees cracked. “See? I told you. My body’s not built for this anymore.”

You laughed quietly, helping him sit back. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned, running a hand through his hair. “Still got it though, haven’t I?”

You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, Paul. You still got it.”

He smiled, soft and satisfied. “Good. Let’s have that tea now before I collapse.”

The front door clicked shut with a definitive thud that echoed slightly in the quiet hallway of your Weybridge house. You didn’t have to look to know who it was. The heavy, exhausted sigh that followed confirmed it: John was home.

You looked into the hallway, and there he was: John, slouched against the frame, coat collar up, cigarette barely hanging from his mouth, the ash trembling. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days... hair plastered in greasy strands against his forehead.

“Hey, luv,” he mumbled, voice rasped raw. “Didn’t fancy goin’ back to Weybridge t’night.”

You didn’t bother replying. You just reached out, took the cigarette from his fingers, and crushed it out in the ashtray by the door. Then you pulled him inside. His coat smelled like studio dust and stale smoke, a trace of the damp London air clinging to it. When you pressed your face into his chest, the fabric was cold, but beneath that, he was trembling faintly, muscles tight like a man holding too much in.

“You look wrecked,” you whispered.

He gave a weak chuckle, leaning down to press a kiss to your hair. “Feel it too. Paul’s drivin’ me barmy, y’know? Can’t play a bloody chord without him hummin’ in my ear. Whole place feels… empty. Like nobody’s listenin’ anymore.”

You guided him to the sofa, gently tugging at the sleeves of his coat until it slipped off. He slumped down, exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for hours. You could see the exhaustion in his hands, the faint tremor in his fingers, the nicotine stains, the small blister where a guitar string had bitten too deep.

“I made... soup,” you said quietly, and that got him to look up. There was a flicker of something soft in his eyes, like you’d just pulled him back from the edge.

“Soup,” he repeated, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Proper nurse, you are.”

You laughed and brushed his hair off his forehead. “Hardly. But you need to eat.”

He didn’t protest when you brought the bowl, steam curling upward. He sat there in silence while you spooned it out for him, eyes fixed on you as if the sight alone was steadying him. Occasionally, he muttered something under his breath, a half-joke, a muttered lyric, an unfinished thought. His voice grew slower as the warmth started to seep back into him.

When the bowl was empty, he let it rest on his knees, head falling back against the couch. “They’ve got cameras everywhere, y’know’.”

“I know. You tell me everynight.,” you said simply.

You stayed like that for a long while, the clock ticking somewhere behind you, the city a soft hum beyond the windows. His breathing slowed, steadied. He let you unbutton his shirt, each movement patient, not out of desire yet but out of care. The cotton clung faintly to his skin, damp with the day’s work. When you slipped it off his shoulders, he sighed, an audible, unguarded sound, like release.

His bare chest rose and fell beneath your palms. You could feel his heartbeat, the rough warmth of him, alive and worn.

“You’re warm,” he said after a while, his voice quieter, almost a confession.

“You’re freezing.”

“Then fix that, will ya?” His smile returned, lazy, genuine this time.

You didn’t answer, not with words. You slid your hands lower, tracing the faint ridges of his ribs, the skin there slick with the day’s accumulated grime... Your fingers dipped toward his belt.

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, that crooked smile lingering, but there was a hunger building in the way his breath hitched, subtle at first, like the low rumble of thunder before the storm breaks. “C’mon, then,” he murmured, voice gravelly from the smoke and the strain, his hand coming up to tangle loosely in your hair, not pulling, not yet, just resting there, fingers threading through with a possessiveness that felt earned after the hell he’d endured. “Warm me up proper.”

You didn’t rush it. The belt buckle was cold under your touch, tarnished from constant handling, and you worked it open slowly, savoring the soft clink of metal against leather. His trousers were rumpled, the fabric creased from sitting too long in that drafty studio, and as you tugged the zipper down, the sound was intimate, almost obscene in the quiet of the room.

John’s hips shifted slightly, instinctively, his body responding even as exhaustion pulled at him like weights on his limbs. You could see the bulge there already, straining against the thin cotton of his underwear, the outline thick and insistent, a testament to how badly he needed this release.

Pushing the trousers down just enough, you freed him, and god, he was a sight. His cock was half-hard, springing up with a faint slap against his thigh, the skin flushed and veined, the head already glistening with a bead of precum that caught the dim lamplight.

“Christ,,” John groaned, his voice dropping lower, rougher, as your breath ghosted over him. His fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding yet, but urging, a silent plea.

You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the heat of him pulse against your palm, the skin velvety soft over the rigid core, slick with that natural sheen. He was filling your grip, and you gave a slow, deliberate stroke, watching his face contort, the way his lips parted, a soft “ahh” escaping, ragged and unfiltered. The tremor in his hand betrayed him, the nicotine stains stark against his knuckles as he gripped the couch cushion with his free hand, knuckles whitening. You leaned in, lips brushing the underside first, teasing the sensitive ridge where vein met shaft, tasting the salt of his skin, bitter and real, like the sweat that beaded anew on his lower belly.

His hips bucked once, involuntarily, a low “fuuuck” rumbling from his chest, and you felt him harden fully in your grasp, swelling against your tongue as you licked a broad, flat stripe from base to tip. The flavor hit you. The faint bitterness of unwashed hours mingling with the slick precum that smeared across your lips. It was gross in the best way, intimate and unapologetic, the kind of filth that made everything feel alive, urgent. You swirled your tongue around the head, lapping at that slit, drawing out more of him, the wet sounds obscene in the hushed room: a soft, slurping schlick as you took him deeper, inch by inch.

John’s head fell back, throat working as he swallowed hard, a guttural “mmph” vibrating through him. “That’s it… yeah, just like that.” His voice was wrecked, commands laced with desperation, and you obliged, hollowing your cheeks as you sank down further, the stretch of your mouth around his girth making your jaw ache in that delicious, burning way.

You bobbed slowly at first, deliberate, letting saliva build and drip, coating him in wet heat that contrasted the chill still clinging to his skin. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently at the base, thumb pressing into the heavy sac beneath, feeling the weight of him there, drawn tight. John’s breaths came in sharp pants now, each one punctuated by the wet gluck of your throat as you took him deeper, gagging just a little on the third push, the sound raw and filthy, tears pricking at your eyes from the effort.

His fingers in your hair turned firmer, guiding now, not rough but insistent, fucking your mouth with shallow thrusts that made his balls slap lightly against your chin. “Look at you… takin’ me so good.” There was a laugh in his voice, dark and self-deprecating, but it dissolved into a moan as you hummed around him, the vibration pulling a string of curses from his lips. Saliva trailed down your chin, mixing with the mess on his skin, and you reached up with your free hand to rake your nails lightly over his thigh, feeling the coarse hair there.

The room filled with the sounds of it. The slick, rhythmic suck of your mouth, his ragged groans building like a crescendo. His free hand came down to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your stretched lips, feeling himself slide in and out, the greasy slide of skin on skin.

You pulled back for a breath, strings of spit connecting your lips to his throbbing cock, glistening and slick, veins pulsing visibly.

John snarled, his hand shooting out to clamp around the back of your neck. His grip was firm, callused fingers digging in just enough to sting, as he yanked your head forward without warning.

The force of it made you choke a bit, a jolt running down your spine, but you didn’t pull away. You met his roughness with a steady gaze, your hands coming up to brace against his thighs, nails scraping lightly over the damp fabric of his bunched-up trousers. He was being an absolute prick, but you knew him.

Your tongue took control first, swirling deliberate and teasing around the ridge, drawing a hiss from him that sounded half-pain, half-pleasure. He growled, but his hips jerked involuntarily, betraying how much he was already unraveling under your touch. His free hand fisted the couch cushion, knuckles blanching, while the one on your neck trembled just a fraction. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harder, taking him deeper in one smooth glide, the thick length stretching your jaw until it burned, saliva pooling and dripping messily down your chin to pool on his balls, heavy and drawn tight against the base.

He thrust up shallowly, trying to set the pace, a rough “deeper, luv- c’mon, choke on it,” spilling from his lips like an order barked in the studio, but you countered by humming low in your throat, the vibration making his whole body seize. Your hands slid up, one wrapping around the base of his cock to squeeze and twist, controlling how much of him you took, while the other dug into the meat of his hip, holding him still. He was sweaty all over.

John’s breaths came ragged now, “you’re… doin’ it wrong-” his words fracturing as you bobbed faster, tongue pressing flat against the underside vein, tracing it up and down with filthy precision. Spit bubbled at the corners of your mouth, trailing in sticky rivulets that cooled against his heated skin, and you could taste every layer of him: the sharp tang of precum flooding your mouth, the underlying bitterness of sweat-soaked hours.

You pulled off again, deliberate this time, with a gasp that let more saliva string between you, your hand pumping him steadily to keep the edge sharp. His eyes blazed down at you, furious and feral, hand still gripping your neck like he might force you back, but you shook your head, voice steady despite the ache in your throat. “Calm down , I'm taking care of you.” He was a wreck, hair plastered to his forehead in greasy clumps, a fresh sheen of sweat beading along his collarbone, trickling down to pool in the dip of his navel, where faint, dark hairs trailed like an arrow pointing south.

You rose slowly, knees pressing into the carpet as you took off your own clothes, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your skin, but the heat radiating from him chased it away. His gaze raked over you, hungry and unfiltered, but he didn’t move. You straddled his lap, the couch dipping under your combined weight, his trousers still shoved down around his knees, restricting him, keeping him pinned like the frayed man he was. His cock stood rigid against his belly, slick and throbbing, leaving a wet smear on his skin as you positioned yourself above him, one hand guiding him to your entrance.

The first press was electric, his head nudging against your folds, already soaked from the act of tending to him, your arousal mixing with the remnants of his earlier teasing. You sank down inch by inch, deliberate, feeling every ridge and vein drag against your walls, the stretch burning sweet and full as you took him to the hilt. His hands came up to grip your hips, fingers bruising but not directing. He was buried deep, the slide of him inside you obscene, your combined wetness easing the way but making everything slicker, messier, the faint squelch as you bottomed out echoing in the quiet room.

He groaned, head lolling back against the couch, but his eyes stayed locked on where you joined, watching with that dark fascination as you started to move. You set the pace, slow at first, rolling your hips in deep, grinding circles that made his cock nudge that spot inside you, sparks blooming low in your belly. His pubic hair rasped against your clit with each downward press, coarse and damp, the friction building heat that had you clenching around him involuntarily.

His hands roamed, rough and greedy, one palming your breast, thumb flicking the nipple until it ached, pinching just hard enough to draw a gasp from you, the other sliding down to where you were joined, fingers finding your clit and rubbing messy circles, calluses scraping in a way that made your vision blur. You were dripping now, arousal leaking down his shaft, coating his balls and the crease of his thighs in a sticky sheen that only made the slide filthier, greasier. You ground down harder, chasing your peak, walls fluttering around him as the coil tightened, his cock pulsing inside you in response, thick and unrelenting.

“Come on, John- let go for me,” you urged, leaning down to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss, tongues tangling sloppy and desperate, tasting the smoke on his breath and the salt of tears you’d shed earlier. He broke first, a ragged “fuck-” tearing from him as his body tensed, thighs quivering under you, fingers digging into your ass to pull you down flush. He came with a shuddering groan, as did you, hot spurts flooding you deep, the warmth spreading messy and thick, some leaking out around him to trickle down his skin in obscene rivulets. The sensation tipped you over, your own release crashing through you like a wave, clenching and milking him as you cried out, hips stuttering in erratic grinds until you collapsed forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, both of you slick and spent.

He wrapped his arms around you then, heavy and possessive, his breath hot against your ear as he murmured nonsense, voice slurred with fatigue. The mess between you cooled slowly, sticky and gross, a testament to the care you’d poured into him, layer by layer. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, avoiding the world outside.

You stayed like that for what felt like an eternity, bodies fused in the humid aftermath, your skin sticking to his where sweat had pooled and dried in erratic patches. John's chest rose and fell beneath you in uneven heaves, each exhale carrying the faint wheeze of a man who'd pushed his lungs too far with endless drags on unfiltered smokes.

The couch groaned faintly under the shift of your combined weight, springs protesting like they were as worn out as he was. His cock softened inside you gradually, the slick warmth of his release seeping out in lazy dribbles, coating the insides of your thighs and matting the dark curls at his base even further.

Gently, you disentangled yourself, lifting off him with a soft, wet schlick that made his spent length twitch once more against his thigh. He groaned low in his throat, a sound that was half complaint, half relief, his eyes cracking open to slits as you slid to the side. "Don't go," he mumbled, voice slurred and thick, like gravel churned under tires, one hand fumbling blindly to catch your wrist. But you pried his fingers free with a tenderness that brooked no argument, pressing a kiss to the inside of his palm where the skin was roughened by years of fretting strings and holding picks.

"Stay put," you said softly, voice steady in the dim lamplight that cast long shadows across the cluttered room, the discarded coat pooled on the floor like a shed skin, the empty soup bowl tipped precariously on the side table. "Let me sort you out." He huffed something unintelligible, a mix of protest and surrender, but his body betrayed him, slumping deeper into the cushions, head lolling to one side as if the strings holding him upright had finally snapped.

You padded barefoot across the threadbare carpet, ignoring the cool draft whispering up from the floorboards, and headed to the kitchen. You filled a basin with warm water from the tap, the steam rising in lazy curls that fogged the window over the sink. A bar of plain soap sat on the edge, unscented and utilitarian, the kind John favored because it didn't "faff about with perfumes like some poncey advert." A couple of clean flannels from the drawer followed, along with a towel that had seen better days, frayed at the edges but soft from countless washes.

Back in the living room, John hadn't moved an inch, his trousers still tangled around his ankles like shackles. He cracked one eye open as you approached, the iris hazy and bloodshot, framed by lashes clumped with sweat. "Playin' midwife now?" The words came out edged with that familiar sarcasm, but it lacked bite, dissolving into a yawn that stretched his jaw wide, revealing the uneven line of his teeth.

You knelt beside the couch, dipping the flannel into the basin and wringing it out with a soft splash, the water pattering back into the bowl. "Something like that. Can't have you stinking up the whole house." Starting at his face, you pressed the warm cloth to his forehead, wiping away the greasy film that had built up there, the strands of hair lifting reluctantly before falling back in defeated clumps. He sighed at the contact, eyes fluttering shut, the tension in his brow easing like a knot finally untying.

His skin was feverish under the warmth, flushed from exertion and the faint chill of the room, and you took your time, angling his chin gently to clean the hollows beneath, where shadows pooled like bruises. John leaned into it unconsciously, a low hum vibrating in his chest, his hand coming up to rest on your knee. "Feels… nice," he admitted after a pause, voice muffled as you moved to his neck, tilting his head back.

The basin water clouded further as you tended to him. His hands came last, those expressive instruments that had poured out frustration into riffs and chords all day. You lifted each one, turning it palm up, the calluses rough as tree bark, the small blister on his thumb raw and weeping slightly. Dabbing gently with the soapy cloth, you cleaned the nicotine stains that etched his cuticles like tattoos, then rinsed and patted dry with the towel, massaging lotion into the joints to ease the ache you knew was building.

You set the basin aside, the water now murky and tepid, and fetched a blanket from the armchair. Wool, scratchy but warm, the kind that smelled faintly of mothballs and home. Draping it over his lower half first, you tugged his trousers off properly, then tucking the blanket around his shoulders like swaddling a child. He grumbled at the fuss but sank into it, pulling the edges tighter with a contented sigh. From the kitchen, you brought a glass of water, cool and clear, no ice to shock him, and held it to his lips, watching him drink in slow gulps, Adam's apple bobbing, a trickle escaping to trace down his chin before you wiped it away.

"More soup?" you offered, but he shook his head, patting the space beside him weakly.

"Just you. C'mere." His arm extended, beckoning, and you curled up against his side, the blanket enveloping you both in a cocoon. His head dropped to your shoulder, hair still damp but softer now, the greasy edge tamed, and his breathing evened out into the slow rhythm of encroaching sleep.

You stroked his back in lazy arcs, feeling the knobs of his spine protrude slightly under the blanket, the residual tension melting away like wax under flame. John's hand found your other one in the dimness, intertwining fingers with a grip that was firm despite the exhaustion, and you squeezed back, content to guard his rest, to be the anchor in his storm-tossed sea.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

A = Affection: how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?

⋆ He’s very tactile. His affection often comes through teasing and quiet gestures rather than words, resting his chin on your shoulder, ruffling your hair, absentmindedly holding your hand under the table.

B = Best friend: what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?

⋆ He's so annoying. He’ll make fun of you relentlessly, but he’s also the one walking you home and all that. You’d probably want to strangle him half the time, but the other half you’d realize he genuinely cares, even if he shows it in sideways ways.

C = Cuddles: do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?

⋆ He likes cuddling more than he’ll admit. It’s not soft at first, he’ll flop over you, squirm... but the second you settle, he does too. He likes lying on top of you or wrapping himself around you like a koala, holding tight as if you’ll vanish if he lets go.

D = Domestic: do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?

⋆ He’s not naturally domestic. Though he’ll mess around in the kitchen for fun if you’re doing it too. He’s messy but not dirty. Settling down isn’t something he plans, but deep down he wants that sense of home.

E = Ending: if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

⋆ He'd probably act weird for a while. He’d likely act out first, becoming distant or mean to push you away rather than sitting down and explaining things. When he finally ends it, it would come out blunt, maybe cruel.

F = Fiance(e): how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?

⋆ Commitment doesn’t scare him as much as it should... he’s impulsive enough to dive into it without thinking it through. Marriage feels more like something to do than a big romantic ideal.

G = Gentle: how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

⋆ Physically, he can be gentle when he remembers to be. Emotionally, it’s harder. His temper and bluntness make tenderness difficult. He’s better at showing gentleness through small gestures than grand ones, like brushing your hair out of your face mid-conversation or wrapping a scarf around you before you leave.

H = Hugs: do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?

⋆ He loves hugs! His hugs are tight and a little rough, the kind that lift you off the ground or trap you until you squirm. He does it often, especially if he’s missed you. When he’s sad or tired, though, his hugs linger; he’ll stay quiet for once, holding on like he needs to recharge from you.

I = I love you: how fast do they say the L-word?

⋆ He’d blurt it out without realizing. “Love you, y’know,” said offhand, then immediate deflection: “Don’t get soppy about it.” Once he says it, he means it, and he is definitely comfortable saying it often.

J = Jealousy: how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?

⋆ He’s extremely jealous. He gets possessive fast, especially if he thinks someone else is trying to take your attention. His whole mood changes. If he’s really bothered, he’ll make some biting comment to remind everyone you’re his, even if it starts an argument later.

K = Kisses: what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?

⋆ John’s kisses are unpredictable. Sometimes quick and teasing, other times long and desperate, like he’s trying to prove something. He likes kissing your neck or the corner of your mouth, places that make you react. He enjoys being kissed anywhere you’re bold enough to reach.

L = Little ones: how are they around children?

⋆ He’s awkward around kids. He likes them in theory, but he doesn’t really know what to do with them. If a child likes him first, though, he softens instantly. Pulls faces, makes silly jokes, acts like a big kid himself.

M = Morning: how are mornings spent with them?

⋆ He’s not a morning person. Expect groaning, messy hair, and bullshit coming out of his mouth before he even opens his eyes. He’ll pull you back into bed if you try to get up, grumbling “five more minutes.”

N = Night: how are nights spent with them?

⋆ Nights are when he softens. He talks more, tells stories, hums tunes that haven’t been written yet. He likes lying beside you in the dark, the world quiet, when he can be honest without feeling exposed. Sometimes he’s restless, pacing or writing, but he always ends up back in bed next to you, even if it’s at 3 a.m.

O = Open: when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?

⋆ It takes a while for him to really open up. Once he trusts you, though, everything comes out at once. He’s not good at gradual vulnerability; it’s all or nothing.

P = Patience: how easily angered are they?

⋆ Not his strong suit. He’s quick to anger, especially when he feels misunderstood. He cools off just as fast but doesn’t always apologize right away. With people he cares about, he tries to hold it in, pacing or going quiet instead of lashing out, but it’s a work in progress.

Q = Quizzes: how much would they remember about you?

⋆ He remembers weirdly specific things... but forgets practical stuff like appointments. He notices patterns and moods more than details. You’ll mention something once and he’ll bring it up weeks later like he’d been thinking about it the whole time.

R = Remember: what is their favorite moment in your relationship?

⋆ His favorite moment in a relationship would probably be something simple... walking home after a gig, sharing a cigarette, or laughing over something dumb. He loves moments where he feels normal, not “John Lennon of the Beatles.”

S = Security: how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?

⋆ Protective... He doesn’t want to be overbearing, but he won’t let anyone disrespect you. He’s verbal about it too!

T = Try: how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

⋆ He tries more than people give him credit for. Gifts are personal, usually something symbolic. Everyday effort is harder for him, but he shows it in consistency! Calling when he can, showing up when it matters.

U = Ugly: what would be some bad habits of theirs?

⋆ Bad habits? Plenty. Impulsive, moody, self-sabotaging. He uses humor to dodge real emotion, says things he doesn’t mean when he’s angry, and sometimes withdraws completely when he feels guilty. He’s hard to read, and harder to argue with.

V = Vanity: how concerned are they with their looks?

⋆ He’s vain, but not in the polished way. He cares deeply about how he’s perceived, even if he pretends not to. He spends ages messing with his hair, fussing with clothes, criticizing photos of himself.

W = Whole: would they feel incomplete without you?

⋆ John’s the type to feel incomplete without someone he loves. He thrives on connection, even chaos feels manageable if he’s got someone steady beside him. He doesn’t want to depend on anyone, but he does.

X = Xtra: a random headcanon for them.

⋆ He always steals things... your lighter, your pen, your socks, and swears they’re his. You’ll find them in his pockets days later. He calls it “borrowing” but never gives them back.

Y = Yuck: what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?

⋆ He hates fake people and shallow conversations. Can’t stand being ignored. Doesn’t like partners who play games or act distant on purpose. Also hates silence during arguments; he’d rather hash it out than let it simmer.

Z = Zzz: what is a sleep habit of theirs?

⋆ He sleeps tangled up in blankets and you. Always sprawled, mouth slightly open, one arm thrown across you like a claim. Talks in his sleep sometimes...

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

⋆ I already wrote him one! Check it out...

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

A = Affection: how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?

⋆ He’s not the type to constantly hang off you in public, he’d rather give you a look across the room, one that says I like you more than I should right now. His affection shows up in subtler ways: saving you the last cigarette, fixing your collar before a photo, slipping his hand into yours at random times. Though, he can get clingy without meaning to. Leaning on you while tuning his guitar, brushing your arm just to remind himself you’re there.

B = Best friend: what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?

⋆ He would also be annoying. He’d remember embarassing things you said weeks ago just to bring them up when you least expect it. He’s not effusive, but he shows up when you need him most. He’ll be there with a pack of crisps and a “Don’t cry, it’s not worth it,” kind of pep talk.

C = Cuddles: do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?

⋆ He loves to cuddle, but it’s got to be on his terms. If you initiate it, he’ll pretend to resist, “Oh, get off, will ya?”, but like two minutes later he's suffocating you. Expect him to shift a lot until he’s found the exact position that lets him breathe and hold you at the same time.

D = Domestic: do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?

⋆ Surprisingly decent when it comes to chores. He’s not naturally tidy, but he hates mess piling up. He can cook a few things... toast, tea, maybe eggs if he’s feeling inspired. He wants to settle down, but not too early.

E = Ending: if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

⋆ He’d be direct but kind. He’d try to make sure you understood it wasn’t cruelly done, but he’d also want to rip the bandage off cleanly.

F = Fiance(e): how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?

⋆ Commitment means something serious to him, and he wouldn’t jump into engagement quickly. He’d need to know, like really, truly know, you before even considering it. When he’s sure, though, he’s all in.

G = Gentle: how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

⋆ He’s gentle in bursts, not constantly. Physically, yes, his touch is careful, his hands always checking if you’re comfortable, but emotionally, he has moments of sharpness. When he’s frustrated or tired, his tone can cut without meaning to.

H = Hugs: do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?

⋆ George loves hugs. His hugs are tight and warm. Over time, he relaxes into them. He’s the type to rest his chin on your shoulder and sigh.

I = I love you: how fast do they say the L-word?

⋆ He's quick to say it. Once he says it, he means it completely. Expect it to slip out during an unguarded moment, probably while you’re laughing together or right before he leaves for a tour. And once it’s said, he’ll repeat it more easily, as though the dam’s broken.

J = Jealousy: how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?

⋆ He gets jealous. Badly. He won’t make a scene, but you’ll feel it. His voice goes sharper, jokes get more biting, and he gets oddly quiet if he sees someone flirting with you. Later, he’ll mutter something like, “He was starin’ at you all night,” and you’ll have to talk him down.

K = Kisses: what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?

⋆ His kisses are playful most of the time... quick, teasing, sometimes interrupted by laughter. But when he’s serious, they’re slow, steady, and he tends to linger after, forehead pressed to yours. He loves kissing your cheeks and neck, anywhere he can make you squirm or laugh. He likes being kissed behind the ear; it makes him melt,.

L = Little ones: how are they around children?

⋆ He’s surprisingly good with kids once he relaxes. At first, he’s awkward, doesn’t know what to say, but once they start laughing, he’s down on the floor with them and making up stories.

M = Morning: how are mornings spent with them?

⋆ He’s grumpy in the mornings. Doesn’t talk much until he’s had a cup of tea, hair sticking up everywhere, eyes half-shut. But if you’re around, he softens faster. He’ll mumble a “mornin’, love” before shuffling back to bed with you, insisting there’s “no point getting up yet.”

N = Night: how are nights spent with them?

⋆ Nights are when he’s most himself. He’ll talk for hours, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, saying things he’d never bring up in daylight. He likes soft light, quiet music playing, the two of you tucked up together with the world shut out. It’s his favorite time to be honest.

O = Open: when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?

⋆ It takes a while for George to really open up. He’s cautious, especially about the things that bother him. He’ll reveal bits slowly, one story at a time, one sarcastic comment that actually means more than it sounds. When he finally trusts you, it’s full transparency, no filter.

P = Patience: how easily angered are they?

⋆ He tries, but his patience has limits. He’s quick to get annoyed, especially when people talk over him or treat him like he’s not paying attention. With you, though, he works harder at it. He’ll sigh, mutter something under his breath, then calm himself before saying anything sharp.

Q = Quizzes: how much would they remember about you?

⋆ He remembers a lot. Down to the smallest detail. He might not make a big deal of it, but he’ll recall your favorite sweets, your least favorite song, all that stuff.

R = Remember: what is their favorite moment in your relationship?

⋆ His favorite moment would be something sweet. Maybe the first time you both stayed up until dawn talking, or a day spent doing absolutely nothing.

S = Security: how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?

⋆ Protective in subtle ways. He’s not one to make a scene, but if someone says something off to you, he’ll step in with a deceptively calm “You got somethin’ to say?” He doesn’t like dramatics, but he won’t tolerate anyone disrespecting you. In return, he feels safest when you treat him like a person, not a Beatle, when you listen, not just look.

T = Try: how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

⋆ George puts real effort into the things that matter. He’s not showy about it, but he remembers anniversaries, plans simple dates that mean something, writes you silly songs when he’s bored. If he’s into you, he’s in it... no halfway measures.

U = Ugly: what would be some bad habits of theirs?

⋆ He can be moody, sarcastic, and sometimes takes things too personally. He’ll withdraw instead of talking about what’s wrong, which can be frustrating. Also: leaves his things everywhere. You’ll find things in pockets, sheets, your bag... everywhere.

V = Vanity: how concerned are they with their looks?

⋆ He absolutely cares about how he looks, though he’d scoff if you said so. But he also doesn’t like being too polished, he prefers looking effortlessly cool, even if it takes effort to get there.

W = Whole: would they feel incomplete without you?

⋆ When he’s really in love, he feels your absence like a missing chord. You complete him in the sense that you ground him, remind him who he is outside the fame and noise. He’d never admit he’s incomplete without you, but he’d act like it.

X = Xtra: a random headcanon for them.

⋆ George collects little things you give him and hides them away. Ticket stubs, notes, a button that fell off your coat once. He doesn’t tell you, but he keeps them in a small box in his guitar case. Sometimes, on long tours, he looks through it to feel closer to you.

Y = Yuck: what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?

⋆ He hates fake people, forced small talk, and anyone who acts superior. In a partner, dishonesty and insincerity are dealbreakers. He can handle quirks, temper, even distance, but not someone who plays games.

Z = Zzz: what is a sleep habit of theirs?

⋆ He falls asleep easily once he’s comfortable. Light snorer, sprawls all over the bed, sometimes talking in his sleep... usually mumbled bits of nonsense. He loves falling asleep with the radio on low and your fingers tracing patterns on his arm.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

A = Affection: how affectionate are they? how do they show affection?

⋆ Ringo’s the kind of affectionate that sneaks up on you. He’s not overly touchy in public, he saves that for when it counts. He’ll ruffle your hair, pinch your cheek, and things like that. He’s not good at flowery words, but he’s consistent, and that’s its own kind of affection!

B = Best friend: what would they be like as a best friend? how would the friendship start?

⋆ He’s the kind who’d be there for you at 2 a.m. without question, but he’d also hide your lighter just to see you curse him out. He likes people who don’t take themselves too seriously.

C = Cuddles: do they like to cuddle? how would they cuddle?

⋆ He’s more of a sprawler than a cuddler. He likes to have you there beside him, maybe with your legs tangled together, an arm draped lazily around you. He likes the quiet weight of someone next to him.

D = Domestic: do they want to settle down? how are they at cooking and cleaning?

⋆ Ringo’s not exactly a domestic god. He can cook a few things... mostly eggs, toast, and anything he can do in one pan. Cleaning, though? You’d have to poke him to remind him to pick up after himself. Still, he likes the idea of home! He’d settle down eventually.

E = Ending: if they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?

⋆ He’s not cruel, but he’s honest to a fault when he finally decides something’s not working. He’d try to ease the blow and then get quiet when he realizes it’s not helping.

F = Fiance(e): how do they feel about commitment? how quick would they want to get married?

⋆ He takes commitment seriously. Once he’s in, he’s in. He’s not in a rush to get married, though... he’d rather make sure you fit together before putting a ring on it.

G = Gentle: how gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?

⋆ He’s got rough hands, clumsy sometimes, but he’s careful where it matters. Emotionally, Ringo’s more gentle than people think... he listens. He doesn’t always have the right words, but he’ll give you his silence in a way that feels like safety. Physically, he’s tender in small ways, a thumb tracing your knuckles, brushing hair out of your face.

H = Hugs: do they like hugs? how often do they do it? what are their hugs like?

⋆ He loves hugs. His hugs are strong, grounding, and slightly awkward at first, but they always linger longer than expected. He hugs when he’s happy, when he’s teasing, when he thinks you need it. There’s warmth there,.

I = I love you: how fast do they say the L-word?

⋆ He doesn’t say it fast. He probably jokes around it first. When he finally says it, it’s offhand, in the middle of an ordinary moment. Maybe you’re both laughing, maybe you’re cooking breakfast, and he just blurts it out. But when he does, he means it. He won’t take it back, not ever.

J = Jealousy: how jealous do they get? what do they do when they’re jealous?

⋆ Ringo’s jealousy is quiet but sharp. He doesn’t explode, he broods. You’ll see it in how he withdraws, how his humor turns biting. He’s deeply insecure. If you reassure him, he melts instantly, ashamed for doubting you. But if someone really flirts with you, he’ll get defensive fast. Snarky, maybe even possessive for a moment before cooling off.

K = Kisses: what are their kisses like? where do they like to kiss you? where do they like to be kissed?

⋆ His kisses are quick and frequent, often accompanied by a little hum or grin. He likes kissing your forehead, cheeks, shoulders, anywhere casual and close. He enjoys being kissed on the jaw or temple; it calms him down. Real kisses, the slow ones, are heavy with feeling.

L = Little ones: how are they around children?

⋆ He’s surprisingly good with kids. They make him laugh, and he loves their energy. He’s the type to sit on the floor and let them climb all over him, teaching them to bang on pots like drums.

M = Morning: how are mornings spent with them?

⋆ He’s not a morning person. Lots of groaning and complaints about needing “five more minutes.” But once he’s up, he’s happy. He’d sit by the window in his robe, hair sticking every which way, talking to you while you both wake up properly.

N = Night: how are nights spent with them?

⋆ He’s either talking nonsense until you fall asleep or lying there listening to your breathing. He likes the feeling of stillness, of knowing the world’s gone quiet for a bit.

O = Open: when would they start revealing things about themselves? do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?

⋆ It takes him time to open up. He jokes his way through most things, but when he trusts you, he talks... a little. He reveals it in pieces.

P = Patience: how easily angered are they?

⋆ He’s generally easygoing, but he’s human. When stressed, touring, interviews, constant noise, he gets snappy. His temper isn’t explosive, just defensive.

Q = Quizzes: how much would they remember about you?

⋆ Ringo’s memory for small things is weirdly selective. He might forget what day it is, but he’ll remember the exact song you said made you cry, or the way you like your tea.

R = Remember: what is their favorite moment in your relationship?

⋆ His favorite moment is probably something mundane. He remembers warmth more than specifics, but that feeling becomes his anchor.

S = Security: how protective are they? how would they protect you? how would they like to be protected?

⋆ He’s protective. He’ll guide you through crowds, glare at pushy reporters, make sure you’ve eaten before he does. His protectiveness isn’t macho, though. He wants to be your safe place. In return, he loves when you reassure him too. He thrives on being reminded he’s wanted.

T = Try: how much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?

⋆ Ringo tries hard. Maybe harder than he should. Dates might not be fancy, but they’re full of effort! He celebrates anniversaries early because he’s afraid of forgetting. Everyday life with him feels like someone constantly trying to make you laugh.

U = Ugly: what would be some bad habits of theirs?

⋆ He bottles up feelings until they spill. He gets passive-aggressive when he’s hurt. He can be moody, retreating into silence instead of explaining what’s wrong. And jealousy, he struggles with that one.

V = Vanity: how concerned are they with their looks?

⋆ He cares about his appearance a lot. His hair has to sit just so, and he’ll complain endlessly if he gets a bad photo. He’s not vain in an arrogant way... He just wants to look good enough next to the others.

W = Whole: would they feel incomplete without you?

⋆ Yes. Without you, he feels incomplete. Not in a possessive way, but because you calm the noise in his head. He’s not good at being alone; you give him balance, a sense that someone sees Richie, not just “Ringo.”

X = Xtra: a random headcanon for them.

⋆ Ringo has a secret talent for naming things... plants, pets, random objects. Every mug, lighter, and drumstick in his life has a name. If you bring something new into his flat, he’ll immediately christen it.

Y = Yuck: what are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?

⋆ He hates pretentiousness. Anyone who acts like they’re better than everyone else gets on his nerves fast. He doesn’t like dishonesty, or people who can’t laugh at themselves. In a partner, he’d hate coldness, he needs warmth and humor.

Z = Zzz: what is a sleep habit of theirs?

He moves a lot in his sleep. Sometimes he talks in it, muttering random bits of dream nonsense. He snores a little, too... not too loud, but enough to be endearing. If you’re next to him, he unconsciously pulls you close, even if he fell asleep facing the other way.

You’d been at AIR barely two months when you realized that Paul McCartney... had taken a liking to tormenting you gently over tea. The studio air always hummed with reverb and cigarette haze; that distinct blend of stale coffee, tape oxide, and a little nervous ambition. You ran errands, fetched lunches, carried reels, handed out lyric sheets, and somehow always got roped into tea duty. Which you were apparently terrible at.

“Milk first again, love?” his voice would come from behind you, that lilting Liverpool tease in every syllable. “You’re meant to pour it after the water. Don’t they teach you that before letting you near Englishmen?”

You’d jump, sloshing a bit of the offending brew onto the counter of the small kitchenette. Cheeks burning, you’d turn to face him. He’d be leaning against the doorframe, a veritable rockstar even in his worn jumper and comfortable-looking trousers. The lines around his eyes would crinkle as he smiled, a gentle, knowing sort of smile that did absolutely nothing to calm the frantic bird fluttering in your chest.

“Sorry,” you’d mumble, wiping the counter with a cloth. “Habit.”

“A bad one,” he’d chuckle, pushing off the frame and walking over. He’d take the mug from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours for a fraction of a second too long. It was an electric little shock, a spark in the humid studio air that you felt all the way down to your toes. “No matter. Let’s see the damage.” He’d take a sip, his eyes, those famous, soulful, doe-like eyes, watching you over the rim. He’d make a thoughtful noise. “A bit weak today. Yesterday’s was strong enough to dissolve the spoon. Keeping me on my toes, are you?”

It became your ritual. A strange, unspoken dance choreographed around PG Tips and a kettle. You tried, you really did. You watched the engineers, you asked the receptionist, you even bought a book on the proper etiquette of tea making. You tried pouring the milk after. You steeped the bag for precisely four minutes. You warmed the mug beforehand.

Nothing was ever quite right for him. Which angered you a bit... but with each flawed cup, his attention on you seemed to grow.

He started seeking you out. If you were busy hauling a heavy box of two-inch tape, he’d suddenly appear. “Here, let me get that. You’re only a little thing, you’ll do your back in.” He’d take the weight from you, his arm brushing yours, and you’d be enveloped for a moment in his scent... a clean, expensive smell of sandalwood and something uniquely him. He wouldn't treat you like an inconvenience or an underling; he'd treat you like a person, asking your name again even though you were sure he knew it, asking where you were from, what music you liked.

One rainy Tuesday, the studio was quiet. The rhythm section had been laid down, and Paul was in the control room with George Martin, listening back to a bass line, his head nodding in time. You were tasked with organizing the tape library, a dusty, forgotten corner of the studio. You were humming to yourself, a little melody from a song you’d heard on the radio, while sticking labels onto white cardboard boxes.

The door creaked open.

“That’s a nice tune.”

You nearly fell off the small step-ladder, grabbing a shelf to steady yourself. It was him, of course. He was holding an empty mug. Your mug.

“Oh! God, sorry. Didn’t hear you.”

“My fault. Soundproofing’s a bit good in here, isn’t it?” He gestured vaguely at the acoustically treated walls. He stepped further into the small room, and it suddenly felt ten times smaller. “Was just thinking… it’s about that time.”

His eyes twinkled. Tea time.

“Right. Of course,” you said, your heart starting its familiar gallop. You wiped your dusty hands on your pants and started for the door.

“Wait,” he said, his voice softer now. He gestured to the tape you were holding. “What track is that?”

“Oh, it’s… ‘Ballroom Dancing,’... take... four.”

He smiled, faraway look in his eyes. “Right. That one was fun. Ringo was on fire.” He took another step closer, peering at the label you’d just written. He was so close you could see the grey threaded through his brown hair. “Your handwriting’s nice. Mine’s a proper scrawl.”

“Just part of the job,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. You were acutely aware of his shoulder almost touching yours, of the warmth radiating from him. The air felt thick, charged with something you couldn’t name. It was more than just being star-struck; that had faded after the first few weeks. This was something else, something quieter and far more potent.

“Everything’s ‘just part of the job’ with you, isn’t it?” he mused, his gaze drifting from the tape box to your face. His eyes were impossibly kind, but there was a flicker of something else in their depths... curiosity, maybe. Or something warmer. “You work hard. Scurryin’ about all day.”

“Trying to be useful.”

“You are,” he said simply. The words hung in the air between you, heavy and meaningful. He held your gaze for a long moment, and the entire world seemed to shrink down to the two of you in that dusty little room, surrounded by the ghosts of songs past. He finally broke the silence, his smile returning, though it was softer this time. “Well. Don’t let me stop you. But that kettle’s not going to boil itself, is it?”

—

Later that night, the session ran late. The other runners had gone home, but you’d stayed, lingering in the lounge, ostensibly to clean up, but really because you couldn’t bring yourself to leave. The sound of a lone acoustic guitar drifted from the studio. It was a beautiful, melancholic melody.

You pushed the door open just a crack. He was sitting on a stool in the center of the vast, dimly lit live room, hunched over his guitar. He wasn’t singing words, just humming, shaping the tune with his voice. The sight was so intimate, so raw, it felt like you were intruding on a private prayer.

You started to back away, but the floorboard beneath you gave a loud groan.

He looked up, his fingers stilling on the strings. He didn’t look annoyed. He looked… lonely.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice echoing slightly in the big room.

“Something like that,” you answered, stepping fully into the room. “It’s nice.”

“Just a little idea.” He patted the stool next to him. An invitation.

Your legs felt like they were moving through water as you crossed the room and sat down. The silence was comfortable, filled only by the low hum of the amplifiers.

“People give me stick for it, you know,” he said quietly, looking at his hands. “Writing silly love songs.” He glanced at you, a wry, almost vulnerable look on his face.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded, your throat tight.

He started to play again, the melody from before. But this time, he looked at you as he played. His eyes traced your features in the dim light, from your hair to your lips to your hands clasped in your lap.

After a minute, the music trailed off into silence.

“I’m knackered,” he finally sighed, setting the guitar carefully on its stand. “Think I need one last cuppa for the road.”

He stood up, and you stood with him. Back in the kitchenette, you moved with a practiced, nervous energy. You filled the kettle, got out his favourite mug. You were on autopilot, your mind still swirling with the music and the look in his eyes. You put the teabag in, poured the water, and then, without thinking, reached for the milk. Habit.

His hand closed gently over yours, stopping you.

His skin was warm, his grip firm but soft. He didn’t let go. He simply held your hand there, his thumb stroking softly over your knuckles. The kettle clicked off, the silence rushing back in.

“Let’s just leave it,” he said. His voice was husky, low. “Let’s just… see how it is.”

He was looking down at your joined hands, then up at your face. His expression was open, unguarded.

“I’ve started to like it your way,” he confessed, his voice barely audible. “A bit wrong. A bit… different. It’s our thing, isn’t it?”

Your brain struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone a word. All you could do was nod, your gaze locked on his. His thumb continued its impossibly soft caress over your skin, a tiny, repetitive motion that sent shivers all the way up your arm.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released your hand. The absence of his warmth was immediate and sharp. He picked up the mug of black, milk-less tea and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours.

“See? Not so bad,” he murmured, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “Maybe you were right all along.”

“I… doubt that,” you managed to say, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears.

He chuckled, a low, intimate sound that vibrated right through you. “Come on. Let’s not stand in here all night.” He gestured with his head towards the lounge, where a couple of worn, comfortable sofas faced the large window overlooking the street. “Keep me company for a bit.”

You followed him, feeling like you were in a dream. He sank into one end of the leather sofa, patting the cushion next to him. You sat, careful to leave a respectable distance between you, a distance that felt both chasmic and laughably small. He stretched his arm out along the back of the sofa, his fingers just inches from your shoulder.

The silence settled again, but this time it felt different. It was charged with all the things you’d both left unsaid. The city lights outside painted shifting patterns on the walls.

“So,” he began, turning his body slightly to face you better. “You never did tell me. The music you like. What is it?”

You reeled off a few names. Some newer, more obscure bands he probably hadn't heard of. You expected him to laugh, or at least be dismissive of the spiky, synthesized sounds of your generation compared to his own melodic legacy.

Instead, he just listened. He nodded, expression serious, interested. “Sounds like you’ve got an ear for what’s real,” he said quietly. “That’s good. It’s important, y’know. Finding something that feels like you.”

His gaze was intense, and you had the distinct feeling he wasn’t just talking about music anymore.

“What about you?” you asked, feeling bold.

A real, genuine smile spread across his face, reaching his eyes. “Oh, all sorts,” he said after a beat. “Bit of everything, really. Sometimes the old stuff that made me fall in love with it all… sometimes just the sound of quiet.” He leaned back slightly, the corners of his mouth softening. “It gets a bit loud, my life.”

“I can imagine,” you said softly.

He finished his tea and placed the mug on the floor beside him. He didn’t move his arm from the back of the sofa. If anything, his hand crept a little closer, the tips of his fingers now barely grazing the fabric of your shirt. The contact was feather-light, almost imaginary, but it set your entire nervous system on fire.

“It’s late,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Proper late. How are you getting home? Night bus?”

“Usually, yeah. It’s not too bad.”

He shook his head, a decisive little movement. “No, you’re not taking the bus. Not this time of night. I’ll run you home.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. Really. I’m fine.” The words tumbled out, a protest born of politeness and the sheer, overwhelming absurdity of the idea.

“I want to,” he said, and his tone left no room for argument. He finally moved his hand, but only to rest it gently on your shoulder. His thumb pressed lightly into the muscle there, a gesture that was both comforting and deeply intimate. “Let me get my coat. Don’t move.”

He stood and disappeared for a moment, leaving you alone on the sofa with your heart hammering against your ribs. He returned wearing a dark wool coat that made him look even more distinguished. He was holding your jacket.

You stood, and he held it open for you, helping you into it like a perfect gentleman. His hands lingered on your shoulders for a second longer than necessary after you’d slid your arms through. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric.

You knew for a fact he lived in a completely different direction, but you didn't have the will to argue. The thought of a few more minutes in his company was a pull too strong to resist.

The walk to the car park was a study in quiet awareness. The echo of your footsteps and his bounced off the concrete walls. He walked close beside you, not touching, but the space between you felt alive, electric. He unlocked his car. It smelled of rich leather and that same sandalwood scent that clung to him.

He opened the passenger door for you with a little flourish. “After you,” he said, that unmistakable warmth in his tone that made the simplest words sound like an invitation.

Inside, the car smelled faintly of leather and smoke, and the dashboard lights cast his profile in a soft amber wash... sharp jawline, dark lashes, a few faint creases of laughter at the corners of his eyes. When he turned the key, the engine purred, the radio flickering to life low and fuzzy, a Tears for Fears song playing somewhere in the background.

“Alright then,” he said, glancing over with that half-grin again. “Where to?”

You gave the name of your street, and he nodded, pulling smoothly onto the wet road. The city slid past in streaks of orange and red. For a while, you said nothing. The sound of rain on the windscreen filled the silence, rhythmic, almost musical. His fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, keeping time with the song. He looked at ease, head slightly tilted, hair a little messy from the rain, the collar of his coat turned up just so. You found yourself watching the way his throat moved when he hummed along under his breath.

After a few minutes, he spoke again. “Y’know, I remember bein’ your age,” he said, his tone thoughtful, half to himself. “Didn’t have a clue what I was doin’. Still don’t, most days.”

You smiled faintly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He chuckled, a quiet, breathy sound. “Ah, that’s the trick, love. You just keep strummin’ and hope no one notices when you hit a bum note.”

Something about the way he said love made the air in the car shift, denser somehow. You could feel the warmth of the heater on your skin, the pulse of the wipers keeping time with your heartbeat. When you glanced at him, he caught your gaze for just a moment too long before looking back at the road.

“What about you?” he asked after a pause. “How’d you end up runnin’ around makin’ tea for daft old rockers?”

“Needed a job. Didn’t think I’d end up here,” you admitted. “Didn’t think I’d end up meeting you.”

“Ah, now that’s dangerous talk,” he said lightly, but there was something in his smile... self-aware, maybe a little shy. “You’ll give me an ego.”

“Pretty sure that’s already sorted,” you teased before you could stop yourself.

He laughed, a low, genuine sound that filled the car. “Touché. You’re cheeky, I like that.”

You looked out the window again, trying to hide the heat that crept up your neck. The rain had softened now, the city’s neon signs reflecting off puddles like oil paint. Paul reached down and adjusted the radio, switching to a cassette. A moment later, soft strings filled the car, one of his own songs, you realized, but a demo version, slower and rawer, his voice almost whispering through the speakers.

You turned toward him, surprised. “Is this…?”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes still on the road. “Bit of a work in progress. Don’t tell anyone I’m torturin’ me passengers with unreleased stuff.”

“It’s good,” you said. And it was. There was a softness in his voice you hadn’t heard before, something unguarded.

He gave a small, almost bashful smile. “Ta. I was messin’ about earlier, tryin’ to get the bridge right. S’why I was still there when you were tidyin’ up.”

You didn’t say anything; the truth of it was, you liked the idea that he’d stayed for more than the song.

The car turned down quieter streets, the lights dimmer now, the hum of the city fading. Your flat was just ahead, a small row of terrace houses tucked behind a line of shops. He pulled up to the curb, shifting into park, but didn’t cut the engine right away. The cassette was still playing, his voice threading through the hush like a heartbeat.

He turned to look at you fully then. For a moment, neither of you spoke. His eyes were darker now, thoughtful. You could feel the weight of the silence between you, the way it wasn’t empty but charged, like the split second before a song begins.

“Thanks for the lift,” you said softly.

He nodded once, then leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the wheel. “Any time. Though, if I’m honest…” His gaze flicked down to your mouth, then back up. “Bit of a selfish reason, really.”

“How so?”

He smiled, that small, slow kind that made your stomach flutter. “Get to stretch the night a little longer. Don’t fancy headin’ home to an empty house, not just yet.”

You didn’t know how to answer that. He reached out suddenly, not to touch you, but to brush a fingertip along the fogged glass near your shoulder, tracing idle shapes. The gesture was casual, but his nearness wasn’t. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the faint scent of his cologne and tea still clinging to his coat.

He spoke again, voice lower now. “You’re good company, you know that? You’ve got this… thing. Bit shy, bit bold. Makes a bloke curious.”

Your pulse jumped. He looked at you again, and for a long moment, the air between you tightened... thick, suspended, humming with something neither of you dared name outright.

He shifted slightly closer, his hand still resting on the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the soft glow of the dashboard. You could hear the sound of your own breathing, shallow and quick.

Then he chuckled, breaking the tension just enough to let you breathe again. “And here I am, chattin’ your ear off when you probably just want to get inside and sleep.”

“I’m not tired,” you said before you could think better of it.

His gaze lingered, amused, then softened again. “No?”

You shook your head, the faintest smile tugging at your lips. “Not really.”

He laughed under his breath, head tilting, curls catching the dim orange spill of the streetlamp outside. “Not really, eh?” he said, mock-considering. “You young ones. Think if you stay up long enough, you’ll wring a bit more life out of the night.” He leaned a touch closer, voice dipping as though confiding. “Doesn’t work that way, love. Night always wins.”

Your smile flickered but stayed, stubborn, the same way you had all evening. The same way he liked it, because it made teasing you too easy. His gaze lingered, eyes half-lidded, the lines around them soft but edged with that mischief that made you dizzy. “You look like trouble when you smile like that,” he said, and the way he said it wasn’t accusation but appreciation.

"Maybe,” you said, quietly.

That grin spread slow across his face, teeth flashing in the dashboard’s amber glow. He clicked his tongue, almost to himself, then straightened in his seat and turned the key, the wipers sweeping once, steady. “Well, trouble or not,” he said, settling back into that lilting rhythm that could disarm anyone, “you’ve got work in the mornin’, don’t you?” His hand rested on the gear shift, thumb drumming. “Off to bed with you, then.”

The words hit playfully, but there was weight underneath. The way he said “bed” made heat coil somewhere low in your stomach, not because of what it meant, but because of what it didn’t... what he could’ve meant if he wanted to. You swallowed. “You’re sending me to bed?” you asked, light, pretending at defiance.

He gave a small, indulgent sigh, shaking his head as if you were being ridiculous. “’Course I am. Look at you. Eyes like saucers, pretendin’ you’re not knackered. Go on.” His tone softened around the edges. “Be good, yeah?”

That did it. The phrase sank under your skin. His gaze flicked toward you again, lingering a half-second longer than it should have. There it was again, affection cloaked in authority, teasing wrapped around something that might’ve been temptation if you both let it.

He watched you a second longer, then leaned just far enough for you to feel his breath ghost across your cheek. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

He pulled back, eyes glinting. “Go on,” he said again, quieter this time. “Before I change my mind and keep you talkin’ all night.”

You stepped out into the rain, air cool against your heated face. He waited until you’d reached the door to your building before rolling the window down. “And make sure you dream about somethin’ good,” he called softly. “Preferably not me.”

You turned, smiling despite yourself, and he winked, just once, before the window slid shut and the car rolled away, tail lights glowing red through the drizzle. The sound of his engine faded down the street, leaving you standing there, pulse still racing, the echo of his voice tangled in your head like a melody you couldn’t stop humming.

—

You came in the next morning still humming with last night’s ride home, the smell of rain and leather stuck under your skin like a fingerprint. The studio had that strange mid-morning quiet... the engineers fiddling with cables, a muted bass line spilling from a half-shut door, but it felt different to you, like the whole place was holding its breath. You’d barely clocked in before you felt him.

Paul had already arrived. Not in the control room as usual, but leaning against the hallway wall opposite the tape library, arms folded, one ankle crossed over the other. He looked impossibly casual in yet another jumper and worn jeans, but there was something deliberate about the way he watched you walk down the corridor. His eyes found you instantly, and the corner of his mouth curved like he’d been waiting for you to appear.

“Morning, love,” he said, voice low and velvet-rough from too little sleep and too much singing. “You look...” a beat, eyes trailing from your hair down to your shoes, “...awake.”

You swallowed hard. “Morning.”

He pushed off the wall with that easy, catlike grace and closed the space between you in three steps. You could smell him again, sandalwood, tobacco, something warm and alive. “Did you sleep?” he asked, softer now, as if it were a private question. His hand came up, not quite touching, but hovering near your arm as though he had to stop himself at the last second.

“Some,” you managed. “You?”

He gave a small, wry laugh. “Not much. Kept thinkin’ about… things.”

His eyes dipped to your mouth before flicking back up, slow enough that you knew it wasn’t accidental. The air in the hallway seemed to thicken between you, that same magnetic pull from last night stretching, tightening, daring either of you to move first.

You shifted your weight just slightly, a tiny nervous motion that drew his gaze down again—this time tracing the angle of your throat, the collar of your shirt, the faint rise and fall of your breath. His jaw flexed once, subtle but visible.

“What kind of things?” you asked, voice softer than you meant it to be.

He smiled, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Ah, you know. Songs. Rehearsals. The usual.” A beat. Then quieter, rougher: “And a pair of eyes that wouldn’t get out of my head.”

You froze. His tone wasn’t teasing this time; it was honest, raw in a way that made your stomach twist. He stepped closer, so close you could feel the warmth coming off him, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours. “You’ve got those kind of eyes, love,” he said, his accent heavier now, words slower, like honey sliding off a spoon. “The sort that make a man forget what he’s sayin’.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “You seem to be saying plenty.”

That earned a grin, sharp and warm. “Touché.” He leaned one hand against the wall beside your head, body angled toward you. Not trapping you, exactly, but close enough that his scent wrapped around you. “But it’s dangerous, isn’t it? Us talkin’ like this.”

“Dangerous how?”

He tilted his head, studying you like he was composing a line he didn’t want to ruin. “You’re young,” he said finally, almost a whisper. “Fresh-faced. Got the whole world waitin’ for you.” His gaze softened, but there was heat under it, restrained but alive. “And me… well.” He chuckled once, a low, self-aware sound. “I’ve seen a bit too much of it already.”

You could have stepped back. You didn’t. “You make it sound like a crime.”

He shrugged, eyes flicking from yours to your mouth again.

You felt your heartbeat quicken, a sharp flutter under your ribs. He noticed, of course he noticed, and his expression shifted, a quiet satisfaction blooming there, not arrogant, just certain. His fingers, the same ones that had plucked melodies out of strings the night before, lifted, barely touching your chin, tracing the faintest line along the edge of your jaw.

You drew in a shaky breath.

He smiled again, softer this time. “Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinkin’ about somethin’ you shouldn’t be.” His thumb grazed your skin. “’Cause I’m doin’ the same.”

The hallway felt suddenly too narrow, the air charged, the soundproofed walls pressing in around the two of you. He was close enough now that you could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the little scar near his temple, the flecks of green in his brown eyes. His hand slid up, resting against your cheek, and you leaned into it before you even thought about it.

“Paul…” you started, but his name came out as breath, not sound.

“Shhh,” he murmured, thumb stroking slowly once more. “Don’t ruin it with sense, yeah?”

It should have made you laugh, but it didn’t. The way he said it was tender and rough at the same time, his voice dropping lower with each word until it was little more than a vibration in the air between you.

He didn’t kiss you, not quite. His forehead rested against yours, the warmth of him seeping into your skin.

You could feel his hand move from your cheek to the back of your neck, his palm broad and warm, fingers threading slowly into your hair. You didn’t move, didn’t even blink, afraid the moment would shatter if you did.

“Trouble, huh?” you echoed, voice trembling.

“Mhm.” He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling low in his chest. “And I was doin’ so well, keepin’ myself out of it.” His nose brushed the side of yours. “Then you walked in.”

A beat passed, heavy, suspended. The studio hummed faintly beyond the door... voices, cables, music being born somewhere else... but it felt far away. The world had narrowed to the space between his mouth and yours.

He let out a slow breath. “You don’t make it easy, you know that?”

“Should I?” you whispered.

His lips twitched, almost laughing. “No,” he said, low and deliberate. “Don’t you dare.”

His hand moved again, down your neck, over your shoulder, his thumb catching lightly against the edge of your collar. He wasn’t pulling, just tracing, like he needed to feel the shape of you through the fabric. The sound that left him was barely audible, a hum of approval. “God, you’re somethin’.”

He let that hum vibrate low in his throat, the sound close enough that you could feel it through your skin. His thumb made another slow pass along the line of your collarbone, and you swore you could hear the faint catch in his breath when you tilted toward him, just enough that the space between you collapsed.

He just looked at you for half a heartbeat more, his gaze searching, almost asking permission, and when you didn’t move away, he dipped his head. The first brush of his lips was barely a kiss, a testing contact, warm and soft and gone again before you could react. Then he came back, firmer this time, a deep inhale through his nose as his hand at your neck tightened slightly, holding you there.

Your fingers found the front of his sweater without thinking, clutching the knit as you answered the kiss, slow and uncertain but hungry. The sound he made against your mouth, half sigh, half groan, slid right through you. When he moved, it wasn’t hurried; his mouth opened over yours, his tongue tracing the edge of your lower lip before he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Christ.”

He pressed his forehead to yours again, breathing you in, his hand still on your neck, his thumb still rubbing that small arc of skin. Then another kiss, softer now, deeper, with a patience that felt almost reverent. When he finally pulled away, the tip of his nose brushed yours, both of you still breathing the same unsteady air.

For a moment he didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, his expression unreadable except for the faint tremor in the corner of his mouth where a smile was trying to form. Then he stepped back, hand slipping away, leaving the place where he’d touched you tingling and warm.

Then, with a sudden breath, he straightened a little, though his hand didn’t fall away. “Right,” he said, trying for composure but not quite finding it. “If we keep standin’ here, someone’ll start wonderin’.”

“Let them,” you said, before you could stop yourself.

That pulled a real laugh out of him, short, surprised, delighted. “You’re cheeky,” he said, eyes glinting. His thumb brushed your throat one last time before he finally stepped back, hands sliding into his pockets. The loss of contact was almost dizzying.

He looked at you for a long moment, something unspoken passing through that glance, an understanding, a warning, a promise, all tangled together. “We’ll pretend we’re sensible,” he said finally. “At least till lunch.”

You smiled, trying to catch your breath. “And after lunch?”

His grin deepened, slow and wicked. “We’ll see if we can still manage it.”

And then he turned, strolling down the hallway toward the control room, leaving you standing there against the wall, skin still tingling, pulse still thrumming in your ears.

You exhaled shakily, the faintest trace of his cologne lingering in the air like a song that hadn’t quite ended.

The party was supposed to be the kind of thing you dreamed about if you were young and wanted to be seen, the kind of thing where people squeezed themselves into clothes tighter than their own skin and laughed too loudly just to fill the air, where the sound of music bled out of the walls before you even walked inside. You should have been excited; it was the sort of night where you polished yourself up just to stand in the glow of someone else’s spotlight. John is going to be taking you along with him, of course. It was always John these days, and maybe that’s what kept you tethered to the thought of going at all. Because if not for him, what business did you have in a room full of bodies when you could hardly stand the weight of your own?

You tried on clothes earlier, pieces that should have draped, should have hung nicely, but they clung in all the wrong ways, or rather didn’t cling at all. They slipped and sagged like wet rags against your frame, hanging awkwardly off sharpness that wasn’t supposed to show. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror and felt your stomach turn. Everything looked disgusting on you, like fabric wasted on something it wasn’t made for. The mirror became an enemy, a judge, and you could barely stand to hold its gaze.

John had brought you flowers this morning. A surprise, dropped into your hands with that little smirk of his, the one that made you think he was laughing at something only he knew. They’re sitting on the nightstand now, a riot of color against the dimness of the room. You hate them. You hated them the moment he pressed them into your palms. Their petals were so alive, so unashamed in their bloom, and every one of them seemed to mock you with how easily they opened, how naturally they reached for the light. You couldn’t look at them without feeling small, smaller than you already were, like they were proof of something you could never be.

The last bouquet he’d given you still lingers in your mind… how quickly those flowers had withered, curling into themselves until they were brittle, their beauty only a memory. That, at least, you could understand. You wonder if that’s what you look like too: shriveled at the edges, life drained, something once whole and vibrant reduced to scraps and shadows. People ask if you’re sick, and you always laugh it off, tell them you’ve just been tired, or busy, or anything but what’s true. You’ve made a life out of lying.

John doesn’t notice. Or maybe he chooses not to. The world spins too quickly around him these days. Screaming girls clawing at his suit, flashes popping whenever he steps out of a car, his own voice swallowed by the roar of an audience. You stand on the edge of it, watching, never sure if you’re part of it or just something trailing behind. When he smiles at you, when he leans close in those rare quiet moments, you almost believe he sees you, really sees you, but then he says something careless and light, like, “You’ll come tonight, won’t you?” and you realize he hasn’t looked long enough to notice what’s become of you.

You think back to last week, sitting on his sofa while he tuned his guitar. He’d hummed under his breath, a half-song with no words yet, and nudged your knee with his when you’d sat too stiff. “Loosen up, love,” he’d said, grinning without glancing up, and you’d tried, you really had, but the truth was your bones felt like they’d snap if you leaned the wrong way. He never noticed the way you folded your arms over yourself like armor, the way you pressed into the cushions as though you could sink out of sight. He just kept playing, fingers deft, eyes far away, his world spinning golden while yours crumbled quietly beside you.

The flowers catch your eye again, wide open, blooming, and it makes something inside you ache. How long has it been since you’ve bloomed? You can’t remember. You can only remember the withering, the slow curling inward, the feeling of shrinking smaller and smaller until you don’t know where you end anymore. Your clothes hang wrong, your body feels wrong, and tonight there will be a hundred eyes, maybe more, and you can’t imagine standing in that light, not when all you want is to disappear.

The door slammed open with a thud that rattled the frame, snapping you out of your trance. In he came, John, half-tied tie, his shirt hanging half out of his trousers as though it had fought him and won. His hair was in that permanent state between styled and chaos, and his grin carried the kind of carelessness that made other people laugh and you want to shrink smaller into yourself.

“Bloody hell, you’re still not ready?” His voice filled the hotel room as if he’d been rehearsing the line in the hall, He leaned his shoulder into the door and raised his brows like he’d caught you doing something scandalous. “Party’s tonight, y’know, not next week.”

As if he had any right to scold. His shoes weren’t even on, one sock pooled halfway down his ankle. You stared at him from the edge of the bed, surrounded by discarded clothes that all looked wrong on you, and wondered how he could stand there, so alive and infuriatingly unbothered, when you felt like a pile of bones trying to pretend at being a person.

“You’re one to talk,” you muttered, eyes skimming over him. “You don’t look ready either.”

“Eh, I’ve got the charm. Only takes me a second to get ready,” he shot back, swagger in his voice even as he kicked at the carpet for balance. He crossed the room in those lazy strides of his and flopped onto the bed beside you, the mattress sinking under his weight.

You pitied whatever higher being had decided to send this hulk of sound and ego to share space with you. He was loud, alive, sprawling. You were miserably human, a skeleton bound in skin, succumbing to yourself like a candle guttering out. He didn’t need fuel; he ran on attention and the pulse of a crowd, while you tried to convince yourself that self-hatred could power you eternal.

John leaned over, snagging one of the clothes you’d tossed aside, holding it up between his fingers like he was inspecting some strange artifact. “What’s wrong with this one? Looks fine t’me.”

“It looks disgusting on me.”

He gave you a sideways glance, eyes narrowed just slightly, the faintest wrinkle forming in his brow. For a moment you thought he might press, but instead he let out a snort. “Yer too fussy. You think anyone’s gonna be lookin’ at yer clothes with me on the bill?” He grinned wide, crooked, shameless. Though, it was clearly a joke. It still angered you a bit.

You wanted to laugh. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to disappear.

“Not everything’s about you, y’know..” you said, though the words lacked bite.

“Course it is,” he answered without missing a beat, flopping backwards so his head hit the pillows, one hand behind his neck. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and stage lights, like the residue of every room he’d been in still clung to him. His eyes flicked toward the flowers on the nightstand, the fresh bouquet he’d brought earlier. “Don’t say I never treat ya. Cost me a whole quid, that did.”

The flowers stared back at you, too alive, too bright, mocking in their bloom. You swallowed, throat dry. “They’ll be dead in a few days.”

“So’ll we all,” he said. “That’s what makes ‘em worth it. Lovely while they last.” He propped himself up on an elbow, watching you now, really watching, though you couldn’t tell what he saw. “Come on, love. Put somethin’ on. We’ll be late.”

You shook your head, your hands restless in your lap, twisting fabric, fingers fidgeting with nothing. Your skin felt too thin, your bones too sharp, and every reflection reminded you of what you were. “I can’t.”

John sighed, long and theatrical, as though you’d just told him the telly was broken. He sat up, ruffled his hair, and looked at you again with that maddening mixture of impatience and something softer underneath it. “C’mon. Just get dressed. Nobody’s lookin’ at whatever you’re worried about.”

He slid off the bed, frame unfolding with all the grace of a half-asleep cat, and wandered over to the little wardrobe wedged against the hotel wall. His fingers flicked through the hangers with no real care, humming something under his breath… some fragment of a tune that probably wouldn’t leave his head until he forced the band to play it three times through.

“Christ, you’ve got enough stuff in ‘ere to kit out the whole bloody place,” he muttered, pushing things aside, the wood creaking with every shove. “What’re you fussin’ for? You’d look ace in any of these.”

You sat still, watching him, every movement too easy for him, too careless. He plucked one thing free, held it up against the light like it was priceless, then tossed it aside onto the chair. Another followed, and another. “Nah… nah… you’ll drown in this one… oh, ‘ello, this might do.” He turned, grinning at you like a lad who’d just nicked sweets from the corner shop, holding up the thing as though he’d solved all the world’s problems in one stroke.

“Here,” he said, striding back over and pressing it into your hands. “Put this on. Suits you. Trust me.”

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric, the weight of it too much and not enough all at once.

“Oh- Bloody hell. Don’t give me that look,” he added, softer now, head tilted. “I know what I’m on about. You’ll knock ‘em flat. Not that you need it… you’re mine already, aren’t yer?” His grin tugged wider, cheeky and proud, but there was warmth there, unmistakable.

He nudged you, then perched on the edge of the mattress again, watching, waiting. “Go on then. Don’t make me sit ‘ere all night. We’ll both be late, and Brian’ll have me guts for garters.”

“Shouldn’t you be worried about yourself first?” You asked, managing a thin smile, gesturing at his still-undone tie and his sock slouched halfway down.

John looked down at himself and shrugged, smirk never fading. “I told you, It’ll take only a second.

You forced a breath and clutched the fabric tighter, standing because he was still watching, because he’d picked it for you, because his belief was something you wanted to borrow even if you didn’t deserve it.

“Tha’s more like it,” John said, satisfaction in his voice, though it softened into something almost tender as his gaze followed you. “Knew you’d come round. You always do when I’m right.” He winked.

He reached over, catching your wrist lightly before you could step away. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, rough but warm. “Yer amazing, y’know. Don’t matter what you wear. But humour me, eh? Let me have this one.”

You nodded, though the agreement was little more than a twitch of your chin. John gave your hand a quick squeeze before letting go, stretching his arms with a yawn like the whole day had weighed less on him than the pillow under his head. “Right then. I’ll get myself sorted too.” His laugh followed him across the room as he gathered a few things from the chair where he’d tossed them hours ago, humming again, careless and light.

You slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you, and the change in sound was immediate. The dull thrum of hotel plumbing, the fan’s hum, the muted cheer of John’s voice still spilling faintly through the wall. Alone, it was just you and the mirror again, a war you never won.

The garment clung to your hands like some heavy verdict. You hated the way your reflection waited for you, a skeletal judge with hollowed cheeks and skin stretched too fine, waiting to sneer when you put it on. You peeled away your clothes and felt every edge of yourself like a prison bar. Bones pressing outward, ribs like the frame of something unfinished, wrists too thin to hold weight. Your body felt less like a home and more like the remnants of scaffolding left to rust.

You slipped the new outfit on and the mirror grew crueler. The fabric hung, settled, shifted in ways that exposed what you were and weren’t. You tried to tug it this way, smooth it that way, but nothing changed the truth written across your figure.

John thought it was just fussing. He thought you were picky, vain, maybe shy. He didn’t see that every seam felt like an accusation, every crease like a spotlight on the hollowness underneath. You hated yourself enough to believe that hatred might burn longer than food ever could.

You touched the sink with trembling fingers, cold porcelain grounding you just barely. Behind the door, John was laughing at something only he found funny, rustling about as he changed, his voice floating in and out of earshot like a tune through static. He was the opposite of you. Messy, lazy, careless, yet adored, alive in every careless fiber of his being.

Your reflection blurred, not from tears but from the sheer distance you felt from it. The face in the mirror might have belonged to someone else entirely. You stared and stared until you could hardly recognize yourself at all. Just a shell. A frame. A poor imitation of life.

“Oi!” John’s fist knocked hard on the door, the wood rattling against its frame. “You fall in, love? Don’t make me come drag ya out.” His voice was playful but undercut with that impatient whine he got whenever things weren’t moving at his pace. Another thump followed, louder. “Come on, we’re meant t’be there already. Don’t keep the world waitin’.”

You flinched, torn between answering and never opening the door at all. The mirror showed you too much, too obviously. He’d see if you walked out like this, anyone would. The truth would spill out of your body before your mouth could deny it. You couldn’t let that happen.

You turned from the mirror, eyes scanning the bathroom as if it could offer salvation. Your clothes lay in a heap at your feet, useless, accusing. Then, in the corner, tossed aside earlier, you spotted it. A fur coat, heavy and shapeless, the kind of garment that swallowed whatever was underneath it whole. Your hands moved without thought, dragging it up, shoving your arms through the sleeves, pulling it tight around you like armor.

The door handle felt colder than the sink had, slick under your clammy palm. You twisted it before you could second-guess, before the pounding of your pulse drowned you out. The hinges creaked as the door swung open, the air of the hotel room brushing over you, thick with John’s aftershave and cigarette smoke.

He looked up immediately from where he sat on the edge of the bed, one sock still untamed, tie still knotted halfway and already loosening as if he’d given up mid-attempt. 

“Bloody hell, took yer time,” he said, though the words were softened by the smile tugging at his mouth. His gaze flicked over the coat, then back to your face, no sign of suspicion in his expression… only that familiar glint of mischief. “You tryin’ to show me up, wearin’ that? Look like a star already.”

You managed something that resembled a smile, though it felt like it cracked the skin of your face. The coat was suffocating in its heat, but you clutched it closer anyway, every thread a shield between his eyes and the truth.

John was still fumbling with his tie, the knot twisted and sitting far too low, the silk wrinkled where he’d tugged at it with impatient fingers. 

You stepped closer, the fur brushing heavy against your wrists as you lifted your hands. “Hold still.”

He tilted his head back obediently, though his eyes never left yours, lids hooded with that lazy amusement that made your stomach twist. You worked the tie up, fingers steadying the fabric, pulling it straight, sliding the knot snug against his collar. The scent of him was all around… cigarettes, aftershave, something faintly sweet like the sugar cubes he always nicked for his tea.

“There,” You murmured, smoothing the line of it down his chest.

John’s grin softened, less showman, more boyish now. “Yer good at that. Maybe I’ll keep ya ‘round just for tie duty.”

“Maybe?” You asked, finally letting the corners of your mouth curve, genuine this time.

He chuckled, a warm sound that seemed to light the room more than the cheap lamps ever could. “Alright, definitely. Can’t do without ya.”

You reached for his hair next, brushing your fingers gently over the unruly strands, trying to coax them into something less chaotic. He leaned into your touch, not even pretending to resist, his eyes half-lidded like a cat being fussed over. Every strand you smoothed made him look less boyish and more striking. 

When you finally lowered your hand, he tilted his head toward you, gaze catching yours with a spark that made you want to look away and never stop looking all at once. “Handsome devil, aren’t I?” he said, half-joking, half certain.

Your lips pressed together, holding back the answer that rose unbidden: Yes. Too handsome for me, for anyone. Instead, you only smoothed one last strand into place and let your hand fall.

“You’ll pass,” 

—

The party had already swallowed the hotel lounge whole by the time you arrived. The walls seemed to vibrate with the noise. Music from the phonograph, laughter spilling out of every corner, the scrape of glasses against trays. Cigarette smoke curled heavy in the air, blending with the perfume of too many overdressed girls and the faint tang of spilled gin.

John tugged you in by the arm, the fur coat still swallowing you whole. 

“There they are!” Paul’s voice carried over the din, smooth and full of that easy charm. He was perched on the arm of a sofa, one hand wrapped around a glass of something golden, his grin sharp enough to catch the light. “We thought you’d never show.”

John rolled his eyes, steering you toward them. “Oh, give over. I’m the one who gets us here at all. You’d still be sittin’ in the loo, practicin’ yer smile.”

Ringo snorted from where he lounged beside Paul, limbs draped across the cushions. “Takes him hours. He’s got to check which side’s the best.”

George appeared with a plate stacked high with whatever finger food had been left unattended for too long, balancing it with the casual precision only he could manage. He plopped down on the low table across from Ringo. 

Brian hovered nearby, immaculate in his suit, his tie knotted neat and proper in stark contrast to John’s half-undone look. His smile was tight but genuine as he leaned in to greet you with a nod. “Glad you came,” he said, voice calm even over the noise. “Try not to make too much of a scene tonight, will you? This is meant to be good press.”

You stopped paying attention to the conversation after that. Around you, the air was thick. Too much perfume, too much cigarette smoke, too much chatter. But for all the heat bodies gave off, you were beginning to shiver beneath the fur. The coat weighed heavy on your shoulders, pressing you down into the chair John had steered you toward, but it offered little warmth. Your skin prickled with gooseflesh, hands trembling faintly where you tucked them beneath the folds of the coat. You tried to steady yourself, tried to mimic comfort, but the chill came from inside, a cold that no fabric could reach.

John was still beside you, stretching his legs out. He leaned close now and then, sharing little quips about the people drifting past… an old man with a comb-over, a woman dripping jewels, someone from the record company he didn’t like. He grinned, laughed at his own jokes, and nudged you when you didn’t respond quick enough.

The others were scattered but never far. Paul perched like he owned the sofa, Ringo with a sly smile that said he was amused by everyone and no one, George steady and warm, balancing a plate in one hand as though it weighed nothing at all. They moved like a constellation, their gravity pulling everyone else into orbit.

Eventually, though, the tide shifted. A hotel staffer, brow slick with sweat, tray trembling under the weight of silver platters, ushered everyone toward the few long dining tables laid out beneath a gaudy chandelier. The crowd followed eagerly, chatter rising as chairs scraped against the polished floor. The Beatles moved as one, drawn into their seats by habit.

John tugged at your sleeve, coaxing you with him. “C’mon,” he murmured, as though you had a choice, as though staying behind was ever an option. His hand was warm against your back, steering you through the crush, and you hated how much you needed that heat, how desperate your body was for the simple press of it.

You sat together halfway down the table, John on your left, Paul opposite, George slouched beside him, Ringo on the far end already cracking a joke about the chandelier being worth more than his whole house. The laughter spread down the line, easy and bright, while waiters swept in with plates. Silver lids lifted to reveal courses lined in neat rows. Meats glistening in their sauces, vegetables glazed and gleaming, bread still steaming from the oven.

The smell hit you like a fist. Rich, heavy, suffocating. You pulled the coat tighter, though cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck, a cruel contradiction. Freezing and overheated, starved and repulsed all at once. The plates clattered down before you, cutlery ringing as it was set in place, and you stared at yours as though it were some cruel trick.

John didn’t hesitate. He tore into the bread, hands greedy, grin crooked as crumbs scattered down his shirt. “God, I’m starvin’,” he declared around a mouthful, earning a groan from Brian at the far end.

The table buzzed with voices, with the scrape of knives and the clink of glasses, while you sat still, fork hovering uselessly above the plate. The steam curled upward, a ghost rising to accuse you, and you felt as though everyone must see your stillness, your refusal. You forced a smile when John nudged you, his mouth half-full, his eyes alight.

“Go on. S’good,” he urged, gesturing toward your untouched plate with his knife. “Better than the rubbish we get on tour.”

You laughed softly, hoping it sounded real. “I will,” You said, but your hands stayed frozen.

Calories. The word itself pulsed behind your eyes like a neon sign, ugly and blinding. How many sat before you on this plate? How many drops of oil on the meat, how many grams of butter folded into the vegetables, how much sugar hiding in the glaze? The numbers spun too fast to pin down, a storm of digits and fractions, but each one felt poisonous, each one a reminder of how quickly this body could betray you.

If you ate, if you let even one bite pass your lips, how would you erase it? Walk around the corridors until your legs gave out, pace the length of the hotel floor until dawn? No… too slow, too obvious. Maybe the bathroom. Maybe you could excuse yourself, lock the door, lean over the toilet until everything came up again, purge it from your body before it had a chance to settle. You rarely did that, rarely resorted to such extremes; your power was always in refusal, in saying no, in not letting the food cross the threshold at all. But here, with John nudging you, with the others laughing, with waiters circling like hawks, how were you meant to resist without being seen?

You forced your fork down, spearing a piece of vegetable, dragging it across the plate to make it look casual. You lifted it to your mouth, your lips parting on instinct, and the taste hit like ash despite its sweetness. Swallowing was harder than it should have been, as though your throat knew better than you did.

“See? Not so bad, is it?” John grinned at you, crumbs on his lip, eyes gleaming with that pride of his, as though your single bite were some small victory he could take credit for.

You nodded, your smile tight, while inside disgust rose like bile. Already you imagined the bloat, your stomach swelling grotesque beneath the coat, skin stretched taut with the weight of a single morsel. One bite would multiply, growing larger, heavier, until you felt it in your face, your thighs, everywhere.

Still, you forced another forkful. Then another. And another. And another. Each one smaller than the last, each one chewed into dust before you dared swallow. The food sat wrong from the very first mouthful, heavy and foreign, pressing against your stomach like stone. Your body, unaccustomed to it after days of fasting, protested at once… cramps twisting low, nausea clawing upward with each bite.

The chatter around the table blurred into static. George said something wry; Paul laughed too loud; Ringo banged his glass for a toast, but it all rang hollow, distant. Your body was louder. The food was coming back, you could feel it, rising hot in your throat, a revolt against the intrusion.

You set your fork down with care, the clatter too sharp in your ears, and pulled the coat tighter around you, as if it could hide the panic coursing through you. John turned, mid-chew, one brow arched at your sudden stillness.

“I’ll-” Your voice cracked, but you forced it steady, low enough that only he could hear. “I’ll be right back.”

Before John could answer, before his hand could reach for yours or his questions could form, you pushed back your chair. The scrape of wood on the polished floor was louder than any laugh, any song, and for a moment you thought every eye would follow you. 

The hallway outside the banquet room was mercifully dim, but the sudden quiet made the roar of your pulse deafening. The music, the laughter, the scrape of chairs, all muffled as though you’d been dropped into water, only the frantic rhythm of your own heartbeat echoing in your skull. Your stomach lurched again, twisting violently, and you clutched at the fur coat as if it could anchor you, the fabric too hot, too heavy, but the only thing keeping you upright.

Every step down the corridor sent a wave of nausea rolling through you. Your throat burned, your mouth filled with saliva, and the food sat like a lump of iron refusing to move in either direction. You hadn’t eaten properly in days. Letting yourself shrink smaller and smaller… and now your body revolted against this sudden offering, a system too stripped down to process fuel anymore. It felt like poison in your veins, invading, alien, impossible to tolerate.

Doors passed on either side, each one a blur of brass numbers, none of them marked. Panic clawed higher with every wrong turn. If you didn’t find it now, if you didn’t get rid of this sickness, you’d collapse right here in the corridor, or worse, go back into that dining room and humiliate yourself in front of John, in front of all of them.

At last, the blessed sight: a small door at the far end, the sign etched with the universal figure. Your stomach clenched so violently you nearly doubled over before you reached it. Fumbling hands found the handle, twisting desperately, pushing inside. The bathroom was small, tiled, far too bright, but you didn’t care. You slammed the lock into place.

Then it came. You stumbled to the toilet, gripping the porcelain so hard your knuckles blanched. The first heave wrenched up your throat with cruel force, tearing at you like broken glass. You gasped, gagged, spat, the taste of bile and half-digested food burning every nerve in your mouth. 

The sound echoed in the little space, ugly and animal. Your eyes watered, stinging, your hair clinging damp against your temples. 

When the heaves slowed, you remained hunched, forehead nearly pressed to the cold porcelain, breath ragged and uneven. Your arms trembled under your own weight, your body still rejecting, rejecting, rejecting even though there was nothing left. Saliva pooled at the corners of your mouth. You wiped it with the back of your sleeve, the fur brushing clumsily against your skin.

The sickness didn’t leave even then. Your stomach still cramped, your throat seared, the hollow inside you ached deeper than ever. You were empty again, but emptiness wasn’t relief, it was exhaustion. You wanted to go home. And sleep. Forever.

You stayed bent over the bowl until the spasms ebbed, forehead nearly pressed to the cool porcelain. When you were sure there was nothing left to give, you reached blindly for the handle and flushed. Slowly, unsteadily, you pushed yourself upright. The fur coat hung off you like a dead weight, heat prickling at your skin, but you pulled it close anyway. The mirror above the sink was brutal in its clarity. 

You turned on the tap, cupped cold water in your hands, rinsed your mouth again and again until the acid tang dulled. You splashed your face, the shock of it almost enough to steady you. Deep breath in, out. Another. You patted your cheeks dry with a scratchy paper towel, trying to coax some colour back into them. Your fingers shook as you smoothed the coat, straightened the collar, arranged the disguise. If you could just walk out calmly, he’d never know.

You undid the lock with a soft click and pulled the door open.

John stood right there, leaning against the opposite wall. His arms were crossed, his mouth tight, his expression somewhere between a frown and a wince. The sight made your stomach clench worse than before.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, eyes darting over your face, down to the coat clutched tight around you, then back up. The silence stretched until it snapped.

“Christ.” His voice was low, rough with something you didn’t often hear in it. He stepped forward, his fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or not. “I heard you in there.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

John’s jaw tightened. “How long’s it been goin’ on, eh?”

You tried again, but the truth clanged against your teeth. How could you explain that it wasn’t on purpose, that your body had simply rebelled after starving for so long? That it wasn’t some calculated purge but a violent rejection of what you’d forced into it?

He was angry, but not the kind of anger he used on reporters or roadies. This was frantic, cracked at the edges, like he’d been handed a bomb he didn’t know how to hold. He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up worse, his foot tapping restlessly against the carpet.

“Don’t look at me like tha’,” he said, the words a harsh exhale. “ I knew something was off, but I thought you were just… just bein’ fussy, like you are about the clothes. God. I was worried you were tired. Tired!” He scoffed, a strangled sound of disbelief.

He took a sharp step toward you, making you flinch back against the door. His eyes, usually alight with mischief or sharp wit, were wide and dark, fixing on the gauntness your fur-armour couldn't quite hide now that he was looking for it.

"Look at you," he hissed, his voice dropping to a furious, strained whisper, desperate to keep the noise from spilling back into the party. "You're a bag of sticks! You're bloody starving yourself? Yeah? What for? What in hell are you trying to prove?"

He didn’t wait for an answer, turning away abruptly, running both hands over his face, scrubbing at his features as if trying to wipe the last few seconds from his mind. He spun back, the frantic energy barely contained.

"And all those clothes. Of course, they hang wrong! There's nothin’ for em’ to hang on anymore!" He stabbed a finger toward your coat, a furious accusation. "Why'd I even think you were wearing this bloody monstrosity for the last hour? Thought you were chilly? No, you were hidin’ it, weren't you? Hiding what you're doin’ to yourself- Fuck!"

"It wasn't-" you started, a hoarse rasp.

"Don't lie to me!" he snapped, cutting you off, the force of his voice echoing off the tiles. "I just heard you! I heard what you did! You’re sick.” John stepped forward a fraction again, then stopped himself, hands hanging at his sides. “You’re sick. You hear stories, y’know? People droppin’ dead ‘cause they’re starvin’ or makin’ themselves sick, love-” He cut himself off again, shaking his head.

His words hit like stones. The love at the end was the worst part, softening the blow with a fear that made your own despair feel selfish. He finally saw you, but it was the wreck of you he saw, and it terrified him.

"Fuck," he continued, the volume of his voice dropping again, laced with self-reproach. He wasn't yelling at you anymore; he was raging at himself. "Christ, I've been so busy, haven't I? 'Oh, John's got a big world now,.' That's what you think, isn't it? And you let me!" He grabbed your arm.

Your knees felt like loose hinges, and his grip felt less like a lifeline and more like an anchor dragging you under. The last thing you needed was John’s martyrdom, his frantic self-flagellation over a problem that felt too vast and too private for his loud intervention. Why was this about his failure, his guilt, his blind eyes, when your body was the battlefield here, when you were the one still trembling, sick and raw from the bathroom tiles?

"Stop it!" you snapped, wrenching your arm free with a surprising burst of desperate energy. You stumbled back a step, leaning against the cold hallway wall, the fur coat bunched around your throat like a suffocating collar.

John froze, turning back to you, his face a mask of wounded fury. "Stop what? Stop trying to get you out of this bloody mess you've made?"

"Stop making it about you!" you shouted, the sound raw and cracking, barely louder than the muffled music spilling from the dining room, but sharp enough to slice through the hallway quiet. Your chest heaved with the effort, the effort of speaking, of standing, of resisting him. "I'm the one who's ‘sick’! You're standing here lecturing me about your fucking guilt!"

His face hardened, the sudden tenderness gone, replaced by the familiar defensive John.. the one who bit back harder than he was bitten. "Oh, now I'm the villain, am I? I'm sorry my reaction isn't neat enough for your bloody self-pity! You think this is some private little game? It kills people, you idiot! And I'm the one who has to watch you shrink away to nothing!"

The dizziness swelled, but anger carried you through it. “Are you watching me?.” You waved your hand in front of him. “If you did, you’d have noticed months ago.”

He stepped forward, face twisted, and for a moment, you thought he might shake you, he looked that wild. “Don’t you-” he started, voice breaking-

“John.”

Brian’s voice cut in sharp as a snapped string. He stood a few feet down the hall, suit perfect, expression tight, the kind of polished calm that only cracked when things were truly out of hand. His gaze flicked from John’s flushed, furious face to yours.

“What the devil is going on out here?” Brian asked, his voice low but trembling with steel.

The sight of him… authority, control, attention, was too much. Panic surged higher than the dizziness, higher than the sickness, and you couldn’t breathe under both their eyes.

Before John could answer, before Brian could ask again, you turned on your heel. The hallway tilted beneath you, but you forced your legs to move, boots striking too loud against the carpet.

“Oi! Wait!" John’s voice chased after you, raw and desperate.

But you didn’t. Couldn’t. You pushed past the sound of him, past Brian’s startled call, past the glint of chandeliers and the laughter still spilling faintly from the dining room. You shoved open the stairwell door and plunged upward, dizzy with each step, your coat dragging like an anchor.

 —

The hotel room was dim, curtains drawn against the streetlamps outside, but the air was still thick and suffocating as if the party had followed you up the stairs. You slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breath coming in ragged bursts. Your legs shook beneath you, weak from the climb, from the sickness, from everything. The fur coat slid off your shoulders and fell in a heap on the carpet, and suddenly the silence was too much.

Shame pressed in harder than the walls.

You could still hear John’s voice, still see his face. That flash of anger in his eyes, anger that was really fear, though you’d been too furious to see it. His rant, his panic, his words tumbling over each other like he was drowning and the only rope he had was yelling at you. But more than anything, you heard what you’d said to him, the venom of it, accusing him of not seeing you, of making it about himself. And wasn’t that the truth, in some bitter way? But even as the words replayed, guilt curled hot in your chest. Because John had been there. He had been the one outside the bathroom door, waiting, listening, panicking. And you ran.

You stumbled across the room and dropped onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. Your palms were clammy, your skin cold, your whole body trembling with leftover adrenaline. You hated yourself. Hated your weakness, your anger, the way your body betrayed you in front of him. You wanted to vanish into the sheets, sink through the mattress, dissolve into nothing. You were embarrassed.

The shame was suffocating, thicker than the coat. John’s words burned against it, over and over: You’re gonna kill yourself doin’ this. He’d said it like a plea, like a warning, like he knew how real the possibility was. And for the first time, you wondered if maybe he was right.

Two minutes passed, barely enough time to breathe, let alone recover, before the door handle rattled. The sharp sound split the silence, and then came the knock.

“Love.” His voice was muffled, but unmistakable, low and frayed with urgency. “Open up.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Your heart slammed in your chest, louder than his voice.

Another knock, harder this time. “I know yer in there. Don’t make me get the staff t’open it, ‘cause I bloody well will.” He sounded angry still, but underneath it was something else. Panic, desperation, the edge of something almost breaking.

You sat up slowly, wiping at your face though no tears had fallen. Your hands shook worse now, nerves stretched thin. The lock suddenly felt flimsy, the door too fragile a barrier between you.

“Please,” he said then, softer, almost a whisper. “Just let me in.”

You closed your eyes, shame thrumming in every nerve. John Lennon, messy, arrogant, lazy, loud, was standing out there begging. For you. And all you felt was the crushing weight of how unworthy you were of it, how much of a wreck you’d already made.

Still, your legs carried you forward, feet dragging against the carpet. Your fingers hesitated at the lock, trembling, the echoes of your anger and his still hot in the air. But you turned it anyway.

The door opened a crack, and there he was, John, leaning forward like he’d nearly fallen against the frame, hair wild, tie loose, eyes dark and glassy. He looked at you with something you’d never seen on his face before: fear stripped bare.

And the shame doubled, because it was you who’d put it there.

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t give you time to flinch away, just reached for you, arms sweeping you into him, pulling you close against the warmth and weight of his chest.

You froze. His embrace was heavy, all-encompassing, the kind of hug that smothered and sheltered at once. His was rumpled from where he’d tugged at it in his pacing. You could feel the tremor in his breath as he buried his face in your hair for a moment, as though holding you was the only proof he hadn’t disappeared.

And then, his arms tightened, then faltered. He’d meant for the hug to be strong, grounding, but when his hands slid lower, palms curving over your back and ribs, you felt the hesitation jolt through him. The coat was gone now, left in a heap on the floor, nothing between you but your thinness, your sharpness, the fragile scaffolding of your body.

He drew back a little, his hands still on your arms. His eyes moved over you in a way they hadn’t before. Not lazy, not distracted, not playful, but focused. Almost horrified.

He didn’t say a word.

But you saw it.

The realization dawned on his face with such clarity it made you ache. His gaze lingered on the hollows at your collarbone, the sharp rise of shoulder under skin, the way your wrists looked almost swallowed by his hands. He’d seen you before, of course he had, but tonight something had shifted. Perhaps the sound of you retching in the bathroom had stripped the haze from his eyes. Perhaps the fight in the corridor had cracked his blindness.

He finally saw.

And it broke something in him.

John stepped inside without letting go entirely, guiding you backward into the room. He shut the door with his heel, then moved past you, dropping down onto the edge of the bed with a heaviness that sagged the mattress. His elbows rested on his knees, hands laced together, knuckles white. For once, his mouth didn’t move. He only looked at you, his eyes burning, jaw tight.

You stood where he’d left you, too stiff to sit, arms wrapped around yourself as though you could hide the body he’d finally noticed. The silence swelled thick between you. The coat lay abandoned near the door, and on the nightstand the bouquet he’d brought that morning blazed against the dimness, every petal open, defiantly alive.

John followed your gaze. His eyes lingered on the flowers as if they were a mirror, as if by staring hard enough he could force them to answer the questions caught in his throat. He leaned forward on the mattress, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles whitened. For a long while, he said nothing. Then, with a breath that shook ever so slightly, he spoke.

“You don’t like ’em, do you?” His voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it, stripped of bravado. He tilted his head toward the blooms. “The flowers.”

You didn’t answer at first. The question hung there, heavy, and you were afraid to touch it, afraid your voice would splinter against it. But he pressed on, filling the silence himself.

He leaned back, flopping onto his elbows, staring up at the ceiling before tilting his head back toward you. “Brought ‘em thinkin’ I was clever. Thought, y’know, look nice on the table, bit of colour for ya. Figured they’d cheer you up. But every time I bring ‘em, you look at ‘em like they’re somethin’ rotten.”

You shifted on your feet, not sure how to answer.

John sat forward suddenly, elbows braced on his knees again, eyes fixed on the bouquet as though it had personally offended him. “I just kept bringin’ ‘em like a prat, didn’t I? Never even asked.” His voice cracked, irritation fighting with the crackle of something heavier. “Just kept thinkin’, ah, I’ll throw a few quid at the florist, job’s done. That’s me bein’ a good fella. Never looked at your face properly when I handed ‘em over.”

He rubbed at his temples, fingers pressing into his hairline. “Now it’s like…” He trailed off, glancing up at you, his expression bare in a way you weren’t used to seeing. “It’s like the flowers are standin’ there laughin’ at me.” He swallowed hard, breaking eye contact. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself. The shame thickened in your throat.

John stayed there on the edge of the bed. For a man who never stopped moving, the stillness looked unnatural on him. He stared at the carpet for a long moment, then back up at you. His eyes were different now. Just this raw, open worry that made your stomach twist worse than the food ever had.

“I don’t know what t’do,” he said finally, his voice low and uneven. “I don’t know how t’help you.” He rubbed a palm over his jaw as though searching for words in the stubble there. “Tell me what I’m s’posed to do..”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You didn’t even know where to start. You didn’t know what to say.

He stood then, a little too quickly, and took a step toward you. He stopped just shy of touching you, hands hovering uselessly in the air before he let them fall again. “How do I fix this?” The word slipped out sharp, like he hadn’t meant to say it but couldn’t think of anything else. “How do I fix you?”

His voice cracked on the last word.

You looked at him, startled at how broken he sounded.

“John…” Your throat ached, but you managed his name.

He shook his head, stepping closer again. “ I don’t care if you don’t want me fussin’. Just, please. Tell me what t’do. D’you need a doctor? Food? Hospital? I’ll take you anywhere, pay anyone, ring whoever, I don’t care.”

His voice cracked and stayed cracked, no bluster left, just the bare nerves of a man trying to hold something precious in his hands without breaking it. And in that moment, you remembered, John really did love you. He genuinely loved you.

Now he sat in front of you, staring at you like you were a cliff edge he couldn’t stop himself from running toward.

“I don’t know,” You whispered. It was the only honest thing you could give him. 

He stared at you a second longer, then swore under his breath. Soft, not at you, but at the situation, at himself, and pivoted on his heel. “Right. Okay. Well-” He strode over to the little hotel fridge wedged under the vanity, yanking it open like it had offended him. “Let’s see what they’ve stuck in here. If you don’t know, then I’ll think of somethin’. Gotta start somewhere, eh?”

The tiny bulb inside cast a pale glow across his face as he bent down, muttering. “Hmm. Miniatures o’ gin. Crackers. Some cheese looks like it’s been sittin’ since the war.” He pulled a carton out, sniffed it, wrinkled his nose. “Christ, milk’s off. That’s a crime. What kinda hotel’s this?”

He looked around a bit more, “Hmm,” he said, voice low, almost thoughtful. “What to fix you… Ah!”

He straightened up, triumphant, holding an apple aloft in one hand like it was some holy relic. “Look at that. Nature’s own, yeah? An apple a day, all that. Can’t go wrong with that, can we?” He turned back to you, his grin crooked and watery at the same time, like a boy who’d found treasure and was hoping he’d share in it.

You blinked at him, at the apple glowing red in the dim lamplight, and felt something stir in your chest… half ache, half warmth.

John held it up between the two of you. “Look at this. Nice and simple. Dead easy.” He glanced around the room, frowning. “Where’s the bleedin’ knife, though?” He opened the little cupboard, shuffled through drawers. “We’re in a hotel, they’ve gotta have a knife, don’t they?”

He disappeared into the tiny adjoining kitchenette, still muttering. “Brian, I’ll kill ‘im, swear I will. Puts us up in this posh place and not a knife to be found. How’s a man s’posed to fix someone without a knife?” The words tumbled out, half complaint, half whimper, his voice dipping into that Scouse singsong even when he was stressed.

You could hear him banging drawers, the clatter of cutlery, the low “oh, for fuck’s sake” when he didn’t find anything. He came back out for a second, hair sticking up from where he’d been scratching at it, apple still in his hand, looking both ridiculous and heartbreakingly earnest. Then he was gone again.

It sounded almost pathetic, but still John. You could picture him in the other room, bending over some cupboard, apple clutched in his hand like it was the one thing in the world he could use to help you.

He finally found something. A dull butter knife that he held up with an almost manic sort of triumph, as though he’d pulled Excalibur from a stone. “There we go! Not much of a blade, but it’ll do the job.” He came back into the room with the apple in one hand, the knife in the other, grinning at you like a boy showing off a trick.

He sat himself down cross-legged on the bed, apple balanced on the palm of his hand while he sawed at it with exaggerated care. The butter knife wasn’t sharp enough to cut cleanly, so the skin tore ragged, juice beading and running over his fingers. 

Despite yourself, you felt your mouth twitch. The faintest smile pulling at the corner.

He glanced up immediately, catching it, and his face lit, soft and ridiculous all at once. “Knew I’d get a smile outta ya. Shouldn’t take a bloody apple to do it, but here we are.”

At last he managed to wedge the knife deep enough to split the fruit in two. The halves were uneven, ragged, juice dripping down his knuckles, but he looked proud all the same. He hacked away further, carving off a slice no bigger than a coin, holding it up between finger and thumb.

He looked at you then, sharp and expectant, and patted the space across from him.

“Come on then,” he said. “Don’t make me sit ‘ere lookin’ daft by meself.”

Slowly, stiffly, you crossed the room and perched opposite him on the bed.

He leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Go on. Just one. Nothin’ scary. Just a bite.”

You stared at it, the pale flesh gleaming under the lamplight. Your stomach twisted again, but John’s eyes were on you… wide, hopeful, trembling at the edges. There was no room to lie.

Tentatively, you leaned forward and took the slice between your lips. The sweetness burst across your tongue, sharp and clean, nothing like the heavy food downstairs. John’s shoulders relaxed the moment you bit, and he let out a shaky laugh, almost a whimper of relief.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice catching. “You’ve done it.”

He cut another piece, slower this time, hands sticky, fingers clumsy, and offered it again. “One more, yeah?” His voice was soft but coaxing, a plea wrapped in a smile.

You took it. The apple was crisp, the taste simple, the act strangely intimate. John sitting cross-legged on a hotel bed with juice on his hands, feeding you crooked slices of fruit as though each one were a promise he could keep.

He cut a third piece, then a fourth, his motions steadying as he went. Each time, he offered it gently, waiting until you leaned forward to take it. Each time, his shoulders eased a little more, though the tremor in his hands never fully stilled.

When at last the apple was nearly gone, he set the knife aside and wiped his palms on his shirt. He looked at you for a long moment, eyes shining in the dim light, “There. We’ve started, haven’t we?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t, not with the way your throat was still raw and your stomach knotted. 

John pushed himself up off the bed in that clumsy half-grace he had, muttering about sticky fingers. He disappeared into the little bathroom, and you could hear the water running, the clatter of the tap, the splash as he scrubbed the juice from his hands. “Christ, I’ve got half the orchard on me,” he called out, his voice echoing faintly off the tiles.

When he came back, his hair was damp where he’d pushed it back from his forehead, and he was carrying one of the hotel tumblers filled with water. He held it out to you, careful, steady for once. “Here. Wash it down. Don’t want ya feelin’ sick.”

You took it, the glass cool against your palms, and sipped. The water eased the sharpness of the apple, the burn in your throat. You drained half before setting it back on the nightstand, your hands still trembling faintly.

John watched you the whole time, perched back on the bed. He scratched the back of his neck, then flopped sideways onto the mattress, one arm folded under his head. He looked up at you, his grin softer now.

“Y’know,” he said, “that’s the first time I’ve ever been nervous handin’ someone a bit of fruit. Felt like I was offerin’ you diamonds.”

Despite everything, a tiny huff of laughter slipped out of you.

He brightened immediately, eyes catching the sound like a child catching fireflies. “There it is,” he said softly. “Knew you still had a laugh in ya.”

He reached out, fingers brushing lightly against yours where they rested on the blanket. “I’m no good at this, love. You know that. I say the wrong things. But I meant it, I’ll figure it out. Slowly. However long it takes. If it means sittin’ here cuttin’ apples with a butter knife every night, then that’s what I’ll do.”

The words were clumsy, but his tone was steady, not a joke this time. He squeezed your hand once, brief but firm.

For a long moment you just sat there. The room quiet except for the hum of the city outside the window, the bouquet still blazing defiantly on the nightstand, the half-drunk glass of water between you.

John shifted closer, his shoulder bumping yours. “You’re stuck with me, y’know,” he said, voice light but eyes serious. “Don’t matter how thin you get or how many coats you hide under. I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And though the shame still clung like a second skin, though your body still felt fragile and wrong, there was something grounding in his presence.

John tilted his head, watching you. “You’ll let me stay, won’t ya?”

And you nodded, the smallest of nods, but enough. 

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

He’s blunt about it. If you tell him you’re on your period, his first reaction is usually a sardonic, “Well, that explains it then,” if you’ve been moody, and then he softens later when he realizes you’re actually in pain.

He’s not ignorant about it either, but he doesn’t always know how to deal with it in a comforting way. He tries in his own fashion, like cracking an inappropriate joke to make you laugh.

Can be impatient if your cramps cancel plans, but he’ll also fetch you aspirin and hot tea without making a fuss.

If you’re curled up in bed, he might climb in next to you and put his hand on your stomach... not so much to soothe as to anchor you with his presence. He isn’t overly nurturing, but he doesn’t leave you alone either.

When you’re emotional, he sometimes missteps and says the wrong thing, but he feels guilty if he upsets you while you’re already hurting.

Later, he’ll apologize in his stupid way, like bringing you a biscuit and muttering, “Didn’t mean to be a prat.”

He’s the type to hand you a cigarette and say it’ll “take your mind off it.” Not the most medically helpful, but it’s his way of trying.

Sometimes he’ll be selfish and complain about the lack of intimacy during your period, but if you snap back, he’ll retreat sheepishly and try to make up for it later.

BUT he’ll actually research remedies. He’ll experiment with what helps you most. He still loves you, y'know!

Surprisingly gentle if you let him be. He’ll stroke your hair absentmindedly while reading a book or doodling with his other hand.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

He’s probably the most openly attentive. He fusses, but not in an overbearing way.

More in the sense that he likes to be helpful. He’ll ask if you want a hot water bottle, if you’ve eaten, if you need anything else.

Very matter-of-fact about periods. He knows what it looks like in a household when someone’s dealing with it. He isn’t squeamish.

He’ll cook for you without asking, because he assumes you don’t want to be standing in the kitchen. Lots of tea, toast, and easy comfort food.

He’s affectionate, even clingy, when you’re in pain. He’ll wrap around you in bed and rub your back. He’s the type to say, “Wish I could take it off you.”

Paul’s mood is easily affected by yours. If you’re irritable, he tries to be extra sweet. If you’re sad, he’ll play guitar softly and hum to you. He doesn’t try to fix everything, but he wants you to feel cared for.

If you lash out, he’ll pout for a bit but usually bounce back quickly, because he knows it’s not personal.

Brings you flowers or little treats “just because”. Not in a showy way, but as a small cheer-up gesture.

He’s attentive about your body language. If you wince, he notices. If you curl up, he tucks blankets around you.

Can get a little too motherly at times, hovering with “Are you sure you don’t want to eat?” or “Here, just lie down, love.” Sometimes you have to tell him to stop fussing.

If you’re crying, he’ll cradle your face, kiss your temple, and murmur reassurances until you calm down. He thrives on being needed.

Will write silly little ditties about cramps just to make you laugh.

Compliments you more during this time, especially if you’re self-conscious. He’ll tell you you’re lovely, even if you feel awful.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

He is very observant. He notices if you’re doubled over,, or not yourself. He’ll hand you painkillers or tea without comment, like it’s routine.

He’ll give you space if you want it, checking in quietly: “Need anything?” If not, he’ll just sit nearby, doing whatever.

He’s calm about moods. If you snap, he rarely snaps back... he just lets it wash over him. Later he’ll say, “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

Likes to massage your lower back or feet.

Says things like, “I’ll stay out of your way before you murder me,” and then deliberately doesn’t stay out of your way, because he wants to make you roll your eyes.

He doesn’t mind running to the shop, but he’ll make a scene of it, coming back with an exaggerated sigh, saying, “I’ve braved the front lines for you.” Still, he gets exactly what you asked for.

Likes to distract you with music. He’ll sit cross-legged on the floor, strumming his guitar and chatting about random things until you’re laughing again.

He’ll happily sit through hours of TV or films with you, no complaints. He enjoys the excuse to laze about with you.

If you bleed on something, he laughs it off with a light comment, but he never makes you feel embarrassed.

He’s very hands-on. He thinks physical closeness helps more than words.

He has a sarcastic streak, and it definitely shows. He likes a bit of back-and-forth, it entertains him.

He also has a practical streak. If you’re too sore to go out, he’ll say, “Alright, I’ll nip out for you then,” and actually comes back with everything on the list. Plus something random he thought might make you laugh (a weird sweet, a magazine, whatever caught his eye).

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

Very considerate. He learns quickly with you. If you tell him what helps, he’ll remember every time.

He’s not squeamish at all. Blood, cramps, moods... none of it bothers him. He’s seen worse as a sickly kid in hospitals.

Very cuddly. He’ll happily sit in bed with you all day, watching TV or just holding you. He’s tactile, rubbing your back or stroking your arm, trying to comfort you with touch.

Not the most eloquent with words, but he tries: “You’ll be alright, love. Few days, yeah?” It’s simple but genuine.

He can be a bit thrown off if you snap at him, but he doesn’t hold grudges. He brushes it off quickly, usually with a joke.

He’s steady company. He’ll sit and read the paper next to you while you rest, occasionally reaching over to squeeze your hand. He makes the space feel calm.

He’s sweet about reminding you it’s temporary, even though you're 100% aware. “Couple more days and you’ll be back to throwing shoes at me, love.” He makes the whole thing feel less grim.

If you’re bedridden, he’ll happily “nest” with you. Stack of pillows, extra blankets, cups of tea, and the telly humming in the background. He doesn’t need to be anywhere else.

His sense of humor sneaks in constantly. If you groan too dramatically, he might clutch his own stomach and say, “Oh no, sympathy pains, I’ve caught it too.” Always trying to get a laugh out of you.

Loves distracting you with stories. He’ll chatter about some ridiculous tour memory, his childhood in Liverpool, or gossip about the other lads, just to keep your mind off the cramps.

Sometimes he gets playful and says, “You’re scaring me a bit, love,” if you’re in a foul mood. But he always says it with a grin, never with malice.

The night was a haze of heavy breathing and flushed skin, your body still trembling as you lay against the tangled sheets. The air smelled faintly of sweat, perfume, and the lingering sweetness of whatever record had been spinning on the player before he silenced it, preferring the rhythm of your breath over melody. Paul was beside you, chest rising and falling with an uneven cadence, his hair sticking to his temples, lips still parted from the kisses he had stolen in every pause between gasps and moans.

“Love…” His voice was husky, softened at the edges the way it always was when he was spent. His hand found your cheek, thumb brushing gently as if he were worried you might crumble beneath his touch. “Y’right there?”

You tried to nod, but the exhaustion sank deep, heavy as water pressing you down. He smiled faintly at that, warm, adoring, even a little guilty, and leaned in to press a kiss to your damp forehead.

Paul had been eager tonight, a little rougher than usual, driven by some restless hunger that had spilled out of him in the sharpness of his thrusts, the way he held you down, his whispers thick with need. You had given yourself over to it, riding each wave with him, letting him draw sounds from you that you’d never thought yourself capable of. And now... now he was all hands and lips and whispered apologies you didn’t even think necessary, fussing over you like the most attentive of caretakers.

“Hold still,” he murmured, sliding off the bed only to return with a soft towel, warmed faintly from resting near the radiator. He dabbed it over your skin, careful, reverent, tracing the contours of your thighs, your belly, your chest. Each press of cloth was followed by a kiss, like he couldn’t bear to tend to you without adding that extra note of devotion.

You let out a shaky laugh when he tucked the covers up around you, the domesticity of it almost comical after what the two of you had done minutes before. He caught the sound, smiled, and shook his head, curls falling over his eyes.

“Don’t you laugh at me,” he chided softly, brushing hair away from your face. “Gotta take care of my love. You’re precious, you know.”

Heat rose in your cheeks, not from the aftermath of sex but from the sincerity that poured from him in moments like this, leaving you undone in a different way.

The silence stretched comfortably this time, broken only by the sound of his steady breathing. You closed your eyes, letting the world slow down.

“You did so well, you know,” he whispered after a while, lips brushing your temple. “Made me lose my head completely.”

Heat rose to your cheeks, and he laughed quietly, not mocking, just fond. He kissed the corner of your mouth before leaning back to really look at you. “Want some water?”

You tried to shake your head, too tired to move, but he caught it anyway. “Don’t be stubborn.” He padded barefoot across the room, humming tunelessly to himself as he poured a glass. His body moved with that same casual grace he carried everywhere, even in the small, domestic things. When he came back, he helped you sit up, one hand behind your back, the other steadying the glass as you drank.

The water was cool, almost sweet after the heat. “Better?”

“Yeah.”

He smiled at the answer, eyes glinting with something playful though his voice stayed soft. “Good.” He set the glass down on the nightstand, then leaned back against the headboard, tugging you gently into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand stroked lazily up and down your arm, still warm from the effort of earlier, but steadier now.

For a long moment you just let yourself sink into him, cheek against the soft cotton of his shirt. He’d pulled it on absent-mindedly after tossing the towel aside, the neckline loose enough that you could feel his heartbeat beneath it. It was slow, solid, like the rhythm of a bass line that kept you anchored.

“D’you feel settled?” he asked after a beat, tipping his head down to catch your eyes.

You made a vague noise of affirmation, too heavy-limbed to string words together. That made him chuckle, a low sound that vibrated in his chest where your ear rested. “Alright. But you’re not getting away with just collapsing on me, not yet.”

You frowned faintly, half-asleep. “What?”

“Bathroom,” he said simply, tone gentle but firm in that no-nonsense way of his. “Better now than at three in the morning when you’re grumpy.” He smoothed his palm over your thigh, coaxing, not forcing. “Go on, love. I’ll wait.”

You groaned softly, hiding your face against him, but he only laughed again, brushing his lips over your hairline. “Don’t give me that. You’ll thank me.”

He shifted, sliding out from beneath you with surprising grace for someone as exhausted as he was, then bent to press a kiss to your forehead again. “Up you get. I’ll even walk you there.”

It was ridiculous and sweet all at once, the way he guided you by the hand down the short hallway as though you were fragile porcelain. He didn’t hover, just leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed, humming some half-remembered tune while you went through the motions. When you emerged, bleary-eyed but lighter somehow, he grinned as if he’d just won an argument. “See? Better already.”

You rolled your eyes, but he didn’t let go of your hand as he led you back to bed. Once you were under the covers again, he settled in beside you, pulling the blanket snug around your shoulders. His fingers brushed stray hair from your forehead before he tucked himself close, chest to your back, his breath warm against the nape of your neck.

“There we are,” he murmured, arms circling you tight. “Now you can sleep, proper. No worries left.”

The steady thrum of his heart lulled you, the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with clean sweat grounding you further. He hummed once more, barely audible, and with that you finally let go, drifting into the easy weight of his embrace.

The café off Wardour Street had been John’s unofficial hideout for weeks now. It was dim but not gloomy, all scratched wooden tables and chalkboard menus with curls of steam rising from teapots. Hardly anyone recognized him here, which was the point. He could slump into the corner booth with a notebook and a lukewarm cup and just watch people without anyone asking for autographs.

That’s where he noticed you. At first it was only the shape of you, there most afternoons like him, perched near the window with a battered book or a sketchpad. You had a way of folding yourself into the room that made you easy to overlook until, for some reason, John couldn’t stop looking.

He told himself it was just curiosity.

Days passed, and the routine became something John found himself anticipating. He’d duck in from the drizzle, scanning for your familiar shape before even ordering. Sometimes your eyes met and you’d give a brief nod; sometimes not. But each time, he felt that tug.

Finally, one damp Tuesday, he slid his notebook into his coat pocket and crossed to your table. “This seat taken?” he asked, tone casual but heart tapping a little faster than he liked.

You looked up, surprised but not put off. “No.”

He sat down, hands clasped on the table to still them. “I keep seeing you here,” he said, smirking a little. “Starting to think you’re following me.”

You laughed softly, the sound low but warm. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”

He grinned at that, something easing in his chest. The tension that usually sat on his shoulders. Like he always had to be clever, always had to be sharp... slipped a little. He leaned back, drumming his fingers against the table, then nodded toward your mug.

“Tea’s rubbish here, isn’t it? Like it’s been brewed in dishwater.”

You raised your brows, lips twitching. “And yet you keep ordering it.”

He barked a laugh, loud enough that the barista glanced over. “Caught me. Creature of habit. Can’t help myself. If it’s scalding hot and vaguely brown, I’ll drink it.” He lifted his cup and sniffed it with mock suspicion, then sipped anyway.

You shook your head, eyes dropping back to your own cup. “At least the weather makes up for it.”

That drew a crooked smile from him. “You’re joking. It hasn’t stopped raining since I got here. My shoes have been damp for a week.”

“Exactly,” you said, quiet but sure. “It suits this place. Imagine sitting here in bright sunshine. It’d feel wrong.”

John tilted his head, studying you with something sharper than amusement. “You like it gloomy?”

You shrugged, meeting his gaze for a beat before looking away again.

He let that settle in the space between you, tapping his spoon against the rim of his cup. Then, with a sudden shift, he nodded toward the counter where the old radio crooned a crackly tune. “At least the music’s decent. Better than some of the stuff they play in the big cafés.”

You listened for a moment, recognizing the faint swing of a jazz number. “It’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” he repeated, feigning scandal. “You wound me. That saxophone’s practically begging you to admit it’s brilliant.”

You smiled then, really smiled, and he caught himself leaning forward, greedy for it. “Alright,” you allowed. “It’s brilliant.”

“Thought so.” He sat back, satisfied, but the grin that lingered on his mouth gave him away. He’d won, but more than that, he’d drawn out a part of you he hadn’t seen yet, and he wanted more.

The silence between you hovered, comfortable on your end but twitchy on his. John wasn’t used to being the one straining for ground. Usually he said two words, pulled a face, and people bent over laughing or leaning closer. With you, though, every joke seemed to hang in the air waiting for judgment, and he couldn’t tell if he was winning.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “You read a lot of books, yeah? I’ve been meaning to, but every time I open one I get distracted. Last one I tried had about five pages of describing trees. Five pages. Who needs that many words for a tree? I closed it, never went back.”

You arched an eyebrow, lips quirking. “Maybe the author thought the trees were the point.”

He scoffed, but it came out a little sheepish. “Well then I’m not the audience, am I? I like stories that get to the fightin’ and kissin’ straight away.”

Your soft laugh slid under his skin like a secret reward. He brightened, emboldened.

“Actually, I wrote a short story once,” he blurted, leaning forward. “About a man who gets swallowed by his own reflection. Real poetic, you’d have loved it.”

“That sounds… scary,” you said, deadpan, though your eyes glinted.

He slapped the table, cackling. “Brilliant, more like!” He paused, waiting for you to match his enthusiasm, but you just stirred your tea slowly, smiling faintly. His grin faltered into a lopsided smirk. “Alright, maybe not brilliant. But it had something.”

A beat of quiet. He rapped his knuckles against his cup, then tried again. “I can play a tune on anything, you know. Give me a comb, a spoon, a bloody radiator, and I’ll make music out of it. Did it once at school, played the desk lid till the teacher lost his mind. Got detention, worth every second.”

You gave him a polite hum of amusement, then sipped your drink. Not the belly laugh he’d been aiming for.

John shifted, drumming his fingers against the table edge. “Tough crowd,” he muttered, feigning injury.

That did it. You burst out laughing, sudden and unrestrained, head tipping back as the sound rang brighter than anything in the café. It startled you as much as it startled him, but you couldn’t stop, the sheer ridiculousness of John Lennon sulking like a schoolboy had cracked you open.

John froze, staring at you with wide eyes, and then threw his hands up. “C'mon!” he exclaimed, incredulous, his accent dragging the word out like it was foreign on his tongue. “I try for ten minutes, nothing. One daft little pout, and you’re in stitches? You’re having me on.”

You covered your mouth, still laughing, shoulders shaking. “I’m sorry,” you managed between breaths. “It just-” another laugh slipped out, “it caught me off guard.”

John narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. “Unbelievable. I tell you about my groundbreaking comb-playing career, nada. I bare my soul about a man eaten by his own reflection, silence. But pull a face, and suddenly I’m a comedy genius.”

You wiped at your eyes, still grinning. “Guess you’re funnier when you’re not trying.”

“Ah, don’t say that,” he groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair. “You’ll ruin my whole act. Next thing I know, I’m retiring at twenty-three because you’ve sussed my secret.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad,” you teased, leaning an elbow on the table.

John tilted his head, squinting at you like you’d just spoken in code. “Not so bad? You’d deprive the world of me, of this, ” he waved a hand at himself, mock-grandiose, “and call it not so bad?”

You only smirked, letting his theatrics roll past. There was a calmness about you, a grounded way of watching him that made his words stumble, as though you weren’t dazzled like most. Instead, you weighed him, considered him, and that unsettled him more than anything.

He fiddled with his teaspoon, spinning it against the saucer. Somewhere in the middle of all that laughter, something had shifted. You’d laughed at him, not with pity, not to flatter him, but because he’d actually made you laugh. And now, with your elbow propped and your gaze soft but steady, he felt a tickle in his chest he hadn’t expected.

Bloody hell, he thought. He really liked you. He barely knew you.

The realization hit him sideways, uninvited. He tried to brush it off. And yet, there it was, gnawing at the edges of his bravado. His fingers drummed against the table again, restless.

“You know,” he said, voice dropping just a touch, “most people don’t give me this much grief on a first chat. Usually they’re falling over themselves to laugh at all the right bits.”

You tilted your head, amused. “Do you prefer that?”

John opened his mouth, ready with a reflexive “yeah,” but it stuck in his throat. He looked at you, really looked, and something twisted in his mind. “No,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “Not really.”

You smiled at that, small and genuine, and he felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. Crush. Definitely a crush.

To cover it, he leaned back, stretching his arms along the back of the booth like he owned the place. “Careful,” he drawled, forcing the grin back on his lips. “Keep this up and I’ll start thinking you actually like me.”

Your reply was maddeningly simple. “Would that be so bad?”

His heart stuttered so violently he had to cough to mask it. He bit back a grin, staring down at his half-empty cup, suddenly unsure of what to do with his own hands.

━━

The rain had long since eased by the time you both left the café that night. John walked you part of the way without really deciding to, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, rattling off some half-serious joke about slipping on the cobblestones. When you finally parted ways, you gave him that same unbothered little smile, the one that made him feel like he’d been seen through. He smoked two cigarettes back-to-back on the walk home, trying to shrug the weight in his chest, but it clung stubborn as damp wool.

Days blurred into rehearsals and studio time, but the thought of you threaded through it all. He caught himself scribbling scraps of conversation on napkins, turning phrases you’d said into crooked lyrics. Every time he laughed, he half-wondered if you’d have laughed too. It wasn’t just a passing thing; it had nested in him.

The lads were lounging in the studio one afternoon, half-tuned guitars humming, Paul tapping a rhythm against the wall. Conversation was thin, the sort of lull that usually left John cracking jokes just to fill it. Instead, he spoke without looking up from the strings in his lap.

“Met someone at that café down Wardour.”

There was a beat of silence, then George squinted. “What café?”

“The one with the bad tea,” John said, plucking a discordant note. “You wouldn’t like it. Anyway, not like the usual lot.”

Paul perked up immediately, eyes bright with curiosity. “Different how?”

John shrugged, trying to play it off casual, though his chest burned. “Don’t laugh at me unless I’m actually funny. Told me straight my stories were rubbish. Still kept sittin’ there, though.”

Ringo leaned back in his chair, grinning. “So you fancy em'?”

John shot him a look, half-daring him to press it, but the smirk tugging at his own mouth betrayed him. “What of it?”

George exchanged a knowing glance with Paul, but no one teased. Not yet. The quiet admission had landed heavier than expected, a rare sincerity breaking through John’s usual armor.

Paul strummed a lazy chord. “Well,” he said lightly, “if they’re giving you grief and you’re still talking about them, sounds like you’re done for, mate.”

“Okay,” John muttered, mocking exasperation, though his ears burned hot. “You lot act like I’m writing bloody sonnets already.”

But the way he bent his head over his guitar after, picking out a slow melody he didn’t usually share, told the truth better than he ever would with words.

━━

The next time he walked into the café, it was with a sharper edge to his stride. The bell over the door gave its familiar tinny ring, and before he’d even shaken the drizzle from his collar, his eyes darted to your usual seat. There you were, hunched slightly over a book, one hand cupped around a mug, steam fogging the window beside you.

John hesitated, just for a moment. He could walk past, take the corner booth like he sometimes did. But that wasn’t why he was here. He crossed the room and slid into the seat opposite you, uninvited but not unwelcome, lips curved in that grin he knew got him places.

“Caught you again,” he said, voice carrying just enough to draw your attention from the page.

You looked up, calm as always. “Looks like it.”

He leaned an elbow on the table, chin in his hand, studying you with a mock-serious squint. “You’re gonna start thinking I live here.”

“You might as well,” you said mildly, closing your book with a finger marking the page.

That easy response made his chest warm. He laughed, sharper than intended, then immediately softened it, lowering his voice as though you’d pulled the volume knob down on him. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll start bringing my washing, make myself at home.”

He was being too much; he could feel it. His every gesture came bigger than it needed to... flourishes of his hands when he talked, a louder chuckle than the joke deserved, leaning back then forward again like he couldn’t decide where to settle. And the whole time he was painfully aware of it, trying to reel himself in without seeming like he was trying.

You tilted your head, watching him with that infuriating, steady calm. “You seem… restless.”

“Restless?” He raised his brows, feigning outrage. “Me? I’m the picture of composure.” He gestured broadly to himself, nearly knocking over the sugar jar in the process. Catching it with a quick hand, he winced and muttered, “See? Grace incarnate.”

Your lips curved, a laugh threatening. “If you say so.”

“Don’t ‘if you say so’ me,” he shot back, grinning. “I came all this way to dazzle you with my wit. You’re meant to be swooning, not pointing out my nerves.”

There it was, out before he could catch it... nerves. He never admitted to nerves. His knee bounced under the table, and he flattened his palm against it to still the twitch.

You set your mug down, gaze lingering on him. “Why do you try so hard?”

He froze. The question wasn’t cruel, wasn’t teasing. Just simple, direct. And it cut through all the layers he’d piled on himself.

John cleared his throat, fumbling for something clever, something to twist the moment back in his favor. But your expression stopped him, the way you looked at him.

“I dunno. Maybe I like the company,” he said finally, softer than he meant to. His hand tightened on the edge of the table, knuckles pale. “I don’t want to bore you, y'know?”

The words hung there, raw and naked in the low hum of the café. He felt like he’d dropped his guard too far, like he’d shown too much. But you didn’t laugh, didn’t brush it off. You simply nodded, slow and thoughtful, and reached for your book again, though you didn’t open it.

John sat back, trying to disguise the rush of heat in his chest as he dragged on a cigarette. He let the smoke curl upward, staring at it like it might hide the flush creeping up his throat. He’d been too performative, too transparent, and yet you were still here. Still sitting across from him, unbothered by the cracks in his act.

And that, God help him, made him like you even more.

He tried again, lighter this time, his grin slipping back into place. “Alright, so maybe I’m not the smoothest bloke you’ve met. But you’ve got to admit, I’m persistent.”

You smiled, a real smile, and he felt the floor tilt beneath him again.

Persistent. That was one word for it. Hopeless was another.

“Funny thing,” he said, tone breezy though his pulse still thudded high in his throat. “I might’ve already put in an order for us.”

You blinked at him, brows raised. “Order?”

He leaned back with a smugness he didn’t quite feel, tugging his coat collar like it was the punchline of a joke. “Ice cream. Two bowls. Couldn’t resist. Thought you’d fancy it.”

“You ordered ice cream in this weather?” you asked, glancing toward the window where drizzle slid down the glass in crooked streams.

“Course I did. Nothing like frozen milk to ward off the damp.” He smirked, pleased with himself. “Besides, it’s my excuse to keep you here longer.”

You shook your head, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

The waitress appeared with two glass dishes, each crowned with a perfect, too-bright scoop of vanilla, the kind that already sweated under the café’s lamplight. She set them down with a faint smile, and John gave her a quick thanks before scooping up a mouthful like a man on a mission.

“See?” he said around the spoon, eyes alight as though this were the masterstroke of his whole plan. “Worth it.”

You watched him, half-exasperated, half-amused, then picked up your own spoon. The first bite made your teeth ache with cold, but you smiled anyway. “You are very persistent.”

The words landed with more weight than you intended. John grinned mid-bite, spoon hovering near his mouth, eyes snapping to yours. For a heartbeat he searched your face, like he wanted to read every hidden meaning in your expression.

Then he laughed, softer this time, setting the spoon down with a quiet clink. “Persistent,” he repeated, savoring it. “I know. I just said that.”

“Is there another way to word you?” you teased.

“Hopeless,” he admitted with a crooked grin, shrugging one shoulder. He looked at you with something unguarded, something that made his grin falter for just a second, as if he’d let too much slip. But instead of retreating, he dug his spoon back into the ice cream and popped it into his mouth like he hadn’t said a thing.

You let the moment breathe, the hum of the café wrapping around the both of you. The rain outside softened to mist, footsteps passing by in a blur. It felt as though the night had stretched itself out deliberately, to give you this pocket of time.

John tapped his spoon against the dish, restless again, but not in the same way as before. He looked at you with a spark that was more than bravado now, something steadier, something he wasn’t ready to name.

“Persistent, hopeless, whatever you want to call it,” he said finally, voice quiet but sure. “You’ll still be seeing me here.”

You smiled into your spoon, taking another bite of ice cream. “I don’t doubt it.”

And that was the end of it for the night, The two of you lingering over melting scoops, conversation weaving soft and low, while John Lennon, for once, was perfectly content to just sit there and let the world go on without him.

The flat was dim except for the soft glow of a lamp in the corner, its light spilling across the worn sofa where Ringo had stretched himself out. The rain tapped faint against the window, steady as a metronome. You’d only meant to rest a while, nothing more. His arm was warm around your shoulders, your head tucked beneath his chin, legs tangled without thinking. A quiet evening, both of you half-dozing in the comfort of being close.

Ringo hummed low in his chest, some half-finished melody caught between wakefulness and dream. You felt it through his ribs, the vibration seeping into you where your cheek rested against him. His fingers traced idle patterns on your arm, not purposeful, just something to keep from fidgeting.

“You comfortable?” he murmured, voice thick with drowsy fondness.

“Mhm.” You let your eyes close again, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne, something woodsy beneath the smoke and the day’s lingering rain.

It could’ve stayed like that, perfectly safe. But then his hand slipped, grazing the edge of your hip before settling there as if it belonged. His thumb drew slow arcs, not accidental, and you realized he was watching you from beneath heavy lashes.

“Y’know,” he said softly, grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re awful warm. Gonna put me to sleep right here.”

“Not my fault you’re using me as a pillow.”

“Mm,” he chuckled, the sound rumbling through you, “best pillow I’ve had.”

It was teasing, lighthearted, but the weight of his hand where it lingered was different. His gaze, too, not sleepy anymore but intent, searching. The air between you shifted, thickening, and before you could second-guess it, Ringo tilted his head and brushed his lips against your temple. A touch so gentle it might’ve been nothing... except it wasn’t.

Your breath caught. He noticed. His smile widened, boyish and wicked all at once. “That alright?”

You nodded, and that was all he needed.

The next kiss landed closer, at your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. He gave you the chance to pull away, but when you didn’t, he closed the gap. Warm, unhurried, lips parting just enough to taste you. His hand cupped your jaw, rough thumb stroking your skin, and the kiss deepened.

Ringo lingered there like he wasn’t in any hurry, like he meant to learn the shape of your lips the same way he might learn the rhythm of a song. His mouth moved slow at first, teasing, testing, pulling back just to press in again, softer, then firmer. His breath hitched faintly when you kissed back, and he let out a muffled little laugh against your lips, pleased, like he’d been half expecting you not to answer him.

Your bodies shifted closer without thinking. His arm, once draped lazily along your side, pulled you tight against his chest. You felt the heat of him through the thin barrier of your clothes, his heart thudding steady under your palm where it rested against him. He smelled faintly of smoke and soap, familiar and dizzying all at once, and the rain against the window faded until all you could hear was his breathing mingling with yours.

He broke the kiss for only a moment, forehead resting against yours, lips still brushing when he murmured, “Christ, you’re sweet…” His voice was low, almost reverent, but laced with something rougher underneath, a spark of hunger. He kissed you again before you could answer, a little firmer this time, catching your bottom lip between his and sucking gently until you gasped.

The sound seemed to undo him, he grinned against your mouth, then kissed you harder, messier. His tongue brushed yours, tentative at first, then bolder when you welcomed him in. The rhythm of it left your head spinning, every slide and press sending a shiver down your spine. He kissed like he couldn’t get enough, like he’d been holding back for too long.

One hand threaded into your hair, tugging lightly as he angled your head for better access, the other still cupping your jaw, steadying you. His body pressed you further into the cushions, his weight comforting and electric at once. The slow burn of it made you ache, made your pulse stutter with every shift of his lips.

It wasn’t soft for long. He shifted, rolling you beneath him, the sofa creaking in protest. His hair brushed your forehead as he kissed you harder, sloppier, tongues meeting with a hungry little sound that had him groaning low in his throat.

“God, been wanting to do that,” he muttered against your mouth, words hot and breathless. His hips pressed into yours without thinking, the friction sparking a jolt of heat through both of you.

Your hands clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer. “Richie-”

“Mm?” He nipped at your lower lip, grinning even as his hips rolled again, deliberate this time. The bulge in his trousers pressed firm against you, and the sound that escaped your throat only made his grin spread. “Yeah… you like that, don’t you?”

His voice dropped, husky now, velvet wrapped around gravel. “Cuddlin’ wasn’t supposed to get me hard, y’know. But you-” another grind of his hips, his breath hot against your ear “-you feel too good not to.”

Your protest dissolved into a gasp as his hand slid lower, fingers squeezing at your thigh before edging closer to where you ached most. He kissed you again, messy and wet, as if he couldn’t get enough, every motion threaded with the same desperate want that had been simmering between you all along.

The sofa sagged beneath the weight of both your bodies, springs groaning as if they too felt the heat crawling through the room. Ringo kissed you like he was starved, lips bruising yours with each drag, tongue sliding in to taste you, pulling back only to breathe your name like a prayer. His hands weren’t still anymore, they roamed your chest, your waist, down your thighs, greedy in their search, as if he needed to map every inch at once.

You clutched at him, fingers tangling in the soft fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. His laugh broke against your mouth, ragged and low. “Bloody hell, you’re keen.” But he didn’t pull away, not for a second. His hips ground into yours again, firmer this time, making you gasp. He groaned at the sound, forehead dropping to yours, his breath hot and uneven.

“Y’hear that?” he whispered, shifting so the hard line of his cock pressed right against you through thin layers of fabric. “That little noise you make, fuck, it’s drivin’ me mad.”

The words made your stomach twist with heat, and when he rolled his hips again, the friction nearly pulled another from you. He grinned, lips catching yours once more, sloppy and urgent.

“Bet I can make you louder than that,” he muttered, voice darkened by want. His hand slid between you, bold now, cupping you. The sudden pressure had you arching up against him, a strangled gasp escaping before you could stop it.

“Ah-Rich-”

“Mhm, that’s it.” He kissed along your jaw, nipping at your skin, murmuring against the curve of your neck. “Knew you’d sound sweet…” His thumb pressed at you through the fabric, slow circles that had you twitching beneath him. “Been wantin’ you.”

Your head tipped back against the armrest, heat clawing through your body with every touch. He slipped his hand lower, fumbling impatiently at your waistband until you lifted your hips to help. He laughed under his breath before sliding his hand inside.

The first stroke of his fingers around your wet folds tore a choked moan from your throat. “Ohhh-”

Ringo groaned, pumping you slow at first, savoring it. “That’s what I wanted. Hot in my hand, beggin’ for it.” He kissed you hard then, swallowing every broken sound that slipped out as his hand worked faster, rough and sure.

You bucked into his palm, lost in the wet drag of his tongue against yours, the scrape of his teeth when he bit at your lip. His other hand gripped your hip, holding you down as he stroked over your clit and slipped lower to tease your entrance, relentless, grinning when your body writhed beneath him.

“Let me hear you,” he urged, breath hitching, his own hardness grinding against your thigh.

You groaned at his words, the roughness of them, the way he said it like he owned the sounds you made. His hand still toyed at you slow, teasing, but it wasn’t enough. Not close. You needed more, and the ache in your gut told you Ringo did too.

You grabbed at his wrist, halting his movements, breath ragged. “Rich,”

“What is it, love?” His grin was crooked, breathless, his hair falling into his eyes. He leaned down, kissing you again, tongue wet and hungry against yours. “Want somethin’ else?”

You shifted under him, pressing your thigh harder against his cock, feeling how solid and hot he was through his trousers. “Yeah,” you rasped, unable to keep the plea out of your voice.

“Fuck,” he groaned, rutting against you once before pulling back just enough to look at you properly. “Been thinkin’ about it since the first night you fell asleep on me. Dreamed about it, too. You lettin’ me fuck you right here, makin’ this couch squeak till the neighbors bang on the walls.”

The filth of it had your pulse hammering, heat crawling up your neck. “Then do it already.”

His grin turned wolfish, and he moved quick, shoving his trousers down just enough to free himself. His cock sprang out, flushed and hard, the sight alone making your mouth dry. He stroked it once with a hiss through his teeth, precum shining on his fingers. “Christ, look at you watchin’. Gonna drive me mad.”

You scrambled to tug your own trousers down, clumsy with urgency. Ringo helped, laughing low, tossing them aside carelessly before spreading your legs wide under him. His eyes darkened as he looked down at you, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Bloody gorgeous. Can’t believe I get to have this.”

He spat into his hand, slicking himself quick, then pressed the head of his cock against you, teasing your entrance. You shuddered, gripping the back of the sofa, breath stuttering.

“Relax,” he whispered, the words tender even with the hunger in his eyes. He pushed, slowly, stretching you around the blunt thickness of him. The burn made your toes curl, but the pleasure laced through it had you moaning, head tipping back.

He groaned, voice tight as he sank in deeper. “Sound so good when I’m inside you.” Inch by inch, until he bottomed out with a shaky gasp, forehead pressing to yours.

You clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders. “Move, please.”

He didn’t make you wait. Pulling back, he thrust in again, slow at first, letting you adjust, then harder, faster, his hips slapping against yours. The sofa squeaked exactly like he promised, every movement sending jolts of pleasure through you until you couldn’t hold back the noises spilling out of your throat.

“God, yeah,” Ringo panted, watching your face as he fucked into you. “That’s what I wanted, your voice. Wanna hear every bit of it.” He slammed in deep, pulling a ragged cry from you that made him groan loud, hips stuttering. “There it is, fuck, do it again for me.”

Each thrust grew rougher, sweat dampening his hair, his chest pressing to yours as he drove into you. The heat built sharp, relentless, your body clenching around him as you gasped his name over and over.

He bent to kiss you, messy and urgent, all tongue and teeth, his hand gripping your jaw to hold you still as he swallowed every noise you made. When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked. “Not lettin’ you finish without me buried in you, wanna feel you cum all over my cock, yeah?”

The words alone should’ve undone you, but instead they pulled you tighter, stretched that burning coil inside you until it hurt not to let go. Your nails dragged down his back through the sweat-damp fabric of his shirt, and he hissed, rutting harder into you, couch springs shrieking in protest.

His hand that had been gripping your jaw slipped lower, curling around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, anchoring you beneath him while his thrusts grew deeper, rougher. The weight of it made you arch, every nerve sparking alive as he pounded into you.

“Christ, you’re clenching like you’re tryin’ to keep me in forever,” he rasped, eyes rolling back for a beat before snapping to yours, glazed and desperate. “Never had it this good. Never.”

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty, your body jerking in protest. A broken sound left your throat. “No, no, don’t-”

“Shh, hush,” he soothed, voice wicked with a grin curving his swollen lips. “Not stoppin’, love. Just-” He grabbed your hips, flipping you with surprising ease until you were on your stomach, chest pressed to the arm of the sofa, ass up. His palms spread you open, and he groaned at the sight.

Before you could plead, he pushed back in, bottoming out with a guttural moan. The angle was different now, deeper, his cock hitting a spot that made you cry out, muffled by the cushion you bit into.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Ringo panted, slapping your ass with a sharp smack that echoed. “Arch for me, fuck, just like that. Beautiful. Takin’ me so well.”

Each thrust slammed into you with wet, obscene sounds, his hand gripping your hip so tight you’d bruise. He leaned over, pressing his chest to your back, panting into your ear. “Feelin’ me everywhere, yeah?” He bit your shoulder, groaning as you squeezed around him.

He shifted again, dragging you half off the sofa so your feet barely touched the floor, folding you open for him. The precarious balance only made it filthier, your body rocked by his pace, the sofa groaning under both your weight.

Your body burned, every thrust pulling you higher, but he wasn’t letting you fall yet. His hand snaked beneath you, finding your swollen clit, but instead of stroking quick, he teased, rubbing slow, holding you right at the brink.

The frustration clawed through your chest in broken cries. “Ri- please- oh, fuck, please-”

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned, thrusts turning brutal, his cock driving into you deep enough to knock the air from your lungs. “Beg for me, want to hear it when you break.” His thumb finally slid over your clit, circling fast, rough strokes that matched the slap of his hips.

It was too much. The denial had wound you tight as wire, and the sudden release of his hand sent you spiraling. Your back arched, head dropping as a raw, wrecked moan tore from your throat. Your orgasm hit like a flood, cunt pulsing around him as you shook violently while he fucked you through it.

Ringo gasped, watching the way you seized around him. He slammed into you harder, chasing his own end, eyes wild as he felt you clamp down on his length.

You were still trembling when he lost it too. His voice cracked into a groan, guttural and raw, as he buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing inside you. The heat of his release flooded you, each pulse dragging another broken moan from him as he clung to you, hips stuttering until he had nothing left to give.

The room was a haze of sweat, sex, and rain against the windows. Both of you collapsed forward, the sofa squealing under the weight as he slumped across your back, panting. His lips brushed your shoulder, soft now, murmuring between breaths. “Bloody… hell… never thought a cuddle’d end with me comin’ apart like that.”

You laughed weakly, still shaking, pressing your cheek to the worn cushion. “Not very innocent, was it?”

Ringo chuckled, warm and low, pulling out slow before flopping beside you and dragging you against his chest. “No,” he sighed, kissing your damp hair with surprising tenderness. “But the best fuckin’ cuddle I’ve ever had.”

The sofa groaned again beneath you, but neither of you moved. You stayed tangled, breath syncing as the rain tapped steady on the glass, the heat of him wrapped around you like a promise.

And if he hummed you half to sleep with a tune under his breath, neither of you mentioned it.

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

He’s fascinated by texture, always running his fingers through your curls even when you tell him not to because it frizzes them up. He’ll grin and say “What, they look better wild.”

Secretly jealous that your hair has so much volume compared to his, especially in the 70s when his got lank. He’ll tug on one of your curls and mutter, “Wish mine did that.”

Sometimes when he’s feeling silly he’ll try to imitate your hair, twisting his own straight strands into coils and then pouting because they fall out.

If you have a routine with products or methods, he will tease you about the number of steps. “That’s a bloody military operation just to wash your head”

Likes when your curls are loose and messy after a long day, says you look “proper decadent” like you’ve just wandered out of a painting.

He’ll bury his face in your hair when he’s tired; curls are softer than any pillow to him.

Loves when your hair gets messy because of the weather, says it gives you a “rock and roll look” and insists you shouldn’t try to tame it. He thinks it’s cooler wild.

Sometimes he draws little doodles of you with exaggerated curls, big spirals covering the page, but when he shows you, there’s a warmth in the way he sketches you.

He also never notices when you’ve taken time to style it. What the freak.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

He notices immediately if you’ve done something different with your curls. Trimmed, styled, diffused, and he compliments you sincerely. “It frames your face just right today.”

Loves the bounce of curls. He’ll tug one down, let it spring back, and giggle every single time like it’s the best party trick.

He’s quite practical and will remind you not to over-brush them, having picked up on your complaints about frizz. He’ll be like, “Leave ’em alone, love, they’re perfect as they are.”

In the studio he’ll sometimes absentmindedly wrap a curl of yours around his finger while talking, like it grounds him.

Writes little notes or songs inspired by how your hair catches the light, because he’s that sort of romantic. Duh!

If you fall asleep on his shoulder and wake up with your curls flattened, he’ll joke that it looks like you’ve been run over, then fix it gently with his hands. (Probably made it worse)

He loves styling your hair for you. He’s careful with a comb, separates your curls gently, and gets ridiculously proud when it comes out looking good. “See, told you I’d make a proper hairdresser, love.”

Absolutely melts when your hair is damp after a shower, curls clinging to your face. He tucks strands back behind your ears like it’s the most delicate job in the world.

Paul’s vanity means he’s sometimes jealous if you’re getting more compliments than him. But instead of sulking, he’ll just preen and insist you two make “the best-haired couple.”

Loves when you let him tie it back or experiment with styles, even if he botches it... he takes pictures in his head, storing every look.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

He’s bold enough to tug playfully at your curls, smirking when you complain.

Sometimes when you’re lying together he’ll absentmindedly trace one curl between his fingers, completely lost in thought. It calms him.

He thinks your curls suit your personality, however it may be.

If you’re lively, he says they’re bright and energetic; if you’re calm, he says they’re soft and grounding. He romanticizes them without making a big show of it.

Loves when you let your curls down after they’ve been tied back all day. He always notices, always tells you you look amazing, even if he’s otherwise quiet.

If you’re insecure about frizz or volume, George reassures you in a low, steady tone, not showy but firm, and somehow it always makes you believe him.

Loves seeing your curls backlit by sunlight. He’ll stare without realizing, like the light caught in them is too much to look away from.

If you’re having a bad hair day, George will casually pull his hat off and plop it on your head.

He just finds your hair fun. He likes how it feels between his fingers when you’re sitting close.

By the time of his 70s perm, he’d laugh about how yours is the real thing and his was “all chemical.”

He’d say it was easier for him since he could just wash it and go, but he knows it doesn’t compare.

He liked having curls like you, even if only temporary.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

He actually thinks curls are fun and will ask if he can try twisting one now and then.

If you get caught in the rain together and your curls spring tighter, he laughs with affection and says you look even better like that.

He’s surprisingly observant about your hair care.

When you lean on him, he strokes the back of your head, fingers slipping gently through curls without tugging. It’s grounding for him as much as it is for you.

He’s the type to bring home random scarves or headbands he thinks you’d look good in, eager to see how they look wrapped around your curls.

Loves kissing your hair, especially the crown of your head, and will hum against it like it’s second nature.

If you’re ever self-conscious about your hair, Ringo reminds you that it’s “just hair” but also tells you he loves it as it is, never making you feel pressured to change it.

Maybe he’d joke, “Don’t let me near you in the rain, I’ll look like a drowned rat and you’ll still look stylish.”

Likes how unique you look next to him. Especially when so many fans tried to mimic their straight, mop–top styles. You stand out in a way he thinks is brilliant.

Later on, he’d sometimes ask if you ever thought of changing it up, but only out of curiosity. He genuinely thinks it’s part of what makes you you, and he’d never want you to feel pressured.

The streets were hushed in the hour after tea, the kind of dusky quiet that came when most families had drawn their curtains and switched on lamps. You walked alone, the ribbon in your hair bouncing lightly with each step, your basket swinging at your side. The evening was still, the air holding the faint smell of coal smoke and bread that had cooled on windowsills hours ago.

You liked this time of day. Halfway between day and night, when the sky blushed faintly pink at the edges, when the world seemed gentler. Your shoes tapped against the cobbles, steady, unhurried.

The sound of boots scuffing behind you made you glance over your shoulder. A boy leaned lazily against a lamppost, cigarette balanced between his fingers. His jacket, black, sharp-shouldered, marked him as one of those lads you’d been told to avoid, the kind that laughed too loud and fought too quick. His hair fell in a slick wave across his forehead, mouth tugged into a smirk even before he spoke.

“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Sunshine,” he drawled, pushing off the post.

You blinked, pausing just enough to give a polite smile, the way you might to anyone who addressed you kindly. “Hello.”

He caught up with two long strides, falling in at your side as if he belonged there. “Pretty late for a stroll, innit? Streets get rough when it’s dark. Lucky for you I was here.”

Your steps didn’t falter, though you tilted your head, ribbons brushing your cheek. “Oh… thank you, but I don’t live far. I’m all right.”

John’s grin widened. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his drainpipe trousers, pulling the taut fabric even tighter across his hips. “Yeah, but a girl like you shouldn’t be walking alone. Anyone could come along, try their luck. Could be a shame if your pretty little dress got grubby, eh?”

You laughed softly, thinking it only his way of being chivalrous, a bit dramatic. “I guess not.”

He nodded, grinning. He watched your profile as you walked, taking in the pale of your dress, the slight sway of the skirt, and the completely guileless expression on your face. You were like something from another time, a picture book girl dropped onto a rough street corner.

“Where’ve you been, then?” he pressed, the amusement clear in his voice. “Off to see your fancy fella?”

You shook your head quickly, a bit flustered by the suggestion. “No, no. I was only at the library.”

“Library,” John repeated, savoring the word as if it were something fragile. “Figures. Thought I smelled books on you.”

You glanced at him, uncertain if that was meant as an insult or not, but his expression was too amused to read. His eyes glimmered, dark and full of something you didn’t quite understand.

“Well, what do you read, then? Fairy tales?” he asked, tilting closer, voice teasing.

“Not really... Sometimes,” you admitted, cheeks warming. “They’re nice.”

He let out a laugh that scraped low in his chest. “Course you would. Princesses and happy endings. Bet you believe in all that, don’t ya?”

You shrugged. “I don’t see what’s wrong with it,” you said gently.

John’s tongue darted against his teeth, grin curling. “Nothing wrong at all.”

The way he said it made something in your chest flutter strangely, though you pushed it aside. He was only being cheeky, you thought. That was all.

He let his gaze drop to the slight basket that still swung rhythmically at your hip. “What’ve you got in there, then? Secrets?”

You laughed, a soft, high sound. “No. Just a pastry. A few books. Nothing interesting.”

John’s eyes flicked back up, meeting yours, and the smirk he usually wore seemed to soften just a fraction, a shift that somehow made the look more intense. “To me, you’re interesting,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing the exaggerated drawl and becoming something low and almost rough. “Really interesting.”

The directness of it made your cheeks burn, and you quickly looked away, focusing on the uneven cobbles beneath your shoes. It felt too sudden, too much of a declaration for a conversation that had started with a taunt about your clothes.

“Well, I… I don't know,” you murmured, adjusting the handle of your basket.

He didn’t push, didn't try to touch you, but the awareness of him walking so close, his sharp-shouldered black jacket a definite shadow next to your pale dress, was palpable. He just kept his pace to yours, the silence stretching, not awkward, but thick with the unsaid.

“I like your ribbons.” He paused, a strange, thoughtful expression crossing his face. “They look like they’d come undone easy. Slip right off.”

You quickened your step slightly, a subtle signal that the walk was ending. “It’s a strong knot,” you said, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”

He chuckled, a quick, almost predatory sound. “Bet you have.”

You’d reached the row of houses now, the quiet part of the street where curtains were already drawn. You slowed, glancing toward your door. The gate was a low, white picket fence, a picture of domestic tranquility compared to the smoky world he seemed to inhabit. “Well… thank you for walking me, but I’m here now.”

John didn't stop, instead walking past your gate, then turning to lean back against the gatepost, his hands staying deep in his pockets, making his shoulders look even broader. He was a silhouette in the amber lamplight. “Pleasure’s mine. Can’t let a girl with ribbons in her hair get snatched up by shadows.”

You stood on the pavement, feeling the soft crunch of gravel under your heels. You were safe, you were home, yet you were still standing outside with him.

“I should go in,” you said simply, your hand finding the latch on your own gate.

“Right,” he agreed, but he made no move to leave. He just watched you, the lazy, half-lidded stare that made you feel thoroughly, knowingly inspected. The amusement in his dark eyes was tinged with a blatant, frank interest that made your stomach flip. It was the look of someone contemplating exactly what they wanted and how they planned to get it.

He pushed off the post, taking one single, slow step toward you, not close enough to crowd you, but close enough to make you hold your breath. “G’night, then. Princess.”

—

The morning came gentle, sunlight pressing golden against the lace curtains of your room. Birds chattered in the garden, and the street outside hummed faintly with the start of another ordinary day. You hummed too, pulling your ribbon tight into place, smoothing the pale fabric of your sundress before reaching for the small basket you used for errands.

It should’ve been ordinary. It would have been... except when you stepped outside, the air seemed heavier, like it carried something waiting. You closed the door behind you, hand lifting to twist the key in the lock...

You jumped.

There he was. Leaning against the porch railing like he belonged there, cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes hidden half in shadow. He looked utterly at ease, as though your front step were his own, as though he’d been standing there all morning waiting for you.

“Morning, sunshine,” he drawled, voice thick with amusement.

Your fingers faltered on the key. “Oh! Hello. Um…” You blinked, heart stuttering. “What are you doing here?”

He exhaled smoke in a lazy curl. “Waiting.”

“For…?”

“You.”

The word was so simple, spoken as if it explained everything. His grin curled wider at your baffled expression, eyes darting over your ribbon, your dress, your basket. He made no attempt to move, blocking the way down your steps.

You swallowed, unsure whether to laugh or frown. “Did you… need something?”

“Yeah,” John said, straightening now, stepping closer. His boots thudded heavy on the wood, his shoulders filling the space. “Wanted to see you again.”

Your brows knit, confusion tugging at your lips. “We only just met last night.”

“That’s enough, innit?” His gaze swept over you, slow and unashamed, lingering in ways that made your skin prickle. “Didn’t think I’d let you run off without another word.”

You clutched the basket tighter, shifting your weight. “But… you don’t even know my name.”

His eyes narrowed, not in anger but amusement, as though he’d been waiting for you to offer. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers, ash trembling at the tip. “Go on, then. Tell me.”

You hesitated, the quiet of the morning pressing in around you. It felt strange, handing your name over so quickly to someone who had appeared like a shadow at your door, but his expectant gaze tugged the syllables right out of you.

“(Name),” you said softly.

John let it roll on his tongue, slow and deliberate. “(Name).” He repeated it again, savoring the shape of it, as if he’d tuck it away for later use. Then his grin sharpened, eyes glinting. “Suits you.”

You blinked, not sure whether to take it as compliment or mockery. “And you?”

His chuckle came low, carrying the faint rasp of smoke. “John.”

The name hung between you for a beat, solid and weighty now that it was real.

You tucked your ribbon behind your ear, trying to steady yourself. “Well… John. I guess you can walk with me, if you’d like.”

He smirked, slipping the cigarette back between his lips. “Oh, I’d like.”

And so you set off, heels clicking against the cobbles, basket swinging at your side. He fell into step with ease, shoulders brushing close whenever the pavement narrowed. Every now and then, he glanced down at you, lips twitching like he was holding back some private joke.

“You always wear ribbons, then?” he asked, after a stretch of silence broken only by birds and distant traffic.

“I like them,” you said simply, fingertips brushing the satin bow at the nape of your neck.

He hummed, eyes dragging across the bright loop of fabric. “Makes you look like a present.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you forced a small laugh. “That’s silly.”

“Not silly at all,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for his breath to touch your cheek. “Pretty as a picture.”

You turned your gaze forward quickly, clutching your basket tighter. He laughed at that, delighted, as if your fluster were the very reaction he wanted.

The streets opened toward the market square, stalls blooming with fresh vegetables, flowers, fabrics bright against the cobbles. You quickened your pace instinctively, drawn to the chatter and color, while John sauntered behind, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

At one stall, you paused to admire strawberries piled high in a wooden crate. They gleamed in the morning sun, fat and red, almost glowing. John plucked one without asking, bit into it, juice sliding down his thumb.

“Oi,” the vendor scolded, half-hearted.

John only grinned, flicking a singular coin onto the table. Then he held the half-eaten berry out toward you, grin wicked. “Want a taste?”

Your lips parted, startled. “No... thank you. I’ll get my own.”

He popped the rest into his mouth, tongue darting across his fingers to catch the juice. His eyes never left yours, and the heat in them made your stomach knot.

You busied yourself with your own small purchase, coins clinking, trying not to think of how casually he stood at your shoulder, as though you belonged to him already.

By the time your basket was filled with bread, fruit, and a few sprigs of flowers tucked on top, the sun had climbed higher, warming the stones beneath your feet. You turned toward home, ribbon bobbing, and John fell in line without needing to be asked.

“Don’t you have anywhere else to be?” you asked, half-laughing to hide the unease curling in your chest.

He shook his head, grin widening. “Already told you, love. Got all the time in the world for you.”

The words hung heavy in the air, settling in your chest in a way you couldn’t quite name. You looked down at your basket, at the neat rows of fruit and bread inside, trying to quiet the flutter that his voice stirred.

But then his boots scuffed the pavement louder, his pace quickening, and before you could even ask why, John swung around in front of you. He stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, shoulders squared, the morning sun catching on the curve of his smirk.

You halted short, clutching the basket tight to your stomach. “Oh- sorry. Did you drop something?”

“No,” he said, leaning forward just enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes. “Didn’t drop a thing.”

You glanced to the side, meaning to step around him, but he shifted easily, blocking the way again. The move was smooth, practiced, like a game he already knew the rules to.

“John…” Your voice came out quieter than you meant, a tremor laced in. “You’re in the way.”

Instead of telling you why, he leaned forward, close enough that his shadow cut across your dress. “Go out with me.”

The words landed like stones in your chest. Your breath caught. “What?”

He smirked, repeating it slower, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “Go. Out. With me.”

Your fingers fumbled at the rim of your basket. “But… we only just met. Yesterday.”

His shrug was quick, almost dismissive. “So what?”

You stared at him, stunned. You thought of the books you read. The thought of someone asking after only a day felt... impossible. Too sudden.

But then you thought of those very same books, the way a bold declaration sometimes swept the girl away, how the prince or soldier would stand before her, refusing to move until she gave her answer. Your chest fluttered, uncertain. Was this what it was supposed to be like?

“I’ve never-” you began, then stopped, cheeks heating.

John tilted his head, smirk curling into something softer. “Never been asked before?”

You hesitated. “No...”

His grin widened, wolfish again. “Then you’re lucky.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears. You glanced down at your sandals, at the ribbon ends swaying against your shoulder. “When…?” you asked, the word small.

He stepped closer, so close the scent of smoke and leather filled your head, and said, low and certain, “Now.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. He stood there like he owned the path, gaze steady, grin daring you to refuse.

“Now?” you echoed faintly, mind racing with images of candlelit dances, roses, scenes that belonged on page rather than in the dusty morning air of your own street.

“Now,” John said again, and there was no trace of uncertainty in him. Just want, sharp and unyielding, wrapped in a smile that promised trouble.

You held his gaze, your own wide and uncertain, as though if you looked long enough you might read what lay behind his eyes. But all you found was insistence, a refusal to be denied. Your basket wobbled in your hands, flowers trembling on top of bread.

At last, you gave the smallest nod. It wasn’t agreement so much as surrender.

His grin spread, triumphant. “Knew you’d see sense.”

Before you could reply, he reached for the basket on your arm. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted it easily, swinging it against his side. “Light as anything. What’ve you got in here, paper and petals?”

“It’s… my groceries.. you were there... you watched me buy them,” you murmured, still dazed by how quickly everything had shifted.

“Groceries, eh? Well, consider ’em handled.” He ignored everything else you said. He tipped his chin toward the road ahead, already walking, forcing you to follow. “Come on, sunshine. Got places to be.”

You trailed after him, your shoes slapping against the cobbles, ribbon bouncing with each quick step. The sunlight poured down hot, making your skin prickle, but John moved like a shadow even in daylight. Sharp, restless, tugging you into his rhythm whether you wanted to or not.

“Where are we going?” you asked finally, voice catching in your throat.

He didn’t slow, only glanced back with that sly grin. “Out. Didn’t you hear me?”

“Yes, but… where?”

“Somewhere.”

Time seemed to bend as he led you away from the market, through side streets you rarely walked. He didn’t ask what you wanted, didn’t give you room to hesitate. The world blurred past, the red brick of terraced houses, laundry flapping on lines, the cry of children playing in an alley.

The streets thinned out, giving way to overgrown lots and forgotten corners.

Then he stopped before a rusted fence that leaned half-collapsed, one side nearly swallowed by ivy. Behind it rose an odd jumble of brick and stone, a half-demolished wall, the remains of some old building, climbing unevenly upward until it looked almost like a makeshift tower.

Your steps slowed. “We’re not…” You trailed off, uncertain, eyeing the height of it.

John’s grin widened, cigarette bobbing. “We are.”

Your basket swung from his hand as he tossed his head toward the wall. “Come on, sunshine. Up we go.”

Your heart thudded. “Up there? But... it isn’t safe.”

“That’s the fun of it.” He set the basket carefully at the base of the wall, out of the way, then stretched his arms as though limbering up. “I’ll go first, show you how it’s done. Don’t worry, I’ll come back for you.”

Before you could protest, he’d already hooked a boot into a jutting stone and hauled himself upward with a practiced ease that made you dizzy just watching. The black of his jacket flashed against brick, the curve of his grin visible even when he glanced down at you halfway up.

“See? Easy.”

You pressed your hands together nervously, the basket of groceries abandoned at your feet like a forgotten shield. “Easy for you.”

“Don’t be daft,” he called down. “Come on. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

That didn’t comfort you as much as it was meant to. Still, something in his tone, teasing, commanding, propelled you forward. You gripped the rough stone, fingers trembling, and lifted your skirt slightly to place your foot against the first ledge.

“Atta girl,” John murmured when you managed a few steps, his voice closer now. He’d scrambled down just far enough to lean and extend a hand. “Here. Take it.”

You hesitated, breath caught, before sliding your fingers into his. His palm was warm, rough, callused in a way that made your pulse race. He pulled you up with surprising gentleness, though his grip lingered a moment longer than necessary.

“Not so hard, is it?” he said, smirk tugging at his lips.

“Hard enough,” you muttered, cheeks hot.

He laughed, low and satisfied, guiding your hand to the next hold, his body close behind you now. Each shift upward pressed you nearer, the heat of him brushing your back, the faint scrape of his jacket against your dress. You tried not to think of it, but your breath came quicker, uneven.

At last he swung up over the top, then crouched to help you. “Give me your hands,” he ordered, reaching down.

You lifted them, trembling, and he caught your wrists, hauling you the final distance with a strength that startled you. For a dizzy second, you stumbled against him, his arm catching at your waist to steady you. The world tilted, all brick and sky and the press of him.

“Careful, love,” he murmured, close enough that you felt his breath on your cheek. “Can’t have you tumbling back down.”

Your heart fluttered wildly, though you stepped quickly aside, smoothing your dress as though nothing had happened. He only smirked.

Then you looked around, and gasped.

The ruin’s top opened onto a wide, flat expanse, half-hidden by overgrowth. From here you could see the rooftops stretching for miles, chimneys like tiny matchsticks, the river glinting silver in the distance. Wildflowers had claimed the cracks in the stone, spilling color where no one expected it. It was quiet, private, as though the city below had melted away.

“Oh…” The sound slipped from you before you could stop it.

John watched your face instead of the view, grin softer now, almost smug. “Told you it’d be worth it.”

You turned slowly, ribbon sliding against your shoulder, eyes wide with wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” he said, though his gaze never left you.

His eyes stayed on you, and the grin that curved his mouth made it clear he liked what he saw more than any view. You stood there, sundress lifting faintly in the breeze, ribbon brushing your cheek, and the wonder in your face was so open it made you look almost unreal.

Then sprawled down on the sun-warmed stone as though he owned it. “Sit down. Don’t just stand there gawkin’.”

You hesitated, then gathered your skirt and sank beside him, legs folded neatly. “Forget all that. You’re prettier to look at.”

You flushed, eyes darting down, hands smoothing your dress just for something to do. “You’re very forward.”

“Forward’s the only way I know.” He leaned onto one elbow, body angled toward you, his voice lower now, without the careless drawl. “Not gonna waste time pretendin’.”

The air seemed hotter with him this close, his jacket brushing your arm. You glanced sideways, ribbon ends tickling your collarbone, and found his eyes waiting. They weren’t mocking anymore, they were hungry, glinting dark like the shine on wet stone.

“You don’t even know me,” you whispered.

“I know enough.” His fingers reached, not to grab, just to toy with the edge of your ribbon where it rested against your shoulder. He tugged lightly, satin sliding beneath his touch. “Knew the second I saw you I wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your breath snagged. He laid back fully, folding his arms behind his head, eyes half-lidded against the sun. “Come on then, lie down. Stone’s warm. Feels good.”

Shyly, you eased onto your side beside him. The stone radiated heat into your dress, into your skin. You folded your hands against your stomach, trying to ignore how close his hip was to yours.

For a while, you only lay there, silence filled with the faint hum of bees in the wildflowers, the distant shouts of boys on the street below. Then John’s voice cut through, softer than you expected. “Bet you’ve never skipped school, never nicked a thing in your life.”

You shook your head quickly. “No, never.”

He chuckled, a low scrape of sound. “Thought so. Proper little doll.” He turned onto his side suddenly, facing you now, elbow propped, head cradled in his hand. His gaze roamed your face, your lips, then lower, dragging across the curve of your dress where the fabric clung to your waist. “D’you even know what it does to me, lookin’ at you like this?”

You blinked, heart pounding, unsure how to answer. "No..."

“That’s all right.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping, almost coaxing. “I’ll show you.”

Your breath hitched, and you started to sit up, but his hand pressed lightly to your stomach, keeping you down, not rough, just firm. “Easy, love. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

The heat of his palm sank through cotton, startling in its intimacy. Your thighs pressed together, confused by the rush of sensation that shot low in your belly. He watched the flicker in your face, lips curling. “That’s it. You feelin’ it?”

You gave the tiniest nod, unable to look at him.

John’s grin sharpened, but his voice stayed low, coaxing. “Good girl. Just let me.” He shifted down, sliding onto his stomach between your knees. For a moment, you didn’t even understand what he meant to do, until he hooked his hands beneath your thighs and eased them apart.

“John-!”

“Shhh.” His breath was hot against the inside of your knee. “Trust me.”

Your whole body trembled with nerves, the stone beneath you hard and sun-warmed, the sky wide above, and him, this boy with the slick hair and dangerous smirk, kneeling between your legs as if he’d been meant to be there all along. You’d never let anyone touch you like this, never even thought about how it would feel, and yet the weight of his hands on your thighs, the rough scrape of his thumbs against your skin, steadied you in a way that aroused you even more.

“John…” Your voice came out as a whisper, breathless, uncertain.

He looked up, eyes darker than you’d ever seen, but softened around the edges. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Nothin’ to be scared of. Just let me make you feel good, eh?”

Your hands clutched the folds of your dress bunched at your stomach.

You gave the smallest nod, heart hammering.

“That’s it,” he coaxed, voice husky but gentle, like he was teaching you how to breathe. He lowered his head, pressing a slow kiss to the inside of your thigh. The brush of his lips startled you, so tender compared to everything else about him. Another kiss, higher now, then another, until heat pooled between your legs and your breath caught.

When his mouth finally pressed against the damp cotton of your knickers, your whole body jolted. A cry escaped you, soft and shocked, before you slapped a hand over your lips as if to hold it back.

John’s grin curved against the fabric, his breath searing through. “Don’t hide from me. Wanna hear you.”

You shook your head helplessly, but your fingers slid into his hair anyway, as though they needed something to cling to. His slick strands slid between your fingers, warm scalp beneath, grounding you even as your body quivered.

The first slow drag of his tongue over you, right through the thin barrier, made your hips buck despite yourself. You gasped, squeezing your thighs together, but he held them firm, strong hands keeping you spread for him.

Each lick sent sparks tumbling through you, each kiss and nudge of his tongue unraveling the knot of nerves in your chest until it was replaced with something heavier, hotter. Your breaths came fast, your head tipping back against the stone, ribbon sliding loose as if your body was giving up every neat little thing you held tight.

When he finally tugged the damp cotton aside and his tongue touched you bare, you cried out loud, sharp and sweet, eyes squeezing shut. The sensation was so raw, so overwhelming, it nearly frightened you.

His tongue moved in long, steady strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world to unravel you. Each pass drew a little sound from your throat you hadn’t even known you could make, half-moan, half-whimper, your hand clapped over your mouth too late to hide it.

The noise slipped out again, and he grinned against you, lips dragging warm and wet over the most sensitive part of you.

“Good girl,” he muttered into your skin, his voice muffled and thick with want. “That’s it, let me hear you.”

Your thighs quivered, fighting the urge to close, but his grip stayed firm, thumbs stroking circles on your skin to soothe even as he held you wide. The warmth of him, the heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his hair under your fingers, it was all too much, and yet not enough. You felt like you might come apart if he kept going, but the thought of him stopping was worse.

“John, I- ohh, it’s too-”

“Not too much,” he interrupted softly, between licks, the words rolling over your trembling body. “Just new. Feels strange, yeah? But good strange.”

And he proved it, circling your clit with the tip of his tongue, then flattening it to press broad and slow, making you shudder so hard your sandals scraped against the stone. You let out a broken sob of pleasure, fingers fisting in his hair, tugging without meaning to.

He groaned at the sting, the sound rumbling into you, and you nearly screamed at the sensation. “Bloody hell,” he muttered with a laugh that vibrated against your core, “you’re squeezin’ me head.”

You tried to loosen your grip, gasping apologies, but he only laughed again, lower this time, and pulled you closer into his mouth like he wanted every inch of you. His nose pressed into the soft mound above your clit, his tongue driving deeper, greedier.

You arched back against the stone, hair spilling, ribbon half-undone, and for the first time in your life you didn’t care how you looked. Your whole world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the rhythm of his tongue, the rough, wicked pleasure building faster than you could catch it.

Your body shook, hips bucking against his mouth, your cries sharp and helpless. You sobbed his name, legs trembling around his head as release tore through you, every nerve burning, every breath ragged. He didn’t stop, licking you through it, swallowing every sound, every shiver, as though he wanted to wring out every last drop of your pleasure.

At last, when you lay limp, trembling, dress rucked high around your waist and hair spilling loose in tangles, John lifted his head. His mouth glistened, his grin feral and triumphant. He licked his lips slow, eyes fixed on your flushed, dazed face.

“Knew you’d be sweet,” he rasped, voice rough from the effort. “Sweeter than any bloody fairy tale you’ve read.”

Your chest heaved, lips parted, but no words came out. Only a soft, stunned whimper, your body still shuddering with aftershocks.

John crawled up over you, bracing himself on his arms so his weight didn’t crush you, though his chest still pressed against your dress, his breath hot against your cheek. “You trust me now, sunshine?” he murmured, eyes glinting.

Somehow, through the daze, you nodded. And his grin widened, wicked and sure.

“Good. ’Cause I’m nowhere near done with you.”

Your breath still came shallow, body limp against the warm stone, every nerve tingling from the storm he’d pulled out of you. You were dazed, dreamy, your ribbon dangling loose at your neck, skirt bunched high. John hovered above you, his smirk curling like he’d just claimed a victory, though his eyes still glittered with something restless, hungry.

“What... do you mean?” you whispered, voice soft, hoarse from the cries he’d wrung out of you.

His grin widened, wolfish. He leaned close, his lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “Means it’s your turn. You ever thought about showin’ me a little of what I just gave you?”

Your brows furrowed, confusion painting your tired face. “Show you?”

“Yeah.” He tipped his head down toward his lap, where the stiff outline in his trousers pressed shamelessly against the fabric. He rolled his hips once, slow, letting you see it clearly. “Want you to use that sweet mouth on me.”

Your cheeks burned hot, the words hitting you like sparks. “I’ve never…”

“Course you haven’t,” he cut in, but not unkindly. His hand lifted, brushing a knuckle down your cheek. “Don’t matter. I’ll teach you. Just like I did just now.”

You hesitated, lips parting, still dizzy from the climax that had stolen all your strength. But there was something about the way he looked at you... steady, expectant, utterly certain, that pulled the breath from your chest. Against all sense, you found yourself nodding.

“Okay.”

His grin softened, pleased, though still edged with that wickedness that made your stomach flip. He sat back on his knees, unfastening the button of his trousers, sliding the zip down slow while his eyes stayed locked on yours. The sight of him, hard, heavy, flushed dark against the pale cotton of his shirt, made you swallow hard, your pulse stuttering.

“Come here,” he coaxed, reaching out to guide you up onto your knees, though he didn’t yank, only let you lean into the motion at your own pace. You wobbled, still shaky from your release, and he chuckled low. “Still shiverin’ from me, eh? Don’t worry, love, you don’t have to do it perfect.”

You settled in front of him, wide-eyed, hands clutched in your lap until he gently took one and guided it to his cock. The heat of him burned against your palm, making you gasp.

“There. Soft, yeah? Just hold it for me.” He sighed through his teeth when your fingers closed, trembling, around him. “Bloody hell, that’s good already.”

You glanced up at him, uncertain, but his gaze was heavy-lidded, his jaw slack with pleasure. That gave you courage.

His grin curved slow, lips wet where he licked them. “Start with your tongue. Just a little lick. Like you’re tastin’ something sweet.”

Your blush deepened, but you leaned in, hesitantly dragging your tongue along the tip. The taste was strange, salty, but the groan that ripped out of him made you jolt.

“Ohhh, yeah, like that.” His hand settled at the back of your head, not pushing, just resting, warm and steady. “Again, sunshine. Little longer this time.”

You obeyed, licking slowly up his length, and his hips twitched. He muttered a curse, head tipping back, breath ragged. “Christ, you’re learnin’ quick.”

Encouraged, you opened your mouth wider, taking him in clumsy but willing. Your lips stretched around him, your jaw already aching, and you made a soft, startled noise.

John’s fingers stroked through your hair, coaxing. “Easy, love. Don’t rush. Just take what you can, yeah? Look at me, ahhh, fuck, that’s it.”

Your wide eyes flicked up, meeting his as your lips slid down over him. His face was raw with pleasure, the grin gone slack into something hungrier, darker.

You sucked gently, unsure, and he let out a strangled moan, hips jerking before he forced himself still. “Good girl- fuckin’ perfect, don’t stop now.”

Your lips slid clumsily down over him, spit already slipping from the corners of your mouth, chin slick. You gagged once when he brushed too far back, eyes watering, and pulled off with a startled gasp, wiping at your face with the back of your hand.

“I- oh- God, I’m no good at this,” you blurted, cheeks burning, strands of hair falling loose from your ribbon, sticking to the wetness on your chin.

John laughed, low and rough, the sound vibrating from his chest. His cock twitched in your hand as he leaned down, thumb brushing your damp lower lip. “Don’t talk daft. You’re bloody gorgeous on your knees for me. Doesn’t matter if you’re messy, messy’s better.”

You swallowed, uncertain, but his grin made your stomach flutter. “But I-”

“It's okay.” He tilted his hips closer, guiding himself back toward your mouth. “C’mon,. Lick me again. Slow this time.”

Obediently, you leaned in, tongue dragging up the underside of him. Salty, hot, the texture strange on your tongue, but his sharp inhale, his muttered “fuck, yeah” made it worth the effort.

“Good girl,” he praised, fingers sliding into your hair, the pressure just enough to remind you he was there. “Open up now. Take me in again.”

You took just the head into your mouth this time, lips wrapped tight, tongue swirling uncertainly. The salty taste filled your mouth, and you sucked softly, cheeks trembling with the effort.

John’s voice cracked, his hand tightening in your hair. “That’s it.”

Drool spilled down your chin, your jaw aching, but you kept at it, lips slipping wetly, noisily, around him. Each messy sound made him groan louder, hips twitching no matter how hard he tried to keep still.

You met his gaze through watery lashes, cheeks pink, lips wrapped around him again. His face twisted, jaw clenched, and he swore low and rough. “Jesus, look at that. Sweet little doll, down on her knees, droolin’ on my cock. Nothin’ more perfect in the world.”

Your cheeks hollowed, spit bubbling loud as you sucked, and though your technique was clumsy, too wet, too noisy, he reacted like it was the best thing he’d ever felt. His chest heaved, his hand trembling in your hair, his thighs tense.

You gagged again, eyes streaming, spit dripping from your chin onto your dress, staining the pale cotton. You whimpered around him, but still you kept your lips locked on, trying to please him, trusting the way his voice broke as proof you were doing something right.

Your throat tightened as another gag hit, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit drooling unchecked onto your dress. You whimpered, humiliated but determined, lips clinging to him, and though John groaned like he loved every sloppy second, suddenly his hand slid firmer into your hair, tugging you off.

You gasped, coughing, wiping your wet mouth with the back of your trembling hand, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

Before you could finish, he tipped you back, strong hands on your shoulders pressing you down flat against the warm stone. Your heart lurched. For a panicked instant you thought he was angry, that you’d ruined something.

And then he kissed you. It was wet, urgent, unpracticed, his mouth clumsy but demanding, yours stiff with surprise before softening under his insistence. You had never been kissed before, not even close, and the sudden slick heat of his tongue against yours made you gasp, eyes flying open.

He groaned into your mouth, clearly tasting himself on your tongue, but he didn’t care, only pressed harder, angling his head, teaching you by force and example. “Mmm, yeah, that’s it,” he muttered against your lips. “Suck on my tongue, love, fuck, you don’t even know how sweet you are.”

You tried, awkward and unsure, teeth clicking clumsily, your nose bumping his. He only laughed against your mouth, delighted. “Terrible kisser, aren’t you?” His tongue licked into you again, swallowing your shy whimper. “But you’ll learn. With me, you’ll bloody learn everything.”

Your heart raced, chest pressed tight beneath your sundress as he kissed you over and over, messy, hungry, until your lips tingled, raw and swollen.

Then his hips shifted, and you felt the hard, hot press of him against the bunched fabric at your thighs. The realization made your breath hitch.

“John-”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, hair falling into his eyes, face flushed. “Don’t look so scared,” he murmured, his grin softer now, but no less sure.

You swallowed, trembling, then nodded.

“Good.” He kissed you again, slower this time, gentler, while his hands slid down, gathering your dress higher until your knickers were bare against the open air. He tugged them down, steady and patient, until they were hooked around one ankle. The sight of you, naked beneath your sundress, made him groan low. “Christ. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your breath shook as he shifted between your legs, the heat of his cock pressing now directly against your bare slit, wet from what he’d already done to you. The blunt weight of him there made you shiver, clutching at his shoulders.

“I’ve never…” you whispered, voice breaking.

“I know.” His lips brushed your ear as he muttered, “I’ll take it slow. Won’t be uncomfortable for more than a minute.”

You nodded again, but fear tangled with the ache of anticipation, your thighs trembling around his hips.

He spat into his hand, slicking himself more than he already was, then guided the head of his cock to your entrance. The nudge was foreign, stretching, and you gasped, body tensing.

“Easy,” he soothed, one hand stroking your thigh, the other steadying himself.

He pushed a little more, the pressure building, burning, until you whimpered, clutching his jacket hard.

With a slow, steady thrust, he breached you, the sudden sting sharp enough to make your eyes fill with tears. You gasped, body arching, nails digging into his shoulders.

“There,” he groaned, voice breaking with restraint. “Tight. God, you’re squeezin’ me so good.”

You whimpered, tears slipping, the stretch unbearable for a moment, your body resisting the intrusion. But he didn’t slam, didn’t force; he held still, kissing your cheeks, your swollen mouth. “Shhh, I’ve got you. Breathe. It eases up, I promise.”

And slowly, as your body adjusted, the pain dulled, turning into a strange fullness that made your stomach flutter. You shifted, experimentally, and his cock moved inside you, dragging against tender walls that sparked a new, dizzying sensation.

“Ohhh,” you gasped, surprised.

He grinned against your lips, his relief palpable. “Yeah, that’s it. Feels good now, doesn’t it?”

You nodded faintly, still overwhelmed, but when he began to move, slow, shallow strokes, careful not to overwhelm, the sharp pain gave way to heat, to a stretching that was less burn and more ache of pleasure.

“Fuck,” he muttered, hips rocking gently, his face twisted in bliss. “Your first time, and you’re already makin’ me lose it.”

You whimpered under him, still tight and aching, every stroke a stretch that burned and melted all at once. Your nails dug into his jacket, clinging, overwhelmed. “It still, ahhh, it still hurts a bit…”

John gave a rough laugh, breathless, pressing his forehead to yours. “Course it does. You’re tighter than a bloody vice. You’ll thank me after.”

You gasped, half scandalized by the crude words, half lost in the dizzying way his cock dragged through you. “John!”

He grinned, wolfish, teeth flashing. “What? You want me to lie, sunshine? Say it’s all flowers and fairy tales?” His thrusts nudged deeper now, finding rhythm, drawing out your soft cries. “Nah. You’re takin’ cock for the first time in your life, and it’s mine. Nothin’ dainty about it.”

Your cheeks burned, your lips trembling against his as he kissed you hard, messy, his tongue pushing into your mouth as though he couldn’t get enough. Each kiss made your head spin more, the sloppy mingling of spit and breath as unpracticed as your bodies grinding together.

You moaned into his mouth, and his smirk deepened, hips snapping sharper just to pull that sound out again. “There we go. Knew you had it in you. All dolled up in ribbons, now spread out and takin’ me like a tart.”

The crude word shocked you, your whole body jerking, but the way he groaned at your reaction told you he liked it even more.

“Don’t make that face,” he taunted, kissing your nose, your damp cheek, his thrusts steady and hungry now. “Your cunt’s tellin’ on you, squeezin’ me tighter every time I talk filthy. You like it, sunshine. Don’t you?”

You nod your head, embarrassed, and the moan that slipped out betrayed you further.

He chuckled darkly. “Yeah, thought so.” He kissed you again, biting at your lower lip until you gasped. “Can’t go runnin’ back to your fairy tale books now.”

The sting had dulled by now, replaced by a thick, aching fullness that made your toes curl. Every shallow thrust rubbed deeper, sharper, until you couldn’t stop the soft cries spilling past your swollen lips.

John’s grin faltered into something rawer, his breath ragged, his pace roughening. “Ohhh, fuck, you feel so good. Thought I’d tease you, take my time, but, Jesus Christ, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me. I’m not lastin’ long, sunshine.”

Your arms tightened around his neck, your face buried against his shoulder as the heat inside you coiled tighter, sharper than before. “John-I-I-”

“You’re close,” he groaned, slamming a little deeper, his voice cracking. “Gonna come for me, yeah? Gonna soak my cock like you soaked my tongue.”

The filthy words burned in your ears, but your body betrayed you, clenching around him as waves of pleasure ripped through you. You sobbed his name, hips jerking up helplessly to meet his.

His own rhythm faltered, his face twisting as he growled, “Fuck, fuck, yeah, that’s it.” He thrust hard, deep, burying himself to the hilt as his climax hit, hot and sudden, spilling deep inside your trembling body.

He groaned, long and guttural, collapsing down onto you, chest heaving, sweat dripping onto your flushed skin. His cock twitched inside you, still pulsing with aftershocks, holding you stretched and full.

For a long moment, the rooftop was silent except for your mingled breaths. Then John lifted his head, hair sticking to his forehead, smirk tugging at his lips again.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a strand of your loose hair back, his fingers rough but surprisingly gentle. “Prettiest bloody thing I’ve ever had my hands on.”

Your breath caught, your head spinning. The same boy who had teased and smirked and pushed you past every limit was now speaking in a voice that left no room for doubt, no space for anything but the rush of warmth flooding your chest.

John kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips again, whispering between each kiss, “You’re mine now. My girl. Nothin’s ever gonna change that.”

𓆩🕊️ john 𓆪

He pretends to find the whole thing dreadfully tacky at first, calling the costumes "daft " and the choreography "lollygagging."

However, he is secretly very pleased about your talent and discipline.

He’ll show up unannounced at dress rehearsal, slump in a chair, and heckle... but only lovingly.

He’ll mutter things like, "That bit's rubbish," but if anyone else dares to criticize your performance, he turns into a territorial wolf.

He finds your rehearsal schedule maddening.

He constantly complains about the annoying late nights but is always there with a warm coat when the curtain finally comes down.

He’s fascinated by your voice work and character preparation. He’ll grill you about your motivation for a scene or try to write a "better" version of the musical's lyrics on a napkin while waiting for you.

Post-Show... Once the adrenaline wears off, he becomes incredibly needy.

He’s touch-starved and wants to be held in silence, simply listening to your tired, familiar breathing after the bombast of the show.

He knows the stage takes a lot out of you, and he's your quiet anchor.

When the band is being interviewed, he'll sneer about his own fame, then immediately pivot to bragging about you.

Talking about how you belt out eight shows a week and don't need a single screaming girl to know you're brilliant.

𓆩🕊️ paul 𓆪

Completely enchanted by the glamour of theatre life, he romanticizes your work endlessly, comparing your voice to violins and your costumes to dreamscapes.

Paul is your biggest cheerleader and most reliable audience member. He'll attend every single opening night, often bringing flowers and always looking impeccably dressed.

He finds musical theatre inspiring. He may try to collaborate, humming a new bridge for one of your show tunes.

He’s famously charming, so he’s beloved by the entire cast and crew.

He’s meticulous about your vocal health. He’ll make you hot lemon water with honey, remind you not to talk too much on days off, and gently rub your shoulders after a demanding choreography session.

He is sensitive to the fact that you need your own space to shine.

He surprisingly makes a distinct effort not to steal the spotlight during your curtain call, clapping wildly from his seat rather than going backstage for photos right away.

He wants your work to be celebrated. He loves you, y'know!

Gushes over costumes, helping you pin alterations and marveling at the craftsmanship. Kind of wants to design a musical just so you can star in it.

Your home life is full of music. You’ll be practicing your lines while he works on a new chord progression, leading to a comfortable, busy chaos of creativity.

Your dates often involve seeing rival productions so you can both 'talk shop' afterward.

𓆩🕊️ george 𓆪

George appreciates the dedication and the high level of effort required for theatre.

He’ll be in the audience every night he can, hat pulled low, smiling when you scan the crowd.

Loves watching tech rehearsals, fascinated by the machinery of theatre, whispering questions about lights, sets, and orchestra cues.

He is your grounding force against the hectic pace of rehearsals and performance schedules. He's the one who notices when you’re emotionally drained, pulling you away for quiet time in the garden or simply sitting together in silence.

Writes little guitar riffs inspired by your songs, weaving theatre melodies into his own private compositions.

When he’s exhausted from touring, he finds watching you perform incredibly soothing.

Unlike a stadium concert, a play has a defined beginning and end. He sits in the darkness, allowing himself to be absorbed by your art, and it's the only time his mind truly quiets down.

He doesn’t boast like Paul or act the clown like John, yet he’s the one who replays your performance in his mind for days.

Fascinated by how you slip into different characters, admiring the discipline it takes. He relates to it as a musician always shifting between moods and genres.

Brings you little good-luck charms, maybe a pressed flower or a tiny trinket, slipping it into your dressing room before opening night without saying much.

Sometimes he worries about the spotlight taking too much of you, but he never lets it show. He simply supports, quietly but completely.

𓆩🕊️ ringo 𓆪

Ringo is highly sensitive to the emotional and physical demands of your job because he understands the relentless effort of touring and performance.

The most supportive partner on earth, always front row with flowers... yes, real bouquets, sometimes bigger than your torso, because he wants the whole cast to know who you belong to.

He’s the king of running errands during tech week. He'll fetch late-night food for the crew, drive you home so you can decompress, and make sure your laundry is done.

He gets your pre-show nerves completely. He’ll give you simple, reassuring comfort... a tight hug, a kiss on the head, and a firm, "You got this. You're brilliant."

He absolutely loves the spectacle. The louder the music, the more impressive the costumes, the bigger the dance numbers, the happier he is.

He’s the one who jumps to his feet first for a standing ovation.

His schedule is often just as intense as yours, meaning you spend weeks apart.

When you're both on the road, your calls are often about the absurdities of your professional lives.

The dodgy dressing rooms, the weird hotel food, and the sheer exhaustion. It's a mutual venting session.

Loves helping you rehearse at home, reading lines badly in his thick accent just to make you giggle when you’re stressed.

If you have a dance-heavy role, he’s the one insisting on practicing lifts or spins with you, even if it ends in both of you toppling over and laughing.

Always takes you out for a celebratory meal after each show, saying it’s tradition now.

The club was a cacophony of sound and sweat, a glorious, throbbing mess that George had learned to both love and despise. Most nights, it was a high-octane blur of screaming fans, frantic chords, and the insistent thrum of Ringo’s drums. But tonight, a particularly raucous show had left George with a low thrum of exhaustion in his bones, a dull ache behind his eyes that no amount of tea or cigarettes could soothe.

He was sitting at the back, nursing a lukewarm pint, trying to find a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. That's when he saw you.

You worked there, not on the stage, but behind the scenes. You were always just there, a quiet, steady presence moving through the throng. Tonight, you were meticulously wiping down a table, your movements precise and efficient despite the crush of bodies around you. Your focus was absolute, a quiet island in the sea of noise.

George had noticed you a few times before. He knew your face, the way your brows would furrow in concentration, the way you would rub the back of your neck when you were tired. He liked the way you didn't seem to notice him. You weren't starry-eyed, wasn't trying to catch his attention. You just did your job.

He watched you for a long time. You finally finished with the table and started to stack empty glasses. He cleared his throat, pushing his half-empty pint forward.

"Want to take this off me hands, then?" he asked, his voice low and a little raspy from the performance.

You looked up, your eyes meeting his. You just looked a little tired, a little bored. A little sad.

"Sure," you said simply, reaching for the glass. "Thanks."

Your fingers brushed his for a brief moment, and a jolt of something unexpected, a quiet spark, ran up his arm. You didn't seem to notice. You just added the glass to the stack and moved on. George found himself watching your back as you walked away.

—

The next time he was at the club, he looked for you. He didn’t admit it to himself at first ... told himself he was just killing time before soundcheck, or avoiding the noise of the dressing room. But the truth was, he searched the dim corners until his eyes landed on you.

You were near the stage again, crouched low, hands busy sorting out a stubborn snarl of cables. There was something almost hypnotic about the way you worked. Patient, steady, like you’d done it a hundred times and would do it a hundred more.

He drifted closer, leaning against the damp brick wall with an ease that wasn’t entirely natural.

"You’ve got a knack for it," he said, nodding toward the cables.

You glanced up, a small, weary smile on your face. "It's just cables. They're a pain if they're not in order."

"Fair enough," he said.

And then he didn’t move. He just stood there, watching, letting the thrum of the club fade into the background. The shouting, the bursts of laughter, the muffled pound of a bass line from behind the door, it all dulled until there was only the soft drag of rubber across the floor, the scrape of metal against concrete, the rhythm of your quiet work.

After a minute, you tilted your head, brow furrowing slightly. "You’re just gonna… stand there?"

George shrugged, a corner of his mouth twitching. "Might do."

You blinked at him, clearly unsure what to make of that. "Don’t you have people to talk to?"

"Not right now." His tone was calm, simple, almost flat, but his eyes stayed on you, steady and intent.

You huffed a little laugh, shaking your head. "Well, if you’re here for entertainment, you picked the wrong spot. It’s just me and a load of fuckin' wires."

"Could be worse ways to pass the time," he murmured.

You paused in your work, giving him a long, searching look, as if you were trying to catch the joke. But he wasn’t smirking, wasn’t mocking you. He looked, if anything, strangely content.

With a soft snort, you turned back to the cables. "You’re odd, you know that?"

"Been told."

He stayed there, unbothered, hands in his pockets. Every now and then, you’d glance up at him again, half expecting him to grow bored and wander off. But he didn’t. He seemed rooted to that spot, more interested in your calm fussing with wires than in the wild noise spilling from the bar.

Eventually, you finished, smoothing the last cable into a neat coil. Straightening, you dusted off your hands and gave him a nod. "Alright, then. See you."

Something flickered across his face. Disappointment, subtle but unmistakable. "Right. Yeah. See you."

—

Days turned into weeks, and your interactions became a quiet ritual. He'd find you in a corner of the club, doing some mundane task, and he'd just... be there. He learned little things about you, like the fact that you wore the same worn-out jacket every night, or that you had a small scar on your knuckles from working. You, in turn, learned to simply accept his silent presence.

One night, the band was on break and the club was less crowded than usual. George found you sitting on an overturned crate, eating a sandwich.

"Want some?" you offered, holding it out.

He shook his head, but sat on another crate next to you. "Nah."

You chuckled, a low, easy sound. "Fair."

"What's your name, then?" he asked, suddenly feeling a bit silly that he hadn't asked before.

"It's (Name)," you said, taking a bite of your sandwich.

"George," he said, though he knew you knew.

"I know," you said, a small smirk on your face.

The easy humour of it made him smile. "Right. Stupid question."

"Maybe," you said, looking at him thoughtfully. "But it's good to be stupid sometimes.

He liked that. He liked your measured, thoughtful way of speaking. He found himself wanting to sit here for hours, just talking about stupid things and not-so-stupid things.

George leaned back, considering. "Dunno if anyone’s ever put it like that to me before."

"First time for everything."

A faint grin tugged at his mouth. He let the silence hang again, watching you chew, watching the way you held the sandwich like you were defending it from the world. After a beat, he asked, "So what’s in it, then?"

You raised a brow. "What, the sandwich?"

"Yeah."

"Uh. Cheese and pickle," you said. "Not exactly gourmet."

He smirked. "Could be worse. I know people that eat fish paste alone, like John."

You grimaced, laughing. "That sounds vile."

"It is," George said flatly. "Makes the whole van smell like the sea for hours."

You shook your head, finishing your bite. "And you willingly travel with him."

"Not much choice, is there?" His tone was dry, but his eyes had that spark of humor.

You snorted. "Must be a nightmare."

"Only half the time," he said, and you caught the corner of his mouth twitching again.

You leaned back a little on the crate, chewing thoughtfully. "You lot ever get tired of it?"

He hesitated, thumb worrying at the seam of his trouser leg. "Sometimes. But then, what else would I be doing?"

"Could’ve been a plumber."

He barked out a short laugh. "Can’t see that, can you?"

You shrugged. "Better than fish paste."

He shook his head, still grinning, then went quiet again. His gaze lingered on you in that same way it always did, steady and unreadable.

You shifted under it, raising your brow. "What? Do I have something on my face?"

George looked away quickly, almost sheepish. "No."

You chuckled. "You're always staring, you know. Like you’re waiting for me to do a trick or something."

"Not waiting," he said quietly.

You smirked, nudging the conversation away. “So, George, do you always make a habit of watching blokes eat sandwiches?”

That made him laugh, soft but genuine. “Only if they're interesting.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling as you finished off the last bite. “Careful, sounds like flattery.”

“Not my strong suit.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He shook his head again, smiling to himself. “Don’t know why I bother, really. You’re impossible.”

“Impossible?”

“Yeah.” He paused, meeting your eyes. “Throws me off.”

You considered him for a long moment, then shrugged, but before you could say something, a muffled voice from down the hall called his name. He winced, shoulders sinking. “That’s me.”

You gave a little nod, wiping your hands on your jacket. "Be safe."

He walked away, a strange sense of contentment humming beneath the usual chaotic energy of a show. He liked that you told him to be safe, a simple sentiment from one person to another.

As the weeks passed, your connection deepened in the quietest, most subtle of ways. He found himself looking for you the moment he entered the club, his eyes scanning the crowd for the familiar leather jacket and the calm efficiency with which you navigated your work.

One night, he saw you in the back, leaning against the wall with your eyes closed, looking utterly exhausted. He approached you slowly, not wanting to startle you.

"Long night?" he asked softly.

You opened your eyes, a small startle in them before you relaxed. "Every night is a long night here."

He sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the cold brick. "I know the feeling."

"Different reasons," you pointed out, your voice a gentle observation, not a judgement.

"Not always," he said quietly. "Sometimes it's just… tired. The same kind of tired, I think."

You didn't reply, but you leaned your head back against the wall, closing your eyes again. The quiet felt good. The silence between you wasn't empty; it was full of a shared understanding.

After a long while, you spoke, your voice a low murmur. "What do you think about when you're not on stage?"

He thought about the question, a slow smile spreading across his face. "I don't know," he said honestly. "Sometimes, I just think about... things being quiet. Like this."

He turned his head to look at you, his eyes studying your profile in the dim light. "Just... this."

You opened your eyes, your gaze meeting his. You held his gaze, and in the space between you, something shifted.

"Yeah," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "Just this."

The corner of his mouth lifted, not a grin but something gentler, almost private. He let his head fall back against the wall with a quiet thud, breathing out through his nose.

You studied him for a moment longer, then asked, “Don’t you ever miss it? The rush of it, I mean.”

He shook his head faintly, eyes on the ceiling. “It’s not that I miss it. It’s… expected.” he gestured loosely toward the empty room.

For a long while, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing and the faint muffled clatter of bottles being cleared away somewhere in the club.

George broke it softly, almost reluctantly. “You’re good company, you know.”

You raised an eyebrow, though your voice stayed light. “That’s surprising. I don’t do much.”

“That’s the point.” He chuckled quietly, as if amused by his own confession. “Some people try too hard.”

You let that sit, then turned your gaze back to him, your expression unreadable. “Careful. You’ll make me think you actually like being here.”

He met your eyes again, something unguarded flickering there. “C'mon, you already know I do"

—

The next night, he was at the club, but you weren't there. He felt a pang of disappointment that was surprisingly sharp. The noise felt louder, the lights felt harsher, and the music felt a little less melodic. He tried to focus, but his eyes kept wandering to the places he was used to seeing you.

He asked the bartender about you.

"Oh, (Name)?" the bartender said, wiping down a glass. "Nah, he's got the night off. He’s taking a few days."

A few days. The words echoed in his mind, and a strange, hollow feeling settled in his chest. He didn't know your number. He didn't know your last name. He just knew your presence.

He stayed, but his heart wasn't in it. He felt disconnected, like he was a million miles away, even with the band right beside him.

After whatever band was playing finished, he went back to the back room, to the spot where you had sat together. He leaned against the wall, his eyes closed, and he thought about the way you had looked at him, the way you had spoken. He thought about the small, quiet moments that had come to mean more to him than any sold-out show or screaming crowd.

He realized he didn't want to go back to a world where you weren't just there. He wanted to talk to you. He wanted to hear your voice, to watch you work, to just sit in the quiet with you again. He felt a new kind of tired, a lonely kind of tired he hadn't felt before.

He went back to the club the next night, and the next, and the next. He stayed later than he needed to, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.

And on the fourth night, he saw you.

You were standing by the bar, talking to the bartender, and you looked just the same. The same worn-out jacket, the same quiet energy. George's heart gave a strange little jolt, a feeling that was both a relief and a kind of painful longing.

He walked over to you, the crowd of people parting around him like a river. You looked up, a small, knowing smile on your face.

"Back again?" you said, a subtle tease in your voice.

He didn't answer. He just looked at you, taking in the sight of you, the sheer reality of your presence. He realized he had never felt so comfortable as he did when he was just in your orbit.

You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your mouth. “What’s the matter? Found no one else to watch eat sandwiches while I was gone?”

That broke through his daze, and he huffed a laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Maybe not.”

You raised a brow, clearly amused. “Didn’t think I was that good to be around.”

“You are,” he said, too quickly, and then cursed himself silently for how bare it sounded.

The humor in your expression faltered just slightly, replaced with something gentler. “Well. That’s something.”

He shifted closer, words tugging at him, insistent. For a long second, he fought them, but they came out anyway, soft and unguarded,

"I missed you,"

You blinked, the teasing curve of your mouth stalling for just a beat. “Oh.”

The silence stretched between you, but this time it was different.

George swallowed, nerves prickling. His hand twitched at his side, as if he wanted to reach for something and stopped himself halfway. “I mean-” he started, then cut himself off, exhaling. He forced himself to meet your eyes. “I did. More than I thought I would.”

You stared at him, brows drawn slightly together. “That’s not what I expected you to say.”

A dry laugh escaped him, quick and humorless. “Not what I expected to say, either.”

The silence that followed was different than the ones you were used to sharing. It wasn’t comfortable, not yet... it brimmed with something unspoken, precarious.

George took a deep breath, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt a flicker of hope. "Do you... would you like to get a cup of tea with me sometime? Somewhere quiet?"

Your brows lifted slightly, surprise flashing across your face. “That’s… sudden,” you murmured, though there wasn’t reproach in your tone. Just honest astonishment. “You’ve been sitting in corners with me for weeks and now you’re asking me out for tea?”

He smiled faintly, nervous but steady. “I suppose I am.”

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing the sincerity in his voice. Your gaze softened, the corners of your mouth tugging up again, this time less in jest and more in something warmer.

“Yeah,” you said at last, voice quiet but certain. “I’d like that very much, George.”

Something in him eased again, like the ground beneath his feet had steadied. He exhaled a laugh, small and disbelieving. “Good.”

“Good,” you echoed, and for the first time, the silence between you felt not just full, but promising.