#starr x reader

Ringo Starr x Reader

John Lennon - Valentine’s

Paul McCartney - Valentine’s

George Harrison - Valentine’s

The Beatles Masterlist

Warnings: swearing, use of the word: whore, fuck, slut, etc.

(Y/F/I) - Your First Initial

(Y/L/I) - Your Last Initial

You were the first girl that ever took notice of Ringo.

He’d sit in front of the mirror and curse himself for looking like that.

Sad eyed,

Lop sided smile,

He hated it.

Until he met you.

You moved to Liverpool from Sheffield, in mid June 1955.

Richard had finally been completely discharged from Myrtle Street Children’s Hospital that year, beginning school at Dingle Vale Secondary Modern in September.

You were in the same form, he remembered when you came in.

You shyly introduced yourself, not really wanting to give your entire life story to a classroom full of strangers.

“Take a seat where ever y’d like, love.” The teacher smiled, as he motioned around the room.

You surveyed your surroundings, quickly spotting a boy sat alone at the back of the room.

He was staring at you.

You thanked your form teacher, moving to the back of the room, and asking if you could sit with him.

“Excuse me, a-am I alright to sit ‘ere?” You pointed to the empty seat beside him, nervously speaking up.

It took him a moment to realise you were talking to him.

You.

You were gorgeous, Richard was sure on that as soon as you entered.

But now you were talking to him.

Him.

Richard Starkey.

The lad no one wanted to talk to.

“Oh! Of-of course y’ can!” He pulled the chair out, giddily offering you the seat.

“Wouldn’t sit there, love. Wouldn’t want to be caught up wi’ the wrong bunch.”

A wanna-be teddy boy a few rows in front said, scoffing.

You looked at him, and Richard’s expression faltered.

Of course you were going to sit with Pete Best.

Every one did.

It wasn’t that Best was even a likeable character, he was horrible. But people didn’t want to be shunned and bullied for their school years.

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’d rather sit ‘ere than wi’ someone wi’ a dead squirrel on his head.”

You replied, sitting yourself down next to Richard.

Pete’s smirk faltered at your reference to his hairstyle, he snickered something to his mates under his breath before turning around to face the front, lighting a cigarette.

That was when Ritchie decided he wanted to marry you.

There and then.

“‘M Richard, Richard Starkey.” He said, holding his hand out to you, politely.

You giggled and took his hand, shaking it. “(Y/n), (Y/n) (L/n).”

He said your name a few time under his breath, liking how it sounded, as he rolled it on his tongue.

“We should call y’ Ringo. Wi’ the amoun’ of bloody rings y’ wearin’!” You joked, looking down at his hands.

But the name seemed to stick.

After that, the two of you became inseparable.

You were in the same set, so you were together in most classes, anyways.

The teddy boys and the girls that hung off of their arms never took notice of you, but it never seemed to bother you.

You were quite contempt just hanging out with Richard.

But he could never figure out why.

No one ever took notice of him.

Ever.

So why would someone as perfect as you willingly be friends with him?

That was something he couldn’t put his finger on.

You even stuck up for him.

It was another one of those day, Pete and his little ‘gang’, (if you could even call it that), were picking on Richard,

Again.

“I can’t figure out why tha’ bird would hang out with y’. Wi’ nose and eyes like tha’ y’d be better fit in a bloody ogre exhibit.” He commented, accompanied by the forced giggles from the desperate girls beside him. One lighting his cigarette.

“Your arse must be jealous, amoun’ of shit coming out y’ mouth.” You said to the man, appearing next to Richard after hearing what was being said.

“Come on baby, y’ can still ditch tha’ weirdo.” He told you, offering you a hand. Richard just stared at his feet, prepared for you to take him up on his offer.

“Y’ can fuck off. I’ll gouge me’ own eyes out wi’ a spoon before bein’ one of y’ whores. Get tha’ stick out y’ arse.” You told him, and his voice faltered for a minute, silenced humbly by your words.

Richard felt an arm on his shoulder, looking up with a small smile to your concerned arms. “Take no notice of them, Ringo. They’re just jealous that they could never be as hot as you.” You informed him, a playful smirk climbing onto your lips as you both laughed.

“Yeah, Ringo. Listen to y’ little slut. If it’s a shag y’ afta’, princess - I’m right ‘ere.” Pete piped up again, getting wolf-whistled by his little cronies.

Ritchie didn’t know what went through his head.

They didn’t know he had it in him.

He didn’t know he had it in him.

But he punched him.

Richard Starkey punched Pete Best.

“Don’t y’ dare say that about her, ever.”

Then you both legged it.

Legged it out of the school.

Legged it away from Pete.

You just legged it.

“Thanks, Ringo. Y’ like me’ knight in shinin’ armour.” You told him, pecking his cheek when you’d come to a stop, both out of breath.

His face blushed a deep red, causing you both to laugh.

“Y’ welcome, I care about y’, y’ know?” He said, smiling reassuringly.

“I know, Ritchie. I care about y’ too.”

Neither of you know in what context you meant to each other, but both were a confession of love.

You were like a walking self-confidence booster, for Richard.

Every time he felt bad about himself, you’d sit there until he appreciated himself, for (quote, on quote), ‘being so gorgeous’.

For his birthday in early July, you’d gotten him two things.

A mirror, of which you’d written multiple words on it, about him. ‘Gorgeous’ ‘Happy smile’ ‘Beautiful eyes’ ‘Perfect’, things like that.

The other, was a ring. It was bright orange, ‘so it stands out’, you’d told him. And inside, was the two of your’s initials. “R.S. & (Y/F/I). (Y/L/I).”

You’d told him it was a ‘friendship ring’, as you had your own, but to you - it felt like much more, like a metaphor for carving your initials in a tree, with a heart around it.

You were even the one to encourage him to pursue his passion for drumming, supporting him no matter what he did, and he did the same for you.

Every day, Richard fell more and more in love with you,

So here he was.

Stood at your front door.

February 14th, 1956.

He looked quite ‘dapper’, at least that’s what his mother and father had told him.

He was wearing a nice black suit,

Hair slicked back,

Juggling roses, chocolates, and a sign.

He was finally going to do it.

He was finally going to ask you out.

Don’t get me wrong, he was pacing in front of your door for a good five minutes before just forcing himself to knock.

No going back now.

“I’ll get it, mum!” He heard your muffled voice through the door, before it swung open.

He had a wide, anxious grin on his face as he saw you.

“Hiya, Ringo-” your voice quietened as you looked at the sign.

You laughed slightly, causing him to frown with confusion.

“Ritchie, it’s upside down.” You informed him, he made an obvious ‘O’ shape, with his mouth, quickly switching it around in his hands, lips forming a trembling smile again.

You read it,

And read it again,

And again,

And again,

And again,

Until you had it memorised.

‘(Y/n), will you be my Valentine?’

It read.

You smiled wildly, watching him biting his lip, impatiently awaiting your answer.

“So, what d’y say, pet? Will y’ be me’ Valentine?” He asks, hopefully.

You grabbed his collar, and pulled him towards yourself, kissing him forcefully.

He dropped the sign, chocolates, and followers, discarding them to hold your hips tightly against his own.

“So, is tha’ a yes?” He asked, grinning, and you giggled.

“Yes, of course it is, Ringo.” You leaned your forehead against his, feeing safe in his embrace.

With All My Heart

Ringo Starr x Reader

My first Ringo / The Beatles request, thank you so much for this!

(Requests always open)

Requested by: @marmaladeskies67

Ringo Starr Masterlist

The Beatles Masterlist

Warnings: smut, etc.

For once the sex wasn’t needy. Neither side was dominant. Neither of you desperate to rip each other’s clothes off. It wasn’t make up sex, nor was it angry. It wasn’t quick sex before a show. It wasn’t the kind off sex you would have after he go back off of tour. It wasn’t drunken sex, you weren’t even the slightest bit tipsy. It wasn’t sex after the lads had angered him. It wasn’t sex where he was frustrated from playing. No, it was different.

Richard Starkey made love to you.

It was slow and sensual. It was loving and careful. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fast. It was just two lovers wholeheartedly appreciating one another’s bodies in the closest and most epicurean fashion. Sex. The term could be used in senses of eradication, prostitution, carelessness, but it was none of the such. It was pure, and whole.

“You’re doing so well, darling.” Ringo grunted into your ear, as he thrusted gently. “So, so well.” You mewled beneath him, having an adoration for the closeness and love that your evening ensued. He glided his hands up your hips, sliding past your waist, and back again. Treasuring you as if you were about to break beneath him, a porcelain doll - if you will. He leant forward delicately, attentively capturing your lips in his own in a moment of prolonged bliss.

Your tongued did not battle, they danced. They tiptoed, bowed, and devoted while interlocking with each other. His teeth grazing your lips, eyes closed: stars spinning around within the darkness. It was a dizzying moment, all of it was. His pace didn’t falter, nor did it increase. It dwelled, basking in its own venerable moment - of two consensual bodies allying with gracious curtesy.

Uncooperative profanities spilt from both parties mouths - a spurring need to voice pleasure with the language of the unholy. The sweat radiated off of your bodies, glazing over; matching to look in Ringo’s eyes as he continued with a sacrosanct movement of two terpsichorean paramours.

Your release needed no warning, nor did his. A synchronised act to cease the angelic prominence. You stared into each others eyes when the climatic band of a non-matrimonial ceremony snapped. The load moans sounded more like a song, a poem written by the lovesick heart of Shakespeare, a priest’s church choir’s chorales, ecstasy of a skipping record player, the forfeiting confession of love.

Ringo wrapped his arms securely around your bare chest, ignoring the disarray between the entanglement of your legs. Your breathing harmonised for an unjust moment. Silence engulfed the room. The clock ticked along on the wall. The world kept spinning, but you needn’t have cared. For time had stopped. It was preserved. The Globe turned on its aces, but you stayed put. For a short amount of time, you were the only two people in the world. Richard Starkey and (Y/n) (L/n). The final people on Earth.

Your eyes welled with tears, a threatening viaduct bursting at the seams as they trickled wordlessly flooded down your previously elated cheeks. Ringo rose from his position beside you, abandoning the land he had claimed in the crease of your neck, a wall of trenches retracted. With the use of both thumbs, he consciously wiped the residue from beneath your enflamed eyelids, swollen with accountable evidence of jubilation.

“My love, what’s wrong?” He questioned, tone soft and inviting - lips ghosting your cheeks in hopes of a distant answer. You thought for a moment, not truly believing the voice in your mind that iterated your undeniable response. You looked deeply into Ringo’s eyes, blue pools dripping with concern. “I,” The shaky inhale of an unobtainable breath obstructed your riposte. “I just love you,” His eyes softened. “With all my heart, Richard.”

He didn’t respond, there was no reason to. For actions speak louder than words, and his spoke a thousand. Ringo leaned forward and placed his lips on your own, in a genuine act of a love stricken kiss from that of a victim of Cupid’s own arrow. His doleful eyes cascaded with their own unshakeable, emphatic waterfall. “I love you, so much.”