Oh!!! Do you think you could do a Paul x Male!reader? I was thinking that the reader could be a journalist who visits paul's house for a newspaper interview and turns into a flustered mess because Paul keeps being a flirt? You can make it smut if you like. Sorry this is the first time I'm requesting something and I've only recently fallen inlove with your work!!
A/n: Thank you so much for the request, no problem at all that it’s your first time doing so. I have to say, I had a lot of fun writing this one. It gets a little angsty but it ends happy and everything is all good.
Summary: You manage to land giving Paul McCartney an exclusive interview in his own home, something that will undoubtedly be great for growing in your own career. However, the bassist is even more nerve-racking then what you had initially had in mind.
Key: y/l/n=your last name
Warning(s): Swearing, as well as the use of homophobic slurs. They are used to fit the mood of the 60s, and I don’t condone anyone using these words to describe someone in real life
Okay, you weren’t expecting Paul McCartney to be that handsome in person. Looking at all the photos and press conferenced you’ve seen featuring the lighthearted Beatle, it had taken a while until you had convinced yourself that it was all fake in preparation for your own interview with the man himself. Surely, a face that gorgeous must be one big sham brought to life any camera pointed in McCartney’s general direction. Yup, all of it is one big conspiracy.
It’s why you’re going to act nothing short of professional and not let your emotions get in the way when talking to him. Getting the chance to speak one-on-one with any Beatle is just the boost in your career that you have been waiting for. You had been going on strong despite shifting positions between different newspapers. This would ensure your spot as an important and a reporter someone would want to work for them.
The last thing you need is to stumble over your words and become tongue-tied in front of some random stranger from Liverpool. Good thing that won’t happen, because he’s not as handsome or funny as anything in the past has obviously implied that McCartney is not.
Knocking on the front door of his humble flat, you adjust the papers on your clipboard frantically. Straightening your back, you make sure to look as confident and adept as you can be. You must present yourself in a way that will subtly display your expertise and allow Mr. McCartney to know that you mean business. Certainly, you didn’t brush your pants off and adjust your tie about a million times on the way to his apartment because you wanted to impress him for personal reasons. He’s not even that pretty, as I am sure no one could be.
You were in the middle of touching up your hair with your free hand (because Paul McCartney is not attractive goddamnit) when the door was unlocked from the inside and swung open. As expected, Paul McCartney stands before you. He’s wearing a black turtleneck sweater and an expensive pair of brown trousers held up by a black belt. His raven hair had clearly been washed recently and combed in its signature mop-top style, his face shaved completely clean. His curved eyes (you had once argued with one of your close friends over the subject of Paul McCartney’s eyes. She had told you that they’re droopy. This was plainly absurd-his eyes are arched in relatively the same fashion that his eyebrows are. Ringo Starr has eyes that are droopy; at a slant. Paul’s are naturally half-lidded, embowed, even) met yours immediately. The ends of his plum-arguably feminine-lips were tugged into a little but legitimate smile at the sight of you standing on the other side of the doorframe.
Fuck this-he’s absolutely stunning.
“Oh! You must be y/n,” he says cheerily, extended a hand for you to shake, “I’m Paul.”
You must’ve malfunctioned because, for a brief moment, you stood there and just stared at him in silent awe. Paul’s smile became more amused rather than simply courteous. If not, it became a little awkward as his hand was left out in the air.
“Y-Yes! That’s me,” you suddenly exclaim. Stretching out your hand too quickly, you met his with an obnoxious clap, making you cringe at the sound. It is at this instant that you realize you’re a mistake.
“Good to hear that,” Paul laughs, the sound more addicting than any other hard drug on the black market. He lets go of your hand and steps to the side, opening his front door wider. “Please, come on in, Mr. y/l/n.”
“Thank you,” you manage, walking inside stiffly.
Everything in the flat is meticulously clean and perfectly in order. It’s a little barren, but it still somehow maintains the ability to be homey. You find not a single speck of dust anywhere or a piece of garbage lying around (not even a candy wrapper). He closes the door behind you, but you hardly notice as you’re too busy gawking at his flat.
“I had the weekend off, so I spent it cleaning,” he chuckled sheepishly, moving past you to sit down on the little couch that had been shoved in the corner of the living room.
“Oh, I see,” you reply, staying frozen by the front door.
Paul laughs again, patting the spot on the couch next to him. “Don’t be shy. I’m not gonna bite you…’less you want me to.”
His charming little snicker doesn’t stop the blush that creeps onto your cheeks. Regardless, you quickly make your way over to the couch and plop down next to him. Your shoulders are tense and you feel a bead of sweat run down your forehead.
Quitting his little fit of child-like giggling, Paul puts a caring hand on your shoulder. “Do you need a glass of water, y/n?” he paused, giving you a wink, “Or maybe you’d favor some wine instead?”
“N-No thank you…I’ve got to drive myself home. I don’t need anything.”
“Oh, come off it,” he insisted, “You’re my lovely guest, I must be hospitable and be considerate to anything that you might require.”
You let out a nervous laugh and shake your head, “I’ll let you know if…i-if I need anything.”
“Hmm, I like your laugh,” he hummed, raising both his eyebrows. “I’d like to hear it more…’specially since it means you’re relaxed. You look so wound up.”
I’m wound up because I thought I could handle this. Turns out you’re just as pretty and charismatic in real life as you are in footage of you, Mr. McCartney. No amount of lying to myself about you can save me from this, I am just starting to realize. Oh, no need to worry. All is well! I will embarrass myself, possibly be called a goddamn queer if I’m lucky. Then I’ll go home to cry about it, maybe jerk off to the thought of your pretty little face later if I’m feeling any better.
“I h-had some, uh…bad coffee. Yes, some bad coffee for breakfast,” you improvise, pulling yourself from your thoughts.
Paul laughs some more, a gleeful sound that’s surprisingly devoid of any mean-spirited intentions. The latter portion of his laugh goes unnoticed by you, a little too caught up in your own head.
“A classic case of some bad coffee, huh?” he asks.
“That’s too bad,” he ran a hand through his hair absentmindedly, “I wonder what it’d be like to see you more unrestrained.”
You falter, positive that your heart stopped dead in your chest. Heat clawed its way onto your cheeks “Ex-…excuse me?”
Paul rested his elbow on the backrest of the couch, effectively leaning in closer to you. “I think you heard me, y/n,” he smirked in a cocky manner, “I’d like to see you free…unshackled.”
“From what? From whatever pole is stuck up my ass?”
His eyes widened at your sudden bluntness. “I’m not sure if that’s the exact terminology I’d use, but yes.”
“Why?” you challenge, frowning, “I’m not special. You don’t even know me.”
“Oh, on the contrary, Mr. y/l/n, I’d like to think I know some things about you. Like how you’ve been jumping around from newspaper job to newspaper job, most likely trying to find the right fit for you and your own private aspirations. You have been praised for your excellent writing skills and being as young as me, you will hopefully only improve on that. You intrigue older readers and reporters since relatively new to the interviewing scene. However, you’ve been criticized for your lack of assurance or confidence in most of your interviews and a few rumors of your homosexual tendencies are flying around as well.”
Your jaw figuratively drops to the floor. “How the hell did you-”
“I pay attention.”
Sighing, you figure the cat was out of the bag. Surely his cheekiness and borderline flirty behavior is just a front to catch a queer red-handed. Probably only to end up humiliating me and telling me that the famous Paul McCartney would much rather be interviewed in his home by some young, attractive woman that he later could tug at his own prick to the thought of (or if he plays his cards right, have her himself right on this couch I’m sitting on). Down with the fags! No real man would take it up the ass! How dare you walk on Mr. McCartney’s property thinking of anything other than the mighty vagina!
Time to get out of here while I still can.
Trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat, you clutch your clipboard tightly and stand up from Paul’s couch. “Well, I suppose you’ve made your stance on this clear. If you’re finished insulting me, I will be happy to let myself out,” you say so harshly that you a shiver rolls down your spine at your own coldness.
Paul’s smirk is wiped from his face and replaced with one of panic, hastily rising to his feet as well. You pause, taken aback by how quickly he reacted.
“I-Is that what this looks like?” he asked worriedly, “I wasn’t trying to insult you…!”
“Well, what else am I supposed to believe when you start…winking at me and shit?” you ask stubbornly.
Paul smiles at this, taking a step towards you. “Is flirting no longer the thing to do when you are attracted to someone?”
“I wasn’t going to say it outright…but I’d like you to know that I don’t invite just anyone to my flat for an interview…”
“Meaning…I’m interested in you,” he admitted gently, “I’d really like to get to know you.”
“Oh…” you mumble, suddenly feeling very silly. “I’m flattered…I didn’t know that was what was happening here.”
He chuckled, “Well, obviously you didn’t.”
“I just didn’t peg you as someone who’s into men, no less someone who is open about it.”
“What people need to realize is that there’s absolutely no difference between two men liking each other compared to a man and a woman,” he chuckled as he added, “Except for the changes in sex positions.”
“Hmm…that is rather radical of you to say, isn’t it?” you tease, feeling your nerves begin to slowly wash away.
“Only if I’ve finally got your attention,” he winked.
“You already had it…I think I was just too caught up in my own head to wake up and smell the roses.”
“Well…” Paul reached out to grab your hand, holding it in his own. “Why don’t we sit back down and start over?”
“Maybe we could actually get on with the interview finally?”
“Sure, as long as I can take you out to lunch afterward.”