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[somesmallfics]

God I love the Rocky Horror Picture Show!

I am highly disappointed in myself for not having seen this movie before. I knew of it, I’d seen the Time Warp and Sweet Transvestite, but not the whole picture show and man was I missing out.

So, of course, as with all my newest ‘favourite obsessions’ I’ve been writing a fic (with blond hair and a tan) and thought I might just share it with you guys.

Title: It’s Beyond Me

Rating: Explicit 

Summary: After the events of RHPS, Brad and Janet get married, mostly because they can't think of what to do with themselves. With the memory of them cheating on one another and enjoyment of giving over to complete pleasure hanging over their heads, they find they can't discuss it with one another.

That is until their wedding night. Instead of having sex like everyone expects them to, they go in search of the place where the old castle stood so that they might pay their respects to Frank N Furter and Rocky, and hopefully find it in them to embrace their sexuality and sexual preferences.

However, they find that respects could be paid in person, since Riff Raff's little ray gun may not have quite done the trick at bumping off his master.

[somesmallfics]

I saw Mary Poppins Returns

Aaaand now I have a crush on Jack (Lin-Manuel Miranda) So here’s a smutty Jack/Reader fic on my AO3:

On The Rooftops of London

[somesmallfics]

New Horny Histories Fic

Pretty Pirates and Pink Dresses 

More lovely Baybond with a bit of crossdressing <3

[somesmallfics]

The New Girl

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Horrible Histories

Finished: I’m really thinking about finishing it.

Summary: Cliff Whiteley employs an intern who seems perfectly good. Until he notices she might be more involved in the customers than he would like.

Cliff wasn’t sure about this new girl. He’d taken her on as an intern. What with history being made every day, and writing it all was down to him, he needed all the help he could get. And she seemed quite the ticket. Her first day, she turned up in a black suit dress and blazer, her bright red hair tied up in a ponytail, a pair of long, high boots on her feet. She got on with Susan, Cliff liked her. He ignored the slight twinkle in her liquid amber eyes that could’ve been mistaken for a flirtatious streak, and that was that. She was sharing Susan’s desk until they made space for one of her own, and it seemed like he had a new, quite efficient member of staff.  

He thought it was even better when she started to relax. She turned up in prettier dresses, and had her hair down. Always, though, she wore those pair of boots, the black, suede ones that reached over her knees. Somehow, they seemed to go with everything. They gave her a bit of height and elegance. Cliff assumed they were her favourites.  

He liked that she gained some confidence. He could often hear her chatting away to Susan in their quieter hours. If Susan was sick or had the odd day off, she easily took over. Even with Cliff himself, she became a lot chattier, jokey, funny. In their lunch breaks, she would sometimes have hers in his office, and they’d chat for an hour or so. It was really nice, not encroaching or awkward or uncomfortable. For that, Cliff pat himself on the back.

Then, well, Cliff started to notice that little glint he’d first seen in her eyes resurface. Or perhaps it had never left, he had just gotten good at ignoring it. But when he could’ve sworn he’d seen her making the eye at some of his customers, it reminded him of his first impression. He had thought she was a little too playful, some of the looks she gave him, just a little too coy as though trying too hard so seem that way. He couldn’t pin-point what it was then, and he couldn’t until he’d wandered in to the reception, after being buzzed around 10 minutes prior, that he had a meeting. A meeting that was with his Majesty, Richard III.

Since this bloody King in a car park thing, Cliff had found Richard’s name in his diary again and again. Did he feel bad about this whole misrepresentation of a king? No, no he didn’t. The story was a great one. People were still intrigued by Richard, so what was the problem?  

Well, clearly, Richard had one, and he was back in reception, waiting to be seen. And when Niki had buzzed Cliff, he told her to give him a minute or two. He was reluctant to have another bollocking from the same historical figure he’d seen the same time each week.  

Only, when he came out of his office, he couldn’t see the King. He looked around the room. The reception was only a small box with two doors. One, he’d just come out of, the other sat opposite and lead out into the office building. Where could he have gotten to?  

He looked to Susan and Niki’s desk by his side. Ah, there he was, sitting opposite Niki. And when they realised Cliff was there, they suddenly seemed to move back, as though they’d been slouching over the desk. Niki smiled up at Cliff. She looked as normal as ever. And Cliff wouldn’t have thought anything of the whole sight. After all, in this line of business, you get to know your customers, you kind of make friends. Cliff had wondered in to find guys chatting away with Susan before.  

But it was Richard’s blushing cheeks and nervousness as he cheerily greeted him, shook his hand quickly and hurried into the office without looking back. Cliff watched him, brow furrowed, then cast the same gaze down at Niki.

“Is he ok?” He mouthed.

Smirking, she had shrugged.  

That wasn’t the only occurrence. Cliff started to notice it more and more after that. When  Elagabalus came bundling in with stories of how he’d been so awful to his people, and how ‘random’ he was- a phrase he refused to stop using, even when it didn’t make any sense- Niki had laughed with him. She seemingly had a dark streak, as well a flirtatious one, as Cliff was sure he heard her giving him ideas for other terrible acts to inflict on his subjects. She had even said, once the boy had left, that she had liked him.

“But you realise he’s a sadistic guy, right?” Cliff had pointed out, only to find her chuckling to herself in response. That was unsettling enough.  

Then when a group of monks came in, ones slightly better looking than you might expect, she spent the whole time trying to make those who had taken a vow of silence, break it. Cliff had only heard their light giggles and gasps. He didn’t want to know how she’d coaxed that out of them.  

And when a grimy, short cowboy came in (Cliff loathed when they turned up: he regretted keeping the office furniture white) with a voice as loud as the trill of the telephone, he could tell that Niki had instigated a little flirting session between them.  

So, he wasn’t sure about her. She was a hard worker, she got on with everyone, she was doing well. But she seemed to have another agenda. Perhaps she was just keeping good relationships with the customers, leading them on so they don’t get annoyed or angry or upset. She flashed a couple of smiles, joked with them. It didn’t matter if the jokes had a slightly sexual tone. No one had complained as of yet.  

But was it really professional?  

Cliff sat in his room. He wasn’t sure if he was being too hard on the girl. After all, it had always been just him and Susan. Maybe he just wasn’t used to working with someone else, and he was looking for reasons to get rid of her.  

“Cliff,” The intercom sounded. It was her, Niki. Susan was out buying coffees, and Cliff wished she’d hurry up. He was in a bit of a mood, on a crash. He needed something to pick him up.  

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got Charles II here. He’s got a meeting at 1.”

His eyes fell slowly to the clock on his desk. He had five minutes.  

“I’m still at lunch.” He lied, “Can he wait?”

“Oh, I think so.” Niki chuckled back.  

Cliff slouched in his chair. He’d probably just woken up in a bad mood. That’s why he was giving the poor girl a hard time. He needed some coffee, then he’d get back to work.

He picked up a history magazine and flipped to the crossword. He could beat that in seconds on a normal day. Technically, it was cheating. Not many had access to the time sewers, and had basically met all of the people the magazine spoke about. It was his business to know about each of their lives, where they grew up, who they married. But, it was a bit of fun. He sat back, relaxed, pencilled in ‘Commodus’ and…

Hold on a minute. He suddenly got a pang of worry set deep in his stomach. His head whipped up and cast a curious gaze at the door. Charles II? His mind screamed ‘Oh no.’

Jutting up, he made for the door, but only got as far as in front of his desk before he paused. He froze upon hearing soft breaths, almost as melodic as moans escaping from the reception. Stunned, he couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t fathom what was going on. He kept doubting himself. Was he paranoid? Was he hearing things? Perhaps they were just talking.  

“Oh, your Majesty.”

Even if he was sure they were not.

Oh, what was the likelihood that a girl who seemingly possessed a sexual appetite to rival any other he’d come across was just having a nice chat with the King who Cliff himself had written into history as a womanizing, merry Monarch? Oh sure, he could fool himself all he wanted. He could put some music on and wait until they were finished. He could wile away the times, finishing his crossword and hoping that Susan was coming back soon with the coffees. But now, he was stuck. He couldn’t find the courage within him to break them up, nor had he the blind eye to turn.

[somesmallfics]

Horrible Histories Fans!

Hi people, I love Horrible Histories and have started uploading a series on AO3. It’s explicit and stupid, but I’ve really loved writing it, so I want to share it around a bit. 

It’s called Horny Histories (as is my username) and it’s a series about Ben/Mat. 

Check it out if you’re around. 

And I also take prompts on here and on AO3, so if you have any, I’ll be glad to fulfil them. 

[somesmallfics]

Napoleilya

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Man From U.N.C.L.E (2015)

Finished: I wish

Summary: An English agent persuades both Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin into her hotel room. 

I don't know how I managed to persuade the two agents into my room, least of all the towering, blond Russian who had yet to warm to me. I'd poured drinks- despite the fact I wouldn’t touch anything alcoholic- and sprouted some nonsense about the importance of improving Soviet/American/English relations since we have to work with one another. Napoleon got my meaning first, finding it all too charming that I would go to such lengths as making up a load of important sounding stuff just to coax him towards my bed. Illya, however, knew what I wanted and ignored my advances.

 It took me walking up to him, pressing my entire body to his and getting him half hard with suggestive glares and innuendoes to cloud his better judgement. Then, I closed the door behind them both to make sure neither would leave.

I've always had a thing for the bulky yet slick, dark haired American, Mr Napoleon Solo, having worked with him a number of times. I'd known he was a bit of a womanizer, but that never turned me off. In fact, I quite liked my chances with him, though we were often such a good working pair that we'd be off cases before we'd ever got a moment alone while on them. He did, on occasion find someone else to have and through thin hotel walls, I'd hear him making his chick scream. A little auditory voyeurism never did anyone any harm.

As for the muscular Russian agent, my feelings had remained professional because he was too much of a robot for me to fancy him. Then, of course, all that somehow changed. I noticed his arrogance and sarcasm being a mask for worry and insecurities around other people. He has style and tolerance. I don't know, I liked all of that. He seemed quite nice, when he wasn't having a go at Napoleon. Seriously! These two seemed to have more sexual tension than I have ever had with anyone!

Now, I'm quite partial to the idea of having a lovely blond head of slicked back hair between my legs. Perhaps tonight, I'd finally get that.

With a glass of champagne in hands, resting on my lap as far away from my face as possible (I hate the smell) I sit on the edge of my bed, looking up at the two men. Illya is standing, uncomfortably in the corner, holding a dainty glass in his thick hands. Napoleon is pacing the room, picking up trinkets placed on shelves as posh decorations, checking beneath them for bugs. No doubt both men have bugged this place so densely they could hear every breath I take. At least it serves a purpose for this evening, as I’m sure what they record will be worth a second listening to.

I make eyes at Napoleon who has swigged a mouthful of champagne and is now casually resting against the shelf by the door. He has a wonderfully charming smile that promises you a night of your wildest dreams, because he’s in on every dirty thought ever crossed your mind. It has a perfect amount of knowledge and mystery. I feel as though he is my confidante in a plan to get both him and Illya on me… or in me, take your pick. We both look at the Russian at the same time, both smiling with all our ideas unfolding in our heads.

“What?” Illya spits. Always so hostile.

“You realise what we’re in here for?” Napoleon asks. He’s always got a degree of seriousness about him. He can be smiling one minute, then saying something else funny in the most deadpan of voices you’d think he wasn’t joking. He narrows his grey-blue eyes while Illya shuffles, standing up straighter and setting his own, sky-blue irises on me.

“Yes, and I’m not much interested, I must tell you.”

“You’re not?” I deliberately sound disappointed. He continues to look at me.

“Well, then.” The American butts in, setting his glass on the shelf, creating a soft ting sound echoing around the awkwardly silent room, “If Peril doesn’t want to play, what would you have me do, Miss Jones?”

I lean back on the bed, crossing my legs so that the short, stylish shift dress I’m wearing falls further up my thighs. “That’s not going to work.” I tell him, “You asking me what I want. I like to be out of control.” I shoot a look at Illya, “At your mercy.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise. He looks over at the Russian too as though to say, ‘see what you’re missing out on?’ Still Illya does nothing, but stands steadfast in place. Rolling his eyes, Napoleon strides over to me until he’s standing just about arm’s length away. His strong hands glide up to the fly of his trousers and they pause.

“Would you mind helping me here? My pants are a little too tight.”  Grinning, I stretch out my fingers, reaching for the button holding his trousers up, but he stops me. “No, no. I’d like you on your knees.” I don’t hesitate for a second, sliding onto the floor and sitting up on my legs so that I’ll tall enough to reach him. I then unbutton and drag the zipper down of his trousers, licking my lips hungrily as a distinctive outline faces me head on.

“You know, in England…” I say, “…we call underwear ‘pants.’ I’m just confused as to whether you meant your trousers, or these.” My hand runs slowly over his hardness, snapping the waistband of his underwear once I get up to it. The sudden rush of cold and slight pain causes Napoleon to gasp. I cheekily giggle as I reach even further up, running my tongue along the outline of him. He shudders.

“No.” We suddenly hear a Russian accent cut in. With my hands on Napoleon’s hips, my face inches from his member, I peer around to see Illya placing down his glass of untouched drink and storming over to us. I half expect him to push us apart, declaring that it’s not professional to sleep with your work partners.

However, he does not. He stands beside Napoleon, eyes directly matched at mine.

“No, if you’re going to do this, you have to be totally under our control. This is wrong.” He gestures to the situation of me giggling up at Napoleon. “Come here.” He orders. I quickly obey, slithering on my hands and knees to sit beneath him.

Napoleon looks a little jealous, “You opted out, Comrade.” He reminds him.

“Well, I opt back in.” There is no arguing with Illya, especially not since I’d so quickly come calling to his demand. He casts his gaze back down at me. He speaks quietly, barely above a whisper, and raises his head a little as though he’s nodding, approving of his own decisions. He gives me a series of demands that I carry out, one after the other.

“Take your dress off. Lie back on the bed. Take your underwear off.”

Napoleon, this time, is the one to stop the situation. He steps so that he’s half facing Illya, his hand out in front of him as a gesture to stop. Illya, who has barely moved, cocks his head to one side slightly.

“What is it now, Cowboy?”

“Why do you want her completely undressed now. We don’t want her to get there too quickly.”

They speak as though I’m not even there. The tension between them is so thick, I want to cut it, cut it by crushing their lips together.

“She wants to be under our control, no? We are clothed, she is naked, you see the control?”

“Yes, I see it, but…”

It’s unbearable, so I sit up and nudge them both. Like clockwork the two glare at me, two piecing, blue stares locked onto me as though I’d interrupted some important discussion, like I am not a part of it. “Actually, I like Illya’s idea.”

“Hey, you don’t call the shots.” Napoleon quips, but he knows he lost. He steps back to allow his Russian partner to continue, watching him closely in case there’s something he can pick up on, something to criticize.

Illya is unfazed. He looks over my body as I lay back down, considering what to do next.

“Put your hands above your head and close your eyes.” He orders. I do so, placing my arms up, my fingers intertwining with each other. I feel utterly exposed, nervously so. I don’t think I’ve ever had this sort of fantasy play out with two experienced participants, if at all. I keep my slender legs crossed, one over the other, just for until I build up some more confidence under the gaze of my partners. It also makes me more anxious to think that I must close my own eyes. I’ll have to totally trust them. Illya really knows what he’s doing. He knows how I want to feel, how I can feel totally in his and Napoleon’s control, without restraining me or ever having touch me. My eyelids slowly close, stealing from me my one security. Now, my ears react to every small sound, the shuffles, soft footsteps, the distinct rustles of clothing against clothing. I have no idea what’s going on in front of me and I have the urge to look that burns into my will power. As an agent, we have to be aware at all times. There is rarely a moment when we’re not.

Right now, I’m aware of nothing.

Not anything until someone’s weight bares down on the mattress next to my leg. Judging by the feeling of the fabric rubbing against my thigh, I assume it’s one of the boy’s legs planting its self on the bed as one of them crawls up and…

…two sets of finger descend on my wrists, some covered by fabric. They weave whatever item of clothing it is around my hands, then ties them together tightly. Between my limbs, I feel a metal pole I assume to be the headboard. They’ve tied me to the headboard… nice.

“Open your eyes.” Napoleon’s voice has never sounded so distinctive as it just has. His breath curls over my cheek. When I look, I see his chiselled face above me, his whole body hovering above mine, his thick arms and muscles popping as they hold him up. My breath hitches, I can’t  stop it. This is what I have dreamt of for a long time.

“What should we do with her like this, Peril?” He laughs, teasing me with ‘accidental’ touches, his lips hovering so close to mine that I feel his words.

“I have ideas, but you have to get off her if you want to do them.” Illya’s voice comes from a light place behind Napoleon’s shadow-streaked face.

“Of course, of course.” The American says as he crawls away, his body flexing beneath his tailored, navy blue suit. I suddenly notice the lack of his tie and the opened op buttons of his dress shirt. He must’ve tied me up quite literally, using his tie.

Illya isn’t wearing a suit, he’s wearing a grey turtle neck. It’s a lot tighter than his partner’s clothing. I see more of his fit chest.

[somesmallfics]

hi, would you be opposed to writing a paul x reader smut?

Me? Opposed to Beatles smut? I could never be. If you have a further prompt, I’d be very glad to write something for you, otherwise, I’ll get right down to something with dear Paulie in it ;)

[somesmallfics]

OI!

Rating: Teen

Fandom: The Beatles, Nowhere Boy

Finished: ...are you really expecting a yes by now?

Summary: A boy in Niki’s class likes records enough to get thrown out of the lesson so he can see which one Niki has. (another ‘John meets Niki’ origin story)

“Oi…”

My English lesson is not going awfully well. I sit at my desk, doodling in my book, barely hearing anything. The teacher babbles on about some novel or other that I hadn’t read, as he paces up and down between the rows of our seats. Whenever he passes me, I hide my book under one arm, simultaneously pushing the copy of his novel in front of my eyes so it looked like I am reading. He never seems to notice that I am always on the same page as before, but I guess he just never bothers to look my way long enough to notice.

“Oi…”

I can see, in my peripheral vision, that many of the boys in my class are doing the same thing. It’s funny. If they put half of the amount of effort into actually doing their work rather than avoiding it, they’d probably be top of the class. That’s the thing that bothers me about all these bloody teddy boys. All they care about is how their dressed and what their skiffle bands are going to play after school.

Ok, who am I to criticize? Here I am, doing anything to ignore our teacher, while also thinking about what music I’m going to play when I get home. I just got this new record by my sweetheart Buddy Holly. He is my favourite musician at the moment and, somehow, I managed to bag his latest single off some guy on my way to school. I can see it, sitting in the opening of my bag, thin brown paper covering the slick, black grooves running in perfect rings. I bet it sounds amazing.

I think, part of the reason I like to criticize the boys in my class is because they all say they’re into music, then go out and ruin my favourite songs with their inadequate instruments and crappy vocals. Everyone wants to be an Elvis, or a Buddy, or a Chuck Berry. They’ll never be as good as them. Least of all the boy sitting next to me, who has whispered ‘Oi’ so many times towards me, that I’m considering slugging him one when the teacher isn’t looking. There’s only so many times I can take one, inconsiderate, rude call at me and ignore it.

“Oi…” He whispers. This time, I shoot a glaring look at him. I don’t even care what he has to say, I just want him to leave me the hell alone. He’s probably going to get us both into trouble. “What’s that?” He asks, pointing down at my bag.

“What?” I snap back. My eyes flick back and forth from this bloody teddy boy to our teacher. Thankfully, he’s chosen to stand at the front of the class now, occasionally writing things on the board with chalk whose sound grates in my ears.

“The record.” The boy says. I know him, upon taking a longer moment to actually look at him. He’s John Lennon, that boy who takes the same bus as me. He’s also in my art class, though he never does any work. The amount of times he’s wondered up to me, asking what I’m doing when I’m trying to work, he could probably have finished several pieces of art. Instead, he elects to distract me.

“What about it?” I breathe.

“Who is it?”

I really don’t want to get in trouble. Why is it, whenever he talks to me, I never just tell him to piss off. Seriously, I always seem to talk to him, even if I don’t want to. This time, I’m not taking it. I roll my eyes and turn them back to my book. I ignore his calls at me, his hisses and when he leans over the desk to poke me. He’s so annoying, I can’t stand it. So childish. I mean, he’s 17, like me, but he has the attention span of a bored 3-year-old, the maturity of a 10-year-old and a libido of a fucking rabbit.

Finally, he leaves me alone and I get down to finishing a doodle of myself in my book. It’s very important that I finish it, else I’ll have nothing to show for this lesson, nothing at all. I start shading in the last bit, when I hear a load shout from the desk beside me. When I look over, John has stood up and is holding his arm.

“Fucking hell, why did you do that?” He screams. I realise that he’s looking at me.

The teacher turns around, an appalled look on his haggard, old face. He sees John standing up and I watch his hooded eyes roll. Every teacher half expects John to disrupt their lesson by now. He always seems to be heading for the headteacher’s office, if not standing outside a classroom, waiting for his current teacher to come out and talk to him. Either all that or he’s bunking off, hiding in the loos, smoking one of his many cigarettes he has a day.

This teacher loosens his stance, placing all his weight on one leg and leaning on the chalk board, “Mr Lennon,” His dull voice is suddenly backed by a wave of unflinching volume, “How dare you use that kind of language in my class.”

“But Sir, she just threw a ball of paper at me!” John cries. It’s almost believable. He mixes the right amount of anger and hurt in his voice to make it sound like he’s actually pissed off at me, like I’d actually done something to him. You see, he does get angry a lot in classes over the smallest of things, so most of us classmates know what he sounds like when he is genuinely upset at someone. People seem to be believing him, though not the teacher.

“Do you have any proof of the event, Mr Lennon?”

“Yeah, Sir.” John says, pointing at a screwed-up ball of paper on the ground beneath the desk in front of him. He must’ve thrown it, the bloody mixer, “It’s down there. You saw it, didn’t yeh, Pete?” He nudges his best friend, the smiley, dopey, blond kid that sits beside him. The boy doesn’t even know what’s going on, but he blindly insists that John is right. A couple of their friends behind even backs him up. I know there is no point in denying it, but my face stays firmly surprised as I look to the teacher, hoping he doesn’t believe them.

The man sighs. He can do nothing but send us both out, John for swearing, me for doing something I haven’t actually done. But I know that this is what John wanted. Grasping my bag and smoothing out my school skirt, I head to the door with John on my tail. We stand around the corner where there are no windows into the classroom.

John is a lot taller than me, but a lot of people are. I may be 17, but I could easily be 12, if you go by my height or baby face. John, however, could pass off as a young-looking 20. He’s reasonably tall, quite thin, which makes him look even taller. He has light-brown hair that he piles up like Elvis. He wears his uniform as though he’d gotten half-dressed this morning and quickly done the rest on the walk to school, minus his blazer which is still sitting in the classroom.

Once outside, he corners me, his body inches from mine, and I watch as one of his hands hovers down the curve of my hip. I think he might touch me, I’m ready to slap him away, but instead, his fingers dip into my bag. I know what he’s going for. I push him really hard to get him away, but he only steps back, barely fazed by me. He has what he wanted anyway. Between his index and middle finger is my record, clasped. When I go to reach for it, he jerks it away. Fucking arsehole.

“You did all of that just to see what record I have?” I snap. He laughs softly as he turns the single around and brings it towards his eyes to see the tiny writing around the middle.

“Buddy Holly. You like Buddy Holly then?” He asks as though I had not spoken.

I grit my teeth, “Yes.”

“Yes? Is that all I get?” He rolls his hazel-nut eyes, “You obviously don’t really like him. I’ll keep this then.” He starts to tuck the record into the breast of his waistcoat.

I can’t let him take it. Forgetting myself for a second, I reach up again, crying, “No, no please! Alright, alright, I love Buddy, He’s my favourite musician and I’d love…”

He brings it back out of his waistcoat, pressing it between us. I can’t take my eyes off his. He smiles, not with the pair of pink lips he owns, but with his eyes. Even as he looks down at the record, not at me, he’s grinning.

“You’d love what? To have him?” John is such a vulgar person. I huff loudly and turn my head away.

I still don’t manage to look away, though.

“Can I have it back please?” I mutter.

“Have you actually heard it yet?” He counters. It feels like I’m never going to get it back. I helplessly ask, I try to snatch it. Nothing works. I have to yield to his games. The only chance I’ll get it quickly is if our teacher walks out now.

He is nowhere to be seen, so I must play John’s bloody game. “No.” I whisper, “I got it this morning.”

A smile stretched his lips now. He lets one of his hands fall down to grasp mine, then he brings it up and places the thin record between my fingers just how it had been in his. I don’t look, though. I continue to glare at him, frustrated.

“I’d like to hear it. My mum has a record player, d’you want to come over after school?”

Another reason that I’d never liked any of the Teddy boys in school was because they never paid much attention to me. I would be the nerdy one, the uncool chick, the girl who refused to come to any parties or hang out with anyone. I kept myself to myself, and so people didn’t like me. Now, however, I had one asking me to come over and listen to music. Harmless enough. I knew that John liked music. He was in a band after all. He was determined to be the next Elvis.

And anyway, I wouldn’t be doing it for him, I told myself. I’ll be doing it for me.

“Alright.” I say, trying not to smile. I don’t want him thinking that I like him. I snatch the record against my stomach, then stuff it into my bag. When I look back up, John is watching me, smiling.

“Meet me at the gates after school then, Luv.” He walks around, arrogance written into every step he takes, to stand by my side, leaning off the wall. He throws his head back and it knocks softly. I’ve got to admit, he does look damn cool. But I won’t fall for any charms he thinks he has.

“I’m not your love.” I insist.

[somesmallfics]

Mr Lennon

Rating: Mature 

Fandom: The Beatles

Finished: No

Summary: Another Mr Lennon AU, where John is a teacher that a lot of students fancy. And Niki finds out she quite likes to be punished by him...

(WARNING probably underage)

One by one, the classmates around me filed out the door. They shuffled down the isle of chairs and tables, heading towards the bottle neck of students also trying to get out into the crowding hallways. Many of them were giving me taunting looks, looks that told me that they were both horrified and amused by what they’d seen, but I didn’t even give them so much as a regard. My cheeks were perfectly red enough for them to laugh at my humiliation, my head bowed for them to well know my pain. They did not need for me to stare them back in the eyes and try to pretend I wasn’t horribly embarrassed, it would give them too much satisfaction.

I keep my gaze firmly on the bin where the source of this dreadful situation is located. I think I can still see the remains of it, wasting away with plastic plates covered in school lunches from the week and scraps of paper kids had used for note-passing. All amongst that, lies one mistake that has landed me in detention with probably the second most feared teacher in the school (the first not even being the head teacher) Mr Lennon.

I’m not the best at concentrating in class, it’s no secret. Every teacher in the history of my school career has written in my annual report that I am a daydreamer and lazy. While no lie, I must protest that it is such a problem when there are students in my very class who are on several levels higher than me in these respects. Ditzy Daisy- the girl who lost her mind staring at a ruler- was one of those types. We’d all laugh when she’d often get hit with whatever took her attention in a particular lesson, like when our teacher used to catch her gazing off in all which directions, he’d ask, “Do you find that ruler more interesting in my lesson Miss Buchanan?” and, with no reply, he’d bring her swiftly to the front of the class, carrying the object of her curiosity in her loose grip, to smack her right on the palm. She always used to cry. That’s when it got heart-breaking, of course, and Sir would tell her to stand outside. But I’m not that bad. I have a minor preoccupation with drawing that many teachers find distracting- for themselves more than for me- and today, I was completely lost in my doodles while the rest of the class was reading a book out loud.

Mr Lennon had seen me with the book open, but my attentions drawn to the side of it where I was skilfully hiding a sheet of paper and where I was drawing quite a graphic scene between a man and a woman. Knowing that I was not paying attention, Sir stopped whoever was reading aloud and asked me to stand in front of the class to show whatever I had been doing instead.

“I’m not doing anything.” I had lied, quietly, but I was fooling no one. Hearing snickers of my classmates, Sir walked to my desk, stood on the other side so that my drawing was fully visible to him and with a completely shocked look on his face, he picked it up. I didn’t try to hide it, I was pointless. He’d just make me stand up and would search my desk had I tried to conceal it under anything.

“Miss Barnes,” He said loudly, engaging the whole class in my humiliation, “Do you think it appropriate to be drawing sexual acts in my class?” He then flicked my drawing around in his fingers to present it to everybody. The sketchy, shaky figures scrawled in black biro caused an eruption of laughter and intrigue. Everyone was craning their necks to look at it.

Before I could politely reply to Sir, someone shouted out, “Better than her acting them out, Sir!” I retreated back into myself and prayed I’d melt away into the chair.

“Well, that is true, but I do not think it is entirely appropriate to draw it either, do you, Miss Barnes?”

“No Sir,” I replied.

“Please rip it up and throw it in the bin, now. And stay after class so we can talk about what you believe is suitable to be doing in my lesson.”

I did as I was told, suffered the humiliation as I strode in front of everyone to rip up my art work and cast it into the bin, then tried not to look at the cheeky, evil faces that stared back at me. What torture! The rest of the lesson was as shameful, but I was thankful that Sir did not beat me then and there. It would’ve been the nail in the coffin I needed to forever be the filthy one in class.

Still, I know that this is not much better. Sitting in an empty classroom, looking over at my teacher with guilty eyes. Mr Lennon is at his desk, adjusting the pile of school books he has there so that it will not fall over. Then he meets my gaze and beckons me towards him. Tugging self-consciously at my skirt, I draw myself up and stalk to the table directly in front of him where he always sits the really naughty kids. I feel quite apt standing there.

“Miss Barnes, you cannot be drawing these images in my class, you understand.” He says in an overly patronising voice.

I nod without looking at him, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“At home, perhaps. And if you were wishing for someone to look over them I’d be more than happy to,”

Nothing could’ve prepared me for that statement. I shoot my head up, my eyebrows almost falling off the top of my head I’ve raised them so high. Mr Lennon is looking at me with a charming smile, an evil smile, teeth and everything. As though I am not in control of my own lips, I feel myself smirk a little.

While a lot of students don’t like Mr Lennon’s strictness, some of the girls find him attractive. I knew one girl who told me she got off thinking about him punishing her. While, at the time, I thought she was absolutely insane, there was something about the way in which Sir then asks me to turn around that fills me with excitement. Perhaps it is the lack of anger on his face or in his voice. I do think he was quite handsome, but never had I felt anything towards him. Now, however, I cannot say the same. I want to watch him hit me, but I keep my head forward and imagine what he looked like as he takes a wooden ruler off his desk and smacks me hard on my backside. The pain radiates there, but it’s not entirely unpleasant. I turn back, unsure of my own steps, and see that he is grinning. He then playfully tells me to go out and enjoy my break as though nothing had ever happened, as though I am not looking entirely puzzled as I leave.  Not knowing what to say, I sling my bag around my left shoulder and glance back at him as I pull the classroom door open, in complete silence.

The hallways are lined with students too strange to bother going outside on such an unusually sunny day in England. The usual book-heads are sitting on the floors or heading to the library, some of the older years are hanging around their lockers in groups, eating stolen food from behind their PE kits while others are trying to chat up girls as they head outside in entourages of two or three. Most of the kids, however, are making their way into the playgrounds, which seems like the best place for me to contemplate my strange encounter. After all, if I do not find some familiar faces out there, I might be able to retire to a quiet corner or bench and actually work through what feelings are surging through my hormonal blood at the moment.

And the playground is alive with people, the sun beating down on them and lighting up the beautiful pastel-coloured, knee-length dresses that the girls stride around in. Some of the boys in their Teddy Boy altered uniforms or Rocker leather jackets even look good with the sun-kissed glow hovering around them.

[somesmallfics]

Lennoncliffe and me

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Beatles, (or the Quarrymen...)

Finished: No

Summary: On a hot day, John and Stu decide to have a hot time with John’s hot girlfriend... or something like that...

Our art room acted like a sauna. I removed every item of clothing I could without it getting inappropriate for school. My short cardi came off, the buttons on the front of my dress were unbuttoned low in my cleavage, my shoes were kicked to the floor. I even removed my underwear, so I guess it wasn’t entirely appropriate for school, especially as I spread my legs to let any cool air left in the room run up the inside of my thighs. I pulled the vibrant waves of my red hair to hang over one of my shoulders, feeling a very short-lived breeze blowing on my neck.

It is way too hot to do any work. I go and stand by the only window in this place. It’s tucked over in the corner by two huge cupboards where we put our artwork to dry off or just to store. I lean my elbows on the windowsill and take the weight off one of my legs by hooking my toes around the other ankle.

Outside, it is no colder than inside. It doesn’t help, my standing so close to the window. It feels as bad as sitting up to the table in the middle of the room. I’m about to leave when a distinct brick wall of less humid air comes waving past me. The door has been opened and two of my classmates walk in. The teacher isn’t in, I didn’t expect anyone else to come to lesson.

Least of all John Lennon, with his slicked up, fair, Elvis hair and his quiet friend, Stuart Sutcliffe. They’re both dressed in Teddy boy threads, looking handsome with their shirts buttoned low and they each have cigarettes hanging in their mouths.

“How can you smoke!” I complain, “It’s practically 30 degrees in here.” I turn around to lean on the window backwards.

John smirks, “It is now.” He looks over my body, gazing doe-eyed. Casually, he drops his cigarette on the floor and grinds it out on the floor with the toe of his shiny black shoe as he walks towards me. Stu grinds out his on the huge centre table, before following him. John fits himself so close to me that his legs touch mine. I want to rub against those gorgeous thighs of his. I keep eye contact the whole time.

“Well, then it’s too hot to touch me. You’re going to have to move away.” I quip.

John, however, is having none of my lip. He runs his fingers up my leg, riding up my shirt. He gets to my hip and smirks again, biting his bottom lip, appreciatively. “Here,” He tells Stu, “Take the other leg. There’s something interesting I want you to feel.”

Stu has never touched me the way that John does. I do like him. He’s handsome and talented, intelligent and quiet, but he’s never been the type flirt around with me. Especially since John and I seem for each other, like I am secretly his.

Still, I beckon Stu over, so he gives in, repeating John’s action. When reaches my hip, he grins at John.

“No underwear.” John states.

“No underwear,” Stu parrots, “like she was waiting for you.”

“What do you mean ‘me?’” John asks, then brushes his hand up a bit, over my stomach and down again to where Stu’s hand lingers, his thumb softly brushing over my hip. John clenches his fingers around Stu’s, takes control of his hand and brings it down to touch me. I can’t tell if it’s John’s fingers or Stu’s, but someone parts me, rubbing gently right at the top. Meanwhile, a couple of digits move back and enter me. I guess that is John. Only he’s be so forward. He leans in to kiss me, but misses my open lips purposefully so that he can lick my neck, following it’s curve up to my jaw.

“Stu, taste her.” John demands, taking my chin in his free hand and presenting it to his friend. I long for John’s taste, however. I wish it could be him that lowers themselves onto me. Stu is soft and gentle as he feathers his lips over mine. I push back at him, kissing him harder, but he gives me nothing to work with. I break the kiss with a frustrated grunt.

“What’s the matter, luv?” John asks. I still feel his hand working, pistoning in and out of me at a languid pace. Stu matches his speed, no matter the times I thrust my hips into him faster. He ignores it.

“Kiss me, please John!” I beg.

“What’s the matter, do we not like Stu?”

I don’t want to say no. I turn my head to the side, pouting my unkissed lips and widening my eyes. John laughs, “Is he too tame?”

I meet his gaze for a second. He seems overcome with agonising pleasure, being unable to do anything with himself, which is bursting through his trousers. I love the idea of this turning him on. It turns me on to be ordered by John, and to see someone else being forced to touch me as well, under the demands of John too. I coyly shake my head.

“Shall we show him how it’s done?” John suggests. I wildly nod my head, careful not to beg too desperately. Keeping his hips away from mine so that both he and Stu can keep pleasuring me, he leans down, steals my lips and crushes them against his. I groan, wordlessly. John hand speeds up, which causes Stu to as well. And Stu gets closer, his legs touching mine. With the hand closest to him, I drag him towards me until I can feel his hardness on my hip. He tosses his head back.

When John breaks our kiss, he removes his fingers from me and glides them up, over my clothes, to drag down the top of my dress, exposing my breasts.

“Know what to do with those?” He teases Stu.

Stu shrugs, humbly, before bending down, his mouth closing around my nipple. He sucks, hard enough for me to feel that sharp jolt of pleasure. John takes the other. He’s a lot more rapid and aggressive. He bites me, sucking until he’s pulling at my breast. I’m tugged his way, but he pushes me back. Stu continues to rub me below. I’m grinding into his fingers. God, I want one of them inside me. I can’t decide which. I want John so close that his whole body is against me, but I’m not sure what Stu would do if he was left to the rest of me, without John’s supervision.

[somesmallfics]

Like Mother

Rating: Teen?

Fandom: The Beatles, Nowhere Boy

Finished: Not really

Summary: A ‘John meets Niki’ fic. One of many. John notices a girl that reminds him of his mum. Thinking he’ll never see her again, he’s beyond surprised to see her wandering into Paul’s birthday party (yes another Paul’s birthday fic too...) 

John is obviously not in the mood for band practice today. He can’t even be bothered to play a chord right. He just sits there, fingering random strings in random frets, picking at notes, making a horribly disordered sound. I’m not sure if he’s doing it deliberately or not, but every time I play something, he clashes with it, tossing his strumming hand down as though he were backhand slapping someone. I see his glasses in hanging in the top pocket of his black shirt. Just more proof that he doesn’t want to do anything. If he did, he might’ve put his glasses on so to see what he was playing. He’s blind without them.

Eventually, it’s just boring, trying and trying to get him to do some kind of work. I place the top of my guitar on the floor, the neck leaning up the back of the chair I’m sitting in. John looks all surprised, as though he wonders why I don’t want to do any work when he’s been doing so much. I roll my eyes.

“What do you want to do?” I ask.

His brow furrows, “Write.”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been fucking about since you got here.” I counter, kicking up onto my feet. I’ve just realised how much I need to pee.

John’s eyes follow me. He’s not pretending to be all hardworking anymore, “I wanted to write a song, not have a guitar lesson.”

I sigh, “Alright, well I’m going to pee. There’s some paper over there.” I point at the table behind where he sits. He puts his guitar down in a similar position to mine and goes to get the pad of paper and a pen.

I leave the room, strutting down the corridor. The toilet is two doors down from my bedroom where John and I had locked ourselves away for a writing session. They never seem to go well if we plan it. I guess it’s more of an ‘on a whim’ thing. John is never focused enough and I lose my patience with him too quickly.

When I get back from the loo, John isn’t back in his seat. The paper is strewn on his chair, the pen laying on the floor. My eyes scan the rest of the room. Nothing else is out of place.

Nothing except John staring out the window. It’s opposite his seat, opposite where I’m standing in the door way. He’s so still, I didn’t see him when I first walked in. He doesn’t even look like he’s breathing.

“John?” My voice feels too loud, as though I’m disturbing something. John doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even move. I walk towards him, peering out the window, but I can’t see anything. The street is void of people, cars line the sides of the roads, the trees growing up from under the pavement rustle as a wintery breeze passes them by. Far away in the distance, there is a small dot, moving slowly away from us, a person perhaps nearing the end of the street. They’re gone by the time I stand beside John, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Is something the matter?” I ask.

“No…” He lies. I give him a concerned look that he doesn’t see. He’s fixated. I nudge him, asking him again what’s wrong.

His dark eyes shoot a look down at me. He’s gone deathly pale. “Just seen a ghost?” I try to joke, but it could be possible, given his sudden, horrified expression.

“I thought… there was someone who… my mum...”

John’s mum had died a month or two ago. It was awful to see him go through losing her, when he’d only just got really close to her again. The nights he spent crying, the days he refused to talk, the hours consumed by drink, by smoking, by writing songs. He was tortured by her forced absence. I’d been there through everything, knowing some of what he’d felt. My mum died too, before his I was there through every emotion he felt. I would hold him if he needed it, I would let him punch me if that would make him feel better.

“Really?” I whisper.

“It was just a girl, or something, but the hair… and the smile. The clothes. Everything. Paul, it was like she was walking down the street coming to see me.”

Band practice was over.

Paul’s having a party for his 16th. George and I turn up at around the same time. We’re the first people there. I’ve bought Paul a new pick for his guitar- his very first- while George has an old leather jacket of his that Paul said he liked once. He wraps his arms around us as he accepts the gifts, fucking emotional git, he makes me feel all soft.

His dad hasn’t allowed him any alcohol, so I’ve brought my own, one bottle of beer for each of us. It’s not enough to get us drunk, but it’s enough to start the night with. The next few guests come through the front door.

Paul hasn’t got a ton of people that he wants at his parties. He has school friends, he has the band, that’s about it. I know most of the people because they all live close, but there are some unfamiliar faces around. I stick close to Paul or George or Pete, quite happy in their company rather than all these others.

But I peel off from them for a moment, because they are all already full of food, yet I’m still hungry and fuck does Jim- Paul’s dad- put on a great spread for us. I pick up what must be my forth paper plate and pile it high with breadsticks and sandwiches. If only I had a beer to go with it.

As I’m standing there, leaning on one leg for comfort (I’m going to be at that table for some time) I see two, feminine, pale hands work their way across the table to the platter with sausage rolls built in rows on it. My gaze follows the slender wrists, the long, bear arms, up to a pair of shoulders that are covered by the short sleeves of a polka dot dress. The silky fabric clings to a pleasing figure that stands next to me. Curling copper hair dances down and passes the chest, melding with the bright red of her dress. I think for a second that it’s my mother, but I’ve made that mistake before.

It’s the girl who I had seen walk down the street when Paul and I were writing songs. Up close, she does not resemble my mum so much, but I can’t get over how similar the first glance is.

“Sorry, am in your way?” She doesn’t sound like mum. She’s far too posh. I shake my head, unable to process thoughts in my mind. Her hair is brighter, her face is fairer, she has a gentler smile. However, that smile disappears at the lack of my response. She gives me a sideways look, then takes a few cheese breadsticks, placing one into her mouth. After that, she’s lost to the crowd.

I don’t feel like partying. I put my food down and lean on the door frame, just away from the load of guests, dancing to Elvis. Paul’s probably having a great time. When I left, he was playing air guitar to Buddy Holly. No doubt he’s off dancing with some bird, or gyrating his hips around the room in a poor imitation of Elvis himself. George is probably shyly waiting for people to talk to him, as he always is. I think that I should join them, but I don’t want to. The music thumping through the speakers makes my stomach churn. Suddenly, the nice, smart suit I’ve been wearing feels way too hot.

I manage to wander back into the mess of sober students and find a seat next to a wall. I fold up my blazer to hook it on the back of the chair, while unbuttoning my shirt down to mid-chest. As long as it’s not flapping open, giving everyone a distasteful look at my lightly hairy torso, I’m sure no one will mind much.

I spot Paul at the record player, spinning over a single in his skilled hands to the B-side. He loves all those obscure songs. Everyone’s movement to the music changes. It’s like watching the waves on the sea start in a different direction. He sees me, sitting alone and dislikes it. Smiling, he walks over and occupies the chair by my side.

“I knew people would like this one if they ever listened to it.” He says, talking about this B-side. Everyone slowly warms to it, smiles brightening their previously confused expressions.

I shrug, “It’s a party, people will dance to whatever.”

That girl walks by us. For some reason, I thought I wouldn’t see her again tonight. Her long hair bounces, following her as she walks. It glows golden in the low orange light of the room. She looks over here and winks, I think to me until I look at Paul who is grinning shyly at the floor.

“Who’s that?” I ask, trying to sound casual, though her presence bothers me.

His cheeks flush, “Niki, from school. She likes… musicians.”

“Does she like you?”

“She hangs around with me and George. I don’t know if she likes me.” He continues to look at the ground, before getting an idea in his head. With enthusiasm, he asks, “Do you want to meet her? She’ll really like you. She loves Teds.”

“We’ve already…” I grit my teeth, “…had a pretty awkward encounter. I made a fool of myself.”

“Then make something else of yourself. Come.” The small, kind frame of my friend rises, holding out a hand as though he expects me to take it. Is he crazy? I am not a child who needs patronising encouragement. I give him a high eyebrow look.

“Alright,” He swings his hand down and acts more naturally, “Just come. You’ll like her.”

I won’t. I know it now. There is something that reminds me too much of my mum, but there’s too much different for it to feel uncomfortable. Still, looking at the longing in Paul’ wide eyes, I can’t say no. I drag myself up and follow him.

Niki looks all too happy to see my bandmate. She swings her arm around his shoulders, planting a kiss on his cheek. He blushes brighter.

“Aww, how about a kiss on the lips, McCartney. You’re old enough to.” She laughs.  

Paul smirks, “I actually wanted to introduce my friend to you. This is John. He plays guitar too, and writes songs.” Then he whispers something in her ear that makes her smile even wider while looking at me. She holds out one of her hands for me to shake. On her wrist a bracelet swings, glistening like someone had woven stars into it. I close my hand around hers.

“So, you write songs, but you can’t be bothered to speak to people, eh?” She mocks, raising one of her eyebrows. She’s very posh.

“Sorry about that. I was a bit caught off guard.” I mutter.

“Yeah, I am a bit distracting, or so I’m told. Anyway, forgive and forget. I’m Niki.” Her confidence is unwavering, her hand shake is firm. I fall into habits of flirting, though a pain sears through my chest every so often. Niki and I sit down together and Paul leaves.

As soon as he’s gone, she loses her cool a little.

“I’m not used to socialising.” She whispers, leaning in towards me. She’s fiddling with her fingers.

“Then why are you so good at talking to people?”

“I’m not. I like talking to Paul,” She smiles over at him. I feel a pang of jealousy when he smiles back, “He’s very kind to me.”

He’s kind to me too. You’re not fucking special. “So, you like musicians?” I change the subject off of Paul.

“Yes.” She grins back at me, licking her bottom lip, “Very much. The first time I saw a clip of Elvis, I almost came.”

I was not expecting something like that to come out of her mouth. She has quite a youthful face. She can’t be much older than Paul. I bank in my mind the question of her age for later, when it becomes relevant again or if I need something else to talk about. This conversation has taken too interesting a turn for me to change it already.

“Yeah? So, if you saw us on stage, do you think we’d have a similar effect?” My voice takes a flirtatious tone.

“Depends how good you are. But I really hope that’s an invitation to a gig.”

Ok, she’s not so bad. I’ve changed my mind in an instant. All of a sudden, I want to play to her. I scan the room for Paul’s guitar. He was playing it a second ago. Or George’s, because his I can actually play- it’s the right way around. Fuck Paulie for being a lefty. I’m pretty sure George brought his.

“What about if I did a private gig here for you?”

Her face lights up, “You’d do that?”

I nod, “If you give me a second to find a guitar.”

She practically squeals. I ignore the tightness in my chest that will not leave me well enough alone. I rub where it hurts a little. This girl has such a strange effect on me. I want to cry and to fuck her. Is that weird?

I seek out George who is back at the food table. Thank god, we’re pretty much alone.

“Where’s your guitar?” I frantically push him to face me. He has a mouth of breadstick that he has to work through before talking. I wait impatiently.

“By the door. You need it?” He says, swallowing the last bit of food as he picks up another.

“I got a date with a chick who likes music.” I go to leave, but George brings me back.

“Niki?”

“How did you know?”

“Because I go to school with her. Paul introduced you?”

It’s eerie how much he knows. I nod slowly.

“Yeah, he was right to. She’s going to love you.”

I walk away feeling uncomfortable. Do people know, does Paul and George know how much she reminds me of my mum? Do they see it too? Do they have any idea how wrong it feels to be chatting her up? And if so, they think that she is still good for me?

There is something appealing about her. She has a combination of shy confidence and in-your-face flirtation. I keep telling myself to ignore the faint similarities between her and my mum and look for all the things that make her beautiful, alluring, sexy.

She waits for me in the corner of the room, still sitting on her chair. Her legs are spread open enough for it not to be decent anymore. She deliberately meets my gaze and pouts, telling me to hurry up with her gaze. Her wide-open legs are no accident. She wants me to wonder what’s beneath her dress, beneath the ruffles that puff out the skirt. I turn the corner of my mouth up, making her wait as I disappear into the hallway that holds the front door. There, leaning against the wall, right beside the doorway, is George’s guitar. I grab the neck and walk back into the party. Without having to go far, I catch Niki’s eye and beckon her out. I don’t bother asking Paul if I can use his bedroom, I just take her up there, promising Paul telepathically that I will not fuck her, not now.

“Can you play something you’ve written?” She pleads, sitting on the edge of Paul’s bed while I take a seat on the desk chair Paul keeps in here for our writing sessions.

“What about something Paul wrote?” I have lost all memory for my own work. Niki nods enthusiastically. I play the first bit of ‘In Spite of all the Danger.’ Niki’s gaze intensifies, watching my fingers closely as her own clamps around the mattress beneath her. I begin to sing.

In spite of all the danger, in spite of all that may be, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you’ll be true to me.

She stops me, “Do you ever think of anyone when your singing?” Her head cocks to one side, her hair swings down, lightly hitting her face. The ringlets at the end frame her jawline perfectly. She looks beautiful.

“Right now, I’m thinking about you.”

Her breathing audibly hitches. She crosses her legs. I wonder if I’ve Elvis-ed the fuck out of her. She is blushing like Paul did when she kissed him, eyes darting up at me, then down at the floor, then over my legs and over the guitar. I think she’s smitten.

“Will you sing some more?” She implores me.

I sing slower, pronouncing every word, prolonging every note.

In spite of all the heartache, that you may cause me, I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you’ll be true to me.

She doesn’t stop me, so I continue, smiling, tapping my foot on the floor. The pain has risen in my chest, making my voice louder. I think that the ache is want, or at least, it has become that.

I’ll look after you, like I’ve never done before, I'll keep all the others, From knocking at your door...

[somesmallfics]

Good Girl

Rating: Mature 

Fandom: The Beatles

Finished: Yes (I think)

Summary: Niki gets caught by Ringo. John has to punish her. Lots of BDSM

“Good girls don’t do that.”

Only two people called me good/little girl. Only one of them sounded half way between disappointed and stern. In an instance, I knew I was caught. Stark naked, I turned myself around on the pale blue towel that had been keeping the carpet beneath it dry and looked up at the doorway where Ringo stood, leaning on the wall.

I could not think of what else to say other than squeaking my voice high to an innocent pitch, “Do what?” I sat, cross-legged with my hands between my legs in fists, knuckles flat on the floor. It brought up my shoulders, giving me this cute, childish look; perfect for my act. Ringo, while probably enjoying my cutsie look, was looking as though he’d walked in on something really surprising. Not horrifying, nor amusing, just that ‘I was not quite expecting that’ sort of surprise. Then again, there was intrigue painted in the sharp blue of his eyes. He seemed conflicted as to whether he should’ve been telling me off, or if he should’ve walked in and slowly walked back out, letting me carry on. In all honesty, I didn’t know which I would’ve preferred.

“Good, little girls don’t do that sort of thing, you know.” He said again, then glanced over his shoulder as though remembering something, “I think we should go and see John about this.”

My eyes grew wide. I wasn’t sure what John might say about this and when I didn’t know that sort of thing, I didn’t want to. I may have been having fun on my own- which technically wasn’t allowed in and of its self- but it was the act that I worried for John’s reaction to. There would certainly be punishment, but would there also be humiliation? It wasn’t that humiliation had ever been off limits. John was contractually allowed to humiliate me and I really got off on having bright red cheeks, that nervousness to look in people’s eyes, that power he had over me. It was something private about what I had done that made me dread telling John.

Ringo held out his hand for me to take as he told me that I mustn’t put on any clothes, then he paraded me in front of the three remaining Beatles in the open plan kitchen/living room, just a small hallway walk away. A huge smile came on Paul and George’s face- both were sitting on the sofa in front of the TV- when they saw the pale curves of their submissive following their friend before John walked into the room, a harmonica held just shy of his mouth, and remarked, “What’s this, ay? A show?”

As he collapsed on the sofa between his friends, I winked at him coyly and ran my free hand, the left, down my torso to give him something to look at. I hoped it might distract him from what Ringo was about to say as he keenly inspected my body, the obviousness of want filling his hazel eyes. He played some idle tune on the harmonica, his mouth curling around the metal. I thought he may not be so hard on me, he may even find it funny, if he was in a good mood. I was wrong. When Ringo said he needed to speak to him about me, he snapped into dominant mode.

“What? What is it?”

Being always accommodating, Ringo didn’t really want to embarrass me further by ratting me out in front of all three other boys, so he suggested “Could we go somewhere else? This might need demonstrating.” At least, if I was going to be humiliated, I would only be so in front of only one other person, maybe in the cosy space of a bedroom or…

“What’s wrong with demonstrating here.? No. Tell me now.” John sternly demanded. Ringo, with a level of apology in his voice, told him of finding me, in what position and with what where. I watched as both Paul and George’s expressions changed, visualising their utter surprise on each expressive feature. Paul looked as though he didn’t fully get it, or didn’t want to, and George’s eyes sparkled with a mouthless grin.

“I don’t believe I fully understand,” John mocked a received pronunciation, “Would you mind getting on the floor, luv, and showing us what you did? Now, please. Richie, luv, come and sit next to me.”

It sounded like he was in a good mood, yet that didn’t stop my cheeks from burning crimson. Not least as Ringo’s absence made me feel even more exposed than I already was, if that were even possible given my total nudity. I believe it was his hand around my right wrist, holding secure with his strong drummer’s hands. The disappearance of that assuring, if a little aggressively forceful, touch left every inch of me to be seen, not to mention having to sink onto my knees on the scratchy carpeted floor and, facing away from the four, I had to fall onto my shoulders, my butt up in the air. Like some animal presenting its self, I looked over each boy’s gaping gazes for approval, before continuing by licking my fingers and reaching my hand up through my legs.

Paul looked equally as shocked as he did intrigued, while Ringo was watching in a mixture of confusion and desire. John lustfully scrutinised every movement I made, every inch of playfulness gone from his eyes and George looked hungry, this time not for food. I was somewhere between proud, sickeningly self-conscious and turned on, the latter very much so.

John then piped up, “And you think that this is an appropriate thing to have been doing, little girl?” I knew not to think he’d be soft on me. His tone was harsh and strict, he wasn’t messing around anymore.

“No, Sir.” I moaned between laboured breaths, “It just felt good. It… f-feels really good.” My back hunched as I tensed and let out a small caught gasp. It seemed that I had no more concern about being in front of four boys, watching me closely as pleasure spiked below my stomach, fizzling out, but indicating a build of it. It was that very thing that they watched that washed over my fears. I found myself quickening, stopping only to slick up my fingers again.

While he was enjoying the spectacle, John could see that I was too and that was not the point of this display. “Stop.” He commanded, much to the perceptible dismay of George whose head shot in John’s direction critically.

“Oh, no. Please!” I whimpered, “No…”

“Stop. Now.” There were no terms of endearment, nothing except the order along with when he expected me to follow it. I couldn’t, I didn’t want to. Only once he sat forward and physically snatched my hand away did I think to obey, mostly because I had no choice. He tugged my arm up, through my legs so that I had to untangle myself by throwing one leg over as though dismounting a horse, and rose up onto my knees to bring me to eyeline. I was very close to his face, close enough to kiss him.

“Listen to me. What you did is a breach of two rules. One, you touched yourself, no matter how you did it, without the permission of one of us. Two, you disobeyed a direct order.” I looked nowhere else other than in his flaming eyes.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“You know that’s not enough. Go and get your play collar and a lead and sit right here in front of us. Do you understand?”

I nodded and set about following his instructions, crawling on my hands and knees. I was aching to get off, every movement stirring something within me as though every part of my body was connected to the most sensitive of strings to my crotch. And constantly I was acutely aware of the eight eyes fixed on me. They were almost tangible. I crawled back, now with the black, leather collar whose inside was a dark purple, while the matching leash was hanging from my mouth. I crept up to John, meeting each of the boy’s gazes, until I tried to give the leading dominant my equipment. Instead of taking it, he shook his head.

“Give it to your owner.”

Paul hadn’t expected John to involve him, but he jumped at the chance to be the first to actually touch me. As I padded over, dropping the items on his beautiful lap, he wove a hand through my hair to guide me where he wanted. He threaded the collar around my neck, under my mess of red hair, then clipped the lead to the O ring hanging at the front. He let the lead fall through his palm, but caught the handle and tugged it tightly to make me gasp.

“There, John.” Paul sexily presented my newly bound self, “What now?”

John tenderly stroked my back, right on the spine from the very tip of it under my skull to the very base. My thighs twitched in hope of being touched elsewhere, but John would never be so rushed, as much as he’d like to be. “Punishment,” He declared, “She needs to be doubly punished. Turn around, Luv.”

I obeyed, crawling so that I was back facing away from them. However, I didn’t want to be so blind, so I peered eagerly over my shoulder. John didn’t like that. He wanted me to be totally out of control.

“Paulie, go and sit over there,” He pointed at the couch that sat at a 90-degree angle from the one they’d all bunched up on. Paul seemed unenthusiastic to do so, so he looked along the line of bandmates with a cheeky smile on his cute face.

“Rings luv. You fancy keeping her in check?” He held out the leather encased in his hand and was surprised that Ringo took it, quite happily in fact. He walked around me, tugging the collar so my gaze had to follow him, and perched himself on the very end of the sofa, right on the edge in front of the arm. His butt must’ve been almost completely hanging off. Then I saw why he was so glad to take this position, he pulled my head up, feathering his knuckles across my face with a tender stroke and was able to rest my cheek on his knee if he sat far enough forward. I believed I would be grateful for that and I’m sure he knew it. Always the comforter and calmer, Ringo was.

While I was distracted by Ringo’s gentle touches, I was unaware of John’s preparation. He’d probably gotten one of the other boys to find a paddle of which he used to spank me. The first hit was totally unexpected. The next few, a mess of stings. He wanted my attention, so he gave me 10 or so lashings just to make sure I was completely focused.

“Niki. I’m going to give you 10 more, ok? I’m going to count them. If you move out the way or do anything out of turn, 2 more for every misbehaviour. Have I made myself clear?”

My eyes were streaming already, my butt burning scarlet, my heart thumping. Once I got over all that, I vocalised my agreement, not that it mattered much anyway. The only thing stopping him now was one word, the safe word of which I had not used yet in any of my encounters with any of the boys and I had no intentions to use it then. The next few hits were numbingly painful, having me bury my face in Ringo’s trousers, making an awful mess of soaking tears and saliva as I clenched my teeth around the thick flesh of his thigh. He stroked my hair as John continued my punishment, all the while George and Paul were sitting, watching out of my view. I wondered what they looked like. Paul would probably be focused on the aesthetic aspect of me and I imagined George was indulging in the sounds, the sight of the act and my reaction to it. I even expected the hand traveling down my thighs was his, as John continued to punish me while that touch was still present.

As always with things like this, it feels like forever, like no slap counts towards the count down from 10, but really, it’s over before you know it. Before I could even straighten out my thoughts, it was all over and I had several warm hands all over me, over my back, over my thighs, on my shoulder, running through my hair. I tried to arch into each one as the last stings turned to heat and I cried my last tears. Then again, it was only my first punishment, obviously something I’d neglected to remember.

I’d just about recovered when John slid onto his knees on the floor and gathered my hair into a pony tail so that he could position himself in conjunction with my body. He knelt between my legs, his trousers now discarded and he entered me. There was no description of this punishment, of which I couldn’t see as ever being punishment because, even in the first push in, I was ignited with pleasure. I turned my head to the side so that my cheek rested on Ringo’s leg and simply felt John’s strong, sure hands gripping my hips. He was quite rough from the get go, leaving no time to be slow or gentle any more.

Meanwhile, the bystanders, quietly, voyeuristically watching, decided they might help out. Paul, who was on the inside between John and Ringo, stayed where he was to help Ringo control me. He tugged on the slack lead, pulled my hair to keep my head up, pushed on my back when I was arching out of John’s grip. He was rarely so aggressive, but I think something sparked in him every time he made a move and heard me groan loudly, whether frustrated or in pleasure, he liked it both. George, on the other hand, had moved himself onto the floor as well, sitting cross-legged right beside me so that he was just low enough to play with my underside.

All the sensations from all the hands proved enough to get me close to climax, but it was too easy. I didn’t think of it at the time, but John was never going to just allow me to have such pleasure with all four boys, especially since I’d badly behaved. Just before I reached that peak, John pulled out and took the hands of everyone else, even Ringo’s comforting leg, away from me. I was left to whine, all desperate and unable to do anything. I moved my hands to try and bring myself over the edge, but immediately George grasped them and slammed them back on the floor.

“Really haven’t learnt your lesson, have you, Luv?” He said, shaking his mass of dark hair, “Look John,” He continued, now turning to John on the sofa, “She still hasn’t learnt her lesson.”

“Seems not, ay? Naughty girl.” John affirmed, the last part in a mocking teacher voice.

Then Ringo joined in, sounding all disappointed, “I told you that good girls don’t do that sort of thing.”

“See, Ringo even told you and you ignored him.” John remarked. I sulkily looked up at Ringo’s sad blue eyes. I wanted to apologise, but a word out of turn would mean more punishment and my cheeks were so stained with tears, my body so unsatisfied with heat practically rising off me in desperation, I didn’t think I could take much more. I turned my head to meet John’s eyes, subsequently noticing Paul as well, and prayed that they could see my apology in my eyes. I was happy to take anything, just not for much longer.

“I don’t know what we’re going to do with her,” Paul piped up, his hand being the first touch back on me once almost all of that built up pleasure had died.

“Well, if she doesn’t learn her lesson, she’ll have to be kept in handcuffs when we’re not with her. And she won’t like that.”

“I will.” George laughed, huskily. The other boys laughed with him, then John decided to have another go with me.

“Let’s see if she gets it now, shall we?”

He proceeded as he had before and, one by one, the other boys joined in. I knew it was coming, the moment when they’d all let off, leaving me to squirm desperately as their touches were gone, the pleasure reduced to aching want, but knowing about it didn’t make it any easier. George didn’t keep holding my hands, which meant I had to control them myself. No touching, my mind insisted in a slow mantra, No touching. It built up as the pace did and, before I knew it, I was grinding the air in hope of release. My body tensed, sweated as it stressed in its state of almost, but not quite. I whimpered like a puppy who’d been locked out of its home, I stamped my knees into the ground like a toddler whose parents were refusing them chocolate, I flinched like someone was sticking pins in my stomach. Just a little more, I begged in my mind. One thing I did not do, though, was give in to the pushing urge to touch myself. I refrained, fighting against my own muscles until the pleasure had gone enough for me to have control again. I waited for some kind of reward, some kind of endearment, but no such sound left any of their mouths.

“Get up and get ready for bed, luv. I’ve got to deal with something down here.” John said nonchalantly.

I was barely able to move. My eyes widened and I looked at him again, my expression something like ‘please don’t do this to me.’ I looked round each boy with begging eyes, yet they all seemed to be finished with me that day. My mind screamed No!

“Well don’t look at me like that, luv. You had your punishment, I need to see you learn your lesson. No touching tonight, no touching until I say so, and that goes indefinitely. I’ll be up once I’m done down here to give you some aftercare. Go on, luv.” John’s voice was patronising and he sounded as though he’d sung ‘Twist and Shout’ a few too many times. There was a gravel quality, probably that had been the product of holding back growls deep in his throat after too much harmonica playing beforehand. I loved the sound of it. Now, however, I was not thinking much on how gorgeous his voice way. I was actually stuck on calling him names in my head. I shakily stood up, allowing Paul to unclip my leash and was about to make my way upstairs when a voice called me back.

“Kisses!” Ringo insisted and I gave each of them a goodnight’s kiss, while cursing at them in my head.

I didn’t feel as lonely as I thought I would. I just felt really turned on. Under the duvet, having brushed my teeth, washed myself, all the usual night routine stuff, I was rocking my hips, just for some movement. It was better than nothing. I promised I wouldn’t touch myself, promised myself as well as John, but I needed some movement, some feeling.

My butt was surely bruising, burning from red into a purple colour, which just made me think of John. I wanted him to come upstairs, to coat me in a layer of that cream that soothes spanked skin and to hug me. His hugs were like that of a huge teddy bear, a huge, possessive teddy bear that insisted on one of two hugging positions: spooning or him lying on his back with my head on his chest, top leg hooked over his, all curled up against him.  He might’ve sung me to sleep, or kissed my forehead as he drifted off. After all that excitement, I wanted some sort of relaxation about as much as I wanted to climax. It took my mind off the latter, so I imagined being between two bodies, one being my big spoon, the other facing me with his legs intertwined with mine.

“Little girl?” There were only two people who called me good/little girl. Only one had a playful, strict sound to his voice. I peered up over the duvet and saw John standing in the doorway, blocking the light from the corridor.

“Yes, Mr Lennon?” I whispered.

“Get up and sit on the edge of the bed.” He flicked the main light on before fumbling about in the bedside draw. I scuttled to the edge of the mattress and swung my legs off it. I noted that he sounded quite tentative, almost kind as he wandered around to kneel in front of me, the plastic tub with the white lid in his left hand, “Have you touched yourself?”

“No, Sir.” I thought I saw him smile. He scooped up a fair amount of cream with the tips of his fingers and smoothed it over each butt cheek, running down to my upper thigh that also had some biting slaps. He rubbed it in slowly, carefully so that his fingers barely touched my skin through the cream. I watched him closely as he did so. Once the white colour had melted into transparent and mostly been soaked up by my skin, John then parted me with his index finger. He started to replicate my solo actions.

“I thought you put this as a limit on your contract.”

“Limits change.” I stated, thrusting my hips into him, “I would’ve told you, but I was… preparing myself.”

“When you’re not allowed to do on your own.” He said, almost as a warning, then his voice changed again, “We can explore this, if you like. I’d like to.” I could not even think when I nodded, enthusiastically. John was using both his hands now, one higher than the other, working different areas. He chuckled to himself, before ripping away from me. I moaned again in disappointment. “But not now. I’m knackered.” He stripped down to his shirt and got into the bed beside me. He wrapped his arms around me, his legs bent under mine as though I were sitting on top of him and his nose he buried into the back of my neck.

I’d have to thank Ringo in the morning. If he had walked back out upon walking in on me, I may not have had so much fun that evening. I grinned and sunk my teeth affectionately into John’s wrist.

[somesmallfics]

Do you realise...

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Beatles

Finished: No

Summary: An Au in which John Lennon is a teacher who takes a liking to Niki

(WARNING probably underage.) 

“Do you realise how old I am?”

Sir looks up over his pair of round-lens glasses. Strands of his sandy-brown, long hair falls in front of his face.

He’s actually quite handsome. People think he’s old, but he’s not. He’s barely 30 years old. It’s the granny glasses, the lightness of his hair, the angular, thin face that ages him. He has stubble lightly dusting his jaw as well, which makes him look more mature.

The thing is, I know better.

I’ve been friendly enough with him to have seen some old pictures. Him in a band in his early 20s, his teen years. I think that’s when I started to like him, as I gazed over those pictures. He was handsome. He always looked tall, tubby (in a nice, hot way) and he was always smiling. He’s a very funny teacher, so I could imagine how he was back in his younger years, a constant joker.

I know that this is what he is really like, a young, cool rocker at heart, but he puts on that he’s a scary, lean man who’ll throw you in detention so quick your feet won’t graze the ground.

“You realise I’m a teacher, I know exactly how old you are, Miss Barnes.” He replies.

My heart leaps. When I had spoken, and I so rarely speak confidently as I just had, I felt small, overly young, childish. He always makes me feel this way. I feel so inferior to him.

And I cannot get enough of it.

My voice is a mouse’s squeak when I dare to open my mouth again, “Then you know what people’ll think.”

I think he’s enjoying this too. There’s a subtle smile on his lips. His hazel eyes, hidden behind flecks of light reflected in his glasses, gaze at me intensely. They watch so closely that I feel as though I’m being studied, I’m merely a book to be read, an art piece to be observed. I am under his gaze and I can think of nothing else other than him.

“You mean all the trouble I’m going to get into.” He corrects me. Again with making me feel stupid, as if he puts the words into my mouth, rewrites what my brain has already published. I bow my head as I clasp my hands together. My shaking fingers start to intertwine with one another, rubbing and gripping nervously.

No one has ever made me feel like this. It’s not fear, because, if it was, I would not be enjoying it. Though I may look like I am cowering, there is a part of me that feels right in doing it. I almost feel… safe.

I see his smile again, the corner of his lips turning up just slightly, enough to brighten the sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve been in worst trouble, my Luv. This is your choice. You may walk away.”

I stare at him blankly. No! This isn’t what I want. I’m too indecisive. My mind is debating this, whether I should go ahead with it or not. And I know, if I were sane, I would say no. Anyone else would.

I’m not sane anymore, though. I’m crazy. “What would you have me do?” I whisper.

“You want me to decide?” He practically laughs as I nod, slowly, quietly, “Then stay.”

The hallways darken. The last few cleaners shoot through the halls, ready to go home. Only a few teachers will remain for another hour, finishing the last of their work. I can see no other class room in this vicinity with their lights on. This is the only one.

No doubt I’ll be the only student here. I saw a wave of them saunter out of the doors, out to the main gates, celebrating the end of the day and an end to their detentions. I’m sure they were the last out.

The last except for me.

As I’ve been staring out the many windows, worrying that someone might pass and see us, sir has moved around his desk and is sitting on the student table directly in front of it. It’s right in front of me too. He’s facing my body that lays stretched as I lean off the desk behind. My pale school dresses pressed up to my thighs at the back, hiked up almost all the way to my butt. The front, however, remains at its knee length.

I turn back to Sir and smile awkwardly at him. I realise that, in this position, I’m making my small body more inviting. I have my arms stretched out behind me, pressed against the table. My shoulders are raised a little, but my neck straightens above it. My torso is unfolded, pulled tall all the way down to my hips, then my pair of legs, clad in the school-approved stockings, are crossed innocently at the ankles. I

I look at Sir’s inviting stance. He’s sitting with his thick thighs perched on the desk, much like me. However, instead of leaning back, as I am, he brings himself forward, an arm crossed over his stomach as the other sits on its elbow on top. His hair is pushed back a little, framing his face with its soft curves, lightly touching his jawline.

“You know, I’ve always liked this fad you girls have, these days.” He begins. His voice is soft and slow, but it sounds loud in the empty room. One of his long-fingered hands goes up and he touches his neck, eluding to the small scarf around my neck. Many of the girls do this. It’s the fashion. “Tying pretty bandanas around your necks.” With the same hand hanging by his neck, he gestures for me to come closer, his words mirroring his actions, “May I see it?”

I step gingerly towards him, heart thumping so loud I wonder if he can hear it. If he does, it doesn’t faze him.

Upon his first touch, a sharp breath fills my lungs. He hears that, for sure. I know, because he looks up at me. His fingers, which had been brushing my wrist, pause there, waiting for my encouragement to go on. He looks at me expectantly. I feel as though I should say something, but I know no what. I just take a calming breath in.

“Enjoy it, Luv.” He says, which sounds like more of an order than a reassurance. I nod obediently and cast my eyes to watch his hand. He glides it up my arm, which is ripe with goosebumps from his touch, then feathers across my shoulder until it feels the edge of my scarf.

Mine is actually not a scarf, per say. It’s fabric from a torn pair of trousers. I stretched it, cut the fraying ends off and kept it, tying it around my neck for school. It’s a brown colour, which goes with my school uniform and matches the suspender belts I wear beneath my dresses.

The tips of Sir’s fingers hook around the top of it. Softly, he pulled the two, tied ends apart, letting the fabric fall into his palm. Suddenly, though it is one, small item of clothing, I feel exposed.

“Girls used to do it in my day too. They’d strut around, beautiful things, wearing their school skirts too short. Now tell me, Luv, what have you got under there?” He points at my legs. I subconsciously straighten the one in front, “Tights or stockings.”

“You’re a chav if you wear tights.” I say, not that I believe it much. I parrot it from the girls in my class, the types who bully others. Thinking upon it, I feel bad for saying so.

But, in any case, I’ve actually always worn stocking and suspender belts. My mum insists upon it. I think she believes it looks smarter.

“And you’re not a chav.” Sir confirms. I’m glad he doesn’t think so. Gently, I shake my head, a shy smile creeping onto my lips. I always seem to look down when I smile. Sir notices this, even though I am unaware of it myself, and he gets a little closer, saying, “You don’t need to hide your smile from me, Luv. You’ve got a lovely smile.”

My mouth, as my nose seems unable to draw in enough oxygen alone, drops open a centimetre after I swallow cautiously. “Thank you, Sir.”

“Well, it’s true. I’m only stating what’s true, Luv. And don’t call me ‘Sir’ at the moment.” He insists, “Its ‘John’ or ‘Mr Lennon.’ Do you understand?”

Never has that question filled me with anything but frustration before. Why now am I trembling at the knees upon hearing the same question from his tongue? “Ok, Mr Lennon.” I can’t quite manage anything as informal as his first name. And I like the power shift, as I think he can tell. He makes a point of formatting his words either as commands, or as questions that I must answer, questions that make me feel small.

“Anyroad, my Luv,” Sir pipes up again, louder, “Can I see these stockings, since you’re such a good, little girl who dresses very smartly?”

My breath hitches. It’s not the request that gets me, it’s the ‘good, little girl.’ I can hardly draw in another breath after that. I want him to keep calling me that, I want to be his ‘little girl.’

I step even closer to him so that our torsos are almost touching. His hand that had been at my neck now drops down to the hem on my dress. A spark runs through me as the tip of his index finger tickles the top of my knee. He’s looking at me all the time, looking into my eyes. I don’t know where I should look. At him? At what he’s doing? Anywhere else? I want to look at him mostly, but his gaze is so intense.

I feel his hand then glide up, hiking my skirt around his wrist. He follows the line beside my suspender belt, feeling both my flesh and the thin leather that pushes into it. He nears the top, the hem of my underwear. I gasp, my eyes growing wide, I cannot breathe nor can my heart think to beat. My brain is void of everything, stuck in the here and now.

Eventually, once he has pulled my skirt high enough, he stands back a bit and takes his eyes away from mine. They run down my shaking body to see his handiwork- my exposed leg with translucent, white stockings reaching up it. I look down. Boy is it a handsome sight, seeing his hand on me.

[somesmallfics]

Paul’s 16th

Rating: Teen

Fandom: The Beatles

Finished: No

Summary: At Paul’s 16th Birthday party, Niki wants to give the birthday boy his present, a kiss. His friend, however, has something to say about that. 

After spending the evening with John’s arm around my shoulders, as though it were a chain around my neck, I thought it best to break free and see the birthday boy, without the loom of my sudden admirer commenting that I was far too old to be handing around ‘Young McCartney.’ You see- and he should too- Paul is only a year younger than me, perhaps a few months more, but it is hardly an age gap. Now, I could understand, had John been criticising me for hanging around with George, because he was certainly 2 years (and more) younger than me.

In any case, I hadn’t a crush of any kind on any of the boys. I was friends with them, friends from school. John just wanted to tease me, because I insisted that my birthday gift to Paul would be a kiss. It had been a running joke between us for ages, long before either Paul, George or I ever met the strange teddy boy, the one that hung around Strawberry Fields like a total creep. No, John didn’t know the origins of my gift- to be fair, I had long forgotten by that time too- and I believe he was just jealous.

Though I heard him calling my name as I sauntered through the crowd of Paul’s friends, I ignored it. I ignored his grasping hand as I spun out of his hold and I ignored the sour look changing his face when he saw that I wasn’t coming back. I thought he might follow me, but he was too deep in conversation with someone to just leave. I was actually surprised by that. Usually, he didn’t care if he was being rude. If he lost interest or had something better to do, he wouldn’t hesitate to leave you hanging mid-sentence, thought or idea.

Still, this time he stayed put and I walked up to Paul. The young boy, dressed handsomely in one of his best suits, roughed up a bit in a gorgeously casual way, was sitting by his wall, talking to George with a cup of some fizzy drink in his hands. George, the scrawny thing standing over him, was, as he usually would, miming playing the guitar, doing some strange chord changes with one hand, while the other strummed against his stomach. When I approached, both boys fell silent.

“Mr McCartney, I believe I owe you a birthday kiss.” I said, pulling him up to stand beside me.

“Lost your attachment then?” Paul laughed, noting the absence of John.

I nodded, almost proudly, “He’s gone for now. Probably isn’t too happy about it, but I knew we’d ever kiss if he was around.”

Paul nodded too, “Are we gonna do this then?” He said, void of all signs of nervousness. Perhaps it was only me who was feeling a little pressure. After all, Paul may have been only 16 on that day, but I was sure he’d kissed twice the number of girls than I had kissed boys. I mean, even the skill at which he advanced towards me told me that he’s had a lot of practice. He gazed into my eyes with charm emitted from his hazel irises and tangled our hands together without once having to check what he was doing. I practically fell, toppled into a snog with my amateur lips, feeling a little stupid, because it seemed more of a gift to me, rather than one I was giving to him. He knew what he was doing, he knew that it would make me swoon, that the slight flick of his tongue against my top lip would cause a shiver to run down my spine. All I could do was hope the feeble kiss I managed back was enough to keep him interested.

When we parted, I slowly brought my fingers up to my mouth to hide it. I was feeling immensely embarrassed.

“Thank you, Luv.” He said, his left hand still wrapped around my right. He squeezed my fingers fondly, “That was the best gift I’ve got all night.”

I could feel my cheeks fill with colour, “Best gift I’ll ever get, I think.” I muttered.

Paul sat back down, taking the cup of drink back off the windowsill. My eyes weren’t on him, though. They were cast nervously at the floor as I wiped the small layer of saliva off the corner of my mouth. I couldn’t quite believe how quickly that had happened, and how much I wanted it to happen again. I managed to meet his gaze again a second later, which is when I felt a soft punch in my arm.

“So, do I get a kiss for my 16th?” George asked, his dark eyes sparkling in the low light. I was about to answer, my lips were stretched in a wide smile as I thought of some funny quip, when Paul piped up first.

“I don’t know, I think John might have something to say about it.”

My brow knotted, “What would John have to say about it?” I looked directly down at Paul. However, I realised that he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking beside me. I turned my head to peer behind my shoulder, George did too, and there, storming through the crowd, was John, fuming. I turned fully and held out a hand that I was going to thread through the space between John’s arm and torso. Instead, he grabbed it, pulled me towards him and wrapped one of his own around my waist.

“Can I steal her away, boys?” He asked with a smile on his face. I watched Paul stand up, but he knew he couldn’t say no. Certainly not. Especially when I just shook my head at him. It was better that I go. I didn’t mind.

I let John drag me out. He took me out of the living room- where the main party was- and we headed through the kitchen to the main corridor by the front doors, were the stairs were to the bedrooms. He paused on the first step, making me stand one step higher.

“Do you not realise that you’re mine?” He hissed, guiding me to stand against the wall. I pressed my head against it to inhibit my shaking. It wasn’t that I was scared of John, it was because I was full of adrenaline. The minor shock of seeing him storm towards me, the high of kissing Paul, I was being pumped full of adrenaline and I couldn’t stop my breathing from coming out loud and heavy.

“I’m not yours. I’m not owned by anybody.” I whispered back.

John slowly snaked up to the next step, being level with me. Well, I say level, he was a bit taller than me, so I expect he did it to tower over my small stature. His hands found their place either side of me, flat against the wall. “But you want to be.” He replied.

It took a minute for me to consider this. Yes, I had wanted to be John’s. Specifically, yes, I had once said that I’d love to be owned by someone. The problem here was that John and I were not in a relationship. We’d joked about it before. Of course, we had, we were close friends. There was also no denying that I fancied him. I just never thought he was into me enough to be exclusive to me, to actually want to own me, and only me. I stared into his sharp, brown eyes, wondering if that’s what he now wanted. Because I realised then, that it was what I wanted too.

“Yes.” I breathed. John’s pupils dilated.

“Then don’t you dare kiss anyone else except for me.” He commanded. He backed off a little.

But I wasn’t satisfied with that. If he was going to start with the rules, I had to be sure that I was his, only his.

“Wait, so are you my…” He cut me off.

“Owner, Master, Sir. Call me what you want.” Now he was back to the John I knew. He was joking around. He stopped leaning on me, instead choosing to prop himself up on the banister opposite. He looked so cool, leather jacket draped off his shoulders, white shirt open two buttons too revealing, his perfect Elvis hair undamaged by his outburst. He must’ve used more product in it than I did.

“How about boyfriend?” I suggested, then stepped towards him, realigning our bodies again, close enough to touch. I stood on my tippy toes to reach my lips next to his ear, and I whispered, “I’ll keep ‘Sir’ for the bedroom, alright?”

As I moved back onto my heels, I could see John’s eyes reopen, after he must’ve closed them when I spoke. It made me giggle.

“Well, then, before we head back, I think it’s best you sample the only lips you’ll be kissing for a while.” He chipperly proposed. Shrugging my shoulders, I agreed.

His kiss was not much like Paul’s. Not in the slightest. For a start, his approach was a lot more sloppy and heated. Skilled, of course, but it was less rehearsed, as though he were just following what his body demanded he do. Then he didn’t taste as sweet as little Paulie. He’d probably spiked his own drinks with alcohol and I tasted it on his lips and tongue. It didn’t put me off, however. I was too distracted by his technique. It was intense, passionate. He closed his lips around mine, before opening them and allowing just a short feeling of his tongue inside my mouth. When I tried to reciprocate, trying to get our tongues dancing, he’d shut his mouth. Every time he reopened it, he’d allow a little more, a little more, until he was pushing me up against the wall again, trying to taste the back of my throat. It was… strangely hot.

After, I realised he was drunk. I mean, it was obvious. I wasn’t sure whether he’d remember much in the morning. Least of all, would he remember promising to be exclusive to me. He’d probably block it out of his mind.

Yet, I was happy, as I walked back into the party, his arm once again around my shoulders, if I’d only ever get that one kiss from him.

“Everything alright?” Paul asked as we strode up to him. I noticed that George was gone. He was probably the person changing the music, because the Elvis song crooning in the background had suddenly been changed to Little Richard.

“Everything’s fine.” I replied, beaming so wide that Paul couldn’t help reciprocating. No doubt he took my smiles to mean nothing bad had happened. And the sudden smile on John’s face, like that of an excitable puppy, calmed Paul’s worries too.

The young boy punched John gently, “What’s up with you?” He laughed.

While also smiling, John was swaying a little, his hands playing with the neckline of my dress. “I’m drunk… oh yeah, and you know what helps a man who is drunk?”

In unison, Paul and I chorused, “No, what?”

To which John heartily declared, “More drink, my lovelies!” As he started to head for the table with cups laid out on them. It took barely a small tug to stop him. He came swaying back, feet toppling over one another.

“Maybe you shouldn’t, Luv.” I warned. He made puppy dog eyes at me, yet I still said no. “You still need to get home, you know.”

“Well, you both could stay here…” Paul offered. John took that to mean he could drink much more, but I made sure he didn’t

[somesmallfics]

An (Hawk) eye for women

Rating: Mature (or was going to be...)

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Finished: No

Summary: A new agent has a brush with someone from the past, someone who likes to play. And Clint is beyond pleased to annoy the hell out of an ex. 

The Tesseract was probably the biggest find in S.H.E.I.L.D’s history since it was founded. Back when Howard Stark fished the glowing energy cube from the ocean, whose power even the Gods struggled to harness, it was tested on, watched by scientists from around the world and made anyone who viewed it fascinated by its presence. Even decades later when the second most exciting find was brought out of its icy prison, the Tesseract was still a prominent project in S.H.E.I.L.D’s labs.

Clint Barton is now the project leader, watching over the lab in which the Tesseract lies. He is rarely seen and rarely heard of, but everyone knows that he is there. A young agent, tasked with giving him some vital information on behalf of S.H.E.I.L.D’s director, Nick Fury, shuffles to the front doors of the lab and waves her pass in front of a scanner. The heavy double doors swipe open and a flooding of daytime light pours into the dark room. The whole thing is just one big box with no windows, only a few ventilators letting strands of sunbeams in. Along the sides of the room, there are computers, tablets, weird Stark technology and heavy machinery that look like complex dental equipment and right slap bang in the middle, running down from one end to the other, a beam of blue energy, constantly moving. The agent stares at it, it’s movements hypnotic as well as the colour that burns into her eyes, but her sight is broken by a tubby, older looking man with a permanent confused expression.

“You alright there, Agent?” He asks to which the girl nods her head, a little too overwhelmed to speak. It’s one thing to get used to everyone calling her Agent, which is a step up from her old job title, it’s another to have to get used to sights like this. She is ok with never talking about what she saw at work; she just has a hard time believing everything that she saw. She then realises that the man is still looking at her, waiting for the reason that she came in here.

In her most professional voice, she says, “I was looking for Agent Barton.” The old man smiles and steps back to his post.

“The Hawk? He’s up in his nest.” He replies, gesturing to the far corner of the room where an inside balcony lips over part of the work space. It runs all the way down one side, but in that corner, there was someone crouching against the railing, just visible to the Agent. She turns to the old man again to ask how she might get up to him, but he’s already back to his work. Knowing that S.H.I.E.L.D operatives usually have to learn by doing, she strides down the side of the lab, behind the rows of computers, and stands under the balcony in hope of seeing stairs or a lift to take her up to Barton. After she is unable to see anything, she stands so Clint can see her and meets his eye. His neutral expression became a devilish grin under the young Agent’s regard, which made her bite her lip so not to reciprocate it. She is a work, for goodness sake and she will not have the smug spy ruin her first professional errand here at S.H.E.I.L.D.

“Er, Agent Barton, I have some important information Director Fury would like relayed personally to you.” She says, keeping her cool demeanour as she tries not to alert everyone around her to her task. The balcony is just high enough for a normal speaking voice to be missed, but close enough for a reasonably private conversation. It still is not private enough for Nick Fury, though, that much is known by both agents. However, Barton wants to play, not work.

“There’s a rope right here. You can climb.” He teases, reaching out to tug at the swaying rope beside him. The Agent gives in slightly to his charms and relaxes her pose, half smiling as she rolls her eyes.

“I’m in heels.” She counters, pointing at her matt black kitten heels. Barton purses his lips as he looks at them, seeming unsatisfied by her excuse.

“You could always take them off…” He suggests, dragging his words out slowly, but quickly turns to a serious recommendation, “There’s stairs. The wall under me is a door. No wonder you couldn’t find it; it blends in perfectly.”

With a sigh, the Agent walks over to the wall and, when she’s sure no one else can see her, she pushes against it. It jerks backwards before sliding away and the Agent, slightly impressed, ducks into the small cupboard like corridor. A narrow metal staircase leads upwards, coming out to where Barton had been sitting, but was now standing up, leaning on the barrier. His famed bow and quiver lay strewn on the floor; so much for his prized possession.

The Agent tries once again to seem professional, casting her eyes down at the file that she clutches under her arm. She transmits the message that Nick Fury gave her, holding the file at arm’s length for Clint to take, but he just listens, feigning interest with a smile. When she looks up at him, he still hasn’t taken the file, his arms are crossed in front of his chest.

“Director Fury did ask me to get your opinion on this before I leave,” She persists, “And I do have to get back to him as soon as possible.” Clint finds this more cute than encouraging. He beckons her towards him and, instead of taking the file, he grasps her wrist to drag her even closer. She rolls her eyes, trying not to allow herself to get caught up by him, but there is no denying that she will think of him, his heat pressed against her, later on that evening when she is home alone. For now, she just wants to finish the meeting so to get back in record time on her first job.

“Nick has more important things on his mind then this, trust me.” Clint assures, making her drop the file onto the floor. She watches it break open like an egg, the pages leaking out of the brown shell, and her breath hitches; it had to be him, didn’t it?

“Agent Barton, I am trying to make a good first impression and you are not helping my case. I thought you said that I’d be a good S.H.I.E.L.D Agent, but you’re making it difficult for me to do my job.”

“And why might it be difficult?” He quips. The Agent smiles to herself, now battling her own mind as to whether she should submit to him or continue to desperately grasp at the few strands of respectability that still remain intact. She looks at him, his eyes burning playfully as they worm their way into her heart, his stare continuing further into her body.

Had his hand not already travelled up her inner thigh, gathering a bunch of tight skirt material, she may have been able to keep it together, but she became clay for him to mould. While one hand snaps the waist band of her tights against her belly, the other follows the opening of her white button-up shirt, undoing some of the clear buttons as it moves. The higher hand then breaches the line to grasp her bra and pull it down, the palms cupping her breasts and lips lowering to suck on them.

The Agent is somehow quite skilled at making no sound. She just runs her shaking fingers through Clint’s short hair to guide him where she wants him. His other hand has travelled now, reaching down to her underwear and playing through the smooth fibres, but this is not enough. It’s slightly awkward in positioning and not at all private. He slowly moves her back to pin her against the wall, this way camouflaged into the dark colour and far enough back so those working can’t see. Only their sounds do they now have to be wary of and both seem accomplished in stifling them, whether it be by burying their mouths in each other’s hair or skin or kissing each other so that the noise is conveyed through touch.

[somesmallfics]

Double Date

Rating: General Audiences

Fandom: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe

Finished: No

Summary: Bucky gets a date for Steve. 

This time, it was a dinner date. Another double date Bucky had dragged Steve on, reluctantly once he’d realised what the outing really was. Beforehand, it had been just two friends getting lunch, but no, it was an ambush by his taller, stronger, soldier friend and a couple of rather beautiful girls that he knew he couldn’t string a sentence together around. That seemed to be Bucky’s plan; hide Steve behind him and push one of the girls next to him as a stun. This one was slightly taller than him, wearing a silk turquoise dress, flowy short sleeves and a low cut neckline. Her smiling lips were painted with a dark red and her big, cartoon-like eyes gazed at him, outlined by thick, black eyelashes. Her short hair was a mix of all coloured highlights, copper and straw in some light, blond and brown in the lower sort. She was very quiet when introduced, quiet, it seemed, only to him.

“Steve, this is Amber.” Bucky said outside the small restaurant where they would eat, “Amber, this is Steve.” He said this with a softer, more flirtatious tone. His smile brightened a tad when speaking to her. Steve had noticed this when he looked to his friend for help as the young girl was stood beside him, regarding him like she was waiting for more than a hi. As Bucky turned around to lead them and the girl on his arm into the restaurant, Steve thought of something to say. He’d barely ever had a ten-minute conversation with a lady, never mind someone as pretty as this one.

“So… Amber, where are you from?” He tried sounding confident, but felt like a child.

“England.” She replied, her voice bright, assured.

“Both of you?” Steve inquired, gesturing to the red head in front of them. Amber nodded and, excitedly, thread her arm around his. He didn’t quite understand why she was so nice to him, happy to be with the timid, short, stick-like blond friend of the muscular, handsome faced soldier whose friendship with her was already established. She gladly spoke to Steve as though they were already friends too. She gave him a look. Bucky said that when girls like you, they give you a look. He asked what the look looked like, but Bucky only replied that ‘you’ll know it when you see it.’ Steve thought he saw it in his peripheral vision, when Amber thought he couldn’t see. It was a gaze that he recognised from a movie.

They walked over to a circular table all together and sat down, Steve sat next to Amber-on his left- and Bucky- on his right. The girl opposite him gave a shy smile when he looked over, but clung to Bucky’s arm like Steve was a scary old man. She, too, was as pretty as the other. She had flaming red hair that tumbled in waves. She was short, around Steve’s height, but she didn’t look as scrawny. She wore a knee high, longer at the back dress whose bodice was heart shaped and black, the flowing split skirt, a dangerous red. Where was Bucky finding these girls?

“So, what will the lovely sisters be having tonight?” Bucky asked, picking up a menu, but not even considering it. He leant in and kept darting his eyes from Amber to the girl beside her- they both beamed back. Steve suddenly delighted in having something to talk about, when he swallowed the surprise of finding out that the girls were sisters and the shame in realising he didn’t even know Bucky’s date’s name.

“You’re sisters?” He managed to say over the chorus of people talking around the table. The two girls cast their gaze at one another and giggled at their own, private joke. It was Amber who replied.

“Yup. And Niki got first pick if you know what I mean, but I think she got the bum deal.” She giggled, once again placing her arm around Steve. It surprised him that she liked him so much, comparing her date to her sisters and calling hers better. At least, now, he knew the other girl’s name. Bucky gasped, feigning hurt, as did Niki, who was finally beginning to come out of her shell. She playfully punched Amber in the arm and raised her eyebrow at Steve.

“You sure? No offence honey.” She said to him. Bucky was chuckling behind her, slouched lazily in his chair.

“Er, no offence taken… Bucky is… probably a better date than me.” The sisters both shook their heads quickly.

“No way!” Amber insisted, much to Bucky’s fake displeasure. Instead of playing to it, she ignored him, “Steve’s so cute, I mean, look at him!” Steve shied from her kind words, idly picking up one of the menus and running his fingers down the frayed, split edge. She was watching him, waiting for a thank you or for him to rebuff her, but he hadn’t the strength nor the heart. He was frozen by her interest in him. They’d barely spoken.

“So, what do you fancy?” Bucky piped up again.

“I’ll share whatever you have.” Niki replied, sweetly, “As long as it is pizza or chicken.” This made Bucky laugh gently.

“Share? With me? Were you hoping on eating nothing tonight?”

“I was waiting for desert, really.”

Steve watched this exchange; the flirtatious stare of both participants, the touch and giggles. He wondered if he could recreate it with Amber. He leant in closer to her and managed a grin which she reciprocated.

“What would you like?” He asked.