#kalwrites
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please please me [ the beatles x reader ]
summary: You’ve never given a blowjob before. Luckily, the boys are more than willing to teach you.
prompt: ok 𝘒𝘐𝘕𝘋 𝘖𝘍 an orgy idea? she's never given a blow job before so they're all siting around her while they tell her what to do
warnings: blowjobs, fingering, sort of an orgy, masturbation, voyeurism, this is just filth
masterlist
HAHAHAA this picture is so not the sexy mood but also it basically sums up the fic
Kneeling in front of Paul, you finally understand why some people like giving blow jobs.
It’s the way he’s watching you unbuckle his belt, eyes lidded and cheeks already flushed a delicate pink. It’s not demeaning at all like you used to think. In fact, you feel a heady rush of power at the sight of Paul, whose breath has already gone ragged despite the fact that you haven’t even touched him yet.
“Help him shuck his pants off,” John says. He’s sitting next to Paul on the couch, leaning back almost lazily with a smirk. Today, he’s put on his glasses--you realize belatedly that it’s so he can see you better.
You’re all sitting in the living room. The air is charged with something imperceptibly electric, something that dances across your skin with every movement, amplified by the four men watching you with barely restrained hunger. You don’t know how it happened or who raised the question. Maybe it was a dare? But none of that matters now.
Ringo, sitting on Paul’s other side, leans forward and brushes away a loose strand of hair, tucking it behind your ear. You smile at him gratefully. His answering grin puts you even more at ease, lending you the momentary confidence to reach up and trace Paul’s cock through his briefs. He’s hard. You’ve hardly done anything, but he’s already turned on; the realization sends a liquid heat pooling between your legs.
“Poor Paulie’s popped a stiffy already.” John smirks at the half-hearted glare Paul sends him. “I can’t blame him, though, not when you look so pretty on your knees for us.”
“Go on,” George murmurs, lips almost touching your ear. He’s sat behind you, a steady warmth pressed against your back. His hands trace gentle circles into your hips and you shiver. “Touch him.”
And so you do, tugging down the waistband of Paul briefs. His cock springs out, flushed and red at the tip, and you go a little wide-eyed at the sight. You’ve never seen one before, not in real life. It’s not... unattractive, you muse, and it’s with an almost dazed wonder that you wrap your fingers around his length.
Paul groans immediately. His hands tighten on his knees, itching to tangle themselves in your hair. But he doesn’t want to scare you away.
“Give him a lick, baby. Don’t you want a taste?”
Ringo’s gruff voice pushes you forward. Hesitantly, you move your grip and lick all the way from the base of Paul’s cock to the tip. Sort of like a popsicle, you think to yourself. And if Paul’s answering sigh is any indication, you’re on the right track.
“That’s it.” John hums a note of encouragement. “Think you’re ready for more?”
“More?” you ask.
If only you could see what you look like. The picture of innocence, of sweet debauchery. With your cheeks a pretty pink, eyes shining and pupils blown wide. And your hands, so small and soft around Paul’s cock. You’re so close that every huff of breath is brushing feather-light across Paul’s sensitive skin. It’s enough to make the boy squirm above you, wanting more.
John laughs, reaches forward. He presses his thumb against your lips which fall open naturally, sucking on his finger.
“Do you want Paul’s thick cock in your mouth, birdie?” You moan at his words and John retracts his hand. His thumb is shiny with your spit. “Wanna suck him off til he comes down your throat?”
John’s always had a dirty mouth on him. You just never thought it would turn you on so much.
“Watch your teeth, love.” George presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw, lets his canines scrape gently against your skin. “Don’t want you biting off the family jewels.”
More than anything, you want to see Paul’s face. You keep your eyes on him as you lean over and start going down on his length, making sure to wrap your lips around your teeth. You want to do this right, want to make Paul feel good.
His reaction is immediate. Paul is caught between screwing his eyes shut in pleasure and wanting to watch his cock disappear into your pretty mouth. His eyelids flutter erratically, lips part automatically around high, breathy moans. The sight of it sends another rush of arousal through you and you clench your thighs. You’ve never seen anything so hot.
“Fuck, she likes that, doesn’t she?” Ringo groans and from the corner of your eye you can see him reaching into his own slacks. “Is she wet, George?”
George hikes up your skirt, parting your legs to rub you through your panties. “She’s soaked,” he says. You moan at the friction and Paul’s cock twitches in your mouth.
“Alright, now move your head up and down.” That’s John’s voice coming from your right. You try to do what he says but you’re flustered now, trying to still your hips against George’s probing fingers. You pull away with a wet pop.
“Sorry, I- I don’t know how...”
John presses a kiss to your forehead. “It’s alright, birdie. We can go slow. Paul, why don’t you put a hand on her head, show her how it’s done?”
Paul nods and threads his fingers through your hair. His touch is so gentle, you find yourself leaning into it as he guides you back to his erect cock.
“Breathe through your nose,” Paul says, and then your lips are parting around his length again and he forgets how to speak entirely.
This time, Paul pushes you up and down slowly so that your head is making a sort of bobbing motion. You can’t take all of him in, but you bring a hand up instinctively and start pumping the base of his cock in tandem. Paul’s grip on your hair tightens almost painfully, but you can’t bring yourself to care.
“That’s it, darling.” George rewards you and starts pressing tight circles around your clit. You whine, unable to stop your hips from jerking into his touch. “You’re doing so well.”
The lewd sound of skin sliding against skin fills the room as you start speeding up and George slips a finger into your cunt. Paul’s moans send trickles of pleasure through you. From the heavy breathing and grunts, you know that John and Ringo have started taking matters into their own hands, so to speak.
“Are you gonna let Paul fuck your pretty mouth?” Unable to reply to John, you hum around Paul’s cock. Your jaw is starting to ache but you want it so bad, you’ve never been so turned on. “I know you can take it, baby.”
Paul’s other hand tangles in your hair and he starts thrusting his hips up. His head tips back against the couch, mouth falls open around staccato grunts. With each thrust, you gag a bit as Paul’s cock hits the back of your throat. George murmurs low sounds of encouragement from behind. You can hardly concentrate, can hardly think when he’s curling those long, slender fingers into your cunt in tandem to Paul’s thrusts.
One of your hands comes up to grip Paul’s thigh. As your nails dig into his skin, Paul lets out a loud, keening whine, his hips stuttering, and you don’t even know who it is that asks--
“How deep can you take him?”
--but without thinking you relax your throat and take Paul as deep as you can. He’s cumming before your gag reflex even kicks in. You manage to swallow some of it before pulling back in a fit of coughs. The rest of it dribbles down your chin but you can’t even bring yourself to care.
You fall bonelessly against George, who starts pressing kisses to the column of your neck. The hot coil of tension in your body tightens. You almost want to get away from how overwhelming it is, hips jumping as George pumps his fingers in and out of you. You can feel his hard cock digging into you back as he ruts against you.
Then you open your eyes and see Paul’s gaze devouring you, wetting his lips at the sight of you: your hair a tangled mess, falling around your face in the most perfect halo; your lips, red from biting, forming silent ‘oh’s as your orgasm builds.
“You’ve been so good for us,” Paul says. “Let go.”
And that’s all it takes, Paul’s low voice and George pressing tight circles into your clit, curling his fingers deep into your cunt. Your vision goes white and you cum. George coaxes you through it, the pleasure wracking through you in waves that fall from your lips in high, pleading moans. When you come spiraling back to earth, your entire body feels fuzzy with the drop in adrenaline.
“How was it?” Ringo asks, grin lopsided as he lazily fists his erection.
You crawl over and nose at the base of Ringo’s cock, grinning when he exhales sharply.
“I think I need a little more practice.”
#the beatles x reader smut#paul mccartney x reader#john lennon x reader#george harrison x reader#ringo starr x reader#kalwrites#pwp
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Message of Change
Raising my muzzle to the air I catch the strong scent of grease, metal, humans, and huisdiers. My hackles rising as I crouch next to a sabre-toothed cat, a pack mate, waiting for the signal. Unable to resist my mouth pulls back in what humans call a ‘sneer’, really humans are conceited and hateful, the quietest of growls mixing with the panting and breathing of the others. My ears turn as I hear the roar of the Velus, a Barbary lion and alpha of the pack, in the wild language, unmixed with human taint that invaded when they forced these vertaler collars around our necks.
Shuddering briefly with the pleasure of that wild sound I leap up and race down the ridge we had been waiting upon, a howl leaving my muzzle, filled with the joy of the hunt and a call for my group. A giant Teratorn glides down to my shoulder, his wings ruffling my grey and brown fur as he speaks a message from Velus, a slight croak in his voice, “Botolf, my lieutenant, you are to take the northern quarter for your mates are the fastest and can reach there before any human dares to leave.” A nod of understanding and the Teratorn leaves to inform Velus of my acceptance. A wild glee and hunting rage again enters me as I howl, sadly with the human taint, “We go north!”
The sabre from earlier falls at my right shoulder and a fellow dire wolf, though smaller than I, at my left, the rest my quarter falling behind in a typical vanguard style. Mammoths, aurochs, sabre-toothed, barbourofelis, cave hyenas, homotherium, and others, pound the short, cropped grass that’s tipped with frost. Cries of the hunt, of anger, and of rage, fill the air from all corners.
We race around the city towards the farthest edge, steadily pulling away from the crowd of the pack. The sabre-tooth next to me cries out, his fangs glistening in the late afternoon sunlight, his collar creaking in the cooling air against his hot body. Soon the cries of human terror fill the air around us and a red glaze falls over my amber eyes, my thick, grey, winter fur streaming behind me as we cut off the final route of the humans escape.
A twitch of my ear, a flick of my tail, and my hackles rising spreads my quarter out around me. I race forward with a silent command for my fellow dire and for the sabre to stay behind and guard the exit in the shadows as I go forth, hungry for the blood of humans upon my fangs.
I hear the low growl of a huisdier to my left, a zanzibar leopard with a clean vertaler collar wrapped around its spotted fur. My ears whip about as another sound follows underneath that low growl. Pinpointing it I stare into the shadows behind the zanzibar to see a rich mistress pressed against the wall in fear.
My eyes return to meet with the deep brown eyes of her obvious huisdier. That despicable domestication of that which once was, and still should be, purely wild. In those eyes I can find emotions swirling in their depths. Obviously there’s anger, because hey!, I invaded her, yes her, territory, I find fear, well why shouldn’t she fear? I’m far more powerful than her, and then I find some unnameable emotion. Is it that thing called ‘protective’? Towards whom? That cowering human dressed in frills and a sickly sweet scent?
Unable to hold the question back I speak, my words coming through my vertaler collar, a simple black strip of leather and steel that quivers as my vocal chords shape ideas into being, “What is a proud zanzibar leopard such as you feeling so protective of? This territory? There’s so much better than here.” My deep bass is calming from the earlier blood lust and rage and falling into simple query.
Her response is a rumbling alto, obviously forced through that continuous growl, “I would never expect you to understand. You, who does not understand the gift that the Dutch have given us you Woesteling! You may call us huisdiers, but you have not learned, you have not seen, you have not understood those gifts that the humans gave us!.”
Snarling my vision is again tinged with red, my hackles rising at the insult that a meager human could possibly give us anything, “What ‘gifts’? All they have done that I could consider a gift at all is returning us to life! For giving us enough intelligence to overthrow their overbearing fist. That is all! Even those are flawed though. Our lives are, at most, ten years even for the hardiest of us. Most only live until they are, maybe, six years. I’m a pup of one year and considered to be in my prime! The intelligence they gave us is eroding our own knowledge of our inherent instincts, our very lives!”
As I spoke I noticed her lips pulling back into a vicious snarl. Slowly her brown eyes narrowed at me and when I stopped she could barely speak, “You ignorant little pup. That ‘flawed’ knowledge that is ‘eroding’ our instincts is merely because you yourself are choosing to ignore them, not because of the added knowledge. Our thousands of years of existence cannot be erased in a mere 200. That shortened life span is simply because the older generations had yet to adapt to this new world. Now that they have begun adapting you, who are but a pup, and others likely you will soon begin to far outlive even our ancestors!”
Growling I give my name, as is proper for a fight that was to begin, “I am Botolf. You have angered me and in the name of pack and freedom I shall fight you and then kill your mistress!” Charging forward I swung out a great, grey speckled paw, catching the zanzibar off guard and leaving great, bloody gashes in her left shoulder.
Her recovery is swift. Even as she limps off of her left front leg she charges at me, her claws unsheathed, her fangs bared. It becomes a blur. Charge, swipe, leap, snap, grapple, fall, wrestle, scratch, nick, and bite. Minutes later, though it feels like so much longer, I rise, blood coating my grey and black coat. Mine and hers. She was little of a match, barely able to scrape through my winter pelt, but she left an impression, and, now that I can take stock, some scratches that drip steadily, slowly, on the fresh snow. When had the snow started to fall? I don’t know anymore. Shaking my head I turn to pounce on the little human, only to find her running towards the zanzibar and I. Shocked I can only stay still as she falls to her knees and hugs the great, once proud, head. The iron scent cooling on its fur, on her hands, and on her clothes, fills my nose. The little human female’s tears fill my nose with the added scent of salt while her sobs manage to block out the crazed sounds of the battle that had always been a constant background. My mind, locking onto the scene of a human truly mourning for a huisdier. A lowly pet.
Backing away I turn back to the north. Through my quarter pack even as howls, growls, and cries follow my race. All I can really hear is the pounding of my heart, the pounding of my paws, my heavy breathing, and my own overwhelming thoughts that are all jumbled and nonsensical. The cracking as my world slowly tries to shatter. Suddenly I hear a howl. It sounds like mourning. Mourning for what? Why is it following me? Then I realize, even as I collapse in a hollow tree, the snow falling heavily outside, my breath pluming in the air, that it was my howl. A howl of mourning for those that I never thought I would kill. A mourning for my own comfortable world dying.
As night falls I try to run from my own thoughts even as they pursue me. But some never leave. Memories of my old bezitters. Memories of screaming humans as I ripped their throats. The fresh, blood stained, the memory of that little human mistress, crying over a cooling, bleeding, huisdier body. None of them leave me alone. Yet somehow I sleep. A deep sleep, pitted with memories revisiting me even in my sleep. A small redhead young woman running with me as a pup, her hair pulled back in a ponytail even as it tries to escape. Her laughter, pulling my face into the closest I could come to a smile. Tumbling through the grass and water with her small hands always close to my fur. A young man, black haired and serious, but with a boisterous laugh and a small smile, never far behind. Days spent napping in the sun. The young woman curled tight against me, the young man just to the side, a tail sweep away.
Waking I blink my eyes and shake my head of the fuzzy memories that fade as I stand and walk out into the fresh layer of sparkling snow. The occasional track of a deer or some other creature running through it. I shake my body, ridding myself of the last vestiges of sleep and put my nose to the snow, hoping to find a scent for some food. Nine months of no hunting is making the search for the food a little difficult, but not horrible. Soon enough the chase is done and I have breakfast steaming in my mouth. The blood, a sharp, metallic tang in my mouth, the blood ringing my muzzle and my paws.
After I eat I find a river and wash off the blood. Once all of that’s done I race through the forest towards what I roughly recall as being northern Maine. My mind fuzzy and ignoring my thoughts until I hear a scream and I register the normal scents and sounds that are accompanied by a human residence.
Curiously I move cautiously towards the scream, my ears pricked forward, the sound of paws crunching the snow, and the sound of cloth scraping against uneven snow. I come upon the scene undetected, but still myself behind a thick, evergreen, bush, my eyes peering through a small break. What meets my eyes is an obviously mated pair of normal wolves, collared, pushing a small human female against the trunk of a tree. The human female is what, somehow, manages to catch my attention.
Even after the changes that time and change has wrought, I still recognize her. The red hair messily pulled back in that ponytail. I can’t help it, I growl. At that growl the male of the pair twists towards me, his eyes narrowing. Seeing no way out I stand, my size augmented through genetic engineering making my species closer to the old human ideas of a dire wolf.
Stepping around the bush I face the mated pair and growl, no thoughts of using the human language in my mind. All I can remember are sunlight afternoon naps and laughter. My mind focused on the protection of this human I ran away from so many moons ago. The smaller female circles behind me, her breathing harsh, her paws breaking the snow. Her mate stays in front of me, crouched, ready to leap at my throat.
A howl claws up my throat. An intense call for blood bursts from my lips and the fight begins.
It’s a blur. Grey blobs of fur fly at me as I rip, tear, claw, bite, and shake. Blood flies from wounds ripped open. The heat of the fresh steaming in the cold winter air. A sting on my side alerts me to an annoyance. I reach around and rip out the throat of it and hear a call of rage from my other side and I feel a sharp dig into my gut, a fall of blood from the wound. I bark at the nuisance and a spray of blood flies from my mouth, onto the matted fur of the male wolf.
The wolf comes to face me, its eyes livid with anger. Blood bubbles up my throat and I swallow the heat back down. Time slows and I see the bunching leg muscles, the leap, and my paw reaching out to send him flying into a far tree, breaking his neck and spine. Stepping over the female I reach a paw down and rip out his throat, at least giving him a quick death.
Then I collapse and the world turns to black as blood joins foam and turns it pink. The last memory before sound leaves and and I fall into exhaustion is broken snow and a soft voice yelling out, “Botolf! Henrick! Come quickly!”
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When I wake the first thing I notice is the scents and sounds that are invading my ears and nose. I hear laughter, playful growls, calm snoring, gentle breathing, pawing hooves, shifting snow, and voices. I smell sweat, fur, meat, grazing land, straw, and other unnameable scents that I can’t recognize.
Slowly I manage to blink my eyes open to be greeted with a dimly lit stable like area. Light wood planks make up the walls and an open door leads to what I can hear. Below me I can see that I was laying upon clean straw and near to the door is a pile of fresh meat. I slowly stand and notice a tugging around my ribs. My eyes slide over the the sensation to find white linen wrappings, slightly stained with blood. I huff and ignore it, moving towards the food and clear water sitting next to it.
Once done I slowly, for while I might ignore the injuries I’m not stupid enough to aggravate them, I move out of the stable area and down a dirt packed hall to the light at the end that makes my eyes squint as they adjust. As I enter the area I am greeted by the happy cries of a human somewhere to my left. Turning my head I notice the wild red hair and snort, she certainly hadn’t changed. I walk slowly towards her, my disdain and hatred of humans not diminished. But it was likely that she was the one to have wrapped my wounds, therefore she deserved some sort of respect.
Surrounding her was a herd of aurochs, their horns wickedly sharp and gleaming in the winter sunlight as they grazed. A little farther off the the black haired man, Henrick as I recall, is surrounded by various dozing big and small cats, a book in his hand as he glances up, nods, and returns to his reading. As I reach the herd the girl moves through them so that I need not try odd contortions to get through. Once she reaches me I speak, “I thank you for caring for my injuries, however once they are healed I must return to my duties outside of this place.” Her bright smile dims just a little bit her voice a gentle soprano, “I suppose I can’t argue against that.” Suddenly her smile brightens once more, “You do remember me, right Botolf?”
I huff out a breath, slightly painful in my current state, but no problem. “How could I not remember you, Angelien? After all your Father was my bezitter for some time.”
Her already bright smile somehow manages to brighten even more. “I’m so glad! I was worried that you would have forgotten me what with how you seem to have changed.” I shake my head and walk off towards some other dire wolves, Angelien skipping next to me, humming quietly.
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Weeks then months pass. I’ve grown used to the atmosphere of this place called Het Heiligdom. Sometimes I lay next to Henrick as he reads, I’ve even been learning how to read the human language of ‘English’. Sometimes I run, wrestle, and hunt with some of the others. It means I’ve kept in shape even as my wounds were healing. Most of the time though I’m helping Angelien. The child of my old bezitter. I should be bitter, but I no longer seem to hate humans. On the day I turned two I met many more of the humans that help run Het Heiligdom. That was when I realized that I couldn’t truly hate them any more. I was learning what that zanzibar leopard was trying to say.
Other things have changed as well. Before, in the pack, I was apparently kept undernourished, so since I now have steady and healthy food stream I have grown much larger than most of the dire wolves I have seen in the pack and even some here. At my shoulder I now stand at the height of a bull auroch with full grown horns. Apparently the dires I was bred from had stronger ties to the original genetic mutation that allowed us to be larger than our ancestors.
So I’m laying in the sun, Spring air ruffling my fur, surrounded by others that I once would have called huisdiers, calmer than I have been in months. When my ears swivel to a crash in the direction of the entrance. Near where I woke up months ago. I’m on my feet in moments as my paws pound towards the sound. I recall hearing Angelien and Henrick telling us that they would be coming back today with some new trustworthy people and their revived ones. From the shouts I can now hear I’m pretty sure that we’ve been betrayed. On my next step I can feel myself stretch my legs to their full limit, pulling me far ahead of the rest of the residents of Het Heiligdom.
As I see Angelien’s red hair flying as she runs towards the center, towards safety, I can feel a new desire rise in my barrel chest. My hackles rising and a protective howl of my heart’s home bursts forth. Bursting into the fray my paw sweeps one of the attacking humans away from a stable with a young oribi and its mother. Once more my mind reaches inside and easily rediscovers that bloodlust that’s never too far from the surface as I charge the attackers.
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I stand still, my lungs pulling in great heaving breaths as the last of the attackers leaves Het Heiligdom. As the door shuts behind them I turn to face Angelien and Hendrick and all of the others that had joined the fight. Pulling in a great breath I speak, “As soon as Het Heiligdom is repaired I must leave. My duty is calling to me.”
Angelien’s bright eyes close and then open as she looks into my eyes, “I can’t stop you can I?”
I nod my head in a gentle acquiescence as Hendrick looks at me more determined than I have ever seen him. His voice rings out, a pleasing stream that can calm anybody down, “I am going with you, Botolf.”
I can’t help but smile at that, “I wouldn’t have it any other way, Hendrick.” With Hendrick’s statement many others of Heiligdom state their claim to come with me, as if they somehow know my purpose without speaking. Perhaps they do.
After the week of chaos and laughter that was repairing Het Heiligdom I and my fellows stand at the gate that leads into the bright sunshine. Hendrick is sitting on my back, a réunion kestrel, a friend he raised from its birth, sits on his shoulder. More birds circle the sky above us and a wilder variety of revived and common ones file around us. Facing Angelien I bow and utter a simple sentence, “The world shall change.” She smiles and shooes me away with a laugh. With a smile I comply and turn around. With a howl I race, my pack behind me.
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the long awaited...
jk no one asked but i delivered
key:
fluff - ✨
smut - 💦
angst - ☁️
hurt/comfort - 🌿
crack - 💥
updated: 4/14/20
one-shots
blind love - 💦✨
Your boyfriend needs a confidence boost and you know just the way to do it.
embraceable you - 💦✨
Ringo kisses you, soft and sweet, taking his time exploring your mouth. Your hand comes up to rake through his fluffy hair and it’s innocent, really, until you drag your nails slightly over the nape of his neck and he shudders—and before you can react, Ringo’s got you underneath him.
twist and shout - 💦
Ringo tries to make you come before the others get back from their lunch break.
headcanons
teddy boy ringo makes it kinda hard for you to focus on stage
lingerie shopping with ringo ;)
one-shots
love in bloom - ✨
“I’m probably not making a lot of sense at all, am I— but do you get it?”
“Yeah.” George does. He knows exactly what you mean. He also knows, suddenly, that he has loved you since the day you met.
fools on a hill - ✨
From childhood friends to fellow Beatles, George and you seem to have lived your whole lives under this tree. You wouldn’t have it any other way.
it’s all right - ✨🌿
It’s been a long, cold, lonely… day. George is here to help, even though his hands are too damn cold.
headcanons/blurbs
george and male reader, time travel au ☁️✨
female reader time travel au (drive my car au lol)
george coming home to you in lingerie 💦
dad! george being a softie with your baby ✨
trying to pluck george’s eyebrows hehe ✨
one-shots
hold me tight - 💦✨
John’s other hand is sliding, sliding down to cup your warmth—and then he’s stroking your folds and you arch against his chest. “Now, tell me.” John nuzzles at the column of your throat. “Is it the bath, or are you wet for me?”
petrichor -
You can feel his hesitation. Usually, John pushes into the apartment, announcing his arrival with a fling of his coat. Today, the door never hits the wall. His footsteps halt the moment he steps across the threshold. Probably because he can hear your ugly sobs all the way down the hallway.
headcanons
teddy boy john and square reader in high school
being john’s flower child gf ✨
getting into an argument with touch-starved john 🌿
you get into a bad car accident and john tears himself up over it ☁️☁️
comforting john after his mom passes ☁️🌿
you get a teddy makeover and surprise john ;)
one-shots
warm - ✨
it’s the middle of the night and your favorite beatle has a weak but irresistable excuse for cuddling
hello, goodbye - ☁️
For a moment, he stands atop the stairs and just watches as you walk away, knowing that your sunny smiles will never be meant for him.
goodbye, hello - ✨
sequel to hello, goodbye; “He’s only got eyes for you.” John’s gaze softens as he leans in, voice sincere. “Look, ‘m not saying you have to like Paul or go out with him or anything. But you’ve got to tell him how you feel, all straight like, or else he’ll always be on your hook. That boy’s got a pretty face and a thick skull.”
the way you look - 💦
Your plan to seduce Paul goes awry when all four of the Beatles find you naked on the couch one night. The sight of you gets Paul awfully possessive, and he’s determined to show the others just who you belong to. (spinoff)
lonesome tonight - ✨
You’re drunk and oh so pretty wearing that little dress. Paul doesn’t know what to do with you.
headcanons/blurbs
70s paul and younger reader
paul and virgin reader!! 💦
touch-starved paul ✨
being paul’s little sister (platonic)
paul making you cry :( ☁️🌿
eating a popsicle in... a certain way... to tease poor paulie 💦
being married to paul and being unable to keep your hands off of each other 💦
riding mcbeardy paul in the bathtub 💦✨
paul can’t help feeling protective over you in that mini skirt,,,
you drunkenly mistake paul for george ☁️
paul always writes his love songs about you ✨
series
the professor au
don’t be cruel - 💦
You come to class in the shortest little skirt and Professor Lennon is so distracted he can barely teach. Afterwards, he tries taking matters into his own hands... only to be interrupted by the very subject of his fantasy.
two of us - 💦 💦
Nothing could have prepared Paul for what he sees when he opens the door. There are papers all over the floor, as though someone had swept them all off in a hurry. But that’s not what catches his eye. It’s the sight of you, bent over the desk so prettily on your elbows while John fucks you from behind.
* ~ * ~ *
that’s the way the cookie crumbles - 💥 one | two
beatle reader and john start a prank war. they have no idea what’s in store for them...
five’s a crowd ( a collab with @spaceyantique ! ) - 💥 one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | TBC!
You’re two seconds away from strangling John, three from a total breakdown over midterms. Paul won’t stop using up all the hot water in the mornings and George is determined to beat him there one way or another, godammit. Ringo doesn’t deserve this clusterfuck. And you all live together in a shitty, shitty apartment.
one-shots
oh! darling -
backstage on the England leg of your tour, you meet the four Liverpool boys of your dreams
drive my car - 💥
You’re a good driver, you swear. So it’s absolutely, definitely not your fault when four men appear out of nowhere in the road like that.
all our loving - 💦
The boys find you naked on the couch, waiting for Paul to come home. Fortunately, Paul’s more than willing to share...
all things must pass - ☁️
Moving on is easy. The hardest part is finding a reason to stay.
please please me - 💦
You’ve never given a blowjob before. Luckily, the boys are more than willing to teach you.
headcanons/blurbs
april fools crack fest 💥💥 (basically a bunch of crack requests i did!)
the boys with chubby reader ✨
what lingerie they would like on you ;)
how each beatle would propose! ✨✨✨
getting drunk with the beebles and the shenanigans that follow ✨
they comfort you after a nightmare 🌿
you accidentally take an aphrodisiac... 💦
the boys cheer you up when you’re feeling insecure about your body 🌿✨
accidentally flashing john and paul
and they were quARANTINED - 💥
George takes a shit. Ringo braves a trip to the tescos and loses a bit of his soul. John harrasses the general public and Paul’s just trying to get them home before they kill each other. All while a virus tears the world apart.
#beatles masterlist#george harrison x reader#john lennon x reader#paul mccartney x reader#ringo starr x reader#the beatles x reader#kalwrites#george harrison fanfic#john lennon fanfic#beatles fanfic#paul mccartney fanfic#ringo starr fanfic#beatles smut#beatles fluff#ringo starr#john lennon#paul mccartney#george harrison
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two of us [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]
summary: Nothing could have prepared Paul for what he sees when he opens the door. There are papers all over the floor, as though someone had swept them all off in a hurry. But that’s not what catches his eye. It’s the sight of you, bent over the desk so prettily on your elbows while John fucks you from behind.
prompt: ok i loved your story BUT what if professor mccartney DID walk in on them ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
warnings: threeway, oral sex, s e x, some spanking, professor kinks galore, little bit of voyeurism
well. here’s the mclennon sandwich y’all asked for. part two of this
Something is… off with John.
Paul has never seen his boyfriend so distracted. When they go out for lunch, Paul has to repeat what says two or three times before John snaps out of it and actually listens. And, not to toot his own horn, but Paul is pretty charismatic. It’s why so many bright-eyed freshmen flock to his art history classes, hoping to get a hour just listening to his voice, ogling his pretty smile… only to shuffle out with failing marks. Paul’s class is hard and he’s not afraid to be upfront about it—it’s not his fault if the students are too busy daydreaming about his eyes to listen.
Anyway, the point is that something has been on John’s mind. Paul is determined to figure it out, especially because whenever he tries bringing it up, John gets almost… flustered. And John Lennon does not do flustered. He’s usually the one making others blush. Together, they’re quite the pair.
It’s probably one of the other professors, Paul thinks. They have an open relationship, so Paul doesn’t mind. He just wishes John would tell him who it is that’s got his head in the clouds.
So, naturally, he decides to confront John about it. Paul calls his boyfriend after class and they agree to meet in John’s office before going out for the night.
It’s a Friday night, so any reasonable student would be out getting plastered for the weekend, not visiting professors for office hours. The halls are quiet, dark, dimly illuminated by the dying rays of sunlight outside. Paul’s footsteps echo rather loudly off the tiles as he walks towards the English wing. They’re the only sound in the building. Even the other professors have left, either to get a head start on grading essays or to do some of their own drinking, but he knows John has his office hours for another half hour. Putting them on a Friday afternoon is a rather stupid idea, though, since no one in their right mind would choose Thoreau or Austen over Dan’s Sports Bar. Or, so he thinks… until he nears John’s office.
He almost doesn’t hear it at first, but there’s definitely some noise coming from behind the door. Did John schedule a student appointment right before their own meeting? Paul can’t quite make out what it is, though, so he chances the doorknob. It’s not locked.
Nothing could have prepared Paul for what he sees when he opens the door.
There are papers all over the floor, as though someone had swept them all off in a hurry. But that’s not what catches his eye. It’s the sight of you, bent over the desk so prettily on your elbows while John fucks you from behind.
You don’t even notice the intruder at first. Your eyes are screwed shut, mouth falling open in little gasps and moans that go straight to Paul’s groin. John, though, sees Paul almost immediately.
“Hello, Paul.” John’s voice is a little strained, and the sound of it sends your head snapping up and gaping at the man standing at the doorway. “Or, is it Professor McCartney for you, sweetheart?”
John doesn’t even let up his pace so you can barely respond, the feeling of his cock slamming into you almost too much to bear. You should be embarrassed, should be trying to cover up or push Professor Lennon away, but something about the other teacher watching as you get fucked into the desk unravels a hot spool of arousal in your stomach.
“Pro-Professor!” It comes out more of a sigh, one that makes Paul’s grip on the door tighten. “I didn’t-didn’t see- fuck, John.”
Paul shuts the door behind him and steps closer, watching your eyes widen at his motions. Something about the situation settles deep in his stomach and becomes almost… normal. “She calls you John?”
“Only ‘cus I asked her to.” John buries himself deep into your cunt and stills for a moment, catching his breath. It makes you whine and push your hips back, begging for some friction. “You should’ve heard her the first time, Paul. Loved callin’ me Professor Lennon… think it turns her on. Doesn’t it?” John slaps your ass and you whine, nodding your head.
“Pretty little thing,” Paul murmurs. He walks up to the desk until he’s standing right over you and reaches out to cup your face. You lean into the touch, cheeks flushing a pretty pink, and when Paul presses his thumb to your lips they fall open willingly. He can’t help groaning as you suck on his finger, eyes searching his almost like they're looking for approval.
“She takes cock so well,” John says, smirking at the way his boyfriend is completely mesmerized by your mouth. When he starts making shallow thrusts, just pulling out an inch before rocking back into your warm cunt, Paul’s eyes snap to his with a heat he’s never seen before. “Can you take Professor McCartney too, hm? Let him fuck into your pretty mouth while I fuck your pretty pussy?”
You whine almost embarrassingly loud at the thought of both men filling you up. John slaps your ass again and then soothes the red mark with gentle fingers.
“Got to hear you say it, darling.”
It takes you a second, but you gasp out your response.
“Please, please- wanna suck you off, Professor McCar-ah, ah, John!”
You don’t manage to finish your sentence but Paul takes it and unbuckles his slacks. He doesn’t even bother kicking off his pants, just pulls his aching hard cock out of his briefs and rests it against your lips. They part for him easily and Paul’s eyes roll back at the feeling of your warm mouth engulfing his length. When he hits the back of your throat, he stills a moment before pulling out again and then sliding back in. Paul fucks into your mouth at a leisurely pace which is soon matched by John, who takes his cue to start fucking your cunt in earnest now.
The almost rhythmic sound of grunts and skin slapping on skin fills the office and turns you on so much it almost hurts. If it wasn’t for John’s hips drilling you into the desk, your legs would probably give out. There’s just something about the two professors filling you up on both ends, something about how filthy the situation is, that ramps up your orgasm almost alarmingly quickly. Tendrils of ecstasy roll through your body, from John’s cock hitting your sweet spot with every thrust to the ache of Paul driving his length in and out of your mouth. John starts speeding up, fucking you at a brutal pace with both hands leaving even harder imprints in your hips, and Paul matches him, tightening his grip in your hair. It’s so much, it’s too much, this tingling that’s sweeping from your cunt to the tips of your fingers that are grasping so hard at the edge of the desk, just trying to hold on.
You come with a high-pitched moan, muffled around Paul’s cock, and John follows right behind you, hips stilling as he comes into your still pulsing cunt. You fall onto the desk bonelessly, so tired that you don’t even notice when John slips out and tosses his condom into the bin.
The feeling of fingers probing at your still dripping folds draws a whine from you. You’re still sensitive from just orgasming. But these fingers are different from John’s, softer.
Paul brings his hand to his lips, humming around the taste of your juices. And then you’re gasping, a shudder wracking your body at the feeling of Paul’s blunt tip nudging your entrance. Your cunt is still aching but you already want more, already want to be filled again.
“Well, come on, darling. I think it’s my turn.”
#john lennon x reader smut#paul mccartney x reader smut#mclennon x reader#mclennon sandwich#beatles smut#kalwrites#🥪#professor au
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twist and shout [ ringo starr x reader ]
summary: Ringo tries to make you come before the others get back from their lunch break.
prompt: i got turned on/inspired by @spaceyantique‘s smut alphabet for ringo so lol here it is
warnings: sex in public spaces, voyeurism (?)
The thought that the others could be back any minute turns you on a little more than you’d like to admit.
Ringo’s hands are spread wide, gripping your hips tight through the flimsy skirt you’ve got on. They’re sure to bruise later, but you can’t bring yourself to care when you’re bouncing on his lap, his cock sinking deep into your cunt every time you drop down.
“Fuck, baby, you’re doing so good.” It comes out as a growl, low and gruff and you whine. You wish more than anything that you could see Ringo’s eyes, those beautiful blues sure to be almost eclipsed by his pupils blown wide, but it had been your fault, hadn’t it? You’d decided to sit on his lap during their lunch break, pretending to try and play the drums while shifting your ass teasingly over Ringo’s growing bulge. And now you’re getting punished for it, in the best way possible.
“Gonna come for me soon? Or do you want John and Paul seeing my girl get fucked right in the studio?” He chuckles when you shake your head, unable to even speak while he pounds into you. Your thighs are starting to burn from the motion but Ringo helps a little, lifting you minutely with his hands and then slamming you back down onto his cock.
Ringo shifts, leaning against the wall, and the new angle burns something red-hot through your legs. Your mouth falls open and now your moans are louder, escaping from your lips uninhibited. The feeling is building, building in your core, spreading like wildfire, and you’re chanting Ringo’s name as you feel your orgasm grow closer. Your pretty sounds make his cock twitch in your cunt and then he’s grunting, his warm cum spilling into you.
“Did you guys even go out for lunch?”
You still, eyes snapping open at the sound of George’s voice. He’s walking into the studio, barely sparing a glance in your direction—all for the better, because when Ringo slips his now-soft cock out of you you almost cry. You haven’t come yet and you want to scream in frustration. Your arousal is still throbbing through you, heart still pumping adrenaline through your veins—and you’re aching for release.
“Nah, we weren’t hungry.” Ringo’s voice is painfully casual, like he wasn’t just fucking you right there, and you whip around to stare at him. He winks at you, tucking himself back into his briefs and zipping up his slacks. “Was showin’ her a bit of my drum set.”
George just grunts in response. He’s got his headset on now, zeroed in on tuning the guitar in his hands. You can’t believe it. Ringo is gently pushing you off his lap and you almost stumble standing up, legs still sore. When you turn around to gape at your boyfriend, stunned speechless at the turn of events, you’re greeted by a crooked little grin that sends your heart racing again.
“That’s what you get for teasin’ me like that, doll.”
“Ritchie, I-”
“C’mon, get a move on.” Ringo runs a hand up your thigh and something dark flashes in those pretty eyes that are gazing up at you. “Don’t even think about touching yourself before I get home. I’ll make it up to you later, hm?” And he’s right, John and Paul are loping into the recording studio now, still laughing at some joke one of them told. The last thing you want to do is leave, but his promise sends you on your way across the studio, face burning.
Just as you’re about to leave the room, a hand catches your wrist. You turn to see George half leaning out of his seat, fingers still wrapped around you. His lips are quirked up, almost amused.
“The bathroom’s just down the hall.”
You look at him blankly. “What?”
His voice is low enough that the others can’t hear, but it still sends something shivery up your spine. “You’re dripping down those pretty legs of yours, sweetheart.”
#ringo starr x reader#ringo starr x reader smut#the beatles x reader#beatles fanfic#beatles smut#kalwrites#lol it be like that
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ménage à trois [ paul mccartney x reader x john lennon ]
summary: There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.
prompt: k hear me out mclennon sandwich BUT ITS ON THE PARIS TRIP SO IS JUST YOU THREE IN THE TINIEST BEDROOM + a request for reader’s wet dreams waking paul up
warnings: this is a threesome babey 🥪🥪🥪
masterlist
guess who’s never had a threesome? me. guess who accidentally drank a shit ton of coffee and didn’t go to bed till six am writing this?? also me. i’d appreciate any feedback y’all have bc @spaceyantique beta’d this for me like a darling but my illiteracy knows no bounds
There’s only one bed and none of you speak French.
Paul tries, but between his wild hand gestures and the receptionist’s increasingly confused looks, he’s getting nowhere. John more or less just flirts with her. You tolerate about five minutes of it before dragging them away from the front desk.
“Sorry,” you offer to the receptionist, and you’re pretty sure it’s the first word she’s understood in the whole exchange.
The three of you stand at the foot of the bed for a bit and just. Stare at it. The hotel room is long but narrow, with the bed at the very end of it literally touching three walls. Whoever designed it was obviously at the end of his wits. The bed would be roomy for one person, cozy for two, but three? That’s pushing it. Still, there’s not even a couch in the room, so when you all look at each other it’s with a wordless understanding.
“I sleep on the right,” John says. He claims his spot as such and immediately stretches out, not even taking off his shoes. You wrinkle your nose but choose not to say anything. Paul wrinkles his nose and does.
“Don’t be disgusting, John.” Paul toes off his boots and clambers onto the left side. “There’s a lady present.”
John grins and twists around, dangling his feet in Paul’s face. “Talking about yourself in the third person, eh?”
You’ve locked the bathroom door by the time they start fighting but the walls are thin. There’s a thump and a shrill screech. Laughter. More shouting. Your reflection frowns back at you, eyes tired and hair a mess, and you take your time showering. In true European fashion, it’s a tiny, miserable affair. Your elbows keep knocking into the walls. The water runs cold before you even finish shampooing. It’s a mad dash to put on your pajamas before you freeze your tits off—except even that goes awry when you realize you forgot to pack them. The only things you can find are a soft tee shirt and shorts, which are a bit shorter than you’d like to be wearing but will have to do.
To top it all off, when you step out of the bathroom, they’re still lobbing shoes and insults.
“Boys, please! It’s one in the morning!” Two pairs of eyes flicker to the clock on the wall, then back at you. “Can you at least pretend to be adults?”
Paul has the decency to look a little scolded. John, on the other hand, leers at you.
“I think someone cut a few centimeters off your shorts, love. Not that I’m complaining.” He winks and you decidedly push down the fluttering in your stomach.
All in all, it takes another hour for the three of you to get to bed. Paul insists on showering first, which leads to another argument that takes five matches of rock-paper-scissors to be resolved.
(Paul gets the first one. John calls a two out of three and wins that. Paul calls a three out of five and wins that. John accuses him of cheating and gets called a sore loser. You end up shoving Paul into the bathroom while John is looking for another shoe to throw.)
If your mother knew you were squeezing into a bed with two boys, she’d throw a fit. Especially if she knew that you couldn’t stop thinking about how rosy Paul’s cheeks looked when he stepped out of the shower, or the fact that John is bloody shirtless. No, it’s best that none of this gets back to your folks at home.
“Comfortable?” John asks. Both boys are facing outwards and you’re lying on your back, trying to ignore the warm bodies on either side of you.
Paul shifts his arm and nearly elbows you in the boobs. “I feel like a sardine,” he says.
“Try sleeping in the middle,” you retort. “It’s like being in a sandwich.”
That earns a laugh from John, which turns into a contagious yawn.
“We should go to bed,” someone says, but you’re already drifting off.
***
John’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so when he wakes up and it’s still dark out he’s very confused.
He’s also a lot warmer. Sometime in the night, John had turned and pulled you flush against his chest. His nose is pressed into your hair, one leg thrown over your hip. John rather likes the feeling of cuddling so close, but he knows it’s not the most appropriate position. He goes to move when he hears a quiet noise.
“John…”
… oh. So that’s what woke him up.
You’re moaning, soft little sighs and whimpers that go straight to John’s cock. You’re having a wet dream… about him. He wants to pull away, knows that this is wrong, but then you’re grinding against him and all thoughts fly out the window. John’s hips find yours and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning. God, he’s rutting against you like a teenager but it feels so good he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed.
“John?”
John’s eyes snap open and he freezes. Your voice is different, clearer. You’re awake now. It’s like a cold bucket of water has been dumped over his head and he jolts away from you.
“Sorry, I didn’t—“
His apology cuts off because you’re suddenly moving, pushing back into him. The soft curve of your ass presses right against John’s cock. All the air in his lungs rushes out and he gasps out your name.
“Is—is this okay?” he asks. He wants to make sure, needs to.
“Yes,” you reply. It’s more of a plea, and it’s all John needs to start moving again.
The hand that’s on your stomach trails down and slips under the waistband of your panties. John groans when his fingers find your slick folds.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.” John rocks his hips into yours. Your hair is still damp from showering and when he breathes in, the scent—lavender—sends a rush of arousal through him. “Were you dreaming about me?”
You can only whine in response because John is slipping a finger into your cunt. His thumb finds your clit, rubs gentle circles that send flames of pleasure licking up your body. It’s already so much, too much, not enough.
“Didn’t know you were such a filthy girl,” John growls and you arch into his touch. “What was it about, hm? Were you dreaming about this? About getting fingered while Paul is sleeping right there?” His words tear a gasp from your lips. “You’re gonna have to be quiet or you’ll wake him up, birdie. Unless that’s what you want…”
“It’s a little too late for that.”
John can’t see very far, but he doesn’t need to in order to make out Paul’s face on the other side of you. His pupils are blown wide, eyes trained on John’s hand still moving under your clothes. And John… likes it. Being watched. It should be weird, should feel wrong because Paul’s his best mate, but then his eyes find John’s and the hungry look in them tears a hot blaze of arousal through him.
Somehow, his voice is steady when he speaks. “You want a taste?”
Paul’s mouth falls open and he nods. Without a second thought, John pulls his hand from your pussy and lifts it to Paul’s lips.
The sight of Paul licking your juices from John’s fingers is quite possibly the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.
Second only to the look on Paul’s face when you hesitantly wrap your hand around his cock and start jerking him off.
“Fuck,” he groans. His eyes flutter closed, head tips back and bares the curve of his neck. John wants nothing more than to bite into it, to mark Paul, but you beat him to it. And John, who’s never liked feeling left out, lets his hand drift back down to you. This time, he curls two fingers into your cunt. You clench around him and your grip involuntarily tightens on Paul, whose hips jerk forward at the feeling.
God, how John wishes he could see your face. You’re sure to be so pretty, cheeks flushed, lips parted around gasps, eyes watching Paul’s cock in your hand. Still, he can hear the noises you’re making, and that’s almost just as good.
It’s not the most comfortable position, really. Your wrist feels awkward at this angle, with Paul being so close to you. And John keeps breathing in some of your hair. But the intimacy, the heat, the rush of adrenaline makes all that fade away. The filthy sound of John thrusting his fingers in and out of your cunt, Paul’s high, almost feminine sighs. John’s grunts as he rocks against your body, breathe hot on the nape of your neck.
Paul gasps something unintelligible but you know what he’s trying to say. You start pumping him even faster, letting the sound of his cries spur you on. You want to taste them, you think, and it doesn’t make sense but you lean forward anyway and capture Paul’s lips in yours.
The movement changes your angle. John’s fingers curl against something in you that burns white hot, electric in your veins. His thumb presses into your clit and then you’re cumming, moans falling from your lips to Paul’s as he follows you over the edge.
“Fucking hell,” Paul breathes.
You can only nod. Your mind is still floating somewhere in the stratosphere. You can’t remember the last time you felt like this, both high and irrevocably grounded, pressed tight between two bodies thrumming with warmth.
“I’m gonna… clean up a bit,” you mumble when you’ve caught your breath. While you stumble off towards the bathroom, Paul reaches and finds John’s face in the dark.
Despite the fact that he’s just had a threesome, John suddenly feels shy. It’s intimate in a different way, how Paul’s fingers trace the bridge of his nose, outline the curve of his lips. And when you come back, weight dipping the mattress slightly, the warmth of your body settling behind him is so gentle that John is scared he’s only imagining it.
Paul doesn’t say anything, just pulls John forward and kisses him. It’s a chaste brush of the lips, but combined with the feeling of you nipping at his bare shoulder sets John’s nerves ablaze.
“I—“
You shush him and run a hand down his spine, thumbing the waistband of his joggers. “Just relax, John. It’s okay.”
Whether it’s your words or the soothing touch, John’s body almost melts, curving into yours. At the same time, his lips seek out Paul, who pulls back with a glint in his eyes.
“You haven’t even come yet, have you?” Paul asks, though he already knows the answer.
“Does it fucking look like I have?” John grumbles. Your hand trails across his waist and cups his erection and suddenly John can’t come up with anything witty anymore. He keens and bucks into the touch.
“So this is what it takes to get you to shut up.” You giggle when John’s attempt at protesting is muffled by Paul’s mouth.
“Guess we should do this more often, then.”
#john lennon x reader smut#paul mccartney x reader smut#beatles fanfic#beatles x reader smut#mclennon x reader#kalwrites#the sandwich strikes again#more filth for y'all#🥪
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don’t be cruel [ john lennon x reader ]
summary: You come to class in the shortest little skirt and Professor Lennon is so distracted he can barely teach. Afterwards, he tries taking matters into his own hands... only to be interrupted by the very subject of his fantasy.
prompt: my own fucking post, bc I have no self-control
warnings: oral sex, dirty talk, professor kink... this is basically porn and I’m not sorry. oh also there’s dante’s inferno discourse, if that’s upsetting to anyone
i have nothing to say. this is filth. see y’all in the second circle of hell lmao (also, can you spot the 🥪 hint?)
i was gonna schedule this for 9 am or something but... apparently some of y’all are still awake if my notifs are any indication. so. enjoy. it’s almost 4 am for me
This is so, so wrong.
You’re not that much younger than John, with you in your early twenties and him just approaching thirty. Still, he’s your professor. You’re his student. There’s an unspoken taboo about the whole thing, a clear line that should never be towed. John’s a rational man—after all, he’s a Literature professor—and he knows these things in his head. They’re as clear as day, as obvious as Brontë’s warnings against forbidden love throughout Wuthering Heights.
All that rationality flies out the window when you come into class this morning wearing a short skirt that makes John almost drop his chalk.
You greet him with a nod and a smile, as per usual, but John can’t bring himself to smile back. He can’t bring himself to look you in the eyes. So when a flash of hurt streaks through them, he misses it, having already turned his back to write the day’s lesson on the chalkboard.
All of class, John is distracted. Not distracted enough for his students to take notice, of course; he’s familiar enough with the topic and his students are too busy scribbling notes to care. Still, John can’t stop thinking about running his fingers over your ass, about bending you over his desk and fucking you, your pretty little skirt bunched up in his hands. Maybe he’d wrap his tie around your wrists. Make you beg to be touched. And John would give in, if only to hear you whine when he teases your clit.
Thank god for the podium at the front of the room. John’s always been an active teacher, walking up and down the aisles as he lectures, sometimes even sitting on his students’ desks just for the hell of it. Professor McCartney calls it dramatic, but John knows that it brings so much more to his teaching. It keeps his audience engaged, which is exactly what he needs when he’s trying to get them interested in some dead 13th century Italian guy’s rhapsody on death.
Unfortunately, he’s got the worst hard-on ever right now, and even moving slightly behind the podium is causing the fabric of his slacks to shift agonizingly against his erection. John curses having tied his belt so tight this morning.
He’s halfway through the class, basically talking to a dead room of glazed eyes and drooping pens, when you raise your hand.
“Sorry, Professor Lennon.” John inhales sharply at the way you say his name and almost misses your next words. “But just now when you mentioned Beatrice, did you mean that she symbolizes divine love? Because isn’t that the whole reason she can take Dante to heaven, whereas Virgil is limited by human reasoning?”
“Yes, that’s right. What did I say?”
You bite your pen and John’s gaze is immediately drawn to the shape of your lips around it. He swears that he can see you almost smirk a little when you speak again.
“You called her ‘forbidden love.’”
Okay. Maybe John is more distracted than he thinks.
The rest of the hour, Johns finds himself glancing at you even more often. And though you’re sitting in the back of the room, John thinks that he catches you looking right back.
For the first time in his career, John has to agree with his students: the end of class can’t come quickly enough. The moment that last straggler pushes out of the lecture hall, the double doors closing behind them, he pushes off from the podium and rushes into his office, not even bothering to lock the door. John just needs some sweet relief and he finds it when he leans against his desk and unbuttons his slacks.
The moment John takes his cock in hand, he groans and lets his head fall back. Fucking hell, he’s been wanting to touch himself since you walked into class in that stupidly short skirt. He knows that this is improper, especially in his own office, but John couldn’t care less right now. He strokes himself with one hand, bracing against the desk with the other. And then his mind veers off and imagines that it’s you touching him. Your hands are so much smaller than John’s. The thought of them wrapped around his cock makes him swear, your name tumbling from his lips before he can stop it. Fuck, he’s getting close, and in his head he can hear you edging him on, can hear you calling his name—
“Professor?”
There’s no time to hide. John can barely even react, eyes jolting open to see your wide, shocked ones… glued to the sight of him masturbating.
“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry, I- I didn’t hear you knocking, I...” His babbling trails off when you don’t seem to be freaking out. And when you close the door behind you, turning the lock, something else entirely shoots through his body.
“I heard you saying my name.” You walk to where John is standing, his hand still wrapped around his cock. “Were you thinking about me?”
“I, uh. Look, I didn’t-”
The sight of you dropping to your knees in front of him is the hottest thing John has ever seen. Involuntarily, his hand jerks and he lets out a shaky breath.
“Tell me, please?” And how can he say no when you’re looking up at him like that, biting so innocently at your lip?
Something inside John lurches and he stumbles right across that line separating right from wrong.
“Fuck, I was.” John’s voice pitches a note lower, tone more confident and now it’s your turn to catch your breath in your throat. “Been thinkin’ about you all class, birdie. You knew what you were doing, paradin’ around in that little skirt. I bet you wore it for me, hm?”
You nod your head, a little shyly, and place a hand over his, not quite touching his cock. Still, the sight of your much smaller hand on John’s makes his grip tighten and he grunts. The sound goes right to your core.
“Wanna feel you in my mouth. Can I?”
John barely gets the chance to nod before you’re mouthing at his tip. His hand falls away immediately, joining the other in gripping the desk at the feeling. You pull away a little and lick all the way from up from the base, flattening your tongue against his veins, before taking his cock into your mouth.
You go down on him slowly, so slowly, and the feeling of your warm mouth enveloping his length makes John groan. His eyes want to fall shut but he forces himself to watch your pretty lips stretch around his cock. It’s worth it, especially when you flick your eyes up to look at him. The sight of you makes his hips jerk involuntarily and you gag, pulling backwards with a wet pop that sends another wave of arousal coursing through John.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, reaching out a hand to brush away the tears that have welled up in your eyes, but you shake your head. Wordlessly, you guide both of his hands into your hair and go down on him again—and when you take in as much of his cock as you can, you look up to John as if waiting for something.
When he understands, he finally lets himself close his eyes.
“God, you’re so good for me, aren’t you?” John pulls out of your mouth a little before sliding back in, gasping at the warmth. “Taking your professor's cock like this. Mm, fuck—you feel so good.”
John increases his pace, starting to really fuck into your mouth. His grip tightens in your hair and you whine.
“What if Professor McCartney walked in right now, huh? I bet you’d keep sucking me off. Would you?”
The blush across your cheeks darkens and John takes note of it, something piping up in the back of his mind. But then you’re moaning around his cock and the vibrations are making his knees weak. He’s gonna come, soon, and his words devolve into grunts and curses as his hips jerk faster and faster into your mouth. Your throat has got to be tired by now but you’re not stopping or pulling away. The thought that you actually enjoy this, that it’s turning you on to be on your knees for John, is what sends him over the edge.
You let him finish in your mouth, swallowing all of it—or at least, as much as you can. Still, a little bit of John’s cum makes its way down your bottom lip. Before he can second-guess himself, he pulls you up to your feet and kisses you. It’s soft, a distinct contrast to the fervor with which John had just been fucking your mouth with, and a little bitter with the taste of his own cum on his tongue. You whine when he swipes a tongue across your lip and the sound turns into a high pitched moan when he bites down where he just licked.
“Professor-”
“Call me John,” he says, pulling away and seeing a shy smile cross your face.
“Okay,” you say. You close the gap between your lips and kiss him again. “John.”
Just to make sure, though, John has you scream it for him when it’s his turn to get on his knees.
* * *
THERE IS NOW A PART TWO 🥪🥪🥪
#john lennon x reader#john lennon smut#the beatles x reader#beatles smut#kalwrites#professor kink#dante is about to punt me into hell#sorry#professor au
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hey darling! i wanted to propose sth to u: how about paul reacting to his girl eating a popsicle in a very specific way wink wink it’ll be so much fun, ngl i just read those paul fics and my heart stopped
You love summertime.
It means finally getting to wear those skirts and dresses saved in your closet, going to the beach with Paul and suntanning... and also seeing ice cream trucks out and about! That, and the not-so-subtle looks your boyfriend gives you when you’re wearing something particularly revealing.
Paul thinks summertime is going to murder him.
He has to see his girlfriend walking around in the prettiest dresses, the shortest skirts. And while you relax on the beach, Paul spends his time either ogling at all your skin on display or fending off all the assholes who are doing the same.
Today is no different. You’re wearing a little bikini, breasts practically spilling out of your top. Paul had been smarter this time, though, and the two of you are at a private pool away from prying eyes. He’s reclining on a pool chair, waiting for you to come back from the ice cream truck you swore you’d heard outside. It’s adorable, how excited you always get when you hear that familiar tinkling melody. But the sight that greets him when you come back is anything but adorable.
You’d bought a cherry popsicle. It’s so sweet and cool against your tongue, a welcome reprise from the hot weather outside. You’re so focused on the taste of it inside your mouth that you don’t notice the expression on Paul’s face when you sit down at the edge of his chair.
“Sweetheart...” Paul trails off, watching as the popsicle disappears into your mouth. Your lips are all red now, stained from the cherry, and Paul can’t help thinking about what they’d look like wrapped around something else instead.
You pull the treat out of your mouth with a pop, smiling at your boyfriend who’s staring up at you. “What’s the matter, Paul?”
“I... you...” Paul groans as you start licking it again. He can feel his cock growing harder in his swim trunks and it takes all his will power not to reach down and palm himself. “You’re being such a tease.”
“Hm?” You suck at the tip of the popsicle and, fuck, there’s no way you don’t know what you’re doing to him.
Paul has had enough. He pulls you forward and kisses you, bruisingly hard. You gasp against his lips and he takes the opportunity to lick into your mouth, getting his own taste of the cherry. When he pulls away, you’ve got a dazed expression on your face.
“Paul,” you scold, “you made me drop my popsicle.” Paul looks down to see the red treat melting into the floor. You sigh and kneel between his legs and Paul jumps when he feels your hand at the waistband of his swim trunks.
“I guess I’ll just have to suck on something else, then.” You give Paul an impish smile before pulling out his cock. You lick up his length, not unlike you’d done to the popsicle, before wrapping your plump lips around the tip of his cock and he swears he sees stars.
Paul loves summertime.
- - -
I wish it was summer :/
#paul mccartney x reader#paul mccartney smut#the beatles x reader#beatles x reader smut#kalwrites#asks
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and your bird can sing [ george harrison x reader ]
summary: You and George, sittin’ in a tree... how does that nursery rhyme go again?
prompt: how about... tooth rotting fluff with 1971-ish George?
warnings: getting naughty in the garden, oo ho ho!
i’m a stickler for writing george fics that take place in his garden... so this one is dedicated to @kettle-on ;)
There are a lot of beautiful things growing in the garden at Friar Park. Despite living there and exploring every square meter of it, though, you always seem to find something surprising when you walk through. Sometimes it’s a bright pink splash of flowers or a new, funny-looking plant peeking through where there was only dirt a week ago. Your favorite thing to find, by far, is George.
There’s a particularly memorable occasion that you love to tell people about at parties. You’d been wandering through the grounds, enjoying the weather, when you found a brown bush you’d never seen before. It was in a dense clump of foliage, swaying gently in the breeze. You’d stepped over, leaned down to look a little closer... when it suddenly tilted back and brown eyes peered right back at you.
You don’t know who screamed louder, you or George, but before long you were clutching each other in a laughing fit.
Today is different. It’s a bit chillier, so you’re wrapped in a big sweater. And this time, you’re actually looking for your husband. When he’d gone out to the garden this morning, it had been considerably warmer, and you know that George had only thrown on a thin flannel. That’s why you’re clutching a cardigan in your arms.
The stupid man probably won’t notice how cold it is till he’s almost frozen to death, you think fondly. But that’s how George when he’s in the gardens; he’s as much in his own head as he is surrounded by nature.
Thank god you’re there to ground him a little.
You find his legs first. They’re hanging out of a tree, all long and gangly, and you follow the jeans up to see George half-hidden in the branches.
“What are you doing up there?” you call out. There’s a rustle of movement and then George is leaning down through the leaves, grinning at you.
“Keep quiet and come see for yourself.” At your exasperated expression, George makes a beckoning gesture with his hand. “Come on! I’ll make sure you won’t fall, promise.”
“I’m more concerned that you’ll hurt yourself,” you retort, but you reach up and start finding footholds anyway. It takes a while to get up to where George is nestled at a fork in the branches. When you finally make it there, he first puts on the cardigan and then pulls you next to him. The space is so small you’re basically sitting in his lap.
“Well, this is comfortable.” You wiggle your hips for emphasis and George’s hands come up to your waist, stilling your movements.
Despite the humorous lilt to his voice, you can’t help but shiver a little at his breath on your neck. “Not now, you naughty girl. Plenty of time for that later.”
Still, he tilts your head to the side and presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your lips.
“Then what did you call me up here for, Mr. Harrison?”
George chuckles at the nickname. He points up and to the right, diverting your attention to a spindly branch a few feet away.
“Look,” he says, but you’re already gasping and leaning forward.
There’s a nest of baby robins on the branch and you can see little beaks bobbing around, opening and closing in search of food. They don’t have to search for long. A few moments later, the mother lands on the brim of the circle of twigs and drops a fat, wiggling worm for her babies. She stands there, head twitching in that way where you never really know if a bird is looking at you, and then flies away. Presumably to find the rest of lunch for her family.
“Wow,” you murmur. George nods in agreement. He tightens his hold on you, making sure you don’t topple out of the tree with how much you’re leaning forward.
“It’s amazing the mum hasn’t been scared away by us or anything. Most birds get antsy when people get so close to their babies.”
You turn your head, throwing him a lopsided grin. “It’s ‘cause we blend right in. You’ve got a bird’s nest of your own, right here.” With the last word, you give a little tug to the rather scraggly beard George has been letting grow out.
He tries to bite down on your fingers and you giggle, pulling them away. “I thought you liked Arthur! You said I looked… rugged.”
“Yeah, in a caveman sort of way.” George grunts at this, very caveman-like, and you snort. “Also, I thought your hair was Arthur?”
“I suppose you’re right… maybe this one’ll be Arthur Jr. Do you really not like it?”
You think a bit, stroking his beard like a philosopher would his own. “No, I do. Makes you look sexy. Like, three-thousand B.C. sexy. But I will say, I prefer George Jr. more.”
George opens his mouth, a ‘who’ forming on his lips, but his question is answered when you shift your hips like earlier with a sly grin. His hands press into your skin warningly.
“You really are being naughty,” he says, sounding almost delighted. “Alright, then. If you really want to do this like cavemen… I’ll give you three seconds head start.” George leans in and kisses the column of your throat. “After that, when I catch you, I’ll get to have my wicked way with you.”
“If you catch me!” You push yourself off his lap and start climbing down the trunk. You can’t stop smiling and, even though you know this is all pretend, there’s the telltale flutter of adrenaline and nerves in your stomach.
As you dash away, you hear George calling out the countdown. His voice only stirs you to run faster. Still, whether it’s because of his stupidly long legs or the fact that you wanted to be caught, it doesn’t take long for George to tackle you to the ground, both of you laughing. The laughs soon turn into whines and whispered pleas, George moving above you, his face tucked into your neck and his beard tickling your bare skin.
It’s chilly day, but neither of you seem to notice.
#george harrison x reader#george harrison fanfic#george harrison x reader smut#the beatles x reader#beatles fanfic#kalwrites#george and his garden#i just love his garden
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petrichor [ john lennon x reader ]
summary: You can feel his hesitation. Usually, John pushes into the apartment, announcing his arrival with a fling of his coat. Today, the door never hits the wall. His footsteps halt the moment he steps across the threshold. Probably because he can hear your ugly sobs all the way down the hallway.
prompt: Is it possible for you to write a quick headcannon about John comforting reader when she’s sad? + So maybe you could do imagine/hc with John x reader where they reader just lost their parent and how would John comfort her because we know he gets uncomfortable and awkward around crying people, so..
warnings: s a p p i n e s s
masterlist
i didn’t specify why you’re sad so that y’all could read this whenever you’re feeling down for a little pick me up! hope that’s okay :)
God, how you’ve always envied how actresses are so beautiful when they cry. With their porcelain cheeks and tears like diamonds, waiting to be brushed away by some handsome man. It’s almost like art, really.
You, on the other hand, have no such luck.
You haven’t gone to the bathroom to check, but you can picture what you must look like. Face red and blotchy, angry brushstrokes of color. Eyes swollen with how much you’ve rubbed them. Shoulders jumping with the hiccups that wrack your body. And you feel... heavy. You feel as though every bone in your body is dragging you down. Your lungs are screaming for air, yet every breath you take burns as you inhale.
What a sight for John to come home to.
You can feel his hesitation. Usually, John pushes into the apartment, announcing his arrival with a fling of his coat. Today, the door never hits the wall. His footsteps halt the moment he steps across the threshold. Probably because he can hear your ugly sobs all the way down the hallway.
Immediately, you feel angry at yourself. You should’ve barricaded yourself in the bedroom or the bathroom. Anywhere where John wouldn’t have to see the mess that you currently are, where he wouldn’t have to feel the waves of sadness practically rolling off your shoulders. You know that John’s not the best with emotions—expressing them or seeing them in other people. He hasn’t been afraid to tell you how much he loves you, but this is the first time you’ve felt truly vulnerable in your relationship. Not even when you first stood before John, naked in the bedroom, did you feel as exposed as you do now.
From John’s quiet footsteps drawing closer, you know that he’s walking into the living room. You peek through your fingers and regret it the moment you do, because John is just... standing there. He stares at you, looking like he’s fighting the urge to flee, and you almost want to laugh at his expression.
Almost. You’re too busy sobbing your heart out, though.
John lifts a hand, almost places it on the back of the armchair across from the couch, and then withdraws it at the last moment as though the motion would set off a bomb. When he clears his throat and speaks, his voice is almost as weak as the fluttering of your heart between your ribs.
“What are you doing?”
This time you do laugh. A little. It’s watery and part disbelieving, part angry.
“What does- what does it look like ‘m doing?”
Embarrassment flickers across John’s face and his gaze flickers away from yours. Without another word, he turns around and leaves the room.
Great. You tip your head back—a tad too harshly, because when it hits the wall a jolt of pain echoes through your skull—and almost scream. Now you’ve ruined it. The gravity pressing down on you seems to triple, trying to sink you through the couch. Now John was going to leave and never come back, all because you couldn’t keep it in. Maybe if you could cry like those actresses, it would’ve been okay. But you’re just you, a stupid girl burying her face in her hands in some semblance of comfort.
You’re so caught up in this downward spiral that you don’t even notice when John comes back. The press of something warm against the back of your hands jolts you back to the room. You look up, lifting your face from your palms, to see that John is holding a cup of tea in front of you. From the way that his arm is straight as a rod, though, you’d think it was more of a shield for himself.
“Drink it,” he says when you just stare at him. “Should make you feel better. Mimi would make pots and pots of them for me, when-“
John breaks off, voice wavering, but his gaze finally meets yours. Until then, he’d been staring at some spot above your shoulder. The intensity of John’s eyes now is a bit startling. You realize that it’s because he’s unguarded. He’s let something down.
With shaky hands, you accept the cup and take a sip. It’s hot and burns down your throat, but John’s right. The warmth of it loosens something in your chest and you feel a bit lighter.
“’s kind of... salty.”
John huffs and sits down next to you on the couch. Well, ‘next’ to you... he’s basically pressed to the other armrest.
“You’re cryin’ into it, that’s why.”
“Thanks, John.”
He glances sideways at you, sheepish. Shifts a little closer. Clears his throat and says the next word so quietly you almost don’t hear it.
“Sorry.”
You’re taken aback at this. John never apologizes, not really. At least, not by saying it. He’ll usually dance around it, weaving words into a half-apology and somehow making you feel sorry by the end of it. Or he’ll look at you with those intense, honey-brown eyes with his walls down—only for a second, though, before he slams them up again.
“What- can I do something to help with, uh... this?” He gestures in your general direction as though you’ve got some horrible affliction and you snort. You put the tea down onto the coffee table and stare at its murky green depths. Maybe if you stare long enough at the leaves floating around the bottom, it’ll tell you how to stop crying.
“Can you just hold me?”
You hate how weak it makes you sound. And you’re sure John hates it, too—that is, until he moves right next to you and wraps you in his arms. You turn towards his body instinctively, curling up and pressing your face into John’s chest. The rise and fall of it is calming, even more so than the tea.
At first, it’s like hugging a mannequin. John is stiff as a board against you. But all it takes is the first shuddering sob that wracks through your body for him to relax and melt around you. John’s arms tighten and draw you closer, closer until you’re all but on top of him. He smells like petrichor, warm and earthy, and you think that it must’ve been raining outside.
The two of you sit there like that for god knows how long, bodies intertwined, hearts beating as one. At some point, John brings a hand up to the back of your head and sort of... pets your hair. It’s silly and you almost want to laugh. At the same time, your chest swells at the gesture. You’re very much reminded of how John strokes the fur of your cats, letting them perch right on his chest even when he’s in the middle of doing something. It doesn’t take long for the feeling to become hypnotic, the slow rhythm of it weighing down your eyelids and sending you drifting into sleep.
Before you do, though, you realize that you don’t envy those actresses all that much, not really.
Because none of them have got a John to hold them.
- - -
this is what was in my head while i was writing that last bit... my heart
#john lennon x reader#john lennon fanfic#the beatles x reader#beatles fanfiction#john lennon#kalwrites#hurt/comfort#john and cats
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the way you look [ paul mccartney x reader ]
summary: Your plan to seduce Paul goes awry when all four of the Beatles find you naked on the couch one night. The sight of you gets Paul awfully possessive, and he’s determined to show the others just who you belong to.
prompt: ok but how about an imagine of y/n waiting paul to get home literally naked on the couch to have a good night if u know what i mean but he ends up coming home with the boys after that he gets kinda protective and excuse himself while he fucks you in your room lol lord help me through this crisis
warnings: fingering, john being a horny shit
masterlist
me? writing smut at one am? it’s more likely than you think
Well. This isn’t exactly what you planned on happening.
But how were you supposed to know Paul was bringing everyone home?
It’s not like they haven’t all seen you in various states of undress—the Beatles are at each others’ flats more than than they are at their own. And you’re confident enough in your body not to scramble for cover. Still, John’s appreciative leer and the way George’s eyes travel a bit too low for comfort brings a rosy blush to your cheeks. One that Paul immediately notices.
“Fancy seeing you all here,” you say slowly, looking anywhere but Paul’s burning gaze. Even Ringo, who’s staring resolutely at the floor, sneaks a glance up at your naked form on the couch.
“I could say the same to you.” John lets out a low whistle. “Paul, mate, how d’you get out of bed?”
You chuckle—it’s more of an embarrassed exhale, really— and look around the living room. There’s nothing you can cover up with, so you just cross your arms and make the motion to stand.
“I’ll just let you boys do your thing,” you say, but before you can even get to your feet Paul strides over and picks you up bridal style. You squeal at the sudden action, hands scrabbling for his shoulders.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Paul says, and before you know it the bedroom door is slamming shut behind the two of you. He throws you onto the bed, and though it’s not harsh you still bounce a little on the mattress.
“I’m so sorry, Paul, I wanted to surprise you and—“
“That was one hell of a sight to come home too.”
His back is to you but you can see the line of tension across his shoulders. When he turns, you nearly whimper. Paul’s pupils are blown wide, jaw strung tight. It’s a look you’ve seen before and one that sends a jolt of warmth through your body. His long fingers are deftly undoing his tie, and your gaze dips lower, past his Adam’s apple and to the smooth collarbones being revealed with each tug of his wrist.
“I saw how John was looking at you. George too.” He kicks off his shoes. “You know what they were thinking?”
You shake your head. Paul huffs and crawls up the bed. The predatory look in his eyes has you falling back on your elbows as he leans down to your ear.
“They were all wondering if you feel as good as you look. But only I get to know, don’t I?” He kneads your breast roughly with one hand. The touch is gone as soon as you feel it. Before you can even moan, Paul thrusts two fingers into your cunt and the air rushes out of your lungs entirely. You’re already so wet and you can’t help but clench around his digits.
“Fuck, fuck—“
“Only I get to know how tight you are. You’re mine, got it?”
“Yes, yes—oh, please!” You’re babbling now, tears in your eyes as Paul adds another finger and curls them upwards, hitting something electric inside that makes you arch off the bed.
“Gotta hear you say it, love.” Paul mouths at your neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses down to the dip of your breasts. “Tell me.”
“I’m yours, Paul, just yours. Paul, Paul—“
Paul pulls away and you almost sob at the loss of his touch. Your hand instinctively goes to your clit to feel something, anything, but Paul grabs it and pins it to the mattress. He finishes unbuckling his pants and flashes a grin at you from between your legs.
“Keep saying my name, sweetheart. By the time I’m done with you, the boys will know just who gets to fuck your sweet cunt.”
#paul mccartney x reader#paul mccartney fanfic#paul mccartney x reader smut#the beatles x reader#beatles smut#kalwrites#paul is possessive
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lonesome tonight [ paul mccartney x reader ]
summary: You’re drunk and oh so pretty wearing that little dress. Paul doesn’t know what to do with you.
prompt: Headcanon idea:) what would Paul do when the reader got wasted? + Can I request a hc where the female reader crashes at Paul’s place? Tysm!
warnings: nuthin’ but Paul respecting women
you asked for headcanons. i got carried away. also, this is just a fic, but quick PSA: never go out drinking unless you have a sure way to get home!
Oh, but you look so pretty under the blue lights.
The rest of the Beatles have disappeared to... who knows where. Paul thinks that he saw George pull some girl into the loo. As for the others, well, Paul can hardly concentrate when you’re pressing your body into him like that.
“Soooo handsome,” you say, grinning up at Paul, eyes glazed. “You’re so handsome, Paulie. Paul. Paulie. Do people call you Paulie?”
“You can call me whatever you want, darling.” God, your dress is so short. It barely tickles your thighs, and after all your drinking and dancing it’s been inching up all night.
“Hm, how about James?”
“Absolutely not.” Paul pretends to be incredibly offended, frowning at your giggles. “Anything but James.”
You seem genuinely disappointed by this. No, you’re devastated—at least, that’s how you look, with your mouth all pouty like that.
This is ridiculous. Pouting is Paul’s thing. But you’re pulling it off far better than he could, Paul thinks. Paul also thinks that he’d very much like to feel those lips on his... and then you’re trailing a clumsy hand up his chest and Paul jumps as though he’s been electrocuted.
“Okay, that’s enough. Let’s get you home, yeah?”
“Nooooo!” Now this is a real pout. “No! Th’night is young, Paul. C’mon, let’s... let’s dance!” You try pushing yourself from the bar and stumble, catching yourself on Paul’s arms. “Okay, maybe no dancing. Uhhhhhhhh, oh! Another drink!”
"Make that a water, please,” Paul tells the bartender, who nods and places the glass on bar. Paul snatches it up and brings it to your lips. Not unlike a toddler refusing vegetables, you turn your head stubbornly away.
“You’re no fun.”
“You’ll be thanking me tomorrow morning. Come now, take a sip. For me.”
“For you,” you grumble after some hesitation and allow him to tip the glass to your mouth. Some of it spills down your dress... your short, pretty little dress... and Paul tears his eyes away before his dick can get too interested. Down, boy.
“Alright, home now.” Paul practically has to drag you out the door, probably because you’re getting to your sleepy phase of drunkenness. Outside, the brisk night air makes Paul hiss and wish he’d brought a thicker jacket. But you’re shivering, how could you not be wearing that, so Paul shucks off his blazer and drapes it over your shoulders.
Fucking hell, it’s cold. Paul waves over a cab and helps you into the back seat. He’s halfway in after you when he remembers… he has no fucking idea where you live.
“Love, what’s your address? Love?”
You’re passed out cold. Paul swears something nasty enough that the cabbie shoots him an unimpressed look in the rearview mirror.
“Sorry, sorry. Will you wait a minute?” Paul ducks back out. His eyes catch on a familiar mop of hair and he sends a prayer to the heavens. “Ringo! Hey, over here!”
The drummer pushes off the brick wall, cig still smoking in his hand. “Leaving already, Paul?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m taking her home.” Paul gestures at you and Ringo leans down, looking into the cab. “You don’t happen to remember where she lives, do you?”
Ringo takes a long drag and exhales slowly, the smoke rendering his face hazy for a brief moment. “No, sorry mate. Why don’t you just take her to yours?”
Paul feels a flush come over his face. “Wouldn’t that be, erm, improper like?”
The other man snorts. “It’s not the Victorian era. Improper. ‘Sides, I’ve seen how you two look at each other.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ringo gives him a long, searching look. He only finds a blush on Paul’s cheeks and nothing more, although that could also be the chill. “Nothin’. Just take her home, Paul. You’re gonna freeze out here.”
And with that, Ringo turns and leaves. He stomps out his cigarette before heading back into the club and Paul stares at the doorway, trying to process his words. The way you look at each other…?
“Oi, you coming or not?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Paul jumps into the cab and, head spinning, tells the driver his address. The ride is short, and soon enough Paul’s opening the door on your side.
“You awake?” he whispers. No reply. Fuck it, he thinks. Paul scoops you up, bridal style, and tries to ignore the implications as he carries you over the threshold of his flat.
Any romantic thought Paul might’ve had flies out of his mind as soon as he walks inside. He almost breaks three vases in the dark, stubs his toe rather nastily on the doorframe of his room, and practically cries in relief when he can deposit you onto the bed.
For a moment, Paul just stands and looks at you. The moon is hiding behind a thick blanket of clouds tonight, so the only light in the room is from a lamppost on the street below. It casts a warm, orange glow across your face and sets a jewel of a glint within your eyes…
Paul realizes with a jolt that you’re awake. “Hey,” he says softly. The word sounds strangely loud in the otherwise silent room.
You only stare back, although a smile curves across your lips. He loses himself a bit in your expression before shaking himself out of it.
“I’m going to take your shoes off, okay?”
You nod. Paul unbuckles the strappy heels and sets them beside the bed. He’s still kneeling on the ground when you reach out suddenly and run a hand through his hair. Paul freezes. It feels so nice, even with the ground digging uncomfortably into his knees, and he has to resist the urge to relax into your touch. Against the voice purring in the back of his mind, Paul pulls away.
“You should sleep,” he says, standing up.
He’s halfway across the room when you call out his name.
“Won’t you sleep with me?”
Heart suddenly pounding in his throat Paul turns and looks at you. You’ve sat up in bed. The jewel in your eyes is a diamond, he decides, one that twinkles almost dangerously in the dark of the room.
“What?”
“I want you.” The words are simple and sleepy, lacking any lust yet dipped in an honest tone, but they still send a jolt down Paul’s spine. “Don’t you want me?”
Paul lets his eyes wander down your body—from your alluringly messy hair to your lips parted in question to the seductive dip of your dress’s neckline.
“Not tonight,” he says, and is a little taken aback at how much he means it. There’s nothing arousing about you, not right now. Not when you’re this drunk and not when your eyes can hardly focus on Paul as he retreats from the room.
Just as he’s about to close the door behind him, Paul pauses. “Sleep well,” he calls softly into the room. He chances one last look at you to find you passed back out, cheek smushed into his pillow.
The couch isn’t the most comfortable place ever, Paul admits as he sinks into its hard cushions. But he wants to be there when you wake up, wants to guide your stumbling feet to the kitchen table where he’ll make the best hangover breakfast ever for you. And he can’t do that if he’s in the guest room. No, Paul will have to settle for the purple couch that only Ringo could lie down in without his feet hanging over the edge. The couch that John had thrown up all over last time you all got gloriously wasted. You’d laughed so hard, cheeks aflame in a way that did the same to Paul’s heart, before hurling too. George, Paul remembers, had told him it was nothing some baking soda and a vacuum couldn’t fix. After that, though, the couch has never felt the same—there’s a certain smell to it and the cushions are all stiff.
Funnily enough, though, sleep comes easily.
- - -
were you expecting smut? NO! NOT WHEN ONE PARTY IS UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF ALCOHOL CANNOT TRULY PROVIDE CONSENT! duh.
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all things must pass [ beatles x reader ]
summary: Moving on is easy. The hardest part is finding a reason to stay.
prompt: If you vibe with it, maybe hcs or something about beatle!reader reconnecting with the guys after the breakup?
warnings: none
masterlist
see end for notes
For half an hour, everything is like it used to be.
You’re all still in the industry making music and crowding the charts, so it’s no surprise when the ex-Beatles are invited to some big shot gala in London. It doesn’t take long for you all to gravitate towards each other; you find Paul at the refreshments, he waves Ringo over from the table, and the three of you find George blending into a potted plant near the back.
The champagne loosens lips and bubbles into easy laughter, low chatter about the week and the news. Ringo is the most laid-back. He still plays on your guys’ albums. It’s him, really, that acts as a conduit of conversation between the group, insulating any tensions below the surface. You tease Paul about his new look and George, mostly content to just listen, jumps in from time to time with a dry remark that makes everyone chuckle.
“Having a little meeting without me?”
Half an hour is all too short.
Your little circle breaks open and accepts a fifth: John. Yoko isn’t far behind.
Acerbic. That’s what it is. Everything from his stance to the set of his lips, crooked and tight. His words, too, although those betray what his eyes try to hide: hurt.
“Not at all.” Ringo smiles and gestures with his glass. “We were just waitin’ for you to join.”
John ignores him, stares steadily at Paul. Ringo’s grin doesn’t falter, but you’re standing right next to him. There’s a little gap between his sunglasses (prescription, he says) and you can see the smile lines smooth over, pulling down a slight furrow between his brows. To anyone else, the slight change would be unnoticeable.
You suspect that Ringo’s sunglasses help him mask more than his worsening vision.
“How are you, John?” Paul settles on. Yes, that’s the safest option, the blandest one. John knows this, if his dry chuckle is any indication.
“Fine.”
Yoko melds into his side and John’s arm curls around her as she speaks. “And you, Paul?”
“Oh, great.” Paul scratches at his beard and as if on cue, Linda appears at his side. “We’re startin’ a band, actually.” They share a smile, one that immediately makes you feel like an outsider.
No one says anything for a while. The party goes on, the murmur of noise parting around you all like a stream would a stepping stone.
“We’re doing good, too,” you say, itching to break the silence. “Ritchie’s been busy, running ‘round our studios, eh?”
Ringo laughs. George only lifts the corner of his lips and stares into his wine.
“It’s like Liverpool all over again,” Ringo says. You all laugh except for John. There’s nothing else to do. It sounds like canned laughter on television, and the thought drops your expression.
Paul picks up the conversation again. It’s like throwing a life raft into the ocean, but none of you know what you’re trying to save. “So, George. Congrats on the triple album. Number one here and in the States, yeah? You beat the rest of us to it, you bastard.” George smiles and shrugs. “Guess we should’ve listened to you more in the studio.”
You can see the life raft sinking.
“Yeah, you should’ve,” George says. Simple as that, but the words still make you flinch. There’s no sharpness to what he says. George isn’t angry. No, he’s moved on. On to finally having his music out there, on to being heard. You’re torn between being happy for him and wanting to grab him by the shirt collar, grab all of them, and drag them back to how it used to be.
No, you’re not that torn. Happiness is the obvious choice. And you’ve moved on all the same, going your separate way.
Do you miss it? Being an ‘us’? At first it felt like being torn into pieces, but with every day that’s passed you’ve found it harder and harder to want to go back. There were the disagreements, the fights and the lawsuits. Just as bright in your memory is all the laughter, real laughter, and the wonders and excitement of being at the top together. The toppermost of the poppermost. But as you’ve gotten older, you’ve come to realize the naivete of holding onto things. Change is only natural. Change comes with growth. And, sooner or later, you had all known you’d grow out of the Beatles.
Yes, moving on is easy. The hardest part is finding a reason to stay.
Ringo goes first. Pats you all on the shoulder and ambles off to the bar for a drink or two or nine. He’ll see you at the studio next week, yeah? His words are slurring into each other but you know his drumsticks won’t be missing a beat. George follows him, murmuring about making sure Ringo gets home okay, and catches up to the man with long, easy strides. He doesn’t look back.
That leaves John and Paul and their wives. And you. John looks at Paul. Paul watches John. Yoko stares up at her husband and Linda smiles apologetically at you. What she’s sorry for, though, you have no idea.
You can’t find anything to say that won’t fall to deaf ears, so you say your good nights and turn to find your way to the exit.
The sound of your name being called from behind slows your steps. It’s John. You look around for Yoko but he’s walking with you… alone. Your confusion doesn’t go unnoticed.
“She’s getting our coats.”
You nod and come to a stand still, searching his eyes. He’s struggling to say something. You’ve known John long enough to know better than ask what. He has to find it himself.
“Didn’t get to ask earlier, but. How are you?”
It’s not what John really wants to ask, you know. “I said I was good,” you say carefully.
“Right.” John nods and clears his throat. “And the others, they’re alright?”
Your gaze softens at his obvious embarrassment at the question. Your hand finds its way to his. “Yes, John. Everyone’s okay.” Then, more quietly, “We miss you.”
Like being shocked, John tears his hand away from your hold. His face is flushed, eyes guarded but sharp. Piercing. You don’t look away, no matter how much it hurts.
“Fuck off,” he sneers. His words are loud, rising tone attracting attention from some of the other guests. It’s always been like this with John—hot and cold, one second vulnerable and vicious in the next. “You think I want to hear your, your- what, sympathies? Don’t fucking lie to me. I know you’re all glad to finally get away.”
A hand on his shoulder—Yoko. The touch seems to drain the anger from him and he deflates, chest still heaving a little from his outburst. When his eyes meet yours again, they’ve gone flat. Uncaring. His default, you’ve learned over the past decade, for whenever he starts caring too much.
Not that there is such a thing.
“We’ll see you,” Yoko says as though nothing has happened. You just nod and watch her lead John out of the doors and into the streets. Before they step outside, though, the passing glare of a car sets their silhouettes aflame; two people with smiles for no one else but themselves, noses almost touching, eyes closed.
It’s time for you to go, too. Tomorrow will be another early morning, another late night. Before you step out into the dark that swallowed John and Yoko, you look back over your shoulder. Paul is still standing where you left him. His head is turning back, not from looking at you, you know, but from watching the others leave. He looks so small from far away. Just a man. And Linda in front of him, with her hands on his shoulder, seems almost to be the only thing keeping him standing. She says something to Paul and he finally moves on. They disappear into the crowd of partygoers together.
And you, alone, disappear into the night.
- - -
what a short request. but it caught my imagination in a whirlwind, which resulted in this!
@ the anon who requested this, it’s probably not what you had in mind. sorry! but i’ve been reading a lot about the beatles and their stories and i wanted to put some of my thoughts to writing. well, not really my thoughts, but my interpretation of the aftermath. their relationships with each other and how they changed and fell apart is fascinating and convoluted. i hope i did it all justice... and i hope some of my symbolism didn’t fall short...?
lemme know your thoughts on this different sort of fic in the comments or by submitting a sentence or two! i’d love to know :)
#beatles fanfic#john lennon x reader#paul mccartney x reader#ringo starr x reader#george harrison x reader#the beatles x reader#kalwrites#angst
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Can you write a hc where the reader or the boys drink aphrodisiac❤️?
I feel like I got a request for this at some point and it disappeared from my inbox??? but yes, here we go with our regularly scheduled filth
the boys know something is different the moment they get home
you look up from where you’re sitting at the kitchen table, very much a deer in headlights
eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, and your fingers can’t stop fidgeting with the hem of your skirt
you’d found one of George’s fan mail packages laying around and thought it was tea--after all, it did say ‘drink me’--and you were suddenly feeling so, so warm and tingly
“what’s wrong, love?” Paul asks, coming up and feeling your forehead. you whine at his touch and nuzzle into it. for some reason, your skin feels so sensitive, and his hand is sending jolts to your core
John breathes out and kneels in front of your chair. “christ, she’s soaked through her panties.” he leans forward and licks a stripe right up your clothed pussy and you almost cry
“please, need you,” you pant, hips jerking as John pulls your panties aside and kisses your slick folds. “feel so warm... oh!”
Paul moves aside for Ringo to come and kiss you. Even just the feeling of his lips on yours, the feeling of Ringo licking into your mouth sets your nerves ablaze
that night, you come so many times you lose count
#beatles headcanons#john lennon x reader smut#ringo starr x reader#paul mccartney x reader#george harrison x reader#kalwrites#uhhhh i looked up aphrodisiacs and they are very sketchy#but i interpreted this as more of... sex pollen?#which is fake#idk
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hold me tight [ john lennon x reader ]
summary: John’s other hand is sliding, sliding down to cup your warmth—and then he’s stroking your folds and you arch against his chest. “Now, tell me.” John nuzzles at the column of your throat. “Is it the bath, or are you wet for me?”
prompt: Can you do hc of taking a bath with each of the Beatles 😍🥵
warnings: 1.4k of good ol’ fucking in a bathtub
I was going to write your hcs... but then I got caught up thinking of just John and I, uh... this whole thing happened. Sorry anon? Anyway, this is my first John fic and it’s dedicated to @spaceyantique , who isn’t even a little bit subtle about who her favorite is <3
You’re so immersed in the warm, relaxing bath that you don’t notice John’s home until the bathroom door swings open.
“Jesus Christ.” You bring a hand to your chest, trying to will your heartbeat slower. “I didn’t hear you come in!”
John’s gaze travels up your naked form below the water and then meets yours with a cheeky grin. “Sorry, lovie. Guess you were... distracted.”
“I was just taking a bath,” you splutter, blood rushing to your cheeks. John feels his slacks grow a little tighter at the sight of you reclined in the tub, face a rosy pink and breasts just barely submerged in the water.
“Mmhm. Room for one more?”
How could you say no? Especially with the way John’s gaze seems to be devouring you whole right now, warming you up in a way that has nothing to do with the bath water. You nod and try very hard not to watch as John undresses, tossing his clothes in the corner. Before long, he’s stepping into the bathtub and settling behind you. With a gentle but firm grasp, John pulls you by the hips to his chest and you recline into his embrace.
“So beautiful,” he growls, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. You shudder at the feeling of John’s lips brushing against your skin and your head tips back involuntarily as his mouth travels up to your jaw.
“John...”
A calloused hand traces its way up from your hip to your breasts, pinching one of your nipples and then moving to the next. Your rosy buds harden into peaks under his touch and each tug at them sends a tingle of electricity to your core. John’s other hand is sliding, sliding down to cup your warmth—and then he’s stroking your folds and you arch against his chest.
“Now, tell me.” John nuzzles at the column of your throat. “Is it the bath, or are you wet for me?”
“‘m wet for you, Johnny, ah—all for you.”
“Good girl,” he says, and curls a finger into your cunt. His thumb just barely brushes over your clit and you jerk, whining at the waves of arousal washing through you. It’s not enough, you want more, and John seems to know this because he adds another finger and starts finger-fucking you in earnest now.
“Wait, wait—“ you gasp, and he immediately stills.
“What’s wrong, birdie?”
You crane your neck back and capture John’s lips with yours. The position is a little awkward, but when his tongue swipes into your mouth nothing else matters.
“Wanna come around your cock,” you say, pulling back and blinking up at him, and John groans at your words. You grind against his erection that’s been digging into your back and his fingers tighten around your waist.
“Fuck, yeah, okay.”
You turn in the bath, sending a prayer of thanks that John had insisted on getting such a large one, and straddle your legs on either side of his. Your hand reaches into the water and grasps his length and it’s John’s turn to whine, head falling back onto the tiled wall at the feeling of your fingers stroking him. It’s so... wet in the water, and you’re able to move your wrist with a smoothness that sends curses tumbling out of John’s mouth.
“You gonna stop teasin’ me?” he grits out, feeling his orgasm coming on far too quickly as you thumb over his red tip.
“’s only cause you did it to me,” you say, and then you’re sinking onto his cock. The both of you groan at the wet drag of his length against your walls, and when John bottoms out you take a moment to rest your head against his chest.
John brings a hand up to brush away some of the hair sticking to your face. You’re both sweating already because of the warm bath water, and John brushes his lips against your damp forehead.
“Good?” he asks. You grind your hips down onto him in response, which sends a shudder through his body.
Encouraged by John’s reaction, you brace yourself against his shoulders and lift up until his cock is almost entirely out of your cunt—and then sink down in one smooth motion. You set a hard, fast pace—as fast as you can in the water, anyway—and soon John’s canting his hips up to meet yours and hitting your sweet spot with each thrust. Your moans, high and breathy, are echoing off the bathroom walls, accompanied by John’s grunts and sighs at the feeling of your cunt squeezing around him.
“Fuck, I’m getting close,” he gasps, and you rock your hips even faster, desperate to get your own release as well.
John suddenly digs his fingers into your back as his other hand reaches up to rub sloppy circles around your clit and the combination of the pleasure and the pain has you screaming out. You drive your hips down, hard, and then you’re both coming, names rolling off each other’s lips like prayers.
It takes a minute for you to come down from your high. When you do, John’s running a hand down your back, soothing the scratches he’d made. He hugs you to his chest and, for a little bit, it’s a moment that belongs to you two and nothing else in the world. Even the water lapping gently at your skin fades away into just a soft tingling at the edges of your conscience. Your senses narrow down to the feeling of John’s fingers pressing softly against your spine, John’s nose nudging at your ear, John’s breath fluttering against your jaw, John’s heart beating steadily on your breast, John, John,
“John,” you sigh, and his lips curve into a smile, tickling your neck. He shifts and slips out of you and that feeling is what brings you out of your reverie.
He repeats your name to you, this time soft and reverent and without the urgency of earlier.
“My gorgeous girl,” John murmurs. The smile that spreads across your face at his compliment only serves to further the beauty about you. John thinks this to himself and, not for the first time, wonders just how he managed to find someone like you.
“We ought to take a shower now.”
“What do you mean?” John quirks his eyebrows. “We’re already in the bath.”
“Yeah, but… we’re not exactly clean, are we?”
John considers this for a moment and then, leaning forward, licks a stripe right between the valley of your breasts. You squeal and bat at his shoulders.
“Tastes pretty clean to me,” he says with that stupid, cheeky smile that never fails to make you weak in the knees. You swat at him again and John snickers, ducking out of the way, the motion sending a wave of water over the edge of the tub.
“Now we’ve got to clean that too! John, you’re being a right menace—hEY!”
You gape at John, furiously trying to blink away the water he’d splashed into your face. There’s a beat of silence where the two of you just stare at each other, John holding in a horrific snort and you a scream. Suddenly, a wicked idea forms in your head.
“Oh, John.” You run a slow hand up his chest. When your palm comes to cup John’s cheek, his expression is so obviously torn between confusion and arousal that you almost laugh. “I forgive you, Johnny.”
“Oh, erm… okay.” His eyes dart between yours and the thumb that’s now tracing looping patterns across his collarbones. He’d been expecting retaliation of some sort. “Thanks?”
You smile your sweetest smile and John’s breath hitches when you lean in to place a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw. He doesn’t even notice that your other hand has come up to his shoulder.
“Might wanna hold your breath,” you say, and the question doesn’t even finish forming on John’s lips before you’re pushing him underwater. When he surfaces, cursing and spluttering, the fight is on.
You both end up having a lot more to clean up than you’d bargained for.
#john lennon x reader#john lennon x reader smut#the beatles x reader#beatles smut#kalwrites#whooooooooops#sorry guys
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five’s a crowd [ beatles x reader ] part five
chapter summary: It’s time for some apologies (aPAULogies!). You and Paul have a chat about student debt, Parliament, and showers. John tries to convince everyone that he won’t break the telly (again), Ringo tries to convince everyone that he’s NOT an old man, and you just wish George would drop that goddamn towel.
warnings: george is almost naked but not naked enough (sigh)
masterlist and parts one | two | three | four
these chapters are just getting longer, huh. also, queen makes a more... definitive appearance.
Paul’s chosen the corner booth. It’s the spot that you all usually cram into, obnoxious and loud and always on the verge of being kicked out. Sitting there all by himself with nothing but a cup of coffee, he looks very small and lonely and you feel a pang of guilt.
He glances up when you sit down next to him. “Back for round two?” Paul says, and despite this he still scoots over to give you more room.
“No.” Sighing, you resist your fight-or-flight instinct. You’ve always hated confrontation. “I just wanted to apologize. I probably overreacted today and I shouldn’t have, um… ”
“Ripped me a new one?”
You laugh. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I’ve just been so stressed about midterms and all that--which isn’t an excuse for being an asshole, I know. It’s been such a long day, with Ringo having to go to the hospital and John almost killing us in your car and George, uh… actually, George hasn’t done anything. But… forgive me?” You try your best puppy eyes, although that’s more of Paul’s forte.
He pretends to think about it, but he’s already got that smile on his face. It’s soft and accentuates the roundness of his cheeks and you can see what John fell in love with.
“Of course I do. I could never stay angry at you for too long.” You let out a sigh that you didn’t know you were holding. “And I’m sorry, as well. I hope some of your papers were salvageable? I’ll pay for your textbooks, really--”
“With the thousands of pounds of student debt you’ve got? No way.” You nudge Paul teasingly. “No, it wasn’t that bad. Besides, if I don’t have most of that stuff memorized by now I’ll be fucked for midterms.”
“It’s the damn Tories, I tell you!” A businessman at the table over shoots him a dirty look and you have to muffle your snort behind your hands. “Anyway, we’re not here to talk politics. How’s George?” At the last bit, Paul leans in, raising his eyebrows conspiratorially.
Just great, still want to snog him senseless. Nothing new. “Why don’t you ask George yourself, you live with him. He’s still pretty pissed about having to take cold showers in the morning.”
“Please, no more. I’ve gotten yelled at about it enough already.” He throws his hands up in mock surrender and you’re reminded uncannily of John. They really are two sides of the same coin… “Morning’s the only time I can shower, anyway. It’s not fun waking up early, you know, but I do have to get the studio time. I’ve got, like, a million art pieces to turn in next week. It’s killing me.”
Though he says this with a rueful grin, you can see there’s bags under his eyes. With all the drama going on, you hadn’t stopped to think about what Paul must be going through. You internally scold yourself not to be so wrapped in your own concerns next time.
“I didn’t realize.”
“Yeah, well. The woes of an art major. But when I asked about George, I wasn’t talking about our little row.”
You ignore that. “Showering every day is bad for your skin, y’know.”
“First off, that’s my phrase. Secondly, you’re changing the subject.”
“You’re the one changing the subject!” Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush. “Look, can’t you try and compromise with him? Like, taking turns or something. You can have the first shower every other day and ditto for George!” You smack the table excitedly. “Damn, I’m a genius.”
Paul laughs and downs the rest of his coffee. “Alright, alright. I’ll talk to him about it.” Standing, he stretches and tosses the cup into the trash. “You think the flat is safe enough to go back?”
You mirror his actions, donning your fleece jacket. “Probably. I’ll protect you, though, don’t worry.”
“My hero!” He swoons and loops his arm through yours as you step out of the cafe. The rest of the walk back, he doesn’t mention George again and you think he’s forgotten all about it. That is, until you reach the apartment. Paul unlocks the door and gestures for you to go first. When you brush by him, he leans down to your ear and says it so casually you don’t even register the meaning at first.
“I’ll get the truth out of you one of these days, y’know.”
Paul winks and though he doesn’t say exactly what the ‘truth’ is, you think you have a pretty good idea what he’s talking about.
***
The next day, you’re sat at the kitchen table over a bowl of cereal and some salvaged papers, not unlike yesterday morning. John is once again swiping through his phone. Ringo’s there, too, having scrutinized the entire kitchen floor this time before sitting down.
“TikTok is a load of shit,” John announces, throwing his cell down.
“Yet that doesn’t stop you from being on it for hours on end.”
“It’s addicting! All that… hitting the woah and- and grenade stuff.”
“You mean renegade.”
You both shoot a surprised look at Ringo, who pouts. “What? I can be hip too.”
“Okay, the fact that you said ‘hip’ kinda contradicts that.”
Ringo sticks his tongue out at you and you snicker. John clears his throat, steering the conversation back to him. Attention whore.
“Aaaanyway. As I was saying. Our phones are all the government’s rubbish way of brainwashing us. And that’s why I propose… drum roll, please.”
Ringo obliges. You note that he keeps a rather good tempo.
“Game Night Part Two!”
He’s met with silence.
“Uh, let me think about it-- no.”
“What? Why not!”
You tap your finger to your chin. “Did you already forget getting piss-drunk and missing your American Lit quiz the next day? Or spilling Fanta all over my /nice/ white tee? Or doing that?” John’s gaze follows your gesture to the tv in the living room with a great crack down the middle.
“And you’re a sore loser,” Ringo adds. John frowns and throws a cornflake at him.
“George was definitely cheating-”
“Abupbupbup! I’m not done.” You point at his sour expression. “Don’t you remember the noise complaint we got from our neighbor?”
John actually pauses at this. “You mean Paul’s classmate? The one that does graphic design? Not that you’d know it from the way he dresses like a fashion major.”
“His name is Freddie.” Ringo supplies helpfully. Ringo was always good at names.
“Yeah, he actually knocked on our door and everything. That was embarrassing, John.”
A scoff makes its way through John’s pursed lips. “He’s got no right telling us to keep the noise down when his bloody flat houses an entire fucking band. I can hear them going at it until two am sometimes and I don’t call the police on them.”
“They’re quite good.” As if to accentuate his point, Ringo taps a familiar rhythm with his spoon. Must be from one of their latest songs.
John inhales and you can tell that this’ll turn into a scuffle if you don’t steer the conversation away soon.
“Anyway! We don’t want another repeat of last month’s shenanigans. I’d like to be able to keep watching Netflix on a functioning telly, thank you very much. You’re outnumbered, Johnny.”
“Well, actually.”
You both swivel to look at Ringo: you in horror and John with glee. The oldest boy is usually the tie breaker, the swing-state if you want to be American about it. If he throws his weight behind John, it’ll be over.
“I think it would be a good idea. For morale, you know. We’ve been at each other’s throats all of yesterday, and havin’ another Game Night might get everyone on good terms again.” Damn you, Ringo, you think, damn you and your altruism. John, in every sense of the saying, looks exactly like the cat that’s got the canary. He swings to you with the stupidly smug look on his face.
“The match goes to Lennon! Take that,” he gloats, and you fight the urge to strangle him across the table.
“When you fail Professor Ono’s midterms because you’re too hungover to tell Walt Whitman from Langston Hughes, don’t go crawling to me,” you hiss.
John makes to retort but he’s cut short by the sound of footsteps running down the hall. Your brain barely has time to conjure up the weird feeling of deja vu before George skids into the kitchen.
He’s wearing nothing but a towel. Again. But this time, he’s smiling, and the brilliance of it cuts through your sleep-addled brain and curls up somewhere below your rib cage.
“I just took a shower!”
“Good for you, mate,” John snarks, staring ruefully at the phone in the center of the table--did he change his phone case or something? It looks different, somehow. You can see his fingers twitching toward it.
George ignores him. “I just took a warm shower. A real shower with warm water.”
Yes, you can see that from the bit of steam still rising from his shoulders and his hair, which is now curling slightly in the colder temperature. There’s a droplet of water making its way from George’s very naked chest down to his very fit stomach--how he has abs, you have no idea, since the boy inhales food like Kirby--and you look away sharply before your gaze can wander any further.
“A warm water shower,” he repeats.
Ringo nods. “Ah, yes. The poison. The poison for Kuzco. The poison chosen specifically to kill Kuzco.” He pauses, looking you in the eye rather seriously, and you say the next bit together.
“Kuzco’s poison.”
The two of you double over, giggling like schoolgirls. George, however, looks confused.
“What are they on about?”
“Some American film.” John finally gives in and snatches up the phone laying on the table. Something flashes across his face. You know that look, and nothing good ever follows it. “Smile, Georgie.”
There’s the click of a photo being taken.
“Hey! What was that for?”
“Nothing.” John pushes his chair from the table and stands up rather abruptly. The look on his face is growing into something… wicked. “Nothing at all. I will be in Paul and I’s room. Doing nothing.” He surveys you all once more with that good-for-nothing grin, cradles the phone to his chest, and then sprints down the hall past an even more confused George. The door closes and locks with a decisive click.
The three of you look at each other questioningly. Ringo grunts something unintelligible and shovels more cornflakes into his mouth. George shrugs and turns to head back to the bathroom.
He’s already halfway down the hall before he freezes.
“Wait a minute. Was that my phone?”
#beatles fanfic#george harrison x reader#ringo starr x reader#paul mccartney x reader#john lennon x reader#the beatles x reader#mclennon#five's a crowd#kalwrites#crack
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