?

Log in

No account? Create an account
 
 
18 July 2005 @ 10:09 pm
Collaborative Effort  
First, I would like to apologize for being away for six weeks, I've been involved in a study abroad program where I was in Germany with severely limited access to computers. banburytale and I have been working on this for some months, and are really quite happy with it, so as a comeback to the community for both of us, we bring you this humble offering in sincere penitence for our absence.

Messrs. magicaltrevor and banburytale are pleased to present their magnum opus:

Title: Static
Author(s): banburytale & MagicalTrevor
Pairing: J/P
Rating: Hard R, maybe NC-17
Warnings: Not really.
Word Count: 4,515
Summary: Paul is feeling aggressive. He takes it out on John. *evil grin*
A/N: Inspired by Paul’s rendition of Long Tall Sally in the second Anthology video. He looked FIERCE. We immediately thought, of course, “Hey! We should totally write our first PWP!” But we found we just couldn’t do it. Sooo... I guess it’s Porn With Plot instead. We think it’s the hottest thing ever. Thanks to our lovely friend Akutenshi_Akira for Gamma-reading, as it were.




Paul desperately missed pubs. This “bar” just wasn’t cutting it. Pubs were social, always good for a laugh or a story; this bar was full of sad blokes with no better prospects than a Saturday night alone, getting pissed, and he had a notion that the condition might be catching. He grimaced into his glass. The beer didn't taste as good as usual tonight-- something about this yellow American piss just left him cold. He sighed and contemplated ordering a Guinness. John had been ordering Guinness ever since they'd come to America; he said it was the only beer that didn't taste like twenty poufs had spit in it. And here he was thinking about poufs again, and hadn’t he come here to avoid any thoughts of the sort? Hell.

Paul turned his back on the bar. Those two birds who had passed by earlier were looking at him. He wondered if he should give them a pull... no, these American girls were more likely to pull him. He gave them a wink just to be sure-- if he decided later he wasn't in the mood, he could just dismiss it as harmless flirtation. Besides, they knew him-- who he was on TV and album covers, anyway-- he could see it in the glances and giggles they exchanged; and he could do as he pleased with them. Somehow, though, the knowledge of his power didn't give him the expected thrill.

Christ, he was tired. He considered this thought. It was true, he decided finally. Somewhere, amidst the screams and the sycophants and the adulation he'd soaked up like some needy plant drinking in the sun, somewhere in there he'd become tired. "You're getting old," he thought, laughing at himself. Old at 21. The gods were toying with him. Maybe this was all part of fame. Maybe he was supposed to require something beyond that moment in the performance when he knew, absolutely knew that he could ask the audience anything, and they would comply. It was heady. It was holy. It was no longer enough.

John would laugh at him. Hell, the man was so frustrating sometimes, but he was the only person in the world with whom Paul had never had to hold back. Even with George and Ringo, there was always a fine line between enough and too much. With John, it was neck-or-nothing. Honesty or nothing. And it hurt-- oh, it hurt-- to realise that this craving, if you could call it that, was something he could never tell John about. He couldn't be Honest, so that left him with Nothing.

He growled and massaged his forehead. All of this brooding-- it was useless, it only dragged him down, and they couldn't afford any extra tension. Not now, when they needed all of their energy for this tour. America, shitty beer or no, had finally opened up to them, and they needed to make sure they gave everything they had in return. "Cheers to you, Brian," he thought, lifting his glass a bit in
a salute. "You got us here, now we'll do the rest."

Paul smiled. He'd had his doubts about Brian's abilities, but here they were. And it was no secret that they'd had quite a few differences about how things should be run, but when it came down to it, Paul respected and even admired Brian. After all, the man had a fascinating job. Paul would watch him sometimes, try to absorb his manners and his mindset, learn what he could about business matters. Paul's charm had carried him through a great deal, but to be truly secure, he would need more than that. He would need to be savvy, so that if the worst happened and the Beatles went under, there would be a backup.

John said they'd keep writing songs together no matter what, but Brian said that marketing was half the battle. If the Beatles failed, then he and John would write, like always, but Paul would market. "We'd make quite an empire, him and me," he thought. "And Brian will teach me how. Teach John, too." Paul snorted. He was dead certain that Brian would teach John anything, just so long as it meant being near him.

Not for the first time, he wondered just what Brian had taught John on their holiday together-- Spain, was it? Paul had never liked Spain, anyway. Honestly, he wondered why John had agreed to the trip in the first place when it was perfectly obvious to everyone that Brian wanted in John's pants something terrible. They'd have spent the entire trip dancing around each other.

"Unless," said a hateful little voice in his mind, "They didn't have to dance around each other." What if John gave up running? What if Brian got what he wanted? What if they actually-- What if they kissed, what if Brian touched all of that pale skin and that chestnut hair-- No! Paul stood up from the bar abruptly and laid down a few dollars. He refused to think on that. That way lay madness.

And this way lay safety. Safety wore lipstick and a thin blouse, and had a name that he didn't quite catch. Their eyes met and they agreed; a contract he had signed wordlessly countless times before.

She certainly wasn't terribly drunk, and he could hardly be called anything but sober. But the atmosphere of the club held a certain sympathetic inebriation, and their inhibitions were accordingly abandoned. He found himself alone with her, courtesy of one of the club's many private "conversation" rooms. It all moved so fast, he felt as though he were watching the scene instead of participating. It was dizzy, and he was kissing her, and she was too soft. Their bodies touched, and she smelled of perfume, and he wished she didn't. Soon she was shedding her shirt, his jacket and tie were on the coat rack, and his shirt was being opened, but he couldn't tell whether it was he or she who was unbuttoning him.

And then it was all too real.

Suddenly he could smell John's scent instead of her perfume. Suddenly it was John's mouth instead of her lipstick. It was John's hardness in place of her softness. Paul gasped and pulled away from her, horrified. He felt as though he was committing some twisted form of adultery; with her or with John? He wasn't sure. He had to get out. He backed off abruptly and turned away, rebuttoning his shirt. When he looked over at her, she seemed shocked, eyes wide and frightened by his unexpected change in mood, and she snatched her shirt from the floor to cover her chest, though he had failed even to remove her bra. He suddenly remembered to feel sorry for her. "Sorry, luv, I'm... not feelin' that well tonight. I'm sure some other bloke'll have you."

He hastily put on his jacket and hung his tie around his neck. She had been getting back into her shirt, but at his last comment, her glare had gotten even nastier. She advanced on him and slapped him hard on the left cheek. "I didn't want 'some other bloke'," she spat, her American accent distorting the words, "I wanted you." She pushed past him and left, unnecessarily knocking into him in the process.

This was all John's fault.

****

The wind was strong and cold, and Paul turned up his collar. His cheek still stung in the shape of a handprint. Was there ever a worse night? He hated John. He loved him. Love? Of course he loved John. Best friends loved one another. He loved George, too, and Ringo. But John he loved to the point of pain. John's smile was music, and his tears were agony.

Pieces were falling into place, and Paul didn't want them to. Men loved women, and women loved men, and Paul loved John. Queers had... relations with each other. Was it possible there was love involved? For once, Paul was frustrated with Brian's silence about his affairs. Paul felt as though his heart was casting about wildly, trying to find something, anything that was akin to itself.

He had never felt so alone in all his life. Would he always be alone? The thought was terrifying, and he felt panicked. He swallowed dryly, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat, trying to even out his breathing. He felt sick with the weight of all this uncertainty; as he ached for the catharsis of tears, he was too upset for the tears to come.

This was all John's fault.

****

"This is all your fault," John proclaimed as Paul stepped through the door. John was rifling through a hefty stack of jumbled papers. "If you hadn't insisted that we 'tidy up' for those photographers, I wouldn't have lost those chords I wrote down."

Paul didn't trust himself to speak quite yet, so he simply glared and set about removing his jacket. His gaze fell disapprovingly on the coffee table, where sat the remains of John's supper, a cold untouched cup of tea, and an ice bucket which now held only ice water. Maybe he would have been happier at the bar.

"What, no snippy reply?" John wondered idly. "You must have had one hell of a night," he grinned conspiratorially at Paul.

"Like you care," Paul replied, wishing his voice betrayed more of what he was feeling. He was somewhat troubled at how casual his own voice sounded. Was he always this artificial?

John looked up. "What's this? Did some lucky girl say 'no' to the cute one? My, my, Macca, you're losing your touch."

"Shut it, Lennon, you don't know a damn thing." Paul noted that his anger didn't even show through. John found what he was looking for and went to the piano on the opposite wall, signalling the end of the conversation and leaving Paul alone with nothing but a messy coffee table. Each key John struck mocked Paul. He willed John to turn around. Look at me, dammit, I'm upset. Don't you see me standing here? Paul had the crazy urge to throw something at John.

No matter how long John lived, the memory of this moment would always cause him to shiver. It is almost impossible to describe the heart-stopping feeling of having rather a large volume of ice water dumped over one's head, and as it seeped through his hair and ran down the back of his neck in rivulets, freezing his scalp and seeking out every warm little nook on his body, John thought he would never recover.

"Fucker!" John hissed through clenched teeth. His breath came in ragged gasps, but whether from anger or cold, Paul couldn't tell. Probably both. "What in the hell are you doing?"

"Pouring a dirty great lot of melted ice down the back of your shirt, what does it look like I'm doing?" Paul replied irritably.

John stood up and tried to push past him. "Move, you crazy bastard, I need a new shirt."

"Fuck you." Paul refused to budge. He felt dizzy; high on this new power. He wondered how far he could push John. "You never listen to me, and now I'm not listening to you. How does it feel?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? I do nothing but listen to you, all your bitching and grousing, you're worse than being married!" John's anger showed through so much more easily than Paul's. Paul hated him for that. If only he could be more like John, if only he could just say things. Just say it. Say 'I love you'. What will it matter? Just say it.

"I hate you."

John looked taken aback, and his voice seemed to soften. "Well, well. What have we here?" John's gaze raked over him appraisingly, and Paul dared to hope that he had done something right by standing up to him. "You know something, Paul?"

Paul's heart contracted in an almost pleasurable sort of pain at the thought that John was using that tone for him. John looked him straight in the eye, preparing to speak. This was it.

"You are ugly when you're angry."

John might have made a startled noise if he had thought to, but it all happened too fast. Snarling, Paul grabbed him by his collar and shoved him viciously up against the nearest wall. John's head connected with plaster, his glasses went flying, and he was disoriented for a brief moment. He squinted, trying to focus, and when he managed, he was sorry. To John's startled, myopic eyes, all light seemed to drain from the room, leaving Paul as a looming presence in front of him. Paul had a fierce look about him, distorting his pale, pretty-boy face into something John hardly recognized. All of the usual polite vagueness had slipped away, leaving black angular shadows across his cheeks. His teeth were white in the darkness, his eyes glittering, opaque. At the moment Paul looked every bit the few inches taller that he was, and John closed his eyes and held his breath in preparation for what looked to be a terrible brawl.

But nothing could have prepared him for the kiss that followed. Paul kissed him as though both their lives depended on it. As though he were trying to pull John's very essence out of him. As though he feared to stop. And to his horror, John felt himself make a small inviting noise in his throat. Paul broke the kiss at this, though not his grip, and surveyed John in surprise. What he saw in his face, John never knew, but it was enough to make him smile darkly and force their mouths together again.

John knew, had known really, from all of their fights and years of friendship that Paul was strong, no pushover, but he hadn't expected the hard, inexorable strength of the arm around his middle that pulled his hips forward, of the hand that grasped his hair and forced his head back. His breath hitched as he felt his spine bow inward and he clutched at Paul's shirt for balance, because for some reason his knees didn't want to support him. And somehow, somewhere in the midst of Paul's arms around him, Paul's mouth on his, Paul's breath in his lungs, he stopped caring that he was still cold and wet, that there was water dripping from his ears and elbows, and he'd probably have to get his shirt dry-cleaned because suddenly there were hips driving into his and-Christ!-he was hard and he couldn't quite remember why he'd been angry in the first place.

John tried to snake his arms around Paul's neck, but Paul pulled back, panting. "We'll have none of that." Both of John's wrists were quickly pinned over his head. Paul bared his teeth, and John felt a thrill of pleasure run through him. Another brief kiss, and Paul began to lay teeth marks along John's jaw line. He was being claimed.

"I hate you, Lennon." Paul's voice caught, betraying him.

"I-" John gasped as Paul bit his ear.

"Shurrup," Paul commanded as he pushed their bodies together again. John shut up.

***

At some point, it occurred to Paul that what he was doing could be construed as very unwise. This would change everything; he wouldn't know what to do, where everyone stood. But his doubts couldn't stand against the sheer electricity that came crackling through his veins from the pressure of his fingers on John's wrists. He'd wanted, needed this for too long, and he'd given up self-control when he'd seen the same need, mixed as it was with shock, reflected on John's face. And now, now there was the salt-sweet taste of John's skin in his mouth, and John's scent in his nostrils, and John's voice gasping out incoherent phrases in his ear, and he ground his hips into John's, wanting more of that shocking, electric pleasure. For now, however long this lasted, he knew exactly what to do and where to stand: he belonged here, with John. Everything else could wait.

He dragged his mouth across John's again, then backed off a bit, relishing the thinness of his lips, how he didn't taste like lipstick or falsehood or adornment. The arms under his hands were sturdy, hard with muscle, and he tightened his grip, knowing that John could take it. Here it was at last: all-or-nothing, neck-or -nothing, and he could finally give vent to his fury, his passion, because John would never break under it.

"Yes," he hissed, half to himself, half to those honest brown eyes staring nearsightedly at him.

"Yes," John whispered back. That was all Paul needed to hear. He snarled and jerked John toward the bedroom, kicked the door closed, and buried his teeth into the wet cloth covering John's shoulder.

Paul had never noticed how much he hated buttons before. Especially buttons that kept clothes on John. The damn things didn't come apart no matter how much one pulled, and when he set about removing them, he discovered they buttoned left-over-right. Fuck. Fortunately, John usually kept his top few buttons undone, and Paul compromised by taking a fistful of wet fabric at the back of John's waist and wrenching the whole stubborn garment over John's head. While Paul shed his jacket and set about undoing his own buttons, John took the opportunity to rummage through a suitcase. He reappeared with a tube of lubricant, which Paul promptly snatched from his hand, looking furious.

"Who else has had you?" Paul demanded.

"Well, nobody's had me," John began.

"Who?" Paul's eyes flashed.

"Look at it," John answered quietly, almost sadly.

It looked to be a few years old, but more importantly, everything printed on it was in German. This seemed to assuage Paul's fears. "You're mine."

"Yes."

Paul's gaze landed on the bed, calculating. Too soft. John stood in front of him now, beautiful and bare and English and everything Paul wished he could be. Another kiss, and Paul's weight was on John, urging-- no, pushing-- him downward, and John felt his knees give way. And then there was a wonderful, glorious floor helping to push them together, bracing John against Paul's passion. They couldn't get close enough. John locked his arms around Paul, savouring the feeling of his cheek against Paul's. Their bodies began moving in unison. No amount of experience could have prepared them for this encounter. It was almost too much. They kissed again, each driven by the half-formed notion that if they could get close enough, somehow crawl inside each other's skin, that the fire and fury, the need would finally be slaked.

A sudden burst of strength from John found their positions reversed, with John leaving kisses down Paul's chest, stopping at his navel to nuzzle the softness there. Paul's sensitive skin felt the calloused fingertips of John's left hand caress him on his stomach, and Paul revelled in the openness. But John's right hand soon found its way lower, where it lingered teasingly on Paul's narrow hip. Paul shut his eyes to keep from crying out in frustration, and was rewarded when John's mouth closed around him.

Paul squeaked. There was no other word for it. John snorted, suppressing a fit of the giggles. He looked up at Paul, who had blushed crimson and clapped a hand over his mouth. John sat back on his knees and chuckled. "You squeaked!"

"I did not!"

"Yes you did! You squeaked! That was a bloody squeak I heard!"

"You surprised me!"

"You still squeaked! Wait'll I tell everyone! I can see the headlines now: 'Beatle Paul Makes Sound Like Squashed Chipmunk, Bandmate Highly Amu--' Mmph!" John was silenced abruptly when Paul hauled his head forward and pressed their lips together again. Off balance, John couldn't fight the flex of muscle that flipped them over once more, leaving him prone again, pinned to the carpet by a very angry Paul. Somewhere in his blood-deprived brain, John noted that having an angry, naked Paul McCartney lying on top of him was unnervingly arousing. He didn't, however, get much time to think about it because suddenly Paul's hips pressed into his again, and then they were moving together, John's leg hooked around Paul's, Paul's arms cradling John's head, pulling him closer. Their mouths met, tongues reaching out to test the edges of teeth, breath mingling. It was hard to breathe at all; the friction between them was a drug, a manic, frantic drug that raced through their veins, draining energy from unnecessary areas like lungs in order to fuel more of that wild, delicious electricity. They wasted no more time with speech; the only sounds in the room now were tiny moans and gasps of air grabbed between frenzied kisses.

At some point, Paul realized that he really didn't know what to do after this. Not that he was objecting to their current occupation--on the contrary, he hadn't realized that being like this with John's erection stroking his would feel so fucking good, but it wasn't enough. He wanted John, wanted him splayed out and open and helpless beneath him, wanted to possess him. He quivered at the strength of the image in his mind, trying to think on the technicalities of it through the pleasure he was feeling. He had no doubts that it could be done; he'd heard of such things during his time in the Reeperbahn, stories of men and even women who preferred it like that, but he hadn't been too keen on details. Now, with his tongue in John's mouth and his hand trailing down the flat, solid planes of John's chest, he regretted his previous lack of interest. A little technical knowledge would have done him in good stead. As it was, he'd simply have to improvise.

With a monumental effort he stilled himself. John let out a whimper as motion stopped and opened his mouth to object, but Paul stopped him with a quick kiss. Reaching down before his brain caught up with him and told him that he was doing things with a man he ran his hand gently over John's erection, listening to the small, choked sounds the act evoked. It was odd, handling an erection that wasn't his own, but this wasn't just anyone, it was John, and frankly, he couldn't think of anything else he'd rather be doing. He raised his head to watch John's face, with its sharp angles and mouth all soft and swollen from kisses. His eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed, and Paul ached with the sudden wrenching realization that John was, at this moment, the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Common sense led him to his next action: however he went about this, it would probably help if they were both rather less...er...dry. He kissed John again, fumbling about for the lubricant with one hand, sitting back on his heels when he found it in order to look it over. He'd never had to use it before in his dealings with women, and the strangeness of it gave him pause. Was there a certain trick to using it? Would he need a certain amount? Would he hurt John if he didn't use it correctly? He hesitated long enough for John to open his eyes and look at him.

"Give it here." John sat up, plucked the tube out of his hands, and opened it. He poured some into his hands and leaned in, smoothing the liquid over Paul's erection. Paul closed his eyes and shuddered, grateful for a moment that John seemed to know what he was doing, grateful that it felt so very good. He let himself savour the sensation for a second, rocking his hips in time with John's hands, until the hands left him and he felt his own lifted, liquid drizzled into them. John leaned in once more to press a kiss into the hollow of his throat, then lay back again, naked, aroused, and trusting.

Paul let his senses take over, exploring, testing. John guided him with his voice, telling his inexperienced hands where to go, and Paul followed his instructions carefully-very carefully-fearful of hurting him as he slowly gained confidence. Paul dimly registered how different it was, this hard muscle where he was used to softness that never quite pushed back enough. John's expression had tensed, and Paul lay unmoving over him, the sound of their breathing absorbed by the stillness of room, until he adjusted.

Paul felt John relax around him, and relished the feeling when John began moving beneath him. It would be quick, he could tell; they had both wanted this for so long. There had always been an energy they shared; they had let it mingle briefly in singing and songwriting and even sometimes in touch, but it had always seemed so powerful that they had feared it a bit. But now Paul felt his skin alive with that cascading current that flowed between them, and he recognized the tension for what it was. Leaning down, he fitted his mouth to John’s, effectively closing the circuit.

Paul shifted angles from time to time; from John's instructions he knew he was searching for something. He felt more confident; this, at least, was familiar from his experience with women. He gave a deeper thrust and John made a noise that was simply sinful as Paul found what he was looking for. Paul moved against this spot desperately now, begging to hear more of John's voice. Their cries mingled and grew, and Paul knew they were at the limit, but he simply couldn't bring himself to pull back.

John watched in fascination as Paul came undone; it was as if some brittle part of him had shattered, and it sent John over the edge.

His own cry still ringing in his ears, John felt Paul collapse contentedly next to him. He rolled over and cradled Paul to him, unwilling to be apart yet. Paul shivered and tucked his head under John's chin, snuggling into his warmth.

John chuckled and reached up, pulling a blanket off the foot of the bed and covering them both. "Oh, so now you've had your way with me, I have to take care of you, is that it?"

Paul nodded. John laughed affectionately again, his hand toying dreamily with Paul's hair while they passed a few moments in contented silence.

"John?" Paul called, so quietly John wasn't entirely sure he had heard. Paul looked up at him briefly, then averted his gaze, fidgeting with a loose thread in the carpet. He took a breath, seemingly gathering resolve, and turned to John again. "John, I--" His jaw locked around the words. His frightened eyes stared into John's, willing him to understand.

John pulled Paul to him again, marvelling at how quickly the younger man's confidence came and went. "Shh, Paulie, it's okay," he soothed. He smiled as he felt Paul relax into the embrace. "I love you, too."

Tags:
 
 
Current Mood: accomplishedaccomplished
Current Music: Little Willow - Paul McCartney
 
 
 
oh_johnny_oh_johnny_ on July 19th, 2005 03:52 am (UTC)
Holy shit.

That was wayyyyy too short. Brilliant and hot and compelling and...yeah. Aggressive!Paul is really, really, really...um...yeah. Let's just say it works for me :-)

Welcome back.

banburytalebanburytale on July 19th, 2005 05:14 am (UTC)
Isn't Aggressive!Paul hotttttt? With way too many ts? Magicaltrevor and I thought that he doesn't get to dominate enough so we decided to fix it.
I'm really glad you liked it!
(no subject) - oh_johnny_ on July 19th, 2005 11:50 am (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 19th, 2005 05:22 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - banburytale on July 19th, 2005 07:43 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 19th, 2005 09:47 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - banburytale on July 20th, 2005 02:49 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 20th, 2005 05:43 pm (UTC) (Expand)
some kind of happiness is measured out in milesplasticpepper on July 19th, 2005 03:54 am (UTC)
Mmm, I really like this! I love the way you wrote the sex scene. I get tired of reading so many fics where everybody knows how to fuck each other. Cuz a lot of times stories are written with the characters being very straight at first and then figuring things out along the way, but yet they still know how it works, and I'm like "...um...?" So I'm glad you wrote in Paul's tentativeness and inexpertise. And I love Paul squeaking. Veddy cute.
banburytalebanburytale on July 19th, 2005 05:19 am (UTC)
*grin* Squeaky!Paul was one of our favorite parts. And absolute sexual assurance in fics is one of my biggest pet peeves too, so I'm happy that you support the inexpert Paul. Honestly, I think that his hesitance makes him hotter, but that might just be me...:3
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 19th, 2005 05:16 pm (UTC) (Expand)
oceanchild808oceanchild808 on July 19th, 2005 06:18 am (UTC)
Very hot! I usually prefer PG-13 but when a story is done with such reality, such believability, it works for me. It's like you were in the room with them! Oh my god! More!!!
banburytalebanburytale on July 19th, 2005 06:38 am (UTC)
Thank you very much! Actually, this was the first lemon either of us ever wrote, and we didn't want it to be too mushy or romance novel-ish, but we were also too embarassed about using any really hardcore terms. It's good to know that we managed to produce something workable. ^_^
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 19th, 2005 05:11 pm (UTC) (Expand)
8_daze_a_week on July 19th, 2005 08:14 pm (UTC)
HOT with several T's! I enjoy the dominant Paul for a change! And it was very well written, the uncertainty of the first gay experience mixed with the passion urging them on, bravo!
banburytalebanburytale on July 19th, 2005 09:00 pm (UTC)
Thanks! Paul can top any day as far as we're concerned. :3 I'm glad you liked it! :)
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 19th, 2005 09:11 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Moorglade: dark sidemoorglade on July 20th, 2005 12:07 pm (UTC)
Wow, but that was hot xD I think this has just gone to the top of my 'favourite story' list.

*Please* can we read more - much more - of the adventures of Paul on top? ;)
banburytalebanburytale on July 20th, 2005 02:46 pm (UTC)
I think this has just gone to the top of my 'favourite story' list.

O_O Really? Do you mean it? 'Cause squee, that is so cool to hear. *is happily dazed* I'm so glad you liked it! ^_^

(no subject) - moorglade on July 21st, 2005 09:51 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - banburytale on July 22nd, 2005 03:38 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - moorglade on July 22nd, 2005 09:55 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - magicaltrevor on July 20th, 2005 05:36 pm (UTC) (Expand)
(no subject) - moorglade on July 21st, 2005 09:53 pm (UTC) (Expand)
Emmalevictibram on July 22nd, 2005 06:00 am (UTC)
I've been looking for this for ages.
banburytalebanburytale on July 22nd, 2005 03:34 pm (UTC)
For ages? *grin* Um, glad you found it, then.

Your icon is both odd and wonderful. I love it!
(Anonymous) on August 3rd, 2005 03:52 am (UTC)
That was brilliant! "Paul on Top." Heee! :) Love it.
The writer and the story: DracoPotterforestdweller on June 26th, 2006 05:17 am (UTC)
That...Was gorgeous. I couldn't have asked for better on my first ever Beatles Slash. *swoon*
natgreenlikethesky on December 29th, 2006 12:09 am (UTC)
O:

THAT WAS HOT

wow

ficgasm
paulies_girlpaulies_girl on July 29th, 2008 12:17 am (UTC)
That was insanely hot! You are unbelievable! I loved the way Paul was angry and it turned into passion and then finally shyness. Fabulous! I loved how John was pertrayed, it felt realistic. Thankyou!
lukinha_jesuslukinha_jesus on December 3rd, 2008 12:10 am (UTC)
Paul shivered and tucked his head under John's chin, snuggling into his warmth.

after all the hotness, this just finished killing. Too perfect! (and this comes from one who's not really into a bottom John. :)
fifi_luvs_maccafifi_luvs_macca on September 15th, 2010 07:24 pm (UTC)
That was all too good! I liked all the details, the way it started and of course, they way it ended! So hot and sweet and lovely written!! Ummm, this is getting addicting! lol Dom!Paul FTW!! So sexy, umm, I just love it!
Awesome job!!!