sugardollcurse

[sugardollcurse]

hiii could you please do a john lennon x fem!reader where she’s feeling insecure about her body maybe the press wrote something mean about her looks and she just breaks down and john comes home to find her sobbing saying she’s not pretty enough for him and he’s shocked to find her like that and comforts her with lots of cuddles and kisses. i need more john fluff desperately <3

𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍

꒰ pairing ꒱ john lennon x fem! reader

꒰ contains ꒱ body image insecurities, media cruelty

꒰ summary ꒱ the press takes aim at your looks. john comes home to find you in tears. he shows you just how wrong you are.

꒰ note ꒱ hiii angel ♡ yes yes yes my heart aches just thinking about this

You didn’t even mean to read it.

It was just… there. Left open on the kitchen table, probably by one of the boys, or maybe their manager, or some assistant rushing out the door. A tabloid. Garish font. Grinning faces.

And halfway down the page… your name.

Your stomach dropped before your eyes even made it to the line.

“Beatle Lennon’s girl might have the ring, but certainly not the looks... he’s known for being eccentric, after all. One can only assume his taste in women is just as… alternative.”

You didn’t finish the paragraph.

Didn’t have to.

It spiraled from there. In the bathroom mirror, suddenly your chin looked too sharp, or not sharp enough. Your waist not small enough, thighs not thin enough. Everything felt too much or too little. Not pretty. Not worthy. Not enough to be the one John Lennon took home at night, pressed against his chest in the hush of morning.

Your chest began to ache in that low, creeping way, like grief for something not quite gone.

You made it to the bedroom before the sob broke through.

Curled up on the bed like a child, face buried in a pillow, hot tears soaking through the seams. You didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear his boots click quietly on the hardwood. Didn’t hear the rustle of his coat being shrugged off or the gentle, questioning “Y/n?” from the hallway.

But you felt the bed shift when he sat down beside you.

And then: “Sweetheart…? What’s happened?”

You choked on a breath and buried your face deeper.

He touched your back, soft and tentative, the pads of his fingers brushing up the slope of your spine. “Oi, c’mon now. Look at me, will ya?”

You couldn’t.

Not like this. Not with your face all blotchy and red and your heart aching like someone had scraped out your confidence with a dull spoon.

“I can’t,” you croaked. “Please don’t-just-go. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” His voice was low and even. “You sound heartbroken.”

“I am.”

That made him pause.

Then he shifted, fully, lying behind you now. One arm snuck around your waist, warm and solid, drawing you to him. His lips pressed into the space just behind your ear.

“I don’t get it,” he murmured. “What’s made my girl cry like this?”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m not pretty enough for you.”

Silence.

The kind that rings in your ears. The kind that feels dangerous.

He pulled back… not away, just far enough to see you. You risked a glance at his face and saw something raw in his eyes. Not pity. Not confusion.

Just… disbelief.

“Who the hell told you that?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. It was too embarrassing. Too much.

He sat up slightly and gently cupped your face. “I mean it. Who the hell said that?”

You gave a weak shrug and sniffed. “The papers. Said you’re eccentric and I’m plain. That I don’t have ‘the looks.’ Just that you’re… settling, I guess.”

John’s expression twisted... disgusted, then angry, then deeply hurt.

“Oh, fuck off, the lot of them.”

You flinched.

He softened, quick. “Sorry, love. But bloody hell, I’d knock their teeth in if I thought it’d help.”

He bent down, kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, then both cheeks.

“You’re the best bit of me day. Every day. I look at you and go all stupid.”

You swallowed hard, voice hoarse. “But you’re... you. You could have anyone. Models. Actresses. Girls who...who look like-”

“I don’t want some bleedin’ doll off telly!” he cut in, not cruel but fierce. “I want you. Want the one who nicked my toast the first time we had breakfast together and didn’t even ask,” he grinned, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

He leaned in closer, his voice now barely more than a breath.

“I want you, and I mean it.”

You felt the tears well again. But different this time.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’m mad about you. You could shave your bloody head and I’d still follow you round like a dog.”

You blinked up at him, surprised.

“Swear it.”

You broke into a soft sob, but he caught it with another kiss, this time to your lips. Longer, deeper. One hand cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

When he pulled back, he tucked you into his chest, both arms wrapping around you like a cocoon.

“You’re it for me, y’know that?”

You let yourself cry again, this time into his shirt.

And he just held you.

Rocked you, slowly, like a lullaby.

After a long while, he murmured into your hair:

“They’ll always have summat to say. They say shit about me all the time. Say I’m a right ugly bastard, say I’m a prick, say I’m not as good as Paul. Say I’m this and that.”

You glanced up at him, surprised.

He shrugged. “I hear it all. Load o’ toss. Sometimes I think, yeah… sure, maybe they’re right.”

You blinked.

He met your gaze, serious now. “But then I see you lookin’ at me like I’m worth somethin’. And it all fucks off.”

You clutched his shirt. “You make it quiet for me too.”

“Yeah?” He kissed your forehead. “Then we’re alright, eh? That’s all that matters.”

You nodded.

“And we’re not gonna let some daft gossip column come between that.”

“No.”

“Atta girl.”

He kissed you again. When he finally pulled back, he tucked your hair behind your ear, eyes warm and steady.

“Now. Let’s lie here till morning. And then I’m takin’ you out. Somewhere nice.”

“Won’t the press be there?”

“Let ‘em. They’ll see me looking at you like you hung the moon. Maybe then they’ll get it.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps

[sugardollcurse]

Heeyyyy could I possibly request kiss hcs with the boys? I just wanna smooch them real bad pretty please twirling my hair batting my eyelashes

𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎

꒰ pairings ꒱ paul mccartney x reader, john lennon x reader, george harrison x reader, ringo starr x reader

꒰ note ꒱ heyyyyy it's you! and yes absolutely !!! i've been wanting to do these for a while...

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“C’mere, I’m not gonna bite...unless you ask me nice.”

John’s kisses are impulsive. They come out of nowhere.

On the tube, in the kitchen, between sentences. Sometimes they’re just to shut you up (lovingly), and sometimes they’re because he suddenly remembered you exist and it physically hurt not to touch you.

He grabs you by the jaw, sometimes with one hand, and pulls you into him like you’re a secret he’s about to spill.

When he’s being cocky, they’re fast and teasing: a kiss and a grin and another one just to hear you whine. “Thought you liked that,” he’ll say, all smug, watching your pupils blow wide.

But when he’s soft?

Then it’s both arms around you, lips lingering at your mouth like he’s trying to taste every word you’ve ever said to him.

He’ll kiss you with his forehead after.

Rest his nose against yours. Just… linger.

Loves kissing you in bed when you’ve just woken up, all messy and slow, like you’re still dreaming.

Says he doesn’t like PDA. Absolutely does like PDA.

Always bites your bottom lip at the end. Every single time.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“Hang on-wait, just stay there a second. You’ve got this look on your face.... yeah, that one.”

Paul kisses like he’s choreographing something.

They’re smooth, practiced, intentional, but still so warm you feel like honey’s melting down your spine.

He’s a face-holder. Palm to your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes locked on yours right up to the second his lips meet yours.

He takes his time. Presses in gently, then deeper, until you melt into it. And when you do melt, he smiles into it. Like he knew you would.

Whispers between kisses. “You alright?” “You like that?” “Mm, you taste sweet.”

Kisses you on your temples. On your eyelids. Your nose. He’s annoyingly good at those kisses that make your heart race and your knees go stupid.

His favorite? The slow kiss that turns into a laugh, your teeth bump, or your nose twitches, and suddenly you’re both giggling into each other’s mouths.

Presses his forehead against yours after, hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

Also: he 1000% kisses your hand when he’s feeling dramatic. Full-on lifts it, eyes on you, all, “M’love.”

Will definitely pull a “there’s something on your lip” trick just to sneak one in. And if you call him out on it, he’ll only grin wider. “S’just maintenance. Keeping you neat.”

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“Why’re you starin’ at me like that? …If you want a kiss, just say so.”

His kisses are confident and purposeful.

He’s not shy, not hesitant. If he wants to kiss you, he does.

Leans in, hands on your waist or in your back pockets, and just takes it.

He’s got this steady, controlled way of kissing like he’s reading you.

Pacing it slow at first, until he finds the exact pressure and rhythm that makes you lean in harder.

And when you do? His whole mouth tilts into a smile. He likes knowing he’s undone you.

George kisses with his whole body. He’ll back you up against a counter, press his chest to yours, pull you flush with his hands at your lower back.

Loves when you’re kissing and you grab at his hair, he groans into your mouth, deep and low.

He’s got a sweet side to it. The kind of kiss where he cups your face gently and kisses you so tenderly it feels like an apology you didn’t know you needed.

Not a big PDA guy, but if he’s buzzed or feeling bold, he’ll kiss your neck at a party just to see you go pink.

Sometimes he stares at your mouth and smirks. Doesn’t say anything. Just smirks. And then kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I could snog you all day and still think it wasn’t enough.”

Ringo kisses like he’s letting you in on a secret. It always starts playful.

He’ll smirk, say something cheeky, lean in like he’s gonna peck your cheek... and then bam, he hits you with the real thing.

He’s warm, so warm.

Always smells like cigarettes and rain and something a little sweet, and he kisses like he means it. Like he’s not in a rush because he knows you’re not going anywhere.

He kisses with his whole body. Like, chest pressed to yours, arms wrapped tight, hips in sync, like he’s trying to fuse your souls through mouth contact.

Makes soft “mm” noises while you kiss sometimes, totally unconsciously.

He’ll tug your lower lip with his teeth, deepen the kiss fast if you let him. Very responsive, if you shift, he matches it instantly.

He likes the build-up. Will kiss your cheek first. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth. Watches you react. Waits.

He’s also a fan of ridiculous kisses.

Quick pecks while you’re brushing your teeth. Playful ones that land on your nose instead. Kisses that end in laughter. But all of that masks just how deep it goes for him.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin

[sugardollcurse]

hi luv! can you little do head cannons of the boys comforting their girl after an argument, or of how they respond to personal press questions about the two of them? thanks doll 💕

𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒓𝒈𝒖𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕

꒰ pairings ꒱ paul mccartney x fem! reader, john lennon x fem!reader, george harrison x fem!reader, ringo starr x fem!reader

꒰ note ꒱ hi angel!! tysm for the sweet ask 💌 i just finished them.. hope you like what i came up with ♡

꒰ JOHN ꒱

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that… I just can’t stop once I start, can I?”

John fights to win, not to resolve. His words are weapons.

Sharp, fast, and defensive.

He doesn’t mean half of what he says, but he says it anyway.

He talks at you, not with you in the heat of it.

If you walk away or go quiet, it pisses him off.

He thinks you’re punishing him, retreating, making him the bad guy.

It hits something deep. Rejection, abandonment.

But once he calms down, the guilt hits hard.

It’s quiet. Not melodramatic. He’ll smoke alone, stare into space, stew in it. Thinks about every word he said. Starts hating himself for it.

He won’t apologize right away. He needs time to sit with it.

But when he does come to you, it’s raw and real.

His apologies are clumsy but honest:

“I’m a twat, yeah? Don’t know why you put up with me.”

He won’t always say “sorry”, but you’ll know he means it

He’ll be physically close, quiet, watching you like he’s waiting for you to leave.

He may touch your face very gently, tentatively, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to.

“Did I really mess it all up?” is written all over him.

He’ll try to fix it with a small gesture

A drawing, a letter, a stolen flower, playing you a song you both love.

Deep down, he wants peace more than anything

But he doesn’t know how to ask for it without sounding weak.

꒰ PAUL ꒱

“Come on, love, let’s not do this to each other. Please. I hate fighting with you.”

Paul is conflict-avoidant, so arguments shake him deeply.

He hates when the harmony breaks, and he’ll do everything to put it back together.

That said, when he does fight, it’s because something’s been building. He’ll bottle things up until he explodes.

His anger is controlled, but pointed.

He won’t yell, but his words will cut. He knows exactly where your soft spots are.

He regrets it the moment he sees your face fall. Immediate emotional hangover.

He’s a natural soother

He’ll reach for you even before he apologizes, just to physically bridge the gap: a hand on your shoulder, brushing your hair back.

“Let’s talk about this, yeah?” is his go-to after the dust settles.

If you need space, he’ll give it, but it kills him.

He’ll be pacing, writing half-songs, trying not to ring you. Obsessively replays the fight in his head.

His apologies are thorough. “I shouldn’t’ve said that. You didn’t deserve it. I was scared and took it out on you. I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

He’ll try to make you laugh. Not to minimize it, but because if he can make you smile again, he knows things are healing.

Paul needs to be forgiven. Not out of ego, but because he feels everything.

He’s a fixer. He’ll bring you tea, your favorite flowers, offer a back rub, light candles, anything to bring peace back.

꒰ GEORGE ꒱

“I don’t want to go to bed mad at you. I can’t stand that feeling.”

George doesn’t scream or explode unless he feels totally disrespected or like he’s being ignored.

But he does bite, with sarcasm and a short fuse. And when he’s hurt, he gets defensive as hell.

After a fight, he needs a moment.

He’s got this natural urge to pull away, to go sulk, stew, smoke, pace, play guitar.

It’s not out of cruelty—it’s self-preservation. He’s learned not to lash out further when he’s raw.

But he doesn’t like the distance, either. When things cool down and you’re not coming to him, he comes to you, stubbornly, sometimes awkwardly, but he does.

You might hear a soft knock at the door or feel the bed shift when he sits down next to you in silence.

He fidgets with his hands or picks at the hem of his sleeve when he’s sorry. His apologies don’t come perfectly worded, but they’re real.

“I was just tryin’ to be heard and I ended up shouting over you. It wasn’t fair. I know that.”

George wants to be understood, so comforting you is also him explaining where he came from, but not to justify, to open up.

He wants the same from you. "If you’re upset, tell me. Don’t just go quiet. I can’t take that.”

He’s not always the best with verbal comfort, he tries, but sometimes his love language post-fight is proximity: laying next to you, resting a hand on your knee, things like that.

꒰ RINGO ꒱

“I didn’t just come here to be liked when things are easy, y’know. I’m not leaving just ‘cause we had a fight.”

He feels physically ill after a fight.

His stomach knots, chest tightens, eyes sting. It just wrecks him inside. He doesn't know if he's angry or sad.

Paces the room, wringing his hands, mumbling to himself.

He absolutely hates being at odds.

Silence from you makes him panic a little, but he’ll respect your space.

Still, he can’t stand waiting. Eventually, he’ll come find you, quiet knock on the door, then:

“Sweetheart… can I come in? Please?”

He comforts through softness and silliness.

He’ll bring something ridiculous like a dandelion he picked on the way.

“Look, risked me life in a stranger’s lawn for this. Thought it might win you back.”

He’ll sit on the floor if you’re on the bed.

Just rest his chin on your knee and look up at you, utterly open.

“I can be an idiot, but I don’t want you to go to bed sad.”

He holds your hand even as he’s apologizing, like he needs that grounding, needs to feel you’re still there.

Afterward, he’s incredibly affectionate. He snuggles up like he’s trying to burrow into you.

Wraps his arms around your middle, tucks his face in your neck.

"Still love me?"

And when you say yes, he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.

He stays close all night. He’ll fall asleep touching. Knee to knee, chest to back, hand in yours. Needs it. Can’t rest otherwise.

The next morning, he’ll still be a little sheepish. Might bring you breakfast with a flower tucked behind his ear like, “Peace offering, again.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin

[sugardollcurse]

paul mccartney x fem reader with really bad anxiety? all the beatlemania stuff is getting to her head and she has a panic attack?

𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆

꒰ pairing ꒱ paul mccartney x fem!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ anxiety, panic attack

꒰ summary ꒱ you wanted to be strong, but the flashing lights and screaming fans never seem to stop. paul finds you.

The hotel room was too quiet. At least, compared to earlier.

Outside, the sound of shrieking girls still echoed faintly, like ghosts pressed to the windows. It was never-ending. Airports, venues, the bloody car ride — you could still hear them in your head. It rang in your ears like tinnitus. Your palms were clammy. Your chest tight.

Paul had gone to talk to Brian. Or George. Or someone. You couldn’t remember now. He said he’d be gone a few minutes. It had been thirty.

You sat stiff on the edge of the hotel bed, arms locked around yourself. Your knee bounced. Then both knees bounced. Then your fingers tapped against your skin, desperate to find a rhythm that made sense.

Breathe. It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe.

But you weren't fine. And you knew it.

You'd been in the U.S. for a week now. Girls reaching for Paul’s hair, his arms, his mouth. That part didn’t even bother you — it wasn’t jealousy. It was the noise. The pressure. The eyes.

Everyone watching. Everyone judging. Everyone wanting something.

The crowds were endless. Every day. Flashbulbs, microphones shoved into faces, reporters barking questions, girls grabbing and sobbing like the world was ending. Paul — your Paul — soaked in the spotlight, all dimpled smiles and clever charm. He was so natural in it. Like he was made for this.

And you? You barely existed in that world. A ghost at the edge of the frame.

No one asked your name. No one even glanced twice. You weren't in the photographs. Not in the headlines. Not even a footnote. Thank god.

You weren't jealous, not at all. You loved him. You were proud of him. But it made the feeling worse somehow — like you were invisible and still somehow under a microscope. Paul could forget about you. Leave you behind. Your brain twisted everything into guilt and noise. What was wrong with you? Why couldn’t you just be fine?

Your anxiety had always been there, tucked quietly in the corners. But this — this was like a spotlight had been turned on inside your skull, exposing every nerve. You couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The smell of cigarette smoke made you nauseous, the drone of fans outside made you flinch. Paul only furrowed his brow and asked if you had a cold. You'd nodded. That was easier than admitting your body had turned against you.

The pressure built with each passing day, and then it finally cracked.

Your fingers tingled. Then your lips. Your chest seized up, like ropes were tightening around your lungs. Your throat closed. Your ears rang with static. Your vision blurred.

You staggered to the bathroom, vision swimming, legs unsteady. Your knees smacked the cold tile. You could barely hear yourself gasp, but it was loud in your head — too loud.

You were crying now, full-body sobs you couldn’t control. Shaking, clawing at your chest, trying to open your lungs by force. Your nails scratched your skin red. Your heartbeat thumped violently against your ribs.

What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you just handle it? No one was chasing you. No one knew your name. It wasn’t like the press cared. The world didn’t even see you. So why was your body reacting like this? Why did you feel like you were going to die?

You curled over yourself, forehead pressed to the floor. Panic blurred every thought, every edge of your vision.

Then —

“Love? I’m back, where’d you—?”

Paul’s voice, echoing from the room.

“Sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Footsteps. Then —

“Jesus— what the hell—?”

He froze in the bathroom doorway, eyes wide.

“Bloody hell, love, what—? What’s happenin’? Are you—?”

His voice cracked. You couldn’t even look at him. You were trembling, gasping like you’d run a marathon, face wet with tears, nails red from your own skin. You wanted to disappear. To melt into the floor and never have to explain this.

He knelt beside you, hovering.

“Christ… are you alright? You… can you hear me?”

His voice was shaky. Gentle. Alarmed. He touched your shoulder, then paused like he didn’t want to scare you more.

“C’mere, let me—just—can I hold you?”

You managed a twitch. He took it as a yes.

Slowly, he pulled you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you like you were made of glass. Your body jolted with each ragged breath. He rocked you gently, trying to soothe you without knowing how.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to your head. “I’m here, love, alright? You’re alright.”

He spoke low and steady — trying to be calm for you. His accent curled around the words, soft and grounding.

“Try breathin’ with me, yeah? Just… just follow me.” He took a long, slow breath, loud and exaggerated. “In… and out. You’re alright. That’s it.”

You followed him, barely. Your chest still fought you. But the edge of panic started to dull, like the tide pulling back after a storm.

He kept whispering. Nonsense words. Comforts. Things like: “I’m not goin’ anywhere,” and “We’ll figure this out.”

Eventually, the shaking slowed. Your sobs turned to hiccups. You slumped against him, weak and exhausted, your face burning with shame.

He carried you to the bed. Got a cloth to clean your face. Helped you change into clean clothes. Didn’t pry. Didn’t say too much.

But he didn’t leave your side, either.

Only when your breathing had returned to something close to normal — only when the weight had lifted slightly — did he speak again.

His voice was quiet.

“…What was that, love?”

You froze. Avoided his eyes. Your mouth opened, then closed.

“I dunno,” you said weakly. “Just… I—I panicked. I don’t know.”

He studied you for a moment, head tilted slightly.

“Somethin’ hit you all of a sudden?” he asked, careful. Not assuming — but not clueless either.

You hesitated. “I think so.”

Paul nodded slowly, brushing some hair out of your face. “Right. Okay. That’s alright.”

“I didn’t mean to—” You swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. It’s humiliating.”

He gave you a small, crooked smile. “Yeah, well… I once fell flat on my arse in front of a stadium full of people, so I think we’re even now.”

You let out a watery laugh, half-choked. He nudged you gently.

“Love, listen…” His voice was low now. “That wasn’t—y’know, it wasn’t embarrassing. You haven’t got to be embarrassed with me.”

You looked away, your throat tight. “It was. It is. I—I couldn’t even breathe, Paul. And you saw—God, I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

He sat back slightly, like he wanted to get a proper look at you.

“Well, I did,” he said plainly. “And you’re alright. You came out the other side. That’s what matters, isn’t it?”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You probably think I’m pathetic.”

He frowned. “Don’t say that.”

Paul was quiet for a second. He rubbed the back of his neck. Then he reached out and gently tucked your hair behind your ear.

“I’ve been watchin’ you,” he said. “I noticed you’d gone quiet. You weren’t eatin’, barely sleepin’. But I didn’t push. Thought maybe you were sick or… I dunno, I figured you’d tell me if it was serious.”

You gave a weak shrug.

“I should’ve checked in more. That’s on me.” he added, softer now.

“You were busy,” you mumbled again.

“Yeah, well. Doesn’t mean I stop carin’.”

There was a beat of silence. Paul looked down, then back at you with a small, thoughtful frown.

“Is this… have you had that before?”

You hesitated, picking at a thread on the blanket. “…Yeah. Not that bad, usually. But yeah.”

He nodded slowly. “Right.”

And then, quieter still: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “I told you. Because it’s humiliating.”

Paul let out a breath through his nose — not quite a sigh, more like something thoughtful.

“You think I’m gonna walk out ‘cause you had a panic?” he asked. Not mocking, but honest — just a question.

“I dunno.”

He looked at you for a moment, then shook his head like he couldn’t believe what you were saying. “You know I’ve seen people throw up before gigs, right? Full nerves. Every time. Just hide it with cigarettes and mouth.”

You blinked at him.

Paul gave a slight, crooked smile. “We all get scared, love.”

He leaned back against the headboard, arm still around you, more relaxed now.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll take the day. Get out. Just us. I’ll make up some excuse to Brian. Tell him I’ve gone off to find inner peace or summat.”

You snorted weakly. “You’ll get in trouble.”

He shrugged, cheeky. “Let me.”

Then he nudged you gently with his shoulder, his voice lighter. “Besides, I reckon I deserve a day off. Been carryin’ you ‘round all week.”

You rolled your eyes, but the faintest smile tugged at your lips.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you murmured.

“Oh, it’s already there,” he said. “I’m insufferable.”

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin

[sugardollcurse]

I love your writing it’s so beautiful and eloquent.

you're too kind ♡ thank you for reading my stuff ! 💌

[sugardollcurse]

i adore the way you write john it’s actually so cute, are you planning on continuing baby they love you? i’ll read anything you write though!

ahh you're so sweet, thank you angel!!

i don't really have any ideas for baby they love you so i'm probably not continuing it, but i am finishing up a paul request that i'll likely post later today!

[sugardollcurse]

can you tell who my favorite beatle is..... anywayyy stuff for the other lads coming soon i pinky swear ♡

[sugardollcurse]

𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

꒰ pairing ꒱ john lennon x reader

꒰ contains ꒱ guy being a little nuisance

꒰ summary ꒱ john wakes you at 4 a.m. to eat something, but it’s not really about the food.

The knocking started before the dream had even finished fading. You weren’t sure what time it was, but the room was dark and tasted of radiator heat and stale cotton mouth. Something—knuckles?—rapping soft against the doorframe, then louder, like whoever it was thought they could charm their way in just by tapping polite. It worked.

You squinted at the faint shape behind the glass pane on the top half of the door—silhouette of a mop-haired ghoul—and groaned, rolling onto your side. Your legs tangled deeper in the itchy hotel blankets.

“Jesus Christ…” you croaked, voice a gravel pit. “What time is it.”

The knob turned with no shame. Of course it did.

“Only quarter past four,” John said like it was an invitation to tea.

You couldn’t see much but the way his shoulders filled the doorway and the gleam of his grin. The hallway light hit his teeth like mischief incarnate. He had a dish towel in one hand and something wrapped in it—food, you guessed. You groaned again, louder this time.

“John.”

“Mm?” He stepped inside like a stray cat you’d left the door cracked for. “Didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No. M’just always awake at this hour. Best part of the day, isn't it?” You rolled your face into the pillow and mumbled, “If you murder me, I swear to God, you better at least turn off the radiator before you hide the body.”

“D’you want a peach?” he asked, offering the bundle.

You cracked an eye open. “A peach.”

“Yeah.”

“…You broke into my hotel room at four in the morning to offer me fruit.”

“It’s a nice peach.”

You stay silent.

“I washed it n’ everything,” he said with a grin audible in his voice, crouching at the edge of your bed like a schoolboy caught sneaking sweets. “Didn’t even nick it off the room service cart. It was just there, on the table in our room. Lonely. Beggin’ to be eaten, like.”

You sighed so hard it rattled the wall. “Are the others awake?”

“No, they’re normal. M’not.”

“No argument here.”

But you sat up anyway, even though your eyes burned and your hair was a matted halo around your head. You knew he wouldn’t leave until he got what he came for. He was wearing a too-big button-up with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, boxers peeking out from under it, legs pale and meaty and shameless. His hair was a mess. You were sure yours looked worse.

You held your hand out wordlessly, fingers open.

He brightened, plopped the peach into your palm like he’d gifted you the crown jewels. “Knew you’d come ‘round.”

“I didn’t. I’m just too tired to fight.”

“You love me.”

“Not at this hour.”

“But at other hours?”

You paused, the fruit heavy in your hand, his eyes glued to your mouth. He was sitting real close now, and the air smelled like soap and faint tobacco and cheap hotel starch. You looked at the peach. You looked at him. You blinked.

“...I’m not even hungry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said with a shrug. “I just wanted someone t’ eat it with.”

There was something in the way he said it. Not rushed or jokey. Not his usual poking-the-bear rhythm. Just soft. Plainspoken. Like he meant it.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Why?”

He hesitated, looking at your face like it was a lyric he wasn’t quite ready to write down.

Then: “I just wanted a reason to be with you, is all.”

Your stomach fell through your knees. Your fingers tightened around the peach.

He wasn’t grinning now. Just watching you, calm and naked in that way only sleep-deprived people get. Honest. Dreamy. Blinking slow. You knew he liked you. Everyone knew. The lads teased him about it, George worse than any, but John never confirmed or denied. Just dodged. Deflected. Teased you more, like a schoolboy yanking braids.

But now he was sitting at the foot of your bed, bare-legged, barefoot, pale skin freckled from old sun, and saying things like that. Saying them like they didn’t matter. Like they wouldn’t keep you up the rest of the night.

“I should throw this peach at your head,” you muttered.

“Wouldn’t blame you.”

You turned it over in your hand. It was perfectly ripe. “Is there another one?”

He nodded. “Stashed it. I’ll get it, hang on.”

He disappeared and came back seconds later with another towel-wrapped sphere, flopping into the armchair near the heater, legs sprawling wide open, the fabric of his shirt riding up his thigh. You looked away. He bit into the fruit with a squelch.

“Oh, that’s good,” he said with his mouth full, eyes rolling back like he was about to ascend.

You took a slow bite. Juice slid down your wrist, sticky-sweet. You licked it, then wiped it on your sleeve. “God, we’re disgusting.”

“Speak for yourself, love. I’m dead sexy.”

You snorted. “Says who?”

“Ask the papers.”

“You wrote the papers.”

He grinned, then went quiet, chewing. The radiator ticked. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe hissed like a warning. You looked at each other across the thin hotel air, heat blushing your face from more than the peach.

He licked a dribble from his thumb and didn’t look away.

You nodded. “I’d like to go back to sleep now.”

“Alright.” But he didn’t move.

You looked at him.

“John.”

“Mhm.”

“That means get out.”

“Right.” He stood, stretched, shirt riding up to show a sliver of his stomach. He caught you looking, didn’t comment. His smile just curled crooked. “Ta for the company.”

“Ta for the peach.”

He left, slow, dragging his feet like some melodramatic teenage poet kicked out of his own room, humming something tuneless under his breath like the whole thing hadn’t just been an ambush on your nervous system. The door didn’t click shut behind him. Didn’t even try. It swung half-closed with a lazy creak and stayed there, cracked open like a smirk.

You blinked at it.

Waited.

Stared at the slit of light slicing across the floor like a knife made of irritation.

You sat up. “John.”

Nothing. Just footsteps padding away on ugly hallway carpet. His silhouette vanished, and the light stayed, obnoxious as his voice.

“John!”

Still nothing.

“JOHN CLOSE THE DOOR!”

The hallway remained silent. The door didn’t budge.

You made a noise that wasn’t quite human—something between a sigh and a strangled scream—and grabbed what was left of your peach, cold and chewed and dripping from where you’d bitten off half the world. You lobbed it with all the grace of a pissed-off ghost. It hit the edge of the door with a damp splock and bounced pitifully onto the carpet, leaving a glistening smear of peach guts behind like a wounded soldier.

The door didn’t close.

You collapsed back onto the mattress, groaning so loud the radiator winced.

"Bastard."

[sugardollcurse]

not a question i just wanted to say i love your fanfics so so much truly im obsessed

omg thank you sweet thing!! that means the world <33

[sugardollcurse]

𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖

꒰ pairing ꒱ john lennon x fem!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ corniness

꒰ summary ꒱ you're america's sweetheart—well, one-fourth of her. the beatles just landed in new york. and john lennon’s been waiting his whole life to meet you.

꒰ note ꒱ 1964 bby.

You hear them before you see them.

Screaming girls, the kind who throw their whole hearts and panties at a stage. They echo down the Ed Sullivan hallway like a hurricane. You’re used to it—your group’s been doing this for years. But this? This is something else entirely. A different breed of mania.

“They sound like they’ve seen God,” you mutter, fluffing your hair in the mirror. Lashes like wings, mini dress cinched at the waist. Perfect. Show-ready. You always are. You were made for stages, smoke, and stares.

Your bandmates hum in agreement as they do final touch-ups. One of them peeks into the hallway, wide-eyed. “It’s those British boys. The Beatles.”

You roll your eyes playfully. You’ve heard of them. Their songs have been climbing the charts behind yours. But you’ve been busy. Tour buses, press junkets, studio sessions. The world’s had your face on every magazine cover for months.

Until now.

You step into the hallway and the world shifts.

They’re just boys. But they carry themselves like they’ve already changed everything.

Tall, lanky, suits too sharp, hair too perfect. Paul’s all charm and a pretty face, George is sweet and cheekbones, Ringo is cute and fuzzy.

And then there’s John—eyes dark and assessing, mouth tugging into a half-smile when he sees you.

You don’t break stride. You walk right past them, brushing shoulders with confidence, and John watches every second of it.

“They're finer than I thought,” Paul whispers. That gets a laugh. Even John chuckles, pushing his tongue into his cheek.

Later, on stage, the studio is electric. The Beatles play their set first—tight, loud, euphoric. The crowd loses it. You watch from the wings, tapping your heel, arms crossed. They're good. No denying it.

When it’s your group’s turn, the cheers go wild, not as wild, but wild. Harmonies tight as ever, hips swaying in unison, your voice slicing through the noise like a knife dipped in honey. By the time the last note fades, you’re breathless.

Backstage is hell—press, techs, producers. And then somehow, you and your girls are ushered into the same green room as them.

“Shared space,” some assistant says. “Make it work.”

You sink into a velvet couch, unzipping your boots. One of the Beatles tosses you a bottled Coke.

“You were brilliant,” George says politely.

“Thanks,” you reply, flashing a smile.

“Your harmonies were mental,” Paul adds. “Never heard anything like it.”

“I have,” you say. “We’ve been doing it a while.”

John’s leaning in the corner, arms crossed, eyes flicking over you lazily. “You always this sharp?”

You smirk. “Only when I’m being watched.”

The room settles into a strange comfort. Laughter bubbles up. Your girls chat with theirs. Ringo’s talking about how confusing American money is. Someone puts a record on a portable player. The tension starts to melt.

You catch John watching you again.

“You don’t talk much,” you say to him.

“I talk plenty. Just waiting to see if you’re all bite or just bark.”

Your lips twitch. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to find out.”

He grins, the kind that doesn’t show teeth but still feels dangerous. “Was planning to.”

The night winds down. There’s talk of parties, but no one makes a move. You’re all riding the high, letting it stretch out. A new band in a new country. Old pros meeting fresh faces.

━━

The hotel they’ve stuffed you all into is near Central Park, tall and golden and buzzing with security. You don’t know who made the call to keep both bands in the same place, but it’s got disorder written all over it.

You’re all so loud. Not just in music, but in presence. Girls in hair rollers and silk robes, boys smoking out windows, laughter echoing from suite to suite. The place hums like a jukebox left on all night.

Someone ordered champagne. Someone brought a record player. Someone spilled something on the carpet and no one’s owned up to it. George keeps slipping on it and cursing in the hallway. No one’s really sleeping.

Your group’s curled into a corner of the lounge area on the penthouse floor, giggling over gossip mags and brushing each other’s hair. One of your girls has her head in your lap, painting her nails a wicked red. You’re thumbing through a crossword you don’t intend to finish. Not really. It’s just something to do with your hands.

John walks in like he owns the place.

You don’t look up, but you feel him. Like he’s magnetic. Like the entire room rearranges itself to fit him in it.

“Room full of talent and they still let me in,” he says, plopping down on the floor beside your couch, legs stretched out, like he’s always belonged there.

“You’re not talent, you’re a tourist,” you murmur, pen tapping your knee.

He gasps dramatically. “A tourist? That’s cruel. I thought Americans were nice.”

“We’re from New York,” your bandmate calls out. “Try again.”

John snorts and leans closer to you, picking up his own crossword and eyeing it like it’s a riddle only you can solve. "I don’t know if I’ve got this one yet... might need some assistance from someone clever."

You arch a brow. "Four-letter word for 'not slick.' Starts with 'J'?"

He clutches his chest. "Brutal. She’s got claws tonight."

You sigh and take the book from him. “Alright, let’s see. Which one’s giving you grief?”

He points, pretending to squint. “That one. Number sixteen across.”

You stare at it. “The answer’s ‘love.’ It’s obvious.”

“Ohhh,” he says, dragging the word out like it physically pains him. “Right. Of course. Thought it might be ‘lust.’ Y’know, for the variety.”

“You’re impossible,” you mutter, but your lips twitch. You’re smiling despite yourself.

He watches you fill it in, your handwriting neat and looping and way too elegant for a crossword.

“You’re quite good at this,” he says softly.

“It’s a crossword, Lennon. Not rocket science.”

“No, I mean... the helping bit.”

You pause, glance up.

He’s looking at you like you’ve just solved something far more complicated. Like maybe you’re the answer to a question he didn’t know he was asking.

It’s quiet for a beat. Just the soft hum of music from the record player and the distant sound of someone laughing.

Then Ringo crashes through the doorway yelling about room service and the moment breaks like a record scratched too hard.

You slip the book shut.

“Try not to strain yourself with all that thinking,” you tease.

He grins. “Not if you’re around to bail me out.”

━━

Later that night, the party shifts into a kind of drowsy comfort. Half the group’s gone to bed, half are dozing under coats and blankets on mismatched furniture. Someone’s wrapped themselves in a curtain. You’re still up, perched on a hotel windowsill with a drink in hand, knees tucked to your chest. The city blinks beneath you like a living postcard.

John walks over and leans beside you, shoulder brushing yours. He smells like cologne and cheap champagne.

"Y'know," he says, voice quieter than usual, “back home, they said America’d eat us alive.”

“Back home, they don’t know much,” you reply.

He laughs. “True enough. But I think they were half-right. About you, at least.”

You tilt your head. “Me?”

He leans in slightly, eyes gleaming. “You’re a bit terrifying, you know. All poised and perfect and… brilliant. Makes a bloke nervous.”

“Good.” You sip your drink. “Then maybe you’ll stop trying to flirt with me.”

“Oh no,” he says, mock-serious. “That only makes it worse.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. “You’re a fool.”

“Maybe. But you smiled when I walked in.”

You sigh and look out the window, but your cheeks are warm.

He leans a little closer, voice low. “If I said I needed help tuning my guitar tomorrow, would you come show me?”

“You already know how to do that.”

“Maybe I just want to hear your version.”

You shake your head, but something in your chest shifts.

He watches you like he’s memorizing every move, every breath, like you’re a song he wants to learn the chords to.

He doesn’t say it—but something's shifting. And you’re starting to feel it too.

━━

The next morning dawns slow and gold, stretching across the city like spilled honey. New York is hazy outside the window, skyscrapers softened by early light, the city blinking awake beneath a sky just beginning to blush. There’s lipstick on coffee cups, eyeliner smudges on pillowcases, and records scattered across the floor like footprints from a night danced through in bare feet. The hotel suite hums with the hangover of something big, something bright, something unfinished.

You’re brushing your teeth when there's a knock. Not at your suite door—at your bedroom. A softer knock, a kind of murmur in wood. Not demanding. More like it’s asking permission.

You crack the door open, toothbrush still dangling from your mouth.

John stands there, hair tousled like he’s wrestled dreams all night, a shirt misbuttoned and a lazy grin playing on his lips. "Mornin'," he says, voice thick with sleep and something else. Something warmer.

You raise an eyebrow. “Bit early for pop-ins, isn’t it?”

He shrugs, grinning wider. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe you were up. Lucky guess.”

You sigh through your nose, amused despite yourself, and gesture him in.

He flops onto the edge of your bed like a cat who’s decided it lives here now, eyes skimming lazily over your mess. "This where the magic happens, then?"

You spit into the sink. “Only if by magic you mean me tryin’ not to murder the cleaning staff every morning.”

He laughs, sharp and sudden. “Proper sass. Love that.”

He leans back on his elbows. “I meant what I said yesterday, by the way. You’ve got somethin’. Somethin’ that makes the rest of us look like amateurs in daft suits.”

You raise an eyebrow, toweling your hands. “Didn’t take you for a flatterer.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Just observant. You walk in like the queen of bloody everything. Makes it hard to remember what I was sayin’ or why I walked into the room.”

You fold your arms, watching him carefully. “That supposed to be your version of sweet talk?”

He smirks, lazy and wicked. “Nah, if I were sweet talkin’ you, you’d know it. There’d be flowers. Maybe a guitar solo.”

You shake your head, but there’s a curl of a smile on your lips now. He sees it. You can tell he does.

You sit beside him, just far enough that it’s still a choice. He shifts closer, subtle, like a tide inching toward shore.

“I don’t do halfway, Lennon,” you murmur, eyes fixed on a loose thread in the carpet.

He huffs. “Yeah, no shit. You’re all bite. 'S why I like you.”

And that’s it, really. That’s the turn. The shift from maybe to yes.

His hand finds yours like it’s already learned the map of it. Fingers intertwine. He’s warm, solid, meaty, calloused from strings and fame. A builder’s hand. A breaker’s hand. But this morning—it’s the hand of someone who just wants to hold.

Outside, the city unfolds like a flower, petals opening slow in the pale light. Horns honk, footsteps echo on pavement, somewhere a dog barks. The day has begun. But here, in this room, time lingers. Stretches. Refuses to rush.

He glances sideways. “Y’know, I still think crosswords are a load of shite. But I reckon I’d give ‘em another go. If you’re helpin’, that is.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hopelessly charming,” he shoots back.

He leans his head against your shoulder, just enough to feel it. Just enough to stay.

John Lennon is looking at you like the world finally makes sense.

Like maybe, just maybe, love is the answer to sixteen across after all.

[sugardollcurse]

𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒂 𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒕𝒂 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌

꒰ pairing ꒱ teddy boy! john lennon x femme fatale!reader

꒰ contains ꒱ violence, obsession, crime

꒰ summary ꒱ you weren’t supposed to be at the cavern club that night. but then again, john wasn’t supposed to fall in love with the girl who pistol-whipped him either.

You’re the kind of girl who smokes your lipstick off and forgets your name when you’ve had too much gin. You don’t smile for free. You keep a loaded pistol under the bed of a borrowed flat and cash in your stocking. You used to sing in a motel bar out in Birkenhead until the place mysteriously burned down—no one really asked why. You’ve lived a hundred lives. Every man who’s loved you either ran or disappeared.

You have one rule: don’t fall for the local boys. Especially the loud ones. Especially the pretty ones with big mouths and no fear.

But then there’s John.

He sees you before you see him. You’re at the back of the Cavern Club, sequins catching the sickly yellow light, drink in hand, half-listening to the set. And he’s staring. Can’t help himself. You’re danger in a dress.

After the show, you’re halfway to leaving when you feel someone behind you. The air shifts.

“Oi,” he says. "You nicked me soul or summat? 'Cause I’m not right since seein' you."

You turn. He’s cocky. Beautiful. Not in the safe way. In the kind of way that ruins things.

“You always this dramatic?” you ask, not even pretending to smile.

“Only when it matters,” he says, licking his teeth. “I’m John."

“I don’t care.”

He laughs. Like you’re the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. Like you’re magic. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, just watches you with that crooked grin like he’s already decided he’s in love.

“Right,” he says, “but you will.”

He walks with you anyway. Like a puppy with a switchblade in its teeth.

“Where you headed then?”

“Anywhere you're not.”

“Well, guess I’ll just have to tag along till you change your mind.”

You roll your eyes. Keep walking. He keeps talking. Says stupid things. Says smart things. Keeps looking at your mouth like it's a hymn. When you reach the end of the alley behind the club, you turn. He’s still there.

“What do you want?”

“To know your name. Maybe your whole life story if I’m lucky.”

He’s annoying. He’s charming. He’s a boy who thinks he’s invincible.

So you reach into your bag. And pull it.

The gun.

Heavy. Black. Loaded.

And point it right at his pretty little face.

He freezes.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he breathes, eyes wide. “What the hell—why d'you—bloody hell, where'd you get that?”

“America,” you say flatly. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna shoot you. Unless you keep talking.”

He stares. Then—

“Are you real?” he says. “Or just summat I dreamt up in a fever?”

You step closer. Press the cold barrel to his forehead.

“When I hit you in the back of the head with a gun?” you murmur. “You’ll know it.”

And you walk away.

He stands there for a full minute before he laughs.

Loud. Echoing. Like he’s just been blessed.

He touches his forehead where the gun kissed him and whispers to himself:

“I’m gonna marry that girl.”

━━

It’s been three days since the alley.

John’s tried to find you again. Every night at the Cavern. Every dive bar in Liverpool. He’s half-mad with it. Telling anyone who’ll listen about the girl with a goddamn gun. George says he made her up. Paul doesn’t want to know. Ringo just laughs and hands him another smoke.

But John knows you’re real. And he’s obsessed. It’s in his bones now, something feral and glitter-drenched. He sees you in every flash of red neon. Every smear of lipstick on a pub glass. You’re haunting him, and you haven’t even tried.

So when he spots you on Bold Street—draped in a faux fur coat, drink in hand, eyes like razors under heavy lashes—he follows. No questions.

You’re walking fast. Too fast. There’s blood on your knee. Smudged mascara. A bottle clinking in your bag. You don’t even flinch when you realize he’s behind you.

“What,” you snap, lighting a cigarette, “do you want from me?”

John stares at you like he’s been starving for days.

“Everything.”

You laugh.

“You’re not serious.”

“I am,” he says, stepping closer. “I’m fuckin’ mental for you. Look at you. You're the most dangerous thing I've ever seen and I want to touch it.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Did you rehearse that in front of a mirror, pretty boy?”

“Only every night since you pulled a piece on me.”

You don’t smile. Instead, you take the gun out again. Same one. Same weight. Same unspoken threat.

“Still want everything?”

“Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “I want the whole fuckin' show. Blood, bullets, lipstick, all of it.”

That’s when you hit him.

Hard.

Metal meets bone. The dull thunk of your pistol slamming against the back of his thick skull. He stumbles forward with a grunt, drops to a knee.

“Jesus CHRIST,” he shouts, “what the f—bloody hell!”

He touches the back of his head. Blood. He laughs. Of course he does.

“Fuckin' hell,” he groans. “You weren’t bluffin'. That hurt like a bastard.”

You help him to his feet. He sways a little. His blood is on your hand. You can feel the way he looks at you—like you're something divine and unholy at the same time.

“You hit me in the head with a gun,” he says.

“And you’re still following me,” you reply.

“Yeah. That should worry you.”

“It doesn’t.”

That night, you end up in a pub on the docks. Sharing cigarettes. Sharing drinks. Sharing stories you don’t tell anyone else.

You tell him about your father. The river. The weight of a body when it stops moving. You tell him about the motels. The fires. The mirrors in the dressing rooms that crack right down the middle the night before. About the stages you almost didn’t walk off.

He doesn’t flinch. He just listens. Like you’re a song he’s memorizing.

John tells you he doesn’t care what you did. Or why. He likes you this way.

“You made me nice for a while,” you say, fingering the rim of your glass, “but my other side’s true.”

He leans in.

“Good. Be dark. Be mine.”

You stare at his stupid face. So confident. So smug. So sure he’s about to get kissed.

Instead, you slap him.

A sharp crack echoes off the pub wall, and his head snaps to the side. His eyes go wide.

“The fuck was that for?!” he sputters, laughing even as his cheek flushes red.

You just shrug, wicked grin blooming.

“You looked like you needed it.”

He’s grinning again. Infatuated. And maybe a little scared.

That’s your favorite kind of man.

━━

It’s a week later and he still hasn’t shut up about it.

"Y’know you’ve got a real mean fuckin’ slap," he mutters, standing half-naked in front of your cracked vanity mirror, tracing the faint red outline on his cheekbone like it’s a trophy. “Took me four days to stop lookin’ like I lost a bar fight.”

He smirks at you through the mirror like he’s proud of it. Like it’s a love mark.

You’re sprawled behind him on the bed, tangled in sheets and wrapped in the oversized shirt he wore the night you met. One leg is hooked over the other. A cigarette balanced perfectly between your lips. Smoke coils above your head like a halo gone wrong.

You don’t look at him. You just exhale and say, “You like it.”

John turns, lazy grin stretched wide. “Yeah. I do.”

He makes his way over and drops next to you like gravity wanted him there. Like the bed belongs to both of you now. He smells like your perfume. You’d sprayed it on him the night before, right on his neck. He hadn’t wiped it off.

His hand ghosts your thigh like it’s second nature.

“You gonna hit me again?” he asks, almost hopeful.

You smirk. “Not tonight.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

You ash your cigarette in the chipped glass ashtray and roll on top of him. A smooth, deliberate shift of weight. He stills beneath you, gaze locked to yours like you’re gravity now. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. You wonder if he’s going to say something stupid again, but he just breathes your name like it’s the only prayer he knows.

You drag your fingers down his jaw. Trace his bottom lip. Then lean in—not to kiss, but to whisper something that makes him shiver.

You take your time with him. Your hands on his face. Your lipstick on his neck. Your body stretched over his like a sin made of sequins and smoke. He kisses like he talks: fast, impulsive, all teeth and tongue, like he doesn’t want to waste time. But you slow him down. You make him feel it.

Eventually, he does. He softens. His hands shake on your hips, his lips go slack against yours. He exhales your name like it’s a secret and a promise.

“You’re not what I expected,” he murmurs, fingers curling around your wrist.

“You expected a girl who wouldn’t pistol-whip you in an alley?”

“I expected someone who’d leave after.”

You pause.

And then you stay.

Not just that night. But the next. And the next.

You start leaving things at his place without asking. Your comb. Your favorite lipstick. Your pistol, tucked under his bed. He pretends not to notice it, but sometimes you catch him glancing at the spot. You know he knows.

Sometimes you lie on the floor of his room while he writes. You read old books out loud, the kind with yellowed pages and broken spines, while he smokes and pretends not to be listening. Other nights, you crawl into his lap and trace shapes into the back of his hand while he leans back and lets you.

You let him see you.

The bruises. The scars. The way your hands shake sometimes when it rains. The chip in your polish, the glitter smeared under your eyes. The things you’ve done. The ones you can’t undo. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t try to fix you. He just looks at you like you’re art that moves.

He brings you roses now. Lights your cigarettes. Asks you about your day like it matters.

John writes you into songs before he finishes them. Swears the lads don’t know, but Paul does. Paul always knows. You catch him smiling when John hums something soft under his breath with your name buried in it.

You let him fall asleep with your thigh between his. Let him press kisses into your wrist like they’ll keep you anchored. Let him trace the outline of your pistol in the dark and say nothing, but you can feel the question in his touch.

You curl into him. Let him breathe you in.

You were born bad.

But with him?

You’re still bad. Still dangerous.

You’re just his now.

[sugardollcurse]

♡ hi angelcakes ~ i’m dolly (she/her) ♡ just your local sugared-up starlet w/ too many feelings & a beatles brainrot ♡ i write about the beatles ~ requests are open! feel free to drop anything in my inbox (if i don’t reply, that just means i won’t write it, no hard feelings <3) i also adore lana del rey like she’s my religion