Fic
This is actually the first fic I ever wrote for my beatlesslash community.
Title: Q & A
Pairing: J/P
Rating: PG
Summary: Paul asks, and John answers
Disclaimer: I love them, but they're not mine.
The bassist's voice was quiet in the empty room.
"Will you have me, Lennon?" Paul stood behind John, chin hooked over his shoulder, gazing in fascination as his finger traced the outline of the other man's lips. He was so beautiful. It was too much, this was too much, the sight, and scent, and feel--Christ, his skin was soft!--and Paul knew this couldn't last, blamed whatever drunken notion his brain had spawned for leading him here, to this man.
The muscles under his chin shifted; now he could feel John pulling away and he closed his eyes, letting his hand drop. He should have known better. No amount of alcohol, or conversation, or longing, barely suppressed for years, would be enough to give him what he truly wanted: John's mouth on his, John's fingers on his skin, John's scent--like ciggies and leather and something sharp, lemon perhaps--on his pillow. Just John. All he wanted was John.
Laugh it off, idiot! Pretend it was all a joke! He couldn't move.
And now--stupid, stupid git--he'd gone and forfeited all chances, probably lost even the friendship that he valued so much, all for the sake of a moment spent with John in his arms, too brief to grasp, too precious to belittle. Ah, hell.
He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, clenching his fists at his sides, waiting for the punishment--a sharp word, a punch in the gut, or worst of all, laughter--that he knew would follow any second. He flinched when he felt something brush his face, tracing the arches of his eyebrows, until he realized that it didn't hurt, that John hadn't said a word, hadn't laughed. The thing--hand, he realized--on his face shifted, trailing down to outline his own lips, and he slowly opened one eye, just to make sure it was really happening.
John's face was very near, near enough that Paul could see the flecks of gold that floated in his eyes sometimes, and it was smiling, a strange, tender expression that sat oddly on the angles of his bones. Paul opened the other eye, and looked again, trying desperately to decipher John's features.
"Have you, is it?" The sandpaper voice he knew so well was soft, and more gentle than he'd ever heard it. One callused finger brushed at Paul's lips again, and he couldn't help it; they parted with a sigh. "Oh, aye, Macca. I think I will."
And John kissed him.
Title: Q & A
Pairing: J/P
Rating: PG
Summary: Paul asks, and John answers
Disclaimer: I love them, but they're not mine.
The bassist's voice was quiet in the empty room.
"Will you have me, Lennon?" Paul stood behind John, chin hooked over his shoulder, gazing in fascination as his finger traced the outline of the other man's lips. He was so beautiful. It was too much, this was too much, the sight, and scent, and feel--Christ, his skin was soft!--and Paul knew this couldn't last, blamed whatever drunken notion his brain had spawned for leading him here, to this man.
The muscles under his chin shifted; now he could feel John pulling away and he closed his eyes, letting his hand drop. He should have known better. No amount of alcohol, or conversation, or longing, barely suppressed for years, would be enough to give him what he truly wanted: John's mouth on his, John's fingers on his skin, John's scent--like ciggies and leather and something sharp, lemon perhaps--on his pillow. Just John. All he wanted was John.
Laugh it off, idiot! Pretend it was all a joke! He couldn't move.
And now--stupid, stupid git--he'd gone and forfeited all chances, probably lost even the friendship that he valued so much, all for the sake of a moment spent with John in his arms, too brief to grasp, too precious to belittle. Ah, hell.
He squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, clenching his fists at his sides, waiting for the punishment--a sharp word, a punch in the gut, or worst of all, laughter--that he knew would follow any second. He flinched when he felt something brush his face, tracing the arches of his eyebrows, until he realized that it didn't hurt, that John hadn't said a word, hadn't laughed. The thing--hand, he realized--on his face shifted, trailing down to outline his own lips, and he slowly opened one eye, just to make sure it was really happening.
John's face was very near, near enough that Paul could see the flecks of gold that floated in his eyes sometimes, and it was smiling, a strange, tender expression that sat oddly on the angles of his bones. Paul opened the other eye, and looked again, trying desperately to decipher John's features.
"Have you, is it?" The sandpaper voice he knew so well was soft, and more gentle than he'd ever heard it. One callused finger brushed at Paul's lips again, and he couldn't help it; they parted with a sigh. "Oh, aye, Macca. I think I will."
And John kissed him.